Hard Spell Justin Gustainis

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The rest of our shift was spent at our desks, for which Karl and I were thankful. We'd both had enough excitement for one night.

It wasn't until we'd signed out and headed for home that one of us almost died.

Like everybody else in the precinct, we parked in the lot behind the building. It's surrounded by chainlink fence that's topped with razor wire, and there are surveillance cameras trained on it from a couple of different angles. A friendly wizard put a protective spell on it for good measure. Quite a few people (and some others who aren't, strictly speaking, people) don't care for cops. Our personal cars might make a tempting target for some slimeball out for a little cheap revenge.

Karl and I each grunted "See ya later" and headed off to our cars. I drive a Toyota Lycan. It's old, a little beat up, and rusted in spots, but it still runs fine – kind of like me, give or take the rust.

Getting behind the wheel of your car doesn't require much concentration, and I was thinking about the twists and turns of this case as I slid into the driver's seat. A small portion of my brain processed what I was seeing – magazines, fast-food wrappers, statue on the dashboard, an empty soda bottle–

I don't keep a statue on my dashboard.

My eyes were moving toward the strange object before my mind could scream out a warning. That's what I get for not staying alert.

The statue was four inches high and made from some kind of gray stone. It depicted a woman wearing a robe, the kind they wore in that cable series about Rome. The finely detailed face was beautiful, but above that the hair was thick and ropy. After a moment, I realized it was supposed to be a bunch of snakes laying atop the woman's head, in place of hair. Then those stone reptiles started coiling and writhing and I knew what I was dealing with – but by then, it was too late. Far too late. I swear the evil little thing smiled at me, as I felt my whole body start to stiffen and harden.

I had locked eyes with a Gorgon statue, modeled after the creature of Greek myth that could turn anybody who looked at her into stone. Charged with the proper spell, the statuette could duplicate the powers of the original, at short range. And I knew that whoever had cast the spell on this little charmer had done it right, because I was turning into stone – and there wasn't a goddamn thing I could do about it.

The transformation hurt like a bastard, as my bones, muscles, and blood all began to take on the qualities of solid rock. But the pain in my body was nothing – I knew, with sick horror, that I was well on my way to becoming something that was going to be useful only in a public park. Or maybe as a lawn ornament.

Then the windshield exploded.

I couldn't move, or even blink, so I was powerless to avoid the shower of safety glass that filled the car for an instant after the window's detonation. What was left of my brain was still processing the sensory overload when Karl Renfer's second bullet blew that Gorgon statue into a million harmless little pieces.

With the ensorcelled object destroyed, the spell was broken. I could feel myself returning to flesh and blood and bone. That hurt some, too, but I wouldn't have traded the feeling for anything this side of Angelina Jolie.

Karl stuck his head through the opening that had once contained my windshield. "Jeez, Stan, are you okay?"

To my great joy, I managed a small nod.

"Sorry I took so long," Karl said. "I was parked over the other side of the lot. Turns out, somebody left me one of these little prizes, too."

I commanded my arm to move, and it did – a little slowly, a little stiffly, but it moved, allowing me to start brushing pieces of glass out of my hair.

"I saw my statue through the rear window of my car," Karl said. "I knew it didn't belong there, but it took me a couple seconds to figure out what the fuckin' thing was.Then I figured I'd better haul ass over here and see if you'd got one, too."

"One of the better ideas you've had lately," I said. My voice was husky and my lips felt numb, but I could talk. "Thanks for the rescue mission, kid," I said. "Perseus couldn't have done a better job himself."

"He used a sword, haina?" Karl asked. "Saw the reflection in his shield, then just closed his eyes, and swung."

"Something like that," I said. "Well, I'm glad you kept yours open. That was some damn fine shooting, Mr…" I let my voice trail off. The kid deserved it.

Karl grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. He was still holding his gun, so he brought the arm across his body, cupping the elbow with his other hand so that the pistol was pointing in the air. In a passable imitation of the young Sean Connery he said, "Renfer. Karl Renfer."

We'd originally been heading home, but Karl and I decided to have breakfast together, instead. I bought.

As we sipped our first cups of coffee in Jerry's Diner, breathing in the good breakfast smells of coffee and cholesterol, I noticed that Karl was frowning into his cup.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Something swimming in your java?"

He looked up, the frown still in place. "No, I'm just trying to figure out who wanted to turn us into lawn ornaments."

I added a big slug of milk to my cup. We'd ordered what Jerry's menu calls Ranger Coffee, a special blend with double the caffeine. I liked the jolt, but poured straight, the stuff was strong enough to dissolve a badge in. "I was assuming the Evil Wizard Sligo," I said. "But I haven't given it much thought, yet. I think some of my brain cells are still a little rocky."

Karl smiled. "That's a good excuse. I'd stick with that one – it oughta be good for ye." Then the smile faded. "Yeah, I figured it was Sligo too, at first. But think it through. Why would Evil Wizard Sligo want to off us – or turn us to stone, which is even worse?"

I drank some coffee and ignored the urge to go scale a cliff barehanded. "Standard answer is, we're getting too close to him. He wants to stop us before we get the chance to stop him."

"Yeah, but we ain't got shit. This case is no closer to being cleared then it was when they found Kulick's body."

"We know a lot more than we did then," I said. "We know why Kulick was killed, and we've got a pretty good idea why the vamps are being murdered."

"Yeah, we're pretty sure about the why, but we come up nearly empty on the who."

I started to speak, but Karl waved a hand to cut me off.

"I know, one of your snitches overheard some dude saying that there's a new wiz named Sligo in town. We've been running with it cause it's all we got, but it's thin, Stan. Not even enough probable cause to get a search warrant, assuming we had someplace to search. Which we sure as hell don't."

"Well, if you got some great idea that we haven't tried yet–"

"That's not what I mean." Karl leaned toward me. "We're doing what we can with this bitch kitty of a case. But right now, we don't have anything worth killing us over. If Sligo, or whoever it is, knows so much, how come the motherfucker don't know that?"

Our food came, and I started into my eggs-overgreasy while I thought about what Karl had said.

After a while I put my fork down. "Okay, so maybe Sligo doesn't know we've got shit. He knows we're on the case, but thinks we're doing better than we are. Guess he doesn't know us too well."

Karl swallowed a mouthful of French toast before saying, "I dunno, Stan. The Evil Wizard is slick enough to find out who's investigating the murders, and a good enough magician to get in and out of that parking lot without tripping an alarm – hell, he even knows which cars we drive. But he hasn't figured out that we're going nowhere with this case?"

"Well, when you put it like that..."

We ate in silence for the next few minutes. Then Karl said, "Look, could be I'm full of shit. Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe Sligo's just paranoid, and decided to take us out as a precaution."

Brave man that he is, he signaled the waitress for more coffee.

"Or maybe," he said, "somebody else besides Sligo wants us dead."

The next night, we hung around the squad room just long enough to check messages and make sure that Rachel Proctor hadn't turned up yet – alive, or dead. After that, it was just like the old song: we were off to see the wizard.

Jonas Trombley made magic, and maybe worse, out of a big old house in Clark Summit, a borough just east of Scranton. When we rolled up a little after 9:30, there was no light showing anywhere. That didn't mean anything; if the wizard was working tonight, it would most likely be in a room with no windows at all.

I rang the doorbell a couple of times, with no result. So I put my thumb on it and kept it there. Even from the porch, I could hear the buzzing sound the thing was making inside. I was prepared to keep my thumb on that button for an hour, and I was betting that Trombley knew it, too. "So," I said over my shoulder to Karl, "You been watching that documentary series on HBO, True Blood?"

A couple of minutes later, Karl was describing a book he'd been reading about some scientists who'd accidentally opened a doorway to Hell. I was about to asif it was fiction or nonfiction when the big wooden door finally cracked open.

A man's voice said from inside, "Do you realize what I could do to you, without lifting a finger, for disturbing me like this?"

"Nothing, I hope," I said. "If you did, that would be black magic, wouldn't it, Jonas? And that stuff's illegal. Now open the, uh, darn door, so we can get this over with."

I heard the voice mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "asshole," but the door opened wider. There was enough light from the street for me to make out a human shape inside. Then it waved one hand, and at once the house was ablaze with light.

Once we were inside, Jonas Trombley said, "Close the door."

I was tempted to say, "Why don't you show off some more, and close it yourself?" But the visit had already started on a negative note. No point in growing that into a symphony.

"In here," Trombley said, and motioned us into what turned out to be a living room furnished in what I think of as Thrift Shop Modern. Whatever money Jonas Trombley was making off the practice of magic, he wasn't spending it on an interior decorator.

Once we were seated, he looked at Karl, then at me and said, "So?"

I didn't answer right off, which is an old cop trick. Sometimes, if you don't tell them what you want right away, citizens will fill the silence with some interesting information. I took those few seconds to study Jonas Trombley, who I hadn't seen in three years.

He didn't seem to have aged any, which could be the result of magic or just good genes. Blond, slim, and fit-looking, he looked to be in his late twenties, although I knew he was thirty-four. He wore a zippered velour shirt in what I guess is called royal blue above a pair of designer jeans that were no tighter then the skin on your average grape. The sandals he wore displayed what I was sure was a professional pedicure.

I didn't know, or care, if Trombley liked girls, boys, or both – but whatever his preference was, I would have bet that he got more ass than a rooster, even without the magic.

Once I realized that he wasn't going to blurt out anything useful, I said, "Made any Gorgon statuettes lately, Jonas?"

He tilted his head a little and looked at me, not answering right off. Maybe Trombley wanted to give me a little of my own silent treatment, but most likely he was taking a few seconds to think. I'd always figured there was a lot going on behind those hazel eyes of his – maybe too much.

A smile made a cameo appearance on his lean face before he said, "Those nasty little things require black magic, detective – which, as you pointed out a moment ago, is illegal."

"Can we take that as a no?" Karl asked.

Trombley turned to him and raised one eyebrow, a trick I've never been able to manage. "You may."

"Well, somebody's been making them – two, to be exact," I said. "And I'm thinking that he – or she – probably did it for hire. Would you know anything about that?"

More silence. I could almost hear the wheels turning in Trombley's brain as he weighed how much to tell me, and what it might be worth to him – as well as the cost, if I caught him holding out on me.

"Do you know any ecdysiasts, Sergeant?" he asked. "Professionally, that is." He sat back in his chair. "I meant your profession, of course – not theirs."

If he was planning to make me feel stupid for not knowing what an ecdysiast is, he was wasting his time. "Yeah, I've met a few strippers," I said. "Some human, some not."

"Do of those, um, ladies ever turn tricks on the side?"

"They don't tell me about it, if they do. Anyway, I'm not the Vice Squad."

I heard Karl stir impatiently in his chair. But I was willing to wait. There was a point that Trombley was trying to make, and I wanted to find out what it was.

"But some strippers do 'hook' on the side – fair to say?" Trombley asked.

"Yeah," I said with a shrug. "So?"

"I have a couple of... acquaintances in that profession. Not prostitutes, you understand. These ladies only exhibit their bodies, not sell them. But they tell me that there is a certain kind of man who assumes that every stripper is also a 'working girl.' Some of them can be quite obnoxious in their quest for sexual favors."

"Look, buddy, we don't have all night..." Karl began, but Trombley held up the hand again.

"Of course, Detective, and I won't delay you unnecessarily. But I wanted to make the point that people, ignorant people, sometimes make assumptions about what various... professionals will and will not do for money."

I thought I could see where this was going. "You're comparing yourself to a stripper?"

He gave me the smile again. "Only figuratively, of course. Although it's a venerable profession. Almost as old as mine."

"Somebody asked you to make a Gorgon statue," I said.

"Indeed, yes. Two of them, in fact."

"And the fact that we're having this conversation means you turned him down. Or was it her?"

"I did decline, yes. And I was quite insulted by the assumption the man was making. I do not dabble in black magic, nor will I – for any amount of money."

"Because you're such a law-abiding citizen," Karl said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

The look Trombley gave Karl this time was definitely of the turn-you-into-a toad variety, but his voice was mild when he said, "That's right, Detective. But more to the point, I am not subject to self-delusion."

"Meaning what?" I asked.

"Meaning I do not assume that I could make a pact with any of the Dark Powers without eventually paying the ultimate price."

"Your life, you mean," Karl said.

"No, Detective. My soul. Unlike some foolish practitioners of the Art, I have never forgotten that when you make a deal with the devil, the notes come due in brimstone. Invariably."

"All right, you didn't take the job," I said. "But somebody did."

Trombley looked at me more closely. "Yes – I should have seen it sooner. You've had a brush with the Reaper recently. Clearly he came in second best." It was hard to tell whether his voice contained relief or regret.

"Well," he went on, "I have no idea who among my fellow practitioners might have accepted that commission. I could give you a list of names, but you're as familiar with the local magic community as I am. Perhaps even more so."

"What about the guy who tried to hire you?" Karl asked. "Did you get a name?"

"He called himself Thomas L. Jones," Trombley said, deadpan. "Do you suppose that could have been an alias?"

"How about a description?" I said.

"White male, mid to late twenties," Trombley said with a shrug. "Well built, average height, brown hair cut conventionally, clean shaven, rather attractive brown eyes." He looked at me. "I realize that probably describes about five thousand of the local residents, but I may be able to narrow the field for you. Excuse arl t moment."

He stood up smoothly and left the room for what I assumed was the kitchen, judging by the clinking of glass that soon followed. I had a feeling that the wizard wasn't planning to offer us refreshments. Just as well – I hate to be rude, but I wouldn't eat or drink something this guy gave me if it came with a nihil obstat from the pope himself.

Karl and I were exchanging silent "What the fuck?" looks when Trombley came back into the room.

"Here you go," he said, and gently tossed a glass in my direction. I picked it out of the air and saw that it was the kind of squat, wide glass people often serve booze in. I think it used to be called an Old Fashioned glass, after the drink. Maybe it still is.

"When the gentleman called on me, I offered him some hospitality," Trombley said. "I didn't yet know what he wanted, and so treated him like any other potential client." He nodded at the glass in my hands. "After I learned what 'Mr Jones' had in mind, and asked him to leave, I thought I'd best put that glass aside without washing it. It should now have three sets of prints on it, Detective. Mine, which are on file with the application for my magic license, your own, and those of the elusive Mr Jones. Perhaps you'll be able to identify him from those."

As we got to our feet, Karl asked him, "How come you waited until now to share this information with the police?"

Trombley gave us a nonchalant shrug. "Until now, I had no reason to believe he had found someone to indulge his foolishness. As far as I knew, no crime had been committed."

Karl looked at me, and I gave him a shrug of my own. If Trombley wanted to play innocent, there was no way we could prove otherwise. And he had provided us with the glass.

As he saw us to the door, Trombley said, "Regardless of how the prints work out, don't bother to return the glass. I'm sure it will make a nice addition to one of your kitchens."

Then we were on the porch, the door closing firmly behind us.

Snotty bastard.

We didn't even have to send the prints on Jonas Trombley's glass to the FBI. They rang the cherries in the Scranton PD's own fingerprint files.

"Jamieson Longworth?" I looked at the mug shot on my computer screen, full face and profile. The image seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't say from where.

I turned to Karl, sitting next to me. "Who the fuck is he?"

"Let's find out," Karl said. "Keep going."

I clicked a couple of times, and there it was: an arrest report. And it was recent.

"Holy shit," Karl said softly. "He's one of the cultists. From the warehouse."

"And now he wants payback?" I said. "I've busted people who ought to hate me a hell of a lot more than him, and none of them tried to get me turned into stone."

"I'm surprised the guy's not still in County, awaiting trial," Karl said. "Assuming what's-his-name, Trombley, wasn't yanking our chains. Because of the hooker, those cultists were all charged with felony murder, haina? They should've been looking at some pretty high bail."

"Let's find out," I said. I clicked my way to the case file and started scrolling.

It didn't take long. "Yeah, old Judge Rakauskas set bail at half a million each, fifty-K cash equivalent," I said. "Either way, that's a lot of green for your average lowlife to come up with."

"And only one of them did." Karl was looking at the screen.

Jamieson Longworth.

"Okay, that puts the bastard on the street," I said. "But it still doesn't explain why he–"

"Wait," Karl said. "Scroll down some more."

"To where?"

"To the name of the guy who ended up as Purina Demon Chow."

I'd heard that, on the advice of their attorneys, the surviving cultists had clammed up tighter than a banker's wallet. They weren't saying anything about anything, including the name of their buddy who Karl had thrown to the demon. They weren't even admitting that there was a demon. And any ID the guy had been carrying had been consumed, along with the rest of him.

I sat there frowning at the monitor until Karl said, "Try the M.E. He might have something."

It took a few seconds to find the medical examiner's report. In one of the appendices, it said that forensics had found enough DNA to make an identification of the deceased.

Ronald Longworth, age twenty-one. Same address as the cultist who had made bail.

Jamieson Longworth's brother.

I started to say something, but then my computer made a ping and a little tab appeared on the bottom of the screen. It read, "New mail from Vollmanex@aol.com."

I looked at Karl for a second, then clicked open my mailbox. Sometimes when it rains, it pours.

Nobody would ever accuse Vollman of being verbose – not online, anyway.

I have examined, with considerable difficulty, a copy of the Opus Mago. Only one spell in it calls for the sacrifice of Nosferatu. The one attempting to cast this spell must not succeed. He must be stopped, at any cost.

The number of Nosferatu sacrifices required for the sacrifice is 5.

"Five vamps," Karl said. "Which means two to go."

"You can do subtraction," I said. "That's a good start. We'll have you up to the multiplication tables by next week."

"Yeah, if any of us are still here next week. What do you figure the Big Bad is – the one Vollman says is gonna happen if the spell goes off as planned?"

"The End of the World as We Know It, maybe? I think I've heard that one a few times before. And the World as We Know It is still here."

"Yeah, but maybe that's because the good guys always stopped the bad guys who were gonna cause it," Karl said. "You ever think about that?"

"Right now I'd rather think about how to find Jamieson Longworth, before his tame wizard manages to do us in. We can't save the world if we've been turned into lawn furniture."

I turned back to the computer. "Last known address for both these guys is in Abington Heights."

Karl snorted. "That explains where he got the money to make bail. Dude's got some coin, if he lives up there."

"Maybe." I brought up the Reverse Directory and typed Longworth's address into it. "Then again, the money may belong to Mommy and Daddy. The property's in their name, anyway."

