Table of Contents

- INTRODUCTION

- PREFACE

- ONE

- TWO

- THREE

- FOUR

- FIVE

- SIX

- SEVEN

- EIGHT

- NINE

- TEN

- ELEVEN

- 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

- "The Intimacy of Terror"

Daemon

A novel by

Harry Shannon

This novel is dedicated to the late Connie Lloyd, a book-loving lady known to our message board crowd at Horror World.org as "Wicked." She'd know why and laugh.

"There is something beyond the grave;

Death does not end all,

And the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre."

Dionysius of Halicarnassus

54 B.C-A.D. 2

INTRODUCTION

I took my four and a half year old daughter to an excellent (2003) version of 'Peter Pan' the other morning. It was rated PG, and my wife and I spent most of the ninety plus minutes worrying about the content of the film, which had some minor violence and implied sexuality. (Okay, I know how it sounds, but this new concern has become one of the great ironies of my life.)

What effect, if any, would the entirely appropriate demise of Captain Hook at the jaws of a giant crocodile have on her fragile psyche? Would those luscious mythological, Jungian archetypal underpinnings mean anything to her? Would subtle signals of awakening sensuality, gender identification and the assumption of adult masculine responsibility resonate with her, or be lost in the ethers? Ah, the torments of parenting.

Of course, my daughter sat wide-eyed, devoured most of a bag of popcorn and watched every frame. She insisted she wasn't scared, although at times her body language, crawling up onto the seat and hugging herself, said otherwise.

In short, she had a ball. I am happy to report that as of this moment she has not awakened with shrieking nightmares, spoken in tongues, summoned the devil or shot up her day care center.

But this all got me thinking about something. Just how far back does my love of dark fiction go?

In the introductions to the first two books in this trilogy, ("Night of the Beast" and "Night of the Werewolf") I touched on some fondly remembered short stories written by Saki, Ambrose Bierce, Poe, Dahl and John Collier; also expressed my love for the early work of men like Richard Matheson, Robert Bloch, Robert McCammon and Ray Bradbury. And let us not forget that massive, Stephen King-inspired paperback explosion the horror genre experienced in the 1980's. It was not to be believed. Year after year, every bookrack in the country was packed with lurid, macabre, attention-grabbing covers with reflecting skeletons, evil children and bloody blades…

And, man, I thought that was SO cool.

But what is it about this obsession we all have with fear? Because when I traced my own interest back, it just kept on going and going until it arrived at the nursery. My friend Richard Matheson's brilliant "I Am Legend" was probably the first full-length horror novel I can recall reading, but before that there were those short stories, and before them…Well, let me ask you something.

Did you ever notice how grim Grimm's Fairy Tales are?

I mean, take Hansel and Gretel. Jesus, we got an old hag who gets off on stuffing plump kids in an oven and roasting their little butts for dinner. I went to read some of those Grimm stories to my daughter when she was younger and ended up chickening out and rewriting them on the fly. Man, that stuff is harsh! So why are those tales so famous around the world, so timeless?

It's because the stories—like life itself—are at once both beautiful and happy and dark and terrifying. The plots offer no happy ending without first having followed a road fraught with peril. Whatever happens therein has weight, it matters and there is always something at stake.

Many of the ideas also have moral value, once you ponder them. (Sadly, it seems that Tyco guy and the Enron in-crowd totally forgot about King Midas and what happened to everything he loved).

A tale that takes us for a ride is a treasure indeed. It is just delicious to be thrilled, frightened, startled, informed and thus greatly entertained. Think about it, though. How much excitement would there be without mortal danger? With no issues of weight, like someone's very existence, at stake?

…In other words, facing the grim reaper.

Yeah, death is the BIG DEAL. It kind of bookends life, doesn't it? We come from the unknown and must return to it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Hey, man is the only creature who knows his death is inevitable. Oh, other animals can have a sense of grief and loss for a fellow dog or cat, but they don't sit around wearing a black French beret, drinking espresso, smoking and whining that life, in and of itself, has no intrinsic meaning. Only human beings are conscious enough—not to mention self-involved enough—to do that.

So death is on our mind all day, every day, perhaps under the surface but omnipresent. Dark fiction hooks that awareness and yanks it to the surface of the pond, let's us toy with the awareness for a while; perhaps even begin to adjust to the awful reality of it.

Freud once said that the ego is an observer by nature, and cannot imagine not being there to observe not being there. Thus the very concept of dying sometimes provokes what therapists euphemistically refer to as 'death anxiety,' a devastating psychological and physiological assault on the senses that can leave vulnerable persons helpless and weeping.

Ask anyone who has seen combat. They will tell you that until the bullets start flying you haven't a clue who will stand up to it and who will just fold on the spot. Death is blunt and brutal and so terribly final.

The idea takes some getting used to.

Death.

Good horror fiction doesn't just discuss death it rubs our noses in it. Certainly the cathartic effect therein may have some value, but I'm inclined to think it's more a question of systematic desensitization; that is to say, getting used to death, bit by bit, under the guise of entertainment. Romero-style Zombies come back to shock us, make us think and try to shake us out of our arrogant sense of immortality.

I say we're in need of desensitization because most horror fans I've met are actually gentle, animal-loving folks who weep copiously at the death of a friend or acquaintance and wouldn't hurt a soul unless forced. (Okay, so some folks tattoo themselves up and stick foreign objects in their lips, eyebrows, nostrils and other orifices and dress in black, but anybody who has to work that hard at seeming evil probably still has a stuffed Elmo in their bedroom closet).

Oops, I digress.

I was talking about death. And to be honest, "Night of the Daemon" is very much about death; how we deal, or fail to deal, with that aforementioned Reaper. What, if anything, is on the other side of this reality?

One caveat: Like the other two novels in this trilogy, "Night of the Demon" is first and foremost an entertainment. It is also intended to be a joyful homage to that wonderful horror pulp tradition. But since it's the last in the trilogy, I thought it only fitting that I should run your ass head-on into a brick wall at 200 miles per hour—just to see what happens. So it is also about death.

First some acknowledgements need to be made. LAPD Officer Jon Kasper, my Vegas friend and former Chicago cop Gina Gallo and Weston Ochse, US Army (retired) were enormously helpful in the preparation of this manuscript, particularly on military and police procedures and weaponry. Should you spot any errors or inaccuracies, rest assured they are my own.

Horror World.org's delightful Nanci Kalanta read an early draft; author/editor Kealan Patrick Burke proofed the book, which is no small feat. I very much appreciate the contribution of an afterward by the tremendously gifted Mr. Gary Braunbeck, one of the finest authors in the genre.

The Tao will bless Mr. Shane Ryan Staley for publishing this, the last of the 'Night' books, and such a beautiful limited edition of all three. I thank John and Shawn Turi, who originally published the first two novels in this loose trilogy. I praise my wife Wendy and my adorable daughter Paige Emerson Shannon for their eternal patience, love and forbearance. Lynwood Spinks, Kathleen Johnson, Yossi Sasson, Einat Sadot, Harry Manfredini, thanks for your friendship and support.

Also, appreciation goes out to my buddies and fans who visit my message board at http://guestbooks.pathfinder.gr/read/HarryShannon and the forum at the Shocklines.com online bookstore. Better friends and fellow bibliophiles hath no website. Suzanne Klee should have been thanked in "Night of the Beast" for having typed versions of it twenty-odd years ago, back when we were married. So hey, I may as well do that now, too.

Finally, heartfelt thanks to you, dear reader, for buying and reading this book. Writing three novels requires a tremendous investment of time and effort. The fact that someone finally will sit down, make a bowl of popcorn, turn the lights low and get a little bit tweaked by my stuff is the precious reward.

Here is "Night of the Daemon." It was written exclusively for your entertainment, and designed to ruffle your short hairs a little.(tinku)

I sincerely hope you are pleased.

All the best,

HARRY SHANNON

Los Angeles, California

12/16/04

PREFACE

When the wind came streaming in off the polluted water, a man could half believe that someone buried underground was moaning. This was especially true in the late autumn, when the shifting of dried leaves made a plaintive noise, like desperate fingernails scratching at the roof of a coffin. Of course that was the kind of thing you'd expect from a graveyard anyway, and the groundskeeper, who had a vivid imagination and a way with words, milked those eerie images for a number of free drinks at Paddy Murphy's Shamrock Tavern every chance he got.

Christopher Bloom was an aging hippie; a big fellow, barrel-shaped and gifted with a long and unruly mane he tied into a ponytail. His red drinker's nose was spider-webbed with veins. The truly gullible believed him when he declared that his hair had gone white quite suddenly after one particularly macabre night at the cemetery. As Bloom told it, near midnight he'd heard footsteps coming from the back of the grounds, crunching unsteadily through the dead leaves. He had gone out to investigate, and seen something so horrible it had struck him dumb with terror, something with long fangs and a snout. When he woke in the morning and looked in the mirror…

Bloom changed the details of that story quite frequently, but none of his friends seemed to mind. The sad truth was that his job was a crushing bore. Night after night, drinking stale coffee and listening to talk radio, impatiently waiting for dawn. Then back to his stifling hot quarters; thick curtains on the windows to block out the sun. A few hours sleep would be followed by a visit to the bar at 4th Street near Charleston for some boilermakers—and then back to the night shift again.

It really wasn't much of a life. So who could blame a man for embellishing it a bit, especially for a purpose as noble as the entertainment of friends? Pals like Doug and Ray sure did love a good story. In fact, they were all fun-loving ruffians, just boys who'd never grown up, even Bloom himself. And just the kind of people who'd play an elaborate practical joke on a man, if only to have something new to jaw about down at the Shamrock.

That's why Bloom knew for certain that those odd digging sounds coming from the windy graveyard that night were nothing to worry about.

When the digging stopped, Bloom decided to act as if he still hadn't heard anything. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then hunched forward in the chair. The sound came again, it was unmistakable: A shovel slicing into damp turf, the thud of wet sod and the slither of gravel on stone.

Bloom sighed softly, set down his coffee and pushed the chair away from the desk. The sounds abruptly stopped, as if someone were watching him through the window through a pair of binoculars, which was probably exactly what they were doing. So Doug and Ray want a show, Bloom thought. Maybe I'll give them one for the ages.

He got to his feet, stretched and made a big show of turning down the radio and listening intently. The office was small and sparsely furnished; it had a sagging green couch, a metal desk with an office chair and a calendar featuring girls with humungous hooters. The wall paint was green and peeling. Bloom opened the window and stuck his head out.

"Hello? Anybody there?"

His nose filled with the languid perfume of night blooming jasmine. Clouds drifted across the pocked surface of the full moon and the sky darkened. He slipped the long flashlight free of his belt and splashed the yellow beam into the cemetery; saw chipped grey tombstones and crouching shadows.

"Hello?" Bloom even managed to put a slight tremor in his voice. He was so delighted with the results he nearly grinned and gave himself away. He closed the window, turned his back and allowed himself to smile.

Bloom's sorry-assed little office was nearest the Potter's Field, or portion of the graveyard assigned to the indigent and the unidentifiable. The pricier plots lay to the west, on the rolling hills just above the freeway. They were reasonably well-lit. So naturally Ray and Doug had chosen the Potter's area for their little game. It was devoid of sculpture, bereft of plant life; a truly sad place of parched grass and stony soil. The trees were nearly bare of leaves this time of year, and the branches curled like talons.

The digging sounds resumed.

Chuckling, Bloom grabbed his nightstick and shrugged into his jacket. He glanced at the time, amused to find it was nearly midnight. Just makes the tale a bit more atmospheric, eh? Or so he thought.

Bloom gathered himself. He opened the door and stepped out into the cool cloak of night. The autumn air slapped his cheeks, rustled his clothing. He closed and locked the door behind him, his key ring jangling loudly.

The noise stopped, although a slight echo of the shovel-in-gravel sound remained to taunt his ears. Bloom pretended to be confused by the effect, and stumbled the wrong way, back toward the lit area; the more expensive crypts and graves. He kept his flashlight beam low to the ground, so Ray and Doug would be able to follow his progress. They would soon realize he was headed the wrong way. Sure enough, the noise started up again, and this time even louder than before, and involved ripping and chewing.

Bloom made a dramatic show of stopping dead in his tracks. He raised the flashlight and spun around, aiming the beam back towards Potter's Field. He thought he saw someone ducking down near the fence, probably behind the last row of tombstones; back near the garden shed. He put the shaky quality in his voice again.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Bright moonlight, white as bleached bone, lit the cluttered area. Nothing moved. Bloom waited a long time, just listening to his own breathing and the persistent hissing of blood in his ears. A vagrant breeze tickled the short hairs at the base of his neck and a voice he'd kept buried since childhood mocked him: What if it's not a joke? What if there's really something out there in the darkness, waiting for you? The very idea sent tiny insects racing up his spinal cord. Oh, come on. Don't be an asshole.

Bloom told his legs to move. They took their own sweet time.

The digging resumed, and whoever was doing it seemed to be in a hurry, now; as if trying to finish up before the clock struck midnight. But that was ridiculous. It was just Ray and Doug and they were fucking with him, pure and simple.

Bloom took a step forward, then another. He played the light among the tombstones, but clouds covered the moon again and he couldn't see for shit. He swallowed and fingered his nightstick. Christ, if I chicken out over this I'll be the laughing stock of the Shamrock. I'll never hear the end of it. He moved closer to the noise, praying for the clouds to part.

The digging stopped. Bloom heard more odd tugging noises. Jesus, Ray and Doug must have brought props with them; a shovel, wood, some pebbles in a metal pail, maybe. Oh, man. Surely they wouldn't actually go so far as to dig some poor bastard up. Would they?

"Okay, enough of this shit. Who's back there?"

Nothing.

"Is that you, Ray? Doug?"

A bit more wind, the sizzle and crackle of dead leaves. Despite himself, Bloom felt a cold knot gathering in his middle. The clouds cloaked the full moon in dirty gauze, and he was unable to see what was waiting for him at the back of the cemetery. Maybe it's just some kids, out screwing around.

That macabre little voice in the back of his head said: What if it isn't?

God damn it! If it was kids, Bloom decided, he'd beat the living shit out of them before calling the cops. He moved forward, one firm step at a time, his eyes pinned on the spot at the back of the property, where he thought he'd seen someone moving. The cloud cover parted just a bit, but the moonlight streamed down on the wrong part of the lot. It made a tightly-knit copse of trees to his right look tall and sinister. Bloom let the nightstick drop down into his right hand. He brought up the flashlight just as the moon emerged again.

Someone, something ran away; a misshapen shadow scuttled away across the grey concrete slabs like a large spider stalking food.

"Hey!"

Bloom broke into a jog, keys jangling on his belt. Part of him wanted to chase this fucker and pound his face into pizza, but that voice in his head wouldn't go away: You really sure you want to catch up with it, man? Trap it in a corner somewhere so it turns on you? Huh?

As if on cue, something rustled in the bushes behind him, back toward the caretaker's shack. Bloom stopped in his tracks, wondering which way to go. The sound came again, faint but clear. He started to turn, but the shadow moved through the Potters Field again, heading for the back fence.

"Stop!" Police!"

Of course, he wasn't the real police. More like rent-a-cop. But Chris Bloom figured if it was kids, he wanted them good and scared. He crossed the lawn and moved back into the tombstones that lay angled here and there like crooked teeth. At first everything seemed normal, undisturbed. Bloom played the light up and down the area. His pulse began to settle down.

And then he saw it.

Bloom stepped a bit closer and moved to his left. The yellow beam revealed a large mound of dirt and the corner of a wooden coffin. His heart kicked like a pissed-off mule. Everything thickened in his chest. What was that sound?

Maybe someone giggling…?

Bloom whirled all the way around. The sound had come from behind him, back near the caretaker's shack. He jogged that way, again resolved to beat the hell out of anyone he came across and ask questions later. His keys jangled and his own breathing seemed harsh to his ears.

Something stood in the shadows, just beyond the white ring of the porch light. It was as tall as an average man, but much wider. It seemed slightly hunched over. Bloom raised the nightstick and closed the distance. The giggling sound got louder. Bloom cocked his head and swore under his breath. He lowered the nightstick.

Ah, shit. It was Ray and Doug, all right. They were bent over with barely suppressed laughter, holding one another up. "Oh, man," Doug said, "you should see your fucking face."

"Yeah, yeah." Bloom had no intention of letting them know how relieved he was feeling. Fact is they had really managed to spook him this time, the lousy bastards. And now here they were doubled over, laughing their butts off at his expense. Bloom moved closer and turned off the flashlight. Ray and Doug stumbled to the wooden steps and sat down. Whenever they looked up at his face, they started laughing again.

Bloom sat down on the steps next to them. Ray opened a quart of whiskey. They passed it back and forth in silence, except for their smacking lips. A few shots made the crisp moonlight seem pure and even more beautiful. Time broke down into pleasant little pictures. Whenever Bloom moved his head, his eyes seemed a fraction of a second behind.

"Okay, you almost got me," Bloom said. His voice was tight and thin from nerves. He spewed breath out in a steaming mist.

Ray, a beefy carpenter with beady eyes nodded and giggled again. Doug, the balding accountant, leaned back against the wooden shack with his eyes closed. He was a small, quiet man who laughed more often than he spoke. Bloom let himself relax. He clipped the flashlight and stick back onto his security belt. "Damn, that was sure a lot of trouble to go to for a practical joke."

Doug pondered that statement. A long time passed, but finally he responded. "What was?"

By that time, Bloom was disconnected from his own statement. "Huh?

"What was a lot of trouble to go to?"

Bloom felt icy sweat emerge from his forehead to stream down his face as the fear returned. His stoned mind struggled to process what had just happened. The giggling had come from behind him, near the shack…

So what the fuck is out there in the graveyard?

He struggled to his feet. Ray jumped back at the sudden movement. Doug cocked his head like a parrot. "Where you going, man? What's the matter?"

Bloom stumbled forward, across the grassy area. He took the short cut through the tombstones. His heart clawed its way up into his dry throat. He cursed himself for getting so high. He played the flashlight's beam across the dead leaves and saw a trail of footprints leading to the back fence.

Oh, shit!

Had someone actually come and vandalized the cemetery? If so, Bloom would surely catch hell for letting it happen. Now very pissed off, he moved closer. Bloom searched his memory for the area where he'd seen someone's shadow and the corner of a coffin. He sent the beam there again. A mound of dirt mocked him. He stepped closer, vaguely aware of his friends far behind him, calling his name. What he saw next made him clench his trembling fingers.

Some torn scraps of clothing, one arm that was bloodless meat and a flash of off-white bone…

It came back to him in a rush: That's the most recent grave, some homeless woman named Bloody Mary, no family and no friends. They planted her sorry ass a couple of days ago. Who the hell would want to dig her up again, for Chrissakes?

Bloom took a step backwards. He felt dizzy and fevered, could not believe what he was seeing. Ray and Doug called again and they were coming his way; tracing his footsteps through gravestones. Bloom wanted to call out to them, to tell them not to look, but his mouth wouldn't work. He couldn't even lower the flashlight.

"Holly shit," Ray said.

"Oh, fuck me," Doug offered.

Bloom turned away and bent over. He felt the booze and dinner curdle and come up in one multi-colored splash before he could stop it. A picture was flashbulb-seared on the inside of his eyelids and Bloom knew he'd never be able to forget it: The old woman's decaying body had been hurriedly exhumed; the cheap coffin wrenched open, lid partially splintered. Her flabby arms were stripped of clothing. Her dress was pulled up above her flat breasts and billowed out around her neck like some medieval ornament.

God, the expression on her face…

ONE

If men do not fear death

it is of no use to threaten their lives.

If men live in terror of dying

and if breaking a law means that they will be killed,

who will dare to risk breaking the law?

There is always one official executioner.

Do not try to take his place.

That is like trying to be a master carpenter, working with wood.

If you try to cut wood as if you are a master carpenter, you will only hurt your hands…

Jeff Lehane leaned back against the pine tree, lazily scratched at an unshaven face and set down his tattered copy of Tao Te Ching. Just then, a red-tailed hawk soared effortlessly above the rocky spire at the other end of the valley, its eerie cry echoing through the empty foothills. He followed the gorgeous bird with his eyes and allowed his mind to fall open, thoughts to slip away. Nature always seemed to provide the most effective form of meditation. Within seconds, his craggy features softened and his body became one with the mountain.

Time slowed and the vague chuckle of the nearby stream soothed and comforted. Lehane felt his bare skin begin to heat up and sizzle in the morning sun. He moved consciousness away from his corporal form, ignoring the sounds it made, the urges it carried. Lehane let his nagging, mundane thoughts travel across a blank screen. He followed his breath until he was only that, breathing. This allowed a relaxed state of being to exist in a place without time.

A sound brought him back—the humming drone of tires on pavement, still some distance away. Lehane reluctantly focused his eyes. The hawk was long gone and the sun a bit higher. The Nevada sky was pale blue as ocean ice, except for a few milky wisps of cloud. He squinted at the shimmering dot at the top of the horizon. No tourist came this way on purpose, not since the main highway had been rerouted to conform to the railway. There was nothing to see in nearby Two Trees but the ruins of a town that burned down years ago.

There were only two possibilities worth considering. Either the driver was lost, or he was looking for Lehane.

Lehane got to his feet in one fluid motion. He gathered up his book and fanny pack and jogged rapidly down the mountain. At times he came down the slope sideways, like a mountain goat. For a man weighing nearly two hundred pounds, Lehane was remarkably light on his feet. He wanted to get to his weapons before the car arrived.

The vehicle came on steadily, the low and droning throb of its engine a persistent irritation after the quiet of the last few weeks. He ran through the trees until he saw the driver arrive at the cutoff to Salt Lick. Lehane paused to watch. The driver slowed a bit, seemed to briefly consider changing lanes but then came on straight as an arrow. Lehane continued on down the mountain. He slid through a man-sized hole in the bottom of the barbed wire fence; off government land and onto the far edge of his own ten-acre property.

At the bottom of the hill, Lehane broke into a dead run. He generally finished his morning workouts with a sprint, so he was only slightly winded when he jumped over the wood-rail fence and arrived at the back door of his small cabin. He let himself in, grabbed some bottled water from the solar-powered fridge and a small pair of military binoculars. He opened the window and focused. The car was a black Mercedes S Class and the driver wore mirrored sunglasses. Then the car left the highway and when the tires hit the dirt, they threw up a wave of dust several feet high, rendering the binoculars useless.

Lehane finished the bottle of water standing in the cabin, sweating in the sweltering heat. The decision took all of three seconds. He went to the gun rack and took down his British Army sniping rifle, a vintage Accuracy International l96A1. The 10-round magazine was already full. Lehane occasionally used the weapon for target practice. He also strapped on an ankle holster containing a loaded Colt 9mm 380. Lehane grabbed a second bottle of water and went out the back door, past the tall woodpile, through the chicken coop and up into the tight clump of pinion trees bordering his tiny ranch. He carried the rifle loosely in his left hand and the bottle of water in his right.

By the time the Mercedes paused at the edge of his property, Lehane was seated in the rocks nearly sixty yards away and one hundred feet above. The metal gate to his property was closed, although not locked. Lehane sighted the sniping rifle and waited to see what the intruder would do.

The driver in the mirrored sunglasses, a big man with a wrestlers build, exited the vehicle. He opened the gate and moved it out of the way. Lehane watched through the scope. He did not recognize the man, who was likely a professional.

Lehane relaxed a bit and lowered the rifle. He watched the car move down the unpaved driveway and stop near his front porch. The hulking driver got out again, went around the side and opened the back. A redheaded woman got out first. She was young, achingly beautiful, stunningly dressed and looked righteously pissed to be out in the middle of the desert. The heat seemed to hit her like a fist, and her blue blouse instantly began to wilt.

A large, round man with a broken nose and a shaved head got out of the other side of the vehicle.

"Yo, Irish!"

His gravely voice echoed off the mountain and disturbed some of the squirrels. Jeff Lehane smiled, despite himself. Charlie Spinks looked the same no matter what day, week or year it was and no matter where in the world you saw him: Cheap black suit, sun glasses; silk tie askew and shaved pate gleaming.

Down below, the driver scowled. "You want I should go knock?"

Charlie Spinks flashed a wide, vulpine grin. "You go on ahead and knock, Castle. But like I said, don't fuck with the guy. He'll have your balls for breakfast."

The driver named Castle stomped up the steps and hammered on the door. Lehane shook his head in dismay. The idiot didn't even step to one side to avoid a shotgun blast. What was Charlie hiring these days, mob guys? Lehane sighted down the barrel of the 196A1. He chose a small flowerpot filled with cactus that lay maybe eight inches away from Castle's left trouser leg.

The clay pot blew apart, the girl screamed and ducked. Castle threw himself over the wooden railing and rolled through the dust. He had his weapon out by the time he stopped moving and lay prone, well positioned to return fire. Not bad, Lehane thought. Not bad at all. I'll bet you're more careful next time.

Charlie Spinks, owner of Spinks Security Services, was still leaning against the Mercedes, arms folded over his chest. He hadn't moved an inch. "Damn, Jeff," he shouted. "I think you made Mike Castle fuck up his nice, new suit. Where are you, maybe half-way up that eastern slope?"

Lehane stood up and waved the rifle over his head. "Nope, I'm over here," he called. His gravelly voice bounced like a ping bong ball and echoed through the rocks. "Go inside and help yourself to some water. I'm coming down."

Charlie Spinks waved back. "That's neighborly of you."

"I'm a sweetheart underneath," Lehane said. "There's a ceiling fan if you want to turn it on for the young lady."

Mike Castle was swearing, slapping the dust from his clothing. The girl rushed over like a whipped dog. Charlie reached back into the car for his briefcase and then strolled onto the porch and went inside. Lehane took his time coming back. He wanted Castle to have a few minutes to calm down before they met face to face.

All of the solar fans were on when Lehane came through the back door. He had the rifle pointed down at the floor. Charlie Spinks was seated on the homemade couch. The female, who Lehane pegged for a call girl, was sitting on the kitchen floor next to the fridge. Mike Castle had removed his jacket and sunglasses and was leaning on the inside of the front door. He had beady eyes, glowered like a gargoyle.

"Relax, Mike," Charlie said to Castle. "It was my little joke. Jeff here used to be in charge of training my boys, so I knew he'd yank your chain if he got a chance."

Jeff Lehane put the rifle back up on the rack. He did not return the side arm and ankle holster to the drawer. He smiled and extended his hand to Castle. "No hard feelings, Mike."

Castle gripped him with a slapping sound and squeezed. Lehane let him have the moment, even manufactured a wince. Castle grinned.

"No hard feelings."

"Jesus," the girl said from the kitchen, "you don't live here on purpose, do you?" She popped some gum. "I mean, this is just too fucking hot!"

"Open the fridge, if you want. It's solar."

She did, even stuck her head inside. Her makeup was running and her hair had gone flat in places. Lehane positioned himself near the back door and kept all three visitors in view.

"Look at those moves," Charlie Spinks said, approvingly. "He knows where everybody is, all the time. And believe me, Mike, he could have drilled you through one eye from that distance, he wanted. And even without a scope."

Castle's expression didn't change but he didn't seem overly impressed. Lehane allowed a few seconds of silence because he wanted to listen for any other cars or footsteps on the wooden porch. "Okay, Charlie. Enough with the bullshit."

"You want I should get to the point?"

Lehane let his cool eyes answer. Charlie shrugged. "Okay, here it is. I got a rock and roller I need to baby sit. Some kid who writes protest music."

"Protest music? Like the sixties?"

"Actually, it's that rap type shit I hate so much. He just does 'free the people and down with capitalism' type words, or something. Anyway, you know that global conference tomorrow down in Vegas?"

"It's some kind of offshoot of the World Bank operation, right?" Castle's eyes registered his surprise. Lehane smiled and pointed to the roof. "I get satellite and I even have a computer. I just like things quiet, that's all."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, they called it the Global Monetary Fund or something. Anyway, this kid is going to do his thing at a demonstration tomorrow night, right when the thing gets started."

"Is this kid named Enrique Diaz?"

"Yeah, that's him." Charlie wiped his forehead. "He goes by just the first name, though. Enrique."

"He's big," Lehane said. "Sold a lot of records bashing the corporate machine."

"That's our boy."

The girl in the kitchen sighed. "He's kind of cute, too. I just love dreadlocks."

"Hey, Brandy, honey? Just shut the fuck up," Charlie said, without rancor. "Let the boys talk in peace."

Brandy rolled her eyes and stuck her face back in the fridge. Lehane shook his head. "Look, this is interesting and all, but it's got nothing to do with me."

Charlie Spinks grinned again. "We'll see, Irish. I'm hoping to change your mind about that."

"No way," Lehane said. "I'm retired."

"Sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

Mike Castle grunted. "Okay, Charlie. Let's go."

"Yeah, can we leave?" Brandy asked plaintively. "I'm dying, here."

Charlie Spinks was in no hurry. "Jeff, you remember Grainger, right?"

Lehane shrugged. "Sure. How is Bud these days?"

"He had a heart attack day before yesterday." Charlie snapped his fingers loudly enough to make Castle twitch. "Checked out just like that."

"I'm sorry," Lehane said, meaning it. "Bud was a good man. Is his wife going to be okay?"

"Janet? She dumped him over a year ago," Charlie replied. "Up and ran off with a blackjack dealer from Reno, the bitch. She'll still get the life insurance."

"Too bad." Lehane considered. "Okay, now what makes this situation so special it would bring you all the way out here? Someone been sending your boy death threats?"

"Hell, yeah. And six ways from Sunday, Irish. We've got faxes and emails and phone calls and letters. Whoever it is knows his shit, too. He doesn't leave a trace for us to work with."

"Okay, so you're a lead man short."

"Yeah, I need a new lead man."

"Good enough to head off an assassination."

"Could be."

"And you have to bodyguard this leftie rocker while he's singing some unpopular stuff up in front of a huge crowd of people in Vegas tomorrow night."

"That's about the size of it."

"Sounds like quite a situation." Lehane shook his head. "Well, I wish you the best of luck."

"Come on, Irish." Charlie Spinks folded his hands as if begging. "One more for old times sake. The guy even asked for you, personally." He grinned. "What are you willing to trade?"

"I'm out."

"What are you willing to trade?" Charlie Spinks firmly believed everyone had a price and that he could find it.

"Nope."

Spinks sagged. He was visibly disappointed. "Okay, but do me a favor, bro. Get a goddamned phone so I don't have to drive out to the northeast corner of Hell to ask you a question."

"I don't have a land line."

"Don't you have a cell phone for emergencies?"

"Somewhere. I forget."

Charlie barked a laugh. "Oh, fuck you, Irish. Why won't you come back and work for me?"

"The answer is always going to be the same," Lehane said. He paused, worked to soften his voice. He'd always liked Charlie. "That mess in Iraq burned me out."

Charlie bobbed his head. His bald pate dripped with sweat. "I'm offering ten grand for two days, Jeff." The driver called Castle absorbed the staggering size of that offer and then radiated pure hatred.

"I don't need the money."

"I can't change your mind?"

"Nope."

Charlie Spinks sighed again, this time with resignation. "Come on, Brandy. Let's get your tight little ass back inside a casino." Castle turned and opened the front door. The girl jumped to her feet. When she brushed past Lehane, her perfume aroused him. He'd been without a woman for months. Lehane reluctantly raised one finger.

"Out of curiosity, Charlie, why haven't you called Fletcher?"

"He's in London this week."

"Oh. Then what are you going to do?"

Castle helped Brandy go outside onto the porch. The two of them moved toward the Mercedes arm in arm. In the doorway, Charlie paused and wiped his brow. "I guess I'll just have to bump Heather up to lead on this one."

Lehane felt his heart twitch. His stomach took an elevator to the basement. "Excuse me?"

Charlie started out the door. "She's been nagging me for months, angling to get on the fast track. I guess this will be her shot."

Lehane shook his head. "You bastard."

Charlie, all innocence: "What?"

"You know she's not ready for that much pressure. Not yet, at any rate. She's only been with you for a couple of years."

"She'll have to rise to the occasion."

"Yeah, or maybe get herself killed."

"Maybe." Charlie went outside. He closed the wooden door behind him. Lehane fought with himself and lost. The close proximity of a woman had made Heather's sultry memory hit him with overwhelming force. He opened the door and stepped out onto the wooden porch. Spinks was just getting into the dusty car.

"Take it easy, Jeff."

"Up yours, Charlie," Lehane shouted. "You think I'm that easy to manipulate?"

TWO

Wagon Wheel was the newest hotel on Paradise Road, near Riviera. It was a round, gaudy open-air site designed to host prizefights and rock concerts. The stage was currently decorated with red, white and blue banners. Lehane stepped out on to the catwalk above the arch and peered down over the edge at the huge, empty stadium. Row upon row of reserved seats encircled this part of the arena. He looked up at the far side of the enclosure. Several grips were busily taping down cables. Lehane spoke into his throat mike. "You okay up there, Pops?"

"All set."

He waved at Pops Keltner, who waved back. Lehane walked back toward the stage, rubbing his smooth jaw line. He missed the beard. Lehane looked down. The crew was busy as an ant colony. Some of the television cameramen, including one burly steady cam operator, were already practicing some diving, swooping moves. Lehane heard a crackle in his headset.

"Irish, that you?"

The speaker had a gruff Israeli accent. Lehane felt his face split into a grin. "It's me, Guri. Glad you're on the team."

"You kidding? I got your six."

Lehane turned. He located the handsome former Mossad agent and saluted. "You know about the meet at fourteen hundred, right?"

"I shall be there. Have you been introduced to our baby yet?"

"Not yet. I'll be going down to his dressing room in a few minutes."

"He's a smart ass, Lehane. Got a real mouth on him."

"So?"

"So don't say I didn't warn you."

The arena had been reasonably well-prepared. Ten cameras monitored the audience from a variety of angles, and there were two members of the security staff in the control booth from one hour before each scheduled show time until after the final curtain. The Vegas police had already gone through the premises with bomb-sniffing dogs. Nothing seemed out of place or disturbed from the night before. No name had been flagged by the computer system. Everything was on track.

Then why am I so damned nervous? Lehane tried to reassure himself that jitters were normal after a long time off the job, but his gut wasn't buying it. Something about the entire enterprise felt out of synch.

"Have you been here all night, or were you sniffing around Sandy Hammer?" The speaker was female. Heather.

Lehane had a flash of vertigo at the sound of his ex-wife's voice. He kept his eyes fixed on the stage and did not turn around. "Hey, Heather."

She walked steadily to the railing, stood next to him and looked down. "If I were going to put a cap in his ass, I'd do it from here, wouldn't you? And then get away from the roof."

It was a game they had played many times before. "That's why we have a man near each emergency stairwell. They check in every ten minutes."

"Nobody would hear a chopper come down during the show, though. Maybe I buy one of the two men, or kill him. Maybe have someone climb up and take one of them out, right after he checks in. Ten minutes would be enough time."

Lehane turned to face her. Her creamy, chocolate-colored skin made his fingers twitch and feathered his breathing. Heather looked at him directly with large brown eyes. She was visibly upset. "This was my first shot at being the lead, Jeff. Why couldn't you have shown some class and respected that?"

"How?"

"You could have stayed the fuck away."

Lehane shrugged. "Charlie upped the bucks. It's nothing personal."

"Oh, bullshit." Heather stomped her left foot like a toddler. Lehane immediately wanted to kiss her neck. "You didn't think I was up to it, right? You thought you had to come and rescue my black ass."

Lehane sighed. He shook his head, lied smoothly. "Don't make so much of it, Heather. I just needed some work. And I love your black ass."

Her lip twitched and she softened. "Jeff, why didn't you talk to me first?"

Lehane touched her hand. She pulled it away and stepped back, leading him further from the railing and back into the gloom of the stairwell. "I didn't know if you'd take my call, because of the way I left. Because of what happened."

Her eyes reddened. "There ain't no us any more, you silly-assed, uptight, pale-skinned honky motherfucker." She made sure no one could see and then slapped his face. He saw the blow coming a mile away but didn't try to stop it. There wasn't much power there, so she wasn't trying very hard. His cheek stung for a couple of seconds.

Heather said: "You rotten bastard." And then she impulsively kissed him. Lehane felt the entire world fall away into another dimension. Heather still tasted of her favorite chewing gum, just as he'd remembered. The feel of her breasts against his chest made his heart race. She stepped back and tenderly wiped her lipstick from his mouth.

"What happened to you? Was it because of that thing in Iraq?"

"Maybe."

"Why?"

"Not now."

"Can we talk when this is over?"

He nodded. "I'd like that."

Heather glanced at her watch. "You'd best come on down and say hello to the great Enrique, then we'll get the staff meeting started."

Lehane followed her to the high-speed, clear Plexiglas elevator. It was hard to stay a few feet away from her on the ride down, but the rest of the team would be watching, waiting and wondering. No point in setting up fresh rounds of gossip when there was a job to do.

The elevator stopped at the stage level. They walked out onto rows of taped-down cables leading to gigantic amplifiers and speakers. The roadies were nearly ready for the sound check. Lehane watched them for a long moment, followed Heather into the emergency exit and its hallway. They went down a flight of stairs, their feet clanking noisily on the metal steps. He was about to speak to her when he noticed someone coming up the other way. Lehane stayed silent.

Heather led him to a pair of huge, varnished doors on the ground floor. An arena security guard was leaning on the wall, smoking. He straightened up when he saw Heather, dropped the butt and opened one of the doors.

"If you were one of mine," Heather snapped, "I'd fire your ass."

"Sorry ma'am."

Inside was an immense, plush carpeted meeting room with a wooden conference table perhaps twenty feet long. Several people sat talking around the table, some in the dark suits that served as uniforms for Spinks Security and some already in disguise as civilians. Heather went straight to the head of the table.

"Let's get started," she said. Her manner was cool and professional. "Most of you already know Jeff Lehane. I've just been informed that he will be the lead on this one, so listen up." She stepped back and to one side. Lehane remained standing, but leaned forward on the back of the executive chair.

"It seems to me you've all done a fine job so far. I just want to do one last quick rundown. Call me superstitious."

"We called you more than that." The speaker was sitting next to the handsome Israeli agent, Guri Meier. Whiz Ligotti was a small wheelchair bound man with orange hair and coke-bottle glasses. He looked impossibly young, but was actually a hair shy of thirty. Whiz was a computer genius so gifted his work was generally classified by the government.

"True enough," Lehane said. "Good to see you again, Whiz." He looked around the room. Some of the faces seemed welcoming, some deceptively bland, some outright hostile. Those seeking promotions would be worried he was back for good. "Let me make one thing clear from the start, guys. I'm doing this one job as a favor to Charlie. I have no plans to come out of retirement. You help me out here, so that things go smoothly, and I'll be out of your hair by tomorrow morning."

"What if we don't, and the guy gets snuffed?" Guri, to general laughter.

"Then I'll move into your neighborhood, marry your daughter without converting and mooch tickets during the high holidays."

Lehane surveyed the team. He had some solid people. As he'd suspected, they'd even hired back Sandy Hammer, a sometime character actress and stunt woman known for her skill with makeup and disguise. Lehane had enjoyed a fling with her a few months back. Sandy had been a lot harder to forget than the others. She was too smart and funny to be marginalized.

"Hi, sailor." Sandy winked at him and licked her lips, which was more than a bit amusing since she was already in character as a nun. The team laughed again.

Some of the other players were also dressed as if for Halloween, since many of the concert fans would be in death-mask makeup as a fashion statement against war, poverty and starvation. The agents had to blend in.

"Where's Pops?"

"Here." The door opened and Darren Keltner strolled into the room.

"Nice of you to join us, Pops."

"I was just running some license plates from the parking lot," Pops replied. He winked at Heather and sat down. Pops was a hard man to ruffle. Although his college degree was in journalism, the sandy blond athlete had worked SWAT for LAPD. He was also a former Olympic finalist with a handgun. Pops had just turned forty and was the oldest member of the team.

Lehane resumed. "Okay, one last gut check and a Q and A before we do this for real. Be advised Heather is second in command. She and I will be on the stage itself as roadies. I'm Top Dog. My call sign will be A1, and Heather is A2." Lehane saw Heather's eyes widen slightly. She hadn't expected him to share the primo spot. "Heather will take stage right, over by the bass player, and I'll be on stage left by the guitars. We'll be out of sight most of the time but never more than fifteen or twenty feet from Enrique. What are your assignments?"

"I'm going to be right in the center of the crowd at the foot of the stage, like a boxer in drag as Mother Theresa. My call sign is B."

"Left balcony, in a speaker box with a sniper scope," Guri Meier said, calmly. His accent was barely noticeable. "I'm call sign D."

"And I'm E." Pops stretched and popped his neck. "I'll be in the right balcony, same set-up, because these Jews can't shoot straight."

Guri threw a paper airplane and blew a raspberry. "You got us mixed up with the Arabs."

Lehane grinned. He motioned to the faux nun. "What are you carrying, Sandy?"

"Glock nine, Jeff. I've already checked the angle, and any misses from down center would go straight up into the acoustical ceiling tiles."

"Good."

"I'm up in the damned booth, on the camera with the house guys." Some of the afternoon sun burned through the thick window coverings. Lehane had to shade his eyes to see the back of the room. The man at the end of the table was tall and wide. He had a red-veined, bulldog face with buzz-cut grey hair. "I guess that makes me F for fucking useless."

Everyone laughed again. The big man waited for the noise to die down. "As you already know, my name is Castle, Mr. Lehane. Mike Castle. I'm C."

"I took a shot at you yesterday."

"Believe me, I remember. Pops Keltner and I have worked together a couple of times before, so I've heard some pretty tall tales about you. Charlie brought me down from Vancouver to help out."

"Come to think of it, I know your name from Europe, too, don't I?" Lehane moved around the table and walked closer. "You did some work in Bosnia."

Castle smiled politely. "My reputation precedes me."

"And what if you spot something on the monitors, Mike?" Lehane closed the distance. He wanted to look the man in the eyes. "What will you do?"

"I call it in to everyone, including which sector and who to look for."

"And?"

"And nothing. I stay in the booth."

"Exactly, because you're our eyes and ears. If you leave your post we're screwed. Now, do you have any hard feelings towards me, Mike?"

"No hard feelings."

"Don't trust the guy," Pops said in a stage whisper. "He's been known to welsh on bets. Besides, the bastard stole my girl."

Lehane extended his hand, Castle took it. "Okay, let's do good work, Castle."

"So who is this fucker we're guarding, anyway?"

Heather answered from the end of the room. "Enrique is a political activist and rock and roll star who has managed to piss somebody off. That's all we really need to know."

"What's he like?"

"Opinionated."

Someone knocked on the conference room door. Lehane let one hand drift to his weapon and motioned to Guri, who opened it and immediately stepped out of the way. Two men stood outside. One was overweight and sweaty, holding a large plastic water bottle. Lehane recognized him from the files as the rock star's manager, Dennis Levinson. The other was a remarkably handsome Latino with his long hair done in corn rows, Enrique Diaz. In person, Enrique seemed smaller than one would expect. He had a bright, wide smile and was slender but clearly athletic. He wore his hair in long dreadlocks, as a statement. Enrique's eyes roamed the room. He extended his hand. "Buenos dias."

"Jeff Lehane. This is my crew."

Enrique strolled into the room. When he saw Heather he smiled. "Ah, someone of color is employed here. How nice of you white folks."

Lehane blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I have just been puzzled by one thing," Enrique said. "You have a number of skilled people working for you, but no one of South American heritage and only one black. She is a woman, of course, but then we are not offering affirmative action points here, are we?"

Levinson, the manager, gulped some water. "Enrique just wanted to come by and say hello," he mumbled. "I tried to tell him he should get to his room and grab a bit of rest before the performance."

Lehane examined some lint on the dark carpet. He chose his words carefully. "I think we're getting off to a bad start, here. I assume you have noticed the hotel porter who was assigned to you this morning?"

"The token Hispanic, Juan Garcia? Certainly. He doesn't say much, but then he's probably afraid to talk about working here. I've been known to have what society calls a big mouth."

"Insert foot," Lehane said, mildly. "Because his real name is David Martinez and he works for me. He's a black belt in a number of schools and a crack shot. Kind of fools you with his step-and-fetch it act, doesn't he?"

Enrique's jaw dropped. To his credit, he laughed. "Okay, that served me right, I suppose."

Heather nodded. "Sure did."

"Mr. Lehane, my people assure me that there is a need for all this extra protection. I'm not sure the threat has been exaggerated. This may all turn out to be a huge waste of time and money. Would you agree?"

Lehane watched Levinson try to scowl and remain blank at the same time. The manager shook his head, ever so slightly. Lehane pretended not to notice. "I have seen photocopies of three separate notes threatening your life. The lab tests turned up nothing, which makes me nervous."

Enrique frowned. "Because?"

"An amateur always makes a mistake. They leave a trace of saliva, dirt, something we can work with," Lehane said. "A professional doesn't fuck up. Whoever this is, he is dedicated and quite serious about either shutting this show down or killing you, possibly both."

"What exactly did the notes say?"

Without dropping a beat, Lehane quoted one. "The beaner dies tomorrow. He goes on, I get off. Stuff like that."

"A racist, then." It was not a question.

"Not necessarily," Lehane said, calmly. "Like I said, he's a pro. The xenophobic stuff could be there to throw us off his trail."

"His?"

"It's probably a man. Can't be certain, of course."

"Of course."

Lehane eyed his team. He addressed Enrique. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"One last question, if you don't mind."

"Shoot."

"Exactly."

"Excuse me?"

Enrique sighed. "It is my understanding that your team may actually use deadly force if you confront a stalker in this situation."

"Yes."

"Even by sniper? Is that legal?"

"If we need to shoot him," Lehane said, "be glad we're in Nevada. Charlie Spinks knows all the right people."

"Yes?"

"Trust me, it will be legal."

"I hope you don't have to fire."

"Frankly, so do we."

"Well," Enrique said. He clapped his hands together. "I really stopped by to tell you I'm grateful for what you're doing. I don't know how someone could take such chances for a living, but I'm glad you're all around me tonight."

"You're welcome," Lehane replied. "Is there anything else we can do for you before the show?"

"Yeah," Enrique said. His face softened. "I do not want anyone get hurt, okay? Let's just hope this is all a bunch of redneck bullshit, or something."

Pops Keltner stood. "Now just hold on a second." He faked a slow drawl. "I'm a redneck myself, and I resemble that remark."

It was a dumb joke, but it broke the tension. The agents politely applauded as Enrique left the room. A long moment of silence followed.

"He's got a point there, people," Lehane said, finally. "Nobody gets hurt, okay? Now let's go do this."

THREE

The street demonstrations were already several hours old when Enrique's opening act, a trio comprised of what Lehane considered tone-deaf young drug addicts, hit the stage with a bang. Meanwhile, rows of kids dressed in 'death' garb and covered with red paint left the House of Blues and willfully blocked traffic on the Vegas strip, an act they would repeat several times over the course of the evening. The cops were already getting a bit too rough when putting on the plastic cuffs. The monetary globalization conference was out of bounds and blocked off, so the mushrooming demonstrators were forced to do their thing nearer the strip casinos and the Wagon Wheel arena.

Lehane rapidly changed into his faux-roadie garb—tennis shoes, a T shirt with Enrique's logo, some tattered jeans and a wig for longish hair. He parked a snub-nose 38 in an ankle holster and slipped a holstered Glock 9mm on the back of his belt, under the shirt. He tucked a small pair of binoculars into his right pants pocket and then left the hotel room.

He stopped by the command booth while the opening act was still playing. Mike Castle was seated just behind the arena personnel. He had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up and was clutching a Styrofoam cup of strong, black coffee. Lehane noticed a large USMC tattoo on his left forearm. Castle pointed at the monitor covering the street outside the arena.

"Look at those assholes. What do they expect to accomplish?"

Lehane shrugged. "They probably mean well."

"Yeah, but you got your animal rights idiots, some socialists, a bunch of bozos in quasi-military uniforms with red paint all over them, folks in black suits and Halloween masks. It's nothing like the sixties."

"You were demonstrating back in the sixties?"

Castle reddened. "I was young, okay?"

"Okay."

"Anyway, they just look stupid. Hell, this isn't a demonstration, it's a goddamned geek fest. What are they trying to say?"

"Near as I can figure," Lehane drawled, "that people should share the wealth, be kind to animals and stop making war. Oh, and fuck a lot more often."

Castle raised his eyebrows. "Well, when you put it that way it sounds pretty reasonable, doesn't it?"

"Works for me."

"Gotta tell you, I respect your crew," Castle said. "Pops Keltner is an old friend. He's as good as it gets."

"So are the rest of them."

"Break a leg, man." Castle spun in his chair and extended one meaty paw.

"You, too."

Lehane shook, checked his watch and jogged down the hall to the elevator. He punched S for the level with stairs leading to the stage. As the elevator descended a low, pounding sound became audible and then grew louder. It was the rhythmic thumping of thousands of pairs of feet, demanding the performance begin. The elevator opened and a higher-pitched sound assaulted his ears, audience members clapping and whistling.

Enrique was stretching at the edge of the stage. He drank from a bottle of vitamin-enhanced water and waved for his band members to take their places. The drummer went out first, twirling his sticks. The audience erupted into bellows and cheers. The drummer grinned, and once seated began to play a subtle percussion pattern. The bass player joined in. Then the rest of the band entered, one by one. Meanwhile, Enrique bided his time, cracked his neck, and began working himself up for the performance.

Lehane slipped foam earplugs into his ears and ran out onto the stage. He squatted down near the bass player and pretended to play with the man-sized amplifier. The vibrations on the stage were strong enough to cause him a slight bout of seasickness. He looked over the enormous stack of tambourines, shakers, maracas and other percussion instruments to the opposite side of the stage and finally spotted Heather. Her chocolate features were exquisite in the footlights. She was gratuitously taping down some loose cable near the right side of the drum kit. Heather waved and went back to work.

Lehane knew it would be useless to speak into his hidden microphone with so much ambient noise. He would have to trust everyone to be in position, because it was time for the star to make his entrance. When the moment arrived the stadium seemed to blow wide open. The band launched into the first song and the lead vocal was so loud it hurt through the ear plugs. Lehane jogged offstage and dropped down between two empty cartage boxes.

"This is Top Dog, A2 check in please." Heather did. One by one Pops, Guri, Sandy and the others sounded off. "Okay, stay loose and keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary."

Lehane parted the curtain slightly and raised the pair of small, military-style binoculars. He began to scan the crowd. Common sense dictated that a shooter would likely use a pistol. Why try to raise a rifle in the crowd? Someone might interfere before you could take the shot, and you'd never get away. Better a pistol, in reasonably close where the noise would cover the attempt.

It hadn't been difficult to nail down the probable 'kill zone.'

Each member of the crew had an assigned area to scrutinize. Lehane had given himself the hottest area, right in front of the stage. Sure enough, hundreds of people had already rushed the security guards and were pressing closer to the rock star. Enrique inflamed them, even motioned them closer. It was all probably part of the act, but it wasn't making their job any easier.

