I pulled free and rubbed my eyes. My joints and back creaked like they belonged to an old man. I reached for my left leg and touched the bandage. The flesh was still tender. I put weight on the leg. The ache was tolerable.

The bouncer sat at the bar and sipped coffee. "You okay?"

I stamped my left foot. The soreness would last for a day or two. "Fit enough to kick ass, with either leg. You got extra clothes and a place to wash up?"

"The dressing room's got cosmetics and a sink. There are plenty of clothes lying around. Take what fits."

The parlor was empty except for the bouncer, the chalice, and me.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Three o'clock."

"A.M. or P.M.?"

"P.M."

"Where are your customers?"

"Hiding and waiting," answered the bouncer.

"For what?" I lifted the robe from the chair and covered the chalice.

"To see what you'll do next."

"For that I need wheels."

The bouncer reached into his trouser pocket and tossed a set of keys to me. "Take mine."

A Mitsubishi logo decorated the key fob.

He poured a cup of coffee and topped it off with a long splash of blood from a second carafe. "Where you off to?"

"You know Lara Phillips?"

He pushed the cup across the bar counter in my direction. "Nope."

"Then you won't miss her."

I had scrubbed myself clean, picked through the clothes littering the dressing room of the chalice parlor, and changed into jeans and a T-shirt that read: TAKE BACK THE STREETS. STOP THE VIOLENCE.

The bouncer owned the only Mitsubishi in the parking lot, a Spyder convertible. Since I was out of ammo, I dumped my pistol into the trunk. I folded the convertible's top down and sped north to Lara's home in Verdugo City.

She had a good head start, but there'd be clues where to find her. The sooner I got to her home, the warmer the trail would be.

I crossed over the concrete viaduct leading to Verdugo City. I halted in front of Lara's home. The same car with the EXPERT MAIDS logo was parked along the sidewalk.

I scanned for auras. I didn't want Lara to ambush me. The way clear, I put my sunglasses on and let myself in through the front door.

The only noise was a rustling from down the hall. I found the blond maid in a back room, stacking clothes on a small couch beside a desk. Two matching suitcases lay open on the floor. She didn't see me approach from behind.

A cork board hung on the wall next to the desk. Across the top of the board was a row of photos. The first two were glamour portraits of Roxy and Katz. Next were pictures from the Internet of Cragnow, Venin, and Paxton. The one of Rosario had been crossed out, probably to indicate she hadn't killed him. The last two were stills from a security camera. From the background I could tell these were taken at Journey's church. These photos were of Mordecai Niphe and me.

How far back had this murder spree been planned? Months? Years? Or did Lara only recently snap?

The maid glanced over her shoulder. Her complexion turned as pale as her white blouse. She whirled about in surprise, stumbled against the couch, and fell onto the cushions.

"Take it easy," I said. "I'm only here to find Lara."

The maid took quick breaths. Her breathing slowed, and the color returned to her face. The fright in her eyes gave way to grief. "Lara's in trouble, isn't she?" With those sad, round eyes and broad, sullen face the maid looked like a forlorn cow.

I nodded. "Where is she?"

"Not here." The maid shrank into the couch. Big tears shined in her eyes. She pulled a tissue from an apron pocket to blow her nose and blot her eyes. "Promise you won't hurt her."

My promise was that I'd terminate the murderous shrew. The petite brunette Gospel aerobics instructor was a rampaging killing machine that a half dozen others had underestimated. Alive, she remained as dangerous as a grenade with the pin pulled. "Why would I hurt her?"

"I just know. Lara's been doing crazy things lately. Like walking around the house and talking to herself. Praying for hours. Today she tells me to pack everything. Then she takes off in a banged-up car I've never seen before."

Niphe's BMW.

The maid picked at the tissue. "Lara's always been kind to me. If she's done anything wrong, she must have a good reason."

"That's what I'm trying to find out. Where did she go?"

"I won't tell you."

My questions meant the maid could implicate me in Lara's death when the police arrived, which they would. Despite the trouble I had interrogating the maid from last time, I had no recourse but to zap her, ask questions, and erase the memory of my visit.

The maid watched with glossy bovine eyes as I removed my sunglasses. Her aura lit up and she sat frozen in my hypnotic grasp.

Cupping her chin, I stroked her head and asked her name. Using her name might make her more receptive to my questions.

The maid stammered under hypnosis as she had before. Every passing moment put Lara farther away from me. The wall clock marked the fleeting seconds with the resolve of a hammer striking an anvil. I fought the impulse to slap the maid into answering.

At last she said, "Amy."

I caressed her face and kept my tone velvety soft. "Amy, let me help Lara." Help me kill the homicidal bitch. "Tell me where she went."

The maid smiled beatifically, naive to my lie. "With Reverend Journey. At his home in Silver Lake."

"Amy, you have an address?"

She motioned to the desk.

I found an empty postmarked envelope addressed to Dale Journey. The return address belonged to the late Council-woman Petale Venin.

"Good girl." I kissed Amy on the cheek, closed her eyes, and ordered her to sleep. She wouldn't remember anything.

I went out and left in the convertible.

South of Griffith Park, I took the Hyperion exit and climbed the twisting streets of Silver Lake. Journey's house occupied an extravagant double lot with a millionaire's view of the lake below.

The style of his home was traditional California Mediterranean: white stucco, red Spanish tile, and art deco flourishes. Turrets adorned the front of the house, one at each corner, and a larger one in the center with the entrance.

Niphe's BMW sat in the driveway to the right of the lawn. Long scratches and dents marred the smooth lines of the black coupe. The mangled front end drooped like a mutilated snout.

I slowed and looked for auras.

Nothing moved. Not even a cat or songbird.

I drove up the block and parked. I kept my sunglasses off, certain that if trouble started, I couldn't waste even an instant to bring every vampire power to bear.

I cut across the neighbors' lawns to the side of Journey's home, hid myself in the shadow of a dense fir tree, and walked up the wall. I levitated to step quietly over the tiled roof.

A rectangular swimming pool divided the backyard between a patio and a lush lawn. A tall brick fence surrounded the yard. I leaned over the edge of the roof Buster Keaton-style and checked the back wall of the house. A sunroom with beveled glass windows faced the patio. Though this place was big enough to be an orphanage, I had yet to see anybody.

I floated off the roof, opened a French door to the sunroom, and sneaked in. Voices murmured from deep inside the house.

I crossed from the sunroom into a den and then the kitchen. The voices grew louder. One, a woman's-Lara's. The other-tired, grim-was Journey's.

I stepped onto the plush carpet of a formal dining room, the lights off and deep in shadow. Through an arched doorway, I saw Lara standing in the front salon with her back to me. Her aura shined with conviction and energy. The strap of a handbag hung off the left shoulder of a long casual dress. She looked like any other suburban mom out for errands-while her victims crumbled to dust.