Shades

by Mel Odom

  "In the spring when he returned to the tribe," Perry said, "other warriors traveled to the mountain pass to bury the dead guys. Sent them on to the happy hunting ground so their spirits wouldn't get trapped here in this world."

  "So those guys found out what Head-Eater had been doing all winter?" Flynn said.

  Perry nodded, but by now his heart clearly wasn't in the story. "There were cracked skulls lying around everywhere, looking like shelled pecans. Head-Eater tried to pass off what had happened as the work of the grizzly, but the other warriors knew. They kicked him out of the tribe."

  Michael eyed the marshmallow bag, but knew he'd had enough sweets. He was either going to try to go to sleep and ignore the other guys or raid the cooler for more hot dogs.

  "You know," Flynn said, looking at Junior, "I don't think grizzly bears were ever known to hang out in New Mexico."

  "Nope," Junior agreed. "I watched a special on them on Discovery a couple nights ago. They always stayed up in the northern and coastal areas."

  Perry sighed in exasperation. "Doesn't anyone want to know what happened to Head-Eater?"

  "He got kicked out of the tribe," Flynn said, "then went on to wander around the neighborhood here. He ambushed and kidnapped people from wagon trains and in local settlements, then he killed them and ate them."

  "Probably left a pile of skulls around," Junior agreed. "He died, but since the tribe refused to bury him, his spirit still walks the desert and he's still eating people."

  Perry cursed and flopped back down on his sleeping bag. "You guys suck," he said, and before he finished the word, Tiller's panicked scream rang out through the nearby hills, washed away by the sudden peal of thunder.

  "Hey!" Flynn said. "That was Tiller!"

  Already galvanized into action, Michael, rising from the sleeping bag, peered into the darkness that had surrounded the desert campsite. Shadows stretched away and filled the night in all directions, hardly interrupted at all by the campfire.

  2

  “Where did Tiller go?” Junior asked anxiously.

  Kurt Bulmer raced from the tent and stood in front of the open flap. "What's going on out there?"

  As Junior tried to explain, Michael grabbed the backpack he'd been saddled with all day. He rummaged inside and came up with a flashlight. Grabbing the flashlight, he ran in the direction of the screams. The downpour that had finally begun stung his eyes and matted his hair, and had turned the dry desert floor into muddy slush.

  Tiller screamed again, but this time the effort was hoarse and wracked with pain.

  Michael played the flashlight beam over the hill in front of him. Scrub brush and cacti clung to the steep hillside. His right foot shot out from under him. He fell to one knee, but pushed himself forward again.

  The hill was steeper on the other side. Michael's tennis shoes tore through the muddy crust and he slid down, brushing up against a hedgehog cactus that left fiery nettles in his forearm. He ignored the pain and played the flashlight beam over Tiller on the ground before him.

  Tiller huddled on his knees in the mud. Rainwater ran in rivulets around him, threading through his hands pressed into the mud. He kept his head down and shuddered.

  "Tiller," Michael called, playing the light over the ground and the area around them. "Hey, Tiller."

  Tiller didn't respond except to bury his face in the mud between his hands.

  "What's wrong?" Kurt Bulmer called from the top of the rise Michael had slid down.

  Michael glanced back up the hill and spotted Bulmer, Junior, Flynn, and Perry standing there. The lightning

  cored through the sky above their heads, and thunder blasted away Michael's first attempt at a reply.

  "I don't know," Michael said.

  Bulmer started down the hillside but lost his balance on the slick mud and fell. He tumbled to the bottom of the hill while the others remained along the ridgeline.

  "Tiller," Michael said, trying to calm the guy with his voice. He released the rock and put his hand on Tiller's shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "It's my dad," Tiller whispered hoarsely, rocking, shuddering, and trying to hold back choked sobs.

  "What about his dad?" Bulmer asked, standing nearby.

  "His dad is dead," Michael said.

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Bulmer said. "But we need to get him in out of the rain."

  Hooking an arm under Tiller's, Michael tried to help the guy to his feet. Tiller fought him off, pushing Bulmer away as well. "No!" Tiller shouted. "I can't leave!"

