The Stake

One

“How about a little detour on the way home?” Pete asked. He started his van moving. Its tires crunched over the gravel of the parking lot.

A detour. Sounded good to Larry. But he said nothing. He knew that Pete’s suggestion had been directed to those in the seats behind them. If the wives didn’t go for it, the matter was closed.

“You aren’t gonna get us lost again, are you?” Barbara asked.

“Who, me?”

“He gets us on those back roads, no telling where we’ll end up.”

“I always get us home, don’t I?”

“Eventually.”

Pete glanced at Larry. A corner of his mouth turned up, lifting that side of his mustache. “Why do I put up with this, I ask you?”

Before Larry could come up with an answer, Barbara leaned forward and hooked a tawny forearm across her husband’s throat. “Because you love me, right?” she asked. She nipped the ridge of his ear.

“Hey, hey, calm down. You want to run me off the road?”

She wore a sleeveless blouse. A sprinkling of freckles showed on her deeply tanned shoulder. Though the air conditioner was blowing cool air into the van, the skin above her lip gleamed with moisture under a fine, curly down. Larry didn’t want to be caught staring, so he looked away. Just ahead, an old-timer dressed like a prospector was leading a burro along the road’s dusty shoulder.

Larry wondered if the guy was for real. Silver Junction, the town they were leaving behind, was full of characters in old west getups. Some seemed like the real article, but he had no doubt that most were simply playing the role for the benefit of the tourists.

“So how about it?” Pete asked as Barbara released him. “Want to do some exploring?”

“I think it’d be fun,” Jean said. “You in a hurry to get home, Larry?”

“Me? No.”

“He always hates to lose a day,” she explained. “I have an awful time trying to drag him out of the house.”

“The day’s already shot,” he said.

“Same to you, fella,” Barbara said.

“Whoops. Didn’t mean it that way. It’s been great.” It hadbeen a nice change from his usual seven-day work schedule. Fun being out with Pete and Barbara, wandering the old town, watching the gunfight on Main Street, having a burger and a couple of beers in the picturesque saloon. “I need to get out more, anyway, or I’d run dry.”

“Everything we do ends up in his books,” Jean explained, “but he still hates to be dragged away from his almighty word processor.”

“That’s what keeps a roof over our heads.”

Pete tipped his head back as if to carom his voice off the top of the windshield, the better for Barbara to hear. “Let’s take him to that ghost town.”

A ghost town.

A warm, pleasant tightness came to Larry’s chest and throat.

“You think you can find it?” Barbara asked.

“No sweat.” He turned to Larry, grinning. “You’ll love it. Just your kind of place.”

“It’s pretty spooky, all right,” Barbara said.

“He’ll be in hog heaven.”

“I bet you get a book out of it,” Pete told him. “Call it ‘The Horror of Sagebrush Flat.’ Maybe have some weirdos lurking around, chopping up everyone.”

Larry could feel himself blushing a little with the stir of pride that came whenever people started referring to his grisly novels. “If I did,” he said, “you wouldn’t read it.”

“Iwill,” Barbara assured him.

“I know you will. You’re my best fan.”

“I’ll wait for the movie,” Pete announced.

“You’ll have a long wait.”

“You’re gonna make it,” he said, nodding at Larry and narrowing one eye.

Barbara gave the back of his head a gentle whack. “He’s alreadymade it, dickhead.”

“Hey, hey, watch it with the hands.” He smoothed his mussed hair. The thick black hair was threaded with strands of gray. His mustache, with a lot more gray in it, looked as if it belonged on an older face.

“You’ll be a wizened, silver-haired old coot,” Larry said, “before they ever make a movie of one of my books.”

“Ah, bull. You’ll make it, mark my words.” He tilted his head. “ ‘The Beast of Sagebrush Flat.’ I can see it now. I’ve gotta be one of the characters, right?”

“Of course. You’re the guy driving.”

“Who’s gonna play me? Has to be someone suitably handsome and dashing.”

“Pee-wee Herman,” Barbara suggested.

“You about ready to die, honey?”

“De Niro,” Larry said. “He’d be perfect.”

Pete raised an eyebrow and stroked his mustache. “Think so? He’s kind of old.”

“You’re no spring chicken,” Barbara said.

“Hey. Thirty-nine. Hardly counts as one foot in the grave.”

“Before you start losing your eyesight, you’d better watch for the turnoff.”

“I know just where it is. Never fear. I’ve got a natural instinct for these things. De Niro, huh? Yeah, I like that.”

“You’d better slow down,” Barbara told him.

“Don’t get your shorts in a knot, huh? I know exactly where we’re going.”

The van swept around a curve of the two-lane blacktop and shot past a road that led off to the left.

“That was it, smart guy.”

He leaned against his door and watched the road recede in the side mirror. “Naw.”

“Oh yes it was.”

“They never listen to us,” Jean said.

“That wasn’t it,” Pete muttered, stepping on the brake. The van slowed. He pulled onto the gravel shoulder, stopped, cranked his window down and stared back. “You really think that’s it, honey?”

“If you don’t believe me, keeping going.”

“Shit.”

“Maybe we won’tbe visiting a ghost town today,” Jean said, sounding amused.

Larry turned in his seat and looked at her. Smiling, she rolled her eyes upward. That expression was as good as words. What’ve we gotten ourselves into? Like Larry, she always got a kick out of the good-natured bickering that went on between Pete and Barbara. But they’d seen the arguments turn nasty, and had occasionally overheard quarrels that sounded truly vicious coming from the couple’s next-door house.

“Why don’t we give that road a try?” Larry suggested.

“It’s not the one.”

“Prince Henry the Navigator,” Barbara muttered.

“Maybe we should flip a coin,” Jean said.

“Do you have a map?” Larry asked.

“Pete doesn’t believe in them,” Barbara told him, her voice pleasant. Amazing how she reserved the sarcasm for her husband. “It’s up to you, Peter. I’ve offered my opinion. Feel free to ignore it.”

“Oh, hell,” he muttered. He started to turn the van around, and Larry saw the look of relief on Jean’s face.

“If it’s the wrong road,” Larry told Barbara, “we hold you personally responsible.”

She bared her teeth at him, then laughed softly.

“That’s tellin‘ her, pal.” Pete turned the van onto the side road and stepped on the gas. He drove up the middle, ignoring the faded white line. There wasn’t enough left of the speed limit sign to read its numbers. The metal had been riddled with bullets. Some of the holes looked fresh, but many were fringed with rust. Pete pointed at the sign. “There’s some local color for you. Ol’ Barb’s reallygonna be in trouble if we not only take the wrong road, but get shot in the bargain.”

“We’ll duck if we see any bargain hunters,” Larry said.

“Ha! Good one! I hate to tell you, they’re in the backseat.”

“Can’t miss at this range,” Jean said.

“We’re dead meat.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Petey. You’re no bargain.”

“I know. I’m priceless. I’m also smart enough to know this isn’t the road to Sagebrush Flat. But here we are anyway.”

“It was a good decision,” Larry assured him. “In my vast experience, I’ve found it always wiser to go along with female advice.”

“That’s because it’s usually right,” Jean said.

“Either way,” he told Pete, “you can’t lose. First, you make them happy by doing what they tell you. That’s the main thing. Let them think they’re in control. They love it. Then, if it turns out they were right, everything’s cool. If it turns out they were wrong...”

“Which is usually the case,” Pete added.

“Do they know what thin ice they’re on?” Jean asked.

“If they’re wrong,” Larry went on, “then you have the pleasure of basking in the glow of superiority.”

Pete grinned and nodded. “Hey, you oughta put that in one of your books.”

“It wasin one of his books,” Barbara said. “If I’m not mistaken, a redneck cop spoke pretty much those very words in Dead of Night.”

“Yeah?”

“No kidding?” Larry asked, amazed that she had remembered such a thing.

“Don’t you remember?”

He’d quoted one of his own characters without even realizing it? Odd, he thought. And a little disturbing. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “If you say so, I guess it’s there.”

“The philosophy at work,” Pete said.

“No, I mean it. I write so much... That book was a long time ago.”

“I have the advantage,” Barbara said. “I just read it last month.”

“Hey, maybe you’re becoming that guy. Turning into your redneck cop. There’s an idea for a story, huh? A writer starts turning into this character he made up.”

“Has possibilities.”

“Well, if you use it, remember where you got the idea.”

“Ah-ha!” Barbara said. “Over on the left.”

Looking across the road, Larry saw the ruins of an old structure. It no longer had a roof. The door and window-panes, if it ever had them, were gone. The upper portions of the walls had crumbled away, and some of the rocks that might once have formed the square enclosure now lay in rubble around it — returning to the desert from which they’d been taken.

“Well,” Pete said, “I guess this isthe right road.”

“Prince Henry.”

“Doesn’t look like much of a ghost town,” Jean remarked.

“That isn’t it,” Barbara told her. “But we stopped and had a look around before we got to Sagebrush Flat.”

“Nothing much there,” Pete said. “Wanta take a quick look?”

“I’d rather get on to the main attraction.”

In spite of Jean’s earlier comments about her difficulties in getting him out of the house, they’d taken several day trips during the past year to explore the region. Sometimes with Pete and Barbara, a few times by themselves or with Lane — when they could drag their seventeen-year-old daughter away from home. On those outings, Larry had seen plenty of ruins similar to the one they were leaving behind. But not a real ghost town.

“Don’t you always wonder who lived in places like that?” Jean asked.

“Prospectors, I should think,” Pete said.

“ ‘Dead guys,’ ” Larry quoted.

“Leave it to you. The morbid touch.”

“Actually, that was Lane’s comment. ‘Dead guys.’ Remember, hon?”

“She went back to the car and waited for us that time. She wanted nothing to do with it.”

