The Watcher

THE TIME I SPEND ALONE HELPS CLARIFY MY THINKing. In the last week, I fought with David, almost lost Culebra, revealed myself as a vampire to Max. I was betrayed by Williams, not overtly, but by omission, which is just as bad. It's time to make some changes in my life. And I know what the first one will be.

So when I show up at the press conference, I have every intention of telling Williams what I've decided. The opportunity never presents itself. He's late and the reporters don't give us a moment alone. Then he's called away, and I'm left to take a radio car to the hospital. When I get there, Max and David are together in David's room just as they were twenty-four hours before. It's a deja vu moment except that this time, there's relief on their faces when they see me.

Neither says anything about my disappearing act yesterday.

"Williams will be here in a little while," I say. "He's going to take me to the cemetery."

Max says quietly, "Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine."

David glances at the clock, then picks up the TV remote. "They'll be reporting the story about you on the nine o'clock news."

I take a seat beside his bed and we watch. I pretend to be interested in the cheerful banter between the cheerful newscasters. After fifteen or so minutes, the story about El Centra, my return from Mexico and David's death is broadcast. While they talk, the network flashes a picture of me that I don't recognize. Then I realize it's from a newspaper article written two years ago about David and I. I look different, softer, and I'm smiling. No wonder I didn't recognize it. When the taped segment from this morning is run, it's like watching a stranger. I answer the questions from the reporters soberly and with a complete lack of animation. I look like a robot. It reflects the way I feel.

When it's over, David clicks off the television.

Max and David give up trying to draw me into their conversation. Good thing. The topic is international soccer and evidently, David favors Italy, while Max thinks Argentina has a shot at the next World Cup. The two men seem to find this of major importance. I've never heard David talk about soccer before except to denigrate it when someone calls it "football." I'd find the passion they are displaying amusing if I could work up enough emotion to care.

When Williams shows up, he tries to reach into my head. I don't let him. I want to wait until this is over to tell him my plans. He begins to review what's going to happen this morning, and I listen with dispassionate interest. He's upbeat and optimistic, even predicting that I'll be back with David and Max by lunchtime.

There's a car waiting downstairs and Williams climbs into the backseat beside me. I expect Ortiz to be driving, but it's a cop I don't recognize. He's human. Williams is treating this as a normal police exercise.

Which, of course, it is.

Except for the fact that the target of this particular exercise, me, is not normal.

Williams has given up trying to communicate with me telepathically. Once we're on the road, he clears his throat in a way to make sure he has my attention and says, "You know what you're to do?"

"We get to the cemetery. I tell the media I want privacy. The car takes me to the grave site. I get out, walk to the grave and wait for The Ghost to shoot me. Did I miss anything?"

He stiffens beside me. "You are not going to be shot. We have sharpshooters covering every angle. They've been in position since early this morning. They may even have the guy by the time we get there. You are not going to be in any danger."

He doesn't mention the "vampires can't be killed by bullets" thing. I suppose that's for our driver's benefit.

We reach the highway turnoff. The driver takes it and steers toward the cemetery. As predicted, there are a half dozen media vans waiting at the entrance. I climb out and Williams joins me. He holds up a hand and the reporters gather around us. Williams signals for them to be quiet. He makes a few remarks about hoping they'll respect my privacy and I echo that sentiment and promise to talk to them when I return. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I don't know when I started to cry or why.

Williams walks me back to the car. He opens the door and I slide inside. Concern shadows his eyes. "Anna, are you sure you're all right?"

The tears are what have him alarmed. I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand and cover with a sarcastic "Good touch, don't you think?"

I'm not sure he buys the sentiment but the attitude is familiar enough to spark relief. "I'll see you back here when it's over," he says. "I'll make sure no one follows you."

He closes the door, taps the roof with the palm of his hand, and the car whispers away from the curb.

Showtime.