"Mr. Concasseur?"

      He snapped his head up and glared at the speaker. "What?"

      At the overhead projector, Tanner flinched and said feebly, "Um, I asked if you had any further questions, sir."

      It was not Tanner's fault that Concasseur's mind had been elswhere during his presentation. The bokor smiled to put the chief administrator of Crossroads South at ease. "No, Dennis. You did a splendid job. Thank you."

      Tanner adjusted his tie and grinned. "Then I'll turn the meeting over to Debbie, who has some information about our public relations efforts. Debbie?"

      While Debbie Reardon moved to the front of the crowded boardroom, Concasseur extracted a roll of antacids from his pocket. He chewed three chalky tablets, hoping to settle the caustic whirlpool in his stomach.

      "We have very high hopes for tomorrow's grand opening," Reardon said. "News crews from the major affiliates have promised to be there. The Times is sending their society writer, and I think we can count on at least a dozen celebrity guests."

      Concasseur listened for a few seconds before turning his attention back to the collection of photos.

      Irving Newman had put a lot of effort into assembling the portfolio. One of Hollywood's most influential casting agents, Newman didn't work cheap, but he worked very, very fast. Best of all, he didn't ask many questions. He hadn't batted an eye when Concasseur told him what he was interested in. "Hey," Newman had said, "if you want midget castratos who can sing `The Hallelujah Chorus,' I'll get you the Munchkin Tabernacle Choir within a week."

      Unfortunately, Newman's photographs were not particularly helpful in this instance. They might have told a film director what he wanted to know, but Concasseur could not find in them the information he so desperately craved. Outer appearance did not particularly matter to him. When he tried to imagine what went on behind the eyes of the photo subjects, he failed miserably.

      Concasseur vividly remembered the first time he had stared into Joey Spelvin's dark eyes. What wonders, what marvels he had seen there! Spelvin's eyes had swirled with a fascinating interplay of shadow and light, brimmed with a power that Spelvin had not even guessed he possessed. They had been the eyes of someone either supremely blessed or cursed by the loas. The eyes of the perfect sacrifice.

      Concasseur had held high hopes for Spelvin. Now those hopes lay in cold ashes. And the time for finding a replacement was running out.

      "-- and I'm confident that tomorrow's event will be a spectacular PR success," Debbie Reardon concluded.

      Concasseur closed the portfolio cover and stood. "Thank you, Ms. Reardon. And thank you, one and all. All the pieces seem to be in place. It is late, and now I shall let you return home to your families. Sleep well, and best of luck tomorrow."

      They gave him a round of applause and let him leave the boardroom first.

      A secretary intercepted him, a pink message slip in her hand. "Doctor Merriman called from San Francisco headquarters, Mr. Concasseur. He said it's very urgent and that he is standing by for your call."

      Concasseur looked at the slip and frowned. "Dial the number and transfer the call to Tanner's office phone."

      "Yes, sir."

      He shut himself in Tanner's office. When the phone lit up, he quickly lifted the receiver and said, "This is Concasseur. What is wrong, Merriman?"

      "Something has happened to Riggs Robertson and Carol Hartinger."

      "What?"

      "They're dead. Probably murdered. Details are kind of sketchy. The police have Hartinger's condo cordoned off, but they're not saying much about what went on inside."

      "And where is Bill Hartinger?"

      "Nobody knows. He hasn't been seen in days. I guess that makes him the number one suspect."

      "I would not leap to that assumption."

      Merriman asked, "What do you want us to do here?"

      "Await further instructions. Goodbye." The bokor hung up.

      He walked to the window and stared down at the city's lights. What did this new development mean? Could Bill Hartinger really have become fed up with his wife's infidelities and killed her and her latest lover? It seemed hardly likely.

      Perhaps Claude Baribeau's rag-tag group of followers were seeking revenge. But Concasseur imagined that, without a strong leader to guide them, they would be too demoralized at this point for any retaliation.

      A third possibility occurred to him, one that merited a great deal of consideration.

      There was every indication that Joey Spelvin was dead. The police believed it. The loas did not tell him otherwise. But suppose, just suppose, he was alive. What then?

      The bokor pressed his forehead against the windowpane. Its coolness refreshed him, helped him think.

      He welcomed any excuse to leave Southern California. The place made his skin crawl, its vulgarity and superficiality inducing almost physical nausea. There was business to be done here, however, very important business. To survive, Crossroads had to grow, and there were few other fields in the country as fertile as Los Angeles for such brands of popular, cut-rate mysticism.

      Concasseur had a lot of money and prestige riding on tomorrow's grand opening of Crossroads South. He could, he supposed, return to San Francisco and delegate authority to his capable team of managers. However, the last time he had let others do what he should have done, the results were disastrous. The Glen Ellen fiasco had taught him a lesson he was not soon to forget.

      No, it was better to stay. He would wait until he knew more about the situation with the Hartingers and Riggs Robertson. A day or two would not matter.