  "Why?" Bulmer asked. "You'll be more comfortable back in one of the tents."

  "My dad," Tiller said.

  Bulmer hesitated. "We'll talk about your dad."

  "My dad," Tiller tried again, "my dad doesn't want me to leave!"

  "Your dad wouldn't want you to stand around out here," Bulmer stated.

  "Then tell him!" Tiller straightened and pointed into the darkness ahead of them. "Tell him!"

  At first Michael didn't see anything. Then, gradually, an ethereal shape seemed to materialize from the darkness just beyond the touch of the flashlight beam.

  The figure was vaguely man-shaped, then more details became clearer. The man looked like he'd been covered from head to toe in some kind of silver shimmer, like an image from a black-and-white film that had been computer-generated onto color film the way Michael had seen in some commercials. He was tall and broad, with a cruel face, tiny eyes, and a wide, hard mouth.

  The only thing that didn't fit was the short length of rope dangling from the noose around the guy's neck.

  "Do you see it?" Michael asked. He had to strain to speak.

  "See what?" Junior called down.

  Michael gestured with the flashlight, noticing how the beam shone through the garish figure and played over the rocks and cacti on the other side. "The ghost."

  "Don't see nothing," Flynn said.

  Michael wanted to turn to Flynn and demanded to know how he couldn't see the ghost. Instead Michael kept the flashlight beam focused on the sinister image. For the first time, he caught the silvery glints of rain passing through the ghost.

  "I don't either," Bulmer commented. "Give me a hand, Guerin. I want to get Tiller out of the rain. Maybe back to Roswell tonight."

  "No!" Tiller shouted, staring forward. "Don't you see? My dad wants me to stay here!"

  The figure at the other end of Michael's flashlight beam waved as if to indicate that Tiller should stay.

  Michael turned to Bulmer. "You don't see anything?"

  "No." Bulmer struggled to hang on to Tiller, who fought to escape. "I don't see anything."

  Tiller surged in the man's grasp, bellowing out curses, screaming out to his father. Michael helped hold Tiller back, having real difficulty in the muddy water swirling over his feet.

  As Michael watched, the ghost… the image, he corrected himself… broke into a run. Surefooted as a mountain goat, the specter seemed to have no problem at all running across the muddy ground. The hanged man sprinted across the short distance. His feet didn't disturb the water, and whatever noise he made didn't sound over the pealing thunder crashing through the heavens.

  "Noooooo!" Tiller yelled. Instead of fighting against Bulmer and Michael, he suddenly reversed his efforts and tried to flee. Bulmer barely kept his footing, and Michael dropped to one knee, feeling the mud close around him.

  In the next instant the ghost slammed into Tiller and Michael at the same time a bolt of lightning smacked the ground near them. A blinding moment of pain passed through Michael. He felt Tiller ripped from his hands, but that wasn't his main concern, because he suddenly fell backward, blown by some arcane force, and landed in the cold mud.

  Time returned to Michael in a rush. He actually felt his heart start again, feeling like the beat had been primed with a stick of dynamite or TNT.

  "Just lie still," Bulmer was saying.

  Michael pushed the man's hands away. "I'm okay." He glanced down at Tiller as he pushed himself to a
seated position. "How's he?"

  "Out," Bulmer said. He laid a hand at the side of Tiller's neck. "He's got a strong pulse."

  Even as Bulmer spoke, Tiller groaned and his eyes flickered open. "Did you see it?" Tiller asked.

  "The lightning that hit the ground?" Bulmer asked.

  Michael gazed silently at the football-size crater that had opened in the ground. He tried not to think about what would have happened to them if the bolt had struck them with all the water around.

  "Not that," Tiller said. "The ghost. My father's ghost."

  Bulmer shook his head. "That wasn't a ghost, Tiller. That was just lightning that came way too close."

  "No," Tiller argued. "I saw my father's ghost."

  Michael found the flashlight he'd been holding till the incredible force slammed into him. He shone the beam in all directions, but there was no sign of the image.

  "Give me a hand," Bulmer said. "Let's get Tiller to Roswell and let someone in the ER take a look at him."

