The Stake

about to question the words of the Lord. By the light of the candles, sweating in spite of the cellar’s chill, he’d dug for the bodies.

These had been buried deep. With these, he’d had plenty of time. He would’ve put the last vampire down here, too, but he’d been in too much of a rush. He’d been seen. So he’d just hidden it under the hotel stairs and fled town as fast as he could.

Digging in the hard earth of the cellar, he wished he hadn’t put these two down so far.

Hours seemed to go by, and his last candle was down to a tiny stub before the blade of his shovel struck wood. He had buried the coffins next to each other. He wasn’t sure which he’d found. But it didn’t matter.

Standing in the shoulder-deep hole, he worked feverishly to clear the coffin’s lid. The candle was guttering as he scooped out footholds on each side.

He straddled the coffin. He rammed the blade of his shovel under its lid. The nails squeaked. The candle died.

A chill of dread squirmed through Uriah as he worked in total darkness.

The Lord had told him that the vampires had been set free. Not that they were gone.

There might be a living vampire in the coffin below him.

My crucifix and my garlic will protect me, he told himself.

But his terror grew as he wrenched the top of the casket loose. He tossed his shovel out of the hole, bent down and lifted the lid. He brought it up between his spread legs. He hurled it out of the hole.

Carefully, he eased himself down until his knees came to rest on the narrow wooden edges of the casket. Gripping an edge with his left hand, he bent lower. He reached through the darkness.

His fingers slipped into soft, dry hair, and he felt as if a thousand spiders were rushing up his back.

He touched the parched, crusty skin of the vampire’s face. When his fingertips met the edges of her teeth, he gasped and jerked his hand back.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” he whispered, and forced himself to touch her again. He felt her neck. Her collarbone. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.”

He touched the smooth roundness of the wooden stake.

He curled his hand around it.

The stake was still buried in her chest, just as it ought to be.

Uriah knew, then, that the coyote had lied. Its voice hadn’t been the Lord. Satan had spoken through the beast to trick him.

Throwing himself out of the hole, Uriah scurried through the darkness. He stumbled up the cellar stairs and rushed out to the sidewalk.

In time to see two men come out of the hotel carrying the coffin.

Angry, miserable with fear and guilt, he watched them slide the coffin into the rear of a van. They climbed into the front seats. Without headlights the van sped up the moonlit street. For a wild moment Uriah considered rushing out and trying to stop it.

But the Lord held him back.

Bide your time, He seemed to say. I won’t fail you.

So Uriah had ducked out of sight within the store until the van was gone.

He had bided his time.

Today the Lord had brought the men back to Sagebrush Flat. They had come to kill him. Of that, he was certain. They had set the vampire free and become its undead brethren. They had come here to destroy the only man worthy of laying them to rest.

But they had failed.

Uriah touched his tongue against the raw inside of his cheek and winced.

They failed, he thought. But I didn’t.

No, he hadn’t succeeded in putting them at peace. But he would.

He would get them andthe vampire who had slaughtered his family. All together.

He smiled. It sent fire through his cheeks and made his eyes water.

Reaching down, he plucked a slip of folded paper from between his belt and the skin of his belly.

Before honking the horn of their car to draw them out, he had searched the glove compartment. He had found what he knew must be there.

The vehicle registration slip.

Unfolding it, he blinked the tears from his eyes and gazed at the paper.

The car was registered to Lawrence Dunbar, 345 Palm Avenue, Mulehead Bend, California.

Mulehead Bend.

Uriah used to know that town very well.

It’s where the vampires had come from before — when they came in the night to murder his Elizabeth and Martha. It’s where they were gathering again, growing in numbers.

Some fiftv miles off.

It’ll take me a couple of days, he thought. I’d better get started.

He tucked the registration slip under his belt and began to climb the wall of the ravine.

Thirty-seven

Lane’s hand trembled as she applied eyeliner. It’s not a date, she told herself. Just a school function. Nothing more than a glorified field trip, really.

She’d been telling herself that all day, but it never seemed to help.

I probably won’t even have a chance to be alone with him.

The door bell rang, and her stomach gave a sickening lurch.

He’s here.

Lane took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, then brushed mascara onto her lashes. She put the makeup away. She took her purse off the dresser and stepped back in front of the closet mirror.

I can’t go dressed like this! she suddenly thought, and saw her face turn red. No, it’s okay. He doesn’t want us in evening gowns. He said it’s not the prom.

Besides, she’d worn this outfit to mass a few times. If it’s good enough for mass, it’s good enough for Hamlet.

And I do look good in it, she thought. And it’s me.

Lane lifted her arms. Though her armpits felt wet, no moisture showed on the tie-dyed blue denim. Probably because the blouse fit so loosely. Most of the perspiration just ran down her sides.

“Lane!” Mom called. “Mr. Kramer’s here.”

“I’ll be right out!”

Quickly, she popped open the top snaps. She plucked some Kleenex from a box on top of the dresser, reached inside the blouse, dried her armpits, and applied a fresh coating of roll-on. Pinching the snaps shut again, she hurried from the room.

I amtoo casual, she thought when she saw Mr. Kramer in the foyer. He wore a necktie with a white shirt, blue blazer and gray slacks.

“Good evening, Lane,” he said. Then he turned back to her father and raised the copy of Night Watcherin his left hand. “Thanks again for the autograph, Larry.”

“Thanks for buying the book,” Dad said. “I’m glad you could find a copy.” His face was a little more red than usual, his voice a little thicker. But at least he didn’t slur his words. He’d had a lotto drink before dinner. Lane hoped Mr. Kramer didn’t realize he was pretty well polluted.

“And I can count on you for October thirty-first?”