W hat it is,' Haines was telling Kurland, both of them still on the patio the cool September night, 'she's slept with all the right people. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if she made it with the Chief Jugge himself. You ever heard of Justice Department going to all this trouble just to protect some actress?'

Kurland shrugged.

'I'm telling you, that's it,' said Haines, sitting back now, sounding certain. 'Protective custody in return for sexual favours.'

Kurland didn't saying anything for a few moments, nursing his glass, those pale albino hands looking like they'd been dusted with powder. 'How long you reckon we're gonna be stuck down here?' he said finally.

Haines looked up. 'Hey, you're the Precog. You tell me.'

'Y'know, it's funny you say that,' Kurland said, folding his tattooed arms on the table. 'These last few days I been havin' my doubts. Ain't had a sniffa the six sense since we got here.'

'That unusual?'

'Bet your ass it is. longest I ever been without gettin' a flash is two days. Normally I'll get 'em four, five, sometimes six times a day. Nothin' big, y'know,' Kurland said, 'just hints, glimpses. Like I'll see a TV show ain't gonna he on for another three hours, or maybe get to listen in on some argument I can see brewin' but which ain't happened yet. But this last week...' He took his sunglasses off, small red eyes looking at Haines across the table. 'I feel like I losta limb or somethin'.'

Haines shrugged. 'Well, the way this assignment's working out I don' think we have to worry too much.' Haines changing the subject now, trying to get onto something less personal. 'All we've done since we got here is sit on our asses eating pizza and watching TV.'

Kurland nodded, quiet all of a sudden. He reached out for the jug of iced tea and refilled his glass.
'Ask me,' Haines went on, 'this whole thing is a waste of time. All this trouble just because some two-star actress gets kinky fan mail. Some of the movies she's made, it'd he a lot stranger if she didn't get kinky fan mail.'

Kurland didn't say anything, his head down again like he was hunched over a crossword or a holiday brochure, reading the small print.

'You seen any of those letter yet? I'm telling you, some of them would blow your mind. l'm out kidding.'

Kurland still didn't speak. Didn't even look up. He was sat with his shoulders hunched, head low, blue watery light lapping at him from the half-open patio doors behind. Sat very still, too still. Haines watched a droplet of blood form on the tip of Kurland's nose, grow fat and heavy, and splash on the shoulder, but didn't move. The air was suddenly heavyaround them filled with a smell like hot metal.

'You getting a flash?'

Kurland nodded, getting more blood on the table. Seeing him in pain like this, Haines was glad he was with Undercover and not Psi-Division. But then Kurland was talking again, giving Haines a puzzled look, head cocked to on side. Saying 'Feathers?', making it a question, his voice different now, quiet but with an edge to it. Then nodding. 'Yes. Feathers. Feathers and blood.'

Haines polled a handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it to him. Kurland's eyes wide. Still shiny, over-bright, but not as bad as before. He looked up at Haines, surprised, shaken.

'Jesus' he said, shaking his head. Who'da thought it?' Haines felt suddenly relieved, the tension in the air gone now, a balmy Mediterranean breeze pushing its way across the plaza. The remembered the flash, Kurland saying feathers and blood, and knew something bad was coming.

All of a sudden not so relieved.

He gave Kurland a few seconds more, watching him take deep breath bring himself down. Then said, 'it's going to happen here?'

Kurland nodded.

'How long you think we've got?'

'I ain't sure. Not long. Usually, I get a flash like that, the image is all over the place. This one was clear as day.'

Off to the left, footsteps. Haines turned his head and saw Alvarez coming back from the foodbar Boxes in his arms, piled up under his chin. Walking past the unmarked cars now, past the closed-up antiques shop where six more surveillance officers were sat with binoculars and lukewarm ginger beer. Ten judges altogether, sat out there keeping watch, not knowing that something bad was coming their way.

Haines looked over at Kurland again. 'Okay. We wait till Ms. Fremont gets finished in the bathroom, then we move out.' He pushed away from the table. 'First off though, Let's get us some of that food. I'm so hungry I could can leper's leg.'




A her he'd finished, scooping up the last of his sorbet with a Viennese wafer, Devlin paid the bill then followed Rodovore out of the restaurant
and up to the gaining rooms. High ceilings with painted murals. Stained glass and fading belle poque splendour Roulette wheels spinning under alabaster Cupids and chandeliers like frozen waterfalls.

Devlin followed Rodovore around for a while, watching him try out the games, find one be liked, then sat at the bar as Rodovore settled down to play baccarat. Devlin ordered a brandy smash and sipped it slowly, keeping his eyes on Rodovore but letting his mind wander, seeing them in situations together, or wrestling maybe, or a bout of fisticuffs down by the swimming pool.

