To the right of her name were page numbers. Six of them.
Six pages with photos of Bonnie Saxon.
God almighty!
Larry scanned the column. Plenty of the names were followed by a single page number, several by two or three. Few had more than three.
Bonnie had six.
She must’ve been busy, Larry thought. And popular.
Popular girls are almost always pretty.
The first page number after her name was 34. Larry slipped a matchbook into the index to mark his place, turned to the front of the annual and thumbed through its pages until he found page 34. Blocks of small, individual photos showing members of the senior class. Boys in sport coats and neckties. Girls in dark pullover sweaters, each wearing a necklace.
The first name in the upper left-hand corner was Bonnie Saxon.
Larry shifted his eyes to the photo.
He moaned.
She was lovely. Radiant, adorable. Her gleaming blond hair swept softly across her brow, flowed down to her shoulders. Her eyes seemed to be directed at something wonderful just beyond the camera. They looked eager, cheerful. She had a small, cute nose. Her high cheeks curved smoothly above the corners of her mouth, as if lifted and shaped by her smile.
This was Bonnie.
She looked quite a bit like Lane.
She looked very little like the corpse in the attic of his garage, but her hair and teeth and the general shape of her face convinced him that he had made no mistake: the body was Bonnie Saxon. No doubt about it.
The hideous cadaver had once been the girl in this photo — beautiful, glowing with youth.
Larry gazed at the picture.
Bonnie.
He felt very strange: excited by his find, enthralled by her beauty, depressed. When the photo was taken, she must’ve thought a whole, wonderful life waited in her future. But she had only months, and then someone ended it all by pounding a stake through her chest.
This was no vampire.
This was a sweet, innocent kid.
Probably a real heartbreaker. Every guy in school must’ve longed for her.
Had one of them killed her? A jealous boyfriend? She’d broken his heart, so he drove a stake through hers? Possible, Larry thought. But the stake in her chest and the crucifix on the staircase wall sure made it seem that somebody believed she was a vampire.
Larry gazed a little longer at the photo, then checked the index and turned to page 124. There, he found group pictures of the Public Relations Committee, the Program Committee, and the Art Club. He didn’t bother studying the lists of names. He wanted to search for Bonnie, to pick her out, to enjoy the surprise of recognition.
The Public Relations Committee photo was overexposed. Most of the faces were little more than pale blurs, their features washed out and faint. Bonnie didn’t seem to be in this group, but Larry glanced at the names to make sure.
Then he went on to the Program Committee photo. He half expected to find her here. Though he wasn’t sure about the functions of the Program Committee, Bonnie looked like the sort of girl you might find in charge of decorating the gym for a dance. He studied the face of each girl in the picture. No Bonnie.
He found her with the Art Club.
In the front row, second from the left, between a couple of gals who looked fat and dumpy.
Bonnie looked grand. She stood straight, arms at her sides, head up, smiling at the camera. This wasn’t a close-up like the senior photo, but it made up for that by showing her from head to foot. She wore a short-sleeved white blouse, a straight skirt that hung to the tops of her knees, white socks and white sneakers.
Larry lifted the book, watching her grow as the page neared his eyes. He studied her face. In spite of the distance from which the photo had been taken, it had very good definition. All her features were clear. The collar of her blouse was open. He looked at her neck and saw the hollow of her throat, the faint curves of her collar bones. Lower, the rise of her breasts was no more than a hint. Larry followed her arms down to her hands. Her hands were open, fingers curled slightly inward against the fabric of her skirt. His gaze lingered on the slender curves of her bare legs.
One of her white socks was slightly lower than the other. If she’d known that, she probably would’ve fixed it. Larry could almost see her bending over and pulling up the sock. The image gave him a little ache, as if he’d missed something important by not being there.
He lowered the book and read a short description of the Art Club’s activities. Bonnie, he learned, had been the secretary.
Must’ve been smart. You don’t appoint someone secretary unless she’s intelligent and responsible.
Probably a straight-A student, he thought. One of those kids who has everything going for her — looks, a terrific personality, brains.
He checked the index again, and discovered that the next photo was on page 126. He turned back to the Art Club, flipped the next page, and immediately recognized Bonnie in the top photo. She’d been in the school’s Legislative Assembly, whatever that was. A quick scan of the small print informed him that the group was responsible for “passing school laws and putting them into action.”
Bonnie was seated on risers, feet on the floor, legs together, hands cupping her knees. She was dressed just the same as in the Art Club picture. In this one, her socks were even. Larry smiled. She had a bemused look on her face. Her bangs hung a little crooked, showing a vee of uncovered brow.
Larry brought the book closer to his face. Her head was turned slightly. Her hair was swept back behind one pale ear. She seemed to be leaning forward. Her blouse looked snug against her belly, and her breasts cast a vague, horizontal shadow across the white fabric.
He was about to turn to the index when he spotted Bonnie on the opposite page. She was in the top photo, front row, third from the right. A member of the Social Activities Committee.
“Ah-ha!” Larry whispered.
So she decorated the gym for dances, after all.
“I knew it.”
In this photo she wore a crew-neck sweater with a large B on its chest.