"Well, I guess human sacrifice is one way to rebel against your parents," Karl said. "But it seems kinda extreme, even if they are real assholes."

I stood up. "Let's go talk to them," I said, "and find out."

On our way out to the car Karl said, "Maybe we oughta not mention to Mommy and Daddy that I'm the one who fed their other kid to a demon."

"Yeah, that would make kind of a bad first impression, wouldn't it?"

"Bastard deserved it, though."

"Even so."

&n Karl said. "Even so."

We don't have mansions in Scranton. People with enough money for a mansion would rather live someplace else. But if there were going to be any mansions in town, you'd find them in Abington Heights. That's where the money lives, most of it. Some of the really rich have isolated estates up in the hills around Lake Scranton. But there was enough money in Abington Heights to offset a good-sized chunk of the national debt, if you could only get it away from them, and good luck with that.

The Longworths had built themselves a threestory mock Tudor that sprawled across a plot of ground about the size of New Zealand. I wondered what issue of Architectural Digest they'd seen it in. "Build us one like this," I bet they'd told the contractor, "only bigger." The immense lawn was so immaculately kept that I couldn't imagine kids playing on it. I wondered where the Longworth brothers, growing up, had played ball, and tag, and generally run tear-assing around the way kids are supposed to.

Maybe they hadn't. Maybe that was the problem, or part of it.

The door was answered by a smiling chubbycheeked housekeeper who said her name was Mrs. Moyle. She was wearing a tasteful version of what my mom used to call a housedress, except this one had probably cost five times as much. At least they hadn't put her in a maid's uniform.

We'd called ahead and were expected. If we weren't exactly welcome, you couldn't tell it by Mrs. Moyle, who showed us into a living room that wasn't nearly as big as Dodger Stadium.

"Would you officers care for some tea, or coffee, or maybe something light to eat?" she asked.

"No, thank you, ma'am," I said. "We're good."

"A cocktail, perhaps?" She touched her fingers to her mouth in embarrassment. "Oh, that's right, you're still on duty, aren't you?"

"Yes, we are, ma'am. If you could just tell Mrs. Longworth we're here?"

"Oh, of course. Please make yourselves comfortable. I'm sure she'll be right out."

Karl and I sat down on a leather couch that was more comfortable than it looked. Mrs. Longworth kept us waiting exactly five minutes – the same length of time I'd spent cooling my heels in a few other rich people's homes. It must be in a manual somewhere, under "Appropriate Waiting Time for Visiting Tradesmen, Police Officers, and Other Representatives of the Working Class."

Emily Longworth wasn't more than five feet tall, but she hadn't let her height, or lack of it, give her an inferiority complex. Her hair was a shade of auburn that nature never thought of but should have, and she wore a simple gray wool dress that was probably worth as much as my pension fund. I assumed the pearls on the single string around her slim neck were genuine.

She looked at our ID folders closely, whether out of disdain or mere curiosity I couldn't tell. After we were all seated, she said with a tight smile, "So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?"

"First of all, ma'am, I'd like to offer my condolences on the death of your son. I know what a terrible thing that must be."

There was no point in tiptoeing around it. If she was going to vent about it, let her. She might be more talkative, afterwards.

The semblance of a smile was gone as Mrs. Longworth asked me, "Indeed, officer? You've experienced the loss of a child, yourself, have you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I have." In ways you can't even imagine.

She saw the truth of it in my face, even if she didn't fully understand what I'd meant.

"In that case, thank you for your... condolences."She'd been about to say "sympathy," I was sure of it – I'd seen the "s" start to form in her mouth, but then she'd remembered that one doesn't accept sympathy from social inferiors.

Next to me, Karl was looking at the carpet as if he wanted to memorize the weave. He'd been pretending that throwing that little bastard to the demon had been all in a night's work, but I knew better. It would be a long time before either of us forgot the screams coming from Richard Longworth as that demon had eaten him alive. The fact that it could easily have been me screaming, as Richard Longworth cheered, was some consolation, but only some.

Closing her eyes, Mrs. Longworth shook her head slowly. "It's been like a nightmare, except even in my most frightening dreams I never thought that my son would be set upon by werewolves..."

The word seemed to hang, vibrating, in the air. I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. I'd been about to say, Werewolves don't do that kind of thing anymore – not outside the movies, then I remembered that case in Denver last year.

A guy had been arrested for molesting little kids. He'd been doing it for a while, apparently. The victims had kept quiet a long time, for the usual reason: the scumbag had threatened them, their parents, or their pets with terrible deaths if the poor kids talked.

But one of them finally did. When word got out, the dam broke and more victims came forward. One of them was from a supe family.

The pederast had made three major mistakes, the way I look at it. The first was giving into his sick desires instead of either getting serious psychiatric help or cutting his own wrists. The second was molesting the six year-old daughter of a werewolf. His third mistake, the fatal one, was somehow coming up with the money to make bail.

They call them "short eyes" in jail, and pedophiles are often the target of other inmates. Even killers and bank robbers have kids of their own. But this guy would have done better to stay behind bars and take his chances in the shower room.

What you hear about werewolves is true. The wolf part of their nature means that they tend to form tight social groups, similar to the packs you find in the wild. You think Italian families are close? They've got nothing on your average werewolf clan.

I don't think the Denver cops ever figured out exactly how many weres had been in the group that cornered the child molester after he left his bail bondsman's office. But there wasn't any doubt about how he died. He'd been eaten alive – and they figured he'd taken over an hour to die.

But this kind of thing was really uncommon among werewolves these days, and I was about to say so to Mrs. Longworth when Karl asked her, "Is that what the police told you, ma'am? That your son was attacked by... werewolves?"

"The police? I didn't speak to the police. There are some things a mother just shouldn't have to do. My husband spoke to them. He told me later, because I insisted on knowing."

"Is that also what your other son, Jamieson, says happened?" I asked carefully. "After all, he was there."

"He was not there. I wish you police would get that absurd idea out of your heads. Don't you think he would have tried to protect his own brother?"

Then he could have been eaten by the werewolves, too, I thought – if there'd been any werewolves.

"Jamieson spent the evening with some friends in Wilkes-Barre, and he had barely crossed the city limits on his way home when the stupid police pulled him over on some trumped-up murder charge. As if my son would have anything to do with a prostitute. It's ridiculous, that's all – it's just ridiculous."

Her face twisted, but she stopped herself from breaking into tears. That just wasn't done – at least, not in front of the stupid police.

I gave Mrs. Longworth a few seconds to pull herself together, then said, "Is your son home now, ma'am?" Fat chance of that, since we'd had to call in advance. And there's no way we'd get authorization for a raid on this place – not without a dozen witnesses and a signed deposition from the President. But I'd asked anyway, as an entry to some other questions I had.

"No, he's not here," she said. "He hasn't been for days."

"Doesn't he live here with you, ma'am?" Karl asked her.

"Yes, of course he does, but he's got another place somewhere in town, some kind of bachelor pad, if people still say that. I was against it, but his father said a boy needs to have some privacy."

The boy in question was twenty-seven years old.

"Can you give us the address of this 'bachelor pad' of his?" I asked.

"Oh, I have no idea. Somewhere in town – I don't know. He stays overnight, sometimes. I suppose he brings girls there." Mrs. Longworth looked at me. "Girls, decent girls, not... prostitutes."

I wondered how the young women who had sucked her son's cock in his 'bachelor pad' got to be considered decent girls, but I suppose everything's relative.

"Would your husband know where the place is, ma'am?" Karl asked.

"Perhaps he would, I don't know. You may feel free to ask him – once he gets back from Tokyo. That will be sometime next month, I believe." The tiny smile was back in place now.

"Can you give us a phone number where we can reach him? Or his email address?" I said.

"Oh, I'm sure I have all that somewhere, but I can't lay my hands on it right at the moment. Why don't you leave me your card, and I'll have my secretary locate that information and call you."

I was betting we'd hear from that secretary at about the time they opened a skating rink in Hell, but I took out one of my business cards and handed it to her. She immediately placed it on the nearby coffee table without even looking at it, as if afraid she might catch something.

"Would it be all right if we took a look at the room your son uses when he's here, ma'am?" I asked. "There might be something to help us find him – just so we can ask him a few questions."

"Would it be all right?" She pretended to consider it. "Well, I suppose so." The smile widened. "Just as soon as you show me your warrant, or court order, or whatever it's called. I have my doubts that any judge in the city would sign such an order – everyone but the police, apparently, knows what a fine young man Jamieson is. But in the event that you should obtain one, I'll have to have my attorney present, of course."

Three minutes later, we were being shown out by the housekeeper. Following Karl out the door, I started to say something when I heard Mrs. Moyle's voice behind me.

"Detective?" She held up a folded piece of paper. "I think you dropped this."

It didn't look like anything I'd had in my pockets, and I was about to say so when I noticed the intense way Mrs. Moyle was looking at me. "I'm getting careless," I said, stepping back to the doorway. "Thank you."

Mrs. Moyle didn't speak as she extended the hand holding the paper, but I saw her mouth form words that I'm pretty sure were "I never liked the little prick, anyway." Then she closed the door in my face.

I waited until we were well aMrsom the house before unfolding the slip of paper. In a careful cursive hand was written "157 Spruce St # 304."

We were working a double shift, so it was just twilight when we left the Longworth place. That used to be my favorite time of day, when I was younger. The light gets softer and the world seems to quiet down a little, if only for a few minutes. But now I look at it as nothing more than the calm before the storm, and the storm comes every night.

As we approached the car, I was scanning the street and noticed a lone figure standing on the sidewalk three or four houses down. I tensed, and said, "Karl." to let him know we might have trouble. It would be just like that prick Jamieson Longworth to set up an ambush outside his own house.

Then I heard a woman's voice singing, an achingly clear soprano that sounded familiar. I relaxed. Nothing to worry about – except for the people living in that house.

"It's okay, but give me a minute, will you?" I said to Karl, and walked toward the woman in the gathering gloom. I saw her watching me approach, but her voice never paused in its melody.

If she'd been silent, I might have missed her in the near-darkness. As always, this stunningly beautiful woman was dressed in black – dress, hose, and shoes, with a black knit shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders. Seeing the outfit, along with her pallor, you might mistake her for a Goth, or maybe a vamp wannabe. Until you heard her voice.

She wasn't singing very loud, although I knew she had the ability to rattle windows up and down the street, if she wanted to. We'd had a conversation about it some time back – that, and the screeching. She'd eventually agreed that, tradition notwithstanding, she could carry out her duty without freaking out the whole neighborhood.

I didn't understand the words of her song, although I assumed they were Old Gaelic – very, very old. The simple melody was sad enough to get you crying without even knowing why. It didn't affect me. I'd cried myself out a long time ago.

I knew better than to interrupt her, but after another minute or so, she let her song fade away into silence. That was only temporary; she'd stay here, singing softly, until what she was foretelling had come to pass inside the house.

It was another big, ritzy place, and the people inside probably lived a comfortable life. But no matter how much money you have, or how nice your house is – if you belong to one of several Irish families, sooner or later you'll get a visit from this lady, or one of her sisters.

"Hello, Siobaghn," I said quietly.

"Sergeant," she said with a nod. "Tis a surprise seein' ye about, it not even full dark yet."

"Putting in some overtime," I said with a shrug. A few seconds passed before I said, "Can I ask who...?" I nodded toward the house.

"The clan Kavanagh. The youngest son, Edward, is about to hang himself in his room, over a love affair gone wrong." Her voice wasn't cold, exactly, just matter-of-fact.

If he hadn't done it yet, maybe there was still time. But before I could start toward the house, Siobaghn laid a gentle hand on my arm.

"No, Stanley, no. Tis already too late – else I would not be here. Ye know as much."

She was right, of course. The banshee doesn't bring death – she just foreshadows it, and she's never wrong. There was nothing I could do.

Nobody knows for sure why the banshee manifests for some Irish families and not others, or why it's only the Irish. I doubt Siobaghn herself could tell you. She just does as she is bidden, and she's been doing it for centuries.

p; I was about to say goodnight to Siobaghn when I heard Karl's voice shouting, "Stan! We got a ten double-zero! Come on!"

Ten double-zero is radio code for "officer down."

I was moving even before he'd finished, pulling the car keys from my pocket as I ran. Behind me, I heard Siobaghn take up her mournful song again.

A few seconds later, I was behind the wheel and reaching over to unlock the passenger door for Karl.

"Where?" I said as I started the engine.

"It's at 1484 Stanton."

I peeled away from the curb and hit the button that would get the siren going and start the headlights flashing red. We were halfway down the block before it occurred to me that the address Karl'd given sounded familiar, and we'd almost reached the first intersection when I realized why.

It was Rachel Proctor's house.

I wasn't surprised by the flashing red lights that greeted us as we drew within sight of 1484 Stanton Street. Ten Double-Zero doesn't just mean "Officer Down" – it also means every available unit within a one-mile radius is expected to haul ass to the scene at once. By the look of it, five or six black-and-white units had done that already.

Karl and I were just a block away when the radio sparked to life again: "All units, all units: be advised that the ten double-zero at 1484 Stanton has been revised to ten double-zero, Code Five. I say again, the call is now ten double-zero, Code Five."

Magic involved.

As if we'd been practicing for weeks, Karl and I said at exactly the same time, "Fuck!"

As we got closer, I saw two ambulances heading away from the scene. One was moving fast, lights flashing and siren screaming.

The other ambulance wasn't using its lights or siren, and was traveling at a normal speed. Whatever that one was carrying to the hospital, there was no hurry to get it there.

The ranking uniform on the scene was a sergeant named Milner. He looked so white, you could've mistaken him for a ghost, especially in the crazy light being thrown by all those squad cars. And this is a cop with fifteen years on the job, maybe more. He'd seen it all – or so you'd think.

Something else I noticed right off was the silence. Get a bunch of cops together, even at a crime scene, and they're gonna talk to each other – about the job, the wife, sports, who's screwing whose ex-girlfriend, something. But there were eight cops standing around here, and not one of them was saying a word. I could hear the radio calls coming through the lowered windows of their cruisers, but otherwise – nothing.

I had no intention of taking over command of the scene from Milner, even though I was pretty sure I had rank on him. A lieutenant was probably already on the way. Nobody had told me it was a case for Supernatural Crimes anyway, despite that Code Five on the radio.

We walked over to where Milner was standing, looking at nothing. I expected Karl to say "What do we got here?" But he was silent, too. Maybe he had picked up on the vibe, which was more like a wake than a crime scene.

Maybe that's what it really was.

Milner let go of his thousand-yard stare and looked at me. Before I could ask a question he said, "Lady across the street called 911. Said she saw lights in Proctor's place. She knew it was supposed to be sealed, pending investigation. She was thinking burglars, kids, something like that. So Ludwig and Casey got the call to go check it out."

Larry Ludwig, I knew. He'd been on the job a long time, but never took to get itrgeant's exam. He told me once that he liked the action of being a street cop. Casey's name didn't ring a bell, which meant he was probably a rookie. Scranton PD's not so big that the cops don't get to know each other pretty quick, if only by name and face.

"Looks as if Ludwig sent Casey around back, then went in through the front door," Milner said. "We found him... or what was..." Milner stopped for a second and cleared his throat. "We found him in the living room."

I waited, but he didn't say anything more. Looking toward the house, I said, "Forensics hasn't been here yet."

"No," Milner said. "I called for 'em. They'll take their sweet fuckin' time, like usual." He cleared his throat again. "SWAT was on the way, too, but I cancelled it, after we went through the place. There's nobody in there. Nobody... alive, anyway. That Proctor cunt is long gone."

I looked at him. "Rachel Proctor's the suspect?" I wasn't sure yet what she was suspected of, but for something to get to a cop like Milner's experience, it had to be real bad. "Was there a witness?"

"Nah, not that we know about. But it's her house, ain't it? And she's a fuckin' witch, ain't she?" He pointed toward the house as if he was aiming a gun. "What went down in there wasn't done by no fuckin' Girl Scouts."

Arguing with Milner about what Rachel Proctor was capable of was going to be a waste of time. Anyway, in her current state, I wasn't sure what Rachel was capable of.

"Guess we better check it out," I said. "Okay if we open the front door?"

"Yeah, I guess," he said. "Just don't go inside and fuck up the crime scene."

That's something every police trainee learns the first week at the academy, but I wasn't giving Milner the fight he was spoiling for. Let him take his feelings out on somebody else. His wife was in for a rough few hours, I figured. I hoped Milner wasn't a hitter.

"Let's go," I said to Karl, and we followed a narrow, meandering sidewalk to the front door of Rachel Proctor's house.

Three creaky wooden steps led up to the front door, which was painted white, with a light blue trim. Part of the doorframe near the knob was splintered and broken. Somebody had kicked the door in – either Officer Ludwig, or whoever came before him.

Using the back of my hand, I pushed against the door. After a moment's resistance, it came free of the frame and swung wide.

The thick, coppery scent of blood hit me in the face as soon as the door opened. Nothing else in the world smells like that. Once you've had it in your nose, it can stay a long time – maybe your whole life.

All the lights were on in the living room, which made it easy to see what had got Milner acting like he'd had a personal glimpse into Hell. It was hard to imagine Hell as bring much worse.

The walls were giant abstract murals done by an insane artist who had a thing for red. And you could add the ceiling to the exhibit. Display the whole thing in the Night Gallery.

And it wasn't just blood, either. Sticking to the walls, the ceiling, the furniture were globs of flesh that I figured had once been bodily organs. I saw what looked like a kidney wrapped around the leg of the coffee table, and flattened against one wall was a fist-sized ball of flesh that might once have been a human heart.

Next to me I heard Karl mutter, "Dear sweet merciful Jesus." I couldn't have put it better, myself.

The room looked like a World War II bunker that somebody had thrown a grenade into, except for one thing: the furniture.

Apart being covered in gore and guts, Rachel Proctor's living room furniture was intact and in place. All the window glass was still there, too. Whatever kind of explosion had caused the human damage, it had left the surroundings untouched.

How was that possible? There's only one answer, and it's the same one that had occurred to Milner, and probably to the other cops out there, too: magic. The blackest of black magic.

Which left Rachel off the list of suspects, as far as I was concerned. Rachel didn't practice black magic – I was sure of it.

But indications were that Rachel wasn't exactly traveling alone these days. And, judging by the books and gear we'd found in his house, George Kulick had known a few things about black magic. Enough to do this? I was hoping for the chance to ask him about it, and soon.

