The Watcher

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. A

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.