The Stake

wood.

And bones. Larry saw half a dozen bones, intact among the dead cinders — gray and knobbed at each end.

“Holy shit,” Pete muttered.

“Rabbit, you think?”

Pete squatted. He picked up a bone that was nearly a foot in length. “This sucker didn’t come from any rabbit,” he said. “A coyote, maybe.”

“Who the hell would eat a coyote?”

“The fuckin‘ Madman of the Desert, that’s who.” Pete tossed the bone down. “This’ll go good in our book.”

“Great,” Larry muttered.

Pete pressed a hand against one of the sooty rocks. “Still warm.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“It is.”

Crouching, Larry touched one of the rocks for himself. It was cold. “Asshole.”

Pete laughed. “Had you going there, huh?”

“Prick.”

“Get out of the way. I’m gonna take some pictures.”

He backed off but kept the light on the fire circle while Pete removed the lens cap, switched on the camera and its flash attachment.

“What if the guy who did this is still around here?”

“No sweat. He’s already eaten.”

“A guy who eats coyotes isn’t someone I want to meet.”

“He’s probably long gone.” Pete raised the camera to his eye, bent over the remains of the fire for a close-up, and took a shot. The flash strobed, hitting the area with a quick blast of white.

He stepped backward. One stride. Two. Then another flash split the darkness.

In that blink of white Larry saw something beyond the fire circle. He found it with the beam of his flashlight. “Oh, my God,” he muttered.

Three rocks were stacked up. At the top rested the head of a coyote, its gray fur matted with blood, a bone held crosswise between its teeth. It had bloody holes where its eyes should’ve been.

Pete lowered his camera and stared. “Wow,” he muttered.

“Maybe we ought to get out of here.”

Pete flapped a hand at him and stepped closer to the thing. He raised the camera. He took a shot. In the stark flick of light Larry saw intothe empty sockets. He started gagging as Pete stepped right up in front of it, crouched, and snapped another picture.

He turned aside and vomited. When he finished, he backed away from the mess. He took out his handkerchief, blew his nose and wiped his lips. He blinked tears from his eyes. He rubbed them with the back of a hand.

“You all right?” Pete asked, coming up behind him.

“Christ,” he muttered.

“Feeling a little queasy myself. Bad scene. Guy that did that must be a fuckin‘ lunatic. You see the way he poked out its eyes? Wonder if he did that beforehe ate.”

Larry shook his head. “Let’s do the jukebox and get out of here.”

“Give me the light. I want to check around, see what else we can find.”

“Are you nuts?” He kept the flashlight and started walking through the gully toward the place where they’d found the jukebox.

“Ah,” Pete said. “What the hell. Don’t want to lose mysupper. Wouldn’t taste half as good on the way out.” His head swung around.

A shiver rushed up Larry’s back. “What is it?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Did you hear something?”

“Probably just the wind. Unless it’s our crazy fuckin‘ coyote muncher sneaking up on us.”

“Cut it out.”

“Wonder if he talked to the thing while he ate. You know? Like put the head up there for a dinner companion. Had a little chat with it. Talked to the head while he ate the body.”

It was an image, Larry realized, that had passed through his own mind while he was vomiting.

“Wonder if he ate the eyes.”

Larry hadn’tthought of that. “He probably just didn’t like the thing staring at him.”

“Maybe. Guess we’ll never know. Unless we get a chance to ask him.” Pete chuckled.

“Give me a break.”

Larry stepped around a large rock. He pointed the light at it. “Is that where Barbara was sitting?”

“I think so.”

He swept the beam forward until it found a thick clump of bushes on the right. He glimpsed chrome and dirty red plastic through the foliage. “There.”

They hurried the final distance.

Larry stared down at the machine resting smashed and bullet-riddled in the bushes. He imagined a photograph of it on the cover of his book. The Boxby Lawrence Dunbar.

That’s the book I’m going to write, he told himself. Not some damn thing about a vampire.

“See if we can lift it?” Pete asked, squatting down.

He saw them struggling to carry it up the steep embankment. He saw himself stumble, fall, roll down the slope. The box tumbled and crashed down on top of him. Pete lifted it off. We’d better not try to move you, Lar. I’ll go get help. Pete left the revolver with him and hurried away. He lay there, alone and half paralyzed. Soon he heard someone creeping toward him. A ragged hermit dripping coyote blood, a knife in his hand. What makes me think there’s only one of them? he wondered.

“What do you think?” Pete asked.

“Let’s not try it.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. God knows what’s under the thing. Or inside it, for that matter. Don’t want to go upsetting a rattler. Or a nest of scorpions, or something.”

“That’s what I like about you,” Larry said. “Adventurous, but not foolish.”

“My mama didn’t raise no morons.” Pete got to his feet. He backed away from the box and lifted the camera.

Larry stepped aside. He faced the length of the gully and probed its darkness with the flashlight. The campfire and the grisly remains of the coyote were well beyond the range of the pale beam. He swept the light from side to side. None of the rocks or bushes in sight seemed large enough to conceal a person.

“You spot Ragu the Desert Rat,” Pete said, “give us a yell.”

“I won’t yell, I’ll scream.”

Pete laughed.

Larry kept watch, his back to Pete. In his peripheral vision, he noticed four blinks of light.

“Why don’t you get into the picture?” Pete suggested. “We’ll get a couple of you with the famous jukebox.”

Though reluctant to abandon his guard duty, he stepped backward until he came to the box. He crouched beside it. A red light on the flash attachment beamed a ray at his face.

“Say ‘cheese.’ ”

“Come on, get it over with.”

“Say ‘head cheese.’ ”

“Screw you.”

White light hit his eyes. Pete took another photo, then stepped closer and fired two more. “That oughta do it.”