THEY THIRST 
A novel by the bestselling author of Mine and Swan Song 
ROBERT R. McCAMMON 
Across the centuries, an evil returns to feast upon the City of Angels -and 
millions sway beneath their deadly spell. 
On Sunset and Hollywood boulevards, unspeakable horrors lurk in the darkness. 
They are the undead, nightmares in human form, dark disciples of death who prey 
upon the living. 
Now nature succumbs to the evil, raging in a fury of sandstorm and tidal wave. 
And in the castle of a murdered screen idol, high above the ravaged city, the 
Prince of Darkness and his minions prepare a welcome for the last terrified 
survivors. 
4 Limited Edition ................. .$55.00 
Robert R. McCammon is the author of ten novels, including MYSTERY WALK, SWAN 
SONG and MINE; and BLUE WORLD, a collection of short fiction. THEY THIRST is a 
vampire novel on an epic scale, as the Undead lay claim to the city of Los 
Angeles. McCammon's latest novel, BOY'S LIFE, will be published by Pocket Books. 

McCammon and his wife Sally live in Birmingham, Alabama, where he writes from 
midnight until dawn and tries to keep their Scottish terrier from chewing up his 
books. 
5 
- A Novel By - 
ROBERT R. McCAMMON 
- Illustrated By - 
Wendy and Charles Lang 
6 Trade Hardcover Edition ISBN 0-913165-60-3 
THEY THIRST Copyright Š 1981 by Robert R. McCammon 
Illustrations Copyright Ž 1991 by Wendy and Charles Lang 
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are 
either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any 
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely 
coincidental. 
All Rights Reserved 
Manufactured in the United States of America 
FIRST HARDCOVER EDITION 
Dark Harvest / P. O. Box 941 / Arlington Heights, IL / 60006 
The Publishers would like to express their gratitude to the following people. 
Thank you: Ann Cameron Mikol, Kathy Jo Camacho, Stan and Phyllis Mikol, Dr. Stan 
Gurnick PhD, Wayne Sommers, Luis Trevino, Raymond, Teresa and Mark Stadalsky, 
Tony Hodes, Tom Pas, Bob Weinberg, Greg Ketter, and Jeane and Paul E. Williams 
III. 
And, of course, special thanks go to Sally and Rick McCammon, and Wendy and 
Charles Lang. 
7 FOR SALLY, WHO HELPED ME REACH
8 I'd like to express appreciation to a number of people who helped me in 
researching this book and putting it all together: W. B. McDonald, M.D.; James 
R. Fletcher, M.D.; Gunnery Sergeant Larry Rocke, USMC; Captain Paul T. Taylor, 
USMC; Detective Sergeant William Ludlow; Radu Florescu and Raymond T. McNally 
for keeping the legends alive; and Mike and Elizabeth. 
R.M. 
9 It was midnight in Topanga I heard the DJ say "There's a full moon rising Join 
me in L.A. . . ." 
-Warren Zevon 
I'd kill for love| 
I'd kill for love 
As sure as there's a God above 
I'd kill for love 
-Rory Black 
Shadows shifting everywhere; Very thin and very tall, Moving, mingling on the 
wall, Till they make one Shadow all 
-Augustus Julian Requier 
10 11 PROLOGUE 
Tonight there were demons in the hearth. 
They spun, arched, and spat at the eyes of the boy who sat at the fire's edge, 
his legs crossed under him in that unconscious way children have of being 
incredibly supple. Chin supported by palms, elbows supported by knees, he sat 
in|] silence, watching the flames gather, merge, and break into fragments that 
hissed with secrets. He had turned nine only six days ago, but now he felt very 
old because _ Papa wasn't home yet and those fire-demons were laughing. 
While I'm away, you must be head of the house, Papa had said as he coiled a line 
of thick rope around his bear's paw of a hand. You must take care of your mother 
and see that all goes well while I and your uncle are gone. Do you understand 
that? 
Yes, Papa. 
And see that you bring in the wood for her when she asks and stack it neatly 
along the wall so it can dry. And anything else she asks of you, you'll do, yes? 

I will. He could still see his father's fissured, wind-ravaged face towering 
over him and feel the rough-as-hearthstones hand on his shoulder. The grip of 
that hand had conveyed an unspoken message: This is a serious thing I do, boy. 
Make no mistake about that. Watch out for your mother and be careful. 
The boy understood, and Papa had nodded with satisfaction. 
The next morning he watched through the kitchen window while Uncle Josef hitched 
the two old gray-and-white horses to the family's wagon. His parents had drawn 
away, standing across the room near the bolted slab of a door. Papa had put on 
his woolen cap and the heavy sheepskin coat Mama had made for him as a Christmas 
present years before, then slipped the coil of rope around one shoulder. The boy 
picked listlessly from a bowl of beef broth and tried to listen, knowing that 
they were whispering so that he would not hear. But he also knew that if he did 
hear, he really wouldn't know what they were whispering about, anyway. It's not 
fair! he told himself as he dipped his fingers into the broth and brought out a 
chunk of meat. If I'm to be the head of the house, shouldn't I know the secrets, 
too? 
Across the room Mama's voice had suddenly surged up out of control. Let the 
others do it! Please! But Papa had caught her chin, tilted her face up, and 
looked gently into those morning-gray eyes. I have to do this thing, he'd said, 
and she looked like she wanted to cry but could not. She'd used up all her tears 
the night before, lying in the goosedown bed in the other room. The boy had 
heard her all through the night. It was as if the heavy hours were cracking her 
heart and no amount of time on the other side of twilight could ever heal it 
again. No, no, no, 
12 
Mama was saying now, over and over again as if that word had some magic that 
would prevent Papa from stepping out into the snowy daylight, as if that word 
would seal the door, wood to stone, to keep him within and the secrets out. 
And when she was silent, Papa had reached up and lifted the double-barreled 
shotgun from the gunrack beside the door. He cracked open the breech, loaded 
both chambers with shells, and carefully laid the weapon down again. Then he had 
held her and kissed her and said I love you. And she had clung to him like a 
second skin. That was when Josef had knocked at the door and called out, Emil! 
We're ready to leave! 
Papa had hugged her a moment longer, then gripped the rifle he had bought in 
Budapest, and unlatched the door. He stood on the threshold, and snowflakes flew 
in around him. Andre! he had said, and the boy had looked up. You take care of 
your mother, and make sure this door stays bolted. Do you understand? 
Yes, Papa. 
In the doorway, framed against a bleached sky and the purple teeth of the 
distant mountain ranges, Papa had turned his gaze upon his wife and had uttered 
three softly spoken words. They were indistinct, but the boy caught them, his 
heart beating around a dark uneasiness. 
Papa had said, "Watch my shadow." 
When he stepped out, a whine of November wind filled the place he'd left. Mama 
stood at the threshold, snow blowing into her long dark hair, aging her moment 
by moment. Her eyes were fixed on the wagon as the two men urged the horses 
along the cobbled path that would take them to the others. She stood there for a 
long time, face gaunt against the false white purity of the world beyond that 
door. When the wagon had lumbered out of sight, she turned away, closed the 
door, and bolted it. Then she had lifted her gaze to her son's and had said with 
a smile that was more like a grimace, Do your schoolwork now. 
It was three days since he had gone. Now demons laughed and danced in the fire, 
and some terrible, intangible thing had entered the house to sit in the empty 
chair before the hearth, to sit between the boy and the woman at their evening 
meals, to follow them around like a gust of black ash blown by an errant wind. 
The corners of the two-room house grew cold as the stack of wood slowly 
dwindled, and the boy could see a faint wraith of mist whirl from his mother's 
nostrils whenever she let out her breath. 
"I'll take the axe and get more wood," the boy said, starting to rise from his 
chair. 
"No!" cried his mother quickly, and glanced up. Their gray eyes met and held for 
a few seconds. "What we have will last through the night. It's too dark out now. 
You can wait until first light." 
"But what we have isn't enough-" 
"I said you'll wait until morning!" She looked away almost at once, as if 
ashamed. Her knitting needles glinted in the firelight, slowly shaping a sweater 
for the boy. As he sat down again, he saw the shotgun in the far corner of the 
room. It 
13 
glowed a dull red in the firelight, like a watchful eye in the gloom. And now 
the fire flared, spun, cracked; ashes churned, whirled up the chimney and out. 
The boy watched, heat striping his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, while 
his mother rocked in the chair behind him, glancing down occasionally at her 
son's sharp profile. 
In that fire the boy saw pictures coming together, linking into a living mural: 
he saw a black wagon drawn by two white horses with funeral plumes, their cold 
breath coming out in clouds. In that wagon a simple, small coffin. Men and women 
in black, some shivering, some sobbing. Others following the wagon, boots 
crunching through a crust of snow. Muttered sounds. Faces layered with secrets. 
Hooded, fearful eyes that stared out toward the gray and purple rise of the 
Jaeger Mountains. The Griska boy lay in that coffin, and what remained of him 
was now being carried by the procession to the cemetery where the lelkesz 
waited. 
Death. It had always seemed so cold and alien and distant to the boy, something 
that belonged not to his world, nor to the world of his mama and papa, but 
rather to the world that Grandmother Elsa had lived in when she was sick and 
yellow- fleshed. Papa had used the word then-dying. When you're in the room with 
her, you must be very quiet because she can't sing to you anymore, and all she 
wants to do now is sleep. To the boy death was a time when all songs ceased and 
you were happy only when your eyes were closed. Now he stared at that funeral 
wagon in his memory until the log collapsed and the tendrils of flame sprang up 
in a different place. He remembered hearing whispers among the black-garbed 
villagers of Krajeck: A terrible thing. Only eight years old. God has him now. 
God? Let us hope and pray that it is indeed God who has Ivon Griska. 
The boy remembered. He had watched the coffin being lowered by a rope and pulley 
into the dark square in the earth while the lelkesz stood intoning blessings and 
waving his crucifix. The casket had been nailed shut and then bound with barbed 
wire. Before the first shovelful of dirt was thrown, the lelkesz had crossed 
himself and dropped his crucifix into the grave. That was a week ago, before the 
Widow Janos had disappeared; before the Sandor family vanished on a snowy Sunday 
night, leaving all their possessions behind; before Johann the hermit reported 
that he had seen naked figures dancing on the windswept heights of Mount Jaeger 
and running with the big timber wolves that stalked that haunted mountain. Soon 
after that Johann had vanished along with his dog, Vida. The boy remembered the 
strange hardness in his father's face, a flicker of some deep secret within his 
eyes. Once he had heard Papa tell Mama, They're on the move again. 
In the fireplace, wood shifted and sighed. The boy blinked and drew away. Behind 
him his mother's needles were still; her head was cocked toward the door, and 
she was listening. The wind roared, bringing ice down from the mountain. The 
door would have to be forced open in the morning, and the hard glaze would 
shatter like glass. 
Papa should be home by now, the boy told himself. It's so cold out tonight, so 
cold . . . surely Papa won't be gone much longer. Secrets seemed to be 
everywhere. 
14 
Just yesterday night someone had gone through the Krajeck cemetery and dug up 
twelve graves, including Ivon Griska's. The coffins were still missing, but it 
was rumored that the lelkesz had found bones and skulls lying in the snow. 
Something pounded at the door, a noise like a hammer falling upon an anvil. 
Once. And again. The woman jumped in her chair and twisted around. 
"Papa!" the boy shouted joyfully. When he stood up, the flame-face was 
forgotten. He started toward the door, but his mother caught his shoulder. 
"Hush!" she whispered, and together they waited, their shadows filling the far 
wall. 
More hammering on the door-a heavy, leaden sound. The wind screamed, and it was 
like the wail of Ivon Griska's mother when the sealed coffin was lowered into 
the frozen dirt. 
"Unbolt the door!" Papa said. "Hurry! I'm cold." 
"Thank God!" Mama cried out. "Oh, thank God!" She moved quickly to the door, 
threw back the bolt, and flung it open. A torrent of snow ripped at her face, 
the wind distorting eyes, nose, and mouth. Papa, a huddled shape in his hat and 
coat, stepped into the dim firelight, and diamonds of ice sparkled in his 
eyebrows and beard. He took Mama into his arms, his massive body almost 
engulfing her. The boy leapt forward to embrace his father, grateful that he was 
home because being the man of the house was much more difficult than he had 
imagined. Papa reached out, ran a hand through the boy's hair, and clapped him 
firmly on the shoulder. 
"Thank God you're home!" Mama said, clutching onto him. "It's over, isn't it?" 
"Yes," he said. "It's over." He turned and closed the door, letting the bolt 
fall. 
"Here, step over by the fire. God in Heaven, your hands are cold! Take off your 
coat before you catch your death!" She took the coat as he shrugged it from his 
shoulders, then his hat. Papa stepped toward the fire, palms outward to receive 
the heat. Flames glittered briefly in his eyes, like the glitter of rubies. And 
as he passed his son, the boy crinkled up his nose. Papa had brought home a 
funny smell. A smell of ... what was it? Think hard. 
"Your coat is filthy!" Mama said, hanging it on a hook near the door. She 
brushed at it with a trembling hand. She felt the tears of relief about to flood 
from her, but she didn't want to cry in front of her son. 
"It's so cold in the mountains," Papa said softly, standing at the rim of the 
firelight. He kicked out with the toe of one scarred boot, and a log shifted, 
revealing a finger of flame. "So cold." 
The boy watched him, seeing a glaze of ice from Papa's snow-whitened face begin 
to melt in droplets. Papa suddenly closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and 
shivered. "Ohhhhhhhhm," he breathed, and then his head came around, eyes 
opening, looking into his son's face for silent seconds. "What are you staring 
at, boy?" 
"Nothing." That smell. So funny. What was it? 
Papa nodded. "Come over here beside me." 
15 
The boy took a single step forward and then stopped. He thought of horses and 
coffins and sobbing mourners. 
"Well? Come over here, I said." 
Across the room the woman was standing with one hand still on the coat. There 
was a crooked smile on her face, as if she'd been slapped by a hand that had 
snaked from the shadows. "Is everything all right?" she asked. In her voice a 
note quavered like a pipe organ in the Budapest cathedral. 
"Yes," Papa said, reaching out for his son. "Everything is fine now because I'm 
home with my loved ones, where I belong." 
The boy saw a shadow touch his mother's face, saw it darken in an instant. Her 
mouth was half-open, and her eyes were widening pools of bewilderment. 
Papa took his son's hand. The man's flesh was hard and welted with rope burns. 
And so terribly cold. The man drew his son nearer. The fire undulated like a 
serpent uncoiling. "Yes," he whispered, "that's right." His gaze found the 
woman. "You've let it get very cold in my house!" 
"I'm . . . sorry," she whispered. She began to tremble now, and her eyes were 
deep pits of terror._ 
"Very cold," Papa said. "I can feel ice in my bones. Can't you, Andre?" The boy" 
nodded, looking into his father's shadowy firelight-sculpted face and seeing 
himself suspended within eyes that were darker than he remembered. Yes, much 
darker, like mountain caverns, and rimmed with eruptions of silver. The boy 
blinked, dragged his gaze away with an effort that made his neck muscles throb. 
He was trembling like Mama. He was beginning to be afraid but didn't know why. 
All he knew was that Papa's skin and hair and clothes smelled like the room 
where Grandmother Elsa had gone to sleep forever. 
"We did a bad thing," Papa murmured. "Me, your uncle Josef, all the men from 
Krajeck. We shouldn't have climbed into the mountains . . ." 
Mama gasped, but the boy couldn't turn his head to look at her. 
". . . because we were wrong. All of us, wrong. It's not what we thought itI was 
. . ." 
Mama moaned like a trapped animal. 
". . . you see?" And Papa smiled, his back to the flames now, his white face 
piercing the shadows. His grip tightened on his son's shoulder, and he suddenly 
shivered as if a north wind had roared through his soul. Mama was sobbing, and 
the boy wanted to turn to her and find out what was wrong, but he couldn't move, 
couldn't make his head turn or his eyes blink. Papa smiled and said, "My good 
little boy. My good little Andre . . ." And he bent down toward his son.J 
But in the next instant the man's head twisted up, his eyes filled with bursts 
of silver. "DON'T DO THAT!" he shrieked. And in that instant the boy cried out 
and pulled away from his father, and then he saw that Mama had the shotgun 
cradled in her shaking arms, and her mouth was wide open and she was screaming, 
and even as the boy ran for her, she squeezed both triggers.. 
The shots whistled high over the boy, striking the man in the face and throat. 
16 
Papa screamed-a resounding scream of rage-and was flung backward to the floor, 
where he lay with his face in shadow and his boots in red embers. 
Mama dropped the shotgun, the strangled sobbing in her throat turning to 
stutters of mad laughter. The recoil had nearly broken her right arm, and she 
had fallen back against the door, her eyes swimming with tears. The boy stopped, 
his heart madly hammering. The smell of gunpowder was rank in his nostrils as he 
stared at the crazed woman who'd just shot down his father-saw her face 
contorting, lips bubbling with spittle, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. 
And then a slow, scraping noise from the other side of the room. 
The boy spun around to look. 
Papa was rising to his feet. Half of his face was gone, leaving his chin and jaw 
and nose hanging by white, bloodless strings. The remaining teeth glittered with 
light, and the single pulped eye hung on one thick vein across the ruined cavern 
where the cheekbone had been. White nerves and torn muscles twitched in the hole 
of the throat. The man staggered up, crouched with his huge hands twisted into 
claws. When he tried to grin, only one side of the mouth remained to curve 
grotesquely upward. 
And in that instant both boy and woman saw that he did not bleed. 
"Szornyeteg!" Mama screamed, her back pressed against the door. The word ripped 
through the boy's mind, tearing away huge chunks that left him as mute and 
frozen as a scarecrow in winter. Monster, she'd screamed. Monster. 
"Oh, nooooooo," the hideous face whispered. And the thing shambled forward, 
claws twitching in hungry expectation. "Not so easily, my precious wife . . ." 
She gripped her son's arm, then turned and unbolted the door. He was almost upon 
them when a wall of wind and snow screamed into the house; he staggered back a 
step, one hand over his eye. The woman wrenched the boy out after her into the 
night. Snow clutched at their legs and tried to hold them. "Run!" Mama cried out 
over the roar of the wind. "We've got to run!" She tightened her grip on his 
wrist until her fingers melded to his bones, and they fought onward through 
whiplash strikes of snow. 
Somewhere in the night, a woman screamed, her voice high-pitched and terrified. 
Then a man's voice, babbling for mercy. The boy looked back over his shoulder as 
he ran, back at the huddled houses of Krajeck. He could see nothing through the 
storm. But mingled with the hundred voices of the wind, he thought he could hear 
a chorus of hideous screams. Somewhere a ragged cacophony of laughter seemed to 
build and build until it drowned out the cries for God and mercy. He caught a 
glimpse of his house, receding into the distance now. Saw the dim red light 
spilling across the threshold like a final dying ember of the fire he'd so 
carefully tended. Saw the hulking half-blinded figure stumble out of the doorway 
and heard the bellow of rage from that mangled, bloodless throat-"I'LL FIND 
YOU!" And then Mama jerked him forward, and he almost tripped, but she pulled 
him up, urging him to run. Wind screamed into their faces, and already Mama's 
black hair was white with a coating of snow, as if she'd aged in a matter of 
minutes, 
17 
THEY THIRST 
or gone mad like some lunatic in an asylum who sees nightmares as grinning, 
shadowless realities. 
A figure suddenly emerged from the midst of a stand of snow-heavy pines, frail 
and thin and as white as lake ice. The hair whipped around in the wind; the rags 
of its worm-eaten clothes billowed. The figure stood at the top of a snow mound, 
waiting for them, and before Mama saw it, it had stepped into their path, 
grinning a little boy's grin and holding out a hand sculpted like ice. 
"I'm cold," Ivon Griska whispered, still grinning. "I have to find my way home." 

Mama stopped, screamed, thrust out a hand before her. For an instant the boy was 
held by Ivon Griska's gaze, and in his mind he heard the echo of a whisper. 
Won't you be my playmate, Andre? And he'd almost replied, Yes, oh yes, when Mama 
shouted something that was carried away by the wind. She jerked him after her, 
and he looked back with chilled regret. Ivon had forgotten about them now and 
began walking slowly through the snow toward Krajeck. 
After a while, Mama could go no farther. She shuddered and fell into the snow. 
She was sick then, and the boy crawled away from the steaming puddle and stared 
back through waving pines toward home. His face was seared by the cold, and he 
wondered if Papa was going to be all right. Mama had no reason to hurt him like 
that. She was a bad woman to hurt his father, who loved them both so dearly. 
"Papa!" he called into the distance, hearing only the wind reply in frozen 
mockery of a human voice. His eyelashes were heavy with snow. "Papa!" His small, 
tired voice cracked. But then Mama struggled to her feet, pulling him up again 
even though he tried to fight her and break free of her grip. She shook him 
violently, ice tracks lacing her face like white embroidery, and shouted, "He's 
dead! Don't you understand that? We've got to run, Andre, and we've got to keep 
on running!" And as she said that, the boy knew she was insane. Papa was badly 
hurt, yes, because she had shot him, but Papa wasn't dead. Oh, no. He was back 
there. Waiting. 
And then lights broke the curtain of darkness. Smoke ripped from a chimney. They 
glimpsed a snow-weighted roof. They raced toward those lights, stumbling, 
half-frozen. The woman muttered to herself, laughing hysterically and urging the 
boy on. He fought the fingers of cold that clutched at his throat. Lie down, the 
wind whispered across the back of his head. Stop right here and sleep. This 
woman has done a bad thing to your papa, and she may hurt you, too. Lie down 
right here for a little while and be warm, and in the morning your papa will 
come for you. Yes. Sleep, little one, and forget. 
A weather-beaten sign creaked wildly back and forth above a heavy door. He saw 
the whitened traces of words: THE GOOD SHEPHERD INN. Mama hammered madly at the 
door, shaking the boy at the same time to keep him awake. "Let us in, please let 
us in!" she shouted, pounding with a numbed fist. The boy stumbled and fell 
against her, his head lolling to the side. 
When the door burst open, long-armed shadows reached for them. The boy's knees 
buckled, and he heard Mama moan as the cold-like the touch of a forbidden, 
loving stranger-gently kissed him to sleep. 
18 19 
1 
Friday, October 25I 
THE CAULDRON 
20 21 
A star-specked night, black as the highway asphalt that bubbled like a cauldron 
brew beneath the midday sun, now lay thickly over the long dry stretch of Texas 
285 between Fort Stockton and Pecos. The darkness, as still and dense as the eye 
of a hurricane, was caught between the murderous heat of dusk and dawn. In all 
directions the land, stubbled with thornbrush and pipe-organ cactus, was 
frying-pan flat. Abandoned hulks of old cars, gnawed down to the bare metal by 
the sun and occasional dust storms, afforded shelter for the coiled rattlesnakes 
that could still smell the sun's terrible track across the earth. 
It was near one of these hulks-rusted and vandalized, windshield long shattered, 
engine carried away by some hopeful tinkerer-that a jackrabbit sniffed the 
ground for water. Smelling distant, buried coolness, the jackrabbit began to dig 
with its forepaws; in another instant it stopped, nose twitching toward the 
underside of that car. It tensed, smelling snake. From the darkness came a dozen 
tiny rattlings, and the rabbit leapt backward. Nothing followed. The rabbit's 
instincts told it that a nest had been dug under there, and the noise of the 
young would bring back the hunting mother. Sniffing the ground for the snake's 
trail, the jackrabbit moved away from the car and ran nearer to the highway, 
crunching grit beneath its paws. It was halfway across the road, moving toward 
its own nest and young in the distance, when a sudden vibration in the earth 
froze it. Long ears twitching for a sound, the rabbit turned its head toward the 
south. 
A gleaming white orb was slowly rising along the highway. The rabbit watched it, 
transfixed. Sometimes the rabbit would stand atop its dirt-mound burrow and 
watch the white thing that floated high overhead; sometimes it was larger than 
this one; sometimes it was yellow; sometimes it wasn't there at all; sometimes 
there were tendrils across it, and it left in the air the tantalizing scent of 
water that never fell. The rabbit was unafraid because it was familiar with that 
thing in the sky, but the vibration it now felt rippled the flesh along its 
spine. The orb was growing larger, bringing with it a noise like the growl of 
thunder. In another instant the rabbit's eyes were blinded by the white orb; its 
nerves shot out a danger signal to the brain. The rabbit scurried for safety on 
the opposite side of the highway, casting a long scrawl of shadow beyond it. 
The jackrabbit was perhaps three feet away from a protective clump of thorn- 
brush when the night-black Harley-Davidson 1200cc "chopper," moving at almost 
eighty miles an hour, swerved across the road and directly over the rabbit's 
spine. It 
22 
squealed, bones splintering, and the small body began to twitch in the throes of 
death. The huge motorcycle, its shocks barely registering a shudder of quick 
impact, roared on to the north. 
A few moments later a sidewinder began to undulate toward the rabbit's cooling 
carcass. 
And on the motorcycle, enveloped in a cocoon of wind and thunder, the rider 
stared along the cone of white light his single high-intensity beam afforded, 
and with a fractional movement he guided the machine to the center of the road. 
His black-gloved fist throttled upward; the machine growled like a well-fed 
panther and kicked forward until the speedometer's needle hung at just below 
ninety. Behind a battered black crash helmet with visor lowered, the rider was 
grinning. He wore a sleek, skin-tight, black leather jacket and faded jeans with 
leather-patched knees. The jacket was old and scarred, and across the back rose 
a red Day-Glo king cobra, its hood fully swollen. The paint was flaking off, as 
if the reptile were shedding its skin. The machine thundered on, parting a wall 
of silence before it, leaving desert denizens trembling in its wake. A garishly 
painted sign-blue music notes floating above a pair of tilted red beer bottles, 
the whole thing pocked with rust-edged bullet holes-came up on the right. The 
rider glanced quickly at it, reading JUST AHEAD! THE WATERIN' HOLE! and below 
that, FILL 'ER up, PARDNER! Yeah, he thought. Time to fill up. 
Two minutes later there was the first faint glimmer of blue neon against the 
blackness. The rider began to cut his speed; the speedometer's needle fell 
quickly to eighty, seventy, sixty. Ahead there was a blue neon sign-THE WAT RIN' 
H LE -above the doorway of a low wooden building with a flat, dusty red roof. 
Clustered around it like weary wasps around a sun-bleached nest were three cars, 
a jeep, and a pickup truck with most of its dull blue paint scoured down to the 
muddy red primer. The motorcycle rider turned into a tumbleweed-strewn parking 
lot and switched off his engine; immediately the motorcycle's growl was replaced 
with Freddy Fender's nasal voice singing about "wasted days and wasted nights." 
The rider put down the kickstand and let the black Harley ease back, like a 
crouching animal. When he stood up and off the machine, his muscles were as taut 
as piano wires; the erection between his legs throbbed with heat. 
He popped his chin strap and lifted the helmet off, exposing a vulpine, sharply 
chiseled face that was as white as new marble. In that bloodless face the deep 
pits of his eyes bore white pupils, faintly veined with red. From a distance 
they were as pink as a rabbit's, but up close they became snakelike, glittering 
coldly, unblinking, hypnotizing. His hair was yellowish-white and closely 
cropped; a blue trace of veins at the temples pulsed an instant behind the 
jukebox's beat. He left his helmet strapped around the handlebars and moved 
toward the building, his gaze flickering toward the cars: there was a rifle on a 
rack in the truck's cab, a "Hook 'Em Horns!" sticker on a car's rear fender, a 
pair of green dice dangling from the jeep's rearview mirror. 
When he stepped through the screen door into a large room layered with 
23 
smoky heat, the six men inside-three at a table playing cards, two at a light 
bulb- haloed pool table, one behind the bar-instantly looked up and froze. The 
albino biker met each gaze in turn and then sat on one of the bar stools, the 
red cobra on his back a scream of color in the murky light. After another few 
seconds of silence, a pool cue cracked against a ball like a gunshot. "Aw, 
shit!" one of the pool players- a broad-shouldered man wearing a red checked 
shirt and dusty Levis that had been snagged a hundred times on barbed wire-said 
loudly with a thick Texas drawl. "At least that screwed up your shot, didn't it, 
Matty?" 
"Sure did," Matty agreed. He was about forty, all arms and legs, short red 
hair,| and a lined forehead half-covered by a sweat-stained cowboy hat. He was 
chewing | slowly on a toothpick, and now he stood where he could consider the 
lie of the balls, do some more chewing, and watch that strange-looking white 
dude from the !| corner of his eye. 
The bartender, a hefty Mexican with tattooed forearms and heavy-lidded_ black 
eyes, came down the bar following the swirls of a wet cloth. "Help you?" he 
asked the albino and looked up into the man's face; instantly he felt as if his 
spine had been tapped with an ice pick. He glanced over toward where Slim 
Hawkins, Bobby Hazelton and Ray Cope sat in the third hour of their Friday night 
poker game; he saw Bobby did an elbow into Ray's ribs and grin toward the bar. 
The albino said quietly, "Beer." 
"Sure, coming up." Louis the bartender turned away in relief. The biker looked 
bizarre, unclean, freakish. He was hardly a man, probably nineteen or twenty at 
the most. Louis picked up a glass mug from a shelf and a bottle of Lone Star 
from the stuttering refrigerator unit beneath the bar. From the jukebox, Dolly 
Parton began singing about "burning, baby, burning." Louis slid the mug across 
to the albino and then quickly moved away, swirling the cloth over the polished 
wood of the bar. He felt as if he were sweating in the glare of a midday sun. 
Balls cracked together on the green-felt pool table. One of them thunked into a 
corner pocket. "There you go, Will," Matty drawled. "That's thirty-five you 
oweil . me, ain't it?" 
"Yeah, yeah. Damn it. Louis, why don't you turn that fuckin' music box down so a 
man can concentrate on his pool playin'!" 
Louis shrugged and motioned toward the poker table. 
"I like it that loud," Bobby Hazelton said, grinning over kings and tens. He was 
a part-time rodeo bronco-buster with a crew cut and a prominent gold tooth. 
Three years ago he'd been on his way to a Texas title when a black bastard of a 
horse called Twister had thrown him and broken his collarbone in two places. 
"Music helps me think. Will, you oughta come on over here and lemme take some of 
that heavy money you're carrying around." 
"Hell, naw! Matty's doing too good a job at that tonight!" Will put his cue 
stick away in the rack, glancing quickly over at the albino and then at Bobby. 
"You boys best watch old Bobby," he warned. "Took me for over fifty bucks last 
Friday night." 
"Just luck," Bobby said. He spread his cards out on the table, and Slim Hawkins 
24 
said in his gravelly voice, "Sheeyit!" Bobby reached for his chips and gathered 
them in. 
"Dumb luck my ass," Ray Cope said. He leaned over and spat a chunk of Red Man 
tobacco into an empty paper cup. "Jesus, it's hot in here tonight!" He let his 
gaze shift past the red cobra on that kid's jacket. Goddamn biker, he thought, 
narrowing ice-blue eyes rimmed with wrinkles. Don't know what it is to work for 
a livin'. Probably one of those punks who robbed Jeff Hardy's grocery store in 
Pecos a few days back. He could see the kid's hands as the albino lifted the 
beer mug and drank. Under those gloves, Cope thought, the hands were probably as 
white and soft as Mary Ruth Kennon's thighs. His own large hands were chunky and 
rough and scarred from ten years of ranch work. 
The Dolly Parton song faded. Another record dropped, hissed, and crackled for a 
few seconds like hot fat on a griddle. Waylon Jennings started singing about 
going to Luckenbach, Texas. Matty called for another Lone Star and a pack of 
Marlboros. 
The albino downed the rest of his beer and sat staring into the mug for a 
moment. He began to smile slightly, as if at a private joke, but the smile was 
cold and terrible, and Louis winced when he happened to catch it. The albino 
swiveled around on his stool, reared his arm back, and flung the mug straight 
into the jukebox. Colored glass and plastic exploded like several over-and-under 
shotguns going off at once; Waylon Jennings's voice went into an ear-piercing 
falsetto for an instant, then rumbled down to a basso as the turntable went 
crazy. Lights flickered; the record droned to a stop. There was utter silence in 
the bar, broken only by the sound of pieces of glass clinking to the floor. 
Louis had raised his head from where he'd bent down for Matty's beer. He stared 
at the ruined jukebox. Madre de Dios! he thought, that thing was three hundred 
dollars almost five years ago! Then he looked over at the albino, who was 
watching him with a death's head grin plastered across his unholy face. At last 
Louis got his tongue working. "You crazy?" Louis screamed. "What the shit you do 
that for?" 
Chairs scraped back from the poker table. Immediately the place was filled with 
the ozone smell of danger and hot tempers. 
With eyes like solid chunks of blood-veined ice, the albino said, "I don't like 
that shitkicker music." 
"You crazy, man?" Louis shrieked, sweat popping out on his face. 
Bobby Hazelton, his hands curled into fists, said between clenched teeth, "You 
gonna pay for that machine, freak." 
"Sure as hell are," Ray Cope echoed. 
The albino turned on his stool very slowly and faced the men. His smile froze 
everyone but Will Jenks, who stepped back a pace. "Got no money," the albino 
said. 
"I'll call the sheriff then, you bastardo!" Louis started to move down the bar 
toward the pay phone on the wall, but instantly the albino said "No you won't" 
in a softly chilling voice. Louis stopped where he was, his heart hammering. 
25 
"No call to bust that machine," Matty said, and picked up a pool cue from the 
rack. "This is a peaceable place." 
"Was," Bobby said. "What're you doin' around here anyway, freak? Lookin' to rob 
somebody maybe? Have some fun with somebody's wife or daughter when the man's 
gone to work? Huh?" 
"I'm heading through. Going to L.A." The albino, still smiling faintly, glanced 
at each of them in turn-the track of his gaze freezing Ray Cope's veins, making 
Will Jenks's temples throb, sending a shudder along Slim Hawkins's spine. 
"Thought I'd stop to fill up, like the sign says." 
"You're gonna pay," Louis threatened, but his voice sounded weaker. There was a 
shotgun under the bar, but to get it he'd have to step nearer to the albino, and 
something within him warned him not to. 
"Nobody asked you to stop here, cottonhead!" Ray Cope steeled himself and began 
to move around the pool table toward the albino. "We don't like you biker freaks 
around here!" 
"I don't like shitkickers either." This was said calmly, almost offhandedly, as 
if the albino had just said he didn't particularly care for the dry tang of the 
Lone Star beer, but instantly a surge of electric tension ringed the room. Bobby 
Hazelton's eyes bulged with anger, the sweat stains under his arms growing 
larger in circumference. The albino slowly began to unzip his jacket. 
"What'd you say, freak?" Bobby hissed. 
The albino, his stare impassive, whispered, "Shit . . . kickers." 
"You sonofabitch!" Bobby shouted, and then leapt toward the biker with fists 
swinging. But in the next instant the albino's jacket came open; there was a 
terrifying roar, a burst of blue smoke, and a hole where Bobby Hazelton's right 
eye had been. Bobby screamed, clawing at his face even as the wadcutter slug 
tore away the back of his head and spattered the men behind him with bits of 
bone and brain. He pinwheeled across the poker table, crashing down on kings and 
jokers and aces, and on the floor the legs of the corpse kept jerking as if 
Bobby were still trying to run. 
The albino, blue smoke wafting between him and the other men, had withdrawn from 
the inside of his jacket a pistol with a long, thin barrel, a squarish black 
body, and a grip that resembled a sawed-off length of broom handle. The deadly 
muzzle was drooling smoke. The albino stared, his eyes slightly widened, at the 
contorted corpse on the floor. 
"You killed him!" Slim Hawkins said with incredulous wonder, clawing at the 
droplets of Bobby's blood across the front of his gray cowboy shirt with the 
pearl- stud buttons. "Jesus God, you killed him . . ." He choked, gagged, and 
started to throw up through his hands. 
"Godawmighty!" Will said, his mouth hanging open. He had seen a piece like the 
one that kid held once before, at a gun and knife show in Houston. It was an old 
automatic the Germans had used back in World War II-a broom-handle Mauser, he 
thought it was called. Ten slugs to a clip, and the damned thing could fire 
faster than a man could blink. "Bastard's got a machine-gun pistol!" 
26 
"Yeah," the albino said softly, "that's right." 
Louis, his heart beating so hard he thought it would explode through his chest, 
took a deep breath and dove for the shotgun. He squawked with terror as his feet 
slipped out from under him on a wet spot. But even as his hands curled around 
cold iron, the albino had whirled around, eyes brimming with bloodlust. Louis 
looked up into two bullets that sheared off the top of his head. He crashed 
backward into a shelf of beer mugs, his brain exposed to the world; the corpse 
uttered a soft, eerie sigh and crumpled into a heap. 
"Oh ... God.. ."Will breathed. Bile rose to the top of his throat, and he almost 
strangled on it. 
"Hold on now, fella . . . just hold on now . . ." Matty was saying over and over 
again, like a record that had gotten stuck on the jukebox. His face was now 
almost as white as the albino's, and his cowboy hat was splattered with Bobby 
Hazelton's blood. He put his hands up as if begging for mercy, which he was 
because in that terrible instant the men knew they were going to die. 
The albino stepped through a churning curtain of smoke. He was smiling like a 
child at Christmas who wanted to see what would spill out when the packages were 
ripped open. 
"Please," Will said hoarsely, his eyes wide circles of terror. "Please don't. . 
. kill us . . ." 
"Like I said," the biker replied evenly, "I stopped in to fill up. When you boys 
get to hell, you tell the devil Kobra sent you. That's with a K." He grinned and 
opened fire. A bloody cowboy hat sailed up toward the ceiling; bodies writhed 
and spun and fell like marionettes on crazy strings; a few teeth torn from a 
blasted mouth rattled to the floor; fragments of a gray shirt with pearl-stud 
buttons floated toward the rear of the room on the breath of a volcano. 
Then-but for the soft dripping-silence. 
Kobra's ears were ringing. He flipped the Mauser's safety and laid it on the 
bar, where it gleamed like a black diamond. For a few minutes he stood 
motionless, eyes sated and lazy, examining the specific postures of death each 
corpse had taken. He breathed deeply of the bloody smell and felt electric with 
life. God, it was good, he thought. So damned good! His erection was gone. He 
walked around the bar and drew another bottle of beer from the refrigerator, 
downing it in a couple of long swallows and then tossing the bottle toward the 
other discarded containers. Maybe I ought to take some with me, he thought. No. 
Don't want to weigh myself down. No room anyway. Want to be fast and free. He 
returned to his weapon and slipped it into the special leather holster sewn into 
the inside of his jacket. Little bitch had cost a lot of money in Salinas, but 
she was worth it, he told himself. He loved that weapon; he'd bought her from a 
canny old trader who'd sworn she had actually been used by Nazi security units 
and wasn't just a gun shop antique. The magazine had jammed a couple of times 
but otherwise the weapon was perfectly responsive. She could cut a man down to 
bone pretty damned fast. He zipped up his jacket. The pistol burned its imprint 
into his side like a passion mark. He breathed the 
27 
THEY THIRST 
smell of blood until his lungs felt swollen with hot, sweet copper. Then he went 
to work, first going through the cash register. There was a little over forty 
dollars in ones, fives, and tens. The change he didn't care about. He rolled the 
corpses over and dug into their pockets, careful not to leave a bootprint in any 
of the puddles of thickening blood. In all he came up with about two hundred 
dollars. He was about to rise up from the body of the first man he'd shot when 
he saw that gold tooth shining like a mother lode in the half-open cave of the 
mouth. He knocked the tooth out with the butt of his Mauser, replaced the gun in 
its holster, and put the tooth in his pocket. 
And now he was ready to go. 
Outside, the desert air smelled weak and impure to Kobra as compared with the 
rich death smell within the Waterin' Hole. In both directions the highway 
vanished into darkness; he saw his shadow, thrown blue across the earth by the 
neon sign over his head. Someone would find the shitkickers soon, he told 
himself. All hell would break loose. No matter. I'll be on the road to L.A. and 
a long way from here by the time the troopers show up. Kobra turned his face 
toward the black western sky, his flesh faintly tingling. 
The feeling was stronger than it had been in Ciudad Acuna, stronger than in 
Sonora, stronger even than in Fort Stockton just a few miles back. Like the 
prick of needles and pins, like a quick rush after a snort of coke, or the 
delicious, tormenting anticipation when watching a spoon of sugarfine horse 
begin to cook. And getting better all the time, slowly increasing as he moved 
west. Sometimes now he thought he could smell blood when he faced west, as if 
the whole Pacific had turned crimson, and you could wallow in it all you liked 
until you got drunk with it and fell down and drowned in it. It was like being 
fed the greatest drug in the world drop by drop, and every mile Kobra traveled 
he grew more maddeningly eager for the whole kick in his veins. 
And there was the dream, too; the recurring thing that had drawn him back into 
the States from Mexico. He'd first had it a week before and for three nights in 
a row, everything exactly the same and so damned . . . spooky: he sat astride 
his chopper in the dream, on a long, curving highway with high palm trees on 
each side and a lot of tall buildings. The light was funny-it seemed all reddish 
and murky, as if the sun had gotten stuck on the horizon. He wore his black 
jacket, his jeans, and his black crash helmet, and behind him rode an army of 
outlaw bikers on every kind of chopper and hog a tormented mind could 
imagine-firebreathers with chrome shining bright red, metal-flake paint 
glittering purple and neon blue and gold, and engines roaring like dragons. But 
the army of outlaw bikers who rode in Kobra's wake looked strange and skeletal, 
white-fleshed things with shadow-rimmed eyes that did not blink in the miasmic 
light. There were hundreds of them, a thousand maybe, their bleached flesh 
covered with the remnants of buckskin jackets, tattered jeans with leather knee 
patches. Army surplus jackets burned sickly green by the sun; Day-Glo painted 
crash helmets, Nazi helmets, cracked and battered skid lids rattled around some 
of the grinning skull-like heads. Some of the 
26 
things wore goggles. They began to chant, eerie braying voices from between 
clicking rows of teeth, louder and louder: Kobra, Kobra, KoBRA, KOBRA, KOBRA! 
And in the dream Kobra had seen a white sign way up in the hills above the 
sprawling city: HOLLYWOOD. 
Spooky. 
And two nights ago he'd begun to sleepwalk. Twice he'd opened his eyes in the 
hot, dry house before dawn and found himself standing-actually goddamned 
standing!-outside the pitiful wooden shanty of a house that he'd been hiding in 
for the past three weeks since he'd left the country after that little party 
near New Orleans almost a month ago. What had awakened him both times was the 
weary voice of the thirteen-year-old prostitute he was living with, a frail girl 
with black hair that shone like oil and eyes that looked forty years old, 
calling from the dark doorway. Senor? Senor? But in the instant before her voice 
registered in his blurred brain, he thought he'd heard a voice as distant and 
cold as a Canadian wind whispering through his soul. And what it had said was 
Follow me. He was facing west when his eyes had opened both nights. 
Kobra blinked. A sudden gust of desert wind had blown grit into his face. It was 
time to be moving. And when I get where I'm headed, he told himself as he walked 
across the lot to his chopper, there's gonna be one hell of a party. He sat 
astride the Harley and slipped on his helmet, fastening the chin strap and 
lowering the visor like a demonic knight readying for battle. He kickstarted the 
engine and wheeled the rumbling machine out of the parking lot, leaving the 
silent Waterin' Hole with its last customers behind. His belly felt gorged. 
On the highway he accelerated to just below eighty. He was going to have to 
follow the worst of the desert roads to avoid the state troopers. Have to be 
real careful, he warned himself. But I have to hurry. 
Because of one thing he was certain. 
He was following Death's keen promise. 
TWO 
When Andy Palatazin opened his eyes in the cool darkness of his bedroom, he had 
a single chilling thought: the Roach is here. He lay perfectly still, his 
bearlike body swaddled in blue sheets, and waited for his heartbeat to settle 
down. He listened to the quiet nighttime noises: the creaking of a stair down 
the hallway, the muffled humming of the refrigerator downstairs, the ticking of 
the alarm clock on the little bedside table, assorted cracks and whispers and 
rustles. He was reminded of the tales his mother had told him as a child about 
the elves who crept out at night, riding on the backs of mice to have a festive 
celebration, then disappeared by dawn. Beside him, Jo stirred and drew closer to 
him. What woke me? he wondered. I never wake up like this! 
He lifted his head a few inches to look at the clock. It took him a minute to 
27 I
1
28 29 
make out the little luminous numerals-eleven-fifty. No, he told himself, the 
Roach is not here. The Roach is out somewhere in Los Angeles doing those things 
he likes to do. His stomach crawled with dread and disgust at what the morning 
might bring. He eased over on his back, bedsprings sagging and whining like 
poorly plucked harp strings. He expected to feel the sharp jab of a spring 
cutting into his back or buttocks at any moment. The mattress was thin and worn 
from years of supporting his weight, which ranged annually from 210 during the 
summer when he played some golf with a few of the other detectives to 230 around 
Christmastime when he gorged himself on Jo's beef-and-sour-cream casseroles. 
He stared up at the ceiling and heard a car taking the corner down on Romaine 
Street. Headlights flickered overhead, then faded away. Very soon now another 
day would break, he told himself. October in Los Angeles. Not quite like the 
Octobers he'd known as a boy. Those Octobers had been real, full of wild winds 
and erratic snowfall, cold gray skies and a dance of hail across the 
windowsills. These California Octobers were false, hollow, somehow unsatisfying: 
a chill in the morning breeze and again at night, but hot sun at midday unless 
the sky was cloudy, which was very seldom indeed. And not to forget the frequent 
earth tremors that cracked windows and shook the floors. But it was difficult 
for him to believe snow was falling anywhere in the world when he could see 
people wearing short-sleeved shirts on the streets of L.A. It was the city of 
perpetual summer, the land of golden youth. Sometimes his heart ached for want 
of a single flake of snow. Oh, he could see the autumn and winter snowfall on 
clear days when the purple rise of the San Gabriel Mountains wasn't obscured by 
fog or smog, but somehow the palm trees waving everywhere you looked didn't seem 
to fit. It had been over sixty degrees on Christmas Day last year. Palatazin 
recalled boyhood Christmases of ten and twenty below zero when the windows were 
caked with ice and snow and Papa had to hack the door free with- Abruptly his 
mind went blank. He turned his attention to what he thought had wakened him: 
Roach. The taplo was out there somewhere, crawling through a city of over eight 
million people, waiting to strike. Or perhaps striking even now. It was Friday 
night, and the young prostitutes would be lining Sunset and Hollywood 
boulevards. Perhaps he'll make a mistake tonight, Palatazin told himself. 
Perhaps he'll try to lure one of the policewomen tonight, and then the nightmare 
would be over. Four young girls in two weeks, all strangled to death by powerful 
hands, according to the coroner's report, then raped. And the notes this hideous 
animal left on the corpses! They were rambling hand-scrawled messages that in 
one sentence talked about the divine plan of God and then said the prostitutes 
-"bad girls," the notes said-were liars and hellish angels who could be led to 
peace only through death. Palatazin could recall most of the notes word for 
word. He'd been studying them continually since the morning of September 27, 
when a surf fisherman in Venice had found the body of Kitt Kimberlin, a 
nineteen-year-old divorcee with two kids, beneath a rotting pier. 
"God called me in the night," the note had read. "God is here among us right 
now, and out of all the people in this city He's called me to do His work!" That 
first 
30 
note, hastily written in blue ink on ordinary drugstore typing paper, had been 
unsigned. It had been a Venice police officer named Duccio who'd found that the 
young woman's mouth had been crammed full of dead roaches; the story had leaked 
to reporters, and it was the Los Angeles Tattler that first printed a front-page 
article, by Gayle Clarke of course, with the headline, WHERE WILL THE ROACH 
STRIKE NEXT? Several photographs at the death scene by somebody named Jack Kidd 
were splashed luridly across the page, and Palatazin knew that the rag had 
probably sold a million copies that week. When the next woman, a Chicano barely 
sixteen years old, was found under a tarpaulin in an empty lot in Hollywood, 
there were the dead roaches again, and the other papers picked up on it. 
The third letter was signed, "Roach. Ha ha. I like it." The latest note, found 
on the corpse of a blond, blue-eyed runaway from Seattle, was the most 
disturbing of the lot: "The Master calls me. He speaks to me by name now, and I 
have to answer. He tells me he needs me, and my head stops hurting. He says I'm 
doing it wrong, that he'll teach me things I never dreamed of. You won't hear 
from me again." It was signed "Roach," and the girl's mouth had been jammed full 
of them. 
That had been on the tenth of October. Thirteen days now with no trace of him. 
Where was he? What was he planning? Waiting, biding his time, laughing as the 
LAPD ran to ground every possible lead, rumor, or bar and pool hall story about 
somebody knowing somebody who knew a guy who'd been drunkenly bragging about 
snuffing out a girl and getting away with it, every pimp's tale of the night 
this really weird customer with strange, flaming eyes said he had a few roaches 
for Kitt Kimberlin, every after-midnight telephone call from frightened wives 
who whispered that they didn't know what was happening to Harry or Tom or Joe 
but he was acting very strange and not coming home until almost dawn. Palatazin 
could hear the collective, "Yes, ma'am, thank you for calling, we'll check it 
out," being spoken by a dozen different police officers across the city right at 
this very moment. 
Of course every newspaper from the Times to the Tattler was zeroing in on the 
Roach murders. The nightly television newscasts always brought him up in some 
insinuation or reference. The flesh traffic on Sunset and Hollywood had started 
to thin out for a while after midnight, but now it was swinging back to business 
as usual. But no one had forgotten: it seemed to be a big joke to some, that the 
L.A. police couldn't even find a roach. Those were the words that haunted 
Palatazin, that sat on his forehead at night chuckling and lay like a moldering 
corpse beside his bed for him to trip over on the way to brush his teeth in the 
morning: Find the Roach. 
How? The man was crazy, of course. An animal, a fattyu, a maniac. But careful 
and cunning, too. And the city was so big, so sprawling, so full of potential 
killers. How? It was a question Palatazin wrestled with daily because, as 
Detective Captain of Homicide at Parker Center in downtown L.A., he was in 
charge of the investigation. He saw the fear, the mistrust in people's face now 
as they stood talking in groups on the boulevards, as they pondered the fickle 
turnings of life and death in smoky bars. The sheer ugliness of this maniac's 
methods surpassed anything the 
31 
Hillside Strangler had ever done. But if there was anything that riveted the 
attention of L.A., it was the horror show. 
A sickening thing, Palatazin thought as he stared up at the ceiling, trying to 
picture in his mind what the man must look like. Judging from the bruises on the 
throats of his victims, his hands would have to be abnormally large and very 
strong; probably his forearms and shoulders would be well-developed, too. He 
would also probably have very fast reflexes-but from that tiny bit of tissue the 
police lab technicians had determined that the Roach was a darkhaired Caucasian, 
most likely under forty. He was a very sadistic, sick man who seemed to be 
enjoying his newly found publicity. But what had made him go underground? What 
had made him decide to stop killing just as quickly as he'd begun? Thirteen 
days, Palatazin thought. The trail's getting colder and colder. What is he 
doing? Where is he hiding? 
And suddenly Palatazin was aware of another noise in the room. The noise, he 
instinctively knew, that had awakened him. 
It was a slight, soft creaking, as if someone were walking on the floorboards 
down at the foot of the bed. Beside him Jo stirred and sighed, locked into 
sleep. 
Palatazin's blood turned icy. He lifted his head. 
At the foot of the bed, over where the window looked down onto Romaine Street 
with its old wood-framed houses standing shoulder to shoulder like aged friends, 
Palatazin's mother, Nina, sat in her rocking chair, slowly rocking back and 
forth. She was small and wrinkled and weary-looking, but her eyes blazed 
fiercely in the darkness. 
Palatazin's heart thudded in his chest. He sat upright in bed and heard himself 
whisper first in the language of his native Hungary, "Anya ... Mama ... my God 
..." 
His mother's stare was unyielding. She seemed to be trying to speak; he could 
see her lips moving, the sunken cheeks quivering with the effort. She lifted a 
frail hand and motioned with it, as if she wanted her son to get up and hurry, 
lazybones, you'll be late for school. 
"What is it?" he whispered, his face gone ashen. "What is it?" 
A hand gripped his shoulder. He gasped and looked around, his flesh crawling. 
His wife, a small, pretty woman in her early forties with bones like fine china, 
was looking up at him through deep blue, blurry eyes. She said thickly, "Is it 
time to get up yet?" 
"No," he told her. "Go back to sleep." 
"What do you want for breakfast?" 
He leaned over and kissed her cheek, and she settled back down into her pillow. 
Almost instantly her breathing shallowed. He looked back to the window, beads of 
cold sweat on his face. 
The rocking chair, over in the corner where it always sat, was empty. For a few 
seconds he thought it was moving, but as he stared at it he realized that the 
chair wasn't rocking at all. It never had been. Another car moved along the 
street, casting quick reflections of light that chased the clinging shadows 
along the ceiling. 
Palatazin watched the chair for a long time, then eased himself back down in 
32 
the bed. He pulled the sheet up to his neck. The thoughts whirled wildly through 
his mind, like remnants of tattered newspaper. It's the pressure, of course, 
FIND THE ROACH, but I did see her, I did! Tomorrow more legwork and interviews 
and telephone calls. FIND THE ROACH. I saw my mother sitting in that chair. . . 
the day starts early so you must get your sleep . . . close your eyes ... I saw 
her. . . close your eyes . . . yes, yes I did! 
Finally his heavy-lidded eyes did close. Sleep brought on a nightmarish shadowy 
shape, pursuing a small boy and a woman across a plain heaped with high 
snowdrifts. His last coherent thought before he began to run across the 
snowfield in his mind was that his mother had been dead since the first week of 
September. 
THREE 
Mitchell Everett Gideon, forty-four-year-old entrepreneur supreme and newly 
elected vice-president of the Los Angeles Millionaires' Club, was lighting up a 
dark- leafed, two-dollar Joya de Nicaragua cigar with a gold Dunhill lighter at 
about the same time that Andy Palatazin was staring at an empty rocking chair. A 
short, fiesty man with a spreading belly and a face that would have been as 
innocent as Humpty Dumpty's except for the dark, deep-set eyes and the 
thin-lipped, callous mouth, Gideon sat in the gold-carpeted office of his 
Spanish pueblo-style mansion in Laurel Canyon staring at a half-dozen invoices 
spread across his antique mahogany desk. The invoices covered shipments of the 
usual items: a couple of freight-train loads of unfinished oak planking cut into 
prespecified lengths and widths, delivered to the factory in the Highland Park 
district; crates of varnish and stain; several dozen bolts of silk from Lee Wong 
and Company over in Chinatown; bales of cotton ticking; six drums of embalming 
fluid. "The robbers!" Gideon muttered, betraying his New York upbringing with a 
single flattening of the tongue. "The dirty, rotten robbers! Especially Lee 
Wong. Been doin' business with that old chink for almost fifteen years," Gideon 
told himself as he bit down on his cigar, "now the old bastid's raised his 
prices for the third time in a year! Christ!" And the same with the others, too. 
The oak was costing an arm and a leg these days, and just last week Vincenzo at 
the Gomez Brothers Lumberyard had called Gideon to tell him what a terrific 
sacrifice he was making to sell the material that cheaply. Sacrifice my ass! 
Gideon thought, chewing on the cigar. That's another goddamned robber! "Well, 
contract renewal time's comin' up in a few months," he told himself. "Then we'll 
see who wants my business and who don't!" 
He sucked in a mouthful of smoke and spewed it up toward the ceiling, sweeping 
aside the invoices with a diamond-ringed hand. "Overhead is killin' me this 
year!" he told himself. About the only thing that hadn't skyrocketed in price 
was the embalming fluid, and the DeWitt Labs people were making threatening 
noises about that, too. How the hell can a man make a decent livin' these days? 
Cigar gripped between his teeth, Gideon stood up from his desk to pour himself a 
solid 
33 
shot of Chivas Regal from a decanter taken from across the room. He wore a pair 
of crisply pressed tan slacks, a flaming red shirt open at the chest with 
several gold chains dangling, a pair of brown Gucci loafers on his feet. The 
shirt's pocket was monogrammed-MG in white letters. Gideon took his cigar and 
shot of Chivas out through a sliding glass door and onto a long terrace with a 
wrought-iron railing. Directly beneath him there was a fifty-foot drop into 
shrub- and tree-studded darkness, and off to the left, just faintly visible 
through a thick wall of pines, were the lights of another canyon dweller's 
house. Before him, like so much gaudy jewelry flung out on a black 
velvet-covered table, was a dazzling panorama of multicolored lights-Beverly 
Hills and Hollywood and L.A. from right to left as far as he could see. The tiny 
headlights of toy cars moved along Hollywood, Sunset, and Santa Monica 
boulevards; neon pulsated to private rhythms above discos and bars and rock 
clubs on the Strip. The rolling streets of Beverly Hills were dotted with 
sparkling white lights, like so many stars fallen to earth and slowly sputtering 
to death. Parks and cemeteries were dark squares in the electric tapestry. 
Gideon drew on his cigar and watched a Fountain Avenue traffic light the size of 
a pinhead turn green. He turned his head at a fraction of an inch and saw a dust 
speck of flashing blue veer up a ramp and onto the sweeping line of the 
Hollywood Freeway; it sped southward toward L.A.. Millions of people down there, 
Gideon thought, right now, they're sleeping, drinking, fighting, talking, 
screwing, being screwed, loving, and hating. And sooner or later they're all 
going to need what I sell. That thought made him feel a little better. The world 
turns and turns, he told himself, and spins off a few more unlucky folks every 
day. Auto accidents, suicides, murders, plain old Nature taking her course. I 
know what you need, baby, and I'm the man with the plan. 
Sometimes he felt like a god up here on Sky Vista Road; sometimes he thought he 
could stretch his arms and touch the heavens, take a piece of chalk and write 
MITCH GIDEON up on that huge blackboard for all the old bats at the public 
school (especially Four-Eyes Grimes, who said he'd never amount to anything but 
a hoodlum) to see. Of course, they were all dead by now-and buried. I hope, he 
thought, in pine boxes that leaked water on their dead gray heads-but he hoped 
that somehow all those people who said he'd wind up in the juvenile home or in 
the Tombs knew that now he was on top of the world, now he had a million-dollar 
Spanish mansion on Sky Vista Road, now he smoked two-dollar cigars and wore 
Gucci shoes, now he drank Chivas Regal from a crystal shot glass and watched the 
little people racing around down in the valley. Now he was Mitch Gideon, 
Mortuary King of Los Angeles. 
A chill breeze came up the canyon, shaking pine branches before it, and swirled 
around him, knocking off a dangling inch of cigar ash. The dark brown hair of 
his toupee remained glued in place above his long gray sideburns. In that breeze 
he thought he could smell the rich aromas of mellow oak, woodstain, varnish, 
shellac and clumps of wax caught in old, tattered rags, raw sawdust and chewing 
34 
tobacco-the aromas of his youth, spent between the juvenile home and his 
apprenticeship with Jacob Richwine the Brooklyn coffin maker. Those were the 
days . . . 
He stabbed his cigar out on the railing until the sparks were gone and then 
thumped the butt out into the night. He was about to step back into the warmth 
of the house when his head turned to the right and he found himself staring off 
into the distance, past the scatter of white lights from Nichols Canyon and 
toward the slabs of darkness that were the hills just above the Hollywood Bowl. 
He could feel the magnetic pull of the Kronsteen castle as if he were the needle 
of a compass; he knew his eyes had locked upon it across two miles of pine 
trees, palmettos, rooftops, and naked rock. It was there, like a scab where the 
earth had blistered into a peak, at the end of Blackwood Road, where it had 
brooded for over forty years. And for the fifth time in as many days, Mitch 
Gideon felt the sudden strong urge to leave his house, get in his 
chocolate-brown Mercedes, and drive up along that broken, godforsaken road to 
that huge Gothic cathedral of stone. He moved along the terrace as far as he 
could go and stood with one hand gripped around the cold railing, staring off 
into space. Another chill breeze swept across him, raising bumps on his exposed 
flesh, and as it whispered past his face, he thought he heard his name called as 
if from a vast distance. His eyes seemed so unfocused, as if he were staring 
through a huge rain-smeared plate-glass window; the lights from Nichols Canyon 
distorted into elongated streaks of white and yellow. He felt a slight throbbing 
at his temples, as if an invisible hand were slowly caving in the sides of his 
head. And Gideon thought for an instant that he could actually see the looming, 
hundred-roomed Kronsteen castle in the far distance with the white candle of the 
moon above it, guttering behind clouds of Spanish lace. His fingers gripped 
tighter around the railing, and now he was watching a river of plain, unfinished 
caskets come floating toward him along the banks of a wide black conveyor belt. 
There were other people around him, too, both men and women and even some small 
children, but the shadows were thick, cobwebbed things that kept him from seeing 
their faces clearly. The conveyor belt rolled the caskets along to a loading 
dock where the trucks waited with engines rumbling. Everyone seemed to know each 
other, but for some reason no one spoke. Overhead the long banks of fluorescent 
lights were burning at less than half power, and people moved toward Gideon like 
sleepwalkers, shadowy things without faces. The conveyor belt whirred faster and 
faster, bringing more and more caskets to be loaded onto the trucks. Gideon had 
a shovel in his hands. As a casket neared him, the worker just in front of him 
would lean forward and throw the lid back. Gideon then scooped up a shovelful of 
brown, sandy earth from a huge heap behind him and dumped it in; the next worker 
did the same, as did the next. Farther down the line the lid was closed again, 
and a forklift rumbled forward to hoist it to the trucks. Gideon realized that 
the front of his shirt was dirty. 
Quite close to his ear someone said, "Mitch!" 
He heard something crash to the concrete, and at first he thought it was his 
35 
shovel. I7/ get behind! Got to hurry! he thought. But then he felt the October 
wind on his face and smelled Chanel; Estelle Gideon, a sweater thrown around her 
shoulders above a silver-colored gown that did not quite hide the stomach and 
hips that years of gourmet dining had given her, stood beside her husband, her 
dark brown eyes slightly puffed from sleep. Her face, unfortunately toadlike, 
was layered with green and white beauty creams from Elizabeth Arden's on Rodeo 
Drive. Gideon blinked and looked down at his feet, where the crystal shot glass 
had shattered. "Oh," he said softly, "dropped it." 
"What are you doing out here, hon?" his wife asked. "It's cold!" 
"I was . . ." He thought for a minute, What was I doing? "I was working," he 
remembered. "In the office." He rubbed his eyes and glanced toward where he knew 
the Kronsteen castle perched in the darkness. A shiver rippled up his spine, and 
he quickly looked away. "I just stepped out for some air. Can't you sleep?" 
"I was sleeping," she said, and yawned. "I got hungry for some ice cream. When 
are you coming to bed?" 
"Just a few minutes. I've been going over some bills. That bloodsucker Wong's on 
my ass again." He looked out over the shimmering city and thought, Someone's 
dying out there right now. Tell you what I'll do-I'll give you the special rate 
for that shaded plot and the silk-lined, oak, conquistador-style casket, and 
I'll throw in the Golden Eternity service gratis. He smelled polishing wax, 
sweet and sour. He looked down at the hand that had guided the shovel. 
"You've made a real mess here," the woman said, making a clucking sound with her 
tongue. "How many have you had?" 
"Huh? Oh, just one. Watch your feet, babe. Shit, leave it for Natalie in the 
morning. She's got to have somethin' to do besides dumpin' out ashtrays and 
watchin' her goddamned soap operas!" 
Estelle looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "You look funny, Mitch. 
Everything okay?" 
"Funny? How?" 
"Bothered, worried, I don't know. If business was bad, you'd tell me, wouldn't 
you?" 
"Sure I would." Like hell I would, Gideon thought. The last time he'd tried to 
tell her about a business problem she fell asleep on him, still vacantly nodding 
her head. No one seemed to be interested in his problems anymore except Karen, 
Gideon's twenty-year-old mistress who lived out at Marina Del Rey. She made him 
feel like a kid again, but there were many nights spent just talking instead of 
fucking. Estelle had her lovers, too; Mitch could always tell when a new one had 
leeched onto her because she would always start taking exercise classes at the 
Beverly Hills Health Club again. They were always young men with tans-tennis 
players, lifeguards, beach bums. He didn't mind because he knew Estelle was 
smart enough not to let them get too near her purse. It was a good arrangement: 
he had his, she had hers. But in their own way they loved each other, even if 
not physically. They were good friends. And a divorce settlement would carve him 
too close to the 
36 
bone because he'd built his business on the strength of her father's old New 
York money. 
"It's cold out here," Estelle said. "Come on to bed." 
"Yeah, yeah, I will." He stood motionless and felt the Kronsteen Castle at his 
back, tugging him like a magnet. "It's spooky . . ." he whispered. 
"What's spooky? Mitch? You heard something on the radio about another one of 
those Roach murders?" 
"No, not that. Damn it, what the hell happened to Mitzi? You'd think we would've 
heard something by now!" 
She shrugged. "Dogs run away." 
"Watchdogs aren't supposed to! I paid over three-hundred bucks for that bitch! 
You're telling me she ran away after four years?" 
"So maybe somebody stole her? I've heard of that before. Dognapping. They like 
to get Dobermans." 
"Dognapping my ass! Mitzi would've chewed the fuckin' arms off anybody who tried 
to throw her into a car! It's just not safe in this fuckin' city anymore! 
Burglars breakin' into houses all up and down the canyon, nuts like the Roach 
runnin' around; the cops don't know which way to turn!" His eyes darkened. "And 
you remember what happened up at the Kronsteen place." 
"That was eleven years ago," she reminded him. 
"Eleven years or eleven minutes, it still happened, didn't it? Christ, I should 
know! I saw the old man's body ... what was left of it." There was a thick 
dryness at the back of his throat and a taste similar to the smell of embalming 
fluid. He wished he hadn't broken that shot glass, because he badly needed 
another sip of Chivas. He resisted the impulse to turn his head and, like a man 
transfixed, stared off into the night, toward that huge pile of stone and 
concrete two miles away. If there was any other place that had a better view of 
L.A. than mine, Mitch thought, then the castle was it. "The cops never found the 
maniacs who did it either. Probably never will." 
"That's California for you," Estelle said quietly. "The land of nuts and 
fruits." 
"The land of maniacs and murderers. I don't know, babe, I'm feeling awful damned 
strange these days. Spooked or somethin'. Scared." He ran a hand over his 
forehead; his fingertips were numb, like in that old game Dead Man's Hand, where 
you squeezed a thumb until the blood drained out of it and it became so cold and 
alien that it hardly felt human at all. "Somethin' like what happened to old man 
Kronsteen could happen to us. It could happen to anybody." 
"He was a loony," she said, and shivered. "That was one loony killing another 
loony. Let's get in out of this wind." 
"Mitzi," Gideon whispered. "What the fuck happened to my dog?" 
"You can buy yourself another one." She reached out and took his arm. "Come on, 
let's go to bed." 
Her hand felt deliciously warm against his. He looked at her, started to open 
his mouth to tell her about the strange feelings he was having lately-the weird 
37 
visions of himself working on a conveyor belt where the caskets just kept coming 
one after the other as far as you could see-to tell her about how he thought he 
heard his name whispered in the wind when it came roaring through the canyon in 
the late hours of the night, to tell her that even during the day at any one of 
his six mortuaries scattered across the city he would find himself standing at a 
window, looking up into the hills where the horror actor's castle stood silent 
and impassive to sun or wind or rain. He wanted to tell her he was more afraid 
than he'd ever been in his entire life. 
But Estelle's eyes were glazing, the lids already coming down like fleshy 
curtains. She smiled sleepily, and the mouth in that whitish-green face said, 
"Come on, hon. Beddy-bye time." 
"Yeah," he said, and nodded. "Okay." As he stepped into the house and turned to 
lock the sliding glass door, he thought, Imagine me, Mitch Gideon the Mortuary 
King, ruining good merchandise by throwing in shovelfuls of dirt. Christ, what a 
sin! He drew the curtains and followed his wife into the house, the golden 
chains around his neck clicking together like the rattle of dry bones. 
And the dark shape that had been crouched on the roof just above Mitch Gideon's 
terrace took to the air on widespread, gleaming black wings. 
FOUR 
"Ohhhhhhhhh," Gayle Clarke said, staring up at the apartment ceiling, sweet fire 
bubbling in her veins. "That feels sooooooo nice." 
"Knew you'd like it," the man who lay at the V of her thighs said softly. He 
caressed her stomach with slow swirls for a moment, then leaned forward to 
continue what he was doing. His tongue darted and teased; she gripped his 
shoulders tight, tighter, fingers digging into the flesh. He finished her off 
with an excruciatingly slow figure eight, and she shuddered with pure delight as 
the third orgasm of the night rolled like a tidal wave through her body. "Oh 
God," she said, "it's . . . it's . . ." And then she couldn't say any more 
because the weakness had spread to her tongue, and she felt like a leaf that had 
been blown to this bed by the force of a hurricane. 
After a moment more Jack Kidd came up beside her and held her in his strong, 
lean arms. Gayle nuzzled his chest, drawing closer to him as she always did in 
the warmth aftermath of their lovemaking. The dark hairs tickled her nose. 
Jack kissed her forehead and then leaned over for the bottle of Chablis in the 
plastic cooler beside the bed. The ice was all melted now. He poured wine into a 
glass and sipped at it, then licked softly at Gayle's ear until she stirred and 
said, 'What do you think you're doing?" 
"Wine and earlobes. Great combination." 
"I'm sure." She reached up, took the glass, and sipped. "Wow, I'm tired. Thanks 
to you." 
38 
"You're welcome. Always willing to be of service." 
"Pun noted, recorded, and rejected." She yawned and stretched until her joints 
popped. Her body was lithe and supple, though she was a small woman-only about 
five feet tall-who sometimes gave in to overwhelming urges for Oreo cookies and 
Mars candy bars. She played a lot of tennis, jogged infrequently, and spent time 
listening to Jefferson Starship and reading Franz Kafka when she was alone. She 
had turned twenty-two in September, and if she wasn't exactly a California 
beauty because of an overly wide mouth and dark brown eyes that always seemed to 
hold a hint of anger, she might be called, at the very least, vivacious. Long 
chestnut-brown hair, shimmering with auburn highlights, curled around her 
shoulders and was cut in bangs at her forehead. "What time is it?" she asked. 
"Not midnight, yet," Jack said. 
"Yeah, but eight comes awfully early." 
They were silent for a long time, their bodies side by side, then Jack said 
quietly, "It was important to me that you liked the whale flick. Really." 
She lifted her head and ran a finger along his dark beard and mustache. "I do. 
The editing's tight, the narration's terrific ... you're not worried about it, 
are you?" 
"No, but... if I can get national distribution on this one, maybe it will be the 
break I've been looking for. Hell, if I could sell it to the networks, I'd be 
happy!" He frowned slightly. "No, cancel that. They'd make it look like the 
Greenpeace people are fanatics or something. I don't want anybody else screwing 
with my film." 
"So what's to worry about? Friedman can get some immediate campus bookings, 
can't he?" 
"Yeah." 
"The national angle will take care of itself. Besides, the film's hardly out of 
the can. And speaking of film, have you taken care of the assignment that Trace 
gave you?" 
Jack grunted. "Finishing it up tomorrow. I hope. Got some nice shots of Clifton 
Webb's old house today. In the morning I'm heading out to Hollywood Memorial, 
and I hope that'll be the end of it." 
"I can see Trace's headline for that piece right now." Gayle held up two fingers 
as if straightening the type across a front-page layout. "'Does Clifton Webb 
Haunt Hollywood Cemetery?' And maybe a teaser line, 'Only the L.A. Tattler 
Knows!' Catchy, huh?" 
"Like the plague." He was silent for a moment, and Gayle could almost hear the 
gears clicking in his head. "You know what I've been thinking of doing next? A 
film on the homes of old movie stars. Not the new houses, but the mansions with 
history, you know what I mean? Webb's is one; you can feel Old Hollywood oozing 
out of those walls. Flynn's is another. Valentine's, Barrymore, and ... oh God, 
yes! . . . the Kronsteen castle! That would be a hell of a place for 
atmosphere!" 
"What's so special about it?" 
"Unsolved murder, babe. Old Kronsteen got his head chopped off up there a few 
years back, the place has been empty ever since. It's a real medieval castle, 
39 
walls and towers and everything. High school kids go parking up there now. 
Jesus, I could do a whole film on that place alone!" 
"Never heard of it," Gayle said. 
"Before your time, babe. Mine too, but I drove up there once with a friend and a 
couple of chicks from Hollywood High. Many moons ago, that is, so don't get your 
feathers ruffled." 
"Don't worry." 
"Chuck knew the place, I didn't. Seems we went a hell of a long way up Outpost 
Drive and turned off onto a narrow road that went right up to the sky. 
Blacktree, Blackwood, something like that. Spooky as hell. I did some acid up 
there,^ and I swore I could hear that Bald Mountain thing from Fantasia, thought 
I saw demons flying around, all kinds of incredible colors. Strange trip." 
"I'll bet. Before you start playing young Coppola again, you'd better wrap up 
those pictures for Trace. I've got a feeling he doesn't think the Tattler should 
arrange its deadlines around your film-making sessions." 
"Why does he always give me the shit detail?" Jack frowned. "Last week it was a 
stunning photo-piece on vandalism out at the Wax Museum. Somebody carved his 
initials on Farrah's tits, knocked Elizabeth Taylor's head off, and played 
tic-tac- toe on Yul Brynner's skull. Christ! If I could just get a little bit 
ahead, maybe get somebody interested in my films or ... I need a break, that's 
all. It'll happen, I know it will." 
"I know it will, too, but a little patience wouldn't hurt. So that's all this 
junk about Cliff Webb's ghost being seen roaming around the cemetery?" 
"Oh, every year a few people say they see somebody who looks like Webb strolling 
around Hollywood Memorial. It's nothing new. Last week a watchman thought he saw 
him ... or it ... in the cemetery after midnight . . ." 
"Of course," Gayle said. "What ghost would be out before the witching hour?" 
"Right. Well, Trace gets a wild hair and wants me to do the pictures for Sandy's 
story. The hell if I know what the story's going to say; I'm just clicking the 
shutter." 
"So?" 
"So what?" 
"So what about the ghost? What happened after that watchman saw it?" 
Jack shrugged. "I suppose it did what all ghosts do. It melted away or broke up 
into a thousand shimmering lights or ... hell hell hell . .. turned toward the 
watchman's flashlight with a cold red glare in its eyes. You don't really 
believe in that stuff, do you?" 
"No, not at all. Now can we change the subject, please?" 
He smiled and licked her arm, sending up a rash of goose bumps. "Gladly, Miss 
Clarke ..." He lifted the sheets slightly and began to nibble on her right 
breast. The nipple hardened quickly; and Gayle began to breath faster. "Better 
than earlobes any old day," Jack managed to say. 
Then suddenly from beyond the closed bedroom door came the sound of frenzied 
clawing. 
40 
Jack lifted his head from Gayle's breast and stared at the door for a few 
seconds. He said loudly, "Cut it out, Conan!" The clawing went on and with it an 
occasional low whining. 
"He's jealous," Gayle said. "He wants to come in." 
"No, he's been acting crazy for a couple of days now." Jack stood up from the 
bed, took his bathrobe from where he'd laid it over a chair, and put it on. 
"He's clawing at the front door," Jack told her. "Maybe he's got a girlfriend of 
his own. Back in a minute." He crossed the room, opened the door, and passed 
through a short hallway decorated with some of his framed photographs. In the 
small living room furnished with a brown sofa and a couple of wicker chairs, 
Jack found his three-year-old boxer clawing hunks out of the front door. The 
dog, large enough to place his paws on his master's chest when he stood on his 
powerful back legs, looked as if he were trying to burrow through the wood. 
Splinters were flying around the dog's head. 
"Hey!" Jack said, and swatted at Conan's rump. "Stop that!" 
The dog didn't even look back. The frantic clawing continued. 
"Damn it, what's wrong with you?" He reached down to pull Conan away from the 
door, and it was then that the dog whirled around, growling very softly, showing 
his teeth. Jack froze, his heart skipping a beat. Conan had always been a gentle 
dog, and lately Jack had been teaching him to catch a Frisbee out in the 
courtyard of the Sandalwood Apartments. Now Jack stared at those teeth and felt 
a cold fear roiling in his stomach. The dog's eyes were unblinking, challenging 
the man to move. 
"It's me," Jack said softly. "Conan? It's me, boy. I'm not going to hurt you." 
The dog turned again, claws gouging at the door. The wood looked like a scarred 
battlefield. 
Quickly Jack reached out and unbolted the door. Conan heard the click and 
stepped back, panting. When the door came open, the dog slipped through 
noiselessly and ran off across the courtyard toward Lexington Avenue. Jack 
stared after him, unable to believe that his pet had actually turned and snarled 
at him. Outside, the fronds of palm trees stirred in the wind like lazy fans. At 
the base of the trees were multicolored lamps, and it was by the green light of 
one of these that Jack saw Conan's running shape, lengthened by its powerful 
strides, disappear from sight. 
Gayle, now dressed in her tight Jordache jeans and checked blouse, stepped out 
of the hallway shadows and said, "Jack? What was that all about?" 
"I don't really know. Conan just . . . went wild. He snarled at me. Actually 
showed his teeth! He's gotten fiesty before, but he's never acted like this." 
She stepped beside him and peered through the door. The rest of the apartment 
complex was utterly quiet. "Maybe it's the mating season or something. He'll be 
back." 
"I don't know. You think I should go looking for him?" 
"Not at this time of night." She glanced quickly at her wristwatch and made a 
face. "I've got to be getting home, Jack. Ace Tattler reporter has to have her 
head on straight in the morning when she goes to see the cops." 
41 
Jack stared out into the courtyard for another moment, hoping to see Conan 
bounding back, and then turned toward her. "Why don't you stay? I'll spring for 
breakfast." 
"The last time I stayed for breakfast, I ended up burning the eggs. No thanks." 
"Well, wait a minute while I get dressed. I'll drive you." 
"What, and leave my car here overnight? Mr. Kidd, what would your neighbors 
think?" 
"Screw 'em." He took Gayle in his arms and closed the door with his foot. "Who 
do you have to see tomorrow?" 
"My favorite homicide squad captain-Palatazin. I imagine it'll be the same old 
'no comment' session." She traced a line in Jack's forehead with a finger; she 
could feel his body beginning to respond beneath his thin robe and her own 
answering. "I have the feeling he thinks the Tattler's stories are a little on 
the sensational side." 
"Imagine that." Jack nuzzled her neck and began to lick the base of her throat 
in slow circles. "Long live yellow journalism." 
She made a noise between a grunt and a sigh and felt the feather of need 
tickling at her thighs. It's soooooo chilly outside, she thought. And soooooo 
dark. Oh, that feels good. Jack took her hand to lead her back to the bedroom, 
and she said softly, "Breakfast at eight?" 
FIVE 
Leaking blue exhaust fumes, a gray Volkswagen Beetle with a crumpled rear fender 
moved along Outpost Drive and up into the stark dun-colored hills above 
Hollywood. As the road steepened, the Volkswagen's engine began to rattle with a 
faint, evil, metallic chuckling. The headlights, slightly cross-eyed, threw wild 
shadows behind wind-stirred pines and granite boulders with edges as sharp as 
butcher's knives. Low, rambling, glass and redwood houses on each side of the 
road lay in darkness, and only occasionally did a car pass on its way down to 
the city. The Volkswagen turned off Outpost Drive onto a narrow road of broken 
concrete that curved like a snake's spine and climbed upward at a forty-degree 
angle. Forbidding heaps of cracked granite loomed on the right-hand side of the 
road; on the left, where the road fell off abruptly into a series of ravines, 
stood a few hundred gnarled, dwarfish, dead trees. 
Though there was no sign or road marker, the driver had made the correct turn 
onto Blackwood Road. 
His name was Walter Benefield, and on the seat beside him, head lolling with 
every lurch of the car, was a twenty-year-old Chicano girl named Angela Pavion. 
Her eyes were half-open, the whites showing, and every once in a while she 
whimpered softly. Benefield wondered what she was dreaming about. 
Wafting through the car's interior was a thick, almondy, slightly medicinal 
odor. Beneath Benefield's seat was a wadded cloth that had turned brown after 
being 
42 
soaked in a solution of chemicals that he'd stolen from work. His eyes, behind 
thick black-framed glasses, were watering slightly, though he'd rolled down the 
window only seconds after the girl had gone to sleep. At least this had been 
better than those first few times, he told himself. The first time the girl had 
died because the mixture wasn't diluted enough, and the second time he had to 
lean out of the car to throw up, and his head ached all the next day. He was 
getting faster with it, though he missed using his hands. They were large, 
fleshy clamps that he exercised with stiff- springed handgrips. He often thought 
that he could squeeze those grips forever as he lay on his back in bed, staring 
at the pictures of posed musclemen with rippling backs and chests and arms taped 
to the walls, scissored from the pages of Muscle and Fitness and Strongman 
magazines. And across the room the cockroaches scuttled in their wire-mesh 
cages, mating and fighting and sleeping. At the last count there'd been over a 
hundred, and some immense, cannibalistic bulls that had grown to three inches 
long. 
He'd picked this girl up on the lower end of Sunset Boulevard thirty minutes 
ago. At first she'd been skittish about getting in the car, but he'd flashed a 
well-worn fifty dollar bill-kept just for the occasion-and she'd slid in as if 
her ass had been greased. She didn't speak or understand English very well, but 
that hardly mattered to him. She was pretty in a hard, coarse way; she was also 
one of the few desperate women who still walked the streets these days. Too bad 
for her. Benefield thought, she should read the papers. He had taken her to a 
deserted supermarket parking lot and unzipped his trousers. When the girl had 
leaned forward to do what he'd asked, he'd struck, too quickly for her to scream 
or evade him. The chemical-soaked rag was out from under the seat and pressed 
tightly against the girl's face. Benefield's other hand like a vise at the back 
of her neck. It would be so easy, so easy, so easy, he thought. I could just 
squeeze a little bit-hardly an effect-and watch her eyes pop out of their 
sockets, like Bev's had. But no. That was not what the Master wanted done, was 
it? 
Her thrashing was over in a few more seconds. He'd put the cloth away, 
positioned the girl so she wouldn't slide down onto the floorboard, and then 
drove north toward the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, the high crests 
that split L.A. in two. He-was breathing hard with exhilaration. The girl had 
managed to scratch his right hand, and two lines of blood welled from the flesh. 
He was following the Voice of God, the holy will of his Lord and Master, and now 
Benefield peered into the darkness beyond the range of the headlights and told 
himself, "Hurry. You've got to hurry, he doesn't like to wait." His voice was 
small and breathless, as excited as a child's at the prospect of a reward for a 
deed well done. 
The road had leveled a few degrees but still took the Volks higher. Occasionally 
Benefield could see the city below, glittering off toward the horizon, where the 
half-dirt, half-broken-concrete road wandered close to a drop-off. He had driven 
this way many times before in the last two weeks, but it was a tricky, 
treacherous way; the first time, when he'd brought a pretty, red-haired girl who 
couldn't have been over sixteen, he'd gotten lost and had driven in circles 
until the Voice of God 
43 
had guided him back to the path. 
Now the Voice was speaking to him again, whispering softly in the rush of the 
wind, calling his name. Benefield smiled, tears of joy in his eyes. "I'm 
coming!" he called out. "I'm coming!" A gust of wind hit the car's side and 
rocked it slightly. The girl whimpered once, something in Spanish, and then was 
silent. 
The car's headlights glinted off a new chain strung across the road from tree to 
tree. There was a metal sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY-NO TRESPASSING. Benefield, his 
heart pounding, pulled the car to the side of the road, cut the headlights and 
waited. The Voice was like a cooling balm on the fever blister of his brain; it 
came to him almost every night now as he lay in that gray place between sleep 
and wakefulness on the mattress of his efficiency apartment near MacArthur Park. 
On those terrible anguished nights when he dreamed of his mother lifting her 
head from that man's lap, the throbbing penis as big as a python in her grip, 
her mouth opening to shout drunkenly, "YOU GET OUTTA HERE!" the Voice whispered 
like a sea breeze around his head, enveloping him, protecting him. But some 
nights even the Voice of God couldn't stop the garish unreeling of the nightmare 
through his brain: the stranger grinning and saying, "The little bastard wants 
to watch, Bev. Come 'ere, Waltie, look what I got!" And the child Walter, 
standing transfixed in the doorway as if nailed there by hands and feet, his 
head thrashing in agony while the stranger pushed his mother's face down until 
her laughter was muffled. He had watched it all, his stomach and groin tied into 
one huge knot, and when they were through his mother-Good old Bev never says no, 
never says no, never says no- swigged from the bottle of Four Roses that sat on 
the floor beside the sofa and, hugging the stranger, said in a thick slur, "Now 
you take care of me, honey." Her dress, the one with the white dots on it, had 
been pushed up over her large, pale thighs, and she wore no underwear. The child 
Walter could not tear his gaze away from the secret place that seemed to wink 
like a wicked eye. His hands had dropped to his crotch, and after another moment 
the stranger laughed like a snorting bull. "The little bastard's got a hard-on! 
Little Waltie's carryin' a load! Come 'ere, Waltie. COME HERE, I SAID!" 
His mother had lifted her head and smiled through swollen, glazed eyes. 
"Whozzat? Frank? Is it Frank?" His father's name, old Frank. Out the door and 
gone so long ago all Waltie could remember of him was how hard he swung his 
belt. "Frank?" she said, smiling. "You come home, baby? Come gimme a great big 
kiss..." 
The stranger's eyes had glittered like dark bits of glass. "Come 'ere, Waltie. 
No. Frank. Come 'ere, Frank. It's Frank, baby. It's your man come home." He 
laughed softly, his gaze bloodshot and mean. "Drop your drawers, Frank." 
"Honey?" his mother had whispered, grinning at him. "I got something needs you 
soooooo bad . . ." 
"Come give your baby a great big kiss, Frank," the stranger had said quietly. 
"Oh, Jesus, this I gotta see!" 
When those dreams came, even the Voice of God couldn't calm the fever. And he 
was grateful, so grateful, when the Voice told him it was all right for him to 
go 
44 
out into the night in search of another laughing Bev, to take her away from the 
dark-grinning strangers and bring her to the holy mountain. 
He winced as those bad things danced through his head. His temples were aching, 
and he wished he had a Bufferin. Sometimes when the Voice spoke to him he felt 
as if a cauldron was being stirred in his brain, a thick mixture of magic that 
had changed his life into something with real purpose and meaning-service in the 
Master's name. Turning his head to the left, Benefield could look down upon the 
shimmering city. He wondered if there were any others down there who were part 
of the cauldron brew, who were ingredients in the magic that now rippled through 
his soul and his being and set him aflame with sweet, cold fire. Of course, it 
was magic-the way of God is righteous, and He shall brighten the City of Night 
with magic and kill all the Bevs in that bubbling cauldron brew-because what 
else could it be? 
A car was coming. Benefield could see the flicker of headlights off in the 
distance, coming down the mountain toward him. He got out of his car, went 
around to the other side, and opened the passenger door. The dazed girl almost 
tumbled out, but Benefield reached down and picked her up in his arms like so 
much deadwood. Then he turned to face the approaching car. 
It was a long black Lincoln polished so highly the sides and hood shone like 
glass. It stopped ten feet from the chain, its headlights centered like greedy 
eyes on Benefield and the offering he held in his arms. 
He smiled, his eyes filling with tears. 
The driver left the limousine and approached him, followed by a young girl that 
Benefield immediately recognized. Her long hair was blond and wind-tossed, and 
her dress was dirty. Benefield saw that the driver was the Servant of God-an old 
man in a brown suit and white shirt, his long white hair flowing in the wind, 
his darting, ferret eyes sunken deep in a pale, wrinkled face. He limped as he 
walked and was slightly stooped, as if shouldering a backbreaking burden. When 
he reached the chain, he said to Benefield in a halting, weary voice, "Hand her 
over." 
Benefield lifted her up. The blond-haired girl grinned and took her 
effortlessly, crooning like a mother to her child. 
"Go home," the old man told Benefield. "Your work is done for tonight." 
Suddenly the blond girl's eyes flashed. She stared at Benefield's injured hand, 
then lifted her gaze to his face. His smile cracked like a mirror. He blinked 
and started to lift his hand toward her. 
"NO!" the old man said, and held his arm back as if about to strike her. She 
flinched and scurried toward the car with her prize. "Go home," he told 
Benefield and turned away. 
The limousine backed up to a wide spot, made a tight turn, and disappeared up 
the mountain. 
Benefield longed to follow, but the Voice was whispering softly to him now, 
making him feel warm and needed and protected, taking his headache away. He 
stood where he was for a moment, the wind whipping and shrilling all around him, 

45 
then walked back to his car. Driving down the mountain, he turned the radio to a 
station playing religious songs and began to sing along, happy and confident 
that the Master's will would be done. 
46 47 
Saturday, October 26 
the restless 
48 49 
The sun came up over the San Gabriel Mountains like a reddish-orange explosion, 
turning the sky a steely gray that would slowly strengthen to bright blue as the 
morning progressed. Tendrils of yellowish smog hovered low to the ground, 
clinging like some huge octopus between the glass and steel skyscrapers, 
throbbing concrete-walled factories, and serpentine meanderings of half-a-dozen 
freeways already clogged with traffic. Chilly shadows, remnants of the night, 
scurried away before the marching sunlight like an army in retreat. 
Andy Palatazin stood before the open closet in his bedroom and deliberated over 
which tie to choose. He was wearing dark blue slacks, slightly tight around the 
midsection, and a light blue shirt with a neatly ironed but fraying collar; he 
chose a green tie with little flecks of blue and red in it, then walked out into 
the hallway and leaned slightly over the stairway railing. He could hear Joanna 
down in the kitchen, and the mouth-watering aroma of frying sausages and 
potatoes drifted up to him. He called out, "Jo! Come look at this!" 
She came in another moment, her graying hair pulled up into a tight bun. She was 
wearing a dark green robe and slippers. "Let's see it," she said. 
He held up the tie and raised his eyebrows. 
"Iszonyu!" she said. "It's hideous with that shirt. Wear the dark blue tie 
today." 
"That has a spot on it." 
"Then the red-and-blue striped one." 
"I don't like that tie." 
"Because my brother gave it to you!" she muttered, and shook her head. 
"What's wrong with this one?" He held out the green tie and made it wiggle like 
a snake. 
"Nothing-if you want to look like a clown. Go on, wear it! Look like a clown! 
But ... it ... does . . . not . . . go!" She sniffed the air. "The potatoes are 
burning! See what you've made me do!" She whirled toward the kitchen and 
disappeared. 
"Your brother has nothing to do with it!" he called down to her; he could hear 
her mumbling but couldn't tell what she was saying, so he shrugged and stepped 
back into the bedroom. His gaze fell upon the rocking chair over by the window, 
and he stood looking at it for a moment. Then he walked over to it, placed a 
thick finger against one of the arms, and pushed. The chair creaked softly as it 
moved back and forth. Was that a dream I had last night, he asked himself, or 
did I really see a megjelenes, an apparition, sitting here in this chair? No, a 
dream, of course! Mama is dead and buried and at peace. Finally. He gave out a 
long sigh, looked down at the 
50 
green tie in his hand, and stepped back to the closet. He hung it back on the 
rack and looked at the striped one Jo's brother, a lawyer who lived in 
Washington, D.C., had given him on St. Stephen's Day. Never! he thought 
stubbornly. He sighted a tie he hadn't worn in several months; it was bright red 
with big blue polka dots, and it was buried so deeply on the rack he thought 
that Jo must've surely hidden it on purpose. Someday, he thought grimly, she's 
going to burn them all up like she's been threatening! As he slipped it on, he 
looked up at the top shelf and saw a flat box half hidden under a couple of 
battered hats with small, sad feathers glued to their bands. He quickly looked 
away and closed the closet door. 
In the small, cozy kitchen at the rear of the house, Jo was putting the 
breakfast plates on the little table that overlooked her backyard garden when 
her husband came in, smelling of Vitalis and Old Spice shaving lotion. She 
looked up, started to smile, and winced instead when she saw what was hanging 
around his neck. "Eat your sausages," she said. "You might have a hard day at 
the circus." 
"Gladly. Ah, this looks delicious!" He sat down at the table and started to eat, 
taking in huge, sloppy mouthfuls of sausage and potatoes. Jo set a cup of hot 
black coffee beside him and took her seat on the other side of the table. "It's 
good," he said with food in his mouth. "Very good." 
"Slow down," Jo said. "You'll have an attack." 
He nodded and kept eating. When he stopped to drink some coffee, she said, 
"Andy, you should take a Saturday off once in a while. You should relax, all 
this working and worrying isn't good for wu. Why don't you call and tell them 
you're staying home today? We can go for^lpice drive to the beach." 
"I can't," he said, washing potatoes down his throat. "Maybe next Saturday." 
"You said that last week." 
"Oh. Well, I meant it, but..." He lifted his gaze to hers. "You know why I have 
to go in. Someone might turn up something." 
"They'll call you if they do." She watched him, her eyes bright and blue and 
alert. She was also worried about the dark hollows that had now appeared beneath 
Andy's eyes, about the new lines that had begun to snake across his face. He 
didn't sleep so well lately either, and she wondered if even in his dreams he 
thought of stalking that awful killer through the dark canyons of the city. She 
reached out and touched his rough bear's paw of a hand. "Please," she said 
softly. "I'll make a picnic lunch for us today." 
"They expect me to be there," he said, and patted her hand. "Next Saturday we'll 
have a nice picnic. Okay?" 
"No, it's not okay. They're working you to death! You leave early in the morning 
and don't come home until late at night. You work Saturdays and most Sundays, 
too! How long is it going to go on?" 
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and dug his fork into a mound of potatoes. 
"Until we find him," he said quietly. 
"That may be never. He may be out of the city now, out of the country even. So 
why are you the one who has to work like a dog and answer all the questions and 
51 
be on the front page of all the newspapers? I don't like what some people are 
saying about you." 
He raised his eyebrows. "What are they saying?" 
"You know. That you don't know what you're doing, that you don't really care 
about finding that man, that you're not a good policeman even." 
"Oh, those things." He nodded and drank down the rest of his coffee. 
"You should tell them all to go to the devil!" she said fiercely, her eyes 
shining. "What do those people know about how hard you've been working, day and 
night like a Trojan! They should give you a medal! You've spilled coffee on your 
tie." She leaned forward with her napkin and dabbed at it. "If you keep your 
coat buttoned, it won't show." 
"All right," Palatazin said. "I'll try to." He pushed his plate away and put a 
hand on his expanded stomach. "I've got to go in a few minutes. That Clarke girl 
from the Tattler is coming to the office this morning." 
Jo made a disgusted face. "What-to write more slime? Why do you even talk to 
that woman?" 
"I do my job, she does her job. Sometimes she gets carried away, but she's 
harmless." 
"Harmless? Ha! It's stories like hers that make people so afraid. Describing 
what that awful gyilkos did to those poor girls in such terrible detail, and 
then making out that you don't have enough sense to find him and stop him! She 
makes me sick!" Jo stood up and took his plate over to the sink; she was shaking 
inwardly and trying to control it, trying not to let her husband see. Her blood, 
the Hungarian gypsy blood of a hundred generations, was singing with anger. 
"People know what that newspaper is," Palatazin said, licking a forefinger and 
rubbing the coffee stain. Defeated, he let the tie drop. "They don't believe 
those stories." 
Jo grunted but did not turn from the sink. A new mental picture was forming in 
her brain, something that had gradually grown there over the past few weeks: 
Andy, armed with a gun, moving through the dark corridors of some unknown 
building, seeking the Roach all alone; and then huge grasping hands reaching for 
him from behind, clamping around his throat, and squeezing until the eyeballs 
popped out and the face turned purplish blue. She shook her head to rid herself 
of the nagging thought and said softly, "God have mercy!" 
"What?" 
"Nothing," she said. "I'm thinking out loud." She turned back to him and saw 
that his face was not purplish blue, nor were his eyeballs popping out. His 
face, on the contrary, reminded her of that dog in the Hush Puppies ads, all 
jowls and sad eyes under bushy, gray-flecked brows. She said, "You're not going 
to do anything dangerous today, are you?" 
"Of course not." He thought, Am I? How can I know? This was a question she asked 
him every morning and an answer he gave in kind. He wondered how many wives of 
policemen asked that question, how many cops replied as he had, and how 
52 
many ended up dead from the burglar's or the rapist's or the junkie's gun. Far 
too many, he was sure. He wondered how George Greene had answered that question 
on a July sixth morning over twelve years ago. Greene had been Palatazin's first 
partner, and on that terrible day he was shot four times in the face while 
Palatazin watched it all through the window of a pizza parlor, buying a 
twelve-inch mushroom and black olive to carry back across the street to the car. 
They'd been staking out a suspect in the robbery-murder of a black heroin 
dealer, and much later, after the shooting was all over and Palatazin had 
vomited the last stink of gunpowder from his nostrils, he realized that the man 
must've figured out he was being watched and panicked, shoving his stolen .45 
right through the passenger window into George's face. Palatazin had chased him 
over five blocks, and finally, on a tenement stairway, the man had turned to 
make his stand. Palatazin had blasted him away with a pizza-smeared trigger 
finger. 
His mother had cried for a long time when he'd told her that he thought he'd 
felt a bullet hiss past his head. She'd said she was going to the commissioner 
to have him given safer duty, but of course that didn't happen. The next day 
she'd forgotten everything he'd told her, and she was talking about how 
beautiful the summer flowers must be along the streets of Budapest. 
Now Palatazin found himself staring at the hand that had held the gun that July 
6. Anya, he thought: the Magyar word for mother. I saw my mother's ghost last 
night. He looked up into Jo's eyes. "I had a strange dream last night," he said, 
and smiled slightly. "I thought I saw Mama sitting in her rocking chair in our 
bedroom. I haven't dreamed about her for a long time. That's strange, isn't it?" 

"What happened?" 
"Nothing. She . . . motioned with her hand. Pointed, I think. I'm not sure." 
"Pointed? At what?" 
He shrugged, "Who knows? I can't read dreams." He stood up from the table and 
looked at his wristwatch; it was time to go. "I have an idea," he said, putting 
his arms around his wife's waist. "I'll come home early and take you to The 
Budapest for dinner. Would you like that?" 
"I'd like for you to stay home today, that's what I'd like." She thrust out her 
lower lip for a moment and then reached up to brush the half-halo of gray hair 
at the crest of his head. "But The Budapest would be nice, I think." 
"Good. And music! Fine ciganyzene! Yes?" 
She smiled. "Yes." 
"We have a date then." He patted her rear affectionately and then pinched it. 
She made a mock clucking noise with her tongue and followed him out to the 
living room, where from a closet he took his dark blue coat and a black hat that 
had seen its day years before. She held his coat for him while he strapped on a 
black leather shoulder-holster, all the time staring distastefully at the .38 
Police Special it held. Struggling into the coat and crowning himself with the 
ragged-looking hat, he was ready to go. "Have a good day," he said on the front 
porch steps, and kissed her cheek. 
53 
"Be careful!" Jo called to him as he walked to the old white Ford Falcon at the 
curb. "I love you!" 
He raised a hand and slid into the car. In another moment it was rattling away 
down Romaine Street. A brown mongrel darted out from a hedge to chase it until 
it was out of sight. 
Jo closed the door and locked it. The Roach! she thought, and felt like spitting 
because even the sound of that terrible word made her sick. She moved back into 
the kitchen, intent on washing the dishes, sweeping and mopping the floor, then 
doing some weeding in the garden. But she was bothered by something beyond the 
Roach, and it took her a few minutes to find it lurking within herself. Andy's 
dream about his mother. Her gypsy instincts were keen and curious. Why was Andy 
thinking about her, dreaming about her again? Of course, the old woman had been 
insane, and of course it was better now that she was dead and not wasting away 
day by day as she had been in that bed in the Golden Garden Home for the aged. 
"I don't read dreams," Andy had said. But perhaps, Jo thought, I should ask 
someone who does? It might be an omen of the future. 
She turned on the hot water tap and for the moment closed the mental cupboard on 
the age-old art of dream reading. 
TWO 
Jack Kidd's black Chevrolet van, a darkroom on wheels airbrushed with sword- 
wielding barbarians and half-naked damsels a la Frank Frazetta, stopped at the 
gates of Hollywood Memorial Cemetery. The gates were wide open, and Jack could 
see a light burning in the watchman's station, though it was now almost 
eight-thirty and the sun was glaringly bright across the rolling green cemetery 
lawn. Jack, a Canon hanging around his neck, hit the horn a couple of times, but 
no watchman came out to greet them. On the seat beside him Gayle yawned and 
said, "No one's home. Let's drive on through." 
"I need to talk to this guy first." He pounded the horn again. "Maybe he's 
curled up somewhere, sleeping off whatever makes him see old Clifton roaming 
around out here, huh?" He gave her a quick smile and opened his door, stepping 
out onto the pavement. "Back in a minute," he said, and walked across to the 
little white concrete watchman's station with the red-tiled roof. He could look 
through the window that faced the cemetery gates and see the whole interior at a 
glance. A lamp was burning on a blotter-topped desk, the chair pulled back 
slightly as if someone had just stood up. Atop the desk there was an open Sports 
Illustrated, a half-full coffee cup, and an ashtray littered with cigarette 
butts. 
Jack tried the door. It opened easily. He stepped inside, checked a small 
bathroom, and found it empty, the walked back out to his van. "He's not there," 
he said, climbing up to his seat and starting the engine. "That's a hell of a 
note! The guy knew I was coming out this morning. How am I supposed to find old 
Clifton's grave?" 
54 
"Listen, can you wrap this up in a hurry and get me over to Parker's Center?" 
She tapped the crystal of her wristwatch impatiently. 
"Okay, but first I'm going to drive through and try to find the guy. It'll just 
take a few minutes. Three shots of a headstone, that's all I need." He drove 
into the cemetery, passing beneath towering Washingtonia palms. Marble 
gravestones, mausoleums, and angelic statues were scattered on each side of the 
winding main road, all surrounded by huge oak trees, palms, and decorative 
clumps of palmetto; the bright green grass sparkled with early morning dew, and 
a thin sheen of haze clung low to the ground. Gayle could see the stout white 
buildings of Paramount Studios over on the far side of the cemetery, so close 
that any strung-out, bleary- eyed, hopeless kid who'd just flunked a screen test 
co^ild just stumble on over and fall into a grave. It was odd, she thought, that 
most of the major studios in Hollywood overlooked a cemetery. 
Which reminded her of a rumor she'd heard around the Tattler offices a few days 
before. "You know what some people believe about Walt Disney?" she said, 
glancing over at Jack. "That his ashes aren't really in Forest Lawn, that his 
body's being preserved in liquid nitrogen so he might be revived someday. Trace 
wants to do a story on it." 
"That figures." 
"It is a little strange, though. Disney's plaque is the only marker in the whole 
cemetery that doesn't have any dates on it." 
"What have you been doing-your cemetery-history homework?" 
"No, but that story beats this bullshit about Clifton Webb, doesn't it?" She 
looked over at Jack in time to see his eyes widen. "Christ!" he said, and hit 
the brakes so hard the van's tires burned rubber. "What is that?" He stared 
directly ahead. 
Gayle looked and drew in her breath with a shudder. 
Lying in the road was a skeleton wearing a long pastel-green dress. Clumps of 
brownish hair still clung to the shattered skull; both legs and an arm were 
broken off like thin white pieces of gnarled driftwood. The remaining hand 
clawed toward the sky. On both sides of the road, scattered across neatly 
trimmed grass and decorative clumps of sharp-tipped palmetto, were the fragments 
of more skeletons. Skulls and arms and legs, spines and hipbones littered the 
cemetery. A boneyard, Gayle thought suddenly, a pulse pounding at her temples. 
She could not tear her gaze away from the obscene and casual lay of those 
skeletons. There were whole skeletons dressed in grave suits and dresses, lying 
atop each other as if they'd been dancing at the stroke of midnight and had 
collapsed with the brutal coming of dawn. There were also worse things-new 
corpses that weren't quite all bone yet, covered with black flies. Gayle could 
see that dozens of headstones had been thrown over and the graves dug up, mounds 
of dirt standing over ragged, empty holes. 
"JeeeeSUS!" Jack said, catching a bit of the breeze that carried with it the 
green smell of rot. "Somebody's torn the hell out of this place!" He popped the 
lens cap 
55 
off his Canon and climbed down from the van. 
"Jack!" Gayle called after him. She felt cold and clammy, like an old wet rag. 
There was something lying in the shadow of a tree, perhaps ten feet to her 
right, that she couldn't bear to look at. She thought she heard the high buzzing 
of interested flies. "Where the hell are you going?" 
Jack was already snapping pictures. "Trace is going to want some shots of this!" 
he said; his voice sounded electric with excitement, but his face had gone as 
pale as paste and his finger was trembling on the shutter. "How many graves 
would you say are open? Twenty? Thirty?" She didn't answer. The shutter clicked, 
clicked, clicked. Since he'd signed on with the Tattler, a little more than two 
years ago, he'd taken pictures of freeway wrecks, suicides, gunshot victims, 
once even a whole family of Chicanos who'd been fried to black crisps in a 
gas-leak explosion. Trace had printed the pictures because he was true to the 
Tattler's motto: We print it as we see it. Jack had gotten used to those things 
because he was a professional and he needed the money for his documentary film 
work. The Tattler was one of the last of the "bucket of blood" tabloids, and 
sometimes what Jack was required to photograph was pretty damned grisly indeed, 
but he'd learned to grit his teeth and shoot on muscle reflex. "If it's part of 
the human condition," Trace always said, "there's a place for it in the 
Tattler." But this was different, Jack thought as he took a couple of pictures 
of the green-clad skeleton lady, what had been done here was just pure, plain 
old evil. No, check that. It was Evil, about as damned black as you could get. A 
shiver went through him. Welcome to the Twilight Zone. 
When Gayle came up beside him and touched his arm, he jumped so violently that 
he took a picture of clouds. "What happened?" she said. "What ... did this?" 
"Vandals. Maybe bikers or a devil cult or something. Tore the hell out of the 
place, whoever they were. I've seen cemetery vandalism before-you know, 
headstones kicked over and that sort of shit-but never anything like this! 
Christ, look at that!" He made a wide detour around a couple of broken skeletons 
and reached a massive, ornately carved stone vault. Its entire top had been torn 
off. He peered in and saw nothing but a little dust and some scraps of dark 
cloth down there at the bottom. A mossy odor, as if from an empty well, came 
floating up to him. Whose vault was this? he wondered. Whoever it had been was 
just a handful of gray dust now. He stepped back to take a picture, almost 
tripping over a grinning skeleton in a dark suit at his feet. 
A few yards away, Gayle stood staring down into an open grave. In ornate script 
the headstone read, MARY CONKLIN. Scattered in the dirt at the grave's bottom 
were yellow bones held together by cobwebs of wispy lace. "Jack," Gayle said 
quietly, "I don't think this is just vandalism." 
"Huh? What did you say?" 
She looked over at him, only vaguely aware of birds singing in the high treetops 
around her, oblivious to mortal concerns. "The coffins," she said. "Where are 
they?" 
Jack paused, lowering his camera. He stared at the heavy concrete plate that had 
been shifted-how many hundreds of pounds did that thing weigh?-from the 
56 m 
ROBERT R. McCAMMON 
vault where Old Dusty lay. No coffin in there either. "Coffins?" he said, a 
trickle of sweat like ice water running down his side. 
"There aren't any. I think . . . these remains were dumped out, the coffins 
stolen." 
"That's crazy," he replied softly. 
"Then look in these empty graves, damn it!" Gayle was almost shouting now, 
nausea roiling in her stomach. "Find me a coffin in any one of them! Go on, 
look!" 
Jack didn't have to. He gazed across the green, sundappled landscape; the place 
looked like an ancient battlefield, all the soldiers left to rot where they'd 
fallen, left for the vultures and the scavenger dogs. No coffins? He let the 
Canon dangle down around his neck; it felt heavy with the evidence of some 
hideous, awful Evil. No coffins? "I think . . . we'd better call the cops," he 
heard himself say and, backing away from that violated tomb, he stepped on a 
disembodied skull that cracked with a noise like a tortured shriek. 
THREE 
"Do you mind?" Palatazin asked the young blond girl with the glittery eyeshadow 
who sat on the other side of his desk. He held up what had once been a perfectly 
white meerschaum pipe, now a scarred lump of coal. 
"Huh? Oh no, man, that's okay." She spoke with a reedy Midwestern accent. 
He nodded, struck a match, and touched the bowl with the flame. The pipe had 
been a gift from Jo on their first wedding anniversary, almost ten years ago. It 
was carved in the likeness of a Magyar prince, one of the wild horsemen-warriors 
who'd swept bloodily down into Hungary in the ninth century. Most of the nose 
and one eyebrow were chipped away, and now the face more closely resembled a 
Nigerian prizefighter. He made sure he blew the smoke away from the girl. "All 
right, Miss Hulsett," he said, and glanced quickly down at the notepad before 
him; he'd had to clear away an armload of newspaper clippings and yellow folders 
to make room for it. "This friend of yours was walking to work Tuesday evening 
on Hollywood Boulevard, and a car pulled to the curb. Then what?" 
"There was a guy in the car. A strange-looking dude," she said. The girl smiled 
nervously at him, fidgeting with a small purple suede purse that she'd 
positioned in her lap. Her fingernails were chewed down to the quick. Across the 
office in a chair near the door, Detective Sullivan Reece, as chunky as a 
fireplug and dark as the ebony Magyar pipe,'sat with his arms crossed and 
watched the girl, occasionally glancing over at Palatazin. 
"How old did this man appear to be, Miss Hulsett?" 
She shrugged. "I don't know. Not as old as you. She said she couldn't really 
tell because, you know, the lights are so bright and weird on the boulevard at 
night. You can't tell anything about people until they're right up in your 
face." 
He nodded. "Black, white, Chicano?" 
57 
"White. He was wearing real thick glasses, and they made his eyes look huge and 
funny. He was ... my friend Sheila said ... a chunky guy, not real tall or 
anything, but just. . . thick-looking. He had black or dark brown hair, cut 
almost to a stubble. He looked like he needed a shave, too." 
"What was he wearing?" Reece asked, his voice powerful and gravelly. When he was 
a kid at Duke Ellington High School, he'd carried the bass line in the choir and 
made the auditorium floor vibrate. 
"Uh ... a blue windbreaker. Light-colored pants." 
"Any monograms on the windbreaker? Company emblem?" 
"No, I don't think so." She looked back at Palatazin and shivered inwardly. 
Being so close to cops unnerved her; Lynn and Patty had told her she was a fool 
to go walking into Parker Center, to offer information to the cops because, 
after all, what had they ever done for her except bust her twice on soliciting 
charges? But she thought that maybe, if they ever busted her again, this 
sad-looking cop in charge might remember her and make things easy. The muffled 
noise of ringing telephones and clattering typewriters outside the office was 
beginning to grate on her nerves because she'd had to force herself to stay 
straight-no coke, no hash, no pills-when she came to see the heat. Now she was 
so nervous she could hardly stand it. 
"All right, Amy," Palatazin said softly, sensing her uneasiness. She was 
beginning to look like a deer who'd caught a whiff of gunmetal. "What about the 
car? What kind was it?" 
"A Volkswagen bug. Gray or greenish gray, I think." 
He wrote both colors on his pad. "What happened next to ... uh ... your friend?" 

"This guy opened the door and leaned out and said 'Are you selling?'" She 
shrugged nervously. "You know." 
"He was trying to proposition your friend?" 
"Yeah. And he flashed a fifty, too. Then he said something that sounded like 
'Wally's got something for you . . .'" 
"Wally?" Reece leaned forward slightly in his chair, his high-cheekboned face 
glowing like burnished mahogany in the sunlight that streamed through the open 
blinds behind Palatazin. "You're sure that was the name?" 
"No, not sure. Listen, all this happened to my friend Sheila. How am I supposed 
to know anything for sure, man?" 
Palatazin wrote WALLY? And below that, WALTER? "And then?" he said. 
"He said, 'You won't have to do much. Just get in and we'll talk.'" She paused, 
staring at the buildings of L.A. through the window behind him. "She almost 
went. A fifty is a fifty, right?" 
"Right," Palatazin said. He looked into her troubled eyes and thought, Child, 
how do you survive out there? If she was over sixteen years old, he'd dance the 
csardas for the entire homicide squad. "Go on, please." 
"She almost went, but when she started to get into the car, she smelled some 
58 
thing . . . funny. It smelled like medicine, like the stuff... uh ... Sheila's 
dad used to wash his hands with. He's a doctor." 
Palatazin wrote DOCTOR? and followed it with HOSPITAL STAFF? 
"So then Sheila got spooked, and she got out of the car and walked away. When 
she looked back, the dude was driving off. That's all." 
"When did your friend start thinking this dude might be the Roach?" Reece asked. 

"I've been keeping up with the papers. Everybody has, I mean. Everybody on the 
boulevard talks about it'all the time, so I thought you cops should know." 
"If this happened on Tuesday, why did you wait so long before reporting it?" 
She shrugged and bit a thumbnail. "I was scared. Sheila was scared. The more I 
thought about it being him, the more scared I got." 
"Did your friend happen to see the license plate number?" Palatazin asked, pen 
poised. "Anything else about the car that stood out?" 
She shook her head. "No, it happened too fast." She looked up into the placid 
gray eyes of this heavyset cop who reminded her so much of the juvenile officer 
back in Holt, Idaho. Except this cop had a funny accent, he was almost bald, and 
he had a coffee stain on his loud red tie with the blue dots. "It couldn't have 
really been him, do you think?"^ 
Palatazin leaned back in his swivel chair, tendrils of blue smoke wafting around 
him. This young prostitualt was like any one of dozens who'd been interviewed in 
the past few weeks: jaded and frightened, with enough street sense to stay alive 
but not enough to break out of The Life. They all seemed to carry the same 
expression in their eyes-a sharp glimmer of contempt that masked a sad weariness 
somewhere deep and close to the soul. Over the last weeks he'd had to hold back 
in his impulse to shake some of these street survivors and shout, "Don't you 
know what's waiting for you out there? The murderer, the rapist, the sadist . . 
. and worse. Things you never dared think about for fear that they would drive 
you mad; things that lurk in the shadows of humanity, that wait on the nightmare 
fringe for their chance to strike. Things of the basest evil that must spread 
evil and consume evil in order to survive . . ." 
Enough, he told himself. He was knotted inside and realized he was stepping too 
close to the edge. "Yes," he told Amy. "It might have been." 
"Oh Christ," she said, the blood draining out of her face until she looked like 
a Kewpie doll, all paint and no insides. "I mean, I... I've had some dates with 
weird dudes before, but nobody's ever tried to . . ." She touched her throat, 
seeing in her mind's eye the way that creepy dude had grinned when she'd slid 
into his car. 
"Amy," Palatazin said quietly, dropping the pretense, "we have an artist here 
who can put together a composite picture of the man who tried to pick you up. 
Now, I'm not saying that this man was the Roach, only that there's a 
possibility. I'd like for you to go with Detective Reece and give a description 
to our artist. Anything you can remember-his hair, eyes, nose, mouth. All 
right?" He rose to his feet, and Reece stood behind the girl. "Also I want you 
to think about that car. 
59 
I want you to see it in your mind and remember as much as you can about it. 
Especially think about the license plate. You may have seen it and gotten a 
number inside your head without realizing it. Thank you for coming in to talk to 
us, Amy. Sully, will you take her up to see Mack?" 
"Sure. Come on with me, Miss Hulsett." He opened the office door for her, and 
the noises of the homicide-robbery squad room tumbled in-shrill telephones, a 
couple of typewriters being beaten mercilessly, file cabinets being opened and 
closed, the monotone chattering of a Telex machine. The girl stopped on the 
threshold and turned back to Palatazin. "Something else I do remember," she 
said. "His hands. They were . . . really large, you know? I could see them where 
they were gripped around the steering wheel." 
"Was he wearing any rings?" 
"I ,. . no, I don't think so." 
"All right, fine. Sully, as soon as you get that composite bring it down to me, 
will you?" Sully nodded and led her off across the wide linoleum-floored room 
jammed with file cabinets and desks. Palatazin, the heartbeat of hope pounding 
at his temples, worked his way through the maze of desks to where Detective 
Brasher sat waiting for an informant's return call. Brasher, a young man with 
sandy-brown hair and deep-set green eyes that were already becoming hard, had 
met his match in this morning's Times crossword puzzle. He shoved it aside 
quickly when he saw the captain moving toward him. 
"Brasher," Palatazin said, "you don't look too busy. I need some files 
collected. Anyone we've been talking to in connection with the Roach killings 
who owns a Volkswagen, also anyone who goes by the name 'Wally' or 'Walter' or 
uses that nickname or alias. I want you to go through the rape and assault 
files, looking for the same thing. Follow those back about three months." 
"Yes, sir." He scribbled down the information on a notepad and rose from his 
desk. "I was waiting for a call from a pimp I've been talking to." 
"Have Hayden answer your phone." Palatazin motioned to the man at the nearest 
desk. "I need those files as soon as you can get them." He turned away from 
Brasher in time to see Gayle Clarke come striding into the squad room; he felt a 
quick surge of anger and irritation. She was over an hour late, and right now he 
didn't feel like putting up with her inane questions. On the couple of occasions 
he'd refused to see her and had sent her down to Press Relations, the Tattler 
had then run cheap-shot editorials about how Captain Andrew Palatazin was 
dragging his feet on the Roach investigation. He wouldn't have minded at any 
other time, but right now all the city papers were pressuring the mayor, who in 
turn pressured the police commissioner, who jumped with both feet on Chief 
Garnette, who came to Palatazin chewing a toothpick and demanding to know why 
this thing wasn't cracked yet. Palatazin could only chew Turns and hulk around 
the squad room like an injured, dangerous bear; he knew his men were working as 
hard as they could, but the politicians in high places were getting nervous. So 
there had been a firm directive from the commissioner: Cooperate with the press. 

60 
It's not enough to be a policeman, Palatazin thought sourly as he moved toward 
Gayle Clarke. Now you have to be social worker, psychologist, politician, and 
mind reader all rolled up into one! "You're late," he told her tersely. "What do 
you want?" 
"Sorry," she said, but her expression didn't show it. "I was held up for a 
while. Can we talk in your office?" 
"Where else? But please make this fast. I have work to do." He ushered her in, 
closed the door, and sat down at his desk. The name "Wally" buzzed in his brain 
like a hornet. "I'll tell you what I told the Times and the Ledger this morning: 
we're still without a prime suspect, but we do have several people under 
surveillance. And no, I'm not aware of any similarities between the Roach and 
Jack the Ripper. We've boosted the number of decoys on the streets, but I wish 
you'd keep that off the record. Will you?" 
"Should I?" She raised an eyebrow, taking a Flair pen out of her purse. 
"Miss Clarke," Palatazin said quietly, shoving aside his pipe and folding his 
hands together atop his desk. Take it easy, he told himself. Don't let her bait 
you, she's good at that. "In the past few weeks you and I have had the 
misfortune of having to work in close proximity. I know you don't like me, and I 
couldn't care less. I have nothing but the lowest regard for your newspaper." He 
turned and rummaged through a stack of papers; when he found last week's 
Tattler, he pushed it across the desk toward her. The front-pa^e headline in 
bloodred type screamed, WHERE IS THE ROACH? WHO WILL BE NEXT TO DIE? Her thin 
smile wavered a fraction but held. 
"You'll recall that I told you two weeks ago I was putting decoy policewomen on 
the streets to act as prostitutes. I told every newspaper in this city the same 
thing and asked all of them to keep that information off the record. You'll 
recall I asked you to do the same. Why was it then that on opening your paper to 
read your story my eye was caught by a headline that read, 'Policewomen May Trap 
the Roach?' He hasn't struck since that information was made public. Although 
I'm not assuming that he is sick enough to be a reader of your paper, I am 
assuming that he has found out about the decoys and has decided to go into 
hiding. It may be months before he surfaces again, and by then his trail may be 
very cold indeed." 
"I tried to keep that out of the story," Gayle said. "My managing editor said it 
was news and should go in." 
"Oh. Then perhaps your managing editor should have my job since he knows so much 
about police procedure?" He rummaged again, found another Tattler, and pushed it 
toward Gayle like a piece of rotten meat. The headline blared MASS- MURDER 
RAMPAGE. There was a picture in gory detail of Charlene McKay being picked up by 
the men from the morgue. Other headlines tried to scream each other out: HAVE 
UFOs LANDED NEAR L.A.? NEVER GROW OLD-THE AMAZING SEAWEED DIET; HOW TO MARRY A 
ROCK STAR. Palatazin snorted with disgust. "Do people actually subscribe to this 
thing?" 
"Three hundred thousand by last year's figures," she told him coolly. "I would 
tell you I was sorry about that decoy thing getting in, but I don't think it 
would do any good." 
61 
"You're right, because I have the feeling that if we were to do it all over 
again, nothing would change. Don't you realize how much harm these wild stories 
about the Roach do? They frighten people; they make people suspicious of each 
other, afraid to even go out at night. And they don't help our investigation 
very much either." He picked up his pipe and clamped it between his teeth, 
almost biting through the stem. "I thought I could trust in your 
professionalism. I see I was wrong." 
"Damn it!" she said suddenly and so forcefully Palatazin thought she was going 
to leap over the desk at him. She leaned forward, her eyes fierce with anger. 
"The stories I wrote are good! Damned good! I can't help what the headlines say, 
and I can't tell my managing editor what's right or wrong to print! Okay, I know 
the Tattler's milking this thing for all it's worth, but so is every other paper 
in town! The bottom line is cash, captain, selling papers, and anybody who says 
differently is either a liar or a fool. But if you read my stories, you'll see 
I'm a damned good writer, and I've told people the truth as I see it!" 
Palatazin was silent for a moment. He lit his pipe and regarded her through a 
haze of smoke. "Why do you waste your time with the Tattler?" he asked her 
finally. "It's beneath you. Couldn't you work somewhere else?" 
"I'm making a name for myself," she said, the redness slowly subsiding from her 
face. "It's a living. Most women two years out of the UCLA School of Journalism 
are sitting on their asses doing rewrites, or editing somebody else's copy, or 
going down to the corner for coffee and ham sandwiches for the real reporters. 
Working for the Tattler may not be a dream job, but at least I'm gathering a 
following who buy papers to read my copy." 
"Some following. The kind of people who like to stare at traffic accidents." 
"Their money's as good as anyone else's. Better than most. And don't downgrade 
them, captain; they're the great American middle class. The people who pay your 
salary, by the way." 
Palatazin nodded thoughtfully. Gayle's dark brown eyes still held a hint of 
anger, glittering like deep pools of water disturbed by the casual throw of a 
stone. "Well," he said, "I'd better get to work and earn that salary. Just what 
is it you wanted to see me about?" 
"Never mind. You answered my questions already. I was going to ask you why you 
thought Roach had gone into hiding." She capped her Flair and dropped it back 
into her purse. "You might be interested to know that he won't be the lead story 
next week." 
"I'm relieved." 
She stood up from her chair and slung the purse over her shoulder. "Okay," she 
said. "Off the record. Are you any closer to catching him than you were last 
week?" 
"Off the record? No. But we may have some new leads." 
"Such as?" 
"Too premature yet. We'll have to wait and see." 
She smiled thinly. "Don't trust me anymore, do you?" 
62 
"Partly that. Also partly that we're working on some information that came off 
the street today, and you of all people should know how reliable that can be." 
He stood up and went with her toward the door. 
She stopped with her hand on the knob. "I ... I didn't mean to lose my cool. But 
I got involved in something that was pretty hairy today. Something weird. You 
must think I'm pushing pretty hard, don't you?" 
"Yes, I do." 
"That's because I don't want to stay on the Tattler all my life. I have to be 
there when you get him, captain, because riding this story to the ground is the 
only way I'm ever going to move up. Okay, I'm ambitious and opportunistic as 
hell, but I'm a realist, too. Something as big as this comes along for a 
journalist only once in a blue moon. I'm going to see that I take advantage of 
it." 
"We may never find him." 
"Can I quote you on that?" 
His eyes widened slightly; he couldn't tell if she was kidding or not because 
her expression was serious, her gaze sharp and piercing. "I don't think so," he 
said, and opened the door for her. "I'm sure we'll be talking again. By the way, 
what knocked Roach off the front page? Something about a little old lady who 
found Howard Hughes's will in her attic?" 
"No." A chill passed through her; she could still smell the rot of those corpses 
in the cemetery as if her clothes were full of it. "Grave robbers over at 
Hollywood Memorial. That's why I was late; I had to call the story in and talk 
to the Hollywood cops." 
"Grave robbers?" Palatazin said softly. 
"Yeah. Or rather coffin robbers. Whoever it was ripped about twenty caskets out 
of the ground and left . . . everything else lying around." 
Palatazin took the pipe out of his mouth and stood staring at her, a dull pulse 
beating at the base of his neck. "What?" he said in a strange, hoarse voice that 
sounded more like the croak of a frog. 
"Yeah. It's weird." She started out the door, but suddenly Palatazin's hand was 
gripping her arm just short of painfully. She looked at him and blinked. His 
face had gone waxen, his lips moving but making no sound. 
"What do you mean?" he said with an effort. "What are you talking about? When 
did this happen?" 
"Sometime during the night, I guess. Hey, listen . . . you're . . . you're 
hurting." 
He looked down at his hand and instantly released her. "I'm sorry. Hollywood 
Memorial? Who was first on the scene?" 
"I was. And a photographer from the Tattler-Jack Kidd. Why are you so 
interested? Vandalism isn't your detail, is it?" 
"No, but. .." He looked wan and confused, as if he might suddenly collapse on 
the floor in a limp heap. The set of his eyes with their glazed intensity 
frightened Gayle so much she felt a quick shiver ripple up her spine. "Are you 
all right?" she asked him tentatively, and for a moment he didn't reply. 
63 
"Yes," he said finally, nodding. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'd like for you to 
go now, Miss Clarke, I have work to do." He held the door open, and she stepped 
out into the squad room. She turned toward him, intending to ask him to keep her 
in mind if and when they did get a solid lead on Roach. The door closed in her 
face. She thought, Shit! What's his problem? Maybe what I've been hearing is 
true. Maybe the pressure is starting to crack him wide open. If so, that would 
make for a juicy human interest story. She turned away and left the squad room. 
And behind that closed door, Palatazin was gripping his telephone with a 
white-knuckled hand. The police operator answered. "This is Palatazin," he said. 
"Get me Lieutenant Kirkland, Hollywood Division." His voice was urgent and full 
of terror. 
FOUR 
The sun reached its zenith and instantly began to fall, deepening the shadows 
that clung like a precious autumn chill to the eastern facades of the massive 
stone and glass buildings at the center of Los Angeles. In the slow decay of 
hours and light, the sun shone red on the smooth lakes of MacArthur Park; clear, 
golden beams wafted through the windows of shops and boutiques on Rodeo Drive in 
Beverly Hills; dust stirred lazily in the air among the cramped, boxy tenement 
buildings of East L.A., and clothes strung on lines from window to window caught 
bits of flying grit; the Pacific surf that rolled up to the edge of the Venice 
Beach boardwalk, where the kids darted and spun on roller skates like human 
tops, slowly turned orange, then red deepening toward purple; lights began to 
glimmer like hot jewels along Sunset and Hollywood boulevards; the San Gabriel 
Mountains were jumbled piles of light and darkness, the western face of stone 
glowing red, the eastern exposures almost black. 
And above the whole metropolis with its eight million separate lives and 
destinies sat the Kronsteen castle on a throne of rock. It was a huge, sprawling 
edifice of black weather-beaten stone with high turrets, arched Gothic roofs, 
broken gargoyles leering from towers or contemplating the patchwork of humanity 
in the valley below. Many of the windows had been shattered and replaced with 
boards, but some of the windows at the higher elevations had survived vandalism, 
and those that were of stained glass glowed red and blue and purple in the 
strong, hard light of the setting sun. A chill gathered in the darkening air and 
began to grow vicious. The wind hissed and whispered around stone battlements 
like a human voice through broken teeth. 
And many in the city below thought for just a cold, eerie instant that they 
heard their names called from behind the falling curtain of night. 
64 p*" 
FIVE 
Rico Esteban's brain was scorched with hot neon. Around him there was the 
thunder of engines, the crisp notes of electric music rippling through the air. 
He thought he should say something to the dark-haired girl who sat pressed 
against the other side of the car, but he could think of only one thing and 
saying it wouldn't be right-Holy Shit. Beyond that crude summation of his 
feelings, his brain buzzed with overloaded circuits. 
He thought, Prenado? Did she say she was pregnant? Only a few minutes before, 
he'd pulled his fire-engine-red Chevy lowrider in front of Merida Santos's 
apartment building on Dos Terros Street in the dark tenement barrio of East Los 
Angeles. Almost immediately she'd come running out of the hallway, where a 
single dim light bulb exposed a shaky set of stairs and walls layered with 
spray-painted graffiti, and slid into his car. As he kissed her, he'd thought 
that something was wrong; her eyes looked funny, they were a little sad, and 
there were the beginnings of dark circles underneath them. He'd started the 
Chevy, filling Dos Terros Street with a rumble that shook windowpanes and 
brought a couple of shouted complaints from the old folks, and then had 
screeched off toward Whittier Boulevard. Merida, her long black hair cascading 
in waves around her shoulders, sat away from him and stared at her hands. She 
was wearing a blue dress and the silver crucifix on a chain that Rico had bought 
for her birthday the week before. 
"Hey," he'd said, and leaned over to tilt her face up with a forefinger beneath 
her chin. "What's wrong? You been crying? That crazy perra been beating on you?" 

