He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, then his gun arm wobbles and the PPK drops to the floor, hitting the thick carpet with barely a noise. His mouth opens, but only blood comes out, a thick rivulet that runs down his chin. He stumbles, and I see that he's clutching his side with one hand, and that his shirt's wet.
'Oh Jesus.'
He bangs into the wall, bounces off it, and falls to his knees. Horrified, I watch as my friend of close to twenty years rolls over onto his side and begins to convulse. His right foot lashes out like a whip and hits the door with a bang.
This is the moment the spell's broken and the realization finally hits me that the Vampire is here right now, possibly only feet away. He has a knife, I have an unloaded gun. He's extremely proficient with his weapon, mine is useful only as a blunt instrument.
But I'm not going to stand here waiting to die.
Turning the Browning round in my hand so that I can use it as a bludgeon, I run forward, jumping over Lucas, and do a diving roll onto the balcony, sliding along the carpet on my back, weapon held ready to throw, until the banister stops my momentum.
There's no-one here. Not in front or behind. The balcony's empty.
I remember Ferrie's words. He's invisible, like something out of a nightmare.
I jump up, trying to ignore the sight of Lucas's twitching, and kick open the adjacent door. I count to two and do another rolling dive inside, hurtling along the carpet before jumping up again, the gun held in my right hand like a tomahawk. I know I'm taking a huge risk, but rage and frustration drive me on. This is my last chance to confront the bastard who's eluded me all day.
The room, though, is dark and empty. An unmade bed faces an open bay window that lets in the faint sounds of normality from the outside world: the low hum of traffic; the sound of a piano playing in the jazz concert in the park. Such a huge contrast to the nightmarish charnelhouse I'm in now.
I retrace my steps, coming back out onto the balcony. Lucas is barely moving. I run over to the door on the other side of the room to where Eddie Cosick still sits. The killer must have been behind one of these two doors. There is no other way he would have been able to ambush Lucas, not in the few seconds he had. Lucas was good, too. A bit out of practice, but still not the kind of guy to have been surprised easily.
I kick open the door. Another darkened room, the window open at the far end.
Then I stop dead. Something is playing a tune in my pocket. It's not the phone Lucas gave me earlier; that's now on vibrate. I suddenly realize that I'm still carrying the mobile my blackmailer gave me, and I haven't turned the damn thing off. I rummage around in my front right pocket, pull out the phone, and the tinny noise of the 'Funeral March' fills the silence. The screen says 'Anonymous Call'. I almost don't answer, but in the end my curiosity's too great.
'Yeah?' I say, my eyes darting round the emptiness of the room.
'You're looking in the wrong place,' states the robotic voice. The tone is calm and mocking.
I stride back onto the balcony. 'Where the fuck are you?'
'Somewhere you're never going to find me. Give up, Tyler. I've got the briefcase. It's over.'
Anger surges through me as I think about what this bastard's done.
'I'm going to get you for this.'
'No,' says the voice, with complete confidence, 'you're not. Goodbye, Tyler.'
'Who are you?' I shout as my frustration finally boils over. 'Who the fuck are you?'
But the connection's broken. I'm venting my rage at nothing.
Slowly, still shocked, I replace the phone in my pocket, knowing that, possibly for the first time in my life, I am completely out of my league. Then I remember Lucas.
The gun's no use to me – not that it ever was – and I throw it down on the carpet and run back to where he fell. He's on his back now. Choking noises come from deep within his throat, and I can see that his blood is everywhere.
'You're going to be all right, mate,' I whisper, turning him onto his side.
He coughs weakly. I put my hand in his mouth to clear the airway, and pull out a lump of thick red drool. He shivers, and his eyes roll back in his head.
'Come on, Lucas,' I hiss, feeling for a pulse, 'don't die on me.'
It takes me a couple of seconds to locate one, and when I do, it's faint and very slow. His blood pressure is falling and his heart is beginning to shut down. My hand moves across to the spot where the knife was shoved into him. The blade went between two of the upper ribs and has almost certainly pierced the heart. He's dying. My friend, Lucas, is dying.
