Текст книги "The Watcher"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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CHAPTER 58

IT WAS SO MUCH EASIER WHEN I THOUGHT MY stalker was Foley.

"Has Williams been any help?"

David nods. "He's been here every day. He has his men running the bullets through every database in the country hoping something pops up. Whoever this guy is, it's doubtful this is his first foray into criminal activity."

The door opens and the same nurse who insisted Max use a wheelchair approaches the bed. "Time to rest, Mr. Smith." She turns that steely gaze on me. "Your visitor can come back tomorrow."

She says it in a tone that brooks no argument. She even holds out an arm as if to usher me from the room. I bend close. "I'll be back tomorrow morning, Dick."

He shakes his head, smiling.

The nurse follows me out. "You are Ms. Long?" she asks.

I almost say no until I remember. That was the name on the phony ID Williams gave me when he sent me to Beso de la Muerte. "Yes."

She walks back to her desk and picks up a piece of paper. "There's a message for you."

A message? For Anita Long? It can only be from one person.

Williams. He's booked me a room at the Kona Kai Resort on Shelter Island. He says he'll meet me there in an hour.

I glance at the time stamp on the message. It came in thirty minutes ago.

I thank the nurse and ask about Max. She tells me he's been admitted. The doctors want to keep him under observation. Make sure there are no complications from his untreated broken ankle. She offers to get his room number for me, but I think it best if I leave Max alone, at least for the night.

The Kona Kai. Obviously, Williams doesn't think it safe for me to go home. Frankly, I'm too tired to argue. I could jog to Shelter Island from here. It's downhill all the way. But again, fatigue, emotional and physical, is taking its toll. The last few days have been hell.

When I ask where I can get a cab, the nurse directs me to the concierge desk in the lobby downstairs.

Hospitals have concierge desks?

Who knew? A rack of pamphlets offering services for everything from theater tickets to maid service almost obscures the tiny, white-haired volunteer seated behind the desk. She's dressed in a candy-striper smock and her pink-tinted glasses make her look like a Kewpie doll. She's so cute, I can't help but smile.

She's as efficient as she is cute. But it's not until she's secured the cab and it's pulling up in front that I realize, I have no money to pay for it.

She seems to read something on my face because she turns the telephone on the counter to face me. "Feel free," she says.

I thank her and dial Williams cell. He picks up.

"I'll meet you in front of the hotel," he replies when I explain my predicament. His voice is tentative, as if he expected something different from me than a request for cash.

He has a right to be cautious. He has a lot to answer for.

Beso de la Muerte, and all that happened after.

CHAPTER 59

THE KONA KAI RESORT IS PRIVATE, PRICEY AND EXclusive. The compound consists of a yacht club, a restaurant, a nightclub and a hotel. Figures Williams would be a member.

He is standing under the portico in front of the hotel when we pull up. He's leaning against a raised flowerbed, smoking a cigar, dressed in khaki slacks and a dark blue designer polo shirt. He has brown loafers on his feet that look like they might be Gucci. No uniform, no cop car in sight so he's here in an unofficial capacity. He looks like he fits right in with the yachting crowd. And he looks relaxed.

At least until he sees me getting out of the cab.

He tosses the cigar into the flowerbed and hurries to pay the driver. He doesn't say a thing to me until the car has pulled away.

Then Williams does something he's never done before.

He hugs me.

The gesture is unexpected. My body stiffens and my shoulders actually jump at the contact. He lets me go almost immediately and stands back.

"I am glad to see that you are well," he says.

I make it a point to look around. "Are you talking to me?"

He isn't letting me read his thoughts but I do get a flash that he doesn't appreciate the humor. He takes a card key out of his pocket. "Let's go up to your room. You must be tired."

I am, so I agree with a bob of my head. He leads the way through the lobby and directly to the elevators. Obviously he has taken care of registering. He uses the key to access the top floor of the hotel. The top floor.

When the doors slide open, he gestures to the left. A few steps down the hall, he stops in front of a set of double wooden doors with a brass placard that reads, "Presidential Suite."

He uses the card key to open the door and stands back to let me pass in first.

Instead, I take a step back. “The Presidential Suite? What is this?"

