Pete wandered around the coffin, snapping half a dozen pictures.

Then he faced Larry and lowered the camera against his belly. "Okay, pal. Time to see if she's for real."

Cold streaked up his spine.

"Don't."

Pete grinned, raised his eyebrows. "You said we don't want her if she's a dud."

"For Christsake, it's night."

Pete stepped toward him. He lifted the camera strap over his head.

"Maybe you should record this for posterity." He slipped the strap over Larry's head. The weight of the camera pulled against the back of his neck.

Pete stepped to the far side of the coffin and sank to his knees. He wrapped a hand around the end of the stake.

"Don't. I mean it."

"Don't be a pussy, man."

Larry aimed the revolver at him.

Pete's smile fell away. "Jesus Christ."

"Take your hand off it."

The hand jumped off the stake as if burnt. "It's off, it's off. Jesus!"

Larry lowered the gun.

He shook his head. He couldn't believe he'd actually threatened his friend with the magnum. He felt sick. "I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry, Pete."

"Jesus, man."

"I'm sorry. Look, we'll take it with us. We'll take it home. We'll do the book. Okay? And you can take the stake out, but not till the right time. We'll do it in daylight. We'll cuff her first, or something, like you said. We'll do it right, so nobody gets hurt. Okay?"

Pete nodded and got to his feet. He stepped around the coffin.

Larry met him beside it. "Here, you'd better take this thing."

Pete took the revolver from him. "I oughta stick it in your face and see how you like it," he said. "Goddamn, man, you know?"

"Go ahead. I deserve it."

"Nan." He holstered the weapon. He clasped Larry's upper arm and looked him in the eyes. "We're partners, man. We're gonna be rich partners."

"I shouldn't have pulled down on you, Pete. I don't know what... I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"No sweat."

They shook hands. Larry felt his throat go tight. He knew he was close to tears.

"Okay, compadre," Pete said. "Let's haul this bitch out of here and head for home."

Seventeen

"Don't do it! I'm warning you!"

"Ah, don't be a pussy." Pete started to pull the stake from the chest of the corpse. It slid slowly upward.

Larry fired. The slug punched Pete's forehead. A spray of blood and brains flew up behind him. As he tumbled backward, Larry saw that he still clutched the stake. It came all the way out.

"No!" Larry shrieked.

Hurling the revolver aside, he ran toward the coffin, toward Pete sprawled on the lobby floor, toward the pointed shaft clenched in his dead hand.

You bastard! he thought. You bastard, how could you do this to me!

Gotta get the stake! Gotta shove it back in! Fast! Before it's too late.

But he couldn't run fast enough. The sand sucked at his feet.

Moments ago, it had just been a thin layer. Now the sand was thick, heaped like dunes on a beach. Had somebody left the door open? He looked back. The door was open, all right.

A man stood there, ankle deep in the sand, the wind at his back flapping his dark, hooded robe. A robe like a monk. The hood concealed his face. In his upraised right hand he held a crucifix. "You're screwed now," the stranger called. "Up shit creek without a paddle."

Terrified, Larry turned his eyes away from the stranger and tried to run faster over the soft, shifting sand.

I'll never make it in time, he thought.

He was still far from the corpse. It still looked like a dried-up mummy. But he could hear it breathing.

Maybe that guy will lend me his crucifix.

He glanced back. The hood fell away. The stranger had the eyeless, bloody head of a coyote. The crucifix, now clamped in its maw, crunched as the thing chewed.

When he looked forward again, he gasped.

The coffin was empty.

But then he saw that Pete was sitting up. He suddenly felt so overwhelmed with relief that he nearly wept. I didn't kill him, after all! Thank God! Thank-He felt himself shrivel inside.

Pete wasn't sitting up because he was alive. He was being held by the brown hag on the floor behind him. Its withered legs were crossed around his waist. Its arms hugged his chest. Its mouth sucked and chewed on the exit wound at the back of his head.

Larry yelled and woke up.