A cheerleader?
Figures, he thought. I should’ve guessed.
Bonnie looked different, somehow. Larry stared at the picture. She had been caught without her smile. The glimmer was gone from her eyes, and her lips were pressed together in a soft, straight line.
Something was obviously troubling her.
Maybe she was feeling sick, that day. Maybe she’d messed up a test. Maybe her boyfriend had dumped her.
Something had happened. Something, at least for a moment, had robbed her of happiness.
It didn’t seem fair. Bonnie’s life should’ve been perfect — there’d been so little of it left.
Larry felt a tightness in his throat.
He turned quickly to the index, then searched out page 133.
Bonnie stood in line with six other girls. “Songleaders,” not cheerleaders. They all wore light-colored sweaters with the huge B in front, and dark, pleated skirts. They stood with pompoms raised in their left hands, right hands on hips, right legs thrown high.
Bonnie looked as if she were having the time of her life. Her head was tossed back. The shutter had caught her laughing. She’d kicked up her leg higher than any of the other girls. Not straight toward the camera, but a little to the side. The toe of her white sneaker seemed about to collide with her left armpit. Her skirt hung down from the upraised leg. She wore no socks. Larry gazed at her slim ankle, the curve of her calf, and the sleek underside of her thigh. He saw a crescent of underwear not quite as dark as the skirt, rounded with the slope of her buttock.
He fought an urge to bring the book closer to his eyes.
He looked away from the picture. He picked up his stein and took a sip of beer.
Glanced again.
It’s not actually her panties, he told himself. It’s part of the outfit.
But still...
He turned his attention to the sec
ond picture on the page. Same girls. Same costumes. In this one they were all facing the camera and leaping, pompoms thrust overhead with both hands, backs arched, legs kicked up behind them. Bonnie’s sweater had lifted slightly. It didn’t quite meet the top of her skirt. A narrow band of bare skin showed. Larry glimpsed her flat belly, the small dot of her navel.
He shook his head. He took another sip of beer, but had a hard time swallowing. He turned to the index.
Only one more page number after Bonnie’s name. He turned to 147.
And sucked in a quick breath.
A three-by-five close-up of Bonnie filled more than half the page.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He glanced at the caption. “Bonnie Saxon, 1968 Spirit Queen.” On the same page were small photos of four other girls — princesses. Her court.
He postponed studying her picture. It was the last. He wanted to savor the anticipation.
On the opposite page was a photo of a tackled football player smashing to the ground. The heading beneath it read, SPIRIT WEEK HIGHLIGHTS FALL SEASON. Larry scanned a description of the festivities, which were apparently marred by Buford’s loss of the game. Then he came to the part he’d hoped for. “Sherry Cain, Sandy O’Connor, Julie Clark, Betsy Johnson, and Bonnie Saxon were presented as homecoming princesses at halftime. Bonnie Saxon was crowned queen at the Homecoming Dance that night. In spite of the defeat of the varsity, tremendous spirit was shown.” Nothing more about Bonnie.
Fantastic, Larry thought.
Homecoming queen.
“Good going, Bon,” he muttered.
Then he turned his attention to the photo.
And flinched as someone knocked on his door. “Time to eat,” Lane called.
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
Larry glanced at the Spirit Queen, then shut the book.
* * *
He lay motionless in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. When the sounds of Jean’s breathing convinced him that she was asleep, he crept out of bed. The air was chilly. He shivered with the cold and nervous excitement. At the closet he pulled his robe off a hook. He put it on as he stepped into the hallway. The soft velour felt warm on his bare skin.
In the living room he found Lane’s book bag propped against the wall beside the front door. He opened it, searched inside with one hand until he felt the annual, and slipped the book out.
He carried it to his office. He shut the door, flicked on the light, and eased himself down onto his chair.
In spite of the warm robe, he was shaking. His heart felt like a pounding fist.
I must be crazy, he thought. What if Jean wakes up? Or Lane? What if one of them catches me at this?
They won’t. Calm down.
With the book on his lap, he turned to the Spirit Queen.
God, so gorgeous.
She wore a dark top that left her shoulders bare.
He could look at her later.
He took an X-Acto Knife from his desk drawer, pressed the open book flat against his thighs, and drew the razor-sharp blade down the annual’s gutter, neatly slicing off the page where it joined the spine.
He cut out every page that showed a photograph of Bonnie.
When he was done, he hid them in his file cabinet, sliding them into one of over fifty folders that contained copies of short stories he’d written over the years.
His pictures would be safe there, from Jean and Lane.
He sat down again and riffled through the yearbook. A few pages were loose. He touched their edges with glue and carefully inserted them.
He shut the book and peered at its top. Along the spine tiny gaps were visible where the pages had been removed. But only an extremely close inspection would reveal the damage. And if someone did notice, who was to say when the desecration had been performed? Maybe years ago.
Larry shut off the light and left his office. He returned the annual to Lane’s book bag, fastened the straps, and went to his bedroom.
From the doorway he could hear Jean’s long, slow breaths.
He hung up his robe. He crept to the bed and slipped cautiously between the sheets. He sighed. He thought about the pictures.
