"Give me a break," Jean muttered.

Larry left the garage door open. He stepped onto the platform and reached up for the dangling rope.

"Just a minute," Pete said. "Here Barb." He handed the camera to her.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Get us bringing the coffin down." He showed her how to hold the camera. "You look through this. What you see is what you get. Just hold this button down, and that's all there is to it. Okay?"

"I think so."

Pete set his quiver and bow on the concrete floor. Joining Larry on the platform, he glanced around at Barbara. "Okay, get her going and keep her going till I say to stop."

"Yessir."

Larry caught hold of the rope. He pulled the trapdoor down, and Pete helped unfold the ladder. "Be my guest," Larry told him.

Pete started to climb. Halfway up the ladder he looked over his shoulder and waved. "Famous last wave," he said.

"Quit screwing around," Barbara told him.

Larry smiled at her. Jean and Lane were standing close to Barbara.

Jean's hands were stuffed into the front pockets of her jumpsuit. Her shoulders were hunched and she looked as if she were gritting her teeth. Lane's teeth were bared. Her arms were wrapped tightly across her chest. She met his eyes and said, "Be careful. Don't fall or anything."

Murmuring "Thanks," he turned to the ladder just as Pete's boots disappeared beyond the edge of the floor.

"No!" Pete cried out. "In the name of God, no!"

Larry's heart kicked.

He heard gasps from the women.

"Watch out!" Jean's voice.

From above came the sound of Pete laughing.

Behind Larry something crashed. He heard glass break.

Pete's grinning face appeared at the top of the ladder. "Just kidding," he said.

"You bastard!" Larry yelled. Turning around, he saw Barbara sprawled on her back. The crotch of her red sweatpants was dark, the patch growing, urine seeping out and dribbling onto the concrete floor between her legs. The camcorder lay about a yard beyond her head.

"What's wrong?" Pete asked.

Larry scowled up at him. "You idiot! You scared Barbara so bad she fell down. I think your camera bit it."

"No!"

This time the outcry was real.

"Yes," Larry told him.

As Pete hurried down the ladder, Jean and Lane helped his wife up.

She rose to her feet, grimacing, rubbing her rump as she stared down at herself. "Oh shit," she said. Her voice was pitched high and trembling. "I don't believe this." She started to sob.

Pete halted in front of her. "Don't hit me," he said.

She stared at him and wept. Then she rushed from the garage, leaving dribbles on the concrete, and hobbled down the driveway bow- legged. "I did it this time," Pete muttered.

"You sure did," Jean said.

"Oh, man." For a moment he looked as if he might go after Barbara.

Then he shook his head. He glanced at the small puddle on the garage floor, shook his head again, then stepped over it and crouched in front of his camera. He picked it up. He picked up a few pieces of plastic and glass. He stood and raised the viewfinder to his eye. "Oh, man," he said.

"Serves you right," Jean said.

"I'm sorry. Man, am I sorry."

"Save it for Barb," Jean told him.

"Yeah. I really blew it, huh?"

"Now what?" Lane asked.

Pete frowned at Larry. "Can we call this off for now? I mean, we've just gotta get the whole thing on video. I bought this camera especially... God, why did I have to fuck around?"

"Do you think it can be repaired?" Larry asked.

"I don't know. I'll have to check it out. Even if I can fix it, I wouldn't be able to buy any parts tomorrow."

"You mean today?" Lane asked.

"Yeah. Sunday. Can we put this off till Monday? I'll either have it fixed by then or get a new one. Okay?"

"It's up to Jean," Larry said. "Can you wait till Monday?"

She sighed. "I don't want to be the one to ruin... Yeah, I guess it's okay. You've waited this long." She shook her head with disgust. "On one condition. We lock the garage doors till then. Padlock them." She peered up at Larry. "I don't want you coming out here again, sleepwalking or otherwise."

"Neither do I," he told her.

"That's great," Pete said. "Thanks."

"You'd better go home," Jean said, "and look after Barbara."

"If she'll let me in the house. God, she's probably on the phone trying to get a divorce lawyer. Or busy loading my magnum."