Most of the fans seemed to be typical kids in their teens and early twenties. They were dressed as personifications of various causes ranging from world hunger to AIDS. Lehane went down the ten rows he'd assigned himself, barely noticing one tall and somewhat thin male with shoulder length hair. His mind tickled him a bit, but a sudden movement drew his eye. A young woman was tugging at her clothing. Into the mike, Lehane called: "Chubby young woman, row five near stage right. She's either getting naked or getting something that's stuck in her pockets."

"I've got her," Heather replied. "She's nobody. Stand down." The girl did simply remove her top and bra. Two males near her poured beer on her breasts. Lehane rolled back down his own aisles and past the tall man again. This time he paused for a second. The man wore the ubiquitous mask he'd seen on a number of demonstrators, and a long black cloak. Lehane closed in a bit. The binoculars were so high powered he momentarily lost the target. When he closed in again, the man was standing exactly as before. His hands were hidden in the cloak. "Pops, see the guy in row eleven? Tall dude with some kind of skull mask?"

After a long moment: "Yeah, the tallest in the row? I've got him from behind, I think. What's up?"

"He's not moving around much for a fan, Pops. Hey, maybe he's just too stoned. Let's keep an eye peeled."

"You got it."

The music went on and on. Enrique's set seemed to last for five hours, not two. Most of the lyrics slipped by Lehane, but they seemed to be protest songs of a sort, and tirades against the police, the military and big business, all of which seemed slightly disingenuous coming from a multi-millionaire rock star under private security protection. Lehane found his thoughts drifting back to Heather. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she moved around in the wings. She was on top of things, a real professional. He felt proud of her.

"Boss?"

Lehane snapped back into focus. "Yeah, Guri. What's up?"

"That big fucker in the eleventh row. Check it out."

The binoculars, a sweep of the row. "Where is he?"

"My point exactly, unless maybe he just went to take a piss."

"David?"

Martinez responded from the headset: "Yeah, Jeff."

"Do your 'I'm the dumb janitor' thing. Make a quick check of the men's room and the hall outside. Look for a tall guy, black robes, wearing a skull mask. Watch your ass." Lehane raised the glasses. He noticed some of the security in the back of the hall were opening the doors and preparing to usher people out. Enrique finished his 'last' song and left the stage to await the requisite demand for an encore. He stood in the wings, a few feet away from Lehane, wiping his face and upper body with a towel.

"Okay, gang," Lehane barked. "Here comes the final song so our guy gets his last chance."

"Yeah, boys," Heather chimed in. "If he has any sense of drama, now's the time."

Lehane checked his watch. Behind him, the band launched into the final number and the audience went wild with recognition. It must have been Enrique's biggest hit. "David? Check in, please."

Martinez didn't respond. Lehane chewed his lower lip. He brought the glasses up again and swept the eleventh row. The tall man was still missing. "I don't like this, guys. Heather, maybe you should check on David?"

"In the men's room?"

"Wait! I've got him, boss." It was Pops Keltner from the top of the catwalk. "Your tall dude is near stage right, just around the corner from Heather. He's just standing there."

"I can't see from here, damn it. Heather, can you get closer to him?"

"Already moving."

Lehane watched as she moved along the outside edge of the thick, black curtain. Her right hand slipped unobtrusively behind her back and under her blouse. She was palming her small 9mm Firestar. "You got him, Pops?"

"I could drop him in a heartbeat with a headshot. He's right against the wall, the concrete part. Heather, he can only move right at you or the other way."

"I've got it. What's he doing? Can you see if he is holding anything?"

"Negative."

Enrique finished his song and took a bow. He moved down to the front of the stage, shaking hands, as his band played triumphantly behind him. Lehane felt a strange, cold tension in his lower stomach. He grabbed his Glock and jogged behind the curtain, toward the other side of the stage. "Heather, stand down. Wait for me."

"I'm already there, Jeff."

"Wait!"

"Boss? Boss? I've lost the fucker! Where did he go, Guri?

"Code Red, I think he's our shooter! Be advised he's prone on the stage, using the footlights as cover. Can you pick him off, Pops?"

"Negative, can't see his ass any more."

Lehane was running full out, now. He pushed his way through the dense curtains while he panted into the headset. "Heather, don't turn that fucking corner, I'm ordering you to wait!"

"Christ, Jesus Christ!"

"What?" Lehane screamed. "What?" He arrived at Heather's old position, dropped the Glock into his clenched fists and flattened against the wall. "Talk to me, Pops!"

"We have an agent down, be advised that Heather is down."

"Shit! Where is the shooter?"

"Still lying flat, Jeff. He popped her when she stuck her head around the corner."

"How is she?"

"I can't tell man, but it looked bad. Then he took a shot at Enrique just as the kid bent down again. He missed. I saw the muzzle flash, but the prick has decent cover. I can't hit him from here."

"Guri, have somebody get Enrique off the stage."

"Already on it. We're tugging him back."

Lehane looked to his left. Some security people were flanking Enrique as if just protecting him from the fans. The audience hadn't noticed anything. On the right, closest to where Lehane was standing, was one of their people, Jess Carter. He was wearing Kevlar and had screened the target.

"Pops, I'm going in. The fucker shows one whisker, take him out."

The curtain fell and the backstage area darkened. Lehane crouched low. He peeked once around the corner, pulled back. A chip of cement near his forehead vanished. He closed his eyes and shuddered, for in that split second he had seen more than he'd wanted. Heather was sprawled out on the cement, where the audience couldn't see her, with her arms and legs unnaturally twisted. Her pretty forehead was shattered and bleeding. Enrique was gone.

"I have to get to her," Lehane said.

"Negative, give us five more minutes. We can't let him fire into the crowd. Everybody stay cool."

Lehane sweated while the crew rushed things. The lights came up annoyingly bright and the staff, alerted to the presence of danger, hurried the audience out of the arena. The wagon-wheel design had dozens of exit doors, so the deafening noise rapidly abated and normal sounds were soon audible again. Lehane gripped the Glock in his hands and took several shallow breaths to amp his adrenaline.

"She is dying," the shooter called out to Lehane. The voice was thin and had a faint accent.

"Just throw your gun away, asshole," Lehane screamed. "Do it now."

"She is dying, even as we speak. Will you do nothing to save her?"

"Give it up, man." Lehane worked his way down the wall to a half-empty box of percussion instruments. He dug into it, searching for something useful. "Nobody has to die, here."

"You will."

"Why?"

Another chip of cement disappeared. Lehane, a few feet away, ducked from reflex. That voice again: "Come! Please try to save her before it is too late. Unless you want the death of your wife on your conscience…?"

"What did you say?" Lehane grabbed a large metal triangle. He hefted it, and moved back to the corner of the wall. "Who are you?"

A throaty chuckle. "You mean you don't know?"

Lehane spoke into the headset. "Pops, here we go. I'm drawing him out."

"Right."

Lehane threw the triangle high in the air, up into the thick curtain. It slid down the thick velvet noiselessly, but disturbed the fabric enough to startle the gunman. Then the triangle hit the cement with a loud clang and the gunman fired low and to his right. Lehane spun around the corner, Glock raised.

The man lay sideways in a small area between the floodlights and the stage, still wearing his skull mask. He gripped a .357 in his pale, thin hands. His eyes widened behind the plastic. He tried to raise the gun.

"Don't!" Lehane caught another glimpse of the ruined mass that was Heather's face. He didn't bother with another warning, just fired a double tap to the gut. The man grunted. The pain bent him double; he jackknifed, clutching himself, and lost the weapon. Then, incredibly, he went for the gun again. Lehane stepped in close and kicked it away from his fingertips.

Lehane knelt down and felt Heather's neck for a pulse. Tears stung his eyes. "Pops, Guri, get down here. Somebody call for an ambulance." The killer yanked the skull mask away from his own face. The man was rail thin, with deep-set blue eyes rimmed in shadow. He looked pale and exhausted, like someone who had not slept in a very long while. He blinked and raised a hand, as if begging to be touched. "Boot."

"Who are you?"

The man spat at him. He missed, made an odd, hissing noise again. He clutched at the air, as if grabbing at Lehane. Then his eyes rolled back. Lehane knew he had a lot of internal bleeding and wouldn't last long. "Why did you do this?"

"Boot." The clutching hand again.

"What did you say?"

"Boot." A lurching breath as a rattle began in his throat. "Ahh."

His well-trained reflexes saved him. Lehane twisted away just as the long hunting knife whistled up toward his exposed neck. He kicked out with one foot and caught the man right in the bloody gunshot wound. The gaunt killer coughed blood and curled up around the pain.

"Don't!" The paramedic appeared from nowhere and opened her medical kit. She was a muscular young Hispanic woman with short hair. She glanced at Heather. "Is the woman gone?"

"Yes."

The paramedic knelt down. The man eagerly grabbed and held her hand. He locked his eyes on hers, spat blood into her startled face and died.

FOUR

"You sure you want to go over this now, man?"

Whiz Ligotti rolled his wheelchair closer, ducked his orange head and peered up like a demented parrot. Lehane had spent much of the night being questioned by the police. Since much of the incident had been caught on video tape, he was in the clear, but the formalities had to be observed. The whole team had backed him. Finally, Lehane had gotten roaring drunk before finally falling asleep after dawn.

It was now four in the afternoon. He looked and felt like shit. "Yeah," he croaked. "I'm sure."

"Martinez was found in the men's room with his head twisted so far around he could have checked out his own ass. Whoever did that would have to be cartoon large and all green and shit, and have some fucking awesome arms."

"Autopsy?"

"They're working on it, boss. First reports showed no indications of stab or bullet wounds, no blunt force trauma."

"He was awake."

"Yeah, and certainly not wounded defenseless. I'd say somebody just ambushed him from behind ripped his head around."

"Like you said, Whiz. It was someone incredibly strong. But nobody reports seeing any body builders lurking around last night, and no one like that shows up on the surveillance videos, either."

"So maybe our tall, skinny boy was into PCP."

"I have a hunch they won't find drugs in his blood."

"It would be simpler if they did."

Lehane sighed. "And Heather's killer had a gun and a knife."

"If it was him, he didn't use either one. So maybe there's a second killer?"

"Maybe."

"You're thinking it's the same perp who did Heather, but this dude just uses whatever is handy?"

"I'm not thinking anything."

"This guy wasn't that big, boss."

"What have you got on the prick?"

Whiz looked at his notes. "California driver's license, Visa, one bank card from B of A. Thumbprint checks out, at least according to my pal Gladys at the Coroner's office. The perp was a forty-one year old airline employee from Fort Worth, name of Roger Gordon."

"Which airline?"

"He worked as an executive for Euro Blue. No wants, no warrants, no prior record of any kind."

Lehane rubbed his temples. "Wait a second, where was he born and raised?"

"Don't know about raised, but he was born in Paris."

"That accent didn't sound French."

"That's because it was Paris Texas, not France."

"Great." The cramped office was packed with computer gear and model airplanes. Lehane looked around, located a small ice box. "You got anything with sugar and caffeine?"

"Good old coca cola. Help yourself."

Lehane found two cold cans of soda. He opened them both, gulped one down and belched. "Man, I feel ugly."

"You are."

"Thanks. None of this makes any sense, Whiz. The perp had a foreign accent, okay? I know I'm right. It was clumsy and sibilant, definitely not American or French, but I couldn't place it."

"Like I said, old Roger was born in Texas."

"Can you find out if he spent any length of time abroad?"

Whiz let his fingers dance over the keyboard. His computer beeped and began to print. "I've already pulled up everything I can on the dude. According to his passport records, he went to Mexico a couple of times and spent a week in Zurich skiing. Other than that, he was a homebody."

"Boot?"

"Huh?"

"I told you, he said 'boot.' Clear as a bell."

"Beats me what that meant. The ME report says he was wearing loafers. Must have been gibberish, dude."

"It means something, Whiz. It was his dying word." Lehane belched again. His head throbbed. He'd already downed three aspirins. "Maybe he was psychotic, speaking in accents instead of tongues. Maybe he had some kind of Multiple Personality Disorder."

Whiz shrugged. "Okay, but there's nothing in his insurance records to indicate a visit to a psychiatrist."

"Was there any sound on the video Castle got?"

Whiz shook his head. "Nope, there was just enough to show the guy shooting at you and then going for his gun one last time and then the paramedic helping him. It was a pretty bad angle."

"Keep on it. You'll get a break sooner or later."

"I hope so, because I don't get this," Whiz said. "The guy has a foreign accent but turns out to be from Texas. He's a total stranger, yet he knows Heather was your wife. What's wrong with this picture?"

Jeff Lehane looked down and away to cover his pain. "What's wrong is that Heather is dead."

"And that most seriously sucks, man," Whiz said, softly, "but don't start thinking that's your bad."

"It is."

Whiz rolled his chair closer. "Listen to me, Boss. Heather knew what she was getting into when she signed up. So did Martinez. They were both well trained and professional. Everybody did their best. It happens."

"I could almost buy that," Lehane said. "Except for one thing, okay? This bastard knew me."

"Maybe."

"He knew me. In fact, he probably didn't come for Enrique at all, he came for me." Lehane looked down. "So whether I knew ahead of time or not, I had something to do with getting Heather killed. And Martinez, too."

"I sense some self-flagellation coming on."

"Fuck you, Whiz." When Lehane looked up, his eyes were moist. "Hang in there on this one. Maybe you could just give me a few minutes every once in a while, whenever something crosses your mind."

"Sure. Why not?"

"See if you can tell me why she died and what just happened out there."

"If it's out there, I'll find it." Whiz yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Does this mean you're coming back to work for Charlie?"

"No, it doesn't. I'm retired, man. You know that."

Whiz grinned. "What are you willing to trade?"

"Not a goddamned thing."

"Okay, okay. I was just curious." He sighed and rolled his wheelchair backwards, then spun around and faced his keyboard again. "You go get some rest, Boss. I'll keep digging."

Lehane paused in the doorway. He leaned on the jamb to maintain his balance. Down the hall the elevator pinged. Charlie Spinks, Pops Keltner, Sandy Hammer and Guri Meier emerged, whispering amongst themselves.

He didn't want to talk. Lehane stepped back into the computer room to hide. He glanced back over his shoulder. Whiz was too involved with the search engine to notice. Lehane waited until the hallway was empty and then returned to his room.

He slept four more hours, called room service and ordered up a plain steak, vegetables and a tall scotch. Lehane eventually ate on the patio with CNN droning quietly in the background. Planes took off and landed in the distance, their Christmas-tree lights dotting the desert sky. The air was dry and hot. The party/riot down on the Sunset Strip continued until close to dawn. Lehane went back inside, pulled the thick drapes closed and got another three hours sleep.

Like all of the Spinks agents, Heather and Martinez had both filled out papers arranging for the payment of life insurance monies and the disposal of their bodies should they be killed in the line of duty. Martinez had a sister in Phoenix, but she didn't give a damn where he was buried, so Charlie Spinks chose Vegas because Martinez liked to gamble.

Lehane's ex was another story. She'd requested that her remains be shipped back to her family in Los Angeles. The family, in turn, wanted nothing to do with the company they believed had gotten her killed. There would be no official funeral service back in South Central.

Charlie Spinks didn't want to leave everyone hanging, so he arranged for a private memorial service in a chapel at the Gunslinger Hotel, just off the strip. They could say goodbye to Heather and Martinez both in the same, efficient hour.

Lehane drove around in circles most of that brutally hot morning. He was unable to sit still but completely at a loss for what to do. He had avoided his old team whenever possible, and steadfastly refused to discuss the murders with Charlie or any of the others. Part of him wanted to drive back up north and vanish into the cactus without attending the memorial service, but he knew he would regret that later. Martinez had been a good soldier, although not a close friend. Somehow his loss seemed reasonable.

But not Heather. In fact, the sight of her body haunted Lehane, and the loose ends around her death continued to torment.

He circled the Vegas strip then drove back into the residential area, up and down suburban streets listening to the hissing of lawn sprinklers. He checked his watch and headed for the Gunslinger. The service was about to begin.

Lehane had tried to remain patient, but Whiz hadn't come up with anything to suggest why a lanky Texan named Roger Gordon had gone off the deep end. Hell, he was quiet, unmarried and didn't even own a firearm. There was also absolutely nothing in the airline employee's background to suggest he'd ever met or had any contact with Lehane, Spinks Security, Heather or Martinez.

That voice, saying: "Will you do nothing to save her?"

Lehane drove the rental car into the Gunslinger parking lot and parked three rows down from the chapel entrance. He watched as Sandy, Charlie, Pops, Guri, Whiz and even Mike Castle arrived and entered.

No sense putting this off any longer…He was about to exit the vehicle when a limo pulled up.

Lehane was surprised to see that Enrique had sent his manager. Levinson had brought a large bouquet of flowers. He went inside.

When he could stand his isolation no longer, Lehane got out of the car and walked briskly toward the chapel. Charlie Spinks greeted him quietly at the doorway. The other members of the team approached to shake his hand, most without speaking.

"Sorry, Boss."

"If there's anything I can do…"

"Hang in there."

The service itself was short and to the point. Martinez was a betting man, and although a relatively new member of the team, remembered fondly. No one seemed to know what else to say.

Charlie Spinks had brought a bottle of Heather's favorite champagne and some plastic glasses. Pops told a story about Heather's first gig, when she'd gotten so nervous she'd forgotten her assignment. By the end of the night she had driven the client, a Columbian politician, through a hail of bullets, and planted him in a safe house. Charlie reminded everyone of her smart mouth, and that she'd talked back to him during their first interview.

Sandy tried to get Lehane alone to talk. As an ex-lover, she signaled him by running the tips of her fingers down his arm, looking up with wide eyes, but he was having none of it. She eventually got the message and quit trying.

The conversation sputtered into an awkward silence. Lehane raised his glass. "To Martinez." Everyone toasted. Pops said: "Let's all go lose some roulette money in his honor." People laughed.

"To Heather," Lehane said. "She loved and respected you guys." His voice broke. "Thanks for being here."

Everyone drank. A silence descended.

Jeff Lehane spun on his heel and went back out into the blistering heat alone, before the others could see him breaking down.

FIVE

Empty yourself of everything so that the mind becomes still.

The ten thousand things live and die while the Self observes.

All life grows and blossoms before returning to the source.

Returning to the source is stillness, the way of nature.

The Way of nature is unchanging.

Knowing the Way requires great insight.

Refusing to see or accept leads to chaos.

Jeff Lehane turned the page and adjusted his spine. He had already crossed his legs and assumed the lotus position. He squinted in the bright morning sunlight.

Knowing the Way, the mind is open.

An open mind is openhearted.

The open heart will act with intelligence and generosity.

Become this and you attain the divine.

If divine you will be one with the Tao.

The Way is being at one with the Tao and thus eternal.

Eternal because the body will die but the Tao shall never pass away.

Lehane closed the book and set it down in the dirt. He half-shut his eyes, breathed deeply and followed the air as it coursed through his body. The heat stroked his bare chest and arms. He set his inner clock for twenty minutes. A sharp rapping came as one determined woodpecker assaulted the trunk of a nearby pine.

He assigned himself a meditation: 'Know that all things are one thing, and self is an illusion.'

Twenty minutes later, Lehane got to his feet. He tucked the small, worn copy of the Tao into his fanny pack, slipped it around to the back of his jeans, shrugged on his ragged white tee shirt and put on sneakers with no socks. He hopped sideways down the rock face, moved briskly through the small pasture, slipped under the fence and got into his battered, flatbed truck. He unhooked the fanny pack and slipped it under the passenger seat. It contained a small, unregistered 9mm he didn't want to have to explain to the Highway Patrol.

The white Ford started on the second try. The air conditioner didn't work, so Lehane kept the windows down and the vents open. He peeled out of his driveway in a cloud of dust and started back towards Salt Lick. The horizon was clear of cars. Where the valley sloped up into pines, a small clot of buzzards circled slowly above some tenderized road kill then came down to peck at the mess and squabble. The scowling birds went grudgingly aloft again as the Ford passed by.

Lehane chased the omnipresent, silvery mirage several miles south and then went east, toward the small town of Salt Lick. The road there was cracking in the blistering heat; time had worn it down to bumpy clumps of black asphalt. The old Ford moaned and trembled from dozens of small impacts. Lehane reminded himself it was time to change the shocks.

'Connie's' was a diner that had become a favorite of the truck drivers who relentlessly prowled the interstate, bringing produce and products to and from the major cities. It was not at all uncommon to see several big rigs parked at the end of the lot, their windshields packed with reflecting screens, some with the engine running and the air conditioners blasting. The boys would grab a couple of hours sleep, tank up, grab some thermos full of black coffee and be on their way again. But this particular morning the lot was empty, except for a beat-up VW bus and one Lincoln town car.

The relative lack of witnesses made Lehane uncomfortable, but wasn't much he could do about that. It was way too late in the game. He pulled the flatbed Ford into a space, reached down for the fanny pack and buckled it around his waist. Then he sat up, turned the engine off and got out of the vehicle. He kept the hood between himself and Connie's diner.

The tinted windows kept him from scanning the entire area, although he did notice the man in the back booth, right where he was supposed to be. Lehane kept his right hand on the fanny pack and the firearm within easy reach. He crossed the scorching hot pavement and went into the diner. Since the crack-of-dawn breakfast shift was over, the second-shift cook was on duty. He was a surly ex-con whose name Lehane had never bothered to learn. Two bearded, aging stoners were nursing beers near the broken-down jukebox on the far side of the room. Lehane figured them for the VW bus. He let his eyes roam the room. After a long moment, he walked to the back and slid into the booth. The young man occupying it wore loose brown slacks and a white shirt with no collar. The gold chain around his neck was worth more than the diner.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Lehane," Enrique said. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Hell of a long drive for nothing."

"Yes, especially while all alone. I have become quite used to companionship when I travel, a host of people around me. I seldom listen to music when I am not working. I dislike cell phones. So being alone in the car for such an extended period of time was, shall we say…uncomfortable."

Lehane didn't respond. He waited for the bored waitress to notice him. She was an anorexic blonde whose name tag read NANCI. She had a Camel between her lips. The cigarette was now mostly gone. Lehane found himself oddly distracted, wondering when the lengthy ash would fall off and plop into her coffee or onto someone's stack of pancakes. Finally, she looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"Iced tea."

Nanci yawned. The ash scattered down onto her stained apron. She didn't seem to care. Lehane turned back to face Enrique.

"You asked for half an hour of my time."

The young singer nodded vigorously. He slid an envelope across the table. It spun and came to rest at Lehane's fingertips. "Five hundred dollars cash for the consultation."

Lehane folded the envelope. He opened the fanny pack a couple of inches and stuffed the money inside. "What do you want to know?"

"First, let me say in person how sorry I am about your friends. If I had not had a press conference scheduled, I would have attended services myself. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for their families."

"Thank you." Lehane fidgeted. He let his body language told the singer he was uncomfortable and wanted to change the subject. Enrique sat back in the booth. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Would you mind giving me some of your background, Mr. Lehane?"

"Such as?"

"You were born here in Nevada, correct?"

"Yes, up around Wells. I went to school in Elko and then Reno. I played my football at Arizona."

"Do you have any family still living?"

"My parents are both dead. I lost a sister to drugs and an older brother in the first Gulf war back in the early 90's."

"You were in Special Ops, yes?"

"When I was young and brain damaged from testosterone, yeah. I stayed in for six years. After that I was recruited for some government work that took me to, shall we say, the middle-east."

"May I ask what kind of government work?"

"You can ask."

"I see. And how long have you worked for Mr. Spinks?"

"A long time."

Enrique grinned. "You are giving some vague answers. May I assume that this is nothing personal?"

"You may. It is the nature of my contract work. Discretion is required."

"Spinks Security has a quite remarkable reputation, Mr. Lehane. It is said that they can do anything, anywhere, anytime with impunity. That must require connections in very high places."

"You could say that."

They stopped talking when Nanci shuffled over like something out of a zombie film. She absently mopped the table with a dirty rag and placed a tall glass of iced tea on a coaster. She already had another cigarette going. When she was back behind the counter, Enrique sighed.

"My problem is that I need to assure myself of both your ruthlessness and professional discretion. Ironically, it appears that you are not at liberty to tell me the kinds of things which would put my mind at ease."

"Wow, I guess that proves I'm discreet."

Enrique laughed. "I suppose it does." He sat forward. "Charlie Spinks told me some things in confidence. I assume you saw his email?"

"Yes," Lehane said, quietly. "He told me to trust you."

"He filled me in a bit on the assignment in Iraq, but I would like to hear about it first hand."

"Why?"

"I will explain in a few minutes. I promise."

"You know that I've retired, right?"

"I am here to consult with you, Mr. Lehane. That's all." Enrique unconsciously looked around the room before lowering his voice again. "Please tell me the story in your own words."

"Hold on a second. Enrique, I need two things. First, your personal assurance that this talk remains confidential, because trust me, I will cheerfully deny under oath that I ever meant a word. Second, I have to know why you're asking."

"You have my promise to be silent," Enrique said. "As for why, I would rather explain later. For now, just let me say that I may have been targeted by some terrorists, some violent religious fanatics from the region. Will that suffice?"

"For now." Lehane cleared his throat. He hunched forward, moved to the right, a bit closer to Enrique. He sipped some iced tea, crunched some ice. "Okay, I'll talk and you listen."

Enrique clasped his hands and nodded. His eyes narrowed. "You have my undivided attention."

Lehane told the story. "It was early 2003. The war hadn't started yet. Charlie Spinks was approached through some Saudi contacts to send a team into Iraq. There were six of us. We left from Germany and flew to Kuwait City. There we were briefed by Charlie and a former D-Boy named Jake, who'd already been in and out of Saddam's playground five or six times. Charlie told us we were going in to protect and extract the family of a defecting Iraqi scientist."

"Was this done through your government?"

"Not officially, but of course. We arranged it so nothing could be traced back to the administration. Anyway, this man was more of a budget guy than a laboratory scientist. He wanted to defect and talk to the US about some of Saddam's stash. His name was Mohammed. He was a Sunni Muslim, not a Shia, but somehow he knew a lot about where the regime's cash was parked."

"You get Mohammed and his family safely out of Iraq without leaving American fingerprints, and he tells the US where some of Saddam's money is buried."

"Exactly."

Lehane tore the napkin into a shape similar to Iraq's and moved the knife and fork to either side. "Here's Saudi Arabia, here's Iran, right? Kuwait City is right on the Persian Gulf, and close to the border. We took off in a chopper at around one in the morning, just a short squad and me."

"A short squad?"

"Four grunts and a team lead. I hand picked my crew. I took Heather, Guri because he speaks Farsi, Pops and a young kid who had just mustered out of the British SAS six months before. His name was Jack Willocks. The client's family had a beach property not far from the town of Karbala, near a lake called Razzaza. We flew down low, okay? I mean low enough to stroke your nut sack on the treetops."

"What about the Iraqis?"

"Charlie Spinks had pulled a few strings and the Special Ops boys jammed their radar whenever we were in the air, just to be on the safe side. Our client and his family were to meet us at this beach house. We planned for maybe five minutes on the ground, tops. Load them up and fly them out. Piece of cake."

Lehane fell silent. He crumpled up the napkin and looked down and away. After a long moment, Enrique cleared his throat. "What happened?"

Lehane looked up again. "It went south, that's what happened. It felt wrong the second our boots hit the dirt. We came in from the desert, low and fast. We found the house with no problem, and the red signal light was out in the back yard just like the family had been told. My crew roped down in seconds. Pops went first, because he's a sharpshooter. He took high ground near the back of the property, in case any bad guys decided to pay us a visit.

"Heather went second and took the side gate. That was the only way into the back yard, other than from the house. It was a pretty fancy home, actually. Lots of beautiful pots filled with plants and some patio furniture. The Brit, Willocks, he rapped on the back door and stood to one side while I covered him. Guri covered our rear. Nobody answered the knock. That's when I started getting spooked. I even thought of aborting, but I knew the customer would never buy us having at least searched the house.

"Now the chopper is going away, as if headed north, just to throw anybody off our trail. He'll circle back around in five minutes flat to pick us up. But right at that second, he was still kind of loud. And we have silencers anyway, right? So I motion for Willocks to blow the door. He does, and I kick it in. Willocks, he went into the living room and split to the right; I followed him, covering high and low, and went left. Guri waited until we were inside, and then took the doorway."

Lehane stopped again. He took a sip of iced tea. "They were there, in the living room, this guy and his whole family." He set the glass down. "It's one thing to kill somebody, Enrique. It's a lot harder than most people think it is, blowing a man up. But to do what these people did...is just unspeakable."

Enrique prodded. "Charlie said you lost a man."

"I'll get to that," Lehane said. "I started snapping digital pictures for command and control." He swallowed. "You remember Saddam's two sons, a couple of sociopaths named Uday and Qusay? Those two were real sweethearts. Well, Guri told me later that one of the markings on the wall was the signature of the man closest to them, a guard captain known only as Ali Basra."

"Isn't Basra a city?"

"Yeah, and I'm sure it wasn't his real name. Ali Basra was a torturer, a real animal. He'd used battery acid, flaying the skin, every horror imaginable to keep Saddam's enemies in line. Uday and Qusay turned to him for the things they couldn't bring themselves to handle, okay? That has to tell you something.

"This Ali Basra must have been into some super twisted stuff, because there were body parts everywhere and Arabic characters written in blood, guts and human shit. My digital photos were instantly sent via satellite to computers in Kuwait and analyzed. Half of the symbols didn't even make sense. The desk boys said that some were even in Hindu, which is really weird."

"What were they?"

"Nonsense. Stuff like the names of vampire spirits and creatures of lore. Ali Basra was into some kind of dark magic, I guess. He had tortured and slaughtered this entire family, gutted them like fish, and used what was left to write a psychotic treatise on an ancient superstition. He also drew some kind of weird face on the wall."

"What kind of face?"

"It was a really horrific, bug-eyed man with the strangest expression, a whole bunch of emotions at once. And then as if to make a final statement, he scattered a bunch of money around. Thousands of US dollars, all rubbed in shit and offal from the bodies.

"Willocks made a big mistake. He lowered his gun just long enough to wipe his forehead. I started to say something, but that's when this maniac came screeching out of the bedroom. He was red and blue and green because of blood and guts all over him and he was screaming…screaming so loud…"

Lehane trailed off. "We pieced together later that this was probably Ali Basra, but it could have been some guy he left behind to finish up. Who knows? Anyway, he managed to bite this kid on the cheek, even tore some flesh away. My boy screamed and shoved him back. Then the guy brought up a sword and used it. It took a small chunk of Willock's head off with one swipe. By then I'd stopped taking pictures and brought my gun up and around. Ali Basra was moving like some kind of rabid animal, and he was closing on me fast. My Israeli guy Guri came inside right then. The maniac saw two targets and froze. I shot first, then Guri, and between us we turned the clown into hamburger, but a couple of seconds too late."

"What did you do?"

"We dragged Willock's outside and got him on the stripped-down Blackhawk. He was still breathing, and besides we never leave anything behind to say we'd ever been there. Hell, we were even using weapons common to the Iraqi army that night, just to be on the safe side. The damn shell casings looked home grown."

"And this boy Willocks, he expired on the helicopter?"

Lehane shook his head. "He died in the hospital in Kuwait City." He sipped more water. "That's the long and the short of it. Does it tell you anything you needed to know?"

"I suspect it does," Enrique said, quietly. "I have been told that the threats I've received are probably coming from somewhere on the Iranian border with Iraq. There was no mention of Hindu symbols."

"One thing I need to ask you," Lehane said. "You spoke to Charlie. You could have just read the report and seen the photographs. Why come all the way out here to talk to me in person?"

"I had an ulterior motive." Enrique hesitated. "Can I persuade you to come out of retirement to run security on my world tour?"

"Not a chance in hell."

"Well, that was the first reason. The second was just in case you'd say something that was not in the report. Something I might need to know for my own safety."

"But I didn't."

"No," Enrique said. He got to his feet and extended his hand. "You didn't. And frankly, I'm glad. Thank you for your time."

"My pleasure," Lehane lied. "Thanks for the cash."

SIX

Bert's weather-beaten grocery and hardware store was less than one mile down the dirt road, near the bottom of the dusty basin. The little establishment had cold beer, reasonably fresh produce and all kinds of tools and ammunition. Lehane watched Enrique drive away. He didn't want to go home, at least not yet. For the first time in years he wished he had a dog. He didn't really want to be alone today. Lehane left his car parked by Connie's, with the fanny pack tucked under the passenger seat. He set out to walk around for a bit.

The sun beat down in brittle waves, like an ocean of molten glass. The cruel surface of the high desert was motionless this close to noon; everything that could grab a sliver of shade was fast asleep. His boots scuffed the pavement and scattered pebbles and his breathing seemed loud. Something about Enrique's visit continued to nag him. He supposed the stated reason made sense that the singer had wanted to hear the story personally, not just from Charlie. Still, he made a mental note to call Spinks once he got back to the cabin. There had to be more. To his left some grasshoppers clicked like maracas and a lone chicken clucked from behind a barbed wire fence.

Lehane watched his boots for a while. A drop of sweat left his forehead and splashed onto the hard, white sand. He was vaguely aware of movement up ahead and the slamming of a screen door. He raised his head just as the Harley's engine roared. Lehane shaded his eyes. The rider was a squat, wide man with a shaved head and a flowing brown beard. He wore reflecting sunglasses and the requisite black leather clothing. He gunned the massive engine and pulled away from the grocery.

At first, Lehane was not concerned, but soon felt ice-cold anxiety ripple through his stomach. The biker had the business end of a baseball bat sticking out of the carrying pouch. It looked stained, perhaps with blood.

Lehane never changed his stride. His peripheral vision kicked into overdrive. To his right lay a tall wall of loose rocks, almost like a pile in a quarry. The footing would be poor and he'd need to turn his back to climb. The biker would reach him in a matter of seconds. He had no time to run back to the truck and secure his weapon. He waited until the Harley was committed to low gear, coming up the hill, and took three long steps to his left; up the low, grassy slope that led to the barnyard.

The long, thick chain missed his head by less than a foot.

Grunting with effort, the biker planted his left foot and wheeled around. Lehane figured that if the man had a gun, he'd have already used it. The biker anticipated a move further up the grass, a run for the barn. He made to cut Lehane off, run him down. Lehane surprised the attacker by staying where he was. The man tried to shift the length of chain to his other hand. When the Harley was close enough, higher up the slope on his right, Lehane fell to his elbows. The chain whistled over his skull. He kicked out with his booted foot and knocked the man off balance.

The bike kept going. The rider didn't.

The Harley gunned itself into the fence and got tangled up, then fell on one side. The engine complained shrilly. The biker rolled down the hill and smacked into Lehane before he could get out of the way. The chain came down hard on his kidneys, and Lehane howled with pain. He smelled rancid body odor, and something worse. He drove his elbow into the biker's chin and twisted free.

Up on his feet, Lehane stood with his palms open and his knees slightly bent. He kept his eyes on the length of chain. The biker stumbled slightly when he got to his feet, as if stoned or drunk.

Lehane feinted to his left, back up the grassy slope. The biker reacted a fraction later than one would expect. Lehane thought: Good, I can use this…He was far closer to the grocery than his car, but he spun as if to run back up the hill. The biker dug his feet into the gravel and started up. Then Lehane changed direction, raced around him and sprinted for the grocery. Bert kept a loaded Remington pump shotgun stashed behind the counter, under a mop and some rags.

Lehane ran smooth and easy, elbows pumping, boots crunching the gravel. He wasn't moving very fast, but he didn't think the drugged biker would be greased lightning, either.

He was wrong.

To his utter shock, he heard the man closing the gap like an NFL defensive back. His feet were now moving faster than Lehane would have dreamed possible. Lehane shifted into a couple of swivel moves, as if about to pivot and head for the barn again. The biker wasn't fooled.

Lehane reached the foot of the steps and heard the chain whistling toward his neck. He dropped and rolled under the wooden porch. The chain came down hard enough to shatter boards. The biker raised and lowered the weapon, emitting several frustrated grunts. Lehane lay in the filth and spider webs, trembling from adrenaline. He looked around for any sort of weapon.

The biker knelt down and grabbed at his foot. He latched on to Lehane by the ankle and began to pull. He was muttering something, but Lehane couldn't make out what it was. He was strong enough to haul his quarry out of the shadows and into the sunshine.

Lehane saw a two-foot length of two by four with a couple of rusty nails in one end. He clutched the weapon and kicked with his other leg. He kicked again. The third time he struck something soft. The biker let go and fell backwards. Lehane pushed the weapon ahead and scrambled free.

The man was holding his bloody nose with one hand and the chain with the other. He seemed a little stunned, but after his burst of speed coming down the driveway Lehane was not about to take any chances. He watched and waited, the board gripped with both hands. He noticed that the biker's filthy knuckles had rows of what appeared to be jailhouse tattoos in the shape of little blue teardrops.

Lehane gathered air into his burning lungs. "This doesn't have to go down, man," he managed.

The biker dropped the chain into the dirt. For a second, Lehane thought it was over, but then the man reached around to the back of his belt and produced a long, saw-toothed hunting knife. He grinned in an almost friendly manner, but with blood matting his beard and his eyes bulging wide. He held it like a professional, low and pointing up, and kept changing hands as he moved closer.

Lehane swung the board at the man's head, the wicked nails pointing inward. The biker tried to block with his arm and got stabbed. He hissed like a snake and his pupils grew large.

He charged.

Lehane dodged to the right, threw the board at him and then ran straight for the entrance to the grocery store. He stumbled on the wooden steps and bruised his knee. Realizing he'd lost the separation he needed, Lehane rolled onto his back and kicked with both legs. He caught the biker in the chest and threw him backwards into the dirt. The man landed on his tailbone with a loud explosion of air. The pain slowed him a bit, giving Lehane precious time.

He ran up the steps, ripped the screen door nearly of its hinges and moved into the cool, shadowy interior. The store was a mess. Displays had been vandalized and knocked over. The drink cooler doors were shattered and bottles of beer broken on the sawdust floor. Lehane moved rapidly through the gloom, aiming for the shotgun stashed behind the counter. He turned the corner.

Bert Lewis was lying on his side, right leg cocked at an odd angle. There was blood on the front of his apron. His eyes were wide and staring, but the lids were fluttering a bit and he was still breathing. He was holding his telephone in one hand, the land line. It was off the hook, as if he'd managed to dial 911. Lehane certainly hoped so. He stepped over the wounded man.

The biker emerged out of the dusty dark with a shrill, primal scream. He launched himself along the surface of the grocery counter, scattering condiments, packaged sandwiches and signs proclaiming the specials of the day. He slammed into Lehane, who caught that fetid, decaying odor yet again, and drove him backwards into the hardware department. The two men careened into a tall shelf stacked with hammers, screwdrivers and other tools.

The biker forced his head closer. He began snapping his jaws, trying to bite Lehane on the face.

Lehane clawed at the man's fevered eyes with his left hand. With his right, he groped along the wooden shelf until he found a long, flat-bladed electrician's screwdriver. His sweaty fingers slipped on the plastic handle. The biker bit down again and barely missed gnawing a piece from his cheek. Lehane brought the screwdriver up and around and drove it into the man's side. The blade slipped on the leather jacket. Lehane pushed it under the jacket and stabbed again, all the while fending off the oral assault. It ripped deeply into flesh.

The biker screamed and reared backwards, clawing at his side. Lehane kicked again, and caught him under the chin. His eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the bloody floor, perhaps two feet from the prone Bert.

Lehane fought his way back to his feet. He groped under the counter for the Remington shotgun. It wasn't there.

The biker stirred again.

Desperate, Lehane began throwing things around, searching for the weapon. He was vaguely aware of the sound of sirens in the distance. Bert had probably managed to summon the Highway Patrol.

The biker sat up abruptly. Blood was streaming down his face. For the first time Lehane realized that he'd managed to destroy the man's left eye. The eyeball was a gooey mess, running down his cheek, and some grotesque tissue was bulging from the socket. The biker struggled up yet again, his one good eye fixed on Lehane.

The sirens closed the gap.

Lehane realized that Bert had managed to get to the shotgun, but perhaps lost control of it during a struggle. He cast about with his eyes as the gigantic man lumbered closer, one eye missing and the long screwdriver sticking out of his side like a bent car antenna. He saw the Remington half-buried in some cleaning products and threw himself in that direction.

The biker caught his boot with both hands and pulled. Lehane felt his hands scramble for purchase on the wood flooring. The sawdust tickled his nose. He caught the trigger guard and yanked the shotgun loose.

The biker, grunting like a sow, began to claw his way up Lehane's body.

Lehane brought the gun around. The biker saw it and tried to back away. Lehane thought of Bert, lying there near death. He aimed for the man's face, but at the last second brought the gun down and pulled the trigger. The blast hit the biker in the abdomen and drove him back across the room. He slid down to a sitting position, his mashed, multi-colored innards flung up the white wall like a macabre piece of art.

When the cops got there, Lehane had raised Bert up to a sitting position to keep his breathing passages open. The Remington, still smoking, was at his feet.

Astonishingly enough, the maniac biker was still alive. His chest was moving in shallow jerks and tiny bubbles of bloody air emerged from his nostrils. One of the cops, a redhead with freckles, went to tend to him. The other squatted by Lehane and Bert to take a statement. The redhead knelt beside the biker and started talking, but the biker spat in his face.

The ambulance from Elko arrived half an hour behind the cops. By then Bert had passed away and the biker had offered up his death rattle. The redheaded cop who'd tended to the biker stood back several feet, staring at the bloody floor. He was young enough to still be shocked by a crime scene.

Eventually, after being tape recorded and photographed and repeatedly interviewed, Lehane broke down and called Charlie Spinks. Charlie contacted the governor. Jeff Lehane was released and allowed to drive himself home.

SEVEN

The scornful casino attendants waved them off, so they drove their battered blue Dodge to the far end of the lot with the engine belching smoke and the decrepit stereo cranked to the max. Dixie Lawson insisted on playing some bluegrass tapes she'd shoplifted. Goober steered slowly, carefully, peering ahead into the shadows like the old geezer he'd become. He parked the car near a long stretch of trash cans and yanked repeatedly on the emergency brake like he was trying to jerk his dong.

"Careful, damn it!"

Goober blinked owlishly. He dialed the music down lower, turned his head away from her and stared out the window. "You promised you wouldn't start in on me tonight."

"Oh, for Chrissakes, Goober," Dixie cawed, "don't be so damned sensitive. I wasn't picking on your sorry ass, I was just saying you should try and take it easy on my vehicle."

"You don't have to take that tone with me."

"You don't listen to any other tone."

They exchanged frosty glances and listened to maybe 40 bars of Allison Krause doing "Darling Cory." Dixie, her dirty, fat fingers wrapped around the plastic bucket full of quarters, was the first to weaken. "Aw, sweetie, don't be mad at me. I'm feeling lucky, and we don't need a jinx."

"Say you're sorry, then."

She rubbed his bony leg. "I'm sorry, really I am."

Goober brushed his few remaining grey hairs back into place on his patchy scalp. "I'm feeling lucky, too," he offered. His smile was a few inches short of genuine, but at least he tried.

"All right, then. Are you ready to make some money?"

He turned off the engine and Ms. Krause was cut off in the middle of a hot lick. He opened the driver's side door. "I'll come around and escort you like a lady."

Dixie giggled girlishly. But Goober paused, half-way out of the Dodge, and made a sound somewhere between disgust and surprise. "What the fuck is that?"

"Is what?"

"That smell?"

Dixie was still two feet from the pine tree air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror. She also had a Camel dangling from the corner of her mouth. "I don't smell anything. Maybe it's a skunk."

"No, smells like something crawled up a cows asshole and died."

"Goober, don't be so crude."

"Man, must be some very nasty road kill or something."

Dixie gathered her coins and her frayed purse and grunted her way out of the Dodge. Wheezing from the effort, she leaned on the roof and sniffed. Her nose and upper lip collided. "Oh, that stinks."

"I told you so."

"Must be a dead dog over in them trash cans or something."

"Or something."

"Well, let's go. Time's wasting." Dixie lumbered around to the back of the car, coins jangling noisily in the deserted parking lot. The sky was velvet black, clear and crisp with stars splattered on the firmament. Somewhere to the east a mournful train whistle blew and wheels chattered down the tracks.

"Goober?" The stench was overpowering, now that Dixie was out of the car, and it made her stomach lurch. "Honey, let's go."

Goober didn't move. When he spoke, his voice was filled with a resolve unusual for a man of suspect character. "I saw this movie once," he said. "The cops caught a serial killer and put him away, all because some guy smelled something and went looking to see what it was."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm gonna take the flashlight from the trunk and go see what stinks, that's what I'm talking about. There might be a reward."

"And leave me out here all alone? Why, you silly old man. What the hell would you do if you ran into somebody, tell me that?"

"I'll take me a tire iron."

Dixie snorted. "And drop the sucker on your own foot? Goober, you're a lover, not a fighter, and you know it. Now, stop playing games and let's get us into that casino and make some money."

Goober slid toward the back of the vehicle, his fingertips scraping along the top of the roof. His eyes stayed fixed on the immense pile of garbage and the scattered, battered aluminum cans. "Looks to me like some kind of animal got into the trash, tore it up."

"So?"

He opened the truck so abruptly Dixie was forced to step back. She clutched the bucket to her chest and clucked as Goober searched through the trunk for his flashlight and tire iron. When he had them gripped, one in each hand, he answered her. "So I figure whatever it is maybe found a human body and got into the guts to feed."

"Eeewww…"

"I know, sugar. But I saw me some war back in Korea, and that's the only other time I've smelled anything like that."

He began to move away toward the odor. Now Dixie felt the first stirring of real panic. "You can't just leave a helpless lady all by herself, Goober. What kind of a gentleman would do that?"

"Get back in the car and lock it, you're so scared."

"Damn you, old man!"

But he was already down in the first row of broken plastic bags, the flashlight held high in his left hand and the tire iron gripped tightly in his right. He had left the car's headlights on, so his shadow stretched out thin and spread like fresh, dark blood across the dump.

Dixie could hear his boots as they crunched through the trash. She shivered and forced herself to move back to the passenger door. She didn't much like the idea of being trapped in the car, but standing outside was out of the question. At least this way she'd be able to drive away if something happened. Just to get some help, that is. She slid inside and slammed and locked the door. She glanced over at the ignition.

"Oh, no!" Dixie rolled the window down. "Honey, you forgot to leave me the fucking car keys!"

She thought he might have shouted something back, but couldn't be sure. The train whistle sounded again, a lot closer now. That disturbing stink flooded into the car like poison gas. Dixie rolled the window back up.

Since he'd taken the keys, the only thing she could listen to was the rapid pounding of her heart.

Dixie Lawson was born and raised in the Ozarks, and generally proud of it. She didn't mind that her folks were poor enough to think possum was a delicacy, that the town had to hold up a mirror at one end to look bigger, or that her clothes were always hand-me-downs. She liked the mountain life, the raw heartbreak of the front porch music. People tended to beat hell out of their kids back then, but nobody thought it was a crime. In fact, her grandmother Bessie used belts and sticks of wood to make her point, even scary stories…

Dixie spoke before she could stop herself. "Oh, damn. Why am I thinking about her at a time like this…?"

Because Grandma Bessie, she wasn't right in the head. In fact, she was more than a bit 'touched.' She had a way of telling bedtime stories guaranteed to keep a child in bed, under the covers, afraid to peek at the window.

One of her favorites was 'Old Pumpkin Head.'

It seems a boy name of Jake loved a girl named Belle so much that he damned near died of it, but she wouldn't pay him any mind. So he made a bargain with an old witch who lived at the top of the mountain, in a pumpkin patch. Belle would fall in love with him, but he'd owe the witch a big favor, whatever she asked was hers.

The night came and that wicked pumpkin woman ordered Jake to get a little bit of her hair and a rag from her clothing, and this he did. The full worm moon rose in the frigid autumn sky. The witch then killed some small things and mixed their guts with the hair and cloth. She threw the mess into a big fire and took off her clothes. The boy Jake had to look away, she was so damned ugly, or so Grandma would say as she told the tale to Dixie.

That witch, she chanted and danced and danced and chanted. Jake felt his eyes grow heavy and he fell asleep just as the fire went out. When he woke up, the sun was shining on the pumpkin patch and the witch was gone. He went back down to his shack, and Belle was there waiting for him. She'd come to tell him she loved him—and wanted to marry him. Their wedding was the following weekend. Most of a year went by, and Jake all but forgot about his bargain. But one night they got to rutting and when it was over they both felt certain they'd made a baby this time, for sure. They went to sleep.

Around midnight, there came a scratching at the window.

Jake jerked awake and sat up in the bed, instantly dripping with sweat. The old witch was waiting outside, a twisted smile on her ugly face. He went out into the moonlight and she ordered him to follow. According to Grandma, she led him to her pumpkin patch at the top of the hill and reminded him of their bargain…

"What do you want, then?" he asked with alarm. "Money? Moonshine? Some of my animals to eat?"

"Oh, no," the witch replied with a smile. She laughed like the crackling of dry leaves. "You know as well as I do that I want this first born child."

"No," Jake cried. "Anything but that!"

"Then I want the life of your bride."

Horrified, Jake stepped back. "I'll kill you first, you old hag. You can't touch my family, no way."

"I'll have what is mine," the witch said. She was no longer smiling.

Jake pulled a knife and rushed to kill her, but she wasn't there. He turned in confusion and saw her a few feet away. He rushed her again, hell bent on cutting her belly open, but she vanished again. Frustrated he dropped to his knees to beg her…But the witch was already fading away, back into the pumpkin patch.

Jake held his breath all the way through the delivery of his child, Grandma would whisper. He stood in the other room, pacing and praying and listening to his wife in labor. Finally he heard the midwife calling with excitement that the baby was coming. Relieved, Jake ran to the door. He heard some horrified shrieks and gasps of utter disgust. He flew into the room in a panic, and there was his little baby lying on the floor, where the midwife had dropped it.

…A little boy with the head of a squashed pumpkin.

Dixie trembled at the memory of her Grandma's feathery voice telling her those old ghost stories. The old bitch would then end the tale with an admonition not to make a sound, or "the pumpkin boy" would sneak into the house and eat them all up.

Something moved, out there in the piles of trash.

Clear as a bell, Dixie heard a can fall over and sacks full of greasy innards spill out. She opened the window just a crack and hollered. "Goober? You come back here!"

No answer.

Well shitfire, Dixie thought, miserably. Should I just stay here or go check on the old peckerwood?

Another noise, closer now.

Dixie swallowed and sat up. Through the partially opened window again: "Goober, that's enough damn it! Come back here and let's go inside!"

She turned around and there, pressed against the windshield, was pumpkin boy, with his lips smashed like grapes and his nose flattened, misshapen skull crushed and broken. He showed his yellowing teeth in a macabre smile and laughed at her.

Dixie jumped. "You bastard!"

It was Goober, making faces through the glass. He pulled away from the windshield and giggled. "I do believe you need to go back to the room and change your underwear, old girl."

"That's not funny, you almost gave me a heart attack."

"Let's go gamble some." He came around front and opened the door for her. "I couldn't find anything to account for that stink. I reckon you're right, probably just some animal."

Dixie heard a rattling sound she couldn't place and realized it was the coins in her plastic bucket. She was shaking that badly.

"Goober," she said, "I do believe I need a drink first."