"No," she'd replied, her soft voice trembling slightly. She was still more 
little girl than woman. At sixteen her flesh was smooth and tawny, her body as 
tight and lean as a colt's. Usually her eyes sparkled with shy, laughing 
innocence, but tonight something was different, and Rico couldn't figure it out. 
If her crazy old mother hadn't been beating on her again, then what was wrong? 
"Did Luis run away from home again?" he asked her. She shook her head. He leaned 
back, cushioned in the cup of his red bucket seat, and brushed a lock of thick 
black hair off his forehead. "That Luis better watch out," he said quietly, 
swerving around a couple of drunks who were dancing together in the middle of 
the street. He hit the horn, and one of them shot him the finger. "The kid's too 
young to be running with the Homicides. I told him once, I told him a hundred 
times not to get mixed up with those ladrones. They're going to get him in 
trouble. Where you want to eat tonight?" 
"It don't matter," Merida said. Rico shrugged and turned onto the boulevard, 
where a gaudy carnival of neon pulsated over porno movie houses, bars, discos, 
and liquor stores. Though it was just past six-thirty, the lowriders were 
already jostling for position, chugging like streamlined locomotives. They were 
painted every color of the rainbow from electric blue to Day-Glo orange and 
outfitted with zebra- striped tops or leopard-skin upholstery or radio antennae 
that seemed as tall as 
65 
towers. The mass of cars moved at a crawl, bouncing and swaying like wild 
bucking horses along the boulevard, which was lined with hordes of Chicano 
teenagers looking for fun on a Saturday night. Music from transistor and car 
radios blared at each other, the tumultuous frenzy of rock and disco overpowered 
only by the thundering bass lines that prowled out through the open doors of the 
bars. The air, sweet and hot with exhaust, cheap perfume, and marijuana, 
crackled with tinny voices. Rico reached over and turned his own radio up loud, 
his brown face split by a grin. The growl of KALA's Tiger Eddie became a 
hypnotic chant-". . . gonna TEAR this town tonight, gonna lay it to WASTE, 
'cause we're the BEST, beatin' all the REST on a SAT-UR-DAY night! Mighty KALA, 
comin' at you with The Wolves annnnddddd 'Born to Be Bad'!" 
Merida had turned the radio off. The Wolves wailed on anyway from a dozen other 
sets of speakers. "Rico," she'd said, and now she was looking him straight in 
the eyes, and her lower lip trembled. "I found out I'm pregnant." 
He thought, Holy Shit! Pregnant? Did she say pregnant? He'd almost said "Who did 
it?" but stopped himself cold. He knew she'd been sleeping only with him for the 
past three months, even after he'd gotten his apartment down on the low, poor 
end of Sunset Boulevard. She was a decent, good, loyal woman. Woman? he thought. 
Barely sixteen. A girl, yes, but a woman in many ways, too. Rico was too stunned 
to speak. The waves of lowriders before him seemed to undulate, an ocean of 
metal. He'd used rubbers most every time and thought he'd been careful, but now 
. . . What am I going to do? he asked himself. Your big macho prick has gotten 
this woman in trouble, and now what do you do? 
"You sure?" he said finally. "I mean . . . how do you know?" 
"I ... didn't have my time. I went to the clinic, and the doctor told me." 
"Couldn't he be wrong?" He was trying to think-When did I not use protection? 
When we were drinking wine that night, or when we were in a hurry . . .? 
"No," she said, the finality in her voice starting a dull throbbing in the pit 
of his stomach. 
"Does your mama know? She'll kill me. She hates my guts anyway. She said if I 
saw you again she was going to shoot me or call the cops . . ." 
"She don' know," Merida said softly. "Nobody else knows." She made a little 
choking sound like a rabbit being strangled. 
"Don't cry!" he said too loudly and too sharply, and then realized that she was 
already crying, her head bent and the tears rolling down her cheeks in large 
drops. He felt protective of her, more like a big brother than a lover. Do I 
love Merida? he asked himself; the question, so simply stated, baffled him. He 
wasn't sure he knew what love would feel like. Did it feel like good sex? Or was 
it like knowing somebody was there to talk easy to you? Or did it feel awesome 
and silent, like sitting in church? 
"Please," Rico said as he stopped at a traffic light with a row of other 
lowriders. Feet punched accelerators, challenging him, but he paid no attention. 
"Don't cry, okay?" She stopped after another moment but didn't look at him, then 
fumbled in 
66 tm 
ROBERT R. McCAMMON 
her purse for a tissue to blow her nose. Sixteen! Rico thought. She's just 
turned sixteen! And here he was like all the rest of the strutting, Saturday 
night boulevard crowd, dressed in his tight chinos and pale blue shirt, gold 
chains and a tiny coke ; spoon dangling from his neck like a macho stud, going 
to take his woman to get ' something to eat, hit a disco or two, and then return 
her to his bed for a quick sex session. Only now there was a very big 
difference-he had gotten Merida pregnant, filled up a child with a child, and 
now he felt weighed down with age and the serious concerns he'd never dreamed 
about even in his worst nightmares. He imagined that if he could see his 
face-lean and high-cheekboned and handsome in ' a dark, dangerous way because of 
a nose that had been broken twice and set badly both times-he would be able to 
see faint lines around his eyes and crinkling in his forehead. In that instant 
he wanted to be a little boy again, playing with red plastic cars on a cold 
wooden floor while his mother and father talked about Mr. Cabrillo running off 
with Mr. Hernandez's wife as his big sister sat spinning the dial of her new 
transistor radio back and forth. He wanted to be a child forever, without 
worries or weights around his neck. But his mother and father had been dead for 
almost six years now, killed in a fire that had started from a spark from bad 
electrical i wiring; the fire had roared through the tenement building like a 
volcanic whirlwind, and three floors had collapsed before the first of the fire 
engines arrived. Rico had been running with a street gang called the Cripplers 
then, and was huddled under a stairway, drinking red wine with three buddies, 
when he'd heard the fire engines > screaming; it was a noise that even now 
sometimes awakened him and made him > break out in a cold sweat. His sister 
Deanne was a model up in San Francisco now, or so she said in her infrequent 
letters. She always wrote that she was about to do a shooting for some magazine 
or other, or that she'd met a man who was going to get her into commercials. 
Once she'd written that she was going to be the June Playmate, but of course the 
girl in that month's Playboy was blond and blue-eyed and worlds away from the 
barrio. He hadn't seen his sister in two years, and the last letter had been 
over six months before. 
The traffic light flickered to green. Around him the lowriders screeched off, 
leaving thick trails of rubber. He realized he was gripping Merida's hand very 
tightly. 
"Everything's going to be okay," he told her. "You'll see." And then she quickly 
slid across the seat to him, as close as a second skin, and if love felt 
anything like pity, then yes, Rico loved her. "Listen, you want a hamburger or 
something? I can stop there." He motioned toward a Fat Jim's burger stand, a 
huge, livid, neon hamburger floating in the sky. She shook her head. "Okay. 
We'll eat later." He took his pack of Winstons off the dashboard and lit a 
cigarette. A black and white prowl car went gliding by in the opposite 
direction, the eyes of the cop at the wheel meeting Rico's for one glacial, 
heartstopping instant. Rico was carrying a few grams of coke and some nickel 
bags of fine Colombian Red in a box that rested in a cavity cut beneath the 
rubber padding of the trunk. That was his business now, supplying 
coke to the kids who hun^around the rock clubs on Sunset Strip. Though he was | 
i 
67 
just a nickel-and-dimer, he was making enough money to keep himself in good 
threads. And his supplier, a bald guy who wore Pierre Cardin business suits and 
called himself Gypsy John, said he had the nerve and ambition to be big in the 
trade someday. Not as big as Gypsy John, of course, but big enough. Rico let his 
gaze coolly slither away from the cop's and jockeyed into position behind a 
Thunderbird painted in tiger stripes. Someone called him from the curb, and he 
glanced over to see Felix Ortega and Benny Gracion standing with two 
fine-looking foxes in front of the Go-Go Disco. Rico raised his hand and 
shouted, "How's it going ', amigos?" but did not stop because they were walking 
reminders of his time with the Cripplers. 
And finally Merida asked the question Rico had dreaded. "What are we going to 
do?" Eyes shining, she watched him carefully for any sign of betrayal. 
He shrugged, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. "What do you wanna do?" 
"It's your baby." 
"It's yours too!" he said loudly, anger filling his face with blood-why hadn't 
she been on the pill or something?-and then the flush of shame spreading hotly 
across his cheeks. "Oh, Jesus," he said hoarsely. "I don't know what I'm 
supposed to do!" 
"You love me, don't you? You said you did. If you hadn't said that, I wouldn't 
have let you do it to me. You been the first and the only." 
He nodded grimly, remembering the first time he'd taken her. It had been in the 
backseat of his car in a drive-in out near Southgate. He'd felt proud after it 
was over because she was his first virgin, and he knew you weren't really a man 
until you'd broken in a virgin. He remembered what Felix Ortega had told him 
once in the abandoned warehouse the Cripplers used as headquarters-"Fuck a 
virgin, man, and she'll love you forever." 
Oh, Christ! he thought. Forever? With just one chick? I got a business to think 
of. I could be buying myself silk shirts pretty soon, and alligator shoes, or a 
fine black Porsche. I could get one of those penthouse apartments like the movie 
stars have. I could really be somebody in this town, I could be bigger than 
Gypsy John evenl But now he saw his path, and it wound straight back to the 
black, bitter heart of the barrio. In ten years he would be working in some 
garage and coming home at five to a two-room apartment where Merida and two or 
three kids waited, snotty noses and all; his hands would be black with engine 
grime, and his gut would be spreading from all the beer with the boys on 
Saturday nights. Merida would be haggard, the kids underfoot all the time and 
the close confines of the tenement making her nervous and jumpy, different from 
the beautiful girl she was now. They would argue about his future-why he 
couldn't find a better-paying job and why he had no more ambition-and life would 
start to close in around his throat, choking him to death. NO/ he told himself. 
I CAN'T DO THAT/ He reached down and turned the radio up loud so he couldn't 
hear himself think. 
"Merida," he said, "I want you to be sure. I mean ... I want you to be for 
certain that. . . you know . . . the kid's mine . . ." He was groping, looking 
for something to put between himself and the decision that had to be made. 
Instantly he felt like a 
68 
traitor, a coward to the very pit of his soul. But he knew the truth-he didn't 
love her enough to change his life for her. 
She turned her face away from him and very slowly straightened her spine so that 
she was sitting totally upright and not slumped as she had been a moment before. 
She moved away from him, her hands clenched in her lap. 
So, Rico told himself. Now she understands. Oh, Christ, this is shitty, man! 
You're treating her like common pussy, some Crippler groupie, or the neon-daubed 
hustlers who call out their rates from each side of the boulevard. 
And then Merida, a sob bursting from her throat, jumped from the Chevy before 
Rico knew what was happening. She ran down the street in the opposite direction, 
lowriders swerving around her, drivers cursing or calling out rude invitations. 
"Merida!" Rico shouted. He twisted the wheel, ran up onto the curb, then jerked 
the keys out of the ignition. Then he was out and running along Whittier, trying 
to find her among the hundreds of glaring white headlights that stared 
impassively back at him. "MERIDA!" he called, braving a green Ford whose driver 
invited him to stick his head up his ass. He ran on through the traffic, being 
cursed in a variety of languages and inflections, but he didn't care. Merida was 
too young, too innocent, to be alone on a Saturday night on this neon hell of a 
boulevard. She didn't know the potential dangers, she was too trusting. After 
all, he thought bitterly, she trusted me, and I'm the worst kind of rapist-I 
took her soul. Half-blinded by charging headlights, he continued on, leaping 
aside as a burly red-bearded biker swept past him on a blue chopper. Something 
shimmered on the pavement, and Rico bent to pick it up. It was Merida's silver 
crucifix, his birthday present to her. The clasp was broken where she'd ripped 
it off her neck; the necklace was still warm from her body heat. 
"Merida!" he shouted, staring into a blaze of lights. "I'm sorry!" 
But the night had swallowed her up, she was gone, and he knew that even if she 
did hear him calling over the tumultuous noise, she wouldn't turn back. No, she 
had too much pride for that, and in comparison to her, Rico felt slimy, covered 
with contagious sores. 
He saw the blue light of that prowl car approaching, sliding through the 
lowriders. He was pierced by cold panic as he thought of his merchandise sitting 
in the Chevy's trunk, an easy score for the cops if they decided to see what he 
was carrying. Whirling around, he ran for the sidewalk, shoving people aside in 
his race with the prowl car. Pimps in peacock suits and their hot-pants-clad 
hustlers slipped into doorways as the cops drove past. The blue light was going 
around and around, filling the air with electric resentment, but the cops 
weren't riding their siren. Rico slid behind the Chevy's wheel, jammed the key 
into the ignition, and backed off the curb, then spun the wheel sharply and 
merged with the slow westbound traffic. About a block ahead he saw that two 
lowriders had slammed together in the middle of the boulevard, and a couple of 
guys were scuffling, urged on by a tight ring of onlookers. As Rico swerved past 
them, he heard the heart-stopping shrill of the police siren and, lookingŤinto 
his rearview mirror, he saw the prowl car stop to 
69 
break up the fight. He punched his accelerator and slid smoothly around the 
slower cars. No cops giving me hassles tonight, he told himself. Shit, I've had 
hassles enough! 
And then he remembered Merida, alone on the boulevard. He couldn't leave her for 
the mass of predators who were all looking for fresh meat. He found a clear 
spot, made a fast U-turn, and drove back past the prowl car, past where Merida 
had leapt out into the street. Figures that had vanished into dark alleys and 
doorways were now reemerging to hawk their wares. The sidewalks were crowded 
with hungry humanity, and in that jostling crush one skinny, pregnant Chicano 
girl would hardly matter. Rico was frightened for her; he held the silver chain 
and crucifix clenched in one hand, and though he was not a particularly 
religious man, he wished she'd kept it on for good luck. He thought, I'll find 
her. If it takes me all night, I'll find her. 
His Chevy moved on into the night, borne along and finally lost in the sea of 
metal. 
SIX 
Palatazin was standing at the locked iron gates of Hollywood Memorial Cemetery 
as Merida Santos was leaping from the red Chevy on Whittier Boulevard. His hands 
had closed around the bars, and he stood staring in as a chill evening breeze 
clattered palm leaves overhead. It was almost seven o'clock, and he realized 
that he'd told Jo on the telephone that he would pick her up at six-thirty for 
their dinner at The Budapest. He decided to tell her that something had come up 
at the office, to keep this cemetery thing to himself. Because what if he was 
wrong? That would make him as crazy as Lieutenant Kirkland had thought he was. 
Stake out a cemetery? Kirkland had asked incredulously over the telephone. What 
for? 
"Because," he'd said, "I asked you to. That should be enough." 
"I'm sorry, captain," Kirkland had replied, "but I'll have to have more than 
that. Saturday night in Hollywood can be pretty damned rough, as you well know. 
Now, what exactly does this have to do with the vandalism?" 
"It's . . . it's very important that you do as I ask." Palatazin knew he was 
sounding crazy and that his voice was high and nervous and that Lieutenant 
Kirkland was probably grinning at one of his detectives, making a circular 
motion at his temple with his forefinger. "Please, lieutenant. No questions, not 
just yet. I'm only asking for a man or two out there tonight." 
"Captain, Hollywood Memorial has their own watchman." 
"But what happened to the watchman who was out there last night? Has anyone 
found him? No, I don't think so." 
"Sorry." Kirkland had let ar hint of irritation creep into his voice. "Why don't 
you send some of your own men if you want the cemetery watched so badly?" 
"All my men are working day and night on finding the Roach. I can't ask any of 
them to . . ." 
70 
"Same here, sir. I can't. It's not justified." Kirkland had laughed softly. "I 
don't think those stiffs are going to be causing any trouble out there tonight, 
sir. I have to go, captain, if there's nothing else." 
"No. Nothing else." 
"Nice talking with you, captain. Sorry I couldn't help you out. Good hunting to 
you. Hope you nail that guy pretty soon." 
"Yes. Good-bye, lieutenant." And Palatazin had heard Kirkland hang up his phone. 

Now, for the second time today, he stood at the gates of the cemetery. This 
afternoon he'd watched the officers from the Hollywood Division walking around 
out there, stepping over skeletons; then the insurance and mortuary people had 
come in, followed by the dump trucks and work crews. Now the place looked serene 
again with the grassy knolls whitened by moonlight, the new mounds of dirt the 
only reminder that something terrible had happened there last night. 
"Can I help you?" someone said from the darkness on the other side of the gate. 
A flashlight was flicked on, the beam directed into Palatazin's face. Palatazin 
reached for his wallet and showed his badge. "Oh. Sorry." The flashlight beam 
dropped, and a watchman in a dark gray uniform materialized from the night. He 
was a tall, white-haired man with friendly blue eyes. He wore a Hollywood 
Memorial badge on his shirt. "I'm Kelsen," he said. "What can I do for you?" 
"Nothing, thank you. I just came to ... look." 
"To look? You should come back on Monday and take the tour-they show you all the 
celebrity graves." Kelsen smiled, but when Palatazin didn't respond, the smile 
faded. "Looking for anything in particular?" 
"No. I was here earlier this afternoon when the officers were investigating." 
"Oh, so that's it. Damnedest thing I ever heard tell of. I didn't exactly see 
any of it, but I heard about it when they called me in. I don't usually work on 
Saturday nights. My wife pitched a fit." 
"I imagine she did," Palatazin said quietly. "The man who worked last night. I 
understand his name was Zachary?" 
"Yeah, old Zack." Kelsen leaned against the gate; behind him light streamed 
through the window of the watchman's station. "He usually has the weekend shift. 
Now he turns up missing, so they call me in." He shrugged and smiled again. "I 
don't care, I need the money. Listen, you people don't think Zack had anything 
to do with what happened here last night, do you?" 
"I don't know. I don't work in the Hollywood Division." 
"Oh." Kelsen frowned and swung his light up toward Palatazin again. "So why are 
you interested? I mean, it's damned strange and all, but I thought the cops 
wrapped it up today. Vandalism, right? Some cult kids who maybe needed coffins 
for ... whatever it is they do. I heard the same thing happened over at Hope 
Hill Cemetery last week; somebody clipped the lock on the gates, tore up a few 
graves, and made off with five or six coffins. Hope Hill's a small cemetery, you 
know, and they can't afford a watchnffen, so nobody knows what happened. Just 
crazy kids, I 
71 
guess. It's a crazy world, right?" 
"Yes. Crazy." 
"Listen, do you want to come in or something? Take a look around? I've got an 
extra flashlight." 
Palatazin shook his head. "No need for that. I wouldn't find anything." He 
stared at Kelsen, his eyes going dark and cold. "Mr! Kelsen," he said, "is there 
a lock on the door of your little house there?" 
"Yeah, there's a lock. Why?" 
"Because I'm going to suggest that you do something, and I want you to listen to 
me very carefully." Palatazin's hands curled tighter around the bars. "If I 
tried to explain to you why I want you to do this, you wouldn't understand. So 
just listen, please." 
"Okay," the watchman said, but he stepped back a pace from the man at the gate, 
whose gaze had gone so hard and chilling. 
"If anyone else comes to this gate tonight-man, woman, or child-you should lock 
your door and draw the blinds. If you hear this gate opening, you should turn up 
your radio very loud so you can't hear. And you should not come out to look. Let 
whoever it may be do as he or she pleases. But do not-do not-come out to try to 
stop them." 
"That's . . . that's my job," Kelsen said softly, a crooked grin frozen on his 
face. "What is this, a joke? Candid Camera? What's going on?" 
"I'm deadly serious, Mr. Kelsen. Are you a religious man?" 
This guy's not a cop! Kelsen thought. He's a freakin' nut! "I'm a Catholic," he 
said. "Listen, what's your name?" 
"If and when someone comes to this gate tonight," Palatazin continued, ignoring 
the question, "you should pray. Pray very loudly, don't pay any attention to 
anything they say to you." He squinted when the watchman's light hit his face. 
"Perhaps if you pray hard enough, they'll leave you in peace." 
"I think you should go, mister," Kelsen said. "Get out of here before I call a 
real cop!" His face was contorted, and his once friendly eyes turned mean. "Go 
on, buddy, get out!" He started for the telephone on his desk. "I'm calling the 
cops right now!" 
"All right," Palatazin said, "all right, I'm going." Kelsen stopped and looked 
back; the flashlight in his hand was shaking. "But remember what I've told you. 
Please. Pray, and keep praying." 
"Yeah, yeah, yeah! I'll pray for you, you crazy freak!" Kelsen disappeared into 
his station and slammed the door behind him. Palatazin turned, walked quickly to 
his car and drove away; he was trembling, his stomach churning slowly. Hope Hill 
Cemetery, did the man say? This has happened before? Oh my God, he thought, 
trying to keep down a rising wave of nausea. Please, no. Don't let it happen 
again! Not here! Not in Los Angeles! 
He hoped he was crazy; he hoped the pressure of the Roach killings was beginning 
to get to him, that he was seeing grinning shadows where nothing 
72 
existed but the warped antics of-what had Kelsen said?-kids who belonged to some 
crazy cult? A hundred cults, a thousand of them, would be easier to deal with 
than what he was beginning to fear had ripped those coffins out of the ground. 
He had been sleeping in his bed less than six blocks away when it had happened, 
and perhaps when he'd awakened from the dream about his mother, the things were 
here at work. 
Too late, Palatazin realized he'd turned off Santa Monica Boulevard and driven 
right past Romaine Street, heading south on Western. He touched the brakes for 
only an instant and then drove on because he knew where he was going. 
The gray-bricked building on First Street was empty now-it had been condemned 
years ago-and the broken edges of glass gleamed in the windows. It looked 
desolate and forlorn, as if it had been abandoned for a very long time; the 
walls were smeared with old graffiti-he could see one faded white declaration 
that read Seniors Fine in '59. Somewhere in that graffiti would still be two 
painful statements scrawled by the hand of a vicious child-Palatazin Sucks 'em 
and Old Lady P, Is Gonna Burn In Hell For Crazy People. 
He lifted his gaze to the top floor windows. All broken now, all dark and empty; 
but for an instant he thought he saw his mother up there, much younger of 
course, her hair almost fully gray but her eyes not nearly as haunted and wild 
as he remembered them at the end. She was peering out onto First Street, 
watching the corner where little Andre, now in the sixth grade, would cross 
carrying his green Army backpack filled with notebooks and pencils, math texts 
and history homework. When he reached that corner, he always looked up, and his 
mother would always wave from the window. Three times a week a woman named Mrs. 
Gibbs would come by to help him with his English; he was still having 
difficulties, though most of the teachers at his elementary school spoke 
Hungarian. Up in that small dark apartment, the extremes of temperature had been 
almost unbearable; at the height of summer the place was an oven even with all 
the windows open, and when a cold winter wind blew down from the mountains and 
shook the ancient window frames, Andre could see the faint wraithlike plume of 
his mother's breath. Every night, no matter what the season, she peered 
fearfully down onto the street, checked and rechecked the three dead-bolt locks 
on the door, and paced the floor muttering and crying until the downstairs 
neighbors slammed the ceiling with a broom and shouted, "Go to sleep, you witch 
woman!" 
Andre was never liked or even tolerated by the other children in the 
neighborhood, a hodgepodge of Jewish, Hungarian, and Polish families, because 
their parents were afraid of his mother, because they discussed the "witch 
woman" over their dinner tables and told the children they'd better stay away 
from her son, he might be crazy in the head, too. His friends were those 
awkward, shy, or backward children who do not quite fit in with the others, who 
can find no place to exist except on the outer rim and consequently play alone 
most of the time. On some occasions when he grew nervous, Andre the witch 
woman's son lapsed into speaking Hungarian with a thick accent. Then he would be 
chased home from school by a 
73 
pack of children who threw stones and laughed whenever he tripped and fell. 
It was very hard for him, because home was no refuge. It was a prison where his 
mother scrawled crucifixes on the walls and windows and doors with red.Crayola 
crayons, where she shrieked out in the night from the images that seared her 
brain, where she sometimes lay in her bed for days at a time, curled up like a 
fetus, staring blankly at a wall. It became progressively worse and worse, and 
even Uncle Milo, his mother's brother who had immigrated to America in the late 
thirties and owned a successful men's clothing store, began to stop in and ask 
her if she would like to go someplace where she wouldn't have to worry about 
anything anymore, where there were people to take care of her and keep her 
happy. No.' she'd screamed during one terrible argument that kept Uncle Milo 
away for weeks. No.' I won't leave my son alone! 
What would I find up there if I went in? Palatazin asked himself, staring up at 
the front room. A few newspapers all cut in pieces, lying in a thick sediment of 
dust? Perhaps an old dress or two hanging in a closet? Things best forgotten? 
Some of the crucifixes might still be scrawled on the walls, close to the nail 
holes where the religious pictures had hung in their gaudy gilded frames. 
Palatazin, grownup Andre, looked up to the windows where he thought he saw the 
pale, ghostly face of a woman waiting for her son to come home. He didn't like 
to think about those last months; putting her in Golden Garden and leaving her 
there to die had torn him to pieces, but what else could he have done? She 
couldn't take care of herself anymore; she had to be fed like a baby, and very 
often she spat up her food like a baby or soiled the awful rubber, diaperlike 
thing she wore. She was wasting away to nothing, alternately praying and crying. 
Her eyes had become the largest thing about her. As she sat in her favorite 
rocking chair day after day and stared down upon Romaine Street, her eyes became 
luminous, as large as pale white moons. So he'd sent her away where the doctors 
and nurses could take care of her. She'd died of a stroke in a small room with 
forest-green walls and a window that looked out on a golf course. She'd been 
dead for two hours before a nurse came in to check on her at six o'clock in the 
morning. 
Palatazin remembered her last words to him, the very night before she died, 
"Andre, Andre," she'd said softly, reaching up her frail white hand to grip his 
arm. "What time is it? Is it day or night?" 
"Night, Mama," he replied. "It's almost eight o'clock." 
"Night comes too fast. Always too fast. Is the door locked?" 
"Yes." It wasn't, of course, but when he told her that it was, he could see that 
it comforted her. 
"Good. My good Andre, you must never forget to ... to lock the door. Oh, I'm so 
sleepy. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I heard that black cat scratching on the 
front door this morning, so I shooed it away. They should keep that cat in their 
apartment." 
"Yes, Mama." A black cat had belonged to their nextdoor neighbors in the First 
Street apartment building; after all these years it must surely be dust. 
74 
And then his mother's eyes had clouded over, and for a long time she'd stared at 
her son without speaking. "Andre, I'm afraid," she'd said finally, her voice 
cracking like old yellowed paper. The tears glimmered in her eyes, and Palatazin 
had carefully wiped them away with a handkerchief when they started to roll down 
her cheeks. She'd gripped his hand tightly, her flesh as dry as leather. "One of 
them ... one of them followed me when I came back from the market. I heard him 
walking behind me, and when I... turned I saw his grinning face. I saw his eyes, 
Andre, his terrible burning eyes! He wanted me to ... to take his hand and go 
with him . . . because of what I did to your papa . . ." 
"Shhhhhh," Palatazin had said, wiping tiny beads of perspiration off her 
forehead. "You're wrong, Mama. There was no one. You were only imagining it." He 
remembered the night she was recalling; she'd dropped a sack of groceries and 
run home, screaming. It had been the last night she'd ever left the apartment. 
"They can't hurt us now, Mama. We're too far away for them to ever find us 
again." 
"NO!" she'd said, her eyes widening. Her face was as pale as a china plate, her 
fingernails digging half-moons into his hand. "DON'T YOU EVER BELIEVE THAT! If 
you don't watch for them always... ALWAYS!... they can come for you and find 
you. They're always there, Andre . . . you just can't see them . . ." 
"Why don't you try to sleep now, Mama? I'll sit here with you until I have to 
leave, all right?" 
"Leave?" she'd said, suddenly panicked. "Leave? Where are you going?" 
"Home. I have to go home. Jo's waiting for me." 
"Jo?" She'd looked at him suspiciously. "Who's that?" 
"My wife, Mama. You know who Jo is, she came with me to see you last night." 
"Oh, stop that! You're just a little boy! Even in California they don't let 
little boys get married! Did you get that milk I asked you to bring on the way 
back from school?" 
He'd nodded and tried to smile. "I brought it." 
"That's good." And then she'd settled back and closed her eyes. After another 
moment her grip on his hand had loosened enough for him to pull away. He'd sat 
and gazed at her for a long time; she looked so different, but still there was 
something there of the woman he'd known a long time ago, the one who'd sat in 
the little stone house in Krajeck, knitting a sweater for her son. When he'd 
stood up very quietly to leave, his mother's eyes had opened again, and this 
time they burned through his soul. "I won't leave you, Andre," she'd whispered. 
"I won't leave my son alone." And then she was asleep again, just that quickly, 
her mouth half-open, and the breath rustling in and out of her lungs. There was 
an odor in the room like lilacs on the edge of decay. 
Palatazin had slipped out of the room, and a doctor named Vacarella had called 
him just after six the next morning. 
My God! Palatazin thought suddenly and looked at his wristwatch. Jo is waiting 
at home! He started the car, glanced up once more at the top-floor window-now 
'empty, the broken pane catching a little leftover light from someone else's 
house- 
75 
and drove toward Romaine Street. When he stopped at a traffic light two blocks 
away, he thought he heard dogs howling very far away in a strange close harmony. 
But when the light changed and he drove on, he didn't hear them anymore-or 
perhaps he was afraid to listen. Thoughts of Hollywood Memorial loomed up too 
quickly for him to cut them off. His hands began to sweat on the steering wheel. 

They can't hurt us now, he thought. We're too far away. Too far away. Too far 
away. 
And from the depths of his memory, his mother's voice answering, Don't you ever 
believe that . . . 
SEVEN 
Merida Santos had run a long way from the noisy tumult of Whittier Boulevard, 
and her legs were beginning to ache. She stopped and leaned against a half- 
demolished brick wall to rub her calves. Her lungs were burning, too, her eyes 
felt gummy with tears, and her nose was running. Damn Rico/ she thought. I hate 
him, HATE HIM, HATE HIM! She thought of what she should do to him: Tell Luis 
he'd beaten her up and raped her, so the Homicides would go after him and cut 
him to pieces; tell her mother he'd gotten her drunk and had his way with her, 
so she'd call the cops on him; call the police herself and tell them she knew 
somebody who was selling cocaine to kids on the Strip and ask them if they would 
like to know his name. 
But in the next instant her plans of vengeance broke apart in a single sob. She 
couldn't do any of those things. She couldn't bear to see him hurt; she would 
rather die than think of him being beaten up by the Homicides or put in jail. 
From a bitter spark of her anger and hurt, the hot flame of love-and of need, 
both physical and emotional-leapt up, its crazy brightness making new tears 
stream down her cheeks. She started trembling and couldn't stop. A hole had 
opened up somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and she felt she was in danger of 
being swallowed into it, turned inside out, and then all the world would see the 
tiny fetus just beginning to take form within her. She hoped that the baby would 
be a boy with the same coffee-and-cream eyes that Rico had. 
But now what was to be done? Tell Mama? She shivered at the thought. Her mother 
hadn't acted right since Papa died last year; she was suspicious of every move 
Merida made-doubly suspicious of what Luis did, and that just made Luis stay 
away from home more-and lately had begun awakening Merida in the middle of the 
night to question her about the kids she was running around with, about what 
they did. Smoke that filthy weed? Get drunk on wine? Luis had told Mama that 
Merida had been seeing Rico and that Rico was a big man in the coke trade up on 
Sunset Boulevard. Luis, only twelve, was running with the Homicides almost every 
night now, and the barrio toughs hated Rico because he'd once been where they 
were and had made it out. Merida's mother had gone into a screaming fit, 
76 
threatening to lock Merida in a closet or turn her over to the social worker 
lady if she kept seeing "that Esteban mugre." Now what would happen if she told 
her mother she was carrying his baby in her belly? 
Or she could go to see Father Silvera first, and perhaps he could help her talk 
to her mother. Yes. That was the thing to do. 
Merida wiped her swollen eyes and looked around to get her bearings. She really 
hadn't noticed where she was running. The narrow street stretched out before 
her, lined with brown brick buildings that were gutted and desolate, bombed and 
burned out by the hands of the arsonist or feuding street gangs. Mounds of 
rubble glittered with bits of broken glass; layers of yellow mist hung over 
empty lots where a rat as big as a gopher occasionally scurried from shadow to 
shadow. Some of the buildings looked as if they'd been split right down the 
middle by a huge axe, the tiny rooms and hallways exposed as were the metal 
twistings of pipes, the toilets, and the tubs. And everywhere was the wild 
spray-painted scrawl: Zorro 78; L.A. Homicides (and beneath that in a different 
color, Suck); Raphael High Conquistadors Best; Gomez was here; Anita does 69. 
There were also drawings of crude sexuality interspersed. On the side of a 
wrecked apartment building, staring impassively down at Merida, was a huge face, 
drawn in red with blood dripping from both corners of the mouth. 
Merida shivered; it was getting colder, wind twisting savagely through the maze 
of wreckage as it sought a way out. And now she realized that she'd run too far. 
She had no idea where she was. She could turn around and see lights in the sky 
from Whittier Boulevard, but in this silent place the boulevard seemed a hundred 
miles away. She began to walk hurriedly, new tears wetting her eyes; she crossed 
the street and moved along another that became narrower still and was rank with 
the odor of old charred brick. Of course her street, her apartment building, 
couldn't be too far away; it would have to be only a few streets over. Mama 
would be waiting, wanting to know where she'd been. 
She was wondering what she was going to say about her swollen eyes when she 
heard the footsteps behind her. She caught her breath and whirled around; 
something dark scurried for the shadows like a rat, but whatever it was was big 
enough to be a man. Merida narrowed her eyes, squinting to get a better look, 
and she stood very still for what seemed like hours. Then she started walking 
again, faster, her heart hammering in her chest. A young, pretty girl like you 
can get raped out there, she remembered her mother saying. Raped or much, much 
worse. She walked faster, and at the next desolate corner she turned again 
toward the distant lights of Whittier. She looked back and saw two figures this 
time, both leaping for the cover of open doorways. Merida almost screamed, but 
forced down the sound. She thought she'd seen a face as white as gossamer and 
within it a pair of eyes that shone in the dark like a lowrider's headlights. 
Footsteps clattered somewhere close to her, echoing between the brick walls like 
muffled explosions. 
Merida began to run, the breath bursting from her lungs in a high whine. When 
she dared to look overlier shoulder, she saw five or maybe seven figures, 
77 
running silently like a pack of wolves; they were gaining on her, and the one in 
the lead had a face like a grinning death's head. She tripped over debris in the 
street, cried out, and almost went down. Then she was running as fast as she 
could, her mother's warning echoing in her head-Raped or much, much worse. She 
looked back again and screamed in cold panic. They were almost upon her; one of 
them reached out to grip her hair. 
And from the darkness of the street, three more of the things emerged before 
her, waiting for her. She recognized one of them-Paco Milan, one of Luis's 
friends from the Homicides, except now Paco's face was as pale as the belly of a 
dead fish, and his fiery gaze crackled through Merida's skull. She thought she 
heard him^ speak, though his mouth didn't seem to open, "No more running, 
sister," he Ł', whispered, the sound like a wind through dead trees. "No more 
place to go." He '|Ť held his arms out for her and grinned. 1! 
A clawlike hand gripped Merida around the neck and jerked her head back(| ward. 
Another clamped her mouth shut, freezing fingers digging into her flesh. fo The 
figures danced around her as she was dragged toward a doorway. 
And in a crumbling hulk of brick, she learned that there was something worse 
than rape. Much, much worse. 
EIGHT 
It was almost midnight, and the party was just getting started. The hospitality 
bowls that had been brimming with Quaaludes and amphetamines, Black Beauties, 
Bennies, and uppers of a hundred different sizes and colors were now almost* 
empty; the silver trays that had been crisscrossed with white lines of fine, 
pure j cocaine were now only dusted with the traces of it, and the ceramic vases 
that had I' held dozens of red-striped McDonald's drinking straws now contained 
only a few. But the house was still filled with people of all ages and in all 
manner of dress from ,| Bill Blass suits to Yves Saint Laurent disco dresses to 
denim cutoffs and T-shirts advertising Adidas or Nike running shoes. The huge 
sunken living room to which most of the party had gravitated was heavy with 
several layers of sweet, thick pot smoke; the beige, deep-pile carpeting had 
started catching cigarettes when the ashtrays had overflowed, and now the 
dime-sized burns looked like a natural pattern. Someone was hammering at the 
grand piano over by a plate glass window that looked out over the blue-lit 
swimming pool; someone else was playing a guitar and singing, all this plus the 
cacophonous noises of a hundred people battling the thunder of Bob Dylan's voice 
from a pair of thousand-dollar Bose speakers. The house throbbed with base 
guitar and snare drum backbeat; the picture windows shivered every few seconds. 
Somebody in a cowboy hat was trying to climb on top of the grand piano urged on 
by a stunning blonde wearing a tight black dress. A few women had stripped off 
their blouses, proud of what they had, and moved through the crowd pursued by 
young men with bulging crotches. Older men in suits, 
78 
confident of the power in their bulging wallets, were content to wait. Dylan's 
voice became a shriek when the stereo's needle dug a trench across it; he was 
replaced by the Cars. 
Damn it, Wes Richer thought. I like Dylan. Why'd somebody want to go and do that 
to my record? He smiled and took a drag off the fat joint that was slowly 
burning down between his fingers. Doesn't matter, he reassured himself. I can 
buy another one tomorrow. He looked around the room through glazed blue eyes. 
Stellar. One fucking whale of a stellar party. Tonight he felt he had the answer 
to a question that had plagued him for most of his twenty-five years. The simple 
question was addressed to God: Whose side are You on, anyway? As he regarded the 
glowing eye of his joint, he knew he had the answer right in his back pocket, 
just arrived in a Cosmic Fortune Cookie: Your side, Wes. God is on your side. 
But He hadn't always been, Wes thought. Damn straight. He fashioned an image of 
God in his mind-an elderly, slightly doddering being in a white London Fog 
overcoat with a gold muffler to chase away the chill of the high altitude. God 
would look suspiciously like Wes Richer in his "old man in the park" bit, 
and-yeah, give the bit a kick-God might talk a little like a tired Jewish 
vacuum-cleaner salesman: "Wesley, I got a lot to do, I can't get around to 
everybody! Who do you think I am, Santa Claus? There's this guy over in New 
Jersey wants to get away with a little cheating on the taxes; a lady in Chicago 
keeps after Me to send her lost dog home, but the mutt got run over by a bus; a 
pimply kid in Des Moines wants to pass a history test or he's completely 
vermisched; this fella in Palm Springs wants Me to keep his wife from finding 
out he's got three women on the side . . . everybody wants something, Wes! And 
that's just right down there in the US of A! What am I, Dear Abby? And you, Wes! 
You keep wanting to know whose side I'm on, and why your last pilot went down 
the tubes, and why you can't win anymore at the blackjack tables! Gevult, what a 
mess down there! I slap My own hands! Okay, okay, so maybe if I help you out, 
you'll quit bugging Me so I can get on to bigger things? Okay, boom, there you 
go! Happy now? So enjoy it already!" 
God had come through for him today; this afternoon he'd won over two thousand 
bucks betting on Alabama over USE, and the premiere of his new show, "Sheer 
Luck" looked good in its seven-thirty spot on ABC. At least everybody here had 
laughed in the right places and applauded when it was over. And then the party 
had really started. 
The Cars were thundering away now, and from his chair Wes could see some people 
swimming bare-assed down at the pool. He laughed out loud, his bright Midwestern 
face crinkling with mirth; he was a medium-sized man with a curly thatch of 
reddish-brown hair and thick eyebrows that also seemed curly, set high over 
light blue eyes that, when not totally bloodshot from drugs, seemed more like a 
kid's eyes. He had a healthy, friendly, innocent look-a "safe look" one of the 
ABC executives had dubbed it. It was a look that drew teenie-boppers and at the 
same time assured Mom and Dad that he was really an okay guy, probably a class 
cutup but nothing to worry about, kike the assessment from another ABC brain-"an 
ail-American comedian." 
79 
Someone jostled his elbow, spilling ashes onto the dirty carpet. Wes looked up 
and smiled but couldn't tell who was standing there. He thought for an instant 
that it was his father because the man had a mane of silver hair, but of course 
it couldn't be his father-he was back home in Nebraska, fast asleep at this 
hour. "There you are, Wes!" the man said. "I've been hunting all over this place 
for you! I missed the show, but I heard you were really great in it." A hand 
found Wes's and squeezed it. "The show's got stellar written all over it, boy. 
Good to see you again." 
"Who are you?" Wes asked, still smiling and thinking about those fools in the 
pool who were freezing their nuts off because no one had turned on the heat. 
The man's head was split in half by teeth. "Good to see you again, Wes. Great,. 
party!" And then he was gone, swallowed up into the crowd that swirled around 
the Ť* chair where Wes sat smoking. r 
I don't know that guy, do I? he wondered. Jesus! Where did all these people come 
from? He looked around but didn't seem to recognize any of them. Who were they? 
What the hell. They were all friends, or friends of friends. Or somebody's 
fucking friends! In another moment a couple of young women were standing over 
him, one in a violet dress, her breasts spilling over the top. Still smiling 
easily, he stared at those breasts, while the two girls chattered on about how 
good "Sheer Luck" had been and how they'd never ever been to a party anywhere 
near this fine, not even at Hef s place. Who the hell were these girls? One of 
them-he wasn't sure which- put a hand on his knee and slipped a little white 
card into the pocket of his blue Ralph Lauren cowboy shirt. He knew it would 
have her name and phone number on it in elegant black script; everybody carried 
those around these days, it was essential to the wardrobe. 
He caught a glimpse of her Ultra-Brite smile before the party closed in around 
him again. A group called 1994 hammered away on the stereo now, Karen Lawrence's 
lead vocals making the windows shake. Christ, what a set of pipes! Wes thought 
languidly. He stared down at the joint and said to himself, "You've hit, Wes. 
You've come back. God ... is ... on ... your . . . side." 
"Wes?" someone said, gripping his shoulder. He looked up and saw his manager, 
Jimmy Kline, standing over him; Jimmy's broad face looked beatific, his dark 
eyes shining like little black buttons behind his wire-frame glasses. There were 
two older men with Jimmy-Wes recognized one of them as Harv Chappell, an exec at 
Arista Records. Wes tried to stand up, but Jimmy pushed him back down. "Stay 
right there, my man," Jimmy said in his thick Brooklyn accent. "You know Harv 
Chappell, don't you? And Max Beckworth? They liked the show, Wes. 
Every-fuckin'-body liked the show!" 
"It was great, Wes," Harv said, smiling. 
"Fantastic. Three seasons at least," Max said, smiling. 
Wes nodded. "Hope so. You men need a drink, something to get mellow on?" 
"We're going to be talking record contract with Arista on Monday," Jimmy said, 
his eyes getting brighter and brighter. The Hawaiian print shirt he was wearing, 
a wild mixture of purples and oranges, seemed to glow in the dim living room 
light. 
80 McCAMMON 
"How's that grab you?" 
"Great, just great." 
"Of course"-Jimmy turned to smile at the Arista execs, "we'll be negotiating 
with Warner's and A&M, too. You know Mike Steele over at A&M, don't you, Max? 
He's talking six figures on a single record deal with options." 
Max shrugged. "Comedy records are risky," he said, glancing around the room to 
take stock of who was there. "Only Steve Martin and Robin Williams turn a profit 
these days, sometimes Richard Pryor if his material appeals to the kids. It's 
just too easy to take a bath with comedy these days." 
"Baths? Who's talking about taking fucking baths? I'm talking about mass appeal, 
man, everybody from Farmer Jones to the punk crowd. Wes covers all the bases." 
"We'll see, Jimmy. Let's wait for the ratings on 'Sheer Luck,' shall we?" 
"Yeah, yeah. Uh . . . Wes, where's Solange?" 
"I don't know," Wes said. "She was here a few minutes ago." 
"The hospitality bowls are going dry. I'm going to get Joey to fill 'em up, 
okay?" 
Wes smiled and nodded. "Sure. Anything you want to do. 'Sheer Luck' was pretty 
good, wasn't it?" 
"Good? It was terrific! It'll be leading the schedule in three weeks!" 
Wes reached up and caught Jimmy's arm as he and the Arista men started to move 
away. "Don't bullshit me," Wes said quietly. "It was good, wasn't it?" 
"Stellar," Jimmy said; he flashed a quick smile and was gone. 
God is on my side, Wes thought, relaxing again. And then: Solange? Where the 
hell is she? He rose unsteadily from the chair, and immediately a path cleared 
before him. Hands clapped him on the back, faces mouthed words he couldn't hear. 
He wandered around looking for Solange, the last of his joint crumbling in ashes 
to the floor. 
A moment later he found her, sitting with a group of people on the long dark 
brown sofa near the center of the room. She was drinking white wine from a 
crystal goblet, her long brown fingers curved delicately around the stem. On a 
low table in front of her, three candles burned in brass holders, the golden 
light setting amber fire to her skin, glittering in the black pools of her 
slightly almond-shaped eyes. A backgammon board and a huge vase of dried flowers 
had been cleared away to make room for a Ouija board; Solange was staring at the 
white planchette as she drank her wine, her gaze at once vacant and intense. A 
few people sat around her, smoking pot and drinking wine, looking from Solange's 
beautiful, sculpted, Oriental-African face to the board. "Come on, Solange," Wes 
heard one of the men say. "Do it for us. Call up ... oh ... call up Marilyn 
Monroe or somebody." 
Solange smiled faintly. "You want party games. You don't want to be serious," 
she said in a voice as cool as the October wind. 
"We'll be serious," the guy said, but he was smiling too widely. "Promise. Come 
on, call up ... Sharon Tate . . ." 
"Oh, Christ, no!" a girl with Ipng shimmering waves of blond hair said, her eyes 

81 
terror-stricken; Wes recognized her from the current NEC hit "Skate Fever." 
"How about Oswald?" somebody else said, blowing on a stick of jasmine incense 
just to make the sparks fly. "That fucker'll talk to anybody." 
"Clifton Webb." The NEC starlet slid over closer to the Ouija board but seemed 
afraid to touch it. "I hear he's prowling around again." 
"No." Solange looked into a candle, her cat eyes narrowing. The candle flame 
flickered very gently. "I don't think I want to do this tonight. Not here, not 
with everyone standing around." The light glittered off the hundred or so tiny 
brass beads strung in the tight braids of her ebony hair. "The spirits won't 
answer if the mood isn't right." 
"What's wrong with the mood?" the guy who wanted to talk to Oswald asked; he 
waved the incense stick around, his glazed eyes hypnotized. "Seems fine to me. 
Do it, Solange. Call somebody up for us." 
"The spirits don't like to be laughed at." She sipped at the wine but did not 
move her gaze from the candle's flame. From where he stood, Wes could see the 
flame undulating very slowly, and a sudden chill skittered down his spine. It 
was the same kind of chill he'd felt when he'd first looked into Solange's eyes 
in the Presidential Suite of the Las Vegas Hilton almost a year ago. i 
"I've got it, luv," the thin young man sitting on Solange's left said. He was* 
Martin Blue, the British whiz kid who'd produced Wes's first comedy album for 
Warner's over three years ago. Blue smiled like a fox. "Conjure up ... oh, what 
was his name? . . . Kronsteen. Orion Kronsteen." 
The NBC starlet-Missy something, Wes thought her name was-laughed nervously. 
There was a moment of silence while the party swirled around the group^ at the 
table; Wes thought they looked afraid, all except Solange, who wasn't smiling 
'?' anymore. J 
Time to save her ass, he thought, and stepped forward into the candlelight.;' 
"What is this?" he said, his voice somewhat slurred. "Ghost stories? It's not 
Hal~loween yet, kiddies." 
"Hi there, Wes," Martin Blue said. "We're trying to get your woman here to 
conjure us up . . ." 
"I don't conjure," Solange said softly. 
"Yeah, I heard all this bullshit." Wes plopped himself down on the sofa and 
stretched. "You want to talk to Kronsteen so bad, Martin, why don't you hike on 
up to that little fortress he built and give out a yell? He'll probably come 
floating out with his head in his hand." 
"Oh, don't!" Missy said, and squirmed in her seat. "Wasn't he that old actor who 
. . .?" 
"Horror flick actor," Wes corrected her. "Made about a hundred of 'em. Enough to 
get rich on, at least. They still play some of them on 'Creature Features.'" 
"What happened to him?" she asked, looking at Martin and Solange, then back to 
Wes. 
"Kronsteen married a European heiress he met on location. It turned out she 
82 
had cancer, leukemia, something like that; after she died, he went a little nuts 
and used the rest of their money to bring that castle over from Europe. About 
ten or eleven years ago, somebody stripped old Kronsteen naked up there, 
tortured him with cigarettes and a hot poker, and hung his corpse up from a 
chandelier when they were through. Oh, yeah, whoever did it cut Kronsteen's head 
off with a rusty hacksaw and took it with 'em when they left. One of the legends 
of Hollywood, my dear, guaranteed to send you out shopping for an electrified 
fence or a couple of guard dogs." 
Missy shivered, and the guy next to her, the incense waver, took her hand. 
"So you see?" Wes continued, his eyes scanning the group, "there are a lot of 
Roaches in this town, a lot of homicidal nuts, and some of them would just love 
to go running around up here in Bel Air with a machete or an icepick. Sooner or 
later all us celebs have to wall ourselves in." 
"You're kidding me. That's not true about Kronsteen . . . about his head." 
"God's truth, luv," Martin said with a pleasant smile. He turned back to 
Solange, who was passing a finger back and forth through the flame. "Let's hear 
from Orion, luv. If you can do it. If you're really a medium." 
"Knock it off," Wes said. "This is a party, not a goddamned seance." 
"Oh, but seances can be so much fun. And so informative. Maybe Orion can tell us 
who the Roach is. A ghost can see everything, can't he?" He glanced at his gold 
Rolex. "Two minutes until midnight. The witching hour, eh?" 
"Martin," Wes said sourly, "you've got your head up your ass." But when he 
looked at Solange, she was staring intensely, right through him. 
"There is no need to call those who are already here," Solange whispered. 
"Huh? What'd she say?" Martin leaned forward, but for a minute or so Solange 
didn't speak. Finally she whispered softly, "You're a fool, Martin. You want to 
play games with something beyond your understanding. The spirits see and know 
everything, and they are always here-in the shadow of a candle, at the center of 
its flame, stirring like smoke through the air. They are always trying to break 
through, to speak to those of us on this plane. Though most often we would not 
like what they have to say." She turned the full force of her gaze on Martin 
Blue. 
"Well," he said, but his voice had climbed a pitch. "What are we waiting for? 
Let's find out who the Roach is, shall we? Or at least what happened to Mr. 
Kronsteen's head." 
Solange glanced at Wes through heavy-lidded eyes. "Very well," she said softly. 
"Wes, will you sit beside me and help me guide the planchette?" 
"How about letting me?" Martin asked quickly. "I've heard tales of your being 
able to do this sort of thing, but ... I'd like to be sure it isn't faked. No 
offense of course, luv." 
"Of course. None taken. Then slide over here so you'll be touching me, thigh to 
thigh. Now place your fingertips on the planchette opposite mine. That's too 
heavily, you have to let your fingers just graze the top of it. Ah. Better." She 
closed her eyes and smiled slightly. "I den feel the electricity already." 
83 
"I don't feel a fucking thing," Martin announced to the others. 
"Solange," Wes said, "you don't have to prove . . ." 
"I think I do. You're pressing again, Martin. Let your fingers relax." 
Wes looked around; for the first time he realized that a lot of people had 
gathered around them and were watching with interest. The thunderous sound of 
the stereo had quieted to a dull rumble; the grand piano was silent. 
"It's too loud in here. I can't concentrate," Solange said. A mumble rippled 
through the audience, and the stereo went off. Wes could hear drunken laughter 
from the pool. He leaned back on the sofa, watching Solange's brown face turn 
dreamy; Martin was smiling, mugging at people who stood around him. 
"I don't think I like . . ." Missy began nervously. But Solange whispered,pi 
"Quiet!" From somewhere in the distance Wes thought he could hear the shrill 
'**' pipings of wind through the Bel Air streets, over the manicured lawns and 
brick ^ walls and wrought-iron gates, around the sharp angles of the 
million-dollar mansions. Solange's eyes had narrowed into slits; they rolled 
back until Wes could see ^ the whites, and her mouth slowly opened. Missy gasped 
suddenly, and the gasp was ""* repeated through the room. Wes felt his heartbeat 
quickening and wished he had another joint. "My mind is open," Solange said in 
an odd, faraway tone just above a whisper. "The pathway is open. Use us as your 
voice. My mind is open. The pathway is open. Use us as your voice . . ." 
"Shall I intone anything?" Martin said. He laughed, but no one paid any 
attention. 
". . . pathway is open. Use us as your voice. My mind is . . ." 
Martin's eyes were getting larger, and if Wes hadn't been so tense, he might 
have laughed at the sight. "Jesus!" Martin said. "How long does this go ... 
SHIT!" He jumped and pulled his fingers back from the planchette. 
". . . us as your-Martin, don't break the contact!-voice. My mind is open . . 
.". 
He touched the planchette again but gingerly, his hands trembling. "I thought I 
felt it ... CHRIST! IT MOVED!" But this time he kept his fingers on it, and asi 
*. the planchette moved a tentative inch or so, another murmur went through the 
onlookers. Wes leaned forward, his heart pounding. The planchette stalled, then 
began to move again smoothly now across the board. "We've made a contact," 
Solange whispered, her eyes still closed. "Let it flow, Martin, you're trying to 
slow it down." 
The planchette began to make long, slow circles. "Who are you?" Solange asked. 
The planchette slid quickly over to YES. She repeated the question, and it lay 
still for a moment, then dropped toward the lines of black letters imprinted on 
the board. "Read the letters off to me," Solange said. 
Wes slid across the sofa so he could see the board better. "B," he read. "O . . 
. B . .." The planchette dipped and swirled as if riding on a waxed surface. 
"Another B ... Y ..." The planchette stopped. "Bobby." 
"Bobby will act as our guide, then," Solange whispered. "The contact is 
strengthening now. It's becoming very strong . . ." 
84 
"My fucking fingers are burning . . ." Martin croaked. 
"What did you do in life?" Solange asked. 
The planchette started to spell again, faster than before. Wes read, "M ... E 
... S ... S ... A ... G ... E ..." That word was repeated twice more, faster 
each time. 
And then another word took shape. "E," Wes said "V ... I... evil. It's spelling 
evil" 
"Is that your message?" Solange's voice was a quiet murmur in the silent room. 
"What does it mean?" 
The planchette spun in a mad circle, dropped back to the letters. E, V, I, L, E, 
V, I, L. 
"Are there others with you?" 
YES. 
"Who?" 
S, A, M, E, L, I, K, E, M, E. 
"Christ!" Missy breathed, and reached for her wineglass. She spilled some on her 
designer jeans before it reached her mouth. 
"Who's the Roach?" Martin blurted out. "What's his name?" 
The planchette was still. Solange repeated the two questions slowly, and almost 
immediately the planchette haltingly spelled out-E, V, I, L, U, S, I, N, G, H, 
I, M. 
"Using him?" Wes said. "What's that supposed to mean?" 
"There is one among us who would reach Orion Kronsteen," Solange went on in a 
whisper. "Is he with you?" 
Immediately, YES. 
"Then let him come forward." 
There was a long pause. The planchette seemed to be dead. And then suddenly it 
almost leapt off the board. Martin said, "SHIT!" as the thing spun from side to 
side, from YES to NO to MAYBE and back again, three or four times. "Unfocused 
energy," Solange said calmly. "Quiet, quiet. Do you have a message?" 
"This is even better than the 'Crosswits,'" Wes said under his breath; Martin 
glanced at him and giggled nervously. 
But then the planchette dropped to the bottom of the board so quickly it seemed 
only a blur. It began to race along the lines of letters. Wes leaned forward. 
"E, V," he read. "EVIL. EVIL. It's repeating the same thing over and over 
again." 
"Is this Kronsteen?" Solange asked. 
YES. YES. YES. Then, EVIL. EVIL. Again and again. 
"Quiet, quiet. What's evil? Can you tell us?" 
The planchette vibrated, seemed to spin in midair. Then it moved again, 
gathering speed until it had spelled out a new word so quickly Wes barely had 
time to read it. "T, H, E, Y." The planchette stopped, and Wes looked up at 
Solange. "THEY. Fine message from the spirit world, huh?" 
Solange opened her eyes and said quietly, "It's moving again." Wes looked back 
to the board. The planchette moved to the T again, then to other letters, faster 
and faster. "THIRST," Solange said? The planchette had begun spelling out THEY 
85 
again. "THEY THIRST is the message. It's repeating the words now . . ." 
Wes said uneasily, "What's it supposed to mean?" 
"Do you have more to tell . . .?" Solange began, and suddenly the planchette 
stopped. She narrowed her eyes, and for an instant Wes saw something there that 
seemed a mix of bewilderment and fear. "Bobby?" Solange asked. "Who's there? Who 
wants to speak?" 
And slowly, with terrifying purpose, the planchette spelled out a new word. 
"FOOLS," Wes said. "Now what in the name of God is that s" 
Solange gave out a piercing scream. The planchette darted from beneath her 
fingers and came up off the Ouija board, its sharp triangular point flying like 
a*, missile at Wes's right eye. He was able to throw up a hand in time; the 
planchette jj struck his palm and bounced off, then fell to the carpet like the 
dead piece of plastic \ it was. Someone else in the room screamed, the scream 
was echoed from two or |j three more throats. Solange leapt to her feet. "Wes! 
Are you all right?" I 
"Sure," he said nervously. "Sure. I'm fine." He stood up on shaky legs andj 
stared down at the thing that had almost gouged out his eye. "Little bastard 
tried to ' get me, didn't it?" He laughed and looked around, but no one else 
even smiled. " 
"I think ... I'm going to be ... sick," Missy said, her pretty face having taken 
on;< a yellowish cast. She stumbled toward the bathroom, and her boyfriend 
followed. ';' 
"It . . . moved!" Martin was saying, shaking his head back and forth. "It really 
did move!" 
"That's enough." Solange took Wes's hand and massaged his palm. "You wanted 
party games, and that's what you got." 
"Yeah." Martin looked around for a drink. "Party games." 
Soon the life drained back into the party, but it wasn't the same. Already 
people were leaving. A cold wind seemed to be trapped within the living room, 
trying to batter its way out through the walls. The stereo came thundering back, 
Alicia Bridges begging for some body heat. But nothing was the same as it had 
been.' 
"I'm okay, baby," Wes said, and kissed Solange on the cheek; her skin tasted of 
pepper and honey. She was looking into his eyes, her high brow furrowed, and he 
could feel her shaking. "Martin," he said finally, "you sure know how to fuck up 
a good party. Now why don't you get your ass out of here?" Wes felt like 
stomping on the planchette, breaking it into a hundred pieces of cold plastic. 
But he didn't; he didn't because for just an instant it looked like the white 
head of a cobra there on the floor, and no way-no way!-was he ever going to 
touch that sonofabitch again. 
Solange bent down, touched it tentatively, then picked it up and returned it to 
the Ouija board. 
The music stopped, the guests left, and very soon the party was over. 
86 87 
Sunday, October 27 
the nightwalkers 
i I 
.1 
H"l 
88 89 
The last of the big green trucks had hauled away Saturday's litter, and now the 
gently rolling knolls overlooking the green swan pool near Disneyland's Sleeping 
Beauty Castle gleamed with bright droplets of dew. White rocket boosters aimed 
toward cold stars from their pads in Tomorrowland; the Skylift was still; the 
Mark Twain Riverboat lay at the dock, dark water as smooth as a mirror beneath 
its hull;\ on flower-festooned Main Street gas lampposts burned low, casting 
just enough jj golden light for an occasional security guard in his electric 
cart to see by. It was just W4 before three o'clock in the morning, and the huge 
Disneyland complex lay silent. t 
Except for the muffled noise of footsteps at the center of Fantasyland. A thinŁ 
shape moved through the darkness, pausing for a moment alongside the docked j[ 
Peter Pan Pirate ship, then moving away toward the high white concrete Matter- * 
horn Mountain. It was a dark-haired young man wearing a black velvet suit, black 
* Gucci loafers, and a light blue Beach Boys T-shirt. Though his sharply 
chiseled, ( fine-boned face was unlined, there were subtle swirls of yellowish 
white in his hair, * particularly at the temples and running along the neat side 
part. The whites of his eyes were the color of old yellow dust, veined with red. 
He was very thin and slight, standing several inches under six feet; he looked 
like a seventeen-year-old boy made up to play Henry Higgins in a high school 
production of My Fair Lady except that the pupils of his eyes were as green as 
Pacific Ocean shallows and slitted like a cat's. A network of blue veins 
throbbed slowly at his temples as he regarded the strange wonders of 
Fantasyland. 
He crossed the path and stood staring at the dark octopuslike ride, the arms of 
. which were connected to grinning Dumbo elephants. He thought it looked sad and 
unnatural in its stillness, all the magic drained out of it. 
He made a quick circle in the air with the index finger of his left hand, and 
the pupils of his eyes narrowed in concentration. 
An engine began to whine. Sparkling white lights stuttered once and then 
flickered brightly. The machine began to turn, the grinning Dumbos bouncing 
gently up and down in the air. He smiled, entranced, wishing that someday he 
could meet the one who had built this magnificent place; he thought that if he 
owned this place, he would never grow tired of playing here, not in the whole 
eternity of existence that lay before him. But after a few minutes of watching 
the machine turn, his attention wandered. The white bulbs dimmed and went out; 
the Dumbos slowed and finally stopped. There was silence again. 
He walked along the path toward the Matterhorn, peering up at it, thinking of 
home. The false mountain looked cold, coated with thick snow, and there were 
concrete icicles clinging to some of the ledges. They made him yearn for the 
blizzards of his youth, for the wild, screaming winds that drove the snow along 
90 
craggy passes where no humans dared to walk. It was too hot here in this land 
called California, too full of the sun; but he had vowed to walk where his 
teacher called, and there would be no turning back. He closed his eyes; a quick 
whirlwind of icy air shrilled around him, refreshing him before it died. 
He had come out here from the city to be alone, to think about Falco. The man 
had aged. It was time to come to a decision because Falco was now unsteady and 
tired; and worst of all the spark of remorse Falco had carried within him for 
almost fifty years had now burst into the gnawing flame of despair. Falco is 
like all the others, he thought as he moved reluctantly away from the 
Matterhorn. As he grows old, he grows soft and seeks an escape, and now in his 
bed he wonders whether praying will save him. If he prays, the boy decided, 7 
shall kill him. Like the others. The boy didn't want to think about that; his 
head had already been stung once this night by the name of God spoken in a 
whisper from the mouth of a fool. 
His skin suddenly tingled as he neared a cluster of trees on the far side of the 
Matterhorn. There were a couple of brightly painted benches beneath those trees, 
and in the darkness the boy could see the Headmaster sitting on one of them, 
waiting for him. He stopped and stood perfectly still; he realized with sudden 
shame that his brain had been too clouded to sense the presence of his Lord, his 
King, his strong and willful teacher. 
"Conrad," the thing on the bench said in a soft, velvety voice. "One comes 
seeking from the south. You have called him, and he answers." 
The boy closed his eyes for a second, concentrating: he distantly heard the roar 
of an engine, smelled oil and hot pavement. "The snake man," he said, opening 
his eyes when he was sure. 
"Yes. Your lieutenant. He has come a very long way, following your command. Soon 
it will be time to act." 
The boy nodded. "Our circle grows now." His eyes were bright green and luminous 
with eagerness. "We're stronger every night." 
The thing on the bench smiled faintly and crossed one leg over the other; it 
folded a pair of hands with black talons on one knee. "I've spent much time with 
you, Conrad. I've taught you the arts of the ages, and now you stand poised to 
use your knowledge in my name. The world can be yours, Conrad. You can stride 
across it like Alexander." 
Conrad nodded and repeated the wonderful name, "Alexander." 
"Alexander had a marvelous thirst, too," the thing whispered. "Your name will be 
written in the history books of a new world. Our world." 
"Yes. Yes." His gaze clouded, the problem of Falco streaked through his brain. 
"Falco is old now, much aged since we talked last. He knows too many of my 
secrets, and he grows weak." 
"Then find another to aid you. Kill Falco. There's one near you now who has 
broken his ties with humanity, hasn't he?" In the darkness the thing's eyes, 
like white-hot circles, bored into the boy's face. 
"Yes," Conrad said. "He brwgs the offerings of flesh." 
91 
"And in so doing, betrays his race for the sake of the new world yet to be. You 
are his king, Conrad; make him your slave." The thing regarded him in silence 
for a moment, a grin splitting its face. "Tread surely, Conrad. Use what I've 
taught you in my name. Carve your legend in the annals of the new race. But be 
wary-there are those in this city who know your kind, and you must strike soon." 

"Soon. I swear it." 
"In my name," the thing prompted. 
"In your name," Conrad replied. 
"So be it. Faithful servant, student, and right hand, I leave you to your task." 
The thing, still smiling, seemed to melt away into the darkness until all that 
was left was the mouth, like the grin of the Cheshire cat; then it, too, 
vanished.jJJ* 
The boy shivered with delight. Touched by the Headmaster! Of all of his kindM 
who walked the earth or hid in mountain caves or stalked in city sewers, he 
alone "*$ had been touched by the Headmaster! He concentrated on the snake man 
now, the one the Headmaster had told him long ago would be perfectly suited to 
the task I i ahead. He turned inward to search and saw the snake man on his 
motorcycle, reaching the distant limits of the great sprawling city. He thought, 
COME TO ME, ""* and then visualized the black castle-so much like his own far 
away-perched on its cliff above Los Angeles. He was putting together a picture 
of the mountain road in his head when suddenly headlights blazed behind him. 
Conrad whirled, hissing. A man driving an electric cart shouted, "Hey! 
What'reH", you doin' here, kid?" 
The security guard suddenly stomped on the cart's brakes and screamed inť 
terror. The kid wasn't there anymore; he had changed into something large and 
horrifying that lifted into the sky with a leathery rustle of black wings. The 
cart skidded along the path and left tire marks on the newly cut grass. The 
man's urine j^' quickly drenched the inside of his trouser legs. He gripped the 
wheel and stared . / straight ahead, his teeth chattering. When he finally got 
out of the cart and looked around, there was nothing there at all, nothing. The 
place was silent and dead, just I || like any other early Sunday morning at 
Disneyland. Suddenly his nerve broke like a frayed line; he jumped back into the 
cart and drove as if he'd had an early glimpse of something from hell. 
TWO 
Kobra could barely see straight; his head felt like a blacksmith's anvil being 
beaten with a hammer. Somewhere at the center of his brain pulsed the red-hot, 
fading echo of the voice that had roared through him a couple of miles back- 
COME TO ME. He'd heard it distinctly, shatteringly. It was like standing right 
in front of the booming speakers at the Stones show at Altamont. He had been 
flying northward on the Santa Ana Freeway, keeping his speed just under sixty, 
when the voice had hit him. He'd opened his mouth and shouted in surprise, and 
the black 
9i 
T 92 
chopper had veered across two lanes before he could get a handle on the bastard. 
Now, roaring across the dark network of streets in Buena Park with Disneyland 
just behind him, he knew he was going to have to pull off soon for some coffee, 
whiskey, speed, or whatever he could find to quiet the thunder between his 
temples. There seemed to be something burned on his eyelids, too, because when 
he blinked he thought he saw a picture outlined in electric blue against the 
darkness-some kind of big fucking cathedral, a place with towers and 
stained-glass windows and doors that looked like nine-foot slabs of redwood. 
He thought he had to be flying on nervous energy because he'd been on the road 
for ten hours straight with just a barbecue sandwich and a couple of ampules of 
amyl nitrite to keep him going. But he didn't care now whether he was 
hallucinating or not; below and around him there were scattered fireflies of 
lights, an occasional blinking neon sign or amber traffic signal. Ahead there 
was a dull yellow glow in the sky that meant the end of his journey. Or maybe, 
he told himself, it was really just starting. Going to see what Fate, that 
phantom on a golden Harley chopper whose face can look in all four directions at 
once, has in store for old Kobra. Going to race that grinning sonofabitch to the 
finish line. 
The steady blink of red neon off to the right of the freeway caught his eye: 
MILLIE'S-FINE FOOD-STEAKS-BREAKFAST SERVED 24 HOURS. Get me some eggs and 
coffee, he thought as he took the next exit, get my fuckin' head to stop 
ringing. Maybe pick up a little traveling cash, too. 
Millie's was a square little box of white-painted brick with cactuses growing 
underneath the windows. The air in the parking lot smelled greasy from a 
thousand steaks, bowls of chili, and plates of eggs passed over a chipped 
Formica counter. But there were two old Harley-Davidsons parked in the lot up 
close to the building's side, and Kobra took a minute to inspect them before he 
went in. They both bore California plates, and one of them had a red swastika 
painted on the gas tank. 
Inside there was a line of stools along a low white counter and a couple of rows 
of booths in the back. Behind the counter and old man with a face like a piece 
of crumpled sandpaper was cooking two hamburgers. He looked up, eyes glittering 
with disdain, as Kobra stepped through the door and unsnapped his black helmet. 
Kobra took a seat on one of the stools at the end of the counter, where he could 
whirl toward the door suddenly if he had to. 
There were two guys at the back, sitting across from each other in a booth. They 
were both wearing biker jackets-one of faded brown leather and the other a 
tattered olive-green Army surplus thing. Kobra stared at them for a few seconds 
as the old man came walking along the counter, stopping once to hawk and spit 
into a Mason jar. The bikers in the back looked like total opposites, an outlaw 
Mutt and Jeff-one husky and broad-shouldered with wild, curly red hair and a 
beard that reached almost all the way down to where his beer belly displayed a 
FUCK YOU T-shirt; the other cadaverous and totally bald, wearing a gold earring 
in his right earlobe. The bikers stared back at Kobra. The air simmered between 
them. 
"What'd you want, buddy?* the old man said. As Kobra turned slowly to face 
93 THIRST 
him, the old man's eyes widened slightly, as if he'd recognized the presence of 
walking death. 
"You Millie?" Kobra asked quietly, reaching for a greasy menu. 
"That's my wife." He tried to laugh, but it came out in a croak. "Everybody asks 
that." 
"Uh-huh. Well, Millie, how about some ham and eggs and a cup of black coffee? 
Make 'em sunny-side up." 
The old man nodded and moved away quickly. He took the burgers back to Mutt and 
Jeff, then scraped charred bits of beef off the grill with a spatula and broke a 
couple of eggs onto it. Kobra watched him work, then took a glazed doughnut outs 
from under a clear plastic cover on the counter and ate it greedily; the 
doughnut * crunched between his teeth and tasted like plaster. And while he was 
chewing, he I thought about the voice he'd heard, the single powerful command 
that had almost Ť split his head in two. He could still see that blue-glowing 
cathedral, as if it had been j seared into the back of his brain. What the fuck 
was that? he wondered. Road fever? j Or the voice of Fate calling to him from 
the west? Was it the same voice he'd heard whispering through the still, humid 
Mexican night? Through the heavy air that hung around the bar on that Texas 
desert highway? Something was here for him in , L.A.; he felt certain of it, at 
least as certain as anything he'd ever seen or felt or known in the twenty years 
of a life that had thrown him in with biker gangs, dope dealers, and murderers 
from California to Florida. Or maybe, he reasoned, it wasn't Fate calling at 
all. Maybe-and he smiled thinking about this-it's Death calling. Plugging in the 
phone line that led to Kobra's brain, dialing his number with a finger of bone, 
whispering for him, "Got something for you to do out her in California, Kobra. 
Got something big for you, something I can't trust anybody else with. Want you 
to pack your chopper and come on out, maybe throw me a little scrape along the 
way. I'll be expecting you." 
Yeah, maybe so. But fuck, what's the difference between Fate and Death anyway? 
They both take you to the same hole in the ground.\"}'<] 
The old man slid Kobra's coffee across the counter, his hand trembling. Kobra 
looked up into his face with the stare of Medusa and froze him. "Hey, old man," 
Kobra said, "I'm looking for a place, might be around here, might not. It's real 
big, could be a church or something. Got towers and stained-glass windows, and 
... I don't know . . . seems like it's on a cliff maybe. Anyplace around here 
look like that?" 
"Presbyterian church three blocks west got stained-glass windows," he said. "Got 
a steeple. I don't know." He shrugged, his eyes suddenly zigzagging to the left. 
Kobra, still smiling, began to unzip his jacket because he felt those two 
bastards coming up behind him. He slipped his hand in and got hold of the grip, 
eagerness rushing through him like sweet, fiery cocaine. 
"What'd you say, man?" a voice behind him asked. 
Kobra turned. It was the redheaded one who had spoken; there were pieces of 
bread and hamburger in his beard. His eyes were deep-set and black and fixed 
94 
somewhere on Kobra's forehead. The bald biker-an older guy, maybe in his forties 
or so-stood beside his friend, a rod of flesh beside a cannonball. The bald 
dude's gaze was vacant, as if speed had burned out his brain. 
"I don't recall saying anything to you," Kobra said. 
"Hey now," Millie's husband said, "let's don't have no trouble. I run a-" 
"Shut your fuckin' face." The bald dude spoke hoarsely, like somebody had tried 
to slash his throat but gotten only a hunk of vocal cords. 
"I asked you a question, whitey. Let's hear it." 
Kobra almost squeezed the Mauser's trigger then, having gotten the gun twisted 
in its holster, but he paused with a quarter of an ounce of pressure left to go. 
"I'll tell you what you're going to hear, you big piece of shit. You're going to 
hear a couple of Mauser slugs sizzle your face off-DON'T MOVE!-'cause that's 
what I got my finger on right now. Want to test me?" 
"Please . . ." the old man whimpered. 
The bearded dude stared at Kobra for a few seconds and then smiled, showing a 
mouthful of broken teeth. The smile widened until it seemed about to crack his 
face. "Hot shit!" he growled through an explosion of laughter. "I knew it was 
you when you walked in! Hell, I ain't never seen anybody looked like you before, 
so I knew it had to be! Kobra, right?" 
"That's my handle." He kept his finger on the trigger. 
"What's wrong? You don't recognize me? Well, I guess not. I growed this beard 
and belly a couple of years ago after that little la-de-dah between the Angels 
and the Headhunters up in Frisco. I'm Viking, man! Don't you remember?" 
"Viking?" The name rang a faraway note in his head, but he connected it with a 
Hell's Angel who was slim and wiry and carried a pair of pliers around to yank 
out teeth with. Still, it seemed that Viking had been red-haired and could put 
away a couple of six-packs of Bud before you could crack your third. Of course 
he remembered the showdown between Angel and Headhunter troops because then he 
was eighteen and ready to burn his name into Angel history. He'd sent two 
Headhunters to hell with a Luger and kicked the nuts off another one in that 
empty lot in the middle of the night with the chains and the knives swinging. 
"Viking?" Kobra said again and realized that he'd been ready to waste a brother. 
He took his finger off the trigger. "Christ! Viking? Man, you carrying a horse 
inside there?" 
"Old brew kinda caught up with me," he said, affectionately patting his stomach, 
"hey, I want you to meet my ridin' buddy, Dicko Hansen. Dicko, this albino 
sonofabitch here can catch bullets between his teeth and fire 'em out his ass!" 
He laughed long and loud; Kobra and Dicko shook hands, grasping each other's 
thumbs palm-to-palm and squeezing so hard the knuckles cracked. "Jesus Jumpin' 
Christ!" Viking said. "Where you been keeping yourself?" 
Kobra shrugged. "Around. Been doing some traveling." 
"I heard a few months ago you were ridin' with the Lucifer Legion, got yourself 
wasted in a little fracas down New Awleens way." 
"Nope. It was me did the wasting. That's why I've been in Mexico for a while," 
95 
The old man behind the counter was now as pale as Kobra. He slinked away 
trembling and hoped they'd forget about him. 
"Bring this man's food back to the booth," Viking called after him, making him 
flinch. "Come on, bro, we got a lot to catch up on." 
Kobra ate his ham and eggs, listening to Viking talk; Dicko sat beside Kobra 
because Viking took up most of one side of the booth. "Me and Dicko ride with 
the Death Machine now," he was saying between swigs of beer. "I had to change 
the way I look, see, 'cause the cops were after my ass. A lot of brothers split 
from the Angels, formed their own clubs or joined up in other states. Shit! The 
Angels ain't like they used to be, Kobra. They're respec-table, can you dig it? 
They wear fuckin',n suits and take up donations for fuckin' orphans! Makes you 
sick to your stomach to > see them old boys kissin' cop ass! I don't know." He 
tilted his bottle and drank it dry, I jjj smacking his lips noisily at the end. 
"Those old days, they were good, weren't they? ^ Hundreds of Angels out on a 
run, takin' up the whole highway, and nobody darin' to pass us! And God, did the 
booze and brew and high times flooooow! Those Angel bashes up in Frisco would 
keep your hair curled for weeks, man. Aw, shit." *Ť He uncapped another bottle 
and started in on it. "Well, times change, don't they? It ain't like it used to 
be. People too interested in boogie and hard cash to think about how it feels to 
ride at the front of the pack, to feel that good, raw wind across your face at 
ninety miles an hour. And territory? Nobody cares about territory. Bunch of 
Chicano and nigger punks fight over some dry chunks of cee-ment up in L.A., but 
nobody carves out land like we used to." He pulled at the beer again, and 
droplets of foam glittered in his beard. "Nobody gives a shit about nothin'. 
Except the Death (§ Machine, o' course. Now there's a good bunch of brothers. 
Old Dicko and me just i- got back from a San Diego run. You shoulda been there 
and seen the looks on these fucker's faces when thirty Death Machiners come 
runnin' right through their jr campground, scatterin' picnic baskets and tables 
all to hell and back. Yeah, it was (J alllllright. Wasn't it, Dicko?" 
Ťoť '*T j 
bure was.,jj 
"So what about you, Kobra? What's the story?" 
"Nothing much to tell," Kobra said. "I hooked up with the Nightriders up in 
Washington for a while, started getting road fever, and moved on. I guess I've 
ridden with nine or ten clubs since I left the Angels." 
Viking leaned closer, his eyes glimmering with low beer lights. "Hey," he 
whispered conspiratorially. "Who'd you waste in New Awleens? What was the 
action?" 
"Couple of Dixie Demons trashed a buddy of mine. I killed 'em as a favor." 
"How'd you do it? Fast or slow?" 
Kobra smiled. "The first one I shot in the kneecaps. Then the elbows. And I 
tossed him into the mighty Mississippi. Fucker flopped around like a frog for a 
while before he went under. The second one I caught in a gas station toilet. I 
made him lick the Johns clean and then . . . pow! . . . right through the old 
beanbag. Bled like a swamp." His gaze clouded slightly. "Too bad he was working 
with the cops, 
96 
about to turn state's evidence on some Demon dirt. All kinds of pigs were 
hunting me from FBI on down. That's the luck of the draw, right?" 
"Right." Viking leaned back and let out a satisfied belch. 
Kobra drank his coffee and felt it roiling around in his stomach. He could feel 
Dicko's stare on him, like a leech clinging to the side of his face. "Viking," 
Kobra said after another moment, "is there any action going on in L.A. I might 
be interested in? Anything big? You know, maybe some down-and-dirty, or somebody 
in bad need of an out-of-town shooter?" 
Viking looked at Dicko and then shook his head. "Don't hear anything. Well, the 
Knights and the Satan Stompers are having a little war over in La Habra, but 
it'll blow over in a few days. Why?" 
"A feeling I've got. Like something's about to break." 
Dicko's ferret eyes gleamed. "What kind of feeling? Sorta weird, like you can 
feel power hummin' inside you?" 
"Yeah. Sort of like that. Only it's getting stronger all the time, and a little 
while ago I thought I heard . . . you guys know of a place something like 
this-real big, maybe on a cliff, and it's got high towers and stained-glass 
windows, could be a church?" 
Dicko looked startled. "Uh ... on a cliff? Way up over L.A.? Jesus! A castle, 
maybe?" 
Kobra nodded. 
Viking barked out a laugh. "A fuckin' castle? Sure, old Dicko knows it! You 
talkin' about the Kronsteen place? That's where Dicko and a bunch of freaks 
stoned out of their gourds on LSD and mesc had a party about . . ." 
"Eleven years," Dicko said quietly. "It was eleven years ago we did that." 
"Did what?" Kobra asked. "What're you talking about?" 
"You want to go up there?" Dicko's gaze was dead again. "Why?" 
Kobra said, "Maybe it's not the place I want to go. I don't know. But I'd like 
to see it. How far is it from here?" 
"It's way up in the Hollywood Hills. But we could make it before sunrise if you 
want to see it. I hear somebody's moved in up there." 
"Who?" Kobra asked. How do you like that, he said to himself. A castle, not a 
church. 
Dicko shrugged. "Some foreign fucker. There was a piece in the paper about a 
month ago. I saved it." 
"Okay. What the hell, I got nothing better to do. Let's burn on up to this joint 
and take a look at it." Kobra was suddenly eager to get under way. Is my trip 
over? he wondered. Or has it just started? His blood seemed to be boiling in his 
veins. 
"Let's git gone!" Viking said, and shoved his bulk away from the booth. 
97 
Out of the dead blue darkness, three moons rose in the hills above the Hollywood 
Bowl. Kobra rode on Dicko's left flank, following the twistings of the road with 
an almost extrasensory knowledge. They had made good time from Millie's, even 
though Viking-riding on Dicko's right, his bike wheezing like an old, used-up 
horse-had to stop and take a beer piss every few miles. Now they were climbing 
at an incredible angle, their engines cracking the silence with pops and growls. 
Dicko, 
made a quick turn onto a narrower road lined with hundreds of dead trees. 
They*** 
I'^C 
continued to climb, the wind swirling like whirlpools around them.!*j, 
And then they came to a chain across the road with a sign on it, PRIVATE^ 
PROPERTY-NO TRESPASSING. fY 
"Well see about that," Kobra said; he got off his chopper and moved toward a 
tree on the left side of the road. The chain had been wrapped around the trunk 
and secured with the kind of padlock you couldn't even shoot through. Kobra 
touched the chain and pulled at it. It was tighter than a cock ring, and there 
was no way to go around it either-the left side of the road pitched off into 
empty space, while the right was blocked by a boulder as big as a house. "Gonna 
have to walk the rest of the way," Kobra said, and started to step over the 
chain. He heard a sudden faint click, and the chain slithered to the road. 
"Alllllright!" Viking said, revving his engine. "How'd you do that?" 
"I... I don't know." He backed away a pace and bent to look at the open prongs 
of the lock. They were polished and new. "Rusty lock," he said, and rose to his 
feet. What's waiting for me up there, Fate or Death? He went back to his bike 
and stepped on, his knees beginning to shake a little but damned if he was going 
to show it. 
"You sure you want to go up there?" Dicko asked him; in this faint light there 
were deep blue hollows beneath his eyes, and his mouth was twisted like a grayi 
j worm. t 
"Yeah. Why shouldn't I?" 
"Roads tricky as hell higher up. I ain't been here in a long time. I hope I 
don't take us right over the edge and down to L.A." 
"You want to turn back, Dicko?" Viking asked with a soft laugh, his eyes 
mocking. 
"No," Dicko said quickly. "I'm able. But . . . you know ... I think about that 
night a lot. It was a freak named Joey Tagg did the cutting." 
"That's not what I hear," Viking said, but then he kept quiet. Dicko roared on 
across the chain, and Kobra followed closely. Higher up they had to swerve 
around slabs of rock that had fallen from ledges just above their heads. The 
road turned at an eighty-degree angle as they neared the top, and through a cut 
in the trees Kobra could see the whole glittering valley below from Topanga 
Canyon to Alhambra. 
And then there it was, perched at the top like a stone vulture. The thing was 
4 
98 
enormous, much larger than Kobra had envisioned. He felt doused with ice water. 
This was the place, no doubt about it. Black towers jutting into the sky, high 
pointed roofs like dunce caps, the soft glimmer of a blue window sixty feet off 
the ground. The whole place was surrounded by a ten-foot-high stone wall with 
coils of barbed wire strung along the top. The huge wooden slab of a gate hung 
wide open, and Kobra could see along a weed-infested driveway that led across a 
barren courtyard to a series of stone steps. At the top of the steps was a front 
door as big as a drawbridge. Should have a moat with fucking crocodiles, Kobra 
thought. "Who built this bastard?" he asked Dicko. 
Dicko cut his engine, and the others did the same. In the silence they could 
hear the wind rippling through the foliage below them; the wind touched Kobra's 
face like cold fingers exploring his features. "Crazy old movie star name of 
Kronsteen," Dicko replied softly, getting off his bike and letting it rest on 
its kickstand. "He brought this thing over from Europe piece by piece. You ever 
seen any of his flicks?" 
Kobra shook his head. 
"Monster flicks," Dicko went on, his gaze following the sharp angles of towers 
and parapets. "They drove the old dude crazy, I guess. You see all those dead 
trees we passed? Kronsteen hired a bunch of guys to spray them with black paint, 
just covered 'em with the shit, like something from a horror flick set." 
"How long's it been here?" Kobra asked, stepping off his chopper. 
"A long time. I think he built it back in the forties. But it's old. It must've 
been in Europe for hundreds of years." 
"But old Kronsteen wasn't near as rich as you dudes thought he was, huh?" Viking 
asked, grinning; he belched and muttered. 
Dicko didn't answer for a long time. Then he said, "Hardly had a stick of 
furniture in there. Wasn't no gold statues, wasn't no chests full of money. 
Wasn't nothing but a lot of empty rooms." He turned to Kobra. "You've seen it. 
Let's go." 
Kobra had taken a few steps along the driveway, gravel crunching under his feet. 
"Wait a minute." What's here? he wondered. What called me? 
"Come on, bro," Viking said. "Let's git ... HEY! YOU SEE THAT?" He pointed, and 
Kobra looked up to the right. 
In one of the tower windows a candle was flickering, the light made orange by 
the stained glass. From the corner of his eye, Kobra saw another candle begin to 
burn off to the left behind another window. And now there were more candles 
glittering, from almost every window in the place. The tiny flames glowed green, 
blue, and white behind colored glass, candles burning like lanterns to welcome 
the hunter home. 
The front door silently opened. Kobra felt a surge of joy and fear course 
through him, like a charge between opposite poles. His legs moved slowly, as if 
he were crawling across flypaper. "Where are you going?" Viking called behind 
him. "Kobra? What you doin', man?" 
"It wants me," he heard himself say, and looked back at Viking and Dicko 
99 
standing at the far end of the driveway. "Come on," Kobra said, a wild grin 
rippling across his face. "Come on with me. It wants us all." 
Neither of them moved. 
The castle loomed above Kobra, dwarfing him. Through the huge open doorway he 
could smell the guts of the place-dry, cold, maybe as old as time itself. At the 
threshold he paused to look back at his friends, and a voice like a cool wind 
wafted through his brain-COME TO ME. As he stepped into the darkness, he heard 
Viking shout from a world away, "KOBRA!" 
9 I* 
*ŤŤ
He stood in a womb of darkness, a place without ceiling or walls or floor. There 
was a distant noise like water dripping onto concrete, or muffled footsteps. 
When he started walking again, feeling his way, his boots clattered like a toss 
of bones*Ł" across the floor of rough stone. Echoes converged and passed each 
other like '"I riptides with Kobra at the center. His eyes were getting used to 
the blackness now, *ť* and he could see smooth stone walls around him, a 
geometric pattern of rough- Q' hewn rafters perhaps twenty feet overhead. An old 
rusted metal chandelier hung Q - crookedly from that ceiling, still holding two 
light bulbs that looked like teardrops. ŤŤ^ From the depths of the place, a 
candle flame flickered, far away; Kobra followed its light, his fingertips 
grazing the wall. He was in a long, high corridor that seemed to Łgo on forever, 
like the trick done with mirrors in the carnival funhouses. Half of him cowered 
in fear like a mongrel dog; the other half lurched with drunken glee, and it was 
this half that kept his legs moving. I'm in a haunted house at the New M'( 
Orleans fairgrounds, he told himself; I'm walking through the Madman's Maze. 
Going to feel cobwebs in my hair in a minute, going to see a dummy dressed up in 
an ,,,i ape mask. '; 
He reached the candle. It sat in a gleaming brass holder on a long table of 
dark, shining wood. He couldn't see beyond the range of the light, but he had a 
feeling|J the room was as large as a cavern, maybe with stone stairs that wound 
around and fy around and out of sight. He could hear the wind whistling through 
broken windows "' very high above him. 1 'll 
Off to his left he saw another candle, moving in midair, carried by a ghost. But 
then he saw the quick flicker of pale light on the face of a girl. She had a 
long sweep of ebony hair, sensual pouting lips, a face as beautiful as the moon. 
There was another candle now, on his other side. This one was held by a young 
man in a Kiss T-shirt. He had a lean, sharp-boned face and predatory eyes. Then 
a third candle, behind Kobra. A tall, smiling girl, her red hair cascading in 
disarray around her shoulders. Then the others: Kobra saw a couple of Chicano 
girls, a black dude wearing a headband, a middle-aged man and woman who looked 
at him lovingly, as if he might be their long lost son. Candles burned in a 
silent circle around him. 
And then a hand as cold and hard as a chunk of ice touched Kobra's shoulder. He 
whirled, ready to go for his Mauser. But the hand moved in a white streak and 
caught his wrist, not hurting him by only holding him where he was. In the 
golden candlelight Kobra could see the face of someone who looked at once very 
young and very old. 
100 McCAMMON 
There were no lines on the white face, but the eyes seemed ancient and wise, 
ablaze with powerful secrets. Where the hand touched him, Kobra tingled with 
electricity; the feeling slowly spread until he thought he must be plugged in to 
the same socket that supplied power to the universe. He felt like he was going 
to explode with fear and exhilaration, that he should kneel down there on that 
cold stone floor and kiss the wintry hand of Death. 
Death smiled-a boyish smile-through an old man's eyes. "Welcome," he said. 
For a long time Viking and Dicko waited outside, but Kobra didn't come back. The 
first tentative rays of gray light were creeping across the eastern horizon. 
After they had called him a few times, unsuccessfully, Viking unsheathed a 
hooked hunting blade from a leather holder at his side. "Somethin's happened to 
Kobra," he said to Dicko. "I'm gonna find out what. You comin'?" 
Dicko paused, then reached to the small of his back and took out the .45 from 
its black holster. "Yeah," he replied. "I'm in." 
They moved into the castle and were swallowed up by darkness. 
The sun gradually strengthened its hold on the horizon, chasing shadows in its 
path. Sometime before dawn the door swung closed, and a bolt was thrown. 
FOUR 
Sunday morning dawned bright and warm. Bells chimed from a hundred church 
steeples across L.A. The God of Light was worshipped in as many different ways, 
from formal services to the simple act of prayer on Malibu Beach by the Pacific 
Ocean Church. Incense cones were burned by the Holy Order of the Sun, Catholic 
masses were being said. Buddhists bowed before their altars. The city seemed 
quiet, at rest, the planet spinning in an ordered universe. 
From his Laurel Canyon terrace Mitch Gideon watched a flock of birds moving 
gracefully across the sky as if in slow-motion. He stood in a warm splash of 
sunlight, smoking a cigar and thinking about the dream of coffins on a conveyor 
belt. He'd had it again last night and had sat up in bed so violently Estelle 
almost had a heart attack. That dream had been peculiar at first, something to 
laugh about. Now it was terrifying, the details gradually becoming clearer and 
clearer. Last night he'd been able to see the faces of some of his co-workers. 
They'd looked like grinning dead men, and the cold whiteness of their flesh had 
been so real, so close, that Gideon had just fought his way out of the dream as 
if up from the bottom of a deep, green pond. He was playing golf this afternoon 
in a foursome at the Wilshire Country Club, and he hoped hacking at a Slazenger 
would take his mind off a dream that was really turning shitty. 
101 
Andy and Jo Palatazin sat in their usual places at the Hungarian Reformed Church 
on Melrose Avenue, just a few blocks from their house. She gripped his hand and 
squeezed it, sensing his preoccupation. He smiled and pretended to be paying 
attention, but his mind was seesawing back and forth between two dark concerns: 
the Roach, whose presence in the city now seemed as intangible as a ghost's; and 
whatever had ripped through the Hollywood Memorial Cemetery. The artist's 
composite of the man who had tried to lure Amy Hulsett had been printed up by 
the dozens for detectives and uniformed officers to use in their conversations 
with street people. Of course, the man might not have been the Roach after all, 
just a guy out to buy a good time, but it was an angle that had to be pursued. 
All^ 
that Brasher's hard work had turned up was one suspect who owned a dark blueť**^ 

i1*1^ Volkswagen, and the man was almost the total physical opposite of the 
youngLi, 
prostitute's description. Palatazin had put an officer on surveillance to be 
certain.<$ 
The second concern made him more uneasy. He'd driven past HollywoodI Memorial on 
the way to church; everything had looked okay, and Palatazin had , caught a 
quick glimpse of the watchman, Kelsen, unlocking the front gates for the Sunday 
morning visitors. Had it been only mindless vandalism after all? He was hoping 
it was. The other answer-the one that lurked deep in the back of his mind-might 
drive him mad. 
And in a huge circular bed in his Bel Air home, Wes Richer stirred, reaching 
across to touch Solange's cool brown flesh. His fingers gripped the edge of the 
sheet where she should have been lying. He opened his eyes and winced; the 
lightŤr was buffered by thick beige curtains, but it was still bright enough to 
make his L optic nerves sputter like severed live wires. He turned over on his 
back, his palms pressed against his eyes, and waited for the first wave of the 
crashing headache to pass. "Solange?" he called out, the sound of his voice 
making his eardrums throb. j"{"] There was no answer, and finally Wes sat up on 
the edge of the bed. "Solange," he called again irritably. Damn! Where is she? 
he thought. His sinuses were clogged with the mingled odors of marijuana and 
jasmine incense with a cold dash of cocaine in there for good measure. How was 
the show? he wondered suddenly. Was I good? "Sheer Luck" strikes again. 
Alimentary, Dr. Batson. Wes stood up and struggled into his Fruit of the Looms. 
When he walked into the living room and looked around, he swore loudly. He saw 
the ruined wall-to-wall carpet, a mahogany coffee table scarred like a K-Mart 
reject, a shattered piece of Inca pottery that he'd been too high to notice the 
night before, the empty hospitality bowls that had been brimming at least five 
times last night, the silver cocaine trays snorted clean, the bits of glass that 
glittered in the carpet between all the stains and crushed butts, the heel 
marks-heel marks, for Chrissake?-atop the grand piano, the . . . oh, to hell 
with it! he thought. The wreckage was consummate. 
102 
And sitting there in the middle of it was Solange, wearing her long white robe 
cut low to show the soft dark swelling of her breasts. She was sitting on the 
sofa, her arms crossed tightly as if she were chilly. She was staring at the 
Ouija board. 
"Morning," Wes said, and plopped himself down in a chair. An instant later he 
stood up to remove the filled ashtray he'd sat down on. There was a ring of 
ashes on his ass. "Christ!" he said softly, surveying the damage. "If the guys 
at the Domino Club could only see me now. As they say." He saw she was not 
paying attention; her eyes were fixed on a spot at the center of the board. "I 
didn't feel you get out of bed. What time were you up?" 
She blinked and glanced up at him as if just now aware that he'd walked into the 
room. "Wes," she said. "I... I've been up for a long time. I couldn't sleep 
after the sun rose." She looked at him for a long time and then smiled 
appreciatively. "You look like someone hit you with a nganga." 
"A nuhwhat? What's that?" 
"An evil spell. A big one." Solange frowned slightly and turned back to the 
board. She picked up the planchette and examined the bottom of it with a 
fingertip. 
"Better watch out for that bastard," Wes said. "It might bite you. I'm going to 
kick Martin Blue's ass the next time I see him. He could've put my eye out!" 
She replaced the planchette. "What are you saying, Wes? That Martin was in 
control of what happened here last night?" 
"Sure he was! I saw his hands! He skidded that thing right off the board!" When 
Solange didn't reply, he walked over to the picture window and looked down at 
the swimming pool. A bright yellow-and-green striped lawn chair was floating in 
it; there were some Coors cans at the deep end. "All right," he said finally. "I 
know that silence. What are you thinking?" 
"Martin didn't do it," she said. "He had no control over it, and neither did I. 
Something very violent and very strong was here . . ." 
"Oh, come on! Listen, I can take that mumbo stuff when we're at a party, but 
when we're alone, I wish you'd forget the spirit world!" 
"You don't believe?" she asked coolly. 
"Nope." 
"Do you pray to God?" 
He turned from the window to face her. "Yes, but that's different." 
"Is it? Think back. You were playing high-stakes poker in a room at the Las 
Vegas Hilton nine months ago. You were playing against some very influential and 
wealthy men." 
"I remember." 
"Do you remember the final hand? You closed your eyes for a second before you 
picked up that last card. To which spirit were you praying?" 
"To ... I was wishing for an ace from Lady Luck. That's not a spirit." 
She smiled faintly, her nostrils flaring. "I say it is. All deities are spirits, 
and all beliefs can become deities. Oh, yes, Wes, you believe." She regarded the 
board again. "You saw. You spelled out the words." 
103 
"What words? It was gibberish!" 
"It was a message," Solange said quietly. She shivered and lifted her gaze to 
him. "The spirits are troubled, Wes. There's a great, terrible nganga in the 
air. If you had Bantu blood in your veins, you could feel its vibrations, or 
smell it like the reek of old vinegar. The spirits know every mystery; they see 
the future and try to protect us from harm, if we will only listen to what they 
say." Wes smiled slightly, and Solange's eyes snapped with anger. "I've never 
felt a power before like the thing that was here last night! It simply silenced 
the beneficent voices; it brushed their spirits away with as much effort as it 
takes to flick a fly away! That was the thing that spelled out the final 
message, the thing that took the planchette into its, power and . . ." <^n 
"Stop it," Wes said abruptly.Q 
Solange's face tightened. She stared at him for a few seconds with what Wes**Vj( 
sometimes referred to as her "molten ink" eyes, and then she rose gracefully. "I 
I didn't mean to upset you . . ." 
"I'm not upset!" 
". . . but I wanted you to know the truth . . ." 
"Oh, for Christ's sake!"j 
". . . about what happened last night. I have told you the truth." 
"And the truth shall set us free." His grin spread. "Seems like I've heard that 
before." 
"Wes!" Tension was stretched tight in her voice now. "You can stand on your 
stage and make your little jokes for other people; you can contort your face and 
voice and make the people think you live for their laughter, but don't think for 
an instant that you can put on your disguise in front of me! Sometime the jokes 
will have to end; the laughter will die. And you'll have to face the world on 
its ownp terms without falsehood." Ł!;' 
"What world are we talking about, dear? The spirit domain, I assume?" 
Solange had already turned away. She crossed the living room, her white gown'j : 
swirling behind her, and disappeared into the far hallway. He heard the faint 
sound of a door closing. Her problem is, she can't take a joke, he thought. 
He rose to his feet and went through the living room and the short connecting 
hallway to the kitchen, where copper cooking utensils hung from an overhead rack 
and African woodcuts decorated the walls. He found a carton of orange juice in 
the refrigerator and took a variety of plastic bottles from the vitamin 
cupboard. As he downed his breakfast, he was aware that his pulse was kicking 
hard. He'd been thinking of that planchette coming for his face like a runaway 
Nike missile, and he knew that there was no damned way Martin Blue could've done 
it. The bastard had been scared witless. So what, then? Spirits, like Solange 
said? No, that was bullshit! When Solange got started, she could really lay it 
on thick, stuff with crazy names like Santeria, brujeria, nkisi, makuto. Once 
he'd peeked inside the ornately carved wooden box she kept under the bed. There 
was a strange collection of peacock feathers, seashells, black and red candles, 
corn husks, white coral, and some kind of 
104 
weird iron nails wrapped up with string inside. Wes tolerated her beliefs, but 
he had drawn the line several months ago when she'd wanted to put a twig tied 
with a red ribbon behind every door in the house. 
He'd never known her last name; the man who'd lost her to him in the Vegas poker 
game hadn't known it either. She told Wes she was born in Chicago, the daughter 
of a woman who'd been a classical actress in Japan and an African man who was a 
practicing santero, a good magician. She was born, she said, on the seventh day 
of the seventh month at exactly seven o'clock in the evening. On the day before 
her birth, her father had dreamed of her sitting on an ivory throne with seven 
stars moving about her head like a glittering tiara. Which seemed to be a damned 
good omen, the way Solange had explained it. It was supposed to mean that she 
had inherited her father's powers of white magic, that she was to be considered 
a living talisman. Solange didn't talk about the things she'd learned from her 
father in her formative years, but Wes figured she must've been pretty 
important. Solange recalled that people always came to their door, wanting to 
touch her, or ask her about problems they were having with love or money. 
When she was ten years old, walking home from school with the snow falling 
softly, a car had pulled up to the curb, and two black men had stuffed a rag 
into her mouth and thrown her onto the backseat. She was blindfolded-she could 
vividly recall the coarseness of the cloth against her face-and the car traveled 
all night. They went fast, over all kinds of roads. When the blindfold was taken 
off, she was at a big house with snow-filled woods all around. For several days 
she was locked in a beautifully furnished bedroom with windows that looked down 
on an ice-glazed lake and fed by a black man in a white suit who brought her 
food on a silver tray. On the third day she was taken to a glass room full of 
jungle vines and blooming red flowers, where a large-bellied black man who wore 
a gray-striped suit and smoked a cigar waited. He was very nice to her, very 
friendly, and offered her a lace handkerchief to wipe her eyes when he told her 
that she wouldn't be going home again because this was her home now. His name 
was Fontaine, and he said there were some things Solange was going to have to do 
for him. She was going to have to give him good fortune and protect him from 
evil. Or something might happen to her mother and father. 
It was only gradually, she'd told Wes, that she learned he was a bad man, a 
gangster who controlled most of the Harlem rackets. His power was slipping, and 
he'd heard about her through some of his people in South Chicago. In a period of 
four years, during which Solange did very little but read the lines in his hand 
and touch photographs of different men to feel their weaknesses, Fontaine never 
came to her bedroom, never laid a hand on her. He left her alone, first because 
he was beginning to fear her all too accurate predictions of the future and the 
incantations that caused his enemies to suddenly wither from health to sickness; 
also, his brain was steadily being gnawed away by syphilis. Many nights she 
could hear Fontaine roaming the long hallways of the mansion, howling like an 
animal in mad rage. In the end it was the syphilis, not his enemies, that crept 
up on him with a deadly 
105 
hand, and none of Solange's incantations or poultices could halt its advance. 
Fontaine was locked away behind a massive oak door, and soon after that a couple 
of well-dressed white men came to the house, paid Fontaine's business manager a 
great deal of money, and took Solange with them to the west. 
Her new owner was an elderly Mafia capo who wanted her around for good luck; 
he'd heard of what she'd been doing for Fontaine and knew that Fontaine's 
business had shown an eighty-percent increase while she'd been with him. He 
never touched her either, but a couple of his hired men did come to her room one 
night. They said if she ever dared to tell what they did, they'd cut her throat. 
That went on for a long time, until Solange fashioned corn husk dolls of them 
and setv . 
them on fire. They died when their Lincoln Continental slammed into the rear of 
a^l 
iiŤtijŤB 
Sunoco gas truck on the San Diego Freeway.Lj, 
And so it went on, year after year, a succession of powerful and greedy men.<|i1 

Another Mafia lieutenant, then a motion picture studio head, then a director, 
thenfyj 
a record company executive who was robbing his partners blind. She was with 
himpr 
when she met Wes, who was doing a show in Vegas. It wasn't much money, but 
at-ŤŤŤ
least it would take him through the bad period after his second series had 
been-* 
canceled. He was looking for private action, too, so he'd gotten himself 
invited/' ' 
to this poker game at the Las Vegas Hilton with a group of big money 
players,ť.J5 Solange's record exec among them. During the long, grueling game 
Solange had sat 
behind the man; Wes remembered she had had a bruise on her cheek. Anyway, the{*. 
] guy's luck had started turning bad and went downhill; after he'd lost the 
first thirty 
thousand or so, he'd taken Solange into a back room and whaled the shit out of 
her,u t. 
then brought her in again and shoved her back in her chair. Her eyes were 
swollenJ 
and red; the record exec was really starting to sweat. After another three hours 
the* A 
*' 
game had pared down to just the two of them: there was a stack of red chips inj 
front of Wes and a look of animal fear on the record exec's face. But he'd 
wanted to / play on, and so it continued until he had no more chips, nor money, 
nor keys to his * robin's-egg-blue Cadillac. Wes was willing to leave it there. 
"SIT DOWN!" the man j '| had screamed. "I TELL YOU WHEN TO LEAVE!" 
"You're through, Morry," one of the onlookers said wearily. "Give it up." "SHUT 
UP! Deal the cards . . . COME ON!" 
"You're cleaned out," Wes said. "The game's over." 
"No, it's not!" He'd turned and gripped Solange's arm with a crushing hand. "I'm 
putting her up as security!" 
"What! Forget it!" 
"You think I'm kidding, Richer? Listen, punk, this bitch is worth her fucking 
weight in gold! She can suck your cock right out of the roots; she'll fuck your 
eyeballs out with tricks you never even heard of!" 
"Now listen, I don't think . . ." 
"Come on, you lousy little punk! What do you have to lose? You're floating in my 
cash!" 
It was the second use of that word that got to Wes. He paused for a moment 
106 
and looked at the beautiful battered woman behind him. He wondered how many 
times she'd had to endure this man. Then he said, "I'll accept her as security 
on five hundred dollars." Solange had responded with a slight nod. 
And ten minutes later it was all over as Wes sat facing a beautiful royal flush. 
The record exec had jumped to his feet and grabbed Solange's face, squeezing her 
jaw so hard she whimpered. "Back off, you sonofabitch!" Wes had said quietly. 
"You're marking up my merchandise." 
Then the guy had really turned ugly, making all kinds of threats about how Wes 
would never have a series again because he had connections with all three 
networks, and as for recording, forget it! Someone gave the poor bastard a drink 
and ushered him out of the room. For a long time Wes sat looking at Solange 
across the poker table, not knowing what the hell to say or do. She broke the 
silence: "I think he chipped my tooth." 
"You want to find a dentist?" 
"No. It's all right. I've seen you on television before. You're the comedian," 
she went on. "I remember now, I saw your face on the cover of TV Stars." 
He nodded. "Yeah, I made that cover and a lot more. There was an article on me 
in Rolling Stone, too. I've got a couple of comedy albums out." He stopped, 
feeling foolish for tooting his horn in front of a woman whose right eye was 
swollen and blue and whose left one was an odd shade of yellow. Still she was 
beautiful: it was an exotic, cool beauty that had made Wes's pulse gallop ever 
since she'd walked in. 
"You're working here now?" 
"That's right. But my agent's hot on a deal for a new series next season, and I 
may do a bit in the next Mel Brooks flick." He cleared his throat nervously. 
"How long have you been ... his mistress?" 
"Almost a year. He's a very unkind man." 
"Yeah, well, I guess I cleaned him out, didn't I?" He stared at the wad of bills 
and the big-money lOUs that sat in front of him. "Christ. There's a lot of dough 
here." 
"It's late," Solange said. "Why don't we go to your room now?" 
"Huh? Oh. Listen, you don't have to . . ." 
"Yes I do. You own me now." 
"Own you? Abe Lincoln freed the slaves in case you . . ." 
"I've always belonged to someone," she said, and Wes thought he heard fear in 
her voice. "I made his luck go bad. I can make yours good." 
"Huh? What do you mean?" 
She stood up and reached out her hand for him. He took it. "Your room," she 
said. 
That had been almost a year ago. Wes put the orange juice back into the 
refrigerator. He knew he should be getting dressed because Jimmy might be coming 
over this afternoon to talk over some figures on that Mel Brooks movie, a spoof 
on trendy department stores called Quattlebaum's. When he walked into the living 

107 
room, Wes paused over the Ouija board for a moment, wondering how he could get 
away with throwing the thing in the garbage. He didn't believe in those spirit 
tales that Solange liked to tell, but one thing had bothered him ever since he'd 
brought her back to Hollywood with him. Less than a week after he'd made the 
down payment on this house, he'd seen Solange at the pool in the middle of the 
night, slowly twisting the arms and legs of a GI Joe doll. Then she'd dropped it 
into the water and held it under for several minutes. Two days later her old 
record exec was found drowned in his own kidney-shaped pool. Variety ran a short 
squib on his death; the doctor who'd examined the body said the guy's muscles 
were all cramped up into knots.s 
I'll throw you out later, you bastard, Wes mentally told the Ouija board, and< ' 
then he went back to his bedroom to put on some clothes. f^jfj' 
FIVE| 
I1 ť IT-I Ť 
Palatazin was in the den, watching the Steelers crawl all-over the 49ers at 
twoť--- o'clock when the telephone rang. Jo got up to answer it. "Come on, get 
him!" j Palatazin said to the television screen as Terry Bradshaw evaded not one 
but two stumbling linesmen and cocked his arm back like a piston to pass. "Don't 
let that . guy score again! Oh, for . . .!" He slapped his thigh as the pass was 
completed for thirty-four yards. 
". . . Yes, I'll get him," Jo said from the kitchen. "Andy?" 
"Okay." He hauled himself out of his La-Z-Boy and took the receiver from Jo. 
"Yes?" 
"Lieutenant Reece, captain. We've got somebody in here who's seen the guy on 
that artist's composite." 
"I need more than that. Maybe he just liked hookers." 
"I've got more. The young lady in here says he told her he was going to takej 
"\\'< her to a motel but stopped instead in a vacant lot on Yucca Street. She 
got scared and took off, but he chased her in his car. The car was a grayish 
Volks, and she remembers part of the license plate." 
"Keep her there. I'll be down in fifteen minutes." He felt Jo's disapproving 
stare as he replaced the receiver. "I have to go," he told her as he started for 
the front door. 
"I heard. Will you at least be home for supper?" 
"I don't know." He shrugged on his coat and kissed her cheek. "I'll call." 
"You won't be home," she said. "And you won't call." 
But by then he was already out the door and gone. 
108 SIX 
As Palatazin was hanging up his telephone, Rico Esteban was climbing a long 
series of stairs in an East L.A. tenement, where sunlight took on a muddy pallor 
as it streamed hotly along the hallways through dirty windows. The steps creaked 
underfoot, and in some places there was no railing; Rico could look down four 
floors to the cracked yellow tiles in the entrance hall. Garbage had spilled 
from cans on the stairway landings, a sheen of smelly liquids making the stairs 
as slick as if they were carved from ice. Rico still wore the same clothes he'd 
been dressed in the night before, only now the back of his shirt was damp with 
sweat. His eyes, now somewhat sunken due to lack of sleep, were veined with red. 
Around him the building swelled with clashing noise-a toilet chugging as water 
strangled a clogged pipe; a man and a woman both shouting in Spanish, trying to 
outcurse each other; a baby howling to be fed and a mother's desperate 
"Quiete!"; someone coughing violently, the cough finally falling to a rattle of 
phlegm; transistor radios and televisions battling for dominance with the 
thump-thump of disco, a Spanish news broadcast, or the gunshots from a cowboy or 
detective movie. 
Along the fifth floor hallway the heat was sickeningly oppressive. Rico's shirt 
was glued to his chest and back like a second skin by the time he'd stopped 
before the door he sought. He paused, his heart racing. He was afraid of the 
woman who lived in that apartment; she was crazy, there was no telling what she 
might do to him. Once old lady Santos had sworn to get a gun and blow his balls 
off if he ever got her daughter into trouble. So now he hesitated, unsure 
whether to knock or just retrace his steps out of this sweltering pigsty. What 
if Merida had gotten back last night and told everything to her mother? he 
wondered. Then there would be hell to pay. But what if Merida hadn't come home 
at all? What if something had happened to her on the jungle strip of Whittier 
Boulevard? The uncertainty filled him with a dull sense of dread. That Roach due 
was still on the loose, wasn't he? And there were plenty more dudes a whole lot 
meaner than Roach, too. Or, on the other side of the coin, Rico could find 
Merida inside with tear-streaked cheeks and an enraged madwoman with a Saturday 
Night Special aimed at his groin. Madre de Dios! 
But he couldn't leave without knowing; he couldn't stand it for a minute longer. 
He reached out, balled his fist, and knocked on the door. Almost immediately 
another door down the hallway opened, and an elderly Chicano man stared out 
suspiciously. 
"Who's there?" The words spoken in strident Spanish made Rico jump. 
"Uh . . . it's me, Mrs. Santos. Rico Esteban." 
There was a long, uneasy silence. Shit! he thought, suddenly overcome by panic. 
She's gone for her gun! He was going to run when she said from behind the door. 
"Eh? What do you want, you little bastard?" 
"I'd like to talk to Merida. Please." 
109 
"She ain't home." 
A knot of tension burst like shrapnel in his stomach. He could sense Mrs. Santos 
behind the thin layer of scarred wood with her ear pressed to the door. "Do you 
know where she is?" he asked. 
Then the door came open, and Rico took a startled step backward. The woman 
peered out through a crack, her black snake eyes staring at him disdainfully 
from a leathery, deeply creased face. "What do you want to know for?" 
"I have to find her. It's important." He couldn't see her hands and thought she 
might have a damned gun behind her. 
Mrs. Santos regarded him in simmering silence for a moment. "I know she's been 
sneakin' around behind my back, thinkin' she's gettin' away with somethin'! I 
know she's been seem' you, filth! I figgered when she didn't come home last 
night she was with you." 
"I ... picked her up in front last night," he said with an effort. "On Whittier 
she . . . she jumped out of my car, Mrs. Santos, and I tried to find her all 
night, I went everywhere I could think of, I only got about two hours sleep in 
the back of my car, and I don't know where else to-" 
"WHAT?" she screeched, her eyes going wide and wild. "My Merida's been out on 
the boulevard all night? You bastard, you let my Merida stay out there all 
night? I'm callin' the cops on you right now, you don't get outta here!" Her 
eyes blazing with black heat, she started to slam the door in his face. But 
instantly he braced it with a hand. She looked at him open-mouthed, fear 
beginning to glimmer deep in her gaze. 
"You're not listening to me!" he said, almost shouting. "If Merida didn't get 
home last night, I don't know where she is! She could be in trouble!" She's 
already in plenty of trouble, he thought grimly. "Where else could she have 
gone?" 
Mrs. Santos was frozen, and he knew what she was thinking-Merida was a good 
girl, loyal to her mother, she'd never stayed away from home all night before, 
and she wouldn't run away either. 
"I'm afraid for her," Rico said softly. 
Her voice began in a whisper and started to rise. "I told you to leave her 
alone, didn't I? I warned my Merida about what was out there! You're trouble and 
you always been trouble, even when you was a smart-assed punk runnin' with the 
Cripplers! Now only God knows what badness you're doin'!" 
"Look, I didn't come here to fight. I don't care what you think about me. I just 
want to make sure Merida's okay . . ." 
"Why? 'Cause you tryin' to talk her into walkin' the streets for you? Everythin' 
you touch turns filthy! You touched my Merida, and God saw it, and because He 
knows you're filthy evil He ... wait a minute! You just wait a minute!" She spun 
away from the door, and Rico started in after her, his face flaming with anger. 
She crossed the cramped, dirty apartment and opened a drawer next to the sink 
and hot plate. "You just wait a minute, you filth!" she shrilled, and then she 
turned upon him with a butcher knife clamped in her hand. "I'll kill you for 
what you done to my baby!" 
110 
"Please!" he said, backpedaling for the door. "I only want to find-" "This is 
what you going' to find!" she shouted, and came toward him with the knife aimed 
for a killing blow. 
"You crazy old . .. fuck!" Rico yelled back at her; he wheeled through the door 
and was able to slam it shut before she could get to him. Then he was running 
headlong down the hallway, hearing the dry, amused chuckle of the old Chicano 
man. Rico got to the stairway and started down; behind him the building seemed 
filled with Mrs. Santos's screams and threats. Her screech of a voice-just like 
an old harpy's, Rico thought-drowned out transistor radios, squalling babies, 
and marital cursing bouts. But then it began to grow faint, and Rico knew with a 
surge of relief that she wasn't following him from the fifth floor. Still he hit 
the entrance hallway at a run. When he got outside, sweat was rolling off his 
face. A couple of small kids were trying to pry off his wheel covers, and he 
sent them running with a kick and an oath. They stopped in the middle of the 
street to give him the finger, and then they were gone. 
He was about to go around to the driver's side when a cool, childish voice said, 
"Hey, Rico! You shoulda let those punks alone, man!" 
Rico turned. Merida's twelve-year-old brother, Luis, was sitting in shadow on 
the steps of the tenement building next door. There were two other kids with 
him, neither older than eleven, but already their eyes seemed hard and haunted. 
They were playing cards, and Luis was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. "Yeah?" 
Rico said, walking back to the curb. "Why?" 
"They need the bread they coulda sold those shoes for on the street. Two cards." 
He picked up the two cards dealt to him and snorted with disgust. "Their old 
man's got a fifty-dollar-a-day habit, gettin' worse all the time. You think just 
'cause you move up to the Strip everythin' changed around here, man?" 
The words, spoken so calmly from the mouth of a child, stung him. "What do you 
know about anything?" Rico said. "You're just a kid yourself." 
"I know a lot of things." He looked up from the game. "Like my sister was with 
you last night, and she never came home. My old lady's been pacin' the floor all 
day. She says she's thinkin' about puttin' out a contract on you with the 
Homicides." 
"Who's going to cut my throat? You, Luis? For how much? Five bucks? Yeah, you're 
even beginning to think like a Homicide, aren't you? Man, you keep hangin' 
around those dudes you're going to wind up either gut-stabbed or in the 
slammer." 
Luis dealt the next hand and smiled like a fox. "Too bad we all can't be big 
like you, Rico. Man, you so big you outgrown the barrio. You're a giant now up 
on Sunset Strip, ain't you?" He made a farting sound with his lips, and the 
other kids laughed. "Maven could tear your ass up with one hand! Why don't you 
get off this street? You don't belong here no more!" 
"Maven? He's still prez of the Homicides?" 
"That's right. Dealer takes one. Alllllright, amigos!" he disregarded Rico until 
the hand was over, and the next cards were dealt. "What're you doin' comin' 
outta rny buildin', man? You let my old lady see you, she'll come after your 
ass." 
111 
"I already saw your mother," Rico said. "She's ready for la casa de locos. I'm 
trying to find Merida, Luis. I don't know where the hell your sister could be!" 
Luis looked at him sharply. "What do you mean, man? She was with you all night!" 

