The Watcher asc-3

by Jeanne C. Stein

  Damn you, Culebra.

  CHAPTER 12

  MAX IS SITTING UP, PROPPED AGAINST THE HEAD-board. His skin, where it touches mine, is hot, flushed with what passed between us.

  The weariness and tension that were so evident last night are gone. His eyes are clear blue again until he looks at me and a frown clouds them and tightens the corners of his mouth.

  "What just happened?"

  I try to laugh. It sounds more like a strangled yelp. I clear my throat, try again, going for more of a tease this time. "If you have to ask, it has been too long since we've had sex."

  He shifts, turning so that he is looking straight into my eyes. "This was different. More than sex. You must have felt it."

  Oh, yes. I did. But how to explain it? Especially since I know it will never happen again.

  He's waiting, body tense.

  I take the coward's way out, counter with a question of my own. "How did you get here?"

  He stares at me a second before answering, "Culebra said he got a message from you. That I was to come here and wait." He relaxes a little, smiling. "When you weren't here, the temptation to take a nap in a real bed was just too strong. I hope you don't mind."

  "Why would I mind?"

  Max shrugs. "I can't always tell how you'll react to things. The last time we were together like this"—he motions to the bed—"you seemed different."

  I start to argue that of course I was different, I'd just found out I had a niece in big trouble. But he stops me with a curt wave of his hand.

  "I know what you're going to say. You were worried about Trish. I understand. But there was—is something else going on, too. Something you won't share with me. I feel it. It started the night you were attacked. You act differently around me. You hold back." A small smile lifts the corners of his mouth. "At least you did until today."

  I don't know how to respond. He's right. I hold back for a damned-good reason. Vampires aren't known for their self-control as I've just so dramatically proven. Yet, I don't dare tell Max the truth. I know he goes to Beso de la Muerte and he's admitted to me that some of the strange characters he's met there are a little different. But while "different" to Max means delusional, maybe even criminally psychotic, all the same, he believes they're human. How would he react if he found out some of those characters are not only inhuman, but immortal? And I just happen to be one of them?

  Max isn't making this easy. He won't look away, won't let me off the hook. He wants an answer.

  "I don't know what to say, Max. If you feel I've been holding back, I'm sorry." I decide to turn the tables. A dirty trick, but he's backed me into a corner. "And if you want to talk about holding back, how about what you've been doing? I heard that you haven't checked in with your boss in over a month. I had a chat with an FBI agent this morning who says you're in trouble. You didn't mention any of that last night, did you?"

  Max turns away from me. "Is that the reason you wanted to see me?"

  "Is it true?"

  His voice cuts like a whip. "Who contacted you from the FBI?"

  "His name is Matt Foley. He says he's a friend."

  There's no expression on Max's face. None. I'm looking at a mask. I wanted to take his mind off me. It seems I succeeded. His skin is suddenly cold. "Max, he isn't a friend, is he?"

  Max throws off the covers and climbs out of bed. He goes straight into the bathroom without looking back. In a minute, I hear the shower running.

  I sink back onto the bed. Christ. I don't know whether I should follow Max into the shower, press for answers, or get dressed and out of here before he gets back.

  I know I can't do that, though. He needs to know what I suspect about Foley following me and I need to know what's going on between them.

  So, I lie there for the ten minutes it takes Max to return to the bedroom. He's dressed and heads straight for a chair where he picks up his gun and clips it to his belt. Then he reaches for his jacket. He doesn't look my way or say a word.

  I barely have time to shrug into a robe before he gets to the bedroom door. I stop him with a hand on his arm. "You can't leave. Not yet. I think he's watching me."

  Max turns around. "Why?"

  I tell him about the call I received. "I thought it was a trick to get me to contact you. Now I'm afraid he knows you're here."

  Max lets me lead him back to the bed. He sinks down on the edge. "I'm sorry he dragged you into this," he says.

  "Who is he?" I ask, sitting beside him. "Why is the FBI investigating you?"

  Max tosses the jacket aside. "The FBI is not investigating me. Foley is. I thought I'd covered my tracks. Especially where you're concerned. I'm sorry, Anna."