"You've been through a lot," he says. "I thought you could use a little pampering."

I push by him and stop right inside the door. There is a huge living room with a fireplace, fresh flowers on every surface, and three connecting doors leading off to what I assume are the bedrooms. There is a sliding glass door that overlooks the yacht club basin. It's open. In the late afternoon haze, the lights of the city across the bay are beginning to wink on.

"How many people are you expecting?" I ask, more than a little peeved. "If this is your idea of an apology for what happened with Max and Culebra, they should be the ones staying here, not me."

Williams' face gives nothing away. He is a very old vampire, who I doubt has ever apologized for anything. He isn't about to say the words even if an apology is what this elaborate gesture is all about.

I'm too tired to call him on it. Right now, a bath and a bed are all I want. It's been a long thirty-six hours since we parted company in Beso de la Muerte. I let him pick that out of my weary brain and he places the hotel key on a glass coffee table the size of Montana.

Do you require sustenance?He asks. I have someone on call.

His formality with me is foreign and strange. If I had more energy, I might care why.

As it is, I simply shake my head.

He leaves me without another thought or word. Once he's gone, I check out the bedrooms and pick out the one I like best. It has a huge round bed with about a hundred silk throw pillows scattered at the head. When I sweep them off and pull back the comforter, I find black satin sheets.

I wonder which president inspired thisdecor.

CHAPTER 60

I SLEEP FOR TWELVE HOURS. AT LEAST, THAT'S WHAT the clock tells me when I open my eyes. Then I panic because I don't remember where I am. The slick sheets, the smell of roses, the sun pouring through unfamiliar windows. I'm disoriented. The last time I opened my eyes after sleeping in an unfamiliar room, a blood splattered Marta was standing over me.

I sit straight up in bed, heart pounding. I'm alone this time. In a much nicer room. A huge bed. Furniture polished and gleaming. A vase of red roses on the nightstand beside me.

Slowly, awareness creeps back. I remember. The hospital. David. Williams.

I sink back onto the pillow. In the last week I've awakened almost every morning hungover, drugged or disoriented. It's a wonder I have a healthy brain cell left.

The message light is flashing on the bedside phone.

I don't have to guess who it is. I listen to Williams' voice, asking that I meet him at the hospital at ten. It's eight thirty now. I have time for another soak in that Jacuzzi tub.

I DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT CAB FARE. WILLIAMS left me money as well as my purse and clothes—outfits to hold me at least a week. I found both last night as I was preparing for bed. This time, I have no doubt that Williams did the shopping. Instead of jeans, tailored linen slacks, silk blouses and a blazer were hung on padded hangers in the closet. Even a pair of leather loafers that are butter soft and my size. I guess he didn't want my lack of style to embarrass him in front of his yacht club friends.

I fill the oversized tub to the brim and pour in bath salts. Like last night, soaking in a tub of perfumed water and lavishly applying the spa products set out on the bathroom counter, help to soothe away the horrors of Martinez and his mother. I won't soon forget what happened, but with these simple luxuries, I'm getting more comfortable again in my own skin.

When I appear at the door to David's room at ten, I'm surprised to see Max there. He's in a wheelchair, his ankle elevated. It's in a cast, but in spite of that, he looks rested and healthy. He's clean shaven and dressed in a hospital gown. There are two nurses in the room, too. Laughing and fluffing blankets and pillows as if that alone will guarantee quick recovery. I can't blame them. Between Max and David, the nurses must think they've died and gone to heaven to have two such handsome men to fuss over.

I'm glad I'm not a patient on this floor.

There's a break in the frivolity when I ease the door open. The nurses excuse themselves and leave. Max and David don't seem as excited to see me as they are disappointed to be losing their groupies.

I decide to take the high road and pretend I don't notice.

"Williams isn't here yet?"

David gestures toward the phone. "He called a few minutes ago. Said he'd be a little late."

I turn to Max. "You look good this morning."

He gives me a once-over. "So do you. Real clothes. Have I ever seen you in anything but jeans before?"

I smile. "How's the ankle?"

He lifts it a little off the elevated platform. "Good. The break was clean. It's going to take time to heal; ankles evidently do. But the doctor commented on the fact that it had been properly set and splinted. He sends his regards to you."

