“Was any of those guys Wilson?”

Karl shook his head.

“Positive?”

A nod this time.

“Guess that means he’s still in there,” I said. “Let’s go get him.”

We drove up the narrow driveway to the huge house. The ground floor was dark, but I could see some lights burning upstairs. We’d gone slowly, so no screeching tires. No headlights, either. If anybody inside didn’t know we were here yet, I wanted to maintain their ignorance as long as possible.

I was reaching for the door handle when an idea struck me. “I know you’ve got extra-sharp hearing,” I said to Karl, “but do you think a human would still be able to hear Scar and the boys from here?”

He listened out the window for a moment, then nodded.

“OK,” I said, “how about this? Once I get the door open, let’s leave it that way and wait outside. If Wilson can hear Scar, he should come running out, along with any other guys he’s got in there with him. Save us having to go in after them.”

Karl gave me a grin and a big thumbs-up. We left the car and walked rapidly to the house’s immense front door, which looked to be solid oak. In the bag that Dooley had given me were a ten-pound sledgehammer, a small amount of plastic explosive for blowing locks, and a few other goodies. Karl could’ve probably torn the door off its hinges, but since he hadn’t been invited in, he couldn’t mess with the entranceway. Vampire shit is weird sometimes. Karl had been able to overcome his aversion to crosses, but the entry-by-invitation-only thing appeared to be more than just a psychological barrier.

I wanted to know just how solid the lock was, so I reached over and twisted the knob. But there wasn’t any resistance – it turned in my hand, and the heavy door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Karl and I looked at each other. When something like this happens in the movies, it usually means the hero’s about to get jumped. But maybe Wilson had so much faith in his small army that locking the door seemed unnecessary. At least, I hoped that was the reason.

Standing to one side, I pushed the door open all the way and revealed nothing but darkness. Then Karl and I waited to see who inside the house would respond to the Siren’s song.

Nobody came out. We stood next to the door for three or four minutes, then Karl started writing in his notebook again.

“Music playing someplace upstairs,” he’d written. “Loud. Wagner? They can’t hear Scar over it.”

That explained a few things. It was disappointing that Wilson wasn’t going to come running out into our arms, but on the other hand, loud music meant nobody up there would likely hear us until we were right on top of them.

I’d left my flashlight in the car, but didn’t think it was worth fetching. I’d just step inside, invite Karl in, and with his vampire night vision we could creep up on Patton Wilson and whatever minions he might have left.

I took a couple of steps into the vast foyer and glanced around. Seeing neither light or movement, I turned back toward the open door to invite Karl inside. “Come on–” was as far as I got when somebody kicked me in the balls.

I gave a loud grunt and fell to my knees, clutching my groin. I know that a blow to the testicles isn’t fatal – not even to your love life, usually – but for a few seconds the pain and nausea emanating from my crotch became the center of my world.

I was vaguely aware of the front door slamming shut in Karl’s face. Then something hard hit me on the side of the head, and I pitched forward into blackness.

I hadn’t had a lot to eat that day, since I’d been so busy planning my own little version of D-Day. Just as well – when I came to, the urge to vomit was strong. If I’d had food in my stomach, puking all over myself would have added messy insult to the injuries I’d already suffered.

My balls still hurt, though not as bad as before. My head throbbed where I’d been whacked – probably by a gun – for the second fucking time in eight days although not in the same place, fortunately. I tried to raise my hands to my aching head and found I couldn’t – they were secured behind my back by something that felt a lot like handcuffs, probably my own. My brilliant plan wasn’t working out too well, after all.

“I know you’re awake,” a woman’s voice said. “Get to your feet.”

A woman. That explained why someone was able to lurk in the dark foyer without being tempted to run outside after Scar. Women were immune to the Siren’s song. I couldn’t remember seeing any women around Wilson before, but then I’d only met him once.

I opened my eyes and saw that the lights were on now. Getting up from the floor with sore testicles, a pounding head, and no hands to help wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but I managed. Then I turned to face the lady who had just kicked my ass.

She was above average height, about 5’8”, with broad shoulders under a short-sleeved T-shirt, with a pair of tight jeans below. The biceps revealed by the short sleeves said the lady had some acquaintance with lifting weights. Her brown hair was in tight curls and she wore it in a style that in a black woman I’d have called an afro. Under the hair was a round face about midway between plain and pretty, and its angry expression didn’t exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Neither did the big revolver in her right hand.

I drew breath to speak – I had in mind to say something along the lines of “Who the hell are you?” – but she waved me quiet with a slash of her free hand. “Don’t talk until I tell you,” she said. Seeing that I wasn’t going to disobey, she went on, “I bet your ballsac hurts pretty bad, huh? I want you to think about how much worse it’d hurt if a put a bullet into it – which is just what I’m gonna do if you try to call in your vamp buddy from outside. Understand? Just nod.”

I dipped my head a couple of times, because I had no trouble believing that she meant every word she’d said.

“Good,” she said. “We’re going upstairs now.” She gestured with the gun barrel. “You first.”

She walked me to a staircase that must have been twenty feet wide. It was made of highly polished wood, like everything else in my field of vision.

She stayed several steps behind me as we climbed the stairs – a good, professional distance. I wondered if she’d been a professional bodyguard, either private or government, at some time. I didn’t try any TV hero shit on the steps, mainly because I had no desire to sing soprano for the rest of my life, however long that might be.

I hadn’t been paying attention before, but now I could hear the music coming from someplace upstairs. I recognized Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” but only because I’ve seen Zombie Apocalypse Now three times.

We went up two flights of stairs and turned right, then right again. That brought us to a long hall with a door at the end that seemed to be the source of the music, which seemed really loud now. No wonder Wilson, or whoever was up here, hadn’t been tempted by Scar’s Siren song.

When we reached the door, the woman knocked loudly. She had to do it three times, but then the Valkyries’ singing was suddenly cut off mid-note. From inside a male voice called, “What?”

“It’s me, sir,” she called. “We have a guest.”

“Come.”

She opened the door and motioned me inside ahead of her. I stepped into the kind of room you’d expect a rich fuck like Patton Wilson to hang around in – rich carpet, oil paintings, a big, overflowing bookshelf, and more polished wood. In the middle of it all was a desk that was probably some kind of antique, and behind the desk was the man himself.

If Patton Wilson was surprised to see me, he didn’t let it show. “You’re early, Markowski – by about a month. After the election, I was going to have you fired, preferably in disgrace, then kill you – right after you watched me stake that vamp bitch you call your daughter.”