"Wait!"
Graham turned in time to see Stroud drop to his knees, cupping both hands to his forehead. Graham stopped. He watched for a moment, then let his pack crash to the ground.
Stroud kept curling up, until his head was to his knees.
Like Superman exposed to kryptonite.
Or a vampire.
Graham hesitated, then ran back through the gate, slipping his hands under Stroud's arms. He dragged him toward the house. "Come on!"
Stroud managed to get his feet under him. With Graham supporting him, they staggered up the steps and over the threshold. Stroud dropped to the floor and Graham slammed the door, shutting out the light.
Heart pounding, Graham stared in horror at the man writhing at his feet. "Are you gonna be okay?"
Was he dying? Right in front of him?
Graham took one step closer. Then another.
Stroud's hand lashed out and locked around his ankle, fingers digging into his flesh, his arm all taut muscles and veins.
Like a clawed hand from a grave . ..
I
could kill you right now. I could drain every drop of blood from you.
Graham tore away from him and ran—out the door, down the sidewalk, through the gate.
Grabbed his pack and hauled ass.
He headed for the cover of nearby trees and the wooded area he already had a relationship with, ducking under branches that snagged his T-shirt and caught on his backpack. Five minutes into his escape, he paused briefly to listen.
His pounding heart and harsh breathing drowned out everything else. Chest rising and falling, his breath creating a cloud in the thick air, he finally picked up on the sound of birds. From somewhere far away, water trickled. Then came the faint hum of traffic. Not heavy traffic, but an occasional vehicle.
He braced his legs and gave the backpack a heave and an adjustment; then he began running again: over a hill, then down a steep incline, his boots slipping, heels leaving deep parallel gouges in the muddy bank as he skidded to a stop at the bottom to land three feet from a two-lane road that twisted into hillsides topped with trees that were just getting leaves.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to see Stroud floating toward him through the trees, blood dripping from fangs.
A small blue truck appeared around the corner, heading downhill.
Graham pivoted to face the oncoming vehicle. Continuing to walk backward, he stuck out his thumb.
The vehicle showed no sign of slowing, so he threw a little more into his performance. Pouring on the charm, he bent one knee while giving an exaggerated thumb gesture and a good-ol'-boy smile.
The truck flew past, a girl at the wheel.
Red brake lights followed by white reverse lights. Then the little Chevy S-10 hummed backward in a squiggly line.
"Hop in back!" the girl shouted through the sliding rear window.
It was starting to get dark, and from his angle he couldn't get a good look at her. All he could tell was that she had short blond hair and was about his age.
What the hell was she doing? A girl alone, picking up a hitchhiker on the road? Hadn't she ever heard of stranger danger?
He slipped the pack from his shoulders, tossed it into the bed of the truck, and followed. At least she had enough sense not to invite him into the cab.
She tromped down on the gas pedal, tires spinning on gravel as she shot back onto the road. She tossed more words at him through the window and over her shoulder. "Where you going?"
He scooted closer to the opening. "Where do people hang out in this town?" He was so hungry.
"The mall." When he didn't respond, she added, "Or a cafe called Peaches."
"That sounds good."
They picked up speed; he had to shout to be heard above the sound of the wind. "Just drop me off as near as you're going." Maybe he could panhandle for cash, or Dumpster dive for food if he had to. "I feel like I'm in confession."
"What?" She shot him a glance.
"Confession!" he shouted, pointing to the sliding window. She was probably Catholic. He'd probably just offended her.
She laughed, focusing once more on the road. "Well, then—confess!"
If she really knew about him, would she be repulsed? Scared? Feel sorry for him? He could be wrong about her, because people surprised you. She could have as much darkness in her life as he did. Because you couldn't always tell by looking at somebody.
Acting as though he hadn't heard her, he dug into the top section of his pack, pulled out his sweatshirt, put it on, and leaned back, arms crossed.
The tension left his body for the first time in days. He was free. At least for now.
