The Watcher asc-3

by Jeanne C. Stein

  He starts in on the form.

  "Want me to do that?"

  David snorts. "We want them to be able to read it, don't we?"

  "Good point," I reply without rancor. There's a lot of money at stake. I sip at my coffee, surprisingly not too bad, until the cup is empty and I'm getting antsy. I push away from the table and stand up. "I'm going to find the John."

  David nods in an absentminded way, and I leave him with his head bent over the table, pen moving across the form, no doubt detailing the capture. I make my way to the lobby. I have no need of a restroom, one of the advantages of being vampire, but I want to try to contact Max again. Now that the job is over, my thoughts are back on him.

  There's no one behind the desk. Everyone must be downstairs hoping for a chance to take a shot at Guzman. I walk outside and call my own number. There's still no answer. I'm saddened by the thought that Max is gone and I don't know when I'll see him again.

  I return to the lobby and wander over to a bulletin board. There's a poster on it with mug shots and rap sheets—San Diego's most wanted. Guzman is number one but someone has already marked a big X over his face with thick black marker.

  My cell phone rings as I peruse the rest of the list. I flip it open.

  "Good job today, Anna."

  The whispered voice.

  "You didn't get yourself killed. I'm glad. That's a pleasure I reserve for myself. Tell your boyfriend."

  But the threat hardly registers. My attention is diverted by the poster. Specifically, by number ten.

  A woman with dark hair and hooded eyes.

  The woman from Beso de la Muerte.

  CHAPTER 15

  I DON'T WAIT FOR THE CALLER TO SAY ANYTHING else. The only response he gets to his threat is a curt, "Fuck you, Foley." I guess I should be happy that he's following me and not Max. Just shows how stupid he really is.

  I snap shut my phone and look more closely at the picture of the woman I last saw arguing with Culebra.

  She looks older in the photo than in person, probably because the lighting in booking isn't all that flattering. But the stats—height, weight, hair and eye color—are the same. She's wanted for attempted murder, aggravated assault and burglary. Considered to be armed. Last seen fleeing the scene of a crime in Lakeside. I grab a pen and jot down the name: Belinda Burke. Unassuming name for a witch.

  I wonder if I have time to get to Williams and ask about her but before I can, David is crossing the lobby toward me. He's folding a piece of paper and slipping it into a jacket pocket. He's smiling.

  "Time to party," he says. "I just called Gloria and she wants us to come to the new restaurant. She's having the chef prepare a celebratory meal. Kind of a dry run for the opening Saturday night."

  For a moment, the witch, the call, everything fades with a rush of irritation. David doesn't get it. He thinks I was acting—really acting—on that sidewalk an hour or so ago just for Guzman's benefit. I fumble for a way to express vehemently enough how spending an evening with Gloria is not my idea of a celebration.

  I don't get the chance. David has already turned away and started for the door.

  I cast one last look at Belinda Burke. I'll ask Williams about her tomorrow morning when I see him at the park. He should know what she is.

  It's not until I'm sitting in the Hummer nursing my irritation and planning how to make my escape once we're back at the office when the phone call pops again into my thoughts. How did Foley manage to follow us to Mission Valley? Could he have been waiting at the office instead of at my house? I'm damned sure he didn't follow me when I left Max. Or does he have some connection at SDPD who is feeding him information? Another question for Williams tomorrow. This time, the idiot actually threatened me. "What would be the purpose of that except to draw Max out to protect me? Another dumb mistake on Foley's part.

  David keeps glancing my way. I feel it like the flutter of one of those irritating insects. I turn my head to look at him. "What?"

  "You don't look very happy for a woman who just earned herself a shitload of money for a couple of hours work. What are you thinking about?"

  I let my head fall back against the headrest. Should I tell David about Max? About the calls? If I'm being threatened, he really has a right to know. He's my partner and while it's unlikely I'll meet my immortal end at the hands of an unsuspecting human, David has no such protection. What if Foley makes good on his threat and David gets caught in the cross fire?

