Very nice.

Steering with one hand, she swung the car around a corner.

"Snowbird" ended.

A jingle came on signaling the start of a news break.

"This is Belinda Bernard with the top local news stories of the hour."

"Top of the morning, Belinda," Lane said.

"... died in a fire early this morning in their Cactus Drive home."

Lane glanced at the radio. Cactus Drive? Died in a fire?

"The deceased were identified as Jerry and Roberta Patterson and their seventeen-year-old daughter Jessica."

"My God," Lane muttered.

"Flames were first noted by neighbors at approximately four-thirty A.M. Firemen arriving at the scene were unable to enter the house to attempt any rescue. Due to the heavy conflagration, however, it's believed that the family expired from smoke inhalation some time prior to the arrival of the fire department. This was confirmed later, when the bodies of the three family members were found in the rubble, still in their beds. The cause of the fire is under investigation, but it is believed that it started in the bedroom of the daughter, Jessica."

Smoking in bed? Lane wondered.

"The Board of Education met last night-"

She turned off the radio.

She felt cold and numb inside.

Jessica dead.

The girl'd been a royal pain, but God! Dead.

How could something like that happen?

Jessica smoked like a chimney. Spent half her life in the girl's John, puffing away. She must've fallen asleep with a cigarette.

Didn't they have a smoke alarm?

Lane rounded a corner. Betty was waiting beside the street. Lane stopped the car, stretched across the passenger seat and unlocked the door.

"Did you hear?" Betty asked, swinging the door open.

"Yeah."

"Holy smoke!" She hurled her book bag into the rear and dropped onto the seat. The car shook. "I knew that bimbo'd come to a bad end." She slammed the door.

"She's dead," Lane muttered.

"Well Jesus, I guess so."

Lane stepped on the gas. "She didn't deserve that."

"Smoking in bed, it'll get you every time."

"God, I can't believe it."

"I can. Boy, I sure can. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Know what happened yesterday? I went to take a leak after third period, and there she was, sitting on a John with the door wide open, sucking on a butt. I go, 'Those things'll give you cancer, you know.' And she gives me this look." Betty demonstrated, wrinkling her nose and curling up her lip.

"And she goes, 'Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, lardass.' So like I can't say I feel any great amount of sympathy, you know? She did it to herself."

"And her parents."

"Yeah. Too bad Riley Benson wasn't sleeping over. That piece of greasy-haired shit would be improved considerably by a good dose of smoke inhalation. Know what I mean?"

Lane nodded. It seemed wrong, knocking Jessica and Riley. But she didn't feel like defending them. They were creeps.

She wondered if Riley might actually have been in love with Jessica.

Hard to imagine him loving anyone.

But maybe he did.

"That babe did have some rotten luck," Betty went on. "First she gets herself creamed, next thing you know she's a crispy critter."

Lane turned the radio on, volume high. Willie Nelson and Ray Charles were singing "Seven Spanish Angels."

"A hint? A subtle but effective hint?"

"I just don't think we should be bad-mouthing her."

Ahead, Henry waved from his perch on the boulder in front of his house. He hopped down and- picked up his briefcase. "Salutations, merry-makers," he said, as Lane stopped the car.

Betty climbed out. She held the seat back forward while Henry scrambled in behind it. Following him, she pulled the door shut.

Lane glanced back at them. Betty had an eager look in her eyes.

"You haven't heard," she said.

"Heard what?" Henry asked.

Lane started driving.

"Jessica got toasted last night."

"Huh?"

"Burnt, charbroiled, cooked, incinerated."

"You mean she's dead?" He sounded perplexed.

"Dead dead dead. She bought the farm. She bit the weenie. Dead."

"Holy shit," Henry whispered. "It would appear that Miss Congeniality fell asleep smoking a cigarette."

"We're talking about Jessica Patterson?"

"Who else, numbnuts?"

"Holy shit," he said again. His hand clamped over the comer of Lane's seat back. "Is she shitting me?"

"No," Lane said. "It's true. Jessica and her parents were killed in a fire last night."

"Oh, man."

"Good riddance," Betty said.

"Hey, cut it out."

"Oh, and like she's suddenly a saint now that she's cooked?"

On the radio, Belinda Bernard's voice said, "We now have an update on the fire that rushed through the home of..."

"It just isn't..." Henry began.

"Quiet," Lane said. "News."

They went silent.

"... are now indicating that a preliminary examination of the charred remains has revealed that all three members of the Patterson family sustained massive, possibly fatal injuries, prior to the fire. Details are still sketchy, but it appears that an intruder may have slain the trio, after which the fire was deliberately set in order to destroy evidence of the crimes. We also have word that a youth seen entering the house earlier last night has been taken into custody for questioning. The identity of the underaged suspect has not been disclosed."

"Benson," Betty said. "Betcha."

"We now return you to..."

"Holy shit," Henry muttered. "They were murdered."

"I bet it was Benson. Wouldn't put anything past that slime-bag."

"This is awful," Lane murmured.

"Speak for yourself."

"Cool it," Henry said. "It's not funny."

"Maybe not funny, but... somehow, deeply satisfying."

Twenty-seven

Alone as he drove to the public library, Larry at last had time to himself, time to ponder what he'd done that morning and try to relieve himself of the shame.

He'd betrayed Jean.

Not really, he thought. It wasn't that big a deal. You had a little fantasy, that's all.

You really wanted Bonnie.

Jean didn't know that. She thought it was great.

The girl's dead, for godsake.

I must be nuts, having a dream like that.

Hell, it's perfectly natural. I've been studying the poor kid-looking at pictures of her, reading about her-I've got her in the garage! Who wouldn't start dreaming? I ought to just be glad it wasn't a nightmare.

What if she'd paid her visit the way she looks now!

Maybe better if she had. Might have scared the shit out of me, but at least I wouldn't have ended up with a hard-on and all this damn guilt.

Take it easy, he told himself. It was your subconscious. You can't control your subconscious.

Bullshit. It was a wish fulfillment dream. I wanted her to come to my bed. And it wasn't my subconscious that made me take out my lust on...

The radio news interrupted his thoughts.

A family of three murdered here in Mulehead Bend. Their house set on fire.

One of them, a seventeen-year-old girl.

He wondered if Lane knew the girl. The name didn't sound familiar, but she must've been a senior at Buford High. Lane almost had to know her.

They couldn't have been very good friends, he thought, or I would've heard the name before. Jessica. No. It didn't ring any bells.

Even if they're just acquaintances, it'll be a shock to Lane. A girl in her own class murdered.

Isn't anywhere safe?

Of course not. What are you, an idiot?

You know damn well Mulehead Bend hasn't been exactly a haven.

Bonnie, Linda, and Sandra are pretty good indications of that. And don't forget Martha Radley. She was over in Sagebrush Flat, but that's right next door.