“I know the feeling,” Barbara said. “I think this stuff’s interesting, but you gotta know that whoever lived there’s been pushing up daisies for a while.”

“Cactus,” Pete said.

“Whatever. Anyway, dead. Makes it kind of spooky.”

“All the better for Larry here.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Jean said. “I just think it’s neat to see where they used to live, and, you know, imagine what it must’ve been like. It’s history.”

“Speaking of history,” Larry said, “what do you know about this ghost town of yours?”

“Not much,” Pete told him.

“Hedoesn’t even know where it is.”

“It must be in some of those guidebooks,” Jean said.

“Nope. We checked.”

“I guess it’s nothing all that special,” Pete said. “Maybe it’s not an official ghost town, or whatever it takes to get noticed — just a wide spot in the road that got deserted.” He suddenly grinned at Larry. “Hey, suppose it’s just there for us? You know? Like a figment of our imaginations.”

“A ghostghost town.”

“Yeah! How about that? Another idea for you. You’re gonna have to start paying me a consultant’s fee.”

“You’d do better if you wrote the books yourself.”

“Hey, maybe I oughta give it a try. How long does it take you to knock out one of those things?”

“Six months, maybe, to write one. About twenty-five years to learn how.”

“You’d better just stick to repairing televisions,” Barbara said.

“We coming up on the turnoff?” he asked.

“I’ll let you know.”

“We didn’t get any chance to explore the place last time,” Pete said. “Spent too much time screwing around back at that pile of rocks.”

“Watch it, buster.”

“Anyway, we had to get home for some party you were having, so we just drove right on through Sagebrush.”

God, Larry thought, he’d meant it literally. Otherwise Barbara wouldn’t have reacted that way. They’d actually screwed in that old ruin. Inside those tumbledown walls. No door. No roof. Right out in the open, almost.

For just a moment he was there. On top of Barbara. Her eyes were half shut, her lips peeled back, her naked body writhing under him as he thrust.

He banished the image, ashamed of his minor betrayal and the desire it stirred. No harm in daydreaming, he told himself. He had such fantasies often, and not just about Barbara. But he’d never cheated on Jean. He planned to keep it that way.

“You’re coming up on it,” Barbara said.

Pete slowed nearly to a full stop by the time he made the right-hand turn. The road ahead looked as if it had gone ignored by a generation of repair crews. Only a few faint traces remained of its center line. The gray, sunbaked asphalt was cracked, crumbling, pocked with holes.

The van pitched and bounced, swerved to miss the worst of the potholes. Larry found himself hanging onto the armrest.

“You want to slow down?” Barbara suggested.

“You want to get there, don’t you?”

“In one piece, if that’s feasible.”

A bump rammed the seat against Larry’s rump. His teeth clashed.

“Goddamn it!” Barbara snapped.

“Okay, okay. Didn’t see that one coming.”

After he eased off the gas, the ride was still rough, but not punishing. Larry relaxed his grip on the armrest. Looking out his side window, he saw the rusted-out hulk of an overturned car. Its roof was mashed in and it had no wheels. It was well beyond the embankment bordering the road, surrounded by the desert’s litter of broken rock, by cactus and scrub brush. He couldn’t imagine how it had come to be belly-up. He considered mentioning the wreck, but decided to keep silent. The thing would probably inspire another story concept from Pete.

No doubt a perfectly mundane explanation for how it got there. Maybe it broke down and was abandoned by the roadside. People had come along later, pushed it out there for the hell of it, and flipped it over. Had nothing better to do. If someone wanted to salvage the tires, rolling the thing probably seemed more sensible than jacking it up one corner at a time.

Not just someone.

Larry felt a quick rush of joy.

A roving band of desert scavengers. A primitive, bloodthirsty pack.

Maybe they don’t just wait for breakdowns. Maybe they block the road or booby-trap it, then ambush the unlucky travelers. They slaughter the men. They take the women back to their lair — maybe an abandoned mine — for fun and games.

Not bad. Worth toying around with later to see if he could make it work. He needed a new idea. And soon.

“Just around the bend,” Barbara said.

Larry peered out the windshield, but the view ahead was blocked by low, rocky slopes. The road curved through a gap between the desolate rises.

Maybe I can work the ghost town into the scavenger idea, he thought as they entered the narrow pass.

“Thar she blows!” Pete announced.

Two

Along the road leading into Sagebrush Flat were the remains of shacks that had been picked apart by the desert winds. Houses of stone, adobe, and brick had fared better, but even those looked battered, their doors hanging open or gone, their windows smashed. Here and there boards lay scattered on the ground near doorways and windows. Larry supposed that the lumber had once been used to seal the dwellings.

The weathered walls of the old houses were pocked with bullet holes, scribbled with sketches and messages in spray paint. Contributions from visitors to this dead town, making a playground of its carcass.

Many of the yards were bordered by broken-down fences. Along with cactus and brush, Larry saw pieces of old furniture in front of some houses: a sofa, a couple of cane chairs, an aluminum lawn chair with its frame twisted crooked. One house had a bathtub off to the side. Another had an overturned bathroom toilet that looked as if it had been the subject of target practice. The rusted hood of a car was leaning against a porch. Nearby lay a couple of tires, and Larry recalled the abandoned, tireless car he’d seen a few minutes ago.

“Isn’t exactly Beverly Hills, huh?” Pete remarked.

“Love it,” Larry said.

“Gee, and we forgot our spray cans,” Jean said. “How can we properly deface the place without our paint?”

“We could shoot it up some.” Pete reached beneath his seat and came up with a revolver. It was sheathed in a beltless holster. Larry recognized it as the .357 Smith & Wesson that he’d fired a few times when they’d gone shooting last month. A beauty.

“Put that away,” Barbara said. “For godsake.”

“Just kidding around. Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

As he concealed the handgun under his seat, Barbara said, “Men and their toys.”

Pete swung the van off the road and stopped beside a pair of gasoline pumps. He beeped the horn a couple of times as if signaling for service.

“God,” Barbara muttered.

“Hey, wouldn’t it be something if a guy showed up?”

Larry gazed past the pumps. The porch stairs led up to a country store with a screen door hanging by a single hinge. A faded wooden sign above the doorway identified the place as Holman’s. A row of windows faced the road. Not a single pane was still intact. The window openings looked like mouths with sharp glass teeth.

“Might as well start here,” Pete said.

“Great,” Larry said. He thought it might be interesting to go through some of the houses they’d passed on the way in, but those could wait for another day. He was more eager to explore the downtown area.

He climbed out of the van. The wind and heat hit him. Jean grimaced when she stepped down. The wind blew her hair back, made her blouse and skirt cling to the front of her slim body as if they were wet.

“Better lock up,” Pete called.

“There’s nobody around to steal anything,” Barbara said.

“Would you rather I take the magnum along?”

“Okay, okay, we’ll lock the doors.”

Larry took care of their side. They met Pete and Barbara in front of the van.

“I would feel better if we took the gun with us,” Pete said.

“Well, I wouldn’t.”

“You never know about a place like this.”

“If you think it’s dangerous, we shouldn’t be here.” Barbara tossed her head to clear her face of blowing blond hair. The wind parted her untucked blouse below the last button, and Larry glimpsed a triangle of tanned belly.

“Might be rattlers,” Pete said.

“We’ll watch our step,” Jean told him. Like Larry, she was no doubt eager to end the gun debate before it could escalate into a quarrel.

“Yeah,” Larry said. “And if we run into any bad guys, we’ll send you back here for the artillery.”

“Oh, thanks. While you guys hide.”

“You wouldn’t mind, would you, honey?”

He answered by clamping a hand on Barbara’s rump. The way she flinched and jumped away, he must’ve done it hard. She whirled toward him. “Just watch it, huh?”

“Let’s see what’s in Holman’s,” Jean said, and hurried toward the stairs.

Larry went after her. “Careful,” he said. The boards, bleached pale, were warped and threaded with splits. The one before the top was broken in the middle, half gone and half hanging down by rusty nails.

Jean held the railing, stepped over the demolished stair and made it safely across the porch. While she dragged the screen door open, Larry climbed the stairs. They creaked under his weight but held him.

“You better not try it,” Pete warned Barbara, looking back at her as he trotted up the old planks. “You’ll snap ‘em like matchsticks.”

“Give it a rest,” she said.

Larry admired her restraint. It seemed so damn stupid of Pete to poke fun at his wife’s size. She was big, probably a shade over six feet tall. Though not a beanpole, like many tall women, she certainly wasn’t overweight. Larry had seen her in all kinds of attire, including swimsuits and nightgowns, and considered her body terrific. He knew that Pete was proud of her appearance. Pete was compact and powerful, but lifting all the weights in the world wouldn’t give him the six inches of height he would need to meet Barbara eye to eye.

Instead of calling him “short stuff” or “pip-squeak,” she’d simply told him to give it a break. Admirable.

She climbed the stairs without bursting any of them.

Inside, Holman’s smelled of dry, ancient wood. Larry expected the place to be stifling, but the shade and the breeze from the broken windows kept it bearable. A thin layer of sand coated the hardwood floor. It had blown into small drifts against the walls, the foot of the L — shaped lunch counter, and the metal bases of the swivel stools along the counter.

The eating area occupied about a third of the room. There had probably once been tables between the counter and the wall, but they were long gone.

“Bet they served great cheeseburgers,” Jean said. She was very fond of diners with character. To Jean, dumpy old places that many people would disparage as “greasy spoons” promised delights unattainable in clean and modern fast-food chains.

“Shakes,” Barbara said. “I could go for one about now.”

“I could go for a beer,” Pete said.

“I think I saw a saloon up the road,” Jean told him.

“But they only serve Ghost-Light,” Larry said.

