The Stake

The camcorder lay about a yard beyond her head.

“What’s wrong?” Pete asked.

Larry scowled up at him. “You idiot! You scared Barbara so bad she fell down. I think your camera bit it.”

“No!”

This time the outcry was real.

“Yes,” Larry told him.

As Pete hurried down the ladder, Jean and Lane helped his wife up. She rose to her feet, grimacing, rubbing her rump as she stared down at herself. “Oh shit,” she said. Her voice was pitched high and trembling. “I don’t believe this.” She started to sob.

Pete halted in front of her. “Don’t hit me,” he said.

She stared at him and wept. Then she rushed from the garage, leaving dribbles on the concrete, and hobbled down the driveway bow-legged.

“I did it this time,” Pete muttered.

“You sure did,” Jean said.

“Oh, man.” For a moment he looked as if he might go after Barbara. Then he shook his head. He glanced at the small puddle on the garage floor, shook his head again, then stepped over it and crouched in front of his camera. He picked it up. He picked up a few pieces of plastic and glass. He stood and raised the viewfinder to his eye. “Oh, man,” he said.

“Serves you right,” Jean said.

“I’m sorry. Man, am I sorry.”

“Save it for Barb,” Jean told him.

“Yeah. I really blew it, huh?”

“Now what?” Lane asked.

Pete frowned at Larry. “Can we call this off for now? I mean, we’ve just gottaget the whole thing on video. I bought this camera especially... God, why did I have to fuck around?”

“Do you think it can be repaired?” Larry asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check it out. Even if I can fix it, I wouldn’t be able to buy any parts tomorrow.”

“You mean today?” Lane asked.

“Yeah. Sunday. Can we put this off till Monday? I’ll either have it fixed by then or get a new one. Okay?”

“It’s up to Jean,” Larry said. “Can you wait till Monday?”

She sighed. “I don’t want to be the one to ruin... Yeah, I guess it’s okay. You’ve waited this long.” She shook her head with disgust. “On one condition. We lock the garage doors till then. Padlock them.” She peered up at Larry. “I don’t want you coming out here again, sleepwalking or otherwise.”

“Neither do I,” he told her.

“That’s great,” Pete said. “Thanks.”

“You’d better go home,” Jean said, “and look after Barbara.”

“If she’ll let me in the house. God, she’s probably on the phone trying to get a divorce lawyer. Or busy loading my magnum.”

Larry, somewhat pleased by Pete’s agony, patted him on the shoulder. “If we hear shots, we’ll call an ambulance.”

“Thanks a load, pardner.”

Forty-two

When Lane woke up, her bedroom was full of sunlight. For just a moment she felt good. Then the memories of last night with Kramer crashed down on her. Sickened with shame and terror, she threw her covers aside, sat up and hugged her belly. She couldn’t think straight. Her mind was a torrent of horrible images that kept her heart racing, her skin burning, her stomach knotted.

She fought the images. Like trying to shove dozens of writhing snakes down inside a box. Their heads kept popping up, striking at her, sinking in their fangs. But at last she got them all shoved down and slammed the lid. Though they were out of sight, she still thought she could hear them hissing and thumping around, eager to escape and hurt her.

She sat on the bed gasping, sweat trickling down her face, nightshirt clinging to her skin.

I’ll kill the bastard, she thought.

Oh, sure I will.

What am I going to do?

Last night hadn’t been enough for him. He’d made that very clear. And if Lane gave him any trouble about it, he’d get her with the razor. Her parents, too. He would kill them all.

The same way he killed Jessica and her family.

My God, she thought. Where’d that idea come from? Kramer certainly hadn’t told her any such thing.

But he’d killed them. Lane was suddenly sure of it. Jessica’d been in his sixth-period class. He must’ve been getting it off with her until she gave him trouble. He was the one who beat her up, who broke her arm. Not Benson, after all. Kramer had taught her a lesson about cooperating, but that wasn’t enough. Maybe she wouldn’t have any more to do with him. Maybe he was afraid she might talk. So he crept into her house last week and slaughtered the whole family and set the place on fire.

He’ll do the same to us.

* * *

Dad gave her a sheepish smile when she entered the living room. He was in his easy chair, a paperback in his hands, a mug of coffee on the lamp table beside him. “Good afternoon,” he said.

She kissed him on the cheek. It was scratchy with whiskers. “Where’s Mom?”

“She went to the twelve o’clock mass.”

“Glad she didn’t wake me up for it.”

“Figured you needed your sleep. How’s it going?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Hope you didn’t have any vampire nightmares.”

“I don’t think so,” Lane said. If I had nightmares, she thought, they wouldn’t have been about vampires. “How about you?”

“Your mother and I were up till after sunrise.”

Lane managed to smile. “Having a little discussion?”

“It turned out okay. Better than I deserved, I guess. When you see her, just don’t bring up the subject of our guest in the garage.”

“I wonder how Pete fared.”

“We didn’t hear any gunshots.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“I don’t think your mother would’ve been quite so forgiving if she’dbeen the one who wet her pants.”

“Daaaad.”

He chuckled softly and shook his head. “Anyway, there’re some sweet rolls in the kitchen.”