by Mel Odom
Despite his fear, Kyle peered through the shower glass, trying to get a better look at the figure on the other side. There was something vaguely familiar about the shape. He reached out with a shaking hand and slid the shower door open.
A dead man stood in the shower cubicle. He was thin and young, his dead flesh ground into bloody hamburger by the road that had killed him. His face was black with bruising where it wasn't red, gooey, and dripping.
"Stay away from them, Kyle," the dead man said. "Their time is coming. They will be hunted and sought after. Everyone with them will suffer the same fate."
Fear gripped Kyle, holding his feet as tightly as cured concrete. The dripping horror in the shower suddenly grabbed the glass edges of the shower and stepped toward Kyle. Panicking, Kyle tried to dive backward. His foot slipped on loose debris. He twisted as he fell, flailing his arms as the dead man hovered over him.
The crowbar crashed through the glass surrounding the shower, shattering the glass into huge shards. One of the shards slid against Kyle's left arm, slicing neatly through the flesh. The cut instantly filled with blood, then overflowed and ran down his arm. A steady stream dripped to the floor as he landed on his butt beside the enclosed shower.
The dead man leaned down toward Kyle, revealing the hideous gashes left from rough contact with street pavement. Kyle now remembered who the dead man was, though he hadn't thought about him in years.
"Stay away," Kyle gasped. The burning pain of the cut reached him, as well as the initial fear of the amount of blood he was losing. "Stay away!"
The dead man leaned in more closely. His hands left bloody smears on the bathtubs edge. "They are going to die, Kyle. We are going to kill them. Just as we will kill anyone who stands with them against us."
"Kyle!" Quinlann yelled from the other room. Footsteps drummed against the floor.
"Stay away," Kyle told the dead man.
Quinlann burst into the room, taking in Kyle at a glance. "Hold on, Kyle," the man said. "Just hang on. You're going to be all right." He took his shirt off and wrapped the garment around Kyle's injured arm.
"Do you see him?" Kyle demanded, pushing back from the dead man leaning out of the shower.
"See who?" Quinlann asked. He struggled to take up slack in the shirt and tie the cloth off tightly.
"The man," Kyle said. He suddenly felt like he couldn't get air to breathe.
"Calm down," Quinlann said. "You're going to hyperventilate in that mask. Everything's going to be all right."
"No," Kyle said, fighting to back away as the gory dead man leaned in. He tried to lift his arms to protect himself. How could Quinlann not see the dead man?
"Kyle!" Quinlann said. "Kyle!"
The dead man reached for Kyle, his bloody palm turned outward to cover Kyle's face.
11
Isabel found Jesse sitting in the emergency room admittance area. He still wore his suit, but had the jacket draped over the chair beside him. Every line in his body was tense. He stared out the windows into the parking lot.
The two nurses at the admittance desk stayed busy handling the phones and processing patients.
Isabel crossed the room. Jesse must have spotted her reflection in the glass, because he turned around to look at her. His clothing and his hair still held a fine layer of desert dust. Isabel resisted taking his hand or standing too close to him. Roswell was simply too small to take such risks. Someone would see them, jump to the obvious… and right… conclusion, and word would get back to her dad.
"You doing okay?" Jesse asked.
"I'm fine," Isabel said. Not sitting beside him, not touching him, was hard, and it got more difficult every time she saw him in her dad's offices.
"How's your friend?" Jesse asked.
"She's okay," Isabel said. "Maybe a little stressed. But nobody got hurt."
Jesse pointed at the television hanging from the ceiling in the corner by the admittance desk. "Local news station is covering the story."
Isabel stared at the television screen. She watched in disbelief as footage of the front of the Crashdown played on the set.
"They're suggesting that the damage was done by a poltergeist," Jesse said. "Totally weird, don't you think?"
Isabel tried not to hesitate. "Yes," she replied. To cover her momentary lapse, she asked a tension-filled question of her own. "Did you let my dad know you were here?"
