You there, Fang?

When I had caught my breath and my hands had quit shaking enough to type, I had grabbed my laptop and curled up on my new couch. The new, L-shaped couch was nearly as big as the living room itself, and that's just the way I liked it. There was enough room for some serious cuddling on here, and luckily my kids were still young enough to want to cuddle with their mommy. Even if Mommy had perpetual cold feet. Hey, if I had to put up with Anthony's farts, then they could put up with Mommy's cold feet.

A moment later, the little circular icon next to Fang's name turned green, which meant he had just signed on. Next, I saw him typing a message, as indicated by wiggling pencil in the corner of the screen.

You are upset, Moon Dance.

Fang, like Detective Sherbet, was psychically connected to me. He would know how I felt, and what I was thinking, especially if I opened myself up to him.

Very upset.

Tell me about it.

I did. Fang, like many in Orange County, knew about the drained bodies and about the serial killer. The papers were having a field day with this story, as were late-night talk-show hosts. With the world currently in the grip of Twilight mania, a real story about real bodies being drained of blood was making some national headlines. As Fang knew, I had been hired as a special consultant to the case, I simply caught him up to date on tonight's adventures. I also caught him up on the psychic hits I'd received.

He was hanging upside down?

Yes.

And he never got a good look at his killer?

No. I think he had been rendered unconscious. I only got a sensation of him returning to consciousness.

And when he did, he was hanging upside down?

Yes.

Fang wrote: What else did he see before he was, you know...

Killed?

Yes.

I rubbed my head as the images, now forever imprinted into my brain, appeared in my thoughts again. I wrote: He didn't get a good look. He was swinging wildly upside down, trying to break free.

His hands were tied?

I think so, yes.

And he saw only one man?

Maybe two. Hard to know. That's when he started screaming.

And that's when the knife appeared, wrote Fang.

Yes, I wrote, feeling drained, despite this being the middle of the night.

And they cut his throat, wrote Fang.

Yes.

This doesn't sound like a vampire.

No, I wrote.

It sounds like a sick son of a bitch.

I waited before replying. Finally, I wrote: There's more, Fang. I saw...other bodies. At least two more. Both hanging upside down.

Jesus, Sam.

They were suspended over a tub of some sort.

A tub?

Yes.

They were collecting the blood, Fang wrote.

That's what I think, too.

But why?

I thought about it for only a moment before I wrote: If I had to guess, I would say that he supplies blood for vampires.