Summoned by the crash, King came back in the room, ears raised. Before Nia could reach the unopened box of Trojan condoms, the dog plunged his snout into the items that spilled out of the drawer, and came up with the condoms snared in his teeth.

"King!" David said. "Get back here!"

"Be a honey, King, and give those to me," Nia said.

The dog, perhaps overwhelmed by the attention and thinking it was time to play, darted out of the room, tail wagging.

Nia rolled her eyes. "Your dog is something else. I'll be back right back-after I give him a Mississippi beat-down." She pulled on her blouse and hurried out of the room.

I feel like I'm living in a movie, David thought. And whoever is directing can't decide whether he wants a horror flick, or a comedy.

His gaze happened across the drawerless slot in the nightstand. A manilla, business-size envelope lay within. A letter?

He plucked it out of the gap.

"All right, baby," Nia said. She came into the room and held up a couple of wrapped condoms. "I salvaged two before your mutt tore up the box. If you ask me, I think he's jealous."

"Bring your dog next time to keep him company," David said, absently. The mail was addressed to his father; it had his Mason's Corner address in black, typed characters. It bore a London return address and was postmarked in London, England, six years ago.

Nia sat beside him. "Where'd you get that?"

"It was in there" He pointed to the empty s.p.a.ce. "It must've been hidden underneath the drawer."

"Hidden? That's strange"

He touched her leg. "As much as I hate to say this, I think we'll have to postpone getting our love thang on, right now. I've gotta check this out. It might be important."

"I was going to suggest the same thing, though my body's gonna need a minute to cool down. You had a sista ready."

"Not as ready as I was" He kissed her quickly. "Don't worry, I'm a fast reader"

"Hmph. Something tells me you won't be able to rush through reading it. You'd better take your time."

His palms oiled with sweat, he carefully opened the envelope.

At home, as he waited for Ruby to call and inform him that the young woman in the hospital had awakened, Franklin settled into his study and continued to research their findings at the cave.

This was, by far, the most intriguing historical research he'd ever done. He felt that he walked along the brink of a discovery that would shatter everything he thought he knew about Dark Corner. It was both exciting and a bit frightening, too. But he was compelled to continue.

The study was his favorite room in the house. Several maple bookcases lined the walls, containing over a thousand volumes on topics such as history, politics, philosophy, and culture. He had read most of the t.i.tles on the shelves, but in recent years, he had turned increasingly to the Internet for his reading material.

His huge maple desk was the centerpiece of the study. A late-model, laptop computer sat on the desktop. It was connected to a cable modem, ensuring a speedy Web connection.

A gla.s.s of iced tea close at hand, Franklin sat in a leather chair and tapped away on the laptop. He had uploaded the digital photographs he had taken at the cave into his computer; the pictures filled the display. He examined each of them, and stopped at the image of the engraving on the wall. He enlarged the photo.

I shall rise again to slay my enemies.

He possessed only a general knowledge of Diallo. He had found more information about the man on an African history Web site. A Morehouse College student had written his master's thesis on high-ranking persons in west Africa who found themselves victims of the American slave trade, and the havoc it wreaked on their psyches.

Diallo was born in Mali in seventeen sixty-seven. For twenty-eight years, he lived as a village prince and became a feared warrior. In seventeen ninety five, Diallo was defeated in a battle, and sold to European slave traders. He was shipped from Africa to Virginia, where he was purchased by a planter named John Foster.

Diallo was a troublesome slave. Standing seven feet tall and weighing three hundred pounds, he was p.r.o.ne to violent rages, and struck terror in his masters. After he had been enslaved for only three years, he killed an overseer for beating afe- male slave-an act that required he be put to death. Before his punishment could be dispensed, however, John Foster took the unusual step of agreeing to sell Diallo to an anonymous buyer.

Nothing is known of what became of Prince Diallo afterward...

Franklin could not find any resources that provided further information on what happened to Diallo after he was sold to the mysterious buyer. The man dropped off the history storyboard completely.

That is, until he turned up in the Hunter's family Bible, in which he was portrayed as a murderous giant.

