Define contact. We spent only a few moments together last night. Hardly qualifies as "contact." And I'm sure Max is long gone from Beso de la Muerte. I shake my head. "I can't help you, Foley. And I don't believe Max has gone off on his own. He's too much of a company man. If he hasn't been in contact for a while, there's a good reason."

I've risen from my chair. Foley stands up, too. He fishes in a jacket pocket and comes up with a card. He holds it out. "Call me if you hear from him."

I push the card away. "When Max shows up, he'll contact his superiors in the DEA. But if he does get in touch, I'll be sure to tell him a friend in the FBI was asking about him."

Again, there's a spark of dark anger that's smothered before it does more than tighten the corners of Foley's mouth. It's instantaneous and almost undetectable. If I weren't such a suspicious bitch, I would have missed it.

Foley realizes I caught his little display of temper, too.

He pushes the card back into his pocket, smiling now with smooth concern. "Have it your way, Ms. Strong. But remember what I said. Max is in trouble. You can believe it or not. I hope you won't have cause to regret refusing my help."

Help? What help?

He tries the stare again, but when I don't stutter my thanks or recant and beg him to stay, he takes his leave.

Williams is back almost before the door closes. His eyebrows lift. "What does the FBI want with Max?"

Good question. I wish I knew.

Williams' phone rings and he crosses the office to answer it, giving me the opportunity to slip away. I feel Williams' thoughts reach out to me, telling me to hang on a minute. I pretend not to get it. All I want to do is be alone to figure out what this "friend" of Max's was really after.

It doesn't make sense.

Not this minute. And not a few minutes later, when I'm sitting behind the wheel of my car, trying to decide what to do. I'm restless and antsy. As far as I know, David and I don't have any jobs today. If I go back to the office, Gloria and her love-struck minion will no doubt try to drag me into their plans for the big party. I need that like a stake through the heart.

My stomach rumbles in distress. Fisher's poison. What I do need is an infusion of good, clean, human blood to rid myself of it. I could head for Beso de la Muerte now, not wait for tonight. Also, Max was just there. I don't expect him to be there still, but maybe he told Culebra something that might point me in the right direction to find him.

Because the one thing I'm sure of is that Max needs to be warned that the FBI is on his tail.

I THINK I COULD DRIVE TO BESO DE LA MUERTE IN my sleep, I've done it so many times. And even though it's almost November, a warm Santa Ana wind has turned up the heat and chased all traces of clouds and smog out of a sapphire sky. Even the Bay sparkles with diamond-tipped swells. I put the top down on the Jag and let the wind tickle my skin and play in my hair. It's the kind of day that I imagine the chamber of commerce pays photographers to capture. Postcard perfect.

The kind of day even a vampire enjoys. Makes me glad for adaptation. A few centuries ago, I could have only dreamed of days like this. I'd have been confined to some dark hole to await the safety of the night.

We've come a long way.

I've come a long way.

But not far enough, evidently. I pick up the tail in my rearview mirror just as I get on 5 South, heading for the border. I noticed the car first on Pacific Coast Highway, a blue late-model sedan. It stuck with me as I cruised along the Bay, turned up Grape, and now it's two car lengths behind on the freeway. Coincidence? Could be. But more likely, it's Foley. I've had experience with the Feds. They don't take no lightly. And they don't believe anything you tell them that doesn't fit into their preconceived notions. Foley believes I know more than I told him and he's damn well going to prove it by letting me lead him straight to Max.

Sorry to disappoint you, Foley. I slow down and swerve onto the right shoulder. May as well let the jerk know that I've made him.

The blue Ford cruises past, the driver, not Foley, neither slows nor looks over at me. And he doesn't get off at the next exit, either.

Okay, I overreacted. I wait for a break in traffic and pull out. Still, I keep a lookout for anyone appearing to take undue interest in where I'm headed. Not an easy trick, since Mexico is a popular tourist destination from San Diego. But when I've crossed the border and set out on the road less traveled, away from Tijuana, and there's no one behind me, I start to relax. I guess I've let my imagination get the better of me.

Culebra is standing outside the saloon when I pull up, talking to a woman I don't recognize. She's human, I sense that right away. She stands with her back to me, weight evenly distributed on both feet, almost defensively. She's tall, taller than Culebra, with brunette hair drawn back in a scruffy ponytail. There's more hair out of the rubber band than in it. She's dressed in jeans and a tank top. Through the veil of hair that has escaped the rubber band, I see a tattoo at the nape of her neck, a snake coiled around a rod of some sort. There's another tattoo at the back of her shoulder. That one is a skull with a crimson rose where the mouth should be. She's in good shape, well-muscled arms and shoulders, small waist, narrow hips.

She turns at the sound of the car, glances my way, turns back to Culebra. Dismisses me with that one glance.

I immediately don't like her.

Still, I need to feed. And this is a human.

A host? I ask Culebra, climbing out of the car. My salivary glands have sprung into action.

He gives a rough shake of his head. His eyes never leave the woman's face and he's listening intently.

I can't tell if the shake is meant for me, or his companion. I step closer.

Go inside.

Culebra issues the order in a tone I've never heard him use before on anyone, let alone me. Cold. Belligerent. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

The woman turns again in my direction. Her face is thin, her mouth generous, despite the tight frown. She fixes me with a look designed to scare me or send me fleeing into the safety of the bar. It's a practiced scowl, full of venom.

Biting this one's neck will be a pleasure.

I look at Culebra. Is she kidding?

I don't get the reaction I expect. Culebra actually grabs my arm and propels me through the saloon's swinging doors.

I'm so startled, I let him.

His eyes are on fire. Please, trust me on this. Stay here.

I nod. It's all I can do, I'm still dumbstruck by being manhandled by Culebra. He drops my arm and whirls away from me, back through the doors.

I look around. The place is empty. Unusual. There are always desperados of some sort hanging around. Was it the woman outside that scared them away? Are they cowering in the caves waiting for her to leave?

I take a step toward the door. Culebra didn't tell me I couldn't listen.

Culebra is speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.

Damn. If he was having a telepathic communication with her, I could understand. For some reason, language is no barrier to thought transference. But he's speaking out loud and quickly. Because of me? Does he suspect I'm listening? Dumb question. Of course, he suspects. More than suspects.

I wish I had a better command of the Spanish language. David is fluent. He takes over when the need arises. I can only pick out a few words here and there. Culebra and the woman are arguing, that's obvious, but about what? So far, the words I snatch out of the conversation are disjointed. Someone or something wants to come here. Culebra doesn't want it. The woman is insisting.