"No, she wasn't. That's what I was trying to tell your mother. Merida jumped out 
of my car on Whittier and ran off. I looked for her almost all night. Now, where 
else could she be?" 
"You left her alone?" Luis said incredulously. "Out on the boulevard all by 
herself?" The cards dropped from his hand, a couple of grinning kings and a 
joker. "Man, you livin' so far away from here now you don' know what's going' 
on? The Vipers are tryin' to move into Homicide territory! Three blocks from 
here it's a goddamn battle zone! The Vipers are hittin' on every Homicide they 
can find. Last week they got Hotshot Zasa, Paco Milan and Juan Morales!" 
Rico's heartbeat quickened. "Killed them?" 
"Nobody knows. They just vanished ... poof!... and Maven figures the Vipers 
ambushed 'em and dragged the bodies away somewhere. On Friday Maven's girl Anita 
was missin', and yesterday Paulo LeGran's little brother, Benny." 
"Jesus!" Rico said, fear crackling through his brain. "You think maybe . . . 
thef Vipers got Merida?" ,* 
"They woulda known she was my sister." Luis rose to his feet, his gaze 
smoldering; his face was that of a battle-hungry man, but his chest-bare behind 
a cheap( leather vest-was that of a child's, his skinny ribs jutting. He ran the 
back of a hand across his mouth. "Yeah, they could've got her. They could've 
been waitin' for her in an alley and jumped her. Sonsofbitches could've raped 
her right there and dragged her off somewhere." "
Rico's stomach throbbed; he thought he was going to have to lean over andj 
vomit. I 
"They could've already killed her," Luis said quietly, and turned the full force 
of his gaze onto Rico. "If she's dead, then you helped kill her! You put her 
right in Viper hands, bastardo!" 
"We don't know what happened to her!" Rico said. "We can call the cops and let 
them-" 
"NO COPS!" Luis shouted. He was trembling, trying to fight back tears. "This is 
business for the Homicides, for my brothers. Come on," he said to the other 
boys, and instantly they stood up from the steps. "We got to go find Maven and 
tell him!" They started off along the street, swaggering like little roosters. 
But suddenly Luis turned and pointed a finger at Rico. "You better hope my 
sister's okay!" he shouted, and then his voice cracked. "You just better hope 
and pray, man!" Luis turned away from him, and the trio of boys vanished along 
the street. 
Rico watched them move out of sight. A surge of vomit came up from his stomach, 
and he stood in the mouth of an alley with his head bent, but he couldn't throw 
up. Dead?' he thought. Merida dead? Killed by the vipers, a bunch of war- happy 
punks who were just kids when Rico was running with the cripplers? A rain 
112 
of slop came splattering into the alley from a window high overhead, and as Rico 
jumped away, he heard thin, vicious laughter. Dazed and prickled with cold 
sweat, he made his way to his car and quickly drove away from the hellish 
barrio. 
SEVEN 
"That there's the dude." The black prostitute with heavy-lidded, sensual eyes 
and orange-streaked hair slid the printed composite portrait across the 
interrogation- room desk to Lieutenant Reece. "I'd know him anywhere. Tried to 
run my ass down on Yucca Street. Tried to kill me. Oh yeah, that's him." She 
inhaled deeply on a cigarillo and blew the smoke from the corner of her mouth. 
"Did he mention a name to you, Miss Connors? Anything like Wally or Walt or 
Walter?" 
"No. He didn't say a word except to ask my ... uh ... price. Now look here." She 
glanced nervously at the slowly turning reel of the tape recorder on the end of 
the desk. "You aren't going to try to trick old Lizz now, are you? I don't like 
my voice going into that box, you know?" She looked over her shoulder to where 
Officer Waycross and Captain Palatazin sat watching. "You promised me," she said 
to Waycross. "You didn't drag me down here to trap me on a soliciting charge, 
now did you?" 
"No one's trying to trap you," Palatazin said quietly. "We're not interested in 
what you do for a living. We're interested in the man who picked you up 
Wednesday night. One of the problems we've faced during this thing is that you 
ladies usually don't like to talk to us." 
"Well who's to blame for that? John Law comes down hard on the sisters. We gots 
to make a buck, too, you know." She returned her languid gaze to Reece. "There's 
plenty of worse ways to get by." 
"I guess there are," Reece agreed. "But you're sure about these numbers? Two and 
seven?" 
"Yeah. The last number might have been a three ... or maybe a five. I don't 
know." Reece nodded and looked over the report sheet he'd filled in as the girl 
talked. "What about the letters? You think the first one was 'T.' What about the 
second one?" 
She shrugged. "I didn't have no time to stand there and read the man's plate, 
you know. I was tryin' to save my ass." She blew out another plume of smoke 
toward the offending tape recorder. "I figure I did pretty good to remember 
anything at all." 
"Dave," Palatazin said to Waycross, "why don't you take the report and get 
started on the license trace right away? Ask McCullough and Price to give you a 
hand as soon as they're free." 
"Yes, sir." Waycross took the report from Reece and left the room. 
113 
"Can I go now?" the girl asked. "I've told you all I can remember." 
"In a minute," Palatazin replied, leaning forward in his chair. "You said-if I 
can use your exact word-that you were 'jumpy' with this man. Why was that?" 
"I usually don't care who I date," she said, "but this dude gave me the creeps. 
He seemed okay at first, kinda quiet and all. I figured a quick date at the Casa 
Loma Motel, and then I'd be on my way with fifty bucks. Easy cash because I 
don't do any specialties, you know?" She raised her eyebrows and waited until 
Palatazin had nodded. "But his eyes were real funny, and he kept cocking his 
head to the side like he was having a nerve spell or something. But later on I 
thought about it, and it seemed he was . . . like . . . listening, you know?" 
"Listening? Was the radio on?"J>Ť
"No. It was like he was listening to something I couldn't hear, and once I saw 
him smile this weird, peculiar little smile. Anyway, he turns off Hollywood 
about two blocks before we get to the Casa Loma, and I ask him where does he 
think he's going, but he don't answer. Just kinda nods. Weird. So then he pulls 
into this lot where a Seven-Eleven used to be, and he cuts the engine. I figure 
he wants me to do him right there because he's grinning like a goon. He ... uh 
... starts to unzip his pants. I was getting kinda jumpy then, but I figured 
what the hell? So I ... uh> . . . started to lean over and I see his hand drop 
down off the seat real fast. That's * when I got a whiff of stuff, like alcohol 
but a lot stronger. I didn't know what it was, but old Lizz sure didn't want 
none of it. I jumped out of that bug and started runnin', and then I hear his 
engine start, and I say, 'Oh God, that creep's comin' after me!' It was then 
that I thought about the Roach. But you know, nobody's t been trashed by the 
bastard in a long time, so most of my friends and me figure the guy got his 
kicks and crawled back under a rock. I made it to the corner, and the '/. Volks 
peeled right on past me, made the next right, and was gone. I walked to a pay j 
phone and called my man, Tyrone. He came and picked me up." ', 
"This substance you smelled," Palatazin said. "You said it had the odor'of;' 
alcohol? Could it have been turpentine? Something like that?" 
"Can't really say." She crushed out her cigarillo in an ashtray. "But it was a 
sharp smell. I was so close to whatever was under that seat that my eyes started 
to burn. Whatever it was, it was wicked shit." Reece smiled in spite of himself, 
then cleared his throat and looked away when Palatazin glanced at him. 
"All right, Miss Connors. I think that's enough." Palatazin rose from his chair 
and switched off the tape recorder. "You're not planning on taking a trip any 
time soon, are you? In case we need you for a positive ID?" 
"Nope. My stompin' ground's right here in L.A." 
"Good. Thank you for coming in. And if I were you, I'd suggest to my friends 
that they keep their dates platonic until we have the Roach in a jail cell." 
"Sho' nuff." She gathered up her handbag, gave a little twitch of her tail to 
Reece and went out the door and into the squad room. Palatazin sat down again, 
took his pipe from beside the chair, and lit it. "What do you think?" he asked 
Reece. "Does that sound like our man?" 
114 
"Hard to tell. If this is the same guy who tried to pick up Amy Hulsett, he's 
not showing the same modus operandi as Roach. There's been no attempt at either 
rape or strangulation." 
"If this is our man, why would he change his pattern? I don't know, something's 
strange. That's twice we've heard about a strong odor in this man's car. What 
could it be?" 
"Any one of a number of things from spilled gasoline to cleaning fluid." 
Palatazin sat for a moment, smoking his pipe in silence. Reece was reminded of a 
new TV show he'd seen last night, "Sheer Luck," about some nutty private 
detective who thought he was the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes and ran around 
L.A., trying to solve mysteries with his psychiatrist, Dr. Batson. It had been 
pretty funny. "The M.E. went over those four corpses as thoroughly as possible, 
didn't he? Would he have found swelling or inflammation in the mucous membranes 
of the nose, or possibly in the eyes?" 
"Sure." 
"But he didn't, did he? That is to say, no unnatural inflammation other than 
what would come as a result of the strangling. Right?" 
Reece nodded. "What are you getting at?" 
"Suppose the Roach has changed his M.O. Perhaps he didn't like the way those 
girls clawed at him as they were dying. Perhaps he wanted to keep them from 
struggling so much. How could he do that?" 
"Bop 'em over the head with a hammer, I guess." 
"Granted. But suppose he misses with the first whack and the girl starts 
screaming? Now remember, Miss Connors said that he was reaching for something 
under the seat and that the strong odor was coming from under there. What does 
that suggest?" 
"Oh," Reece said, "a drug, maybe. Something like . . . ether?" 
"That or a similar substance. But in any case it would have to be strong enough 
to knock out an adult with just a few whiffs. Then the Roach could rape her, 
strangle her, do whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted." 
"What's that stuff they used to use in the mad scientist flicks? You know, they 
always waved a bottle or a rag under a cat's nose, and then the thing keeled 
over? Chloroform." 
"Possibly. But as far as I know, chloroform can't be purchased over the counter. 
Maybe it's still used in hospitals. But it would have to be strong, maybe even a 
concentrated liquid or powder. And where would our man get it?" He blew a long 
tendril of blue smoke toward the ceiling and watched it swirl in front of the 
air- conditioning duct. "Something you said a minute ago." He narrowed his eyes. 
"What about gasoline?" 
"Whiffing gas might make somebody upchuck all over the place, but I think it 
would take a while for gasoline fumes to knock you out." 
"Right, and we're talking about something that could act in less than a minute." 
He shrugged. "I don't know. Will you do me a favor? Since you're going to be 
115 
working this evening, why don't you call some hospitals and pharmacists and get 
the names of whatever might do the job? I think we'll be looking for a substance 
that's available over the counter, but it wouldn't hurt to check hospital 
inventories of ether-related drugs." He rose from his chair and moved toward the 
door. "What Miss Connors smelled was probably szeszes." 
"Huh? What's that?" 
"Hungarian white lightning." He smiled wanly and then picked up the composite 
picture from the table. His smile faded as he looked into that chunky 
squirrelish face. The eyes, so vacant and detached behind those thick glasses, 
were what bothered him the most. Where are you? he asked silently. If you're 
still striking, why haven't we found any more corpses? Palatazin was well aware 
of an unfortunate fact: It was the corpse, or in this case the trail of them, 
that eventually pointed to the murderer, in the fragment of cloth clutched in a 
death grip, in the tissue and hair beneath the fingernails, in a telltale 
matchbook or printed napkin found in a handbag or pocket. Any homicide squad was 
practically powerless to stop a murder; all they could do was clean up and piece 
together the ugly jigsaw puzzles of passion. And without fresh corpses, great 
fragments of the puzzle were missing. 
Palatazin pushed the picture back toward Reece. "It's time we released this to 
the papers. Will you get it down to Press Relations for me?" 
"Yes sir, I'll take care of it." 
Palatazin left the interrogation room and walked back across the squad room- 
very quiet today, only a few detectives working-to his office. He glanced at his 
wristwatch-five-twenty. The sun was beginning to slide down across the sky, 
leaving cold gray shadows in its track. It was time to get home to Jo, to try to 
get himself ready mentally for the next day's work. Tomorrow morning there was 
going to be a meeting with the chief of detectives and the commissioner, and the 
caseload of non-Roach-related homicides was getting heavier day by day: a 
Chicano man found bludgeoned to death in a downtown alley; a pretty teenage girl 
found stuffed into the trunk of a stolen car with her throat slashed from ear to 
ear; a middle-aged woman shot on the sidewalk by someone in a passing car; a 
three-year-old child battered beyond recognition and stuffed into the bottom of 
a garbage can. Palatazin was a reluctant witness to a daily sideshow of horrors. 
Some days, of course, were worse than others; on the worst of them, usually at 
the height of the summer, his nightmares were vivid with the heat-swollen 
corpses of men, women, and children, all of them holding out their arms to him 
and begging like lepers for a cure. And the means of murder in this city were 
terrifying infinite: baseball bat, pistol, broken bottle, poisons from a dozen 
different countries, knives of all description and purpose, coat hangers, 
clothesline cord, barbed wire, and even in one instance a brass ball fired from 
a slingshot. The motives for murder were just as complex: vengeance, money, 
freedom, hatred, and love. The City of Angels? Palatazin knew differently. 
When he was fourteen years old, his uncle Milo had gotten him an afternoon job 
sweeping up at his neighborhood police precinct station. He'd been fascinated 
116 
with the cops-and-robbers shows he'd seen on the television in the window of the 
Abrahms Brothers appliance store a block from the apartment, and he was thrilled 
to imagine himself as part of that world with its blue-uniformed policemen, 
sleek cars, and crackling, urgent radios. The officers liked his interest, and 
they went out of their way to explain the details of their jobs to him. For 
several years he was the willing recipient of every chase and shoot-'em-up story 
the cops could dish out, and those ran into the hundreds. Only it was years 
later, when he himself wore one of those crisp blue uniforms, that he realized 
the world was not quite as black and white as the TV shows had depicted. He'd 
been walking his beat along Fountain Avenue when a fat, red-faced man in a white 
apron had started shouting about a robbery in his grocery store. Palatazin had 
seen the suspect-a thin black man in a long, tattered coat-running in the 
opposite direction with hands clamped around a couple of loaves of bread and a 
Polish sausage. He'd given pursuit-he'd been much thinner in those days and fast 
on his feet-and had caught up with the guy easily, grabbing his flagging coat 
from behind and yanking him to the ground. The food had scattered into the 
street and was smashed into pulp by the next passing car. Palatazin had wrenched 
the arms back, snapped cuffs on the wrists, and turned the man over. 
It wasn't a man; it was a woman, terribly thin, her stomach swelling in the 
sixth month of pregnancy. "Please," she'd begun sobbing, "please don't make me 
go to jail again. Please don't make me . . ." Palatazin was stunned and ashamed; 
the red- faced man, who had as much beef in his belly as on his racks, came up 
and started shouting about "this whore, this filthy whore" who had come in and 
stolen right off his shelves in broad daylight and what were the cops going to 
do about it? Palatazin couldn't answer; the cuff key in his hand burned like a 
white-hot flame. But before he could say or do anything, a police car came 
cruising up to the curb, and the shouting man turned his attention to the 
arriving officers. As they put the woman into the car, her sobbing had stopped, 
and her eyes looked like the empty windows of a long-abandoned building. One of 
the officers clapped Palatazin on the shoulder and said, "Good job, this broad's 
been hitting stores all up and down Fountain for the past two weeks." As the car 
pulled away, Palatazin stared at the paste of bread and sausage in the street. 
The red-faced man was bragging to a group of onlookers about how nobody could 
rob him and get away with it, "Nobody!" 
Now a world away from Fountain Avenue, Palatazin felt a wave of regret pass over 
him. He took his coat from the back of a chair and wearily shrugged into it. Why 
hadn't things worked out as he'd planned so many years before? His dream had 
been to take his wife and son up to a little town north of San Francisco where 
the climate was cooler and head a small police station where the most serious 
crime was kids stealing from a pumpkin patch. He wouldn't even need a car, and 
he would know and be liked by everyone in town. Jo could open that florist shop 
she was always thinking about, and his son would be quarterback on the high 
school football team. He buttoned his coat and let the dreams drift away like so 
much shimmering dust. After the second stillbirth Jo's doctor had told her it 
would be 
117 dangerous for her, both physically and emotionally, to try again. He 
suggested 
adoption and left it at that. And Palatazin had been caught, as everyone is, in 
the \huge whirlpool of events that takes you down once, twice, a third and final 
time. 
He knew he would probably remain in this city until he died, though sometimes 
'late at night he thought he could close his eyes and see that little town, full 
of white 
picket fences and clean streets and chimneys that puffed white plumes of cherry- 
'wood smoke in the long winters. Time to go home, he thought. And something 
rustled very softly behind him. Palatazin, startled, whirled toward the door. 
f His mother was standing there as substantial as any flesh he'd ever seen. She| 
was wearing the pale blue gown she'd wore the night she died, her skin wrinkled 
1 and white over frail, sharply jutting bones. Her eyes were fixed upon his 
face, ,! 
'Mj 
terribly intense. One arm was thrust out, as skinny as a pole, the finger 
pointing ,toward the window. 
*, 
*Palatazin, the blood drained out of his face by the shock, took a step backward 
and collided with the sharp edge of his desk. His pipe rack toppled over, as did 
the ' framed photograph of Jo. File folders drifted to the floor. 
f
(His mother opened her mouth, showing almost toothless gums, and seemed to be 
trying to say something. Her finger was trembling, her face contorted with 
effort. 
1And then Palatazin saw the outline of the door through her, saw the gleaming < 
' doorknob as if in a haze of grayish smoke. Her figure rippled like gossamer 
caught j in a high wind. And was gone. 
|The breath exploded from Palatazin's lungs. He was trembling uncontrollably, > 
his hands gripping at the desk behind him. For a long time he stared at the spot 
on ^ the floor where his mother had stood, and when he finally waved a shaking 
hand ^ over that spot, the air felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the 
room. >\; He opened the door and thrust his head out so violently that Officer 
Zeitvogel, I Ť who was at the nearest desk, promptly spilled a cup of hot coffee 
into his lap. ? <'*" Zeitvogel cursed and stood up, drawing the attention of the 
other officers to 
*Palatazin's pale, wide-eyed face. Instantly Palatazin retreated into his office 
but left the door open; he felt sick and light-headed, as if he'd just snapped 
out of a brain- 
yjfburning fever. He stood staring dumbly at the folders on the floor, then bent 
and started picking them up. 
'."Captain?" It was Zeitvogel at the door, mopping his pants legs with a couple 
*of paper towels. "You okay, sir?" 
"I'm fine," he said, but kept his head away from the man so he wouldn't betray 
the fear that was still making one corner of his mouth twitch. 
,Zeitvogel looked down at his lap, Christ! he thought. Wonder if I can make the 
> department foot the cleaning bill? Fat chancel "For a minute there you looked 
like ' you'd seen a ghost, sir." 
"Did I?" Palatazin rose and dumped the folders onto his desk. He righted Jo's 
117 
*THEY THIRST 
i 
118 
picture and the spilled row of pipes. Fishing for the keys in his pocket, he 
stepped out of his office quickly and locked the door. "Don't you have work to 
do?" he said tersely, and then he was moving past Zeitvogel and out of the squad 
room, his shoes clicking on the tiled floor. 
Weird, Zeitvogel thought. He shrugged at the other men, swabbed at the worst of 
the stain, and sat down at his desk again. Before he returned to work, he 
wondered whether what he'd been reading in some of the papers and hearing 
whispered around the building was true, that the captain was being squeezed over 
this Roach thing, and the pressure was starting to crack him. He continued 
typing his report on a young man found shot to death in bed that morning and 
thought, Better him than me. 
EIGHT 
Night had filled up the barrio like black rainwater in a bomb crater, and what 
stirred in its depths was unnameable. Chill, tortured winds gnawed at the 
corners of silently crumbling buildings; in the narrow alleys rats scuttled in 
search of food, their eyes catching red pinpoints of light. And three Chicano 
boys clad in tight black leather vests and black headbands crouched behind a 
spill of dusty bricks and watched a dilapidated, graffiti-smeared building less 
than a hundred yards away. In the distance the tenement buildings seemed to be 
standing at odd angles, like crooked rows of gray tombstones. 
"Ain't nothin' moved in there for over an hour, Maven," the boy on the left, as 
thin and dark as whipcord, whispered huskily. "Ain't nobody in there." 
"I say they are." The one in the corner was the largest of the three, his biceps 
and forearms bulging with muscles. On the left bicep there was a tattoo of an 
eagle clawing at a snake and beneath it the name MAVEN. Jet black hair spilled 
over his headband, and his eyes-set in a square, large-jawed face-were tight 
slits of animal cunning. "Oh yeah," he whispered, "the enemigo is in there and 
tonight they gonna pay." 
"They musta moved their headquarters," the thin one said. "The scouts musta been 
wrong." 
"They're hidin'," Maven said, "because they're scared shitless of what we're 
gonna do to them." He gazed up at the surrounding rooftops; a few more Homicides 
were up there, keeping watch on the Viper headquarters. But Maven couldn't see 
them; they were hidden too well. He looked back to the building and shifted 
because the .45 in his waistband was beginning to cut into his stomach. The 
other two, Chico Mapazan and Johnny Pascal, were equally armed: Chico carried a 
nine- inch blade and a pair of nail-studded brass knuckles; Johnny clutched a 
baseball bat with four-inch nails driven through it. "Who wouldn't be scared 
shitless," Maven said softly, "knowing the Homicides were huntin' for 'em?" 
"Gonna clean those fuckers out," Johnny whispered, fingers clenching and 
119 
unclenching around the bat. "Gonna make 'em pay!" 
"I get the first shot," Maven told him. "I get my revenge for what they done to 
Anita. Bastards probably raped her dead and dragged her body off to the garbage 
dump." A muscle in his jaw flexed. "They want to play rough, we'll show 'em what 
rough means." 
"When do we go?" Chico asked, his gaze flaring with impatient fire. 
"When I say go. Right now we wait." 
In about fifteen minutes the building's front door opened. Maven tensed like a 
strip of barbed wire. Two boys-one in an Army surplus jacket and the other 
barechested, came out and sat on the front steps. They seemed to be talking, 
and% in a swirl of wind Maven could hear their raucous laughter. "Bastards," he 
breathed. ŁťŤ "Gonna make you pay." They sat there for a long time, then they 
both rose at the same moment and disappeared back into the building. mt^ 
Almost immediately a small figure came scrambling across the lot, ducking low 
and keeping close to the thicker patches of shadow. It was Luis Santos. He hit 
the ground and crouched next to Chico. "Everybody's ready, Maven," he said. 
"Zorro's got some troops around at the back door." 
"Good. He carryin' his momma?" 
"Yeah." Zorro's momma was a sawed-off shotgun, stolen from a gun shop less than 
a month ago but already put to good use. 
"He may need it when those bastards run out the back door." Maven took a breath 
and then said, "Okay. We go." He lifted his head, put two fingers in his**' 
mouth, and let out a couple of short whistles. "You going' with me, little 
soldier," he t- said to Luis. "Make 'em pay for trashin' your sister, man." He 
handed Luis a carved ebony switchblade that could pass for a butcher knife. 
Maven whistled again, long ^. and low, ending in an ascending note. Instantly 
shadows filled the lot and began to j' move. Maven and the others got up quickly 
and began to run through the darkness, ' crouched low and ready to dive for 
cover. ';, 
Nothing moved, no one fired a shot, as they approached the building.j .< 
"Gonna catch 'em sleepin'," Maven whispered. "Gonna wipe 'em out." He: reached 
the building first with Luis right behind him. Maven took one of his two black 
market grenades from his belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it through the nearest 
window. Then he dove against the building's side, flattening himself, and saw 
Luis do the same. 
When the grenade exploded with a hollow whuuumpl, blazing white fragments of 
metal came whining through the window like hornets. In the next instant Maven 
was charging up the steps, followed by a horde of Homicides. He kicked in the 
door and ran through, firing .45 slugs in a red-hot arc. Luis clicked open the 
blade, feeling its power thrum up his wrist. He felt like the Ice Cream Soldier 
to Maven's Sergeant Rock; his blood was boiling, but his brain was crystal 
clear. He leapt through the open doorway, followed by Johnny and Chico and the 
rest of the Homicide troops. Inside, Maven was crouched on the floor in a blue 
haze of gun- smoke. He could see the holes in the hallway wall where his bullets 
had punched. 
120 
But the entrance hall and the dim corridor leading back through the building 
were empty. He heard nothing but the clatter of Homicide boots and the fierce 
breathing of his soldiers. 
"Ain't nobody here!" Chico wailed. 
"SHUT UP!" Maven shouted, and rose to his feet, his finger twitching on the 
trigger. "They got to be here! Where are you, fuckers?" He saw the outlines of 
more open doorways farther back along the corridor. "Bastards are scared 
shitless!" he shouted. "Come on out! We're gonna have a little party!" He fired 
into the corridor and heard a rain of plaster. "Chico, you and Salvatore and 
about six more go on up them stairs and check out the second floor. Don't let 
'em jump you. GO ON, WHAT'RE YOU WAITIN' FOR? Everybody else stick to me!" He 
started along the corridor, crouching like a panther, peering into one empty 
room after another. "Hey man," somebody said behind him, "I don't like this . . 
." 
"Shut your mouth and follow me!" Maven said, but now there was uncertainty in 
his voice, and a couple of his men faltered. But Luis stuck close beside his 
Sergeant Rock. At the rear of the corridor, there was a padlocked door. Maven 
snarled a curse and stepped into the nearest room; he fired twice into a closed 
closet and then wrenched it open, expecting a couple of bleeding bodies to 
tumble out. But there was nothing but a clothes hanger dangling from a rod. Luis 
bumped into him, and Maven said, "Get back, kid!" He could hear the noise of 
boots overhead-his troops checking out the upper floor. 
And then he looked up. 
They were clinging to the rafters like bats. 
Maven shrieked and lifted his gun as the bodies began to fall. His shot went 
wild as something landed on his back and grabbed his hair. He fell to the floor, 
hearing a hiss very close to his ear. And now all over the building, there were 
shrieks, cries to God, angered curses, the noise of falling bodies, and gunfire 
exploding into wood and plaster. A heavy form hit Luis's shoulders and drove him 
down, slamming his head against the floor. In a red-misted daze he heard Maven 
babble for mercy and then scream piteously, like a woman. A shotgun blast 
knocked the rear door off its hinges, and now Zorro's troops were streaming in. 
Dark figures lunged through the corridor to meet them, and a dozen separate 
battles raged in the darkness. Gunfire cracked, etching quick, hot veins in the 
air. Luis, his head pounding, tried to drag himself up off the floor and caught 
a kick in the ribs; he doubled up, tears blinding him, his fingers searching for 
the ebony blade. Someone else began to scream, and the scream was echoed all 
through the building. A body hit Luis and crashed to the floor. Luis heard a 
moaning sound followed by a strange and terrible . .. sucking. His brain flared, 
I don't want to die like this! I don't want to die like . . . 
An icy hand gripped his shoulder and turned him over like he was made of straw. 
A figure crouched next to him, eyes burning, pinning him to the floor. And then 
Luis saw that it was Hotshot Zasa, the Homicide lieutenant who'd supposedly been 
trashed by the Vipers. Relief coursed through him, and he said, "Hotshot?" 
121 rm 
THEY THIRST 
He wasn't going to die after all, wasn't going to die, wasn't . . . 
Hotshot grinned. 
The four fangs in his mouth-two protruding from the upper gums and two from the 
bottom-were yellow and dripping with fluids. The lower fangs curved inward 
slightly, like fishhooks; the upper ones were slanted toward each other, making 
a hideously efficient V. Hotshot's face glowed white, like the moon; his 
fingers, skinny and clawlike, dug deep into Luis's flesh to keep him from 
twisting away. 
And now Hotshot was bending forward, the eyes in that terrible face starting to 
roll up into the head with greedy expectation. 
Luis screamed a single word, the word that had carved itself into his brain as 
if from a red-hot switchblade-"Vampiro!" 
Above him Hotshot cackled and bent forward to his feast. The lower fangsnt 
pierced flesh and hooked. Hotshot twisted his head a fraction to home in better 
on r- the flaming river of life that flowed just beneath Luis's chin. Luis's 
hands came up to push Hotshot's head away, but they moved too late with too 
little strength. When the V of Hotshot's fangs came down, blood spurted across 
his face. He blinked, shifted his position again, and as if from a great 
distance Luis heard his blood being sucked, the sound like someone sucking 
Coca-Cola through a straw or sniffing fine cocaine from a golden spoon. Luis's 
hands fluttered, one finger digging into the corner of Hotshot's eye. Instantly 
he heard a voice in his brain, something dreamy and soft-Lie still, little 
brother. Lie very still. Luis's hands fell to the floor like dead birds. 
He was beginning to feel cold, really cold, but where Hotshot's lips were 
pressed against his flesh, an inferno raged. He lay very still while the arctic 
cold crept through his veins, inch by merciless inch. Winds were rising in his 
head, deafening him with their shriek. And by the time his jugular vein 
collapsed, as flat as a gutted worm, Luis was fast asleep. 
Gradually the hideous sucking noises that echoed through the many rooms were 
quiet. But in a few minutes they were replaced by another noise-the sound of 
bodies being dragged across the floors. 
NINE 
Roach-much younger, but with an agonized madness already fermenting in his 
brain-pushed open the door. 
In the small bedroom, with its mustard-yellow wallpaper and acrid smells of 
tobacco smoke and sweat, another stranger was astride his mother, riding her 
roughly with flesh-smacking thrusts. The man's buttocks and thighs tensed and 
untensed like the action of a mindless machine. Bev's hands gripped his 
shoulders, and the man's broad back was gridded with scratches. The bed 
trembled, springs squealing beneath their combined weight. 
122 
There was an empty whiskey bottle at the foot of the bed. Roach moved into the 
room, bent, and picked it up. He could see Bev's face-blank, drunken, bloated. 
She seemed to be looking right at him, her eyes lascivious and brimming with 
invitation. His groin was throbbing that hateful bass drum beat of desire. He 
lifted the bottle by the neck and stepped forward, already choosing the spot he 
would strike. As the bottle came down, he heard Bev scream, "NO!" And then it 
had crashed down not upon the stranger's darkhaired skull but across his right 
shoulder because he'd twisted with the scream. The bottle broke across a 
shoulder blade, jagged edges digging into the flesh. The man shrieked, "Goddamn 
it, you crazy little bas-" and then struck out with the back of his hand, 
hitting the boy across the nose and dropping him to the floor. Roach, blood 
stringing from his nostrils, scrabbled to his feet and, whining like an animal, 
rushed forward. The bottle was forgotten now, he was going to kill this man with 
his hands. The stranger twisted off Bev and drove a solid blow to the boy's chin 
that lifted him off his feet and then down again like a heap of laundry. "You 
stay away from me!" the stranger shouted, bending quickly to retrieve the broken 
bottle. "You stay away or I swear to God I'll kill you!" 
Roach started forward again, his beady black eyes as dead as marbles, but then 
Bev shifted in the bed, and he stopped. Her thighs were exposed, and between 
them her sex glistened like a gateway to all the pleasures he'd ever imagined in 
his tortured dreams. He turned toward her, the stranger forgotten now, and 
approached the bed on trembling legs. Bev's face flushed red. She closed her 
thighs and pulled the sheet up to her neck. Her son stood at the foot of the bed 
transfixed, his hand moving in slow circles at his crotch. 
"My God," the stranger whispered, droplets of blood tapping to the floor. "My 
God . . . how long . . . has this been going on . . .?" 
"It's not what you think, Ralph!" she said, avoiding her son's languid gaze. 
"Please . . .!" 
"You . . . and him?" The stranger's eyes moved back and forth between them. 
"Your own son?" 
"Not long, Ralph ... I swear to God, not long!" 
He saw it all then. "You . . . you like it, don't you? Jesus! You like it with 
your own son?" 
And suddenly it all came bursting out of her before she could stop it, the anger 
and fear and black guilt that was her legacy to her son. "YES, I LIKE IT!" she 
shrieked. "I like it when he touches me! Don't you dare look at me like that... 
get out of here! GO ON! GET OUT!" 
The man was already struggling into his pants. He grabbed his shirt from the 
back of a chair and shrugged it on over his injured shoulder. 
Bev was screaming now, a high, drunken scream. "I'm glad we do it! He's more of 
a man at thirteen than you'll ever be . . .!" 
"Sure, sure," he said, working his shoes on. "You're both nuts, aren't you? 
Christ, I knew he was off his rocker, but you, too?" 
123 
"GET OUT!" 
The man paused at the doorway, fumbling with his wallet, and flung a few bills 
at her. They spun like dead leaves at the boy's feet. "Maybe they'll give you 
the same room at the nut house," he said, and whirled out. A door opened and 
closed, and then there was silence but for Bev's harsh breathing. She stared at 
her son, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. "It don't matter," she said 
softly. "Not a bit. We've got each other, don't we? We'll always have each 
other. They don't understand how bad it is to be alone, do they, Waltie? Nothing 
matters. Come on. Hurry." 
And he did.s 
The bedroom and Bev and the mustard-colored walls rippled like a pond intoŤŤ* 
which a stone has been tossed. The ripples strengthened, moved faster and 
faster, Q^ and suddenly the whole scene vanished as if it had been sucked to the 
dark depths ^y1 of a whirlpool. fy 
Roach rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed in his dark apartment. It was still 
very^ dark outside, and somewhere jukebox music was playing. He could hear the 
black ť^j cockroaches scrabbling in their glass tanks. He stood up and went to 
the window, **., looking down on Coronado Street. Dreaming about his mother 
made him nervous; ,Ťh Ť sweat had come up on his face. It made him angry, though 
he couldn't exactly ,*[; figure why. Perhaps it was because he knew now how 
much of a liar she was; she Ť,, had left him after all, and because she had, 
they had sent him off to a place-the f^, Crazyhouse-where people laughed and 
shrieked all the time, where he had to take '*" pills and drink a lot of water. 
Something within him needed but hated that need. A When he found his mother, as 
the Master had promised him he would someday, he * wouldn't have to fear going 
back to the Crazyhouse again. Everything would be ]J' 
all right.r;; 
He walked across the room to the table on which sat the little tanks filled 
withL*, roaches. Their backs glistened like black armor in the darkness. He 
picked up a matchbook, struck a match, and held it to one of the tanks; the 
roaches scrambled i away. When the flame died down to a red pinpoint, he could 
hear them scurrying |'back over each other again. 
Walter Benefield was dead now. His name was Roach, and it was a name he liked. 
Ever since he'd gotten the job at Aladdin Exterminators four months before, he'd 
been studying them in their death agonies when he sprayed Dursban or Diazanon in 
cracks between floors and walls. Sometimes the roaches would flood out in a 
strange kind of dance, flopping and running and falling as the chemical began to 
drown them. Often there would be large black roaches, the bulls of the nest, 
that would start to recover and scurry away; they were the ones he would catch 
by hand and drop into a plastic bag to bring home for his experiments. He was 
awed by their strength, by their sheer tenacity; very few things could kill a 
massive three-inch bull. The Diazanon might make them crazy for a little while, 
but without a good second spray they would recover. Even stomping on them 
couldn't do it; they played dead for a few seconds and then zipped away with 
their 
124 
guts hanging out, like relentless tanks. They were so fast, natural survivors 
that had remained virtually the same for millions of years. Over the months he'd 
burned them, tried to drown them in the toilet, tried to suffocate them, cooked 
them in a pot of boiling water, and performed a dozen other experiments in 
death. Very few things worked. It had just been luck that he'd had a bag of them 
in his car the night he'd picked up that first girl. After she was dead, he 
wondered whether the roaches would suffocate inside her mouth, and so he went to 
work. They had, finally, and he'd been very pleased with himself. Doubly pleased 
when he realized the papers were calling him Roach. It was an honor to him, and 
so he continued doing it just for fun because the papers and the police seemed 
to expect it. 
Now when he saw himself in a mirror, it seemed he was beginning to look like 
them. His shoulders were broad and slightly stooped, his hands and forearms as 
muscular and large as steel clamps; he had the heavy, dark-browned forehead and 
small black eyes that missed nothing. Once his hair had been black and curly, 
but when he started working for Aladdin, he cut it very short, right against a 
large, bulbous skull. Very small ears and jutting, bony elbows completed the 
image he had of himself-that he was undergoing an evolutionary change, crossing 
the line between man and insect, becoming stronger and smarter and almost 
invincible, just like them. 
He untaped a corner of the waxed paper that covered the top of one of the tanks 
and reached down inside, grasping a roach between his thumb and forefinger. It 
got away, and it took him a few more seconds to get another one. Then he pressed 
the corner back so none of them could escape and, holding the squirming roach 
inside his balled left hand, he turned on the lights. The overhead fixture, an 
opaque umbrella of dirty glass, lit the room with a harsh glare that threw the 
man's huge shadow out around him. He went to the stove, turned on the gas flame, 
and dangled the roach over it. The insect scrabbled frantically at his fingers. 
He had the power of life and death over it, just as he did over those girls who 
were friends of Bev and who laughed at him when they thought he wasn't looking. 
Oh, he knew how they laughed; he was much smarter than he let on. Some of them 
he'd seen with Bev before, when he was just a kid and she used to walk the 
street. They were her friends, and they were hiding her from him. 
It used to be he could fix them with his hands and stop them from laughing; but 
the Master had said that was a waste. The Master wanted them for himself, so 
he'd told Roach that he should take poisons from where he worked-liquids and 
powders-and use them on those girls to make them sleep for a while. Roach had 
taken some of them-Sevin dust, V-1, Dursban, Diazanon and a few others-from the 
stockroom at work late on Saturday night; he knew very little about them except 
that Mr. Lathrup had warned him to wear his mask when he used them. So he did 
just that when he mixed the chemicals in bottles on his stove. Then he tore up 
an old towel and soaked the rags in the solution for a long time, pouring what 
was left-an oily brown liquid-into an orange juice bottle which he stored under 
his sink. The first time he used it was the next Tuesday night, and the Master 
was 
125 r*> 
THEY THIRST 
very angry at him because the girl was dead when they reached Blackwood Road. 
After that he cut the mixture twice with water, and it worked just fine. 
The roach caught fire. He watched it sizzle and then dropped it into the sink, 
where it writhed and ran around in circles. He turned on the water, and the 
roach spun down the drain, still kicking. 
He looked up suddenly, his eyes glowing. He thought he'd heard a faint whisper 
coming in through a crack in the window, filling the room. He stepped to the 
window and put his palms against the glass, staring out into the darkness. He 
listened, his head cocked to one side. The Master was going to need another one 
tomorrow night. Now he wanted Roach to sleep, to forget all the bad things, to 
think only of tomorrow and the new kingdom that was to be.#* 
Roach pressed his forehead against the glass for a few minutes and then wentjit 
to turn out the lights. When he was in bed again, he picked up his handgrips 
from Ťt the floor beside him and began to squeeze them. Squeeze . . . hold . . . 
release, J1'1 squeeze ... hold ... release: he would do that two hundred times 
before he went to 'J1. sleep, and in the darkness the springs sounded like the 
rubbing together of hungry I;, mandibles. ť, 
126 r
127 
V 
* 
Monday, October 28 
THE GRAVEDIGGER 
<n,.ť / 
i,. 
r 
C 
128 129 
It was twelve minutes before three in the morning. Noel Alcavar had his feet 
propped up on his desk, and beside him a transistor radio blared Latin disco 
loud enough to wake the dead. No, not quite, Alcavar mused as he slid his gray 
cap forward over his eyes. At least the stiffs out there weren't sitting up in 
their graves yet, he thought. If they did, I'd kick 'em in their asses and send 
'em back to hell. Ai-yi-yi, what a job this was! He closed his eyes and moved 
one foot to the disco|" beat, trying to forget that there were about fifty 
stiffs lying out in the darkness under huge gnarled trees filled with the green 
drip of Spanish moss. j- 
For the last five nights, Alcavar had been covering for his brother Freddie, who 
held the dubious title of Head Watchman for the Rarnona Heights Cemetery in the 
Highland Park district, dubious because Freddie Alcavar was the only real 
full-time watchman, and he held rank over one skinny Chicano kid who was,, 
_i|i 
mentally retarded but smart enough to play sick most of the time. And now 
Freddieť 
had been hit by a virus that kept him in the bed between dashes to the toilet, 
and 
the doctor had told him to stay home and rest. So Noel was helping out, playingr 

loud disco so he could imagine that he was boogying with the foxes at the Disco 
2000 on North Broadway. Freddie had told him he was supposed to take his 
flash-j"." 
light, leave the green-painted shelter, and stroll through the cemetery every 
half-'" 
hour or so. Noel had done it twice since he'd gotten here at ten, and that had 
been"J. 
enough to leave him with a lingering case of the chills. In every whisper of 
wind he 
thought he heard the icy tinkle of ghostly laughter, and every mound of grass 
seemed to be pressing upward, about to split open for a skeletal hand covered 
with 
mold. This ain't a job for a young man, Noel had told himself as he hurried back 
to 
the shelter and turned the latch on the door. Bet old Freddie's fakin'. Bet he's 
at 
home laughin' his ass off right this minute! 
If he hadn't felt sorry for Freddie because of the way his ex-wife had treated 
him during the divorce, Noel would never have volunteered for this graveyard 
shift. But as it was, he was going to be stuck with it until Freddie was back on 
his feet, which might be another day or two. Noel shivered when he thought about 
that and turned the radio a bit louder. 
He was about to close his eyes again and drift into the spin of Disco 2000 
dancers when he saw the two headlights right up against the front gate about 
thirty yards away. Noel straightened up in his chair and peered out the window. 
Now who the hell is that? he wondered. High school kids parkin, maybe? Doin'a 
little drinkin' or dope-smokin'? No, they wouldn't have their lights shining 
like that. He stood up, moving to the window. In the dim backwash of the lights, 
he could see that it was a large vehicle, some kind of truck with markings on 
it. The thing was just sitting 
130 
there, and now Noel could see a couple of shadowy figures moving alongside the 
gate. One of them stopped and looked in through the bars. What is this? he asked 
himself and quailed at the thought-Trouble? No way! He remembered what Freddie 
had said just before he made a flying leap into the bathroom, "Is easy job, 
Noel. No trouble, nobody bothers you. You jus' make your rounds and look like 
you know what you're doing. Everything is okay. No trouble." 
Now both figures were standing at the gate, peering through the bars; the 
headlights made their shadows thin and gigantic on the cemetery drive. They 
seemed to be waiting, taking their time. But suddenly one of them rattled the 
gate, and Noel felt his stomach roil. 
He took his flashlight from atop the desk, and went outside, the single thought, 
no trouble, no trouble, repeating over and over like an incantation against 
harm. He neared the gate, the headlights blinding him, put a hand over his eyes, 
and switched on his own light. The large vehicle was a U-Haul truck, and the two 
figures were kids younger than he, maybe in their late teens. One was a black 
dude wearing a headband, the other was white with shoulder-length brown hair; he 
was wearing a T-shirt that bore a cartoon, a Big Daddy Roth beach bum smoking a 
bomber joint over the message King Kahuna Wants You! Noel moved uneasily toward 
them and saw that they were both smiling. But their smiles hardly made him feel 
better because their eyes were as cold as those of a dead fish. Noel stopped and 
shone his light in their faces. "Cemetery's closed," he said stupidly. 
"Yeah, amigo," the white one said. "We see that." He reached over, pulled at the 
gate's padlock, and grinned. "You got the key to this?" 
"No." The key was in his breast pocket, but he didn't want these two to know. 
Somehow he didn't feel safe, not even with the gate between them. 
"Yes you do," the black dude said very quietly, his gaze boring into Noel's 
skull. "You got the key, don't you? Got it right . . . right in your pocket. 
Yeah." 
"No, I don't. I don't ... uh ... have ... a key ..." 
"Open the gate." The black dude coiled his fingers around the bars. "Come on ... 
Noel? Open the gate, Noel." 
Noel shook his head. My name? How does . . . he . . . know . . . my name? He 
thought he could hear the blood rushing through his head; he felt dizzy, weak, 
confused. What would be the harm in opening the gate, anyway? he asked himself, 
and a smaller voice shouted, You're not supposed to do that, no trouble, no 
trouble ... 
"Noel, we don't have much time, man. Step on over here . . ." 
His right foot moved. He blinked, his brain full of disco thunder. 
". . . Let us in, okay?" 
For an instant he thought he was strutting on the Disco 2000 dance floor with 
the foxiest chick there-Dianna Valeric maybe-and the mirrored ball at the 
ceiling reflected a thousand different colors, all as electric-bright as 
exploding novas. The music stopped with a quiet click! 
"That's good, man," the black dude said as he stepped through the opening gate. 
He gripped Noel's wrist with freezing fingers and took the key. "Who gets him?" 
he asked the white boy. 
131 
"The new girl's thirsty," he replied, and they led Noel around the rear of the 
truck, unlocked the door, and lifted him up. Noel's face was frozen with a 
crazy, crooked grin, his heart about to beat its way through his chest. He 
thought it was quitting time, six A.M., and he was on the way home. Made it 
through another night, he told himself. Wasn't so bad. 
"For the girl only," someone said. 
The doors slammed shut behind him. 
There were five or six people in the darkness, and one of them-a slender wraith 
of a thing-took his hand. He felt like he'd stepped into a meat locker. Then 
there were arms around him, enfolding him closer toward the heart of the chill. 
Hev stumbled over something-a pickaxe-and then a freezing mouth kissed his lips, 
*;* darting tongue forcing its way in; the mouth kissed his cheek, his chin, his 
throat. I* 
And became hideous."'', 
In the darkness someone sighed and whimpered.{" 
*, 
The truck's engine rumbled to life, and it moved through the opened gate into 
the Ramona Heights Cemetery while the boy in the Kahuna T-shirt stood watch on 
the quiet street. Deep within the cemetery it stopped. The rear doors were 
opened again, and now the figures came out-five of them because the girl was,f 
filled and lazy-carrying shovels and pickaxes. They scattered out beneath the 
trees and set to work on the graves, digging like well-oiled machines without 
pause. When the first coffin was struck two others stopped their work to help; 
they dug it free in less than a minute and heaved it out of the ragged hole. 
Inside there was a skeleton in a black suit and yellowed shirt. The casket was 
quickly turned over to dump out the bones, then shoved into the rear of the 
U-Haul. There was a faint clang! as another coffin was struck. This one was 
small, cradling the brittle bones of a child. The bones were spilled to the 
ground and cracked underfoot like twigs as the coffin was loaded into the truck. 

At the end of an hour almost thirty coffins were stacked in the rear of the 
U-Haul. Mounds of dirt and scattered bones littered the cemetery, and the 
clothes and faces of the exhumers were filthy. But still they worked on, until 
finally the black with the headband straightened up from the empty hole below 
him and said quietly, "Enough." 
They returned their tools to the truck. The figures climbed in and the doors 
were locked. The truck backed up across the bone-littered grass and turned 
toward the gate, where the lookout was picked up. Then, gathering speed, the 
truck pulled out of the cemetery and turned right along Aragon Avenue toward the 
commercial district of L.A. 
t 
TWO 
Gayle Clarke, squinting in the bright early-morning sunlight, pulled her red 
Mustang into a public parking lot off Pico Boulevard and walked half a block to 
a 
132 
small gray building that had been, in previous incarnations, a karate school, a 
health club, a Zen Buddhist temple, and a Japanese grocery specializing in 
varieties of kelp. Now the legend painted across the plateglass window in bold 
blue scrolled letters said THE LOS ANGELES TATTLER. WE PRINT IT AS WE HEAR IT. 
WE PRINT IT AS WE SEE IT. There was what looked like a prim virgin in a tacky 
long dress beneath the words holding a flaming torch. The ethics of corn, Gayle 
told herself as she went through the front door. 
Inside, six desks were scattered across the room in various stages of disarray; 
there were stacks of old copies of the Tattler and other newspapers and 
magazines on the floor, a battery of dented file cabinets bought at a warehouse 
fire sale, a bookcase crammed full of decaying dictionaries and reference books 
either copped from the library or bought at flea markets. Across one wall was an 
airbrushed mural left from the kelp store days-spouting whales, sea otters 
playing happily in the kelp beds, the sun shining on a beach full of perfect, 
healthy bodies. She hated that mural because every time she went on a binge of 
Twinkies and Oreos, she had to come in on Monday morning and look at those 
disgustingly healthy figures. Holly Fortunate, wearing her usual skintight black 
dress, looked up from the reception desk which was about ten feet away from the 
closed door with the plaque that read, Harry Tracy, Editor. She smiled. "Hi, 
Gayle. Have a goooood weekend?" 
"Same as usual," Gayle said tonelessly, ready for the next line in the ritual. 
"I had me a kinky weekend," Holly breathed. She was wearing glittery eye shadow, 
and her breasts heaved like black melons. "Kay-ink-key! I was just telling Max . 
. ." 
"Hi, Max," Gayle said to the studious-looking young man at the nearest desk. He 
looked up from his typewriter and smiled, the braces on his teeth showing. Then 
he went back to work without a word, and Gayle sat down at her own desk in the 
back beneath the precariously leaning bookcase. She hung her purse over the back 
of her chair and began straightening a morass of papers and magazines so she 
could have a clear shot at her typewriter, an old gray Royal with a mind of its 
own, usually malevolent. 
"I met this guy at a party down at Marina Del Rey," Holly was saying. "And you 
know what? He was a director. He did a movie a year ago called Free 'n Easy . . 
." 
"Sounds like porno," Gayle said. 
"Oh, no! It was about a couple who meet in a nudist camp!" 
"That's what I said," Gayle replied. "Porno." She crossed the room and poured 
herself a cup of coffee. She could hear Trace muttering through the tissue-thin 
wall. 
"Anyway, it had a limited release, but he said he was working on another one, 
and he'd like for me to . . ." 
Gayle tuned her out and nodded whenever she felt she should. In the meantime 
Bonita Carlin, a thin girl with crimped red hair who favored punk outfits and 
covered what she called "the world of rock 'n roollll," came in carrying an 
armload of Rolling Stones, and immediately Holly began at the beginning with 
"Hi, 'Nita. Have a goooood weekend?" 
133 
"Shitty," Bonita said. 
Gayle sipped her coffee and checked the assignment board. Beneath each name 
printed with a Flair pen on pieces of colored cardboard were index cards with 
the details of their stories for the week. She glanced over each one in turn to 
get an idea for what next week's Tattler was featuring: "Biology professor at 
UCLA-Dr. Peter Willingham-says eating eggs can cause sterility. Call 555-4949 
ext. 7"; "Rod Stewart-Do married blonds have more fun?"; "Could Kim Novak cop 
this year's Oscar for Best Supporting? Her agent wants to talk"; "CHiPs may be 
Dips-motorist group charges Highway Patrol with reckless driving. Call Mrs. 
Jordan, 555-7008." 
Oh God, Gayle thought as she came to her own name. There were four words% 
scribbled on her card, "See me. HOT! Trace." **J|> 
She drank down half of her coffee before she knocked at his door. "In!" theI,, 
voice behind the door said. 'nt 'i 
Trace was on the phone; he waved at her to close the door and sit in a chairf'| 
next to his desk. A fresh copy of this week's Tattler lay open before him. 
"Okay, * , Warren, okay!" he was saying. "So I ruffled some big money birds with 
the story. So ,",' what? I mean, if the Tattler can't print the truth, who 
can?" He paused, his high <*,.. forehead wrinkled; he was in his early forties, 
a hippie who'd never quite outgrown * the life-style. He was almost bald except 
for the wild tufts of graying hair that stuck ';',' out from the sides of his 
head, and his thick-lensed glasses had slipped down on his ť,,, severely hooked 
nose. As he listened, he unscrewed a bottle of vitamin C and {.): popped down a 
couple of orange pills, then offered some to Gayle, who shook her head. r 
"Fine," he said. "Warren, I don't give a shit! Those guys have built a condo 
that's going to go sliding into the Pacific the next time the San Andreas fault 
even/ thinks about moving! What are they going to do, sue the earth?" He 
listened again, his face beginning to redden. "It's structurally unsound, the 
engineering reports prove it! And I don't care if some people are moving out of 
their condos. Jesus, they should move out before the next quake hits! And 
everybody-all the national psychics-are predicting The Big One within five 
years! So let 'em get out while they can! Listen, Warren, I've got to go, I've 
got a paper to put out." He paused, his lips working, but no sound coming out. 
"What do you mean by that remark? My people can write rings around the Talking 
Leaf!" He slammed down the receiver so hard his desk trembled. "Wait a minute, 
Gayle," he said, and began to breathe rhythmically. "Negative air floating 
around here. That was my silent partner, not so silent today." He shrugged and 
pushed the paper across to her. "Seen this yet? The front page is a grabber!" 
She turned the paper around and opened it. There was one of Jack's photos of the 
skeletons at Hollywood Memorial; the picture took up the entire page and was 
bordered with red spot color. Above it, also in red, the headline screamed, WHO 
IS THE GRAVEDIGGER? Beneath that in much smaller print, "See Gayle Clarke's 
shocking story, page three." 
"The . . . Gravedigger?" Gayle said quietly, a knot of tension growing in her 
133 
i ' i 
134 
stomach. "Trace. What's this . . . this Gravedigger bullshit?" 
"It's not bullshit," Trace said, looking genuinely hurt. "I thought the buildup 
would please you. Listen, the Gravedigger's going to knock Roach out of every 
paper in this town!" 
"The Gravedigger," Gayle repeated, not believing what she was seeing. She felt 
like crawling into one of those ragged holes in Jack's photo. "Trace, I don't 
think the story merits a push like this. Okay, I admit it's a weird item. I 
don't think anything like it has ever happened before, at least not in L.A., but 
what's the bogeyman angle? I didn't imply anything like this in my piece." 
"Roach is old news. The guy's gone underground. He's all used up. You know what 
sells papers, Gayle? Evil. That's right. People pick up a magazine or a tabloid 
or even the Times looking for evil, for something to blame for all the misery in 
their lives. And most of all they want a villain, a Nixon or a Dracula or a 
Hillside Strangler. The Roach has disappeared, so we've simply given the people 
what they want-another villain. And we can build this thing, Gayle, God can we 
ever! The Gravedigger, creeping through cemeteries in the dead of night, digging 
up coffins and scattering the bones . . ." 
"Please," Gayle said, and shivered. "I was there, remember?" She felt sick to 
her stomach, as if she'd had another whiff of the reek of rot in the hot, lazy 
sunshine. "The cops say it must've either been a death cult or kids on drugs, 
and that's what my story says, too. So how can we say anything that may be 
untrue?" 
"Ah. You don't read your own copy, do you? Look at page three." 
A surge of panic rushed through her. She opened the paper and saw a red- 
bordered box right in the middle of her story surrounded by more of Jack's 
gruesome photos. The headline of the story read, "Did The Gravedigger Visit 
Resurrection Cemetery?" "What is this?" Gayle said, her voice trembling between 
horror and fury. 
"You think I don't have contacts, too? I got interested in this thing and made a 
few phone calls over the weekend. The same thing that happened in Hollywood 
Memorial happened at Hope Hill and at Resurrection. Missing caskets and 
everything." He shrugged. "Friend of mine on the force owes me a favor, so I 
collected. I went over to the printer's Saturday night and typed the story right 
there." 
Gayle quickly read through the article. It was written terribly but got its 
message across: Resurrection Cemetery had been vandalized in exactly the same 
manner a little more than a week ago. "So you see?" Trace said, lifting one 
eyebrow. "The Gravedigger makes the Roach look like an amateur, at least in the 
chills department." 
"Christ." Gayle put the paper back down on his desk and looked at him in numb 
astonishment. "What's going on?" 
"You're going to tell me. I want you to forget about old Roachie and concentrate 
on the Gravedigger. Maybe he struck somewhere else before he ripped through 
Resurrection, maybe he's done another job since Hollywood Memorial. I want as 
much as you can get, and I want it complete by Thursday afternoon. Can you 
handle it?" 
135 
"Trace, it can't be just one guy! Nobody could rip up a cemetery like that 
alone!" 
"Maybe he's strong. Maybe he drives around in a custom-built bulldozer, who 
knows? Anyway, narrowing the angle to one weirdo sells more papers. Evil, babe, 
evil!" He caught the flicker of hesitation across her face. "Now what's wrong?" 
"I'm so into the Roach thing, I... Trace, I don't think I should leave it just 
yet. I think it's way too early to write him off. Why not let Sandy take care of 
this?" 
"Look," he insisted. "Nobody's seen the Gravedigger, and anyway you're about 
three times the writer Sandy is. Now go. Get started!" 
Gayle reluctantly stood up. She said, "I'd like to stay with-"ťs 
"The Gravedigger. Out!">> 
It1 M * 
She moved toward the door, unable to believe this wild turn of events. HerL,,,, 
head was throbbing, her stomach roiled, she felt sick to her very soul. This is 
bullshit! she told herself. The Roach is really important. Doubly important when 
you think about my career. But this is ... bullshit! 
"Wait a minute," Trace said as she turned to go. "Have you seen Kidd? I need him 
to get some shots of Miss California Redwoods this afternoon." 
"No, not lately. We went to a Joan Baez concert Saturday night, but I didn't see 
him all day yesterday. He may have gone out to see the Greenpeace people." 
Trace grunted. "That guy's spreading himself a little thin, isn't he? Listen, 
will you try his number for me when you get a minute? I really need him to come 
in early and set up the shot." 
She nodded, still in a daze, and left his office. Outside, Holly Fortunato was 
telling the sportswriter, Bill Hale, about the wide variety of whips her 
director friend kept in his closet. Gayle sat down at her desk, shuffled papers, 
and tried to think how she could get out of the story Trace wanted. Still, three 
cemeteries vandalized-no, not just vandalized, ripped to shreds-in less than two 
weeks. Possibly more. Who could she call to find out? She jotted down the names 
of several police force antivandalism squad members she knew. She thought Davis 
Tortirici was the captain of that squad, but she wasn't quite sure. 
But there was something else bugging her that hadn't surfaced until Trace had 
pointed it out-where was Jack? He'd said he was going to splurge and take her to 
dinner at the Mandarin on Sunday night, but he'd never called. She'd spent her 
evening drinking white wine and reading a nasty little book called Bethany's 
Sin, which she'd tossed away in boredom after the fourth chapter. She wanted to 
be with Jack, really needed to be with him, and she'd dialed his number three or 
four times during the course of the night. Each time the phone had rung at least 
ten times before she'd put the receiver down. 
So where was he? 
What am I? she asked herself. A mother hen? But then her hand was reaching out, 
and she was gripping the telephone beside her. She dialed Jack's apartment again 
and let it ring. 
No answer. 
136 
There were a dozen different places Jack could be; she'd gotten used to the fact 
that the only consistent thing about Jack Kidd was his inconsistency. That was 
due to his chart, he'd told her proudly, double Gemini. 
She hung up the phone and wasted a few minutes making herself another cup of 
coffee, then wandered over to where Kenny Morrow was pounding out his health 
hints column. This week his column opened up with a letter from a Sacramento 
reader who thought the government was controlling his sex desires through the 
rays from his color TV. She was looking over Kenny's shoulder when her telephone 
rang, and she hurried back to answer it, thinking Jack might be calling in. 
"Gayle?" the man on the other end said. "This is Tom Chapman from the Times. 
Remember? We met at Palatazin's last press conference?" 
"Oh, sure." She faintly recalled the guy-stout and balding, wearing a brown 
checked coat. "How are you, Tom?" 
"Fine. Better since I ... uh ... picked up your paper and saw your piece on that 
cemetery business. I got quite a kick out of that. Who came up with the 
'Gravedigger' angle?" 
"My editor." 
"T^hat was great. Really sell some papers that way-" 
"Can I help you, Tom?" she interrupted because the sarcasm in his voice was 
beginning to irritate the shit out of her. 
"Huh? Oh, listen, don't get sore. I was just kidding. No, I thought I'd call to 
help you. Us journalists have to stick together, right?" He paused for a few 
seconds. Gayle was silent, her anger simmering at a low boil. "Our story's 
already out on the streets, so I thought I'd pass the information along to you. 
We just ran a few graphs on page eleven, but maybe you can-" 
"Tom . . ." 
"Okay, okay. Somebody dug up Ramona Heights Cemetery over in Highland Park last 
night. Stole about twenty or twenty-five coffins, left the stiffs scattered to 
hell and back. The watchman, guy by the name of ... hold on, I'm looking in the 
paper . . . Alcavar, is now on the missing persons list. The Highland Park cops 
are checking out some tread marks they found in the grass. It seems the 
Gravedigger drives around in a large truck. Now don't say I never gave you 
anything." 
Gayle had started scribbling on a notepad. What the hell is going on? she 
wondered. For the first time a spark of real curiosity crackled inside. "Do you 
have Alcavar's first name and address?" 
"Noel. Got his brother's address from the cops-he's the regular watchman- 909 
Costa Mesa Avenue in Highland Park. What are you thinking, that Alcavar loaded 
up those coffins himself? Why?" 
"I'm not thinking anything. I'm just looking for a starting point. Thanks for 
calling, Tom. Incidentally, this doesn't mean I'm finished with the Roach." 
"Yeah, I hear you've been sneaking in to see Palatazin when the rest of us had 
our backs turned. Well, any way you can get it, I guess. Uh . . . listen, Gayle, 
you remember I told you about the situation with my wife? I've moved out of the 
137 
house, sort of a free bird now. How about having dinner with me tonight? I've 
got a Playboy Club key, and you can take a look at my new apartment and tell me 
what it needs . . ." 
"Tonight? Uh . . . no, Tom, afraid I can't . . ." 
"Tomorrow night then?" 
"My editor's calling me, Tom. I'll talk to you later. And thanks a bunch for the 
informaton. Bye-bye." She hung up the phone and read over her scribbled notes. 
Ramona Heights? That made four cemeteries vandalized in less than two weeks? 
What kind of freaks would do something like that? Death cultists, satanists, 
what? The term Gravedigger, repellent only a few minutes before, now chilled 
her. She^ put her notepad and a couple of Bic pens in her purse and hurriedly 
left the office, i(*J1 bound for the Ramona Heights Cemetery. 1L ( 
THREE 
Police Commissioner McBride sat at the far end of the conference room's polished 
oak table reading Palatazin's progress report on the Roach investigation. Every 
few minutes he grunted, and when he did, Chief of Detectives Garnette glanced 
across the table at Palatazin with a look that said it all-You'd better hope 
he's in a gracious mood, Andy, because there is nothing concrete in that report. 

Palatazin was well aware of the fact. He'd come in before seven that morning to 
finish typing the report and felt ashamed when he'd taken it to Garnette for a 
first reading. There was nothing in it but speculation, vague theories, and 
leads that went nowhere. He'd included the information from Amy Hulsett and 
Lizz/ Connors toward the end, and detailed the work Sully Reece and his team 
were j doing to track down the gray Volkswagen, but even that looked woefully 
ineffectual I on paper. 
McBride glanced quickly up at Palatazin and turned a page. From where Palatazin 
was sitting, McBride was bracketed by an American flag and the California state 
flag, and golden sunlight seeped through the Venetian blinds at his back. There 
were dark circles beneath Palatazin's eyes, and as he lit his pipe for the 
fourth time during the conference, his hand was trembling slightly. His night 
had been terrible, his dreams filled with shambling horrors coming for him out a 
snowstorm, creeping nearer and nearer out of the windswept pines that circled 
him. He had seen their burning eyes, their mouths slashed like grinning sickles, 
and in those mouths the terrible, unholy teeth. And just when they were about to 
claim him, his mother had appeared, floating over the snow, and gripped his 
hand. Run, she'd whispered. Run, Andre! But he had left Jo waiting in a cabin, 
and he had to get back to her, but that meant running the gauntlet of the 
grinning terrors. I wont leave you, his mother had said, and at that instant the 
things had snapped at Palatazin's throat. 
He had awakened cold with sweat, and this morning over breakfast Jo had 
'* 
138 
wanted to know what he'd been dreaming about. Palatazin told her the Roach; he 
wasn't ready to tell the truth yet. 
At the end of the table, McBride closed the report and pushed it aside. Over the 
rim of his coffee cup, he looked from Garnette to Palatazin, his eyes stunned 
for an instant by the bright green striped tie Palatazin wore with a light brown 
coat. He put the cup down and said, "This isn't enough. In fact, it's little 
more than nothing. The Times is applying some pressure for a public progress 
statement. If I used this report as .my basis, they'd be printing thin air. So 
what's the problem?" His icy blue eyes flared. "We have the best police force in 
this entire country! Why can't we find one man? Captain, you've had over two 
weeks to work on this thing with the entire force from helicopters to beat cops 
at your disposal. Why haven't you turned up anything more concrete than this?" 
"Sir," Palatazin said, "I think we're making some progress. The artist's 
composite was printed on the front page of the Times this morning, and it'll be 
carried by the afternoon newspapers as well. We'll get it to the television 
stations in time for the afternoon and evening newscasts. Also there's the 
matter of the Volkswagen . . ." 
"Slim, Palatazin," the commissioner said. "Awfully damned slim." 
"I agree, sir, but it's more of a lead than we had before. The women-the street 
prostitutes-are wary of being seen talking to the police officers. They're 
frightened of the Roach, but they don't trust us either. And that's how we're 
going to find the man, sir, through them. My men are working on finding a 
Volkswagen with a two, a seven, and a T' in the license number . . ." 
"I suspect there may be several hundred," McBride said. 
"Yes, sir, there will be. Possibly a thousand or more. But you have to agree it 
is a lead that merits investigation." 
"I want names, captain, names and addresses. I want suspects in for 
interrogation. I want surveillances. I want that man caught." 
"We all do, commissioner," Garnette said quietly. "And you know Captain 
Palatazin has been interrogating suspects daily and carrying out some 
surveillances as well. It's just that . . . well, sir, the Roach seems to have 
gone underground. Maybe he's left the city. Catching a hit-and-run killer like 
this, a psychotic without motive, is the toughest job there is . . ." 
"Spare me, please," McBride answered. "I don't want to hear any confessions." He 
returned his gaze to Palatazin, who was trying unsuccessfully to light his pipe 
again. "You're telling me that this Volkswagen license plate is the only real 
lead you've got, is that it?" 
"Yes, sir, I'm afraid so." 
McBride sighed loudly and folded his hands in front of him. "I don't want this 
thing to turn into another Hillside Strangler case, captain. I want this man-or 
men-caught quickly so we don't get our asses kicked by the public and the press. 
Not to mention the fact that as long as this bastard remains unidentified, 
someday we're going to stumble over another hooker's corpse. I want him canned, 
do you 
139 
understand me? And I want him canned fast!" He took the report and slid it down 
the table to Palatazin. "If you can't find him, captain, I'll put someone in 
charge who can. All right? Now both of you get back to work." 
As they waited for the elevator in the hallway outside the conference room, 
Garnette said, "Well, Andy, that wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be." 

"It wasn't? I was fooled then." His pipe had gone stone cold, so he shoved it in 
his pocket. 
Garnette looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "You look tired, Andy. Worn 
out. Everything okay at home?" 
"At home? Yes. Why?" 
"You got a problem, you can tell me about it. I don't mind."!>Ť
"No, there's no problem. Except the Roach."Q' 
"Uh-huh." Garnette was silent for a moment, watching the numbers advancenrY 
"'" In 
above the elevator door. "You know, something like this could strain even 
thef*>.- strongest ox of a guy. It's a hell of a responsibility. I'll tell you, 
Andy, you look like '* you haven't slept for two days. You . . . hell, you 
didn't even shave this morning, J did you?" 2 
Palatazin ran a hand across his chin and felt stubble. He couldn't remember if* 
. he'd shaved or not. No, he decided, he probably hadn't. j*'" 
"I understand that your men are also beginning to see changes in you." The 
elevator arrived, and they stepped in. It began to descend. "That's not good. 
Itf".^ weakens your leadership position." " 
Palatazin smiled grimly. "I think I know who you've been talking to. Officer"I*. 
Brasher, possibly? He's a lazy bum. And Zeitvogel? Who else?" '*' ' 
Garnette shrugged. "Talk gets around. You haven't been yourself for the past*,^ 
few days . . ." "" 
"And so people have started pointing their fingers, have they? Well. It didn'tr 
, take as long as I thought." " V, 
"Please, Andy, don't get me wrong. I'm talking as an old friend now, okay? Just, 
., what were you getting at when you called Kirkland at Hollywood Division and i 
requested a stakeout on a cemetery, for God's sake?" 
"Oh," Palatazin said softly. "I see." 
The elevator opened on a wide corridor floored with green linoleum. They stepped 
out and walked toward the homicide squad room, beyond two frosted-glass doors. 
"Well?" Garnette said. "What about it?" 
Palatazin turned to face him. His eyes were dark holes in his pale face. "It has 
to do with the vandalism over there . . ." 
"I thought as much. But that's not your problem or your detail. Let the anti- 
vandalism squad over in Hollywood mop it up. You stick to homicide." 
"Let me finish," Palatazin said, and in his voice there was a tremble that made 
Garnette think, Andy's about to crack. "You have to know that where I was born, 
in Hungary, people think differently about . . . many things than they do in 
this country. I'm an American now, but I still think like a Hungarian. I still 
believe in the 
140 
things that Hungarians believe. Call them superstitions or old wives' tales or 
whatever, but I accept them as the truth." 
Garnette's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand." 
"We have different beliefs about . . . life and death, about things that you 
would consider material for movies or bad paperback books. We think that not all 
is explicable by the law of God because the devil has laws of his own." 
"You talking about spirits? Ghosts? You mean you wanted Hollywood Division to 
stake out some ghosts?" Garnette almost laughed but didn't because the other 
man's face was so deadly serious. "Come on, is this a joke? What have you got, 
Halloween fever?" 
"No, I'm not talking about spirits," Palatazin said. "And it is not a joke 
either. Fever, perhaps, but my fever is called fear, and it's beginning to burn 
me up inside." 
"Andy . . ." Garnette said quietly. "You can't really be serious ... are you?" 
"I have work to do now. Thank you for listening." And before Garnette could stop 
him, Palatazin had gone through the doors into the squad room. Garnette stood in 
the corridor for a moment, scratching his head. What was wrong with that crazy 
old Hungarian? he thought. Now he's going to have us running around after spooks 
in cemeteries? Jesus! A darker thought stirred sluggishly in his brain. Is the 
pressure making Andy unfit for duty? God, he thought. I hope I don't have to ... 
do anything drastic. 
And then he turned away from the doors and made his way to his own office 
farther down the corridor. 
FOUR 
The intercom on Paige LaSanda's desk crackled to life, "Miss LaSanda, there's a 
Phillip Falco here to see you." 
Paige, a stunning ash-blond woman in her early forties, looked up from a report 
on a piece of industrial property she was interested in purchasing on Slauson 
Avenue and pressed the Speak button. "He doesn't have an appointment, does he, 
Carol?" 
There were a few seconds of silence. Then, "No, ma'am. But he says it concerns 
money owed to you." 
"Mr. Falco can make his payments to you, dear." She returned to the report. The 
property looked promising; it was underdeveloped and could support a larger 
factory than the one now on it, but the asking price might be a bit too . . . 
"Miss LaSanda?" the intercom voice said. "Mr. Falco wants to see you 
personally." 
"When and who is my next appointment?" 
"Eleven-thirty. Mr. Doheny from the Crocker Bank." 
Paige glanced at her diamond-studded Tiffany wristwatch. Five after eleven. "All 
right," she said, "send Mr. Falco in." 
141 
After another moment the door opened, and Carol ushered Falco-a gaunt man with 
long white hair and deep-set eyes-into the office. For a few seconds Falco stood 
at the center of the huge room, seemingly awed by its sumptuous furnishings, 
though he'd been to this office twice before. Behind her glass-topped mahogany 
desk Paige said, "Please sit down, Mr. Falco," and motioned toward a brown 
leather chair. 
Falco nodded and took his seat. In his rumpled brown pinstripe suit, he looked 
like little more than a cadaver, his flesh pale to the shade of gray, his wrists 
jutting from the coat sleeves. On a table beside him a burst of bright red roses 
made him look duller still. His eyes were never at rest; they moved across 
Paige's desk, acrosss her face, the broad picture window that looked out over 
Wilshire Boulevard, to his Ť*""" 
I!1 "uM 
own hands in his lap, back to her desk, and then to her face again.1,,4W 
'* <IHťŤ
ť*ť
Paige held up a carved Dunhill cigarette case of lustrous black wood, and 
Falco"ii;;^ took three cigarettes without apology, putting two in the breast 
pocket of his coat jj'"Y' and lighting the third from the lighter flame Paige 
offered. "Thank you," he said |*y' softly, and leaned back in his chair, smoke 
dribbling from his nostrils. "These are European cigarettes, are they not?" 
"Balkan tobacco," Paige said. 
"One can tell immediately. American brands are so dry and tasteless. These 
remind me so much of a brand sold in Budapest . . ." 
"Mr. Falco, I presume you've brought me a check today?"I.,),. 
"What? Oh, of course. The check." He rummaged in an inside coat pocket and 
brought out a sealed and folded envelope. This he slid across the desk to 
Paige,<^ who instantly used a twenty-four-carat-gold letter opener on it. The 
check was written against a Swiss bank account and signed by a smooth, graceful 
hand- ^1' Conrad Vulkan. 
"That's fine," she said, eyeing the amount with mental glee. "How long should.ť. 
this take to clear?" " ;;[.. 
"A week at most," he answered. "Prince Vulkan plans to transfer a largei -h 
amount to a local bank shortly. Do you have any suggestions?" T 
"I suppose the Crocker Bank's the most convenient. One of their vice- presidents 
is coming in at eleven-thirty. You might speak to him about it." 
"There's something else in the envelope, Miss LaSanda," Falco said. 
"Oh?" She opened it wider and turned it upside down. A small white card fell 
out; it was engraved with the words Requesting The Pleasure Of Your Company 
-Prince Conrad Vulkan. "What's this?" 
"As it says. I've been instructed to invite you to dine with Prince Vulkan at 
eight o'clock tomorrow evening if that's convenient for you." 
"Where?" 
"Why, the castle, of course." 
"The castle? Then I take it you've somehow convinced the power company to repair 
the lines running up there? That's more than I could ever do." 
"No." Falco smiled slightly, but it was a smile of the mouth; the eyes remained 
142 
vacant and faintly troubled. "We have no power yet." 
"What's your prince going to do then, have something catered? I'm afraid I'm 
going to have to say-" 
"Prince Vulkan is very interested in meeting you," Falco said softly. "He 
assumed the reverse would be true as well." 
Paige regarded the man for a moment-sad-looking guy, she thought, doesn't he 
ever see the sun?-and then lit a cigarette of her own, placing it in a long 
black holder with a gold band. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Falco," she said 
finally. "When you came to me in September, wanting to rent these pieces of 
property, telling me you represented Hungarian royalty, I was highly skeptical. 
Before the deal was signed, I made a few transatlantic telephone calls. I could 
find no one in the present Hungarian government who knew anything about a Prince 
Vulkan. So I was ready to pull out, until you made your first payment in cash. I 
may not trust very many people, but I do trust the dollar, Mr. Falco. My last 
husband left me with that philosophy. Yes, I am interested in meeting your 
Prince Vulkan ... if indeed he is a prince." 
"He is. Most definitely." 
"Of a country that doesn't even recognize his existence? I don't think I'd be 
out of line if I asked where he gets his funds from, do you?" 
"Family money," Falco said. "He's currently involved in selling some pieces from 
his very old and valuable art collection." 
"I see." Paige ran a fingernail over the raised lettering on the invitation. She 
recalled what a Hungarian official had told her during the last of her overseas 
calls, "Miss LaSanda, we have found a Conrad Vulkan mentioned in a fragment of 
Magyar history dated around 1342, but that would hardly be the gentleman you're 
seeking. This Prince Vulkan was the last of a long line of pretenders to the 
throne of the northern provinces. His carriage went off a mountain road when he 
was just seventeen, and it was assumed that wolves ate his body. As for someone 
passing himself off as Hungarian royalty, that's a different story indeed. We 
would hate for the name of our government to be involved in any . . . shall we 
say, unsavory practices?" 
"For a man of royal tastes," Paige said to Falco, "this Prince Vulkan doesn't 
seem to care very much about his living conditions, does he?" 
"The castle suits him perfectly," Falco replied, crushing out his cigarette in 
an onyx ashtray at his side. "He lives now approximately the same way he lived 
in Hungary. He needs no luxuries, no conveniences of a modern world. He's never 
used a telephone and never plans to. For light there are always candles, aren't 
there?" 
"And he used the fireplaces for heat?" 
"That's right." 
"Well, I've sold and rented both houses and commercial property to all kinds of 
people, but I'll have to say that your Prince Vulkan is quite a unique 
individual." She drew on her cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "I 
bought that old 
143 
place for a song. At the time the Hilton people were thinking about converting 
it into a hotel, but the plans fell through for one reason or another . . ." 
"The castle is built on unstable rock," Falco said quietly. "Prince Vulkan has 
told me he can feel the walls vibrate from time to time." 
"Oh, really?" Paige's cheeks reddened a bit; of course, she'd already known that 
fact from the Hilton surveyors. "Well, it's stood for over forty years, and I'm 
confident it'll stand for another forty. At least." She cleared her throat and 
felt the old man's stare fixed to her. "But Prince Vulkan isn't involved in 
local commerce is he?" 
"No." 
"X, 
"Then why did you want those warehouses? Of course, it's none of my business. As 
long as he pays the rent, I don't care what he stores in there, but. . ."J^> 
Falco nodded. "I understand your curiosity, and so does Prince Vulkan. I 
would![ti*'jŁ' therefore suggest that you accept this invitation. All will be 
explained." mrf 
"I've never met a prince before," Paige said thoughtfully. "A couple of sheikhsf 
\r and some rock stars, yes, but not a prince. Or an ex-prince either for that 
matter. ,|"1S< How old is he?" I,;,;!;! 
"Old enough to be wise, young enough to have ambitions.",11-HJ 
"Interesting. Eight o'clock?" She picked up the card again and looked at it,* ^ 
then looked at the signature on the check. "I have a previous engagement for 
J^jl tomorrow night, but I suppose I could break it this once. Well, what the 
hell? I've ,,,,^11 never had dinner in a drafty old castle before. Tell him I'd 
be honored to have J'J dinner with him." '""") 
"Very good." Falco rose to his feet and moved unsteadily toward the door. He^ 
put his hand on the knob and paused, standing still for a few seconds. 
"Anything else?" Paige asked.^; 
Falco's spine seemed to stiffen. Very slowly he turned to face her, and now 
hisr"^' eyes had retreated so far back in his creased, weary face that they 
seemed no more Ť* ŤŤthan small black circles somewhere at the brain. "I've 
spoken for Prince Vulkan/' he ;;;'' said in a soft, tired voice. "Now I'll speak 
for myself, and God help me. Turn down ,:^f the invitation, Miss LaSanda. Keep 
your previous engagement. Do not come up that mountain to the castle." 
"What?" Paige smiled uncertainly. "I've said I'll come. There's no need to twist 
the knife of suspense . . ." 
"I mean what I say." He paused, staring straight at her so intensely Paige felt 
a chill run up her spine. "Now, what reply shall I take to the prince?" 
"Uh . . . I'll come. I guess." 
Falco nodded. "I'll tell him. Good day, Miss LaSanda." 
"Good ... uh ... good day." 
And then Falco had slipped through the door and was gone. 
"Now, what in the name of Christ was that all about?" she asked herself. She 
held up the check-I hope this bastard's good, she thought grimly-and looked at 
the signature, trying to envision the man through it. The lines were thin and 
elegant, and under the name there was a looped, intricate flourish that reminded 

144 
her of the signatures on old faded, yellowed documents. Probably used a quill on 
this, too, she thought, no Bics or Mark Cross for the prince. He would, of 
course, be dark, very tall, and as thin as a drawn rapier, he would be in his 
late forties or early fifties, and he probably had a list of ex-wives as long as 
Wilshire Boulevard. That's probably why he came to the States-to get out of 
alimony payments. She wondered what to wear-her sensible gray business outfit? 
Her sleek and sexy black dress? She decided to run over to Bonwit Teller during 
her lunch hour and check out the display windows. 
The intercom crackled. "Mr. Doheny is here, Miss LaSanda." "Thank you, Carol. 
Send him right in." She folded the check and, smiling dreamily, tucked it away 
in a drawer. 
FIVE 
A bloodred Chrysler Imperial with a foxtail tied to the radio antenna pulled 
smoothly to the curb of Machado Street in East L.A., three blocks from the 
Santos's apartment building on Dos Terros. From the car a young black man 
wearing sunglasses and a pale blue suit emerged, at first glancing warily up and 
down the street and then swaggering toward an unpainted wooden bench a few feet 
away. He sat down to wait because he had just finished a deal up on Whittier and 
he was early. 
Across the street, lines of multicolored clothing hung between the dark, brick 
buildings. Occasionally someone passed by a window-a woman in a print dress, a 
man in a stained undershirt, a child with thin shoulders-and stopped to stare 
out vacantly at the rest of the world. From other open windows the black man 
could hear the blast of boombox stereos, the rattle of pots and pans, the long 
wail of a child, voices raised in feverish anger. Sometimes jammed in between 
the tenements were ramshackle houses with sagging front porches, hulks of cars, 
or remnants of washing machines in rock-strewn front yards. It was just after 
noon, and the sun was merciless, beating down like a hammer on the dry flat 
streets; it seemed that everything trembled at the point of ignition, ready to 
flare into fire with each tick of the clock. The black man turned his head, 
beads of sweat glittering on his cheeks, and stared across at a clapboard bar 
decorated with white-painted music notes. It was, not surprisingly, called El 
Musica Casino. At the corner of Machado there was a flat-roofed grocery store, 
its windows plastered with Spanish signs. A slat-ribbed dog sniffed around 
garbage cans, stopped to stare balefully at the black man, then scurried away 
down an alley. 
It was a neighborhood ripe for the dreams that Cicero sold. 
When he looked to his left again, he saw a man and woman approaching, holding 
hands like frightened children. The man, a walking skeleton with deep blue 
hollows beneath his eyes, wore faded brown trousers and a shirt with a green and 
brown floral pattern; the woman would have been quite attractive but for the 
145 
acne scars on her cheeks and a feral look in her eyes. Her hair was dirty, and 
it hung limply around her shoulders, and she wore a bright blue shift that 
barely covered her swelling belly. Their combined ages would hardly have added 
up to much more than forty, but their faces carried ancient, desperate 
expressions. 
Cicero watched them coming, his teeth flaring white. He hooked a thumb back 
toward that alley, and the two figures hurriedly entered it. Cicero looked up 
and down the street again. Everything was cool, he thought. The cops never 
prowled around here. He got to his feet and took his sweet time in going back to 
the alley where they waited. 
"Gimme," Cicero said when he reached the man. 
He gave Cicero a coffee-stained envelope, his hand trembling. Beside him the 
woman shivered; her teeth were chattering. Cicero tore open the envelope and 
counted the money very slowly, relishing the cold waves of need that washed in 
off the two bodies. Then he grunted, said "Lookin' good," and withdrew a small 
packet of white powder from an inside coat pocket. He dangled the packet before 
the man's face and saw him bare his teeth like an animal. "Sweet dreams," Cicero 
whispered. The man grabbed it with a soft moan and raced off along the alley 
with the woman shouting at his heels. Cicero watched them vanish around a corner 
and put the money in his pocket. Stupid shits, he thought. Fool didn't even wait 
to check the horse. Junk's cut so much they'll barely get a buzz, and before 
nightfall they'll be needin' again. Well, they know where to find old Cicero . . 
. 
He laughed to himself, patted his pocket, and walked back along the alley toward 
the street. 
At the mouth of the alley, a hulking figure stepped into his path. Cicero said 
"Wha-?" and that was all because in the next instant a hand had slammed into his 
shoulder, sending him flying back into the alley. Cicero collided with a brick 
wall and went down to his knees, all the breath squashed out of him. A hand with 
scarred knuckled grasped Cicero's collar and wrenched him up until he was 
standing on the toes of his gray alligator-skin boots. His sunglasses dangled 
from one ear, and his first coherent thought was Cop. 
The man who held him pinned against the wall was over six-four with wide 
shoulders that looked as solid as concrete. He was a Chicano, possibly in his 
mid- forties, dark complexion with fierce black eyes under thich gray-flecked 
brows. He wore a mustache, also flecked with gray, and there were swirls of gray 
at the temples in a head of hair so black it seemed to hold shimmers of blue. 
His eyes were narrowed into fierce slits above a craggy nose, and there was the 
faint pinkish line of a scar running through his left eyebrow and up into the 
hairline. This man had a deadly look, and he was crowding Cicero too close for 
him to reach the ten-inch blade in his back pocket. 
Not a cop, Cicero thought. This fucker wants to rob my ass, maybe kill me, tool 
And then Cicero's gaze dropped to the man's throat. And the white collar he was 
wearing. A priest! 
Cicero almost laughed as relief surged through his body in waves. But when he 
146 
began to smile, the priest slammed him back against the wall so hard his teeth 
clicked. "Come on, man," Cicero said. "How's about backin' off, huh?" 
The priest stared at him coldly, keeping that hand clenched on Cicero's shirt. 
"What kind of filth was in that packet?" he rumbled. "Heroin? Answer me before I 
break your neck, culebra!" 
Cicero snorted. "You ain't gonna break no neck, Mr. Priest. That's against your 
religion." 
With a sharp twist of his shoulder, the man flung Cicero to the ground. "Hey!" 
Cicero squawked. "You crazy or somethin'?" 
"How long have you been dealing heroin to Miguel and his wife?" 
"I don't know no damned Miguel." 
"Who else have you been selling to?" 
Cicero started to get up, but the priest moved forward with fists clenched, so 
Cicero stayed where he was. "Sellin'? I ain't sellin' nothin'!" 
"All right, suppose we let the police decide that, si?" 
Cicero's hand began the long creep back to his pocket. "Look, old white collar, 
you don't want to mess with me, understand? I don't want to hear no talk 'bout 
cops. Now you're gonna step aside and let me go on my way." 
"Get up," the priest said. 
Cicero rose slowly, and by the time he'd straightened, he had the blade hidden 
in the hand that dangled loosely behind him. "I said you're gonna let me pass!" 
he said hoarsely. "Do what I tell you!" 
"I've been looking for you for a long time, ever since I knew Miguel and his 
wife were hooked on that trash. And you've been selling to Victor DiPietro and 
Bernardo Palamer, haven't you?" 
"I don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about." Cicero grinned widely, and 
then the tongue of steel lapped at hot sunlight. "Move out of my way, man!" 
The priest looked at the blade but didn't move. "Put that down or I'll make you 
eat it." 
"I ain't never stuck no white collar before, but I will if you pushes me! And by 
God you're pushin' me right now! Ain't nobody pushes Cicero Clinton, 
understand?" 
Bastardo," the priest said quietly. "I'll stick that knife up your ass and send 
you running home to your momma." 
"Huh?" Cicero said, stunned for a second by the priest's language. That second 
of hesitation spelled his doom for, right in the middle of it, the priest's fist 
came flying out of thin air and crashed against the side of Cicero's head. As 
Cicero staggered back, he flailed out with the knife, but his wrist was suddenly 
caught in a crushing vise; he shrieked in pain and dropped the blade. Then 
another fist filled his vision, bloodily knocking a few teeth into his mouth. 
Cicero started to go down, but then the priest grabbed him by the scruff of the 
neck and was dragging him along the alley. On Machado Street, in full view of a 
number of people who had watched the whole thing from their windows, the priest 
picked up Cicero and 
147 
jammed him down into a garbage can. 
"You ever come back to my streets," the priest said, "I'll have to get rough 
with you. Comprende?" 
"Yeth," Cicero croaked, spitting out blood and bits of enamel. When he tried to 
struggled out of the can, black waves crashed over him and sent him spinning 
down to the bottom of the sea. 
"Hey! Father Silvera!" someone called out, and the priest turned. A small boy in 
blue jeans and scuffed white sneakers was running toward him. When the boy was 
near enough to see the arms and legs sticking out of the garbage can, he stopped 
and stared, openmouthed.""%,, 
_iipiW 
"Hello, Leon," Father Silvera said. He rubbed the skinned knuckles of his 
rightJ>" ,Ťhand. "Why aren't you in school today?" 
"Uh ... I don't know." He stepped back as one of Cicero's arms twitched. "I"* * 
didn't do my homework." ul 
"That's not an excuse." Silvera looked at him sternly. "Your father let you 
stay\','! home from school?" 
f w,,. 
Leon shook his head. "I have to take care of my sister. Papa didn't come home 
last night." 
"He didn't come home? Where did he go?" 
"Out." The boy shrugged. "He said for me to stay home with Juanita, and he""' 
was going to play cards. That was last night." ,
"He didn't go to work today?"; 
Leon shook his head again, and Silvera's shoulders sagged forward slightly;5, 
he'd helped Sandor La Paz get that job at the garage, he'd even vouched for the 
good-for-nothing bastardo. Now Sandor had probably lost a week's wages in a card 
J game with the neighborhood hustlers, and he was drinking himself into a stupor 
in | a bar. "Are you and Juanita okay?" - ( 
"Si, Father. We're doing good." 
"Did you eat anything for breakfast?"I 
The boy shrugged. "Taco chips. But I gave Juanita a glass of milk." 
"Your papa left some money for you?" 
"A little bit in a drawer." His face clouded over slightly. "He's gonna come 
back home, isn't he?" 
"Of course he will. He's probably home right now. You'd better get back there 
yourself and keep and eye on Juanita. She's too young to be left alone. Hurry 
now. I'll be by later this afternoon." 
Leon beamed and started to turn away, then suddenly he heard a soft moan that 
didn't come from the man in the garbage can. When Leon looked back, he saw 
Father Silvera wiping sweat off his forehead with the palm of a trembling hand. 
"Father?" he asked. "You all right?" 
"Yes. Hurry on now. I'll see you later. Go!" 
The boy scurried on away. He felt better now that Father Silvera was going to 
come by to see him. If the padre said things were going to be all right, then 
they 
148 
would be. And Papa would be home, too, just like he said. Truly, he was a 
miracle man. 
Silvera was aware of the people watching him from their windows. Not now! he 
told himself. Please don't let it happen now! When he let his hand hang by his 
side, it jumped and twitched with erratic spasms. He felt a boil of anger at the 
pit of his stomach, and suddenly he kicked over the garbage can, spilling Cicero 
out over the curb into the gutter. Cicero stirred and began to stagger to his 
feet. "Remember," Silvera said. "Don't come back around here. I'll be looking 
for you." 
Cicero struggled behind the wheel of the Imperial and started the engine. Then 
he spat blood toward Silvera and shouted, "I'll get you, cocksucka!" Then the 
car roared away from the curb, leaving a blue haze of exhaust and scorched 
rubber. 
Silvera thrust his hands in his pockets and began to walk away from those 
watchful eyes. He'd made it around the corner when the bile came up volcanically 
from his stomach; he leaned over and threw up against a wall, and as he was 
heaving, he could feel both hands jittering in his pockets as if pulled by 
unseen strings. He took them out, leaned his back against the graffitied wall, 
and watched the fingers jerk, the veins twitching under the flesh. They seemed 
to belong to someone else because he had no control over them anymore, and he 
never knew when the spasms would start or stop. The spasms hadn't yet begun 
their slow creep up his forearms, as the kind doctor at County General had told 
him they would. But it was just a matter of time. The death dance of the 
muscles, once begun, was irreversible. 
After a moment more he walked on, past more sunburned apartment buildings and 
more low, dusty houses jammed in between brick walls. The barrio seemed to go on 
forever, one narrow garbage-strewn street after another. The place smelled of 
rotting, stifled souls to Silvera, the reek of corpses that had died at the dead 
ends in the huge, tangled maze of life. There is so much to do, he told himself 
as he walked. So much to do and so little time. He was going to have to find 
Miguel and Linda and get them off that hellish junk, but it would be hard. Once 
hooked, it was easier to drift in that limbo of heroin-induced dreams than to 
face the stark reality of life. Silvera knew; he had the needle track on the 
insides of both his elbows to show for two years of life on the edge of 
bestiality. So much to do and so little time. God help me, he thought. Please 
give me strength. And time. Please. 
At the end of the block, he could see the bell tower of his church pressed close 
between tenement buildings. The tower was painted white, and through the open 
shutters the large brass bell caught a shard of golden sunlight. Silvera had 
found that beautiful bell in the abandoned mission of a town called Borja, near 
the Mexican border. The town had been almost deserted, and it exuded a strange 
aura of old evil. One of the remaining residents had told Silvera that several 
years before a man who'd called himself Baal had come to the town and since then 
Borja had been tainted. Silvera had brought that bell back from the desert in a 
pickup truck over a hundred miles of winding, sun-scorched road. He'd rigged a 
hoist and with the help of a few neighborhood men had lifted the bell to the 
tower. He'd worked 
149 
I 1 
iTHEY THIRST 
on it many weeks, polishing away the last of the corrosion, and now it 
sang-joyful and clear to beckon all to Sunday Mass or announce Saturday 
weddings, solemnly mournful tolling for a funeral procession-as a symbol of the 
Church of Our Sainted Mary. Not very long ago a crack had appeared at the very 
top of the bell and now was gradually snaking its way down to the rim. The 
bell's destiny was clear, and yet it had so much more work to do. Silvera smiled 
when he thought of what Leon and several of the other children called it-Mary's 
Voice. 
Father Silvera reached his church and climbed a few rickety wooden steps to the 
front door. He was feeling better now; he'd stopped sweating, and his hands 
weren't trembling nearly as much as they had been. It had been the strain ofťj( 
throwing that heroin dealer around that had done it. He knew better than to do 
*iiii^""t" 
Hf1 ""''^ ' 
things like that, but he was still a bullishly strong man, and in this case his 
temper'I,. 4*. 
had gotten the best of him."<i'',J(ť
Inside, the church was almost claustrophobic with the wooden pews packedtf"|*J 
closely together, and a wine-red runner spread along the narrow aisle from 
frontjpn 
door to altar. Atop the altar stood a heavy brass crucifix, brightly polished, 
on an. "IŤŤ<( 
ornate base. Behind that altar with its chipped ceramic statue of Mary cradling 
theŤŤ*"' 
Christ child in her arms was a large oval stained-glass window that split the 
lightI*" ' 
into a kaleidoscope of white, azure, violet, umber, and emerald green. In 
the,"Ł''* 
window's center was a representation of Jesus carrying a staff and behind him 
a,Ťť-
green knoll dotted with sheep. On sunny days His eyes were circles of kind, 
warmI',,)'. 
brown light; on cloudy days His gaze turned stormy, the light stern and grayish. 
It^*f" 
intrigued Silvera to watch those changes and reminded him that even Jesus 
Christ*"*Y. has His bad days. 
Ť<iii*J|f - 
Silvera walked through the church to his living quarters, his steps 
sounding4?,*.. hollow on the wooden floor. It was a single room, painted white, 
with a thin- i"* mattressed bed, a chest of drawers, a reading lamp, and a sink 
in the corner. There > , was a shelf of hard-cover books, most of them more 
political and sociological than ,!''.theologic: Future Shock by Alvin Tofler, 
The Politics of Evil by James N. Virga, Drawing Down the Moon by Margot Adler. 
On another, lower shelf was a toaster *'' and a hot plate, neither of which 
worked particularly well. The walls were decorated with crayon drawings given to 
him by some of the younger children in his parish- sailboats skimming a green 
ocean, stick figures waving from windows, rainbow- colored kites among the 
clouds. There was a ceramic crucifix hanging near the door, a bright travel 
poster that said See Mexico's Wonders, and a framed painting of a fishing 
village featuring nets drying in the sun. It reminded him of the village he'd 
been born in, Puerto Grande on the Gulf of Mexico. Another door led into a tiny 
bathroom with a noisy toilet and a stuttering shower. 
He crossed the room, drew water from the sink into a drinking cup, and gingerly 
tasted it. Not so bad today, he thought. He drank it down gratefully, spilling 
only a few drops on his shirt because his hand wasn't trembling quite so much. 
And then he listened; he thought he'd heard the front door open and close. Yes, 
there was the noise of footsteps now. He put the cup aside and hurried out. 
150 
There was a young man standing at the altar, staring up at the stained-glass 
window. He wore a pale blue shirt and faded, tight-fitting denims. His eyes were 
dark and haunted, very tired-looking. Silvera stopped and looked at the young 
man, hardly recognizing him. "Rico?" he said quietly. "Is that Rico Esteban?" 
"Yes, Father," Rico said. "It's me." 
"Good God, how you've grown!" The priest stepped forward and shook Rico's hand 
in a firm, dry grasp. "The last time I saw you was.. . well, I hate to think how 
many years have passed! But you're a man now, aren't you?" 
Rico smiled and shrugged. He thought, Father, if you only knew . . . 
"So I've heard you've moved out of the barrio. You're living on Sunset 
Boulevard?" 
"I've got an apartment on the Strip." 
"I'm glad to hear that. Where are you working?" 
"For myself," Rico said, and when Silvera's gaze sharpened, he added. "Doing 
this and that. I'm trying to start my own messenger service." 
Silvera nodded. Of course, he knew that Rico was probably selling drugs or 
pimping, possibly both. Rico's hands were too smooth, and he'd never had the 
education for a desk job, though as a child playing around this very church Rico 
had shown a healthy curiosity about life that Silvera hoped would blossom into a 
quest for real knowledge. A stab of sorrow and pity caught Silvera in the heart. 
The waste, he thought, the terrible waste. 
"I'm making out okay," Rico said. He'd sensed what was going on in the priest's 
head, behind those black, fathomless eyes. 
Silvera motioned toward the front pew. "Please, sit down." Rico did, and Silvera 
sat beside him. "You look fine," he said, which was a lie because Rico looked as 
drained as an empty bottle and much thinner than he ought to be. He wondered 
what Rico was selling. Cocaine? Amphetamines? Angel dust? Surely not heroin. 
Rico was too smart to get involved with junk, and he probably recalled how the 
addicts had screamed from their windows when they'd injected themselves with a 
hit cut with baby powder or sugar. "It's been too long," Silvera said. 
"A long time since I've been inside here, yeah." Rico looked around the church, 
his gaze coming to rest on the window. "I'd almost forgotten what it looked like 
in here. What surprises me is that your window hasn't been broken yet." 
"It's been tried. I've been having some trouble with the Homicides." 
"They're a bunch of punks. You should call the cops on them." 
"No. It's neighborhood business and nothing that I can't take care of. Your 
attitude about the police seems to have changed since your were running with the 
Cripplers." 
"You're wrong, Father. I still think the cops are good-for-nothing pigs, but you 
can't handle the Homicides by yourself. They'll cut your throat as fast as 
anybody else's. Maybe faster." 
Silvera nodded thoughtfully, searching the younger man's eyes. A terrible 
bitterness seemed to be churning there, the look of a dog long deprived of food. 

151 
And there was something else, too, something that lay much deeper and closer to 
Rico's soul. Silvera saw just a quick flash of it, like dark, glimmering 
quicksilver, and recognized it as fear-an emotion he'd seen in his own mirror 
eyes a great deal recently. "You come to see me for a reason, Rico. Can I help 
you?" 
"I don't know. Maybe yes, maybe no." He shrugged, looked at the stained-glass 
window, and seemed to have a hard time saying it. "Father, has Merida Santos 
come to see you in the last couple of days?" 
"Merida? No." 
"Oh, Jesus," Rico said softly. "I thought she might've . . . you know, come here 
to talk to you. I've . . . I've made her pregnant, and now she's gone. Even her 
crazy**.mother doesn't know where she is, and I can't sleep at night not 
knowing what's J!" ,,Ť* happened to her-" l|""^3 | 
"Slow down," the priest said, and gripped Rico's shoulder. "Take it easy and 
tell"'^''jp ' me everything from the beginning." \.\* 
Rico took a deep breath. "I picked her up at her building on Saturday 
night..."[flQ 
When Rico was finished, his hands were clasped tightly in his lap. "I called 
the' """J cops this morning and talked to the missing persons guy. He said not 
to worry """""" about it, that a lot of people disappeared for a couple of days 
at a time and then Łi>t/ came back home. He said it's called running away from 
home, so I knew then that """fjj he wasn't taking me too seriously, you know? He 
said that if her mother wasn't ""Xn concerned, I shouldn't be either. 
Good-for-nothin' pig! I don't know what to do, ';!*% Father! I think . . . 
maybe something bad's happened to her!" ,^-f1' 
Silvera's eyes were black and brooding. In this neighborhood, he knew, any of 
a5,,,I" dozen terrible things could've happened to Merida Santos-kidnapping, 
rape, ť*$* murder. ... He refused to think about that. "Merida's a good girl. I 
can't imagine *;'j! her running away from home. Still, if you say she's 
pregnant, she may be afraid to |** face her mother." . f / 
ti ^ 
"Who wouldn't be? She tried to chop me up with a butcher knife."" '"J "That was 
yesterday afternoon?" '' * Rico nodded. "Then maybe Merida's come home since 
then? Maybe she just stayed away 
from home overnight because she was afraid to tell her mother she was pregnant?" 
"Maybe. I thought about calling the missing persons cops again and saying I 
was Merida's father or uncle, but you know what that bastardo told me? He said 
they were too busy to hunt down every little girl who decided to run away from 
the 
barrio. Busy doin' what? Ain't that a load of shit?" He stopped abruptly. "Oh. 
Sorry, 
Father." 
"That's all right. I agree. It is a load of shit. But why don't we go see Mrs. 
Santos 
together? Maybe Merida's come home by now, or Mrs. Santos might talk to me 
more freely than she would you." Silvera rose to his feet. 
"I love her, Father," Rico said as he stood up. "I want you to know that." 
"That may be, Rico. But I don't think you love her enough, do you?" 
Rico felt speared with guilt. Silvera's eyes were like hard bits of black glass, 

151 
ifŤH 
152 
reflecting the secrets of Rico's soul back at him. He was shamed to silence. 
"All right," Silvera said, and clapped Rico softly on the shoulder. "Let's go." 
SIX 
"Here's what we got," Sully Reece said as he laid a thick sheaf of white blue- 
lined computer printout paper amid the general disarray on Palatazin's desk. 
"The people down in Vehicle I.D. are going crazy, but they're sending their 
computers back through the whole list of plate numbers again just in case it 
missed any the first time, which Taylor says is highly unlikely. As you can see, 
there are quite a few people in L.A. who drive a gray, white, or light blue 
Volks bearing a two, a seven, and a 'T' in some numerical combination." 
"My God," Palatazin said as he unfolded the list. "I never knew there were so 
many Volkswagens in the whole state!" 
"That's every combination the computers could come up with." 
Palatazin bit down on his pipe. "Of course, he could be driving with a stolen 
license plate." 
"Don't even think it, please. If that's the case, then you can just about triple 
the number of plates listed on that printout. And if that chick was wrong about 
even one digit, then the whole thing's screwed." 
"Well, let's hope she wasn't." He glanced down the list, which contained a few 
hundred names and addresses. "These are grouped by area?" 
"Yes, sir. Taylor thought the computers were going to blow up, but he programmed 
them to give us our information on the basis of twenty major areas. The first 
twenty-five or so addresses, for instance, are located in a grid from Fairfax 
Avenue to Alvarado Street." 
"Fine. That makes it a little easier for the officers." Palatazin counted down 
twenty-eight names and tore them off the list. "Split whoever's available up 
into teams, Sully, and hand out as many of those names as you can. You and I 
will be taking these." 
"Yes, sir. Oh, have you seen this?" He held up the morning edition of the Times. 
There on the front page in a black-bordered box under a headline that read "Do 
You Know This Man?" was the composite of the face they were seeking. "That 
should do some good." 
Palatazin took the paper and laid it out on his desk. "I hope so. It's flashed 
through my mind that this man might be an insurance agent from Glendale-a wife, 
two children, and a cat-who likes a bit of action on the side. If that's the 
case, then we're back at square one." He looked up suddenly, as if he'd heard 
something, and stared intensely past Reece into the corner. 
"Captain?" Reece asked after a few seconds. He glanced over his shoulder- 
nothing there, of course. But nevertheless he felt a chill ripple between his 
shoulder blades, as if he sensed someone standing right behind him. 
153 pw 
THEY THIRST 
Palatazin blinked and looked away, forcing himself to stare down at the list of 
names and addresses. Garvin, Kelly, Vaughan ... he thought he'd seen something 
begin to stir in that corner . . . Mehta, Salvatore, Ho ... where the apparition 
of his mother had stood yesterday afternoon . . . Emiliana, Lopez, Carlyle . . . 
but before he could focus on it, the faint movement like the sluggish motion of 
ripples through muddy water had ceased. He glanced quickly up at Reece. "What... 
uh ... about that other thing I asked you to look into?" 
"Not much luck there. There's nothing you can buy over the counter that would 
cause the effect we're looking for. One of the pharmacists I talked to said 
airplane glue might smell like that and make you pretty drunk if you were to 
inhale)% a concentrated dose of it, but it wouldn't put you under right off. The 
same with (I" , some of the ant and roach sprays on the market. Even hair 
spray." 'I - i* 
"No, I don't think that's what we want. Maybe our friend knows a druggistHlt 4, 
who's making him something special?" He dared to glance into that corner again. 
'I '|^( Nothing there, nothing at all. Ť""I"") 
"Possibly. Another guy told me there used to be a salve you could buy that had' 
""*Ť'{ a chloroform base. A couple of good whiffs and you were on your ass. But 
it's not ***"J sold anymore." fj"" *]} 
Palatazin frowned. "We could be ... what's the saying? Singing in the 
dark."<"**""j 
"Whistling in the dark," Reece corrected him. He took the rest of the 
printoutŤ"<;;.! and went to the door. "I'll get these distributed. You eating 
lunch today?" UŤ
"From home." He motioned toward a paper sack half buried in file folders on[,. 
his desk. j""''). 
"Well, it's about that time. Bon appetit!"^ 
"Thank you." Palatazin looked down the rest of his list. He was certain many 
of^' these addresses would no longer be accurate. Some of these people would be 
L,ťimpossible to find, some would probably have sold their cars. Regardless, the 
task /- jr"' had to be done, he had nothing else to go on. He put the list aside 
for the moment, ,"'" reaching for his lunch and the Times Sully had left. Jo had 
made a ham salad ^ sandwich for him today; there was a dill pickle, a nice red 
apple, and a can of V-8 juice. He knew his stomach would be roaring an hour 
after he finished eating, but he'd promised Jo he'd try to stick to his diet for 
a while. Last week he'd found himself slipping, sending out for chocolate-cream 
doughnuts in the middle of the afternoon. 
He looked again to the corner-nothing there, of course ... if there ever had 
been. He turned and opened his blinds, then began to eat his sandwich while he 
paged through the paper. It took him about fifteen minutes to reach page eleven, 
and when he did, the headline "Vandals Hit Highland Park Cemetery" jumped out at 
him. He read through the story twice, his heart beginning to beat like a 
blacksmith's hammer. Then he rummaged through a drawer for a pair of scissors 
and carefully cut out the article. In the middle of scissoring he remembered his 
mother holding a pair of scissors, too, going through the Times and the 
Herald-Examiner and the National Enquirer, the Tattler and the Star and Fate 
magazine and a dozen 
154 
others, searching for articles she would clip and put away in a little metal box 
that now sat on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. He had brought it back to 
the house from Golden Garden after his mother had died. He read the story over 
once more, folded it, and put it in his shirt pocket. His temples ached with 
dull thunder; his stomach turned over when he glanced at his half-eaten lunch. 
Because now he knew that they were here. Hiding in a city of over eight million, 
half the globe and many worlds away from Krajeck, Hungary. Lurking in the 
darkness, walking the streets and boulevards of Los Angeles in human shape, 
ripping through the city's cemeteries in search of-My God, he thought, a shiver 
almost splitting him in two. What is to be done? 
Who would believe before it was too late? Because one of their greatest 
strengths, the strength that had kept them existing in a world that had come 
from ox cart to Cadillac and from slingshot to laser beam, was lack of belief in 
their existence. "Rational" thought was their shield of invisibility, because 
they stalked the land of nightmare fears. 
What is to be done? Palatazin asked himself, panic bubbling like a cauldron's 
brew in the pit of his stomach. 
There was a knock at his door, and Lieutenant Reece looked in. "Captain? The 
teams are organized. We're ready to move." 
"Huh? Oh, yes. Of course." He stood up, shrugged into his coat, and took the 
list of addresses from his desk. 
"Captain, are you all right?" Reece asked. 
Palatazin nodded brusquely. "I'm fine." What is to be done? When he looked up 
into the other man's face, he saw that Recce's eyes looked concerned. Now he 
thinks I'm cracking, too, Palatazin thought, and then he heard the dark answer 
in his brain, Well? Aren't you? Reece turned away, and Palatazin followed him 
out. 
SEVEN 
The building cast a deep shadow along Dos Terros Street. In front of it, half up 
the curb, was a rust-eaten old Ford standing on two flat shoes and two cement 
blocks. Overhead lines of clothes, stirred by a dusty breeze, hung from windows. 
As Father Silvera stepped out of Rico Esteban's car, he saw a shirt break loose 
from one of these clotheslines and flutter to the earth, arms waving in eerie 
futility. 
On the front steps a thin brown mongrel dog was sleeping, head resting on its 
paws. Rico stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the building. Several of the 
windows were open, but no faces peered down from them. "Mrs. Santos lives on the 
fifth floor, doesn't she?" Silvera asked as he went up the steps. "Right. Fifth 
floor, Apartment D. Hey . . ." Silvera, halfway up the steps, turned toward him. 
"What is it?" Rico stared at the building. "I ... don't know. Something's 
funny." "Come on." Silvera took another step, and the dog's head instantly rose. 
Its 
155 
eyes flared like bits of burning topaz. Rico said, "Father . . ." The dog stood 
up, turned to face the men, and bared its teeth with a low, throaty growl. 
Silvera froze. 
"Kick that damned mutt," Rico said, coming up to stand beside the priest. When 
Silvera didn't move, he kicked out toward the dog's side, but the mongrel simply 
dodged him, then stood its ground, the growl deeper and full of menace. "Get out 
of here!" he said. "Get away!" 
"Whose dog is this?" Silvera asked. Rico shrugged. When the priest moved forward 
again, the dog crouched down in front of the door, ready to leap. "Whoever he 
belongs to, he doesn't want us to go inside, does he? I think I'd rather try 
another door than risk having my leg chewed off." 
"Ah, you shit!" Rico muttered to the dog, and spat at it. The dog didn't move. 
Silvera was already at the alley beside the building, and Rico gave up after 
another moment to follow him. 
They found a locked door that led down into the basement. Silvera was about to 
go around to the rear when Rico kicked at the basement door, splitting the 
rotten wood. The door sagged on its hinges. Silvera gave him a grave stare, but 
Rico shrugged and said, "Here's our way in, Father." He stepped into the musty, 
low- ceilinged basement. 
It was almost totally dark inside, but in the murky light from the open doorway 
Silvera saw vague shapes-a tattered sofa lying on its side like a gutted hog, a 
couple of chair frames without cushions or backs, the shell of a television set, 
mounds of papers, and what looked like some rolled-up rugs and shower curtains. 
Cigarette butts and beer cans littered the floor. Rico and Silvera climbed a 
rickety wooden stairway to another door, opened it, and found themselves in the 
building's"*""", ' entrance hall. They could still see the dog crouched on the 
steps, but the closed door stood between them. Now the dog seemed to be sleeping 
again. I * 
They left the first floor and began climbing up, their shoes making the frail(, 
' stairs whine. They had passed the second floor landing when Rico realized what 
' i; was making the flesh on the back of his neck crawl-the place was as silent 
as <: a tomb. 
"It's quiet in here," the priest said at almost the same instant. His voice 
echoed along the corridor. "How many people live in this building?" 
"I don't know. Maybe fifty or sixty. Christ, just yesterday there was so much 
noise in here you couldn't think straight! Babies cryin', radios, people 
fighting . . ." He looked at the stairs that lay ahead. "Christ, where is 
everybody?" 
In the third floor corridor Silvera knocked at a door that had "Diego" scrawled 
across it in green spray paint. The unlocked door creaked open a few inches, and 
Silvera peered inside. "Diego?" Silvera called out. "You home, man?" A table had 
been thrown over, and on the wooden floor flies crawled over the food that 
spilled from plates and glasses. Silvera felt his heart pound. 
"Wait a minute," he said to Rico, stepping into the apartment. Newspapers had 
been jammed in around the windowsills and stretched over the glass; the sunlight 

155 
Ťi V ,1 I 
L'* 
 '* 
,!*< 'll( 
,.Hi 
,i 
156 
was cut to a hazy murk. There was an unmade bed and a door leading to a 
bathroom. Silvera peered in and found himself staring at the shower curtain rod. 
It was bent, and several of the hooks lay scattered on the floor. The curtain 
itself was gone. When Silvera turned, Rico was standing right behind him. 
"The apartment across the hall's open, too," Rico said. "There's nobody inside." 

Silvera stepped past Rico and looked at the overturned table. "Diego was here, 
last night at least. That looks like what he must've been eating for dinner." He 
glanced at the newspaper-covered windows. "This place is already dark enough. 
Why did he try to cut the light?" He went out into the corridor and tried a few 
more doors; all of them were unlocked, the apartments empty but showing signs of 
recent life-cigarettes and cigars in ashtrays, dishes in sinks or on the tables, 
clothes hanging in closets. A few doors had been broken open, the wood 
splintered around the locks. Several of them had scratches imbedded deep in the 
wood, as if made by an animal's claws. 
"Anybody here?" Rico shouted at the stairway. His voice rolled on through the 
building and was unanswered. He stared at the priest, his face paled by fear. 
"We go up," Silvera said, and started climbing the stairs again. The fourth 
floor hallway was as quiet as all the others. Rico could see doors standing 
open, and in the dim light he could make out the same deep scratches that they 
had seen downstairs. 
Just above the fourth floor landing, Silvera stopped, his eyes wide, staring at 
the walls. New graffiti covered the old-HOTSHOT WAS HERE. VIPERS ARE KINGS. ZEKE 
SUX (HA HA). ALL FOR THE MASTER, BURN BABY BURN. Silvera reached out and touched 
the brown letters. "My God," he heard himself say, his voice hollow, as if he 
were speaking from the bottom of a well. "That's blood!" He continued upward, 
his senses coiled like a culebra de cascabel. For now his nerves were vibrating 
with the presence of something he'd felt a thousand times before-in a jail cell 
where two heroin addicts cut each other to pieces with razor blades; in a 
suffocatingly hot room where a drunken father had just beaten his three-year-old 
son to death with a baseball bat; in the smoldering, corpse-strewn ruins of a 
tenement razed by the arsonist's match; in the greedy eyes of Cicero, the dealer 
of demonic dreams. That presence was Evil, and now Silvera felt it as he never 
had before, so strong it was a tangible thing that clung to the walls, holding 
the odor of blood and brimstone. His heart was pumping hard, and before he 
reached the fifth floor he could feel the twitching-fibrillations, the doctors 
called them-begin deep in his hands. 
The fifth floor corridor stretched out before them. Rico looked in through one 
of the open doors. The place was a wreck, and bits of a shattered mirror 
glittered on the floor like dusty diamonds. Silvera moved on ahead of him toward 
the Santos apartment and was about to push open the door-scratches, he thought, 
there are scratches in this wood-when something crashed violently behind a 
closed door on the opposite side of the hallway. 
"What the shit was that?" Rico said, twisting around. 
157 
Silvera crossed the hall and put his hand on the doorknob. He paused for a 
moment, listening. From the apartment he could hear a muffled thump, thump that 
was unlike anything he could identify. Then there was silence. "Who's there?" 
Silvera called out. But there was no answer. He started to push the door open. 
"Father!" Rico said. "Don't . . .!" 
But then Silvera started across the threshold, and something dark came flying 
into his face from the ceiling. He cried out, feeling a claw graze his cheek, 
and threw his hands up before his face. The thing tangled in his hair, then 
whirled off over his head like a swooping gray leaf. Silvera spun around to 
watch it hit the corridor ceiling with that muffled thumping noise; it flew over 
Rico's head and disappeared into shadows at the far end of the hallway."''**" 
Silvera was shaken, but he felt like exploding with nervous laughter. A pigeon, 
he thought. I was frightened by a single pigeon. He looked back into the 
apartment and immediately saw the broken window where the thing must've flown 
in, on the floor a broken bottle and knick-knacks spilled from a shelf that the 
pigeon had probably collided with. He went into the apartment, his hands shaking 
badly now-he wondered how he was going to keep Rico from seeing-and checked the 
bathroom. A mirror had been smashed, and Silvera stared at himself through a 
series of concentric cracks. Again he noted that the shower curtain was gone. 
The"H'-* rod itself had been ripped out of the wall. 
Across the hallway Rico was slowly pushing open the door to Mrs. Santos'sif.,)1. 
apartment. He stood at the threshold and called out her name, but of course 
there ['^ ) was no answer, and neither had he been expecting one. It was just 
that he wanted *'""| to hear a voice in this place, something human in this 
silent vault. He stepped into the apartment, his heartbeat racing. A sheen of 
sweat clung to his face. He walked across the room and looked into the small, 
darkened bedroom. It was sweltering, j! * the air hanging in heavy layers. Rico 
saw that the sheets had been torn off the bed. *ť He felt the hair rise on the 
back of his neck suddenly and didn't know why. Quickly *;,', he left the bedroom 
and went back out to the hall. ' 
Father Silvera had stepped into another room farther along the corridor. In''' 
this apartment he found an empty cradle with several spots of blood on the 
infant's pillow. When he stepped into the bedroom, he immediately froze. On the 
wall over the bare bed, written in blood, was ALL FOR THE MASTER. Newspapers 
were jammed over the single window, reducing the light to a pale, smoky haze. 
Silvera ripped them away. The light immediately strengthened, and he opened the 
window for some fresh air. 
And then something moved in the room-a bare whisper of a movement that made 
Silvera twist around from the window. But no one was there. The bedroom was 
empty. He listened, ignoring the increased muscle fibrillations that ran through 
his hands, making his fingers twitch like claws. Again that noise, somewhere 
close. A sliding cloth-on-cloth sound. He stared at the mattress. No sheets. 
Where are they? he wondered. Did these people leave their homes and belongings, 
taking with them only sheets and cheap plastic shower curtains? 
158 159 
dead trees. The legs pushed frantically, and in another moment the two figures 
had squirmed back underneath the bed. They gave a couple of convulsive twitches 
and lay still. 
Rico's face had gone almost as white as Joe Vega's. He turned and stumbled over 
his own feet trying to get out to the corridor. Silvera came out, walking 
unsteadily. "Let's get out of here, Father! Let's call the cops!" Rico pleaded. 
"Did you look for Mrs. Santos?" 
"Yeah. There's nothing in there. . . ." 
"Were the sheets on the bed?" 
Rico went cold. "Sheets? No. But Christ, Father, don't go back in there!" 
Silvera stepped into the apartment. He forced himself to look under the bed, but 
there was nothing there. He crossed the room to a closet, gripped the knob, and 
opened it. At the bottom there was a pile of old newspapers and clothes. Silvera 
stared at it for a few seconds, then probed it with his foot. 
Something moved, shifting uneasily. 
He slammed the door shut and hurried out to where Rico, his face a shade between 
white and green, waited. "All right," Silvera said. "Now we go for the police." 
EIGHT 
Palatazin and Reece came out of an apartment building on Malabar Street in Boyle 
Heights trailed by an elderly black man with a gnarled walking stick. The man's 
name was Herbert Vaughan, he was a retired L.A. police officer, and he owned a 
light gray 72 Volkswagen Beetle with license plate 205 AVT. 
"You know Captain Dexter?" he asked Palatazin when they'd reached the dark blue 
car with the municipal tag parked in front of the building. 
"Will Dexter? Yes sir, I did know him, but he retired about six years ago." 
"Oh, Captain Dexter retired? He was a fine man, a real fine man. He could find 
this Roach fella for you if you got him out of retirement." The man's eyes 
snapped from Reece to Palatazin. 
"I'm sure he could, Mr. Vaughan. He did a good job on the Chinatown killings 
back in 71." 
"Uh-huh. Sure did. And I'll tell you what, Will Dexter could catch the 
Gravedigger, too. Could find that fella fast as you could say 'Jack Robinson.'" 
"The Gravedigger?" Reece said. "Who's that, Mr. Vaughan?" 
"Don't you boys keep up with anything anymore?" He cracked his stick impatiently 
down on the sidewalk. "It was in the Tattler this morning! The Gravedigger! That 
fella who's been going' through cemeteries and makin' off with the caskets! Ha! 
That kind of shit didn't go on when I was on the force, I'm here to tell you!" 
"The Tattler?" Palatazin said softly. "This morning?" 
"Son, have you got wax in your ears? That's what I said. What kind of accent 
have you got? Italian?" 
160 
"Hungarian. Thank you for talking with us, Mr. Vaughan." Palatazin went around 
the car and slid in under the steering wheel. Reece climbed in, but Mr. Vaughan 
shuffled forward and gripped the door handle before Reece could close it. "You 
get Cap Dexter out of retirement, you hear? He'll find the Roach for you, and 
he'll put that Gravedigger in the nut house, where he belongs!" 
"Thank you, Mr. Vaughan," Reece said, and gently closed the door. As they drove 
away Palatazin glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the old man leaning on his 
cane, watching them drive out of sight. 
"Who's next?" Reece asked. 
Palatazin checked his list. "A. Mehta, 4517-D, Arizona Avenue in East L.A. 
That's a white Volks with the plate 253 BTA. I hope the other men are having 
better luck than we are." He waited for a light to change and then turned right 
on Whittier Boulevard. He'd gone almost a block when an ambulance screamed up 
from behind. Immediately he swerved to the curb; the ambulance, white and orange 
lights flashing, careened through traffic and on out of sight. 
"Gravedigger," Reece said quietly, and smiled. "Christ! This city's full of 
nuts, isn't it? If it's not Roach, it's the Gravedigger, and if not him, it'll 
always be someone else tomorrow." 
"Remind me to find a Tattler on the way in. I'd like to read that story." 
"I didn't think you were a fan of that rag." 
"I'm not. But Mr. Vaughan's right-we have to keep up with things, don't we?" In 
the distance he heard the shriek of another siren. He could look down the side 
streets off Whittier Boulevard and see a smoky haze hanging in the afternoon 
sunlight between buildings that looked like bombed-out hulks. He didn't often 
come into the poor black and Spanish sections of Boyle Heights, East L.A., and 
Belvedere Gardens. There were detectives, though, who'd been trained especially 
in dealing with the barrio population, and in many instances riot situations had 
been defused by a detective or a beat officer who'd been accepted into the 
barrio's fold. All others were estranos, strangers not to be trusted. 
Reece glanced over at Palatazin, then back to the street. "Any particular reason 
you wanted to hit the street yourself on this one, captain? You could just as 
easily have handled it from the office." 
"No, I wanted to get out of there for a while. I'm getting fat and lazy sitting 
around telling other people what to do. That's the trouble with promotions, 
Sully. You're rewarded for what you do best by being shoved upstairs to let 
younger men do the legwork. Of course, if what you do best is the legwork, then 
. . . well..." He shrugged. What he did not say was that he was becoming fearful 
of his own office, of the shadows and shapes he was beginning to think he saw 
within those four walls. 
At the next intersection a third ambulance shrieked across, heading south. 
"Wonder what's going on?" Reece said. 
Their radio, which had been humming with codes and locations all across the 
city, suddenly came to urgent life. The dispatcher's voice sounded loud in the 
161 
closed vehicle-"All cars vicinity of Caliente and Dos Terros streets, East Los 
Angeles, see the senior officer at 1212 Dos Terros." The message was repeated, 
and then voices from various cars confirming. 
"That sounds hot," Reece said. He motioned toward the next street sign. 
"Caliente's coming up." 
Palatazin's heartbeat quickened. A black and white roared past them, siren 
wailing, and turned left on Caliente with a screech of tires. "Let's see what's 
going on," Palatazin said. He swerved through traffic and raced after the prowl 
car as Reece hit the siren and clamped the flashing Magneto light to the car's 
top. 
For a few minutes they wound through an area of narrow, potholed streets and 
crumbling tenements, until they came to a street that was already being 
cordoned'""^ off by a couple of uniformed officers. The prowl car was permitted 
to sweep on Ť* through. Palatazin applied the brakes and showed them his badge. 
IL *L 
"What's happening?" he asked one of the cops.'' j"*^ 
"No one's certain yet, captain," the officer said. "They're bringing a lot of , 
|'~j corpses out of that building over there, but. . . well, you'll have to see 
for yourself, <' < "*l sir."ťŤ"*"'"' 
"Who's senior officer?"U" "J; 
"Sergeant Teal. I believe he's inside."*">'*' 
Palatazin nodded and drove through. People were clustered around the 
stairs*Ť";;,f of a tenement in the middle of the block, and the police were 
trying to push them |i,,i'^' back behind sawhorse cordons. Four prowl cars were 
parked at different angles in ].,,,v' the street with their lights spinning, and 
there were two ambulances parked close j '^,, to the stairs. Palatazin whipped 
the car to the opposite curb and jumped out. ^ J<ťReece followed him across the 
street, and when they reached the stairway, they ,/^C 
ii****** 
saw two white-uniformed ambulance attendants bringing down a stretcher with 
a'ť,ť woman's body on it. The white sheet pulled up to her chin matched the 
color of ** /) her flesh. From where he stood Palatazin caught a brief glimpse 
of those eyes ,">> staring through the closed lids. A shiver of horror went 
through the crowd of '/' onlookers. The body began writhing in the sheet, the 
face contorting hideously, but no sound came from its mouth. The body was loaded 
into one of the waiting ambulances. 
"I thought these were supposed to be corpses," Reece said, watching the 
ambulance wheel away. "God, what was wrong with that woman's eyes?" 
Palatazin was already moving up the stairs. He flashed his badge at the officer 
at the door. "Where's Sergeant Teal?" 
"Third floor, captain." 
He started to ascend the stairway, but suddenly his attention was caught by a 
small yellow form shoved in a corner of the entrance hall. It was a dead dog. 
The teeth were bared; there was a bullet hole in the skull. Palatazin climbed 
the stairs, stepping aside as another stretcher was brought down, the pallid 
"corpse" twitching beneath the sheet. The hair rose on the back of his neck as 
he sensed the cold waves radiated by this thing. The dead eyes grazed his own. 
He turned away from 
162 
it, bile raging in his stomach, and continued upward. 
In a third-floor apartment Palatazin found Sergeant Teal-a large, curly-haired 
man with the physique of an ex-UCLA linebacker. He was talking to two Chicanes 
-an older man wearing a starched priest's collar and a boy whose eyes looked 
dazed and sick. Palatazin approached Teal and showed his badge. "Sergeant Teal? 
What's the situation here?" 
The other man motioned Palatazin away from the two Chicanos. Palatazin's shoes 
crunched over bits of glass. He looked down to see the remnants of a broken 
mirror. Yes, he thought, suddenly calm and resolute. Yes. They've been here. 
"Those two over there, Father Ramon Silvera and Rico Esteban, found the first 
bodies. So far we've pulled thirty-nine of them out of closets and from under 
beds. They were all rolled up in shower curtains, rugs, and sheets. Thirty-nine 
of them." Teal's clear blue eyes were full of sick confusion. He lowered his 
voice. "You're going to think this is crazy, captain, but . . ." 
"Go on." 
"Well, I don't know whether to classify these bodies as corpses or not. Oh sure, 
they move a little bit, but it all seems to be muscle reflex, like some trick of 
rigor mortis. The hell of it is ... the bodies don't have heartbeats or pulse 
rates. I mean . . . technically they're dead, aren't they?" 
Palatazin closed his eyes for a few seconds, his hand coming up to his forehead. 

