In a few minutes, he told himself, it’ll all be over.
I’ll be yours forever, Bonnie seemed to whisper in his mind.
What if it’s true? he thought.
It’s not. She’s dead. Her “voice” is nothing more than my damned imagination trying to mess with me.
What if she doescome back to life?
As Larry’s head rose into the gloom of the attic, he saw himself in bed, Bonnie straddling him, naked and more beautiful than any woman he’d ever had.
What if it could be that way?
He paused, his mind full of her. He could feel her warm hands roaming over his skin, feel the moist softness of her lips, her breasts brushing against his chest, and then her slick tightness sliding down as she slowly impaled herself.
“What’re you waiting for?” Pete asked. “Losing the ol‘ nerve?”
“I’m okay,” he muttered. Clambering onto the attic floor, he realized he wasokay. His dread had melted in the warmth of his fantasies.
It can’t turn out that way, he told himself. But wouldn’t it be nice?
No! It wouldn’tbe nice. What’s the matter with me?
In the faint light from below, he saw Pete kneeling at the head of the coffin. He made his way toward the other end. His hand came down on the fluorescent lamp he’d brought up the night Lane caught him here.
Lane.
Wanting Bonnie was a betrayal of her. Even worse, it was a betrayal of Jean.
He moved the dead lamp out of the way, crept over the floorboards to the foot of the coffin and put his hands on its corners.
Inside, the coffin looked black.
He couldn’t see Bonnie in there at all.
In a whisper Pete said, “Hey, wouldn’t it be something if she doescome back to life?”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“She was one fabulous babe, wasn’t she?”
“You’re married to a fabulous babe.”
“Yeah, but Bonnie. I haven’t been able to get that picture out of my head, you know?”
“She doesn’t look like that now,” Larry said, and he was glad that he couldn’t see her corpse in the black depths of the coffin.
“In the movies they come back good as new.”
“This isn’t the movies, Pete.”
“Too bad, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you guys doing up there?” Barbara called from below.
“We’re on our way,” Pete called. Speaking softly, he said, “Ready?”
“Yeah.” Clutching the wooden corners, Larry began to crawl sideways, looking over his shoulder and scooting the foot of the coffin toward the lighted gap in the floor. He stepped down onto the ladder. Left hand gripping the top rung, he braced the end of the coffin with his right.
“Let’s hope she doesn’t fall out this time,” Pete said.
The panel tilted against Larry’s hand and the coffin eased forward.
“Got it?” Pete asked.
“Yeah.” Larry stepped slowly downward, holding the end high. It didn’t seem to weigh much.
Just as he wondered if it might be empty, Pete said, “Ugly mother.” She was in there, all right. The box probably felt light because Pete was supporting most of the weight.
When it started to tip, Larry released the ladder and grabbed it with both hands.
“Be careful,” Barbara said.
“I think I’m...”
“I’ve got you,” she told him, and clasped the sides of his legs just above the knees. She held him steady, her hands moving up his thighs as he stepped lower. Then they were on his hips. They pressed against his back, and she said, “Okay, one to go.”
He stepped onto the platform, and her hands left him. He backed away from the ladder.
“Watch it,” she warned as he approached the edge of the platform.
“Thanks.” He stepped down to the concrete and slowly lowered the coffin to keep it level while Pete descended the remaining rungs of the ladder.
The edge sank beneath his chin. He glimpsed the corpse’s brown, withered legs and quickly looked away. The box nudged his chest. He backed up until Pete was off the ladder, off the platform.
They set the coffin on the garage floor.
Hal hurried forward. “Good God,” he said. “You people weren’t kidding.” Holding the bow and an arrow at his side, he bent over for a closer look.
Barbara came up beside him. “Yuck,” she said. “I’d forgotten just how disgusting...”
“It’s like she’s mummified,” Hal said.
“Jerky,” Barbara said.
“Let’s everybody quit admiring her,” Jean said, “and get this over with.”