David looks surprised. "Anna, you set his ankle?"

That launches us into what happened in Mexico. I let Max do the talking. He tells David a story that sounds credible because he purposely omits the incredible parts. To sum it up, Foley lured Max and me to Mexico where Martinez killed him. Max and I escaped and somehow Martinez and his pilot ended up dead, too. Max flew us to safety and when we got back to San Diego, we found out about David.

End of story.

No mention of vampires. No mention of how I decapitated Martinez or snapped Marta's neck with one hand. Max takes credit for the killings without actually saying so and I let him.

He finishes at the same time Williams makes his appearance.

He's in full cop mode today, even dressed in his uniform and carrying a leather attache case. He makes no attempt to communicate with me telepathically. With him, another uniform, a street cop, takes up a position outside David's room.

"Another guard?" I ask. "For David or Max?"

"Neither," he replies, looking at me for the first time. "This guard is for you."

CHAPTER 61

TO SAY THAT I WAS NOT EXPECTING THAT ANSWER is an understatement. He knows me better than to think I'd accept a guard. Instead of shrieking at him, though, I exercise uncharacteristic restraint by asking quietly, "Why would I need a guard?"

Max frowns in concern. "Is it because of what happened in Mexico? Has Anna been threatened by one of Martinez' gang?"

I realize he hasn't heard David's story. When I look at Williams, he's shaking his head.

"No. This has nothing to do with Mexico. We know who killed Alan Rothman in Palm Canyon and who shot David." He places the attache case on the foot of David's bed and opens it. He withdraws a half dozen pieces of paper and hands half of them to me and the others to David. "Recognize this guy?"

The three sketches he hands me are artists' renderings of a man in his late thirties, early forties. In each portrait, the hair and beards are different, but the eyes and basic facial structure are the same. In the first, the man is clean shaven and dressed in a sports coat, shirt and tie. In the second he has a scruffy beard and wears a T-shirt. In the third, his head is shaved and he has an earring in his left ear. David and I exchange sketches. Again, different hair color, style and wardrobe, but definitely the same man.

I hand them back to Williams with a shake of my head. "I don't think I've ever seen this guy before."

"Who is he?" David asks.

Williams gathers the sketches. "The Ghost."

My internal alarm system shrieks. Ghost? A real ghost?

Williams allows a bubble of laughter to escape before realizing how inappropriate that will seem to Max and David. He tries to stifle it but not quickly enough. Max and David are staring at him.

He covers his mouth with his hand and fakes a cough. Not a real ghost,he says sharply. There are no such things as ghosts.

Like I'm supposed to know that.

He drops his hand and his features have rearranged themselves into a properly somber expression. "He's called The Ghost because we don't know who he is or where he comes from. The Feds suspect he's responsible for two dozen contract hits, maybe more. But ballistics matched the bullets from the Palm Canyon killing and David's shooting to others on file."

David asks the obvious question before I have a chance to. "A contract killer? Why would he be after Anna and me?"

"That question I think I can answer." Williams pulls a folded newspaper out of his case. "Have either of you seen this?"

He hands it to me and I hold it so that David and I can look at it together. There's a small article circled in the middle of the page. It's from the local paper and dated four days ago.

INMATE FOUND SLAIN IN JAIL CELL

Anthony (Tony) Tuturo was found dead in his jail cell early yesterday morning. Tuturo was being held pending extradition to New York where he was facing charges of extortion and grand theft. He was stabbed in the chest. No motive has been cited for the killing and no suspects have been named.

David and I finish reading at the same time. He says, "I didn't see this article. But what does his death have to do with a hit man? Or with Anna and me? All we did was pick him up on an outstanding warrant."

"Tuturo was to be extradited to New York," Williams replies. "Where he'd made a deal with the Feds. A deal that involved implicating a high-ranking government official in some kind of shady arms deal. That's when we believe a contract went out on him. Tuturo heard about it, panicked and ran. You picked him up on his way to Canada. When he was killed in jail, that effectively rendered the contract void. I suspect our Ghost friend was not happy about that. He was out a lot of money. I figure he decided to take his revenge on the two people who denied him a kill and a payday."

