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.
“
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
“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.
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.”