Larry, somewhat pleased by Pete's agony, patted him on the shoulder. "If we hear shots, we'll call an ambulance."

"Thanks a load, pardner."

Forty-two

When Lane woke up, her bedroom was full of sunlight. For just a moment she felt good. Then the memories of last night with Kramer crashed down on her. Sickened with shame and terror, she threw her covers aside, sat up and hugged her belly. She couldn't think straight.

Her mind was a torrent of horrible images that kept her heart racing, her skin burning, her stomach knotted.

She fought the images. Like trying to shove dozens of writhing snakes down inside a box. Their heads kept popping up, striking at her, sinking in their fangs. But at last she got them all shoved down and slammed the lid. Though they were out of sight, she still thought she could hear them hissing and thumping around, eager to escape and hurt her.

She sat on the bed gasping, sweat trickling down her face, nightshirt clinging to her skin.

I'll kill the bastard, she thought.

Oh, sure I will.

What am I going to do?

Last night hadn't been enough for him. He'd made that very clear.

And if Lane gave him any trouble about it, he'd get her with the razor.

Her parents, too. He would kill them all.

The same way he killed Jessica and her family.

My God, she thought. Where'd that idea come from? Kramer certainly hadn't told her any such thing.

But he'd killed them. Lane was suddenly sure of it. Jes-sica'd been in his sixth-period class. He must've been getting it off with her until she gave him trouble. He was the one who beat her up, who broke her arm. Not Benson, after all. Kramer had taught her a lesson about cooperating, but that wasn't enough. Maybe she wouldn't have any more to do with him. Maybe he was afraid she might talk. So he crept into her house last week and slaughtered the whole family and set the place on fire.

He'll do the same to us.

Dad gave her a sheepish smile when she entered the living room. He was in his easy chair, a paperback in his hands, a mug of coffee on the lamp table beside him. "Good afternoon," he said.

She kissed him on the cheek. It was scratchy with whiskers.

"Where's Mom?"

"She went to the twelve o'clock mass."

"Glad she didn't wake me up for it."

"Figured you needed your sleep. How's it going?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Hope you didn't have any vampire nightmares." "I don't think so," Lane said. If I had nightmares, she thought, they wouldn't have been about vampires. "How about you?"

"Your mother and I were up till after sunrise."

Lane managed to smile. "Having a little discussion?"

"It turned out okay. Better than I deserved, I guess. When you see her, just don't bring up the subject of our guest in the garage."

"I wonder how Pete fared."

"We didn't hear any gunshots."

"That's a good sign."

"I don't think your mother would've been quite so forgiving if she'd been the one who wet her pants."

"Daaaad."

He chuckled softly and shook his head. "Anyway, there're some sweet rolls in the kitchen."

"Yuck. Maybe I'll eat something while I'm out. I've got to pick up a few things at the drugstore. And maybe I'll drop by the mall. Need anything?"

"I'm getting a little low on pipe cleaners."

"Okay." She headed for the front door. "See you later."

"Have fun," he said.

Outside, she took the keys from her denim shoulder bag. She locked the front door and hurried to the Mustang. She slid in behind the steering wheel and swung her heavy bag onto the passenger seat.

As she drove away from the house her stomach began to flutter. The car was hot inside, but she kept the windows up and didn't turn on the air conditioner. Though the heat didn't stop her from shivering, she found it comforting.

A block from home she stopped the car. She reached into a pocket of her blouse. She took out a folded sheet of paper and opened it.

While she studied the first of the two addresses she'd copied from the telephone book, she eased her hand between the buttons of her blouse and gently rubbed her left breast. Both her breasts were sore, but the left hurt more than the right. It had been purple with bruises when she looked at herself before dressing.

She finished memorizing the address, took her hand out of her blouse, folded the paper again and tucked it gently into her pocket.

She drove to the address.

She parked at the curb and stared out the passenger window at the mobile home. It was on a foundation some distance back from the road, a battered pickup truck near one end, a motorcycle in front of the pickup. There was no driveway, no lawn. Just the home and the vehicles sitting on a patch of desert.