"Sir?" Teal said. "They are dead, aren't they?" 
"Any wounds on the bodies?" 
"I've just looked closely at a couple of them. I saw some cuts and bruises. 
That's about it." 
"No," Palatazin said quietly. Another stretcher passed the door. "That's not 
all." 
"Sir?" 
"Nothing. I'm thinking out loud. Where are the bodies being taken?" 
"Uh . . ." He looked down at a notepad in his hand. "Mercy Hospital in Monterey 
Park. That's the nearest, and they've got the facilities to handle this mess." 
He paused for a few seconds, watching Palatazin's face. "What's wrong with these 
people, captain? Could it be ... like ... a disease or something?" 
"If you think that, Teal, keep it to yourself. We don't want the neighborhood 
panicking worse than it probably has already. Did Mercy send a doctor over?" 
"Yes sir. Dr. Delgado. She's upstairs right now." 
"Okay, fine. Will you give me a few minutes alone with these two?" He motioned 
toward the priest and the boy across the room. Teal nodded and went out, closing 
the door behind him. Palatazin kicked at the shards of glass, glanced quickly 
around the apartment, and then returned his gaze to the priest, who seemed to be 
in better shape than the boy. Except for one thing-his hands were trembling, 
clenching and unclenching. A nervous reaction? Palatazin wondered. Or something 
else? He introduced himself to the two men. "Sergeant Teal tells me you two 
found the first bodies. What time was that?" 
"About one-thirty," the priest said. "We've told all this to the other 
officers." 
163 
"Yes, yes, I know." Palatazin waved a hand at him to quiet his objections. He 
walked past them and peered into the dim bedroom, noting the newspapers covering 
the windows. There was another shattered mirror in the bathroom. He came back 
out. "What do you think happened here, Father?" he asked the priest. 
Silvera narrowed his eyes; the slight quaver in the policeman's voice put him on 
edge. "I have no idea. Rico and I came looking for Mrs. Santos, who lives... 
lived on the fifth floor. We found the building just as it is now." 
"I want to get out of here," Rico said quietly. "I can't stand being in this 
place anymore." 
* 
n* 
"A little longer, okay?" Palatazin said. He looked back to Silvera. "You saw the 
bodies. Tell me. Are they dead or alive?"";*'"", "Dead," Rico said. Ť',!- 
Silvera took a while longer in answering. "I don't know," he said finally. "No 
r,?L heartbeat, no pulse . . . and yet they move . . ." '"""|* "Sergeant Teal 
tells me thirty-nine bodies have been found. How many people O lived in this 
building?" i'-< "Sixty or seventy, at least." ťŤŤ'ť^ "But not all of the 
apartments were occupied?" / "Jt Silvera shook his head. *l''#' "All right. 
Thank you." Palatazin turned and started for the door, but Silvera's .,"Ť* 
voice stopped him. "What's happened to these people, officer? What kind of thing 
L,^ did this to them?" JjS' He almost answered, almost said the terrible word, 
but fear gripped his throat ŤJ |J(. and squeezed it. He left the room without 
another word and stood outside, ,,.. 
ilJliW" ,jf 
clutching at the stairway railing like a man on a heaving ship in a world that 
had ^vx; suddenly tilted crazily on its axis and begun to spin backward in time. 
He was only j '^t* dimly aware of someone-no, two people-coming along the 
corridor toward him. *,., /] When he looked up, he saw that it was Teal and a 
middle-aged Chicano woman \ with haggard circles under her eyes. "Captain?" Teal 
said. "This is Dr. Delgado." 
The woman extended her hand, and Palatazin shook it. Another body wasli'*'"* 
carried past them through the corridor, and Palatazin cringed at the sight of 
those staring eyes. "Captain, to be perfectly honest with you, I don't know what 
in the name of God we have here," Dr. Delgado said in a soft, weary voice. 
"These are not corpses technically, yet there are no outward signs of life; no 
rigor mortis is setting in, and no fluids are collecting in the intestines or 
extremities. I pricked the finger of one of them, and do you know what came out? 
Absolutely nothing. The body was drained dry. I don't know about the others, but 
that body was totally bloodless. And yet when the ambulance attendants were 
strapping it to a stretcher, the body-what should've been a corpse-moved." 
"Jesus!" Teal said, his eyes icy blue circles. 
"As I say, I don't know what we have. I may not want to know, but that's my 
profession. One of my colleagues at Mercy, Dr. Steiner, is on his way over right 
now. Possibly he can help . . ." 
164 
"Nothing can help," Palatazin said suddenly, and realized it was all about to 
pour out, all of it like bile flowing up from the secret pit of terror, and he 
was going to be unable to stop it. He clenched his teeth, his eyes widening, but 
the torrent of words forced them apart. "It's too late, nothing can help. We've 
got to ... got to leave all of them inside here and burn this building to the 
ground right now before the sun goes down! Then we've got to scatter . . . 
scatter the ashes and pour holy water on the ruins!" He looked from Teal to 
Delgado and back again-they were too shocked to speak. The priest and the boy 
were standing in the doorway of that room, watching him, as was a uniformed 
officer farther along the corridor who stood staring at Palatazin in amazement. 
"What are you all looking at?" Palatazin shrieked, and felt something give way, 
like timbers exposed too long to vicious weather. "You've seen the bodies! 
You've seen what they can do! They can sweep through a whole building in less 
than one night! What will they do soon to whole streets? Neighborhoods?" He 
trembled, and a voice within him roared "STOP," but he couldn't stop, he had no 
power now over the words tumbling from his mouth. Cold beads of sweat had popped 
up on his face, and the only sound in the entire building was his voice. "We can 
burn this building to the ground and kill some of them, because when these . . . 
when these wake up they're going to be thirsty, too!" He looked at Dr. Delgado, 
the raging fear in his eyes completely exposed. "You can't take them to Mercy 
Hospital! You can't let them get out into the streets!" 
Someone gripped his shoulder. He spun around, panting. 
Sully, his expression grave, said quietly, "Captain, come on with me. Let's get 
some fresh air, okay?" 
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" He jerked free and shoved Sully away. His gaze fell upon the 
priest. "You! You of all people should realize the evil that's creeping up on 
this city! God in heaven, can't you feel it in here? Tell them not to let these 
things wake up tonight!" 
Silvera glanced quickly at Teal and then back to the police captain. He felt he 
was on the verge of madness himself, split between a shudder and a scream. Of 
course he felt the evil; it was everywhere in this place, like viscous mist, but 
what was this man saying? 
"Father," Palatazin said, and in his voice there was now something of a 
terrified nine-year-old boy. "Please don't let the vampir loose on the streets! 
Tell them we have to burn the bodies!" 
Vampir? Silvera thought. The word struck him in the chest like a sledgehammer 
blow, Vampire? 
And then Palatazin was suddenly drained, like a bottle whose contents had just 
spilled all over the floor. He blinked, looked around, and then staggered back 
against the railing. Sully and Teal both rushed forward to prevent him from 
falling. Palatazin's face was ashen, the sweat glittering on his cheeks and 
forehead. As Sully was helping him down the stairs, Palatazin lifted his head 
and looked back at Dr. Delgado. "Don't take them to the hospital," he said in a 
hoarse whisper. "Burn 
165 
them. Burn them." His head slumped forward. 
"Come on, captain, take it easy," Sully said. "Watch that step now. That's 
right, real easy." 
"Can I go now?" Rico asked Teal. 
"Yeah, sure. But I may be talking to you again." 
Rico nodded and hurried away without looking back. On the stairs he gave a wide 
berth to that big crazy cop, then moved past the dog the cops had had to kill 
because the damned thing wouldn't let them into the doorway. 
"What are you going to do with them?" Silvera asked Dr. Delgado when the boy had 
gone. He was visibly pale and shaken, his hands twitching out of control, the 
fibrillations in his wrists now as well.:>*' 
Mi' 
"They're going to Mercy, of course. Probably an isolation ward until we can 
...",, , 
She dropped her gaze to his sides and stared. "How long have you . . .?" she 
asked/ *Ł
softly.'|*j "It started about three months ago," he replied. "It's getting worse 
all the time." Jť] "You've seen a doctor?" Z* "I'm seeing Dr. Doran at County 
General." ,.(,J The full impact of that took a moment to sink in. Dr. Delgado 
said, "Doran? s 
Isn't he a specialist in muscular atrophy?";;;*'!'." "That's right." He held up 
his hands and smiled grimly. "Very nice, si? They tell ŤŤ
me it's what Lou Gehrig had."i'J>,J "Gehrig's disease?" she said softly. She 
knew immediately what that meant- 
this broad-shouldered, healthy-looking man would be dead in two to five years. 
"I'm 
sorry." 
"Dr. Doran's sentiments exactly. Now I'll leave you to your work." He 
moved'^i;^;* 
past her, went down the stairs, and was gone.'*,. 
*'il (' \ 
NINE 
Afternoon grayed into evening, and slowly the night approached from the east. 
Winds stirred lazily across the Mojave Desert and chilled as they swirled across 
the mountains into L.A. A slight tremor broke a few windows on Rodeo Drive, and 
made burglar alarms scream. After nightfall dogs began to howl in the 
hills-their music eerie and compelling, and pleasing to twice as many as had 
listened the night before. 
And in the sky, caught only briefly by shopping center spotlights or the bright 
glow from Sunset Boulevard billboards advertising new albums by the Stones, 
Cheap Trick, and Rory Black, the bats that had come from their mountain caves 
spun like a whirlwind of dark leaves. 
165 
. Ť<" **' 
,Ť
166 
Gayle Clarke turned off Lexington Avenue into the parking lot of the Sandalwood 
Apartments, and immediately saw Jack Kidd's airbrushed van in its usual place. 
So, she thought, where have you been hiding? I sure could've used some pictures 
at Ramona Heights today! She pulled up beside the van and left her car, walking 
across the courtyard with its green-spotlighted palm trees. Though the lot was 
almost full, she noticed now that the apartments were dark. She reached Jack's 
door and saw that his apartment was also dark. Maybe he's gone out of town with 
friends? she wondered. Where would he go? With the Greenpeace people maybe? 
Promoting his film somewhere? If that was the case, Trace was going to hit the 
roof. Gayle found the key to Jack's door on her key chain and was about to slip 
it into the lock when she realized that the door was already cracked open about 
two inches. Now that, she thought, is strange. Jack doesn't trust people enough 
to leave his apartment door open. She pushed it wider and called out, "Jack? You 
home?" When there was no answer, she frowned, stepped into the dark room, and 
felt along the wall until she found the light switch. 
The living room coffee table was overturned, and on the floor was a candle in a 
puddle of wax, a broken Bong pipe, and a couple of books on Ansel Adams and 
David Hume Kennedy. "Jack?" Gayle called out again, and then moved through the 
hallway toward his bedroom. The door was closed, and Gayle paused a few seconds, 
wondering what to do. The silence was thick and ominous; it reminded her of the 
silence at Ramona Heights Cemetery in the wake of what had been done the night 
before. She'd remembered the faces of the policemen out there; they'd been 
prepared to list it as just another case of vandalism, but when they'd seen 
those bones scattered in the warm morning sunlight, their faces had turned 
alternately pale and greenish, and Gayle had overheard several of them 
speculating that a satanic cult must be planning something really big, or some 
maniac like Manson was on the loose and doing this for kicks. 
Good material for her story. 
She opened the bedroom door and reached around for the light switch. 
Something grabbed her hand and yanked at it; pain exploded across her knuckles 
and up her wrist. She screamed and wrenched her hand back. It was covered with 
blood. 
And through the half-opened door came a crouching figure that stared at her with 
cold, hungry eyes. It was Jack's dog, and when it snarled Gayle could see her 
blood flecking the animal's teeth. She stepped away from the thing, backing into 
the wall. Two of Jack's framed photographs clattered to the floor. 
Conan advanced, stalking her as he would a rabbit. The dog was hunched low to 
the floor, its back legs ready for the leap that would send his teeth directly 
at her throat. Gayle took her handbag from around her shoulder and-slowly, very 
slowly 
167 
-coiled the strap around her uninjured wrist. She hoped that when the dog did 
leap, she could strike it in the face; although she didn't carry much makeup, 
she did have a book in there, as well as a wallet bulging with photos and credit 
cards. Clout, she thought suddenly. I'm carrying clout. She looked quickly to 
her side along the hallway to the living room and wondered whether she could 
beat the dog to the door. No way, she decided. He'd be on my back before I'd 
taken three steps. Christ! She looked back and saw that Conan had crept closer. 
Now the dog's growling was low and guttural, brimming with rage. 
M* 
"Conan?" Gayle whispered, her voice shaking. "It's Gayle, boy. Stay back. Stay 
back." She raised her arm carefully to position the handbag for a blow. 
The dog started to leap, then stopped less than a foot away from her. Its eyes" 
(<(i had gone dull, and it was tilting its head like he was listening to one of 
those high- *ŤJ pitched whistles you get in pet shops. Without hesitation Conan 
leapt pass Gayle, tj ran along the hallway, and squeezed out through the front 
door. ||Ť, 
Relief flooded her. God, she thought. That damned dog was going to tear out<p my 
throat! She let her arm fall to her side and looked at the wound on her other 
""I hand. Conan had taken all the skin from her knuckles, and there were 
punctures and scratches on two fingers. Blood was still welling up, but at least 
the mutt hadn't I} pierced any of the large veins. Christ, what was wrong with 
that damned dog? Jack '" "'i 
should have the bastard shot!' "I 
i I 
She turned toward the living room and had taken two unsteady steps when>, }';;J 
she heard a noise-a muffled, unpleasant sliding sound. She stopped, 
listening.,.> 
The noise again-it was coming from the darkened bedroom. She reached around,,j * 
|>" 
her heart hammering, and hit the light switch.i B *$* 
The first thing she noticed was that there were no sheets on the mattress.Ťm';;P 

Otherwise the bedroom looked as it usually did-slightly rumpled. She paused atip 
-'** 
Jlj. ih 
the doorway and then stepped in. What was that sound? she wondered. And where^ f 
) was it coming from? She stopped next to the bed and listened. Silence. You're 
,' ""JJ imagining things, she told herself. Her hand throbbed. Fucking dog ought 
to have his ass kicked! 
And then something cold gripped her ankle. 
She looked down, her mouth opening in dumb bewilderment. 
A white clawlike hand held her ankle like a freezing vise; it had snaked out 
from beneath the bed. And then there was that sliding sound again, slow and 
labored. Gayle saw the fingers move. It was only then that she found her voice 
and screamed, instantly thinking Scream, fool! What good will it do? She kicked 
out, kicked again, and got her ankle free, then staggered backward while a shape 
wrapped in the white sheets writhed its way out with some difficulty. The free 
hand began to rip at the cloth, to work it loose from the thing that lay within. 
Run! a voice screamed in Gayle's head. Run! But she couldn't run. Her legs were 
made of rubber, and her mind had no control over them. She watched in horror as 
the hand began to wrench the cloth away from the head. 
In another moment she could see dark, tousled hair, a mustache and a beard 
168 
against a face so pallid it was almost transparent. The other hand worked its 
way free, and now both hands were ripping the cloth away. "Jack!" Gayle said 
when she found her voice. She stepped nearer, but when that head swiveled around 
and she saw those dead, glittering eyes, she stopped, a knot of panic filling 
her throat. "Jack?" she whispered hoarsely, and thought, It's a trick! He's 
trying on his Halloween makeup for me! That dirty sonofabitch! 
Jack-or the thing that had been Jack Kidd-shrugged off the rest of the sheets 
like a discarded snake skin and started to rise to his feet. His eyes were 
blazing, and suddenly a black tongue darted out and licked the lips. "Gayle ..." 
Jack whispered, a sound like the quiet hissing of wind across newly fallen snow. 
It was the sound of that voice that snapped Gayle's nerve. She'd never heard 
anything like it before. She was filled with cold, consuming dread. Jack stepped 
forward, a quick grin flickering across his mouth. 
Gayle turned for the door and ran. She could sense rather than hear him behind 
her; he seemed to be leaping for her through the air instead of running. She 
could feel his grinning face right behind her, radiating cold the way a radiator 
puts out heat. As she screamed and scrambled through the front door, she felt 
his hand grip her blouse. It tore, but Gayle kept running across the courtyard 
toward the parking lot. She was aware of shadow shapes lurking in the corners, 
of grinning faces daubed green by the spotlights. When Gayle dared to look back 
over her shoulder, she saw Jack's face only inches away, floating like a 
green-lit moon. She stumbled and fell to the grass. Jack crouched over her, 
gripping her hair and forcing her head back. 
"NO!" she screamed. "PLEASE NO!" 
"Darling . . ." he said, his face coming toward her relentlessly. "My darling . 
. ." She heard the cold, wet sound of his lips parting. 
Something dark whirled into Gayle's line of vision. She heard Jack grunt, and 
then his weight lifted off her. Replaced by that of another figure, a larger man 
with a heavy, jowled face that was as pallid and terrifying as Jack's; he leaned 
over Gayle and grinned, and within that grin Gayle saw the glitter of fangs that 
almost drove her over the brink into madness. She could smell a grave-rot about 
him. She screamed and twisted, trying to fight him of as those fangs moved 
closer to her throat. Before they could snap shut, Jack's arm gripped the man's 
throat, and he was hauled off Gayle. As she rolled away and got to her feet, she 
could see them fighting in the grass, their fangs snapping at each other like 
enraged animals. 
They're fighting over me, she thought numbly. Both of them want to . . . want to 
... what sort of thing has Jack become? 
She didn't wait to see who won. She turned and ran, losing a shoe. Something 
rustled in the bushes to her right, and off to the side she saw another figure-a 
woman in a glittery disco dress-steadily bearing down on her. Gayle reached her 
car, locked the doors, and started the engine. The woman, her hair dark and wild 
around a face that was fish-belly white, started clawing at the windshield, 
hammering at it with her fists. Gayle slammed the car into reverse and crashed 
into Jack's 
169 T"f] 
.,ť'ť" I 
,. IN'1" '""' 
Jo was sitting up in bed, a copy of The Thorn Birds in her lap, watching herJI-. 
husband unknot his tie and wearily get out of his shirt. She knew there was 
trouble ,,ťJ -he'd come home from the office just after three this afternoon, 
something he'd ,1 <h never done in the eleven years of their marriage. He'd 
picked listlessly at his dinner, '*# sat with a black cloud on his shoulder, 
and didn't even watch Monday Night Football. During the course of the evening 
he'd hardly spoken to her, and though <,<,, J she was accustomed to his troubled 
silences when he was working on a difficult """'"') case, she could tell this 
was something bad; several times she caught him staring off into space as if 
dazed, or running a trembling hand across his forehead. 
, ŤI"' 
And now it was almost nine-thirty and a long time before morning. She knew him 
well enough to know he'd have more nightmares if he didn't talk to her about 
this terrible thing. Sometimes he confided in her things she didn't like to 
hear-1 " /^ 
jit' if 
finding a murdered infant or another of those Roach victims-but she steeled^ ;' 
herself because she was his wife, that was his job and that was how the world ,, 
Ť;* turned. 'if."* 
"So," she said finally, putting aside her book. "Do you want to talk about it 
now?" 
He placed his shirt on a hanger in the closet, then returned his tie to the tie 
rack. 
"I'm waiting, Andy. It can't be that bad. Can it?" 
He drew a long breath and turned toward her, and when she saw his eyes, she 
thought, Oh, yes. Oh, yes, it can be that bad. When he spoke, his voice was 
tired, but somewhere within it, Jo could hear a nervous tremble that set her own 
nerves on edge. "I should have told you long before this," he said softly. "I 
should have trusted you first, before all others. But I was scared. I am scared. 
I didn't know until today that what I was thinking was right. I'd hoped I was 
wrong, that I was seeing shadows where there were none, or cracking because of 
the pressure. But now I know I'm right, and soon not even God Himself will be 
able to save this city." 
169 
HEY THIRST 
van as she accelerated. Then she was roaring across the parking lot, the horror 
in her disco dress running after her. She made the turn onto Lexington with a 
screech of tires and looked in her rearview mirror only after she was four 
blocks away. A surge of tears blinded her, and her lungs were heaving so fast 
she thought she wouldn't ever be able to catch her breath. She jerked the car to 
the curb, hearing horns blowing angrily, and sat with her face in her hands. 
In another moment something tapped softly at her window, and Gayle cried out 
when she looked up into the face of a figure standing by her car. "What do you 
want?" she shrieked, cowering. "What do you want?" 
"I want to see your license, miss," the policeman said. "You almost caused a 
three-car pileup back there!";""*" 
bll 
T 
1 
ELEVEN"\" 
lit 
170 
"Andy, what are you talking about . . .?" 
He came over and sat on the bed beside her, taking both her hands in his. "I 
want you to leave in the morning. I want you to get away as far as you can go. 
When you've found a place, call me, and I'll join you as soon as I can . . ." 
"Andy!" she said, shocked. "Why?" 
"Because they're going to be in the streets soon, going from house to house all 
across this city. And some night-possibly not tomorrow or the night after, but 
some night-they're going to come to our house." His voice cracked, and Jo 
squeezed his hand. 
"What is it?" she pleaded. "Please tell me what's wrong!" 
"All right. Yes, I have to tell you ..." And then it all came out, from the 
incident at Hollywood Memorial to the living corpses found in East L.A. As he 
spoke, his voice became more and more frantic, more consumed with fear. Jo 
gripped his hands until she could feel the bones grinding. He finished by 
telling her of his outburst in the Dos Terros tenement, and how Sully Reece had 
driven him back to Parker Center in silence, glancing over at him once or twice 
as if he were one of those crazed transients who sleep on the grass under 
Beethoven's striding statue in Pershing Square. 
He smiled grimly at her through haunted eyes. "My days on the force are 
numbered. I know that. I'm crazy, yes? Insane, just as they said my mother was. 
But my mother knew. For years I believed she shot my father because she was 
insane, but now I know differently. It took a great deal of courage for her to 
pull those shotgun triggers, but she knew that just because the thing looked 
like my father didn't mean it was truly him. She was trying to save our lives, 
and because I didn't understand that I ... I hated her for ... a very long 
time." Tears sprang to his eyes and quickly he wiped them away. "Now I see them 
coming again. I see them conquering this city just as they conquered Krajeck. 
And when they've finished here . . ." New terror choked him. "My God, Jo! 
They'll number in the millions! No power on earth will be able to stop them . . 
.!" 
"Andy," Jo said quietly, "when I was a little girl, my parents told me stories 
about the vampir. But those were legends, old tales that had been passed down 
from generation to generation. We live in a modern age now and-" she stopped, 
seeing the fury in his eyes. 
"You don't believe either? Jo, can't you see? They don't want us to believe 
because if we recognize them in our midst, we can guard ourselves against them. 
We can hang garlic on the windows and nail crucifixes to the doors! They want us 
to laugh, to say 'that can never be!' When we close our eyes, we help them hide, 
and we help them come one step closer to our front door!" 
"You can't be certain," she reasoned. 
"I am certain. I saw those bodies today. They'll be awakening soon, and the only 
thing I can do is rant and rave like a maniac. Oh, I can take a can of gasoline 
and a torch and try to burn them before they escape into the streets, but then 
what would happen? I'll be locked away, and tomorrow there will be twice as many 
vampir as there are today." 
171 "Have you told anyone else?" 
"No. Who could I talk to? Who would believe? I see in your eyes that you don't 
believe either. You've always thought my mother was insane, that she shot my 
father in a fit of madness, and that whenever she rambled on about the vampir, 
they were the imaginings of a fevered brain. But it's the truth! I know that 
now. I see it clearly!" 
The bedside telephone rang suddenly. Palatazin reached over and picked it up. 
"Hello?" 
ŤI t 
Ml 
irf 
"Captain Palatazin? This is Lieutenant Martin. Detective Zeitvogel and Farris 
just called in with a positive ID on that plate you were tracing. It's 285 Zero 
Tango Hotel, and it belongs to a guy named Walter Benefield, residence 
Number7Seven- *"'""" teen Mecca Apartments, 6th and Coronado near MacArthur 
Park."I 
"They're at the scene now?" His heart was beating so wildly he could hardly*L 
hear himself talk.'n*'" 
I i*1 
"Yes sir. Shall I send a backup unit?"., "I "No, not yet. I'm going over myself. 
Thanks for calling, Johnny." He hung up ' '-* and rose from the bed, taking 
another shirt from the closet and hurriedly putting < " it on. nM 1) "What is 
it?" Jo said tensely. "Where do you have to go?" '\:;> "Across town," he said, 
reaching up on the closet shelf for his shoulder-holster. ,,,-Ť* He strapped it 
on, then shrugged into his brown tweed coat. Jo was putting on her '',,J robe, 
and she followed him downstairs. "' "tlj "Is it something about the Roach?" she 
asked. "You will be careful, won't you? I ' | ^ You're not as young as you used 
to be, Andy. You let the younger men take the ' (i,^ risks. Are you listening to 
me?" '^'f>, '!*Ł"Yes," he said. "Of course." But he wasn't really listening-he 
was thinking that ; ' x. he could hear a distant voice speaking urgently in his 
brain . . . fl fy "Be careful," Jo said, buttoning his coat for him. "Remember . 
. ." ' !'"'"'') . . . and the voice was telling him that after tonight things 
would never be the , > "t" same in his life again because tonight he would take 
a step that would change the ** fate of a million people. 
". . . let the younger men take the risks. Do you hear?" He nodded, kissed her, 
and walked out of the house into the still, cool night. At the car he turned 
back and said to her, "Remember to lock the door." Then he slid behind the 
wheel, aware of the weight of the .38 beneath his left arm. He started the 
engine and drove away into the darkness. 
1THEY THIRST 
172 173 
,? 
.Ť* 
DARK PRINCE4 
ti<iJ 
ii iik JM'* i*1 
I'll I* 
.,,..1 
"3 
I-------:^ 
Tuesday, October 299 
;/ ,,- > n*i ./;''
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r;f 
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'"I"* 
174 175 
ť 
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,Ť'Ť
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,Ť* 
At twenty minutes after midnight Palatazin was sitting in his car at the curb of 
Coronado Street, two blocks from MacArthur Park. The sign MECCA ROOMS- DAY, 
WEEK, OR MONTH blinked in glaring blue neon in the middle of the block; the 
building itself was made of yellow brick with ornamental blue tiles that might 
have looked decorative twenty or more years ago. Now the whole thing il'* looked 
cheap and tawdry; many of the tiles were cracked and blistered with spray-1 
ťpainted slogans in Spanish scrawled across the side of the building that faced 
a ;*(a narrow service alley. Every so often a drunk would stagger out of the 
Club Feliz next door and barely make it into that alley before throwing up. 
Coronado Street ,"""! caught some of the neon glitter from 6th Street and 
Wilshire Boulevard but was in '.Ť* itself essentially dark, its old buildings 
that dated from the twenties clustered , ťŤ"Ť'' together like a flock of black 
crows. *"Jl 
A ' 
Across the street a match flared inside a parked white Chevrolet. Palatazin 
;;*!''' could see Farris's profile as he lit his cigarette. Karris was a big, 
bulky man whose' favorite sport was professional wrestling; he had black, 
beetlelike eyes that could freeze a suspect a block away. Around Parker Center 
he was called The Wheel only half-jokingly because when he rolled over somebody, 
they didn't get up for a very long time. Palatazin could see the dark outline of 
Zeitvogel watching him instead of the Mecca, but he brushed off the notion as 
paranoia. JJŤ:'! ; 
When Palatazin had reached the scene from his house, Zeitvogel had briefed' 
]him on the situation: At around nine o'clock he and Farris had come to the 
Mecca T , to check the sixteenth name on their list. No one had answered 
Benefield's door, .. ;,r but they'd run into the building's manager downstairs. 
He'd taken one look at the ,, composite picture and positively identified it as 
being the man who rented Apart- ' '" ment 17. So Zeitvogel then ran the name 
Walter Benefield through the Vehicle ID computers and gotten the tag number back 
on a 73 gray Volkswagen Beetle. Then he'd called in to tell the nightwatch 
officer, Lieutenant Martin. 
An hour before midnight, the manager, Mr. Pietro, fumbled with his keys in the 
narrow, dimly-lit corridor and finally slipped one into the door of No. 17. "I 
wouldn't do this if I couldn't tell it was important," he said to the three 
policemen standing around him. "I mean, I know you cops wo'uldn't want to invade 
anybody's private property without good reason, huh?" 
"We have good reason," Palatazin told him. "And we're not invading, Mr. Pietro. 
We're simply going to look around for a minute or two." 
"Oh, sure, sure." The lock clicked open. Pietro switched on the lights, and the 
men stepped inside. The room was claustrophobic, and instantly Palatazin was 
aware of a bitter aroma that might have been burnt almonds. Clothes were piled 
on 
176 p 
ROBERT R. McCAMMON 
a chair and scattered on the floor, and the bed was unmade. Palatazin saw the 
pictures of weightlifters taped up around the headboard. He had started toward 
that corner of the room when he sensed a scurrying motion from a battered old 
card table. He stopped and stared at three glass tanks filled with huge black 
roaches tumbling and crawling over each other; he drew his breath in sharply. 
"Look at that," he told the others. 
"Jeez!" Mr. Pietro said incredulously. "What's he doing with all those . . . 
things in here? Listen, I run a clean place . . ." 
"Yeah," Karris said, and peered into one of the tanks. "Ugly little suckers, 
aren't they?" 
Palatazin stepped away from the table and gazed at the pictures on the wall, 
then back at Pietro, who looked thoroughly revolted. "Where does Benefield work, 
Mr. Pietro?" 
"Out in West L.A. He works for one of those bug-spray companies. An 
exterminator." 
"Do you know the name of the company?" 
"Nope. Sorry." He glanced at the roaches again and shivered. "Jeez, do you think 
Benefield's bringin' his work home with him or somethin'?" 
"I doubt it." Palatazin looked over to where Karris was going through a chest of 
drawers. "Take it easy with that, Karris, we don't want to tear the man's 
furniture apart. Mr. Pietro, what time is Benefield usually at home?" 
"All hours, in and out." Pietro shrugged. "Some nights he comes in, stays a 
little while, and then leaves again. I've gotten to where I can recognize all 
the tenants' footsteps now, you see. My ears are real good. Anyway, he don't 
keep no regular hours." 
"What sort of person is he? Do you talk with him very much?" 
"No, he keeps to himself. Seems okay, though." Pietro grinned, showing a gold 
tooth. "He pays his rent on time, which is more than you can say for a lot of 
them. No, Benefield don't talk too much. Oh, one time when I couldn't sleep and 
was listenin' to my radio, Benefield knocks on the door-I guess it was about two 
in the morning, couple of weeks ago-and he seemed to want to talk, so I let him 
in. He was real excited about somethin', said ... I don't know, it was crazy . . 
. that he'd been out looking for his old lady, and he thought he'd seen her. Two 
o'clock in the mornin'," Pietro abruptly shrugged and turned to watch Zeitvogel 
rummaging under the bed. 
"Old lady? Do you mean his girlfriend?" 
"No. His mom. His old lady." 
Zeitvogel said, "Here's something," and pulled out a box of magazines from under 
the bed. It was an odd mixture of comic books, muscle magazines, and porno. 
Zeitvogel held up a couple of publications devoted to bondage, and Palatazin 
frowned with distaste. Lying on the bed were a pair of black handgrips used for 
strengthening hand and wrist muscles. Palatazin picked up one of them and tried 
to squeeze it, finding the resistance quite powerful. He made the connection 
177 
between them and the crushing hands that had killed four young women and laid 
the grip back down where it had been. He checked the bathroom, finding a tub 
with a couple of inches of standing water in it. In the medicine cabinet there 
were bottles of Bufferin, Excedrin, Tylenol. It seemed that Benefield was 
plagued with headaches. 
"Captain," Zeitvogel said, offering him a yellowing Kodak snapshot as he came 
out of the bathroom. The picture showed a blond, slightly rotund woman sitting 
with her arm around a young boy on a sofa. The boy wore thick glasses and had a 
crew cut, and he was smiling vacantly into the camera; the woman's legs were 
crossed, one fleshy thigh over the other, a crooked grin on her face. 
Palatazin||)M, studied the photograph for a moment, catching what he thought was 
a strange, ,<* glassy look in the woman's eyes, as if she'd been drinking too 
much. "Have you ever * "3 seen Benefield's mother, Mr. Pietro?" he asked. 7$ 
"Nope. Never."V* 
.nil, 
Farris was probing around the stove and sink. He bent down, opened a cup-" J 
board, and brought out a bottle half-filled brownish liquid. He unscrewed the 
cap """j and sniffed it, and in the next instant dark motes were spinning in 
front of his eyes. '" h He jerked his head away and said, "Shit! What's this 
stuff?" He quickly capped it (tj and coughed violently a couple of times, having 
the sensation of oil clinging to his '" " J lungs. His nostrils seemed to be on 
fire. Palatazin took the bottle from him and \'\ sniffed around the cap. "Mr. 
Pietro, do you know what this is?" <_ ('iv 
"Looks like old piss to me.",,.""^ 
Farris caught his breath and looked under the sink again, bringing out a fewi'" 
dry rags. "Don't know what that is, captain, but it's wicked. The smell of it 
down ,. *$* here'll knock you out." Nl1" ,!> 
"Zeitvogel," Palatazin said quietly, "go down to your car and call in on our* 
'"*" friend, will you? Let's see if he's got a rap sheet." . i"" |',) 
Zeitvogel was back in fifteen minutes. "Bingo, captain," he said. "Benefield's 
," '"^ got a long record of assaults, a couple of molestation charges, a Peeping 
Tom, and'f | an attempted rape. He spent eight years in and out of mental wards 
and did a stretch at Rathmore Hospital." 
Palatazin nodded, staring at the cages full of scrabbling roaches. He put the 
bottle back where it had been and closed the cupboard. He wanted to shout, "YES, 
WE'VE GOT HIM!" but he knew that wasn't the case. There was a long way to go yet 
in proving that Benefield had anything to do with the four murders. "We'll wait 
for him to come home," Palatazin said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Mr. 
Pietro, we're going to be outside in our cars. I think the best thing for you to 
do is simply stay in your room. All right? If you hear Benefield come in, don't 
leave your room to be friendly." 
"You going to arrest him? What's he done?" 
"We just want to ask him a few questions. Thank you for showing us his room, Mr. 
Pietro. We'll take care of the rest." 
And now Palatazin sat in his car, waiting. Several times he thought he saw a 
178 
Volkswagen approaching down Coronado, but it never was. The bitter, almondy odor 
of that liquid in the bottle stayed with him. In a rag, pressed up tightly 
against the nostrils, that stuff would probably act like a kind of chloroform; 
it was evidently some substance or mix of solutions that Benefield used at work. 
If he was the Roach-and those roaches in the tanks indicated more than anything 
that he was-he had found a darker kind of work. But if he was the Roach, why had 
he changed his M.O.? He hoped that if Benefield was given enough rope, he might 
hang himself with it, or at least trip himself up. 
The minutes crept into hours. Soon there were no more cars moving along 
Coronado, and the only movement at all was the quick flicker of a match as 
Farris lit another cigarette. I can wait, Palatazin said mentally. You'll have 
to come home sometimes. And when you do, Mr. Benefield, I'll be right here . . . 

TWO 
Wes Richer woke up in the darkness, his head buzzing with Chablis and his 
stomach full of Scandia's Danish sole. At once he knew that Solange wasn't lying 
beside him, and when he looked up, he could see her figure outlined in 
moonlight, naked and chocolate brown, holding a curtain aside as she looked out 
of the window onto Charing Cross Road. 
He watched her sleepily, the events of the night happily jumbling together in 
his head-the calls and congratulations from the ABC brass over "Sheer Luck"; a 
call from his father in Winter Hill, North Dakota, telling him how proud his 
mother would have been if only she were alive; Jimmy Kline calling to tell him 
that Arista was biting on the record contract hook and that the "Tonight" show 
people were inquiring to see if Wes might guest-host after the first of 
November; a congratulatory call from Cher, whom Wes had met at a party for Gene 
Simmons; and then the dinner that evening with Jimmy, Mel Brooks, and Brooks's 
screenwriter, Al Kaplan. The part was being rewritten for him with a couple of 
added scenes to spotlight some of that "goyem klutz," as Brooks called it, that 
he showed in "Sheer Luck." At the end of the evening, Brooks had squeezed his 
cheek and said, "I love that face!" Which meant for Wes, as far as Quattlebaum's 
was concerned, money in the bank. 
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and said huskily, "Solange? What is it?" 
She didn't move from the window. Her head was cocked to one side, a black 
statue, listening. Wes let his gaze roam appreciatively down her back, along the 
smooth curving spine, to the firm roundness of the buttocks and the swelling of 
her upper thighs. He'd been between those thighs less than an hour before; the 
sheets were still bunched at the bottom of the bed, the room filled with the 
peppery scent of desire. He could feel himself responding again, and he sat up, 
supporting his head on one arm. "Solange?" he said. "Come back to bed." 
When she turned toward him, he saw her eyes-they were hollow pits in her 
179 
fine skull. "I heard a scream, Wes," she whispered. "From across the street." 
"A scream? You were probably dreaming." 
"No," she said, her voice like velvet and steel. "I wasn't dreaming. I heard a 
scream. Who lives across the street?" 
Wes struggled up out of bed and stood beside her, peering out into the night and 
feeling pretty stupid about going along with her even this far. "Uh ... I think 
Dick Clark lives over there ... no, wait a minute. It's Dick Marx. He produced 
the Sea Wolf remake with Richard Gere last year. I think." He couldn't really 
see the house, just the tops of trees and a chimney perched over a high brick 
wall. "I don't hear anything," he said after another moment. 
"I think we should call the police.""""', 
iif 
:f 
"The police? Why? Listen, Dick Marx has a reputation for ... you know ... a4 
little S&M thrills? Maybe he just got carried away with the latest girlfriend. 
Calling "I the cops would be a faux pas, right?" /^ 
"I don't agree. What I heard was not a scream of pleasure. Will you call 
theŤ"""I police or shall I?" < 
"Okay, okay. Christ, when you get something on your mind, you hang on to itŤ'* 
until hell freezes, don't you?" He stepped over to the phone beside the bed and 
*"} dialed 911. When the operator answered, he said simply, "Somebody screamed 
in "'< Bel Air," then he gave the address, and hung up. "There," he said to 
Solange. "Did I ,,',, do my duty?" ,'v* 
"Come here, Wes," Solange said. "Hurry!"S1 
He did. She gripped his arm. "I saw someone crawl over the wall. Look! Did you 
see that?".
"I don't see a thing."/"> 
"Someone's in our yard, Wes!" she said, her voice rising and she gripped his',, 
arm tighter. "Call back. Tell the police to hurry!" p j 
"Oh, shit! I'm not calling them again!" He leaned closer to the glass and tried 
to> make out a figure moving, but it was pitch black; the arms of trees waved in 
the . '\ wind. "There's nobody outside. Come on back to bed . . ." :'' 
He was about to turn away from the window when he heard it. At first he thought 
it was the high wailing of wind, but then the sound became higher and stronger, 
the wail of a human voice-a little girl's voice-that ended in a cascade of 
silvery laughter like water bubbling in a fountain. "I seeeeeeee youuuuuuuu," 
the voice said. "There at the winnnnnndowwwwwww," More childlike laughter, and 
now Wes thought he could see a figure standing down there on the neatly 
manicured lawn beside a thin pine tree. He was almost sure he saw a white gown 
being whipped by the wind, a long mane of reddish-blond hair, a grinning 
moonface staring up at him. But he heard the voice again, and it seemed to be 
coming from a different place entirely. "Come outside!" it called sweetly. 
"Won't you come out and be my playmate?" 
Wes narrowed his eyes. He was only marginally aware that Solange's fingernails 
were digging into his arm. Something moved beside that pine tree, and now Wes 
180 
was sure he could see a little girl down there. She was barefoot and carrying 
what looked like a Raggedy Arm doll. "Mister!" she called out. "Please come 
outside and play with me!" 
There was something in her voice that made Wes want to go to that little girl. 
That voice was so sweet, so compelling, so innocent. It rang in his head like 
Christmas bells in the church at Winter Hill, and suddenly there were six inches 
of new snow on the ground, and he was ten-year-old Wesley Richer, stuck in his 
room with a head cold the day after Christmas while all the other kids were 
playing in the snow with their new sleds. He could see the bundled figures of 
the big kids way out on the frozen, milky surface of Massey Pond; they picked on 
him because he was sickly and skinny, but he'd memorized a lot of jokes from a 
couple of books at the library, and now even Brad Orr was beginning to laugh at 
them and call him Funnyman. From his window he could see them skating around the 
pond, turning slow circles and figure eights like people from those Currier and 
Ives pictures Mom liked. And the sleds had already left a hundred runner trails 
on Frosty Slope; ice glittered there in the weak gray sunlight like the dust of 
crushed diamonds, and a distant figure raised a mittened hand to wave at him. 
There was a pretty girl he didn't know standing underneath his window. "Come 
outside!" she called, grinning up at him. "Let's play!" 
"Can't!" he called back. "Mom says no. I gotta cold!" 
"I can make you all better!" the little girl said. "Come on! You can jump right 
through the window!" 
Wes smiled. "Aww, you're foolin'!" She was barefoot in the snow, and maybe she 
was so pale because she was really cold. 
"No, I'm not! Your friends are waiting for you." She gestured vaguely in the 
direction of Massey Pond. "I can take you to them." 
"Oh . . ." He was tired of staying in the house, he wanted to get out and run in 
the cold wind with the snow crunching underfoot, and maybe he wouldn't even need 
any shoes either. Sure would be nice to do a bellyflop down the Slope. "Okay," 
he said excitedly. "Okay! I'll come out!" 
The girl nodded. "Hurry!" she said. 
And suddenly a strange thing happened. There was a pretty chocolate-colored lady 
standing beside him, gripping his arm. She leaned forward and blew on the 
window, instantly fogging it. Then she drew a cross in the fogged part with her 
forefinger and mumbled something: "Nsambi kuna ezulu, nsambi kuna ntoto!" 
Wesley Richer said, "Huh?" 
The little girl beneath the window screamed piercingly, her face contorting into 
a gray mask of horror. Instantly it all changed-Massey Pond and Frosty Slope and 
all the distant figures skating and sledding whirled out of Wes's brain like 
cobwebs caught in a high wind. The little girl staggered backward, gnashing her 
teeth. Solange shouted "GET AWAY!" and fogged the window again, drawing another 
cross and repeating the incantation again, but this time in English, "God is in 
heaven, God is in earth!" 
181 
The little girl hissed and spat, her back arching like a cat's. Then she ran 
across the lawn toward the wall. When she reached it, she turned and screamed, 
"I'll get you for that! I'll make you pay for hurting me!" And then she 
scrambled over the wall, her bare legs the last thing to disappear. 
Wes's knees sagged. Solange caught him and helped him back to the bed. "What is 
it?" he said. "What happened?" He looked up at her through glazed eyes. "Gonna 
go skate," he said. "Snow fell last night." 
She put the sheet over him and smoothed it down. She was shaking so hard her 
teeth were chattering. "No, no," she said softly. "You had a dream, that's all." 

"A dream?" He looked at her and blinked. "Dick Marx lives across the street, 
that's who.";;"!i 
"Go to sleep," Solange told him, and in another moment his eyes closed. She* * 
stood over him until his breathing was even and deep, and then she returned to 
the *Lj window. The pine trees moved fitfully, as if the dull terror that 
gripped at her soul ' j "', gripped the soul of nature as well. She wasn't 
certain what the thing had been, but j "J she knew from its violent reaction to 
the cross and the name of God-a powerful """ji talisman in all languages-that it 
was something terribly evil. She recalled with a ť"" shudder the messages from 
the spirit world as spoken through the Ouija board. "/ Evil. They thirst. Evil. 
They thirst. She drew a chair up before the window and sat ,;"'< down to 
meditate. She did not move again before daylight. !ť"! 
'i'J 
"-:) 
ť" 
M 
THREE> 
.. f 
"You want another cup of coffee, Miss Clarke?"Ť:Ť<<! 
Gayle looked up. She was huddled on a bench in the main corridor of the 
Hollywood police precinct building where she'd been brought hours before, after, 
she'd crumbled in hysterics in front of the officer who'd stopped her for 
reckless ; driving. She thought she might have fallen asleep for a few minutes 
or passed out because she hadn't heard the patient desk sergeant named Branson 
come up behind her. She didn't want to sleep; she was afraid of it because she 
knew she'd see Jack coming for her in her nightmares, those burning eyes set in 
a bleached skull, the fangs in his mouth making him look like some strange 
hybrid between man and dog. She shook her head, refusing the coffee, and hugged 
her knees to her chin. Her hand had been cleaned and bandaged, but the fingers 
still throbbed, and she wondered if she would have to get rabies shots. 
"Uh ... Miss Clarke, I don't think you have to stick around here anymore," the 
desk sergeant said. "I mean, I appreciate the company and all, but you can't 
stay here all night." 
"Why not?" 
"Well, why should you? You've got a place to live, don't you? I mean, it's quiet 
in here right now, but later on we're going to have hookers, hustlers, pimps, 
junkies, all kinds of lowlife stumbling in here. You don't want to be around all 
that, now, do you?" 
J8J 
182 
"I don't want to go home," she said weakly. "Not yet." 
"Yeah, well . . ." He shrugged and sat down on the bench beside her, making a 
big deal out of checking a scuff mark on his shoe. "It's safe for you to go 
home," he said finally without looking at her. "Nothing's going to get you." 
"You don't believe me either, do you? That first dumb clod didn't believe me, 
neither did your lieutenant, and you don't either." 
He smiled faintly. "What's to believe or not believe? You told us what you saw, 
and it was checked out. The officers found a lot of empty apartments and a 
couple of dogs running around . . ." 
"But you'll admit it was goddamned strange that all those apartments were 
unlocked at eleven o'clock at night, won't you? That's not common in Hollywood, 
is it?" 
"Who knows what's common or uncommon in Hollywood?" Branson said quietly. "The 
rules change every day. But this stuff about your boyfriend being some kind of 
... what did you say he was? Vampire or werewolf?" 
She was silent. 
"Vampire, didn't you say? Well, couldn't he have been wearing a Halloween mask 
maybe?" 
"It was no mask. You people have overlooked the most important point-what 
happened to all those people in that apartment complex? Did they all step off 
into the Twilight Zone or something? Where are they?" 
"That I wouldn't know anything about," Branson said, getting to his feet. "But 
I'd suggest you go on home now, huh?" He moved back toward his desk, feeling her 
stare boring into the back of his neck. Of course, he hadn't told her that 
Lieutenant Wylie was over at the Sandalwood Apartments right now with a team of 
officers, going over every room with vacuum cleaners and roping the place off 
from the street. Branson could tell that Wylie was more than a little worried. 
When Wylie's left eyebrow started to tick, that was a sure sign something was 
cooking. This Clarke woman had answered all the questions she could, and she'd 
put some questions of her own to the officers, who of course couldn't come up 
with any decent answers. Wylie had told him emphatically to get rid of her since 
she was a real thorn in the ass. Branson sat behind his desk, shuffled papers, 
and stared at the telephone, wishing it would ring with a good old-fashioned 
robbery or mugging. This vampire shit was for the birds. No, he decided, make 
that for the bats. 
FOUR 
Awaken, the voice whispered. Mitch Gideon heard it quite clearly. But he didn't 
have to open his eyes because they were already open; his head simply seemed to 
jerk backward, and his vision cleared as if he'd been looking through frosted 
glass. It took him a moment to fully realize where he was. When he did, the 
shock of it almost staggered him. 
183 
He was standing in the entrance foyer of the Gideon Funeral Home Number Four on 
Beverly Boulevard near CBS Television City. Behind him the heavy chrome-and-oak 
doors stood wide open to the street; a cold breeze was rushing in around him. He 
heard a noise like the tinkling of Chinese wind chimes and looked to his side-he 
was holding his key ring with the key that unlocked the front doors still 
grasped between his thumb and forefinger. He was wearing brown bedroom slippers 
and his brown velour robe with the initials "MG" on the breast pocket over his 
usual white silk pajamas. I'm in my pajamas? he asked himself incredulously. 
What the fuck's going on here? Am I dreaming, hypnotized, or what? 
Overhead a huge chandelier with electric candles lit up the entrance foyer with 
a rich golden glow. He didn't remember flicking the wall switch. Damn! 
he.ťthought, I don't remember anything since I got into bed beside Estelle at. . 
. what * Ť*| time had that been? He looked at his wrist but knew his watch was 
sitting on the Lj chest of drawers in the master bedroom where he put it every 
night before going to || ^ sleep. He felt like shouting the two questions aloud: 
What am I doing here? And ŤJ how the hell did I get down from Laurel Canyon to 
Beverly Boulevard in my sleep *""jj for Christ's sake? 
Gideon turned and walked back out of the building into the parking lot. 
There'"}' 
" "" " " "" ""?) 
4 "* 
sat his Lincoln Continental in the space marked "Mr. Gideon Only." But there 
was* ""* 
another vehicle in the parking lot as well-a large U-Haul truck. He stepped 
closer to it but didn't see anyone sitting in the cab. And when he looked back 
at they^1 Tudor-style funeral home, he saw a light burning in a window on the 
upper floor. ,,x' My office, he realized. Have I been up there working? How did 
I get out of the house? J;,/* By sleepwalking? Didn't Estelle hear me leave? He 
seemed to remember being _ #f behind the wheel of his car, the hot splash of 
headlights and traffic signals on his hhi^ťface, but he'd thought that was only 
a dream. He was grateful that tonight he , ,a*ťwasn't dreaming of that conveyor 
belt full of coffins where the workmen were f"'') beginning to grin at him as 
if he were one of their own. His brain felt feverish and I' >') violated, as if 
someone or something had peeled back to the top of his head and ' "jj" gone to 
work in there, fitting him with a windup key that could be turned to send : " 
him spinning madly in any chosen direction. 
He whirled around and stared into the dark distance. It was that goddamned 
house, he thought suddenly, that castle where some maniac had sawed Orion 
Kronsteen's head off. The place was preying on his mind, intruding into his 
thoughts both day and night, making him crazy. He thought he could see the 
castle even now outlined against the darkness in bloodred neon. Crazy, he 
thought, I'm going fuckin' crazy! 
And from the corner of his eye, he saw the light go off in his office. Gideon 
stared at the black window, his heart beating rapidly. Chill bumps had risen on 
his arms and legs beneath the silk pajamas. My God, he thought. Oh, my God . . . 
did I unlock the doors for someone else? He walked back across the parking lot 
to the building's threshold. The only sound in the entire funeral home seemed to 
be the ticking of a large grandfather clock at the far end of the central 
corridor where a 
184 
wide marble staircase with black cherrywood banisters curved gracefully up to 
the second floor. Gideon moved along that corridor until he could make out the 
hands on the clock-two-ten. He'd closed his eyes in his own bedroom at just 
after twelve o'clock. 
From somewhere upstairs there came a muffled, soft thump. Gideon knew what that 
sound was from years of hearing it-the noise of a coffin lid closing, probably 
in the first of the three display rooms. He came to the end of the corridor, the 
grandfather clock ticking madly in his head. And he started up the long 
stairway, hand clenching the bannister. There was another corridor on the second 
floor and several rooms on either side; at the corridor's end a shorter stairway 
led up to the third floor and the administrative offices. Gideon's searching 
hand found the wall switch, and instantly the corridor was lit by a dozen 
wall-mounted electric candles. On the first of the polished oak doors there was 
a golden plaque that said Blue Room, and underneath that in white plastic 
letters pressed against a black velvet background, Mr. William R. Tedford. 
Gideon opened the door and pressed another wall switch. A sapphire-colored 
chandelier blazed to life. Everything in the room was blue-walls, ceiling, 
carpet, sofa, and chairs. Blue flowers peeked from azure vases; a six-foot 
statue of a blue angel with unfolding wings stood in a corner; the guest book, 
powder blue, sat atop an indigo pedestal. But the room's main fixture, supported 
on a royal blue dais, was a closed ebony coffin containing the remains of a 
certain Mr. Tedford. 
From farther along the hallway came the quiet sound of a door closing. "Who's 
there?" Gideon said, his voice sounding weak and defenseless in the thick 
silence. He stood where he was for a moment, listening, and then moved forward 
past the Gold Room, past the Green Room, past the Amber Room. He peered 
cautiously into the Red Room, switching on a chandelier that lit up the place 
like the center of an inferno. He could almost smell the sulphur and smoke. But 
then he saw that the coffin's lid was propped open and, as he neared it, he 
realized with a start of alarm that the corpse-an elderly woman in a pale pink 
gown-was smoking a cigarette. 
Or rather, a burning cigarette had been forced between the dead lips. It was 
almost out now because, of course, she wasn't inhaling. A few ashes lay on her 
cheek, gray against artificial peach. Someone's playing a joke, Gideon thought 
angrily as he plucked out the cigarette and tossed it aside. It's not very 
funny. Not very funny at all! 
He was answered by a single peal of laughter from one of the other display 
rooms. He went back out to the corridor, trembling, wanting to run but knowing 
he couldn't hide. "Where are you?" he shouted. "What do you want with me?" There 
were two more rooms farther along the hall-the Violet Room and the White Room. 
Gideon looked from door to door, his legs refusing to move. "What do you want?" 
he shouted again. "I'm going to call the police if you don't get out of here!" 
Dead silence. 
Gideon threw open the door to the Violet Room. It crashed against the wall, 
185 
knocking down a gilt-framed picture of purple flowers in a dark green and lilac 
field. He approached the coffin and looked in, recoiling instantly. The corpse-a 
shrunken old man with sharply protruding cheekbones-had been painted to look 
like a clown. There were red spots of lipstick covering his cheeks and the bulb 
of his nose, the lips had been painted bright red and the sewn-shut eyelids as 
well. Gideon slammed down the coffin's lid and backed away into the corridor, 
where he turned to face the White Room's door. 
ni* i' 
He stepped inside, holding his breath in this place of glacial, heavenly 
whiteness. In this room, the most expensive and ornate of all the display rooms, 
even the coffin was white with trim. There was a white grand piano with 
gold-plated keys replacing the black ones, and a long black-and-white checked 
sofa. Two tall, golden candelabra stood on either side of the coffin dais, each 
holding six electric candles* .* that now guttered with golden light. But there 
was no one in here, no one at all. "C Gideon, bloated with relief, turned toward 
the door. /^ And then the ice-white coffin began to open. , 1 He whirled around, 
a long whine beginning in his throat. The coffin's lid rose, >< pushed by a bare 
arm. When it was fully open, the corpse sat up. It was a young ,. '" Chicano boy 
with shining black hair, wearing a white T-shirt and dirty jeans. *"j| ;j Gideon 
could see that he'd been lying on top of the other corpse in the coffin, a 
"'!"Łblue-haired society matron who'd kicked off in her sleep, and now the boy 
started , - <* \ to climb out of the coffin, his dark eyes transfixing Gideon. 
He reached out, felt the ' <><* , silk lining of the coffin, and grinned. "Real 
nice, man," he said softly. "You know ('/ how to make 'em real good, don't you?" 
I ,Gideon couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't think. ill(t "Just trying it 
on for size, Mr. Gideon," the boy said, his gaze flicking to the ". '^Ťcorner. 
''ť,ťAnd the black-haired girl who'd been standing there reached for Mitch 
Gideon's /'\ throat. " ,\ 
' ?' 
i* , Vm 
FIVE 
"Ah," Prince Conrad Vulkan said softly, pressing his white fingers to his 
temple. He opened his green cat eyes and looked across the room at Phillip 
Falco. "There. Mitch Gideon is ours. We can begin mass production tomorrow 
night."- ' 
"Sir, if you'll allow me," Falco began quietly, "you took a great risk in 
bringing him down from his home like that . . ." 
"Risk? What risk?" Vulkan's eyes moved, green marbles in a pallid face, toward 
his servant. "If the police had stopped him, he simply would have awakened from 
his trance. That's all. We need the coffins; we need his factory. And what 
military leader in all of history has been a stranger to risks?" He sat 
motionless for a moment, then rose to his feet and moved across the 
stone-floored room to the huge fireplace. It was large enough to hold more than 
a cord of wood, but now only six or seven 
*. 
186 
logs blazed in there, and the yellow-orange glow splashed across the vampire's 
face. There were crates scattered about the room, some of them open, with old 
rare books spilling out. Beautiful paintings, many of them cracked and faded but 
obviously the work of masters, hung on the walls along with delicate fragments 
of rotted tapestries. At the center of the room there was a large blue-and-red 
Oriental carpet and a long, polished table on which sat a silver candelabra and 
eight guttering black candles. Before Vulkan's black velvet chair were maps of 
L.A., Torrence, Glendale, Pasadena, Compton, and most of Orange and Los Angeles 
counties. Vulkan stared into the fire, his eyes glittering. Soon the servant who 
called himself Roach would be bringing him his food for the night, and the 
prospect of drinking hot blood made him eager and impatient. He had missed his 
feeding last night because he felt it unwise to use that human again so quickly. 
He'd been reading the newspapers Falco brought to him, and he knew that it would 
be foolish to do something that would call needless attention to his servant. 
"Roach will be here soon," he said, watching a log burst into flame. He pondered 
what had to be done tonight; fast or slow, that was the question. 
"Master," Falco said, stepping closer. "That man is dangerous. He takes chances. 
He's going to cause you harm . . ." 
"Why should you care?" the prince asked softly. 
Falco paused for a moment, watching the slight figure dappled red and black by 
the flames. "I only mean to say, Master, that the police are bound to catch him 
sooner or later. I know you've chosen him because you found his mind most . . . 
receptive, but the time is coming for you to dispose of him. I could bring them 
for you. Why not let me?" 
Vulkan turned toward the other man, smiling slightly. "Let you? Let you, 
Phillip? Time has used you all up. There's nothing left of you. You're old and 
weak, and the women would get away from you too easily. No Roach is young, 
strong, and . . . new." Vulkan regarded him in silence for a moment, then shook 
his head. "No, Phillip. If anyone causes me harm, it will be you. Won't it?" 
"Me?" A cold flame of terror flared in Falco's soul. "I don't understand what 
you're-" 
"Oh, yes, you do. It's time to stop the charade. Do you think just because I 
sleep during the day I know nothing of what transpires? You sadly misjudge me, 
Phillip." Vulkan's voice had dropped to a soft, gentle whisper. "How 
unfortunate. The Headmaster visits me as I sleep, Phillip. He sees everything, 
even what hides in your heart and mind. That is how I know you've been thinking 
of betraying me . . ." 
"No!" Falco said, his eyes widening. "No! I swear it isn't true!" 
"Oh, but it is. Ever since we left Hungary, you've grown more and more . . . how 
shall I put it? ... penitent? Now you sink to your knees and pray to a god who 
will have nothing to do with you. You pray, and you repent-for what good it does 
you. And you have been thinking of going to the police." 
"NO!" 
187 
"The Headmaster told me, Phillip. And he never lies. Never." Vulkan turned his 
back on Falco and watched the fire burn. "I've given you a good life," he said 
after another moment. "Why did you want to hurt me?" 
Falco trembled, his mind reeling. He put his hands to his face and drew in a 
tortured breath. Above him in the high rafters of the room, he could hear the 
wind moaning like a chorus of doomed souls. "It's . . . it's not right!" he 
blurted out, a strangled sob breaking from his throat. "It's perverted, unholy . 
. .!" 
"You can do better than that." 
"I ... I remember in Budapest, when I was a young art dealer and . . . the old 
man came to see me . . ." 
"Kovak," Vulkan whispered. "A loyal and true servant."*'* 
". . . with that priceless Byzantine woodcarving, so beautiful it stunned 
me.4ťť,ťAnd I remember he said there were more pieces of art like that one, 
hundreds more *C in a monastery atop Mount Jaeger. He said his ... his Master 
had heard of the V""^ auction I'd arranged for the Koppe estate, and perhaps I 
could arrange an auction ,, "| for Prince Vulkan as well." Falco's eyes grew 
cold. "Vulkan. The first time I ever J*Ťheard your name I felt . . . 
contaminated." *" 
"And of course, when you saw my collection ... or, I should say, the 
collection"1j my father began . . . you ceased to care what sort of creature I 
was. Even after I'd <*,'** killed Kovak, you helped the others throw his body 
from the cliff. Do you remember ,. J that as well?" JV'J 
Falco shuddered.' */ 
"Look around you, Phillip," Vulkan whispered softly. "Look at the beauty you< 
"i, ,sacrificed your soul to be near." ^ 
Falco blinked and looked at the walls where the medieval tapestries and theŤ';|V 
ancient works of Byzantine art hung. There were more modern works as well- '"'^, 
pieces by Lorrain, Ingres, Delacroix, Nolde, Degas, Lorenzo De Credi, and the "" 
,A Hungarian artists Laszlo Paal, Jozsef Borsos, and Simon Hollosy. In the dim 
firelight , ; ^ magnificent black horses galloped on their canvas fields; a 
peasant celebration, ,( "Ł,. done in earth tones, swirled across a village 
square; a bright red Nolde demon :Ť*"*' giggled while a poet struggled with his 
verses; wind moved, cold and silent, across a gold and purple autumnal scene, 
sending a gaggle of black crows flying from an amber field; Degas ballerinas 
wearing pink masks pirouetted on a shadowy stage; the somber face of a Hungarian 
nobleman in black stared out from his canvas, a golden coronet around his head 
the only hint of light or color. The paintings filled the room, their subjects 
bright and dark, colors muted and sparkling. The beauty, Falco thought; oh, the 
terrible beauty . . . 
Prince Vulkan took a step toward him, but his face remained in shadow. "It comes 
to an end, Phillip. The one who calls himself Roach is bringing me food tonight. 
He'll be staying here with me. In your place." 
Falco's mouth opened. He whispered, "Please," then whirled away from the prince, 
racing across the huge room toward the slab of a door on the other side. Before 
he reached it, Vulkan raised a finger and formed a triangle in the air; Falco 
Wk 
188 
found himself grasping for a doorknob that was no longer there. Now a rough 
stone wall stood before him. "Illusion!" Falco shrieked. "There's a door here! I 
know there is!" His fingers scrabbled over the stone frantically, and then he 
began beating at it with his fists. 
Vulkan giggled-the giggle of a spoiled young boy-and called out in a high 
singsong, "Phillip can't get out, can't get out, can't get out . . . can you?" 
"God help me!" Falco shrieked, his voice cracking. "God help-" 
"STOP THAT!" Vulkan shouted, clapping his hands to his ears. His face had 
sharpened, the mouth half-open to show the vicious fangs. "I'll tear you to 
pieces for that!" 
Falco whirled around, his back to the cold stone, and watched in horror as the 
prince approached. "Master!" he whispered hoarsely and began to sink to his 
knees. "Master, please, I'm begging you! I'm begging you! Don't kill me, don't 
kill me ... make me like you! You said you would someday! Do it now! Make me 
like you!" 
Vulkan stood over him, smiling slightly. "No, Phillip, you've aged too much to 
be of any further use to me. And you know too many of my secrets, too many of my 
plans . . ." 
"Don't kill me!" the old man on the floor whimpered, tears streaming down his 
cheeks. 
"The world belongs to the young," Vulkan said. "The old have no place in it. I 
give the gift of everlasting youth, and soon this world will be mine. Think of 
Alexander, Phillip. During his campaigns on Tyre and Babylon, he left behind the 
stragglers and invalids who would hold back his march. You are now worth as much 
to me as a straggler was to Alexander . . ." 
Falco hid his face in his hands. "God save my sinning soul, I have sinned, 
Father, and I-" 
"YOU FOOL!" VulKan shouted, and gripped his palms around Falco's temples. The 
fingers tensed; Falco's eyes widened in shock. There was a soft cracking sound 
and a fine thread of blood spread from the crown of Falco's head to the bridge 
of his nose. Vulkan's eyes blazed green, the pupils darkening. 
Then Falco screamed, the scream echoing eerily against the walls as it was drawn 
up with the wind toward the high ceiling. Drops of blood were being squeezed 
from Falco's forehead, streaming down to the tip of the nose, spattering onto 
his shirt. The cracking noise grew louder, and Falco began babbling in terror. 
Vulkan's wrists suddenly twisted. Most of Falco's face and the top of his skull 
' caved in, blood exploding from the ruined nose and the crack that zigzagged 
from his forehead to the back of his head. The body began kicking frantically, 
eyes filling up with blood. Vulkan applied more pressure, and the head became a 
morass of flesh, bone, and brains. Vulkan loosened his grip, and the corpse gave 
out a soft sigh as it crumpled into a formless heap. Blood had spattered across 
the vampire's face, and now he took a thick drop of it on the end of a finger 
and licked it off. Then he waved that finger in a triangle opposite the first 
one, and the door reap- > peared like a photograph coming up on blank paper. The 
figures that had been fe 
189 
pressed against it on the other side, listening and laughing softly, scurried 
away into the corridor's darkness when Vulkan opened the door. He called 
sharply, "Kobra!" and one of them stopped and came back along the corridor. 
"Master?" Kobra said softly. The flesh of his face was tight and masklike, 
veined with blue at the temples. His eyes were as red as a rat's, his white hair 
matted and dirty. He stepped into the room, following Vulkan, and stared down at 
the bloody figure on the floor. 
"Drink," Vulkan said, motioning vaguely toward the corpse. 
Kobra's eyes blazed in anticipation. He gasped and went down on his knees, 
fastening his fangs in the throat and drinking greedily as his chest heaved up 
and 
hi 'ŤŤ" down.,Ť
The prince walked across the room and sat back down in his chair, watching4 Ťť;; 
Kobra feast. Every so often Vulkan giggled. Kobra was young and inexperienced 
"Lj and didn't yet know the rich difference between living and dead food. These 
young t ť ones were so easy to please and so eager to learn. Soon, though-very 
soon-he and ť """I the others would learn some of the secrets that Vulkan had 
kept for almost eight ""I hundred years-how to summon dogs and rats, bats and 
flies in thick, noxious clouds; how to peer into the mind of a human and read 
the secret thoughts waiting *"]ť to be tapped. How to tell from a single drop of 
blood how old a human was, or what Ť'" jl his diet had consisted of-the tastes a 
hundred thousand complex variations of -'A sweet and sour, coppery and salty, 
tart or flat, poor or fine like wine aged in old A^ Belgian kegs. How to drain 
the blood from a living human to the dregs and in so ./ doing transform that 
person into a brother or sister of the night. So many things to ^ * learn. ,,,Ťť
Vulkan leaned back in his chair. Kobra glanced up, wasting the blood that 
dripped from his pale lips, and then returned to his work. This one is 
dedicated. He"t ,,*> actually loves me, thought the prince. What to do with 
Falco's carcass? His gaze |i 'I moved toward the huge fireplace. The logs had 
caught now, and the blaze filled the room with dancing orange specters. He 
wondered if the dogs in the castle's lower regions would like their meat roasted 
tonight. 
And so he sat and waited for the Roach. 
SIX 
Startled, Palatazin raised his head and glanced at his watch. He'd fallen asleep 
for a few minutes. Three-twenty. Coronado Street seemed deserted. Even the Club 
Feliz had closed its doors and cut the lights. The two shapes in the parked car 
across the street weren't moving, and Palatazin wondered if they were sleeping, 
too. Should've brought some coffee, he told himself irritably. Then another 
thought -what if this Benefield isn't the one we're looking for? The killings 
have stopped. Perhaps he's gone for good. Or have they stopped? Is the Roach 
just lying low? 
A car's headlights winked from the far end of Coronado Street. Palatazin sat 
*. 
J89 
' !''Ť
190 
upright, his heart starting to beat a little faster. The car approached very 
slowly, and in another minute Palatazin saw that it was a light-colored 
Volkswagen Beetle. His throat went dry. The car pulled up to the curb perhaps 
thirty yards away, and Palatazin ducked down in his seat. The headlights went 
out. A car door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on concrete. 
When he lifted himself up, he caught a quick glimpse of the man disappearing 
into the Mecca. That's him, Palatazin thought. That's the man! After a moment or 
so Zeitvogel came across the street and peered into Palatazin's car. "Do we go 
up after him now, captain?" 
"No. Let's wait awhile and see what he does. If he comes back out, we'll follow 
him, and if he stays in, we'll have plenty of time to make the arrest." 
"This is him, isn't it? The Roach, I mean?" 
"We'll see. You stay alert." 
Zeitvogel nodded and dashed back to his car. 
Palatazin stared fixedly at the building's front door. When it opened again and 
Benefield stepped out onto the sidewalk, Palatazin felt his heart kick as if it 
had been given a charge of electricity. The man was carrying a small paper 
bag-what could that be? he wondered. One of those rags soaked in that noxious 
brew? Then maybe he was going to strike tonight? Benefield reached his car, 
looked up and down the street-Palatazin ducked his head so fast his neck 
cracked-and then got in. The Volkswagen's engine fired, the headlights came on, 
and the car pulled away from the curb. It moved slowly past Palatazin to the end 
of Coronado, then turned right on 6th. 
Palatazin quickly started his engine, make a tight U-turn, and followed. He saw 
Zeitvogel's lights, about fifty yards behind in his rearview mirror. The gray 
Volkswagen turned on Western Avenue, and Palatazin realized the man was driving 
right up into Hollywood. His pulse was pounding, the palms of his hands sweaty 
against the steering wheel. He kept as far back as possible, driving with his 
lights out so Benefield wouldn't notice his tail. In a few minutes the 
Volkswagen turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, which was still ablaze with neon 
from the bars, discos, massage parlors, and porno bookstores. There was still a 
good deal of traffic on the boulevard, too, so Palatazin had to turn his lights 
on and speed up. He hung back a few car lengths behind the Volkswagen. From the 
sidewalks young girls in tight denims or slit skirts, T-shirts or halters called 
out invitations to the drivers, waving at them and holding up fingers to 
indicate their price. Most of the girls, hopeful starlets from every state in 
the country, were very pretty; perhaps they'd modeled once or twice or done bit 
parts or even starred in a skin flick or two, but now for a variety of reasons 
their luck had just turned bad. They were the throwaways, the tissues some 
agent, director, or disco smooth-talker had sneezed into and then tossed out 
with the trash. All of them potential victims. 
Up ahead under a huge red "X" that proclaimed a porno triple-bill, the 
Volkswagen swerved. The car plowed through traffic toward the curb. 
191 
His head was filled with the Master's voice, so he knew he had to hurry. He'd 
driven past several girls who'd tempted him, but tonight he was looking for one 
who was just right. There were so many to choose from-all colors, all sizes, the 
greatest candy store in the world. He had an erection already, but he wouldn't 
have an orgasm until he clamped the chemical-soaked cloth against her mouth and 
nostrils. 
And then he saw her, standing beneath the red "X" of the Hollywood Adult Cinema. 
She had long waves of blond hair, lips pouting sensually in a face that,, looked 
more like a little girl's than a woman's. She was wearing a shocking pink 
ťŤťdress and pink stockings, and best of all, she wasn't nearly as thin as the 
others. Lj There was something about her eyes and her mouth that reminded him of 
Bev. Of ; '""',, course, all the girls did in one way or another, but this one 
... yes, this one was Bev! i """I It really was! He thought he'd found her so 
many times, that she'd been sorry for -""j, leaving him and had come back, but 
always he realized that it wasn't her, that he'd * been tricked again. And so he 
had to kill the nasty, evil bitches. They were helping '""* Bev hide; they were 
laughing at him behind his back-with their ugly, painted lips. !'< 
But this was her-he was sure of it. Oh, the Master would be so glad he'd ;!, 
found Bev! ' '-* 
Tears brimmed in his eyes as he pulled up to the curb and motioned the girl 
over. She looked around for something better and then shrugged as she stepped 
over to the Volkswagen, peering in at the man with her heavy-lidded, dark eyes. 
"I won't go for less than seventy-five," she said disinterestedly, in a thin 
voice. She had wanted to sing backup for somebody like Bob Seger, but it was 
really hard getting a gig in this town. 
"Fifty," Roach said. He started digging for his wallet. 
"You talking a quickie or what?" the girl asked. 
"Yeah. A quickie." 
"You want some lip service?" He looked like a creep, but fifty bucks would buy 
her those new shoes she'd been wanting over at The Broadway. There was a funny 
smell in the car, too. Alcohol? Aftershave lotion? She'd just gotten a whiff of 
it, and now it was gone. Well what the hell? She slid into the car. "My name's 
Vicki," she said, and gave his thigh a quick squeeze. 
He smiled and pulled back into the flow of traffic. "I know what your name is. 
You can't fool me." 
"Huh?" Kim muttered. Some nut. God, she thought, maybe he's the Roach. The idea 
chilled her, but then she pushed it aside. Everything about this guy was little 
except his hands; his cock was probably as big as a shrimp. That made her giggle 
a little bit. 
"What are you laughing at?" he said sharply. 
"Oooooh," Kim said in a little girl voice, "don't bite baby's head off, 
sweetheart. 
x 
191 
i"'" 
<r 
:'!> 
192 
Why don't you turn in that alley, sugar, and let baby give you what you need?" 
"Okay," he said. "Yeah. Fine." He turned off the boulevard but drove right 
through the alley onto Franklin Avenue. 
"Hey! Where are you taking me?" 
"You'll see," he told her, cutting across Franklin and driving north toward 
Yucca Street. "You just sit quiet, you'll see." 
"Stop the car!" Kim said suddenly. "I want to get out!" 
"No, you don't. You'll run away. I've looked for you for a long time, Bev, and 
I'm not going to let you go again . . ." 
Dull terror hit the girl. Her breath quickened. "Let me out," she whispered, and 
whirled to open the door, but one of the man's hands flashed out and caught her 
by the back of the neck. "DON'T DO THAT!" he shouted. "THIS ISN'T THE WAY IT'S 
SUPPOSED TO BE!" He turned onto Palmero Street and followed it to a dead end 
where a couple of dark apartment buildings stood. There was a mound of dirt and 
rubble piled at the center of a weed-infested lot, Kim was struggling, 
scratching at him now. "STOP THAT!" and when his grip relaxed, she turned and 
dug her nails into his cheek, then lunged for the door again. He caught her hair 
and throat and pulled her back. 
And then he realized the truth, as he realized it every time, every single time- 
this wasn't Bev. This was somebody who'd tried to fool him, somebody who was 
laughing at him. This was someone who was wicked and who could be saved only by 
the Master's touch. 
"You're not Bev!" Roach said. "You're not, you're not, you're . . ." He reached 
down beneath the seat for the cloth and brought it quickly up into Kirn's face. 
She gave a muffled scream and fought harder, but he wrenched her head back and 
pressed the wet cloth firmly against her nostrils. 
And then he was caught in a blaze of headlights. 
EIGHT 
Palatazin and Zeitvogel had hit their lights at about the same time, and 
Zeitvogel shouted, "Police! Hold it!" 
Benefield twisted around frantically. In the next instant he threw open the 
passenger door and kicked the blonde out. She staggered to her knees and then 
pitched forward, unconscious. The Volkswagen's engine roared as the car plunged 
forward, then turned in a wild circle on the vacant lot and came screaming back 
along Palmero Street toward the makeshift roadblock formed by Palatazin and 
Zeitvogel's cars. The Volkswagen tried to turn aside at the last instant, but 
Zeitvogel accelerated and slammed into Benefield's side. The Roach scrambled 
out, his eyes enormous circles of fear behind his glasses. He started to run for 
the darkness as Palatazin leapt from his car and drew his .38. "STOP OR I'LL 
SHOOT!" he shouted. Benefield kept running. Palatazin fired into the air, and 
immediately 
193 
Benefield fell to the ground in a trembling heap. Holding his gun at arm's 
length, Palatazin approached the man. "Hold it!" he said tersely. "Don't move, 
not even a finger!" Behind him he could hear the chatter of Zeitvogel's radio, 
and Farris came running up beside him like a bull. 
When he reached Benefield, Palatazin saw that the man had contorted himself like 
a fetus and was sucking his thumb. Farris hauled him to his feet, snapped 
handcuffs on his wrists, and read him his rights. Benefield's eyes were glazed 
and empty, and he kept staring up into the hills. 
Palatazin walked back to the empty lot and bent down beside the girl. Her 
breathing was ragged, but otherwise she seemed to be okay. On the ground near^ 
her was a piece of cloth that smelled so strongly of the liquid substance they 
had >' found in Benefield's apartment that tears came to his eyes. Sirens were 
coming l] "ť"J , nearer. In another moment two prowl cars came roaring along 
Palmero Street, ťŤj followed by an ambulance. One of the attendants broke open a 
plastic ampule | y under the girl's nose, and she began coughing; she sat up in 
another moment, ("| rivulets of black mascara streaming down her face with her 
tears. """| 
The night was filled with flashing lights and the metallic crackle of police 
radios. Farris was frisking Benefield at the side of a prowl car, and Palatazin 
put his|7 gun away and came over to them. " '"ll 
_11 
The man was babbling like a lunatic,"... calling me, I hear him calling me, he's 
'Ť| ' not going to let you do this, he's going to protect me, he will he will . 
. ." '*;! 
"Sure he will," Farris said. "Now get in that car and shut your face.",^ 
But Benefield turned his full gaze onto Palatazin. "He won't let you put me\ * 
away! He knows what you're doing! He sees everything, all the wickedness in the 
l{<>* whole world!" He looked up into the night past Palatazin's shoulder. 
"Master!" he "Ť'C called out, and began to sob. "Master, help me! My life is 
yours! My . . ." iŤp* 
"Get in!" Farris said, shoving Benefield into the backseat.. ji Jl 
The cold slowly crept over Palatazin. Had the man said Master? Did he mean. % 
God or ... something else? He looked through the window at Benefield, who had 
'"" his face in his hands, as if ashamed. The prowl car backed along Palmero, 
turned, and then disappeared into the night, leaving Palatazin staring into the 
darkness. Slowly he turned and gazed up at the Hollywood Hills, a cold wind 
suddenly rushing past him like something huge and invisible. From far away he 
thought he could hear a dog howling forlornly. 
"Captain? You going back to Parker Center?" 
Palatazin looked over his shoulder at Zeitvogel. "No. Let them put Benefield on 
ice for a while, and I swear if anybody calls the press in on this thing before 
morning, I'll have him walking a beat on Selma Avenue!" He ran a hand across his 
forehead. "I'm going home to get some sleep." 
Zeitvogel nodded, started to walk away, and then stopped. "Do you think we've 
got the Roach?" he asked quietly. 
"Your guess is as good as mine." 
"I hope we do. If not, we sure busted our asses for nothing. See you at the 
194 McCAMMON 
office." Zeitvogel raised his hand in good-bye and walked away toward his now- 
battered car. 
"See you," Palatazin said. He gazed back into the darkness, feeling as though he 
were being watched by a presence that was slowly gathering strength. Where was 
it hiding? What was its strategy? When was it going to strike? Could Benefield 
supply any of the answers to those questions? Palatazin paused a moment longer, 
feeling the hairs standing up at the back of his neck. Then he walked to his 
Ford and drove away. 
NINE 
Mother of Mercy Hospital was an old ten-story chunk of brick and glass in 
Monterey Park about five minutes away from the San Bernardino Freeway. At five 
minutes after four A.M. the parking lot was quiet, and most of the building's 
windows were dark. The last real trouble in the Emergency Room had ended an hour 
ago, when the police had brought in eight or nine members of the Homicides and 
the Vipers who'd started swinging knives at each other at the Matador Drive-in. 
Three of them were cut pretty badly and needed whole blood transfusions, but the 
rest were patched up with bandages and Mercurochrome and hauled off in a police 
van. It had been an easy night-a couple of traffic accident victims, one gunshot 
wound, a child who'd mistaken a jar of ant poison for honey, assorted broken 
bones and sprains, nothing really out of the ordinary. But tonight the emergency 
room staff wanted to stay busy so they wouldn't have time to think about the 
gossip they'd been hearing all night from assorted nurses and orderlies about 
those fifty- seven people lying in the isolation ward on the tenth floor. Nurse 
Lomax said that not one of them had a drop of blood in their bodies. Paco, an 
orderly on the ninth floor, had said he'd seen some of those bodies twist and 
writhe like mad things, yet they had neither heartbeat nor pulse. Hernando 
Valdez, an aged janitor and a renowned voice of wisdom in the hospital, said 
their skin was like marble, and you could see the trails of collapsed veins 
beneath it. He said they were maldito, cursed things, and it would be best not 
to be around when they awakened from trjeir evil sleep. Nurse Espositio said 
everything about them was dead except their brains- when electrode contacts were 
placed on their scalps, jagged spokes were displayed on the 
electroencephalograms. 
The emergency room staff agreed-whatever was going on, it was muy misterioso. 
So none of them spoke when Dr. Miriam Delgado, her eyes still puffy from a brief 
and uneasy sleep, came through the emergency room entrance and stepped into the 
elevator without acknowledging any of them. The lighted numerals at the top of 
the door advanced to 10. 
Dr. Delgado had received a telephone call about twenty minutes earlier from Mrs. 
Browning, head nurse on the isolation ward. The woman sounded extremely 
195 
puzzled. "Dr. Delgado, there's a change in several of the patients. We're 
getting increased EEG readings." Delgado was thankful to return to the hospital; 
in her sleep she'd dreamed of those terrible eyes staring at her through 
transparent, milky lids like the eyes of sleeping reptiles. They seemed to be 
surrounding her, spinning in a mad circle like the baleful lamps of some 
out-of-control carnival ride. When she awakened, she was shaking and could not 
seem to stop. 
HIM'* ,. ť
The elevator doors slid open on the tenth floor. Dr. Delgado stepped out and 
walked along the gjeen-walled corridor toward the nurse's station. Her brain was 
still buzzing from her dream as well as from all the heated conferences she'd 
been involved in yesterday with everyone from Dr. Steiner to Dr. Ramez, the head 
of the hospital. The theories had flown hot and fast; diagnoses were formulated 
and then just as quickly discarded. The press had been nosing around, but the 
hospital's* -;J public relations man had been able to keep them at bay, for the 
time being at least. .!U Which was a relief to Dr. Delgado, for she needed time 
to find out just what they ij % were dealing with here. A virus? A contaminant 
in the water pipes? Some element f ""'*J, in the building's paint? In the air? 
One of the nurses had found precisely spaced "*'| puncture wounds on three of 
the victims, but not all in the same place. Two of Ť" them were wounded in the 
throat, a third at the crook of the elbow. The others "I 
'i 
were bruised and some had ragged cuts on their faces or at the backs of their 
necks",'"''ij just beneath the hairline. The nurse had offered a valid 
speculation-snakebite. I,!: But so far none of the victims had reacted to any 
antivenom serum. ; v^, 
Dr. Delgado reached the station, halfway between the elevator and the white(()y' 
door with the sign that said ISOLATION-NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT WHITE |,|HŤBADGE. 
The first thing she saw were case files scattered across the floor. A blue 
(i|1,;iŤcoffee cup had fallen from the desk and cracked into several pieces. On 
the desk "!'$H itself there were coffee-stained papers, and a pencil holder had 
spilled over. Damn ,,Ť** it! she thought angrily, staring at the mess. What's 
going on here? How could these /'^j night nurses be so incredibly sloppy? She 
tapped the little bell on the desk and ;".< ''Jj waited, but no one came along 
the hallway to answer it. ,< " /" 
"Ridiculous!" she said aloud, and walked on past the station through the white;" 
*!""* door. The isolation ward consisted of a series of large rooms cut by a 
central corridor; there were large plate-glass windows through which Dr. Delgado 
could see the mystery disease victims lying side by side, hooked up to IV tubes 
and blood bags and as many electroencephalographs as Dr. Delgado's staff had 
been able to beg, borrow, or steal. She watched the green spikes jump and 
realized with a surge of excitement that most of them were showing almost double 
the amount of brainwave activity as they had when she'd left the hospital last 
night. Were they finally reacting to the IVs and the blood transfusions? Was it 
possible they were beginning to come out of their odd comalike state? She walked 
to the door marked ISOLATION I and took a green surgical mask in a cellophane 
packet from a stainless steel tray. She tied the mask in place and then walked 
through into the ward. 
The room hummed with electric circuitry and the chittering of the EEG monitors. 
Dr. Delgado stopped at each bed to watch the spikes gathering strength, 
* 
196 
though she was still unable to find pulses when she felt for them. Those eyes, 
like the forming eyes of embryos, seemed to be staring right at her through the 
closed lids. 
And at the far side of the ward, she saw that five of the beds were empty. 
She hurried over to them, her heartbeat racing, and saw the tangled mess of torn 
tubes and wires that had been ripped out of arms and scalps. A few blood bags, 
totally dry, lay scattered on the floor. 
"Madre de Dios!" she whispered, and was startled by the sound of her own voice. 
"What's going on here?" 
She was answered by the rising noise of the EEGs, their thunderous chattering 
like a din of crickets, swelling to a hideous crescendo. She whirled around, 
somehow imagining she'd seen a furtive movement out of the corner of her eye. 
But the bodies in their white-sheeted beds lay motionless, the 
electroencephalograph noise now like the eager communication between them. It 
was maddeningly loud, as if the bodies were shouting at one another. She clapped 
her hands to her ears and hurried for the door. 
She had almost reached it when one of the bodies-a middle-aged Chicano man with 
a pendulous belly and rattlesnake eyes-sat up in his bed, ripping the electrode 
contacts from his scalp and the IV tube from his arm. He grabbed for her, 
yanking her backward by her coattail as she screamed in dazed horror. Across the 
room another body stirred and sat up. Then another, stretching as if waking up 
from a long siesta. A woman with gray-streaked hair plucked her blood bag from 
its hanger and bit greedily into it, spraying blood in a thick arc. As the thing 
pulled Dr. Delgado toward the bed, she saw the pale-lipped mouth open, and in 
that dark cavern were gleaming fangs wet with hideous fluids. She almost fainted 
in shock, but she knew that if she did she'd never wake up again. She wrenched 
free, ripping one arm of her coat loose, and ran for the door. The things came 
after her, leaping out of their beds, their white hospital shifts flying around 
them. 
Dr. Delgado reached the door and felt a clawlike hand grasp at her shoulder. She 
screamed and struggled away, feeling her flesh tear. Spinning around, she 
slammed the door behind her, but one of them crashed through the plate-glass 
window in a silver shower of fragments. Another followed that one through, and 
they stalked her as she whirled and ran along the corridor. Before she could 
reach the white door, another of them-a young girl with blood splattered across 
the front of her shift-came through the doorway, blocking her path. The girl 
grinned and came shambling forward, her eyes as black as evil itself. There was 
a closed door to Dr. Delgado's left, bearing the word Storeroom. She burst into 
the dark room and braced her body against the door as one of the vampires-yes, 
she thought, vampires!-struck it from the other side, trying to break through. A 
fist hammered against it; the door began to bulge inward. The doctor whined in 
terror, keeping her shoulder pressed against the wood but knowing it would be 
only a moment or so before they got it. She reached out, feeling for the wall 
switch; the lights came on, and the first thing she saw was Mrs. Browning's 
open-eyed corpse- 
197 
or was it truly a corpse?-lying at her feet, its face a shade somewhere between 
white and yellow. On the wall above Mrs. Browning's head was a square of metal 
with a handle on it. Dr. Delgado's heart pounded. It was the laundry chute, a 
metal tube leading down to the basement. She'd opened that chute a hundred times 
before, and now she prayed that it was wide enough for her. It would have to be. 
The door was struck by a tremendous blow. She was knocked backward, her shoulder 
blazing with pain, and then the things swarmed in. She only had time to scratch 
at the eyes of one of them^ then she threw open the chute and tried to squeeze 
her shoulders in. "Please God!" she heard herself scream, echoed by the tube's 
metal walls. "Please . . .!" 
nM^ 
But cold hands gripped her ankles and calves and prevented her from getting,t 
down the chute. She kicked and flailed, still screaming, but as they pulled her 
back,Ť^ 
she realized with maddening certainty that she could not escape.t^ 
The vampires fell upon her, clawing and fighting among themselves over who| ^ 
would draw the first draught of blood. When they were finished with her, they 
cast< ''*} 
her aside like an empty bottle and scurried off for more. There were many 
rooms""| between them and the street, and many patients in Mercy Hospital who 
would 
never again awaken as humans.'""$ 
"' llV1 
J 
.;:;ť
TEN'.>ť
uf1' 
Daybreak, cold blue shadows running from the sun.j,,,Ť
Gayle Clarke tossed uneasily in the bed of her studio apartment on Sunset(l|i;Ť* 

Strip. Two sleeping pills and a long swig of Smirnoff vodka would keep her 
knocked'!;;C, 
out until after noon, but they couldn't entirely erase the hellish memory of a 
Jack,.Ť"* 
Kidd who looked like leering Death, chasing after her across that apartment 
court-ji ""')l 
yard.'.'-'J 
In her Laurel Canyon bedroom darkened by heavy drapes, Estelle Gideon sat up 
suddenly and said, "Mitch?" There was no answer. 
Father Ramon Silvera drew cold, rusty water into the sink of his room in East 
L.A., cupped his hands beneath the spigot, and splashed a few drops in his face. 
Murky sunlight streamed in through a single window that faced an alley wall of 
gray bricks. Silvera walked to that window and opened it, inhaling a lungful of 
air tainted with dust and smog. Down toward the mouth of the alley, he could see 
the words scrawled in black spray paint in the spiky capital letters favored by 
the street gangs: FOLLOW THE MASTER. Silvera stared in silence, recalling the 
bloody 
^ 
197 
i1"* 
;.'Ť
198 
graffiti on the walls of the Dos Terros apartment building. He remembered the 
expression on that policeman's face, the abject terror in his eyes, and the 
chilling urgency of his voice. "Don't let them out on the streets" the man had 
said. "Burn them while you can." Silvera abruptly closed the window and locked 
it. tf/hat was happening in this city? The feeling he had now-and had had ever 
since he's stepped into that tenement-was one of dread, impending doom, Evil 
rapidly gaining strength like a cancer running unchecked through a human body. 
He felt afraid-not of dying because that was a certainty and he had learned long 
ago to accept the will of God-but of being helpless in a situation where God 
might call on him to act. 
Evil was on the march, an advancing army of the night; Silvera was more positive 
of that now than he had ever been in his life. And who could stand in its path? 
With these thoughts weighing heavily upon him, he dressed and went out to face 
the new day. 
Wes Richer lifted his head and saw Solange sitting naked before the window, 
staring out onto Charing Cross Road. He said huskily, "Solange?" She didn't 
answer. "Solange? What is it?" She didn't move, didn't even acknowledge him. 
Christ! he thought, drawing the sheets around him. She can really be weird 
sometimes! As he closed his eyes again, he recalled the dream he'd had: A little 
girl standing in the snow beneath his window, beckoning him to come out and 
play. It had been a good dream, one in which he'd been tempted to step through 
the window as if it were Alice's looking glass, into a childhood world where he 
could skate and slide and be a kid forever, and not worry about things like tax 
shelters and house payments and ... grown-up stuff. He returned to sleep, hoping 
he'd find that little girl again. This time he'd go out. 
ELEVEN 
"I want you to look at some pictures, Benefield," Sully Reece said, taking four 
black and white prints from a manila envelope. "Examine these very carefully and 
tell me if you recognize any of them." He dealt them out one at a time onto the 
table in front of Walter Benefield, then arranged them in a neat row. Reece 
could see the corpses reflected in the man's thick glasses. Benefield looked at 
each one in turn, his expression not varying a fraction. He was still wearing 
the vapid half-smile he'd had on his face since he was brought into the 
interrogation room. "Well?" Reece asked, sitting down beside the man. "What 
about it?" 
Benefield said, "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know why I'm looking at these 
pictures." "You don't? Well, I'll tell you then. These are on-scene photographs 
of young 
199 
women who were strangled to death and then sexually abused, Benefield. Four 
women in a period of two weeks. If you look very carefully, you can see the 
bruises on that one's neck. See? Right there at the edge of the shadow. I wonder 
if your fingers would make marks like that. Do you think they would?" 
"Lieutenant," the gray-haired man in the dark slacks and light blue sport coat 
said from his chair in the corner; he was a public defender named Murphy, and 
there was nothing he relished less than having to play watchdog as the cops 
grilled a suspect. 
"I'm talking to Mr. Benefield," Reece barked. "I'm asking him a question. We're 
not in court now. This is my ballpark, right?" 
"You don't have to answer any leading questions like that, Mr. Benefield,"f 
Murphy said emphatically. . .."*, 
"Okay." Benefield smiled. "I won't.""C, 
Across the room Zeitvogel muttered, "Bullshit!" and then he remembered 
the((ťcassette tape recorder turning on the table several feet away from 
Benefield. "'J 
"We could do that, you know," Reece said. "We could see if your fingers fit "| 
those marks." 
"Stop picking on me," Benefield whined, his smile finally breaking a bit."*JI 
"When can I go home?" ' jj 
"Picking on you? Man, I haven't even begun! You've been arrested for',1 
assaulting a young woman named Vicki Harris, Benefield. She's about the same age 
I , ;* as those other women in the pictures. She even looks a lot like that 
one, doesn't "y* 
she?"',, ť
tit 
"I guess she does, yeah.",,Ťť
"Where were you taking her? What were you going to do to her?" 
He shrugged. "I was ... I was going to park right there at the end of Palmero 
Street. She's a bad girl, you know that. I was going to ... pay her to . . 
."(/)i 
"Were these bad girls?" Reece motioned to the photographs.'', *"J| 
Benefield stared at them for a few seconds and then smiled again. "If you say> 
they were." ' ''"*' 
"Do you think this is funny? Do you think what you were about to do to Vicki 
Harris was funny? How often do you cruise Hollywood Boulevard?" 
"Once in a while." 
"Looking for bad girls?" 
Benefield glanced over at the attorney and shifted uneasily in his seat. "Yeah, 
I guess so." 
"Have you ever heard of the Roach, Benefield?" 
He shook his head. 
"It's been in all the newspapers. Don't you read the papers?" 
Ťxt >' 
No. 
"But you know how to read, don't you? And you know how to write?" "Yeah." Reece 
nodded and reached for a smaller manil^ envelope at the edge of the 
200 
table. He opened it and took out photostats of the Roach letters, placing them 
over the pictures in front of Benefield. "Have you ever seen those before?" 
"No, sir." 
"That surprises me. You remember how you wrote you name for us, once with the 
right hand and once with the left? Well, handwriting doesn't lie even when you 
try to distort it. You know what a graphologist is, Benefield? Two of them say 
you wrote these letters with your left hand." 
"They're lying," he said quietly. 
"Are they? They're experts on handwriting, Benefield. The judge isn't going to 
think they're lying. Neither is the jury." 
"Leave me alone!" Benefield whined. "I never saw those letters before!" 
"We talked to Mr. Pietro at your apartment house," Reece continued. "He told us 
that sometimes he hears you come in late at night and then you leave again. 
Where do you go?" 
"Just . . . out. Places." 
"What places? Hollywood Boulevard? Where else?" 
"Just around. I like to drive." 
"What about your mother? Do you go see her?" 
Benefield's head snapped up. "My . . . mother? You leave her out of this, you 
black bastard!" He was almost screaming. 
Reece smiled and nodded. He leaned back in his chair, watching Benefield's eyes. 
"We've got the evidence, Benefield. We've got witnesses who've seen you cruising 
Hollywood. We know everything we need to know. Why don't you tell us about those 
four young women?" 
"No ... no ..." He shook his head, his face reddening. 
"Four women." Recce's gaze sharpened. "Strangled and raped, thrown away like 
garbage. And that thing with the roaches, that was real cute. Whoever did that 
is a very sick man, wouldn't you agree?" 
"Leave me . . . leave me . . . alone . . ." 
"Whoever did that was warped and belongs in a hospital. I've seen your record, 
Benefield. I know about Rathmore . . ." 
Benefield's face went scarlet, his eyes bulging. He grabbed for Reece, snarling 
like an animal, and Zeitvogel was up in an instant reaching for him. Benefield 
got one hand clamped on Recce's throat. The three men struggled for a few 
seconds, then Zeitvogel got the man's arms pinned behind him and snapped cuffs 
on his wrists. "You ... filth!" Benefield shrieked. "You dirty nigger filth! I'm 
not going back there! You're not gonna send me back!" 
Reece stood up, his knees shaking. His throat felt bruised and contaminated. "I 
am going out for a cup of coffee," he breathed. "When I get back, you'd better 
be ready to talk to me, or I'll make it damn hard on you. Understand?" He stared 
at Benefield for a few seconds, then glanced over at Murphy. The attorney was 
sitting bolt upright, his eyes slightly glazed. Reece turned and stalked out of 
the interrogation room. 
201 
Palatazin was waiting outside, patiently going through the contents of another 
file. When he looked up, Reece could see the deep blue circles under his eyes. 
"How is he?" Palatazin asked. 
Reece shrugged and rubbed his throat. "He's pretty worked up. I tried the line 
about his mother that you suggested and got a real rise out of him. How'd you 
know?" 
"There's something strange going on. According to this"-Palatazin waved the 
folder-"Beverly Teresa Benefield died in a fall down a tenement stairway in 
1964. She was carrying a suitcase with her, evidently about to abandon her 
fifteen-year- old son, Walter. It was the middle of the night, the neighbors 
heard some shouting, but the coroner ruled the death accidental. Anyway, 
Benefield made a reference to""', his mother to Mr. Pietro not long ago. I 
figured we could probe that to good effect. ,Ť<j Also . . ." He took his notepad 
from his shirt pocket. "He used a cloth soaked in a !,.ťť combination of 
chemical bug-spray on Miss Harris. The lab says breathing it like i(, that in 
the close confines of a car would be just short of lethal. And an interesting "| 
point-they think Benefield had built up a resistance to the fumes, just like 
real .^'l roaches do. But now my question is-why go to the trouble of keeping 
them alive? If he is our man, why did he change his M.O.?" ""*]| 
"Because he's a nut," Reece said.-""I 
"Possibly, but even nuts stick to some kind of pattern. Well, I suppose it's my$ 
turn now. Let me borrow your cigarettes and matches." >Ť
Reece reached in his shirt pocket and handed him a pack of Kents and ay' 
lighter. "Good luck," he said as Palatazin entered the interrogation room. : ,. 

Benefield was sitting with his chin slumped forward on his chest. Palatazin sat' 
|W down beside him, pushing away the letters and photographs. He closed the 
M.E.'s ,'JiV* file on the death of Beverly Benefield and laid it on the table. 
"Would you like a xť< cigarette, Walter?" he asked. /\ 
Benefield nodded. Palatazin lit it for him and put it into his mouth. "When 
can';.,."V I go home?" Benefield asked. !Ť
"Not just yet, Walter. First there are some things we have to talk about."<"""" 
Benefield's eyes narrowed. "I know you. You're the cop who shot at me." 
"I fired a warning shot, yes. I was trying to protect you from the others. They 
might've killed you." 
"Oh." 
"Take the cuffs off," Palatazin told Zeitvogel. The detective started to 
protest, then he shrugged, took the cuff key from his pocket, came over, and 
unsnapped them. Benefield drew deeply on his cigarette and watched Zeitvogel 
carefully as the man took his seat again. "Are you comfortable now?" Palatazin 
asked. 
"I'm okay, I guess." 
"Good. I know Lieutenant Reece can be a bit too hard sometimes. Pretty 
overbearing. My name's Andy. Is it all right if I call you Walter?" 
"I don't mind. Listen, I told that nigger a thing or two. He won't be bothering 
me anymore." 
202 
"I hope not. I imagine he came in here and talked about the Roach, didn't he?" 
"Yeah. I told him I didn't know what he was talkin' about." 
Palatazin nodded. "And why should you? The Roach is gone. Nobody cares about him 
anymore. The vice squad should probably thank him. How do you feel about 
prostitutes, Walter?" 
He was silent for a moment, staring at the burning end of the cigarette. "They 
stick together," he said softly. "All of them do." 
"Uh-huh." 
"They laugh at you behind your back. They try to fool you." 
"But they didn't fool Roach, did they?" 
"Nope." 
Palatazin was beginning to sweat under the stark fluorescent overheads; he 
loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. "You work for Aladdin Exterminators, 
right? Do you like that job?" 
Benefield smoked his cigarette and thought about it for a minute. "Yeah," he 
said finally. "I do." 
"I'll bet you're a good worker. What do you use, one of those metal spray cans?" 

"A B&G sprayer, yeah. Shoots the Diaz right into the cracks." 
"Tell me about Beverly," Palatazin said softly. 
"Bev . . . erly?" Benefield's eyes glazed over immediately, and his mouth 
dropped open. He stared right through Palatazin as the cigarette burned down 
between his fingers. 
"That's right. Your mother. Where is she?" 
"She's . . ." His brow furrowed in concentration. "She's not here." 
"She's dead, isn't she?" 
"Huh?" Shock stitched Benefield's face. "No! You're wrong! She's hiding, they're 
helping her hide so I can't find her! Sometimes they can even make themselves 
look like her to fool me. Oh, they know all the tricks!" His voice dripped with 
bitterness now, and his eyes were hard and cold. 
"She's dead," Palatazin persisted. "And after she died, you were sent to 
Rathmore State Hospital." 
"NO!" His eyes flamed, and for an instant Palatazin thought the man was going to 
leap at him. "Rathmore?" he whispered, and rubbed his forehead. "No. Bev went 
away, and because she left me, they sent me to ... that place. It's not a 
hospital. Hospitals cure sick people. That place was a ... a Crazyhouse. When I 
find Bev, things will be like they were before. I won't have to think about the 
Crazy- house anymore, and my head won't hurt. But first . . . first I'm going to 
have to punish her for leaving me . . ." He crushed out the cigarete and dropped 
it on the floor. "She's somewhere in the city," he said. "The Master told me 
so." 
Palatazin's heart began to pound. "The . . . Master?" he murmured softly. "Who's 
the Master, Walt?" 
"Ohhhhh, no. You'd like me to tell you, wouldn't you? You'd like to know, but 
you can't." 
203 
"Who's the Master? Are you talking about God?" 
"God?" Something about that word seemed to trouble Benefield. He blinked and ran 
his hand across his forehead. "He talks to me at night," he whispered. "He tells 
me what to do . . ." 
"Where is he?" 
"Can't tell. Cant." 
"He's here in L.A.?" 
"He's everywhere," Benefield said. "He sees and hears everything. He knows where 
I am; he knows where you are. If he wants you, he'll call you in the night, and 
you'll have to go to him. You'll have to." He looked up into Palatazin's face, 
his,, black eyes strangely magnified by the glasses. "He's going to be mad at me 
for not , t going to him last night. He's going to be mad at you, too." ť";' 
"What's his name, Walt?"'y 
"Name? He ... doesn't have a name. Before he saved me, I was . . . paying '",/ 
them back for fooling me, but the Master said I was ... I was wasting. He said 
he| could use them and that I would be helping him win the great battle." "'|j 
"What battle?""'' 
Benefield looked at him and blinked. "For Los Angeles. He wants the city."f 
A cold terror spread through Palatazin. "Where is the Master, Walt? If I 
wanted'' II to find him, where would I go? He's hiding in the Hollywood Hills, 
isn't he?" "',.% 
"Can't tell," Benefield said.>;'! 
"Where? A house? A cave . . .?"x" 
Murphy, across the room, cleared his throat. Palatazin glanced up and saw j,^, 
'"" Zeitvogel staring oddly at him. Let them think I'm insane? he thought, f 
don't care! (l,;Jii(* He returned his attention to Benefield. "I want to find 
the Master," he said urgently. "-| ;C "I have to. Please help me.">"'* 
"Oh, no. He has to want you first. He has to call you, then you'll know how 
to/"' ,/ find him." ,'.< ,)> 
Palatazin forced himself to calm down. His face seemed to be burning up with'"" 
fever, his guts filled with arctic cold. "Are you the Roach, Walt?" 
Benefield froze. Slowly his face contorted into a sneer. "You're just like that 
nigger, aren't you? Pretending to be my friend, and laughing at me all the time. 
You want to send me back, don't you? Back to that place! I won't let you do 
that. He won't let you!" 
"WHERE IS HE?" Palatazin shouted suddenly, and lunged for Benefield's collar. He 
slammed the man's face down on the table, then jerked his head up again. The man 
snarled and grabbed for Palatazin's throat, blood stringing from his nostrils. 
"WHERE IS HE!" Palatazin shrieked again, all control gone now, nothing but 
animal rage and fear left. Benefield grinned, and then Murphy and Zeitvogel were 
pulling him away./ 
"No," Zeitvogel ordered, his gaze fixed on Palatazin. "Don't do that, captain." 
"LET ME ALONE!" Palatazin fought free of them and stood up, breathing harshly. 
"Just leave me alone!" He started for Benefield again, but Zeitvogel blocked 
204 
his way. "You don't understand," Palatazin said. "I've got to make him tell! 
I've got to!" 
Zeitvogel shook his head. Benefield grinned and wiped his bloody nose. 
"Get him out of here before I throw up," Palatazin demanded abruptly, and 
brushed past Zeitvogel out of the interrogation room. 
In his office he lit his pipe and tried to calm down. He couldn't get his 
thoughts organized. Of course Benefield was the Roach, and of course he knew 
where the Master was hiding. But how could he make him talk, how could he break 
the hold that evil force had on him? And then an even more terrible thought 
gripped him- how many were there now in this city who had heard the Master's 
voice? How many now walked at night, hungering for blood? A thousand? Five 
thousand? Ten thousand? It would happen insidiously, slowly, as it had happened 
in Krajeck so very long ago, until at the end the city would be at the mercy of 
the Master and his brood. He had to tell someone now, anyone who would listen. 
The newspapers perhaps? Chief Garnette? Maybe the National Guard could be called 
out, and the things found, burned or staked before they grew stronger. Perhaps 
the city could be evacuated and firebombs dropped from helicopters . . . 
But no. They wouldn't believe. He felt a chill of dark madness cover him. Who 
would believe? Who? He remembered the doctor in that building on Dos Terros 
Street, Dr. Delgado. The bodies had been taken to Mercy Hospital. Perhaps she 
could be made to believe. Yes! He reached for the telephone, but it rang before 
he could pick up the receiver. 
"Captain Palatazin," he said. 
"Andy? It's Garnette. Would you come down and see me right away?" 
"Yes, sir. I will. But first I have to make a-" 
"Andy," the voice was sterner, cast a tone lower, "I'd like to see you right 
now." The phone clicked and went dead. Palatazin put it back on its cradle and 
then got up, moving as sluggishly as a zombie. He felt weary, drained, about to 
split apart at the seams. He walked along the hallway to the Chief of 
Detectives' office. When he rapped on the door, he heard Garnette say, "Come in, 
Andy." 
He stepped into the office. "How are you feeling, Andy?" Garnette asked, 
motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "I understand you were busy last 
night." 
"Yes, sir," he said, and smiled wanly. "Quite a few of us were." 
"I talked to Lieutenant Reece and Detective Farris. I'd say you did one hell of 
a good job. Now tell me about this Benefield character." 
"Well, I believe he's the Roach, though we haven't got all the evidence we need 
to make an arrest stick, and I don't think we're going to be getting a 
confession from the man." 
"But you're holding him on an assault charge?" 
"Assault, reckless driving, resisting arrest-whatever we could come up with." 
Garnette nodded. "Okay. But you think it's too early to tell the papers?" 
"I think so." 
"In your best estimation, that man you're holding did kill those four girls and 
205 
wrote the letters signed by Roach?" 
"Yes, sir. Possibly more than four girls. He changed his M.O. in the past two 
weeks and began using a chemical-soaked cloth to knock his victims out first. 
We're 1 still questioning him about his procedure."^ 
"I see." Garnette was silent for a moment, his hands folded on the desk. When he 
looked back at Palatazin, his expression was tough and direct. "You've worked 
long and hard to crack this thing, Andy. No one in the department appreciates 
that J as much as I do." 
"Thank you, but I'm afraid we have a long way to go yet before we can consider 
it closed." 
"No matter. You're a good cop, Andy. You've been a good cop and a credit to this 
department ever since you joined us." He smiled slightly, his eyes warming up,,/ 
with memories. "You remember those old days? When you were a detective first- ' 
"' grade and I was trying to make sergeant? We were scruffy bastards then, 
weren't '"/'' we? Out on the streets throwing our weight around, flashing our 
shields whenever '";;;"# we could, making a lot of noise about every goddamned 
thing. We had chips on our ,/ shoulders as big as redwood logs, didn't we? Those 
were the days. You remember , ťJ[ that time we cornered the sniper on the fourth 
floor of the Alexandria Hotel? " j| About fifty cops out in the hall shaking in 
their shoes, everybody afraid to breathe because the bastard had an elephant gun 
in there? And you just walked right up to ,/,, the door and knocked on it! I 
almost dropped my teeth when that guy opened it ' | and came out with his hands 
over his head! Shit! You remember that?" "4 
i/" 
"I remember," Palatazin said quietly.;";,"." 'j 
"That took guts. And how about the time we were looking for the Chinatown 
Strangler? We were on rooftop stakeout with binoculars and a girl in one of theI 
'"" windows started doing a striptease? That crazy broad had the biggest set of 
oompahs ^^ I've ever seen. She could've made it in the movies. Things were 
better then, ;;,;,/'* weren't they? We didn't have computers or sociologists or 
psychics trying to do our '"",,* jobs for us. We got out in the streets and 
worked our asses off, and we didn't have to - f ^ worry about a mountain of 
files and paperwork. Well, that's progress for you, right? ' J Seems like you 
and I have gotten a little grayer and slower over the years. The ^ pressure is 
so much tougher now. You have to contend with so many conflicting factors. It's 
not cut-and-dried anymore. The psychiatrists and the ACLU people see to that. 
Sometimes I just want to chuck this whole mess and take the wife down to 
Acapulco or somewhere clean. Haven't you ever felt that way?" 
"Of course I have," Palatazin said. "Everyone does." 
"Uh-huh." Garnette nodded, placing his fingertips together and staring at the 
other man for a few silent seconds. "Okay, fine. I'm going to give you a chance 
to take a little vacation, Andy. Two weeks with pay. How about that?" 
"A ... vacation? Well, that's very nice, but I've got to finish this thing 
first." 
"No, you don't," Garnette said sternly. 
"What?" 
Garnette cleared his throat. "Lieutenant Reece is going to take over for you for 

206 
the next two weeks, Andy. I want you to take off." 
"I ... I'm afraid I don't understand." 
"You're tired, Andy. You're overworked and worn out. You deserve some time off, 
but I know you-if it were up to you, hell would freeze over before you left your 
desk. So take advantage of this. You and Jo go somewhere nice for two weeks . . 
." 
"What is this?" Palatazin demanded, his cheeks reddening. He knew exactly what 
it was, but he wanted to hear Garnette say it. "What are you trying to tell me?" 

"I ... the department's giving you some time off-" 
"Damn it!" Palatazin blurted out, getting to his feet. A pulse was pounding at 
his temple, and he quavered with confusion and anger. "The department's canning 
me, is that right?" 
"No, for Christ's sake! Two weeks, Andy! That's not forever!" 
"What is it? Who have you been talking to? Who's been saying I'm crazy this 
time?" It dawned on him then-it had probably been that outburst at the Dos 
Terros tenement. Who had told Garnette? Sergeant Teal? One of the officers who'd 
been working the scene? Surely it hadn't been Sully Reece? "Do you think I'm 
crazy, Paul?" 
"I think ... you deserve a rest. It's long overdue. You just go home and let 
your men finish this up." 
"NO!" Palatazin shouted. "I WONT DO IT! There are some things I have to find out 
from the suspect. Some very important things! I can't ... I can't leave it now!" 

"You're going to have to." Garnette forced himself to look away. He stared down 
at his hands. "You'll report back to work two weeks from today." 
"I won't-" 
"Is that understood?" Garnette said very quietly, and lifted his gaze. 
Palatazin started to protest again, but he knew it was no use. He placed his 
palms on the desk and leaned forward, his eyes glimmering. "I'm not crazy," he 
whispered hoarsely. "I'm not! I don't care what you've heard. There's a good 
reason for everything I've done or said, and by God if you don't start listening 
to me, there's . . . there's going to be great evil in this city. There's going 
to be evil beyond your wildest nightmares!" 
"Andy," Garnette stated firmly, "go home." 
Palatazin straightened up, wiping his forehead with a trembling hand. "Go home?" 
he whispered softly. "Home? I can't ... I ... there's so much to be done." His 
eyes were wild and bloodshot, and he knew that he must truly look insane. "Shall 
I ... leave my badge and gun with you?" he asked after another moment. 
"I don't think that's necessary. This is a vacation, not a suspension. Now, take 
it easy, Andy. And for God's sake don't worry about the Roach or anything else." 

Palatazin nodded and moved dazedly toward the door. "Yes," he said. "All right." 
He heard himself speaking as if he were inside a tunnel. He felt the cold 
doorknob touch his hand, and he twisted it. 
207 TTWELVE 
nn A 
It was just after two o'clock when Jo heard the front door open and close. She/ 
came down the stairs hurriedly and found Andy in the kitchen, holding a paper j 
bag. "What are you doing home so early?" she asked. "You scared me to death!" 
"""j 
,."> 
He glanced at her quickly, then looked away. "I won't be going back to work 
for"' a while," he said quietly. ""'/ 
"What do you mean? What happened, Andy? Tell me!" 
He began to take items out of the bag. There was a smaller bag inside with H. 
'ť' 'I Shaffer and Son, Fine Jewelry printed on it. "I've been given a two-week 
vacation,"  ;'v he said, and smiled grimly. She watched him open the bag and 
take out two identical white boxes. "Two weeks," he whispered. "Los Angeles 
might not even exist in i, *m two weeks." He gave her one of the boxes. "Put 
this around your neck. I want youM ,/* to wear this all the time; don't take it 
off-not in the shower, not when you sleep." 'II""II'ť
She opened it with a trembling hand. It was a small gold-plated crucifix on a/* 
long chain. "It's beautiful," she said, "but ..." _ .i',} 
"Put it on right now," he said. He opened his box, took out the other crucifix, 
} and clasped it around his neck. "I want you to get used to wearing it," he 
told her, ,! "" "so you won't forget it. I don't know how powerful its influence 
will be because it "' hasn't been blessed by a priest or sanctified with holy 
water, but it's better than nothing. Go on, put it on now." He went behind her 
to help her clasp it. 
She watched him, dumbfounded, as he stepped back to the counter and reached into 
the bag again. Oh, my God, she thought suddenly as she looked into his face. He 
looked just like his mother did just before she went into the rest home. His 
eyes held that same fanatical, crazed gleam; his jaw was set with an unyielding 
determination. "Andy," she whispered as he took several heads of garlic from the 
bag and laid them on the counter. 
"We'll slice these and smear all the windowsills with them," he said. "Then 
we'll chop some into pieces and spread them on the front lawn. Mama said it 
would help keep the vampir away because their sense of smell is so strong and 
the odor reminds them of death." He turned toward her and saw her face as pale 
as chalk. "Oh, I see. You think I'm crazy, too, like everyone else, don't you?" 
207 
HEY THIRST 
"Send me a postcard from Vegas," Garnette said as Palatazin stepped through the 
door. The captain's shoulders were slumped forward and he carried himself as if 
he'd just taken a hard blow to the stomach. Garnette started to say, "I'm 
sorry," but then the door closed. God.' Garnette thought, I hope two weeks makes 
a difference! If not. . . well, let that take care of itself. But anybody who 
wanted to burn bodies found in an East L.A. tenement-who demanded that they be 
cremated-was obviously in need of a long rest. 
Poor guy, Garnette mused, and then forced himself to concentrate on other 
matters. 
208 
"I think . . . Andy, you're not in Hungary now! This is a different place, a 
different time-" 
"There's no difference!" he objected sharply. "The vampir doesn't care what 
place he attacks so long as there's an abundance of food! And time to his kind 
means nothing! I tell you the vampir is here in this city! And someone has got 
to find the Master, the king vampir, before it's too late!" 
"You don't mean . . . Andy, what's come over you?" 
"The truth," he said quietly. "Jo, I want you to leave. I want you to take the 
car and drive as far away from here as you can. Go east across the mountains. 
Will you do that-for me?" 
She took a step toward him and clutched his arm. "We'll both go," she said. 
"We'll make a real vacation out of these two weeks! We'll pack and leave in the 
morning, all right? We can drive down to San Diego or-" 
"No. It has to be far from this city because when they start spreading out, 
there will be no stopping them. I want the mountains between you and L.A., and I 
want you to leave now." 
"I can't go without you," she told him, tears of despair welling in her eyes. "I 
won't, damn it! No matter what you say!" 
He took her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. "When they come, Jo-and 
they will come, it's only a matter of time-I won't be able to save you. I 
probably won't be able to save myself. But I have to stay here, I have to try to 
... do something! Running doesn't do any good. They just advance, and sooner or 
later all of humanity will be pushed together in a tiny pocket, and the vampir 
will come and then . . . that will be the end, don't you see? The vampir will 
eventually destroy themselves, but only after all of humanity is bled dry. 
Someone has got to at least try to stop them!" 
"You? Of all the people in the world, why you?" 
"Because," he said quietly, fixing her with his gaze, "I'm here. And I know 
their ways. Who else is there?" 
"Let the police do it!" 
"The police? Ah, yes. I know firsthand how efficient the police can be. No, it 
has to be me. Alone, if that's the will of God. Now go upstairs and pack your 
things." He turned back to the paper bag. 
Jo did not move. "I won't leave," she protested. "You can't make me." 
"You're a fool," he said. 
"I love you." 
Palatazin looked at her and grunted. "Twice a fool then. Haven't you understood 
a word I've said?" 
"I understand my place is with you. I'm not leaving." 
He stared at her for a silent moment, and she could feel the heat of his gaze. 
She returned it stubbornly. "All right," he said finally,- "if you're going to 
stay until morning, you can help me prepare for them. Cut the garlic into 
pieces." As she moved to get a knife, he reached into the bag and brought out a 
can of black spray 
209 
The last bell had rung at Fairfax High School. The classrooms and halls were,/ 
emptying rapidly. Toyotas and Triumphs squealed out of the parking lot onto ,i 
|(l Fairfax Avenue and left trails of rubber aimed toward the nearest 
McDonald's. "|! 
i,/ 
/ 
"""Iť/
THEY THIRST 
paint. She didn't want to ask him what he was going to do with it. 
He walked to the front of the house, shaking the spray paint, and opened the 
door. On the wood he sprayed a large black crucifix and beneath it the Hungarian 
word OVAJODIK. 
Beware. 
Tommy Chandler, one of the few eleven-year-old freshmen who had ever'Ťťy walked 
the not-so-hallowed halls of Fairfax High, carefully dialed the combination of 
his Yale lock, pulled it open, then opened his locker. Inside there were the 
usual American history, algebra, and Latin textbooks, a pack of Bic pens, and a 
few Nifty notebooks. Taped to the inside of the locker was a picture of Orion 
Kronsteen in his Jack the Ripper makeup from London Screams, clipped 
reverentially from an old Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine. There was a 
picture of Raquel Welch in a bikini, too, but that took a lower place of honor. 
Tommy took out his history > | and algebra books and the corresponding 
notebooks. Mr. Kitchens would probably >'> jj throw a sneak history quiz at the 
class first thing in the morning, and Tommy wanted to do some advance reading in 
algebra because what they were covering jl( "" now was just plain booooring. 
Across the locker room Jim Baines and Mark Sutro :ll;/* were discussing the 
physical attributes of Melinda Kennimer, head majorette for " '' '* the Fairfax 
High Marching Band and an untouchable but deliciously stacked <"' " senior. . 
|(i' J 
"I saw her in the hall today, fifth period," Mark was saying as he gathered up 
a' ,J biology text and a geometry notebook. "God, I almost creamed my jeans! She 
smiled at me. Actually smiled for God's sake! She's got a smile like Farrah 
Fawcett." 
"Better than Farrah Fawcett," Jim said. "More like Go Derek. God, what a bod! I 
hear she's going with Stan Perry, the lucky asshole! Last week at the pep rally 
when she flashed those thighs and the drum corps was putting down a jungle beat, 
I thought I was going to shoot to the moon. It's unnatural for a girl to look so 
good. I'll bet she's got a mean streak in her." 
"Who cares? I like 'em mean. Have you got a date for Homecoming?" 
"Not yet. I'm going to ask Ronni McKay." 
"Ha!" Mark slammed his locker door and spun the lock. "Too late! Johnny Jackson 
already asked her, and she said yes." 
"What? Keerist! I had my lines all ready for her! Damn! Who are you asking, 
Selma Verone?" 
Mark made a sickened face. "Are you kidding? Old Pizza Cheeks Verone? I'd rather 
go stag." He nudged Jim in the ribs with an elbow and motioned toward 
210 
Tommy. "Bet Selma would go with Chandler if he'd ask her." 
Here it comes. Tommy thought. Hurry and get it over with. 
"Hey, Chandler!" Mark called to him across the aisle. "Why don't you ask Selma 
Verone to go to Homecoming with you? You like monsters so much, she'd be perfect 
for you!" 
"I doubt it," Tommy mumbled. He heard the locker room door open and close, but 
he was concentrating on what the next jibe would probably be, so he didn't 
notice who came in. Tommy closed his locker, spun the dial, and turned right 
into a slab of beef wearing an Aerosmith T-shirt. A hand shot out, catching 
Tommy on the collarbone, and shoved him back against the lockers. He hit his 
head on metal, and his ears rang like a fire drill alarm. His eyeglasses dangled 
from one ear, but he didn't need to see to know who it was. He heard the raucous 
laughter like the snorting of pigs. Jim Baines and Mark Sutro were as quiet as 
the dead. 
"You're in my way, fuckface!" the slab of beef growled. 
Tommy adjusted his glasses. There were three boys standing before him, Jules 
"Bull" Thatcher with his usual entourage of Buddy Carnes and Ross Weir. 
Thatcher's faces was broad and ugly, as cratered and hostile as the surface of 
the moon. He had shoulder-length brown hair, a scar through one thick eyebrow, 
and black ferret eyes that radiated hatred. He towered over Tommy. Bull had been 
a pretty fair running back on the freshman football team until Coach Maxwell had 
caught him selling 'ludes in the parking lot about two weeks before. He 
should've been a junior, but the sixth and eighth grades had been beyond his 
capacity. Now he mostly cheated to squeak by. His eyes gleamed with bloodlust as 
he stared at Tommy. His face was slashed by a cruel, thin-lipped mouth, and 
Tommy could well believe the stories he'd heard about Bull's love of pure 
violence. It was his misfortune to have been assigned the locker right next to 
Bull. 
"I said you're in my way . . . fuckface!" Bull said grimly, his hands on his 
hips. 
"Uh . . . sorry," Tommy said, rubbing his collarbone. "I was just leaving." 
"He was 'just leavin','" Ross Weir mimicked Tommy's high, childish voice. "He 
sounds like a fairy. You a fairy, punk?" 
"Don't you guys know?" Buddy Carnes said. "This here's the little brain. He's in 
my algebra class, gets A's on every goddamn test and fucks up the curve for 
everybody else. He's the reason I'm flunkin' my ass off!" 
"Oh yeah?" Bull said quietly. "A brain, huh?" 
"Looks like a fairy to me," Weir said, and cackled. 
Baines and Sutro tried to slip past the Unholy Three, but suddenly Bull's head 
turned, and Tommy saw his eyes gleam like Gort the robot's power blast from The 
Day the Earth Stood Still. "Where do you think you're going'?" Bull said 
ominously. 
"Nowhere . . ." Mark stammered. "We're just . . . nowhere . . ." 
"Better not be!" Bull said, and turned his attention back to Tommy. 
Ah, yes, Tommy thought. He needs an audience for his performance. Over Bull's 
massive shoulders his cohorts' faces looked like the half-human animals from The 
Island of Lost Souls. Tommy could feel his heart thumping against his thin rib 
211 
cage. The "flight or fight" instinct was pumping adrenaline through his body-his 
head said fight, but his feet said flight. 
Bull stepped closer and shoved Tommy against the lockers again. "You think 
you're smart, don't you? Don't you?" 
"Not particularly, no." 
"You callin' Bull a liar?" Ross Weir snarled. 
U/i-o/i, Tommy thought. Caught by the deadly triangle! His face flushed with a 
mixture of anger and fear. Bull reached out and plucked off Tommy's glasses. 
"Hey, don't!" Tommy said. "Those are expensive!" 
"Oh yeah? You want 'em back? Come take 'em!" 
"You're about three guys bigger than me."( ,Ť' 
"He's a chickenshit fairy, too," Weir said.*.Ť;! 
Bull narrowed his eyes into fierce slits. "I've seen you in here before, kid. 
You, ,,ťj! got the locker next to mine, don't you? I'm going to give you some 
advice. I find ' / you in here tomorrow afternoon, I'm going to smear your 
little fairy ass up and '|| down Fairfax Avenue, you got that?" Ť'I 
"Just give me back my . . ." Tommy began, but in the next instant a massive hand 
had grabbed his collar and was choking him."'*/ 
"Maybe you didn't hear me," Bull said evenly. "I don't want to see you in here" 
| again. Understand?" He shook Tommy like a dog shakes a bone. "UnderSTAND?" ,. 
;'* i 
"Yeah," Tommy said, tears beginning to swim in his eyes. He felt more rage ; * 
than fear, but he knew if he swung a blow, Bull would probably snap his arms out 
of their sockets. "Yeah, I understand."* 
Bull laughed, blowing fetid breath in Tommy's face. He flung Tommy back" (1'ť 
and sneered at Baines and Sutro. "You want some of it, too?" he growled. Their 
';;;"/Ł, 
heads shook in unison.",. '*' 
)' . "Huh?" Bull glowered at him and then smiled. "Sure, kid." He held them out 
''I, ) 
and dropped them to the floor as Tommy reached for them. "Sorry," Bull said. 
"I'll '" get 'em." He placed his boot on a lens and ground down on it. The crack 
sounded as loud as a gunshot. Buddy Carnes howled with laughter. "There you go, 
kid," Bull said, bending to pick up the glasses and then handing them to Tommy. 
"Put 'em on and let's see how they look." 
Tommy was looking through one clear lens and one crisscrossed with cracks. The 
damaged side kept slipping off his ear, and he had to hold it in place. 
"Looks real good," Bull said. His face contorted viciously. "Now get out of 
here, fuckface! And you don't come back, you got it?"/ 
Tommy slipped past Bull and started for the door. He was almost there, thinking 
he was really going to make it, when Ross Weir stuck a leg in his path and 
pushed him. He went down in a tangle of arms and legs, his books falling 
everywhere. Laughter exploded as he gathered up his books again and hurried out 
of the locker room, leaving Jim Baines and Mark Sutro to their own unfortunate 
fates. Tommy walked across the empty parking lot and turned south on Fairfax, 
heading 
212 
toward Hancock Park. His knees were trembling, and within him there was a great 
urge to turn around and shout, "BULL THATCHER SUCKS!" as loud as he could. But 
what good would that do? He'd only end up with a busted head and a mouthful of 
loose teeth. Soon he'd left Fairfax High behind and was out of shouting range. 
He wished he had muscles like Hercules; he wished he could deliver a flying kick 
like Bruce Lee. Then the Bull Thatchers of the world-and there were so many of 
them-would think twice before they bothered him. Ah! The perfect fate for Bull 
Thatcher. He imagined the boy running through the fog-shrouded streets of old 
London, fear glistening in his eyes beneath the whale oil lamps as he heard the 
approaching footsteps. Orion Kronsteen's Ripper was afoot in the darkness, his 
three-foot sickle seeking new victims to behead. The Ripper's eyes would look 
like black holes behind a mask of gray cloth, and as those eyes made out the 
running figure of Bull Thatcher, the thin mouth would twitch into a cunning 
smile. There's nowhere to run, boy! The Ripper would call out. There's nowhere 
to hide! Come, let Mary Death take a taste of your blood! 
Of course, he'd catch Bull Thatcher, and then . . . hell, hell, hellI 
Tommy caught the smell of oranges and cloves in the breeze. It was the 
deceptively fruity smell which had lured thousands of prehistoric saber-toothed 
tigers, giant ground sloths, and mastodons into the clinging trap of Hancock 
Park, Tommy liked to roam around over there on Saturdays when his dad was 
working at the Achilles Electronics plant in Pasadena and his mom was out making 
telephone calls for whatever volunteer group she'd hooked up with this month. 
Last month it had been the Society to Aid Cambodian Orphans. Now it was the Save 
the African Elephant bunch. While his mother crusaded, Tommy would sit beneath a 
tree in the park and watch the roller skaters or read H.P. Lovecraft. He was 
accustomed to being alone. 
He turned onto Lindenhurst Avenue, across from the park, and walked along a 
street lined with Spanish stucco houses that seemed to stretch on out of sight, 
hundreds of houses that looked similar except for the different colors of paint 
and different cars in the driveways. But, Tommy had noticed, there was even a 
pattern to the cars. Most of them were imports or economy cars, including his 
dad's Pacer and his mother's Toyota Celica. There were a few Porsches and 
Mercedes Benzes sitting around, too, but most of these were inconspicuously 
driven and usually covered over with protective canvas. It was a firmly 
middle-class neighborhood, complete with Boy Scout troop meetings and backyard 
barbecues on weekend evenings. It was quite similar to the neighborhood Tommy 
and his parents had lived in when his dad was working at the Achilles plant in 
Scottsdale, Arizona; and about the same as the one in San Antonio, Texas; and 
almost identical to the old neighborhood in Denver, Colorado. Actually they'd 
lived in a small town just outside Denver, and that place had been Tommy's 
favorite-streets lined with elm trees and white picket fences, chimney smoke 
stirring in a crisp northerly breeze, people wearing sweaters and raking leaves 
into orderly piles. That had been a really neat place. California was different. 
Everybody was wacky, everybody had ulterior 
213 
motives. It wasn't the moving that bothered Tommy so much because he knew his 
father was being promoted gradually through the Achilles corporation. It was 
changing schools so much and leaving behind whatever few friends he'd managed to 
make. In his experience real friends were few and far between. But there was one 
definite advantage to L.A., though. So many monster flicks were shown on the 
tube! Almost every weekend on "Creature Features" or "Horror Hotel," he got to 
see an Orion Kronsteen, Vincent Price, or-very rarely-a Todd Slaughter flick. At 
the end of the summer, he'd helped his dad attach a gizmo to the TV antenna that 
pulled in a couple of Mexican stations, and down there they really made creepy 
horror movies. So all in all, it wasn't too bad. 
1ii* 
His heart suddenly gave a kick. A silver Vega was parked in the driveway of the 
house across the street from his. Her silver Vega. Her name was Sandy Vernon, 
the>ťŤ, daughter of Pete and Dianne Vernon, and she was a sophomore at UCLA. 
Tommy ,.. had fallen in love with her while watching her mow the lawn on a 
Sunday after- :|(|1 noon, clad in tight denim cutoffs and a dark blue halter. 
She was tanned and blond and . . . stacked! She made Melinda Kennimer, Farrah 
Fawcett, Go Derek and Raquel Welch look like Selma Verone. He'd melted into a 
little puddle, like the goo the comes out of a chocolate-covered cherry, when 
he'd seen the tight muscles of """'* her thighs and buttocks as she shoved a 
sputtering red Toro mower back and forth i"""i across the lawn. He would have 
offered to help, but then he would've been deprived J '| of watching that 
heavenly body. So he'd sat on the front steps, leafing through an ,, jl Eerie 
magazine and not making a bit of sense out of the stories. 
And when she'd finished, she'd cut the mower and then turned toward him,'"* that 
mane of blond hair flowing like hair does in shampoo commercials. Even from 
m|(,,,>'*across the street Tommy had seen that her eyes were a bluish violet. 
"Hi there," ;!! ;!'ť she'd said, and smiled. i,,/*' 
"That's a pretty neat lawnmower you've got there," was the only thing he 
could/'' () manage to say. ,)f 
She'd smiled wider as if she could read the thoughts-STUPID! ASSHOLE! STUPID! 
ASSHOLE.'-that were battering against the walls of Tommy's brain. "Thanks. It's 
my dad's. What they need to invent is one that does all the work by itself." 
"Uh . .. yeah. I think somebody's come up with a robot mower. It runs along a 
wire you put down in the grass. My name's Tommy Chandler." 
"I'm Sandy Vernon. Your folks just moved in?" 
"Since July." 
"That's nice. What grade are you in?" 
"Uh . . . I'll be a freshman at Fairfax High. In September. You sure did a good 
job on that lawn." STUPID! ASSHOLE! STUPID! 
"Thanks, I'll be seeing you, Tommy." And she'd pushed the mower away, her cute 
little behind moving as if on ball bearings. 
Tommy's body, in the bewildering throes of change, was never quite the same 
after that Sunday afternoon meeting. Once he woke up in the middle of the night, 