"Seen enough?" I asked Karl quietly.

"More than enough," he answered, his voice hoarse.

We walked back to where Milner was standing. "I assume that what we saw in there was... came from Ludwig," I said.

Milner nodded. "It was like he just... exploded from inside. They took what was left of him to the morgue. There's enough to bury, I guess." He looked at me. "Ludwig was a good cop, put in a lot of years. He didn't deserve to go out like that." Milner said it like he was expecting an argument from me, but I didn't give him one.

"What about his partner, what's-his-name, Casey?" Karl asked.

"We found him in back, on the ground, screaming. Know why?"

Karl shrugged. "Because he saw what had happened to his partner?"

"No," Milner said, "Casey was screaming because he was covered with spiders – fucking tarantulas, dozens of them."

"I know tarantulas are poisonous," I said, "and they look gross as hell. But their bite's not fatal to humans – probably not even a bunch of bites."

"It wasn't the poison," Milner said. "One of the other guys knows Casey, they're cousins or something. He says Casey had something-phobia. Fear of spiders."

"Arachnophobia," Karl said.

"Yeah, that's it. The cousin said Casey had it bad. Guess somebody else knew that, too, and covered him with the one thing he couldn't stand. He was still screaming once they got those things off him and loaded him into the ambulance."

"Tarantulas aren't native to this part of the world," I said, just to be saying something. "They come from the tropics."

"Yeah, I know," Milner said. "Funny how a whole bunch of them found their way to Casey, huh? Almost like magic." The bitterness could curdle milk.

"I know you like Rachel Proctor for it, but there's something–"

"Like her for it? She a fucking witch, and witches use magic, and it was magic that fucked up two cops, decent guys with families. It don't take fucking Einstein to connect the dots."

"I know, but–"

"But nothing, Markowski. I heard you was tight with that cunt, but you know what? I don't care how many times she sucked your cock, or how good she was at it. There's a BOLO out on her, and if everybody on the force doesn't know she's a cop killer, they will before end of third watch today. I guarantee it. Now get the fuck out of my sight."

We got.

We were almost back to the car when my cell phone rang.

"Markowski."

"So this guy goes to a whorehouse, but he doesn't know that all the girls working there are vampires, right? He says to the madam–"

"Lacey, I am really, really not in the mood for jokes right now."

"Suit yourself, Stan. But I'm looking at something I think you might wanna see."

"Which is...?"

"Another dead vamp."

"Shit."

"Yeah, and it looks like the same M.O. – well, it is, but it isn't, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't," I said, "but it doesn't matter. Look, Lacey, I appreciate your calling, but there's shit I need to deal with here tonight. Can you just send me the reports and photos online later tonight, or tomorrow?"

"I probably could, but it's not my case. I'm in Pittston, the most musical town in the Valley."

"Say what?"

"You ever drive down Main Street? Bar, space, bar, bar, space. You'd probably get the opening song from that musical Bats if you played it on the piano."

"Lacey–"

"Okay, okay, but that's where the vic turned up. A Statie I know gave me a call, because he knows about the dead vamp we turned up the other night."

"A Statie?"

"Well, Pittston doesn't exactly have a Homicide squad, you know? So they called in the Staties, and the PBI's taking over the investigation."

"Shit."

"If you put in a request through channels, you might get copies of all the case materials in, I dunno, a week or so. Maybe two."

"Shit."

"You keep saying that, Stan."

"Well, what did you say when you found out you were going to have to drive to Pittston tonight?"

"Me? I said motherfucker."

"Give me your 20, and I'll see you there in a little while."

She gave me an address along with some directions, then said, "Are you bringing that partner of yours along – the big guy?"

"I was planning to, yeah."

"Good. He's cute."

As I guided the car onto 81-South, I said to Karl, "Four dead vamps. Normally, I'd file that under G for "a good start", but if Vollman's right, that means Sligo, or whoever's behind this, is almost ready to do the Big Nasty."

"Except we don't know what that is, either."

"Or when he's gonna do it, or where, or even who this Sligo is. But other than that, I'd say we're pretty much on top of this thing."

We'd gone about a mile down the highway when Karl said, "Stan. Listen."

"What?"

"If this is none of my fucking business, then just say so, but..."

"But what? Just spit it out, Karl – I won't shoot you. Not while I'm driving, anyway."

"Well... it's pretty obvious that you've got a real hard-on for vamps. Not for other supes, so much. I never heard you bitch about weres, or trolls, or even ghouls – and those fuckers creep me out. But you just hate vampires. And that's your business, I'm not tryin' to tell you what you oughta think. I was just wondering... how come?"

I thought about making a joke about it and changing the subject. And I thought about telling Karl to mind his own fucking business. Then I thought about telling him the truth.

Since he's my partner, who's saved my ass at least twice, I decided to go with door number three.

I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay," I said. "It's like this."

I've been on the force fornine years, and a detective for two, and I want that Detective First Grade shield so bad I can taste it. I can't explain why it means so much to me. Maybe it had something to do with my old man, who said I'd never amount to much, or the Irish nuns, who always treated me like just another dumb Polack – it doesn't matter why. I want that promotion, and the way to get it is to make collars and clear cases. So I'm putting in a lot of overtime, and I mean a lot.

This brings me a fair amount of grief at home, with Rita complaining about how I'm not there much and when I am all I want to do is sleep, or vegetate in front of the TV, stuff like that. But she never complains when I bring home the paycheck, which is pretty fat because of all that overtime.

Once I make First, I'm gonna dial it back a bit, start spending more time at home with my wife and kid. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

So I come home late one Saturday night (weekends are busy times for cops) and my daughter Christine is out with friends, and my wife is in bed, and that's all normal except when I go up there I find Rita isn't breathing.

I call 911, then do CPR until they get there, and the ambulance guys are pretty quick, but none of it makes any difference. They pronounce her about ten minutes after we get to the hospital.

Once I can think again, there are two questions burning in my mind: "How?" and "Why?" I start by demanding a copy of the autopsy report and I finally get one – but it's not brought to me by a doctor, but by another guy from the job. His name's Terrana and he says he works in Supernatural Crimes. In my department we used to make jokes about Supernatural Crimes.

I've seen plenty of autopsy reports, and I try to close my feelings off and treat this one like its about somebody who doesn't matter to me. That works until I get to the part where it says "exsanguination."

I look at Terrana. "She bled out? That's bullshit – there wasn't a fucking drop of blood on her or on the bed. Not a drop."

"I know," Terrana says to me. He's got one of those slow, measured voices that reminds me of funeral directors. "But there's more than one way somebody can bleed to death."

I stare at him and I think about what unit he's with and the little light comes on in my head, finally. "Vampire? You saying a vampire killed Rita?"

He just looks at me, which is all the answer I need.

"Wait a second," I tell him. "There were no marks on her neck. I'd have seen 'em, count on that."

"That biting on the neck stuff is kind of a cliché spread by the movies, Stan. Sure, it happens sometimes, especially when it's involuntary, such as in cases of surprise vampire attack. But there's lots of veins and arteries all over the body that a vampire can make use of."

"Terrana, will you talk English and stop with the riddles? Please? You're saying a vampire killed her but that she wasn't attacked? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means it may have been consensual," he says.

I feel my hands form into fists, seemingly of their own accord. "You're telling me she let some fucking bloodsucker...?"

"The M.E. did find fang marks, Stan. And you're right, her neck was clean. He found the the inside of her thigh, high up, near the... uh, there's a big artery that runs through there, the femoral artery."

"So the blood-sucking bastard raped her with his fangs, the fucking–"

"I'm sorry, Stan, but the M.E. doesn't think there was force involved. If you read the rest of the report, you'll see that there was no evidence of other trauma, and that there was more than one set of fang marks. Some of them were... old."

I run my hand over my face, maybe trying to wipe away the expression that I knew was stamped there. Then I have a thought. "So he snuck in, night after night, like in Dracula. He kept attacking her in her sleep until she–"

"Stan, that book was written before we knew very much about vampires. Stoker got a lot of it right, but there were quite a few things he got wrong."

"Like what?"

"Vampires can't sneak into a house like cat burglars, Stan. Nobody knows why, but they have to be invited in."

A few days later, I apply for the transfer. It works its way through the system, and a week later I get approval. So I go through the special training, then start work as a detective in Supernatural Crimes. And in my time away from the job, I hunt the bloodsucker who had seduced and killed my wife.

It takes me eight months. Eight long months of research, cultivating informants, reading old arrest reports, trading favors with other cops, intimidating and cajoling and bribing members of the local vamp community.

Eight months. And then I find him.

But it isn't that simple anymore, because by then, I've got a bigger problem to deal with. My need for revenge is now mixed with fear – fear for my daughter, Christine.

Anton Kinski's got a job. Most vamps do, I'd learned. Since the undead had made themselves known, along with the rest of the supes, they were able to stop living in graveyards and the basements of abandoned houses. But rent and decent clothes cost money, so Anton has found work (night shift, of course) as a pleater at a small garment factory.

He's a good worker, is Anton. Puts in his time, rarely misses a night (vamps don't call in sick) and pretty much keeps to himself. When he's not off seducing and murdering women, he's got a pretty boring life, or whatever it is that vamps have.

Until the day he wakes up at sunset to find me leaning over him, the sharp point of my wooden stake resting lightly against his chest. My other hand is holding a mallet, and I make sure he sees that, too, along with the silver crucifix hanging on a chain around my neck.

"You don't know how much I want to pound this stake clear through your body, Anton," I tell him, my voice thick and tight. "And if you so much as twitch, that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

Nothing moves but his eyes, which search my face and see there the truth of what I'd just told him.

His lips barely move when he finally speaks, and his voice is barely loud enough to hear. "Who – who are you?"

"I'm the husband of Rita Markowski, the woman you killed last fall. Remember, Anton? There can't have been so many of them since then that you don't remember Rita."

He closes his eyes for a few secs. Then he opens them and says, "I don't suppose it will matter if I tell you it was an accident – carelessness, really, on my part."

"No difference, Anton. None at all."

His head moves about an eighth of an inch in a nod. "So, why are we talking? You want to gloat a while before you stake me?"

"No, Anton. It tears my guts out to say it, but I need you."

He looks a question at me.

"You didn't turn Rita – didn't make her... one of you."

"Like I said – accident. Got... carried away."

"But you know how to do it."

"Sure, of course," Anton says. "I've done it before."

"Is it true, what I've heard? You have to exchange blood with the victim before she dies? Is that how it's done?"

"Yeah, pretty much." He swallows. "That it? You want... me to turn you?"

He winces as the stake's point presses harder into his chest. "Don't push your fucking luck, Anton. I'd no more become one of you leeches than I'd volunteer to work in a concentration camp."

"What, then?"

"My daughter. I want... I want you to turn my daughter."

Christine's admitted to me that she'd been concealing the symptoms – the weakness, night sweats, joint pain – for as long as she could. She didn't want to be a bother, she said – meaning, I guess, that she saw I was half-crazy with grief and she didn't want to push me the rest of the way. And I guess she also thought that some of it was just her body's way of dealing with the shock of Rita's death.

But when the lumps appeared in her armpits, she'd realized that something more serious was going on. By then, of course, it was too late.

The docs did everything the book says – radiation, chemo, even some experimental medicines. Then one day her primary physician took me into that little room they have at the hospital, just off the intensive care unit. As soon as I sat down, I figured this was the room where doctors give you the Bad News. I was right, too.

I'd suspended my off-hours search for Rita's killer when Christine was hospitalized. But the night they gave me the Bad News, I went back to it. If possible, I pushed even harder than before – and it paid off.

That's how I find myself kneeling over a vampire and telling him that he's going to buy continued existence by making my only child a bloodsucking leech just like him.

I bring Christine home a few days later, promising the hospital people that I'll arrange for twenty-four-hour nursing care. I tell them that I'll make sure she gets everything she needs.

And then, one night, when the painkillers have pushed her to edge of unconsciousness, I tell the night nurse she can go home early. Then I get in touch with Anton Kinski again.

He doesn't have to ask my permission to enter the house. He's been there before.

Even now, I'm not sure if what happened next was the right thing to do, or the worst idea I ever had.

Pittston's only about twenty minutes' drive from Scranton, so I gave Karl the short version of the story, but it contained all the essentials.

When I was done, he turned in his seat and looked at me. "Stan – Jeez – I'm sorry, man, I didn't–"

"Forget it, Karl," I said. "You didn't know and now you do, and there's nothing else to say about it. Besides, it's time to go to work."

We had reached the crime scene.

Pittston's a town of about nine thousand, midway between Wilkes-Barre and Scranton. It's got more hills than any other town I've ever seen. I hear San Francisco's worse, but I've got no desire to find out – they can keep their vamp mayor, as far as I'm concerned.

The city's in Luzerne County, not Lackawanna, which explains why Lacey Brennan got the call from the State Police and I didn't. Besides, Lacey's got a much cuter ass than I do.

• • • •

We parked behind a Pittston PD cruiser that looked like it had a lot of miles on it. I could see yellow crime scene tape fencing off a white duplex with green trim. The place had seen better days. A couple of shingles were gone from the roof, and the paint was peeling in several places. As soon as we were out of the car, Lacey came strolling over, a notebook in her hand and a frown on her heartshaped face.

"Good evening, as Bela Lugosi used to say," she said to me, then nodded at my partner. "Karl."

"Whatever chance this had of being a good evening went down the tubes hours ago," I said. "You wanna fill us in?"

"I might be able to do better than that, and get you inside for a look," she said. "The Crime Lab guys have been and gone."

As we walked toward the house Lacey said, "Family's name is Dwyer. They've got the upstairs."

"Who's ROS?" I asked her. I wanted to know who the Ranking Officer on Scene was because I wasn't going in that house without permission. Lacey couldn't give it, because this wasn't her case, or her jurisdiction. The last thing I wanted was some Statie calling McGuire to complain that I'd violated procedure.

"Twardzik," she said flatly.

There was silence for three or four paces.

"Of course it is," I said. "Why should God start taking pity on me now?"

I followed her through the small crowd of milling cops and technicians to where the Ranking Officer on Scene was chewing on a couple of guys in plain clothes. Even from the rear, Lieutenant Michael Twardzik was easy to spot. He was the only one around in a State Police uniform who barely topped 5'5". That's the minimum height requirement, and I swear the little bastard must've worn lifts in his shoes when he applied for the academy. His case of short man complex isn't much worse than, say, Napoleon's.

"And if either of you fail to turn in your Fives in a timely manner again," Twardzik growled, "you'll be packing up for your transfer to Altoona before end of shift. Understand me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "Dismissed."

Every big organization has its version of Siberia – the place they send you when you fuck up not quite bad enough to be fired. In the Army, it used to be the Aleutian Islands off Alaska. With the FBI, it's Omaha, for some reason. And the Pennsylvania State Police's designated version of Purgatory is Altoona. I wouldn't argue the choice – I've been to Altoona.

I let Lacey take the lead as we came up behind Twardzik. "Lieutenant?" Even in that one word, I could tell that she'd made her voice softer, a little more feminine. This surprised me some, since Lacey's normally a "fuck you if you can't take a joke" kind of gal. She must really want us to see the inside of that duplex. "Would it be okay with you if I give these officers a look at the crime scene?"

div> Twardzik turned, squinting against the flashing lights from the police cruisers. "Which – oh, these officers."

Years ago, before I joined the Scranton PD, I thought I wanted to be a Statie. So I took the exam for admission to their academy. Something like two hundred and thirty guys (it was all guys, back then) took it that year, and I scored fourteenth. Each new class is capped at a hundred, no exceptions, and the test score is what they go by.

Before you can even take the exam, they check to make sure you have a high school diploma and a clean record, and you've got to pass the physical fitness test. So if your score is in the top hundred, you're in, and if not, sorry, Charlie. And they only let you take it once.

The scores are public record, which is how I know my rank – as well as Twardzik's, which was one-ohone. When I decided not to go (that's pretty rare, I guess), everybody below me moved up one. And that's how Twardzik got into the academy. He owes his career to the fact that I gave up my place in line.

No wonder the little bastard hates me – even though I've never once mentioned it to him.

Twardzik gave me the kind of look you'd give a particularly scuzzy-looking panhandler. "You're a long way from your playpen, Markowski. What'd you do – take a wrong turn on your way to the whorehouse?"

"Patronizing prostitutes is illegal, Lieutenant," I said evenly. No way was he getting a rise out of me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction – or the excuse.

"I asked these detectives to come down from Scranton, Lieutenant," Lacey said hastily. "It looks like this homicide has some similarities with others that we're currently investigating."

Twardzik looked at Lacey. "Last I checked, WilkesBarre and Scranton were some distance apart, not to mention being in different jurisdictions. How is it you two are investigating homicides together? Has a law enforcement romance blossomed?"

That was when I wanted to hit him. But before I could say anything, Lacey got in with "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I was being unclear. I meant that each of us is investigating separate homicides that seem to have similarities with each other, as well as with the case you have here. I thought it might help both investigations to move forward if these officers had a chance to view this crime scene."

Twardzik looked at me, then back at her, taking his time. I was pretty sure I knew what was going through his mind. If he denied permission, and Lacey and I each sent separate complaints to his Troop Commander, Twardzik would have to give a reason why he'd done it – and it would have to be a better one than his desire to see me in Hell with my back broken.

"Yeah, all right, go on," he said to me, making a head gesture toward the house. "The sooner you do, the quicker you'll be out of my sight." Then he turned away, probably looking for a stray dog he could kick.

• • • •

We followed Lacey up the creaking steps that led to the second floor apartment. "Snotty little fuck," she said quietly, but with a lot of feeling. "It should come as no surprise that he's got a tiny cock, too."

"And you would know that, how?" I kept my voice casual, as if the answer wouldn't matter.

"I'm friends with his ex-wife, Stan. Jeez, how did you think I'd know?"

I didn't say anything, but felt my shoulders lose some tension I hadn't even known was there.

The steps brought us to a small landing in front of a simple wooden door that had plastic numbers "443B" glued to it. The doorway was spanned by a big yellow X of crime scene tape, which Lacey started o remove.

"Careful now," Karl said. Even though he was behind me, I could hear the grin in his voice. "Wouldn't want to upset the lieutenant."

"Are you kidding?" Lacey said. "I'm gonna put that back exactly the way I found it. Shit, I was tempted to take a picture, to make sure I get it right."

