"All right, sir, we'll do that," the plainclothesman said - he was a tall black fellow named Johnson. "Jesus, what kind of mess are we walking into the middle of?"

"A bad one," I said. "But you're not in the middle of it; you're just on the edge. I'm in the middle - and so is my fiancee."

A fellow wearing forensics crystal balls on his collar tabs came up to Johnson and said, "I ran a similarity check between the blood on the bedspread and the razor I found in a bathroom drawer. They match, so that's probably Ather's blood."

I moaned. That's a word you hear every so often, but you hardly ever use it, let alone do it This was one of those times. I felt as if I'd been kicked in the belly. Judy, bleeding?

Judy, maybe dead?

I must have said that out loud (though I don't remember doing it), because the forensics man put a hand on my shoulder and said, "I don't think she's dead, sir. There's evidence of some funny kind of fast-dissipating sleep spell in the flat.

My best guess is, she put up a fight, they slugged her, she kept fighting, and they knocked her out so they could get her away from here."

I liked him, and believed him, too. He didn't try sounding like somebody who knew everything there was to know; no pseudo-learned drivel about analyses and reconstructions.

His best guess was what he had, and that's what he gave me.

I thought it seemed likely, too. The constables in uniform had been knocking on doors through the block of flats. People opened doors for them - even the louse who lived next to Judy and had pretended I didn't exist. But there's a difference between getting doors to open and learning anything once they have. The constables came back to Judy's flat empty-handed: nobody had seen anything, nobody had heard anything.

"That's insane," I exploded. "They take an unconscious woman downstairs and out of a block of flats at a busy time of the evening and nobody noticed?"

"Must have been magic," Johnson said. "If they used it to knock Mistress Ather out, they probably used it to aid the getaway, too."

"I'll check that," the forensics man said, and he bustled out onto the walkway.

"What do I do now?" I said, as much to myself as to anyone else. Half of me wanted to make like a light-and-magic show mercenary and go out slaughtering all the bad guys.

The other half, unfortunately, reminded me that not only did I not know how to get my hands on the bad guys, but that if I went after them - whoever they were -  alone, they'd dispose of me instead of the other way round.

Johnson's answer showed that, as suited a constable, he had a thoroughly practical mind: "What you do now, Mr. Fisher, is come down to the station with us so we can get a sworn statement from you."

I didn't know where the Long Beach constabulary station was; I had to follow one of the plainweave carpets back there.

It turned out to be almost on the ocean, in a fancy new building. Legate Kawaguchi would have killed for Johnson's large, bright, efficient office. Come to that, I wouldn't have minded having it myself.

Like constables anywhere in the Barony of Angels, the Long Beach crew had a regular library of scriptures on which the people with whom they dealt could swear truthfulness: everything from the Analects to the ZendrAvesta. They pulled out a Torah for me; I rested my hand on the satin cover while I repeated the oath Johnson gave me.

Then he called up their scriptorium spirit to take down my words. I repeated everything I'd said in Judy's flat, and added detail to go with it. After a while, I paused and said,

"What time is it, anyhow?"

Johnson asked his watch. It said, "Nine forty-one."

"Could you get me a sandwich or something?" I asked. "I came down here for a dinner date with Judy, and I haven't eaten since lunch. We were going to try that new Numidian place-"

"Oh, Bocchus and Bacchus?" Johnson said. "Yeah, I've seen it advertised. I wouldn't mind trying it myself. Hang on a minute, Mr. Fisher; I'll find out what I can round up for you."

Instead of couscous and Iamb, I had a greasy burger, greasier fries, and coffee I drank only because it would have been an environmental hazard if I'd poured it down the commode. Then I finished giving my statement, and then I said, "What do I do now?" This time I was asking the plainclothesman.

"By to live as normally as you can," he said. I'd heard that advice before; I was sick of it. How are you supposed to live nomially when people are trying to kill you and they've abducted the person who matters most to you in the world?

Johnson must have understood that He raised a lightpalmed hand and went on, "I know it's a taH order. What we're going to have to do now is wait for contact - wait for either your fiancee or the people holding her to get in touch with you. Whatever their demands are, say you'll comply and then let us know immediately."

"But what if they-?" I couldn't say it - absit omen and all that - but he knew what I meant "Mr. Fisher, the only consolation I can give you is that if they'd intended to commit homicide, they could have done it They must have some reason for wanting Mistress Ather alive."

"Thanks," I said from the bottom of my heart. It made sense. Now all I had to do was pray the kidnappers were sensible people. But if they were sensible people, would they have been kidnappers?

Johnson came around his desk, set a big hand on my ^ shoulder. "You just go on home now, Mr. Fisher. Try and get some rest Do you want one of our black-and-whites to fly up with you, make sure you're not walking into a trap yourself?"

After a couple of seconds, I shook my head. He looked relieved, as if he'd regretted the offer as soon as he made it I suspected the Long Beach constables were stretched as thin as any other force. It's an ugly world out there. I'd just had my nose rubbed in how ugly it can be.

He walked out to my carpet with me. "We'll be in touch, sir. And we'll also get in touch with that Legate Kawaguchi of yours, and with Central Intelligence, and with the CBI, too, because it's a kidnapping… What's funny, sir?"

"I can get in touch with the CBI," I said. "I work two floors under their Angels City office." I wondered if Saul Klein would get involved in the case. Nice to have one landsman around, anyhow. He'd certainly be more comfortable to work with than the CI spook; Henry Legion was unnerving.

Johnson patted me on the shoulder again, sent me on my way. I remember very little about flying back to Hawthorne - too much else on my mind, too little of it good. I propitiated the Watcher for my block of flats, glided into the garage, got off my carpet, and headed for the stairway. Once I was inside the building, I didn't worry about how late it was, or how dark. Stupid, I know, especially after what had happened to Judy. I suppose you've never done anything stupid, eh?

A vampire stood grinning at the bottom of the stairs.

Modem medicine can do a lot for vampires: periodic blood impplants to stifle their hunting urge, heliotrope badis to let them go abroad between dawn and dusk (never on Sunday; the correspondence between real and symbolic sun is too strong then), sun-spectacles to keep them from being blinded when they do fare forth by day. Those who choose to - and, I admit, those who can afford to - take advantage of such techniques can lead largely normal lives.

Not all do. Some would sooner follow their instincts and prowl. I hadn't heard of vampires in Hawdiome, but I wasn't shocked to encounter one. For one tiling, I dunk I was beyond shock; for another, as I've said, this is a pretty rough little town.

Just for an instant, I wondered if he was connected with the bastards who'd taken Judy. I had my doubts. Vampires, if I can mix a metaphor, are usually lone wolves. Odds are, this one was just trying to keep himself fed. Random street crime, however, is just as dangerous to its victim as one that targets him in particular.