However disturbing it was, it paled next to how he had killed her.

He shivered, tried to clear his mind of that ridiculous thought, but it was too late.

Moors is a vampire.

"No," groaned Buddy aloud, rolling his eyes. "He probably didn't even really kill her."

Then, he thought of something that made his scalp tingle.

Buddy stomped the brake, and the car fishtailed to the side of the road, a procession of horn-blaring cars swerving as they pa.s.sed him.

I left the water softener. He's going to know I was there.

s.h.i.t. s.h.i.ts.h.i.ts.h.i.ts.h.i.t!

"Shut the f.u.c.k up!" he screamed, lurching the car back onto the road and starting home again. "He's not a vampire. There are no such things as vampires!"

Okay, all right, calm down. There are no such things as vampires.

He sure looked like he was sucking her blood.

He sure has ordered a lot of caskets.

He sure has asked for a lot of strange things to be done to those caskets.

He sure has a lot of empty room in that mansion, which, by the way, he shows no intention of really turning into a funeral home.

Oh, and that red stuff in his coffee cup? Do you still believe that was hard water?

"Christ, maybe ... maybe he is. I mean, what would you do with all of those caskets if you're not opening a mortuary?"

What about those other shadows in the windows?

What if Moors was buying caskets for other vampires-a sort of undead real-estate agent?

His heart began to beat fiercely again, and what was left of his cold blood evaporated.

If Moors is the real-estate agent then I'm his developer.

He made the turn into the driveway of his modest two-bedroom home, sat there for a spell feeling uncomfortably responsible for the death of that nameless woman.

What could I have done to stop him?

Nothing, the other voice said. He'd have killed you, too.

He shivered at that.

But you can prevent anyone else from being killed.

How?

Kill him.

Buddy thought of the money he was making ... real money. A lot of very real money. And here he was thinking of getting rid of it because he thought he saw a vampire.

Then he remembered something else.

h.e.l.l, he's already paid. I've got his money ... and a referral to boot.

What the h.e.l.l else does a good salesperson need?

Buddy smiled at that, until a vision came to him: the thirty-seven children's caskets they were preparing to deliver, filled with thirty-seven tiny, pale-faced cherubs, each with rosy red cheeks and protruding canines, each grasping the handles inside their Hastings Caskets with doughy hands, opening the lids, coming out.

Coming out looking for someone to hold them.

Someone to warm them.

As he punched the garage door opener, he thought of the 138 caskets to be delivered to Moors in the next ten days.

And he had an idea.

Mr. Carsten Moors and his tenants were going to get another option installed in their caskets.

Courtesy of their salesperson, Mr. Buddy J. Burnett.

Three-thirty a.m., and the phone on the nightstand jangled him from sleep.

Still unconscious, he reached to answer it.

"h.e.l.lo?" he answered, trying to sound groggy.

"Buddy," hissed Carsten on the other end, sounding too cool, too refined and too polite. "Something a bit strange happened this evening."

"What's that?" asked Buddy, trying his best to keep his voice level and neutral.

"Someone dropped off a gift at my house tonight. A water softener."

"Oh, you got that? Great!" Buddy's pulse began to race as he waited for Moors' answer.

"Thank you, Buddy. I'll see that it's installed soon. Tell me, did you, perhaps, deliver it yourself?"

At that, Buddy's mouth went dry.

There was silence, then, on the line, during which Buddy was quite sure that his heart was thumping loud enough for Moors to hear.

"I think," Moors began slowly, civilly, "that whoever delivered this lovely gift may have seen something this evening that shocked, even frightened him. I think this someone should keep his visit and what he saw quiet. If, that is, he'd like to keep his ... contracts."

"Other than that, the gift was quite thoughtful," Moors said, the dark cloud underneath his tone dissipating. "Now, I have a few modifications I'd like to discuss, and the European order has come through."

"Yes, sir," Buddy said, swallowing, and in shock.