“Let’s break a few out of the van before we move on.”

“You’ve got a beer?” Larry could tasteit.

“Surely you jest. The desert’s one dry mother. You think I’d brave her without my survival stash?”

“All right!”

Pete headed for the door.

“Aren’t you going to look around?” Barbara asked.

“What’s to see?” He hurried outside.

“I guess he’s right,” Jean said, scanning the room.

“The rest of it must’ve been a general store,” Larry said. “I bet they carried everything.”

Nothing remained, not even shelves. Except for the lunch counter and stools, the room was bare. Behind the counter was a serving window. Farther down, Larry saw a closed door that probably connected with the kitchen. Past the end of the counter was an alcove. “That’s probably where the rest rooms were.”

“I think I’ll check out the ladies‘,” Barbara said.

“Lotsa luck,” Jean told her.

“Can’t hurt to have a look.”

She walked into the alcove, opened a door, and whirled away clutching her mouth.

“Apparently,” Larry said, “it did hurt to take a look.”

Barbara scrunched up her face.

“You’re a little green around the gills,” Jean told her.

She lowered her hand and took a deep breath. “Guess I’ll find a place around back.”

They left Holman’s. She followed the porch, jumped off, and disappeared around a corner of the building.

Larry and Jean went to the van. When Pete came out he had four bottles of beer clutched to his chest. “Where’s Barb?”

“Went behind the building.”

“Answering a call of nature,” Jean said.

He scowled. “She shouldn’t have gone off by herself.”

“She may not want an audience,” Jean explained.

“Damn it. Barb!” he yelled.

No answer. He called again, and Larry saw a trace of worry in his eyes.

“She probably can’t hear you,” Larry said. “The wind and everything.”

“Take these, okay? I’ve gotta make sure she’s okay.”

Jean and Larry each took two bottles from his arms. “She’s only been gone a couple of minutes.”

“Yeah, well...” He hurried away, jogging toward the far end of Holman’s.

“Hope he doesn’t tear her head off,” Jean said.

“At least he’s worried about her. That’s something, anyway.”

“I sure wish they’d quit bickering.”

“They must enjoy it.”

Jean wandered toward the road, and Larry stayed at her side. The bottles of beer felt cold and wet in his hands. He took a drink from the one in his right.

“You’ll be having to go yourself, if you don’t watch it.”

“Don’t let Pete come to my rescue,” he said, and turned his attention to the town.

The central road had broad, gravel shoulders for parking. The sidewalks were concrete, not the elevated planking common to such old west towns as Silver Junction, where they’d spent the morning. The citizens had made some modern improvements before leaving Sagebrush Flat to the desert.

“I wonder why they left,” Larry said.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t live anywhere that doesn’t have movie theaters.”

“Well, I don’t see any.”

Neither did Larry. From his position in the middle of the road, he could see the entire town. Not one of the buildings had a movie marquee jutting over the sidewalk. He saw a barber pole in front of one small shop; a place on the left with a faded sign that proclaimed it to be Sam’s Saloon; about a dozen other enterprises altogether. He guessed that they’d once been hardware stores, cafes, possibly a bakery, clothing stores, maybe a pharmacy and a five-and-ten, a dentist’s and doctor’s office — and how about an optimistic realtor? — and certainly a sporting goods store. Not even the smallest back-country town in California was without a place to buy guns and ammo. Way at the far end of town, on the left, stood an adobe building with a pair of bay doors and service islands in front. Babe’s Garage.

The centerpiece of town appeared to be the three-story, wood-frame structure of the Sagebrush Flat Hotel, right next door to Sam’s Saloon.

“That’s the place I’d like to explore,” Larry said.

“Sam’s?”

“That, too. But the hotel. It looks like it’s been around for a while.”

“We’d better go there next, then. No telling how long this little expedition’s going to last, those two start fighting.”

“We’ll have to come back by ourselves, sometime, and really check the place out.”

“I don’t know.” She drank some beer. “I’m not sure I’d want to come here without some company.”

“Hey, what am I, chopped liver?”

“You know what I mean.”

He knew. Though he and Jean shared a desire for adventure, they were limited by a certain timidity. The presence of another couple seemed to erase that weakness.

They needed backup.

Backup like Pete and Barbara. In spite of the bickering, each was endowed with self-confidence and force. Led by that pair, Larry and Jean were willing to venture where they wouldn’t go on their own.

Even if we’d known about this place, Larry thought, we wouldn’t have dared to explore it by ourselves. The chance of a return trip, at least in the near future, was slim.

Jean turned around and looked toward the corner of Holman’s. “I wonder what’s keeping them.”

“Should we go find out?”

“I don’t think so.”

Larry took a swig of cold beer.

“Why don’t we get out of the sun?” Jean suggested.

They wandered back past the van, climbed the rickety stairs to Holman’s shaded porch and sat down. They rested the two extra beers on the wood between them. Jean crossed her legs. She rubbed her bare thighs with the base of her bottle. The wetness left slicks on her skin. She lifted the bottle to her face and slid it over her cheeks and forehead.

Larry imagined Jean opening her blouse, rolling the chilled, dripping bottle against her bare breasts. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would ever do that, though. Hell, she wouldn’t even step out of the house unless she had a bra on.

Too bad life can’t be more like fiction, he told himself, and drank some more beer. A gal in one of his books would have that wet bottle sliding over her chest in about two shakes. Then, of course, the guy would get in on the action.

That’d be a scene worth writing.

You’ll never get a chance to liveit, not in this lifetime, but...

“Larry, I’m starting to get worried.”

“They’ll be along.”

“Something must be wrong.”

“Maybe she has a problem.”

“Like the trots?”

“Who knows?”

“They’d be back by now if somethinghadn’t happened,” Jean said.

“Maybe Pete got lucky.”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Obviously they did it back at that old ruin we passed.”

“Sounded like it. But they were alone. They wouldn’t do that here with us waiting.”

“If you’re so sure, why don’t we go around back and look for them?”

“Go right on ahead.” She gave him an annoyed glance.

“Nah.” He put a hand on her back. Her blouse was damp. He untucked it and slipped his hand beneath it. She sat up straight, and sighed as he caressed her.

When he fingered the catches of her bra, she said, “Don’t get carried away. They could show up any second.”

“On the other hand, maybe they won’t show up at all.”

“Don’t kid around like that, okay?”

“I’m not entirely kidding.”

“Maybe they arescrewing around.”

“You said they wouldn’t.”

“Well, I don’t know, damn it.”

“Maybe we’d better go see.”

Jean wrinkled her nose.

“If they did run into trouble,” Larry said, “we aren’t making matters any better by procrastinating. They might need help.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Besides, their beers are getting warm.”

He picked up the bottle for Pete, stood, and waited for Jean. Then they walked to the end of the porch. Larry peered around the corner. The area alongside the building was clear, so he leaped down. Jean covered the mouth of Barbara’s bottle with her thumb and jumped.

“I don’t know about this,” she said.

“They can’t expect us to wait forever.”

Larry led the way, wanting to be a few strides ahead of Jean in case there really was trouble.

At times like this he wished his imagination would take a holiday. But it never left him alone. It was always busy churning up possibilities — most of them grim.

He pictured Pete and Barbara dead, of course. Slaughtered by the same pack of desert scavengers he’d dreamed up when he saw the overturned car.

Maybe Pete had been killed, Barbara abducted.

We’d have to go looking for her. Run back to the van first and get Pete’s gun.

Maybe they both got killed by a criminal using the old town as a hideout.

Or by an old lunatic on the lookout for claim jumpers.

Maybe they’ll just be gone. Vanished without a trace.

Pete has the keys to the van. We’d have to walk out of here.

He supposed the nearest town was Silver Junction.

God, it’d take hours to get there. And maybe someone would be after them, hunting them down.

“Better warn ‘em we’re coming,” Jean said.

He stopped near the corner of the building, looked back at her and shook his head. “If they ran into someone...”

“Don’t even think it, okay?”

From the look on Jean’s face, he could see that she’d already considered the possibility.

“Just go ahead and call out,” she said. “We don’t want to barge in on something.”

Speak for yourself, he thought. If Pete was having at her, he wouldn’t mind a glimpse of it. Not at all. But he kept the thoughts to himself.

Without looking around the corner, he yelled, “Pete! Barbara! You all right?”

No answer came.

A second ago he’d pictured them rutting. Now he saw them sprawled dead, murderous savages hunched over their bodies, heads turning at the sound of his voice.

He gestured for Jean to wait, and stepped past the end of the building.

Three

“Where are they?” Jean whispered, pressing herself against his side.

Larry shook his head. He couldn’t believe the couple was actually gone. “They probably just wandered off somewhere,” he said. The idea that he would catch them fooling around had been the product of wishful thinking, and he knew that his worries about murder had been farfetched. But so had his worries that they’d disappeared.

“We’d better find them,” Jean said.

“Good plan.”

But all he saw were the rear facades of the other buildings, and the desert stretching away toward a ridge of mountains to the south.

“Maybe they’re playing some kind of trick on us,” Jean suggested.

“I don’t know. Pete was awfully eager for his beer.”

“People don’t go for a leak and vanish off the face of the earth.”

“Only on occasion.”

“It’s not funny.” Her voice was trembling.

“Look, they’ve got to be around.”

“Maybe we’d better go and get the gun.”

“It’s locked in the van. I don’t imagine Pete would be very happy about a broken window.”

“Pete!” she suddenly shrieked. “Barb!”

A distant voice called, “Yo!”

Jean’s eyebrows flew up. Her head snapped sideways and she squinted out at the desert.

Some fifty yards off, Pete’s head and shoulders rose out of the wasteland. “Hey, y’gotta see this!” he shouted, and waved for them to approach.

