I wouldn't have.

How do you know?

Oh God! I could've done anything!

He lurched into the bathroom, threw the door shut and staggered to the tub. Falling to his knees, he reached out and turned the faucet handles. Water gushed from the spout. He held his hands under it.

All the perfumes of Arabia...

"I didn't touch her," he said.

It's bad enough I used the blanket.

He turned the knob to activate the shower, then climbed into the tub and slid the glass door shut. The hot water pounded against the top of his head. It ran down his body, soothing the chill, easing some of the tightness out of his muscles. When he stopped trembling, he lathered himself with soap. He rinsed the suds off, then soaped his body and rinsed again before shampooing his hair.

By the time he stepped out, he felt a lot better.

If only he could remember what happened!

Maybe just as well that you don't, he thought.

After drying, he took Alka-Seltzer. Then he washed down two aspirin for good measure.

He left the steamy bathroom. In his bedroom he found his sweat clothes heaped on the floor. His side of the bed had been turned down, the pillow dented, the bottom sheet mussed.

So you did go to bed last night, he told himself. But you got up again, and went out to the garage. Must've decided to take a look at the corpse, God knows why.

Must've had a reason.

Maybe she willed you to do it.

"Terrific," he muttered.

He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face.

Never should've had that vodka.

Keeping his back to the coffin, Larry used paper towels to clean his vomit off the garage floor. He put them in a plastic garbage bag, then dropped the bag into the bottom of his trash barrel and covered it with a heap of debris from the grass catcher of his lawn mower. Satisfied that Jean would never find the evidence, he returned to the garage. He filled a bucket and scoured the area with a wet sponge. Afterward, he cleaned the bucket and sponge carefully. All that remained, now, was a patch of wetness on the concrete.

The heat of the day would soon take care of that.

He slid the bay door open to let in fresh air and sunlight.

From here the garage looked perfectly normal. The damp area, the blanket and coffin, were safely out of sight behind standing shelves and stacks of boxes.

He shook his head. Whatever his condition last night, he'd been aware enough to negotiate a virtual obstacle course in order to reach the corner where the coffin was hidden. In the dark, apparently.

What do you write about this? he wondered.

You don't.

I've got to. It's part of the story.

And you need to fill up more pages if you're going to make a book out of this thing.

Just leave out the business about being naked, he thought. Write it like it happened, but keep your clothes on. Otherwise, people might start thinking you...

I didn't, he told himself. No way.

What were you doing in there?

Suddenly he realized that he needed to take a close look at the corpse.

Besides, I've got to cover it up again.

He entered the garage. His heart started thudding, stirring the remnants of his headache.

He made his way among the shelves and trunks and boxes, and soon he reached the dim corner where the coffin rested. The wet spot on the concrete was nearly gone. He stepped over the blanket and stared down into the coffin.

The body looked ghastly, as usual: shrunken and bony, its skin dried out and brown, its breasts flat, its mouth open and lips twisted in an awful, toothy grin.

The body didn't look as if it had been disturbed. It lay flat on the bottom of the coffin, the stake jutting upright in the same position as usual, one withered hand on its hip.

Larry frowned.

The left arm, on the far side of the corpse, was bent at the elbow.

The hand rested, palm down, against the hip bone. Its fingertips lay among dull blond curls of pubic hair.

Before (Larry was almost certain), both hands had been out of sight in the dark, narrow gap between the body and the sides of the coffin.

He was sure that he would've noticed if a hand had been in plain view.

Especially since this one wore a ring.

He bent down for a closer look.

A school ring? Surrounding the garnet stone was a tarnished silver border that appeared to be engraved.

"Holy Toledo," he muttered.

This could give a clue to the corpse's identity!

But how did the hand find its way onto the hip? Obviously, she hadn't placed it there.

I must've done it last night, he thought.

I did touch the damn thing.

Larry heard himself groan.

