"You all right?" Sean asked him carefully.

"Oh, yeah. A guy disappears in front of me, bullets don't kill him, but I'm just fine. How about you?"

Sean lifted his hands, giving nothing away with his expression. "I'm interested in what you found out about Aaron Carter."

"Well, there's one h.e.l.l of a history on a fellow with that name," Jack said. He showed Sean printouts he took from his notebook. "The Carters owned a plantation just upriver from your place. The first generation was fine. The original Carter, Grayson, was a popular man with all ethnic groups; he hired free Negroes, Spaniards, French, English, pirates-he was a magnanimous man who gave many a head start in life. He died in 1747; the place went to his son, Aaron. Aaron was sixteen when he inherited the holdings. He inherited over his older brother, Steven, because Steven was r.e.t.a.r.ded, or slow, or mentally deficient. Still, when Aaron was away on business, Steven remained. Screams were heard in the night, travelers disappeared, and so on. Then, the young and reputably beautiful daughter of a neighbor's black servant disappeared and a group of townfolk broke into the Carter place and guess what they found?"

Sean lifted his hands. "I don't know-Aaron Carter sleeping in a crypt?"

Jack shook his head. "No, Aaron Carter was human enough then. They didn't find him at all. They found slaves and servants hideously killed, their body parts strewn about the bas.e.m.e.nt. In a room kept perpetually dark, the people found a group of terrified young women, a harem of them-black, Asian, white, Anglo, French, Hispanic. He kidnapped them, and entertained himself with them until he tired of them. There were rooms in a wing of the house, supposedly Steven's domain, where dozens of murders had been committed."

"What happened?" "Well, naturally, Steven was blamed. He was shot dozens of times by the people, then hung by his heels and set afire. Most of the place burned. Aaron Carter, supposedly returning from abroad, grieved for the people and his brother. He donated money to the families, and had a large chapel built in the ruins of the property. He said he was going away, to Europe, far away from the horror for which he felt so responsible."

"End of the story?"

"No. There are two endings-the rational story has it that he went to Europe, returned with a wife, a toddling son, and an infant daughter, and was then murdered by the mother of the last girl to disappear into his family homestead. Some say, however, that the girl's mother was heavily into the occult. Not just voodoo, but all kinds of black magic. They said she could summon the devil, and could make people disappear. The story has it that she believed Aaron himself seduced her daughter, and, in turn, she had a very beautiful woman seduce Aaron- and take his life. Whatever the story, he disappeared, but, supposedly, his great-grandson arrived from an island plantation during the Civil War and nearly married into the Wynn family-they were distant cousins, since Mrs. Wynn was a descendant of the baby girl Aaron Carter had brought back to the States. She had married a man named Dixon, and rebuilt the house. The Dixons, however, died out at the turn of the century."

Sean stared at him, feeling a strange sensation rise within him. There was a stretch of land north of Oakville that had been vacant ever since he could remember. The taxes had been paid on the property; the grounds were overgrown, but occasionally tended. Because of the old plantation ruins on the property, it had been fenced off about twenty years ago to keep out tourists-the curious, and the cultists who liked to conduct seances and have services during the full moon.

Sean was quiet.

"What are you thinking?" Jack asked him.

Sean lifted his hands. "I'm thinking that we'd look really ridiculous waiting for daylight, gathering together a duffle bag of stakes and holy water, and hunting through the old Carter/Dixon property."

Jack shook his head.

"And what are you thinking?" Sean asked him.

Jack looked at him steadily. "I'm thinking I saw a man today who seemed evil in a way I could touch-and then he disappeared. And I'm envisioning all those old movies.

Professor Van Helsing and his helpers, moving quietly through the tombstones and crypts ... opening Lucy's grave, seeing her beautiful face, and ..."

"And?"

"Which movie was it when everyone got spattered in a sea of blood once the stake was stuck into the vampire?"

"I don't remember," Sean said.

Jack shrugged. "Then, in the darkness and the mist, the vampire rises-they always wait until it's too late, and somehow the vampire wakes up before they can stake him. And he kills everyone and flies away into the spooky mist of the coming night."