214 
looked down at his pajama bottoms, and almost passed out thinking he had some 
hideous kind of VD. But that was impossible since he'd never had the opportunity 
to dabble in the mysteries of the opposite sex, and he decided that it was one 
more of nature's tricks to make sure he was ready for manhood. 
Now, as he stood in front of his house and looked across Lindenhurst at the 
silver Vega that meant she was home, he saw a collie sitting on the steps in 
front of the Vernons' door. Whose dog is that? he wondered. Maybe the Vernons 
bought it in the last couple of days? It was a large, beautiful dog, and right 
now it seemed to be sleeping. Tommy strolled out into the street and said, "Hi, 
boy! Hi there, fella!" 
The dog didn't move. 
What's wrong with it? he wondered. Is it sick? He crossed the street and stood 
on the sidewalk. "Hi, fella!" He clapped one hand against his leg, but the 
collie didn't react. When Tommy placed one foot on the Vernons' lawn, the dog's 
head came up, the eyes staring blankly at him. "Hi, boy!" Tommy said. "Whose dog 
are you, huh? Are you Sandy's dog?" Dogs have all the luck! he thought. He took 
another step closer, and the collie bared its teeth, growling very softly. 
Tommy froze. The collie slowly rose to its feet but didn't move from in front of 
the door. A drop of saliva fell from its lower lip and spattered onto the 
walkway. Tommy backed away, very carefully, and the collie immediately curled up 
again. On the other side of the street, Tommy stopped and stared across, knowing 
that Bull Thatcher was going to growl like that when he stepped into that locker 
room again tomorrow afternoon. It was either that or carry all his books around 
all day. He wondered if a kid could buy a can of Mace. Funny the way that dog 
acted, he thought. I always heard that collies were friendly. Well, after all, I 
guess I was invading his territory or something. 
And then he remembered that "The Invaders" was on television in fifteen minutes, 
so he dug the key out of his pocket and hurried inside so he wouldn't miss the 
first part, where the saucer comes down. 
FOURTEEN 
Darkness, Twenty minutes before eight o'clock. 
Paige LaSanda cursed as her pale blue Mercedes crashed over yet another pothole 
on serpentine Blackwood Road. God! she thought. Why did I ever tell that Falco 
character Yd come up this mountain in practically the middle of the night? Why 
didn't I make him send a car to pick me up and take me back home? If that Prince 
whatever-his-name-is can afford to rent that castle, then by God he could afford 
to send a limo to pick me up! She could hear the wind whining through the dead 
trees out there, so she turned on her radio and searched for music. She came 
across the tail end of a newscast from KMET. ". . . registered 3.4 on the 
open-ended Richter scale, but San Diego residents did suffer some broken windows 
in a series of aftershocks . . ." Another earthquake, she thought. Christ! If 
it's not forest fires or 
215 
mudslides, it's earthquakes! She turned the dial and found a song she liked, the 
new Rory Black single."... I'm not the kind of guy who gets a second chance with 
pretty girls like you . . ." 
She was wondering what this Prince what's-his-name would look like when she 
realized that there was something out there in the dark, running alongside her 
car. 
A couple of dogs, caught in the backwash of the headlights, were running on 
either side like royal escorts. 
She shivered, wondering what dogs were doing way up here, and accelerated to 
leave them behind. In another few minutes she turned a corner, and there was the 
massive hulk of the Kronsteen castle. There were candles in some of the 
I ^ 
windows, shining with different colors. She had to admit that if the place was 
not, / 
quite attractive, then at least it was mysteriously appealing.;;! 
She drove through the open gate, parked her car in the driveway, and 
walked,,,,-j! 
i $ 
up the stone stairs to the front door. She was wearing a sleek black dress and a 
silver/ necklace with diamond stars clustered around a gleaming half-moon, and 
she knew j' she looked stunning. She was going to knock the prince's socks-or 
whatever they '"'"'I called them in Hungary-off tonight. She knocked on the 
front door and waited. """' 
It opened almost immediately, and standing there was a young Chicano girl in"*r 
a long white gown. <'"""| "Hi," Paige said. "I'm Miss LaSanda, and Prince Vulkan 
expects me." ; | The girl nodded and motioned for her to enter. , ;; v She 
stepped across the threshold. The door was closed behind her. She followed the 
servant girl-her makeup is atrocious, Paige thought-under a chandelier /Ťstudded 
with gleaming candles. Paige glanced up at it, realizing that it was where ,/* 
the cops had found Orion Kronsteen's headless body. It was as cold as a 
refrigerator !iV,'" inside the place, and above her head Paige could hear the 
whine and moan of |,. * conflicting winds across the high ceilings. They moved 
down a long hallway lit by ^ ,) more candles, then up a curved, stone stairway 
that had no banister. On the second ,} floor the servant girl motioned Paige 
through a rough-hewn door into a huge room with two roaring fireplaces on either 
side of a highly polished, gleaming black dining table. More candles guttered 
from a chandelier overhead and the two silver candelabra set equidistantly on 
the table. There was only one place setting, at the head of the table, with a 
silver dish and gleaming silverware. A crystal decanter half-filled with red 
wine and a single goblet were set beside the dish, both catching golden light 
from the fireplaces. "Where's Prince Vulkan?" Paige asked the servant girl as 
she sat down. 
The girl poured a glass of wine for Paige but didn't answer. Then, without a 
word, she moved like a wraith to the door and vanished. 
What's this guy going to do? Paige wondered. Make a grand entrance or something? 
She sipped the wine and asked herself what the hell she was doing there; then 
she looked up, startled. She thought she'd seen a face way down at the other 
side of the room, floating in the shadows that had gathered at the limits of the 
firelight. Now it was gone, but she was left with the distinct impression of 
white 
216 
flesh, white hair, and . . . red eyes. Now there was nothing there at all. She 
looked away quickly and thought she heard footsteps echoing off stone in the 
distance, not walking but. . . scurrying. Voices seemed to be whispering all 
around her, and she was almost certain she heard a cold chuckle. 
Maybe, she thought, just maybe I ought to call this whole thing off. Maybe I 
ought to get my little ass out of here right now because there's something 
definitely screwy about this whole thing. 
She drank down another swallow of the wine and started to rise from her chair. 
And that was when the hand came down very gently on her shoulder. 
Paige gasped and turned her head. She was staring into a pair of green cat eyes 
set in a pallid, high-cheekboned face. 
"Miss LaSanda," he said, and slightly bowed his head. "I'm Prince Vulkan." 
"Prince . . . Vulkan?" she said in a whisper. 
"That's right. I'm sorry you had to wait. There were some things I had to take 
care of before I could come." He walked around from behind her and stood beside 
the table, staring down at her with a piercing, intense gaze. 
"You? You're the prince?" She almost laughed, but the shock was too great. All 
her Omar Sharif fantasies were shredded like so much rotten tapestry. She looked 
at him wide-eyed, thinking that his flesh might well have been sculpted from 
white marble. "You're . . . you're just a boy!" she finally managed to say. 
He smiled slightly, his eyes sparkling with firelight. "Am I?" 
"I was expecting someone older ... in his forties at least!" 
"Were you?" He nodded. "Forty years old? I'm sorry I disappoint you." 
Paige saw the yellow streaks in his hair and stared at them. What sort of kid 
was this anyway? His face looked like a seventeen-year-old's, but there was 
something in his voice, his manner, his eyes that seemed much, much older. "Is 
Mr. Falco your guardian?" she asked. 
"Falco is... was ... in my employ. I saw fit to terminate his services last 
night." 
"Oh. But what about your parents? Surely you didn't come all the way from 
Hungary without somebody!" 
"I'm not a child, Miss LaSanda," he said, his lower lip curling. "I'm not! I can 
take care of myself!" 
"Well, sure. I just thought, you know . . ." 
Vulkan leaned over the table toward her, and she found herself inwardly 
cringing. "You're disappointed, aren't you? You wanted me to be older. You 
wanted me to be handsome and wealthy, didn't you?" 
"No, not at all. I'm just. . . surprised." She tore her gaze away from his with 
an effort that made her neck muscles thrum like bad guitar chords. She was 
afraid to look at him again, but when she looked into his eyes, she felt there 
was a cauldron bubbling at the center of her brain. "Listen, Your Royalty or 
Your Highness or whatever, I think this has all been a big mistake. I really 
shouldn't be here. It's late, and I have some work to do at home, so . . ." She 
started to rise. 
217 
"You'll stay where your are," he whispered. 
Instantly her back was rigid against the chair, her hands gripped tightly around 
the arms of her chair. She felt as if a seat belt had suddenly been drawn tight 
around her stomach. She gasped for breath. 
"There," he said. "I don't want to hear anything else about your leaving. I've 
got too much on my mind tonight to worry about you, Miss LaSanda, so please sit 
quite still. For some time, I've been planning to entertain you, and I don't 
want you spoiling the evening. Drink your wine." 
She shook her head and gasped, "No . . ." 
"Drink it," he said, his eyes boring through her skull. 
[i ii" 
.f1.1. 
Her hand went out, obediently grasped the crystal goblet, and tilted it to her 
lips, then returned the glass to the table. Her eyes were shining with fear, and 
a pulse ticked at her right temple. The prince picked up the glass, swirled the 
wine dregs around for a silent moment, then sniffed it and slid it back to her. 
He smiled. "You're a very attractive woman, Miss LaSanda. Very attractive 
indeed. I'm sure"IJ you have many suitors. Don't you?" When she didn't reply, he 
leaned forward and i| touched her throbbing pulse with a cold finger. Then he 
brought the finger back and passed it under his nose a couple of times. "Very 
attractive," he whispered. '/J' 
"Please," she said, her jaw muscles aching with the effort, "let me go home. 
I'"' | I don't ... I don't care who you are. Just ... let me ... go ..." ',' | 
"That would spoil everything. You want to stay here with me. Don't you?" His\ 
eyes widened slightly. 
Her head nodded involuntarily, like a marionette's."" 1 "Good." He regarded her 
for a moment in silence, then walked across the room ,* 
18ii' i'**to
one of the fireplaces, where he made a gesture of warming his hands. "I'm 
cold,"ir; "" he said softly. "I've been cold now for several nights, and I can't 
stand it any longer. " But you wouldn't understand that, would you? When you're 
cold, you simply turn r J up the heat. You don't know pain, Miss LaSanda, that 
pain that roars through the ,) 
- body like a blizzard." He looked over his shoulder at her. "I'm glad you're 
here, * 
* tonight. I needed somebody to be with me, to talk to. Sometimes I get lonely 
for people . . ." 
The woman's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Two tears trickled down her 
cheeks, leaving twin mascara trails. 
Vulkan stared into the fire. "It was only a matter of time before you found out. 
My checks are worthless. My bank account in Switzerland has been closed for a I 
long time. I didn't know how much you knew about me. So it was much simpler, I 
you see, to bring you here. To me." I"I don't ... I don't know . . . anything . 
. . about you . . ." she whispered. 
"Ah, but there are things you might have found out." He turned back to her, 
rubbing his palms together. "You might have called the police. You might have 
hurt me before it had even started." "Started? What . . .?" 
"Everything!" he exclaimed, making a sweeping gesture with his arms. "The 
future!" 
218 
Paige heard the door open. Vulkan glanced up. "Here's your meal," he said. "It's 
a true Hungarian beef gyulash. I had it made just for you." A girl in a white 
gown brought in a silver bowl brimming with a thick-looking broth in which bits 
of potatoes, beef, and carrots floated. She set it down in the plate before 
Paige and left the room. Paige stared at it but didn't move. I want you to eat 
it," Vulkan said quietly. 
Paige's arms were still pinned to the chair, and tears were dripping from the 
point of her chin. "Eat your meal," Vulkan said as if he were speaking to a 
small child. Her right hand whipped out, grasped a large spoon, dipped it into 
the bowl and brought it to her lips. Her mouth jerked open. The spoon returned 
to the bowl. Then again. "Swallow it or you'll choke," he warned her. "That's a 
good girl." He stood over her and watched. "There are so many things I want to 
know about this land called California," he said eagerly. "You can help me. You 
can tell me everything. Like . . . who are these?" He touched the T-shirt he 
wore, printed with a picture of the Beach Boys. "Are they religious figures, 
like the movie stars? I have to know about the music I've heard playing. What 
instruments are those? Lutes? Harps? The world changes so fast. The years pass 
like days to me, the days like minutes. It becomes more crowded and complex. 
Every time I leave my refuge, I find myself in a different world . . ." He 
squinted suddenly, hearing something (MASTER!!) but he tried to force it away. 
Waves of need crashed through him as he stood in the hot presence of Paige 
LaSanda. But there it was again (MASTER HELP ME!), urgent and compelling. He 
touched his forehead, eyes rolling back, and tried to focus on where that 
thought had come from. And then . . . 
... he could see the detectives in that large rectangular building with all the 
windows, bringing his servant Roach into a room where they were going to ask him 
questions. Roach sat at a table, and one of the detectives-a black man-switched 
on a cassette tape recorder. "All right, Benefield," the black man said. "We're 
going to ask you a few more questions." 
"Questions? (MASTER HELP ME!) When can I go home?" 
"Remember the photographs I showed you this afternoon?" the black man said. "The 
four bad girls?" 
"I remember them," Roach said. 
"Good." The detective opened a folder and looked through some papers. Then he 
shivered and glanced up at a larger man who sat across the room. "Does it feel 
cold in here to you, Karris?" 
"Yeah, kind of," the one called Farris said. "A little chilly." 
"Chilly, my ass! Feels like a north wind blew in!" He shivered again and then 
returned to the folder. "What were you going to do to Vicki Harris after you 
knocked her out with that stuff, Benefield?" 
"Nothing." 
219 
"Really? Let me read you something from your rap sheet. Do you remember a young 
woman named Gilly Langford from August of 76?" 
"No. (MASTER HELP ME!)" 
"That's odd, because she knew you when she picked you out of a lineup in an 
attempted rape case. She said you tried to strangle her, and she had the bruises 
on her throat to prove it. Then there was a little girl, Janis Chessler, eight 
years old. November 1977. Do you remember her?" 
Roach closed his eyes tightly, clenching his hands into fists. (SAVE ME MASTER! 
THEY'RE GOING TO TRY TO MAKE ME TELL!) 
"Do you remember Dr. Carl Friedman, Benefield?" the black man asked. "He was the 
State Mental Health Board psychologist assigned to your case after your 
molestation sentence was suspended. We've been in contact with him. Shall I tell 
you what he says about you?" 
"Lies," Roach said. "Everybody lies about me." 
"He says you're what's called a paranoid-schizophrenic," the black man said., J! 
"That things get mixed up in your head sometimes and you lose track of past 
"'"'|| events. He says you complain of severe headaches and you have abrupt mood 
'"'", changes. Dr. Friedman says you show hostility to women. Are those lies, 
Benefield?" ''/,', 
"Vp<; "''"I 
ics . . .| "I'll ask you again. What were you going to do to Vicki Harris?" J | 
Roach trembled and whispered, "He . . . doesn't want me to tell . . ." ;, \ "He? 
Who are you talking about?" 
"The Master." There were beads of sweat on his face. "He says I'm not sup-'"" 
posed to-" !/" 
x,/ i^m 
,t 
f' iff ,j 
ill1 ,|ŤUi 
'''/"> 
r ,,Ť/ 
Prince Vulkan broke mental contact with Roach and looked over at PaigeJ LaSanda. 
Her spoon was scraping the bottom of the silver bowl; her chin dripped with beef 
gyulash, and it had splattered down onto her dress. The woman's eyes '" were 
glazed, brimming with tears and totally insane. 
"That's enough," Vulkan barked. Immediately Paige's hand opened, and the spoon 
clattered to the floor. He turned his gaze away from her, looking inward again. 
He wasn't certain how strong Roach's will was and how long the man could bear 
this sort of questioning. The night before, Vulkan had made the castle tremble 
with his screams of rage when he'd realized Roach had been caught. The man was 
bringing his offering-and Vulkan's food-up the mountain. But Roach was a loyal 
servant and could be put to future use, so now he had to be saved from the den 
of the enemy. Vulkan put a hand to his left temple and looked deep into the 
night, concentrating on what he wanted done. His dark essence, like a formless 
shadow, left his body and traveled upward, squeezing through a chink in the wall 
and moving outward; it was something the Headmaster had taught him to do. All of 
the city gleamed underneath. In just a moment he could see the bats spinning in 
the 
220 
black sky like a mad whirlwind, hundreds of them flying from their caves in the 
San Gabriel and Santa Monica mountains, gathering directly above Parker Center 
in downtown Los Angeles. They churned there, a squeaking cyclone of wings, 
awaiting his next command. When the sky was filled with them, he watched in his 
mind . . . 
.. . the bats dropping lower, still spinning in a huge circle, hovering like a 
black noose around the gray-green building. They began to split formation and 
fly into the walls and windows. Those that didn't smash themselves to death flew 
a distance away and then came back to strike again ... 
Vulkan shifted focus, linked with Roach again and saw 
. . . the black detective looked up suddenly from the folder. He glanced at 
Farris, his brow creasing. "What was that? Did you hear something?" 
"Wait a minute," Farris said, listening. 
Roach's eyes were full of tears. He smiled as he heard something shatter glass 
outside beyond the door. "The Master!" he shouted joyously. "It's the Master 
come to take me home!" 
"Shut up!" the black man said, rising from his chair. More glass broke, and now 
there were people shouting in the corridor. "What the hell's going on out 
there?" He opened the door and stood on the threshold, transfixed by what he 
saw. Windows exploded like gunshots. A dozen bats flew over his head into the 
room, and Roach laughed as Farris ducked away from them. 
The black detective suddenly shivered and took a step backward. 
"Reece?" Farris shouted. 
The one called Reece staggered back, a ragged cry torn from his throat. He 
whirled around, his face covered with bats. A storm of them swept into the room, 
darting into Farris's hair, catching onto his shirt. Roach clapped and shouted, 
"YES! YES!" None of the bats touched him; they attacked the other two men, 
covering their bodies like a crawling tide. The walls were covered with bats, 
and they spun around the room like bits of black paper caught in a high wind . . 
. 
"Roach," Vulkan said softly, speaking through his mind. "Come to me." 
221 
"YES!" the man shrieked. He leapt up from the table and ran past the black man's 
body, which \vas twisting on the floor in agony. He ran into a larger room where 
there were other men trying to fight off the creatures, but the bats numbered in 
the thousands now and were still coming in through the broken windows. Roach 
passed a man whose head and back were swarming with furry bodies; another man 
ripped blindly at his shirt, his eyes reduced to bleeding holes. The bats parted 
to let Roach through and closed in his wake. He ran into the corridor, which was 
also filled with bats, and on to the elevator. A few bats tangled in his hair, 
but they felt the Master's presence on him and flew away. When the elevator 
came, he stepped in, escorted by two dozen or more swirling protectively around 
him, chittering and squealing. On the first floor he ran toward the main doors, 
where a uniformed officer shouted and drew his gun. A phalanx of bats whirled 
away from Roach and shredded the policeman's face. 
Roach burst through the doors and ran into the night along a wide avenue 
bordered by huge buildings. "Thank you, Master!" he shouted. "Thank you, thank . 
. ." 
ll|] 
Prince Vulkan brought himself back and opened his eyes; the pupils were | 
tightly slitted and seemed to be glowing with green fire. He thought Kobra and 
in', another moment Kobra stepped through a door at the far side of the room. 
"Roach 
is coming to join us," Vulkan said. "Take a few of the others and go down to 
help"* 
him. Hurry.", Ť
Kobra left to find Viking and Dicko and any other members of the DeathV* 
Machine who'd already awakened. It would be good to ride his Harley again, to 
feel *" 
t'tai 
the cold wind in his face, to see the stars burning savagely in the night. He'd 
beenJl right-this was the greatest drug there was. )| 
When Kobra was gone, Vulkan turned his attention back to the madwoman in'*" the 
chair. He approached her, saw her eyes moving feebly toward him, her mouth 
opening in a soundless "no." He took her hand and felt the blessed heat flowing 
like volcanic currents beneath the flesh. As he kissed the back of her hand, he 
could smell the sweet, delicious blood millimeters away from his fangs. He 
kissed along her arm, pushing the sleeve back, licking with a black forked 
tongue. 
Paige Lasanda shuddered, her eyes rolling back to white. "Boogeyman, Mama," she 
said in a little girl's voice. "Boogeyman . . . boogeyman . . ." 
When he reached the pulse at the crook of her elbow, the coldness within him 
turned unendurable. His head snapped forward, his fangs piercing the flesh. A 
bubbling fountain filled his mouth, and he drank with great, thirsty heaves. 
In a few minutes Paige whimpered, her face chalky yellow, and then she was 
silent. 
222 223 
Wednesday, October 30 
'in 
i 
THE"'': HEADMASTER'S GIFT 
I IN 
'} ) 
224 225 
' liti 
Rico Esteban, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a silver jacket and head 
bowed in thought, was walking home along Sunset Boulevard. Around him the 
boulevard swirled with nightlife-the sidewalks were crowded with rockers in 
sleek black jackets, their hair cut rooster-style and dyed in a variety of 
outrageous colors; transvestites hung around the entrances of the El Lay Club 
and the Disco 2001, hoping to be escorted in by some unaware stud; teenage girls 
in jeans so tight they numbed the ass stood in groups on the corners, talking 
among themselves about shoes and records when they weren't trying to flag down 
the driver of a passing Jaguar or Porsche; furtive older men stopped to ask them 
what time it was or how to find a good disco, and when the laughter hit, they 
hunched down and scurried off into the shadows; pimps in long Cadillacs cruised 
up and down the Strip, diamond rings flashing on their hands, their eyes alert 
for action or trouble. Music' crashed around Rico like throbbing electric 
thunder from a dozen rock clubs; the *" * H lightning was blue and white and 
green neon, pulsating like silent fury. jjj 
He'd made some good sales tonight-a couple of grams of coke in front of the| 
Whiskey a Go Go, some Columbian Red inside Disco 2001. Now there were a couple 
of ounces of Red left in the lining of his jacket, and he knew he could've sold 
that, too, if he'd stayed around the disco any longer. But he'd gotten a creepy 
Ť* feeling in there just as the Jets were singing "Body Heat" and the strobe 
lights had >ťstarted flashing so fast everybody looked like windup dolls gone 
berserk. The walls |!" had started closing in around him, reminding him too much 
of the feeling he'd had ť' in that building on Dos Terros Street. As he'd rushed 
out, shoving through a knot )t of people who stood around a couple writhing on 
the floor, urging them on, a girl "*j} with bleached blond hair and glitter on 
her cheeks had gripped his hand and "" whispered, "Come home with me, baby." 
He'd seen something horrible moving ''"" behind her vacant gaze, and her hand 
was as cold as death. Suddenly the girl on the floor whimpered-Rico heard it 
quite clearly, though no one else seemed to-and when he looked down, he thought 
he saw the boy astride her, his lips pressed against her throat. Rico jerked 
free and ran. 
He walked on, keeping his head down to avoid eye contact. Things were going 
crazy. Everything was falling to pieces. He almost bumped into a skinny kid with 
a crew cut. When he looked up, Rico saw that the kid wore a T-shirt with WHO IS 
THE GRAVEDIGGER? scrawled across it in red crayon. The kid cursed and stumbled 
on, his eyes aflame with uppers. Rico hurried away, the gold chains around his 
neck merrily tinkling against each other. In another moment he felt himself 
being watched and looked up again. On the corner there were two teenage girls, 
one in a wrinkled violet dress and the other in a pink satin jacket and dirty 
jeans. They stared at him with hunger in their eyes, their childlike faces 
vulpine 
226 
and as pale as the ashes of a long-dead fire. Rico shuddered and found he could 
not look away. The girl in the violet dress smiled and motioned for him to come 
over. He had almost reached them when a blue Porsche with two guys inside 
swerved to the curb. One of the guys said, "Want a ride, baby?" and the girls 
climbed in without hesitation. The car roared away, and Rico felt cold beads of 
sweat trickling down into his eyebrows. He went on, walking much faster now. 
It seemed to him that the endless party had gone on much too long, and now it 
was out of control. Something unspeakable had invited itself in because here the 
door was always open and everyone was too stoned or crazed to guard the 
entrance. Rico shivered; someone had just walked past him who gave off cold like 
an icebox. He was afraid to see who it was. He kept moving, the blare of music 
from the Mad Hatter's Tea Party almost blasting him out into the street. Someone 
else bumped into him-an older man in a white shirt. Rico felt those waves of 
cold gnawing at him again. Lifting his gaze high enough to see brown spots on 
the front of the man's shirt, he suddenly pushed a couple of kids out of his way 
and was running, hearing a long shriek behind him that turned into a chilling 
howl of laughter. 
He thought he could hear the noise of boots striking the concrete, chasing after 
him. He seemed to be at the center of a din of screams and laughter rising like 
a dark wave, crashing over the music. A girl's hand clutched at his sleeve. He 
cried out and pulled away, almost tripping in his haste to escape. It was only 
two blocks later that he dared to slow his pace and look over his shoulder. 
There was no one following him, no one at all. Just figures moving along the 
sidewalks and back and forth across the boulevard, bathed in cold neon. 
What's wrong with me? he thought. I'm cracking up or something! He walked 
another block, then turned into a doorway centered between the Temple of the 
All-Seeing Eye and the Rubens Nude-Fingerpaint a Real Live Nude!-Art Studio. He 
climbed a narrow, dimly lit stairway and stood in the hall. His was the third 
door on the right; he'd been lucky to find an apartment with a view of Sunset 
Boulevard. He switched on the lights and locked the door behind him. It was a 
one-room with a kitchenette and cracks in the ceiling that sometimes leaked 
brown drops of water. There was a long mirror on the wall beside the door, and 
now Rico peered into his face to see if he looked crazy. His eyes were a little 
bloodshot from the smoke at Disco 2001, but otherwise he looked okay. He walked 
across the room, his weight making the loose floorboards squeal, and looked out 
a small window onto Sunset. A few figures were running along the sidewalk; one 
of them, a woman, tripped and fell. A man stopped and helped her to her feet, 
then they all ran out of Rico's field of vision. In another few seconds a pack 
of grinning teenagers passed, running in the same direction. A car's tires 
screeched far in the distance. Somewhere a siren wailed like the voice of a 
woman, rapidly fading. 
Someone knocked at Rico's door. 
He whirled around, his heart racing with fear. For a long time he stood where he 
was, staring across the room at that door. In another moment the knob rattled. 
"Go away!" he shouted, and instantly thought, Oh, God! Now they know I'm here! 
227 
The knocking was repeated. Then a voice in an urgent whisper-"Rico! Open the 
door! It's me!" 
"Who . . .? Merida?" 
"It's me, Rico! Hurry! Open the door!" 
He let out his breath, almost overcome by dizziness. God in heaven! Merida! He 
stepped to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open. Instantly she stepped 
forward into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. "Merida!" he said. 
"Where have you been? I've been . . . I've been crazy looking for you!" 
"Don't say anything, please," she whispered. "Just hold me. Tight. Tighter." 
He squeezed her against himself, feeling her cold lips against his cheek. Tears 
threatened to spill from his eyes, and he realized then how very much he did 
love her. She was shivering, and her flesh was so ... so cold . . . Something 
dark stirred; in the pit of his belly. "You're freezing!" he said. "Where have 
you been? God, I'm .* 
i< 
so glad to see you!"y "Don't talk," she said, burrowing closer. "Just love me . 
. . make me warm ..." || "And it was then that Rico turned his gaze toward the 
mirror. '''jjj| He was embracing an empty dress, wrinkled where it might have 
been pulled by the movements of a human body. But he knew, and the knowledge 
almost made '";,! him scream, that what he was embracing was no longer human ... 
I She lifted her head, her dark eyes swirling with tendrils of red and silver. f 
"Make me warm, my darling," she whispered. "Make me warm." Her mouth opened. " 
The fangs slid out like a rattlesnake's. ^ 
"NOOOOOOO!" he screamed, pushing her away and taking a step backward. He tripped 
and crashed down against the wall, cracking his head on the edge of a,ť! 
junkshop table. Through a red mist of pain, he saw her approach as silently as a 
,! ;* puff of smoke. "Ricooooo," she whispered, her eyes yearning. "I've come 
back to Ť.i you. I've come back . . ." ""'J "Get away!" he gasped, trying to 
scrabble to his feet. They wouldn't work; his "tj brain spun between poles of 
frost and fire. ť' ". . . for you," Merida said. "Now we can be together forever 
. . ." """* "NO! NO!" His voice cracked, his eyes about to pop out of their 
sockets. Deep inside himself he heard the first faint chucklings of mad 
laughter. 
"Yes," the vampire whispered. "Forever and forever and forever." She reached 
toward Rico, her eyes glimmering like Sunset Strip neon. He screamed and thrust 
out his arms to protect himself, to give himself a few more seconds of life. 
Merida grasped his right arm, grinned, and sank her fangs into a vein at his 
wrist. 
He was shot through with pain, and now he could hear her sucking the life out of 
him. He tried to strike at her with his other hand, but she grabbed that wrist 
and held it with extraordinary strength. Her fangs plunged deep, not missing a 
drop. Her eyes began to roll back in her head with pleasure, and Rico began 
tumbling down into a dark place that was so terribly cold, so ... terribly ... 
terribly ... cold ... When she was finished, she let his arm drop to the floor. 
She crouched down on.all fours and licked up the few red spots of blood that she 
had missed. Then she 
228 
crawled over to Rico and cradled his head against her bosom, gently rocking his 
cold body back and forth. "Now," she said. "Now we'll be together for always. 
We'll always be young . . . and we'll always be in love. Sleep, my precious. 
Sleep." She held him awhile longer, then she went to the unmade sofa bed and 
pulled off the sheets. She laid the sheets down on the floor, dragged him into 
the middle, and wrapped him up. Now, she thought as she finished the task, you 
can sleep undisturbed until the Master bids you to awaken. She knew he'd be 
filled with hunger when he got up and might not be able to hunt for himself, so 
she would come back to help him. Her love knew no bounds. She dragged Rico's 
shrouded form into the closet, piled a couple of cardboard boxes around him, and 
closed the door. Now the sun, that hated bringer of pain, couldn't get to him. 
The Master would be pleased with her work. 
She left the room and raced along Sunset Boulevard to help the others in the 
hunt. She was getting quite good at following the blood scent. 
TWO 
"Arista wants you, Wes," Jimmy Kline was saying as he drove along Sunset, 
disregarding the kids who were stalking the sidewalks in what seemed to him 
record numbers for this hour. "They'll kill to get you after the Brooks deal is 
hammered down. And that is when our price goes up. Waaayyyyy up. Hell, they 
can't afford not to grab you up while you're hot!" 
Wes sat in the back seat of Jimmy's custom-built white Cadillac, his arm around 
Solange. The evening had been too much for her, and now her head was nestled on 
his shoulder. "That Chuck guy was pretty funny, wasn't he?" he said. "What was 
his last name?" 
"Crisp or Kripes or something like that. I'll tell you how I'm going to play 
Arista, Wes. Long and cold. I'll give 'em the old baleful stare when they quote 
facts and figures to me. Ha! I'll have 'em climbing the walls ready to sign 
anything. 'Sheer Luck' is going to be a hit for ABC, and the record companies 
are going to come crawling to us on their fucking knees! You want to hear a tape 
or something?" 
"No," Wes responded quietly. "I'm fine." 
"Okay. Hey! How'd you like to do a couple of Vegas dates? We could write our own 
ticket!" 
"I don't know. I've got bad memories of Vegas. Maybe I should just keep a low 
profile for a while and see what develops." 
"Low profile?" Jimmy said as if Wes had uttered the ultimate profanity. "Did I 
hear you right, man? Low profile? The only people keeping low profiles in this 
town are the has-beens! We've got to strike while the iron's hot. You know that 
as well as I do. Christ!" He suddenly twisted the wheel to the right, swerving 
to avoid a group of spaced-out kids who'd run out into the street right in front 
of the Caddy. "You fucking jerks!" Jimmy shouted, giving them the finger as he 
drove past. They 
229 
scattered, grinning and jeering. "Bunch of freaks!" Jimmy said, his face 
flushed. "Christ! We almost killed us about four punks back there. What an item 
for Rona's column, right?" 
"Yeah, right," Wes said nervously. He glanced back and saw the kids leaping out 
again in front of a Spitfire convertible. The car screeched to a halt, and the 
kids moved forward. Then he turned away and didn't look anymore because suddenly 
he was filled with dread. 
"Where do all these freaks live?" Jimmy said, glancing around at the people 
hanging out in front of stores and bars. "What do they do, just come out at 
night or something?" 
Solange suddenly sat up as if she'd never been sleeping at all. "What's happen- 
\ ing?" she said, her tone of voice alert. 
"Nothing. Jimmy's driving us home. Go back to sleep.",j 
"No." She looked around. "Aren't we there yet?"'', 
Wes smiled. "We just left the Improv about fifteen minutes ago. I suppose you jl 
don't remember the three glasses of Chablis you put away?" He looked into the'I 
rearview mirror at Jimmy's eyes. "What'd you say that guy's name was again? 
Chuck >' what?" ' ;!!ii 
"Kreskin. No, that's not it."'j 
"He's a good comedian. His material's really sharp. The audience liked him,'I 
too." * 
"I guess they did. Of course, everybody knows you could get up there on your ' & 
worst night and blow him or anyone else right off the stage. Cream rises to the 
top,W) Wes. That's why he's working the Improv and you've got an ABC contract." 
,Ť, 
"Footsteps," Wes said quietly., Ł
"What?" 
"Footsteps," he repeated. "Footsteps in the dark, coming up behind you. You"^ 
can run your ass off, run until your heart's about to burst, and then when you 
slow ^ down, you think you won't hear them, but there they are right behind 
you." 
"Solange, what's our crazy golden boy talking about?" 
"Sometimes I wonder," Wes mused, "what would've happened to me if I hadn't 
stepped up on that stage for the first time. It was right there in the Comedy 
Store on a Monday night-amateur night-and I was just off the bus from Winter 
Hill and scared shitless. I was supposed to meet an old frat buddy at the 
Greyhound station, but the bastard didn't show up, so I started walking, lugging 
suitcases. Jesus! I must've dragged those things twenty blocks. I didn't even 
know where I was going. Anyway, I saw this poster tacked up-Monday Night's 
Potluck at The Comedy Store. The Stage Is Yours! I found myself a motel room and 
started practicing in front of the mirror. Which had a big crack in it-I'll 
always remember that-and I was afraid it was going to be bad luck. But I figured 
somebody else broke it, so it was somebody else's bad luck. Right?" 
"Definitely," Jimmy said. 
Wes smiled at the flood of memories. It all seemed so very long ago, but then, 
229 
nŤ' 
ťH 
230 
time in L.A. was deceptive. When you're riding high and surrounded with friends, 
time speeds up, turning the months and weeks into days and hours. But when 
you're down and all alone, every minute stretches into a poisonous eternity. "I 
never saw a stage as big as that one was," he said. "I never again saw one as 
big either. There was a long line of people waiting to go on in front of me. 
Some of them were really good; the others just slunk off stage when they were 
finished beating their dead horses. God, what a night that was! The guy in front 
of me was a short order cook named Benny ... uh ... Kramer, I think his last 
name was. He did sound effects-ray guns, flying saucers, machine guns, and bombs 
with a half-assed running commentary. He was a nice guy but as stiff as a board 
up there. El Stiffo. After they carried him out, somebody pushed me from behind, 
and I went stumbling out into the lights. Christ, they were ... so bright." His 
voice had steadily become lower, his eyes glazed with remembrances. Jimmy 
glanced at him every once in a while in the rearview mirror. They were driving 
through Beverly Hills now, heading toward Bel Air. "So bright," he said. "They 
burned into you like lasers; they made the sweat pop out of your pores. I could 
just barely see the people sitting up close to the stage, but I was aware of the 
whole staring . . . mass of them out there. I could see light glinting off 
glasses and ashtrays, and it seemed like the whole place was full of 
noise-people coughing like they'd swallowed their dinners whole, talking back 
and forth across the room like I wasn't even there at all, hollering for a 
waitress. It was then that I knew I was a looooong way from fraternity parties 
and podunk clubs. This was the big time, and it was going to be tough." He 
paused, staring out the window. 
"Were you good?" Solange asked, holding his hand. 
"I was shitty," he admitted, and smiled. "My timing was off, I blew most of the 
punch lines, and I stood like I had a poker up my ass. About two minutes into 
the act, the crowd started calling for my blood. It was Gong Show reject all the 
way. I forgot the rest of my jokes and went nuts, started blabbering on about 
growing up in Winter Hill and how funny my folks and friends had always thought 
I was. That drove the last nails into my coffin. I think I must've crawled off 
that stage on my hands and knees because I sure don't remember walking off. And 
that was my big debut in Hollywood." He squeezed her hand. "But I got myself a 
job selling shirts at The Broadway, and I went back the next Monday night. And 
the next, and the next. I found out that if you wanted God on your side, you had 
to work like a demon, and I did. I threw out all the jokes that had worked at 
the frat parties and started from scratch. After a couple of months of that, 
they wouldn't let me do amateur nights anymore. People were asking for me. I 
started doing shows on New Comedians Night. Sometimes I bombed, sometimes I won 
them over. But I always worked my ass off. And then one night this guy came 
backstage and asked me if I was interested in writing some material for the 
Carson show. Rags to riches." He pondered that for a moment and then added, "To 
rags to riches." 
"Rags? Shit!" Jimmy said. "In your worst year, after 'Just You 'n Me' went 
under, you were clearing a hundred thou!" 
231 
"Which went just about as fast as it came in," Wes reminded him. "You forget how 
far a hundred thousand goes in this town these days." 
"Tis true," Jimmy said. "Regrettably true." 
Solange shivered and drew closer to him. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you 
cold?" 
"I'll turn up the heat," Jimmy reached for the climate control. 
"I'm all right," she said. "I'm only tired." 
He looked at her closely. "You've been acting strange all day," he said softly. 
"You coming down with a cold or something?" 
She shook her head. "I only want to get to sleep." 
Wes saw there was something more to it than that, but he knew from experience 
that when Solange wanted to keep something to herself, nobody on God's earth 
could get it out of her. He remembered yesterday morning. It had taken him^ 
almost ten minutes to snap her out of the trance she'd fallen into. She'd been 
'',, sleeping with her eyes open. |l 
"So just think about a couple of Vegas dates, will you, Wes?" Jimmy said. 
Theyjjjn were driving along a curving boulevard lined with tall palm trees, and 
they hadn't '' seen another car for five minutes. "Jilt1 
"Vegas?" Wes repeated. "I don't know . . ."'""J 
"Las Vegas?" Solange gripped his hand tighter. "Could you get a job there?"''I ; 

"Babe, when 'Sheer Luck' starts rolling in the Neilsens, old Wes could get a 
job'* in Fairbanks!" '* 
"That would be nice, Wes," she said, looking at him hopefully. "A week or two,, 
in Las Vegas maybe? Or a month? Why not?" ,w 
"I'm not ready for that right now. I want to take it easy."'/* 
"Easy, smeasy," Jimmy muttered.ť
"Why not do it?" Solange continued. "It might be good to ... to get away from"J 
Los Angeles for a while. You could relax in-" >l 
"Get away from Los Angeles?" Wes said. He'd caught the emphatic tone in her'"Ť* 
voice, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Why? What's so important to you about 
''*' going to Vegas?" 
"It's not important to me. I just thought you might enjoy the change." 
"I wouldn't. You know what I think about working in Vegas. It's an armpit town 
as far as progressive comedy goes. Those people just want somebody to ease them 
down after losing their shirts . . ." 
"HOLY CHRIST!" Jimmy suddenly shouted. 
Wes twisted his head around. He heard the high squeal of brakes and saw a gray 
car hurtle into the intersection on a collision course with the Caddy. Jimmy 
wrenched the wheel and slammed on the brakes, but Wes saw that the gray car, a 
Maserati, was coming too fast. He saw a face behind the wheel-eyes widened in 
horror, mouth opened in a soundless scream. He grabbed Solange, then the two 
cars hit in a jarring whump of rending metal. Glass shattered very close to 
Wes's ear; the interior of the Cadillac seemed to be filled with angry hornets. 
Solange 
232 McCAMMON 
screamed. Wes's head rocked forward and hit the back of Jimmy's seat, then he 
was thrown against the door with rib-cracking force. For an instant the Cadillac 
seemed in danger of going over on its side; the Maserati seemed to keep on 
coming, its gray torpedo of a nose plowing into the Caddy's side. Then the 
Cadillac righted itself, slammed against a palm tree, and was still. 
The ticking of hot engines sounded like a bomb about to go off. "Are you okay?" 
Wes said to Solange. "ARE YOU OKAY?" She nodded, her eyes glazed, a blue bruise 
coming up over her right cheekbone. "You crazy or something?" he shouted at the 
Maserati's driver, but all he could see was a shattered windshield. The 
sonofabitch must've been doing eighty! he thought. Must've been doing ninety 
fucking miles an hour when he came into the intersection! The entire right side 
of the Cadillac was folded in, all sharp angles of leather and metal. The front 
of the Maserati had been crushed like an accordion, the hood almost ripped from 
its hinges. 
"Jimmy," Solange whispered thickly. 
Wes looked, his heart pounding. There was blood on the steering wheel where 
Jimmy's forehead had cracked half of it away. Jimmy was wedged under the wheel, 
his left arm almost turned backward. His face was a sick purplish color, and 
blood was streaming down one side of his mouth. He made a soft moaning noise, 
his lungs sounding wet and clogged. "Jimmy!" Wes shouted, and started to lean 
over the seat. Jimmy's eyes opened. "Oh, shit," he said softly. "Looks like 
somebody plowed our asses, didn't they? Christ, my chest hurts!" 
"Don't move. Don't move. I'll find a phone somewhere and call an ambulance. 
Don't move." He had to shove against the door several times to get it open 
because it was jammed up against that palm tree. He squeezed out, his ribs laced 
with pain. He fell to the grass and puked like a hurt dog. Solange helped him to 
his feet. His head was throbbing terribly; it felt like a balloon expanding. 
"Got to find a phone," he told her. "Jimmy's hurt bad." He looked up and down 
the boulevard for a pay phone, but they were right in the center of Beverly 
Hills and pay phones were as hard to find as Skid Row winos here. Across the 
street there was a large white stucco house with a wall around it. A light shone 
in an upper window, and a head popped out. "Hey!" Wes shouted. "Somebody help 
us! Call an ambulance, there's a guy hurt down here!" The person in the window 
paused a few seconds, then withdrew into the room. "The car may blow up!" Wes 
yelled suddenly to Solange. "We've got to get him out!" 
"No, leave him where he is," she said. "Don't move him. Your head's bleeding." 
"Huh? Shit!" He felt up at his hairline and looked at the red smear on his 
fingertips. He staggered, but Solange's firm grip on his arm kept him from 
falling. "I'm okay," he insisted. "How about you?" She nodded, and he walked 
around the crumpled Caddy to the remains of the Maserati. Oil and water were 
bubbling out of the engine block, hissing where they kissed hot metal. Wes 
couldn't see anyone inside the car. He stepped forward through a puddle of water 
and peered through the smashed window on the driver's side. 
233 
A mask of blood was suddenly thrust before his face. Before he could step back, 
a hand clamped his arm. The Maserati's driver was a man with silvery gray hair, 
now clotted with blood. His face was twisted with agony, the lips trying to 
squeeze out words. "Uhhhhhhh . . . they're coming!" he said in a frantic whine. 
"They took Denise, and now they're coming for me, they're not going to let any 
of us ... uhhhhhhh . . . any of us get . . . get . . . get away . . .!" 
"What's he saying?" Solange asked. 
"I don't know. He's drunk or crazy," Wes said. He could hear a siren, 
approaching fast. An ambulance. Thank God, that guy in the house must've called. 
He started to pull away from the man, but the fingers dug deeper into his arm. 
"NO!" the man cried out. "No! Don't leave me! Please . . . please don't leave 
me!"'f, 
"You'll be okay," Wes said. "There's an ambulance coming." 
"Don't leave me . . . don't . . . don't. . ." His voice died to a faint moan, 
and he / ^ slithered back down into the seat, his fingers dangling over the edge 
of the door. | *Wes stepped away from the Maserati and peered into the Caddy 
where Jimmy j lay crumpled against the wheel. "You're gonna be okay, Jimmy! 
Help's coming. You ;|, just hang on, buddy!" |!i 
"Right . . . hang on . . ." Jimmy whispered.'J|i 
An ambulance, orange lights flashing, came roaring around the curve and ''I" 
screeched to a stop on the other side of the Maserati. The two uniformed atten-' 
. 
1 'dants, one a Chicano and the other a lanky red-haired guy, got out and 
approached '* 
the accident, walking quickly.J "Jimmy's hurt bad!" Wes told them. "He's all 
crushed up in the front seat!" lm "Yes, sir," the Chicano said softly. But then 
the other guy was pulling the )(|( Maserati's door open and reaching for the 
injured driver. The gray-haired man >* opened his eyes and babbled in terror.  
( "Hey," Wes said, "what's . . . going . . . on . . .?" _ y i The gray-haired 
man screamed. In the rippling orange light Wes could see the 1 glittering fangs 
slide out from the jaws of the ambulance attendant. Solange made !J, a soft 
sound of horror and gripped his arm. Wes could hear the chatter from the /ťŤ 
ambulance's radio-". . . got a two-car collision, corner of Wilshire and 
Detroit, two people involved ... hit-and-run, corner of Pickford and Orange, 
man's down on the scene ... car hit a telephone pole, Olympic and Catalina, two 
victims pinned inside . . . the hunting's fine . . ." The voice carried a cold 
hiss. 
Solange pulled at him. "Run!" she insisted. "We've got to run!" The Chicano 
glared at her greedily and wrenched open the Caddy's front door. Then he reached 
in for Jimmy and began to pull his body out from underneath the wheel. Jimmy 
screamed in agony. 
; i"Are you crazy?" Wes shouted. "You're killing him, you bastard!" He started 
I '. forward to tear the maniac away from Jimmy, but instantly Solange grabbed 
his 
{ J,arm to hold him back. "No," she said, and he stopped to look at her as if 
she were 
Icrazy, too. Her face was a grim-lipped mask, an African goddess with strange 
lights 
i(iglimmering in her eyes. He could hear another siren approaching. The 
gray-haired 
234 
man was on the ground now, his legs twitching as the attendant bent down over 
him. "Jimmy!" Wes cried. "Jim ... my ..." And then the Chicano was leaning over 
Jimmy. Wes saw orange light glimmer off the fangs as they sank into Jimmy's 
throat. As he drank with thirsty heaves, the Chicane's black eyes sought out Wes 
and Solange. 
And then, as if something had collapsed at the center of his rational soul, Wes 
realized what kind of things they were. Solange shouted, "WES!" and pulled at 
him as the second ambulance rounded the curb, orange lights flashing. As they 
ran, Wes looked back to see Jimmy's body spread out on the concrete. It shivered 
as if it had been plugged into a high-voltage charge; then he couldn't look back 
again for fear of being caught by that thing's hot, Gorgon-like stare. In the 
next instant the second ambulance roared up onto the sidewalk behind them, 
headlights blazing. 
Wes and Solange ran along a high wrought-iron fence; beyond it was a sloping 
lawn and a dark Tudor-style mansion framed with palm trees. The driveway, closed 
off from the street by a locked gate, lay just a few yards ahead. Wes could see 
that the bars had been forced apart as if with a crowbar. There might just be 
room enough for them to squeeze through-If they could get to that house and a 
telephone . . .! But the ambulance was gaining on them, swerving around the high 
Washingtonia palms, clumps of grass flying up behind the tires. They reached the 
gate, and Wes shoved Solange through the bars. She tripped and fell on the other 
side, but he squeezed through and pulled her up, then both of them ran toward 
that house. The ambulance crashed into the gate behind them, knocking it open 
and smashing both headlights with a noise like a shotgun blast. Wes saw that 
some of the mansion's windows were broken out; it looked dead and desolate, and 
he realized with a surge of panic that they could already be inside. He looked 
back and saw the driver's pallid, grinning face streaked with the orange light. 
The ambulance was again almost on them. Wes wrenched Solange to the side as it 
roared past and up the hill, cutting them off from the house. It skidded up on 
the lawn, turning in a tight circle, and slammed into a palm tree. 
They ran on, cutting across the lawn and past the house. Just on the other side 
of the hill's crest was a white, concrete structure that looked like a storage 
shed. A stone walkway led down through a landscaped flower bed, and below that 
was a swimming pool with a canopied bathhouse. Wes couldn't hear the ambulance 
anymore, but he knew they'd be coming soon. He tried the shed's door. It was 
locked, so he kicked it open. He stood among sacks of concrete mix and potting 
soil, various tools, a few large ceramic pots, and several cans of paint. Even 
before he heard Solange shout, he heard the ambulance roaring across the lawn. 
He lifted one of the paint cans and pried its lid loose. 
"Stay here!" he yelled at Solange, and ran down into the flower beds where the 
vampires could see him. The ambulance came for him, its grillwork grinning like 
the mouth of a hungry ogre. He saw the flicker of recognition across the 
driver's face. Before the ambulance could slow down, Wes heaved the paint can at 
the windshield, then dodged to one side with Solange's scream ringing in his 
ears. 
235 
The glass shattered, bright blue swimming pool paint covering the interior of 
the ambulance and blinding the things inside. It swerved, roared on past Wes 
through the flowers, and pitched over a small brick wall that, separated them 
from the pool area. The ambulance nosed into the deep end of the pool with a 
huge splash. Hot metal hissed. The orange light grew weaker, casting rippled 
reflections. 
Wes didn't wait to see if the things could get out. He ran back up to Solange, 
and at the crest of the hill they could both see the streaks of orange flashing 
out in the street. Wes froze. 
"The house," Solange said. 
It was the only choice they had. They got in through a pair of shattered French 
doors at the rear of the house, which opened onto a large sitting room \, where 
furniture, cabinets, and bookshelves had been overturned as if in a mad fury. 
Wes fumbled through the debris, trying to find a telephone in the dark. Solange 
picked up a lamp and stood at the doors; her eyes were wide and shining with 
fear '', but her hand was steady, with the lamp's metal base poised as a weapon. 
In another Ť) moment she thought she sensed movement outside. Wes did, too; he 
froze where ,;' he was, crouched on the floor with dirt all over his clothes and 
face.<''' 
Solange listened, her heart beating hard. They were there, she was sure of it. 
i| And now she heard the wet squeaking of shoes just beyond the doors. They 
would I." be coming through any second now. Her grip tightened on the lamp, 
though she  was well aware she couldn't fight them hand-to-hand.i 
And then in the distance, there were two gunshots. It might have been from Ji 
the house next door or from across the street. The shots were followed by a 
iťi 
woman's scream and a man's rising, madly babbling voice. Another siren began to 
shriek. She heard the slapping squeak of the shoes running away from the doors, 
quickly fading. "They're gone," she said after she'd caught her breath again. "I 
think they found something better . . ." 
Wes shoved aside an overturned coffee table and found lying underneath if an old 
black antique that Ma Bell herself must've used about a hundred years ago. j 
When he picked it up, his heart sank-it had been ripped from its terminal. "Damn 
,,., it!" he breathed. "We've got to call the cops!" 
"There's no use in that," Solange said quietly. "The police won't be able to 
help. If they did come, they'd only . . . find those things waiting for them . . 
." 
"What about Jimmy?" It was all he could do to keep himself from shouting. His 
strained voice echoed through the room, many ghosts speaking at once. "What in 
God's name are they?" He knew the answer to that already, and there was no need 
for her to utter the awful word. "It can't be!" he said. They're not real . . . 
not real. . .!" He steadied himself against an old sofa with red velvet cushions 
that had white music notes and lettering stitched on them, The Sweetheart of 
Sigma Chi and Charleston, Charleston. "Somebody must live here," he said. "They 
must be upstairs." He was afraid to shout, though, for fear those things outside 
might hear him. 
"I think you're wrong," Solange said. Wes stared up at her. "Look around. I 
235 
Htll 
'"'It 
236 
think the things have come here and gone." 
He forced himself to look. The mangled burglar bars were bad enough; a large 
gilt-framed mirror was smashed all to pieces and now hung crookedly over a cold 
fireplace. Antique lamps lay in fragments on the floor. A couple of bookcases 
had been overturned, scattering old volumes and little ceramic figurines. 
Solange bent and picked up one of the figures-it was the remnants of a ballet 
dancer, both legs and one of the arms broken off. The tiny painted face smiled 
up at her. 
"There's got to be a working phone somewhere in this goddamned tomb!" Wes said, 
and moved through a pair of sliding oak doors into a carpeted corridor that led 
to the front door. There were more smashed mirrors and framed poster of old 
movies-One Night in Madrid, The Prince and the Showgirl, Hollywood's Heaven. 
Through the front windows he saw the orange flicker and thought he saw figures 
moving out on the lawn. 
Solange was beside him. "An elevator," she said, and Wes turned. Next to a 
stairway with thick, ornately carved banisters, there was a mire-mesh elevator 
shaft. 
"Yeah. Fine. So what?" he said irritably. He glanced back toward the front door, 
a shiver rippling through him. "Where did those things come from? What in God's 
name made them like that?" 
Solange said, "We're not safe yet. We've got to find a place to hide in case 
they come after us again." She started for the stairway, and he was about to 
follow when a cold hand snaked out of the darkness and gripped his wrist. 
THREE 
Roach was down on the cold stone floor, whimpering like a dog at Prince Vulkan's 
feet. Vulkan, sitting in his chair at the long, waxed table covered with maps 
and diagrams, paid the human little attention. He stared into the fire, his face 
caught between light and shadow. The room still smelled of Falco's charred body; 
the dogs in the lower basement had gone wild over the cooked meat. Dust to dust, 
Vulkan thought, and ashes to ashes. Over on the other side of the table, Kobra 
sat, his boots propped up before him, and watched Roach through narrowed, 
red-lit eyes; he held Falco's femur in his left hand like a hideous scepter. 
Since after midnight couriers from Vulkan's lieutenants had been coming up the 
mountain to report on the shifting concentrations of activity-troops were now 
rampaging through Hollywood and Beverly Hills and a great part of southern L.A., 
including an area called Watts, which had already fallen. There had been several 
skirmishes with police officers who'd never known what they were chasing until 
it was too late. The control tower at the Santa Monica Municipal Airport had 
been overtaken, and some of the less-disciplined ones had amused themselves by 
crashing a few private planes. A military school in Westwood Village had been 
taken, and along with it sixty-eight young boys who had been asleep in their 
beds when the attack came; they would make fine soldiers tomorrow night. But for 
the most part the 
237 )i 
'THEY THIRST 
Iaction had been hit-and-run, which was how Prince Vulkan preferred it right 
now. 
i'Individual houses broken into, the sleeping men and women and children quickly 

drunk dry and shrouded away from the sunlight to sleep awhile longer; cars 
flagged 
down on the avenues and boulevards, their drivers taken by surprise; apartment 
Icomplexes taken silently, one cubicle after the next. Prince Vulkan had been in 

|L.A. a little over a month now, and by his conservative estimate there were 
over six 
'hundred thousand of his kind spread across the city. Moreover, the number 
doubled 
every night. His fangs had sired the beginnings of a new race. 
|.He touched Roach's shoulder; the man looked up at him, his face as joyous and 
dumb as a devoted puppy's. "You're safe now," Vulkan said quietly. "You j 
recognized your weakness down there, and you were wise to call for-" 
"I could've killed all those fucking cops," Kobra interrupted. "I could've done 
it easy, the Death Machine and me, killed them all . . ." 
"I didn't speak to you," the prince said coldly. "I didn't ask you to speak. Did 
I?" "You don't need him." Kobra's gaze burned with a sullen glare. "You said I 
was | going to sit at your right hand. You said that's why you called me from 
Mexico, because I was special-"I "I didn't speak to you!" Vulkan snapped. | 
Kobra stared back at him for only a second or so, then dropped his gaze and 
<ťflung the bone into the fireplace. "I need both of you," Vulkan declared, 
"equally." . i1 "Why do you need one of them?" Kobra said, and this time he 
looked away I immediately because Vulkan's green eyes had flared like blasts of 
napalm. J 
"Because," the prince said, "we'll need a human to go before us when we've 
finished here. I'll need him to arrange passage, to care for the crates, to 
secure a proper dwelling just as my last servant did. And sometimes I forget how 
humans ' ,think, I forget what their needs are, what motivates them. Having one 
of them here * is essential. Look on Roach as a ... a mascot."\ Kobra stared 
down at his knuckles. * 
III 
"You are at my right hand, Kobra. You're inexperienced yet? but before we'rej* 
through you'll lead my army to victory . . ." .,ť
Kobra looked up again, his eyes shining like headlights. 
"Yes!" Vulkan said. "I called you from Mexico because I could feel your 
presence, and the Headmaster helped me find you. Even as one of them you knew 
how to use Death. You were a true brother, even as a human." He placed his 
fingertips together and looked from Kobra to Roach. "To each their special 
place. Think back to Alexander . . ." 
"Who?" Kobra asked. 
Vulkan looked shocked. "Alexander! The boy king, the greatest warrior this world 
has ever seen! Don't you read? Don't you know anything about military strategy?" 
His lips curled in answer to his own question. "No, I suppose not. You'll have 
to be taught, won't you? Alexander the Great carried a full contingent on his 
campaigns-archers, infantry, carpenters, cooks, scholars, prophets, even women 
to serve the needs of his men. He left nothing to chance, and each man knew his 
> ? 
238 
proper role. Am I less than Alexander? Would I not follow his example? As I say, 
to each their special purpose." 
Kobra shrugged. He didn't know what the Master was talking about exactly, but if 
the Master said it was important, then it was. The Master closed his eyes now, 
leaving Roach to fawn at his feet. Kobra didn't like that one. One the way up 
the mountain, the human had sat behind him on his Harley, grasping him with hot 
hands. If Kobra hadn't already fed tonight, he might've borne him down to the 
ground and . . . but not. The Master wouldn't like him even thinking like that; 
he wouldn't like it at all. But he still couldn't see what good that one was 
going to be. He would be slow and stupid, a lapdog trying to keep up with 
wolves. Already Kobra was delirious with the sense of power that coursed through 
him. Right after he fed, he felt invincible, tuned like a perfect chopper flying 
along the hot currents on the highway, able to concentrate on the glittering 
plain of the city and pick up bits of a hundred thousand conversations going on 
all at once, like overlapping radio stations that faded in and out when the 
antenna moved. It must have been easy for the Master to find him just by 
concentrating on the feeling Kobra had in his brain, the dark attitude under the 
trapdoor of his soul. Every time he fed, the power was going to grow stronger; 
he was going to learn more, see more, know all the secrets in human hearts and 
minds. It would take time, yes, but he was going to be twenty forever, and time 
coupled with ageless youth was the great gift the Master had bestowed on him. 
"Leave me," Vulkan said. He opened his eyes and stared at Kobra. "Take Roach to 
his quarters. See that no harm comes to him." 
Kobra stood up. "Come on," he said to Roach. He motioned with his hand, and the 
man scurried after him. "No one is to touch him, Kobra," Vulkan ordered. "Do you 
understand that? He is to have free run of the castle, and the one who touches 
his flesh or blood will answer to me." 
Kobra bowed his head slightly and ushered Roach through the door. It closed 
behind them with a hollow noise that echoed up toward the vaulted ceiling. 
Prince Vulkan turned his head and stared into the fire. He thought he'd felt a 
cold breath stirring across the back of his neck, and his senses snapped on, 
vivid and aware. Paige LaSanda's blood, thrummed in his veins; it had made him 
sleepy for a while, but now he sat straight-backed, the pupils of his cat eyes 
slowly widening. The red embers in that fire reminded him of the ironsmith's 
forge in his father's castle, a long time ago. He remembered watching the 
ironsmith-a huge bear of a man with gray hair on his arms and 
shoulders-hammering out the raw blades that the swordsmith would painstakingly 
fashion into rapiers that glimmered like blue lightning. And he recalled those 
afternoon drills in a dusty hall with the sunlight streaming in through high, 
arched windows. Forward and back, forward and back, parry, thrust, attack. His 
father had been proud of his progress and proclaimed him an even better 
swordsman than his own father, Simon Vulkan the Strong. Now his father had been 
dust for many hundreds of years; now the castle of his birth was so many broken 
stones on a mountain ridge; now the pieces of the 
239 
/ 
i 
> 
>carriage that had crashed over a serpentine road on that wild, windswept night 
lay in a Budapest museum along with other odd memorabilia of the Vulkan brood. 
That night-September 29, 1342-had forever changed him and forever kept him the 
same. He remembered the scene vividly, could recall it down to the finest detail 
, simply by closing his eyes. His father, Jon the Hawk, sitting across from him 
in the i swaying gold-and-ebony coach, his father's wife, Sonya, beside her 
husband, pressed I close to him because the storm made her fearful. Sonya the 
Barren, she was called in the village mead halls, though never loudly enough for 
any of the Hawk's merce- ' naries to overhear. Conrad knew she wasn't his 
mother. The Hawk was regaled by the minstrels for his prowess in bed as well as 
on the battlefield. Sonya bore him no ', grudge because the Hawk was aging now 
and had needed a son. ťThe land was a wild, crazy quilt of powers, men building 
mountain fortresses > and calling themselves kings and hiring mercenaries to 
take the next man's land. ' The Vulkan province had spread in all directions as 
far as a horseman could ride in 
a day, encompassing a great deal of what is now the northern part of Hungary. It 
| Łwas a varied landscape of harsh rock citadels, sudden deep valleys of dense, 
unex- < k plored woodland, grassy plains, and lakes that caught mirror images of 
the sky. The ' i. land was beautiful, though unforgiving, but never at peace; 
there were very few ji< 7 nights when the torches of some ragged army or another 
didn't burn along the m 
t_ jjlli 
(_strategic mountain passes. The Germanic tribes were always on the march, and 
if I 
.the Hawk was not battling them in the wild northern forests, he was faced with 
the | 
\crawl of the Huns or the mercenary army of some jealous neighbor. )i 
^As the Hawk grew older and slower, assassination attempts became bolder. 
*Three nights before that fateful coach trip, returning from the new 
fortifications 
7IHI 
>the Hawk had built on the eastern frontier where groups of barbarians had been 
,
*yseen gathering in the mountains for a raid, one of his most trusted advisors 
had 
*been caught rimming a wine goblet with poison. The man's arms and legs were .,, 

ftorn from their sockets, his mutilated torso thrown to the castle dogs. Such 
was the "J 
ifate of all traitors. J1 
*mil 
4Conrad Vulkan had been weaned on warfare, drilled in classical military ,,H ? 
strategy by such warriors as Jozsef Agna and Ernst the One-Eyed, taught to 
ponder 
*the scope of his world by the philosopher Bran Lazlo, tutored in the myriad 
ways of 
*man at the knee of his father. He was destined for greatness, the Hawk had 
always . said. Conrad's mind had been steadily honed like the blade of a newly 
fired rapier. 4, Even now, sitting in a high-backed chair worlds away from 
strife-torn Hungary, he i recalled a favorite lesson his father had taught him: 
Attack like the wind. Seem to be 
*in all places at once. And never be there when the enemy turns to grasp at you. 

Before the coach incident there was only one moment of foreboding in Conrad's 
life. It happened during the celebration of his tenth birthday in the castle's 
great hall. One of the guests had brought, as a gift, a gypsy woman who read 
fortunes in the palm of the hand. In the ruddy light of hearth and torch, she 
had grasped his wrist and bent over to see, her toothless gums masticating raw 
tobacco. Instantly she'd recoiled and asked him-through a translator because she 
spoke 
I)i 
240 
only a crude Germanic gypsy language-if he'd had those few hairs at the center 
of his palm since he was born. He'd nodded, and she'd begun clucking like a 
frightened hen. She'd dropped his hand and said something else, which when 
translated conveyed that she saw a great and terrible change ahead for him. His 
line of life had hardly begun when it seemed to disappear under the flesh and 
manifested itself in a thin blue thread that curved around the base of the thumb 
and circled the wrist once, twice, three times, and again. She refused to read 
anything more and had been sent on her way with a loaf of black bread. 
But it was that night in September that remained most prominent in his 
memory-that night of terror and magic. The coach was moving through the Keyding 
Pass escorted by four soldiers when the driver suddenly slowed. One of the 
soldiers had sighted huge rocks, fallen from the slab of stone overhead to block 
the road. Suddenly, as the horses pawed the earth wildly and the driver tried to 
calm them, figures leapt from the rocks and trees, attacking the mounted 
soldiers. The horses screamed and reared. They took off with the coach racing, 
and suddenly a filthy, grinning death's head of a face peered in at a side 
window. The horses broke their harnesses; the coach shuddered and pitched off 
the road, crashing over and over down a rocky incline into the cold arms of a 
mountain stream. 
Conrad had opened his eyes inside the coach to see dark, ragged figures 
scurrying outside, breaking in through the shattered wood. His father and Sonya 
lay before him like broken dolls, and he knew at once that they were dead. He'd 
tried to fight off the things as they came swarming in, but one of his arms 
wouldn't work, and a hulking form covered with filth and lice grabbed him up 
like a piece of kindling and carried him off into the night. Others chased 
after, and he was flung aside several times as the things fought, rolling over 
and over on the ground, hammering at each other, hissing and snarling with 
demonic fury. Finally, a long way from the Keyding Pass, he was carried into a 
cavern that smelled of Death and vermin. The thing that held him threw him to 
the floor, and it was then that he saw the vampir's face and recognized it for 
what it was. The thing looked more like an animal than a man, with long dirty 
black hair and a scraggly black beard. Its eyes glowed with bursts of red and 
silver, its fangs dripped saliva, and its fingernails were hooked like claws. 
The vampir had approached, whining in its eagerness to feed, and had clasped on 
to the boy like a leech. 
And the following night Conrad Vulkan had awakened as one of the Undead. 
For a while he'd lived as the rest of them did-in a series of deep, winding 
caverns cut through the mountains, feeding independently on whatever he could 
find, usually rats, boars, or an occasional human who'd taken the wrong road. He 
fought like an animal to defend his sleeping and eating spaces, losing both of 
them many times and always digging out new ones in the cavern's clay floors. 
Eventually he realized that several of them always followed him to the stream 
where he washed the lice and roaches out of his clothes. They watched him 
curiously and eventually began to do the same thing. Many of them babbled in 
strange tongues he'd never heard before, and most of them couldn't communicate 
at all. After a 
241 
while he began to speak with several of them through a crude sign language and 
organized them into hunting parties. And then came the great realization of his 
new existence. He was, after all, a prince. Why could he not be a king to his 
new subjects? He organized the group into foodgatherers, scouts, and 
firetenders, and he began teaching them a common language. It was a slow 
process, but after a long while they began to trust each other, to see 
themselves as brothers and sisters of the night. They expanded their hunting 
range, raiding the nearby villages for children who would add the gifts of youth 
and speed to the collective. In those days ' Conrad knew very little of what he 
was or the powers he could control; he simply craved survival and recognized 
blood as Life. 
And finally he was ready to return to the castle of his birth. His scouts 
reported that it was in Germanic hands now. So this was to be a mission of 
warfare as well as a mission of survival. Vulkan contemplated the problem of 
taking the castle. He knew its interior as well as he knew the palm of his star- 
crossed hand, but its high sheer walls would stop even an army of the Undead. 
And while he contemplated, he watched a rat scurrying back and forth from its 
nest , ,; down in the guts of the cavern where the rock was riddled with cracks 
and holes. 
He began to stretch his power, to test its limits. He stared at the scuttling 
rat j, I I and, concentrating fiercely, made it freeze in mid-step. He made it 
turn, made it 
I run backward, made it spin like a child's top. Then he let it go deeper into 
the I , * cavern, following it with his mind, and made it return to him day 
after day. Then I >he did the same to two rats. Three. Four. A dozen rats, 
spinning in circles before jji him while the other vampir looked on in 
amazement. He laughed and clapped his hands because now it was becoming 
effortless. He could feel his will build upon itself, like the dark stones of 
his father's castle piled one on top of another. Soon a ,hundred rats danced 
for him, chittering and squeaking in mindless ecstasy. When he could bring three 
hundred rats out of the cavern's bowels and control them with H j. a mere squint 
of his mind, he sent his army out into the mountains. " 'f ^ The rats found it a 
simple task to squeeze through the holes and cracks in the j'j ,'| walls of 
Castle Vulkan. It took less than a week for the plague to follow. Prince 
Vulkan could stand on a hillock, hidden by the forest, and see the dark plumes 
of 
< |smoke rising from within the castle keep-bodies were being burned by the 
dozens. 
The death wagon rattled in and out of the castle every night with its cargo of 
icorpses. He could hear the screams and moans of the dying, and the death song 
brought a smile to his face. On a cold, snowy February night, while the doors 
were 
unbarred to let the deathwagon out, he led his vampir army into the castle. They 

met no resistance. 
Prince Vulkan opened his eyes. Again he'd felt a cold breath stirring at the 
back of his neck. 
A bow sobbed across violin strings. The music echoed like a wail through the 
>chamber. 
'^Vulkan turned his head and saw the Headmaster standing before the fire, I 
holding a bone-white violin beneath its chin; a gnarled claw gripped the bow 
with 
4 ' 
i ** 
242 
cunning delicacy. The Headmaster's eyes burned low, as deceptively cool as the 
last embers of the fire. The music went on for a few minutes more and ended with 
a low growl that sent vibrations shivering through the prince. 
"My pupil, my favorite," the Headmaster said. "Your army grows. How many?" 
"More than six hundred thousand," Vulkan replied. 
"Ah, good. Very good. But we must have more, Conrad. And quickly. You recall our 
agreement: In return for my services you must hand this city over to me on 
All-Hallow's Eve. That time approaches quickly, Conrad. I expect eight million 
in my service as my due by tomorrow midnight." 
"We double in strength every night. How can I give you that many?" 
The Headmaster's teeth flashed. "An orgy of hunger, Conrad. A celebration of 
power unlike any the world has ever seen. Let them gorge and throw up and gorge 
again, like a vast Roman orgy. Let them run wild and take as many victims as 
they can. I've observed how you saw fit to deal with the problem of your servant 
Roach. That may have been less than wise, Conrad. You forget the power of the 
media, and you also forget that special element that blinds the human race to 
your existence, their dogged determination-no, let's call it hope-that your kind 
doesn't exist. The element of surprise and confusion may soon be gone. We have 
to act now, in accord." The Headmaster's eyes closed for a few seconds. When 
they reopened, they were as bright as blast furnaces, and the prince could 
hardly stand to look at them for fear of dwindling to a cinder. 
"I hunger for souls, Conrad. I hunger . . ." The headmaster held the white 
violin in its hands and very slowly crumpled it into a ball as if it were paper. 
The claws clapped shut. Vulkan stared, seeing something begin to glow 
yellow-orange between the Headmaster's hands. The Headmaster opened its hands as 
slowly as it had crushed the violin. Something was taking shape between them, 
glowing golden. When the brightness dimmed, the prince saw it was a gold urn 
about two feet high, filled to the top with coarse sand. "I give you this gift," 
the Headmaster said softly, and held the urn out to Vulkan. It radiated heat. 
"Take up a handful of sand." 
The prince hesitated only a second, then scooped up some sand. It burned in his 
palm. 
"Drop it back in," the Headmaster said. Vulkan did so, and the Headmaster leaned 
forward, blowing softly on the falling column of sand. It began to writhe, 
slowly at first, but rapidly gaining speed. The column stood upright, about six 
inches high like a small cyclone. Vulkan thought he could hear the distant 
shrieking of wind. 
The Headmaster stepped past Prince Vulkan and set the urn at the center of the 
table. "Our powers are united. No one is to disturb this in any way, Conrad. Do 
you understand?" 
He nodded. 
"Good. The sun's graying the sky to the east; soon you'll sleep. Rest well and 
easy. When you awaken, you'll see that my gift has brought you the ability to 
move 
243 
at will with your entire army throughout the whole of this city. And the humans 
will be powerless to run, powerless to escape in their cars or planes or boats. 
So sleep well, Conrad, there'll be much work for you when you awaken." The 
Headmaster stared at the urn again, grinned, and then began to fade away. The 
last thing to disappear was the terrible fanged grin. Then it, too, was gone. 
Prince Vulkan looked at the golden urn. The sand was twisting with more force 
now, a corkscrew of power. The cry of distant wind sounded like the droning of 
an insect, greedy and voracious. 
The fire was almost cold now. Outside the hateful sun would be climbing the 
eastern peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was time to rest, to plan, to 
prepare for the next night. 
And oh, he thought, oh, what a night that will be! 
FOUR 
Palatazin awakened to the sound of something creaking. At least he thought he 
was awake because he could see the ceiling and feel Jo pressed against him. He'd 
<, been dreaming of a shadowy forest where hands seemed to snake out of the 
underbrush to grasp at him. The trees bent over from both sides, making the 
pathway I ahead look like a narrow tunnel walled with thorns and brush. Pallid 
faces grinned, I floating in the foliage like balloons from a satanic carnival. 
Jo was with him, and Jn they were running headlong through the tunnel when 
something hulking and monstrous stepped into their path, reaching out to welcome 
them with hooked claws. 
And now he knew he was awake, and something was creaking softly in his "" 
bedroom.^ 
Another earth tremor, he thought, and he reached out for the lamp switch. The f 
creaking stopped immediately. Palatazin later regretted not switching on the 
light, but instead he turned his head and peered into the darkness. 
His mother was sitting in her rocking chair again, watching him; her face bore a 
stern, grim expression that reminded him of the times when she got so angry if 
he dared creep back iftto bed for a few extra moments of sleep before getting 
dressed for school. Sleepyhead! she'd chide, wrenching all the covers off the 
bed. And then, clapping her hands with the noise of righteous thunder: Get up! 
Get up! Get up! He didn't realize until later how she'd equated sleeping with 
death. 
Palatazin stared at the figure in the chair. Her eyes were frightened but 
determined, too. They were the eyes of the woman who'd fired a shotgun at the 
unholy thing that wore her husband's flesh like a suit of clothes. She rose from 
the chair, and Palatazin could see the window-with its spray-painted cross at 
the center- through her form. She motioned to him. Get up, sleepyhead! He was 
frozen with "I wonder for a few seconds, but then he carefully rolled out of bed 
so as not to disturb Jo. She murmured something in her sleep, stirred slightly, 
and then was quiet. 
243 
>*! 
244 McCAMMON 
His mother motioned him closer. He took a step forward; he could see the deep 
lines around her mouth and eyes as if they were superimposed on the wall. Then 
she turned and pointed past his shoulder. He looked and saw she was pointing 
toward the closet door. He glanced between her face and the closet, not knowing 
what she meant. Her face was clouded with despair, her mouth working but no 
sound coming out. Then, abruptly, she stepped past him-he felt a breath of air, 
and for a second he smelled the childhood aromas of cookies baking, the breeze 
through a stand of pines, a coat Papa had bought her in Budapest-and then she 
walked right into the closet through the closed door. 
Like smoke that has whirled through an open window, she was gone. 
Palatazin found himself unable to move for a moment. He realized he'd been 
holding his breath, and now he let it all out. He turned, switched on the 
bedside lamp and went to the closet. 
"Andy! What is it?" Jo was sitting up in bed, her face as white as the sheets 
that were bunched around her. 
"It's all right," he said, and heard his voice shake. "It's nothing." But no, he 
knew it was something. His mother had been trying to speak to him through the 
barrier between life and death, and he knew the message was of vital importance. 
He gripped the doorknob, turned it, and pulled open the closet door. 
He didn't know what he'd expected to find-his mother's spirit standing in there, 
perhaps, staring at him through the clothes? The closet all torn up as if a 
violent storm had whipped through the walls? 
But there was nothing. The clothes were undisturbed. On the top shelf cardboard 
boxes were stacked up just as they always had been. 
"What is it?" Jo asked. "What are you looking for?" 
"I ... don't know," he told her. What's in here? What is it that's important 
enough to disturb my mother's rest? 
"It's getting light outside," Jo said. "Can't you sleep?" 
"No." He pushed the clothes back and forth for a moment, even felt the wall 
behind them. What am I looking for? A secret passage in my own house? He reached 
up to the shelf and moved a couple of the boxes around. Jo's skeins of wool and 
knitting materials were in one, some old shoes he'd even forgotten he'd had in 
another. There were some sweaters packed in mothballs. He was putting the boxes 
back when he saw the glint of rusted metal in the far corner behind a box he 
used to store his gun and holster. 
The metal box his mother had saved all her newspaper clippings in. The box that 
had been at her bedside when she'd died. 
Palatazin lifted it down from the shelf. "Andy . . ." Jo began to protest, but 
she was instantly quiet when she saw how tight his face had become and how his 
eyes had begun to shine with what looked like to her a maniacal fascination. She 
watched in silence as he sat on the bed, opened the old metal box, and began to 
look through the clippings, some of them so yellowed they were barely legible. 
She could see some of the headlines-Prominent College Prof Says Vampires Do 
Exist; 
245 i! 
THEY THIRST 
What Strange Force Turned Lizbethville Into A Ghost Town?; Fourth Cow Found 
Killed By Vandals; Line McRae, Powhatan Civic Leader, Still On Missing Persons 
List; Bats Plague Midwestern Town For Third Day. Most of them were cut from the 
National Enquirer, Midnight, The Star, and Fate magazine, but there were dozens 
clipped from the pages of the Times, the Herald-Examiner, a host of smaller L.A. 
papers, and whatever out-of-state papers Andy's mother could get her hands on. 
At one time her room in this house had been filled with old magazines and 
newspapers, and there were boxes stacked tall with them down in the basement. 
The silverfish had started coming in droves, and Jo had demanded that the papers 
go immediately. Andy had hauled them away but only to make room for the next 
batch his mother had begun saving. Jo had gone half-crazy trying to keep the 
place clean, always vacuuming and dusting and picking up scraps of newspapers. 
It had been the worst just before she'd gone into Golden Gardens. 
Palatazin turned the box upside down, dumping all the clippings out in a thick 
pile. 
"What are you doing?" Jo gasped. "You'll get the sheets dirty!" 
He paid no attention to her. He began reading the clippings one by one. The 
first was ragged and yellow and bore the headline: Crate Filled With Dirt Found 
In NYC Hotel Room. The story from the New York Times was only two paragraphs 
long but went on to say that police had found the imprint of a human body on top 
of the dirt and speculated that it had served as some kind of strange makeshiftI 
casket. The next item was also from the Times and was headed Rash of Disap- |i 
pearances Continues-ConEd Exec Latest Missing. 
Palatazin picked up the next yellowed item, a small squib with the headline Bats 
In NYC Subways? A workman inspecting a section of track had seen some, thing 
large and black down there, clinging to a wall like a bat with enfolded wings. 
When the man had shined his flashlight, the thing had screeched and come ,< 
swooping toward him, but he'd run like hell to the nearest platform. One of fhe 
f man's quotes intrigued Palatazin-"Mr. Luftek told police, 'If it was a bat, it 
was >' one the size of a man! It'll be a cold day in hell before I go back down 
in that tunnel!'" , Palatazin went through the next few stories, all about 
disappearances and prowlers in the New York City area, and found one that 
chilled his blood-Historic Cemetery Vandalized. It was dated August 24, 1948, 
and the cemetery was located near Martha's Furnace, Pennsylvania. There were 
more clippings of people missing, animals found drained of blood, most of them 
in the Pittsburg area. Another cemetery was vandalized near Canton, Ohio. The 
town of Paulinwood, Indiana, had to be evacuated because of a siege of rats and 
flies. A banker and his family were missing from their home in Mt. Carmel, 
Illinois, and his neighbors were frightened because they'd heard insane laughter 
in the middle of the night. In May of 1950 the townspeople of Dean's Field, 
Illinois, vanished overnight; food was still on the table in farmhouse kitchens, 
sheets were turned down in beds that would never be slept in again, lights were 
on, and doors unlocked; the only sign of "foul play" were several shattered 
mirrors. The next few clippings concerned similar events in Missouri. 
246 
"My God," Palatazin said softly. "They've been moving westward all this time." 
"What?" Jo's brow was furrowed deeply. She rose from the bed and put on her 
robe. "Do you want some coffee?" 
He looked up at her, blinking heavy-lidded eyes. "My mother knew. All these 
years she knew they were slowly moving west. My God! She knew and had to keep 
silent because no one would believe . . ." He quickly turned through the rest of 
the clippings his mother had saved just before she died. The last one was an 
Enquirer article about a man in Caborca, Mexico, who'd murdered three women with 
a hatchet and drank their blood because, he told the police, he'd felt possessed 
by a vampiro. 
"I'll make coffee," Jo said. "Do you want yours the usual way? Black with sugar 
and nails?" 
"Yeah, fine," he said. She grunted, rolled her eyes and went out the bedroom 
door. He went back to his reading. There was an item from the L.A. Times with 
the headline No Bats In Reno? Don't Gamble On It! The pilot of a Delta jet, 
circling for a landing at Reno International, had suddenly picked up a huge mass 
on his radar, closing in fast. The control tower had advised him to drop a 
couple of hundred feet, and as the pilot started down, the jet was engulfed by a 
cloud of bats heading westward. Luckily none were sucked into the jet intakes, 
and the pilot was able to bring his plane in. "Must've been hundreds of the 
things," the pilot said when he got his feet firmly on the ground. 
Do the bats precede the vampires, Palatazin wondered, or do they follow? In 
either case, their presence had meant something to his mother in the days just 
before her death. He picked up the next item and saw with some amazement that it 
was a Rona Barrett column dated September 3. He read, "... a major Hollywood 
studio is searching for a successor to the late JOHN WAYNE in a planned remake 
of the Duke's classic Red River. Mentioned most often are Dallas big daddy JIM 
DAVIS and new face CLAY SANDERS. Watch for CLAY in the new Paramount film The 
Long Haul... for the fans who asked, JANE DUNNE is alive and well and living in 
Beverly Hills. She'll be interviewed by this reporter on an upcoming ABC special 
. . . more royalty's moving to Hollywood. It's all very hush-hush, but rumor has 
it that a European prince, no less, will soon be remodeling the Hollywood Hills 
castle that once belonged to horror-film star ORLON KRONSTEEN . . . wedding 
bells may soon be tolling for JOHN TRAVOLTA. The lucky girl's name is still a 
secret, but this reporter hears the church bells ringing on Christmas Day . . ." 
His eyes snapped back to the reference to Orion Kronsteen. He'd worked briefly 
on that case about ten or eleven years ago. He'd never seen the decapitated 
corpse, but he'd seen the expressions of a couple of the officers who had. Their 
faces were pale, and their lips drawn up into grim gray lines. That case had 
never been solved, he recalled. But what bothered him about those lines of type 
were the two words European prince. Those were the words, he was certain, that 
had caught his mother's attention. If this prince were the vampire king he 
sought, the castle would be a perfect refuge, hidden away in the hills and 
probably high enough to be a 
247 'Ť
THEY THIRST 
strategic observation point as well. And now he recalled how the Roach had 
stared up into those hills and begged his master for help. 
His blood went cold. 
Yes, he told himself. This is what my mother wanted me to find. 
And now another question racked him-was this the same European prince and/or 
vampire king who had conquered the village of Krajeck on a stormy winter night 
so long ago? Was this the same creature who had taken his father? 
He put the clippings back in the box and snapped the lid down. Rising from the 
bed, he stepped to the window and looked down on Romaine Street. The earth was 
still layered with blue shadows. The sky was a dull slate gray, but he could see 
the faint pink light coming up in the east. There was a bitter coppery taste in 
his mouth-the taste of utter dread at what had to be done. His fingers clamped 
on the windowsill; the black-painted crucifix was centered in his vision and 
seemed to be burned across his face. Terror writhed in his stomach. "I can't do 
it alone," he heard himself whisper. "Not that. I can't." 
But then who will? 
"I can't." He shook his head, his lower lip trembling. He would have to go to 
that crumbling old castle and find the vampire king to drive an ash stake 
through the thing's heart and sever the head from the body, then do the same to 
as many others as he could find. He would have to set the bodies on fire or drag 
them out to let the sun bake them into dust. God help him if he was caught up 
there when the sun went down. 
He remembered his father's face, streaked with orange light from the hearth. 
Those gleaming, terrible eyes. Remembered the shotgun blasts and the hideous 
thing-not Papa anymore-that rose from the floor, its face ripped away and the 
long, glistening fangs exposed. 
"I can't," he said to his reflection in the glass. 
Then who will? 
He didn't hear Jo call him from downstairs, finally yelling in exasperation, 
"You don't want coffee? You won't get coffee!" 
Oh, God, why me? And then he answered the question himself. Because you know 
them. Because you ran from them once, never knowing they were following, day 
after day, year after year, all across the United States. And now they are here, 
and there is nowhere else to run. If you don't do it, what will happen to this 
city? To the millions of people, all of them unaware? Los Angeles would 
eventually fall, just as Krajeck had fallen, and a tidal wave of vampires would 
move eastward across America, possibly to link up with other isolated pockets of 
vampires that awaited their coming. The entire world would lie before them, 
before their ravenous thirst. 
In the window's glass his face looked thirty years older. His remaining hair 
seemed to have gone white all at once, like a man who has had a nightmare of 
grinning Death slowly stalking closer. 
There was much to be done, and it had to be finished before dusk. But he knew he 
couldn't do it alone, and he was going to have to have protection. The 
248 
taste of fear in his mouth was acrid. 
Across the street and one house down, he saw a German shepherd settling itself 
on a front porch. He hadn't realized that the Zemkes had bought a watchdog. Good 
luck to you, he mentally told the sleeping family in that house. You'// need 
every bit of it and more. 
He turned away from the window and began to dress hurriedly. 
FIVE 
"Blackberry brandy," the old woman in the wheelchair offered as she poured from 
a crystal decanter into three tulip-shaped glasses. There had been four in the 
set, but the fourth now lay in shards on the hardwood floor. "One hundred 
proof," she promised, winking at Wes. "Knock the fear of Satan right out of you. 
Here." 
Wes handed one glass to Solange and sipped from the other one. His mouth 
instantly flamed, and he could feel the liquor spiraling down into his stomach, 
where it seethed for a moment like lava. He drank down the rest of it, squeezed 
the tears from his eyes, and held the glass out again. "More," he said. 
Jane Dunne smiled, the lines across her heart-shaped face deepening, but there 
was a center of cold fear in her brown eyes that refused to thaw. "Sure you can 
handle it, kiddo?" He nodded, and she poured again. 
Solange stood on the other side of the wrecked room and drew aside a heavy 
wine-red curtain to look out onto the lawn. The first trace of new light hovered 
in the sky. "The sun's coming up," she said softly. "It'll be daylight soon." 
"Thank God," Wes breathed. "Any of them still out there?" 
"No. At least I can't see any." 
He came over beside her and peered out. The boulevard was deserted, the houses 
dark. Nothing moved. "I think they've gone. They can't stand light, can they?" 
"I wouldn't be so sure about that, kiddo," Jane said, turning her wheelchair 
around to face them. She drank down her third glass of brandy. "I wouldn't be so 
sure of anything in this screwed-up world anymore." 
Wes stepped away from the window and eased himself into an overstuffed antique 
chair with one broken arm. A single candle burned on a coffee table beside him. 
Over near the door a grandfather clock had been thrown over on its side; the 
hands, frozen behind shattered glass, had stopped at ten minutes after one. Wes 
put his glass aside and wiped a cold sheen of sweat from his forehead. "We've 
got to find Jimmy," he said suddenly, looking up at Solange. She stared at him 
without speaking for a few seconds, then turned back to the window. "We've got 
to get the cops," he insisted. "We've got to get somebody!" 
"When the sun rises," Solange said. "Not before." 
"So you put two of the bastards in the swimming pool, did you?" The old woman 
let out a high-pitched cackle of glee. "Hot damn! I was about to drain the 
249 
thing, too! Hope they weren't wearing their Mae Wests. . ." She laughed again 
and then stared into her glass. Her smile quickly faded, leaving her eyes dark 
and hopeless. She muttered softly and reached for the rapidly emptying decanter. 

"The thing I can't understand," Wes said quietly, "is why they didn't... uh ... 
get you after they'd broken into the house." 
"Because I live right, that's why. Plenty of Johnny Walker Red and blackberry 
brandy-that'll keep you young forever." She patted the useless sticks that lay 
beneath a blanket on her lap, then looked back up at Wes. "I saw their faces," 
she said. "Two of them, both just kids. The girl had a safety pin through her 
ear. Rock and rollers, I guess. I took one look at them and thought, This is it, 
Janie. You've gone through four marriages, a string of box-office bombs, one 
hell of a smashup on the Pacific Coast Highway, and here's the finale-a couple 
of dope-heads who are going to kill you in the middle of the night.' I thought 
they'd come to steal my tons of paste jewelry." She drank from her glass. 
"Then the boy came toward me, and he ... it... opened its mouth. I could ... see 
. . . those teeth. Fangs, just like in the Dracula movies, except there were a 
couple on the lower jaw, too, and they just slid out like a rattlesnake's does 
when it's about to strike. God!" She shivered and said nothing more for a moment 
or so. 
"Then he stopped right beside my bed. He seemed to be ... sniffing the air. I 
think I saw myself reflected in his eyes, and I ... I realized how close Death 
stood to me. Then they were gone, just like that. I didn't even see them leave. 
Of course, they'd screwed up the lights and the phones, and I had to wheel 
around in the dark not knowing whether I'd run into one of them or not. When I 
was downstairs, I heard all the shouting and commotion, so I hid in here. I 
thought you two were ... you know . . . like they were until I heard you 
talking." She swirled the brandy around her glass and drank it down. "I think 
what saved me is that I... smelled old. I'll be seventy-five in May and with 
busted gams to boot. I think they wanted younger blood." 
"They got my friend," Wes said, glancing at Solange and then quickly away. 
"Christ, how many of the things are there? And where did they come from?" 
"Hell, kiddo," Jane said. "Straight out of old Satan's black bag of tricks. I 
thought I'd seen everything this world had to offer up, but I see now I was way 
wrong." 
Solange had gone cold. If there were vampires stalking the streets of Bel Air 
and Beverly Hills, too, and if there were so many that they could organize 
themselves to hunt humans at the scenes of traffic accidents, then there must 
be-and she shivered to think of the possibility-hundreds of them. Outside the 
light was slowly growing brighter, but there were still huge pools of shadow 
lying in wait like treacherous oil slicks. Or tar babies. She recalled the 
stories her father used to tell her-Lemme go, Br'er Rabbit, lemme go! Somehow 
her life had slipped away from that bright childhood, and now she walked on the 
dark side of the moon. 
". . . seen you on the tube," Jane was saying to Wes. "That show you've got. 
You're pretty good." 
250 
He nodded, his shoulders slumped forward. "Thanks," he said, his mind sheered 
away from the image of Jimmy screaming in agony, being pulled from that crumpled 
car by a grinning vampire. 
"Yeah, pretty good." She smiled, her eyes beginning to glaze over now. "Not 
great, mind you. Jack Benny was great. But you'll do. PBS ran a special on me 
last month, showed clips from some of my hits. You catch it?" 
Wes shook his head. 
"Too bad. You know what they called me? America's Girl Friend. I was wearing 
sweaters before Lana Turner was even a gleam in her daddy's eye. I had good 
boobs, too. Oh, Jesus." She looked over at Solange, where the gray light was 
slipping in around the curtains. "Those were the days. High noon, that's what I 
called it." She returned her gaze to Wes, who was sitting slumped over with his* 
face in his hands. High noon. "High noon. You better enjoy it while you can, 
kiddo. When that sun starts going down, it can get mighty cold." 
"There's a police car!" Solange said, and Wes's head jerked up. He hurried to 
the window and looked out. The prowl car was slowing, probably to investigate 
the smashed cars on the curve of the boulevard. Wes ran out of the room, 
unlocked the front door, and ran onto the lawn, waving his arms. "Hey! Stop! 
Hey!" 
The car slid to the curb. Two officers got out, one of them dropping his hand to 
his holster as Wes came running down the driveway, shouting like a maniac. As 
Wes neared the car, he abruptly froze. In the dingy light he'd thought he might 
have seen the glitter of fangs. Oh God, he thought, not the cops, too! 
They came around the car, and Wes took a few steps backward. 
"He's scared shitless," one said to the other. Then to Wes, "What the hell's 
been going on here, buddy?" 
Solange stood in the doorway, watching as Wes began talking to the officers, 
motioning with his hands. How defenseless he looks, she thought. How small . . . 

Jane wheeled up behind her. "What now, kiddo?" 
"I don't know." Solange looked at the old woman over her shoulder. "There are 
more of them. Many more. I think that soon they'll be all over this city." 
"Does he think the cops are going to believe him?" she asked. "Do you really 
think anybody's going to believe any of us?" 
"I don't know." 
"Well, I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen two of them. I may be 
a little on the senile side, but I sure as hell ain't crazy. Not yet, at least. 
But I will be if I stick around here." She turned the chair and started to wheel 
toward the elevator. 
"Where are you going?" Solange asked her. 
"To pack. Next stop, LAX. Like I say, I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not by a 
long shot." She reached the elevator and closed the cage behind her. 
"Good luck," Solange called after her, but the elevator had already started to 
rise. Solange left the house and began to walk down the driveway to Wes and the 
two policemen. A sudden cold breeze came to her, hitting her diagonally and 
251 
rolling over like a great invisible wave. Something sharp speckled her cheek. 
She brushed it away with her fingers, then looked down at the bits of grit 
clinging to | her skin. 
Sand. 
She walked down to where they were standing, the two officers staring 
incredulously at Wes. A great feeling of dread had suddenly leeched onto her 
back and seemed to be weighing her down with every step. The sun was coming up 
out of a red slash across the sky, but the sky itself seemed wicked-a patchwork 
of clouds that looked as thick as slate-gray bricks veined with purple. They 
were scudding fast, being driven westward over the sea. As Solange watched, she 
saw a cloud split apart by a cross-current of winds; its interior glowed red 
with reflected sunlight, like hot coals stirred by a demonic breath. When she 
reached Wes, she grasped his hand tightly, afraid to let go. 
SIX 
The telephone was ringing, and the floor trembled. Gayle Clarke, her eyes 
shadowed by sleeplessness, came out of her kitchen with a cup of Morning Thunder 
tea and stared down at the little black bastard on the shivering telephone 
table. She was wearing a dirty pair of jeans-which she'd slept in-and a ragged 
workshirt she'd had since she was a high school sophomore. Her face was swollen, 
her entire body sluggish from the dangerous mixture of Valiums, liquor, tea, and 
coffee that she'd been putting away since that night at the Sandalwood 
Apartments. She'd been walking around in a daze since she'd left the police 
station-kicked out, rather, by a very irate lieutenant-and had even started 
taking 'ludes again. Now she kept all her curtains and blinds drawn, the door 
securely bolted with a chair next to it, ready to be used as a barricade. This 
is what cracking up feels like, she" told herself. The sudden floor-jarring 
earth tremor was over now, but it had only heightened her sense of being out of 
control. If Jack's hideous face hadn't sent her over the edge immediately, the 
recurrent nightmares of him chasing her across the apartment courtyard 
eventually would. She'd lost track of time. The kitchen clock said it was ten 
twenty-five, but with the windows shrouded she had no idea whether it was night 
or day. The ringing telephone told her it was morning, and it would be Trace on 
the other end, wanting to know where she was for the second day in a row and why 
she wasn't working on the fucking Gravedigger story. 
"Shut up," she said to the phone. "Just shut up and leave me alone." 
The phone kept shrilling, like the nagging voices of her parents-Gayle, why 
don't you dress better? Gayle, why aren't you making more money? Gayle, you 
should be thinking about marriage. Gayle, Gayle, Gayle . . . 
"SHUT UP!" she said, and lifted the receiver to slam it down again. There. That 
fixes you, you bastard! She walked over to a window, pulled aside the curtains 
and looked out. The sunlight was weak, hidden behind a strange violet pallor, 
but 
252 
strong enough to sting her eyes. Earthquake weather for sure, she thought. She 
dropped the curtains back and decided she was going to have to go outside today; 
she'd be okay in the daytime, the things couldn't move around when it was light. 
Or could they? A 'lude, she told herself. That's what I need. 
She was heading for the medicine cabinet when the phone started ringing again. 
"DAMN IT!" she shouted, looking for something to throw at the thing. Okay, she 
thought. Calm down. Calm down. She was afraid of that phone. Last night-or was 
it last night? she couldn't remember exactly when-she'd picked up that receiver, 
said "Hello?" and had been treated to a long silence that was finally broken by 
a voice speaking a single word, "Gayle?" She slammed it down and screamed 
because it had sounded too much like Jack's voice, calling to find out if she 
was home so he could come pay her a nice, friendly visit, fangs and all. 
Calm down. 
If it was Trace, she knew he'd keep calling until she answered. She'd tell him 
she was sick, that she couldn't leave her apartment. She picked it up and said 
in a trembling voice, "Yes?" 
There were a few seconds of silence. Gayle could hear her heart pounding. Then a 
familiar voice said, "Miss Clarke? I'd like to see you . . ." 
"Who is this?" 
"Andy Palatazin. Captain Palatazin, from Parker Center." 
"What is it? What do you want?" Calm down. You sound fucking frantic. 
He paused and then went on. "I need your help. It's very important that I see 
you as soon as possible." 
"My help? Why? How did you find me?" 
"I called the Tattler. A man there gave me your number. I need your help because 
... I'd rather not talk about this over the phone." 
"I'd rather you did." 
He sighed heavily. "Yes. All right. I'd like to tell you a story, and I'm hoping 
you'll believe it enough to write about it in your newspaper . . ." 
"Why? I thought you called the Tattler a rag." She sipped her tea and waited for 
him to speak again. 
"I can tell you who the Gravedigger is, Miss Clarke," Palatazin said. "I can 
tell you why those graves are being torn up. I can tell you all that and much, 
much 
more." 
"Yeah? Well, I'm retired. I'm thinking about driving up to San Francisco for a 
while-" 
"LISTEN TO ME!" he said so furiously Gayle jumped. She was tempted to hang up on 
him, but there was a pleading note in his voice that held her attention. "Yours 
is the only paper in this city that would even consider printing the story I'm 
going to tell you! And by printing it, you could save lives, Miss Clarke. 
Possibly millions of lives! I thought you told me you were a journalist. You 
said you were a good one, and I believed you. Was I wrong?" 
"Maybe you were." 
253 
"Perhaps. But were you?" 
She gripped the receiver. Her knuckles were white. She wanted to tell him to go 
to hell; she wanted to tell him to go over to the Sandalwood Apartments and help 
the other stumble-bum cops look for about twenty-five tenants who'd vanished 
overnight. Instead, she heard herself ask, "What kind of story is it?" 
"One that you'll have to have courage to write. I think you have it, Miss 
Clarke. That's why I called you." 
"Cut the bullshit," she said irritably. "Where are you? Parker Center?" 
"No, I'm ... at home." He gave her the address. "When can you be here?" 
"I don't know. I ... whenever I get there, I guess." 
"All right. That'll have to do. I'll be here all afternoon." 
"Good-bye." As she was hanging up, she heard him say "Thank you." And his voice 
was so full of relief and real gratitude that she was momentarily stunned. The 
line went dead, and she slowly put the receiver down. 
She drank the rest of her tea and went into the bathroom. Her face in the mirror 
looked awful. She opened the medicine cabinet and took out a small yellow 
bottle. There were three Quaaludes rattling around at the bottom. She shook one 
out into her hand and lifted it to her mouth; her hand was shaking, and she had 
to grasp her wrist to hold it steady. Is this what cracking up feels like? Who 
said that? She looked down at the pill. No, she told herself. If I'm going to 
get back to work, I've got to stay straight. She looked at the pill longingly 
for a while, then dropped it back into the bottle. 
She turned on the cold water tap in the shower, undressed, stepped in before she 
could reconsider, and stuck her head beneath the torrent. 
SEVEN 
At twelve noon Bob Lampley stood next to the Hell's Hole Hilton and watched the 
sky. On top of the Hilton, enclosed by a chain-link fence, a great radar cup 
turned smoothly on its tower. In the space of a half-minute, a metal 
wind-direction indicator twirled, first due west, then west-northwest, due 
north, back to northwest, then slowly returned to due west, where it hung 
steady. The winds swirled around Lampley as hot as the breath of a blast 
furnace. Every so often he felt the sting of sand on his face or hands, and his 
scalp itched. Thermals were coming up from the Mojave Desert, the strongest 
winds bringing sand with them. That's odd as hell, Lampley thought. That's one 
for the record books, I guess. 
The Hell's Hole Hilton was a wood-framed weather station 5,012 feet up on Old 
Baldy about twenty-five miles from the heart of L.A. and sixty miles from what 
Lampley considered the fiercest place God ever created-the hot, sand-choked 
throat of the Devil's Playground at the center of the Mojave Desert. He'd tried 
to hike across that monstrous place a few years ago with some friends who were 
as crazy as he was. They'd wound up scorched to the bone, babbling with sun 
fever, 
254 
packed into a Jeep racing toward a case of cold Coors in Ludlow. 
But the weird thing about this new weather picture was that the sand was being 
blown such a long way. The weather station at Twenty-nine Palms had reported 
some strong winds this morning centered between the Cady and Providence Mountain 
ranges in the Playground, but any loose sand should've been caught miles back by 
the peaks that stood between the San Bernardino National Forest and the desert. 
If the winds were strong enough and high enough to carry the sand over those 
mountains, then by all the rules of weather forcasting they should lose strength 
dramatically the farther they got from the center of strongest activity and dump 
the sand at the lip of the forest. That wasn't happening, and this new change in 
the rules was beginning to bother him. The hot winds were melting snowcaps for 
miles in all directions, the wind-direction indicator seemed to point due west 
most of the time when it wasn't spinning around crazily to show the progress of 
a sudden corkscrew, and Lampley was getting sand in his face 5,000 feet up. 
Won't do, he thought. Nope. Won't do at all. 
Directly overhead the sun shone weakly through chinks in cirrus clouds as thick 
and gray as an iguana's hide. Those clouds were racing, tumbling over each other 
in what seemed to Lampley like frantic haste away from the storm center. And 
there it was-he'd finally allowed the thought that had been lurking at the back 
of his brain to come forward-a hideous pupil allowed to sit in the front row. 
Storm center. What storm? he asked himself. Some high desert winds in the 
Playground sure as hell don't constitute a storm, Lampley. You're thinking in 
terms of tornado or a dust-devil, and neither of those can be right. There's a 
pretty slim chance of a tornado, and if this is a dust-devil forming, it's got 
to be the biggest bastard of a dust-devil that ever spun out of a whirlwind. 
Okay, he thought. How about a plain old sandstorm? They happen all the time, 
kicked out of the Mojave Desert by two or more pressure ridges that meet and 
don't like each other, stomping around trying to get out of one another's way. 
The Mojave, like all the world's deserts, crept. It already covered roughly 
25,000 square miles of southern California and still wanted more. Every few 
years it lapped up to the back doors of some nearby town, as slowly and 
innocently as a golden dog who wouldn't bite you, not for anything in the world. 
But then when the forty-five- and fifty-mile-an-hour winds came screaming out of 
that furnace-always quite unexpectedly -the golden dog turned into a ravenous 
beast who slithered over sandbag barricades and brick walls to leave its 
shifting spoor. 
Can't be a sandstorm, Lampley told himself. There's supposed to be a high 
pressure ridge sitting astride California and six other states in a slow 
eastward sweep, supposed to be clear skies with moderate westerly winds until 
Monday. And no storm that Lampley had ever heard of or read about in his six 
years with the National Weather Service had ever shot tendrils of sand so high. 
It was as if the Mojave had decided it was better to leap than to creep. 
Lampley watched the sky for a moment more and then walked up a slight 
255 
grade to the Hilton. The place was weather-beaten outside and looked as old as 
the surrounding mountains, but inside it was quite comfortable with a woven 
red-and- brown Indian rug on the floor, a couple of castoff but good chairs 
around a wood- burning heater, which was not needed now since the temperature up 
here had risen to the low sixties. There was a desk and a bookcase with 
dog-eared paperbacks set before a window that afforded a westerly view of the 
Mount Baldy winter sports area and Silverwood Lake. On the other side of the 
window was a battery of electronic gauges, and a radar screen that now showed 
the soupy green clumps of the cloud masses moving overhead. A black telephone 
sat on the desk next to a photograph of Lampley's wife, Bonnie, and their 
two-year-old son, Chad. On the wall over a teletype machine, there was a red 
phone hooked up directly to National Weather in L.A. 
Lampley sat down at his desk and dialed Twenty-nine Palms Weather on the black 
phone. In the distance he could see a ranger tower that looked like a spindly 
War of the Worlds Martian machine. "Hal?" he said when the phone was picked up 
about forty-five miles away. "This is Bob up at the Hilton. What are you showing 
down there?" 
Hal's voice was weakened not only by the distance but also by the strange 
weather. "Still got some high winds on the Play . . . crackle squeal. . . Bob. 
Wait a sec. Let me check the figures. Okay. West and southwesterly . . . 
squealllll. . . from thirty to forty miles per hour, gusting to forty-five. Air 
pressure's dropped from . . . crackle-crackle ... in the last ninety minutes. 
What do you have up there?" 
"Cloud city," Lampley said. "Pressure's still hanging steady, though. I'm 
picking up some kind of electrical interference on this end, so you'll have to 
speak louder." 
"What?" Hal said. "I didn't ... all of that . . ." 
"Talk louder!" he said. "I don't understand what's going on. Did a pressure drop 
creep in on us or what?" 
"Not from Canada it didn't. Funny. Vegas weather . .. clear and sunny, high in 
the mid-eighties . . ." 
"So whatever's happening is right over the Mojave?" 
"Sorry . . . didn't hear . . ." 
"I guess we've got a bad connection. Listen, I'll call you back around two. If 
those winds build anymore, give me a call." 
"Sure thing. Talk . . . later . . ." 
Lampley hung up and looked at the red phone on the wall. He'd feel like a fool 
calling L.A. National about some desert winds, no matter how hard they were 
gusting. So it was an infant sandstorm, so what? LAX Weather would keep the 
planes out of trouble, and the mountains would take the brunt of the winds. 
Sooner or later the storm would spin itself out. 
But what if it doesn't? What if this bastard gets so big and wild it whirls all 
the way across the mountains and into L.A.? 
Impossible, he reassured himself. Los Angeles might get a little grit, but they 
needed the winds to blow off their smog cover anyway. Nothing to worry about. 
256 
He stared at that phone for a few seconds more, looked out the window at the 
lizard-hide sky, and returned to the Mike Shayne mystery he'd been reading 
before he'd heard the grate of sand against glass. 
EIGHT 
Gayle Clarke pulled her Mustang up to the curb on Romaine Street and stared at 
the house with the black crucifix painted on the front door. There was a word 
written underneath it in a foreign language. Some of the windows were painted 
with crosses, too-the house looked like some kind of weird church. She glanced 
at the mailbox: Palatazin. Reluctantly she got out of her car and walked up the 
porch steps to the door. The black paint was new; she could see where it had 
dripped. She knocked on the door and waited. 
It was almost one o'clock. It had taken her two hours to get out of her 
apartment, then she'd driven over to Pancho's and forced herself to eat two 
tacos before driving up through Hollywood. She wore clean denims and a light 
blue blouse; her face was scrubbed and, if not exactly infused with a pink glow, 
much healthier- looking than it had been this morning. There was still a glassy, 
shocked look in her eyes that wouldn't go away. Behind her, wind swirled through 
the trees and hedges along Romaine, making a noise like barely restrained 
laughter. 
The door opened, and Palatazin looked out at her. He nodded and without a word 
stepped back to allow her in. He was wearing gray slacks and a white pullover 
shirt that showed his belly in its full splendor; he looked oddly vulnerable, 
just another human being when not seen from the other side of a captain's desk 
at Parker Center. His eyes were dark and troubled, and when they locked with 
hers, she felt the skin at the back of her neck prickle. 
He closed the door, locked it, and motioned toward the sofa. "Please sit down. 
Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Maybe a Coke?" 
She could still taste the tacos, and now her stomach was doing flipflops. "Uh 
... a Coke would be fine." 
"All right. Just make yourself comfortable." He disappeared toward the rear of 
the house, and she sat looking around, her purse in her lap. It seemed to be a 
cozy house, much warmer than she would have thought. It smelled vaguely of 
onions and potatoes; probably some kind of foreign dish he favored, she guessed. 
There was a rusted metal box on the coffee table in front of her. 
"So you're Gayle Clarke," someone said, and Gayle looked up into the icy eyes of 
a gray-haired woman who stood gazing at her from across the room. She was pretty 
with high, sharp cheekbones, but now the flesh was stretched tight to give her 
face a hard, masklike appearance. "You're the one who wrote such awful things 
about my husband." 
"I didn't write anything-" 
"Are you denying your trashy paper said he ought to be fired?" Her eyes flared. 
257 
"Maybe it did, but I don't write editorials." 
"Oh. Of course you don't," Jo said with a bitter edge."Do you realize the strain 
you've put on my Andy? You and all the rest of the filthy papers in this city?" 
She came forward a few steps, and Gayle tensed. "Well, you got what you wanted. 
You can be happy now." Her lower lip was trembling, and now tears of anger were 
beginning to dance in her eyes. "Why did you want to hurt him?" she said 
quietly. "He never did anything to you . . ." 
"What's this?" Palatazin said, coming into the room with Gayle's drink. He 
looked at Jo in bewilderment, then at Gayle. "What's going on?" 
"Nothing," Gayle said. "Your wife and I were just getting . . . acquainted." 
He handed her the glass and picked up the morning Times from where it lay in a 
chair. "Have you seen this, Miss Clarke?" 
"No." She took it from him and looked at the front page. The headline was about 
the Mideast situation, the talks breaking down again. But another story just 
above the fold caught her eye. The headlines said "Bats Kept Coming," Says 
Shaken Officer. There was a shorter kicker line above it, Six Die At Parker 
Center. "What's this?" she said, looking up at Palatazin. 
"Read it." He sat down in the chair and folded his hands before him. "Those men 
who were killed were my friends." His eyes seemed almost black. "When you're 
finished with that, I'd like you to look through the clippings in that box on 
the table." 
Gayle read the article, feeling Jo Palatazin's gaze burning into her skull. 
"This says a suspect in the Roach killings got away. Is that right?" 
Ť\7 " 
Yes. 
"A suspect? Or the Roach himself?" 
"It was him," Palatazin said quietly. 
"My God!" She looked up sharply. "What is this all about? What's with the 
crosses scrawled on your doors and windows?" 
"In time," he said. "There's someone else coming to join us. He should be here 
soon." 
"Who?" 
"A priest from East L.A. named Silvera." 
"A priest? What's this going to be, a confession?" 
Jo said coldly, "I think you're the one who has sins to confess . . ." 
"Please," Palatazin said, and touched his wife's arm. "She's a guest in this 
house, and she was very kind to come." 
Gayle opened the metal box. When she saw what the clippings were about, she felt 
as if she'd been kicked in the head. She looked through them for a few minutes, 
her hands beginning to tremble. 
There was a knock at the door. Palatazin answered it, and Father Silvera stood 
there staring darkly at the crucifix painted on the front window. "Come in, 
Father," Palatazin said. When Silvera entered the house, he instantly caught the 
same odor Gayle had smelled. He recognized it as the aroma of garlic. Palatazin 
introduced Jo 
258 
and Gayle, and Silvera sat down on the sofa. 
"Thank you for coming, Father," Palatazin said. "I appreciate your driving all 
this distance. Can I get you a cup of coffee?" 
"Yes, please. Cream and sugar." 
"I'll get it," Jo said; she glared once more at Gayle before leaving the room. 
"Did you bring what I asked, Father?" Palatazin asked quietly, leaning forward 
in his chair. 
Silvera nodded and reached into his coat. He brought out something wrapped in 
white cloth and handed it to Palatazin. "Just as you asked," he said. "Now I'd 
like to know what you need it for, and why you called me since there are maybe 
thirty Catholic churches within a five-mile radius of this house." 
Palatazin was stripping away the white cloth. Inside was a small corked bottle 
holding about two ounces of clear liquid. "I called you," he said, "because I 
thought you would understand the . . . gravity of the situation. You were in 
that tenement building in East L.A. You saw the bodies being carried out. I 
hoped you'd-" 
"I see," the priest said. "So that's what this is all about-your belief in 
vampires. That's why you've painted crosses on your doors and windows. That's 
why you felt you needed a vial of holy water. Mr. Palatazin, I don't wish to 
seem . . . condescending, but I'm afraid vampires should be the least of this 
city's concerns. I still don't know what was wrong with those people, but I'm 
sure it's strictly a medical question and not one of vampirism." He glanced at 
the girl beside him, who was going through some clippings from a metal box. Her 
eyes were glazed and she didn't even seem to realize he was sitting there. Did I 
break my gasoline budget for the week for this? he asked himself. 
"I suppose you've called Mercy Hospital to check on those people?" 
"Yes, I have." 
"Then let me tell you what you found out. Absolutely nothing. I called Mercy 
this morning, and I was shuffled around from doctor to doctor until a press 
relations man told me no information was being given out about these cases. Is 
that what you were told?" 
"Roughly," Silvera said. "But what does that prove?" 
"This is not a matter of proof!" Palatazin said, his face flushing with sudden 
anger. "This is a matter of knowing! I know, Father! I've spent my entire life 
in their shadow, and now that shadow has fallen over this city!" 
Silvera nodded and rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to 
my parish." 
"No! Wait, please. You can't stand there and tell me you didn't feel the 
presence of evil in that tenement! You're shutting your mind to it, Father! You 
don't want to believe because you know that if you do, you'll realize how nearly 
hopeless this situation is and that perhaps you're not strong enough to face 
it!" 
Silvera looked at him sharply. "There are many evils in this world, Mr. 
Palatazin. The heroin pusher, the childbeater, the homicidal maniac, the killer 
. . . as you well know. I think we both have enough work to do without . . . 
inventing 
259 
more evils." A chill suddenly rippled through him as he remembered the blood- 
written graffiti on the tenement walls and the strange, almost transparent 
eyelids of those stricken people. Can you really-logically-explain those? he 
asked himself. 
Gayle was fixedly staring at Palatazin. She looked up at the priest. "Father," 
she said, "he's . . . he's right." 
"What?" 
"I've seen them. He's right. They do exist, and they're here in L.A." She told 
them about the Sandalwood Apartments, the figure squirming beneath the bed, the 
dark things in the courtyard, and her own narrow escape. When she had almost 
finished, her voice cracked like a thin pane of glass. "I was afraid," she said. 
"I was . . . scared to death, so I locked myself in my apartment, and I didn't 
want to come out. I think I knew it would just be a matter of time before they 
found me . . ." She looked up. Jo was standing behind her husband, holding a cup 
of coffee on a tray. Gayle's eyes were wide and fearful. "They are here," Gayle 
told the priest. 
Silvera's mouth had tightened; he seemed to have aged ten years in the last few 
minutes. He glanced over his shoulder through the window at his car. Wind 
stirred the trees across the street. How easy it would be to leave this house, 
get in the car, and drive back to East L.A., pretend he'd never heard any of 
this, pretend he hadn't walked into that tenement with its living corpses jammed 
under beds and in closets. Pretend this evil did not exist. Easy? No. He felt 
himself poised on the point of an irrevocable decision. Slowly he looked back 
into Palatazin's face. 
"Sit down," the policeman said. "Please." 
Silvera took the coffee from Jo and drank most of it down in one swallow, 
wishing it were laced with whiskey. Jo pulled a chair up close beside her 
husband and sat down, as did the priest. 
"How could you be so sure?" Silvera asked. "How did you know?" 
"Because my . . . father is one of them," Palatazin said with an effort. "No, 
not my father. What used to be my father. I was born in a village called Krajeck 
in northern Hungary. There the people recognize and fear the vampir. They don't 
fully understand how the vampir comes to be, or why God allows such an evil to 
walk the face of the earth, but they know enough to mark their houses with 
crucifixes and garlic. They know that Satan gives power and unholy life to the 
vampir, just as God gives life to all the good things of this world. The vampir 
can never be satisfied. They will forever be thirsty, not only for human blood 
but also for land. Possessions. Power. They want to rule the earth, and I'm 
afraid that if this city falls, they will be well on their way to amassing an 
army large enough to take it. I'm not talking about three or four or fifty or 
even a thousand vampires, Father. I'm talking about millions of them. If Los 
Angeles falls to them, they will have increased their army by more than eight 
million. And no country on earth can withstand a force like that. You ask me how 
I can be so sure? I was given the ... opportunity to see them work. I know their 
signs, their track. I see them on the move everywhere now, and very soon they'll 
attack in earnest, going from house to house, street to street, all across L.A. 
Krajeck fell to them when I was a child, and I've seen the 
260 
same things happening here that prefaced that terrible night." He looked at 
Gayle. "That wave of vandalism in some of the cemeteries, for instance. The 
vampir needed native soil. They must sleep secure from all sunlight when the 
transformation from corpse to living dead is complete-" 
"Just a minute," Silvera interrupted. "What do you mean by 'transformation'?" 
"The creatures we saw in that barrio tenement were neither corpses nor vampir" 
Palatazin said. "They'd been bitten and drained and protected from the light as 
much as possible, though in that transitory stage I don't think the sun is as 
painful to them as it is later. When the last of their humanity dies within 
them, they awaken. Some sooner than others, I think. And they awaken thirsty. 
When they drink their first blood . . . then they're complete." He glanced over 
at Gayle j again, then back to the priest. "Somewhere in this city, somewhere 
close to their Master, they must be hiding by the hundreds. It would have to be 
somewhere secure from both sunlight and intruders. I think it's probably in an 
abandoned building . . . possibly a warehouse or factory. Someone would have to 
lock them ' away at dawn and return to let them out at dusk . . ." 
"A human?" Gayle asked. 
"Yes. I don't know what part Roach-Walter Benefield-plays in this, but he could 
be the human pawn used by the vampir king." 
"The king?" Silvera's eyes narrowed. "You mentioned something about a master. Is 
that the same thing?" 
Palatazin nodded. "The vampires see their master-their king or maker or whatever 
you choose to call it-as a kind of savior figure. He commands their respect and 
loyalty, and they will do whatever he says." 
"All right." Silvera shrugged. "Supposing I believe all this about vampires and 
caskets and kings. How can you be so certain they're being commanded by anyone? 
Couldn't they exist without a leader?" 
"This is simply my opinion," Palatazin said, "but I think they need a strong 
guiding hand, an intelligence to lead the collective body. If the vampire king 
is destroyed and there's no one able to take his place, the resulting confusion 
might cause them to fight among themselves or to make mistakes. They might stray 
too far from their hiding places, for instance, and the sun might catch them out 
in the open. I don't know. But I want you to think about this: If the vampires 
feed just once every night-creating others of their kind by totally draining 
them and instilling that terrible hunger-then they're doubling in number every 
twenty-four hours. Some of them may feed three or four times in a single night. 
Again, I don't know. I'm speaking from things I've read and from the legends of 
my homeland. But of one thing I am certain-if we hope to stop them, we must 
destroy the king." 
There was a long moment of silence in which they could hear the wind hooting 
around the house. Gayle peered uneasily out the window at the scudding gray 
clouds. 
"Destroy," Silvera whispered. His throat felt dry, and he couldn't think beyond 
the memory of that graffiti in the alleyway just outside his window-Follow The 
Master. "How?" 
261 
"I'm not sure," Palatazin said grimly. "I can only suggest the methods used in 
Hungary, stakes and decapitation. The stake must pierce the heart, and 
decapitation both rids the vampire of his hypnotic gaze and . . . prevents 
regeneration." 
"Regeneration?" Gayle asked sharply. "I thought they were like . . . ghosts or 
something." 
"No. Unfortunately, they're very solid. They can be wounded, but if they haven't 
fed for a while, they won't bleed because evidently the blood is absorbed 
quickly into the tissues except for a reservoir within the heart. When they've 
just fed, their victim's blood would seem to circulate through the veins, and in 
that case they'll bleed until their regeneration ability heals the wound. I 
don't know whether they all have that power or not. I remember ... in Krajeck, 
when my father touched me after he'd come back from Mount Jaeger. He was so ... 
terribly cold. I think human blood warms them, keeps them supple and young in a 
way we can't understand. Whatever it is, it's the devil's work. Hungarian 
tradition suggests that they fear fire as well, and their eyes may be their 
weakest point. Blinding them would make them momentarily helpless, though 
whatever other senses they might have I dare not imagine." 
"You talk about them as if they're another race altogether," Silvera said. 
"They are. Their powers are superior to ours. They can move faster, and they're 
stronger as well. They can live forever as long as they can feed on human 
blood." He looked from Silvera to Gayle and back again. "God made mankind," he 
said. "And Satan made the vampir." 
Silvera leaned back. He was working the knuckles of his hands, aware of the 
spreading numbness. 
"Please believe me," Palatazin said. "I know they're here." 
"It's all so ... strange. I mean, people have learned to scoff at such things. 
Anyone in this day and age who says he believes in vampires is, forgive me, 
considered insane . . ." 
"The world may change, Father. But you and I both know that Evil remains 
constant. I think that for many years the vampir have worked quietly in this 
country, taking a village here, a town there. All very quietly. Now they want 
much more, and they feel strong enough to reveal their existence to the world, 
knowing it will soon be too late for us to fight back." 
"Fight back," the priest repeated, his brow furrowing. "How do we? If you're 
right-and I'm not ready to say you are-what do we do?" 
"We find the vampire king," Palatazin said. "And we do it quickly." 
"Jesus!" Gayle whispered. 
Palatazin's gaze darkened. "I think I know where their master may be hiding. 
There's a castle up in the Hollywood Hills somewhere that once belonged to a 
horror-film actor named Kronsteen. He had the thing brought over from Hungary, 
and I imagine the vampire king would find it to his liking." 
"Orion Kronsteen?" Gayle said. "I remember reading about his murder, back in the 
early seventies, wasn't it? My boyfriend Jack-" She stopped herself, her face 
262 
going pale. "A ... guy I used to go with was ... a documentary filmmaker. He 
wanted to do a film on the homes of old movie stars, and I think he mentioned 
something about that castle. It's supposed to stand on top of a cliff, isn't it? 
I think Jack . . . my friend said he drove up there a few years ago. He may have 
spent the night, knowing him . . ." She smiled painfully, her eyes clouding 
over. Which surprised her, because up until that moment she'd never really 
admitted to herself that she cared anything for him. Her smile began to slip. 
Too late now, kid, she told herself. No amount of caring would change him back 
from what he became. 
"Kronsteen's castle," Palatazin said. "That's where I have to go, though God 
knows I don't want to. If there was any other way ... but there's not. So now I 
have to ask you the question, Father. Will you go with me?" 
Silvera tensed. An avalanche of thoughts began to tumble through his brain, 
gathering force and speed. I'm not ready to believe this but-Madre de Dios-what 
if it's true? I've got to tell the people in my parish, I've got to help them 
get to safety. How can I make them understand? Stakes, caskets, vampires hiding 
in a castle? Surely this is some kind of wild nightmare! Help him. You should do 
as he asks. No, my parish comes first, I'm dying. I need time, so much time. 
What should I do? I don't want to die. Oh, God, I don't want to ... 
"I would like to go today," Palatazin said, "while there's still light. If you 
choose not to go, then I have another thing to ask of you. But in any event, 
I'll understand your decision." 
Silvera realized the palms of his hands were cold with sweat. What if this man 
is right? he asked himself. I've never been afraid of anything, never! No, he 
heard the calm voice echo at the back of his brain. No. You're afraid of dying 
before your time. You're afraid of that cold, dark place where God is going to 
send you because you've done nothing for Him in this world but chase some dope 
pushers and squeeze a few hands because that was expected of you. You weren't 
called to the priesthood; you drifted into it after everything else in your life 
went bad. So what is it going to be? I... I'm going to have to say no," he said, 
trying to keep his hands from shaking. "I have the people of my parish to think 
of. If you're right, I'll have to find some way to ... protect them. I'm sorry." 

