The Watcher

MAX GRABS MY HAND AND SQUEEZES. "JESUS, Anna. I'm so sorry."

I'm staring at Ortiz. This isn't right. David dead? Williams would never have sent Ortiz or anyone else to relay that news. He, better than anyone, knows what I went through to save David's life when Avery attacked him. He knows how important David is to me.

You are lying. Why?

Ortiz shifts uneasily in the seat and reaches to put the car in gear.

I stop him by grabbing the back of his neck. Tell me the truth.

Max reacts to this with a sharp intake of breath. "Anna, what are you doing?"

Ortiz pulls against my grip. I work my fingers tight around his throat. He manages to gasp, No one else is to know.

I release him. "Max is my friend. He can be trusted." I deliberately say it out loud. Max's eyes are wide with shock. He's trying to figure out what Ortiz did to set me off. I don't want to shock him further by admitting that Officer Ortiz is a vampire, too, and we can communicate without using our voices.

Better to bluff.

"I had a feeling he wasn't telling us the truth. He's going to take us to David now."

I avoid looking at Max when I say it. It's bad enough to feel his confusion-it's thick in the air-I don't have to see it, too. The silence is, once again, no longer comfortable between us.

Ortiz is silent, too. I don't attempt to apologize. He lied about David. Even if he'd had orders to do so in front of Max, he could have told me the truth telepathically.

Our ride ends at County General Hospital in Hillcrest.

Not the thing to inspire my confidence.

The moment I pass through the doors, I'm assaulted by the smell and feel of the place. Blood and desperation. My stomach begins to churn. I was brought here to recover from the attack of the vampire who sired me. Even after all these months, the memories are painful and intense. The doctor who treated me, Avery. All that happened after.

"Anna?"

Max's voice penetrates the veil.

I look up at him, realizing then, that I had come to a stop just inside the doors. His eyes are questioning.

"Are you all right?"

I shake off the fog of despair that descended so rapidly and without warning and release a breath. "Yes. Do you want to go to emergency while I check on David? You have to have that ankle attended to."

He waves off the suggestion. At the same time, I realize that someone has given him a pair of crutches. I don't know when that happened. It must have been while I was lost in my own black trip down memory lane.

Ortiz follows us inside and hands me a slip of paper. David's room number. "He's registered as Richard Smith," he says. He points us toward the elevator and when I turn to thank him, he's already headed for the door. His stride is stiff, angry.

I don't care.

The elevator whisks us up seven floors and when the doors slide open, we find ourselves in a critical care unit. Once again, that queasy feeling returns. David may not be dead, but he must be hurt pretty badly to be here.

A placard near the elevator declares that all visitors must check in at the nurse's station. When we do, Max is questioned about his own condition and if he should be on his feet. He is blunt in his insistence that he is all right. A nurse is just as insistent that he use a wheelchair and it's only after she refuses to point us to David's room, that he reluctantly agrees.

I wait through this exchange with an uncharacteristic patience. I am afraid. Afraid to see what has been done to David. Afraid to acknowledge that I must accept responsibility for whatever it is.

I left him alone.

When Max is in the chair, we are allowed to proceed down the hall.

Room 718.

The door is closed. There's a uniformed cop sitting on a metal chair. He's got a radio and at our approach, he stands and motions us to the door. "Williams says it's okay for you to go in."

I peek through the glass window.

Relief surges through me like a rush of adrenaline.

He's sitting up in bed.

No tubes. No life monitoring equipment.

I peer into the corners of the room.

No Gloria.

Hallelujah.

David is alone and breathing on his own. How bad can it be?