I start to wonder out loud why this Ghost didn't just kill me in Palm Canyon. Then I remember his last call. He wants to enjoyit. Must mean he intends to get up close and personal. Instead of sharing that, I say, "So, let me get this straight. David and I are the targets of a contract killer pissed off because we got his guy before he did?"

Williams nods. "It's the only thing we can figure out."

"So what do we do now?"

Williams smiles. "We set a trap."

It's not hard to figure out who the bait will be. David, after all, is already "dead."

Max jumps in before I can say anything. "You aren't seriously considering using Anna as bait to catch this guy."

He says that with great concern in his voice. And knowing what he does about me, that means a lot. Of course, he may not really understand what being a vampire is all about but I'm touched by the effort anyway.

I put a hand on his arm. "It's okay, Max. Chief Williams wouldn't put me in any real danger. I'm sure he has a plan, don't you?"

My gaze shifts to him. He has his arms crossed over his chest. "A good one I think. Reporters have been waiting to speak with Anna since the Palm Canyon incident. We're going to give them the chance. Tomorrow. At a press conference. At that time, Anna is going to say that she's been vacationing in Mexico and didn't hear about the death of her partner. She'll let it slip that she's going to his resting place in Mt. Hope Cemetery to pay her respects."

Max shoots me a look. "What Palm Canyon thing?" he asks.

But before I answer, David asks, "Mt. Hope? Why Mt. Hope?"

Williams says, "Mt. Hope is perfect for what we have in mind. Hilly. Lots of big trees. We'll have the place staked out. When Anna shows, we're betting the killer will, too."

It's a good plan. I nod that I accept.

"The press will get the details tonight. Anna, watch the news. You're about to make headlines again."

Now Max is staring. "What do you mean Anna is about to make headlines again?'

"I got involved in a domestic violence thing, Max. No big deal but the papers got hold of the story."

David and Williams are frowning at me. Max sees it and grumbles, "Why do I think it was a big deal?"

When no one jumps on that, he continues. "Well, I don't like it. If this guy is as dangerous as you think, how do you plan to keep the press away from the cemetery? Innocent people could get hurt."

"They may be waiting for Anna at the cemetery," Williams answers. "But we'll have police there, too. And Anna will make it clear that she wants to visit David's grave site alone. We have thought this out, Max."

Still, he doesn't look convinced. "I want to go with her."

I put a hand on his arm. "In a wheelchair? I appreciate your concern, but that's not practical. Besides, you know I can take care of myself."

Williams picks up on something in my tone and he immediately sends me a mental demand to explain. I ignore it, countering with a demand of my own. "I think my friends and I deserve a little peace today, don't you, Chief Williams?"

He is clearly taken aback by the dismissal. He frowns. I thought we would spend the day together. I want to know more about what happened in Mexico.

I'm not sure whether he means what happened with Burke or what happened with Martinez and Foley. In any case, my response is the same. Not today.

Suddenly, I'm bone tired—tired of explaining and defending myself, tired of fighting.

I just want to be by myself.

Williams seems to detect a shift in whatever mental vibe I'm sending out. My actual thoughts are shielded, but he's picking up on something.

Anna?

Without a word, I pick myself up and walk out the door.

CHAPTER 62

IT'S NOT HARD TO LOSE THE TAIL. I can't believe Williams actually assigned a mortal to watch me, but I guess he figured if I wasn't with him, I'd be spending the day in the hospital with Max and David.

I take off down Sixth Avenue on foot. Straight down to the city, where I lose myself in the midday shopping crowd. From there I follow Broadway to the waterfront and head for Seaport Village. When I'm sure no one has spotted me, I hail a cab.

I have the driver drop me off in front of Mission Cafe. It's crowded as usual, and I simply walk in and straight through to the rear. I take the alley and wait until I can lose myself in a group at a crosswalk to scoot across Mission and head for home.

I use the back entrance, through the garage. The code lets me into the garage and the spare key I keep hidden behind a tool chest lets me into the house.

Only when the door is closed and locked behind me do I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then I change into my own clothes—a sweat suit and socks—and climb into my own bed.