Palatazin looked at him in silence for a moment, then nodded. "All right." He 
stood up, opened the closet door, and brought out a cardboard box filled with 
short wooden stakes. "I bought these this morning," Palatazin said. "Ash stakes, 
two feet long. There are two dozen. I also bought a good strong hammer. I don't 
know if I'll ever get to use them, but... I'd like you to say some words for me. 
Just... whatever you can. Will you do that?" 
"Yes. Of course." Silvera stared at the cardboard box. Then he said, "I'll pray 
for you." Palatazin nodded, clasped his hands together, and closed his eyes. 
Silvera bent his head and began to pray out loud, asking God to guide 
Palatazin's steps and to shield him from danger. But as he was praying, he was 
writhing inside. He felt as if his soul were shrinking, and very soon there 
would be nothing left at all. He suddenly thought of himself years ago, a punk 
kid in the drunk tank at the police 
263 
THEY THIRST 
station in Puerto Grande, a cramped place with obscene drawings on the walls and 
puddles of urine on the floor. He and two friends had been thrown in there, 
stinking drunk on tequila, after a fight with some sailors at the Navegar Club 
down on the docks. The sailors went to the hospital. 
But there'd been another man in with them, an old man in tattered, dirty clothes 
with scabs all over his face. He had moaned for most of the night, twisting and 
turning in his bunk as if fighting off something that was coming down from the 
ceiling to smother him. Toward morning Silvera, a brash teenager with needle 
marks on his arms and a hunger for violence, realized the old man was dying. 
He'd sat on the floor, one of his eyes black and swollen and several teeth 
loose, watching that old man fight death. It was a brave struggle but a hideous 
mismatch. Silvera had found himself wondering where that man had been, what he 
had seen of the world, who he'd loved, and what he'd done. 
Across the cell Silvera's friends slept, snoring like young bulls. He'd crept 
closer to that bunk, listening to the old man's hoarse mutterings as if they 
were radio transmissions from another world. ". . . he knows he should pay me 
that money, all of it like I asked . . . what am I gonna do? . . . sure, sure, 
amigo, you and me gonna tear this port apart . . . now, that Giselle is a fine 
piece of ass, take your money and give you the best... the best... ohhhhh shit, 
that stuffll fuck your head up ... said I was gonna kill that bastard .. . 
dolphins. I love to watch them dolphins when they come flying up from the water 
. . . anchor's fucked up, won't hold a rowboat . . . WATCH THAT CABLE, DAMN IT! 
... one more drink, amigo, that's all I'm asking . . ." 
Just before dawn the old man had opened his eyes and turned his head to look at 
the boy sitting beside him. He'd stared at Silvera for a long time with the 
whiskey-swollen slits he had for eyes. He coughed several times violently, and 
Silvera saw the flecks of blood on his lips. The old man had reached out and 
gripped his hand with a leathery, four-fingered paw. 
"Padre," the old man had whispered. "Help me . . . make it easy for me . . . 
please . . ." 
"I ... ain't a priest," he'd said. The grip had tightened. 
"Padre . . . I'm a sinner ... I don't want to die!" A tear squeezed from one eye 
and trickled down through the dark folds of his face. "Help me . . ." 
"How? I can't ... do anything." 
"Yes, you can. You can. Say something for me . . . some words . . ." 
The man's grip was about to crush Silvera's hand. His eyes glistened, but the 
spark of life within was rapidly dying. "Please," the old man whispered. Me pray 
to God? the boy had asked himself. Shit, that's a laugh! Me on my knees like a 
peon, simpering and crying? But the old guy was almost dead, he was drying up 
right there, so maybe he should at least try. But how to do it? What to say? 
"Uh, God," he said softly, "this man . . . uh, what's your name?" 
"Gulf Star," he whispered, ". . . sailed on the Gulf Star . . ." 
"Uh, yeah. God, this man sailed on the Gulf Star and I ... guess he's a pretty 
264 
good man." His knuckles cracked under the pressure of the man's grasp. "I don't 
know anything about him, but he's . . . uh, sick and he wanted me to say some 
words for him. I don't know if I'm doing this right or not, or if You're able to 
hear me. This man is really in bad shape, God, and I think he's going to ... 
awwww, this is a lousy place for any man to be. A lousy place to die, God. Shit, 
what am I doing talking to myself!" 
"Go on . . ." the man insisted. "Please, padre." 
"I told you I ain't no fuckin' priest!" he said sharply, but he knew the man 
hadn't heard. He was smiling, muttering some kind of prayer over and over again. 
"Okay," Silvera went on, looking at the ceiling. "If this man's got to die in 
this place, make it easy for him, God. I mean, don't let him suffer or anything 
like that, all right? Just ... lay him down easy." He looked down at the old 
man. "That's all. I don't know anything else to say." 
The old man was silent. 
From across the cell his friend Chico lifted his head. "Hey, Ramon? Who you 
talkin' to, man?" 
Father Silvera finished his prayer for Palatazin and then crossed himself. "I 
hope you're wrong," he told the cop. "But if you're not, God go with you." 
"And with you," Palatazin said quietly. He got up, opened the door for the 
priest, and watched as Silvera walked to his Rambler. Silvera did not look back, 
and Palatazin noticed that he was trembling. He heard the rush of wind along the 
street and saw Silvera's coat flutter. The sky looked strange, pregnant with 
storm clouds. He'd never seen the sky over L.A. like that before. 
Silvera was almost knocked down by the wind. He felt sharp grit strike his face 
and, as he climbed into his car, he noticed the residue of sand along the bottom 
of his windshield. He turned the key in the ignition and drove away, speared by 
shame. 
Palatazin closed the door. "I have to go, Miss Clarke," he said, turning to 
Gayle. "Will you write the story for me?" 
"Yes," she said as she got to her feet. "But I'd like to go with you." 
"Why?" he asked her. "If Father Silvera wouldn't go, why should you?" 
"Let's say a ... combination of professional and personal interests and leave it 
at that." 
"No," Jo said suddenly. "If anyone is going to go with you, it must be me." 
"You're staying here," he told her. He glanced at his wristwatch. "It's almost 
four. We'll have to hurry, Miss Clarke. Did your friend ever tell you how he got 
up to Kronsteen's castle?" 
"Not exactly, but I remember something about Outpost Drive." 
"We could lose more than an hour trying to find the way," Palatazin said grimly. 
"If we're there when the sun goes down-" 
Jo said, "You didn't hear me, did you? I said I was going. Whatever happens to 
you happens to me-" 
"Don't be foolish, Jo!" 
265 
"Foolish? I'm not staying in this house by myself! If you want to argue about it 
and waste more time, then that suits me fine, too." She stared at him, her eyes 
defiant and sure. 
He met her gaze, then reached for her hand. "Gypsies!" he said with mock 
disgust. "You had to come from a family of them! All right. We'll have to hurry. 
But I warn both of you-this is not for the weak-hearted. Or the weak-stomached. 
When 1 ask for your help, you'll have to give it. There'll be no time for 
squeamishness. Understood?" 
"Understood," Jo agreed. 
"All right then." He leaned over and hefted the cardboard box full of stakes. 
"Let's go." 
NINE 
The Hell's Hole Hilton was trembling. Boards squealed as the wind, which had 
risen to almost forty miles an hour in the last thirty minutes, swept across the 
mountains from the east. The glass rattled in the window frame, and Bob Lampley 
could see handfuls of sand hitting it like buckshot. The eastern sky was veined 
with gold and gray, the clouds swirling together and breaking apart like 
fast-moving armies. Lampley felt his heart hammering. The wind-speed indicator 
was still climbing, passing forty now and rising to forty-two. The Hilton seemed 
to lurch suddenly on its rock and concrete base. Jesus/ Lampley thought, his 
brain buzzing. This whole place is going to give if the winds keep building! 
He'd made his last call to National less than an hour before. L.A. was getting 
twenty-five and thirty-five-an-hour winds all the way from the San Fernando 
Valley south to Long Beach, and blowing sand had even been reported in Beverly 
Hills. The National Weather forecasters were going crazy trying to figure out 
what had kicked up this storm. It had started right in the middle of the Mojave 
and seemed to be moving in a direct line toward Los Angeles. 
The black telephone rang. Lampley picked it up, trying to make out the tinny 
voice on the other end over the cracklings of electrical interference. Hal from 
Twenty-nine Palms was saying something about radar. 
"What is it?" Lampley shouted. "I can't hear you, Hal!" The message was 
repeated, but Lampley could grasp only fragments ". . . wind speed is up to ... 
emergency procedure . . . watch your radar!" Wood cracked, the sound loud in 
Lampley's ear. Hal's voice was frantic, and it scared the shit out of Lampley. 
Radar? he thought. What the hell's he talking about? He glanced quickly at the 
sky and saw the undulating golden tendrils of sand whipping through the higher 
pines. He saw a tree branch crack and go tumbling away. The sand was beginning 
to build like a snowfall, covering every crevice of bare rock. "Hal!" he yelled. 
"What's your wind speed down there?" 
The answer was a high, shrieking garble that was cut off in mid-sentence. The 
266 
phone shrilled and crackled like mad laughter. Lines down, Lampley figured. 
That's it, sure. Lines down between here and Twentynine Palms. The Hilton 
lurched again, and now he seemed to be able to taste sand as it found its way 
through the chinks between the boards. Better get my little ass out of here 
before this whole damned place caves in! He checked his wind-speed indicator 
again. Forty-eight. The pressure gauge was going crazy, too. It would fall fast 
and rise, again and again. Right now it was taking a long, terrible tumble. He 
went quickly to the red phone and plucked it off the wall. He could hear the 
tones clicking like a combination lock. Then a familiar voice garbled slightly 
by static said, "National Weather, L.A." 
"Eddie? This is Bob Lampley at . . ." And then he couldn't find his voice 
because he'd glanced down at the radar screen. 
It was showing something that he just couldn't believe, as intensely as he 
examined it. The screen indicated a huge mass coming up from the east, bigger 
than anything Lampley had ever seen before. It seemed to be ... rolling. 
"What's that?" he said, his voice choked with fear. "What's that?" 
"Bob? What . . . you . . . showing?" Static crackled and squealed. 
Lampley dropped the phone and leaned over the radar screen. Whatever it was, it 
stretched for miles. His eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. His panic was 
complete when he saw the barometer hit rock bottom and hang there. The wind had 
stopped. He could hear the Hilton resettling, like broken bones meshing again. 
He stepped to the window and looked out. 
Very high up the clouds were still racing. The light had turned a murky gold, 
the color of piss after an all-night drunk. Around the Hilton the trees were so 
still they could've been painted against the stone. A vacuum, he thought, it's 
as still as a vacuum out there. He glanced back at the mass on the radar screen 
and froze with the realization that something huge was sweeping in to fill that 
vacuum. 
Lampley looked back out the window. 
"Oh ... my God . . ." he whimpered. 
He could see it now, filling up the whole eastern horizon, churning and rolling 
and thrashing but still terribly silent. It was the Lucifer of sandstorms, a 
troubled monster of nature. Lampley couldn't see the ends of it at the north and 
south, but the radar indicated it was at least thirty miles thick. Lampley, his 
brain clutching at the edge of rational thought, estimated its speed at between 
forty and fifty miles an hour. It seemed as large as the Mojave itself, now 
screaming toward him on tortured winds with the mingled colors of white, gray, 
and yellow. 
He stood transfixed as the thing rolled forward. In another moment he could hear 
a faint, terrible hissing. 
The sound of bark and leaves being stripped from trees. In the wake of that 
storm, he knew, the earth would be skeletal. 
Sand spattered against the window, streaming down to the sill with little 
rattlesnake hisses. Off to the right he saw the ranger tower consumed, as if 
into the maw of a grinning yellow beast. He backed away from the window, bumped 
into the desk and knocked the pictures of his wife and child onto the floor. He 
caught a 
267 
glimpse of the barometer; its needle was quickly rising. Then he was gripping 
the red phone again, placing the receiver to his ear. The line squealed with 
scrambled circuits. 
Lampley looked back over his shoulder and saw with growing horror the storm 
about to descend upon the Hilton. There was no time to waste. He ran out the 
door into a hot and dry atmosphere-the breathable air thinned to a gasp-and out 
the fence toward his green International Scout. Sand ground beneath his boots 
and spun past him in dust-devil spirals twice as tall as himself. There was a 
light sheen of sand on the Scout, covering his windshield. He was six feet away 
from the door when he heard a thunderous freight-train roar and felt the first 
stinging lash of heavy sand. It whipped into his eyes, blinding him, and as he 
opened his mouth to cry out in pain, the sand was sucked into his lungs. He felt 
the hot weight of the storm pressing close, closer, closer. As he groped wildly 
for the door's handle, a furnace-blast of wind hit him, slamming him to his 
back. A yellow shadow fell upon him, and as he screamed with the agony of sand 
flailing the skin off his body, a torrent of sand filled his mouth and eyes and 
nostrils, choking him to death in less than a minute. The Hilton, all its white 
paint scraped off to bare wood, sagged and caved in under the next barrage of 
winds. Lampley's Scout was reduced to scarred metal. 
The storm churned on toward Los Angeles, leaving the mountains little more than 
sand-heaped piles of bare rock. Like the vampires it was meant to shield, the 
storm was ravenous. 
TEN 
Outside his house on Charing Cross Road, Wes Richer was throwing suitcases into 
the trunk of his silver-blue Mercedes. He was aware of the building winds arid 
the occasional sting of sand on his cheek, but time was his primary concern. He 
and Solange had to catch a Delta jet to Las Vegas at four-fifty. 
They'd spent most of the day in police stations or being shuttled back and forth 
between them. Jane Dunne had cursed like a sailor when she was informed by the 
police that she couldn't leave L.A. yet, then asked if she would be so kind as 
to stop fighting the cops who were attempting to lift her out of the wheelchair 
and into their prowl car? Wes and Solange had seen her briefly at midmorning, 
being wheeled along a corridor at the Beverly Hills police station, loudly 
demanding a drink. Wes figured her brain was so scorched she wasn't even 
frightened of what might happen to her if she found herself face-to-face with 
vampires again. 
Wes and Solange had been taken into separate rooms at the Beverly Hills station 
and were patiently questioned by a couple of solid cops who tried to make them 
realize the difference between real vampires-ha-ha-and kids who might belong to 
some kind of weird vampire cult. Wes's interrogator was a chunky officer named 
Riccarda, who chained-smoked Salems and kept saying, "Fangs? You're 
268 R. McCAMMON 
trying to tell me you really saw fangs, Wes? Well, you're a comic, right?" But 
Wes thought the cop believed him because he seemed to be just going through the 
motions and his eyes did look scared. Wes had seen a few people walking around 
the corridor in pajamas, robes, and slippers; they seemed shell-shocked, their 
eyes unfocused and blank. When Wes started asking one of them some questions, 
Riccarda came over and guided him away. There were a few reporters running 
around, too, and one of them got a picture of Wes before the film was yanked out 
of his camera. The rest of the newsmen were herded into a room, and that was the 
last Wes saw of them. 
Then Wes and Solange were put in a van with some more people and shuttled over 
to Parker Center, where they were slipped in through a rear entrance. In the 
elevator a young girl from Beverly Hills suddenly began babbling about a Camaro 
that her mother had bought her and how she and her mother were going to fly down 
to Acapulco. But as she talked, her face grew paler and her voice higher until 
she was almost shrieking about how her mother had come home last night with her 
new boyfriend, Dave, and how Dave had said he wanted to kiss her good night. 
Then she'd seen the fangs, and her mother's face had been fish-belly white, the 
dark eyes gleaming. She had run out of the house and just kept on running. When 
the elevator doors opened, two cops took the girl away into a room where Wes 
could still hear her screaming. 
Wes and Solange were left in a room together, and finally another cop came in to 
ask them basically the same questions they'd been asked in Beverly Hills. At the 
end of an hour, the cop, who looked like he could take on three or four Marines 
with no sweat, stood up from his chair and leaned over toward Wes. "You saw what 
were members of a vampire cult, didn't you, Mr. Richer?" he said quietly, but 
his voice was not very steady, and the lines in his forehead had deepened into 
trenches. 
"We both know what we saw," Wes told him. "What's with this cult bullshit?" 
"You saw kids who were dressed up as vampires, didn't you?" the cop said. "Like 
I said, a cult. That's what you saw. Isn't it?" 
"Shit," Wes muttered. "Okay, okay. A cult, for Christ's sake! Now can we get out 
of here?" 
The cop didn't reply for a while, but then he said simply, "I'll have an officer 
drive you home." And that was it. 
Cult my ass, Wes thought as he slammed down the trunk. I know what I saw, and by 
God I'm getting us out of this town right now! What's taking Solange so long to 
get ready for Christ's sake? He was exhausted, but there would be time to grab 
some sleep on the plane. He was afraid of the nightmares he knew he was going to 
have for a long time to come-the way that vampiric ambulance attendant had 
grinned, those fangs glistening, and Jimmy's agonized scream piercing the night. 
He couldn't think of those things without feeling a little insane. He looked at 
his Rolex. It was almost four-fifteen. 
"Damn it, Solange!" he said, and started walking back to the house. She stepped 
out the front door then, wearing a long white coat with a hood. She locked the 
269 
THEY THIRST 
door, glanced up at the sky, and hurried to the car. "What's the problem?" he 
asked her as she slipped into the passenger seat. "We're going to miss the 
plane." 
"No, we won't," she said. "Where's all this sand coming from?" 
"Who knows?" He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed down the 
driveway. He drove up to Sunset and turned west to pick up the San Diego 
Freeway. Occasional blasts of wind rocked the car, and Wes had to use the 
windshield wipers several times to clear away the sand. 
"I was making something for you," Solange said after they'd left Bel Air. She 
reached into a pocket and brought out a little ball of something wrapped in 
tissue paper and tied with a rubber band. Wes caught the sharp odor of garlic. 
"What is it?" he asked, taking it in the palm of his hand and sniffing it. 
"A resguardo. A good-luck talisman to keep away evil. It hasn't been dipped into 
holy water or blessed at seven churches so it won't be as powerful as it should 
be. You must keep it in a pocket, always." 
Wes glanced at her, then looked back at the thing again. A few days ago he 
would've laughed at something like this. Now things were different, the spirits 
and amulets and Solange's spells didn't seem so far-fetched. In fact, he felt 
relieved to have her with him. "What's in it?" 
"Garlic. Yerbabuena, perejil, and a touch of camphor." She squinted as more sand 
hit the windshield in front of her face. "I had to make it quickly so I don't 
know how long its positive influences will last. Don't lose it." 
He nodded and slipped it into his jacket. "How about yours?" he asked her, and 
when she remained silent, he said, "You did make one for yourself, didn't you?" 
"No. There wasn't time." 
"Keep this one then." He started to dig it out, but she stopped him with a 
slight grip on his wrist. "No," she said, "That one won't work for me. It has a 
few strands of your hair in it. Watch where you're going." 
Wes looked back to the boulevard and swerved away from the center line as" a 
Porsche swept past, horn blaring. He reached the freeway ramp and turned up onto 
it, heading south toward the airport. The sky was a strange, dark gold color 
with grayish-gold clouds racing from the east. Wes couldn't even tell where the 
sun was, and most of the cars on the freeway had already switched on their 
headlights. He heard a Bugs Bunny voice within him say, Uhhhhh, ya wanna know 
what's up, doc? Doooomsday! 
He increased his speed, whipping around slower cars. Wind hit the Mercedes and 
pushed it several feet to the right. He had to fight the wheel for a minute to 
steady the car. As they passed over West L.A. they could see spirals of sand 
dancing ahead and sheets of it being blown across the freeway. Solange's heart 
was pounding. She sensed something dark at workman unexpected hand that had 
tipped the balance of power in favor of the vampires. Not much time left, she 
thought suddenly. 
He put a hand on her thigh. "We're going to be fine," he told her. "We'll get 
ourselves a room at the Sands and lay out in the sun for about a week." 
270 
"What's going to happen to these people?" she asked quietly. "The ones who can't 
get out?" 
He pretended not to hear her. "I've got some friends at the Sands. Maybe I can 
work up a show two or three nights a week. Yeah, that would be great. Just a 
nice light show to keep the gamblers happy. I wouldn't even have to work very 
hard . .." 
"Wes," Solange repeated. "What is going to happen to these people?" 
He didn't answer for a moment. "I don't know," he said. "I just know I want us 
to get far away from here . . ." 
"How will we know if anyplace is ever far enough away?" 
He didn't answer, couldn't answer. He pressed his foot farther down on the 
accelerator. 
Wes took the ramp that swung traffic off toward LAX and almost immediately found 
himself in a jam of cars, vans, cabs, and buses. With horns blowing, the traffic 
slowly inched forward toward the main terminal. Wes hammered the steering wheel 
in his impatience as Solange watched the residue of sand slowly growing at the 
bottom of the windshield. Up ahead there were a couple of cops in orange 
slickers trying to direct traffic and at the same time keep their balance 
against the wind. As Wes neared them, he thought he heard one of the cops shout 
something like "All flights grounded," but he couldn't be sure. He rolled down 
his window and instantly caught grit in his eyes. He rolled the window back up 
to a slit and shouted frantically to the nearest cop. "Hey! Aren't the planes 
flying?" 
"You kidding, man?" The officer kept his hand up in front of his face to shield 
his eyes and nose. "They can't even get off the ground in this!" 
"Shit!" Wes muttered, and started looking for a way to get out of the airport 
lane. He pounded the horn and slid in front of a bus, trying to edge out before 
he was caught in the vortex of traffic that swirled in a circle in front of the 
terminal. He hit the horn again as a black limo squeezed past, scraping paint 
off his side of the car; he caught a glimpse of a man in the rear seat, whose 
eyes were wide with terror. Wes swerved in front of a cab, hearing the wail of 
brakes and the responding discordant chorus and blaring horns. Then the Mercedes 
was climbing up and over a concrete median strip, almost slamming into a mad 
pack of cars racing back from the airport. Wes heard one of the cops shout 
something at him, but he sank his foot to the floor, heading north again back 
toward the San Diego Freeway. 
"Where are you going?" Solange said. "Maybe we should just wait at the airport 
for the weather to clear." 
"And when might that be? Damn it, where'd this storm come from?" He switched on 
the windshield wipers to clear away the sand; the glass was pocked and scratched 
in long arcs. He could see tiny glints of bare metal showing through the paint 
on the hood. "A sandstorm? Christ!" He took the freeway ramp at fifty, tires 
screeching. Another blast of wind hit the car, almost wrenching the wheel loose 
from Wes's grip. The sky had turned amber. 
Oh, God, he thought, night's coming fast! "We're driving to Vegas," he said, 
trying to picture the serpentine twistings of the L.A. freeway system in his 
mind: 
271 
Veer off onto the Santa Monica Freeway, curve north through the downtown 
district to the San Bernardino Freeway across East L.A. and Monterey Park, 
Interstate 15 out past Ontario. He'd drive to Vegas as if they were being chased 
by all the demons of hell. Even Vegas might not be far enough away. Maybe they 
should just keep driving east and never look back. 
Solange turned on the radio and searched for a station that wasn't drowned out 
by static. At the far end of the dial, she caught the faint sound of a 
newscaster's voice. "Today the President announced . . . gas rationing . . . 
members of Congress ... denied ... Los Angeles businessman ... found guilty ... 
the tremors were felt as far as Sacramento . . . and registered four on the 
open-ended . . . the National Weather Service advises . . ." 
"Turn that up," Wes said. 
Solange did, but the crackle of static was overpowering. "... traveler's 
warnings extend as far north as Lancaster-Palmdale an<$ to the south as... 
Weather Services advises all drivers . . ." Static squealed and chuckled, then 
the station was gone. 
The Mercedes was rocketing through downtown L.A. Solange saw that the tops of 
several of the taller buildings-the Union Bank, the twin black Bank of America 
monoliths, the silver cylinders of the Bonaventure Hotel, the looming Arco 
Plaza-were shrouded in a shimmering golden mist. Sand was being blown in sheets 
back and forth ahead of them across the freeway; wind roared past the car. When 
she looked at Wes, she saw a slight sheen of sweat clinging to his face. He 
glanced at her and smiled grimly. "We'll be fine," he said, "as soon as we make 
it to Interstate 15 and start heading through the mountains. They'll cut this 
wind down to a . . ." 
His eyes riveted on something in the road, and he slammed on the brakes. There 
were three cars locked together in the middle of the freeway. He felt the 
Mercedes begin to slip to the left and realized with a start of terror that the 
sand had covered the highway like ice. He quickly turned into the skid. The 
tangle of wrecked cars loomed up ahead, one of them with a red taillight still 
blinking. As the Mercedes swept past them, still skidding, Wes heard the loud 
grinding of metal, and the car pitched sideways, but then they were in the 
clear, and the car snapped itself steady. He increased the wiper speed, but now 
he could barely see where he was going. On the right side of the freeway, a car 
had smacked into the guardrail, and Solange thought she saw a body hanging out 
of the driver's door. But then they passed, and she didn't look back. 
Not much time left, she thought. And went cold. 
They crossed the sand-glutted ditch of the Los Angeles River and began to pass 
over the crowded houses and buildings of Boyle Heights. Wes switched on the 
air-conditioner because the temperature had risen sharply in the last five 
minutes. The air was stifling, and it was hard to draw a breath without tasting 
grit. They passed an overturned car that was burning fiercely, the flames fanned 
by the sweeping wind. 
And then a dark brown cloud that seemed to shake the earth with its fury filled 
272 
the sky, rolling forward like the dust kicked up from the heels of an advancing 
army. It engulfed the Mercedes, completely blinding them and smothering the 
windshield with sand. The wipers died under its weight. Wes cried out and 
steered the car to the right, his heart hammering. A pair of headlights came 
flying from his rearview mirror, and then a car spun around and around in front 
of them and disappeared into the dense curtain of sand. 
"I can't see, I can't see!" Wes shouted. "We're going to have to pull off and 
stop, but Jesus Christ, I don't even know where I am!" He tried to graze the 
right guardrail, but he couldn't even find it. The engine coughed and stuttered. 
"Oh, Jesus," Wes whispered. "Don't go out on me now! Don't!" Coughed again. He 
stared at the lurching rpms on his dash gauge. "Got enough sand in the engine to 
choke a fucking camel!" he said. He pumped the accelerator as the Mercedes gave 
a last gasp and went dead. It rolled perhaps ten yards and then stopped. Wes 
squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles cracked. "No!" he said. "NO!" 
With the end of the air-conditioner, the air had instantly become as stale as 
the inside of a desert tomb. Wes turned on the ignition but the air that came 
through the vents was searing-it seemed to be sucking oxygen out instead of 
letting it in. Wes wiped his face with the back of his hand and stared at the 
shining beads of sweat. "So," he said quietly. "Here we sit." 
They were silent for a long while, listening to the taunts of the storm and the 
dry rasp of sand on metal. 
"What time is it?" Solange finally asked. 
He was afraid to look at his watch. "Almost five," he said. "Maybe later." 
"It's going to be dark soon . . ." 
"I KNOW THAT!" Wes said sharply, and was instantly ashamed. Solange looked 
quickly away from him out the window, but she couldn't see anything because the 
currents of sand were too thick. Wes switched on his emergency blinkers and 
prayed to God that any car coming up behind them would see the lights in time. 
The soft click click click sounded like a sepulchral metronome, ticking away the 
few breaths of air they had left. Wes could see Solange's profile-delicate, 
stoic, said, "I'm sorry," he said softly. 
She nodded but didn't look at him. 
Hardy to Laurel: This is another fine mess you've got us into! Wes felt a grim 
smile spread across his face, but it faded quickly. The car was still shuddering 
under riptides of wind, and now the windshield was almost completely covered. 
Wes could taste sand every time he inhaled; it gritted between his teeth. "We 
can't just sit here and . . ." He let his voice trail off. "We can't. But, 
Jesus! How long would we last out there?" 
"Not very long," Solange said quietly. 
"Yeah." He glanced at her and then away. "I guess those sheikhs who bought 
houses up in Beverly Hills feel right at home in this, huh? They can just open 
up their two-camel garages and hit the trail. If they can find the trail. Hmmm. 
I could do some material on that-a nice five- or six-minute bit about Arabs 
buying up Beverly Hills. I can see the signs on Rodeo Drive-Chez Saudi, serving 
camel272
273 
burgers around the clock. If you can't eat 'em, we'll sew you a nice coat... oh, 
shit." He'd suddenly gone very pale; he'd felt the presence of Death every time 
he took a shallow breath and sucked more grit into his lungs. He gripped the 
door handle and barely managed to stop himself before flinging it open. Uh-uh, 
he told himself, No way. I sure as hell don't want to die, but I'd rather go 
slow than fast any old day. He forced himself to release his grip and sit back. 
"I haven't been very good to you, have I?" 
She said nothing. 
"I'm a taker," he said, "just like all the rest of them. Shark, barracuda, 
piranha ... all those predatory-fish metaphors apply. I think I just wear a 
slightly better mask than most of them. Mine doesn't slip often because wearing 
a mask is what I do for a living. It has slipped, though, and I don't like what 
lies under it. Maybe the cops'll be along pretty soon. Maybe we can get towed 
out of this mess, huh?" 
Solange looked at him. There were tears in her eyes. "I've seen behind your 
mask. There's a Bantu saying: You are what you are when you awaken. Before you 
open your eyes, before you swim up out of sleep, that's the real person. Many 
mornings I've watched you, and I've seen you curl uplike a little boy needing 
protection or love or just . . . warmth. I think that's all you ever really 
needed. But you mistrust it. You push it away and look for it somewhere else, 
and so you never really find it at all." 
He grunted and came up with a line from "Sheer Luck." "Elementary, Dr. Batson. 
Deucedly clever, what? Shit! This fucking storm's not going to stop. I've never 
seen so much sand without a bottle of Coppertone in my hand and a transistor 
radio beside the chair." He told himself to start taking shallower breaths, 
maybe then she could get more air that way. "That's where I'd like to be right 
now. The beach at Acapulco. How'd you like that?" 
"It would be ... very nice." 
"Damn straight. That's what we'll do when we get towed in. We'll make 
reservations at the Royal Aztec . . ." He stopped speaking as the car shuddered 
again. 
"You're the best of them all," Solange said. "No one was ever any better to me 
than you are. I will take care of you-if I can." Then she hugged herself close 
to him, and he held her very tightly. He kissed her forehead, tasting her 
honey-pepper flavor, then listening to the moaning winds. He was starting to 
strain his breath through his teeth. 
And around the stranded car the wind whispered like the voice of a little girl 
in a dream Wes had had a couple of nights ago. Come out. Come outside and play 
with me. Come out, come out . . . 
... or I'll come in ... 
ELEVEN 
Palatazin brought the Falcon to a halt. "Wait a minute," he said, staring up 
through the windshield; the wipers were turned to full-speed, the headlights on 
274 
bright. "I thought I saw something." What he thought he'd seen was a huge dark 
shape up there amidst the rocks and trees through a quick break in the swirling 
amber clouds. Now there was nothing, just sand spinning against the glass. 
"What was it?" Gayle leaned forward from the back seat. "The castle?" 
"I'm not sure. I just saw it for a second before the clouds closed up. I 
couldn't tell very much except that it was big and way up on the mountain. It 
might've been a couple of miles from here, I don't know. Wait! There!" He 
pointed. The clouds had broken again, and for an instant they all could see it 
quite clearly, its high turrets standing against a darkening gold sky. From this 
distance it looked to Palatazin much like the ruins atop Mount Jaegar. Yes, he 
thought. That's the place. That's where he's hiding. At that height the vampire 
king would have an unobstructed panorama of L.A.; he could gloat as the lights 
went out in house after house. The castle looked as sturdy and impregnable as 
any fortress Palatazin had ever seen in the mountains of Hungary. Seeing it was 
one thing, he thought, reaching it was quite another thing entirely. The cold 
knot of tension that had formed in his stomach suddenly expanded, sending out 
chill tendrils into his arms and legs. He felt pitifully weak and frightened out 
of his wits. 
"The wind's getting worse," Jo said in a tight, strained voice. 
"Yes, I know." Sand had been spinning across the road for fifteen minutes now, 
and Palatazin could see piles of it collecting in pockets between rocks. Higher 
up the clouds tumbled over each other like great yellow dogs hearing the dinner 
whistle. They closed again, sealing off the Kronsteen castle. The Falcon's 
engine gave out a sudden wheeze and a tremble, and Palatazin revved it a couple 
of times. He looked at his watch and saw with horror that it was twenty minutes 
after five. With these thick clouds rolling in, darkness would fall within 
thirty minutes. The nagging thought that they would not make it to the castle in 
time now rang out in his brain like a clear clarion of warning. "We're going to 
have to turn back," he said finally. 
There were no objections. Now the trick was finding a place to turn around. He 
drove on, conscious of the aged engine's sputtering. Suddenly a wall of wind 
came roaring through the scrub trees to the right, parting them like a comb 
through hair. It hit the car like a bulldozer, forcing it toward the rocky lip 
of the road. Palatazin fought for control. Jo screamed as the car shuddered to 
the left-hand shoulder and started to totter over the edge; she could see toy 
houses with their red roofs below and toy cars scattered on black and gold 
ribbons. Nothing moved down there for as far as she could see. 
Palatazin slammed the gearshift into first and wrenched up the parking brake. 
The wind roared on, carrying wild, twisting coils of sand down into Hollywood. 
Very carefully Palatazin put the Falcon in reverse and backed away from the 
edge, slowly releasing the brake. 
"We'll have to go up to find a place to turn," he heard himself say. His voice 
was dry and thin. "Neither one of you should've come. I was a fool to let you." 
He climbed farther, looking for a cut in the trees or rocks that he could back 
the Falcon 
275 pf 
THEY THIRST 
into. The storm was steadily worsening; another quarter-mile up the terrain was 
completely covered with blowing sand. It reminded him of the blizzards that had 
roared through Krajeck, particularly the storm that had been moaning outside the 
night his father had come home. A thought struck him like a blow to the temple, 
Did the vampires have any measure of control over the weather? If they did, this 
freak sandstorm would be an effective way to immobilize the city's population. 
It would cut people off from each other, keep them confined to homes or offices. 
Planes wouldn't be flying, and the sea would be thrashed into a frenzy as well. 
And driving? Palatazin realized they might not get down off this mountain alive. 
If the winds didn't take them crashing over the edge, if the sand didn't choke 
off the engine, if darkness didn't fall too soon ... He could feel the castle 
crouched above them, perhaps less than a half-mile away along this twisting, 
sand-slick road. 
Something huge and gray suddenly bounded up onto the hood, its snarling face 
pressed close to the glass. Gayle said "Jesus!" and Jo grasped Palatazin's arm. 
The thing looked more wolf than dog, but he could see the nail-studded collar 
and the tags around its neck. Its thick coat was full of sand, its eyes yellow 
and fierce. Over the sound of the wind, Palatazin could hear its low, menacing 
growls. The message was obvious. Palatazin saw other dogs slinking on the road 
ahead-a boxer, an Irish setter, a few mutts. They all shared the same glazed 
expressions of ferocity. So, he thought, the vampire king has made sure his 
fortress is well protected. Even if we could reach the castle, we'd be mangled 
by these dogs when we got out of the car. When Palatazin slowly drove on, the 
wolf-dog howled with rage and started scratching at the glass; it snapped 
repeatedly, as if trying to bite Palatazin's hands on the steering wheel. In 
another moment he saw a space on the right large enough to turn the Falcon 
around in. The wolf-dog stayed crouched on the hood, its baleful eyes glowering 
into Palatazin's until the car was turned back down the mountain. Then it jumped 
off and disappeared with the rest of the pack. 
The Falcon chugged like a weary locomotive, winds buffeting it from all 
directions. Once the engine rattled and quit, and they were rolling down to 
Hollywood, but Palatazin kept trying the key and finally it caught again, 
wheezing like an old man with emphysema. He raced the darkness back toward 
Romaine Street, threading his way across Hollywood and Sunset boulevards-both 
dotted with stranded cars-and finding some streets blocked by wrecks or dunes. 
The Falcon crossed a deserted Santa Monica Boulevard and made it about three 
more blocks before it staggered and stopped dead. Palatazin tried the engine 
several times, but now the battery was groaning. Sand filled the engine. They 
were stranded almost five blocks from the house, and night was falling fast. 
The interior of the car was already stifling. "Can we run for it?" Gayle asked 
softly. 
"I don't know. It's five blocks. Not so far maybe. Maybe too far." He looked at 
Jo and then quickly turned away. Sand was already covering the windshield, 
sealing them in. It was as if they were being buried alive. "It's a long way," 
he said finally. 
"What about these other houses?" Gayle asked. "Can't we ask for shelter?" 
276 
"We could, yes. But do you see any lights? Any life? How do we know we won't be 
stepping into a nest of vampires? How do we know some other poor souls won't 
mistake us for vampires and try to kill us? My house is protected with the 
garlic and the crucifixes. These are just . . . waiting for invasion." 
"So what do we do? Sit here and suffocate?" 
". . . or suffocate out there?" Palatazin pointed out. "The wind will slow us 
down. You'll get more sand into your lungs than air, just like this car did. 
Just like all these other cars did. But no. We definitely cannot stay here. The 
vampires won't be hampered by the storm because they don't breathe. So . . ." He 
looked at Jo again and smiled weakly. "Shall we flip a coin?" 
"Hell no!" Gayle said. "I'm not staying here!" 
Jo shook her head. "We try to make it back." 
"All right then." Five blocks, he thought. God, what a distance! He was going to 
have to leave the stakes, mallet, and holy water in the trunk; there would be no 
way to carry them. No, he had to have the holy water at all costs. He took the 
keys out of the ignition and shrugged out of his coat, handing it to Jo. "Keep 
that up to your face," he told her. "Both of you, remember to breathe through 
your mouth with your teeth gritted. I'm going to get something out of the trunk. 
When I knock on your window, Jo, I want you to step out and grasp my hand. When 
you touch me, knock on Miss Clarke's window, and she'll take hold of your 
shoulder. Then we'll start to move. I doubt if we'll be able to see very far out 
there. If one of us loses the others, don't move from where you are. Just keep 
shouting and cover your face with your hands. Okay?" 
They nodded. 
He started to open the door and then stopped. The car vibrated with the force of 
the wind. He got the trunk key in position so he wouldn't waste precious seconds 
fumbling. "All right," he said. "I'm going." He sat there for a few more 
seconds, then he stepped out of the car. 
A blast of oven-hot wind seemed to suck him out. He got the door closed and 
pulled himself along the side of the car, his lower face tucked into the crook 
of his left arm. He couldn't even take a fraction of a breath without sucking in 
sand. A crosscurrent of wind hit him behind the knees, knocking him to the 
ground. He began to crawl, his face flayed raw. He pulled himself around to the 
trunk, got the key in, and twisted. The trunk shot open. He found the 
cloth-wrapped vial and used the cloth to shield his mouth and nose, putting the 
vial in his back pocket. Then he struggled around to the other side of the car. 
The wind arid sand nearly dragged him down. 
When he rapped on the glass, Jo stepped out and almost fell, crying out as their 
hands slipped. When she was ready, she knocked on the glass behind her and Gayle 
came out. She grasped Jo's shoulder like a vise. The short human chain started 
off, being whipped and shoved along the street. In another moment Palatazin felt 
Jo's hand grinding his fingers together, and he knew she couldn't get a breath. 
"NOT FAR!" he shouted, instantly choking. She nodded, her slitted eyes weak and 
277 FJW<! 
THEY THIRST 
glazed. All he could see of Gayle was a faint dark shape. 
Jo fell. As he helped her to her feet, dark motes spun before his eyes, and he 
knew they were all slowly suffocating to death. They weren't going to make it; 
there were still three blocks to go. "COME ON!" he shouted, and pulled them 
toward the gray shapes on the right-hand side of the street. The shapes slowly 
materialized into wood-framed, two-storied houses not much different in design 
from his own. They were all terribly dark, and Palatazin was afraid of what they 
might be holding. He tripped over something that lay on the sidewalk, 
half-covered with sand. It was the corpse of a young man, a bullet hole in his 
cheek. Palatazin stared dumbly at the body for a few seconds and felt the hot 
waspish buzz pass his face before he heard a muffled crack! He looked up in time 
to see the orange flash of the second shot fired from an upstairs window in the 
house that stood before him. The corpse at his feet shuddered. A man's voice 
rose to a frenzied wail, "Get away, ye heathen things of Satan! God Almighty 
shall strike you DEAD! And DEAD! And DEAD!" Palatazin pulled Jo after him, 
running toward the next house. The front door, its paint scoured down to the 
bare wood, was closed but unlocked. Palatazin plunged inside as the madman's 
shrieking turned into a sob of anguish. 
When Gayle was through the door, Palatazin slammed it shut and bolted it. The 
air within the house was stale and heavy, but at least there were no torturing 
winds here. His face and hands felt raw, and he could see that Gayle's eyes were 
terribly bloodshot. Jo was gagging; she still held on to his coat, and sand was 
slithering off it to the floor. He helped Jo over to a chair and wiped the beads 
of cold sweat off her face with his cloth. Her eyes were dark and vacant; she 
didn't seem to know where she was. "Jo?" he said. "We're all right now. We're 
safe." She began to cry very softly. Through the wind's howl Palatazin could 
hear the madman's scream. "... show yourselves! I know you're hiding in there, 
ye foul Satan spawn!" He began to sing in a high, croaking voice, "Shall we 
gather at the riiiiiiver, the beautiful, the beautiful riiiiiiver . . .?" 
Palatazin shut him out. Now he was wondering if they were alone in this house. 
The idea of being locked in there with an armed maniac filled him like sour 
wine. He was glad to have the reassuring weight of the .38 in its shoulder 
holster, though from the size of the bullet hole in that corpse's face the man 
next door had to have a high-velocity rifle. 
Gayle had the same idea at the same time. "What if we're not alone here?" she 
whispered. 
"Anyone home?" he called out. There was no answer. Palatazin took his gun out of 
its holster and released the safety. He walked through the neatly furnished 
living room and into a short hallway where a flight of stairs led up to the 
second floor. "Anyone here?" he said, watching for the slightest movement. "We 
won't hurt you! We just wanted to get out of the storm!" He waited another 
moment, but there was still no reply. He put his gun away and went back to the 
living room. "I think we're alone," he told Gayle. "Maybe they got out before 
the storm hit." 
278 
Gayle looked around. There was a circular red-and-blue braided rug on a hardwood 
floor, a large, comfortable-looking sofa with scrolled arms and legs, a dark- 
stained coffee table where a few copies of Antique Monthly, National Geographic, 
and Horizon magazines were neatly arranged, a couple of overstuffed chairs with 
clear plastic on the arms; and a brick fireplace over which hung an upside-down 
horseshoe. She could see ashes being stirred in the hearth by the wind's force. 
There were framed sepia-tone prints on the walls and on the fireplace mantel a 
grouping of color photographs-a middle-aged couple smiling and hugging each 
other, kids and dogs at play. 
The madman next door brayed with laughter. 
"Jesus!" Gayle said softly. "That bastard tried to blow our heads off." 
Palatazin nodded and stepped over to Jo, who'd regained at least some of her 
color. "You're better now?" 
"Yes," she said, and smiled weakly. "Better." 
"Night's falling," Gayle said. "Very soon now." She pulled aside a curtain to 
look out at the street and could see very little but the swirling sand. The 
darkness was creeping. She turned and stared at Palatazin. "This storm will. . . 
keep them away, too, won't it?" 
"No. They don't breathe, and they have some kind of transparent eyelids that 
will keep the sand out. They have us where they want us." 
"And where it that?" she asked. 
"Trapped. All of us. Everyone in this city. No way out." He held her gaze for a 
moment and then looked away quickly because he'd realized they were in an 
unprotected house-no garlic smeared on the windowsills, no crucifixes on the 
doors and windows. He dropped his hand to his pocket to touch the bottle of holy 
water there; it seemed terribly small. "I'm afraid," he said softly, "that it's 
much too late for your story to do any good. The balance has shifted in their 
favor. They hold the power-" 
"No!" she said. "There's still something we can do! We can call somebody, the 
police or the National Guard or ... somebody-" She was silenced by the sand that 
spattered up against the window, hissing like hot fat at the bottom of a frying 
pan. 
"I think you know better than that. I doubt if the phones are working. I'd try 
the lights if I wasn't afraid we'd stand out like a neon sign over a vampire 
diner. The air's none too good in here, is it?" 
Gayle put her head in her hands. "Shit," she said in a faraway dreamer's voice. 
"All I ever wanted to do was ... be a good writer. That's all. Was that too much 
to ask?" 
"I don't think so." 
"I wanted to leave my mark. I wanted to ... do something important. Be somebody 
important instead of a nobody . . . which-let's face it-I am." Her voice cracked 
a little bit, but she quickly cleared her throat, and then she was okay. "All 
mouth and fake guts," she said. "Will . . . what they do ... be fast or slow?" 
Palatazin pretended not to hear her. 
The night closed in. 
279 
Father Silvera had reached his church before the worst of the storm hit, and now 
he opened the front door a crack and peered out. The street was deserted and 
already heaped with small sand drifts. There were no lights in any of the 
tenement windows simply because there was no electricity. Silvera had turned on 
the sanctuary lights for perhaps fifteen minutes before they flickered several 
times, dimming steadily with each flicker, and then went out. Darkness was 
filling up the church, deepening every minute. He looked out for a while longer, 
narrowing his eyes against flying grit, then went back to his room. He found 
several candles, meant for either weddings or funerals, tucked away in a drawer, 
and he lit all of them, dripping wax onto saucers and sticking the candles into 
the hardening puddles. He took the candles out into the sanctuary and placed 
them around the gleaming brass crucifix on the altar. Looking at the Cross 
shamed him. He prayed that Palatazin would be safe in his journey and that when 
he found that castle, there would be no master there, no vampires there at all. 
He prayed that Palatazin was wrong, that he was suffering from fatigue or 
overwork. But at the back of his brain a shadow had begun to stir, and he was 
trying very hard to keep it from fully awakening. He had recalled something that 
an older priest had told him during his education in Mexico: "Some men are 
prisoners of rational thought." Perhaps he had been seeing the world through 
bars for a long time. 
The sanctuary door creaked open. Silvera looked up from the altar, to see a 
small figure come staggering out of the storm, whirlwinds of sand spinning 
around him. It was Leon LaPaz. Before Silvera could reach him, he fell, coughing 
violently, to the floor. Silvera helped him up onto a pew and then used all his 
strength against the door to keep the sand out. 
"Are you all right, Leon?" he asked the boy, kneeling down beside him. Leon 
nodded, but he was pale and there were tear tracks down his cheeks. "I'll get 
you some water," Silvera said. He hurried back to his room, took a glass from a 
shelf over the sink, and turned on the cold water tap. The pipes stuttered for a 
few seconds, then let out a thin trickle of brownish water. Damn it! Silvera 
thought. The sand's even getting into the water! He sipped it, then spat it into 
the sink. The stuff was undrinkable. 
"I'm sorry, Leon," he said when he went back out to the boy. "The water's going 
to have to wait." He put a finger under Leon's chin and tilted his face up. The 
boy's lips were wind-chapped, pulped, and swollen. "What were you doing out in 
that? You could've died out there!" Then he suddenly asked, "Where's Sandor? You 
father hasn't come home yet?" 
Leon shook his head, his eyes glimmering with tears. He was still breathless, 
and it was difficult for him to speak. "No ... a man ... came ... a little while 
ago ... for my sister . . ." 
"A man? What man?" 
280 
"A ... black man," Leon said. "To the apartment. He was tall and . . . mean and 
... he told me to come tell you . . . 'Cicero remembers' . . ." 
"Cicero?" Silvera remembered the name of the black heroin dealer he'd stuffed 
into a garbage can. "When was this?" 
"Maybe . . . maybe ten minutes." Leon gripped the priest's arms with small, 
trembling hands. "He took Juanita, Father! He said for me to come tell you he 
remembered and then he ... took my sister and left! Where'd he take her, Father? 
What's he going to do to her?" 
Silvera was stunned. What was Cicero doing in this neighborhood during a raging 
sandstorm? Perhaps he'd been selling more horse and had been caught by the 
winds, unable to get out? And now that he had four-year-old Juanita, what would 
he do to her? 
"There are other people in my building, Father," Leon said. "A lot of the 
windows are broken, and the sand's getting in. They can't breathe too good." 
"How many others?" 
"Mrs. Rodriguez, the'Caracas, Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza, Mr. Melazzo, maybe thirty 
more." 
My God! Silvera thought. What would happen to the hundred of others trapped in 
those flimsy tenements as the sand whipped through empty window frames and 
cracks that should've been repaired years ago? They would slowly suffocate if 
they couldn't find a better refuge! Silvera paused, then made his decision. 
"Leon, you know where the staircase to the bell tower is, don't you?" 
"Si. Through that door over there." 
"That's right. Now listen to me carefully. I want you to climb to the tower and 
crack open the shutters up there; you'll see the handles. The wind may get bad 
after that so you'll have to be very careful. Then I want you to take the rope 
that hangs down and pull on it as hard as you can. The bell may lift you off 
your feet, but that's all right, you'll come down again. Just don't let go of 
the rope, and keep ringing the bell. Can you do that?" 
Leon nodded, his eyes bright with the importance of his mission. 
"Good." Silvera squeezed his shoulder. Now he needed something to cover his 
face. As Leon scurried back through the door, Silvera took a towel from his 
bathroom and jammed most of it down into his coat so he could press the other 
end of it against his lower face and not worry about the wind carrying it away. 
As he approached the sanctuary door, he heard the first clear peal of Mary's 
Voice. It was an urgent, warning sound, metallic and determined. The bell's 
movement made the tower groan over Silvera's head, and he could envision Leon's 
little body being jerked upward. Silvera put his hand against the door and then 
he stepped out. The wind screamed in his ears. 
Sand ripped into his face and hair. He was almost flung to the ground, but he 
fought for his balance by leaning against the wind. He could see absolutely 
nothing; the darkness had conspired with the storm to isolate him inside a well 
with spinning black walls. He struggled on across the street, hearing tattered 
fragments of Mary's 
281 
Voice-it alternately pealed and moaned overhead. 
Slowly, the line of buildings emerged from the murk. He was gasping for a full 
breath by the time he reached the door of Leon's building. Sand covered the 
towel, and some of it had slipped through into his mouth and nostrils. His face 
felt as if it were shredded. Shattered glass from the building's door lay about 
his feet as he stepped into the front corridor. He could hear tortured winds 
wailing along the stairs, and they tried to pull him in all directions at once. 
He tried to breathe without the protective sieve of the towel; his nostrils and 
lungs instantly flamed. 
He knocked on the first door he came to, and Carlos Alva peered out, his dark 
eyes bugging above the gritty handkerchief he had pressed to his face. 
"Carlos!" Silvera shouted, though he stood less than a foot away from the man. 
"Get your wife and children! You're going to have to come to the church with 
me!" Alva didn't seem to understand, so Silvera put his mouth next to the man's 
ear and shouted again. Alva nodded and disappeared into the room for his family. 
Silvera moved on to the next door. 
It took him more than forty-five minutes to get them all gathered together on 
the first floor-thirty-three people not counting the infants in their mother's 
arms. Silvera had planned on getting them out in a human chain, hand-to-hand, 
but the infants created a problem. 
"Listen to me, all of you!" Silvera shouted at them. "We're going to have to 
make it to the church! Can you hear the bell ringing?" Now it sounded distant 
and muffled, and Silvera knew that Leon's arms would be about ready to rip from 
their sockets. "We're going to follow that sound!" he yelled, pointing in the 
direction of the church. "Everyone clasp the shoulder of the person in front of 
you and hold on tightly! I don't want the women to carry their babies. Give them 
to your husbands! The wind's very strong out there so we've got to walk 
carefully." He saw frightened eyes everywhere around him. There were cries for 
God and muttered prayers. 
"We're going to be all right! Don't be afraid, just hold on! Be sure to cover 
the infants' faces! Is everyone protected? All right! Are we ready?" Someone 
started sobbing. Carlos Alva, holding his baby son in one arm, gripped Silvera's 
shoulder. Silvera took a breath of flaming air and moved out into the street, 
the people trailing behind him. 
He couldn't hear the bell for a few seconds. Keep ringing it, Leonl he called 
out mentally. Then he heard it, wailing for the lost. Behind him the human chain 
flailed against the wind, some of them falling and having to be helped up. The 
street had never seemed so wide or so wicked. Silvera felt he'd reached the 
middle of it because he couldn't see either side, but he couldn't be certain. 
Suddenly he heard a piercing scream behind him that went on and on. It reached a 
high crescendo and then rapidly faded. "What is it?" Silvera said over his 
shoulder to Alva. "Who screamed?" 
Alva sent the question back. In another moment he told the priest, "Mrs. Mendoza 
is gone! Something pulled her out of the chain!" 
"WHAT?" Silvera shouted. "STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" He felt his way back 
281 
282 
to the hole where Mrs. Mendoza had been between her husband and Mr. Sanchez. 
"What happened to her?" he asked her husband, whose face was pallid with shock. 
The man couldn't answer; he was muttering "Maria, Maria, Maria . . ." over and 
over again. Silvera looked around for her but couldn't see a thing. He peered at 
Sanchez. "What happened?" 
Sanchez's teeth were chattering. "I don't know, Father!" he shouted. "She was 
holding on to my shoulder one second, then . . . she wasn't there! I heard her 
scream, and when I looked around, I thought I saw ... I thought I saw . . ." 
"What? What was it?" 
"Something ... a man maybe . . . dragging her off . . ." 
Silvera stared into the darkness, sand slithering down his neck. There was 
nothing out there, nothing at all. He heard himself say, "Close the hole," and 
then he felt his way back to the front of the chain. His heart was thundering, 
his stomach roiled with fear. Alva clutched his shoulder again, and they started 
off. Within ten seconds there was another scream, fading into the distance. 
Silvera's head whipped around. "Felizia!" he heard a woman wail. "What happen' 
to my little girl? FELIZIAAAAAH! The woman started to leap out of the chain, but 
Silvera shouted, "HOLD ON TO HER! WE KEEP MOVING!" 
A figure suddenly ran in front of him, and then was quickly engulfed in the 
storm. He stopped so abruptly he could feel the entire chain bump together. He'd 
gotten the impression of a young boy in a black jacket, grinning out of a 
silver-eyed skull. Sweet Jesus, protect us! he thought. Please help us get to 
that door! PLEASE! He began walking again; Alva's hand dug into his shoulder. 
There was a scream from far behind, almost at the end of the chain. "KEEP 
MOVING!" he shouted, though he knew they couldn't possibly hear him back there. 
He hoped they'd close the gap and stagger on. And now he seemed to be aware of 
movement all around him-figures darting back and forth, shadowy shapes made 
formless by the blowing sand. He stepped onto the opposite curb. The church door 
was only a few feet away at the top of five steps. 
"WE'RE HERE!" he shouted, and realized at the same instant that Alva's hand was 
gone. When he looked back, he saw that both the man and his wife had been taken 
out of the chain, leaving only their small daughter frozen with terror, her hand 
outstretched where she'd been clutching her mother's dress. Silvera grasped her 
hand. The bell sang out furiously overhead. Silvera threw open the church door 
and stood there, quickly herding them in whiled he counted them. Of thirty- 
three who'd left the building, twenty-six had made it. When the last one had 
stepped across the threshold, Silvera slammed the door shut and leaned against 
it, the breath rasping through his lungs. Several people fell down before the 
altar and began to pray; there were shrieks and sobs, a wild tumult of noise. 
He hadn't believed in vampires; he wasn't sure now if he did or not, but he knew 
one thing for certain-whatever could exist in that storm wasn't human. He 
touched Juan Romero on the shoulder. "Go up to the tower and take over the bell 
from Leon," Silvera said. "Keep ringing it until I send someone else up. Hurry!" 

283 
Juan nodded and moved away. If anyone could hear that bell, Silvera reasoned, 
then maybe they could reach the church and safety. He put his face in his hands 
and prayed for strength. He was going to have to go back out there, into the 
dozens of other buildings that surrounded the church, to help as many people as 
he could find. He was afraid there would not be very many. But this time he 
wouldn't go out unprepared. 
He walked to the altar and picked up the heavy brass crucifix; it caught the 
golden candlelight and shimmered. But it was so cold. Though it was a symbol of 
hope, he felt full of dark, bleak hopelessness. He gripped his hands around the 
crucifix's sharp edges, aware of how many eyes were watching him. He could use 
this to break into a grocery store for canned goods and bottled water. The 
stained- glass image of Jesus, occasionally shuddering with the violent wind, 
stared down at him through stern gray eyes. You're dying anyway, Silvera told 
himself, so why should you be so afraid? Why should you want to cling to life 
like an old woman wringing drops out of a dishrag? Your days are numbered. Make 
them count. 
Then he gripped the crucifix, adjusted the towel over his face, and stepped back 
out into the maelstrom. 
THIRTEEN 
"Reminds me of the blizzards we used to have back home," Wes said softly, 
watching as the last clear square on the windshield was covered over. Now he and 
Solange sat in darkness. She had pressed against him, leaning her head on his 
shoulder, and though it was terribly hot, Wes didn't mind and neither did she. 
It was better somehow to be near one another. "One day Winter Hill would be a 
study in golds and browns, then when the storm passed through during the night 
and you looked out the window in the morning, the world would be white right up 
to the horizon. Trees, houses, fields . . . everything. People ride sleighs in 
Winter Hill when the snow falls like that, no kidding. Did I ever tell you I 
know how to snowshoe?" 
"No," Solange whispered. 
"What'd I say I know how to do?" 
"Snowshoe." 
"Louder." 
"Snowshoe!" 
"Gesundheit! Now, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, about the sleighs. They were a 
terrific way to get around. The last time I went home for Christmas, everybody 
was using those damned snowmobiles. Progress, right? Well . . ." He decided he'd 
better shut up because he suddenly realized he couldn't breathe worth a damn. He 
finally managed to find a gulp of air. He wanted to comfort Solange, though, 
because when they were silent for too long she began to cry. Out of all the 
thousand or so jokes he had told before audiences in L.A., Las Vegas, and San 
Francisco he 
284 
couldn't seem to remember a single one, just fragments of comedy bits that 
didn't make sense-What's big, stiff, and belongs to Roy Rogers? Trigger. What'd 
the hung- * over angel who'd visited earth overnight say to a furious St. Peter? 
Sorry, Peter, but I left my harp in Sam Frank's disco. Missionary in Africa's 
out walking one day and comes face-to-face with a lion. He sinks down to his 
knees and starts to pray for his life when the lion gets down on its knees 
beside him. "Dear brother lion," the missionary says, "how wonderful it is to 
see you joining me in Christian prayer when just a moment ago I feared for my 
life . . ." And the lion growls, "Don't interrupt while I'm sayin' grace!" 
Praying, Wes thought. Now that might be an idea. What should I say? God please 
get us the hell out of here? God don't give up on old Wes and Solange just yet? 
God whose side are you on anyway? The answer to that seemed painfully clear. 
I've come a long way to die in a fucking sandstorm, Wes thought. From frat 
parties to bars to the Comedy Store to the big time, more or less, and all of it 
could now be just so much shit in a totebag. No agent to get the jobs now, no 
accountants to find the tax loopholes and the shelters, no fan mail pouring into 
the slot. Nobody saying how good I was and how much money I was going to make 
and that I was going to be King of Comedy Hill for a long, long time . . . 
nobody now but me and Solange. 
Well, he thought, that would have to be enough. 
His brain felt feverish. Where the hell are we? Sitting on the freeway, maybe 
right in the middle of it, somewhere over East L.A. Probably no shelter for 
blocks; the Mercedes stalled in what looked like a Sahara Desert sand dune. And 
vampires out there somewhere. Jimmy dead. Screaming in agony before he died. A 
bell ringing. Ambulance sirens wailing, lights flashing across a wide green 
lawn. A bell ringing. , Crazy old lady in a wheelchair, grabbing my arm scaring 
shit out of me. Blackberry brandy. Police car coming. A bell ringing. Parker 
Center, and a girl cracking up in the elevator. A bell. . . RINGING . . .? 
He opened his eyes, hadn't even felt himself starting to slip away. What was 
that noise? Wait a minute, wait a minute! WAIT A MINUTE! A bell's ringing out 
there somewhere! Or is it my imagination? He thought he heard it again, a soft 
distant moan that had a musical note to it, not like the shrill hissings of the 
wind at all. But now it was gone, if it had ever been there to begin with. He 
gently shook Solange. "What is it?" she said thickly, her breathing hoarse and 
uneven.7 
"Listen. Wait a minute . . . there! Did you hear that? A bell ringing?" 
She shook her head. "No. It's the wind." Her eyes dropped, and she laid her head 
back on his shoulder. 
"Don't go to sleep!" he said. "Wake up and listen! I'm telling you that's a bell 
ringing out there!" 
"Bell . . . what bell . . .?" 
And now he heard it again, a distinct, low, musical note through the harsh 
discord of the storm. He thought it was coming from somewhere to the right, but 
( he couldn't tell how far away. "Solange," he said, "I think maybe we're closer 
to ' " shelter than we thought! We can make it there, I think! It won't be too 
far away!" 
285 
"No," she whispered. "I'm sleepy. We can't make it . . ." 
"We can!" He shook her again, harder, trying to stave off the long dark rolling 
waves that were beginning to spread through his body. "We're going to have to 
try, at least! Here, put your hood up. Cup your hands in front of your face to 
keep the sand out of your lungs. Can you do that?" 
"I don't know ... I'm so tired . . ." 
"Me too, but we can't stay here if there's a safe place so close! We can sleep 
when we get there, okay? Come on. Put your hood up and try to shield your face 
with it." He did it for her. "There you go. Okay, I'm going to get out first and 
come around for you. Take a couple of deep breaths." When she tried, she winced 
with the effort; there was barely any air left to breathe. Wes's head was 
buzzing fiercely, the dark waves closing in. "I'm opening the door now. You 
ready?" 
She nodded. 
Wes pushed against the door and found it jammed shut. Panic exploded in his 
stomach. He shoved harder, the muscles in his shoulder straining. Sand began to 
stream off the window in thick rivulets, and it slithered into the car as Wes 
pushed. Then he'd opened it wide enough for them to slip out. He took Solange's 
hand as she slid across the seat and stepped out into a blinding flurry of sand. 
A wall of sand came sliding over him, and as he tried to fight free of it, he 
almost lost Solange's grip. But then his face was clear, and he wrenched Solange 
after him through what he now realized had been a sand dune heaped up against 
the Mercedes's side. 
It was dark now, and through the twisting currents of wind, he could see faint 
sparkles of light from across the river in downtown L.A. Behind him, East L.A. 
and beyond lay in utter darkness. The wind seemed to have lessened somewhat 
since Wes had stopped the car; at least he could stand without having to 
struggle for balance. Sand still stung his face like hellish nettles and flamed 
the air he tried to draw between his teeth. There was air, though, and he found 
he could breathe fairly well if he kept his teeth gritted and remembered to spit 
every minute or so to clear his mouth. Above him he could hear howling currents 
of air; the worst of the storm seemed to have risen and was now circling 
relentlessly over the city. Wes saw that the Mercedes was stripped of all its 
paint. There were more cars scattered on the freeway up ahead, all of them 
scoured down to shining metal. Dunes six and seven feet high had heaped up 
around them, collapsing over hoods and roofs. Most of the sodium-vapor lights 
along the freeway had gone out, but those few that remained cast a cold bluish 
glow down upon a scene of desolation that again reminded Wes of the aftermath of 
a blizzard. One of the lightposts had gone down just ahead and lay stretched 
across the freeway, its bulb crackling like a dying meteor. 
Wes heard the moaning of that bell again way off to the right. Somewhere down in 
the darkness of East L.A. He spat sand out of his mouth, shielding his eyes with 
one hand. "You okay?" he asked Solange, having to shout. She answered with a 
slight squeeze of his hand, and he began moving toward the nearest off-ramp, his 
shoes sinking into a couple of inches of sand. They passed a car with several 
bodies 
286 
tumbling out of it, as if they'd died trying to dig their way out. Solange 
caught sight of one staring, blue-fleshed face and quickly looked away. Farther 
on they came to a corpse, half-buried in the sand, that grinned up at them 
through a twisted death rictus; Wes could envision that thing sitting up, sand 
streaming off its body, and whispering, "See? I got away from them. Oh, no, I 
wouldn't let them take me, so I just laid down and went to sleep. That's what 
you should've done, too. It would have been so much easier . . ." 
The sound of that bell seemed nearer. Wes thought he saw an off-ramp just ahead 
under the pale glow of a sodium-vapor lamp. "You still with me?" he said. 
"I'm fine! Don't worry about me!" 
Wes almost stepped on two bodies, a man and a woman holding hands. He guided 
Solange around them, his nerve about to break. 
They had started down the off-ramp when Wes heard a distant rumbling. He looked 
back over his shoulder and saw headlights moving quickly toward them from the 
west. Motorcycles, about fifteen or twenty of them. His heart stuttered- highway 
patrol cops! He let go of Solange and started waving his arms, shouting, "Hey! 
Over here! Over here!" 
"Wes," Solange said. "Wait ... I don't think . . ." 
The motorcycles curved toward them, sending up spinning tails of sand. Wes saw 
the face of the lead rider, white-fleshed and skeletal, red eyes burning with 
hunger. The thing grinned, then opened its mouth wide and motioned for the 
others to hurry. The fangs glinted with ghostly blue light. 
Wes turned in horrid slow-motion and reached for Solange, but suddenly his 
vision was filled with a blinding white light, and the stuttering roar of the 
motorcycles bore down on him. He was struck in the side by a booted foot. Pain 
shot through him as he fell to the pavement. He hung motionless for a few 
seconds over a dark void and then slowly, slowly tumbled head-over-heels into 
its maw. From its center he heard the shrilling of wind, cracking and popping 
motorcycle exhaust, laughter, and Solange calling to him. Her screaming soon 
stopped. "Good-lookin' bitch ... so good, so fiiine," someone said, the voice 
echoing in Wes's head. "You can have what's left of him, Viking. Oh yeah, baby, 
you're gonna be so gooood to Kobra . . ." 
The throbbing of his ribs roused Wes. He was being turned over by rough, 
freezing hands. Through a mist of pain Wes saw the face over him-broad and 
bearded, pallid and vampiric. "He's alive," the biker said. "Ain't much to him, 
but I figger he's worth a couple of swigs . . ." 
"You said I could take the next one, man!" someone else called out. 
"Viking rates over you, Dicko," the one called Kobra said. "Let him feed. You'll 
take the next one." 
"Shit!" Dicko said. "Ain't nothing but dead meat around here!" 
"Take it easy, man. When we hook up with those Ghost Riders and the rest of the 
Death Machines, we'll flush 'em out like rats. Be plenty for everybody." 
Viking bent over Wes, his mouth slowly opening. Wes could see the bursts of 
287 m--' 
THEY THIRST 
silver in his eyes, and his own face reflected in the merciless mirrors. 
"Git some, Viking!" one of the others called out, and laughed. 
Suddenly Viking blinked and jerked his head back. "Shit! Burnin' my eyes!" He 
scrambled up and away from Wes, his large belly shaking as his body trembled. 
"Bastard's got somethin' in his clothes. Kobra! Got something that burns my 
eyes!" He rubbed at them and backed away. 
Kobra shoved him aside and towered over Wes; he leaned down, staring balefully 
at Wes, and seemed to be sniffing the air. Almost instantly his eyes squeezed 
shut with pain, and he scrambled away. 
"What's he got, Kobra, huh?" Viking said. "What's he got, what's he got?" 
"Shut up!" Kobra rubbed his eyes and then glared at Wes. "Don't matter what he's 
got. Bastard's ribs are caved. When the wind blows up again, he'll be lying 
under about two feet of sand. Forget about him." 
Viking scooped up a handful of sand and flung it at Wes. "You're gonna die, 
motherfucker!" he said savagely. "And death is cooolllddd . . ." 
"Come on." Kobra moved past him and out of Wes's field of vision. "I'm taking 
your black bitch with me, mister. She'll be nice and warm up at the castle, old 
Kobra'll see to that. You just lay there and think about that, okay?" Engines 
revved. Wes tried to pull himself to his feet, but pain exploded along his left 
side, where he'd been hurt in the crash of Jimmy's Cadillac. He fell back, 
panting. The motorcycles swept past him, roaring like wild animals. "Solange!" 
he tried to shout, but the name came out as a whisper. 
And then they were gone, the sound of their cycles rapidly fading. 
"Solange ..." he whimpered, and curled up to die. Around him the wind began to 
chuckle. 
The bell was still ringing, but now it seemed a world away. 
Anger ached within him. "Can't die!" he shouted at himself. "Got to find 
Solange! Can't let her be . . . like them!" He lifted his head and whispered, 
"I'll find" you!" After a while he turned on his belly and started to crawl, 
sliding with the agonized movement of a crushed jackrabbit. He thanked god for 
the amulet Solange had given him; he didn't know how it had worked, but it had 
kept the vampires from biting him. 
Now he counted the tolling of that bell to keep himself from slipping into 
darkness. "One . . . two . .. three . . . four . .. five .. ." Anger carried him 
along, and just behind him off in the shadows, he felt the presence of some 
grinning, scabrous thing with a vaudeville stagehook, trying to catch hold of 
him and drag him back. He kept crawling. 
FOURTEEN 
Lights glowed dimly from the ceiling of a concrete-walled factory in Highland 
Park. Every so often they flickered out and, when they were gone, the conveyor 
288 
belt would stop, too, and the workers had to pull the coffins along in the dark. 
But so far the electricity had been weak but fairly constant; the conveyor belt 
hummed, gears meshing perfectly. The gleaming coffins passed one after the 
other, faster and faster. Figures with shadowy faces grinned and nodded, pleased 
with their work. Soon they would be allowed to go out and feed, and another 
shift would take over. From now on, according to the Master, the factory would 
work from dusk until dawn, electricity or no. If the buzz saws went out, there 
were always hand saws and plenty of files and planes and other necessary tools. 
At the end of the conveyor belt, where the big tractor-trailer trucks were lined 
up at the loading docks, there was a huge mound of sandy brown California soil 
the dump trucks had brought. Before the coffins were sealed and shoved into the 
trucks, the workers would lay down a good bed of dirt inside each of them. Then 
they were ready to go. 
One of the workers, known as Mitchell Everett Gideon in his previous life, 
leaned on his shovel and waited for the next coffin to come down the line. His 
face was streaked with dirt, his eyes dark and sunken. He was cold with hunger 
but reassured by the knowledge that the plant whistle would blow in about an 
hour, and then he'd be allowed to feed. He wouldn't even have to spend time 
hunting, for one of the tractor-trailer trucks was loaded with humans, the 
Master's reward for work well done. 
The next coffin came. He filled the bottom of it, pressed the dirt down with his 
shovel, and then it was carried away to a truck. Trucks were always coming and 
going, and it pleased him to see such efficiency. He was an important part of 
the machine now, much more important than he'd ever been in his life. He'd even 
met the Master and had told him everything he knew about the factory, about 
casket making, about getting the best possible effort out of a work crew. The 
Master was pleased and had asked Gideon if he could rely on him for help and 
suggestions. Gideon said yes, of course. 
Another coffin came. Gideon filled it, working with a newfound strength, and 
watched it being carried away. Another truck moved out of its slot on the docks, 
and another backed in. He was ecstatically happy, ecstatic with his love for the 
Master. He had been granted the gift of eternal life . . . eternal youth. 
It was all a dream come true. 
FIFTEEN 
At the end of two hours, Father Silvera had found more than fifty people and 
herded them back into the church. Some of them were dazed, some were hysterical, 
others whimpered softly. The sanctuary teemed with life-people crying and 
praying, infants howling, people babbling, nearly insane. Silvera appointed four 
men to act as supervisors over the group; some of them wanted to go with him 
when he left again to continue his search, but he firmly told them no. 
289 
It was all he could do to keep himself steady out there. He didn't want to be 
responsible for losing anyone else. Stepping across that threshold and out into 
the dark, sand-whipped street was the most terrible thing he'd ever asked 
himself to do. He was shaking very badly now, his grip on the heavy brass 
crucifix so weak that several times he thought he couldn't continue holding on 
to it. But he did, mentally commanding those strained, deteriorating muscles to 
hold firm just a moment, just a second longer. His hands ached with his body's 
insidious betrayal. 
Now out on the street again, he was alert for running shapes. He'd seen them 
several times, and once one of them had come dangerously close before it 
suddenly stopped and dodged away. Silvera presumed it was because of the 
crucifix. Perhaps thty were afraid of it, just like in all the old vampire 
movies. He walked on, thankful that the wind had dropped enough for him to see 
the buildings on either side of the street. His face was raw and swollen from 
the sand's abrasion, and it was by sheer habit now that he kept his eyes 
narrowed into tight, protective slits. Mary's Voice called out behind him, the 
sound echoing from street to street. He passed a grocery store where the front 
window had been knocked out by a wind-tossed garbage can; he made a mental note 
to come back and get food and water for the people in the sanctuary. He was 
about to step into an apartment building on Marquesa Street, just three blocks 
from his church, when he heard a voice call, "Father Silvera! Help me!" 
It was a little child's voice, and he didn't recognize it at first. But then he 
heard "Please help me!" and a series of broken sobs that faded away. He looked 
across the street and up, and there in a broken third-floor window was Juanita 
LaPaz, her tiny face barely visible over the sill. He could see her fingers 
grasping the wood tightly, her eyes wide and terrified. "Please I wan' my papa! 
I wan' my . . ." She started to cry again, her hands going to cover her eyes, 
and then she disappeared from the window. 
Silvera ran across the street, his shoes sinking down into sand, and entered the 
building. It seemed deserted and was as hot and dirty as a bowl of street-corner 
chili. He took the stairs three at a time and was panting when he got to the 
third- floor hallway, which was littered with newspapers and old furniture and 
clothes. Graffiti covered the walls, along with splatters of what looked like 
paint and dried blood. He paused, listening for the little girl's crying. 
"Juanita?" he called out. "It's Father Silvera! Where are you, querida?" 
He heard her muffled sobbing a couple of doors away. When he opened the door, he 
found her standing barefoot in a room whose walls were covered with Power to the 
People posters. Beneath her black bangs, her eyes looked dull and glazed, as 
if-oh, my God! Silvera thought-as if someone had given her drugs. She stood 
staring at him and shivered. 
"Thank God I've found you!" Silvera said, bending down and hugging her. She 
didn't respond; her arms hung limply at her sides. "Are you all right?" 
"Si" she replied very softly. She seemed to be staring right through him. 
"Where's the man who took you, Juanita? Where did he go?" 
289 
290 
"Gone far away. Please help me, I wan' my papa. Gone far away. Please help me, I 
wan' my . . ." Her eyes moved a fraction, staring over his right shoulder, and 
he saw a quicksilver glimmer of the terror frozen behind the doll-like mask of 
her face. 
Silvera twisted his head around just as Cicero leapt through the doorway with a 
triumphant shriek. 
They slammed together and crashed to the floor. Cicero hissed and tried to force 
the priest's chin back to get at the jugular vein. Silvera tried to gouge out 
the thing's eyes, but every time he struck, Cicero's head whipped to one side to 
evade the blow. Silvera clung to the crucifix with all his strength, and with 
his free hand he slammed an uppercut to the vampire's jaw. Cicero blinked but 
seemed unhurt. The vampire's head darted forward, fangs glistening. Silvera 
threw his arm across his neck and spat into the thing's eyes. Cicero recoiled, 
and Silvera struck out with his fist again, so hard he felt the vibration thrum 
up his shoulder. Before the thing could regain its grip, Silvera twisted and got 
a knee between them, then kicked out with tremendous thigh-cracking effort. 
Cicero was flung back across the floor, but he quickly scrambled to his feet. 
Silvera stood up, his lungs heaving. He grasped Juanita's shoulder and shook her 
hard to try to break the vampire's power over her. "Get behind me, Juanita! 
Hurry!" She was too dazed to understand. 
Cicero grinned, the fangs sliding out of his upper and lower jaws. "Ain't gonna 
be so easy as that, Mr. Priest. Oh, nooooo. You in old Cicero's territory now. 
You got to play by my rules." The vampire stepped forward, hands curling into 
claws. 
Silvera took a step backward. The crucifix felt leaden in his left hand. He held 
it up and thrust it forward at the vampire, his arm trembling. "Get back!" he 
commanded. "Your master's dead, Cicero! He's destroyed!" 
Cicero stopped, his face contorting. Then he threw back his head and laughed. 
"'Get back'? Ha! Man, you been watchin' too many old movies!" His eyes flamed. 
"Cicero Clinton ain't ashamed of what he is! I never believed in that religion 
bullshit anyway, man, so that thing don't hurt me none now! And you're wrong. 
The Master lives! He's in me right now, and I'm hungry, reallll hungry ..." He 
came forward, his claws twitching, his face split by that leering, terrible 
grin. 
Silvera grabbed the little girl and shoved her against the wall so he stood 
between her and the vampire. He heard her saying, like a broken record, ". . . 
gone far away. Please help me, I wan' my papa . . ." 
"Gonna take you out slow, Mr. Priest," Cicero whispered. "Gonna make you hurt . 
. ." He tensed, knees bending for the leap. When he came for the priest's 
throat, he was a savage blur of motion. 
But Silvera stood his ground. He swung the crucifix around in a vicious arc, 
aiming for the vampire's head. Cicero twisted slightly, but the sharp brass edge 
sliced a sizzling wound at the base of his neck. The dead flesh rippled and 
writhed, trying to close the smoking tear. There were yellowish-white tissues in 
the cut, but the vampire did not bleed. Silvera stepped forward quickly and 
struck again, aiming 
291 
for the same place. The cut's edges now hissed and widened. Cicero staggered 
back, trying to shield the wound with his hands. Silvera's strength was 
weakening rapidly, and he felt his grip slipping. He feinted toward the thing's 
eyes, then struck again at the neck. Gray flesh ripped like rotten cheesecloth, 
exposing dead tissue and veins. The next blow of the crucifix almost severed 
Cicero's head from his body. The vampire staggered back, arms flailing in pain. 
Cicero's face hung at a right angle. It was contorted with fury; the fangs 
clicked together, seeking a hold on human flesh. 
Then Cicero shrieked and rushed forward, trying to get the crucifix away from 
Silvera. The priest braced himself and swung out with the rest of his ebbing 
strength. 
Cicero's head ripped from his body and tumbled into a corner. The headless body 
staggered on, its claws gripping Silvera's coat and hanging there; the fingers 
still writhed. Silvera could feel the waves of cold rolling off it, and he heard 
himself cry out in terror. He jerked away from the thing, and the body crumpled 
to the floor at his feet. 
It was then that Juanita screamed and ran into his arms. He hugged her close, 
pressing her head against his shoulder so she would not see anymore of the 
horror. Across the room the fangs in the severed head kept clicking like 
dreadful castanets. The body at his feet suddenly shuddered, twisting like a 
dying snake. "God help us!" Silvera breathed. The body's limbs were still 
moving, it was pushing itself toward the head in the corner. Silvera didn't wait 
to see what would happen when it got there. With Juanita around his neck, 
Silvera raised the crucifix high over his head and slammed it down through the 
thing's spine. Bone and wood cracked; Silvera had driven the crucifix through 
the body and into the floor. The vampire writhed, the feet trying to push it 
forward, but it was firmly pinned to the floor. The fangs began to grind 
together. Silvera left the crucifix where it was, put his arms around Juanita, 
and raced out of the building. 
On the street he realized that he and the child were unprotected, but he felt 
certain that if he hadn't left Cicero's body pinned, it would have crawled 
across that floor and somehow made itself whole again. His stomach turned over 
at the thought. The moving shadows seemed to be on all sides. He was running now 
as hard as he could, his lungs pumping like bellows. He thought he heard 
something coming up from behind, but when he dared to look back, he saw nothing. 

Less than a half-block from the church, he saw a corpse lying in the middle of 
the street. He was almost around it when the corpse's hand shot out, grabbing 
his ankle and almost tumbling him to the ground. The man raised his sand-caked 
face and whispered, "Help me . . ." 
292 293 
Thursday, October 31 
the ghost town 
294 295 
Tommy Chandler stirred uneasily. The last bell was ringing, echoing down the 
long, silent halls of Fairfax High School. He was running and trying to hold on 
to his books. When he looked back, he could see the shadow that followed him 
relentlessly, its long arms swinging like the orangutan's from "Murders in the 
Rue Morgue." And he heard the loathsome guttural voice rolling down on him like 
a tidal wave. "I told you not to come back, fuckface . . . told you not to ... 
told you not toooooo . . .!" 
"Go away!" Tommy shouted, his voice cracking. "Leave me alone!" And then he 
dropped his books all over the hallway, which suddenly started changing shape, 
elongated to incredible dimensions like a set from The Thousand Fingers of Dr. 
T. He stopped to gather up his books, but they kept slipping away from him, and 
he could hear the muffled boom boom boom of Bull Thatcher's combat boots coming 
up fast behind him. A shadow fell upon him like a winter storm, and he looked up 
in terror . . . 
... at the clock beside his bed. He could hear the alarm ringing, and he reached 
out to shut it off. But before he could grasp it, the ringing stopped. He heard 
his father's voice say, "Who is this? Why don't you say something? Damn it, 
Cynthia, either someone's making crank phone calls or . . ." 
Tommy sat up in bed and fumbled for his extra pair of eyeglasses on the table 
beside his bed. He put them on and looked at the clock; it was a windup and 
hadn't gone off at nine-forty, when the electricity had died. It was five 
minutes after midnight. Who could be calling now? he wondered. The wind was 
still screaming at his window, punctuated by the scatter-shots of sand on glass. 
Before the television had gone black, the special KABC weather report had said 
to expect winds of between thirty-five and fifty miles per hour. And then the TV 
and lights had flickered out. 
The telephone was ringing again. Tommy heard his father's muffled curse as he 
picked up the receiver. 
Tommy had walked home from school that afternoon buffeted by hot western winds. 
He could look at the sky and tell a storm was coming because the clouds were 
thickening and cartwheeling for as far as he could see. He'd never seen anything 
quite like it before, not even in Denver. But the freak storm wasn't anything as 
incredible as the miracle at school yesterday. Of course, he'd had to return to 
the locker room, and as he was hurrying to gather up his books and get out, Mark 
Sutro told him not to worry, that Bull Thatcher and Ross Weir hadn't come to 
school, so he was safe. Buddy Carnes did come in while he was still at his 
locker, but Carnes hadn't even given him a sidelong glance. Now there might not 
296 R. McCAMMON 
even be any school today. That would be great, he thought, then he could watch 
"Flash Gordon" and "Thriller" on the Mexican stations ... if the electricity 
came back on. 
He got out of bed. From one wall a poster of Orion Kronsteen, resplendent in his 
King Vampire makeup, glowered down at him. He went out into the hall and knocked 
on his parents' door. His father, a thin, pale man with thick eyeglasses like 
his son's, looked out. "What are you doing out of bed?" 
"Woke up. Heard the phone ringing." Tommy yawned, lifted his glasses, and rubbed 
his eyes. "Who's been calling?" 
"I don't know. Some idiot who won't answer. I can hear a lot of static, but no 
voices. Why don't you try to go back to sleep?" 
"The storm's still pretty bad, isn't it, Dad?" 
"Yes. It is." He paused for a few seconds and then opened the door wider. "You 
want to come in and talk for a while?" 
Tommy's mother, a sharp-chinned Radcliffe grad with dark, intense eyes, was 
sitting on the bed with her knees drawn up to her chest, making a mountain out 
of the covers. She was staring at the pale green curtains drawn across the 
window, watching them tremble every time an errant whisper of wind slipped 
through the casement. She looked at Tommy and smiled her tight, crooked smile. 
"Can't sleep either, huh?" 
"Nope." 
"Sounds like a hurricane, doesn't it? Gosh, who ever heard of a hurricane in 
California?" 
"It's not as bad as it was a little while ago," his father said quietly. He sat 
on the edge of the bed and looked at the telephone. "I wonder who the hell that 
was? Somebody playing a joke?" 
"Not very funny," Cynthia said. 
Tommy stepped to the window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked out. For an 
instant he could've sworn he was back in Denver-there was snow all over the 
place out there! Heaps and heaps of it, even beginning to cover over cars! But 
then he saw a felled palm tree, all its fronds stripped away to leave a bare, 
ugly nub, and then he remembered this was California so that couldn't possibly 
be snow. It was sand, hot and thick, slowly piling up into mountainous dunes. 
"Where did all this sand come from, Dad?" he asked. His heart was beating a 
little faster. 
"The Mojave Desert. The wind just carried it right over the mountains. That 
would be our luck, wouldn't it?" 
"Yeah," Tommy said. "It sure would be." He strained his eyes to see across the 
street through the swirling yellow sheets to the Vernon house. 
"I never wanted to come to California," Tommy's father was saying. "I told Mr. 
Oakes I was an Achilles man all the way and, of course, I wanted the promotion, 
but. . ." He looked at his wife. "I wish we could've stayed in Scottsdale. That 
was a really beautiful city, and you didn't have to worry about earthquakes or 
smog or 
297 
some crazy murderer running loose . . ." 
"Dad," Tommy said very quietly. He wasn't sure what he was seeing, wasn't sure 
at all, but he thought he should say something. 
"Now this," his dad said. "Christ! No electricity, no ... where's that 
transistor radio, Cynthia?" 
"Dad," Tommy said. "There's-" 
"The one you bought at K-Mart? I think it's still packed away in a box, honey. 
Probably out in the hall closet. I doubt if the batteries are still working." 
"I'll try to find it. Tommy, why don't you scare up some candles and matches if 
we're going to stay up? Okay?" 
Tommy nodded and looked back out the window. What he thought he'd seen -a figure 
standing amidst the sand drifts on the Vernon's front yard, staring across at 
his house and seemingly right at him-was no longer there now. He craned his neck 
to either side but could see no one out there, if he had actually seen anyone at 
all. Still, a shiver ran up his spine. He went to get the candles and matches, 
passing his dad rummaging through the hall closet and feeling his way down the 
stairs to the kitchen. The wind shrilled and whistled around the house, trying 
to suck it off its foundations, but at the house's center there seemed to be a 
hole of unearthly darkness and silence, the stuff that had crept in when the 
electricity had gone. Tommy started opening drawers. He found a couple of 
candles and now he needed matches. He searched on a shelf above the sink and 
from the corner of his eye saw something move near the window that looked out 
over their tiny backyard. He wasn't sure what it was, but it had looked like 
someone ... running. He stared out, his heart pumping ice water. "Hey, Mom!" he 
shouted. "Where are the matches?" 
"Look under the sink!" she called down to him. 
He opened a couple of cupboards down there and finally found a large pack of 
Fire Chiefs, the kind you could strike anywhere. And suddenly from the front of 
the house, there came an ugly-sounding whump and he could hear things crashing 
around in the living room. A whirl of wind and sand hit him as he raced out of 
the kitchen to the stairs. He could see the front door hanging on one hinge, and 
a coffee table had gone flying against a wall. His dad called out from upstairs, 
"Tommy? What was that?" 
"Door's open!" he said. "The wind knocked it loose ... I guess." 
"Christ! If that sand gets inside . . . Tommy, can you prop it shut?" 
"I'll try!" He moved across the room against the wall of wind and dragged a 
chair over to secure the door. It held, although the whistlings through the 
doorjamb had grown savage. Then he hurried upstairs, the flesh at the back of 
his neck beginning to creep. 
His father had found the transistor radio and tuned it to KALA. A rock song was 
playing, the singer wailing something about everybody being part of a food 
chain. Tommy lit the candles and placed one on either side of the bed. The 
gruff- voiced dj came on after the song had ended, his patter garbled by static. 
"Yeaaah! That was Tonio K. and 'Life in the Foooooodchain!' Thass what it's all 
about now, 
298 
ain't it, brothers and sisters? Lemme reeeelay to you what the scouts are 
tellin' old Tiger Eddie. Got a whole lot of fine young ones trapped up in the 
Hollywood Recreation Center on Lexington Avenue. You get yourself up there early 
for the best pickin's, you dig? Got a few scattered all along Rosewood Avenue, 
you just got to keep knockin' on them doors 'till you get lucky . . ." 
"What's he talking about?" Tommy's dad asked nervously, looking at his son. 
". . . old Tiger Eddie's gonna be with you right up 'til night-night time about 
five-thirty this morning. Here's a little note to make your mouths water. There 
are sixty-count 'em, sixty-holed up over at the Westside Jewish Center between 
Olympic and San Vicente. Just a reminder-the Master don't want 'em old, you dig? 
You find some old coots, just do us all a favor and fling 'em out in the wind, 
okay? Yeah! Dig it!" 
"Christ! What's . . . what's that idiot talking about?" 
And then something stepped through the open doorway into the bedroom. 
It was" Mr. Vernon. His eyes shone in a ghastly chalk-white face. He was wearing 
a dirty white shirt and dark trousers, and even in the dim candlelight Tommy 
could see the brownish spots on his collar. Tommy's heart leapt into his throat, 
almost choking him. His mom gave out a little scream, and his dad whirled around 
so fast his glasses almost flew off. "Pete!" his dad said in a trembling voice. 
"What are you ... I mean . . . why are . . .?" 
"I've come to visit," Pete Vernon said in a soft hiss of a voice. "Oh, listen to 
that wind. Isn't it wonderful?" 
"How did you . . . get in?" 
"The front door, of course. As any visitor would enter. I've brought my wife 
with me. Dianne?" 
And then she was there, too, both of them blocking the doorway, both of them 
pale and grinning. 
"Don?" Tommy's mom said softly to his dad. Her face had gone white, her eyes 
swimming with fear. 
"Don," Dianne Vernon whispered, gripping her mouth around the name. Her eyes 
shifted very slowly and stared into Tommy's face. Her gaze burned like hellfire. 
Then she grinned and opened her mouth wide, and Tommy's brain screamed with the 
terrible word-VAMPIRE-he'd heard in a thousand monster movies-VAMPIRE - when he 
was sitting in a safe chair at a safe distance-VAMPIRE-in his own safe, private 
little world, but now this was real-VAMPIRE-real, real, real . . . 
"No!" he tried to shout, but it came out as a croak. Mrs. Vernon swept past him 
like a gray wind, moving inexorably upon his father. He cried out, "NO," and 
grasped at her, trying to hold her back. She hissed and twisted, and in the next 
instant Mr. Vernon's freezing hands were on him, flinging him like a sack of 
rags out into the hallway. He smacked against the wall hard and slid to the 
floor, his brain reeling with pain and terror. He heard his mother scream, then 
there was a high peal of wicked laughter that was so terrible Tommy thought he 
would go crazy before it stopped. But when it did stop, the sucking sounds 
began, and those were much, much worse. 
299 
And then a beautiful, terrible voice whispered, "Tommy?" 
He looked up, cold sweat breaking out on his face. 
It was her, mounting the stairs now and coming down the hallway toward him with 
slow, supple steps. He could see the long golden hair splashed over her bare 
shoulders. She was wearing a violet halter, the deep dish of her navel exposed 
over tight denim cutoffs decorated with different-colored patches-one showed 
Snoopy reclining atop his doghouse, another said Have a Nice Day! Her thigh 
muscles tensed as she neared him, and in the darkness he could see the awful 
sheen of her eyes. That beautiful flesh would never again be touched by the sun. 
"Tommy?" she whispered, and when she smiled, she was still so pretty, even like 
this. She held out one graceful hand to him. "How's about you and me gettin' it 
on, huh?" she said softly. 
"You're . . . dead!" Tommy said, the effort to speak making sweat run down his 
face in rivulets. "You're not Sandy Vernon anymore. You're not human . . ." 
"You're wrong, Tommy. I'm still Sandy. And I know how much you want me, Tommy. I 
could always tell. That's why I liked to tease you and show off my legs for you. 
I want you, too, Tommy. I want you reeeeeeal bad . . ." She stepped forward, 
about to touch him. Her eyes blazed with wicked and soul-shaking promises. He 
felt all on fire and yet so cold, as if he stood facing an inferno while a 
blizzard raged at his back. His mind slipped toward her, and he began to 
envision all the wonderful possibilities, how he could just put his hand into 
hers-NO!-and she would guide him right into his own room to the bed-NO! YOU 
CAN'T-and then it would be better than anything he'd ever known, better than a 
Mexican horror film festival- SHE'S IN YOUR MIND, GET HER OUT.'-or even three 
Orion Kronsteen films right in a row, all he would have to do would be to lie 
back and let her-GET HER OUT, SHE'S COMING CLOSER.'-do everything to him, 
everything, everyth- 
"GET OUT!" he shrieked. "GET OUT!" He twisted away from her grasp, from the 
fangs that were coming down out from under her full, luscious lips, arid raced 
back along the hallway. He burst through a door into the bathroom and locked it 
just before the beautiful vampire started battering on the wood. "Let me in!" 
she shrieked in a frenzy. "You little bastard, let me in right now.'" 
There was a tremendous blow, and the door shuddered; wood began to split. The 
blows followed one after the other very rapidly now, and Tommy thought that Mr. 
and Mrs. Vernon were probably out there, too, helping to batter the door down. A 
great crevice suddenly appeared in the wood; the door started to cave in. 
Tommy realized he was still gripping the pack of matches. But what good were 
they? What could he do with them? He couldn't think; the noise outside was too 
loud. Then he flung open the medicine cabinet and was sweeping aside bottles of 
vitamins, cough medicine, and cold capsules. There was nothing he could use. 
Suddenly the door shattered, and they were on him, all three of them ravenous 
and fighting over him, trying to tear him to pieces. They started to drag him 
out of the bathroom. 
His hand clutched a can of his mom's hair spray, which was sitting on the sink. 
300 
As Mr. Vernon's grip closed on his throat, he shook a match into his hand and 
flailed out, trying to scrape it across the wall. He missed, and now Sandy was 
trying to grasp his arm, screaming shrilly, "HE'S MINE! HE'S MINE! IT'S NOT 
FAIR!" 
Tommy reached out, almost popping his shoulder out of the socket, and dragged 
the match across plaster. It sputtered and flared, illuminating the sudden burst 
of fear in the vampire's eyes. Tommy knocked the cap off the hair spray can, got 
his thumb on the button, and pushed. Immediately he could smell sweet flowers, 
and the image of his blood-drained mother lying in the next room streaked 
through his head. He held the match up in front of the spray just as Mr. Vernon 
made a guttural animal noise and leapt for his throat. 
A two-foot jet of flames shot out of the spray can. He heard Mrs. Vernon scream, 
and he stuck that blue torch right in her husband's face. 
Mr. Vernon roared in agony as the flame hit his eyes. He staggered back out of 
the bathroom, he and Sandy fighting for an instant as they jammed into each 
other in the doorway. Tommy charged them, keeping his thumb pressed down. The 
vampires stumbled over each other, trying to get away. "Come on back and fight!" 
Tommy screamed at them. "Come on, you dirty bastards!" He forgot and released 
his thumb. The flame instantly went out. Sandy's eyes gleamed, and she started 
back along the hallway for him. Tommy raced back to the bathroom, where the 
matches lay scattered on the floor. He struck another one and lit his torch 
again; this time he kept more matches clutched in his hand. Sandy stopped just 
beyond the bathroom door and immediately backed away. "We'll get you!" she 
promised from the head of the stairs. "We'll come back for you, you'll see!" 
And then they were gone, sweeping down the stairs and away. 
Tommy couldn't lift his thumb for another minute. The flame went out, and he 
stood in the midst of a stinking swirl of smoke. He was trembling, but he was 
afraid to cry because he knew if he started to, he couldn't stop. He was sure 
those things meant what they said-they would be back. 
It was a long time before he could make himself go into his parents' bedroom. On 
the floor Tiger Eddie's voice still growled from the transistor radio. "Oh 
yeaaaaah, brothers and sisters, got some real fine news for you if you happen to 
be huntin' out Santa Monica way. Seems there's a whole bunch of'em stuck out at 
the Santa Monica Airport waitin' on planes that never took off, can ya dig it? 
You be first over there and have yourselves some fun for Tiger Eddie, okay? 
Gonna be keepin' you up-to-date 'til sign-off time. Right now here's a fine disc 
from the Motels . . ." 
Tommy picked up the radio and flung it against the wall. It shattered into small 
bits of plastic and metal. Then he stood and looked down at his parents' bodies, 
a sob trying to work its way out of his throat. 
He began to cry, but he kept his finger on the hair spray button. 
301 TWO 
The madman next door was singing again, trying to outshout the wind. "Onnnn 
Christ the solid rock I stand . . . alllll other ground is sinking sand, alllll 
other ground isssss sinking ... I see you out there! You stay away, you hear 
me!" There was a quick crack of a shot fired at shadows. Then silence except for 
a few hoarse sobs. 
You'd better save those bullets, Palatazin thought. They may not be worth much, 
but I'm sure they're better than nothing. He was sitting on the floor beside the 
window, his back against the wall. Jo lay on the sofa, drifting in and out of a 
troubled sleep. 
Gayle came back from the kitchen, eating a slice of ham. "You sure you don't 
want any more of this?" she asked him quietly. "It's just going to go bad in 
that fridge." 
He shook his head. 
"There's fruit," she said. "Some apples and oranges." 
"No. I don't want anything." He watched as she stepped cautiously to the window 
and peered out. "You'd better get some sleep while you can," he told her. 
"How long until sunrise?" 
"About three hours." 
Softly, she said, "When is that wind going to stop?" 
"The storm's died a little bit," he said, "but I wouldn't suggest our trying to 
leave this house. There's no telling what we might run into. I think we're about 
as safe here as we could possibly be." 
"Some consolation. What happens at dawn?" 
"What do you mean?" 
"I know the vampires go crawling back into their graves or holes or whatever, 
but what happens to us? Where do we go when the storm stops?" 
Palatazin almost voiced his fears-that the storm had somehow been brought on by 
the vampires and would not stop, but would probably intensify during the 
daylight hours to keep the pockets of humanity isolated from each other-but he 
didn't. Instead, he said quietly, "I want you and Jo to try to get out." 
"Okay, I'll buy that. But what about you?" 
"I'm going to finish what I began. I'm going to find a way up to the Kronsteen 
castle . . ." 
"Alone? You're crazy if-" 
"Yes, alone," he said firmly. "And I may be crazy, I admit it. But who else is 
there to do it? And if it's not done-if it's not at least tried-then from now on 
every night will be just like this one. People hiding in the dark, waiting for 
the vampires. When they're finished here, they're going to sweep eastward, town 
after town, city after city. Los Angeles is now, for all intents and purposes, 
theirs. How long do you think smaller cities would last? How long before they 
reach Chicago and New 
302 
York? I think there are already vampires in those cities, placed there by their 
master as advance scouts. But I think they're waiting to see how successful 
these vampires are here before they begin massing their armies." 
"Surely some news is getting out to the rest of the country!" Gayle said. 
"Surely . . . somebody out there knows . . . what's happening to us! Don't 
they?" 
Palatazin shook his head. "I doubt it. Right now all they know is that the 
sandstorm of the century has hit L.A. Other than that, what could they know? How 
could the news get out? No, Miss Clarke, I'm afraid we're quite isolated, which, 
of course, is exactly what the vampires want." 
She was silent for a moment, wincing as a gust of wind blew sand against the 
glass. She sat down in a chair, drawing her legs up underneath her. "Why did 
they choose L.A.?" she asked him finally. "Why begin with us?" 
"I'm not sure. Oh, I have my theories, but..." He shrugged. "Los Angeles may be 
one of the largest cities in the world, but it's really a gathering of villages, 
many of them having no real contact or intermingling with any of the others. I 
think the vampire king has had . . . much experience in taking villages, and he 
began here because he recognized that fact about L.A. Also, he probably realized 
how isolated this city already is from the rest of the country, cut off by 
mountains and desert. And if you hear about strange goings on in L.A.-for 
instance that Gravedigger thing-most people here and in other parts of the 
country tend to simply shrug and say, 'Well, that's life in Los Angeles.' 
Believe me, the vampire king has studied this city thoroughly, and he saw how he 
could take advantage of such attitudes. Also, to conquer a city of this size . . 
. think of the confidence that's going to give the vampires who are scattered 
all over this country, waiting for their master's command. They're going to 
think they're invisible, that nothing can stand in their way. They may be 
right." 
"How are you going to get up that mountain with those dogs standing guard?" 
He looked at her and smiled grimly. "I don't know." 
Gayle shivered. "Maybe I will try to get some sleep. God knows I need it. I'm 
going to go scare up a pillow and a blanket." She rose to her feet and started 
toward the stairs. 
"Will you bring a pillow for Jo, too, please?" he asked her. 
"Sure. Back in a minute." She climbed the stairs in the dark, her hand gripping 
the banister hard. She opened a door and peered in. It was a bedroom. There were 
a couple of pillows on the bed, but the blanket and bedspread had been kicked 
off. She gathered up the pillows, hurrying because the moan of the wind at the 
windows sounded so ghastly, when her heart gave a violent kick. She stared at 
the bed, an odd recollection ticking in her brain. 
There were no sheets. Just as in Jack's apartment before she'd found him . . . 
"Palatazin," she said. It came out as a dry, throaty whisper. 
Something rustled in the room, shifting heavily. There was the muffled noise of 
ripping cloth. 
"Oh, God," Gayle whimpered, one hand going to her mouth. "Oh, God, no, no, no . 
. ." 
303 
In the darkness the closet door began to open. Another movement caught her eye, 
and now she could see a cocooned shape writhing out from under the bed. It 
jerked and stretched and, with the soft tearing of cloth, a grasping white hand 
protruded, fingers clawing at the sheet. A body came tumbling out of the closet. 
It was the gray-haired man in the mantel photographs, his legs still wrapped 
tightly. He fought to get free, and slowly his gaze turned upon Gayle. His eyes 
flamed. 
Gayle screamed. She backed out of the bedroom, and as she did, she saw a woman's 
head appear out of the other shroud. "WHAT IS IT?" she heard Palatazin shout 
from downstairs. "GAYLE?" 
She started down the stairs, tripped and fell headlong before she could grasp 
the banister. When she looked back, she saw the man coming at her, a black 
tongue licking his lower lip. He reached down and grasped her arm, his grip 
colder than the dead of winter. His grinning sickle of a mouth gaped, and Gayle 
almost fainted with horror as the fangs began to close in on her throat. 
Palatazin stepped to the foot of the stairs with Jo behind him. The vampire, its 
fangs a half-inch from Gayle's jugular vein, looked up, its eyes narrowing as it 
sensed that something was not right. 
Palatazin flung out his arm with the bottle of holy water clamped in his hand 
and saw the droplets spray across the vampire's face. Instantly the vampire 
shrieked in agony, trying to hold an arm over its eyes. It let go of Gayle and 
scurried up the stairs. Palatazin followed, his face gone gray. 
In the bedroom the vampire whirled to face him, and Palatazin could see the 
smoking holes where the drops of water had struck. The female vampire had almost 
kicked free from her shroud, and now she began to crawl across the floor toward 
the scent of hot blood. The male vampire hissed and advanced toward Palatazin. 
He stepped back, slamming against the wall, and flung out with the bottle again. 
A machine-gun slash of holes crossed the vampire's forehead, putting out one 
eye. The thing screamed and fell to its knees, writhing in pain as if it had 
been sprayed with acid. When Palatazin stepped toward it, the vampire staggered 
up, shuddering with fear, and crashed through the window on the other side of 
the bedroom in a silvery shower of glass. 
The female vampire gripped Palatazin's ankle, pulling herself toward him. He 
poured a little of the water in the palm of his hand and flung it quickly into 
her face. She howled and contorted, pulling free of her cocoon, both hands 
pressed to her eyes. Then she was up and staggering blindly, trying to find the 
window. When her hand closed on the glass fragments on the sill, she pulled 
herself up and over, falling out of sight. 
Palatazin looked through the window, wind whipping into his face. He saw the two 
figures, still running, and heard the madman's strident cry, "Ye foul spawn of 
Satan I strike the blow of God." There were three quick shots, and the vampires 
disappeared into the storm. Palatazin was stunned; he'd had no idea the holy 
water would have that destructive an effect. His stomach heaved, dark motes 
spinning before his eyes. He could hear Gayle downstairs, babbling hysterically. 
When his 
304 
dizziness passed, he looked at the bottle of holy water. It was a little less 
than half full now. What was in this water that could've caused a reaction like 
that? he wondered. There was a single drop remaining in the palm of his hand. He 
sniffed it, then licked it. 
The water was salty. 
Seawater? he asked himself. Then perhaps the salt had an immediate, corrosive 
effect on the vampires' dead flesh? He didn't know why Father Silvera had 
brought him seawater, but he was decidedly grateful for it. 
"Andy?" Jo called from downstairs. Then in a panicked voice, "ANDY!" He walked 
back down the stairs on trembling legs. "I'm all right," he assured her. "I'm 
fine. But now we have to check this house from top to bottom. I don't think 
there are any more of them hiding here, but we have to be certain." He looked 
into the living room where Gayle was huddled on the sofa, whimpering like a 
little girl. "You're going to be all right, Miss Clarke?" he asked her. 
"Yeah," she said quickly. "Yeah. Yeah. Let me get my breath. Okay. Yeah." He 
nodded, knowing there was very little that would keep her down for long. He 
squeezed Jo's hand. "We'll start with the basement," he said quietly. 
THREE 
Tommy was running. Behind him his house was on fire. 
He hadn't thought it would go up so quickly, but he figured the wind had helped 
fan the blaze. He'd stood over his parents' corpses for a long time, just 
looking at them and wondering what to do. He knew what was supposed to happen 
now. His mom and dad were supposed to sleep until the next nightfall, and then 
sometime in the darkness they would awaken to walk the streets with the rest of 
the Undead. That's what happened in all the movies. 
The Undead. 
That sounds so cold, Tommy had thought. So final. Once you've stepped across 
that line, you don't come back, not ever. But this is my mom and dad lying here, 
not . . . vampires! "Wake up," he whispered in the terrible darkness. "Both of 
you . . . please . . . wake up . . ." 
But they hadn't even moved, and Tommy could see the deep punctures on their 
throats that told him they weren't ever going to wake up as Don and Cynthia 
Chandler again. 
So after a long time of just standing there, he'd gone to his room, put on his 
jeans, a shirt, and his all-weather jacket, then looked in his closet for the 
old Army surplus backpack he'd used briefly when he was a Boy Scout in 
Scottsdale. He'd put some matches into his jacket pocket, then the rest of them 
went into the backpack along with an extra can of hair spray and his dad's Right 
Guard aerosol deodorant. He went downstairs and made himself a couple of 
peanut-butter-and- jelly sandwiches, put them in sandwich bags, and slipped them 
into the pack along 
305 
THEY THIRST 
with a meat cleaver he found in a drawer. The main question that faced him was 
whether he should try to make it to the ocean or head up into the mountains. 
He'd thought about staying here in the house until sunrise, but he couldn't bear 
the idea of letting his parents slip over that Undead line, and he couldn't stay 
with them lying in the bedroom all white and empty. The ocean was too far away, 
so he decided on the mountains. 
But one thing he couldn't be sure of was how many real people there were in the 
houses around him, and how many vampires waited out there for little boys 
running in the night. He decided that is he saw anyone, he would assume the 
worst. He folded the sheets around his parents and stuffed newspapers under the 
bed. Then he cried a little bit before he could muster the nerve to strike the 
first match. He lit his spray-can torch and touched the flame to the sheets; 
they crisped and caught fire very quickly. There was no way he could wait to see 
if the bodies caught or not. He turned and ran, his face scorched by an 
agonizing lick of flame. 
Now he was racing along the edge of Hancock Park, sand stinging his cheeks, the 
wind bringing the odors of oranges and cloves from the tar pits, the air 
metallic in his gasping lungs. He could tell the storms had diminished in force 
during the last several hours. Now sand dunes lay scattered across the white 
field of the park, and broken branches littered his path. He was a good runner; 
he knew he could last a long time because whenever he jogged with his mom and 
dad in the evenings he always left them behind and just kept on going until he 
looked back and saw them as only two struggling dots. His heart seemed jammed up 
in his throat. He turned and thought he saw a faint reddish glow in the sky 
where his house was-had been-but he wasn't sure. He decided not to look back 
again. 
He was heading northeast toward the only wooded refuge he could think of that 
was anywhere near his house. In August his dad had taken him up to the Nature 
Museum and Bird Sanctuary on Mount Hollywood, then down into the four thousand 
acres (so the guidebook had said) of Griffith Park. There were a lot of bridle 
paths crisscrossing the park but very few roads, and Tommy remembered being 
amazed at how close a really unspoiled mountain area was to the winding 
residential streets of Hollywood. So that was where he had to go. He knew he 
could lose himself in that park, but getting there meant crossing through the 
heart of Hollywood, and he was bitterly afraid of what might be lurking there. 
He still gripped the can of hair spray he'd repelled the Vernons with, and there 
were good old dependable Fire Chiefs-what I used to burn up my mom and dad with, 
he thought suddenly-in his jacket pocket. As he ran, he saw the wind rippling 
currents of sand before him, and he thought of that terrified kid in Invaders 
from Mars, running across a sand hill that whirlpooled beneath his feet to send 
him into a subterranean world of alien horrors. 
And then he was aware of the figure running behind him about thirty yards off to 
the left. Tommy looked over his shoulder. There was a hideous moon-white face 
floating toward him from the darkness. He increased his speed, zigzagging deeper 
into the park. When he dared to look back, the thing was gone. 
306 
The high fence around the largest of the tar pits had blown down; a sheen of 
sand, white mottled with black, covered the surface of a lake from which a huge 
concrete mastodon struggled to escape. Tommy ran along its edge toward the 
eastern edge of the park. He passed benches stripped of paint where the old men 
played checkers on Saturday mornings; he passed long strips of pavement that 
would not be used by Sunday afternoon roller-skaters for a long time to come. 
And then something slammed into the small of his back. A hand dug into his 
jacket, almost ripping it off his shoulders, and flung him to the ground with 
brutal force. 
He lay there fighting for breath, a shrill alarm, Don't let them bite you! 
Don't, don't, don't! screaming in his head. He'd lost his grip on the spray can, 
and when he raised his head, he saw a couple of hulking boys standing over him, 
both of them leering in anticipation. The one who'd knocked him down was a 
fat-jowled Chicano with thick eyebrows and a spill of dirty black hair on his 
forehead; he wore a blood- spattered blue workshirt. The vampire looked at the 
can of hair spray at his feet and kicked it far out into the tar lake, where it 
sank with a burst of bubbles. Then he advanced on Tommy, his eyes already glazed 
with pleasure. 
But before the vampire could reach Tommy, a length of chain came snaking out of 
the darkness, cracking the Chicano across the face. He fell to his knees, 
howling with rage. The second vampire, a skinny, dark-haired kid with a scraggly 
mustache and goatee, whirled around to face the attacker. The chain whirred, 
striking him in the temple. He staggered and was about to rush forward when he 
saw who it was that had struck him. 
Tommy's heart had risen; now it fell again to a sickening depth. Bull Thatcher, 
armed with a three-foot chain, had stepped between Tommy and the two vampires. 
Tommy could see the bloodless, awful face of the Fairfax High Horror. 
"You're on my turf," Bull said menacingly. "I'm huntin' here. Get out." 
"It's our kill, you . . ." the Chicano began. He was silenced when the chain 
whistled across his face again. 
"GET OUT!" Bull roared. 
Tommy, his arms shaking so badly they moved like a jerky marionette's, slowly 
began to slip off his backpack. 
"Get out, both of you!" Bull repeated. "I'm hungry, and I'm takin' this kill, 
you understand?" The vampires glowered at each other hotly but began to retreat 
when Bull lifted that chain and cracked it to the ground like a whip. 
"We'll get you!" the Chicano shouted. "We'll find you when you're sleepin', and 
we'll fix you . . ." 
Bull moved forward a few steps, the chain swinging above his head. The vampires 
were running away now. Tommy threw his pack off, got to his feet, and ran in the 
other direction. Bull Thatcher watched the vampires run out of sight with a 
defiant smirk and then turned for his prize. Running along the lake's edge, 
Tommy heard his angered roar and flinched. He unsnapped a pocket and reached in. 
Bull Thatcher was chasing him, coming like the wind. Sweat popped up on 
307 
Tommy's face; he could hear the thing gaining on him, and he dared not look 
back. 
But then he heard the chain whistling toward his right ear, and he ducked his 
head, spinning around to face Bull and bringing out the meat cleaver in a 
tightly clenched fist at the same time. Before Bull could stop, Tommy had flung 
himself at the thing, burying that cleaver between the vampire's eyes with all 
his strength. Bull, thrown off-balance, staggered and fell into the tar pit on 
his back. Instantly bubbles exploded around his body, and he flailed at the air 
for something to grab. "NOOOO!" he roared like a maddened animal. "NO! I WONT 
LET YOU-!" Water and tar rushed into his mouth. He began to sink, tar streaking 
his face in thick black lines. He fought wildly, but the tar had him and he knew 
it. He began to scream, the meat cleaver buried in his forehead but the wound 
bloodless. 
Tommy knew the other vampires would hear and come back. He started to run again, 
slipping his pack around his trembling shoulders. He wanted to be sick, he 
wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, but there wasn't time for any of that baby 
stuff anymore. When he looked back, he saw Bull's face disappear, and the scream 
bubbled away. 
He ran on, breathing in great painful heaves. He left the park and ran northward 
across Third Street and through dark, silent residential streets where the 
merest suggestion of movement was enough to make him whine with fear. Then he 
was across Beverly Boulevard, still going north. Sand whipped into his face; 
were it not for his glasses, he would have been blinded. His lungs flamed, and 
now he knew he couldn't go much farther. The worst part of it lay ahead, those 
main arteries through Hollywood. He was certain the vampires would be waiting 
there. How many would there be? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? He crossed Melrose 
and started to veer toward the northeast; he saw a group of moving shadows and 
dived beneath some hedges until they passed. He made himself continue, 
staggering from street to street, crossing through backyards and alleys. A gust 
of hot wind hit him, almost stealing the last of his breath. Light-headed, he 
tripped and almost fell over something that he realized three strides later must 
have been a corpse. 
And then a voice roared over his head. "I see you, child of the devil! Ye legion 
of Lucifer . . .!" There was a loud crack! right behind his ear, then a freight 
train knocked him off his feet and rumbled on past, leaving him crushed in the 
sand. 
FOUR 
"A boy!" Jo said, peering out the window through widened eyes. "That maniac shot 
a boy!" 
Palatazin eased over beside her and looked out. He could see the small figure 
lying prone in the sand right in front of the house. At first he'd thought the 
boy must be a vampire, but if that were so, a single bullet wouldn't have 
stopped him. Palatazin paused, his heart beginning to hammer, then took his .38 
from its shoulder-holster. 
308 
Jo stared fearfully at the gun. "What are you going to do?" 
"That boy may not be dead. I'll have to go out and see." He moved past her 
toward the door and, from the sofa, Gayle said, "For Christ's sake, be careful!" 

