Текст книги "The Watcher"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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When commanded to place our hands on our heads, we do and the cops approach.

Our guns are secured. We're separated to tell our stories. I have no doubt they'll be remarkably alike. Dan and I came to save Sylvie from an abusive ex-husband. She has fresh bruises on her cheeks and her father and injured uncle to back up her story that she feared for her life. The question of who shot Alan, though, is the big mystery. The fact that none of us were in a position to pull off the shot, or had a rifle, pretty much lets us off the hook, at least for now.

During his interrogation, Dan hardly glances my way. I keep waiting for him to say something about the ferocity of my attack on Alan, but maybe he's too busy feeling grateful that I didn't do the same to him last night. I have a feeling it will be a long time before Dan beds a strange woman.

Darkness has fallen. Lights are set up so that the ME can finish his work. When it's finally my turn to tell the story, I'm handed off to a uniform from El Centro PD. Not considered important enough, I guess, to warrant either of the detectives who questioned Dan and Sylvie. The cop is short and built like a box, square shoulders, square jaw, squat little legs. He's abrupt and listens only perfunctorily to my answers. He's heard the story from Sylvie and Dan and I'm hardly more than a bystander in the drama. The fact that I was fighting Alan at the time he was shot and could very well have been killed, too, is pretty much ignored. In fact, the only detail I'm asked to clarify is my occupation and if I have a license for the gun. I tell the cop yes, that it's in my purse back in the car. He passes that information to the detective who tells the cop to escort me back to the parking lot and verify the license. Noticing the blood on my thigh, the cop does ask if I want a doctor to look at it. It's long since stopped bleeding, I can feel the skin repairing itself. I tell him it's just a scratch and he doesn't push.

Then he says that once he verifies the information on my carry permit, I'll be free to go.

Go where?

But I don't have time to dwell on that detail. About the same time I'm being excused, the press shows up. With lights and cameras and microphones. How they got wind of what happened out here so quickly, I can't even guess. Maybe the hikers. In any case, the detective in charge turns livid with anger. He circles the troops and orders them out. My cop friend and I get rounded up with them and herded back toward the trailhead.

Halfway to the ranger station, someone from the press notices the ragged tear in my jeans, the blood stains. All of a sudden, I'm a target for questions and cameras. The officer with me manages to deflect most of the attention. He directs me to sit in the back of Dan's car while he secures the area. I watch as the media people, still protesting, are loaded into their vans, wondering who I can call now for a ride home.

I power up my cell phone. It chirps that I'm getting a text message. Puzzled, I flip it open. There's just enough battery left for the message to come through.

"Feeling lucky? You should be. I could have killed you, too, but this is much more fun. Say thank you, Anna."

CHAPTER 19

THIS GAME IS GETTING OLD. SAY THANK YOU? MY "unknown" messenger has just announced that he is the one who shot Alan. The message is written out, no text-speak. Could definitely have come from Foley. He doesn't strike me as cool enough to know how to compose a message the way anyone under thirty would. But he's made a serious mistake. How does he think he can get away with the shooting?

Any reservation I may have had about the veracity of Max's claim vanishes. Foley isin league with Martinez but he's on my trail now, which means he's not on Max's. But being so blatant about it is puzzling. What does he hope to accomplish with this cat-and-mouse game? And he's just killed a man and not come forward to acknowledge it. How is he going to spin that?

The cop comes back to the car and opens the door, an invitation to step out. He dutifully notes that it's my name, address, phone and license numbers on the gun permit. I'm just about to ask him for a ride into town when another car pulls into the lot.

It's not a police car, but a dark, late-model Chevy with tinted windows. The cop starts toward it, undoubtedly ready to order it out of the park, but the driver's door opens and a familiar figure steps out.

"It's all right," I tell the cop. "I think it's my ride."

A uniformed Ortiz approaches. "SDPD," he says, holding out a hand. "If it's okay, I'll take Ms. Strong home."

The cop looks puzzled but shakes Ortiz' outstretched hand and doesn't object. As we walk toward the car, I open my mouth to ask Ortiz how he knew to come after me.

I never get the chance. He opens the back door and motions me inside.

"Get in, Anna."

