The Stake Read online

  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.”

  “Hardy-har.”

  “Have fun shopping?” Jean asked her.

  “Yeah, it was okay.” She beamed at Larry as he stepped past the front of the van. “I spent all kindsof your money, Dad. You’re gonna have to stay home and write like a dog.”

  “Thanks a lot, sweetheart.”

  “Consider me a motivating force. So, how was the excursion?”

  “Had a good time,” Jean told her. “We’ll be over here for a while.”

  “Join us if you’d like,” Barbara said, appearing behind the van with the ice chest in her hand.

  “Jeez!” Lane blurted. “What happened to you?”

  “Had a little accident.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked, frowning.

  “Just some scrapes and bruises. I’ll live.”

  “Wow.”

  “Come on over, if you’d like. We’ll be having some drinks and snacks.”

  “Thanks anyway. I want to wash the car.”

  “Well, if you change your mind...”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  They entered the house. The air-conditioning felt cool and good after the brief walk through the heat. Larry sat in his usual chair at the kitchen table. Jean sat across from him. Pete began to gather bottles from the liquor cupboard.

  It was all very familiar, very comforting.

  “I’m going to get cleaned up a bit,” Barbara said. “Back in a minute, then I’ll dig up some goodies.”

  Pete sang a few lines of “Margaritaville” as he dumped tequila and Triple Sec into his blender. The blender was one of his finds. Someone had put it out for the trashmen. He’d spotted it while driving to work, picked it up and restored it to working order.

  It reminded Larry of the jukebox down in the creek bed. He saw himself crouching over it, and then he was on his knees beside the coffin, staring in at the withered brown corpse.

  He felt himself start to shrink inside.

  It’s history, he told himself. We’re home. It’s all over. That damn thing is fifty, sixty miles away.

  “Sure is good to be here,” he said.

  “Better than a sharp stick in the eye. Or in the heart, as the case may be.”

  Jean grimaced.

  Pete split open a couple of limes and squeezed them into the blender, then tossed in some ice cubes. He took long-stemmed margarita glasses down from the cupboard, rubbed their rims with lime, then dipped them into a plastic tub of salt. “Okay, baby, do your stuff,” he told the blender as he capped it and pressed a button. After a few noisy seconds the machine went silent. Pete filled the glasses with his frothy concoction and carried them to the table.

  As he sat down, Barbara returned.

  “Are you okay?” Jean asked.

  “Feeling a lot better.”

  She looked a lot better, too.

  She was barefoot, wearing red gym shorts and a loose gray T-shirt that was chopped off just below her breasts. Larry guessed that she had taken a washcloth to her legs and belly. The filth and blood were gone, leaving her skin ruddy around the abrasions. The wood had scratched her like an angry cat, and there were broad scuffs that looked as if she’d been given swipes with some heavy-duty sandpaper.

  Larry watched as she put together a tray of cheese and crackers.

  The back of her looked fine. Tanned, smooth, unblemished.

  She brought the snacks to the table and sat down. Pushing out her lower lip, she huffed a breath that stirred the hair on her forehead. “At last,” she said.

  Pete raised his glass. “May the vampire rest in peace and never come looking for our necks.”

  “I’m gonna brain you,” Barbara said.

  “I’ll help,” Jean said.

  Pete grinned at Larry. “These gals, they’ve got no sense of humor.”

  Six

  Larry woke up shivering. The covers were off him, twisted around Jean as she thrashed and whimpered. He shook her gently by the shoulder. She flinched. Gasped, “What’s... what’s?..”

  “You were having a nightmare,” Larry whispered.

  “Huh? Oh. Okay.” She rolled onto her back. She was still panting for air. “Smothering,” she muttered, and struggled to free herself from the blankets. She shoved and kicked them down to the foot of the bed.

  “I’m going to need some of that,” Larry said, sitting up.

  “Huh? Oh. Sorry.”

  “No problem. I’ll put some light on the subject,” he warned, and gave Jean a moment to shield her eyes before he reached to the nightstand and turned on the lamp.

  “Wait. I’ll do it. You’ll mess it up.”

  “Fine,” he said, and smiled. Seconds ago Jean had been in the grips of a terrible nightmare. Now she was concerned that he might foul up the job of arranging the sheet and blankets. He leaned back, bracing himself up with locked arms, and watched her climb off the bed.

  She looked as if she’d just taken a shower with her nightgown on. Her short hair was matted down, wet ringlets clinging around her ears and the nape of her neck. The sleek white fabric of her nightie was glued to her back and rump.

  “You’re drenched,” Larry said. “Must’ve been a real corker.”

  “Probably. I don’t remember.” She bent over her side of the bed and pulled the top sheet out of the tangle. Her breasts swayed slightly inside the low-cut, lace bodice.

