Dear Reader,

Only the pure of heart may look upon the pages of this book.

Every page you turn, every chapter you read, will bring you closer to the end.

Not everyone will make it. The many different plots and styles may dazzle and confuse.

And all the while as you search for the truth, it will be there right before you.

Darkness will come, and with it great evil.

And those who have read the book may never see the light again.

ANONYMOUS

By the same author:

Over the centuries, a great many books have been published under the pseudonym ‘Anonymous’. It would be impossible, as well as futile, to publish a list here.

First published in Great Britain in a general edition in 2007 by

Michael O’Mara Books Limited

9 Lion Yard, Tremadoc Road

London SW4 7NQ

Copyright © The Bourbon Kid 2006, 2007, 2009

The right of the author (under the accredited pseudonym The Bourbon Kid) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-84317-427-1 in Epub format

ISBN: 978-1-84317-428-8 in Mobipocket format

Designed and typeset by www.glensaville.com

www.mombooks.com

One

Sanchez hated strangers coming into his bar. As a matter of fact, he hated the regulars too, but they were welcome simply because he was afraid of them. To turn a regular away would be like signing his own death warrant. The criminals that frequented the Tapioca were always looking for an opportunity to prove themselves within its four walls, because that way anyone who was anyone in the criminal world would get to hear about it.

The Tapioca was a bar with real character. The walls were yellow, and not a pleasant yellow, either, more of a cigarette-smoke-stained colour. This was hardly surprising, because one of the many unwritten rules of the Tapioca was that everyone who frequented it had to smoke. Cigars, pipes, cigarettes, joints, hookahs, cigarillos, bongs, anything was acceptable, apart from not smoking. That was unacceptable. Not drinking alcohol was also considered to be a sin, but the greatest sin of all was to be a stranger here. No one liked strangers in this place. Strangers were bad news. They were not to be trusted.

So when a man wearing a long black cloak with the hood pulled up over his head walked in and sat himself down on a wooden stool at the end of the bar, Sanchez didn’t expect him to make it outside again in one piece.

The twenty or so regulars sitting around at the tables stopped talking and took a moment out to run the rule over the hooded man at the bar. Sanchez noted they had stopped drinking, too. Not a good sign. If there had been any music playing, it too would surely have stopped when the stranger entered. Now all that could be heard was the steady whirring of the large propeller fan hanging from the ceiling.

Sanchez made a point of ignoring his newest customer, pretending he hadn’t seen him. Of course, once the man spoke, the ignoring had to come to an end.

‘Bartender. Get me a bourbon.’

The man hadn’t actually looked up. He had ordered the drink without even acknowledging Sanchez, and since he hadn’t lowered his hood to reveal his face, it wasn’t possible to tell if he looked as nasty as he sounded. His voice had enough gravel in it to fill a pint glass. (In these parts a stranger’s nastiness was judged on how gravelly his voice was.) With that in mind, Sanchez picked up a reasonably clean whisky glass and walked over to where the man was sitting. He set the glass down on the sticky wooden bartop directly in front of the stranger and allowed himself one fleeting glance at the face inside the black hood. But the shadow within the cowl was too deep for him to make out any distinguishing features, and he wasn’t about to risk being caught staring.

‘On the rocks,’ the man muttered, almost under his breath. It was more of a gravelly whisper, really.

Sanchez reached under the bar with one hand and pulled out a half-filled brown glass bottle labelled ‘Bourbon’, then gathered two ice cubes in the other. Dropping the cubes into the glass, he began to pour the drink over them. He filled the glass just over halfway, and then placed the bottle back under the bar.

‘That’s three dollars.’

‘Three dollars?’

‘Yep.’

‘Fill the glass.’

The chatter in the bar had remained hushed since the man had entered, but now the quiet acquired a graveyard stillness. The notable exception was the ceiling fan, which actually seemed to be getting louder. Sanchez, who was avoiding eye contact with everyone by this time, picked up the bottle again and filled the glass to the top. The stranger gave him a five-dollar bill.

‘Keep the change.’

The bartender turned his back and rang up the sale on the cash register. Then the small sounds of the transaction were suddenly punctuated by speech. From behind him he heard the voice of Ringo, one of his most unpleasant customers. It too was a fairly gravelly voice, as these things go, and it said: ‘What are you doing in our bar, stranger? What’s your business?’

Ringo was sitting with two other men at a table situated just a few feet behind the stranger. He was a heavy, greasy, unshaven slimeball, just like most of the other lowlifes in the bar. And just like the others, he had a pistol in a holster hanging at his side, and he was itching for any kind of excuse to whip it out. Still at the cash register behind the bar, Sanchez took a deep breath and prepared himself for the ruckus that would inevitably follow.

Ringo was a renowned outlaw, guilty of almost every crime imaginable. Rape, murder, arson, theft, cop killing, you name it, Ringo had committed them all. Not a day went by when he didn’t do something illegal that might land him in prison. Today was no different. He had already robbed three men at gunpoint, and now, having spent most of his ill-gotten gains on beer, he was looking to pick a fight.

When Sanchez turned back to face the barroom he saw that the stranger had not moved, or touched his drink. And for a few horribly long seconds he had not responded to Ringo’s question. Sanchez had once seen Ringo shoot a man in the kneecap, simply for not answering him quickly enough. So he breathed a sigh of relief when eventually, just before Ringo asked his questions a second time, the man chose to reply.

‘I’m not looking for any trouble.’

Ringo grinned menacingly, and growled, ‘Well, I am trouble, and it looks like you found me.’

The hooded man did not react. He just sat on his stool, staring at his drink. Ringo got up from his chair and walked over to him. He leaned against the bar alongside the newcomer, reached out a hand and roughly pulled back the man’s hood to reveal the chiselled but unshaven face of a blond-haired fellow in his early thirties. The man had bloodshot eyes, suggesting he was slightly hungover or had only just woken prematurely from a drunken slumber.

‘I wanna know what you’re doing here,’ Ringo demanded. ‘We’ve been hearing stories about a stranger who came into town this morning. Thinks he’s a tough-guy. You think you’re a tough-guy?’

‘I’m not a tough-guy.’

‘Then get your coat and get the fuck out.’ As orders go, this had its limitations, for the stranger had not shed his cloak.

The blond man contemplated Ringo’s suggestion for a short while, then shook his head.

‘I know the stranger of whom you speak,’ he said in his husky voice. ‘And I know why he’s here. I’ll tell you all about him if you’ll leave me alone.’

Beneath a dark and insanitary moustache, a big grin broke out on Ringo’s face. He looked back to his audience. The twenty or so regulars were all seated at tables, watching intently as the events unfolded. The sight of Ringo grinning served to ease the tension a little, although everyone in the bar knew that the mood would soon darken again. This was the Tapioca, after all.

‘What do you say, boys? Shall we let this pretty-boy tell us a story?’

There was a noisy chorus of assent and a chinking of glasses. Ringo put his arm around the blond stranger and turned him around on his stool to face the others.

‘Come on, Blondie, tell us about this badass stranger. What’s he want in my town?’

There was a mocking tone in Ringo’s voice, although it didn’t seem to bother the blond man, who began to speak.

‘Earlier today I was in a bar a couple of miles down the road, and this big, nasty-looking dude came in, sat at the bar and ordered a drink.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Well, you couldn’t see his face at first because he was wearing this big kinda hood. But then some punkass walks over to him and pulls the hood back.’

Ringo wasn’t smiling any more. He suspected the blond man was mocking him, so he leaned in close and tightened his grip on the other’s shoulder.

‘So tell me, boy, what happened next?’ he asked threateningly.

‘Well, the stranger, who’s a good-lookin’ guy, he downs his drink in one go, pulls out a gun and kills every single prick in the bar … except for me and the bartender.’

‘Now,’ said Ringo, taking a deep breath through his filthy nostrils, ‘I can understand why he might keep the bartender alive, but I don’t see any good reason why he wouldn’t kill you.’

‘You wanna know why he didn’t kill me?’

Ringo pulled his gun from the holster on his broad black leather belt and pointed it at the man’s face, almost pushing it into his cheek.

‘Yeah, I wanna know why this sonofabitch didn’t kill you.’

The stranger looked hard at Ringo, ignoring the revolver at his head. ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘he didn’t kill me because he wanted me to come to this shit-hole, and find a fat fuck who goes by the name of Ringo.’

The overemphasis the stranger placed on the two words ‘fat’ and ‘fuck’ didn’t escape Ringo’s attention. Yet in the stunned silence that greeted this remark he remained fairly calm, at least by his own standards.

‘I’m Ringo. Who the fuck are you, Blondie?’

‘It’s not important.’

The two greasy lowlifes who had been sitting at Ringo’s table with him stood up. Each took a step towards the bar, ready to back up their friend.

‘It is important,’ said Ringo nastily. ‘Because the word on the street is that this guy, this stranger we’ve been hearing about, calls himself the Bourbon Kid. You’re drinking bourbon, ain’t you?’

The blond man took a look at Ringo’s two compadres, then looked back down the barrel of Ringo’s gun.

‘D’you know why he’s called the Bourbon Kid?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I know,’ one of Ringo’s friends called out from behind him. ‘They say that when the Kid drinks bourbon, he turns into a fuckin’ giant, a psycho, and he goes nuts and kills everyone in sight. They say he’s invincible and can only be killed by the Devil himself.’

‘That’s right,’ said the blond man. ‘The Bourbon Kid kills everyone. All it takes is one drink and he goes fuckin’ nuts. They say it’s the bourbon gives him special strength. Once he’s had a sip he always kills every muthafucker in the bar. And I should know. I seen it happen.’

Ringo pushed the muzzle of his pistol hard into the man’s temple. ‘Drink your bourbon.’

The stranger swivelled slowly on his barstool to face the bar again and reached for his drink. Tracking his movements, Ringo continued to press the gun to his head.

Behind the bar Sanchez stepped away, hoping to keep clear of any blood or brains that might get sprayed in his direction. Or the odd stray round, for that matter. He watched as the blond man picked up the glass. Any normal man would have been shaking so much he would have spilled half the drink, but not this guy. The stranger was as cool as the ice in his glass. You had to give him credit for that.

By now every man in the Tapioca was on his feet and straining to see what was happening, and every single one of them had a hand on his own pistol. They all watched as the stranger held the glass up in front of his face, inspecting its contents. There was a bead of sweat sliding down the outside of the glass. Actual sweat. Most likely from Sanchez’s hand, or even from the last person to have used the glass. The man seemed to be watching the bead of sweat, waiting until it had slid far enough down the glass that he wouldn’t have to suffer the taste of it on his tongue. Eventually, when the drop of sweat was far enough down the glass that it wouldn’t come into contact with his mouth, he took a deep breath and poured the drink down his throat.

In the space of three seconds the glass was empty. The entire bar held its breath. Nothing happened.

So they held their breath some more.

And still nothing happened.

So everyone started breathing again. Including the propeller fan.

Still nothing.

Ringo pulled his gun away from the blond man’s face, and asked the question everyone in the bar wanted to ask: ‘So then, Blondie, are you the Bourbon Kid or not?’

‘Drinking that piss only proves one thing,’ said the blond man, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.

‘Yeah? And what’s that?’

‘That I can drink piss without puking.’

Ringo looked at Sanchez. The bartender had slunk back as far out of the way as he could, with his back pressed against the wall behind the bar. He looked a little shaky.

‘Did you give him a drink from the piss bottle?’ demanded Ringo.

Sanchez nodded uneasily. ‘I didn’t like the look of him,’ he said.

Ringo holstered his gun and stepped away. Then he threw his head back and began to howl with laughter, slapping the blond man on the shoulder at the same time.

‘You drank a cup of piss! Ha-ha-ha! A cup of piss! He drank piss!’

Everyone in the bar burst out laughing. Everyone, that is, except the blond stranger. He fixed his gaze on Sanchez.

‘Give me a fucking bourbon.’ There was quite a lot of gravel in the voice.

The bartender turned away, picked up a different bottle of bourbon from the back of the bar and began pouring from it into the stranger’s glass. This time he filled it to the top without waiting to be told.

‘Three dollars.’

It was evident that the blond man was not impressed by Sanchez asking for another three dollars, and he rapidly made his displeasure clear. Faster than any eye could see, his right hand reached inside the black cloak and reappeared holding a pistol. The weapon was a very dark grey in colour and looked rather heavy in his hand, suggesting it was fully loaded. It had probably once been a shiny silver colour, but as everyone in the Tapioca knew only too well, anyone who carried a shiny silver firearm had probably never used it. The colour of this man’s pistol suggested it had seen a good deal of use.

The stranger’s swift movement came to an end with the pistol pointed directly at Sanchez’s forehead. This aggressive action was immediately followed by a series of loud clicks, more than twenty of them, as everyone else in the bar stopped watching the situation unfold, drew and cocked their own revolvers and drew down on the blond guy.

‘Easy there, Blondie,’ said Ringo, once again pressing the muzzle of his own gun to the man’s temple.

Sanchez smiled a nervous and apologetic smile at the stranger, who was still aiming the dark grey pistol right at his head.

‘Have this one on the house,’ he said.

‘Do you see me reaching for my fuckin’ roll?’ was the curt response.

In the ensuing silence, the blond man laid his pistol down on the bar next to his new glass of bourbon and let out a quiet sigh. He looked thoroughly pissed off now, and seriously in need of a drink. A proper drink. It was time to get rid of that nasty urine taste in his mouth.

He picked up the glass and put it to his lips. The whole bar watched, barely able to stand the tension of waiting for him to drink the contents. As if to torment them, he didn’t actually throw the contents down his throat straight away. He paused for a moment, as though about to say something. Everyone waited with bated breath. Was he going to say something? Or was he going to drink the bourbon?

The answer soon came. Like a man who hadn’t had a drink for a week, he downed the entire contents of the glass in one mouthful, before slamming the glass back down on the bar.

Now that was definitely real bourbon.

Two

Father Taos felt like weeping. There had been many sad moments in his life. There had been sad days, even sad weeks from time to time, and probably a sad month somewhere along the line. But this was the worst. This was the saddest he had ever felt in his life.

He was standing where he so often stood, at the raised altar in the Temple of Herere, looking down upon the rows of pews below. Today, though, was different. The pews were not as he liked to see them. Normally they would be at least half filled with the glum-looking faces of many of his Hubal Brothers. On the odd occasion when the pews were empty, he took pleasure in just staring at their neatness, or at the relaxing lilac-coloured cushioning that covered them. Not today. The pews were not neat, they were not even lilac-coloured any more. And most of all, his Hubal Brothers did not look glum.

The stench that filled the air was not completely unfamiliar. Father Taos had encountered a similar smell once before – five years earlier, in fact. It brought back sickening memories, because it was the smell of death, destruction and betrayal, cloaked in a mist of gunpowder. The pews were not covered in lilac cushioning any more, they were covered in blood. They were no longer what could be described as neat, they were a mess. And worst of all, his Hubal Brothers who were half filling the pews, didn’t look glum, they looked dead. All of them.

Looking upward, fully, fifty feet above him, Taos could even see blood dripping from the ceiling. The perfectly arched marble vault overhead had been painted hundreds of years earlier with the most beautiful scenes of Holy Angels dancing with happy, smiling children. Now, all of the angels and all of the children were stained with the blood of the Hubal monks beneath them. It seemed as if their expressions had changed, too. They no longer looked happy and carefree. Their blood-spotted faces looked troubled, remorseful and sad. Just like Father Taos.

There were some thirty corpses slumped over the pews. Perhaps another thirty or so were out of sight beneath or in between the rows of seating. Only one man had survived the massacre, and that was Taos himself. He had been shot in the stomach at point-blank range by a man toting a double-barrelled shotgun. It had hurt terribly, and the wound was still bleeding a little, but it would heal. His wounds always healed, although he had come to accept the fact that gunshots did tend to leave a mark. He had received two other bullet wounds in his lifetime, both of them five years ago, both in the same week, just a few days apart.

There were enough Hubal monks still alive on the island to help him clear up the present mess. It would be hard for them, he knew that much. It would be particularly hard for those who had been here five years ago, the last time the smell of gunpowder had filled the Temple with its foul ungodly stench. So it was a comforting sight for Taos when two of his favourite younger monks, Kyle and Peto, entered the temple through the gaping hole that had once been a pair of huge arched oak doors forming the entrance.

Kyle was around thirty years old, Peto closer to twenty. On first sight they were often mistaken for twins. It was not just their appearance that was similar, but also their mannerisms. This was partly because both were dressed the same, and partly because Kyle had been Peto’s mentor for almost ten years, and the younger monk subconsciously mimicked his friend’s edgy, over-cautious nature. Both men had smooth olive skin and shaved heads. They were wearing identical brown robes, like those worn by so many of the dead monks in the Temple.

On their way to the altar to see Father Taos they had to endure the unpleasant and disconcerting task of stepping over a number of the dead bodies of their brothers. Unsettling though it was for Taos to see them in this situation, it provided him a small amount of comfort to see them at all, sufficient enough to quicken his heartbeat. It had been working at about ten beats per minute for the last hour, so it was a relief to him that it was at last starting to pick up speed and beat to a steady rhythm again.

Peto had been thoughtful enough to bring with him a small brown mug of water for Father Taos. He was careful not to spill any of it on the way to the altar, but his hands were visibly shaking as the enormity of what had happened in the Temple became clear to him. He was almost as relieved to hand over the mug as Taos was to receive it. The old monk took it in both hands and used most of his remaining strength to lift it to his mouth. The cool sensation of the water running down his throat made him feel even more alive, and was also a considerable help in speeding up the healing process.

‘Thank you, Peto. And don’t you worry: I’ll be back to my old self by the end of the day,’ he said, bending to place the empty mug on the stone floor.

‘Of course you will, Father.’ There was not a great deal of confidence in the shaky voice, but at least a certain amount of hope.

Taos smiled for the first time that day. Peto was so innocent, and so careful of others, that it was hard not to feel a little better about things now that he was here in the bloody shambles of the Temple. He had been brought to the island at the age of ten after a gang of drug dealers had murdered his parents. Living with the monks had brought him inner peace and helped him to come to terms with his grief and his vulnerability. Taos felt a great sense of achievement that he and his brothers had made Peto into the wonderful, thoughtful, unselfish human being that now stood before him. Unfortunately, he was now going to have to send the young monk back out into the world that had robbed him of his family.

‘Kyle, Peto, you know why you are here, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Father,’ said Kyle, answering for them both.

‘Are you up to the task?’

‘Most definitely, Father. If we were not, you would not have sent for us.’

‘That is true, Kyle. You are a wise man. Sometimes I forget just how wise you have become. Remember that, Peto. You will learn a lot from Kyle.’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Peto, humbly.

‘Now listen carefully, for there is very little time,’ Taos continued. ‘From now on, every second is vital. The continuance – the very existence – of the free world rests upon your shoulders.’

‘We won’t fail you, Father,’ insisted Kyle.

‘I know you won’t fail me, Kyle, but if you do not succeed it will be mankind as a whole that you have failed.’ He paused, before continuing, ‘Find the stone. Return it here. Do not let it be in the hands of evil when the darkness comes.’

‘Why?’ asked Peto. ‘What would happen, Father?’

Taos reached out and placed a hand on Peto’s shoulder, gripping it with surprising firmness for a man in his condition. He was appalled by the massacre, by the threat that faced them all, and, above everything, by the fact that he had no other course than to send these two young monks into danger.

‘Listen, my sons, if that stone is in the wrong hands at the wrong time, then we shall all know of it. The oceans will rise up, and mankind will be washed away like tears in rain.’

‘Tears in rain?’ Peto repeated.

‘Yes, Peto,’ Taos replied gently. ‘Just like tears in rain. Now you must hurry, for there is not time for me to explain everything to you. The search must begin immediately. Every second that passes, every minute that unfolds, we become another step closer to the end of the world we have known and loved.’

Kyle reached out and stroked his elder’s cheek, wiping away a spot of blood.

‘Don’t worry, Father, we won’t waste another moment.’ Even so, he hesitated for a moment, then asked, ‘Where should our search begin?’

‘In the same place as always, my son. In Santa Mondega. That is where the Eye of the Moon is coveted most. That is where they always want it.’

‘But who are “they”? Who has it? Who did all this? Who – or what – are we looking for?’

Taos paused before answering. He surveyed the carnage around him again, and thought back to the moment he had looked his attacker in the eye. The moment right before he was shot down.

‘One man, Kyle. You seek one man. I do not know his name, but when you reach Santa Mondega, just ask around. Ask for the man that cannot be killed. Ask what man is capable of slaying thirty or forty men single-handedly without picking up so much as a scratch himself.’

‘But Father, if there is such a man, won’t people be afraid to tell us who he is?’

Taos felt a moment’s irritation at the younger man’s questioning, but it was a good point Kyle was making. He thought about it for a moment. One of Kyle’s strengths was that if he questioned things, at least he did so intelligently. On this occasion Taos was able to answer his question.

‘Yes, they will, but in Santa Mondega a man will sell his soul to the dark side for a handful of green.’

‘For a what? I don’t understand, Father.’

‘For money, Kyle. Money. The filth and scum of the earth will do anything for it.’

‘But we don’t have any money, do we? To use it is against the sacred laws of Hubal.’

‘Technically, yes,’ said Taos. ‘But we do have money here. We just don’t spend it. Brother Samuel will meet you at the harbour. He will hand you a suitcase full of money. More money than any man needs. You will use this money sparingly to acquire the information you need.’ A wave of tiredness, tinged with grief and pain, seized him. He rubbed a hand over his face, before continuing, ‘Without money you would not last half a day in Santa Mondega. So whatever you do, do not lose it. Keep your wits about you, too. If word gets around that you have money, people will come looking for you. Bad people.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Kyle felt a slight rush of excitement. This would be his first trip off the island since he had arrived as a small child. All the monks on Hubal arrived as infants, either orphaned or simply unwanted by their parents, and opportunities to leave the island came perhaps once in a lifetime, if at all. Unfortunately, part of being a monk meant that the rush of excitement Kyle felt was swiftly followed by an overwhelming sense of guilt at having felt excited in the first place. This was not the time or the place for such feelings.

‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

Taos shook his head.

‘No, my son. Now go. You have three days to retrieve the Eye of the Moon and save the world from ruin. And the sand is running through the hourglass.’

Kyle and Peto bowed before Father Taos and then turned and made their way gingerly out of the Temple. They couldn’t wait to be back in the fresh air. The reek of death inside was making them both nauseous.

What they did not realize was that this smell would become only too familiar to them once they left the sanctity of their island. Father Taos knew it. And as he watched them leave, he wished he had only had the courage to tell them the truth about what lay in wait for them in the outside world. He had sent two young monks to Santa Mondega five years before. They had never returned, and only he knew the reason why.

Three

Five years had passed since the night the blond man in the hooded cloak had turned up in the Tapioca Bar. The place still looked pretty much the same. The walls were perhaps a little more smoke-stained than they had been before, and showed a few more pockmarks from stray bullets, but other than that, the place had remained unchanged. Strangers were still not welcome, and the regulars were all still scumbags. (Mind you, they were different regulars.) Those five years had seen Sanchez grow a little heavier around the waist, but otherwise he too had not changed. So when two odd-looking strangers quietly entered the bar, he prepared to serve them drinks from the piss bottle.

These two men might have been twins. Both had heads shaved completely bald, both had olive-coloured skin, and both were dressed in the same outfits: orange sleeveless wraparound karate-style tunics, with baggy black trousers and rather effeminate pointed boots, also black. Now, there was no dress-code policy in the Tapioca, but if there had been, these two would never have been allowed in. When they reached the bar they stood smiling at Sanchez like a couple of simpletons. As was his custom, he ignored them. Unfortunately, as was also usually the case, some of his more unpleasant customers – in other words, very unpleasant customers indeed – had noticed the newcomers, and it was not long before the din in the bar fell to a gentle hush.

The Tapioca was not actually all that busy, for it was still early in the afternoon. There were only two tables in use, one near the bar, with three men seated around it, and another in the far corner harbouring two shady-looking characters leaning over a couple of bottles of beer. The parties at both tables were now taking a long, hard look at the two strangers.

The regulars were not familiar with Hubal monks, as they weren’t often seen round those parts. Nor did the bar’s customers know that these two strangers dressed in odd clothes were the first two monks even to leave the island of Hubal in years. The slightly taller of the two was Kyle. He was also the more senior monk. His companion, Peto, was a mere novice learning his trade. Not that Sanchez would have been able to tell. Nor would he have cared.

The monks had come to the Tapioca Bar for a very particular reason: it was the one place in Santa Mondega they had actually heard of. They had followed Father Taos’s instructions and asked a few locals where they would be most likely to find a man who could not be killed. The emphatic response was ‘Try the Tapioca Bar’. A few people had even been kind enough to suggest a name for the man they were looking for. ‘The Bourbon Kid’ came up on several occasions. The only other name offered was that of a man who had recently arrived in town, and who went by the name of Jefe. A promising start to the quest that the two monks had set out upon. Or so they thought.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Kyle, still smiling politely at Sanchez. ‘May we have two glasses of water, please?’

Sanchez picked up two empty glasses, filled them with piss from the bottle under the bar, and placed them in front of the men.

‘Six dollars.’ If the strangers didn’t detect a challenge in the outrageous price, his surly tone signalled it clearly enough.

Kyle nudged Peto and leaned back to whisper in his ear, all the while beaming his forced smile at Sanchez.

‘Peto, give him some money,’ he hissed.

Peto pulled a face. ‘But Kyle, isn’t six dollars rather expensive for two glasses of water?’ the young monk whispered back.

‘Just give him the money,’ said Kyle urgently. ‘We don’t want to look like idiots.’

Peto glanced over Kyle’s shoulder at Sanchez and smiled at the impatient-looking bartender.

‘I think this guy’s ripping us off.’

‘Just give him the money … quickly.’

‘Okay, okay, but have you seen that water he’s given us? It’s a bit – sort of – yellowy.’ He took a breath and added, ‘Looks like urine.’

‘Peto, just pay the man.’

Peto pulled a handful of notes from a small black bag on his belt, counted out six one-dollar bills and handed them to Kyle. Kyle in turn handed the money to Sanchez, who took it and shook his head disapprovingly. It could only be a matter of time before someone picked on these two oddballs, and it was their own fault for looking and acting the way they did. He turned to place the money in the cash register but, as usual, he hadn’t even finished ringing up the sale before the first question was asked of the two strangers.

‘Hey, whadda you two pricks want?’ called out one of the two shady characters at the table in the corner.

Kyle could see that the man who had called out was looking in his direction, so he leaned back again and whispered in Peto’s ear, ‘I think he’s talking to us.’

‘Really?’ said Peto, sounding surprised. ‘What’s a prick?’

‘I don’t know, but it sounds like it could be an insult.’

Kyle turned around, and saw that the men at the corner table had got up from their seats. The wooden floorboards quivered violently as these two very shady, very nasty-looking thugs made their way over to the two monks. They had a distinctly unwelcoming look about them. A look that suggested trouble. Even a couple of naive out-of-towners like Kyle and Peto could see that.

‘Whatever you do,’ Kyle whispered to Peto, ‘don’t do anything to upset them. They look a bit nasty. Leave all the talking to me.’

The two troublemakers now faced Kyle and Peto at a distance of only a few feet. Both of them looked unwashed, something confirmed by the fact that they smelled like it, too. The larger of the two, a man named Jericho, was chewing tobacco, a small brown streak of which was dribbling out of one side of his mouth. He was unshaven and sported the apparently obligatory insanitary moustache, and from the look of him might have been in the bar for several days without going home. His companion, Rusty, was a good deal shorter, but smelled just as bad. He had rotten black teeth that were out on display as he grinned at Peto, who was one of the few men in town short enough to meet him at his own eye level. Where Peto was the apprentice in his relationship with Kyle, Rusty was similarly the understudy of Jericho, a more accomplished criminal in local circles. As if to press home the point as to which was the senior party, Jericho made the first aggressive move. He prodded a finger into Kyle’s chest.

‘I asked you a question. What are you doin’ in here?’ Both monks noticed a certain gravelly quality in the voice.

‘Well, I am Kyle and this is my novice, Peto. We are monks from the Pacific island of Hubal, and we are looking for someone. Maybe you could help us find him?’

‘Depends on who you’re lookin’ for.’

‘Er – well, apparently the man we’re looking for goes by the name of the Bourbon Kid.’

Complete silence enveloped the Tapioca. Even the propeller fan fell quiet. Then the sound of breaking glass came from behind the bar as Sanchez dropped an empty glass he had been holding. He had not heard anyone mention that name in his bar for a very long time. A very long time. It brought back horrible memories for him. The mere mention of the name made him shiver.

Jericho and his sidekick knew the name, too. They had not been in the bar on the night the Bourbon Kid had shown his face. They had never seen the Kid. They had only heard about him, and about the night he had drunk bourbon in the Tapioca. Jericho looked at Kyle closely to see if he was serious. It seemed that he was.

‘The Bourbon Kid is dead,’ he growled. ‘What else do you want?’

Knowing Jericho and Rusty as he did, Sanchez figured that Kyle and Peto had about twenty seconds left to live. Yet even that estimate looked a little generous when Peto picked up his glass from the bar and took a large swig from it. As soon as the liquid touched his taste buds he realized he was drinking something unholy, and instinctively he spat it out in disgust. All over Rusty. Sanchez came close to laughing, but he was smart enough to know that to do so wouldn’t be in his best interests.

There was piss in Rusty’s hair, in his face, in his moustache and in his eyebrows. Peto had managed to spray it all over him. Rusty’s eyes bulged with rage as he looked at the golden-coloured liquid dripping down his chest. This was humiliating. Humiliating enough for him to want to kill Peto without another moment’s thought. In one swift movement he reached for the pistol holstered at his hip. His buddy Jericho was right with him, as he too drew his gun from its holster.

Hubal monks value peace above most qualities, but they practise martial arts from childhood. To Kyle and Peto, therefore, taking out a couple of drunken thugs was child’s play (almost literally, given the monks’ upbringing), even if the men were pointing guns at them. Both monks reacted right on cue, and with bewildering speed. Without a sound, each ducked down and thrust his right leg between the legs of the man facing him. Each then hooked his leg behind his opponent’s knee and spun round. Taken completely by surprise, and bewildered by the speed of the assault, Jericho and Rusty managed no more than an astonished yelp as the monks whipped their pistols away from them. Almost immediately there followed a couple of thudding sounds as both men fell backwards to the floor, which shook. From being in a position of power only a second earlier, both were now lying flat on their backs staring up at the ceiling. Worse, from their point of view, the two monks were now pointing their own guns at them. Kyle stepped forward and placed one pointed black boot on Jericho’s chest to keep him from getting to his feet. Peto didn’t bother to copy him, simply because Rusty had hit his head so hard when he fell that it was unlikely that he even knew where he was any more.

‘So, do you know where the Bourbon Kid is, or not?’ Kyle asked, pushing his foot into Jericho’s chest.

‘Fuck you!’

BANG!

Kyle’s face was suddenly freckled with blood. He looked to his left and saw smoke drifting from the muzzle of Peto’s gun. The younger monk had shot Rusty in the face. There was an almighty mess all over the floor and all over both of the monks.

‘Peto! What did you do that for?’

‘I’m … I’m sorry, Kyle, but I’ve never used a gun before. It just kind of went off when I squeezed the trigger.’

‘They tend to do that, you know,’ Kyle answered, though not unkindly.

Peto was trembling so much he could barely keep his grip on the revolver, such was the shock that had engulfed him. He had just killed a man, something he had believed he would never do. Ever. Yet, anxious not to let Kyle down, he did his best to put the killing to the back of his mind. That wasn’t going to be easy, however, what with all the blood everywhere acting as a constant reminder.

For his part, Kyle was more concerned by the fact that their credibility was taking a pounding, and was grateful that the bar was not full.

‘Honestly, I can’t take you anywhere,’ he said, tutting.

‘Sorry.’

‘Peto, do me a favour.’

‘Of course. What?’

‘Stop pointing that thing at me.’

Peto lowered the gun. Relieved, Kyle returned to his interrogation of Jericho. The three men at the middle table had turned their backs on the action and were carrying on with their drinks as if what was happening was perfectly normal. Kyle still stood over the surviving lowlife on the floor, boot on chest.

‘Listen, friend,’ he said reasonably. ‘All we want to know is where we can find the Bourbon Kid. Can you help us or not?’

‘No, goddammit!’

BANG!

Jericho screamed and grabbed his right leg, which was now spurting blood in several directions from a bullet wound just below the knee. Once again, there was smoke rising from Peto’s gun barrel.

‘S-s-sorry, Kyle,’ the novice stammered, ‘it just went off again. Honestly, I didn’t mean to …’

Kyle shook his head in exasperation. They had now killed one man and wounded another. Not exactly the most discreet way to go about retrieving the precious blue stone men called the Eye of the Moon. Although to be fair, he thought, and even though he was the senior of the two monks, he too was nervous about being out of Hubal, so he accepted that Peto was probably twice as jittery.

‘It doesn’t matter. Just try not to do it again.’

Jericho’s cursing was turning the air blue by this time as he writhed in agony on the floor, with Kyle’s boot still pinning him down by the chest.

‘I don’t know where the Bourbon Kid is, I swear,’ he yelled hoarsely.

‘Want me to get my friend to shoot you again?’

‘No, no! Please, I swear I don’t know where he is. I’ve never seen him. Please, you gotta believe me!’

‘All right. Do you know anything about the theft of a precious blue stone known as the Eye of the Moon?’

Jericho stopped writhing for a moment, which told them that he did know something.

‘Yeah. Yeah I do,’ he winced. ‘A guy name of El Santino is after it. He’s offerin’ large sums of money to anyone who can get it for him. But that’s all I know. I swear.’

Kyle took his boot off Jericho’s chest and walked back to the bar. He picked up his untouched glass and took a swig before following Peto’s lead and spitting it out in disgust. The only difference was that he spat it all over Sanchez.

‘You might want to get some fresh water in here, I think this stuff has gone bad,’ he suggested to the bemused and dripping bartender. ‘Come on, Peto. Let’s go.’

‘Wait,’ said Peto. ‘Ask them about the other guy – Jefe. Do they know where we might find him?’

Kyle looked at Sanchez, who was wiping the piss from his face with a dirty rag that might once have been white.

‘Bartender, have you ever heard of a guy named Jefe who lives around these parts?’

Sanchez shook his head. He had heard of Jefe, but he wasn’t in the business of snitching, or certainly not to strangers, anyway. Besides, even though he knew who Jefe was, he had never actually met him. The man was renowned as a bounty hunter who travelled the world. True, he was rumoured to be spending time in Santa Mondega at the moment, but as yet he had not set foot in the Tapioca. And that, as far as Sanchez was concerned, was a blessing.

‘I don’t know no one. Now fuck off outta my bar.’

The two monks had left without another word. Good riddance to them, too, Sanchez thought. Cleaning blood from the floors of the Tapioca was one of his least favourite tasks. Now, thanks to two strangers whom he should have told to get lost the minute they showed up, he was going to have to do just that.

He headed out back to the kitchen area to fetch a mop and a bucket of water, and returned just in time to see another man enter the Tapioca. Another stranger, in fact. Tall. Well built. Dressed oddly, he noted. So were the last two creeps. It really was going to be a shitty day. Sanchez had had enough of it already, and it was only early afternoon. He had one dead guy lying on the floor with his brains spattered all over the barroom, and another guy with a bullet wound to his leg. The police would have to be called, although not for a while yet, at least.

After wrapping an old rag tightly around the bullet wound in Jericho’s leg and helping him to his feet, Sanchez made his way back behind the bar to serve his latest customer. Jericho hoisted himself up on to a stool at the bar and sat there quietly. He wasn’t about to make the mistake of picking on the latest stranger to enter the Tapioca.

Sanchez picked up a clean(ish) dishcloth and wiped the blood from his hands as he took a look at his new customer.

‘What’ll it be, stranger?’

The man had taken a seat on the stool next to Jericho. He was wearing a heavy black sleeveless leather jacket that was part-way unbuttoned, showing off a richly tattooed chest and a large silver crucifix. He had matching black leather pants, big black boots, thick black hair and, to top it all off, the blackest eyes Sanchez had ever seen. And in those parts, that’s very black indeed.

He ignored Sanchez and picked a cigarette out from a thin paper packet he had placed on the bar in front of him. He flicked the cigarette up into the air and, without moving, caught it in his mouth. A second later he produced a flaming match from out of thin air, lit the cigarette and flicked the match at Sanchez, all in one swift movement.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said.

‘And I serve drinks,’ Sanchez replied. ‘Now, you gonna order, or what?’

‘Give me a whisky.’ Then he added, ‘Give me piss an’ I’ll kill ya.’

Sanchez was unsurprised to note a distinctly gravel element in the voice. He poured out a whisky and placed the glass on the bar in front of the stranger.

‘Two dollars.’

The man tossed back the drink and slammed the empty glass down on the bar.

‘I’m looking for a man named El Santino. He here?’

‘Two dollars.’

There was an uneasy moment of ‘will he pay or won’t he?’ before the man pulled a five-dollar bill from a small pocket at the waist of his jacket. He placed it on the bar, still holding on to one end of it. Sanchez pulled at the other end of the note, but the man held on.

‘I’m supposed to meet a man named El Santino in this bar. Do you know him?’

Shit, Sanchez thought wearily. Everybody’s looking for somebody or some-fuckin’-thing today. First two oddball killer creeps come asking about the Bourbon Kid – the name made him shudder inwardly – and some fuckin’ blue stone and that bounty-hunter guy, Jefe, and then another fuckin’ stranger comes askin’ about El-shitface-Santino. But he kept his thoughts to himself. ‘Yeah, I know him,’ was all he said.

The man let go of his five-dollar bill and Sanchez snatched it away. As he rang up the sale on the cash register, one of the regulars, as was customary, began interrogating the newcomer.

‘What the fuck you want with El Santino?’ called out one of the three men from his seat at the table near the bar. The leather-clad stranger did not answer straight away. This was the cue for Jericho to get up from the barstool he had been resting on, and hobble out. He had seen enough action for one day, and he wasn’t crazy about being shot again, especially as one of the thieving bastard monks had waltzed off with his pistol. He limped over the dead body of his friend Rusty on the way out and made a conscious decision not to go back to the Tapioca for a while.

Once Jericho had gone, the big black-eyed stranger at the bar finally decided to answer the question he had been asked.

‘I got something El Santino wants,’ he said, without actually looking around to see whom he was addressing.

‘Well, you can give it to me. I’ll pass it on to him for you,’ one of the men at the table replied. His companions guffawed.

‘Can’t do that.’

‘Sure you can.’ The tone was decidedly menacing.

There was a clicking noise, very much like the sound of someone cocking the hammer on a revolver. The stranger at the bar sighed and took a long drag on his cigarette. All three of the lowlifes at the table got up and took seven or eight paces towards the bar. Still he didn’t turn round, though they had stopped right behind him.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the one in the middle, ominously. Sanchez knew this guy only too well. He was a sneaky little fucker with bushy black eyebrows and eyes that didn’t match. His left eye was dark brown, but his right had a colour all its own, a colour someone had once described as ‘snake-like’. His two comrades, Spider and Studley, both appeared to be slightly taller than him, but this may have been because both wore grubby cowboy hats that had seen better days. These two men weren’t the problem, though. They were the balls; it was the cock in the middle with the weird eye that was the trouble. Marcus the Weasel was a small-time thief, mugger and rapist. Now he prodded a small pistol into the stranger’s back. ‘I asked you a question,’ he said. ‘What’s your name, chief?’

‘Jefe. My name is Jefe.’ Fuck, thought Sanchez, hearing the name.

‘Jefe?’

‘Yeah. Jefe.’

‘Hey, Sanchez,’ Marcus called to the bartender. ‘Weren’t those two monks looking for a man named Jefe?’

‘Yeah.’ The bartender had decided to be at his most monosyllabic.

Jefe took a long drag on his cigarette, then turned to face his interrogator and slowly exhaled, blowing a lungful of smoke right into Marcus’s face.

‘Did you say “monks”?’

‘Yeah,’ said Marcus trying not to cough. ‘Two monks. They left just before you came in. You probably walked right past them.’

‘I didn’t walk past no fuckin’ monks.’

‘Sure. Whatever you say.’

‘Look, boy, do yourself a favour. Tell me where I can find El Santino.’

Marcus the Weasel moved the pistol away and pointed it in the air for a moment. Then he lowered it again, aiming it at the end of Jefe’s nose.

‘Like I said, why don’t you just give me what you have and I’ll pass it on to El Santino for you, eh … chief?’

Jefe dropped his cigarette on the floor and slowly raised his hands in surrender to Marcus, all the while grinning as though he was in on some private joke. He placed his hands behind his head, then slowly slid them down to the back of his neck.

‘Well now,’ said Marcus. ‘I’ll give you three seconds to show me what you’ve got for El Santino. One … two … ‘

THUD. Simultaneously both Spider and Studley, who had been standing on either side of their odd-eyed companion, fell to the floor. Marcus made the mistake of looking down. Both were lying on the floor, stone dead, each with a short, heavy, double-edged knife sticking out of his throat. When he looked back up he realized that his gun was no longer in his hand. It was now in Jefe’s possession and being pointed at him. Marcus gulped. This guy was fast. And deadly.

‘Say,’ offered the Weasel, acutely aware of his own survival instincts, ‘why don’t I take you to see El Santino?’ Be generous, he silently reminded himself.

‘Sure. That’d be great,’ Jefe grinned. ‘But first, why don’t you buy us a couple of whiskies?’

‘Be glad to.’

After dragging the bodies of Rusty, Spider and Studley out to the backyard and dumping them where no one would easily spot them, the two men sat and drank whisky for the next couple of hours. Marcus did most of the talking. He was doing his best tour-guide impression, providing Jefe with the lowdown on the best places to go for a good time. He also warned his new buddy of the places and people most likely to rip him off. Jefe humoured Marcus by pretending to be interested in what he had to say, when in actual fact all he wanted was a drinking partner, one who was paying for all the drinks. Luckily for Marcus, when they had moved the bodies out back he had had the forethought to help himself to Studley’s billfold and the three dollars that Spider had in his shirt pocket. The billfold was full of notes, so he had enough money to sustain their drinking for a couple of days.

By early evening Jefe was very drunk, and neither he nor Marcus had noticed that the Tapioca had become quite busy. There were still plenty of tables and chairs going unused, but there were many customers – regulars – lurking in the shadows. Somehow, word had spread that Jefe was carrying something worth a lot of money. He had earned himself a reputation as a man to be feared, but he was not well known in these parts. And he was now very drunk, making him a prime candidate for the many muggers and thieves that frequented the Tapioca.

As it turned out, what happened to Jefe later that night would prove to be the catalyst for everything that followed. Which was mainly murders.

Four

Detective Miles Jensen arrived in Santa Mondega with a reputation. All the other cops disliked him already. To them, he was one of those trendy, new-age detectives. Probably never seen a real day’s action in his life, they thought. They were wrong, of course, but he had better things to do with his time than waste it trying to justify his position to a bunch of inbred scumbags like the cops on the beat in Santa Mondega.

The reason they took him for a phoney was there for all to see in his job title: Chief Detective of Supernatural Investigations. A waste of taxpayers’ money if ever there was one. It hadn’t been a problem when he was on someone else’s beat but now he was on theirs, and he was probably earning a truckload more than most of them. There was nothing they could do about it though, and they knew it. Jensen had been assigned to Santa Mondega by the Government of the United States. Normally the US Government couldn’t give a damn about what went on in Santa Mondega, but recently something had happened that had made it sit up and take notice.

That ‘something’ was a series of five gruesome murders, and although that was nothing new in those parts, the manner in which the victims had been killed was highly significant. All five victims had been killed in the same ritualistic way. Murders like these had not been seen since the week leading up to the legendary Bourbon Kid massacre of five years earlier. Most murder victims in Santa Mondega were killed by gunmen or knife-wielding maniacs, but not these five. They had been killed by something else – something not entirely human. This fact ensured that the case was serious enough for Miles Jensen to be assigned to it, working on his own, with no help from anyone else.

Like so many of the buildings in the city centre, the Santa Mondega police headquarters was a decaying mess. It looked like an early-twentieth-century building that had probably been the pride of the city in its day. In comparison with most of the other police headquarters that Jensen had visited in his time, it ranked very poorly.

The interior had at least been modernized to some extent. Rather than early twentieth century, like the exterior, it had an early nineteen-eighties feel to it. The layout was much as one would expect to see in an old TV cop show like Hill Street Blues. Obviously, this wasn’t ideal, but Jensen had to admit to himself that he had seen plenty worse.

Check-in at reception – often painfully slow, in his experience – was remarkably simple in this new precinct. The young female receptionist merely took a glance at his badge and his letter of authority and advised him to make his way up to Captain Rockwell’s office, to which she breezily gave him directions. It was always good to know he was expected.

As he made his way through the building to the Captain’s office, Jensen felt the eyes of the other officers, each and every one of them, burning into his back. This happened every time he was reassigned. Other cops hated him, and that was that. There was nothing that he could do about it, or at least not in the early days of an assignment. In Santa Mondega, however, his case wasn’t really helped by the fact that he appeared to be the only black man on the force. This was a town full of people from all walks of life and many nationalities or races, yet there seemed to be hardly any black people. Maybe the blacks had more sense than to settle in such a shit-hole, or maybe they just weren’t welcome. Only time would tell, he thought.

Captain Rockwell’s office was on the third floor. Jensen could sense a hundred pairs of eyes following him as he made his way towards the Captain’s glass-walled office in the far corner, a good sixty yards from the elevator he had arrived in. The entire floor was dotted with desks and cubicles. Nearly every desk had a detective sitting at it. This was typical of today’s police. No one was out on the beat. Everyone was at a desk filling out forms or typing reports. Modern-day police work, Jensen said to himself. Inspiring stuff.

There were numerous pieces of evidence and photos of suspects or victims or missing persons pinned to partitions and dividing screens, or taped to computer monitors. By comparison, Captain Rockwell’s office was spotless. His small room in the far corner of the third floor afforded him a good view out of the windows over the city below. Jensen knocked twice on the glass door. Rockwell – seemingly the only visible black man on the Santa Mondega force – was sitting at his desk chewing on something and reading a newspaper. He had thick grey hair and a paunch, which together suggested he was in his mid-fifties. On hearing the knock at his door, he didn’t bother to look up but simply gestured for his visitor to enter. Jensen turned the doorknob and pushed. The door wouldn’t open cleanly and needed a good shake that unfortunately made the glass walls of the office wobble a little. Eventually a slight kick at the bottom of the door helped it open and Jensen walked in.

‘Detective Miles Jensen reporting for duty, sir.’

‘Siddown, Detective,’ growled Rockwell. Jensen noticed that he was doing a crossword in the newspaper.

‘Need any help with that?’ he asked, in an attempt to break the ice as he seated himself in a chair opposite the Captain.

‘Yeah, try this one,’ said Captain Rockwell, glancing up for a second. ‘Four letters. Don’t – ever – kick it – again.’

‘Door?’

‘Damn right. You’ll do fine. Nice to meet you, Jansen,’ said the Captain, closing his newspaper and taking a good look at his new detective.

‘It’s Jensen, and it’s nice to meet you too, sir,’ said Jensen, leaning over the desk with his right hand outstretched. Rockwell ignored the gesture and carried on talking.

‘How much do you know about why you’re here, Detective?’

‘I was briefed by Division. I probably know more than you do, sir,’ Jensen replied, retracting his hand and sitting back down.

‘I doubt that very much.’ The Captain picked up a mug of coffee from on top of a pile of paperwork to his left and took a sip before spitting it back in the mug in disgust. ‘Now, are we going to be sharing information here, or are you gonna jerk me off the whole time like Internal Affairs?’

‘I won’t be jerking you off, sir. That’s not one of my objectives here.’

‘Give you a piece of advice, Jansen. Nobody around here likes a smartass, you got that?’

‘It’s not Jansen, sir, it’s Jensen.’

‘Whatever. Has anyone shown you where the coffee is yet?’

‘No, sir. I’ve only just got here.’

‘Well, when they do, mine’s black, two sugars.’

‘I don’t drink coffee, sir.’

‘I didn’t ask if you did. Get Somers to show you where the coffee is when you meet him.’

‘Which one is Somers?’ Jensen asked, fully aware that his question might not be answered. This Captain Jessie Rockwell was an odd sort. He spoke very quickly and he appeared not to have a lot of patience. He certainly didn’t seem to need any more caffeine. Every once in a while as he spoke his face would become contorted, as though he was having a very minor stroke. Clearly the man had stress issues, as well as little tolerance for Miles Jensen.

‘Somers has been assigned as your partner – or rather, you’re his. That’s the way he’ll prefer to see it,’ he said. Jensen bristled.

‘I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding, sir. I’m not supposed to be assigned a partner.’

‘Tough shit. We didn’t ask for you to be sent here, either. But it looks like we’re stuck with you and we’re paying for your stay here, so I guess we’re both in a position we don’t like.’

This was not something Jensen was happy about. Other cops didn’t take his work seriously. The Captain didn’t seem to, and whoever this Somers character was, Jensen bet he would be no different.

‘With all due respect, sir, if you’ll just call …’

‘With all due respect, Johnson, you can kiss my ass.’

‘It’s Jensen, sir.’

‘Whatever. Now listen, because I’m only gonna tell you this once. Somers, your new partner … he’s an asshole. A real fuckin’ asshole. No one else will work with him.’

‘What? Well then, surely …’

‘Do you wanna hear what I have to say, or not?’

It hadn’t taken Jensen long to realize that arguing with Captain Rockwell was going to be pointless. If he had any problems he’d have to sort them out himself later. The Captain wasn’t going to waste time explaining himself to anyone or showing anyone around. He obviously considered himself far too busy, or far too important, for niceties. For now, it was easier to sit back and listen to what he had to say.

‘Sorry, sir. Please go on.’

‘Thank you. Not that I need your permission. This is for your benefit, not mine,’ said Rockwell. He eyeballed Jensen for a moment to see if there was likely to be any more dissent from this weird detective. Satisfied that there was not, he continued. ‘Detective Archibald Somers has been assigned to this case as your partner. He’s been assigned by the Mayor. Now if I had my way, Somers wouldn’t even set foot in this building, but the Mayor is trying to win re-election, so he’s got his own goddam agenda.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jensen could see little relevance in the explanation so far, but he decided it would be best to show a little interest with the occasional nod or ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Somers was handed early retirement just over three years ago,’ Rockwell went on. ‘The rest of us held a retirement party for him.’

‘Very good of you, sir.’

‘Not really. We didn’t invite that miserable bastard Somers.’

‘Why not?’ asked Jensen, surprised. Rockwell frowned.

‘Because he’s an asshole. Jeeezus! Pay attention, Johnson, for Chrissakes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So, anyway. You’re here about the Bourbon Kid, right?’

‘Well, not exactly.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Somers is obsessed with the goddam Bourbon Kid case. That’s why he was forced into early retirement. He tried to pin every single murder in Santa Mondega on this Bourbon Kid. He took the whole damn thing so far that people started to think the Police Department were being lazy and we were just using the Kid as a scapegoat to pin all our unsolved crimes on.’

‘Which obviously isn’t true,’ said Jensen. It was one of those comments he immediately wished he hadn’t made, because the way he had said it sounded like he was being sarcastic, which was not what he had intended. Captain Rockwell eyed him again for a second. Satisfied at last that Jensen was actually sincere, he carried on.

‘Right,’ he said, breathing in through his nose so deeply that his nostrils flared to nearly twice their normal size. ‘Well, Somers started fiddling with evidence in his attempts to frame the Bourbon Kid for everything. Fact of the matter is, there’s only two people in town who have ever seen the Kid and lived. And no one has seen him since the night five years ago when he massacred half the town. Most of us believe he’s probably already dead. Probably died that night and was just one of the many unidentified bodies we buried that week. Others say he was killed by a couple of monks as he left town. I guess that’s where your interest lies, right? With the monks and all that crap?’

‘If you mean the Hubal monks and the Eye of the Moon, sir, then yes.’

‘Hmm. Well, I don’t believe any of that crock of shit, and neither do any of the other guys, but here’s something you might not know, Detective Johnson. Yesterday, two monks killed a guy in the Tapioca Bar. Shot him dead in cold blood. Wounded another. Lit out with two stolen pistols. The first thing you and Somers are gonna be doing is questioning Sanchez, the bar manager.’

Jensen looked at Rockwell in surprise. This actually was something he didn’t know about. Hubal monks in town, that was unusual. Damned unusual. As far as he knew the monks never left their island for any reason. Except for that one time, five years ago, when two of them had arrived in Santa Mondega just before the night of the Bourbon Kid massacre.

‘Have they been arrested?’

‘Not yet. And they won’t be if that horse’s ass Somers has his way. He’ll try and convince you that the Bourbon Kid killed the guy but dressed himself up as two monks to do it.’

‘Okay. So tell me, Captain, if Somers retired, why the hell is he on this case?’

‘I already told you. It’s because the Mayor wants him on the case. Everyone knows Somers is obsessed with the Bourbon Kid, and the public will be happy if he’s leading the investigation. The public, you see, they don’t know that he’s an asshole. They just know that a lot of them lost relatives and loved ones when the Bourbon Kid came into town last time.’

‘Last time? The way you said that implied that the Bourbon Kid is back in town.’

Captain Jessie Rockwell sat back in his chair and took another sip of his coffee before once again spitting it back into the mug in disgust.

‘I’m not sure what I’m saying, to be honest, but the fact of the matter is this. Two monks showed up less than twenty-four days ago. That’s the first time in five years that any monks have been seen in this town. And that’s not all. You’re here because the Government thinks that something out of the ordinary is going on, right?’

‘Well, yeah. Five brutal murders in the last five days. That’s apart from the guy the monks are meant to have killed. That’s quite a lot. In fact, it’s a helluva lot. And I’m here because from what I understand, these weren’t normal murders, right?’

‘Right. I’ve seen some sick shit in this town, Detective. But these last five killings, well, I haven’t seen anything like it since the last time the Bourbon Kid was in town. Maybe it’s all building up to another massacre like we had five years ago. Like history is repeating itself. That’s why the Mayor wants Somers back. Asshole though Somers is, he knows more about the Bourbon Kid than the rest of the world put together. And you, well you’re obviously here because for the first time in I don’t know how long, the outside world has decided that it gives a shit about what goes on in Santa Mondega.’

‘So it would seem, sir.’

‘Yes. It would.’ He heaved himself up from his chair. ‘Now, you wanna meet Somers, or what?’

Five

Jefe awoke with a start. His heart was pounding, and his instincts were telling him that something wasn’t right. Something was definitely not as it should be. But what was it? What had happened to make him wake up so suddenly, awash with a feeling of dread? And threat? The only way he’d find an answer was to piece together the events of the previous evening. That shouldn’t be too difficult. First, Marcus the Weasel had bought him drinks all night. This was to be expected. Marcus was afraid of him, and rightly so. Jefe had intended to kill Marcus once he had served his purpose, and Marcus’s purpose was simple: he had to buy Jefe drinks all night and then take him to meet El Santino. But Jefe hadn’t met El Santino yet, and Marcus the Weasel was nowhere to be seen.

Jefe was lying on his back in a rickety old bed in what looked like a dingy room in a cheap motel. He was dehydrated, no doubt from all the drink he and Marcus had polished off the night before. They’d had not a bad time. As Jefe recalled, Marcus was quite a good drinking partner who could handle his whisky and tequila. He was still an asshole, but at least he could last the pace. By now, Jefe was starting to remember more and more about the previous evening. Marcus had seemed to be holding his drink incredibly well, while Jefe himself had been seeing double. This was unusual, for he could handle his drink. He could drink for days at a time and still keep it together. So why had he suddenly gotten drunk out of his skull so easily?

Oh no.

A cold shiver washed over him. On cue, his head began to pound as his hangover took hold. Had he fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book? Had Jefe been downing shot after shot, while his new-found friend had been drinking water disguised as shots of tequila? If that was the case, then one of two things could have happened. One: he could have been murdered in his sleep. Obviously not the case. Or two: robbed. Highly likely. Shit.

He grabbed at his chest, hoping to feel the precious blue stone that had been hanging around his neck for the past few days. His hand clasped thin air, right where the stone should have been. He sat bolt upright.

‘FUCKIN’ BASTARD!’

His shout echoed through the sleazy building. This was bad news, in every way. Jefe had been ripped off, and to make matters worse he had been ripped off by a man who was known locally as a complete and utter slimeball scumbag weasel. How could he have been so stupid, so gullible? What an imbecile! That fucking weasel Marcus! The guy was as good as dead.

Jefe’s mind was full of questions, racing around in his head like foxes in a chicken run. Did Marcus know the power of the stone? Did he know that it was the Eye of the Moon, the most precious and powerful stone in the entire universe? And did he realize that Jefe would now make it his life’s ambition to kill him and get it back?

What concerned the bounty hunter more than anything was the knowledge that he had an appointment to keep that day. An appointment with a man whose reputation was more fearsome than that of the Devil himself. He was going to need the Eye of the Moon if he was to have any chance of surviving that meeting. El Santino was expecting the stone to be delivered to him before midnight. Jefe had promised it to him. El Santino was not a man Jefe wanted to disappoint, even though he had never met him, but that wasn’t even the worst of his problems. If Marcus the Weasel discovered the power of the stone, it would be virtually impossible to retrieve it from him. Just as it should have been impossible for Jefe to have lost it in the first place.

Another thought struck him. There was, of course, always the danger that Marcus could be gotten to by others. There were plenty of people who wanted the Eye of the Moon. Many of them were as brutal as Jefe, some maybe more so. If any of them got their hands on the stone he would never get it back before the end of the day. If ever. He considered his options for a moment. He could just leave town and never return, but he had gone to such great lengths to get his hands on that stone. It was practically a miracle he had survived this long. Just finding and stealing the stone had seen him kill more than a hundred people. Some of them had come close to killing him, yet he had survived. He’d come through unscathed, only to slip up and let his guard drop as he approached the final hurdle. Although it might prove even harder to get the stone back from Marcus, he reminded himself that it was worth a lot of money to him. And his life depended on it, too.

Fuck it. He’d have breakfast, then that was it.

The Weasel was toast.

Six

Jessica had been creeping through the densely planted woodland for longer than she could remember. The trees around her reached up so high they almost blocked out the sky above. The ground was a mat of tree roots, making it very difficult to walk steadily, and the likelihood of twisting an ankle was growing with every small step she took. And the time for small steps had now passed.

She could feel the cold biting at her shoulders and feet. Whatever presence it was that had been observing her as she made her way through the woods, it was now pursuing her. No longer just watching, it was creeping up on her. The trees were so close together, and the canopy above her was so thick that it was almost too dark to see. As it happened, she was too afraid to look back anyway. She could hear her pursuer breathing, except that now it was panting heavily. It was a beast of some sort, she knew that much. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human, and although it didn’t make much sense to her, she had a feeling it wasn’t an animal either. This was something else, and it wanted her.

As she tried desperately to pick up the pace, the branches of the trees seemed to become thicker and thicker as if reaching out for her, trying to slow her down. She was still managing to keep her footing, but she knew it was only a matter of time before one of the tree roots upended her. For its part, the beast was closing in all the time, its panting growing louder and quicker with each passing second. Nothing seemed to slow it down. It was gathering speed, and would soon be upon her.

Jessica suddenly experienced a sharp intake of breath and her eyes opened. She closed them almost instantly as they were stung by the brightness of the light. Then she opened them again. Then closed them. Then opened them again. She continued to do this for several minutes until the stinging sensation became bearable. All the while the dream from which she had just awoken preyed on her mind. It had seemed so real, almost as though it were not a dream but an old memory returning to haunt her.

She looked around her. The room was bare, the only furniture in it the bed that she was so snugly tucked into. The walls were covered with a cream-coloured wallpaper that had seen better days. The light colour was probably meant to compensate for the lack of a window. It didn’t, of course, nor did it lessen the room’s claustrophobic feel. It dawned on her that she was very cold, not that it actually bothered her much. She’d been colder than this. What was bothering her, though, was that she had no idea where she was, or how she had come to be there.

‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’

She heard, distantly, a voice mutter something. It sounded like a man’s and came from below, as if he was a floor beneath her. It gave her an idea of her bearings, for it implied that she was in an upstairs bedroom somewhere. Then a sudden charge of footsteps bounding up a staircase towards the door in the far corner of the room caused her heart to race. She began to wish she hadn’t called out so hastily. The footsteps were heavy, suggesting that they belonged to a very big man. When they reached the top of the stairs and stopped outside the door in the corner of the room there was a pause, then she saw the handle turn. Slowly the door creaked open.

‘Oh my God, you’re awake!’ exclaimed the rather startled-looking man who had opened the door. He was a big, rugged fellow. Looks a bit like a farmer, Jessica thought. Quite a handsome young farmer, mind you. Nice thick, black, hair, and strong, even features. He was wearing a thick lumberjack shirt hanging out over a pair of brown workman’s trousers tucked into a pair of shiny black boots, which came up just a few inches above his ankles.

Jessica spoke out without actually engaging her brain first.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ she asked.

‘You’re awake. You’re really awake. Oh my God … I mean … shit,’ the man stammered. He seemed to be even more astounded than Jessica, although it was safe to assume he knew more about her situation than she did.

‘Where the fuck am I? And who the fuck are you?’ she asked again.

‘I’m Thomas. Thomas Garcia,’ he said, stepping towards the bed with a great beaming smile starting to spread across his face. ‘I’ve been looking after you. Well, that is, me and my wife, Audrey, we’ve been looking after you … together. She’s at the market at the moment. She’ll be back soon, though.’

Jessica’s instinct was telling her that he seemed nice enough, but she was still confused, and as he approached the bed she suddenly became very aware of the fact that she was naked beneath the covers.

‘Look, Thomas, if that is your real name, I’m stark naked under these sheets, so I’d appreciate if you didn’t come any closer until you’ve found me my clothes.’

Thomas stepped back and raised his hands apologetically.

‘With all due respect, Miss Jessica,’ he said carefully, ‘I’ve been giving you bed baths for the last five years or so, so it’s not like I ain’t seen you naked before.’

‘What?’

‘I said …’

‘I heard what you said. You said you’ve been giving me bed baths. You’d better be fucking kidding, pal.’

‘Sorry, but I …’

Jessica suddenly registered what he had just said. ‘Wait a minute … five years? Did you say FIVE YEARS?’

‘Yes, you were brought to us five years ago. You were barely alive. We’ve been caring for you ever since, hoping that one day you’d wake up.’

‘FIVE YEARS! Are you fucking nuts?’ She was equally astonished and exasperated by what Thomas was saying. She had never seen him before, let alone been bathed by him on a regular basis for the last five years.

‘Sorry, Jessica. It is Jessica, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m sorry, but you’ve taken me completely by surprise.’

‘I’ve taken you by surprise? Well fuck me. I am so-o-o-o sorry. Now will you get me some fucking clothes before I lose my fucking temper with you.’

Thomas looked taken aback. Offended, he replied stiffly, ‘Yes, certainly, I’ll get your clothes and then we can talk. I guess there’s a lot we need to tell each other.’

He backpedalled out of the room, turned to close the door and went lumbering down the stairs, leaving Jessica to mull over all that he had just said. How could it be true? Was this some kind of joke or trick? Then it hit her. She had very little memory of anything. She knew her name was Jessica, but she wasn’t sure whether she knew that only because Thomas had just mentioned it. Her confusion reminded her of what it was like to wake up with a hangover and for just a few seconds not be able to remember where she had been the night before or what she had been doing. The difference this time, though, was that while she could remember what a hangover was like, she couldn’t recall any details of her life, and more than a few seconds had passed without anything coming back to her.

Thomas returned a few minutes later. Somewhat apologetically, he tossed some clothes towards her before heading back downstairs with the promise that he was going to make her some breakfast.

Jessica hurriedly dressed herself in the clothes he had provided. They were a perfect fit, which meant that possibly they were her own. There wasn’t a mirror around in which to check herself out, but she had a feeling she looked all right, although whether she looked five years behind in the fashion stakes remained to be seen. She was now wearing an outfit that was devoid of any colour other than black: ankle-high black boots, baggy black pyjama-type shiny pants with an elastic waistline and elasticated bottoms, and a really cool black foldaround karate-type top that was unbelievably comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that it even seemed to warm her body to a perfect temperature.

By the time she felt ready to head downstairs for a full-on getting-to-know-you session with Thomas, she was aware that someone else had arrived in the house. She heard voices downstairs. They would be raised for a few seconds, and then followed by quiet mumblings. Yet it made no difference what volume they spoke at because Jessica was unable to make out a single word of the conversation from behind the closed door of her room upstairs.

Eventually, after a few deep breaths to calm her nerves, she opened the door and looked out. There was a brick wall directly opposite the doorway and a brick wall directly to the right. No effort had been made to cover the brickwork with plaster or wallpaper or any other covering. To the left was the darkened staircase that led downwards. The steps could barely be seen in the bad light. There were a couple of candles in brackets on the wall leading down to the foot of the staircase, but the flames were low and looked as though they would flicker out at any moment. Jessica hesitated, but she had come this far, so there was no point in running back to the comfort of her room. She ventured a sceptical step and her wary foot found solace on the first step down. The journey to find out where the hell she was, and how she came to be there, was about to begin.

The voices below had quietened again. They had been easier to hear in her room, but now that she was in the confined space of the damp, dark, cold, unwelcoming staircase they were so soft she wasn’t sure if they were there at all. Maybe what she was hearing was just the wind.

She stepped carefully down each step so as not to make any noise. For some instinctive reason she felt it would be a mistake to announce her arrival before she reached the foot of the stairs. There were about fifteen steps to the bottom, all of which looked and felt as if they would creak at the slightest pressure. Jessica was light on her feet, however, and made her way downwards without making a sound. When, after what seemed like an age of careful stepping, she finally got there, she was greeted by more plain brickwork directly in front of her and to her left. On her right was a long black curtain. Behind this, no doubt, she would find Thomas and whoever he had been in deep conversation with for the last God-knows-how-long.

The reality, of course, was different. She pulled back the curtain to reveal yet more brickwork. The staircase had led down to a dead end. But how had Thomas come up and down the staircase? And what was the point of the curtain? It was hiding nothing, for there was only a plain brick wall behind it. Jessica had a horrible feeling that she was trapped, and that Thomas might not be quite the gentleman he had seemed when she had first seen him.

The situation was unnerving. Worse, not only was it extremely frustrating, but it was also making Jessica angry. Here she was, trapped not knowing who she was or where she was, and worst of all she was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Take deep breaths, she thought. She found this easier with her eyes shut, but when she closed them she found herself back once more in the thick, tangled woodland with the beast right behind her. She opened her eyes again instantly. And the beast was gone.

The voice of Thomas suddenly came clearly on the other side of the brick wall in front of her. He sounded agitated.

‘What the hell do we want with a yellow Cadillac?’ he was asking someone.

Trapped in the stairwell, Jessica began to feel lightheaded. She reached out a hand to steady herself against one of the walls. In doing so she inadvertently closed her eyes. She was starting to feel dizzy and could sense herself slipping from consciousness. After five years of lying in bed, even the small amount of walking she had done had tired her out more than she would ever have believed possible. As her legs gave way and she began to slump forward she heard two things. The first was a woman’s voice, pleading for something. Jessica couldn’t make out the words, but the tone of the woman’s voice made it sound as though she might be begging for something as precious as her life.

The second noise to assault Jessica’s ears was a loud roar. The roar of the beast.

Seven

Sanchez didn’t visit his brother Thomas and his sister-in-law Audrey all that often, but after the events of the previous day he knew it was imperative that he warn them of the potential dangers that lay ahead.