Jean glanced at Larry, rolled her eyes and sagged as if her air had been let out.

He grinned.

“I think I may kill them myself,” Jean said.

“I’ll go get the gun.”

“Break allthe windows, while you’re at it.” Her voice sounded shaky.

“Come on, let’s see what they found.”

“It better be good.”

They walked over the hard, baked earth, moving carefully as they stepped on broken rocks, avoided clumps of cactus and greasewood. Near the place where Pete waited was an old smoke tree. Larry guessed that Barbara had wandered farther and farther away from Holman’s, looking for a suitably large bush or rock cluster, and had finally decided upon the tree. Its trunk was thick enough to afford privacy, and there was shade beneath its drooping branches.

Pete was standing some distance from the tree. At his back the ground dropped away.

“What’d you find?” Larry asked. “The Grand Canyon?”

“Hey, glad you brought the suds.” He lifted the front of his knit shirt and wiped his face. “It’s nastyout here.”

Larry handed the full bottle to him.

The depression behind Pete was a dry creek bed some fifteen or twenty feet lower than the surrounding flatlands. Barbara, sitting on a rock at the bottom, looked up and waved.

“Did you forget about us?” Jean asked Pete.

He finished taking a swig of beer, then shook his head. “I was just on my way to get you. Figured you might want to see this.” He started down the steep embankment, and they followed.

“We were getting a little worried,” Larry said, watching his feet as he descended the rocky slope. “Thought you might’ve fallen victim to a roving band of desert marauders.”

“Yeah? That’s a good one. Make a good story, huh?”

Barbara stood up and brushed off the seat of her white shorts. “God, it’s hot as a huncher down here,” she said, as they approached. Her blouse was unbuttoned, its front tied, leaving her midriff bare. The knot was loose enough to leave a gap. Her bra was black. Larry saw the pale sides of her breasts through its lace. “No breeze at all,” she added.

“What’s the big discovery?” Jean asked, handing a beer to her.

“It’s no big deal, if you ask me.” She tipped the bottle up. Larry saw a bead of sweat drop from her jaw, roll off her collarbone, and slide down her chest until it melted into the edge of her bra.

“Over here,” Pete said. “Come on.”

He led the way to a cut eroded into the wall of the embankment. There, lying in shadows and partly hidden by tangles of brush, was the demolished carcass of a jukebox. “Must’ve come from that cafe,” he said, nudging its side with his shoe.

“How’d it get all the way out here?” Jean asked.

“Who knows?”

“The thing’s no good, anyway,” Barbara said.

“It’s seen better days,” Larry said, feeling a touch of nostalgia as he pictured it standing fresh and bright near the lunch counter in Holman’s. He guessed that someone had dragged it out and used it for target practice. It would’ve made a tempting target, all decorated with bright chrome and plastic — if the shooter happened to be an asshole who took pleasure from destroying things of such beauty. After the box was blasted to smithereens, it had probably been shoved off the edge of the slope for the fun of watching it tumble and crash.

Larry crouched beside its shattered plastic top. The rows of record slots were empty. The tone arm dangled from its mount by a couple of wires.

“Probably worth a few of grand,” Pete said.

“Forget it,” Barbara told him. “He thinks we should take it with us.”

“She’s sure a beaut,” Pete said. “A Wurlitzer.”

“Think you could get it working?” Jean asked.

“Sure.”

He probably could, Larry thought. The guy’s house was a museum of resurrected junk: televisions, stereo components, a toaster oven, lamps, a dishwasher and vacuum cleaner, all once disgarded as useless, picked up by Pete and restored to working order.

“You might get it playing again,” he said, “but it’s too messed up to ever look like anything.” Its chrome trim was dented and rusty, one side of the cabinet was smashed in, the speaker grills looked as if they’d been hit by shotgun blasts, and bullets had torn away at least half the square plastic buttons used for selecting tunes. “You probably can’t even get replacement parts for a lot of this stuff,” he added.

“Sure would be neat, though.”

“Yeah.” Turning his head sideways, Larry blew dust and sand from its chart of selections. Bullets and shotgun pellets had ripped away some of the labels. Those that remained were faint, washed out by rainfall and years of pounding sunlight. Still, he could make out the names of many titles and artists. Jean crouched and peered over his shoulder.

“There’s ‘Hound Dog,’ ” he said. “ ‘I Fall to Pieces,’ ‘Stand by Your Man.’ ”

“God, I used to love that one,” Jean said.

“Sounds like it’s mostly shit-kicker stuff,” Pete said.

“Well, here’s the Beatles. ‘Hard Day’s Night.’ The Mamas and the Papas.”

“Oh, they were good,” Barbara said.

“This one’s ‘California Dreaming,’ ” Larry told her.

“Always makes me sad when I think about Mama Cass.”

“All right!” Larry grinned. “ ‘The Battle of New Orleans.’ Johnny Horton. Man, I must’ve been in junior high. I knew that sucker by heart.”

“There’s Haley Mills,” Jean said, her breath stirring the hair above Larry’s ear. “ ‘Let’s Get Together.’ And look, ‘Soldier Boy’ ”

“Here’s the Beach Boys, ‘Surfin’ U.S.A.‘ ”

“Now we’re talking,” Pete said.

“Dennis Wilson, too,” Barbara said. “So many of those people are dead. Mama Cass, Elvis, Lennon. Jesus, this is getting depressing.”

“Patsy Cline’s dead, too,” Jean told her.

“And Johnny Horton, I think,” Larry said.

“What do you guys expect?” Pete said. “This stuff’s all at least twenty, thirty years old.”

Barbara took a few steps backward, stumbled when her sneaker came down on a rock, but managed to stay up. Sweaty face grimacing, she said, “Why don’t we get out of this hellhole and look around town? That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?”

“Might as well.” Jean pushed against Larry’s shoulder and rose from her squat.

“Let’s see if we can lift this thing,” Pete muttered.

“Oh no you don’t!” Barbara snapped. “No way! You’re not carting that piece of trash home with us. Uh-uh.”

“Well, shit.”

“If you want an old jukebox so bad, go out and buy one, for godsake. Jesus, it’s probably got scorpions in it.”

“I think you’d better forget it,” Larry said, rising to his feet. “The thing’s beyond saving.”

“Yeah, I guess. Shit.” He gave his wife a sour look. “Thanks a heap, Barbara dear.”

She ignored his remark and started climbing the slope. Below her rucked-up blouse her back looked tawny and slick. The rear of her shorts was smudged with yellow dust from the rock where she’d sat. The fabric hugged her buttocks, and Larry could see the outline of her panties — a narrow band inches lower than the belt of her shorts, a skimpy triangle curving down from it. Jean, climbing behind her, was hunched over slightly. Her blouse was still untucked. It clung to her back, and the loose tail draped her rump.

Pete was watching, too.

“Couple of good-looking chicks,” he said.

“Not bad.”

“You ever get the feeling they run our fucking lives for us?”

“Only about ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Pete choked out a laugh, slapped Larry’s arm, and took a long drink of beer. “Guess we’d better be good little boys and go with them.” He glanced back at the jukebox. He sighed. He shrugged. “Adios. No more music for you, old pal.”

“So much for that,” Larry said when he saw the padlocked hasp across the double doors of the Sagebrush Flat Hotel.

Pete fingered the lock. “Doesn’t look very old.”

“Maybe someone’s living here,” Barbara said.

“Hey, Sherlock, it’s locked from the outside. What does that tell you?”

“Tells me we’d be trespassing.”

“Yeah,” Jean said. “The doors are locked, the windows are boarded. Somebody’s trying to keep people out.”

“Kind of sparks my curiosity. What about you, Lar?”

“Sparks mine, too. But I don’t know about breaking in.”

“Who’s gonna find out?” Pete turned away from the doors. He stepped off the sidewalk, bent over and swept his head slowly from side to side in a broad pantomime of scanning the town’s only road. “I don’t see anyone. Do you see anyone?”

“We get the point,” Barbara told him.

“I’ll just mosey on over to the van.” He started across the pavement, walking at an angle toward Holman’s.

“What’s he got in mind?” Jean asked.

“God knows. Maybe he’s planning to ram the doors open.”

“That’d be rather drastic,” Larry said.

“It’s a matter of pride, at this point. A challenge. Pete wouldn’t be Pete if he let a little thing like a lock keep him out.”

Jean rolled her eyes upward. “I guess this means we’re going to explore the hotel whether we want to or not.”

“Just consider it an adventure,” Larry suggested.

“Yeah, right. Jail would be an adventure, too.”

Pete climbed into the rear of the van. A few seconds later he jumped down, swung the door shut, and waved a lug wrench overhead. It had a pry bar at one end. In his other hand was a flashlight.

He’s really going to break in, Larry thought. Good Christ.

Barbara waited until he was closer, then called, “We’ve been having some second thoughts about this, Pete.”

“Hey, what’s life if you don’t take a little chance now and then. Right, Lar?”

“Right,” he answered, trying to sound game.

“You’re a lot of help,” Jean muttered.

Pete bounded onto the sidewalk, grinning and brandishing his tire iron. “Got my skeleton key right here,” he announced. “Fits any lock.”

“Anybody want to wait in the van?” Barbara asked.

“Ah, pussy.”

“Well, I guess I’d like to have a look around,” Larry said.

“Good man.”

Pete gave the flashlight to Larry. Then he rammed the wedge end of the bar behind the metal strap of the hasp. He yanked with both hands, throwing his weight backward. Wood groaned and split. With a sound like a small explosion the staple burst out of the door, bolts and all. “Well, that was a cinch.”

He shoved the bar under his belt, turned the knob on the right and pulled the door open.

“I suppose we could always say we found it like this,” Barbara muttered.