  “You think it was about today?”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised.” She swept the sheet high. As it fluttered down, Larry leaned forward and caught the edge. He drew it over his naked body and eased backward onto the mattress. The sheet was enough to block out the chill of the soft night breeze. But the lightweight blanket felt even better as Jean covered him with it. She smoothed it carefully over her side of the bed, then came around to his side. Bending over him, she straightened the blanket. He slipped his arm out and stroked her rump. The nightgown felt silken and damp. Her skin was smooth beneath it, and very warm. She glanced at him, eyebrows rising. He moved his hand down the back of her leg and slipped it under the hem of her nightgown.

  Standing up straight, Jean reached out and turned off the lamp. Her gown, pale in the faint light from the windows, climbed her body and fell away. Larry swept aside the sheet and blanket that she had just finished arranging so neatly. But she didn’t protest.

  She crawled onto the bed, straddled his legs and eased down on top of him. As they kissed, he caressed her back and her small, firm buttocks. She lifted her legs onto his. She pressed his growing penis between her thighs and squirmed against him. Her breasts were warm, slick cushions rubbing his chest, and though the feel of her writhing body made him ache with need, her hipbones felt as if they were grinding into him.

  He rolled, tumbling her onto the mattre
ss, covering her with his body. He pushed himself up with elbows and knees to keep his weight off her. She squirmed as he kissed the side of her neck, moaned as he moved lower and kissed one nipple, then the other.

  He pushed himself back. Kneeling between her open legs, he whispered, “Just a second.”

  Jean’s fingers curled lightly around him, slid the length of his shaft. “I don’t think you’ll need one tonight.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. I hate those damn rubbers.”

  “I know.” She smiled.

  Bright teeth in a faint blur of face. Patches of darkness where her eyes should be.

  Larry was suddenly under the stairway again, kneeling over the corpse. He felt himself go cold and tight.

  Don’t think about it!

  He realized that Jean was about the same size as the horrible, dried-up thing.

  Stop it!

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Her shadowed skin was dark, but not thatdark. Her breasts were mounds, not slabs. But even in the dim light he could see the contours of her ribs. Below the rib cage she seemed shrunken in. Her hipbones jutted.

  “Honey?”

  Her hand felt leathery around his small, soft penis.

  It'shand.

  He pictured himself knocking it away.

  But he knew that this was Jean. She hadn’t turned into the corpse. He wasn’t hallucinating, either. This was just Jean, and his damned imagination was simply messing with him.

  Not going to let it win, he promised himself.

  He scooted backward on the mattress. Her hand went away from him. He kissed her belly. Warm, soft, slick with sweat. Not dry and leathery.

  Stop comparing!

  But when his face rubbed Jean’s moist curls, he remembered the thing’s blond thicket of pubic hair. A shudder passed through him.

  Jean thrust fingers into his hair.

  He went lower. She writhed and moaned, thrusting herself against him, clenching his hair, and he lost all thought of the corpse.

  Soon she was whimpering.

  But not from any nightmare, Larry thought as she tugged his hair and he scurried up the mattress. He clamped his wet mouth to hers. He ran the hard length of his penis into her heat. She seemed to suck him in as if she were hungry to be filled.

  “I should have... nightmares more often,” she told him later.

  “Yeah.”

  She was panting beneath him, lightly stroking his back. Then she turned her face away, worked her lips strangely, and raised a hand to her mouth. With her thumb and index finger, she pinched something and pulled it out.

  “What’s that?”

  “A hair.”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Your mouth,” she said, shaking under him as she chuckled. She rubbed her hand on the sheet, then wrapped her arms around Larry and gave him a powerful squeeze. It was as if the hug used up the last of her strength. After a moment she released him and sprawled out limp. Then he eased away, sliding out of her.

  He pulled the sheet and blanket up and scooted closer to her. He rested a hand on the warm curve of her thigh. Under his fingertips was a smear of stickiness. “Ooo, yuck,” he said.

  She laughed softly. “Don’t complain, buster. I’vegot the wet spot.”

  “Want to trade places?”

  “It’s my wifely duty to sleep on the wet spot.” Her hand covered his, caressed it, fooled with his fingers.

  In the silence he began to worry that Jean might ask about his problem. He doubted that she would, though. Their sex life was something they rarely discussed. Besides, he’d made a rather spectacular recovery.

  “Well,” he said, “I’d better go to sleep or I won’t be worth a damn tomorrow.”

  “You’ll have to write like a dog to pay for Lane’s new wardrobe.”

  “Bought out the store,” he muttered, rolling away from Jean and curling up on his side.

  She laughed, then surprised Larry by snuggling against him. Normally they slept at opposite sides of the bed.

  But it felt good. Her breath warm on the nape of his neck. Her breasts and belly pressing his back. Her lap against his rump. The soft tickle of her pubic hair. Her thighs smooth against the backs of his legs. An arm came down over his side and fingers curled tenderly around his penis.

  “You still horny?” he asked.