Immured in a cave, buried in a grave he may have dug himself, his corpse retrieved over a century and a half later by a man who claimed to be Diallo's descendant, a man who called himself Kyle Coiraut.

Kyle Coiraut, who shielded his skin from the sun and displayed a supernatural ability to manipulate canines. Kyle Coiraut, who seemed to be responsible for the disappearances of two people in town.

What did any of it have to do with a dead African prince?

The key to unlocking the mystery was Kyle Coiraut. Why was he there? Who was he really?

Or perhaps the proper question was: what was he?

Franklin clicked on another Web browser window. He'd done a search on the phrase "allergic to sunlight." Two subjects appeared frequently in search results: xeroderma pig- mentosum, a rare genetic disorder that put one at extreme risk of developing skin cancer due to exposure to ultraviolet light. And vampires.

Vampires.

Franklin was an educated man. But the more he learned about the world, the more he understood that humanity's grasp of reality was tenuous. The world was full of mysteries that defied rational explanation. It was easy for one who lived in a technological society to dismiss many things as primitive superst.i.tion.

But vampires? Not Hollywood characters, fictional creatures, or deranged people who sucked blood and dressed in black. But real vampires?

It was madness.

But Franklin could not dismiss it. So many bizarre incidents were occurring that he could not afford to dismiss anything.

Set aside my doubts and imagine it could be true, Franklin thought. What if Kyle Coiraut is a vampire? He travels to Mason's Corner to retrieve Diallo's body from its earthen grave. Why?

What if Diallo is a vampire, too? What if he had been trapped in the cave, hibernating like a monstrous bear, until Kyle Coiraut found him?

The phone rang, and its shrill ring nearly tore a scream out of him.

It was his wife. "Frank, the girl's starting to wake up. If you want to see her, hurry and get here before she falls asleep again."

"I'll be there shortly, dear."

Vampires in Dark Corner.

Franklin hoped his suspicions were wrong. Dear G.o.d, he prayed that he was wrong.

Chapter 12.

P'+unday, Jackson took a vacation from being chief. He U changed into ordinary clothes-a b.u.t.ton-down shirt and jeans-and got in his off-duty vehicle, a Ford pickup. The truck did not have a police radio, and he left behind his cell phone, too.

He did, however, store his .357 Magnum in the glove compartment.

He drove by Belinda Moss's home and picked her up. He had asked her to prepare a picnic lunch for them. He had beer and soda in a cooler in the back.

Belinda Moss did not fit the narrow image of beauty that was promoted on music videos, trendy TV shows, and magazine covers. She was a dark-skinned, full-figured woman with wide hips, and she stood barely over five feet tall. But to Jackson, she was gorgeous. He found her full lips erotic (and she was a heck of a kisser), and gazing into her dreamy brown eyes made him lose track of time.

They had been dating for five months. Like him, Belinda had lost her spouse, though she did not have any children. They had known each other for their entire lives, both of them having grown up in Mason's Corner, and with her being the town librarian and involved in various affairs in the town, their paths had crossed often. In spite of how well they knew each other, Jackson often felt strange dating her, as though he were living the life of someone else. After Paulette died, he'd never thought he'd enjoy a meaningful relationship with another woman.

But the loneliness of the widower's life had been too much for him to bear. Even as he admitted that he yearned for the companionship of a good woman, he kept his relationship with Belinda low-key, especially around Jahlil. Jahlil knew he and Belinda were involved, but he was not aware of the seriousness of the relationship. Jackson did not know how to tell him, either. Jahlil would interpret Jackson's relationship with Belinda as a betrayal of his mother.

Chalk it up as one more problem he had with his son. He was taking a day off partly so he could get a break from Jahlil, too. The boy could handle being home alone for one night.

"You haven't told me where we're going, Van," Belinda said.

"Away from this town," he said. "Somewhere quiet."

Belinda found a jazz station on the radio. The soothing sounds of saxophones, trumpets, and pianos filled the cabin.

The day was humid, but gray. Earlier, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds and had not returned.