The itch was back now, he realised, sitting here sipping his drink. The old blood hunger was gnawing at the edges of him, making it hard to think straight. Bright images danced through his head, reds and scarlets splashed on white, colours that made Devlin's mouth water. That was the problem with the hunger. Once it started there was only one way he could get it to stop. He could eat his way through a five-star menu and it wouldn't make any difference. Blood was the only thing that'd scratch the itch, that'd scratch both of his itches at once, come to think of it.

By the time Rodovore finished at the baccarat table Devlin was too drunk and too hungry to sit still any more. He went right over to Rodovore and introduced himself.

'J�rn Rodovore, isn'it? My name's Waugh. Devlin Waugh.' He held out his hand and Rodovore shook it.
'I am happy to he meeting you, Mr Waugh.'

'Oh, Devlin, please. Surnames might be de rigueur in the rest of Europe, but here on the Riviera one must feel free to unshackle oneself of all social conventions. Don't you agree?'

Rodovore looked puzzled but nodded anyway. Up this close Devlin could see just how perfect his face was. Eyes like the Aegean, the pale blue vein that ticked in his neck where shadows pooled like bruises. And my God, those lips, the kind of lips you wanted to bite. Just looking at him like this made the hunger shine. Devlin could feel saliva trickling out the corner of his mouth arid wiped it away with a silk handkerchief.

'You're going down?' Devlin asked as they moved towards the elavator doors. Rodovore nodded. 'Then I'll escort you, if I may.
The hunger hit again them, like someone had set off a flare in the pit of his stomach, so bad this time it doubled him up. Devlin had to reach out and take hold of Rodovore's arm just to stop himself falling over.

'I'm a quite unashamed admirer of your film work,' he was saying now, smiling but feeling like broken glass inside. 'A total devotee. Particularly of the Matt Sterling series. I haven't witnessed scenes of such stark sensuality since visited the Bangkok film festival several years ago.'
The elevator bumped to a stop a few seconds later and they stepped into the parking lot, like a big gloomy baseball pitch right under the Casino. It was cool down here, quiet too, the reserved spaces taken up by sports cars and limousines and not a single person around except them. Rodovore was talking now, telling him about the new film they were shooting in San Felix, Matt Sterlint stranded on a desert island with a bunch of schoolboys, kind of an upbeat version of Lord of the flies.

Devlin put a finger on Rodovore's lips. 'Hush,' be said softly, wanting to smile but not doing, afraid more saliva would come spilling out.

Rodovore looked at Devlin with those cold Scandinavian eyes, shiny and far-away now, like a deer caught in car headlights. He didn't move, didn't even blink as Devlin moved up close, ran a finger lightly down his throat, tracing a vein, his collarbone. Somewhere nearby a car horn went off, a quick sequence of notes, up and down. The theme music to Love Story.

'Just listen to that,' Devlin said. 'They're playing our tune.

He moved his head forward and closed his lips around Rodovore's throat.




H aines was on his second slice of pizza when the bathroom door opened. A rush of hot air, steam and light spilling out, and there she was. Jean
Fremont wet from the shower, something people'd pay money to see. A towel round her body, tanned and a little too heavy, auburn hair loose but damp. Forty seven years old but not looking a day over forty.

She glanced round the lounge, a slow pan, taking everything in, and said, 'So when does the ball game start?'

Neff looked up from the table. 'What?'

'It's a line from a movie,' she said. 'Oneshot. I come into the room, you guys are sat here with your shoes off, drinking been You look like husbands waiting for the ball game to start.

Here we go again, thought Haines. Another gruddamn scene. Jean Fremont playing the funny guy. But she just sighed. 'It was a joke,' she said quietly. 'What's wrong? Don't Judges ever tell jokes?' Getting in a quip but backing down, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut.

Haines watched her move across the room, slow but not the least bit self-conscious, the centre of attention and loving every second of it. She ever quoted stuff from a movie, you could bet your last cred it was one of hers. Then she was looking at him, giving him the smile, the come-on. This tough woman in a lousy motel room who still thought of herself as a star.

'Mr. Haines? Could you hand me a clean towel please?' she said, tossing hack her hair, steam misting the mirror behind her.

He stared back, wanted to say to her, 'Honey, you're way pass the sell by date,' hut didn't have the guts. He gave her a polite smile instead and said, 'There's clean ones in the bedroom, ma'am. Why don't you get changed first, then come through and have something to eat?'

