The Watcher

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 co

"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 this decor.

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. "A

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 A

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.