  I take his hand, squeeze it gently. "He knows a lot about us. About me. He said you told him."

  Max shakes his head. "Foley works for Martinez."

  I'm not sure I heard that right. "What?"

  He pulls his hand out of mine. "He's a mole for Martinez."

  "In the FBI?"

  Max nods.

  "And how many people know this?"

  Max looks away. "The better question is how many people believe it?"

  I've known Max for two years. He's the most stable, reliable man I know. His instincts are better than good. And my own impressions of Foley were less than favorable. Still, why wouldn't Max's own people believe him?

  Doubt must be reflected on my face because Max's expression darkens. He reaches again for his jacket and starts to stand up.

  I don't let him, stopping him with a hand on his arm. "Wait a minute."

  "You don't believe me, either. I can see it on your face."

  "Hey, don't jump to conclusions. I met Foley today. He's clever and manipulative. What I wonder is what makes you suspect he's working for Martinez?"

  "I saw them. Together."

  "Did you report it?"

  Fury makes the muscles at his jawline tighten. "Of course I did. My boss in the DEA checked it out. Trouble is, Foley had an alibi for the time I 'claimed' he was in Mexico with Martinez. He and his partner were working a kidnapping case in Arizona. The investigation was dropped." He pauses, his eyes become cold. "And my boss looked at me the same way you are now."

  He takes my hand with his own and removes it from his arm. "I'd better go."

  "Not yet. What do you think Foley wants?"

  "That's easy, Anna," he says. "He wants me. Foley is the one who told Martinez that I worked for the DEA. Martinez put a million dollar bounty on my head. Foley plans to collect."

  "He's not being very subtle about it. He met me in the police chief's office."

  "He brought Williams into this? Great. I suppose your friend issued an APB on me already."

  Max knows of my connection to Williams because of Trish's case. He thinks my family has stayed in touch because we're still awaiting word on whether or not Trish will have to testify at trial. And then, of course, I deal with police all the time in my capacity as a bounty hunter. Max doesn't know about the other… services I perform for Williams. I shake my head. "Williams is hardly my friend. Anyway, he only got Foley and I together as a courtesy. Foley asked for the meeting. I'm more concerned because Foley doesn't seem to care who knows he's after you."

  "That's because he's been telling people that we're friends. And we have known each other a long time. We went to high school together. But we lost contact after that. A fact no one seems much interested in. Now he's got everyone convinced I've gone rogue."

  "But your boss in the DEA, he can't believe that. Why don't you tell him what you just told me?"

  Max's eyes narrow. "I tried. He wants me to come in. If I do that, I'm dead. I have only one choice. Get Martinez and Foley before they get me."

  "How? Do you have a plan?"

  Max passes a hand over his face. "I had one chance. I knew where Martinez stashed his family."

  The expression on his face, the way his voice drops off sends alarm racing up my spine. "What happened?"

  He doesn't look at me. "
The Federales found his safe house first. There was a shoot-out. His wife and three kids were killed in the cross fire. Martinez got away. He blames me. Thinks I gave up the location."

  "You didn't?"

  He shakes his head. "Martinez is a stone-cold killer but he loved his family. I would have gone there to bargain with him, never to send a hit squad against him. I didn't give up the location but someone did."

  "Foley?"

  "Foley just wants the money. And I doubt he knew where Martinez had gone. Even Martinez' men didn't know where the house was."

  "But you knew."

  He nods.

  "So Martinez blames you for the death of his family?"

  Max doesn't answer. He doesn't have to.

  "Last night. Did you know I'd be in Beso de la Muerte?"

  Max grunts. "No. I was being tailed by Foley, Martinez and, I suspect, some of my fellow agents. I needed a few hours rest. Culebra offers sanctuary."

  "And you weren't afraid they'd catch up to you while you rested?"

  "It was a chance I had to take. Martinez knows about Beso de la Muerte, of course, but he hasn't shown up there since his business with Culebra concluded. It's almost as if once it was done, he forgot the place existed."