She shrugged and went into the bedroom and that was that. Hagenauer looking away as she closed the door behind her, turning back to his egg salad sandwich.

While they waited for Jean to finish dressing Haines told the rest of the tearri what Kurland had said, about the flash-forward, the premonition. Getting to the bit about feathers and blood when one of them butted in, Lockhart asking him why the hell he'd waited till now to tell them.

'It's been five minutes,' Haines said wearily. 'Lighten up, okay?'

Lockhart said excuse me but no, it wasn't okay, they should be getting the hell out of there right now. Then Neff joining in saying you know, he's got a point, if our cover's blown we oughta do something. Lockhart beside him pulling his gun out his shoulder rig and checking the power-pack.

Haines was getting tired of this. 'Look, we're going to leave,' he bald. "Soon as Ms. Fremont is ready.' Looking over at Kurland now, seeing him sat in the corner, eating with his head down, keeping out of it.

'I don't know what we're doing here anyway,' Hagenauer said. 'Ask me, the broad should never a left Brit-Cit.'
"The board is in protective custody," Haines said. "We're supposed to keep her safe till this thing's over. You forget about that?'

He glanced at Kurland again, hoping he'd come in and help him out, but the guy was Inoking somewhere else. Sunglasses off, eyes narrowed, staring at the book shelf on the other side of the room, the candles on top of it...

'What's wrong?' Haines started to ask, then saw it for himself the candle flames jittering, all of a sudden too bright. There was something in there. A speck of darkness in each of the flames, darting and bobbing, black pupils in yellow eyes.

Neff had seen it too. 'Oh Christ,' he said. Pulling his gun out of his shoulder holster and flicking oil the safety. A Sechard .55, chrome and Teflon, what was known on the streets as a funtgun.

The pupils in the candles were dilating now, growing as they watched, as big as bird skulls and getting bigger one of them burst suddenly, popping like a blister, and doused the candle with black ink. The flame sizzled out.

'Shoot it!' Lockhart shouted. 'Shoot the son of a bitch!'

He lifted his own gun and fired. Once, twice. Plaster flying from the wall, all the candles out now, putting one side of the room in darkness.

'What are we shooting at?' Haines asked, watching as the shadows bulked up in front of him. A shape in there now, rearing up, so much bigger than he'd thought it would he.

They were all firing now, Haines too, gun flashes lighting up the room like a strobe, making everything happen in slow motion. Watching as the bullets went right through the shapes and into the plasterboard walls. Then Hagenauer was screaming, head thrown back, blood in his mouth, and suddenly his arm was gone. Then his shoulder Then half his ribcage. The thing in the darkness giggling and chattering as it took him apart.

Haines could see what was doing it now, some kind of animal, this one crouched in the light, three more back there in the shadows. They looked like apes in suits of armour, like they were built from some kid's model kit, but incomplete, half the pieces missing, gaps in the body you could see right through Hunchbacked, with big hands that dragged on the floor and pointy Ku Klux Klan heads. Long cone-shaped heads that pivoted at the shoulders, angled downwards now so they pointed at the floor, knuckles of bone rolling around each cone like teeth on a drill-bit.

Then they were right there in front of him, those yellow buzzsaw teeth, the thing dipping its head towards Haines like a bird. He had time to squeeze off another shot before the pain hit, knocked him off his feet, and when he looked down there was a hole in his chest the size of a basketball. Wet and ragged, hone shining down there in the darkness where he didn't want to look.

He tried lifting his gun but it was slippery with blood and dropped from his fingers. Unconsciousness pressed down, made the room spin, and flames wondered if what he was seeing now was real or imaginary, a man walking out of the mirror, stepping through it like a doorway. Small and skinny, looking like some carnival showman in bright green pants and a bright orange jacket, a white Venetian mask that covered the top half of his face.

Chigley. It had to be. Somehow he'd found the woman, sent those things here to clear the way, and now here he was in person, looking wild and stupid and scary all at the same time.

There was the sound of splintering wood and Haines turned his head to see one of the ape-things standing into bedroom, the door torn off at the hinges, a light on inside hut the room empty. Curtains billowing out in front of the open window.

A breeze slipped in to the room, washing the smelt of blood out of the air, giving Haines a moment of sudden clarity. He saw Chigley turn round, fury in his eyes now, knowing the woman had gone and telling his big ugly pets to go after her, to find the bitch and bring her back. Then the words were fading, the picture too, and Haines was carried off someplace deep and quiet and totally dark.