Hal reached in. His fingertips prodded Bonnie’s thigh. “Tough,” he muttered. Then he rubbed the leg with his open hand.
“Cut it out,” Larry told him.
“Sorry.”
“Come on, everyone,” Jean said.
“Yeah,” Pete said. “Let’s get this show on the road. Larry, get on the other side of the coffin.”
Larry stepped around to the other side. Pete took the video camera from Jean, raised it to his shoulder and peered into the viewfinder. “Everybody clear away,” he ordered. “Hal, get ready with the bow.”
Larry crouched beside the coffin. The others stood together a few yards away, gazing at him. Hal raised the bow and nocked his arrow.
“Okay,” Pete said.
“Hold it,” Barbara said. “Shouldn’t we wait for Lane?”
Do it now while she’s not here, Larry thought.
He lowered his gaze to the body in the coffin. He looked at its straw-colored hair, its sunken eyelids, its hollow cheeks and horrible grin. Then he stared at the stub of wood protruding from the hole in its chest.
Take it out and I’ll be yours.
He wrapped his right hand around the stake.
Closing his eyes, he saw Bonnie alive. He saw her striding toward his bed, hair drifting around her face, her eyes innocent and loving, the tip of her tongue moist at the corner of her mouth. Her flawless skin gleamed. Her breasts jiggled just a bit. Her nipples stood erect. Her pubic curls glinted like filaments of sunlit gold. Kneeling on the mattress, she swung a leg over Larry. On hands and knees she hovered above him.
Pull the stake, she whispered. We’ll be lovers forever.
Larry’s hand tightened around the wooden shaft.
He opened his eyes and looked at Jean. Her fists were planted on her hips. She was scowling at him. “Well, go on,” she said.
Shifting his gaze toward Pete, he looked into the camera lens. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m not going to do it. We’renot going to do it. None of us. It’s over. Forget it.”
Lane moved in from the darkness beyond the garage door. She halted. She looked at Larry. Then at Hal.
“No!” she yelled, and ran at her teacher.
Forty-seven
Once the others were out of the house, Lane waited at the kitchen door and watched until they were inside the garage. Only then was she convinced that Kramer wouldn’t break away from the group and come in for a visit.
She went into her bedroom. There, she removed her crucifix from the small nail on her wall.
Pushing the bottom end of the cross under her waistband, she thought about the revolver.
She could take the gun instead of the cross.
And do what with it? Blow Kramer away? Make him confess, first. It’ll all be on videotape.
I can’t.
I don’t have to, she suddenly realized. She’d made the phone call to Riley. Right now he was probably waiting in Kramer’s house eager to nail the bastard for murdering Jessica.
I’ll be in the clear. He’ll be dead, and nobody will ever have to find out what he did to me.
If Riley doesn’t botch it.
He won’t.
Leaving her room, Lane decided to go ahead and use the toilet. She went to the end of the hall, turned on the bathroom light and shut the door. She loc
ked it just in case Kramer might decide to come back, after all. She took out the crucifix, set it down by the sink, lowered her corduroys and panties and sat on the toilet.
Maybe I should just stay here, she thought.
She finished, dried herself, and didn’t get up.
Just stay here, and I’ll never have to see Kramer again. I can read about him tomorrow in the newspaper. Buford High School English teacher brutally slain in his home.
Nobody will ever know what he did to me.
Unless they get Riley for it. Then I’d have to testify for him.
Maybe that won’t happen. Maybe it’ll just go unsolved forever, and Mom and Dad will never have to know.
Lane wondered if they were waiting for her. They might not pull the stake until she was there. Maybe they would send someone in to get her. Maybe Kramer would volunteer.
He can’t get me with the door locked.
Hell, anybodycould unlock the damn thing. All it takes is something that’ll fit into the keyhole. You could almost do it with a fingernail.
Besides, I should be there for Dad.
