He dropped his shotgun and doubled over. The part in his hair pointed to a bald spot that drew my aim like the bull's-eye of a target.

My bullet punched through his skull. Blood geysered out. The red spew turned into rust-colored flakes. Hairy-face slumped against his handlebars, and the Harley toppled over.

Rosario staggered and fell. He wheezed and clawed at the grass. His aura began to lose its glow.

I cupped my hand over the wound in my side. Blood and smoke oozed past my fingers. I struggled to get upright, the bullet in me heavy as a sack of foul toxin. Once on my feet, I moved in a painful shuffle to stand over Rosario.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. I stood over him to block the sun, but of course, there was no shadow. His eyes wouldn't focus. He held up his .45. "Told you I put it together right."

"So you did." He was a breath away from dying, so I couldn't do anything except say, "I'm sorry, Rosario."

"What for?" His arm dropped and the pistol clattered against the ground. "At least I won't die broke like my old man."

Police sirens closed upon us. I glanced to the road, and when I looked back at Rosario, his aura was gone. Blood snaked through the grass around him.

Shattered windows and bullet holes decorated the cars in the parking lot. Spent shell casings littered the grass and asphalt. Rosario lay dead. The corpses of the vampires smoldered as the sun ate their flesh. What a mess.

The slide of my pistol was locked back, signaling that the gun was empty. I inserted my last magazine and released the catch. The slide snapped forward.

The police sirens echoed louder. I had to hurry.

Humans popped up like prairie dogs. Red auras ballooned around them. They gaped at the carnage and at me.

I unfolded my sunglasses and put them on, to hide my eyes. I walked stiffly toward my motorcycle and, despite the agony, moved faster as the sirens approached.

My Yamaha waited between two mock orange shrubs. I bent over and plucked my overnight bag from under the leaves.

I lay across my bike and levered one leg over the seat until I could sit upright. I slipped the bag's straps over my shoulders and inserted the ignition key. I left my helmet clipped to the rear of the seat.

The Yamaha started right away. When I clicked the foot shifter into first, pain jolted through my leg and up my side.

One, two, three police cars swerved into the parking lot.

I released the clutch handle, rolled the throttle grip, and the Yamaha jumped forward. I steered out of the grass and toward the pavement.

Cops sprang from their cars. I zigzagged around them. Another police car swerved in front of me and blocked my way.

I fishtailed off the pavement and back on the grass. I shot between the shrubs along the base of the hill. Spiny leaves and branches smacked my arms and face. My body was a blur of reflexive motion that obeyed one simple command. Get away.

I punished the V-Max, relying little on my riding finesse and more on the brute force of the Yamaha's engine to bash through the vegetation. Every bump jolted me with excruciating pain. Branches pummeled the motorcycle and me, tearing my clothes and ripping off both mirrors.

The rising hill boxed me against the north side of the Greek Theatre. I steered for the stairs and railings to my left and bounced down the steps to land in front of the box office.

I crashed through a wire fence and raced in front of the theater. A maintenance worker piled bags next to an open gate at the far end of the concrete walkway.

I opened the throttle. The worker dove clear as I flashed through the gate and got back on the road.

A police car zoomed past. I left the park and entered the neighborhood of northern Hollywood. I ran stop signs and turned randomly from street to street.

I slowed and looked over my shoulders. No one followed. I paused under a cottonwood tree shading the curb. I picked leaves and twigs from my body. Now that I had stopped and the commotion of my escape lifted from my mind, the pain from the silver bullet crashed into me like a runaway railroad car. A wisp of smoke curled from the tear in my shirt. I clenched my fists and closed my eyes for a moment. I imagined the silver wad of metal frying my insides like meat on a skillet.

Blood seeped down my side and soaked my shirt and trousers. The rivulets crusted over and broke into clots of dust.

As huge as Los Angeles was, I found myself only blocks from the spot of Roxy's murder. How ironic if I were to die here.

But I wouldn't die. Not soon.

Where to go? Where to get help? Coyote was dead.

Veronica?

I could hide at her place. She would dig the bullet out of me. I had managed to have sex with her in wild acrobatic positions and still kept my undead identity secret. Guiding her hands and a knife through hypnosis would be tricky, but what other option did I have?

My watch said 4:14 P.M. She'd be at work. I slipped the cell phone from my pocket and called.

"About time," she said, her voice hovering between eagerness and displeasure. "Where have you been?"

"Bad trouble," I replied.

Veronica stayed quiet. Her breath rushed against the phone. "I didn't want to hear that. What kind of trouble? With the police?"

"With everybody."

"You… you don't sound well," she said.

"I'm not. I'm hurt pretty bad."

"You need me to take you to the hospital?" The phone shifted and I was sure she sat taller and more alert.

"No. I just need a place to rest and recuperate. Until tomorrow."

"My place?" She whispered, her tone guarded, as if she's hoping that I'd say no.

"If you could."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Doesn't matter. Let's meet at your place."

"I'm way over in Riverside. Probably can't get there until seven."

Three hours from now. Could I stand the pain? "I'll wait."

"Should I get anything? I've got bandages and stuff in the bathroom, but would you need something else?"

"Don't worry about it," I said.

"You call to tell me you're hurt bad and you say not to worry?" Her voice cracked. "Oh Felix."

"It's not that bad." It's much worse. "Buy cheese and wine. We'll have a party."

"I gotta go. Seven then," she said and hung up.

The worst was over. All I had to do was survive the next few hours, rest overnight, and go after Cragnow tomorrow.

When I lifted my left leg to set my shoe on the foot peg, a volcano of agony surged up my torso. The pain funneled up my neck and flooded my head. My eyes dimmed. Through sheer force of will, I shoved the fountain of anguish back down.

I rolled the Yamaha from the curb and rode south toward Veronica's apartment.

At every traffic light I thought I'd pass out. I lied to myself to keep going. Hang on for another hour. I'll stop and rest in fifteen minutes. Just one more block,

I reached the street where Veronica lived. I pulled into the driveway and maneuvered the Yamaha against the back cinder block wall close to the Dumpster and recycling barrels. My plan was to break into her apartment and rest inside. Hopefully she'd forgive me.

I peeled myself off the motorcycle. The afternoon sun reflected from the back windows of the buildings and baked me. The heat drained my weakening body. I could barely stand. The breezeway seemed an impossible distance.

I'd wait for Veronica out here. I crawled into the shade between the Dumpster and the cinder block wall. The area reeked of decaying food.

Each minute seemed like an hour. The sun's rays angled lower, and the coolness of evening gathered into the darkening shadows.