Once the tape was down, she opened the unlocked door and led us into the living room. I stepped to the side to make room for Karl's bulk and almost knocked over a knick-knack shelf full of little ceramic leprechauns. There'd be hell to pay if I broke any of them.

The furniture and drapes were old, but well caredfor. The floral wallpaper wasn't peeling anywhere, although nails stuck out from it in several parts of the room. The rug we stood on was threadbare in a few places, but it was as clean as you could expect with cops tramping all over it.

The Dwyers didn't have a lot, but they seemed to take pride in what they had. I was betting that Mrs. Dwyer vacuumed every week – probably on Saturday morning, just like my mom had done. On one wall, occupying a place of honor, was a framed faded portrait of JFK that looked like it had been clipped from a magazine. The one in our house had been from Life, I remembered.

A short hallway branched from the living room, with a door on each side and a bathroom at the end. One room had its door open, lights burning inside. Lacey led us there saying, "Mom, Dad, and two boys. Dennis is at Penn State, the other one, James, dropped out of high school a little over a year ago. Junior year."

"That must've been when he was turned," I said. "Which came first, I wonder?"

"Was he out to the parents?" Karl asked.

"Dunno," Lacey said, "but, Christ, he'd have to be."

Pretty hard to explain to Mom and Dad that you weren't going outside in daylight any more, and that midnight mass at Christmas was off your schedule for good. Sunday dinner would never be the same, either. They must've known their kid was a vamp. I felt sorry for them.

The bedroom looked like it would make a good set for a remake of I Was a Teenage Vampire. The walls were covered with posters of rock stars, although I didn't recognize most of them. Discarded clothes covered the furniture, and the floor was littered with CDs, DVDs, and magazines. The room's two windows had close-fitting boards nailed over both of them, which were covered with black plastic from garbage bags. The edges of the bags were heavily taped around the edges, to make sure no speck of sunlight would sneak in. That was the only unusual thing about the room – unless you counted the bloody corpse on the bed.

The wooden stake must have been very sharp – it looked like it had gone right through the kid's body, pinning him to the mattress like some kind of bug in a museum exhibit. James Dwyer had been wearing white briefs and a gray T-shirt with "Question Authority" printed on the front. Probably what he wore to bed when he'd been sleeping at night, not all that long ago.

The heart contains a lot of blood, so I wasn't surprised at the gore that half-covered the body and bed, and spattered the nearby wall. I'd seen staked vampires before.

"Here's the reason my buddy called me, and why I got in touch with you guys," Lacey said, walking over to the body. She pushed bloody blond hair away from James Dwyer's forehead, and there they were: three of the same kind of symbols that we'd been encountering on corpses lately. In fact, these looked kind of familiar.

I reached into my jacket pocket for my notebook. Even though the case files contained plenty of photos from each of the dead vamp crime scenes, I had still made cies by hand of the symbols that had been carved into each of the victims.

First vic – three symbols. Check. Second vic – three symbols, but different from the first set. Check. Third one – three symbols found on the guy in Wilkes-Barre. Check. Same weird alphabet, but different from the other two. Then James Dwyer, right in front of me. Three symbols. Check. Except...

"Lacey, lift the kid's hair again, will you? Karl, take a close look at these."

Karl stepped closed and leaned in close. Then he straightened up. "They look similar to the ones we been seeing," he said. "Not surprising."

"No," I said, "but here's something that is." I showed him my notebook. "See?" Each of the first three vics had a different set of these fucking arcane symbols carved on him. But James, here–"

"–has got the same markings as the first vic." Karl's forehead wrinkled. "So, maybe this fucking ritual, whatever it is, requires some kind of repetition, only… Fuck, I dunno."

Lacey was looking at me. "There's something else that doesn't fit," she said. "Now that you mention it. The M.O."

"All the M.O.s have been different," Karl said. "I mean, that's part of the pattern, haina?"

"I think maybe I see what she's getting at," I said to him. "It's not weird enough."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, exactly. My guy had been done by a silver garrote, and in your two, the perp used–"

"Charcoal bullets and a silver-coated blade," I said. "Wooden stake through the heart, it's, I dunno, too conventional."

"Okay, I'm with you now," Karl said, "but it still doesn't tell us shit. We don't know why the perp would all of a sudden start using the tried-and-true method of killing a vamp, but we don't know why the fucker's doing anything he does."

"Yeah, but I wonder..." I let my voice trail off. "Look, we should get out of here so the coroner can take the body away. They're probably waiting for us."

As we shuffled back out the door, I said, "Besides, there's something I wanna look at in the car."

"What's that?" Karl asked.

"My laptop."

Karl was just slipping into the passenger side as I reached under my seat for the slim laptop computer. I heard the rear door open and close as Lacey scrambled into the back seat.

I opened up my computer, logged on, then passed it to Karl. "Here," I said. "You're better at this stuff than I am."

"What stuff?" Karl asked.

"Searching the Internet."

"Ah, hell. It's not all that hard to find porn." He glanced over his shoulder at Lacey. "Not that I would know."

"If not, you're the only guy in the world who doesn't," Lacey murmured.

"So what am I looking for, Stan?" Karl said.

"Images of the symbols that were carved into the first victim."

He looked at me. "Scranton PD never released that information. Neither did Wilkes-Barre."

"No, they didn't," I said. "But it's funny how much confidential stuff gets on the Internet without being officially released. I want to know if somebody outside law enforcement could've known what those symbols looked like."

Lacey leaned over the front seat. I could feel warm breath on the back of my neck. "You're thinking copycat?"

"Maybe," I said. "It would sure explain a few things that don't otherwise make much sense."

Despite his modesty, Karl was good at nding stuff online besides porn. His fingers were flying over the keyboard, and I could hear him swearing softly as his search efforts came up empty, one after another. Then he stopped, stared at the screen, and said, "Jesus fucking Christ on a goddamn bicycle."

"What?" I asked, although I thought I knew the answer.

"This," Karl said, and turned the screen to face me.

And there they were.

The website described the photo as showing "Actual Occult Symbols Carved into Murder Victim in Scranton PA!!!" The idiot who put it up there explained that this was somehow a sign of the oncoming Apocalypse.

Whoever he was, I hoped he was wrong.

"How the fuck did some asshole get hold of these?" Lacey said from the back seat.

"Lots of possible ways," I said. "Somebody at the coroner's office, a guy doing night shift at the morgue, the funeral home people – could've been anyone. Almost everybody's got a cell phone these days, and almost every one of those has a built-in camera."

"Yeah, be a piece of cake," Karl said. "All you'd need is some decent light and about a minute of privacy."

Lacey had her forearms crossed over the back of the front seat, her chin resting on them. "So some 'fearless vampire killer' decided to make his work look like it was done by Sligo – or whoever's been going around knocking off vamps – to throw us off the scent. That what you're saying?"

It was quiet in the car for a few seconds.

Lacey bit her lower lip for a second or two, then shook her head. "Doesn't make any sense, Stan," she said. "Mostly these Van Helsing types want publicity for their deed, if not their name. See themselves as big holy heroes. They wouldn't want a serial killer to get the credit."

"Yeah, I know," I said. "It doesn't fit the pattern. If it's a vigilante, that is."

"But what's left?" Lacey asked. "If it's not the wizard, or a fucking vampire slayer...?"

I looked over at Karl and raised my eyebrows. He saw me, and nodded slowly.

"Lacey, listen: far be it from me to tell the great Michael Twardzik, Lieutenant, Pennsylvania State Police Criminal Investigation Division, how to run one of his cases."

"Apart from the fact that he'd tell you to fuck off as soon as you opened your mouth," Karl said.

"There's that too," I said. "But he seems to like you, Lacey. Kind of."

"He's got fantasies about getting in my pants," she said, "which should be filed under G for 'Good fucking luck.'"

"Whatever the reason, he at least lets you talk to him," I said. "Which is more than Karl and I can say."

"I know about you and the academy thing," Lacey said, "but what did Karl do to piss him off?"

"Guilt by association," Karl said, with a grin.

"Anyway," I said, "the next time you have the lieutenant's ear, you might whisper in it that he should take a good hard look at the kid's parents."

Lacey just stared at me.

I said, "If it were me, I'd want to know where both parents were at the kid's time of death, whenever the coroner says that was," I said. "I might also check trash cans and storm drains in a ten-block radius, looking for some bloody clothing that somebody might have tried to get rid of. And check the sink traps in the house for blood residue – you know the routine."

"'Course I do," she said, "and I'm aware that in most murder investigations you look at family first. But why...?"

"When we were in there, I counted six nails sticking out from the walls with nothing hanging from them, and those people are too neat just to leave nails there for no reason. That's where they hung the crucifixes, the paintings of the Sacred Heart, the little frescoes of the Virgin Mary, all that. If you looked, you'd most likely find all that stuff stashed in a bureau drawer. And I'll bet that all of it will be back on the wall tomorrow, or the next day."

Lacey shook her head again, but not as if she was disagreeing with me. "I can imagine how hard it is to deal with someone in your family who's been changed," she said. "But to off your own kid in cold blood..."

"You're Catholic, aren't you, Lacey?" I asked her.

"I was raised that way, but I'm in recovery," she said with a tiny smile, which is all that old joke deserved.

Karl turned and looked at her. "You're shittin' me," he said. "How can anybody do this kind of work and not believe in God?"

"I didn't say I don't believe in God, Karl," Lacey said. "Although, if you ask me, all supes prove is the existence of the devil. I just walked away from all the Catholic bullshit. No offense, if that's your thing."

"Even so," I said, "you know the Church's views about supes – vamps, weres, goblins, the whole crew."

"Anathema," Karl said. "The pope says they're cursed by God, all of them."

"Yeah, and that's one of the reasons I took a hike," Lacey said. "Give some old man a tall hat, and all of a sudden he speaks for God? I don't think so."

"You may not be with the program any more, Lacey," I said, "but I'm betting the Dwyers were. From all indications, they were hard-core Irish, and, especially in this area, that means hard-core Catholic."

"You think they drove a stake through their own kid because some fucking priest told them to?"

"Possible, but it didn't have to happen that way. If they figured the Church would have wanted him dead, that might have been enough. It would be, for some people I grew up with. They probably told themselves they were saving his soul." I turned my head and looked at the night as it pressed against the car windows. "Who knows? Maybe they were."

We were approaching the on-ramp for 81-North when I whacked the steering wheel with one hand and said, "Damn!"

Karl was bent forward, fiddling with the radio. "What? What's wrong?"

"Just remembered something else the Staties ought to be doing: check the computer in the kid's room."

"For what – to see if he was downloading vamp porn?" I couldn't see Karl's smile in the dark, but I knew it was there.

You can find porn catering to every taste on the Internet – most of it legal, some not. Where there's a niche market, somebody will come up with product to fill it: gay, straight, bi, gimp, albino, human, nonhuman. It's all there someplace, and I guess vampire porn's been around the Internet as long as all the other kinds. I once had to check some of it out for a case I was working. I hope never to have to look at it again.

"No," I said, "I'd be more interested in finding out whether any Google searches had been done for those symbols we found carved on our first vic. If it was Mom or Dad, or both, who carved them in the kid, they had to find them first."

"Yeah, that could be useful," Karl said, "although there's no way to tell who was doing the search, if there is one. Hell, the kid could have done it."

"Not if it took place during daytime, he didn't. Anyway, it's kind of a reach for the kid to be researching symbols that later end up carved on his own corpse, isn't it? I'm pretty sure he didn't carve himself."

"You got a point there." Karl found a radio station he liked and sat back. "But what you did back there with Twardzik was pure fucking genius, Stan."

"Thanks. Too bad they don't give out Nobel Prizes for conniving."

All I'd done was suggest to Lacey that she tell the lieutenant that I was convinced James Dwyer was the latest victim of the serial vamp slayer, and in my opinion the investigation should focus on that aspect of the case and exclude all others.

Which guaranteed that Twardzik, while following the vamp slayer angle, would also spend plenty of man-hours treating the case like just another homicide. If there was any evidence of the parents' involvement, he'd find it. And then figure out a way to let me know about it, bless his little head. Both of them.

We were about a mile out from Scranton when Karl said, "Getting late."

I glanced at the dashboard clock. "Yeah, double shift is almost over. The chief won't pay for triple overtime, even if I had any energy left to do it. Which I don't."

"Yeah, I guess what-his-name, Jamieson Longworth's 'pad' will have to wait until tomorrow night." Karl scratched his chin. "Unless he has his pet wizard drop a boulder on us while we're asleep."

"If he was able to do that, he'd have done it by now."

"You hope."

"Yeah. I hope. But if you think about it, he probably hasn't–"

The police radio crackled into life. "Car 23, car 23, this is Dispatch. Do you copy? Over."

Whoever's riding shotgun handles the radio, so Karl reached out, snapped off WARM 590 AM, and picked up the mike.

"This is 23," he said. "Copy just fine. Over."

"That isn't Sergeant Markowski, is it? I'd know his voice. Over."

"No, this is Renfer, but Markowski can hear you. He's driving. What's up? Over."

"I've got a phone call just come in for Sergeant Markowski. The lady says it's urgent. Do you want me to patch it through to your vehicle? Over."

Turning my head a little, I could see Karl looking at me. "Ask if she's got a name," I said, "or knows what it's about."

"Did the caller ID herself?" Karl asked. "Over."

"Affirmative. Says her name is Joanne Gilbert."

"Doesn't ring a bell," I told Karl. "Have her leave a number, and I'll–"

The radio dispatcher spoke again. "Caller says she's Rachel Proctor's sister."

I checked the mirror, then put my foot on the brake and began easing us over to the shoulder of the road and a complete stop as I said to Karl, "Tell them to put her through."

"Hello? Hello?"

"This is Detective Sergeant Markowski speaking."

"Oh. Uh, hi. My name is Joanne Gilbert. Rachel Proctor, who I guess works with you, is my sister."

Her voice did resemble Rachel's. Joanne Gilbert sounded like someone who was trying very hard to stay calm.

"Gilbert would be your married name, then," I said.

"That's right. I live in Warwick, Rhode Island, but I've got a... message... for you from Rachel."

"Is she there with you now?" My fingers were suddenly tight around the microphone. "Because I really need to–"

"No, sir. I haven't seen Rachel in a couple of years. We were going to get together at a big family thing last Christmas, but then one of my kids got sick... you know how it is."

"Yeah, I guess I do. So, how did Rachel get in touch – email, phone call, what?"

Silence. I let it go on for a little bit, then said, "Mrs. Gilbert? You still there?"

"Yes, I'm here. It's just that this is a little... what happened was, Rachel got in touch by making me write the message down with my own hand."

This time the silence was on my end. Joanne Gilbert didn't let it last long. "Detective, if you work with Rachel, I guess you must know something about witchcraft."

"More than I ever wanted to," I muttered.

"Excuse me? What?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Gilbert. I got distracted for a second. Yes, I'm pretty familiar with witchcraft."

"Then you know that the basic Talent is genetic. You're either born with it, or you're not."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that."

"But the Talent itself is practically useless," she said, "unless you get training in how to use it."

"Right."

"Rachel made the decision to develop her Talent. I didn't. I wanted a normal life. But we've both got it. The Talent, I mean."

"And all this has something to so with the message you got from Rachel." I was in no mood to listen to lengthy explanations about stuff I already knew.

"It has everything to do with it, Detective. Look, when we were kids, Rachel and I used to play around with our ability. Nothing serious, just for our own amusement. One of the things we could do, anytime we wanted, was what they call automatic writing. We didn't even know it had a name."

"One person writes what the other one is writing, even though they can't see each other."

"Exactly. I gather it's a form of clairvoyance."

"So, this is how you got Rachel's message, through automatic writing?"

"I was sound asleep. What is it now, almost three? This was like twenty minutes ago. Rachel showed up in my dream, which isn't all that unusual. But all I could see was her face, and she was looking right at me. Wake up, Jo-Jo, she said, very seriously. Wake up and get a pen and paper. She kept saying it over and over, and finally I did wake up."

"I guess 'Jo-Jo' is some kind of pet name?" I asked.

"It's what our family called me when we were kids. So, I got out of bed, put my glasses on, and stumbled downstairs. There were some pens in the kitchen, and a pad of notepaper. I got them, and sat down at the kitchen table. As soon as the tip of the pen touched the paper, my hand started moving – writing – of its own accord."

"Do you and Rachel communicate this way often?"

"Not since I was twelve, or thereabouts."

"So, what did you write down?"

"I'll read it word-for-word." I could hear paper rustling, then she said: "Urgent you call Det. Stan Markowski, Scranton P D 717-655-0913. Tell him: Stan, I didn't hurt those poor cops. Kulick did. I was his instrument. He's very strong. I can only regain control like this for brief periods. You must stop him. We're hiding...

"And that's all of it," Joanne Gilbert told me. "As soon as I wrote hiding, the ink line was yanked away, right off the edge of the paper. I waited a little while, to see if she was going to come back, but she didn't. So I figured I'd better get moving and do what she asked me to. Rachel doesn't use words like urgent very often."

"Mrs. Gilbert–"

"I guess you might ahis was lill call me Joanne."

"Okay, fine. Joanne, would you please repeat the message again, slowly?"

"Sure." She read it again. It didn't sound any better the second time around.

In the pale green light from the dashboard, Karl and I looked at each other.

"Joanne, if you hear from Rachel again, anything at all, I want you to call me at my private number. It's very, very important." I gave her my cell phone number. "If I don't answer, please leave a message in the voicemail box, and I'll call you back as soon as I possibly can."

"All right, I'll do that," she said. Then, after a moment, "Detective?"

"May as well call me Stan."

"Stan, she's in trouble, isn't she? Bad trouble?"

I tried to keep the sigh out of my voice, but I don't think I succeeded, completely. "Yes she is, I'm sorry to say. It's pretty bad."

"Can you get her out of it?"

"I have to," I said. "I'm the one who got her into it."

• • • •

After four hours of restless sleep, I went back to work. Telling McGuire about my phone call from Rachel's sister was at the top of my to-do list, but when I walked into the squad room I could see that he had visitors.

Two men in gray suits stood in front of McGuire's desk, talking to him. One was middle-aged, and average size; the other one was younger, and bigger. I could tell their suits were expensive – better quality than most cops wear, even the federales.

