Gunman Felix never did actually start raving as he spoke of Simon Kennedy.

What he did was worse.

It was low and slow and chilling, a bitter, vicious, grinding, dull roar of a voice, rich and fat with venom.

It was terrifying.

Because they could see the mounting rage, the virulent agonized fury, bubbling up and up.

But never out.

He paced as he spoke, back and forth, back and forth, his face a tight gray skull, his eyes always distant and inward. Always dark.

Gunman Felix remembered the very first time he had been introduced to Simon Kennedy, remembered his face and his smile and his handshake. Remembered seeing him dance, for chrissakes, at debutante parties and charity balls.

Gunman Felix remembered his laugh.

"Very big social figure. Very prestigious to have him at a party. Very big deal. Because he was so smooth, you know. Smooth and polished and cultured. Very big into culture is our monster. Patron of the arts, they called him - probably still do.

"And all those people and all those kids are looking up to this pig, told to look and act and think like him and be gracious and smooth when you meet him. Young guys told to stand up tall and the girls straightening their gowns and touching up their hair as he comes down the bloody receiving line because everybody loves him, you see. Everybody thinks he's such a grand person!"

Gunman Felix turned and looked at them, at Cat and Davette, and his face was hard to meet.

"He just walks right up to them. Because they don't know. Right up to them and smiles and shakes their hands and talks to them and they talk back - just like he was real. Because they don't know!"

He walked away from them and spoke again, so low they could barely hear him.

"No one knows. But us."

Gunman Felix was quiet for a while, pacing again back and forth, smoking furiously and inwardly boiling.

Cat and Davette exchanged a glance when they heard his teeth grind.

"Ha!" he shouted without any humor, and stopped abruptly.

He looked at them and his tone was reasonable and deeply wicked.

"Honey, when your aunt died and the medical examiner came over to take care of things for you - you ever met the guy before?"

Davette thought a moment. "I think so."

Felix nodded. "Sure. At your level you meet everybody eventually. But did you know him? Did your aunt hang out with him?"

"Well... no. I don't think so."

"So he suddenly drops everything and comes to your aid. I mean, she had lots of old friends, didn't she?"

"Yes. Of course. But - "

"But don't you see! Your Aunt Victoria committed suicide. An autopsy is automatic, by law. That M.E. - what's his name?"

"Dr. Harshaw."

"Yeah. Harshaw. He gives her an autopsy - he's got to. It's the law with all suicides. And he sees the marks. He sees the bites. And he knows what's what and... that's how they found Ross! Don't you see? Harshaw sees it's a vampire and he tells Kennedy. That's the only way a vampire can survive in the middle of the city. He owns the medical examiner. Owns him or one of his bitches does. Maybe he owns the poor guy's wife... It doesn't matter.

"The point is: he's strong. Strong and powerful and he knows people, and the people he doesn't know socially, he owns.

"That fucking house of his. That fort. No way to get to him there. Daytime, high noon - it doesn't matter. Think you can get through that wall? Through that Fort Knox front gate? And, even if you did, are you prepared to kill half a dozen security guards who almost certainly haven't got a clue as to what's what? Then the staff, of course. They'll try to stop you. Some of them know, too. And they'll really put up a fight.

"And by then, just how many SWAT teams and police choppers and Texas Rangers do you think will be surrounding you - shooting at you on sight - for trying to pull some terrorist act on the home of so prominent a man?

"A pillar of the fucking community?

"Patron of the fucking arts."

Gunman Felix sat down, abruptly, and turned to his watery drink and drank it dry and held out the glass for another. Cat took it from him and went to refill.

"Ha!" laughed Felix again... and that awful laugh made them jump...

"Ha! I still get solicitations from him. Or some charity board he's on. You know?"

Davette jumped again at his look, nodded. "I remember him now."

Gunman Felix nodded and smiled. "Yeah."

Davette didn't like his smile.

"He had some favorite charity goodie, didn't he? Got something at the office in the mail along with a bunch of clippings."

"Opera," said Davette.

And he looked at her and his eyes went wide and his smile was too bright and tortured.

"Yes! Of course! Opera. Isn't it all just so wonderful?"

Davette didn't know what to say. Cat, standing there pale and staring, remembered the drink in his hand and handed it to the Gunman. Felix drank it dry in a single gulp.

"Yeah. Opera. Some big project about..."

And he stopped and looked at Davette and it hit her, too, and she looked back at him.

"The Opera House!" she whispered.

"Yes," he replied. "The Opera House."

And he looked over at the newspaper Cat had left crumpled on the floor, open to the Entertainment Section because they had been thinking about going to an afternoon movie.

Gunman Felix stood up and strode over to it and picked it up and rifled quickly through it.

"Ha!" he cackled when he found what he wanted.

And he came back and he leaned down to where Davette was sitting on the floor and planted the open newspaper on the rug beside her and punched his index finger into it so hard it went through the newsprint.

They looked. It was an ad. For the much delayed, greatly heralded, grand opening of the Dallas Opera House. One week from today.

"He'll be there," whispered Gunman Felix and his voice was old dead wood. "He'll be there. And they will rush up to him and shake his hand and congratulate him and love him.

"And in return, he'll slash their throats and swell fat and thick on their blood."

No one spoke for a few moments after that. Cat and Davette couldn't speak, could only stare at the maniacal grin sitting before them, relishing and cherishing and worming the pain deeper into his own soul. He seemed to take such dreadful delight in the crushing irony of it all.

"Yes," he said after a while and he was much much calmer.

Impossibly so.

"Yes," he repeated. "He could just walk up to people and talk to them. But they could just walk up to him, too. Even somebody who knew what he was. He would not suspect. He would simply smile at them, like a big... fat... tick.

"He would be completely off his guard, wouldn't he?"

"Felix!" gasped Cat. "You can't mean..."

"Rock and roll, Cherry Cat. Isn't that what you always say?"

"You can't be serious!"

Gunman Felix just smiled and stared at the newspaper ad.

"Got to, Cat. Got to."