"Jack, these vampires don't have to sleep by day."

Jack just stared at him. "These vampires?"

He nodded awkwardly. "If there are vampires. Maybe they're real, maybe they're madman. Anyway, our killer is- one way or another-a psycho named Aaron Carter. Or a psycho using the name of Aaron Carter. He thinks he was Jack the Ripper and a dozen other ma.s.s murderers throughout time. I don't know if we can catch him on his property, but if so, at the very least maybe he'll believe that we can best him with the right weapons."

Jack kept staring at him. Sean drew his fingers through his hair. "Look, I know this sounds nuts. I know I can't go in front of a task force meeting and say any of this. But I don't know where else to go or what to do. Whatever he is, he is a monster, human or other, who will strike again. We've got to stop him. I don't have many leads. Investigating the old property seems to make sense to me. Well ..."

"I just have one thing to say," Jack told him.

Sean paused defensively. "What?"

"Daytime. We're going by daytime. Crack of dawn daytime. We're not going to hunt, find the guy, and have it turn into night right when we find him, before we can impale him.

And we're going about this intelligently. We can't have vampires in the cemeteries-we know bodies bake. Live bodies, dead bodies-they'd bake. If the Carters and Dixons were buried in vaults, they must be baked as well-"

"You said that Aaron Carter ordered a chapel or a crypt to be built."

"What would the temperature be in a chapel?" Jack asked.

Sean shook his head. "I don't know."

Jack nodded. "All right. We go to the property at the first sign of daylight. We search the ruins, and the chapel. And we are gone by nightfall. I don't believe any of this, of course. I can't believe I'm saying this. I'm going to go home and make stakes out of all my old baseball bats-"

"Brooms will work just fine."

Jack hesitated. "Ash. Ash is a good wood. Find anything made out of it. And remember, the chapel must be in ruins by now as well ..." Jack began, then fell silent. He was staring out the door to Sean's office.

Sean swung around. Maggie had come. He jumped to his feet, looking at her.

She looked pale; she smiled wanly. "The chapel isn't in ruins."

"How do you know?" he asked her sharply.

"I tried to trace Aaron Carter myself," she said softly. She glanced at Jack with an apologetic shrug. "Then I went to the courthouse and spent some time at the office of public records. A check arrives from an A.D. Carter, Rue Royale, Paris, twice a year for the upkeep of the building of the old chapel on the Carter/Dixon grounds." She stared at Sean. "I'll be going with you."

"No!" Jack and Sean said simultaneously.

"Jack, you don't understand, I can help you-"

"Maggie, you know what? We can talk about this tomorrow-" Sean began.

"Can we? What happened tonight? Your officers are good at public relations, and they're careful what they say to the press, but they did use the word 'disappeared.' What happened at the morgue? The broadcasts are saying that you and Pierre were attacked by a man dressed as a medical a.s.sistant who then disappeared? You and Jack both fired shots-but he disappeared. That's what they're saying on the news, Sean."

"The guy got away, Maggie." "The guy was Aaron!" she said angrily. "The murderer." She stared sharply at Jack. "And you know that he just disappeared into thin air!"

Jack shrugged. "It wasn't thin air," he said defensively. But Maggie kept staring at him.

He swallowed. Moistened his lips. "Maggie, come on. People don't just disappear."

"He disappeared, Jack," she repeated.

"How can you know, Maggie? You weren't there. I think, he, uh, well-" He broke off, looking into her eyes. His voice faltered. "It wasn't thin air-it was kind of a mist he disappeared into. But, Maggie-"

"He is a vampire, Jack. You can doubt it, you can question your sanity, but it's true."

"And you know him?"

"Yes."

"So the blood drops from the pimp on Bourbon Street that led to your door-"

"Were done by Aaron on purpose. To implicate me."

"Why?" Jack asked.

"I'm a vampire, too," Maggie said.

Sean groaned.

Jack smiled. His smile was weak. "Maggie, you're wearing a big, beautiful, gold cross, and you're-"

"I go to church.

"I haven't accepted the fact that I'm supposed to be d.a.m.ned. I go, but Aaron doesn't.

