"Nothing like a neck rub to make things right," he said. His hands moved lower, his gently plying fingers easing down inside the collar of her blouse. They were warm and smooth on her bare skin.

She wondered how she could feel so lazy and so excited, both at the same time.

She felt powerless to move.

Her head wobbled as he massaged her.

The top button of her blouse popped open. Lane knew where his hands were. He hadn't unfastened the button. It had simply pulled out of its hole because of the way he was spreading her collar.

She wished he had done it.

She imagined him unbuttoning her blouse, spreading it open, taking her breasts in his big, powerful hands.

"I'd better call it quits," he said, "before you get too relaxed to mark the papers for me."

"Just a little more?" she asked, her voice a quiet murmur.

His hands went away from under her collar. They squeezed her shoulders. "Some other time. Hey, someone might come in and get the wrong idea." She supposed that was true. She couldn't expect Mr. Kramer to risk his job for the sake of giving her an innocent massage.

He patted her shoulder in a coachlike fashion. "Now let's see you grade those papers." He stepped out from behind her and started walking toward his desk.

"Mr. Kramer?"

Looking around at Lane, he raised his eyebrows. His face was slightly red.

"I feel a whole lot better now. Thanks."

"Glad to help." He continued to his desk, sat down, and started shuffling through papers.

Lane began to check the spelling sentences. Her neck and shoulders seemed to keep the warmth of his touch. She felt as if she were glowing inside.

She realized that the neck of her blouse was still spread apart.

Hunched over the desk, she looked down at herself. Below where the button had pulled open, she saw the shadowy side of her right breast.

Had Mr. Kramer noticed?

Probably not, she decided. After all, he'd been standing behind her.

She didn't fasten the button or straighten her blouse, and she remained pleasantly aware of the small gap as she went on correcting the papers.

She hoped Mr. Kramer was aware of it, too.

Each time she looked up, however, she found him bent over his papers.

Finally he stood up and carried a folder to the far side of the table.

He slipped it into his briefcase. "How's it going, Lane?"

"I've just got a few left."

"Well, I'm afraid it's time to close up shop. I'll finish them off tonight."

"Fine." She arranged them neatly inside the folder, eased out of her seat and approached the table. Stretching across its top, she handed the folder and pen to her teacher.

As he took them, she saw his eyes lower briefly. A glimpse, then he was looking at her face. "I sure appreciate the help, Lane."

"Glad to be of service." Bending over, she placed her hands on the table and stared at the small book from which he'd read "Grave Musings."

She could feel the way her blouse was hanging, its front not touching her chest at all. I can't believe I'm doing this, she thought.

Why don't I just rip it open instead of being so tricky?

She felt as if she were blushing from head to toe. But she couldn't bring herself to straighten up.

She opened the book's cover and flipped to the title page.

"Collected Poetry of Allan Edward DePrey," she said. "I've never heard of him," she added, keeping her eyes on the book.

"Few people have," Mr. Kramer said. "He's a rather obscure poet from upstate New York, lived around the turn of the century. I happened onto that little volume in a secondhand store when I was a teenager. For a while there he was my favorite poet."

"Is everything in here as grim as 'Grave Musings'?" Lane asked, turning to the table of contents. Though she glanced at the listed titles, none of them registered.

"Oh, that's one of his more pleasant pieces. He had quite a morbid turn of mind."

"I wonder if Dad's ever heard of him. Sounds like DePrey might be right up his alley."

"I tell you what. Why don't you take the book home tonight, let him have a look at it."

"Could I?" she asked, finally looking up at him.

He smiled. He had tiny speckles of sweat in the whiskers above his lip. "Just don't lose it."

"Oh, I won't." She lifted the book and stood up straight, feeling her blouse pull against her breasts. "Maybe I'll even read it myself, since he's a favorite of yours."

He laughed softly. "Hope you enjoy it. Now, you'd better run along.

Thanks again for your invaluable services."

"My pleasure," Lane said.

