He spent the day on Night Stranger, closing in on its finish. The writing was hard. His mind kept wandering. It slipped away from the story and tortured him with miserable thoughts about Lane being confronted by an outraged librarian. It tantalized him with thoughts of Bonnie.

Frequently he looked away from the computer screen and stared at his filing cabinet. The drawer where he'd hidden the yearbook pages was within reach. He longed to pore over them. But Jean was in the house. What if she came into his office while he had the pictures out?

Shortly after two o'clock Jean knocked on his door and opened it. "I thought I'd run over to Safeway. Anything you want me to pick up while I'm there?"

"Not that I can think of," he said. "Have fun."

"See you later."

She closed the door.

Larry stared at the computer screen. He heard the faint thump of the front door shutting. He rubbed his moist hands on the sides of his shorts.

He waited for a while, then rolled his chair back, left the office, and reached the living room in time to see Jean's car pass the windows.

Gone. She's gone!

He glanced at his wristwatch. A quarter past two. Give Jean ten minutes to reach the store, at least ten inside, and another ten to get home.

He had at least half an hour.

Stomach trembling, he hurried to his office, shut the door and pulled out the steel drawer of the file cabinet. He'd slipped the pages into the folder for his short story "The Snatch." He took out the entire folder, left the drawer agape, dropped onto his chair, flicked open the cover, and Bonnie smiled up at him.

The Spirit Queen photo.

"God," he whispered.

Bonnie seemed even more beautiful than he remembered. Lovely, fresh, innocent.

No wonder she was voted queen.

He gazed at her flowing blond hair. It swept softly down her forehead, slightly longer on the right, so that it brushed the curve of her eyebrow. It didn't quite touch her left eyebrow. The sides of her head were draped by shining tresses. Her eyes sparkled. Larry supposed that their gleam was a reflection of the camera's flash. Her lips were together, and curled upward just a bit at the corners with the mere hint of a smile. She looked serious, but pleased and proud.

Her jaw cast a shadow that slanted across her neck and puddled in the hollow above her right collarbone. Her shoulders sloped down gently, bare to the borders of the photo. The top she wore looked black. Only its upper edge showed. It eased downward to a point in the center of her chest. Not quite low enough to show any cleavage.

Larry placed an open hand across the bottom of the picture. With the garment covered, she might have been naked.

He gazed at her face, at the smooth, pale flesh of her chest. Faint shadows revealed the hollow of her throat, the curves of her collar bones.

If the picture extended downward, his hand would be resting across her breasts. He imagined firm mounds with skin like warm velvet, nipples erect and pressing into his palm. He moved his thumb downward. It would reach to the golden curls between her thighs.

Suddenly shocked at himself, Larry jerked his hand away from the picture. He slapped the folder shut.

God!

What's wrong with me?

Face burning, he lurched out of his chair. He stuffed the folder back into the cabinet and shoved the drawer shut.

He returned to his chair. He stared at the computer screen. The sentences there seemed empty, meaningless. No point in trying to write more of this novel. Not today.

He signed off and replaced the disk with the one labeled "Vamp."

"Vampire," he muttered. "No way. Not Bonnie."

He brought up the directory, then the last chapter he'd written on Saturday night.

A lot of catching up to do.

He exited that chapter.

He gazed at the blank screen.

Good luck, he thought. How in hell do I write about ending up in the garage with her? Say I was wearing pajamas, for starters.

Any way you slice it, you're going to look like you're losing your grip.

Like you're obsessed, or something.

And what about the annual? Tell the world you cut a library book to pieces? Figure out some kind of lie, maybe.

No matter what you write, Lane will know the truth. She'll read the damn book.

The photos have to go in it.

Shit.

Cross that bridge when you come to it.

And be really careful when you write about seeing the pictures.

Understate it. For godsake, don't let it look like the things turned you on. The girl's dead.

She wasn't dead when the pictures were taken.

She was so alive then. So glorious.

And now...

In his mind Larry saw the way she looked now. Hideous. A withered mummy with a stake in her heart.

That wasn't done by any jealous boyfriend. Some bastard actually thought she was a vampire.

Murdered her.

Hid her body under the hotel stairs and hung a crucifix on the wall for good measure.

And padlocked the front doors?

That was a brand new padlock, Larry reminded himself. And someone had placed boards across the broken landing.

Bonnie's killer?

Someone was certainly watching over the hotel. The coyote eater?

Had he been hanging around Sagebrush Flat for more than twenty years-a mad sentry guarding the tomb of his slain vampire?

Still there.

By now, he knows she's gone.

I've got her, you bastard.

How could you do that to her? How could you take my Bonnie and drive a stake through her heart?

Larry stared at the computer screen.

His fingers went to the keyboard.

They jabbed the keys, and amber words appeared.

SOMEBODY OUGHT TO RIP YOUR HEART OUT, YOU MOTHERFUCKER.

Somewhere in the house a door bumped shut. Larry quickly backspaced, erasing the words.

Larry managed to write four pages after Jean's return from the store, and was busy describing his clean-up of the garage when footsteps approached his office. He scrolled up quickly to clear the screen. A knock on the door. The door opened.

Lane stepped in.

His stomach shriveled, but he managed a smile.

"Hi ho," he said. "I thought you were staying late."

"So did I." She shrugged. "Mr. Kramer had a parent conference, so I came on home."

One hand was hidden behind her back.

Probably holding a gun, Larry thought.

But she didn't seem upset.

"What've you got there?" he asked.

Her hand came forward. It held a chocolate chip cookie. "Fresh from the oven," she said. "Want it?"

"Sure."

He reached for the cookie. His hand was shaking. Lane noticed. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Hard day at the office," he said, and took the cookie. "How was your day?"

"Okay, I guess."

"You returned the yearbook?"

She frowned. "You said you were done with it."

"Yeah. I am. Thanks a lot for the help. I owe you."

Smiling, she said, "Right, you owe me. One pair of boots."

"I don't have to pick them out for you, do I?"

"Just lend me your credit card. I'll take care of the dirty work."

Larry laughed softly. "My wallet's in the bedroom. Help yourself."

When she left, Larry ate the cookie. It was soft, still warm from the oven. But his mouth was dry, and he had a hard time swallowing.

Twenty-three

When the public library opened its doors at nine o'clock Wednesday morning, Larry was waiting. He felt nervous, approaching the librarian.

She was a young, attractive woman with a cheery smile. But he half expected to be shunned, thrown out on his ear.

She's not psychic, he told himself. She has no idea I cut up the high school's annual.

"I'm doing research on 1968," he explained. "Would you have copies of the Mulehead Evening Standard going back that far?"

Minutes later she produced a box of microfiche. She showed Larry to the reader-printer.

Yes, he knew how to use it.

The librarian told him there was a charge of ten cents per page for hard copies, and he could pay at the desk before leaving. Her name was Alice. She would be around and more than glad to help if he needed any assistance.

He thanked her.