It had been almost five years since the day when he had stumbled across the angel in the street. He remembered it well because it had been the night of the Bourbon Kid, the night he had seen more bloodshed and dead bodies than the average undertaker sees in a year. Unless, of course, you had been an undertaker in Santa Mondega five years ago, when the massacre happened. The angel in question was a beautiful young woman named Jessica. Their paths had crossed briefly before when she had come into the Tapioca, a rare occasion when a stranger had seemed welcome in the bar. But the next time he had seen her she was lying bleeding and unconscious in the street, riddled with bullet holes. A victim of the scumbag who called himself the Bourbon Kid.

Unlike all of the Kid’s other victims, Jessica had somehow managed to cling to life. There had been so many dead bodies lying around in the city that day that Sanchez had reckoned there was no way he stood a chance of getting a doctor to see to Jessica. The local hospital was already overflowing with casualties from what had been a crazy week since the Kid had announced his arrival in town. No, this girl’s slim chance of survival rested with Audrey, Thomas’s wife. Formerly a nurse, she had a knack for conjuring up wonderful medicines, so Sanchez had figured she was Jessica’s best hope. Probably her only hope. Audrey had cared for victims of shootings before, and she had a survival rate of nearly fifty per cent, odds that had suggested Jessica would at least stand a chance of survival, and perhaps even recovery.

When, after a few weeks in Audrey’s care, it had become clear that Jessica was not going to die, despite having taken no fewer than thirty-six bullets, Sanchez had made Thomas and Audrey swear not to let anyone know she was there. Jessica was special. This was no ordinary lady. Sanchez had seen some strange things in his time behind the bar in the Tapioca, but he had never seen someone survive thirty-six bullet wounds, except for maybe Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon 2.

In the back of his mind, he had always secretly feared that the day would come when the Bourbon Kid would return and try to kill her again. That day was starting to look increasingly likely to arrive sooner rather than later.

The occasion five years earlier when Jessica had appeared in town had come shortly after a couple of monks had shown their faces in the Tapioca. He remembered that they had been looking for something – something to do with a valuable blue stone that a bounty hunter named Ringo had stolen from them. For sure, that stone had brought nothing but trouble with it. Ringo had stolen it for El Santino, but he’d been having trouble handing it over to his boss because he had taken quite a shine to it himself.

Then the strange monks had come. They wanted the stone back, and, even as mild as they seemed, they would stop at nothing to get it. Their arrival in Santa Mondega had been closely followed by the appearance of the delightful yet mysterious Jessica. She had shown up and won the hearts of all the locals in the Tapioca over the few days she had been around. Of course, before anyone had really had a chance to get to know her, the Bourbon Kid had made his appearance. After slaughtering all the customers in the Nightjar, one of the Tapioca’s competitors, the Kid had showed up in Sanchez’s bar looking for Ringo. He had proceeded to shoot the piss out of everyone in the bar except for Sanchez himself. Ringo had suffered more than most. He had been shot nearly a hundred times, although Sanchez distinctly remembered that it wasn’t until the Kid tore the blue stone from around Ringo’s neck that the poor soul actually died. (Well, he was a criminal lowlife scumbag, in truth, but a hundred slugs or thereabouts is a hundred slugs.) There was something about that stone – whoever held it acquired a kind of invincibility. Sanchez didn’t understand it, but he knew that the stone had been the root of all the trouble. Poor Jessica had merely been passing by in the street, but the Bourbon Kid had gunned her down as he left the Tapioca.

Word on the street was that the Hubal monks had caught up with the Bourbon Kid further on down the line and killed him, taking back the blue stone that was rightfully theirs. So when, five years on, Sanchez had seen two more monks arrive, as well as a vicious bounty hunter named Jefe, he feared the worst. And when he reached Thomas and Audrey’s farmhouse just outside of town, he knew he had been right to fear the worst. It had happened.

He parked his worn-out, rusty old white VW Beetle by the front porch. The door to the farmhouse was practically hanging off its hinges. Perhaps that alone wasn’t enough to signify that something bad had happened. The fact that neither Thomas nor Audrey had come out to greet him was the giveaway. The house was never left unattended. One of them would always come out on to the long wooden porch out front if they heard a car approaching. Not today, though.

He found their bodies in the kitchen. It was a large kitchen that doubled as a dining room. There was a large oak dining table in the middle of the chessboard-tiled floor. Normally the room was spotless, because Audrey had no tolerance whatsoever for mess, but today there was blood everywhere. On the floor on either side of the table were the still warm corpses of Thomas and Audrey. Some kind of smoke or steam was rising from their bloodied, disfigured torsos. The stench in the air was truly foul. Sanchez had smelled some pretty bad things in his time, not least the reek of twenty-seven dead men in his bar one night five years ago, all gunned down in front of his very eyes by the Bourbon Kid. Not even that compared to this nauseating stink. This was something different altogether. This smelt of evil. There were no signs of bullet wounds, and yet both Thomas and Audrey were almost unrecognizable. No sign of even so much as a cut from a razor blade on either of them, but they were drenched in blood. It looked almost as though the pair of them had died from sweating blood. Literally sweating blood.

It hadn’t surprised Sanchez too much that his brother and his wife were dead. He had been expecting to walk in and find them like this ever since the day he had brought Jessica to them. And now she had been taken. The secret concealed doorway in the kitchen that had hidden the staircase up to her room had been opened. It had not been smashed, or damaged in any way, which suggested that it had been opened without force. Even though he knew that there was no way the girl was going to be upstairs, Sanchez still felt he had to head up there to see for himself. At the very least, he wanted to take one last look at the bed in which she had spent the last five years.

He took the climb slowly. He had never liked this staircase. Even as a child, when his parents had owned the house, he had been afraid of climbing these stairs. They were cold and hard, and the narrow width between the walls made them quite claustrophobic. And although it had probably always been his mind playing tricks on him, he was convinced to this day that the air became thinner and thinner as he neared the top.

As he stepped cautiously upwards, Sanchez could hear no movement from within the room above. If he were to hear a noise it might mean that Jessica was in there and still alive, even though still in a coma. Then again, it might also mean that his brother’s killer was there. It wasn’t until he reached the bedroom door that he realized how dark it was at the top of the stairs. There were a couple of candles on the wall of the stairwell, he knew, but they were unlit or had gone out. He could just make out the light from the opened door at the bottom, but he was actually unable to see much further in front of him than his outstretched hand. By now almost sick with anxiety and fear, he used this hand to open the door and then reach into the room to press the light switch on the wall. The light came on, blinding him for a second. He blinked his eyes to accustom them to the brightness, then took a deep breath and stepped into Jessica’s bedroom.

As he expected, it was empty save for an enormous spider rushing along the bare floorboards toward him. Sanchez came close to shitting himself. He hated spiders with a passion, so he was mightily relieved when the creature stopped dead in its tracks a few feet in front of him, then backtracked slowly – as if not to wanting to lose face – and hid itself under the bed in which Jessica had been living for the last five years. It was reassuring to know that there was no killer present (other than the spider), but equally devastating to see there was no Jessica either. The bed was a little unmade, but there were no signs of any struggle, which was hardly surprising. After all, how difficult would it be to kidnap someone who was in a coma?

The sound of an engine starting up outside made him jump slightly. He had not noticed another car outside the house when he arrived, but he had not been paying that much attention at the time. There was definitely a car outside now, though, and it didn’t sound like his decaying old Beetle. This sounded bigger, with a more powerful engine. Within moments there came a loud screeching of tyres – whoever was driving was in a hurry to get away. There being no windows in the bedroom, Sanchez had to rush back down the narrow staircase in the hope that he might catch sight of whoever was driving away from the farmhouse. There was a chance that Jessica was in the car.

Despite a deeply misanthropic view of people in general, a tendency never to involve himself in others’ troubles, and a habit of offering strangers shots of piss as refreshment, Sanchez was not without good qualities. Alas, speed of movement was not among them. In short, he was not the quickest of cats. By the time he had thudded downstairs, hurdled the dead body of his brother and peered out of the front door, all he could see was the back end of what looked like a yellow Cadillac racing into the distance down the dirt track towards Santa Mondega.

Sanchez was not an aggressive man, but he knew plenty of people in town who were. He knew whom to ask if he wanted vengeance wreaked upon the owner of the yellow Cadillac. In fact, he knew enough people that it wouldn’t take him long at all to find out who had killed Thomas and Audrey, and what had happened to Jessica. Even if there had been no witnesses, he knew he could find out exactly what had happened.

Whoever had been responsible for the killings and Jessica’s abduction, they would pay. Because one thing was for sure: if Sanchez knew people who could find out what had happened, he also knew people who could do something about it. People who would exact revenge on his behalf. He’d have to pay them, of course, but that wasn’t a problem. Pretty much everyone liked his bar. They might not like him, but if they liked a drink, then they liked to drink in the Tapioca. A year’s supply of free booze would be incentive enough for any man in Santa Mondega to help out Sanchez in his hour of need.

As it happened, Sanchez didn’t want just any man. He wanted the King. The best hitman in town. The man they called Elvis.

Eight

Archibald Somers looked exactly as Jensen had expected him to look. He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, and he looked like a game-show host. Slicked-back silver hair, smart pressed grey trousers and a white shirt with thin brown stripes running vertically down it. He had a pistol in a shoulder holster that hung down the left side of his ribcage, and he was in reasonably good shape for a man of his age. No unsightly beer belly, and no ‘nipple-high’ trousers. Jensen would be quite content to be in similar shape when he reached that age. For now though, he was a super-fit thirty-something, and happy with that.

The office they now shared was hidden away off a dark corridor on the third floor of the headquarters building. All the other rooms along the corridor were of similar size. One was a broom cupboard, another a first-aid room, and then there were the toilets. Jensen didn’t know what exactly their room had been before it had been converted into the office they were now sharing, and he didn’t want to. It would not have been glamorous, that was for sure. It did have a certain charm to it, however, the dark, varnished wooden door and antique-style desks lending it more character than the partitioned cubicles in the main office. It was the prison-pale-green walls that let the place down.

Somers had eventually arrived in the office at midday. Jensen had already worked out that the main desk in the centre of their newly converted office belonged to Somers, so he had taken the smaller desk in the corner where the light was bad and begun unpacking his few personal effects.

‘You must be Detective Somers. Pleased to meet you,’ he said, standing up and extending his hand in the other man’s direction as he walked in.

‘Miles Jensen, right?’ said Somers taking his hand and shaking it firmly. ‘You’re my new partner, huh?’

‘That’s right.’ Jensen smiled. So far Somers didn’t seem all that unpleasant.

‘Everyone’s told you I’m an asshole, right?’ said Somers, making his way round to the chair behind his desk.

‘It was mentioned, yeah.’

‘Yeah. No one likes me round here. I’m “old school”, see. Most of these other guys out here, they’re all about their careers and promotion. They don’t give a shit about the old ladies that get robbed by con men. They only want to hear about cases that can be solved quickly and filed away. You know this town’s got the highest missing-persons rate in the civilized world, right?’ Jensen, hoping Somers wasn’t going to finish everything he said with the question ‘Right?’ grinned back at him.

‘Yeah, although I didn’t know Santa Mondega was considered civilized.’

‘You’re not wrong there, my friend.’

Jensen sat himself back down on the wheeled swivel chair at his own desk. As first impressions went he had a feeling he was going to get along fine with Somers. Just first impressions, of course.

‘So – they tell me you’re obsessed with finding the Bourbon Kid. Why would that make them all hate you?’

Somers smiled. ‘That’s not why they hate me. They hate me because I want them to hate me. I make a point of pissing them all off every chance I get. None of them ever wanted to help out with a case they couldn’t resolve in less than a week. That’s why the Bourbon Kid case got closed. I was the only one still following up on it. But they managed to get rid of me because the budgets wouldn’t allow us to keep on investigating the case when there was a possibility that the Kid was already dead. Well, they’re sure regretting that now, aren’t they? I warned the Mayor he would come back, but he listened to all these other idiots.’

‘So the Mayor’s to blame?’

‘Nah,’ Somers shook his head. ‘The Mayor’s basically a good guy, but he had a lot of advisers who wanted the Bourbon Kid story to be nothing but a distant memory. They forgot about all the women who were widowed by that bastard. He’s never gone away. He’s been killing people every day for the last five years, but it’s only now that he’s decided to let us start finding the bodies again. He’s building up to another massacre. You and I, Jensen, are the only people who can prevent that from happening.’

‘You do know I’m not exactly here just for the Bourbon Kid, though?’ Jensen asked, hoping he wasn’t about to offend Somers, who was clearly a passionate man when it came to his work.

‘I know why you’re here,’ Somers said, smiling broadly. ‘You think that there’s supernatural activity going on and that there’s probably some sort of Satanic cult behind these new murders. I won’t lie to you, I think that’s a crock of shit, but as long as you’re on my side, and as long as your investigation only helps me to prove that it’s the Bourbon Kid committing these murders and not Jar Jar Binks, then we don’t have a problem.’

Perhaps Somers was a touch cynical, as well as somewhat overly focused on his one and only theory that the Bourbon Kid was behind pretty much everything, but he wasn’t the absolute asshole that Jensen had been led to believe. With a bit of careful diplomacy this cynical old cop could be won over and made use of. He certainly didn’t seem to be lacking in motivation.

‘Jar Jar, huh? You a movie buff?’

‘I dabble.’

‘Somehow I don’t picture you as a Star Wars fan, though.’

Somers ran his long fingers through his shiny silver hair and took a deep breath.

‘Well, I’m not. I prefer something that stimulates my mind as well as my eyes, and I appreciate good acting. Half the top actors these days are picked for their looks, not their acting ability. That’s why most of them are all washed up by the time they’re thirty-five.’

‘Right … so you’re a fan of Pacino and DeNiro, then?’

Somers shook his head and sighed. ‘Nope, they’re both one-dimensional has-beens living off the glory of the seventies and eighties gangster flicks they were typecast in.’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘No, give me Jack Nicholson every time. There’s a guy who can play any part in any movie. But if you really want to impress me with your movie knowledge, Jensen, then answer this one,’ he said, raising a Nicholson-esque eyebrow. ‘Directors: the Scott brothers – Ridley or Tony?’

‘No contest. Tony, every time.’ Jensen didn’t hesitate. ‘Sure, Ridley had a strong case with Blade Runner and Alien, but Enemy of the State and Crimson Tide aren’t to be lightly dismissed. Good intelligent films.’

‘Where the hero was black, right?’ Somers had thought to touch a nerve, but he misjudged his mark.

‘True, but that’s not why I like them. Tony directed True Romance, too, and that was a good movie that didn’t have a black hero.’

‘Fair enough,’ sighed Somers. ‘I’d still have to go with Ridley, though, on account of the fact that Tony was responsible for that dumbass horror movie The Hunger. Probably the worst vampire film I’ve ever seen.’

‘Okay, so it’s not The Lost Boys.’

‘Damn right it’s not,’ said Somers. Tiring of the discussion, he went on, ‘Look, let’s just find something we do agree on, and then you can tell everyone we’ve bonded. Here’s an easy one: Robert Redford or Freddie Prinze Junior?’

‘Redford.’

‘Thank you. Now that we’ve found something in common, have we got a deal, partner?’

‘A deal? How do you mean?’

‘I mean, I’ll take on board all your supernatural theories and help you all I can, but you gotta do the same for me. You take on board my Bourbon Kid theory, and we take each other seriously. God knows, no one else in this police department is going to.’

‘You got your deal, Detective Somers.’

‘Good. So do you wanna see what the Kid did to these five new victims?’

Miles nodded. ‘Go on.’

Somers pulled open the desk drawer on his left and produced a clear plastic folder. He flipped it open and slung a bunch of five-by-seven photographs down on the desk. Jensen got up from his seat, picked up the first glossy print and took a long hard look at it. What he saw appalled him. He wasn’t sure he could believe what he was seeing. Then he looked down at the others on the desk. After scanning them all for a few seconds he looked back at Somers, who was nodding his head. The photos were more hideous than anything he had ever seen, and Miles Jensen had seen some really hideous things.

‘Is this for real?’ he asked quietly.

‘I know,’ said Somers. ‘What kind of sick bastard could do that to another human being?’

Nine

It was late morning when the man they called Elvis strutted triumphantly into the Tapioca. He moved like he was jiving across a stage to the beat of ‘Suspicious Minds’, not just today, but always. It was as if he had an invisible set of headphones that constantly played the tune over and over in his head. Sanchez loved this guy and was kind of excited to see him. Not that he would show it. It wouldn’t do to let Elvis know that he liked him. Elvis was too cool, and he’d make the bartender feel like a fool if it became obvious that Sanchez kind of – sort of – you know – idolized him.

Elvis looked cool, too. Well, he looked cool for someone who was always dressed as Elvis Presley. A lot of people think Elvis impersonators look ridiculous, a total embarrassment to themselves, but no one thought that about this guy. He reminded people of just how cool the King really was, before he wasn’t.

On this particular morning Elvis was wearing a lilac-coloured suit. It had slightly flared trousers with a row of black tassels running all the way up the outside of the legs, and a perfectly fitted jacket with wide black lapels. These were matched by a flimsy black shirt buttoned up only halfway to show off his bronzed hairy chest and a chunky gold TCB (‘Taking Care of Business’) medallion hanging from his neck on a heavy gold chain. Although it might have looked tacky to some, Sanchez actually thought the medallion was pretty cool. Elvis had the long black sideburns and very thick (just about due for a cut) black hair. To top things off, he always wore the trademark thick gold-rimmed sunglasses, too. He didn’t even take them off when he sat himself down at the bar, ready to discuss business with Sanchez.

It didn’t bother Elvis that the Tapioca was moderately busy, and it didn’t bother Sanchez. If Elvis wanted to chew the fat with Sanchez for half an hour, then none of the other customers would order a drink. Elvis was respected, feared and, strangely enough, liked by just about everyone in town.

‘Hear y’had some pretty shitty news,’ said the King, with a knowing nod of the head.

Sanchez picked up a bottle and, unasked, began to pour him a glass of whisky. ‘Shit travels fast when you throw it around,’ he said, slowly sliding the drink over the bar to Elvis.

‘Shit like yours creates quite a stink, too,’ the other remarked. His voice was a deep drawl.

Sanchez smiled for the first time that morning. It was only half a smile, but being in the presence of greatness had dragged him out of the depths of sorrow he had been wallowing in since finding his brother dead. God bless the King.

‘So, Elvis, my friend, what do you know about this particular shit?’

‘You’re looking for the driver of a yellow Caddy, right?

‘That’s right. Y’seen him?’

‘I seen him. Want me to kill him for ya?’

‘Yeah. Kill him,’ said Sanchez. He was pleased Elvis had offered because he had been a little nervous about actually asking him out loud. ‘Make him suffer, then kill him again. If that don’t work, just torture him ’til he’s dead.’

‘Kill him more than once, huh? Normally that’d cost extra, but I like you, Sanchez, so I’ll kill him the second time for nothin’.’

This was music to Sanchez’s ears. It felt like he could suddenly hear ‘Suspicious Minds’ blaring away in the corners of his mind.

‘So how much d’ya want for the job?’ he asked.

‘A thousand up front. Then when he’s dead I want ya to pay to have his car resprayed. I’ve always wanted a pink Cadillac. Kinda rock ’n’ roll, don’t ya think?’

‘Right.’ Sanchez agreed. He picked up the whisky bottle and topped up Elvis’s glass. ‘I’ll go get you the first instalment. Watch the bar for me a minute, would ya?’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

Elvis spent a minute gazing into his glass, checking out his reflection, while Sanchez disappeared out back to get the money. It wasn’t just the money and the car that Elvis was after. Rumour had it that the driver of the yellow Cadillac also had a precious blue stone. Piece like that could be worth a fortune. Elvis knew nothing about jewellery, but he did know that women liked the stuff. Gifts like that were the perfect way to a lady’s heart, and Elvis loved the ladies.

Sanchez reappeared with a greasy brown envelope loaded with cash. Elvis took it and held it open. Then he flicked through the notes, not to count them, just to make sure they were all genuine, though he trusted Sanchez – insofar as he trusted anyone. Satisfied that everything was in order he folded the envelope in half and tucked it inside his jacket. Then he tossed back his drink, finishing it in one quick gulp, pulled off a quick spin move on his stool, stood up, and headed for the door.

‘Hey, Elvis, wait up,’ called Sanchez. The King stopped, but didn’t look back.

‘Yeah, man, what is it?’

‘The name.’

‘The name?’

‘Yeah, what’s the name of this guy you’re gonna kill for me? Do I know him?’

‘You might. He’s from outta town. He’s a bounty hunter.’

‘So what’s his name? And why did he kill my brother and his wife?’

Sanchez had not initially planned to ask Elvis these questions, but now that the hitman had accepted the job and was off to carry out his instructions he was overcome with a desire to know more about the mysterious driver of the yellow Cadillac.

Elvis turned round and peered back at Sanchez over the top of his sunglasses.

‘You sure you wanna know now? Wouldn’t you rather know after the job’s done? Y’know, so’s you don’t change your mind?’

‘Nah, just tell me – who the fuck is he?’

‘Some mean dude, goes by the name of Jefe. Don’t you fret, though. By this time tomorrow he’ll be known as “Jefe the Corpse”.’

Before Sanchez could warn him how dangerous Jefe was, Elvis was already gone. Not that it would matter. Elvis would deal with Jefe. That sonofabitch was due to meet one hell of a violent death at the hands of the King.

Ten

Detectives Miles Jensen and Archibald Somers both recognized the handiwork they saw before them. Jensen looked over at Somers, who was no doubt thinking the same thing. Two more dead bodies, both ruthlessly murdered like the five in the photos Somers had shown Jensen earlier. These two unfortunates were Thomas and Audrey Garcia. No doubt their dental records would confirm this later. Until then, the identification was just a fairly safe assumption.

They had arrived at the large farmhouse on the outskirts of town long after the first policemen had shown up in response to a call from a relative of the victims. There was a long dirt track that wound all the way up to the front porch. Jensen’s battered old BMW saloon had just enough about it to get them over the rocks and potholes in once piece. This was a farmhouse that had been around for many years, suffering whatever the elements threw at it. It didn’t take a great detective to see that much.

Within seconds of entering the kitchen at the front of the house Jensen was envying Somers, who had had the forethought to bring a handkerchief with him to cover his nose and mouth. The stench rising from the bodies was overwhelming, and Jensen was the only person in the room who didn’t have anything to mask the smell that assailed them. There were five other police officers scattered around the kitchen. Two of them were using a tape measure to work out distances from the bodies to various other areas of the kitchen. Another had a Polaroid camera and was busy taking photos. Every now and again the camera made a whirring noise and spat out a print just like the ones Somers had of the previous five victims. One of the other officers appeared to be dusting for prints, an unenviable task, given that just about every inch of the room was covered in blood. The fifth and final cop was Lieutenant Paolo Scraggs. He was clearly the ranking officer because he was doing nothing other than looking over the shoulders of his colleagues to make sure they were doing their jobs properly.

Scraggs was wearing a stylish dark blue suit. It wasn’t exactly an official uniform, but it looked as though he wanted it to be. He wore a neatly pressed, spotless white shirt under his suit jacket, and a plain navy-blue tie. It made sense that he should look like a man who took great care in his appearance, because attention to detail was an all-important part of being in his team. ‘His’ forensics team. They weren’t exactly the pride of the Santa Mondega Police Department, but Scraggs was doing his utmost to change that.

The last week had been a very testing time for Scraggs and his team because of all the grisly murders that had taken place, and today was no exception. The kitchen was a foul mess. As well as the blood, which looked as though it had been sprayed around with a garden hose, there were pots, pans and all manner of broken dishes and cutlery scattered over the floor and on the work surfaces. Thomas and Audrey Garcia had either put up one hell of a fight, or whoever killed them had trashed the place in the hope of finding something valuable.

The medical examiner had already been and gone, but an ambulance crew was also on hand, waiting just outside the front porch for someone to give them the nod so they could cover the bodies and ship them out. Somers duly gave them that nod and they sprang into action.

‘Who was the first man on the scene?’ Somers asked aloud as the medics hurried past him.

‘That would be me,’ replied Scraggs, walking over to greet Somers with his hand outstretched. ‘Lieutenant Scraggs, sir. I’m in charge here.’

‘Not any more,’ said Somers bluntly. ‘Detective Jensen and myself will take over from here.’

Scraggs looked understandably peeved and lowered his hand, realizing that Somers was not going to shake it anyway. He knew who Somers was and should have known better than to try for a handshake. The word ‘Asshole!’ formed in his mind, but all he said was, ‘Very well, Somers. As you wish.’

‘Do you have any leads yet?’

‘Yessir. One of my guys took a statement from the brother of one of the victims.’

‘A brother, huh? Anyone we know?’

‘You might know him, sir. It’s Sanchez Garcia, the bar manager at the Tapioca. The dead guy, Thomas Garcia, was his brother.’

Somers pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his overcoat, opened it and extracted a pencil from a loop inside the book.

‘Did he have any ideas who might have done it?’ he asked.

Jensen almost let himself smile. Somers looked and sounded just like Columbo, albeit for only a brief moment. He held the smile back. This obviously wouldn’t be an appropriate time for smirking, especially with Scraggs looking right at him. ‘Said he had no idea who’d want to kill them,’ the Lieutenant replied. He went on, ‘I can tell you this, though: he didn’t think it was anything to do with aliens.’

This was a gibe aimed at Jensen, and one he’d heard before. New town, same crap jokes. Very predictable. Very tiresome.

‘Hey!’ barked Somers. ‘You just answer the fucking questions. Keep your juvenile little comments to yourself. We’ve got two dead here. Innocents, in all likelihood. Your sarcasm won’t help us find who killed them.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Damn right you’re sorry.’ Somers obviously commanded respect, and up to this point Jensen still couldn’t see why he was so roundly hated by all the other cops. He watched as the older detective continued: ‘Now, who found the bodies? Was it Sanchez?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Scraggs. ‘Says he arrived here about eight o’clock this morning. He called nine-eleven straight away.’

‘Eight, you say? And where is he now?’

‘He had to go back to work, get his bar ready for opening time.’

Jensen decided it was time to make his presence felt. It was always important to make an early impression on his first investigation in a new jurisdiction. He added his two bits’ worth: ‘The victims don’t look like they’ve been dead for very long. Did this Sanchez guy see anyone nearby when he arrived? I’d say those two were killed only this morning.’

‘Says he saw nothing.’

It was noticeable that Scraggs didn’t attach a ‘sir’ to the end of his sentence as he answered Jensen. Jensen wasn’t especially bothered about it. He would earn the respect of this lieutenant and the other cops eventually. He always did. Ignoring Scraggs’s surly tone, he asked another question: ‘This is a pretty secluded place, out here. There’s only one road leading in and out. Did you ask Sanchez if he saw anyone going the other way as he drove up to the farmhouse?’

‘Of course we did. And like I just told you, he said he saw nothing.’

‘Okay.’

Maybe it had been a stupid question, but Jensen wasn’t to know how thorough a questioning from the Santa Mondega police force was, and he certainly wasn’t going to take it on trust. He looked over at Somers, who asked, ‘You want to question Sanchez yourself?’

He could probably tell that the newly arrived detective was keen to clarify Sanchez’s statement, and he obviously felt the same. Jensen was just beginning to sense that maybe he was starting to earn a little respect from his older partner. He too had integrity and pride in his work, and Somers was now starting to appreciate that.

‘You wanna come with me?’ Jensen asked.

‘Nah, you go on. I’ll stay with these guys and see what I can find here, y’know – make sure they don’t miss anything.’ It was obvious that this comment didn’t sit well with the forensic experts, who threw a few hard glances in Somers’s direction. It didn’t bother him, of course. He enjoyed winding them up. ‘Oh, and Jensen – you’ll probably work this out for yourself, but I’ll tell you anyway. Sanchez will lie through his teeth when you question him. He’s not one for cooperating with the police. If I know him like I think I do, he’s probably already got a hitman on the job, looking for the killer or killers, so don’t believe everything he tells you. There’s no more than fifty per cent truth in anything he says.’

Leaving Somers behind to annoy the forensic crew, Jensen made his way back outside. It was a relief to be out of the stink in the kitchen and in fresh air, and for a minute he just stood there, gulping down great lungfuls of the stuff. The ambulance had been backed up to the porch at the front of the house and two of the medics were lifting a stretcher up into the back of it. The larger of the two bodybags was already in the back, laid along one side, and they were now putting what was probably Audrey’s body on board with it. One guy was backing, stooped over, into the ambulance while the other struggled to hold up his end of the stretcher from below. He was blocking Jensen’s exit, and the detective waited for the stretcher to be loaded before tapping the medic on the shoulder.

‘I’ve got to go see a guy called Sanchez Garcia at the Tapioca Bar later. Do you know where it is?’ he asked.

‘Sure. We’re driving past it on the way to the morgue,’ the man replied through gritted teeth as he helped push the stretcher into place. ‘You can follow on behind us if you want.’

‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ Jensen pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and held it in front of the man’s face. ‘One other thing. If Sanchez was going to take the law into his own hands, who would he most likely get to do his dirty work?’

The ambulanceman looked at the note for a second, considering whether or not to take it. It didn’t take him long. He grabbed the note from Jensen’s hand and shoved it in his breast pocket.

‘The only man Sanchez would trust is the King,’ he said.

‘The King?’

‘Yeah. Elvis lives, man. Didn’t you know?’

‘Apparently not.’

Eleven

Marcus the Weasel was still hungover. Not that he cared too much. He was happily drinking his way through the worst of it. He had fallen on his feet the night before. Robbing Jefe had turned out to be much easier than he had expected. The bounty hunter had slept like a baby all through the mugging that Marcus had performed on him. Of course, it had helped that Marcus had slipped a few drops of date-rape drug in Jefe’s drink. He wouldn’t normally have wasted some of his precious Rohypnol on someone he had no intention of having sex with, but Jefe had been carrying that beautiful blue stone on the chain around his neck. He had hidden it quite well, but the drunker he became, the more often it had become visible to those who look for that sort of thing, and Marcus looked for that sort of thing. As it turned out, too, Jefe was carrying a few thousand dollars in his pockets, so Marcus would be drinking for the next two or three months, and the drinks were all on Jefe.

He had booked himself a fairly nice room at the Santa Mondega International. He didn’t intend to stay there for too long, because of the expense, but just a few days of living a life of luxury would be good. Marcus figured he had earned a lucky break. Dammit, he deserved to spoil himself for a while.

It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon and he still hadn’t opened the curtains. He was just sitting around lazily on the huge king-size bed in the hotel room, still wearing his black leather trousers from the night before, and a string vest that had once been white. The TV was nicely positioned directly in front of him on the far wall, and his bottle of whisky was conveniently located on the bedside table, right at hand when he wanted to take another swig from it. This was the high life, for sure. It was how Marcus imagined Heaven would be, or at the very least it was how he imagined he would live if he were a king.

He was sitting through the second episode of a BJ and The Bear double bill on one of the obscure satellite channels, when there was a gentle knock at the door.

‘Room service,’ a woman’s voice, slightly muffled, called through the woodwork.

‘I didn’t order no room service.’

There was a pause. ‘Well, I’m, like, really the chambermaid. I’ve just come to make the bed and tidy up for you.’

Marcus reached under the pillow at the head of the bed and pulled out his gun. The weapon always stayed under whatever he had for a pillow at night, just in case. And Marcus had been in a particularly paranoid mood the previous evening. He was at his most cautious for fear that Jefe would find him and exact some terrible revenge for the theft of his wallet and, more importantly, of the blue stone.

He climbed off the bed and staggered to the door, realizing for the first time just how much he had drunk the night before. It suddenly dawned on him that he reeked of booze, and that his clothes were due for a wash, but his immediate concern was whoever was at the door claiming to be a chambermaid. When you’ve stolen a wad of cash and a precious stone from someone in Santa Mondega, you’d better watch your back for a few weeks and more.

Covering the door with his pistol, he looked through the spyhole. In the corridor outside he could see a fair-skinned young woman in her early twenties wearing a typical black chambermaid’s outfit with a white apron. She looked harmless enough so he slipped his gun down the back of his leather trousers and opened the door, careful to keep the chain on the latch, just in case.

‘Good afternoon, Mister … Jefe, is it?’ asked the maid, reading his name from a piece of card in her hand. Marcus remembered he had booked into the hotel the night before using some of the cash from Jefe’s wallet. As identification he must have handed Jefe’s driving licence over to the clerk behind the desk.

‘Yeah, Jefe, that’s me. You wanna come in and tidy up the room, yeah?’

‘Yes please, Mister Jefe, but only if it’s convenient.’

Marcus released the chain on the door and opened it for her.

‘Come on in, sweetcheeks. What’s your name?’

‘Kacy.’ She smiled at him, a real sweet smile, one that could melt a man’s heart. And Marcus’s heart was melting fast. This girl, this hotel maid standing before him, was absolutely gorgeous. It wasn’t that he still had his beer goggles on, this girl was just the sweetest thing he had seen in a long time. She looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and she had great hair. The Weasel was a great admirer of women’s hair. Good hair was one of the things high up on his list of the assets that any prospective partner should have. This girl had silky shoulder-length dark hair. Real dark. Most of the guys in Santa Mondega were crazy about blondes because they were so hard to find in these parts, but not Marcus. He’d take a brunette every time.

‘I’ll be in and out in ten minutes … Mister Jefe. You’ll hardly notice I’m here,’ she said with a cheeky smile and what might almost have been a wink.

‘Now lookit here, Kacy, don’t you go feelin’ like you’ve gotta rush yourself outta here. Why don’t you stick around, have a drink with me?’

The chambermaid giggled. It was a high-pitched giggle – a sure sign that she was into Marcus. He could tell these things. Thief’s intuition.

‘Well now, I’d love to, but I’m not allowed to fraternize with the customers inside the hotel.’

‘Then let’s us go out, baby,’ said Marcus, winking a salacious wink at her.

Kacy blushed lightly for a second, but she was obviously enjoying the attention because she quickly ran her left index finger around her lips, licking it a little as if to tease Marcus.

‘You mean, like, out on a date?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

She considered the offer for a few moments. She looked tempted, and she clearly was.

‘Okay. I get off in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you take a quick shower while I clean up in here, then I’ll meet you down in the lobby in half an hour.’

It was now that Marcus realized just how bad he smelt. This was definitely a good time for a shower. ‘Sure thing … Kacy,’ he said, leering at her.

He rushed off to the bathroom, throwing off his white string vest as he went. Kacy giggled some more, and then headed over to the bed to change the sheets and pillowcases.

‘Do you want me to leave the TV on while you’re in the shower, Mister Jefe?’

‘Do what you want, babe. Do what you want,’ he called back as he turned on the shower and continued to undress. This is turning into a good day already, Marcus thought to himself. Maybe that blue stone was bringing him luck. Or maybe it was just the wad of cash he had acquired that was bringing him good fortune. After all, there’s nothing like getting your hands on a small fortune for encouraging the opposite sex to find you attractive.

He had thrown off his black leather trousers – the gun had bounced onto the bathmat as he did so and he had pushed it aside with one foot – and was just getting into the shower when he remembered that he had left his wallet (well, it was his wallet now) on the side table by the bed. Alarm bells started ringing in his head. Should he trust this girl, a maid whom he’d only just met? A moment later he got his answer – an emphatic yes – when the bathroom door opened and she stood before him holding the wallet out.

‘You shouldn’t leave your wallet just lying around like this, y’know, mister. Someone might try to steal it, and we can’t have that because you’re paying for lunch, right?’ she said, looking him up and down. Marcus was naked, and very aware of the fact. But he was a man who enjoyed showing his body off to a woman, especially one who might not be expecting to see it. From the expression on her face it looked to Marcus that Kacy was both shocked and pleasantly surprised at what she saw. He winked at her again, this time a slow, sexy wink.

‘Just put that on the side, baby. I’ll be out ‘fore you know it.’

Kacy smiled at him, put the wallet down by the basin and went back into the bedroom.

‘Hey, wow! Is that BJ and The Bear? I love that show!’ she called out excitedly.

It was going to be a great day. A great day indeed for Marcus the Weasel. As far as he was concerned he was on a lucky winning streak that might never end. Of course, a more intelligent man would have been extremely cautious, untrusting of everyone he met after a night like the one Marcus had just had. In fact, a more intelligent man would already have left town.

And vowed never to return.

Twelve

When Jensen arrived back at the headquarters building Somers was already sitting at his desk, studying the photographic evidence from the latest murders. Looking up, he asked, ‘Did you get anything useful out of Sanchez?’

Jensen took off his brown leather jacket and threw it over to his desk in the corner. It hit the back of the chair and slid to the floor.

‘Not a damn thing. He’s not a great one for communicating with Santa Mondega’s Finest, is he?’

‘Nah. I warned you he’d be hard work.’

‘How about you?’ Jensen asked, eyeing the Polaroids on Somers’s desk. ‘Anything interesting come up from forensics yet?’

‘No. Nothing. It’ll take them a week even to work out that half the fingerprints they’re looking at are their own.’

Jensen laughed politely as he reached over and picked up one of the photos Somers had already looked at and discarded, placing it to one side of his desk. It was a hideous close-up of one of the two bodies. It showed a mass of red flesh and bone apparently mashed together to form the shape of a blood-drenched body. It looked even worse in the print than when he had seen it for real at the farmhouse.

‘Which one of them is this?’ he asked queasily. Somers glanced up.

‘I think that’s her. Hard to tell though, ain’t it?’

Jensen frowned. Frowning, he found, was a great way of ensuring that he concentrated on what he was doing. He didn’t know why, but he did all his best thinking when he was frowning. Right now he was thinking that there had to be an obvious link between all the corpses. Sure, the murders all looked the same, but what linked the victims? What did they all have in common? There were seven killings in total now. What could possibly link these two victims to the other five that he had seen in the photos Somers had shown him?

‘I guess it’s kind of a formality that these two were killed by the same person, or persons, who killed the other five, right?’ he asked.

‘No fooling you.’ Jensen looked up sharply to see if the other man was trying to put him down, but realized that this was just his partner’s manner.

He went over to his chair and sat down, leaving his jacket on the floor. Then he leaned back and held the photo up in front of his face to study it as closely as possible. There had to be something here. Something ought to jump out at him. But what? Whatever it was, whatever was linking these murders, it didn’t appear to be in the photographs. Surely Somers must have a theory on the matter?

‘Have you found anything that links the victims to one another yet?’ Jensen asked him.

Still poring over the prints, Somers shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘The victims seem to have been selected at random. The only thing they have in common is that all of them had their eyes gouged out and their tongues ripped from their throats.’

‘So that’s the killer’s calling card, I guess. Serial killers often do stuff like that so that the cops – and the medics – know it was them.’ He stood up and began to pace the small area between the two desks.

Again Somers shook his head. He didn’t seem convinced.

‘I don’t think it has any relevance. It’s clear the same guy committed all these murders. He knows that we know it’s him, so why should he bother leaving us any added clues?’ Somers was obviously referring, once again, to the Bourbon Kid.

‘Maybe it’s not him?’ Jensen offered the possibility up for discussion.

‘Oh, it’s him, Jensen. It’s him, all right. Sit down a minute. Please.’

Jensen picked his jacket up from the floor and draped it over the back of his chair, which he dragged round so that he could sit opposite Somers, giving his full attention to what his partner had to say.

‘Go on. What?’

Somers put the photos down, leaned his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together. He looked tired, and the younger man picked up a hint of impatience in his manner.

‘We’ve agreed that I’m not going to mock you for your supernatural, paranormal theories. And we’ve also agreed that you will take on board my theory about the Bourbon Kid, without dismissing it out of hand the same way everyone else does, right?’

‘Yeah. Right.’

‘Well look, Jensen. There’s not going to be any great twist in this investigation. It’s not gonna turn out that the Bourbon Kid’s ex-wife did all the murders and is trying to frame him. It’s not gonna be the butler that did it either, and Kevin Spacey ain’t gonna come waltzing into the station covered in blood yelling “Detective! … Detective!” at the top of his voice, and you ain’t gonna find your wife’s head in a box in the desert. The Bourbon Kid committed these murders.’ He paused for breath, but all it brought was a weary sigh. ‘Now, if you really want to help solve this case, see if you can find a motive, or work out who his next victim is going to be. Hey, if you uncover something that tells me the Bourbon Kid is from Mars, or that he’s a ghost and we need to get an exorcist, then fine, that’s what we’ll do. But know this, Jensen: if you’re looking for another killer, you’re wasting your time. Trust me on this. Put all your efforts into finding the Bourbon Kid, or finding out who the hell he is. Then you’ll find our killer.’

Jensen could sense the growing frustration in Somers’s voice. He knew that his partner believed absolutely in what he was saying. And he himself believed that the other detective was probably right, but that it would be foolish to rule out the possibility of another killer. Even so, if he wanted Somers’s help in this investigation he was going to have to humour him.

‘You got it, Somers. Don’t misunderstand me, I believe you’re right, but you gotta remember I’m also a fresh pair of eyes in this investigation. Maybe I can spot something simple that you’ve overlooked. Who knows? But I promise you, I’m taking this investigation every bit as seriously as you.’

‘Okay,’ said Somers. ‘Here’s a list of the names of the victims so far.’ He pulled his notebook from his shirt pocket, opened it, extracted the tiny pencil and started scribbling on a blank page.

‘I’ve found nothing that links them to each other,’ he said, ‘not a damn thing. See what you can come up with using your fresh pair of eyes.’

There was more than a hint of sarcasm and frustration in his voice, and a touch of impatience as he ripped the page out of his notebook and thrust it over the desk at his partner. Jensen took it and looked at the list of victims. It read like this:

Sarah King

Ricardo Webbe

Krista Faber

Roger Smith

Kevin Lever

Thomas Garcia

Audrey Garcia

Nothing leapt out at him, but that was hardly surprising. What was required was background information about these victims. Something they all did in their spare time, someone they all knew, something they had all seen – the link would lie in these or similar associations. Jensen was a specialist in spotting obscure links. He would crack this one, he felt sure. The – unanswerable – question was, how much time did he have before the killer selected the next victim?

‘So … Cracked it yet?’ The older man joked.

‘Not yet, but leave this with me, Somers. I’ll need access to all the files you have on these people. Trust me, if there’s something that connects all these victims to our killer, I’ll find it.’

‘Okay,’ said Somers. ‘I’ll let you find out what links them all together, but in return I want you to do something for me.’

Jensen stopped staring at the names on the piece of paper and looked up at Somers.

‘Sure, anything. Name it.’

Somers cleared his throat and looked hard at Jensen, seeking some semblance of trust. Finally convinced that his partner was genuinely willing to do anything for him, he asked the one question Jensen had been dreading.

‘Detective, tell me … why in God’s name, after all these years of pretending Santa Mondega doesn’t exist, does the Government suddenly decide to send a Supernatural Investigator here? There have been more murders here in the last hundred years than anywhere else in the world, but until now we’ve always been left to sort things out in-house. So why now? And why send only one man? Is it because the information the Government has is so secret that they don’t trust more than one man with it?’

Jensen shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Somers was clearly a better detective than he had been led to believe, or than he had given him credit for.

‘Come on, Detective Miles Jensen,’ Somers went on. ‘I want to know what it is that you’re not telling me. The Government has privileged you with some special information about the case. The case I’ve spent over five years of my life on. What is it that you know? What the hell has this case got to do with the supernatural?’

Jensen held up his hands.

‘Okay, Somers. I’ll level with you,’ he said. ‘But what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room. Right?’

Thirteen

After showering for a good fifteen minutes, Marcus the Weasel spent a few more minutes in the bathroom drying himself off and covering his entire body in the complimentary talcum powder the hotel offered. He had no clean clothes with him so he just slipped back into his loose-fitting black leather trousers from the day before. This was not an uncommon procedure for Marcus, even though the leather stank of beer and cigarettes. As he buttoned them up he heard Kacy closing the door on her way out of the room. Fifteen more minutes and he would be seeing her again, if she kept her word. And he had a strong feeling that she would.

He wandered back into the bedroom to observe her handiwork. She had made the bed immaculately and there was a fresher smell about the place, too. Marcus was just contemplating whether or not he had enough time to dash out and buy a clean shirt before meeting up with Kacy when there was another knock at the door. Maybe she had forgotten something and was back already?

‘Let yourself in,’ he called out.

There was a pause, then another knock. Pretty hard this time. Marcus felt a cold shiver sweep over him momentarily. Could this be someone else knocking? Not Kacy? A man perhaps? Jefe even? Surely Kacy would have a passkey to let herself back in? Wouldn’t she?

‘Kacy?’ he called. ‘That you?’

No answer.

Another cold shiver passed right over him, making him shudder briefly. Could it really be Jefe? Could he have caught up with him already? And more worryingly, where had Marcus put his gun when he got in the shower?

‘Hang on. I’m just coming,’ he yelled in an attempt to buy himself some time.

Looking frantically around the bedroom for his gun was making him start to panic. There was no sign of the weapon there, so he raced back into the bathroom. His eyes scoured the whole room inside half a second. Where was that fucking gun? Dammit! It wasn’t in the bathroom either. Where the fuck had he put it? He turned and scrambled back into the bedroom. Under the pillows? Must be. He picked up the pillows on the bed and looked underneath them. Nope, it wasn’t under the pillows either. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! He was going to have to answer the door.

Why had he called out? If he’d kept quiet, his visitor would have assumed Marcus wasn’t in his room. He figured it would be wise to take a look through the spyhole in the door and see who it was – after all, it might just be room service. But the fact of the matter was that he couldn’t find his gun, and he was very nervous about that fact.

One of the oldest assassins’ tricks is to knock on a door, wait until the target is heard approaching on the other side, and fire through the spyhole when the room’s occupant looks through it. BANG! – blows a big hole through the unsuspecting target’s head. Being more than familiar with this trick, Marcus tiptoed over to the door, and slowly – ever so slowly – moved his head into what might potentially be the firing line. For reasons best known to himself he had his eye half closed, as though that would help to lessen the impact of a speeding bullet.

One half glance was all he needed. He jerked his head back and threw himself out of the way quicker than you could say ‘Woah! There goes my eye!’ On the other side of the spyhole was the muzzle of a pistol. Luckily, its owner had not realized that Marcus had been standing right in front of him for a split second, with only the door between them.

He tiptoed back over to the freshly made double bed. Where the fuck was his gun? His bottle of whisky was still on the bedside table so he picked it up and quickly took a swig. Think! Think, goddammit! What were his options?

Find the gun.

He lifted up both the pillows again. Definitely no gun there. Back into the bathroom. Shit, where was it?

A third, even longer lasting cold shiver swept over him. There were two reasons for this. The first was that there came another, much louder knock at the door, and the second – well, the second was the real killer. His wallet was gone. Kacy had put it by the basin, but it wasn’t there any more. That’s where his gun had been, too. He remembered now: he had picked his gun from the bathroom floor and put it by the basin too. That fuckin’ bitch had shafted him after all! Oh fuck. Fuckity-fuck. He rushed back into the bedroom. What other options did he have? Maybe he could get out of the bedroom window, then make his way down the front of the building or into an adjacent room.

No, he couldn’t. He was seven floors up and he suffered badly from vertigo. He must have another option, surely?

The blue stone. Marcus had heard rumours about that stone. He knew that El Santino wanted it, and he knew it was worth a lot of money to him. He also knew that there was a story, a myth even, about the night Ringo was killed by the Bourbon Kid. The way he’d heard it, Ringo was unkillable for as long as he was wearing the blue stone around his neck. The Bourbon Kid had shot him a hundred times, but he didn’t die until the Kid took the stone from him. It was a bullshit story and Marcus had never believed it, but right now it was his only option. But what had he done with the necklace? He remembered putting it somewhere safe the night before, but he had been pretty goddam drunk. Where the hell had he put it? Think … THINK … THINK!

The answer suddenly came to him like a bolt of lightning. Before going to bed he had put his gun under the pillows like he always did, but the necklace with the blue stone he had put inside the pillowcase, just to be extra safe. But which pillow? He jumped on to the bed and picked up the nearest one. It didn’t feel different, but he ripped the pillowcase off it anyway. Nothing. He picked up the second pillow. It seemed slightly heavier, suggesting there was something in it. With his nerves shrieking he scrambled frantically to get the pillowcase off. There was another bang at the door, but this time it wasn’t someone knocking. This time it was someone trying to kick the door down. No time for mincing around, Marcus just ripped the second pillowcase off and out fell a necklace. Relief … but only for a second. Relief quickly turned to horror, as he realized it was not the necklace he had stolen from Jefe the night before. This was a different one. A cheap silver necklace with a silver ‘S’ pendant on it. That bitch Kacy had shafted him again.

CRASH! Marcus turned around in time to see the door of the apartment come flying off its hinges. Cringing on the bed, he raised his hands above his head in surrender as a gunman entered the room.

He didn’t even hear the first shot, just felt the agony as his kneecap exploded, spraying blood everywhere, even into his eyes. He fell off the bed and on to the floor, screaming like a scalded baby, and for the next seven minutes of his life he wished he was dead.

In the eighth minute, Marcus the Weasel got his wish, but by that time he had seen what most of his insides looked like. He had even been force-fed some of his own fingers and toes. And worse – much worse.

Fourteen

Dante had been working as a receptionist at the Santa Mondega International Hotel for just two weeks. Goddam nightshift, too. Well, his two weeks were about to come to an end. Just after starting his shift at midnight the previous night, a drunken lowlife had staggered in off the street, demanding a room. The man was so drunk he had no idea how loud and embarrassing he was. If the hotel manager, Mr Saso, had been around he would never have allowed the man to set foot in his hotel in the first place, but being as Dante was the man behind the desk he was in charge of who stayed and who didn’t.

The drunk had insisted on taking one of the better rooms and wanted to pay cash, so Dante had charged him for the best room and given him an average one. That way he managed to pocket around forty dollars for himself from the transaction. Yet this wasn’t what had got Dante so excited. No sir. He was on edge this morning, because the man in question had been somewhat careless in showing off a very expensive-looking blue stone that hung around his neck on a gold chain.

Dante had been waiting for an opportunity like this. A drunken idiot with a wad of cash – he had stupidly waved his wallet around when he dug out his driver’s licence – and a precious blue stone that could be worth a few thousand, this was Dante’s ticket out of the hotel-receptionist business. It was a woman’s job, anyway, and the uniform they made him wear was clearly a faggot’s outfit. A pink blazer, for Chrissakes! It wasn’t just the pink blazer and the miserable pay and the ‘Yes, sir-No, sir-Thank you, sir’ meniality of the job that bothered him, however. It was the fact that he was now in his mid-twenties and life was passing him by. He had flunked out of school, so a decent-paying career was always going to be hard to find. Usually when he was being interviewed for a job, the only chance he had of getting it was to hope that the interviewer was a woman. He was a good-looking guy, with a thick mop of dark hair and a glint in his bright blue eyes that older women, in particular, for some reason found hard to resist. With the naturally confident aura he had about him, these women became putty in his hands and the job was his every time.

By the time the midday sun had reached its zenith, Dante’s plan to get his hands on the drunken fool’s money was well under way. Everything was looking rosy. When Stuart the early-shift porter had arrived at nine a.m., Dante had convinced him to take time off and let him cover his shift for him. Stuart was only too happy to oblige, especially as Dante offered to fill in for free. It had meant almost five hours of extra unpaid work, but now, in the early afternoon, the time had arrived to make it all worthwhile by putting his plan into action. He was only minutes away from being a lot better off than he had been at any time since he had arrived in Santa Mondega three months earlier. His mind was already racing with plans to buy a car and move to a better apartment, and that was just the beginning. The place he and his girlfriend had rented for the last few months was barely big enough to house a family of gophers.

Just recently, things hadn’t panned out for Dante the way he’d planned. He had come to Santa Mondega initially in the hope of finding a decent-paying job. Within a week of his arrival an old friend of his father had fixed him up with a job in a museum, but an awkward incident that had ended with Dante smashing a priceless vase over a customer’s head had resulted in him being fired, and he’d been lucky to escape being charged with assault. Since then, Fate had dealt him a pretty poor hand, and the only job he’d been able to find at short notice was as a receptionist at the Santa Mondega International. He had been working there for two weeks, and Christ, it had dragged. During that time all he had thought about was how he was going to get a break, whether it be by meeting a rich client who would offer him a better job, or simply by robbing one of the wealthy clients. He wasn’t fussy, either. It was all about which was easiest. A gullible guest who could be robbed without anyone batting an eyelid was probably the simplest option, and that gullible fool had arrived. The moron who had taken a room the night before would not get much sympathy from the hotel manager when he claimed he had been robbed, simply because he didn’t look like he had any money. And he was a drunk.

Dante’s plan to relieve the man of his money and his precious blue stone was a pretty simple one. Although it wasn’t exactly watertight, it was marvellous in its simplicity. True to form, however, just as he was visualizing himself counting out the man’s money, fate threw a spanner in the works. A big guy dressed like Elvis strutted into the lobby and made his way over to Dante’s desk.

‘You gotta guy staying here who answers to the name Jefe?’ he asked, pleasantly enough.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not at liberty to give out that sort of information.’ Dante came back with the hotel’s standard line.

Elvis leaned in and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into the young man’s hand. ‘Don’t make me ask again, huh?’ There was now a gravel quality to his voice.

‘Sorry, but I still can’t give you that information, sir,’ Dante replied, making no effort to offer back the fifty-dollar bill.

Elvis digested this news, then majestically pulled a gun from a holster that nestled beneath the jacket of his lilac-coloured suit. He pointed it at Dante’s throat and growled, ‘Gimme my fuckin’ money back and tell me where to find Jefe. He’s an ugly fuckin’ slimeball and I heard he was stayin’ here.’

Dante handed the money back. Suddenly sweating, he gulped, ‘Room seventy-three, sir, on the seventh floor. Have a nice day.’

Elvis winked at him. At least, it looked like he winked because his left eyebrow went up and down in one swift movement behind his sunglasses. Then he turned and headed for the elevators behind him, sliding his gun snugly back into its home inside his jacket.

As Elvis was pressing the button to call the elevator to take him up to the seventh floor, Dante was anxiously making a call on his cellphone. There was a pause while he waited to be connected, followed by a ringtone. It only sounded once before someone answered, but Dante didn’t wait to hear a voice at the other end.

‘Baby, get your ass outta there,’ he whispered urgently into the phone.

‘What? Why?’ came the reply.

‘There’s some fuckin’ guy with a gun comin’ up there to see that Jefe guy, and he looks real fuckin’ nasty!’

‘But I haven’t found the stone yet.’

‘Fuck the stone! Get your sweet ass outta there. This muthafucker will kill ya.’

‘Okay, honey. I’ll just have one last look around.’

‘Kacy, no …’

It was too late. She had hung up. Dante watched as Elvis stepped into the elevator. He turned and stared back at the receptionist through his big dark sunglasses as the doors closed in front of him. Dante could hear himself breathing hard, as if he had just run a marathon in a particularly heavy chicken outfit. He had to make a decision fast.

Fuck it. He had to take the stairs and make sure he got to Kacy before this Elvis-looking-freak got his hands on her. Impelled by terror, he jumped over the reception desk and headed for the stairs, which were situated behind a swing door to one side of the elevators. They were big chunky stairs covered by a thick beige carpet, and they were probably just the right height to be taken two at a time. And two at a time it was going to have to be, because this was an emergency. He could see from the indicator that Elvis was already up to the first floor. Dante wasn’t so fit that he actually believed he would get to the seventh floor before the elevator, but there was the possibility that it might have to stop at a couple of floors before it reached Elvis’s destination, so he had a chance.

He was already exhausted when he reached the fourth floor. He continued to climb the staircase, but his pace halved with every new flight. Finally, as he reached the seventh floor, with his lungs practically hanging out of his mouth, he stopped and peered around the corner into the corridor. Elvis was standing outside one of the apartments about thirty feet away. He was pointing his gun at the door.

Dante really didn’t know what to do. His first instinct was self-preservation, so he tried his best to control his breathing. If Kacy was in that apartment and he had to go to her rescue, the first thing he needed was to have surprise on his side, so he didn’t want Elvis to know that he was there. He took a step back to ensure he was completely out of sight on the stairs and tried to get to grips with his situation. After getting his breathing under control he looked back to check on the situation in the corridor. Elvis had put his gun away and stepped back from the door. Then he lunged forward and gave the door one almighty kick with the heel of his blue suede shoe. It was a fairly sturdy door, so the kick had little effect. Elvis took a few steps further back and waited a few seconds. Then, like an enraged bull, he threw his entire body at the door and knocked the crap out of it. It came clean off its hinges and the giant hitman lurched forward into the apartment, and out of Dante’s sight.

Dante waited a couple of seconds, not sure what to do. Then he heard a gunshot. A fucking loud gunshot, too. This was immediately followed by agonized screams from inside the room. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman because the screams were so high pitched. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement further down the hall. It was the door of another apartment opening. Kacy came running out of it, carrying a heavy-looking black leather suitcase. She ran past the busted door that Elvis had charged through and bounded on to the stairs. Dante breathed a sigh of relief at seeing her again.

‘Dante!’ she gasped, surprised to find him lurking on the top step. ‘Come on, let’s go!’

Before he knew what was happening, Kacy had handed him the black leather suitcase and started dragging him down the stairs with her.

‘Baby, you’re okay?’ Dante panted.

‘Of course I’m okay, honey.’

‘Did you manage to get that blue stone?’

‘I sure did.’

Kacy was really racing down the stairs now, and Dante found himself struggling to keep up. Carrying the heavy suitcase that kept bouncing off his shins as he descended the stairs was proving to be a real nuisance, and a bruising one at that.

‘Oh God, I love you, baby. You’re the greatest,’ he yelled down to her, as the suitcase continued digging a groove into his lower leg.

‘I know I am,’ she called back.

Dante had the best girlfriend in the world, and he knew it. Although, if the suitcase he was being attacked by turned out to be full of hair products or shopping vouchers he might have to reconsider that. Whatever was in there was pretty heavy.

‘So what’s in this suitcase I’m carrying?’ he called out as he saw the love of his life disappear around a turn that marked another flight of stairs.

‘That’s the best part,’ she shouted back. ‘We’ve hit the jackpot, baby!’

Fifteen

Jensen was pleasantly surprised by the manner in which Somers received what he had to tell him. Half the reason he had been happy to tell him the truth was that he hadn’t expected Somers to believe any of it. He had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t really lose either way. If Somers believed him, then great; if he didn’t, then that was fine, too. Jensen’s only real concern was that if a lot of people found out and believed what he had to say, it would cause widespread panic throughout Santa Mondega. Fact of the matter was, Jensen couldn’t prove or disprove any of the information with which he had been burdened. That’s why he was in town, to prove or disprove what his Government masters thought they knew.

Somers had been courteous enough to listen intently to the entire story, without interruption. Jensen had explained how he had been sent to Santa Mondega to discover the truth behind a secret that the governments and church leaders of the world had been guarding for centuries. Every generation of government handed the story down to the next. Every new generation doubted the truth behind the story, and usually sent its own investigators to Santa Mondega to discover whether the legend was true or not. Some of the investigators returned in one piece. Many were never seen again. All of those who did return backed up the story, and those who didn’t merely succeeded in fuelling the suggestion that there was truth in the rumours.

Truth was, Santa Mondega was the city that the rest of the world pretended didn’t exist. It was not to be found on any maps, and no story that broke in the city was ever aired on a news station outside the city limits. The reason, if legend was to be believed, was that Santa Mondega was the home of the undead. Jensen remembered how he had felt when he had first been given this information. His instincts had told him that he was being sold a load of bullshit. The fact that he heard it from a source who reported directly to the President of the United States meant that he had at least to pretend to take the information seriously. After all, when a top Government official privileges you with highly sensitive information, you’d be foolish to dismiss it as poppycock without first considering the possibility that it might be true. Could cost you your job, at the very least.

Somers absorbed the information in much the same way as Jensen had done, which struck the latter as pretty admirable. Jensen lived and breathed supernatural activity, whereas Somers was just a regular detective specializing in murder cases. Albeit murders committed by one particular killer, if his theory was correct.

‘I kinda thought you’d be a little more surprised, or even dismissive of all this,’ Jensen said to the distinctly unfazed Somers, who had not moved from his seated position behind the desk.

‘Well, you know what? I actually heard this theory once before, years ago. And although I’ve never seen a shred of evidence to back it up, I’ve also never seen anything to disprove it, either,’ Somers countered.

Jensen had to respect the other’s honesty. It was interesting to learn that the old boy had heard the theory before. The only issue Jensen had was that in his opinion it was more fact than theory, but then, that was how his partner felt about the Bourbon Kid. In Somers’s mind, the Kid’s involvement in the murders was also fact, not theory. They had found some common ground, other than movies, at last.

‘Thanks. I appreciate you not mocking me,’ Jensen said with a deep sigh. ‘Most other guys would laugh me out of town for telling them that.’ Somers smiled and shook his head.

‘What’s so funny?’ Jensen asked.

‘I’ve seen some bizarre shit in this job. I only have to look at the photos of all these dead bodies to know that there’s a possibility that something not entirely human is behind all this. So I’ll go along with the theory that the Bourbon Kid is some kind of ghost that can’t be killed. If it keeps you on this case with me, helping me to track him down, I’ll believe he’s the Devil himself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sure. There’s one other thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I don’t believe you’ve told me absolutely everything yet. Have you?’

Jensen considered the question for a moment. He hadn’t deliberately withheld anything, had he?

‘Nope, that’s everything, Somers. At least, it’s everything I can think of right now that’s relevant.’

Somers suddenly stood up and turned his back on Jensen. He walked over to the window behind him and looked through the blinds at the streets below.

‘The Lunar Festival has just started,’ he said after a while. ‘Santa Mondega is due to have a total eclipse of the sun in a couple of days’ time. Two monks have just come into town, just like two others did five years ago. And we all know what happened then, don’t we?’

‘Yeah. A lot of people died. What are you getting at?’

‘You know what I’m getting at, Detective. Don’t play me for a fool. The day those people died at the hands of the Bourbon Kid five years ago was the same day as the last eclipse. Now, outside of Santa Mondega, no other city has two solar eclipses in five years. It’s not possible. Which is why I believe your story. But you’re in town because of this eclipse. The Bourbon Kid has returned because of this eclipse, and those two monks are here because of this eclipse. So why is that?’

‘You heard of the Eye of the Moon?’

Somers turned round again and faced Jensen. When he spoke, his voice sounded bleak. ‘The blue stone, right? It’s what the Kid came looking for last time. A guy called Ringo had stolen it from the monks. They came looking for it, too, and somehow they got it back from the Kid. Maybe he can’t kill holy men, or something – I don’t know. But I’m guessing, Detective Jensen, that the Eye of the Moon has been stolen again. That’s why you, the monks and the Bourbon Kid have all arrived in town in the last couple of days. But what’s it got to do with the eclipse?’ His last words fell into a deepening silence, as Jensen considered how best to answer.

‘Well,’ he said at last, realizing that Somers had been right when he suggested that he hadn’t been told everything. ‘You might want to sit down again. This is where it gets really weird.’

‘I’ll stand, thanks. Go on.’

‘You’re right. The Eye of the Moon has been stolen again. And according to my source at Government, that stone has what you might call “magical powers”.’

‘Magical powers?’ Somers sounded incredulous.

‘Yeah, I know. It sounds ridiculous, and in fairness these magical powers are one of the greyest areas in a story full of grey areas. Apparently the holder of the stone becomes immortal for as long as it’s in his possession, although I guess I should point out that there’s less evidence to back this up than there is to support anything else I’ve told you.’ He waited a moment, wondering how Somers would take the next bit of information. ‘One of the other theories,’ he said carefully, ‘is that it controls the orbit of the moon.’

‘Interesting. That would make a little sense. With an eclipse coming up, a man who could control the orbit of the moon would be in a very powerful position.’

‘That’s right. Now think about this, Somers. If the holder of the stone can stop the moon from orbiting the earth during an eclipse, and the moon then remained stationary in relation to the earth, although rotating with it, at exactly the point at which it had been stopped, then the area of the earth covered in darkness by the eclipse would stay in darkness. For ever.’

Somers decided it was time to sit back down. He took his place behind the desk and picked up a few of the photos he had been showing Jensen earlier. He studied them closely. This time, Jensen could see from his expression that he was looking at them in a different light.

‘I think I can now see what you see, Jensen,’ he said.

‘Really? What exactly do you think I see?’

‘You see people who will thrive in a city that is bathed in total darkness.’

‘“I see undead people”,’ said Jensen, mimicking the kid from the movie The Sixth Sense. ’Walking around like regular people. They know they’re dead, mind you – the ones in Santa Mondega.’

Jensen could tell from the astonished look on Somers’s face that he had figured the whole thing out already. He was no slouch, this guy.

‘Vampires,’ Somers blurted out. ‘The one creature that would benefit from a city where there was never any sunlight is a vampire.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Jesus Christ. Why didn’t I ever consider this before?’

Jensen smiled. ‘Why would you? It’s a totally ludicrous idea.’

‘It was. But right now it’s making a hell of a lot of sense. If the Bourbon Kid is a vampire, then we’d better track him down before he gets his hands on that stone.’

Sixteen

Sanchez had heard nothing from Elvis. Even though he knew he might not get any news for a few days, maybe even weeks, he was still growing impatient, and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Elvis had taken on the job. Nothing would convince Sanchez to change his mind and call Santa Mondega’s most feared hitman off the job. At least, that’s what he’d thought when he had given Elvis the unenviable task of exacting retribution on his behalf.

Then, typically, something happened to change Sanchez’s mind. He had an unexpected visitor to his bar. It was early evening when she walked in. He hadn’t seen her for some time, but here she was again. Sanchez couldn’t have been more surprised if someone had served him a glass of piss.

Jessica had waltzed into his bar as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She was on her own, and didn’t look as though she had been in any trouble. She certainly didn’t look like someone who had witnessed the brutal slaying of two people that very morning. In fact, she seemed very calm.

‘Coffee, please, bartender,’ she whispered as she took a seat at the bar. It seemed to Sanchez that she hadn’t recognized him, which was something of a disappointment to him.

‘Hello, Jessica,’ he said.

She looked up, startled by the notion that the bartender could possibly know who she was when she recognized neither him nor the bar she was in.

‘You know me?’ she asked, unable to mask her surprise.

‘Yeah. Don’t you recognize me?’

‘No. Have I been here before? It doesn’t look familiar.’

She looked around at her surroundings in complete bewilderment. If she had been to the Tapioca before it must have been a very long time ago, or it must have looked different, because the place was entirely foreign to her.

‘Yeah, you’ve been here before, about five years ago. You sure you don’t remember?’

‘Nah. I don’t have a very good memory. It’ll probably come back to me, though.’

Sanchez wasn’t sure what to make of her. Was she telling the truth? Did she really not remember? Had she some sort of amnesia? Only one way to find out.

‘So what have you been doing for the last five years?’

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘’Cos I remember what happened the last time you were in here. You made quite an impression.’

‘Yeah, that’ll happen,’ she said coolly.

Sanchez was taken aback at this sudden change of character. From being startled and unsure of herself only moments earlier, Jessica suddenly seemed arrogant and aloof.

‘Oh. Right … Um … How d’ya want your coffee?’ he asked her.

‘Free.’

‘Huh?’

‘I don’t care how the coffee is, as long as I don’t have to pay for it.’

Sanchez generally hated people trying to con free drinks out of him, but he was astonished to see Jessica awake and on her feet, and was eager to know what was going on with her, and what she might know about the deaths of his brother and sister-in-law. So he reluctantly poured her a mug of black coffee from the crusted old filter jug that had been brewing on a hotplate behind the bar for about four hours.

Jessica took a look at the dirty white mug of coffee and sniffed it after Sanchez slid it across the bar to her.

‘Hmmm. I hope coffee isn’t the lifeblood of this place.’

That’d be whisky and tequila.’

‘Good for you.’

Sanchez was beginning to take a very slight dislike to Jessica. Her manner disappointed him, because over the last five years he had imagined that, when she finally regained consciousness, she would see him as her saviour, a man she could trust. He wasn’t about to give up on her just yet, but her early attitude hadn’t exactly endeared her to him.

