Uriah gazed at her. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, so lovely.
He lowered his satchel to the floor, then stepped between the coffee table and the sofa. He slipped the stake under his right arm. Holding it against his side, he bent over and slowly drew the blanket down. Bonnie didn’t stir. Uriah, though trembling and breathless with the sight of her, didn’t rush. He eased sideways, taking the blanket with him. At last it no longer covered her at all. He left it heaped on the end of the sofa.
Satan took such beautiful ones for his own.
The leg closer to Uriah was stretched out straight. The other was bent a little, heel against the cushion, knee resting against the back of the sofa. Slim, bare legs, softly tanned, but bruised up around the thighs.
In her sleep of the undead, her red nightshirt had slipped up around her hips. Uriah stared between her legs. He licked his dry lips. His heart pounded so badly he feared the sound of it might wake her up. He felt his hardness rising against the coyote hide of his skirt.
She’s a vampire, he reminded himself. She’s a vile daughter of Satan, a bloodthirsty demon.
Get on with it! he told himself.
He stepped sideways, but he couldn’t help himself from looking back. From here he could see her fine golden curls, but not the tempting region lower down.
He rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. Then he took the stake out from under his arm.
He looked at her chest.
I’ve got to look, he told himself. Have to see where I want to plant the stake.
He stared at her breasts, smooth mounds under the nightshirt, nipples pushing at the fabric.
The cloth was so thin that Uriah knew the stake would poke right through it — almost as if it wasn’t there at all. Still, having it out of the way would be better.
She’ll wake up, sure as hell.
But Uriah had to do it.
He set the hammer and stake on the floor at his feet. He drew his knife. Ever so slowly, starting at the neck, he sliced his way down the nightshirt. Bonnie stirred once or twice, but she didn’t wake up.
At last he sheathed the knife. He carefully spread the severed edges.
She was mighty bruised up. Someone had used her in a rough manner. It surprised Uriah to see injuries. He’d thought such demons couldn’t be damaged except by the stake.
Her breasts looked smudged with faint shadows. So did much of the skin around them. He saw a bruise the size of a fist just below her rib cage.
And a shape like a cross on her belly. A cross, for sure. It looked just like the one on Uriah’s own chest after he’d been saved from the bullet. The beams of the cross had bruised her, and its edges had gouged her skin. The scraped places looked raw and shiny.
A wound from a cross on the vampire’s belly. Uriah wondered what it could mean.
Had someone else come after her? Someone armed with a crucifix?
Those bodies the police took away last night...
Are there more of us? Had the Lord sent a couple of other warriors, afraid I might fail?
Well, they’re the ones that failed.
Uriah picked up his hammer and stake.
She had no bruise at all where he had planted the stake the last time. There, her skin looked flawless, a silken cream in the gloomy light.
He let his eyes roam once more down her slim, smooth body. Then he eased the stake forward. He brushed its point against her left nipple and wished he could put his mouth there, wished he could kiss it and suck on it — but she would wake up for sure if he did that, and kill him. Besides, his mouth was in no shape to suck on anything.
He guided the stake to the place where he’d put the other one in. It shook slightly, its tip trembling half an inch above her skin.
Then he raised his hammer.
Fifty
The alarm didn’t go off that morning. When Larry awoke, he found Jean still asleep beside him. He sat up and looked past her at the clock. Eight-fifteen.
Lane’s going to be late for school, he thought.
Then he realized she probably wouldn’t be going today. Not after all that had happened.
All that had happened. Kramer raped her. Oh Jesus. Oh God. My girl.
I killed the rotten son of a bitch.
Good. Good good good good.
Larry started to cry, and quickly got out of bed before his sobbing could wake up Jean. At the closet he took down his robe. He used it to rub the tears off his face, but more came. He put the robe on and went to Lane’s room.
Her bed was empty.
He felt a rough grip of panic.
She’s okay. Kramer’s dead.
What if she’s done something stupid?
He rushed through the house, trying to choke back his sobs, trying to tell himself that Lane’s a strong girl, a brave girl, she’d had something terrible happen to her, something terrible beyond words, but she was a survivor.
He found her in the front room.
On the sofa.
Asleep, covered to the neck by her blanket.
“Thank God,” he whispered.
Bending over the sofa, he caressed Lane’s cheek. It felt very warm, as it always did when she slept.
He went into the kitchen to start the coffee.
His breath flew out as if he’d been kicked. He dropped to his knees.
He thought, It’s a good thing I can’t breathe. If I can’t breathe, I can’t scream. Don’t want to wake up Lane. Don’t want her seeing this.
Uriah Radley was sprawled belly down on the kitchen floor beside his canvas bag. He wore his vest and skirt of coyote skin, but the skirt was held up by the handle of a hammer that jutted up between his buttocks.
His head was twisted around so he wore it backward.
Much of his neck had been eaten away.
The blunt end of a wooden stake filled his mouth, and he had a stake in each eye. The eyepatch hadn’t been removed first. It must’ve been pushed right in by the stake. The broken side of its black band lay across Uriah’s forehead, but the other side was there at the corner of the socket like a bloody worm that had tried to creep out between the stake and bone.
Larry staggered into the living room. Lane was still asleep.
Did she?..
No, that was impossible.
Someone turned his head around.
Stepping closer to her, Larry stubbed his toe on a leg of the coffee table. He grunted at the sudden pain, and Lane opened her eyes.
She frowned. “What happened?” she asked, her voice husky.
“Bumped the table,” he said.
“You look awful.”
“Lane, somebody... Let me have your blanket.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure.”
As Lane sat up, the blanket slid to her lap. She reached down for it and gasped. Larry glimpsed her bare chest and belly. She jerked the blanket up again. She looked at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. “Daaad?”
“Oh, my God,” he murmured.
“What’s happening?”
“Uriah got into the house last night, honey.”
“Uriah?”
“It’s okay. He’s dead. He’s in the kitchen.”
“The guy that killed Bonnie?”
“Somebody got him. Somebody... he’s really messed up. Go to our room, honey. Stay with your mother, and don’t either of you come out until I say it’s all right.”
Hugging the blanket around herself, Lane rose from the sofa. She faced Larry. She looked haggard, frightened. “Who killed him, Dad?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I don’t think we’re in any danger.”
She stared at him, lower lip caught between her teeth. Then she turned away and headed for the bedroom.
Larry returned to the kitchen. He crouched beside the body, being careful not to look at it, and took a stake out of Uriah’s bag. He left Uriah’s hammer where it was.
Outside, the morning was sunny and still. He broke the police seal, opened the garage and stepped into the shadows. The concrete floor was cool on his bare feet. Casting a glance at the attic ladder, he felt gooseflesh scurry up his back. He hurried on. At the workbench he found his hammer.