The Watcher

FOLEY IS DRIVING A BIG SUV, SHINY BLACK IN THE diffused light of approaching dawn. The windows are tinted. He doesn't bother to see if I'm actually going to get in. He leaves me to open the passenger door while he crosses confidently to the driver's side.

When I'm inside, he cranks over the engine and pulls away. For the first few miles, he keeps a close watch on the rearview mirror. As we get farther from Beso de la Muerte and no headlights reflect in the mirror from a tail, he relaxes a bit in the seat. He glances over at me. "Guess you aren't worth much to your friends. They aren't even trying to follow."

I ignore the remark. "Where are we going?"

He just smiles.

I settle back in the seat. "So, how did you and Burke get together anyway?"

A sideways glance. "Mutual friend."

"Ah. Martinez, right? He has some interest in the black arts does he?"

Foley chuckles. "I think it's crap. But he and his crazy mother believe in that stuff. After I told him you'd dissappeared from San Diego for real yesterday, he said Burke knew she could find you-could 'summon' you because she had some friend of yours. He paid Burke a shitload of money to lure you to that freak show. He really wants you bad." A smirk touches his mouth. "It worked. I'll give them that."

"You don't have a clue, do you?"

He snorts. "About what?"

"You think last night was all pyrotechnics and special effects. If Burke had succeeded, you would have been demon food. It almost would have been worth it."

He laughs. "Yeah. Right. I do have one question for you, though. What were you on? Speed? Angel dust? You got scary looking for a minute. And strong. And you beat it out of there so fast I couldn't even catch you in the car. Lucky Burke knew where to find you."

Yeah. Lucky.

I put my head back and close my eyes. It will give me such great pleasure to show Foley how really scary I can be.

I wonder if Culebra can track the car the way he said. But it doesn't really matter. I'm on my way to Max. The only thing I ask is that he still be alive when I get there.

We stay on the main road for a mile or two from Beso de la Muerte. Even pass the wreck of my rental car. But not too far after that, Foley yanks the wheel sharply to the left, cranks into four-wheel drive, and we off-road it into the desert.

I turn an inquisitive eye toward him. "Where are we going?"

He keeps his eyes on the road. "You'll see soon enough."

He has both hands firmly on the wheel, fighting the car whose name, TrailBlazer, was not meant to be taken literally. I brace myself with one hand on the dashboard and the other on the door to keep my head from hitting the roof. Even the seat belt does little to lessen the pounding. The only good thing is that if Culebra really is following, these tracks will be easy to spot.

"Now that we're alone," I say, my voice bouncing along with the bucking car, "you can come clean. You have been following me, haven't you?"

Foley glances at me. "I told you. I haven't been following you. Why the hell would I? I didn't know Martinez was gonna want me to bring your ass in 'til yesterday."

"I don't believe you. You wanted Max. You thought I'd lead you to him."

He shakes his head. "I actually believed you when you said you hadn't been in touch with him. Are you telling me you were lying? What a surprise. Anyway, right after I left you, I got a message from Martinez. He told me Max was on his way to Mexico. He was waiting for him to cross the border. Bad luck for me that he got to him first." He snickers. "But we made another deal."

I don't have to ask for whom. But Max was with me for an hour or so after my meeting with Foley. How did Martinez know where he was headed? Guilt tightens my shoulders. If I hadn't left when I did, I might have known what Max had planned. Or could have kept him with me.

Have I done anything right the last few days? It doesn't feel like it now.

A dust cloud rises from the rim of a hollow ahead of us. Suddenly monotonous desert sounds, the chatter of insects, the cries of animals and birds, are drowned out by the din of a helicopter engine.

I glance over at Foley. "Martinez has spared no expense, has he?"

Foley grunts a reply. "Don't know why he bothered. He should just let me shoot you and be done with it."

"And Max? You'd let him shoot Max, too?"

He shrugs. "He knew the risks."

His nonchalance about Max's fate-the fate of a fellow law enforcement officer no less-quickens my anger, but I hold it in check. Foley will feel the force of it soon enough.

The helicopter is a small one, painted a gunmetal gray.

