The Watcher

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. "A

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.

CHAPTER 64

I HATE CEMETERIES ALMOST AS MUCH AS I HATE hospitals, even one as beautifully manicured and landscaped as Mt. Hope. The reason is as obvious as the marble tributes we pass. Symbols of man's mortality. Since becoming vampire, all I've thought about is how different my reality has become. Being here emphasizes the difference in a tangible way. I'll see my parents in a place like this, even Trish and her children's children, and I'll go on until an accident or a Revenger ends it. Then, my body will disappear, just like Avery's, and there will be nothing, not a marker, not a name on a wall, nothing to note my having been here at all.

Despair, almost too painful to endure, floods over me. My brother is buried here, on the other side of the cemetery. The desire to jump out of the car and flee is strong. Somehow for a vampire to be here is a desecration of holy ground.

The car is slowing. I look out to see that we've crested the top of a gentle rise. There are trees here, big, old trees. Trees that predate men claiming the area as a repository for their dead. Mt. Hope dates back to the early California Mission days, and this is the oldest part of the cemetery. I understand why Williams chose it. Tall box hedges surround the perimeter and though I can't see what's behind them, I know it's where the police wait. I feel eyes on me.

The cop in front asks if he should come with me. He doesn't turn around to look at me when he speaks, but his eyes are focused on sca

I tell him no and climb out of the car. As quickly as it descended, the despair lifts. There's nothing now. No panic, no alarm, no heightened sense of danger. The quiet within is as complete as the quiet that surrounds me on the hilltop. Only the occasional whisper of wind in the treetops breaks the spell. Maybe it's the spirit of my brother come to offer solace. I've learned in the last few months that anything is possible.

Williams showed me on a map which grave site was supposed to be David's. The earth is freshly tilled and covered with sod. No stone has been erected and I wonder idly whose grave he commandeered for our purposes. Would the family have had to give permission?

I start toward the grave. Nothing happens, no one steps from behind one of the huge tree trunks to confront me. No shots ring out. Williams had thought to bring flowers for me to put on the grave and I have them in my hand. In the bag on my shoulder is a gun. If all goes as pla