In a short space of time the sun had disappeared completely, and darkness had fallen like a curtain. Strands of his hair whipped about, stinging his face, and he was riding in some girl's truck. Some girl he didn't know, heading to someplace called Peaches.
He tipped back his head and looked up at the stars that were forming above him in the black sky. His heart swelled, and at that moment he was glad the bullet hadn't hit him.
This was what it was about. These moments that crept up on you out of nowhere and whispered mys- terious, unformed promises that made you want to live for something you didn't even know existed.
He was so caught up in the drama of his own thoughts that he didn't come back to land until the truck stopped. Dazed, he looked around and realized they were in town, parallel-parked at a meter.
He gave himself a mental shake, got to his feet, and vaulted from the truck. A door slammed, and the girl came around the tailgate to stand beside him.
He dragged the pack across the bed and hefted it over the side, resting it on the top of one foot. "Thanks for the ride."
She was average height, dressed in black ankle boots and black tights, a black skirt, and a black sweater with tiny white buttons down the front and some kind of pink flowery thing on one shoulder. The flower and her lips provided the only color he could find.
He inhaled something sweet, and dragged his gaze away.
Three feet behind her was a tree, its bare branches laced with tiny white lights. Beyond that was a movie theater with a curved art deco sign, the
H
and
R
burned out. He suddenly got the same feeling he'd had seconds earlier when he was looking at the stars.
This is a taste of real life,
he thought.
This is what real life feels like.
"I'm going to Peaches, too."
Yeah.
Maybe he nodded slightly. He wasn't sure.
"They have these great mochas."
Ten minutes ago he'd been starving. Now food seemed trite and irrelevant.
She took a few steps away, then paused to look at him over her shoulder. "Coming?"
He picked up his pack and followed her into a huge two-story house that had been converted into a cafe. Before they reached the door he could smell coffee.
She ordered a large cafe mocha with almond syrup and whipped cream, then looked at him in expectation.
"I'll just have a glass of water."
She eyed him a moment, then turned back to the kid behind the counter and ordered a packaged sandwich from the glass case. While she waited for her order, Graham took his water to an empty table in a dark corner. Peaches had lots of dark corners.
The floors were wooden and scraped down past the stain and varnish, and the ceiling above Graham's head creaked as people moved about in rooms upstairs.
He leaned his pack in the corner and sat down on a yellow wooden chair that wiggled loosely. A CD was playing on the cafe's sound system. Some old Wilco song he couldn't quite place but that was intensely familiar. The music made him feel homesick. Graham wanted to go home, back to Arizona, where he had friends. But that was a bad idea.
She
was there.
It would be best to go someplace where nobody knew him. Not a cold place, since he might have to sleep outside. He should head south. Maybe into the Carolinas. Maybe Georgia even. The ocean. Yeah. He'd never seen the ocean.
The girl plopped down beside him with a tray. The sandwich had been cut in two. She gave him half of it on a small plate. "I can't eat the whole thing," she explained.
He didn't even check to see what it was. He just picked it up and took a bite. Then another.
She dabbled a wooden stirrer in her drink, and scooped up some whipped topping. "My name's Isobel."
"I'm Graham." He glanced around for a napkin, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You should be more careful," he told her. "You shouldn't pick up strangers."
"I don't. I mean, I've never picked anybody up before."
"Why me?"
"You looked like you needed help. Like you were in trouble." Pause. "And that little dance you did closed the deal."
"Yep." Finished with his half of the sandwich, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just call me Mr. Funny Man."
With both hands she lifted the giant coffee cup to her face. "So, what's your deal? You just move here?"
"Just passing through." How lame. He was spouting dialogue from some old movie.
She asked him the normal questions, like where he was going and where he'd come from. He replied with lies and evasions, which made him feel guilty. He probably didn't need to lie. Nobody was looking for him. Certainly not his mother. Evan Stroud? He wouldn't be trying to find him. And Social Services was always glad when someone was no longer a problem.
The door opened and a guy in a brown sweater and dark jeans stepped inside.
