The Watcher

MY FIRST IMPULSE, TO THROW MY ARMS around Max in relief, is stifled by the expression on his face. He's afraid. I see it, I smell it. I don't know how to alleviate that fear so I do what I always do when cornered.

I crack wise.

"What did I do? I think I saved your ass."

There's no smile. The lines around his mouth harden, shift from being afraid of me to something worse, revulsion.

"What are you?" he asks again.

I think he knows the answer, or suspects it. He's spent enough time at Beso de la Muerte. When I don't reply, he lets his head drop back onto the cot. "I don't believe this," he says.

His voice breaks and with it, something deep inside me shifts. I know my relationship with Max is over. Vanished into dust with that stroke of the knife as utterly as Martinez' body.

Why do I feel such despair? Haven't I known all along there was no other possible outcome? Wasn't I prepared to break it off with him as soon as I could? I know now that even if I had told Max at the beginning, his reaction today has shown me that he wouldn't have accepted what I am. How could he?

There's a shuffling sound from across the hall. It snaps my attention back. There'll be plenty of time to wallow in misery when we're safe.

"Can you stand up?"

Max heard the noise, too. He's looking at the door and for an instant, the old Max is back. He looks like a cop again. He draws himself into a sitting position, stretching limbs, testing. When he tries to straighten his right leg, the pain hits.

"Your ankle looks broken." I step close and put out a hand to roll up his pant leg.

He starts to cringe away. I know it's not from fear that I'll hurt the wound on his leg. He doesn't want me to touch him.

"Damn it, Max. We've got to get out of here. That bitch Marta is going to give us trouble if we don't move fast. She's drugged now, but she's coming out of it. We don't have time to waste."

In an instant, he's weighed and accepted the validity of what I've said. "We need to make a splint." He looks around the room. "The legs of one of these cots. Can you break one off?"

Easily. The cot comes apart in my hands as if it were made of papier-mache. Ripping the canvas into shreds to make a binding acts as a welcome release to the pent-up emotions surging in my gut.

I wish it worked as well on Max. He watches the display of strength and the cloud of disbelief descends once again.

"Will you let me help you with the splint?"

He nods but his expression is wary.

I approach the cot. He rolls up his pant leg. The ankle is swollen and bent. "I'll need to straighten your ankle. It's going to hurt."

For the second time, a little of the old Max, my Max, surfaces. "You couldn't have thought to do this while I was out?"

It brings a smile to my lips. "I was a little preoccupied."

And before the words have dissipated between us, I've placed my hands on both sides of the injury and snapped the ankle back into place. No sense in giving him warning.

He gasps and cries out, his body convulsing with the pain. Sweat beads his forehead but this time, when I reach out to smooth his hair, he doesn't pull back.

"Good job," he rasps. "Glad I didn't see it coming."

The way he's looking at me, I'm not sure whether he's referring to what I just did, or something else.

I use three of the metal legs of the cot and canvas strips to fasten a splint. The fourth leg I hand him to use as a makeshift crutch. It's too short to be of much help, really, but in a pinch, it could serve as an effective weapon.

He hefts it, understanding my thought process without my having to say a word.

And he isn't even a vampire.

"Can you stand?"

He shifts his body to the edge of the cot and gingerly swings his legs to the floor. Sweat drips again from his face when he tries to place weight on both feet. But he is able to stand and hobble slowly on his own.

"What kind of welcoming party can we expect?" he asks.

I tell him what Marta told me. Then ask, "Are there really only those two downstairs and a pilot in this compound?"

He nods. "I don't doubt it. Martinez built this place as a safe house. Even his most trusted confederates don't know about it. You saw that from the air, it's practically invisible. He was arrogant enough to think he and his family could hide out here for months, maybe years, and surface later to reclaim his empire. Might have worked, too, if his family hadn't been killed."

There's a yell from across the hall. Marta. She's found her voice.

I hitch an arm under Max's shoulder. "Let's get her before they hear her downstairs. Don't know about you, but I'm ready to get the hell out of here."