  Probably not far from the truth. I think Beso de la Muerte is protected by some powerful glamour. What happened today may be part of that but this isn't the time to venture down that path. "What can I do to help?"

  "Nothing." Max's eyes flash. “There isn't a damned thing you can do. If you try, you'll only make things worse and maybe get us both killed."

  "But what about Foley?"

  He stops me with a determined shake of his head. "I mean it, Anna. You can't fix this. I know what I have to do. Find Martinez and bring him in. If you want to do something, let me stay here until dark. I've got a car parked on Mission. If Foley is watching, create a diversion so I can get to it."

  "That's it? What if I go to Williams? He has contacts in the FBI."

  "And tell him what? You think he's going to believe me when my own people don't?"

  Max looks tired. Arguing is not going to accomplish anything except add me to his list of things to worry about.

  "I won't interfere if you don't want me to," I say.

  "Do you mean that?"

  I blow out a breath. "Do I have a choice?"

  The cloud lifts from his eyes. He smiles and pulls me to my feet. "So, it looks like I have a few hours to kill." He puts his hands on my shoulders and works the robe down my arms. "What about you? You and David have anything going today?"

  David and I? Not a thing, especially with Gloria hanging around. I start unbuttoning his shirt. "What shall we do?"

  "Whatever you did before? Do it again."

  My head is screaming, never. But my heart is thudding against my ribs and my traitorous body is already warming to the idea. Max leans down to kiss me and I feel his excitement. I can control myself. I can.

  The ugly voice of reason starts screaming in my head. You are supposed to be breaking up with this man. What are you doing?

  But it's too late. I'm already kissing him back.

  Then the damned phone rings.

  CHAPTER 13

  MAX GROANS. "I don't have to answer it," I whisper. "The machine can pick up."

  We stand, wrapped in each other's arms until the answering machine clicks on.

  "Hey, Anna. It's David."

  Max steps back and gives me a little push toward the phone.

  Reluctantly, I cross to the other side and punch the speakerphone mode. "What's up?"

  "You're there. Good. We have a job. Can you meet me at the office?"

  My eyes slide to Max. "This isn't such a good time."

  There's the briefest of hesitations before David says, "Sorry. But it's now or never for this. If you want, I'll call Jerry. See if he has someone else I can use for backup."

  There's an undertone in his voice that gives me pause. He sounds both annoyed and angry. I glance over at Max. This time, Max gets up and starts toward me, gesturing that I should go. "I'm on my way."

  Max takes the phone out of my hand and replaces the receiver on the cradle. "Go."

  "Will you be here when I get back?"

  Instead of answering, Max starts rebuttoning his shirt. I fish my clothes out from under the bed where I kicked them in my haste to jump into bed.

  Awkwardly, I wriggle into my jeans, pull my sweater over my head. Max waits until I'm dressed to reach down and pick up my bra. It was lying half-hidden among the bedclothes. He twirls it around a finger. "Forget something?"

  I take it from him, stick it in a drawer. "I'll be back as soon as I can," I say. "Stay here. I'll let you know if I pick up a tail."

  Max doesn't reply.

  I reach up and touch his cheek. "I'm sorry I have to go. Wait for me, okay? Promise you won't leave until you hear from me."

  Max smiles and wraps me in a hug. "Be careful," he says.

  He doesn't say he'll wait for my call or me. He is smiling though, and that's a better image to carry away than the one last night at Beso de la Muerte.

  I back out of the garage and head up the alley toward Mission. I idle longer than I need to at the intersection, hoping if Foley is watching, he'll give himself away by starting his own car. But when I finally negotiate the turn, the only car behind me is a battered woody with a surfboard on top and three mop heads inside. No one else pulls away from the curb. No one else seems to take any interest in my progress downtown.

  When I call home, to let Max know that if Foley is watching the place, he's probably still there, he doesn't pick up. I speak the message to the recorder, not knowing if Max is listening or not. Maybe he decided not to wait for dark to leave after all.