The rotor turns in a whirl of speed that kicks up dirt and sends it spiraling into the air. I can see the pilot at the controls, head turned to watch our approach. The sun has not yet risen fully in the sky, but his eyes are shielded by the requisite Ray-Ban Aviators favored by pilots-I glance over at Foley-and evidently, Feds. He's wearing an identical pair.

Foley pulls to a stop beside the copter. He looks at me. "Are you going to make this easy?" he asks.

"And if I don't?"

He reaches across me to open the glove compartment and pulls from it a small leather case. He unzips it and tilts it so I can see what's inside. A syringe, filled with a pale gold substance. "I doubt you'll have as much fun with this as you did with whatever the hell it was you took last night," he says. "But I guarantee it'll get you on that copter."

I push his hand away. "You still don't get it, do you? I'm getting on that copter because I want to. Because of Max."

He doesn't look convinced. He slips the case into the pocket of his jacket with a "just in case" expression. I shake my head and beat him out of the car.

The pilot has climbed down and is standing beside the copter. He sports an impatient frown behind those sunglasses, the air of one who is not happy to have been kept waiting. He says something to Foley in Spanish, in clipped tones.

"Relax, compadre," Foley replies in English. "We're here. Let's go."

He gives me a needless little shove and the pilot smiles. I let him get away with it. I even let him manhandle me through the narrow door and into a seat. His puts one hand on my chest to hold me in place while he secures the harness. The pilot watches from his place at the controls and Foley, knowing he is watching, lets his hands wander over my breasts and down between my legs.

"Want to be sure you're secure," he says, yanking the belt tight. "Wouldn't want you to have an accident, would we?"

That brings a bubble of laughter from the pilot. He understands English. I file that away for future reference. He snaps his own harness into place and turns his attention to the controls. Foley slips on a headset identical to the pilot's and they begin to chatter back and forth in Spanish. He doesn't offer me a headset.

The helicopter rises in a tornado of dust. The pilot clears the hollow and banks sharply to the south. Doesn't surprise me that we're headed farther into Mexico. I look down at the ground. Unless Culebra can enlist the help of a bird or two, I'm on my own.

We fly over desert, mostly, and the occasional village. My bet is we are not headed for the coast or any crowded tourist destination. We're flying low. A little too low for my taste. I can see coyotes scramble on the ground as we roar past. Avoiding radar detection maybe? If that's even a consideration. Money can buy anything in Mexico, including invisibility.

After fifteen minutes or so, we approach a hilly, forested area. The copter slows. I don't see any place to land until we come up over a rise and there, beneath us is a valley. I see no roads going in or out, only a compound tucked so completely into the folds of the hillside, I'd bet it's hidden from any view except ours-a bird's-eye view. I search the surrounding terrain. You'd really have to know where to look to spy this even from the air. Have to give it to Martinez. Perfect setup for a drug dealer.

As we get closer, more details snap into relief. Buff-colored buildings with red-tile roofs, three that I can see, and a wall that stretches all the way around them.

While we're still a good distance above ground, I search for a road. Or for anything that looks as if it could be used by ground transportation. With a sinking feeling, I realize there's nothing. Which means getting Max and I out of here might prove to be tricky. And that whatever happens, I'd better protect this asshole pilot.

The copter heads for the pad nearest the larger of the buildings. The pilot brings it down smoothly, touching ground with just the slightest of bumps. He glances back at me, expecting what? A round of applause for the smooth landing?

I ignore the look and busy myself getting out of the harness. Foley has already freed himself and jumped down. He motions for me to come on with an impatient snap of his fingers. I congratulate myself for not grabbing those fingers and snapping them off.

I jump down and look around. No Martinez. No armed guards. No welcoming committee of any kind.

My face must reflect surprise because Foley says, "What were you expecting? Banditos with automatic rifles?" He waves a hand. "Look around. Where would you go if you even attempted to escape? That's the beauty of this place. Only one way in and one way out. Come on. Martinez is most anxious to meet you."

