"I know you're worried about Inspector Hughes. I guess we could go in there right now, but I think we should wait. I want to go at them after midnight, Alex. Or possibly near sunup. We're not even sure she's down there."

Kyle paused. His eyes shifted toward the distant ranch house. "I want to find out if they hunt as a group. There are questions we need answered. What motivates these freaks? What makes them tick? I want to make surewe get the Sire this time."

Chapter 86

It was a long, cool, very tense night in the foothills outside Santa Cruz. I couldn't wait for it to be over, or maybe I couldn't wait for it to start. We learned something interesting right away. The woman lawyer who had been murdered in Mill Valley had been involved in a lawsuit trying to get control of this property. It was probably why she and her husband had been hung.

I watched the ranch through binoculars from the surrounding trees and rock formations. I watched until my eyes ached. No one had left as of eleven. I didn't see anyone standing lookout either. The people inside were either crazy or supremely confident. Or maybe they were innocent. Maybe this was another wrong turn for us.

I was trying not to worry too much about Jamilla, but it wasn't working. I couldn't bear to think that she might already be dead. Was that what Kyle thought? Was it what he knew and was keeping from me?

At midnight, two males walked outside leading a tiger. I watched them through the night-sight glasses. I was almost certain I had seen them in New Orleans. They'd been at the fetish ball, hadn't they? They loped off into the flat, open fields behind the house.

One of the men got down on all fours, then rolled around in the tall grass with the cat. They were playing, weren't they? Jesus Christ. How incredibly weird. I remembered that the tiger had been called off its prey in Golden Gate Park.

About twenty minutes later, the men brought the cat to a pen behind the main compound. They hugged the six-hundred-pound tiger as if it were a large dog. The lights in the main building and the nearby bunkhouse burned brightly until past two. Loud rock and roll played. Then the lights were dimmed.

No one had left the house to hunt.

We still didn't know if Jamilla was inside, or even if she was alive. I stayed awake and watched. I couldn't sleep, not even for an hour or so. The FBI continued to collect information on the people inside the domain. What in God's name were they doing down there?

There was no word on the identity of the Sire. We did learn about the two blond males with the ponytails. William and Michael Alexander were the sons of a post-hippie couple who had worked at the ranch as animal handlers. The mother had been a zoologist. The boys had grown up comfortable around wild animals. They attended schools in Santa Cruz until they were nine and twelve, at which time the boys began to be homeschooled. They wore Moroccan robes and were always barefoot on their occasional trips to town. They were considered bright, but odd and extremely secretive. The boys had gotten into trouble in their early teens and been sent off to a state correctional facility for aggravated assault. They had been dealing drugs and also been caught breaking and entering.

Kyle joined me in the rocks overlooking the ranch at around three.

"You look kind of green around the gills," I said to him.

"Thanks. Long night. Long month. You're worried about her, aren't you?" he asked me. He seemed like a detached observer now. Calm and cool. It was pure Kyle. Calculated intelligence. "I don't know anything more, Alex. I've told you what I know."

"I can still see the body of Betsey Cavalierre. I don't want to see something like that again. Yes, I'm worried about her. Aren't you? What are you feeling, Kyle?"

"If she's alive down there, they have no reason to murder her now. They're keeping her there for a reason."

If she's alive.

Kyle patted my shoulder. "Get some sleep if you can," he said. "Rest up." Then he wandered off. But when I looked his way, he was watching me.

I leaned against an oak tree and covered myself with my sport coat. I must have fallen asleep at some point between three and three-thirty. I saw Betsey Cavalierre in my dream, then my partner and friend Patsy Hampton — who had also been killed. Finally, I saw Jamilla. Oh Christ, not Jam. I couldn't stand that.

I was aware of someone nearby, standing right over me. I opened my eyes.

It was Kyle. "Time to go in," he said. "Time to get some answers."

Chapter 87

The ranch was four to five hundred yards away. The terrain between the house and us was too open for us to sneak up on the complex. Was this where Jamilla had been murdered?

Kyle whispered, "She might still be alive." It was as if he were reading my thoughts. What else did he know? What was he hiding from me?

"I've been thinking about the brothers," I said. "They never had to be careful before, so they weren't. The magicians were the careful ones. They committed murders for a dozen years. Never got caught. There's no record that they were even suspected of any of the murders."

"You think the new Sire set up Daniel and Charles?"

"That's part of it, I'll bet. The brothers committed murders in towns where the magicians toured. The Sire wanted us to catch up with Daniel and Charles. It was a trap."

"Why kill them in New Orleans?"

"Maybe because the brothers are psychopaths. Maybe they had orders to do what they did. We'll have to ask the Sire."

"They don't think anyone can stop them. Well, they're wrong about that," Kyle said. "They're going to be stopped."

Which was when we got a surprise. The front door of the ranch house opened. Several men in dark clothes emerged. The two brothers weren't among them. The men hurried to a grassy area where pickup trucks and vans were parked in a ragged line. They started the vehicles, then drove them toward the front of the house.

Kyle was on his Handie-Talkie. He alerted the snipers waiting in the trees and rocks behind us. "Stand ready."

"Kyle, don't forget Jamilla."

He didn't answer me.

The front door opened again. Shadowy figures began to move out of the house. They were clothed in hooded black gowns and they came in pairs.

One person in each pair held a handgun to the head of the other.

"Oh shit," I whispered. "They know we're here."

There was no way to tell who anybody was, or if any of the robed figures were actually hostages. I tried to pick out Jamilla's shape, her walk. Was she among them? Was she alive? My heart felt heavy in my chest. I couldn't spot her from way up here.

"Everybody move. Now," Kyle spoke into his radio. "Go. Go!"

The black-robed figures continued to move toward the waiting trucks and vans.

One of the hostages suddenly dropped to the ground — only one.

"That's her," I called out.

"Take out the one over her!" Kyle ordered.

A shot rang out from one of the snipers. A hooded figure slumped over in a heap.

We charged forward, running down the steep hill toward the ranch. Some of the hooded figures fired shots at us. No one was hit. The FBI agents didn't return fire yet.

Then gunfire rang out from the hills. Some of the robed figures dropped to the ground, dead or wounded. A few put their hands above their heads in surrender.

I kept my eyes fixed on the robed figure I thought was Jamilla. She had stood up again but was stumbling, almost falling. Then the hood was pulled back, and I could tell it was Jamilla. She looked up into the hills. She put her hands up high.

I started to sprint. I was looking for the brothers. And the Sire.