The voice comes from the backseat. A familiar voice. I lean down to look in.

It's Williams.

And he's pissed.

CHAPTER 20

WILLIAMS' EYES FLASH RED IN THE DIM INTERIOR of the car. His anger is palpable, radiating outward in a burst that I feel like heat on my skin.

"Get in."

For just an instant, I consider turning around and beating it back into the canyon. But Williams would probably send Ortiz after me and what would that accomplish but to delay the inevitable? I toss my purse inside before folding myself into the backseat.

Williams doesn't wait for me to get settled or for Ortiz to get the car back on the road before he starts in.

"Tell me something, Anna, do you have a death wish? Could you have called any more attention to yourself? How the hell did you get involved in a kidnapping in El Centro?"

He's speaking quietly but with great agitation. The softness of his voice makes his anger more intimidating than if he'd been yelling. He stops abruptly and waits. I swear he's growling, he's so furious.

"Well," he snaps when I don't reply quickly enough. "Are you going to answer me?"

I feel like a kid who's a hairbreadth away from being smacked if she gives the wrong answer. The fact that he's completely shut me out of his head confirms how close I am to unleashing the beast. I let a few seconds go by to give Williams a chance to cool off.

When his shoulders become less rigid and the frown lines around his mouth retreat from exasperation to mere annoyance, I ask, "What would you like to know first?"

"How did this happen?"

The version I offer Williams is sanitized. No mention of a drunken tryst. I compose my words as carefully as my thoughts to give nothing else away.

When I'm done, he says, "You want me to believe you ran into this 'old friend' by chance in a bar last night and he told you his daughter was in trouble and you rushed to her aid."

"That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

He doesn't appreciate my attempt at humor. Watching his face is like watching an approaching storm. There may be blue skies overhead now, but you know trouble is coming.

Since he's not asked another question, I venture a few of my own. "How did you find out about it? How did you get here? Why didn't you let the local cops know who you were?"

He passes a hand over his face. I suspect the gesture is a delaying tactic. I sense his anger boiling again to the surface. I don't push.

Finally, he says, "The report of a suspected kidnapping is broadcast statewide. An alert was issued as soon as that girl's uncle spoke to the police. He said you and her father were going after her. He named you, Anna. It is all over the news. The press will be waiting for you at the cottage, at the office. David has called me a dozen times already."

He says all this in a clipped tone, as if I've done something wrong. It's beginning to tick me off but it does clarify one thing. How Foley knew where I was. "I was trying to save a woman's life. What's wrong with that?"

Williams turns in the seat. "What's wrong?" he snaps. "How were you going to do that, Anna?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean did you bring your gun? Were you planning to use human self-defense techniques? If you'd gotten shot, what would you have said to avoid being brought to a hospital? How would you have explained a wound that heals almost instantly? The anomalies that would have appeared in your blood had samples been taken? Or would you have simply told the doctors not to worry, that you're a vampire and have no need for human medical assistance?"

His sarcasm is as heavy-handed as his anger. And he doesn't wait for me to answer. He points to the blood on my clothes, his eyes so intense, I feel the pressure of his gaze. "Blood. Yours or his? Did you control the bloodlust and hide your true face?"

Again, he gives me no opportunity to confirm or deny. "You didn't, did you? You took the easy way, unleashing the animal. You exposed your nature yet again to mortals. It's in your head. I see it."

Then there's no point in denying it. And yet, if I hadn't used my powers, I never would have reached Sylvie in time to prevent Alan from plunging a knife in her back. I want to remind Williams of that, but he's not in a receptive mood.

He continues to stare at me in stern disapproval. "You are so ignorant, so impatient. I protected you when your niece was in trouble because I could. But now you have exposed yourself again. This time to strangers over whom I have no control."

I know it's not smart to argue, but smartis hardly what I've been lately. "I think you're overreacting." I say it in a very small voice. "I didn't kill this guy."

"Oh? What did you do, Anna?"

The image is sharp in my mind. Lunging at Alan, growling, snapping at his throat.

"It will be clear in the minds of this woman and her father, too." Williams says it softly. "Anna, did you not learn anything from what happened with Trish? The mortal world has its own rules. We have to abide by them if we are to coexist. As much as we may want to, we cannot use our powers impulsively. We cannot call attention to ourselves."