Minding my own business is usually something that I'm pretty good at, but the hairs on the back of my neck were bristling, for a reason I couldn't pinpoint. It could have been the expression on McGuire's face, which made him look like a man who's just had to swallow a medium-sized turd. Or maybe it was the way the two strangers held themselves – still and yet tense, like piano wire stretched tight. And piano wire is what they use in a garrote.

I wandered over to the back of the big room, thinking I'd stick my head into the reception area and ask Louise the Tease if she knew what was up. But before I could reach her desk, McGuire looked up, saw me, and motioned me over.

I stepped inside McGuire's office and closed the door behind me. The two guys in gray had turned to look at me, and that's when I saw that each of them wore a clerical collar.

Priests wear black suits, which meant these guys were Protestants. But my work brings me into regular contact with the local clergy, and I knew every one in the area by sight, no matter what denomination.

What did a couple of out-of-town ministers want with McGuire – or, for that matter, with me?

It didn't take long to find out.

"This is Detective Sergeant Markowski," McGuire said. His voice was flat, as if he had squeezed all feeling out of it. "He's the lead detective on the case."

To me he said, in the same detached tone, "This is Reverend Ferris," with a head gesture toward the older guy, "and his associate, Reverend Crane."

I figured I ought to shake hands – what else was I going to do? I was extending my hand toward the younger guy, Crane, as McGuire continued, "The reverends, here, are witchfinders."

I froze for a second. Witchfinders. Fortunately, Crane's hand was already on its way to mine, and I clasped and pumped it a couple of times by reflex. Then came the older guy. I was moving okay by then, but Ferris held the handshake longer than you'd expect, staring at me intently.

After he let go, the st continued for a moment longer before he said, "You have the odor of witchcraft about you, Sergeant."

Before I could say anything, Ferris gave me a little smile and went on, "But that is to be expected of any guardian of the public order who must deal with these abominations on a regular basis. Certainly it is nowhere near as strong as we find in a true practitioner of the black arts."

"Well, that's good," I said. "For a second there, I thought I needed another shower."

"Witchcraft is no subject for humor, Detective," Crane said. His voice was thin and nasally, like the whine of a mosquito just before it bites you. "Consorting with the devil is a matter of utmost seriousness."

"Peace, Richard," Ferris said, laying a light hand on the younger guy's arm. "I'm sure the sergeant meant no harm." He gave me a wider version of the smile this time, but his gray eyes were as cold as January slush.

"The reverends here were sent for by the chief, on orders from the mayor," McGuire said. "Who is very concerned that a witch cop-killer is still at large." McGuire seemed about as overjoyed to see them as I was, although maybe for different reasons.

He probably didn't like the implication that he wasn't doing his job as head of the Supe Squad. But it was the prospect of these two self-righteous pricks going after Rachel, and what they'd do if they found her, that scared the shit out of me.

"Yeah, about that," I said. "I got an interesting phone call while Karl and I were on our way back from Pittston last night – or, rather, this morning." I ran down for them what Rachel's sister in Rhode Island had told me.

"That supports what you've been saying ever since Rachel disappeared from the hospital," McGuire said thoughtfully, once I'd finished.

The Reverends Ferris and Crane, however, looked as if I'd just told a filthy joke about one of their mothers.

"I hope you're not inclined to treat this... account seriously, Lieutenant," Ferris said.

McGuire looked at him. "Are you saying you think Detective Markowski made this all up?" he said slowly. There was nothing threatening in his voice, but I still saw the older witchfinder swallow a couple of times. Say this for McGuire, he stands up for his people.

"No, of course not," Ferris said, his voice sounding like he hadn't completely ruled it out. "But even if the sister's account of this automatic writing business is true – which it may not be – we can hardly expect anything but deceit from those who have given their allegiance to the Father of Lies himself."

"'Their delight is in lies; they give good words with their mouth, but curse with their heart'," Crane intoned.

"The Book of Common Prayer, 62:4," Ferris said, nodding. "Exactly."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You're saying we shouldn't believe anything Rachel says about not practicing black magic, because everybody knows that people who do black magic lie? I'm pretty sure that's what my Jesuit teachers would call circular reasoning."

"Jesuits," Crane said, with a smirk. "We know all about them."

Before I was able to get in his face about that, Ferris said, "Regardless of how you twist our words, Detective, the fact remains that the woman is already on record as practicing witchcraft. As I understand it, that's even in her job description."

"Rachel Proctor's job title is 'consulting witch', it's true," McGuire said. "But the job position specifies the practice of white witchcraft exclusively."

The two witchfinders looked at each other, their expressions saying as clearly as words, What are we to do with such idiots?

"Black witchcraft, white witchcraft," Crane said. "The important word in each phrase is the noun, not the modifier: witchcraft."

McGuire leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk blotter. "Let me see if I've got this straight," he said. "You fellas don't see any difference between black witchcraft and white? None at all?"

Ferris shrugged his narrow shoulders. "We are aware that various apologists have argued the distinction, claiming that so-called white witchcraft is somehow less pernicious than the other variety. In practice, Reverend Crane and I have found little difference between them."

This conversation was becoming so ridiculous that I didn't even know what to say. It's true that black witchcraft is exactly what these two clowns had been talking about: you mortgage your soul to Satan, in return for supernatural power to do evil: curses, deadly spells, stuff like that. But white witchcraft, an outgrowth of Wicca, derives its power from nature and can't be used to hurt people, except sometimes in self-defense. The difference is as obvious as, well, black and white.

Fortunately, McGuire wasn't stuck mute by this bullshit. "Well, here's one difference the two of you had best keep in mind," he said. "The practice of black witchcraft is a felony, subject in some cases to capital punishment. But white witchcraft is legal, and protected by the law, just like any other kind of free expression."

Crane drew breath to speak, but again Ferris quieted him with a touch on the arm. The older witchfinder drew himself up and his voice was frosty when he said, "We are well aware of the law, Lieutenant, and it will be followed to the letter. We shall lawfully apprehend this witch Rachel Proctor, and we shall then put her to the question as to the nature of her recent activities, just as the law allows. And when – excuse me, if – she confesses to the practice of black witchcraft, which is both a crime against the state and an offense before Almighty God..."

Ferris turned his head to look at me for a second before returning his gaze to McGuire. "... then we shall lawfully show unto her, God's judgment, exactly as Scripture has specified."

He turned away and walked stiffly toward the office door. Crane stood looking at us, however. Maybe he felt the need to add to his boss's little oration, or maybe it was his job to have the last word. Before following Ferris out of the office, Crane looked at us and declared, with the certainly that only the truly self-righteous ever achieve, "Exodus 22:18. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

In the silence that followed, Crane's words seemed to hang in the air like a storm cloud. Before either of us could speak, there was a tap on McGuire's open office door, and Karl walked in.

"I was watching from the squad room," he said. "What the hell was that about?"

I quickly ran down for him who the visitors were, and what they intended. When I finished, Karl just shook his head.

McGuire leaned back in his chair. "You know, I've been thinking about Rachel quite a bit lately. Trying to figure how she could do evil shit like that to anybody, let alone a couple of cops. It didn't seem like her, to put it mildly."

"And now we know it wasn't her – well, not really her," I said.

"So you believe the sister?" McGuire asked me.

"Yeah," I said. "I do."

McGuire nodded slowly. "I think maybe I do, too." He moved some stuff around on his desk that didn't need moving. "Well, possession has been used successy as a legal defense before. Kulick's not a demon, exactly, but the principle's probably the same, under the law."

"She's not gonna get the chance to make her case in court – not if those two sanctimonious bastards get hold of her," I said.

"I didn't know there even were such things as witchfinders anymore," Karl said. "They didn't tell us about it at the academy, and nobody's mentioned it since I joined the squad, either."

"Nobody in law enforcement talks about them much," I said. "They're kind of a dirty little secret."

"Why should they have any better chance of finding Rachel then you and me?" he asked. "Or even as good a chance, since we know the town and they don't?"

"Because they've got a Talent," McGuire said. "Some people, like Rachel and her sister, are born with the Talent for magic, and others are born with a Talent for sniffing it out. It's kind of like the polar opposite of the witchcraft Talent. Most people who have it don't even know they do."

"But what they're doing is fucking vigilantism," Karl said. "And that's against the law, goddammit."

"It is and it isn't," McGuire said sourly. "Their brand of vigilantism is actually legal in Pennsylvania, and most of the New England states."

"That's because when they were colonies, there were laws on the books against witchcraft," I told Karl. "Laws that nobody ever got around to repealing."

"So these fuckers can kidnap Rachel, torture her until she confesses, and then... what?" Karl asked.

"Burn her alive," McGuire said. "Just like in Europe, five hundred fucking years ago."

I looked at McGuire, then at Karl. My throat felt tight as I said, "Unless we find her first."

As we left McGuire's office, Louise the Tease motioned us over. She had the phone receiver in one hand, and she held it out to me as I reached her desk. "It's for you," she said. "Some doctor, says he's at the hospital."

As my hand reached out, I ran down the list of all the bad things this could mean. It's a good thing my mind works fast, because the list was a long one.

I took the phone. "This is Detective Sergeant Markowski. Who's this?"

"Hello, Detective." The voice was male, and deep. "This is Dr Barry Santangelo at Mercy Hospital. Benjamin Prescott, that man from DC who suffered a recent stroke, is a patient of mine."

He's dead, I thought. Prescott's dead, and they're gonna say it's my fault. And maybe they're right.

But what I heard instead was, "Mr Prescott has come out of his coma."

A few seconds went by while I got used to breathing again. I hadn't even realized I'd stopped.

"Detective? Still there?"

"Yeah, sorry, Doctor. That's great news, really great."

"Relapse is always a possibility in these cases, of course, but not very likely. I just finished a thorough neurological examination, and it's my opinion that Mr Prescott is going to stay awake – and, quite possibly, recover completely."

"I'm really glad to hear he's going to be okay."

"It's a nice change for me, to be the bearer of good news," Santangelo said, "but that's not why I'm calling."

"Oh? What is it, then?"

"Well, Mr Prescott's still in intensive care for the time being, that's standard procedure with coma patients. Still... I don't see a problem in this case."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, you lost me. Problem with what?"

"Prescott wants to see you. You and your partner."

• • • •

I'd first been to Mercy's Intensive Care Unit when Christine was a patient there. That was before I took her home and... did what I did. The place doesn't exactly have happy associations for me, but I suppose that's true for most people.

In my case, the creepiness factor was ramped up by the fact that I'd recently been looking at video of this very area, trying to figure out what had happened to Rachel Proctor. I thought I knew the answer to that now, but the knowledge didn't keep me from a mild case of the willies as Karl and I took turns rubbing foamy disinfectant over our hands from the dispenser they keep just outside the door.

"I hate this place," Karl said softly. "But maybe not so much today as usual. You ready?"

I nodded, and he used his hip to nudge the saucersized metal plate that was set into the wall. The double doors opened, and I followed him through.

I've been in a few hospital ICUs, and they're all laid out essentially the same: a big circular chamber, with glass-enclosed patient rooms along the outer ring and a monitoring station in the middle that looks like something you'd find on the bridge of a battleship. The thin, middle-aged nurse behind the desk facing the door had the same calm face and emotionless delivery you find in ICU nurses everywhere. "Can I help you?"

"We're here to see one of the patients," Karl said. "Ben Prescott."

She glanced at one of the three monitors in front of her, then looked up and said, "Visitors in Intensive Care are restricted, sir. Are you members of the immediate family?"

I had the ID folder with my shield ready, and I flipped it open so she could see it. As she was taking that in, I said, "Dr Santangelo called us. He said it would be okay." I spoke softly. An ICU has that effect on people – like a funeral home, which my mom's generation used to call a "corpse house."

She pressed something on her keyboard a couple of times, then looked at the screen again. "Mr. Prescott is in Room 9, officers," she said calmly. "To your right."

We thanked her, and went to see the guy we had almost killed.

Prescott didn't look bad, considering what he'd been through. But he wasn't as elegant as he'd been behind the podium. The well-tailored suit had been replaced by a hospital gown, of course. I was momentarily surprised that they'd had one to fit him, but I guess hospitals are prepared for a wide range of patients. Prescott's hair was greasy-looking, and he had a pretty good beard stubble going. I guess the ICU staff had been more concerned with keeping him alive than well-groomed.

"You two look familiar," he said. "And since you're not dressed as priests, I assume you're the two detectives who, they say, saved my life." His mellow tenor was scratchy and hoarse now; he'd probably had a breathing tube down his throat for a long time.

He doesn't remember! The stroke must've killed the brain cells where his most recent memories were stored. He doesn't know that it was me who caused him to inhale the piece of shrimp, which brought on the stroke – which nearly sent him to that Great Lecture Hall in the Sky, or so the doc said.

"All cops receive training in CPR and the Heimlich maneuver, Professor," I said. "I'm just glad we were nearby when you started to choke."

I walked close to the bed and put my hand out to shake. "Stan Markowski, Scranton PD, pleased to meet you." I gestured behind me. "And this is my partner, Karl Renfer. He's the one who did the Heimlich on you." Karl came over and shook hands.

"WellI'm grateful to you both," Prescott said. "Thank you for saving me. Thank you very, very much."

Strokes sometimes change people's personalities. If that's what happened here, I figured I was going to like Prescott 2.0 better than the original version.

"What's the last thing you remember?" I asked him. "At the reception, I mean."

Prescott shook his head slowly. "I remember shaking hands and smiling at a lot of people, all of whose faces are just a blur to me now… And I remember there was a bowl of iced shrimp nearby that I was hitting pretty hard. I love shrimp – or, at least I used to. They tell me that's what I was choking on. Must've swallowed too fast." He frowned. "I'm not sure that shrimp, iced or otherwise, will ever be on the menu for me again. We'll see."

"Detective Renfer and I were close by, because we hoped to have a word with you, about a case we're working on," I said, with a straight face. "But you... got into trouble... before we had the chance."

I saw Prescott's eyes narrow as he looked at me.

Uh-oh. It is starting to come back to him?

"Markowski..." he said thoughtfully. "We had a phone conversation, didn't we, a few days before I came north?"

"Yes, sir, that's right. We did."

"I don't remember what we talked about, but I have the vague impression that I was pretty snotty to you." The frown of concentration gave way to a smile. "If so, please accept my apologies. I'm often rude to people, I'm afraid." He was silent for a couple of seconds. "Maybe it's time I stopped."

Karl and I looked at each other. The raised eyebrows he was showing were reflected on my own face.

"Well, I gather it's been a while since your last attempt to talk to me, Detective," Prescott said, "but if it's not too late to help your case, let's give it another try. I believe I owe you, and" – he made a gesture that took in the whole room – "my secretary seems to have cleared my calendar for the rest of the morning."

He started coughing then, a dry hack that sounded loud in the small room. I started toward the nightstand next to his bed, but he waved me away, reached over himself and grabbed a red plastic tumbler full of ice water. After several long sips through the bent straw, he put the tumbler down. The coughing had stopped.

"Sorry," he said. "Throat's still a little raw." Prescott leaned back against the pillows behind him. "So, what is it you wanted to know about?"

"A book that you've translated," I said. "Parts of it, anyway. It's called the Opus Mago."

Prescott looked at me and blinked a couple of times. Then he slowly turned back toward the nightstand, got the tumbler again, and took a long sip of water. I didn't know if he was still thirsty or just buying time.

He put the tumbler back. "Well," he said. "I suppose that explains my rudeness over the phone earlier, not" – he waved a hasty hand – "that it constitutes an excuse."

Prescott stared at me some more. Then he gave a long sigh and said, "Can you tell me why you need to know about this... book? Forgive me if it's ground we've already covered, but…" He made a gesture toward his head.

"No, that's not a problem," I said, then ran it down for him again – the symbols on the corpses, what we'd learned from Vollman, all of it.

Prescott had been studying the backs of his hands during most of my recitation, and he was still looking at them when he said, "I owe my life to both of you. It could have all ended for me on the floor of that banquet room, and what an embarrassment that you'hat would have been."

He looked up then – first at Karl, then at me. "So, in a very real sense, every moment of my life from that point forward is a gift from the gods." A smile came and went. "By way of the Scranton Police Department. And, despite my other failings, I'm a man who pays his debts."

He looked at his hands again, then back at me. "All right, Detective. It doesn't amount to much, but I'll tell you what I know about the Opus Mago."

"Although the book was published in 1640, by a man who was burned at the stake for his trouble, most of its contents are far older. The pages I worked with have passed through who knows how many hands, over who knows how many centuries. Nothing is numbered, so it's difficult to tell what order they are supposed to be in. So I just picked one, more or less at random, and began work.

"It was slow going. Despite the Latin name by which it's known today, most of the book is written in an obscure dialect of Ancient Sumerian that, if I may flatter myself, very few scholars are capable of working with.

"The fragment that came into my possession consists of sixteen pages. I got through six, then stopped. Of the material I did translate, I believe some of it does pertain to this spell or ritual that you've described, which some madman is apparently trying to perform.

"The section I worked on reveals that the total number of sacrifices required is five, and that they all be vampires – although the term used in the text is ghosts who suck blood. And the fifth, final sacrifice must take place as the ritual itself is being performed. A sort of culmination of the vampire bloodletting, if you will. I also get the impression, although the text is ambiguous on this point, that the rite can only be performed successfully by someone who is a worker of magic – which is the Ancient Sumerian term for wizard, and also a ghost who sucks blood. Someone who combines the attributes of both wizard and vampire, if such a thing is even possible."

I looked at Karl, who returned my gaze and probably my expression. "Oh, yeah," I said. "It's possible, all right."

Vollman.

"And that's as much as I know, based on the fragments I've translated," Prescott said.

"Why did you stop?" Karl asked him.

Prescott studied the backs of his hands again, as if he hoped to find the answers to all of life's mysteries written there. Eventually, he looked up.

"I stopped at the sixth page, because of a passage I found there, near the bottom. I believe I can recite it verbatim – God knows I've read it enough times. My little cerebral episode hasn't erased that part of my memory, more's the pity."

Prescott closed his eyes, and when he spoke it was in a different tone from his usual conversational voice.

"Let any man who reveals the secrets of this sacred book to strangers be accursed for all time. He shall be blinded, then castrated, then dismembered, then burned, to serve as instruction and example to any who would dare let these words become known to those uninitiated in our rites."

Prescott opened his eyes again and spoke in his normal voice. "Scary stuff, huh?"

"I guess you took it pretty seriously, then," I said.