You really can hurt him by many traditional means. He's going to be hard to kill, but sometimes, every little edge helps. He won't evaporate or sizzle or melt like a wicked witch from Holy water, but it may slow him down. Garlic will honestly help-"

"Garlic. Maybe we should have a big Italian dinner and refrain from brushing our teeth,"

Jack murmured.

"Yes, we should have a big Italian dinner. We'll go to my house. I'll cook."

"With garlic?" Jack asked, half teasing her, half afraid that his question was entirely rational.

"I won't eat it, I'll just cook it. We'll all stay at my house tonight. And I'll be with you in the morning."

"No, Maggie," Sean grated.

Maggie shook her head sternly. "Yes! And we'll stay together as of now. Aaron wants to kill you, Sean. And he'll kill you, Jack, too, with every pleasure in the world."

"I shot him," Jack said. "Sean shot him. He's got to be in pretty bad shape."

"He's definitely hurt," Sean said, daring her to deny that much.

Her eyes fell. "If he ran, then he was hurt. But if he disappeared on you, he wasn't that hurt. He'll be back."

"But we should have some time," Sean insisted.

"Maybe," Maggie said.

Sean came to her, set his hands on her shoulders, kissed her forehead. "Okay, Maggie, we'll both come to dinner. We'll load down with garlic. But I need to tie up a few things, and Jack needs to go shopping. Give me an hour or so."

She hesitated. "You're really coming?" she asked. "I swear it."

She stared into his eyes, then nodded after a moment, turned and left them.

Jack looked at Sean. "Maggie's a vampire?"

Sean shrugged.

"Maggie?" Jack repeated.

"So she says."

"All right. So-what are we really doing?"

"You're going out for ammunition. Brooms, holy water, blessed crosses. Matches, lots of matches. Or lighters. Or both."

"We would be put away for this, you know."

"There's not going to be any task force meeting about it, Jack."

"No, I guess not. And while I'm out buying brooms to pare into stakes, what will you be doing?"

"I'm going to the drugstore."

Jack arched a brow.

"Sleeping pills. Maggie can't come with us."

"Sean, she can't really-"

"I don't know what's real. But she can't be with us."

Jack turned, shoulders squared, and left the office.

Sean sat back when they were gone. He unlocked his bottom drawer, drew out ammunition. Bullets at least slowed the sucker down. He swung around on his chair and happened to notice the wall. One of his Civil War ancestor's swords hung there. He hesitated, then stood on the chair to lift it down. "Revenge?" he murmured quietly, carefully handling the sword. It was a traceable antique-priceless.

It felt far too familiar in his hands.

He gave himself a shake, dug into a cabinet for a duffel bag, packed his sword and extra rounds of ammunition, and left the office.

He walked down Royale Street. Jewelry dealers, tourist shops, antique stores were just beginning to close for the evening. It was nearly ten o'clock, he realized. A mule-drawn carriage clip-clopped by. Across the street was the pharmacy, an old building, the second floor graced with a beautiful wrought-iron railing. His city. He loved it.

There wasn't room in it for both him and Aaron Carter.

He shifted the duffel on his shoulder and entered the drugstore. Old Trent Bickery, more ash-colored than black, was behind the counter. Trent owed him. Sean had kept his grandson out of prison on what could have been a case of grand theft auto. The boy, given the break, had cleaned up his act and gone on to Duke. Not that what Sean was asking was such a terrible thing, but dispensing narcotics without a prescription was still illegal. And Trent was a man of the law. A Christian to the core, as moral as they came.

"Lieutenant Canady!" Trent greeted him. "I was just about to close up. You caught me just in time."

"I need some help, Trent."

The gnarled old man arched a brow. "You asking me for some kind of uppers or downers, Lieutenant? Ain't like you. Don't be asking me to do anything illegal, now-" "Trent, you know me. I'm clean. And you know that the docs down at the medical examiner's office could give me a prescription for anything I wanted. I don't have time, that's all. I need a sleeping pill. Now. Not some over the counter may-or-may-not-work sleeping pill. Someone could get killed. I have to keep her out of danger."

Trent stared at him a long moment. Shrugged. Turned around and came back to him.