‘So, what’ve you been up to, Jessica?’

She took a sip of the coffee.

‘Why should you care so much, huh? Can’t a girl come in and have a coffee without the bartender hitting on her?’ She favoured him with a contemptuous glare.

‘I ain’t hittin’ on you.’

There was a certain defensiveness in the way Sanchez responded to the suggestion that he was hitting on her. Even he noticed it, and it made him blush a little. Of course, once he felt himself doing so it just set him off and he went the whole way and turned crimson. He needed to quit the room before any of the other customers noticed and began to jeer. The Tapioca’s regulars were always quick to jump on any sign of weakness. He turned on his heel and headed out back to find Mukka the cook. It was about time the big lump did a half-hour shift behind the bar. Goddam women, making him blush. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? He was only being friendly. Bitch.

About two minutes passed before Mukka came out and took over behind the bar, and the first customer he had to serve was a big, angry-looking bastard named Jefe.

‘Bartender. Where the fuck is that scumbag Marcus the Weasel?’ he growled.

‘Marcus the Weasel? I don’t know who that is,’ the cook replied politely.

Jefe pulled a sawn-off shotgun from inside his black sleeveless jacket and pointed it at Mukka’s head. Now Mukka was a pretty big guy himself, but he was only twenty years old. He hadn’t really filled out yet, and he wasn’t very brave. One day he’d be a tough bastard, but that day was a few years off yet, and besides, he didn’t have a gun. He had a wooden spoon that he’d brought with him from the kitchen.

‘Er, I still don’t know who Marcus is,’ he said nervously.

‘You got three seconds. Three … Two …’

‘Woah! Hold on!’ said Mukka, shaking his spoon at Jefe. ‘The boss, Sanchez, he’s bound to know who Marcus is. He’s just out back. I can go get him for you.’

‘Go get him then. But just remember this: I’m gonna be pointin’ this gun at you when you come back, and if you’re carryin’ anything other than that fuckin’ spoon, I’m gonna shoot you in the nuts. You got that?’

‘Uh, nuts. Yeah, got it.’

Mukka made his way rather apprehensively out back. Sanchez was sitting in the kitchen, watching the news on the portable TV in the corner.

‘Hey Sanchez, there’s some nasty-looking guy out here pointing a shotgun at me and asking about a guy called Marcus the Weasel.’

‘Tell him you don’t know anyone called Marcus the fuckin’ Weasel.’

‘I did, so he pointed the gun at my head and started counting down from three.’

Sanchez let out a deep sigh and pulled himself up out of his chair. His mood wasn’t getting any better. All the customers were getting on his nerves again today. Scum, every goddam one of them.

‘Sonofabitch,’ he muttered under his breath as he walked back out to the bar. It came as the day’s second great surprise to Sanchez when he saw Jefe. He was expecting Elvis to have blown the bounty hunter away by now. In fact, for a second he wondered if maybe the hitman had tried and failed, and that Jefe was now here to issue some payback. As always, though, he didn’t let his feelings betray him (apart from the embarrassing blushing incident of a few moments earlier).

‘Jefe, ain’t it? Whadda ya want?’ He was relieved to see that the other was no longer wielding the shotgun that Mukka had mentioned.

‘I want that fuckin’ weasel Marcus. Do you know where he is?’

‘Last time I saw him he was with you.’

‘Well, he ain’t with me no more. And my wallet and that expensive neck chain I was wearin’ last night ain’t with me, neither.’

‘Bummer! I s’pose he stole that nice car o’ yours, too, huh?’

‘Now what nice car would that be?’ asked Jefe, more than a little curious as to how a bartender would know what car he drove.

‘The yellow Cadillac. You got a nice yellow Cadillac, ain’t that right?’

‘How d’you know so much, bartender?’ asked Jefe menacingly, looking like he was about to pull his gun again and aim it in Sanchez’s direction.

‘Oh, I just overheard someone say that you drove a real nice yellow Caddy, is all.’

‘Well I don’t. I traded it a while back and bought a shit-hot Porsche, not that it’s any of your goddam business. Now, you seen Marcus, or what?’

‘No, I ain’t, but I’ll keep an ear out for you. He’s liable to come in here most nights, but if he’s ripped you off I guess he’ll stay away for a while.’

‘Know where he lives?’

‘Yeah, in the gutter with the rest of the local rodents,’ Sanchez replied. Then, unable to let the matter go, he asked, ‘So when did you sell the Caddy?’

His question went unanswered. Until now, Jessica had remained very quiet. Sanchez had noticed that she hadn’t even reacted in the slightest when he’d mentioned the yellow Cadillac. Maybe she hadn’t seen it at the farmhouse? Or maybe she had, but didn’t remember? Either way, she had been sitting quietly on a barstool, taking in the entire conversation between bartender and bounty hunter.

From her perch at the bar, Jessica had been particularly impressed by Jefe’s lack of tolerance for just about everything and everyone. Now seemed like the ideal time to make her presence known to him.

‘How much did this Weasel guy steal from you?’ she butted in, killing Sanchez’s question about the Cadillac stone dead.

Until then Jefe hadn’t even noticed her. He was about to tell her to mind her own fuckin’ business when he realized how pretty she was. ‘A few thousand,’ he said airily. ‘But don’t worry, little lady, he left me more than enough to buy you a drink.’ The spectacle of Jefe suddenly turning on what he imagined to be charm was, to Sanchez, an awesome one, if somewhat nauseating. On demand, he served Jefe with a glass of whisky and topped up Jessica’s mug with more coffee from the loathsome jug. Jefe casually threw him a bill and turned back to the girl.

For the next twenty minutes Jefe did his best to hit on Jessica, and in return she did her best to be hit on. Sanchez might as well have been invisible to them. Typical. All women seemed to be interested in was men with money, or arrogant men with no respect for them. Jefe was both of these things, although by the sound of it he might not be all that well-heeled any longer, thanks to Marcus the Weasel.

After watching the pair of them flirt with each other like a couple of high-school kids with out-of-control hormones, Sanchez was relieved when Mukka poked his head round the corner to tell him that Elvis was on the phone. Leaving Mukka in charge of the bar again, he went out back to take the call from the King. Sitting himself down in his favourite leather chair in his office just off the kitchen, he picked up the handset and spoke into it.

‘Hi, Elvis.’

‘Hey, man. I got some good news for you. That Jefe guy is dead. I offed him this morning. Killed him real bad, too. Your momma’d be proud.’

This is more than a little odd, Sanchez thought. Elvis would never lie to him about something like this. The man had too much pride. But he was clearly mistaken, because Jefe was right there in the Tapioca, standing by the bar and hitting on Jessica.

‘Okay, Elvis, so tell me this: how come Jefe is standing in my bar drinking whisky right now?’

‘Huh?’

‘Elvis, Jefe don’t own the yellow Cadillac. I just heard he sold it recently and bought a Porsche – least, that’s what he says.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Elvis sounded confused.

‘It don’t matter, so long as you killed the guy with the yellow Caddy, right?’

‘Shit, I dunno, man. This guy wasn’t driving anything. He checked into a hotel under the name of Jefe. Clerk at the desk told me what room he was in, and everythin’.’

‘Well, you didn’t kill Jefe. I’m tellin’ you, the sonofabitch is in here now.’

‘So who the fuck did I kill, then?’

‘Shit, I dunno. Might’ve been a guy name of Marcus the Weasel. He stole Jefe’s wallet last night.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

Sanchez was struck by a thought. ‘Hey, wait a second. Did the guy have a necklace with him with some kinda blue stone on it?’

‘Nah, man, this guy didn’t have shit on him. No wallet, no gun, no nothin’.’

‘Shit, that’s a damn shame … So what did he look like?’

‘Greasy, unshaven pisshead. A half-naked, gutless freak who kept lookin’ at me funny. He was a real pussy – no fuckin’ self-respect. Sonofabitch would’ve traded in his own mother to save his ass.’

‘Hmm, yeah. That’s Marcus the Weasel, all right. You sure he didn’t have the necklace on him anywhere?’

‘Sure I’m sure. There was a cheap silver necklace in the room, but it didn’t have no blue stone on it, just a shitty little curly pendant.’

It was time, Sanchez thought, to fill Elvis in on the latest news. ‘Well, he stole a blue diamond or some such from Jefe last night, and it’s worth a ton of money.’

‘Blue diamond? Ah, now you’re talkin’, I heard about this. How valuable are you sayin’, exactly?’

‘I reckon it’s worth a lot to this Jefe guy who’s hangin’ in my bar. We could split the money right down the middle, fifty-fifty.’

‘Why the fuck would I wanna give you half, Sanchez? If I find the goddam thing I can sell it to him myself. Besides, don’t you still want me to kill him?’

‘Fuck no. I want you to kill the bastard who was driving that yellow Cadillac. It wasn’t Marcus, and seems it wasn’t Jefe, neither. If you can’t find the driver of the yellow Caddy then just get me the necklace instead. We’ll split it fifty-fifty and you can forget about offin’ the driver of the Cadillac … Leastways, for now.’

Elvis let out a deep sigh of frustration. ‘Fucksakes! Okay, you got a deal. I’ll head back to the hotel and see what I can dig up.’

‘Thanks, Elvis. Call me later. I’ll see if I can set a price with Jefe.’

Elvis grunted something under his breath and hung up. He wasn’t one for goodbyes. Time was all important in the quest to make a few bucks.

Like most other locals, Sanchez knew a little about the history of the blue stone known as the Eye of the Moon. He knew that some people believed that it granted invincibility to anyone who carried it about their person. There were many others, however, who didn’t believe such nonsense: all they knew was that El Santino had offered Ringo round about a hundred thousand dollars for it five years ago. Unfortunately for Ringo, he had been shot down and killed by the Bourbon Kid before he had a chance to collect on the deal. Chances were high that Jefe was looking to sell the stone to El Santino, and probably for more than the hundred thousand Ringo had been asking five years earlier. It was this knowledge that Sanchez intended to use to his advantage.

He made his way back out to the bar and headed straight for Jefe. The bounty hunter was making Jessica laugh, impressing her with stories of his many adventures hunting down idiots who had been foolish enough to have messed around with someone sufficiently rich to put a price on their head. Sanchez saw this as a perfect opportunity to interrupt.

‘Hey Jefe, you want me to put the word round that you want that necklace back? I know people who specialize in finding things like that.’

Jefe managed to snarl and sneer at Sanchez at the same time. He clearly didn’t appreciate the interruption, or the generous offer of help.

‘I don’t need some punk bartender helping me. You just want a reward, is all. I’ll spread the fuckin’ word myself.’

‘I could tell El Santino that you’ve lost it, if you want. He knows people who can find things like that.’

This was as close as Sanchez was ever likely to come to threatening a man like Jefe. El Santino had most likely hired the bounty hunter to steal the stone, and if he found out that Jefe had lost it, he would be pretty pissed. Jefe recognized the subtlety of the threat, as he also understood the need to keep El Santino out of the situation. If anyone else were to get his or her hands on the necklace and sell it to El Santino, Jefe would get nothing, other than a visit from the Grim Reaper.

‘Okay,’ he said wearily. ‘Get me the stone back and I’ll give you ten thousand.’

‘Sure. But it’s ten for me, and another ten for the friend I know who can get it for you.’

Jefe stared hard at Sanchez. The bartender was pushing his luck, but he was a well-informed bartender with a lot of connections, and he knew how badly Jefe needed that blue stone back.

‘You got yourself a deal, barkeep.’ Inwardly, Sanchez felt a wave of relief run over him.

Jessica, who had been listening intently to this exchange, was clearly impressed.

‘Wow! You’ve got twenty thousand dollars spare to buy me a diamond necklace?’ she asked, her face a parody of wide-eyed innocence.

Jefe raised an eyebrow.

‘Ha ha. That’s kinda funny, you know? But no, it ain’t a diamond, and it ain’t for you, sweetness. I got something better in mind for you.’

‘Oooh! I can’t wait,’ said Jessica, favouring him with a filthy smile.

‘Well, you’re gonna have to. I gotta find a guy name of Marcus the Weasel first. He’s due to meet up with the Devil.’

Sanchez overheard what Jefe said about finding Marcus, but chose not to voice his suspicion that the Weasel was already dead. The bounty hunter would find that out for himself soon enough.

Seventeen

The call had come through to Archibald Somers and Miles Jensen at around 6 p.m. Another body had been reported, this time at the Santa Mondega International Hotel. They had made their way there in double quick time. Somers had driven like a maniac in an attempt to get there and seal off the surrounding area, just on the off chance that the killer might still be around. Unfortunately, word had spread like wildfire, so that by the time they reached the hotel half the residents of the city were hanging around outside, waiting to see a body brought out.

Somers parked up on the street about fifty yards from the hotel and the two detectives made their way through the crowd of onlookers to the hotel entrance. After flashing their badges at the two officers stationed outside the main entrance, they left the crowd behind them and set foot in the hotel lobby. Jensen was impressed by the smart appearance of the place. From the inside, this looked like the most modern building in Santa Mondega. The carpets were a smart beige colour and there were some very stylish, almost regal, scarlet sofas for visitors to sit on. Behind the reception desk was a young man who made eye contact with Jensen for a split second before looking away again and trying to give the impression he was busy.

‘I caught that,’ Somers muttered to his partner. ‘You go on upstairs to the crime scene. I’ll question our little porter friend over there.’

‘You got it. I’ll see you there in a minute.’

Jensen took the stairs to the seventh floor, where the body of the latest murder victim had been discovered. It didn’t take a great detective to spot the room where the murder had taken place. The door was hanging off its hinges, and there was a uniformed officer standing outside. Jensen approached him and held up his badge.

‘Hi, I’m Detective Jensen.’

‘I know,’ replied the officer. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Through here, Detective.’

The cop gestured through the shattered doorway and Jensen nodded politely at him as he walked in. There was a foul stench in the room – a familiar stench to the nostrils of Miles Jensen, but foul nonetheless.

He was no stranger to dead bodies, but he had never seen any as gruesome as those that he had witnessed during his first twenty-four hours in Santa Mondega. This latest victim had been identified as a local punk and all-round scumbag named Marcus the Weasel. He had booked into the hotel under an alias, presumably because he felt his life was in danger. Which it obviously had been.

One thing stood out to Jensen from the second he laid eyes on the corpse. This murder was a little different to the others. Marcus’s eyes hadn’t been gouged out. His tongue had not been ripped from his throat, either, although it had been sliced in half. His stomach had also been cut open and – according to one of the forensics guys working the room over – he had been dragged around the room by his guts. There had also been reports of gunshots from other guests at the hotel. That would explain the shattered kneecaps, although no bullets had been found yet to confirm this.

Room 73 was a real bloody mess. It had no doubt been just a plain mess before this latest murder, as it was clear that there had been a lot of alcohol consumed from the minibar. Bottles were strewn all over the floor, mixing beer and whisky stains with those of the blood on the carpet. The door of the minibar was open, and all that remained inside it were a few bottles of water and a small glass bottle of orange drink lying on its side. The forensics team were doing their usual routine of inspecting and recording everything in the place, so Jensen was careful not to touch anything.

‘You know Lieutenant Scraggs is in the bathroom back there?’ said one of the forensics guys, who was on his hands and knees picking up bits of Marcus the Weasel’s stomach from the floor with a pair of tweezers.

‘Right. Thanks.’ This was Jensen’s cue, an olive branch of sorts offered to him. He was already feeling pretty spare, like he was cluttering up the crime scene. Not wanting to be in the way, he decided to check on what Scraggs was up to in the bathroom.

‘Hey, Lieutenant, you found anything in here?’ he asked, poking his head around the bathroom door. Scraggs was actually checking out his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He seemed slightly startled and a little embarrassed to be caught posing by Jensen.

‘Nothing, sir. Do you have a theory on this yet?’

‘I’ve got nothing at the moment,’ Jensen conceded. ‘But it’s kinda early days. Have you ever seen anything like this before?’

Scraggs seemed to have recovered from his initial awkwardness at being caught looking at himself, and turned back to the mirror to run his hands through his thick dark hair and adjust his thin blue tie.

‘I’ve seen plenty of bodies like this before, and I’ll tell you this for nothing, Detective: this ain’t the work of the Bourbon Kid. Your partner Somers will tell you it is, but he’d pin the death of JFK on the Kid if he could.’

‘How can you be so sure this wasn’t the Kid?’

‘Because it’s never the fuckin’ Kid,’ snarled Scraggs, turning to face Jensen. ‘The Kid is history. Came to town one week, killed a shitload of people, and disappeared. Somers lost just about everyone he cared about that week, all killed by the Bourbon Kid. He tries to pin everything on the Kid ’cos he thinks it will help to catch him, but all it does is make the legend of the Kid grow so that he’s like some kind of modern day John Wesley Hardin.’

Scraggs picked up a pair of surgical gloves that had been put down by the side of the basin. He put them on and marched past Jensen and back into the bedroom, where he came unnervingly close to treading on the mortal remains of the Weasel. Jensen hurried out after him.

‘Is that what everyone thinks?’ he called out to the Lieutenant.

Scraggs stopped, but this time didn’t turn back to face him. ‘No, it’s not what everyone thinks. It’s what everyone knows.’

Scraggs stepped around a few chunks of flesh on the carpet and walked out of the room via the hole that had once been a doorway. As he went through it he blanked Detective Archibald Somers who passed him on the way in, carrying two cardboard cups of coffee. Somers stopped dead in his tracks once he was inside the room. ‘What have you got up here then, partner?’ he asked Jensen.

The younger detective watched as Somers took a look around the room. His eyes soon stopped on the dead mess on the carpet that was Marcus the Weasel.

‘Well, not much,’ Jensen replied. ‘Eyes haven’t been gouged out on this one, and the tongue has been sliced but not ripped out.’

‘Nice,’ said Somers, sniffing at the lid of one of the drinks. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out one of the warm cardboard cups to Jensen, ‘I brought you a coffee.’

‘No thanks. I don’t drink the stuff.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Somers looked around for somewhere to put the spare cup. There wasn’t actually anywhere in the entire room suitable for having a container of steaming hot coffee placed on it. The forensic guys certainly wouldn’t appreciate him putting it down somewhere where they were about to dust for prints or DNA, so he leaned back out of the door for a sight of Scraggs heading for the stairs.

‘HEY, SCRAGGS,’ he called out. ‘CATCH!’

All Jensen saw was Somers throwing the container down the hall in the direction that Lieutenant Scraggs had taken. There followed a scream, suggesting that the lid had come off the cardboard cup, causing the contents to scald some vulnerable part of the unfortunate Lieutenant. There followed some sort of cursing from Scraggs, no doubt at Somers, but the forensics officer didn’t reappear to vent his fury face to face with the grumpy veteran detective.

‘Did you find anything out from the guy on the desk?’ Jensen asked.

Somers stepped back inside the room and took a sip of his coffee.

‘Shit, that’s hot,’ he said, licking his lips, which he had obviously scalded a little. ‘Oh yeah, the porter says that his buddy on the nightshift saw Elvis come up here.’

‘Elvis?’

‘Yeah. Y’know, Elvis, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll.’

‘Whoa! Hang on there a minute,’ said Jensen, recalling an earlier conversation he’d had. ‘One of the ambulancemen back at the farmhouse this morning mentioned Elvis.’

‘That so? What did he say?’

‘He said that Sanchez the bartender would hire Elvis to kill whoever it was that murdered his brother and his wife.’

‘What? Shit. Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ Somers turned angrily, as though looking for something to kick out at in his frustration. Since the only object in range was Marcus’s body, he thought better of it.

‘Well, I guess I thought he was being sarcastic.’

‘Oh Christ, no! Jensen, you should have told me this. Elvis is local muscle for hire. Real mean bastard he is, too, and this looks like his handiwork.’

‘Really? You don’t think the Bourbon Kid did this, then?’ Jensen was surprised. The other cops he’d met said Somers pinned everything on the Kid.

‘No. Elvis did this all right. Whether we can actually find any hard evidence or not is another matter. He’s a pro. He let the porter see him, because he wants to be identified as the killer so he can pick up his bounty, but he won’t have left a single trace of DNA here for the forensics team. We’ll get nothing here. What we need to know is, why the hell has he gone to town on this poor sonofabitch? Marcus the Weasel could never have killed Thomas and Audrey Garcia, no matter what that lamebrain bartender Sanchez might think. He’s – he was – a thief, not a killer. Elvis got the wrong man here if he was doing this for Sanchez.’

Jensen was annoyed and disappointed with himself for not having mentioned the Elvis business to Somers before. Maybe the life of this Marcus the Weasel guy could have been saved if he’d said something. Lesson learned: in Santa Mondega, if someone tells you something that sounds a touch crazy, it’s probably a good bet that it’s true.

‘So where will we find this Elvis guy?’ he asked.

‘Well, if he’s still looking for the person who killed Sanchez’s brother, he’ll turn up in the morgue pretty soon. Elvis is a mean sonofabitch, I mean really mean, but if he tracks down the Bourbon Kid he’s gonna find he’s bitten off more than he can chew.’

Eighteen

This wasn’t something that happened very often, and it wasn’t something that Sanchez liked. At the best of times the arrival of El Santino in the bar was bad news, and with all else that had been going on in town at the moment, there was a fairly high chance he’d be in a seriously evil mood.

‘Sanchez,’ he said, nodding in greeting. ‘How’s business?’

‘Good, thanks. You?’

El Santino didn’t really give a damn about how business was with Sanchez, and the bartender was smart enough to know that. On the face of things Sanchez was happy that El Santino didn’t seem to be going to kill him.

The gangster was a giant of a man. Really big, really imposing and, unfortunately, a real mean sonofabitch. He was wearing black boots, black leather trousers with silver buttons spaced at intervals down the sides, and a silver-coloured silk shirt. Over the top of this he wore a heavy, wide-lapelled black leather coat that reached almost to his knees.

Anyone who hadn’t met El Santino before would have known he was the most feared man in town the second they laid eyes on him, even if they’d never heard of him. His distinctive, shoulder-length dark wavy hair was tucked away behind his ears and held in tight under a black cowboy hat. His face was a mesh of stubble and scars overshadowed by a thick set of dark eyebrows that almost merged at the bridge of his nose into a monobrow. Standing behind him by the entrance to the bar were his two bodyguards, Carlito and Miguel. They looked so like El Santino, and were dressed so similarly, that they might have been his younger brothers. The only significant difference was that they wore black shirts instead of silver, and neither was quite as tall as his boss.

The history behind El Santino’s local dominance went back many years. To some he was an urban legend along the lines of Keyser Soze. For years he had been a fairly prominent businessman dealing in prostitution, with Carlito and Miguel as pimps reporting directly to him. One day his most highly prized hooker, a stunning Scottish girl known as Maggie May, was poached by a rival gang headed up by the notorious and greatly feared Vincent brothers, Sean and Dermot. They were a pair of hard-drinking paddies from Ireland. Not that anyone would ever have referred to them as ‘paddies’, for they were inclined to be a mite touchy about anything to do with the Ould Country.

Maggie had been El Santino’s favourite hooker, and the only one of his girls he would even so much as touch himself, so it was a deadly insult when she left him for the Vincents. His vengeance was drawn out and distinctly unmerciful. The Irish brothers were jumped while out drinking in the Nightjar. Four of the drinking buddies who were with them at the time were beheaded by Carlito and Miguel who, if the rumours were to be believed, carried katanas – samurai swords – that night. The same fate befell Maggie May, in punishment for her stinging betrayal. Truth to tell, it was probably something of a relief to her, for El Santino had left her to the mercies of Carlito and Miguel for some hours.

Sean and Dermot Vincent were not so lucky, however. It was said that they were kept as prisoners in the dungeons beneath El Santino’s castle on the edge of town. On a nightly basis they were handed round as sex toys to the deviants and lowlifes whom the gangster entertained on a regular basis.

With the Irish brothers out of the way, the giant Mexican pimp became the undisputed Mr Big, the most ruthless and feared gangster in Santa Mondega. Every time Sanchez laid eyes on him an image of the Vincent brothers being raped and tortured would immediately occupy his mind. It was doing so now.

‘So, Sanchez, you seen anythin’ you wanna tell me about?’ El Santino asked in a voice that you wouldn’t want to put a face to. The silence in the bar that followed his question could have been cut with a blunt knife.

‘Well now, I seen that guy Jefe in here a coupla times.’ Sanchez reached under the bar and picked up a cloth and a beer glass. On edge and needing to do something to keep his hands busy, he began to wipe round the rim of the glass. El Santino was intimidating, and he made Sanchez very conscious of his hands.

‘Yeah? Did Jefe say anythin’ to you?’ El Santino asked.

‘No, but I heard him say he was lookin’ for you.’

‘Did he, now?’

‘Leastways, I think that’s what he said,’ Sanchez added, concentrating on his glass cleaning.

‘Sure you do.’

‘Can I pour you a drink … on the house?’

‘Sure. Whisky. A triple. And one each for Carlito and Miguel.’

‘Comin’ right up.’

Sanchez was careful to find the best whisky he had and poured out three glasses of it for his new clients. He could see that his hands were shaking and did his best to pour the drinks quickly for fear of it being noticed. The measures were as equal as he could get them in the circumstances and when he had finished pouring them he placed the three glasses on the bar next to a glass of whisky he had been drinking himself.

‘Salud y dinero, guys,’ he babbled, forcing a wary smile. El Santino fixed him with a hard stare.

‘Sanchez,’ he said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Shaddup!’

‘Sure. Sorry.’

The big man made no attempt to touch his drink, and his bodyguards didn’t even bother to approach the bar.

‘So, Sanchez, did Jefe have anything for me? Huh?’

‘Yeah, he had something for you.’

Sanchez knew better than to tell even half a lie to El Santino. The man was renowned for sniffing out untruths, and was apt to be not very forgiving of anyone who tried to deceive him.

‘So why hasn’t he brought it to me yet?’ the big man asked, once again looking Sanchez squarely in the eye. ‘What’s he doin’ with it?’

It was no use, Sanchez thought. He was going to have to tell him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and with no help from God either.

‘He had it stolen from him by a man named Marcus. But I’m helping him to get it back.’

‘You’re helping him?’

‘Yeah. I know someone who specializes in finding stuff that’s been stolen. A guy with contacts.’

Just for a second the look in his eye suggested that El Santino thought Sanchez might know more about the theft of the stone than he was telling.

‘I see. An’ how much is Jefe paying you to find the stolen goods?’ he asked.

‘Twenty thousand.’

El Santino allowed himself a very brief and very false smile.

‘Tell you what, Sanchez. You find my merchandise before Jefe does, I’ll give you fifty thousand to bring it straight to me. We go back a long way, you an’ me, and I trust you.’

‘Sure thing, El Santino. Whatever you say.’

‘Good,’ said the giant gangster, finally picking up his glass of whisky. ‘You know why I trust you, don’t you, Sanchez?’

The bartender could feel himself breaking into a sweat. He hated being asked awkward questions by El Santino, and in this case, as always, he waited as long as possible before answering, in the hope that the other would answer his question himself. Which he duly did.

‘I trust you, ’cos you’re not stupid enough to double-cross me. You know me well enough not to. And that’s the only thing I actually like about you.’ He paused, then added, ‘You know where to find me.’

He downed the triple shot of whisky, slammed the glass back on the bar and walked out of the Tapioca the way he had come in, flanked by Carlito and Miguel, who had not even touched their drinks. Sanchez picked up their glasses and poured the contents back into the whisky bottle. His knees were trembling as well as his hands, and he thanked whatever passed for a god in Santa Mondega that Jefe had left the bar with Jessica just twenty minutes earlier.

This was extremely fortunate, for two reasons. Firstly, El Santino would probably have killed Jefe and a few innocent bystanders if the bounty hunter had been there without the stone. And secondly, it meant that if Elvis could find the stone before Jefe did, they stood to earn the grand sum of fifty thousand dollars from El Santino between them, instead of the twenty on offer from Jefe. Of course, there was the problem of what Jefe might do if he was cut out of the deal, but Sanchez figured Elvis could take care of that.

Time to get Elvis back on the phone, he thought. The hitman had tracked down Marcus the Weasel quickly enough, so he had a head start when it came to finding the stone. It seemed that neither El Santino nor Jefe actually knew yet that Marcus was dead. Obviously, news like that would travel round Santa Mondega quicker than a monk could spit out a mouthful of piss, so Sanchez knew that it was only a matter of time before they found out.

Nineteen

Jefe rocked into the Santa Mondega International Hotel and headed straight for the night porter, who was sitting behind the reception desk looking bored out of his skull. He didn’t know it, but the bounty hunter was about to make things a little more interesting for him.

‘What fuckin’ room is Marcus staying in?’ was his first question. The porter, a young Latino in his late teens, sighed and looked up at Jefe as if he had been asked the same question a thousand times and was tired of answering it.

‘Marcus the Weasel?’ he asked, yawning.

‘Yeah.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘They found his body up there this morning. Police have been swarming all over the place all day.’

‘Fuck. They know who killed him?’

‘Nah, they don’t.’

Jefe was pissed now. Really fucking pissed. The porter had been more helpful than he’d expected, but he hadn’t got the news he was looking for. If Marcus’s killer didn’t have the stone, then the cops would have it by now. And what had the porter meant when he’d said ‘They don’t’?

‘How d’you mean, they don’t?’

The porter was a naive young man and was clearly not aware of whom he was talking to. In a manner which, in Jefe’s opinion, showed insufficient respect, he beckoned the bounty hunter to lean in a little closer.

‘I’m just working here as cover. The normal guy quit last night, just walked out, him and his girlfriend the chambermaid. And they ain’t coming back. Word is, they saw something. I figure they know who killed the poor bastard and they’ve lit out in case the killer comes after them.’

Christ-on-a-bike! Jefe’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath of air. He wasn’t just a touch disappointed at what he’d just heard. He was absolutely livid, although controlling it well by his standards.

‘Where do I find the old porter, then? Where do him and this bitch of his live?’ ‘That information don’t come for free.’

Mistake. Jefe grabbed the porter’s head and smashed it down hard on the counter.

‘Listen up, you piece of shit,’ he hissed. ‘Tell me where I can find ’em or get ready to pick your nose up off the floor with your ass.’

‘Okay okay. Jesus, no one wants to pay for this information, do they?’

The young Latino was grimacing in pain and looking more than a little dazed.

‘Whadda ya mean? Who else’s been askin’?’

Since the porter’s response wasn’t instantaneous, Jefe smashed his face down on the counter again. This time there was an unpleasant cracking sound as his nose broke. There was no doubting who was boss in this conversation. An elderly couple sitting on one of the sofas near by looked up as if about to speak up on the porter’s behalf. A quick glance in their direction from Jefe and they wisely chose not to. As the young man’s head came back up he was smart enough to answer Jefe quickly this time, even though it was a struggle, with all the blood and snot pouring from his nostrils.

‘Well,’ he gulped indistinctly, ‘the cops wanted to know, and so did this weird guy dressed up like Elvis. Real mean muthafucker he was, man. Real fuckin’ mean. He was here about an hour ago.’

‘And you told him where to find them, the other porter and his bitch, right?’

‘Hey, man, I had no choice! He made me tell him. Look, the bastard did this to me.’

He lifted up his left hand, which had a thick white bandage wrapped around it. He pulled the bandage aside to reveal a deep cut right across his palm from thumb to little finger. It looked almost bad enough to have cut his hand clean in two. Jefe stared intently at it for a second and offered the young fellow a look of sympathy. Then he pulled out his gun from inside his black leather vest and shot a hole right through the wound.

BANG!

Blood sprayed everywhere. There was a two-second delay as the porter registered what had just happened to him, then he screamed in agony and promptly fell backwards off his chair.

The elderly couple got up off their sofa and walked out of the lobby on to the street without saying anything. Jefe didn’t pay any attention to them anyway. He didn’t care how many people saw him. He needed that stone back, and no one and nothing was going to get in his way.

‘Now, you little piece of fuckin’ shit. Who’s more of a worry to you now, me or this Elvis bastard?’

‘You, man! Definitely you!’ the porter whined as he tried desperately to hold his hand together.

‘Good. So now we’ve established that, you fuckin’ tell me where I find this flyboy ex-night porter and his bitch. And I wanna know everything about them that you think I might be interested in. You can start with their names.’

‘Dante. His name’s Dante and his girlfriend is called Kacy.’

‘And where do this Dante and fuckin’ Kacy live?’

The porter was now a trembling, whimpering mess curled up on the floor in the foetal position, desperately wishing that someone would come to his rescue.

‘Shh … shh …’ he stammered.

‘Don’t you fucking shush me, you piece of shit,’ Jefe snarled. He aimed his gun at the porter’s head.

‘Shh … shh … Shamrock House … apartment six,’ the petrified young Latino blurted out in the nick of time.

Jefe pointed his gun at the ceiling, out of harm’s way.

‘What’s your name, son?’ he asked in a calmer voice.

‘G … G … Gil.’

‘Well Gil, don’t you ever shush me again.’

‘I … I won’t … I swear.’

BANG!

Jefe fired a bullet through the middle of Gil’s face, and stood watching without emotion as the wretched youth’s brains sprayed out over the carpet and the wall behind him.

‘And don’t you fuckin’ swear, either, you cunt.’

With the information he required safely stored in the corners of his mind, Jefe turned and headed back out of the hotel through the main doors at the front. He paused momentarily to shoot an old woman in the foot as she passed him on her way into the lobby. She fell to the floor in agony, and before she was able to gather her senses and realize what had happened, Jefe was long gone. Off to Shamrock House, to kill Dante and Kacy.

And to take the blue stone back.

Twenty

Shamrock House, apartment six. Jefe wasn’t actually expecting to find Dante and Kacy in there. Or not alive, anyway. They were probably stupid, but even if they were stupid enough to have stayed in their apartment, they would probably have already been killed by this Elvis dude.

Jefe wasn’t sure where Elvis fitted into the whole equation. He could be working for El Santino, or he could be someone that Sanchez had hired to find the stone. In which case the bartender had moved fast. Either way, if Elvis had found Dante and Kacy he could be a few steps ahead in the race to find the Eye of the Moon. Of course, it was possible he might not even be looking for the stone. Not knowing what this Elvis guy knew, or for whom, if anyone, he was working, was a real pain in the ass. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the problem was too low down on Jefe’s list of priorities for him to stop and spend any quality time trying to work it out.

There was an old man in a grey cardigan sitting at the rather dirty and rotten-looking wood-panelled reception desk in the lobby of Shamrock House. He made no attempt to gain this new visitor’s attention, and Jefe was more than happy to ignore the old bastard. As if a mutual understanding had been reached without words or even eye contact, Jefe walked past the desk and, ignoring the ratty-looking elevator, on up the damp wooden stairs to the apartments. It wasn’t obvious where he was going to find apartment number six, but as the building was quite narrow there was a possibility that it wouldn’t be on the first floor.

As it happened, the apartment he was looking for proved to be on the third floor, and by the time Jefe had worked this out he was regretting not having just asked the old man on the reception desk. Door number six was at the end of a cold, dank corridor with a sticky dark green carpet running along the floor. The wallpaper had probably once been a cream colour, but now it was a stale yellow with dark patches of damp rising from the floor to stain it. In many places, it was actually in the latter stages of peeling from the walls.

When Jefe finally reached the door with a rusty figure 6 screwed on to it he checked he was still carrying his gun. This was part of a routine he instinctively followed when calling on someone he intended to kill. Although he did it unthinkingly, he considered the action to be a kind of talisman, a routine that he could stick to religiously. After all, it was instinctive, so he was never going to forget it. Reassured that he was still packing a piece, he puffed out his chest, pulled his shoulders back, and knocked three times on the door.

‘Hello? Anyone home?’ he called.

No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer, but now he had that horrible feeling. The one where it felt like he was being watched and the people watching him were laughing at him. A glance back down the dim, shitty corridor suggested he was alone, but he still had that feeling. Now wasn’t the time to be dwelling too much on vague feelings of unease, though. It was a time for action.

CRASH!

He kicked the door in. He only had to kick it once and it came open real easy. So easy, in fact, that it damn near came off its hinges. Now Jefe knew he was strong, but the ease at which the door came open suggested that the lock was already fucked. The door itself was pretty rotten, due to dampness, so it would be no great surprise if the area round the lock wasn’t up to scratch. Jefe, however, didn’t concern himself with the state of the door for long. Finding out if anyone was hiding inside the apartment was his top priority. He drew his gun, ready for action, and jumped into the apartment in the approved fashion of a cop in a TV show, checking both ways and randomly spinning back and forth as he advanced, just to make sure no one was hiding behind anything.

There didn’t seem to be much to see, at least not at first. It was a one-room apartment, and all that was in it was a double bed with a crimson-coloured duvet covering it, an armchair facing a small portable TV set, and a filthy yellow basin with a scum-covered mirror above it. The wallpaper was in an even worse state than the stuff in the hallway, and there was an almighty stink, as if someone had left a steak under the bed and forgotten about it.

Jefe was about to put his gun away when he spotted the blood on the duvet cover on the bed. He peered over at it. The blood hadn’t actually sunk into the bedding yet, but was still lying in a pool on top of the crimson duvet cover. This blood was fresh. Just how fresh soon became clear when a drop from above landed and splashed in the middle of it. Jefe looked up slowly. His eyes moved up first, soon followed by his head. That’s when he saw the dead guy stuck on the ceiling. It was his blood that was dripping on to the bed.

The man had been impaled, literally pinned to the ceiling by a collection of small knives. Some pierced his hands, some his feet, and a couple his chest. Another had been run through his throat, two rather nastily through his eye sockets, and it looked like one through his crotch. Goddam ouch! It was hard to make out what the dead man had looked like because he was such a mess. His skin was varnished in blood, and his clothes had been reduced to tatters. To Jefe, it looked as if he had been savaged by a pack of wild beasts before being hung up to dry. The bounty hunter had seen hundreds of dead bodies in his time, but never one this badly messed up.

‘Fuckin’ hell, man. What’s your name?’ he asked aloud.

The dead guy didn’t answer at first, but then, as Jefe reached up and prodded him with the barrel of his gun, his answer came emphatically. A gold chain fell from around his neck and landed on the bed. It made Jefe damn near jump out of his skin, but once he had regained his composure and his heart had started beating normally again, he picked it up. It was a fairly thick chain with a heavy gold medallion on it, bearing three simple letters: ‘TCB’. Jefe recognized this. ‘TCB’ – ‘Taking Care of Business.’ Elvis Presley had had this little acronym engraved on a pair of his sunglasses. It was the sign of the King. So no prizes for guessing who this dead guy was.

‘So you’re Elvis, huh? Shit, man. What the fuck happened to you? You look like you met the Devil in disguise.’

The corpse, unsurprisingly, did not respond. Jefe spent the next few minutes hunting around the apartment. He found nothing, and when Elvis’s weight finally loosened all the knives so that his body crashed on to the bed below, he decided he’d had enough and lit out of the filthy apartment. He shifted down the stairs as fast as he could walk without appearing to be in a hurry. The old man on reception didn’t even look up as Jefe passed him on the way out. He probably knew better than to check out all the people that visited his apartment block. No sense in being able to identify a criminal and have them feel the need to kill him.

Outside, relieved to be breathing in fresh air again, Jefe took several deep breaths of the stuff before heading down the street to his car. Retrieving the Eye of the Moon was now going to be extremely difficult. He needed a new lead. Who had killed Elvis? And where was the Eye of the Moon now? Did this kid Dante still have it? And if so, where the hell was he now?

The questions were running through Jefe’s mind thick and fast. They proved to be such a distraction that he didn’t even notice his old yellow Cadillac parked at the roadside when he walked past it to get to his shiny new silver Porsche.

Twenty-One

Sanchez wasn’t so pleased to see Jessica on her second visit to the Tapioca that day. She had been pretty rude on the first occasion she had dropped in, and then, having shown no interest in him, her saviour, she had gone off with Jefe. So it was quite a surprise to him when she turned up in a much friendlier mood that evening. The bar wasn’t particularly busy and Mukka was doing all the serving while Sanchez rested his ass on a barstool on the customer’s side of the counter, sipping at a glass of his best beer.

Jessica made a beeline for him as soon as she walked in. She was dressed in the same black ninja-style outfit that she had worn earlier in the day. It just so happened that it was the same outfit she had worn on the night Sanchez had first met her, five years earlier. In fact, he had never seen her wear anything else, but then she probably didn’t have any other clothes, at least, none that she knew of. These clothes had been in tatters five years ago after being riddled with bullet holes, but Sanchez’s sister-in-law Audrey had made a pretty good job of patching them back together.

‘So, Sanchez,’ Jessica said, sitting herself down on the stool next to him at the bar. ‘You gonna buy me a drink and tell me who the hell you think I am?’

Although he hated to admit it, Sanchez was pleased that she had suddenly decided to take an interest in him. He had thought about her a great many times since the moment when he had first laid eyes on her. As well as being the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, she was also the most interesting. Effectively, he had known her for five years, yet he knew virtually nothing about her. Right up until today she had been unconscious for all but the first couple of hours since they had first met.

‘Mukka, get the lady a drink.’

‘Sure, boss. What’ll it be, miss?’

‘Bloody Mary.’

‘Comin’ right up.’

Sanchez could only manage to stare and smile at Jessica while they waited for Mukka to serve her drink. Eventually, after about a minute of rattling glasses and bottles while he searched for the ingredients for her Bloody Mary, Mukka placed a tall thin glass of red liquid in front of her.

‘There any ice in that?’ Jessica asked, knowing perfectly well that there wasn’t.

‘You see me put any in?’ was Mukka’s sarcastic response.

‘Put some fuckin’ ice in the lady’s drink, for fuck’s sake, will you!’ bellowed Sanchez.

Mukka obliged, although not without hissing mutinously under his breath just loud enough for his boss to hear.

‘Sorry ’bout that, Jessica,’ said Sanchez, offering his best smile. There was only one way, he reflected, to get this conversation started, and that was just to come right out and ask the girl about herself. He took a deep breath and then said the first thing that came into his head.

‘So … anyway … Tell me, how come I’ve known you for five years and yet I don’t know you at all?’

‘Oh for Chrissakes! Let’s not waste time with small talk, huh?’

This was going to be hard work, Sanchez thought, but he wasn’t going to give up without having a good crack. ‘Okay,’ he said evenly, ‘but this is a two-way thing, missy. I want to hear what you know about my brother and his wife.’

‘I’ve never met them,’ Jessica said looking confused. ‘Have I?’

‘Oh yeah, you’ve met them all right. They’re the ones who kept you alive for the last five years after I saved your life.’

‘You saved my life? Bullshit!’

Sanchez was more than a little disappointed that Jessica treated his claim to have saved her life so dismissively, as though it were an impossibility. Yet he swallowed his pride, and ploughed on.

‘Ain’t bullshit, neither,’ he said doggedly. ‘Five years ago you got shot and left for dead outside this bar. I picked you up and took you to my brother’s house. His wife Audrey was a nurse, an’ she took care of you and brought you back to health. These last five years you’ve been in a coma and she ’n’ my brother been keepin’ you alive on the off-chance you might come out of it one day.’

Jessica looked a little suspicious, which Sanchez figured was understandable. It would take time to establish her trust, but it would come. He just had to persist.

‘Why take me to her? Why not take me to a hospital like any normal person would?’ she asked, eyeing him carefully to check whether his response was genuine.

‘’Cos the hospital was full that day.’

‘What kind of an excuse is that?’ she scoffed.

‘’Bout three hundred men, women and children were shot that week. Most of ’em died ’cos the hospital couldn’t cope. My sister-in-law had been fired by the hospital a few months earlier, so I figured she was your best bet for survival. Besides, the fact that you were even alive when I got to you was some sort of miracle.’ He paused to look her over. ‘I had a feeling you’d be okay. Looks like I was right, too, don’t it?’

‘Sure does. I guess I should be thanking you.’ Her mind was churning with all he’d told her, not least because she had no recollection of any of the events he’d recounted.

Sanchez got the impression that she wasn’t actually going to thank him, but that in some small way she had come about as close to it as she was going to, which kind of counted as a thank you round these parts.

‘You can thank me by tellin’ me what the fuck happened to my brother and his wife.’

It was Jessica’s turn. This would be her opportunity to pay him back for helping her. She could help him find his brother’s killer. Her response, however, was as typically unhelpful as he’d come to expect.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Who killed ‘em? That’s what I mean.’

‘Oh that.’

‘Yes, that.’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Don’t know?’

‘Right. Don’t know.’

‘You were there though, surely?’

‘I was – at least, I think I was. But I don’t know. I don’t really remember.’

‘How can you not fuckin’ remember if you were there when they were killed?’ Sanchez, by now more than a little impatient, was finding it hard to hide his frustration.

‘My memory kind of comes and goes at the moment,’ Jessica said softly, looking away into some distant place beyond the back of the bar. ‘I know I’ve got some kind of amnesia, but it isn’t just restricted to stuff that happened before I went into a coma. If I was in a coma … I keep forgetting where I am and how I got there. It does come back to me if I think hard enough, but even then I’m not sure if I’m remembering it right.’

‘You remember bein’ in here earlier today, right?’

‘Yeah. I remember that. And I remember leaving with Jefe, but then we went back to his place and he told me to wait there for him, and I waited but he never came back. Then I couldn’t recall why he wanted me to stay there so I thought I’d come back here and talk to you. I thought you might be able to enlighten me on a few things. You know, tell me if you thought I was a nice person or a bitch, because right now I’m not sure which I am.’

‘To be honest, Jessica, I ain’t sure either,’ Sanchez said with a sigh.

‘Oh.’ She seemed a little disappointed, and for a moment Sanchez felt that he might have hurt her feelings unnecessarily.

‘You know, you look too sweet to be a bad person,’ he said in an attempt to make her feel better.

‘Thanks.’ She took a suck on the straw in her Bloody Mary. The level of the glass had fallen about two inches before she suddenly jerked her head back.

‘Yellow Cadillac!’ she blurted out, immediately grabbing Sanchez’s full attention.

‘Yeah, what do you know about the yellow Caddy?’ he asked, his eyes lighting up.

‘You mentioned it earlier when you were talking to Jefe, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah. I saw it drivin’ away from my brother’s place after I found him dead. Do you know who was driving it? Did you see them?’

‘Oh my God! It’s coming back to me. There were two men. They killed your brother and his wife. I saw it. Least I think I did. No, wait a second … ‘

‘What? What, for Chrissakes?’

‘No, they weren’t dead. The two men were beating them. They were trying to get information.’ She stopped for a half second, then suddenly gasped.

‘Oh shit!’

‘“Oh shit” what?’

‘Oh shit, they were looking for me!’ She looked at Sanchez, wide-eyed and clearly upset.

‘Well, didn’t they see you?’ he asked.

‘No. No, for some reason they couldn’t see me. So I sneaked out, and that’s when I saw the yellow Cadillac.’

‘So what happened then?’ the bartender was frustrated, disappointed that she recalled so little, but he did his best to keep his tone even.

‘I just ran. I don’t know how long I ran for, but I just kept running and then eventually I ended up here.’ She paused in thought for a moment. ‘I don’t remember anything else. Not at the moment, anyway.’

She picked up her drink and sucked on the straw again. This time she finished the entire contents of the glass. It took her about ten seconds. Sanchez didn’t really know what to ask next, and his opportunity for further questioning ended a moment later when Jefe burst into the barroom through the street door. The big bounty hunter made straight for the bar and took up a seat on the stool next to Jessica, so that she was now between him and Sanchez.

‘Whisky for me, and another drink for the lady,’ he ordered, staring up at Mukka, who had moved from the back of the bar where he’d been lurking.

The young cook-cum-barkeep, remembering Jefe’s last visit, jumped into action, putting a nearly full bottle of whisky and a glass down on the bar for him. Sanchez leaned across Jessica, picked up the bottle and twisted the cork out then poured a generous measure of the whisky into the glass. He thought Jefe looked a little shaken, which he guessed was unusual. He found it disconcerting. Men like Jefe weren’t supposed to look shaken.

‘Are you okay, man?’ he asked.

‘I will be once I’ve had a drink. You might want one yourself, too, when you hear what I’ve gotta say.’

‘That so? Why?’

Jefe picked up the glass of whisky that Sanchez had poured him and downed it in one. Then he set it back on the bar, ready for a refill. He stared past Jessica at the bartender.

‘Your fuckin’ man Elvis is dead, Sanchez,’ he said. ‘Someone messed him up real bad. I mean real fuckin’ bad.’

Twenty-Two

Jefe and Jessica stayed in the bar, drinking, for several hours. The bounty hunter succeeded in polishing off two whiskies, eight beers and three tequilas. After the first couple of drinks he was soon back to his usual arrogant self. Jessica, with a score of five Bloody Marys, was a little more reserved. The more they drank, the better the pair of them seemed to get along, much to Sanchez’s annoyance. He couldn’t help noticing that Jessica seemed to be genuinely impressed by Jefe. He told her tales of his escapades as a bounty hunter, and how he had captured and sometimes killed men for money. He had hunted down notorious wanted men in areas all over the world. From the deepest jungles to the highest mountains, there was nowhere Jefe wouldn’t go to track and capture his prey.

Although he was careful not to name any names, he dropped a few hints that insinuated he had been responsible for the deaths of a number of powerful and famous people who were thought to have died in accidents. It was a reasonably clever ruse on his part, because the stories couldn’t be verified by anyone. Not that anyone was going to argue with him, in any case, because everyone knew just how good he was at his job. If the people paying the money wanted a murder to look like an accident, then that’s what Jefe would make it look like.

Sanchez could not compete with such dramatic fare, and he was not surprised when Jessica, slightly the worse for wear, left with Jefe about an hour before closing time. The pair of them leaned against each other for support as they staggered out of the bar and into the street. Once outside in the cool night air they started singing some sort of nonsensical song, the words of which Sanchez couldn’t quite make out. Then they were gone.

The Tapioca was almost empty apart from a small group of regulars playing cards at a table in one corner, and two hooded men sitting at another table closer to the bar. Sanchez had not paid much attention to them earlier. Mukka had done most of the serving behind the bar, while his boss had flitted around the place, occasionally chatting to a regular and trying his best to catch Jessica’s eye.

Now, there was a rule (albeit an unwritten one) in the Tapioca forbidding people in the bar from wearing their hoods up. Sanchez had introduced it shortly after the Bourbon Kid incident five years ago. The Lunar Festival’s fancy-dress party was still a few days away, but these two men appeared to have dressed for it in advance, seemingly as Jedi Knights. Each wore a long brown robe over loose-fitting, rather baggy white trousers made from a thick cloth. Sanchez now found himself in a dilemma: whether or not to approach the two men and ask that they lower their hoods. Truth was, he was tired, and the news about Elvis had shocked him. Not wanting any more hassle, he decided to let the matter go on this occasion.

As it happened, the two men were about to lower their hoods voluntarily. Suddenly they both got up from their chairs and came over to where Sanchez was leaning against the bar. One man walked behind the other with his head bowed, as if he was less confident than his companion. When they were close enough to Sanchez to make him feel just a little uncomfortable, they threw back their hoods to reveal their faces. He recognized them straight away. The two monks. From having looked rather sinister with their hoods pulled up, they now looked like the same apparently timid fools who had been in the bar a couple of days before.

‘What the fuck do you two want?’ Sanchez asked belligerently. It was bound to be more trouble, he thought to himself, sighing wearily.

‘The same thing as everyone else round here seems to want,’ replied the one at the front (which happened to be Kyle). ‘We want to get our hands on the Eye of the Moon. We want to do that, because it is rightfully ours.’

‘Oh, fuck off, will you? I’m not in the fuckin’ mood.’ Sanchez wanted them to know he was irritated by their presence. These two clowns had created a helluva mess on their last visit, and in the light of that he had hoped they would have had the good grace to stay away from the Tapioca. His unwelcoming attitude towards them was wasted, however. The two monks were entirely oblivious to it.

‘We’ve been in here most of the day,’ said Kyle. ‘We’ve been listening to what goes on. El Santino offered you fifty thousand of your dollars if you found the stone for him. We will give you a hundred thousand if you can just tell us who has the stone. You don’t need to get it for us. We can do that ourselves. You just point us in the right direction. Once we have the stone one hundred thousand dollars is yours. Now, I would be very surprised if you were to receive a better offer than that.’

Kyle had put forward a very good offer, it had to be said. So Sanchez said it.

‘That’s a very good offer,’ he replied.

‘I know. So do we have a deal? Or not?’

Sanchez rubbed his chin for a while as though mulling the offer over, which he quite clearly wasn’t. This was a great deal. A no-lose situation. The monks were holy men, and that meant they were probably men of their word, too. If he could get his hands on the stone he could sell it to them for a hundred grand, then tell Jefe and El Santino that the monks had it and collect a few thousand more from each of them.

‘Okay. It’s a deal,’ he said at last. ‘I find out who’s got the stone and send ’em your way. You give me a hundred grand and everyone’s happy, right?’

‘That’s right,’ said Kyle. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

‘Sure thing.’

Sanchez was surprised that shaking hands was a custom the monks were familiar with. Maybe they had picked up a few things about local culture? Or maybe they were planning on throwing a few of their karate moves on him as soon as he offered his hand? Either way, for a hundred grand he was only too happy to shake hands with the pair of them. It was a risk worth taking, so he shook hands with them and discovered to his faint disgust that both had very limp handshakes, suggesting that it was a custom they had seen but had never taken part in before.

‘We will be in touch again very soon,’ said Kyle, with a nod of his head. ‘Please make sure you have some good news for us.’

With that, both monks turned and headed for the exit. Sanchez was intrigued by the change in their manner since their previous visit. On this occasion they had seemed much more composed and far more confident, and they had demonstrated at least some signs of trying to fit in.

‘Hey, monks,’ he called out after them. ‘One question. You have a car, by any chance?’

Kyle stopped, causing Peto to walk into the back of him, slightly ruining their cool. He didn’t look back at Sanchez, but answered him anyway.

‘No. We don’t have a car. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. Carry on. I’ll see you guys later.’

Twenty-Three

When Jensen arrived in the office at 10 a.m., Somers was where he always was, sitting behind his desk. He was doing what he always seemed to be doing, looking at Polaroids of dead bodies.

‘I swear this town is full of liars and scumbags,’ Jensen complained. He took off his brown suede jacket and slung it across the office. It hit the back of his chair and slid down on to the floor. ‘There’s not a single decent person here,’ he continued. ‘I’ve questioned known associates of this Elvis guy all night and not one person has given me a single bit of information that wasn’t obviously a lie. Did you know Elvis died three years ago? He also emigrated to Australia four months ago. And last I heard, he was out of town for the weekend visiting Priscilla. Lying bastards, all of them.’

‘Jensen, the King is dead,’ said Somers.

‘Don’t you fuckin’ start.’

‘I’m not. Elvis was found dead in a shitty bedsit three hours ago.’

‘You’re kidding me!’

‘Nope. He lost his eyes and his tongue just like all the others, apart from Marcus the Weasel who, let’s face it, was probably killed by Elvis anyway.’

‘Are those the photos you’ve got there?’ Jensen asked, eyeing the prints in Somers’s hand.

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I see ‘em?’ Jensen leaned over the desk, reaching out a hand. Somers handed him the set of seven-inch-by-five-inch black-and-white photos.

‘They look just the same as all the others, Jensen. You’re wasting your time.’

‘Dammit, Somers! This guy was our best lead.’

‘Not necessarily … There is another.’

‘What are you, Yoda now?’

Somers took no notice of Jensen’s irritated remark and instead shoved his little notebook in his partner’s direction. The page at which it was open had a few words scribbled on it in pencil. Jensen picked it up and read aloud what was written there: Dante Vittori and Kacy Fellangi. Good-looking young couple.

‘What’s this? You joined a swingers’ club, or somethin’?’ he asked sarcastically. Even though it was still early, his day had already proved so frustrating that he had little or no patience left for games.

‘Dante Vittori,’ Somers said quietly, ‘was the night porter at the Santa Mondega International Hotel. Kacy Fellangi is his girlfriend. She was a chambermaid there.’

‘Right … and?

‘And they both disappeared just after Marcus the Weasel was killed. Elvis was found dead in their apartment.’

‘Oh,’ said Jensen, putting the notebook and the set of photos back down on the desk. ‘What does that mean?’

Somers reached over and picked up the little book, which he dropped into the breast pocket of his white shirt.

‘It means that for some reason Elvis went looking for them after he killed Marcus the Weasel.’

‘So they must have seen him kill the Weasel, right?’ Jensen thought out loud. ‘And he had to bump them off because they could identify him?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Then I don’t get it. Why else would he go after them? Or were they working with him?’

‘Nah. Don’t think so. Elvis works alone. He’s a solo artist. The Beatles worked as a group, Elvis was always his own man. No, I think they had something he wanted, and whatever it was, the Bourbon Kid wanted it too. That’s why Elvis is dead. Him and the Kid must have bumped into each other in this couple’s apartment. Only problem being, our friends Dante and Kacy packed up all their stuff long before Elvis or the Kid got there, and left the building. Still owe on the rent, too.’

Jensen walked over to where his jacket was lying on the floor and picked it up. He dusted it off, hung it on the back of his chair, and sat down. He looked at Somers, who was waiting for him to calm down and start piecing together the clues. The older man was obviously some way ahead of him, as he’d had a three-hour start in which to process the details of Elvis’s death.

‘So,’ Jensen sighed. ‘Elvis was hunting around in their apartment looking for somethin’ when our killer …’

‘The Bourbon Kid.’

‘Right. The Bourbon Kid. Now he turns up looking for … let’s say the Eye of the Moon, and he finds Elvis there. And naturally, being a complete psycho …’

‘And possibly a vampire …’

‘He kills Elvis, but then he says “Shit!”?’

‘Really? He actually stops and says “Shit!”?’

‘Yeah, he stops and says “Shit!” because he realizes the King doesn’t have what he’s looking for.’ Jensen paused for a minute, because at this point even he was unsure where his theory was heading. He continued with less certainty, ‘But why would he think these two kids Dante and Kacy have it?’

Somers held up a hand to suggest that Jensen might like to shut up and pay attention.

‘Wanna hear my theory?’

‘Sure.’

‘My theory is this: we know that Marcus the Weasel was an expert thief, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So, let’s suppose Marcus had the Eye of the Moon in his possession. He then gets a taste of his own medicine and is robbed by these two kids, Dante and Kacy. They take the Eye and make tracks. Now – and this is the bit I’m not sure about – maybe these kids can identify Elvis as Marcus’s killer, so Elvis decides to bump them off, just in case. He goes to their apartment, but so too does the Bourbon Kid, who’s looking for the Eye of the Moon. The two of them cross paths. BAM! The King is toast.’

‘You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?’ Jensen remarked, picking up on the excitement in Somers’s voice.

‘Well, let’s face it, whoever killed Elvis is the same person that murdered our other victims, ’cept Marcus. We know that because of the eyes and tongue thing.’

Jensen pondered the theory for a few moments, then said, ‘It’s pretty thin, but I actually kinda like it. You might be on to something there. One thing you haven’t mentioned, though.’

‘What’s that?’ His partner raised an inquiring eyebrow.

‘Now, I know you think the Bourbon Kid is behind this, and you’re probably right, but what if it was the guy Dante who killed Elvis and all the others?’

Somers shook his head vigorously, then leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh.

‘Are you determined not to believe me when I tell you it’s the Bourbon Kid doing almost all these killings? How many times are we going to have to go over this? I mean, will you just trust me?’

‘You’re missing my point,’ said Jensen, this time holding his hand up to signal that Somers should let him finish. ‘I do believe the Bourbon Kid is behind virtually all these murders – leastways, the ones you got Polaroids of.’

‘So what’s your goddam point, then?’

‘My point,’ said Jensen, looking hard at the other man, ‘is that this kid Dante might actually be the Bourbon Kid.’

Twenty-Four

Dante wasn’t keen on fortune tellers. They had a habit of bringing bad news. It seemed like they gave everyone else good news, but when it came to him, he’d always get some sort of warning that bad things were on the horizon. He hadn’t actually visited many fortune tellers in his time, but Kacy felt some sort of affinity with them, so every once in a while he would accompany her on one of her many visits.

The last time they had visited a Tarot-card reader she had told Kacy all kinds of good news, but when Kacy asked her to look into Dante’s future as well, nastiness of various kinds was predicted. The woman foretold the death of Dante’s dog, Hector, which then actually did die no less than three weeks later. He knew that Kacy realized that he was a touch sensitive about being asked to accompany her on a visit to the latest fortune teller she’d found, but after her heroic antics in the Santa Mondega International Hotel when she had robbed the drunken lowlife he figured it was the least he could do. Besides, he wanted to prove that he still didn’t believe in any of this fortune-telling crap. His beloved hound had died, sure, but that was just coincidence.

The House of the Mystic Lady had a kind of familiar look to it, as though Dante had seen it before in a dream. Yet he felt sure he’d never been there before – or not in this life, anyway. It was situated on the promenade down by the harbour. From the outside it looked very like an old gypsy trailer that had been converted into a small house. The roof was low and arched, and the outside was painted red, with yellow borders around the poky little windows. There were steps leading up to the front door that looked as if they could be folded up and packed inside the house if the Mystic Lady ever decided she wanted it towed away.

Kacy led the way up the steps, with Dante straggling along behind her. The front door was already open, but it wasn’t easy to see in because there was a curtain made of strings of multicoloured beads hanging from the top of the doorway right to the floor.

‘Come on in,’ called out a croaky voice from inside. ‘It’s Kacy and Dante, isn’t it?’

Dante raised an eyebrow and whispered in his girlfriend’s ear, ‘How the fuck did she know that?’ Kacy looked at him to see whether he was serious, and shook her head when she realized he was.

‘I phoned and made an appointment, you dummy.’

‘Oh, yeah. Of course.’

The room they entered was very dark, and so narrow that Dante could almost have touched both sides at the same time if he’d stretched his arms out fully. There were candles intermittently spaced at eye level on shelves along the walls on either side. Their light came from an enchanting pink-coloured flame that barely flickered. As their eyes adjusted to the gloom they could see, sitting directly in front of them behind a dark wooden table at the far end of the room, the cloaked figure of the Mystic Lady. Her cloak was a dark purple colour and (as was so often the case with people in Santa Mondega) the hood was pulled up over her head, concealing her face.

‘Please be seated, my young friends,’ she croaked.

‘Thank you,’ said Kacy, sitting down on one of the two wooden chairs situated on their side of the table. Dante took the other, making an effort not to look too interested, in the hope that the old lady would be able to tell he wasn’t going to swallow any of the crap she was about to feed them.

‘You don’t really believe I’m going to be able to tell you anything, do you?’ the rasping voice asked him from somewhere beneath the hood.

‘I’m keeping an open mind.’

‘Good. You do that, son, and – who knows? – you might find out something you didn’t know about yourself, or about Kacy maybe.’

‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’

The woman slowly pulled back her hood to reveal an old, wrinkled face covered liberally in warts and boils. She focused her gaze upon Kacy and smiled, but it was only for a brief moment. The smile was instantly wiped from her face when her eyes fell upon the necklace the girl was wearing.

‘Where did you get that blue stone?’ she demanded. Any warmth had gone from her voice.

‘What?’

‘That necklace around your neck. Tell me, where did you find it?’

‘She didn’t find it,’ Dante butted in. ‘I gave it to her as a present … a few years ago.’

‘Horseshit!’

‘No, seriously.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I’m not stupid, boy. Don’t you be. Where did you get that stone?’

The Mystic Lady’s tone of voice indicated a severe lack of tolerance for lies. This played on Kacy’s mind as she considered whether or not to keep up the pretence that Dante had given her the necklace some years before. She decided there was no point in blatantly lying, but there was also no need to confess to the fact she had stolen it from the hotel room of a drunken slimeball who was now, in all likelihood, the late Mr Slimeball, Deceased.

‘A man in a hotel gave it to me yesterday,’ she said.

The old woman sat back in her chair and looked long and hard at Kacy, studying the girl as if trying to gauge how truthful she was being.

‘It doesn’t really matter where you got it from,’ she said at last. ‘Just get rid of it. That stone will bring you nothing but bad luck.’

‘How do you know that?’ Kacy asked, intrigued to learn what it was the Mystic Lady seemed to think she knew about the stone.

‘Well, tell me this: the man you say gave it to you, did it bring him luck?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Okay, let me put it another way, Kacy. Would you want to swap places with the previous owner of that stone?’

Kacy shook her head.

‘No.’

‘Dead, isn’t he?’

Although it sounded like a question, it also sounded as though the Mystic Lady already knew the answer to it, in the same way that a quiz-show host knows the answer to all the questions asked of contestants about themselves before the quiz gets under way.

‘Not when I last saw him,’ Kacy replied gamely.

‘Everyone who carries that stone gets killed at some time or another. Usually within a very short time of receiving it. In fact, the man from whom you acquired that stone is already dead.’

Much to his irritation, Dante found himself taking an interest in what the fortune teller was saying.

‘How do you know? Where’s your proof?’ he asked aggressively, and with a hint of a sneer.

He wasn’t happy that the Mystic Lady was frightening Kacy. She was just about the most fearless girl he’d ever known, but she believed stuff that she heard from fortune tellers, so this was liable to upset her.

‘Let’s look into my crystal ball, shall we? And I’ll tell you,’ the old woman said by way of reply. She pulled back a black silk cloth that had been covering a spherical object on the dark mahogany table. ‘Cross my palm with a twenty-dollar bill and I shall reveal your destiny.’

What happened to silver? Dante thought, but he reached into his pocket, pulled out a twenty, and threw it on to the table in the Mystic Lady’s general direction. She snapped it up immediately and concealed it somewhere about her person, much like a beggar on the street who’s been handed enough money to buy a bottle of his favourite liquor. Then she sat back, apparently deep in thought. Eventually, when she was quite ready, she began slowly to wave her hands back and forth above the crystal ball.

To the astonishment of both Dante and Kacy, a white cloud began to form just under the surface of the ball. After a few seconds of random hand waving from the Mystic Lady, the cloudiness began to subside, to be replaced by a thin mist. Within the mist Dante could just about make out the image of a man’s face. He leaned in closer to get a better look. It looked very much like the face of the man from whom they had stolen the blue stone.

‘My God, it’s that Jefe guy,’ he mumbled quietly to Kacy, as if he hoped the old woman wouldn’t hear.

‘Are you sure that’s his name?’ asked the Mystic Lady.

Kacy and Dante looked at each other, both of them concerned at the way the fortune teller had asked. Did she know this man by another name? The victim of Kacy’s thieving, it had turned out, had carried two wallets with him. One suggested his name was Jefe, which was the name he had used to check into the hotel, but the other wallet contained ID for a man named Marcus.

‘Actually, his name may have been Marcus,’ said Kacy apologetically, as if she knew what was coming next.

The Mystic Lady leaned down to her right and picked up something from the floor. Dante tensed, staying alert just in case she was reaching for a weapon of some kind. In fact, what she retrieved from the floor was a newspaper. She placed it on the desk in front of them. It was the Daily Scope, and printed on its front page in large letters was the headline ‘MARCUS THE WEASEL SLAIN’.

Dante and Kacy both scanned the article beneath the headline. There was a photograph of the man they had stolen the blue stone from. The photo was quite old, but it was definitely of him. It showed him grinning inanely and looking more than a little bleary-eyed, so it had probably been taken on a drunken evening – which in Marcus the Weasel’s case was every evening. There was not a great deal of information in the article about how exactly he had met his Maker, but there was enough to suggest that his end had been particularly unpleasant. Dante thought back to how he had watched the Elvis lookalike kicking the door of the hotel room in. Marcus the Weasel was dead, murdered at the hands of this Elvis guy. And this Elvis guy was a nasty piece of work who might come looking for him and Kacy.

The Mystic Lady covered the crystal ball with the black cloth once more. Then she pulled the twenty-dollar bill back out from wherever she had hidden it and placed it in Kacy’s hand.

