The afternoon shadows are lengthening toward sunset when I finally break free of the border bottleneck at Tijuana. I turn east on Highway 2, anxious to get to the cut off before dark. Avery said it would be hard to find during the day. I imagine it will be almost impossible at night.
The Explorer is brand-new, the leather interior still squeaky and aromatic. The car has everything, including an OnStar navigation system. I'm sure that will be of comfort to Avery should I end up in that dumpsite. At least he'll get his car back.
I'm still irritated at his attitude toward David. Hell, toward the whole human race. And he's a doctor, of all things. Does he even see the irony in that?
Shifting in the seat, I turn on the radio. Bright, shrill music fills the cab. It's no comfort. I hate Mexico. I always have. It's dirty, the government corrupt, and the Maquilador Program has done nothing except drain jobs and allow drug dealers freer access to the border. Then there's the heat, dust, poverty and a ridiculous exchange rate.
So why am I thinking about this now?
I pass a hand over my face.
Because it's better than thinking about how scared I am. And it's a way to avoid what's festering in the back of my mind like a raw, open wound.
I don't know what I am or what I'm becoming. I don't know how to handle what's happened with Avery. I don't know where I'll go now that I've lost my home, and I don't know what I'll do if I can't save David.
Not an option. I will save David. I have to. It's the only thing I'm really sure of. It's the only hope I have to save myself.
Nighttime hits the desert with a finality missing at the ocean. One minute it's light, the next darkness descends like a window shade being drawn. Even with the car lights, the ambiguous road is not easy to navigate. I know from Avery's map that the access to the town is coming up but the landmark, a lone scrub pine, is swallowed up by the night. There's not even the sliver of a moon to help light the way.
I slow down, unsure how to proceed. The harsh glare of the headlamps doesn't seem to help. Impulsively, I flip them off. Ambient light filters into the cab, and with a start, I realize I can actually see much better. The landscape jumps into stark relief.
Vampire night vision?
God, there's so much to learn.
I search for the pine. It's about half a mile ahead and to the right. There's an arroyo to the left. The perfect place to leave the car.
Maneuvering it behind the shield of a clump of scrawny cactus, I jump out and stow the keys under a nearby rock. I don't want them jangling in my pockets.
I've memorized the map. I have a two mile run to the first cluster of buildings that mark the entrance to town. After my sprint through Torrey Pines State Park, this should be a piece of cake. I shed my jacket and leave it on the front seat. I'm carrying my .38
and extra ammo on a leather Bianchi shoulder holster. I took a risk bringing it across the border, and it's no good against vampires, but Avery said there were humans here, too. I also have handcuffs and a Taser clipped to my belt. I don't know what effect the Taser might have on Donaldson, but I figure I can improvise when the time comes. And there's lots of wood littering the ground-
stake material.
I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
The jog over the uneven ground is a little more difficult than I imagined, but only because I keep stumbling over rocks and the broken spines of fallen cactus. But in a few minutes, I see lights twinkling like fireflies in the distance. In another few minutes, I'm crouched behind the withered trunk of a scrub oak, peering down a dark ribbon of dirt that must be Beso de la Muerte 's Main Street. That light I spied earlier comes through the broken windows of a dilapidated saloon. Even from here, I can see holes in the corrugated tin roof and the old fashioned swinging doors in front hang drunkenly on hinges twisted with time. The same shrill Corrido music that I listened to in the car pumps into the still air.
Obviously, Culebra's constituents aren't worried about keeping a low profile. There aren't any cars around, though, except for a shiny, black Expedition parked right in front. There's someone standing beside it, leaning against the driver's side door. He's tall, and the dark tank top he's wearing clings to a well-muscled torso as if painted on. He's smoking a cigar. The glowing tip rises and falls rhythmically as he raises it to his lips, then lowers it again to his side, flicking ash as he does. His face is obscured by shadow, and I watch him a few minutes, trying to decide if I should make my way around to the back. I don't get a vampire vibe from him, and I need to get a look inside that saloon. If Donaldson is there, the plan is to wait for him to come out and follow him. If he isn't, I need to find my way to the tunnels.
