Five miles outside of LonePine runs historic Highway 26. In LonePine, historic means that at one time in history it was paved.

Now all that remains are asphalt patches, turning the road into a rubbled mess so that driving it makes me feel like an ant in a go-kart on the back of an alligator. After rattling along on it for twenty minutes, my teeth was almost shook loose and I turned off onto a comfortable set of ruts angling up behind a rock formation hidden by trees. Setting on a post halfway up was a video camera that marked the beginning of Lenny's property. Although the camera looks mighty sinister, I know for a fact he pulled it out of a dumpster behind a Gas 'N Get in Salt Lake City, and it ain't connected to nothing. First appearances count for something, I suppose. I drove on past, up behind the rocks and trees into a clearing that Lenny called his bunker. To me, it's always looked more like a double-wide trailer.

Lenny has been a friend of mine since third grade when we used to take bullets apart and make little bombs out of the gunpowder. He's the founder and sole member of the LonePine Militia, except on every other Saturday when they meet out at the firing range and Lenny brings the beer. Most of LonePine tends to feel a whole lot safer knowing that he's holed up in his bunker with all them weapons, because we know they won't fall into the hands of the Russians or bored high school kids wanting to play tough. Lenny's trailer, I mean bunker, is fortified with unpainted aluminum siding and bales of straw stacked up to the windows. He lives in there with his wife June, who for reasons unclear to the outside world, puts up with his curious ways. Must have something to do with love.

Their yard is a cluttered graveyard of snowmobiles, cars, and motorcycles in various stages of what he likes to call repair, but really means not running at all. Out front, for security reasons, he keeps a mean-spirited poodle that thinks it's a Rottweiler.

There's also a German Shepherd laying about, but I ain't never seen him move, which means he's either dead or an ambush.

Lenny thinks the government is out to get him. Accordingly, he won't get a phone, figuring they'd just tap it. He also won't watch TV because the government beams out what he calls subliminal messages, telling us what to do. Most folks call the same thing advertising. He also won't pay taxes so as not to lend support to shady activities, but no one has noticed yet since he don't have a job. Instead, he supports his simple way of living by fixing things. There ain't much he can't fix, from a calculator on up to a jumbo jet. Folks round LonePine bring him all their busted stuff and directly he'll bring it back better'n new. One time he fixed old Mrs. Johnson's toaster so damn well that it started making perfect toast in about four seconds, but she ended up throwing it out the window when she got that month's power bill.

I killed the truck out in front of the trailer and cautioned Rex to stay in or else run the risk of facing the poodle, who chose that moment to spring out from under the porch, yapping and slobbering. Like a trained assassin, she managed to pee on all four tires in under thirty seconds. "Lenny call your dog off," I hollered. "It's me, Tucker."

The door cracked open. "How do I know it's really you?" he called.

"Fer Chrissakes, Lenny who would impersonate me?"

"Government agents. It'd be a perfect cover. Who'd suspect? You're famous now," he said, "all that crap about the last cowboy and all."

"Look at these boots," I said, hoisting my foot out the truck window. The once-gray duct tape was tattered and brown and one loose flap hung down like a ribbon. "You can't fake boots like these. I probably borrowed the tape from you. Now call off your dog."

"All right, all right." He opened the door and stood there in his camouflage pants with no shirt on. He looked a little like a Vampire himself, with his long black hair and pale skin from working all the time indoors. "Commando, sit."

Commando crawled back under the trailer, but I could sense her highly trained eyes still on me as I got out and walked to the front door.

"Sorry, Tucker, but ever since them government types come to town two nights back, I been in a state of red alert."

"What government types?" I asked as I went inside. Their trailer is real cozy in spite of the discount gun store look. There was rifles and pistols and loose bullets and knives laying all over everything and all kind of electronic stuff that I couldn't even begin to describe.

June was sitting at the kitchen table reading a well-worn book by Carlos Castaneda. She smiled up at me. "Hi, Tucker," she said, and then, noting my bandages, added, "what happened to you?"

"Got into a little scrap."

"Coffee?"

"I guess another couldn't hurt." She poured me a cup and set it down across from her, scooting a box full of ammunition and a pair of brass knuckles out of the way.

"What government types?" I asked again, sitting down.

Lenny drew up another chair. "There was four of them. Real secretive. Got a room at the Sleep-O-Rama but stayed inside all day. Told Hazel they was astronomers come to study stars. And now Terry Gleason turned up missing." He leaned in close like the room might be bugged. "June thinks she seen one of them black helicopters last night," he whispered. She nodded in agreement.