EIGHT

Lehane was a boy again, riding Snip through a blue sea of undulating alfalfa. He emerged into a dry stream bed. The big palomino stumbled on some loose rocks and then stopped. The horse raised his head and snorted, nostrils sensing something. The boy stroked the animal's tangled mane and swatted at a few dark flies. He listened intently and heard a welcome sound in the distance, the sibilant hissing of a waterfall that lay off behind the thick grove of cherry trees. They'd found water.

The happy boy used his knees to move the huge animal toward the stream. That was all the encouragement the horse needed. Snip broke into a clumsy trot. Lehane almost lost his balance and slipped down into a clump of cactus. Another shrill sound pierced the summer sunlight, something annoying and repetitive…

The emergency line was ringing.

Lehane woke up immediately and moaned. He felt sore all over. He glanced at the clock and was surprised to see it was late morning. He had slept for several hours. He yawned and grabbed the cell phone. "Yeah?"

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Thanks for springing me last night, Charlie."

"We leave you alone for a couple of days and look what happens."

"Ain't that the truth?"

"That dude wasn't from around there, right?"

"Never saw him before in my life."

"Tweaker, maybe? Crystal meth can do weird shit to people."

"Something like that. Well, no sweat. We took care of the local law once and for all. You'll just have to file a report at some point."

"Charlie, I was sleeping."

"I figured. And I almost didn't call."

"Why did you?"

Charlie Spinks sighed into the phone, an explosion of sorrowful air. "It has to do with Heather, man."

"Huh?"

"Her remains, I mean."

Lehane sat up and the sheet, damp from dreaming, reluctantly fell away from his naked body. "Charlie, what the hell are you talking about?"

Spinks cleared his throat. "There's no easy way to say this…"

"Say what, damn it?"

"Jeff, somebody messed with her body."

Lehane felt a cold fist clench in his belly. "What do you mean, messed with her body? Her family had it shipped home."

"It turns out the coroner in Vegas had to make a report before she could be shipped back to Los Angeles. I don't have all the details yet, but it appears some asshole broke into the morgue and…abused her."

Lehane was already on his feet and half dressed. "Abused how, Charlie? Sexually?"

"Maybe, Jeff," Charlie said, miserably. "But it gets even weirder."

Lehane got a speeding ticket on the way to Vegas and still made into the funky Meadows Park section of Vegas in record time, arriving late in the afternoon. Once there, it took him three frustrating turns around the block to find the building that housed the spare morgue. He left his car unlocked, ran across the lot and got sick of waiting for the elevator. He jogged up the metal staircase to the third floor and burst into the nearly empty hallway.

Charlie Spinks was chain-smoking by the fire exit. When he looked up, he checked his watch and his eyes widened slightly at how quickly Lehane had arrived.

"Charlie."

"Irish." Spinks got to his feet. "Take a walk with me for a minute, okay?"

Lehane hesitated. "Why?"

"Trust me on this." Spinks dropped his smoke into a huge pile of smoldering butts. He got to his feet and started down the hallway. "We've known each other for a long time, pal."

"Long enough."

"Do you trust me?"

"As much as I trust any man." Charlie stopped and grabbed Lehane by the shoulder. "Reconsider going in there," he said, sorrowfully. "I want you to stop and think about this."

"I've thought about it for hours, now."

"How do you want to remember her, Jeff?"

Lehane let his eyes roam the pale green hallway. It smelled of antiseptic. He scowled. "Don't patronize me, Charlie. The last time I saw her she had a bullet in her head and most of her face was gone."

"This is worse."

"Worse?"

"I shit you not."

"I still want to see her."

"Okay." Spinks released him. "I told the assistant coroner we would be taking another look."

They walked back toward two wide, swinging doors at the end of the hallway. "You've already been in there?"

"Whiz got word from his pal who works for the Coroner and called me. He and I came down this morning."

"Is Whiz still here?"

"Whiz went back to the office. He decided he didn't want to see her. That boy has always been smarter than you." Spinks held the left door open. Lehane walked through. The room was divided into four sections separated by curtains on rollers, and each held a stainless steel gurney. Only one had a corpse on it, covered by a slightly stained white sheet. The standard yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the figure and her small toes protruded.

"Ah, shit, Charlie."

"I know."

Lehane moved closer. He ducked under the yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. His heart began to thud and blood hissed curses in his ears. He paused beside the gurney and closed his eyes for a moment, then leaned over her. He was vaguely aware that Charlie looked away.

Lehane reached for the white sheet. His had trembled slightly as he pulled it up and down to her waist. He swallowed and his knees buckled slightly.

"That's enough, boy." Charlie Spinks caught and held his arm, then reached across to cover the body again. "Whiz already took pictures for later." His voice was gentle. "Now, let's just go sit down."

Outside, Lehane ended up with his face buried in his hands. Charlie sat next to him on the bench and fired up another smoke. He waved the match out and rested one palm on Lehane's back.

"Okay," Lehane said, "first, how did he get in?"

"Broke a window in the part of the building still under construction and crawled in some time last night."

"No alarm?"

"Nope, and it seems that the parking garage guard is in a coma. Our perp whacked his head into a concrete wall hard enough to tenderize his brain. He took the guard's uniform and walked right through the lobby, came down the elevator to the freezer, checked the records and rolled Heather out."

"What then?"

"My guess is he did his business, changed into a nurse's uniform because he was all messy and walked back out again."

"Any of the staff's uniforms gone?"

"No, it's worse than that. LVPD just found out that one of the staff members is missing, some male nurse named Steve Kramer. He showed up at midnight but he never clocked out."

"Security camera footage?"

"Miles of it. Vegas homicide will be poring over tapes from all over the morgue and the attached hospital for the next several days. Nothing out of the ordinary yet."

"Jesus, Charlie," Lehane said. His face showed his shock and grief. "Who would do something like this?"

"Some kind of pervert."

"But why Heather?"

"Who knows?"

"Fuck you, Charlie." Lehane sat up, leaned back against the wall. "That's not good enough."

Charlie inhaled smoke. "Aw, hell. I know. I didn't think it would be."

"And have you ever known a garden-variety sexual kink to commit a couple of murders just to act out his fetish?" He finished his own thought. "Only a sexual psychopath does that, Charlie."

Spinks nodded. "But here's what I can't get. He didn't do her, right?"

"The man who shot Heather is dead."

"Right. So if he's a psycho, why go to all this trouble to get to her body if he didn't kill her in the first place?"

Lehane closed his eyes again. "Charlie, the fucker chewed her flesh. He ate her. I want him dead."

"I know."

"Give me some staff and a budget," Lehane said. He turned to look his friend in the eye. "Let me track him down."

"You just got in a brawl, man. You need some rest."

"I need to get back to work."

"No."

"Why?"

Charlie shook his head, gently. "You're retired, Jeff. You told me so yourself. I'll put somebody neutral on to help Vegas homicide."

"Okay, I just came out of retirement."

"You're too personally involved."

"Damned right I am. That's why I have to do this."

"Leave it to the cops. We'll help out, but they'll handle it, I promise."

"What do you want to trade?"

Spinks blinked and sat back. "You're really serious."

"Damned right I am. Look, I'll take another assignment once I wrap up who did this, okay? You can set the fee, too. I'm not even going to bargain."

"Let me think for a minute," Charlie said. "I'll have to move some people around. What do you need?"

"Give me Whiz, Pops and Guri for a few days to a week. Maybe Sandy Hammer, too, in case I need a woman. And keep the cops away."

"I said, let me think." Charlie took his cell phone from his belt. He walked to the end of the hall, flipped it open and started barking orders. Lehane sat quietly, trying to force some ugly pictures from his mind.

NINE

"Talk to me."

"I've been here all night. Watch, nothing but net." Whiz crumpled his paper cup of water and sailed it into the waste paper basket. "I have downloaded a ton of shit on serial killers, necrophilia, sexual psychopaths, cannibalism, and lots of appetizing stuff for your perusal. It should save you plowing through a ton of reference books." He rolled his wheelchair back to the computer console.

Lehane closed the door behind him. He stretched his sore muscles and grunted encouragement. "Go on."

"As for your team, Guri is working the morgue to see if the cops missed anything, Pops Keltner is digging into the backgrounds of the comatose guard and the missing nurse to see if there is any connection to Heather, or even each other. Sandy is online in her room at the Wagon Wheel waiting for an assignment."

"Email her to pull up everything she can find on Heather before any of us knew her. Compile a database of names and contact points like universities, towns, businesses and assignments and start cross-referencing with the other names. You know, the guard and the nurse and the asshole that shot her."

Whiz typed rapidly. "Done."

Lehane dropped down into a plush executive chair. "That's it for everyone else, at least for now. So you give me a crash course in cannibalism."

"Surprisingly enough, it's debatable that such a thing exists on any significant scale," Whiz said. He began scanning his notes. "The Aztec thing about eating the hearts of enemies might be just a myth, and there doesn't seem to be any hard evidence that 'anthropophagi,' as it is formally known, has ever been an accepted cultural practice."

"Urban legend?"

"More or less. There is a book by somebody named Arens called 'The Man Eating Myth' that seems to cover things pretty well. I've ordered copies for the both of us, and they should be here tomorrow."

Lehane furrowed his brow. "Okay, but what about sexual psychopathology? Serial killers like Jeffrey Dahmer and the like?"

"Even there anthropophagi is somewhat rare, although there was a recent case that's pretty nauseating where some German guy killed and ate his lover."

"I remember something about that."

"And the lover, some idiot named Juergen, was still alive when the two of them fried and ate his dick."

Lehane moaned. "I could have gone all day without hearing that."

"That would be closer to what we're probably looking for, though." Whiz said. "Meaning the psychological underpinnings of eating human flesh. Shrinks say that it is all over our culture—the Catholic ritual of transubstantiation, the eating of Christ's flesh and the drinking of his blood, for example."

"The popularity of vampire literature."

"Exactly. I talked to a shrink named Markoff who says those rituals are oral-sadistic. He thinks the whole concept of cannibalism or vampirism probably has its roots in a stage of nursing where the baby gets angry and wants to bite off a nipple. Hell, some serial killers do exactly that to their victims."

Lehane closed his eyes. "Whiz, if you had seen her…"

"I'm glad I didn't."

"Anyway," Lehane said, opening his eyes. "He didn't touch her nipples or her sexual organs, but he ate part of her thighs and stomach. What would your shrink friend make of that?"

"I'll ask him, Boss."

"Ask him how often that happens, especially when the perp has not murdered the victim and feels no personal connection. Because the way I'm starting to see this, the motive can't have been personal or sexual. And that just doesn't make any damned sense at all."

Whiz lifted a stack of index cards. "Want me to run this down?"

"Go."

"One, we have an airline employee name of Roger Gordon, who hails from Paris, Texas but spoke to you with a foreign accent. He has no motive for being at the concert. He acts like a crazed fan of Enrique's who is out to shoot him, but kills Heather instead. You think he taunted you personally before he died."

"Check."

"Two, we have somebody who kills a security guard, breaks into the Vegas morgue and eats part of Heather. He or she apparently causes a male nurse named Kramer to disappear and walks out of the joint, probably in his uniform."

Lehane rubbed his temples. "Who is on that again?"

"Pops." Whiz checked his watch. "He should be calling in pretty soon."

"Go on."

"That's about it, Jeff. No logical connection between Roger Gordon and Heather, Roger Gordon and you. Likewise, no links to Kramer or the security guard."

"What was his name?"

"Who?"

"The security guard."

Whiz looked down at his notes. "Perry Whittaker. Last I heard he was still in a coma at General."

"What do we know about him?"

"Young guy, in his early twenties. He is a weight lifter and personal trainer during the day. The garage guard thing is just something he does for extra money."

"Any chance he's going to come out of the coma?"

"Let's try Pops." Whiz speed-dialed his cell phone, plopped it into a fixture on his computer console to set it for speakerphone. After three rings Pops Keltner answered with an annoyed grunt.

"Yo, Pops. It's Whiz. I've got Jeff with me."

"Bad news, Boss. The security guard kicked the bucket maybe five minutes ago."

Lehane swore under his breath. "Did he ever say anything?"

"Not a fucking word."

"Any new information on him?"

"I spoke to his room mate earlier this morning, a big kid who dances at one of those Chippendale joints. He said the guy was trying to get the money together to leave town. He wanted to try his luck as an actor in LA. Already had an apartment leased in West Hollywood."

"He seem gay to you?"

"Not if you mean feminine, but he did drop a lot of hints in case I missed it. I got the distinct impression Perry Whittaker was too, so I started asking about boyfriends and clubs. I found out he frequented a gay bar over on West Baltimore called the Gym Rat. It's in a strip mall near Tamm Drive. I'm on my way there right now."

"What about Kramer?"

"Divorced, maybe two years, no kids. He lived alone in an apartment where a lot of newly single folks hang out, hoping to get laid."

"Did the two know each other somehow?"

"Other than the fact that they worked on different floors of the same building, there doesn't seem to be any connection between them. Hell, Kramer even parked in what the staff called the'1099' lot, half a block away, because he wasn't a full employee with benefits."

"Keep looking."

"I will. I'll call you after I check out that gay bar."

"Good work, Pops. Thanks."

Whiz Ligotti broke the connection, speed-dialed another number. Guri answered on the first ring. "I was just about to call in."

"What have you got for me?"

Guri cleared his throat. "I wish I had good news. The crime scene guys have been up and down the guard post looking for fingerprints, but you can imagine how many people pass by every day and night."

"What about his uniform?"

"There is our first break. Everyone who works in the hospital and the morgue has been fingerprinted. The killer may have left some partials on the name plate and the buttons when he dragged the body out of sight. Hopefully, we'll get a match, or at least be able to rule out the other employees."

"Has Charlie been able to speed things up?"

"Boss, you must have really yanked his chain. Charlie is all over it with both feet and handing out cash and favors like a politician in deep shit."

"How soon, then?"

"Any minute, if we're lucky. We're getting some help from a computer the local FBI guys use."

"And no trace of the nurse, this Kramer guy?"

"Not a damned thing."

"Okay, call me."

Whiz dialed a third number. Sandy answered. "Jesus, Jeff," she said, teasingly, "gimme some time, will ya?"

"Sorry, all out," Lehane said. "That's one thing we don't have available."

"I'm pulling everything I can. I've got requests in for transcripts, newspaper clippings, and some personal letters from her parents, even which classes she took at UCLA."

"I need to know if Heather's death was the central event or just collateral damage, Sandy. Keep looking."

Whiz rolled away from the console. "You up for some brunch?"

"No, not hungry."

"You know, Boss," Whiz said, softly. "We may not find any answers at all. Shit happens."

"Not like this, it doesn't."

Whiz went back to work, his nimble fingers rapping the keyboard. Lehane sat quietly, thumbing through the notes Whiz had taken earlier in the morning. What he read simply deepened his conviction. Unless the cannibal knew Heather in some way, or at least felt connected to her, none of this made sense.

An odd chirp sounded. Whiz reached for the still-cradled cell phone and touched the button. "Incoming."

"Yo, guys. It's Pops. I just spent a very odd period of time in the Gym Rat, talking to a bartender named James."

"Why odd?"

"I'm used to meat markets, but not when the shoppers are all guys. Anyway, he recognized Perry Whittaker. Said he came in fairly often, and after I slipped him some green he admitted the guy was a sometime hustler, too."

"Okay," Lehane said. "That's good information. Did you find out where he went out trolling?"

"Yeah, and the Gym Rat was his home base."

"Did he have any regular customers?"

"Let's just say he got around."

Lehane sighed. "All right, then. Did you show him Heather's picture?"

Pops paused for a long moment. "No. Should I have?"

"We're looking for connections here," Lehane said, annoyed. "Show him all the photos we have, damn it, even the shooter from Texas."

"Now?"

"Now. And then report back."

Whiz terminated the call. "Calm down, Boss. We're on your side here, remember?"

Lehane nodded. "Maybe I am hungry after all. What have you got in the fridge, Whiz?"

The younger man rolled his wheelchair to the right and reached down behind the long console. "Couple of bachelor sandwiches."

"That sounds ominous. What's in them?"

"Something sort of blue and green with lettuce and tomato."

"I'll have a soda."

Whiz opened a heavily sugared soft drink and a diet drink for himself and returned. Lehane opened the can. He drank deeply and belched. "Whiz, you need to get married one of these days."

"For the joy of losing half of everything I don't own yet?"

"No, so you eat something."

"Look who's talking."

Whiz looked down at the pile of papers Lehane had been reading. "Did you learn anything new?"

"No, but thanks for getting it all together. When are you going to talk to that shrink again?"

"Relax, Boss. I emailed him a few minutes ago. He'll call."

Pops called back. His voice had a thin and nervous edge. "Good call, Boss. We've got a hit."

"Who?"

"The missing nurse, Kramer? The bartender recognized him, too. Says he starting coming in to the gay bar just a couple of weeks ago, so he and Perry may have known one another. Any idea what that means, though?"

"Not a clue."

TEN

Jeff Lehane dreamed about the tall man with the gun and the way Heather Randall died. In the dream he was moving through a clear thickness, limbs weighted down and concrete-heavy; struggling to get his own body into the line of fire. He saw the gun come up, the flash of orange light from the steel-blue barrel, the bullet trailing a wisp of smoke as it lazily vectored in on Heather's pretty face. Lehane tried to scream, but couldn't. His heart shrieked and babbled nonsense in a faint voice…

Lehane grunted, opened his eyes. He looked at the clock and saw that he'd only been asleep for an hour. He turned on the bedside lamp and looked around the barren hotel room. His pants lay over the back of a chair near the table. He slid out of bed and padded across the carpet. He groped in his briefcase and opened the book. He allowed the wisdom in the first section he found to wash over him:

The eyes grow + chooses this…

Later: "A dream told me."

"Excuse me?"

"Whiz, just go with it, okay? I had a dream about Heather's murder, and it told me what to do."

"Okay, Boss. And that would be…?"

"Find the security video again. I want to pick it apart, frame by frame."

"Okay, I'll get on it."

Later still, Lehane opened a plastic bottle of water, drank deeply. "Mark the first time Roger Gordon appears at the foot of the stage. We'll go over it from there."

"Let me fast forward, then." Whiz had amazing hands. The computer jumped the film forward and stopped a few moments ahead of the killer's appearance. His voice hardened. "There you are. That's the motherfucker."

"He's staying low and out of sight of the audience. Can you zoom in a bit?"

"Sure. There."

"Okay, he looks like he's going for the stage, for Enrique."

"Check."

"Can you bring up Heather and I on the other screens, so we can see everything as it happened?"

"Give me a couple of minutes."

Lehane massaged his temples. He stared at the grainy black and white image of Roger Gordon, the mysterious airline employee who had murdered Heather and suddenly decided to speak with a strange accent. I'm going to find out why you did this, no matter how long it takes.

"There."

"Now let it go in real time, Whiz."

On one screen, Roger Gordon crept along the edge of the stage, just out of sight below the bottom rim of the wooden set. He moved eerily, almost side to side as much as straight ahead. Lehane assumed the gun was tucked in the band of his trousers. Suddenly Gordon rolled over. He extracted the weapon from his trousers and bared his teeth.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"His face. I never noticed that before."

"Noticed what?"

"Back up ten seconds and get closer to his face. There, see? It looks like the bastard is grinning at the security camera."

"I don't know, maybe."

"Okay, let it go ahead."

Heather appeared, moving rapidly in response to word that someone was approaching the stage armed with a handgun. She edged around the curtain, sought cover behind a pillar. Lehane watched as she used part of the set to hide herself from the audience. Heather aimed. Her lips moved as she ordered Gordon to drop his gun and surrender.

Roger Gordon was fast, unbelievably quick; he rolled to the side and a small fire burst from the barrel of his weapon. Heather got off one shot that chipped the cement inches from Gordon's chest, right where he should have been—would have been—-a millisecond before. Heathers face compressed and spurted dark fluid. She crumpled to the ground. Lehane refused to flinch or look away.

"There you are, boss. On camera three."

Lehane watched himself run like hell up the staircase and across the stage, then slither down the long curtain and up to the concrete pillar. He looked a lot calmer than he'd felt at the time. He watched his own lips move.

"Whiz, back up."

"Okay."

"Close in on him again, Gordon."

The man shouted his taunts. His eyes were wild. He kept his weapon straight forward, clearly waiting for Lehane to risk moving out into the open.

Whiz whistled. "Man, he's really laying for you, boss. See, he doesn't even look around or behind."

"He knows nobody is there." Lehane snapped his fingers. "And that's because Martinez is dead in the men's room. Gordon killed Martinez."

"I thought you said somebody really strong did that."

Lehane shrugged. "I don't know how or why, but Gordon did it. And that's why he doesn't give a damn about covering his backside."

"He had inside information?"

"Somehow, someway, or maybe he got briefed by someone else in our line of work. He definitely knew more than he should have."

"Want me to go on?"

"Yeah."

"Now we got several minutes while they hustle the pissed-off audience out of the place. You need to see that, too?"

"Just him, Whiz."

"Okay, here you go. Close up."

Lehane watched as Gordon delivered verbal taunts that Heather was bleeding, dying. He watched the man's face carefully, saw him mouth the words.

"See that?"

"Yeah. He says how Heather is your wife."

"How the fuck does he know that?"

"Beats me, boss, but he does."

On the other screen, Lehane was searching through the box of percussion instruments, talking to Gordon, who fired. A chip of cement disappeared from the pillar.

"Okay, the audience is leaving through a gazillion doors, the casino is filling up. Pops is moving around on the balcony trying to get a shot, but the dude stays too low and keeps on trying to piss you off. A couple of drunks give the guards some trouble, but we toss them out pronto."

"And Heather keeps bleeding."

Whiz froze the video screens. He rolled his wheelchair in a half-circle. "Boss, the coroner said she was gone in a couple of seconds. It was a brain shot, for Chrissakes. You got to stop beating yourself up."

"The only thing I've got to do is figure out what happened."

Whiz looked at him long and hard, then blew out some air and turned his chair back to the computer keyboard. "Here we go."

On screen, Lehane hefted the large metal triangle. He flipped it high into the air and into the black velvet curtain across the way. When it arrived at the floor, Gordon spun and fired in that direction. Lehane watched as he stepped into view, shouted a warning and then pumped two into Gordon's abdomen. Watched as the killer dropped the 357, picked it up.

"Here's where he tries again," Whiz said.

The black-and-white Lehane moved the handgun away with his foot and bent down over Roger Gordon, who tried to speak and then produced the wicked blade of a hunting knife. Lehane kicked him in the stomach wound and took the knife away. The female paramedic appeared, shouting.

"What's she saying?"

"She's telling me to stop hurting the guy."

"Well, that's it, then." Whiz made a move to shut off the video.

"Wait, not yet. Let it play out." Lehane leaned in closer. "There has to be something here. Let me just watch the two of them up close."

"Gordon and the medic?"

"Exactly."

Whiz closed in, sharpened the image and rewound the tape by a few seconds. "Okay, here we go."

The Hispanic woman raced onto the edge of the stage and went to one knee beside the wounded murderer. She bent over him and began working. Lehane stepped away, his gun hanging at his side, and stared down at what was left of Heather's face. Behind him, Gordon's features contorted. The medic leaned back slightly, shook her head, and then resumed working. After a few seconds she felt for a pulse and appeared to give up.

"What was that? What he did, there?"

"Hang on. I'll run it again." Whiz rubbed his eyes and rolled closer to the nearest monitor. "Looks like he said something to her."

"No, that's not it. Get closer, I want to see his mouth."

The magic fingers did a jig on the keys. Whiz maneuvered around, played with his computer and sharpened the blurry image. What happened next was suddenly clear and crisp. "Shit."

"He spit on her."

"Was that blood?"

"Yeah," Lehane drank some more cold water, his mind pacing concentric circles. "That was blood."

ELEVEN

The long parking lot was crammed with vehicles; at the far end, two large white and red ambulances gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. Lehane drove through the open gate and lucked into finding a spot in the shade of some palm trees. He checked in with Whiz via cell phone and turned off the engine. Outside, the cracked asphalt steamed a wavy mirage. Lehane glanced through the chain-link fence and saw a dejected looking elderly couple waiting for a bus. The blue-haired woman was giving the skinny man a real piece of her mind. Las Vegas was brutal in more ways than one.

He locked the car and walked briskly across the lot. The short, fat office building was beige and nondescript. A canopied entrance was hidden behind the two ambulances, both of which had signs on the dashboard reading OUT OF SERVICE. Lehane heard rock music playing, and then the harsh sound of metal wheels on concrete. A beetle-browed garage mechanic in a stained, olive green smock rolled himself from beneath one vehicle and immediately vanished under the other.

The lobby was only marginally cooler than outside. Lehane supposed the building was trying to keep its power bill down. There was a small receptionist desk behind a wood-paneled counter, with an empty chair behind it. One of the telephone lines rang and Lehane heard the nearby flush of a toilet and some pipes rattling. A man emerged from the hallway, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He dropped it in the trash, leaned over the counter and grabbed the telephone.

"Star Medical, this is Frank."

Lehane touched the counter. The thin film of dust recorded his fingerprints as efficiently as a police blotter. He wiped them away and watched Frank wrap up the call. The man was athletically built and nearing fifty; freckles dusted his reddened skin and he'd recently shaved. He still had a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to his neck. Lehane spotted one camera, but the light was out and the film cartridge likely empty. Star Medical was not your first-class outfit.

The man hung up the phone. "Can I help you?"

"Mr. Fletcher, my name is Jeff Lehane. I'm with Sphinx Security. I need to ask you a few questions about one of your employees."

Frank's anger flashed. "I got to tell you something," he replied, briskly. "I don't give a damn who you are, I don't much appreciate getting leaned on."

Lehane played innocent. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." Frank's upper lip curled back and he rolled his eyes, a universal sign of contempt. He had the yellowing teeth of a chronic smoker. "We don't have to tell you dick about any of our employees without a warrant."

"That's right," Lehane said. "You don't."

"Having the Mayor's office call was a mistake."

"I don't know anything about that." Lehane moved until he could see the front door again. The mechanic was still under the second vehicle. Lehane paused, considering his options. He didn't want to chance anything physical, just in case he was wrong about that security camera.

Frank moved around behind the counter and plopped down in the chair. He leaned back with his arms behind his head. "Okay, you first, man. Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"Who?"

"Juanita," Frank said, impatiently. "I want to know because she's a good person, okay? She needs a lawyer, maybe I call somebody."

"Is this your company, Frank?"

The man blushed. "No, but I got clout here. Now answer my question."

Lehane walked closer, leaned his elbows on the dusty counter. "I don't have any reason to think Juanita needs a lawyer," he said, as if in confidence. He used the first name as if he'd known it all along. "See, she was on call the night there was an incident at the Wagon Wheel, and I've been ordered to interview her, that's all."

Frank's brows mated. "No shit?"

"That's it," Lehane said, guessing. "Nobody is after her for immigration or legal reasons, okay? We could care less." He held out his hand. "Jeff Lehane."

Frank shook his hand. He seemed relieved. "That's cool, then," he sighed. He leaned forward. "Like I said, she's a nice girl. We went out a couple of times, you know? I just wouldn't want to see her having a hard time again."

"Again?"

"Hell, she's a single Mom, Lehane. Her husband dumped her and ran back to El Salvador, God only knows what for, and left her with two daughters to feed and not a pot to piss in. Juanita has to rent a room to her doper brother to make ends meet. Hell, she even had to send the girls to her cousin's a few months ago, just to keep expenses down."

"I didn't bring everything with me." Lehane took out a small notebook. "What's her last name again?"

"Cortez, like the explorer."

"Is she here today?"

"Nope."

"When will she be back on the job?"

Frank sighed. "She probably won't."

"Why is that?"

"She took way too many sick days, and the boss got really pissed. I tried to cover for her, but…"

"When's the last time you talked to her?"

"Quite a while ago. Her boyfriend usually called instead."

"Who's the boyfriend?"

"Some lowlife name of Lou Grainger."

"Lowlife like how?"

"Like out on parole for a couple of felony counts. He left messages on the machine late at night saying she was too fucked up to come in. Oh, one time it was her doper brother, Santiago. They never answered when I called back to see how she was doing."

"Where is Juanita now?"

"Home, I guess."

Lehane let his impatience show. "Do you know where she lives?"

"I've never actually been to her house."

Lehane just stared. After a long moment, Frank twirled the chair and opened a file cabinet to his left. "I'll get her records for you."

"That would be great. Thanks."

Frank scanned the manila folder. "5623 Sagebrush Avenue," he said. "I think that would be north in Spring Valley, off South Decatur. Not a very good neighborhood."

Lehane started back toward the front door. He paused before opening it. "By the way, does this boyfriend live with Juanita?"

"Sure does." Frank said, in a minor key. "Quite a while, now."

"Thanks."

The intense, dry heat slapped Lehane in the face. He stepped around the oily mess near the mechanic and crossed the lot. He dialed Guri on the cell again and asked him to get the cops to run a sheet on Lou Grainger. He then gave Guri Juanita's address, slid back into his car and out into the growing rush hour traffic that spilled over from the strip. The sun was sinking.

Inching along Vegas Boulevard, Lehane moaned in frustration. He turned on the radio and listened to some conservative rail against the liberal elite, then changed to a jazz station and listened to old Ella vocals. After several minutes, he cut down to Flamingo, took the side streets and tried to make better time. Spring Valley was an emaciated area; streets lined with people whose homes and cars had seen better days. Juanita Cortez lived in one of the 'service personnel' neighborhoods, where underpaid custodial staff and minority kitchen workers resided. Lehane passed Sagebrush without seeing the sign. He looped around the block; past more dried-up, yellowing lawns and dark-skinned kids with runny noses. Eventually, he found the house.

Guri was already parked in front, leaning on the hood of his Chevy with his arms crossed. He looked like an undercover police officer, so the neighbors were already staring. Behind him the stars had begun to appear in the desert sky and the sun was setting in a pool of orange.

Lehane parked across the street and walked over. "Anybody home?"

Guri shrugged. "I didn't knock."

5623, a surprisingly large house with a big front porch and some form of cellar beneath, was painted pastel grey with dark blue trim. A dented metal awning protruded from the spider-webbed plaster above the door. Some windows were barred, some not. The lawn was dead and gone, although one lonely sprinkler was still attached to a green garden hose. One of the front windows was cracked. It had been patched with taped-up cardboard. As Lehane walked closer to the porch, the hair on the back of his neck fluttered.

Guri felt it too. He grunted. "Yeah, I know. Check the mailbox."

Lehane stepped carefully past a long, tall row of needled succulents and opened the large metal mailbox. He found it stuffed with a few days worth of letters, most addressed to Juanita or Santiago Cortez. There was also a yellow notice from the Post Office that a package was awaiting pickup.

Lehane closed the mailbox and stared at the house. He almost jumped when Guri moved closer.

"She's been living with her brother Santiago, also some ex-con named Lou Grainger."

"You think this boyfriend Grainger did her, maybe the brother, too?"

Lehane ignored the question. "I'm going around the back. Let's just let them think we're cops, okay?"

"Shit, the two of us in this neighborhood after dark? We're like white rice in a bowl of grain. Of course we're cops."

"Two minutes."

Guri backed up until he was directly in front of the steps leading onto the porch. Meanwhile, Lehane drifted to the left, past the succulents, and stepped into the gloom near the side gate. He palmed his 9mm Glock and took several deep breaths. He opened the wooden gate and stepped into the overgrown back yard.

The side windows faced east, and had been blocked with aluminum foil to reflect the relentless afternoon heat. Lehane ducked low and jogged to the side door. He checked to see if it was locked and then moved into the back yard. An old, rusty swing set protruded from a tall row of weeds and uncut grass. A box of broken toys lay near the half-open garage door. Lehane didn't like the idea of turning his back to the garage, so he gently removed his keychain with its small flashlight. He dropped to his knees, and then went flat in the gravel. He shined the light into the garage.

A car was up on blocks, but the tools that lay scattered around it didn't seem to have been used recently. Some were covered with spider webs. Lehane crawled forward, the light in his teeth. He rolled under the door and did a quick check of the garage. No one was hiding there.

"Hello?"

Guri was now knocking on the front door. The screen rattled. A cat in the bushes growled, panicked, ran in a circle and then leaped over the back fence. Lehane rolled back into the yard, trotted to the back door. He glanced down and noticed two half-empty dog bowls, one with some fresh food and the other a bit of water. He shined his light through the back window. The kitchen was empty and there were dirty dishes in the sink. Nothing moved inside the house.

"Hello, Juanita? Santiago?"

Still nothing.

"Hey, can I talk to you for a second, please?"

No answer. Lehane went down onto his knees again. There was indeed some kind of cellar below the house; he could see the small glass window through the brown grass. He shined the light but it reflected back into his eyes. Not being able to see made him uncomfortable. Lehane backed away again and got to his feet. He checked out the other side of the house, but found nothing but more trash and weeds.

Out front, Guri was back at his car again. His cool eyes were scanning the neighborhood. "These street lights aren't broken," he muttered. "They've been shot out. It might be smart to just get the hell gone, at least for now. We done?"

"Sure," Lehane said as he glanced back at the house. "We're done."

TWELVE

"Pat Riley's" squatted like a toad on El Centro Avenue. It was a serious bar, open twenty-four hours like most of Vegas; the kind of establishment enjoyed by hard-drinking men and woman who were, or had once been, cops. Lehane had been in there a couple of times, hoisting a brew with a retired homicide dick named Cleary. It was exactly the kind of place where you could expect to find an off-duty parole officer three sheets to the wind well before the band started playing.

Lehane came through the door on cat's paws, but the place stiffened and fell silent. Strangers were rare in here, particularly at night. The bar was dark, lit by neon; oddly long, with a thick coating of sawdust on the wooden floor. Some old George Jones record was moaning from hidden speakers. A deserted bandstand in the corner had a guitar, a puny padded drum set, a couple of amps and an electronic keyboard covered in torn white plastic.

The crowd looked back at him like an oil painting, so Lehane didn't bother to force a smile. He walked passed a couple of drunken off-duty uniforms and parked on a bar stool. The fat bartender in the filthy apron had Popeye forearms covered with Navy tattoos. He took his sweet time. Meanwhile, the patrons resumed a more hushed level of conversation and burned holes in the back of the stranger's shirt with their wary, bloodshot eyes. Someone started playing music, one of the ballads cut from The Eagles' Hotel California. The bartender finally strolled down to take an order. He had mean features and a big nose.

"You on the job?"

"You might say that."

"Get you something?"

"How about a Coke?"

"Plain soda costs the same as a mixed drink, friend. Still want Coke?"

Lehane slipped an expensed fifty out of his wallet and laid it flat on the bar. It got wet. "That's fine. Hold the booze."

The bartender cracked his neck, scooped up some ice cubes into a glass and poured brown fluid from the hissing bar sphritzer. He parked the drink on a napkin covered with cartoon tits and yawned.

"Okay, now what do you really want?"

"I'm looking to talk to a PO, by the name of Walt Meeks," Lehane said, quietly. "He's expecting me."

One chubby thumb, over the shoulder toward the back of the room: "His second office is in that booth."

Lehane squinted into the gloom and saw hulking shoulders hunched over a half-empty pitcher of beer. He took his drink, left the change on the bar, walked across the room without looking around. When he parked opposite Meeks, the chatter in the room rose in volume, as if the patrons were relieved. Walter Meeks was a barrel-chested, balding man with a thick, black moustache flecked with white. His eyes were large, blue and gave him a weird air of innocence at odds with his deeply lined, burned-out face. He wore a cheap blue suit and a decent tie marred by food stains. Meeks lazily drawled a greeting.

"You the guy called me?"

"Yes."

"Damn, you sure got pull," Meeks said. "You must be government or something." He pronounced it 'gummint,' like someone originally from the south. "My supervisor paged me I should mow your lawn and wash your car."

Lehane leaned forward. "Did he tell you who I'm asking after?"

"One of my cons, name of Grainger, right?"

"What can you tell me?"

Meeks shrugged those massive shoulders. "Guy is a real prick, okay? Did two stretches, one for felony assault and the other for armed robbery. That last was because he got strung out on meth for a few years when he lived over in San Bernardino County, state of California. Cops thought he was manufacturing and dealing but never managed to prove it."

"Grainger was living with a Hispanic woman and her brother, right?"

"Yeah, she's a paramedic. Met her once and she seemed okay to me, although her brother Santiago is a real stoner. He sits around all day smoking bowls while she works her ass off. Anyway, I couldn't get why she'd be screwing, much less supporting, a prick like Lou Grainger, especially since he was a racist motherfucker to boot. No accounting for taste."

"What else can you tell me about him?"

Meeks reached inside his suit, produced a small note pad. "Like all the dregs of society, Lou was probably once just a poor, misunderstood lad. He was born in Arizona, near a town called Mesa. Our gentle Lou was an only child. His junkie mother Julie Grainger was a trailer-park hooker, so needless to say, dear daddy was just passing through."

"She have a sheet?"

"Several arrests for soliciting, naturally, and a couple for possession."

"Alive or dead?"

"The lady is dead as my aging dick. She got nailed head on in a car accident, maybe ten years ago."

"Okay, go on."

"Grainger got himself a juvenile record, but it was nothing exceptional, just nickel and dime stuff. Dropped out of high school, joined the Army."

"What did he do there?"

"A military career distinguished by a lack of distinction. Grainger drank and brawled and fucked his way through it. Nearly got tossed out a couple of times." Another check of the notes. "He was pretty lame in every way, but apparently he was a pretty good shot."

Frustrated, Lehane started looking for connections of any kind. "Did he see combat in the Middle East?"

Meeks studied his notes. "Nope. Never left the states."

"Damn."

"What, that have something to do with your problem?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Lehane sighed. "Where did he do his time for the felonies?"

Meeks told him the two prisons. "For what it's worth, he got into one of those delightful white supremacist groups. That was up at Humboldt, the second stretch." He frowned as if unable to read his own notes. "AWG, I think it was. Stands for Aryan White Gods or some such bullshit."

"Never heard of them."

"Neither has anybody else," Meeks replied, dryly. He sipped some beer. "Flash in the pan kind of thing, mostly in response to a small riot took place between the brown and black brothers that summer. Guess the white boys got scared enough to figure they'd best start their own club."

"Outnumbered?"

"You could say that. They had this thing about staying together in small groups all the time, acting all tragic. Their leader claimed they carried the sadness of the whole white race for having lost its rightful place as the rulers of the world."

"Well, that is disconcerting."

Meeks sipped. "Yeah, sometimes it fucking keeps me up at night."

"Can you get me a picture of Grainger?"

"Already sent one," Meeks said. "Your guy Ligotti asked for it. I scan my assignments into my computer, so I sent him a jpg file instead of a fax. It should be waiting at your office."

"And all the physical details, right?"

"Right. For the record, he's about five nine with short cut red hair and brown eyes. Got two tattoos, one a silly GO ARMY thing on his left bicep, the other a row of blue teardrops on his right knuckles. That last one is from the Aryan group."

"Blue teardrops." Lehane felt his neck hairs bristle. "I think I've seen that tattoo."

"Crying for the poor white man, remember?"

"Thanks for meeting me off the clock." Lehane got out of the booth and offered his hand. "You've been a great help, Meeks. Let me know if there's ever something I can do to pay you back."

Meeks shook limply, went back to drinking his warm beer. "Hey, I can think of something right now."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Just have the bartender send me some Wild Turkey out of that crisp fifty you slipped him."

Outside, the air was turning chill and the night sky was speckled with flickering stars. Lehane hurried past some drunks arguing about the Raiders and got into his parked car. He locked the doors, started the engine and flipped open his cell phone.

"Guri? It's me. I have something interesting."

"So do I. You go first."

"That biker bastard who jumped me up in the desert for no reason had some teardrops tattooed onto his knuckles. It turns out he was in the same jailhouse gang as this Lou Grainger we're looking for, and that seems like a bit too much of a coincidence for my taste."

"Mine, too. But why would Grainger have wanted you whacked, and what does he have to do with the late Mr. Roger Gordon of Jet Blue in Fort Worth?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

"Me too, but this Grainger gets more interesting by the minute, Jeff."

"Why's that?"

"Meet me at our friendly neighborhood morgue and you'll see."

Lehane eased out of the parking lot and back into evening traffic. "I'm on my way. Who bought it?"

Guri stretched, moaned. He sounded tired. "About an hour ago a squad car got notified by OnStar and chased some gang kids in a stolen BMW out past the dump. The kids ditched the car and ran off, and one of the officers pursued. The other stayed put, just to make sure they didn't try and double back to the vehicle."

"And?"

"So this cop is standing there bored and he notices a large rug at the foot of some garbage. He looks away at first but then looks back and sees a human foot sticking out of the bottom of it."

"Just the foot?"

Another yawn. "Just the foot."

Lehane sped down Colton, heading for the morgue. "Okay, go on."

"He calls it in to the guys catching for Homicide. When they open up the rug, they find a mess. One female Jane Doe who was chopped to pieces."

"A woman."

"Affirmative. The perp rolled her up into the rug when he was done and dumped it, but the foot must have slipped out."

"Got an ID yet?" A burst of static.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, man. It's our missing paramedic. Juanita Cortez, late of 5623 Sagebrush."

Lehane floored it, started weaving in and out of traffic. "You get somebody over at LVPD to issue a warrant for Grainger's arrest?"

"Already went out on the air. Listen, boss…"

But Lehane closed his phone to think. By the time he hit the nearly empty parking lot, Pops Keltner was just outside the locked lobby doors, smoking a cigarette with Sandy Hammer, who was now perfectly decked out as a somewhat butch member of the Highway Patrol. Pops wore a plain dark suit and glasses. He looked exactly like the underpaid plainclothes LAPD detective whose fake ID he'd been carrying. Sandy gave Lehane a kiss on the cheek that last a bit too long, but Pops discreetly pretended not to notice.

"Where's Guri?"

Pops flipped the cigarette out onto the pavement where it shattered into orange sparks. "Guri is really wrecked, Jeff. He told me to tell you he was going back to the hotel to grab some shut eye." He yawned, wearily. "If you need any backup tonight, I'll hang with you."

"Me, too," Sandy said, eagerly. She inhaled and expelled a plume of dry smoke. Unlike Pops, she looked reasonably well rested. "I'm wide open. I've pretty much caught up on everything and gotten copies of everybody's statements." She touched his arm. "How are you holding up?"

"Okay," Lehane said. His eyes warmed. "Let's see what develops as the night wears on."

"Cool. If you want to talk to the young cop who found that woman's foot, he's inside throwing up." Sandy motioned to the portly uniformed guard behind the security desk. The man put down his coffee and strolled over, keys jangling. "I can even get us back in so you can take a quick look at the body."

Lehane tilted his head, examined Pops for a moment. "I may be going out into the field again tonight. You sure you're okay if I need you?"

Pops nodded. "There's a brand new Peete's Coffee right down the block that sells tall red-eyes, and you could use that stuff to lube your car. I'll get a cup and wait in the lobby."

Lehane followed Sandy, who found the young black officer standing near the door to the men's room and asked him to repeat his report. The cop was still a bit bug-eyed from having his virginity taken. He went over the same ground Guri had summarized over the telephone, pausing from time to time to rub his stomach or emit a soft belch.

"Think carefully," Lehane asked, finally. "Is there anything else we need to know right now? Did you see any tattoos or scars on the body parts that jumped out at you? Any marks at all?"

"Not really." The cop winced, as if the memory physically hurt him. "Well, there was one strange thing, maybe."

"What was that?"

"It was probably junkyard dogs or something. The Coroner's people will tell you more tomorrow."

Prickly skin, more shifting hairs. "What was probably just dogs?"

"She was all in pieces, right?" The cop swallowed bile. "Well, it looked like some of those pieces had bite marks."

"Human teeth?"

"Yeah. Like she'd been eaten."

THIRTEEN

Those fully alive are soft and yielding;

those who are dead are rigid and stiff.

Living plants are flexible and tender;

the dead are brittle and dry.

Those who are stiff and rigid

are at heart the disciples of death.

Those who are soft and yielding

are the precious disciples of life.

Fear not…

Because the rigid and stiff will be broken.

The soft and yielding will overcome.

"Okay, let me go over this again." Pops sighed and closed the hotel room door with a clunk. He followed Lehane into the nearly darkened room, the furniture lit only by one table lamp and the flickering of muted images from the television. "So Roger Gordon shoots Heather, and we don't have a clue why, except he seems to know who you are. You ventilate him and he croaks. Then some other bastard messes with her body and chews her up bad. We also lose a nurse and a garage attendant."

"Keep going." Lehane opened the laptop on his dresser and booted it up, took it to the bed and set it beside him.

"We dig and figure out the lady paramedic who helped the killer ain't showing up for work. Add to that, her ex-con boyfriend Grainger maybe belongs to the same gang as the biker who recently tried to kick your ass out in the desert."

"Yeah."

"Now Grainger and the paramedic both go missing, but we just found her whacked, and somebody chewed her body up, too. Is that about it?"

"So far."

"Jesus, are you making any sense out of this?"

"Not yet, Pops."

"The way I see it, all we got for sure is that everybody but this Lou Grainger is dead. Maybe he's the one that connects them all."

"The teardrop tattoos, the fact that Heather was black, the white supremacist biker would all seem to suggest that."

"There's only one problem."

"Yeah, and that's Roger Gordon from Fort Worth, the man who killed Heather and tried to kill me, the one who started the ball rolling."

"Exactly. Where the hell does he fit?"

"I have Whiz on that now, Pops," Lehane said as he finished preparing the laptop. He signed on with his cell phone and leaned back on the headboard of the hotel bed. "We're running searches for anything that would tie Gordon or Jet Blue to Grainger. Whiz will be in touch pretty soon."

"If he comes up with something solid, I think we can safely say Grainger is our man." Pops started rummaging around the mini-bar, looking for snacks and drinks, found some peanuts. He tossed a sack to Lehane.

"Right now, it certainly looks that way."

"You want some soda or something?"

"Give me a bottle of water."

Pops tossed a cold bottle of water to Lehane, opened a cola for himself and parked in the easy chair. The two men sat quietly, waiting for the telephone to ring. The television was tuned to CNN, but muted. Two political pundits were arguing back and forth. Pops closed his eyes. "The spitting make any sense to you yet? That blood thing?"

"Something. Nothing." Lehane grimaced. "But I sure as hell don't believe in coincidence."

"Jeff, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What are you going to do when this is all over, still retire?"

"I don't know, man. Probably have enough money now that I have the ranch. I don't spend much."

"Wouldn't you get bored?"

"Peace and quiet isn't boring any more, Pops. It's just peace and quiet."

"I'm a lot older than you, and I get bored. I need to have something going on all the time, I guess."

"That's you, not me."

"True enough. Hey, Sandy keeps looking at you like she wants to hook up again. She's a damned good lady."

"I know that."

"Quite a catch. Just thought I'd remind you."

"Gee, thanks."

"Hey, you get bored, maybe you can get a gig with Enrique doing security. He called from somewhere on the road, asking for you today."

"That so? What did he want?"

"He didn't say, or leave a number. He said he'll call again tomorrow."

"Oh." Lehane sipped some water, splashed some onto his hands and wiped his face with it. "I can hardly wait."

Pops seemed tense. He couldn't shut up. "Jeff, do you think you'd ever get married again?"

Lehane rubbed his dry eyes. "I doubt it."

"Why not?"

"I had a wife."

The laptop whispered "you've got mail" and seconds later the telephone shrieked. Even though they'd been expecting the sound, both men jumped and whispered profanity. Lehane grabbed it.

"This in an unsecured land line, so I'll make it quick," Whiz said. "Download the file I just sent you and check it out."

"Already doing that."

"We finally got something back on the prints of the biker who attacked you a few days ago. His name is Kevin Lyman, age thirty-three, former body builder and personal trainer turned biker and crystal meth dealer. Mr. Lyman did a bit at Humboldt where he became a member of the AWG, same white supremacist group as Lou Grainger."

"Just like we thought," Pops smiled. "Bingo."

"They were there at the same time?"

"Same cell block," Whiz said, "and same militant group."

Lehane nodded to himself. "So it looks more and more like the connecting point is Lou Grainger."

"Check out the guy and his photo just to make sure it's the same dude, boss."

Lehane opened the file and saw the rough-hewn face of his attacker. "That's him, Whiz. It's a match."

"Okay. Now open the second file. I've got to jump off for a while but I'll be back in a few minutes."

Whiz put them on hold. Pops finished his soda, bent the can and tossed it into the trash. He moved around the bed to look past Lehane to the computer screen. The file contained a travel itinerary for Kevin Lyman from Dallas/Fort Worth, Texas to Las Vegas, Nevada.

"He was in the same town as Roger Gordon," Pops muttered.

Lehane clicked on the next page. "Whiz found a bit more than that."

"I'll be damned."

The next travel itinerary was for Roger Gordon. Lehane scanned the page a couple of times. He whistled once and clicked back to the Lyman document to be absolutely certain.

"I'll be damned, Pops. They came out on the same flight to Vegas less than a week ago."

"Could be a coincidence," Pops offered, jokingly.

"Yeah, right." Lehane shook his head. "As of now, everything comes back to Lou Grainger."

"We're closing in. That should make you happy, boss."

"It does, but…Damn it, Pops, there's still a couple of pieces missing. I can smell it. This is all too easy."

Whiz came back on the line. "You take a look?"

"We got it. Has LVPD seen this yet?"

"Detective Gleason has a tip that Grainger may be still hanging around Vegas, just laying low. He wanted you to know that."

"Okay."

"He also said to tell you that he is pulling a warrant so he can enter and search Lou Grainger's house tomorrow morning as part of their ongoing homicide investigation."

"He did?" For a moment, Lehane was honestly confused. Then Pops and Lehane exchanged glances. "Oh, that's tomorrow, in the morning?"

"Yes. Finally, he said to officially tell you that you need to stay away from Grainger's place tonight, because he doesn't have men to spare to guard it. In fact, he said 'tell Lehane I said don't go fucking around with what might be a crime scene.'"

"Thanks, Whiz."

"Jeff, Spinks will be pissed if you get caught."

"I have to go, now."

"Ah, shit," Whiz sighed, just as the connection was severed. "I knew it."

FOURTEEN

Gavin Fisher cruised on down the deserted hall doing barely respectable hip-hop steps to the old Tupac in his headphones, red tennis shoes squealing on the damp linoleum flooring. He paused by the janitor's metal bucket to do a few classic moves, twirling and dipping the mop like it was a girl and then returning it to its place with a flourish and a bow. He did the moonwalk, opened the swinging doors to the embalming room.

Oh, the first few nights he'd spent at the funeral parlor had wigged him out a bit, not that Gavin would ever admit it. The echoing hallways, the pallid flesh of the dead, the total lack of activity had seemed pretty grim. But a bright, homely white kid with a good rap but really bad skin didn't need to socialize much. Besides, he needed the money and the hours let him study for college. After checking up on him a few times, old Doc Harris had started teaching him about embalming, even let him participate in some of the prep work now and again. Gavin was surprised to find that he wasn't squeamish.