‘Take the money back and do yourselves a favour,’ she said quietly. ‘Get rid of that necklace before anyone finds out you ever had it. It has a powerful presence, and it will draw evil towards it wherever it goes. You’re not safe as long as you have it with you. In fact, you’re not really safe if you’ve ever had contact with it. Many, many souls have searched for that stone, and many have perished by it.’

‘What’s so bad about it?’ Kacy asked. There was a note of fear in her voice that Dante had never heard before.

‘There is nothing bad about the stone itself,’ the old woman went on. She sounded very tired now, and somehow disheartened. ‘But it will draw him to it. He will come for you, and he will stop at nothing until he has it.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know who he is, and I don’t want to know. If he thought I knew who he was, he would come for me, too.’

‘It’s not a guy who looks like Elvis, is it?’ asked Dante. This old hag was giving him the creeps.

The Mystic Lady’s face screwed up into a contorted frown. ‘What do you know of him?’ she hissed.

‘Well, we think he may have killed Marcus,’ whispered Kacy.

The old lady leaned forward over the table, keeping her voice low. ‘Don’t you two watch the news?’ she croaked. ‘Elvis is dead.’

‘No,’ laughed Dante. ‘This was just a guy who looked like Elvis.’

The fortune teller shook her head in a condescending manner. ‘Where do you two live?’ she inquired.

‘Why?’ Dante was a little defensive. Kacy, however, was happy to part with a little information.

‘We just moved into a motel yesterday.’

‘Were you in a place called Shamrock before?’

‘Yeah. How’d you know that?’ Dante asked. This Mystic Lady – this fortune teller – was really coming up with the goods, unlike so many of the others Kacy had dragged him to see in the past. The old woman leaned back in her chair again and flashed a toothy smile at him.

‘Because I watch the news and I listen to the radio,’ she said. ‘That’s where they found Elvis’s dead body this morning.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The man you spoke of, who looked like Elvis? Well, he’s dead. Sounds like he tracked you down, but so did someone else. Looks like Elvis was the big loser. His body was found in your old apartment block. Could’ve been you two just as easily.’

Dante wasn’t happy. In fact, he was starting to feel a little light-headed. This latest news had shocked him. Worse, it worried him. A lot. Someone had tracked down and killed Elvis, possibly because of the blue stone in the necklace he and Kacy had acquired. But there was also another possibility. The suitcase that Kacy had stolen from one of the other rooms just after she had robbed Marcus the Weasel. What if someone was looking for that? Getting rid of the stone was a good idea, but getting rid of the suitcase was not an option. It had contained one hundred thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. Dante didn’t know which was the more sought after, the hundred grand or the precious blue stone. Either way, hanging around in Santa Mondega for much longer was not a good idea.

‘Fuck. Come on, Kacy, let’s get outta here. We can pawn that fucking stone before it’s too late.’

‘You got it, baby.’

The Mystic Lady had no need to look into her crystal ball to know that she would never see Dante or Kacy again. The forces of evil had a nasty habit of tracking down all those who had been in contact with the Eye of the Moon, and they would stop at nothing to retrieve it. These two kids would be lucky if they lived to the end of the day.

Twenty-Five

When Kyle and Peto had booked into the Santa Mondega International Hotel they had been highly impressed by the courtesy of the staff. The manager had insisted that a porter should carry their luggage up to their room for them, but even then, and despite the pleasant nature of both the manager and porter, Kyle had made sure he kept a tight grip on the black suitcase they had brought with them. He had assured the manager that it weighed less than a bag of feathers, and contained only a prayer book and a pair of sandals.

One thing that Kyle had stressed to Peto over and over again was the importance of not trusting anyone they met. So although they had both really wanted to trust the hotel staff, they had insisted that no one should touch the suitcase except them. Once the porter had left them in their room they had made a point of hiding it under the bed. As Kyle informed Peto, the last place anyone would look for something valuable was under the bed. Kyle clearly hadn’t watched enough television. If he had, he would have known that this was the worst place to hide anything valuable. Any chambermaid or porter looking to steal from the hotel’s guests would always look under the bed first.

Only now was Kyle beginning to understand fully why Father Taos had overstated his strictures about not trusting anyone, and the necessity for being extremely careful not to let the suitcase out of their sight. Kyle had followed the wise old monk’s lead and overstated the point to Peto. Now, however, and as much as he hated to admit it, on this occasion the novice wasn’t to blame. It had been Kyle’s idea to hide the suitcase under the bed. He had wrongly assumed that locking the door of their hotel room behind them when they set off for the Tapioca would be sufficient. With the result that there was now nothing under the bed. No suitcase, and more importantly, no hundred thousand dollars in used bills that had been inside it. They had been robbed, and they had no idea by whom.

‘Kyle, who would do such a thing?’ asked a visibly upset Peto, checking under the bed for the thousandth time, just in case the suitcase really was there and they had missed it by some freak of chance. Kyle had no idea either.

‘From what I’ve seen of the world outside Hubal, just about anyone could have done this. No one seems to have a conscience, or any idea of what is right and wrong. We are in serious trouble, Peto. This money was all we had to trade with in the outside world. Now we will have to become thieves like everyone else if we are to get the Eye of the Moon back.’

Peto could not believe what he was hearing. Giving up his pointless search, he threw himself down in a chair by the window. Kyle was advocating breaking the code by which they had lived their entire lives. And this was his first suggestion, too. He had come up with no other ideas. This was serious.

‘But that would go against the code,’ he said, horrified. ‘That would contradict everything we have been taught.’

‘Yes, it would,’ Kyle mused. ‘But that, my friend, is probably what happened to all the other monks who ever left Hubal to go on missions. It is why none of them are fit to return and live among us. I think we are now seeing the true sacrifice of being the ones chosen to find the Eye.’

‘There must be another way to get the Eye back without stealing. There must be!’ Peto insisted.

‘Do you really think anyone is going to help get it back to us for free, when they could sell it and get fifty thousand dollars from someone else?’ He ran a hand over his face, briefly rubbing his tired eyes. He went on, ‘No, Peto, we have no choice. We must put aside all we have been taught. We will have to break every one of our sacred vows if we are to get the stone back.’

‘Does that mean we should start drinking, smoking, swearing, gambling and sleeping with fast women?’ Peto asked.

‘You’ve been watching too much of that television, Peto. I don’t think we’ll need to break those particular vows. But lying and stealing, we may just have to commit crimes such as those,’ his brother monk replied.

Kyle was now sitting on the large double bed under which they had hidden the suitcase full of money. He had buried his head in his hands. Breaking the sacred laws of Hubal … this was not what he had intended when he had set out, although he had been aware it might possibly be a job requirement.

‘Well then, surely if we’re going to break one vow and be banished from Hubal for ever, we might as well break them all and be done with it?’ Peto reasoned. ‘Besides, I’ve already shot one scum— person in the face and killed him.’

‘That doesn’t count,’ snapped Kyle. ‘That was an accident.’

For once, Kyle seemed not to be in control of his emotions. Peto had not seen him like this before. The older monk was clearly distraught at having lost all their money, and the thought of breaking even one of the vows he had followed all his life was making him feel even worse. Peto, on the other hand, was quickly coming to terms with the idea of breaking rules. If the truth be known he was actually relishing the opportunity. With that thought, he was immediately up on his feet.

‘Fuck it, Kyle, where’s that minibar?’ he asked defiantly.

‘Whoa! Steady on there, Peto,’ said Kyle, also jumping to his feet. ‘I said we might have to break some vows. You’ve already cursed, but let that be as far as it goes for now, hmmm? If you end up lying and stealing and being banished from Hubal because you were trying to reclaim the Eye of the Moon, then, and only then, can you think about breaking other vows, such as the one forbidding the drinking of alcohol.’

Peto looked crestfallen. He had seen all the drunk men in Sanchez’s bar and had rather fancied trying the whole experience out for himself. He knew in his heart that Kyle would never have let him touch the minibar, but just to be thinking of such a thing made him feel more alive, somehow. Saying ‘Fuck’ had been surprisingly liberating, too.

‘You’re right, Kyle, of course you are. Hear me out, though. If we’re going to get the Eye back from whatever slime— bandit has hold of it at the moment, wouldn’t it benefit us to have an idea of what it’s like to be them? You know, to get inside their heads?’

‘Sure it would, but getting drunk is not at all what I had in mind.’

‘So what do you have in mind?’

‘Let’s stick to our strengths.’ Kyle did at least look as though he was concocting a plan, much to Peto’s relief. ‘Hand-to-hand combat, whether it be mugging somebody or just fighting for money. That has to be our first plan.’

‘Do you seriously think we’ll get back our hundred thousand dollars by mugging someone?’

Kyle put his hands on his hips and looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘No, probably not, but it’s a start,’ he said. ‘We don’t have any money right now, so that might have to be our first option.’

‘And what is our second option?’ Peto asked, the realization that they wouldn’t even be able to pay for their next meal finally dawning on him.

‘We don’t have one. We shall have to mug some people, then we can take whatever money we get from that, and – er – put it to use. I overheard someone in the Tapioca say that there is a travelling fair on the edge of town. As I understand it we can speculate with our money there to accumulate more.’

‘You mean gamble?’ Peto’s eyes lit up.

‘No. That would be breaking a sacred vow. We will speculate with our money in an attempt to accumulate more wealth, not for our benefit, but for the benefit of mankind.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ Peto said, smiling.

‘Good. Now let’s watch some more television for a while and see what else we can learn about the outside world before tomorrow’s eclipse.’

‘Okay. What’s on?’

‘Weekend At Bernie’s.‘

‘Sounds good.’

Twenty-Six

Jensen had been sitting in the office tapping away on his laptop for most of the day with absolutely no success whatsoever. He had access to files and information about the general public that might well have been considered a gross invasion of privacy, had anyone other than a handful of high-grade Government employees known about them. He had been checking through all the data he could find regarding the five murder victims whose deaths he had been sent to investigate, and finally, after what had been a painstaking search that had yielded not so much as a sniff of a lead, he now had something.

And it was good. So very good. But it was also extremely random. That’s what made Jensen so damn good at his job. He would check every single possible avenue of investigation, no matter how unlikely the chances of finding anything. Employment records for the deceased had brought up nothing. Clubs the victims had frequently attended, nothing. Known acquaintances – again, nothing. So what had Jensen found that linked all the five victims?

Somers had been out of the office for much of the morning, chasing up leads and drinking coffee, most likely. When he returned, coffee in hand, he was greeted by the sight of a very smug-looking Miles Jensen sitting in his own chair behind his own desk, no less.

‘You’d better have a damn good reason for sitting there looking so pleased with yourself,’ said Somers, putting the container of coffee down on the desk and pulling up the chair that Jensen usually sat in.

‘Today’s category is horror movies,’ said Jensen, smiling.

‘Copycat or The Ring?’

‘The Ring, obviously.’ Somers answered without a second’s thought. ‘Copycat was that low-grade serial-killer movie where any film buff worth his salt will spot the killer in the opening scene before the credits have finished rolling.’

‘Really?’ Jensen sounded surprised. ‘I don’t remember that bit.’

‘Oh yeah. William McNamara, who was a real up-and-coming actor at the time, was in the opening scene among a whole load of extras. I remember watching it and thinking, why the hell would a guy who’s been the lead in several smaller pictures be sitting with a load of extras unless he’s going to be the surprise killer later on? I was right, too, not that it ruined the film particularly. I believe the director did that.’

‘Well, I’ve gotta say I thought Copycat was a pretty good film with a fair bit that was original, despite what the title might suggest.’

‘You surely don’t think it’s better than The Ring, though? Right?’ questioned Somers.

‘Well, I always thought The Ring was a bit far-fetched, but you know what? About twenty minutes ago I guess I changed my tune.’

Somers tilted his head to one side and began to run a hand through his silver hair, as he often did when thinking. He looked intrigued.

‘Go on. What have you found? Don’t tell me all our victims have watched a videotape and then died within seven days?’

‘Not quite,’ said Jensen, throwing a bunch of papers on to the desk in front of him. Somers reached out and picked them up.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Library records.’

‘Library records?’ He put them back on the desk as though they were hot.

‘Yep. Each of the first five victims has taken out the same book from the City Library. They’re the only five people ever to have taken this book out. So, effectively, everyone who has ever read it is dead.’

Somers didn’t look convinced. ‘What about all the other libraries and bookstores that stock this book?’ he asked. ‘Surely our killer can’t bump off everyone who’s bought their own copy, or borrowed it from another library?’

‘Don’t you want to know what book it is?’ Jensen raised his eyebrows to imply that he was surprised Somers hadn’t already asked.

‘Let me guess. Is it Victoria Beckham’s autobiography?’

‘Nope. That would only make sense if these killings had been suicides.’

‘True,’ smiled Somers. ‘Go on. What book is it?’

Jensen leaned forward and pointed to a line halfway down the top page of the sheaf of papers he had put in front of Somers. His partner picked them up again and took a look at where he was pointing.

‘The Mighty Blues?’

‘No, the one below it,’ said Jensen, pressing his finger down harder on the page.

‘The Highly Embarrassing Goat?’

‘Nope,’ said Jensen pressing his finger even harder. ‘The one above that.’

Somers glanced up. He had an irritated look on his face. Then, as if realization had dawned on him a little later than it should have, he looked back down, his face losing its frown as he did so. He stared at where Jensen was pointing. At first sight it looked as though The Mighty Blues was followed on the list by The Highly Embarrassing Goat, but upon closer inspection there was a blank entry in between, with alongside it the name of an author listed as ‘Anon.’

The Mighty Blues Sam McLeod Anon.

The Highly Embarrassing Goat Richard Stoodley

Life On The Game Ginger Taylor

‘Is that a book with no name?’ he asked.

‘I think so,’ said Jensen. ‘The top sheet you’re holding there is a list of all the books taken out by Kevin Lever. The sheets below list all the books taken out by the other victims. They’ve all borrowed this untitled book by an anonymous author. We need to find that book.’

‘Jensen, you’re a genius.’

‘No, I’m just lucky enough to have access to a shitload of confidential files the existence of which most people would consider to be a blatant breach of human rights.’

Somers tutted quietly under his breath. ‘That may be true, my friend,’ he said, ‘but when used correctly for the greater good, that sort of file can save lives. The person ripping tongues and eyes out of his victims’ heads is the one breaching human rights, don’t you think?’ He thought it sounded a bit sententious, even to him, but it was more or less right.

‘Can’t argue with that.’

Somers flicked through the pages of library listings for the other murder victims. There were records for only five victims, though, a point that he had overlooked when Jensen first mentioned the book. He didn’t want to tread on the other’s success, but he had to ask. ‘So what about Thomas and Audrey Garcia? Or Elvis, for that matter? Did they not rent this book out?’

‘That’s our one problem,’ Jensen admitted. ‘None of those three was a member of the library. They haven’t taken out any books. So our killer must have had a different reason for killing them. We’ve kind of established a motive for killing Elvis anyway, so let’s forget about him.’

Somers shook his head. He – they – had to be certain, so he pressed on. ‘Maybe this is nothing. Maybe it’s just a mistake with the library records. You know, a typo or something. Perhaps there are several books that come up on the system with no title or author. Maybe they …’

Jensen butted in. ‘Nah. I told you. I checked all the records. These are the only five people to have taken out a book with no name, by an anonymous author, from the City Library. It’s too much of a coincidence. Maybe Tom and Audrey knew one of the other victims and saw the book without having borrowed it themselves.’

‘Didn’t you check to see if the victims were linked in other ways, though?’

‘Yeah. Nothing came up, but who knows what I’ll find if I keep digging?’

‘You keep digging then, Jensen. And don’t stop ’til you find our killer. Hey! What is it?’

Jensen had been intermittently tapping away at his laptop at Somers’s desk while talking to the older man, but now he was sitting motionless, staring open-mouthed at his monitor.

‘Somers,’ he said excitedly, ‘I think I may have just done exactly that!’

Somers sat up straight and dropped the library listings on to the table. ‘What is it?’ he asked again. ‘What’ve you found?’

‘You’re not gonna believe this. According to my records, in the time we’ve been talking, someone else has taken out the book with no name. We just got ourselves a lead!’

Somers stood up, unable to contain his excitement. ‘Who? What’s his name?’

Jensen peered closely at the screen on his laptop. ‘It’s a woman. The name is Annabel de Frugyn.’

‘Annabel de Frugyn? What the hell kind of a name is that?’

‘A stupid one, you ask me. Hang on, let me see if I can pull up an address.’

Jensen tapped away on his keyboard frantically. Every time he pressed ‘enter’ and stopped typing for a second he frowned a little more.

‘What is it? Ain’t there no address?’ Somers asked impatiently.

Jensen ignored him and carried on tapping away at the keys for about thirty seconds, tutting and frowning every now and again. At last he spoke. ‘Nothing. I got nothing. This person, this Annabel character, has no address. I don’t believe it: a book with no name, written by an anonymous author, and it’s been lent out to someone with no address. What are the odds?’

Somers shook his head and leaned towards Jensen. He grabbed hold of the edge of the desk tightly with both hands until his fingers went white. He was clearly frustrated.

‘The odds on Annabel de Frugyn staying alive get slimmer every second she has that book in her possession. We’ve got to find her before she gets killed. You do what you can with your bag of tricks to find an address for her. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way and ask around town. Someone must know who Annabel de Frugyn is. Let’s just thank our lucky stars we’re not looking for a John Smith.’

‘You got it,’ said Jensen. ‘First one to find the address wins. Loser’s a pussy and buys the drinks, right?’

Somers was already marching out of the office.

‘I’ll have a coffee. Black, two sugars,’ he growled.

Twenty-Seven

Dante and Kacy would have gone straight to the pawnshop and got rid of the stone if they could, but there was a slight problem. The place had closed down. What to do next? It seemed crazy just to throw the stone away, especially as it was probably pretty valuable.

The best idea Dante could come up with was to take it to a gentleman of his acquaintance who worked at the Santa Mondega Museum of Art and History. Professor Bertram Cromwell was an old friend of Dante’s father and had been kind enough to fix him up with his ill-fated job at the museum. Dante had grown to like Bertram Cromwell during his short time working there, and had felt extremely guilty for letting him down when he’d been dismissed after the unfortunate vase-breaking incident. Cromwell hadn’t held it against him, however, and had been good enough to give the young man a reference when he had applied for the job at the hotel. For this Dante would always be grateful, for it had saved him from heading back home to Ohio with his tail between his legs.

Upon first meeting him, Dante had not been able to help noticing how much Cromwell looked exactly how he had expected a professor to look. He had immaculately combed wavy white hair, thin, narrow glasses that he peered over when he was talking to any of his staff, and about a hundred different suits, expensively hand-made. He was probably in his late fifties, but he had the look and swagger of a man ten years his junior. Being so obviously well educated, he was never less than polite, and he had the knack of being friendly without seeming in the least bit condescending. He was definitely one of those people that Dante wanted to be like if he was rich or clever. At the moment he was poor and cunning, which wasn’t really the same.

The museum was one of the largest buildings in Santa Mondega, taking up an entire block on the main street. It was a large white building, eight storeys high, built in the Federal style. Hanging along the front of the façade were flags from every country in the world. One of the impressive things about the Santa Mondega Museum of Art and History was that it contained something representative of every country in the world, whether a priceless work of art or a simple sea shell.

Dante and Kacy made their way up the three long white concrete steps at the front of the building and then through a set of glass revolving doors that took them into the reception area. Professor Bertram Cromwell was in a large room full of paintings to the left of the reception hall. He was finishing off a guided tour he had been giving to a group of students. There were about fifteen of them, and they were busying themselves by constantly taking photographs rather than listening to anything Cromwell had to say about the paintings they were being shown. Dante recognized that Cromwell was coming towards the end of the tour. He knew how much the Professor hated giving talks to ignorant tourists who declined to listen, but, professional that he was, he would see it through to the end without missing a single piece of educational information. Nevertheless, he would no doubt be looking forward to this tour ending so that his torture at the hands of all the flashing cameras would be over.

When he saw Dante and Kacy standing just inside the museum entrance he gestured for them to take a seat while he finished with the student party. They sat themselves down on a comfortable cream-cushioned sofa by the reception desk. The entrance hall was certainly impressive. It was bigger than the last three apartments Dante and Kacy had rented put together. The ceiling was extraordinarily high, a good thirty feet above the smart wood-block floor, and the air was beautifully fresh thanks to the best air conditioning in Santa Mondega.

From their place on the sofa it was possible to see through a large arched entrance and into the first of the museum’s huge galleries. There were paintings hung on the walls and a number of exhibits of varying sizes spaced out through the middle of the gallery, as well as glass-topped display cases containing smaller items. None of the exhibits looked in the least bit valuable or interesting to either Dante or Kacy, but the former, out of respect for Cromwell, decided to try his best to appreciate what he was looking at. He picked out a painting and stared at it as if he was taking in whatever message it was supposed to impart to its viewers. Sadly, it was a painting of a kind he particularly despised. In Dante’s opinion a good painting was one that looked like a photograph, but this was one of those that looked like a load of different-coloured paint thrown haphazardly on to a canvas. If there was any hidden beauty in it, it was wasted on him.

Eventually the students bustled past and out of the building, leaving Dante free to get up from the sofa to approach Cromwell. Kacy slipped her hand into his and followed on a half-step behind.

‘Hi, Cromwell. How ya doin’?’ Dante inquired cheerily.

‘I’m very well, thank you, Master Vittori. It’s nice to see you, and you too, Miss Fellangi. What can I do for you?’

‘Cromwell, I need you to look at something for us. We’ve kind of stumbled on to something that might be quite valuable, and well, y’know, we were kind of looking to cash in on our good fortune.’

Bertram Cromwell smiled. ‘Have you got it with you?’

‘Yeah, but can we go somewhere private to show it to you?’

‘I’m actually a bit busy, Dante.’

‘Trust me, Prof, you’re really gonna want to see this.’

The Professor raised an eyebrow. He didn’t look convinced that they weren’t wasting his time, but he was too kind and too polite just to send them away without humouring them a little.

‘Well, this must be something special. Please, follow me. We’ll go to my office.’

Dante and Kacy followed Cromwell down a maze of corridors for several minutes, exchanging idle pleasantries with him as they glanced at the many paintings and artefacts on the way. Dante had worked as a janitor at the museum only recently, yet he recognized none of the articles on display. He wasn’t an art lover and he wasn’t in any way interested in historical artefacts, so it was a safe bet he wouldn’t recognize anything on the way back out, either.

Kacy, on the other hand, was looking at everything they passed and taking it all in, not because she was interested in the exhibits, but because she wanted to make sure she could remember the way out. She had only met Bertram Cromwell once before, and she hadn’t yet formed an opinion of him. It therefore made sense to her to be particularly cautious and memorize the route they were taking, on the off chance that she and Dante needed to make a hasty escape. The visit to the Mystic Lady had made her a little paranoid, and increasingly suspicious of everyone she met.

Rightly so.

Twenty-Eight

Cromwell’s office was situated below ground level. It was a very large and spacious room, and certainly one of which any occupant would be proud. Facing the door was a nineteenth-century polished oak desk with a frighteningly large chair covered in black leather set behind it. There were two smaller but no less fashionable leather-covered chairs on the other side of the desk. He beckoned Dante and Kacy to seat themselves in these as he made himself comfortable in the massive chair behind the desk.

Although Dante showed very little interest in the room, Kacy was awestruck by the magnificence of it. Two entire walls were covered from ceiling to floor with thick hardback books set on dozens of oak shelves. This was how she imagined the world’s most exclusive library would look. The other two walls were panelled in a dark shiny wood and adorned with a collection of large paintings. All of the paintings were very dark. There did not appear to be a light colour in any of them. If it hadn’t been for the snug warmth provided by the inner-wall heating, and the light blazing from a magnificent chandelier, it might have been a very scary and intimidating room to be sitting in, she thought.

Cromwell finally made himself comfortable after shifting around for a few seconds, making squeaking noises as his suit rubbed against the chair’s leather covering. He placed his hands together and drummed the fingertips of each hand against each other for a few moments, then smiled at each of them in turn. First at Dante, then at Kacy. Since neither of them seemed to appreciate that his time was fairly valuable, he chose to speak first rather than wait for one of them to initiate any conversation.

‘Right then, Dante, may I see this item you have that is so precious?’

Kacy waited for Dante to give his approval, which he duly did with a nod. She then took the necklace off from around her neck, lifting the blue stone out from under her top to reveal it for the first time. Cromwell held out his hand across the desk and she dropped the necklace into his grasp. For a few seconds he remained motionless, merely staring at what she had placed in his outstretched hand. From the expression on his face it seemed as though he knew something about what he was holding. His eyes lit up, and for a moment his face had the look of an excited child at Christmas. Eventually, having stared at it for long enough to make it obvious that he was impressed by it, he drew it close to his face and took a long hard look at it.

‘What do you think?’ Kacy asked him.

Cromwell ignored her and pulled open a drawer in the desk with his left hand. He fumbled around in the drawer, obviously trying to locate something, but at no point did his gaze shift from the stone. After a few seconds of bustling around in the drawer he pulled out a very small magnifying glass and held it up to his eye. For the next thirty seconds he studied the stone from every possible angle, holding it under the glass in his right hand.

‘Well?’ asked Kacy, now a little embarrassed that he hadn’t answered her first question.

Cromwell put the necklace and the magnifying glass down on the desk and took a deep breath through his nose.

‘It’s precious, all right,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

‘How much do you think it’s worth?’ asked Dante. The Professor’s slightly strange behaviour had raised his hopes.

Cromwell swivelled his chair to the left and stood up. He then stepped out from behind the desk and walked over to the book-covered wall on his left. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books on one of the shelves just below eye level. After touching eight or nine books, his hand stopped on a thick hardback volume with a black binding. He pulled it out and returned to his chair, gently placing the book down on the desk.

‘That blue stone could just be the most valuable stone in the world,’ he said, looking at Dante then Kacy to see if they understood the significance of what he was saying.

‘Great,’ said Dante. ‘Where can we sell it?’

Cromwell let out a deep sigh. ‘I’m not sure you can,’ he said gently.

Dante couldn’t prevent himself from voicing his severe disappointment loud. ‘Huh! Typical. Why not?’

‘Let me just check this book. There’s something about that stone in here that you really should read before you decide what you wish to do with it.’

‘Okay.’

Dante and Kacy exchanged excited looks while Cromwell flicked through the pages of the book. Kacy grabbed Dante’s hand and clenched it tightly to help keep her excitement in check.

‘What’s that book called?’ she asked Cromwell.

‘It’s The Book of Lunar Mythology.’

‘Oh. Right.’ This answer meant nothing to Kacy, and made her wish she hadn’t asked. She wasn’t alone. Dante had no idea what lunar mythology was, either.

After about a minute of flicking pages and scanning text, and a good deal of ‘umming’ and ‘aahing’, Cromwell finally located the page he had been looking for and started to read to himself. From where he was sitting, Dante could see a colour illustration on the page of a blue stone not dissimilar to the one they had handed to Cromwell. The stone in the picture was not held on a silver chain like the one Kacy had been wearing, but it still looked very like the one now sitting on the desk in front of him.

After reading for a minute or two Cromwell looked up at his visitors and turned the book around to face them. They both looked at the two pages in front of them, expecting to see something thrilling jump out at them, such as a sum of money indicating how much the stone was worth. They saw nothing of the sort, so were soon reduced to looking back up at Cromwell, silently waiting for him to explain what they should be seeing.

‘Young lady, that blue stone you have been wearing around your neck is known to historians as the Eye of the Moon.’

‘Wow!’

Kacy was impressed. The Eye of the Moon seemed quite a glamorous title, and she had never been so fortunate as to own a piece of jewellery that had its own unique name.

‘So how much is it worth?’ asked Dante again.

‘That, young Dante, is not a question you should be asking me. It is a question you should be asking yourself’, Cromwell warned. He continued sombrely, ‘Is that stone worth risking your life for?’

‘Oh God, not you as well?’ said Dante, thinking back to the gloom-monger that was the Mystic Lady. For some reason Cromwell didn’t pick up on this and carried on speaking regardless.

‘The Eye of the Moon has no book value, Dante. Its value is in the eye of the beholder. There are people who will stop at nothing to get their hands on that stone. And it is not for financial gain that they want it, either.’

‘So why do they want it?’

‘Is it because it’s so pretty?’ Kacy chipped in. This time Cromwell chose to answer her.

‘No. It is pretty, I’ll give you that, but the reason it is so valuable is because, according to legend, and indeed this book, the Eye of the Moon is a stone with incredible power. A kind of magical stone, if you will.’

‘Say again?’ said Dante, now very confused.

He knew Bertram Cromwell well enough to know that he wasn’t a fool. He was a man of intelligence, and not one to talk nonsense. If he said the stone had some sort of magical power there was every reason to believe he might be telling the truth, no matter how absurd that truth might seem.

‘There are,’ the older man went on, ‘a number of differing stories about what the Eye of the Moon is capable of. Some say that any man who wears it – on a chain around his neck, say – or even carries it, becomes immortal.’

‘Immortal? As in … can’t be killed? Lives for ever?’ gasped Kacy.

‘Yes, but there are also others who say that it steals the soul of whoever wears it.’

Dante smiled.

‘People believe that shit?’

‘Oh, certainly.’

‘You believe that shit, Bertie?’

‘I reserve judgement.’

‘So what should we do with it?’

‘Well,’ said the professor, standing up again. ‘You could always test the theory that it has healing powers.’

Dante was intrigued. ‘What do you mean?’

Bertram Cromwell picked the necklace up from the desk and tossed it to Dante, who caught it in both hands.

‘Put the necklace on and I’ll cut your arm a little, just enough to draw blood. If the stone has these powers, then the wound should heal up and you’ll feel no pain.’

Dante glanced sideways to check Kacy’s opinion of this idea. She looked keen for him to try it out, so reluctantly (because he didn’t believe in witchcraft and all that nonsense; he didn’t believe in pain, either) he slipped the necklace over his head and let it fall around his neck. Then he rolled up the shirt sleeve on his right arm and held it out. Cromwell took hold of his arm with his left hand, and with his right pulled a flick-knife from the inside pocket of his jacket. He flicked the blade out and held it up in front of Dante, who was, frankly, extremely surprised to find a professor who walked around with a flick-knife about his person.

‘Okay,’ said Dante staring hard at the sharp blade in Cromwell’s hand. ‘Do your worst.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cromwell asked.

‘Yeah, go on. Do it quick though, ‘fore I change my mind.’

Bertram Cromwell took a deep breath and then forcibly thrust the point of the knife into the inside of Dante’s forearm. Two things happened almost simultaneously. The blade went in a full two inches, and Dante let out an almighty shriek.

‘OW! … FUCK! … What the fuck? … OW! You fucking bastard! Oh my God you fucking stabbed me! SHIT! You – you cunt!’

‘Does it hurt?’ Kacy asked. Not one of her brighter remarks.

‘OF COURSE IT FUCKING HURTS! I’VE BEEN FUCKING STABBED!’

Dante was holding his arm, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood, which was impressive. Cromwell had picked a soft paper tissue from his pocket and was wiping clean the blade of his knife.

‘Can you feel the wound beginning to heal yet, Dante?’ he asked calmly.

‘Are you shitting me? You nearly cut my fucking arm off. Of course it’s not fucking healing. This will take fucking weeks to heal. I could need stitches. For Chrissakes, man, what the fuck were you thinking? I thought you were just going to scratch me, not cut my fucking arm off, for fuck’s sake!’

‘I’m sorry Dante. I just wanted to make sure it was a significant enough cut to be certain we could tell whether the stone worked or not.’

‘It fucking worked all right, if the aim was to scar me for fucking life!’

Cromwell pulled a clean white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to Kacy.

‘Here, Kacy. Wrap Dante’s wound up tightly with this. It’ll stem the flow of blood.’

Kacy took the handkerchief and grabbed hold of Dante’s arm. She wrapped it around the wound and tied the ends in a tight knot. ‘How’s that, baby?’ she asked.

Dante’s expression changed from one of severe pain and outrage to one of surprise.

‘Whoa, hold on a minute. I think the wound has healed,’ he exclaimed.

‘Really?’ asked Cromwell, clearly excited.

‘No, you fucking moron! Of course it hasn’t healed! You stabbed me in the arm, remember? Jeezus, and you’re a professor!’ With his good arm he took off the necklace and handed it to Kacy. ‘Here, take this piece of shit and smack him round the head with it, will you?’

‘Dante, I’m sorry, really I am,’ said Cromwell, sitting back down behind his desk. ‘Look, I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll get you your old job back, if you want.’

Dante was calming down. In fact, he was actually beginning to feel slightly guilty for having sworn at the Professor, particularly the part where he’d called him a cunt.

‘Oh, forget about it Prof,’ he said graciously. ‘I’ll live. I’ve suffered worse than this before,’ he shrugged.

‘Nevertheless, Dante, if there’s anything I can do …’

‘Sure there is,’ said Dante. ‘Just tell me where I can sell this goddam necklace for the most money.’

Cromwell shook his head.

‘Don’t sell it, Dante. Just get rid of it, my friend. It will bring you even more pain and suffering if you keep it.’

‘Can’t be any worse than what I’ve just been through, can it?’

‘Actually, yes it can,’ said Cromwell, his voice grave. ‘There’s something else.’

‘What?’ Dante asked, squeezing his arm and still wincing with pain.

‘There is a solar eclipse tomorrow, at midday. Do not have that stone with you when it happens.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would be bad. That stone belongs to the monks of Hubal. They will be looking for it, and they will stop at nothing – nothing – to return it to its rightful place. Your life expectancy gets shorter and shorter with every second you keep that stone.’

‘That so? Why’s it so important to these monk guys?’

‘Because, my friend, ridiculous though it may seem to you and me, the monks believe that this small blue stone controls the movement of the moon. If it falls into the wrong hands, it could be used to stop the moon from orbiting the earth.’

‘Is that bad?’ asked Kacy. She knew it was a stupid thing to say, but the Professor, even the museum itself, made her nervous. When Kacy was nervous she babbled, and when she babbled she said stupid things. That’s why she loved to be with Dante. He was stupid, but it didn’t bother him because he was confident. She on the other hand was clever, but often came across as dumb because, although she was physically brave, she couldn’t control her nerves around important people and in unfamiliar surroundings, especially those as impressive as the museum.

Fortunately, Cromwell didn’t judge people on their intelligence, for the simple reason that most people appeared stupid in comparison with him. So he answered Kacy’s question without the slightest hint of self-importance.

‘Yes, it is bad. For a start, the moon controls the tides, but more importantly, and far more significant at the present time, is the fact that a total solar eclipse takes place at noon tomorrow. Now if the rumours are true, and the holder of that stone can control the orbit of the moon, then what do you suppose such a person might be planning for tomorrow?’

Dante didn’t want to look stupid, but he really didn’t know the answer to the question. It was probably obvious to most people, but he had no idea, and it didn’t look as though Kacy knew, either. In consequence, after a few seconds’ silence Cromwell answered his own question.

‘If the holder of the stone utilizes its power during an eclipse there is every possibility that he or she could be seeking to make the eclipse permanent. Although I won’t bore you with all the technical details of how this might be brought about, I can assure you that there is a very good chance that the holder of the stone could keep the moon permanently aligned with the sun, in order to block the light out of Santa Mondega. In other words, the city would be in total darkness for all three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. And that, my friends, is not a great way to attract sunseekers. Indeed, all it would attract is weirdos.’

‘Fuck.’ Dante blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

‘That’s not quite how I’d put it.’

‘Who would want that to happen, though? You said people would want to get hold of the stone, but surely none of them would want to block out the sun. That would be stupid,’ Dante reasoned. He couldn’t think of a single benefit to anyone through doing something so irrational, other than maybe for money.

‘I quite agree, my friend, but again according to legend, there really are people who would want that to happen.’

‘Like who?’

‘I don’t know. Devil worshippers, maybe? People who are allergic to the sun, or worried about skin cancer? Your guess is as good as mine, frankly. But the fact is, Dante, that the Eye of the Moon has turned up in Santa Mondega just before a solar eclipse is due here, and consequently you have to wonder whether somebody brought it here with that in mind.’

Kacy felt the paranoia growing inside her like a malignant tumour. Devil worshippers? There were three things she knew about Devil worshippers:

One – They worshipped the Devil. Obviously.

Two – They were the sort of people who enjoyed sacrificing other human beings. Probably.

Three – When they weren’t dressed up and carrying out satanic rituals, they looked just like anyone else.

Twenty-Nine

It wasn’t even midday yet, and already the Tapioca was packed with strangers. Normally Sanchez would have been going nuts by now, but he afforded a certain degree of tolerance towards this particular occasion. The city’s great Lunar Festival was now in full swing, and that always brought a number of tourists in from out of town.

There was another reason for his toleration this time. He had been checking each and every one of his customers to see whether any of them was wearing a necklace bearing a blue stone around their neck. None of them was, not in the Tapioca, but Sanchez was heading out for the day, so he would get an opportunity to check out a whole load more people.

The Lunar Festival was only ever held when there was an eclipse. It would have been an infrequent event had it been held anywhere else in the world, but Santa Mondega, the lost city, underwent a total solar eclipse every five years. No one actually knew why this was, but all the locals were glad of it because when the festival was on, there was nowhere in the world they would rather be. The celebration had long been a part of Santa Mondega’s culture, for it dated back centuries, almost to the days when a handful of Spanish adventurers had established the original settlement on the site where the city now stood.

Sanchez’s favourite thing about it was the fancy dress. Everyone in town made a real effort to dress up, which made for a great atmosphere, lively and good-humoured. With everyone in a happy and friendly mood – despite the consumption of heroic quantities of alcohol – there was a lot less chance of fights breaking out, which made his job a little easier, and the Tapioca’s customers, furniture and fittings a little safer.

The fairground was his other favourite attraction. A travelling fair had arrived in town a while back, as it did for every Lunar Festival, and had been in full swing for almost a week now. With only a day left before the eclipse, Sanchez had finally found the time to pay it a visit.

Leaving Mukka in charge of the Tapioca and the strangers who were filling it, he headed off to the fair on his own. His main reason for going was to gamble. There were all kinds of ways of investing your hard-earned cash at the fair. Sanchez had heard that there was a casino in one of the tents, and a miniature racing track for rats in another. Best of all, though, were the rumours he’d heard of a prize-fighting ring. One that had been packed out every day. It was one of those rings where any old joe from the street could challenge the fairground boxer to a fight, the aim generally being for the challenger to last three rounds without being knocked out.

There were giant brightly coloured tents and lavishly decorated stalls all around the fairground, and all of them were packed with wide-eyed tourists. The whole area seethed with humanity as people made their way from one attraction to another, to the accompaniment of several different tunes blaring from pole-mounted speakers. Sanchez cared not at all for such lesser diversions. There was only one tent he was interested in, and that was the boxing tent. The busiest tent of all. It seemed as though half the population of Santa Mondega had exactly the same idea as him: get to the boxing, and get there early. It was easy to find because lined up outside it in neat rows were hundreds of motorcycles, a sure sign that the Hell’s Angels were in town.

It took him a good twenty minutes to get into the giant tent. Inside, the hordes of people moving back and forth made it difficult, if not hazardous, to get anywhere close to the ring itself. The organizers were obviously aware of the potential for overcrowding, so the ring was set high up on a platform, ensuring everyone a reasonably good view.

There was nothing of the Queensberry Rules about the fights here. This was bare-knuckle boxing, and while biting and gouging were not actively encouraged, pretty much anything else went, including the use of feet, elbows, and the edge of the hand.

When Sanchez finally got in, there was already a fight under way. A total mismatch, too. One guy was almost twice the size of the other. The larger boxer was a huge shaven-headed thug covered from head to toe in tattoos. His smaller opponent looked very much like a family man who was only in the ring because it represented his best chance of earning any decent money to pay for food for his wife and kids. A look at this guy suggested the fight had been going on for some time. He was a bloodied mess. One of his eyes was literally hanging out of its socket, and he was staggering around the ring holding on to his left shoulder, as if he had dislocated it and was trying to manoeuvre it back into place. In contrast, the shaven-headed boxer was as fresh as the cut above his opponent’s good eye, from which blood was spurting in all directions. It came as no surprise to Sanchez that within seconds of getting his first sight of the fight it was all over. The smaller man was soon being carried out of the ring and taken out back for some fresh air and potentially life-saving medical treatment.

Once the fight had ended some of the crowd dispersed and Sanchez was able to get a better view of the proceedings. An announcer wearing a top hat and tail coat had made his way into the ring and was holding a microphone close to his mouth, into which he was shouting something which, amid the hubbub in the tent, Sanchez was unable to make out. Someone obviously could hear what he was saying, however, because before a minute had passed another volunteer had entered the ring, to huge cheers. At least this guy looked like a better proposition than the last. The big shaven-headed fighter, who, it seemed, was known as something that sounded very much like ‘Hammerhead’, had stayed in the ring. It didn’t take a genius to work out that he was the professional boxer who fought all comers on behalf of the owners.

The deal was that the challenger had to last three rounds, each of three minutes, with Hammerhead, without being knocked out or otherwise forced to throw in the towel. It cost fifty dollars to enter, but if he could last the three rounds he would get a hundred dollars back. If, by some miraculous chance, he knocked out Hammerhead within the three rounds, he would walk away with a thousand dollars. This was reason enough for any number of drunken idiots to try their luck. In fact, it was reason for plenty of idiots who weren’t even drunk to fancy their chances against Hammerhead.

The challenger who entered the ring was a fairly average-looking white man. Hammerhead must have outweighed him by at least forty pounds, so the guy was probably looking only to survive the three rounds rather than go for the knockout. Sanchez was only too happy to wager twenty dollars of his own money on Hammerhead winning in the first round. A bookie in the audience gave him a reasonable price that would see him more than double his money if he won. But Sanchez should have known better.

Annoyingly, the challenger danced around for the first two rounds, occasionally jabbing a little at his larger opponent. For his part, Hammerhead swung and missed wildly (and probably intentionally). Then, about a minute into the final round, he suddenly awoke from his lethargic start and with three rapid punches – BANG-BANG-BANG – the fight was over. That’s how these fights went. Sanchez knew it, everyone else there knew it, yet still it was the bookies who would be laughing after every fight. Bastards.

What Sanchez needed was some inside information. He needed to know what the bookies knew or, better still, something they didn’t know. And then, while he was still cursing his luck, he spotted the golden opportunity he was looking for. At the back of the big tent, and studying the fights with great interest, were the two Hubal monks, Kyle and Peto. Despite their odd outfits, they no longer stood out like tits on a trout. In fact, they were beginning to look like they fitted in around Santa Mondega. Sanchez watched them for a minute. They were whispering to each other a good deal, nodding in agreement at whatever it was they were whispering about. A bet, perhaps? Or better still, maybe they were planning for one of them to take on the pro? These guys could really kick ass. Sanchez knew it, but the bookies almost certainly didn’t. Since he had nothing to lose, he made his way over to them. They recognized him instantly, and looked very surprised to see him coming towards them.

‘Hey, you guys, how’s it goin’? Imagine seein’ you again so soon,’ Sanchez said jovially, as if he and they had always been buddies.

‘Sanchez the bartender,’ Kyle said rather formally. ‘Nice to see you.’ Peto, nodding in agreement, half smiled.

‘Why don’t one of you two get up and fight this guy? You could beat him real easy. I seen you fight, remember? You guys kick ass.’

‘We sure do,’ said Peto. Yep, thought Sanchez, they were definitely starting to fit in.

‘Yes, we do,’ Kyle agreed. ‘But it is not in our nature to fight unless it is truly necessary – or unavoidable.’

‘What if I pay your entry fee?’

The two monks looked at each other for a second. They could not believe their luck. Perhaps they would not have to mug anyone after all.

‘Okay,’ Kyle answered.

Sanchez could not believe his luck, either.

Thirty

Chastened, if not actually terrified, after their meeting with Cromwell, Dante and Kacy left the museum and made their way to the fairground with a plan in mind. Like so many others, they headed straight for the boxing tent, although for different reasons than most.

They had been watching the bare-knuckle fighting for just over an hour before they arrived at an obvious conclusion. Hammerhead was the man in whom their money should be invested. He had fought four times and had won each bout comfortably, without showing any signs of fatigue. They had not come here to gamble on him, however. Or not in the sense of wagering money on whether or not he would win a fight, anyhow. They were thinking of gambling their lives on him.

Dante, after their experiences with the Mystic Lady and the Professor, had decided that they needed a bodyguard. If they were going to sell the Eye of the Moon to someone for a large sum of money, they were going to need some backup. Picking out the toughest guy at an open-ring bare-knuckle boxing challenge seemed like the best way to go. Kacy was already convinced that Hammerhead was the man for the job, but Dante had a few nagging doubts. He hankered to see the big slugger fight just once more, because he had a sneaking suspicion that all the fights were rigged.

Nor did Hammerhead’s fifth opponent exactly strike the fear of God into anyone in the tent when he stepped into the ring. He was a fairly small, odd-looking bald fellow, although he was wearing a neat orange wrap-around karate-style tunic and a pair of baggy black pants. After a brief discussion with the referee, during which he was no doubt informed of the – very few – rules of the fight, the little man was introduced to the audience. The ringmaster in top hat and tails seized one of Peto’s wrists, led him to the centre of the ring and bellowed into his mike: ‘Ladies and gentlemen! The challenger for our next bout has come here all the way from an island in the Pacific Ocean. Put your hands together for Peto the Innocent!’ The small fighter’s cornerman, dressed identically and only slightly larger, stood outside the ropes at one corner of the ring, managing to look both apprehensive and miserable at the same time.

The announcement was followed by a loud booing from the crowd, most likely because they were trying to wreck the challenger’s nerves in the hopes of seeing a bloodbath. Peto was barely half the size of Hammerhead, and there didn’t appear to be many people backing him with any serious money.

Dante was shaking his head. No matter how convincing Hammerhead’s victory in this fight, he still wasn’t sure he wanted to place his life in the hands of this tattooed thug. Kacy could sense this, and believed she needed to persuade him otherwise. She wanted to be out of this place sooner rather than later. It wasn’t safe. The only place she felt safe now was in their motel room.

‘Okay, if Hammerhead wins this one, I say we make him an offer,’ she suggested. ‘We can’t wait for ever.’

Reluctantly Dante agreed. ‘Okay. But let me do all the talking.’

‘How much you gonna offer him?’

‘I figure five grand.’

‘Five grand?’

‘You think that’s too much, huh?’ Dante asked, even though he could tell that she obviously did.

‘Well, it’s a helluva lot. But if you think that’s what he’s worth, then I guess I agree with you.’

‘That’s why I love ya, Kace,’ he said, pulling her towards him and planting a kiss full on her lips. It was enough to warm her heart and calm her nerves, all at the same time.

They fought their way through the noisy, sweaty, beer-swilling crowd until they were close to ringside. There was actually more space to move once they were nearer the ring because it was so high up that anyone who was too close would not have been able to see anything. Dante was hoping to sneak a quick word with Hammerhead before the fight started so he made his way over to the near side of the ring.

‘Hey, big guy … YO! SLUGGER!’ he shouted above the noise of the crowd. It was instantly clear that Hammerhead had no chance of hearing him, so instead Dante headed for his corner. Hammerhead’s cornerman was surely his next port of call. He was a fairly big, nasty-looking guy himself, and he had tattoos in places that suggested he could withstand a lot of pain. There were some big tattoos and some small tattoos, all of them somewhat sinister looking. Snakes and knives seemed to be a general theme, interspersed with random words like ‘DEATH’ and ‘CHOSEN’. He also had a lot of facial hair, though not exactly a thick or bushy beard, more a sort of wispy beard that covered as much of the upper part of his face as it did the lower. He was almost a foot taller than the little bald guy who was now squaring up to Hammerhead in the ring – and yet he was only the cornerman.

‘Hey, you! Can I speak with you a second?’ Dante shouted in the man’s ear in an attempt to be heard above the din.

‘No. Get the fuck outta here.’

‘Can I speak with Hammerhead after the fight, then? I’ve got a business proposition for him.’

‘I said get the fuck out. Now scram before I shove your head up your ass!’

Dante really didn’t take kindly to the man’s tone, and if a fight was to be had with the cornerman, then he was ready for it. The knife wound he had received earlier in the day in Cromwell’s office had actually healed rather nicely (not that he was about to admit it to Kacy), so he knew he could swing a few punches if the situation called for it.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ he growled back.

‘Say what?’

‘I said go fuck yourself, you ugly, monkey-faced cunt.’

Kacy was always afraid of something like this. Dante had an unpredictable habit of exhibiting this character trait. Every once in a while he would feel the need to stand his ground when provoked by someone who either outranked him at work, or, as in this instance, outweighed him by fifty pounds.

The big cornerman put down the spit bucket he had been holding and placed his face as far into Dante’s personal space as he could without actually touching him.

‘Say it again, sonny. I dare you.’ His tone was almost pleasant.

There was an uneasy pause while Dante considered his answer. Kacy did him a favour by jumping in and answering for him.

‘How’d you an’ your friend Hammerhead like to earn five thousand bucks for a few hours’ work?’ she said, smiling her widest, beamiest smile.

The cornerman was still staring at Dante, but he had heard Kacy’s offer and seemed to be mulling it over. After not very long at all, he unleashed a big toothy grin.

‘I’ll tell you what, kids, wait ’til this fight is over and then we’ll sit down and talk. Hammerhead’s due a break after this one. We can go out back and discuss your offer.’

‘Thank you,’ said Kacy, still smiling like she had a coathanger wedged sideways in her mouth.

Dante and the cornerman continued to eyeball each other for a few seconds, before Kacy ushered her boyfriend back into the crowd with her.

Seconds later the bell went and the fight started. It was a short fight. Dante and Kacy watched in awe as Hammerhead charged across the ring to get in an early blow before the bell had even finished ringing. The little bald fellow in the orange tunic turned from his corner straight into a sledgehammer blow to the head that nearly knocked him right out of the ring with less than two seconds on the clock. He recovered his composure surprisingly quickly, however, and then, much to the astonishment of most of those watching (including Dante and Kacy, but not Sanchez) the little guy gave Hammerhead a pummelling unlike anything he’d ever known in his life.

First, with unbelievable speed, the little guy directed what looked like a fairly solid punch to Hammerhead’s throat that sent his larger opponent back on his heels, struggling for breath. In a split second this was followed by a flying kick to the side of the face, and before Hammerhead knew what had hit him he was in a headlock, and his windpipe was closed. Lights out, Hammerhead.

The fight was all over in less than thirty seconds. At first the crowd stood silent and stunned for a while, not sure what they had actually seen. Each and every man who had backed Hammerhead to win (and there were plenty of them) badly wanted to believe that the fight was fixed. Any fight where a smaller guy won always looked fixed in a situation like this. Unfortunately, it just didn’t look like it was this time. Hammerhead would never let himself get beaten so easily by a small and embarrassing-looking opponent like ‘Peto the Innocent’. This had to be real.

When it finally dawned on everyone in the audience what had happened, a huge roar went up, a mixture of jeers and cheers. Jeers because just about everyone had lost money, and cheers because it was quite a pleasant change to see an underdog win so convincingly against a bruiser like Hammerhead.

Confused by the uproar, Peto and Kyle stood in the ring while the inert Hammerhead was carried off, to more boos. They guessed that Peto had won himself the position of the fighter to beat. Now everyone in the tent wanted to see him fight again. Question was, who would be his next opponent?

Thirty-One

Sanchez was ecstatic. He’d made a grand out of Peto’s swift annihilation of Hammerhead. All it had cost him was Peto’s entry fee and a fifty-dollar bet of his own at odds of twenty to one on Peto winning. If he’d had the nerve to put money on the monk winning in the first round he’d have had a lot more too. Not that he was too bothered. The monks owed him a favour. He had paid for their entry fee; with luck he could now exploit the gullible fools and get Peto to fight again and win in whatever round he told him to.

He could tell Kyle was grateful when he offered him a fifty-dollar share of his winnings. The monks had picked up a thousand dollars cash in prize money for Peto’s quick demolition of Hammerhead, grudgingly doled out in filthy notes by the ringmaster, but Kyle had happily accepted the extra fifty from Sanchez. They had obviously got a taste for money, and indeed for gambling, Sanchez thought. Men after his own heart. He could see these two weirdos becoming good friends of his. For a short while, at least.

Twenty minutes had passed and Peto had promptly despatched the new club fighter, a fairly average journeyman named Big Neil, who had been brought in to replace Hammerhead. Sanchez, who was now acting as both adviser and manager to the two monks, negotiated with the ringmaster so that Peto could fight on against all comers. Pretty soon, Sanchez, the monks and the ringmaster were picking the round in which Peto was to win. A group of punks looking to make a few bucks for themselves were despatched to place anonymous bets for them, and before they knew it Sanchez and the two Hubal monks were quietly making a killing at the expense of the bookies.

Two hours seemed to pass in a flash as Peto demonstrated his full array of martial-arts techniques. By the time the young monk had defeated his fifth consecutive opponent, Sanchez was up by about twelve thousand dollars. Kyle had started off with a much smaller stake, but when his winnings had been added to the prize money Peto was accumulating they had made just over four thousand. Only another ninety-six thousand dollars to go before they had made all their stolen money back.

The problem they now faced was finding opponents. Most of the crowd had worked out that Peto was choosing when to win his fights; more importantly, they could see that he was winning them all with ease. In his five victories he had only actually been hit by his opponents three times. This meant that even though they were men who thought they were tough enough to land a hard punch, they had no stomach for wasting their chances against a man they couldn’t hit. But then, just when it seemed that no new challengers were going to come forward, one appeared. And he appeared in the most dramatic way imaginable.

As Sanchez, the monks and the ringmaster stood in the ring discussing the lack of opponents, there came a huge roar of engine noise from the back of the boxing tent. It was loud enough to silence the crowd, and every head turned to see a massive Harley-Davidson cruise through the entrance and into the tent. The crowd parted as the Red Sea had done for Moses and the Israelites. The bike was one of the good old-fashioned choppers, like those Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda had cruised around on in Easy Rider. It was well cared for, too. Its owner obviously loved it because it looked as good as new. The silver paintwork shone and the chromeplate gleamed, as if the machine had just come straight from a showroom, while the great V-twin engine was obviously tuned to perfection, for it purred like a contented cat.

For the locals in the tent, however, the Harley itself was not half as exciting a sight as the man riding it. He was known well in these parts. The ringmaster recognized him at once and was quickly up in the centre of the ring, whipping the crowd up into a frenzy. There was plenty more money to be made, the day was still young, and the giant of a man riding the chopped Harley-Davidson was, quite literally, throwing his hat into the ring. A huge brown Stetson flew over the crowd and landed by the feet of the ringmaster, who picked it up and put it on in place of his top hat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he howled into his mike, ‘will you please welcome the man we’ve all been waiting to see. The greatest living bare-knuckle fighter, the greatest the world has ever seen … The one … The only … Rodeeeeooooooo Rexxxxx!’

To say the crowd went crazy would have been an understatement. Kyle and Peto weren’t sure what to make of all the fuss, but like everyone else they had been pretty impressed by the man’s entrance. His Harley cruised on up to ringside, its rear wheel flicking up sand and dirt from the ground into the faces of everyone within a five-yard radius, before slowly drawing to a halt. Rodeo Rex revved the engine a few times more for the crowd’s enjoyment, before quickly shutting down and dismounting slowly so that everyone with a camera could get a picture of him.

And he was big. Seriously big. This was the largest man Kyle or Peto had ever laid eyes on. Every inch of him was muscle, his massive frame entirely devoid of fat. He wore a tight black Helloween T-shirt that was probably a couple of sizes too small; in fact, it was so tight that from a distance it looked like a large tattoo. He also wore a black leather glove on his right hand but, oddly, not on his left. His blue denim jeans were ripped at the knees and were tucked tightly into his half-length black boots. Once he was off the bike and on his feet it became clear just how big he actually was. He stood roughly six feet five inches tall with shoulder-length shaggy brown hair held in by a black headband that crossed his forehead. He looked as though he could have been a professional wrestler on TV, only he was too scary-looking even to be one of the bad guys. Kids wouldn’t just be frightened of him, they’d have nightmares about him. Every night. In fact, even grown men might quite possibly have nightmares about this guy.

There was only one reason for Rodeo Rex to be in the boxing tent, and that had been evident from the outset. He jumped straight up into the ring, swinging his great frame over the ropes, and bounded over to the ringmaster, embracing him like a brother. He then grabbed hold of the microphone and greeted his audience.

‘You all come here to see me kick some ass?’ he boomed.

‘YEAH!’ screamed back the crowd.

‘Then in the immortal words of the great Marvin Gaye … Let’s get it on! … Oh baby, let’s get it on!’ he bellowed, waving his arms in the air.

The bookies were almost crushed under the stampede that followed. People clustered round them, shouting and holding twenty-dollar bills out to them. Not so many people were betting on Peto this time, and the bookies were offering all kinds of different odds.

Sanchez had seen Rodeo Rex fight before and although he thought Peto was absolutely mustard, he fancied Rex to win. Kyle could see this in the excited-kid look on the bartender’s face.

‘Is this man some sort of idol?’ the monk asked Sanchez who was grinning like a lovesick schoolgirl.

‘Nah,’ said Sanchez. ‘This guy’s the real thing. This guy’s a fuckin’ legend. I ain’t never seen him lose. An’ I tell you something else: I never will.’

‘How many times have you seen him fight?’

‘Fuckin’ hundreds, man. Back your friend Peto to lose. This guy could really hurt him.’

Peto overheard Sanchez talking to Kyle and came over to join in the conversation.

‘I’ll beat this person easily, Sanchez. Have you not been watching me fight? None of these men is a match for me. They’re all drunk or unfit, or both, and they lack the self-belief required to beat me.’

Sanchez knew Peto was good, but he didn’t like the young monk’s chances at all against the giant bare-knuckle fighter. And besides, Sanchez loved Rodeo Rex – he was his hero. He liked Peto, too, but if the young monk beat Rex then it would shatter the invincible image that the great man had built up in Santa Mondega over the years.

‘You won’t beat this guy. You’re good, kid, but he’s the best. Do yourself a favour, back yourself to lose in the first round and then go down the first time he hits you … An’ stay down. You got me?’

Peto and Kyle dropped lightly down from the ring and walked away from the crowd, who were all straining to get closer to Rodeo Rex. They found a quiet spot just beneath their corner of the ring. Looking down at them, Sanchez could tell from the looks on their faces that they still believed Peto would win. He was right, too. Kyle and Peto saw this as a good opportunity to make a lot of money on the gambling side of things, something they had quickly come to enjoy. They spent a few minutes huddled together, discussing tactics, before Peto finally climbed into the ring and Kyle disappeared into the crowd to find a bookie. He returned after a couple of minutes and joined Peto in the ring.

‘Did you get the bet on?’ the latter asked, as they waited in their corner. Sanchez, worried, climbed down and set off to find one of the eager youths to place a bet for him.

‘You bet I did,’ Kyle winked. ‘And I got pretty good odds, too.’

To their surprise, just before the fight was due to start Rodeo Rex bounded over to their corner to have a word with his opponent. None of Peto’s previous opponents had done anything like this, and as a consequence both were extremely wary of what the big man might want.

‘You two are Hubal monks, right?’ The words that came from Rex’s mouth in a surprisingly civilized tone were completely unexpected.

‘Yes, that is right. How did you know?’ asked Kyle, surprise making him sound unintentionally condescending. This was extraordinary. A man who looked as though he spent most of his time drinking, fighting and generally leading the very opposite of their ascetic lifestyle would not normally have heard of the Hubal monks.

‘Met your kind before. Good fellas. Very good fighters, too. Should be a good match.’

Peto was equally taken aback, especially by how well spoken this giant was. Well spoken and well educated in equal measure, it seemed.

‘Thanks. Um, when did you meet Hubal monks before?’ he inquired politely.

Rex took in a deep breath through his nostrils and then blew it out through his mouth, as if he was blowing smoke rings with fresh air.

‘Years ago now. I kinda guess you’re in town for the same reason they were back then.’

‘What reason is that?’ asked Kyle, intrigued to find out how much Rex actually knew.

‘Eye of the Moon. Been stolen again, I’ll bet. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Maybe,’ said Kyle checking Rex’s expression for any sign that he might be trying to make fools of them. ‘How do you know about the Eye?’ Again, although he hadn’t meant to, he managed to sound condescending.

Rodeo Rex smiled. ‘Let’s just say we’ve got a common interest. How about we get together, go for a drink after the fight? I think maybe we can help each other.’

‘Sure,’ said Peto quickly. ‘We’d like to go for a drink, wouldn’t we, Kyle?’

‘Certainly,’ Kyle agreed. ‘We would be delighted to join you for a drink, Mister Rex.’

‘It’s just Rex. Or Rodeo Rex. Never Mister Rex. Never.’

Then, to loud cheers from the crowd, he bounded back across the ring to his own corner and raised his arms in the air in a pre-celebration ritual of his forthcoming victory.

Thirty-Two

Dante and Kacy had watched the fights with mounting interest since Hammerhead’s defeat. Kacy liked the little bald guy who had destroyed first him and then the five other opponents who had dared to challenge him. Dante wasn’t so keen. He wanted a bodyguard who was going to frighten people off just by his appearance. This wasn’t their man, and besides, something had started to bother Dante.

Actually, a couple of things were bothering him. Firstly, everyone in the boxing tent seemed to know each other in one way or another. Secondly, and far more importantly, it had occurred to him that there was more than one reason why he was beginning to dislike the man they called ‘Peto the Innocent’.

‘Kacy, look at that Peto guy and his friend who looks just like him. What d’you notice about them?’

‘Well, they look like each other,’ said Kacy, teasing him lightly.

‘Goddamit, I can see that. But what else do they look like? I mean, come on, two little bald guys wearin’ orange robes and baggy black pants. Doesn’t that say anythin’ to you?’

‘They’re colour-blind?’

‘No, babe. They’re monks. Look at ‘em. They’re fuckin’ monks. Tough bastard monks, too! I say we get the fuck out of here. These guys could be here to kill us. That nutty old lady said to get rid of that stone before we got ourselves killed. And so did Bertie Cromwell.’ The realization that, for once, Dante had been quicker than she to take caution set alarm bells ringing in Kacy’s head.

‘My God, you’re right,’ she paused for a moment in thought. ‘Unless maybe we can sell the necklace to them?’

‘No chance,’ said Dante, shaking his head. ‘The Prof seemed to think we could get a fair few thousand for it. You’ve seen how tough these monks are. If we tell them we’ve got it they’ll tear our heads off and take it from us. Let’s just lie low and then try an’ sell the stone at a jewellers or antique store tomorrow. Then we just get the fuck outta town.’

‘But what about getting a bodyguard?’

‘I’m goin’ off the idea. It’s too risky, I reckon. Everyone here seems to be chummy with everyone else. I say we lie low. Don’t reckon no one here can be trusted.’

‘Okay. I trust you, though, Dante. I’ll always trust you. You say let’s go, then let’s go.’

And they went. Right before the fight between Peto and Rodeo Rex was due to start. The paranoia brought on by all they had heard about the Eye of the Moon was really beginning to take effect. Dante was convinced that just about everyone in the boxing tent was surreptitiously watching them. It felt as though everyone knew what they were carrying on them. In his suspicious state of mind everyone seemed to be looking at Kacy to see what it was that she was wearing around her neck. Even though the Eye was concealed beneath her white T-shirt, both of them felt like it was out on show for everyone to see.

Fortunately, it wasn’t. They had already been warned that there were a number of people who would kill them to get their hands on the stone. On their way out of the boxing tent they passed by one such person, a hooded man who would have killed them in a second if he had laid eyes on it.

Thirty-Three

The Santa Mondega City Library was, quite simply, enormous, although why such a shit-hole of a place needed, or deserved, such a resource baffled Miles Jensen. For a start it had three floors but, more impressively, each floor was the size of an athletics track. There were aisle upon aisle of books stacked on shelves all the way up to the thirty-foot high ceilings. Each floor had a pleasant reading area set aside from the book stacks, with free coffee available from a group of extremely friendly waitresses who would be over in a flash if any customer should need a refill.

Jensen had given himself his own personal guided tour of the library. It had taken almost an hour, but as a lover of the written word he had found it no great hardship.

If only there were libraries like this everywhere, he found himself thinking.

Finding an untitled book by an anonymous author was obviously going to be difficult, and the fact that he didn’t even know if it would be in the fiction or non-fiction section wasn’t going to help matters. In some respects, knowing that this Annabel de Frugyn character had already borrowed the book made his job easier. It meant that his only option was to ask at the information desk if they knew what the book was about, rather than go hunting for it himself unaided.

The woman at the reception desk was petite, blonde and in her late twenties. She wore a plain white blouse and an unfashionable pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. Her hair was scraped back tightly into a bun and she wore no makeup, but in Jensen’s opinion she looked like she would scrub up pretty nicely. The old ‘Why, but … but you’re beautiful, Miss Carstairs’ routine, when the heroine takes of her glasses or lets her hair down, came to mind. Supermodel potential in the right hands, in fact. Maybe she knew this and was trying her best to hide it in order not to attract the wrong sort of attention in so august a place as a library. Maybe it was a library rule that she should hide her good looks, or maybe only Jensen could see how pretty she was. Unfortunately, beauty, as they say, is only skin deep, and this woman gave Jensen a frosty stare as he approached her, suggesting she didn’t welcome his presence.

She was sitting behind a teak-coloured desk in a reception area that looked like a bar, only instead of beer and spirits behind her, there were books and computers.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ she asked wearily, as if it was the thousandth time she had uttered the phrase that day. To be fair, it probably was.

‘I’m looking for a book,’ Jensen answered.

‘Have you tried the butcher on the corner of Dunn Street?’

Oh great. A comedian.

‘Yes. They didn’t have the particular book I was looking for, though, so after asking at a carpet store and a joke shop I decided to try the library.’

The lady (who according to the nameplate in front of her was called Ulrika Price) didn’t take too kindly to Jensen’s return of service. Sarcasm was the only form of attack she had against customers who asked stupid questions, so it galled her to have one respond in an equally irritating manner.

‘What’s the name of the book you’re looking for, sir?’

‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. You see it’s …’

‘Author’s name, please?’

‘Well, that’s just it, you see. It’s listed as being by an anonymous author.’

Ulrika Price raised her left eyebrow. She was clearly not amused, and for a few seconds she waited for Jensen to admit that he was joking and give her a sensible answer. He watched her expression change from one of resentment at what she considered to be a bad joke, to one of great disappointment and frustration as it dawned on her that he was deadly serious.

‘Oh God,’ she sighed. ‘Is it fiction or non-fiction?’

Jensen smiled and shrugged. Ms Price closed her eyes and slowly put her head in her hands. This woman looked as though she had had a hard day and it was only now reaching its pinnacle.

‘Can you just check on your computer files? I believe a lady called Annabel de Frugyn currently has the book out.’

Ulrika Price looked up and her face lightened just a little.

‘So you’re not a total wiseguy, then?’ she quipped.

‘Not even a little,’ Jensen said, offering a smile that he hoped would be returned. To his surprise the previously agitated Ms Price grudgingly smiled back. Her eyes even betrayed a hint that she might be warming to Jensen’s calm assurance. This chick’s into me, he thought. Could make things a little easier.

The librarian began tapping away on a keyboard positioned out of view beneath the desktop. She typed without looking at her hands, instead fixing her gaze on a monitor on the counter just to her right. Jensen was unable to see what was coming up on screen, but he hoped she would turn the screen around and reveal the results of her search. Alas, she did not. She obviously hadn’t warmed to him quite that much yet.

‘You’re right,’ she said, sounding unsurprised. ‘Annabel de Frugyn does have a book out at the moment, and it has no title on our records and no named author.’

