Jean, peeling potatoes at the sink, looked around at Larry as he entered the kitchen. "Quitting a little early, aren't you?" she asked.

He glanced at the clock. Almost four. He usually worked until four- thirty.

"I finished the damn corrections," he said. He took a beer from the refrigerator. "Too late to get started on anything else." He twisted the cap off the bottle. "Where's Lane?"

"Not home yet."

"I know that. Did she have some kind of plans for after school?"

"Not that she mentioned. Maybe she stopped over at Betty's, or something."

"Yeah." He poured the beer into a stein, sucked off the head of white froth, and emptied the bottle. "What're you going to do with the potatoes?"

"French fries."

"All right!" He dropped the bottle into the trash. It landed with a thunk.

He carried his beer into the living room, sank into his easy chair and started thumbing through the new issue of Mystery Scene that had arrived in the day's mail. Jean had probably already looked it over. She would've told him if she'd found any mention of him. So he went straight to Brian Garfield's "Letter from Hollywood."

He tried to read it.

But the day was mild. The air conditioner was off, the windows open. Each time Larry heard a car on the street, his eyes shifted to the window.

Where is she?

Patience, he told himself.

They might not even have the '68 yearbook.

They've got to.

He wished he'd asked Lane to phone him from school. Then he wouldn't have spent the whole day worrying. But he didn't want her to think it was any big deal.

"Try for the 'sixty-eight," he'd told her. "That's the year I'll be working on. If they don't have it, though, 'sixty-seven or 'sixty-six will be okay. Even 'sixty-five. In fact, if you could get the annuals for each of those years..."

"You've got to be joking," Lane had said. "I'll be lucky if Swanson let's me check out any of them, much less four."

"Just go for 'sixty-eight, then, okay?"

He heard another approaching car. He knew the Mustang's sound-a low grumble-and this wasn't it. He looked out the window anyway. A station wagon swept by. He drank some beer, finished the Garfield piece, and looked for Warren Murphy's "Curmudgeon's Corner." This issue didn't seem to have one.

He muttered, "Shit."

Probably a story behind its absence. Have to ask Ed next time we talk.

At least de Lint's horror reviews weren't missing. Larry scanned the columns. Half the books were by writers he couldn't stand. But he spotted reviews of new books by Daniel Ransom, Joe Lansdale, and Chet Williamson. He'd already read the three books under discussion.

Good. That way, the reviews couldn't spoil anything for him.

He took a drink of beer.

Started to read.

Heard the Mustang.

About time!

The shiny red car appeared on the street, slowed down, swung into the driveway and vanished from sight. The engine went silent. A door thumped shut. When he heard Lane's boots scraping on the walkway, he tossed the magazine aside and hurried to the door.

"Hi ho," he said, opening the door. Lane had her keys in one hand.

Her other hand was empty. "How was your day?"

"Terrific."

Must've been, Larry thought. She looked even more chipper than usual.

He stepped out of her way and shut the door. Lane slung her book bag off her shoulders. Trying to keep his voice calm, Larry said, "So, did you have any luck with the yearbook?"

"Swanson didn't want to check it out to me. You really lucked out, though. Mr. Kramer was there, and she let him have it."

"But you've got it?"

"But of course." She dropped her denim bag on the sofa, unstrapped its top and slipped out a tall, thin volume. "It has to be returned tomorrow morning."

"No problem." Larry reached for it.

Lane clutched it to her chest and shook her head. "You owe me."

"What do you want?"

"Well, that's open to negotiation. I've had to make considerable sacrifices on your behalf. In particular, I'm obliged to help Mr. Kramer grade papers after school every day this week to pay him back for the favor."

"You're kidding."

"I wouldn't kid you."

"He shouldn't make you do that."

"Well, I kind of made the offer, and he didn't refuse."

"Ah. Well, that's different." "It's still because of this," she said and, grinning, rapped her knuckles against the back of the yearbook.

"Okay. What do you want?"

Her eyes rolled upward. "Let me think. My services don't come cheap, you understand."

"They never have."

"Daaad!"

"Laaane."

