It was one in the morning, and they were parked around the corner from Henri Concasseur's Pacific Heights address. Wally sat behind the wheel, Joey in the bucket seat beside him. In the back, a bald guy named Cecil -- one of Wally's cohorts -- smoked and kept quiet.

      "The alarm system is prehistoric," Wally continued. "Probably installed sometime during the late Sixties and never upgraded. There are faded decals on some of the windows claiming the place is protected by Guard-A-Lert Systems. Well, that firm's been out of business for fifteen years."

      Joey had figured as much. All along, he had assumed that Concasseur's home would be easy to enter and difficult to leave.

      "Cecil took a look around inside the house this morning, claiming to be from the phone company. He didn't spot any interior sensors. There might be some that are extremely well hidden, but I doubt it."

      Joey asked, "Who answered the door?"

      Cecil flicked his cigarette butt out the window. "A woman with long black hair. A real looker, but a little weird. She seemed to understand everything I was telling her, but I don't think she ever said a word. Maybe she's mute or something. She gave me the run of the place, though. I poked around pretty much wherever I wanted to."

      "Did you see anyone else in the house?"

      "Not a soul."

      Joey said to Wally, "And you've had the property under surveillance since then?"

      "Nobody's gone in or come out."

      So far, Bill Hartinger's information had proved accurate. Joey turned back to Cecil. "What other impressions did you have of the place? Did you see, hear, or even sense something that didn't seem quite right, something that bothered you without your understanding why?"

      For a moment, Cecil seemed ready to shake his head. But then he gave the question more thought. "I don't know if this means anything or not. There was one room I could have gone into but didn't. I'm not sure why. It just felt, well, better not to."

      "What room was that?"

      "The door was closed. But I wouldn't be surprised if it was a study or a den. That would make sense according to the layout of the rest of the house."

      "What floor was this on?"

      "The first." Cecil pulled out a pencil and a scrap of paper. "Lemme draw you a map." He sketched a hasty floorplan and handed it to Joey.

      Without offering any to the others, Wally fed himself two sticks of sugarless gum. He chewed loudly and said, "Not that it's any of my business, Joey, but what the hell are you looking for in there? Cash? Jewels? Weapons?"

      "Find Concasseur's place of power," Ogu had told him. "Make his power your own."

      "You're right, Wally," said Joey. "It is none of your business."

      Wally sniffed. "All right, be that way. Just remember, Cecil will get you in, but if something goes wrong, you're on your own." From the dashboard, he picked up a radio headset and gave it to Joey. "The first sign of trouble, we'll give you one warning and then we're outta here. We ain't being paid enough to stick around."

      If something went wrong, these two wouldn't be able to do much to save him. "Understood." He donned the high-tech headgear, adjusting the tiny microphone to the correct position.

      "Then let's get this over with."

      Wally drove slowly past the rear of the property. Bringing their tools with them, Joey and Cecil slipped out of the vehicle and ran to the wrought iron fence surrounding the house. Moving like a trained gymnast, Cecil was up and over it in a shot. Joey needed more time, but eventually dropped onto the lawn beside the burglar.

      "You're going in through the cellar," Cecil said. "The outer door won't pose any problem. Cross the basement, and there should be a set of stairs leading to the main floor. Use your set of picks to unlock the door to the kitchen. From there on, everything should be self-explanatory."

      It sounded simple enough. Joey hoped Cecil knew what he was talking about.

      Cecil took a crowbar and jimmied the cellar door. The wood rotten and the locks rusty, it was not much of an obstacle.

      Cecil stepped back and surveyed his work. He whispered, "Are you ready?"

      "Almost." Joey checked his utility belt one more time, made certain that the knife, sack and other tools were all there. He removed a rattle and, keeping his voice as low as possible, began to chant. Cecil stared at him in total befuddlement. Joey closed his eyes and ignored him.

      When he finished the prayer, Cecil said "Good luck, man," and slipped away. Joey turned on his flashlight and entered Henri Concasseur's basement.

