Jeanne Stein - The Watcher

"I've seen this before." I press my fingertips against my eyes. "I can't remember when, though. I think the fall has affected my memory."

Frey shakes his head. "I doubt you've ever been here. More likely, it looks familiar because the tunnels have been in the newspapers and on television. Not this particular tunnel, of course, or we wouldn't be standing here. But ones just like it. The desert between Tijuana and San Diego is riddled with them."

Of course. It was discovered a couple of years ago that drug runners had built an elaborate tunnel system running under the border. The media made a big deal out of it, but as fast as one tunnel was exposed and filled in, another sprang up seemingly overnight.

"Come on," Frey starts to move down the tunnel. "We'd better hurry."

I follow, whispering, "How did you find this?"

He doesn't slow down or look back at me. "Wasn't a lot to do while I waited for you to show up last night but prowl. I saw a car pull up outside the building. A woman and three men got out and went inside. No lights. No sound. When they didn't come back, I looked into a window. They had disappeared. So I changed and snuck in to look around."

"You were able to walk in?" The memory of being trapped in a living nightmare still looms fresh in my mind.

He raises both hands. "I don't know what to tell you. Last night I didn't feel anything like what we experienced a few minutes ago. In fact, I didn't feel or see anything at all, even in human form. I thought they must have gone out a back door. But then one of the men came back. Scared the shit out of me. I barely had time to hide. A trapdoor opened in the floor and this guy climbed out, went out to his car and drove away."

"Why do you think it has anything to do with the witch? These tunnels are used by drug dealers."

Frey gives me an impatient frown. "I did a little exploring after he left. Followed the tunnel until I reached the end. What I saw there had nothing to do with drugs. The woman who arrived in the car was watching a dozen or so men make something out of wood in a clearing not far from the end of the tunnel. An altar, I think. Of course, I didn't know then what it was for. I told you I thought it was a bunch of wannabes getting ready to dance their way into a sexual frenzy in honor of Halloween. It happens all the time out here in the desert."

He may still be right. I won't know for sure until I see if Belinda Burke is here.

"If the witch is using these tunnels," I reply, "whatever drug cartel dug them must be letting her—maybe she's giving them something in return. But if she is working with a cartel, why the glamour to keep people out? Why not just have guards with guns?"

"Last night, it was guards with guns," he says.

And yet now, tonight when the ritual is to take place, there are no guards. A primitive warning sounds in my brain. Does she know I'm here? Is it what she wants?

Frey raises a hand to his lips, and points, a signal that we're nearing the end of the tunnel. There's a staircase just ahead. He drops to one knee, lowers his head, and with an exhalation of breath, transforms back into the cat.

I've seen him make the change once before, but that time it was gradual. One shape morphing into another. This time, it's accomplished in the blink of an eye. A shudder racks his body, a cry becomes a growl, and the human Frey is gone. It must be painful to make the change so fast. The panther trembles a moment before gathering himself to make the ascent out of the tunnel.

I'm right behind him. It's a steep, slippery climb, on rough slabs of stone set into the concrete. I have to go slowly, Frey bounds up like—well, like a cat. There are about twenty steps leading into a darkened passageway. No lights here. We're guided by a strange sound, a litany sung in an unfamiliar language. And the scent of incense and burning mesquite.

We tread softly. I have a hand on the scruff of Frey's neck. I'm afraid what will happen if I'm plunged into another nightmare-scape. Frey seems to sense it, because he presses closes to me as if for assurance. There's no doubt in my mind now that we're in the right place. Before we reach the triangle of light that marks the doorway, I lean down and whisper in his ear.

"If something happens to me, stop the witch. Don't let her hurt Culebra."

He pushes his head against my chest and makes a guttural noise.

Then I straighten up and lead the way outside.

WHAT WE SEE THROUGH THE DOORWAY IS A scene from a nightmare. This time, though, it's not my own personal hell, but a tableau from an ancient book on witchcraft. A huge fire crackles and dances, sending sparks and laps of flame into the night. The reflection cast by the fire is the only light, making the darkness beyond dense and impenetrable. In the flickering shadows, an altar rises like a specter, and something that looks very much like a gallows. There is a form suspended on the scaffold, not hanging from a noose, but spread-eagle on a cross. It looks human. And it's very still.

Frey stops me from moving forward by taking my hand gently into his mouth. I'm so intent on trying to make sense of the scene, I almost blunder into the trap. A thin wire stretches ankle height across the door. We can't see what it would trip, but it doesn't matter. I step over while Frey leaps it with feline gracefulness.

The chanting comes from our right, out of sight behind an outcropping of rock. It's a melodious, ancient sound that reminds me of the old Catholic high mass. Latin, maybe, or Celtic. It's accompanied by an instrument with sweet, clear tones. A recorder.

Frey and I scramble across a bare expanse of ground to take shelter behind a rock. I don't know if we're in Mexico or have crossed into the United States. Most of these tunnels exit somewhere in the Otay Mesa area of San Diego County, but I haven't a clue how far we traveled.

I peek up from the rock, keeping as still as I can to avoid attracting attention. My breath catches in my throat when I recognize what is hanging from that cross. There are two bodies, back to back, lashed together. One, facing me, is a woman, her limp, naked body a pale, flickering silhouette in the firelight. I can't make out the other. I can't even tell whether the two are human, although I suspect they are.

Or if they are alive.

Where is Culebra?

The chanting becomes louder, more urgent. I glance at my watch—it's ten minutes before midnight. I'd lost track of time. We must have traveled much farther than I imagined.

I shift my gaze in the direction of the sound. Dozens of people form a hellish chorus, standing close together, dressed in long dark robes with the cowls pulled over their heads. They sway and moan the words, caught up in some demonic rapture.

A woman steps from the group, opens her robe, lets it fall to the ground. She has dark hair that sweeps forward to cover her face. Her naked body glows in the reflected light. When she turns toward the altar, I see it. On her right shoulder is a tattoo. A crimson skull with a rose. Belinda Burke.

At a signal from the witch, the others let their robes fall, too. Now, men and women, all stand naked. They intertwine hands and follow as she makes her way toward the altar. She alone climbs the steps. Still chanting, the others form a circle around the fire and the altar.

Belinda Burke looks down on her congregation. She raises a staff and they grow quiet.

"We have taken the first step," she says, her words infused with a dark energy that makes a shiver touch my spine. "The gathering is complete. The hour approaches. We will accomplish what no other coven has done before. We will summon the demon, Aswah, and he will be our servant. He will cleanse the earth of those who hide themselves among us, pretending to be human, pretending to do us no harm."