“You won’t have to sayanything. Half an hour or so, we’ll be long gone.”

“If we don’t get shot for trespassing.”

Ignoring her remark, Pete leaned into the doorway and called, “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?”

Larry winced.

“Here we come, ready or not!”

“Cut it out,” Barbara whispered, slapping the back of his shoulder.

“Nobody home but us ghosts,” he said in a low, scratchy voice, and turned around grinning.

“Real cute.”

“So who’s coming in?”

“I think we should all go in or none of us,” Larry said, hoping Pete wouldn’t figure him for a pussy. “I don’t think we should split up. I’d be worried the whole time that something might happen to the gals while we’re in there looking around.”

“Good man,” Barbara said, and patted his back.

“Guess you’re right,” Pete admitted. “If they got themselves raped and murdered while we were in there, boy would we feel like a couple of heels.”

“Exactly.”

“Real cute,” Jean said, borrowing not only Barbara’s phrase but also her disdainful tone.

“What do you say?” Barbara asked her.

“They’ll hold it against us forever if they can’t go in on our account.”

“Admit it,” Pete said. “You’re dying to come with us.”

“Let’s get it over with,” Barbara said.

Larry gave the flashlight back to Pete and followed him into the hotel. In spite of the closed doors and boarded windows, sand had found its way into the lobby. It made soft scraping sounds under their shoes.

“We probably shouldn’t leave the door open,” Jean said. There was a tremor in her hushed voice. “In case someone comes by.” Without waiting for a reply, she closed the door, shutting out most of the daylight.

Light still came in around the doors, spilled through cracks and knotholes in the planks across the windows — pale, dusty streamers that slanted down to the floor. Pete turned his flashlight on, its beam pushing a tunnel of brightness into the gloom. He swept it from side to side.

“Boy, there’s a lot to see in here,” Barbara whispered. “What a find!”

The lobby was bare except for a registration counter. On the wall behind the counter were cubbyholes for mail or messages. Over to the left a wooden staircase rose steeply toward the upper floors.

“Should we check in before we have a look around?” Pete asked.

“Probably no vacancies,” Larry whispered.

“A couple of real comedians,” Jean muttered.

Pete led the way to the counter, pounded its top and said in a loud voice, “How does a guy get some service around here?”

“Creep. You want to hold it down?”

“What’s everybody whispering for?” He vaulted the counter, dropped into the space behind it and ducked out of sight. He reappeared, rising slowly, the flashlight at his chin to cast weird shadows up his face. Where the beam touched him, his skin gleamed with sweat.

Goofing off like a kid, Larry thought. But he sometimes pulled the same gag, especially around Halloween, more to amuse himself than to frighten Jean or Lane. They had come to expect such antics. The old flashlight-on-the-face routine hadn’t scared Lane since she was about two.

It did make Pete look strange and menacing. Larry knew that if he let his mind go with it, he wouldget a shiver. “Mmm-yes?” Pete asked, pitching his voice high. “May I help zee veary travelers?”

“God, it’s hot in here,” Jean whispered.

“A damn oven,” Barbara said.

“Anything back there?” Larry asked, carefully avoiding his friend’s face.

“Only me and zee spirit of zee night clerk, who hung himself many years ago.”

“If we’re going to look around,” Jean said, “why don’t we, and get out of here?”

“I’d like to have a look upstairs,” Larry said.

“Vait. Let me ring for zee bell captain.”

“Oh, the hell with him,” Barbara muttered. “Come on.” She turned around and headed for the stairs. Jean went after her, and Larry followed. Barbara’s legs and the bare part of her back were nearly invisible in the darkness. Her white shorts and blouse, pale blurs, seemed to float above the floor on their own. Jean, in darker clothes, was a faint smudge in front of him.

He heard Pete strike the floor and stride up behind him, sand crunching under his shoes. The flashlight beam flicked across the backs of the women, swung over to the staircase and swept upward, skimming past balusters, tossing their long shadows against the wall. Midway up was a small landing. The remaining stairs rose to the narrow opening of the second-floor corridor.

“You don’t want to go first, do you?” Pete asked in his normal voice as Barbara started to climb.

“If I wait for you, we’ll be here all day.”

The light moved downward, gliding just above the stair treads, and something touched by the low edge of its aura winked like gold. A small, questioning breath of surprise came from Pete. The light skittered backward and down. Its bright center came to rest on a crucifix. “Christ,” he whispered.

“That’s right,” Larry said.

The crucifix, directly below the landing, was attached to wood paneling that closed off the space beneath the staircase.

“What is it?” Barbara asked, leaning over the banister near the bottom of the stairs.

“Somebody left a crucifix on the wall,” Larry told her.

“Is that all?” She leaned farther out, then shook her head. “Big deal,” she said.

Jean stepped around the side of the staircase for a closer look.

“Anybody want a souvenir?” Pete asked. He strode toward the crucifix.

“No, don’t,” Larry warned.

“Hey, somebody just forgot it here. Finders keepers.”

“Leave it alone,” Barbara said from her perch on the stairs. “For godsake, you don’t go around stealing crosses. That’s sick.”

The cross was made of wood. The suspended figure of Jesus looked as if it might be gold-plated. Pete reached for it.

“Please don’t,” Jean said.

He looked at her. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yeah.” Apparently he had just remembered that Jean was Catholic. He lowered his hand. “Sorry. I was just kidding around.”

“Reason prevails,” Barbara muttered. She pushed herself away from the banister and resumed climbing.

She got as far as the landing.

The wood creaked under her weight, then burst with a hard flat crack like a gunshot.

Barbara sucked in her breath. She flung her arms up as if trying to find a handhold in the dark air as she dropped straight down.

Four

“My God!” Pete shouted.

Jean, racing up the stairs, called out, “Hang on!”

“I’m slipping! Hurry!”

Larry dashed toward the foot of the stairs. He didn’t hear Pete coming. “Where areyou, man?”

“Get up there and grab her!” Pete snapped.

“Oh shit,” Barbara groaned.

Larry swung himself around the newel post. As he rushed up behind Jean he saw the hazy glow of Pete’s flashlight ahead and to the right of the stairs. Hadn’t the guy moved? Was he still down there in front of the crucifix?

Jean sank to her knees at the edge of the landing.

Barbara, her back to the lower stairs, looked like someone being swallowed by quicksand. She was hunched forward, pressing her chest against the remaining boards, bracing herself up with her elbows.

Jean crawled aside to make a space for Larry, then hooked an arm under Barbara’s left armpit. “Gotcha,” she gasped. “I gotcha. You’re not gonna fall.”

“Are you okay?” Pete called up.

“No, damn it!”

Larry dropped against the landing and stairs, looked down into a six-inch gap between the broken planks and the white of Barbara’s blouse. Blackness.

A bottomless pit, he thought. An abyss.

Ridiculous, he told himself. Probably no more than a six— or seven-foot drop, all told, from the landing to the lobby floor. She was already about halfway there.

What if the floor doesn’t extend under the staircase?

Or she breaks through that, too?

Even if she had only a four-foot fall, she would end up trapped under the staircase. And the broken boards might scrape her up pretty good on the way down.

He squirmed forward until his face met the hair on the back of Barbara’s head. He wrapped his arms around her. They squeezed her breasts. Muttering “Sorry,” he worked them lower and hugged her rib cage.

“Pete!” he yelled.

“You got her?” Pete’s voice still came from below.

“Just barely. If you’d give us a goddamn hand!”

He heard a crack of splitting wood. For a moment he thought that more of the landing was giving out. Nothing happened, though.

“Yah!” Barbara yelped, jerking in Larry’s embrace. “Something’s got me!”

“It’s just me, hon.”

For an instant a pale tongue of light licked the darkness beside Larry’s right shoulder. It had risen through the broken boards.

Pete’s under us, he realized.

“How’d you get down there?” Jean asked. She sounded amazed, relieved.

“Tire tool magic,” Pete said. “Okay, I’ve got you, hon. Let’s lower her gently.”

“No no no, don’t! I’ll fall.”

“We gotta get you down outa there.”

“Well, boost me up, okay?” Her voice was controlled, but tight with pain or fear. “If I try to go down, I’ll get wracked up even more.”

“All right. We’ll give it a try. You guys ready up there? On the count of three.”

“You gonna push her up by her legs?” Jean asked.

“That’s the idea. One. Two.”

“Take it easy,” Barbara urged him, “or I’ll end up with a bunch of wood in me.”

“Okay. One. Two. Three.”

Barbara came up slowly through the break as if she were standing on an elevator. Still hugging her chest, Larry struggled to his knees. She swayed back against him. He slid a hand down the slick, bare skin of her belly. She gasped and flinched. Then he grabbed her belt buckle, yanked upward, pulled her hard against him, and she came to rest sitting at the brink of the gap.

“Okay,” she gasped. “I’m okay. Give me a second to catch my breath.”

Larry and Jean held onto her arms.

“All right up there?” Pete asked. The beam of his flashlight swept back and forth through the break in front of Barbara’s knees.

Barbara didn’t answer.

“She’s safe,” Jean called down.

The beam slid away and only a faint glow drifted out of the opening.

“I want to go home,” Barbara muttered. Larry and Jean held her steady while she leaned back and drew her legs up. She planted her shoes against the rim of splintered wood at the gap’s far side.

“Jesus!” Startled, scared.

Barbara went rigid. “Pete! What’s wrong!”

“Holy jumpin‘... Oh, man.” Not quite so scared now. Amazed. “Hey, you’re not gonna believe this. Honest to motherin’ God. Larry, get down here.”

“What?”

Barbara leaned forward and peered between her spread legs. “What is it?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“This is no time for games, Peter.”

“You’re just damn lucky you didn’t wind up down here.”

For a moment no one said anything.

