The Watcher

by Jeanne C. Stein

  I'm so startled by the setup that this time Foley manages to move faster than I do and he pushes me toward the stairs. I stumble forward. The woman does not come with us. When Foley and I are on the stairs, I hear the mechanism once more and turn to see the cabinets realigning them­selves. They snap into position with an audible click and we are plunged into darkness. I almost stumble once more but catch myself. Foley is right behind me and I feel him pause on the stairs while my eyes adjust to the darkness and as­sume he is waiting for his to do the same. But in a moment, track lighting from above and below blinks on. Miniature in­candescent bulbs glow softly along the bottom of each stair step and a fixture on the ceiling lights our way.

  That's what Foley was waiting for. With a grunt, he prods me onward.

  The stairs are thick wood, uncarpeted, and our footfalls echo in the narrow passageway. There is no handrail. The staircase is steep. I count twenty steps before we come to a landing. There is a door. I put my hand out to open it, and Foley swats it away.

  "Careful," he says. "Want to get your head blown off?"

  I don't bother to remark on the irony of that statement, seeing as how I imagine that's precisely what Martinez has planned for me.

  Foley steps around me. There is a button to the right of the doorknob. Foley pushes it. Two short, two long pulses that translate into muffled buzzes just barely audible on this side. The door must be thick. After a moment, there is a click and the door opens.

  Martinez is there to meet us.

  Chapter 39

  I'd seen Martinez once before, several months ago, but only at night and from a distance. He'd been wearing a suit then and my impression was of a large, thick-bodied man. Not my impression now. Martinez has lost weight—a lot of it. His scarecrow frame is clad in an open-neck polo shirt hanging loose over jeans. He's barefoot. His dark hair is unkempt, longer than I remembered, curling around the collar of his shirt. It's limp with the oily texture of hair that hasn't been washed in a while.

  And it frames a face ravaged by sorrow and madness.

  I've seen the look before. On a vampire, not a human. But the effect is the same. I feel my muscles tense, constrict as a rush of adrenaline prepares for a fight.

  But Martinez doesn't attack. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge Foley's presence.

  He stares at me, eyes hollow and devoid of life. His hands hang at his sides, one holds a small black box. A light blinks red. Some kind of detonator? He's so utterly still, it's unnerving. I'm relieved when Foley breaks the intolerable silence.

  "Well," he says. "Here she is. When can I get out of here?"

  His voice sparks light in Martinez' eyes, drags him back from whatever pit he'd lost himself in. He places the box on the floor beside the door and the red light blinks to green. He glances at Foley with a look that reminds me of the flicker of a snake's tongue before a strike—quick, decisive, deadly. If I were Foley, I'd be getting out now.

  But, of course, Foley is not that smart.

  "I did what you told me to. She's alive. I'd like my money now. I've got to make plans. The San Diego PD will be on my trail. Can't go back across the border. Your pilot can take me to Mexico City, though, right? I've got a fake passport. I'll go south from there …"

  He's rambling on, nervously, just now understanding what he sees on Martinez' face, a man teetering on the knife-edge of reason. Foley backs toward the doorway, hands outstretched in front of him, a vain attempt to ward off whatever Martinez might hurl at him.

  Martinez' right hand moves slowly. Foley watches as if mesmerized as it drifts toward the small of his back, reaches beneath the shirt and produces a small gun. Only when the gun is pointed at him does Foley react.

  He grabs me and swings me around to shield his own body. "Go ahead," he says. "Shoot. But Max isn't here to watch, is he? Wasn't that the object of this stupid setup? Make Max suffer the way you did? Make him watch while you torture the woman he loves? If you still want that, you're going to have to let me walk out of here. Give me my money and arrange for the pilot to fly me out. Anna will be with me until we get to the chopper. Then I'll let her go and you can have your fun. Do we have a deal?"

  All the while he's talking, I'm trying to look behind Martinez, to see if I can spot where Max might be hidden. There are two more doors, one on each side of a narrow hall, but they are both closed. The good thing is that there doesn't seem to be any other guards. I can easily take care of Martinez and Foley. The hard part will be getting Max past that woman downstairs if he's hurt and unable to walk. I have a feeling she knows how to use those guns.