"Detective, this is a world in which we find werewolves, vampires, witchcraft, goblins, and I don't know what else. What's in that book is a curse, and yes, I took it seriously."

I nodded. "And yet you just told us everything you found there – all that bears on our case, anyway."

Prescott leaned back and spread his hands. "I'm on borrowed time, remember? By rights, I should be dead and buried by now. That, or a vegetable hooked up to some machine for the next thirty years, until my heart gives out." He put his hands back in his lap. "Besides, it looks as if you've got something pretty nasty brewing here in Scranton. I can't sit by and let it happen – not if I have information that will stop it."

I started to speak, but he held out his hand, like a traffic cop. "I know what you're going to say. What I've given you won't stop what's being prepared by this lunatic Sligo. And you'd be right. But maybe there's something in the rest of the Opus Mago fragment that will."

"Look," I said, "I appreciate the offer, more than you know. But even though you woke up from the coma, you're probably still a sick man. Flying back to Washington–"

"I have no intention of flying back to Washington, at least, not in the near future. The good Dr Santangelo made it very clear that he wants me to stay under observation, for at least a week. And since I have no desire to suffer another stroke, I'm inclined to agree with him."

Prescott ran a hand slowly through his greasy hair. "But if I call my research assistant at G-town and describe what I need, she'll get it all together, and send it FedEx overnight. That's likely to be expensive as hell–" he grew a little smile "–so I'll let the university pay for it."

The smile became a grin, even if it seemed a little forced. "By tomorrow, or at latest the day after, I should have those fragments here – or rather in my regular hospital room, where I gather I'm headed shortly. I will also have her send the proper dictionaries and any other research tools I can't get off the Internet. I assume they have wi-fi here at the hospital?"

"If they don't, I will personally have it installed for you," I said.

"This kind of work is slow going," he said, "but I'll push as hard as I can, given–" he made the gesture toward his head again "–everything. I know there's a time factor, so we'd best not waste any. In fact, my phone should be in my jacket pocket, which is probably hanging in that little closet over there. If one of you gentlemen would be so kind…"

• • • •

As we pulled out of the hospital parking lot, Karl said, "I'm not too well up on curses. Missed the two lectures on them at the academy, because I got the flu, and never made them up. There was some stuff I was supposed to read on my own, but you know how it is."

"Yeah, I do. There's always something else to think about."

"If the curse Prescott told us about is the real deal, who's gonna carry it out? I mean, the fucking pages aren't gonna grow arms to cut him up and burn him with, are they?"

"Probably not," I told him. "A curse – a real one, not the crap that some gypsies deal in – usually involves a pact with a demon, one that's pretty low in the infernal pecking order. The lower they are, the weaker, and that much easier to summon and control."

"Yeah, I didn't miss Demonology. I know that part."

"Okay, then. So a curse, if it's legit, sets up preconditions for the demon to operate under. It's like one of those old mummy movies you see on TV late at night. A bunch of archeologists find Ramah-HoHaina's burial chamber, and go in for a look-see. And the usual looting, of course."

"'Course," Karl said. "Can't have a mummy movie without looting."

"So, say that back when old Ramah-Ho-Haina dies, the burial party includes a pretty powerful wizard. He puts a curse in place that automatically summons the demon if anybody messes with omb. Doesn't matter if it takes like three thousand years to kick in – demons don't give a shit, they're not going anyplace."

"Yeah, I've seen those movies," Karl said. "The evil spirit follows the scientists home, then does a number on them, one by one."

"Right, and the kind of number it does is one of the things that the wizard set up thousands of years ago."

"So Prescott could be letting himself in for some serious shit, helping us."

I shrugged. "Maybe. Just because some dude writes down that there's a curse doesn't mean there really is one. Still, we better assume the worst."

"But, the hospital's already protected, Stan. It's gotta be. People die in there all the time, and they sure don't want demons hanging around, waiting to grab up somebody's soul."

"Sure, it's protected. But I don't want to take any chances with something like this. We need to get some additional wards placed around Prescott's hospital room. Normally, that would be Rachel's job."

"Yeah, I know. So, we'll have to subcontract it out," Karl said. "I know a couple of first-class witches..."

"Call one of them," I said. "Now."

"We don't have authorization yet, Stan."

"Fuck it – I'll pay for it myself, if McGuire's feeling stingy. Now call, will you?"

Karl opened his phone, but then stopped to look at me. "You really worried about this curse thing?"

"Some," I said. "But it's more than that."

Karl was squinting at his phone's directory. "Like what?"

"I'm thinking about what might happen if Sligo gets wind of what Prescott's up to."

Karl thought for a moment. "He'd probably want to do something about it, wouldn't he?"

"Yeah. Shit, I would, in his place."

"And since we know that, if we were ready for him..."

"Uh-uh. No way, no how. I'm not using the guy as bait. We fuck it up, and Prescott's toast. There's got to be another way to get this fucking Sligo."

"Hope we think of it soon," Karl said, and began to tap in numbers.

At certain times of the day, getting around Scranton is quicker if you use side streets and stay away from the main thoroughfares, such as they are. That's what I was doing, and I managed to get the speed up to about forty while Karl tried to track down a witch who had apparently changed her phone number a couple of times.

A hundred feet or so ahead, a black cat was just starting to lead three of her kittens across the wide street. I'm fond of animals, so I figured I'd better speed up a little – that way, I'd be past them and gone before they reached my side of the road. I could've just slowed down and let then go first, but that would mean a black cat – hell, four of them – would be crossing my path. I'm not superstitious or anything, but I still thought that was a bad idea.

Turned out I was right.

Because if I hadn't speeded up right about then, the dead body that fell on top of us would have gone right through the windshield, instead of just putting a humongous dent in the roof.

Close to two hundred pounds of dead weight moving that fast – it might well have killed one or both of us if it had gone through the glass, or at least hurt us pretty bad.

But we were fine. Being scared shitless doesn't count. Or so they tell me.

I've been around plenty of crime scenes, but this was the first time I found myself the focus of one. Since there was igh place nearby – either manmade or natural – that the guy could have jumped, fell, or been pushed from, the first uniforms on the scene started kicking around the idea that maybe I'd hit a pedestrian who'd been crossing the street – him hard enough with the front bumper to toss his body onto the car's roof. The pricks.

The doc from the M.E.'s office put the kibosh on that pretty soon, though. Even without an autopsy, body temperature showed the dude had been dead for at least two hours.

The M.E.'s guy wasn't a guy this time, but a gal. Instead of Homer, they'd sent a thin, I mean really thin young woman named Cecelia Reynolds. Fine with me – she's as good at pathology as Homer, maybe better. I'm always telling her, in a kidding way, to go eat a cookie, and she usually responds, in an equally joking way, by telling me to go fuck myself.

I was explaining, to the third pair of my brother officers – these two from Homicide – what had happened to Karl and me, when Cecelia called me over. She was squatting over the dead guy, who had come to rest on the asphalt after sliding off the car's roof.

"We're just about to bag him," she said to me, "but I thought you'd be interested in this."

Cecelia tugged on a fresh pair of latex gloves. "It was just a hunch I had," she said, "and turns out, I was right." She leaned forward and used her fingers to peel back the corpse's upper lip.

Fangs. Two nice long, sharp vampire canines.

"Thanks, Cecelia," I said after a moment. "And, listen: I realize you can't undress him here, but when you get him on the table, I'm betting you'll find some weird symbols, probably three of then, carved into the body someplace. If you do, I'd be real grateful if you'd give me a call, okay?"

She looked at me for a couple of seconds before nodding slowly. "Okay, Stan, I'll be sure to do that."

I straightened up and headed back to the Homicide cops to answer more questions. There wasn't any doubt in my mind that Cecelia would find three more of the arcane symbols carved into the dead guy. Because now that I knew he was a vamp, I was also pretty sure I knew something else about him, too.

He was the fourth sacrifice.

• • • •

Whenever a cop is involved in anything where somebody gets killed, whether it's an officer-involved shooting or something more unusual, like having a dead guy drop out of the sky on you, Internal Affairs takes over – and the only reason we don't call them Infernal Affairs is that we don't want to be insulting to Hell.

I had to relate the details of my current case, over and over, to a couple of IA cops named Famalette and Sullivan. Karl was going through a similar routine down the hall with another pair from the Rat Squad. Maybe my two interrogators figured I'd get sick of the repetition sooner or later, and confess to something, just to make it stop.

But they didn't get any confessions out of me, because I hadn't done anything. And I kept bringing the conversation back to the central fact that the undead guy had been truly dead for at least two hours before he ended up on top of my car, however the hell he got there.

"How do you know the vamp had been iced two hours earlier?" Famalette asked, as if he'd just caught me in a slip-up. He had a rubber band wrapped around the spread fingers of one hand and he kept twanging it with the other. I think Internal Affairs training must include lessons on how to be annoying.

"Because the M.E. doc said so. What's her name – Reynolds."

"The M.E.'s report hasn't even been filed yet," Famalette said, in an a-ha tone.

"She told me at the scene. She knew from the body temp."

"What's she doing revealing confidential information like that to you?"

"She thought I'd be interested," I said, "since I'm the one who had the dead guy dropped on top of him, and all. Well, me and my partner. And who says it's confidential?"

"All M.E. reports are confidential, Markowski, you oughta know that," Famalette said.

"Yeah, but the M.E. report hasn't been filed yet – you said so, yourself."

His face started going red, and he turned away.

"You real chummy with this chick from the M.E.'s office?" Sullivan asked me. He had a Brillo pad of curly hair that reminded me of that singer from the Seventies, Art Garfunkel. I hoped that he wasn't going to break into "Bridge Over Troubled Water" – although even that would have been better than the crap I'd been listening to for the last two hours.

"Chummy?" I said. "I dunno – the last thing she said to me was 'Go fuck yourself.' Draw your own conclusions."

"You sure the one you're fucking isn't her?" Sullivan said with a leer.

"Not me," I said. "I like women with some meat on their bones." Like Lacey Brennan, for instance, but I kept that thought to myself.

Famalette turned back from some graffiti on the wall he'd been pretending to read, still twanging that damn rubber band like a Spaghetti Western soundtrack. "You don't like vampires much, do you, Markowski?"

"Vamps aren't so bad," I said. "At least, I never heard of one working for Internal Affairs."

"Word is," Sullivan said, "you'd just as soon stake a vampire as have lunch."

I shrugged. "Depends on what's for lunch."

Sullivan leaned close, and his breath should have been banned by the Geneva Convention. "Face it, Markowski, you're not exactly broken up over this vamp's death, are you?"

"I wouldn't be broken up if you two walked in front of a truck tomorrow," I said. "Doesn't mean I'd be the one behind the wheel."

"Are you threatening us, Markowski?" Famalette said, trying for indignant and failing.

I just shook my head slowly and wondered how much longer it was going to last.

Eventually they turned me loose. Karl, too. The rat fuckers had no case, and no choice. McGuire agreed with that assessment, and he told Karl and me as much in his office. By then it was end of shift – the double shift that Karl and I had pulled, again. I'd planned to spend the time doing something more useful than answering questions for morons, but McGuire was philosophical.

"They're like the clap," he said. "The best you can do is take precautions and try to avoid them."

Karl and I laughed at that. Then McGuire said, "None of which answers the question of who dropped a dead vamp on top of you guys – and why?"

"Not to mention how," Karl said.

"Had to've been magic," I said.

"I wonder." McGuire leaned back in his chair. "I've been thinking about this. Let's say the vamp is in bat form, and he's flapping along, on his way to Joe's Blood Bank, or someplace. But there's a guy on the ground, or maybe on a roof, who's got a rifle loaded with silver, or that charcoal stuff we've been seeing lately. Bang! He nails Mr Bat, who turns back into human form upon death, like they do, whereupon gravity takes over and he drops like a rock – right on top of you."

I glanced at Karl. I was pretty sure we had the same thing in mind: this is what happens the boss has too much time to think about stuff.

"Be a hell of a shot," I said. "Especially at night."

"More than that, it fails the test of Occam's Razor," Karl said.

"Whose razor?" McGuire asked.

"William of Occam, big philosopher dude in the Middle Ages. He said that 'The simplest explanation that fits the known facts is probably true.'"

McGuire and I both stared at him.

Karl shrugged. "Just something I read in a magazine, is all. But it makes sense. No disrespect, boss, but that thing with the rifle is just too complicated to be real likely."

McGuire didn't get mad. "I wasn't pushing it," he said. "It was just a thought. And if that's not what happened, then why is some magician dropping a dead vamp on a couple of cops?"

"We might have the beginning of an answer once I hear from Cecelia Reynolds," I said. "She's doing the post on the vamp and I asked her to look for those symbols carved on the body."

"Oh, right," McGuire said. He rummaged through the mess on his desk and came up with a phone message slip, which he handed to me. "She called while you were in with the Rat Squad. Wants you to call back."

I got out my cell phone. "You mind?" I asked him.

"Nah, go ahead."

I called the number that Cecelia had left. It rang five or six times, and I was just thinking that I was going to have to leave a voicemail message when she came on the line.

"This is Dr Reynolds."

"Stan Markowski, Cecelia. I'm calling–"

"–about your vamp, right." Cecelia's phone manner tends to be kind of brusque.

"You called, so I'm assuming you found–"

"–weird symbols carved into the corpse. Yeppir, we got 'em. In the back, between the shoulder blades. Almost certainly post-mortem."

"Were there–"

"Three of 'em? Yep, just like you predicted, Stan."

"Okay, I'll need–"

"Photos, check. Ronnie already took 'em. Close up, middle distance, side angles, the whole nine yards. Give me your–"

"Email address?" Two can play this game. "Sure, here it is."

I gave her the address I use for official business. Cecelia promised to get photos to me within the hour, then hung up.

I told McGuire and Karl what she'd said.

"Which means that's number four," Karl said. "Just like you figured, Stan."

McGuire looked at me. "Somebody was trying to send you guys a message."

"That's not all they were doing," I said. "Remember, I sped up kind of sudden, to avoid hitting a cat that was crossing the street."

"Yeah, that's right," McGuire said. "I hope you told Internal Affairs about the cat – they'll probably wanna interview it."

"So it was a hit," Karl said. "The body was intended to go through the windshield, right on top of us – along with all that broken glass."

"Yeah," I said, "and that's where this gets really fucked up. The esoteric marks on the corpse means it's Sligo – or whoever's been offing all these vamps." I hadn't forgotten about Vollman – not after Prescott said this hard spell had to be carried out by a vampire/wizard.

McGuire nodded, then made a "Go on" gesture with one hand.

"But now we've got another hit attempt, using magic. We've been operating on the assumption–"

"But somebody who's involved in the vamp sacrifices just tried to kill us," I said. "And that means, one of our assumptions was wrong, either about Sligo or Longworth..."

There was silence in the little room before McGuire finally put it into words.

"Or the two of them are working together."

I needed sleep badly. My skull felt like it was packed full of wet cotton, and I knew that any heavy thinking was out of the question before I grabbed some z's. And in light of what we'd been discussing in McGuire's office, some very heavy thinking was going to be in order.

Karl and I left the building together, like we usually did. There wasn't much conversation along the way. We were both beat, and besides, whatever there was to say, we'd already said it in McGuire's office.

As we reached the cracked asphalt of the parking area I said, "I can probably function okay if I get six hours – how about you?"

"That seems about right, I guess." Karl didn't sound happy about it, and I didn't blame him.

"Then why don't we plan to come back on shift at–"

"Stan." Something in Karl's voice brought me to full alertness in the space of a quick breath.

"What is it?"

"There's somebody near your car, but on the other side of the fence."

I slowly pushed my sport coat back and reached for the Beretta on my right hip. A second later, I heard the soft click as Karl thumbed back the hammer on the Glock he carried.

"What're you packing?" I asked softly.

"Silver, cold iron, and garlic-dipped lead, alternating," he said. "You?"

"Straight silver," I told him, "but it's been blessed by the bishop."

Now that Karl had warned me, I could dimly see a single figure standing in the street, practically pressed up against the fence just opposite my Toyota. Whoever it was must have seen us notice him, but didn't try to hide or run away. He just stood there, waiting.

As we walked forward, Karl and I separated, so as not to give whoever it was a twofer target. The parking area was warded, and those wards had been amped up considerably since somebody had gotten in with a couple of Medusa statues. But it's impossible to guard against all possible spells, and the wards might not stop someone outside the fence with a gun. No system's perfect.

We had almost reached my Toyota when I realized who it was, standing on the other side of the fence. "It's all right, Karl," I said, and holstered my weapon. The still figure spoke for the first time.

"Hello, Daddy."

• • • •

"You know, you could've come into the fucking station house if you'd wanted to see me, instead of lurking around the parking lot like this," I said. "It's a public building – you don't need to get permission." I'm not sure if I was being pissy because I was tired, or because of the momentary fright she'd given me.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your brother officers," Christine said, the sarcasm more in her voice than in the words. "And as for lurking, that's what we undead do best – but I guess you know that."

I took a breath and got better control of myself. "Well, if you want to talk, meet me at the gate. Or I'llgo out there, if you'd rather."

"Let's talk like this," she said. "Sunrise in less than ten minutes. Thanks to you, I haven't got much time."

Well, if you'd let me know you were out here... I kept the thought to myself. There was no point in getting into one of our arguments now – not with dawn so close.

I remembered that Karl was standing a few yards to my right. "It's okay," I said. "Go on home, get some sleep. I'll see you about 1:00, okay?"

"Is this your partner, Daddy?" Christine asked. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" I saw a glimmer of white in what could have been a smile.

Without voicing the sigh that I felt, I said, "Karl, meet my daughter, Christine, who you've heard me talk about. Christine, this is Karl Renfer."

I saw Karl nod. "Hiya. Hard to shake hands through the fence, but, anyway – hi."

"He's told you about me? The vamp daughter?"

"Yeah, he has," Karl said in a neutral voice.

"And did he tell you how I came to join the ranks of the bloodsucking undead?"

"Christine," I said, "there's no fucking time–"

Karl spoke over me. "Yeah, he did. And he told me why, too. He couldn't stand to watch you die, because he loves you so much."

I thought I heard Christine draw in a breath, but I must have imagined it, since she doesn't need to breathe. She looked at me a moment, then turned back to Karl. "Then why doesn't he–"

"Christine!" It was the voice I'd used to show I was serious, back when she was... human. "Unless you want to find out the hard way what sunlight does to vampires, you better say what you came for, and quick."