Then Pete’s voice came up through the crevice. “You would’ve had company.”

Shivers ran up Larry’s back.

“There’s an old stiff in here.”

He’s kidding, Larry thought. But his body knew that Pete was telling the truth. His cheeks suddenly felt numb. He had trouble getting enough breath. His bowels went shaky. His scrotum shriveled up tight, as if someone had just grabbed it with a handful of ice.

“Oh jeez,” Barbara muttered. Jean and Larry got out of her way as she twisted around, grabbed the banister, and struggled to her feet. They followed her down the stairs. She held the railing and moved slowly, hunched over just a bit. Her blouse now hung all the way down her back.

“I knew I didn’t like this place,” Jean whispered.

Barbara went straight to the hotel door and threw it open. Daylight flooded in. She stopped in the doorway and turned sideways. She was squinting. Her teeth were bared. Though Larry was several feet away, he could see her trembling. Her hands shook as she pinched the edges of her blouse and spread its front wide. She gazed down at the raw band of skin across her belly.

Her breasts looked very white through the open patterns of her bra. Larry glimpsed the darker skin of her nipples. She was too hurt and dazed for modesty, and Larry felt like a cheap voyeur taking advantage of her carelessness. In spite of the guilt, he didn’t want to look away. There was a dead body under the stairs. Somehow, the sight of Barbara’s skin through the black lace bra eased his sick dread.

But he forced his eyes lower. The right leg of her shorts was rucked up higher than the left. Both thighs were scraped, her shins bleeding. The right was worse than the left, but both legs had been abraded in the fall.

Jean went to her. “You really didget wracked up.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Where is everyone?” Pete called. His voice sounded muffled.

“Barbara’s really banged up,” Larry answered. “Come on out of there and let’s go home.”

“You’ve gotta see this! It’ll just take a minute.”

I don’t want to see it.

“Man, your wife is hurt.”

“What’s one more minute or two? We’ve got a dead bodyhere. You’re a writer, for godsake. A horrorwriter. I’m telling you, this isn’t something you want to miss. Come on.”

“Go ahead if you want,” Jean told him. “We’ll start on over for the van.”

Larry wrinkled his nose.

Barbara nodded, still grimacing and shaking. Her face and chest were shiny with sweat. Larry found himself looking again at her breasts. “Go on,” she said. “It’ll make him happy.”

“You gals don’t want to see it?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jean said.

“Just make it quick,” Barbara told him.

He turned away from the door. He walked slowly across the lobby floor. Glancing back, he saw Jean and Barbara step outside.

He felt abandoned.

I don’t have to be here, he thought. I could be out there with them.

He did not want to see a damn corpse.

But his weak legs kept moving him away from the sunlight.

Alongside the staircase a wide section of paneling had been ripped loose and gaped open a couple of feet. The glow of Pete’s flashlight showed through the space. Larry turned sideways and stepped into the enclosure.

“Thought you were going to chicken out on me,” Pete said.

“Can’t miss a chance like this.”

He found Pete standing on a couple of boards that had fallen from the landing. He looked frozen there, back rigid, his right arm straight out, aiming the flashlight almost as if it were a pistol. Aiming it at the coffin that was jammed headfirst against the underside of a low stair.

The body was covered, at least to the neck, by an old brown blanket. The blanket was rumpled as if it had been tossed into the coffin by someone who didn’t care to straighten it.

The corpse had long yellow hair. The skin of its face looked tight and leathery. Larry saw sunken eyelids, hollow cheeks, lips that were stretched back in a mad grin that exposed teeth and gums.

“You believe this?” Pete whispered.

Larry shook his head. “Maybe it isn’t real.”

“My ass. I know a stiff when I see one.”

“Looks almost mummified.”

“Yeah. Guess we oughta check it out, huh?”

Shoulder to shoulder, they moved slowly forward. Pete kept his light on the corpse.

Hideous, Larry thought. He’d never seen such a thing. His experience with bodies was limited to three open-casket funerals. Those people had looked almost good enough to sit up and shake hands with you.

This one looked as if it might want to sit up and take a bite out of you.

Don’t think that stuff, Larry told himself.

The underside of the stairway slanted down in front of them. They had to duck as they stepped to the foot of the coffin. Pete sank into a squat and waddled in farther. Larry started in, crouching. But after one step a sense of suffocation stopped him. The stairs seemed to be pressing down on him, wanting to shove him lower, to rub his face in the corpse. He dropped to his knees and reached out, ready to brace himself on the wooden edge of the coffin. Just before he touched it, he realized what he was about to do. He jerked his hands back and clutched his thighs.

The blanket piled on top of the corpse didn’t cover its ankles and feet. They were bare, the color of stained wood, and bones showed through the tight skin. The nails were so long that they curled over the tops of the toes. Larry recalled that hair and nails supposedly continued to grow after death. But he’d heard that that was just a myth; they only appearedto grow because the skin sank in around them.

“Bet it’s been here a long time,” Pete whispered. He reached over the side of the coffin. With his index finger he brushed the corpse’s forehead.

Larry moaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“How can you touchit?”

“No big deal. Try it. Feels like shoe leather.” He drew his finger across a blond eyebrow.

Larry imagined Pete’s finger sliding down the ridge of the eye socket, touching the lid, denting it, sinking in to the second knuckle.

“Go on and touch it,” Pete urged him. “How you going to write about this stuff if you don’t experience it?”

“Thanks, anyway. I’ll rely on my imagi...”

“We changed our minds.”

He flinched at the sound of Barbara’s voice. So did Pete. Pete’s head slammed the underside of a stair. He cried, “Ah!” ducked down close to the face of the corpse and grabbed the back of his head. “Shit! Damn it, Barb!”

“Sorry.”

Larry looked over his shoulder at the women and smiled. Though his startled heart was drumming, he was gladthey were here.

He felt as if some of the real world had come back.

“Guess you weren’t kidding,” Barbara whispered. “Jesus, look at that thing.”

“Yuck,” was all Jean said.

Barbara crouched over the end of the coffin. Jean stayed behind her and peered over her head.

“Didn’t want us to have all the fun?” Larry asked.

“That’s about the size of it,” Jean said, her voice hushed.

“Curiosity got the best of us,” Barbara added. Then she reached into the coffin and touched the foot of the corpse.

She’s just like Pete, Larry thought. Whatever their differences, they’re sure a set.

“I think I’m bleeding,” Pete muttered.

“That makes two of us,” Barbara said, still rubbing the dead foot. “It’s like the skin on a salami.”

“Salami’s oily,” Pete told her. “This is more like leather.”

“Okay, we’ve seen it,” Jean said. “Everyone ready to go?”

“Yeah, just about.” Pete stopped rubbing his head, reached one arm down over the covered torso and snatched off the blanket. Larry lurched backward on his knees, wishing to God he’d known this was coming. He’d already seen too much.

Now the corpse was stretched in front of his face.

It was naked.

It was female.

It had a wooden stake in its chest.

“Holy shit,” Barbara whispered.

“Let’s get out of here!” Jean gasped in a high, tight voice. She didn’t wait for a consensus. She bolted.

Pete threw the blanket down. It landed in a pile, covering the blunt top of the stake, the corpse’s flat breasts and the slats of its ribs. Barbara leaned forward, grabbed a bit of the blanket and jerked it down to cover the groin.

Blond pubic hair.

Larry groaned.

Then he was scurrying after Barbara. The white seat of her shorts was still smudged with yellow from the rock where she’d rested in the creek bed.

Seemed like a century ago.

Why did we do this?

Larry followed her through the open section of paneling. Jean was still in the lobby. Her fists were clenched at her sides and she was prancing as if she had to pee. “Let’s go, let’s go!” she gasped.

Larry waited for Pete.

Together they pushed the slab of wood into place.

Shutting the door of the tomb.

Pete backed away as if afraid to take his eyes off it.

In the beam of his flashlight the crucified body of Jesus gleamed.

Five

Pete floored it out of Sagebrush Flat, and Barbara didn’t say a word about the speed.

Nobody said a word about anything.

Larry slouched in the passenger seat, feeling dazed and exhausted. Though he stared out the windshield at the sun-bright road and desert, he kept seeing the corpse. And the stake in its chest. And the crucifix.

It’s behind us now, he told himself. We got away. We’re all right.

His body felt leaden. There was a shaky tightness in his chest and throat that seemed like a peculiar mix of terror — subsiding terror — and elation. He remembered experiencing similar sensations a few years earlier. On a flight to New York the 747 had hit an air pocket and dropped straight down for a couple of seconds. Some of the passengers struck the ceiling. He and Jean and Lane, strapped in their seats, had been unharmed. But he’d felt this way afterward.

Probably shock, he thought. Shock, combined with great relief.

He sensed that if he didn’t keep tight control of himself, he might start weeping or giggling.

This must be where they get the expression “scared silly.”

“How’s everybody doing?” Pete asked, breaking the long silence.

“I want a drink,” Barbara said.

“There’s more beer in the ice chest.”

“Not beer, a drink.”

“Yeah, I could go for one myself. Or three or four. We should be home in less than an hour.” He glanced at Larry. “You believethat back there? That was like right out of one of your books.”

“He hasn’t written any vampire books,” Barbara said. “You’d know that, if you ever read them.”

“Bet you will now, right?”

“I think I’d rather forget about it.”

“Same here,” Jean said. “God.”

“That babe had a stakein her heart.”

“We all saw it,” Barbara reminded him.

“And how about that crucifix? I’ll bet they put it there to keep her from getting out.” He nodded, squinting at the road. “You know? In case the stake fell out, or something. To keep her from breaking through the wall.”

“How would the damn stake fall out?” Barbara asked, sounding a little bit annoyed by his musings.