  She kissed his back. “Wiseguy. I just want to be close to you.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I guess so. How about you?”

  “I wish we hadn’t gone there today.”

  “Me, too. I’ve never seen anything so horrible.” She pressed herself more tightly against him. “On the other hand, you’re always looking for material.”

  “I could do without thatsort of material.”

  “The real thing’s too much for you, huh?” she teased.

  “Darn right it is.”

  “Your fans would be appalled, you know, if they ever found out how squeamish you really are. Nasty Lawrence Dunbar, master of gore, pussy.”

  “Pussy, huh? You’ve been around Pete too much.” She laughed again. “Go to sleep, tough guy.”

  Going for It

  Seven

  “Happy trails to you,” Dad said, and swatted her butt as she stepped out the door.

  She smirked back at him.

  “Say hi to Roy and Dale,” he added.

  “You should look so good,” Lane said, then turned away and hurried toward the car. The red Mustang gleamed in the early morning sunlight. She stepped around to the driver’s side, feeling fresh and eager in her new clothes: the mottled pink and blue T-shirt; the tie-dyed blue denim jumper with its white lace trim and pink flowerbud decorations on the bib, straps, and hem; and the white, fringed boots.

  Dad was always poking fun at her clothes. She supposed this outfit didmake her look like a cowgirl.

  One hot, radical cowgirl, she thought, and grinned as she climbed into the car.

  At least he hadn’t made any remarks about the length of the skirt. Sitting down, she could feel the seat upholstery high on the backs of her legs. As she waited for the engine to warm up, she leaned close to the steering wheel and looked down. The skirt was short, all right. Any shorter might be embarrassing.

  This was just right.

  Sexy, but not outrageous.

  She especially liked the lace around the hem of the skirt, the way its long points lay like frilly spearheads against her thighs.

  I’m going to drive Jim nuts when he sees me in this.

  As if he needs any help along those lines.

  Laughing softly, trembling just a little with the anticipation of being at school on such a fine day in such a grand outfit, Lane backed out of the driveway. She turned the car radio to “86.2 A.M., all the best in Country twenty-four hours a day!” Randy Travis was on. She turned the volume high and poked her elbow into the warm stream of air rushing past her window.

  God, she felt great.

  Seemed almost criminal to feel this great.

  She leaned her shoulder against the door, tipped her head and felt the wind caress her face, tug at her hair.

  To think that she’d put up such a fuss about leaving Los Angeles. She must’ve been crazy, wanting to stay in that lousy apartment in a city full of filthy air and creeps. But she’d grown up there. She was used to it. She’d known she would miss her friends and the beaches and Disneyland. This was so much better, though. She’d made new friends, she loved the river, and the clean, open spaces gave her a constant sense of freedom that made each day seem rich with promise.

  Best of all, she supposed, was the release from fear. In L.A. you had to be so careful. The place was crawling with rapists and killers. Not a day went by when the TV news didn’t broadcast stories of such horror and brutality
that you dreaded stepping outside. Kids missing. Their bodies usually found days later, nude and mutilated and sexually abused. Not only kids, either. The same thing happened to teenagers, and even adults. If you weren’t kidnapped and tortured, you might be gunned down at a restaurant or movie theater or shopping mall. And hiding at home was no guarantee of safety, either. There were plenty of nuts who simply drove around town, shooting into the windows of houses and apartment buildings.

  Nowhere was safe.

  Lane’s joy slipped away as she suddenly remembered the chopping crashes of gunfire in the night. They had been home in their ground-level apartment in Los Angeles, sitting close together on the sofa, watching Dallason TV Lane had a tub of popcorn on her lap. Mom sat on one side, Dad on the other. All three were reaching in, hands sometimes colliding. The first blast made her jump so hard that the tub flew up, flinging popcorn everywhere. Then the night exploded as if someone on the street had opened up with a machine gun. Mom had screamed. Dad had shouted “Get down!” but didn’t give Lane even an instant to respond before he grabbed the back of her neck and nearly broke her in half as he rammed her forward. The edge of the coffee table skinned the top of her head. She wept and held her head and shuddered as the roar pounded her ears. Then all she heard was a ringing. The gunfire had stopped. Dad still clutched her neck. “Jean?” he’d asked in a high, strange voice. Mom didn’t answer. “Jean!” True panic. Then Mom had said, “Is it over?”

  They stayed on the floor.

  Then came sirens and the loud whap-whap-whap of a police helicopter low overhead. The front draperies were bright with flashes of red and blue. Dad had crawled to the window and looked out. “Holy Jesus,” he said, “there must be twenty cop cars out there.”

  It turned out that the shots had been fired at a family in a duplex across the street. Both parents, and three children, had been killed by automatic fire from an Uzi. Only an infant had survived the shooting.

  Lane hadn’t known the family. That was another thing about L.A. — even most of your neighbors were strangers. But the fact that they’d been gunned down, right across the street, was shocking.