"That's a funny statement coming from a chief of police."

As usual, the mouth engages before the brain is in gear. Williams is holding himself in check, I can tell by the way his hands curl into fists and his lips form one thin line of irritation.

I hold up a hand. "Okay, that was stupid. You have never shown anything but your human face in public. I think I understand why you chose to be a policeman. It puts you in the position to use your powers to protect those who are most vulnerable. But you do it discreetly. I get that. I respect what you do."

The frown softens.

I take that and the fact that he hasn't tried to rip my head off as a signal to press on. "I think you and I have the same instincts. So how could I have ignored a father's plea for his daughter's safety?"

Williams drops his head a little and looks at me with brows drawn in pained tolerance. "You could have called the police—called me—when you first heard the story."

"There wasn't time. I swear I thought I was just going to serve the guy with a restraining order. Things got out of control."

He nods. "And why was that? How did you find yourself in such a situation to begin with?"

His tone is deceptively neutral. He is looking at me with an expression that says more clearly than words that he already knows the answer. I cross my arms over my chest and nod for him to continue.

"You got into a fight with David and crawled away to nurse your wounds in a bar. You got drunk, Anna, and ended up with a stranger in a motel room. Do you have any idea how irresponsible that was?"

"Irresponsible?" It comes out whiney and childish but I don't like being put on the defensive for trying to help, even though I called myself worse this morning. "Funny word to use considering how it turned out."

He's clearly not impressed. "What would you call it then? You did get drunk last night, didn't you? Did you feed from the guy while you were having sex? Did you take care to obliterate the marks? Do you even remember?"

How does he know so much?

Williams shakes his head. "How do you think? You smell like sex and a distillery."

He's looking out the window. I'm glad. He can't see the color that floods my face. I'd been careful to keep my thoughts compartmentalized, hidden away from his scrutiny.

Shit. While I could screen the thoughts, I could do nothing to block that sensitive vampire nose. A hundred showers wouldn't have been enough to erase the scent.

Williams isn't finished. He turns in the seat. "That woman's uncle, the one you met last night in the bar, told the El Centro PD the whole story. The real story, Anna. You never laid eyes on either of those men before last night."

So he knows every damned gruesome detail. I shouldn't be surprised.

I hunch a little lower in the seat. "You said David called you. What did he say?"

Williams is frowning again, not the least bit fooled by my lame attempt to change the subject. But he says, "Not much. Just that you and he had a fight. He's very upset. He cares for you. Too much, probably."

Well, that shouldn't be a problem for very much longer.

Williams picks up on that. What does that mean?

There doesn't seem much point in trying to hide the reason David made me angry enough to jump out of his car and head for the nearest bar. I let Williams pick the details out of my head. He actually smiles as he absorbs the implication of what transpired between us. He especially likes the part about David suggesting I become a cop.

Hey.I hold a hand up to stave off his too obvious enthusiasm. Who said I want to be a cop? I like being my own boss. Working for you would be—I have to fumble for the right word. He is a powerful vampire, after all. Difficult. You and I don’t see eye to eye. On anything.

You mean we don't see eye to eye on your personal conduct. And with good reason, I'd say.His tone becomes even colder. Well, you’ll have time to reconsider.

I don't like the way he says that. The words are uttered in the same tone a judge uses when passing sentence– with finality, offering no recourse. I stare at him, waiting.

His eyes bore into mine. Here's the deal, Anna. Until we know that you will not be exposed as a vampire, you will not go home. You won't go to your office or your parents or anywhere you might be recognized. You will not try to contact David. You will not come to the park or to my office. I don't want to see you or hear from you.

He blows on the tips of his fingers and opens his hand as if dispersing the seeds of a dandelion into the wind. You're going to disappear.

CHAPTER 21

DISAPPEAR? WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?

What do you think?

I don't like his expression or his tone. He's talking to me like a kid being sent to bed without supper. Where would I go? And for how long?

Williams shrugs. Can't say how long. Until we can be sure Sylvie and her father aren't going to cause trouble.

And how will my disappearing help ?