“Well, you know, a rat could get in there. A rat might pull it loose. Something like that.”

“Give me a break.”

“There’s no such thing as vampires,” Jean said. “Tell them, Larry.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Well, there’s plenty of legends about them. It goes way back. Back in the Middle Ages a lot of poor jerks wound up buried at crossroads with their heads cut off and garlic stuffed in their mouths.”

“Guess ours got off lucky, huh?” Pete grinned at him. “All she got was the ol‘ stake-in-the-heart routine.”

“She’s not any vampire,” Jean insisted.

“Somebody sure wasted her, though,” Barbara said.

“That’s right,” Jean said. “Has it occurred to anyone that we found a dead body?”

Pete raised his hand like a school kid. “Me,” he said. “I caught that right off the bat.” He chuckled. “No pun intended.”

“No, I mean shouldn’t we tell the police?”

“She’s got a point,” Barbara admitted.

“So does our babe under the stairs,” Pete said, laughing some more. “A point right in her chest.”

“Give it a rest, would you? This is serious business. We can’t just find a body and pretend it never happened.”

“Right. We’ll just tell the cops we broke into a locked hotel.”

“Youbroke into a locked hotel.”

“Hey, you want to be married to a jailbird?”

“We could make an anonymous call,” Jean suggested. “Just explain where the body is, so they can go out and get it. Really. I mean, whoever she is, she deserves a decent burial.”

“I wouldn’t want it on my conscience,” Pete said.

“What do you mean?”

“They won’t bury her with that stake in her chest. Some poor slob’ll pluck it right out. Next thing you know, he’s a vampire cocktail.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jean muttered.

“Is it?” Making an evil laugh, he grinned over his shoulder at her.

“Watch where you’re driving,” Barbara said.

“I don’t think we should call the cops,” Larry said. “Even if we do it anonymously, there’s still a chance we might get dragged into the situation.”

“I don’t see how,” Jean told him.

“How do we know we weren’t seen? Somebody might’ve driven through town and spotted the van while we were admiring the jukebox.”

“Or the vampire,” Pete added.

“And might’ve noticed the license plate number.”

“Oh, there’s a pleasant thought,” Barbara muttered.

“You just never know. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Hey, somebody could’ve even been watching us from a window or something.”

“Thanks, Peter. I really needed to hear that.”

“Even if nobody did see us,” Larry went on, “we undoubtedly left physical evidence behind. Fingerprints, footprints, tire-tread marks where the van drove over dirt. The police would probably treat the whole area as a crime scene. There’s no telling what they might find. Next thing you know, they could be knocking on the door.”

“We didn’t kill her.”

“Have you got an alibi,” Pete asked, “for the night of September 3, 1901?”

“A pretty good one. I wasn’t bora yet. My parentsweren’t bom yet.”

“You think she’s been dead that long?” Barbara asked.

“Sure looked old to me.”

“I have no idea when she might’ve been killed,” Larry said, “but I bet she hasn’t been under the stairs there for much more than twenty years or so. I imagine she was put there afterthe hotel closed down.”

“Why’s that?” Pete asked.

“The guests would’ve smelled her.”

“Gross,” Jean muttered.

“Well, it’s true. Assuming she was put in there right after she was killed, people would’ve noticed the stink. She doesn’t smell now, but...”

“You’re making me sick, Larry.”

“Why do you say twenty years?” Barbara asked.

“The jukebox.”

“Ah-ha. The oldies-but-goodies.”

“I don’t think any of the songs I noticed were much later than the mid-sixties. That’s probably when Holman’s went out of business. I figure the hotel might’ve closed its doors around the same time as Holman’s.”

“Makes sense,” Barbara said. “So you think the body was put under the stairs sometime after, say, ‘sixty-five?”

“It’s just a guess. Of course, she could’ve been dead fifty years before somebody put her under the stairs. If that’s the way it went, there’s no telling how long she’s been there.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “You eliminate the stink factor by having her someplace else while she’s ripe, you could stick her under the stairs and nobody’d be the wiser.”

“I don’t see how it matters,” Jean said. “The thing is, she’s dead. Who careshow long she’s been under the stairs?”

Pete again raised his hand. “I myself find it to be of more than passing interest.”

“So would the cops,” Larry added. “I think it’d make a big difference in the way they look at the situation. If she’s been dead half a century — and they have ways of figuring that stuff out — she’s almost like an historical artifact. If she was only killed twenty years ago, they might very well start an active homicide investigation.”

“That’s right,” Barbara said. “Whoever put the stake in her could still be alive and kicking.”

“Speaking of which,” Pete said. He glanced at Larry, arched an eyebrow and stroked his chin. “Wait’ll you hear this one.”

“We know,” Barbara said, “Youdid it.”

“Hey, I’m being serious here. Anybody happen to notice anything odd about the front doors of the hotel?”

“Aside from the fact that we were the first to break in?” Barbara asked.

“Very good, hon. That’s one thing. The place was still sealed when we got there. Just about every other joint in town was wide open. People’d busted in and done some exploring. But not the hotel. What else?”

“Are we playing Twenty Questions? Is it bigger than a bread box?”

“Here’s a clue. Bright and shiny and brand new.”

“The padlock,” Larry said. “The hasp.”

“Right! The way those suckers looked, I’ll bet they were sitting on the shelf of a hardware store a month ago.”

“So?” Jean asked.

“Who put them on the doors? Who wanted to keep intruders out of the hotel?”

“Could’ve been anyone,” Larry answered.

“Right. And it could’ve been someone who hid a body under the stairs. Someone who’s still around and trying to make sure nobody stumbles onto his little secret.”

“The same person who put the crucifix on the wall,” Larry added.

“Right.”

“Sort of a guardian, a keeper of the vampire.”

“It’s more likely,” Barbara said, “that whoever put the lock on the doors doesn’t know a thing about it.”

“More interesting if he does,” Pete told her.

“Maybe for you.”

“Any chance we might stop talking about it?” Jean suggested. “I wish we’d never set foot in that damn hotel.”

“You know,” Pete said, “we should’vepulled the stake. You know what I mean? Just to see what happens.”

“Nothing would’ve happened,” Jean said.

“Who knows?” He leered at Larry. “Hey, want to turn around and go back and do it?”

“No way.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Not that curious.”

“Just try turning the van around,” Barbara warned, “and I’llbite your neck.”

“Pussy.”

“Don’t push it, buster. It was your big idea that got me messed up like this.”

“You could’ve stayed outside. Nobody was holding a gun to your head.”

“Just shut up, okay?”

He cast a glance at Larry. His expression was somewhat amused. “Guess I’d better shut up before I get her riled, huh?”

“I would if I were you.”

“Whatever happened to freedom of speech?” Though the words were spoken quietly to Larry, they were aimed at Barbara.

“That freedom ends where my ears begin,” she said.

Pete grinned at Larry, but said no more. He drove in silence.

Larry looked out at the desert. He still felt a little lightheaded and nervous, but much better than before. He guessed that the discussion had helped. Putting words to it. Sharing their concerns. Especially the playful way Pete had turned the whole godawful experience into a vampire story. And the bickering between Pete and Barbara. Their nice, normal, everyday quarreling. It all helped a lot. Leached the horror out of their encounter with the corpse. Like throwing sunlight onto a nightmare.

But his anxiety started to grow when they came to Mulehead Bend. Not even the familiar sights along Shoreline Drive were enough to dispel the dread that seemed to be swelling inside him.

Pete drove slowly through the traffic — a few automobiles surrounded by the usual mix of off-road vehicles, campers, vans, pickup trucks, and motorcycles. The road was bordered by motels, service stations, banks, shopping centers, restaurants, bars, and fast-food joints. Larry saw the bakery where he’d bought a dozen doughnuts early that morning. He saw the supermarket where Jean did her grocery shopping, the computer store where he regularly bought floppy disks, paper, and printer ribbons for his word processor, the movie theater where they had attended a horror double feature Wednesday afternoon.

Every now and then he caught glimpses of the Colorado River just east of the business district. A few people were still out, water skiing. He saw a houseboat. A shuttle boat was carrying passengers toward the casinos on the Nevada side of the river.

All so familiar, so normal. Larry thought he ought to feel some relief in returning to home turf, leaving behind the strangeness and desolation of the back roads.

But he didn’t.

It’s splitting up with Pete and Barbara, he realized. He didn’t want to part with them. He was afraid. Like a kid who’d been telling spooky stories with his friends and now had to walk home alone in the dark.

I’m not a kid, he told himself. It’s not dark. We just live next door. And I won’t be going home alone, Jean will be with me and Lane’s probably back by now.

“Why don’t you guys stick around for a while?” Barbara suggested. “We’ll have some cocktails, get the dust out of our throats.”

“Great!” Larry told her, wondering if she, too, was reluctant for the group to break up.

“I’ll make my famous margaritas,” Pete said.

“Sounds good to me,” Jean said.

Larry felt blessed.

Pete left the traffic of Shoreline Drive behind and steered up the curving road to Palm Court. When he turned onto Palm, their houses came into view.

It wasgood to be getting home.

Lane appeared from beside the porch. She wore cutoff blue jeans and her white bikini top, and carried a plastic bucket. Apparently she was preparing to wash the Mustang.

Pete beeped the horn as they approached. Lane turned to them and waved.

“Let’s not say anything to her about the you-know-what,” Jean said.

“Mum’s the word,” Pete said. He pulled into his driveway and stopped. Climbing from the van, he called to Lane, “Feel free to do this one when you get through over there.”

“Hardy-har.”

“Have fun shopping?” Jean asked her.

“Yeah, it was okay.” She beamed at Larry as he stepped past the front of the van. “I spent all kindsof your money, Dad. You’re gonna have to stay home and write like a dog.”