  Still, I hesitate. If I tell David, he'll no doubt tell Gloria. It will be just one more weapon in her arsenal against me. No, before I say anything, David and I have to settle this Gloria thing. He's a good man but he has a blind spot where she is concerned.

  I suck in a breath and plunge in. "I'm still pissed at you, David. You let Gloria interfere in our business. We've been together almost three years. We're good. Damn good. But every time I think things are going great, Gloria opens her mouth and you start questioning if I can do the job. Why? Have I ever let you down?"

  I get it all out in a rush.

  I should have taken my time. When after a minute he still hasn't responded, I prod him with an elbow in the ribs. "Did you hear me?"

  David keeps his eyes on the road. "Yes."

  "Yes? That's all you've got to say?"

  He shrugs but the muscles are bunching at the base of his skull. His jaw is so tightly clenched, I actually see it tremble.

  Finally, he says, "It's not your letting me down that bothers me."

  He says it so quietly, I think I must have misunderstood. "What are you talking about?"

  This time he takes his eyes off the road to look at me. "Maybe Gloria is right. Maybe we should take a break. Evaluate what we want to do before something bad happens again. Last summer I almost got you killed. I couldn't live with myself if it happened again."

  My first inclination is to laugh. I did get killed, after all, but not in any way he can imagine. Instead I give rein to the second impulse. Anger.

  "You son of a bitch. I got over it. Why can't you?"

  Again, the aggravating hum of silence.

  "Are you trying to piss me off? What do you want me to do? Make it easy for you and quit?"

  I don't know why I said that, but once I did, the picture snaps into focus. I swivel toward him. "You want to dissolve our partnership? Because you're afraid I'll get hurt or because of Gloria?"

  We're still on Broadway headed back toward the coast and David pulls the Hummer to a stop on the side of the road. His hands remain on the wheel and his eyes stare straight ahead, but he says quietly, "Not because of Gloria, exactly." He pauses, draws a deep breath. "I'm thinking of moving to Los Angeles."

  Rage rises in my throat until I think it will choke me. I have to swallow hard a couple of times before I can get words out. "Los Angeles? Where Gloria lives and this has nothing to do with her? When did you decide this?" My voice is shaking.

  His shoulders hunch. "It's not definite yet. It's something I've been thinking about for a while. You know it hasn't been the same for us since the attack. It's like we're going through the motions but we're not friends the way we used to be. We don't go out to eat anymore, we don't even work out together. You make excuses to avoid spending time with me except on the job. It's obvious you only think of me as a business partner and you can always find another one of those."

  He runs out of breath and words at the same time. I'm too stunned to do anything but stare. Everything he said is true. There are reasons for all of it, of course. Hello. Vampire. But David doesn't know that. He doesn't know.

  And I can't tell him.

  He clears his throat as if to dispel the awkward silence, then forges ahead. "Once we collect for Guzman, you'll have plenty of money. You can find another partner if you want or go out on your own. You're so good at the business, you really don't need anyone else. Or you might think about becoming a cop. I'm sure your friend Williams would like that. I suspect that's why he spends so much time with you. And I'm sure M
ax wouldn't object. I never thought he liked the idea of what you do for a living. Too outside of the box."

  I can't stand hearing another word. "David." I bark his name so loud, we both jump. "Will you please shut the fuck up?"

  The afternoon sun has fallen low in the sky. The glare through the driver's side window makes it impossible for me to see David's face clearly. I'm overwhelmed with sadness and regret. Sadness because I don't know how to make this right and regret because I'm suddenly not sure I should try.

  I grab my purse and reach for the door handle.

  He turns in the seat. "What are you doing?"

  But I've already opened the door and climbed out. I close it quietly behind me and walk away. I don't answer because I can't.

  What am I doing? At this instant, I don't have a clue.

  CHAPTER 16

  IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD ME EARLIER WHAT HAVOC this day would wreak on my life, I would have come home from Beso de la Muerte this morning and gone straight to bed. I wouldn't have gone to see Williams, wouldn't have answered David's telephone call, and certainly wouldn't have gone back to Mexico. If I had stayed home, I would have known it was Max in my bed. I would have avoided Gloria at all costs. I might even have told David to bring someone else in on Guzman's capture just to avoid that last conversation.