  All this passes through my head while Foley is trying to manhandle me backward toward the stairs. Martinez still hasn't said a word. He has the gun pointed at my midsection. It won't kill me if he shoots, but it will hurt. Better to let him take care of Foley, one less bad guy I have to worry about.

  I slump forward, letting my body go limp. Foley tries to lower himself with me, scrambling to regain a hold and hoist me up. He can't. My dead weight is too much. He lets me go and stands up, surrendering with upturned hands.

  Martinez doesn't hesitate. He fires once. A neat round hole blooms in Foley's forehead.

  Chapter 40

  My first thought is: good, one down. Then: I'm glad the bastard is dead. I would have liked to make him explain about what happened in the desert, though. I figure he was afraid Sylvie's ex was going to kill me and he'd be robbed of his extra blood money.

  A moot point now.

  Martinez rolls Foley away from me. He reaches down and yanks me to my feet, his hands like steel bands on my arms. He's stronger than he looks. When he sees that I've regained my balance, he lets me go.

  "Where's Max?" I ask.

  A ghastly smile like a skull's rictus touches the corners of his mouth. He turns me toward the door on the left and pushes me forward.

  "First," he says, "you must see why you have been brought here."

  It's the first time I've heard his voice—gravelly, low pitched. He speaks perfect English, with a barely detectable accent. But this time, the tone is different. It's as scary as his eyes, full of venom and suppressed rage. He is a coil winding tighter with each passing moment. When that energy is released, it will flatten everything in its path.

  He steps around to grasp the door handle. Even before the door swings open, though, I know what's inside.

  The smell tells me.

  Decaying flesh. Blood, long past flowing. Death.

  I've smelled it before.

  He blocks my way until he is inside. He wants to watch my reaction.

  I steel myself. When he steps aside, I force myself to look.

  There are four bodies on cots. A woman, three children. The woman looks to be in her midthirties. The children are stair steps, a boy about ten, a girl about eight, another boy, maybe six. I smell formaldehyde. Not professional embalming, the stink of decay is strong. But the bodies have been washed and dressed so the ravages inflicted on them are unseen. Except for the solitary bullet holes in each of their foreheads.

  Max is not among them. A little thrill of relief races down my spine.

  Martinez is staring at me. He misinterprets the shudder. "You are right to tremble. You see what they did to my family?" He steps to the woman, touches her swollen face with his fingertips. "I was to bring them here. They would have been safe. But I was betrayed before I could. Traitors in my own organization betrayed me." His eyes find mine. "Your friend betrayed me. He brought them to my home. And this is the result."

  He circles the cots. "They were rounded up like animals. They "were brought outside and shot down like dogs in the street. Shot in the head so there could be no open casket, the final desecration. They were left to rot in the sun."

  The obvious question—where were you when all this was happening?—I leave unasked for now. I remember Max saying something about a shoot-out. Could Martinez have been inside hiding while his family was being murdered?

  I meet his eyes. "Where's Max
?" I ask again.

  He recoils as if I've slapped him. "That's all you have to say? You stand here in front of my butchered family and show no remorse? Your only thoughts are for the cabron that made this happen?"

  I shake my head. "What happened to your family is inexcusable. I am sorry for them. But you deal in death. Drugs kill thousands of women and children every year. It is hard for me to feel anything for you."

  I know I risk his wrath, but I keep my words measured and unemotional. He is close to losing control. I need him to take me to Max first. For all I know, he's rigged this door to blow just like the one at the head of the stairs.

  My detached tone works the way I'd hoped. With visible effort, he straightens up, his face clears. For a moment I see the man as he must have been when he was in command. His expression stern, his spine stiff. He pushes past me without a word and I follow.

  We're at the door across the hall when the buzzer sounds from the stairway. Martinez turns abruptly and goes to answer it. He picks up that little black box, depresses a switch and pulls the door open.