      He expected something out of Bram Stoker, a subterranean room filled with monstrous cobwebs, billowing fog and gigantic rats. Instead, a quick swipe of his flashlight beam revealed nothing more sinister than a delapidated lawnmower, heaps of hastily packed cardboard boxes and a jumble of unwanted wicker furniture. Joey let go a sigh of relief. The place looked more like Dad's garage than the dungeon of Castle Dracula.

      The pilot light of the gas furnace hissed and glowed blue in one dark corner. Pipes rattled somewhere off to his right. The strong smell of mildew tickled his nose, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling a sneeze.

      He moved cautiously around the clutter of stored items, careful not to trip or bump into anything noisy. Having worked his way through a maze of discarded appliances, he spotted stairs leading up to the ground floor. A shallow puddle of water lay in his path, but he tip-toed through it, thereafter leaving sneaker prints on the concrete floor. He climbed the wooden steps.

      Having made it to the top without treading on a squeaky board, Joey used his set of picks again. Whether the latch was especially rusty or his hands especially unsteady, it took him ten sweaty minutes to unlock the door. It took him another five to summon the courage to push it open and step into the kitchen.

      He switched off the flashlight and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. There was enough light for him to discern the outlines of large objects: butcher's block, stove, rack of pots and pans. He held his breath and listened for any sounds of movement in the house. He heard nothing, save the ticking of a clock and the hum of the refrigerator.

      He risked whispering into his headset microphone. "I'm in the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary so far."

      "All clear out here," Wally said. "Maintain radio silence from here on out, if possible."

      "Will do." He crossed the linoleum floor and pushed open the swinging door that led to the dining room.

      The interior of the Concasseur home was very ordinary, tastefully but not opulently appointed with sturdy furniture, handsome Middle Eastern rugs, inoffensive landscapes, heirloom china. So far, the place bore no obvious stamp of its owner's personality. In fact, it occurred to Joey that most of house's contents were only rented or borrowed. It all looked too much like a stage set.

      When he entered the central hallway, the shell necklace around his throat suddenly vibrated against his skin. He looked down the hall at a closed oaken door. He didn't need Cecil's map, after all.

      As he approached the door, a tiny black cloud suddenly began to form just outside the room. Joey stopped, waiting to see what would happen next. The miniature thunderhead hovered about five feet above the floor, expanding and thickening. It finally coalesced into a wraith-like figure, eyeless and nearly fleshless, all black bones and teeth and claws. Concasseur's watchdog looked like Death itself.

      Would someone not possessed of magic see this creature?, Joey wondered. Or would that intruder reach unwittingly for the doorknob and have his heart ripped out of his chest without ever knowing what struck him?

      The thing lashed out with its talons, even though it was not close enough to do any damage. Joey held up his amulet and said, "By the power of Ogu, loa of fire and thunder, I command you to step aside."

      Two purple rays shot from the talisman and struck the watchdog in its empty eye-sockets. The beast opened its mouth in a silent screech, holding up its skeletal hands to block the violet, killing light.

      Mindful of the beast's potential for mayhem, Joey cautiously stepped closer. "Then Ogu says, `Die!'"

      The thing shuddered and finally disappeared, leaving behind a stink like burning hair and rubber.

      Joey listened for the calls or footsteps of other guards. The house remained quiet.

      He manipulated the lock. It wouldn't budge until he recited a spell that broke the magical seal. Then the knob turned easily. He opened the door and stepped inside.

      With its shuttered windows, the study was darker than the rest of the house, very nearly pitch black. The unventilated air felt charged with pent-up malevolence and smelled of spoiled food. As he thumbed his flashlight on and closed the door behind him, Joey decided that no amount of wattage could dispel all the shadows in this room.

      The rest of the house had been dressed to mimic normalcy, decorated like a thousand stodgy, upper-class homes across the land. But this space, Concasseur's private hidey-hole, this was where the true madness lived.

      A huge mahogany desk dominated one end of the room. A clutter of papers, pens and books lay across its top. A feature-packed fax machine took up one corner, a custom-made desk lamp beside it.