  If I had known.

  What good is it to be immortal if you can't see the future? A serious design flaw.

  "Another drink, miss?"

  At first glance, the bartender doesn't look old enough to be working in a saloon. His skin is blotchy, his hair bleached, his pants baggy. His eyes, though, are not young. They reflect what he's been exposed to—cynicism, remorse, regret. Like breathing second-hand cigarette smoke, exposure to pathetic creatures like me must be a hazard of the job.

  Or maybe it's what I'm projecting through a haze of scotch.

  I nod. "Yes. Please."

  He nods, too, and upends the Glenlivet bottle. Single malt, eighteen year Glenlivet. At the rate I'm drinking, I'll go through Guzman's bounty before sunrise.

  I don't much care.

  The guy at my right elbow eyes me. He's been watching me for the last hour, biding his time, waiting for the right moment to speak. He thinks if I'm drunk enough, I won't notice the bad skin, thinning hair and shiny spots on the elbows of his jacket. He thinks if I'm drunk enough he may get lucky.

  I turn toward him and smile.

  He may be right.

  "ANNA. HEY, WAKE UP."

  I pull the covers over my head.

  "Come on. We have to get out of here."

  Dragging myself to consciousness is painful. Like cold on a sensitive tooth. My head throbs, my limbs are heavy as lead, even my hair prickles on my scalp. It takes me a minute to realize I don't recognize the voice speaking in my ear. Worse, I don't know where I am. And I'm naked.

  When I peek out from the covers, all I see is the lower back of a naked male torso bent over at the waist. He's dressed, at least half of him, in a pair of Levi's. He's perched on the other side of the bed. I shift to sit up, and a bottle rolls out from under the covers and hits the floor with a thud.

  The back straightens and turns around. The face is vaguely familiar. It splits into a grin. "So you finally came to. It's about time. Come on. Checkout time is ten. We've got about fifteen minutes."

  I don't want to embarrass myself by asking the obvious—who the hell are you?—so I gather a sheet around my chest and sit up.

  The guy is bent over again and I see now that he's tying his shoes. I look around the room. A motel room. Nondescript. A table and two chairs in the corner, one of which is piled with my clothes. Bed, chest of drawers, armoire that I assume houses the television. The double doors are closed. Obviously, we did not watch television last night.

  So, what did we do?

  As soon as I try to move, I know.

  Jesus. I’m so sore, a gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it.

  The guy turns around again. "Are you still in bed? Come on, we've got a long trip ahead of us. We have to get to El Centro by noon."

  "El Centro?"

  He frowns. "Don't tell me you forgot. You promised to help me. My daughter, remember?"

  No. I start to say it out loud, but his face is so full of hopeful anticipation, I swallow hard and say nothing. Instead I rub at my eyes. "I'm not quite awake yet." I look up at him. "And to be honest, I'm a little confused. Did we meet at the bar last night?"

  He laughs and reaches out a hand to smooth my hair. "I guess I should be insulted," he says. "But you did have a lot to drink. No, we didn't meet at the bar. You and my brother met at the bar. He told you about me and you agreed to help. He brought you here, to my room. We were talking and—well, one thing led to another."

  I guess so. The ache between my legs begins to throb. We must have had some night. But it's daylight now and I haven't a clue where we are or what I agreed to do for this guy. I missed my appointment with Williams in the park, the first time in weeks. I wanted to ask him about the witch and what happened at Beso de la Muerte. I don't know if Max has tried to get in touch with me, or David.

  The guy has crossed to the chair. He picks up a T-shirt and slips it over his head. His arms and torso are well muscled, his waist and hips slender. He has calloused fingers, strong hands. A carpenter maybe? He's probably in his early forties. He has short, sandy hair, thick, well cut. His face looks familiar, not quite handsome but rugged and appealing. The shadow of his beard adds an unpretentious air of strength. When he turns once more to face me, I realize what it is that's familiar.