  It's the woman who led us inside. The apron is gone and in her hands, she holds one of the rifles from the cabinet in the kitchen. She doesn't look so pleasant now. She freezes, the rifle pointed at Martinez. He nods that it's all right and she lowers it to her side.

  She ignores Foley's body as if it was invisible, stepping over it with as little regard as might be paid a sleeping dog. His death is neither shocking to her nor obviously unexpected. She walks past Martinez and stops in front of me.

  She says something to Martinez, pointing at me. Her tone is a combination of relief and anticipation, as if she's happy I'm still alive.

  Martinez joins us at the closed door. "I would not do this without you," he says. He gestures toward me. "Speak English so she can understand."

  She moves her eyes away from me long enough to nod up at Martinez. In heavily accented English, she says,

  "I was afraid when I heard the shot…"

  He flicks his hand. "The man Foley grew tiresome." He reaches for the doorknob and lets the door swing open. "You wanted Max," he says to me. "Here he is."

  Chapter 41

  Max is sitting up on a cot, back against the wall, legs straight out in front. He is neither bound nor gagged. He's wearing slacks and an open-neck white polo. He has socks on but no shoes. When the door opens, his head swivels toward the sound. He looks at me, at Martinez, but nothing registers on his face. His eyes are blank.

  My skin turns cold at his complete lack of recognition. I approach the bed. Touch his forehead with the palm of my hand. His skin is clammy, sheeted with sweat, feverish. There is no reaction to my touch.

  I round on Martinez. "What's wrong with him? What have you done?"

  He shrugs. "I have only eased his pain."

  "Pain?" I whirl back to Max, eyes searching his face, hands passing gently over his chest, his arms, down his legs. When I touch his right ankle, he groans and winces away. Carefully, I roll up his pant leg. The ankle is swollen and discolored and twisted to an unnatural angle.

  "Martinez, you are making this so easy," I say under my breath.

  He and the woman step into the room. "What did you say?" he says.

  The woman pushes impatiently past him. "We are wasting time," she snaps. "I want to see her writhe in pain. I want to hear her screams. I want this man to bear witness." She pulls a syringe from her pocket. "Give him this. Now. It will bring him back."

  Martinez takes the syringe from the woman, shoves me aside, and plunges the needle into Max's arm. Quicker than I would have thought possible, Max's eyes clear. In rapid succession, his expression flashes relief at seeing me, uncertainty at how I happened to be here, horror as memory floods back. Then the pain hits, and pain becomes the center of his reality. He groans and falls back against the wall.

  A flash of something silver catches the corner of my eye. Pain, white-hot and searing, races up my arm. I turn in time to see the woman, face contorted with rage, slash at me a second time with a knife. I reach out a hand and stop hers in midair. Her look of astonishment would be amusing if I wasn't so angry. I back her up against Martinez. He, too, is stunned at my lightning-fast reaction.

  I twist the woman's arm until she drops the knife. Then I keep twisting. "Who are you?" It comes out like a hiss.

  She has recovered herself. She isn't cowed and she shows no reaction to the pain. She merely leans into me to relieve the pressure. Her expression is defiant. She leans in close to whisper, "Burke was right about you. You are vampire."

  Her eyes glisten with eagerness and some of the same madness I saw reflected in Martinez. "What relationship do you have with the witch Burke? Are you one of her followers?"

  She laughs. "No. I am not one of those children. And Burke is not a witch." She lifts her chin defiantly. "You cannot begin to imagine what she is."

  "Then why don't you tell me." Impatience is bringing the animal in me to the surface. I feel the quickening of my blood, the lust to rip answers from this smug woman. I bring my face close to hers, let her read my eyes, see the fury building.

  Martinez breaks the spell. He grabs the woman by the arm and yanks her back. "This is not what we brought her here for. Did you forget?"

  For an instant, I think she is going to strike out at him. So intense is the hatred in her face, it makes me wonder what their relationship really is. Obviously, she is not the servant I first imagined.

  I put as much scorn as I can into my words. "Who is this woman who looks at you with such contempt?"

  Maybe not the most prudent thing to say. They both whirl toward me and the animosity directed toward each other is now aimed at me.