They were his now. His to keep.
He remembered the way Bonnie looked in each of them. But his mind kept returning to the songleader shots.
Then she was alone on the football field. She thrust her pompoms at the sky and twirled, her long golden hair floating, her skirt billowing around her and rising higher and higher.
Twenty-two
Larry woke up in the morning and remembered cutting the pages from the book. He was suddenly certain that the librarian would notice the damage. Lane would catch hell. It would be his fault.
He realized that he’d done a lot of things lately that left him feeling guilty: threatening Pete with the gun; bringing Bonnie home and keeping her presence a secret; wandering out to the garage, apparently in a drunken stupor, and not even knowing what he did out there; and now, defacing the library book, maybe getting Lane into trouble.
Before finding Bonnie out there in that ghost town, he’d never done much to be ashamed of. About the worst, he thought, was having a few lustful thoughts about other women. That seemed pretty harmless.
But all this.
What the hell’s happening to me?
Too hot, he flipped onto his back and tossed the blanket aside. Jean was already up. Good. He didn’t want any company just now. Especially not Jean’s. She might sense that he was upset and start asking questions.
Oh, nothing’s wrong. I’ve got a corpse hidden in the garage. And you know that library book? Well, it had these terrific photos of the dead gal...
I had to have those pictures, he told himself. Nobody was about to let me keep the book. Photocopies wouldn’t have been any good: they’re fine for printed stuff, but the pictures would’ve looked awful.
I bet nobody’s even opened that book for the past twenty years.
Nobody’ll notice the pages are gone.
You hope.
So if they give Lane shit, I’ll pay for the book.
Lot of good that’ll do. She’s never been in trouble. It’d kill her.
Nobody will notice a damn thing. She’ll return the book, and that’ll be it.
No point in worrying, anyway. The damage is done. You can’t put the pages back in, even if you wanted to.
They’re mine now.
He closed his eyes and let his mind dwell on the photographs. The memories of them soothed him. He filled his lungs with the mild, morning air. He stretched, savoring the solid feel of his flexing muscles, the softness of the sheet against his skin, the images of Bonnie.
He stayed in bed until he heard the soft grumble of the Mustang’s engine.
He spent the day on Night Stranger, closing in on its finish. The writing was hard. His mind kept wandering. It slipped away from the story and tortured him with miserable thoughts about Lane being confronted by an outraged librarian. It tantalized him with thoughts of Bonnie.
Frequently he looked away from the computer screen and stared at his filing cabinet. The drawer where he’d hidden the yearbook pages was within reach. He longed to pore over them. But Jean was in the house. What if she came into his office while he had the pictures out?
Shortly after two o’clock Jean knocked on his door and opened it. “I thought I’d run over to Safeway. Anything you want me to pick up while I’m there?”
“Not that I can think of,” he said. “Have fun.”
“See you later.”
She closed the door.
Larry stared at the computer screen. He heard the faint thump of the front door shutting. He rubbed his moist hands on the sides of his shorts.
He waited for a while, then rolled his chair back, left the office, and reached the living room in time to see Jean’s car pass the windows.
Gone. She’s gone!
He glanced at his wristwatch. A quarter past two. Give Jean ten minutes to reach th
e store, at least ten inside, and another ten to get home.
He had at least half an hour.
Stomach trembling, he hurried to his office, shut the door and pulled out the steel drawer of the file cabinet. He’d slipped the pages into the folder for his short story “The Snatch.” He took out the entire folder, left the drawer agape, dropped onto his chair, flicked open the cover, and Bonnie smiled up at him.
The Spirit Queen photo.
“God,” he whispered.
Bonnie seemed even more beautiful than he remembered. Lovely, fresh, innocent.
No wonder she was voted queen.
He gazed at her flowing blond hair. It swept softly down her forehead, slightly longer on the right, so that it brushed the curve of her eyebrow. It didn’t quite touch her left eyebrow. The sides of her head were draped by shining tresses. Her eyes sparkled. Larry supposed that their gleam was a reflection of the camera’s flash. Her lips were together, and curled upward just a bit at the corners with the mere hint of a smile. She looked serious, but pleased and proud.
Her jaw cast a shadow that slanted across her neck and puddled in the hollow above her right collarbone. Her shoulders sloped down gently, bare to the borders of the photo. The top she wore looked black. Only its upper edge showed. It eased downward to a point in the center of her chest. Not quite low enough to show any cleavage.
Larry placed an open hand across the bottom of the picture.
With the garment covered, she might have been naked.
He gazed at her face, at the smooth, pale flesh of her chest. Faint shadows revealed the hollow of her throat, the curves of her collar bones.
If the picture extended downward, his hand would be resting across her breasts. He imagined firm mounds with skin like warm velvet, nipples erect and pressing into his palm. He moved his thumb downward. It would reach to the golden curls between her thighs.
Suddenly shocked at himself, Larry jerked his hand away from the picture. He slapped the folder shut.
God!
What’s wrong with me?
Face burning, he lurched out of his chair. He stuffed the folder back into the cabinet and shoved the drawer shut.
The Stake Page 19