  "No," Tiller objected, shaking them off. "I'm not going to the ER. I'm fine. I saw what 1 saw." He started to say more, but he caught himself and stopped. "I saw what I saw." His voice was low and quavering. Emotion lighted his eyes. Without another word he turned and walked back through the rain and over the muddy ground toward the camp.

  Bulmer pointed his heavy-duty lantern at the ground. He held the beam steady for a moment, studying the crater. The halogen light reflected from the gathering water. "Did you see anything?" Bulmer asked.

  Michael stared into the emptiness where the lights stripped the shadows away. Only hard rock covered with running water met his gaze.

  Whatever Michael had seen was gone, and whatever it had been had gone unseen by the others. He had to think about that. His alien nature gave him different senses and powers than humans, and he still didn't know their full extent. But what he did know was one of the first lessons he'd learned: He couldn't come across as different. Anonymity meant safety.

  He snapped off the flashlight and looked at Bulmer. "No. I didn't see anything." As he turned and trudged up the hill, Michael also hoped he never saw the specter again.

  Max Evans pulled the rented 71 Oldsmobile Cutlass to a stop outside the Mesaliko Native-American reservation. After the jeep had blown up, he had needed wheels again. For the moment, the rented Cutlass fit the bill. He watched the people moving through the village while the yellow dust cloud he'd brought in with him dissipated. The sun beat down on the land, already hot though it was only midmorning.

  He couldn't believe he was just sitting behind the wheel. The Mesaliko people watching him probably thought he was bored or lost. And maybe he was lost. Ever since Tess had left with the baby… his son… there had been an emptiness inside him that he'd never before experienced.

  Max peered at his reflection in the dust-streaked windshield. I sent my son away, and I didn't go with him. What kind of father would do that?

  All his life in school he'd struggled not to get involved with others, to maintain his own personal bubble of individuality. Getting caught up in the lives of others put him at risk because he was different. He'd always known he was different; he just hadn't known how much.

  Yet as distant and reserved as he tried to make himself be, he'd involved himself in the lives of others without hesitation at times. That reservation had broken when he'd saved Liz Parker's life at the Crashdown Cafe almost two years ago. The image of Liz falling back when the gunman's bullet struck her still sometimes haunted Max's dreams. He had made a choice that day to use his powers to heal her, and had thrown them together and apart ever since.

  Opening the Cutlass's door, Max stepped out into the oven heat that settled over the harsh land. The slow ticking of the Cutlass's cooling engine sounded loud in the silence of the village. A child wrapped an arm around her mother's leg and retreated behind the woman.

  Three Mesaliko men in jeans, T-shirts, and sweat-stained denim shirts with the sleeves hacked off were putting a new roof on a community building. Although none of them spoke, the three men rose as one and stepped over the edge of the single-story building. Their boots thumped against the alkaline ground when they landed, then they headed for Max.

  Max held his ground and watched them approach even though he wanted to get back into the Cutlass and leave. He watched the men stop just out of arm's reach, forming a semicircle around him.

  "What are you doing here?" one of the men demanded. He was Max's height and slim build, but his arms and shoulders showed musculature from long, hard hours of manual labor. He kept a roofing hammer in one scarred hand.

  "I was invited," Max said. He had to push the words out. From past visits to the reservation, he knew that the Mesaliko tribe didn't much care for outsiders, and cared even less for anyone connected to the legends of the Visitor that had arrived in the fateful spaceship crash in Roswell in 1947.

  "Who invited you?" the man demanded.

  "River Dog," Max answered. The messenger had found him only a short time ago in Roswell.

  "I don't know anything about this," the man said.

  Max nodded. "I'm sorry."

  "He shouldn't be here," one of the other men declared.

  "We could make him leave," the third man suggested.

  Anger surged through Max. The emotion was raw and vibrant, sometning new that had become part of him after losing his son and seeing Liz with Kyle.

  "I'm not leaving," Max said in a low voice.

  The man holding the hammer stared at him, his face as cold and still as marble. "Maybe you won't have a choice, boy."

  One of the men standing to the side took a step, moving farther behind Max.

