The Watcher

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."