I unplug the telephone because I'm sure it will dawn on Williams eventually that I might have come home. If he has a clue about me, he won't send a cop to check or come himself. I'm fairly sure he knows me well enough by now to realize what a mistake that would be.

For the first time in a week, I have no one to answer to, no one to fight, no one to save. I don't have to guard my thoughts. I pull the covers up around my neck and cry. My simple life has gotten so complicated. I don't know how to make things right.

I only know I've got to make some changes.

CHAPTER 63

THE TIME I SPEND ALONE HELPS CLARIFY MY THINKing. In the last week, I fought with David, almost lost Culebra, revealed myself as a vampire to Max. I was betrayed by Williams, not overtly, but by omission, which is just as bad. It's time to make some changes in my life. And I know what the first one will be.

So when I show up at the press conference, I have every intention of telling Williams what I've decided. The opportunity never presents itself. He's late and the reporters don't give us a moment alone. Then he's called away, and I'm left to take a radio car to the hospital. When I get there, Max and David are together in David's room just as they were twenty-four hours before. It's a déjà vu moment except that this time, there's relief on their faces when they see me.

Neither says anything about my disappearing act yesterday.

"Williams will be here in a little while," I say. "He's going to take me to the cemetery."

Max says quietly, "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

David glances at the clock, then picks up the TV remote. “They'll be reporting the story about you on the nine o'clock news."

I take a seat beside his bed and we watch. I pretend to be interested in the cheerful banter between the cheerful newscasters. After fifteen or so minutes, the story about El Centra, my return from Mexico and David's death is broadcast. While they talk, the network flashes a picture of me that I don't recognize. Then I realize it's from a newspaper article written two years ago about David and I. I look different, softer, and I'm smiling. No wonder I didn't recognize it. When the taped segment from this morning is run, it's like watching a stranger. I answer the questions from the reporters soberly and with a complete lack of animation. I look like a robot. It reflects the way I feel.

When it's over, David clicks off the television.

Max and David give up trying to draw me into their conversation. Good thing. The topic is international soccer and evidently, David favors Italy, while Max thinks Argentina has a shot at the next World Cup. The two men seem to find this of major importance. I've never heard David talk about soccer before except to denigrate it when someone calls it "football." I'd find the passion they are displaying amusing if I could work up enough emotion to care.

When Williams shows up, he tries to reach into my head. I don't let him. I want to wait until this is over to tell him my plans. He begins to review what's going to happen this morning, and I listen with dispassionate interest. He's upbeat and optimistic, even predicting that I'll be back with David and Max by lunchtime.

There's a car waiting downstairs and Williams climbs into the backseat beside me. I expect Ortiz to be driving, but it's a cop I don't recognize. He's human. Williams is treating this as a normal police exercise.

Which, of course, it is.

Except for the fact that the target of this particular exercise, me, is not normal.

Williams has given up trying to communicate with me telepathically. Once we're on the road, he clears his throat in a way to make sure he has my attention and says, "You know what you're to do?"

"We get to the cemetery. I tell the media I want privacy. The car takes me to the grave site. I get out, walk to the grave and wait for The Ghost to shoot me. Did I miss anything?"

He stiffens beside me. "You are not going to be shot. We have sharpshooters covering every angle. They've been in position since early this morning. They may even have the guy by the time we get there. You are not going to be in any danger."

He doesn't mention the "vampires can't be killed by bullets" thing. I suppose that's for our driver's benefit.

We reach the highway turnoff. The driver takes it and steers toward the cemetery. As predicted, there are a half dozen media vans waiting at the entrance. I climb out and Williams joins me. He holds up a hand and the reporters gather around us. Williams signals for them to be quiet. He makes a few remarks about hoping they'll respect my privacy and I echo that sentiment and promise to talk to them when I return. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I don't know when I started to cry or why.

Williams walks me back to the car. He opens the door and I slide inside. Concern shadows his eyes. "Anna, are you sure you're all right?"

The tears are what have him alarmed. I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand and cover with a sarcastic "Good touch, don't you think?"

I'm not sure he buys the sentiment but the attitude is familiar enough to spark relief. "I'll see you back here when it's over," he says. "I'll make sure no one follows you."

He closes the door, taps the roof with the palm of his hand, and the car whispers away from the curb.

Showtime.