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't thought 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 Box by 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."

"Sure did my night vision." He stood up, shutting his eyes and rubbing them. Bright sparks and balls fluttered under his lids.

"We done down here?" Pete asked.

"I sure hope so."

"Want to go back and pick up a souvenir? Take it home with us, put it in the freezer?"

"Yeah. Why don't you do that."

"Hah! You think I'm out of my tree?"

"You want to take the corpse back," Larry said, stepping past the bushes and starting to climb the slope. "What's the big difference?"

"The corpse isn't all bloody and gross."

"It looked pretty gross to me."

"Well, the coyote head ain't worth a million bucks. For a million smackaroonies, I'd pick the thing up in my bare hands and walk home with it."

"Would you eat it?" Larry asked, starting to feel almost cheerful as he approached the top of the embankment.

"Who'd give me a million bucks to eat it?"

"It's hypothetical."

"Would I get to cook it up first?"

"Nope, gotta chow it down raw."

"You're sick, man."

"Me?"

They reached the top and the wind pushed against Larry. It seemed to be blowing much harder up here than in the gully. But he was glad to be out. He felt as if he had been an intruder in the lair of the coyote eater. Ragu the Desert Rat. He hurried forward, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the madman's domain.

Now and then he glanced back. So did Pete, but not as often.

At last they reached the van. Larry flung himself onto the passenger seat, slammed the door shut and locked it. The warmth felt wonderful.

And it was good to be out of the wind. The skin of his face and arms felt tingly from the buffeting. He opened the whiskey bottle and took a couple of sips while Pete climbed in behind the steering wheel.

He offered the bottle to Pete.

Pete shook his head. He flicked a switch and light filled the van.

With a nervous glance at Larry, he slipped between the seats.

Larry watched him move in a crouch toward the rear of the van-head darting from side to side, fingers wrapped around the handle of his holstered magnum.

Christ, he's afraid someone might've gotten in.

Pete searched the length of the van and turned around. "It's cool,"

he said, coming back.

In his seat again, he shut off the interior lights. He started the engine. He reached out, and Larry put the bottle in his hand. He drank, then gave it back. "Now, are we ready for the real fun?"

"I think I've had enough fun for one night."

"You aren't going yellow on me, are you?"

"What'll we do with the corpse if we do take it home?"

"You write a book about it."

"About what? Having a pseudovampire as a house guest?"

"Exactly."

"It'll just lie there. That's if the women don't make us get rid of it."

"You're right. We'll have to do something with it. Maybe we can find out who she is."

"How would we do that?"

"First things first, Lar. Let's take her home, then figure out what's next."

"Why don't we not take her home till we figure that out."

"Hey, we're already here. When'll we get another chance like this?

Come on, man, we agreed. Don't bail out on me now."

"I'm not bailing out. I just don't see what we'll accomplish. Our book has to be a lot more than a couple of goofs taking a stiff home and freaking out their wives. Even a true story needs action along the way, drama, a climax. Especially a climax. We've got nothing."

"Well, eventually we pull the stake."

"And the damn thing still just lies there."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Oh, come on. You said yourself she's not a vampire."

"We don't know that for sure. Obviously, someone thinks she is."

"Okay. Suppose we pull the stake and she is a vampire?"

"That'd be something, huh? Then we've got a best-seller for sure."

"If she doesn't bite our necks."

"We'll take precautions when the time comes. You know, have plenty of crucifixes and garlic handy. Maybe buy some handcuffs or tie her up."

"So what happens if we pull the stake and nothing happens? Which is the way it's bound to go down. Then what?"

Pete started the van moving forward.

"A big dud, that's what," Larry told him. Pete eased the van onto the road. It rolled slowly toward the Sagebrush Flat Hotel.

"Let's just go home and forget about it."

"You said we should play it by ear."

"My ear tells me to forget it."

"I've got a better idea." Pete's head turned toward Larry. In the hazy moonlight his teeth seem to glow as he smiled. "You say we've got a dud if we pull the stake and she just lies there. Well, let's find out tonight if she's a vampire." He eased the van to the other side of the street and stopped in front of the hotel. "Let's go in there and pull the stake."

ENOUNTERS.

Sixteen

Larry stood in front of the van, shivering, and aimed his flashlight at the doors of the hotel. They were shut. The padlock hung from the hasp, but nobody had repaired Pete's damage. The staple was still ripped from the right-hand door.

Pete came up beside him. He held the tire iron.

"You won't need that to break in," Larry whispered.

Nodding, Pete slipped the rod under his belt. He glanced up and down the street. Then he raised the camera and snapped a shot of the doors.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Larry clutched his shoulder. "Wait a minute."

"I'm going in there. If you're scared-"