I hold up my hands, try to remember how to say something reassuring in a language in which I haven’t had much practice.

“Estás lastimado. Puedo ayudarle.”

He doesn’t look reassured. Maybe I got it wrong. I try English this time. I point to his wound. “You are hurt. I can help.”

He looks at the blood on his hands as if seeing it for the first time. “You are not policia?”

His English is halting but good.

“No. Where were you going?”

He sinks down on the edge of the berm. “I’m looking for a friend.”

As far as I know, there’s nothing out here, or even close, except Culebra’s. And this guy is a human, a stranger to me, so it’s doubtful he’d be heading there. Unless . . .

“Are you looking for Culebra?”

“Culebra?” He looks around, startled. “A snake? Why would I be looking for a snake?”

Okay. That answers that question. He doesn’t know Culebra. However, it would be much quicker to get that head wound taken care of in Beso de la Muerte instead of trekking all the way back to the border—a border where we’d both be detained.

I take a step toward him, hold out a hand. “Ven conmigo. I can get you help. For your wound.” When he shies away, I add, “Para su herida.”

“No policia?”

I shake my head. “No policia.”

He looks as if he wants to refuse, but when he tries to stand up and his legs buckle, I’m there to steady him. He gives in with a shrug and lets me help him back to the car. I give him a rag from the trunk to hold against the bleeding wound and a bottle of water. He drinks it down in one long pull and rests his head wearily against the back of the seat.

He falls asleep as soon as we get on the road. It gives me a chance to check him out. He’s dark skinned, has dark hair, probably a nice-looking face under all that blood. He’s not young, not old—late forties maybe. His clothes are dirty but not ragged. Good quality jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt buttoned all the way to the neck. He has sports shoes with a sole hardly worn so he hadn’t been trekking far. Maybe he drove part of the way and his car broke down so he had to abandon it.

But drove from where?

I didn’t pass a car. If he came from the opposite direction, from Tijuana for instance, how did he end up out here?

Questions I won’t be able to answer until we get to Culebra’s.

There’s a lot more going on in Beso de la Muerte today. At least a dozen cars line the road in front of the bar. Should I take the guy inside? He’s still asleep, but it would be no problem to carry him.

Until he wakes up and wonders how I’m able to do such a thing. Or sees the unusual mix of worldly and otherworldly customers that frequent Culebra’s bar.

No. Instead, I send a telepathic message to Culebra. I’m outside. I have someone with me. A stranger. He’s hurt. Not sure I should bring him inside.

In less than a heartbeat, Culebra is standing by the car. He leans in and when he sees the man, a flash of recognition flares in his eyes before he looks quickly away. He slams the door on his thoughts, too, closing his mind with an almost audible click.

He opens the rear door and climbs in. Not surprisingly, he says, “Take him to the cave.”

I put the Jag in gear and pull around back. I know this area as well as I know the bar. This is where Culebra’s “guests” stay, where he lives, where an unlicensed doctor has his “practice.”

Culebra jumps out before I can and reaches inside for the man. He lifts him as gently as he would a child.

The man stirs then, and his eyes open, focus on Culebra.

“Tomás,” he says. “I found you.”

CHAPTER 13

CULEBRA DOESN’T RESPOND BUT HURRIES STRAIGHT back into the mouth of the cave.

Tomás? Who’s Tomás?

I follow close behind. He brings the guy to an area set up like a MASH unit and lays him on the gurney. All the while, the guy is muttering to him in Spanish. His voice is barely above a whisper and Culebra is letting nothing of what he hears infiltrate his thoughts so I have no clue what’s being said.

It’s deliberate on Culebra’s part, a mental barrier as impenetrable as the rock walls surrounding us. There’s only one thing coming through loud and clear.

His concern for the injured man.

Culebra calls out for help.

A familiar figure appears at the door. Thin, slump-shouldered, mid-forties, human. His pale face and sallow complexion make him look like he spends very little time out of the confines of the cave. He’s dressed in clean jeans and a polo shirt. He nods his head in my direction, an acknowledgment and greeting.

I’ve met him twice before. He took care of David once and then kept Frey and Culebra alive while I battled the witch holding them in a spell. He is a doctor who lost his license in the states most likely because of the drug habit his slightly trembling hands signify he has not yet shaken. But clean or not, he knows his stuff and he wastes no time getting to work.

He has Culebra pour hot water into a basin. He grabs sterile cloths and bottles of some sharp-smelling liquid. He soaks the cloths in the water and gently washes away the blood and dirt, exposing the wound. He disinfects it, uses his fingers to examine the cut, poking and pulling at the skin until he seems satisfied. Then he covers the wound with a butterfly bandage.

During all this, his patient moans softly but doesn’t try to pull away. Culebra lays a reassuring hand on his arm. “Fácil, Ramon.”

I look hard at Culebra. Ramon, huh?

The doctor spends a moment longer probing the guy’s scalp, feeling, I suppose, for any swelling that might indicate a contusion. Next he shines a bright, pinpoint of LED light from what looks like a small flashlight into his patient’s eyes, first one, then the other.

Finally, he pats the guy on the shoulder and looks at Culebra. “He should be fine. The cut looked worse than it is because of the blood. He doesn’t need stitches. He has a knot on his head but there are no obvious signs of concussion. His eyes react correctly to light and are focusing. How long was he wandering around?”

He looks to Culebra, who looks to me for the answer to that question, but I can only shrug. “I don’t know. I found him about half an hour ago.”

Culebra addresses the question to the wounded man. He replies in Spanish, which Culebra translates for us. “Maybe four hours. He’s not sure. His car broke down and his cell phone went dead. He thought he was headed toward Tijuana. When he fell, he hit his head and had trouble getting up. That’s when Anna found him.”

“Lucky thing she did. And lucky this is winter and not summer. Dehydration isn’t indicated, but it won’t hurt to get some water into him. Keep him awake. Can’t rule out concussion yet. If he starts vomiting or acting strange, let me know right away.”

Culebra thanks him and the doctor disappears back into the cave. I realize I have yet to learn his name. He’s like a genie, here when you summon him, retreating back into his bottle, or most likely needle or pipe, when you don’t.

Culebra is helping the man, Ramon, off the gurney. He seems suddenly to remember that I’m in the room, too. “Thank you for bringing my friend here.” He says it like he’s dismissing me. His eyes are distant.

I’m not one who is easily dismissed, especially when it comes to a stranger who called Culebra a name I’d never heard before. “Why did he call you Tomás?”

“Anna, please. You should go.”

Probably should. But I’m not. Whoever this Ramon is, he doesn’t know the name Culebra. Why? And I found him wandering in the desert a few miles from Beso de la Muerte. Not Tijuana.

“You recognized him. I saw it. Who is he?”

Ramon is on his feet, looking better now that most of the blood has been wiped from his face. He squares off, standing on his own, stepping away from Culebra’s supporting arm. Looking my way, then back to Culebra, he says something so quietly, I only catch a word or two.