With the crucifix tucked into the front of her corduroys and out of sight under the draping shirt, Lane left the bathroom. She walked slowly down the hallway. No need to hurry. The longer she took, the less time she would have to spend in the presence of Kramer.
Not that it had been too bad, being around him tonight. With all the others in the same room, he didn’t seem very threatening. Or maybe he didn’t seem so threatening because she knew what was waiting for him.
He was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.
In the kitchen Lane rolled open the sliding door. She stepped outside and pulled it shut. The wind swept her hair back. Though it fluttered the front of her shirt, the T-shirt underneath kept her from feeling much chill. She walked toward the driveway.
The garage door had been pulled back no more than four or five feet. Light spilled out onto the pavement, but she couldn’t see anyone inside until she stepped through the opening.
Dad was squatting on the other side of the coffin, his hand inside, gripping the stake. The others were watching him. Pete had the camera on him.
Hal had an arrow aimed at him. At Dad.
“No!” she yelled.
Dad looked confused. Everyone else whirled around as she ran at Kramer, shouting, “You bastard!” Even as the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake. Kramer hadn’t been about to shoot Dad; the arrow was meant for the vampire. You blew it, she thought.
She saw shock in Kramer’s eyes. He yanked back the bowstring. Barbara rammed an elbow into his side at the same instant he released the string. The arrow zipped past Lane, missing her right arm by less than an inch.
Almost on him, Lane hunched down. The top of her head struck the bow, knocked it aside, and rammed Kramer in the chest. He staggered backward. She wrapped her arms around him. She heard shouts of alarm. A knee punched into her belly, striking the crucifix and driving it against her skin, lifting her off her feet. Kramer’s arms went under her. He swung her sideways and let go.
She hit the floor rolling, the concrete pounding her bones, the crucifix falling out of her shirt. She came to a stop on her back. Breathless, she struggled to sit up. Kramer’s knee had blasted out her strength. She could lift her head, but that was all.
Dad, a look of shock on his face, still squatted behind the coffin as if frozen. Barbara was down on her back. Mom was behind Kramer, an arm clamped across his throat, riding him, swinging as he spun around and slashed at Pete with his straight razor. Pete thrust the camera out, blocking the blade.
Lane shoved at the floor. This time she managed to sit up. She got to her feet.
“Stay put!” Dad’s voice boomed.
She looked at him.
Their eyes locked. Lane had no breath to tell him what Kramer had done to her. But Dad seemed to know.
His eyes lowered.
And Lane saw him begin to rise from his crouch, his face twisting with rage, lips peeling back from his teeth, left hand shoving down against Bonnie’s chest as he rose, right hand drawing out the stake. It came out, a long shaft of wood, stained dark just below his grip, tapering to a point. Like a madman with a butcher knife, he bounded over the coffin yelling, and rushed Kramer.
Mom had lost her chokehold. She was on her knees behind Kramer, hugging his thighs. Barbara was scurrying toward the quiver of arrows. Pete took a slash across the chest as he brought the camera down with both hands, crashing it against Kramer’s face.
The blow knocked the teacher’s head back. He waved his arms, fighting for balance, about to topple over Mom.
Dad punched the stake into his throat.
Kramer’s knees folded. His rump hit Mom’s back, driving her to the floor. Dad, still clutching the embedded stake, went down to his knees. Snarling, he put his other hand to work. He used them both, shoving down and working the stake deeper into the man’s throat.
Kramer kicked and twitched and flapped his arms. Blood gurgled up around the stake. His eyes bulged as if they might explode from his head. His mouth gaped, tongue stretched out and jerking as he made gagging noises.
Then came a violent spasm that seemed to shake the last of Kramer’s life out of his body. He sagged. Lane heard a soft fart. A stench of excrement came, and she covered her nose and mouth.
Dad, using the stake like a handle, dragged Kramer’s body off Mom.
He left it in the man’s throat and straightened up, gasping for air. He looked at his dripping hands. Then he looked at Pete. “Are you okay?”
