She thought about it. "A strange crime was reported this morning. Might be something. Funeral home in Woodland Hills. Somebody broke in, ravaged one of the bodies. Could be a copycat. I left the file for you. Anyway, I have to run if I want to catch the next shuttle… You'll keep in touch?"

"Of course I will. Absolutely. You're not getting off the hook this easily."

She waved once, and then she was gone down the hallway.

I hated to see her leave.

Jam.

Ten minutes after Jamilla left to catch her plane back to San Francisco, Kyle appeared at my desk. He looked like a rumpled, tweedy forty-something professor who had just emerged from his library carrel after days of researching a scholarly piece for a criminal justice journal.

"You crack the code?" I asked him. "If you did, can I get a flight out of here tonight? I'm catching hell at home for being out here."

"I didn't crack a goddamn thing," he complained. Then he yawned. "My head feels a little cracked. Like there's a slow leak or something." He rubbed his knuckles back and forth against his skull.

"You believe in new age vampires yet?" I asked. "Role players?"

He gave me one of his crooked little half smiles. "Oh, I always believed in vampires. Ever since I was a boy in Virginia and then North Carolina. Vampires, ghosts, zombies, other diabolical creatures of the night. Southerners believe in such things. It's our Gothic heritage, I suppose. Actually, ghosts are more our specialty. I definitely believe in ghosts. I wish this were only a ghost story."

"Maybe it is. I saw a ghost the other night. Her name was Mary Alice Richardson. These bastards hung and murdered her during one of their pleasure fests."

Around nine, Kyle and I finally left the station house in Brentwood to get some grub and maybe a few beers. I was pleased to have some time with him. Bad thoughts were buzzing in my head: disconnected feelings, suspicions, and general paranoia about the case. And, of course, there was always the Mastermind to worry about. He might call, or send a fax, or e-mail.

We stopped at a small bar called the Knoll on the way back to the hotel. It looked like a quiet place to have a drink and talk. Kyle and I often did this when we were on the road together.

"So how are you doing out here, Alex?" Kyle asked after he'd taken a sip of Anchor Steam. "You all right? Holding up so far? I know you don't like being away from Nana and the kids. I'm sorry about that. Can't be helped. This is a big case."

I was too tired to argue with him. "In the words of Tiger Woods, 'I didn't have my A game today.' I'm a little stumped, Kyle. This is all new and all bad."

He nodded and said, "I don't mean today. Overall. In general. On balance. How the hell are you doing? You seem tense to me. We've all been noticing it, Alex. You don't volunteer much at Saint Anthony's anymore. Little things like that."

I looked at him, studied his intense brown eyes. He was a friend, but Kyle was also a calculating man. He wanted something. What was he after? What thoughts were going through his mind?

"On balance, I'm totally fucked. No, I'm okay. I'm happy with the way the kids are doing. Little Alex is the best antidote for anything. Damon and Jannie are doing fine. I still miss Christine: I miss her a lot. I'm troubled about how much time I spend investigating the sickest, most fucked-up crimes that anyone can conjure up. Other than that, I'm just fine."

Kyle said, "You're in demand because you're good at this. That's just the way it is. Your instincts, your emotional IQ, somethingsets you apart from the other cops."

"Maybe I'd rather not be so good anymore. Maybe I'm not. The murder cases have affected every aspect of my life. I'm afraid they're changing who I am. Tell me about Betsey Cavalierre. Anything on the case? There must be something."

Kyle shook his head. His eyes showed concern. "There's absolutely nothing on her murder, Alex. Nothing on the Mastermind either. That prick still calling you any time of day or night?"

"Yeah. He never mentions Betsey or her murder anymore."

"We could set up another trace on your phones. I'll do that for you."'

"It wouldn't do any good."

Kyle continued to look deep into my eyes. I sensed he was concerned, but it was hard to tell with him. "You think he might be watching you? Following you?"

I shook my head. "Sometimes I get that feeling, yeah. Let me ask you something, since I have you here. Why do you keep pulling me into these messed-up cases, Kyle? We worked Casanova down in Durham, the Dunne and Goldberg kidnapping, the bank robberies. Now this piece of shit."

Kyle didn't hesitate to spell it out. "You're the best I know, Alex. Your instincts are almost always on target. You give these investigations the best shot they could get. Sometimes you solve them, sometimes not, but you're always close. Why don't you come join us at the Bureau? I'm serious, and yes, this is an offer."

There it was: Kyle's agenda for the meeting. He wanted me at Quantico with him.

I roared with laughter, and then he did too. "To tell you the truth, I don't feel close on this one, Kyle. I feel lost," I finally admitted.

"It's still early in the game," he said. "The offer stands, win or lose out here. I want you to come to Quantico. I want you working close to me. There's nothing that would make me happier."

This was a good break. Better than they could have expected or hoped for. William and Michael followed the two hotshot police dicksfrom the station house in Brent-wood. They stayed a reasonable distance back in their van. The brothers didn't particularly care if they lost them. They knew what hotel they were staying at. They knew how to find them.

They even knew their names.

Kyle Craig, FBI. A DIG from Quantico. A "big case" man. One of the Bureau's best.

Alex Cross, Washington PD. Forensic psychologist to the stars.

There was a saving William wanted to whisper in their ears: If you hunt for the vampire, the vampire will hunt for you.

That was the truth, but it also sounded too much like a rule. William fucking hated rules. Rules made you predictable, less of an individual. Rules made you less free, less authentic, less yourself. And in the end, rules could get you caught.

William touched down lightly, tentatively on the van's brake pedal. Maybe they shouldn't hunt the two cops down, then kill them like dogs, he was thinking. Maybe they had a lot better things to do while they were in L.A.

There was a special place here where he and Michael often went. It was called the Church of the Vampire, and it was for those who were "searching for the dragon within." It actually was a church: vast, high-ceilinged rooms filled with funky old Victorian furniture, elaborate golden candelabras, human skulls and other bones, tapestries that portrayed stories of famous old blood seekers. The usual dreaded role-players came to the church, but also real vampires. Like William and Michael.

Exciting, very exotic, sado-erotic things happened inside the Church of the Vampire. Excruciating pain was transformed into ecstasy. William remembered his last visit, and it sent electricity shooting through his body. He had found a blond boy of seventeen. An angel, a prince. The boy was dressed in all black that night; he even had black contact lenses — absolutely gorgeous from every angle. To show William that he was a real vampire, the darling boy punctured his own carotid artery and then drank his own blood. Then he asked William to drink, to be one with him. When he and Michael hung the boy to drain him completely, it was out of love and adoration of the angel's perfect body. They were merely fulfilling their nature — to be sado-erotic.