Suddenly, the doors to the saloon swing outward and two men shoulder their way outside. The driver of the Expedition straightens and tosses the cigar into the street. He stands in respectful silence, watching as they approach the car.
The men are speaking Spanish and there's a lot of strutting and mutual back thumping, macho camaraderie suggesting a business deal well concluded. One of the men is dressed in a suit, the other, jeans and a poncho. It's not hard to imagine who belongs in the Expedition and who in the rundown saloon. Could Poncho be Culebra?
The suit turns to the driver and gestures with a hand. Immediately, the driver comes around to the passenger side and opens the rear door. When he does, the light from the car's interior shines on his face.
My heart thuds to a stop.
It's Max.
Max.
I can't believe it. Not that I don't believe Max's boss might be the gangster behind Beso de la Muerte . Wouldn't surprise me at all.
What stuns me is the thought that if Max knows about this place, does he know about vampires, as well?
I can do nothing but watch in a kind of bewildered stupor as the suit gets into the car, Max takes his position behind the wheel, and the car pulls away. Poncho stands with a hand frozen in farewell until the car disappears from sight. Then he drops his hand and spits noisily at the street. His gaze sweeps the distance until it seems to come to rest directly on me.
I know he can't see me. I'm crouched behind the tree and well into the shadows. And a probe of his mind tells me he's not vampire.
Still, it's eerie just the same to have those beady eyes seem to fix right on my position. He just stares for a minute or two, then spits again and pushes his way back inside the saloon.
If I still breathed, I'd be sighing with relief. As it is, I have to pull my thoughts back from the momentous question of whether Max knows all about vampires and concentrate again on finding David.
I send out a careful probe of the saloon. I don't feel the same tingle I felt when Donaldson was close to me at the fire. Yet, there are vampires inside. I detect four. Three are "speaking" Spanish and one some kind of Gallic dialect, French, maybe, yet, I understand their thoughts perfectly.
Imagine that. Vampire thought-language.
Better than Esperanto.
And they're all thinking about the same thing-a lady inside with humongous tits.
But Donaldson isn't among the vampires inside.
Time for Plan B.
From Avery's map, I know I need to head behind the saloon to find the entrance to the tunnels. Since the saloon seems to be the only occupied building among the twenty or so sagging structures lining the street, it isn't difficult to slip undetected into the darkness beyond. It's amazing how clearly I can see. Every rock, cactus, and bush is outlined in a kind of eerie glow. I can even spot the black hole about half a mile away that must be the tunnel entrance. There are no lights, torch or electric, to mark it, though, and it hardly looks like the doorway to the bustling community Avery described.
Still, as I approach I detect a low hum. A generator, maybe? And I realize the "dark hole" I saw earlier is really a huge rock. It makes a perfect camouflaged doorway, covering the entrance completely except for a man-sized opening to the rear.
I'm almost inside when I hear footsteps coming toward me. I duck back out of sight and send out a cautious probe. It's a vampire, all right. The moment I sense that, I sense something else, too. It's Donaldson.
It seems that Avery's hunch was right.
He's alone, stepping out of the tunnel and heading with a determined stride toward the saloon. It's the first time I've been this close to him since the night he attacked me. I never thought to ask Avery how long Donaldson has been a vampire, but there's definitely something different about him. He's lean rather than skinny and more confident in a predatory sort of way. His glasses are gone, too. Avery said to expect physical and mental changes to occur over and above the most obvious one-the need for blood.
Perhaps this is what he meant-things such as sight and strength and speed are improved. In Donaldson's case, not a good thing.
Yet Donaldson's thoughts are strangely passive. I have to be careful how I probe, but I detect no anger or dark longings. There are no thoughts of David or of me. In fact, he seems only interested in getting to that lady with the big tits, too. Not to harm her. Well, at least not in the normal sense. He's experiencing a powerful lust that's almost embarrassing to tap in on.
Hardly the thoughts of a ruthless killer.
Still, if he's a psycho or sociopath, this is exactly how he would be acting. And I can't discount what he did to me.
I decide to let him go on to the saloon and search the tunnels. As long as our buxom friend is holding court there, I'll know where to find him.