He took 1-55 south, to Enid Lake. There were other lakes closer to town, but he wanted to go outside the immediate area, where no one would recognize him. He'd booked a night at a modest hotel, too. He didn't plan to go back home until tomorrow.

As he drove, he and Belinda didn't talk much. He didn't like to run his mouth all day anyway, and she respected his tendency toward contemplative silence. She was a fine woman.

At Enid Lake, they found a picnic table in a quiet, shaded area of the park, and unpacked the food and drinks. Belinda had brought her portable boom box; a Barry White song drifted from the speaker.

Jackson turned down the radio volume. Belinda looked at him curiously.

"Want to tell you why I had to take this trip," Jackson said. He put down his turkey and cheese sandwich. "I ain't been myself lately. Had to get away for the day and figure out what's gotten into me"

Belinda's eyes were kind.

"Van, you've had a lot to deal with lately, with all the crime going on in town. You're stressed. Everyone needs to take a break sometimes."

"Yeah, but that ain't it. Doc Bennett called this morning, asked me about the young lady in the hospital that got bit by the dog. I laid into Doc like I ain't laid into anyone in years. It ain't my style to talk to folks like that."

"It really does sound like stress, honey. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Naw, naw. You know what it is?"

"What is it?"

He sipped his beer, looked away into the trees. "I'm scared"

Belinda took his hand in hers.

"Doc Bennett's digging into something that's gonna explain why things ain't been right in the town," he said. "I can feel it, right here in my gut. Don't know what he's gonna find, but it scares the h.e.l.l outta me to think about it."

"Doc Bennett's a sharp man," Belinda said. "And you're a brave man. You can handle anything."

"But I was too scared to talk to him," Jackson said. He shook his head. "Whatever's going on, I don't wanna know about it. It ... it ain't my problem."

He couldn't believe what he had said. It was as though someone was working his mouth like a ventriloquist's dummy. He did not feel as if he were in control of his own thoughts.

Lord, what was wrong with him?

"You only need some time to relax, honey," Belinda said. She rubbed his hand. "Let's not talk about Mason's Corner anymore"

He nodded and picked up his beer. He downed the rest of the can in a few gulps. Then he popped the tab on another.

Belinda watched, her face creased with concern.

"I'm gonna get drunk, sweetheart," he said. "Just this once. Can't stand to know what's going on in my head, gotta shut it down. Gotta shut it down and get some d.a.m.n peace"

Silently, Belinda reached across the table, plucked the truck's keys from where they lay beside his arm, and dropped them into her purse.

Shenice Stevens had awakened, but to Franklin, she looked ill. Her skin had an unhealthy pallor, redness marred her eyes, and her voice was raspy.

Including Shenice, there were five people in the hospital room: Franklin, Ruby, the girl's mother, and her physician, Dr. Dejean, a middle-aged Haitian man who had practiced medicine in the town for many years.

Franklin explained his presence by telling them that he was there to pick up his wife-a true statement, and enough for them to leave him alone to observe. The physician and mother were too focused on Shenice to worry much about him.

"Can somebody close those blinds?" Shenice asked. "The sunlight makes me itch." She squirmed under the covers.

Franklin pursed his lips, made a mental note to himself. Ruby lowered the venetian blinds on both windows.

While Dr. Dejean checked the girl's heart rate, Shenice complained of being hungry.

"I'm starving, Mama," she said. "When are y'all gonna bring me something to eat?"

"In a moment, darling," Dr. Dejean said. He squinted. "This can't be correct"

"What is it?" Mrs. Stevens said.

"Her heart rate. It's thirty-one beats per minute. That's the heart rate of a patient who is virtually comatose. Obviously, she is awake and alert."

Franklin frowned. He didn't like this at all.

"Please, bring me something to eat," Shenice said.

"Ruby," Dr. Dejean said with a sharp nod. Ruby hurried out of the room.

Franklin moved to the foot of the bed. The doctor fussed over the heart rate, taking it again, while Mrs. Stevens fussed over the doctor.