      Leaving Tanner's office, Concasseur discovered that most of his employees had left already. He was not surprised. It was past nine o'clock, and they all had much to do in the morning. Without saying goodbye to the lone secretary who had stayed behind, he walked to the elevator and stepped into the car alone. He pressed the button that would take him to the lobby, fifty stories below.

      The elevator descended swiftly and smoothly. A large green digital display counted the floors, marking each with a pleasant electronic ping. Concasseur's ears popped when the car passed the twentieth floor.

      Between the sixteenth and fifteenth floors, the elevator shuddered to a stop. Concasseur lost his balance and clutched the brass rail at the back of the car. Cursing, he punched a dozen of the numbered buttons on the control panel. Nothing happened.

      He rang the alarm, holding the button down until he could no longer stand the ear-piercing noise. He waited for a response. None came.

      Concasseur detested small, enclosed spaces. Like many inhabitants of zombie-infested Haiti, the fear of waking up in a cramped coffin was a very real concern for him.

      He realized that he was shaking, quivering like a frightened child. Disgusted with himself, he opened the tiny door that gave him access to the emergency telephone. He dialed 0, expecting to reach the office building's central switchboard.

      It didn't take long for someone to answer. A female voice said, "Yes? How may I help you?"

      His mouth was dry. He swallowed and said, "I am stuck in one of the elevators."

      "Oh? I'm sorry to hear that, sir. At which floor are you stuck?"

      "Between fifteen and sixteen."

      "I see. Well, we'll have someone with you in just a moment. Just sit back and relax. I'll turn off the lights to make you more comfortable."

      "What did you say?" The elevator car was plunged into absolute darkness.

      He shouted into the phone, "Have you gone mad, woman?"

      The operator did not answer. He blindly reached for the control panel, hoping to find a switch that would turn the lights back on. His hand traveled half the distance he expected, and his knuckles cracked against wood instead of metal.

      Teetering on the lip of panic, he dropped the telephone receiver and groped for the panel with both hands. He could not find it. He took a step backwards and bumped into a wall that should have been three steps away.

      From the dangling phone came peals of maniacal laughter.

      Concasseur beat his fists against the elevator door. "Get me out of here! Help!"

      A hand dropped onto his shoulder. Claws punched through the fabric of his shirt and nicked the flesh beneath. The elevator suddenly stank of demon.

      Using his switchboard operator's voice, the baka said, "There is no place you can go, Henri."

      He turned around and met the baka's yellow gaze. He knew the creature could scent his fear, but he tried to keep it out of his voice. "Your sacrifice is almost ready, demon."

      "Is it?" The beast switched to its own growling voice. "Somehow, I do not believe you."

      "It is true."

      "Then perhaps I should accompany you now as you make the final preparations."

      Concasseur's inflamed stomach burbled. He felt an urgent need to pass a great amount of gas. He could not bring himself to do so in front of the baka, despite the creature's own nose-searing reek. He said, "I need another month."

      The demon snorted. "You are joking."

      "You and your kind measure time in centuries. Surely four more weeks cannot matter."

      The creature's fur glowed a sickly green in the elevator's darkness. Concasseur watched the demon's ear flatten against its head. The beast said, "I hear whispers among the other baka. They say I have grown soft and weak. That does not please me, not at all. I have been patient long enough.

      "You have forty-eight hours. Then I shall come to collect the debt in full."

      Concasseur's heart lurched. "That's impossible! You can't expect me to meet that deadline!"

      "I can, and I do."

      "Give me two weeks -- a week -- and I promise to deliver a second sacrifice within a year's time."

      The baka shook its head. "I am tired of your hollow promises, Henri. Two days. No more." It gave Concasseur a sly grin. "Of course, I expect another small down payment."

      The empty space in Concasseur's mouth throbbed. "Another tooth?"

      "Oh, no. I am bored with teeth. You must choose something else."

      When Concasseur did not reply, the demon said, "Choose, or I shall choose for you. I guarantee that you will not like my choice."

      It took an enormous concentration of will for Concasseur to hold out the little finger on his left hand. "This."

      "That will do nicely."

      The baka bit the finger off cleanly at the bottom joint. Concasseur did not scream. He made a soft little sound like "Uff."

      The demon sucked the blood from the amputated digit and held it up for inspection. Apparently satisfied, he said, "Forty-eight hours. Then I return for the rest of you."

      The lights winked back on. The car reverted to its normal proportions. The demon went back to the place where demons live.

      Concasseur clutched his injured hand. There was little pain yet and virtually no gore. Something in the baka's saliva had effectively cauterized the wound.

      The elevator carried Concasseur to the lobby. Dizzy with shock, he stumbled out of the building. His limo waited at the curb.

      Delmore Zweibeck got out from behind the wheel and dutifully opened the passenger door. Concasseur fell into the car. The last thing he said before he passed out was "Get me to the airport!"