  Max resisted the impulse to step back toward the Cutlass to prevent them from circling him. For a moment, he realized the rebelliousness that filled him was something he would have expected from Michael.

  A dog started barking excitedly. Running footsteps echoed between the small dwellings. A moment later, a young girl with feathers and turquoise twisted into her braids ran toward them. She wore khaki hiking shorts and a lavender spaghetti-strap tank, and couldn't have been more than ten years old.

  "George Grayhawk," the young girl called out. "River Dog is waiting for this man."

  Grayhawk, the man with the hammer, gave ground reluctantly at the little girl's approach. The speckled hound kept pace with her, continuing to bay eagerly.

  The little girl stopped in front of Max, looking him over from head to toe as if he were a lab specimen. "You are Max?" she asked.

  "Yes," Max answered.

  The little girl reached up tentatively and took Max by the hand when he didn't come immediately. "My name is Sarah Swiftfox. You don't have to be afraid."

  "I'm not afraid," Max said, getting into motion and following Sarah past Grayhawk and the other two men.

  "Yes you are," Sarah replied, glancing over her shoulder.

  Do children always know the truth? Max wondered. The possibility was something to think about. When his son met him again… and Max was somehow certain that would happen… would he believe the story Max told him about why he'd stayed behind instead of leaving with his mother? He let out a breath, realizing that his son might believe him, but the real question was whether he would understand.

  The dog trotted along beside Max and Sarah as the little girl led the way out of the village and up into the surrounding hills. The sun burned down against the scorched earth.

  Here and there Max could spot runnels and washes left over from the heavy rains three days ago, but they were all dried out now, leftover scars that the dry wind would soon rake smooth again. The bright purple, white, red, and yellow blooms of the various cacti spread across the cracked earth were still open at the moment.

  Sarah stopped and pointed. "There's River Dog."

  Following the line of her finger, Max spotted the shaman seated cross-legged on a blanket facing the rising sun. The shaman wore traditional dress, complete with symbols painted on his chest, arms,
and face.

  Unease rattled through Max's mind. "Is something wrong with him?" he asked the girl.

  Sarah wrinkled her face as she watched the shaman. "I don't know. He hasn't told me anything was wrong."

  "Why did he send for me?" Max asked.

  The speckled hound whined for the girl's attention.

  "I don't know." Sarah knelt and took the hound's muzzle in her hands. The animal ceased whining and lapped at her face. "Our stories, the legends of the People, often say that two people who are incomplete, each with his or her own problems, often find ways to help each other." She stood. "I can see that you have problems of your own. Maybe that was what River Dog was thinking when he sent for you. I hope it's true."

  Me too, Max said. One of the avenues he'd intended to explore to help him find his son had been the Mesaliko shaman. He just hadn't known how River Dog was going to do that, and he hadn't been ready to tell the shaman what was going on. River Dog had helped them discover the healing stones, and Nacedo after a fashion, but he hadn't been entirely supportive either. River Dog's comments to Liz had shown that. Still, the shaman had helped when Michael had gotten sick.

  Max turned back to the girl, intending to thank her. Instead he saw Sarah halfway down the hillside with the speckled hound at her side.

  Resolutely, Max turned back to the shaman and crossed the ridgeline. His shoes crunched through the baked surface of the hillside.

  Only a few feet from the shaman quick movement darted through rocks and small, barrel-shaped pear cacti. Max tried to track the movement, catching a glimpse of a silvery blur that disappeared into the cracked earth.

  In the next instant a wall of air slammed into Max hard enough to make him stumble. He straightened, turning into the wind and facing in the direction of the rising sun. Hooves drummed the ground with deafening loudness.

  The wind had whipped up a yellow, alkaline dust cloud from the hillside, then swept the mass toward the ridge where River Dog sat. The sound of the hooves grew louder.

  The dim outline of a horse and rider formed in the dust cloud, gaining speed till the animal and man burst free of the swirling haze. A Native-American warrior sat atop the charging horse. Both man and animal were marked with war paint. The warrior wore a breastplate made of bird bones and a rawhide loincloth. Eagle feathers stood up from his warbonnet. A leather shield covered his left arm, and he carried a feathered war spear in his right.