The Stake

My God, he thought, I was right!

He remembered his own speculations, yesterday, after reading about the cremations of Uriah’s wife and daughter. He’d wondered, then, if the crazy bastard had vampires on his mind when he ordered the bodies burnt. The possibility had seemed remote.

But the guy had garlic, crucifixes, and stakes in his room.

He didgo after the girls thinking they were the vampires who murdered his family.

Incredible!

Larry frowned, wondering why he hadn’t heard of all this before. After what was found in Uriah’s room, the news media should’ve gone wild. You’d think there would’ve been nationwide coverage.

Probably did get a lot of attention in rags like The National Inquirer, along with the usual array of stories on UFO visits, disemboweled cattle, men giving birth, that kind of thing.

The legitimate media may have covered it in some small way, but Larry couldn’t recall anything about the situation. There werebigger stories in the summer of 1968: the assassination of Robert Kennedy; the capture of James Earl Ray for the April shooting of Martin Luther King; rioting in the streets because of Vietnam and the King assassination. Hardly surprising if little or no attention was paid to a crazy man running amock in a desert town and kidnapping three teenagers he thought were vampires. Especially if the bodies were never found, if Uriah never got picked up.

Larry copied the story, then continued his search.

A small article in the August 17 issue of the Standardindicated that a thorough search of Sagebrush Flat and “its environs” had failed to turn up the missing girls. Uriah Radley was still at large.

A piece in the August 22 issue indicated that there were no new developments in the matter.

On Sunday, September 1, a service was held at the First Presbyterian Church for Sandra Dunlap, Linda Latham, and Bonnie Saxon. Families and friends of the missing girls were present. The girls were remembered. Prayers were offered for their safe return and for the comfort of their loved ones during this terrible ordeal.

Larry noted that the service wasn’t called a “memorial.” The girls were “remembered,” not “eulogized.” Prayers were said for their return.

He supposed they all knew the poor kids would never be seen again, but they were still clutching onto the small, frail shadow of a hope.

Larry copied the story, swept the other pages across the screen, found nothing of interest, and went on to the next fiche in the box. He scanned one after another, but finally came to the end of September without finding more stories about Uriah or the missing girls.

Neither was there news of any further disappearance. The series had ended with Bonnie. It came as no surprise. After that, Uriah had fled the area.

He’d been gone by the time the cops arrived at Sagebrush Flat. He must’ve known he’d been recognized while he waited in front of Bonnie’s house.

Larry guessed he had taken her back to the hotel and hidden her body under the staircase before striking out for parts unknown. But what about Sandra and Linda? He wouldn’t have been in such a hurry with them. Maybe he took their staked bodies out into the desert and buried them in unmarked graves.

On the other hand, maybe he hid them in town the same as Bonnie. All those abandoned buildings. He might’ve boarded them inside walls or under floors.

I wonder if we could find them, Larry thought.

The cops didn’t have any luck. Hell, though, they weren’t able to find Bonnie, and she was right under their noses when they searched the hotel.

Under their noses.

Well, the area under the stairs was enclosed. Hot and dry. She didn’t decompose so much as she mummified: that was obvious from looking at her. So maybe there wasn’t much to smell.

Larry remembered the smell under the staircase. Dry, dusty, a little bit like the odor of old books with their pages turning brown.

And the aromas from his dream came back to Larry. There was the cozy wool odor of her sweater. Her hair, drifting against his face, had smelled like a fresh morning breeze. Her skin had a faint cinnamon scent. Her breath had been like mint, as if she’d recently brushed her teeth.

Larry leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes. He could almost smell Bonnie now.

You didn’t smell a thing, he told himself. It was all a figment of your imagination.

So real, though.

So real that the memory of it made him long for her.

Had she smelled that way, he wondered, when she was alive?

Would she smell that way if she came back to life?

She’s not a vampire, Larry told himself. But just suppose she is. Just suppose I pull out the stake and she really is a vampire. Would she be just the same as the Bonnie who came to me this morning?

Would she smell the same? Look the same?

Would she actthe same?

Would she love me?

Twenty-eight

With a minute to spare before the start of sixth period, Lane entered the classroom. About half the seats were still vacant. Including Benson’s. Including Jessica’s.

Walking toward her desk, Lane gazed at Jessica’s empty seat.

The girl would never sit there again.

The idea of that seemed black and vast, and Lane felt a hot sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She sat down and slumped forward, elbows on her desktop, hands on her cheeks, eyes straightforward.

Mr. Kramer, she saw, had finished tacking the author pictures to the corkboard. She’d fallen while reaching out with Sandburg, whose calm and solemn face, white hair draping one eye, was now in place next to Frost. After Sandburg, Mr. Kramer had put up T.S. Eliot, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Thomas Wolfe.

I only had four to go, she thought.

The fall had seemed like such a major deal: her clumsiness in letting it happen, her embarrassment at the way so much of her body was revealed to Mr. Kramer, the thrill she felt when he touched her. Now none of that mattered very much. Jessica’s death seemed to shrink the importance of everything.

She’d hardly known the girl. She hadn’t even liked her.

But ever since hearing the news of the murder, Lane had felt small and insignificant — as if her own life were nothing more than a performance. She was acting in her own stupid little play. And while she dwelled on her petty problems and hopes and desires, safe on her tiny stage, realthings were happening in a real world nearby. A frightful, alien place full of darkness and violent death.

She didn’t like the feeling, not at all. It made everything she did seem so trivial. Even worse was the nagging worry that somehow, sometime, she might herself bedragged into the same real world where Jessica and so many other people — everyone, maybe, sooner or later — got crushed.

It scared the hell out of her.

All day, whenever she was reminded of Jessica, Lane had broken into a sweat. Stopping in the rest room on her way to sixth period, she’d sniffed her armpits. They’d smelled okay, thanks to her deodorant, but her blouse was damp under there. Right now it felt sodden. Perspiration was sliding down her sides, tickling slightly. With no bra to soak up the droplets, they kept going until they were absorbed by her blouse just above her belt.

She wished, again, that she’d worn her bra to school. Not because of the sweat. Because of Jessica. Because leaving it at home seemed like part of her own little drama, childish and coy in light of the real world’s horrible intrusion.

Also, she would’ve liked the security of it. Earlier she’d savored the loose, free feelings. But after hearing