"Shut up," Larry snapped at him.

"I'm no vampire," Bonnie said. She sniffled. "Uriah's crazy. He... he murdered my friends and me. We never did anything."

Larry scowled at Uriah.

"She's lying, you fool."

"Oh yeah?" Larry snapped. "You goddamn maniac, you-" And he was suddenly rushing the man. "I'll kill you, you fucking maniac!"

Uriah hurled the severed head of a coyote at him.

The eyeless head rumbled through the air, blood spraying from the stump of its neck, its maw wide, fangs dripping. Larry flung up his arms to block it. The teeth snapped shut on his forearm. He yelped and flinched and woke up.

The house was dark and silent. He lay uncovered on the bed, trembling, his skin tingling with goose bumps and bathed in sweat. He sat up. The bottom sheet peeled away from his wet back. Looking past the vague form of his sleeping wife, he squinted at the alarm clock.

Almost one. He couldn't have been asleep for more than half an hour.

Not even close to morning.

He ran his hand through his drenched hair. The muscles along the sides of his neck felt tight and cold. They seemed to be squeezing pain into his head.

He climbed out of bed, stepped quietly to the closet and put on his robe. It clung to his damp skin. Knotting the belt, he went into the hallway.

He passed Lane's open door on the way to the bathroom. Her light was off, but he wondered if she was asleep. He didn't stop to check.

It doesn't matter, he told himself. I'm not going to look at the pictures.

What will I do? he wondered.

He knew what he wouldn't do-go back to bed. Not right away, at least. He felt wide awake. Besides, there was no point in trying to sleep until the headache subsided. And he didn't want to risk another dream. Not like that one.

At the end of the hallway he entered the bathroom. He shut the door but left the light off, knowing it would hurt his eyes. The mellow glow from the night-light was enough. As he stepped toward the medicine cabinet, he breathed deeply of the scents that still lingered after Lane's shower. Feminine, flowery aromas from her soap or shampoo or body powder... who knows what? But they filled the bathroom with her presence, and Larry felt himself relax a little.

He took two aspirin, washing them down with cold water.

He returned to the door. He took hold of its knob.

He realized that he didn't want to face the dark, silent house beyond the door. He didn't want to lie in bed and wait for sleep. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to sit alone in the living room and try to read or watch television. He didn't want to sneak into his office and slide open the file cabinet and take out his pictures of Bonnie.

I'm just fine right here, he told himself.

He thumbed down the button in the middle of the knob. The door locked with a loud ping.

He lowered the toilet seat and sat down. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees. He stared at the bath mat. Even in the faint light he could see where Lane's wet feet had matted down the nap.

He breathed through his nose, savoring the comfortable, familiar mix of aromas.

Bonnie can't get to me here, he thought.

A knock on the door startled him awake. The bathroom was gray with morning light. "Dad, my teeth are floating."

"Just a minute." He pushed himself off the floor, picked up the bath towel he'd used to cover his legs, hung it on the rack and straightened his robe. He flushed the toilet. Then he lifted its seat and stepped to the bathroom door. "What's the secret password?" he asked.

"I'm gonna pee on the floor!"

"That's it." He opened the door.

Lane rolled her eyes upward. "About time." As she sidestepped past him, she stopped and frowned. "Are you okay? You're looking kind of weird."

"Rough night," he said.

"Case of the trotskis?" she asked.

"Just a headache."

"Good. So you didn't stink the place up."

"Smells fine in there." It smells like you, he thought. He rubbed her mussed hair. She stepped past him and shut the door.

In the bedroom he found Jean still asleep. He closed the door, hung up his robe, and crawled into bed. The sheets on his side were cool. He rolled, and curled himself against Jean's back. He slipped an arm down across her belly. She was warm and smooth. He eased his face against her hair. The smell of her was like those that had kept him company through the night.

She and Lane must use some of the same stuff, he thought, snuggling against her.

"Time to get up?" she mumbled.

"Not yet."

"Good. Hold me for a while."

