His left foot was caked with vomit. Not wanting to spread the mess, he hopped through the cluttered garage until he reached the side door. It was open. The sunlight made his eyes ache. Squinting, he held onto the door frame. From the coolness of the air he guessed it was still early morning. Maybe seven o’clock.

What day? He struggled to concentrate. Saturday night was when he got himself bombed. So this was Sunday.

It sure better be, he thought.

Jean and Lane shouldn’t be home till tonight.

What if they came home early?

What if this is Monday?

Shit, he thought. You’ve got enough problems without inventing more. If they were home, they would’ve found me.

Naked in the garage with a goddamn corpse.

That would’ve been... don’t think about it. Didn’t happen.

The yard was fenced, so at least he had some privacy.

He hopped across the walkway. When he reached the lawn, he wiped his foot on the dewy grass. There was still vomit between his toes. He went over to the garden hose, turned it on and sprayed his foot clean.

Then he hurried down the driveway and entered his kitchen through the sliding glass door. The house was silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator.

His damp feet left bits of grass on the floor as he made his way to the bathroom. He would have to clean that up later.

He would have to clean up a lot.

Later.

The blanket. It was on me.

But it has two sides, he told himself. Fifty-fifty chance the side that touched the corpse was up...

Fifty-fifty it wasn’t.

If I took the blanket off her...

Did I touch her?

Horrified by the thought, he gazed at his trembling hands.

I wouldn’t have.

How do you know?

Oh God! I could’ve done anything!

He lurched into the bathroom, threw the door shut and staggered to the tub. Falling to his knees, he reached out and turned the faucet handles. Water gushed from the spout. He held his hands under it.

All the perfumes of Arabia...

“I didn’t touch her,” he said.

It’s bad enough I used the blanket.

He turned the knob to activate the shower, then climbed into the tub and slid the glass door shut. The hot water pounded against the top of his head. It ran down his body, soothing the chill, easing some of the tightness out of his muscles. When he stopped trembling, he lathered himself with soap. He rinsed the suds off, then soaped his body and rinsed again before shampooing his hair.

By the time he stepped out, he felt a lot better.

If only he could remember what happened!

Maybe just as well that you don’t, he thought.

After drying, he took Alka-Seltzer. Then he washed down two aspirin for good measure.

He left the steamy bathroom. In his bedroom he found his sweat clothes heaped on the floor. His side of the bed had been turned down, the pillow dented, the bottom sheet mussed.

So you didgo to bed last night, he told himself. But you got up again, and went out to the garage. Must’ve decided to take a look at the corpse, God knows why.

Must’ve had a reason.

Maybe she willedyou to do it.

“Terrific,” he muttered.

He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face.

Never should’ve had that vodka.

Keeping his back to the coffin, Larry used paper towels to clean his vomit off the garage floor. He put them in a plastic garbage bag, then dropped the bag into the bottom of his trash barrel and covered it with a heap of debris from the grass catcher of his lawn mower. Satisfied that Jean would never find the evidence, he returned to the garage. He filled a bucket and scoured the area with a wet sponge. Afterward, he cleaned the bucket and sponge carefully.

All that remained, now, was a patch of wetness on the concrete. The heat of the day would soon take care of that.

He slid the bay door open to let in fresh air and sunlight.

From here the garage looked perfectly normal. The damp area, the blanket and coffin, were safely out of sight behind standing shelves and stacks of boxes.

He shook his head. Whatever his condition last night, he’d been aware enough to negotiate a virtual obstacle course in order to reach the corner where the coffin was hidden. In the dark, apparently.

What do you write about this? he wondered.

You don’t.

I’ve got to. It’s part of the story.

And you need to fill up more pages if you’re going to make a book out of this thing.

Just leave out the business about being naked, he thought. Write it like it happened, but keep your clothes on. Otherwise, people might start thinking you...

I didn’t, he told himself. No way.

What were you doing in there?

Suddenly he realized that he needed to take a close look at the corpse.

Besides, I’ve got to cover it up again.

He entered the garage. His heart started thudding, stirring the remnants of his headache.

He made his way among the shelves and trunks and boxes, and soon he reached the dim corner where the coffin rested. The wet spot on the concrete was nearly gone. He stepped over the blanket and stared down into the coffin.

The body looked ghastly, as usual: shrunken and bony, its skin dried out and brown, its breasts flat, its mouth open and lips twisted in an awful, toothy grin.

The body didn’t look as if it had been disturbed. It lay flat on the bottom of the coffin, the stake jutting upright in the same position as usual, one withered hand on its hip.

Larry frowned.

The left arm, on the far side of the corpse, was bent at the elbow. The hand rested, palm down, against the hip bone. Its fingertips lay among dull blond curls of pubic hair.

Before (Larry was almost certain), both hands had been out of sight in the dark, narrow gap between the body and the sides of the coffin.

He was sure that he would’ve noticed if a hand had been in plain view.

Especially since this one wore a ring.

He bent down for a closer look.

A school ring? Surrounding the garnet stone was a tarnished silver border that appeared to be engraved.

“Holy Toledo,” he muttered.

This could give a clue to the corpse’s identity!

But how did the hand find its way onto the hip? Obviously, she hadn’t placed it there.

I must’ve done it last night, he thought.

I did touch the damn thing.

Larry heard himself groan.

Disgust mixing with his excitement, he hurried to the section of the garage where he kept the yard tools. Maybe he had touched the corpse last night, but he sure didn’t intend to do it again. He found some old gardening gloves and put them on as he hurried back to the coffin.

On his knees, he reached over the body. With his left hand he gently held the bony wrist. With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand he slipped the ring off.

Pete, he realized, was bound to visit the corpse sooner or later, and was sure to notice the new position of the hand. It had to be put back down where it belonged.

Wrinkling his nose, Larry tightened his grip on the wrist and gave it a slight push. It resisted him. He pushed a little harder, forcing it. This time the hand moved. Larry cringed at the quiet crackling sounds that came from the arm. Sounds like dry leaves being crumbled. His eyes darted to the cadaver’s face. It looked as if it were grimacing, teeth bared in pain.

“Christ,” he whispered.

Has to be done, he told himself.

Letting go, he switched the ring to his left hand and clutched the corpse’s wrist with his right. He shoved down hard, jamming the arm toward the floor of the coffin. The shoulder lifted. The head began to rise. He yelled. Then came gristly snapping sounds, a pop. The arm went limp in his grip and the body sank back into position. He tucked the arm against its side, then lurched away.