Jesse nodded. "I told him I witnessed the accident and that I felt I needed to stay here to make sure the woman was okay. He understood. Then he told me you were here. Told me to help you if you needed it. He's got a conference call that he couldn't put off."
The whispering tone reminded Isabel of how much they were hiding, of how much they had at risk. Or, at least, how much she felt they had at risk. She gazed into his dark eyes. Why hadn't she ever felt like this about someone from Roswell High? Then guilt filled her. She hadn't felt that way about anyone in high school because none of the guys she'd been around there had been Jesse Ramirez.
"How is the woman doing?" Isabel asked.
"She's going to be okay. The police contacted her husband. He's here now." Jesse paused. "Do you remember how she was crying out for her baby?"
Isabel suppressed a shiver as she remembered the child-thing that had threatened her. She folded her arms across her chest. "Yes."
"She had a baby," Jesse said. "A little girl. But she died in childbirth."
"That's horrible," Isabel said. And she thought it was even more horrible because the thing in the vehicle had known of the woman's loss and had used that pain against the woman. But that didn't explain why Jesse hadn't been able to see the child-thing.
"Yeah," Jesse said. "It is. I heard the state police interviewing her husband when he got here. They wanted to make sure there hadn't been a baby, or that nothing had happened to the child."
"Is the woman going to be okay?"
"The cut on her head isn't serious. The seat belt held her in place and the air bag protected her from most of the crash. But that doesn't explain why she freaked out and lost control of her vehicle."
Isabel was silent for a moment, knowing that she knew exactly what had caused the woman to lose control, although she didn't know where the child-thing had come from. But she couldn't tell that to Jesse. The fact was a reminder of how much distance actually separated them, and she didn't know how… or if… they could bridge the gap.
"Hey," Jesse said softly.
She looked at him.
"It's going to be okay," he said.
"I know," she said, and she wanted to believe him but she knew he didn't know everything he needed to in order to make that prediction. There were still too many things about her that he didn't know.
"… here at the scene of what is believed by some to be the result of a poltergeist manifestation."
Michael leaned against the pass-through window at the back of the Crashdown and watched the news anchor, Marty Lackley, roll through his spiel. They were on the third take, and Marty wasn't happy with the job Bob the cameraman was doing.
Marty was also not happy that Nancy Parker had forbidden the news crew to step into the cafe. The part where the news reporter had gotten indignant and insisted on the public's right to know if the Crashdown was haunted had been hilarious.
The scene had taken some of the edge off the argument that Michael and Maria seemed to be locked into. However, when Maria had seen Michael smiling at the reporter's discomfort, she'd gotten mad all over again. Apparently, they were in another one of those arguments where everything was supposed to be unhappy for everybody until they somehow fixed what was wrong.
Since Michael didn't feel that he'd done anything wrong, he didn't have a clue how to fix the situation. The only good thing was that the construction crew Nancy Parker had called in had arrived and was in the process of taking over the cleanup. They didn't want anyone else in the cafe while they repaired the broken glass and electrical damage.
Michael gazed at the crowd still
gathered on the other side of the street. The numbers had dwindled, but newcomers wanting to gawk or get a chance to be interviewed for television had arrived to replace the people who had to move on or had gotten bored.
One of the construction men stepped through the broken front window and out onto the sidewalk. Once there, the guy was fair game for the news team.
Marty hurried forward, gesturing to Bob the cameraman to keep up. Marty intercepted the construction guy and shoved a microphone in the guy's face, announcing his name and giving the station's call letters.
"Can you tell us if there's any truth to the rumor that the cafe owners have hired your company to excavate the graves covered by the foundation here?" Marty asked.
With increased interest, Michael watched the construction guy struggle to deal with the reporter's question.
"It's not my company," the construction guy replied. "And there's no…"
"Did you see the ghost?" the reporter asked.