Williams waves a hand. Out of sight, out of mind. If we're lucky, Sylvie and her father will want to put this behind them as quickly as possible. Maybe they'll attribute the way you attacked Alan to adrenaline or fear. But if they start asking questions, especially to the press, you run the risk of being marked as vampire to those who watch for just this sort of story.

And mydisappearing won't cause a problem? Won't that look a little suspicious?

Williams shakes his head. Maybe. But it's far less dangerous than if you attract the attention of the media.

I can't believe what I'm hearing. How much worse can my life get? Acid churns in my blood. And just where am I supposed to go?

I've given that some thought.

What he projects is unacceptable. "Not Avery's. I won't even consider it." Speaking it aloud sounds more forceful than projecting it mentally.

"Why not?" He responds in kind. "It's a beautiful house. Secluded. There's a caretaker living there so the neighbors won't be suspicious of lights on in the house at night—"

"Caretaker?" I screech in protest. "Who hired a caretaker?"

"I did. You can't leave a house like that unprotected." He doesn't sound the least bit apologetic. "He's one of our own. And he's discreet."

"And you didn't think to ask me before you hired this caretaker?"

"What would you have said?"

"No, of course. I want that place closed down. I'd burn it to the ground if I thought I could get away with it."

"Then you are even more foolish than I thought."

This time it's me rubbing my hands over my face. "I won't go there."

He accepts the finality of my answer. "Beso de la Muerte, then? Won't have quite the amenities of the house in La Jolla."

The mention of Beso de la Muerte snaps my attention like a rubber band. It also reminds me of what I'd intended to ask Williams this morning. "Who's Belinda Burke?"

Williams looks at me. "Where did you hear that name?" His tone is mildly curious, but his face reflects more than that. I feel his interest pique.

"Yesterday. I saw the poster when we were bringing Guzman in. Who is she?"

"If you saw the poster, you know who she is."

"Okay then, what is she?"

For the first time since I got into the car, Williams' expression is more anxious than put out. He doesn't answer right away. When he finally does, it's with cautious undertones. "She's a very dangerous woman," he says.

"And?"

"And what?"

"I know she's more than a dangerous woman."

He acts reluctant to answer so I add, "Culebra called her a Wiccan."

Williams abandons caution. "Culebra knows her? How?"

I tell him. When I finish the story, he says, "Burke is much more than a witch. She's the most powerful practitioner of the black arts I've ever known."

"You mean she deals in more than love potions and black cats?"

He looks positively grim. "Much more, I'm afraid. If you've seen her, I need to know. We have to find her before midnight tomorrow night."

"Why? What happens tomorrow night?"

"It's October thirty-first."

"October thirty-first? Halloween?" I'd completely forgotten. "So?"

There's an instant when I think Williams isn't going to answer. He seems to be weighing options, but not for long. "It's Samhain, the Celtic New Year," he says. "Do you know anything about Wiccans?"

I shake my head.

"At midnight on October thirty-first, the worlds of the living and dead—human dead—converge. It produces a crack in time that lasts only an instant. But during that instant, a door to the underworld can be opened. Belinda and her coven are preparing to use their magic to bring forth a demon from the underworld. A demon who will do their bidding."

He falls silent.

I stare at him, waiting for the punch line because this has to be a joke.

He stares back. He's serious.

After all that I've experienced, you'd think I would accept what he's telling me. We're two vampires having a conversation about a witch who is about to summon a demon. Another day at the office. Instead, I do the only rational thing a person can do in a situation like this. I laugh. It erupts from my gut like spew from a volcano.

Williams' expression darkens. "You think this is funny? Well, maybe that will change if she succeeds. Demons have an interesting predilection. They like to eat vampires."

I see the seriousness of his expression, hear the concern in his voice, feel the anxiety rippling off his skin. But it doesn't change the image I have in my head of a leathery skinned, horned toadtrying to eat me. I can't help it. The more I try to suppress the laughter, the more it takes control until my shoulders are shaking so hard, I almost fall over on the seat.

ENOUGH.

When someone yells in a closed car, it's bad enough. When someone yells in your head, it hurts.