  The guy last night, sitting next to me at the bar. This is the polished version of that guy. I see the similarities now. Brothers. God, did I screw them both?

  I throw back the covers and pad naked into the bathroom. No need for coyness. I can hardly walk.

  I lock the door behind me. Can't risk my fuck buddy walking in and noticing no reflection in the mirrors that line three of the walls. There are a couple of wet towels on the rim of the tub. He's evidently already performed his morning ablutions. I turn on the shower and step inside. I splash water on my face, duck my head under the stream and finger comb the knots out of my hair. I wash the smell and residual vestiges of sex off my skin. There seems to be a lot of it. I wonder if I fed from him while we had sex. I don't feel the rush that accompanies feeding, but I've never been dead drunk with a stranger before, either.

  Dead. Drunk.

  I'd smile if my face didn't hurt so much.

  When I come back into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, he's laid my clothes out neatly on the bed.

  Jeans. Sweater.

  And my gun.

  I look around for my panties. They're probably around here somewhere, but it's too awkward to ask about them. Kind of a flashback to yesterday morning with Max and my bra.

  Max.

  Jesus.

  Can't blame this one on the hunger.

  I ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and go through the motions of getting dressed—slip the sweater over my head, pull on my jeans, clip the gun to the waistband.

  I've stalled as long as I can. I turn around.

  "This is really embarrassing, but I don't remember much about last night. Can you kind of refresh my memory?"

  The guy has been gathering up his wallet and keys and shoving them into his pockets. He pauses, concern flitting across his face. "What don't you remember?"

  "Well. Truthfully, I don't remember anything."

  The concern settles in. Color rises in his cheeks. "Anything?"

  I shake my head. "No. Sorry. You said I agreed to help you. Help you with what?"

  If I'd kicked him, I don't think I would have gotten a more startled reaction. He stares at me, a terrible awareness springing into his eyes. "Are you even a bounty hunter?" he asks quietly. "Because that's what you told my brother you are."

  I nod, relieved at least that I hadn't made up some fantastic tale about being a model—or a vampire. "Yes. I a
m a bounty hunter. Is that what you needed help with? Fugitive apprehension? Because I can do that. I just need a few facts."

  Relief replaces some of the alarm on his face. "It's my ex-son-in-law. He's harassing my daughter. We've gotten a restraining order, but he's avoided being served. You said you could do it for us. That you could make him agree to stay away. You seemed pretty confident…"

  His voice trails off as if maybe he's not so sure I can pull it off.

  "Hey—" I stop, realizing I don't know his name. Another humiliation to add to the list. "Piece of cake. But I have to make a phone call first." Williams will be wondering about me by now. David, too, maybe, unless he's already packing for the move to L.A.

  I look around for my purse. It's half-hidden under the Windbreaker on the chair. I retrieve my cell phone but realize when I flip it open that the battery is just about dead. There's a phone in the room, but I don't want to leave a call record in case I've been followed here. Williams will just have to wonder.

  I snap the phone shut and turn it off to conserve what little juice is left. "No battery. Oh well—this shouldn't take very long. I can be back here by late afternoon, right?"

  The guy nods. "No problem. My brother left this morning to tell Sylvie that we are on our way. You can ride back with him."

  I take it that "Sylvie" is the daughter. He asks me then if I want breakfast. When I shake my head, he grins.

  "It's no wonder. I've never seen a woman throw them back the way you did. But you can hold your liquor, I'll give you that. And it certainly didn't affect your performance, if you get my drift." His right hand drifts to his crotch in a cupping gesture that's both self-conscious and protective. "Ouch. You wore me out, lady."

  Too much information. At least he's smiling. And I don't see bite marks on the guy's neck. If we had more than sex, I seemed to have cleaned up after myself.

  He slips into a jacket and looks around the room. "I guess that does it. Are you ready?"

  I smile and nod. No use telling him I wish to hell I could remember what it is I'm supposed to be ready for.