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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
    C ULEBRA 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