Jeanne Stein: The Watcher

I don't want to upset him any more than I already have so I do.

When his face clears of the pain, I ask, "Did forensics compare the bullets?"

He nods. And his next words confirm what I already suspect.

"The bullet that killed that guy in Palm Canyon is a match to the one they took out of me."

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.

THE KONA KAI RESORT IS PRIVATE, PRICEY AND EXclusive. The compound consists of a yacht club, a restaurant, a nightclub and a hotel. Figures Williams would be a member.

He is standing under the portico in front of the hotel when we pull up. He's leaning against a raised flowerbed, smoking a cigar, dressed in khaki slacks and a dark blue designer polo shirt. He has brown loafers on his feet that look like they might be Gucci. No uniform, no cop car in sight so he's here in an unofficial capacity. He looks like he fits right in with the yachting crowd. And he looks relaxed.

At least until he sees me getting out of the cab.

He tosses the cigar into the flowerbed and hurries to pay the driver. He doesn't say a thing to me until the car has pulled away.

Then Williams does something he's never done before.

He hugs me.

The gesture is unexpected. My body stiffens and my shoulders actually jump at the contact. He lets me go almost immediately and stands back.

"I am glad to see that you are well," he says.

I make it a point to look around. "Are you talking to me?"

He isn't letting me read his thoughts but I do get a flash that he doesn't appreciate the humor. He takes a card key out of his pocket. "Let's go up to your room. You must be tired."

I am, so I agree with a bob of my head. He leads the way through the lobby and directly to the elevators. Obviously he has taken care of registering. He uses the key to access the top floor of the hotel. The top floor.

When the doors slide open, he gestures to the left. A few steps down the hall, he stops in front of a set of double wooden doors with a brass placard that reads, "Presidential Suite."

He uses the card key to open the door and stands back to let me pass in first.

Instead, I take a step back. “The Presidential Suite? What is this?"

"You've been through a lot," he says. "I thought you could use a little pampering."

I push by him and stop right inside the door. There is a huge living room with a fireplace, fresh flowers on every surface, and three connecting doors leading off to what I assume are the bedrooms. There is a sliding glass door that overlooks the yacht club basin. It's open. In the late afternoon haze, the lights of the city across the bay are beginning to wink on.

"How many people are you expecting?" I ask, more than a little peeved. "If this is your idea of an apology for what happened with Max and Culebra, they should be the ones staying here, not me."

Williams' face gives nothing away. He is a very old vampire, who I doubt has ever apologized for anything. He isn't about to say the words even if an apology is what this elaborate gesture is all about.

I'm too tired to call him on it. Right now, a bath and a bed are all I want. It's been a long thirty-six hours since we parted company in Beso de la Muerte. I let him pick that out of my weary brain and he places the hotel key on a glass coffee table the size of Montana.

Do you require sustenance? He asks. I have someone on call.

His formality with me is foreign and strange. If I had more energy, I might care why.

As it is, I simply shake my head.

He leaves me without another thought or word. Once he's gone, I check out the bedrooms and pick out the one I like best. It has a huge round bed with about a hundred silk throw pillows scattered at the head. When I sweep them off and pull back the comforter, I find black satin sheets.

I wonder which president inspired this decor.

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.