"You make me sound absolutely mercenary."

"But you're not."

"Of course not. However, I just happened to notice an absolutely radical pair of denim boots a while back."

"And you didn't buy them?"

"I didn't think I should. I'd already made a few purchases that day."

"If you're talking about the day your mother and I went on our last outing with Pete and Barbara, I remember it well."

"I really wanted those boots. But I held back. For your sake."

"I'm touched. Truly."

"So, can I have them?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Oh, Dad, you're great!" She thrust the book at him. As Larry took it, she threw herself against him and gave him a quick kiss. Then she hurried toward the kitchen.

Larry retrieved his beer.

He heard Lane call out, "Yo! Mom! What've we got to eat around here? I'm dying."

Larry shut the door to his office. He placed his beer on the coaster beside his word processor. He leaned back in his chair and rested the bottom of the book against his stomach. The blue cover was embossed with gold lettering that read, BUFORD MEMORIES '68.

This is it, he thought. My God, this is it.

His heart was racing. His stomach felt tight and shaky.

He opened the book. A quick riffle revealed glossy pages of black and white photographs. At the back was an index. The final page of the index listed students with S names. Larry slid his eyes down the column: Sakai, Joan Samilson, Pamela Sanders, Timothy Satmary, Maureen Schaefer, RonaldNo Saxon, Bonnie.

Come on! Larry thought. She has to be in here.

Despairing, he flipped pages toward the front of the index. And spotted a subheading: FRESHMEN.

"Thank God," he muttered.

In 1968, Bonnie was a senior, not a freshman.

He thumbed the pages over, passing the lists of sophomores and juniors. Just above the heading JUNIORS was the name Zimmerman, Rhonda. Tail end of the senior class. He lifted his eyes to the left-hand corner. A senior named Simpson, Kenneth.

Simpson. An S!

Larry clamped his lower lip between his teeth. He turned the page and worked his way up from the bottom: Just another name in the index. Saxon, Bonnie. Not printed in red.

Not in bold lettering or italics. But it seemed to explode off the page and slam through Larry's head.

To the right of her name were page numbers. Six of them.

Six pages with photos of Bonnie Saxon.

God almighty!

Larry scanned the column. Plenty of the names were followed by a single page number, several by two or three. Few had more than three.

Bonnie had six.

She must've been busy, Larry thought. And popular.

Popular girls are almost always pretty.

The first page number after her name was 34. Larry slipped a matchbook into the index to mark his place, turned to the front of the annual and thumbed through its pages until he found page 34. Blocks of small, individual photos showing members of the senior class. Boys in sport coats and neckties. Girls in dark pullover sweaters, each wearing a necklace.

The first name in the upper left-hand corner was Bonnie Saxon.

Larry shifted his eyes to the photo.

He moaned.

She was lovely. Radiant, adorable. Her gleaming blond hair swept softly across her brow, flowed down to her shoulders. Her eyes seemed Simmons, Dan Seigel, Susan Sefridge, John Sclar, Toni Schultz, Fredto be directed at something wonderful just beyond the camera. They looked eager, cheerful. She had a small, cute nose. Her high cheeks curved smoothly above the corners of her mouth, as if lifted and shaped by her smile.

This was Bonnie.

She looked quite a bit like Lane.

She looked very little like the corpse in the attic of his garage, but her hair and teeth and the general shape of her face convinced him that he had made no mistake: the body was Bonnie Saxon. No doubt about it.

The hideous cadaver had once been the girl in this photo-beautiful, glowing with youth.

Larry gazed at the picture.

Bonnie.

He felt very strange: excited by his find, enthralled by her beauty, depressed. When the photo was taken, she must've thought a whole, wonderful life waited in her future. But she had only months, and then someone ended it all by pounding a stake through her chest.

This was no vampire.

This was a sweet, innocent kid.

Probably a real heartbreaker. Every guy in school must've longed for her.

Had one of them killed her? A jealous boyfriend? She'd broken his heart, so he drove a stake through hers? Possible, Larry thought. But the stake in her chest and the crucifix on the staircase wall sure made it seem that somebody believed she was a vampire.