Since Doc Harris had a little Vicodin problem and liked to nod off a lot, he'd gradually turned more and more work over to his genial young assistant. Months passed, then a couple of years, and now Doc generally shook hands, looked mournful and collected cash from the customers. It was Gavin who did all the work. He had to make do with a few hours of sleep a night, but got extra cash under the table and nobody ever fucked with him.

Now Gavin Fisher didn't mind the night shift one damned bit. In fact, he kind of enjoyed the solitude and the time to relax. The pay was good, he could listen to his music and catch up on school work, and since his skin had cleared up a bit, he'd learned that it really turned the freakier ladies on to know what he did for a living. He'd been spending a lot of time with Edie, a Goth type who liked needles and piercing and tattoos and shit. She also liked giving blowjobs, which was like, SO welcome. Gavin had gone from hell to heaven in only a few months.

For example, this night, he'd already done some rocking ganja and caught up on a term paper in chemistry. And decided for the umpteenth time that Tupac was a flat fucking genius, and would always be well and truly missed.

Gavin flicked off the hall lights ('we got to save a buck where we can,' Doc repetitively admonished) then closed the swinging doors behind him. He stood for a moment in the cool, antiseptic darkness; just Gavin and his city of the dead. It was kind of a cool trip, once you got used to it. Being the only living, breathing, warm-blooded dude left in the room; the only swinging dick still alive. It gave you a feeling of power that was, well…unique.

Drums thumped in his headphones as he stood there in the dark, deliberately building his own anticipation. Gavin let his hand slide down the enameled wall to locate the light switch then closed his eyes and flipped it. The room was pink beyond his closed eyelids. He waited for his pupils to adjust; slowly opened his eyes and looked around. He had to shake his head a bit, because he was feeling pretty damned stoned. Gavin turned off the CD player, pulled the headphones off and spoke.

"Good evening, ladies. You look lovely tonight."

Gavin grinned. He was cheating a bit, because there were three women and the one man ready for embalming, but it was more fun to pretend he had his own little harem. The old guy was some fat-assed, uppity businessman type from Reno who had dropped dead humping a hooker in his high-roller hotel room. One of the women was an old broad who had a stroke on the bus after losing her stake playing craps, so Gavin was in no hurry to do her, either.

Ah, but the other two were choice.

Gavin bopped across the room to the first table and rolled back the sheet. Barbara was a tall, blonde Follies dancer who'd bought it in a car accident. Her neck had snapped clean, but with her eyes closed she still looked sinfully good. Those fake boobies were still standing as straight and tall as fresh ice cream sundaes. Gavin rolled the sheet further down and was thrilled to see that the dancer had shaved her little muffin, probably for professional reasons.

Gavin, he liked shaven beaver. He leaned down and kissed Barbara of so very gently on those slim, cool, waxy lips. The lower ones. "You hang in there, pretty darling. I'll be back soon."

The last gurney held a young black girl. Ashanti was a blackjack dealer from Harrah's whose sugar daddy had stabbed her for hooking on the side. The blade had gone in low and cut her abdomen up pretty badly, but Doc had done a fine job stitching her back up. Partly because of that beautiful, ebony skin, the incisions and stitches were barely noticeable. Gavin stroked her smooth cheek with trembling fingers.

"You and me, baby. All the way tonight…"

On the spot, he decided he meant it for the very first time. He wouldn't just get off on her and wipe it up with a towel— no maybe he'd actually drop trou and rub it on her a bit to get off.

Wouldn't that make a killer story for Edie? He'd tell her while she did him tomorrow, on his off night.

But first, back to work. Sigh. Gavin covered the black girl again and strolled over to the embalming table. He figured he'd start with Mr. Businessman, just to get his fat, hairy ass out of the way, and then maybe the old lady. That would leave him with his two lovers…and all the time in the world.

Gavin rolled the gurney to the edge of the embalming table, with its drain troughs, grills and water flush system. He slid the overweight businessman onto the cold metal. The stiff flesh made a hissing sound and the corpse landed with an audible thump.

"Dude, you should have checked your cholesterol more often."

He slid the long, sleek embalming needle out of its sheath and prepared to insert it into the body to begin drainage.

The doorknob rattled, like someone was testing the lock.

"That you, Doc?"

Strange, Doc hadn't checked up on him in many weeks. Gavin busied himself with preparations, all the while struggling to shake off the grass and look on top of things. After a few seconds it occurred to him that he hadn't heard anything else. Strange. He looked up, over at the entry doors.

No one was there.

Aw, fuck. I forgot to set the damned alarm tonight. Doesn't matter, it's nothing anyway. Some alley cat right outside, near the window, knocking over some garbage cans or something. It just echoed off the walls and you thought you heard it coming from the door. Nobody is there. Doc is home whacked on Vicodin. Relax, dude. Nobody's here, it's all good.

The noise came again, a subtle scraping sound this time, rather like fingernails slowly scratching across enameled walls. And then, there was a low thudding, almost moist in quality, like decomposing feet shuffling forward across tiles…

STOP thinking about shit like that, man! You'll freak yourself out, for Chrissakes.

The lights went out.

"Who's there, damn it?"

The bowl he'd smoked, that fine Columbian grass made him full-on paranoid; made it all so powerful so overwhelming that Gavin thought for a long, excruciating moment that his poor heart would stop, his chest felt sore like he'd been kicked by a fucking mule, but it was only his own pulse…

Gavin stood there in the darkness, dry of mouth and weak of knee. He clutched the long embalming needle close to his chest and imagined using it as a weapon, like some asshole in a pirate movie. He extended it out into the harsh, cold dark like the blade of a sword.

Impossible, no way, but in that desperate blackness the doors creaked slowly open, the thumping shuffle started again. And there was more…

What was that fucking smell?

The lights flickered a bit, some kind of power failure probably a citywide thing, and for a split second Gavin thought he saw something no man should ever see, a beast that couldn't possibly exist, some creature from a Lord of the Rings flick. It was human but also something else, a decaying zombie of some kind with rotting flesh and torn clothing, and it reeked of dried shit and the stench of an open grave. The thing had hungry, drooling teeth that were yellow. It grinned, groped the air.

It was moving his way.

The lights flickered off again and left him in the dark just as Gavin managed to find the breath to holler for help. What help, idiot? The enormity of the situation hit him all at once, he was alone in a room with corpses and some kind of monster and so stoned out of his gourd he wouldn't be able to defend himself. Gavin screamed again, vaguely aware that it was a girlish screech at best, and then his bladder emptied.

The power problem set off the alarm system, and the entire building began to wail in protest. The noise was deafening, and the programming started flicking the lights on and off again all over the property. Gavin backed up against the wall; the embalming needle extended like a phallus, and squinted at the doorway, where he had last seen…whatever he'd seen. The doorway was empty, but the twin doors were swinging. Gavin sank to his ass on the cold floor and began to sob, weakly. There was no way he'd seen a monster, no way. Right?

But someone—or something—had really been there.

FIFTEEN

Lehane and Pops crossed town in an unregistered Ford wreck with mud on the license plate. They took the back roads and parked in the alley down the block from 5623 Sagebrush, well out of sight near an intersection. The night was filled with faint music from a dozen radios. The two men wore black jeans and tennis shoes, light Kevlar vests under black stretch shirts. If they found Grainger, they were going to take him prisoner and give him an experience that would make Abu Grahib look like a health spa.

Each carried burglar tools, tape, a hunting knife and a 9mm Glock, modified with a silencer. Pops had a powerful flashlight on his belt, and a miniature camera. Their faces were blacked out with combat makeup. Pops peered into the night: "All clear."

"Okay, let's gear up."

Lehane had outfitted them with one-eared headsets on a protected frequency. They also wore state of the art night-vision goggles that made them look like giant, deadly insects. They slid out of the car and put on the gear. The world turned into slides of bright green objects and cool mint shadows. Lehane motioned with one arm and a clenched fist. It was time.

Pops crossed the street soundlessly. He moved down the block a few yards, past a closed market with iron bars on the windows. He bent double and slipped into some bushes. His hoarse whisper penetrated through the headset. "Okay, testing."

"That's fine." Lehane responded, softly. "Go."

They began to leapfrog their way along Sagebrush. As Lehane passed one deserted liquor store he peered into the gloom and searched for movement. He saw the red, flashing dot of an active alarm system. He and Pops automatically searched all the storefronts, alleys and back yards as they passed. Lehane had no reason to think Grainger or anyone else would be expecting them, but it wouldn't hurt to be careful.

Static, and Pops in the earphones saying, "Clear."

An infernal racket spilled from the houses; many radios on different stations, all distant but confusing at the same time. Bending low, duck walking, thigh muscles complaining. The approach wore on. Somewhere to the south a distant siren drove the neighborhood dogs into frenzy. Lehane came to the end of the street, flattened himself against the pocked stucco of what appeared to be a deserted home. He eased into a tall fir tree, risked a peek around the corner and was suddenly blinded by the headlights of an approaching vehicle.

Lehane swore, closed his eyes. He listened to tires roll through dead leaves and pools of filthy water then come to a stop yards from where he stood. He pushed himself further into the skinny fir tree and opened one eye. The headlights had been turned off, and the world returned to shades of stark, crisp green.

"Sit rep?"

"Don't know, Pops. Wait and see."

"Roger."

The car stereo was playing a ballad that sounded familiar, something big a few years back. Lehane peered through the branches and saw two occupants in a beat-up flatbed truck. He could hear them talking and laughing in low, urgent voices. A small light flared, and seconds later the smell of a cigarette reached his nostrils. The shadows traded a bottle back and forth and finally started to fumble with clothing.

"Pops?"

"Here."

"Couple of kids getting it on."

Pops chuckled. "You see well enough to enjoy it?"

"You'd best light them up."

"Give me ten."

Lehane counted slowly to nine and closed his eyes. The shrill, adolescent voice came on eleven.

"Jesus cops!"

Lehane could hear the impact the powerful beam of light had on the occupants of the truck as they swore in frustration, thrashed about then started the engine and drove away. The dogs reacted, too. Pops chuckled in his ear piece.

"You're dark now."

Lehane opened his eyes again. "Okay, wait one, let's make sure Granny doesn't wake up and come poking around her yard."

"Right."

A few minutes went by. Lehane heard nothing but the ambient noise of the neighborhood; stereos, televisions, excited canines and distant police activity. He peered through the tree again and stared down the street at 5623. The porch was empty, black as the surrounding night, where nothing moved. The windows facing the sun were still covered with tinfoil, which shimmered oddly in his night vision goggles. The crawlspace to the cellar was undisturbed. No one had touched the overflowing mailbox.

The house seemed completely deserted, just as before, but as before something was way wrong. Lehane just knew it. The nerves in his belly fluttered with unease.

"We moving?"

"Go easy, Pops. I don't like this."

"Now he tells me."

Leapfrogging again, one after the other down the darkened block. The adrenaline was flowing now, so they ran faster than before, slicing through the undergrowth without leaving a trace of their presence. Pops arrived first, a good twenty feet ahead of Lehane and closer to the side gate. He squatted down and motioned that he'd take the back yard. That wasn't the plan.

"What are you doing?" Lehane whispered.

"I'm already here."

"Ok, careful."

Pops ducked under the windows and slipped through the wooden gate into the overgrown back yard. Lehane stayed crouched at the end of the driveway, watching as his partner moved through the tall weeds and passed the swing set, eyes going over every detail looking for something out of place from before; something to justify his growing unease. Pops moved into the gloom of the back yard and vanished. Several moments passed. A dog went nuts.

"Sitrep?"

Nothing.

"Pops?"

"I'm okay, just got the shit scared out of me by a dog next door. The back yard is just as you described it, garage door closed, box of toys, empty dog bowls."

"I'm coming down."

Lehane got to his feet, weapon at the ready and then froze. "Garage door open?"

Voice in the ear piece: "Roger that."

"I think it was closed before, Pops."

"Think the bad guy is still here?"

"Maybe."

"Okay," Pops whispered. "I'm gonna check out the garage."

"I got the house."

Lehane slipped across the yard, staying low. He hunkered down in the dying grass to examine the window leading to the cellar. The glass was covered from the inside with brown wrapping paper, or something like a cut-up shopping bag.

Lehane decided he needed to know what was in that basement.

He went around the front of the house, up the steps and onto the porch. Lehane went straight to the front door and examined the lock. It was a big, double-locked security job, one that was meant to seriously slow things down. He stayed on one knee, thinking. Pops spoke to him in the earpiece.

"Boss? Badass dead bolt on the back door."

"Same at the front."

"Orders?"

"Let's each pick a window. Make it look like a burglary." Lehane duck-walked a few feet to the left, stopped at the picture window and began unrolling a spool of masking tape. Moments later, several layers of the tape had gone into making a thick square on the window. Lehane used the butt of his Glock to knock out a fairly large piece of glass. The tinkling sound seemed startlingly loud. He waited in silence and then peered inside. The living room featured stained, thrift store furniture. Pizza boxes and other fast food containers lay scattered about the room. Some music was playing. Lehane had heard it before. "I'm going in."

"I'm already there," Pops said.

"Okay. Take it easy."

Lehane knocked out some more glass. He slid through the opening sideways and rolled onto the living room carpet. The music was coming from a cheap stereo right above his head. A man was rapping about the need to improve society. Lehane grunted at the irony, finally recognized one of Enrique's tunes from the live concert. He reached up and turned the volume down. The CD player was set to repeat, over and over. There was no way of knowing how long the music had been running, or if anyone was home.

"Boss?" Pops said, urgently, "The damned back door is rigged."

"Hang on." Lehane moved gently toward the inside of the thick front door. Several wires had been wound around the doorknob and tied to what looked like a homemade sticky bomb. "Same here. Crude, but effective, Pops, someone forces the door open and BOOM."

"Might be more."

"Not likely, this is already overkill."

"Leave it?"

"No, we don't want any dead cops. Screw it up so it doesn't work right."

The two men worked quickly, defusing the devices in discreet ways and then set about exploring the house. Lehane moved through the living room, careful where he stepped. The place seemed eerie in a B movie way—and something was still nagging at him. The bedrooms were empty, the beds disheveled. Lehane paused and pondered. He sniffed and spoke quietly into the headset.

"You smell that?"

"It's not barbeque."

Lehane moved into the hall and froze. "Pops come see this." He looked carefully at the walls, closed his eyes. "Use your flashlight for a second."

Pops moving closer. "Okay."

Under normal light, the walls looked bland. They were covered with some kind of cheap off-white semi-gloss paint that had been slopped over peeling wallpaper. "Okay, shut it off and look."

Time to adjust. With the night vision goggles on, the walls were streaked about waist high, finger and palm prints that seemed weird, almost phosphorescent. Pops clucked his tongue, took several photos with an NV filter. "Now what the fuck is that?"

"I don't have a clue."

"Well, the place seems empty. What now?"

"Let me think."

"What's bothering you, boss?"

"Besides slime on the walls, the booby traps, that somebody has been in the yard—oh, and those empty doggie bowls? Nothing much."

"The cellar?"

"The cellar."

"I saw a doorway off the kitchen with a couple of steps," Pops whispered, "but it didn't look like there was much there but tools."

Lehane looked down at the dirty rug, kicked it out of the way. "Okay, let's look for a different entrance, but play it like our guy's still here."

The quiet search took less than two minutes. They found the trapdoor under the stained bedroom carpet. There was enough space between the slats of wood to see that it was not rigged. Lehane stood back and covered the entire area while Pops gently lifted up the hinged square carved in the wooden floor.

"Jesus, that stinks."

"Yeah, whatever it is, it's down there."

Concrete steps led down into the gloom. Lehane went first, sweeping his Glock to and fro. He moved quickly into the darkness and Pops followed, taking photographs. They searched the area. The enclosed room below was no more than seven feet high, but seemed to cover most of the footage beneath the two-bedroom home.

"Some kind of half-assed bomb shelter, maybe."

"Maybe."

"Boss, check it out."

Lehane followed the line of sight. First, a rusty wheelbarrow filled with dried concrete and some bags of powdered cement. A shovel crusted with white. Next he saw a flat wall made of used bricks. Scrawled on that wall in some kind of dried, dark fluid was the word NO.

"Light it up."

Eyes closed again. They each removed their NVG in order to see normally. Pops checked the wall again with the flashlight. Lehane heard the camera clicking. "Fuck me, it's written in blood, Jeff."

Feeling claustrophobic, Lehane moved back to the steps and quickly listened for any untoward noise above. He didn't want to get trapped underground, in the dark. "Keep looking around."

"Whew."

"What?"

"I found Fido."

Lehane trotted across the small space, until he could see what was trapped in the beam of the flashlight. A filthy, medium-sized Collie lay dead on the floor, half wedged under a workbench littered with tools that were orange with rust. The wide-eyed, bloated body was ripped open and crawling with maggots and flies. Pops took photos.

"You see that?"

"Yeah, and it looks like somebody's been biting off big chunks for a snack, probably post mortem."

"Man and I thought I'd seen it all."

Pops played the light along the floor until he came to a space in the brick. "Hold on, what's this?"

Lehane jogged back to the steps again, listening for any sign of movement above. "What do you have?"

"Holy shit."

Back to Pops, who was taking more pictures while down on a knee.

"Show me."

Pops pointed to the hole in the bricks and shined the beam of the flashlight inside. Lehane squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. When it all came together, he recoiled a few inches and nearly banged his head on the opening. A wild-eyed dead man wearing only a pair of stained boxer shorts lay contorted inside what appeared to be a makeshift tomb. His clawed hands were bloodily devoid of fingertips and his mouth yawned open in a silent scream. He had clearly been buried alive.

"Pops, meet Santiago, the stoner brother. I'd say he's been dead for a few days."

"Look behind him," Pops offered, weakly. His voice seemed unusually strained. "Dude, this is some very weird shit."

Lehane followed the yellowing beam. In the crowded gloom he saw four empty gunnysacks, a few loose bricks and a large pan that had once held fresh cement. A large-blade, heavily encrusted trowel lay near the man's knees. He'd done the final brick work himself, from the inside.

"Jesus," Pops said, "what kind of crazy asshole eats his own dead dog and buries himself alive in the basement?"

SIXTEEN

To become whole,

let yourself be broken.

If you want to become straight,

let yourself become twisted.

If you want to become full,

let yourself become empty.

If you want to become new,

just become old.

Those whose desires are few shall receive

those whose desires are great lose out.

The Master embraces the Tao,

as an example for the world to follow.

He is not self-centered;

people can see the light in him.

He does not boast,

Yet becomes a shining example.

He does not glorify himself,

and becomes a person of merit.

Because he wants nothing from the world,

the world can not overcome him.

These are not empty words.

All who do these things will be made complete…

Lehane sealed his hotel room as best he could by closing all the curtains and unplugging the alarm clock. As usual, nothing helped and he tossed and turned all night. He had seen countless bodies, in combat and at crime scenes, but something about the contorted face in that cement tomb haunted his dreams; and so poor Santiago stalked him through dark alleyways and down rains-swept streets, with that gaping mouth leaking drool. The pillow and the sheets became soaked with sweat so thick and sticky it felt like blood. The man had eaten a dead animal. Why?

During moments of clarity, Lehane knew that it was not the horrific nature of the death that disturbed his sleep as much as it was the odd mixture of emotions forever frozen on the features of the corpse. Lehane thought he read agony, terror, rage, bewilderment, hunger and bloodlust, all in the same countenance. And he'd seen something very much like it before, in Iraq.

He dropped off, but for just long enough to feel a dull abdominal ache when bitter consciousness returned. A nocturnal party in transit stopped on the strip outside; car horns beeping, voices screaming obscenities and sexual threats. Eventually they moved on and relative silence returned. He got up to adjust the air conditioning, which seemed to have no reasonable setting in between frigid and sweltering, and stripped down to his underwear. He was unable to rest.

Lehane finally sat up, started some coffee and turned on the news. The early morning shows that covered the discovery of the bodies referred to the case as a homicide, but gave no other details. No wonder, Lehane thought, it's going to take the forensic teams more than one night to figure this one out.

He and Pops had covered their tracks well. They'd taken the cheap stereo, a DVD player and a small television to explain the broken windows and give the appearance of a simple burglary, but other than that the team left the house virtually undisturbed. The disarmed bombs would simply appear, to the untrained eye, as having been badly rigged. The startled cops would figure they caught a lucky break.

Lehane went downstairs before dawn and talked the hotel into opening up the gym. He stretched, jogged a couple of miles on a treadmill while zoning out on some classic rock from the Muzak. He then did some circuit training with the weight machines and ran three miles at full speed. He stretched again and left the empty gym just as the first of the portly businessmen arrived to work off his hangover. After a quick shower and a bowl of fruit from room service, he felt almost human again.

The meeting had been called for nine sharp, and Whiz was ordered to have everything he could possibly gather on Lou Grainger assembled into detailed information packets for their little team. Lehane showed up at the conference room nearly an hour ahead of time, telling himself it was just to be sure everything had been properly handled, but the guilty secret was that he wanted to catch Sandy, who always arrived early. He checked the digital projector, the contents of the packets. Grudgingly satisfied he sat down and poured himself some more hot coffee.

"You'll never change."

Sandy Hammer stood in the doorway in a light blue summer dress with flecks of color that made her natural blond hair seem to shine. She wore light makeup, hoop ear rings that were dark gold in color. She looked beautiful.

"Call me compulsive," he said. "What's your excuse?"

Sandy crossed in front of him as if daring him to notice her perfume. He did. She found her nametag and place at the table, dropped her large beige purse in the seat. "I could make something up, I suppose, but the truth is I knew you'd be here early, and I wanted to talk."

"So talk."

Sandy took her time. She made herself a hot cup of breakfast tea, with cream and two sugars, before sitting down opposite him. The flat, shiny surface of the conference table caught both their reflections and ran them together.

"I've missed you, Jeff."

"I've missed you, too." He tried to keep the tone perfunctory, but did not entirely succeed.

"I'm so sorry about Heather." Sandy looked down as if uncomfortable. "We could both be bitchy as hell some times, but I always…I always liked her. Underneath that attitude, she had a good heart."

After a moment, Lehane surprised himself by chuckling. "Yeah, but she was a hard ass sometimes."

"That she was."

"Yeah."

Sandy looked him in the eye. Lehane felt tightness in his chest as if her gaze were a physical touch. "How are you holding up?"

He shrugged. "I'm okay, I guess. You know me, I do better when there is something to be doing. It would kill me to sit around and wait for the truth to come out."

"Are we any closer to the truth?" Sandy sipped some of her tea but her eyes never left his face. "Sometimes I think we're just going around in circles, here. Body after body and for what, you know?"

"Believe me, I do," Lehane said, quietly. "I know the connections are going to make sense sooner or later, but right now..."

"Pops seems to think this guy Grainger is our boy. Do you?"

"He's all we've got to go on."

Sandy leaned forward and reached out her hand. The moment was awkward. Lehane finally let his own fingers touch hers in the middle of the table. "I don't want to throw a monkey wrench into anything, and this is awfully soon, but you know I'm here for you, right?"

"I know."

"Good." She left her hand there longer than necessary and when she removed it he felt a small vacuum, as if his skin were hungry. "Let's grab a drink sometime and catch up on things."

"Sure."

A knock on the door. Lehane looked up; saw a large, wide man who had a red-veined, bulldog face with buzz-cut grey hair.

"Castle? What are you doing here?"

"You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome," Mike Castle said. If he was bothered by the impolite reaction, he hid it well. He lumbered into the room and plopped down in one of the extra chairs. "Man, I lost my sorry ass at craps last night. I hate working this town."

Lehane didn't smile. "Like I said, what are you doing?"

"I work here, remember?"

"I didn't request you."

"Charlie Spinks asked me to audit the meeting, see if I could add anything to the mix and maybe help you out." Castle spread his hands wide. "Hey, sorry. Now I feel like a turd in the punch bowl."

Lehane studied him for a long moment. Maybe Charlie has some good reasons, he thought. This guy did some good work in Bosnia. Hell, everybody was talking him up last year.

"Okay," Lehane nodded reluctantly. "You can stay."

Castle eyeballed Sandy for the first time. "You look familiar, didn't you used to be a nun?"

"That was just a sideline." Sandy extended her hand, murmured her name. "We met briefly the night it all happened."

"I thought so! Damn, you're good. You ever do any acting?"

"What a lame line, Castle."

"Hey, I'm serious. You ever act?"

"With men? All the time."

Castle grinned. "I meant where you get paid for being on film or on stage. That type of acting."

"Now and then," Sandy replied, with dramatic cool. "When things get slow."

"'Cause you got one of those great faces a guy can't quite remember," Castle said, carelessly. "Suppose I shouldn't say that."

"Maybe not." Sandy shrugged, but she was now fighting back a smile. "Hell, a girl doesn't ever like to hear she looks ordinary."

"Okay, let's talk about how much you weigh instead."

Sandy erupted in laughter. Even Lehane managed a smile. The elevator pinged down the hall and voices approached. He checked his watch and was gratified to see that everyone had chosen to arrive early. Soon Whiz, Pops and Guri were seated and Lehane had dimmed the lights and fired up the DVD. He projected an LVPD mug shot onto the small screen at the end of the table. The surly suspect was heavily muscled with a thin moustache and thick eyebrows. He had a Go Army tattoo on his right bicep.

"Here he is again, guys. Louis Paul Grainger, formerly of Mesa, Arizona. He's 5' 11 inches tall with blond hair and blue eyes. Note the tattoo and his service in the Army, where he qualified as a Sharpshooter. He's a brawler and a drinker who barely avoided a dishonorable discharge."

"Looks like my ex-boyfriend," Sandy fired for effect and got polite chuckles.

"Combat?" Pops, looking at the file.

"PO said no."

"I printed out his military record," Whiz said, and yawned. "The clown never even got out of the southwest, much less to the middle east."

"Pops?"

"Yeah, boss."

"The file has a list of strip bars, sex motels and other local hangouts where Lou Grainger might be hiding out. You're going to split that list with Guri and me. Your old pal Castle here will be your backup."

"Fine with me," Pops said, "as long as he doesn't try to grab my ass."

Castle blew him a kiss.

"We'll all start poking around as soon as we leave here. Everybody check in with Whiz before and after each place as you narrow the list. I don't want anyone out of touch for more than a few minutes at a time."

"We show his picture?"

"I'll leave that up to you, just watch it. I figure this guy hangs out with a rough crowd, okay?"

Sandy drummed her fingers on the table. "What about me?"

"I need you to be a hooker, Sandy. Get out on the street down in his home area and see what you can find out about his sexual habits. Maybe he had a regular punch we can talk to."

"Story of my life."

Lehane went back to work. "Okay, also in the file you're holding, Grainger did two felony stretches in Humboldt and holds membership in the AWG. Note also the teardrop tattoos on his knuckles." Lehane paused. "Thanks to Whiz, we got an ID on the biker that came after me the other day, the one with the same tattoos. He was in the same cell block as our boy."

Guri grunted. "Finally some kind of connection."

"Yeah, and as you all know he was the boyfriend of the PA that tended to our shooter from the concert, Mr. Roger Gordon."

"I'm getting a migraine," Pops said. "What we got is a ton of loose ends that don't add up to shit. Nothing that explains why Gordon shot at you or killed Heather, why the medic is missing or what Grainger has to do with Gordon. What we need is a road map and a list of players, here."

"Not to mention the spitting thing." Lehane went to the blackboard. "I look at it as two threads," he said. "One leads from Roger Gordon to Heather and me, then to the medic who tended to him, to Grainger and the brother-in-law who freaked out and buried himself, and finally back here to us."

"Us?" Pops, thinking aloud.

"Me, therefore us. Roger Gordon seemed to know I would be there, that Heather was my wife. He must know an awful lot about me." Lehane kept writing. He used white chalk to sketch the connections. "Think of it as some kind of circular feedback loop. If we saw a couple of points from the outside, they would all just look like coincidence. It only makes sense when you see the whole thing."

Guri appeared dubious. "Maybe. What's the second thread, then, the biker thing?"

"Yeah, from Grainger to the biker who flew on an airplane with Roger Gordon and then attacked me after Gordon missed, then back to Grainger's house and the dead kid in the basement."

"A second circle."

"Looks that way."

"Okay." Mike Castle chewed on his pencil for a moment. "You don't mind me sticking my nose into this?"

"Shoot."

"I get you. You're saying that if you find out what connects Grainger to everybody else, you're in business. He's the center of it, and both patterns cross through him. As of now, he's the only consistent link."

"Until we prove otherwise," Lehane leaned against the wall. "That's how I see it. Now, remember, we still have that Kramer guy, the missing nurse, and some other details to work out. Maybe that part is just an accident or something."

Castle shook his head. "Maybe, but in a mess this complicated I'd bet he ties in somewhere."

"What about this biting dead flesh thing?" Sandy said.

"What about it?"

"For Christ sake, it even showed up with the stoner and his dog. So how does that figure if Lou Grainger is just some kind of sexual psychopath?"

"We don't know." Whiz cleared his throat. "But judging from the bio I gave you guys, with the prostitute mother and the abusive upbringing, he certainly does fit the profile of a sexually sadistic serial killer. I'd suggest we proceed under that assumption."

"And that he's genuinely vicious," Lehane said. "If he's our boy, Grainger has slaughtered women and eaten their dead flesh."

Pops: "Okay, so that makes him a disorganized serial killer."

"Maybe," Lehane said. "However, unlike others of that type he has probably also efficiently planned and executed the murders of a couple of men who may have witnessed his actions. That makes him someone who can think outside the box and will likely be very, very dangerous to apprehend."

"Apprehend." Guri sounded a bit disappointed. "Gee, that makes it sound like no fun at all."

"Let me be frank with you, guys." Lehane scowled. "I want this bastard. I want to find out what happened to Heather. And when the time comes, I want our best people to have couple of days in a room with Grainger, some nasty drugs, a blow torch and a scalpel before we turn him in, so we know what he knows."

"Ok," Guri joked, weakly. "Now it's starting to sound like fun again."

SEVENTEEN

The Pussy Posse Parlor on Cheyenne Avenue was as crass and low-rent as its name implied. Located in a dilapidated industrial park, the joint had two glittering signs outside, one said TOPLESS and the other BOTTOMLESS. The parking lot was cracked and the red paint on the building was blistered and peeling. The interior featured furnishings that were a weird combination of garish gold and plush purple. Like a lot of Vegas bars, it stayed open 24 hours, so when Guri and Lehane strolled through the door several loud patrons were enjoying the pole-dancing ladies and their covert, back room ministrations. Most of the men were still drunk from the night before.

The music, an ancient but effective Rick James tune, was astonishingly loud. Guri slid down the wall to the right, leaned against the tacky wallpaper and tucked his fingers into the belt of his slacks. He smiled at Lehane and crossed his eyes comically to express his disdain for both the establishment and its denizens.

"Wait here," Lehane said. "And try not to get into any trouble." He moved to the left, away from Guri and strolled down three carpeted steps, onto the dance floor to have a look around. The area was jammed with wooden tables and plastic booths; it smelled of alcohol, cigarette smoke and antiseptic. A large-breasted brunette in 'butt floss' underwear sidled over with a lipstick leer.

"Want some company, big guy?"

Lehane reached into his pants pocket, produced a twenty and tucked it into her thong. "How long have you been working here, sugar?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You a cop?"

"No, it's something personal."

"What about?"

"I promise you we won't hassle any of the working girls. I'm looking for a guy who might come in here now and then."

Across the room a large Hispanic with powerful arms took note of the conversation and began to glide their way. The bouncer was a weight lifter type, just turning a little fat, pushing three hundred pounds. Lehane spoke faster.

"I don't know if you know the guy's name." He gave a quick description of Lou Grainger, including the teardrop design on the knuckles. "Sound at all familiar to you?"

The bouncer started down the steps on the other side of the dance floor. Guri did a passable imitation of a happy drunk, bumped into him and slowed his progress. Meanwhile, the brunette shook her head. She kept two fingers on the money, wasn't about to give it back. "Ain't seen nobody like that lately, I'd remember the tattoos."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I've seen it."

"Where?"

"It was on an ex-con named Hudson. My sister used to date him, we was younger. He got the needle last year for doing a cop."

Lehane produced a copy of Grainger's mug shot. "Does he look familiar?"

"Nope."

Just then the big bouncer tried to get to Lehane. He made the mistake of trying to shove Guri out of the way. The Israeli grabbed and turned the wrist and hand and drove the huge man to his knees. A table tipped over, splashing beer on two customers. The girls stopped dancing and one gasped. Guri apologized with a fierce grin. He lifted the captured forearm up and back and the bouncer cried out in pain. The DJ stopped the music and the place went quiet.

"Let him go," Lehane called, as he put the picture away again. "He was just doing his job."

Guri leaned down to whisper something. The bouncer's face reddened. Guri released him and stepped back. Several of the patrons managed to get to their feet and a few of them looked annoyed enough to start a ruckus.

"Sorry, guys. No harm, no foul. We're out of here." Lehane gave the girl another twenty and a plain business card with his voice mail number. "Anybody who tips me the guy is in here gets a grand, all cash. Pass the word."

They backed out through the front door.

When they were outside, blinking in the sunlight: "Guri, what's up with you? You didn't have to do that."

"I guess I'm bored, boss," the Israeli said. He started for the car, forcing Lehane to stretch to catch up. "Seems like lots of legwork for nothing, so far. I just wanted to mix it up with somebody."

"Yeah? Well, can that shit. I need you to be professional."

"Okay, okay." Guri slid into the passenger seat. He seemed even more wound up after what had just happened. "What now?"

Lehane started the car, opened his cell phone. He hit autodial and turned on the speaker. "Let's check in with Pops."

Guri, puzzled; his voice garbled by the growl of the engine and the faint beeps. "What for? He'll call us when he's ready."

From the speaker: "Boss?"

Lehane slowly crossed the parking lot. "Just wanted to see how it's going. What's everybody up to right now?"

"We're still north of Sahara. Castle is skulking about in our fifth boob joint of the day, something which gives him major grins. Me, I'm outside holding up the wall of a tramp-o-line."

"Where's Sandy?" Lehane was surprised by the concern in his own voice. "Are you keeping an eye on her?"

"She's walking," Pops said. "We got her." If he caught the undertone, he chose to ignore it. "She's been down at the end of the block, talking to all the street hookers. Right now she's hanging back while a couple of them are working some tourists in a station wagon."

"All right, don't lose her. We're working our way up to, one block at a time. See you in Glitter Gulch. Stay in touch."

Lehane broke the connection just as he reached the end of the driveway. He looked left and steered out into the light traffic. When he looked back, Guri was eyeing him with a faint smile.

"What?"

Guri shrugged. "Nothing."

"What are you laughing at?"

"Easy, boss." The grin widened a bit. "I was just listening."

Lehane frowned. "You got something to say, say it."

Guri ran a fingertip across his lips. "Not a word."

Four doors down a red, barn-like structure beckoned. They pulled into the graveled driveway and parked beneath a neon sign that advertised 24 Hour Porn and mirrored ceilings. The place was improbably dubbed "Your No-Tell Motel." Lehane went up the steps first, Guri hung back to cover the entrance.

Inside, worn green carpet bruised the eye, noxious odors assailed the nostrils. The lobby reeked of cigar smoke, stale coffee and burnt wiring. It was furnished with a wooden chair, a metal ashtray, a black leather couch that was patched in places with duct tape and a man-sized, fake fern. The counter was lacquered wood and covered with mug-sized stains. The man behind it was obese, with vast amounts of black hair that sprouted in tufts from his scalp, arms and the neck of his sweat-stained white shirt. He had a wet cigar between false teeth and wore wide, rust colored suspenders that arced like filthy bandages over his immense belly.

"What kind of room?"

Lehane produced the photograph, put it down on the counter and smoothed it flat. "I need to know if this guy has been here."

The clerk did not look down. "Never seen him before."

"Take a closer look," Lehane produced a twenty. "Maybe you'll change your mind."

"Look, I run a clean business," the clerk said. He did not take the money. "I start talking about who stays here, I'll go broke."

"I'm not a cop."

The big clerk shrugged. "Whatever you are, it's close enough. Now fuck off." He turned his back and busied himself with a stack of forms tucked haphazardly into a drawer.

A flash of anger gave the world red edges. "Look, I'm asking you nice."

The clerk turned, and in his ham-sized fist he held a 357. His hand was not trembling. "And I'm asking you nice."

"Okay," Lehane backed away, hands up. "Easy. Nobody has to get hurt."

"Jesus, don't you people even talk to each other?"

Lehane stopped at the door. "Someone has already been here?"

The clerk put down the gun. He removed the cigar from his mouth with mock astonishment. "Wow, the guy's a fucking genius."

"Who bothered you?" Lehane said, probing for more information. "I'll make sure they get leaned on."

"I've had enough of this, is all. Two cops this morning were bad enough for business, but that big, weird fucker in the middle of the night…"

"What did he look like, this guy?"

A shrug. "I don't know. Big. Weird. He had a yellow raincoat on, the hood up, and I couldn't see his face that good."

"He didn't give you any ID?"

"Nothing." The clerk frowned. "Look, I told you what I know, so leave me the fuck alone."

Lehane tapped the photograph of Grainer. "He was here."

The clerk used the soggy cigar as a pointer. "I gave the first guy my only paperwork, and I expect to get it back."

"Sure. Of course."

"Okay, like I already told everybody else, the guy came in a couple of times maybe a month ago with a skinny black hooker name of Joy. She wears a red wig most nights."

"How did he pay?"

"He gave me a phony name and a bad credit card. So the last time he was here, trying to get another room, I called him on it. He got all pissed off, so I chewed him out and pulled my gun."

"What happened?"

"He left. That's it."

"Was she with him?"

"Joy? Not that time. It was some other chick, real junkie-looking white bitch all in black. One of them Goth types. She looked half dead, you ask me."

"Thanks." Lehane opened the door and stepped backwards, out onto the porch. Guri saw his posture and raised an eyebrow.

Back in the office, the clerk sighed. "I work around the clock, man. I'm whipped and I need my sleep. You tell them to leave me the fuck alone now, okay?"

"Okay."

"I got nothing new to add."

"I'll tell them." Lehane closed the door. When he turned he was blinking rapidly. He clapped his hands.

"Boss?" Guri clearly felt the excitement. "We got a nibble?"

"Come on."

Lehane jogged back to the car, slid in to the driver seat and got back on the phone. "Pops? Tell Sandy to start asking around for a thin black streetwalker named Joy. She wears a red wig."

"Got it. You got something?"

"Our boy Grainger has been at the No-tell a couple of times until he pissed the owner off by using bad plastic. Joy may have been his main squeeze."

"I'll pass the word."

"Wait one, here's more. Looks like there's something weird going on. The owner says two cops came in this morning. Check with LVPD and make sure they were for real, just in case, and fry somebody for not getting word to us sooner if they are."

"Done."

"What's bothering me is this," Lehane said, and now he looked directly at Guri. "The guy also said someone came to see him in the middle of the night."

"Who?"

"Some kind of professional, guys, a big man wearing a yellow raincoat with a hood. He was pretty scary, and he left with the only copies of some receipts. Guri, I want to know who the hell that was, and why we didn't know about this first."

Pops and Guri, in tandem. "We're on it."

Lehane cut the connection. Guri opened his own phone and started making calls. Lehane drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He dialed Whiz and started the car as the phone rang.

"I was just about to page you, boss."

"About what?"

"We got the lab report back, the one from Grainger's house. I think you need to see this."

"Tell me."

Lehane drove out onto the street with his partner's voice droning in his ear. Meanwhile, over the speakerphone, he could hear Whiz shuffling through some papers.

"Okay, listen up. You know that when the body decays, internal gasses build up and create that volcano effect. The bowel empties; gas pressure causes the expulsion of mucous within the esophagus and all that. Anyway, the gasses also cause the skin to erupt, right? Those little purplish-red hills that look like bruises rise under the surface and as the gas increases, well, think baked potato."

Lehane honked at a driver making a slow right turn. "I assume all of this is going somewhere?"

"The skin breaks apart and starts to ooze. This happens wherever the epidermis is thinnest, right? Usually the facial area or the chest, depending on the person and their age, gender, body weight, race, what have you."

"Whiz, get to the point."

"Sorry. So anyway, the stomach and trunk expands the worst, because the intestines carry the most water and bacteria. The surface bruises continue to expel fluid, and eventually the body blows up."

Lehane pulled into the parking lot of the next bar. He parked and yanked on the emergency brake. "Can't this wait?" Guri was still mumbling into his phone. Lehane heard enough to know he was talking to one of the cops on their payroll about the motel visit and why the information had been shared.

"Boss, listen up," Whiz said. "That foamy stuff streaked on the walls at Grainger's house, maybe waist high?"

Lehane squinted into the morning sunshine. "Yeah, the stuff we only saw with the UV goggles on."

"That's what it is, boss. Saponification, meaning a gaseous fluid called adipocere. Boss, it comes from a putrefying corpse. So how the hell did it get waist high on two different walls of a house?"

"Jesus H. Christ."

"Yeah, no shit. Stranger still, why can't we see it with the naked eye? Why does it not even show up under normal light?"

EIGHTEEN

It slumbers, still as the darkening blood lying dormant in its veins. This nameless creature knows no thought, has been freed from all mortal desires; it is hollow and wants nothing but to survive. Moments may have passed, or eons, that matters not. A freakish thunderstorm floats through the desert night; dozens of warm drops lapping at its cool flesh like tiny tongues, but the being does not react. Only when a stark, white trident of distant lightning animates the sky does it stir, as if that primal energy has finally served to animate its limbs. The fingers twitch…

An eerie, moaning sound erupts from dark and bloodshot eyes pop open. They instantly see into the night as if it were as lit as the brightest of summer days. Shadows take form and substance in the quivering light of a summer moon. Lips pull back from yellowing teeth as it animates, comes to reluctant life. A grunt, a grin. It lives.

And was born to do black things.

The moan comes again, high and shrill. Something that echoes its own birthing cry, something far away but racing closer…The creature works to gain control of the new body as the rumble continues; moves down from the low mountains and onto the desert plain.

It manages to move fingers and toes, legs and arms…

Still the ground keeps moving—shakes and trembles until finally the being feels a dull throb of concern for its own safety. It struggles to raise itself, filthy hands weakly pushing into the moist earth, and manages to sit up long enough to look around and spot the metal tracks only a few yards away and the piercing glare of the oncoming train.

Whooooo Whoooo…

Something wet and wicked bursts from its bloody throat as the creature responds with a wail of its own; lips still pulled back like thin strips of bacon fat from teeth gone vulpine, shoulders hunched forward, fingers clawing like crabs through the still-warm desert sand. The eerie sound mingles like a mating call with the shriek of what can now be seen as the oncoming train.

The heavily laden rail cars roar by like a series of earthquakes—clatter and bang and the spark of trembling steel. The thing throws its head back and howls for joy; it is possessed and thrilled by the merciless power before it, sure it is kin from the darkest regions of the underworld. It revels in the rumbling, roaring surge of energy; drinks from a cup overflowing. When the caboose passes, the resulting vacuum leaves it dazed and still spinning in circles, mouth and eyes gaping wide, alone in the sand.

Sand…

It remembers the desert, hiding in caves, and a blistering hot sun pounding down onto waves of sand as clear as crystal. Those still-warm nights, stalking the edge of a small village, looking for the shallowest grave.

Hunger…

…The memories of the host body intrude and it sees images, at once vivid and incomprehensible, of a recent life: blue-striped jogging shoes on the sidewalk in the white morning sun, passing the twirling hiss of a lawn sprinkler, loud children running down carpeted hallways, the salt taste of a woman's vagina, a color television set and the visual, multi-colored chaos of a football game. Then that sharp pain in the chest, clutching at the sweatshirt, stumbling and falling down on the asphalt; the sharp crack of skull on cement, the white light and falling away thinking of a wife and children he would never see again…

Hunger…

A feral, single-minded intent dominates. It lurches forward, away from the empty openness, toward the humming, buzzing lights. It knows instinctively that where there is life, there is also death and the succulent, vital flesh which has been buried. It shambles closer and closer to those lights. Cars race by on the highway, but their beams do not penetrate into the low gulley and so it continues its journey unseen.

The rolling crunch of tires on gravel is followed by a pinging sound, and it looks up. One black car has entered that lit area. A pause to observe: A fat man emerges from the car and walks past gas pumps and into the small store. He appears dazed, inebriated. He converses with someone inside, a balding man wearing a blue shirt. Their tone is civil, the conversation brief. The drunken driver comes out again, pumps something into the car through a long hose but also manages to spill a great deal of acrid-smelling fluid onto the concrete. He replaces the hose and starts the engine. After a time, he drives away.

It watches carefully, but whoever is inside the small box, the man who sells the fluid, does not come out. The hunger is growing and there is no other prey in sight. It stands, the diminished intelligence gradually improving as it works and re-works the problem. Soon it will be conscious enough to not only hunt and protect itself, but to reason, but right now it needs to feed. There is no graveyard nearby, if there were it would smell the savory, decaying flesh.

The man in the shop will have to do.

A decision made, it moves forward with a guttural sound that is one part escaping gas and one part fresh air passing through torn tissue. The highway is clear, no cars are coming. It impatiently increases its pace to a staggering run…

The feet stumble in the loose ground and it falls, clawed hands sinking into the sand. Fingers brush against something cold and stiff, the nose catches the faint scent of food. Eagerly, it gropes through cactus needles and rocks until it finds the dead bird. The creature grunts again and stuffs the flesh into its mouth without bothering to remove the feathers.

Much needed energy results. Satisfied, it stands again, moves forward. Soon it is within a few yards of the small, isolated building and in the shadow of the southern wall. It ponders, the dim mind now working more effectively, the intelligence gathering speed…

Twin headlights, far in the distance.

It is now 'present' enough to recognize the danger discovery would pose, so it moves back, further into the sage. It begins to access more recent human memories—images, actually, which are devoid of human connection but sufficient to prove a rudimentary understanding of the environment. The property is a gas station, and the small building a convenience store. It knows this because it remembers the feel of the metal of the handle, the look of the ribbed, black hose; it 'remembers' buying candy and sodas through a dozen different pairs of eyes and then sliding behind the wheel.

The red eyes narrow as it searches the premises, trying to devise a plan of action. It will not last the night without food.

The headlights are much closer. It moves back into the black, until nothing remains but those two bright eyes, shot through with broken veins. It waits until the car rolls across the thin hose that makes the pinging sound. It waits until the young woman, dressed in tight white shorts and a tank top, emerges from the vehicle. It waits for her to go inside.

When she is out of sight, the creature slides along the stucco wall, Hundreds of tiny bumps scrape away scraps of tattered clothing and the damp ooze of rotting flesh. It imagines killing both the woman and the man behind the counter, but instinctively knows the risks are too great. It growls low and damp in the throat, an expression of frustration.

The woman's voice, high and nervous, thus a bit too shrill, reaches its ears, followed by the lower, dulcet tones of the clerk, his intonation suggesting an attempt at seduction. The female giggles but without any real amusement; she wants to leave. It scans the area.

Her engine is running, her window is down…

And the driver's side door is open.

The creature decides on a plan. It stumbles along the edge of the pavement, just out of view, making for the vehicle. Part of its dim brain stays on the conversation taking place inside the convenience store. It knows it can sense a change in content quickly enough to get away from the car if things go wrong. One burst of speed across the two-lane highway, and it will be back in the welcoming embrace of the night.

Her tone stiffens and the clerk stops talking. The cash register opens with a rattling clang, it pictures the drawer popping out and hands reaching inside for the money to make change, so it hurries along the asphalt and ducks down behind the rear fender of her car. The pavement reeks of gasoline.

"Thanks," the woman says. "Have a nice night." She does not mean a word of what she says.

It duck-walks along the left side of her vehicle. Happily, the stink of freshly spilled petrol through the open window will help disguise its rancid scent. It reaches up to the open door, folds the seat forward and climbs into the back to wait. The cool plastic feels uncomfortable against its damp, decaying flesh. The eyes stare at the fabric, ever unblinking.

The woman exits the store hurriedly, but she does not come toward the car. Her footsteps go sideways, to where it was hiding before it decided to take her. She stops. Curious, it raises up slightly to look through the window.

She has stopped at what it now recognizes as an ATM.

It watches warily, part of its attention on the clerk in the store and yet another part on the long stretch of open highway. It would not do to be seen so openly by the living, no that would not do at all. The moist, limp facial features twitch into something resembling a grimace. It waits for events to unfold.

The woman curses with a musical lilt and slaps her hand against the machine, inserts her card and tries again….

…It senses the clerk inside the store, watching her lustfully through the window and sipping alcohol from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag; the clerk considering her body, his thoughts writhing with evil images, but they are sexual and do not interest It…

…There is a car on the highway, no—two cars, coming fast; stoned teenagers racing one another down the two-lane blacktop calling out taunts and insults to one another…

…The woman sighs as the ATM regurgitates her twenty dollar bills, folds them and sticks them in her purse, her eyes darting about nervously to be sure she is alone and safe...

…The drunken teenagers coming closer, their whoops sailing like kites high on the summer wind; they occupy both lanes knowingly, daring death to overtake them, unaware that it resides on the floor of the woman's new car…

The woman hears the voices hollering. With a small gasp, she closes her purse and walks purposefully across the oil-stained tarmac, her heels clicking like drumsticks on the rim of a snare. She does not want to be caught in the open.

Meanwhile, it waits in the car.

Her fear makes her less cautious than she would normally be; she slides her white shorts onto the driver seat and slams the door and fumbles for her keys. She does not check the floor or the back seat, does not notice the wretched stench that resides there, because of the open window. Her nostrils are filled with the odor of gasoline and the subtle pheromones of her own terror.

The woman pumps the gas pedal once too often, her attention focused in two directions, now—on the clerk staring at her so lasciviously and the approaching, drunken juveniles in the two racing cars. She turns the key but she has flooded the engine and it does not turn over.

…It suddenly has a clear, concise tape loop in its mind of how to start and drive a car; some incomplete memory from a previous host, but now it knows just what to do after killing her…

…The clerk hears the sound of the engine failing to start. He sees an opportunity, sets the paper bag containing the bottle of whiskey down on the filthy counter and starts out of the store but pauses to spray breath mint into his mouth then moves out into the doorway, rape on his mind…

…The woman sees him and her heart leaps with a surge of adrenaline but she avoids stomping on the gas again, just turns the key…

…Hidden in the back seat, it decides to kill them both if the clerk comes too close, then drive the car out into the desert and bury the corpses for later retrieval, when they are suitably decayed…

The teenagers race closer. One "chickens out" and pulls back into the correct lane at a somewhat slower speed. The other car jeers and whistles and continues to rocket down the highway. The second car speeds up again, but not too fast, and stays in the right lane. Soon it is quiet again, except for the woman fighting to start her car.

A wide, spider web of lightning strikes and a moment later thunder cracks across the sky like a bullwhip.

…"You need a little help there, Missy?"

…The attendant is standing a few yards from the car, hands in his pockets to disguise his erection. He has a large wrench in his back pocket and intends to club the woman with it before raping her…

"I'm fine, thanks." The woman reaches between the seats to grab her pepper spray. Hiding in the back seat, it barely suppresses a snarl of rage at the sudden arrival of all these potential complications.

A brisk rain falls, splatters the roof of the automobile; a storm weirdly unseasonable and warm as fresh blood.