Palatazin nodded and squeezed out the door onto the porch, where a furnace 
breath of wind rocked him on his heels. Grit stung his eyes, and he had to wait 
a moment before he could see anything. Then he was moving down the porch steps, 
his grip already sweaty on his .38. He was alert for any movement in the windows 
of that silent house next door, but so far he couldn't tell where the man was. 
He tensed and then ran out to the curb where that boy lay sprawled on his face. 
Palatazin could see a bleeding gash across the back of his head, the dark brown 
hair matted with blood. He got his arms under the boy and started to lift him. 
"Heathen!" the voice shrieked. "God's blight on the world!" A shot rang out, 
kicking up sand two feet away. Palatazin lifted the boy, struggled to his feet, 
and started to run back to the house. Another bullet screamed past Palatazin's 
face, leaving what he thought was a burning red streak in the sullen air. Then 
he was on the porch, and Jo was opening the door to pull him in. 
Gayle had brought a pillow and bedspread from upstairs, and now Palatazin laid 
the boy on the sofa, his forehead cradled against the pillow. "How badly is he 
hurt?" Gayle asked. 
"I don't know. The bullet took off some scalp at the back of his head, probably 
gave him one hell of a knock, too." He took off the boy's backpack and laid it 
on the floor. It was heavy, and things clanked together inside. He unzipped and 
unsnapped several of the backpacks' pockets, rummaging through them. "I'd say he 
was prepared for a little of everything," Palatazin said. "I wonder where he was 
trying to get to." 
Jo was gingerly parting the boy's hair to look at the wound. In the darkness she 
couldn't see it very well, but her fingers were already sticky with warm blood. 
She reached over and grasped his wrist. The pulse seemed strong if erratic. "Can 
you find me some towels, Andy?" she said. "Maybe we can stop some of this 
bleeding." 
He went upstairs to search the bathroom. 
The boy suddenly stirred and moaned. He said in a weary, old-man's voice, 
"You're dead . . . leave me alone! . . . burned them up, I burned them, burned 
them . . ." Then he was quiet again. 
"Do you think he's going to die?" Gayle asked. 
"I'm certainly no doctor," Jo said. "But he's a small boy. I hope he's stronger 
than he looks." 
Palatazin brought the towels, one of which he'd soaked in cold water. Jo started 
cleaning the crusted blood away, then pressed a towel against the wound. 
Gayle watched for a few minutes and then turned away. She could hear the wind's 
shriek outside, and it seemed to her that it sounded much more savage than it 
had only half an hour before. She stepped to the window and saw sand 
corkscrewing in the middle of the street like a miniature tornado. The window 
rattled in its frame. Oh, my God, she thought. Oh, no ... "How long until 
sunrise?" she asked Palatazin. 
309 
"An hour or so." 
"My God," she whispered. "I... I think the storm's building again. The wind's 
getting stronger." Her control broke, hot fear flooding out of her. "Why won't 
the storm move out to sea? Why won't it just ... go away or die down or ... 
leave us alone? Why won't it?" She turned to stare at Palatazin. 
"Because somehow they brought it here," he said quietly. Jo looked up at him 
from the boy. "It'll grow stronger during the daylight hours to keep people 
isolated and trapped. Then when night falls again, the vampires will be out in 
full force." 
"We can't ... we can't last another night!" Jo's voice was thick with dread. 
"I know that. Somehow I've got to reach that castle today. I've got to find the 
vampire king and destroy him." 
"How?" Gayle asked. "When the storm gets worse, you won't even be able to get 
two blocks from here, much less make it all the way across fucking Hollywood! 
And what about those dogs up there? Do you think they'll step off the road and 
just let you walk right on past?" 
"No. I don't. I'm going to make it up the mountain some way other than the 
road-" 
"Climb it? Now you're really flipping out." 
"What would you presume I do?" he shouted at her, his face reddening. "What are 
my choices? There's Death on every side now, but shall we just sit here and wait 
for it to come grinning in the night? NO! I have to reach the Kronsteen castle 
before sundown!" 
The boy stirred again. "Kronsteen . . ." he moaned. "Vampire. Bit you . . ." 
Palatazin looked down at the small body in surprise. What could this boy know of 
Orion Kronsteen? But then the boy was quiet, and whatever questions Palatazin 
had for him would have to wait-if he could ever answer them at all. 
"You can't make it up to that castle," Gayle said. Behind her the wind gnawed at 
the glass. 
"If I don't" he answered her coldly, "who will?" 
Jo could see that Andy had already decided, and there was nothing more to be 
said. She went back to work on the boy, her eyes burning. It was all hopeless, 
of course. Everything was hopeless, she thought, from his reaching the castle to 
her being able to save this boy. But perhaps in Andy's decision there was a 
spark of hope that might keep them all alive for just one more day. 
FIVE 
Prince Vulkan sat at the head of his council table in his attack command 
chamber, the same room in which he had crushed Phillip Falco's skull and tossed 
him into the fireplace. The stink of charred meat still clung to the walls. Maps 
of i| Los Angeles were smoothed out before him, and at the table sat his 
lieutenants, Kobra on his right and Roach-the only human within a radius of more 
than a mile-at his left. 
310 
It was almost time to sleep. Prince Vulkan could feel the heavy weariness 
overtaking him fast, but he was elated. From the reports of his lieutenants 
those areas called Beverly Hills, West Los Angeles, Culver City, and Highland 
Park had been completely overrun. The human population of Boyle Heights had been 
reduced to a few hidden groups, and the central part of Hollywood had all but 
fallen as well. His lieutenants were as fat as ticks. Like celebrants at a Roman 
orgy, they had fed, thrown up blood, fed, thrown up again, and feverishly hunted 
down more victims. 
"Master," a young black vampire, who had in life been an administrative aide to 
the mayor, was saying, "the East Division needs more troops in Alhambra and 
Monterey Park. We can take those areas in one night if we're allowed another 
thousand." He wore the dirty remnants of what had been an expensive gray vested 
suit; there were spatters of blood on his shirt. 
"It's most important to concentrate on the canyon communities, Master," a 
vampire across the table said. He had curly iron-gray hair and wore a profusion 
of silver chains spilling down the open vee of his Calvin Klein western shirt. 
Up until several nights ago he had been a major power at the Warner Bros, 
studios. "I've had reports from both Laurel and Coldwater canyons of scattered 
sightings. They're trying to escape across the Santa Monica Mountains." 
Vulkan's gaze flared. "Were they stopped?" 
"Yes. Most of them . . ." 
"You didn't answer my question. They weren't stopped, were they?" Vulkan stared 
at him for a silent moment, his cat eyes blazing. 
"We ... we need more troops to patrol the . . . canyons," he protested softly, 
beginning to tremble. 
Vulkan leaned forward. "I want none of them escaping, do you understand that? 
None of them. I don't care if the Central Division has to go without food. I 
want those gaps filled. And they will be filled. Won't they?" 
The vampire nodded. "Immediately, Master." 
"Perhaps Western Division can spare a thousand or so?" Vulkan looked across the 
table at a young vampire with shoulder-length blond hair and the last yellow 
tinge of a surfer's tan. 
"We can after we finish up in Venice," he said. "Lots of 'em are still hidin' in 
their basements over there. Then we'll go right through the condos at Marina Del 
Rey like shit through a goose, just slice 'em to pieces. I figure we can spare a 
thousand or so easy." 
"Good." Vulkan's eyes were bright and giddy. He grinned and clasped his hands 
together, like a child at a carnival who sees so many lights he doesn't know 
where to turn first. He wished his father could see him now; he knew the Hawk 
would be very proud, perhaps even a bit envious. His father's greatest 
campaign-a war of revenge into the wild northland after rampaging barbarians had 
set two of the Hawk's villages to the torch-had lasted almost six months and 
resulted in a critical weakening of his army. Now here was Prince Conrad Vulkan, 
son of the Hawk, who would be young and strong forever, on the eve of conquering 
a city the size of 
311 
which might have driven his father to madness. His army could never lose its 
strength; it would only grow in power, night after night, faster and faster, 
until the world trembled at its thunderous approach. Oh, he thought, how good it 
was to be alive! He looked at Kobra. "And the armored infantry? How many do you 
command now, Kobra?" 
"The Death Machine, the Ghost Riders, most of the Angels, and the Undertakers 
-about thirty-five hundred able to ride right now, another fifteen hundred 
who'll be ready tomorrow night. We've got the hogs in a warehouse over near the 
river, but I don't know how long the engines are gonna last with all this sand 
blowin' around. That shit gets in the carbs and the fuel lines, and there's hell 
to pay. 'Course, we've got mechanics workin' on 'em but . . ." 
"You won't have to deal with the sand much longer," Vulkan said. "Once our 
objective is reached, the storm will pass. Until then you'll have to make do." 
He looked to the center of the table, where the sand was beginning to corkscrew 
faster in the gleaming golden bowl. The others had stared at it fearfully when 
they'd come to the council, and none of them dared touch it. 
"What powers that, Master?" Roach asked, his voice brimming with wonder. It 
looked to him like some gleaming jewel, a golden mechanism sent spinning by a 
force he couldn't even begin to understand. 
"The hand that powers us all," Prince Vulkan said. "It's a holy object, and you 
would do well to remember that." He cast his gaze along the table. "Any more 
comments, reports, or suggestions? No? Then it is time to sleep. The council is 
adjourned." They rose from their chairs and moved toward the door. "Sleep well," 
Vulkan told them, and then looked up at Roach, who'd lagged behind. "Yes?" 
"I just wanted to ... say ... I want to be like you someday. I want to ... live 
forever, like you and the others. I want to know what it feels like, Master." 
His eyes were huge and shining behind his glasses, and he was almost panting. 
"Will you make me like you?" 
Vulkan regarded him in silence for a moment. "Perhaps someday," he said finally. 
"Right now I need you as you are." 
"I'll do anything for you, I'll follow you anywhere! Anything you ask, but 
please let me feel the power, too!" 
Vulkan said, "Leave me. I want to be alone now." 
Roach nodded and backed away. He stopped at the door. "Do you want me to go down 
and feed the dogs now?" 
Someday, Vulkan thought, you shall. Just as Falco did when his usefulness had 
ended. "No, not yet. But make sure they're out at sunrise." 
Roach left the room, his footsteps scuttling away down the stone-floored 
corridor. In the firelight the golden urn winked like a maleficent and beautiful 
eye. The sand had begun to spin with greater force. Vulkan watched it, 
mesmerized. 
And now he could sense the presence of spirits around him, shades of beings who 
had lived and died in Los Angeles for scores of years. They were everywhere now, 
floating through the castle, like silver cobwebs. His activity had stirred them 
312 
up, brought them back from the dead in defiance. He recalled the night he'd 
intercepted the messages flowing between the spirit that had walked here when he 
first came and a house in that section of the city called Bel Air. The dead were 
restless and trying to halt his advance. But what should he care about them? 
They were phantoms, things that moved without shape or substance, and he was 
well beyond their grasp. Now he was Prince Conrad Vulkan, King of the Vampires, 
and no power on or of earth could ever stop him! He stared at the urn and 
thought he saw a specter moving toward it, trying to pass a shadowy grip through 
the spinning column of sand. Of course, that couldn't be done, and Prince Vulkan 
began to laugh with childish glee. The laughter grew, echoing in the rafters 
like a demonic chorus./ 
Nothing could stand in his way now; nothing could halt the advance of his army. 
When darkness fell again, the divisions would secure their own areas and then 
begin to radiate outward, like an exploding star, while the Central Division 
continued to explore the inner city in wider spirals, searching for stragglers. 
But Prince Vulkan knew there would not be many. 
It was almost dawn. He could feel the coming sunlight-which this day would be no 
more than a faint glow in the thick amber grain of the sky-with a sense of 
unease at the pit of his stomach. He left the chamber, left the swirling, 
helpless ghosts, and went down into the murky depths of the castle, where his 
ebony casket filled with coarse Hungarian dirt waited. 
SIX 
Father Silvera was guiding a long chain of people toward his church from a 
decrepit, tottering tenement. The storm was furious, sand lashing his face like 
a cat-o'-nine-tails. He gripped the hand of the person behind him, and now he 
was stepping over half-buried corpses at his feet. He could see the church 
ahead, the vague dark outline in the yellow wind. When he reached the steps, he 
felt a shudder vibrate up his arm and looked back. They were all gone, all the 
people swept away either by the storm or by the vampires. He'd been gripping 
empty air, and his dead hand hadn't even registered the difference. In the 
distance he could hear people shrieking for his help, calling out his name, 
sobbing. He shouted "Where are you?" but then the sand whipped into his mouth 
and began to choke him, and he knew he could never find all of them, he knew 
he'd let them go, and there was nothing he could do for them, nothing . . . 
nothing . . . 
His head jerked upward. His eyes opened. He lay in deep blue light, the pounding 
of his heart making his entire body tremble. He was aware of three distinct 
sounds-the tolling of Mary's Voice above his head, the muffled sound of voices 
talking and weeping, and the steady roaring of the wind. He sat up from where 
he'd fallen asleep-how long? An hour or more?-on a pew and found that someone 
had spread a striped blanket across him. There was someone else asleep 
313 
beside him, and at the end of the pew, a girl who looked no more than fifteen 
was nursing an infant. From the rear of the sanctuary, a woman began to weep in 
long, agonized moans; someone else whispered to her, trying to calm her. A baby 
began to wail. Father Silvera suddenly realized that there was a trace of light 
within the church from outside. He looked at the stained-glass window and saw 
some of the blue panes beginning to glow. On the altar most of the candles had 
burned themselves out. 
Morning, he thought with a surge of relief. Oh, thank God! We've survived the 
night! He stood up, stepping over and around people huddled both on the pews and 
the floor, and peered out the front door. Sand whipped into his face; the wind 
had risen, and now it screamed violently around the church. The dunes had 
already shifted, and now they were building up eight and nine feet high against 
those walls that cut the wind's force. No one could go out in that and live very 
long, he knew. He closed the door and rebolted it, grit prickling the stubble of 
his beard. 
He was walking back toward the altar when someone huddled on the end of a pew 
with a blanket draped around his shoulders said, "Father?" 
Silvera stopped. It was the young man he'd found sprawled on the ground. He was 
shirtless, his broken ribs now bandaged with the torn strips of a woman's brown 
dress. "Did a woman come in last night?" the young man said, his eyes sunken and 
dark with hopelessness. "A black woman, very beautiful . . .?" 
"No," Silvera said. "No one else came in after I found you." 
The young man nodded. There were deep lines around his eyes, as if he'd aged 
twenty years in one night. He looked dazed, on the verge of tears, Silvera had 
seen that look of shock often enough now to become familiar with it. "They took 
her," the young man said softly. "The ones on the motorcycles. I've got to find 
her, Father ... I can't let them . . . make her one, too . . ." 
"What's your name, son?" 
"Name? Wes. Wes Richer. Where is this place?" 
"My church is in East L.A. Where did you come from?" 
Wes seemed to be trying to remember, but was having difficulty. "My car," he 
said. "The freeway . . ." 
"The freeway? The nearest off-ramp is over a quarter-mile away!" 
"I heard the bell," Wes said. "I knew if I kept going, I'd reach it. I wasn't 
aware of how far away it was, I just knew I ... had to get there. Her name was 
... is ... Solange. The ones on the motorcycles took her." He pressed a hand 
against his side and winced. "Broken ribs, huh? I figured as much. How bad am 
I?" 
"One of the woman looked after you. She says you've got two fractured ribs on 
the left side. How bad do you feel?" 
"Pretty fucking bad. Oops, sorry." He looked at the brightening window. "Is it 
morning?" 
"Yes. Where did these motorcycle riders go?" The idea of vampires on motorcycles 
chilled him. It was bad enough that they were on foot, but vampires with 
vehicles was almost too terrible to think about. 
314 R. McCAMMON 
"I don't know. East, I think. They were members of some kind of biker gang, and 
they said they were going to connect up with some others." He coughed a couple 
of times and winced. "Shit. My throat and lungs feel like they've been 
sandpapered. Do you have any water?" 
"I'll get you some." Silvera went back to his room, where he'd taken the case of 
bottled water and packs of paper cups that he'd gotten from the grocery store 
down the street. Two of the bottles were already empty. Silvera poured just a 
little into a cup and took it out to Wes. "Make it last," he told the young man, 
who nodded and drank gratefully. 
"I've got to go," Wes said when he'd finished. "I've got to find Solange." 
"No one's going anywhere. The storm's gotten stronger. You couldn't walk two 
blocks in it before you laid down and died." 
"It was my fault they found us. I stood there and waved and shouted like an 
idiot, and then they swooped right down on us like fucking vultures. I should've 
known what they were! I should've known that only the .. . the vampires would be 
out there. Now they've got her, and God only knows what they've done to her!" 
His lower lip quivered. He crushed the cup and flung it aside. "I've got to find 
her!" he shouted, his eyes flaring with defiance. 
"And where will you start looking?" Silvera asked him. "They could've taken her 
anywhere. And by now they've ..." His voice trailed off because saying it would 
be unmerciful. 
"NO!" Wes said. "I don't believe that!" 
"You can't go out in this storm, Mr. Richer. Do you want to die so much?" 
Wes smiled thinly. "Man, I'm half-dead already. So what does it matter, huh?" 
Something about the cold logic of that pierced Silvera. It seemed to him that 
only the half-dead might have the courage to fight against the vampires because 
the living would have too much to lose. He had refused to help Palatazin, and 
that man had surely gone to his death. He remembered Cicero's triumphant shriek: 
"The Master lives!" Yes, Palatazin-or what had been Palatazin-was dead by now, 
and the master's flock had increased. Only the half-dead, only those who had 
seen the limits of their lives and accepted that end as a fact, could hope to 
find the strength within themselves to fight back. 
Silvera held his hands up before his face. They were shaking like the hands of 
an elderly man with the palsy. 
How much longer could he hope to live? Two years? Three, possibly? Incurable, 
the doctors had said. Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig's disease. First 
weakness and atrophy of the muscles in the hands coupled with fibrillations and 
spasticity. Muscular atrophy spreading to the forearms and shoulders. Wasting 
away week after week. Incurable. Lying in a hospital bed, probably in some 
charity ward, softening into a gray mass of jellied flesh. Nurses with grim lips 
hovering at his bedside. Incurable. Being fed through his nostrils. Time 
creeping. Messing his pants and being wiped clean by the nurses, trembling in 
bed, caged within a house that had gone rotten but refused to fall until all the 
dignity of its tenant had been 
315 
thrown out into the garbage with the rubber diapers and the bibs and the nasal 
catheters. 
Is that how I want to die? he asked himself. Now he saw his impending death as a 
gift from God. He had been given the opportunity to choose his death with 
dignity. 
The Master lives, Cicero had said. And Silvera knew it was true. In that castle 
I; somewhere in the Hollywood Hills, the Master lived and plotted his moves for 
the next night's assault on the remaining humans of Los Angeles. A knot of dread 
was slowly gathering in his stomach. Palatazin had surely been killed. Who else 
but he knew that the Master had taken refuge in the Kronsteen castle? Calm 
determination set in, but the fear kept jumping in his stomach like something 
trying to draw his attention. How could he get through the storm to the castle? 
He really didn't even know how to find it, and there were hundreds of roads, 
both paved and dirt, twisting through the hills. And what about the people here 
in the sanctuary? He couldn't just leave them to fend for themselves. But 
tonight the vampires would be back, maybe many times stronger than the night 
before. He was going to have to pray and seek guidance. 
"I want to find Solange," Wes said grimly. "I don't care what I have to do or ' 
where I have to go." 
"Don't be a fool. How far could you get with those broken ribs? You don't even 
|; know where you'd be going. You'd wind up suffocated on some East L.A. side 
street." He paused because he could see the anger in Wes's eyes quickly giving 
way to pain. "I'm sorry," Silvera said quietly. "How about some more water?" 
Wes shook his head. "No. I ... I just want to try to sleep . . ." 
"All right. And I have some thinking to do. If you'll excuse me." He moved away 
from Wes without looking back, because he'd seen the young man's face and heard 
his first strangled, hopeless sob. 
SEVEN 
The boy on the sofa suddenly screamed and jerked his head up. 
Jo, sitting in a chair beside him, leaned forward and put a hand on his 
shoulder. "It's all right," she said soothingly. "No one's going to hurt you. 
Come on, lie back." 
"No! House is on fire! They're burning up, both of them!" His eyes were wild, 
and he was fighting the bedspread that covered him. 
"It's morning," Jo said, putting more pressure on his shoulder to keep him 
still. "Whatever happened to you last night is over. Everything's going to be 
all right now." 
"Huh?" He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. "Who are 
you?" 
"I'm Jo, and that's Gayle over there. What's your name?" 
"It's... uh ..." He squinted and touched the back of his head. The wound had 
316 
been covered with a couple of large square Band-Aids. "Head hurts," he said. "My 
name is... uh ... Tommy!" Everything but his own name seemed dark and jumbled 
together. Strange backward images of things were caught in his brain like 
distorted reflections in a hall of mirrors. "Head hurts bad," he said. 
"It should. But I guess that's a good sign. You've been shot." 
"Shot? Like with a bullet?" 
"Well, grazed is the right word, I suppose. Come on, lie back down. You don't 
want to start bleeding again, do you?" 
He allowed her to push him back down on the pillow. Thunder crashed between his 
temples, and he felt sick to his stomach. He was trying to remember his last 
name and where he lived and what he was doing on this sofa with this woman 
sitting next to him. He concentrated on making sense out of one of the funhouse 
mirror reflections. There was a bed, and on that bed there were shapes covered 
with the sheets. They were lying very still. Something painful struck him across 
the top of the head, making him wince and whimper, and that mirror shattered to 
pieces. He decided not to think about any more reflections, not just yet. 
"He's been gone a long time," Gayle said, standing next to the window. Her voice 
was as taut as overstretched cable, and all she could see out there were blowing 
currents of white and yellow. 
"He knows what he's doing," Jo answered. Something cold surged around her heart; 
she forced it away and smoothed the spread up under the boy's chin. Tommy was as 
pale as death, and now she could hear him whimpering softly. What kind of hell 
did he go through last night? she wondered. 
In another moment Gayle said, "There he is!" and opened the front door. A swirl 
of wind and sand blew in, and at the center of it Palatazin, a sheet around his 
head and face like an Arabian headdress, stepped across the threshold, carrying 
the cardboard box of stakes he'd just retrieved from the Falcon. Gayle quickly 
closed the door, having to push hard against it. Palatazin laid the box on the 
floor and unwrapped his protective shroud. It had strained the air enough for 
him to breathe through his teeth, but walking out there was like struggling 
through glue while being struck in the face with buckets of sand. His shirt was 
soaked with sweat. 
"Could you see anything moving out there?" Gayle asked him. 
"I could hardly see five feet in front of me," he said. "I walked right past the 
car before I realized where I was. But there's one blessing. Our friend with the 
rifle can't see either. How's the boy?" 
"He was awake a few minutes ago," Jo said. "He says his name is Tommy." 
Palatazin came over beside the sofa and looked down at him. "Do you think he's 
going to be all right? He's so pale!" 
"You would be, too, if you'd taken a bullet across the back of your head." She 
lifted the cold washrag and felt his forehead for perhaps the twentieth time in 
an hour. "He doesn't have a fever, but I wouldn't know whether he had a 
concussion or not. At least he was coherent when he spoke." 
Palatazin nodded, his brow furrowed in concern, and then turned back to the 
317 
window. He was glad this boy was alive, of course, but now he was responsible 
for the life of one more person. What was going to happen to them after he'd 
gone? Taking them with him was out of the question. If Jo protested, he would 
remind her that she'd almost died in the storm last night, and having to keep 
three other people together out there would be more than he could handle. He 
gravely doubted his own chances of making it across Hollywood. "The car's 
completely covered over now," he said to Gayle. "The dunes are piling up almost 
as tall as the house." 
"And you still think you can make it up to the Kronsteen castle?" 
He didn't look at her. "I have to try." 
"It's over four miles! If you say you can't see more than five feet in front of 
you, how the hell will you even know where you're going?" 
Palatazin motioned toward the gun and shoulder-holster lying across the back of 
a chair. "I want you to keep that. I'm going to leave you the rest of the holy 
water, too. If I get up there . .. when I get up there ... I won't need anything 
more than the hammer and stakes. I think the vampire king is somehow controlling 
this storm. When he dies, I think the storm will blow itself out to sea. Until 
then it's going to circle over the city and possibly get worse before 
nightfall-" 
"Wait a minute!" Jo said, rising from her chair. "Do you think you can climb up 
that mountain alone?" 
"You're staying here, Jo. All of you are. Don't argue because the decision's 
been made." 
"Like hell it has! We'll take a vote on it!" 
"No, we won't!" he said angrily. "Yes, I'm going up alone to the Kronsteen 
castle. You and Gayle and the boy are staying right here. You'll have the holy 
water and the gun. I suggest you go down to the basement after dusk and lock 
yourselves in. Save the holy water as long as you can. If you have to use the 
gun, aim for the vampires' eyes. With any luck and the help of God, I can reach 
the castle much faster than if I had to take care of the two of you and an 
injured boy .-. ." 
"We can take care of ourselves!" Jo said. "You won't have to worry about us!" 
"You're staying here," he told her, his voice stern. 
"The Kronsteen castle? Orion Kronsteen's castle?" 
Palatazin looked past Jo. The boy sat up from the sofa; he still looked dazed 
and weak, but his voice was clear. "Is that where you're going?" the boy asked. 
"That's right," Palatazin said. "How are you feeling?" 
"Better, I guess. My head keeps ringing." 
Palatazin smiled and walked over to the sofa. "Young man, you should be grateful 
you have a head. If that wound were perhaps a fraction of an inch deeper, you 
might not. Tommy, is it?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"Tommy what?" 
The boy started to speak, but then his eyes seemed to lose their focus. He 
winced and shook his head. "Tommy . . . Tommy . . . Ch . . ." 
"Take your time." Palatazin glanced quickly at Jo, then back to the boy. "Do 
318 
you remember anything of what happened to you last night?" 
Tommy closed his eyes. He was trying to look into the funhouse mirrors that 
stood along the distorted corridor in his mind. There was a girl in one of them, 
a very pretty girl with long blond hair. She was reaching out for him and 
smiling, but suddenly her smile turned hideous, and he could see the glistening 
fangs slowly protruding from her jaws. That mirror abruptly shattered. There was 
a fire burning in the next one, but he couldn't bear to look into it. The mirror 
after that rippled with darkness; there seemed to be figures in it, chasing 
after him, getting closer and closer. There was someone with a chain, shouting. 
The mirror cracked with the same loud sound he remembered hearing before he'd 
slid down a sandy maw into the belly of a toadish, squatting monster. "Can't 
think," he said. He backed out of that corridor and opened his eyes. "My head 
hurts too much." 
Palatazin reached down and picked up the backpack. "You were wearing this." 
"Uhhhh, sure! I know that! From the Scouts. My dad used to take me when we lived 
in ... in ..." The chain of dim memories suddenly collapsed. Tears sprang to his 
eyes. 
"Your father? What happened to your parents?" 
"Can't," Tommy said very softly. "Can't." 
Palatazin realized they were probably dead, or worse. He could see the pain 
etched across the boy's face so he put the backpack down on the floor. "It's 
okay," he said. "You don't have to remember just this minute. My name's Andy. I 
guess you must be hungry, huh? I think we can find you something from the 
refrigerator if it hasn't all gone bad by now." 
"There are some cans of Vienna sausage in the pantry," Jo said. "And sardines." 
"Ugh," Tommy said. "I don't think I can eat anything just right now anyway, 
thanks. My stomach doesn't feel so good." He looked up and held Palatazin's 
gaze. "Why do you want to go to Orion Kronsteen's castle?" 
"Because of the vampires," Palatazin said quietly. "I suppose you do know about 
them?" 
"Yeah." Another mirror shattered in Tommy's head. He'd seen vampires in the 
movies. No, no, that wasn't right. They were here in L.A., and one of them 
looked like the blond girl in tight denim cutoffs who'd lived across the street. 
Her name was . . . Sandra . . . Susie . . . something . . . 
"I don't know how many there are now, but I'm sure they number in the thousands. 
They're trying to take over this city, Tommy. Somehow they brought this 
sandstorm here and they don't want any of us to get out." His eyes had gotten 
very dark, reflecting the state of his spirit. "I think their leader is hiding 
up in the Kronsteen castle. Someone has to find him and kill him before sundown, 
or ... what happened last night will happen again, only ten times worse. There 
are probably other vampires hiding there with him, and they're all going to have 
to be destroyed." 
"You? You're going to do it?" 
Palatazin nodded. 
"I know all about the castle!" Tommy said excitedly. "Last year Famous 
319 
Monsters-that's a magazine-did a story about it. Forry Ackerman and Vincent 
Price toured it on the tenth anniversary of Orion Kronsteen's murder! They took 
a psychic up there and everything! She said she could feel his ghost walking 
around-" 
"That's fine," Palatazin said, "but-" 
"They had a lot of pictures of the place," Tommy continued, "and a diagram that 
showed most of the rooms. A couple of months ago my ... dad ..." He frowned 
suddenly, memories streaked through his brain and vanishing into darkness. He 
tried to grasp some of them before they were gone. "My dad ... drove me up there 
on a ... Sunday afternoon, I think. We couldn't go all the way to the top 
because there was a ... chain and a No Trespassing sign across the road. But 
I... remember seeing it through the trees way up in the distance." He blinked 
suddenly, as if startled. "A blue Pacer! My dad drove a blue Pacer!" Images 
started to come back to him, like bright red explosions in the blackest of all 
black nights. A stucco house on a long street lined with similar houses. The 
flaring of a match, illuminating hideously pale faces. A concrete mastodon 
struggling to free itself from a lake of tar. A grinning dark-haired boy 
standing over him. Someone else-another boy, larger than the first 
one-staggering backward, falling into that clinging black ooze and screaming. 
Tommy felt cold sweat on his face. He said, "I think . . . something bad 
happened to my mom and dad. I think I left them because ... because ... there 
were vampires and . . ." His face suddenly crumpled. Whatever had happened was 
too terrible for him to think about. 
Palatazin put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's over, son." 
Tommy looked up at him grimly, his face streaked with tears. "No, it's not. The 
vampires got my mom and dad. I know they did! You're going after the king 
vampire, aren't you?" 
Palatazin nodded. He knew he'd never seen any harder, more determined eyes than 
those in the face of this skinny boy. 
"He's the one who holds them together," Tommy said. "If you can kill him and the 
ones around him, the others won't know what to do. They'll be too disorganized 
to think for themselves. That's what happened in Midnight Hour, the one where 
Orion Kronsteen played Count DuPre. Professor Van Dorn found him in the abbey 
ruins and . . ." His voice trailed off. "But that was just a movie, wasn't it?" 
he said softly. "That wasn't real at all." 
"I'm going to have to use your backpack, okay?" Palatazin said after another 
moment. "To carry the stakes." 
Tommy nodded. Palatazin dumped everything out of the pack and started putting 
the stakes in. "The matches and the spray can," Tommy said. "You can make a 
torch out of them." 
Palatazin thought that over and returned them to the pack. He stuffed six stakes 
into the largest pocket, and three more in the others. There was barely enough 
room for the hammer. 
"You won't be able to find him so easily," Tommy said. "He'll be hidden, 
320 
probably down in one of the basements." 
Palatazin looked up and frowned. "One of the basements?" 
"There are two. That place has more than a hundred rooms. It'll be easy to get 
lost once you've gotten inside. You might not even be able to find your way out 
again." 
Palatazin glanced over at Jo. She looked dazed, and he didn't know how much more 
of this she could take. Outside, the light was a thick, dusty amber. He looked 
at his watch and saw that the crystal had been cracked and grains of sand clung 
to the face. He remembered checking it when he'd awakened from two hours of 
sleep just after sunrise, and now he thought he must've broken it in getting the 
stakes out of the car. The frozen time was ten-fifty. 
"I can help you get in and out," Tommy said. "You won't be able to kill all of 
them. If the others find you, they'll tear you to pieces." 
"No." 
"I can help you!" Tommy suddenly stood up. His head spun, his vision going in 
and out of focus, but he forced himself to stand steady. "I know what the castle 
looks like inside!" 
"Lie back down, son," Palatazin said firmly. "You're in no condition to go 
anywhere." He slipped the backpack over one shoulder, then over his head so it 
hung down at his side within easy reach. It was time to go now. 
"How are you going?" Gayle asked him. 
"The fastest route I can," he said. "I'll walk to LeBrea Avenue-that's only a 
couple of blocks west-and head northward across Hollywood." 
"It's a long way up there," Gayle said. "Four or five miles at least." 
"Please." He smiled grimly. "No pep talks, okay?" He looked at Jo and knew she 
was trying very hard to be brave for him. "Well." He shrugged in mock 
incredulity. "Who would've ever thought this fat, bald, middle-aged cop would 
turn out to be a vampire hunter, huh?" He put his arms around her and held her 
close. "I'm going to be all right," he whispered into her ear. "You'll see. I am 
going to finish it, and then I'll be back for you." He looked at Gayle. "Will 
you help me wrap that cloth around my mouth and nose?" 
When she'd finished, there was just the narrowest of slits left for his eyes. He 
turned up the collar of his coat and buttoned his shirt all the way. Then he 
went to the door. He stopped, his hand gripping the knob, and looked back at 
them. 
"I want you all to remember this. If I come to the door in the night, don't let 
me in, no matter what I say or do. My ... mother opened the door on that last 
night in Krajeck, and I don't want any of you doing the same thing. Keep the 
holy water close at hand. If I'm still on the porch at daylight, then you'll 
know I'm ... the same man I was when I left. Is that understood?" He waited for 
Jo to nod, then he said, "I love you." 
"I love you," she answered; her voice cracked. 
Palatazin walked out into the wind. Jo stepped to the window and watched him 
vanish into the yellow swirl. She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. 
321 
THEY THIRST 
^| ,Tommy stood beside her. He's going to die, Tommy thought. Or worse, just 
like my parents. He's going to get lost in that castle, and then the vampires 
will have him. Jo reached out and took his hand. Her touch was very cold. 
EIGHT 
The sanctuary was tumultuous with noise. From the end of a pew, Wes watched 
Father Silvera trying to cope with all of them. It seemed he was always bending 
or kneeling down beside somebody to pray with them, or trying to comfort someone 
who was weeping inconsolably. That's got to be one of the toughest gigs there 
is, Wes thought. But Silvera seemed to be handling everything okay; only once in 
a while did Wes see him falter when a quick weary expression swept over his 
face. Then he was talking with someone else, kneeling down beside them, or 
simply listening while they poured out their terrors distilled from the night 
before. Wes saw that it had been rough on everybody. There were children who 
looked as m forlorn as war orphans, their dark eyes confused and terrified. One 
little girl had curled up in a corner, sucking her thumb and staring straight 
ahead. Father Silvera i and others had gone over several times to talk quietly 
with her, but she never j answered and never moved. A few of the men had brought 
guns into the sanctuary with them, and it was only with much effort that Silvera 
persuaded them to give their guns up. The priest had taken the weapons into the 
back of the church and put them away. Good thing too, Wes thought, because one 
of those men had snapped about an hour ago and had to be forcibly restrained 
from running out into the storm by three others. A gray-haired woman with deep 
wrinkles in her face came over to check on him, babbling in Spanish while she 
unwrapped the bandages and tenderly pressed at his side. He kept saying Si, si, 
even though he didn't understand a word she was saying. When she was finished, 
she wrapped the bandages back very tightly and left him. 
He couldn't keep his mind off Solange for very long. Her last scream had drilled 
a hole straight through his brain, and it felt as if his life-force were slowly 
leaking out. Was it possible she was still alive? And more importantly, was it 
possible 
'she was still... human? That remark the one called Kobra-that grinning, murder- 
j ous albino-had made about a castle still puzzled him, though he tried 
attacking it from all angles. What castle had the vampire meant? Or had it just 
been a figure of speech? The only place he could think of that could really be 
referred to as a castle was that monstrosity Orion Kronsteen had put together up 
in the hills. He recalled the night-God, how long ago that seemed!-Solange had 
asked questions over her Ouija board and the spectral reply that he'd first 
thought was one of Martin Blue's parlor tricks-They thirst. Now he saw the 
actual meaning of that message, and it chilled his blood. Even then the spirits 
had been trying to warn them of the hideous force gathering strength over L.A. 
Had Kobra meant the Kronsteen castle? Wes could see how that would be a 
322 
perfect refuge for the vampires. It was fairly isolated yet at a strategic 
height that overlooked the entire city in all directions. The place was as huge 
as an old medieval fortress, and it had been empty since Kronsteen's death about 
eleven or so years ago. The vampires might even have found it quite homey. That 
phrase spelled off the Ouija board thudded into his brain. If they had contacted 
Kronsteen that night, then perhaps it was the old man himself trying to let them 
know that the Undead had made themselves uninvited guests in his desolate old 
castle . . . 
Yes. It was a place, at least, to begin looking. Solange might still be alive. 
Maybe they'd bitten her but hadn't . . . killed her yet ... or whatever they did 
to make you as they were. She might be alive up there at the Kronsteen castle! 
Overhead the church bell tolled intermittently. He could hear the shriek of the 
wind outside, and every so often the beautiful stained-glass window trembled, as 
if about to cave in. The eyes of Jesus seemed fixed upon him, urging him to be 
strong. And suddenly the answer to a frequently asked question seemed very clear 
indeed-God is on the side of those who don't give up. 
Wes turned toward the door. He thought he'd heard another sound at the center of 
the storm, a deep rumbling that seemed to shake the church. What is this? he 
thought. An earthquake? Now others had heard it, too, and for a moment absolute 
silence hung within the sanctuary. The rumbling intensified, became the muffled 
thunder of ... machinery. 
"That's an engine!" Wes said. He stood up painfully, moving past a knot of 
people near the door. As he hurriedly unbolted it, Silvera joined him, and 
together they looked out into an eye-stinging swirl of sand. 
Blinding white headlights were approaching very slowly. In another moment they 
could see a large grayish-green shape, a scoop pushing aside mountains of sand. 
It was some kind of military vehicle, and when it came to the gleaming metal 
hulk of an abandoned car, its massive treads reared up and over, smashing the 
car flat. Silvera could see wipers and spray working at a frantic pace across a 
high windshield. Printed across the driver's door was: United States Marines, 
Camp Pendleton, Ca. 
Silvera stepped out into the storm and started waving his arms, oblivious to the 
sand lashing into his face. The vehicle, some sort of huge tractorlike troop 
carrier, hardly needed to veer toward the curb since it took up most of the 
street. Hydraulic brakes hissed, the most beautiful sound Silvera had ever 
heard. From behind the troop carrier another smaller vehicle, a jeeplike thing 
with an enclosed cab and large solid rubber tires, like those used on dune 
buggies, came up over the curb onto the sidewalk and stopped just in front of 
the priest. Two Marines inside slipped gray hoods over their heads, covering 
their noses and mouths, and stepped out of the cab. One of them motioned toward 
the church and followed Silvera in. 
"I'm Lieutenant Rutledge," the first Marine said when they'd gotten inside. He 
took his hood off and shook the sand out of it. He was a tall man with 
regulation-cut brown hair and glacial blue eyes. Wes caught the glint of a .45 
in a waist holster beneath his poplin jacket. 
323 KTHEY THIRST 
"Ramon Silvera," the priest said, and shook his hand. "To say we're glad to see 
you would be quite an understatement." 
"I'll bet," Rutledge said. He looked around the sanctuary quickly and returned 
his gaze to Silvera. "We've moved into the area from Camp Pendleton with about 
thirty-five tractors. Another fifty are on the way. We're evacuating as many as 
we can up to the Red Cross facilities at Crystal Lake. How many do you have 
here?" 
"Fifty-eight," Silvera said. 
Rutledge glanced back at the other Marine, who Wes figured must be his driver. 
"That's pretty strange, sir," the lieutenant said. "In a six-mile grid we've 
found only nine people. Just where is everybody?" 
"Don't you know?" Silvera looked at him incredulously, feeling a ripple of dark 
laughter vibrate through him. 
"No, sir. I'm afraid I don't . . ." 
Wes, who'd put on his shirt and dark brown leather jacket, glanced again at that 
.45 and moved away. He turned his back on them, his heart pounding, and walked 
toward the rear of the sanctuary. He knew he was going to have to be very 
careful because never in his entire life had he done anything like what he was 
about to try. He knew only that he needed a way to get up to that castle. He 
slipped through the door into the priest's meager living quarters. 
"All right, everyone!" Silvera called out in Spanish. "We're going to be leaving 
in a few minutes! Everyone's going to be moving through the door single file! 
There's a truck outside that will take us all out of here . . ." 
Wes was frantically hunting for the weapons Silvera had confiscated. It took him 
a few minutes, but he found them-three pistols and a couple of switchblades -at 
the bottom of a chest of drawers. He picked up one of the knives and flicked it 
open; a nine-inch blade flashed out. He closed it and put it into his jacket. Of 
the three guns, only one of them-a .22 with a carving of Jesus on the white 
ivory, handle-looked fit to use. The others were rusty things that might fall to 
pieces or explode in his hand. He wanted only to put a scare into the Marines, 
but he knew he'd need a gun he could depend on later. It felt obscene and oily 
in his grip. He'd never liked guns, but now this one would help him find 
Solange. The ugly thought that he might have to use this gun surfaced within 
him, like something nasty |l floating on a slimy pool. His gaze fell upon the 
small ceramic crucifix next to the door. He didn't know how much good it would 
do, but he lifted it off its nail and went out into the sanctuary. 
People were gathering up their children and belongings, linking hands, and 
crossing the threshold into the wind. No one was in the bell tower now, but the 
storm's force made the bell shudder every few minutes, and the clapper gave out 
a muffled, tentative moan. Wes saw Silvera standing at the doorway, herding the 
people out; he didn't see the Marines and assumed they were already outside, 
helping with the loading of the troop transport. 
Wes waited for most of them to step across and, as he neared the door, the 
priest suddenly looked first at his face, then at the crucifix in his left hand 
and the 
324 
gun in his right. "What do you think you're going to do, amigo?" Silvera asked 
him quietly. 
"Just stay out of my way, Father. I appreciate your help and all that, but now 
I've got to do this." He started to step past the priest, but Silvera's hand 
came up and grasped his collar. 
"What are you planning? To take their jeep?" 
Wes nodded. "I've asked you to stay out of my way." 
Silvera looked over his shoulder out at the transport truck. The rear gate had 
dropped down, and Lieutenant Rutledge was hustling people inside. In another few 
minutes everyone was going to be aboard. Silvera glanced at the jeeplike 
vehicle, then back to Wes. "Where do you think you're going? There are several 
thousand places the vampires could've taken your friend." 
"I know where I'm going. I think they may have taken her up into the Hollywood 
Hills, to . . ." 
"The Kronsteen castle?" Silvera asked. 
Wes's eyes widened. "That's right. What do you know about it?" 
"Enough." He let go of the man's collar. "Give me the gun." 
"Father, I told you I . . ." 
"Give me the gun," Silvera repeated evenly. 
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you? This may be the only chance I get 
and I've got to take it!" 
"Chance?" Silvera frowned and shook his head. "What chance?" He gripped Wes's 
wrist and pried the gun loose from his fingers. "You didn't even know enough to 
release the safety, did you? Are you sure it's loaded?" 
"I'm not going to any goddamned Crystal Lake!" Wes said, his face reddening. 
"I'm taking that jeep if I have to-" 
"What?" the priest asked blandly. "Fight for it barehanded? Kill for it? No, I 
don't think you want to do that." He glanced over and saw the last of his people 
filing into the transport. "I don't want anyone else getting hurt. So do you 
think you're going to be able to drive right up to that place-through this 
storm-and take on a hoard of vampires with a gun and a crucifix? What else did 
you take?" 
"A knife," Wes said. "Sorry, I didn't see any stakes lying around here." 
Silvera regarded him for a moment in silence. "You must love that woman very 
much." 
"I've . . . always been there when she needed me. She needs me now." 
"She may be like them by now. You know that, don't you?" 
"And maybe she's not," Wes said. "I have to know for sure before I... leave her 
behind." 
Silvera nodded. "You surprised me. But regardless of whatever rage you're 
feeling, you're going to need more than these implements. Much more." He turned 
his head and saw Lieutenant Rutledge waving him over. Then he said to Wes, "You 
wait here. Understand?" 
"Why?" 
325 
"Just wait." Silvera left Wes, walking across the church to his room. He took a 
small clear flask from a silk-lined black case resting at the top shelf of his 
closet. The flask was identical to the one he'd taken to Palatazin. Then he went 
out to the font of holy water in the vestibule, and dipped the flask down into 
the small white ceramic basin. The flask filled quickly, with a little more than 
two ounces. He wasn't sure how much effect holy water would actually have on the 
vampires, but he figured-he hoped-Palatazin had known that it would have some 
effect, even if just to frighten them. Silvera lifted the flask, capped it, and 
thought of something his mentor Father Raphael had said back in the tiny village 
of Puerto Grande. "Now, my son. You ask me why I dip up water from the Pacific 
Ocean for the rituals. The answer is both simple and complex. Well water is too 
precious here to deprive humans of it, no matter how holy the ritual. God saw 
human needs long before he saw the need for ritual. Secondly, what holier water 
is there than water from the cradle of life? God's blessing only makes it more 
so, but the strength is already there. You've seen how saltwater heals wounds 
and sores, how it cleanses and purifies. Any water can be holy; it needs only to 
be blessed. But this-seawater -is twice blessed . . ." 
Silvera had kept Father Raphael's tradition alive, though now it was more 
difficult to bring jugs of water back from the Pacific. But now he needed a 
purifier, something to wash away this unholy evil that gnawed like a cancer at 
human flesh. He held the flask up; it felt slightly warm in his hand, and the 
warmth seemed to spread up his forearm. He was ready now. He returned to where 
Wes waited and put the flask in his inside coat pocket. "All right," he said. 
"We can go now." 
"We?" Wes said. "What are you talking about?" 
"I'm going with you. The holy water may help even up the odds. And that man 
won't shoot me." He motioned toward Lieutenant Rutledge, who shouted, "Let's go, 
Father!" and waved impatiently. Silvera dropped the gun down to his side and., 
shielding his face with his forearm, walked toward the tractor with Wes right 
behind him. Lieutenant Rutledge and his driver stepped back to allow them up 
into the dark cavity, but suddenly Silvera turned toward him and thrust out the 
gun. 
Rutledge stared incredulously at it, then looked into Silvera's face. "What's 
this shit?" the man shouted. 
"My friend and I are taking your jeep, and we don't have time to argue! Tell 
your driver there to give us the keys!" 
"You want the Crab? What are you, crazy or something? We're trying to get you 
out of this mess!" 
"You can help us by giving us the keys! Come on!" 
"Man, you take the cake, you know that? You and I both know you're not going to 
shoot anybody, so let's just forget this-" 
Silvera yanked the hood off the Marine's face and put the barrel alongside his 
nose. "I don't have time for a debate!" the priest said. "Hand them over!" 
"Shit!" Rutledge lifted his hands now and glanced fearfully at the other Marine. 

326 
"Okay, okay! Whitehurst, give these maniacs the keys to the Crab! Look, you! 
Priest or not, you steal a military vehicle and your holy ass is going under the 
stockade!" 
"Wes, take his keys! And the .45, too. You've got clips for that!" 
Rutledge patted his inside jacket pocket. Silvera reached in, took out two 
clips, and handed them to Wes. Then he stepped away from Rutledge and backed 
toward the jeep. Wes slipped into the driver's seat and started the engine. 
"You're crazy!" Rutledge shouted, pulling his hood back down. "Both of you!" 
Whitehurst grasped at his arm and guided him up into the transport vehicle, then 
in another few seconds the rear gate began to swing shut. 
Silvera had a last glimpse of Rutledge's furious face before he climbed into the 
jeep. Wes put it into reverse, backed along the sidewalk, and then swung out 
into the street. The vehicle's tires gripped hard, carrying them between 
monstrous dunes and away from Silvera's church. The priest turned to look back 
through the Plexiglass rear windshield. The tractor was moving away in the 
opposite direction, lumbering like a huge metallic beetle. He put the two guns 
down on the floorboard. "Can you drive this thing?" he asked. 
"Handles like a dune buggy," Wes answered. "Steering's tighter, though." The 
headlights were cutting clear yellow paths in the storm ahead, and the 
instrumentation panel-which curved slightly around Wes like a plane's 
cockpit-glowed a faint green. He changed gears, noting the gearshift pattern 
depicted on a small metal plate on the dashboard-there were four forward gears 
and two reverse. The interior seemed to be stripped down to the bare minimum but 
was comfortable enough. It smelled slightly oily, just as Wes thought the 
interior of a tank might smell. He could feel a powerful engine behind him, 
pushing them along now at about ten miles per hour; he was afraid to drive any 
faster because of the dunes and wrecked cars that littered the street ahead, 
coming up swiftly out of the gloom. "I hope you know what you've gotten yourself 
into, Father," Wes said quietly. 
"I do." Silvera leaned over and looked at the gas gauge-there was a little more 
than half a tank. He looked behind the seats into a roomy storage compartment, 
finding a full three-gallon can of gasoline, a coiled rope, maps of the city, 
and a couple of small red cylinders of oxygen in green backpack carriers. Near 
the oxygen bottles there were two green rubber masks complete with wide-vision 
goggles. Those, he thought, might be especially useful, and he silently gave 
thanks for Rutledge's careful preparations. 
Wes put the knife and crucifix on top of the dashboard. Sand was beginning to 
pile up on the windshield, so he turned the wipers on at their highest speed. 
The jeep thumped and jubbled over rapidly shifting sand dunes, but the thick 
tires gave them enough traction to get through without sinking. When Silvera 
looked back again, he couldn't see his church or the troop carrier, just a solid 
sheet of blowing yellow. In another moment Wes turned a corner, the jeep barely 
sliding around two cars that had crashed together in the middle of the street, 
and found himself at the bottom of the freeway ramp he'd crawled down. He slowed 
and peered up. The ramp was blocked by a mountainous sand dune that had built up 
over another stalled car. Wes cursed softly. 
327 
"We'll run into fewer of those if we stay off the freeway," Silvera told him. "I 
think I know the way from here. Across the river and around L.A. Back up a block 
and turn left." Wes did, the tires slipping with a sickening lurch but always 
catching just when he thought they were about to start digging a grave. 
The air was getting bad. Silvera reached back, opened the nozzle on one of the 
oxygen tanks, and let some bleed out. He was sweating profusely, beads of 
moisture dappling his cheeks. 
"You wouldn't have shot that lieutenant, would you?" Wes asked as they turned 
onto the stark yellow desolation of Brooklyn Avenue in dead Boyle Heights. 
"No one would die for a set of keys. He doesn't care about the vehicle." 
"Why did you help me?" 
"Not because I think we can find your friend. I don't. But if you're willing to 
go to that place, knowing what's probably waiting up there, then I am, too. 
Let's leave 
j it at that." 
"Fine with me." The engine suddenly sputtered, then coughed out a wad of sand. 
Wes checked the temperature gauge; it was running hot, but what the hell. If the 
damned Marines couldn't build a vehicle that could plow through this fucking 
storm, then nobody could. Wes hoped their luck and good old American machinery 
would hold out just a while longer. If it didn't, they would die; it was as 
simple as that. 
|]A fierce wind struck them broadside, shivering the jeep as if it were made of 
cardboard. The vehicle slipped to the left, tires digging for a purchase, and 
then darted forward like a land crab scrambling away from a shadow across a 
wind- rippled beach. Wes remembered Rutledge calling it the Crab. That was 
probably one of those cute names the military stuck on everything, but it 
described the tenacity and responsiveness of the vehicle pretty well. A Crab it 
was. 
Nothing moved on Brooklyn Avenue except the dunes, sliding like hot yellow 
dancers to a mad maestro's shrilling tune. Everywhere there were stranded cars, 
and Wes didn't see the almost mummified corpses until the Crab had gone right 
II over them, snapping them like twigs. His hands tightened around the wheel. 
Death 
was very close. 
The boulevard stretched on out of sight. Behind them the way back had already 
closed. 
NINE 
Palatazin had been gone for almost twenty minutes when Tommy turned away from 
the window and said to Jo, "He's going to die up there." He said it quite 
calmly, without emotion and very seriously, because he knew it to be true. 
"Why don't you sit down, kid?" Gayle said. She didn't want Jo to start crying 
again. There was a look in the boy's eyes that scared the hell out of her. They 
were y like an old man's eyes, filled with pain and bitter wisdom. "Okay?" she 
urged. "Why don't you?" 
328 
"He doesn't know anything about the castle! I do! He'll get lost in there!" 
"Please . . ." Jo said weakly, and collapsed in a chair. 
"I could help him," Tommy said, his gaze moving from Jo to Gayle. "I know I 
could!" 
"Oh, Christ!" Gayle said, anger leaping in her eyes. "Why don't you shut up? 
He's going to be all right!" 
Tommy stood motionless, staring at her. She looked out the window quickly, but 
she could still see him reflected in the glass. He walked back to the sofa and 
took the case off the pillow. "What are you doing?" Jo asked, but he didn't 
answer. He put on his jacket, zipped it up to the neck, and raised the collar. 
"No!" Jo said. "You're not!" 
He folded the pillowcase into a square. "I guess you both think I'm a stupid 
little kid, don't you? Well, I may be little . . . but I'm sure as hell not 
stupid! That man who just left here is stupid because he thinks he can get into 
the Kronsteen castle, find the king vampire, and get out again just like that." 
He snapped his fingers. "Or he may just be trying to fool himself into believing 
that, I don't know. Well, he won't be coming back ... at least not as what he 
was when he left, if I don't help him. If I hurry, I can catch him . . ." 
"You're not going anywhere!" Gayle said firmly, taking a step toward him. 
Tommy stood his ground. His eyes were like chunks of ice. "My parents are gone," 
he said quietly. "They're dead. I'm not a little boy anymore." 
Gayle stopped suddenly, realizing that he was right, he wasn't a child anymore. 
Whatever had happened to him last night had changed him forever. And wouldn't he 
have the same chances out there as Palatazin? Probably better. Certainly he 
could move faster, and his lungs were probably in much better shape. She glanced 
at Jo, then back at Tommy. "Do you think you can get him in and out of there 
safely?" 
"I know I can." He stepped past her toward the door. "I'll have to hurry. If I 
can't find him, I'll have to come back, but I'll look as long as I can." He put 
the square of cloth up in front of his face like a mask. "Wish me luck," he 
said, and slipped out through the door. 
"That's a very brave little boy," Gayle said after he'd gone. 
"No," Jo answered. "A very brave young man." 
Tommy ran in the direction he'd seen Palatazin take. He was hoping he'd see 
footprints in the sand, but they'd already been blown away. He was half-blind, 
trapped within a cubicle of swirling yellowish-brown walls, his lungs scorched. 
His head was beginning to throb, but he welcomed the pain because it would keep 
him alert. He ran on, realizing that he might pass within ten feet of Palatazin 
and never know the man was there. Panic hit him-for a few seconds he couldn't 
draw a breath. He made himself slow down to a walk and breathe through his mouth 
at a regular pace. Sand scraped his cheeks and forehead, and now he realized 
that even if he did want to go back, he'd never find the way. 
Huge dunes stood all around him, most of them towering over the hulks of 
329 
cars. They shifted and slithered down as he passed, threatening to collapse over 
him. The world was dim amber light, a shriek of wind, and the coarse hissing of 
sand. The wind whipped around him, almost throwing him to his knees. He thought 
he heard a high whining voice at the center of it, whispering Little boy, little 
boy, lie down and sleep . . . 
He went on and in another moment a dark shape emerged from the twisting 
currents. It was a Lincoln Continental, the paint stripped down to the bare 
metal, most of the car covered over by a dune. He decided to get inside it for a 
few minutes to clear the sand out of his eyes and mouth. When he pulled the 
driver's door open, a withered blue-faced corpse came sliding out, its arms 
outstretched toward him. He swallowed a cry, spat out sand, and continued on. 
The wind whispered around his head-Lie down and sleep, lie down and sleeeeeep . 
. . "No!" he heard himself shout. "NO, I WONT!" 
In another three steps he tripped over something and fell to the ground. His 
legs had gotten tangled in the frozen arms of a dead woman, the flesh over her 
skull stretched as tight as old leather. Tommy kicked free and crawled away, 
tears stinging his eyes. Sleeeeep, the wind moaned. Close your eyes now, and 
sleep . . . 
It was so tempting. Maybe I should, Tommy thought. Just for a little while. 
Close my eyes and rest, and when I get my strength back, I can keep on looking 
for him. Yeah. That's the thing to do. He wondered if Mr. Palatazin was also 
sleeping somewhere, all curled up and comfortable. A yellow blanket began to 
drift over him. 
And then he realized what he was doing and kicked off the blanket. He struggled 
to his feet, his heart pounding. I was lying down to die, he realized. Old Death 
almost got me that time, and it slipped up so softly ... "NO, I WONT!" he 
shouted, though the words were ripped to shreds by the wind. He began to run 
again, past more stranded cars and half-covered things that were probably 
bodies, but he was afraid to look at them too closely. He ran past a street sign 
that said LaBrea Avenue, and now there were indentations on the ground that 
might have been scattered footprints or just deep-rippled places-he couldn't 
tell. In the shadow of a towering dune, there was an imprint that might have 
been made by a falling body. Panic flared within him. He knew he had to hurry; 
he might already be too late. 
Ahead, at the corner of LaBrea and Lexington avenues, Tommy saw Palatazin's body 
sprawled in the windbreak of a stranded car. There was a long groove where the 
man had dragged himself for several yards. 
Tommy ran to him and bent down. He could hear Palatazin's tortured breathing. 
"Wake up!" Tommy said, shaking him. "Don't go to sleep! WAKE UP!" 
Palatazin moved, lifted a hand, and grasped his shoulder. He tried to focus on 
Tommy, but his eyes were bloodshot and watery. Sand had filled the cracks in his 
face, giving the look of a dried-up riverbed. "Who . . .?" he whispered 
hoarsely. He let his head fall back. "Oh, God," he breathed. "Go back ... go 
back . . ." 
"NO! YOU'VE GOT TO WAKE UP!" 
"Can't make it ... too far . . ." 
330 
"We'll find our way back together!" Tommy said, but he knew they couldn't, not 
really. The man was too weak and so was he, the wind too strong, the sand too 
dense. "Stand up! Come on!" He pulled at Palatazin's arm with both hands; his 
unprotected face felt as if it was being flayed. Palatazin stirred and tried to 
rise, the effort showing in the grim set of his eyes, but he only got up on one 
knee and leaned against the car, his breath coming in heaving gasps. 
"What are ... you ... doing out here?" Palatazin shouted at him. "I told you ... 
told you to stay at the house!" 
"Can you walk?" Tommy shouted back. 
Palatazin tried to stand up again, but he didn't seem to have any strength left 
in his legs. His heart was racing, his lungs pumping like bellows but only 
drawing in short, burning gasps of air. He felt dizzy and about to pass out, and 
he clung to the boy for support. "I guess... I'm not in as... good a shape as I 
thought I was. Lungs are hurting." 
"You have to stand up!" Tommy shouted. "I'll help you! Hold on to me and-" 
"No," Palatazin said. "Just let me lie down and rest for a little while . . . 
just a little while . . ." 
"YOU HAVE TO STAND UP!" Tommy shook him, but now the man was sliding down into 
the sand. His eyes were closing, and he was just a heavy mass of flesh without 
consciousness or will. And suddenly Tommy realized there was someone standing a 
few feet away from them, just behind his left shoulder. He whirled around to 
face a lean, leathery-looking man with long grayish-brown hair and a wild gray 
beard that flowed down over his chest in tattered, dirty strands. He wore filthy 
blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said Timothy Leary for President across the 
front under a picture of Leary sitting atop the White House and smoking a joint. 
Tommy was afraid to move. The man stared at him through keen electric- blue 
eyes, barely seeming to mind the storm. Then the man looked around quickly and 
fell to his knees beside Tommy. He oozed with the odors of grime, sweat, and 
sewage. "You're not one of them, are you, man? I mean, you can't be one of them 
because you're out here in the daylight, aren't you? I mean, what daylight there 
is, right? What's ailing this dude?" 
"He's going to die!" Tommy shouted. "Help me make him wake up!" 
The man dug a dirty hand into his pocket, fished around for a few seconds, and 
then brought out a clear plastic capsule and popped it open under Palatazin's 
nose. Palatazin immediately sputtered and opened his eyes, and Tommy smelled the 
heavy odor of ammonia. "Peace, brother," the man said, holding up two fingers in 
a V before Palatazin's face. 
Tommy realized the man had no protection, nothing to mask his face, not even a 
jacket. "Where did you come from?" 
"Me? I come from everywhere, man! From under the hot earth where the cool 
streams run! From where the babbling brooks play in the concrete night! That's 
where I live!" He pointed a skinny finger, and Tommy looked over his shoulder. 
He could see the open manhole. 
331 
5THEY THIRST 
"The vibes aren't right up here, man! Not right at all! Gimme a hand and let's 
get this dude downstairs!" The man started dragging Palatazin toward the open 
hole in the center of the street, and Tommy pulled as best he could. Palatazin 
was conscious but dazed, his breathing still forced and ragged. The bearded man 
clambered down a few metal rungs with familiar ease, then helped Palatazin down 
into the darkness. Tommy followed. At the bottom of the metal rungs, in a large 
circular concrete tunnel with pipes and cables running along its sides, the man 
eased Palatazin to a sitting position, picked up a bull's-eye lantern from the 
floor, and then scurried back up to pull the manhole cover into place. Tommy 
watched the daylight disappear and with it went the scream of the wind. When it 
was gone, the man switched on his lantern and climbed down again. He shone the 
light at Palatazin, who was weakly pulling the rest of the sheet away from his 
face. "You need another popper, man?" 
Palatazin shook his head. "One's enough." His nostrils felt as if they were 
still on fire, but at least his brain was working again. Finding shelter from 
that savage wind was a blessing, no matter how foul the mingled odors of human 
excrement were down there. 
"Damn straight." The man sat on his haunches, his face whitened by the backwash 
of the light, and looked from Palatazin to Tommy with quick animal-like jerks of 
his head. "Bad vibes up there these days," he said finally, motioning with a 
tilt of his chin. "You want to be careful. Dig it!" He grinned, showing a 
mouthful of teeth that would've driven a dentist mad. 
"Who are you?" Tommy asked. 
"Me? I'm the Big R, the Hollywood Creeper. I'm Johnny Ratkins. My friends call 
me Ratty." 
"You . . . live down here?" 
"No, man, not here!" He scowled and pointed a finger down. "Here!" Now he made a 
broad, expansive movement with the same hand. "Everywhere. This is my mansion, 
safe from all the bad vibes there ever was or ever will be. Got a million rooms 
down here, a million corridors. Got babbling brooks and sweet streams and lakes 
. . . yeah! Real lakes, man! If I could just figure out how to get a Chris-Craft 
through that little hole, I'd be one happy dude! Dig it! What are you two dudes 
doing out in those bad vibes?" 
Palatazin coughed a couple of times, spat out phlegm thickened with sand, and 
said, "Trying to get across Hollywood. I thought I could make it, but . . ." He 
looked at Tommy. "Why did you leave the house? I told you to stay back there!" 
"You'd be dead now if I had! I said I could help you, and I still can!" ' 
"You're a little fool!" 
Tommy glowered at him, and when he spoke, his voice carried a cutting edge. 
"You're not my father, so don't try to tell me what I can or can't do." 
Ratty whistled through the nubs of his front teeth. "Heaaaavy! That's the 
center, man. That's Truth in a teacup!" He grinned at Palatazin. "The little 
dude's telling it like it is. If I hadn't heard him shouting, I wouldn't have 
stuck my head out 
332 
to see what was going down. What was going down was you, man, so you'd better 
cool it." 
"I suppose I should say thank you for getting us out of that." 
"No need. Ratty does what he can. Oh, I've come across other folks like you two, 
stumbling around and lost with all those bad vibes sucking the air right out of 
their lungs. Some of them I helped." His gaze darkened. "Some of them I 
couldn't. The poppers wouldn't even bring them around. You feeling okay now?" 
"Better," Palatazin said. What he was breathing was not the sweetest air 
possible, but at least he didn't have to sift it through his teeth, and for that 
he was grateful. His lungs felt raspy and raw. 
"You want something to pick you up?" Ratty dug into his jeans again and this 
time brought out a handful of ampules, pills, and capsules in a variety of 
colors. "I've got whatever you need. Speed, yellowjackets, reds . . . got a 
microdot here somewhere that'll fuck up your head for a week!" He giggled and 
offered them to Palatazin. 
"No, thank you." 
"How about some angel dust? Or . . ." He reached into another pocket and brought 
out a clear cellophane packet containing what looked to Palatazin like sliced 
mushrooms. Ratty gazed at it lovingly. "Magic," he said. 
Palatazin shook his head, and Ratty looked offended, as if his greatest offering 
had been refused. "What are you?" Palatazin asked him. "A dealer?" 
"A dealer? Me? Listen, I'm an artist, man! Look at these!" He shook the packets 
in front of Palatazin's face. "All meat and pure magic, the finest you can buy 
on the whole fuckin' coast! Magic mushrooms! No additives, no preservatives, 
just pure homegrown, farmed by yours truly using all natural elements in the sod 
. . ." 
"That's fine," Palatazin said, and waved the packet away. 
"This other stuff is junk compared to my mushrooms," Ratty said. He put the rest 
of his cache away, opened the packet, and sniffed at it. He closed his eyes and 
thrust the packet out toward Palatazin, who caught the heady odor of sewage. "I 
grow 'em down here," Ratty said. "I just got to figure out a way to get rid of 
the smell, then I'll be in the high cotton . . ." 
Palatazin grunted and moved a few feet away from the man because he'd caught a 
whiff from him that was less than delicate. What kind of lunatic was this? he 
wondered. Some hippie holdover who'd been living in these sewers for years 
perhaps, happy just to pop pills and grow "magic mushrooms" on ... God!. . . did 
he say "natural elements in the sod"? Surely he had to go out sometime, if just 
to get batteries for his flashlight. And what did he eat? His mind quickly 
shunted that thought away. 
But then Ratty leaned forward and said, "Hey, what's in the bag? You don't have 
a can opener in there, do you? I sure could use one. I lost mine a couple of 
days ago. You don't have a ham sandwich in there, do you?" 
Palatazin unsnapped one of the pockets and brought out a stake. Ratty was 
immediately silent. He took it and shone the light on it as if it were some 
relic from 
333 
THEY THIRST 
a lost civilization. "What's this for?" he said quietly. "The bloodsuckers?" 
ŤT"i1 >y 
1 he vampires. 
"Bad vibes. Baaaad vibes!" He handed the stake back and wiped his hand on the 
leg of his filthy jeans. "I've seen them, man. They're everywhere, multiplying 
like flies,on a fruitcake. You look in their eyes, and they get you-powl-just 
like that." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Couple of them 
chased me last night. I broke into Hoffman's Deli and got myself some food. On 
the way out there they were, right on the corner. I didn't know what they were 
at first, but then one of them flashed his chompers and I said, 'Uh-oh, old 
Ratty may have had some bad dreams in his time, but never like this!' So I took 
off, and they came after me. I was flying high on speed, and I was making moves 
like O.J. Simpson, but I still couldn't shake 'em. And all the time I was 
hearing these crazy voices, shrieking and screaming in my head." A nervous grin 
flickered across his face. His eyes were bright, scorched blue. "They chased me 
down into the line that runs underneath Hollywood Boulevard. I tried to hide in 
the dark. They move so ... quiet. They don't even breathe. They can come up 
behind you, and you'd never know it until it was too late. I stayed where I was 
for a long time, until finally I heard somebody scream way on down the line. I 
figured there were other people hiding in the sewers, too, and the vampires 
found them instead of Ratty. Lucky Ratty, huh?" 
"Yes," Palatazin said. "Very lucky." But now a terrible uncertainty struck him- 
what if there were more vampires down here? Could they move about freely in this 
dark world, or would they still be bound by their unholy fear of sunlight? He 
wondered where the sun was now. God! he thought. What time is it? "We've got to 
hurry," he told Tommy. 
"How? We can't go anywhere up there!" 
Palatazin paused. He glanced at Ratty, then back at the boy. "You're right. We . 
. . can't go anywhere up there." "Huh?" Tommy said. 
"How far do these sewers go?" he asked Ratty. There was an anxious excitement in 
his voice. 
The man shrugged. "Everywhere. Across Hollywood, L.A., Beverly Hills, up I -into 
the canyons . . ." He stopped and narrowed his eyes slightly. "Where are you 
trying to get to?" 
jjj"Up above the Hollywood Bowl, just this side of Mulholland Drive . . ." 
"Jesus! What's this, an expedition?" "Of a kind." § "Yeah, well, too bad you 
didn't bring your wadin' boots," Ratty said, "'cause 
you'd sure as hell need 'em! That's a long way to go, man." I"But could it be 
done?" 
Ratty was silent. He sat on his haunches and seemed to be thinking it over for a 
few minutes. Then he said, "Where-exactly-do you want to go?" .b"Across 
Hollywood to Outpost Drive, then up into the hills. There's another road 
branching off from Outpost, up higher, but I doubt if a sewer runs underŁ neath 
it." 
334 
"I know where Outpost starts. On the other side of Franklin Avenue. Goes 
straight up the mountain, doesn't it?" 
"That's right." 
"Means a lot of shit pouring down the line, too. Hard going. Be like climbing a 
mountain covered with ice. 'Course now, not all the lines are the same size. 
Some of them you can walk in, some of them you crawl through, some of them . . . 
you hope you can get out of without gettin' stuck tight as a cork. It's about a 
three-mile hike from here to Franklin. You didn't answer my question. Where do 
you want to go?" 
"The Kronsteen castle. Do you know where that is?" 
"Nope, but it sure as hell sounds like a place with bad vibes. You say it's up 
close to Mulholland? You're takin' about another couple of miles almost straight 
up. If you can get through the tunnels. If you don't take a wrong turn and get 
lost, because all the lines aren't laid down exactly underneath the streets. 
I've got a nose for direction, man. I've been down here ever since I got back 
from Nam." Something sharp and brittle passed across Ratty's gaze. "I'd rather 
be down here where it's safe. The world up there has gone nuts, you dig? Bad 
vibes all over the place! Anyway, I know the line system like you know the way 
back and forth from your boob'tube to the John. But even I get lost sometimes, 
and there are a lot of places I ain't been. Got the picture?" 
"You're saying it can't be done?" 
"Nope. I'm saying you can't do it." 
"I know that," Palatazin answered. 
Ratty looked from him to Tommy and back again. Tommy could hear the muffled 
roaring of the storm through the manhole cover above his head; it sounded like 
some huge animal gnawing at the iron, trying to get in at them. "What's the 
deal?" Ratty asked. 
"We're going after the vampires," Palatazin said quietly. "At best we've got 
only four hours of real daylight left because when the sun drops low enough the 
storm cover will bring early darkness. We can't make it to the castle up there. 
We could make it by using the sewers. Couldn't we?" 
"Maybe," Ratty said. "Don't like screwing with the bloodsuckers, man. That gives 
Ratty the creeps. You . .. going up to this place to give them the shaft, huh?" 
"That's where their leader-their king-is sleeping. I think if I can destroy him, 
it might throw the rest of them into confusion . . ." 
"Like Indians, huh? You get rid of the chief, and the rest of them are scared 
shitless?" 
"Sort of like that, yes." 
"Yeah. I can dig that." Ratty nodded and looked down into the stygian darkness 
of the tunnel. "I mean, this could be like . . . the end of the world or 
something, couldn't it? Those bloodsuckers keep getting stronger all the time, 
more and more of them . . . less of us. Right?" 
"Yes." Palatazin held Ratty's gaze. "I have to get up to that castle. We have to 
start now. Will you help me?" 
335 
Ratty chewed his fingernail for a minute. His eyes kept getting larger and 
larger. He giggled suddenly. "Why not, man? I'm a crazy patriot. Shit! Why not?" 
He grinned into the darkness with all the good humor and courage his pills could 
give him. Then he stood up, his knees popping, and shone the light ahead along 
what looked to be an endless tunnel. "This is the way." He waited for Palatazin 
to stand and then start moving, his back seemingly permanently bent. Palatazin 
followed with Tommy bringing up the rear. The stink of sewage was getting 
stronger, but it was certainly preferable to the hellish wasteland above. Water 
trickled at their feet. 
Time was their enemy now, and time lay on the vampires' side. Palatazin felt 
freighted with responsibility, not only for Jo and Gayle and Tommy but for the 
hundreds of thousands of people still trapped in L.A. What might happen to them 
tonight and all the nights to come if the king vampire couldn't be found? He 
felt as if he were going to do battle with an ancient adversary, a nightmare 
that had ripped away his childhood and plunged him into a world where all 
shadows were suspect, where every twilight was a terrifying reminder that 
somewhere the vampir were awakening. 
He saw something move out of the corner of his eye, an indistinct shape touched 
briefly by the lantern's backwash. His first thought was that a vampire had 
gotten Tommy and was now coming up behind him, but when he looked over his 
shoulder, there was nothing there and Tommy was fine. And then he heard the 
faint whisper of a remembered voice brushing past his ear. He was quite sure of 
what it said. Andre, I wont leave you . . . 
That made him feel better. But there was such a long way to go, and nothing 
could stop the relentless descent of the sun. 
TEN 
The Crab had slowed to a crawl. Brooklyn Avenue at Soto Street in the center of 
Boyle Heights was blocked by towering dunes that had built up around a 
horirendous traffic accident, nine or ten cars slammed together right at the 
intersection. Wes stopped the Crab. The visibility was so bad now that even the 
high-intensity y headlights couldn't pierce the dark amber gloom, and he had to 
drive as slowly as possible without stalling the engine to avoid crashing into a 
dune or a twisted, wrecked car. The worst of the storm, he knew, had hit 
yesterday at rush hour, so there would be thousands of wrecked and stranded 
cars-all of them now scrap metal for the dunes to grasp and grow over like 
pregnant yellow leeches. He wondered what had happened to the drivers of these 
cars. Had they found shelter before they suffocated? Or had the vampires found 
them first? "Dead end," he said to Silvera. "We can't get around that." "Turn 
right on Soto. There's a Hollywood Freeway entrance ramp about eight blocks 
ahead." 
336 
Wes was relieved to find that the ramp was clear; but when the Crab had crested 
it, the headlights picked out one wrecked or stalled car after another. The 
dunes shifted restlessly, threatening to spill over and bury the Crab. There 
were many corpses caught in the airless cars and many who had been caught out in 
the open as well. Some of them looked as if they were simply sleeping; others 
had died in agony, eyes and mouths filled with sand. Wes felt his nerve 
breaking. The Crab made it about fifteen yards before it was halted by another 
mass of sand and metal. The wind sucked and pulled wildly at the vehicle. 
"Back down the ramp," Silvera said tersely. He reached back and leaked some 
oxygen into the cab. "We'll have to find another way." 
"THERE'S NOT ANOTHER WAY!" Wes shouted. "Jesus Christ! Everything's blocked!" 
Silvera waited for him to calm down and said, "Take it easy. That's not going to 
solve anything and it's sure as hell not going to get us across L.A." 
Wes was trembling. If he'd ever needed a joint or a plain old cigarette before, 
this was the time, but he had neither and there was no air to spare, anyway. Do 
you want to give up? he asked himself. No.' I can't! Like the priest says, we'll 
have to find another way . . . 
"Back up," Silvera said. 
"I can't see a thing." The rear windshield was layered with sand, and he could 
envision backing into one of those huge dunes. It would be good-bye with a 
slither and a moan. The engine kicked a couple of times, and Wes's heart started 
to pound. 
"All right." Silvera got one of the oxygen masks from the rear compartment and 
slipped it on. The second of the oxygen tanks was in a backpack carrier that 
would allow it to fit right between the shoulder blades. Silvera fumbled for a 
moment while he attached the rubber line from the mask into the tank's small 
feed- out nozzle; there was a soft click as the male and female joints 
connected. He turned on the oxygen and took a breath of sweet, cold air, then 
shrugged the backpack over his shoulders. "I'll go out to guide you down," he 
said, his voice muffled by the mask. "I'll be right behind you. I'll slam on the 
right side when I want you to turn right, left for left. Got that?" 
"Yeah," Wes said. "For Christ's sake be careful!" 
Silvera stepped out and the wind almost threw him to the ground. He moved like 
an astronaut in an alien atmosphere, cabled to his life-support system. There 
were two half-obscured corpses right beside the Crab, a woman clutching a little 
girl. He shivered and went around to the back as Wes put the Crab into reverse 
and started moving. Several times Silvera had to hammer against the sides to 
keep Wes from backing into either a dune or a wrecked car. When they reached the 
ramp, cold sweat clung to his face, and he was dizzy from hyperventilating. He 
quickly climbed in, took his seat, and removed the mask. "You're clear," he 
said. "But I think we can rule out the freeways from now on." 
They passed under the freeway and turned left on Marengo, moving past the dark 
buildings of the County General Hospital complex, where a doctor named 
337 
Doran had told Silvera he was dying. Now he wondered if Doran had beat him 
there, or whether the good doctor might now be making a totally different kind 
of midnight house call. They curved slowly around the complex to North Main 
Street, which Silvera knew would take them across the river and through downtown 
L.A. 
The Crab was almost across the North Main bridge when its headlights picked out 
the monstrous cluster of yellow dunes blocking their way. 
Rats in a maze, Wes thought as he braked the Crab. That's what we are. The 
headlights gleamed off the grillwork of a Cadillac caught under a mountain of 
sand. The dunes loomed up like the mountains of the moon. 
"Back up," Silvera said, tension crackling in his voice. His face had turned the 
color of dried clay. 
It took them over another hour of starts and stops at the dead ends of mangled 
wreckage and blowing dunes before they found a clear way across the river at 7th 
Street, more than five miles south of the place where they'd first tried to 
cross. Factories and warehouses stood on the other side of the river, all of 
them dead and dark. Chain-link fences had been blown down, and they lay tangled 
across 7th Street like barbed wire. About a block farther was an overturned 
truck in the center of the street. 
Wes slowed and turned right, driving along a narrower street with warehouses on 
each side. He thought he knew where he was now. Downtown L.A. lay just a few 
streets over, and from the center of town he could wind his way up into 
Hollywood. It would be a fearful trip, but nothing compared to what might be 
waiting for them in Kronsteen's old fortress. The Crab still seemed to be in 
pretty good shape, though the engine continued to sputter. Wes figured it had 
been built for rough duty, though, and probably had a system of air filters that 
trapped most of the sand. Still, he recalled that it had been traveling very 
close behind the massive troop carrier, presumably so that the bigger vehicle 
would take the brunt of the storm. The Crab might shudder and die at any minute, 
or it might carry them all the way without a whimper. He just didn't know. 
Suddenly Silvera looked at him oddly. "Stop," he ordered. 
"What?" Wes said. "Stop where?" 
"Here." 
Wes braked the vehicle; it slid a couple of feet and then halted. "What is it?" 
"I don't know. I ... thought I saw something back there. We passed a warehouse 
on the right about fifty feet. I don't know what it was I saw, but . . ." He 
looked back over his shoulder but couldn't see anything. "Caskets," he said 
softly. "I think there were caskets stacked on that loading dock." 
Wes put the Crab into reverse. The dark outline of a metal-walled warehouse came 
up into Silvera's window. The remnants of a chain-link fence stuck up out of the 
sand like picket-fence slats on a New England beach. There was a break in the 
blowing grayish-yellow sheets, and through a clear hole they both saw a row of 
big trucks lined up before a long loading dock, and on that dock something 
covered over with a dark green tarpaulin. The tarpaulin fluttered and fell back 
once, then 
338 McCAMMON 
again. The second time Silvera said, "There!" and Wes could see the oblong brown 
boxes, stacked in neat rows as if awaiting shipment. 
Silvera said, "I'm going out." He put on the oxygen mask and the tank and left 
the Crab, walking hurriedly and at an angle against the wind. Wes worked with 
the other mask and tank for a few minutes, finally got them together, and 
slipped the tank into another of the backpack carriers. The mask clung as tight 
as a second skin, but the goggle lenses gave him a wide-angle view, and the 
first breath of air he drew was deliciously sweet. He got out of the vehicle and 
followed Silvera, climbing up the dunes and stepping over the collapsed fence. 
On the loading dock Silvera pulled off the tarpaulin and let the wind whip it 
away. Then he opened the lid of a coffin and peered inside. It was filled with 
dirt, but there was no one in it, not even the impression of a body. As Wes 
struggled up onto the dock and walked along it, he realized the warehouse was at 
least as long as a football field, possibly longer; its far end disappeared in 
whirling yellow. He looked into the empty coffin, then at Silvera. He had to 
shout to make himself heard. "What did you expect to find in there?" 
"I'm not sure." Silvera opened the next coffin and the next one after that. They 
were all filled with dirt, but no vampires. Why would they be? he asked himself 
suddenly. The vampires wouldn't sleep exposed to the weather; they'd sleep 
enclosed. His gaze fell upon a large sliding door set in the wall. He went over 
to it and slid it back several feet. A wave of rancid chill came rolling out of 
the warehouse; it was the same feeling he'd had in the Dos Terros tenement. 
Silvera glanced at Wes, his eyes wary behind the mask, before he stepped through 
the opening. 
At first he couldn't see a thing. Then he gradually made out high crisscrossed 
metal rafters, rows of fluorescent lights, metal rungs leading up to a catwalk 
that stretched the length of the building, a few electric carts and yellow 
forklifts. But then he saw what lay before him, what lay all around him, what 
lay in neat rows from wall to wall and on out of sight. He caught his breath 
with shock. 
The warehouse was filled with what must have been over a thousand coffins. They 
were all lying closed on the concrete floor, and Silvera realized why those 
caskets had been left stacked on the loading dock. There was simply no more room 
in this huge warehouse. 
"Jesus Christ!" Wes said softly, standing behind the priest. 
"This is where they sleep," Silvera heard himself say. "Not all of them . . . 
not anywhere near all of them, but... my God! Every warehouse in the entire 
industrial district may be full of them!" He took a tentative step forward, then 
leaned down and opened the coffin nearest him. 
On its bed of brown California soil, a young male vampire wearing a light blue 
shirt spotted with blood lay with its arms crossed over its chest. The eyes 
seemed to be staring right through the milky lids with a dull, hateful gaze. 
Those lids, Silvera realized, were very similar to those found in most reptiles; 
they would be natural protection against the sand. The vampire lay still, a 
killing machine awaiting full darkness. Silvera stared at the thing and thought 
he heard in his brain a soft, terrible 
339 
whisper-Lean over here, man, just a little bit closer... He quickly closed the 
coffin lid with his foot and stepped around it carefully, his own breathing 
suddenly too loud and harsh within the mask. 
He opened the next coffin and found a little black girl-her flesh faded to a 
sick, pasty gray-lying there. He sensed her longing for his blood even in sleep. 
She shifted suddenly, and the movements made Silvera step back a few paces. She 
gripped the casket's sides, then lay still again. He closed the lid, a chill 
skittering up his spine. 
Wes walked along the first row of coffins. He opened one of them, his hands 
shaking. A small boy-no more than four or five-lay there. As Wes watched, 
stunned, the child's hand slowly lifted, fingers grasping at air, and then fell 
back on his chest. The mouth opened, a red slash in the yellowish face, and the 
fangs clicked together like the snapping of a bear trap. Was it dreaming? Wes 
wondered. Of what? Seeing me in its dreams, and dreaming that it's sinking its 
fangs into my throat? He leaned forward to close the casket, and a shimmering 
little child's voice wafted through his brain-Danny don't want you to go . . . 
Danny want you to stay here for always. Wes paused, his head thundering. Silvera 
leaned across him, closed the lid quickly and pulled him away. 
"Thanks," Wes said, blinking. "They're strong even when . . . they're sleeping." 

"Help me drag that one out into the light," Silvera said. He gripped the edge of 
the first casket he'd opened. Wes got on the other side, and together they 
pushed and pulled the thing out onto the loading dock into the murky light. "I'm 
going to open it now," the priest said. Before Wes could respond, he did, then 
backpedaled away several feet, ready for anything. 
The vampire instantly started writhing, clawing at the coffin's sides, its mouth 
opening in a grimace. The fangs clicked together with terrible force. Wes saw 
awareness and pain flood into the eyes, then pure agony. The vampire screamed, 
an unearthly wail that was unlike anything Wes had ever heard. 
Then the thing sat up violently, flinging clumps of dirt from the coffin. Its 
murderous gaze fell upon Silvera, and it started to rise, its head twisted at an 
angle away from the sunlight. 
Silvera knew it was going to try to get back inside the warehouse into the cool 
darkness. He shoved Wes through the doorway, leapt inside, and started sliding 
the door shut as the vampire hurtled forward, screaming in rage and pain. As the 
door closed, the vampire flung itself frantically against the metal. Both men 
together could hardly hold it shut. The door shuddered as the vampire hammered 
on it, then began to scratch at it like a mindless animal. Wes held back a 
scream; he was standing in total darkness with a thousand or more vampires at 
his back, and one outside trying to get in. He thought he heard furtive movement 
behind him, the creaking of a few hundred casket lids. 
Then the clawing noises stopped. 
Silvera waited a moment more, then started to pull the door open. "It's a 
trick!" Wes shouted. Silvera opened the door a few inches and peered out. The 
coffin on 
340 
the loading dock was closed again. When Silvera opened the door wider, Wes heard 
quick scuttling sounds behind him, lids being closed hastily. Silvera stepped 
out onto the dock, leaned down slowly, and threw back the lid again. 
The vampire-now hideously bloated like a three-day-old corpse-sat up and snapped 
at Silvera's face; the fangs sank into the rubber mask, then withdrew. Before 
Silvera's eyes, fluids bubbled up beneath the thing's flesh, the arms, legs, and 
face blowing up like the sausage appendages of a freakish carnival fat man. The 
blue shirt stretched, buttons popping off; fluids leaked from the mouth, 
nostrils, and eyes, pooling around the head. Then rapidly, the form shriveled 
into something as thin and frail as a dead leaf; the gums sank, the eyes fell 
inward and seemed to melt away, the nose flattened and collapsed. The vampire 
curled up into an S, shivered violently, and then was still. Now it looked like 
a month-old corpse, which, Silvera realized, it probably was. 
Wes barely got his mask off before his stomach heaved. After he was finished, 
his ribs hurt as if Satan himself had kicked them with his cloven hoof. 
"Wait here," Silvera said, and walked quickly along the dock back toward the 
Crab. Wes put his mask back on and sat down far away from the dead vampire. 
There are too many of them! he thought. Thousands! His mind slipped back to 
Solange; surely she was one of them by now. He couldn't bear to think about 
that, not just yet. 
The priest came back carrying the gasoline can and the ceramic crucifix. The .45 
was jammed down in his waistband. He gave Wes the crucifix and then went back 
into the warehouse. Wes followed, his legs unsteady. Silvera uncapped the 
gasoline can and started dousing as many caskets as he could. The three gallons 
didn't stretch very far, though, and Silvera poured the last quarter gallon or 
so in a shimmering pool on the floor at the foot of the few caskets. Then he 
flung the can away and walked back to the door. Taking the .45, he unclicked the 
safety and aimed at the puddle of gas. The shot sounded like a cannon going off. 
Wes saw sparks fly. The puddle burst into blue flames and started crawling in 
snakelike tendrils across several coffins, following the gasoline trails. In 
another moment they started charring, and black smoke whirled. Reflections and 
shadows glimmered off the metal walls. A few of the coffin lids shivered and 
started to open. Silvera said tersely, "Get out! Hurry!" 
Before they slid the doorway shut completely, Silvera took the crucifix from Wes 
and jammed it at an angle through the inside door handle. Then they ran. 
In the Crab they took off their gear. Wes started the engine. Above the shriek 
of the wind, he heard other screams that made him want to clap his hands to his 
ears. "Drive. Fast," Silvera said. Wes pushed the vehicle through a small dune 
that had built up in front of the Crab during the time they'd been gone. When 
they had left the warehouse district behind, Wes said, "Do you think they'll all 
burn?" 
"No. But some of them will. The inside of that place, with those metal walls, 
will get hot pretty quickly, and the crucifix may keep them away from the door. 
If they get out, the sunlight will kill them. But I don't think all of them will 
burn, no." 
341 
THEY THIRST 
"My God! I didn't know there were ... so many . . ." 
"And many thousands more than those, I'm sure." Silvera laid the .45 back on the 
floorboard. He squeezed his hands into fists to try to stop their trembling. 
Fear had filled him up as if he were an old cracked jug, and it was beginning to 
leak out. Suddenly he realized that he couldn't tell where the sun was anymore. 
The entire sky seemed the same dirty brown color, streaked with gray and yellow. 
"What time is it?" he asked. 
Wes glanced at his watch and thanked Rolex for their airtight, shockproof cases. 
"Almost three." He took off his watch and laid it on the dashboard so they could 
both see it. 
"We have to hurry," Silvera said quietly. A voice within him shrieked, TOO LATE! 
TOO LATE! IT'S GOING TO BE DARK SOON AND IT'LL BE TOO LATE! 
The towers of L.A. loomed up out of the murky sky like tombstones in a graveyard 
for giants. Then they were gone, obscured by new curtains of sand. Before Wes's 
face the wipers shuddered and groaned. The Crab's engine stuttered, gasping for 
air. Darkness seemed to be creeping in all around them, brown veined with gray. 
Near the white, drift-covered plain of Pershing Square, tumbleweeds came flying 
out of nowhere, scraping across the windshield, and were gone. Wes came to one 
blocked street after another, having to back up carefully and retrace his path. 
The gas gauge's needle was beginning to fall, the engine temperature gauge at 
the danger line. 
L.A. could have been a ghost town chewed to shreds by the ravaging Mojave, Wes 
thought. A bright and glittering Xanadu laid to waste, a city of dreams gone 
bad, a stately pleasure-domed place that the desert and Evil had finally marched 
[| upon in tandem to conquer and destroy. Evil had always lived here, Wes knew, 
in the back rooms, in the sweltering tenements, in the meeting rooms and 
palaces. It || had always watched and waited, using a Manson here, a Hillside 
Strangler there, a Roach thrown in for good measure, like hideous ingredients in 
a dreadful cauldron brew. And now this perhaps was Evil's main course, the piece 
de resistance poured ym out of that cauldron like a stew of rattlesnake heads 
and human blood. When darkness fell, the dinner bell would start ringing again. 
And Evil would shout through a hundred thousand unholy, triumphant throats, 
Feast! Feast! For the banquet is spread and we are so very hungry . . . 
|]Wes realized that they had little to fight the vampires with now, just some 
water in a vial, the guns, and that switchblade. What good would bullets and a 
knife be? Wes had hoped for some kind of protection from the crucifix, but now 
that they'd left it behind, they'd have to go on with what remained. He still 
had the little ball of stuff Solange had made for him; it had worked against the 
bikers, but what protection would the priest have? 
He thrust those fears aside, but they kept trying to gnaw their way back in like 
little ravenous weasels. He would have to deal with them later, but not now. 
Just j| looking at the fuel gauge told him they'd crossed the point of no 
return, probably 
I 
342 R. McCAMMON 
way back when they'd come over the L.A. River. So there was nothing to do now 
but keep going, he thought, nothing to do now but give it the best shot Wesley 
Richer had ever given anything in his life. His palms were as cold and sweaty as 
the first night he'd stepped up on that stage at the Comedy Store, but this 
stage was a far more important one, and the hook that yanked you off would take 
you to your death ... or worse. 
But death wouldn't be so bad, he thought, not really, not when the alternative 
was to be like those things in the coffins. He'd already decided how to do it if 
that was the only way out-.45 barrel into the mouth and up, quick squeeze on the 
trigger, and boom! Jump the night train. Pull a Freddie Prinze. Hitchhike home 
in the hard rain. Suicide. 
He only hoped he could take Solange with him. 
ELEVEN 
Tommy's head was aching, and Palatazin had to stop to catch his breath. He sat 
beside the boy in the dark, foul clamminess of the tunnel while Ratty took the 
lantern and scuttled on ahead. In another few minutes they saw the light coming 
back, just a yellow dot at first and then a spreading beam. Ratty knelt down 
beside Palatazin. "We're almost under Hollywood Boulevard. You okay, little 
dude?" 
"Yeah. I'm fine," Tommy said. 
"How much farther to Outpost Drive?" Palatazin asked him. 
"Not far. Then we start climbing if the tunnel's big enough. And you got to 
remember, I can squeeze into a whole lot of places you can't. You two ready?" 
"Ready," Tommy said, and rose to his feet. 
Since crossing under DeLongpre Avenue the water at the bottom of the tunnel had 
increased from a slow trickle to what now seemed like a thick, muddy creek. The 
tunnel that Ratty had said ran underneath Sunset Boulevard was large and high, 
and it had amazed Palatazin that the lantern picked out spray-painted graffiti 
on the walls. At their feet slow currents moved around islands of brown sludge. 
Now they came to two tunnels splitting off in opposite directions. Ratty paused 
for a minute, shining his light around, and chose the right one. The ceiling 
dropped dramatically here, and they moved on with their backs bent. Occasional 
currents swirled over their shoes; the odors of sewage were nothing short of 
gruesome. Ratty splashed through the mess like a trout fisherman. "Not far!" he 
called back, waiting for them to catch up. "It's just through here. Hey! Watch 
it, little dude!" He shone the lights at gray rats scurrying protectively around 
a nest in a crack between two sections of pipe just above Tommy's head. All but 
two or three of the largest rats squealed and ran; they stared back defiantly, 
their eyes pink pinpoints. "Sometimes they jump for your face," Ratty said when 
they'd gone on past. "They grab hold, you can't shake 'em off for shit. One time 
I woke up after I'd crashed on yellows and found two of the little bastards 
tryin' to dig a nest in my beard!" 
343 
Ratty stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. "That's it. The big one under 
Hollywood." They came to the end of the narrow tunnel and stepped out into 
another large one. At the bottom of this tunnel, the water was deeper, perhaps a 
foot or so, and swirled around every manner of dank, unidentifiable debris. Rats 
chittered in the darkness, and Palatazin could hear them splashing in the water 
like birds in a birdbath. Ratty sloshed forward without hesitation, aiming his 
light along the far wall; there were more tunnel entrances over there, each one 
bleeding out little streams of water. "Let's see now," Ratty said, narrowing his 
eyes in thought. The light moved from one tunnel to the next. "It's that one," 
he said, holding steady on the center entrance. "Yeah. I'm pretty sure." 
Tommy said, "Don't you know?" His voice crackled with tension. Being down here 
reminded him of the movie Them, about the giant ants that had made a nest 
underneath L.A. 
"Sure I know," Ratty replied, and tapped his skull. "Got the map right up in 
here. Just sometimes I tend to get a little confused, that's all." He giggled 
suddenly, his eyes burning like blue lamps from the pills he'd popped. 
"Let's go," Palatazin said irritably. "Come on!" 
Ratty shrugged and started forward. Tommy took three steps and felt his right 
foot slide over something softly hideous. He screamed and jerked his leg away, 
stumbling into Palatazin. "What is it?" Palatazin said sharply. Ratty turned and 
shone his light down. A man's corpse was being laboriously pushed along by the 
westward currents. The rats were astride it, leaping and nibbling. Palatazin 
took Tommy's shoulder and pulled him away. They crossed the tunnel, walking 
faster, and entered the tunnel opening Ratty had indicated. 
The tunnel crooked to the right and grew steadily narrower. Palatazin walked 
bent over, his lungs rasping, and realized that Ratty's lantern was losing 
power. The beam of light had now dulled to a soft yellow. He could hear rats 
chittering behind them, closing up in their wake; he wondered how much more the 
boy could stand. But Tommy had made a man's choice, and now there was no turning 
back for him. More tunnels, some only holes a foot or less in diameter, branched 
off from the one they moved through. Water trickled and dripped, the echoes as 
disconcertingly loud as footsteps. They came to a metal-runged ladder. Ratty 
aimed the light up at a manhole cover perhaps twelve feet overhead. "I better go 
up to find out for sure where we are," he said, and gave Palatazin the lantern. 
Palatazin nodded, and Ratty scuttled up quickly, shoving the cover aside. A weak 
amber light came down from the opening, and then Ratty had disappeared into the 
storm. 
After a few minutes Palatazin said, "Tommy, I don't think we're going to make it 
before they start waking up. It's already very dark up there. Too dark. When the 
sun's rays get weak enough, I'm afraid they'll start . . . prowling again." 
"We can't go back," Tommy said. 
"I know." 
"Will they all ... wake up at the same time?" 
Palatazin shook his head. "I'm not sure. Possibly not. There are so many things 
344 
I don't know about them. The oldest ones may wake up first, or possibly the ones 
who are hungriest. My God, I hate to leave Jo unprotected-" He stopped suddenly 
because he thought he'd heard a sliding movement behind them. He shone the light 
in that direction. The light was too weak to reach very far, and the tunnel 
seemed layered with impenetrable shadows. 
"What is it?" Tommy asked nervously, looking over his shoulder. 
"I ... don't know. I thought I heard something, but . . ." 
Ratty appeared overhead and came down quickly. "Okay," he said, breathing 
heavily, his beard and hair full of sand. "We're under Franklin Avenue, but 
we've got to go east a little ways to pick up the tunnel under Outpost. I'm not 
sure how big it's gonna be." 
"Just get us there," Palatazin said, and gave him back the lantern. 
They moved on, the uneasy tick of time hammering at the back of Palatazin's 
skull. The tunnel crooked to the left, then to the right again, and grew 
narrower still. Seepage from the canyons sloshed noisily underfoot. Several 
times Palatazin said, "Wait," and they stood motionless while he listened. When 
Ratty aimed the light back, the tunnel was clear for as far as they could see. 
They came to a metal screen blocking their way. Palatazin took the mallet from 
the pack and spent a few minutes hammering it to one side. Farther on the tunnel 
began to angle upward perceptibly; it veered again to the right, then 
straightened out and seemed endless. The ceiling dropped once again, and now 
even Tommy walked bent over. Palatazin, his spine already aching, stepped 
carefully to keep from slipping in the morass at the tunnel's bottom as water 
and debris flowed over his shoes. 
And now he heard that noise again and turned, straining to see through the utter 
darkness. He was quite sure this time that he'd heard the muffled noise of cold 
laughter quickly fading away. He made Tommy walk between himself and Ratty. The 
hairs at the back of his neck were standing on end now because he feared that 
there were vampires down here who were already awake, sealed off from any hint 
of the sun. Possibly they were terribly hungry, and their hunger had kept them 
from sleeping; possibly they roamed the sewers in packs looking for victims. He 
remembered the matches and the aerosol can in the pack and, as he walked, he 
slipped his hand in and touched the can. Ratty's lantern was getting steadily 
weaker. 
The tunnel angled upward sharply. They started climbing. 
TWELVE 
The house was filling up with darkness. It had come insidiously, relentlessly, 
and early. It was the hazed light that frightened Jo so much because she was so 
uncertain of when the vampires would awaken and from where they'd attack-the 
little house across the street? the one next to that? Over an hour earlier she 
and 
345 
i 
THEY THIRST 
Gayle had heard the man next door crying out garbled prayers, then there'd been 
a long silence broken by a single shot. After that they didn't hear him anymore. 

Now Jo sat in a chair away from the window, her face a grim mask. Her fingers 
moved around the small crucifix that hung from her neck, the gift from Andy. 
Gayle had pulled the curtains closed, but every few minutes she would interrupt 
her nervous wandering around the room to peer out at the thickening gloom. Sand 
scraped the glass like fingernails across a blackboard. Gayle kept Palatazin's 
.38 close at hand. "Going to be dark soon," she kept saying as if forcing 
herself to accept that inevitability. Every time she pulled back the curtains to 
look out, she steeled herself to expect a pallid, grinning face looking in. 
Jo found herself drifting into memories-she could recall the first time she'd 
met Andy's mother, on their third date the night after a St. Stephen's Day 
festival. The woman had been friendly enough, but so quiet and withdrawn; her 
eyes had seemed washed-out and blank, and they'd seemed to stare right through 
Jo at something coming up from behind. Now she understood why. 
And then a fist slammed at the door. 
Gayle jumped. She grasped the .38 and pulled it out of the shoulder-holster. She 
stared at Jo, her eyes widened into fearful circles. 
The knock came again, two fast raps on the door. 
"Don't answer it!" Jo whispered. "Don't make a sound!" 
"It might be Palatazin!" Gayle said, and turned toward the door, one hand going 
out for the knob and the other gripped white-knuckled around the gun. 
"NO!" Jo said. "DON'T!" 
Silence but for the hissing of the wind. Gayle slowly unlocked the door, turned 
the knob, and opened it enough to look out. At first she couldn't see a thing, 
so she ft opened the door a little wider. 
And then something from a Jules Verne nightmare stepped in front of her, a 
green-garbed monstrosity with huge bug eyes and a hoglike snout. Gayle cried out 
and brought the gun up to fire, but the thing reached in and grasped her j 
wrist. "Whoa, Miss!" the thing said with a pronounced Texas drawl. "I'm Corporal 
Preston, U.S. Marines. I'd take it kindly if you'd remove your finger from that 
trigger." 
Relief flooded through her, weakening her knees. She realized the man was 
wearing an oxygen mask and goggles, and as she stepped into the house, she could 
see the tank on his back. The man closed the door, behind him and pulled his 
mask up. He was just a kid, really, with a lantern jaw and acne scars on his 
cheeks. He nodded toward Jo, who'd risen to her feet in amazement. "How many 
people you got in here, miss?" he asked Gayle. ."Two. Just us." 
""Okay. There's a unit vehicle about three blocks from here. We're going to be 
getting you out. I couldn't find anybody in the house next door. Anybody live 
over there?" He motioned toward the madman's house. 
"No," Gayle said. "Not anymore." 
346 
"Okay. You two ladies just hang on awhile longer, you'll hear the truck coming. 
You want to watch where you point that pop gun, miss." He slid his mask back 
down and started for the door, taking a small can of orange Day-Glo paint from 
the inside of his jacket. 
"We can't leave!" Jo said suddenly. "We're . . . waiting . . ." 
The Marine studied her through his goggles. "Ma'am," he said patiently, 
"everybody who can git is already gone, making tracks to high ground. I've got 
orders to evacuate all the folks I can find, and let me tell you, I can't find 
very many of 'em. What are you waiting for?" 
Gayle said, "There are two more of us. A man and a boy." 
"Oh. They went out in this storm, did they?" 
Gayle nodded. Jo's eyes were reddening. 
"I wouldn't worry," Preston said. "They probably got picked up by another unit 
by now. The trucks are all over the area. And nobody could get very far out 
there without ... uh ..." He trailed off. "The truck'll be here in a few 
minutes." 
He opened the door, letting in a hot swirl of wind and sand. On the outside of 
the door he sprayed a large numeral two, glaring orange against the bare, pocked 
wood. "You ladies just sit tight for a while," he called over his shoulder 
before he shut the door. Struggling against the wind, he went on to the next 
house. The fire tracks where Royce had taken the Crab on up ahead were already 
gone. Preston could look back and see the faint yellow glow of the tractor's 
high-intensity headlights approaching. At least, he thought, most of these folks 
have already gotten out one way or another. Nobody answered their doors, so they 
must've gotten to safety. But he wondered how, since there seemed to be a lot of 
abandoned cars, all of them covered over with blowing dunes. He was following 
orders, though, and searching door-to-door, and he didn't have time to think 
about anything else. Nobody answered next door so he went on. His spray can 
hadn't seen much use today. 
THIRTEEN 
It was almost five o'clock when Wes found the turnoff onto Blackwood Road. The 
sky had turned the texture of hard leather, as dull brown as the oxblood shoes 
the pimps used to wear as they watched their low-rent merchandise parade on 
Whore's Walk. It seemed low enough to scrape across the Crab's roof. On either 
side of the road, trees bent and shivered, limbs ripping away and flying off 
down the hillside. The Crab's tires fought for a sure purchase on the incline; 
it seemed to slip three feet for every two it gained. The wheel shuddered in 
Wes's grip. 
"This is the way up?" Silvera asked him. "You're sure?" 
ŤT>77 
1 m sure. 
Silvera could see only walls of blowing sand all around them. Still, he had a 
feeling that the castle was somewhere close, looming overhead like a huge stone 
vulture hanging to the cliff. Fear had coiled in his belly, a cold serpent 
undulating 
347 
as it crawled up to enclose his heart in a freezing grasp. His nerve was 
slipping as badly as the Crab's tires. But there was no turning back now, there 
had never been. He saw his way clearly and knew he was following it as it had 
been laid down, stone for stone, all the way from the Dos Terros tenement he'd 
gone into with Rico Esteban. It was meant for him to be here, as surely as Wes 
was meant to commandeer this vehicle. This moment had been ordained for him 
during the tick of the clock in which Dr. Doran had told him he was dying. It 
was all part of the mysterious jigsaw puzzle that, when viewed close up, seemed 
to be nothing but meaningless colors and angles of movement. But when viewed 
from far away, perhaps over the shoulder, it became as tightly constructed and 
meaningful as the stained-glass window in his own church. He didn't know what 
the future would bring; he dared not guess. But neither would he let fear 
strangle him. 
A howling gust of wind hit the Crab, almost tearing the wheel out of Wes's 
hands. The engine whirred as sand shifted beneath the wheels, and the Crab hung 
motionless for a few seconds. The tires gripped and pulled, then lost traction 
again. Wes looked at Silvera. 
"The road's too steep! Tires can't get a ... Christ!" The Crab skidded sideways 
toward a dropoff on the left side of the road. Wes pumped the brakes 
frantically, but the vehicle was being pushed by the wind faster and faster, as 
if shoved by a satanic hand. "We're going over!" he shouted, twisting the wheel. 

The rear slipped over, tires spinning in empty air. Wes glanced to the left, saw 
dashing currents and a shrub-stubbled ravine forty feet below. For an agonizing 
II few seconds he felt the Crab tipping. He sank his foot to the floorboard; the 
front tires dug down through the shifting sand. The Crab suddenly lurched as the 
right front tire scrabbled across concrete. It turned away from the dropoff and 
met another wailing torrent of wind head-on. Then it was thrown to the side like 
a roller coaster that had jumped the tracks. 
It crashed into a tree at the edge of the road and hung there, perhaps six feet 
away from the dropoff. The wind whirled past, roaring in fury. The Crab's engine 
gave a little moan and died. Wes stared straight ahead, afraid to move for fear 
of rocking the vehicle over. His eyes were glassy, his lips as white as 
newly-cut marble. 
"We're okay," Silvera said shakily. "The wind's got us pinned against that tree. 
We're not going anywhere." 
"God," Wes breathed. "I thought ... we were . . . it's a hell of a long way down 
. . ." When he forced himself to let go of the wheel, the blood came back into 
his fingers with a tingling rush. 
"We're going to have to make it on foot the rest of the way. How far up is it?" 
"I don't know. It's right at the top, but ... I don't know." 
"You all right?" 
"Yeah. Will be. Just give me a minute." 
Silvera reached back for his gear. "I don't know how much air we've got left in 
these, but it'll have to be enough." 
"Listen, if that fucking wind could throw a car over the cliff, it could pick us 
up 
348 
and toss us right onto that spindle on top of the Capitol Records building!" 
"Yes, I know. So we'll have to be careful, won't we? The wind may be worse 
higher up. Now you listen to me. We're going to have to move damned fast out 
there, and we'll have to be lucky. I don't know how we're going to get inside 
that place yet, and I really don't know what we can do when and if we do get in. 
I feel like I ... have to go. You don't. You can stay here if you like." 
"Stay here?" Wes frowned, gazed out at the storm for a few seconds, and then 
back to Silvera. "No. I'm scared so bad I'm about to piss nickels, but I've come 
too far to stay here. Solange is up there somewhere. I want to find her." 
"You may not be able to. And what you find may not be the person you knew." 
"I understand that," Wes said quietly. 
"Then you also understand that once we get in there, we may not be coming out?" 
Wes nodded. 
"I want you to do what I say when I say it," Silvera said. "No balking." He 
reached down to the floorboard for the guns, handed Wes the .45, and slipped the 
.22 into his own waistband. He touched the small bottle of holy water in his 
side coat pocket. "I don't know much about these things," Silvera said. "The 
water may not have any effect. Neither may the guns, but aim for their eyes. 
That should make them think twice." 
"Don't fire till you see the whites of their eyes, huh?" Wes said nervously. 
"I don't think I'd wait that long. Once we get inside, I'm going to be searching 
for one in particular, and I pray to God that the water has some effect on him. 
Or the bullets. And . . ." He took out the switchblade. "If he's sleeping I'm 
going to cut out his heart with this. Now you'd better get ready." 
Wes geared up. Silvera slipped his oxygen mask on, and then it was time to go. 
Silvera had to push to get the door open. He squeezed out, and Wes followed him 
out the passenger's side because the driver's door was jammed against that tree. 
They began to climb the road, their feet slipping and sinking. Occasional strong 
blasts of wind staggered them, pushing them dangerously close to the rock- 
rimmed dropoffs on the left side of the road before they could regain their 
balance. It was almost fully dark now, and Silvera knew that if the vampires 
weren't already prowling, they soon would be. The road stretched up into 
whirling black, as if it led over the edge of the world and when they fell, they 
would keep falling through the dark forever. 
They had been walking for perhaps fifteen minutes when Silvera saw something 
move ahead-a quick, furtive movement, something that seemed smaller than a man 
but still indistinguishable in the gloom. It seemed to vanish, sucked up by the 
storm. He had the feeling they were being watched by something coming up fast 
from behind. He slid the gun out and whirled around. Nothing there but darkness, 
ghostly patterns of sand hissing and dancing and breaking apart, whirling out 
over the great dark plain where a glittering city had once been. He kept moving, 
keeping right beside Wes. Now there was another quick movement off in the thick 
349 T I 
THEY THIRST 
' shrubs to the left at the road's edge. Then another on the right. He couldn't 
tell yet what they were, but they disappeared as quickly as he saw them. 
And then from out of the storm curtain that fluttered in their faces lunged a 
huge reddish brown mongrel, its eyes burning like yellow lamps. 
Silvera saw the bared teeth. He lifted his arm and fired but never heard the two 
shots. The dog leapt past his shoulder, almost knocking him to the ground, and 
was swallowed up in the darkness. Silvera didn't know whether he'd hit it or 
not. Another dog, smaller than the first one but coal-black so they didn't see 
it until it was right there at their feet, jumped for Wes's face, jaws snapping 
shut as Wes shouted and dodged. The dog tensed for another leap, but Silvera 
stepped forward and kicked it in the ribs. It howled and whirled, snapping at 
the priest's leg. Wes fired a shot; the bullet splintered the dog's skull and 
flung it away like a rag. Something struck at the back of Silvera's knees, 
staggering him. He felt teeth ripping into his right calf, gnawing for the bone. 
He twisted and wrenched his leg away and, as the collie came at him again, he 
shot it between the eyes. The collie fell, kicked a few times, and then was 
still. "I'll watch the rear!" Silvera shouted. His leg was bleeding, but he 
barely felt the pain. Now there seemed to be a hundred shapes all around them, 
leaping and feinting, coming in to draw their shots before darting away. Silvera 
held his fire, but twice Wes shot at shadows. "Save it!" Silvera told him. "Make 
it count!" 
Something that looked like a gray bull mastiff came charging out of the storm, 
rearing up on powerful, muscle-corded hind legs. It towered as high as Wes, 
showing teeth that could rip his throat out. Wes was about to fire when the dog 
vanished off to his right. He looked up and could see shapes gathered on the 
boulders that 
m hung over the road. They crouched low, like wolves about to leap. Dogs came 
snapping at Silvera's legs, backed away, and charged again. A black mongrel with 
dull, deadly eyes sprang high from the pack, fangs closing on the sleeve of his 
gun 
If hand. He almost lost the .22, but then he kicked the dog with his uninjured 
leg, heard cloth rip, and his arm was free. He fired a shot into the snapping 
pack and instantly they split apart, leaping to both sides and scurrying away. 
"Keep moving!" 
H he shouted to Wes. "Don't let them stop you!" 
There was a brown blur in the corner of Wes's eye. A slat-ribbed mongrel was 
tracking him, looking for an opening. He shot at it and heard it yip. The dogs 
began coming down from the rocks, circling the two men. Silvera saw a huge 
bluish gray dog that could have been a Siberian husky or some kind of wolf. It 
wore a nail- studded collar, and when its eyes caught the priest's, they burned 
with demonic hunger. The wolf-dog was stalking him, letting the smaller dogs 
rush in first and 
\4 waiting to see what would happen. When a couple of them came at Silvera's 
left 
 and he whirled to meet them, the wolf-dog leapt from the right soundlessly, 
its jaws 
'J opening wide to crush the human's gun arm. 
Silvera saw the gray streak and pulled his arm back, but the massive dog hit 
if him so hard he was thrown to the ground on his side, the breath whistling 
painfully 
| from between his teeth. The dog straddled him, fangs going up under the mask 
to 
350 
rip his throat. He could feel the hot wetness of its muzzle and saw the 
glittering eyes pressed right up to his own with triumphant defiance. 
In the next instant the dog's face caved in, teeth and bone disintegrating; 
blood splattered across Silvera's mask and goggles. He heard Wes's second shot, 
the .45's barrel less than three feet away, and then there wasn't much left of 
the wolf- dog's head but ooze and broken bone. Silvera pushed the heavy corpse 
aside and staggered to his feet, wiping the blood off his goggles so he could 
see then next attackers. The shapes darted and danced around them, but they 
wouldn't come in close. Silvera thought the wolf-dog might've been the pack's 
leader, and now they seemed disorganized and much less confident. The circle of 
snapping animals slowly widened, and then they were swallowed up by the storm. 
Wes and Silvera could hear the animals howling up in the rocks, like subjects 
mourning their dead king. "They may be back!" Silvera said. "We've got to 
hurry!" He had only two bullets left and, as they walked, Silvera took the .45 
and slapped in a new clip, then handed it back to Wes. 
The road began to level off. They sensed the castle before they saw it, a huge 
turreted thing of dark stone just beyond the storm's whirling curtain. The wind 
was terrible, ripping past Wes and Silvera with a vengeance, almost casting them 
off the cliffs edge and down into a series of rocky ravines below. They moved 
carefully, making sure one step was firm before they tried the next. Mountains 
of sand grew and fell around them, hissing and sliding and then finally falling 
off the cliff, leaving diaphanous trails across the muddy sky. At first Silvera 
thought he was looking at an extension of the mountain, a jumble of stones that 
loomed up in fearsome peaks, but as he moved closer, he saw the high wall, and 
the chinks between the gray blocks like rough scales on the hide of a leviathan. 
He saw towers, parapets, sloping roofs whitened with sand, saw teeth of glass 
glittering in high window frames, dunce-cap spires spiking the sky. The castle 
looked like a grinning stone skull capped with satanic horns. The place was 
huge, as dark and forbidding as a nightmare. Silvera stopped in his tracks, 
overwhelmed. Go on, he told himself. This has to be faced. It has to be done. 
As they neared the wall, the wind stopped, blocked off by the mass of stone. 
Mounds of sand had heaped up against the enormous wooden gate and covered the 
driveway as well to a depth of perhaps six inches. Wes and Silvera looked up, 
dwarfed by the structure; the parapets and towers seemed to be leaning slightly, 
the windows set at odd angles and none of them quite the same size. Some of the 
stones protruded and some of them were recessed, cracked, and crumbling. 
"What are we going to do?" Wes asked. "How do we get over that wall?" 
Silvera moved along the driveway toward the gate, stopped, and looked up at the 
tangle of barbed wire six feet above. "I think I can climb over that if you'll 
help me," he said. 
Wes paused, looking at the balconies and windows for a sign of activity; the 
place looked dead, deceptively so. Maybe they're still sleeping! he thought. If 
we hurry, we can get in, find Solange, and get out before they're up! He watched 
Silvera 
351 
walk to the gate. In the distance he could hear a chorus of howls, as if the 
dogs were gathering for another attack. Silvera looked over his shoulder into 
the darkness, the flesh at the back of his neck crawling. 
And with his next step he heard the quiet click! of a disengaging spring. He 
realized what it was a split second before the trap's gleaming serrated jaws 
burst up from the sand around his left foot and snapped shut on his ankle. There 
was no pain at first, just the brittle sound of cracking bone, and he then knew 
what he should've guessed before he started, along the driveway. The sand had 
been spread thickly and deliberately here to hide the iron traps that lay in 
wait for intruders. Now the pain hit, a white-hot wave that made him cry out in 
the mask. He was staggering backward, but slowly-so slowly-like in a nightmare 
where all motion seems crazy and useless. He tried to brace his fall with a hand 
and saw with horror another trap's jaws snapping shut, missing his wrist by 
several inches. He hit the ground on his side; a third trap cracked together 
just beside his face. Then it seemed he could see the castle from the corner of 
his eye, and he was watching the towers tumble toward him. The towers fell, 
smothering him in agonizing darkness. 
FOURTEEN 
Prince Vulkan's eyes opened. At once he was fully alert, like any wild animal 
eager to hunt. Tonight, he'd decided, he would go down into Los Angeles and join 
his troops rather than wait for food to be brought up to the castle. He would 
hunt with his soldiers and race with the wind, seeking out the scent of warm 
blood, the noises of humans whimpering in their attics and basements. He was 
chilled with the need for food, though the cold wasn't yet painful. 
Uneasiness ached within him, a strange kind of confusion and uncertainty that he 
hadn't known in a very long time. In his dreams he'd stood at the center of a 
huge stadium, even larger than the Colisseum in Rome, with high banks of bright 
lights shining down. He was on a platform, the green field marked off in columns 
on each side, and the waves of frantic adulation had swept down, crashing on 
him, hot and sweet, from the thousands who filled the stadium around him. They 
were lall calling him Master, and when they started leaping onto the field and 
running toward him to kiss his hands, his lieutenants and their attack dogs had 
formed a ring around him for protection. It was at that moment that he knew the 
city had fallen. Los Angeles was theirs, the first conquest of the invincible 
vampiric army. The first of many. 
The shouting swelled. His name cracked through the sky like thunder, rolling 
ominously in all directions. His hour was at hand; next would be the fall of San 
Francisco and San Diego, securing a hold on the West. Then the army would begin 
crawling eastward, advance parties moving into the major cities, one wing 
swinging north into Canada and one south into Mexico. It was the beginning of a 
new age, and he would be its rising star. 
352 
But amid the joyful celebration, he felt a gnarled hand fall upon his shoulder, 
and he turned to face the Headmaster. 
But a different Headmaster. Its eyes had dimmed somewhat, the black lips were 
tightly drawn. "Beware, Conrad," the Headmaster had said. "Be careful, and guard 
yourself." 
"My hour has come!" Vulkan said. "Beware of what? Listen to them scream my name! 
My name!" 
"You stand in a dream," the Headmaster whispered, the hand gripping the prince's 
shoulder. "You lie at sleep, and these things have not yet come to pass. .." 
"They mil! I know they will! Listen to them shouting!" 
"I hear the wind." The Headmaster blinked, and when its eyes opened again, 
Vulkan sensed a weariness about his old teacher, a ... weakness. "My opponent 
moves His pieces, Conrad. We've not yet won the game." 
"Game?" Vulkan asked. The shouting died to a whisper and was swept away. Now he 
stood alone in the center of the stadium with the Headmaster, and the glaring 
lights were beginning to hurt his eyes. "What pieces do you mean?" 
"They're strong, Conrad, don't you understand that? They refuse to accept 
defeat! They refuse to be broken! You've barely scratched the surface of 
humanity in this city, and you think the whole world is already yours. It is 
not!" The Headmaster's voice came out as a growl, rumbling down the length of 
the field. "They're escaping by the thousands, Conrad . . ." 
"NO! The storm won't let them!" 
The Headmaster's eyes flared. "There are limits to all things, Conrad, even to 
the powers I possess. And the power you have as well. But it is endurance that 
will win the game. And if nothing else, they know how to endure." 
"I've crushed them!" Vulkan shouted. "The city is mine!" 
The Headmaster shook its dark head and stared at him sadly. "You've learned all 
the lessons but one, and that is the most important. Never consider your 
position safe. Never! You may destroy a knight or a bishop, and be struck down 
by a pawn." 
"Nothing can touch me!" Vulkan cried out defiantly. "I'm not . . . weak!" 
"There are four who would destroy you," the Headmaster said. "They approach even 
now, as you lie dreaming of glory. Four pieces-one is a knight, another is a 
bishop, a third is a rook, and the fourth is a pawn. Without fully realizing it 
they have come together in a deadly combination, Conrad. I've done all I can to 
stop them, but they endure. And they advance. We can still destroy them. We can 
still win the game, but you must know them and beware . . ." 
"We?" Vulkan shook free of the Headmaster's grip. "We? Didn't you hear them 
shouting? Whose name did they call? Mine! Prince Conrad Vulkan, King of the 
Vampires! They call me Master. They recognize me as the highest power!" 
"I have given you and your kind life. I have taught you the secrets of power, 
the sorcery of Aba-aner, Nectanebus, and Solomon. I have taught you what it 
means to be a king. But you're not invincible, Conrad . . ." 
Vulkan stared at him for a long time, then said coldly, "Who would dare to test 
me?" 
353 
THEY THIRST 
"Four humans," the Headmaster replied. 
"Four humans!" Vulkan said disdainfuly, and when he grinned he showed his fangs. 
"Don't you understand the size of my army now? Before the sun rises again, 
they'll number twice a million! And tomorrow night..." He lifted a hand and 
curled it into a fist, his eyes wild and bright green. And then his grin 
suddenly contorted with the realization. "You're . . . afraid, aren't you? 
You're scared! Of what? Those four? Why don't you find them? Why don't you tear 
them to pieces for me?" 
"Because," the Headmaster said softly, "our enemy is using them, working through 
theni just as we work through all the others. I can't . . . touch them . . ." 
"You're afraid!" the prince shouted. "Well, I'm not! I've learned all the 
lessons now, my troops call out for me, and we still advance! Nothing can stop 
us now. Are you afraid because ..." He stopped, thinking the unutterable, but 
now he knew the truth, and the words burst from his throat. "That's it, isn't 
it? You're afraid of me. You don't want me to get too strong, do you? You're 
afraid of what I've learned!" 
The Headmaster watched him silently. Its eyes began to burn like pools of slag 
flowing out of a volcanic furnace. 
"I'm going to live forever," Vulkan said, "and I'll always be young, always! So 
you've seen what I can do, and you've come to make me doubt myself, haven't you? 
You've come to make me afraid of four humans, just like you are!" 
"Forever is too long," the Headmaster said, "and never long enough. I came to 
warn you, Conrad. I've done all I can for you, the rest will have to be-" 
"I don't need you anymore!" the prince said. "School's out!" 
The Headmaster seemed to tremble with rage. Its body began to gather into a 
hulking mass, like a thick blight of shadow. It neared Vulkan, covering him over 
with the force of a freezing wind. "Fool," it whispered. "Little boy. Little 
fool . . ." 
"I'm not a little boy, I'm not, I'm not, I'm NOT!" Vulkan shouted, but when he 
tried to step away from the Headmaster, he felt locked into its shadow. 
"Did you think you were my only pupil, Conrad? You're not. I have other ones 
with the potential to be even stronger than you. It's not your strength I fear, 
Conrad, but your weakness. I see this city falling before your kind, but not by 
their power. You've done what we wanted to do; now time has come to retreat . . 
." 
"Retreat?" Vulkan repeated incredulously. "No! This is my city now, my Babylon! 
I won't run from four humans . . ." 
"Taking ground is one thing," the Headmaster said, "keeping it is another. Take 
your lieutenants and as many others as you can, and leave this place right now. 
Cross the mountains to the west. Start again. I can help you just as I did 
before . . ." 
"WHY?" Vulkan shouted. "WHY ARE YOU AFRAID?" 
"Because of what our enemy will use against us. This city-" 
Vulkan clapped his hands to his ears. "GET OUT!" he shouted. "You won't make me 
afraid! You won't make me lose! Nothing can hurt me!" 
The Headmaster stared at him for a long moment, and when it spoke again, there 
was an edge of sadness and anger in its rasping voice. "I treated you as a ... a 

354 
special son, Conrad. My hope for a new beginning." The thick shadow hovered, 
dark folds enclosing the prince. "So you would deny me, wouldn't you? After all 
these hundreds of years, you would deny me in a moment!" The eyes began to burn 
with savage ferocity. 
"I have taught you well, perhaps too well, but now I see what was beyond my 
power to give you. I could never make you grow up. You will be seventeen years 
old forever, filled with the childish needs and fantasies of youth. You haven't 
taken a kingdom, Conrad, I've given it to you. So be it. What is forever to you 
is to me . . . an episode. Now you have your kingdom. Protect it as you will. 
But you're correct in one thing, my pupil. School is out." 
The shadow began to turn like a whirlwind, while above it the two blazing yellow 
lamps of its eyes continued to burn into Vulkan's skull. Vulkan shuddered, the 
cold rippling through his veins. The shadow twisted itself into a frenzy, then 
began to roll up upon itself like a black scroll of ancient parchment; in 
another moment it had begun to fade. The merciless eyes were the last to 
disappear, darkening like unplugged lamps. When the Headmaster was gone, the 
stadium around Prince Vulkan swirled away, shimmering like a mirage, the bright 
banks of lights going out one by one. 
And then Prince Vulkan's eyes opened in darkness. 
He lay still for a few moments, wondering about the implications of his dream. 
He felt uneasy, chilled, unprotected. They were old feelings, and they stirred 
up memories of his human existence like dark debris from the bottom of a pond. 
Four humans? Coming to challenge the King of the Vampires? It was absurd. 
After a while he raised his arms, threw the coffin lid back, and stepped out of 
his bed of warm, protective dirt. He stood in the first-level basement, a large 
network of corridors and rooms that had been filled with old, broken furniture, 
cardboard boxes, crates, and stacks of ancient newspapers and magazines bound 
together with rotting twine. In one of those boxes Prince Vulkan had found 
yellowing glossies and old placards advertising the films of Orion Kronsteen. 
There had been a picture of the man in vampire makeup, hovering over a young 
blond girl who slept unaware. It had greatly amused Prince Vulkan to see the 
Hollywood impressions of his kind. The face in that photograph looked stupid and 
lethargic, not nearly hungry enough. Once while walking the streets of Chicago's 
Southside near Cornell Square after nightfall, Prince Vulkan had stopped with 
Falco-dear, departed, traitorous Falco-before a blinking marquee that said DAMEN 
SOUTH THEATER and beneath that, DOUBLE CHILLS! CURSE OF THE VA PIRE -Chr stopher 
Lee & COU TESS DRAG LA-Ingrid Pitt. Of course, he'd had to see them, two old 
vampire movies scratched to shreds, really quite humorous. He'd seen silent 
movies before in London, but now not only did they talk, they were in color too! 
Some of the people in the sparse theater audience laughed at the vampires on the 
screen. Prince Vulkan, acting more out of impulse than hunger, had moved across 
the balcony and sat behind a man who was snoring. Vulkan could peer through the 
balding skull at the inner workings of the brain and see that man's 
355 
THEY THIRST 
entire life-wife named Cecilia, two children named Mike and Lisa, images of a 
small apartment with a Swiss-style cuckoo clock on the wall, piles of papers and 
bills on a desk beneath a small yellow-shaded lamp, buddies crowded around in a 
dark tavern with swords crossed above the bar, a glass of beer on a napkin that 
said McDougall's. That man wanted very much to be young again, carefree, 
hot-rodding along a street called Brezina in a red car with a foxtail on the 
antenna. In less than twenty minutes, from the bite to the ingestion of the 
blood, Prince Vulkan had altered that man's destiny. And now that man, Corcoran 
by name, was one of the several hundred vampires in Chicago who awaited the 
Master's triumphant return. 
It was time to call the dogs in for the night. Prince Vulkan concentrated on 
finding the largest of them, the gray-blue wolf that had taken control of the 
pack. His eyes rolled back in his head as he searched, but he couldn't find the 
dog. Like a wisp of cold wind or an errant shadow, he went beyond his body, 
casting his mental eye like a fiery globe out into the storm. He couldn't feel 
that dog anymore; the link between them had been inexplicably severed. Now he 
could feel some of them out there, but it was a confusion of pain and dumb rage. 
He searched among them, touching their minds. They were out of control and 
afraid. Vulkan picked up mental impressions of thunder and lightning, dreaded 
fire, a pain that crushed and scorched. Quickly he allowed himself to come back. 
His eyes rolled back in their sockets, their pupils narrowed into tight slits. 
Something had happened to the pack's leader. The dog must be dead. But what-and 
who-had killed it? 
He hurried along the corridor, past the rooms where Kobra and his other 
lieutenants would just be drifting up out of sleep. He climbed a long, curving, 
stone stairway that led to a three-inch-thick oak door and, beyond that, to the 
castle's main floor. He unbolted the door and stepped out into a wide central 
corridor that ran the width of the castle. Beside the door, at the foot of 
another curving, stone stairway, stood Kobra's motorcycle, most of the black 
paint now scoured away by the force of the storm. 
"Roach!" Vulkan shouted, his voice roaring through the castle's hallways, 
alcoves, and chambers. "ROACH!" 
He hurried upstairs, shoes clattering on the rough stones. The second-floor 
corridors whispered with turbulent winds that had found their way in through 
chinks and cracks. There were many windowless rooms here that also held coffins, 
and already many of the vampires were drifting from chamber to chamber like 
specters. They moved quickly out of his path as he approached. One of them, a 
beautiful blond woman wearing a blood-splattered black dress, fell to her knees 
and tried to kiss his hand, but he hissed at her and wrenched away. His mind was 
on more urgent matters. 
"Roach!" he screamed again, and in another moment he saw a bright spot of light 
ahead of him, getting nearer. Roach had a flashlight in his hand. "I called for 
you!" Vulkan said, his eyes blazing. "Where were you?" 
"I heard, Master, but I .was . . . starting the fire in the council chamber. 
It's ready for you, Master . . ." 
356 
Vulkan looked beyond the man's eyes; it was simple because Roach's mentality was 
so childlike, so pliable. He saw what Roach had seen just a moment earlier: That 
corkscrew of sand in the golden urn, twisting around and around with its 
hypnotic rhythm. Roach had prepared the fire and the maps, but he'd been 
entranced by the urn. He was oblivious to anything else, like a child with a 
strange toy. He got out of Roach's mind quickly because it teemed with dark 
shapes and shadows, the memory of hands around the throat of a woman whose 
facial features kept shifting, a body rolling down a dimly lit staircase and 
coming to rest at the bottom like a broken-necked doll, swarms of rats and 
roaches kicking in their death agonies. "Something's happened to the dogs!" 
Vulkan said, then recalled the Headmaster's voice: "There are four who would 
come to destroy you.""Someone may have gotten past them!" 
Roach looked startled. "Who? Someone . . . past the dogs . . .?" 
"Come with me." He moved past Roach along the corridor to yet another narrow 
stairway that curved up to a double-bolted oak door. He unlocked and opened it, 
stepping out on a wide balcony that stood perhaps fifty feet above the ground. 
He strode across to the stone parapet and looked out into the night; he heard 
quite clearly the distant, confused howling of the pack. Yes. He was certain 
now. His first line of defense had been broken. But what of the second? He 
leaned over and looked down. 
At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary; the main gate was still closed, the 
courtyard fortified. But then he caught a glimpse of movement just on the other 
side of the gate, and he saw two men-two humans wearing some kind of masks and 
breathing apparatus-down where the iron traps had been laid. One of them was 
injured-he could see the trap clamped around the figure's left ankle-and the 
other one was trying to pull him away from the gate toward the line of dead 
trees a few yards away, where darkness and the terrain might give them 
concealment. 
Vulkan grinned. When he'd realized that his initial defense had been broken, 
that someone had actually managed to come both through the storm and past the 
dogs to reach him, he'd been filled with uneasy concern and a sort of dreadful 
wonder. "Four are coming," the Headmaster had said. "They endure." But the 
Headmaster had been wrong. There were only two, both of them already weak. One 
lay prone, and the other looked as if he might fall at any moment. There were 
only two, and they had come up this mountain to their deaths. The Headmaster had 
been wrong. 
"Wrong!" the prince shouted. "Beward of what? Of you?" He began to laugh, his 
mouth opening and the long fangs sliding out of their sockets in his jaws. The 
laughter-a cold, harsh chuckling-went on for another moment, then stopped 
abruptly. Vulkan's eyes narrowed. He watched the man struggling with his 
wounded-or dead-companion. "Go down and find Kobra," he said to Roach. "You and 
he bring those two-what's left of them-to the council chamber. And understand-I 
don't want them touched. Not yet." 
Roach nodded eagerly and scurried across the balcony through the door. 
357 T 
THEY THIRST 
Prince Vulkan leaned over the parapet, watching the two men with great interest. 
How did these two manage to find him? he wondered. What had brought them up the 
mountain? Did other humans know where he was hidden? If so, his refuge was not 
quite as safe as he had thought. The Headmaster's warning echoed in his head, 
but he brushed it aside. Some sport was what he needed to take his mind off the 
Headmaster. Yes! Sport! Fun and games, like the rapier contests, the bear versus 
boar fights, the battles between dogs and rats that his father the Hawk had 
enjoyed so. If these two humans could endure the journey up the mountain in this 
storm, if indeed they were so good at enduring hardships, then surely they could 
endure a little more for the pleasure of the vampire king and his court. Surely. 