  But David is waiting. In the parking lot, standing beside his Hummer. He's wearing jeans ripped at the knee and a dirty Windbreaker. He hands me a paper bag and a small gun case and motions for me to climb inside.

  I raise an eyebrow at the sight of the case. "You brought my gun? Who are we going after?"

  He waits until we're both belted in to answer. "Remember that police officer who was killed in Chula Vista last summer?"

  How could I forget? Big story with an unhappy ending. The victim was a young officer just out of the academy, making what he thought was a routine midday traffic stop. Only the car ended up being stolen and the driver was a Mexican national wanted by the FBI on drug trafficking charges. The cop was shot before he got the report back on the car. And Alvaro Guzman made it across the border before his identity was confirmed.

  "Guzman is back in San Diego? I can't believe it. If he's caught, he's as good as dead. What would bring him back here?"

  David smiles. "Love." He draws out the word. "Jealousy. Getting high on his own supply. He has a lady who took up with his cousin the minute he was gone. The cops know it, too, and have been watching both of them. So has a friend of mine. From the inside. He says Guzman has already made it across the border. He's just waiting for the chance to catch his cousin with his girlfriend."

  "And this friend told you this why?"

  "Best reason of all. The reward. It's over half a mil now. He's in for a third and he doesn't have to be the one who turns Guzman in. He's our silent partner."

  "This is the first I've heard of any of this."

  David lifts a shoulder in response. "I wasn't sure it would lead to anything. But I got a call today. Guzman is hanging out in the swamps behind Qualcomm Stadium. If we can get to him before the cops do, the reward is ours."

  Quite a payday. I open the gun case and withdraw a weapon I haven't used since becoming a vampire. Still, the little .38 Smith & Wesson feels comfortable in my grip. Then I open the paper bag. Inside are a torn Windbreaker not unlike the one David is wearing and a ratty black knit cap. I slip on the Windbreaker and check the cylinder on the .38 before clipping it onto the waistband of my jeans.

  The stadium comes into view. David's ripped jeans, the tattered Windbreakers, the c
aps. All designed to let us blend in with the inhabitants of San Diego's infamous tent city.

  San Diego is, for the most part, reclaimed desert. In years of drought, Mission Valley is an arid depression, every inch developed up to the banks of what is known euphemistically as the San Diego River. Occasionally, though, in times like the last couple of years when we've had three times the average rainfall, the San Diego River actually becomes one. The riverbanks come alive with man-tall reeds, scrub oak and chaparral, a family of plants indigenous to Southern California. The seeds of these plants lie dormant for decades and germinate at the first really good rainfall. In a matter of weeks, a desert forest blooms where dust used to reign.

  It's that way now. Even a few of the roads connecting Hotel Circle and Friars Road have collapsed or are under water. The embankments on either side of the roadways form a shelter under which the homeless, and often the lawless, pitch their tents, hidden away from prying eyes in a tangle of dense brush.

  One of those flooded roads is Fashion Valley Road. As we near it, David pulls the Hummer to the curb in front of a large condominium complex. He motions to our right. We can just make out the pitched tops of a makeshift tent city under the bridge.

  "Guzman is supposed to be in there," he says. He pulls a flyer from the pocket of his Windbreaker and unfolds it. Then he hands it to me. "Here's Guzman's wanted poster. My contact says his hair is longer now, but he's still clean shaven. He has a two-inch scar on his left cheek."

  I look at the photo, committing it to memory. The stats say he's five foot ten, 175 pounds. "Any idea what he's wearing?"

  David shakes his head. "No. But we can be sure he's armed, so don't take any chances. Dead or alive, we collect the reward."

  Something in his tone makes me shift my gaze from the paper in my hand to David. He's looking at me with uncharacteristic intensity. "What's up?"

  He waits a beat too long to shrug off my concern.

  "David?"

  He expels a breath. "Guzman has nothing to lose. He's facing the needle."

  He has shifted in his seat, turning his face away from me. It doesn't take much to read the meaning behind the words. He's thinking back to an evening last summer. "Hey. David." Anger sparks like a flare. "You didn't have this problem a few days ago. What's changed?"