The Stake

�We didn�t kill her.�

�Have you got an alibi,� Pete asked, �for the night of September 3, 1901?�

�A pretty good one. I wasn�t bora yet. My parentsweren�t bom yet.�

�You think she�s been dead that long?� Barbara asked.

�Sure looked old to me.�

�I have no idea when she might�ve been killed,� Larry said, �but I bet she hasn�t been under the stairs there for much more than twenty years or so. I imagine she was put there afterthe hotel closed down.�

�Why�s that?� Pete asked.

�The guests would�ve smelled her.�

�Gross,� Jean muttered.

�Well, it�s true. Assuming she was put in there right after she was killed, people would�ve noticed the stink. She doesn�t smell now, but...�

�You�re making me sick, Larry.�

�Why do you say twenty years?� Barbara asked.

�The jukebox.�

�Ah-ha. The oldies-but-goodies.�

�I don�t think any of the songs I noticed were much later than the mid-sixties. That�s probably when Holman�s went out of business. I figure the hotel might�ve closed its doors around the same time as Holman�s.�

�Makes sense,� Barbara said. �So you think the body was put under the stairs sometime after, say, �sixty-five?�

�It�s just a guess. Of course, she could�ve been dead fifty years before somebody put her under the stairs. If that�s the way it went, there�s no telling how long she�s been there.�

�Yeah,� Pete said. �You eliminate the stink factor by having her someplace else while she�s ripe, you could stick her under the stairs and nobody�d be the wiser.�

�I don�t see how it matters,� Jean said. �The thing is, she�s dead. Who careshow long she�s been under the stairs?�

Pete again raised his hand. �I myself find it to be of more than passing interest.�

�So would the cops,� Larry added. �I think it�d make a big difference in the way they look at the situation. If she�s been dead half a century � and they have ways of figuring that stuff out � she�s almost like an historical artifact. If she was only killed twenty years ago, they might very well start an active homicide investigation.�

�That�s right,� Barbara said. �Whoever put the stake in her could still be alive and kicking.�

�Speaking of which,� Pete said. He glanced at Larry, arched an eyebrow and stroked his chin. �Wait�ll you hear this one.�

�We know,� Barbara said, �Youdid it.�

�Hey, I�m being serious here. Anybody happen to notice anything odd about the front doors of the hotel?�

�Aside from the fact that we were the first to break in?� Barbara asked.

�Very good, hon. That�s one thing. The place was still sealed when we got there. Just about every other joint in town was wide open. People�d busted in and done some exploring. But not the hotel. What else?�

�Are we playing Twenty Questions? Is it bigger than a bread box?�

�Here�s a clue. Bright and shiny and brand new.�

�The padlock,� Larry said. �The hasp.�

�Right! The way those suckers looked, I�ll bet they were sitting on the shelf of a hardware store a month ago.�

�So?� Jean asked.

�Who put them on the doors? Who wanted to keep intruders out of the hotel?�

�Could�ve been anyone,� Larry answered.

�Right. And it could�ve been someone who hid a body under the stairs. Someone who�s still around and trying to make sure nobody stumbles onto his little secret.�

�The same person who put the crucifix on the wall,� Larry added.

�Right.�

�Sort of a guardian, a keeper of the vampire.�

�It�s more likely,� Barbara said, �that whoever put the lock on the doors doesn�t know a thing about it.�

�More interesting if he does,� Pete told her.

�Maybe for you.�

�Any chance we might stop talking about it?� Jean suggested. �I wish we�d never set foot in that damn hotel.�

�You know,� Pete said, �we should�vepulled the stake. You know what I mean? Just to see what happens.�

�Nothing would�ve happened,� Jean said.

�Who knows?� He leered at Larry. �Hey, want to turn around and go back and do it?�

�No way.�

�Aren�t you curious?�

�Not that curious.�

�Just try turning the van around,� Barbara warned, �and I�llbite your neck.�

�Pussy.�

�Don�t push it, buster. It was your big idea that got me messed up like this.�

�You could�ve stayed outside. Nobody was holding a gun to your head.�

�Just shut up, okay?�

He cast a glance at Larry. His expression was somewhat amused. �Guess I�d better shut up before I get her riled, huh?�

�I would if I were you.�

�Whatever happened to freedom of speech?� Though the words were spoken quietly to Larry, they were aimed at Barbara.

�That freedom ends where my ears begin,� she said.

Pete grinned at Larry, but said no more. He drove in silence.

Larry looked out at the desert. He still felt a little lightheaded and nervous, but much better than before. He guessed that the discussion had helped. Putting words to it. Sharing their concerns. Especially the playful way Pete had turned the whole godawful experience into a vampire story. And the bickering between Pete and Barbara. Their nice, normal, everyday quarreling. It all helped a lot. Leached the horror out of their encounter with the corpse. Like throwing sunlight onto a nightmare.

But his anxiety started to grow when they came to Mulehead Bend. Not even the familiar sights along Shoreline Drive were enough to dispel the dread that seemed to be swelling inside him.

Pete drove slowly through the traffic � a few automobiles surrounded by the usual mix of off-road vehicles, campers, vans, pickup trucks, and motorcycles. The road was bordered by motels, service stations, banks, shopping centers, restaurants, bars, and fast-food joints. Larry saw the bakery where he�d bought a dozen doughnuts early that morning. He saw the supermarket where Jean did her grocery shopping, the computer store where he regularly bought floppy disks, paper, and printer ribbons for his word processor, the movie theater where they had attended a horror double feature Wednesday afternoon.

Every now and then he caught glimpses of the Colorado River just east of the business district. A few people were still out, water skiing. He saw a houseboat. A shuttle boat was carrying passengers toward the casinos on the Nevada side of the river.

All so familiar, so normal. Larry thought he ought to feel some relief in returning to home turf, leaving behind the strangeness and desolation of the back roads.

But he didn�t.

It�s splitting up with Pete and Barbara, he realized. He didn�t want to part with them. He was afraid. Like a kid who�d been telling spooky stories with his friends and now had to walk home alone in the dark.

I�m not a kid, he told himself. It�s not dark. We just live next door. And I won�t be going home alone, Jean will be with me and Lane�s probably back by now.

�Why don�t you guys stick around for a while?� Barbara suggested. �We�ll have some cocktails, get the dust out of our throats.�

�Great!� Larry told her, wondering if she, too, was reluctant for the group to break up.

�I�ll make my famous margaritas,� Pete said.

�Sounds good to me,� Jean said.

Larry felt blessed.

Pete left the traffic of Shoreline Drive behind and steered up the curving road to Palm Court. When he turned onto Palm, their houses came into view.

It wasgood to be getting home.

Lane appeared from beside the porch. She wore cutoff blue jeans and her white bikini top, and carried a plastic bucket. Apparently she was preparing to wash the Mustang.

Pete beeped the horn as they approached. Lane turned to them and waved.

�Let�s not say anything to her about the you-know-what,� Jean said.

�Mum�s the word,� Pete said. He pulled into his driveway and stopped. Climbing from the van, he called to Lane, �Feel free to do this one when you get through over there.