The construction worker hesitated, glaring a little at the camera that was thrust into his face. "I didn't see the ghost. I…"
"How bad is the damage?" the reporter pressed.
"Not too bad. I've seen a lot worse, I suppose."
The construction owner stepped forward in the middle of the dining area. "Kenny."
The construction guy turned around.
"I need those tools," the owner said. "Let's get to it."
Marty the anchorman decided to try to use that as an opening to get inside the cafe. He started for the empty window. "Are you the construction foreman? I'm…"
"You'll be arrested for trespassing if you take one step in this building," Nancy Parker warned as she came from the kitchen area.
Uncertain, Marty froze where he was, then took a step back. He scowled. "You can't keep us from the truth, Mrs. Parker. We're the news."
"Oh really, Mr. Lackley?" Nancy Parker challenged. "Is that what you want to do? Advertise that the Crashdown Cafe is haunted?" She stepped on out into the dining room. "Because I think that's libel. I'll have to speak with my husband's attorney to confirm that."
"I didn't say that," Marty said. "You did." He lowered his voice and spoke over his shoulder. "You getting this, Bob?"
"Sure," the cameraman replied. "You talking about ghosts is something I want to see the station run. We'll get you up and running on one of the syndicated stations in no time. Before you know it, you'll be heading up Survivor: Haunted House."
Jim Valenti stepped into Marty Lackley's view. Despite the unkempt three-day growth of beard, Valenti still broadcast waves of authority. Maybe he no longer wore the sheriff's star or carried a weapon, but he carried a presence with him.
"If I were you," Valenti said in a low voice, "I'd step back like the lady asked."
"You don't have any official presence here, Valenti," the reporter said. "You were terminated in your capacity as sheriff."
"No sir," Valenti agreed. "I don't have any official presence, and that's a fact. But what I'm doing is offering you a piece of advice I hope a bright guy like you is smart enough to take." His voice got harder. "Because if you don't and you continue to harass this place and these workers, I'm going to perform a citizen's arrest for trespassing and throw your butt in jail." He paused, smiling a little, but the mirth didn't touch his eyes. "And that's a promise."
Veins stood out in Marty's temples and neck.
For a moment Michael thought the reporter was going to make the mistake of calling Valenti's bluff. After dealing with the sheriff for the last two years and knowing him from a distance before that, Michael knew Valenti wasn't bluffing.
"Hey, Marty," Bob the cameraman called out in a voice marked with a little amusement, "I'm rolling feed on this, too. Want me to keep it up? I mean, if you get yourself plotzed on the news and thrown in jail, the producer should be able to guarantee some faces in front of the tube tonight if they show teasers."
The anchorman acted like he was going to push the wireless microphone in Valenti's direction. Then Marty wisely turned and walked away without another word.
"Thank you, Jim," Nancy Parker called from inside the cafe.
Valenti turned and put his fingers to his hat brim. "My pleasure, ma'am. May I come inside for a minute?"
"Of course."
"And could I take a minute of your time?"
Nancy Parker nodded. Valenti stepped through the door and quietly conferred with her.
"Hey," Maria called from the pass-through window behind Michael.
Michael turned to face her.
"You need to get busy," Maria admonished him.
"Why?" Michael asked. "I get to do the big meeting scene with Isabel and Max later. I don't mind putting that off."
Maria glared at him. "Because we might be able to have some time to ourselves before the others arrive."
"Are you through being mad?" If she was, Michael knew that the incident would be some kind of world record.
"Not entirely."
Not entirely, Michael translated to himself, meaning we're still gonna have to talk the whole thing to death.
"Hey, Michael," Valenti called.
Turning around, surprised, Michael glanced at Valenti and waited.
"Mrs. Parker says she can spare you," Valenti said. "Since you have the time, I'd like you to come with me."
"Why?" Michael asked.
"Because you've got a good memory for faces," Valenti answered, "and you were in here during the incident. Maybe we can find the accessory."