…The attendant moves closer, grips the wrench with one hand…

…The woman clutches the pepper spray and tries the ignition again…

…It gathers itself to spring upon them both…

And the engine roars to life, the woman pumping the pedal now and feeding the fires, the cylinders firing and the low rumble a comfort to her. She rolls up her window to better protect herself and forces a brisk wave at the attendant, then turns the wheel and drives out onto the road with a squeal of tires.

It feels the frustration of the clerk as he heads back to his booth, lust denied. It grins wolfishly there in the gloom, the car weaving on the damp, oily road and then straightening out, the woman muttering expletives with relief. The clerk will never know how close he came to being carrion.

She drives on. The rain lifts. It waits patiently. When a mile or more has gone by, it risks a peek out the window to be sure the road ahead is clear of traffic. Before it can hide itself again, the woman wrinkles her nose.

"What the hell?" She whispers to herself, turns on the interior light and struggles to examine the bottoms of her shoes for excrement while still driving at nearly seventy miles per hour on the open road. She cannot find the cause of the offensive odor. She reaches up for the light again…

…And sees it there, in the rear view mirror, a pale and horrifically mangled visage leering from the back seat, part of the scalp peeled away to show ugly, scabrous tissue and bare bone from an autopsy. A guttural chanting is heard. Its filthy hands reach for and surround her pink throat, they squeeze…

The woman screams and struggles, releases the steering wheel and the car fishtails in what suddenly seems to be slow motion, leaving the highway in a wide spray of sand and dried sagebrush, thumping over rocks and through gullies and far out into the empty desert night.

The auto slows somewhat, but her kicking feet hit the accelerator and in her death throes she presses down, so the vehicle travels another quarter mile before finally coming to a stop.

It breaks her neck to be sure then forces her to the passenger side and clambers into the front seat. It ceases that odd chanting, but now a high-pitched, whining, bestial sound of unsatisfied hunger can be heard.

The engine is still running. It turns the lights off; then fumbles for a while, but manages to drive the car further into the desert, out of sight of the highway and down into a culvert. It drags the woman free of the vehicle and many yards away, returns to cover the automobile with dirt, rocks and sage brush.

It sits by her corpse, waiting. The moon begins to wane and the night to pass away. A long, thin stream of milky drool extends from the creature's mouth and down to her exposed, cooling belly. Her body stiffens. It is patient until the flutter of birds and insects and the sliver of pink on the far horizon announce the approach of dawn.

Then it gnaws open her tender abdomen, tears into her entrails and devours their contents whole. It prefers the excrement days old, but cannot afford to wait any longer for the fruit to ripen. Somewhat satisfied, it buries the body in a shallow grave for retrieval the next night. It crawls into the dark interior of the automobile to rest and plan. It is pleased.

With a safe cache of food at the ready, it will be easier to complete the mission it has come here to perform.

NINETEEN

"Okay, that's it." Lehane closed the folder and leaned back in his chair for a long stretch. "Let's break until tomorrow." For a long moment, no one bothered to move. Unanswered questions hung over the room like a thick cloak. It was already dark outside and the entire team was physically and emotionally exhausted. The rest of the day had yielded nothing of importance, a few leads at the expense of a lot of shoe leather. Not one of them had panned out.

"I'm gone." Pops yawned. He and Guri collected their things and agreed to meet at Jonah's for a pitcher of beer. Meanwhile, Mike Castle left without speaking to anyone. The man was so large the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. That left Lehane alone in the room with Sandy Hammer.

Sandy rubbed her feet. She had removed the hooker makeup and changed into jeans and a white blouse. "Man, I hate those damned high heels. That's a lot of pain to go through, just to make your butt twitch."

Lehane forced his mind away from the image of her twitching buttocks. "Off the record, what do you make of that lab report?"

"I think it's some kind of an elaborate prank."

"That's all?"

Sandy shrugged. "I'm not superstitious. I also don't believe dead folks walk around smudging the wallpaper."

"Anything's possible."

"You really think so?"

"Sandy, sometimes I believe in the numinous, and forces of good and evil. Sometimes I'm a cynic and don't believe in anything. It all depends on when you ask."

"This is just somebody messing with us in a big way, Jeff, somebody who seems to have it in for you."

"Okay, riddle me this. How did they do it?"

"I had a roommate who worked in a morgue," Sandy said. "She told me about 'floaters,' you know, drowning victims? The lab guys glue fingertips onto gloves for printing, because the tissues come off that easily. Maybe somebody walked along with gloved hands covered with…come to think of it, I'd rather not discuss this before dinner."

"And why does it only show up under UV light?"

Another shrug. "The stuff was chemically treated, maybe? There has to be some way to do that. And anyone who knows you, and what we do at Spinks, would also know you'd probe that house with high-tech gear at some point."

Lehane found her voice enchanting. It took him too long to respond. "Okay, but I'll be damned if I can think of anyone likely to go through all of this just to taunt me. It took time, money and resources."

"A government?"

"Or somebody who's very rich."

"Yeah, or somebody very rich."

They stared at one another. Sandy smiled, looked down and away and her blond hair fell across one cheek. Lehane felt his throat constrict. "Sandy?"

She looked up with feline grace. "Yeah, boss?"

"Have you had dinner?" He reddened. "I mean, I was thinking maybe you and I could get a bite to eat."

"Why boss, doesn't that constitute harassment?"

He smiled. "Only if you don't have a good time."

She surprised him by frowning and breaking eye contact again. "Hang on a second, I need to think about this."

"Think about it?"

"You know I care about you, Jeff. You know that. But you have this disagreeable habit. You vanish from time to time, generally without warning. That can make a girl a tad neurotic."

"I'm sorry. I know."

"And then there's that torch you carried for Heather all those years. The divorce didn't settle things for you."

"What makes you say that?"

"Don't be silly, I saw how you were looking at her."

"Oh."

Sandy leaned forward, breasts pressing on the table. "What was it about her, Jeff? What made her so hard to forget?"

He searched her eyes but saw no sign of a trap. Sandy really wanted to know. Women are funny that way. He thought for a long time, found some words. "She was special, but I never got close. In fact, I loved her in the way some people look at a white tiger. I mean, it is beautiful but it's also impossible to domesticate, so you're doomed if you fall for her, but in such a wonderful way."

Sandy's eyes glistened with a mixture of envy and respect. She twiddled her thumbs. "Indian."

"Yeah, like one of those white Bengal tigers from India."

"No, dummy." She giggled as if he'd told a joke. His often clueless manner amused her. "I meant we should go for Indian food. I suddenly have a craving for a cold Taj Mahal beer and something spicy."

"Oh."

The India Palace was a small, family-owned restaurant located at the far edge of the strip, then several blocks down near the cheap seats. They rode there in relative silence, Lehane unable to form a coherent sentence, Sandy clearly feeling both smug and satisfied. He parked on the street, under a lamppost, intending to go around the back to open her door. Sandy was already on the sidewalk, waiting. She took his arm and linked it through hers, smiled up at him.

"At last, another date."

It occurred to Lehane to just kiss her. He leaned down a bit, even fancied her lips were responding but before he could close the gap his damned cell phone beeped. Sandy giggled and tugged him to the doorway even as his left hand groped for the instrument.

"Let the service take it," Sandy said. "They'll page you if it's urgent."

He realized she was right and switched the phone off. The owner of the restaurant had lighted candles in the short hallway near the opening, and Lehane paused for a moment. Part of him, the country boy raised by a born-again rancher, wanted to argue against spending time with Sandy and made him out to be some kind of insensitive creep for feeling aroused. His stomach knotted with guilt. As if in concert with his emotions, thunder rumbled over the horizon.

"What's the matter?"

Women. They always read things so easily. "I'm just tired, maybe too tired. Or it could be this isn't such a good idea, Sandy."

She smiled and touched his face with the tips of two fingers. "Or could be you're being too hard on yourself, as usual. Come in, sit down and have some dinner, cowboy. It won't hurt you to relax a bit."

"You're right," he said. He followed her into the restaurant, bowed to the owner, a rotund man with a restless shock of white hair named Mohandas. "Good evening, Mo. How is the family?"

"Working hard, Mr. Sir, working hard," Mo said. His wonderfully delicate New Dehli dialect was as charming as ever. "We have not seen you for a long period of time. Why is this so?"

"Working hard, Mo. Working hard."

They were soon seated in an ornate red booth near the bay window, listening to a recording of Ravi Shankar. Mo dimmed the lights and lit more candles. A light, unseasonable rain pelted the pavement outside and distant lightning snaked across the liquid glass. Lehane ordered vegetable somosa, tandori chicken tikka, hot sag paneer, onion kulcha, garlic naan and some masala sauce for dipping.

"I'm thirsty."

"Me, too."

Sandy had a tall Taj Mahal beer, dripping with fragments of ice, but Lehane settled for Sharps non-alcoholic. The bone-deep weariness had hit him, and he wanted his senses intact. Mo bowed, hustled away. Lehane reached across the table to take Sandy's hand. He found a genuine smile.

"Did I mention that it's good to see you again?"

"Not really," she teased. "In fact, you've been your usual self absorbed macho self these last couple of days."

"Well it is. Good, I mean."

"How have you been, Jeff?"

He tried to pull away but Sandy tightened her hand. "I'm okay," he said, finally. "I need to be doing something. Fighting back is the thing I do best."

"Don't I know it."

"It gets bad sometimes, what happened to her, but I put my head down and keep pushing forward."

"We'll get him, Jeff. Whoever is doing this, we'll get him."

He nodded. "Yeah. We will."

Sandy took a sip of her beer. "Damn, that's good. Look, can I ask you something personal?"

"Sure." He felt a shield click into place, but forced himself to answer anyway. "Whatever you want."

"Do you ever think about us?"

A memory: Tangled sheets, sweaty flesh slapping together, half-drunk laughter. "Yes, I do. I think about us a lot."

She pinned him, bored in. "Then why haven't I heard from you in months, you son of a bitch?"

"I'm sorry."

"You should be."

The food brought a welcome reprieve. They occupied themselves with sizzling plates of seasoned chicken, spiced spinach and cheese, freshly baked breads from a tandori oven.

After a time, Sandy resumed the interrogation. "What the hell have you been doing by yourself up in those mountains all this time, meditating or masturbating?"

Lehane considered. "A little of both."

"You've been by yourself, then?" His response amused Sandy, she was no longer angry. "No other women?"

Lehane shook his head. "All by myself. For real, Sandy. Nobody but me and the wild animals and a big stack of books."

"Why do you need to do that?"

"I don't know. It calms me down, I guess."

"Did you really retire?"

"I meant to."

"And do what?" She leaned back, wiped her lips on a napkin. Somehow she made eating food seem extra sexy. "Tell me, I really want to know."

He swallowed a piece of chicken and followed with some garlic bread. Lehane wanted to choose his words carefully. He drank the last of the faux beer and a bit of cold iced water. Finally, he spoke. "Think."

"Just think?" Her face said she didn't believe him.

"That's not quite the right word," he said. "Maybe ponder is better, at least in English. Death is so awfully damned final. I want to stop fast-forwarding my life before it is over. I need to find a way to put it on pause and savor it a bit, consider what is really happening inside and all around us. I thought some time alone in the mountains might allow me to do that."

"And did it?"

He frowned. "Yes and no." Then he chuckled. "That's very Taoist, isn't it? Both true and untrue, yes and no. I found peace in increments, but the human in me was always seeking something to do, somewhere to be, some reason for existing. The mind makes it very difficult to perceive what the soul already knows."

"Which is…?"

"That question makes more sense than any answer I could offer."

"Excuse me?" Sandy tilted her head sideways. "Now you're beginning to piss me off, Jeff. Don't go all New Age."

"New Age? These texts are more than two thousand, six hundred years old, Sandy."

A surrender. "Okay."

"And you just asked one of those conundrum questions like 'what is the meaning of life,' right? Well, the only correct answer to something like that is a Zen koan or another question."

"What is the sound of one hand?"

"Sure, something that is designed to break down the operation of your rational self, throw it into chaos. What we all really seek is a kind of instinctual comprehension, and the damned conscious mind doesn't like that, not running things, so it keeps getting in the way."

Sandy nodded. "You're really looking to be free of your own personality, your own thoughts."

"So I can be what I really am."

"Which is what, an animal?"

"Yes and no." He grinned. "No more gibberish. To me, what we are is pure consciousness, currently inhabiting a human body, but still just consciousness itself. Good is part of evil, evil part of good. Look, our separateness, this whole existence? That is the illusion we need to escape from. It is the only way to be free and happy, come to know dharma."

"Dharma means wisdom, right?"

"Wisdom teachings."

Sandy shook her head. "I don't get you all the time Lehane, but I admire your perseverance. As for me, being in a warm body that can enjoy hot food and cold beer and an orgasm now and then is good enough for me."

Air became electric. Lehane looked through the window pane to buy some time. "The rain has stopped. Don't know where the hell it came from."

"Why, cowboy," Sandy purred. "Are you avoiding me, here?"

His belt vibrated. Lehane reached for the pager with something akin to relief. "I'd better get this."

Sandy blew a raspberry. "Chickenshit." She heard another sound. A look of amused consternation crossed her face. She laughed and grabbed her purse. "Mine went off, too. Can you believe this?"

TWENTY

The greatest virtue anyone can have

comes from pursuing only the Tao;

which takes a form both evasive and intangible.

However, though the mighty Tao is evasive and intangible,

we are able to comprehend that it exists.

Invisible and fluid, yet it has a solid manifestation.

Secluded and dark, yet there is a bright light within it.

This light is very real.

Within it we can find order.

Tao has always existed since the beginning of time.

In fact, it is beyond mere existing and not existing.

How do I know where all creation comes from?

Why, I look inside myself and see it…

"Jesus Christ, boss. You're not going to believe this."

Lehane had just entered the computer room. He closed the door behind him and took a knee next to Whiz's wheelchair. He'd dropped Sandy off at her hotel as soon as they'd finished dinner. Her call had been from Joy, the hooker who knew Lou Grainger, so Sandy needed to get back into costume immediately, in case she could arrange a meeting. Lehane tapped the computer screen. "Show me."

Fingers pounded. "I'm going to bring up the police report first, okay? The one about that missing nurse from the hospital."

The confidential document filled the screen. Kramer's body had been found in the low desert outside of town, severely decomposed and partially eaten. His corpse had been shoved onto a stretch of canvas, rolled inside and buried in a shallow grave. "See these teeth marks, boss? Human. Post mortem again, okay?"

"So our guy came back over a couple of nights to chow down."

"It's worse than that."

Lehane grimaced. "Something is worse? I can't wait."

"Take a look at this, these are all from Kramer's corpse." Whiz Ligotti brought up three different disturbing photographs of human bite marks on stiffened, waxen flesh, all side by side on the computer screen in lurid color. "Our guy is three guys. Well, two men and a woman, to be exact."

"What?"

"Those bites are from different sets of teeth, Jeff. We're not just dealing with one whack job here, we've got at least three, maybe more."

"What the hell is going on?"

Whiz clicked his tongue. "That, my friend, is the prize-winning question."

"This shit is through the looking glass," Lehane said. He sat down in a rolling metal chair. "I don't buy three or four different murderers, Whiz. It doesn't make any sense to look at things that way."

"That's why my money's on a cult, boss."

Lehane almost spoke his mind, but not quite. "Mine is on something even more twisted, but in case you're right, go have the research team look for existing cannibal cults. Not that it'll do us much good."

"I'm already on that, and haven't turned up dick. Why did you say it won't do us much good?"

"Because whoever is doing this seems outrageously confident." Lehane stretched his arms up and back. "They don't expect to be caught anytime soon."

"Or they wouldn't leave such an obvious trail."

"You said there's a lot going on, Whiz. Well, hot damn, I can hardly wait to hear the rest of it."

"Okay, our first guy, Roger Gordon? His body never showed up for cremation."

Lehane winced. "You have got to be kidding."

"Nope, his corpse vanished between the autopsy room and the funeral parlor, like he just got up and walked away, like a zombie or something."

"Down in Texas?"

"No, didn't work out that way. His family wanted it done here in Vegas, just got the urn shipped back to Texas for a service."

"And he's gone."

"Gone."

"Fuck me and the horse I rode in on."

"My sentiments exactly. By the way, I also checked into some voodoo stuff and didn't get one match. Another dead end, if you'll forgive the pun."

The desk telephone rang. Whiz rolled over to it and spoke quietly. Lehane pondered an ever-expanding mystery. Either someone is going to an awful lot of trouble to make it look like zombies are loose in Vegas, or… zombies really are loose in Vegas. Okay, but if it's Roger Gordon doing this, and he's somehow not dead or undead or whatever, why would all those bite marks be from different sets of teeth? Can I even say any of this without the team thinking I've gone psychotic? I mean, zombies, for God's sake?

Lehane realized Whiz had broken the connection. He looked like a petrified canary staring up at a tomcat. "Boss?"

"Did I say any of that out loud?"

"Not much. Just the part about there being zombies loose in Vegas and Roger Gordon being undead and us thinking you've gone psychotic, that's all."

"Oh. Okay, then."

Whiz cleared his throat. "Zombies? The undead? Boss, maybe you need a drink or something."

"Did you say drink, or shrink?"

"That is not even funny, Jeff." Whiz rolled closer, dropped his voice like a man embarrassed by an angry friend. "Let's both get a grip, here. Okay, so this shit is all taking a major turn towards the surreal. But that just means somebody wants it to look that way, okay?"

"I would prefer to think that, believe me."

"Maybe just to throw us off their trail, or to make some kind of whacko statement to the world."

"The bodies aren't being left in public places, Whiz. If someone wanted to make a statement, they'd be piling up at the airport or in the middle of casinos, or maybe out in the tourist section of the dam."

"Point taken."

"Okay, I know the zombie thing is ridiculous. But it's difficult to believe someone could get all those dental records to fake this." He raised one finger. "Hey, let's find out if any of these people had the same dentist!"

"Already did that, too. We struck out."

"Well, then…"

"Come on boss, zombies?"

"Okay, we dump the living dead idea," Lehane said. "Although to tell you the truth, I'm willing to consider damned near anything at this point, even the supernatural."

"There's a logical explanation."

"I'm listening."

"I may have something here." Whiz rolled back to the computer, typed some numbers. Another document came up on the screen closest to Lehane. He saw the logo for Euro Blue Airlines.

"That's a charter agreement," Whiz said, quietly. "I went back to Roger Gordon and Euro Blue and started cross-referencing the names of all our victims with their passenger lists and employee records, just for the hell of it. I wondered if we could tie a few more people to Gordon that way."

"Good idea."

"Yeah, but I struck out. Couldn't find anyone but that biker, and who knows, that hit may have been some kind of synchronicity."

"I doubt it."

"Me too, actually. I've been at this too long. Anyway, I was feeling kind of bored, so I typed my own name in the search engine."

Lehane arched an eyebrow. "And discovered you're the murderer?"

"Very funny," Whiz said. "No, but I found a Ligotti on one of the Euro Blue fights from Dallas to Kennedy."

"Now there's symbolism for you."

"Exactly, but like I said, I was bored. I got to wondering who else might pop up, so I typed in your name, then Sandy Hammer's, then Pops and kept going through every name I could think of that had been around here recently."

"The suspense is killing me."

"You'll never guess who I found."

Lehane raised one finger. "Whiz, maybe you're bored, but me, I'm just tired. Tell me what happened."

Whiz jerked his head toward the computer screen. "I got one other hit besides the biker. Our rap star."

"Enrique?"

"Enrique Diaz chartered one jet aircraft through Euro Blue and used it for four stops on his American tour, Phoenix, San Diego, Los Angeles…and then here, to Vegas."

Lehane realized his mouth was open, closed it. "Well I'll be damned."

"There's more," Whiz said. He was clearly proud of himself. "It took me a while, but I broke into the Euro Blue computer system and tracked down who had leased him the aircraft. Now you will guess."

"Roger Gordon?"

"Bingo."

Lehane sat back in the chair and twirled around once. The air conditioning kicked on with a whoosh and a cold chill passed over his body, raising goose bumps on the skin of arms.

"And he's been trying to reach you for a couple of days, boss."

"Guess I'd better call him back."

"You don't have to. He left word earlier that he's coming down from Vancouver tomorrow."

"We should talk."

"Enrique asked if you'd meet him in his suite at the Wagon Wheel tomorrow morning."

"Did you set it up?"

"I told him you'd be fucking delighted."

Lehane got to his feet. He began to pace around the computer desk. Whiz opened a soda and drank deeply.

"Okay, Whiz. So Enrique knew Roger Gordon but never said anything to us about it, but maybe it just slipped his mind. He's a rock star, why would he remember every person who waited on him?"

"He wouldn't forget the name of the airline, boss."

"Not likely, but you never know. Roger Gordon and the biker both come here on Euro Blue, and it turns out Enrique charters a jet from Gordon. It's interesting, but not conclusive. I'm going to sit down with the guy and see what he has to say without telling him what you found. Maybe I'll get lucky."

"We could use some luck."

Lehane rubbed his chin. "Whiz, get the list of every suspicious death we know about so far and cross-reference every one with Enrique Diaz. Maybe we'll find something to get real excited about."

"Okay, consider it done."

A loud knock at the front door. Mike Castle entered without waiting for a response. The big man's face was red and his eyes were red-rimmed. He'd obviously been drinking.

"Yo, Lehane. I heard you'd come in from the cold. Don't you ever sleep?"

"No," Lehane said, with a straight face. "You?"

Castle glanced at the computer. "What are you guys up to?"

Whiz rolled his electric wheel chair closer to Castle, instinctively blocking off his view of the screen. "Where's Pops?"

"Down the hall, grabbing a nap. Man, we've been to more porn theaters, sleazy dives and boob bars than when I worked vice. Hey, it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it."

"Don't enjoy it too much," Lehane said, mildly. He got to his feet. "Have you got anything for me, Mike?"

"Not a lot so far," Castle replied. "I plan on typing it up later. What it all boils down to is that this dude Lou Grainger really got around. We've found eleven separate joints he frequented, but nobody has seen him in the last few days."

"Any special kinks or habits?"

"Never stayed in one place long enough to find out, man. He drank and played pool and got his share of lap dances, but nobody had much else to report. Pops greased them all pretty good. He was really throwing the cash around."

"You're going out again, right?"

"As soon as Pops wakes up. Jesus, a guy needs a break now and then."

Lehane put a hand on his shoulder. "You seem like an okay guy, Mike, and I know you're a pro, so I'll just say this once and keep it off the record. If I ever catch you drunk again, I'll fire your ass."

Castle's face burned brighter. Denial contorted his features, but then he forced a pleasant smile. "I had a scotch and soda with dinner. So what?"

"So it was a lot more than one, Castle." This time Lehane used the last name, rather than the first. "I won't tolerate boozing on duty. Period."

Castle shrugged, but he was tense with rage. "Okay, so you're a tight ass. I can live with that." He turned to go.

Lehane softened a bit. He shouldn't have busted the man in front of Whiz. "You make one mistake because you're blasted, one of my people could die. That's not acceptable."

Castle left without closing the door. Lehane turned back to Whiz. "Keep digging, and don't be afraid to go anywhere, no matter how weird."

"Okay." Whiz was already busy.

"Oh, and tell Charlie to find me a replacement for Castle by tomorrow night. I don't want to hurt the guy's career, but I have to look out for Pops."

"Gotcha."

Lehane felt his pager vibrate. He checked the number.

"That's Sandy, I have to go. I'll catch you in the morning."

TWENTY-ONE

It was just after midnight, when the sleepy tourists grow desperate and start to look for professional company. Sandy Hammer was now a busty blond with jet black eye makeup. She stood on South Paradise Road, two blocks from the Wagon Wheel, chewing gum like a tired working girl. Sandy was perfectly outfitted in a tight red dress and the requisite heels. She was pretending to chat on her cell phone, but it was merely a prop. Sandy was speaking to a microphone hidden in her wig.

"I swear to God, Jeff, this is the last time."

Lehane, half a block down, was parked at the edge of the lot. "You know you love this. It gives you power over men."

"That part is fine," Sandy said. "It's these goddamned heels. They're killing me."

"Stop whining."

"You won't think this is funny if the guys from the Thunder from Down Under, that all-skin and all male review, start hitting me up for a group grope."

"Hey, that's right, their show lets out soon. Maybe you'll get lucky and nail a big score, ten for one."

"I've got the wrong genitalia for ninety percent of them."

"Then look over this way. Maybe he's your daddy."

A fat, 1970's Elvis wearing white satin with gold tassels was working the sidewalk near Lehane, writhing and warbling to a tape recorder. He had a slot bucket at his feet for tips, which Lehane figured might qualify as a righteous definition of indestructible optimism. He swung his hips, twirled his sash and croaked something about being a hunk of burning love. No one paid attention.

Sandy saw the impersonator and snorted. "I'll hold out for the 50's version, if it's all the same to you."

Two aging tourists passed Lehane, carrying street maps and food stolen from the buffet tables in the nearest casino. He slumped further down in the front seat and checked his watch. "She's late."

"She'll be here."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because Joy sounded scared, and I offered her enough for a bus ticket to Seattle. She really wants to go home."

"She got anyone to go home to?"

"She didn't say and I didn't ask."

Further up the street, the morbidly fat Elvis launched into his atrocious rendition of "Don't Be Cruel." A passing drunk had the temerity to toss some spare change into the bucket at his feet. When Elvis saw the paltry amount donated, he paused to give the drunk the finger.

"Heads up, Jeff. One o'clock."

Lehane peeked up over the dash and looked to the right. He saw a skinny black woman with bright red hair standing by the large trash bins at the back of the kitchen. She wore a slinky blue dress, and was smoking a cigarette like someone in their last few minutes on death row. He could feel her fear from thirty yards away.

"That's Joy?"

"Even money."

"Stay where you are, make her come to us."

"Sure, I'm where I said I'd meet her anyway."

A dented white van packed with college boys turned the corner. The driver saw Sandy, took in the ass and high heels and immediately slowed down to a crawl. Obnoxious insults, whistles and catcalls followed as if orchestrated. Sandy turned her back, ignored the boys and continued talking to the dead phone.

"Jesus, can it get any worse?"

"Of course. The night is young."

"Like I said, Jeff, this is the very last time I do hooker."

"Okay, okay."

"My feet are screwed. Does Joy see me, yes or no?"

"She sees you. She's chain smoking, trying to get up the guts to come over."

"Man, Lou Grainger has her scared."

"Something does."

Someone turned off one of the lights near Joy, plunging the area into darkness. Lehane squinted, saw the orange tip of her cigarette; saw her throw it down and the sparks showering the cement. "Wait one, I think she's coming."

"It's about time."

Joy started across the parking lot, which was crowded with empty and silent cars and trucks. She walked briskly, swinging her arms like someone who liked to speed walk for exercise. Her head swiveled to the left and right as she checked the shadows for boogie men. This was one scared hooker.

"Oh, give me a break."

Sandy was clearly piqued, but Joy was still walking, closing the distance, nothing seemed out of order. "Sandy, what's the matter?"

"The Return of the King, that's what."

Lehane raised his head higher, peered over the dash. Fat Elvis had fixed his bleary eyes on Sandy and apparently liked the merchandise. He was briskly striding her way; white-sash belly jiggling, coin bucket under one arm, silenced cassette player under the other. His wig was askew and one false eyebrow was crawling down his cheek like a demented caterpillar.

"Damn, guess who has not left the building."

'Very funny." Sandy spoke more urgently. "Jeff, we got a situation, here. If Joy sees anything out of the ordinary she'll rabbit."

"Quote him a ridiculous number, Sandy. Say you're a grand a night, or something. He'll go away."

Sandy moaned. "I don't believe this."

Fat Elvis slowed his pace. He turned sideways with a leer, patted his hair and preened then did a couple of clumsy dance steps. At some point in history, perhaps to some other species, his movements could have been considered seductive, although that was clearly giving him the benefit of the doubt. He pursed his lips, blew his target a 'kiss kiss' and Lehane heard Sandy make a gagging sound. She turned her back on him. He moved closer.

"I'm booked, asshole," Sandy called back over her shoulder. She walked a few steps away, still pretending to be deeply involved in an important conversation. Lehane reached for the door handle, paused. Joy was still marching across the lot, her dress rippling in the neon light. She hadn't slowed down, despite the Elvis freak now orbiting the area. Lehane didn't want to appear and screw everything up.

"You'd better make him vanish."

"Damn," Sandy muttered. She closed the phone and turned to face lover boy, who was listing to starboard. Now that he was closer, the reflection of his bald spot shone brightly from underneath the slipping, poorly side-burned hairpiece.

"Yo, Memphis, I said I'm booked."

A jack-o-lantern grin and a twirl of the white sash. "You ever had yourself an Elvis, honey pot? Once you do, you'll never go back. Hey, I got him down to a T, too, every little twitch and habit."

Sandy's smile was a bit too wide, and she spoke through clenched teeth. "Sweetie, you look just like him."

He belched. "Why thank you, darlin' girl."

"Yeah, exactly like him. Maybe right about when he died grunting on that there toilet, or just a minute or two before."

Elvis beetled his brows and pondered her remark. He was certain he'd been insulted, but had wiped out too many brain cells and shortly forgot to be annoyed. In fact, he smiled blearily and edged her way again.

Sandy stepped back, searching the nearby parking lot. Lehane followed her line of sight and swore under his breath. Joy saw the two of them. She paused and hunkered down behind one of the parked cars. Her eyes were white and wild with alarm. She seemed on the edge, ready to bolt. Sandy gave her a subtle wave, as if to say no sweat, I've got this covered.

"Buzz off, bozo." Sandy said. "I'm through making nice, here."

Incredibly, Elvis responded with another line of crap. "Ooh, I love it when they talk tough."

The King moved closer. Sandy stepped back again, and was now on the edge of the curb and out of patience. Finally the poor guy sealed his fate by breaking into a feeble rendition of "Love Me Tender."

Sandy slipped out of one high heel and dropkicked Elvis in the balls.

The King dropped his bucket of coins and froze in place, arms akimbo, like a man who'd just been rectally probed by a cattle prod. Lehane winced and emitted an involuntary moan of sympathy. Sandy casually stepped back, slipped into her shoe and offered Joy a second friendly wave to come and join her.

Astonishingly, the Fat Elvis swallowed, brought his legs closer together and executed an almost flawless military "about-face." He licked his lips, blinked a few times, reached down for his bucket and then, with a series of mincing little steps hobbled back to his own little corner of sidewalk.

"Well done," Lehane said, softly. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Joy was now too close for Sandy to risk responding, although Lehane thought he heard a tiny snort of amusement. He stretched out on the front seat of the vehicle and listened in on their conversation.

Joy, panting a bit: "Are you Sandy?"

"That's me, girlfriend."

"Give me the money."

Sounds of clothing rustling, a distant siren approaching and just as rapidly fading away. "Look, I've got it right here. I called the bus station and this is exact change. All you've got to do is give me some fresh information and it's yours, plus an extra twenty for food."

Joy hesitated as if surprised. "Thank you, that's nice."

"Okay, honey, now what can you tell me about this man?"

The other woman leaned closer. Although unaware of the microphone Sandy wore, she ended up speaking directly into it. "Lou Grainger?" Her voice trembled. "He's a mean bastard, that's what. He likes rough games, gets off on really hurting the girls."

"That's not exactly fresh news."

Joy laughed, bitterly. "You're not listening to me. I mean he gets off on really hurting the girls. One time he used a soldering iron on my skin, okay?"

"Damn."

More clothing sounds, Joy pulling down the straps of her dress? "See? Look at that, he burned me with a tear drop."

"He branded you."

Quiet sobs. "I'm hoping maybe a plastic surgeon, if I can save the money…"

"You're really afraid."

"Yeah, I got to get out of town, get away from him, he's fucking crazy."

"When's the last time you saw him, Joy?"

"Maybe four days ago, that's when he did this. He had some kind of flu or something. Lou was acting really weird, puking and drooling."

"Where was this?"

"At my apartment. I haven't been back since." Joy recited the address, but her next words removed any hope of discovering evidence. "I was behind on my rent anyways, and the landlord was trying to throw me out. So I packed some clothes and took off."

"Where have you been staying?"

"A girl who works the baccarat tables at the Wagon Wheel put me up, but now her boyfriend is back. I've got no place to crash."

"Did Grainger ever introduce you to any of his friends and did you catch any of their names?"

"He used to hang out with some biker guys, but I never met any of them. He bought crystal off some guy named Lobo, if that helps."

"Show me your driver's license, Joy." A few more seconds. "Your real name is Jasmine Taylor? That's a lot prettier than Joy."

"You never give your real name."

"I know. Okay, I'm writing down the license number and your legal name so you'd better have given me the real contact information in Portland, because if we want to, we can find you again."

"I did, honest."

"The money for the ticket is in this envelope. Get out and stay out, girlfriend."

"I will, I swear. I'm off the stuff for good this time."

"Take off, and good luck."

Sandy waited until Joy was out of sight before returning to the car. Lehane shut off his earpiece, sat up and started the engine. She slid in beside him, took off her shoes and rubbed her feet.

"Well, that wasn't exactly a home run, was it?"

"Better than nothing."

"Jeff, you think Grainger is a dead end anyway?"

Lehane nodded. "Now I'm thinking that he's probably just one of a hell of a long list of people who got in somebody's way."

"Got in whose way?"

"I wish I knew. Maybe there really is some kind of a zombie cult. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I have a hunch the meeting tomorrow morning will give us a lot more than we've got right now."

Sandy rubbed his leg. "You don't really buy the supernatural stuff, do you?"

"No, not really." Lehane shrugged, pulled away from the curb and into traffic. "But how about a government experiment that went south, or some kind of virus unleashed by a terrorist group like the one Enrique talked about? There are a lot of possibilities that could end up looking like this. All of them suck."

Her fingers worked closer to their true target. Lehane tried to form the words to object but was too tired, too lonely, and being with Sandy suddenly mattered too much for him to turn her down. His own fingers crab-walked over to her lap and returned the favor. The rainbow neon of Las Vegas streaked by like something caught up in a time warp, and he tapped the garage wall with his fender when they parked.

The kiss began in the doorway to her hotel room. They never did make it to the king-sized bed.

TWENTY-TWO

"Shhh, Nurse Pritchard will hear us."

"The old cow naps on every night shift, and that's right about now."

"Danny, do you want me to get into trouble?"

"No, I just want to get into your pants"

"You have a dirty mind."

"So?"

"Nothing, I like that."

"Where do you want to go?"

"The laundry room. Come on."

"Ouch!"

"What?"

"You stepped on my foot!"

"Be quiet, damn it, she'll hear us…Come on."

Ben Feldman and Jackie Jones are archetypal horny med students, two years into rotation in what seems like an eternally abusive work situation, living on bitter coffee and junk food. They sleep in fits and starts on the floor, on a wobbly folding cot, even standing up in the hallway. They've been screwing at every opportunity, even if just for the energizing hormones and a change of pace.

This is a standing Friday night date.

They slide down the linoleum, sneakers squeaking, voices giddy from exhaustion and arousal, past the two women in B15, old Horace Carter's room and the thunderous snoring coming from the malodorous transient occupying B17.

Meanwhile, down the hall Nurse Pritchard, who will forever be known to the young residents as Nurse Ratchet from "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest," buries her remarkably wide, long nose in a supermarket tabloid, the headline of which loudly proclaims that Michael Jackson is indeed a creature from another planet. Nurse Pritchard is a woman given to thick eye makeup and this late at night, when the weather is warm and her dark skin perspires, she strongly resembles a damp raccoon.

The young lovers continue down the hall, pawing and groping and snickering, until they come to the door to the laundry room. Ben grabs the handle and is eight inches into opening the door when he pauses, a wide grin creasing his California, surfer-boy features.

"What are you doing?" Jackie, for her part, is feeling damp and sticky and impatient to get off; his grin makes no sense at first, why would Ben be happy to delay their coupling?

"Listen, listen." And he holds the door open just a bit so that Jackie can step in right behind him. At first she hears nothing but their own raspy breathing, hers and Bens, two pieces of light-grain sandpaper played out of synch; but then she catches it, a slight moan and a slapping sound.

"Somebody's already getting it on," Ben whispers, and his grin widens to just shy of obnoxious. "I'll bet its Kalanta and Dickie."

"Oh, that's gross."

"No, really. I've seen them making goo-goo eyes."

"Shut up."

"Hey, want to have a four-way?"

Jackie slaps the back of his head; really hard, too, just like Sister Mary did when he was a kid back at St. Agnes. "Ouch, what the hell did you do that for?"

"Don't be nasty."

"It was just a suggestion. Don't knock it till you've tried it."

"Hush."

"Hey, let's listen in for a while. It's kind of a turn on."

"No, Ben, let's not. Come on. Let's get out of here and leave them be."

"Okay, okay."

And Ben crouches down to duck walk; eyes popping, brows raised, doing a respectable cartoon character. He moves with such exaggerated, comic stealth she is not able to sustain her anger and giggles again. He waddles around the corner and into the gloom before she can control herself and follow. The floor, so filled with echo and frenetic activity in the daytime, falls silent. Jackie notices that silence, as it descends on her like a ball of steel wool.

"Ben?" She whispers into the shadows, caught between a need for reassurance and her fear of being discovered by Pritchard or the other couple in the laundry room, who have now unaccountably fallen silent.

Jackie feels cold and clammy. For no reason at all her abdomen clenches and adrenaline floods her system. He has not answered. But so what? He is prone to silly games, hell that's why Jackie likes him, because he's such a boy at heart. She tiptoes closer to the now ominous corner, her tennis shoes squealing faintly like the distant slaughter of baby pigs. Jackie touches the cool tiles with the tips of her trembling fingers but doesn't risk putting her head around the corner.

"Okay, stop it. I give up."

It is just a kid's game. Jackie knows that. Yet she's scared, zero at the bone scared. Someone has turned up the volume of her heartbeat da-dum, da-dum. The effect is both erotically stimulating and highly disturbing, because it seems to out of context to what's actually going on. Jackie has the jarring, macabre feeling she is trapped in someone else's low-budget movie.

"Ben, stop it."

She knows he's only playing, knows in heart that Ben is just around that corner contorting his face to frighten her, hell he probably has a flashlight under his chin to further mangle his features. She braces herself to whirl around the corner making her own scary face, to ignore whatever her first instinct tells her about the horrifying image she will encounter, but her knees are too loose and she cannot bring herself to go through with it.

She has a sudden, urgent need to urinate.

"Okay, I'm going to ignore you, damn it. I need to pee, I'll be right back." Jackie tells herself to turn her back on him; just march on down the hall to the small, single toilet without looking back, that'll prove she doesn't give a damn, show him she's not scared.

Yeah, right…

She backs away from the corner, though; instinctively crouched a bit to protect the hollow spot in the center of her belly, where the cold wind is blowing through…No response from Ben, though. There is just that awesome, overwhelming silence and the raspy bellows of her little lungs.

Four, five and six steps back.

"I'll be back in a second, okay?"

Seven, eight and nine steps back. Jackie's right hand trails along the cold wainscot of tile, it helps her keep her balance and have the feeling of being grounded to something solid. Her wide eyes remained fixed on the lumpy black shadows half visible around that eerie corner, her attention increasingly focused on the swollen annoyance that is her aching bladder.

Shit.

What IS that?

Something in those misshapen black shadows changes form. It is less a physical movement than a horrific transmogrification of some kind; the bland softness hardens into muscled curve, velvet darkness slides away to reveal large, bloodshot orbs that may or may not be human…and then it moans.

With a small gasp of terror, Jackie spins on a dime, rockets into the small bathroom. She drops onto the porcelain shelf, closes and locks the door even before looking for the light switch. Her fingers grope the wall, find nothing. She tries again, heart doing eight to the bar on a bass drum. Nothing.

DAMN she has chosen the floors sit bath, it's not a toilet at all! There is no damned light because the light switch is on the outside, and it's a large timer to be run by the staff. Her legs are shaking and her bladder is bursting and she is sitting alone in the fucking dark like a scared little blind girl.

"Ben, I'm freaking out now, okay? Knock it off!"

A past-midnight, crawling silence flows over and around her flesh like thick syrup. Urges war within her. Should she open the door and find the better toilet? Oh, God but what if it isn't Ben out there, what if this is not a joke at all but some kind of horrible serial killer like in a movie and Ben is lying gutted down the hallway and the guy is just waiting for me to unlock the door…

Jackie debates, should she call out, scream, beg and plead for him to stop? Right. Sure, and if it is Ben playing jokes Kalanta and Dickie will come out all pissed off, and then they will mock her and she will never hear the end of it, and even if they don't Pritchard will find out they were here instead of working and her career will be toast…

Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

And a little bit of urine leaks, she's wet her damned pants now and this just isn't fun any more, it's not funny at all. Frustrated, she yanks down her pants and squats near the middle of the sit bath and pees down on the tiles so it runs down the drain. It is an explosion of warm liquid, and the release is ecstatic, but in the small, tiled room it is also louder than expected. She has nothing to wipe with, but the cold air on her genitalia is oddly disturbing. She yanks her pants back up.

"Ben, are you done screwing around?"

A heavy shame begins to burn like a low flame in her belly. Jackie knows she's acting like a foolish child, letting these stupid sex games upset her.

Enough.

She blinks a few times, hoping her eyes will adjust to the dark. Maybe what's called for here is to just march over, throw the door open and chew him out, who cares who hears? What, she'll get fired for pissing in the sit bath?

No, but she might get fired for screwing on duty. Okay, no loud noises, then. Just open the door and walk out, tell Ben you're no longer in the mood and no pussy from now on, because you're not making yourself available to an asshole who would act this way after a girl admits she's terrified. He can just go play with himself when he wants it, because he ain't getting it from you.

That ought to work.

It sounds like a reasonable plan.

Sure, so now get up and go do it.

I can't.

After a few, long moments Jackie can see a thin, slender rectangle of pale glow coming from beneath the door; just enough ambient light from the full moon is flowing through the metal-grilled windows, also from those small, orange emergency fixtures placed low, near the floor. The effect is a kind of long, slinky beige ribbon, lying sideways on the tiles.

I can't stay in here forever, for Chrissakes. Let's get up and move, damn it. This is getting pathological, here.

And she gathers herself to get up, feeling a bit more confident now that her eyes have adjusted, even makes it to her feet and stands. It's a lot better not needing to pee, too. Now she can concentrate. One thing is for sure, Ben ain't getting any. Not for a long, long time, maybe never after this dumb stunt…

A whisper of something on the tiled floor, steps moving her way—a shadow falls across the rectangle of pale light, and Jackie knows she is no longer alone.

Whoever, whatever is right outside the door she just locked behind her. Jackie can see the shape of the feet, outlined right there, just standing and waiting as if listening. She waits for a whisper, for Ben to apologize. Say something, anything. She takes a deep breath, almost calls his name, but in the end does not…

And it's because of that unbearable stench.

No calling out, no saying Ben's name, no anything. Jackie does not move, barely breathes.

Whatever is outside the door adjusts a bit, stepping back and clumsily widening its stance at the same time, making an odd chortling sound, something Jackie knows she has never heard before, something neither human, nor animal.

Jackie suddenly and absurdly recalls a passage in the classic fantasy "Watership Down," where one of the rabbits describes freezing in your tracks, paralyzed by fear as "going tharn." She goes tharn at this very moment, not a tendon twitches not a single sound emerges from her mouth.

Jesus, does it know I'm in here?

Dear God, please, I'll do anything you want, please don't let the boogie man know I'm in here, please…Time slows down, shifts and elongates until Jackie is certain she cannot continue to remain still or hold her breath for one second longer. And then, mercifully, the feet back away. The sound of them will haunt her dreams for years to come, a kind of wet slapping…

More time passes, but how much time; seconds or minutes?

Jackie begins to count to one thousand over and over again, trying to set up some sense of structure in the cold, dark room. She will wait five minutes, she tells herself, and goes one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand on and on and on until she finally counts out what she believes to be five minutes. She swallows dryly, reaches through the inky night for the door handle…

Her fingers clutch. She turns as quietly as possible, every sound exaggerated in her panicked ears. The faint click of the lock makes her jump. The door slowly, almost soundlessly slides open.

Jackie waits again, counts another full minute. She moves forward slightly, risks a peek around the corner into the hallway. Because of her time in the locked sit bath, her eyes experience the area as reasonably well lit. She can see vague outlines, human footprints across the tile; bare feet coming forward before moving away.

Bare feet mean a stranger.

God, what happened to poor Ben?

Jackie cannot bring herself to turn her back on that ominous darkness, even to run away. She knows she could not bear to be locked in that sit bath again, with or without lights. So she does the impossible…she walks forward, toward the corner where she last saw Ben, when he was doing that silly duck walk, being a comedian. She moves briskly, purposefully, summoning up every last bit of her steadily waning courage. One long, deep breath…

Jackie peeks around the corner— and goes a little bit mad.

Something ugly has splattered the tile in all directions, something that looks black in the moonlight, something liquid that glistens a bit.

Jackie steps in it, she is walking forward like an automaton, she discovers that it is wet and sticks to the bottom of her tennis shoes. On one level, she knows what it must be, she is a physician after all, she knows how many quarts of it a body holds…but on some other level, she is a child walking across a floor gone gooey from soda pop and chewing gum and nothing sinister has happened, nothing at all.

"Ben, honey?"

She calls to him in a sing-song voice, like the little child she has become, knowing on some deeper, more visceral level that she should run away, run away, run away.

"Ben?"

Jackie speaks, but her mind has already shut itself down. The lights are on but she is no longer at home; she watches herself from high up and away like a woman being raped, like a child being beaten, like someone seeing a replay on a security camera. She comes to the end of the blood trail, which stops at the exit to the staff parking garage. She notes the gory handprints on the metal door, which remains partially open due to a small lump of white bone and thick gristle stuck at the bottom, and retains enough common sense to use her elbow to push it open. Jackie steels herself, steps into hell.

And screams and screams and screams…

TWENTY-THREE

"I don't like this," Sandy said. Her voice barely carried over the hubbub of the all-night gaming crowd and the chaos of badly played pop music that flooded in from the last of the lounge shows. Arm in arm, she and Lehane crossed the thick, gaudy carpet and moved toward the far end of the hotel lobby. Sandy looked like herself for once. "Jeff, if you don't trust the dude, why are we going up there at all? It seems reckless."

"It is, but we need to talk to him. Maybe he'll open up more if we give him the advantage." Lehane held the ornate glass door open for her with a flourish. "You don't have to come with me, though."

"Don't be silly. You know I'm every bit as reckless as you are."

"Not quite. You wanted to bring guns."

"So, that's not prudent?"

"Prudent ain't reckless."

Lehane gently moved an elderly craps player out of the way. They approached the elevators in the southern corridor. "Sandy, he's going to have someone there to search us anyway."

"That kind of security? What makes you think so?"

"The conversation I had with him in the desert, before the biker thing? There was something funny about the whole idea, even the way he asked questions. He knows a lot more about me than I do about him, and I don't like that."

"How could he know so much?"

"I think our operation these last few days has been compromised. I suspect he's had somebody on the inside the whole way."

"Damn," Sandy's eyes widened a bit, "based on what?"

They entered the elevator and the golden doors hissed shut. The plush interior was quiet as a coffin. Lehane reached over and brushed Sandy's hair out of her eyes. "Stay sharp."

"Don't get all gooey on me, cowboy." She grinned. "It might take your mind off your work. Now what makes you think we've been compromised?"

"Someone or something has been a step ahead of us. Maybe there's a reason for that, something that isn't connected to Enrique, but until then I'm going to assume it's because there's a man or woman on the inside."

"Woman?"

"Present company excluded."

"You damned well better say that."

He took her hand. "I don't suppose I could talk you into waiting outside."

"Not a chance."

The elevator rocketed skyward. Several floors went past, announced by soft, round pings.

"This woman last night, the doctor whose boyfriend got killed?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really believe what she told the police, that she saw some kind of a monster dragging Feldman away?"

"I'm starting to believe anything is possible, even monsters."

He was serious. Sandy swallowed. "Holy shit, Jeff."

They began to slow down.

"Okay, to business," Sandy said. "We go in unarmed and I stand around looking pretty, is that it? What do you want me to do?"

"Just listen, the way I know you can. And watch my back."

"Empty handed."

"Improvise." The doors opened. The entire lobby, other than the hardwood flooring, was covered with an elegantly patterned, earth-toned fabric. A large vase of fresh flowers contributed a fresh, earthy scent. Vivaldi was piped in via hidden speakers and the lights had been dimmed low enough to create the ambiance of a fine restaurant. The concierge had sent up a bottle of champagne and some fluted glasses.

"Nice." Sandy moved to the tray and examined the crystal. "Really top drawer stuff, Jeff."

"Our friend makes a decent amount of money."

"Apparently."

Lehane felt his stomach tighten. No one was there to greet them. That bothered him. He found himself wishing he'd brought something, perhaps tried to stash a throw down in his sock. At the end of the long hallway, two large wooden doors beckoned. There was nowhere else to go, unless they turned back.

Sandy Hammer followed his line of sight. She put the glass back where she'd found it, on the gold-plated tray. She took his arm, dipped her head and smiled coyly, spoke like a southern belle. "Shall we?"

The door opened a crack as they approached and Lehane froze when he saw the silenced barrel of a gun. He instinctively stepped in front of Sandy. The lights in the conference room behind were bright enough to make Lehane blink, and served to disguise the other man's features.

"We're not packing."

"I'll just make sure, okay?"

The gruff voice was familiar, so when the gunman stepped out into the corridor. Lehane was not surprised. "So it's you, Mike. I guess I should have figured. You're also the big guy going around town asking the same questions as me, right?"

"Turn around," Castle said, mildly. "I'm going to pat you guys down. It's nothing personal."

Sandy smiled frostily. "Better not be."

Castle was brisk and efficient. He ran his hands well up their legs and did not hesitate to check their privates. Lehane realized he would not have gotten away with stashing a firearm.

"Lot of trouble to go to for a rap star."

"I just follow orders," Castle replied. He stepped back, the gun braced in both hands. "Go on inside, I'll be right behind you."

Lehane entered the conference room with a cold ice cube at the back of his skull, the spot where a kill shot could be effortlessly placed, but nothing untoward happened. Enrique was standing at the end of the room, by some closed curtains, with a glass of champagne in one hand. His handsome face seemed etched more deeply than the last time Lehane had spoken to him, and his shoulders were slumped forward. The singer wore loose trousers and a white, short sleeved garment that looked like a blouse. He was smoking a small cigar.

"Punch, from Havana," Enrique said, pleasantly. "It's my only real addiction. I hope the smoke doesn't bother you."

Lehane shrugged. "Hell, not half as much as having a gun pointed at the back of my head." He took in their surroundings, double-checking everything, confident that Sandy was doing the same. The sparely furnished room had thick curtains that were pulled shut. Sandy cruised over to open them slightly so that some morning sunlight could enter the room.

"Don't do that," Castle said.

"Fluorescents give me a headache."

Enrique waved his hand. "Let it go, Mike."

The room was long and carefully designed around the huge, wooden conference table at the center. Perhaps thirty expensive office chairs were placed around; the largest was across the room from them, at the head of the table, where Enrique Diaz now sat.

