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kept from their parents, and even the closest families might have no clue what was going on with their progeny.
    Another thought occurred to him as he looked back at the corseted bartender, her lush breasts lifted and displayed as if on a plate.
    Was Erin also dressed in some kind of fetish wear last night? Did the killer mistake her for a prostitute, an easy victim?
Hookers and runaways were the number one choice of target for sexual predators and serial murderers; they were easy to grab and almost never missed. And Cauldron was in a notoriously bad neighborhood, the perfect stalking ground for an opportunistic killer.
    Or was the killer right here in the club with her?
    As Garrett thought it, he felt again the unmistakable sensation of eyes on the back of his neck, someone watching him. His whole skin prickled, and he whipped around to stare into the undulating crowd.
    Dozens of alien-looking faces gazed back at him expressionlessly, a congregation of the damned.
    The sense of presence was strong, but any watcher was perfectly camouflaged in the masses; everyone in the room looked capable of ritualistic murder.
    Garrett shook his head and turned back to the bartender, who shot him another lazily inviting look. He ignored the look, and with more difficulty the breasts, as he took back Erin’s photo, then turned and scanned the room more slowly, his head vibrating with the music. His gaze stopped on the DJ booth and the shadowy dreadlocked figure working in the cold blue light of an overhead spot. The black-haired young man behind the turntables was half Johnny Depp, half vampire, with an Elizabethan shirt open to his waist and a silver pirate skull around his neck. His cool mascaraedeyes didn’t miss a trick as he surveyed the dance floor from the elevated booth.
    Garrett started across the floor, and the music segued into an eerie set of guitar chords, with ghostly lyricless vocals layered on top . . . the haunting opening of “Gimme Shelter” . . . as familiar to him as a prayer and as incongruous and as fitting in the setting as any song he could imagine. The dancers around him slowed their feet, swaying hypnotically to the dreamlike spell of the music. After a moment Garrett kept moving, weaving through writhing couples who turned slowly to look at him with pale, painted faces as he made his way forward. He approached the stairs and lifted his gaze to the sound booth. The booth was plastered in band flyers and posters; Garrett’s eyes flicked over unfamiliar names: Incus. Scissorkeep. Nitzer Ebb. Rasputina. There were a few he recognized: Siouxsie and the Banshees, Christian Death, Sisters of Mercy, Ministry.
    DJ Depp’s eyes grazed over Garrett, and though it was more than clear Johnny Boy knew a cop when he saw one, Garrett gave him the obligatory “Boston PD” and badge routine, shouting over the music. The DJ nodded, and looked over the photo that Garrett extended. Garrett gave him a beat to take Erin in, and asked, “Was she here this week?”
    The DJ didn’t hesitate. “Last night. Vanilla, but good dancer.”
    Garrett felt a rush of anticipation at the sudden, unexpected break. “Was she with someone?”
    The DJ’s hands moved over the sound board in time to the music, making several minute adjustments to the sound levels as he spoke. “Yeah. A regular. Guitarist. Prepster gone bad.”
    “Got a name?” Garrett found himself holding his breath. The DJ paused, then turned to the wall of posters behind him, pulled a glossy flyer down. Garrett took it, stared down at the photo image of four sullen, black-haired, black-clad musicians, shot from above in distorted fisheye, posed close, with faces raised skyward under a large inverted cross.
    The DJ pointed to one of the pale, upturned faces. “Moncrief. Jason.”

Chapter Six

    Garrett made a quick phone call from the relative quiet of the restroom corridor. The DMV check gave Jason Moncrief’s address as Morris Pratt Hall, Amherst College. Erin’s