We landed in front of a hangar. Inside are two small prop planes and a second, larger helicopter. The pilot heads into the hangar while Foley steers me to the right, toward the second of the buildings I saw from the air.

As we approach, I realize this might be a residence. There is a courtyard leading to oversized carved oak doors. Water cascades in a melodious tumble from a three-tier stone fountain. Hibiscus and jasmine climb up the walls in a riot of glorious color. It looks like something out of Architectural Digest.

Whoever said crime doesn't pay never saw this place. Or didn't deal drugs.

Foley steps in front of me and knocks on the door.

We wait. The seconds tick by and I start to think Foley has dragged me to the wrong place. Just when I'm ready to call him a fuckup and tear the truth out of him, the door swings open.

A small Hispanic woman smiles a greeting at Foley. She is wearing an ankle length black dress over which is tied a spotless white apron. Her dark hair is salted with gray and gathered back into a braid that reaches down the middle of her back. She looks to be midfifties maybe and her compact little body, while sporting an extra twenty pounds or so, is well muscled and not the least bit flabby. She looks like she can take care of herself.

She and Foley exchange greetings in Spanish. When her dark eyes turn to me, they spark with something that looks very much like anger. The corners of her mouth turn down in a tight frown and the comment she spits out does not sound flattering.

I look to Foley for an explanation.

"Your reputation precedes you," he says. "She knows you are the whore of the man who killed Martinez' family. She looks forward to hearing your death screams."

I don't know how embellished Foley's interpretation of her remarks are, but such an ugly sentiment coming from the mouth of this pleasant-looking woman sends a chill down my spine. Obviously, when the time comes, I can expect no help from her.

She turns away abruptly, starts down a hallway.

Foley puts a hand at the small of my back, but I move after her before he can push. The interior of the house is cool and dim, insulated by thick walls of whitewashed plaster. She leads us through rooms with tile floors and heavily curtained windows. She moves quickly and with purpose, giving me only the briefest impressions of plush furniture, shiny wood, and gilt framed pictures. I make mental notes to mark the rooms we pass through. If I have to get Max out of here in a hurry, I don't want to get lost. The house is big.

And we seem to be going straight through it to the back, ending up in a kitchen the size of the entire first floor of my house. A big steel refrigerator and a restaurant-sized stove look like they belong in here, a rich person's kitchen. Only an arsenal of automatic weapons displayed in a gun case near the back door strikes the wrong chord.

There are two people, an elderly man and woman, chopping vegetables at a granite counter. The two don't look up or say a word as we pass. Neither does our hostess, ignoring them as she heads for a row of cabinets lining the back wall. She reaches for a canister on the first shelf, but instead of picking it up, she yanks it forward. There is a mechanical whir and the entire middle section of the cabinets moves silently forward.

An entry way appears.

And through it, a staircase.

She stands aside with a grim smile and motions me ahead.

I'm so startled by the setup that this time Foley manages to move faster than I do and he pushes me toward the stairs. I stumble forward. The woman does not come with us. When Foley and I are on the stairs, I hear the mechanism once more and turn to see the cabinets realigning themselves. They snap into position with an audible click and we are plunged into darkness. I almost stumble once more but catch myself. Foley is right behind me and I feel him pause on the stairs while my eyes adjust to the darkness and assume he is waiting for his to do the same. But in a moment, track lighting from above and below blinks on. Miniature incandescent bulbs glow softly along the bottom of each stair step and a fixture on the ceiling lights our way.

That's what Foley was waiting for. With a grunt, he prods me onward.

The stairs are thick wood, uncarpeted, and our footfalls echo in the narrow passageway. There is no handrail. The staircase is steep. I count twenty steps before we come to a landing. There is a door. I put my hand out to open it, and Foley swats it away.

"Careful," he says. "Want to get your head blown off?"

I don't bother to remark on the irony of that statement, seeing as how I imagine that's precisely what Martinez has planned for me.

Foley steps around me. There is a button to the right of the doorknob. Foley pushes it. Two short, two long pulses that translate into muffled buzzes just barely audible on this side. The door must be thick. After a moment, there is a click and the door opens.

Martinez is there to meet us.