The singer waved his hand and a dragon of smoke curled through the rarified air. "I'm sorry for all the fuss, really I am, Mr. Lehane. I chose this place because it has a separate elevator that comes directly here from my suite. I feel safer knowing I have limited the options of my enemies."

"Now, see, you're getting down to what I'm curious about," Lehane said. He took Sandy by the elbow and walked her along behind the silent row of empty chairs, closer to Enrique. "Would you mind filling me in who these so-called enemies are?" He kept walking until he was in the patch of sunlight streaming through the lightly tinted, floor to ceiling windows.

"That's far enough," Mike Castle said. Lehane turned, nonchalantly, and noted that Castle still had a bead on his brainpan.

"I never argue with a man who's got me in his sights. We'll sit here, Sandy." He pulled a chair away from the table. Sandy sat down, rather primly, her arms folded. Lehane could see her mind working. He sat one chair closer to Enrique than she did.

"Mike," Enrique said, "try not to be rude. These people are our guests until they prove otherwise."

Castle did not respond, except to nod. He seemed to be enjoying himself, perhaps because he finally had Lehane in his sights, instead of the other way around. He lowered himself to a chair without changing his aim.

Enrique took a puff on his cigar, set it down flat in an ornate crystal ashtray. "I would like you to tell me everything you know about the murders. I think it would be much simpler that way."

"You're probably right about that," Lehane said, clearly surprising the singer by agreeing. Even Sandy gave him an odd look. "Do I have your word you'll return the favor, quid pro quo?"

"You do."

Lehane leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "I didn't know anything about this until Heather was murdered. The killer, Roger Gordon, seemed to know me, which made no sense at the time, although now we know that you chartered an aircraft from his company not ten days before you came to Vegas to do your concert. Also that he flew here on the same flight as a biker who tried to kill me near my ranch. How am I doing so far?"

"Not bad, although I didn't know about the biker." Enrique gestured vaguely with the cigar. "I'll tell you more in a minute. Keep going."

"This is where it really starts to get weird, but then I suppose you know all about that too, don't you?"

Enrique sighed. "Most assuredly."

"Someone or something chewed up my wife's body, Enrique. I asked for permission to investigate." He glanced at Castle. "Of course, you already know that, too. Anyway, a number of strange things happened in rapid succession. People who worked in and around the morgue disappeared for no reason. Then I saw the video and realized that Gordon spit on the paramedic who tended to him before he died. And that the biker who attacked me spit on the cop who tried to help him. I'm convinced that's significant."

"It is," Enrique said. He did not explain further.

"The paramedic vanished, and was found later partially eaten," Lehane continued. "So were her brother and eventually her lover, Lou Grainger, who we briefly suspected as the man behind it all, because of his connection to the same prison gang as the biker. Up until then, I thought we had a handle on things. We didn't."

Enrique fondled his cigar. "I can sympathize."

"Okay, then it exploded and spiraled out of control. We got hookers and con men and bikers and nurses and bodies of tourists lying in the desert half eaten. The cops are about to go public, they're so scared. Even more bodies turned up in the last couple of days, and none of us could figure any way to connect them back to Gordon. But then it hit me. The connection wasn't Roger Gordon…it was you."

The room went silent and the temperature seemed to drop by twenty degrees. Enrique's features remained flat and blank, but Lehane heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Enrique, when my man Whiz told me that he found out you had chartered a plane from Roger Gordon, I asked him to cross reference every name we had so far with yours. He did. We got a match every time."

"Is that so?" Grey smoke rising, empty eyes.

"Some people had actually come to your show. The police found concert tickets in their pockets and purses when they itemized the contents but we just hadn't made the connection yet. Some knew someone else who died. As for the others, a few were killed while nursing or guarding Roger Gordon or his victims, but it all still traces back to you one way or the other."

Enrique leaned back in his chair. "Did you tell the police any of this, Mr. Lehane? It would be most inconvenient for my career if they knew."

"No, not yet."

"And yet you came here to meet me, unarmed and alone?" Enrique caught himself. "No offense, Ms. Hammer."

Sandy smiled, a bit bitchily. "None taken sexist pig."

"Enrique, I haven't gone to the cops because there's still too much I don't know," Lehane stood up and leaned forward with his knuckles on the table. Castle shifted position and adjusted his aim. "And if you lawyer up on them or leave the country, I may never get the answers I need."

"You want to know what happened to your wife."

"Yes."

"You care about all these people who have been killed, but the truth is you are a man of singular intent, Mr. Lehane. Once you have the scent of something you cannot or stop hunting it."

"Mike Castle appears to have done a thorough job."

"Castle is good."

"Yes."

Enrique sighed again. "I still have trouble believing a man of your…talents would come here unguarded. Am I being too suspicious?"

"I said Mike was good, not great." Lehane decided on the truth again. "And no, you're not being too suspicious. If either of you makes a wrong move Pops will drop you on the spot."

"Pops," Castle swore under his breath. "I knew it. The windows."

"Sure," Lehane said, quietly. "Parabolic microphones on the roof across the way so that Whiz can monitor our conversation, Pops on the roof with a sniper scope and instructions to fire if you harm us. Even if you got away with killing me, the world would still have a record of it. Touch us and you're toast, gentlemen."

Enrique forced a dry laugh. "That's better, Lehane. Now I remember why I wanted you to work for me."

"You asked for me personally, didn't you?"

"Yes, in fact I paid Charlie Spinks double for bringing you in to run the team. My only condition was that he not let you know. Please don't be angry with him."

"I'm not, because he said it. I just wasn't listening closely enough." Lehane turned to Castle. "By the way, put the gun down, Mike. You just look stupid, now."

Castle's hand wavered a bit. "Mr. Diaz, he could be bluffing."

"Pops," Lehane said, softly, "light him up."

Castle looked down in annoyance at a small bright dot over his heart, evidence of the laser-sighted weapon on the opposite roof. He reddened and lowered his pistol, then dropped back into a padded chair. "Fuck me."

"No thanks, we already did." Lehane turned back to Enrique. "Now it's your turn. Why did you come to interview me about what happened in Iraq? Ask me all those questions about Ali Basra? What do you know about all this?"

Enrique motioned to Castle, who got up with shoulders slumped and trudged across the conference room to the nearly invisible private elevator. He touched a button on the wall and whispered something. Sandy looked at Lehane, puzzled. He shook his head in return. A few seconds passed, the elevator pinged to announce a new arrival.

"You are partially correct, but I am only half of the connection you seek, Mr. Lehane. I promised to explain, and I will. But for now, please allow me to introduce our guest. Don't talk, if you please, just listen."

TWENTY-FOUR

Lehane's first impression of the frail, old person who exited the elevator was of a wild shock of untamed white hair with three legs. The man was stooped from arthritis and used a polished, wooden cane with an ornate gold sculpture at the top. His fingers were curled like talons, and walking seemed torturous. He carried a thick brown binder under one arm, but would not allow Mike Castle to take it or support him as he crossed to the conference table. Enrique surrendered the head of the table and moved closer to Lehane. No one spoke until the man, whose gravitas was undeniable, was comfortably seated.

"Put that out," the man snapped, peevishly. "I have asthma."

Enrique examined his Cuban cigar wistfully before dousing the tip with a splash of cold champagne. "Pardon me, Professor. And thank you for coming here today."

"Mr. Diaz, every academic is a whore at heart. Therefore, your generous donation to my department at the university is thanks enough. Shall I begin?"

"One moment, please." Enrique faced Lehane. "Jeff, Professor Kilani is one of the world's foremost experts on the superstitions associated with Islam and the Arab world. Without giving him any of the details of the film project we may be taking on together, I asked for his help and requested that he join us today to give an overview of one particular section associated with that topic, assuming you and your associates will bear with us."

Catching on, Lehane nodded. "We're all ears."

"That is good, sir," Kilani said, dryly. "Because my students often hold that I am all mouth." The tiny professor sat down and opened his accordion file. "It would probably be most efficient to let me cover the particular topics you've asked about before interrupting me with a host of well-intentioned but ignorant questions."

"Certainly," Enrique said. He fought down a smile. "Please proceed."

"It is my understanding that you people are interested in making a horror film, and that the plot requires some specific behaviors on the part of the antagonist, yes?"

His eyes pierced Lehane, who lied smoothly. "Yes."

"You probably want a demon. Let me start with the subject of the Jinn, or Jinni. As you may already know, this Arab singular eventually led to the French word "genie" and likely the Roman "genius." The feminine is Jinniyah, and the creature is also called the Div and Raksha in the ancient Guebre-land. The creature is also the Rakshasha or Yaksha of old Hindu superstition. You see, the old world allowed for a great deal of linguistic overlap.

"The Jinn was unknown to the Greeks, who instead had the Daimon, a family which separated, like the Jinn and the Genius, into two categories, the good ones called Agatho-daemons and the bad, known to them as Kako-daemons. Now, the concept of the 'daemon' shall play heavily into what we discuss at the end of my boring little speech. Incidentally, the field knows little about the Jinn amongst the pre-Moslemitic or pagan Arabs. The later Moslems made him something of a supernatural anthropoid created from a magical, secret fire."

Kilani looked down. "Anyway, if you are so inclined, read the Koran chapters, 15 27; also part of 12 and learn that Jinn are not of this earth or like mankind with the exception of Jan bin Jan, who was converted by Prophets and became subject to death and eternal judgment. Is everyone with me so far?"

Jinn. Zombies. Demons. Lehane felt hollow ache growing in his stomach, although his mind remained intrigued. Is this really about some supernatural force, and not just someone who believes himself possessed?

As if reading his mind, Kilani continued. "Please remember that from the same root as Jinn comes "junun" also known as madness meaning, possession or obsession. And likewise, "majnun," which is a madman. Therefore, other conclusions are possible."

Sandy Hammer spoke. "So our man could simply be crazy?"

Kilani looked annoyed at being interrupted. "I suppose so. In a manner of speaking, there may be little difference between total insanity and possession, if you see what I mean."

"We do, professor," Enrique offered. "Please go on."

Kilani looked down again "According to R. Jeremiah bin Eliazar, Adam was excommunicated for one hundred and thirty years. Within that time frame he coupled and had more children in his own image. There are also references to this in versions of Genesis. Now, for our purposes please note that in Arabic these offspring were Mazikeen or Shedeem. In other words, his progeny became what we now know as the Jinn's. By the way, during his translations of several vital documents, Sir Richard Burton noted that Jann is usually taken as the plural form of Jinni."

"Do you rely on Burton often?" Enrique was not just being polite, he was clearly fascinated.

"We simply must," Kilani responded. "Burton has no peer. Now, other classes of Jinni include the Ifrit which is pronounced Aye-frit or the feminine Ifritah, likewise the Marid or Maridah. These are all beings who hate humans with a passion. I feel quite sure you can make use of that in your screenplay, yes?

"Also remember that the Jinn are invisible, unless they choose to inhabit a human body, which I will get to later. This is because their real world is another dimension which is nearly parallel to the human world. Oh, but they are far more powerful than us. They are nearly immortal. Jinn existed in the pre-Muslim mind as creatures of the desert, and they are even mentioned in the Holy Koran. In fact, as I just mentioned the Jinn were once a locus of the worldview held by the Arab people and revered as something akin to Gods who inhabited the world around two thousand years before Adam and Eve.

"The tradition says that there are five orders of Jinn. First and lowest we have the Jann, who have but limited powers, then mere Jinn, which are ape-like creatures who pre-dated man. After them, however, come the Sheytans, who are quite terrifying, hideous daemons. Your monster could easily be one of these."

Enrique shrugged. "Possibly."

"Or perhaps one of the Ifrits, who are evil Jinni that stalk the earth because they died violently? If that doesn't suit you, then we could explore the Marids, who are the most powerful of creatures although not always the most feared. However, you see, the closer we get to human, the more benign the beast is thought to be.

"Since you are planning a monster movie, allow me to read this section from The Thousand and One Nights. It describes the sighting of a lower class of Jinn, of the Sheytans, which was also called an Ifrit: "The caravan... came at last, at the fall of a certain night, to a column of stone to which a strange being was chained, one half of whose body was visible and the other half deeply hidden in the ground. The upper half seemed to be that of something of monstrous birth imprisoned there by some infernal powers. It was black and large as the trunk of an old and naked palm-tree; it had two great black wings and four hands, of which two were like the taloned feet of lions. A shaggy covering of rude onager-tail hairs moved savagely upon the terrible head, while under the roofs of the sockets flamed two red eyes, and a third shone immovable green like that of a tiger or a panther, between the twin horns of the bull-like brow."

The professor looked up with a bright grin. "I rather like that for your creature. Rather ghastly, wouldn't you say? Primitive imaginations doubtless ran wild in the empty desert."

Enrique made a steeple with his fingers. "Yes, indeed. That might work very well, although as you know we are more interested in a creature which might be found in Iraq, especially since the war there."

"Of course, of course," Kilani said. "You did mention that. I'm getting old and rambling on, aren't I? Still, allow me to finish this section and I will see if I can accommodate you."

"Fair enough," Enrique said. He sipped some water while the professor continued holding forth.

"Truly evil Jinn are called Dev by the Persian people. The most powerful were referred to as Narah, a word which signifies males, although there are said to be females as well. Now, for the purposes of your story please note that there is one low caste of Jinn which is called Gul or Ghul. Obviously, this is where we derive the word Ghoul in English. These are very evil daemon. The Ghul stalk their prey in desperate solitude. They are creatures resembling at times both human being and animal. The Ghoul always lives in or around a cemetery or place where there are dead bodies. This is because they feed on the dead. Now, that definitely fits the guidelines you gave me."

Enrique sat back in his chair and did a reasonable impression of an excited film producer. "That's what we need, then. The ghoul is perfect for us. Can you logically follow that thread and end up somehow in present day Iraq?"

"Certainly," the professor said. "We are discussing daemon of the Islamic world, after all." He cleared his throat. "May I have some water?" Enrique poured him a glass and he continued.

"The ghoul takes a great risk when taking a physical form, be it animal, human or other, because it then becomes governed by the laws of nature. It can be stabbed, shot or otherwise hurt and like the body it inhabits, a Ghoul will die if it does not escape the host in time. Because of that fact, it cannot and will not remain in a body for very long, a few days at best. Plus, the flesh it inhabits will begin to rot away like any other dead body, because the being that inhabits it is really not of this dimension."

"It eats the flesh of the dead to survive, and takes the form of the dead while doing so." Lehane bought time, rubbed his temples. "So you're telling us it is a kind of… zombie?"

"One could look at it that way, although it must change form every few days to continue to exist. That is not true of the zombies we find in the voodoo traditions."

"What can we do protect ourselves?"

If the professor noticed the way the question was phrased, he chose not to react. "As for the Jinn, they are said to fear iron and steel and also to despise salt. In some verse of the Koran people wear amulets, bracelets or ear rings marked with the names of God, magic squares, or a group of magical signs called 'the seven seals' to protect themselves. Primitive people urinating, pouring water out or drawing water from a well, especially at night, will chant 'Bismilahirahmanirahim' which means 'in the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.' Passing a cave, an Arab will whisper 'Izn ya Mubarakun' or 'your permission, ye blessed' to tell the Jinn they are passing."

Lehane shifted in his chair. "Let me be a bit more specific, professor. If you ran across one of these Ghouls you mentioned earlier, how would you go about killing it? I mean, it's already dead, right?"

"Oh, most certainly." Kilani shuffled his papers. "Let us shift directions a bit and pursue this Ghul concept into India."

"India?"

"For your purposes, yes. Just follow me for a bit and you'll see what I mean. And remember, the ancient world had tremendous cross-pollenisation and acculturization. The traditions and religions and superstitions spread like wildfire along the trade routes. Why, in fact many scholars believe Jesus to have studied Buddhism in India during the lost years. Joseph Campbell once did the most extraordinary lecture on that very topic."

"Professor," Enrique prompted, gently. "The ghouls of India please."

"Certainly, I beg your pardon. First, you might consider a being which sounds in one form very much like a semi-human version of the Ifrit I described from A Thousand and One Nights, the Rakshasha. Often when seen the Rakshasha is nearly seven feet in height and looks a bit like a human tiger. Oddly, it is often extremely well dressed in silk and gold jewelry. These are shape-shifters, very powerful wizards and masters of deceit. They hate all other forms of life and are very cruel. They prey on infants and dead children, and if one sees through their illusions they are filthy, blood soaked beasts with fangs and claws."

Enrique wrote something down on a pad near his ash tray. "Next, please?"

"You need a creature that is drawn to corpses, devours human flesh, walks at night, and can move from body to body rapidly, yes?"

"Yes, Professor Kilani," Lehane said. To his own amazement he was beginning to believe they were on the right track at last. "That is exactly what I'm looking for."

"Hmm, yes. Well, the Pisacha is a vampire-like creature. It haunts crossroads and cemeteries, but if memory serves it only drinks blood. The Churel would suit you, it is a fearsome beast that is the revenant of a woman who died in childbirth after breaking religious taboos. She can be beautiful when she wants to be, to seduce men she will later kill and eat."

Lehane thought back to the testimony of the young physician whose lover had been carried away. "I think this monster is more likely to favor inhabiting a male. Don't ask me why."

Professor Kilani pondered for a moment. "Well, then our creature could be merely called The Bhuta."

Lehane felt goose bumps crawl across his exposed forearms. "Excuse me, what did you say, professor?"

Enrique interrupted. "Could we be more specific to Iraq proper, professor? I realize that the Islamic world was huge…"

"No," Lehane said, sharply. He raised his hand, palm out. "I want to hear more about this thing called the Bhuta."

Enrique sat back quietly. "Please, go on."

Professor Kilani continued. "Well, you see, the daemon Bhuta is certainly a ghoul first and foremost. However, Bhuta is also a term that applies to all of the demigods, daemons and undead in the Hindu pantheon. It has many, many manifestations. The Bhuta is the ghost of a man who was tortured and killed, generally a man of high status who was executed as a common criminal."

Enrique sat forward, as if finally catching on. "Yes, that does sound like what we're looking for."

"Good," Kilani said. "You should know this about his motivation, then. His end was so miserable that he turned to evil forces. Originally, he returns from the dead and seeks revenge upon the people that harmed him or his family. Naturally, over time and upon changing bodies several times part of his memory becomes weaker, like a document copied too many times, and then it kills indiscriminately. Incidentally, it is believed he may even move back and forth between corpses, discarding and picking them up again on a whim. And for the purpose of your story no one who crosses his path or angers him would be safe."

"As I said earlier, can it be destroyed?"

"The peasants in India used to believe that since the being was angry at the manner of its death, once you had identified the Bhuta you needed to dig up the original body and give it a proper funeral service and full cremation."

"Cremation," Lehane whispered. "Not the words, but the fire."

Sandy Hammer looked dazed. "Excuse me, but assuming it came back from the dead, how would it move from host to host?"

"We have very little text to clarify that," Professor Kilani said, absently. "It is generally believed to be through the exchange of bodily fluids."

Lehane felt his stomach flip yet again. "In other words through blood, spit or mucous?"

"Precisely." The professor noted the intensity of their reaction to his last offering. He decided he'd imparted enough information and began to gather his things. "I had best be on my way, let you folks discuss your horror movie."

"Thank you for coming, sir." Enrique had already motioned for Mike Castle to walk the old man back to the private elevator. Castle hustled around the end of the table and punched the button. The elevator opened with a soft pinging.

"Professor?" Castle motioned with one hand remaining on the button.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Kilani picked up his scattered notes with maddening serenity, grabbed his cane and started to leave the room. He paused near Castle and turned his head around.

"Mr. Diaz, one more thing?"

"Of course, Professor Kilani."

"I am quite sure that this fact will entertain and please your bloodthirsty teenaged movie goers. The Bhuta doesn't only eat the flesh of dead creatures it also often dines on human intestines…and their contents. In other words, excrement."

TWENTY-FIVE

Heaven and Earth do not take sides;

they treat all of creation as a straw dog.

The Master thus remains impartial;

He treats everyone like a straw dog.

The space between Heaven and Earth is like a bellows;

this is totally empty, yet has not lost its power.

The more it is used, the more it produces;

the more you talk of it, the less you comprehend.

Silence!

It is better not to speak of things you do not understand…

Enrique had pre-ordered a large buffet table of food for delivery to the conference room. The annoyed waiter, after being carefully searched by Castle, left with a generous tip. Lehane then called Pops and Guri. He instructed them to abandon their posts and come down to the meeting.

Once assembled, no one in the group felt much like eating, especially considering the subject under discussion. So they all drank coffee, tea or ice water and waited, knowing that eventually it would be Enrique's turn to explain his involvement. The singer had other plans, however. After one long silence, he faced Lehane.

"Mr. Lehane. Jeff. You reacted very strongly when the professor mentioned the Bhuta."

"Very observant of you."

"And may I ask why?"

"Because that was the last thing Roger Gordon said as he died, except I thought it was 'boot,' like on your feet, and then 'ahh,'' or the sound of escaping air. But what he said was 'Bhuta.' When I heard the name just now, it gave me chills. We are finally on the right track."

"I suppose it is my turn to explain myself."

"I'd say so."

"Her name was Maninjeh."

"Maninjeh," Lehane mused. "That sounds Iranian."

"Her family came from Teheran by way of Iraq," Enrique said. He got to his feet and began to pace, hands behind his back. "They had money in those days, and they wanted to escape to America. The war between Iran and Iraq was in full swing, chemical weapons and all.

"It was awful. Hundreds of thousands of people were slaughtered right on the border, day after day. Maninjeh's father was terrified for his family. He had enemies everywhere. It was not safe to attempt to cross into Turkey and the border with Kuwait was sealed. In desperation, he made an expensive deal with an Iraqi criminal associated with Saddam Hussein to sneak his family across Iraq and into Jordan, where he had some business associates he felt he could trust.

"Apparently, he thought that since he was Sunni and had a substantial amount of cash to throw around, better the devil you know."

"I remember." Lehane nodded, slowly. "That was a common racket back then, bribing Iraqi officials to help people cross the country and get away from the war."

"Yes, it was. Maninjeh's father made a deal. He gave two hundred thousand dollars to a man named Ali Basra for safe passage." Enrique looked up, caught the shocked expression.

"Yes, Jeff. The same Ali Basra you raided near the end of the more recent Iraq war, the same Ali Basra who tortured and murdered for Uday and Qusay Hussein. He held cult meetings for them on his property. That's what I meant when I said I was half of the connection."

"And I am the other."

"Yes. Now, as I heard the story, Ali Basra demanded even more money. Maninjeh's father was prepared for that eventuality, and willingly paid the increased price. But then Ali Basra tried to lure the man into some of his daemonic practices. Maninjeh's father refused. There was some kind of physical struggle, and people were killed. Her father managed to escape and the family ran for their lives."

"And eventually Maninjeh became your lover?"

"I proposed to her," Enrique said. His voice broke. "I've never felt that way about anyone before. I met her while visiting the Greek islands two years ago. Her parents were already dead, both murdered. First her father, when the family was still hiding in Lebanon. Maninjeh and her mother fled back to Jordan, but whatever it was, it found them there a few months later. It slaughtered her mother, then dug her up and ate from her remains a few days later."

Enrique leaned against the wall. "I thought she was hysterical, of course. No rational person could believe in monsters. Then I had some of my staff check the police records, and they found that her mother had been murdered, also that her body had been violated. So unless I was prepared to think that Maninjeh herself had committed such an abomination, I was forced to consider her story.

"Some monster from antiquity had been unleashed by Ali Basra, or perhaps was Ali Basra himself, and it was now hot on our trail.

"I took her with me on the remainder of my European tour, and we fell more deeply in love. As you can imagine, we changed cities every few days to a week, so it would have been virtually impossible for the creature to catch us. For a time I dared to dream that we had escaped from its clutches for good."

Pops sighed. "No offense, guys, but I've been listening to all of this for the last couple of hours, and it's just…weird. Do I need to mention how ridiculous we seem by taking this crap so seriously?"

Guri agreed. "This grave robbing is pretty sick stuff, but does that mean the answers have to be supernatural? I mean, look at Jeffrey Dahmer."

"Let the man finish," Sandy Hammer said. "I want to hear him out."

Lehane waved his hand for silence. "So do I."

"A few months ago in London," Enrique continued, "I was rehearsing. Maninjeh went for a walk that night with one of my bodyguards and never came back." His eyes moistened. "The bodyguard was found dead near Hyde Park, but Maninjeh had disappeared. Do I need to tell you what happened next?"

Lehane frowned. "Her body was found mutilated a few days later?"

"Chewed was the word they used," Enrique said. His face went white. "The very idea sickens me."

"What happened next?"

"Naturally an attempt was made on my life two nights later. I had to leave for the states soon anyway, so I ran."

"And Maninjeh?"

"The police put it down as a homicide. They kept the details quiet so they would have some specific facts that would help them identify the actual murderer. The truth is that they never even identified a suspect."

He looked up and pointed to Castle. "When I returned to the United States I asked around for protection. Two names name up, Spinks Security and Mike Castle. Mike was fairly low profile, so I hired him to supplement my regular staff. His job was to keep an eye out for whatever it was that killed Maninjeh and her family, and is now patiently stalking me."

Lehane nodded. "How did you learn my name?"

"I read in the paper that someone, assumed to be Allied Special Forces, staged a midnight raid on Ali Basra's compound, killed him and got away. I wanted to know if he was really dead, if the nightmare was over."

Mike Castle spoke for the first time. "I still have a few friends with clout. I found out Spinks did the raid and that it was your mission."

"So it was logical to hire Spinks when I came to Vegas, but then I found out you'd retired."

"A fly in the ointment."

"Exactly."

"So you faked those letters threatening your life."

Enrique sat up, clearly surprised. "No, I had Mr. Castle do that for me. How long have you known?"

"As I think I mentioned the night we met, the letters struck me as having come from a real professional, not an amateur." Lehane rubbed his eyes. "There wasn't a trace of saliva or fingerprints, or the slightest bit of DNA or other evidence for the lab to work with."

"I see."

"So when the shooter turned out to be a middle-aged airline employee who could never have pulled that off, I started wondering. So, to answer your question, I have suspected there was something wrong about you from the very start."

"I wish I had known. I would have admitted the truth earlier."

"I wish you had."

"Finally," Enrique continued, "I had to offer Charlie a small fortune to get him to bring you back for this one job so we could meet. I know how all this sounds, people. Jeff, I couldn't trust you enough to tell you the truth at first. Then your ex-wife Heather was killed, and although I thought I knew why, I couldn't be positive."

"So you came to interview me," Lehane said. "And Ali Basra's so-called daemon must have been right behind you, in the body of that biker."

"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?" Enrique moved back to his chair, sat down at the head of the table. "I don't know what we are up against, my friends. Maybe it is really some kind of sentient virus changing hosts, something that was viewed as a living daemon in Muslim folklore, but whatever it is, it is relentless and monstrous and it will continue until Lehane and I are both dead."

"Can it occupy two bodies at the same time?"

"Who knows?"

Pops crossed his eyes at Lehane. "Hey, remind me not to sit next to you very often, okay?"

Enrique ignored the joke. "Perhaps worse still, even that may not satisfy the thing. In fact, after being free now for so many years, it probably enjoys killing far too much to ever stop."

"Oh, man," Pops said. His face registered the pole axed glow of the newly converted. "Now I understand why that kid, the poor brother-in-law, walled himself into the basement. He did that after eating his own dog. The word 'no' on the wall was his way of saying he couldn't let this happen to him, he'd rather starve to death. And those trace elements, like from a dead body, they were from a dead body. Holy shit."

Sandy touched Jeff's hand with her fingertips, while directing her question at Enrique Diaz. "So, what do we do?"

"The police will not believe us," Enrique replied. "It is useless to have them involved beyond where they are now, as a kind of civil adjunct to your own work."

"They won't stay out of our way forever," Lehane said. "They can't, it will get too hot for them to lay low."

"I know, but I have an idea."

Pops grunted and rubbed his temples. "That's good, because we sure as hell don't." Dry chuckles all around.

"Fortunately, I have a great deal to bring to our problem," Enrique continued, "and it is my understanding that you people are the best in the world at what you do. So what I propose is that we act as a team."

Pops snorted. "You plan to strap on a gun?"

"Of course not, I have little experience in such matters. What I do have is money, and plenty of it. I see no reason for Mr. Spinks to foot the entire bill when I am in a position to help out." Enrique stared at Lehane. "And Jeff, you would, of course, lead our team. I will double all your salaries until the job is done and there will be a generous bonus at the end of the road."

Guri muttered: "For anyone who survives."

The silence built, no one spoke. The enormity of the project began to sink in. They would have to find and kill something that was as indestructible as a cockroach and virtually immortal, keep their actions a secret from the world, and somehow avoid becoming casualties in the process. Enrique drank some water before going on.

"My tour is over and I'm completely exhausted. Even if I wanted to, I don't believe I could run any more. I will stay here at the hotel and sign any check Mr. Lehane sends me."

"That sounds fair enough."

"I want whatever killed all these innocent people to suffer and die for its actions. I do not care what this costs, money is no object. Please work to hunt down this monster called the Bhuta. We must not stop until we find a way to kill it. Are you with me?"

Lehane responded within seconds. "Okay, I'm in."

Guri: "Then so am I."

Sandy just nodded, Pops shrugged and smiled. "If you're saying you don't care what it costs, than what the hell, right?"

Mike Castle was the last to speak. "Okay, I can follow orders. But how are we going to get this thing done?"

"May I suggest that we start with this young physician who was murdered last night," Enrique offered. "His name was Benjamin Goldberg. The Bhuta has a pattern, it returns to most of its victims within twenty-four to forty-eight hours to eat of their flesh. We have no reason to think it will be any different this time."

"Agreed," Lehane said. "Where is Goldberg's body being held?"

"Whiz says what's left of him is still in the morgue." Guri was still directly in touch with Whiz, because he hadn't removed his headset. "He says he's in too, and asks what do you want him to do?"

Lehane got to his feet. "Pops, you remember that abandoned mortuary we used as a safe house last year, when we protected that Enron executive?"

"It was outside of a little town called Flat Rock, or something, up north quite a long, long ways."

"What was the name of it?"

"Bouquet Funeral Parlor, something like that."

"Right. Right. Who owned it again?"

"Some whacked out mortician by the name of Donald. I can't remember the last name, but I can look it up."

"Find it, and fast."

Guri snapped his fingers. "Pinker, Donald Pinker. The little guy barely kept the doors open, remember?"

"Pretty sparse population out there," Pops said, mildly. "Lots of time to get high and watch television."

Sandy: "That's probably why he didn't mind taking our money."

"The place has everything we need," Lehane said, turning to Guri. "Whiz, I want the body moved there immediately, and the paper trail should say that it is for immediate cremation."

Castle interrupted. "Wait, the guy sounds Jewish with a name like Goldberg. I thought they didn't believe in cremation."

"Some of us do, some don't." Something about the way Castle pronounced 'Jewish' irritated Guri.

"We do the paperwork perfectly," Lehane said, ignoring them both. "Everything needs to look right."

Castle again. "What, now you think this shit-eater is smart enough to read?"

Lehane fought down rising irritation. "The Bhuta managed to track a dozen people down, travel to another country, move from place to place in public before the host body decayed too badly, and found Enrique and over and over again. I'd call that smart enough, wouldn't you?"

Castle looked down and away, cheeks pink. "I guess you're right."

"Now listen up, people," Lehane said, briskly. "We do not, repeat do not tell the family or this girlfriend who saw the Bhuta last night that we're moving the body. Guri, ask Whiz where she is right now."

"He can hear us, Boss. I left the mike on." Guri listened for a moment. "Whiz says she's in a nut ward today, doing the Thorazine shuffle in a backless gown. No problems there. I can't say that I blame her."

"Me neither. Whiz, you heard Enrique, it doesn't matter what this costs. Pull every favor you have to, but get it done. I want Goldberg's corpse at the Bouquet Funeral Home in Flat Rock by tonight. We're going to use him as bait."

Pops and Guri were already half way to the elevator. "You two will go wire the place for Whiz. I'll meet you there this afternoon. Let's move."

"We got you, boss. We're half done already."

"Okay, then. Mike?" Lehane finally turned back to Castle. "You're going to go find us some weapons that can't be traced."

Sandy touched Lehane on the shoulder. "Jeff, can I see you for a minute?"

He followed her toward the now curtained windows. Sandy kept her voice low and spoke urgently. "With all due respect, we haven't checked in with Charlie in days. This whole thing could really blow up on us if it goes south. Don't you think we should talk to him about it first?"

Lehane winked. "He's in the air, on his way back from Prague, Sandy. With a little Irish luck, it'll all be over before he lands."

"From your mouth to God's ears."

TWENTY-SIX

Flat Rock, Nevada was a steadily imploding ghost town nestled in the low desert, between two long ridges of washed-out red rocks threaded with limestone. It had at one time been a bustling mining town with two saloons, a whorehouse, a doctor who doubled as a veterinarian and a sheriff, but the latter half of the 20th century had not been kind. The main highway up to Ely bypassed the area, and when the ground went barren the population dwindled; first to a hundred or so and finally down to a running average of fifteen. The abandoned silver mine was now a dumpy, seldom visited tourist trap.

Maybe half of the locals, mostly senile old-timers, lived more than a mile away, in trailers or in shanty houses built from roadside trash and highway signs. The other six or seven came and went, some making a meager living selling old west pieces in Elko or Reno, some just smoking grass in the desert or drinking and going quietly mad.

Don Pinker fell in the latter category.

The undertaker with no one to bury—or so he would introduce himself—Pinker had originally moved from the quiet outskirts of sedate Sacramento, California to Nevada to "get away from those damned crowds." A monkish man prone to wearing black and silver, he had attended mortuary school in San Francisco and worked steadily whenever his drug use was under control.

Pinker had purchased the mortuary operation for a pittance more than twelve years before, and never looked back. It had two embalming tables, several freezers for corpses, sample caskets, two floors and a small crematorium; everything he could have desired. Pinker had not been concerned that business would be scarce, because he felt he could live in stoned-out solitude while growing, raising and sometimes even slaughtering his own food.

The occasional ranching family called him to collect their dead, supplying Pinker with just enough cash to purchase coffee, sweets and condiments. He had chickens, pigs and a small group of sheep penned up behind his small fruit orchard, also an active vegetable garden on the north side of his property. His one indulgence, besides a steady intake of marijuana and prescription drugs, was a satellite dish and a giant flat screen television set.

Pinker slept on a foldout couch in the upstairs office. He drove a plain, white van with the name of his business on the side, rarely went to a larger town. He also talked to himself on a regular basis; thus, one stoned viewing of the Gollum in "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy left him paranoid for three days.

The Bouquet Funeral Parlor sat on a small mountain just northeast of the small, deserted ghost town. From high above, Flat Rock itself was shaped like a large capitol letter L followed by two smaller, lower case l's. The western buildings were part of a reconstructed mining town, and consisted of various empty shacks, former stables, an assayer's office, an empty grocery and two saloons. Behind them, a few tiny wooden shacks, their stunted doorways demonstrating the smaller height of the miners who came west during the great migration, were scattered on the western hills.

Two trails, south and north, led past rusted wheelbarrows and decaying wagons and then up steep slopes to the two barren mines. A defunct casino and a parking lot occupied the center of town. The east side of Flat Rock, the smallest letter l, had a few store fronts that had, forty years before, held tourist stores and an ice cream parlor. The buildings were all shuttered and closed. The one road north led up the hill, past a large white gazebo and to the parking lot of the mortuary itself.

Night after night, high above Flat Rock, Pinker sat in his upstairs office smoking bowls and popping mail order Vicodin, watching old movies on television. Some evenings he would wander out onto the porch; sit in his gazebo to pass out under the stars. Because of the continued solitude, and perhaps also his perennially whacked state, Pinker tended to jump when the telephone rang. His eventual solution was to turn the ringer off and count on his answering machine's blinking to alert him. This slovenly inattention to detail was about to catch up.

Late that afternoon, Pinker was in a rocking chair, blearily peering out his upstairs window and down into the valley and the town of Flat Rock, waiting to groove on the red and pink colors of the coming sunset. When he spotted the two pairs of headlights coming up the hill, Pinker thought he was hallucinating.

Holding on to the wall for support, he found his way back to the answering machine. It was blinking. Without checking the message, Pinker changed his foul smelling black shirt for a fresh black shirt, splashed some water on his face and went downstairs to greet his customers. He waited until he heard people coming up the steps before opening the door. He saw two large vehicles parked by the white gazebo.

"May I help you?"

The afternoon light was fading, giving the man who stood before him an odd and ghostly appearance. He seemed familiar.

"You can, Donald," the man said, "start by answering your fucking telephone. We've been trying to reach you for hours."

"Hello, Mr. Jeffrey. I didn't recognize you."

Lehane moved closer to shield Pinker. He liked the little mortician, but didn't particularly want him to observe what was being unloaded from the trucks.

"We need your building again, Donald."

"Why, certainly," Pinker responded. Although he couldn't recall the precise amount, he remembered having been handsomely compensated the last time out. "When will you be requiring use of the premises?"

"Tonight. Now."

"Excuse me? Why, I couldn't possibly…"

Two men rushed in rolling a gurney weighted down by a green, military-style body bag. They headed for the embalming room. Then a short, muscular man pushed by carrying a large box filled with tiny microphones and cameras. Yet another man followed, bumping a loaded dolly up the steps at a rapid pace. He carried more small cables, two laptop computers and an oversized color monitor. A very pretty woman wearing a loose jogging outfit was pulling some suitcases out of one van and stacking them side by side. Pinker got curious.

"May I ask what is going on?"

"Nope."

"Oh. What about my neighbors, shouldn't we…"

"They have all been evacuated, Donald. They were told that there was a toxic chemical spill out on the highway, and that it should be okay to return after noon tomorrow. They all got cash for a motel."

Pinker became alarmed. "There was a chemical spill?"

Lehane sighed. "Donald, would you come with me, please?"

"Why, I suppose…."

Lehane took him by the elbow and led him down to the gazebo and out of the way. Meanwhile Guri and Pops continued to feverishly unload the expensive electronics and rig the house for Whiz.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Jeffrey," Pinker said, obsequiously. He seemed to genuinely like Lehane. "What have you been up to?"

"Let's do this first." Lehane peeled off five one hundred dollar bills and handed them to Pinker. "This is just a token of our sincere appreciation, Donald. The real fee will be significantly higher, okay?"

The money vanished into a pants pocket, cartoonishly fast. "What can I do to help you, Mr. Jeffrey?"

"You can drive away, Donald. Maybe treat yourself to a nice hotel room and a girl somewhere." He slapped Pinker on the cheek, with just enough force to get his attention. "But whatever you do, don't come back before noon tomorrow."

"But my animals…"

"It won't hurt them to get fed a few hours later. Now, I mean it. That is part of the deal. Don't come back before noon."

"Uh, okay. Okay."

Pinker started to leave the gazebo, but Lehane held his face. "There is one more thing, Donald. That personal question I need to ask. How much did you pay for this place when you bought it?"

Pinker told him.

"And about how much would you say it's worth now, including the animals and all of the embalming equipment?"

Pinker told him that, too.

"Okay, then. Keep driving, and don't worry about whether or not you have insurance. If anything goes wrong here my company has you covered. We will double the money you have invested. You can rebuild the place or move away, we don't care what you do."

Pinker poked his head around and caught a glimpse of Mike Castle unloading a case of grenades. "Oh, my. This all looks…rather ominous."

"All you need to know is that whatever happens, we've got your back. Now get moving, and don't come home tonight. If all goes well, you'll get five grand for one night's rental."

"Five thousand?" Pinker was openly thrilled. He rarely netted that much in a calendar year.

"If it goes south, we double the value of your business. All in cash. Agreed?"

Pinker sighed. His lower lip trembled. "I don't want to make trouble, Mr. Jeffrey, but my poor animals need to be fed, not just tomorrow morning, but tonight. I haven't gotten to it yet, because I've been…busy."

"We don't have time for that right now." Seeing the pitiful expression, Lehane soothed him with a white lie. "I'll see if one of my men can get it done. Do we have a deal, Donald?"

They shook hands. Pinker nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

"Okay, now get your ass into that used car over there. We'll be needing your van for atmosphere."

"My van, too?"

"Everything. Now remember, I don't want to see you again before mid day tomorrow."

"Can't I get some clothes?"

Lehane sighed and peeled off another two hundred. "Buy some."

"I'll need to get something from the van. Please, it will only take a minute."

Lehane read his mind. "Okay, but hurry."

Pinker went down the gazebo steps and jogged clumsily to the mortuary van. He got flat in the dirt, rolled over onto his back and crawled under the back fender. A few seconds later he emerged carrying a package wrapped in newspaper and masking tape. He stuffed the package of drugs under the tail of his black shirt and met Lehane midway down the drive.

"Let's go, Donald." Lehane hustled the mortician down the slope and into the Pinto, gave him the keys. He leaned in the driver side window. "Do I need to mention what will happen to you if you were to ever reveal any of this?"

Pinker blanched. "I would never talk."

Lehane patted his shoulder. "Just let me remind you, my organization is well connected. We will treat you well if you help us, but if you betray me there will be nowhere on earth you can hide."

"You're scaring me."

"Good. Now get."

Lehane watched the undertaker drive away then turned and sprinted up the hill. "Mike, Sandy, get those wireless sensors planted while we still have some light. Bury them every twenty feet or so, all around the property. Move it."

Castle went west, Sandy east. Lehane disliked letting her out of his sight, even for a few minutes. Guri came out again, and began lugging suitcases up the steps. "Pops has already started on the wiring, boss."

"Good. I'll get the Willie Pete."

Lehane went to the front of the vehicle and grabbed a thick metal case containing a dozen white phosphorus grenades. He tugged the heavy parcel up the steps and into the parlor and set it down at the foot of the stairs. If it came to call tonight, the hungry Bhuta would bite off more than it could chew.

"Pops, how's it going up there?"

Pops hurt himself, swore. "I'll have the computers up and running in maybe ten minutes. The wiring is already there for the sensors and cameras. Whiz should be online with us before the sun goes down."

"Good work."

Lehane went back outside, onto the porch. He watched as Sandy trotted back from planting the sensors. "Where's Castle?"

Sandy bent over, gripped her thighs. She was out of breath. "I don't know, but I had pretty stable ground all the way around the crematorium. I guess that's why they call it Flat Rock. I think Castle had to haul everything uphill and around through the garden."

"Okay, get upstairs and help Pops. Pick up a sidearm while you're at it. We all lock and load once it gets dark."

"Will do."

She gave him a peck on the cheek as she passed by. Lehane shaded his eyes. The sun was sinking in the west and the skyline was a wide smear of pastels peppered with small white clouds. He checked his watch. Annoyed, he jogged north, past the gazebo and the porch then went around the mortuary and into the vegetable garden. He found himself in a small patch of cornstalks nearly his height.

"Castle?"

Lehane moved forward, cautiously. Long shadows stroked the garden. When he came out of the cornfield, he stepped into some cow shit at the edge of a square packed with tomato plants. Grimacing, he tried to clean his boot on a wooden stake.

Something moved in the trees, perhaps thirty feet away. Knowing it was likely to be Mike Castle, but playing it safe, Lehane palmed his Glock, crouched down.

The shape moved again, a slightly clumsy walk that listed from left to right. Lehane swallowed as the small hairs on the back of his neck writhed. He raised the Glock, sighted but kept his finger outside the trigger guard.

Mike Castle stumbled into view. He dropped a sensor at the edge of the garden. He moved toward Lehane. He was counting steps under his breath and had the last sensor in one hand.

He had an open pint of cheap whiskey in the other.

Lehane got to his feet. "Give me that."

"Whoa! Jesus, you scared me." Castle shifted the whiskey bottle behind his back and into a coat pocket like he'd had a lot of practice.

"Give me the last sensor, Mike."

Looking puzzled, Castle closed the distance and handed it over. "Sure thing, Jeff. What's the matter?"

Lehane took the sensor and turned around. He walked a few more paces and placed it among the stalks of corn. When he got back to his feet, Castle was still waiting. "I think you know what's wrong."

"Oh, lighten up," Castle said. "Moving that poor dude's body into the embalming room kind of freaked me out."

"It shouldn't have."

"You're right, Jeff. I was going back inside to have some coffee. I'll be fine before anything hits the fan."

Lehane shook his head. "No way, Mike. You're fired."

"What?" Castle seemed genuinely shocked. "You're short handed as it is asshole. You can't be serious."

"I'm serious. You can take one of the trucks. Just make sure it gets back to Spinks some time tomorrow. I'll see that Enrique pays you a couple of weeks of severance in addition to whatever you collect from Charlie."

"I can hack this. Pops will vouch for me."

"I don't care."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Castle tried move closer, did his level best to intimidate. He only succeeded in covering his shoes with more fertilizer.

Lehane held his ground. "I'm the team leader. It is my judgment that you're unfit to serve and constitute a hazard to the team. So that's it, you're done."

Castle suddenly looked down and saw the filth on his brand new shoes. He went apocalyptic. "You know what? You've been on my ass since the day we met. Maybe it's time I kicked your ass."

Lehane raised the gun. "You can have that chance, Mike, but it will have to be some other time and place."

"You bastard."

"I can't afford to slow things down just because you got your feelings hurt."

Lehane fished in his pocket, found the keys to the smaller van. He tossed them to Castle. "Guri finished unloading. Take his van and go."

For a long beat, Castle seemed willing to challenge the Glock, but then he snorted. "Go ahead, Lehane. Get all your friends killed. Me, I'm going to find a casino and play cards. If you live through the night, watch your back."

"A card game sounds like a reasonable idea," Lehane said, evenly. "As for the rest, you want a piece of me just make damned sure you're ready to go the distance. Now beat it."

TWENTY-SEVEN

"Damn it!" Pops slapped the side of the monitor. "Now we've got audio but we still can't see you." He stretched himself up and over the desk. "Hang on a second, Whiz. Let me check the obvious stuff first." Lehane watched as Pops unplugged and replaced several of the connections. He impatiently checked the time. It was dark outside, which made him nervous. Although the driveway now held only the official mortuary van, any untoward noise inside the building might give them away. He wanted the Bhuta to think that the mortician was both on the premises and alone.

The monitor flickered. Lehane saw Whiz, making faces into the camera. "There it is. You should have picture, now."

"We've got your ugly mug." Pops began to fine-tune the image. He checked his watch. "I need to get my ass moving pretty soon. Listen, Jeff. Can you maybe reconsider about Castle? Mike is an old friend, and a real pro."

"Yeah, except when he's drunk. Sorry, Pops. No can do. Have you got the Gazebo online yet, Whiz?"

"The camera in the sucker isn't getting much, but the one on the porch light is working fine."

"The rest of the rooms, and those embalming tables?"

"I think we're okay."

"How about the mountainside?"

"We're going to have to let Pops handle himself, boss. There's no way I'll have enough time to locate and focus right now."

"Okay, listen up," Lehane barked. "Let's run a quick systems check. Everybody haul your asses in here for a final sit down. And after that, I want this place quiet as a mouse fart until our guest arrives."

"Turn my camera maybe six inches to your right, Pops," Whiz said from the screen. Pops adjusted his view. "Okay, that rocks."

The computer gear was now situated in the upstairs living quarters, where Pinker had his bed and some easy chairs. Sandy sat on the bed, Guri in a chair by the console. Pops stood in the doorway, a large, green canvas bag at his feet. He wore a sniper's ghillie suit, fully camouflaged, and was busily blacking out his facial features. Like all of the others, he had a headset and neck microphone already in place.

"How are the outside cameras coming?"

"Working on it, Jeff. Give me another couple of minutes."

"Okay, but get the lead out."

"Yeah, yeah."

Lehane pinched his brow. "By the way, Pops, did you stay with that modified Dragonov SVD?"

"Nope." Pops knelt down, patted the green canvas bag. "We're flying American tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I brought me the M14, special optic sight with cross hairs and aiming dot. Her name is Bertha, and she's the same sweetheart I used to spook out Castle this morning."

Guri spoke up. "One last time, are you sure it is wise to have Pops so far away from the rest of the crew?"

Before Lehane could respond, Pops said: "I wanted to be maybe eight hundred yards off, pal. Jeff told me three hundred, three fifty tops. Hey, for me, that's so close it's almost boring."

Sandy deadpanned. "Ladies and gentlemen, the testosterone is already rising, along with the bullshit."

No one laughed harder than Pops. "Seriously, I'll be fine. That's not a tough shot. As for me, I'm going to be covered with mud and lost in the rocks. I'm traveling light, no barometer, don't need a range finder. I'll be in place in no time and I won't move until this prick is toast."

"Whiz, you picking everyone up there?"

"I've got sound on everybody, boss."

"Cameras okay all around the building?"

"For the time we've had, it's pretty damn good."

"Okay, Pops. We're hot enough. You can take off, but just keep listening while I run it down one last time."

"Will do. Good luck, everybody." Pops grabbed his canvas bag, turned and jogged down the steps, across the lobby below and out into the night. Meanwhile, Lehane went to the center of the bedroom. He spoke in low tones, since everyone was now live on the com line.

"Here it is again. Pops goes through the garden, up into the trees. He stops at the foot of the mountains, when he has a clean shot at the center of the parking lot and good enough elevation. He goes to ground and doesn't move. He keeps an eye out for the Bhuta, but waits for a signal from me before firing."

"But he can just tip us when he sees it, right? In case all this high-tech gear Whiz has going just craps out?" Guri sounded worried.

"He can talk to us if he has to," Lehane answered, "but only then. I don't want him exposed that far away from our lines."

"Okay, I get it."

"Now, if and when Pops takes the shot, it will be right at the brain pan for maximum damage to coordination and motor control. Maybe we can't shoot to kill on something that's already dead, but we can sure as hell make sure it doesn't think straight."

"We hope." Whiz, on the monitor. He probably didn't even realize that he had spoken aloud.

"Okay, Whiz," Pops said, casually. His voice came through the com center. "Here's Plan B, then. I'll kneecap the son of a bitch so he has to crawl, and we'll take him out with the white phosphorus."

"Pops, what's your emergency exit?"

"I go west, around the edge of the garden, then down the slope into the town. The backup vehicle is parked there."

"Okay, good. You guys ready?"

"Sure." Guri and Sandy were twitching like marionettes. Guri was chewing gum, jaw muscles moving rapidly.

Lehane: "Guri goes west and into the gazebo, about three quarters of the way across the parking lot. He buries himself under trash and leaves and lots of cow shit. He's got an M14 with staggered tracer rounds."

Guri nodded. "And a 45 in my belt that's for emergencies."

"If I give him the order to engage first, he'll light the bastard up like a Christmas tree. Now, according to the Professor, fire can kill this thing. Let's hope he's right."

"No kidding. Because if it can keep coming with a clean, hollow-point brain shot, no knees and punched full of tracer rounds, my asshole's going to pucker so tight it'll suck up my trousers."

Pops snickered in the headset. Sandy rolled her eyes. On the monitor, Whiz frowned and adjusted the audio. Lehane continued: "Guri, in a way you're the most exposed. We expect the thing to do what it has done before, come right on the premises and come in through a garage or the front door, almost as if it remembers being human. That means you'd better watch your ass and hide yourself well. Pops, I'll expect you to keep an eye on Guri. You're his backup, if he needs one."

