The Stake

“Wanta fight about it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s wrestle.”

“Oh, you’d like that.”

“So would you.”

“Maybe.”

Holding hands, they walked to the door.

Thirteen

Larry stood at the end of the driveway, waving good-bye to Jean and Lane as the car headed off down the road. It seemed strange, being left behind.

He knew he would miss them. Hell, he alreadymissed them.

On the other hand, he rather liked the prospect of being on his own for the weekend. He could do whatever he pleased, and not have to answer to anyone.

Freedom.

He felt like a kid being left home without parents or baby-sitter.

The car vanished around the corner. Larry turned toward the house, then raised a hand in greeting as Barbara trotted down the steps next door. A handbag swung at her hip. Larry supposed she was leaving on an errand.

“So, they took off without you.”

“Sure did.”

“Jean told me about that manuscript.” She stopped beside her car in the driveway. “Sounds like the pits to me.”

“Gives me a good excuse to stay behind,” he said, smiling.

“If you’re not too busy, why don’t you come over for dinner? We’ll throw some steaks on the barbecue.”

“Sounds great.”

“Good. Drop in around five, then, all right?”

“I’ll be there.”

She climbed into her car, and Larry headed for the house.

Things are perking up already, he thought.

In his office he glanced at the savaged manuscript and realized he was in no mood to struggle with it. He’d already fought his way through more than a hundred pages today, scratching out the copyeditor’s misguided corrections and replacing them with scribbles to match the printed lines as they’d originally been written. That was plenty for one day’s work.

He settled down in the living room with a beer and the Shaun Hutson novel he’d started reading that morning. Though his eyes traveled over the words, his mind kept slipping out of the story. He found himself imagining what Jean’s folks might say when they realized he’d stayed home, wondering what he should wear over to Pete and Barbara’s, thinking about how much he would like to spend all day tomorrow working on ideas for The Box.

Then he was speculating about the jukebox in the ditch. He wondered how much it weighed. Could two men lift it? In his book they would have to carry it to the van. Would that be possible?

Have the women lend a hand with it. My main guy isn’t married. Might have a girlfriend with him, though.

Still occupied with his thoughts, Larry set the book aside. He drained the last of his beer, wandered into the bedroom and took off his clothes.

Have one of the gals fall while they’re lugging the jukebox up the slope. Good. Foreshadowing that the box is going to cause trouble.

In the bathroom he turned on the shower and stepped under its beating spray.

She tumbles down the embankment, he thought as he began to soap himself. Gets banged up pretty much like Barbara did in the hotel.

He remembered the way Barbara had looked, standing in the doorway afterward. How her legs and belly were scraped. How her blouse hung open.

The images stirred a pleasant heat in his groin.

Which turned cold when he suddenly saw himself kneeling under the staircase, gazing at the shriveled corpse.

God, he wished he’d never seen that thing!

It always seemed to be with him. Waiting. Like some kind of spook lurking in a dark closet of his mind, every now and then throwing open the door to give him another look.

So damn grisly and repulsive.

But fascinating, too.

As Larry washed his hair, his mind ran through the familiar questions. Who was she? Who drove the stake into her chest? Was her presence under the stairway known to the person who put the brand new lock on the hotel doors? Could she really be a vampire? What might happen if someone pulled out the stake?

He had no answers.

He told himself, as always, that he didn’t wantto know the answers. He only wanted to forget about the thing.

Which wasn’t about to happen.

Maybe we should’ve reported it, he thought. He’d been against that at the time. Now, however, he saw how it might’ve been for the best. A call to cops would’ve relieved them of responsibility. Like passing the baton.

We did our part, now it’s your turn.

Part of the problem, he realized, was carrying the burden of knowledge.

We’re the only ones who know it’s there.

But we didn’t do anything about it.

So the damn corpse is more than just a grisly memory, it’s unfinished business.

According to the shrinks, that’s what messes up your head more than anything — unfinished business.

Maybe we need to deal with it, Larry told himself. Take some kind of action to get the thing out of our systems.

* * *

“Let’s drive out and get it,” Pete said.

Larry felt as if his breath had been knocked out. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“You’re out of your gourd,” Barbara said.

“Hey, if he’s going to write a book about that jukebox, he ought to haveit. Or better yet, Iought to have it. Larry can keep track of my progress repairing the thing so he gets the details right. You know? There’s nothing like firsthand experience to give a book...”

“Verisimilitude,” Larry put in.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“I don’t know,” Larry said.

He took a sip of his vodka tonic and shook his head. He wished he hadn’t mentioned The Box. Normally, he didn’t discuss story ideas with anyone. But Pete and Barbara were part of this one. They’d discovered the jukebox. Pete’s desire to take it home had really been the inspiration. So the story had rolled out.

Should’ve kept my mouth shut.

The last thing I want to do is go driving out to Sagebrush Flat.

Pete got up from his lawn chair and checked the barbecue. The flames had died away, but Larry could tell