He was alone in bed. The room was dark. Rolling onto his side, he checked the alarm clock: 4:50. He groaned as he realized this was Saturday morning and he'd been in bed less than an hour. He remembered what they had done.

God, if only the whole thing had been a nightmare. What if I only dreamed that we went out there.

He knew it was too much to hope for.

They'd done it, all right.

At least I didn't shoot Pete, he thought. Thank God that was just in the nightmare.

He climbed out of bed. Naked, sweaty, and shaking, he stepped to the window. The moon hung low over the roof of the garage.

He didn't want to think about what was inside the garage.

We've gotta call this off, he told himself.

We've gotta take it back, put it back under the staircase.

He wondered if he could do it by himself.

No. Alone, he wouldn't be able to face the thing, much less drive it out to Sagebrush Flat and drag it into that damn hotel.

He returned to the bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress, slumped forward and rubbed his face. He felt wasted. He needed sleep. A lot of sleep. But he knew the kind of dream that waited for him.

Never should've done it, he thought. Never should've.

He wandered into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray. The water felt wonderful splashing against his chilled body. It soothed his shivers, eased the tightness of his muscles.

But it didn't help the fog in his head. His mind seemed numb.

Won't be able to write today, he thought. Not unless I get some sleep.

Work on correcting the manuscript?

That's why you didn't go with Jean and Lane.

God, he wished he had gone with them. None of this would've happened.

He saw himself in the hotel again, aiming the revolver at Pete.

Hell, I wouldn't have shot him.

But even to aim at him...

That was the worst part. That was even worse than the damn corpse in his garage.

Just have to live with it, he told himself. It happened, you can't make it go away.

The thing is to do the book for him. Even if it doesn't hit the big- time like he hopes, it ought to sell. Give him a chunk, he'll be happy.

He'll figure it was worth having a gun pointed at him. Then maybe I can stop feeling guilty.

So write the book.

Larry shut off the shower, stepped out of the tub and dried himself.

He made his way sluggishly into the bedroom. He took a sweatsuit and socks from his dresser, dropped onto the bed and struggled into the soft shirt and pants.

Write the book, he thought. But not today. Too wasted.

In the kitchen he made a pot of coffee. He carried his mug into the living room, settled down in his recliner and started to read. His eyes moved over the lines of the paperback. But the words seemed disconnected, meaningless.

One hour of sleep, he thought. What do you expect?

He closed the book. He gazed into space while he sipped his coffee.

Can't just sit here like a zombie.

Work on Madhouse, he thought. Should be capable of that, just going through and changing it back to the way it was in the first place.

He pushed himself off the chair, picked up his empty mug and headed for the kitchen.

Damn copyeditor. Hadn't been for her, I'd be in L.A. right now.

Wouldn't have gone out to that damn town. None of this shit would've happened.

He filled his mug with coffee, carried it into his work room and gazed at the manuscript. He sighed. The chore seemed too great.

Maybe make some notes for The Box first. Work something in about the guys going out to bring it home, stumbling across the campfire...

the coyote eater... what if he's a guy who's connected to the past somehow? Could be a character in the sixties section. One of the bikers? He's stuck around for some reason, mad as a hatter, living off the land.

Maybe a dumb idea, he thought. Who's in any shape to judge? Might as well put it down, though. Decide later whether it's worth pursuing.

He turned on the word processor and brought up the notes he'd made yesterday. He scrolled down to the last entry. "But maybe there are some other 'box' angles. Fool around with it."

A coffin is a box. There's an angle for you.

He typed, "Notes-Saturday, October 8."

Spaced down, tapped out, "Guys go to fetch jukebox. In ditch nearby, they find campfire and disgusting remains of a coyote someone had eaten for dinner. Who? A crazy hermit who was the main badass biker in the sixties section. He's still around after all those years."

Who really ate the coyote? he wondered. What if it's the same guy who fixed the hotel landing and straightened the blanket on the stiff?

What if he was watching us?