They’d been in the same club. And Martha had lived, and finally died, in the very hotel where Bonnie’s body had been hidden.

That made two connections.

Larry knew he was on to something.

He suddenly realized he had a picture of her. Probably. If Martha wasn’t absent on the day the Art Club’s photograph was taken, she would be standing in the group with Bonnie.

Fantastic luck, he thought.

Hell, it’s more than luck. It’s no coincidence. Somehow, all this is related: the hotel, Martha’s death, both girls in the same club, Bonnie’s death. All linked.

He kept on searching.

Monday, July 22.

SERVICES HELD FOR SLAIN MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

Funeral services were held Sunday at the First Presbyterian Church for Elizabeth Radley and her daughter Martha, who were murdered last Monday night at the Sagebrush Flat Hotel.

The ceremony was attended by numerous friends and by the husband and father of the deceased, Uriah Radley, who accepted the ashes of his wife and daughter following the service.

That was all.

Larry made a copy.

He wondered if Bonnie had attended the funeral.

He thought about the ashes. The two women had been cremated. Not unusual, but interesting. Larry knew plenty of vampire lore. The wide belief was that a vampire’s victims would become vampires themselves. Burning their bodies would prevent the women from coming back. Was thatthe reason Uriah had his wife and daughter cremated? Did he have some reason to think they’d been killed by a vampire?

The paper had been vague about the nature of the wounds and murder weapons. More than likely, the cops kept that information to themselves. A common practice. You don’t tell the press everything.

Suppose the wounds were bites, the weapons teeth?

The women had died of blood loss.

Uriah, discovering the bodies, certainly saw the wounds. And maybe he noticed that there wasn’t much blood on the beds. He might conclude that they’d been murdered by a vampire.

Right, Larry thought. If he’s crazy.

But what if he didbelieve a vampire’d killed them? What if, for some reason, he thought the vampire was Bonnie? And he went after her. And he pounded the stake through her heart. And he hid her under the stairs of hishotel. And he’s still out there, after all these years, living in the hotel and standing watch over the remains of the vampire who murdered his loved ones.

It works, Larry thought. My Christ, it works.

Which doesn’t make it true, he told himself.

Flights of fancy were his way of life. He’d built his whole career on daydreams, constructing them into a semblance of reality. You make up an unlikely situation, you make up characters and motives and causal links, and pretty soon the situation takes on a certain kind of sense.

Real life, he knew, didn’t work like a book. People acted out of character. Motives were often murky. Chance and coincidence could make a shambles of looking for a neat chain of causes.

Maybe bikers killed Elizabeth and Martha, just as the sheriff speculated. Or maybe a serial killer, passing through. Or maybe Uriah himself.

Whoever killed them, vampires might’ve been the furthest thing from Uriah’s mind when he requested the cremations.

It might be pure coincidence that someone had selected Uriah’s hotel as the hiding place for Bonnie’s corpse.

On the other hand...

Everything fit together so neatly if Uriah blamed Bonnie for the killings and put her out of commission.

Pounded a stake through Bonnie’s chest.

The crazy bastard.

How could anyone think that Bonnie was a vampire?

Idid, he reminded himself. Just a little bit, maybe. At the start.

But he knew better, now. She was a beautiful, innocent girl, murdered by some deluded human garbage who obviously believed in the most outlandish superstitious nonsense.

Very likely Uriah Radley.

After eating a hamburger at a cafe down the block, Larry returned to the library. He smiled a greeting to Alice, took the box of microfiche off the circulation desk and returned to the machine.

He resumed his search where he’d left off, at July 24, 1968.

In the July 27 edition he found this:

LOCAL GIRL DISAPPEARS

Foul play is suspected in the disappearance of 18-year-old Sandra Dunlap, daughter of Windy and William Dunlap. The young woman was discovered to be missing from the bedroom of her parents’ Crestview Avenue home early this morning.

According to authorities, the front door of the house showed evidence of forced entry, and traces of blood were found on the bedsheets of the missing girl.

Sandra, a recent graduate of Buford High School, was last seen Friday night when she attended a movie with her boyfriend, John Kessler, and two other friends from high school, Biff Tate and Bonnie Saxon. The three youths, interviewed early today by police officials, all indicated that Sandra was dropped off at home shortly before midnight and that she was seen to enter the house without mishap.

Windy and William Dunlap stated they were asleep at the time of their daughter’s return from the double-date.

The disappearance is believed to have occurred between midnight Friday and sunrise today.

Anyone who may have noticed unusual activity in the area near the Dunlap residence during that period, or who has any knowledge about the present whereabouts of Sandra Dunlap, is urged to contact the Mulehead Bend Police Department immediately.

The story was accompanied by a small, grainy photograph of the girl. It showed the head and shoulders of a pretty, smiling brunette. She wore a dark sweater. Larry guessed that this was her “senior picture,” the same one that probably appeared in the school yearbook.

If he still had the annual...

Forget it, he told himself. You got away with cutting out Bonnie’s pictures. It’s pressing your luck to try the same thing with Sandra. Pressing Lane’s luck.

No way.

He went back to the part of the story about Bonnie. She and her friends were actually the last people to see Sandra.

Incredible.

Okay, he thought, maybe not “incredible.” It’s a small town, only eighty-nine kids in the graduating class. Bonnie was “Spirit Queen,” without question one of the most popular girls in her class. It would be strange if she didn’tknow every other kid her age. She was probably close friends with several of them.

Sandra must’ve been one of her very best friends, though. You don’t go double-dating with just anyone.

What about this Biff Tate? Bonnie’s boyfriend, obviously. Stupid name. He was probably a football star, or something.

Bonnie was probably making it with the guy.

A goddamn jock. Larry could just hear him bragging in the locker room. “Sure, I slipped it to her. Had her begging for more.”

Come off it, he told himself. It’s stupid to be worrying about her boyfriend. Kids Bonnie knew were getting nailed. Two down in less than two weeks.

Had to be tough on her.

Yeah, and I bet good ol‘ Biff was more than eager to comfort her in her grief.

Larry muttered, “Shit,” then glanced at Alice across the room. Her back was turned as she shelved books. She didn’t react, so he assumed that she hadn’t heard him.

He copied the story about Sandra Dunlap and returned to his search of the newspapers.

A brief piece in the July 31 edition indicated that the girl was still among the missing, that her parents feared the worst, that the police were again asking witnesses to come forward with information.

On August 10, 1968, Linda Latham vanished.

The photo showed a cheerful, blond girl with freckles and a cute, uptilted nose. This didn’t look like a school picture. She wore a T-shirt, and a ball cap with its bill turned sideways. Larry gazed at the girl’s young, innocent face. It saddened him, stifled the excitement he felt about discovering another victim.