‘Good, that’s what I thought,’ said Jensen. ‘So can you tell me what that book is? What section it would be in, or what category it would come under. Otherwise, is there anyone who works here that would know anything about it?’

‘Yes, sir, I can. But only if you are a member of this library, and I don’t believe you are. I’ve been working here for ten years. I know almost all the customers, and I’ve never seen you before.’

‘Well, I can assure you I am a member Ms Price, My name is John Creasy, and I borrowed two books only last week.’

The smile disappeared from her face. She tapped away at her keyboard a little more and then began to frown at her screen. If things were going according to plan she would be seeing the library records for John W. Creasy, a fictional character Jensen had entered into the library’s database from his own laptop the night before, just in case he received any resistance such as this. He had borrowed the name from the character played by Denzel Washington in the film Man On Fire. It was one of the aliases that Jensen sometimes used, and he had all the identification to back it up, including a library card.

‘Do you have any identification? And your library card?’ Ms Price asked.

‘I sure do, Ms Price.’

Jensen pulled out a wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer. He extracted a library card and driver’s licence from it and handed them to the librarian, who was now looking disgruntled again. She snatched them away, studied them for less than a second and then dropped them back on the counter.

‘Funny,’ she said. ‘Aside from being black, you look nothing like Denzel Washington.’

Her manner implied that she too had seen Man On Fire and that she knew Jensen was lying about who he was. Even so, he mused, why should a librarian be so suspicious of a man who could prove who he was? Maybe he needed to stop using the name John Creasy. It would be a pity because he rather liked it, but if a librarian could see through his fake identification, then any criminal genius could certainly do so.

‘So what do you know of this book?’ he asked again.

‘Nothing,’ she replied. She had traded her sour look for a smug smile. ‘Except that a lady named Annabel de Frugyn took it out recently.’

‘You said you know almost all the customers, right? Me apart, that is.’

‘Yes.’

‘So can you tell me where Annabel de Frugyn lives?’

‘Her address isn’t listed.’

‘I didn’t ask if it was listed,’ Jensen’s voice suddenly acquired a more authoritative tone. ‘I asked if you knew where she lived.’

‘She’s a gypsy. She doesn’t live anywhere.’

‘And you loan books to someone with no address?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I can.’ She held his gaze, her face expressionless.

Jensen leaned forward and placed both hands on the reception desk. He brought his face close enough to Ulrika Price’s to make it clear that he was trying to intimidate her.

‘Take a guess at where I might find her,’ he said coolly. ‘Her life is in danger. If I don’t find her and she’s murdered, I’m going to hold you responsible.’

‘You’re a cop, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. I am. And it’s your public duty as an upstanding librarian in this shitty town to help me out. Now where can I find Annabel de Frugyn?’

‘She lives in a trailer, but she never stays in the same place two nights running. That’s all I know.’

‘That’s all you know?’ Jensen was sceptical, and it showed.

‘Well, not quite,’ sighed Ms Price. Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘There is something else that you might be interested in.’

‘Go on.’

‘Another man came in asking about her and the book this morning.’

‘What man? What did he look like?’

Ulrika Price suddenly seemed to become distressed. She even shivered slightly. Her cold stare and air of absolute rectitude had evaporated.

‘It was him. The man with no face.’

‘No face? What the f— … What do you mean, no face? Was he wearing a mask, or what?’

‘He never shows his face,’ she answered, very softly. Her voice was trembling and her eyes began to well up. Jensen began to feel slightly guilty for having tried to intimidate her and moved his head back a little to give her more space. ‘It was the hooded man,’ she went on. ‘We’ve not seen him in Santa Mondega since just before the last eclipse. Now he’s been in here twice.’

‘What hooded man? Was it the Bourbon Kid? You’ve heard of the Bourbon Kid, right?’ His excitement was palpable.

‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. Everyone has. But like I said, I never saw this man’s face so I couldn’t tell you if it was him or not. Not that I ever saw … that other man’s face.’

Jensen began to drum his fingers on the counter. This was something he often did when thinking on his feet. The drumming set a tempo that somehow made his mind sharper. It was time to step up the pace of the questioning.

‘Okay, okay. So what did you tell this hooded man?’ he asked, with considerable urgency.

‘I did something a little bit stupid.’ Again the low, soft voice.

‘What do you mean? What did you do?’ Get a goddam move on, he thought to himself.

‘I gave him an address for Annabel de Frugyn.’

‘But you just said she didn’t have an address.’

‘She doesn’t. I gave him the address of a local gang boss. A man named El Santino.’

‘El Santino? I don’t understand. Why would you want to do that?’

‘Because if this hooded man is the Bourbon Kid, then he killed my husband five years ago. I figured if I sent him to El Santino’s house they might get into a fight. El Santino is the only man who could kill the Bourbon Kid. If he did, then I’d have revenge for what he took from me five years ago.’

Jensen stepped back from the desk. This woman really had caught him on the hop. The meddlesome bitch. She had given him some useful information, but now he had to figure out what to do with it all. First thing would be to get hold of Somers and concoct a plan together. He had one last question for Ulrika Price, though.

‘You said this hooded man had been in twice, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened the time before?’

‘It was a couple of weeks ago. It cleared everyone out in a second. Everyone was scared. Only the staff stayed in here. He came up to my desk and asked me to let him use my computer.’

‘And you let him … right?’

‘Well, what else could I do? I was petrified.’

‘So what did he use the computer for?’

‘He was only on it for a minute. He wrote down a list of names and then he was gone.’

‘Did you see the list of names?’

The librarian sniffed, as if the tears that were glistening in the corners of her eyes were close to getting the better of her.

‘No, but when he’d gone I checked what he’d been looking at. He’d been checking out the names of all the people who had read the book without a name.’

This was all starting to make sense to Miles Jensen. The Kid had found the names of all the people who had read the book and set about killing them, although it still didn’t explain the deaths of the Garcias. Or Elvis, come to that. But he now had another question.

‘Ms Price. Did you know a couple name of Thomas and Audrey Garcia?’

Ulrika nodded and sniffed a little more. ‘Yes, Audrey used to come in here sometimes. She never took any books out, but she did read them on the premises. I believe she read the book with no name once a few months ago.’

‘I see. Did you tell the hooded man this?’

‘No, I didn’t tell him anything.’

‘Okay. Thank you, Ms Price,’ said Jensen picking up, the John Creasy ID papers and putting them back in his inside pocket. ‘Listen, my real name is Miles Jensen. Detective Jensen.’ He produced his badge and showed it to her, before continuing, ‘If you should happen to remember anything else you think I should know, no matter how trivial it might seem, you call me at the Santa Mondega Police Headquarters. If I’m not around, ask for a detective name of Archibald Somers.’

Ulrika Price raised her eyebrow again. ‘Archie Somers? Is he back on the force?’

‘Yeah, kind of. You know him?’

‘Of course I do. That man made a total mess of the whole investigation into the Bourbon Kid murders. He’s the reason they never found my husband’s killer.’

‘I’ll find your husband’s killer, Ms Price. Fact is, Archie Somers has been a big help. He knows a lot of the history of this case. Rest assured though, I’m in charge. It won’t get messed up this time.’

Ulrika smiled as if reassured by Jensen’s confidence in his own ability.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘No problem. You take care now, Ms Price.’

Jensen made his way out of the library, deep in thought. While he was walking through the front doors and back on to the street, Ulrika Price was picking up her desk phone and making a call. The phone rang only once before it was answered with the single word ‘Hello.’

‘Hi, it’s Ulrika at the library … Miles Jensen has just been in … Yes, I told him exactly what you told me to tell him … Yes, exactly.’

Thirty-Four

‘Peto! Wake up! Wake up, it’s me, Kyle. Are you okay?’

‘What happened? Oh, my head. Ow!’

Peto could feel his head pounding as if he had been hit by a train. Where the hell was he, though? All he could see was Kyle’s face above him in the middle of a clear white sky. It felt like he’d been laid out on some grass. But why? And how did he get here?

‘You got beaten in the first round, just like we planned,’ said Kyle, grinning down at him. ‘You didn’t do a very good job of making it look real, though. You could at least have hit him a couple of times before going down.’

‘Huh? What?’

‘Come on, Peto. Stop fooling around. You were supposed to be pretending during the fight, not afterwards. No one’s watching now.’

‘Kyle, where am I?’

‘We’re outside, with the doctors.’

Peto twisted his head to the left. An ambulance was parked a few feet away, with a doctor in a white coat and wearing a stethoscope around his neck leaning against the back of it, smiling at him. Peto’s whole body felt like a dead weight and he wasn’t sure he would be able to move if he tried. He could smell the fresh air and he could see he was lying on some thin grass on sandy ground outside a large tent, but the events leading up to how he got there were still a little hazy. Quite a lot hazy, in fact.

‘Is that the tent where the boxing was?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but come on,’ said Kyle impatiently. ‘Snap out of it. We’re meeting that nice Rodeo Rex fellow for a drink any time now.’

‘Nice fellow? He nearly killed me. The man’s a psycho.’

Up to this moment it had simply not dawned on Kyle that his Hubal brother might possibly be seriously hurt.

‘Huh? Weren’t you faking it, then?’

‘Fuck no! Did I look like I was faking it? The guy nearly knocked my fucking head clean off my fucking shoulders. Shit.’ A thought suddenly struck him. ‘Have I still got all my teeth?’

Kyle was willing to overlook the swearing for a moment while Peto regained his composure.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Apparently Rex eased off on the punch to make sure he didn’t knock any teeth out. Nice of him, don’t you think?’

‘Oh yeah, buy the man a drink. Fucking hell, my fucking head. Fuck.’

The swearing amnesty was now over. Kyle had tolerated as much of it as he was prepared to. ‘Can you cut out the swearing, please, Peto? I find it rather unnecessary.’

‘Fine. Let Rodeo Rex hit you in the fucking head. See how you feel, fuckhead.’

Peto sat himself bolt upright and glared at the other monk. The sudden movement made him feel a little light-headed, though and he spent the next few seconds blinking for all he was worth. Kyle, although sympathetic to the beating Peto had just taken, was not impressed by his friend’s aggressive demeanour.

‘Hey, calm down,’ he ordered.

‘I am calm. Do I look calm?’

‘No.’

‘Well, let’s just assume that I am calm. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Kyle helped the novice to his feet and spent a few seconds showing him how to walk again. Once Peto’s head had cleared sufficiently they made their way into a large beer tent not far away. Time for a glass of water.

Thirty-Five

Rodeo Rex was lapping up the attention of the crowd. They loved him, and he loved them for loving him. In all the excitement and action Sanchez had somehow become his corner man. This was probably the greatest honour that had ever been bestowed upon the bartender. He had known Rex for many years, for the fighter often stopped off at the Tapioca for a drink when he was in town. He was only ever in Santa Mondega for a few weeks at a time, but he really livened things up when he was around. He told great stories that usually involved him beating someone up, or in many cases beating up gangs of thugs to win the heart of some beautiful girl.

He had just defeated his fourth straight victim after Peto, and it was beginning to look as though no one else was going to challenge him. Sanchez was standing with one foot on the bottom rope of the ring, trying to reach up with his towel to mop the sweat from Rex’s brow as they waited for the next volunteer.

‘You come to town just for the fights, or are you here on business?’ he asked, realizing that he was now more out of breath than Rex.

‘Business. This is just a quick warm-up for some shit I gotta do later.’

‘Killing anyone I should know about?’

Sanchez didn’t know exactly what Rex did for a living, but it seemed to involve a lot of killing. He was probably a bounty hunter, although from most of his stories it came across that he killed on his own behalf more often than he did for others.

‘Even I don’t know who I’m killin’ yet. Still, that only adds to the fun.’ He paused, then looked at the other man and asked, ‘Anythin’ much happened round here lately I ought to know about?’

Rex was showing no signs of tiredness, despite having fought five bouts inside twenty minutes. He was in good spirits, so it was with great regret that Sanchez recognized he would have to fill him in on some news that was likely to dampen his mood. What Sanchez had to tell him would hit Rex harder than any punch he was likely to be caught with that day. He had to break the news to him that his lifelong friend Elvis wouldn’t be showing his face any time soon. Or ever.

‘Look Rex, ain’t no easy way to say this, but I got bad news. Your buddy Elvis rolled a seven yesterday. They found him in a room in an apartment block. Looks like murder.’

This didn’t so much dampen Rex’s mood, as drown it. His face fell, the smile wiped from it as though by a giant hand. For a second he appeared extremely upset, then there came a brief moment when he looked as though he was waiting for Sanchez to say he’d been kidding. But that moment passed all too quickly.

‘What the fuck? My man Elvis, the King? Dead? How in the fuck did that happen? An’ more to the point, what fuckin’ dead man did it?’

‘No one knows who did it. A guy name of Jefe saw his body in a shitty little apartment down town. Stuck to the ceiling like he’d been crucified. Knives all through him. Through his eye sockets, chest …’

Shit! Sanchez suddenly became aware that he was offering far too much information. Rex might not want to hear the grisly details of the awful fate that had befallen his close friend.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the big man sighed. ‘I get the picture.’ Then he asked, ‘Jefe found him, you say? That’d be Jefe the Mexican bounty hunter, right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Sanchez nodding.

‘You think he did it?’

‘Might have, I guess. He’s a mean sonofabitch.’

If Jefe had been responsible and Rex were to find out, then even the bounty hunter would be smart enough to leave town without a second’s thought. Rex didn’t need a personal reason to kill someone, but if he had one then that person would be certain to suffer beyond belief. Even someone as hard as Jefe.

‘Nobody local would have had the fuckin’ guts to even look at Elvis funny, let alone nail the man to a ceiling,’ Rex snarled, clearly rattled. ‘There anyone else new in town you think might have anything to do with it?’

‘You kiddin’? There’s more strangers in town right now than there’s ever been. Those two monks, for a start. That ain’t all, though. There’s a helluva lot more you probably don’t know about.’

‘So why don’t you tell me?’

Sanchez slung his towel over his left shoulder and leant down to pick up a wet sponge from a bucket of water that was sitting by the bottom rope, close to the corner post. He began to squeeze the sponge against Rex’s bulging chest, which was beginning to sweat copiously as his rage at Elvis’s death built up inside him.

‘Well, Rex, it’s like this. My brother and his wife were murdered in an equally sick fashion. I went to visit them the other morning – found ’em on the floor. Stone dead, ’cept they didn’t have an easy dyin’. I was only a couple of minutes away from seein’ the bastard that did it. All I saw was a yellow Cadillac drivin’ off after I found them. That’s about all the clues I’ve got to work on. Elvis was hunting down the driver of the yellow Caddy for me when he … when he died. I guess that means he found the bastard.’

‘Someone who drives a yellow Cadillac, huh? An’ they killed Thomas and Audrey, too? Fuck, man, looks like I might be in town longer than I planned.’

Despite what he’d just had to tell Rex, Sanchez felt a small buzz of excitement. He was impressed that the other man could remember the names of his brother and his wife. What was more significant, though, was that Rex seemed to want to avenge the death of Thomas, Sanchez’s own brother, for God’s sake! This made him feel that his happiness was actually important to Rex. Obviously, Rex’s principal motivation was to avenge the death of Elvis, who had been his best friend in Santa Mondega, but now it was looking as though he saw Sanchez as a friend too. Not just as a bartender.

Sanchez finished wiping the sweat off Rex and dropped the sponge back into the water bucket. Looking around, he sensed that there wouldn’t be any more volunteers to fight. The crowd had become subdued, and potential challengers were becoming increasingly reluctant to risk being hammered to pulp inside a few minutes. Rex, guessing that he might not have to fight again for a while, grabbed the towel that Sanchez had slung over his shoulder. He used it to dry himself under the armpits and round the back of his neck, as if his adopted cornerman’s efforts had not been up to scratch.

‘Anythin’ else I should know, Sanchez?’

‘Well, actually, yeah. There is. My brother had a girl called Jessica stayin’ in his attic. Hidden. She’d been in a coma for five years, but seems like she came out of it just before he was killed. She turned up in my bar yesterday. She claims she can’t remember anythin’ about what happened, but she thinks she was there.’

‘You sure she didn’t kill Thomas and Audrey?’

Sanchez had considered this possibility, of course, but Jessica just didn’t seem the murdering type. Besides, she didn’t look strong enough to have carried out such a brutal attack.

‘Don’t think so. She don’t look the kind. She’s a real pretty little thing.’

Rex shook his head. ‘Don’t be fooled by appearances, Sanchez,’ he warned. ‘I reckon there weren’t too many people betting on that little bald monk guy when he first stepped into the ring today, but he was pretty handy, wasn’t he? At least, he was ’til I whupped his ass.’

‘Yeah, but I just don’t think she’s the one. There’s somethin’ special about her. I saw her take ’bout a hundred bullets once. That’s why she was in a coma.’

Rex’s eyes opened wide, and he began to look around him to see if anyone in the crowd was close enough to be listening to their conversation.

‘She the one who stood up to the Bourbon Kid?’ he asked softly.

‘Yeah, how’d you know about that?’ Sanchez had also lowered his voice.

‘Everyone knows about that. You say she’s back in town now? And your brother was hiding her all this time? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’

‘Didn’t think you’d be interested. Besides, before she slipped into a coma, she begged me to hide her away and keep her secret because people would want to kill her. ’Course, she doesn’t fuckin’ remember any of that shit now, but I kept my word. I never told no one where I’d hidden her.’

Rex took in a very, very deep breath and shook his head.

‘Fuck, Sanchez, that girl could be the key to everythin’. She’s the only person the Bourbon Kid couldn’t kill. I need to speak with her. She’ll be able to identify whoever it is that killed Elvis and your brother. And I’ve a sneaky suspicion it’ll be our friend the Bourbon Kid. That sonofabitch.’

‘But he’s dead, ain’t he?’

‘Don’t you believe that shit for one minute. I’ll bet my last dollar that bastard is still alive somewhere, and he’s probably about to show his face again real soon.’

Sanchez was growing increasingly concerned at how passionate Rex was becoming about the whole issue. There suddenly seemed to be a lot more to the big man’s plans than just avenging the deaths of Elvis, Thomas and Audrey.

‘Listen, Rex, is there somethin’ I should know?’ the bartender asked nervously. ‘Is something big about to go down? ’Cos if that fuckin’ bourbon-drinkin’ piece of shit is comin’ back, I’m closing my fuckin’ bar, Lunar Festival or no Lunar Festival.’

‘Sanchez, my friend, believe me, you don’t wanna know what I’m doin’ in town … You don’t wanna know. Now I’d better go find those two monks. Me an’ them have got … Muthafucker, I don’t believe it!’

Rex’s gaze suddenly fixed on something over Sanchez’s right shoulder, by the entrance to the tent.

‘What is it?’ Sanchez could see that something had distracted Rex, and whatever it was it had made his gaze harden and his top lip curl. He looked angry, as though he was about to rip someone’s head off.

‘He’s here. That sonofabitch,’ he hissed.

‘Who?’ Rex was still staring over the other’s shoulder.

Sanchez turned to see what Rex was staring at. Over in the far corner of the tent there was a small makeshift coffee bar. It was only about four or five feet long with just the one bartender behind the simple counter. It wasn’t busy simply because it was a coffee bar and no one was drinking coffee, at least no one had been drinking coffee. Right now, however, there was one man drinking the stuff.

Sanchez’s heart nearly stopped. He hadn’t seen the Bourbon Kid in five years, and had slept comfortably in that time only because he had believed him to be dead. Now there he was, sitting on a stool, drinking coffee. He had his hood up over his face, so by rights Sanchez shouldn’t have been able to tell whether it was him or not. But when you’ve seen a man kill a bar full of people in cold blood, you’ll recognize him even if he’s hiding behind a tree a mile away in the dark.

‘Oh my God,’ Sanchez thought out loud. ‘The Bourbon Kid.’

‘What?’ said Rex, turning back to Sanchez. ‘Where?’

‘Well … there!’ he said pointing. ‘That guy you’re staring at. That’s him. That’s the Kid.’

Rex swung the white towel around the back of Sanchez’s neck with one hand and caught the free end with the other. Then he used the loop he’d made to pull Sanchez in closer to him. The easy manner had gone. In its place was naked aggression.

‘Are you fuckin’ pullin’ my pisser, Sanchez? ’Cos if you are, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.’ Gravel, Sanchez thought, almost light-headedly. Lotta gravel in ol’ Rex’s voice.

‘No man, I swear. That’s him. That’s the Kid.’ Sanchez didn’t know which frightened him more, Rex or the hooded man near the entrance.

The pair of them looked back to the coffee bar. They had both been looking at the same man, but his seat was no longer in use. They had only taken their eyes off him for a few seconds, but now he was nowhere to be seen. He had simply vanished into the crowd.

‘You think that guy was the Bourbon Kid?’ Rex asked.

‘I know it was.’

Rex had to take Sanchez’s word for it. He had never knowingly met the Bourbon Kid, had only ever heard the stories about him. But now, amidst all the other things that he had to digest, like the violent death of his friend Elvis, he had to take on board the fact that he had actually met the Bourbon Kid before, only at the time had not known it was him. God dammit, this just couldn’t be possible. Could it?

‘That sonofabitch. Sanchez, you sure it’s definitely him?’

‘’Course I’m sure, fuck it. I saw him wipe out my entire client base five years ago. I’d know that bastard anywhere.’ Sanchez paused for a second, then said, ‘Wait a minute. Who did you think it was?’

Rex turned away and walked slowly to the centre of the ring with his head bowed. The crowd had fallen silent, as if sensing that something was wrong and that Rex would not be fighting again. Many of them even began to back away from ringside, fearing that he was about to go nuts. He wasn’t, of course, but he was about to reveal something to Sanchez that very few people knew. He turned back and faced his trembling cornerman.

‘That guy,’ he said slowly, ‘that man you say is the Bourbon Kid, he’s the guy who gave me this.’ Rex held up his right hand. It was the hand with the black glove on it.

‘Wow,’ said Sanchez, inappropriately. ‘Is that real leather?’

‘Not the glove, you idiot … this.’ With the fingers of his left hand he loosened the glove one finger at a time, before finally whipping it off in one quick movement. Underneath was a hand like no other Sanchez had ever seen. It was not made of flesh and bone like any other man’s hand. Rodeo Rex quite literally had a fist of steel. A fully functional metal hand. One so intricately designed that all the joints worked just as they do in a normal hand.

‘My God,’ Sanchez gawped. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that. Didn’t even know they made things like that yet.’

‘They don’t,’ said Rex. ‘I made it myself after that sonofabitch crushed every bone in my hand. And I’ve been counting down the days until I saw him again, just waiting for the chance to hit him with this.’ He held the metal hand up, now clenched into a fist.

Sanchez was stunned. ‘He beat you in a fight?’ he blurted out. Even the idea was unthinkable.

‘I wouldn’t call it a fight. More a test of strength, but he was lucky. It won’t happen again. You can be sure of that.’

It was an extraordinary revelation. Sanchez had never heard of anyone beating Rex at anything before, or even coming close, for that matter. He recognized, however, that it wouldn’t do to dwell on the subject of the great man’s defeat, so a change of subject was required.

‘So you’re the only person in the world with a hand like that?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, just me and Luke Skywalker.’

Thirty-Six

In all his time with the police force Lieutenant Scraggs had never been summoned to a secret meeting with Captain Rockwell before. He had never even heard of anyone else achieving such an honour, but that was hardly surprising: secret meetings with the Captain should be just that, secret. The note on his desk from Rockwell had simply read: ‘MEET ME IN THE LOCKER ROOM AT 4 P.M. TELL NO ONE.’

And now here he was, sitting in the disused locker room in the basement underneath the headquarters building. There had been a gymnasium down here years earlier, but it had been closed down for reasons that had never been fully explained. Something bad had happened down there once, but it had been hushed up. The Captain almost certainly knew what it was, but there were probably no more than a handful of others who were privy to that kind of information. There were as many secrets within the Santa Mondega police force as there were in the criminal underworld.

Scraggs had waited little more than a minute before he heard the sound of Captain Rockwell coming down the stairs to the locker room. It was 4.01 p.m. The Captain was a minute late, not that Scraggs felt the need to comment on it. He admired Jessie Rockwell, but he was in awe of him, too. And he was most definitely terrified of the man.

Rockwell opened the door quietly and peered round it.

‘You alone?’ he whispered, his glance darting back and forth around the locker room to check for himself.

‘Yes, sir,’ Scraggs whispered back.

‘Nobody knows you’re here?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good.’ The Captain sidled on in and shut the door very quietly behind him like someone trying not to wake a sleeping child. ‘Take a seat, Scrubbs,’ he ordered.

‘It’s Scraggs, sir’

‘Whatever. Sit down.’

Lieutenant Scraggs sat down on the long wooden bench that ran along the wall. Behind him was a row of empty lockers. Opposite him were more lockers and another bench running along the wall. The whole place had a neglected air, and smelled strongly of sweat. The Captain sat himself down directly opposite and leaned forward so his face was only a matter of inches from Scraggs’s.

‘I need you to do something for me,’ he half growled, half whispered.

‘Sure thing, Captain. Just name it.’

‘It’s Detective Jensen. I’ve had his cellphone tapped, and from listening in on his calls, I’ve a feeling he’s up to something much bigger than he’s letting on to us.’

‘Have you asked Somers what he thinks Jensen is up to? I hear they’re getting along quite well.’

‘Horseshit!’ Rockwell raised his voice. ‘Somers doesn’t get along with anyone. You know that.’

‘So you haven’t asked him, then?’

‘No. And I don’t want you to, either.’

‘So what do you want me to do, Captain?’

‘I want you to find Dectective Jensen and follow him wherever he goes,’ said Rockwell, lowering his voice almost to a whisper once more. ‘Don’t let him know you’re following him, though.’

Rockwell reached out and placed a hand on Scraggs’s shoulder, looking him dead in the eye to show how serious he was about this. Scraggs nodded to acknowledge his understanding of Rockwell’s order.

‘You got any leads, Captain? I mean, where do I start?’

‘Start at the Olé Au Lait coffee shop.’

‘Why? What’s there?’

‘Well, if you get there at about eight o’clock tonight, both Jensen and Somers will be there. They’ve arranged a little meeting where Jensen is going to tell Somers what he found out during a visit to the library.’

Scraggs wasn’t sure he was following correctly. ‘I’ll never get close enough to them to listen in without them spotting me,’ he pointed out.

‘I don’t want you to. I just want you to follow Jensen when he leaves. And keep me up to date with where he’s headed.’

‘Okay, Captain. Will that be all?’

‘No. If you get no joy following Jensen, or if he loses you somehow, I want you to find Somers and follow him. I think these two clowns have uncovered something they probably shouldn’t have.’

‘What sort of thing? Or shouldn’t I ask?’

The Captain looked as though he was pondering whether or not Scraggs actually needed to know any more, but he was certainly smart enough to understand that it was his Lieutenant’s job to ask.

‘Jensen paid a visit to the City Library this morning. After he left the library he called Somers on his mobile and said that he’d found an important lead. Whatever it was that he found, it sounds like it might just hold the key to all the recent murders, and the identity of the killer. I need to know what Jensen found out, before anyone gets to him. He may have put his life and Somers’s life in danger.’

‘Are we talking about the Bourbon Kid here, Captain?’

‘We just might be,’ Rockwell said, nodding. ‘You see, that’s the other thing, Scraggs. We get crank calls all the time about the Bourbon Kid.’

‘Yeah, I know. I heard he gets spotted in the city at least once a day.’

The Captain stood up to leave.

‘It’s actually more like one sighting a week, Scrubbs,’ he said. ‘But today … Well, so far today we’ve had about a hundred sightings of that sonofabitch.’

Thirty-Seven

Kyle and Peto were sitting at a round wooden table in the giant beer tent, discussing just how badly Peto had been beaten by Rodeo Rex. Both monks had been raised to honour the concept of humility, but a dispassionate observer might have noticed that the novice seemed unwilling to discuss his last bout, while his mentor appeared to want to talk about nothing else. The tent had been very busy when they arrived, but in the last half hour it had been steadily quietening down. Where there had been drinkers five deep at the bar, they were now only two deep.

Almost an hour had passed before Rodeo Rex eventually walked in. He was now wearing a sleeveless black leather jacket over his T-shirt. (Sleeves of the appropriate size to cover this man’s biceps had yet to be tailored.) The dwindling crowd in the bar area parted for him, and he made his way straight up to one of the bartenders and ordered a very large bottle of beer. His drink was handed to him free of charge within a matter of seconds, much to the unvoiced frustration of everyone else who had been waiting to be served.

Rex spotted Kyle and Peto almost at once, and manoeuvred his giant frame through a crowd of drunken well-wishers and fans to take up a seat at their table.

‘How you feeling, young fella? Hope I didn’t hurt you too bad,’ he said to Peto, patting the small monk on the shoulder as he sat down on the chair opposite him.

‘No, I’m okay now, thank you. I was a bit groggy for a while, but it seems to have passed.’

‘Good.’ Rex seemed genuinely pleased. His next comment, however, shattered the genial atmosphere. ‘Now, enough of the idle chit-chat. The Eye of the Moon has been stolen again, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Kyle admitted. It seemed pointless to deny it, especially to this man. ‘Just a few days ago. We have to get it back before tomorrow’s eclipse. If it falls into the wrong hands before then, the repercussions for this town will be devastating.’

‘No shit, Sherlock? The whole place could be plunged into eternal darkness, right?’

‘Yes, that is correct. But how do you know all this?’

‘’Cos like you two, I’m here on a mission from the Almighty.’

‘Really?’ asked Kyle, astonished. It was difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend how a violent giant like Rodeo Rex could be on a mission from God. No matter that he seemed a relatively pleasant man, quite apart from anything else he just didn’t seem humble enough to be a servant of the Lord.

‘Yeah, really,’ Rex continued. ‘You see, this town – Santa Mondega – well, I come here once or twice a year. I always arrive unannounced, and I never stay long. D’you know why I do this?’

‘No,’ said Kyle. ‘Why should we?’ He was becoming irritated.

‘I guess not. I don’t normally divulge this sort of information to just anybody, but here’s the thing: I have a special purpose in life. The Lord assigned me a job that few men are capable of. But me, well, I was made specially for it. I’m God’s very own bounty hunter.’

‘Excuse me?’ interrupted Peto. He had listened intently as Rex talked to Kyle, but he could hold his tongue no longer at such a blasphemous revelation. ‘You’re saying God pays you to kill people. I say that is utter nonsense. And it is blasphemy, as well.’

‘Listen, fuckwit, you want me to slap you around again in front of all these people?’

‘No.’

‘Then shut the fuck up and let me finish.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Damn fuckin’ right, you’re sorry. Now listen, and listen good. God employs me much like He employs priests or exorcists. But I’m one of a kind. I’m unique.’ He leaned a little closer to make sure that both monks were paying him their full attention. ‘The Good Lord employs me to rid the world of the undead. And Santa Mondega, my monkish friends, is the undead capital of the world.’

Rex sat back, took a pull at his beer and waited for the two monks to react to what he had said. There was an uncomfortable pause as they waited for him to say he was kidding. Eventually Kyle spoke up.

‘Are you serious?’ he asked, trying to keep a mocking tone from his voice. Rex put his bottle of beer down on the table and leaned forward again.

‘Damn right I’m serious. Think about it. If the town of Santa Mondega was plunged into eternal darkness, who would benefit the most, huh? Vampires, that’s who. This place is fuckin’ crawling with ‘em, and somewhere around here is the Lord of the Undead. That’s Head Vampire to you, and if he ever gets his hands on your precious Eye, then we’re all fucked. Every last fuckin’ one of us.’

‘How do you know there are vampires here?’ Peto inquired.

‘It’s a gift. Weren’t you paying any goddam attention to what I just said?’ Rex tutted. ‘It’s a gift from God. I can sniff out the undead better than you can pray.’ He paused and glanced round the tent. ‘Take that girl over there, fr’instance.’ He pointed at a very attractive dark-haired woman in her late twenties who was sitting at a table about ten yards away. She seemed to be a typical biker babe, dressed in black leather pants, heavy black motorcycle boots and a sleeveless Iron Maiden T-shirt, also black, which showed off a few tattoos on her upper arms. Sitting at the table with her were four men, all in their mid-thirties. They were probably all bikers too. She fitted in with them, all right. In fact, she blended in well with the crowd in general.

‘Is she a vampire?’ asked Peto, his tone mixing incredulity with curiosity.

‘Watch. I’ll show you.’

Rex stood up, pulling a large silver revolver from a holster inside his black leather jacket. The woman at the table had obviously been keeping tabs on him out of the corner of her eye, because she was the first to spot him taking aim. He held the firearm out in front of him with a straight arm and pointed it directly at her heart. Her eyes bulged wide open in terror, but before she could move Rex fired three shots in quick succession.

The noise of the discharge was deafening, the echo of each shot making it difficult for anyone to know for certain exactly how many shots had been fired. The whole place went quiet, apart from the ringing in everyone’s ears. The four men sitting at the table with the woman jumped back from their seats, startled by the sight of their companion being hit three times in the chest by Rex’s bullets. This initial shock was soon trumped by the sight of their female companion exploding into flames seconds after the impact of the third and final bullet. For the next few seconds blood poured from her wounds, spraying a wide area. When at last the flow stopped and the flames burnt themselves out, there was nothing but a pile of grey ash left where she had been sitting. The whole episode was over in less than twenty seconds. All that remained to show that it had ever happened was a little ash and an unpleasant smell of cordite and charred flesh.

Once all the spectators (including the men at the dead woman’s table) had taken on board what they had just witnessed, they all carried on about their business as if nothing had happened. This sort of occurrence was not commonplace in Santa Mondega, but the folk around these parts weren’t going to make a big fuss about it, simply because it was Rodeo Rex who had pulled the trigger.

Rex had put his gun away long before the last of the flames had gone out.

‘Well, that’s not something you see every day,’ Kyle observed.

‘It was a little unusual, wasn’t it?’ said Peto, nodding in agreement.

Rex, entirely unfazed by what he had just done or by the reaction of the others, simply sat back down at their table, took a long swig from his enormous bottle of beer, and carried on talking.

‘She was a werewolf,’ he said, burping back up all the air that had gone down his throat with the beer. ‘Not likely to have troubled us much, to be honest. Werewolves are fuckin’ pointless unless there’s a full moon. The vampires – they’re the ones to worry about. They won’t be out for another hour or so. It’s not dark enough for ’em yet. Most of the bastards can’t come out while the sun’s still hangin’ around.’

‘My goodness!’ Kyle exclaimed. ‘Do vampires explode into flames when you shoot them, too?’

Rex seemed surprised and a little irritated by the monk’s lack of knowledge about the undead, and he was struggling to hide it.

‘How come you two monks don’t seem to know about all this shit? You should know more about this shit than I do. You’re the ones that’ve come here to find the Eye of the Moon. Do you even know why these fuckers are after the Eye?’

‘Father Taos never mentioned anything about this, did he, Kyle?’ confessed Peto.

‘No, he didn’t. I think we need to tell him about it, too. Perhaps we require more than just the two of us to retrieve the Eye.’

‘There’s just two of you? Fucksake, don’t you guys ever learn?’ groaned an increasingly irritated Rex.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle.

‘I mean last fuckin’ time. Last time the Eye was taken there were only three monks that came. I met two of ‘em. I only heard about the third, never laid eyes on him, but it was the third one that survived and took the Eye back to Hubal, right? You do know all this, don’t you? Tell me you know all this.’

‘Yes, we know this part,’ answered Kyle. ‘Five years ago our brothers Milo and Hezekiah were sent to retrieve the Eye. They failed in their mission, but Father Taos then came alone and retrieved it. By himself.’

‘Bullshit!’ bellowed Rex, in a tone of utter disgust. Several people at nearby tables looked up, and then wisely decided to look away again. ‘I bet your friend Father Taos told you all that crap, didn’t he?’

‘It’s not crap, thank you.’

‘It fuckin’ is, too. The real story is that a guy called the Bourbon Kid had the Eye but your friends Milo and Hezekiah confronted him and got it back. Then your fuckin’ Father Taos comes along, kills Milo and Hezekiah, takes the fuckin’ stone for himself and, by the sound of it, fucks off back to Hubal and takes all the credit. Fuckin’ scumbag.’

‘That can’t be true,’ said Peto. ‘Tell him, Kyle. Father Taos would never do something like that. He’s the most decent and honest man in the entire world. Isn’t he, Kyle?’

‘I would certainly like to think so,’ said Kyle carefully. ‘However, two minutes ago I didn’t believe that people burst into flames and turned to ash on being shot. I am beginning to think, Peto, that we don’t know all that we should. It is time we opened our minds and accepted that, just maybe, not all of the things we’ve been taught to believe are actually absolutely true.’

For a moment, Peto was left speechless. He was astonished that Kyle could possibly suggest that anything they had learnt in Hubal could be other than completely true. Yet he respected Kyle, and trusted him implicitly, so he took on board what his older and wiser friend had said, albeit grudgingly.

‘Does that mean that it could be all right to drink alcohol, then?’ he asked.

‘Will you shut up about that?’

‘Give the man a goddam break, will ya?’ Rex interjected. ‘Here. Try some of my beer. You’ll like it.’

‘No he won’t,’ Kyle said quickly, holding out an arm to stop Rex from passing the drink to Peto. ‘Look, Rex,’ he went on earnestly, ‘we really do appreciate your assistance, but offering him strong drink isn’t going to help us. Is there anything else you know that might be of use to us?’

Rex took a deep breath through his nostrils. He didn’t much care for Kyle’s tone, but he stayed calm. Leaning back in his chair, he pulled a soft packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his waistcoat and offered one to Peto, who had the good sense to decline.

‘You two know anything about a girl who just came out of a coma? Been in it five years, they say.’

‘No. Should we?’ asked Kyle.

‘I’d say so. Go to Sanchez’s bar, the Tapioca. He knows all about her. In fact, she might even be in there when you show up.’

‘What’s so special about her?’ Peto asked.

‘She just came out of a coma after five years, you dumb fuck. Don’t you fuckin’ listen?’

‘Well, yes. Yes, I do. But what does that have to do with anything?’

Sighing heavily, Rex ignited a small match by scraping it along the table, then used it to light a cigarette. He took a long, slow, hard drag on it, so that the end glowed brightly. Then he blasted the smoke back out through his nostrils and leaned forward, as if he had a secret to pass on that he wanted no one else to hear.

‘She was in a coma,’ he said, ‘because the Bourbon Kid couldn’t kill her, no matter how hard he tried. S’far as anyone knows, she’s the only person he ever tried to kill that didn’t die. I’d say there’s somethin’ pretty special about that, wouldn’t you?’

‘So does that mean she’s one of the undead?’ asked Kyle.

‘I don’t know what the fuck she is,’ Rex went on. ‘And from what Sanchez says, she doesn’t know what, or who, she is, either. She could be a total crazy, but she’s claimin’ she’s got amnesia.’

‘I see. That is interesting,’ said Kyle thoughtfully. ‘Maybe we should go and find her now, Peto.’

‘I’d get skids under my ass if I were you,’ Rex suggested. ‘It’s gettin’ dark. The vampires will be out lookin’ for you guys. I reckon Peto made quite an impression in that boxing ring ‘fore I arrived. You guys need to be a little more discreet. You know, it’s fuckin’ obvious to anyone that you’re monks. The undead will be swarming round you like flies. Best you get goin’. I’ll catch up with you sometime tomorrow.’

‘Okay. Shall we arrange to meet somewhere?’ Kyle asked.

‘Yeah. In Sanchez’s bar. Tomorrow. Just before the eclipse. Unless you’ve already got the Eye back, in which case I suggest you get the hell outta town with it before it’s too late.’

Kyle and Peto were glad to have Rodeo Rex as an ally. They thanked him once more for the information he had provided (even though they were not altogether convinced of its authenticity), then headed back into town to see if they could find the girl he had spoken of. The one who had just come out of a coma.

Thirty-Eight

Jensen had been slowly sipping a giant mug of hot chocolate while waiting for Somers in the Olé Au Lait coffee bar. He was sitting at the counter on his own, admiring the all-round cleanliness of the place. Hygiene in places that served food and drink, he learned, was a rare thing to find in Santa Mondega, so it was an unexpected pleasure just to be able to admire the clean polished wooden tables and the shiny varnished marble surface of the bar counter.

Almost twenty minutes passed before Somers actually turned up. Jensen had been trying to contact him ever since leaving the library, and had left countless messages on his partner’s cellphone explaining that he had some information. Somers had only returned his call at about half past three, and had been brief to the point of curtness. ‘Meet me in the Olé Au Lait coffee bar on Cinnamon Street at eight o’clock’ was all he had said, before hanging up.

For once, Jensen had actually been sitting in his hotel room, relaxing, when Somers had called. He was more than happy to come out and meet his new partner, because the only thing he had found on TV worth watching was an old re-run of Happy Days. It wasn’t a good one, either; for some reason Robin Williams was in it as the character Mork from the Mork and Mindy show. This was not the sort of supernatural being that Jensen was looking for, so a hot drink and some intelligent conversation with Somers was just what he needed.

Somers was easily identifiable when he walked in. He was wearing a long, heavy grey trench coat over his usual dark suit, smart white shirt and grey tie. Everyone else in the Olé Au Lait was dressed very casually, including Miles Jensen, who had opted for a pair of black chinos and a light blue open-necked shirt.

‘What can I get you?’ Jensen asked as his uptight partner approached him at the bar.

‘I’ll have a black-two-sugars, please, Sarah,’ the other called over Jensen’s head to the pretty young girl behind the counter.

‘I gotta hand it to you, Somers. You picked a real lively place here,’ quipped Jensen.

Coffee bars were not exactly the lifeblood of the Santa Mondega economy, so they were never packed out wall to wall. The Olé Au Lait was one of the more popular of these establishments, but even so there were probably no more than ten people in the entire place, and that included staff.

‘Well, I don’t enjoy mixing with other people, do I?’ grumbled Somers. ‘Here, let’s take a seat over there.’ He pointed to a table not far from the counter. There was no one else within earshot of the table so it was a fairly logical choice for two detectives who wanted to discuss a case. ‘Sarah, bring my coffee over, will you?’

They made their way over to the small round wooden table and sat down facing each other.

‘I’ve been trying to phone you all afternoon,’ Jensen began. ‘Why haven’t you been taking my calls?’

‘Time is not on our side, Jensen. Have you found out anything about the book yet?’

‘That’s what I was trying to call you about. I checked out the library. One of the staff there says that a man fitting the description of the Bourbon Kid came in asking about the book this morning. Seems he’d been there before, too. He knows that Annabel de Frugyn has it, but rather typically there’s still no address for anyone of that name. All I found out is that she lives in a trailer and never stays in the same place twice.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Somers.

‘Ain’t helpful, though, is it? If the Bourbon Kid knows she has the book and is already on her tail, she could be dead by now.’

Somers sighed. ‘If she even exists.’

‘Look, Somers, maybe it’s time we told Captain Rockwell about all this and enlisted his help in tracking her down?’ Jensen suggested.

‘I think he might already know.’

‘No way! How could he? I’ve only just found out.’

Somers took a look to his left and then to his right before leaning over to Jensen and speaking in a hushed voice. ‘For the same reason I haven’t been taking your calls. Our office has been bugged. I found a small recording device hidden under your desk, and another one inside my desk phone.’

‘What?’ Jensen felt a cold shiver run right through him. ‘You think the Captain is spying on us? That’s outrageous! I’ll have him up on charges.’

‘Calm down, for Chrissakes. I figure from now on we just don’t discuss stuff in the office. If we let on that we know the office is bugged then we lose any advantage we might have. Let them think we’ve found out nothing about the case so far. That way they can’t go on in ahead of us and mess up our investigation. Let’s use this to our advantage. From now on we meet in coffee shops like this.’

‘Okay. Good idea. Bastards.’

‘You might want to check your hotel, too. Maybe they’ve had your room bugged as well.’

‘Shit,’ Jensen shook his head in frustration. ‘Anything else I should know about?’

‘Actually, yeah,’ Somers sat back. ‘I questioned a guy name of Jericho this afternoon. He’s an old informant of mine. Not particularly trustworthy – only half of what he says is even half true, but that’s by the by.’

‘Go on,’ said Jensen, eager to hear what Somers had prised out of Jericho.

‘Well, Jericho was with the guy Rusty who was shot dead the other day by the two monks. Our man was lucky enough to get away with just a bullet in the leg.’

‘Right.’ Jensen was interested. Somers had grabbed his attention. This guy Jericho could prove to be a good lead. ‘So what does he know?’

‘Well, he claims that the two monks were looking for a bounty hunter named Jefe.’

‘Jefe, huh? You ever heard of him?’

‘Yeah, I heard of him. He’s a real nasty piece of work.’

‘Isn’t everyone here?’ Jensen mocked, slurping another mouthful of his hot chocolate.

‘Yeah, but this guy’s worse than most. Thing is, though, Jericho was in Sanchez’s bar, the Tapioca, when he got shot by the monks. Now he claims that after the monks left, this Jefe guy came into the bar, and he was looking for a man called El Santino.’

Jensen started. ‘That’s the second time today I’ve heard that name. You know him?’

‘Everybody knows him.’

‘Well I don’t.’

‘That’s ’cos you’re not everybody. You’re nobody.’

‘True enough,’ Jensen replied good-humouredly. So who is El Santino, and what did Jefe want with him?’

Somers sat back a moment as the pretty young waitress arrived with an oversized mug of coffee. He took it directly from her hand and sniffed the contents. After sucking the aroma deep into his lungs he placed the mug on the table and pulled a five-dollar bill from his trouser pocket.

‘Keep the change, sweetness,’ he said, tucking the money into the front pocket of Sarah’s apron. She turned and walked off without a word. ‘Where was I?’ he continued.

‘El Santino.’

‘Right. Of course. El Santino practically runs this town. He’s the biggest gangster around. Small fry outside of Santa Mondega, but big fish inside it. It’s long been rumoured that he covets the Eye of the Moon. It’s said that he was willing to pay a few thousand for it last time it came into town. Thing is, El Santino, big man though he is, doesn’t like to take risks with his own life, so it’s not often you see him in town. He only ever seems to come out at night.’

‘Vampire, possibly?’ Jensen suggested.

‘Well, he’s as good a candidate as any,’ Somers went on. ‘But see here: El Santino pays other people to do his dirty work for him. It was thought that he paid this guy Ringo to steal the Eye five years ago.’

‘Ringo? Why do I think I should know that name?’

‘Because Ringo did steal the Eye of the Moon five years ago, but then he got shot to bits by the Bourbon Kid and El Santino never got his hands on it. But our man Jericho reckons El Santino hired Jefe to get the Eye for him this time, and he wants it delivered before the eclipse.’

‘So Jefe has the Eye of the Moon, then?’

‘Nuh-uh,’ Somers wagged a finger at Jensen, shaking his head at the same time. ‘Nope. Apparently Jefe got drunk with none other than Marcus the Weasel the night before the Weasel was killed.’

Jensen’s eyes opened wide. ‘So when we suspected earlier that the Weasel robbed this Jefe guy, we were probably right?’ he asked.

‘Without a doubt. The Weasel checked into the Santa Mondega International under the name Jefe, using Jefe’s ID.’

‘This all kinda ties up, doesn’t it?’

‘Yep. The Weasel robs Jefe. The porter and his girlfriend rob the Weasel. Then Elvis turns up, kills the Weasel but finds no Eye. So he goes looking for the porter to find the Eye. That’s when he gets killed … by the Bourbon Kid.’

‘Who may or may not be the porter, Dante.’

‘Right.’

‘Shit, Somers, that’s good work. You had time to plan our next move, or what?’

Somers took a sip of coffee and swilled it around his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing it. Jensen likewise took a swig of his rapidly cooling chocolate and waited for Somers to respond.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’m gonna snoop round a few of the other local hotels to see if these two kids, Dante and Kacy, have checked in anywhere. I want you to stake out El Santino’s place. See if you see anyone coming or going. These kids might try and take the Eye to him and sell it.’

‘Why’d they do that? Surely that’d be dangerous?’

Somers smiled and took a huge gulp of his coffee. ‘Not if, as you suspect, this kid Dante is the Bourbon Kid. He might want the Eye just so he can sell it to El Santino. Make no mistake, El Santino is the only man in this town with any serious money.’

‘Now hold on a minute, Somers. You now think that the Bourbon Kid is only interested in money, not the Eye of the Moon? But if that’s the case, why didn’t he sell it five years ago when he got his hands on it?’

‘No, you hold on. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only doing what you keep suggesting and keeping an open mind. I didn’t say the Kid isn’t interested in keeping the Eye for himself. I’m just saying it’s a possibility he’s after money. Maybe him and El Santino are working together. Who knows? Just stake out El Santino’s place for me, will you?’ Somers pulled a folded piece of scrap paper and a small black pager from an inside pocket in his grey trench coat. ‘Here’s El Santino’s address. He lives in a huge mansion, kinda castle, really, on the edge of town.’ He handed the paper to Jensen. ‘And here’s a pager. You get in any trouble out there, page me and I’ll be there pronto.’ He took hold of Jensen’s hand and pressed the pager into it, before adding, ‘Just make sure no one sees you, okay?’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if I just called you on your cellphone?’ Jensen reasoned.

‘Nah. Don’t do that because I won’t answer it, ‘less you page me first. Leave it as a last resort. The Captain may have found a way to tap into our mobile calls too, so if we do have to speak on the phone, don’t give away anything you’ve discovered or any details of where you are unless you really have to. You got that?’

Jensen was more than a little irritated by the interference of Captain Rockwell, if indeed he was the person behind the phone tapping. ‘Okay. Whatever you say, Somers. Anything else? Should I check to see my ass isn’t bugged next time I take a shit?’

‘Wouldn’t hurt, Jensen. Don’t take any chances. Check everywhere and speak only in hushed tones, and only to me. I don’t think we can trust anyone right now. But I’m pretty certain things will become clearer soon.’ He stood up from the table and adjusted his long coat to make sure it wasn’t caught under his chair. ‘Anyway, I gotta run. If I don’t hear from you before, I’ll see you in the office bright and early tomorrow.’

‘It’s a deal. Watch your back, Somers – and hey, this is a two-way thing, right? You get in trouble, you page me, okay?’

Somers smiled. ‘Sure thing,’ he said.

Thirty-Nine

Dante and Kacy had settled in at a table in the Nightjar, a fairly large and reasonably busy bar on the edge of town. There were a lot of tables spread out around the bar area. Most of them had four or five chairs around them, but only one or two people sitting at them. Not many people were standing in the Nightjar, and the atmosphere seemed quite chilled out.

They had stopped in there on the way back from the fairground, looking to wind down after the stresses of the day and the general uneasiness they had felt among the crowd at the boxing. After a few beers they both felt a lot more relaxed about their predicament. Back in their motel room they had a hundred grand in a suitcase they had stolen from one of the rooms in the Santa Mondega International Hotel, and with them they also had the Eye of the Moon, acquired in much the same way. After a long discussion about the merits of selling the Eye, they had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth the risk. There was no one they could trust, and with a hundred grand already in the bag, why risk their lives for the sake of a few grand more? It had been more Kacy convincing Dante, really. With a few beers inside him he was easier for her to manipulate. He became more relaxed and more open to her opinion. Besides, he hated arguing with her when he was trying to wind down with a beer, and she knew it.

But at about eight o’clock that evening, their plans changed. They were happily having their fourth beer to toast the joys that the future held in store for them, when they saw the two monks from the boxing ring walk in. Dante clocked them first, but while trying to kick Kacy under the table to alert her, he made the mistake of staring in their direction for just a fraction too long. As they made their way to the bar, one of the monks caught sight of Dante eyeballing them. He looked back for just long enough to make the young man feel uncomfortable. As if this wasn’t unsettling enough, the monk then nudged his companion in the back and nodded towards Kacy. Both stared over for a moment, and muttered among themselves a little before sitting on two stools at the bar and ordering drinks of some kind.

Dante took a quick look to check that no part of the Eye could be seen sticking out through Kacy’s T-shirt. It couldn’t, but that didn’t necessarily mean the monks didn’t know she had it about her person. He had to get her out of there, and he had to do it subtly and quickly. He had no need to say anything to Kacy, however. She could see in his eyes that something was wrong.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she whispered to him. Then, beneath the table, she tapped him on his right knee and nodded towards the exit.

‘Wait up a minute,’ said Dante. ‘Let’s not be too obvious about it. You get up first as if you’re going to the restroom, but on your way over there, try and slip out through the front doors without them seein’ you.’

‘What are you goin’ to do?’

‘Gonna sit here like I think you’re comin’ back. If they follow you I’ll be right behind them. If they don’t, then after about five minutes I’m gonna leave too. I’ll meet you back at the motel. Go as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anyone. Anyone, okay?’

‘Okay. I love you, baby.’

‘I love you too. Now get the fuck out.’

Kacy got up and made her way towards the ladies’ restroom. She passed the two monks at the bar, all the while keeping them in view out of the corner of her eye. When she was sure they weren’t looking, she took a quick diversion behind a small party of drunken revellers and headed for the front entrance. Soon she was out in the street.

It was getting dark now. And Kacy was alone.

Forty

Kyle and Peto decided that to head straight to the Tapioca wasn’t necessarily a good idea. After much discussion, they agreed that they should try out a few of the other drinking dens first. If they ventured into each bar they came across on their way to the Tapioca, they were effectively doubling their chances of finding the Eye, or at least of finding some more clues as to its whereabouts. As it turned out, their first stop was the Nightjar. Peto scouted around for a place to sit as they walked in. Rather worryingly, everyone he saw looked like a potential vampire, although this was more to do with how paranoid he had become since their encounter with Rodeo Rex. Ever since the giant had destroyed him in the boxing ring he had felt much more vulnerable than usual.

Every single table was taken, and every single customer looked unsavoury, almost as if they were liable to pull a gun (or something worse) at any second. Except for one small table in the corner, at which a young couple were sitting, drinking from bottles of beer. These two actually looked quite normal, and they were the only people who looked in the slightest bit cheerful. Peto also noticed that the girl was incredibly pretty. So pretty, in fact, that he found he was staring at her for a little longer than might be considered polite. He nudged Kyle.

‘Hey, Kyle, there’s no tables free in here, but there’s a friendly-looking couple sitting at a table over there. We could go and sit with them.’

Kyle looked over at the table at which Peto was nodding. He shook his head. ‘No, let’s sit at the bar. I doubt they want us sitting with them.’ As they approached the counter he raised his voice and called, ‘Two waters, please, bartender.’

The barman, a rather shifty-looking guy with straggly, scraggly black hair hanging over his face, poured them two glasses of water and charged them the outrageous sum of four dollars. Then he informed them, politely, that if they were drinking water they were not allowed to sit at the bar.

‘Come on, let’s go sit at that table with the nice-looking couple,’ Peto suggested again.

‘They’re not a couple any more,’ Kyle pointed out. ‘The girl just left.’

Peto checked for himself. Sure enough, the girl had gone. This was disappointing, for he had been looking forward to sampling the delights of a conversation with an attractive female. Nonetheless, the fellow she had left behind looked harmless enough, and would surely be grateful for some new companions to sit with.

‘All the more reason why the man would be glad of some friendly company, then. Come on, let’s go,’ he suggested cheerfully.

Kyle took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he sighed, ‘but if he turns out to be a vampire and tries to kill us, you be certain that I’ll kill you first.’

Forty-One

Even though the sky was darkening as nightfall approached, Jensen found El Santino’s estate without difficulty. There wasn’t another property within sight for at least a mile. He had driven his tired old BMW for miles down a narrow, winding road flanked by a dense woodland of tall trees until, after about twenty minutes, he saw the crime lord’s home, the ‘Casa de Ville’, on the right. He quickly decided that it would be wise to drive on until he found a break in the woodland where he could leave the car without anyone spotting it.

He carried on for almost a mile before he finally found a sandy spot on the left-hand side of the road where he was able to pull in. The woodland was especially thick around this particular area. Unbeknown to Jensen, the lay-by was a very popular place for couples in cars to meet up and indulge in all manner of sexual activity with strangers from other cars. Luckily, he had arrived too early to get caught up in any such shenanigans. Darkness had only just fallen, so the random arrival of cars was still an hour or so away.

In the interests of discretion he decided that it wouldn’t do to park the car within sight of the road. So, showing all the driving skills of a twelve-year-old, he managed to weave the car in between a few trees and over a few bumps, until it was nicely positioned behind a clump of thick bushes where it could not easily be seen.

He got out of the car and slowly closed the driver’s door behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible. For a moment he stood still, lost in thought. What should he do now? Was there anything he might need in an emergency? He had the pager that Somers had given him, and he had his cellphone. Was there anything else he might conceivably need if things went wrong? And why was he worrying so much? He wasn’t normally one to feel uneasy about anything related to his work, no matter how perilous it might be. Then it came to him. It was the fact that Somers had given him the pager that had unsettled him. It suggested that the older detective recognized the danger Jensen was putting himself in. Yet all he was going to be doing was hiding in thick woodland, staking out a large house in the middle of nowhere. Albeit a house which was owned by Santa Mondega’s most notorious gangster, and one who might turn out to be a latter-day equivalent of Count Dracula and Vito Corleone rolled into one.

As he set off walking through the woodland back towards the Casa de Ville, he made a point of keeping the road in sight at all times. It was much harder work getting back to the mansion than he had expected. The woods were full of exposed roots and snakelike vines and branches, all seemingly eager to trip him up or wrap themselves around his arms and legs as he fought his way through them. Keeping quiet was also incredibly difficult. Every step he took seemed to cause a twig to snap, and in this kind of silence the sound seemed as loud as a clap of thunder.

It was a good twenty minutes before the mansion crept into view on the other side of the road, a dark silhouette against the night sky. There was a high stone wall that stretched all around the perimeter of the estate. Looking at the property from the other side of the road, rather than catching glimpses of it through the car window as he’d driven past, Jensen began to appreciate the sheer magnificence of it. This man El Santino owned a helluva lot of land. From his position directly in front of the main entrance, Jensen could see that the wall ran either side of the gates for as far as the eye could see. Impressive.

After unintentionally gawping at the sheer magnitude of it all for rather longer than he really should have, Jensen eventually had the sense to conceal himself behind a bush opposite the entrance. The gates were almost twice the height of the wall – probably thirty feet high, he guessed. Somehow they appeared menacing with their heavy black iron bars twisted around with ivy and surmounted by barbed spikes. The effect, at night, was intimidating; he doubted whether it would be much more welcoming in daylight. Beyond the gates, a metalled driveway led all the way to the front of the main building, which was set about fifty yards back from the road. It was an ancient-looking stone construction that might well have been around for centuries, had there been anyone in those parts many centuries ago – or anyone who could build in dressed stone, at least. The place had the look of a castle in medieval times, and it was probably worth a fortune: millions of dollars, possibly even hundreds of millions of dollars, depending on its state of repair. From the outside it did look old, and creepy, but Jensen had a feeling that a rich gangster type like El Santino would have fixed it up inside with contemporary furnishings and all the comforts of modern life.

Staking out this huge building should be a reasonably interesting job. There was plenty to admire about the Casa de Ville, and Jensen made up his mind that if things got a little dull, he would wander along the road a little bit further to see what other interesting architectural structures were on show.

As it was, he had been scoping the place for less than twenty minutes when it was suddenly brought home to him that he had made a slight error of judgement. His cellphone rang. Out loud. The sound, shockingly loud in the dark silence, nearly made him jump out of his skin, and having heard it he couldn’t answer the damn thing quickly enough.

‘Hello, Somers, that you?’ he whispered

‘Yeah. How are you gettin’ on?’ Somers’s voice crackled out from the handset.

‘I’m at that place we talked about, but I haven’t seen anything yet. How ’bout you?’

‘Not much doin’ here either. I’ve checked out a couple of hotels, but you know what it’s like. Bunch of unhelpful bastards. Anyway, the reason I was calling was to tell you to make sure you’ve got your phone on silent. Didn’t know if you were familiar with stakeout etiquette.’

Jensen cringed. ‘Of course. What do you take me for? Anyway, I thought you said not to use the phone unless it was absolutely necessary?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. It’s just that we can’t be too careful. You think you’re in the slightest danger, you get out of there, okay?’

‘Okay, Somers, I will. Don’t worry.’

‘Good. Now listen, I’ll check in with you when I come off duty later, so make sure you keep the phone on vibrate. Little details like that save lives, Jensen. You go careful, there could be armed guards all round that place. You get nervous about it, get your ass out of there.’

‘You got it. Take care yourself.’

‘Sure. Speak to you later.’

Jensen switched the settings on his cellphone to vibrate. Idiot, he thought. Schoolboy error to get caught out by the old ringing-phone scenario. The realization that he had so nearly slipped up like that only served to fuel the uneasiness he already felt. It was getting truly dark very quickly now, and the Casa de Ville was beginning to look more and more creepy.

As it happened, Jensen chose not to move from his post opposite the front gates. He stayed for almost two hours, staring at a mansion that never moved. Nothing came in, nothing came out, and, curiously enough, nothing even came past on the road. Not one vehicle. Not one pedestrian. Not even one woodland animal. Maybe people knew to stay away from this area once it got dark? It was certainly easy to see why. Once the moon came out to shine down on the Casa de Ville it made the place look truly sinister, a total frightfest. Two hours here was enough for anyone. To hell with it, Jensen thought. If ever the creatures of the night, the undead, were going to come out looking for prey, it was now. And it was probably here. With the clock edging towards ten-thirty, he decided it was time to make his way back to the car. It would be even harder on the way back, fighting his way through the thick woodland, but as long as he could still see the road without actually letting himself be in a position where someone on the road could see him, he would be okay.

He stood up slowly from where he had been kneeling. His legs had gone a little numb in the cold, and he could feel a pre-cramp sensation coming on. He had just taken a step to his left to head back the way he had come when he received his second fright of the night. It wasn’t a phone ringing that made him jump this time, though. It was a voice. A deep, throaty man’s voice from somewhere behind and above him.

‘I thought you were going to wait down there all night. Not many people last as long as you have.’

Jensen’s heart leapt into his throat. He spun around towards where the voice had come from. At first he could see nothing but dark tree branches. Then, in the darkness, he made out the darker silhouette of a very large man standing on a tree branch almost ten feet above where he had been crouching.

Forty-Two

Kacy sat in the motel room with the lights off, looking out of the window, waiting for Dante. She had expected him to arrive back no more than five minutes after her. Forty-five had passed. She had tried to watch TV for a while but she couldn’t concentrate on any of the programmes. She had tried pacing up and down the room. That didn’t help, because the room just wasn’t big enough. A double bed in the centre took up over half the floor space, and what was left had not exactly been designed for strolling around in.

It had become pretty dark outside by now and she was afraid, not so much for herself, but for Dante. He had that hot-headed streak which, she knew, would one day get him into some trouble he couldn’t deal with. She knew how dangerous it was in Santa Mondega, but occasionally she got the impression that Dante had no idea. He was fearless sometimes, without any good reason. Totally fearless. She loved him for it, but it really did give her the shits.

She had been staring through the open slats of the window blind for what seemed like an eternity when she finally saw a car approach. At first all she was able to see were the headlights. They were not the everyday, standard sort of headlights, either. Kacy didn’t know a lot about cars, but at a guess she would have said these were headlights like those you find on a Cadillac. And that would have been an accurate guess, too. She was tempted to pat herself on the back when she realized it actually was a Cadillac. A bright yellow Cadillac, from what she could see. The motel room was on ground level, so she got a good view of the car as it approached. It cruised up slowly to the room she was in, its shiny yellow paintwork gleaming in the night. Then it pulled in right in front of the window. The bright beam of the headlights blinded her, so that she was unable to make out the driver. And now she felt even more afraid. Why would this Cadillac pull up directly outside their room at the motel? There were plenty of other free spaces it could have parked in.

The car’s engine was pretty loud, so in some ways it was a relief when the driver turned it off. It took a few seconds for the vibrations to die down completely. Then the headlights dimmed and went out. Kacy, however, was still dazzled by those lights, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness. She heard a car door shut, but she still hadn’t seen anyone get out of the Cadillac. The next thing she heard was the sound of footsteps, hard-soled shoes crunching on the small gravel stones of the parking lot. As if she believed it might do some good, she closed the blinds and jumped back in the hope of not being seen.

The silhouette of a man moved past the window and up to the door. It looked a little like Dante, but she couldn’t be certain. The round brass doorhandle shook as the man tried to turn it from the outside. Kacy had locked it behind her when she’d got back to the room. She wasn’t about to take any chances. The handle continued to rattle, more violently with each passing second. Should she call out to see if it was Dante? Or should she stay quiet in case it wasn’t? Surely if she waited long enough he would shout through the door to ask her to let him in? But what if he didn’t, and then went off to look for her instead? Goddammit. She decided she’d call out.

‘Dante? That you, baby?’

The handle on the door stopped shaking, but no voice answered. Kacy tiptoed to the door.

‘Dante?’ she repeated, a little more quietly. Still no answer. Now she was really scared, but she couldn’t think what else to do but open the door. The man outside didn’t appear to be going away, and the thought of him kicking the door down to get in terrified her so much that she decided it would be best just to open it. At least then she could pretend to be someone else, someone with nothing to hide. She reached out and placed a trembling hand on the key in the door. She was trembling so much that she accidentally turned the key before she was ready to, and the door immediately swung open a few inches. A hand jabbed in through the gap and grabbed hold of the door, pushing it open from the outside. Kacy jumped back a few paces and let out a small squeal of shock. Standing in front of her, smiling and holding up a set of car keys, was Dante.

‘Oh, baby. You scared the shit out of me! Why didn’t you answer me when I asked if it was you?’

The smile disappeared from Dante’s face.

‘Kace,’ he said seriously, ‘if you didn’t know it was me, you shouldn’t have answered the door. You’ve gotta be more careful than that, okay?’

‘Sorry, baby, but I was scared, bein’ on my own an’ everything.’

Dante threw the keys down on the bed and walked over to her. It comforted her greatly when he put his arms around her and kissed her full on the lips. Then he took her hand and led her over to the door, which was still open. Stepping out, he pointed at the car parked outside their room.

‘Take a look at this, honey. Whadda ya think of my new set of wheels?’ he said, admiring the yellow Cadillac outside. Kacy peered around the door and her eyes opened wide.

‘Wow! That’s a sexy car. Where d’ya get it?’

‘I just found it in the street after I left the bar. It was just sittin’ there with the keys already in the ignition. Seemed kinda rude not to take it, you know? I mean, someone coulda stolen it.’

Kacy wanted to be really furious with Dante for being so stupid as to steal a car when they really didn’t need to be drawing attention to themselves. But she was so relieved to have him back that she couldn’t bring herself to get too angry with him.

‘Baby, you lost your mind?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Half this town is looking for us because we got this Eye of the Moon thing, and you’ve stolen a bright yellow Cadillac. It’s not the height of discretion, is it? And where the hell have you been? You’ve been gone nearly an hour!’

Dante walked back into the room and shut the door behind him. His cheeks were rosy, as if he had been out in the cold for an unhealthy length of time, but that wasn’t actually the case. He owed his high colour simply to the fact that he was in a good mood.

‘I got more great news. Those two monks that come in the bar? Well, they walked over and sat with me. I was a bit fuckin’ worried at first, I can tell ya, but it turns out they don’t have a clue about us. They don’t know we’ve got that stone.’

‘Oh God! You didn’t mention it to them, did you?’

‘Of course not. Whadda ya think I am? A moron?’

Kacy raised an eyebrow, but otherwise chose not to respond. She was eager to know exactly what Dante had been discussing with the two monks. And it seemed that he was as eager to tell her, so she let him continue.

‘Well, anyway,’ he went on, ‘I got talkin’ to them, and they were actually really nice guys. Then I said I’d heard through the grapevine they were looking for the Eye of the Moon …’

‘Oh Dante, no …’

‘Yeah, baby, but it’s cool. I said I thought I could get it for them, but only at a price. They’re gonna give us ten grand for it!’