He knows, but he isn't going to do anything, Buddy thought as he scribbled down Moors' request and the new order. Because you can't do anything to stop him.

Buddy smiled at that, kept scribbling.

"Here's the daily list of changes," said Buddy, pounding Jim on the back and slipping the papers into his free hand.

Jim, the plant manager, hadn't looked forward to a morning since they got the first Moors contract. At the start of every day, Buddy visited him, like today, with a list of Moors' recent requests-sometimes a single paper, sometimes a sheaf of papers.

Today, it was just a sheet.

"You gotta be s.h.i.ttin' me!" Jim snorted as he scanned the list. "What's this?"

"Just what it looks like. Can you do it?"

"Sure. I mean, I guess so," Jim spluttered. "He wants these installed on all of them?"

"Yeah, even the ones we've already finished. Will it hold up delivery?"

"Probably not," he answered sourly. "Not if we can find enough parts."

"Well, hold everything until they're all finished. He specifically requested that there be no partial shipments," said Buddy.

"Oh, and by the way, Moors' European contact called me the other day. We got the order in-a five million dollar contract."

"Christ! You mean a five million dollar headache," said Jim turning away.

Buddy laughed and shook his head as he left the plant.

In the bright light of the early morning Buddy could see the house's imperfections with startling clarity, the way its shutters drooped, its paint flecked, its siding bowed.

Other than that, though, the house looked no different than it did four months earlier when he'd first been here in the evening. Moors had made no improvements.

Actually, this was the second time this week he'd been here. The first time, four days ago, Moors had signed the delivery papers and handed over a check for the entire European order.

Two days later, the caskets had arrived and been off-loaded into Moors' house, all at night.

Now here he was sitting in an idling car wondering what the h.e.l.l he was doing.

From the pocket of his jacket, he produced a small device that, at about the size of a cigarette lighter, fit snugly in the palm of his hand.

It had a single red b.u.t.ton and a key chain that dangled from one end.

Imprinted on it, in tiny white letters, were the words: "Open Sesame."

Buddy remembered how he got the idea, thumbing the b.u.t.ton on his garage door opener the night he fled from Moors' mansion.

If he's really a vampire, he needs the coffins to protect him-and his guests-from the sunlight.

If we install something to open those coffins during the day ...

Actually, what they ended up installing were not garage door openers, but commercially available devices that could open a car's trunk or doors by remote.

It had been the only modification Buddy had hovered over, making sure that Jim had it just right.

"No, no," he'd told Jim. "The lids have to open completely. And all the receivers need to be set to the same code."

Buddy prayed that Jim's attention to detail held out.

He climbed the steps to the front porch, tested the door. As he thought, it was locked.

Walking casually around the porch, he fingered the device.

Then, he pushed the b.u.t.ton.

The tiny red light illuminated.

Just to be sure, he pressed it again and again and again ...

He didn't know what to expect, but within seconds, he heard a chorus of high-pitched screams. Several of the windows on the upper floors shattered, sprinkling the porch with gla.s.s.

Then, more screams, some distant, some very clear, joined the chorus.

Buddy ran down the porch steps, still punching the b.u.t.ton, and looked at the house. Through the upstairs windows, he could see flashes of light.

Just then, there came a terrific, cycling shriek, and one of the front windows on the lower floor exploded, a dark shape hurtling out of it, crashing through the porch railing.

It came to rest, twisted and charred, near the foot of the steps.

Buddy backed away, covering his mouth against the burning stench that rose from it.

It turned its head up to the light, and the burning began again, erasing its features.

Not before Buddy saw the unkempt blonde hair, the blunt face.

After the screams had died away, Buddy eased himself into the house through the broken window, pressing the tiny b.u.t.ton continuously. He walked through the room where Moors and he always met, opened the door onto the room in which Moors' had killed the woman.

The walls were covered with splotchy, rust-colored stains.

He found the refrigerator where Moors kept his beer and took one. Draining half the bottle in one breath, he spotted a telephone across the room.