They could hear Pops panting a bit as he made his way up the hill. It was not necessary for him to answer. He knew his job.

"Guri, what's your emergency exit?"

"Straight down the driveway to the emergency vehicle. If the way is blocked, I circle through the garden and follow Pops."

"And if the com goes down for some reason, you can go ahead of him. Otherwise, make sure you're following so he doesn't shoot your sorry butt."

Guri made kissing sounds into his microphone. "If you shoot me, Pops, I'll never go dancing with you again."

Lehane checked his watch. Night had fallen. He began to pace the bedroom, his own nerves were getting the best of him. "Sandy, you stay on the computer gear and make sure everyone stays in touch. I want to know where everyone is at all times, and Whiz needs someone making sure that happens on this end."

"Okay, Jeff."

"No rookie cross-fire, no fuck ups, everybody stays within their fields of fire, and everybody goes home tonight. Okay?"

All around. "Okay."

"What are you carrying, Sandy?"

"I have my Glock, but I'll also keep a Calico M960A with a 100 round clip, loaded with intermittent tracer rounds. The slugs are modified to splatter, so I have to remember to aim high at all times, and not shoot down into the floor, or we may get trapped by a fire."

"Oh, and don't shoot west, either," Lehane said. "That's where I'll be."

Sandy smiled weakly. Lehane adjusted his microphone. "I'm staying upstairs at the windows. The front facing double pane is open, and there is no screen. I'll stay flat against the wall in the dark."

Guri chewed gum. "Let's hear about the weaponry, dude."

"I'll be set up with an Air Cav 40MM grenade launcher, with both Willie Pete and Flash-Bang grenades. I'm the court of last resort. If the head shot and tracer rounds don't get the job done, I'll burn the fucker myself."

"After I exit the Gazebo to the west, though, right?" Guri grinned again. "Oh, and what if it still boogies around, even after that?"

"Don't even think about it."

"Okay, I won't." Guri closed his eyes. He seemed to be praying. After a few seconds he got to his feet in one fluid motion. "Permission to take my post, boss."

"Let's go get him."

The two men shared a high five. Guri loped down the stairs, across the lobby and into the night. Lehane motioned for Sandy to step out of camera range and closer to the bed. They both covered their microphones.

"Have I mentioned that I love you?"

"No," she said. "I think that part slipped your mind."

"Maybe it just occurred to me."

"Don't worry, I know."

"You do?"

She got up on tiptoe to kiss him. "Hey, a woman always knows, Jeff. Now you be careful, okay?"

"You, too. Good luck."

Sandy went back into view and sat down at the console to assemble her weapons. Lehane paused in the doorway, admiring her smooth efficiency.

She checked the clip in the Glock before turning to the mini-submachine gun. The clip sits on top of the Calico M-960A. Sandy removed the 100 round, helical-feed magazine and soon it was checked and re-checked. She removed the safety at the front edge of the trigger guard.

She whispered: "Lock and load, boys."

"Amen," Lehane whispered. He moved past the doorway, crossed the wooden floor, grimacing at the tiny squeaks created by his combat boots. He flattened against the wall and slid down onto his butt, facing the darkened room.

Quietly, Lehane searched his pockets for a matchstick to chew on then laid the shotgun-like, 40MM grenade launcher at his feet. He checked it twice with his eyes closed, making sure that the Willie Pete grenade was ready to go and the safety was on. Everything was in order.

Lehane removed the Glock from his belt holster, checked the clip and his spares, put everything away again. He stared through the open doorway, where a tiny glow was coming from the computer monitor. Lehane assumed the creature would just take it for a normal television set. He could not see Sandy from here, but knowing she was close by was a comfort. He closed his eyes.

Sat there, alone in the dark, waiting.

Guri checked in first. "One." That meant he was in the filthy Gazebo, covered with garbage, leaves and animal droppings. He would now stay buried in the muck until ordered to change position or open fire.

Whiz clicked the master microphone once to acknowledge that he'd heard. Lehane closed his eyes and tried to rest. He remembered something Dwight Eisenhower once said, just before the D-Day invasion of Normandy, during World War Two. "Before the battle, plans are everything. Once the shooting starts, plans are useless," or words to that effect. Lehane had seen that some missions could go smoothly, but knew all too well how quickly they could become fucked up. He prayed quietly that this would not be one of those times.

"Two."

That was Pops, checking in. He was now buried in the forest perhaps three hundred yards up the hill. He was sighting on the gazebo, where Guri was waiting, and the entire mortuary parking lot. Whiz clicked quietly to signal that they had heard.

"Three," Lehane whispered. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck and tried to get comfortable.

"Four." Sandy was ready and would stay as motionless as possible for the duration. The entire team was in place.

"Five," Whiz said, softly. His voice was in their headsets only. "Maybe I'm finally free to tell you assholes what I truly think of you."

Light chuckles in response. "You're really brave when we're eighty miles away, aren't you, Whiz?"

Lehane clucked his tongue. "Guri, maintain silence." He understood their tension and frustration, and the questions they were all asking themselves…

What is this creature we're after? And do we really know what we're doing?

Is this the time I get myself killed?

Christ, do we even know what the hell we're doing out here?

TWENTY-EIGHT

Air hisses from a decaying throat; it's the last wheeze of oxygen from lungs that have been forced to breath long past their prime. The Bhuta summons energy like a black hole collects gravity, and for yards around it the birds fall silent, the dogs bark in terror and the cats hiss and hide; for the living instinctively tremble in the presence of a Dark One. The Bhuta has changed bodies many times in the last moon, and thus has gained clarity and a sense of self that it has not enjoyed for many years. It sits up slowly, enjoying the brisk night air…

It is mindless no longer. In fact, it now thinks of itself as Ali Basra, a practitioner of the dark arts who used the spirit of the Bhuta to animate a corpse, but this is a thing which is both true and untrue. For whatever was once human has been forever tainted by the touch of Kali-ma, Mother of the cold ones, and may never be warm and truly alive again.

Yet Ali Basra, wearing the mantle of Torturer of Iraq and the revenant of a human ego, continues to delude himself.

The Bhuta tests the limbs of the host. As usual, it has fine control of the arms and legs and can use the vocal chords to speak a few words, but the fingers and toes do not function properly.

Ali Basra, or the part of him that still exists in this inhabited corpse, resolves to improve these functions over time. Each new body teaches him something new; each manifestation of his greatness both refines and expands his power.

The stars are beautiful. The Bhuta does not have the ability to distinguish most colors, the host eyes have deteriorated too far for that; he experiences vision as a pastel palate consisting mostly of beige, black and white. Nonetheless, light is a wonderful thing to a beast from eternal darkness.

Briefly, Ali Basra enjoys the night sky. Finally he orders the host body to swivel its head. He is sitting in gravel, beside a parked automobile. The Bhuta grabs the door handle, clumsily groping with stiff fingers, and pulls itself into a standing position. The head turns again.

It is in a parking lot, by some sort of tavern. Odd music, American country music, floats through the half-open lavatory window and drifts away on the night air. The Bhuta vaguely recalls accessing this body, sneaking up behind the drunken truck driver as he urinated into the bushes, spitting into his eyes before snapping his neck. It looks down and sees the previous body, collapsed like a rag doll at the weed-shrouded edge of a creek bed.

Kneeling on creaky joints, the Bhuta rolls the used corpse down into the tall weeds and out of sight. The blood-drenched body is of no further use, except perhaps as food. The Bhuta gained the information it required, the location of his most recent kill, and could always return to this spot if hungry.

It turns and claws back up the low hill, where it stands, as if confused, for a long moment…

Ali Basra remembers what the host body's dying brain has stored. He searches the belt, finds the huge key ring. He orders the host body to open and climb into the truck. Seated behind the steering wheel, the body remembers how to start the truck and gun the enormous engine. It grunts with satisfaction.

"Billy?"

The Bhuta hears the voices, a man and a woman calling together. It knows the body it occupies was once called by that name. This is worrisome, since the living must inevitably sense that there is something terribly wrong with the dead. It can carry a charade for a while, assuming the human is drunk or distracted, but a confrontation is inevitable.

The Bhuta jerks the enormous truck into gear and begins to back out of the parking space. The portion that is Ali Basra is pleased with his coordination and control over the corpse.

It turns on the headlights.

Standing directly in front of the truck he sees one woman, one man. They stand waving and calling; both are quite obviously intoxicated. The male has a full quart of malt liquor in his right hand. Ali Basra decides in a heartbeat to run them down and continue on. It begins to put the truck in gear but intuition stays his hand.

The door to the bar stands open. Perhaps it is closing time, for patrons are spilling out into the lighted parking lot. There are too many witnesses. Running these humans down would attract too much attention. Ali Basra understands the truck would soon be located and his freedom at risk.

So he forces the corpse to smile…And opens the passenger door.

The young man enters, sets the quart of beer down on the floor and reaches for his partner. He wears a fashionable but sparse goatee, a red white and blue cowboy shirt that seems like striped nonsense to the Bhuta, jeans and boots and an oversized white cowboy hat that touches the top of the cab. The girl with him is plump and ripe; she is dressed in jeans, a blue work shirt and a string tie. Her blonde hair is sprayed into absurdity and oddly misshapen from perspiration and the addled groping of her boyfriend during oral sex in the parking lot.

"You almost forgot about us, hombre." The bleary-eyed man squints at what he thinks is his truck driver friend. "Billy, you look like shit. I didn't think you was that drunk. You been barfing?"

The Bhuta concentrates on the word. Ali Basra speaks English. He forces the mouth to move, air to cross the vocal chords. What emerges has an odd, hissing resonance. It is one word: "Drunk."

The female giggles and slams the door, extinguishing the overhead light and plunging the cab into welcome darkness, save for the pale green illumination coming from the dash. She speaks. "Me, too."

Because the word has met with such success, the Bhuta says it again. "Drunk."

Both the male and female human laugh out loud. The male pats the Bhuta's cooling right hand. "You okay to drive us home, Billy?"

"Okay," the Bhuta mumbles. "Okay."

He throws the truck into reverse without checking the rear view mirror. Several people shout their anger, but the Bhuta ignores them. It is aware enough to enjoy the enormous sense of power the truck provides. It is a true life-taker in the right hands. It drives out of the parking lot, rips the mirror off a parked car, and goes toward the highway at the end of the drive.

The male fumbles with the radio and finds a country music station. A low male voice fills the cab of the truck "You BROKE my HEART when you said GOODBYE…." The couple riding with death begins to drink malt liquor and sing along.

The Bhuta pauses at the highway. It is not certain which way to turn. The male passenger stops warbling. "Billy? What's up, man?"

The Bhuta concentrates, forms words. "Flat Rock," it manages. It tries again, just to be sure. "Flat Rock."

The male chuckles, sips from the brown bottle. "You got to go up to Flat Rock? What the fuck for?"

The Bhuta, wisely, remains silent.

"Man, you are toasted, aren't you? Well, can you just drop us off on the way, then? It's a straight shot up the 30, and my place is near the foot of the mountain."

The Bhuta squints at the highway sign and locates the number 30. Ali Basra is satisfied. The Bhuta puts the truck into drive and heads north. Meanwhile, the drunken couple riding with the Bhuta begins to paw one another—lips locked, young bodies quivering. After a mile or two the Bhuta sees FLAT ROCK on a highway sign.

Now Ali Basra knows what to do.

The immense truck roars down the empty desert highway, music blaring from the radio, the couple in the front seat lost in unrequited lust. Headlights pierce the gloom to stroke the blacktop like yellowing fingers.

The Bhuta wants to find the body of the doctor it slaughtered at the hospital, but the part that is Ali Basra knows it also wishes to find and destroy Jeff Lehane, the human who invaded his home, and then Enrique Diaz. In truth, the Bhuta has become a murder machine, only vaguely motivated by Ali Basra and his old grudges and varied, loose connections between the dead humans it inhabits; a force of dark nature that will kill and kill again, on and on, endlessly, like some lethal virus.

The Bhuta likes the tension in the steering wheel and the enormous power harnessed under the hood. The vibrations provided more closely approximate real life, real human sensation. For a time it forgets the two bodies next to it on the front seat. It drives further into the desert and up the gentle slope leading to the mountains.

"No, no," the female says, under her breath. The Bhuta glances to his right. The beer is resting on the floor. The Bhuta sees that the male, overcome with desire, has unfastened his zipper and is trying to get the female to fellate him. A skeletal grin crosses the already dry, wasting features of the Bhuta. It remembers this act.

The female gives in and her head is soon buried in the male's lap. For its part, the Bhuta is glad to have a diversion, for the host body is rapidly losing life and its bowels have begun to empty. It orders the left hand to roll down the window and the cab fills with cold, night air.

The truck drives on. The couple remains caught up in their sex act and does not react to the stench in the truck, probably assumes it to be fertilizer from some passing patch of farmland.

The road signs eventually indicate that Flat Rock is a mere twenty miles further up Highway 30. Ali Basra orders the Bhuta to slow the truck. The male grunts with pleasure, the female squirms and giggles at his satisfaction. The truck rumbles to a stop at the foot of the mountain.

The male comes to his senses. "Billy? What's the matter, dude?"

The female, only slightly embarrassed, wipes her lips on her sleeve and locates the quart of beer. She drinks deeply, belches and looks blearily out at the sky and the distant lights of the town they've left behind. She offers the bottle but the Bhuta sits quietly and does not respond.

"What's the matter, Big Billy," she chuckles. "Did we get you all hot and bothered?"

The male sighs deeply, leans back and closes his eyes. "Damn, that was good. Bro, this little filly could suck a golf ball through a yard of garden hose."

The female slaps him, but only half-heartedly. "You're a pig."

"No, I'm a generous man," he says. "Maybe you should give Big Billy here a taste of your magic tongue."

"What? No!"

The male slides his hand down into the front of her unzipped jeans and rubs. "In fact, let me watch. It might just get me going again."

Her eyes roll back in her head. The Bhuta observes this, and is in some strange way amused. It wonders how long it can maintain the deception before being discovered. Their stupidity is truly awesome to behold.

"Oh," she says, softly. "Oh, my."

"Come on, baby," the man whispers in her ear. "Give old Billy some of that sugar for driving us home. I want to watch. Do it for me."

His fingers move faster, faster still until the girl shudders with orgasm. They share a drink from the bottle. The Bhuta sits in the small pile of excrement in its jeans, watching and waiting. The female takes the silence for acquiescence. Finally her fingers crab-walk across the seat and up into the crotch of its pants.

"Billy, you're all soft. Maybe you're just too drunk."

"Go on," the man says, urgently. "You can get him up, I know you can."

The female leans closer, puts her head on the shoulder of the Bhuta. Her nose wrinkles with disgust. "Billy, you stink…"

"Do it." The male pushes the back of her head. His voice is dark with anger, thick with lust. "Get him off, damn it."

The female, her head close to the lap of the corpse, gags in horror. "Jesus, did you shit yourself, Billy?"

The Bhuta grabs her head in both hands and forces it down into the lap of the inhabited body so it can grip her neck. She squirms in panic, arms and legs thrashing. Beside her on the seat, the drunken male roars with laughter.

"That's it, man. Go for it."

The Bhuta turns her head up at an odd angle, so that she faces him. She is gathering air for a scream. He spits into her open mouth. The female gags, thrashes. She finally does scream, and the sound is one of outrage and terror.

The male calms a bit. "Easy, man. Not so rough."

"Let me go, you bastard!"

"Billy, back off!"

The woman is ready. The Bhuta pulls hard on her neck, separating two vertebrae, and then yanks sharply at an upward angle. The neck breaks with an audible SNAP. She goes limp and her bladder instantly evacuates, soaking the front seat.

The stink in the cab is now unbearable.

The drunk male is aware of what has happened, but still cannot take it all in. He sits in the same position, frozen with horror. "Oh, Christ! What happened? What did you do to her, Billy? What did you do?"

The Bhuta grunts something unintelligible and shoves the woman down toward the floor of the cab. The male begins to grope for the passenger side door handle, his bloodshot eyes suddenly wide as saucers.

"You killed her man, not me. You killed her."

The door unlocks, the male falls half out of the door but remains locked into place by his seat belt. He struggles with the clasp. His heart is thudding like a bass drum, flowing with fresh, hot blood; the Bhuta can hear the sound, and the rushing of fluids, and at last becomes truly aroused. It reaches for him with a cold, trembling hand.

"Don't hurt me," the male cries. "I won't tell anybody. We can dump her ass out here, I won't tell a soul. I swear."

The Bhuta concentrates until it manages to grab his arm and pull the panicked man back into the cab of the truck. Adrenaline has sobered him up, he is retching from fear and the ghastly odor in the truck; feces, urine and decaying human flesh.

The male fights hard, kicking and shrieking. He is much stronger than the female, and his movement eventually activates the interior light. When he sees the flat, lifeless eyes and stiffening flesh of his tormentor, he begins to babble nonsense, like a small human child.

"N-n-n-no…"

Ali Basra experiences the panic of another as the purest of pleasure; the human mind collapsed into itself, until only an exquisitely vivid darkness remains. It savors the sensation for precious seconds. It pries the jaws of the male open and kisses him, forcing bloody spit into his mouth.

The male shrieks, like the lost soul he has become.

With reluctance, Ali Basra orders the Bhuta to end it. The creature forces the male back against the window and bites into the exposed flesh of his neck.

It chews, gnaws persistently until a geyser of hot blood bursts into the confined space, adding to the stench. The male gurgles into nothingness. His legs kick and twitch, the fingers tremble and then the unlucky drunkard is gone.

The Bhuta yanks the body back onto the front seat and closes the door. It tries to start the truck, but the left arm of the female is extended over the gas pedal. It puzzles over the problem but eventually figures out how to move the body out of the way. The male and female soon sit together, side by side as before, with their mouths agape and their dead eyes staring.

Ali Basra starts the engine, puts the huge truck into gear and coasts up Highway 30, heading for Flat Rock, Nevada. He is now close enough to sense the proximity of yesterday's kill…

TWENTY-NINE

The brightness of the Tao seems like darkness,

the advancement of the Tao seems like retreat,

the level path seems rough,

the superior path seems empty,

the pure seems to be tarnished,

and true virtue doesn't seem to be enough.

The virtue of caution seems like cowardice,

the pure seems to be polluted,

the true square seems to have no corners,

the best vessels take the most time to finish,

the greatest sounds cannot be heard,

and the greatest image has no form…

The Tao hides in the unnamed,

yet it alone nourishes and completes all things.

"We got company."

Jeff Lehane snapped awake instantly, mouth filled with the metallic taste of adrenaline. Pops had whispered into the central com. Whiz instantly relayed the update. Lehane dropped his own small microphone into place and murmured a command. "Sound off." Everyone immediately counted off their positions again, one through four. For a brief moment, Lehane wondered if he'd made a mistake by firing Mike Castle. What if this team was too small?

"ETA?"

"Can't be sure from here, boss, but I'd say ten minutes, maybe less. Looks like some kind of trucker. How do you want to play it?"

"By the book," Lehane responded, softly. "We assume it's the boogeyman."

"Roger that."

"Whiz, got anything?"

"Not from that distance."

"Keep tracking."

"I'm half blind. I can try and get some satellite time."

"No, hold that."

"Boss," Guri whispered, "if he doesn't come closer I could leave my post and crawl to the edge of the slope for a look."

"How?"

"I've got the NV."

"Maybe, but you'll be exposed."

"I can live with it."

"Under advisement. Hold on that, too."

Lehane sat in the darkness, feeling frustrated and virtually blind. He watched Sandy's shadow fall across the console in the other room and considered the options. "Pops, can you see the truck?"

"Too far to get much more than shadows. The head lights just went out."

"Keep watching, you have the best POV."

"Will do."

"Whiz, are you lining up all the camera angles for Sandy, so I can see a panorama if I need to?"

"She's got the four winds, boss."

"Okay, get them as clear and sharp as you can."

"I still think I should try to dial up some satellite."

"Okay, start the process, but don't close the deal."

"I'm on it."

"Pops, what have you got?"

"Can't tell for sure, boss. I think someone is moving around down there in the shadow of the truck. It's parked at an angle to the east of the old casino, right in the middle of the ghost town."

"So it's not far from the driveway?"

"Maybe a hundred feet."

"So it could be our boy."

Guri groaned. "Or just some poor redneck who cranked up on crystal meth and needed a place to crash."

"Okay, but why go twenty minutes off the main highway to a ghost town to catch a nap," Sandy offered. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe he's getting laid," Guri said.

Pops sighed dramatically "Lucky bastard."

"Yeah," Guri whispered. "Somebody should be."

"Settle down," Lehane said, mildly. "And keep quiet."

Lehane wanted to crack down harder, but held himself in check. They were all stressed because of the unknown nature of their quarry. They needed to blow off some steam. He checked his watch. It was nearing midnight.

As if reading his thoughts, Guri started joking again. "Okay, tell me what's wrong with this picture. We're all in the middle of nowhere, huddled in the dark in a ghost town, waiting to try to kill a zombie from hell, and the clock is closing in on midnight."

Pops snickered. "And your point would be…?"

"Hold it." That was Whiz, and he sounded nervous.

"What is it, Whiz?"

"Boss, we got movement from the southeast."

"Same as Pops, right?"

Long pause. "That's the point, Jeff. I don't think so."

Guri moaned. "Oh, you have got to be shitting me."

"Jeff, the sensors planted southeast at the edge of the trees are showing some activity, vibration in the ground."

Lehane thought aloud. "Those are the ones Mike Castle planted."

"Maybe he screwed something up."

"Hold one." That was Whiz, re-checking his systems, looking for anything abnormal.

"Talk to me, Whiz."

"Not the gear, boss," Whiz replied. "As of right now, everything looks okay."

Pops gave Whiz the coordinates for the truck parked in Flat Rock; Whiz crosschecked them against the coordinates of the second hit. Lehane could hear his fingers clattering on the keyboard.

"Nope, this is definitely a different bogey."

"Wildlife, maybe a brown bear?"

"I guess that's possible, but whatever it is the computer says it's moving pretty fast, five or six miles an hour at times."

"How big is it?"

"I'll know more in a few minutes, but it is definitely too small to be a car."

Guri blew a raspberry. "Just what we needed, our monster turns out to be a fucking track star."

Before the battle, plans are everything.

"Stay cool, people." He meditated for a moment, hoping to calm his mind, but a pervasive sense of dread began to overtake him. Nothing was developing the way it had been drawn up, and when the wheels came off, people died.

"Whiz, get that time on the bird if you can. Tell me what's going on down here on the ground."

"I'm asking right now. We may be able to steal thirty seconds off a weather bird, I'll let you know."

"Boss, permission to leave my post and crawl to the edge of the cliff over the driveway."

Lehane swallowed. "Permission granted, but watch your ass."

"It's the only one I've got."

"Sandy, how's your view, should I leave my station?"

"I'd wait for the bird, Jeff. We've got nothing but shadow on all four cameras."

"No heat signal?"

"Nope, but who promised you a zombie would have one?"

Lehane was damp with perspiration. He wiped his brow. "I was hoping we'd find a human wandering around."

"No such luck, or at least not yet," Sandy whispered.

"One."

"What you got there, Pops?"

"Someone is coming up the hill, slow pace, kind of staggering like a drunken sailor."

"Whiz, any heat registering?"

"Too far away without the bird, boss."

"Then get me some time. Do it five minutes ago."

"Yes, sir."

"Pops, what can you pick up?"

"Like I said, looks like a drunk. Weaving a bit, fighting his way up the hill."

"Guri, where are you now?"

"Maybe ten feet away from the gazebo, boss."

"Get back into position as quietly as you can."

"Damn it. Okay."

Whiz, from the command center miles away: "You think this is our boogeyman?"

"I don't know, but we have to try and play this the way we planned it." Before the battle, plans are everything, but once the battle begins…

"Bingo, faint heat signature."

"I don't know whether to be happy or pissed," Guri whispered. "Do I still have to crawl back into the garbage?"

"Yes, and move it. Do not get caught in the open."

"It's not your boy anyway, Guri," Whiz said in the tiny earphone. "I meant whatever is coming up the side of the mountain, the second bogey."

"The one moving so fast."

"Yeah, could be someone sprinting, but I'll tell you from what I've seen of the terrain that would have to be one hell of an athlete."

"Shit." Lehane was a little surprised to discover the epithet had come from his own lips. "Okay, everybody settle down. Pops, have you got a clean shot?"

"Working on one."

"Can you see anything yet?"

"Not facial features. Not very tall. It's somebody wearing jeans and a shirt, could be a man or a woman, not sure."

"Whiz?"

"No bird time available right now, boss."

"Shit again. How long, Whiz?"

Two seconds passed. "Not for twenty three minutes and eleven seconds."

"Too late to do us any good."

"Looks that way."

"Okay, listen up. Pops, do not take your eye off the target coming up from Flat Rock. He belongs to you and Guri, clear?"

"One clear."

"Got you, boss," Guri whispered. "I'm back in position."

"Whiz, you track bogey number two. If you become mathematically certain he's headed for the mortuary, clue me in."

Sandy interrupted. "If he's ours, I'll have to go outside."

"Negative."

"Jeff, come on. We may need more boots on the ground."

"I know. They'll be mine."

"With all due respect, give me one reason."

"I'm a far better shot."

Silence, except for nervous breathing, then Sandy joked: "If you're going to fight me with logic, I'm not going to discuss this."

"One, sitrep?"

"Boss, the drunk just sat down in the road. Nothing to report."

"Whiz?"

"The heat signal is still coming, but I've noticed something."

"What?"

"It's weaving a bit."

"Two drunks?"

"No, I mean when I track the movement it is vaguely serpentine."

"You've lost me."

"Well, that kind of pattern suggests to me that it is someone following a road through the trees."

"You're saying there's a road we didn't know about?"

"Sorry, boss. It's probably just some kind of hiking trail or bike path that wasn't on a map. We wouldn't catch it unless it had traffic on it."

"You said the second bogey is moving pretty fast, right?"

"Like a scalded dog."

"Could the heat signature you're picking up be from an engine, like a motorcycle?"

"Yeah, that could explain it."

Guri whispered: "Even more bang for your buck, one zombie on a Harley."

The image immediately cracked them all up, but Lehane could hear the edge in their voices.

"Whiz?"

"Yes, sir."

"If we don't know anything about the trail he's on, we don't know where he's heading. Is that correct?"

"That is correct. As of now, we do not know much of anything except he's up here where he shouldn't be."

"Maybe a camper having a reckless, haul-ass drive through the woods at night with his girlfriend on the back."

"Sure."

"Could be he's heading for some cabin in the boonies or maybe even Flat Rock to hook up with our pal the trucker."

"Anything is possible."

"Then everybody listen up. Hold your positions."

"Roger that."

"Hang in there. We wait and see. Right now that's all we can do." Except pray that this entire mission doesn't go to hell in a hand basket and get us all killed…

THIRTY

The scooter moved steadily up the mountain path, crunching through dried leaves and twigs; its small headlight spewing yellowed shadows into the heavy undergrowth. High above, the high desert firmament was a pitch black, thick fabric freckled with pinpricks of brilliant white stars. The night air smelled of pine and wood sap. The driver hunched forward, his ears reddened and cringing from the cold, and tried to avoid crashing into a tree or slipping down a loose bank into the creek.

Donald Pinker had spent several hours down in the basin, at the Honey Ranch. He even dropped a couple hundred bucks spending time with his favorite babe Helena, but somehow the idea of getting laid while his animals went hungry just didn't sit right. The problem was that the mysterious Mr. Jeffrey had made it abundantly clear that Donald was not welcome near the mortuary, or on the front property, not for the rest of the night.

So, how best to handle a delicate situation?

After three beers, Pinker had a clever thought. Perhaps it would be a breech of the agreement and therefore economically foolish to take that car back to the premises, but what about a quick drive, heading up the back way, just to feed the livestock? Why, in all likelihood his presence might never be noticed. And he would not have broken the terms of the agreement, since he could come and go without once setting foot in the mortuary.

His fourth beer made the idea seem brilliant.

Pinker figured he'd cut over to Cherry Tree Road, go over the railroad tracks, down the 15 and past the closed mines to the north of Flat Rock. The mining road led to the foot of the mountains to the east of his property. From there on, he could take the hiking trail, which was relatively smooth most of the way. He'd park the scooter where the cliff ledge protruded a bit and walk the last mile, feed the livestock, walk back down the path and sleep at the Sugar Ranch.

Hell, Mr. Jeffrey and his crew would never know he'd been there.

The handyman employed by the Honey Ranch was a slightly retarded black fellow named Horace. Horace was unable to afford an automobile or to get a formal driver's license, so he ran his errands on a small red scooter with a wire basket welded to the front fender. Feeling magnanimous, Pinker spiffed Horace a fifty and borrowed the wheels. He parked the two remaining beers in the basket and set out alone.

The air slapped his face repeatedly, bit into his cheeks and reddened his skin. Pinker was wind-burned within minutes, and wasn't even driving fast. But by the time he'd sobered up enough to reconsider, the scooter was already more than half way home. He drank another beer, turned into the foothills and was pleased to note that the buffered air seemed warmer.

The alcohol kept working magic, but water began to build up in his system. He had to pee.

Pinker slowed down and allowed the bike to wander down into a dry stream bed, where he used the kick stand. He left the tiny engine running and the small headlight on for company.

Damn, Pinker thought, sheepishly, it's kind of spooky out here in the middle of nowhere, .especially in the dark. He'd grown quite used to his television and having four secure walls at night.

Pinker moved a few steps away from the scooter, both hands clenched on his crotch as if such an action would prevent his bladder from releasing. Behind him the tiny, untended engine sputtered a bit as if the timing was set too low. Pinker felt a small flicker of alarm, but unzipped anyway out of sheer necessity. Then, just as he moaned and released a long, steaming stream of urine, the tiny scooter's motor ground to a halt.

The world slowed on its axis, tilted and for a long moment seemed to stop spinning. Pinker was suddenly scared, right down to the marrow of his bones. He could smell his urine, watched it arc into the shadows under the moonlight, outlined by the weak beam of the headlamp. The cold air pricked his exposed flesh with a thousand tiny needles. The surrounding forest seemed too expand in every direction. It was silent, but for the splattering of piss and the beating of his startled heart.

Pinker licked his chapped lips. His mind sang: What if the damned thing won't start again and I'm stuck in the middle of the boonies without transportation? I can't go home, and I'm too far from anything else.

Just then a keening OOoooOooooo floated down from the ridgeline and settled in the stream bed like a blanket of frost.

It's just a coyote, for Chrissakes, come on you live out here Donald and you know that sound, what's the matter, chicken?

He answered himself aloud. "You're damned right."

With the warm, alcoholically inspired glow beginning to fade, Pinker realized that he hadn't planned properly. Was the battery new enough to last the trip? Horace was a retard, after all. Jesus, he hadn't even checked the gas gauge on the scooter.

Okay, so if it starts again, what if I run out of fuel…?

"It will start again, you moron. There will be enough gas in the tank, okay? And if it doesn't you'll hike up the trail and crash in the barn until Mr. Jeffrey is gone. This is no big deal."

OooooooOOooo…Another coyote answered the first one's call. There came another, then another. Soon the night was filled with mournful wailing.

I've never heard them sound like that before. It's almost like they're afraid of something…

Pinker shook himself and zipped up. Just then an animal moved in the brush, perhaps fifty yards up the hill. He froze, heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

It moved again. Something rolling, or maybe running, down the mountainside, headed his way.

Pinker trembled, but could not move. The short hairs on his neck fluttered wildly until they came to parade rest. He had the odd feeling he was on camera, or being watched. His mouth went dry and his bowels loosened. He ordered himself to move, ran back to the red scooter, threw his leg over and tried the engine. Fortunately, it started immediately. With a sigh of relief, Pinker maneuvered up out of the stream bed and back onto the narrow mining road.

He resumed his journey, although not without looking back over his shoulder a few times, just to make sure he wasn't being followed…

…"What have you got for me, Whiz?"

"Not much more, boss. The heat signature is a bit easier to see. The sensors indicate part of it is from some kind of small engine, and judging by the size and shape somebody's driving."

"As in someone who's got warm flesh and blood."

"Well, it looks that way."

Guri: "Anybody else buy the idea of a tourist out here at this time of night?" A few seconds went by. "I didn't think so."

"Pops, where is the drunk?"

"Still sitting in the driveway, boss. The arms move once in a while, like they're trying to get up."

"That's it?"

"One more thing. It might be a woman."

"What makes you say that, Pops?"

"Something about the shape of the body, the figure is slender and not big at all. Also, I thought I saw boobs a second ago."

Guri chuckled. "Guess you wouldn't miss that, now would you?"

"Sandy, we still have picture, right?"

"Not bad at all, now."

"Stay sharp, everybody. I'm going to go have a look-see." Lehane moved away from the wall, went flat on the carpet and crawled through the hall and into the bedroom. Sandy was staring at the monitor, which was now split into four separate screens. The ambient light was insufficient, so Whiz had programmed the computer to read movement and make assumptions based on other factors, such as heat signature and shape.

The first camera was angled out into the mortuary parking lot. Whiz had done everything he could to sharpen the image, but all Lehane could see was a shape huddled half way down the drive. As Pops had described, it was definitely human but the gender was unclear.

"Whiz, I am looking at camera one. Do you have any heat coming from that target, any signature at all?"

"Nope. Take a quick look at four, see that orange dot? That's the engine coming up the mountain. The red around it is what makes me think there's a live rider."

Lehane looked carefully then went back to the first camera. "Give me other reasons the first bogey wouldn't show up as breathing."

"Body armor, maybe? If he's wearing heavy battle armor with enough metal in the infrastructure, we might not get a reading from this far away."

"Any other possible reason?"

"Only that he's dead meat."

Lehane grunted. "Then we assume this is our Bhuta. Pops, don't fire until he's closer to the main building. If a head shot doesn't work, I want us all free to use tracers and a Willie Pete."

"Roger."

Sandy tapped the computer screen. "But who is this other one, Jeff? What the hell is going on?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

Sandy turned and caught Lehane looking at her. She stared back in a soft, open way that made his stomach flutter.

He covered his microphone. "When this is all over…"

"I know," she whispered. "Go back to work."

Lehane leaned down to kiss her but Whiz made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and said: "Oh, no."

They pulled back. Sandy went directly to the keyboard, quick mind on business. Lehane tore his eyes away from her as he moved his microphone back into its proper position. "Whiz, what have you got?"

"Wait one."

The clatter of keyboards. Whiz perfected the signal and Sandy honed in and sharpened it. "Jeff," she said, urgently. "Look at this."

Another reddish dot was coming up the front highway. Whoever it was had already crossed the outer limits of the sensors and entered the ghost town. Whiz spoke first. "Man, this is getting so fucked up."

"What is it, a car or another truck?"

"A car," Whiz replied. "May be just one passenger in it, can't be certain yet."

"That's great, just great."

"Boss, this is Pops. Our bogey is up and moving again."

"Sandy, you keep an eye on the second one."

"He's stopped boss."

"Where is he?"

"Maybe a mile down the mountain."

"You sure he's stopped?"

"Yeah, the heat signature is getting smaller, too. Maybe he turned off the engine or something."

"Watch him close, because I think the party is about to start. I need to know exactly what's going on every second."

"Will do."

Lehane whispered: "Here we go, Pops. Track that headshot. Guri, suck it up. I'm on my way back to first position."

Lehane crawled quickly across the upstairs hall and into the front bedroom; sat up near the open window with his back against the wood paneling, the compact grenade launcher across his chest.

…And at that moment Donald Pinker turned out the headlight, set the scooter on its kickstand and stretched. He had to pee again. Something about his last experience made him hurry, and he got some on his pant leg. The idea of being followed frightened him. Pinker squatted down to listen. The engine ticked quietly, his breathing rasped in his ears, but he heard nothing out of order. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the pale moonlight, located the footpath and started up the mountain…

…Also at that same second the Bhuta crouches low and moves swiftly through the undergrowth. The life force it has absorbed over the last few weeks has given it tremendous power and an unprecedented level of control over the host body. The spark that is the revenant of Ali Basra relaxes, for he is momentarily content to let unholy appetite control the creature as, with the cunning of a feral animal, it moves to higher ground…

…"Boss."

"Yeah, Pops. Talk to me."

"Bogey one?"

"Yeah?"

"Good news, bad news."

"Quit screwing around."

"Okay, I've got the shot, but this is definitely a woman."

THIRTY-ONE

Being overly bold and confident can be a deadly mistake.

Only the wise use of intuition will keep you alive.

Arrogance is the way to death

Humility is the way to preserve life.

The master does not presume to know everything.

For who can understand the workings of Heaven?

The Tao of the Master's universe

does not compete, yet wins;

does not speak, yet responds;

does not command, yet is inevitably obeyed.

The Master does not act, but is always good at directing.

He respects death, for

the nets of Heaven are cast wide,

and absolutely nothing escapes its grasp…

"Can you describe her, Pops?"

"From here, she looks some honky tonk girl out for a night on the town, who maybe ended up puking in her lap. Light colored hair, all messed up, stumbling around. She's wearing jeans and what looks like some kind of cowboy shirt."

"Is she still coming up the driveway?"

"She's heading right for you, Guri. I think you're gonna like her, she's just your kind of girl."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Can the jokes," Lehane whispered. "We know this thing can change bodies, so we have to assume this is the Bhuta. Pops, Guri, hold your fire and wait for my order. Whiz, got her now?"

"Wait one, I'm closing in a bit. Sandy, she should be on your second screen, can you see her now?"

"I've got her. Can't make out her face, but she looks pretty fucked up."

"How far away?" Lehane was itching to peek out the window to see for himself couldn't risk moving. He fondled the stock of the grenade launcher, wiggled his nervous fingers.

"Twenty yards and closing."

"How do we look on the second bogey, Whiz?"

"We have some heat sig moving up the mountain, but looks like he left his motorcycle behind, if that's what it was. He's on foot now, and moving like a garden slug. He's no threat to us, at least not yet."

"What's going on in the ghost town?"

"The second vehicle stopped there, on the opposite side of the old casino from the first truck. Now someone warm is moving toward the slope at a pretty good clip."

"Not up the driveway, after the girl?"

"Negative, up the slope."

"So he is looking to climb the rock face, when there is a big-assed driveway?"

"Affirmative."

Lehane grunted. "Okay, then we have to assume this one is a player, too, and it's someone who knows how our defenses are set up. Pops, he's your target. Guri, you'll take out the girl when the time comes."

"Roger that," Pops said. "Wait one, I have to see if I can pick him up."

"Guri," Sandy whispered, "the woman is maybe fifteen yards below you, a bit south and west, still moving your way. At her present rate of speed, she'll be passing the gazebo in about four minutes."

"Got it."

"Pops, you got the new guest yet?"

"Still looking, boss. I think he must be coming up the rock face, because I can't find him. He's not on the ledge, that's for sure."

"Whiz, any chance of getting the porch camera on that area?"

"I don't want to leave the girl, boss. She's too close to Guri to risk losing her, even for a second."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Come on, Pops. We need that target acquired and I do mean now."

"Easy, Jeff, if he shows one hair on his ass, I'll have him."

Lehane heard a sharp intake of breath from Sandy. It came in stereo, loud in the earphones and faint from the other room. "Christ almighty, Whiz. Would you take a look at her face?"

"Oh, man. This is some bad voodoo."

"Where is she?" Lehane snapped. "Guri has to know."

"At the top of the driveway, boss—walking straight toward the gazebo. Her head is at a really weird angle, like somebody doing their thing on Halloween."

"Keep it together. Pops, any luck?"

"Not yet, he must still be climbing."

"The woman is not, repeat not approaching the building at this time, she is going straight for the gazebo. Can you reacquire?"

"Wait one."

Before the battle, plans are everything…"Pops?"

"Okay, I've got her."

"Can I get a head shot if I need one?"

"Just give the word. Man, she is butt ugly."

"Guri, listen up. We'll give her another minute or so to turn. If she doesn't head for the steps to the mortuary, Pops will take the head shot. Once he does, you hot foot it out of there and fry her grits."

Guri did not reply, just clicked his microphone gently. The woman was that close to his position.

"Sandy," Lehane whispered, "is she looking up or down right now?"

"Like Whiz said, her head is at a weird angle, Jeff. So her face is turned to the right and down. She's kind of circling or something."

"Can I risk the window?"

"Unless she's got extra eyes, I'd say so."

"Here we go, people." Lehane took a deep breath, released it and took one that was a bit shallower. He slid to the window, raised the grenade launcher and peeked around the corner.

The woman stood below him, perhaps fifteen yards away and right in the middle of the lot. She was less than ten feet from the gazebo, turning in small circles like a robot gone out of control. Lehane squinted in the dim light and sighted on her. He could not open fire with a grenade because she was still too close to Guri.

Everyone froze and the com channel went out, making it so silent Lehane could hear the figure down below emit a strange, high pitched grunting sound; even catch the scraping sound her boots made in the light sprinkle of gravel that topped all the parking spaces. She turned and turned, mindlessly.

"Come on, come on." Whiz started talking to himself, voicing what they were all feeling. The target needed to move away from Guri and closer to the mortuary before anyone dared open fire, except for Pops. But because he was focused on her, that third bogey, the big one coming rapidly up the rock face at the front of the property, was running free.

There were no good choices.

Lehane thought rapidly. He eased out of sight again, flattened against the wall and whispered an order.

Sandy was surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Do it."

Sandy immediately got to her feet, turned on the bedroom overhead light and started coughing, in part to cover popping a round into her Glock. She moved out into the hallway and onto the stairs, turned on another light and walked down, slowly and methodically, making quite a racket.

Lehane went back to the window. "Sitrep?"

Whiz answered. "Bogey one stopped turning around, boss. She's paying attention to the noises, focusing on the house."

"Good. Clear to look?"

"Not yet."

Sandy waited a couple of seconds before climbing the stairs again. She turned the hallway light out and went back into the bedroom. Lehane watched her shadow pass by as she returned to the computer console.

"Bogey is taking the bait," Whiz said. "She has started moving your way."

"Pops, leave her to Guri and me. Go back and find bogey three. Let's hope he's still near that rock face."

"He's there," Whiz said.

Lehane imagined Pops scouring the edge of the short cliff through his scope, looking for the man who'd just arrived. One problem had been solved.

But now Guri was effectively trapped between two of the enemy.

"Okay, bogey one is fixated on the porch. Target is available, I say again, target is available."

"I'm worried about the third. You find him yet, Pops?"

"No, but I will handle him."

Lehane decided. "Okay, people, it is show time. Guri, you're up first. Give bogey one a verbal warning. If she doesn't respond soonest, we assume she's the shit eater and take her ass out."

"Roger that."

"Jeff, she's awfully close to the porch."

"On my mark. We go in five, four, three, two…"

Lehane spun around the corner, glad to be active at last. Whiz activated the floods they had planted along the edge of the porch. The harsh lighting made the woman appear even more horrific than she had on the monitor. She tried to look up at the lights and shield her eyes at the same time. Her neck was clearly broken, bulging eyes red with broken blood vessels, dark tongue protruding.

"Guri, hit it."

The trash in the gazebo exploded in every direction as the young Israeli rose up out of the muck, weapon raised. "Freeze, get down on the ground."

The woman grunted and clumsily ran straight for him, her arms flailing. The keening sounds escalated into a screech that hurt their ears.

"Guri, light her up!"

But the order was unnecessary because Guri was already firing the M14, the bright tracer rounds like blinding white darts, puffing out the back of her clothing and removing huge chunks of sizzling hot flesh. What was left of her slammed backwards into the porch railing and danced a jig in the air, held aloft by the blistering bullets, until she finally exploded into a pile of steaming hamburger meat and fell to the ground.

For several heartbeats their ears rang. No one spoke, nothing moved. Lehane blinked bright dots away and tried to get an angle from the window.

He could not.

"Guri, she's landed too close to the porch, I can't use the phosphorus grenades from here."

"I'm already re-loading." Guri slammed another clip into place. He approached the body cautiously, M14 leading the way like a divining rod. "She looks really smoked to me, boss."

"Play it safe, bro." Lehane instinctively backed away from the open window as he spoke. "Pops, you got bogey three yet?"

"Got him and lost him."

"What?"

"I had him in the crosshairs for a second, but he zigged when I zagged. Man in a dark suit. Whoever this joker is, he seems to know how we're positioned and when to cover his ass."

Even Enrique doesn't know all of the mission details. Could it be Mike Castle? But why the hell would Castle come back up here after being fired? And who the hell is the other intruder?

"Sandy, what about the guy coming up the back way?"

"Still moving, but we've got plenty of time."

"Guri?"

There was no answer.

"Guri, you there?"

Lehane shivered from what felt like a horde of tiny, ice-cold insects crawling up his spinal cord. He lowered the grenade launcher, armed his Glock, turned back to the open window and looked down.

Guri had lowered the M14. He was staring at the mass of scorched flesh and steaming entrails piled at his feet as if hypnotized. His calm blue eyes were wide and his jaw had dropped open in an almost comical way. He nudged something with the toe of his combat boot, before stepping back. He finally spoke, and his normally light voice was tremulous and strained.

"Boss, you'd better have a look at this."

Lehane leaned out the window and zeroed in on what was left of the smoldering body. His gorge rose and acid flooded his throat. He gagged. The whole team heard his reaction in their headsets.

"God."

Down below, the scorched flesh was moving. It writhed, rolled and slid like a basket of red and blue snakes among the tattered scraps of clothing and bone, almost as if trying to reassemble itself. In the middle of a dark puddle of viscous fluid sat most of her lower face, clacking like a pair of chattering teeth.

"Guri?"

"Man, I think I'm going to puke."

"Get it together."

Pops exploded in their earphones. "Bogey number three is armed. I say again he has a weapon."

THIRTY-TWO

"Stay sharp, people." Lehane gripped his Glock and scanned the garden for the next intruder. "I guess we all missed the part where the Professor said there could be more than one Bhuta at a time. This might be just the beginning. I want calm, clear thinking and attention to detail from every one of you. Guri, move your ass in here, get up those steps and into the building. Set up at the foot of the stairs and secure the lobby. Then we'll figure out what to do with…the rest of her."

Down below, Guri froze. The clicking teeth rolled across the pavement and tried to bite his boot. They worked their way up his pants at lightning speed. Guri backed up a step, kicking his leg like a man trying to free himself from an attacking puppy, something more annoying than threatening. A strange sound emerged from his throat that was half groan and half giggle.

"What the…?"

The teeth climbed and squeezed, seeking blood. Guri raised his rifle with one hand and pawed at his side arm with the other, but at the last moment could not shoot himself in the thigh.

"Damn." The word was pressured, tight although not yet panicked.

"Guri, get in here. Talk to me, Pops," Lehane said. His eyes were on the dark garden and his mind focused on the armed man hiding there. "Where is he?"

"I only saw him for half a second, boss. He's big and carrying a hand gun of some kind."

Guri finally managed to scream. Startled, Lehane backed away from the window before locating the sound. By the time he'd returned to the ledge and leaned over, Guri was struggling with something that seemed attached to the narrow band of exposed flesh between the glove on his left hand and the sleeve of his jacket.

"Oh, God," Guri cried. His voice was filled with outrage and despair. "She bit me, man. She bit me."

God damn it God damn it. Lehane felt his mind coming unhinged at the moorings. What the hell do we do now?

Guri wailed, high and shrill. "I can feel something in my blood!"

"Get in the house," Lehane barked, but then doubted the wisdom of his own order. What will happen to Guri, now that it's in his system?

"I'm so fucked," Guri cried. He raised his pistol and fired four times at close range, blowing off his own forearm. A gush of blood followed. Guri dropped to his knees with the butchered arm raised high, hot blood spurting, and fired again at the jawbone that now lay on the cement, shattering it into tiny fragments. He stumbled backwards a few steps, sat down in the driveway with a moan and cradled his wound. Incredibly, he managed to rapidly tie it off with his own belt.

"Jeff?" Sandy, at the console and growing worried. Lehane was vaguely aware of Whiz, muttering helplessly as he watched the monitors.

"I see him in the cornfield," Pops cried. "I'm taking the shot."

"Wait!"

A red laser dot danced through the tall stalks of corn and the sound that carried down from the hills was as sharp as the snap of a broken branch. It repeated itself as it echoed between deserted buildings.

By firing, Pops had given away his position.

"Did you hit anything?"

"Unknown, boss."

Lehane leaned out of the window. Guri was flat on his back next to his rifle. He was staring up at the window, one leg at a strange angle, hugging his amputated arm. His eyes seemed abnormally large, his skin damp and pale. A few feet away closer to the porch steps sat the dark, bubbling pool of what had once been the drunken cowgirl. It seemed to be losing energy.

"Hang on, Guri."

Guri moved his lips but no sound carried. Lehane took a deep breath. "Sandy, where's the other bogey?"

"Ten minutes and closing. How is Guri?"

"I don't know yet. Cut the outdoor lights. Bring both of your weapons and take this window."

"On my way."

"Pops, I'm going to try to get to him. You and Sandy will have to cover me."

"Got it."

Lehane left the grenade launcher and tucked the Glock in his belt. He whirled and started back toward the door, met Sandy in the small hallway and took the small, compact Calico M960A from her grasp. They did not speak. He ran down the stairs two at a time and stopped at the mortuary entrance. The yard was now dark. What if he's one of them, now? How would I know?

Lehane closed his eyes. "Give me a second to get some night vision."

Outside, in the oppressive darkness, Guri moaned and muttered two words that sounded like "no" and "don't."

Lehane cringed and shook away a tidal wave of guilt. He spoke in modulated tones, as softly as he dared. "Hang in there, bro. I'm coming."

He opened the front door a crack, flinched at the sound of the rusty hinges and peered outside. It was difficult to see clearly. Guri was in the same position as before, but seemed to be pawing at something in the dirt nearby. He kept mouthing No and again No.

"When I move you guys pepper the corn field. I want whoever is in there eating dirt for at least ten seconds."

Guri had stopped groping around. He found something and began laughing like a pleased little boy at a surprise birthday party, bringing that something back to his chest and gripping the bottom half between his legs…

…"Go!" Lehane yanked the door open. Pops and Sandy fired efficiently into the tall stalks of corn, Sandy's shots lighting up the night and giving Lehane a perfect view as Guri put the rifle into the center of his chest, reached down and pulled the trigger and blew himself wide open. Now it was Lehane saying No and then No again, turning in a frustrated circle and going back into the mortuary where his face ran with tears.

The racket died down as Sandy and Pops reloaded their weapons. The eerie night fell silent, except for the thin echo of gunfire still bouncing off the foothills. The headsets held only ragged breathing.

"Guri killed himself," Lehane said, finally. "He knew he was turning into one of…them."

"Hello?"

A man's voice came from out in the cornfield. Lehane crouched low and sought cover behind the thickest part of the wall. "Pops, you're exposed. Find a new position and report back in ten minutes."

"But, boss…"

"Do it."

"Hello?" That voice again, someone familiar. Lehane armed the Calico before he answered.

"What are you doing out here, Mike?"