‘But, honey, we don’t need another ten grand!’

‘Yeah, I know. But it wouldn’t hurt, would it? And these guys weren’t violent at all. They were into peace and all that karma crap.’

Kacy moved away from Dante and sat down on the end of the bed with her head in her hands. ‘So what now? Are they comin’ here?’ she asked, fearful of what the answer might be.

‘God, no. I’m not stupid. I said I’d meet them in the same bar tomorrow morning at opening time.’

Kacy was far from convinced of the merits of this plan. Dante had obviously not thought it through, and was only now discussing it with her having already made up his mind about what to do.

‘I don’t think we should still have that stone tomorrow when the eclipse is due. I wanna get rid of it now and get out of here,’ she pleaded.

‘Kacy, calm down and trust me, will ya? Have I ever let you down?’

‘Yeah, you have. Remember that time when we had no food and you spent all our money on those Captain Hook DVDs?’

‘Well, yeah. But come on, someone had told me there was a lot of money to be made sellin’ pirate videos. How was I to know the word pirate had more than one meaning?’

Annoyingly, Dante had a cheeky grin on his face that Kacy knew she couldn’t resist. ‘You’re such a prick,’ she said, but the edge had left her voice.

‘Yeah, I know.’ He grinned down at her. ‘But this time I know what I’m doin’. I swear I’m not gonna let you down.’ He sat down next to her on the end of the bed and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him. ‘I’ve got it all figured out. Tomorrow is the day of the eclipse, the last day of the festival. That’s the day when everyone dresses up in fancy dress. I can go out in some real hot disguise so no one, not even the monks, will recognize me. That way, if there’s anything bad goin’ down, or if anything don’t look quite right, I can just get the hell out of there. You can chuck that stone in a ditch if you want, but for ten grand I reckon it’s worth taking a chance, don’t you?’

Kacy thought hard. Dante was never especially convincing when trying to get her to do stuff she was unsure about. And she was really unsure about this. But she loved him, and she knew that she would go along with his plan. And he knew it, too.

‘I love you, honey,’ was all she said.

Rather than admit that she agreed with him, she could always just say ‘I love you’ and he would know that she was going to do as he wanted.

‘I love you too,’ he smiled. ‘Everything will be all right, babe. Trust me, we’re finally gonna get lucky. Something really great is gonna happen tomorrow, I can feel it. We can start a brand-new life together after I’ve sold that blue stone to the monks, then you an’ me, we can spend the rest of our lives spendin’. We’ve worked hard for a break like this, an’ we deserve it.’

Kacy loved Dante when he was like this. His enthusiasm and complete confidence that everything would be all right was a huge turn-on for her. She also knew that he could read her like a book, so he could see she was hot for him. She didn’t need even to speak again and give her approval, for Dante just grabbed her and pushed her down on to the bed. They spent the next forty-five minutes fucking like a couple who had not seen each other in months.

Afterwards, as they lay together underneath the bedclothes, Dante repeatedly kissed the back of Kacy’s neck, telling her how much he loved her. She fell asleep with his arms draped around her, praying that it wouldn’t be the last time she felt the warmth of his body against hers. Her greatest fear was that he might have got them in over their heads this time. Sometimes, his fearlessness bordered on recklessness. And this time lives were at stake.

Forty-Three

Kyle and Peto had waved goodbye to Dante as he left the bar. He had just nodded back at them and walked out. This left them with the opportunity to discuss what they thought of him, and it also left them with a table to themselves. Neither of them had noticed that the Nightjar had become a lot busier during the time they had spent talking to the pleasant young man who called himself Dante.

‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ Peto asked Kyle, hoping for an affirmative answer.

‘You know what, Peto?’ Kyle replied. ‘I actually think he was. I know we’re probably a bit too trusting, but I genuinely believe he was an honest and helpful man.’

‘I agree. Shall we have an alcoholic drink to celebrate?’

Kyle thought about the suggestion. Peto was clearly itching to try out an alcoholic drink, and if he was honest with himself, he was curious to taste one, too. So what the heck, right?

‘Very well, then. Just one though, and no one but us two will ever know, okay? It’ll be our secret.’

‘Great. What shall we have? Beer or whisky … or bourbon?’

‘We are not having bourbon. Lord knows what that might do to us. If we’ve learnt anything these last few days, it’s that bourbon is the drink of the Devil. Let’s have a beer. That’s what Rodeo Rex was drinking, and he’s a nice fellow.’

‘I think it’s what our new friend Dante was drinking, too.’

‘Beer it is then. I’ll go and get them, Peto. You sit here and watch my seat.’

‘Okay.’

Peto was excited. He had now seen plenty of other people drinking and generally being jolly, and he was keen to experience it for himself. What he didn’t realize, however, was that in just a few minutes time he was actually going to need a stiff drink. He could not have known it, but Peto was in for the greatest five-minute eye opener of his (so far) sheltered life.

The Nightjar was full of quiet corners and alcoves where shady characters could hide away and watch other people as they drank. Apart from strangers, who were pretty much universally detested, new arrivals in town like Kyle and Peto tended to draw attention to themselves unwittingly. Rodeo Rex had warned them of this, but they had not realized just how serious his warning had been.

Once Kyle had made his way to the bar, a number of sleazy characters began to eye up the naive-looking young man sitting alone at the table, waiting for his companion to return with their drinks. Two of these lurking watchers, a step ahead of the rest, soon appeared from the shadows. Wordlessly, they pulled up chairs at Peto’s table and sat down on either side of him. Both of them were wearing long black coats with the collars turned up. Both also wore unusual necklaces on which were strung teeth that looked as though they had formerly belonged to some seriously carnivorous wild beasts. The first of the two men, a greasy, unshaven lowlife with long, straggly dark hair, leaned over the table to speak to Peto. He had piercing green eyes that looked deep into the young monk’s not-so-piercing brown ones.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Look what we’ve got here, Milo. It’s young Peto, if I’m not mistaken.’

His companion leaned forward a little, as if taking a closer look at Peto’s face.

‘Is that so, Hezekiah?’ he said in a mocking tone.

Milo had long, greasy blond hair and was of similar build to Hezekiah, but his eyes were a very disconcerting red. As he leaned over and grinned at Peto, the young monk got a good look at his horrible large yellow teeth, and smelled a good waft of his foul breath. Peto was distinctly unimpressed by the unclean look of both their faces, which was well complemented by their scruffy clothing. These two men could quite easily be living rough on the street, he thought. They were unutterably filthy, as were there clothes, and they stank horribly. Peto, of course, was not one to judge people he didn’t know, and besides, they seemed to know him, so there was no reason not to be friendly … was there?

‘How do you know who I am?’ he asked the one with the green eyes who had referred to him by name.

‘You don’t remember us, do you?’ Hezekiah replied with a smirk.

‘No. I’m sorry. I don’t.’

‘Don’t you worry, son. Your friend Kyle, he’ll know us.’

‘Oh good. Friends of his, are you?’

‘Yes. That’s right, isn’t it, Milo? We’re friends of Kyle’s, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, Hezekiah. We’re friends of Kyle. Good friends.’

It was then that it suddenly dawned on Peto that he recognized the names.

‘Wait a second,’ he blurted out, ‘you’re Milo and Hezekiah?’ He looked at them in bewilderment.

When, a moment later, Kyle came back with two bottles of beer and took his place at the table, he had no idea who Peto’s new companions were. It didn’t take him long to find out, however. Recognition dawned as soon as he heard Hezekiah’s voice. The two had been great friends before Hezekiah had left Hubal. Only now, the creature Kyle saw before him was very different from the fresh-faced young monk who had set out from Hubal five long years ago.

‘My God! Hezekiah!’ Kyle blurted out. ‘You’re alive! And is this Milo? I can’t believe it! And you’ve got hair! Wow, it’s so long. You look so different. What have you been doing?’

Hezekiah picked up the bottle of beer Kyle had put on the table for himself and took a mouthful from it before carefully setting it back down. His reply was one long sneer.

‘Drinking, fornicating, stealing, killing … Basically, everything Father Taos taught us not to do.’

There was something sinister about his tone, and Kyle was not sure what to make of it. This wasn’t the same Hezekiah he had grown up with. As young monks learning about life they had been good friends. Hezekiah was a year older than Kyle, and had always been a step ahead of him in everything. This had made Kyle a little envious of him at times, but it was also one of the main reasons why he had nothing but respect for his old friend. In his younger days he had always viewed Hezekiah as a yardstick by which to judge his own progress as a monk. Now, seeing his former colleague before him, he felt he should be overjoyed, but this shabby, sneering parody of a monk seemed just like every other man in Santa Mondega. Kyle’s every instinct was warning him that Hezekiah was untrustworthy and unpredictable, two traits that he especially hated. But he was still an old friend, and Kyle was not given to judging a man unfairly, especially one he had known before he’d been able to walk.

‘So why haven’t you come back to Hubal?’ he asked. ‘Everyone thinks you’re dead.’

The corners of Hezekiah’s mouth curled up to show off his unpleasant toothy smile.

‘To all intents and purposes I am dead, and so is Milo. Father Taos cut us loose … or didn’t he tell you?’

‘Erm, no. No, he didn’t mention it.’

‘What a surprise,’ Milo muttered under his breath, although just loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. Immediately, both Kyle and Peto were reminded of what Rodeo Rex had told them earlier. It was beginning to look as though he really might be right. Maybe Father Taos had withheld some of the truth. In fact, there was no ‘maybe’ about it. He had told them that the two monks he had sent from Hubal five years ago were dead. Hezekiah, meanwhile, had no intention of waiting for Kyle and Peto to piece it all together on their own.

‘Look,’ he said, gently tapping a long, filthy fingernail into the fleshy part of Kyle’s right shoulder. ‘You’re not welcome in this town. Get out, and get out now. We know why you’re here, but forget it. The Eye is beyond your reach, and even if it weren’t, your lives would be over if you ever succeeded in retrieving it.’

This was one of those occasions when Peto was extremely grateful that Kyle was the senior party, and as such had responsibility for asking the questions. The novice was able to sit back and try to take everything in while his brother did all the thinking.

‘What do you mean?’ Kyle asked. ‘Hezekiah, what has happened to you?’

‘Milo and I have seen the dark side, Kyle. There’s no turning back for us. You, on the other hand, have a chance. Get out of Santa Mondega tonight and don’t ever come back. Tomorrow the Lord of Darkness will return and claim the city back for the undead. If you’re still here, you will become one of them. You don’t want that, believe me.’

‘But Hezekiah,’ Kyle countered, ‘with you and Milo on our side we’re more than a match for anyone. It would be a truly heroic homecoming for you to return to Hubal with us – and with the Eye.’

Hezekiah shook his head, but he also quickly retracted his hand from the other’s shoulder and used it to hold Milo back, as if he thought he was about to lunge at Kyle. He fixed his former friend once more with his piercing green eyes.

‘Listen to me, Kyle. Don’t make this any harder than it is already. We can never return to Hubal. Father Taos saw to that. He has a dark side of his own, you know, and when Milo and I found out his dirty secret, he cut us down and left us for the vultures. Don’t doubt me, Kyle. He double-crossed us and took the Eye of the Moon back to Hubal himself. Yet we were the ones that found the Eye. We were supposed to be the ones returning home covered in glory, but he had other ideas. He’ll do the same to you, Kyle … and you too, Peto. He’ll cut you loose. Once you’ve left Hubal there’s no going back.’ He paused, then asked, ‘How many monks do you know who have ever left Hubal and returned?’

In Kyle’s lifetime, only one monk had ever left the safe haven of Hubal for more than a day and returned alive.

‘Just one,’ he replied. ‘Father Taos. All of the others were unable to cope with the dangers of the outside world. That’s why they did not return.’

‘Do you think that’s why Milo and I didn’t return?’

‘Well, no … I mean … I don’t know.’

‘Face it, Kyle, you don’t know anything. Just like Milo and I knew nothing when we left Hubal. We knew nothing until we met the man they called … the Bourbon Kid.’

Hezekiah’s voice quietened to a whisper when he mentioned the Bourbon Kid. Those two words were never to be spoken aloud in the Nightjar, out of respect for the dead.

‘The Bourbon Kid?’ said Kyle out loud. ‘What does he have to do with all this?’

BANG!

For a moment, the gunshot deafened almost everyone in the bar. Then a widespread panic broke out. All of the customers who had been drinking quietly at their tables, minding their own business, suddenly burst into movement. Yet, Hezekiah was the first to react. He sprang to his feet, turning to confront the gunman who had just fired a bullet into Milo’s chest.

Now standing, Milo, like a punch-drunk boxer, was staggering backwards from his chair, shrieking. The chair toppled over on to its side, nearly bringing him down with it. He was struggling to maintain his balance, and at the same time doing his utmost to hold one hand over the gaping hole in his chest. Stunned into immobility, Kyle and Peto just sat and watched, frozen in their seats like statues.

Milo was struggling for breath. There was blood pouring from his chest and mouth, spraying out all over his long black coat and also over those unfortunate enough to be near him. Most disturbingly of all, though, his eyes had turned black and his face was beginning to change. Right before their eyes, Milo was transforming into a creature of the night … a vampire … But a dying vampire, one that was decaying, turning to dust, and fast heading for the gates of Hell.

In contrast, Hezekiah had turned into a full-on bloodsucker almost instantaneously. He now looked a far more fearsome proposition than the shuffling, tramp-like mess that had been scowling at the two monks not more than a few seconds before. He was standing up straight, shoulders back, fangs out on display, squaring up to the gunman. The man in front of him was a walking mass of rippling muscles wearing black leather pants and jacket and a sleeveless black Helloween T-shirt. Kyle and Peto had little difficulty in recognizing him as Rodeo Rex.

Rex took aim, pointing his gun directly at Hezekiah’s chest. The vampire’s response was to snarl with rage at his attacker, who was less than six feet in front of him. He would not go down without a fight. He knew exactly who Rodeo Rex was and what his intentions were. In the blink of an eye, before Rex could pull the trigger and fire a shot into his chest, Hezekiah had shot upwards to the ceiling. The sheer velocity at which he moved was faster than any living thing Kyle or Peto had ever seen. Within half a second the vampire was standing directly behind Rex with his long, bony-fingered hands outstretched, ready to break his attacker’s neck. His fingernails had sprouted and were now almost as long as his fingers, giving his hands the illusion of looking like thin, gnarly tree roots. As he lunged for his prey he opened his mouth wide, displaying a set of razor-sharp teeth that seemed to have grown to almost twice their normal size, ready to feast on the man who had gunned down his comrade without warning or mercy. Rex, however, was (as Peto could vouch) no easy victim. He did this for a living, and he obviously knew all the predictable vampire moves. Right on cue, as Hezekiah reached out with both hands to grab his neck, the big man dropped to the floor, swivelled round on his back like a break-dancer and fired, all in one swift movement. A monstrous scream erupted from the blood-hungry mouth of Hezekiah. He tilted his head back and screeched upwards at the ceiling. Blood was spurting out from the wound over his heart as it pulsed out its last few agonizing beats. The screaming pierced the eardrums of everyone within a radius of fifty feet, and after a few seconds of it just about every customer in the Nightjar was heading for the door. Not that there was any need for them to rush. This fight was as good as over. After just a few seconds of screaming, what had once been Hezekiah burst into flames and swiftly crumbled into ash, just as his friend Milo had done.

Amidst all the chaos of people charging towards the exits, Rodeo Rex picked himself up from the floor and walked over to the table where Kyle and Peto were sitting. They were still in their chairs, not talking, rigidly staring at the spot where, less than a minute earlier, Hezekiah had performed his all-screaming, all-dancing transformation from human into vampire, and finally into particles of ash.

‘Did you two shitheads not listen to a fuckin’ word I said earlier?’ he demanded.

Neither of them could respond. But like a schoolteacher confronting a couple of pupils whom he had just caught smoking behind the gym, Rex reached both hands over the table, grabbed the front of their tunics, and dragged the pair of them up from their seats.

‘Get your sorry asses out of here, and don’t let me see you again until the sun comes back up! Have I made myself clear?’ He looked severely displeased with them, and they were not about to argue.

‘Yes, Rex, you have,’ said Peto, who for once seemed to have kept his composure rather better than Kyle. ‘Come on, Kyle, let’s get out of here.’ He grabbed their bottles of beer from the table and headed for the exit, Kyle following behind, still staring at the spot where his lifelong friend Hezekiah had burst into flames and disintegrated.

‘Hey you!’ the bartender called out. ‘You can’t take those bottles out with you.’

Rex yelled back at him on the monks’ behalf.

‘They can do as they fuckin’ please! Why don’t you go out back and suck yourself off, asshole?’

The bartender duly disappeared. He didn’t need any more trouble, and he was clever enough to know that it was in his best interests to stay clear of the killing machine and all-round local legend that was Rodeo Rex.

With the place now completely empty and no one serving at the counter, Rex helped himself to a bottle of whisky and a cigar from behind the bar and sat down on a stool. It was time to reflect on yet another ordinary, run-of-the-mill sort of day.

Forty-Four

Detective Miles Jensen was in big trouble, and he knew it. As he regained consciousness he became aware of the throbbing pain at the back of his head. It was paired with an unpleasant sensation that suggested the back of his neck was caked in blood. Dried blood, too, meaning he had been out cold for a while. He was unable to check if it really was blood, though, because his hands were bound tightly behind his back with tape. There was a cloth gag in his mouth that had been tied at the back of his head, worsening the throbbing feeling. He was lying on his side with his knees drawn up, and for some reason seemed to be bouncing up and down in the dark. Then it clicked. He was in the trunk of a car, and he was being driven somewhere. He couldn’t see a damn thing, and as the realization of his predicament sank in, all he could think of were the numerous gangster movies in which some poor unfortunate was thrown into the trunk of a car and driven to his death. The thought of such an untimely and unpleasant end only made him feel more sick than did the wound to the head and the constant bobbing around in the car.

He couldn’t hear any voices over the noise of the car’s exhaust and the tyres on the road, so he had no idea how many people were inside the vehicle. He could remember little beyond being confronted by the looming figure standing in the tree behind him. The figure had been that of a large man, but had looked more like a three-dimensional shadow in the darkness. Before he had had a chance to react, the man had leapt down from the tree and landed in front of him. But then … hold on a second … he had been hit on the back of the head. There must have been another man there. Yes, that made sense. At no time had he turned his back on the man who had jumped down from the tree, so there must have been another party present. All would soon be revealed, of course. In the meantime, he had to try to get hold of Somers. His only hope was his partner. He could feel the pager Somers had given him digging into his side, but could he get to the button on it to alert his colleague to his predicament? And even if he did, how would he answer his mobile phone if Somers called?

Undoubtedly his first priority was to free his hands from the tape that was holding them together behind his back. He would also have to keep pretty quiet while doing so. Alerting his captors to the fact that he had regained consciousness might well result in a potentially fatal stabbing incident. No point in encouraging that.

His hands were held together by some kind of thick adhesive tape. It had been wrapped around both his wrists up to the base of his thumbs, tightly binding his clenched fists together. This was going to be tricky to get out of, but, depending on how much time he had, it was definitely possible.

Eventually, after what seemed like about ten minutes but was probably much less, Jensen managed to free his left thumb a little. Not enough actually to break completely free, but enough to twist his arm round and get that blessed little thumb on to the button on the pager in his left pocket. Goddamn you, Somers, he thought. You’d better be awake.

After pressing the button on the pager, he spent the next ten minutes trying to free his hands some more, but without success. The car had made a couple of stops, usually followed by a sudden left or right turn that threw him off balance a little. But at the end of this next ten minutes, the car stopped again and the engine was turned off. A second or two of silence was followed by the sound of at least two car doors opening, then closing. He heard muffled voices, then the trunk lid was lifted and Jensen found himself looking up at two faceless shadows in the dark. He was right. He had been attacked by two men. Two very large men, too, but in the darkness he couldn’t make out any features on their faces.

‘Detective Miles Jensen,’ said the deathly cold voice that had addressed him from the tree earlier. ‘Welcome to the last moments of your life.’

Forty-Five

The Mystic Lady always had a tendency to paranoia. It was part of her charm, and one of the reasons why people took her even remotely seriously. It undoubtedly added to her mystique and credibility and, as a consequence, her bank balance. On the few occasions when she strayed far from her front door she was always checking around her to make sure she wasn’t being followed. The local kids all thought she was crazy, as indeed did most of the adults. Usually the only people who didn’t dismiss her as a crank were those in their late teens and early twenties, and that was generally because they had been experimenting with drugs, which left them slightly more open-minded about her belief in the supernatural.

She never went out after dark because of her fear of vampires (and the undead in general; hell, ghosts and zombies and werewolves and all the rest weren’t a whole heap of fun, either). And it was actually with the greatest trepidation that she ventured out at all during the Lunar Festival. All the evil entities the festival brought with it would normally be enough to ensure that she stocked up on groceries for an entire month, rather than leave the safety of home. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her on this occasion, though. The recent visit she had received from Dante and Kacy had set her mind racing. After they had left she had racked her brains for anything she could remember about the magical blue stone known as the Eye of the Moon. Most of the tales about the stone were probably rubbish, but they were definitely part of local legend, so during the early afternoon she had made a trip across town to the City Library. The institution had a pretty decent section on local mythology and legends, so there was a chance she might happen upon something there.

Finding a book containing information about the Eye of the Moon had been harder than she expected. Had it not been for her intuition, her sixth sense, she might not have found anything. But find something she did. A book with no name, by an anonymous author. Locating such a volume on the shelves of the vast library was not easy, and it took her some time. Consequently, by the time she had returned home with it, she was extremely tired and hungry.

She had made herself a light lunch and then taken a nap before finally opening the book in the early evening. Her day trip had been well and truly worthwhile, and now she was sitting at her table reading a three-inch thick hardback book, bound in worn brown leather. It was clearly extremely old, and she was astonished that the library would even consider allowing it out on loan. Then again, how would anyone who was not looking for it ever find it?

The book was in English – to her relief – most of it inscribed in black ink in a neat script, although there was evidence of other hands, as well as numerous emendations and marginalia. It began with a handwritten warning on the first page. The author had inserted what read a little like a disclaimer:

Dear Reader,

Only the pure of heart may look upon the pages of this book.

Every page you turn, every chapter you read, will bring you closer to the end.

Not everyone will make it. The many different plots and styles may dazzle and confuse.

And all the while as you search for the truth, it will be there right before you.

Darkness will come, and with it great evil.

And those who have read the book may never see the light again.

Unfortunately, the book had no list of contents, no chapter headings, and no index, and any information about the Eye was likely to be spread widely through its pages. To read the entire text, which was in manuscript throughout, from cover to cover would take her about three days with little or no sleep. Too long – with the Lunar Festival almost upon them, there certainly wasn’t enough time. Acutely conscious of this, she began scouring the book’s handwritten pages for any mention of the Eye. It took her an hour, until nearly ten o’clock, before she found the first mention of it.

Because she was merely scanning the book for mention of the Eye of the Moon, the Mystic Lady had not managed to learn much of the general gist of what the book was about. All she had managed to discover was that the author of the first few chapters hinted that he was one of Jesus Christ’s twelve Apostles, and had started writing the book as a journal after the crucifixion. Where others had begun documenting the life and times of Christ in the texts that would be assembled in the New Testament, this person had written only about what had occurred in the aftermath of the crucifixion. She found that her eyes and brain soon became accustomed to the handwritten script, and the pages were made of a thick, yellowish parchment that went some way to explaining the volume’s astonishingly good condition, given its antiquity.

At some time the journal had fallen into the hands of someone who had translated it into English, and later entries in the book were all in the same language. About a fifth of the way through the book, the handwriting changed and the story became the tale of a character named Xavier, a gentleman travelling around Egypt on a quest for the Holy Grail. It was an odd change of tack in the book, because the first section had been kept as a diary, whereas the adventures of Xavier reminded her nothing so much as a bad script for an Indiana Jones movie. But here, at last, was a reference to the subject of her own quest.

The story told how Xavier had stayed at a temple where he had come across a painting of a magnificent blue stone known as the Eye of the Moon. The stone’s whereabouts, he learned, was a closely guarded secret that the monks of the temple were unwilling to share with him. The anonymous author became very passionate about this part of the tale, spending several pages expressing Xavier’s desire to know where it might be and what secrets it might hold. Apparently, the monks were forbidden by their vows to keep possessions, certainly those of any financial worth, so it fascinated Xavier that they would retain something so obviously valuable, and more importantly, keep it so well hidden. He had stumbled across the picture of it quite by accident one day while looking for Father Gaius, the principal monk. Gaius had become quite angry with Xavier and had even gone to the lengths of destroying the painting, which he had removed and ordered to be burned.

In the end, Xavier’s search for information about the Holy Grail took him to pastures new, and there was no other mention of the Eye again in the book for quite some time. The Mystic Lady had become so engrossed in the adventures of Xavier that she was very tempted to carry on reading about his quest for the Grail, but she knew that there would be time to read more later. She had to find out all she could about the Eye. That was her top priority.

It was almost eleven o’clock before she found some further information. The narrative was still centred on Xavier and was now set in the winter of the year 1537. While travelling around Central America, Xavier had stumbled across one of the monks from the Egyptian temple. The monk had been a young novice when they had first met, but was now a fully grown man. More importantly, as far as Xavier was concerned, this monk, Ishmael, had been banished from the temple after falling foul of Father Gaius. Although the book was annoyingly vague about the reasons, it was clear that Ishmael had broken one of the monks’ sacred vows, and in doing so had compromised the secret hiding place of the Eye of the Moon. The story then continued rather slowly, with Xavier and Ishmael becoming inseparable and travelling together in search of the Holy Grail. Again the Mystic Lady found herself getting sidetracked as it became more and more apparent that Xavier and his newfound friend were extremely close to locating the so-called ‘Cup of Christ’. Then, just as it seemed they were within an ace of finding it, the author changed again, literally in mid-sentence. A completely different handwriting took up the narrative, and there was no more mention of the Holy Grail.

The new writer never referred to himself by name but was quite certainly a man. The Mystic Lady had sensed this from the way he spoke of a battle against the forces of evil, and a quest to find the Eye of the Moon before the ‘Dark Lord’. There had been no mention of any Dark Lord up to this point, or at least none that she had noticed. This author told exciting tales of adventure upon the high seas and expeditions through deserts. It was all good, heroic stuff, right up until the author suddenly fell in love. Bored by the sentiments that now swamped the tale, the Mystic Lady tried to flick past this part. The author droned on and on about how he had fallen for a girl named Maria, and how he had given up his right to return home because of his forbidden love for her.

The tediousness of the love story began to make the Mystic Lady feel rather drowsy, so shortly before midnight she made herself a mug of coffee. But the caffeine boost did little to stimulate her brain, and so she therefore decided to get a few hours’ sleep. She pulled a thin black leather bookmark from a drawer in her table and placed it on the page where she had stopped reading. However, as she went to close the book it fell open at a page with a drawing on it. She had come across several maps and diagrams, as well as artefacts and buildings, scattered intermittently through the book. All of the authors had been particularly good at recording such things, but this picture was different. It was a drawing of a happy couple. Beneath it was a caption written in a fine italic hand. Blinking hard to keep her eyes open, the Mystic Lady peered down to read what it said:

‘The Dark Lord Xavier on his wedding day.’

There came a knock at her door. A loud booming knock. Caught unawares, the Mystic Lady started like a frightened deer. Her initial thought was to get up and answer the door so that she could hurl a torrent of abuse at whatever idiot had come knocking so late at night. Usually the only people ever to knock on her door at such a late hour were drunken teenagers or travellers who wanted their fortunes told. However, it being Lunar Festival, she decided to show a little caution before opening the door to someone she had yet to see.

‘Who’s there?’ she called out.

There was no answer. This was not, in fact, unusual. It often happened that some of the comedians who came to visit her didn’t reply when she asked ‘Who’s there?’ It was an unoriginal prank that some of the more small-minded visitors liked to play. ‘I thought you’d know it was me,’ they would say when she answered the door. ‘What kind of a fortune teller are you if you didn’t know it was me?’ and so on – feeble jokes that she had heard a thousand times over the years.

It was with a little trepidation and a great deal of annoyance that she got up from her table and went to the door. As carefully and quietly as she could, she unlocked it and peered out, ready to fire off some abuse at whatever idiot was out there. What she saw came as her second surprise of the last few minutes.

Standing outside in the cold night was a young woman dressed all in black. The Mystic Lady almost didn’t see her in the dark. Had her face not been so pale, she would have been all but invisible in the night.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ she asked the young woman, crossly.

‘I am sorry. It’s just that I really need your help with something,’ her visitor replied.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jessica.’

‘Well, Jessica, might I recommend that you come back tomorrow during the day? I’m closed right now, and I’m about ready to go to bed.’

‘Please, miss, I only need five minutes of your time,’ the girl pleaded.

She looked extremely cold and tired, as well as somewhat desperate. More importantly, though, she looked sober, and she had pleading eyes, so the Mystic Lady took pity on her. Surely this pretty and innocent-looking girl couldn’t be a prankster?

‘I was hoping you could tell me who I am,’ Jessica went on. ‘You see, I’ve been in a coma for five years, and I seem to be suffering from amnesia.’

Hmm, the old woman thought to herself, perhaps she was a prankster after all. She replied crisply, ‘Oh, what rubbish. Honestly, couldn’t you come up with something better than that?’

‘Please, ma’am, you must believe me. I keep having visions … you know … flashbacks. I think a man called the Bourbon Kid may be coming to kill me. It’s all something to do with the Eye of the Moon.’

The Eye of the Moon! What were the chances? Mention of the Bourbon Kid and the Eye of the Moon was just about the only reason for which the Mystic Lady would let anyone into her home at this late hour. She wanted as much information about the Eye as she could get, and felt that to turn this young woman away and risk never seeing her again was too big a chance to take.

‘All right,’ she relented. ‘Come in. Just five minutes, mind.’

‘Oh, thank you. You’re so kind.’

The Mystic Lady led the girl into her narrow room and gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs at her table. Jessica did as instructed.

‘What’s the book you’re reading?’ she asked.

‘Never you mind.’ The fortune teller scowled.

The Mystic Lady had no wish to become too heavily involved with the comings and goings of the people who were pursuing the stone. If Jessica turned out to be a fraud – or worse – then the last thing the fortune teller wanted was for the girl to know that she herself was taking an over-zealous interest in the Eye of the Moon. She closed the book and placed it on the floor under the desk, then took up her usual position in the tall-backed wooden chair across the table from Jessica.

‘So, then, Jessica. What do you know about yourself?’

‘Not much. I’ve been too afraid to ask around in case anyone sees me as a soft touch and tries to take advantage. People see a young woman and find out she knows no one and no one knows her, they start to get ideas, you know?’

‘Well, that’s true,’ the Mystic Lady agreed. ‘So you know nothing, then?’

‘No, I do know a little. I know that a man called the Bourbon Kid tried to kill me about five years ago, and that’s why I was in a coma. Now I suspect he’s after me again, but I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is I’ve done to upset him. Do you think you can help me? My friend Jefe suggested I ask for your help.’

‘Jefe, you say?’ the Mystic Lady inquired, recognizing the name of the feared bounty hunter.

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘A little. He’s been here once or twice.’

‘So … is he right? Can you help me?’

‘Maybe. Let’s look into my crystal ball and see what we can find.’

The Mystic Lady leaned forward, lifted the black silk cover off the crystal ball on her table and dropped it on to the book on the floor at her feet. Then she began to rub her hands slowly over the ball, as if trying to warm it. The curious mist swirled around inside for a few moments, before slowly clearing. Gradually the silhouette of a man began to appear in the heart of the glass sphere.

‘Oh … I see the hooded man … the Bourbon Kid,’ the old woman gasped. ‘I think you’re right. I think he may be coming for you.’ She stopped peering into the ball and stared up into Jessica’s eyes to see how she reacted. ‘This man is bad news. Very bad news. He killed a lot of people in this town five years ago. If he’s coming after you, then I suggest you get as far away from Santa Mondega as you possibly can.’

Jessica looked horrified, and deeply worried. There was no faking such a reaction. So she’s not a fraud, the fortune teller thought, as the girl spoke.

‘Do you know why he wants to kill me? Does your ball tell you that? Or can it tell you anything about me? Where do I come from? How did I survive last time?’

‘Please, dear, one question at a time,’ said the Mystic Lady, looking closer into the clouded sphere for answers. ‘This man, this Bourbon Kid, he has unfinished business with you,’ she said slowly, concentrating hard on the swirling images in the ball. ‘His desire to kill you is very, very strong. He’ll stop at nothing, and he’s been preparing himself for your return. My God, this man has foul intentions towards you. Only thing is, though, I can’t see why … No, hold on – something is coming to me.’

Very suddenly, she jumped back as if startled by something.

‘What? What is it?’ cried Jessica. ‘What have you seen?’ The old woman looked absolutely terrified. Her face had gone very white, and she was trembling slightly. Her voice quavered when she spoke again. ‘You say you really don’t know who you are?’ she asked Jessica.

‘Yes. Why? What have you seen? Who am I?’

‘I … I don’t know … I’m sorry. You should leave.’ All of a sudden it seemed that the fortune teller couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

‘Why? What did you see?’ ‘Nothing, I saw nothing, I tell you. Now go.’ The Mystic Lady was clearly lying. She knew it, and she knew that Jessica knew it. Normally she could cover up a lie as convincingly as the next fortune teller, but on this occasion she had slipped up. It was obvious from her reaction that she knew something, and the girl wasn’t going to let it go without a fight.

‘Bullshit! You saw something. I think you should tell me what you’ve seen. I could get nasty, you know? NOW WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN?’

The Mystic Lady jumped as Jessica shouted the last few words. She could feel her heart beating at an alarming rate. It seemed to be positively thumping against her breastbone in an attempt to flee her chest.

‘I … I saw the Bourbon Kid. He is coming here. He is coming to kill you right now. You should go. He could be upon us at any second now.’

‘Really?’ Jessica seemed astonished. ‘Are you telling me the truth?’ She was studying the Mystic Lady’s reaction closely to see if she was lying.

‘Yes. Honestly. That’s all I saw. Look, I don’t want that man coming here. Please, leave now.’

‘But why does he want to kill me?’

‘I don’t know. Now get out, for your own sake!’

Jessica stood up from her seat. This mad old gypsy had made it clear how keen she was to get rid of her, but she tried a last question. Very quietly, she asked, ‘Are you sure you didn’t see anything else … you know? … about me?’

‘No. I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Please go.’ There was a hard finality in her tone, and she was greatly relieved to see Jessica head for the door. The young woman didn’t seem especially scared by what she had just been told. She looked more confused than anything else.

‘Goodbye, Jessica,’ the Mystic Lady called after her. ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of the Lunar Festival.’

‘Yeah, thanks. Goodbye to you, too … Annabel.’

‘Excuse me? What did you call me?’

‘Annabel. That is your name isn’t it? Annabel de Frugyn?’

The fortune teller was very careful about giving out her name. It made her easily traceable by the taxman, for a start, so it was very rare for anyone not close to her to know it.

‘Yes. It is my name, but how did you know?’

Jessica gave the Mystic Lady a stare that suggested she too could withhold information when she chose to, but then answered anyway.

‘Jefe told me.’

As if that were her parting shot in an argument, Jessica swept aside the bead curtain, swung open the front door and stormed out in a fury. Much to the fortune teller’s annoyance she didn’t shut the door properly behind her either. It was very close to being shut, but even so it was still fractionally ajar. To a stranger unused to the door it would look closed, but Annabel de Frugyn knew the door well, and it wasn’t shut as firmly as she would like. Young people, in particular, had a habit of not closing the door properly, and at this time of night it was particularly unwelcome. There wasn’t a draught coming in just yet, but it was only a matter of time. Besides, she would have to lock it. If the Bourbon Kid really was coming, he would presumably pick up Jessica’s trail, and so by-pass the Mystic Lady’s tiny home. Even so, it would be foolish to leave the door unsecured.

Normally she would have got up and closed the door straight away, but she wanted first to remind herself quickly of the picture she had seen in the book. She reached down under the desk and lifted the black silk square from its resting place on the book and slipped it back over her crystal ball. That done, she reached back down under the desk and picked up the book. She opened it out on her table once more and tried to find the page with the drawing of Xavier on it. As she scoured numerous drawings on the pages, trying to find it, the gust of wind she had been expecting blew in from outside and turned a whole sheaf of pages for her. She had neither the time nor the patience for this irritation, so she got up to shut the door, which by now was almost fully open.

She took a step outside to see if Jessica was still in sight, in order to wave an angry fist at her behind her back, but there was no sign of her late-night visitor. There were no other strangers around either, and it was a relief to see that the streets outside were deserted for as far as she could see.

The wind had whipped up quite strongly and it took her some effort to shut the door. Once she had closed it she pulled the big rusty metal bolt across to keep it shut, then turned the small silver key in the lock until it would turn no more and she was certain the door was secured. With a yawn and a stretch of her tired arms she turned back to the book.

There followed the awful moment when she realized that she was no longer alone in her home. Someone was standing directly in front of her in the middle of the room, between her and the book. She jumped in fright and surprise, and it took her a few seconds to calm down just enough to get her breath back.

‘How did you get in?’ she asked the imposing figure in front of her.

The intruder gave no verbal response to the question. For the next twenty minutes the only sounds that could be heard from within the House of the Mystic Lady were her screams, but these were mostly drowned out by the howling wind outside, which had now reached gale force.

Annabel de Frugyn’s screaming eventually came to an end when her tongue was ripped from her throat.

Forty-Six

His captors had unceremoniously thrown Jensen on to the dirty, straw-littered stone floor after they had smuggled him safely into the barn in which he now found himself. Other than being in a barn, he had absolutely no idea where he was. The building could have been in the back garden of a house in the city centre, or it could have been out in the middle of the desert, for all he could tell. It was a very large barn with bales of straw piled up high against the back wall. There was no electricity, and it obviously wouldn’t be a good idea to use candles in an old wooden structure like this, so the only light came from the moon shining in through the open doorway.

The two big men kicked him a few times while he was on the floor, more to unsettle him than actually to inflict any pain. After a short but not too unpleasant kicking, they heaved him up, slung him on to a stack of bales and sat him upright against another stack behind him. One of them then forcefully removed the gag from his mouth, so relieving a little of his discomfort. At least now he could take a deep breath of air to help to calm his nerves.

Now that there was a little light, and he was able to breathe more easily, Jensen finally had a chance to take a good look at his two captors. Their faces were still half in shadow, but nevertheless he recognized them from photos he had seen of them in some of his top-secret government files. These were El Santino’s henchmen, Carlito and Miguel. Both of them wore black suits with black shirts under their jackets, as though it were a designated uniform. It was well known locally that these two men always worked together. Rumour had it that they were homosexuals who hated to be parted and were fiercely loyal to each other. That loyalty was only surpassed by that which they felt for their boss, El Santino, who was said to be like a father to them. Indeed, there was a distinct possibility that he was a father to them. The pair of them were high on Jensen’s list of potential vampires. If El Santino was the head vampire, then these guys were his two high priests who did all of his dirty work for him. Their dirty work right now was either questioning Miles Jensen, disposing of his body, or both.

‘Right,’ said Carlito, whose body language and aggressive posture suggested that he was the more dominant of the two. ‘What the fuck were you doing hiding in the bushes outside El Santino’s estate?’

Jensen knew that he had to try to bullshit them first. They would probably know he was lying, but if he could get them to believe he hadn’t been staking out El Santino’s mansion, he had at least half a chance of getting out alive, or at least of stalling them until Somers worked out where he was.

‘My car broke down and I was waiting in the bushes to see if anyone might come along to give me a hand,’ he said, with a level of composure that surprised even him. ‘No one came, though. Not a single car came past. I was about to settle down to sleep in the bushes when you two appeared.’

There was no response from either of the two men for a few painfully long seconds. They both looked long and hard at him, studying his face, waiting for him to give away the slightest hint that he was lying. Having his hands tied behind his back was making it difficult for him to remain in the position they had placed him in, and he saw this as a good opportunity accidentally to fall over sideways, thereby alleviating the pressure of the questioning for a moment. Miguel quickly stepped forward from his position just behind Carlito’s right shoulder and sat him back upright again on the stack of bales and then gave him a slap round the face for good measure. Carlito stepped forward and placed a hand around Jensen’s mouth. He squeezed his prisoner’s cheeks hard.

‘Look, you dumbass black bastard,’ he said. ‘We know who you are. You’re a fucking cop, and your name is Miles Jensen.’ He let go of Jensen’s cheeks and pushed him backwards. The detective’s head thudded into the stack of straw bales behind him.

‘Oh, right,’ said a somewhat riled Jensen. The ‘black bastard’ comment had infuriated him. He was never one to tolerate racial abuse, especially not from a couple of goddam fags. ‘Well, I know who you are too,’ he warned.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. You’re fucking Carlito, and from what I hear you’re also fucking your friend Miguel. Leastways, that’s what the file says.’

Neither Carlito nor Miguel seemed in the least bit fazed by Jensen’s defiant attempt at wit. Worse, Carlito even smiled at him. ‘It’ll be Carlito and Miguel fucking Miles Jensen if you’re not careful,’ he retorted. ‘Now tell me, black boy, what were you doing staking out El Santino’s house? What were you hoping to find? And don’t lie to me. I can tell when people lie, so choose your answers carefully. Because every time you lie, I’ll cut off one of your fucking fingers.’

This was not exactly what Jensen had been hoping to hear. Physical torture of the digit-amputating kind wasn’t something he had had the misfortune to endure in the past, and it certainly wasn’t something he wanted to participate in now. In consequence, he chose his next words with care.

‘Nothing. And that’s exactly what I found. Nothing. So can I go now, please?’

‘Nope.’ Carlito pushed Miguel towards Jensen. ‘Check his pockets. See if he’s got any cameras or bugging devices on him.’

Jensen was treated to a thoroughly brutal body search by Miguel, who swiftly discovered his cellphone, his badge and his pager. He threw the pager to the floor, then passed the phone and badge to Carlito. ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked his partner.

‘Not working alone, are you, Detective Jensen?’ said Carlito, staring at the phone in his hand. He flipped it open and flicked through its address book, then let out a contented sigh. ‘So, Detective Archibald Somers is your partner, huh? Well now, that is interesting. Has he told you his theory about the Bourbon Kid yet?’

‘Coupla times.’

Carlito laughed. ‘Yeah, he’s a character, old Somers, isn’t he? Always pinning everything on the Bourbon Kid. You know, he’s nearly got me believing it. He’s kinda passionate about it, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Jensen calmly. ‘And you know what else? He’s very good at his job, too. He’ll know I’m here. This place could be swarming with cops any minute.’

Jensen was bluffing and somehow he sensed that Carlito knew it.

‘Of course,’ the latter smiled. ‘Miguel, will you keep Axel Foley here entertained while I make a call to the boss?’

‘Sure. Be glad to.’

Carlito left the barn, tapping a few of the keys on Jensen’s cellphone as he went. For the next few minutes the detective sat uncomfortably as Miguel leaned over him, staring down at him like a caveman seeing a black person for the very first time.

Eventually, after about five minutes, Carlito came back into the barn pushing a wheelbarrow in front of him. Propped up in the wheelbarrow was a scarecrow. It was dressed in a black robe and a short black pointy hat, but its head was plain straw with no facial features whatsoever. Carlito pushed the wheelbarrow over towards Jensen, setting it down about three yards in front of the increasingly unsettled detective.

‘So, Mister Detective Miles Jensen, have you ever heard of the curse of the Santa Mondega scarecrow?’ he asked. Miguel blurted out half a cackle as if something Carlito had said was funny.

‘No. Can’t say I have,’ Jensen retorted. ‘And I’m not particularly fussed about hearing about it now.’

Carlito nudged Miguel towards their captive once again. ‘Tie him tightly to that stack of bales he’s on. Make sure he can’t move.’

Miguel got to work quickly, tying Jensen’s bound hands down at the back of the stack of bales. He clearly took great pleasure in being as rough as possible in doing so, too. When he had finished to his satisfaction, he stood back and admired his handiwork. ‘Tell him the story about the scarecrows,’ he said, grinning broadly at Carlito.

Carlito stepped forward and leaned over Jensen so that he could hear clearly, and feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke.

‘You see, Detective Jensen, and as you very well know, in Santa Mondega there’s a bit of a problem with the undead.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. And you’ve been barking up the old vampire tree, haven’t you?’

Jensen chose not to respond. Expecting this, Carlito carried on regardless.

‘You see, the undead in Santa Mondega aren’t just vampires, my friend. At midnight every night the straw people come to life for one hour … and they must feed. There’s nothing they like better than blacks, too. It’s why there are so few of your people in Santa Mondega. The scarecrows love ‘em, see?’ He held Jensen’s cellphone up in front of him and then dropped it into his lap. ‘I’ve set the alarm to go off at one o’clock, the end of the witching hour. If you hear it, it means you’re still alive and that the scarecrow likes you. If you don’t get to hear it, well then, that means you’re dead.’ Turning to go, he added, ‘So if he does wake up, tell Mister Scarecrow we said hello.’

Carlito and Miguel were laughing as they left the barn. As he stared into the empty straw face of the scarecrow that stared blankly back at him, Jensen could hear them smugly congratulating themselves all the way back to their car.

A couple of comedians, the pair of them, he thought. Scarecrows coming to life at midnight and feeding on the locals? Ridiculous.

Forty-Seven

Jessica had arranged to meet Jefe in the Nightjar, but when she got there she was unsure whether or not she wanted to go in. The place looked open, all right. The lights were on, inside and out, but it also looked empty. Jefe had assured her the bar would be buzzing right through to sunrise. That did not appear to be the case, however. Right now, the Nightjar looked totally dead from the outside. There was no music playing and no sound of voices, either. There wasn’t even a single soul wandering the streets outside in a drunken stupor, as one would expect at such an hour. The question going through Jessica’s mind was Why? She had to know just why this place was so quiet, when it was supposed to be brimming with hardcore drinkers at this late hour.

She walked up to take a look through one of the Nightjar’s tall but narrow dark-tinted windows. She had to press her face right up against it in order to see anything clearly. Through the dark glass, all she could make out was that there was one man sitting at the bar, drinking. There was no sign of a bartender or any other customers. More importantly, there was no sign of Jefe.

Jessica took a moment to weigh up her options. She could head off down the road to the Tapioca to see if Jefe was there, or take the plunge and go into the Nightjar and ask the man at the bar if he had seen the bounty hunter anywhere. She was just about to make her decision when she noticed the blood all over the floor. She also noticed that the man at the bar had spots of blood sprinkled over his bare tattooed arms.

As if he could sense he was being watched through the window, the man turned round and looked right at her. He didn’t smile, he didn’t glare, he just looked at her. Jessica figured this was her cue to make like a tree, so she stepped back into the dark where he couldn’t see her any more. She figured Jefe must have gone to the Tapioca. That was the only place that would still be open and serving drinks. If she couldn’t find him there, then it was a safe bet that he had gone back to the hotel room that she was now sharing with him.

Rodeo Rex had been drinking on his own for about an hour. No one had dared to come into the Nightjar since the vampire-slaughtering incident. Even those who didn’t know what had happened had been wise enough to take one look through the window and then continue on their way down the road to the Tapioca. The bartender hadn’t shown his face since Rex had told him in no uncertain terms to get lost. He had remained out back, or maybe even gone to bed.

The barman’s absence was not something that Rex was overly concerned about. He had just killed two former Hubal monks who had turned into vampires, and he had done it in front of an entire bar full of people. Fact was, chances were high that more than half of the clientele in the Nightjar were vampires. The sight of him killing off Milo and Hezekiah would have been enough to scare off any other members of the undead, as well as any normal folks. This guaranteed one thing, though. It would increase the chances of a visit from more of the undead. They would come back in greater numbers, that was for certain.

What was not certain (but was what Rex was hoping for), was an appearance from the Lord of the Undead. Killing the Dark Lord would pretty much finish the job off in one go. The rest of the undead would most likely fuck off to another town. They were cowardly creatures, all of them. If they knew that Rex had killed their leader, then they wouldn’t hang out in Santa Mondega for much longer. The population of the town would be significantly reduced overnight.

No matter how much he drank, Rex couldn’t get rid of a sense of unease. Ever since he had spotted what he had learned was the Bourbon Kid at the coffee bar in the boxing tent earlier in the day, he had felt extremely uncomfortable. His mind drifted back to the day, several years earlier, when he had met the Kid for the first time. He’d had no idea at the time that the man he had challenged to an arm wrestle was in fact the Bourbon Kid. He had gone by another name at the time. What the fuck was it? Rex thought about it for several minutes without even coming close to remembering it, but it mattered not. The Kid was now in the same town as him once more, and a chance to exact revenge was on the cards.

On their previous meeting Rex had stumbled across the Kid in a run-down, smoky old bar situated in what passed for the red-light district of Plainview, Texas. The Kid was taking on all-comers at arm wrestling and winning each bout comfortably, earning a tidy sum in the process. Rex gladly threw down some money and challenged him. He had expected to win easily, as he had every other test of strength since his early teens. But something had gone horribly wrong. His opponent (who, as he had only discovered today, turned out to be the most wanted man in Santa Mondega) had put up a superhuman show of defiance for almost forty minutes in an arm-wrestling bout that had since become an urban legend. It had attracted literally hundreds of spectators. The longer it went on, the more spectators appeared and the more money exchanged hands as people gambled away their hard-earned cash on the outcome.

It had looked as though the bout would go on all night, for both men refused to give an inch. That is, until eventually, as if he had become bored, the Bourbon Kid let his arm go limp and Rex slammed it down on to the table for the most satisfying victory he could remember.

It was then that things had taken an ugly turn. This man, who had not said a word all through the bout, refused to let go of Rex’s hand. Instead of releasing his grip, he tightened it. And tightened it. Then he tightened it some more. Rex remembered the pain inflicted upon him every time he looked down at his metal hand. The Kid had squeezed so hard that every bone in Rex’s hand was crushed, leaving him in absolute agony. Afterwards, without offering his congratulations or even an apology for his post-bout actions, the Kid had simply got up and left the bar. Rex had used his good hand to pick up his winnings and had then driven to a hospital where, to his horror, and despite his sometimes violent protests, his crushed hand had been amputated in order to save him from losing most of his arm. That day, he had sworn revenge on his adversary if he ever saw him again.

Over the next few months that followed the incident he had constructed a metal hand for himself in order to ensure that the next time their paths crossed it would be the Kid with the broken hand. Normally, when he’d had a few drinks and thought about that day the recollection made him angry and bitter, but today it just served to fuel the unease he felt. Something was about to go down in Santa Mondega, and it was going to be big. He was certain of it.

Killing a couple of vampires should have lightened his mood quite considerably. The kill seemed to have gone just fine, but something about it felt incomplete. Moreover, his sixth sense was telling him that his evening’s killing was not yet over. Worst of all, he had this horrible feeling he was being watched. At one point he had turned round and seen a woman’s face staring in at him through the window. The face soon disappeared back into the night, but there had been something about it that tugged at his memory. It had looked familiar. He was sure he had seen the woman somewhere before. But where? He had recognized the Bourbon Kid instantly, but this girl, her face was one that he just couldn’t place. He had met hundreds of pretty young women in his time, and even from the brief glimpse he’d had through the window, this was one of the prettiest. Unfortunately, he had consumed so much whisky by now that he couldn’t figure out where he knew her from. He was confident he’d work it out in the morning, and he decided that the fact that he couldn’t resolve it now was a good indication that it was time to stop drinking.

Berkley, the bartender in the Nightjar, was still annoyed at the way he had been spoken to by Rodeo Rex, but he knew better than to fuck around with someone who could kill vampires as efficiently and ruthlessly as the giant man sitting in his bar. He watched television in the back room for about two hours while, out at the bar counter, Rex drank away for free. Every once in a while there would be a brief burst of shouting and the noise of a chair being thrown around. Berkley figured this was either Rex scaring off other potential customers, or just getting drunker and trashing the place for fun.

There had been one particularly loud and boisterous ruckus about half an hour ago, which had sounded very much as though Rex was giving another vampire a good pasting. Since then there had been complete silence. Not even a squeak from any of the rats that frequently scampered about in the bar area. Half an hour of peace and quiet was just enough to imply that Rex might have finally gone home for the night. Berkley therefore decided to risk it and see if it would be safe to go back out to the bar area and lock up.

He poked his head around the door and looked into the barroom. As before there was just the one man sitting at the bar, only this time it wasn’t Rodeo Rex. It was someone else, someone worse.

Far worse.

Berkley felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Perched on a stool at the bar was a hooded man. The bartender recognized him instantly. He had seen this man just once before in his life. Five years ago he had come in and killed everyone in the bar, except the by then terrified Berkley. Rumours had flown around that he had long since been killed, but these rumours were obviously nothing more than wishful thinking. Sitting at the bar of the Nightjar was the Bourbon Kid. No question about it.

‘The service is real slow in here tonight,’ the Kid said, lowering his hood to reveal his face.

He had not changed much since the last time Berkley had seen him. His hair was slightly darker and his face was a little more leathery, perhaps from spending a lot of time in the sun. There were no two ways about it, though, this was definitely the Bourbon Kid. And that, Berkley concluded, was not a good thing. There was an awkward moment during which he didn’t know how to respond to the Kid’s observation about the speed of the service. He almost felt that it would be polite to thank the other man for not killing him five years earlier, but somehow he thought that might only put ideas into the head of this somewhat unpredictable individual.

Berkley surveyed the devastation in the barroom behind the Kid. Tables and chairs were broken and lying upside down all around the floor. There was still blood everywhere. One Godalmighty mess to clean up in the morning, he thought. If, of course, he was lucky enough to be alive in the morning, what with the biggest mass murderer in local history sitting in front of him. Best not to keep this fellow waiting.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry, what would you like, sir? All drinks are on the house this evening.’

‘That’s good. An’ that bein’ the case, I’ll have bourbon. And make sure you fill the glass.’

Oh fuck! This is what started it last time. Berkley thought back five years to the Kid’s last appearance in his bar. He had served him a glass of bourbon without giving it any thought at the time. After all, how was he to know that the guy had a bit of a drink problem? The second the Kid had finished his bourbon he went beserk and blew everyone away, except for Berkley, who he insisted should carry on serving him drinks for another hour or so. Even when truckloads of armed police officers arrived, the Kid had been unfazed. He took time out from drinking to deal with them, until such time that they just couldn’t find any more cops with the guts to show up. Berkley had spent a lot of time ducking below the counter to escape stray rounds, occasionally bobbing up to refresh the Kid’s glass.

Whatever had happened five years ago, though, Berkley didn’t have the nerve to keep the Bourbon Kid waiting now, so he poured him out a glass of his best bourbon over a couple of ice cubes. ‘So what have you been up to?’ he asked, simply because he thought it might delay the Kid drinking his drink.

The bar’s only customer picked up his glass and took a long hard look at its contents. It was the finest bourbon in the house, and to a man with such a fine appreciation of the stuff it must have looked like gold dust.

‘Been on the wagon,’ he said.

‘Good for you. How long for?’

‘Five years.’

Oh sweet Jesus, thought Berkley. This guy couldn’t handle his drink last time he was in here. So now, if he hasn’t had a drop in five years, this one is going to go straight to his head. Better try to talk him out of it.

‘Wow, you know,’ he began tentatively, ‘if I hadn’t had a drink for five years, I sure wouldn’t want to start again. Not ever. I wouldn’t touch a drop. You sure you really want that bourbon? Maybe you should start off on something a little weaker, you know … like lemonade?’

The Kid stopped staring at the contents of his drink and looked up at Berkley. He had a certain annoyed look to him about which the bartender was more than a little concerned.

‘Listen here, my friend,’ the gravelly voice rasped out. ‘I’ve come in here for a quiet drink. I don’t want any idle chit-chat distractin’ me. This is going to be my first drink for five years. I picked your bar ’cos it’s empty, but now I’m in here, there are two things that are spoilin’ the moment for me.’

‘What two things?’ Berkley asked, really hoping that both were easily rectifiable.

‘First thing that’s pissin’ me is the service. I ain’t never had to wait this long to get a drink in any bar in the world. You should work on that.’

‘Okay, sure I … I … I’m real sorry ’bout that.’

‘Fine, that’s a start. But the other thing that’s botherin’ me is that dripping noise. Can you do something about it?’

Berkley hadn’t picked up on the sound of anything dripping, so he listened carefully. After about five seconds he heard a gentle splash. It came from just behind the Bourbon Kid. He looked over the bar and saw a pool of blood in the middle of the floor. Probably from one of the two vampires that had lost their undead lives earlier in the evening. As he was looking at it, however, another drop of blood landed slap-bang in the middle of it, making another splashing noise. Where was that coming from? Berkley took a look up at the ceiling and found the answer. He immediately wished that he hadn’t. Right above the puddle of blood on the floor was a propeller fan fixed to the ceiling. It was a standard heavy-duty metal propeller fan of the kind found in most of the bars in Santa Mondega. It was whirring around at a very slow pace, partly because it always went at a fairly slow pace, and partly because the dead body of Rodeo Rex was wrapped around it. It was his blood dripping on to the floor. He was bleeding from more than one place, too. His eyes were gone and his tongue had been ripped out. There were also tattered chunks of flesh hanging from his arms and legs. His chest was just a single mass of bloodied flesh here and there covered by tattered clothing. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and the thought that he might soon end up in a similar state made Berkley’s legs turn to jelly. Before he knew it he had lost his footing and fallen down behind the bar, banging his head on one of the wooden shelves behind him as he did so. Not a cool move, in the circumstances. He took a few deep breaths before climbing back to his feet.

After regaining his composure he decided not to look up at the body on the ceiling again. Instead, he watched as the Bourbon Kid downed his bourbon and slammed the empty glass down on the bar.

‘Er, another drink, sir?’ Berkley asked him.

The Bourbon Kid shook his head. Then he reached inside his coat and pulled out a pistol. This was a big fucking gun. Berkley had seen larger guns in his time, but never one that looked quite so alive, quite so fucking dangerous. The Kid pointed it at the unfortunate bartender’s head. Berkley felt every muscle in his body tremble. If he had tried to beg for mercy, all he would have managed was a mouse-like squeak, such was the terror that gripped him. Paralysed with fear, he stared down the barrel of the gun and watched as the Kid took aim and squeezed the trigger.

BANG!

The repercussions of that one gunshot would be felt for miles around, and for many years. The Bourbon Kid was back. And he was thirsty.

Forty-Eight

The atmosphere in the Tapioca was a little edgy, and had been so for a couple of hours. Pretty much since Jefe had shown up and started drinking on his own, Sanchez had sensed that something unpleasant was on the cards. The bounty hunter had been in an exceptionally foul mood even before he had sipped at his first glass of beer, but every further mouthful had only served to enhance his evil state of mind. At a guess, Sanchez put it down to the fact that Jefe still hadn’t recovered the Eye of the Moon and that he was going to have to admit this to El Santino or get out of town real quick. He was sitting on his own at one end of the counter, pouring beer after beer down his throat and cursing anyone who came within a few feet of him. He had also managed to surround himself with a cloud of smoke by chain smoking any cigar or cigarette he could get his hands on.

The bar area in the Tapioca was a good thirty yards wide, yet Jefe had at least fifteen yards on the left-hand side of it to himself. Sitting on stools at the other end of the bar were six fairly unpleasant-looking men. Big hairy Hell’s Angels, no doubt in town to watch the boxing and cheer on their hero, Rodeo Rex. All of these men could handle themselves in a fight, but even they weren’t stupid enough to venture over to Jefe’s end of the counter. There was as much tension surrounding him as there was smoke, and everyone in the bar was picking up on it. All of the customers who came up to order a drink made a point of heading to the busier end of the bar with the Hell’s Angels, for fear of showing a lack of respect to Jefe.

He had been drowning his sorrows for about two hours when trouble finally walked in. It came in the shape of two large men wearing black suits. Sanchez recognized them right away as Carlito and Miguel. Carlito spotted Jefe hunched over at the bar and made straight for him, followed, as ever, by Miguel. They took up their seats on barstools either side of him.

‘Nice to see you, Jefe,’ said Carlito.

‘Go fuck yourselves.’

‘That’s a little hostile, don’t you think, Miguel?’

‘Yeah, I’d say our friend Jefe’s not too pleased to see us. Now why would that be?’

‘I don’t know, Miguel. Maybe he hasn’t got the stone any more? Maybe he’s lost it?’

‘Or maybe he was robbed by someone called Marcus the Weasel?’ The two men laughed briefly. It was not a warm sound.

Jefe pressed his hands down on the edge of the bar and used them to push himself upright from his slouched position.

‘How do you two know about Marcus?’ he growled.

‘We hear stuff,’ Carlito went on. ‘You know, like how you’ve been hanging out with some young broad instead of hunting around trying to get back what you lost.’

Jefe’s drunkenness was something he was more than capable of controlling. Where only seconds earlier he had seemed to be a gibbering mess, the mere hint of potential danger had given him an adrenalin shot that immediately woke his senses from their previously dormant state.

‘Hey, now, you listen here, you two pieces of shit. I’ve still been lookin’ for the Eye. The girl’s been helping me. She’s very resourceful, you know. She could kick both your asses, for a start.’

Carlito couldn’t help but let a broad grin spread across his face. He had succeeded in goading Jefe with a minimum of effort.

‘You know what, Miguel?’ he mocked. ‘I think Jefe’s in love. Ain’t that sweet?’

‘Sure is, Carlito. Ain’t gonna be for long, though. Can’t be in love when you got no heart.’

‘Listen, wiseguy. I’ll get the fuckin’ stone,’ said Jefe, gesturing to Sanchez to refill his glass with beer. ‘I just need a couple of days, is all.’

Carlito shook his head. ‘Coupla days. Two whole days. Not good enough, Jefe. You got about ten hours. El Santino wants that stone before the eclipse tomorrow. And guess what? The eclipse is due to take place at midday. You’ve got until then to get it back.’

‘Why the fuckin’ rush?’

Miguel grabbed Jefe’s hair and pulled his head back just a little. ‘None of your fucking business,’ he said menacingly. You just do your part or you’ll be buzzard meat by noon tomorrow.’ He let go of the other’s hair and looked at his hand with distaste.

‘Buzzard meat? Go fuck yourself.’ Jefe was ready to go. Ready to kick off. He wasn’t about to be humiliated in public, not by anyone. Not even Carlito and Miguel. Despite the amount he’d drunk, he was still pretty sharp. He grabbed Miguel’s hand and squeezed it hard, then stood straight and squared up to his slightly taller tormentor.

‘You go fuck yourself,’ snarled Miguel, the pain in his hand growing by the second.

‘No, you go fuck yourself,’ Jefe growled back, letting go and putting his face so close to Miguel’s that they could almost feel each other’s stubble.

‘Shut the fuck up, the pair of you,’ Carlito interrupted. He was the brains of the partnership, and it was always he who decided just how far things were going to go. ‘Come on, Miguel, I think we’ve made our point. Jefe will be here by midday tomorrow with the stone, or he’ll have the good sense to leave the planet.’

Having made their point to the bounty hunter, Carlito and Miguel left quietly by the front doors, something for which Sanchez was extremely grateful. No one in the bar spoke for a while. They all knew not to draw attention to themselves after a tough guy like Jefe had just suffered a public dressing-down. Sanchez tried not even to glance over at the bounty hunter as he sat on his barstool stewing over the way that Carlito and Miguel had spoken to him. He was liable to take his anger out on someone else if offered even the slightest justification. So Sanchez was greatly relieved when Jessica wandered in no more than five minutes after the two hoods had departed.

‘Hey, big guy,’ she said, prodding Jefe in the back. ‘What happened at the Nightjar? There was no one in it when I got there. Well, no one, that is, apart from one freaky-looking guy and a lot of blood.’

‘Yeah, baby,’ Jefe said wearily, though his tone had softened considerably. ‘There was some sort of incident down there. Rodeo Rex is back in town. Blew away a couple of vampires, apparently.’

‘What?’

‘He killed a couple of vampires in the Nightjar. Cleared the place right out.’

Sanchez couldn’t resist the opportunity to join the conversation now that the rival bar to his was being spoken of in a negative fashion.

‘I’ve always said that Nightjar was a bad place. Vampires been hangin’ out in that shit-hole for years. I reckon the owner is probably one of ’em too. I won’t have them in my bar. Bloodsucking lowlifes. Mean as mouseshit, too – tight-fisted bastards.’

‘Are you two putting me on?’ Jessica asked, sounding incredulous.

‘No, baby, we’re dead serious,’ said Jefe. ‘The Nightjar is a real low dive.’

‘Fuck the Nightjar,’ she scoffed. ‘I mean the vampires. Are there seriously vampires that live in this town?’

‘Hell, yes,’ said Sanchez. ‘This town’s had a vampire problem for as long as I can remember. As long as anyone can. That’s why it’s always good to know Rodeo Rex is in town. He’s the biggest vampire killer of them all. Even bigger than Buffy.’

‘Who the fuck’s Buffy?’

Sanchez and Jefe looked at each other. Both shook their heads in disbelief at Jessica’s ignorance.

‘Shit, woman, don’t you know anythin’?’ asked Sanchez.

‘Evidently not. How come no one mentioned vampires to me before?’

‘Sorry, babe,’ said Jefe. ‘I guess it just never came up. And to be honest I don’t really wanna talk about it now. Let’s go back to my place, huh?’

‘Don’t you want another drink first? I only just got here.’

‘Nah, I’ve had about as much beer as I can take. All I want now is you, Jess, so how ’bout it? Let’s head back to the hotel and hit the sack, huh?’ This last suggestion was accompanied by a wink.

Jessica rewarded him with a cheeky grin and a wink of her own. ‘Sure thing, honey,’ she said. ‘Hey Sanchez, can we have a bottle of vodka to go, please?’

It would be an understatement to say that Sanchez was more than a little jealous of the attention Jessica was giving Jefe. They were starting to look and act like a proper couple. If only he had made a move first, he mused. Fuckin’ Jefe. Bastard. But he handed Jessica a bottle of vodka on the house, and continued to put a brave face on things. He didn’t want Jefe to know that he had a thing for his woman. That wouldn’t be wise. He watched them enviously as they left the bar. Jessica was kindly providing a shoulder for a rather drunk Jefe to lean on. His adrenalin rush had obviously worn off and he was staggering all over the place. Without Jessica for support he would certainly have fallen.

Just as they reached the doors Sanchez called out after them, ‘See you two tomorrow. Don’t forget it’s fancy dress!’

Jessica turned back and winked at him.

‘Don’t worry, Sanchez, I’ll be dressing up. I kinda think you’ll like my outfit.’

Forty-Nine

Miles Jensen had been sitting in almost total darkness ever since Carlito and Miguel had left the barn. They had closed the large wooden doors behind them when they went, shutting out what little light had been provided by the moon. He could just about make out the outline of the scarecrow in the wheelbarrow in front of him. It was very nearly one o’clock and time for the alarm on his phone to go off.

The scarecrow hadn’t moved, which came as no surprise to Jensen, but he was keen for the witching hour to come to an end anyway. The ridiculous story Carlito had told him about the scarecrow coming to life had been laughable, but with every passing minute Jensen had found himself becoming a little more nervous. It was too dark to see the time on his phone still nestling in his lap, and he was now beginning to have doubts about whether or not the alarm had actually been set. Suggesting that he had set the alarm for one o’clock, when in actual fact he had done no such thing, might have been Carlito’s way of prolonging Jensen’s agony.

Jensen’s head still hurt from the blow he had received earlier in the evening, and this was making it difficult to stay alert. He wanted nothing more than to rest his eyes and go to sleep for a few hours. In fact, he was actually quite close to nodding off when he heard a creaking sound coming from the front of the barn. Instinctively he took a deep breath of air in through his nostrils and held it, so as not to make any noise. Looking ahead of him, he desperately strained his eyes to see if he could make out what was making the noise.