When she spoke again, her voice was emotionless. "Okay, then, I will. There's a rumor that you killed another vampire. Ran him down with your car, like a dog in the street."

"And you believed that bullshit?" I said.

"No, I didn't. That's why I'm here. Wanna tell me what happened?"

What the hell, it can't do any harm. And I'd rather not have every vamp in town looking for a piece of me. Not now.

Being as concise as possible, I ran it down for her. When I'd finished, Karl said, "For whatever it's worth, I know he's telling the truth. I was there."

I saw Christine nod at Karl. "I know. I believe him."

The fact that I could see her better meant it was getting lighter out. False dawn, probably, with the real thing not far behind.

"I'll put the word out," she said to me. "I had noticed the unmarked car at the end of the lot with a huge dent in the roof, but it's nice to hear it from the source."

"Good," I said. "I'm glad you don't just have to take my word for it." Sarcasm was slipping out, and I reined it in, hard. "One thing before you go: a guy who would know says that the only one who could pull off this spell would be a vamp, uh, vampire who is also a wizard. You hear of anybody like that?"

After a moment she said, "Mr Vollman, of course."

"Yeah, him I know. Questions is: can you think of anybody else?

"The vamp community seems to thrive on rumors as much as we do on blood," she said. "I did hear something about a guy new in town who plays for both teams, but I didn't pay it any mind."

"Did you maybe hear where he spends the day?"

"Well, one chick told – oh, shit!"

Thin smoke had started to rise off her head and shoulders. I could see it clarly in the growing light.

"Get out of here! Go!" I shouted.

She turned and ran, shouting over her shoulder, "Tonight, sunset, right here!"

A second later, she was out of sight.

• • • •

I went home. What else was I gonna do? I ate, showered, and got into bed. Despite being exhausted, I didn't get a lot of rest. My mind was like a madhouse in an earthquake – each inmate demanding my attention – Karl, McGuire, the IA clowns, Prescott, Rachel, the witchfinders – and Christine. Especially Christine.

Had she made it back to her resting place, before the sun turned her into a screaming torch? I'd had the police radio in the car on while driving home, and there'd been no reports of unexplained combustion anywhere. She was okay. Probably.

But what if she had stayed a minute longer this morning? Would she have burned, while I stood helpless behind the chain link fence and watched? Would her screams be echoing inside my head right this second? Is that why I saved her from leukemia – so she could die like that today, or tomorrow, or next week?

I guess I've spent worse mornings trying to sleep. But not recently.

After a while I got up. I changed the sweaty bedding, did a load of laundry, and cleaned Quincey's cage. As I did that last chore, I told him about the latest developments in the case. Quincey doesn't say much, but he's a good listener. And sometimes it's good to talk about stuff out loud – helps me organize my thoughts, and lets some of the psychological pressure off. And I know I can trust Quincey to keep it to himself. As a reward for letting me bounce some of that stuff off him, I put some raisins in his bowl along with the food pellets. He really likes raisins.

Around noon, I made some scrambled eggs. I wasn't hungry, but I didn't want low blood sugar making me slow and stupid later on. I'd been slow and stupid enough already.

I left for work about 12:45, and I was two blocks from headquarters when I noticed the woman standing on the corner. She drew my eye because she wasn't staring across the street at the crossing light, like people usually do. She was turned sideways, looking into the oncoming traffic stream, which included me.

Driving a familiar route doesn't require a lot of concentration. I was thinking about the case, but a tiny part of my mind whispered, "Hey, I know her."

Which was of no particular importance, but it aroused my curiosity. I focused my attention on the woman and suddenly realized that I was looking at Rachel Proctor.

I hit the brakes, which meant that the blue SUV behind me damn near ended up in my trunk. The driver stopped in time, but his blaring horn was designed to show me he wasn't too happy about it all.

All of that registered dimly, like a voice you hear from three rooms away. I was focused on Rachel.

She locked eyes with me and nodded, once. Then she turned and walked away.

Rachel had gone down a side street, so I put on my turn signal and waited for the traffic flow to take me to the corner. I've got a portable flashing red light that I could have put on the roof – that would have allowed me to cut around, as well as shutting up the honking, bird-flipping idiot behind me, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself, or to Rachel.

I finally made the turn, and saw Rachel a couple of hundred feet ahead, walking along at a good clip. I came up alongside her and tapped the horn, but she ignored me. I was looking for a parking space when she turned into the big parking garage that serves that part of the city. At least that solved my prom of what to do with the car.

I had to stop and get a ticket – even a badge won't impress an automated gate – and by the time I was inside I'd lost sight of her. I cruised the ground level slowly, my eyes darting everywhere. No Rachel.

Nothing to do but go up. Second level – nothing. Third level – nada.

Only one more place to go.

I saw her as soon as I reached the roof level. She was leaning against the retaining wall that stops careless drivers, or suicidal ones, from driving off the top of the building.

Plenty of room up here; most people parked on the roof only as a last resort, since it's not sheltered – maybe that's why Rachel had chosen it. I slid the car into a parking slot, got out, and walked toward her. She stood, arms folded below her breasts, watching me approach.

"Rachel, you took one hell of a chance, showing yourself like that," I said. "The police think you're a cop-killer, and you've been around the force long enough to know what that means."

"It means they will shoot first, and ask questions probably never," Rachel said.

Except it wasn't Rachel.

The voice was deeper than Rachel's, the intonation somehow different. I looked closely at her face and saw subtle differences in its shape and form from what I remembered. But the big difference was the eyes.

The gentle gray eyes of Rachel Proctor were gone, replaced by the bright blue eyes of a madman.

I swallowed a couple of times and tried to keep my voice under control as I said, "George Kulick, I presume?"

Rachel's head inclined a few inches. "None other."

Getting emotional about what he had done to Rachel, and might yet do, was a waste of time, so I just said, "What do you want?"

The eyebrows went up in an exaggerated show of amazement. "A man who gets right to the point, and a policemen, no less. How unusual!"

I had nothing useful to say to that, so I kept quiet. But wizards are sensitive, so I wouldn't have been surprised if he could feel the hatred coming off me, like heat from a freshly stoked stove.

He nodded slowly, as if confirming something for himself. "As to what I want: I want the man who killed me."

"Sligo, you mean."

"He did not bother to tell me his name. But I will know him, when we meet again. I want him in my power, so that I can make him suffer as I did. When I have paid him back in full measure for my pain, plus considerable interest, then perhaps – perhaps – I shall allow him to die."

"I want pretty much the same thing," I said. "Without the histrionics."

His eyes narrowed. "Why? Because it is just another case you must solve?"

"That would be enough," I said. "But it's a lot more. Sligo is planning to work a spell from the Opus Mago to do... I don't know what. But it's gotta be pretty powerful, because the recipe calls for five dead vampires. That ring any bells with you?"

He shook his head, which was now Rachel's head. "My responsibility was not to read the book, even if I could have, but to safeguard it."

I thought about saying, Yeah, and you did a hell of a job. But a cheap shot like that would just piss him off, and I expect he'd been thinking about it, anyway. Maybe that was part of what was fueling his rage: the knowledge that Sligo had made Kulick betray his trust.

"Well, he's got something big and bad in the works, and I have to stop him," I said. "Oh, and he keeps trying to kill"

He made with the eyebrows again. "Does he, indeed? How many attempts?"

"Two – so far."

"And yet, here you are before me. Good – that means you are resourceful. You will be a useful ally."

"I'm not your ally, pal – not until you let go of Rachel." And not even then, fuckwad – but I thought it best to keep that last thought to myself.

Kulick/Rachel looked at me as if he'd suddenly realized he was conversing with the village idiot. "What would you have me do? Simply leave this body and float away into eternity, my revenge unfulfilled? I am curious about what comes after this life, and I shall satisfy that curiosity, once I have exacted vengeance. But for now, this woman is useful to me, and I will not leave her. But you can speak to her, if you wish."

The face changed in small ways, to become completely Rachel's. She blinked a couple of times, then said urgently, in Rachel's voice, "Kill me, Stan – do it now! It's the only way. He's got to be stopped, before he destroys–"

Her mouth closed, and after a moment the face began its subtle transformation again.

"'Kill me, Stan'?" The deeper voice was mocking. "Is that what you intend to do – assuming I would permit you?"

I didn't know whether I had it in me to carry out Rachel's plea or not, but I couldn't do it now, anyway – Kulick was ready for me to try. He probably had a defensive spell set to go at an instant's notice.

"No," I said, keeping most of what I felt out of my voice.

"Good," he said, putting a tiny smile on Rachel's face. "Then we are allies, after all."

He reached into the pocket of Rachel's wide skirt and removed something shiny that he tossed to me.

It looked like half an amulet. Whole, it would be the size of a half-dollar. It had words engraved on it that looked like ancient Greek, and part of a symbol that I didn't recognize.

"It is imbued with a finding spell," Kulick said. "I retain the other half. When you have located this Sligo, or whatever his name might be, hold this between your thumb and forefinger. Say my full name – George Harmon Thraxis Kulick – aloud five times. At the fifth utterance, I will join you."

I studied the half-amulet a second longer, then slipped it into my pocket. "All right," I said. "Anything else?"

Kulick stared at me with those insane eyes. "Give me what I want, and I will return this woman to you, unharmed. But you may think to deny me my vengeance, perhaps by refusing to use that amulet at the crucial hour. Understand this, policeman: if Sligo escapes, or dies by any hand but mine, I shall have no further use for this woman's body."

He touched one of Rachel's breasts, and I wondered if he was enjoying feeling himself up.

"I will depart her, to see what awaits me on the other side. But before I do, I will soak her in gasoline. And my last act in this vessel will be to light a match. Do we understand each other?"

God almighty, just let me kill this fucker right now. All I said was, "Completely."

Then the ugly image of Rachel burning stirred my memory of something else. "You should know, there are a couple of witchfinders in town, hired by the mayor. I guess you realize what'll happen, if they get their hands on you – her."

A smile crossed the face that was and was not Rachel's. "Witchfinders? How quaint. Well, if they should succeed in locating this particular witch, they will have scant time to wish that they had failed to do so."

Rachel's bod detached itself from the retaining wall and headed toward the elevator. "Goodbye, detective," Kulick's voice said. "I'm sure that you will be in touch."

Once the elevator doors closed, I dashed for my car and headed for the exit. Driving as fast as I could without the telltale noise of tires squealing, I made it to the exit gate and showed my badge to the sleepy-looking teenage attendant. "Open it! Now!"

As soon as I'd made my turn out of the garage, I was scanning the street for Rachel. If I could follow her to where she and Kulick were holed up, I might... oh, hell, I didn't know what I could do. But knowledge is power, and I'd had damn little power in this situation from the beginning.

I didn't gain any more this time, either. I circled the block twice, then checked the side streets and alleys, with no sight of Rachel.

It was then I realized that the phone in my coat pocket was vibrating, and had been, off and on, for quite some time.

As I pulled into the nearest parking space, I realized that I had actually gained two things from the encounter on the roof. One was that I now held half of an amulet with a finding spell connecting me to George Kulick. I don't know much abut finding spells, but I was betting the connection ran both ways. A good witch could tell me whether that was true, and what to do if it was.

The second thing is that the bastard had given me his true name: George Harmon Thraxis Kulick. "Thraxis" must have been the name he took when they put that tattoo on his hand. It had to be legit, or the finding spell wouldn't work. Names are important in magic, I knew that much – and now I had his.

I opened my phone and put it to my ear. "Markowski."

"Stan, are you all right?" It was Karl's voice.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry I'm late getting in to work, but something pretty weird happened."

"I was startin' to get worried, since you'd made a big deal of wanting to start our shift at 1:00, and it's almost 2:00. When you didn't check in by 1:30, I started calling you, but got no answer – until now, anyway."

"I didn't have a chance to call in," I said. "I encountered something interesting on the way to work – look, I'll tell you when I see you."

"Something about our case?"

"Yeah, kinda. I don't want to discuss it on the phone, okay?" Not with the witchfinders after Rachel, I didn't.

"Okay, sure. As long as everything's cool."

"I'm fine, Karl. See you at the squad in ten minutes."

"No, you won't."

"Say again?"

"I'm in our new unmarked car – well, new for us, anyway – on the road, trailing behind the SWAT van."

"What? Why? What happened?" I asked.

"The arrest warrant for Jamieson Longworth finally came through, that's what happened. Since the little bastard may have been associating with a black magician, McGuire figured that SWAT ought to serve it. But I wanted to be there when they do, and I figured you would, too."

"Fuckin' A right, I would."

"So I'll meet you at the staging area, which is gonna be one block south of Longworth's crib, at the Rite-Aid lot. You remember the address?"

"It's 157 Spruce, right? I'm on my way."

"Ten-four."

Ten-four. Yeah, Karl loves shit like that.

I turned into the parking lot of the Rite-Aid drugstore just as the black, windowless SWAT van was coming to a stop. I parked nearby and walked over.

Scranton PD can't afford to maintain a full-time Sacred Weapons and Tactics unit. It just isn't needed often enough to be cost-effective. So, when there's a mission, the commander has to send out a call-up. All SWAT-trained officers on duty, and several affiliated members of the clergy, leave whatever they're doing to convene at police HQ. There they strap on their gear, receive a situation briefing, and get their orders.

SWAT doesn't roll for just any dicey set of circumstances. Black-and-white units can handle 90 percent of what happens, and if there's an extraordinary situation involving human perps, they send the TRU (Tactical Response Unit). But if you've got a barricaded ogre, or a hostage situation with werewolf involvement, or you have to serve a warrant on a powerful witch or wizard, then the SWAT team will get the job done. One way or another.

The back of the van opened and a tall, lean guy in black fatigues and a matching baseball cap stepped out. Lieutenant Frank Dooley has been SWAT commander for the past four years. To look at him, you'd never know that he did a year and a half at the seminary before realizing he had a different vocation. Come to think of it, the outfits of both jobs are pretty similar, give or take the hat.

I saw Karl come around the van from the other side. Inside, several black-clad figures were moving around putting on spell-dispelling body armor, checking their weapons, and probably saying lastminute prayers. Even the non-clergy SWAT guys are a religious bunch. I guess they have to be.

"I devoutly wish we had better intel about what we're likely to be facing in there," Dooley said to Karl and me.

"I told you what we know, Lieutenant," Karl said. "I admit it ain't much."

Dooley unbuttoned the flap on his breast pocket and pulled out a notebook. He opened it, flipped past a couple of pages, then frowned at the page he'd stopped at.

"Condo's owned by one J. Longworth." He looked up. "Any relation to the Longworths? The rich ones?"

"Their son," I told him.

"Oh, good," he said with a smile. "I just love busting me some rich bitches." Dooley grew up shantytown Irish, and never quite got over his resentments. "Hmmm. Cultist." He was looking at the notebook again. "Busted for summoning demons and murder of a known prostitute." He looked at me. "That what you figure we're likely to be up against? A demon?"

"No reason to think so," I said. "But Longworth is believed to have been associating with a vampire/wizard named Sligo. There's no way of knowing if he's taught young Jamieson any tricks, or even if he's in there with him. But both those things are possible."

"Um." Dooley wrote something in the notebook and put it away. "If the wizard's also one of the undead, we know what he'll be doing at this hour." He glanced up at the sky, where the sun was shining through a nearly cloudless sky. "And we've dealt with wannabe wizards before, too. Excuse me." He turned and went back into the van.

"Took that warrant long enough to come through," I said to Karl.

"McGuire thinks that Mrs. Longworth tried to stop it. Maybe she put out the word that any judge who signed the arrest warrant on sonny-boy was going to be running against a very well-funded opponent next time out."

"Olszewski would've signed it," I said. "He doesn't give a shit. Anyway, he's what Rachel calls my paisan."

"You're probably right. But his mother, who's in Florida, had a heart attack, or something. He just got back last night – and signed the warrant this morning."

"Speaking of Rachel reminds me," I said, "you need to w what went down while I was on my way to work today."

I took Karl aside and gave him the short version of what had happened at the parking garage.

"Well, doesn't that just suck dog cock," he said. "You either tell him where Sligo is, assuming we ever find the motherfucker, or he turns Rachel into a human torch."

"Yeah," I said, "but there's a couple of other–"

I stopped because Dooley had come out of the black van again, and this time the rest of his team followed him. SWAT was ready to rock and roll.

The first black-clad figure out after Dooley was Heidi Renfer, who was Karl's cousin. She had the same long, lean build, although I sometimes wondered if her supe-proof vest had to be custom-made to accommodate those formidable breasts. She was carrying a Benelli combat shotgun as her primary, and I knew it was loaded with a mixture of doubleought buck, rock salt, and BB-sized balls of silver, all blessed by a priest.

Like everybody on the team, she wore a set of vision-enhancing/protective goggles around her neck and a wide belt encircled her hips. The belt held the holster for her backup weapon – Heidi favored a big .50 magnum Desert Eagle loaded with explosive rounds. It also held a can of Supe Repellant Spray (silver nitrate suspended in holy water), silverplated handcuffs made of cold iron, a tactical radio, and a couple of pouches that might contain anything – from extra ammo to field dressings imbued with a healing spell.

Heidi smiled and waved at Karl, but ignored me, which good-looking women have a habit of doing. Give or take Lacey Brennan.

Next out was a blocky guy in his thirties named Van Cleef. He looked like he had barely made the minimum height requirement of 5'8". Seeing him next to Heidi Renfer's 6'1" was enough to make you smile, but something about Van Cleef's face discouraged you from making jokes about it to him. Maybe it was the long puckered scar that ran from his forehead almost to his chin. He had an H&K MP5 assault weapon slung over his shoulder and carried the big door-busting sledge that was a vital part of SWAT's equipment. I'd heard that, during a breach, he always volunteered to be the first one through the door, and the others were happy to leave that hazardous job to him. I'm pretty sure if he was 6'4", he wouldn't feel he had so much to prove.

He was followed by a Jesuit named Garrett who taught theology at the U. Garrett could have served on the prayer team and done a lot of good that way, but he'd volunteered for the combat training, and come out near the top of his class.

A lot of Jesuits are badasses – I think it's part of their image. Their founder, St Ignatius of Loyola, was a soldier before he got religion, and the Jebs have never completely abandoned that military mindset.

Garrett carried a mini-flamethrower strapped on his back, the nozzle held in one asbestos-gloved hand. Some supes are vulnerable to silver, others to holy water or garlic, or cold iron. But fire will stop practically anything.

