"You killed them, and you will be killed," a voice threatened. "You'll die. You willdie, Cross!"

I was looking at Peter Westin, the vampire expert I'd met weeks before in Santa Barbara. He was cut up, injured, and bleeding. But he was in total control, even with my gun aimed at his face. He was cool and superior, so confident. I remembered sitting across from him at the Davidson Library in Santa Barbara. He had told me he was a realvampire. I guess I believed him now. I finally found the right words. "You're the Sire."

Chapter 92

I tried a couple of sessions with the creepy and surreal Peter Westin that night in the jail at Santa Cruz. Kyle was attempting to get him transferred to the East Coast, but I doubted he would be successful. California wanted him. Westin wore a long-sleeved black velvet shirt and black leather pants. He was as pale as paper. Thin blue veins were visible under the translucent skin of his temples. His lips were full and the pigment appeared redder than most people's. The Sirealmost didn't seem human, and I was pretty sure that was the effect he wanted to convey.

It was emotionally disturbing and draining to be in the same room with him. Jamilla and I had talked about it briefly, and we both felt the same thing. Westin had none of the usual qualities that we associate with humans: conscience, sociability, deep emotion, sympathy, empathy. His entire persona was that of the Sire. He was a killer, a ghoul, a real-life bloodsucker.

"I'm not going to try and scare you with interrogation room threats," I said in a low-key way.

Westin appeared not to be listening. Bored? Indifferent? Smart as hell? Actually, as the Sire he was an extraordinary person to encounter: haughty, superior, intense, physically striking. He had the most piercing eyes. He'd put on an act for me in Santa Barbara — the harmless scholar with books about vampires to recommend.

He cocked his head and stared intently into my eyes. Westin was looking for something; I couldn't tell what. I held his gaze, and that seemed to irritate him. "Fuck off," he snapped.

"What is it?" I finally asked. "What's on your mind, Peter? Is it that I'm not worthy to question you now?"

He smiled — and there was even a hint of warmth in it. He could be charming, I knew. I'd found that out in the library in Santa Barbara.

"IfI talked to you, ifI told you everything that I feel and believe, you wouldn't understand," he said. "You would be even more lost and confused than you are now."

"Try me," I said.

He smiled again but said nothing.

"I know that you miss William and Michael. You don't show it, but you loved them," I said. "I know that much about you. I know you feel things deeply."

Then Peter Westin nodded, almost imperceptibly. The gesture was regal. He did miss William and Michael. I was right about that. He was sad that they were dead.

He finally spoke again. "Yes, Detective Cross, I feelmore deeply than you can begin to imagine. You have no idea. You have no clue how someone like me thinks."

Then he was quiet again. The Sire had nothing more to say. We mere mortals just wouldn't understand. I left him like that.

It was over.

Part Five

Violets are blue

Chapter 93

I was feeling partially relieved, better anyway. The murder case seemed to be solved, at least. Peter Westin was in jail. We'd done everything we could about his cult. The pressure had been eliminated. We'd stopped the bleeding.

Jamilla had left the previous night; we promised to keep in touch and I knew we would. I was headed up to the airport that morning to catch a flight from San Francisco to D.C. I was going home, and that felt good.

The details were still coming in, but I feared we would never know everything about the strange, murderous cult that had sprung up in California. It was usually that way in Homicide. You never knew as much as you wanted to know. That's the single most basic truth about being a detective, and you never see it on TV or in the movies. I guess the endings wouldn't be as satisfying if they were closer to reality.

Peter Westin had met Daniel and Charles when they had played in Los Angeles. Westin already had his own followers in Santa Cruz and Santa Barbara, but he feigned allegiance until he felt he was strong enough to be the Sire. Then he dispatched William and Michael Alexander to do his dirty work. Supposedly, there were followers in nearly a hundred cities, especially now that the Internet had brought us all so close together.

Something was still bothering me. I couldn't figure out exactly what it was, but it troubled me all the way to San Francisco. It was eating me from the inside out. Fear and dread. But about what?

There was a forty-five-minute layover, and I got off the plane. A jumble of bad thoughts played through my brain. I felt wired, itchy.

The original San Francisco vampire murders were still on my mind.

And the fucking Mastermind.

Jamilla was here in San Francisco. But that was a whole other subject.

What was bothering me?

Then I thought I knew what it was. Maybe I'd known all along. I called Jam at her office in the Hall of Justice. I was informed that she had the day off.

I called her apartment, but there was no answer. Maybe she was out on one of the five-mile runs she bragged about. Or she had a date with Tim Bradley from the Examiner, as if that was any of my business.

But maybe not.

Where was she?

Had something happened to her, or was I just being paranoid beyond belief? I was definitely working too hard. I didn't need this. I really didn't need this.

I couldn't take the chance. I hurried to the American Airlines counter and cancelled my flight out of San Francisco. I called Nana and told her I had to stay in California for a few hours. I would be in later tonight.

"Someone out here might be in trouble," I said.

"Yes, and that someone is you," Nana said. "Good-bye, Alex." She hung up on me again. She was right to want me home, but I was right in not wanting anybody else to be hurt.

I rented a car from Budget, beginning to feel that I was completely losing it. Charles Manson's words came to mind: Total paranoia is just total awareness. I had always thought that Manson was wrong about everything, but maybe he wasn't; maybe he was dead-on right about paranoia.

I had a powerful gut feeling that Jamilla Hughes could be in danger right now. I couldn't shake it off. Couldn't ignore it, even if I wanted to. The vibrations in my head were too strong, overwhelming. It was one of my famous feelings, and I had to go with it.

I thought about my former partner Patsy Hampton — and her murder.

I remembered Betsey Cavalierre — and her murder.

And Detective Maureen Cooke in New Orleans.

A long time ago as a homicide detective, I had just about stopped believing in coincidences. Still, I had no logical reason to believe that a psychopathic killer could be out here in California, possibly stalking Inspector Jamilla Hughes.

I just felt it.

Total awareness.

The Mastermind was out here, wasn't he? It was the sense I had. I waited for his call. I was ready to nail him once and for all. I was so ready.