It was the barn door, and it was opening very, very slowly. He could tell this because of the slim shaft of moonlight that suddenly appeared and lit up one side of the scarecrow’s head. The straw face now looked as though it had eyes, where before it had no facial features at all. But the scarecrow was not Jensen’s main concern. He needed to know who the man standing at the doorway shrouded in mist and outlined by the glow of the moonlight was. It was a tall man who appeared to be wearing a suit and a panama hat that tilted slightly to one side of his head. He also held a gun in his right hand, pointing down at the ground.

‘Somers? That you?’ Jensen called out.

The man did not respond. Instead, he stepped inside the barn and pushed the door almost shut behind him. There was still just a slight shimmer of moonlight coming in through a small gap where the door was not fully closed. It provided just enough light for Jensen to see that the man was walking slowly towards him. He was also raising the gun from his side and pointing it at the wheelbarrow in which the scarecrow was slumped. When he was about three yards away from Jensen he stopped and appeared to take aim, pointing the pistol at the scarecrow’s head.

At that moment something happened that might have cost Jensen his life. The alarm on his cellphone went off. The tune it played was the theme from Superman: The Movie, and it was horribly loud. It was hard to tell whether or not Carlito had turned the volume on Jensen’s phone all the way up or whether the sound was so shocking because the silence preceding it had been so unnerving.

The sudden noise startled the man in the panama hat and he swung round, pointing his gun at Jensen. His trigger finger was trembling. This man was seriously spooked.

‘Jensen, are you alone?’ he whispered, hoarsely.

‘Christ almighty. Is that you, Scraggs?’

‘Yeah. You alone or what?’

‘Yeah, I think so, apart from this fuckin’ scarecrow.’ He found himself overcome with relief at the sound of the familiar voice of Lieutenant Paolo Scraggs.

‘A scarecrow? Is that what it is?’ Scraggs asked, baffled.

‘Yeah. The Straw Man himself. Can you untie me, please?’

‘Sure.’ Scraggs stepped forward and jumped up onto the stack of bales that Jensen was sitting on. He positioned himself directly behind the bound man and felt around until he had his hands on the tape that was binding Jensen’s hands together. He made no attempt to unwind or cut the tape immediately, however, obviously seeing this as an opportunity to quiz the captive investigator about what he had discovered.

‘So why did those two guys bring you in here, Jensen? And why didn’t they kill you?’ he asked.

‘Can you just untie me, please?’ Jensen groaned. He was too tired for an interrogation from a fellow officer. He had been through quite enough already.

‘Come on, Jensen. I just saved your ass so I reckon you can tell me what’s going on. In fact, I think it’s the least you can do in the circumstances. I could always leave you here, you know.’ Scraggs was a tiresome individual at the best of times, and Jensen was now beginning to see why Somers showed so little tolerance for the man.

‘Listen, Scraggs, they left me here to die. Said something about the scarecrow over there coming to life to kill me. They never told me what they wanted with me or anything like that.’

‘You’re gonna have to do better than that, Jensen,’ said Scraggs, looking over at the scarecrow. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe they didn’t have a reason for dragging you here? You’ve found out something and I think it’s time you started to share the information with the rest of us. If you had died here, if those two thugs had decided to kill you, then all the information you’ve acquired about our serial killer would have been lost. Now how about telling me what you found out, before I start to lose my temper?’

Jensen was untroubled by the other man’s attempts at intimidation. He had seen something else, something that had grabbed his attention far more than the desperate probing of the Lieutenant.

‘Scraggs …’

‘What is it, Jensen?’

‘Look out!’

‘What? AAAARGH!’

Scraggs wasn’t quick enough to react to the warning Jensen had offered. The scarecrow was upon him in a flash. It leapt up from its position slouched in the wheelbarrow and thrust its maggot-riddled straw face right into his. Its arms wrapped themselves around the back of his neck, causing him to lose his balance and footing. From where he had been crouching behind Jensen on the bales, he was sent tumbling to the ground with the scarecrow on top of him, clinging to him like a cheap suit. Scraggs continued to scream as he fought desperately to fend off the flailing limbs of his attacker. Its face was embedded in his neck, causing a horrible prickling sensation against the soft skin beneath his chin.

In his terror, Scraggs had dropped his gun. After several seconds of rolling wildly from side to side to keep the evil-looking straw man from biting or scratching him, Scraggs eventually managed to push it to one side and roll away to his right, where he succeeded only in knocking a stack of bales loose. The stack wobbled before falling on him, one heavy bale causing no small amount of pain as it banged against his forehead. This was followed by the most painful moment of all. The mad cackling. Scraggs recognized it instantly. Somers! He had one of those irritating laughs, and he was laughing it now, loud and long.

Scraggs pushed the fallen bale off his head and sat up. The scarecrow was lying flat on its front where he had thrown it during the struggle. Jensen was where he had been before, tied up and sitting on a bale of straw. Standing in front of him, outlined by the moonlight flooding in through the now open doorway, was Detective Archibald Somers.

‘Scraggs, you really are an asshole,’ Somers mocked. ‘My partner here has been tied up and left for dead, and you, you prick, you start interrogating him. You must have shit for brains.’

‘You fucking asswipe, Somers,’ Scraggs bellowed as he climbed to his feet. He was furious at the humiliation he had just suffered. Somers had obviously sneaked in after him and thrown the scarecrow at him while his guard was down. Bastard!

‘You’re the asswipe, Scraggs,’ said Somers smugly. ‘What I did to you is no worse than what you were doing to Jensen. Now untie him before I set that refugee from The Wizard of Oz on you again.’

The crestfallen and embarrassed Lieutenant Paolo Scraggs reluctantly did as he was told. He took his time, and gained a certain amount of pleasure from ripping the sticky tape off, knowing that it would hurt.

‘Thanks, Somers,’ said a greatly relieved Jensen. ‘How did you know I was here?’ He began to rub his wrists, then opened and closed his hands several times to try to ease the stiffness and pain in his fingers.

‘Well, I gotta tell you, partner, I was strugglin’, but then this clown …’ he pointed at Scraggs ‘… this total fuckin’ loser used the police frequency to call the Captain and tell him he was outside the barn and should he go in and get you.’

‘That so?’ said Jensen, turning to Scraggs. ‘How long were you waiting outside for before you plucked up the guts to come in and get me, you fucking moron?’

Scraggs stepped back, looking round to see if he could locate the pistol he’d dropped.

‘Hey, I was just following orders, okay?’ he said sheepishly. ‘I didn’t know you were in trouble.’

‘Some fuckin’ detective you are,’ Somers muttered. ‘Come on, Jensen, let’s get out of here. I think we both need some sleep. We got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, and word is the Bourbon Kid has been seen in a bar called the Nightjar.’

‘Yeah? Has he killed anyone else?’

‘A few. I’ll tell you all about it on the way.’

‘What about Annabel de Frugyn?’ asked Jensen standing up and rubbing his sore wrists.

‘Funny you ask. I’ve had a really crappy evening myself, but the one bit of good news is that I got an alias for her. She’s known around town as the Mystic Lady.’

‘The Mystic Lady? What’s she, a fortune teller or somethin’?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She any good?’

‘No, fuckin’ awful. Wouldn’t see Christmas coming if she woke up in bed with Santa Claus.’

Fifty

After a restless night spent alternately dozing and worrying about the day ahead, Dante had done a good deal of thinking. The first thing he had decided was that it would be best if Kacy met up with him after he’d done the deal with the monks. Although he didn’t expect them to try to double-cross him, he wasn’t taking any chances.

He had chosen his fancy-dress costume for the Lunar Festival with the meeting in mind. To make himself look a little tougher he had picked out a Terminator outfit. The guy in the fancy-dress store had done the hard sell on him and told him it was actually one of the outfits Schwarzenegger had worn in the first movie. Dante was pretty sure the guy was bullshitting him, but he wanted to believe it was true, so he chose to. And it worked. It made him feel that little bit extra cool. He actually felt something like a tough-guy, walking around in the black leather outfit and the cool shades. He also had a pistol concealed inside the jacket, just in case things went wrong. No point in taking unnecessary risks. He could easily run into some fruitcake who fancied making a name for himself by picking a fight with the Terminator.

Kacy had agreed to wait for him at the motel, but she was keeping her costume a closely guarded secret. She wanted to surprise him, so he was kind of hoping it would be something very, very sexy.

The sun shone brightly overhead as Dante cruised into town in his newly acquired yellow Cadillac. The morning sky was clear and blue, giving not the slightest indication of the darkness soon to come. He turned the car radio on and was pleased to hear the song ‘My Sharona’ by The Knack. Driving along with one of his favourite tracks playing just added to the good feeling he had. And damn, did he look cool! He couldn’t remember ever feeling quite as cool as this. As he drove through town everyone took a second look. After all, it wasn’t every day you saw the Terminator cruise past you in a yellow Caddy.

Every single person Dante laid eyes on that morning was in some kind of fancy-dress costume. There was the killer from the Halloween films on one street corner, intimidating people by begging them for money. Just a hundred yards further down the road he caught sight of a couple of guys dressed as nuns beating the crap out of another man in a big blue spongy outfit with red shorts and a red hat. What the hell was the world coming to when Papa Smurf couldn’t wander the streets without being mugged by a couple of angry nuns?

It was only eleven o’clock in the morning and there were a lot of drunks around already. For a festival, it was certainly bringing the worst out in everyone. Dante had been warned that many of the local hoods saw the festival as an opportunity to commit crimes while in disguise. The last thing he needed was to get mugged while carrying around the Eye of the Moon. He was also worrying about Kacy, who was looking after the suitcase containing the hundred grand that they had stolen. She was all alone back at the motel. She would be feeling vulnerable, and probably pretty scared, too.

As he slowed up and stopped for a red light at a crossroad empty of cars he found himself taking deep breaths to keep calm. In about twenty minutes this deal would be done. He would be rid of the cursed blue stone, and more importantly he’d have another ten grand to add to the hundred grand he and Kacy were planning on spending freely over the next few months. Dante had plans for them to travel around Europe taking in all the sights. He knew Kacy would love the idea, because she had passed up the opportunity to go travelling around Europe when she hooked up with him several years earlier. Now was his chance to pay her back for her faithful devotion. As long as he could stay alive through this one last day in Santa Mondega.

Looking around as he waited for the light to change, he saw a stunning blonde dressed as Marilyn Monroe in a shiny pink dress standing on a street corner on the other side of the junction. She was attracting the attentions of two guys dressed as the Blues Brothers. There was also a big Elvis lookalike hanging around on the corner opposite them. This was the Elvis from the late sixties or early seventies. He was wearing a shiny red shirt with white tasselled sleeves and a pair of red flared trousers that had a thick yellow stripe down the outside of each leg. His eyes were hidden behind a big pair of the King’s traditional sunglasses. Judging by his sharp side-to-side head movements it looked like he was checking out the streets, waiting impatiently for someone to arrive and give him a ride somewhere.

When Elvis caught sight of Dante in the yellow Cadillac he stopped and stared real hard at him for a few seconds. At first Dante thought it was because he was impressed by his outfit, and so behind his shades he tried to give the solemn stare that Schwarzenegger used in the Terminator movies. But then the paranoia brought on by carrying a precious stone around in a stolen car took hold of him. What if this Elvis freak recognized the car? What if it was his? And why was he heading towards Dante right now in a real hurry? Fuck it. Time to jump the red light. No point in hanging around waiting for this big angry-looking Elvis dude to come and make trouble.

As he pulled away, the Caddy’s rear tyres screeched loudly, drawing more attention to him than he would have liked. It felt as though half of the population of Santa Mondega was watching him as he roared through the stoplight, almost causing an accident as a crappy old shit-brown station wagon crossed in front of him at the junction. Dante didn’t have the speed of thought nor the patience to try to get out of the way. He left that up to the driver of the station wagon, who duly obliged. The driver (a man dressed as an Egyptian mummy, wrapped in white bandages from head to toe) waved his fist in anger as his car nearly rolled over on to its side after swerving to avoid the bright yellow Cadillac. Dante didn’t need to look back to know that he had pissed the driver off. That’s one more person out to get me, he thought as he sped off.

His priority now was to get to the Nightjar and meet the monks as quickly as possible. No more cruising round town in the most conspicuous stolen car in the history of auto theft.

Fifty-One

Jefe decided that a visit of his own to the Mystic Lady was about the only chance he had of discovering the whereabouts of the Eye. He didn’t have the first fucking clue where it was, and he now only had an hour to find it before the eclipse. He needed the mad old woman to come up with the goods in a big way. If she could help him find the Eye of the Moon he could sell it to El Santino, as agreed. That way he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for Carlito or Miguel to shoot him in the back. And, almost as important, he’d be able to afford the repayments on the new Porsche he was driving.

He had left Jessica getting ready back in their hotel room. He didn’t have the time to wait while she squeezed herself into the rather sexy Catwoman outfit she had rented. It didn’t exactly complement the Freddy Krueger costume that he was wearing, not that he was complaining. She looked hot in a catsuit, and he couldn’t wait to meet up with her later for some fun and frolics. All he had to do was survive the morning. He needed a giant stroke of luck, and he was hoping the Mystic Lady could provide it.

He pulled up outside the odd-looking House of the Mystic Lady and was surprised to see the front door already open. He had been to visit her two weeks earlier, and had remembered her bleating on about making sure he shut the door behind him when he entered and left. She didn’t like having it open because, she claimed, evil spirits could enter the place.

Jefe was hoping to prove that the fortune teller did indeed have talent after Jessica had expressed to him her disappointment at the information offered to her the night before. He was a great believer in what the Mystic Lady had to say. Ever since he had seen the undead with his own two eyes, he had opened his mind to such matters as the supernatural, black magic and, of course, fortune telling. He had found the Mystic Lady to be pretty accurate on his previous visit.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t going to be much help this time. It was evident to Jefe as soon as he entered the house that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t so much the horrible mess that gave it away, or even the overturned chairs on the floor. No, it was more the look of the Mystic Lady. She was sitting in her usual position behind her table, but she looked very, very different. The reason for this was because her head was missing. It didn’t look as though a sharp blade had sliced it off, either. It actually looked like it had been ripped off by someone of incredible strength, such was the mess that remained, somehow, in the tall-backed chair. There was also a considerable amount of blood sprayed all over the walls and over the pages of a book on her desk.

Jefe didn’t spot her head until the door slammed shut behind him. It was hanging on the back of the door. The eyes were gone, and from what he could see so was her tongue. There was a mass of dried blood covering the lower half of her face, as if it had spurted out from her mouth and had spent much of the night slowly dripping down her jaw towards the floor.

Although he wasn’t about to perform an autopsy, Jefe did take a slightly closer look at the head. He discovered that it was impaled on a coat peg which was pushing up into the old woman’s brain. Dressed as he was, like Freddy Krueger, he knew it wasn’t a good idea to be hanging around near a dead body. It didn’t help that he was carrying a horribly sharp ten-inch knife about his person, not to mention a couple of concealed pistols and enough ammunition to establish a dictatorship.

He left the House of the Mystic Lady convinced that this was a sign of a bad day ahead. Then, in the blink of an eye his luck changed. He had not even reached his shiny silver Porsche before he saw his old yellow Cadillac drive past. The driver was a young man dressed in a Terminator outfit, and he seemed to be in a hurry. Only seconds earlier Jefe had thought he had no leads to work with at all. But he hadn’t forgotten one vital piece of information he had picked up. Sanchez had mentioned that someone driving a yellow Cadillac had wasted his brother Thomas, and could have had something to do with the death of Elvis the hitman. This was the only sniff of a lead Jefe had but it had to be worth following up. Anyway, he was a desperate man. Dashing over to his Porsche, he jumped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and then, as discreetly as he could, raced up the road in pursuit of the big yellow car.

His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that it drowned out the sound of the Porsche’s engine. This was it, all or nothing. Don’t lose that yellow Caddy, Jefe, he thought to himself. Don’t lose it, no matter what happens.

He tailed it for about a mile before the driver finally pulled up outside the Nightjar, of all places. Jefe pulled in behind. His mouth had gone dry and his heart was beating louder than ever. It was only a half chance – in fact, it wasn’t even that – but there might be something to be gained from this guy. He just wasn’t sure what.

The Terminator got out of the car and walked up to the bar’s front door. Jefe sprang from his Porsche without a second’s hesitation and followed him along the sidewalk.

‘You won’t get in there, my friend,’ he called out, in as friendly a voice as he could manage. ‘They’ve shut the place down. A coupla monks turned into vampires and got blown away by Rodeo Rex last night.’

‘What?’ The Terminator looked shocked, which was hardly surprising, especially if he didn’t believe in vampires.

‘It’s just what I heard, man. Probably not true,’ Jefe quipped as he walked up to the surprised young man in the black leather. When he was near enough so that no onlookers could get a close view of what was going on, he pulled one of his guns out from the waistband at the back of his trousers and pressed it into the guy’s ribs.

‘What’s your name, son?’ he growled. ‘Dante.’

‘How d’you feel about livin’ for more than a few seconds, Dante?’

The young man took one look down at Jefe’s gun. It wasn’t every day you had a Freddy Krueger lookalike pointing a gun at you, but then, this was no ordinary day.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘I’m wonderin’ what you’re doing drivin’ around in my old yellow Cadillac,’ Jefe replied.

‘Oh. Er … I just bought it off a guy this morning.’ A note of panic had crept into his voice. Arnie would not have approved.

‘Bullshit. Get back in the car. We’re going for a drive. There’s a coupla people who are gonna want to meet you.’ Dante took a step towards his car, but was stopped in his tracks by Jefe’s gun in his ribs.

‘Wait a second. Turn around. Put your hands on your head.’

Dante did as he was told. Jefe pushed him up against the door of the Nightjar and began to frisk him. The first thing he found was the concealed pistol, but then he found the one thing he wanted more than any other, Jessica included. The Eye of the Moon. He pulled it out from the inside pocket of Dante’s leather jacket and clasped it tightly in his hand, gazing upon it like a mother laying eyes on her newborn baby for the first time.

‘Oh my. Fucking jackpot!’ he said. There was a note of awe in his voice. ‘You got a lot of explaining to do, Terminator boy.’ He chuckled, then added, ‘Oh my God, you just made my fuckin’ day.’

Fifty-Two

Sanchez was delighted with his choice of costume. He looked pretty damn cool, or at least he thought so. He had chosen to dress up as his all-time hero (after Rodeo Rex) – Batman. He had also insisted that Mukka should dress up as Robin so that they could be a dynamic-duo double act behind the bar. He knew Mukka wasn’t overly thrilled at having to do this, not least because of the costume. (The fact that he was a head taller and a good deal broader than Sanchez didn’t help matters, either. Boy Wonder my ass, he thought.) Where Sanchez had a Batman outfit like the one Michael Keaton had worn in the Tim Burton movie, his cook had been stuck with the Robin outfit from the camp sixties TV show. The ribbing he was getting from customers was pretty relentless. Everyone had a comment to make, generally an unfunny one, but a comment none the less. It wasn’t even midday yet, either, so there would be plenty more derisive remarks coming his way.

With the Tapioca less than half full but due to get busy in the very near future, Sanchez and Mukka found a whole new cause for concern when the first two of their unwelcome guests arrived. They came in the shape of Carlito and Miguel. The two goons, both dressed as cowboys, strutted up to the bar as though they owned the place.

‘Who are you guys supposed to be?’ Sanchez asked.

‘We’re the Lone Rangers,’ Miguel replied, for once taking the lead from Carlito.

‘The Lone Rangers?’ a baffled Mukka mocked from behind Sanchez. ‘That’s meant to be a joke, right?’

‘No. Why?’ Miguel looked slightly confused.

‘Well,’ said Mukka. ‘Clearly the whole point of the Lone Ranger is that there was only one of him. Hence “the Lone Ranger”.’

Miguel still looked baffled. Carlito, on the other hand, simply looked rather uninterested.

‘Look, asshole,’ said Miguel. ‘In the TV show he had Tonto with him, so he wasn’t exactly “Lone” then, either, was he?’

‘Tonto wasn’t a Ranger, though, was he? He was an Indian,’ Mukka pointed out. There was a moment’s silence.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Miguel, finally grasping the point Mukka was making. ‘I suppose not. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.’

Winning the point had made the cook reckless. ‘Of course I’m fucking right,’ he crowed.

Miguel wasn’t used to being spoken to like this. Especially not by nobodies like Mukka. For a few painfully long seconds he seemed to be mulling over how to react. He stood motionless. Only his eyes moved. It was as if he could hear a voice in his head telling him to do something, and was looking around for the owner of that voice.

Sanchez’s stomach turned. He feared Miguel was about to react badly to Mukka’s comments. Normally banter like this would have livened things up in the bar, but right now he was seriously hoping Carlito and Miguel didn’t get too pissed and start killing anyone who joked about their costumes. It all depended on whether or not Jefe showed up and gave them the Eye of the Moon. If he didn’t, they were liable to go on a killing spree, and who better to wipe out first than Batman and Robin?

Fortunately, Miguel let the comments slide and ordered some drinks. ‘Two beers please, Batman,’ he called out as he leaned over the bar, checking out Sanchez’s and Mukka’s costumes. ‘Hey, Robin,’ he added, fondly. ‘Nice pants.’

There was a fair amount of sniggering from the other tenants of the bar at the mention of Robin’s pants. Not so much because it was a funny remark, but because Miguel was about the tenth consecutive customer to have commented on them in the last half-hour.

‘So, Batman. You seen our friend Jefe yet?’ Miguel asked as Sanchez began pouring the beers.

‘Nope. He ain’t showed his face in here this morning.’

‘Fucksakes. It’s ten to twelve now. Where is that prick? ‘

Carlito decided to take over the questioning, gesturing to Miguel to quieten down simply by tapping him on the arm.

‘So riddle me this, Batman,’ he said to Sanchez. ‘If Jefe doesn’t show up here in ten minutes, what do you think is going to happen?’

‘I don’t know … What?’ Sanchez was growing nervous at the intimidating tone of the questioning.

‘All hell is going to break loose, that’s what. El Santino will be here, and he’ll want to blame someone. I believe he offered you a large sum of money to find the stone, and you haven’t found it.’

‘Well … no. But I never promised anything. I was just askin’ around as a favour. There wasn’t no agreement that I would find it for definite. Besides, my man Elvis who was lookin’ for it went and got himself killed.’

‘Sure.’ Carlito winked at Sanchez in an intimidating manner. Then he and Miguel picked up their beers and made their way over to a table in the middle of the barroom. They both took up chairs on the same side of the table so that they were facing the entrance.

Then they sat and waited to see who would arrive first, Jefe or El Santino. By any reckoning, they wouldn’t have too long to wait.

Fifty-Three

Dante was absolutely shitting himself. The crazy with the Freddy Krueger mask and the stripey red-and-black jersey had forced him at gunpoint to drive his newly acquired yellow Cadillac to the Tapioca Bar. Now, although he was scared for himself, he was also concerned about Kacy. She was back at the motel and he had no way of contacting her. Not least of all because he had a gun pointed at him, but also because this Freddy Krueger nut had taken his cellphone.

When at last they arrived at the Tapioca, Dante was heavily disappointed to find that there was plenty of space to park the car in the street outside the bar. Not many people were driving on this particular day, which was hardly surprising. Most were celebrating the end of the Lunar Festival and looking forward to a drink. Or twelve. As soon as Dante killed the engine Freddy barked an order at him. ‘Get outta the car, Terminator boy. We’re goin’ in for a drink.’

Dante did as he was told and walked gingerly up to the entrance, followed by Jefe, who didn’t even need to press a gun into his prisoner’s back. The young thief was way too scared to try to make a break for it, and Jefe knew it.

He wasn’t too scared, though, to pick up immediately on the tense atmosphere in the Tapioca. There were quite a few people in the bar, but no one seemed to be speaking. They just stared at the pair of them as they walked in. To Dante, it seemed as if everyone was waiting for someone important to arrive. With one of them in a Terminator outfit and the other dressed as Freddy Krueger, no one recognized them to start with. That soon changed, however, after they had made their way up to the bar and Jefe made himself known.

‘Hey, Batman,’ he yelled at Sanchez. ‘Get me a beer. I got good news for you.’

‘Is that you, Jefe?’ Sanchez asked, peering closely at the eyes looking out from the Freddy Krueger mask.

‘Yeah, it’s me all right. I just found this guy drivin’ around in a yellow Cadillac on Elm Street.’

‘Is that right?’ The bartender’s tone was decidedly chilly.

Dante wasn’t sure of the significance of all of this, but he could tell it wasn’t good. It looked even worse when he saw two masked cowboys get up from a table near by. They looked like they had overheard what Jefe had said and were taking a keen interest. As they approached the bar Dante noticed that they were both armed, and that they were pointing their guns in the direction of him and his captor in nightmarish outfit.

‘So, Freddy Krueger, have you got something for us? Or are we gonna have to get nasty?’ one of the rangers asked Jefe.

The bounty hunter turned away from the bar to confront the two masked men approaching him. He looked calm and assured now, for even though his face wasn’t visible, his body language spoke volumes. This man had nothing to be afraid of.

‘Oh, I got the Eye. This Terminator punk was driving round town with it in his inside pocket. Thought we could all club together, and ask him exactly what the fuck he’s been doin’ with it. Reckon he killed Sanchez’s brother, too, an’ tried to kill my girl Jessica.’

‘You don’t say?’

It dawned on Dante that everyone in the bar seemed to have turned his or her attention upon him. And it wasn’t anything to do with being impressed by his outfit, either.

‘So who are you, Mr Terminator, and what the fuck did you want with our precious stone huh?’ the first ranger asked.

‘Nothing,’ Dante answered as confidently as he could. ‘A customer at the hotel I work in just gave it to me. His name was Jefe, I think. Yeah, Jefe.’

He was not sure exactly how much trouble he was in at this point, but it was definitely more than he had ever been in before. So it was definitely time for a little bit of half-truth telling. With any luck he might just get away with it, too.

Then again, maybe not. ‘That’s bullshit!’ yelled Jefe. ‘I’m Jefe and I sure as fuck didn’t give it to you! You better sit down and start talking, ‘fore I get angry.’

Dante suddenly found himself being frogmarched over to the large wooden table that the two Lone Rangers had occupied. Jefe forced him to sit down in one of the chairs with his back to the entrance. Sanchez made his way out from behind the bar, knocking a glass on to the floor with his long black Batman cape. He took a seat next to Dante. The two Lone Rangers and Jefe took up places around the other side of the table.

Sanchez placed one black-gloved hand firmly on Dante’s shoulder and began the interrogation. Being questioned in an intimidating fashion by Batman was a new and fairly unwelcome experience for Dante.

‘Why did you kill my brother and his wife? And what do you want with Jessica?’

‘What? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. And I don’t know anyone called Jessica.’

The senior of the Lone Rangers, which was Carlito, was next in line with a question. He had just lit a cigarette and placed the shiny silver lighter back in the breast pocket of his shirt. He puffed on the cigarette and left it hanging from the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

‘What were you doing with the stone? How did you get it? And more to the point,’ he said, looking around, ‘where the fuck is it?’

‘I’ve got it now,’ Jefe intervened.

‘Well, give it here.’

‘No. I’m keeping it ’til El Santino gets here. I’ll give it to him myself. That was the deal and I’m sticking to it.’

‘Suit yourself. You can give it to him now. Here he comes,’ said Carlito, looking over Dante’s shoulder towards the entrance. ‘Bartender, you can get scarce now. This don’t concern you.’

Dante looked at what was happening in complete bewilderment. The guy in the Batman outfit got up from the table and headed back behind the bar. But who was this fellow El Santino who had supposedly arrived? Actually, it didn’t take a genius to work out who he was, which was just as well because Dante was no genius. Standing at the bar with a face covered in black-and-white make-up was El Santino. He had come dressed as Gene Simmons from the rock band Kiss. This wasn’t a great step out of normality for El Santino. In fact, it was not far off how he normally looked. He just had slightly more make-up on than usual. The long dark hair was all his own, and so were the muscles. And boy-oh-boy, did he have muscles. This was as big a man as Dante had ever seen, and he’d seen a few in recent times.

‘Hey, Batman. Get me a beer and a bottle of your best whisky,’ El Santino snarled at Sanchez. He turned from the counter and faced the table where all the action was taking place.

‘Now, which one of you sorry punks has got my Eye?’ he roared.

Fifty-Four

Scraggs had taken the call from Captain Rockwell and had reacted immediately. Rockwell’s instructions were precise, and he had made it very clear that they were to be followed to the letter. The last thing he had said remained imprinted on Scraggs’s brain. ‘Get there as soon as you can and take charge of the situation. Don’t under any circumstances touch anything, I mean ANYTHING, until you’ve spoken to me first.’

After a dramatic stoplight-running twenty-minute race in his squad car he had arrived at the House of the Mystic Lady and immediately realized that he had to act fast if Rockwell’s orders were to be followed. There were already four other squad cars parked outside and half a dozen uniformed officers milling around cordoning off the immediate area with orange crime-scene tape. Scraggs jumped out of his car and jogged over to the nearest cop, a tubby man leaning against one of the squad cars and speaking into a cellphone. Scraggs recognized him as Diesel Borthwick, a fairly lazy, underachieving foot-patrol officer.

‘Hey, Diesel, I’m in charge here now,’ he barked as he approached the paunchy, middle-aged officer. ‘What’s the current situation?’

Borthwick looked moderately irritated by the arrival of Lieutenant Scraggs, probably because it was interrupting his conversation. ‘I’ll call you back,’ he muttered into his phone before ending the call and turning his attention to Scraggs. ‘Well, Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘we have one dead body. A sixty-year-old female, or thereabouts. Her head’s on a coat hook behind the door, and the rest of the body is propped up in a chair behind a desk, with the exception of the eyes and tongue. Which are missing, sir.’

‘We got any leads yet?’

Borthwick stopped leaning against the car and stood up straight.

‘Yeah,’ he replied in a weary voice. ‘We got a witness who says she saw Freddy Krueger run out of here in a hurry this morning. Apparently he drove off in a silver Porsche. No licence plate, though.’

‘Freddy Krueger?’ said Scraggs quizzically.

‘Fancy-dress costume, sir. It’s Lunar Festival, remember … Detective?’

From over by the front entrance to the house Scraggs heard a banging sound. He turned to see where it was coming from. The door of the house was swinging back and forth in the wind.

‘Anything else?’ he asked, grimacing at the head that he had just noticed was impaled on the back of the door.

‘Yeah, I have a theory, sir.’

Scraggs looked back at Diesel Borthwick in surprise. The laid-back officer was not known for having much more than half a brain, so it was unusual to hear him voice any kind of opinion or suggestion.

‘Really? What is it?’ Scraggs asked.

‘I suspect suicide,’ said Borthwick, smirking.

‘You fucking idiot.’ Disgusted, Scraggs marched over to the house. Two other uniformed officers were standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the door, guarding the entrance. Scraggs barged between them, brushing shoulders with both as neither bothered to move aside to give him any room. He stepped in through the front door, glancing only briefly at the misshapen head impaled on the coat hook. Inside he saw the shambles that had been made the night before. Blood everywhere, chairs overturned, the torso of the Mystic Lady in a chair at the table directly in front of him. And Officer Adam Quaid flicking through the pages of a large hardback book lying on the table.

‘Hey, Quaid! What the fuck are you doing?’ Scraggs snapped at him.

Quaid looked up, startled, for he hadn’t heard Scraggs walk in. Almost as a reflex, he saluted his superior officer, even though it wasn’t necessary. Saluting was old hat in Santa Mondega, and pretty much the only reason for doing it was as an instinctive reaction to being caught doing something improper by a senior officer.

‘I found this book on the table, Lieutenant. I really think you should take a look at it,’ Quaid mumbled nervously.

‘Leave the book and wait outside until I give you further instructions,’ Scraggs ordered. ‘The Captain is on his way, and he’ll be pretty pissed if he sees you flicking through the evidence. He’s specifically ordered that nothing is to be touched.’

‘But sir,’ said Quaid, pointing at the open book on the table. ‘I really think you should take a look at this.’

‘I SAID OUT!’ yelled Scraggs. ‘Leave the goddam book and wait outside!’

‘Yessir,’ mumbled the cop, apologetically.

Scraggs tried to stare at Quaid in an intimidating fashion as the overweight, doughnut-loving officer passed him sheepishly on his way out. It wasn’t possible to eyeball him, though, because Quaid was looking down at his feet like a naughty schoolboy. Scraggs watched him walk to the entrance, shaking his head as the mumbling fool shied away as far as he could from the Mystic Lady’s head on his way out of the door.

Nothing to do now but wait, then? Scraggs thought to himself. The Captain should be here within twenty minutes. Should I tell him that one of the officers has been flicking through the book on the desk? Hmm, maybe not. It’ll only piss him off.

It took only five minutes of indecision about whether to stare at the Mystic Lady’s head or the rest of her corpse for Scraggs to become restless and impatient for the Captain to arrive. So what is in this goddam book? he mused. Surely it won’t hurt to look at the pages that are open on the desk, just so long as I don’t touch them?

He sidestepped gingerly over to the table, all the while looking out of the front door in case Captain Rockwell appeared and caught him nosing. His hip touched the side of the table and he looked down at the book, which was at such an angle relative to his position that it was all but upside down. Something on the open page caught his eye immediately. He turned to get a better look. Could that be …? Surely not? With one finger he edged the book round on the table so that he could look at it the right way up. Sure enough, his eyes had not deceived him. He had just seen what Officer Quaid had been looking at.

Oh fucking hell!

Fifty-Five

Peto had very little idea what the whole fancy-dress thing was about, but Kyle had convinced him that they should be joining in with the festivities. The previous morning they had hired a couple of outfits. Although they didn’t know who the Cobra Kai were, both of them took quite a shine to the costumes. They had been informed by the owner of the fancy-dress store that the Cobra Kai were a gang of martial-arts experts from a film called The Karate Kid. The outfits were made of a rugged thick black material. The pants were baggy and comfortable, while the sleeveless wraparound jackets had a rather artistic depiction of a yellow cobra sewn on to the back. For the first time in their lives, Kyle and Peto had an idea of what it felt like to look cool.

They had waited outside the Nightjar for about twenty minutes before they were forced to accept that Dante wasn’t going to show. Peto was disappointed by this because he had warmed to the young man, and considered him to be one of the more pleasant people they had encountered during their time in Santa Mondega. It seemed that one of two things might have happened. Either Dante hadn’t shown up and had never intended to, or he had shown up early, seen the Nightjar had been closed down, and had therefore gone on somewhere else. It was the second option that led Kyle and Peto to try their luck in the Tapioca. They needed to hurry, though, because time was running short. A glance at the sky suggested that the moon and the sun would intersect very soon.

Jogging at a brisk pace through the streets towards the Tapioca, they quickly realized that they were quite literally racing against the moon. It stayed one step behind them the whole way, edging ever closer to the sun, which was now hanging directly above the centre of Santa Mondega.

After fighting their way through the ever-growing crowds in the streets they eventually made it to the Tapioca, but with very little time to spare. As they trotted up to the entrance they knew that they didn’t have time to make any sort of plan, so they just headed straight in through the front doors. Once inside, Peto was quick to notice that there was trouble brewing at one of the tables. Some quite ridiculously dressed characters all seemed to be beating up on a guy wearing a black leather outfit and a pair of dark sunglasses. It looked like some kind of torture, although Peto couldn’t be sure because he was trying very hard not to get caught staring.

They made their way over to the bar. Sanchez, as always, was behind it, only today he was dressed in a curious tight outfit with a black hood over much of his head and face. Both had been rather unnerved by all the fancy-dress outfits they’d seen because a lot of them looked so real, and for the most part they didn’t know who the costume wearers were supposed to be. As he always did in potentially tricky situations, Peto wisely left Kyle to do the initial talking.

‘Two glasses of water please, Sanchez,’ Kyle requested.

‘Hey, Robin, get the two monks a coupla beers … on the house,’ Sanchez ordered Mukka. Then he turned back to Kyle and Peto. ‘And by the way, you two, I’m not Sanchez today. I’m Batman.’

‘Bat … man?’ said Kyle, registering how clever it was of Sanchez to put the two words together to form one. ‘I like it. Great costume,’ he went on. ‘So what have all these other people come as?’

‘Well,’ said Sanchez quietly, leaning towards them and gesturing at the table where the action was taking place. ‘Listen carefully to this, ’cos it’s important. See those two guys dressed as cowboys? That’s Carlito and Miguel, a pair of mean bastards who work for El Santino. The guy in the red-and-black stripy sweater with the mask on, that’s Jefe, the bounty hunter you’ve been looking for. The big fella with the black-and-white face paint, that’s The Man, Santino himself. But I think mostly you’ll be interested in that guy in the black leather jacket with the sunglasses on. He’s come as the Terminator, and he had your blue stone with him, too.’

‘He did? I mean, he has?’ Kyle found himself half asking, half stating.

‘Sure, he did, but now Jefe, the guy in the stripy sweater and mask, has got it.’

Peto knew that this was their cue. There was no time to drink or for conversation of any kind. The sole reason they were here was to get the Eye of the Moon back before the eclipse, which was due at any minute, possibly any second. Not without trepidation they approached the table, Kyle leading the way with Peto at his shoulder, as usual. El Santino, the very large man with long dark hair and a black-and-white painted face, was interrogating the Terminator. Miguel was standing at the Terminator’s side with a fist at the ready to administer any punishment if the young man gave any unsatisfactory answers to the big man’s questions.

‘Hey, Kyle,’ whispered Peto. ‘The one dressed as the Verminator? Isn’t that Dante?’

‘Yeah, I think you’re right. I guess he didn’t let us down after all.’

Dante looked as though he hadn’t had the right answers to most of the questions he was being asked because his face had swelled up and his nose was bleeding a little, suggesting that he had taken quite a beating. It was now or never for the two monks. Kyle went first, manoeuvring himself in front of Dante to get the full attention of his interrogators. Everyone at the table stopped what they were doing and looked in astonishment at this member of the Cobra Kai who was interrupting what was a very serious interrogation.

‘Excuse me,’ Kyle said politely, addressing the whole table but pointing at Jefe. ‘I understand that this gentleman here has something of ours. We would like it back, please.’ His tone was quiet and even, but there was a hint of steel in it.

The table went silent, and everyone looked at Kyle as if he was insane. Even Peto wasn’t convinced his partner had acted wisely.

‘Who the fuck are these two clowns?’ asked El Santino, standing up from his chair and kicking it violently backwards across the room.

‘I think they’re meant to be the Cobra Kai,’ answered Carlito, who sat unflinching by El Santino’s side.

‘Wow, cool!’ gasped Miguel like an excited child. ‘From The Karate Kid, right?’ He took a moment out from concentrating his attentions on thumping Dante and looked the two monks up and down. His face betrayed how impressed he was by their costumes, much to the annoyance of his boss. El Santino slammed a fist down on the table, almost smashing it in two with the sheer force he mustered from what had been a very short backlift. His nostrils were flared, and a vein in his forehead seemed to have appeared from nowhere and looked ready to burst.

‘Fuck the Karate Kid and fuck the Cobra Kai,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t give a shit about that. I wanna know what the fuck they want with the Eye of the Moon.’

‘Look at them carefully, El Santino,’ said Jefe, coolly. ‘If my instincts are correct, these guys are Hubal monks.’

Fifty-Six

Sanchez would normally have been keeping a very close eye on El Santino’s table. Considering that sitting around that very table were some of the most vicious people in town (and possibly, of course, the murderer of his brother Thomas), he should have been glued to the unfolding events, but as it was, his eyes were focused elsewhere. The reason for this was that he had spotted a man hanging around outside. The double doors at the front of the Tapioca were wide open and this guy was loitering on the sidewalk out front. The thing that caught Sanchez’s eye about him was that he was dressed in a red suit with yellow stripes down the sides of the trousers and the jacket sleeves. He also had a thick black thatch of hair styled in a nineteen-fifties way. To top this off, he was wearing a large pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses.

For a second, Sanchez could have sworn that his old friend Elvis had come back from the dead. That was a ludicrous idea, surely? He couldn’t understand why he had even considered it, and after studying the man for a good thirty seconds he dismissed it out of hand. There were probably a hundred Elvis impersonators in town today, and it would be a waste of time to study them all to see if they looked like someone who had died just a few days earlier. And besides, there was a rather hot-looking woman, dressed in a black PVC outfit and wearing a mask, making her way into the bar. Could it be Catwoman?

As the woman entered the Tapioca, Sanchez’s attentions were drawn back to El Santino’s table. One of the two monks was demanding their blue stone back, but they were now faced with El Santino in his Kiss get-up, two Lone Rangers in Carlito and Miguel, and Jefe in his Freddy Krueger costume. Each of these unsavoury characters was pointing a gun at the two monks. This was a bad sign. All of these people could kick ass.

Sanchez had seen the monks fight and overcome opponents far bigger and better armed than themselves, but he had also seen El Santino and his henchmen kill on numerous occasions and knew that they were not to be messed with, not even by the two Hubal monks. He also knew of Jefe’s killing prowess simply by reputation. The only person at the table he knew nothing about was the young guy in the Terminator outfit. And he was the one Sanchez was now taking the most notice of. When suddenly the monks had drawn the attention of his captors, the Terminator seemed to have seen this as the beginnings of an opportunity to escape. So while none of the others were looking at him, he slowly and carefully made an attempt to get to his feet, gently edging his chair back from the table at the same time. He was doing it very discreetly and it looked promising for a moment, unfortunately for him, the chair blew his cover by making a loud scraping noise as he slid it back. The two masked rangers, Carlito and Miguel reacted immediately, swinging their guns round to point them at his head.

‘Siddown,’ snarled Miguel.

Dante did as he was told and sat back down, though Sanchez noticed he did not pull his chair back in towards the table. The realization had dawned on Dante that he wasn’t going to make it out of here alive, and that suddenly made him angry. One thing he had always promised himself was that he wouldn’t go out like a pussy. If his life was on the line he wanted to go out with a bang not a whimper, and since he didn’t have a gun, he was just going to have to shoot his mouth off and piss off a few people before he bought the farm. Kacy would usually be around to rein in this aggressive, confrontational side of his character, but she was nowhere to be seen. She would be back at the motel, waiting anxiously for him to return. Well, he wasn’t going to have her hear from anyone that he died like a coward. If by chance she found out how he died, he wanted to be sure that she knew he went out like a man – like the man she fell in love with. And that man was a fearless moron. Time to prove it one last time.

‘You know what? All you guys are pussies,’ he said, addressing the whole table. ‘You stand here wavin’ your guns around like you’re in some kind of pissin’ contest, but none of you, not a single one, has got the guts to fire a shot. Now that the monks are here you’re all shittin’ it because you know if you fire just one shot it’s all gonna kick off. You’re all bluffing. So if no one is gonna fire a shot, I’m gonna get up and walk the fuck out of here. Then I’m gonna get me a gun and come back and blow all you fuckers away.’

El Santino had had enough. He pointed his gun at Dante’s head. Although his face was plastered in make-up, that couldn’t disguise the rage written all over it at having some punk accuse him and his men of being pussies.

‘Listen, boy,’ he snarled. ‘I ain’t even sure yet why you’re here. I’m already thinking of blowin’ your head off right now. You wanna live a little longer, you’d better convince me that you serve a purpose in this whole conversation, ’cos right now you’re looking like a spare part. Now, I’m gonna count to three, and if you haven’t convinced me that you’re worth keepin’ alive, I’m gonna pump two in your face. Then I’m gonna get carnival on you.’ He stepped forward, thrusting the muzzle of his gun towards Dante’s face, leaning over the table as he did so. ‘ONE … TWO …’

Dante began to laugh, raising his left hand to gesture El Santino to stop counting. Around the barroom, everyone else looked on nervously, all fearing the sound of the first gunshot.

‘I’ve just worked you out,’ said Dante, pointing at El Santino and smiling. ‘You know, you’re the odd one out here, fella. See them monks with their karate outfits on? That’s befitting, they look cool and they can kick ass. Your two buddies in the cowboy outfits, they look the part, too. They look like a couple of bandits, probably ass bandits, but bandits even so. Your other friend here with his Freddy Krueger outfit, he looks like a scary mother, and bless him, he probably is. That’s why he’s wearin’ the mask, ’cos it hides how fuckin’ ugly he is. But you, your outfit doesn’t belong. You’re here countin’ up to three, but you’re dressed as a rock star. Well, let me tell you somethin’. That’s not very rock ’n’ roll. Countin’ to three and lookin’ like you do, I think you look more like that guy from Sesame Street. You know the one, The Count? Only difference being that he can count to more than three, and kids are scared of him. In short, what I’m sayin’, Mr Bigshot, is that you – well, you’re nothin’ more than a fuckin’ muppet.’

‘WHAT?’ El Santino was outraged. No one had spoken to him like this in years. In fact it was likely no one had ever dared to speak to him in such a way. To shoot Dante in the face was now no longer quite enough for him. He had to come back with an insult of his own first. He stood pondering for just a few seconds, then responded in a low, venomous voice, dripping with sarcasm. ‘You know what, son? Your outfit suits you perfectly, ’cos if I’m not mistaken, the Terminator always believed he was indestructible, but you know what, every Terminator film I’ve ever seen has ended with him getting killed. Let me now show you what that’s like. Hasta la vista, asshole.’

If Dante had ever had a chance of escaping, it had now gone.

Sanchez, who was still watching from behind the bar, was preparing to duck down to get out of the way of the blood and brains, not to mention bullets, that were about to be sprayed everywhere, when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.

From out of the shadows behind the table another figure stepped forward to join the fun. It was dressed in an all-in-one white romper suit with large black buttons down the front. The face had been painted white, the eyes rimmed with heavy black eyeliner. A large black tear had been painted below the left eye. The costume was topped off by a pair of pointy black slippers and a half-black-half-white conical hat. It was a clown. Not a circus clown, but one of the sad miming clowns often found performing on street corners in Europe. Then this apparition dropped a couple of sawn-off shotguns down from its long sleeves, caught one in each hand and pointed them both at El Santino’s head.

‘Stop pointing that fucking gun at my boyfriend or I’ll blow your fucking head off!’ the clown ordered in a high-pitched girly voice. Good old Kacy. Although Sanchez had no idea who was in the clown’s outfit, Dante recognized her voice straight away.

A Mexican standoff had now developed around El Santino’s table, and Sanchez wasn’t happy about it. Not happy at all. He had seen these situations before, and there was always a bloodbath. It wouldn’t be wise to take his eyes off the action in case someone accidentally waved a gun in his direction.

‘I’ll have a Bloody Mary, please, bartender,’ Sanchez heard a woman’s voice say from close by. He was on autopilot and managed to find a tall narrow glass from under the bar, pour the woman a Bloody Mary using the ingredients from three different bottles, and throw in a few ice cubes and a slice of lemon, all without actually watching what he was doing. He never took his eyes off El Santino’s table.

‘I love your outfit, Sanchez,’ said the woman, in the hopes of getting a little of his attention. He continued to stare across at the table.

‘Thanks.’ It was then that it dawned on him that he recognized the voice. He took his eyes off the standoff for a moment. Standing in front of him at the bar was Jessica. She was the one dressed as Catwoman, and boy, did she look hot!

‘Jessica, you look amazin’, but… er … your boyfriend Jefe, in the Freddy Krueger outfit over there? He’s kinda in trouble.’

Jessica checked out the standoff at the table. The whole bar had fallen silent by now. There were about forty other customers in the Tapioca and they were all frozen in place, watching the events unfold at the table, not daring to make a sudden movement, yet all ready to dive for cover or run for the exits should they hear just one shot.

‘Oh shit,’ said Jessica out loud.

Jefe, recognizing her voice, glanced over at the bar. As soon as he did so he knew it was a mistake. He was a professional, and he should have known better than to take his eyes off the situation unfolding at El Santino’s table. The person to take advantage of Jefe’s slip was Kyle. His lifelong dedication to training in martial arts meant that his reactions were unbelievably quick and he saw this as his chance. In an instant he lashed out with his left hand and whipped Jefe’s pistol from his hand. It slid out of the bounty hunter’s grasp as if it were a wet bar of soap, such was Kyle’s deft sleight of hand. As soon as he had relieved Jefe of his weapon he turned it on him. The monks, too, now had a gun.

‘Hand over the Eye of the Moon and let us be gone,’ Kyle ordered.

From his reasonably secure vantage point behind the bar, Sanchez was now unsure who had the upper hand. Carlito and Miguel were pointing pistols at a depressed clown. The clown was pointing a pair of sawn-off shotguns at El Santino, who in turn was pointing a gun at Dante, and Kyle was pointing a gun at Jefe. Sanchez had seen some pretty weird shit in his time, but this beat the lot. It was only getting worse too. Jessica in her Catwoman outfit was gently creeping over there, no doubt to try to save Freddy Krueger, or Jefe, whichever way you wanted to look at it.

The uneasy tension that had increased tenfold when Kyle disarmed Jefe was finally broken by El Santino. His trigger finger was getting itchy, and his patience was short.

‘Jefe. Give me the stone,’ he ordered. ‘The eclipse is starting. Throw me the stone now, and I swear I’ll give you a hundred grand for it this afternoon.’

‘Don’t you move,’ Kyle said calmly, pointing his gun right at Jefe’s forehead. ‘You give that stone to me and then I’ll let you live. Give it to him and you die now. Let me repeat that. You give it to him … and you die now.’

‘Bullshit. You drop your gun or you die first,’ said a voice from behind Kyle. It was Jessica, and she was pointing a pistol of her own at him. Right at the back of his head, in fact. The barrel was less than six inches away from his skull.

Sanchez knew that things had now gone too far. A shot from one of the parties concerned was imminent. He began picking up empty glasses from the bar and placing them down on the shelf beneath the counter without ever taking his eyes off the standoff. The less glass around when the bullets started flying the better. But who would shoot first? In Sanchez’s mind it would be El Santino. He was the one who wanted this blue stone so desperately, and he was the most fearless of them all. He was afraid of nothing. Bullets bounced off this guy. Rumour had it that he had been the target of countless assassination attempts in the past and had been shot on more than one occasion, but the guy, this giant of a man, just wouldn’t die. He was as tough as nails. Of course, the same could be said of Jefe. He had been involved in more gunfights than John Wayne, if what people said was true. And what was to stop Carlito or Miguel firing the first shot on behalf of their boss? Truth was, anyone at that table was capable of shooting first, apart from Jefe, the Terminator guy and Peto, the only ones who weren’t armed. Peto seemed unfazed by the situation, but the Terminator looked about ready to dive for cover.

Then a voice from just outside the bar yelled out something that would ensure the mayhem started sooner rather than later.

‘HEY, EVERYBODY! WATCH! THE ECLIPSE. IT’S STARTING!’

Whoever had shouted was right. In order to enjoy the full experience of the eclipse Sanchez had not turned on any of the lights in the bar, and it was now becoming noticeably darker. If the stone was to change hands before complete darkness fell, then someone was going to have to act fast. Yet still no one moved at the table. In fact, even Sanchez had frozen to the spot as the darkness began to descend over his bar. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mukka putting a drink down on the counter for someone. Then, as the eclipse began to take full effect and Santa Mondega was plunged into night, Sanchez heard Mukka’s customer utter the immortal line, ‘Fill the glass.’

It was a glass of bourbon. This had not registered with Sanchez at first. He had had too many other things on his mind. But as soon as he heard that voice utter those three words it had registered like an earthquake beneath his feet. He knew that voice, all right. He had been so engrossed in the standoff at El Santino’s table that he hadn’t paid any attention to the hooded figure to whom Mukka had served a glass of bourbon. If things had seemed bad before, surely now they could only get worse. The Bourbon Kid was in the bar. And he had been served.

Fifty-Seven

The Tapioca’s descent into total darkness was the spark that lit the fuse. The light leached from the room, to be replaced with a sense of impending catastrophe. Seated or standing, armed or weaponless, the people in the bar waited silently for their eyes to adjust to the darkness, knowing that time had run out.

Sanchez couldn’t tell who fired first, but a single shot did indeed break the silence. It was followed by a half-second pause and then all hell broke loose. The sound of gunfire was deafening. The shots came from all angles, and bullets flew in all directions. Sanchez cowered under his bar as he always did at times like this. In the darkness, all he could hear were shots, screams, curses, and the occasional sound of a body slumping to the floor, one of which was undoubtedly that of Mukka. He felt it close by, and he could tell that the cook was dead. There was no scream from his employee, no yell for help, just that slumping sound. Bullet to the head or heart, probably. Poor bastard.

The eclipse lasted for what seemed like well over two minutes, the gunfire almost as long. Sanchez spent the entire time cowering on the floor behind the bar with his hands over his ears, in the vain hope of shutting out the deafening noise of guns firing and glass breaking, and people screaming and swearing. And dying.

As the gunfire became less frequent and the eclipse gradually came to an end, light began to trickle back into the Tapioca. There were still people moving about in the barroom, but to Sanchez it sounded as though they were on their last legs. There was the occasional groan or cough, intermixed with the sound of tables collapsing, glasses breaking and liquids dripping on to the floor.

Finally, after about twenty seconds without gunfire and when he deemed it safe enough, Sanchez managed to bring himself into a crouching position. He checked himself for bullet wounds, and when satisfied that he was still intact pulled himself up so that he could peer over the bar. There was a hell of a lot of gunsmoke. A hell of a lot, and this made it a little difficult to see anything much. It also made his eyes sting, so that they began to fill with tears, as if he was on the point of crying.

As the smoke began to clear a little in the draught from the open street doors, Sanchez was taken back to the day five years ago when the Bourbon Kid had blown away his entire client base. The Tapioca looked exactly the same now as it had then.

The first body he recognized was that of Carlito. His shirt was thickly matted with blood and there were thin tendrils of smoke drifting from his wounds. Not far from him, in death as in life, lay his partner in crime, Miguel. At least, it had to be Miguel, if only because he was wearing a Lone Ranger outfit like Carlito’s. Without that it would have been impossible to tell that it was him. Half of his head was missing, and he seemed to have been shot at least ten times in each arm and each leg.

Sanchez looked across to the next lifeless form. It belonged to one of the monks, although it was hard to tell which one. He was lying face down on the barroom floor, and since Kyle and Peto looked similar at the best of times there was no way of telling which one of them this was. Either way, this monk had taken a bullet to the back of the head and had probably been one of the first killed. He must have hit the ground early because the fatal head wound appeared to be the only injury he had sustained. The yellow cobra on the back of his jacket provided a splash of bright colour amidst the blood.

Sanchez continued to scan the shambles of bodies lying all around, ready to duck down again at the slightest sign of danger. What he was most anxious to find out was whether or not Jessica had survived, and – although it seemed a slightly ridiculous, and indeed selfish, notion – he also wanted to know what had become of Jefe. If he was dead and Jessica was alive then perhaps Sanchez could offer her some comfort.

As it happened, one of his prayers had been answered. Spreadeagled on top of a table in the centre of the room, caked from head to food in his own blood and guts, lay Jefe. It was difficult to decide whether he was better looking now that his Freddy Krueger mask had come off. He looked much the same without it as he had only minutes earlier when he’d been wearing it, so badly had his face had been messed up.

And still, what of Jessica? There was no sign of her. Sanchez cared for very few of the people in the bar, but he was more than a little anxious to know what had befallen the beautiful woman whom he had rescued five years ago.

The next body he recognized was one he had thought he would never see: El Santino, the man people said could never die. The Gene Simmons lookalike had been – well – slaughtered, and pretty badly, too. His head and face were all over the floor, as if someone had steamrollered over him. It seemed he’d also lost an arm and a leg. Someone had really worked him over.

Sanchez’s face fell when he eventually set eyes on Jessica’s blood-spattered body. He couldn’t understand how he had failed to noticed it before. She was actually lying underneath the dead monk whom he had seen face down just moments earlier. She was still alive, just, but she was struggling for breath. Her battle for air wasn’t helped by the dead weight of the monk’s body slumped across her chest. As she lifted the corpse up slightly, Sanchez recognized it as Kyle’s. There was no sign of the other monk anywhere. And where was the Bourbon Kid? It was as if he had asked this question out loud, for no sooner had he thought it than he received an answer.

‘I’m still here. Don’t even think about goin’ to help Catwoman,’ said a voice from deep within the shadows to his left.

Out of the smoke and darkness stepped the Bourbon Kid. He held a smoking pistol in each hand, and was slowly stepping over bodies on his way towards Jessica, who was now desperately trying to push Kyle’s body off her so that she could get up before the next bullets came flying at her head.

Sanchez wished he was a braver man, but he knew that rushing to her aid would mean only certain death for him. Besides, he also knew that she could take a bullet. He’d seen the Bourbon Kid try to kill her five years ago. She had survived then, and if she survived this time, he promised himself he would once again find a safe place and take care of her.

The Kid was only four or five yards from her when she finally managed to drag herself out from under Kyle’s corpse. She was about to struggle to her feet when her nemesis raised his right arm, took aim with the gun in that hand, and fired two more rounds into her chest. She fell back against an overturned wooden table and coughed up a mouthful of blood. Her chest began to heave, and she looked as though she was about to choke to death on the blood filling her mouth. Sanchez flinched away from the grisly sight. No two ways about it, this girl’s time was nearing an end.

‘You bastard. You fucking bastard!’ she screamed at the Kid, dribbling more blood from her mouth as she did so.

‘I am a bastard. You got that right. I’m a bastard sonofabitch and I’ve come here to kill you. It’s time to finish off the job I started five years ago. Now give me my blue stone, you fuckin’ whore.’

‘Fuck you. I don’t have it,’ she said, choking. ‘One of these dead guys must have it.’

Jessica desperately needed to buy some time, and it must have dawned on her that taking a hostile tone with the Bourbon Kid wasn’t going to help her. She suddenly changed her tack. ‘Why don’t we look for it together?’ she offered, in a more conciliatory voice.

Sanchez could see that the Kid was unimpressed. He fired twice more, this time with the gun in his left hand. One bullet hit her left knee, the other her right, spattering yet more blood over her black catsuit. Her tolerance for pain was being tested to its absolute limit. Sanchez flinched again, knowing how much agony she was in. If she could just survive a little longer, maybe the Kid would run out of bullets and the police would arrive.

‘We ain’t doin’ nothin’ together,’ the dark figure replied hoarsely. He took a long stride over Carlito’s body, moving ever closer to her. ‘None of these dead guys has the stone, and you know it. NOW WHERE IS IT?’

‘I told you, I don’t know. I swear.’

‘The next round goes in your face. Where is it?’

‘I’m telling you. One of those guys’ – she pointed at the nearest bodies – ‘has it. I think maybe Jefe had it last.’

The Kid paused and looked down at the bodies Jessica was indicating. There was no way of telling if he even knew who Jefe was. One thing was clear, however: the Eye of the Moon was nowhere to be seen.

‘Well, he obviously hasn’t got it now, has he?’ growled the Kid turning his stare back on Jessica. ‘If he had, he wouldn’t be dead. The stone would have kept him alive. Now, it’s a safe bet to say none of the dead guys have got it. The only people alive in this place are you, me, and the bartender. I ain’t got it, and the bartender … well, he don’t have the guts to touch it, so that means it’s you.’

A loud crash caused both Jessica and the Kid to whip their heads round towards the far end of the bar, near the back door. A large barrel had been pushed over and out from behind it stepped Peto in his Cobra Kai karate outfit, now stained with blood. He was clasping the Eye of the Moon in his left hand. Rather interestingly, he held a sawn-off shotgun in the other.

‘There’s one other person who isn’t dead,’ he said, stepping towards the two of them. Sanchez was astonished by the change in his voice. It was now pure gravel.

The surviving monk was limping from a bullet graze on the outside of his left calf. There was also a small amount of blood trickling from his mouth, although it was hard to tell why this was.

‘You didn’t reckon with the resilience of the Hubal monks, did you?’ he croaked. ‘Now you drop those fucking guns, mister, and step away from that nice lady, or I’ll fill you so full of lead you’ll be shitting it for the rest of your pitifully short life.’

The Bourbon Kid looked slightly bemused. ‘You can kiss my ass,’ he said at last.

In his former monkish existence, Peto would have been taken aback by such a remark. But after all that he had been through in the short time he had spent in Santa Mondega, foul-mouthed comments like the Kid’s simply went straight by him.

‘You’ve got three seconds to drop those two guns or I blow you away,’ he said. There was real conviction in his voice. Sanchez actually believed Peto would blow the Bourbon Kid away in three seconds. In fact, he was praying for it.

‘Three …’ Peto snarled.

‘Two,’ the Bourbon Kid snapped back, without a hint of fear.

Sanchez wanted to close his eyes, but there wasn’t time. If the monk didn’t finish counting down it looked like the Kid was going to. As it happened, Peto, unfazed by the Kid’s intimidation, finished the countdown himself.

‘One.’

CRASH!

The door of the washroom to Peto’s left came flying open, almost off its hinges, and Dante, still dressed in full Terminator attire, came striding through it. He pointed a sawn-off shotgun at the back of Peto’s head.

‘Don’t do it, Peto,’ he said.

‘Dante, this doesn’t concern you.’

‘Yes, it does. Take your Eye of the Moon thing and get the hell out of here. I’ll deal with this guy.’

‘But he killed Kyle.’

‘Peto, you’re a monk. Monks don’t kill people. Not for any reason. Not ever. Now get outta here. Take your precious stone and go back to where you came from. Go on. Use the back door and get gone.’ Dante jerked one thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the back door, indicating the best way to get out quickly.

Sanchez, watching the latest standoff in open-mouthed astonishment, waited for Peto to choose his course of action. After what seemed like an eternity, the monk lowered his gun and stepped back warily. He looked deep into Dante’s sunglasses to see if he could make any sense of what was going on from the young man’s eyes. Unfortunately, he could tell nothing. The shades were just too damn dark.

Peto had the look of a man betrayed. Although he didn’t know Dante well, he had trusted him more than he trusted most of the other people he had met outside of Hubal. Above everything, he wanted to avenge Kyle’s death. Yet Dante was right. Monks didn’t kill people. Dejected, he turned away and walked slowly backwards past Dante and out through the emergency exit at the back, never taking his eyes or his gun off the Bourbon Kid until he had made it safely out through the door. Then he and the Eye of the Moon were gone.

Left behind in the Tapioca were the Bourbon Kid, who was still aiming his guns at Jessica, and Dante, now also pointing his own gun at her. Looking on from the comparative safety of the bar counter, Sanchez was completely and utterly baffled. Why would this kid, this no-hoper dressed as the Terminator, who had looked as though he was about to soil himself only minutes earlier, suddenly jump out of the shadows in defence of the Bourbon Kid? Who was he? And what the fuck did he know that Sanchez didn’t?

Fifty-Eight

When the eclipse started and the sun was blacked out, covered by the moon, Dante discovered that he had a chance. Someone was on his side, maybe even the Almighty, but whoever that someone was, they had thrown him a lifeline. He had been given a golden opportunity to get himself and Kacy out of the Tapioca alive.

All the other people around the table were gripped by uncertainty, even panic, as the light disappeared. No one knew who was pointing a gun at whom. Except for Dante. He saw everything. Over to his left he saw the hooded figure of the Bourbon Kid slam an empty glass down on the bar and pull a pair of Skorpion fully automatic pistols from inside his long trench coat. In front of him, Dante saw Kacy, El Santino, Carlito, Miguel, Jefe, Jessica and the two monks, all getting nervous at the sudden lack of light. Those of them with guns looked very twitchy indeed.

It was not just the biggest stroke of luck of all time, this had to be a moment of divine intervention. Thank the good Lord, and thank the fancy-dress store that had rented him his Terminator costume, because there was something special about it. The salesman had not mentioned this to him when he chose the outfit. A small detail that the guy had overlooked, maybe? Surely not, for this was no small detail, certainly not in Dante’s current predicament. This was a big deal. A lifesaving bonus supplied by the kind folk in Domino’s Fancy Dress. At no extra cost.

In the movies, the Terminator had infrared vision. Now, as the last of the daylight fled the Tapioca, Dante was amazed to find that the cheap imitation pair of sunglasses that had come with his outfit had infrared too. As a consequence, he saw everything that happened from the moment the sun disappeared and the Bourbon Kid fired his first shot. True, he saw everything in subdued detail suffused with red, but it was good enough.

Everyone in the place seemed to reach for a weapon except for the two bartenders. Knowing the drill, Sanchez ducked down behind the bar instantly. Mukka was a little too slow, and paid the price of his inexperience early on as bullets began to fly around the bar from all directions. Everyone who had a gun was firing it. Most of them probably didn’t know who or what they were firing at, but that didn’t matter. Self-preservation was all in a scenario like this. Instinct took over. Dante was no different, except that, to him, the preservation of Kacy was important, too. She had come to his rescue. It was time that he came to hers.

He reached for her baggy clown outfit and grabbed a fistful of the material, then dragged her down to the floor, causing her to drop one of the shotguns. She was clearly startled, but there was no time to reassure her that everything was going to be all right. Instead, he took her by the hand and, half crouching, tugged her with him towards the washrooms at the back of the bar. The sound of gunfire was deafening, making it impossible to communicate with her. Dante just hoped she would know from the feel of his hand that it was him dragging her around. It was at times like this that he wished he had held her hand more often in public, but even so, surely she would know it was him? Right? The small things mattered to Kacy. She would know his hand instinctively. Of course she would.

Once they reached the ladies’ washroom Dante barged the door open with his shoulder and dragged Kacy through it with him. Bullets were spraying everywhere, and he felt a couple whistle past him and slam into the tiled walls. He hadn’t heard Kacy cry out, so he hoped she was unhurt.

As soon as they reached relative safety on the other side of the door, Kacy collapsed in a heap on the floor. She was breathing heavily and unevenly, as if she were about to have a panic attack.

‘Dante, is that you?’ she called out, her voice almost drowned by the gunfire on the other side of the wall. The lights weren’t on in the washrooms either, so although Dante could see Kacy through his infrared glasses, she was still in complete darkness. Rather than speak, Dante simply stroked Kacy’s cheek to let her know she was with him. This had the desired effect, calming her enough for her breathing to return almost to normal. Dante wasn’t about to take any chances, though. He kept the washroom door very slightly ajar so that he could keep an eye on events in the barroom.

The first participant in the standoff at El Santino’s table to die was Carlito. He was shot full of holes by the Bourbon Kid, who seemed to be firing off more rounds from his two weapons than the rest of the place put together. Nor was it random shooting; every shot found its target, and the first ten or so were aimed at Carlito. Kyle was next to go, then El Santino. The giant gangster was actually the gunman responsible for taking out the monk. He had simply fired off his pistol in all directions, and the first thing to get in his way was Kyle. The older of the two monks crumpled to the floor with the back of his head missing, blasted away by one of El Santino’s bullets. As his body hit the ground Dante saw the Bourbon Kid deliberately aim one of his Skorpions right at Jefe. Like El Santino, the bounty hunter was firing blindly into every part of the room, hoping to hit anyone, friend or foe.

It was at this point that it dawned on Dante that he wasn’t the only one who could see in the dark. The Kid appeared to see perfectly, too. He took careful aim with the weapon in his left hand and sent a burst of fire right through the eye-holes of Jefe’s Freddy Krueger mask, sending him to sleep permanently. The mask, its strings shot away, fell face upwards on the floor, seeming to mock the carnage all around it. As Jefe fell, his gun dropped from his right hand and on to the floor. More significantly, the Eye of the Moon, which Jefe must have extracted from its necklace (probably to sell the silver chain separately), slipped from the clutch of his left hand and rolled along the ground, meandering between the falling bodies as if it had a mind of its own. It rolled a good ten yards along the floor of the bar until it finally found its way into the hand of Peto, who was hiding under one of the larger tables. Peto, recognizing the stone from the feel of it at once, was quick to seize it and roll back out from his hiding place. He scampered across the barroom floor, occasionally crashing into a chair or tripping on a body, until he found refuge in a relatively safe spot behind a large wooden barrel, although not before a bullet had creased his calf.

