Karl gave me a half-smile. “‘Taken off the board.’ Jeez, Stan, you’re starting to talk like a Mafia boss yourself.”

“You know what I mean, and don’t change the subject,” I said. “Kaspar’s a vampire, and I asked Loquasto to have him killed. You’re a vampire, so I was wondering if it bothers you.”

“I’m a cop, too,” he said. “And I was a cop before I became a vamp.”

“I know that,” I said. Who would know better? Christine had brought Karl over because I’d asked her to. It was either that or watch Karl die from injuries he’d received while helping me catch a killer.

“You were with Homicide before Occult Crimes,” Karl said. “And a street cop before that. Right?”

“Yeah. Six years in uniform before I got my gold shield. So?”

“You ever kill any humans in the line of duty?”

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” I said.

“Well, did you?”

“Yeah – two as a street cop, and one while I was a Homicide dick.”

Karl nodded. “Did it bother you?”

“Yeah. Some.”

“Because you killed them – or because they were human?”

A few seconds went by. “I guess I’d probably say that you proved your point.”

“Then how about you not ask me any more stupid-ass questions. Deal?”

“Deal. What do you say we go back to the station and see what we can find out about this Callaway place?”

“That’s the second-best idea you’ve had tonight,” Karl said.

“What was number one?”

“Letting me handle the fucking golem. Now I don’t have to explain to Christine how you got yourself killed by an eight-foot pile of mud.”

Lake Scranton. The house just had to be on Lake Scranton. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, really – there are lots of ritzy homes out that way, and I wouldn’t expect Patton Wilson to hole up in a shack.

But some very bad shit had gone down a couple of years ago, in the pump house that controls the lake level – despite its name, Lake Scranton is a reservoir, not something made by nature. A number of people had died in the pump house that night, none of them pleasantly. Several others had come damn close to dying – including Christine, Karl, and me.

But the Callaway estate was almost a mile from the pump house, and I decided that I’d better stop thinking about old tragedies and start focusing on how to avoid a new one.

There was a lot of information about the place available online, including six photos showing the house, inside and out. The realty company had left the listing up, even though the word “SOLD” in red letters was prominently displayed on the page. I wondered why they’d even bothered.

The house was something called a Heritage Log Home, but it wasn’t anything Daniel Boone would recognize. Instead, it looked like the kind of lodge you’d find at a ritzy ski resort. According to the Realtor, the house sat in the middle of a two-acre lot, about a quarter mile from the intersection of Lake Scranton Road and Watres Drive. Four beds, three baths, four-car garage around back, surrounded by woods on three sides. The Callaway family had sold it last year for $460,000 to something called “V. H. Property Development.” Four hundred sixty grand may not buy you much house, say, on Long Island. But in Scranton, it’ll get you a mini-mansion, like the one Karl and I were looking at.

I googled “V. H. Property Development” and found exactly zip. Whatever properties they were developing apparently weren’t available on the public market. Then something occurred to me.

“I bet I know what the ‘V. H.’ stands for,” I said to Karl.

“What?”

“Van Helsing.”

Karl snorted. “You’re probably right. That sounds like something that would appeal to our buddy Patton.”

We studied the property photos. “Check this out,” Karl said. He picked up a pencil and pointed at the monitor. “A two-level veranda that goes all around the house. Three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Put people on each of the four sides, and it’s gonna be pretty hard to sneak up on that place.”

“Except at night, maybe.”

“Sure,” Karl said. “Unless the guys on the deck have night-vision equipment. Or they’ve got motion sensors on the grounds, or maybe body heat detectors. Motherfucker bought the place eleven months ago – think he might’ve installed stuff like that?”

“Who – paranoid millionaire Patton Wilson, who’s got more arrest warrants out on him than John Dillinger ever had?”

“That’s the guy.”

“In a fucking heartbeat,” I said. Staring at the photos on the screen, I said, “Still, some reconnaissance might not be a bad idea. Get an idea of what we’re up against – if we can do it without getting caught.”

“We can’t, probably,” Karl said. “But I can.”

“You sure?”

“It’s a vamp thing – you wouldn’t understand.”

I sat in the police-issue Plymouth, parked in some brush just off Watres Drive with the windows cracked a couple of inches each, and listened to the night. There wasn’t a lot to hear, since all the insect life was already in hibernation, and whatever birds were still around this late in the season apparently went to bed early. What I was really listening for was Karl returning to the car.

I should have known better. One second there was utter silence, and the next Karl was opening the passenger door and getting in. “Drive,” he said while fastening his seat belt. “No point in hanging around here any longer than absolutely necessary. I don’t think they have patrols out, but I could be wrong.”

There’s nobody better than a vampire when it comes to sneaking around in the dark, a point Karl had made when explaining why he should recon the house alone.

“I can see in the dark, and you can’t,” he’d said. “I can move a lot faster and quieter than you, and even turn into a bat, if I have to. And if they shoot at me with anything but silver, they’re shit out of luck.”

“And what if they do use silver?” I’d asked him.

“Then I’m the one who’s shit out of luck.”

I slowly turned onto Watres Drive, then took a right, heading us back to the city. I drove without lights for the first half-mile or so, to avoid drawing attention to the car. It wasn’t as dangerous as it sounds – my eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, and the almost-full moon gave enough light to see where I was going.

Still, I gave the road my full attention until it seemed safe to flick on the headlights. I blinked against the glare a couple of times, then asked Karl, “So, how’d it go?”

“Good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is that they didn’t shoot me.”

“I’d already figured out that part, kemosabe,” I said. “Not that I’m not relieved.”

“Yeah, well, the bad news is that they’re in good shape to shoot the livin’ hell out of anything else. I counted six sentries – four stationary and two rovers, all with automatic weapons.”

“Sweet Christ.”

“Two of the stationary guys are on the verandas with night scopes. Oh, and they all wear these little radios with headsets, so they can talk to each other. It looks like the same rig SWAT uses.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said.

“If we’re gonna go in there and get out alive, we’re gonna need some help. I’d recommend a couple platoons of Navy SEALs.”

“When we get back to the squad, we better have a talk with McGuire.”

“About what?”

“Getting some help.”

McGuire sat behind his desk, looking like his ulcer might be kicking up again. Funny how he often had that expression when talking to Karl and me.

We’d been talking for about fifteen minutes when he said, “Let me be sure I have this right. You want me to ask the Chief to authorize a full-out raid on this place – this heavily guarded place – near Lake Scranton because you think Patton Wilson is in there.”

I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“And your only source for this information is the consigliere of the Calabrese family, what’s-his-name, Loquasto.”