Thirty-three

"Try not to shoot each other," Barbara said through the van's open window. She gave Pete a kiss, then stepped backward.

Jean, by the passenger window, frowned at Larry and said, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm okay."

Ever since getting up, he'd been plagued by stomach cramps and loose bowels. Jean had suggested he phone Pete and cancel the outing.

He'd been tempted. But he knew that his problem was caused by nerves. If he called off the trip to Sagebrush Flat, Pete would insist on trying it again tomorrow. Better to get it over with.

"What's the problem, pardner?" Pete asked.

"A little indigestion," he said. He didn't want to discuss his runs.

Not with Barbara standing there. "I'm fine now."

"Okey-doke. We're off."

Jean kissed Larry and moved out of the way.

Pete turned the ignition key. Click-click-click. He twisted it again.

Nothing. "Shit!"

"Must be the battery," Larry said.

Pete tried again. Again he said, "Shit."

Larry felt like celebrating.

"Do you want to jump it?" Jean asked, approaching the passenger window.

"No. Damn it!" Pete whacked the steering wheel with his palm.

"Calm down," Barbara told him. "It's not the end of the world. Why don't we jump it, and you can stop by the service station on the way out and have the problem taken care of?"

"It's probably gonna need a new battery." He pounded the wheel again. "There goes the rest of the morning."

"It's not that big a deal," Barbara insisted.

"Maybe we weren't meant to go shooting today," Larry said.

"We'll take your car," Pete told his wife.

"Oh? Terrific. And how am I supposed to get to the grocery store?"

"You can walk, for all I-"

"Oh, sure thing. Why don't you-"

"Wait," Jean interrupted. "Hold it. Why don't you guys just take one of our cars?"

Thanks a heap, Larry thought.

"I don't know," he said. "I'd hate to take a chance on the Dodge overheating..."

"Take the Mustang."

"Maybe Lane has plans."

"Don't worry about it. If she wants to go someplace, she can take the Dodge."

Larry nodded. Why argue? We're meant to go after all, he thought.

They climbed from the van. They transferred the VCR camcorder, their firearms, food, and beer to the red Mustang. Larry settled in behind the steering wheel. Pete harnessed himself into the passenger seat.

"Let's hope this one works," Pete said.

"Yeah."

He knew it would work. Nothing was going to save him from his rendezvous with Sagebrush Flat.

He turned the key. The engine grumbled to life.

The wives stood side by side, smiling and waving as Larry backed the Mustang onto the road.

"Is this exciting, or what?" Pete said, grinning. "Or what."

"Should be just around this next bend," Pete said.

Larry hoped he would find the town occupied. This was a Saturday, after all. Maybe some folks on an outing had stopped to explore the "ghost town." Maybe some kids had dropped by to decorate the walls with grafitti or shoot the place up. Even a biker gang would be a welcome sight. Anyone would do. Just so the town wasn't deserted and they had to give up their hunt for Uriah.

But he rounded the bend, and the broad main road through Sagebrush Flat stretched in front of him, glaring in the sunlight, empty except for a tumbleweed rolling lazily past the saloon.

"Stop the car," Pete said. "I'll get us some footage." He climbed out with his video camera. Standing in the middle of the road, he turned slowly from side to side, panning the area ahead. Then he stepped closer to Larry's window. "I'll get you driving in. Head on up there and park at the hotel."

"Seems kind of dippy to me."

"Hey. Did Doug MacArthur complain when he had to wade ashore at Bataan?"

"I don't think it was Bataan."

"Wherever. This is us returning, pardner."

"Right," he muttered.

He drove the rest of the way alone, swung off the road in front of the hotel and got out. Pete, still about fifty yards away, was walking slowly forward, the camera to his eye.

"Open the trunk!" Pete called. "Strap on your shootin' iron."

He opened the trunk, lifted out his holstered Ruger .22, and strapped the belt low around his hips. Squinting at Pete, he tugged the brim of his battered old Stetson down across his eyes.

"Terrific!" Pete called. "Now, slap some leather!" "Get real," he said.