She returned to her desk, gathered her books and binder, and headed for the door. Stopping with one foot in the hallway, she looked around. Mr. Kramer was staring at her. "Hey," she said, "thanks again for the neck rub."

"My pleasure," he said.

"Bye."

"Have a nice evening, Lane."

My evening, she thought, will be a drag after this. But she said "Thanks" before leaving the room.

In the corridor she fastened her button.

Twenty-nine

The alarm clock startled Larry awake Friday morning. As Jean stopped the noise, he rolled over and pressed his face into the warmth of his pillow. The bed shook slightly Jean getting up. He heard her quiet footsteps on the carpet, then the door latching shut.

Alone in the room, he wondered whether he'd dreamed of Bonnie. If so, he couldn't remember it. He felt a little disappointed. Mostly though, he felt relieved.

His stomach tightened as he remembered last night's decision.

After supper Pete had phoned.

"Hey, man," he'd said, "what's going on? You freezing me out, or something?"

"No, uh-uh. I've just been busy, that's all."

"Yeah, well, you could've let me know what's going on. You still working on our book?"

"It's coming along fine."

"Can you talk? Anyone in earshot?"

"No. Okay here." He'd grabbed the extension in their bedroom.

Jean, he knew, was in the kitchen cleaning the dishes. Lane was in the living room, reading the poetry book her English teacher had loaned her.

"I've got a little privacy myself," Pete told him. "Barb's taking one of her marathon baths. So look, I think we've gotta talk about this thing. You were going like gangbusters over the weekend. Are you all caught up, or what?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, what's next? Seems to me like we oughta get this show on the road. I've been shopping. I got a good deal on a VHS camcorder.

Set me back about thirteen hundred, but I figure it'll be worth it so we can make a video when we pull the stake. Which we oughta do. How about tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night?" Larry hadn't been able to keep the shock out of his voice.

"Why not? That's what this is all about, right? Why delay it?"

"There are some loose ends."

Silence. When Pete spoke again, the pushy edge was gone from his voice. He sounded excited. "What do you mean? What kind of loose ends?"

"I know who she is. I think I know who killed her."

"Holy shit."

"It's a long story. Look, why don't we meet tomorrow during your lunch break. I'll tell Jean I'm going to the library. I'll tell you everything then. How about Buster's?"

They agreed to meet there at noon. Now, lying in bed, Larry wondered if he should go through with it.

He'd made the suggestion, mostly, as a delaying tactic. Pete had taken him off guard, demanding that they pull the stake tonight.

Larry wasn't ready for that. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready for that.

What do you want to do, he asked himself, keep her up there forever?

The stake's the mystery, he thought. Once we take it out, Bonnie won't... she'll just be a corpse.

She is just a corpse.

No. As long as she has the stake in her heart, she's more than that.

What, a vampire?

Uriah thought so.

And Larry knew he was clutching a faint hope that she might be one. It was a ridiculous hope, of course. But pulling the stake would take it away. Bonnie would just lie there, a dried-up cadaver with a hole in her chest, and it would be over.

He would lose her.

He wouldn't even be able to pretend she might come back to life, fresh and young and beautiful-and his.

So you're stalling Pete, he thought, trying to keep your stupid dream for at least a while longest What's the harm in that?

Larry climbed out of bed. He stepped to the window and gazed out across his sunlit yard at the garage. He imagined Bonnie in the dark of the attic, lying in her casket, the end of the stake jutting upright from her chest. He seemed to hear her voice, as clear and sweet as it had come to him in yesterday's dream. Free me. Pull the stake, and I'll come to you. I love you, Larry. I'll he yours forever.

Sure, he thought. Fat chance.

Shortly before noon he told Jean that he needed to check on a few things at the library. He took a large manila envelope with him when he left the house. He drove to Buster's, a diner near the south end of town, not far from Pete's shop.

He found Pete waiting in a booth at the rear, and scooted in across the table from him.

"Long time no see, compadre."

"Yeah, sorry about that."

A waitress came, set places for them, and asked if they would like to see menus.