"Jesus, you guys nearly killed me a second ago. Is Pops still okay?" Castle sounded both excited and scared, no longer drunk. But is it really Mike Castle? How can I tell?

"You should know better than to sneak up on us."

"Hey, I planned on announcing myself."

"When, exactly?"

"Well, before I crashed the party." He moved around in the garden, Lehane could hear what sounded like crunching.

"What do you want, Mike?"

"Pops is my friend, even if he did just part my hair with a bullet. I want to help you out."

"Have you spotted anyone else?

"No. Can I come inside? It's cold out here, and your team just put some fresh holes in my underwear."

Lehane whispered into the headset. "Sandy, can you see anything?"

"No."

"Find him."

"I'll turn the outside lights on."

He closed his eyes. "Go ahead."

The lights came up and Lehane heard Sandy react when she saw what was left of Guri Meier.

"Okay, Mike," Lehane called. "How about you stand and let us see you."

A long moment passed. "Here I come," Castle replied. "Don't shoot."

Lehane edged the door open and pointed the Calico at the garden. He heard more rustling, and then Mike Castle appeared. He had what looked like a 357 Magnum in his right fist, pointed down at the ground. He waved in the air with his left. His clothing was torn and some blood was splattered lightly across his shirt.

Lehane sighted on him. "Hold it right there."

"Damn, man," Castle said, his voice tightening, "cut me some slack. You know what's out here hunting us."

"Yeah, I do. Keep talking so I know you're okay."

"I saw what happened to Guri, man. I'm sorry. He was one of the good guys, like Pops, you know? I always liked him"

A noise in the corn? Castle flinched. "Lehane, I'm begging. Let me come in."

"I see blood on your shirt."

"You damned near shot me to death not a minute ago. My scalp got grazed. What did you expect?"

"Walk towards me slowly. Sandy, if he raises the weapon fire."

A bogey moved in the undergrowth, just south and west of the garden. Something large was coming their way fast. Castle's face contorted with terror. He grunted and stumbled forward with the gun gripped in both hands, but still pointed down. "There's something else out here, man." His voice broke on the last syllable. "I need to come inside."

"Castle is right, I can see someone in the garden," Sandy said in the earpiece. Her tone was steely calm. "A man, I think, bobbing and weaving around. He is right on Mike's ass."

"Do you have a shot?"

"Wait one."

Castle was closer now, nearing the puddle that was the woman. He saw Guri and gave that body a wide berth. Lehane could finally see Castle breathing, sweating, clearly winded from the long climb. He relaxed a bit and opened the door. "Hurry."

From above three quick shots as Sandy honed in on the new bogey. "Definitely a man," she said. "Some guy in a cowboy shirt and jeans."

Lehane hustled the exhausted Castle inside the lobby. He slammed and locked the front door. "Did you hit him, Sandy?"

"I think so, but it didn't seem to slow his ass down any."

"We're coming upstairs. Whiz, what have you got on the other bogey?"

Whiz sounded two inches from hysterical. "He stopped at the edge of the eastern trees, boss. Near the animal pens, I think. His heat signature is too close to theirs, so I don't know what's going on. Where is Pops?"

"He will check in from his new position. Everybody calm down for a second." Lehane moved the microphone away from his face. He grabbed Castle by the shoulder. "Why did you come back?"

Mike Castle was drenched with sweat, had some minor scrapes from rocks and thorns. He seemed both terrified and humbled.

"I've never been fired before. It pissed me off, so I turned around." Two pink dots appeared on his pale cheeks. "At first I was still drunk, and I planned on bitching to Pops to see if he'd talked to you. After I got closer, I started thinking you were right and I was wrong."

"You were wrong."

"Look, I want to fix things, if it's not too late. I thought maybe you and Pops could still use my help."

"As it turns out, maybe we can."

Castle nodded, grimly. He looked past Lehane at the night outside, beyond the closed wooden doors. "Man, its damned fucking scary out there."

"Yeah," Lehane muttered. "By the way, what are you packing?"

"Not much," Castle said. "Just this Taurus and a couple of speed loaders with hollow-points. I figured we have enough firepower in the building."

"Man, I sure hope so." Lehane motioned to the staircase with the Calico M960A. "Come on, let's get upstairs."

THIRTY-THREE

"Stay sharp, Whiz. You're our eyes until Pops checks in again." Lehane, Castle and Sandy gathered in the upstairs office, next to the open window. All three of their faces had the drawn, far-away stare soldiers get in combat. Lehane knew Whiz wanted to call Spinks for some serious firepower, maybe even summon the Highway Patrol. He was waiting for the order.

We don't have that kind of time, Lehane thought, miserably. Worse yet, the more people we bring here, the bigger the chance of this demon being spread all over the state…maybe the world.

Lehane looked at what remained of his team. "This Bhuta thing cannot leave here. Does everybody get that?"

Sandy's head jerked up and down.

"So we destroy it or die trying," Castle said, "but I feel like its fourth and thirty and we don't have a punter. What's 'Plan B'?"

Sandy arched a brow. "If you've got any brilliant ideas of your own, Mike, now's the time to let us know."

"Not a one," Castle said. "At least things can't get much worse."

From the speakers: "Uh, they just did."

Lehane groaned. "What is it, Whiz?"

"Get over to the computer and check out the downstairs monitors, especially camera six—that embalming table with the body bag on it."

Sandy got there first, seated herself and brought up a gloomy image. The small security camera was mounted in the ceiling of the embalming room at the south side of the mortuary, near the crematorium. It was focused down on the two metal draining tables, although it also picked up part of the empty shelf designed to hold additional corpses waiting to be processed.

"I can't see anything," Castle muttered.

"We're working on it." Sandy and Whiz clarified the picture and enlarged the embalming table that held young Ben Feldman's corpse in a green military body bag.

"Got it, now what's up? Everything looks quiet."

"Wait one," Whiz said.

Lehane blinked, not sure if his eyes had deceived him. It happened again. The body bag bulged a bit, down near the end of the table, probably where the legs were located.

Mike Castle chuckled like someone on the edge. "Ladies and Gentlemen, young Doctor Feldman is doing the Hokey Pokey."

Lehane barked orders. "Castle, take the front window. Sandy, stay on the computer. You work with Whiz to keep our perimeter secure. Move."

Castle lumbered back to the front room, Sandy leaned forward and began to scan their surroundings. Lehane took the small, shotgun-like launcher and two white phosphorus grenades, tucked his Glock into his belt and jogged for the staircase. He threw one last instruction over his left shoulder. "When Pops checks in, tell him to work his way down to the building. We're going to have to make a stand, and I want us close together."

Lehane started down the wide staircase. He moved sideways, against the flocked wallpaper, sweaty hand on the butt of the Glock. The embalming room was downstairs and to the right, past six empty wooden caskets Pinker used as samples to peddle his wares.

The lobby was dark and the front door was wide open.

How did he get out of the body bag so quickly? Lehane thought. Or is it the one from outside? He whispered into his mouthpiece. "Sitrep. At least one bogey inside. Anyone comes up, challenge. Password is 'football.'"

"Got it. Be careful."

Lehane felt an oppressive anxiety overtake him; it tightened his chest and shortened his breath. He'd been afraid plenty of times, even learned to thrive on the sensation, but this was different. Their enemy was an unknown species from another reality, something strong enough to conquer death. For the first time he allowed himself to wonder if the team could make it out alive. The idea of having to sacrifice Sandy Hammer tore him up.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and risked a quick peek. The display coffins were all that stood between Lehane and the door into the embalming room. He slung the grenade launcher around behind his back, raised the Glock, spun around the corner.

That part of the room was empty.

From the back doorway came a scraping, thumping sound that echoed against the polished, stainless steel. It was followed by a primitive, rasping grunt and a metallic slither as what had once been Dr. Benjamin Feldman struggled to unzip the body bag from inside.

Lehane crouched low. Swiveling his head back and forth between the open doorway and the entrance to the embalming room, he made his way rapidly across the room and stopped with his back to the southern wall. He tucked the Glock away again and loaded one of the white phosphorus grenades into the launcher.

In the other room, the young physician's body fell off the embalming table and onto the linoleum flooring with a loud, wet thump. Something fought against heavy plastic and broke free.

The creature moved through the gloom as if struggling to gain control of the rigid, dead flesh. It emitted sounds, hideous sounds that made Lehane wince. His skin rippled and writhed with disgust. He took a deep breath, released it, took a second and held half. He whirled with the launcher held high.

The Bhuta was standing by the body bag, perhaps fifteen feet away. The eyes looked like poached eggs. It was grinning when it spoke.

"So, Mr. Lehane." It hissed with a high, flatulent sound like escaping gas. "We meet again."

Of course, the corpse was naked; pallid skin festooned with nauseating floral display of brown and black bruises and bright red blotches. The brutal wounds inflicted by the Bhuta prior to death had been examined in detail by forensics and were obscenely open to the night air.

Lehane raised the grenade launcher. "You are Ali Basra."

"We are Bhuta."

"Why do you want to kill me?"

The corpse giggled. "Why not?"

"You have stalked me for months. I would like to know why."

The creature moved the right leg, almost fell over. Lehane tightened his finger on the trigger. "Don't," he said. "Stay there."

"What will you do? I merely live on, like a cockroach."

"Then I'll kill you again."

"How?"

"I will destroy you with fire."

Lehane watched carefully. The Bhuta paused, rattled by his statement. Lehane realized that the monster's intellect was both present and not. Perhaps Ali Basra was only partly in control of this new body. He wondered if the Bhuta had less and less control with each new one, so that its real power depended upon the number of corpses it occupied at any one time.

"Human," the thing said. "Death comes for you."

It stumbled forward. Lehane stepped back from the doorway, shielding much of his body from the coming blast. He closed his eyes and tightened his finger on the trigger. The room exploded. The explosion knocked Lehane to his knees, half-blinded him. The creature shrieked like tsunami winds; a choir of raging screams that scrambled higher and higher up the musical scale.

Lehane loaded the second grenade. He stuck the barrel around the corner and fired again. A stench reached his nostrils. He didn't have to look to know the room was now a mass of melting or scorched metal, plastic and flesh. His ears were ringing. He opened his eyes and started back toward the staircase.

"Coming up," he called. "Football."

At the foot of the stairs there came a knocking. Lehane paused briefly, puzzled. He looked around, but the lobby seemed deserted. From the middle of the lobby, Lehane could see into the embalming room, and nothing was left of the corpse but ashes and smoke.

"Boss, you okay?" It was Whiz and Sandy, speaking almost simultaneously on the headset. "It's time for Pops to check in."

Lehane started to respond but the knocking reoccurred; a low and insistent thudding that assumed a rhythmic pattern. He eased the empty grenade launcher behind his back, left it dangling from the strap, freed the Glock and held it in both hands. His mouth went dry. Where the hell is that coming from? His eyes scanned the shadowy room, seeking the source. Seconds later his gut told him the answer.

At the end of the row of samples and nearest the wide-open double doors, a large, mahogany coffin yawned open. From yards away, Lehane stood upon on his toes to peek over the edge. The interior was plush and white. It was clearly empty. He released a small sigh of relief.

And then he heard the laughter.

It was a shrill, girlish giggle, actually; not the sound one would expect a man to make, but then this was no longer a man. Beyond the coffin, the corpse somehow managed to force itself upright by leaning against the southern wall of the lobby, even with one torn forearm consisting only of splintered bone and a gaping hollow in the massacred chest.

Guri still held the M14 in his good hand, pointed directly up at the ceiling. The lower part of the jaw hung at an odd angle, as if held in place only by the twine of shredded tendons.

Lehane felt his energy wane. His legs turned to stone. He still held the Glock in both hands, automatically brought it up to the center of that damaged chest, but the action felt small and futile. How do you kill what can't be killed…?

"We meet again," Guri said. Another small giggle followed the statement. "Soon you will join us."

Lehane watched his hands tremble. He processed his options rapidly, came to a decision. First, notify the team. "I don't know if I can shoot you, Guri," he said. The sharp intake of breath in the headset told him the others had heard and understood.

The creature squinted, as if at a difficult math problem. "Not Guri," it said after a long moment. "We are Bhuta."

Lehane forced himself to accentuate the tremor in his hands, so that he was visibly shaking, perhaps too badly to fire. He lowered the Glock. "I can't do it this, Guri. I can't."

The Guri-thing laughed, but instead of coming towards him it lowered the sights of the powerful M14 as if to shoot. Before it could fire, Lehane feinted to his right, back at the staircase, and then sprinted for the front porch. The Bhuta reacted, far more quickly than Lehane expected. By the time he reached the front doorway, the frame next to his left arm was exploding into splinters. One tracer round set the wood on fire.

Lehane rolled out onto the porch. "Pops, Guri has turned. Take him."

"Guri?" Was Pops thrown off by that heartbreaking order? When the Bhuta came after Lehane, Pops didn't shoot.

Lehane threw himself over the porch railing and onto the dry grass. He fired three times, slowing Guri down. Meanwhile, his mind took in the angle. The porch roof was blocking the Pop's line of sight. Up on the wooden steps, Guri aimed and fired. Tracer rounds lit up the night and burned the grass as Lehane bobbed and weaved and made for the driveway.

"Now, Pops!"

Guri stumbled a bit on the front steps, and moved down onto the asphalt, into the open. "Shall we play, Lehane?" The inhuman voice was mocking and defiant.

Then Pops fired and the top of the creature's skull disappeared in a spray of grey and crimson. Guri dropped the M14 instantly, fell to his knees. Deprived of sight and proper motor control, the Bhuta groped around like a man in a suddenly darkened room. Pops took another shot, clearly an attempt to sever the head completely. Lehane fired three more shots at the neck, and then it simply fell apart. What had been Guri became a writhing, mindless stinking mass of vandalized tissue and bone. Lehane prayed the energy would eventually evaporate from the infected flesh, as it seemed to have done with the dead cowgirl.

"Pops," Lehane barked, "can you get down here?"

"On my way."

"Okay, maintain silence and watch your ass." Lehane was already running back into the building. "It knows where you are, now. Let us know when you want cover."

…At that moment, Donald Pinker sat huddled in the pigsty, hands over his ears, with an empty metal bucket in his lap. The sudden eruption of gunfire and fiery explosions had terrified and paralyzed him. He vomited into the bucket and rocked as he heard Mr. Jeffrey scream orders to his people.

Pinker liked Mr. Jeffrey and wanted to do something, help somehow, but all he could do was rock and puke, rock and puke and cover his ears. Finally he jumped to his feet and ran, screaming, back down the mountain. He was fine for the first half-mile or so, but then he tripped over a log and sailed ten feet into a large rock that cracked his skull like a walnut. Moments later, safe and alone in his precious mountain woods, Donald Pinker stopped breathing altogether, thankfully well before one of the Bhuta could reach him…

…Meanwhile, Pops gripped his rifle in both hands and ran for cover. He opted to slide down the hill feet first. Since the enemy already knew his location, Pops figured speed was more important than stealth. On the way up the mountain he'd made note of several chute-like dirt trenches, probably caused by runoff from the snow. Whenever possible, he threw his body into one and rode it straight down like a man on a snowboard. The mortuary lights were a beacon to him, the route to salvation. He was moving too rapidly to know if he'd been followed.

Perhaps thirty yards above the grounds he used his arms and legs to brake. Pops lay still in a mass of dried roots and tumbleweed and listened to the surrounding night. He listened carefully, tried to spot where insects and the high desert's other nocturnal inhabitants had fallen silent.

Pops ran a map of the area through his mind. He decided to crawl sideways, away from the mortuary and toward the abandoned mines to the north and west; then move in from above the ghost town, through the garden and ultimately past the gazebo to the front door. Hopefully the Bhuta would assume his trajectory would continue to be in a straight line. It would be out of position when he sprinted for the house.

He thought of whispering his plan to the others, but had no idea where the enemy was, or how acute its hearing might be; so Pops moved stealthily through the dirt, away from the mortuary and toward the abandoned mines. He kept the lights firmly in his line of sight.

When he reached the dirt path above the garden, Pops paused to listen again. The insects between his position and the mortuary had resumed their endless chanting. The immediate area was safe. He whispered into the throat mike: "ETA four minutes, from garden to the west, request covering fire."

"Have a safe trip," Whiz replied.

Pops moved himself again, as quietly as possible. He came to the end of the undergrowth behind the west garden, went flat and peeked out.

The vegetable patch was empty, row upon row lined with string. Beyond it sat the tall cornfield, which he knew to be more than twenty feet long. Passing through it was bound to make a great deal of noise, so Pops figured to take it on a dead run. Some corn moved in a slight breeze and he felt his skin prickle. He waited.

And suddenly an engine started up to his left, down below in the ghost town. Puzzled, Pops considered asking Lehane if there was a secondary operation he knew nothing about, but within seconds he realized that the sound was coming up the driveway. Pops heard the dull groan of shifting gears.

He got to his feet, spun in a circle with the rifle at his side. Saw nothing. Pops instantly knew it would be a footrace. He bolted across the vegetable garden, hopping over lines of twine like a football player through tires, and crashed into the cornfield. "I'm coming in!"

The sky above rained fractured light as tracer rounds began to ricochet off the cement and explode into the darkness. Pops kept the rifle crossed and his knees high. He came crashing through the dry stalks of corn like a maddened elephant, even as the gears shifted again and the huge truck closed the gap.

Pops found himself out of the field, in the frigid midnight air, but lit up like a singer in a concert hall; the tracer rounds were all crashing to his left, at the foot of the driveway coming up from the ghost town. The semi was moving rapidly his way and the team was sending round after round into the vehicle, desperate to slow it down. The thick hood was already peppered with holes.

One of the front tires went flat. Pops was going to make it, knew he was going to make it. He passed the gazebo, keeping the fragile structure between his body and the approaching truck. He feinted as if entering the gazebo and then went for the open front doors.

The truck ran effortlessly through the gazebo and closed the gap. Some of the wood and plaster remained stuck to the front fender.

Pops Keltner felt the whole world slow and move sideways. It seemed like he had plenty of time to choose between three options, to reverse direction and head back into the cornfield, drop flat and hope that the truck roll would over him or continue on and try to outrun it.

The headlights seemed gigantic, now. The driver mockingly honked the horn.

Pops waited until the last second, went flat in the driveway and covered his head with both hands. He would have been fine, actually, but the debris stuck to the fender chose that moment to slip under the flattened tire. The truck bounced up in the air, the corpse driving it momentarily lost control of the wheel and the vehicle slid to the right.

It passed over Pops, murdering him with two loud and gruesome thumps, and finally came to rest near the front porch, radiator belching steam.

THIRTY-FOUR

Inside the mortuary lobby, Lehane watched helplessly. Six feet away, Mike Castle lowered his weapon and sat down heavily on the floor, stunned by the loss of his friend. Sandy allowed herself a brief sob into the headset, but rapidly pulled it together again. Lehane spoke, sotto voice: "People, if we can't get this job done and make it out of here, we may need to call fire down on our own position."

"Christ, Jeff…" Whiz was clearly shocked. "I can't do that."

"You will do what I say. Now get both Charlie and Enrique on a conference line and see what their money and contacts can do, like maybe get us a AH 64 Apache or two with full missile capability. This whole town might need to disappear before morning."

"What's it doing?" Castle had shaded his eyes and was peering through the window. His features were contorted with anger. "That goddamned shit eater is pulling Pops back under the truck."

"It's going to take him," Lehane said, grimly. "He must still be alive."

Castle growled like an angry bear. The big man whirled and ran across the room and up the stairs before Lehane could intervene. "Whiz, when you get through have Enrique open the checkbook and let Charlie to spend the money."

"On it."

"Sandy, what's Castle up to?"

"I'm getting some phosphorous grenades," Castle shouted from upstairs. "That son of a bitch isn't going to mess with Pops. No fucking way."

"Sandy, where is the bogey out back?"

"He moved away, down the hill again," she said, quickly. "Then he either stopped or I lost him."

Lehane wondered aloud. "Could it have been Pinker? Maybe the dumb bastard came back to feed his livestock."

"Maybe. Jeff, our bad guy out front is so close to poor Pops I can't tell the difference. No, wait—he is moving off, now. Heading south, away from the truck."

Castle crashed back down the stairs with a grenade in one hand and another, plus the Magnum, hooked on his belt. He also had a pint of whiskey. He downed a large gulp and marched wide-eyed toward the front entrance. Lehane got to his feet and pulled his own weapon.

"Sit down, Mike. That is an order."

"I won't let it fuck with Pops," Castle said. In the stark shadows he looked like a Viking berserker. "Give me cover."

"It's already moving away from Pops. It's probably somewhere on the grass. You're too late."

"Okay, then I'm gonna get two birds with one stone. Pops would want me to. I'm going out there, so back off unless you plan on shooting me yourself."

After a moment, Lehane slipped out of the launcher and offered it butt first. Mike Castle shook his head and grinned. "I'm gonna be way too close for that."

"Don't get killed, Mike. There are only three of us left."

"Yeah, and we can't duplicate ourselves, but it can." Castle strode to the doorway. "And I'm going to stop it from turning Pops into one of those things. I'll take the trucker out and shorten our odds in the process."

He's going either way. Lehane nodded, got ready. "Sandy, get to the front window right now. We need to give Castle some covering fire."

He heard her footsteps as she crossed the wooden floor upstairs and took her position. Lehane took a deep breath and waited. Castle took one last pull on the bottle and threw it out into the yard. He smiled, screamed like a rebel soldier and raced outside. Lehane and Sandy fired to his left and right as he approached the stalled truck. Castle ran around the hissing column of steam coming from the front engine. He pulled one of the grenades and turned the corner just in time to see Pops, mangled and flattened in the left hip and shoulder, struggle to his feet and lean against the cab. His camouflaged ghillie hung around him in tattered rags.

"Help me," Pops whimpered, miserably. "I'm hurt."

Castle hesitated. "You're dead, Pops. There's only one way I can help, now."

When the Bhuta saw him reach for the grenade, it ordered what had been Pops to rush forward. The corpse did, one hip swinging out of the socket, the left shoulder at a ludicrous angle, the arm flattened like a cut of steak. Castle fired without thinking and put six hollow-point shells into the thing, but Pops did not slow down. The bullets seemed to pass through his corpse like wind through torn fabric. Castle dropped the gun.

Pops kept coming, a long string of bloody drool sliding from the right side of his shattered mouth. Castle backed up, groping for one of the grenades. Pops closed the distance. Castle stepped back one last time, but just as he raised the grenade and prepared to pull the pin his boot came down on a small pile of shattered bricks and splintered boards from the gazebo. He fell backwards into the debris, one hand still on the grenade and the other on the pin. His head struck concrete.

Castle blacked out.

"God damn it, he's down, Jeff!" Sandy, from up above, went on to release a scream of rage, frustration and terror.

Inside the lobby, Lehane saw that Castle had fallen and noted the way his head landed on the asphalt, just beyond the right front wheel. He weighed a run for the grenades. He wouldn't make it in time. There were more in the box upstairs, but the idea of such a weapon falling into the hands of the Bhuta made him shudder. He steeled himself to run for the cab. Maybe he could manage to take Pops out and save Castle, if he moved quickly enough...

Outside in the night, Mike Castle opened his bleary eyes and saw what had been Pops Keltner leaning down over him. He felt the string of drool as it stroked his face like mucous. Castle could not feel the lower half of his body. "Don't," he said, mildly. "Pops, please don't."

The corpse cocked its head and said, "We are Bhuta." Then the teeth came down to clamp Castle on the nose. They bit hard and began to grind…

…Lehane was out on the porch, crouching low, trying to come around the front of the cab with several yards to spare, hoping to get a clean head shot. He heard Castle shriek in a high, wailing soprano and the hopelessness of the sound made his stomach go hollow again…

Mike Castle could move his hands, though. As Pops gnawed at his face, Castle pulled the pin on the first grenade, then the second…

…Just as Lehane approached the truck a gigantic explosion knocked him flat. Castle and Pops vanished into a spray of white-molten fire. For several long minutes, Lehane lay in the parking lot, on his back; stunned and unable to see. His ears emitted a high, mosquito-like humming noise. He checked his fingers and toes, noticed that he had a nosebleed, managed to sit up.

He was alone.

There was virtually nothing remaining of the pair who had been struggling moments before, no trace of anything the Bhuta could animate. Lehane shook his head, cringed. He struggled to his feet and looked around. The parking lot was empty. He craned his sore neck to look at the upstairs window. It was standing open, but Sandy was no longer stationed there.

There is at least one more out here, Lehane told himself, get your ass in gear and get moving.

He groaned and stretched his back. Everything popped and snapped. Lehane forced himself across the sizzling parking lot and back up the porch steps. He went into the lobby, closed and locked the doors behind him. He spoke into his neck microphone.

"Whiz?"

There was no reply. Lehane removed the black plastic headset. It was cracked in several places and the tiny microphone was no longer attached. He dropped it to the floor and stumbled across the lobby and over to the landing. He paused.

Lehane went back to retrieve the grenade launcher and slipped it over his shoulder before moving back towards the stairs. He had to make it to the computer to report their situation, as well as complete the arrangements for the destruction of the little ghost town, but all he wanted to do was lay the hell down and sleep. He called out again.

"Football. It's me. Sandy?"

His own voice sounded feeble or far away, so Lehane wasn't even sure he'd spoken above a whisper. His ears were settling down a bit, but still ringing. He leaned on the wall and fought his way up the stairs. He paused on the landing and suffered a bout of nausea and dizziness. Lehane bent over double and retched for a minute. The world rolled like an earthquake. He had a mild concussion.

When his stomach had settled down, he moved on into the computer room. The console sat empty. Sandy was gone.

Puzzled, Lehane went by the flickering monitors and into the front room, thinking she had impulsively gone back to her post by the window. Sandy was not there, either. He was still dazed by the explosion, but now a different kind of fear shot through his body.

Lehane heard her voice at that moment. "Stop it."

He grabbed his Glock and spun around like man with a fever, but Sandy was not in the room behind him.

"Put me down."

Lehane realized that she was speaking into her headset. The voice was coming from the computer console. He lost another minute trying to figure out how to turn up the volume.

"Where are you taking me?" Sandy asked. Her voice sounded remarkably calm. "We're not in the garden any more. Are you taking me up the mountain?"

She's giving us her situation and location. Lehane sat down in the chair. "Whiz, can you hear me?"

"Jesus, I thought you were dead, until you got up and started walking again, and then I wondered…Well, you know."

"I know. Where is Sandy?"

"The Bhuta took her. I saw it on the monitor, but there was nothing I could do. It must have climbed up the truck and gotten in through the window. I watched him club her on the head and carry her out."

"What did he look like?"

"Like some big trucker dude. He was wearing a cowboy shirt."

"Okay, and Sandy is leaving verbal clues. Where do you figure they are now?"

"I saw him take her across the parking lot and into the garden to the north. That's where our cameras stop. Since then she has said something specific every few minutes to help us track her. Right now, I'd make her about a quarter of a mile away, straight up the slope and pretty near the mines."

As if on cue, Sandy spoke again. "I don't want go down into that silver mine, okay? Let's talk this over."

"That's it," Whiz said, excitedly. "She must mean the first of the abandoned mines, on that rise up above the ghost town."

"I remember. The tourist attraction. Do you have any word on those choppers?"

Whiz leaned closer to the camera. On the computer monitor, his head ballooned in an oddly comic way.

"Inside of an hour, we will be able to cremate the entire town. But how are you two going to get out?"

"I don't know yet." Lehane wiped his brow. "Whiz, why didn't it just go ahead and kill her?"

"He wants you to follow."

"Looks that way, and maybe get to a safe place at the same time."

Lehane rubbed his neck and quickly drank a bottle of water. His head felt a bit better. He gathered up the grenade launcher, the Calico and his Glock 9. He checked them over carefully, slapped a fresh load into the nine-millimeter and grabbed four grenades. He put two in each of his front pockets.

He looked around, found a large flashlight, checked the batteries and leaned over the console so he could look directly into the camera.

"Okay, I'm going after her. Turn the outside lights off." Lehane checked his watch. "Whiz, let me repeat, if we're not out in the parking lot waving by one thirty, torch the town."

"Oh, Christ."

"Whiz, we have no other choice. One thirty on the dot, and that's an order."

"I know." Whiz Ligotti was hurting. He swallowed and then nodded with affection and respect.

"Boss? God speed."

THIRTY-FIVE

Outside in the darkness, the night was brisk and cold and the air smelled of cordite, blistered metal, fresh blood and badly scorched meat. Jeff Lehane jogged through the gloom, across the empty parking lot filled with bodies and slipped into the safety of the garden. He stayed low and started moving both north and west, toward the abandoned mines. Above him, the full moon finally stopped hiding coyly behind the thin, cotton gauze of clouds and flooded the high desert with clear, white light. The timing could not have been better.

He risked one look back over his shoulder. The exterior floods were off, so the glow from lamps in the upstairs office made it look like someone was still inside. It wasn't much, but better than nothing. Satisfied, he stayed low and moved as quietly as possible through the vegetable plants. He jogged up into the pine trees toward the old silver mine. He tried to pace himself because much of the run would be uphill, and he still felt weak.

Why has it kept her alive? The question tormented Lehane as he moved through the tree line and into the pine grove. According to the files, Ali Basra was rumored to have been so sadistic as to masturbate during the torture of Iraqi dissidents. Perhaps the Bhuta merely wanted to inflict as much emotional pain as possible before moving on to Enrique.

Lehane felt his head begin to throb, so he paused for a moment and went down on one knee to rest. High above the mountains, the spring moonlight pierced the green canopy with wide beams like shards of broken crystal. The fresh earth smelled fertile, the pine trees of sap. To the east an owl hooted sensuously. Lehane reckoned the silver mine to be less than an eighth of a mile up the slope. Eisenhower ran through his mind again, and a smile creased his dirty face. This time he had no plans at all.

He was up and moving again within a minute. His legs began to tremble from the awkward, uphill slant of the mountain. Lehane burst through the undergrowth and out onto the old logging road. He stepped back into the brush and took stock of his surroundings.

The humble, dirt road leading to the mine was deserted. Lehane considered his options. If he crossed the road, went up into the next copse of trees and down to the mine from above, he was less likely to be spotted, but still faced with a clumsy move getting down to the entrance of the mine. If he walked straight down the road, he'd be there in no time, but without the element of surprise.

Lehane decided to follow the road from the southern side. He stayed around five yards into the thick branches and dead brush, doing his best to be quiet and still make time. The Guri thing had raised a weapon, which meant the Bhuta was fully capable of using a firearm.

His feet moved rapidly through the forest carpeting, and despite his best efforts, Lehane knew he was telegraphing his arrival. When he arrived at the mine, he sank down in the brush again.

The empty silver mine looked like an old movie set. It had a gaudy, weather-beaten structure tacked to the entrance, with faux gold lettering and weather-beaten fake windows. The mouth was empty, enveloped in toothless shadow that felt both alive and malevolent. Lehane watched for a while then slid both the Calico with tracer rounds and the grenade launcher behind his back. He chambered a round in the Glock nine and stepped out into the open.

Nothing happened. Lehane crouched, crossed the road a bit to the left of the opening. He found a small gold plaque on a wooden post that declared the location was an "Official Historical Location of Old Nevada." A plastic container held copies of a map to the mine.

Lehane secured a map. He squatted in the bright moonlight, trying to get a feel for the place.

The first thing that struck him was that there was no other way in or out. The initial section of the mine was a long, sloping chamber around three yards wide and nearly seventy feet deep. At the bottom of the slope there was a fork and paths leading to two chambers. The one on the east side, his left going in, led to a dead end and an exhibit covering some miners who'd died in a collapse back in 1888. The one on the right slanted deeper still, and emptied out into an underground chamber over one hundred feet beneath the earth. Another fork led to two more chambers, both of them sealed on the other end.

Go down there and you're not likely to come out again.

Lehane considered rolling the grenades into the chambers and collapsing the mine, but if there was the slightest chance Sandy was still alive...

He put the loaded grenade launcher in a small crevice near the entrance and left it there. Lehane suddenly felt a deep sense of loneliness, for without the headset there was no way to contact Whiz. Sandy could already be dead. He simply had no current information. He moved around, faced the opening.

Someone had placed small electric foot lights at varied intervals along the route down to the exhibit. They were weak, but better than nothing.

He committed the map to memory and closed his eyes to let them adjust. After a couple of interminable minutes he brought up the flashlight and walked a few yards down into the mineshaft.

Lehane scowled as his nostrils were assailed by a sharp, acrid odor not unlike stale cat urine. He played the flashlight along the hard dirt floor of the mine, looking for signs. One set of boot prints seemed fresh and abnormally deep, as they would be if a man were carrying Sandy.

He followed the trail down, down into the bowels of the earth. The air pressed on his eardrums like wads of damp cotton. Soon, despite a bit of assistance from the fading footlights, he was squinting.

Something dark and feathery rustled in the timbers above his head. Lehane saw a steadily increasing number of guano piles along the floor. The mine was home to a large colony of bats. At rapid intervals, he also heard the high-pitched squeaking of rats.

Lehane came to the first fork. Oddly, the boot tracks now seemed to lead in both directions. Lehane knelt and felt the ground. Down this deep, the rocky earth was oddly devoid of moisture. It no longer held tracks. The Bhuta had probably gone down the left fork and doubled back after finding it sealed.

Probably.

Lehane could not risk being wrong, although his strong hunch was that the Bhuta would never allow itself to be trapped in a dead end tunnel. Ali Basra was surely aware that RPG's and Willie Peters could seal him in forever.

But if Lehane turned right, and it emerged that he'd guessed incorrectly, he'd be vulnerable from the rear. That was not acceptable.

He placed the Calico rifle against the timbers holding the joint in the wall. He tip toed along the dead-end shaft, in search of the exhibit honoring fallen miners from the 1800's. He stayed as low as possible. The mine seemed filled with loose rocks and the crooked, splintering timbers here and there didn't inspire confidence.

Eventually he sensed the opening to his left and right. He paused and listened intently for any breathing or movement. Lehane brought up the Glock, stepped into the cavern and turned on the flashlight.

The far wall was covered with a montage of old photographs and handwritten letters preserved under glass. Another plaque on a concrete base detailed the collapse of the mine and listed the names of the dead. He ran the beam of light along the ceiling above him to be certain there was no hiding place.

The room was empty.

Satisfied, Lehane backed out into the tunnel. He turned and moved as rapidly as possible back the other way. Was Sandy still alive, was she dead—or even worse, one of the Bhuta? He felt his gut tightening in anticipation, started to work out a scheme in his mind, but wondered if gunfire would instantly bring the whole mine down, rendering plans obsolete. Again.

Lehane came to the fork. The Calico rifle with tracer rounds was where he had left it. He made some changes in weaponry, steeled himself, visualized the map in his mind and took the other path into the chuckling black.

This larger, deeper section of the old mine slanted quickly downwards at an angle sharp enough to affect his balance. The mounds of bat guano got smaller, the squealing increased. Eventually Lehane realized this part of the cave had become the kingdom of the rats. He used the flashlight sparingly and counted his steps. The map had stated the depth as a little over one hundred feet below the entrance. Lehane stopped at eighty, knowing the moment of truth had arrived.

He slid down the wall; checked the Glock by feel, running his fingers through a routine he'd perfected years ago. He listened, and once his own breathing had calmed, could hear the faint echo of someone else's; someone not trying to be quiet…

Sandy.

Lehane got to his feet. "Ali Basra, I need to talk."

That arid, raspy chuckle. "I too have this need."

"May I come closer?"

"But of course."

Lehane walked slowly down the slope. "By the way, I wouldn't fire down here. We'll all end up buried under ten tons of rock." He kept counting steps, and at one hundred and two the space widened.

"Jeff, stop." It was Sandy, and she sounded close. Lehane placed her in his mind, across the small open area and a bit to his right. He used the flashlight, and found them instantly.

The Bhuta had a decaying arm wrapped around her throat. Sandy looked wan and was perspiring heavily. Lehane could see the face over her right shoulder. The grinning body the creature occupied was that of a large and well-muscled man wearing a filthy, multi-colored cowboy shirt.

"Such a delicate situation," the Bhuta said, softly, "is it not, Jeff?" The monster's tone was intimate and nuanced by just a trace of an Iraqi accent. It wriggled crooked fingers with long and yellowing nails that had kept on growing. "One scratch from my fingernail, or perhaps a lingering kiss, and the young lady will cross over."

"You are Ali Basra, aren't you?"

"Ali Basra?" The thing kept that wide, skeletal grin. "Well, among others, yes. Strictly speaking, we are legion, just as the Bible said."

"You're a daemon."

Sandy's eyes were wide, her breathing rapid and short. Her nose kept wrinkling at the persistent stench of dried excrement and decay. "Jeff, don't come closer, whatever you do."

The Bhuta spoke again. "We are pleased you decided to join us. I was not certain you would come down here after this woman, Jeff. After all, you let your wife die in Las Vegas."

He raised the Glock. The beast trailed one sharp fingernail across Sandy's exposed throat and giggled. "Go ahead, and the next body we inhabit shall be hers."

Lehane studied the mottled visage before him. It was clear the Bhuta was enjoying the moment, and an opportunity to play sadistic games. He lowered the light as if feeling defeated. "What do you want from me?"

The Bhuta took its time answering. "The part of me that is Ali Basra seeks vengeance. You are the man who destroyed our plans."

"How did I destroy them?"

"We were nearing the end of a ceremony which would have made us immortal and without the need to change bodies. You brought your team into the house, killed my followers and ruined my plans."

"So try again."

"You do not understand. I will not have such an opportunity for another two hundred and thirty three years."

"Well," Lehane said, dryly, "I guess that explains why you're pissed."

Sandy interrupted, communicated desperation with her eyes. "Jeff, there's only one call left."

"I know."

"Do it." Sandy struggled to speak clearly as the arm tightened around her throat. "Blow the tunnel and leave."

Lehane forced a bitter laugh. "You want to hear something really funny, Ali? I remember how you taunted me about leaving Heather to die that night in Vegas. I really loved my wife, but you were right."

The Bhuta stiffened. Those eyes shifted from right to left as it tried to make sense of that statement. Sandy closed her eyes, perhaps in prayer.

Finally: "I do not understand."

"I did allow Heather to die of her wounds," Lehane said, "because I'm a solider at heart, someone who follows orders, goes by the book."

"The book?"

"Yeah, that means I try to do the right thing, even when it hurts. And that's what I'm going to do tonight."

Lehane backed further up the tunnel. He put the flashlight on the floor and moved it until the Bhuta and Sandy were in a makeshift spotlight. He sighted on Sandy's forehead.

"Do you want me to take you out first, Sandy?"

Her eyes widened. She nodded briskly. "Yes, do it now, get it over with. I love you Jeff."

He aimed, let his finger tighten on the trigger. "Goodbye."

"Wait!" The Bhuta was furious. It loosened the hold on Sandy's neck. "You may have her if you stay. She is not the one I came for."

Lehane considered. He lowered the Glock and relaxed his finger. "So you will take me in her place?"

The macabre grin returned. "Yes."

"I'm going to set the gun down on the floor, Ali. Then I'll step away from it. When I do that, I want you to let Sandy go."

"Jeff, no." Sandy was shaking. "Don't do it."

The Bhuta considered the offer carefully. Those dark, feral eyes darted up and down. "No tricks?"

"No tricks," Lehane said. "Just as long as you realize you're not getting out of here tonight. You can have Sandy, or you can have me, but one of us is going to blow this mine and leave you trapped."

The Bhuta smiled. "Put down the weapon."

Lehane squatted in the dirt and did as he was told. He watched carefully. "Now let her go."

"You come this way first."

"Okay," Lehane said. He moved slowly, teasingly. "This is smart because I'm the one you want. I'm the one that ruined everything."

"No tricks!"

Lehane moved closer. He kept his knees slightly bent and stayed on the balls of his feet. When he was a few feet away, the Bhuta abruptly released Sandy, who moved as if shot from a cannon. She ended up behind Lehane, to his right.

"Sandy, the grenades are to the right of the opening to the mine. Go."

"Not without you."

"You don't go, we both end up dead."

Sandy heard steel in his voice. She reluctantly began to withdraw. She walked backwards up the slope, without turning her back.

Ali Basra crooked a finger in a come hither gesture. "Now you will learn what hell truly is…"

"Can I ask you something first? I told you that there is no way you're leaving here tonight, but you don't seem to give a damn. Why is that?"

The Bhuta moved closer. A repugnant stench flooded the area. Lehane willed himself to remain still. The creature cocked its head and licked lips the color of spoiled veal. "Did you really think a Bhuta could only inhabit a human, Lehane?" It moved in a circle around him, tauntingly. "This cave is full of life forms. Any one of them could serve as my host."

"So the rat finds a way out one day and bites a feral cat, the cat scratches a dog, the dog bites its master…and you're loose in the world again."

"Precisely." The Bhuta stopped. One long, yellowed nail lovingly stroked his neck. It turned, looked up the slope at Sandy. "So go ahead, you little bitch, do your worst. I'll be free again eventually, and then I shall come for you."

"You really are immortal." Lehane put his arms behind his back. His fingers found the pin to the white phosphorous grenade stashed on his belt. "Well, unless you die by fire."

Sandy paused in the tunnel. "And that can be arranged."

A flicker of concern crossed the blood-spattered face of the Bhuta. It stepped back, as if anticipating betrayal. Lehane brought the grenade into view. He removed the pin with his hand clenched, then replaced it again. For the very first time, the Bhuta seemed afraid.

"This ought to get the job done," Lehane said. "It is white phosphorous. Of course, we will both die. Goodbye, Sandy."

Above him, Sandy started walking backwards again. Without turning around to look, Lehane said, "I love you, too."

Sandy vanished into the gloom.

Lehane quoted aloud from the Tao Te Ching. His voice was tight with tension and rage. "The Master respects death, for the nets of Heaven are cast wide. Absolutely nothing escapes its grasp."

He raised the grenade.

"No!"

The Bhuta rushed toward him, hissing like a cockroach, its rancid tongue protruding; murderously efficient drool dripping from the half-open mouth of the occupied corpse. Lehane dodged to one side and reached out with his left leg. He tripped the creature. It fell forward onto hands and knees. Lehane kicked it in the head with the side of his foot. He knew doing violence to the body was almost pointless, but the act gave him immense satisfaction.

The beast spat into the dirt and got doggedly back to its feet. The soft, pasty side of the decomposing face was had collapsed into itself like wet cardboard. The effect was nauseating.

Lehane taunted. "Death has come for you at last. How does it feel?"

He stepped closer, holding the grenade. This time the creature withdrew into the gloom. When Lehane pulled the pin a second time and released the action with a loud PING it panicked. The terrified Bhuta raged as its eyes searched the cave for a rodent to inhabit. Lehane waited a long second until it was clawing at the rock wall and totally preoccupied by a rat it had caught. Then he tossed the grenade, spun around and sprinted for the tunnel.

Seconds later, the Bhuta realized that the grenade had not exploded. Lehane had removed the charge.

"Damn you!"

The creature shambled up the dirt path and approached the fork, but by then Lehane had recovered the Calico rifle. As the corpse turned the corner, he fired half a dozen tracer rounds. The noise was deafening, the light blinding. He threw the rifle over his shoulder and ran again. Still alive, the monster quickly recovered and soon picked up speed.

Up above, Sandy heard them coming. She had already arrived at the mouth of the mine and was searching frantically for the grenades Lehane had described, but couldn't find them. She was on the wrong side of the entrance. When Lehane rounded the last corner, the Bhuta was only yards behind. He grabbed the grenade launcher, whirled and fired. The world went white hot.

For a long moment, both Sandy and Lehane were deaf from the explosion. The entrance to the mine was nearly collapsed, except for a small space in the rocks. Lehane stuck the barrel of the grenade launcher in that hole.

"Cover your ears."

Sandy turned her back and followed instructions. He fired again, and the rocks reassembled into an impenetrable wall. Seconds later a harsh wail of rage could be heard from somewhere down the mine shaft. Lehane's ears were making a chuffing sound, mingled with something like radio static. Lehane shook his head to clear them, but the sound continued.

The choppers.

He grabbed Sandy by the hand. He checked his watch. It was almost one thirty in the morning.

They were nearly out of time.

"Come on!"

Sandy ran with him. "Jeff, he said he could escape as a rat or something…"

"Move."

They crossed the road and went straight down the slope toward the garden. Lehane dragged, prodded, poked and yelled at her all the way. At times they fell and rolled sideways before bouncing back to their feet again, but somehow he did not lose the little Calico rifle. Finally, covered with scratches and bleeding cuts, they broke through the garden and out into the mortuary parking lot.

The first AH 64 Apache was already coming in, missiles armed and lowered. The second circled perhaps a quarter mile away, waiting its turn.

They waved their arms and shouted, but the pilot did not see them. The efficient, murderous chopper started its rapid descent. In a matter of seconds, the entire area would be a lake of fire.

Lehane grabbed the Calico from behind his back and raised it. He shot the remaining few tracer rounds straight up into the night sky. The effect was beautiful, impossible to miss.

The deadly AH 64 Apache wavered and then veered away. The wickedly pointed missiles did not fire. The second chopper wobbled in acknowledgement. Sandy fell flat on the pavement and rolled over onto her back, panting with exhaustion. Lehane kept waving. The second bird moved in, hovered for a bit, and eventually dropped a rope ladder to pick them up.

Five minutes later, the helicopters were on the way back to their secret base. What had once been Flat Rock was a blistering inferno, down below and far behind them. Charlie Spinks had used his contacts and Enrique's money wisely. The entire area would be soon cordoned off as a toxic chemical dump. It would also be repeatedly torched on and off for many years to come, just to make sure. It was over.

Unless one little cockroach survived.

Humanity follows the earth.

Earth follows Heaven.

Heaven follows the Tao. (tinku)

The Tao follows only itself.

—Tao Te Ching

"The Intimacy of Terror"

Or

'Harry Shannon Knows Things'

An Afterward

By

Gary A. Braunbeck

Stay with me on this:

Do you remember the old horror/sci-fi movies from the 50's? Movies like The Blob, Invasion of The Saucer Men, the Mole People, and countless others? If you do, then you'll recall that in a lot of them, at the movie's conclusion, the words "The End" would begin to swirl around like rings of cigarette smoke until they formed a question mark (usually accompanied by a final, ominous chord from the score). Rob Zombie brought that grand old tradition back recently at the end of his House Of A Thousand Corpses (if you stayed in the theatre long enough to see the end). Yes, it's cheesy; yes, it's laughable; and you bet it's the sad last gasp of a movie whose makers know they've blown it, and so have to try to leave you with at least one mild chill, even if that chill is the threat of a sequel.

But I digress.

It doesn't matter how old or jaded you think you are; every time you see one of these tacky old movies on late-night television (or video rental) and that ominous question mark appears at the end, you get momentarily caught up in the nostalgia and can't help but smile, because you know, don't you, that sometime, somewhere, that campy question mark actually made somebody shudder. Maybe it was even you, when you were younger and more innocent.

The only thing that could have possibly made Harry Shannon's "Night" Trilogy any better was if he'd somehow figured out a way to make the words "The End" morph into a question mark, or followed those words with an ellipsis and then a question mark. (That, and maybe Joe Flaherty as Count Floyd intoning: "Ooooooo… SPOOOOOKYYYYYYY!") Not because the 3 books are cheesy, or campy, or laughable, but because all 3 novels have so perfectly captured the spirit of those old 50's horror Sci-Fi potboilers while simultaneously giving that spirit a much-needed shot in the arm of literary sensibility.

In almost direct contrast to what he says in the introductions to all 3 novels (claiming that they are nothing more than entertainments, throwbacks to the great pulps he read as a younger man), Shannon's trilogy—despite the trappings, despite the body-counts, and despite the deliberately ham-fisted titles—has literary muscle rarely seen in the horror field these days; in fact, the last time I can remember reading novels that were both this action-packed and this smart was in the heyday of Robert McCammon (one of Shannon's influences).

Night of the Beast, though drawing its surface influences from the work of Stephen King, actually has more in common with Davis Grubb; Night of the Werewolf, while influenced by McCammon, is actually closer in spirit and tone to the work of Ed Gorman; and this last novel, Night of the Daemon (or it might be called Night of the Undead by the time you're reading this, though I think Night of the Ghoul would be more appropriate), might seem at first glance like a Dean Koontz-influenced yarn, but if you look closer, you cannot help but draw comparisons to John D. MacDonald.

You see, the thing is, Harry Shannon Knows Things. A quick glance at his biography reveals that here is a man who has been many, many things in his life; an actor, a singer, an Emmy-nominated songwriter, a recording artist in Europe, a music publisher, a film studio executive, a practicing counselor…. He is the embodiment of the old adage, "A writer must live many lives."

I used to think I led an interesting life; Shannon makes me look like I've been standing still.

And that know-how, that wealth of experience, has made Shannon a writer of incredible energy who at the same time never blinks his eye for detail; the results are some of the most muscular and richest prose the horror field has to offer. Think I'm overstating my point? Then go back in this novel and re-read the concert sequence, or the scene with the professor, or the passages where we're first introduced to Lehane, and study how Shannon does it: he makes it look easy; but, then, that's the sign of a truly good writer—how he can cram so much detail, characterization, and background information into a scene and still have things barrel along like an out-of-control freight train.

And yet, despite the epic sweep of all 3 novels (Night of the Werewolf goes from scenes in the old west to World War II and then to modern day without stopping to catch its breath), the thing that haunts me the most about the trilogy is the way all of them boil down to the intimacy of terror; there might be ancient curses, monsters that have survived through centuries, threats of entire populaces being wiped out in apocalyptic conflagrations, but they always come down to the most simplistic—and therefore the most affecting—confrontations between good and evil: the one-on-one, usually with an innocent third party trapped in the middle. (Come to think of it, that's something the Trilogy does have in common with those gloriously awful horror Sci-Fi movies; they, too, always boiled down to the intimacy of terror.)

Familiar? Sure. But you know what?

In the right hands, it still works.

And Harry Shannon makes it work.

If Night of the Daemon was your first introduction to Harry Shannon's work, then I envy you; I envy you the discovery of a strong, vital, literate-minded writer; I envy you the rollercoaster rides of the first 2 books in the Trilogy (and, no, it doesn't matter in what order the books are read—this is a thematic trilogy, not sequential), and most of all, I envy you that moment when, during one of the novels, you experience that pang of chilling nostalgia, remembering those glorious old black-and-white movies that used to scare you half to death on television on Friday nights when you were young. Trust me, you will experience such a moment, because Harry Shannon Knows Things.

He knows that the well-told story will never go out of style, regardless of its subject matter.

He knows that these kinds of stories are first foremost meant to be rollicking good fun.

He knows that one good shudder is worth a thousand gross-outs.

And he knows all about the intimacy of terror.

So, g'head…pick up another Harry Shannon book…I triple-dog dare you. Hell, the guy writes great mysteries, too.

The only question mark you'll find at the end is the one in your mind, prefaced by the words: How soon can I get more Shannon?

—Gary A. Braunbeck

Lost in Ohio

Feb. 18, 2004

The End.

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

PREFACE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

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

"The Intimacy of Terror"

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

PREFACE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

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

"The Intimacy of Terror"

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

PREFACE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

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

"The Intimacy of Terror"