      Figuring that the drawn blinds would prevent any glare from reaching the street, Joey snapped on the lamp. The skulls of three human infants grinned up at him from its base.

      Making a soft whimpering noise, he backed away from the desk, wiping his hands on his pants, not daring to touch the lamp again to turn the damned thing off. He extinguished his flashlight and put it in his belt.

      The ghastly lamp was by no means the only conversation piece in the study. Devils and monsters sodomized women and young children in a series of obscene 18th century lithographs hung on the walls. A gilt-framed shadowbox displayed miniature atrocities: outlandish animal skeletons; blood-stained medals; morgue photos; a woman's long, red fingernail, dried bits of flesh still attached to its root.

      An enormous book set on its own special stand caught Joey's attention. The pages were brittle and yellowed, marked in an alphabet unlike any he had ever encountered before. The characters seemed designed to be rendered by blood-stained tentacles, instead of by a pen grasped in human fingers. He mistook the beautiful leather cover for cowhide, until he realized that the illustration it bore, an intricate drawing of a death's head moth, was not an applique', but a tattoo.

      "Someone is there," said a tiny, muted voice. "Who are you? Who's there?"

      Joey's heart did a jig in his throat. The voice came from somewhere in the room, but it sounded as if the speaker were inside or behind another object. Joey started edging back toward the door.

      "Do not leave. I shall not hurt you."

      Joey held out his amulet and said, "I'm under the protection of Ogu, loa of fire and thunder. Don't mess with us."

      His interlocutor laughed, the sandpapery chuckle of an old man not easily amused. "I would not dream of doing so, stranger. Tell me, you are not Joseph Spelvin, by any chance? The one whom Concasseur sought so desperately?"

      "I'm Spelvin. Who are you?"

      "I am Marcel, your friend and savior. Step closer to the altar. I will tell you how to destroy Henri Concasseur. Come. Do not be afraid."

      He was afraid. The words were friendly enough, but Marcel's disembodied voice set his teeth chattering. He imagined that child molesters and master torturers used the same cold, wheedling tone.

      "I don't trust you."

      "Then you are a very smart young man. But have you come all this way to leave empty-handed?"

      Marcel had a point. This room was obviously the center of the bokor's power. Would he ever get another chance to learn its secrets? Concasseur was due back in two day's time. And there was no guarantee that Marcel, whoever he was, would be going anywhere in the interim.

      "OK," Joey said. "Step out where I can see you."

      "Alas, that is one thing I cannot do. My mobility is severely limited. You will have to come to me."

      Muttering another prayer under his breath and holding his protective amulet in front of him, Joey approached the altar, set at the back of the room.

      A puff of dusty air caught him in the face, and he choked on a lungful of harsh chemicals. For many minutes, he coughed and rubbed at his stinging eyes. When he could breathe again, Joey said, "You bastard, that was poison."

      "Indeed. But you do not seem the worse for it."

      "Ogu's brother, Ogu Balindjo, offers protection from such things. Why didn't you warn me?"

      "I have to be certain that you are who you say. I will not surrender myself to some common criminal."

      More horrors greeted him at the altar. Bloodstained skulls grinned from various cubbyholes. Melted candles dribbled rivers of red wax over rotting food offerings. Specimens best left unobserved floated in tiny jars of preservative.

      His skin chafed from the jittering of the amulet. Joey tried to keep his voice from shaking. "Well, where are you?"

      "Here," said Marcel. "In the govi. In the jar."

      Joey spotted an enameled clay pot kept in its own little alcove. It was no larger than a jar of cold cream. "What? I don't get it."

      Very distinctly, so that Joey had no doubt what he was hearing, the clay pot said, "I am a prisoner of the govi. Pick it up and release me. Together we will destroy Concasseur."

      Gingerly, he reached out and grabbed the govi. It was colder than he expected, like a bottle of Scotch kept in the freezer, and he almost snatched his hand away. The jar felt empty, but when he brought it up to his ear and shook it, something rattled faintly inside.

      He looked down at his amulet. It glowed with a strong purple light.

