by Mel Odom
River Dog nodded, taking time before he spoke. "Until today, until your arrival, the ghosts have been unable to make physical contact with anyone."
"But Callingcrow wrecked that house before we arrived there."
"True, but you were in the village."
Max looked at the sprawl of houses scattered across the hills. "It can't be," he said. "You told me this first happened hundreds of years ago. The spaceship that stranded us here didn't arrive until 1947. No one like me was around hundreds of years ago."
"I do not know all the answers, but I know that your presence here has had an effect on things. I think it would be better now if you left."
Pain stung Max, and part of the emotion turned into anger. He didn't belong anywhere. Tess had betrayed him, betrayed them all, and Liz wasn't exactly glad he'd stayed around these days.
Max opened the Cutlass's door. "After the reception I got here, I don't want to come back." He stepped into the car and slid behind the wheel. The seat cover was hot.
"You came here for reasons of your own today," River Dog said.
Max's throat felt thick, and he couldn't swallow the painful knot that had formed there. "I have a son."
"Blessings be upon you," River Dog said. "A son is a powerful thing to have, as well as a great responsibility."
"He was taken from me," Max said.
Sorrow showed in River Dog's eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I was hoping that you knew something more of the Granilith. Or a way I might go after my son."
River Dog shook his head. "I told you all I know of the things that Nacedo told me of the place where you came from."
"Then maybe there's something else out here," Max said. "Something Nacedo didn't give you. Something that might help me track the Granilith."
"Once I get this thing done," River Dog said, "and I get my people settled in and protected again, I'll be glad to help you look."
"Thank you," Max said.
"When you get back to Roswell," the shaman said, "see if you and the others can find out more about the spirits that are haunting Roswell."
Max narrowed his eyes, reducing his field of vision. "What do you mean?"
"The spirits are also invading Roswell."
"How do you know?"
"People from the village have returned from shopping there today. While I was caring for Cathy Callingcrow at her home, several of them talked to me. There was an attack at the Crashdown Cafe."
Oh my god, Max thought. Liz! "Was anyone hurt?"
"Only a man," River Dog answered. "His name is Leroy Wilkins."
The name meant nothing to Max.
"Wilkins is known to us," River Dog went on. "Nearly thirty years ago, Wilkins was almost put in jail for mining on reservation land."
"I've got to go," Max said. He twisted the key in the ignition, listening to the engine rumble to life.
River Dog leaned back from the car's window and stood. "A piece of this journey yet remains to you."
Max waved the man's words off as he jammed the transmission into reverse. The Cutlass's tires spun against the sand-covered ground, stirring up a cloud of dust. Screeching to a halt, Max put the car in a forward gear and peeled out, getting back onto the road that would take him to the highway back to Roswell.
As he followed the crooked trail back up the hillside that led to the highway, movement on Max's right caught his attention. Amid the waves of shimmering heat coasting above the sandy terrain, a dozen riders gathered on horseback.
All of the riders were Indian braves. Although the images didn't come across as sharply and distinctly as had the images of Bear-Killer and Henry Callingcrow, Max had no problem recognizing the war paint that turned their faces into angry, otherworldly masks. The ponies pranced and shifted, tails flicking as the riders talked to one anther and stared at the Cutlass.
Then, with voices yelling loud enough to be heard over the Cutlass's engine and air conditioner, the warriors kicked their mounts into full gallop. They lifted their spears and bows high as they took up pursuit of Max's car.
Watching the rearview mirror, staying in the middle of the dirt road to avoid the bar ditches and ruts on either side, Max saw the war party disappear in the fog of swirling dust that the Cutlass stirred up. He could no longer see River Dog, either.
At the top of the rise, Max kept the accelerator pressed down hard and ignored the stop sign at the end of the road. He yanked the wheel to the left, throwing the Cutlass into a controlled skid across both lanes of the highway. Rubber shrilled, and for a moment he fought the car for control. Then he had the Cutlass aimed for Roswell, hoping that he didn't trip a state policeman's radar.