Then came Shiro Kyotake, who was born in Yokahama and speaks better English than I do. He studied the sword under a master in Japan and was the team's edged-weapons specialist. There aren't too many supe species that can survive decapitation, and Shiro can take the head off an ogre so fast the thing will be almost too surprised to fall down. He makes jokes about being descended from a long line of ninjas. But I've seen him at work with that long, curved blade, and I'm not sure he's really kidding. And he can throw a knife better than anyone I've ever seen.

After that came someone I didn't know. Make that two someones. The human, who was dressed like the rest of the team, had wavy blond hair cold irona muscular upper body. I couldn't see his eyes, since they were hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The backup weapon in his belt holster looked like a Colt Python .357 Magnum, the only revolver I'd seen among this crew. The guy wasn't carrying a heavier weapon, but I knew he wasn't unarmed. His primary was the dog.

Instead of a leash, the blond guy had attached to the animal's collar a four-foot length of chain that would not have looked out of place attached to a tow truck. He had the other end wrapped a couple of turns around his left hand, which was encased in a heavy leather glove.

Far as I know, the dog breed that comes closest to resembling what I was looking at is the Neapolitan mastiff. A cousin of mine used to own one, although he always used to say that it owned him. The SWAT dog, which must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, had the same black fur, floppy ears, and wrinkled face that you find with Neapolitans. But this animal also had a tuft of red fur that ran from its neck along the spine and all the way to its tail. Its teeth looked to be about twice as long as an ordinary dog's, and three times as sharp. And I saw that the eyes atop its huge muzzle glowed bright red, which you never see on anything that comes from this world.

Without taking my eyes off this apparition, I quietly said to Dooley, "Since when did you guys start using a Hellhound?"

"She's been on the team about six weeks now," he said.

"She?"

"Yeah, you have to use females," he said. "The males are just too big and dangerous."

I tried to imagine one of these things that would be even larger and more frightening than what I was looking at now.

"Kind of an experiment," Dooley went on, "but it's working out pretty well, so far. They can sniff out any species of supe, no matter what kind they are, or where they try to hide. We were using electronic detectors before, and the fucking things just weren't reliable. But Daisy never lets us down."

"Daisy."

Dooley shrugged. "That's what Sam named her," he said. "He's her handler. Bought her from some wizard and raised her from a pup."

"I'm sure he did." And I bet she gets to go outside whenever she fucking well wants, too.

The last SWAT team member out of the van was Spencer, one of the few African-Americans on the Scranton PD. I don't think it's racism – the Wyoming Valley just doesn't have a real big black population. Spencer was a sniper, a skill he'd picked up in the Marines, and the USMC Scout Sniper Program sets their standards high. I'd once asked him if that was why he'd been drawn to SWAT and he'd replied, "Nah, don't you read the comics, man? You ever seen a bunch of badass superheroes like this without a brother on the crew? Shit, it'd be unAmerican." Spencer likes to talk street, but I knew that both his parents were doctors. He went to some exclusive prep school before graduating to join the Marines, much to Mom and Dad's disappointment. He's about as ghetto as the Prince of Wales.

After the tactical people came the prayer team. Their job it was to counter any black magic that was operating, or might be invoked, within the team's perimeter. Reverend Greene was a Baptist minister, O'Connell was another Jesuit from the U, and Rabbi Zimmerman could usually be found at Temple Beth Shalom, until there was a SWAT call-up. A Buddhist monk, Quan Tranh Han, had been part of the team until last year, when he died of cancer.

As members of the Supe Squad, Karl and I were authorized to go along on the raid, as long as we didn't get in the way. As Dooley liked to say, "We'll send for you when it's safe."

Iess Dooley must have given his briefing inside the van, because Spencer immediately picked up his long hardshell rifle case and jogged off. I watched him cross the street and disappear down a nearby alley. I figured he was heading for the building directly across the street from Longworth's condo. There he'd set up on the roof, ready to provide a diversion, covering fire, or a one-shot kill, as directed.

Dooley had been on his tactical radio for the last few minutes. Now he put it back on his belt and announced, "Surveillance confirms that the subject entered the building at approximately 1900 hours last night, and he hasn't left. Plainclothes officers have just finished going through the building. Only one of the other condos was occupied this time of day, and they got the owner out the back way, nice and quiet. The field of operations is all ours, gentlemen." He nodded toward Heidi Renfer. "And lady."

"Haven't been one of those since I was sixteen, Loot," Heidi said with a grin. "But thanks for the thought."

A couple of the guys grinned at that, but nobody laughed out loud. I knew that, on the team, pissing Heidi off was widely regarded as a bad idea.

"All right," Dooley said. "You know the order of march, and you each have your assignments. Questions?"

Everybody on the team tried to look nonchalant, if not outright bored. Just a walk in the park.

They didn't fool me, and I bet they didn't fool their commander, either. Each one was amped up to the eyebrows. You could see it in their eyes, their hands, and the rapid jaw movements as three of them chewed gum.

"Okay, let's move out," Dooley said. Turning to the three clergy he said, "Prayer Team, whenever you're ready."

The three clergymen formed a rough triangle, a few feet separating them. Each would read or recite prayers in his own tradition designed specifically to dispel black magic. Supposedly, having them pray together produced a "synergistic effect" greater than the sum of their individual efforts.

How somebody figured that God would pay more attention to a group effort than if each of these guys prayed separately wasn't real clear to me, but I'm just a simple cop, not a theologian.

As the members of the SWAT team left the parking lot, single file, Dooley turned to Karl and me.

"You're not armored, so hang back a bit. But come in fast if I call for you."

We both nodded, and he went to catch up with his crew.

Dooley led us into an alley that ran along the rear of Jamieson Longworth's building. Karl and I followed the team as they made their silent way through the back door and up the stairs to the third floor. Then it was through a service door and down a hallway to number 304.

I watched them "stack" along the wall just outside Longworth's door – bunching close together in a line so that they could get everybody inside very fast once the breach was made. Sam and the Hellhound brought up the rear, followed by Karl and me.

Dooley was first in line. I saw him reach forward and slowly try to turn the knob, on the off chance that it might open. It didn't, but it's always good to check. More than one cop has gone to the trouble and risk of kicking down a door that wasn't even locked to begin with.

Dooley turned to Van Cleef, and took from him the big sledgehammer and stepped with it to the opposite side of the condo's door. Van Cleef unslung his weapon. I saw him click off the safety and then, a true professional, look to be sure the switch was really disengaged.

Behind Van Cleef, Garrett had ready two of the "Splash-Bang" grenades that he would throw into th condo as soon as the door was breached. The grenades looked like motorcycle handlebar grips made of cast iron, with holes drilled in them. Each one would explode with a loud noise, a bright flash, and a dispersal of four fluid ounces of holy water.

I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Sligo, being a vampire, ought to be dead to the world, literally. Assuming he was in there at all. But that didn't mean he hadn't set up magical protections or booby traps throughout the condo. The work of the prayer team should nullify those, but everybody in that hallway had been around long enough to know what "should" is worth.

Then there was Longworth himself. Normally, a pampered rich boy/cultist would pose no threat to these guys, but there was no way to know whether Sligo had taught him any dark magic, or whether Longworth had the Talent to use it.

It had the potential to get pretty dicey in there. That's why every cop serving in SWAT receives the extra pay that all of them like to call "danger money." They get excellent life insurance policies, too.

Van Cleef nodded at Dooley, who set his feet, gripped the sledge's handle tightly and lifted the head back and over his shoulder. With a barely audible grunt he smashed the sledge hammer into the door, just below the lock.

The bam of impact was jarring after the silence, even though I had been expecting it. The wood splintered where Dooley had struck, and the lock mechanism came free of the door jamb. It looked like the door might be hung up on something – a security chain, maybe. But it was no match for Van Cleef's size 12 boot, as he delivered a vicious kick above where the lock had been. The door flew open and Van Cleef instantly crouched down to give Garrett a clean line of sight into the condo.

The pins of the grenades had already been pulled. Garrett held one in each hand and flung both inside at the same time.

One thousand one. One thousand two.

Each of us squeezed our eyes closed. That's a risk in a tactical situation, but you've got no choice, unless you want to be temporarily blinded by the million-candlepower flash, just like whoever was inside the condo would be.

WHAMWHAM!

The two explosions were almost simultaneous, and they were fucking loud. The grenades contain magnesium instead of explosives – high on noise, but low on destructive power. And the cast-iron body won't fragment, so there's no shrapnel, which is why you can safely use them in hostage situations.

Van Cleef, clutching the H&K against his chest, dived through the door. I couldn't see inside from where I was standing, but I've seen enough SWAT training to know that he would land face down, do a quick hip roll to the right, and come up on one knee, weapon ready to fire. The next man through the door would break left, then the others would follow, going alternately right and left. All of this usually took about three seconds.

Once the team was inside, I waited for the rattle of gunfire, but it never came. Instead, I could hear voices, one after another, yelling "Clear!" as each room was checked in turn.

Then there was silence for a little while, then Dooley appeared in the doorway. "Come on in," he said.

We followed him into the sparsely furnished living room, its cream-colored walls and modernist furniture now stained with soot from the grenades and damp from the holy water.

"Nobody home, Goldilocks," Dooley said to me. "You can have your choice of chairs, beds, and porridge."

The other team members, who were leaning against walls and doorjambs, laughed loudly. I didn't mind – they had a lot of tnsion to get rid of.

"So, no Longworth," I said. "I take it you guys didn't turn up any slumbering vampires, either."

"Not a one," Heidi Renfer said. "But there's a pretty nasty-looking mouse in the kitchen that you guys might be interested in."

More laughter.

Karl shot his cousin a dirty look, then said to Dooley, "Lieutenant, didn't you say that surveillance had reported Longworth coming in the building, and didn't see him leaving?"

"Yeah, you've got a point," Dooley told him. "I wonder if the guys watching this place fucked up, or... just a second."

He pulled the tactical radio from his belt and thumbed the switch. "S-4, this is S-1. Do you copy? Over."

"Loud and clear, skipper." Spencer's voice came through crisply. "Hell, I can even see you through the window. Got the crosshairs right on you."

"Make sure your finger's off the trigger, then," Dooley said. "Did you see anyone leave the building from your side since we went in?"

"Negative, skipper. Nobody in or out. What's up – you missing a suspect or two?"

"Stand by."

Dooley scratched his cheek. "I suppose he could've made us somehow, as we came up the stairs, and went up or down the front stairs to another floor. All the other condos are locked up tight, but nothing's stopping him from roaming the hallways – or even breaking into somebody else's place, if he's got the right tools and know-how. We didn't have the manpower to put a man on each floor, dammit."

Then I noticed that the Hellhound was acting strangely. She'd been sitting obediently next to Sam's leg, but now she was up, whining softly as her nose quested around the room.

"Daisy's got something, Loot," Sam said. "Don't know what it is, though."

"Look alive, people!" Dooley snapped. "There may be a bear at home, after all."

The rest of the SWAT team assumed alert postures, weapons ready. A couple of them started walking slowly around the big room, looking closely at the walls, the floors, the ceiling.

"Priest hole, do you think?" Garrett asked.

I knew the term. Used to refer to small hidden closets built in English houses during Henry VIII's time, after Catholic clergy were expelled from the country. Some stayed behind, and had to be hidden by Catholic families when Henry's goons came searching.

I wondered if Garrett the Jesuit saw the irony.

"I need him, or them, alive, if at all possible," I said, my own eyes roaming the room.

"It's always their choice," Dooley said softly. "Now shut the fuck up."

"You want us to check the other rooms again, boss?" Kyotake asked. He held the big samurai sword at guard, both hands on the custom grip.

"Let the dog show us where to go," Dooley said, and nodded toward Daisy's handler. "Sam."

The blond guy, still wearing his shades indoors, released his grip on the Hellhound's chain, which hit the carpet with a muffled clank.

Continuing to sniff the air, Daisy began moving around the room, dragging the chain behind her. Her nose led her toward the big window overlooking the street. She approached it slowly, then became still, growling softly – a sound that made my asshole pucker, even though I wasn't the focus of her attention.

Heidi Renfer was standing maybe ten feet from the window, with her back to it. I was looking in her direction when I saw the air ripple behind her, something that I wish I could say I'd seen onwalkin the movies.

Then a man was standing there, where nobody had stood an instant before. At the same moment he appeared, I heard a male voice I didn't recognize snarl, "Aw, shit!"

The bastard was fast, I'll give him that. As he materialized, his left arm snaked around Heidi's slim waist and pulled her right up against him, while his right hand brought a black-bladed knife up to the side of her long neck, the point an inch away from her flesh.

The young guy's face was flushed and sweaty and tight with tension, but I was pretty sure I recognized it from mug shots, as well as an evening I once spent in a certain warehouse.

It looked like Jamieson Longworth was home, after all.

For a few seconds, we all stood in a tableau, like wax figures at Madame Tussaud's – maybe an exhibit titled "Hostage Situation."

Then the Hellhound lowered her haunches, preparing to spring.

"Daisy!" Sam's voice was a whipcrack. "Sit!" Then: "Stay!"

The dog obeyed, but you could see she was reluctant, not understanding why she wasn't being allowed to tear the intruder's throat out.

I knew exactly how she felt.

"Everybody stay right where you are!" Longworth shouted – unnecessarily, since that's exactly what we were all doing.

I saw Heidi wince when he yelled that, since his mouth was just a few inches from her ear. In response, Longworth squeezed her even tighter. "Keep still, bitch!" Longworth gasped a couple of breaths, then said to her, "Keep hanging on to your gun, honey. But if I see that barrel move an inch, in any direction, you're fuckin' dead! Understand?"

"Yeah," Heidi said hoarsely. "I understand."

"Something all of you should know!" Longworth said, still gasping for breath. He must've had enough adrenaline rushing through him to fuel an Olympic track team. In an older man, I might have hoped for a heart attack. "This is a Death Dagger," he went on. "One scratch, anywhere on her, and she's dead meat."

I believed him. Putting a spell like that on a weapon was pretty basic black magic. He might've done it himself, or had Sligo do it for him – if Sligo had been here, and I was betting he had.

It also explained why Longworth didn't have the blade pressed against her flesh, the way they usually do in situations like this. He didn't want to kill her – by accident. The Prayer Team's efforts might have neutralized the effects of the dagger's magic – but I don't think there was a man in the room willing to gamble Heidi's life on it.

Sligo must have taught Longworth how to work the Tarnhelm Effect – an invisibility spell, and not easy to do. That one's not black magic, but it's still pretty good work for a novice. He had fooled us all – except for Daisy.

"Okay, we hear you," Dooley said – pretty calmly, under the circumstances. "We'll all get this worked out somehow. Just stay cool."

Cool? Longworth was being about as cool as the Fifth Circle of Hell. But Dooley was handling it right.

I turned my head, very slowly, to take in the rest of the room. The other members of the SWAT team were utterly still, but each was coiled, like the dog had been, ready to spring.

I'd wondered if any of them had a shot at Longworth from the side, and whether he'd have the nerve to take it. But the only one with anything like the right angle was Garrett, holding his useless flamethrower. Like the others, he had a pistol on his belt – but there was no way in hell he'd be able to drop the flamethrower, draw, and get off an aimed shot without giving flamethroworth plenty of time to stab Heidi.

"Something for you to keep in mind," Dooley went on in that same, almost-calm voice, "is that if you do kill her, you're standing there naked, without protection. And I guarantee you won't live long enough to disappear again."

Longworth's voice went up a couple of notches. "Are you fucking threatening me, you cocksucker?"

Dooley shook his head slowly. "Nope, not at all. Just pointing out a good reason for you to keep that knifepoint from getting too close to her neck. Be a shame to have people die today, just because of an accident."

"Don't fucking worry about me – worry about this bitch right here."

Then Longworth's gaze shifted to me, and something changed in his face. It only lasted a second or two, but it might almost have been the beginning of a smile. He added, "And you can worry about your bitch, too, you Polack assfuck. You and that depraved motherfucker next to you threw my brother to a fucking demon! Did you think you can do that and just walk away, laughing? Did you?"

I remembered my laughter in the warehouse after Karl had saved my ass from the demon. I didn't think trying to explain to Longworth that it had been an hysterical reaction would be likely to improve the situation, so I kept quiet.

But I was confused by his reference to my "bitch." My poor wife was in the ground, and I didn't have a girlfriend – the closest thing to that in my life was Lacey Brennan, and she wasn't all that close, anyway.

Did Longworth realize that? Or was Lacey in trouble?

I was trying to phrase a question that wouldn't set him off, when he spoke again. "You'll see what it's like, motherfucker, lose somebody you really love. Then maybe I'll be the one to laugh."

Someone I really... Christine? Did this crazy bastard mean Christine?

Longworth was talking to Dooley again. "Okay, here's how this is gonna work. Me and sexy here are walking out, real close together. You boys are gonna stay right here. I see anybody follow me out, she's dead. We're gonna get my car, then she's gonna drive us wherever I wanna go. I see one cop car or helicopter or police dragon along the way, and she's dead. We get where we're going, I'll turn her loose, unharmed. My word of honor. Got that?"

Sure, we'll be happy to take the word of a wannabe black wizard and cult murderer. And right after that, we're gonna see if Charlie Manson is free to babysit the kids Saturday night.

Dooley nodded a couple of times. It was then I noticed that he still held his tactical radio down by his side, and a couple of his fingers were moving, ever so slowly, toward the "Transmit" button.

Who had he talked to last, on that radio?

"I'll even help you out with that," Dooley said. "If you want, I can make sure that all the traffic signals go your way, no matter where you're headed. No reds or yellows to slow you down. You'll see nothing but–"

Spencer. He'd been talking to Spencer.

Dooley had paused, just for a second, and I saw his finger depress the "Transmit" button before he continued, "Green light, green light, green light. All the way home."

Maybe my concern for Christine was distracting me, but it took me a heartbeat too long to realize what Dooley had just done.

Longworth was saying "I don't need your fucking–" as I opened my mouth to tell Dooley to call it off, that we needed Longworth alive–

There was a loud click as a small hole appeared in the window behind Longworth, who gruntnce, then stopped talking because he was already dead and falling to the floor, the dagger tumbling harmlessly to the carpet as the sound of the rifle shot that had killed him echoed back and forth across the street like lost hope.

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