The Watcher

I SLEEP FOR TWELVE HOURS. AT LEAST, THAT'S WHAT the clock tells me when I open my eyes. Then I panic because I don't remember where I am. The slick sheets, the smell of roses, the sun pouring through unfamiliar windows. I'm disoriented. The last time I opened my eyes after sleeping in an unfamiliar room, a blood splattered Marta was standing over me.

I sit straight up in bed, heart pounding. I'm alone this time. In a much nicer room. A huge bed. Furniture polished and gleaming. A vase of red roses on the nightstand beside me.

Slowly, awareness creeps back. I remember. The hospital. David. Williams.

I sink back onto the pillow. In the last week I've awakened almost every morning hungover, drugged or disoriented. It's a wonder I have a healthy brain cell left.

The message light is flashing on the bedside phone.

I don't have to guess who it is. I listen to Williams' voice, asking that I meet him at the hospital at ten. It's eight thirty now. I have time for another soak in that Jacuzzi tub.

I DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT CAB FARE. WILLIAMS left me money as well as my purse and clothes-outfits to hold me at least a week. I found both last night as I was preparing for bed. This time, I have no doubt that Williams did the shopping. Instead of jeans, tailored linen slacks, silk blouses and a blazer were hung on padded hangers in the closet. Even a pair of leather loafers that are butter soft and my size. I guess he didn't want my lack of style to embarrass him in front of his yacht club friends.

I fill the oversized tub to the brim and pour in bath salts. Like last night, soaking in a tub of perfumed water and lavishly applying the spa products set out on the bathroom counter, help to soothe away the horrors of Martinez and his mother. I won't soon forget what happened, but with these simple luxuries, I'm getting more comfortable again in my own skin.

When I appear at the door to David's room at ten, I'm surprised to see Max there. He's in a wheelchair, his ankle elevated. It's in a cast, but in spite of that, he looks rested and healthy. He's clean shaven and dressed in a hospital gown. There are two nurses in the room, too. Laughing and fluffing blankets and pillows as if that alone will guarantee quick recovery. I can't blame them. Between Max and David, the nurses must think they've died and gone to heaven to have two such handsome men to fuss over.

I'm glad I'm not a patient on this floor.

There's a break in the frivolity when I ease the door open. The nurses excuse themselves and leave. Max and David don't seem as excited to see me as they are disappointed to be losing their groupies.

I decide to take the high road and pretend I don't notice.

"Williams isn't here yet?"

David gestures toward the phone. "He called a few minutes ago. Said he'd be a little late."

I turn to Max. "You look good this morning."

He gives me a once-over. "So do you. Real clothes. Have I ever seen you in anything but jeans before?"

I smile. "How's the ankle?"

He lifts it a little off the elevated platform. "Good. The break was clean. It's going to take time to heal; ankles evidently do. But the doctor commented on the fact that it had been properly set and splinted. He sends his regards to you."

David looks surprised. "Anna, you set his ankle?"

That launches us into what happened in Mexico. I let Max do the talking. He tells David a story that sounds credible because he purposely omits the incredible parts. To sum it up, Foley lured Max and me to Mexico where Martinez killed him. Max and I escaped and somehow Martinez and his pilot ended up dead, too. Max flew us to safety and when we got back to San Diego, we found out about David.

End of story.

No mention of vampires. No mention of how I decapitated Martinez or snapped Marta's neck with one hand. Max takes credit for the killings without actually saying so and I let him.

He finishes at the same time Williams makes his appearance.

He's in full cop mode today, even dressed in his uniform and carrying a leather attache case. He makes no attempt to communicate with me telepathically. With him, another uniform, a street cop, takes up a position outside David's room.

"Another guard?" I ask. "For David or Max?"

"Neither," he replies, looking at me for the first time. "This guard is for you."