10
Did it ever even cross your mind to try to save me while you were saving Liz?"
Pinned by the question, knowing that never in a million years would he have figured on being asked that, Michael stared at Maria.
Only silence, interrupted by the hissing pop of expiring soap bubbles in the three-compartment kitchen sink, stretched between them.
"I was standing between you and the ghost," Michael pointed out. "You were protected. Even when I knocked Liz to the floor."
Angrily, Maria put one soapy fist on her hip. "Since I couldn't see the ghost, I guess I'm supposed to take your word for that."
Michael thought about her statement. Like the previous question, whatever answer he gave was a minefield that could be turned against him. "You weren't hurt," he pointed out.
"I could have been."
"I could have been too," Michael said. "I wasn't. You weren't. We got off lucky."
Maria shook her head. "I can't believe you. That's the best response you have?"
"Maria, I thought about saving you."
"You thought about saving me?" Maria asked. "Knowing you deliberately chose not to save me makes this even worse, Michael."
Actually, Michael was of the opinion that things couldn't get any worse. Or that the change was so infinitesimal, he couldn't tell the difference. "I didn't choose not to save you," he argued.
"You chose to save Liz."
"She was nearest the ghost," Michael explained.
"And how do I know that?"
"Because I'm telling you."
Maria glared at him doubtfully. "You were the only one who saw the ghost. I have to take your word for it."
"When the old guy gets out of the hospital," Michael said, "ask him."
"So you chose who you would save."
"I prioritized," Michael replied. "Figured out who was in the greatest danger."
Maria's eyes flashed. "You sorted us out."
Michael knew better than to say anything at that point. The conversation was going south with the speed of an avalanche.
"Michael," Maria said, "you don't even sort your laundry."
"Yes I do." Michael remembered long, boring arguments on that subject. Something about brightness of colors and fabric density and textures. Those lectures had been about as exciting as taking history class from a football coach. So now, sometimes… especially whenever Maria was around… he remembered to sort out the colors and fabrics.
"Fine," Maria said. "People aren't laundry."
Michael was stunned for a moment. "People aren't laundry? That's an argument?"
"That's an observation," Maria told him. "Evidently a distinction that you aren't able to make."
Realizing that he wasn't going to be able to talk to her until she'd gotten over being mad, Michael retreated. "I'm going to take the trash out."
"Fine," Maria said, diving back into the dishes.
"Fine," Michael echoed. He spun around and marched back into the dining area. A half-dozen large garbage bags sat there waiting to be taken out. Still angry, he grabbed two of them up.
Unable to take the strain of the sudden yank, the bottoms ripped out of the garbage bags. Unfinished meals and drinks tumbled to the floor, making a bigger mess than had been there before.
Michael cursed.
"I told you
that you should have filled up the garbage cans instead of just using bags," Maria called from the kitchen. "Then you could have taken them outside without worrying about them breaking open like that. Guess you didn't prioritize that, huh?"
A heavy sigh escaped Michael. The cleanup suddenly felt hours longer with all the work he was going to have to do again and the crappy mood Maria was in.
Just as he was going for his broom and dustpan, an SUV with a local news channel insignia stopped in front of the cafe. A man in a suit got out on the passenger side, reached back for a jacket, and shrugged into the garment.
A man in blue jeans and a University of New Mexico tank stepped out of the back of the SUV Gazing at the street and the Crashdown Cafe, he took a Spider-Man baseball cap from his back pants pocket and pulled it on. He reached back into the vehicle and took out a Minicam.
"Shoot some exteriors first, Bob," the news anchor said as he buttoned his jacket. He took a microphone out of a special case on the SUV's dash. "And check the audio levels on this mike before we film this spot."
The bored look on the cameraman's face broadcast his irritation at the other man. "I've been doing my job longer than you've been at this station, Marty. I know my stuff."