T hese last ten minutes, running down the Rue de Massy in a bathrobe
bare feet passing parked cars and cliff-side houses but not a single
person, Jean had managed to keep her mind empty. Get out of the the apartment, get as far away from Chigley as she could and hope those things would lose her. But now the thoughts were back, jangling in her head like loose change, and all of a sudden she knew she'd never make it.

She could hear them now, Chigley's pets, coming after her through the dark with their drill-bit heads and jigsaw bodies, whooping and cheering like some weird pageant. They were up in the aloe trees that ran alongside the road, a few hundred yards behind, she guessed, but getting closer

Off to her left now she could see the harbour, dark water full of white shapes, yachts and pleasure vessels, and beyond that Monte-Carlo itself, is a steep-sided hill with roads and buildings that climbed up in terraces. She was going downhill now, heading for the Casino in the centre of town, hoping she could lose herself amongst the lights arid people.

Minutes later and she was on the main street, running past restaurants and brasseries, hotels with roofed-over foyers and doormen outside, getting looks from everyone hut not letting it bother her one hit. The ape-things were too close. She could hear them further down the street, hollow thudding sounds as they leaped from car roof to car roof, people shouting and screaming as they passed by.

Jean turned left, then left again, heading down a narrow side-street that lead to the hack of the Casino. It seemed like the best place to hide. Go in the back way and sneak upstairs, where the gaming rooms were filled with video cameras and floormen and armed security guards. She saw a light just up ahead, the car park attendant in his big yellow booth, and increased her pace. Then she was turning, running past the booth and the barriers and on into the underground parking lot. Voices shouting after her but her heartbeat drowning out the words. Her feet were raw and bloody but there was on way she was going to let up now, zig-zagging between cars and support pillars, knowing there was an elevator further on and heading straight for it.

She put on a burst of speed, side-stepped a green Daimler with tinted windows and what looked like oil pooling under the rear bumper, and ran straight into someone. A tall guy, heavy, big through the shoulders, built like a weight-lifter but looking more like a vicar in his dog collar and tunic, a red velvet smoking jacket with black beaverskin lapels, clothes that had gone out of fashion two hundred years ago.

Now she looked closer she saw there was blood on his mouth, all down his chin. She remembered the car leaking oil behind her and looked down to see that hey, surprise surprise, it wasn't oil after all. She knew that because there was a body down there too. A big guy soaked with blood, bite marks on his neck, face, shoulders. He'd been pretty good-looking too, judging by what was left.

She turned back to the figure in front of her, Mr Chigley and his pets forgotten now, part of another life, even though she could hear them gibbering somewhere back there in the darkness. Why did this guy, the vicar, look so familiar? She'd seen him before, she was sure of it. On TV maybe, or one of those glossy gossip pages in the Sunday supplements. Then he pulled a tortoiseshell cigarette holder out of his jacket pocket and she knew instantly who he was.

'I know you,' she said softly.

He smiled - the guy who looked like a vicar bit wasn't - and said, 'My dear, I'd be most frightfully hurt if you didn't.'

Maybe her luck hadn't run out after all.




F ive minutes later they were in the main gaming room and Jean had told Devlin everything. Eyes open, wetting her lips too much, telling him
some wacko movie buff had fixated on her twenty-three years ago and had suddenly got tired of writing fan-mail. Devlin listened patiently, nodded in all the right places, and didn't believe a word of it.

People had noticed them by now, a big guy with blood down his shirt and a woman in a bright yellow bathrobe. Heads turning from the slot machines, a couple of security guards walking over with their hands on their gun belts, trying to look mean.

Devlin glanced back through the main doors. Chigley's pets were probably on their way up here right now, clambering up the elevator shaft like monkeys. Jean said she didn't know what they were, told him she'd never got a proper look at them, but Devlin had known straight away. Just the sound they made had been enough.

'Hey. You two. The hell you think you doin' here?'

Devlin turned and waited as the two security men came up to him, one tall and thin, the other short and round, the pair of them looking like a music hall double-act. It took them a second to recognise him but he knew it when they did. Eyes widening, the fat one taking a nervous step back, already starting to apologise.

'Gentlemen, I'd like to take you into my confidence, I really would, but I'm afraid that if I were to explain our current plight you'd both simply defecate on the spot.

'Devlin.' Jean tugged at his arm, anxious to get out of here.

'Gee, I'm sorry 'bout that, Mr Waugh. For a minute there I didn't recognise you.' The fat security man squirming now, not sure what to do.

Devlin shrugged generously. 'There's absolutely no need to apologise.' He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'Actually, if you promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone, I shall let you into a little secret...'

The two guards exchanged looks.

'Ms. Fremont and I are fugitives.'

'Yeah?'