The Watcher

IT WAS SO MUCH EASIER WHEN I THOUGHT MY stalker was Foley.

"Has Williams been any help?"

David nods. "He's been here every day. He has his men running the bullets through every database in the country hoping something pops up. Whoever this guy is, it's doubtful this is his first foray into criminal activity."

The door opens and the same nurse who insisted Max use a wheelchair approaches the bed. "Time to rest, Mr. Smith." She turns that steely gaze on me. "Your visitor can come back tomorrow."

She says it in a tone that brooks no argument. She even holds out an arm as if to usher me from the room. I bend close. "I'll be back tomorrow morning, Dick."

He shakes his head, smiling.

The nurse follows me out. "You are Ms. Long?" she asks.

I almost say no until I remember. That was the name on the phony ID Williams gave me when he sent me to Beso de la Muerte. "Yes."

She walks back to her desk and picks up a piece of paper. "There's a message for you."

A message? For Anita Long? It can only be from one person.

Williams. He's booked me a room at the Kona Kai Resort on Shelter Island. He says he'll meet me there in an hour.

I glance at the time stamp on the message. It came in thirty minutes ago.

I thank the nurse and ask about Max. She tells me he's been admitted. The doctors want to keep him under observation. Make sure there are no complications from his untreated broken ankle. She offers to get his room number for me, but I think it best if I leave Max alone, at least for the night.

The Kona Kai. Obviously, Williams doesn't think it safe for me to go home. Frankly, I'm too tired to argue. I could jog to Shelter Island from here. It's downhill all the way. But again, fatigue, emotional and physical, is taking its toll. The last few days have been hell.

When I ask where I can get a cab, the nurse directs me to the concierge desk in the lobby downstairs.

Hospitals have concierge desks?

Who knew? A rack of pamphlets offering services for everything from theater tickets to maid service almost obscures the tiny, white-haired volunteer seated behind the desk. She's dressed in a candy-striper smock and her pink-tinted glasses make her look like a Kewpie doll. She's so cute, I can't help but smile.

She's as efficient as she is cute. But it's not until she's secured the cab and it's pulling up in front that I realize, I have no money to pay for it.

She seems to read something on my face because she turns the telephone on the counter to face me. "Feel free," she says.

I thank her and dial Williams cell. He picks up.

"I'll meet you in front of the hotel," he replies when I explain my predicament. His voice is tentative, as if he expected something different from me than a request for cash.

He has a right to be cautious. He has a lot to answer for.

Beso de la Muerte, and all that happened after.