Disgust mixing with his excitement, he hurried to the section of the garage where he kept the yard tools. Maybe he had touched the corpse last night, but he sure didn't intend to do it again. He found some old gardening gloves and put them on as he hurried back to the coffin.

On his knees, he reached over the body. With his left hand he gently held the bony wrist. With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand he slipped the ring off.

Pete, he realized, was bound to visit the corpse sooner or later, and was sure to notice the new position of the hand. It had to be put back down where it belonged.

Wrinkling his nose, Larry tightened his grip on the wrist and gave it a slight push. It resisted him. He pushed a little harder, forcing it. This time the hand moved. Larry cringed at the quiet crackling sounds that came from the arm. Sounds like dry leaves being crumbled. His eyes darted to the cadaver's face. It looked as if it were grimacing, teeth bared in pain.

"Christ," he whispered.

Has to be done, he told himself.

Letting go, he switched the ring to his left hand and clutched the corpse's wrist with his right. He shoved down hard, jamming the arm toward the floor of the coffin. The shoulder lifted. The head began to rise. He yelled. Then came gristly snapping sounds, a pop. The arm went limp in his grip and the body sank back into position. He tucked the arm against its side, then lurched away.

He dashed through the garage, dodging his way through the maze of clutter, and didn't stop running until he reached the safety of the house.

He shoved the sliding door shut. He locked it.

He pressed his face to the glass and stared at the open garage.

Acting like an idiot, he thought.

But God!

After catching his breath, he opened his trembling hand. He lifted the ring close to his face.

Engraved in the silver that surrounded the garnet were the words "Buford High School," and the date "1968."

He looked into the middle of the loop.

Inside the band was a name. "Bonnie Saxon."

Nineteen

"I gazed at the ring, dumbfounded. The hideous corpse in my garage now had a name. Bonnie. A pleasant, rather cheerful name.

"Perhaps she is a vampire. Somebody thought so, killed her with a stake and used a crucifix to seal her makeshift tomb. But a vampire by the name of Bonnie?

"She seems, to me, less frightening than before.

"The gruesome, mummified thing in the coffin may indeed be a demonic beast that would drink my blood if unleashed from death. But it was a girl once. A 'Bonnie' lass.

"She attended the same high school as my daughter, Lane. She walked the same halls, perhaps sat in the same classrooms, may even have had some of the very same teachers as Lane. She was a girl who ate lunch in the school cafeteria, who probably struggled against dozing off during her afternoon classes, who worried about pop quizzes and homework and zits.

"A teenager. Who studied schoolwork. Who watched television. Who listened to the latest music with the volume blaring. Who went to movies, to the school's football games and sock hops and the prom.

Who had boyfriends.

"The vile thing in my garage was once a teenaged girl named Bonnie..."

The door bell chimed. Larry flinched. He scrolled up to remove his words from the computer screen, then hid the class ring under the matchbooks and scraps of note paper scattered on his desktop. He hurried into the living room.

He half expected the person at the front door to be Pete.

He was right.

"Hey, bud!" After a glance toward his house, Pete gave Larry a sly look. "Barb's off grocery shopping. Thought I'd drop by and see how our best-seller's coming along."

"Not too bad."

He entered, and Larry shut the door.

"I guess you really whaled on the thing yesterday," he said.

"Yeah, it went pretty well. Sorry I didn't make it over for supper.

Time just got away from me and-"

"No sweat. So how many pages you finish?"

"I don't know. Quite a bunch."

"Terrific. Gonna let me read 'em?" he asked, flopping onto a chair.

Larry hoped his alarm didn't show.

"They aren't printed up yet," he said.

"Well, go do it. Don't let me stop you."

"It'd take hours," Larry said. He sat on the sofa, rested his elbows on his knees and shook his head at Pete. "Besides, I'll have to make a lot of corrections. It's pretty much of a mess right now."

"So when'll I get to read it?"

"How about when it's all done?" Larry suggested, trying to smile.

"Hey, come on."