Pete was holding his bloody chest, staring down at himself, shaking his head.
Barbara held an arrow in each hand. She let go, and they clattered against the floor. She put an arm around Pete’s back. “God, honey.”
“Are youokay?” Pete asked her.
“Just had my wind knocked out.”
“Jean?” Dad asked.
Mom was on her knees, staring at the body. Instead of answering, she got up. She lifted her arms toward Lane. She had tears in her eyes and her nose was runny, but she didn’t look hurt. Lane stepped closer, and they embraced.
“What did he do to you?” Mom asked.
“He hurt me,” Lane said, making sure her voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. “He raped me. After the play Saturday night. He’s the one who murdered Jessica Patterson and her parents. He said he’d kill us, too, if I told on him.”
“Oh my God,” Barbara murmured. “You poor kid.”
“Fuckin‘ bastard,” Pete said. Lane heard a quick thud. Someone kicking Kramer?
She heard footsteps. Then Dad pressed against her back. His arms went around Mom, and Lane was enclosed between their bodies. She felt Dad’s breath stirring her hair, warm against her scalp.
“Our pal Bonnie didn’t come out of it,” Pete said.
Turning her head, Lane saw the dark cadaver stretched out motionless in its coffin, a hole where the stake had been.
Pete said, “Guess she wasn’t a vampire, after all.”
“Thank God,” Dad muttered.
Forty-eight
“I don’t wanta leave you holding the bag,” Pete said from the backseat of his car, where he was stretched out with a towel hugged to his chest.
“Don’t worry about it,” Larry said through the driver’s window.
“We’ll come back,” Barbara told him. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so...”
“If they don’t have to send out for more thread,” Pete said.
“The cops’ll probably still be here.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Barbara took a hand off the steering wheel, gently patted Larry’s cheek and said, “Don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna throw you in jail for killing that maggot.”
“If they do,” Pete said, “you can write a book about it.”
“Thanks a bunch, partner.”
“Come on, babe. Let’s move it. I’m turning into vampire dessert back here.�
��
“Take care,” Larry said. Then he stepped back from the car. Jean held his hand, and they stood side by side while Barbara steered out of the driveway.
Lane, sitting on her parents’ bed with the phone book open on her lap, picked up the handset and punched in Kramer’s number. She listened to the first ring, and imagined the phone suddenly blaring in Kramer’s dark house, probably startling Riley, making his heart jump.
Two more rings, then the line opened.
Before she could speak, Kramer said, “I’m not available to answer your call right now. At the sound of the tone, please leave your name, number, and message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Like hell you will,” Lane muttered over the sound of his “thank you.”
She heard an empty, windy sound like the desert at night.
What if Riley isn’t there and the cops end up with this?
The beep came.
“Hey, pick up. It’s goody-two-shoes. You know? Goody-two-shoes with the spit on her face. Pick up. It’s urgent.”
She heard a click. “Lane?” Riley’s voice.
“Yeah, it’s me. Take the tape out of the machine and put it in your pocket.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Do it now, okay?”
A few seconds later he said, “Okay, I’ve got it. What’s going on? Is he leaving?”
“He’s dead.”
“What?”
“My Dad killed him about ten minutes ago. I don’t have time to tell you about it now. The thing is, you can go on home.”
“Damn it!”
“You oughta be glad.”
“I wanted to...”
“I know, I know.”
“Maybe I’ll burn the fucker’s house for him.”
“No, don’t do that. There might be some kind of evidence.”
“Oh yeah, there’s plenty of that, all right.”
“Really?”
“Hey, the fucker’s got a regular museum here in a closet — pictures on the walls. You, Jessica, half a dozen...”
“Me?” Lane asked, feeling as if her breath were being sucked out.
“Sure as shit. Must be thirty, forty of ‘em. He’s got a darkroom here, all kinds of cameras, telephoto lenses, you name it.”
The Stake Page 41