Michael considered. Go with Valenti on some wild goose chase for an accessory who doesn't exist? Or stay here and let Maria keep busting my chops?
"Sure," Michael responded. He took his apron off and tossed it onto the stainless steel surface of the pass-through window.
"Michael," Maria called in exasperation.
Michael turned to face her.
"What about tonight?" Maria asked.
Michael shrugged. "I guess it'll still be there." He paused. "Oh, and if you or the others get there before me, go ahead and let yourselves in." He went to join Valenti, feeling Maria staring daggers into his back. Bugging out now wasn't going to make things any more difficult between them, and he needed out of the cafe and away from the tension. Besides that, he didn't figure Valenti had dropped in for a social call.
Valenti didn't say anything enlightening as he led the way out of the Crashdown and by the news reporters gathered like a murder of crows around fresh roadkill. Michael kept up with Valenti, then got in on the passenger side of the truck.
Valenti fired up the engine and pulled out into the street.
Michael looked at him, noticing the thick file folder lying on the seat between them. "Accessory?"
Valenti returned his gaze full measure. "Yeah. You saw somebody besides Wilkins at the Crashdown today, right?"
Michael stayed quiet, paying attention as Valenti wound through the streets of downtown Roswell and headed east. Valenti also checked the mirrors frequently.
"Are you expecting company?" Michael asked.
Valenti smiled sourly. "Anything that ties into the three of you carries the possibility of government involvement. I don't expect it, but I don't want to be surprised, either."
Michael accepted that without comment.
"I saw Liz at the hospital," Valenti explained. "She told me this is the second ghost you've seen."
"If they're ghosts," Michael said.
"You don't think they are?"
"I don't believe in ghosts."
"Did you get a good look at the thing that was chasing Leroy Wilkins?" Valenti asked.
"I saw him," Michael agreed.
With his free hand Valenti reached for the file folder on the seat between them. He opened the folder and took out an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph. He slid the photograph across to Michael, then tapped the image with a forefinger. "Is that the guy?"
Michael stared at the image. The man looked like he was in his forties. His face was seamed and
tight, the features of a man who had been out often in the elements. The most memorable aspect of the man's face was the eye patch.
"That the guy you saw?" Valenti asked.
"Yeah," Michael replied, "this is him. Who is he?"
"His name is Terrell Swanson," Valenti said. "He turned up missing thirty years ago. My dad investigated Swan-son's disappearance. His feeling was that Swanson was dead. What about the other ghost you saw?"
"Tiller Osborn's dad."
Valenti nodded. "I heard something about that. Bulmer had to bring Tiller back and admit him to the hospital. The doctor had to sedate him to get him to calm down. Was it Tiller's dad?"
"I don't know. I never really paid attention to Tiller's dad. He was never around much. Tiller seemed to think it was."
"He'd probably know," Valenti agreed. "What happened?"
Michael recounted the events of that night, drawing the comparisons between the two ghostly apparitions.
"A static electricity buildup?" Valenti asked when he'd finished.
"Yeah."
"Any reason why?"
"No."
"And no one but you and the victims saw the ghost today or that night?"
"No."
"Any ideas why not?"
Michael shot Valenti a look.
"Right," Valenti said with a sigh. "At least a static electricity buildup is something I can sense even if I can't see the ghosts." He flipped the file open again for an instant, then put Swanson's picture back in the folder.
They drove in silence for a time. Only the hum of the tires filled the truck cab.
"So don't you want to know where I'm taking you?" Valenti asked.
"I know where you're taking us," Michael said.
"You think so?"
"Wilkins's house," Michael said. "That's why you checked the address again."
Valenti grinned mirthlessly. When the mile marker on the highway came up, he turned right and followed a dirt road section line that had a clutch of chaparral and a truck full of kids selling farm produce with their grandparents at the corner. Valenti honked and waved.