All over the bar, bodies were now dropping at a horrifying rate. Of those that Dante recognized, Miguel was the next to fall, victim of another dead shot from the Bourbon Kid. Normally, seeing so many people’s lives ended by the same gunman would have guaranteed the Bourbon Kid Dante’s full attention. But not here, not today. Stealing the Kid’s thunder was the girl dressed as Catwoman.

It was obvious that she too could see perfectly well in the dark. She was moving quicker than any feline, dodging bullets, hurdling the bodies of the dead and dying, ducking under tables, trying her best to get across to the body of her dead lover, Jefe. This was proving to be a pretty hazardous task for her. Every time she got near the bounty hunter’s corpse the Bourbon Kid would turn a gun on her and blaze away like someone possessed, forcing her to back away. At first Dante figured she was just lucky to be avoiding the bullets, and he found himself silently rooting for her survival. Then something happened that made him change his mind.

Catwoman – or Jessica, except that Dante didn’t know her name – seemed to tire of dodging all the gunfire. Instead, she suddenly jumped up over the large table at which they had all been negotiating, and landed lightly on the other side, next to the bloodied remains of Jefe. She obviously had tremendous strength in her arms, for she easily lifted up the dead weight of the big bounty hunter by his shoulders. As she looked over him, her eyes turned a bright red and she began ripping frantically, first through his clothes, and then through his skin. Her mouth had suddenly sprouted a set of fangs that a Bengal tiger would have been proud of, as well as fingernails that bordered on being claws, and they were definitely not part of her costume. Okay, she’s not a cat, thought Dante, but she’s not entirely human, either. She was now so preoccupied with what she was doing that she paid no attention to the Bourbon Kid. She paid even less to the only man stupid enough to walk into the Tapioca during a blind gunfight. It was a man dressed as Elvis.

The Bourbon Kid did notice the Elvis impersonator enter, and was momentarily distracted by this large, bullish figure of a man. The yellow stripes down the sides of his red suit were almost visible in the dark, but that wasn’t what had alerted the Kid to his presence. The Elvis lookalike was wielding a heavy double-barrelled shotgun and pointing it in the Kid’s direction. It was hard to tell whether or not he knew he was aiming it at the Kid, or if it was just by sheer chance that he was directing the weapon at the gunman doing most of the killing.

This man has to be insane! Dante thought. Why else would anyone walk into a pitch-dark bar right in the middle of a shootout? For his part, the Bourbon Kid wasn’t about to ask questions and shoot later. He dropped both of his Skorpions at the sight of the newcomer and then, without warning, unleashed two smaller pistols from within the sleeves of his coat. The guns flew out from the cuffs and straight into his hands. Before the lookalike King could fire his own weapon he had taken the full force of two bullets through his sunglasses, one shot in each eye. He toppled slowly backwards and landed with a thud that made the floorboards tremble. Even Dante, cowering in the washroom, felt the impact through his feet.

Clearly aware that he had taken his eye off Jessica, the Kid quickly spun back to face her and began firing in her direction again. She was still ripping her way through what remained of Jefe, oblivious to everything else around her. This made her an easy target and the Bourbon Kid took full advantage, hitting her with shot after shot.

By now acclimatized to his strange infrared world, Dante could see quite clearly who was shooting at whom. Nearly everyone else in the bar was dead or dying, and that was surely the state Catwoman should be in, too. She had been hammered by the Kid’s bullets, but as Dante watched in astonishment, instead of collapsing in a bloody heap like almost everyone else, she did something unbelievable. She leapt upwards. In a show of enormous strength she sprang towards the ceiling, pulling Jefe’s heavy, lifeless body up with her. He must have weighed twice as much as she but Jessica lifted him up with her as if he were a feather, then slammed his corpse against the ceiling and remained floating below him as she ripped the remaining clothes and skin from his body. She was obviously looking for something, and there were no prizes for guessing it was the Eye of the Moon, but as Dante had seen, Jefe no longer had it. Peto did, and he was hiding behind a barrel a few yards away, out of Catwoman’s line of sight.

When at last it dawned on Jessica that Jefe no longer had possession of the blue stone, she thrust one clawed hand deep into his chest and ripped out his heart. It looked as though she was checking inside him to see if he had swallowed the precious blue stone. That was how desperate she had become. Blood and guts from Jefe’s torso began dropping towards the floor like slops from a bucket of pigswill, covering tables, chairs and bodies. Not an entirely dignified way to treat such a feared man in death, Dante thought, inconsequentially.

The Bourbon Kid had seen what she was doing and turned his guns upwards. Now that there seemed to be no one else alive to shoot at, he was able to concentrate on firing at Jessica. So many rounds hit her that it came as no surprise when she eventually fell to the floor in a heap. She had long ago lost her own gun, and now she could only hold her hands up in front of her face to try to shield herself from the relentless torrent of bullets. For twenty seconds more the Bourbon Kid showered her with a hail of bullets, until his ammunition ran out and he dropped the two guns. While he was momentarily taking a welcome breather and searching about his person for fresh ammo, Jessica found a body on the floor and crawled underneath it to hide while she worked out her next move. In the sudden silence that followed, the Kid rummaged through all the pockets and sleeves of his hooded trench coat for more ammunition, but quickly realized he had run out. He looked around the floor for anything he could lay his hands on, and his eyes lit on the body of the Elvis impersonator by the entrance. He headed over to it and picked the gun from the dead hand, then rifled through the pockets of the red suit for any ammunition with which to reload the shotgun.

And then, while the Kid was looting the King’s corpse, the eclipse began to pass and sunlight started to creep slowly back into the Tapioca once more. Now Dante reckoned he didn’t know much about anything, but he decided he didn’t like this girl in the Catwoman outfit. She wasn’t quite human. Worse, she was definitely bad news. She wouldn’t die, no matter how many times she was shot, and she seemed to have superhuman powers (she could fly, for one thing). If there really was a Lord of the Undead who had come to claim the Eye of the Moon, then it had to be her. No fuckin’ doubt about it, this was one mean bitch.

He pushed the washroom door shut and took a few seconds to think things through. On the floor Kacy, looking terrified, was holding up her gun for Dante to take. She had finally lost her nerve. She had been the brave one who had come to his rescue, but now it was time for him to do the honourable thing and protect the woman he loved. He flicked on the light switch behind the door and in the sudden brightness took a long hard look at Kacy’s beautiful yet terrified face. He guessed this might turn out to be the last time he ever saw her, so he wanted to savour the moment. After etching the look on her face into his memory for ever, he reached down and took the shotgun from her. It was time to do his bit for mankind. And, more importantly, for Kacy.

‘You got any more shells, Kace?’ he asked softly.

‘Dante, don’t go out there,’ she pleaded. ‘Let’s wait here for the cops to arrive.’ He shook his head, smiling. Then he reached down into the pocket of her clown suit and took a handful of 12-gauge cartridges from it.

Although he wanted to heed her advice, Dante knew that he was going to have to help the Bourbon Kid. It wasn’t just a gut instinct, it was the knowledge that the fate of the free world probably rested in the hands of the quick-shooting Kid and his ability to see off the flesh-eating bitch in the Catwoman outfit. The Kid had to be a good guy, right? Well maybe, maybe not, but at least he seemed to be human. Dante had heard the stories of all the murders this man had committed during the last Lunar Festival, but right now if he had to pick a side to be on, it was that of the serial killer, not the flying member of the Undead in the Catwoman outfit. In any case, the knowledge that he and Kacy would undoubtedly die if he didn’t do something to help was more than enough to spur him on. Poor Kacy looked confused. She was gazing up at him, praying he would stay with her.

‘Don’t worry, baby,’ he said to her. ‘I’ll be back.’

The firing really did seem to have stopped, and a murmur of voices was now reaching them from the bar. He turned back and threw the washroom door open, so hard that it almost came off its hinges, then took a deep breath and went flying through it. There, standing right in front of him, was Peto, pointing a gun at the Bourbon Kid and looking like he was about to shoot him. Dante pointed his gun at the back of Peto’s head.

‘Don’t do it, Peto.’

‘Dante, this doesn’t concern you.’

‘Yes, it does. Take your Eye of the Moon thing and get the hell out of here. I’ll deal with this guy.’

‘But he killed Kyle.’

‘Peto, you’re a monk. Monks don’t kill people. Not for any reason. Not ever. Now get outta here. Take your precious stone and go back to where you came from. Go on. Use the back door and get gone.’

Peto deliberated for a moment over whether or not to do as Dante said. In that time he seemed to be caught in two minds, but then, as if he couldn’t decide what else to do, he simply backpedalled over to the rear exit, as Dante had suggested, never taking his eyes off the Bourbon Kid. When he reached the door he kicked it open with the heel of his left foot, and then backed out through it.

And then there were three. Jessica was now lying with her back up against a table that had been knocked on to its side. The face beneath the Catwoman mask had returned to its normal state. Dante pointed his gun at her and fired, hitting her in the centre of her forehead. Blood and brains spattered everywhere. This was the cue for the Bourbon Kid to unload all his remaining rounds on her, the cartridges he had taken from the body of the Elvis impersonator. For almost a minute, Dante and the Kid fired at her non-stop, the heavy shotgun charges doing terrible damage, until there was virtually no flesh left on her, just blood, bones and gristle. When they had both run out of shells and had lowered their weapons, Dante took a look at the mess they had created. Even though he knew the girl was evil and would, given the chance, have killed him and Kacy without pity, he couldn’t help but feel guilty for what he had just done. It reminded him of a time several months before when he had accidentally hit his dog, Hector, with his car. It hadn’t been his fault, but watching his beloved dog take its last breath had made him feel hollow inside. There was nothing worse than taking another life, whether by accident or intentionally. It just wasn’t a good feeling, no matter how you dressed it up.

The Bourbon Kid didn’t appear to be suffering the same inner turmoil as Dante. He dropped the gun in his left hand and casually pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inside coat pocket. He flicked the bottom of the packet with his index finger and a cigarette popped up at the top. Raising the pack to his mouth, he used his teeth to take out the cigarette and then rolled it to the left corner of his mouth with his tongue and let it hang there. As he drew on the end of it, the cigarette lit itself. Maybe there was so much gunsmoke in the bar that it could almost be classed as flame. Whatever the explanation, the trick looked extremely cool. The Kid took another drag and looked over at Dante.

‘Thanks, man. I owe you one. Take it easy.’

With that, he turned round and walked out of the Tapioca. He stepped over a few bodies on his way, but he never looked down and he never looked back. The Bourbon Kid was gone. All around the bar were the decaying remains of his handiwork. There were shattered, blood-soaked bodies, some with tendrils of smoke still drifting from bullet wounds. There were tables and chairs spattered with the flesh and blood of the evil scum and the innocent bystanders who had crossed his path. And then there was Dante, the only visible survivor, standing in the midst of it all. He walked back to the ladies’ washroom and stepped past the door, which was hanging brokenly from its hinges, liable to collapse at any second. Once inside he peered down at Kacy, who was lying with her arms covering her head on the floor in front of one of the cubicles. The last, frenetic burst of firing had terrified her, and she had not dared look out to see whether her boyfriend had survived. He smiled broadly at her.

‘Come with me if you want to live,’ he said in his best Schwarzenegger voice.

Kacy smiled back at him, as though she was the happiest girl in the world.

‘I love you.’

‘I know,’ Dante grinned back at her.

As they walked out of the bar, stepping over the bodies and broken furniture and pools of gore all around them, Kacy stopped suddenly and tugged at Dante’s arm.

‘Hey, one of these guys might have our ten grand. D’you wanna search them?’

Dante smiled and shook his head.

‘Baby, if there’s one thing I learnt out of all this, it’s that I don’t need money. I got you, babe. That’s all I’ll ever need.’

‘You sure, honey?’

‘Sure I’m sure. Just you and the hundred grand back at the motel, right?’

‘You betcha.’

Dante put his hands around the back of Kacy’s neck and pulled her in towards him, planting an enthusiastic kiss on her lips.

‘You’re the best girlfriend in the world, Kace,’ he said, with a wink from behind his sunglasses. Kacy winked right back at him.

‘I know.’

Fifty-Nine

Sanchez needed a drink. The only bottle behind the bar still intact after the shootout was the one that held the good bourbon. Even the piss bottle had been smashed, and Sanchez had a feeling that its contents had sprayed all over him. No doubt the work of the Bourbon Kid.

There was now not a single person alive in the bar except him. The goddam Kid had wiped out his entire clientele again, and then the guy dressed as the Terminator had helped him kill Jessica. She was as dead as could be this time. He mulled over the situation, casting his mind back five years. No two ways about it, there was some seriously hard work ahead in the next few months to build his business back up.

He was about to take a hefty swig from the bottle of bourbon when he spotted a single whisky glass on the edge of the bar that had somehow remained intact throughout the whole gunfight. It was probably the one the Kid had drunk from. Sanchez smiled to himself as he poured a large measure of bourbon into the glass. Maybe drinking from the Kid’s glass would have an effect on him, too? Though a positive one, he hoped.

He downed the shot of bourbon in one, and then poured himself another. It was time to clean up the bar. He knew the cops would be along soon enough to ask the usual questions. So he figured it would be best to rifle through the pockets of the dead to see if he could find any cash before the cops arrived and beat him to it. No sense in missing the opportunity to make a bit of dough to contribute towards his redecorating fund. Polishing off his second shot of bourbon, he set about the task at hand.

By the time the police sirens came to a stop outside the bar he had found about twenty thousand dollars in used notes hidden in the pockets of a select few of the bodies. Many of the corpses were unrecognizable, which made it a little easier on the conscience. When he got to Jessica, he was reluctant to search her. This was a girl with whom he had been secretly infatuated for the last five years. All that time she had been in a coma he had hoped and prayed she would come out of it and thank him for saving her. Who knows, maybe she could have fallen for him as he had fallen for her? But she was definitely dead this time. He checked the pulse in her wrist and her neck. Nothing. He found an only slightly bloodied yellow bar towel on the floor and placed it over what was left of her face. What a waste. What a terrible, terrible fuckin’ waste.

‘You got a survivor there?’ said a voice from behind him.

Sanchez turned, instantly recognizing the man in the grey trench coat leaning against the bar. It was Detective Archibald Somers, the washed-up old cop who had unsuccessfully dedicated his life to finding the Bourbon Kid. Just how unsuccessfully was pretty evident from the present state of the Tapioca.

‘No, she’s dead.’

‘You sure?’

‘Well she ain’t got no pulse and she’s not breathin’. I figure the hundred-and-fifty-third bullet might just have finished her off.’

Somers stepped away from the bar towards Sanchez, crunching broken glass underfoot as he did so.

‘There’s no need for sarcasm, okay? We’re gonna need another statement from you. Was it the Bourbon Kid again?’

Sanchez stood up and walked back behind the bar, careful not to let Detective Somers see the wad of cash in his back pocket.

‘Yeah it was him again,’ he said wearily. ‘He had a kid helping him this time, as well. Some guy dressed up as the Terminator. I think the two of them killed my brother and his wife. Probably killed Elvis, too.’

‘That guy?’ asked Somers, gesturing at the dead Elvis impersonator by the front entrance.

‘Nah, that guy was just some bum who walked in at the wrong time.’

‘Poor bastard.’

‘Yeah, him and a hundred others. So, you wanna drink or not, Detective?’

‘Sure. What’ve you got?’

‘Bourbon.’

Somers let out a deep sigh. The Kid was gone, but the bourbon was still flowing, as usual.

‘Fuck it. Go ahead, then.’

The exasperated detective walked over to where Sanchez had been standing and took a look at Jessica’s body. He picked up what was left of one of her arms so that he could check for a pulse.

‘I told you already. She’s dead, man,’ Sanchez called out from behind the bar. He was pouring a shot of bourbon into the only surviving glass, the one he’d been drinking from.

Just then a second cop, wearing a shiny silver suit, entered the Tapioca and clumsily caught his trailing leg on the body of the Elvis impersonator as he stepped over it. It was Miles Jensen, the black detective from out of town. Sanchez had met him a few days earlier when he’d dropped by to ask some pretty pointless questions about the killing of Thomas and Audrey. The bartender had told him nothing then, and wasn’t about to tell him anything now. He didn’t like cops at the best of times, but nosy guys with badges? – well, he had no tolerance for them whatsoever.

‘Jesus, what a mess,’ Jensen said, straightening after his minor stumble. ‘Another dead Elvis, hey? Shit, ain’t nobody’s got any respect for the King these days, huh?’

‘You wanna shot of bourbon too?’ Sanchez grunted.

‘What else you got?’

‘Nothin’.’

‘In that case I’ll pass, thanks.’

Jensen walked over towards Somers, who was now crouching by Jessica’s body. He recognized the remains of Carlito and Miguel lying among all the glass, blood and shell casings as he stepped over them on his way to join his partner. It was comforting to know they were dead after what they had put him through the night before. But now wasn’t the time to reflect on that, for there seemed to be quite a few innocents caught up in this whole sorry mess. One of them was a young woman whose face Somers was covering over with a stained bar towel.

‘She alive?’ Jensen asked.

‘No, she’s gone. Everyone in here’s dead ’cept Sanchez,’ said Somers, standing up. ‘We’d better get Forensics in here. Maybe we can get word out and catch the Bourbon Kid before he gets too far away. According to Sanchez, he’s got an accomplice who’s dressed as the Terminator.’

Jensen was beginning to understand why Somers had spent the last five years trying to nail the Bourbon Kid. Some of these victims had families who shouldn’t have to see them like this just because some psycho couldn’t handle his drink.

‘I’ll go and tell the ambulance crews they can come in.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ said Somers, looking down at the body of a dead monk and tutting to himself. ‘I’ll do that. You stay here and get a statement from Sanchez.’

He walked up to the counter where Sanchez had placed his glass of bourbon. He took one look at it and grimaced.

‘On second thoughts, I’ll pass on that drink,’ he said. ‘Probably a bit inappropriate to be touching that stuff in the light of what’s just happened. In fact, some people might say it’s inappropriate to be serving the stuff, too. And for what it’s worth, you smell like piss.’

Somers walked out, still tutting under his breath every time he passed another corpse. He seemed utterly disgusted by the savage waste of innocent lives all around him.

Jensen felt bad that they had not made it to the Tapioca sooner. Maybe he could redeem himself and surprise Somers by becoming the first guy ever to get some decent information out of Sanchez. He picked up one of the wooden stools from the floor and brushed the broken glass from it, then took it over to the bar and sat down.

‘So, Sanchez,’ he began, ‘smells like piss in here, don’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ the barman shrugged. ‘You really need a statement from me right now?’

‘No,’ Jensen smiled. Maybe now really wasn’t the time. ‘You can come down to headquarters tomorrow and give one then, if you want.’

‘Thanks, man.’

‘No problem.’

Jensen picked up Somers’s unwanted glass of bourbon and took a sip. It was warm and tasted like it had grit in it. The result was distinctly unrefreshing.

‘Christ! That’s stuff’s foul, man. No wonder this Kid goes nuts when he drinks it.’ As soon as he’d said it, he cringed. Could he really have made such an insensitive remark? Even in a place like this that was well used to tactless comments, it was a rotten thing to have come out with. He took a look at Sanchez’s face. The bartender was obviously not impressed.

‘Sorry, man. Bad joke.’

‘Forget it.’

Jensen didn’t want to outstay his welcome any longer than necessary, especially not if he was coming out with comments of such dubious taste. He stood up from his barstool and reached into his pocket. Sanchez stepped back uneasily.

‘All right, Sanchez, I’m just reaching for my wallet,’ Jensen smiled.

‘It’s okay, man. You don’t have to pay for the drink,’ the other man said.

Jensen pulled out his wallet and opened it. Then he produced a small red business card from it.

‘Here, take my card. My cellphone number’s on here. You can call me if you should remember anything, y’know … important… about the Bourbon Kid.’ He balanced the card on top of the half-drunk glass of bourbon. Sanchez picked it up and slipped it into his back pocket.

‘Sure. Thanks, Detective. I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘You do that. Take it easy, Sanchez.’

Jensen made his way over to the front entrance, once again accidentally snagging his foot on the dead Elvis impersonator. He looked back to see if Sanchez had noticed. He obviously had, because he was shaking his head. Jensen smiled at him through gritted teeth. How embarrassing. Sanchez must have thought he was a black version of Inspector Clouseau.

As it happened, Sanchez wasn’t thinking that at all. He was actually feeling sorry for the clumsy detective and decided to offer him an olive branch.

‘Hey, Detective, I just remembered somethin’,’ he called out. ‘The guy in the Terminator outfit, he’s drivin’ a yellow Cadillac.’

Miles Jensen stopped dead in his tracks.

‘You serious? A yellow Caddy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Shit, wait ’til Somers hears this,’ Jensen said, laughing to himself.

‘What’s so goddam funny?’ asked Sanchez.

‘Oh nothin’ really,’ said Jensen. ‘It’s just that Somers had his yellow Caddy stolen last night. He was fucking fuming, man. You shoulda seen him.’

Sanchez stood behind the bar, lost in thought as the detective walked out to his car. Somers owned the yellow Cadillac? What could this mean, exactly? Had Somers killed Thomas and Audrey? If so, did that mean he’d also killed Elvis? Before he could give the matter too much consideration, he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. Then he heard a cough. It was Jessica. He ran out from behind the bar and bent over her, quickly pulling the towel from her face. She was breathing again. She was still alive, albeit barely, clinging on by the skin of her teeth. The flesh seemed to have returned to her face, as if she was regenerating. This had to be a miracle of some kind. He had checked her pulse only a few minutes earlier and she had been dead. Then the old-guy detective, Somers, had checked her over, too, and confirmed it. But now, suddenly she was alive again! Hell, Sanchez didn’t care how. He just knew it was up to him to look after her. This was a sign. A sign from God. They were meant to be together. This time he would nurse her back to health himself.

As he carried her limp body into his back room he heard the sound of the ambulances pulling up outside. He would have to hide her again, just like last time. No one could be trusted. If word got out that she was alive, the Bourbon Kid would come back for her. It might take another five years, maybe more this time, maybe less, who knew? But Sanchez would nurse her back to health.

And this time, maybe she would thank him for it.

Sixty

Captain Rockwell stepped inside the House of the Mystic Lady to find Lieutenant Scraggs sitting behind a desk in a chair next to the one holding the decapitated body of the old woman. He was flicking through the pages of a heavy hardback book. Scraggs nearly jumped right out of his skin when he saw the Captain enter.

‘Goddammit, Scrubbs, didn’t I tell you not to touch anything?’ Rockwell growled angrily.

‘Yes, you did, Captain, but you gotta see this. This book explains everything.’

‘It fucking well better.’

Scraggs flicked back through a few pages and then turned the open book to face Rockwell, who approached the desk, all the while maintaining an icy stare at his subordinate to let him know how displeased he was at being disobeyed.

‘Right, what’m I looking at?’ he asked.

Scraggs pointed at the left-hand page. On it was a coloured drawing of two men with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Both were dressed in long robes, suggesting that they had lived hundreds of years ago, a fact made more likely by the crumpled yellow parchment of the book’s pages. One of the robed men was holding a golden chalice with red liquid spilling from it. Both looked serenely happy, almost ecstatic.

‘Sir, read the caption underneath the picture,’ said Scraggs.

Rockwell didn’t take kindly to being ordered around by Scraggs, but he read the clear black lettering quietly to himself.

Armand Xavier and Ishmael Taos found and drank from the Cup of Christ in the Year of Our Lord 526.

‘Is that it?’ asked Rockwell. ‘What the fuck is this? I don’t get it.’

‘Look at the picture of the two men again, sir. Don’t you recognize one of them?’

Captain Rockwell looked closely at the picture again, concentrating more on the men’s faces this time. After just a few seconds he raised one eyebrow and looked at Scraggs.

‘The one on the left looks like that asshole Somers.’

‘That’s Armand Xavier.’

‘There any other pictures of him in here?’

‘Yeah. Check this out.’ Scraggs flicked over a whole lot more pages and eventually stopped at another illustration. This time the drawing showed a group of people. ‘You might recognize a few more of these, Captain.’

Again Rockwell studied the picture, which showed four men and a woman. Beneath it was lettered:

Dark Lord Xavier and his family – believed to reside in Santa Mondega, a city of the New World.

‘Dark Lord Xavier,’ Rockwell said, sounding more than a little confused. ‘But that’s Somers for sure, and those other three guys – that’s El Santino and his two gay sidekicks. This has gotta be some kinda fuckin’ joke.’

Scraggs shook his head. ‘I’ve been reading some of this shit, Captain. Mostly just the pages with pictures on, but from what I can gather, it’s saying that this Armand Xavier guy and his good friend Ishmael Taos drank the blood of Christ and became immortal.’

‘That’s ludicrous.’

‘Yeah, I know. But then, get this. They fell out over a woman, the woman in the picture, I guess.’

‘Who the fuck’s she?’

‘I think her name is Jessica. You see, according to the book, Xavier became frustrated at being immortal and not being able to share his life with someone for all eternity. Then he meets this Jessica woman, and it turns out she’s a vampire or somethin’. So when she bites him, he becomes more than just immortal. He’s got the blood of Christ and the blood of a vampire running through his veins, so I guess technically he becomes the chief bloodsucker, or the Dark Lord, if you will.’

Rockwell had never heard anything so far-fetched in all his long, if undistinguished, career. Then again, maybe some things were beginning to make sense. He took a deep breath, then puffed out his cheeks as he emitted a deep sigh.

‘Shit, this can’t be right.’ He scratched his head and frowned. ‘But I guess it explains why a supernatural investigator has been assigned out here. I wonder if Jensen actually knows about this?’

‘I just tried to call him. His phone was switched off, but I left him a message.’

‘Good work, Scrubbs. What did you tell him?

‘Not much. I just warned him to stay away from Somers, and call in if he gets the chance.’

‘Good thinking, too, Lieutenant. So what else have you found in this goddam book? Anything else about the other guy, Taos?’

‘Well,’ said Scraggs, pulling the book back towards him. ‘I was just getting to that. Seems he found the Eye of the Moon and lit out with it somewhere that Xavier couldn’t get his hands on it.’

‘Anythin’ else?’

‘Not really, sir, or not yet anyway, but I’ve barely scratched the surface. This book could take a few days to read, and I only started halfway through.’

‘Any mention of the Bourbon Kid?’

‘Nope, nothing. Not yet anyway.’

BANG!

Startled, both men jumped, then looked over to the front door, drawing their guns ready for action. Scraggs leapt up from his chair as if he had received an electric shock. That had been a gunshot. Outside. Officer Quaid was no longer standing guard at the door, but his voice could be heard from out in the street, yelling, ‘Shit, it’s him. Shoot! Fuckin’ shoot!’

There followed an almighty burst of gunfire. From the sound of it, seven or eight weapons were being fired at once. The firing lasted no more than ten seconds. Then there was silence. Rockwell and Scraggs looked at each other ominously.

‘It was nice knowin’ you, Captain,’ said Scraggs, desperately trying to keep a firm grip on his pistol. They didn’t teach you anything in training about dealing with a combination of trembling hands and cold sweat.

‘We ain’t dead yet, Scrubbs. You keep your nerve an’ we might just get outta this alive.’

‘Nah, we’ve looked at the book, Captain. We’re fucked. And it’s Scraggs, sir.’

‘Shaddup. Someone’s coming.’

Both men kept their guns trained on the doorway, waiting for whatever might appear. They could hear footsteps walking slowly towards the entrance. The tension was unbearable. As the footsteps drew closer, so their trigger fingers tightened. A shadow appeared at the doorway, followed a second later by the staggering, bloodstained figure of Officer Quaid.

BANG!

Instinctively, through nothing more than blind panic, Scraggs had fired a bullet straight into Quaid’s chest. The uniformed cop’s already bloodied face took on a final look of despair and surprise at being shot by the Lieutenant, before he fell forward, crashing face first on to the floor.

‘What the fuck you do that for?’ Rockwell yelled, turning to see Scraggs with his gun still smoking in his hand. ‘That’s one of my best men, goddamit.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I thought he was someone else. I panicked.’

‘Well fuck! Go panic somewhere else, you dumb shit!’

Scraggs’s expression changed. His whole face relaxed as if every muscle in it had packed up and gone home.

‘Too late,’ he said quietly.

Captain Rockwell looked back to the entrance. Standing in the doorway was the man in the hooded trench coat. The Bourbon Kid. He had a sawn-off shotgun in each hand.

One to kill the Captain and one to kill the Lieutenant.

Sixty-One

Dante and Kacy had raced back to the County Motel, the big Cadillac barrelling along the streets, its tyres squealing as it hurtled round corners. Getting out of Santa Mondega alive was number one on their list of priorities. Kacy estimated that they had no more than ten minutes to change clothes and check out of the motel before the police started blocking off the main roads, in and out of the city. She was desperate to see the back of this horrible place, and head back to the civilized world before their luck finally ran out.

They parked the yellow car outside their room and rushed inside. Dante put the chain on the room door and then closed the blinds, before taking a quick peek through them to make sure no squad cars had arrived yet. When he turned round, he saw that Kacy’s clown outfit was already on the floor. She was beside it on her hands and knees, reaching under the bed. Her pert bottom was sticking up in the air and wiggling from side to side as she tried to pull the suitcase full of money from its hiding place. Her modesty was preserved only by a thin black thong and matching bra that she wore on special occasions for Dante’s benefit.

When she eventually managed to drag the suitcase out and sling it across the floor towards him, she saw that he was standing motionless, gawking at her.

‘Baby, now’s not the time,’ she barked. ‘Get those clothes off and put something clean on, for Chrissakes!’

Dante knew she was right, but all the while as he threw his clothes off, he was doing his utmost to work out a way of convincing her that there was enough time for a ‘quickie’.

Kacy checked that the suitcase was still full of money and then zipped it up again. She then climbed up on to the bed and grabbed another, heavier, suitcase from the floor on the other side of it. Using all her strength, she dragged it up on to the bed with her and then unzipped it. Inside it were all the clothes they owned in the world. She pulled out a pair of blue jeans for Dante and threw them over to him.

‘Here, put these on.’

Dante was standing in just a pair of black boxer shorts as he caught the jeans. If he put these on, any chance of a quick fuck would be gone.

‘Kace, you better throw me some new boxers, too,’ he said in a serious voice.

‘You don’t need clean boxers. Keep the ones you’re wearing.’

‘Nah, Kace, we’d better get rid of all the clothes we’re wearing. The cops could check them for DNA. Best we don’t take the chance.’

Kacy stopped rummaging through the suitcase. ‘What? Why would anyone check your boxers?’

‘Dunno, but it seems dumb to take the chance. We should strip off everything we’ve been wearing so we can burn it later, just to be on the safe side.’

‘Really?’ Kacy didn’t sound at all convinced.

Dante nodded. He had a disappointed look about him as he pulled his boxers off and threw them on to the pile of bloodied clothes on the floor.

‘It’s for the best, Kace. Shame, though. Those were my favourite boxers. Here, chuck me your undies and I’ll put them on the pile.’

Kacy was still unsure, but Dante had a very serious expression on his face. He seemed to know what he was talking about, and anyway she didn’t know any better.

‘Come on, Kace, we haven’t got all fuckin’ day!’

As he seemed to be in such a hurry, Kacy figured he wasn’t just after a quickie, so she swiftly undid her bra and threw it over to him. Her breasts were as perky as ever, the nipples pointing rather invitingly right at him. Then, from her kneeling position on the bed, she rolled over on to her back and slipped off the tiny black thong. She couldn’t have explained why, but she then flicked it over to Dante in a seductive manner, and winked at him with a cheeky smile.

Maybe it was the sight of his erect cock that made her want to tease him a little. Either way, it had the all too predictable effect. Dante’s eyes were out on stalks at the sight of her naked body. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen it, every time was as good as the first. Faster than a speeding bullet, he was on top of her, his hands everywhere, exploring her body as if it was previously uncharted territory.

‘Dante, no! We shouldn’t. There’s no time,’ Kacy protested meekly, even as she ran her hands down his back.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he whispered, as he slipped his cock inside her.

Sixty-Two

Somers and Jensen were in the older detective’s recently acquired squad car, racing down the main street through the centre of Santa Mondega, when a voice crackled out of the police radio. It was the information they had been waiting for.

‘The yellow Cadillac you’re after has been spotted parked outside the County Motel on Gordon Street,’ said the voice.

‘We’re right on it, thanks,’ said Somers, speaking into the radio mike, which he held with one hand while steering the car with the other. He’d never had any truck with all that ‘Ten-four’ shit.

‘You think the Kid’s still there?’ Jensen asked from the passenger seat.

‘Dunno. But there’s a good chance the Eye of the Moon is there, and at the very least I’ll get my car back. And maybe the sonofabitch who stole it.’

He suddenly wrenched the steering wheel violently to the left without slowing down. They turned off the main drag and down a side street with cars parked along both sides. Somers put his foot right down on the gas pedal and sped along the centre of the road without a care for anyone foolish enough to be crossing it.

It took little more than ten minutes for him to get them to the County Motel. He had driven through countless back alleys and side streets, along the way swerving wildly not only to avoid oncoming traffic, but also several careless pedestrians.

The County Motel was a no-frills, run-down, thirty-room establishment on the side of the main highway that headed west out of Santa Mondega. It was a good place for any out-of-towners to spend their first night in the city. The accommodation was cheap and the parking was free.

When they arrived, the parking lot was less than half full. Most of the vehicles parked in it were pick-up trucks or station wagons. There was no sign of any Cadillacs of any description, certainly not a bright yellow one. Somers parked the squad car in the middle space of a band of three vacant spots no more than twenty yards to the left of the main entrance. There was a vandalized sign over the entrance that read:

‘WELCOME TO THE C UNTY MOTEL’.

Beneath the sign, a single concrete step led up to a pair of glass double doors with a hideous lime-green border around their outer edges.

‘I’m gonna head in to reception,’ Somers said, opening the driver’s door. ‘You wait here, and honk the horn if you see anything.’

‘Sure thing,’ replied Jensen, pulling his cellphone from his pocket as his partner climbed out of the car.

Somers walked hurriedly up to the double doors as Jensen turned his phone back on. He had left it off ever since Somers had rescued him from the barn, and maybe the scarecrow, the night before. The phone beeped several times within seconds of being turned on. A line of text came up on the screen.

1 New Message.

After a frenetic and extremely passionate lovemaking session that had left them feeling extremely relaxed, Dante and Kacy had set about checking out of the motel. Since the moment she had allowed him to persuade her to remove her underwear, neither of them had been able to remember quite why they had been so desperate to get out of town in such a hurry. Sure, the cops might be looking for them, but with the number of dead bodies around that day, there would be potentially hundreds of avenues for the police to explore before they tracked down the two young lovers.

They had packed their remaining possessions and changed clothes without feeling a fraction of the anxiety they had endured, pre-fuck. Dante was now wearing the blue jeans Kacy had thrown at him, along with an unexceptionable red short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt over a clean white undershirt. Kacy had thrown on a pale blue miniskirt and blue high-heeled shoes. Her outfit was topped off with a low-cut white T-shirt emblazoned with a picture of a blue 1966 Thunderbird flying off the edge of the Grand Canyon.

After driving the yellow Cadillac round to the rear car park, they made their way back to the front of the building. Dante kept one arm wrapped tightly around Kacy’s shoulders. With all they had been through together in the last few days he felt more protective of her than ever before. She was more important to him than anything in the world, so he was keeping her close during their remaining time in Santa Mondega.

The loved-up young couple were in good spirits as they arrived at the reception desk to settle their bill. Making an attempt at being discreet, they both wore sunglasses to cover at least a little of their faces. Kacy was wearing Dante’s Terminator shades, while he wore a pair of aviators that he had picked up from one of the bodies in the Tapioca. He didn’t feel the least bit guilty about this. After all, the guy had been dead.

Carlos, the motel manager, was sitting behind the reception desk, with his feet up, reading a copy of Empire magazine. Even though Dante and Kacy were about to settle their bill and make him some money, he still didn’t welcome the intrusion on his reading time. He was a short, middle-aged Hispanic with tufts of thick black hair around his ears but little or none on top. He compensated for this by displaying an extremely dense black moustache that grew from out of his large nostrils and down past the corners of his mouth.

The lobby had a faint but unpleasant musty smell about it. Whether this came from the dirty maroon carpet, the decaying brown wallpaper, Carlos, or a combination of all three, was hard to tell. It was a small stuffy reception area only slightly bigger than the bedroom they had occupied. It had only one window, situated near the corner farthest from the desk. It was small and narrow, and its broken handle ensured that it couldn’t be opened.

‘Yo, Carlos, my man, we wanna settle up,’ said Dante cheerfully, throwing a set of keys over the reception desk at the manager. The keys hit the cover of Carlos’s magazine and fell to the floor. Disgruntled, he put the magazine down and took his feet off the desk, then reached down and picked up the keys. ‘What’s this?’ he asked suspiciously, holding them up.

On the ring was the motel room key, but also a car key that he didn’t recognize. He fingered it free of the other key and the heavy metal tag attached to the ring.

‘It’s a thank-you gift for letting us stay here,’ Dante replied, smiling.

‘What the fuck is it?’

‘Take a look out the back window,’ said Dante, nodding at the small window in the far corner.

Carlos got up from his seat and gave Dante a dirty look, then he smiled at Kacy and winked. He made his way over to the window and looked out. About twenty yards away in the private car park out back was the yellow Cadillac he had seen outside one of the apartments the night before. Just then it was the only car in the lot.

‘You’re giving me your car?’

‘Yep.’

‘What’s the catch? It stolen?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Kacy chimed in with a broad smile.

‘You might wanna get it sprayed a different colour though,’ said Dante.

Carlos took a few seconds to think over the offer.

‘Might wanna get the licence plate changed, too?’

‘Might,’ Dante agreed.

Carlos made his way back behind the reception desk and sat down. He flicked through the guest book and stopped at a page with a list of names on it. Halfway down the list were Dante and Kacy’s signatures and the details of their stay.

‘The room’s a hundred and fifty dollars,’ he said, looking hard into Dante’s sunglasses.

‘Tell you what,’ said Dante leaning over the counter to get in Carlos’s face. ‘How about you give us the room for free as a thank-you for the car I just gave you.’

Carlos closed the register and picked up his magazine, flicking back to the article he’d been reading.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Do you want the page of the guest book with your names and signatures on, too? You know, to take with you as a souvenir of your stay?’

‘Er, actually, yeah, that’s probably a good idea,’ said Dante. ‘Thanks.’

‘That’ll be a hundred and fifty dollars, then.’

Dante’s patience had worn thin.

‘Now you look here, you cheeky fuckin’ spick,’ he said spitefully. ‘I just gave you a fuckin’ car. Don’t push your fuckin’ luck.’

‘The price is a hundred and fifty. You don’t like it, you know what you can do.’

Kacy felt the need to interject before Dante got them into any more trouble than was necessary. She jumped forward with a great beaming smile on her face and put her hands on Carlos’s desk, leaning forward to show a little cleavage as her arms squeezed her breasts together. Her welcoming expression seemed to say These are my tits. They could be yours … for a while.

‘You know what, Carlos? How ’bout you call a cab for us, while we count the money out for you?’

‘Sure,’ said Carlos, all the while staring down Kacy’s T-shirt with a wry smile on his face. ‘There’s a charge of five dollars for the call, though.’

‘Fuck you, you prick,’ Dante growled at him. ‘I’ll ring the fuckin’ cab myself. Come on, Kace, let’s go.’

‘Dante, please just give him the money. Just do it. It’ll put my mind at ease.’

Dante was about to respond when a silver-haired man in a grey trench coat walked in. Carlos recognized the guy and greeted him immediately.

‘Good afternoon, Detective Somers,’ he called out cheerily, as if he was pleased to see him.

‘Hello, Carlos,’ said Somers solemnly.

The detective walked up to the reception desk and stood alongside Kacy, giving her a quick smile. ‘Hello, miss. Mind if I just butt in ahead of you? It’s police business.’ He held his badge up.

‘Oh, no. I mean, sure,’ said Kacy replied nervously.

She was praying that Dante would keep his mouth shut. It might already be too late. He had pissed off Carlos and now here was a detective standing right alongside them.

‘Carlos,’ Somers began, displaying a fake smile and slipping a twenty-dollar bill over the counter to the manager, who took it happily. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that you’ve got someone staying here who drives a yellow Cadillac. That Cadillac has been stolen, and the owner – who happens to be me – an officer of the law, wants his car back. He also wants to know the name of the driver, if you’ve got it to hand. Be good if you could help me here. Thanks.’

Kacy watched as Carlos took stock of the situation. Why, oh why had Dante gone and pissed him off? Now they were in trouble again. She took a step back from the desk to try to catch her boyfriend’s eye. It was hard to tell through his dark aviator sunglasses if he was even looking at her. And if he was looking at her, she couldn’t read his eyes. Evasive action was required. If Carlos gave the game away, they were going to prison. The suitcase full of money, the stolen car, and probably the eyewitnesses from the Tapioca would see to it that they were in jail and poor once again. Not to mention in danger. Kacy didn’t trust anyone in this city, not even the cops. Especially not cops, although she thought the old guy actually looked okay.

Carlos rubbed his chin as he considered his response to Somers’s question, at the same time quickly pocketing the twenty-dollar bill.

‘Yeah, there was a yellow Cadillac staying here. I remember the guy who was driving it. Real asshole, he was. Let me see if I’ve got his name in my guest book,’ he said, once again putting his magazine to one side and looking down at the register lying open on the desk.

Dante took a step back from the desk too. ‘You know what, Carlos?’ he said pleasantly, stretching his arms as if he were tired. ‘We’ll come back later. Thanks.’

‘Don’t you go anywhere,’ said Somers grabbing hold of Dante’s arm tightly. ‘I’ll only be a minute. You an’ this pretty lady can wait, can’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ smiled Carlos, still looking at the guest book. ‘You can wait. This’ll only take a minute. Once I’ve given this officer the information he requires, I’ll get to you, don’t worry.’

He flicked through the pages of the guest book again and stopped on the page with Dante’s and Kacy’s names on it. As he ran his finger down the list he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Kacy was moving away from the desk a little. He sat back and looked up, first at Somers, then, as if he were deep in thought, over at Kacy. He began to drum his fingers on the open page of the book.

‘What is it?’ asked Somers.

‘I’m just trying to remember somethin’,’ said Carlos, holding up a hand to signal to the detective that he’d be glad of a few more seconds of his patience. There was a distracted look in his eyes, as though he was desperately trying to remember something.

Actually, he was staring at Kacy. Where Somers and Dante were standing at the desk, they were unable to see what he saw. Kacy, having moved out of their line of sight, had lifted up her T-shirt to confirm his earlier suspicion that she was not wearing a bra. Carlos stared contentedly at her magnificent breasts, marvelling at the pert pink nipples as he pretended to be deep in thought. Eventually, after a satisfyingly long time, she lowered her T-shirt again and Carlos snapped out of his trance.

‘I remember now,’ he said, turning his gaze back to Somers. ‘The guy in the Cadillac was called Pedro Valente.’ He pointed to the name on the page of the guest book. ‘He checked out about twenty minutes ago. You might catch him, said he was heading out of town.’

‘You got an address for him?’ asked Somers.

‘’Fraid not. He wasn’t the kind of guy that had an address, and certainly not the sort I’d pester for one, either.’

‘Okay,’ said Somers, stepping back and staring at Kacy. ‘I might be back if I don’t find this guy. Thanks for your help, Carlos. And sorry to have stepped in and interrupted you, miss.’

After admiring Kacy for a few seconds – she really was amazingly pretty, he thought – he turned to Dante to offer his appreciation.

‘You’re a very lucky guy,’ he said. ‘You take good care of that girl.’

‘I always do.’

‘Good.’

Somers walked past Kacy and winked at her as he headed back out of the lobby to where Miles Jensen was waiting in the squad car.

Dante reached into his back pocket and pulled out just over two hundred dollars. He threw it over the desk to Carlos.

‘Thanks, man, I owe you one.’

Carlos shook his head.

‘Keep the money,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll call you a cab for nothing, and you can have the page from the guest book, too, in case the cops come back. I was only kidding earlier.’

‘Wow, thanks, man,’ said Dante, taking back the money Carlos was holding out to him. He turned to face Kacy and shrugged his shoulders to express his bafflement at the previously obstructive motel manager’s change of heart.

Kacy offered a baffled shrug of her own. She, of course, knew perfectly well the reason for Carlos’s sudden generosity, but she’d keep it to herself. Dante was openly brave, always looking for a reason to protect her. If only he knew the things she had to do to protect him from himself.

As Somers was disappearing into the motel, Jensen was using his thumb to press the ENTER button on his cellphone to play his new message. He put the phone to his ear. To his surprise, the message was from Lieutenant Paolo Scraggs.

‘Hey, Jensen, it’s Lieutenant Scraggs here. Listen carefully, I’ve found that book you’ve been looking for. If Somers is anywhere near you, get the fuck away from him. I think he’s the killer you’re hunting. The whole Bourbon Kid thing is a red herring … or something … I’m not sure. Just call me or the Captain, but don’t talk to Somers. There’s a picture of him in the book. Says he’s a Dark Lord or some shit like that. Call me.’

Jensen sat for a few seconds, frowning as he replayed the message in his mind. Somers? The killer? Couldn’t be … could it? Why would Scraggs lie? Scraggs didn’t like Somers, but then Somers didn’t like Scraggs. And hold on a minute, it was Somers who had come to Jensen’s rescue the night before when Scraggs had turned up in the barn. But … wait … Somers was late because his yellow Cadillac had been stolen. What if Somers had got to him before Scraggs had showed up? And come to think of it, hadn’t Carlito taken Jensen’s cellphone outside with him for a few minutes while he was tied up in the barn? What if he’d used it to make a call? Jensen flicked through the menus on his phone. And there it was: CALLS MADE – YESTERDAY – SOMERS – TIME 23.52 – DURATION 1:47

Carlito had used Jensen’s phone to call Somers while Jensen was left tied up in the barn with Miguel. After speaking to Somers, Carlito had then come back in with the scarecrow in the wheelbarrow. Somers had mentioned nothing of this phone call from Carlito. SHIT.

The keypad on Jensen’s phone had never seemed so small. He pressed at least three wrong keys in his frantic attempts to call back Lieutenant Scraggs. He needed to speak with him before Somers returned from doing whatever he was doing in the motel.

‘Sorry, the cellphone you are calling has been switched off. Please try again later.

This isn’t funny, thought Jensen. Is it Scraggs playing a practical joke? No. It can’t be. That wouldn’t explain Carlito’s call to Somers on my phone. And … er … talking of Somers … here he comes now.

Somers looked a little tetchy as he walked past the front of the squad car and over to the driver’s side. Jensen thought about reaching over and locking the door. No need. Somers doesn’t know I’m pretty sure he’s the killer. I’ve got time to think. Now think … for FUCKSAKES!

Somers opened the door and climbed in behind the steering wheel. ‘You okay?’ he asked, observing his partner’s attempt to look calm.

‘Yeah, fine. You?’

‘Yeah, I’m all right. Didn’t find out much in there, though.’ He peered across at his partner and said, ‘You sure you’re okay?’

‘Yeah yeah,’ Jensen said impatiently. ‘I’m just pissed off, y’know? I think we missed our chance. We should probably check in with the Captain. See if he’s heard anything?’

Somers looked down at Jensen’s right hand, which was tightly clenching his cellphone. Then he looked up into his eyes. Jensen couldn’t hide the frightened look deep within them.

‘You know, don’t you?’ said Somers softly, barely moving his lips.

‘Know what?’

There was a horrible pause. Jensen knew in that moment that Scraggs had been right. Somers was the killer. And Somers now knew that he knew. Their friendship was to count for nothing. Time was up. Somers forced an apologetic smile.

‘I’m sorry, Jensen. It’s nothing personal, but I need the Eye of the Moon.’

‘But the eclipse is over. You’ve missed it.’

‘I know. But that stone is capable of much more than just stopping the moon. It can also bring my boys back to me. And my wife. That stone can restore her to her former self in next to no time. If that lousy Bourbon Kid hadn’t shot them all down, I wouldn’t have had to do this. I’m sorry.’

CLICK. The central-locking system on the squad car made Jensen a prisoner instantly. Not that there was likely to be any escape from this situation, anyway. Not without some sort of miracle.

Jensen took a look at Somers’s fingers, which were now resting on the steering wheel. They were slowly increasing in length. His fingernails, too. They became thicker, longer and sharper. With extreme alarm he saw that his partner’s face was also changing. Blue veins were appearing, first in his neck, then in his cheeks, and they were bulging. They needed to be filled with blood. The blood of Miles Jensen. Somers turned his head towards his partner and opened his mouth to reveal a set of teeth, huge yellow fangs that made it hard to imagine how, before, he had been able to keep his mouth shut. These were jagged and razor-sharp. A foul stench permeated the car. Too late, Jensen fumbled for his gun.

‘You may want to close your eyes, my friend,’ Somers hissed in a voice that came straight from the uttermost depths of Hell. ‘This is gonna hurt …’

Sixty-Three

The police radio crackled into life. The voice of Amy Webster came through the speaker.

‘Detective Somers, you there?’

‘I’m here,’ said Somers, picking up the mike with his right hand.

‘I need you to come back to the station.’

‘I’m kinda busy.’

‘You’re going to want to see this, sir.’

Somers eased his foot off the accelerator a little, causing the body of Miles Jensen to slump forward and bang against the dashboard. He had been speeding down the highway out of town for less than five minutes since killing his partner. His plan was to catch up with the driver of the yellow Cadillac, who, if he had any sense, would be on this strip of road and heading out of Santa Mondega for ever. There was no other traffic in sight, in either direction.

‘What is it, Amy?’ Somers replied to the familiar voice of the switchboard operator at police headquarters.

‘I’ve got this big blue diamond in front of me. Someone just handed it in.’

Somers slammed on the brakes and, as the protesting squad car squealed to a stop, pulled a three-point turn in the middle of the deserted highway.

‘Where did this big diamond come from?’ he yelled into the mouthpiece.

‘A guy just dropped it off. Said it was for Detective Jensen. I can’t get hold of Jensen on his mobile, though, so I thought I’d give you a call instead.’

‘You thought right, Amy. I’ll get you promoted for this. Just hide that stone away until I get there. I’ll be twenty minutes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Somers reached over to the dashboard to replace the radio mike. Just as he was about to click it off a thought struck him.

‘Amy, does anyone else know about this yet?’

There was a pause. A slightly longer pause than necessary, he thought.

‘No, sir. You’re the only person I’ve spoken to ’bout it.’

‘Good. Keep it that way.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, and Amy? This man who handed it in, did he have a name?’

Again an unnecessary pause.

‘No, sir, he didn’t leave a name. He was in a hurry.’

‘I see.’ Somers was intrigued, and although he had no reason to doubt Amy Webster, who had always been an honest employee (a rare thing in the Santa Mondega police department), he couldn’t help his suspicious nature.

‘What did this man look like?’

Again that slight, unhealthy pause.

‘Er … I don’t know really. He was kinda average-looking. Short hair, blue eyes. I’ve never seen him before.’

‘Okay, Amy. That’ll be all. I’ll see you shortly.’

Somers stamped his foot down on the accelerator and headed back into town with the siren blaring. He barely noticed the cab that passed him in the opposite direction. It was taking Dante and Kacy out of Santa Mondega to a place where they would eventually find the happiness together that they longed for. The Lord of the Undead had more pressing matters at hand than checking out the passengers of the local taxi companies. He needed to get to the Eye of the Moon very quickly if he was to have any chance of bringing Jessica back anytime soon.

There might even be hope for his sons, El Santino, Carlito and Miguel.

*

Amy Webster put the microphone she had been speaking into back down on her desk. Her hands were still shaking. The hooded man standing in front of her and aiming a shotgun directly at her forehead had been dictating to her what to say in response to the questions Detective Somers had asked. She had repeated his words exactly. It didn’t look like it had pleased him much, though. He still looked like he was about to kill her, and judging by his reputation he probably would. Although there was no sign of any bourbon, so she guessed she had a chance.

‘You’ve done well,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Amy, her voice trembling with fear. ‘But Archie Somers will kill me when he finds out I’ve lied to him.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about Somers, if I were you. You’ll never see that sonofabitch again.’

‘But he’s coming here now isn’t he?’

‘Yeah … but you’ll never see him again.’

Amy shut her eyes. Maybe he was kidding. Maybe he would just disappear.

BANG!

Maybe not.

Sixty-Four

Somers walked into the reception area of the police headquarters. He had been through here a million times. It had never looked like this, though. Bloodstained bodies of officers and secretaries were slumped over desks and scattered around the floor. A few criminals still in handcuffs appeared to have been shot down, too. This was a massacre. At least forty bodies in the foyer. He spotted the blood-spattered body of Amy Webster still sitting at her desk, but with most of her head missing. He recognized the handiwork, too. This was a one-man job. The only question was, where was that one man?

At the far end of the ground floor there was a bank of three elevators. Somers noticed a red light flicker on above the middle one. It was the down arrow, indicating that someone was coming down to the ground floor. He slipped his gun from its holster inside his grey jacket and stepped over a dead civilian’s body, positioning himself about thirty feet from the bank of elevators. He’d be ready to deal with who or what stepped out of the elevator doors.

PING! The elevator came to a stop on the ground floor, and slowly the doors parted. There, in the middle of the elevator, stood the dark hooded figure of the Bourbon Kid. His hands were resting by his sides. He appeared to be unarmed, but appearances can be deceptive. Somers, of all people, knew that.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ Somers asked. When there was no immediate response he took another slow step towards the elevator, still a good distance away. One step was enough to elicit a reply from the unmistakable, gravelly voice beneath the dark hood.

‘I’m looking for a better place to die,’ said the Kid.

‘Well, this is as good a place as any,’ Somers snarled back at him. ‘You can’t kill me with your silver bullets. You can soak them in holy water and garlic for all I care. Hell, you can stab me with a crucifix, it matters not. I’m impervious to all these things you’ve read or heard about. Mirrors, stakes, crosses, sunlight, running water, none of it can harm me. You take me on and there’s only one winner. I have the blood of Christ and the blood of the vampire running through my veins. No one, not even you, can kill me.’

‘I know that.’

‘Do you? Do you really? Because somehow I doubt it. You’re here and you wanna play the big hero. You wanna show me that you’re brave enough to face me. You didn’t just kill Jessica and my boys for no reason, and you sure as hell didn’t make Amy Webster tell me the Eye of The Moon was here, just so I’d come back here to join you for coffee and home baking.’ He stopped talking for a moment, feeling the power within him, the thrill of Jensen’s fresh blood coursing in his veins. Then he continued, his voice dripping with venom.

‘No, you think you can take me on and kill me. Well know this, I’m invincible. You strike me down and I’ll get straight back up. Gimme your best, but I assure you, when you’re done, I’ll rip you in half. Your best bet is to kill yourself before I get to you. Take out a shotgun and blow your fucking brains out. Do it right, too – shit, take a swig of bourbon first if you want, and make it official, make some headlines. After all that’s what you love doing, isn’t it? ISN’T IT?’

Somers waited for the other to respond. What the Kid did was step out of the elevator and walk towards him. He came to a standstill when the distance between them was no more than fifteen feet.

‘I told you, I came here to die,’ he said.

‘Fine, then you’ve got three seconds to take out one of your concealed weapons and blow yourself away, otherwise I’m gonna kill you like no man ever got killed before.’

‘Good. I want you to do it. I wanna see if you’ve got the guts to kill me. Prove you’re not scared of me like that pussy El Santino was. Or those other two faggot brothers of his. Or for that matter that piss-ugly bitch of a whore you called your wife.’

Somers’s eyes turned red with rage.

‘Right. That’s it,’ he snarled. ‘You wanna die the hard way, I can see to that.’

‘Good. It’s what I deserve.’

The Dark Lord needed no further invitation. Throwing back his head, he began the transformation into his undead form. His fingernails sprouted, his fanged teeth extended themselves and his face thinned to reveal the veins beneath the skin. Veins that had not yet had their fill of the daily intake of fresh blood they required.

‘You’re right. Death is exactly what you deserve, but I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to make you one of my kind. You will live for all eternity as a member of the Undead, the very race you despise.’

There was a clattering sound as the Bourbon Kid dropped the two shotguns he had concealed in his trench coat. They hit the floor and bounced away from him. His pair of Skorpions fell from his sleeves. He stepped forward towards the enlarged, nightmarish figure before him and lowered his hood, revealing his face. It was spattered with blood, no doubt from the many victims he had slain that day.

‘Do your worst,’ he said.

Somers tilted back his head and let out a huge roar, the sound accompanied by a graveyard stench from the depths of his being. This was a moment he had long been waiting for. An opportunity to rid himself of the menace that was the Bourbon Kid. He flew forward with his clawed hands outstretched, floating just a few inches above the ground. Unflinching, his adversary stood his ground. Still airborne, Somers grabbed his victim’s head with both hands and thrust his fanged teeth deep into the left side of his neck. The Bourbon Kid’s response was to wrap both arms around Somers’s body and pull him in tight, embracing his attacker as if he were a long-lost brother back from the dead.

Somers drew his head back from the Kid’s neck and looked him square in the eye. A wisp of smoke rose up in the small gap between their faces. Somers glanced down. He could feel a burning sensation on his chest. Something had ignited a flame between him and the Kid. He tried to push the other away from him, but such was the strength of the Kid’s grip that for once he found himself powerless. And the burning sensation was growing, the pain now agonizing. He let out an anguished howl.

‘Aaagh! Let go of me, you fucking maggot!’

Much to Somers’s surprise, the Bourbon Kid obeyed. He released his arms from their grip around Somers’s back, but now the detective found that he couldn’t pull himself away. Even without the Kid holding on to him he was still attached, as if they had been bonded together with a powerful glue. The Kid used his now free hands to pull open his trench coat a little further.

Somers realized at once the severity of his predicament. Strapped to the Bourbon Kid’s chest and previously concealed neatly beneath his coat was The Book With No Name. Now it was pressed tightly against Somers’s chest, causing his skin to blister and peel, burning away into ash and smoke.

‘Can’t be killed by crosses, right?’ said the Bourbon Kid, smiling. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

Somers couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His body was now wreathed in flames that were even enveloping the Kid, who seemed impervious to them.

‘Aaagh! You bastard! You fucking bastard!’ he screamed. He staggered back, but the book ripped away from the Kid and went with him, as if it were melting into his chest.

‘The Book With No Name,’ said the Kid. ‘The cover and the pages were made from the Cross on which Christ was crucified. Now tell me, are you sure you can’t be killed by a cross?’

The expression on Somers’s face was a picture of fury, agony and horror. He stood here now faced with the only thing on earth that could kill him. This was the secret he had fought to protect. He had killed all the people who had read the book, but he had been unable to destroy the book itself because to touch it meant death for him. Vampires do not go without a fight, however, and Somers wasn’t going to meet the Devil on his own if he could help it.

‘You’re coming with me, you muthafucker! I’ll take you straight to Hell.’

‘Maybe.’

The Bourbon Kid stepped back far enough to be clear of the flames that now engulfed Somers’s entire body, devouring it. For ten seconds or more he stood and watched as the creature before him turned from Dark Lord and most powerful being on earth into nothing more than smoke and ash. Screaming like a soul in torment as he went.

Then he was gone. The flames dwindled and died, the smoke evaporated, and nothing was left.

Maybe not.

The Kid stood and surveyed the carnage around him for a few moments. There were bodies strewn all over the floor. All his own doing. The important thing, though, was that Detective Archibald Somers was gone. For ever. The only legacy the Dark Lord had left behind was an irritating scratch on his killer’s neck. The Kid put his left hand up to feel how deep the wound was. His fingers ran along the small graze that Somers had inflicted upon him. Didn’t seem too bad.

He took a look at his fingertips. Hmm, blood. That could be a problem.

Sixty-Five

Peto could finally breathe easy again. Setting foot back on the beloved soil of Hubal felt like being invited into Heaven itself. The week he had spent away from his island home had been the longest of his life. It had been an eye-opening experience, and one that he fervently wished never to undergo again. He had lost his best friend Kyle, been lied to by just about everyone he had met, had his suitcase full of money stolen, killed one man and wounded another, and witnessed a couple of former monks turn into vampires. He had seen and done a great deal more besides, and his joy at having survived it all to return in triumph almost overwhelmed him.

Hubal had been restored to its former grace and beauty during his absence, as if the recent massacre had never taken place. The mental scars from Jefe’s lethal appearance on their island would take longer to heal. Father Taos was Peto’s first port of call. His wounds had healed, the physical ones at least. As for the other surviving monks, the mental scars were probably still there, although Taos would hide them well.

The head monk was overjoyed to see Peto enter the Temple holding aloft the Eye of the Moon. He was sitting where Peto had seen him last, at the altar, only now he looked fit and well. He stood up and walked briskly down the main aisle between the rows of pews, his arms outstretched to embrace his returning hero. Peto, who felt desperately in need of that embrace, ran forward and hugged him, squeezing Taos rather tightly considering that it was not long since the old man had been shot in the stomach.

‘Peto, I’m so glad you’re alive. It’s so good to see you. Where’s Kyle?’

‘He didn’t make it, Father.’

‘A terrible pity. He was one of the best.’

‘Yes, Father, he was. He was the best of all.’

The two men lowered their arms and each took a small step back. Embracing each other while talking of the death of their great friend seemed somehow inappropriate.

‘What about you? Are you all right, my son?’

‘I’m fine, Father.’ Then the words began to rush out of him. ‘Kyle and I had quite an adventure. I became a famous fighting champion until a man named Rodeo Rex beat me. Then we met two former brothers who had become vampires. After that Kyle was killed by a mass murderer called the Bourbon Kid, and I escaped with the Eye of the Moon, and have returned with it.’

‘That sounds like a mighty impressive story, my son. You should rest, and then tell me all about it over supper.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Peto held out the Eye of the Moon and Taos gladly relieved him of it, slipping it into a small pocket at the front of his brown robe. He then turned to walk back to the altar.

‘One thing I must know, Peto,’ he said, before walking away. ‘What became of the Bourbon Kid?’

‘I don’t know, Father. I left him behind when I made my escape. He seemed to be killing people randomly with a huge arsenal of weapons.’

‘I see.’

‘Why do you ask, Father? Do you know of this man from before? Brother Hezekiah suggested you might know of him.’

‘Brother Hezekiah?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Taos turned back to face Peto once more. His face no longer looked relieved at seeing his young friend again. Instead, it now looked deeply concerned, even troubled.

‘But Brother Hezekiah is dead,’ he said quietly.

‘No, Father – well yes, he is now, but he was one of the monks Kyle and I met who turned into a vampire. He told us many lies, I think, before … before he died.’

‘Peto, my dear young friend, you will learn as you get older that not everything is black or white, true or false. What brother Hezekiah told you may actually not have been lies. Once a monk leaves the island of Hubal and travels to a place as evil as Santa Mondega, it is almost impossible for him to remain pure. You must know that by now. It is true of brother Hezekiah, I’m sure it is also true of you and poor Kyle, and I know for damn sure it’s true of me.’

Peto looked stunned. Quite apart from anything else, he had never heard the old monk swear before. He stammered out the question that had stayed with him ever since Hezekiah had sown the seeds of doubt in his and Kyle’s minds.

‘But Father, surely you didn’t break the sacred laws of Hubal while you were in that dreadful place?’

Taos walked away a little and sat himself down on the steps leading up to the altar. He looked tired again, much as he had a week earlier. The young monk moved towards him.

‘Alas, I’m afraid I did, Peto. I fathered a child, a son with the same blood that courses through my veins.’

Peto stood aghast at the revelation from Father Taos.

‘Father Taos, how could you? I mean, how could you keep this secret for so long? And what happened to your son? And who was the mother?’

Ishmael Taos had waited a very long time for the opportunity to confess his sins, yet he had never imagined that he would be confessing to Peto, of all people.

‘His mother was a hooker. That is, a prostitute.’

‘A hooker?’ To say that Peto was shocked would have been an understatement akin to saying that the Bourbon Kid might have killed one or two people. The Santa Mondegan in him surfaced. ‘What the fuck? Is she still alive? And, shit, hold on a minute – you mean I could have fucked a hooker and still come back?’

‘No, Peto, you could not.’

‘So what’s the deal, then? Were you in love with her?’

Taos shook his head. ‘That’s another story, Peto,’ he said. If he had disapproved of the novice’s language, he gave no sign. ‘The short story is that many years after she and I parted, she was bitten by a vampire.’ The young monk was immediately contrite.

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry, Father,’ he said in a gentler tone. ‘I guess it’s none of my business.’ He bowed his head for a second, then looked back up suddenly. ‘So did she become one of them?’

Taos shook his head again and took a deep breath. This was harder than he had expected.

‘No, I’m afraid not. Not that I would ever wish such a fate on anyone. But her son, my son, even, witnessed the whole thing and went berserk. His mother was all he had in the world, because I had deserted him when he was a child. In his rage he killed the vampire and then, at her request, he killed his mother too, to spare her from a life among the Undead.’

Peto put his hand over his mouth in shock.

‘That’s terrible, Father. No child should have to do that.’

‘He was not exactly a child, Peto. He was sixteen at the time.’

‘With all due respect, Father, how does a sixteen-year-old kill his mother?’

Taos took a deep breath, ready to unveil the final, terrible truth to his confused and stuttering novice.

‘He couldn’t do it at first, so he drank a bottle of bourbon. A whole bottle. Then he blew a hole through her heart.’

‘Bourbon?’ Peto gasped, realizing at once who Taos’s son was.

‘Yes, my son. It had a profound psychological effect on him, as you would expect. But I guess you already know that.’

‘My God! This all makes sense. But it is all still so … so unbelievable … So, are you still in touch with your son?’

Taos was beginning to tire. Just talking about this particular episode of his life, and its consequences, was exhausting.

‘It’s been a long day, Peto. Let us talk about it again tomorrow. You should get some rest, then we can both confess to our sins. I shall not join you for supper; instead, we shall meet again in the morning.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Peto bowed his head to show that he still had the utmost respect for Father Taos, and then retreated from the Temple back to his own quarters. Taos took the Eye of the Moon and returned it to its rightful place. Feeling somewhat reassured that all was right with the world once more, he returned to his private chambers and retired to bed. It was early for him to do so, but he knew that he needed to rest.

Father Taos slept deeply and peacefully for the first three or four hours, until he was suddenly woken. Not by a sound or a touch. What had brought him from contented sleep was a feeling that all was not well.

His bedroom was pitch dark, so he reached out to his bedside table where he kept a candle in a small jar in case he needed to get up during the night. Beside the candle was a tray of matches and a brick. He fumbled around with the matches, sitting up in his hard monk’s bed as he did so. When he had hold of one and was sure he had it the right way up, he scratched it against the brick. It flared up with a sharp hiss. Blinking his eyes a little to grow accustomed to the glow from the flame, he held it over the candle wick and watched with satisfaction as it took flame. He blew the match out and placed it on top of the brick, then picked up the jar with the candle in it and held it up before him.

‘Aaagh!’ Taos’s heart missed more than just one beat. There at the end of his bed was the silhouette of a hooded man standing over him, as though he had been watching the old monk sleep.

‘Hello, Father.’

Taos put his free hand over his mouth to keep himself from gasping out loud. When at last he had steadied his breathing, he regained his composure a little and asked a question of his intruder.

‘What are you doing here? This is my private chamber. You should not be here.’

The hooded man stepped forward, his face almost visible in the candlelight, but not enough to be recognizable.

‘I’ve been looking for the best place to die. There’s no better place than this, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t think you want to die here, my son,’ Taos reasoned. He spoke as if he was trying to persuade someone not to jump from a building.

The man pulled his hood back and revealed a pale face covered in speckles of dried blood.

‘Who said anything about me?’

The End (maybe …)

Table of Contents

Cover

Half Title

Dear Reader

Title

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five