"You'll take direction," Marty ordered crisply, "or I'll have the station send out another cameraman in time for the five o'clock show."
Bob reversed his hat and shouldered the Minicam. "You do that, Marty. Every cam operator at the station will screw you over. You'll be doing every spot missing half your head or with a zit the size of Mount Rainier occupying center focus. A lot of people can talk in front of a camera. Not everybody can shoot with one."
The warning didn't go over well with Marty, and Bob obviously didn't care.
"Tommy," Marty said.
"Yo," the driver responded.
"See if you can round up some of the locals for interviews. There's always somebody who wants to be on
television. And get me somebody who saw the ghost that did this."
Okay, Michael told himself, struggling to think calmly and clearly, this is really not good.
"When you walk into one of these decrepit places, what's the first thing you wonder about?"
Kyle Valenti reached for the rag tied at his waist and mopped the perspiration from his face. He lifted the protective mask filter over his mouth and nose and wiped his chin, too. The air inside the condemned building was stale, turgid, and thick with: dust. He felt the grit clinging to his exposed skin. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, jeans, and a tool belt that still made him walk off-balance because he wasn't used to the weight.
"The first thing I think about," Kyle replied as he settled the mask back over his face, "is how soon I can get out of here."
"Not me." Doyle Quinlann was a local building contractor. He was a short fireplug of a man who shaved his head. He wore a mask, gloves, a sweat-soaked chambray work shirt, and work slacks. He shone a flashlight around the debris-filled room.
Kyle waited, grateful to take a breath. Quinlann was self-employed and had five kids. The man worked like a machine and seemed invulnerable. He was in his forties and could work most guys in their twenties into the ground.
"Nope," Quinlann said, sweeping the flashlight over heaps of broken furniture, boxes of old clothes, books, and a lot of other things that people no longer had a use for. "What I wonder about is if anybody ever died in one of these places."
"Now there's a pleasant thought," Kyle commented. He slapped at his mask, knocking collected dust free.
"It's something to think about." Quinlann turned the flashlight's beam to the walls. "Real estate companies don't have to tell you that somebody croaked in the house you're hoping to buy. The house you and your father live in? Someone could have died there."
As if I don't have enough worries, Kyle thought, now I have to worry that ghosts walk through my house.
"Of course," Quinlann said, "I'm not the superstitious type. But I've got a healthy respect for ghosts." He directed the beam at a window covered over with a sheet of plywood. "Rip that plywood out of the way and let's get some more light in here."
Kyle hoisted the heavy crowbar from the floor. When he'd first started working for Quinlann a week ago, he hadn't thought much of the crowbar's weight. The tool had been a little heavier than a baseball bat. Now the thing felt like a blacksmith's anvil at the end of a twelve- or four-teen-hour day.
"My mother passed away a few years ago," Quinlann went on.
"Sorry to hear that." Kyle shoved the straightest end of the crowbar under the plywood and started pulling.
"Yeah," Quinlann said. "She was always onto me about losing things. You know: keys, my wallet, my wedding ring since I don't wear that to work."
Nails screeched as they pulled free of the wall. Gradually the plywood section came loose. Sunlight split the darkness of the room, playing on the dust motes eddying in the air.
"Anyway," Quinlann said, "my mom always had this special place she put my things when she found them and knew that I wouldn't remember where I'd left them. About two years ago, I lost my wedding ring for a couple weeks. I looked everywhere. My wife looked everywhere. My kids even looked everywhere because I offered a reward. Nothing. No doing. Couldn't find the ring anywhere."
Kyle grabbed the plywood and hauled the section to the floor. The plywood landed with a thump that raised a dust cloud that reminded him of a nuclear bomb blast.
"Then one night," Quinlann said, "I have this dream about my mom telling me to look in that little place she had. She'd come to live with us the last four years of her life. Anyway, I get up the next morning, remember the dream, and go to the hiding place. Guess what I found."
"The ring," Kyle said.