“Thanks a lot, sweetheart.”

“Consider me a motivating force. So, how was the excursion?”

“Had a good time,” Jean told her. “We’ll be over here for a while.”

“Join us if you’d like,” Barbara said, appearing behind the van with the ice chest in her hand.

“Jeez!” Lane blurted. “What happened to you?”

“Had a little accident.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, frowning.

“Just some scrapes and bruises. I’ll live.”

“Wow.”

“Come on over, if you’d like. We’ll be having some drinks and snacks.”

“Thanks anyway. I want to wash the car.”

“Well, if you change your mind...”

“Sure. Thanks.”

They entered the house. The air-conditioning felt cool and good after the brief walk through the heat. Larry sat in his usual chair at the kitchen table. Jean sat across from him. Pete began to gather bottles from the liquor cupboard.

It was all very familiar, very comforting.

“I’m going to get cleaned up a bit,” Barbara said. “Back in a minute, then I’ll dig up some goodies.”

Pete sang a few lines of “Margaritaville” as he dumped tequila and Triple Sec into his blender. The blender was one of his finds. Someone had put it out for the trashmen. He’d spotted it while driving to work, picked it up and restored it to working order.

It reminded Larry of the jukebox down in the creek bed. He saw himself crouching over it, and then he was on his knees beside the coffin, staring in at the withered brown corpse.

He felt himself start to shrink inside.

It’s history, he told himself. We’re home. It’s all over. That damn thing is fifty, sixty miles away.

“Sure is good to be here,” he said.

“Better than a sharp stick in the eye. Or in the heart, as the case may be.”

Jean grimaced.

Pete split open a couple of limes and squeezed them into the blender, then tossed in some ice cubes. He took long-stemmed margarita glasses down from the cupboard, rubbed their rims with lime, then dipped them into a plastic tub of salt. “Okay, baby, do your stuff,” he told the blender as he capped it and pressed a button. After a few noisy seconds the machine went silent. Pete filled the glasses with his frothy concoction and carried them to the table.

As he sat down, Barbara returned.

“Are you okay?” Jean asked.

“Feeling a lot better.”

She looked a lot better, too.

She was barefoot, wearing red gym shorts and a loose gray T-shirt that was chopped off just below her breasts. Larry guessed that she had taken a washcloth to her legs and belly. The filth and blood were gone, leaving her skin ruddy around the abrasions. The wood had scratched her like an angry cat, and there were broad scuffs that looked as if she’d been given swipes with some heavy-duty sandpaper.

Larry watched as she put together a tray of cheese and crackers.

The back of her looked fine. Tanned, smooth, unblemished.

She brought the snacks to the table and sat down. Pushing out her lower lip, she huffed a breath that stirred the hair on her forehead. “At last,” she said.

Pete raised his glass. “May the vampire rest in peace and never come looking for our necks.”

“I’m gonna brain you,” Barbara said.

“I’ll help,” Jean said.

Pete grinned at Larry. “These gals, they’ve got no sense of humor.”

Six

Larry woke up shivering. The covers were off him, twisted around Jean as she thrashed and whimpered. He shook her gently by the shoulder. She flinched. Gasped, “What’s... what’s?..”

“You were having a nightmare,” Larry whispered.

“Huh? Oh. Okay.” She rolled onto her back. She was still panting for air. “Smothering,” she muttered, and struggled to free herself from the blankets. She shoved and kicked them down to the foot of the bed.

“I’m going to need some of that,” Larry said, sitting up.

“Huh? Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem. I’ll put some light on the subject,” he warned, and gave Jean a moment to shield her eyes before he reached to the nightstand and turned on the lamp.

“Wait. I’ll do it. You’ll mess it up.”

“Fine,” he said, and smiled. Seconds ago Jean had been in the grips of a terrible nightmare. Now she was concerned that he might foul up the job of arranging the sheet and blankets. He leaned back, bracing himself up with locked arms, and watched her climb off the bed.

She looked as if she’d just taken a shower with her nightgown on. Her short hair was matted down, wet ringlets clinging around her ears and the nape of her neck. The sleek white fabric of her nightie was glued to her back and rump.

“You’re drenched,” Larry said. “Must’ve been a real corker.”

“Probably. I don’t remember.” She bent over her side of the bed and pulled the top sheet out of the tangle. Her breasts swayed slightly inside the low-cut, lace bodice.

“You think it was about today?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” She swept the sheet high. As it fluttered down, Larry leaned forward and caught the edge. He drew it over his naked body and eased backward onto the mattress. The sheet was enough to block out the chill of the soft night breeze. But the lightweight blanket felt even better as Jean covered him with it. She smoothed it carefully over her side of the bed, then came around to his side. Bending over him, she straightened the blanket. He slipped his arm out and stroked her rump. The nightgown felt silken and damp. Her skin was smooth beneath it, and very warm. She glanced at him, eyebrows rising. He moved his hand down the back of her leg and slipped it under the hem of her nightgown.

Standing up straight, Jean reached out and turned off the lamp. Her gown, pale in the faint light from the windows, climbed her body and fell away. Larry swept aside the sheet and blanket that she had just finished arranging so neatly. But she didn’t protest.

She crawled onto the bed, straddled his legs and eased down on top of him. As they kissed, he caressed her back and her small, firm buttocks. She lifted her legs onto his. She pressed his growing penis between her thighs and squirmed against him. Her breasts were warm, slick cushions rubbing his chest, and though the feel of her writhing body made him ache with need, her hipbones felt as if they were grinding into him.

He rolled, tumbling her onto the mattress, covering her with his body. He pushed himself up with elbows and knees to keep his weight off her. She squirmed as he kissed the side of her neck, moaned as he moved lower and kissed one nipple, then the other.

He pushed himself back. Kneeling between her open legs, he whispered, “Just a second.”

Jean’s fingers curled lightly around him, slid the length of his shaft. “I don’t think you’ll need one tonight.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. I hate those damn rubbers.”

“I know.” She smiled.

Bright teeth in a faint blur of face. Patches of darkness where her eyes should be.

Larry was suddenly under the stairway again, kneeling over the corpse. He felt himself go cold and tight.

Don’t think about it!

He realized that Jean was about the same size as the horrible, dried-up thing.

Stop it!

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing,” he said.

Her shadowed skin was dark, but not thatdark. Her breasts were mounds, not slabs. But even in the dim light he could see the contours of her ribs. Below the rib cage she seemed shrunken in. Her hipbones jutted.

“Honey?”

Her hand felt leathery around his small, soft penis.

It'shand.

He pictured himself knocking it away.

But he knew that this was Jean. She hadn’t turned into the corpse. He wasn’t hallucinating, either. This was just Jean, and his damned imagination was simply messing with him.

Not going to let it win, he promised himself.

He scooted backward on the mattress. Her hand went away from him. He kissed her belly. Warm, soft, slick with sweat. Not dry and leathery.

Stop comparing!

But when his face rubbed Jean’s moist curls, he remembered the thing’s blond thicket of pubic hair. A shudder passed through him.

Jean thrust fingers into his hair.

He went lower. She writhed and moaned, thrusting herself against him, clenching his hair, and he lost all thought of the corpse.

Soon she was whimpering.

But not from any nightmare, Larry thought as she tugged his hair and he scurried up the mattress. He clamped his wet mouth to hers. He ran the hard length of his penis into her heat. She seemed to suck him in as if she were hungry to be filled.

“I should have... nightmares more often,” she told him later.

“Yeah.”

She was panting beneath him, lightly stroking his back. Then she turned her face away, worked her lips strangely, and raised a hand to her mouth. With her thumb and index finger, she pinched something and pulled it out.

“What’s that?”

“A hair.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“Your mouth,” she said, shaking under him as she chuckled. She rubbed her hand on the sheet, then wrapped her arms around Larry and gave him a powerful squeeze. It was as if the hug used up the last of her strength. After a moment she released him and sprawled out limp. Then he eased away, sliding out of her.

He pulled the sheet and blanket up and scooted closer to her. He rested a hand on the warm curve of her thigh. Under his fingertips was a smear of stickiness. “Ooo, yuck,” he said.

She laughed softly. “Don’t complain, buster. I’vegot the wet spot.”

“Want to trade places?”

“It’s my wifely duty to sleep on the wet spot.” Her hand covered his, caressed it, fooled with his fingers.

In the silence he began to worry that Jean might ask about his problem. He doubted that she would, though. Their sex life was something they rarely discussed. Besides, he’d made a rather spectacular recovery.

“Well,” he said, “I’d better go to sleep or I won’t be worth a damn tomorrow.”

“You’ll have to write like a dog to pay for Lane’s new wardrobe.”

“Bought out the store,” he muttered, rolling away from Jean and curling up on his side.

She laughed, then surprised Larry by snuggling against him. Normally they slept at opposite sides of the bed.

But it felt good. Her breath warm on the nape of his neck. Her breasts and belly pressing his back. Her lap against his rump. The soft tickle of her pubic hair. Her thighs smooth against the backs of his legs. An arm came down over his side and fingers curled tenderly around his penis.

“You still horny?” he asked.

She kissed his back. “Wiseguy. I just want to be close to you.”

“Well, I guess that’s all right.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I guess so. How about you?”

“I wish we hadn’t gone there today.”

“Me, too. I’ve never seen anything so horrible.” She pressed herself more tightly against him. “On the other hand, you’re always looking for material.”

“I could do without thatsort of material.”

“The real thing’s too much for you, huh?” she teased.

“Darn right it is.”

“Your fans would be appalled, you know, if they ever found out how squeamish you really are. Nasty Lawrence Dunbar, master of gore, pussy.”

“Pussy, huh? You’ve been around Pete too much.” She laughed again. “Go to sleep, tough guy.”