  Max groans and the three of us turn to the cot. I take his hand. "Max."

  He looks up at me, eyes clouded with pain. "How did you get here? Why did you come?"

  I sit on the edge of the cot, easing myself down carefully to avoid his injured leg. "Foley brought me. I came for you."

  "Foley?" The first spark of real life, anger flares in his eyes. "Where is he?"

  I glance up at Martinez. "He took care of Foley. He's dead."

  "Anna."

  There is so much sorrow, recrimination and regret in the way Max says my name, I'm overwhelmed by it. Still, I put steel in my own voice when I say, "We'll be all right, Max. I promise."

  Martinez laughs. "Yes, you'll be all right, Max." He turns away from us. "Marta, are you ready to end this?"

  Marta. Somehow the name fits. Harsh, unmelodious. A name befitting the malevolent spirit that radiates from the woman.

  She is watching me as if reading my thoughts. She nods. "Yes, mijo, I am ready."

  She uses a Spanish term of endearment. Are she and Martinez related?

  She pulls me from the cot. I let her. I'm ready to end this, too. My only concern is what will happen when Max sees what I become. For a fleeting moment, I wish they'd left him drugged and unresponsive.

  But there is no turning back now.

  Chapter 42

  I've given no thought to how I’ll overcome Martinez and the woman, Marta. I am vampire. I am stronger, faster and deadlier than any human. I stand quietly and wait, curious to see what they have planned.

  Marta pulls another syringe from her pocket. She holds it up to the light and turns it this way and that, as if in a bizarre show of respect for the substance in her hand.

  "This," she says, "is very special. It is my own invention. A drug that immobilizes muscle but enhances the senses. Pleasure. Pain. Exquisitely enhanced. Your body will not be able to respond, but you will feel every cut of the razor, be aware of the blood draining from your body, experience life slowly slipping away. And when you are dead, we will do the same to Max. But his suffering will be greater because he will have watched his beloved die in unspeakable agony and have been powerless to help."

  Max stirs and tries to push himself off the cot. "You have me," he says. "Let Anna go. She had nothing to do with this."

&
nbsp; Martinez shoves him back, places a hand on his broken ankle and leans into it.

  Max groans, writhing with the pain, sweat beads on his face.

  His agony unleashes the beast. Martinez is oblivious to the change. He is completely focused on the pain he sees in Max's face. He is drinking it in, smiling in satisfaction. He turns only at the sound, the howl that comes from an unknown place deep inside me. This much rage, this much pure hatred, is more than I can control. It overwhelms me, pushes the human Anna down into a place so deep, she's gone. Utterly.

  I spring at Martinez before he has a chance to react. I throw him to the floor, clawing at his face, ripping at his neck with my teeth. Blood sprays from torn arteries, soaking us both. I hear Marta scream, but it's from far, far away. I feel a sharp prick. Marta is beside me. I swat her hand away, pull the syringe from my arm, lunge again at Martinez. I lock him against my body and use teeth and hands to tear at his flesh. I'm beyond wanting to drink. I want to rip his head off his body. My jaw locks on his neck. His mouth is open, his lips move, but if he's screaming, the sound is blocked by the roar of my own blood. It boils in my veins, colors the whole world crimson. It's all I feel, all I taste. Blood. Hot. Red.

  His blood.

  My blood.

  Then.

  Nothing.

  Chapter 43

  At first, i think I’m asleep. A deep sleep. One from which I'm not ready to awaken.

  But something is crawling into my consciousness, willing me, commanding me, to come back.

  My senses respond slowly. Taste and smell are first. I'm assailed by the rich, metallic scent of fresh blood. I taste it, too, in the back of my throat.

  I lick my lips.

  I don't open my eyes. I'm not ready. I listen, though. It's quiet. Beyond quiet. No sound at all. No insect or animal noises. No human stirrings.

  Deadly quiet.

  I try to move. My body is heavy and unresponsive. I'm lying down. Whatever I'm lying on is rough textured and smells of—what? The outdoors. Slightly gamy. Like a camping blanket that's been stored unwashed in a musty attic.