FIFTEEN 
Ratty probed ahead with the lantern. Its weakening yellow glow stitched patches 
of shadow together like a golden needle through dense cloth. The tunnel still 
climbed, as it had for the last two miles, its floor slick with seepage. 
Palatazin's legs and back were weary, and several times he'd had to lean against 
a wall to rest, so their progress had been drastically slowed. Droplets of sweat 
gleamed on his face, and now he was fighting claustrophobia and the continual 
feeling that something was stalking them from behind, perhaps allowing them to 
continue as a cat might allow a mouse to exhaust itself in a futile effort. He 
could feel something cold back there, and several times-when he sensed the chill 
closing in at the back of his neck-he'd taken a box of matches and a spray can 
from the pack, lit it, and turned to protect the rear. He'd never seen them back 
there, but he could hear scuttlings and angered hisses just beyond the light. 
The flame was keeping them away. For now. 
They'd passed beneath more manhole covers, and Palatazin had climbed up to look 
out, to see if he recognized anything from his earlier drive to Kronsteen's 
castle. Sand and wind slapped his face, but the storm didn't seem quite as 
fierce up here as it had below. Visibility was a little better, and he could 
make out the dark shapes of white stucco and redwood-frame houses perched on the 
hillside. They a kept climbing. Palatazin was fearful of missing the turnoff 
altogether. Perhaps they'd already missed it. He couldn't be certain. 
His spine started crawling again. He was aware of the noises behind him; he lit 
a match. In its reddish flare, he could see several pairs of dead, bullet-hole 
eyes 
I jperhaps ten feet away. The vampires-there were at least three-scattered into 
the 
I jdarkness, anticipating the lick of flame from the spray-can torch. He took 
the spray 
can out of the pack, popped its cap off, and pressed the button down, spraying 
it 
Htoward the match. The flame erupted in a dart of red and blue. The vampires 
hastily retreated into the shadows, and Palatazin could hear their angered 
hissing 
and curses. 
bThey continued climbing, Palatazin guarding the rear. When the flame began 
I 
358 
to sputter, he could see the vampires creeping toward them, faces vulpine and 
hideous, just beyond the limit of the fire. There were three, two young men and 
a girl, anger exploding in their eyes with swirls of silver and red. 
"Put it down, old man," one of them whispered. Palatazin heard the voice quite 
clearly, echoing through his head, but it didn't seem as if the boy had moved 
his lips. 
"Go on," the female vampire whispered, a cold grin across her face. "Put down 
the fire like a nice boy-" 
"NO!" Palatazin shouted. His vision seemed to be fogging over, the darkness 
creeping up on all sides to consume him. 
"They're in your mind!" Tommy said sharply. "Don't listen to them!" 
"Please," the female said, and licked her lips with a black tongue. "Pretty 
please." One of the others feinted for Palatazin's arm, and Palatazin almost 
released the button. The can was getting hot in his hand, and he knew the 
propellant would last only a minute or so longer. 
Suddenly Ratty stopped. "Hey? You hear that?" he demanded, his voice cracking 
with tension. 
Palatazin tried to listen over the voices whispering in his head. The three 
vampires were getting bolder now, darting in toward the flame, and trying to 
knock it from his hand. "I hear it!" Tommy answered. "Dogs howling up there!" 
Palatazin tried to concentrate over the tauntings of the vampires, and 
immediately he could hear it, too-a ghostly chorus of wails floating somewhere 
above them. 
"We've got to find a way up!" he shouted, and then he heard the female whisper, 
"No you don't. You want to put that down and stay with us, don't you?" The flame 
sputtered once, twice. Now the tunnel seemed filled with the reek of burning 
aerosol and oily smoke. One of the other vampires lunged for Palatazin, but he 
thrust the weakening flame in an arc across the boy's face; the thing screamed 
shrilly and staggered back. 
Ratty found a ladder and pulled himself up. When he pushed the cover aside, the 
merest hint of muddy brown light filtered down into the tunnel, but it seemed 
enough to keep the vampires away. They stood clustered together hissing like 
rattlers in the shadows, and Palatazin heard a silvery, sweet voice in his mind 
say, "We need you here with us. Please stay . . . please stay . . ." 
And for an instant he wanted to. 
"We've got to go up here!" he shouted as the wind churned around him and off 
down the tunnel with a faint whistling. The flame went out. Behind him, Tommy 
was just on his way up the ladder to Ratty waiting at the top. The vampires 
stood beyond the limits of the light, but when Palatazin started up the ladder, 
one of them darted in and grabbed his ankle, trying to pull him back down. He 
kicked free and saw a pair of hideous fangs exposed in the thing's mouth as it 
tried to bite his ankle, then it screamed from exposure to the fractional light 
and scurried away. As Palatazin reached the top and squeezed through, he heard a 
distant, weakening whisper, "Don't go ... don't go ... don't . . ." 
359 
The storm thrashed around him, and now he heard the howling somewhere off to his 
left, terrible and shrill. The three of them moved forward, the wind about to 
throw them off balance from all directions. In another moment Palatazin saw a 
couple of houses that he thought he recognized, though he couldn't be sure. Then 
out of the gloom rose the familiar dead trees and the narrow road snaking up 
Outpost Drive. 
"We're close enough!" he shouted to Ratty, shielding his face with his arm. "The 
castle's at the top of this road!" 
"I'm scared shitless of the bloodsuckers, man," Ratty shouted back, "but I'm 
sure as hell not going back into that tunnel! You dig?" 
Palatazin nodded. "You okay?" he asked Tommy. 
"Okay!" the boy answered, keeping his hands cupped in front of his mouth and 
nose. He staggered, nearly knocked over by the wind's force. 
"Then we go up!" Palatazin took the lead, with Ratty bringing up the rear. They 
linked hands, fighting upward. The wind was fierce, and Tommy fell a couple of 
times, almost being swept away before either Palatazin or Ratty could help him. 
They passed a low-slung vehicle that looked like a jeep but a little larger 
crashed against a tree on the left-hand side of the road. A little farther ahead 
they came to the partly obscured carcasses of several dogs. There was howling 
all around them now, and Palatazin could feel eyes watching them from the 
overhang of rocks above the road. When he peered up through slitted eyes, he 
could just barely make out the shapes of dogs crouched there, crying into the 
storm. Several times a dog would leap out of the darkness to snap at their 
heels, then it would vanish just as quickly. One of them, a collie, bounded up 
behind Ratty and yanked at his leg, throwing him to the ground, then skittered 
away. 
Palatazin knew they'd be within sight of the castle in a few minutes. He was 
certain some of the vampires-if not all-were already awake. Soon the castle 
would be crawling with them, as would the city below. The backpack full of 
stakes weighed heavily on him, and ants of fear scurried in his stomach. He 
hoped he could catch some of the vampires still in their caskets, particularly 
the king, although logically he might be among the first to awaken. Theirs was 
still the element of surprise, though, and that was vitally important. This was 
what the army would call a suicide mission, Palatazin told himself. Getting 
there is not the difficult part of it; coming back safely is. But he'd known 
that all along and accepted it just as he was certain his father had accepted 
the fact before him. It was the boy he was sorry for. 
When the castle loomed up before them, Palatazin stopped in his tracks and 
whispered, "My God, help us!" He looked from towers to parapets to battlements, 
and he could see the tangled barbed wire at the top of the protective walls. 
"How do we get inside that?" Panic boiled in his stomach. Had they come all this 
way to be stopped at the walls of this monument to an eccentric horror film 
star? No! Palatazin told himself. We can't go back now! They neared it, the 
force of wind and sand abating somewhat. Palatazin looked to the huge front gate 
and could see a 
360 
few iron-jawed traps clamped together on the sand-heaped drive. Another driveway 
split off from the main one and circled around the right side of the castle. 
Suddenly Tommy jerked his arm. He looked over his shoulder and saw Ratty running 
for the safety of the line of dead, shriveled trees several yards away. Tommy 
pulled at him and motioned upward, his face a pale, fearful mask. Palatazin 
turned and looked up. A man stood on a high balcony, staring off into the night; 
his face was turned toward L.A., which the vampire army was not devastating. 
Palatazin ran for the trees and crouched down between Tommy and Ratty. The man 
on the parapet swept his gaze across the horizon, then seemed to stare right at 
their hiding place. It was hard to tell because of the distance, but Palatazin 
thought that it might be Walter Benefield up there. The man looked away and 
lifted his hand to his mouth once, then again. The howling faded and stopped. 
Then the man disappeared, and Palatazin grasped a breath. 
"Almost cooked our asses," Ratty said, his voice shaking. "Truth in a teacup!" 
In another few minutes a couple of dogs came running past their hiding place, 
following the cobblestoned drive around the other side of the castle. They were 
followed by others, some of them snarling and fighting. The pack seemed 
scattered and confused, but within it Palatazin saw several dogs who looked as 
large as panthers. A couple of the mammoth ones stopped and turned toward the 
trees, showing their teeth in low, menacing growls, but then they ran on, 
vanishing around the curve of the rough-stoned wall. Ratty cringed, but 
Palatazin thought the dogs had ceased to care about them. He thought they were 
hurrying to be fed. And that meant there was another way through that wall to 
the castle. A service entrance, perhaps? He tried to remember back to his brief 
association with the Kronsteen murder case. He recalled reading Lieutenant 
Summerford's outline on how the killers had gotten in. There was something about 
a service entrance, yes. A service entrance, a gate, and ... a wine cellar. 
"Let's find out where those dogs are going," Palatazin said to Tommy when most 
of them had passed. When Ratty scowled, Palatazin said, "You can stay here if 
you like." 
"Yeah, man. I can dig that. Old Ratty'll just burrow himself in right here and 
lay low like he did in Nam." He started scooping out great handfuls of dirt and 
sand at the trunk of a gnarled tree. When Palatazin and Tommy left the tree 
line, Ratty looked up. "Git some!" he said, and returned to his work. 
They hurried up the drive, moving close along to the massive wall. Palatazin 
heard the dogs up ahead, a melee of whining and barking. Then there was another 
noise-machinery, clattering gears and chains. The barking started to die down. 
Tommy ran on ahead and saw the dogs scurrying in where the driveway turned under 
a stone arch and into the castle's rear courtyard. The gate, an iron-barred, 
medieval contraption that was opened and lowered by a chain and pulley, had been 
hoisted open just enough for the dogs to get through. 
"Hurry, you bastards!" he heard a man shout. "Come on! Inside!" 
Tommy squeezed himself against the wall, his heart pounding. When the dogs 
361 
were all inside, the chain clicked through gears, and the iron gate was slowly 
lowered to the ground. Tommy waited another moment before sliding over to the 
gate. He peered in; there were a few U-Haul vans parked in the courtyard along 
with a bright yellow John Deere bulldozer and a black Lincoln Continental. The 
castle rose up as abruptly as a black-walled mesa. At its base Tommy saw that 
the man-short and squat with cropped dark hair-had thrown back a thick-looking 
wooden door recessed into the stone; the dogs were scrambling over each other in 
their haste to get through. A couple of them snarled and snapped at the man, who 
lifted a wicked-looking wooden staff and whacked it into their midst. "Get down 
there!" he shouted. "Bastards!" When the dogs were gone, he stepped down into 
i 
1 the opening and the door closed behind him. 
"Benefield," Palatazin whispered, peering over Tommy's head. "My God!" He 
stepped forward and curled his hands around the bars, trying to shake the gate; 
it wouldn't budge. "This is where the killers got inside years ago," he 
murmured. "But how?" He seemed to recall something in Summerford's report about 
Kronsteen's murderers being small men, possibly teenagers thin enough to- He 
bent down, scooping away double handfuls of sand from the bottom of the gate. 
His heart leapt. This was where the killers had dug eleven years ago; the earth 
had never been replaced. There was room for someone very thin to crawl under. He 
looked at Tommy, and the boy understood. 
Even Tommy, minus his jacket, sucking in his diaphragm, had trouble. He crawled 
and contorted his small body, and once he thought he was stuck, but then at last 
he was under and standing on the other side. He stepped over to the chain that 
hung down from a couple of iron pulleys along the wall and pulled. His shoulder 
muscles cracked, and the gate rose only a couple of feet before he had to let it 
down again. The next time he tried harder, and he discovered that the chain was 
just like a big Venetian blind cord; by pulling it at an angle he could lock the 
chain in the lower pulley and hold the gate steady. He got the gate up four feet 
and" could lift it no farther. Palatazin slipped under, and together they 
hurried past the bulldozer and U-Haul trucks to the door Benefield had entered. 
It was latched from the inside, but three hard blows from Palatazin's hammer H 
was enough to break the lock. He shoved the door open. They faced a long flight 
of stone stairs that disappeared into inky depths. They started down, feeling 
their way along cold, wet stone walls veined with cracks. Rats squealed from 
their holes and skittered underfoot. Palatazin could hear the barking of the 
dogs very far below them. Other corridors branched off from the stairway, some 
of them sealed off by I \ iron bars like the gate Tommy had crawled under. 
Palatazin was afraid there might be traps in those corridors-more iron-jawed 
leg-breakers, guns rigged up to doorknobs, a scattering of poison-soaked nails, 
a central stone that might pivot and shatter their ankles-so he thought it best 
to follow the path the dogs had taken. "Do you have any idea where this goes?" 
he whispered to Tommy. 
"I think the wine cellar in the lower basement. Orion Kronsteen had about a 
million bottles down there." 
362 
"The vampires won't sleep on the level where the dogs are kept," Palatazin said. 
"They might wake up with an arm or a leg chewed off. What's on the upper 
basement?" 
"Just big rooms." 
"That's probably where some of the caskets are." The noise of the dogs was much 
louder now. "I expect we won't catch many of them sleeping, though." 
They heard the muffled sound of blows. "Get back!" Benefield shouted. "I'll 
knock your ribs in!" A dog growled fiercely; there was another blow and a yelp. 
The stairs ended at a closed door. Beyond it, Palatazin knew, lay the wine 
cellar and the dogs, Benefield and his wooden staff. He didn't think Benefield 
had become a vampire yet, not if the king was using him as a human servant. But 
did Benefield have a gun or knife as well as that staff? Palatazin pushed 
against the door; it creaked open a few inches. He saw a series of large rooms 
that seemed full of empty-shelved wine racks. A flashlight was set on one of the 
shelves, its beam playing over a frenzy of snarling, leaping dogs. Then 
Benefield stepped into view, cracking his staff on the floor to keep the dogs 
back while he tossed bits of raw meat at them from a leather pouch he had slung 
under his shoulder. A German shepherd rushed in, trying to steal a piece of 
bloody meat out of his hand before he threw it. Benefield shouted, "GET BACK!" 
and cracked the animal across the head with his weapon. It yelped and staggered, 
and others scrambled over its body. "I'd fix you if I had the dust!" Benefield 
said quietly, and chuckled. In the dim light his eyes were black holes in a pale 
skull. "Oh, yeah, if I had the dust, I'd spray it in your faces and fix you all 
real good. Get back, there! Here, you shit!" He was standing with his back to 
the door, about fifteen feet away. 
Palatazin steeled himself and came through the door into the chamber, raising 
the hammer. 
A gray mongrel whose muzzle was already bloody snapped its eyes toward the 
intruder and bared its teeth, emitting a series of ear-cracking barks. Benefield 
started to turn his head and Palatazin saw he wasn't going to reach the man in 
time. He jumped, and Benefield's eyes widened with recognition. The staff came 
whirling out of the darkness toward Palatazin's face, but he got his left arm in 
the way and took the blow just below the wrist. Then he crashed headlong into 
Benefield, and they staggered through the baying, hungry dogs to the floor. They 
rolled, Palatazin trying to strike at the other man's temple with the hammer, 
but Benefield clamped one viselike hand around his right wrist and started 
squeezing. Benefield had lost his staff; his free hand snaked up and found 
Palatazin's throat. 
The dogs snarled around them, leaping in and grabbing at cuffs and sleeves, 
snapping at faces. Several of them started fighting among themselves over the 
scraps of meat; one grabbed the leather pouch, trying .to rip it from 
Benefield's shoulder. Palatazin struck the man's face with a fist that was 
rapidly going numb; blood began streaming from Benefield's nose, but he grinned 
and kept squeezing. A dog lunged for Palatazin's sleeve. Another bit Benefield's 
ear and tore a hunk of it away, but the man was beyond pain now, beyond 
everything but the lust to kill. 
363 
He rolled over on top of Palatazin, got a knee on his hammer-hand, and started 
squeezing his throat with both hands. Palatazin fought for air; his temples were 
pounding, he could feel teeth gnawing at his left ankle, while another dog's 
fetid breath blew in his face. The animals swirled around the two combatants in 
a frenzy, leaping and howling with bloodlust. 
Tommy picked up the staff, jumping away from another dog that snarled and rushed 
at him. He thrust the staff at it, catching the animal in the throat and driving 
it back. A hole opened around him as the animals avoided the familiar weapon. 
Tommy took aim and swung into the back of Benefield's head. The man grunted but 
didn't loosen his hold. "LET HIM GO!" Tommy shouted, and struck again. The staff 
broke off in the middle, leaving Tommy with a jagged three-foot shard of wood. 
Benefield pitched to the side. His head hit the floor with a soft thunk, and 
Palatazin worked the frozen fingers out of their grooves in his throat. He stood 
up, backing away from the dogs that snarled on all sides. They didn't care about 
him anymore; now they went after Benefield's leather pouch with fierce passion, 
straddling the body and fighting each other off. One of them ripped the pouch 
off and ran with it, the others right on its heels, some of them stopping to 
gobble up chunks that had scattered on the floor. They vanished into the far 
recesses of the chamber among the hundreds of high wine racks. Palatazin looked 
down at Benefield for a moment, then rolled him over, and felt for a heartbeat. 
"Is he dead?" Tommy asked him, breathing hard. "Did I ... kill him?" 
Palatazin stood up and took the flashlight off the shelf. "No," he said 
hoarsely. His knees were shaking, and when he wiped the sweat from the side of 
his face, he saw that it was streaked with red. He straightened the pack across 
his shoulder, his fingers clenching and unclenching the hammer's handle. If he 
didn't kill Benefield, the man would warn the vampires. It was as simple, and 
terrible, as that. He knelt down beside the man, studying his toadish face, and 
raised the hammer to smash his forehead. At its zenith his hand stopped and hung 
there; his strength was gathered but not his stomach. It was one thing to kill a 
vampire, or to kill a human who was trying to kill you; it was quite something 
else to kill a helpless man in cold blood. Captain Palatazin, he thought, 
ex-Captain that is, do you want the boy to see you do this? He looked at Tommy 
and saw his glazed, sickened eyes. A vampire, yes, A man, no. Palatazin stood 
up. He had no way of knowing when Benefield would come around, or if he ever 
would. "And I wanted you to stay home, didn't I?" Palatazin asked the boy, 
trying to smile. He failed miserably. "Where do we go from here?" 
"There'll be . . ." Tommy looked away from Benefield with an effort. "There'll 
be another stairway here somewhere, leading to the upper basement. I don't 
really know where it is, but . . ." 
"We'll find it. Let's get out of here before those dogs come back. I don't think 
they feed them very well around here." Gripping the hammer in one hand and the 
flashlight in the other, Palatazin plowed into the darkness with Tommy right at 
his side. 
364 
"Clever toys," Prince Vulkan said, picking up one of the air tanks from the pile 
of equipment that lay at the center of the council-chamber table. He studied the 
nozzle for a moment with deep concentration, then turned its release lever and 
listened to the quiet hissing for a few seconds. He smiled and closed it off, 
setting the bottle down carefully beside the golden bowl. He picked up a mask, 
looked at it, and then dropped it back down. "Clever," he said. "Aren't these 
humans clever, Kobra?" 
Kobra grinned. He was standing near the fireplace where Father Silvera and Wes 
crouched on the floor. In his hand was his prized Mauser pistol, though it was 
hardly necessary. The priest's face was a study of pain, covered with bright 
beads of sweat that slowly dripped down onto his shirt. The trap was still 
clamped around his cracked left ankle, the iron teeth grating on bone. He lay on 
his side, his leg all but useless, and every few seconds he shivered with agony. 
But he didn't make a sound. Beside him Wes sat on the floor, the fire crackling 
behind him. Outside, when Roach and Kobra had unbolted the front gate and 
stepped out, Kobra following as Roach probed at the ground with his staff for 
the traps he'd laid out during the day, Wes had instantly recognized the albino. 
When Roach ripped Wes's oxygen mask off, Kobra had whipped that pistol from the 
inside of his black jacket with lightning speed. 
"I've seen that sonofabitch before! Where do I know you from, fucker?" The 
albino's eyes narrowed. "Oh, yeah. Last night? Little party out in East L.A.? 
That's a fine black piece you had there, man. I fang-fucked her allllll night 
long . . ." 
Wes had gotten to his feet, rage flaming in his eyes, but Roach had prodded him 
back with the staff. Kobra had laughed out loud, showing his fangs. "Man, you're 
crazy. You know that? Uh-uh now, no quick moves. The Master says I can't have 
you . . . yet, but I sure could blow away your kneecap real fast!" Kobra had 
stepped forward across several sprung traps lying in the sand, abruptly stopping 
a few feet from Wes. He hissed and thrust a black-gloved hand before his face. 
"He's got something on him that burns me, Roach! Find it and get rid of it! 
Hurry!" 
Roach had smiled and dug the staff into Wes's stomach, dangerously close to his 
broken ribs. "You want to take your clothes off, don't you?" 
Wes had known it was no use. He started to reach into his inside jacket pocket 
for the resguardo, hoping to at least fling it in the vampire's face, but Kobra 
said sharply, "Stop him!" At once Roach was on him, tearing his coat off him and 
throwing it out for the wind to catch; it sailed up and up, then disappeared 
over the cliffs edge. "Yeah," Kobra had said quietly. "It's gone now. Take his 
gun." 
The .45 was pulled from Wes's waistband. Now all hope, even the hope of suicide, 
was gone. 
Kobra had torn Silvera's mask off and knelt down to stare at the man's face, 
tracing the angle of his jaw with the Mauser's barrel. Silvera moaned, coming 
365 
around from the shock. Wes had hoped he was dead, for the priest's own sake. 
Silvera's gun was also taken away. Kobra found the blade-whistled at it as he 
snapped it open-and then dug the bottle of holy water from a pocket. "What's 
this shit?" he asked Wes. But Wes refused to answer, and Kobra stared at the 
liquid for a few seconds, slowly drawing his lips back into a snarl. "Don't like 
it," he'd whispered. "Shit! Burning my hands! Don't like it! DON'T LIKE IT!" 
He'd screamed suddenly, whether in rage or pain Wes couldn't tell, and flung the 
bottle far out into the night. Wes had thought he'd heard shattering glass, but 
he wasn't sure. At once, Kobra had been grinning into Wes's face, the Mauser 
right at his throat. Those two hot, horrible eyes bored into Wes's skull. 
"Thought you'd trick me, didn't you? Thought I'd take that shit, whatever it 
was, right on up to the Master, didn't you? Huh? Your kind can't hurt us, man. 
We hurt you!" When Wes didn't speak, Kobra stepped back, blinking and uncertain; 
he'd stared at the gloved hand that had touched the bottle of holy water, and 
Wes could tell that even through the glove and the glass, the water must've 
scorched his flesh. 
"Carry him!" Roach motioned with the staff toward Father Silvera. "Move!" 
And so they'd gone through the gate into the castle's courtyard. Wes, supporting 
the priest so he wouldn't step on that injured leg, had winced when he'd heard 
Roach draw the bolt shut again. The castle stood high over them, a Bald Mountain 
in which horrors danced and partied. They climbed another wide stairway to the 
massive front door, surrounded by grinning stone faces and bracketed by two 
hideous gargoyles in Thinker poses atop stone obelisks. Kobra pushed the door 
open and shoved the two men inside. The door was closed, and two bolts clanked 
into place. 
As they walked along a wide, cold corridor, Wes was aware of figures moving 
around them, shapes scurrying across their path, glittering eyes staring 
hungrily from arched doorways, hideous pallid faces hanging like death masks in 
the darkness, whispers and chuckling and an occasional knife-blade pierce of 
freezing laughter. Figures shambled out and plucked at their clothes; there were 
many young girls-black, white, and Chicano-who had the sad and ravenous eyes of 
street prostitutes but whose need now, Wes knew, was of a more terrible kind. 
Kobra herded them up a long, twisting stairway. On an upper corridor something 
reached for Wes out of the darkness. A cold hand gripped his shoulder, fingers 
digging into the flesh, but immediately Kobra barked, "The Master wants them!" 
and the thing scurried back to whatever hole it had crawled from. Another 
figure-a very beautiful blond woman in a black dress-stepped from a doorway and 
took Wes's hand. She smiled at him seductively and nipped at his knuckles with 
her fangs, then slipped away and was gone. 
"Here," Roach had said. 
They had waited almost an hour, guarded by Kobra and Roach, before the door 
opened again. When the black-garbed figure stepped into the orange glow of the 
firelight-Halloween colors around a face as sharply cut as an alabaster 
sculpture but strangely, in its own way, angelic-Wes had known that this was the 

366 
thing they'd come to find. The Dark Angel. The Master. But... a boy, hardly 
older than an adolescent. The vampire's eyes sparkled like emerald chips, his 
mouth twisted to one side in a mocking sort of smile. Beside him, Wes had heard 
Silvera catch his breath with a shudder. The vampire stared at them for a moment 
in silence, then his gaze had shifted toward Roach. "Go to the balcony and call 
the dogs in. Feed them and lock them away for the night." 
Roach had taken a metallic, high-pitched, dog whistle from a back pocket and 
left the room. Wes had noticed how Roach had stepped back, his shoulders 
slumping in deference, when the boy vampire had come in. Even Kobra had made a 
slight bowing motion with his shoulders. Royalty, Wes had thought. We're in the 
presence of vampiric royalty. And power. 
Now Prince Vulkan picked up the .45 from the table, examined it, and set it back 
down. "What my father would've given for weapons like that," he said quietly. 
"Ah! That's the thunder and lightning the dogs feared, isn't it? A theoretical 
question for you-if Alexander the Great had possessed such thunder, how long 
would it have been before the world fell at his feet? But then again, he made 
his own thunder, didn't he? The thunder of an unstoppable army." 
The vampire sat in a chair, crossing his legs under him as any boy might do. 
"When Alexander's enemies heard that sound, they knew all was lost. Oh, they 
fought, of course they did. But they fought like trapped dogs, without plan or 
purpose. They ran to the four winds, but they couldn't get away." He smiled, his 
eyes glittering. 
"The world is about to hear Prince Vulkan's thunder. It's going to roll eastward 
across this land, and then . . . they'll run, but they can't get away. This city 
is my Babylon. The noise of its falling will cause the world to tremble. And 
then they'll know the King of the Vampires is on the march with an army no power 
on this planet can stop." He sat back, looking from Wes to Silvera, and stared 
at the priest's grimy white collar. "You!" he said sharply. "What's your name?" 
Silvera didn't answer. Kobra stepped forward and thrust down with his boot on 
the trap's edge. The priest screamed in agony, the beads of sweat growing larger 
and streaming down his face. "That's enough," Vulkan said, and instantly Kobra 
stepped back. 
"He was carrying something, Master," Kobra said. "A bottle of water that . . . 
burned my fingers when I held it." 
"And where is this bottle now?" 
"I threw it away, over the cliff." 
Vulkan nodded. "Good. So we have a lelkesz among us. A priest. You won't be the 
first to join our ranks, I promise you. Nor the last." He giggled suddenly with 
high, childish glee and clapped his hands together. "They're falling, left and 
right, up and down! Thousands and thousands of your kind down there right at 
this moment! All the humans are dying, and all the vampir are being born!" His 
gaze darkened like an approaching storm cloud, and Wes realized with a sudden 
start that he could see the shadow of the chair cast by the firelight on the 
opposite wall, 
367 
but the boy vampire himself did not throw one. "How did you find me?" Vulkan 
asked him. "How many others know where I am?" 
"I don't know," Wes said. "I came here to find someone else." 
"You came to kill me!" Vulkan said. "Why else was the lelkesz carrying this holy 
water?" 
"I'm looking for the woman he took from me," Wes said, and motioned with a tilt 
of his head toward Kobra. 
"Woman? What woman?" 
"The black bitch," Kobra explained. 
"I see." Vulkan regarded Wes for a moment and grinned. "Human loyalty, is it? 
The dumb concern of one lower species for another?" He concentrated on Wes, his 
eyes flaming, and Wes felt as if two drills were spinning at his forehead, 
slowly cutting through his skull and probing deep into the brain. A chill 
rippled through him; he felt filthy and violated, utterly helpless. He could not 
force himself to look away from Prince Vulkan until the vampire nodded and 
released him. "Love?" the vampire said. "Yes. Love." He savored that word on the 
tips of his forked tongue. "Your conception of that is very different from mine. 
Is she here, Kobra?" 
"Downstairs, still sleeping." 
"Bring her here. And find Roach as well. He's taken much too long." 
Kobra nodded, put the Mauser into his jacket, and left the room. 
"I like courage," Vulkan said to Wes. "You'll be fine hunters, both of you." He 
stared at Father Silvera for a moment and then glanced toward the iron trap. 
"The Bite of Life heals all wounds and sicknesses," he said softly. "It stops 
all time forever. You'll see." 
Silvera raised his head and spat. 
The vampire threw back his chin and laughed, and Wes could see the gleaming 
fangs in his sickle-mouth. When Vulkan looked at them again, his cat eyes glowed 
with an unholy spark. "What else could I expect of a lelkesz? I've always found 
them quite unreasonable and stupid." His eyes narrowed now, and Wes could hardly 
stand to look at them. "You," he said to Silvera. "You came to kill me, didn't 
you? What were you going to do, splash me with that aqua pura? Drive a crucifix 
through my heart? It's been tried before, by better men than you. And where are 
they now? They're part of my army. Or they're dead. No man-no one-can kill the 
King of the Vampires!" 
Silvera crossed himself, his head pounded. He felt dangerously close to passing 
out. "My God," he whispered. "My God, help us-" 
"NO!" Vulkan shouted, rattling the rafters high above. In a leap too fast for 
Wes to follow, the vampire was there, bent over the priest, one clawlike hand 
gripped around the man's face. The fingers dug deeply into the flesh. Vulkan's 
eyes were blazing. 
"Priest!" he hissed. "Fool! With one hand I could peel your face away like the 
skin from a grape! I could squeeze your skull until your brains ooze out! And 
you dare to use that name in my presence? You're close to death now, priest. Be 
very 
368 
careful, very careful indeed! If you use that name again, I'll twist the head 
from your body, and I'll do it very slowly, do you understand?" Wes could see 
the fingers tighten, and Silvera's eyes began to bulge. He moaned once, very 
softly. When his eyes had closed, the vampire loosened his grip and stepped 
back, his gaze moving toward Wes. Vulkan blinked and rubbed his temple. It 
seemed to Wes that he'd been hurt in some way, but he wasn't sure how. Wes 
crawled over to Silvera. The priest was still alive, but his nose was bleeding 
from the pressure of Vulkan's grip. Prince Vulkan sat cross-legged on the table 
near the golden urn with its spinning column of sand. The firelight flickered 
across him, transforming him into an unholy orange-fleshed icon with 
green-jeweled eyes. "The Headmaster was wrong," he said to Wes in a 
steel-and-velvet voice. "I'm stronger than he is now. I've learned all the 
lessons, and there's nothing else to learn. He was wrong. Nothing can hurt me. 
I'll be young forever and ever and ever . . ." He clasped his hands together and 
began to laugh. The sound of that chilling, childlike laughter pushed Wes 
further toward the dark edge of madness. 
SEVENTEEN 
Palatazin and Tommy moved through shadowy catacombs, following the flashlight's 
beam. They'd climbed another series of stone stairs, leaving the barking of the 
dogs far below them, and now found themselves in a maze of large, high- 
ceilinged rooms. Some of them were empty, but some held assorted debris-boxes, 
piles of newspapers where rats nested, old discarded furniture, scattered 
pictures and posters from Kronsteen's glory days. In one of the rooms the 
flashlight picked out large wooden crates, all of them empty and stenciled LAX 
... FRAGILE ... THIS SIDE UP. 
Then they began to find the caskets. 
Some of them were already open, the bed of dirt holding the impression of the 
body that had been lying there. When they found the first closed casket, 
Palatazin stiffened with disgust; his stomach gave a quick lurch, and he knew 
he'd have to hurry before either his nerve gave out or Benefield started 
screaming from below. He handed Tommy the light, laid the pack on the floor, and 
took out a stake. When he spoke in a whisper, he could see the white curls of 
his breath in the cold room. 
"Some are still sleeping. That one may awaken as soon as I open the casket lid, 
so I'll have to strike quickly. I don't know what'll happen after that. Just 
hold the light steady, all right?" 
Tommy nodded. His eyes were as shiny as new quarters, and he was trying hard to 
keep his hand from shaking. They're brave in the movies, he told himself as 
Palatazin, gripping the hammer and stake, stepped forward. His heart was racing. 
There were no klieg lights up in the rafters, no dry-ice smog floating at their 
feet, no Peter Gushing looking wise and courageous, just Palatazin, his face 
filthy and sweaty, one hand trembling now as he reached out to open the coffin 
lid. 
369 
A very handsome young man lay inside, arms folded protectively across his chest. 
The light brown eyes, veined with red, stared balefully through the milky lids 
at Palatazin. He was bare-chested, a gold ankh on a chain around his neck, and 
wore tight brown corduroys: Tommy recognized him almost at once as the star of a 
CBS-TV movie on drag racers called Thunder City. At any other time, Tommy 
realized, he might be asking for this man's autograph. Except he wasn't a man 
anymore, he was one of them. 
Palatazin pushed the lid all the way back. When the flashlight beam touched his 
face, the vampire, just between sleep and waking, shifted away from it, his 
mouth coming open in a silent snarl. Palatazin saw with a start of dread that 
the vampire's hands were locked firmly on his biceps, the arms drawn up so that 
getting to the heart was impossible. Something moved behind those transparent 
lids-a flicker of awareness, as quick and cold as mercury. The vampire was about 
to awaken. 
Palatazin saw his striking point. He placed the stake's sharp tip at the hollow 
of the young man's throat. Then he braced his legs and swung the hammer with all 
his strength. Instantly a freezing hand came up and grabbed Palatazin's left 
wrist, crushing it, but too late. The hammer struck with a terrible wet sound, 
and the stake ripped through vampiric flesh, pinning the head down. The eyes 
came open, blazing with a hatred that might have gnawed the marrow out of 
Palatazin's bones. A black, forked tongue snaked out of the mouth with a hideous 
rasping noise. The body thrashed, both hands gripping the stake and now . . . 
starting to pull it out of the bloodless wound. 
Quickly Palatazin took another stake from the pack, aimed its point over the 
thing's heart, and drove it deep with one strike of the hammer, like sinking a 
blade through rotten cheese. A foul, graveyard odor bubbled up; the entire chest 
seemed to cave inward, and for an instant Palatazin thought he could see through 
the satiny flesh a black, malignant lump pierced by the stake. The body thrashed 
wildly, mouth opening wide and snapping shut with a noise like a gunshot. A 
reddish-black ooze that smeeled of crypts and evil and all the things that 
lurked in shadows or cut the throats of children or raped babies began to rise 
out of the wound, and Palatazin stepped back as the black tendrils of liquid 
streamed down the heaving chest and stomach. He didn't want any of that stuff to 
get on him, afraid that if it did, he would be forever cursed. It was the 
vampire's hideous ichor, Lucifer's wine flowing from a cracked cask. The body 
suddenly stiffened, both hands straining to reach Palatazin. The staring, 
vengeful eyes caught fire, blue flames eating deep into the skull. Tommy made a 
low, gasping sound of sickness and turned away, but Palatazin felt compelled to 
watch. The blackening face collapsed as if it were a waxen Halloween mask; fire 
glowed through the empty eye sockets for a few seconds more, then abruptly 
burned itself out. Something dark and dreadful passed through Palatazin-a dank 
breath of cold wind that carried in its wake a whispered scream, then whirled 
itself away. The vampire's dead body had already started to shrivel like a 
November leaf. 
370 
"My God" Palatazin whispered hoarsely. His right arm, the arm that had struck 
the killing blow, seemed to be full of power, tingling with it. His hand wanted 
to strike again. He picked up the pack, then turned toward Tommy. The boy's face 
was as gray as a ninety-year-old man's. "Are you ready to go on?" he asked the 
boy. 
"Yeah," Tommy said. He was weaving slightly and dared not look at the thing in 
the coffin, but he handed Palatazin the flashlight and followed, holding up the 
broken staff like a spear. 
They found two more sleeping vampires and killed them the same way. The first 
was a young black man, the second a dark-haired little girl who must have been 
about the same age as Tommy. The child was awakening when Palatazin opened the 
coffin, stretching like a cat, but she was still dazed from sleep and too slow 
to stop the descending hammer. When it was over, Palatazin's stomach heaved, and 
he stood retching in a corner for a moment, trying to get something up. But they 
had to go on. The supply of stakes was dwindling fast. 
The next closed coffin they found was in a room that contained two others, but 
both of those were open. Tommy put the staff aside and held the light. Palatazin 
readied his implements, leaned down, and flung the lid open. Inside lay a very 
beautiful black woman, her arms at her sides. She wore a white silk blouse, 
black pants, and a belt with a half-moon of diamonds on the buckle. Palatazin 
looked into those stunning, terrible eyes and shuddered; he could feel his 
resolve quickly seeping away. He bent to strike. 
But before he could lift his arm to its zenith, the beautiful vampire came up 
out of her coffin, her eyes burning him to the bone. He heard the word "NO!" 
shouted in his brain and allowed it to stun him, allowed his will to be sapped. 
She gripped his other wrist and grinned, starting to rise toward him, that 
beautiful unholy face split by the seeking fangs. 
"STRIKE HER!" Tommy screamed. 
Palatazin heard himself cry out as he tried to pull free of her. He swung the 
hammer toward her head, but she reached out and caught his hand. 
As her grip tightened around his wrist, she could feel the tides of blood 
flowing within him, and she was ravaged by total, hungry need. She could see 
everything so clearly now-this was life, not that other, former existence. It 
was all so simple this way-nothing mattered but the blood and warming the urgent 
freeze that gnawed at her. Solange drew him closer, and when the smell of his 
fear washed over her, she heard her own small, frantic voice calling from the 
flipside of her soul-don't let them have you, don't, don't, don't . . . 
But oh, the need . . . oh, the sweet, freezing need was so strong . . . 
"You don't want to destroy me," she whispered. You want me to ... kiss you. Like 
this . . ." 
"NOOOO!" Tommy backpedaled, turned, and picked up the split staff he'd laid on 
the floor so he could grip the flashlight with both hands. 
The vampire drew Palatazin's head down. His eyes swam with helpless tears 
371 
THEY THIRST 
and stupid rage. She pressed her frigid lips to his throat, opened her mouth 
wide, and plunged the fangs deeply. Palatazin felt an instant of searing 
white-hot pain, followed by a dull thundering in his head that he knew must be 
the sound of blood being sucked from his veins. 
Tommy stepped forward, his eyes wild, and started to strike with the staff. 
Suddenly a hand closed around the back of his neck and flung him like a rag 
against the far wall. He fell, all the breath squeezed out of his lungs, and 
tried to crawl for the staff. A booted foot came down on his arm. He looked up 
into the scorching red eyes of the albino vampire who grinned down at him. Tommy 
could hear the female vampire's hideous sucking, her grunts of pleasure, and 
Palatazin's soft whimpering. 
The albino picked up the staff and started breaking it into small, useless 
pieces. "Where's Roach, you little shit?" he said quietly, his voice brimming 
with menace. "This was his! Did you and the man kill him?" 
When Tommy didn't answer, the albino gripped his hair and wrenched him to his 
feet. He withdrew a pistol from his jacket and jammed the barrel into Tommy's 
mouth. "I'll ask one more time, then your brains go on the wall . . ." 
Palatazin, his veins filling with arctic cold as his blood emptied into 
Solange's body, was falling into a dark crevasse that had suddenly split the 
earth at his feet. He could hear high, freezing winds, silvery laughter, moans, 
and guttural screams. His soul was dying, falling from light into darkness, from 
life to the terrible kingdom of the Undead. He could feel his own hand at his 
throat, ineffectually trying to push her head away. The fangs were fastened 
tight. His fingers moved slowly ... so slowly . . . 
Until they closed on the chain of the $19.99, jewelry-store crucifix that 
dangled down in his shirt. 
He tore it off his neck. His arm fell, weighted down by the thing. Then he 
lifted it again, thunder hammering between his temples, and pressed it against 
the vampire's cheek. 
Instantly there was a hiss of blue flame, and the black flesh blistered. She 
shrieked and pulled away from him, dragging four furrows across his throat. He 
fell on his side, curling up like a fetus for warmth against the frost that had 
filled a quarter of his body. He put the crucifix to his lips and fought the 
shivers that raged through him like cold, conflicting currents. 
Solange was still shrieking, holding her injured cheek and cowering in a corner. 

Kobra's eyes widened slightly, then he began to grin again. "I'll blow this 
little shit's head off, old man!" 
Palatazin writhed on the floor, pressing the crucifix against the ragged, bloody 
bites on his throat. Blue flames hissed, searing the wounds closed. Pain shook 
him, twisting him inside out. He hung on to consciousness by a thread and saw 
Solange throwing up his blood into a steaming puddle. Then he lifted his head 
and saw the albino holding the gun's barrel between Tommy's teeth. 
"Eat it," Kobra snarled. "Right now! Want to see his brains?" 
372 
"Oh, God," Palatazin breathed, fighting dark waves that crashed within him. "Oh, 
my God in heaven ..." 
"Eat it!" Kobra shrieked. 
Palatazin looked into Tommy's eyes and saw the boy shake his head no. Very 
slowly, with numbed hands, he worked the tiny crucifix off its chain and put it 
in his mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks. 
"Put it down, fucker! Lemme see that throat work!" 
Palatazin tried to swallow, but the crucifix, as small as it was, caught in his 
throat and choked him. He coughed it up. Kobra's eyes were blazing. Tommy 
staggered, about to fall, but the albino wrenched him upright again. "Either 
that goes down," Kobra whispered, "or the boy gets blown away. Your choice. Make 
it FAST!" 
Palatazin looked into Tommy's eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and 
swallowed. The crucifix scraped the back of his throat going down, hung in his 
esophagus. He swallowed again, harder, and felt it sink to his stomach like an 
infant must feel a penny or a metal button going down, cold and coppery. He felt 
ashamed, blighted . . . but at least Tommy was still alive. 
"Reallll good!" Kobra crowed, and flung the boy aside. Tommy slithered to the 
floor and lay still. Kobra looked at Solange and shouted, "Stop whining! Your 
pretty face'll heal soon enough! Stupid bitch, you should've seen that chain 
around his neck!" She slid down into the corner, clasping her arms around 
herself and rocking, her eyes wide with terror. Then Kobra stared at Palatazin 
and stepped forward. "How did you like the pain, fucker? Get up!" 
"Can't . . ." Palatazin said, shaking his head. "No." 
"She just bit you enough to give you a good buzz. Now get on your feet!" 
Palatazin staggered up, then fell back to his knees. He was terribly weak and 
wanted only to find a warm place to sleep. 
"How'd you and the kid get in here? You kill Roach? I hope you did. I didn't 
like him anyway." His gaze fell upon the backpack and the fallen hammer. 
"Brought the heavy artillery, didn't you?" He grinned widely, the fangs giving 
his lean face the look of walking death. "Yeah. Sure did. The Master's going to 
want to find out more about you two. And now that Roach's dead, Kobra don't have 
a fuckin' thing to worry about. You!" He glared at the whimpering female 
vampire. "You're going before the Master, too! Get yourself up!" 
Kobra nudged Palatazin in the ribs with his boot and motioned with the gun. 
"Man, you must crave pain," he said softly. "You're going to get it soon as the 
Master finds out what you've done. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, no way!" 
He reached down, grasped Palatazin's shoulder, and hauled him to his feet. 
Palatazin staggered, so dizzy from loss of blood he was about to pass out. 
Bright motes of dust seemed to be floating before his face, exploding like 
multi-colored novas. He still felt slimed by the vampire's kiss, but the wounds 
on his throat had been cauterized. They were achingly raw, and he could smell 
the faint charred odor of his own burnt flesh. 
373 
"Get the kid," Kobra said. 
Palatazin walked over shakily to where Tommy had curled himself up into a ball 
on the floor. Tommy's teeth were chattering; his eyes were dull and glassy. 
Palatazin figured he might have gone into shock. But then Tommy recognized him 
and allowed himself to be helped up. 
Kobra felt an icy spear of hunger pierce him. He could smell Palatazin's spilled 
blood; the delicious odor made him shiver. Double needs twisted through him. 
He'd always been a death junkie when he was human, and now he needed human blood 
to stop the mounting pain. But he also knew that the Master would want to see 
these two humans, would want to find out how they'd gotten into the castle and 
where they'd come from. He hoped that the Master would reward him for his 
self-control with these two when the interrogation was done. "Upstairs," Kobra 
said. "The Master's waiting." 
EIGHTEEN 
Palatazin was shoved into the council room first. He stopped, frozen with dread 
and wonder, when he saw the king vampire-a young boy with green cat eyes-sitting 
atop the table. Prince Vulkan stared at him, betraying neither concern nor 
surprise. Palatazin heard Tommy's stunned gasp, and then Kobra shoved Palatazin 
forward, brought Solange in, and closed the chamber door. "Found these two in 
the basement," Kobra said. "They got past Roach, must've killed him because the 
kid had the stick he used to work the dogs with. The man was carrying a packful 
of stakes, a hammer, the whole fuckin' number . . ." 
Vulkan's eyes began to scorch Palatazin's skull with their intensity, but he 
didn't move. 
Wes, his heart pounding, slowly rose from the floor. "Solange?" he whispered. 
She looked at him through frightened, feral eyes and took a step backward. 
Kobra's hand snaked out and clamped around her waist. She tried to cringe away, 
to turn her head away from Wes, but Kobra laughed and grabbed the back of her 
neck, forcing her to look at him. 
"There's your lover, baby. Like what you see? Can you see the veins running 
through his body, the sweet, hot blood flowing like a hundred fountains? That's 
life, baby. Your life from now on." 
"Leave her alone!" Wes shrieked. He started to move forward, but Prince Vulkan 
stopped him with a single glance. He heard the command in his head like a shout 
about to split his brain: "SIT DOWN." He had no choice but to obey and, when he 
had, he began to shake uncontrollably, the tears burning his eyes. He couldn't 
bear to look at her again because there was nothing left of Solange anymore. 
Palatazin had seen Father Silvera lying on his side near the hearth. He didn't 
know how the priest had gotten up here, or why he'd decided to come, but the man 

374 
looked weak and haggard and . . . yes, very near death. As they all were. 
Silvera lifted his head and looked at him, but no recognition flickered in his 
dazed eyes. His head sank back down, and he lay still, like a wounded dog. 
Palatazin saw the trap clamped around the man's leg. 
Now Prince Vulkan, the king of the vampires that Palatazin had dreaded all his 
life, uncoiled himself from his sitting position and came across the room, his 
face caught between black shadow and flickering orange light. Vulkan examined 
the seared wounds on Palatazin's throat with an almost clinical interest. Then 
he lifted his gaze and said, "You know our kind, don't you? Yes. You do. I see 
it in your eyes. You know . . . me. How is that?" 
"I know of you," Palatazin replied, trying hard to keep his voice steady. He was 
caught between the burning eyes of Kobra and Vulkan, his head filled with fiery 
torment. 
"How?" 
"I was ... a boy in Krajeck . . ." 
The king vampire's face was expressionless, a carved thing of flawless white 
stone. Palatazin could imagine the ancient, dark secrets that lay behind his 
eyes; they were hideous things, secrets from Satan's black magic box. "Krajeck," 
the vampire said, and nodded. "Yes. I remember Krajeck. And you were one of 
those who escaped." 
"My father didn't," Palatazin said softly. 
"Your father? His name?" 
"Emil Palatazin." 
"So. You came to destroy me because I gave your father the gift of eternal life? 
I don't think he'd like that, do you?" 
"Where . . . where is he?" 
Prince Vulkan smiled and touched the wounds on Palatazin's throat. Palatazin 
jerked his head back. "Don't you know who you're in the presence of?" Vulkan 
whispered, his voice like a cold night breeze through silk curtains. "I'm a 
king. The greatest king this world has ever known or ever will know. I can stop 
time. I can ... do magic. I can end all Death. Your father is one of my servants 
now, in the monastery atop Mount Jaeger. Oh, he's in good hands. They all are. 
The Countess sees to that. But time is so cruel to the human kind, so terribly 
cruel. Here stands a son who is older than the father, who fears Death as an 
enemy while his father has learned to use it as a friend. And now the son has 
come to put an end to me." He grinned and grasped Palatazin's collar, pulling 
his face forward. "It's not to be!" he hissed. "Your kind is slow and stupid and 
weak! The vampir will win!" 
Vulkan suddenly blinked, released Palatazin, and stepped back. There were four 
now, he realized, just as the Headmaster had warned. An ancient emotion that 
might have been fear began to crawl within him. Not The Headmaster was wrong! 
These four couldn't hurt him! 
"Why here?" Palatazin asked him. "Why this city?" 
"Why?" Vulkan echoed. He wanted to grab this human and shake him until his 
375 
neck snapped, but now he feared stepping too near. The Headmaster's warning was 
echoing within him; he was confused and couldn't think. "Because this is the 
city of youth!" he said. "They worship youth here, in their clothes and cars and 
dreams! Their youth gives my army eternal strength. I don't want the old, I 
don't want the infirm. Only the ones who can be of use to me! And what better 
place to conquer than this . . . young, shining citadel? We'll live forever, 
don't you see that? Never age, never, never, never!" 
"Shit," Wes muttered. "Peter Pan." 
"What?" Vulkan said, staring at him. 
"A fucking black-as-sin Peter Pan," Wes said. "You're going to fly everybody 
away to some vampire Never-Never Land. Step right up, sell your souls, and come 
on in. That's not the way the world works. That's not the way it should be." 
"That's the way it shall be," Prince Vulkan said softly, stepping menacingly 
toward Wes. 
"Death isn't an enemy," Wes said. "It makes things new again, and anything that 
doesn't die just . . . rots and mummifies. Or becomes like you are." 
"Like you will be," the vampire whispered. "If I choose to let you." 
Wes stood up. He looked across the room at Solange for a few seconds, then back 
at Prince Vulkan. "Nope," he said quietly, "I don't think so." And then he threw 
himself at that table, reaching for the .45. A voice cracked through his head 
like a whip-"NO, YOU WILL NOT," and he was flung aside by some intangible, 
terrible force as his hand closed on the gun. He was thrown to the floor as 
Prince Vulkan swept forward like a black wind, all claws and teeth, in a whirl 
of rage. 
Wes wheeled around, aimed upward, and fired. 
The bullet passed through Prince Vulkan's chest and struck stone on the opposite 
wall, spraying sparks past Solange's head. Wes fired again; there was a metallic 
crack! and then he felt Prince Vulkan lifting him up by the throat with both 
hands. The vampire shook him violently. Wes dropped the gun, his eyes bulging 
from their sockets. Bone cracked. Tommy clutched Palatazin's arms, trying to 
hide his eyes from the sight of Wes's face. Palatazin held him tightly. 
Prince Vulkan shrieked and threw Wes to the floor. Wes was trembling like a 
shattered marionette, his head twisted at a hideous angle. Vulkan began to kick 
him, each kick breaking another bone. Kobra came forward, his eyes bright with 
the prospect of death. He whined, "Let me kill him, Master. Let me, let me, 
please . . ." 
Vulkan kicked Wes again and stepped back. Kobra grinned widely and shot Wes 
twice in the head from less than three feet away. 
Across the room Solange screamed and sank to her knees, burying her face in her 
hands. 
"Now you're three!" Vulkan said, grinning at Palatazin. "You can't hurt me! The 
Headmaster was-" He stopped suddenly, his head cocking to one side. His eyes 
widened. 
Palatazin's heart thumped. In the distance he could hear the^great whine of 
376 
the storm, slowly-very slowly-winding down like the dying of a huge, infernal 
engine. 
"NO!" Prince Vulkan shouted. He looked at the table and saw the shattered gold 
urn. Wes's second bullet had hit it as it passed through the vampire's stomach. 
The funnel of sand had stopped, and where the sand hissed out onto the table it 
burned with a faint blue flame. Prince Vulkan picked up the urn, his face 
contorted with rage, and flung it against a wall. It hit a gilt-edged painting 
before clanging to the floor. 
"No!" the vampire shrieked, shaking the rafters with his fury. He overturned the 
table in a frenzy; the maps fluttered down like dead leaves in a hurricane, and 
the table shattered, splitting into pieces like a gleaming black mirror. The 
vampire turned his burning gaze upon Palatazin and Tommy. 
"The vampire shall win!" he shouted at them in a voice that cracked from a man's 
to a boy's. "I don't need the Headmaster anymore! I don't need his protection. I 
don't!" He scooped up maps and flung them at Palatazin. "I'll have it all, every 
bit of it!" He looked at Kobra. "Won't I? SAY IT!" 
"Yeah," Kobra nodded, but now his voice was uncertain. "You will." 
Vulkan swept over to Father Silvera and roughly pulled him to his feet. Silvera 
bit his lip to hold back a scream. He could feel the cold radiating out of the 
vampire. "You! Death is so close for you ... so close! I can feel it in you now, 
chewing through your body! I can stop it! I can make you whole if you will serve 
me!" 
Someone knocked at the door. Vulkan called, "Enter!" and two vampires-one a 
young boy with long blond hair and the other a huskyman with curly gray hair- 
stepped into the room. They glanced around at the wreckage, and Vulkan snapped, 
"What is it?" 
"The trucks, Master," the boy said. "They're ready to go down." 
"All right! Go ahead!" 
The boy hesitated, glancing at Wes's corpse and then back to the vampire king. 
"Well? What else?" 
"Some of the others . . . are afraid, Master," the boy said. "They want to know 
why the . . . storm's dying down." 
"Tell them not to fear," the vampire king said quietly, green embers glowing in 
his gaze. "Tell them Prince Vulkan is in control. And one other thing-bring back 
enough to feed everyone in the castle tonight. I want a celebration!" Vulkan 
released Father Silvera and stepped back from the blazing hearth. "I want a 
report from the factory as soon as possible. Send a courier. And you, Asher!" 
The husky vampire looked up fearfully, the golden chains around his neck 
catching red light. "Those holes are to be filled tonight, do you understand 
that? I want none of them escaping! Either cut them off or . . ." He let the 
alternative hang in the air like a sword suspended by a hair. "Can West supply 
Central with another thousand?" he asked the younger vampire. 
"My sergeants are already moving the Western Division into Marina Del Rey, 
Master. When we secure that area, Central can have the extra troops." 
377 
"Good. Now go, both of you. And good hunting." When they'd left the room, Prince 
Vulkan stared at Palatazin and Tommy for a few seconds, then back at Silvera. 
"You see?" he said softly. "It's happening. Street by street, house by house . . 
." 
"You'll be stopped . . ." Silvera began weakly, trying to keep his weight off 
his cracked ankle, but then the vampire king's face pressed toward his, his lip 
curling with disgust. "By whom?" Vulkan sneered. "By you? By them? By that dead 
man there on the floor? I think . . . not. Oh, priest, I can feel the blood 
roaring through your veins. I can see it! I'm going to have it inside me, 
warming me like a sweet flame. And tomorrow night you will have forgotten 
everything and everyone but 
me." 
Vulkan glanced quickly at Kobra. "The priest is mine. You and the female can 
have those two." He motioned toward Palatazin and Tommy. "When you're finished, 
take that dead filth and feed him to the dogs. Now, priest, you come with me." 
He clamped a hand around Silvera's arm and pushed him across the room to the 
door. Silvera, grinding his teeth with the pain, had no choice but to follow. As 
he passed Palatazin, he recognized the man but only hazily, and as he started to 
speak, Vulkan opened the chamber door and shoved Silvera through into the 
corridor. The door closed with a solid, terrible finality. 
Instantly Kobra moved in front of it and slid a bolt across to lock it. 
Palatazin began to back away from him, trying to shield Tommy. From the far 
corner Solange's eyes seemed to shine, faintly and malevolently. Kobra grinned 
and slid his Mauser back into his jacket. He would be happy to take his 
time'riow. "Nowhere to go," he taunted. "Nowhere to run. Ain't that a shame? 
You're gonna live forever, old man. And if you're realllll good, tomorrow night 
I might even let you lick my boots clean. How about that?" He started to move 
forward, his black-gloved hands twisted into claws. 
Palatazin and Tommy kept backing away, stepping through a puddle of blood that 
had seeped from what was left of Wes Richer's head. "You! Solange!" Kobra said. 
"You can have the kid. I'm taking old Palatazin." 
Solange rose to her feet. Her gaze was fixed on the corpse, and she walked 
toward it as if in a dream, one unsteady step after the next. 
Palatazin stumbled over the splintered remnants of the council table. One 
intricately scrolled black leg stuck up, like a bull's horn; it was almost 
cracked away, so when Palatazin wrenched it with his last wave of ebbing 
strength, it came loose in his grip, a formidable two-foot club with one 
splintered end. Still Kobra came, more cautiously now, sidestepping and 
feinting, low laughter bubbling in his throat. His eyes bored into Palatazin's, 
and Palatazin could feel his nerve being scorched away. His hands were slippery 
with sweat on the table leg. 
Behind Kobra, Solange bent down over the corpse. The scent of the spilled blood, 
fiery sweet, was driving her mad. She hadn't drunk enough of Palatazin to warm 
her, and now she had to drink-she had to-and stop the freezing in her veins. She 
put her head down into the puddle and lapped at it with closed eyes, like 
378 
a starved animal. She knew the odor of this one. Memories welled up in her head 
like iridescent bubbles from a black pool of stagnant water. She thought she was 
about to wake up from a nightmare in a sun-filled room that smelled of flowers, 
and when she rolled over in bed, she would put her arms around Wes and press 
very close to his body. She lifted her head, blood dripping from her lips, and 
realized she couldn't see her reflection in the shimmering puddle. There were 
memories in the blood, and they made her cold, very cold. She touched his head, 
the familiar tangle of hair on a dead skull. Currents twisted and raged within 
her, armies battling over a single foot of earth. She was dead. Dead but not 
dead, not living. Darkly existing. That one had done this to her, the one who 
now laughed and moved toward the two humans. That one had taken her from light 
into dark. That one had killed Wes. Not dead. Not living. Not dead. Not. Not. 
She put her hands to her head and screamed. 
Kobra, startled, looked back at her. 
And Palatazin plunged the jagged end of that table leg toward his heart. 
The point struck, but, deflected by the Mauser in its jacket holster, only 
staggered Kobra. At once Kobra gripped the makeshift stake and wrenched it from 
Palatazin's grip, flinging it aside. "Not that way, Van Helsing," Kobra sneered. 
"Can't finish off old Kobra that way!" His hands struck, lightning fast, pushing 
back Palatazin's chin and exposing the scarred throat. Kobra bore him down to 
the floor. Tommy grabbed Kobra's hair and tried to gouge out his eyes, but Kobra 
struck him a backhanded blow across the cheek, as if he were swatting at a fly. 
Tommy fell, dazed. 
Kobra's mouth opened. Palatazin struggled, knowing that now he was only an 
instant away from joining the ranks of the Undead. Kobra's head lowered, the 
fangs sliding out and ready. 
And suddenly Solange's fingernails were digging into the flesh above his gaunt 
cheekbones. They sank deep, ripping away hunks of meat that did not bleed. 
Kobra's face contorted; he shrieked and threw himself backward from Palatazin, 
trying to crush the female vampire who clung to his back. They rolled on the 
floor, hissing and shrieking. Palatazin staggered to his feet and saw Solange 
plunge her fingers into Kobra's eye sockets. The eyeballs burst, leaking great 
spurts of black fluid. Kobra howled in agony, twisted around, and got his hands 
on Solange's throat. They rolled through Wes's blood and across the floor, into 
the maw of the raging fireplace. 
NINETEEN 
"Look over, priest," Prince Vulkan commanded. He grasped Silvera's collar and 
thrust him against the balcony's parapet. Silvera could hear the growl of 
engines in the holes of the storm's fading scream. A yellow bulldozer was 
pushing mounds of sand to each side as it moved away down the mountain, followed 
by three orange U-Haul trucks. 
379 
"They're taking my lieutenants down to the battle," Vulkan said. "They'll be 
returning with food-humans to feed the king's court. We'll have a good 
celebration. Now look out there." He pointed into the far darkness, and 
Silvera's heavy- lidded gaze followed. "That's were your city lies, from horizon 
to horizon. Do you see any lights? Any cars? Any blinking neon signs that shout 
the names of your idols on billboards and marquees? No. My army marches the 
streets and boulevards, and your kind hides in holes. I've already won. The 
world has begun to bow to me, starting right here. Did you really think you 
could destroy the King of the Vampires?" 
Silvera didn't answer. He was so terribly tired, so beaten. His head pounded, 
and he had no feeling in his arms or in that injured leg. It was all over now; a 
better man, a better servant of God, would have to carry on the fight. He looked 
down and saw his own body in his mind, spinning down after he'd jumped. Because 
that was the only escape now. 
The storm was winding down. The wind had stilled to a soft moan, and the sand 
had stopped blowing. Prince Vulkan looked uneasily at the sky. He felt alone. 
The Headmaster's protection was gone, the final gift lying broken on the council 
chamber's floor. He felt vulnerable now, a soldier without armor. But no! He'd 
learned all the lessons, he'd sat too long at the Headmaster's knee. It was time 
to put his mark upon the world, and the Headmaster be damned! "I am Prince 
Conrad Vulkan, King of the Vampires!" he shouted into the darkness, his eyes 
blazing. The wind whispered around him in an empty reply. 
And then the wind died. 
Silvera peered out over the city. The storm had stopped. Now from the darkness 
he seemed to hear the screaming and shrieking of vast multitudes of the Undead 
down in the city that had once been known as Los Angeles, as they danced and 
celebrated to the strains of a Luciferian symphony heard only by vampiric ears. 
The shrieking went on and on, hideous and obscene, echoing through the hills 
like mad laughter. Silvera put his hands to his ears. "Listen to them sing!" 
Prince Vulkan shouted. "They sing for me!" 
In the distance, over the ocean, lightning streaked through the night. 
Silvera grasped the edge of the parapet. He couldn't even feel the cold stone. 
When the next flash of lightning came, much closer, he could see the streets and 
buildings of the metropolis below him illuminated for a split second, like rows 
of stones in a graveyard. There was a faint rumble of thunder from the west. 
Now, he told himself. Go now! He tensed to leap. 
And suddenly the castle shook beneath his feet. 
Thunder rumbled. In its wake there was no sound but the fading echoes of the 
vampires' shouting. Then total, utter silence. The world stood motionless. 
And then again, the rasping of stones rubbing together as the castle trembled. 
Silvera could feel the vibrations rippling up his uninjured leg, hammering into 
his body. 
Prince Vulkan gripped the edge. "No!" he cried out. His eyes were wild, the 
pupils narrowed into slits. 
380 
Silence. Lightning flashing in the distance, its flare illuminating the naked 
fear etched across the king vampire's face. He was watching the ebony sky, his 
head cocked to one side as if he had heard a terrifying, long-dreaded voice. 
Thunder welled, rolling through the hills, and when the castle trembled again, a 
great black slab of stone broke away from an upper parapet and pitched downward, 
crashing into the balcony just behind Father Silvera. The balcony shuddered, 
cracks, zigzagging in all directions. 
Silvera could see earth and boulders sliding off the edge of the cliff just 
underneath the castle. Part of the wall sagged and disappeared in a tumble of 
stones. From somewhere there was a terrible splitting sound, a rending of the 
earth that seemed to Silvera like the noise of a thick telephone book being torn 
by muscular hands. He clung to the parapet as the balcony began to heave and 
buck beneath him. Mounds of earth pitched off the cliff, rolling down in an 
avalanche toward Hollywood. More of the wall vanished, and now the courtyard 
itself was beginning to slide away. The castle started leaning toward the 
precipice, ancient stones groaning in agony. 
Earth cracked, opening huge fissures that snaked beneath the castle. In the next 
bright gleam of lightning, seemingly directly overhead, Silvera saw a stunning 
and terrible sight. The entire basin of Hollywood and L.A. was pitching, heaving 
like a Doomsday bellows. He saw buildings sagging, splitting apart, and falling 
one after the other, at first silently, but then the roar of destruction swept 
up into the hills like the shouting of an advancing army. A fissure had began to 
run the length of Sunset Boulevard, and in the intermittent flashes of lightning 
Silvera saw its advance, swift and relentless, sucking down entire blocks in its 
wake. He could hear screaming now, coming from the guts of the castle. When he 
looked down, he saw several vampires trying to run across the courtyard to the 
main gate vanish into a fissure than ran along at their feet just before 
overtaking them. 
"Noooo!" Prince Vulkan wailed, his voice drowning out the next drum roll of 
thunder. His fingers dug into the parapet, his eyes glowing with green fire. His 
mouth worked with silent rage. From above came a loud grinding noise, and when 
he looked up, he saw a dunce-capped tower fall like a head being lopped off. The 
stones and slate struck the parapet, knocking great chunks out of it. Father 
Silvera threw himself back as a stone struck the parapet just in front of him, 
collapsing it. Prince Vulkan stood in a rain of slate, the pieces striking rrs 
back and shoulders. Silvera pressed himself against the wall for safety. 
"NO!" Vulkan shouted into the night. "I WONT ... I WONT LET IT HAPPEN . . .!" A 
chunk of masonry struck him between the shoulder blades, driving him to his 
knees. 
The tremors went on for another moment, then stopped abruptly. The castle seemed 
to be balanced at an angle, and blocks of stone kept falling from above, 
crashing down into the courtyard or off the mountain's side. Between the peals 
of thunder Silvera heard the high shrieking of the vampire hordes down in the 
city, except now that shrieking was pained and terrified, lost and confused. And 
then 
381 
another sound, one that came to him only faintly but with an impact that 
wrenched at him. 
The sound of bells. 
Church bells. Ringing in Beverly Hills, in Hollywood, in Los Angeles and East 
L.A., in Santa Monica and Culver City and Inglewood. Stirred by the tremor, they 
were singing to Father Silvera, and their song sounded like victory. He knew 
that Mary's Voice was singing loudest of all, and tears suddenly filled his 
eyes. 
"You've lost!" he shouted to Prince Vulkan. "It's the earthquake! The Big One 
that's going to sink this city beneath the seal You've lost it all!" 
Vulkan whirled, his face mad with rage. "LIAR!" he shrieked. "Nothing can ... 
nothing can stop . . . nothing can . . ." 
And the earth reared up, a chain of mountains rising abruptly across lower 
Hollywood, black peaks pushing up through avenues and boulevards three hundred 
feet high, then dropping again into gaping holes that sucked the city down like 
whirlpools of brick and concrete. Buildings tumbled like huge chessmen across a 
shattering board. The castle pitched and shivered and started to fall to pieces. 
Vulkan, his eyes wide circles of terror, screamed in a boy's cracking voice, 
"Headmaster, help meeeeee! Help meeeeeee!. . .!" His cry was lost in the din of 
thunder and falling stone. 
Silvera fell to his knees on the sagging balcony. Between the thunder and the 
bells, he could hear the voice of God, and he understood the message. Whatever 
power that had protected these vampires was gone; the pendulum of power had 
swung back now, and it was time for the evil to die. The city was going to fall, 
yes, but it would fall by the will of God and for His purposes. Not for the 
vampires but upon them, a vampiric Sodom and Gomorrah. 
Vulkan stood at the shattered edge of the balcony, wailing in a language that 
Silvera couldn't understand. He lifted his hands in supplication and was struck 
down again by a chunk of stone. The L.A. basin dipped and heaved. Mountains 
split the earth, rising to tremendous heights-their crumbling sides stubbled 
with palm trees, broken sections of freeways, houses and buildings-and then sank 
rapidly down below sea level. Hideous screams, like those of the tormented in 
Dante's Inferno, echoed through the shifting hills, a hundred thousand screams 
rippling, mingling, intertwining. And above them the great clamor of the thunder 
and the bells. 
The vampire king whirled to face Father Silvera, his face contorted with hatred. 
"I haven't lost!" he shrieked. "Not yet! I can still win!" The balcony pitched 
beneath his feet, and he struggled for balance. And suddenly, he began to 
change, his body lengthening and darkening like a shadow. His face became 
vulpine, the fangs jutting from a mouth that was a bloodred slash in a dark, 
green-eyed horror. He lifted his arms to the sky, and Father Silvera saw them 
split the sleeves of his velvet coat. They became black, leathery wings that 
flailed at the air, reaching for height. The thing hissed at Silvera in triumph, 
turned, and threw itself from the balcony. Its wings moved powerfully, muscles 
rippling along the shoulders, and 
382 
hovered for an instant in midair. Then with a last defiant glance backward, 
Prince Vulkan began to move away from the crumbling castle, the wings beating a 
hard, steady rhythm. 
And Silvera knew what must be done. The only choice, and what God had put him in 
this position to do. 
He leapt across the balcony and threw himself into space, his hands grasping for 
Prince Vulkan's ankles. Behind him, the balcony gave and dropped away. He got 
hold of Vulkan's right leg just below the knee, but his hands had no strength, 
and instantly he started to slip. Vulkan shrieked, more an animal's cry than 
anything else, and tried to kick the priest loose, but Silvera threw his arms 
around the ankle and held on with his last reserves of strength. A black-clawed 
hand raked across his skull once, then again, but now they were falling together 
in a slow spiral, and Vulkan stopped his attack to concentrate on gaining 
altitude. 
For a moment they swept across the tops of dead pines, then Silvera was aware of 
cold air on his face, and they were climbing over the shattered city. Streets 
and buildings were being swallowed by the earth less than a hundred feet below 
them. Vulkan started to turn north. Silvera gritted his teeth and reached up, 
grasping the thing's waist. He fought to crawl up over the king vampire's body, 
straining to reach and pin down those powerful wings. A claw flashed out, taking 
away most of Silvera's cheek to the bone. He screamed in agony, but now he had 
both arms around Vulkan's waist, and he was trying to force his numbed hands up 
onto the shoulders. Vulkan twisted around to fight, almost flinging the priest 
off, and they plummeted more than forty feet before the wings started beating 
again. 
Silvera was aware of a loud roaring below them now. When he looked to the west, 
he could see a two-hundred-foot wall of Pacific Ocean, white foam churning atop 
a gleaming black and green sea that looked as solid as fine Venetian marble, a 
monstrous tidal wave sweeping across the city, carrying with it yachts, cars, 
billboards, theater marquees, chunks of boardwalk, roofs, coffins, shattered 
sections of freeway, airplanes, palm trees, and entire buildings that reared up 
from the depths like the prows of gigantic sinking ships. And now Father Silvera 
remembered what his mentor Father Raphael had told him about the holy water in 
Puerto Grande, where fresh well water had been as precious as life itself. "Use 
water from the cradle of life, Ramon. The salt heals and cleanses . . ." 
Below him Los Angeles was being flooded. It was a cauldron of holy water blessed 
by God Himself, and tonight all the evil would be cleansed, every bit of it. 
Silvera blinked the blood out of his eyes and hauled himself upward, grasping 
for the king vampire's wings. He caught and trapped one shoulder, throwing his 
other arm around Vulkan's neck. 
They fell, spiraling in a long arc over West L.A. Prince Vulkan fought wildly, 
getting one winged arm free and struggling for altitude. Silvera hung onto his 
neck, wrenching downward to throw Vulkan out of control. But now they were 
rising again, very rapidly. 
And then something huge loomed into their path-a wall of glass and steel 
383 
that seemed to fill up the horizon. It was an office building, now starting to 
tremble and pitch forward as the tidal wave swept it from its foundations. 
Vulkan threw himself to the left, trying to veer over and away. Silvera saw that 
they were barely going to skim the roof as the building crashed down before 
them. Clasping his legs around the thing's waist, he let go of Vulkan's neck and 
grasped for his shoulders, pinning the leathery wings back in an effort that 
almost ripped his own arms from their sockets. He felt electric with power, 
filled with renewed strength. They tumbled forward, caught in a whirlwind, and 
Silvera shouted in Prince Vulkan's batlike ear, "You've lost, you've lost, 
you've . . .!" 
They crashed through a plate-glass window. The building fell upon them like a 
massive tombstone, shattering as the sea roared up into it and through its 
hundred cubicles. The pieces were swept under, boiled to the surface, swept 
under and over again, and finally vanished beneath the littered foam. 
TWENTY 
The council chamber pitched at an angle, paintings falling from the walls to the 
floor, stones grinding and loosening, rafters crashing around Palatazin and 
Tommy. A great jagged crack split the floor and started to widen between them 
and the bolted door. 
From the massive fireplace one of the scorched, burning figures slowly rose from 
the other and, roaring with hatred and bloodlust, came shambling across the room 
with its hands outburst. Tommy could see the black eye sockets in Kobra's face, 
the flesh dangling from yellow bone, the lips and cheeks burned away to expose 
those hideous snapping fangs. From the smoking rags of his jacket, he wrenched 
the scorched Mauser and screamed, "WHERE ARE YOU!" The barrel swung toward 
Palatazin; Kobra's finger twitched on the trigger. 
And in the next instant the antique weapon, its magazine heated to an explosive 
level, blew up in Kobra's face, red-hot bullets glowing like tracers. Kobra's 
headless body was flung backward to the floor, where it lay writhing, the stub 
of a hand still gripping the mangled lump of iron. 
Palatazin gripped Tommy's arm and threw him across the widening chasm in the 
floor. Then he jumped, scrambling for a grip on the other side as the entire 
room heaved, great chunks of stone cracking loose from the walls and rolling 
like deadly pinwheels. The door was jammed shut, and Palatazin had to throw his 
shoulder against it to break it open. The corridor was filled with screams, 
falling rafters, and dust. Vampires came out of the darkness, bumping into 
Palatazin and Tommy, then racing away in a panicked frenzy. The corridor bucked, 
rippling beneath their feet. "This way!" Tommy shouted to him. They ran toward 
the corridor's far end, where a pack of vampires fought to get down the 
stairway. Behind them the floor split and collapsed, sending a half-dozen of the 
Undead plunging through. Palatazin almost tripped over the female vampire in 
black who 
384 
now crawled on the stairs, screaming "Master! Master help me!" A cloud of dust 
came welling up the stairway, almost blinding him. Vampires were fighting all 
around him in their frenzy to get out of the castle, some stumbling and falling 
over the struggling, gnashing bodies of others. Palatazin reached back and 
grasped Tommy's arm, and together they fought their way through. In the lower 
corridor vampires ran back and forth, calling for their Master and wailing for 
help. Stones and rafters fell from above, crashing to the floor and often 
crushing one or more vampires underneath. The corridor was filled with dust, 
struggling shapes, screams, and moans. Three huge blocks fell with a tangle of 
rafters, blocking the corridor ahead of Palatazin and Tommy. They found the door 
leading downward, stepped through it, and bolted it. And now they knew they had 
to hurry because the castle was pitching and swaying above them, sending chunks 
of stone hurtling into the basements. They passed through the rooms where 
coffins lay with their beds of dirt and descended the stone stairs in almost 
total darkness, into the lower basement where the dogs bayed and fought to 
escape, running back and forth like the vampires above, lost without a guiding 
hand. 
They retraced their way through the wine racks, twice coming to solid walls and 
having to go back and start over. "This way!" Tommy said, pulling at him. 
"There's blood on the floor!" Palatazin looked down and saw smeared droplets of 
blood that might have been either his or Benefield's, but Benefield himself was 
gone. The shattered half of the man's staff lay a couple of feet away. They 
found the door, almost hidden in the darkness, and started up the long stairway 
to the outside. 
The night was filled with screams. Fissures veined the courtyard, splitting even 
wider as the man and the boy ran for the iron-barred gate. Beyond Palatazin the 
black Lincoln Continental pitched into a crevice, metal crumpling like tinfoil 
as the earth ground it under. Vampires were running across the courtyard, their 
dazed eyes recognizing Tommy and Palatazin as humans, but their primary need now 
was for escape and safety. Some of them were walking, holding out their arms, 
and screaming for their Master. Palatazin saw several plunge through fissures 
and disappear. 
He hauled up the gate and locked the chain in place, then they went through, 
running along the cobblestone driveway. From the forest a sand-whitened figure 
ran toward them, arms waving like a scarecrow's. "Hey! Don't leave old Ratty up 
here, man! This fuckin' mountain's coming apart!" 
Palatazin heard a hideous grinding and cracking sound, and when he looked back 
over his shoulder, he saw the castle's uppermost towers sway, then crumple in an 
explosion of stone. The earth under his feet heaved, throwing him off balance. 
Half of the castle buckled and slowly began to give way, sliding over the cliffs 
edge like a huge melting candle. Cracks split the ground at his feet, and now he 
knew the enormity of this earthquake would destroy Los Angeles. There was no way 
they could escape on foot. Going back into the tunnels, which had been his first 
idea, would be suicide. He remembered the stalled vehicle farther down the road. 

385 
h 
* off. 
THEY THIRST 
If it had enough gas, if it hadn't already gone over the side! But now they had 
no choice, for the mountain was shaking itself to pieces beneath them. 
They started down, Ratty's face stark white with terror beneath the grime. Tommy 
fell, almost sliding into a fissure that hissed open at his feet; Palatazin 
pulled him away and now half-carried, half-dragged him. From behind there was a 
growing thunderous rumble that made Ratty whirl around and shout "Jesus!" 
Palatazin looked. The rest of the castle was going over, stones churning and 
boiling, rafters exploding into the air. It had vanished in less than three 
seconds, nothing left of it but a section of wall and the front gate. Above the 
noise of the castle's destruction, Palatazin could hear a hideous chorus of 
screams and shrieks- the dreadful, agonized song of the damned. Looking out over 
the black plain of L.A., he saw with frightening clarity the ripple of green 
phosphorescence atop a wave that must have been at least 300 feet high, rolling 
across the city from the west. He heard himself cry out, more of a moan than 
anything else, as he watched that wave sweep onward across avenue and boulevard 
and freeway. The towers of buildings jutted up like new reefs before they were 
either covered over or broken 
f 
Behind the main wave were others coming in at angles across the backwash, 
breaking together in thunderclaps of water that shot foam another hundred feet 
into the air. The L.A. basin was filling up, zigzagged with froth and green 
wake. And still the earth shook. Even larger waves were churning in from the 
ruined Santa Monica breakwaters over ten miles away. Palatazin knew Westwood 
Village, i Venice, Century City, West L.A., and most of Beverly Hills would 
already be under- I water. Under salt water, he realized, remembering the effect 
that had on the 'i vampires. The vampires weren't drowning down there because 
they couldn't % drown; they were being burned up. Palatazin shouted jubilantly 
to the sky. They Y were dying, most if not all of them trapped beneath fallen 
houses and buildings *' while the seawater roared in around them, searing them 
to the bone, blinding 
4i&3 
P them, killing them. 
i,In another moment they saw the jeeplike vehicle. They started running for it, 
and suddenly the world gave a great heave beneath Palatazin's feet that sent him 
spinning out into space. He heard Tommy cry out and grab his arm, and then they 
were both falling, sliding down into the crevasse where the road had been. 
Palatazin scrambled for a handhold on loose rocks and clumps of exposed roots. 
Suddenly there was someone above him, leaning over the precipice with an 
extended hand. Palatazin had just an instant to recognize who it was-his mother, 
her eyes dark and determined in a heavily creased, almost pellucid face. He 
reached up and caught her hand, feeling flesh against flesh, and then he was 
holding on to a gnarled root that looked like a closed fist. Tommy was gripping 
his other sleeve, both of them dangling over a black abyss. 
A rope came snaking down beside Palatazin. "Grab it!" he told Tommy. When 
1 the boy had transferred his weight to the rope, there was the noise of an 
engine starting, and Tommy was pulled quickly to the top. In another moment the 
rope 
386 
was dropped again, and Palatazin grasped it, then was hauled up the same way. At 
the top he saw that Ratty had tied it to the front fender of that jeep, then 
started the engine-thank God it would start, he breathed-and backed it away to 
pull them up. "Saw that in a cowboy movie once," Ratty said as Tommy climbed 
into the back and Palatazin took the passenger seat. "God bless old Hopalong 
Cassidy, man! Ain't been in one of these bastards since Nam. Dig it!" He whooped 
and threw the thing into reverse, backing away from the deep pit. He was driving 
in the trench that the bulldozer had cleared out, moving faster in reverse than 
Palatazin could have driven in a forward gear. 
"You all right?" Palatazin asked Tommy. 
"Yeah," the boy said, but he looked pale and stunned, and he was shaking very 
badly. Tears suddenly filled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks, but his lips 
remained drawn in a grim, gray line. "Yeah," he said softly. 
"Thought your asses were cooked," Ratty said. "You were in there a long time, 
man. Too fucking long! Then the bulldozer and the trucks came out, and Ratty dug 
himself a deeeep hole." The ground shook. Sand and boulders were falling onto 
the road, the larger rocks rolling on off the edge and vanishing. Ratty, still 
driving in reverse, dodged the smaller ones as best he could with a skill that 
Palatazin thought might have shown how he'd gotten out of Viet Nam alive. He 
found a place to turn and spun the vehicle around violently, then headed down 
the mountain at breakneck speed. "We've got to get our asses out of here, man. 
Shit! Ain't much gas, but I don't think we're going to find a station that's 
open, do you? Christ Almighty!" He stomped on the brakes because water was 
churning over the road just ahead. The single yellow-glowing headlight picked 
out frothy waves littered with planks, roof tiles, a bright red lawn chair, and 
smoking shapes that looked like large snails after they'd been doused with salt. 
Palatazin realized with a shudder that those were what remained of the vampires. 
The jeep plowed through water that lapped up to the doors. A melted shape rubbed 
up against Palatazin's door, then was swept away in the tides behind the jeep. 
The water climbed steadily toward the hood, but then they were out of the 
flooded area and ascending again. They passed a green road sign that said 
Mulholland Drive-Vim. 
"Where do we go from there?" Ratty asked. 
"High ground. I think we should follow Mulholland west into the mountains and 
find a place to wait through the aftershocks up there." 
The earth trembled suddenly, and Ratty yelped. "Shit! You feel that? This whole 
place is coming apart, man. Just splitting up into little pieces and going down 
like Atlantis!" 
"What happens if we run into any more flooded areas? Can we get through?" 
"I think so. This ain't just an ordinary jeep, man. I drove something like this 
in Nam, but I guess this is an improved version. It's an amphibious buggy, made 
for swamps, rice paddies, I guess even deserts. Sure don't know what it was 
doing up there, but if the gas holds out long enough, we'll be okay. Providing 
we don't get swallowed up in a hole or covered over with a big wave. I think the 
aftershocks are 
387 
gonna be rough." He looked at Palatazin as if he suddenly realized the 
significance of what had happened. "The vampires," he said. "What's going to 
happen to them?" 
"It's over for them," Palatazin said. 
"Over. Yeah. The whole city is over, man. Kaput! There must've been a ... a 
whole lot of people trapped down there, too." 
And now Palatazin admitted to himself what must be true and felt a sick, heavy 
sense of loss at the pit of his stomach. Jo was dead by now, and Gayle Clark as 
well. So were possibly thousands of other people who'd been trapped by the storm 
and the earthquake. It had all happened so fast; certainly there was no chance 
they could've escaped. The vampires had been destroyed, yes, but at a terrible 
cost. His old apartment building, his house on Romaine Street, the house where 
they'd taken refuge, must now be under at least seventy-five feet of water. The 
entire L.A. basin was gone, a new coastline scooped out. The aftershocks would 
probably send the water farther inland all through the night as more earth 
collapsed. He was speared with agony and put his hands to his face. First it had 
been his father and, in a way, his mother. Now the vampires had taken his wife 
as well. 
He began to cry, emotions thrashing within him. The hot tears ran down his 
cheeks and softly dripped onto his shirt. Very soon he was racked with sobs. 
Ratty and Tommy averted their eyes. When they reached Mulholland Drive, right at 
the crest of the Santa Monica Mountains, Ratty turned to the northeast and sank 
his foot to the floorboard. 
387 
II: 
388 Ift
389 
Friday, November 1 
THE BASE 
390 391 
When Gayle woke up screaming the second time, it was morning, and bright hot 
sunlight was streaming through the Venetian blinds into the barracks. 
Almost at once a tall, middle-aged man with close-cropped silvery hair and brown 
eyes that glowed warmly behind a pair of aviator glasses was standing beside her 
bunk. He wore sharply pressed dark blue trousers with scarlet and gold stripes 
down the sides and a light brown shirt with a crucifix pinned to each lapel. 
Gayle looked up at him fearfully, her mind still filled with shrouded shapes 
that writhed and contorted like hideous worms. 
"You're going to be fine now, miss," the man said quietly. "There's nothing to 
be afraid of anymore." 
"Nightmare," she said. "I was . . . dreaming . . . about them . . ." 
The man's face seemed to pale slightly, his gaze sharpening. "I'm Chaplain Lott, 
miss . . ." He waited for her to reply, carefully studying her face. 
"Gayle Clarke. I saw you last night, didn't I? At the airstrip?" Her gaze rested 
on the crucifix on his left lapel. She was comforted by its presence, safe from 
danger, safe from the night and the things that lurked within it. 
"Yes, probably." He glanced around. Most of the bunks were occupied or had 
suitcases and clothes thrown across them. It was one of the largest barracks on 
the Twenty-nine Palms Marine Corps Base in the Mojave Desert, about 150 miles 
from the submerged ruin of L.A. The barracks and most of the base's buildings 
were filled with people of all ages and descriptions. There was very little 
talking, and no laughter at all. Those who had spent the night here or had been 
airlifted out of the Marine rescue centers at Palmdale and Adelanto had brought 
their own horror stories with them, and no one could take more than their share. 
The night had been filled with crying and sudden screams. The tales that 
Chaplain Lott had heard babbled from feverish lips had been enough to gray his 
hair and stoop him over as if shouldering a terrible, unholy burden. When the 
first groups had started coming in-just an hour or so after the beginning of the 
series of earthquakes that had pushed Los Angeles beneath the sea and left Santa 
Ana, Riverside, Redlands, and Pasadena as ghost towns on the edge of the 
Pacific-Lott had rationalized those tales as mass hysteria. But then as the 
cargo and troop planes came in, bringing hundreds of survivors every hour, he 
had seen in those shocked and haunted faces a truth that shook him to the center 
of his soul. These were not simply people who believed in raw head and bloody 
bones tales, these were people who had lived through them. The other base 
chaplains and Father Allison were hearing the same things. Then there were the 
Marines who looked as close to madness as a man can be without going over the 
edge. They wanted to talk to Lott, wanted to touch the crucifix, wanted to be 
prayed for. They'd seen things, they said, and then they'd told him what those 
things were. 
392 
The base had been closed off to the reporters, who flocked at the gates trying 
to wheedle, bribe, or threaten their way in. Someone said the governor had been 
there last night before boarding a jet bound for Washington, but Lott hadn't 
seen him. Now there were rumors that the Vice-president was due very soon. 
Lott sat down on the empty cot to Gayle's left, where Jo had slept uneasily and 
for only a few minutes at a time. Jo had calmed Gayle when she'd screamed 
herself awake the first time, around five in the morning, but now Jo was gone, 
and Gayle didn't know where she could be. The barracks smelled of fear, like 
sweat and scorched flesh. She noticed that most of the blinds had been pulled up 
to let in the golden desert sunlight. The light had never seemed as important or 
as beautiful as it did at this moment. 
"Who were you brought in with?" Lott asked Gayle. "A relative?" 
"No. A friend." 
"I see. Is there anything I can do for you?" 
She smiled grimly. "I'm sure there are others who need you more." 
"That's nice," Lott said. 
"What's nice?" 
"You smiled. Not a very big smile, nor even a good one. But a smile all the 
same. That's about the first smile I've seen since all this began." 
"So what do I get, a medal?" 
He laughed. It felt fine and seemed to push back some of the shadows that had 
gathered within him. "Good, that's good. At least you're not catatonic like some 
of them are." He opened his breast pocket and brought out a pack of Winstons. 
When he offered it, Gayle took a cigarette, almost biting through the filter, 
and leaned toward the lighter flame Lott offered. He lit one for himself and 
then put the pack down on the cot beside her. "Here you are," he said. "In lieu 
of a medal." 
"Thanks." Gayle slipped her shoes on and laced them up. "How many have come in 
so far?" 
"Classified information," Lott said. 
"You don't know?" 
"They won't tell me. But all the extra barracks are filled up, there are people 
jammed into the gym like sardines, and I understand there are just as many at 
Fort Irwin and Edwards Air Force Base. The planes are still landing, two or 
three every hour, and the Seabees are putting up a hundred or so prefab Quonset 
huts. Offhand, I'd guess there are upwards of fifty thousand here." 
"The quake's over?" 
"For now, yes. I understand all the coastal areas are being evacuated. San Diego 
was hit pretty hard, and I imagine the topography of San Francisco has been 
altered a bit, but the quake seemed to be centered right in L.A. It wasn't as 
devastating as the experts had been predicting for years, thank God, but it 
turned Los Angeles into a hundred-foot-deep tidal pool." His eyes darkned, and 
he regarded the ash of his cigarette. "It could've been worse. Things always can 
be worse." 
Gayle looked around at the other people crammed into the barracks. Babies 
393 
were crying, their mothers and fathers trying to console them or each other. 
There were sleeping bags on the floor with exhausted people still curled up in 
them. A few cots down from Gayle a pretty Chicano girl with amber eyes had 
wrapped her arms around herself and was staring off into space, her face totally 
blanked with shock; beyond her a little boy was playing on the floor with a 
plastic dump truck, occasionally stopping to look up at his mother, who stood 
staring out a window with red, swollen eyes. 
"The rness hall's open," Lott said. "You can get some breakfast there if you 
like." 
"What's going to happen now? Can I get a ride out of here!" 
"No. The base has been closed off indefinitely. And a good thing, too. The 
reporters are snarling around outside. You wouldn't want to have to answer any 
questions now, would you?" 
She grunted. "I was ... I am a reporter myself." 
"Oh. Well, I'm sure you understand then." 
"Who ordered the base closed?" 
"Classified," Lott said, and smiled faintly. "But I imagine everyone will have 
to stay here until some kind of official investigation or statement or... 
whatever... is released. Which could be a long while." 
"So nobody out there knows about the vampires yet, do they?" 
Lott drew deeply on his cigarette and started looking around for something to 
put the ashes in. He found a paper cup beside another empty cot, then glanced 
back at Gayle. "No," he said quietly. "They don't. I've been briefed on my 
official stance. The United States Marine Corps does not believe in vampires, 
nor do we wish to verify any of the rumors that will be created out of mass 
hysteria. Those are the key words, Miss Clarke. Mass hysteria." 
"Bullshit," Gayle said, and rose to her feet. "It's that kind of attitude, that 
disbelief, that made them so strong! We laughed at the legends, we called them 
old wives' tales that came about because of some childish fear of the things in 
the night, but they were there all the time, just waiting to strike. We helped 
them because we refused to believe in what we couldn't see. Well, I'll tell 
you-I've seen enough in these past few days to last a lifetime, and from now on 
I'll be real careful in deciding what not to believe-" 
"Just a minute," Lott said. "I've told you my official stance. Unofficially, I 
... have to wonder." 
"There are more of them out there, hiding in other cities. People have to know. 
They have to learn to believe* and to fight before what happened in L.A. happens 
all over again." 
Lott looked at her for a moment, his jaw working. "And you want to teach them, 
is that it?" 
"I want to write the story. I think I can. I don't know where I'll sell it-I 
don't know if it can be sold-but I have to get out of here, first-" 
"Excuse me, please," he said uneasily. "There are others I have to attend to." 
394 
He started to move away, but Gayle said, "I'm not asking you to help me," and he 
stopped. "I'm asking you if it can be done." 
"You've never served in the military, have you?" 
"Screw it! I don't want to hear about who ordered what, or what's classified and 
what isn't. All that I can get on my own. I'm talking to you as one human being 
to another, and don't try to put the military between us. Believe me, I won't be 
doing any talking to the reporters outside." Her eyes gleamed fiercely. "I've 
lived this story, and it's mine." 
Lott paused, started to walk away again, and then looked back at her. He drew 
once more on his cigarette, and then crushed it out in the cup. His brow deeply 
furrowed, he walked back toward Gayle, set the cup on the windowsill, and pulled 
up the Venetian blind. Gayle saw a startingly clear azure sky, the sun blazing 
down on white sands, gray mountains, stucco buildings, and concrete roadways. 
Three large green and brown variegated trucks loaded with people bound for other 
barracks across the base moved past the window. Gayle caught some of their 
haggard, dazed expressions. She could see a couple of helicopters sweeping in 
across the desert from the east; they passed overhead, rotors faintly chukking. 
Lott was quiet for a very long time, his eyes deep-set and brooding. "I've been 
a Marine for almost twenty years, miss. The corps is my life. I have a duty to 
obey orders. If the base is secured, I have to do my best to keep it secured. Do 
you understand that?" He looked at Gayle, waiting for a reply. 
"Yeah," Gayle said. "But I'd say you had a duty to something else, wouldn't you? 
Or do you wear those for show?" 
"Of course," he continued without any hint that he'd ever heard what she'd just 
said, "this is a very large base, almost 930 square miles of desert, mountains, 
and lava rock. There are supply sheds, warehouses, garages, dozens of places to 
hide. A stockade, too. That's a place of interest where the Shore Patrol puts 
all the Marines who go AWOL, and I've counseled quite a few. Well, with L.A. on 
one side and Las Vegas on the other, what can you expect? I remember a boy who 
went AWOL, I think his name was Patterson, from ... oh Indiana, Ohio, somewhere 
like that. He'd gone over the hill because his girl of two or three years was 
getting married, and he wanted to stop the wedding. He didn't make it home, and 
he didn't stop the wedding, but he did get off the base. He stole a jeep and 
headed east, across twenty-five miles of country so hostile even the snakes 
avoid it. Helicopters patrol that area during the day, and there are observation 
towers equipped with searchlights. Some of that eastern area's too rough even to 
run a fence across, and in other places the wind keeps the sand piled up into 
dunes so high that somebody who wanted to go AWOL could just walk right out and 
away. Nearest road wouldn't be too far, maybe two or three miles. Patterson went 
at night. Of course, he had a map and a compass, and I imagine he drove with his 
lights out. It's dangerous country. If he'd gotten lost out there, the Shore 
Patrol might not've found anything but his bones. I don't know how he got that 
jeep, but . . . well, there are so many vehicles here, sometimes a single jeep 
can go missing for a couple of days without 
395 
anyone knowing. Hercules coming in." He pointed toward the sky, and Gayle saw a 
lumbering aircraft, the kind that had brought her and Jo to the base last night, 
dropping smoothly toward the airstrip a few miles away. "Beautiful plane," Lott 
said. "Works like a mule. Sometimes people get careless and forget where they've 
left their jeeps, even leave the keys in the ignition. With all the confusion 
and civilians here right now, I wouldn't be surprised if someone parked a jeep 
behind this barracks tonight and completely forgot about it until tomorrow 
morning. Of course, the SPs will be patrolling tonight. They'd probably find it 
and tow it in if it wasn't gone after 2200 hours. That's ten o'clock, civilian 
time. Check?" He looked at her, his gaze deliberately vacant. 
"Check," she said. "And thank you." 
He seemed puzzled. "For what? Oh, the cigarettes. You're very welcome. Now if 
you'll excuse me, there are others I'd better see to. If you're hungry, the 
nearest mess hall is just over on Flag Square. You'll see the signs." He left 
her without a backward glance, moving through the bunks to where a man sat with 
his hands to his face, his back stooped like a question mark. 
TWO 
In the crowded, noisy mess hall, Jo peeled the top off a paper cup of orange 
juice that had Red Cross stenciled across the side and forced herself to drink 
it. It tasted weak and chalky, but it was the first thing in her stomach since 
the slice of ham between two pieces of moldy bread she'd eaten during the night 
when she, Andy, and Gayle had been trapped in that house. The orange juice 
churned in her stomach; she thought it might come up. She doubted if anything 
would ever taste the same again, if anything would ever be the same again. The 
world had tilted, and everything she'd ever believed in had gone sliding off 
into black nothingness. Her eyes burned with tears and the need for sleep, but 
she was all cried out, and trying to sleep was a torment. 
She couldn't believe that Andy was dead. She refused to believe it. When she had 
finally slept last night, she'd had a strange dream in which she'd been walking 
along a dark twisting road, just the faintest glimmer of reddish light on the 
horizon. She'd walked alone for what seemed like miles, then suddenly she was 
aware of someone walking with her. It was Nina Palatazin, her face gray and 
wrinkled but her eyes more sharp and alert than Jo ever remembered seeing them. 
The old woman walked with difficulty, but her spine was straight, and she held 
her chin high. Finally she'd spoken in a voice that seemed faint and faraway, 
like the soft murmur of a cool desert wind. 
"This road goes on, child," she'd said. "It's not an easy road; it's not a safe 
road. But you can't step off it, and you can't stop. It goes both ways-out of 
the past and into the future. There's more ahead for Andy. Much more. You'll 
have to be prepared, and you'll have to be strong. Can you be?" The old woman 
looked at her 
396 
sharply, and Jo saw that her form seemed to be undulating, shimmering like silk. 

"He's dead. The vampires took him, or the storm, or the earthquake . . ." 
"Do you really believe that?" 
"I ... don't want to believe it." 
"Then hope" the old woman insisted. "And don't ever stop because once that's 
gone, you might as well sit down right here and never move again." 
"He's dead," Jo said quietly. "Isn't he? Can't you tell me?" 
"I can tell you that he lives, that he's hurt and tired, that he's coming to you 
soon. But isn't that only what you want to hear?" 
"Yes," Jo said uneasily. 
"The road goes on," the old woman said. "It promises nothing except a journey, 
from birth to death. He's not going to need me anymore. It's you who'll have to 
go the rest of the way with him, by the will of God. Oh, look at that!" She 
stared off toward the horizon, her gaunt face lit by the soothing reddish glow, 
like the warming touch of a distant, comforting hearth. "The night's almost 
over," she said. "It's going to be daylight soon, very soon. Oh, I'm tired now . 
. ." She looked past Jo, out across a dark plain. "I think I want to rest for a 
while, in that peaceful place. But you have to keep going, Jo. Both of you do." 
The old woman stared at her for a few seconds, then stepped off the road and 
began walking away into the distance. Jo watched her disappear out of sight, and 
at the last moment, she broke up into fragments of white light that pulsated and 
then vanished, whipped away by the wind. Jo walked on, shivering. But now the 
light had gotten stronger, and she knew she couldn't stop, couldn't turn back. 
Darkness lapped at her heels, and there was nothing to do but meet the sun. Soon 
after that she'd awakened. 
Since dawn Jo had stood at the airstrip with a few hundred other people, 
watching the big planes come in. Trucks and ambulance vans rolled across the 
tarmac to carry away both the survivors and the injured. Jo knew that many 
thousands had been taken to Fort Irwin and Edwards Air Force Base, too, and that 
the names of all the survivors would be a long time coming. If Fate had swept 
Andy's life away, she chose to believe that he'd found the vampire king after 
all and had plunged an ash stake deeply into its unholy heart. She reached up to 
her throat and touched the tiny crucifix Andy had bought for her. It seemed very 
important that she wear it now. 
She'd heard the rumors circulating from the new arrivals-a million dead, 
possibly more. L.A. under one hundred feet of ocean. The waves littered with 
bodies and debris. The vampires shriveled, burned, gone, melted into hideous 
black forms that smoked and sizzled like hot fat in a huge frying pan. But there 
were the rumors of miracles as well. Houses ripped up and washed to safety on 
the boiling crests of tidal waves. Hundreds of survivors found by the Marine 
helicopters and Navy rescue craft, clinging to the remnants of roofs, wooden 
planks, overturned boats, and the barely exposed islands of L.A."s tallest 
buildings. The thousands who had braved the vampires and the choking sand to 
head across the canyons on foot, escaping into the Santa Monica Mountains before 
the earthquake struck. Rumors 
397 
of premonitions, heroism, breaks of luck that had saved hundreds from certain 
death. Encounters with strange figures in the sandstorm who had led families and 
groups of survivors to safety at higher elevations and then had inexplicably 
disappeared. Raw, rugged endurance, and an anger that had kept people going, one 
step at a time, until the danger was past. 
Now, sitting at a table with a young couple and an older family who looked as 
shell-shocked as any war veterans, Jo drank down the rest of her orange juice 
and looked out the window beside her. She could see one of those large transport 
planes coming in for a landing, and another starting to circle the field, the 
sun shining off it like a silver coin. The survivors were still coming in, thank 
God, she told herself. Hope was beginning to gather within her again, crackling 
like a fire that had almost burned out. She mustn't let it. Now she had to hope 
and pray that Andy was aboard one of those planes and was somehow, somewhere 
safe. 
A woman with curly brown hair and very tired-looking dark eyes sat down across 
from Jo. She had a cup of black coffee, and she was wearing a spotted white 
smock. Her name tag with a red cross on it said OWENS. The woman-a Red Cross 
doctor or nurse, Jo reasoned-sipped at her coffee, closed her eyes for a few 
seconds, and then opened them again, staring out the window at the incoming 
planes. 
"I know it must be difficult," Jo said. 
The woman looked at her and nodded. "Yes. Very. Red Cross medical personnel are 
here from four different states, but still . . . we're low on whole blood, 
metaraminol, dextran . . . well, a lot of things. We're seeing a lot of shock 
cases. You're from the L.A. area?" 
"That's right, yes." 
"I can see it in your eyes. Was it ... bad for you?" 
Jo nodded. 
"I'm sorry." The woman cleared her throat and looked around the crowded mess 
hall, then back to Jo. "I flew in from Arizona last night. I had no idea there 
would be this many people." 
"I hope there are more," Jo said. "I suppose you've . . . heard everything by 
now?" 
"Uh-uh." She lifted a warning hand. "I'm not supposed to discuss anything I 
might have overheard. Orders." 
"Oh, of course." Jo smiled wanly and looked away. The military didn't want any 
information or rumors or old wives' tales getting off the base. Of course. The 
rest of the nation had to be protected from hearing about the things in the 
night. Anger flamed her face, but she was too weary to let it out. 
"That's very pretty," the woman said. 
"Pardon me?" 
She touched her throat. "Your chain and crucifix. I've been seeing a lot of 
those today. As a matter of fact, I just came out of surgery on a man who'd 
swallowed one of them. It was giving his lower intestine fits, and it wasn't 
going to come 
398 
out the easy way. Yours is about the same size." 
"Oh." Jo turned in her chair. A Red Cross helicopter chattered over the mess 
hall, bound for the airstrip. It was time for her to get back there now, to 
maintain her vigil. She had to know, one way or the other. "Well," she said, and 
rose to her feet, "I'd better make room for someone else." 
"It was good talking with you, Mrs. . . ." 
"Palatazin," she said. "It's Hungarian." She started to turn away and then 
stopped. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for helping." 
"I hope I have helped," the woman said. 
Jo left the table and moved toward the mess hall door. She stepped outside into 
the clear sunlight, and in the distance she could see the huge, sprawling tent 
city that had been set up to house more survivors and most of the Marine 
personnel. Trucks and jeeps drove among them, stirring up lazy whirls of dust. 
More planes were circling the airstrip, and now she felt the need to hurry. 
"Just a minute," someone said behind her. Jo turned to face the Red Cross lady. 
"What did you say your name was?" 
Her heart began beating a little harder. "Palatazin." 
"My God," the woman said softly. "I just... I ... thought that crucifix looked 
the same. That man . . . he's . . . your husband?" 
Jo was shocked speechless. Her lips worked for a few seconds before she could 
get the name out. "Andy?" she whispered. She began to cry, and Dr. Owens put an 
arm around her shoulder and quickly led her to a parked jeep. They drove to a 
white stucco building being used as a Red Cross facility. The first room that 
Jo- trembling, afraid that the doctor had made a terrible mistake and that this 
wasn't her Andy at all-entered was full of chairs and tables, cots and sleeping 
bags, a makeshift waiting room crammed with people. She heard Tommy's high, 
clear voice shout "HEY!" before she saw him, and when he stood up from a chair 
across the room, her knees went weak. And then she was running toward him, 
laughing and crying at the same time. She hugged him tightly, unable to say a 
word. Someone else, a man with a dirty beard and a filthy T-shirt, stood up, 
too. The waves of stench that he exuded had kept people away from him in a 
ten-foot radius. 
"We thought you were dead!" Tommy said, his eyes brimming with tears. He looked 
fine to Jo, just fine, but there were lines in his face that had no business 
being there. "We thought the earthquake had gotten both of you!" 
"No, no. How did you get out?" 
"Our gas ran out. We had to spend the night up in a cave in the mountains. There 
were about twenty others there, too. The shocks kept coming, all night. Then we 
heard helicopters, and they found us with their searchlights just before dawn. 
Then we ... God, I'm glad to see you!" 
"Andy," Jo said, and looked at Dr. Owens. "Is he all right?" 
The woman's eyes darkened. "We got that obstruction out of him about an hour 
ago, but he was. . . very despondent. It was a relatively simple operation, but 
he wanted to give up on us a couple of times there." She glanced at Tommy, then 
399 
back to Jo. "I think he went through a very rough time." 
"We found him," Tommy said, his voice knotted with new tension. A chill 
skittered quickly up his spine. Ever since they'd been flown in on a C-130 
Hercules several hours before, when Palatazin's stomach had started cramping, he 
couldn't get over the feeling that something with burning eyes was still 
stalking them, staying just behind them and out of sight. He was sure his days 
of watching horror movies were over. Now he was going to be a comedy freak. "Up 
in the castle," he said. "The Master." 
"Truth in a teacup!" the bearded man said. "The bloodsuckers were swarmin' up 
there!" 
"Is it over?" she asked Tommy, but the boy couldn't reply. 
A Red Cross nurse and a stocky man in a white uniform came through a pair of 
doors behind Jo and approached them. The nurse said, "This is the one, right 
here," and pointed toward the bearded man. "He's dirty enough to start a lice 
farm and he refuses to take a shower. I've told him he can't stay in the 
infirmary area, Dr. Whitcombe, but-" 
"A shower?" the bearded man said, and looked helplessly at Tommy. 
"You heard her. Jesus, you're rank!" The doctor clamped a large hand on Ratty's 
shoulder. "Listen, we've got enough problems here without plague. You coming 
along or do I call the SPs?" 
"A shower?" he repeated incredulously. 
"Yep. With Lava soap. Let's go." 
Ratty muttered and started walking, his shoulders slumped in resignation. At the 
doors he stopped and said to Tommy, "Keep the faith, little dude." When the 
doctor gripped his arm again, Ratty looked haughtily at him, pulled free, and 
then was gone through the doors. 
"I want to see my husband," Jo said finally to Dr. Owens. "Right now." 
"All right. He's upstairs." She nodded toward a stairway that had 3 desk pulled 
beside it where a couple of nurses were sorting folders. A sign on the desk read 
No Admittance Beyond This Point. 
When Jo looked back at him, Tommy said, "I'll wait. I won't go anywhere." Jo 
nodded and followed Dr. Owens up the stairs. Her heart was pounding as they 
walked along a concrete-floor corridor with a series of large rooms on either 
side. The place looked like it had been used for classes because there were a 
lot of desks piled out in the hallway. Now the building had been turned into a 
makeshift hospital. Jo could see the beds through the open doors, six or more to 
a room. Nurses and doctors hurried about, pushing gurneys or carts filled with 
equipment. 
"He'll still be pretty groggy," Dr. Owens warned her, "and I doubt if he'll make 
much sense. But I'm sure seeing you will make him feel a whole lot better." She 
stopped, checking a sheet of paper taped to the wall beside one of the doors. On 
it was a list of six names. "A. Palatazin," Dr. Owens read. "Good thing your 
name is one of those that you don't for-" She turned, realizing that Jo had 
already stepped past her into the room. Dr. Owens saw no need to linger. There 
was still a lot of work to do. 
400 
Jo stood in the room, looking from bed to bed. In the dim light that filtered 
through drawn blinds, she saw only strangers, people asleep, a couple of them 
wearing casts. One of them, a young woman, moaned softly in her sleep. She had a 
sudden crazy thought-What if Andy wasn't here at all? What if the records had 
been mixed up? The doctor wrong? Everything gone topsy-turvy in the confusion? 
And then she looked over at the bed across the room just underneath the window 
and took a tentative step forward. No. That couldn't be Andy lying there, hooked 
up to IV tubes and a bag of blood. That was a much older man, his face ashen 
white against the pillow. She took another step. He was covered over by a dark 
blue blanket, but she could see a crisscrossing of bandages at his throat just 
under his chin, and she put a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. In another bed 
a young black man stirred uneasily, his arm and leg in casts connected to a 
series of lines and pulleys. He opened his eyes, stared at her for a few 
seconds, then closed them again with a soft sigh. 
Jo stood over Andy and traced a finger across his cheek. His face, as pale as it 
was, seemed beautiful to her. There seemed to be much more gray in his curly 
halo of hair. She reached under the blanket and sheet, found his wrist, and felt 
the pulse beating there. It was weak, as fragile as the preciousness of life 
itself. But what a marvelous thing it was, what a wonder. Life was achingly 
short, but that was the challenge of it-to do the best with it in the time 
allowed, to age and change and grow. And that was something the Undead could 
never do. That was a gift denied them. 
Andy's fingers moved. She grasped his hand, wouldn't let go. His eyes slowly 
opened. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head toward her 
with obvious effort. When he focused on her, he said in a hoarse whisper, "Jo?" 
"It's me. It's me," she said. "I'm here, Andy. Everything's all right now. I'm 
alive. Gayle's alive. And thank God, so are you . . ." 
"Alive?" he whispered. "No, it's a dream . . ." 
She shook her head, tears brimming from her eyes. "It's real, Andy. The Marines 
came and took us out before the earthquake started. Tommy told me what 
happened." 
"Tommy? Where is he?" He blinked, unsure whether he was dreaming or not. 
"Downstairs. He's fine." 
Palatazin stared at her for a long moment, then his face collapsed like the 
shattering of a mirror. He took her hand in both of his and pressed it to his 
lips. "Oh, God," he whispered. "You're not dead . . . you're not dead . . ." 
"It's all right," Jo said softly, and ran a hand over his forehead and into his 
hair. "Everything's going to be fine now, you'll see . . ." 
It was another minute or so before he could speak again, and then only in a 
quiet, faraway voice that told her he was trying desperately to hang on to 
consciousness. "The vampires," he said. "They're gone." 
"Gone? How?" 
"The ocean. The saltwater. It roared in and ... I think some of them must've 
401 
gotten out, but not many ... not many. I think-I hope-their king is dead. I 
didn't see him after the quake started, but . . ." He remembered Father Silvera 
and the young man and the female vampire who had found the strength to deny her 
own existence and thus had saved both him and Tommy. He would pray for all of 
them because they'd all been brave, and the combination of their actions had 
helped stop the advance of the vampiric army. He thought that Father Silvera 
might have survived, but he doubted it. He was certain the priest had died 
fighting, and that the king vampire had been destroyed either in the collapse of 
the castle or by that huge, swirling cauldron of saltwater. If not... Palatazin 
closed his eyes. He couldn't think about that possibility, not yet. But for now 
the cancerous spread of them had been halted. 
"What are we going to do now?" Jo asked him. 
He opened his eyes. "We go on," he said. "We find another place to live. We put 
what's happened behind us. But we don't forget. They didn't think we were so 
strong. They didn't think we could even fight back. But we did. And we can again 
if we have to." He paused, then smiled slightly. "Think I can find that chief of 
police job in some little town now? A very long way from here." 
"Yes," she said softly, and returned his smile. "I know you can." 
He nodded. "I'm . . . not going to be the same for a while, Jo. You're going to 
have to help me understand and . . . deal with what's happened . . ." 
"I will." 
"And Tommy, too," he said. "His parents are gone, he's still not even sure what 
happened to him that night, or how he got to us. Maybe it's . . . best that he 
never remembers, but I thing someday he will. We'll both have to be strong for 
him." 
"Yes," she promised. 
He squeezed her hand and kissed it. "My good Jo," he whispered. "Strong like a 
rock." 
"I won't leave you," she told him. "I'll sleep downstairs on the floor if I have 
to, but I won't leave until you're on your feet again." 
"God save the doctor who tries to throw you out," Palatazin said. And looking up 
at her shining face, he knew there were things he should tell her, but he 
couldn't, not yet. He knew the vampires were gone, yes, but the Evil that had 
created them and given them power lived on, somewhere in the darkest limits, 
where the world trembled between night and day, where the things that ruled the 
court of midnight held sway. The Evil would be back, in some different form 
perhaps, but with the same terrible purpose. It had learned a lesson this time 
and was not likely to repeat its mistake. 
And his father stalked the monastery ruins atop Mount Jaeger along with the 
other grinning things from his boyhood village. Someday his father would have to 
find release, all of them would, and Palatazin felt sure that if it were not his 
own hand that guided the stake, then it would be someone else's, perhaps. . . 
Tommy's hand, grown older and stronger and wiser. But those were all things of 
the future, and he didn't want to think about them just yet. 
402 McCAMMON 
Palatazin's vision was blurring around the edges. Jo had never looked more 
beautiful; life had never seemed more precious a gift. 
"I love you," he said. 
"I love you." She leaned over and kissed his cheek, a tear falling from her face 
onto his, and when she lifted her head, she saw he'd gone back to sleep. 
THREE 
At exactly ten o'clock Gayle quietly left her bunk in the barracks and made her 
way to the door. There were still people awake and whispering in the darkness, 
but they paid her no attention. A child cried out suddenly, awakened from a 
nightmare, and Gayle heard a woman's voice whispering soothingly as she reached 
the door and slipped out into the cool desert darkness. 
Stars blazed in the sky, but there was no moon, a fact Gayle was grateful for. 
Only a few figures moved along the road. Spare lights burned in other barracks, 
and an occasional cigarette glowed in the night. She was rounding the far side 
of the building when she was caught by the bright white glow of headlights. A 
jeep carrying two SPs rolled to a halt beside her, and she stopped immediately. 
"Ten o'clock curfew, miss," one of them said. "Hadn't you heard?" 
"Oh, a curfew? I'm sorry, I didn't know I was breaking any rules. I've just been 
out walking for a while, to think." 
"Uh-huh. What barracks are you assigned to, please?" 
"That one, way over there." She pointed to a building about sixty yards beyond 
them and across the road. 
"You'd best get in for the night, miss. Climb in and we'll take you over." 
"No, really I..." She paused, frowning, and tried her best to summon up some 
tears. All she got was a glazed expression, but she figured it was probably good 
enough. "I ... need to be alone. Please. I need to think." 
"Ten o'clock curfew, miss," the SP said. He checked his wristwatch. "It's ten- 
oh-eight right now."0 
"I ... lost my husband in the earthquake," Gayle said softly. "I just needed to 
get out and walk. The walls were closing in on me." 
The first SP nodded, glanced over at the other one, and then back to Gayle. His 
face had softened a fraction, but his eyes were still hard. "I'm sorry to hear 
about your husband, ma'am, but I'm afraid you'll have to obey the curfew like 
everyone else. Of course, I don't suppose it would hurt if you finished your 
walk, do you, Roy?" 
"Nope," the other SP said, and gunned the engine. 
"Okay, then. But afterward, straight to your barracks, ma'am. Good night." He 
gave her a quick salute and then the jeep had rolled on past her, its red 
taillights flaring briefly before it turned to the left and disappeared. 
Shit! Gayle thought. Have to watch out for those cops! She walked quickly 
403 
around the barracks, the noise of her footsteps disquietingly loud on the 
pavement. She kept looking back over her shoulder, but the SPs didn't return. 
Why would they? she asked herself. They bought my story. 
She found the jeep parked on the other side of a large green dumpster. The keys 
were in the ignition, and under the passenger seat there was a canteen and a few 
items rolled up in cellophane. She tore the packet open and found a small 
penlight, a compass, and a map of the base that showed the desert terrain and 
lava rock that lay to the east. It looked like hard country, but she had no 
choice. Chaplain Lott had helped her as much as he could-now getting there was 
her responsibility. 
Okay, she told herself. Time to go. She flicked on the light and'studied the map 
for a minute, then found an easterly heading on the compass and started the 
engine. The noise seemed loud enough to wake up every Marine within ten miles. 
She saw a light come on in a building just a few yards away and, with fear 
galloping through her, she pushed down on the accelerator. She was determined to 
head as near due east as she could, but several times she saw the lights of an 
oncoming truck or jeep ahead, and she either turned off onto another road or 
stopped behind a building for a few minutes to wait and muster her courage. The 
farther east she went, the more scattered and dark the buildings became. Finally 
she could look back over her shoulder at most of the base. Ahead of her, like 
black hulks in the starlight, loomed a ridge of mountains directly in her path. 
The pavement ended at a group of sheds surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. 
Gayle turned off the road and started across the desert, the jeep's tires 
jubbling over rocks and sagebrush. 
A monstrous apparition suddenly came sweeping over the mountains, red and green 
and white lights flashing. It was another Hercules transport plane, coming in 
low toward the airstrip. She could see the green cockpit glow, and the noise of 
the plane's passage deafened her. Then it had passed over, a wave of scorched 
air churning behind it, the roar slowly receding. Gayle recalled what Lott had 
said about the observation towers and immediately cut her headlights. The night 
enveloped her, but soon she could see fairly well just by the starlight. The 
desert stretched out on all sides, the mountains coming up to meet her. Several 
times she had to risk flicking on the penlight to check the compass. 
An observation tower came up on her right frighteningly close, like an oil 
derrick topped by a black square of glass. Gayle angled away from it, expecting 
a piercing shaft of light, but none came. Cactus-strewn foothills began to rise 
out of the earth, carrying her into the mountains. She found what seemed to be 
no more than a rutted, boulder-strewn goat track, hardly wide enough for the 
jeep, but she started up along it. She became aware of a faint chuck-chuck-chuck 
that seemed to be steadily drawing closer. She stopped the jeep's engine. A 
helicopter passed overhead, flying slowly, and vanished toward the west. 
Soon she passed near a second observation tower perched high on the mountain. 
The other side of the mountain was far roughter terrain-deep gullies, cracked 
earth, a scattering of high, soft dunes. She wondered where she'd go when-and 
if-she made it off the base. Las Vegas? Flagstaff? Phoenix? She had no money or 
404 
ID, nothing left in the world but the clothes she wore. She couldn't even prove 
she was a survivor of the quake, must less a reporter. If she went ambling into 
some small newspaper office talking about vampires, they'd either kick her ass 
out or call the men in white coats. But she had to try. Surely there were a lot 
of stragglers who'd made it out of L.A. on their own, who had gotten to 
telephones and started calling friends and relatives with chilling stories to 
tell. There was going to be a lot of scoffing-mass hysteria, had Lott said?-but 
if the stories were repeated often enough, by hundreds of people, every editor 
in the nation would have to start paying attention. It would first be a matter 
of convincing somebody to loan her a typewriter and some desk space in a 
newspaper office, and if that place didn't take the story, she'd go on to the 
next, and the next, and the next one after that. Hell, she thought, she could 
wash dishes and live in a fleabag motel if she had to, but she was determined to 
be at the forefront when the story broke. Eventually somebody would buy it, and 
she could work her way up from there. In a year she thought she'd be able to 
write her own ticket, possibly with the New York Times or Rolling Stone. In any 
case, a publication based as far away from California as she could get. 
A helicopter suddenly came out of the night from the south, flying less than 
fifty feet from the ground. It passed over her with a thunderous racket, 
frightening Gayle so much she hit the brakes. The helicopter immediately started 
veering back, and Gayle realized they must've seen the brake lights flash. She 
pressed her foot to the floorboard, knowing there was no place to hide out here. 
The land was miserably bare, a series of sand dunes and red rock ridges ahead of 
her. The helicopters swept back over her again. Grit blinded her for a few 
seconds, and when she cleared her eyes, she saw the copter coming back for a 
third pass. A searchlight blazed down from the copter's underbelly and began a 
long, slow sweep. 
Gayle zigzagged desperately. Then the searchlight had crept up behind her, 
glancing off the jeep. It came back and held, blinding her with its intensity. 
Over the combined roar of the jeep's engine and the copter's blades, she heard a 
voice amplified through a loudspeaker command, "Pull over! You're in violation 
of martial law! Halt immediately." 
Gayle spun the wheel to the side and veered out of the light. If they stopped 
her, she knew she wouldn't have another chance to get off the base. Hot and 
dazzling, the light found her again. Above her the voice took on new menace. ". 
. . in violation of martial law. If you don't stop right now, you will be 
stopped." 
Christ! she thought. What are they going to do, shoot me? Maybe a warning shot, 
or perhaps they'd try to hit the tires, but surely they wouldn't shoot a 
civilian! She was going to have to call their bluff. The wind whipped into her 
face, a maelstrom of dust and sand churning around her from the copter's rotors. 
She was going up over a cactus-stubbled ridge, the tires shuddering over purple 
rock. She heard a high thrumming sound and winced. About five yards to the left 
she'd seen sparks and dust fly in an orderly line-bullets fired from a machine 
gun with pinpoint accuracy struck the ground just ahead of her, she realized 
they were trying to make her turn. She kept going straight ahead. 
405 
At the crest of the ridge, she felt the jeep shudder madly. The wheel shook free 
from her hands, and she knew the bastards had hit a tire. She fought for control 
as the jeep hurtled over the ridge and down. It fishtailed to the right, and 
through the churn of sand she saw what the helicopter had been trying to turn 
her away from-a high barbed-wire fence at the bottom of the ridge and beyond it 
a flat plain stubbled with scrub and cactus. The limits of the base. She spun 
the wheel back, having an instant to fear that the fence might be electrified, 
then the jeep had crashed into it, flattening and roaring over it. The copter 
screamed past, trying to hover in her path. Unintimidated, Gayle drove straight 
ahead and underneath it, leaving the copter whirling like an angered insect. It 
found her again and stayed with her for another few minutes until she passed a 
large sign on a post driven deep into the sand. She glanced back at it and saw 
in the backwash of the copter's light the words U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY-NO 
TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT. The copter came down low on her, the searchlight 
striking her savagely in the eyes. Then it veered away slowly, in defeat. The 
light went out. 
Gayle didn't reduce her speed. Less than a mile later the left rear tire spun 
off the wheel, ripped to shreds, and the bare wheel dug a trench in the sand 
before the jeep came to a halt. She cut the engine and sat there for a few 
minutes until she could stop shaking. Then she began to study the map. According 
to it-and she hoped she'd read the compass right so far-there should be a road a 
couple of miles ahead that would take her to a white dot called Amboy. She took 
the map, flashlight, and canteen, checked her compass again and started walking. 

By the time she'd reached the narrow black line of road, a chill wind had kicked 
up. Her legs ached fiercely, but she had no time to rest. She'd seen more 
helicopters flying around in the distance, and she expected a truck full of 
soldiers to come roaring across the desert after her at any moment. She walked 
north toward whatever Amboy was. Something slithered across the road in front of 
her, and she realized with a shudder that it must've been a sidewinder. She 
started watching her step and was surprised when headlights appeared on the flat 
horizon ahead. She started to wave her arms, then realized that it could very 
well be a jeep or a truck sent out after her from the base. She moved quickly 
off the road and crouched down in a gully about twenty feet away. 
The headlights brightened, the vehicle took form. It was a white van, and as it 
passed, Gayle saw NEC NEWS printed on its side above the peacock logo. She stood 
up and shouted, "HEY!" but the van went on without even slowing, heading south. 
Well, Gayle thought, it was headed in the wrong direction anyway. After another 
mile her legs felt like taut springs, and the ground seemed to be crawling with 
rattlers. She wondered if there was a telephone in Amboy. She hadn't seen or 
talked with her parents in a long time, but she figured they were still up in 
Susanville, watching the grass grow. Her brother Jeff would be sixteen now and 
probably hanging out at the roller rink while her folks ran their little corner 
drugstore. Though she'd had her differences with her parents, she knew she 
should call them, 
406 
if just to let them know she was still alive. If they asked her to come home or 
even volunteered to come pick her up, she would say no. Definitely. 
Headlights came up very fast behind her, scrawling her shadow across the 
pavement. A dark blue late-model Buick passed her and went on perhaps fifty 
yards before it slowed and stopped. Then it reversed, and the driver was looking 
out through his window. "You need a ride?" he asked. 
"Sure do," Gayle said without hesitation. He waved her over, and she got in, 
putting her map and canteen on the seat between them. The man drove on, and 
Gayle rubbed her aching calves. "Where are you headed?" 
"East," the man said. 
"Yeah, me, too. How far east?" 
"As far as I can." 
"Good." Gayle took the pack of Winstons out of her pocket and offered him one. 
He shook his head, and she punched in the cigarette lighter. "Lucky for me you 
came along. I would've had a long walk." 
"What are you doing out here?" the man asked her. "All alone, I mean?" 
"I was ... uh ... my car broke down a few miles back. I got out of L.A. before 
the quake hit, and all I want to do is put a lot of miles between me and that 
place." The lighter popped out, and Gayle lit her cigarette. In its glow she 
studied the man. He was chunky with large shoulders and hands; he wore a 
red-checked shirt and dark trousers, one knee was torn, exposing a raw-looking 
wound. There were cuts on his knuckles, too, and the one ear that Gayle could 
see looked absolutely mangled. He wore thick eyeglasses, held together in the 
middle with black electrical tape, and behind those glasses his small darting 
eyes looked watery and . . . spooky. He seemed to be trying to watch her without 
turning his head. There was a bruise on his chin, another cut on his cheek. His 
face, lit by the green glow of the dashboard, was large-jawed and thin-lipped. 
He carried an air of determination about him, an urgency, and when Gayle glanced 
at the speedometer, she saw that they were moving at just under eighty. The man 
finally turned his head and looked at her, then back to the road. Under his gaze 
Gayle felt . . . slimed. 
She shifted uneasily in her seat and blew out a lungful of smoke. The headlights 
picked out a green road sign. Amboy-3. "Amboy," Gayle said. "That's where you 
can let me out." 
He was silent. His huge hands tightened on the wheel, and Gayle thought that if 
he exerted an ounce more of pressure, it might break off in his grip. "Were you 
in L.A., too?" she asked him. 
"Yes," he said quietly. A thin smile flickered across his face, then was gone. 
"Then you know about them? The vampires?" 
He watched the road. 
"I hear they're all dead," Gayle continued. "Most of them, at least. Maybe a few 
got out, but they can't hide forever. They'll make mistakes. The sun'll catch 
them if it hasn't already. And I'm going to do my damned best to make sure 
everybody else knows about them, too." 
407 IW 
11 
1 
I 
THEY THIRST 
The man glanced at her quickly. "How?" 
"I'm a reporter," she said. "Fm going to write the hummingest story you ever 
read, once I find someone who'll give me the chance. It'll just be a matter of 
time. Hey, you're passing . . ." But then they were roaring through a cluster of 
dark, white-washed buildings, the speedometer still hovering at eighty. "That 
was Amboy," Gayle said anxiously. "That's where I wanted to get out." 
"No. That's not where you're going." 
"What do you mean?" Her eyes narrowed, and she felt a sharp needle of fear 
pierce her. 
"Not Amboy. You're a liar. I didn't pass any car on the side of the road. So 
you're a liar, aren't you?" 
"Listen, I" 
"I don't want to listen," the man said. He touched his forehead and winced as if 
in pain. "I've heard too many lies. And now you're going to go out and write 
some more lies, aren't you? About them." He spoke that word with reverence. "I 
know ... I know what kind of person you are." His gaze darkened, his lips curled 
in bitterness. "You're all the same, every one of you. You're all like she was-" 

"She? Who?" 
"Her," the man said softly. "She did things to make my head hurt. She said she 
was never going to leave me, never going to let them take me away. But she lied. 
She said she was wrong, that I was crazy and she was leaving. That's who." 
Gayle squeezed herself against the door, her eyes wide with terror. 
"Can't fool Waltie," he said. "Can't laugh behind his back anymore, no. Because 
I've got the power now! It's inside me!" 
"Yeah, okay. Why don't you just pull off up here and I'll-" 
"I'm not stupid!" he said loudly. "I never was!" He glared at her with a burning 
gaze that seemed to shrivel her into a cinder. "That one thought I was stupid. 
He wanted to take me to the police. I knew what he was doing all the time! Go 
oh, look. LOOK, I SAID!" He motioned with a jerk of his head toward the 
backseat. 
Gayle looked, her heart pounding. Jammed down on the rear floorboard was a dead 
man, shirtless, with black bruises on his throat. His face had been pulped by 
heavy blows. Her stomach lurched. She gripped the door handle and saw desert 
flatlands blurring by at eighty miles an hour. 
"I stopped her from leaving," the man said, "but they took her away in an 
ambulance. Then the doctors came. They all kept . . . picking at me. Picking . . 
. picking my brain apart," the man groaned. "But they won't laugh anymore. 
Nobody will. I've got the power . . ." 
"What . . . power . . .?" 
"His power!" the man said. "He's gone now, they're all gone, but I've got to 
carry the message to the ones who are waiting! I've got to ... got to tell them 
that it's time to strike!" His eyes were wild, like cracked black saucers behind 
the magnifying lenses. "They will. They'll do anything I say because I was the 
Master's pupil and I sat at his feet and worshipped him and I ... I touched him 
. . .!" 
408 
"Nooooo," Gayle whispered hoarsely, cringing away. 
"I'm the one, it's me who has to go on for him. I've got to find them in all the 
cities and tell them it's time to find a new Master, to band together." He 
rubbed at a spot on his forehead. "They'll win next time," he whispered. "And 
they'll make me like them so I can live forever . . ." He giggled, then his face 
immediately clouded over. 
The Buick flashed past a sign that said Junction Interstate 40-5. The man began 
slowing the car. He turned off the road and started across the desert. Gayle 
looked around desperately, but there was nothing-just flatland, cactus, 
sagebrush. The stars burned with cold indifference. When the speedometer had 
dropped to under thirty, Gayle tried to leap out, but the man grabbed her by the 
hair and dragged her across the seat. She whirled, striking him with the lit 
cigarette, but he gripped her wrist and shook it out of her hand. The car 
stopped, and he clamped a hand around the base of her neck. The terrible 
pressure numbed her. He opened his door and dragged her out, flinging her to the 
rock-stubbled ground. 
She started crawling frantically. He followed, his lips wet and gleaming, and 
kicked her down when she tried to rise. "I can't let you live," he said quietly. 
"You want to hurt them, don't you? You want to hurt me . . ." 
"No . . ." Gayle said quickly. "No ... I wouldn't-" 
"LIAR!" he snarled, and kicked her in the side. She cried out in pain and curled 
up, trying to shield her face with her hands. He stood over her, a dark shape 
against the night, his breathing quick and harsh. At his sides his hands 
clenched and unclenched, tendons standing out in the wrists as if he were 
squeezing a pair of invisible grips. "You have to die. Right now." 
And then he was on her, pressing a knee into her stomach. He gripped her throat 
and started to squeeze. She fought and thrashed, trying to roll away, but his 
weight had her pinned, and now her head was filling up with blood. She struck 
him across the face, knocking his glasses off. "Go on," he said, and grinned. 
"Yeah. Fight. Go on . . ." 
Gayle pushed against his chin, whimpering like an animal. He moaned in ecstasy 
as her body shuddered. Her hands clawed at the air, then fell back to the earth. 
His eyes closed, his breath coming out in a rasp. 
Her right hand touched a rough-edged rock lying just above her head. She 
concentrated on making her fingers close around it as black and red motes spun 
before her eyes. 
Then she brought her hand up in a savage arc, smashing the rock against the side 
of his head. He grunted, his eyes opening in surprise. She struck him again, 
right at the temple, and he fell to one side. Gayle kicked away from him, 
panting for breath. When she tried to stand up, a tidal wave of dizziness sent 
her crashing back to her knees, and it was all she could do to crawl. When she 
looked back over her shoulder, she saw him lying there, one hand clenching like 
an automaton. 
Then he abruptly sat up. His head twitched to the side, as if the blows to his 
skull had scrambled his nerve impulses. 
409 
She crawled away madly, still clutching that rock. "I'll find you!" he shrieked. 
"You can't get away! Got to serve the Master .. . got to ... serve . . ." He 
rose to his feet, fell again, stood up unsteadily, and started coming after her, 
his hands searching before him. 
And then Gayle found herself on the edge of a five-foot gulley stubbled at the 
bottom with brush and flat rocks. She stared down into it and thought she saw 
something move very slowly in there. Another movement. Something coiled on a 
rock. A third one, slithering through the brush into a hole. She saw a diamond 
design on leathery hide, a flat head with a flicking tongue. Three or more 
snakes coiled over each other. Another lifted its head toward the human scent. 
The rattlings began, soft and insistent. 
Bellowing with rage, the man was on her. He gripped for her throat again, his 
face shiny with sweat. 
Gayle hooked a foot into his crotch and struck him in the head with the rock as 
hard as she could. His bellowing was abruptly silenced. She reached up, fingers 
digging into his shoulders, and shoved him toward the gully. He stood balanced 
on the edge for a few seconds, hands flailing, then the sand collapsed beneath 
his feet and he toppled over, falling right into the midst of the rattlesnake 
nest. There was an enraged cacophony of rattlings and quick, slithering sounds, 
and then the man began screaming. The screaming went on for a long time. When it 
had died down to a low, guttural moan, Gayle forced herself to look over the 
edge. 
A four-foot rattler lay coiled on his chest. It struck, hitting him in the 
cheek; it withdrew and struck again. The man's graying face was covered with 
punctures. The snakes swarmed around and over him, striking everywhere. They 
coiled around his arms and legs like bracelets. His left hand had caught one, 
and the head was crushed, but the tail still writhed. The man's eyes were open, 
transfixed with horror, and seemed to have sunk back into his head. As Gayle 
watched, he started shuddering as if electricity rippled through him. The snakes 
gathered and struck again. 
Gayle crawled away and threw up in the sand. After a long time she crawled 
toward the car, but before she could get there, the pain in her throat and head 
flared. She put her cheek down against the cool sand and closed her eyes. When 
she could lift her head again, she saw that the car's headlights had dimmed. A 
cold wind rustled past her, whispering through the brush. A terrible urge to 
sleep almost overcame her; she wanted to lie there forever, listening to the 
wind. If she closed her eyes and slept, she'd be all right, she thought, and she 
wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore. 
But the story. She had a job to do now, an important task to carry out. Her 
voice might be the first of hundreds, warning others to check their basements, 
their root cellars and their abandoned buildings, to watch for the track of the 
vampire. It would take time to find all of them, but they were out there ... 
waiting. It would have to be done; she had to do it. 
There was no time for sleep. She looked up again and saw the first pink traces 
410 
of dawn on the eastern horizon. There were headlights in the distance, coming 
along the road. Gayle crawled to the Buick and pulled herself up painfully to 
sit in the driver's seat. The car was moving past. Gayle hit the horn, but the 
battery was so weak it gave out only a muffled squawk. The car was driving away 
now, probably headed toward Interstate 40. She found the headlight switch and 
started punching it on and off as fast as she could. The lights burned low, 
casting a dim brownish light that she knew would hardly be noticed from the 
road. "Stop," she whispered hoarsely. "Please stop, please stop, please . . ." 
The car's brake lights flared. It stopped and sat there for a moment or more. 
Then, slowly, it began to back up. Gayle watched as a man got out. He stood 
beside his car, as if uncertain. Then he started walking toward the Buick as a 
woman in the passenger seat rolled down her window. The round faces of two 
children peered out the rear windshield. 
The man was middle-aged and looked terribly haggard. There was a bandage on his 
forehead. His eyes were wide and fearful and, as he approached the Buick, Gayle 
saw that he had something in his hand. "What's wrong?" he said in a trembling 
voice. "Miss? You okay?" He stopped several yards from the car, as if he might 
decide to run at any second. 
"Need help," Gayle whispered. "Need . . . ride . . ." She stepped out of the car 
toward him, and as her knees buckled and she fell to the ground, she saw him 
thrust his hand forward. The object he held gleamed with dawn's faint light, and 
it was the most beautiful thing Gayle had ever seen. 
A crucifix. 
411 Afterword 
Robert McCammon Tells How He Wrote They Thirst 
With They Thirst, my fourth novel, I decided to kick out all the stops and go 
for the throat. 
They Thirst began, actually, as a novel called The Hungry. It was set in 
Chicago, and involved a gang of vampiric teenagers. I got about two hundred 
pages into it before I began to feel constricted. When you get that feeling, you 
know things aren't going right. You have to put aside the manuscript and think 
about it, and let me tell you that deciding to cast away two hundred pages of a 
manuscript and start over again from scratch is the kind of decision that makes 
cold sweat break out on your skin. 
I wanted a vampire novel with a huge cast, set in a city where anything was 
possible. Ah, Los Angeles. The City of Angels. Eternal Youth Shall Reign 
Forever, Amen. 
So I started over, and They Thirst was born. 
It has always interested me that from time to time I meet someone who has read 
They Thirst and lives in Los Angeles. They usually want to know how long I lived 
there, because certainly I had to be a native of L.A. to get all those streets 
and landmarks correct. The truth is that I visited Los Angeles for an intensive 
weekend of research. I trundled off in my rented car on the freeways, maps in 
hand, and went to every location that I'd already decided needed to be in the 
book. It was my first trip to Los Angeles, I was there alone, and I was staying 
in a Hispanic hotel in downtown L.A. that supposedly had been a mecca for stars 
back in the 1920s. At least that's what the guidebook said. Valentine had a 
suite there. I fear he wouldn't recognize the place now. 
But I spent most of my time like a real native-on the road. And while I was in 
Los Angeles, I read a magazine article about runaways that seemed to me to hit 
the heart of the atmosphere I was after. 
A young girl who'd run away from her home in the Midwest was talking to the 
reporter, telling him where she lived. It was a shuttered-up motel near the 
Strip, 
412 
she said. She and her friends crashed in the rooms on an upper floor. It was an 
okay life, she said. There were rats, but it was okay. They had mattresses to 
sleep on, and they panhandled on the Strip for drug money. It was okay. Like 
another society, just different. But, she said, she and her friends didn't have 
anything to do with the men who lived down in the motel's basement. She couldn't 
understand how anybody could live like those men did, down in that place with no 
light. She said they did . . . terrible things. But hey, live and let live, 
right? 
The thing is, there are so many dark basements in Los Angeles. And shuttered- up 
motels. And houses with histories. And so many, many victims. 
A friend of mine, also a writer, lives in Los Angeles and asks me why I hate his 
city. I don't hate L.A., but it scares the hell out of me, even without 
vampires. My first sight of his city, from the airplane, was a sprawling urban 
wasteland unlike anything I've ever seen in my life. I mean, the place is huge. 
I grew up and live in a city that hasn't yet reached a million population, so 
you might imagine my reaction when I saw the Los Angeles area for the first 
time. It was a beautiful day: the sun shining, the traffic buzzing around, 
people going on about their lives. 
But somewhere, just off the glittering neon-mad Strip, there's a dark basement 
where men do terrible things. 
The Land of Eternal Youth. Disneyland. Movie stars and "A" lists. Gangs fighting 
for survival on the mean streets. The ghosts of memory, and dark halls where 
Valentino once walked. The "big break," and people who will sell their bodies, 
souls and minds to get through one more day of that hard, golden sunshine. 
I think a Vampire King would find Los Angeles a wonderland. He would know that 
such a beautiful beast has a huge dark belly. And in that darkness, surrounded 
by pallid forms who fall at his feet in worship, even a Vampire King might 
become a star. 
Robert McCammon June 1988 
413