I shove my fingers into the wound to try to stem the flow of the blood, and talk in his ear. But I know it's all over, and I feel sick in the knowledge that I'm the one who dragged him into this. Worse still, in those final moments I doubted his motives, believing him to be part of the conspiracy that's been targeting me.
I know I have to do something. On the battlefield, a soldier is expected to do everything he can to evacuate a wounded comrade, even if his injuries are such that it looks like he may not make it. I'm in no position to administer first aid, so if there is a chance of saving Lucas, I have to call an ambulance. I owe it to him. But I can't stay here. Not in a house full of corpses; not after everything else that's happened today. Now more than ever, I need to find the bastard behind this.
Lucas coughs again. More blood runs from the corner of his mouth and drips onto the carpet. He has only minutes to live, maybe not even that. I remove my fingers from the wound and grab a pillow from the double bed. I pull off the cover and push the material into the wound, trying to block the flow of blood. It's basic, but it'll have to do. I reach into my pocket for one of the mobiles, then realize that it's not a good idea to give the police something to trace. I recall seeing a telephone handset on a table in the entrance hall near the front door, so I get to my feet, run downstairs, and race over to it, dialling 999.
When it's picked up at the other end, I shout 'Ambulance!', trying to disguise my voice, knowing that they record all incoming calls. I'm immediately reconnected, and I shout it again, giving Cosick's address and stating that a man's been severely injured. The female operator starts to ask me about the injuries, so I lay the handset down on the table, knowing I've done enough to get them to send someone here urgently.
I can hear her saying 'Hello? Hello?' repeatedly as I take another look up at the balcony where Lucas lies bleeding. I don't want to leave him, I really don't, because I know he wouldn't leave me. Whatever it cost him.
So, knowing I'm being a total fool, I run back up the stairs and across the balcony to where he lies. But as I lean down, I can see that his sapphire-blue eyes are wide open and he's no longer breathing. It's too late. My friend is dead, and I don't even have time to mourn him.
'I'm sorry, mate,' I whisper. 'I really am.'
I touch his forehead, then slowly and very carefully I close his eyes, unable to meet their still, dead gaze.
I can't believe he's gone. This morning I lost my lover. Now I've lost my best friend. I am utterly alone in the world, standing in a silent house of corpses. Yet I know that if I've got any hope of avenging them, I have to move.
I wrench myself away from Lucas and, ignoring the aching in my legs, run down the stairs a second time, then through the house and onto the patio with its empty table and half-full bottle of wine. I spot a wheelbarrow next to a flower bed a few yards further up the garden path, and I use it as a springboard to jump to the top of the wall. Hauling myself up and over, I land on the pavement and walk swiftly away, keeping in the shadows of the cypress trees, and trying to look as natural and inconspicuous as possible.
I've just left a slaughterhouse. In minutes, this place is going to be crawling with cops. They'll be hunting for witnesses, anyone who's seen anything or anyone suspicious, and I don't want them to remember me.
I steal a look behind me. The street's empty. Everything's quiet.
Too quiet. Even the sound of jazz from the park seems to have faded away.
I hear something. The scrape of a shoe on concrete. It comes from the other side of the road, and it stops as quickly as it began.
I stop too, tensing, ready to run.
There's movement coming from behind the cars opposite me, figures appearing like silent wraiths.
And then suddenly the whole street explodes into life. Car headlights come on; men in caps appear from every direction; there are shouts from a dozen different voices to my left and right, from the cars that are disgorging men in caps with big guns, even from among the cypress trees. They're all shouting the same thing: 'Armed police! Put your hands in the air!'
I count six men approaching me in a tight semi-circle, all of them in two-handed shooting poses. Two hold MP5 carbines, the others have pistols, and I know that these guys haven't just turned up. They've been here a while. They were waiting for me to come out.
As other men move in on me from either side, still barking terse orders, and cuff my hands behind my back, I think again that only two people knew I was coming here tonight. Lucas is dead. I smelled his blood. I felt the terrible knife wound he'd suffered.
Which leaves Alannah.