"Yeah." Quinlann flicked off the flashlight beam. With the plywood off the dirt-streaked window, more light invaded the room, battling the darkness back and illuminating the surroundings enough to get around without falling. "What I'm saying is that maybe you should keep an open mind about ghosts."
"I'll do that."
Quinlann pointed to the other covered windows. "Let's tear those down for starters, then get the cleanup crews in here and start gutting these rooms."
Grateful for the change in topic, Kyle threw himself into the work.
Fifty-plus years ago, the three-story building near Roswell 's downtown area had been a cheap hotel that rented by the day, by the week, and by the month. For the last twenty years the building had been primarily derelict, rented by a few businesses to store stuff that was basically a collection of junk that no one had bothered to officially throw out. Now someone had bought the building and hired Quinlann Construction to revamp and remodel the structure into a telecommunications marketing center to take advantage of the changing labor force in the city.
As Kyle attacked the covered windows, yanking down the plywood and letting more light into the room, Quinlann busied himself marking the permanent walls that couldn't come down in the deconstruction phase. Only a few of the walls had to remain to provide support for the offices.
"There should be a bathroom back there," Quinlann said after Kyle had finished with the windows. "Crack it open and let's have a look. According to the blueprints, we should be able to tear that out of there."
Kyle crossed to the door and halted when an offensive stench reached his nostrils even through the mud-caked mask filter. "Smells like something died in there."
"Sewer gas," Quinlann replied. "Once the water to the building was shut off, the pipes all went dry. With no water in the S-traps to seal off the gas coming back from the sewer, the gas flows back up the pipe."
"Oh," Kyle replied. During the construction gigs, he'd also learned a lot more about plumbing than he'd ever wanted to know.
The bathroom was a small full-size with a tub-shower ensemble, a toilet, and a sink. Broken Sheetrock littered the floor.
Kyle opened his mouth and breathed. Not breathing through his nose helped mute the stench, but the experience was st
ill pretty harsh.
"How bad is it?" Quinlann asked.
"Bad," Kyle assured him.
"I'm talking about the construction work. We're going to have to tear out all the pipes and fixtures, right?"
"Yeah." A silver glint on the floor caught Kyle's attention. He peered more closely, then figured that the glint had been a trick of the light. Nothing was there now.
"Kyle."
The thin whisper permeated the room and made the hair on the back of Kyle's neck stand to attention. Primitive instinct, a concrete fear of the unknown, froze Kyle in place.
"Kyle." The soft, sibilant sound repeated.
Mouth suddenly dry, Kyle had trouble swallowing. "Do you have someone else up here with us?"
"No. Why?"
"I thought I heard somebody in here," Kyle said.
"Better have a look," Quinlann said. "There may be transients or kids prowling around in here. They look for places like this to flop or party occasionally. I've had it happen before."
Kyle stared at the dust-streaked translucent glass that encased the shower. No other place in the room was large enough for someone to hide in.
"You got that window open in there yet?" Quinlann asked.
"Getting to it," Kyle responded. "Where is it?"
"According to the blueprints, the only window in that room is on the east wall."
Kyle looked to his left, then spotted the covered window. He'd missed the window because it was smaller than the windows in the outer rooms, and because the cabinets around the window helped camouflage it. The window was also close to the enclosed shower.
"1 found it," Kyle said. He moved to the wall and lifted the crowbar. Before he could slide the crowbar into position, movement to his right, made murky by the pebbled design of the shower stall glass, drew his attention.
The figure on the other side of the shower glass looked vague and indistinct. But the shape was definitely moving.
"Kyle. You are a friend to Max, Isabel, and Michael. They must go."
Fear hammered through Kyle. Ever since he'd gotten involved with Liz and her alien friends, his life had never been the same. The weird things that had gone on had activated his dad's obsession with an old unsolved case of his grandfather's. Then they'd learned the truth about Max, Isabel, and Michael, about their alien heritage.