"Uh-oh." Isobel checked her watch. "That's Mr. Alba, my drama teacher," she said in a voice that indicated she'd been caught. "He's normally pretty cool, but he's getting a little bent because the play is in two weeks and nobody's learned their lines."
Graham had had teachers like him. The ones who were young and cool and wanted the kids to like them.
Alba cast a glance around the room. "Isobel," he said as soon as he caught sight of her. "I thought that was your truck outside. You're late. Play practice has already started." After delivering that announcement, he turned to leave, almost running into a tall, thin guy of about twenty-five who was stepping inside. There was a flash of recognition between the men, followed by hello.
"I gotta go." Isobel gathered up her things.
Just a girl. A normal girl with a normal life. Graham pivoted in his chair, dug in a side pocket of his pack, pulled out a CD, and handed it to her. "Here."
She didn't move.
"Take it," he insisted. "For giving me a ride. For the food."
She smiled and took it. "Take care of yourself," she said, without looking at the CD.
She probably didn't like music. She probably wouldn't listen to it. "Thanks."
Then she was gone.
He stared at the door for a long time. Then he looked down and realized she'd pushed her uneaten sandwich and large cafe mocha with almond syrup and whipped cream in front of him.
He ate the rest of the sandwich and drank the cafe mocha. It was so sweet it made his mouth sticky and his head thick and fuzzy. The tall, thin guy had taken a seat in the back. Graham stayed in the dark corner, watching people come and go, trying not to think of the girl, Isobel. Wondering if she'd like the CD he'd given her. Wondering if she'd ever even listen to it. Or ever think about him again.
A group of hard kids came in, dressed mostly in black. A little punk, a little Goth, with heavy, unlaced boots that made a lot of noise when they walked. They had sloppy tattoos, along with weeks of dirt ground into the lines in their skin.
Graham could smell them. It was the kind of sour BO that made your eyes water. They reminded him of some of the faux homeless he knew in Arizona. Kids who came from rich families and liked to play at poverty. Usually you'd find one or two real homeless kids in the mix.
One of them ordered a sandwich and several glasses of water while another raided the tip jar, pocketing several bills. They paid with the stolen money, left a stolen tip; then the entire group went pounding up the wooden steps to whatever was up there.
A few minutes later Graham followed and found them lounging on old couches and chairs, smoking cigarettes and playing checkers.
"Is there a blood bank around here?" Graham asked. "I need to make some quick cash." You usually had to be seventeen, but most places didn't care. They were just glad to get the blood.
The kids looked from one to another, then burst out laughing.
What the hell was wrong with them?
"Not permanent," one of the kids finally said. "Once a week they set up in the VFW hall." He pulled at the scraggly soul patch on his chin, then pointed at Graham. "But, hey, I know a place where you can make some quick bucks. Easier than givin' blood, and it pays better. All you have to do is stand there and let some perv take pictures of you."
The tall, thin guy came up the stairs. His hair was straight and slanted across his forehead. One of the hard kids called him Dan.
"You know cops found a body in the square?" Dan asked. "You hear about that?"
There was a lot of head nodding. A lot of, "Yeah, bummer." "That's sick." "That's too bad."
"Chelsea Gerber," Dan continued in a way that seemed to be more than just passing information.
"Who would dump a body in the middle of the square?" someone asked.
"The cops are thinking somebody really stupid," Dan said. "I think so too."
"Or maybe really smart," Soul Patch said. He pointed at Dan. "You ever think about that?"
"They find any clues?" asked one of the other kids, a tall blond with flame tattoos on his forearms.
Dan glanced at Graham. "You know I can't talk about the crime scene. But they seem pretty sure it's somebody who lives in Tuonela."
"When'd it happen?" Graham heard himself asking.
"Really early this morning. Before daylight."
This morning. Stroud had appeared out of the darkness this morning. "Do you have a lot of murders in Tuonela?" Graham asked.
"A long time ago we used to." Dan finally made direct eye contact with him. "But until recently no-body'd been murdered here in a hundred years."