I sit up straighter in the seat, wiping tears off my face. When I can form a coherent thought without hiccoughing, I say, Come on. A crack in time? Demons who eat vampires? Why wouldn't I have heard of this before? And if it's happening tomorrow night, for Christ's sake, why aren't you marshaling the forces to track this Burke woman down?

What makes you think I'm not?

That's a question it gives me pleasure to answer. Because you didn't put me on the case. You didn't even tell me such a thing was happening. You'd want my help.

Williams says nothing. His mind is closed. He doesn't even glance my way.

That's the giveaway.

The muscles at the back of my neck bunch. "You purposelykept me in the dark about Belinda Burke?"

He shifts in the seat, his back straight, his eyes hooded.

"There are a lot of things I don't tell you, Anna. I can never be sure you won't go off half-cocked."

Like today.

He doesn't say it or think it, but it hangs in the air between us.

The implication is like a knife in the gut. "Are you saying you trust me to take care of scum like Fisher but you don't trust me to take part in something as important as finding a witch who may unleash a demon?"

His expression is unapologetic. He offers neither a denial nor an explanation.

His mind reaches out to mine and I feel something close around my thoughts like a noose drawing tight. Now,he says, tell me what you know about Belinda Burke.

I'm angry. Angry enough to close him out of my head. But if I do that, I won't get what I need from him. Information about this witch who threatened Culebra.

It doesn't take long to fill Williams in on what I saw in Beso de la Muerte. The discussion/fight that took place between Culebra and this Belinda Burke. The way she disappeared like a puff of smoke, to be followed minutes later by Culebra. The utter barrenness of the camp. The creepy sensation of being chased out of there by a malevolent spirit.

Nothing concrete.

Now it's his turn to tell me what he knows. I look to Williams for answers, but he's shaking his head.

"This is not good. Burke is a powerful witch, but teleportation is a new trick for her. She has tapped into a new source."

He's talking in riddles. "New source? What does that mean?"

"Witches derive their energy from the elements of nature. Earth, wind, fire. They are bound by them. Teleportation involves escaping the bonds of earth. It shouldn't be possible."

"You and I shouldn't be possible, but here we are. And I saw Culebra do the same thing, too."

Williams shakes his head. "If that's true, the situation is even more serious than I thought. If Culebra and Burke are working together—"

"No way. I saw the way he looked when he was talking to her. And after, he was distracted. He sent me away. Said not to come back until it was safe." I'm replaying the scene in my head. "Then he disappeared. We were face-to-face. One minute he was there, the next, he was gone."

Williams doesn't buy it. "Then he tricked you somehow. He's a shape-shifter. He can't teleport. It's impossible unless Burke …"

It's there, unspoken. Gave him the magic—or used magic on him to transport him somewhere he didn't want to go.

Williams resolve is hard and unbreakable as concrete. I know that from past experience. Still, I have to try.

"What do you want me to do?"

He has his face turned away from me, his mind unreadable.

"Williams?" I prod. "What do you want me to do?"

At last he stirs, half turning in the seat to look at me. "Nothing."

"What do you mean, nothing?"

A flash of annoyance tightens his jaw. "I told you what you were going to do. Disappear. If not to Beso de la Muerte, then you pick another place. But it has to be away from here and it has to be tonight."

Now the annoyance is mine. "You're kidding, right? You're going after this all-powerful witch and you don't want me to help?"

"You can't help."

He says it without equivocation.

He says it like I have no say in the matter.

He says it like Max telling me to butt out of his investigation.

But Williams isn't Max and this isn't a human matter.

"Culebra is my friend," I whisper.

He remains unmoved.

I have to change that. All the aggravation and frustration of the past two days sweeps over me, driving away any hesitation, any vestige of good sense. I launch myself at Williams with the ferocity of a tiger.

He doesn't see it coming. One minute he's sitting up in the seat, his resolve like a smug halo. The next, I have his throat in my hands and his body pinned beneath me. I feel Ortiz' startled reaction from the front seat. The car begins to slow.

Drive on.

He hesitates, glancing backward.

I put more steel in my voice. Drive on, Ortiz.

The pure heat of my fury convinces him. His foot presses the accelerator and the car resumes speed.

Good.

I've had a bitch of a week, and I'm really tired of arguing with men.