      This was it. This was what he'd come for.

      "Decades ago, Henri Concasseur betrayed me and put me in here." The jar vibrated in synchronization with the words. "Now the time for my revenge has come. Break the wax seal and set me free."

      He wasn't that crazy. He placed the jar carefully in a sack he had brought with him. "I need time to think."

      "Now! Open it now!"

      "Later. You're just going to have to trust me now."

      Joey glanced at his watch. 1:30. Time to get out of here. He took a last look around to be sure that he hadn't missed anything that might be used against Concasseur. Nothing suggested itself. He let himself out of the bokor's chamber of terrors.

      From within the sack, Marcel shouted, "Let me out! There is no time to be wasted!"

      "Quiet!" Joey whispered. "You'll wake the whole freaking house."

      "I do not care! Set me free, and I will handle anyone who dares threaten us!"

      "Shut up. I'll deal with you later."

      From the front of the house, a woman called, "Henri? Henri?"

      Joey froze, unsure what to do.

      "It is Concasseur's toy, Tiffany Wellington," Marcel informed him. "Her quarters are upstairs.

      "Henri? Henri?" Tiffany sounded plaintive and confused, a child lost in the deep, dark woods. Joey heard a door open somewhere above his head.

      Marcel said, "Do you know how to take Henri's toy away from him? Shall I tell you?"

      "I know what to do. Shut up."

      Joey walked to the house's foyer and set the sack on the floor. From his pocket, he removed three salt tablets given to him by Maurice Tolliver. With the other hand, he withdrew the kitchen knife.

      Tiffany descended the master staircase. Barefoot and clad in a diaphanous black negligee, she glided across the carpeting like an angel-faced succubus. Her raven hair spilled over her creamy shoulders, a shadow across the moon.

      If she was surprised to see Joey, her face did not register it. "Henri? Henri?"

      "No, it's not Henri," Joey said, raising his voice barely above a whisper. "It's Joey. You remember me, Tiffany. Come here."

      She obeyed, stopping just inches from him. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

      Maurice had promised him with that there would be no blood if he stabbed her, perhaps only a splash of clear liquid. Joey hoped to God he was right. He hoped she wouldn't scream.

      "I have something for you, Tiffany. Hold out your hand."

      She complied, her face blank and unquestioning.

      He felt tears run down his cheeks. Think of this as a mercy killing, he told himself.

      That was an easy rationalization, and he knew it. Because this breathtaking woman, little more than a girl, had been turned into a monster for him, for his enjoyment just as surely as for Concasseur's. That was the bottom line. The bokor had used the young stripper to bait a trap for Joey Spelvin, the sex-starved, slasher-flick-obsessed geek who would get his rocks off at discovering a real-live zombie. Tiffany Wellington had died for his sins.

      "I'm sorry," he said, his voice hitching. "Please, please forgive me."

      Incapable of any response, Tiffany merely stared at him, her white, uncalloused hand still outstretched.

      He placed the tablets in her palm. "Take these. Eat them. They'll make you go to sleep."

      Tiffany slowly raised the pills to her ruby lips. Joey prepared to sink the blade between her lovely breasts.

      Wally shouted in his ear. "A car just turned in the drive, Joey. Get your ass out of there right now!"

      "Tiffany, hurry!"

      Tiffany swallowed the tablets. A car door slammed.

      "Shit!" He put the knife away and snatched up the sack with the govi in it.

      Marcel yelled, "No! We must stand and face him now!"

      Footsteps on the walkway. "Fuck you! I'm out of here." He ran towards the kitchen and the safety of the cellar.

      Marcel screamed, "Tiffany, stop him! He wishes to harm Henri!"

      She was strong and fast. She caught up with Joey, dove for his legs and brought him down. He fought desperately and tried to reach for the knife. Tiffany clamped a chokehold on him and cut off his air.

      The front door opened, and the house blazed with light. Henri Concasseur stepped into his mansion. He surveyed the scene and smiled.

      "My, what a pleasant surprise," said the bokor.