"You're sure about that?"

"Absolutely. See you later." She pulled the door shut and went to the kitchen.

While she made herself a grilled cheese sandwich, she thought back to the folder that Dad had shut so quickly. She tried to remember the look of the paper inside. Glossy, with two or three pictures on it.

Like a page out of Buford Memories.

"Oh, boy," she muttered. He must've torn it from the 1968 annual.

And there had appeared to be more than one in that folder.

Pictures of Bonnie. He'd been studying pictures of Bonnie. God, if ol'

lady Swanson ever found out... I would've been in such deep shit... How could he do that to me?

Pete had called him "obsessed." Right here in the kitchen, when Dad was talking about his weird dreams.

Obsessed, all right.

Lane slid her sandwich onto a paper plate. She took it to the table and sat down.

Dad just wanted the pictures for his book, she told herself as she started to eat. Nothing weird about that. He looked so guilty in there because he stole them from the yearbook, doesn't want me to find out. That's all.

Maybe that isn't all. He's been dreaming about her. Walking in his sleep. He went out there to pay her a visit.

Lane remembered the way she'd found him staring at the naked corpse. What if he is obsessed with her? Maybe he wants her to be a vampire, wants to see her change back into a beautiful girl, wants to...

Come on. This is Dad, not Kramer. Dad wouldn't...

The things he was saying to her. But he was asleep. He was talking to her in his dream. Awake, he wouldn't... Awake, ten minutes ago, he was staring at her pictures. What was he thinking? Was he wondering what it might be like if she comes back to life tonight?

He's just a man.

No, he's not. He's Dad. He's doing this for his book, not because he's horny over a high school girl.

Lane couldn't finish her sandwich. She threw the remains away, took a drink of water, and hurried back to her bedroom. She shut the door.

She tossed her robe across a chair. She kicked her slippers off. She drew the covers up around her neck, curled on her side and hugged her belly.

Dad isn't like that, she told herself. He's not a pervert. He loves me and Mom.

He even told Bonnie that he loves us.

The way someone might say it to his mistress.

He claimed he loved us, but he went ahead and started to pull the stake.

He was asleep, for godsake!

But what if I hadn't been up there?

The girl is dead, Lane told herself. She's dead. She's not a vampire.

She wouldn't have come back to life. That's bullshit, and Dad knows it.

That's the end of it.

But maybe...

She started to recite an "Our Father," softly mumbling the words.

To stop herself from thinking. To calm herself down. She did another "Our Father," not speaking this time, going through it in her mind. And then another.

A gentle rapping on the door woke her up. She rolled onto her back as the door eased open. Dad looked in. "Are Pete and Barbara here?"

she asked.

"Not yet. But you have a visitor."

"Was she asleep?" came a voice from the hallway behind Dad.

Lane lost her breath.

"She's awake now," Dad said.

"Really," Kramer said, "there was no need to disturb her."

"That's all right," Dad said over his shoulder as he entered the room. "It was time to get her up, anyway. We're having some other guests pretty soon." He gestured for Kramer to come in.

"Daaaad."

"What's the matter?"

"I'm in bed."

I'm dreaming this. "If she'd rather..."

"It's fine. She's just doing her shy routine."

Kramer came into the room.

He's in my bedroom. The bastard's in my bedroom.

Lane tried to force herself to smile.

Kramer's smile looked tentative and concerned. "I just dropped by to see how you were doing. I hope you didn't catch a bug, or something, while we were at the play Saturday night."

Wasn't a bug, she thought.

He stepped around Dad and approached the bed. He had a manila folder in one hand. Like the one in which Dad kept his pictures of Bonnie. "Just in case you might be down for a while," he said, "I thought I'd bring you this week's assignments."

"Thank you," she muttered.

"That's very nice of you, Hal," Dad told him.

Kramer smiled back at him. "Wouldn't want my ace student to fall behind." He set the folder down on her nightstand. "How are you feeling?" he asked her.

"Not very swift."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you think you'll be up and around... ?"

Far away, the telephone rang.

"I'd better get that," Dad said. "Jean's taking a bath."

He left the room.

I don't believe this, Lane thought. It's a nightmare.

Kramer sat on the edge of the bed and smiled down at her.

"Obviously, you've kept our little secret."

She nodded. She didn't think she could talk.

"That's very good, darling. But I'm not happy about you staying home today. I missed you." He slipped a hand be-neath the covers.

Staring into her eyes, he gently squeezed her right breast. "You missed me, too, didn't you?"

Lane gasped for breath. She shuddered.

Kramer laughed softly. He glanced toward the open door, then fixed his gaze on her face and moved his hand down the front of her nightshirt.

She choked out, "Don't."

"Shhhh. I've got a sharp friend in my pocket." His hand found her bare skin below the rumpled jersey. Lane pressed her legs together.

But his hand pressed between them. She started to whimper. "I could easily slash your throat in an instant. And then do the same to your father. And your mother. She's taking a bath. That might be fun."

Kramer took his hand away.

"See you later," he said. He went out to the hallway and shut the door.

Forty-five

After hanging up the kitchen phone, Larry went into the living room and found Hal in front of the bookshelves, looking at the collection of his works.

"You've got quite an output," Hal said.

"Seventeen novels, so far."

"That's fantastic."

"Well, things have been going okay. I'm not as successful as I'd like to be, but who is?"

"What are you working on now? Or is that a secret?"

"No big secret, I guess. Would you like a drink?"

"Oh, I don't want to impose. I just came by to check on Lane and-"

"You don't have to rush off. I was about to fix myself a vodka tonic.

What can I get you?"

"Sounds good to me," Hal said, and followed him into the kitchen.

"That was a friend who called," Larry said as he started to prepare the drinks. "Another writer. Quite a coincidence. He's putting together an anthology of vampire stories, and asked me to contribute."

"Well, congratulations."

"Thanks. It's nice to be at the point where they're asking for stories. I don't even write short stories anymore unless I'm asked for one. That's a big step from the old days when I used to send them out to magazines and collect rejection slips."

"Must be very gratifying. You mentioned something about a coincidence?"

"Oh, yeah. Pretty weird. He wants a vampire story, and I've been up to my neck in vampire stuff for the past few weeks."

"So, you're working on a vampire novel?"

"Not exactly." He handed a cocktail to Hal, picked up his own and led the way back to the living room. He sank into his easy chair. Hal sat across from him at the end of the sofa. "Here's how," he said.

They drank. Hal smiled and said, "Hits the spot."

"I'm doing a book about vampires, but it's not a novel. Nonfiction."

"A study of some kind?"

"Actually, it deals with personal experiences."

Hal shook his head, smiling as if he thought Larry was putting him on. "You've had personal experiences with vampires?"