"They wasn't government spooks," I said. "They was Vampires. That's why they never left the hotel in the daytime."

They both just looked at me, Lenny frozen in mid-sip. When he finally broke the silence, he sounded a little irritated. "This is serious stuff, Tucker. Don't joke around."

I shook my head. "I'm serious as the day is long."

June squinted her eyes. "Tucker, Vampires aren't real."

"They're real enough to bust my ribs."

Lenny took a long hard look at me. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I wish I was. I know it sounds crazy and if I was listening to me, I would probably be thinking it was straitjacket time, but it was Vampires that done this to me."

Lenny set his coffee cup down and fiddled with the handle while June ripped the back off a book of matches and used it to mark her place in the book. They listened as I give them my story. "They come up to Widow Woman Creek and kidnapped Lizzie.

You remember Lizzie?"

After a pause, Lenny nodded. "City girl, wrote that story 'bout you."

"Right. She was working on a new story about Vampires and how they was just pretend. Then she seen 'm kill some people and so she took off for out here. They come after her. I shot one of them four times and he just laughed at me."

"What with?" Lenny interrupted.

"My .357."

"You can't kill no Vampire with a .357."

"Lenny I wasn't exactly planning on hunting Vampires."

"Were you shooting hollow points or jacketed?"

"Shit, I don't know. Cheap. They was cheap bullets I bought at the Radio Shack."

He nodded. "All right, all right, sorry Keep going."

After I filled them in on the details, they stared open-mouthed. I half expected them to say I was out of my mind, and coming from those two, it would have meant a lot. June spoke first. "What do you suppose they want with Lizzie?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Reckon it's because she seen them murder those people."

Lenny scratched absently at his leg. Directly he stood up and walked to the window. "Vampires? Damn. You sure they weren't some kind of government supersoldiers, you know, like experimental cyborgs? They have the technology."

"They was Vampires, no doubt about it."

"Damn, Tucker, what do you aim to do?"

I nodded for a refill and smiled up at June in thanks. She opened up a box of graham crackers and we all took one. "They come out from New York City and I aim to go after them. But I'm thinking I need an edge. Maybe you could come up with something for me?" I asked hopefully "Something that'll kill 'em."

"How long do I have?"

"I gotta leave in the morning. Got a flight booked out of Jackson."

"In the morning? Jesus H. Christ, I can't get nothing ready in one day. A couple of weeks maybe. Have to do some research, get plans drawn up, do some test shooting..."

"Listen, I ain't got two weeks. If there's any hope of getting Lizzie out of this alive I got to be in New York City by this time tomorrow."

MANHATTAN COMPOUND

October 9, 2001, 8:15 P.M.

Julius sat in front of the fire and contemplated the flames through the amber swirls of his cognac. Something was disturbing his concentration, a sensation not wholly unpleasant, but relatively new. There was a factor outside of his reach, a wild card, and it hinged on the disappearance of Desard. He reached slowly for a soft cord suspended from the ceiling, hanging behind his chair.

He pulled on it gently, almost as an afterthought. Somewhere in the recesses of the mansion a bell chimed imperceptibly. Within seconds there was a knock on the door and Jenkins, his servant for over fifty years, entered.

"Sir?"

"Jenkins, please ask Elita to stop in for a little chat."

"Right away, sir." He closed the door and Julius stood to toss another log into the fire, stirring it briefly with the poker. Sparks flickered and were drawn up the chimney as he settled back into his chair. Elita entered, without knocking.

"You called?" she asked sarcastically.

It is said that with time, one grows used to anything, that anything becomes tediously familiar. Not so, he reflected, with Elita.

For untold centuries the very sight of her never failed to stir him.

"Any word from Desard?" she asked, feigning indifference.

"None, I'm afraid."

"How unfortunate," she said lightly, but heavy emotions curdled her words. "I suppose we should fear the worst?"

"I can't imagine what could have happened."

"I can. The cowboy He wasn't dead. He hurt Desard and Desard lost his temper. Our little cowboy must have guessed what he was up against."

"Is he that resourceful?"

"Would our Queen have given her heart to a simpleton?"

"Love knows no such distinction, I fear."

Elita crouched before the fire, taking in the heat. "Perhaps he will come for her."

"If he does," Julius said slowly, "we will eliminate him. What sort of threat can a lone farmer pose?"

"Cowboy. And it would appear Desard presumed the same."

Julius was thoughtful. Then he laughed. "A cowboy. How absolutely preposterous. If he comes, we will take care of him.

Perhaps it will even provide a bit of entertainment."