by Mel Odom
Without breaking stride, the mounted warrior screamed in angry defiance and rode straight for River Dog. He drew the war lance back smoothly, arm muscles rippling as he prepared to throw the lethal weapon.
3
Standing in front of the mirror in her room, Liz Parker took stock of her image. Okay, so do I look like someone barely holding it together here? Like somebody one short step from the edge?
The questions were fair ones. How many people could keep it together and face what she was facing? The whole your-boyfriend-is-an-alien thing had been a real stretch for the last year and a half, especially helping him seek out his home world. But coupled with the fact that Max had also fathered a child with someone he'd been married to in another life, someone who turned out to be the murderess of one of Liz's best friends, was more than anyone should have to handle.
And that's the real choice, isn't it? Liz asked her reflection. To deal or not to deal. Working out a relationship was hard enough between two normal people.
An image flashed into her mind, reminding her how she'd handled Max's decision to return to his home world in the Granilith only a few short days ago. They'd sat in the jeep in front of the Crashdown Cafe.
I wish, I wish this all could have been different, Max had told her. I wish that so much. Then he'd leaned in and kissed her, and the familiar weirdness of the kiss had slammed through her.
Then, when he'd pulled back, she'd looked at him, not knowing what to do, feeling Tess between them. I guess that this is our good-bye, she'd said. Then she'd asked one of the most frightening and difficult questions she'd ever asked. Just tell me one thing. Do you love her?
Max hadn't hesitated. Not like I love you.
Liz had almost stayed with him then. But she hadn't been able to. She'd been a mass of confused emotions barely contained. Leaving him there and walking into the Crashdown had taken all of her strength, all of her nerve, and she'd clung desperately to the hurt that his words had brought her.
Tears burned, brimming at the backs of Liz's eyes. She steeled herself, holding the helpless emotion back. She couldn't lose herself in Max Evans again. She wouldn't allow herself to be lost again.
She crossed the room, barely aware of the music streaming from the radio by her bed. She glanced at the clock and discovered she had only minutes to make it to work on time. The good thing was that she worked in the cafe downstairs, but the bad thing was that the cafe was downstairs all the time. She could be called in to work at a moment's notice. Her folks usually didn't do that, but the opportunity existed.
Trying to get focused again, Liz grabbed her apron and order book and left her room. Out in the hallway she
heard voices. At first she thought perhaps her mother and father were in the living room talking, then she realized her father wouldn't have been home unless something was wrong.
Only feeling a little guilty about eavesdropping because 'she was worried, Liz moved to the door of the small kitchen the Parker family maintained above the cafe. She hadn't heard anyone enter the family dwelling area, and despite the muffled noise from the business below, she usually could.
"I know something is going on," Nancy Parker was insisting. "Liz hasn't been herself for weeks."
Liz's heart leaped into her throat. She'd known her parents were aware that she was having a difficult time, but if they were going to talk about it that meant they weren't far from trying to do something about the situation.
What could they do about her problems?
My boyfriend is an alien. Not exactly typical Oprah stuff, Liz thought. Things are complicated enough. The last thing I need is for my parents to get involved.
"Of course I know I have to do something," Nancy Parker said.
Liz listened to the hard edge in her mother's voice. The tone was one she'd seldom heard over the years, and generally only when talking about her mother, Liz's grandmother. The relationship between the two women had been strained, and Liz had only learned a little of the history during brief conversations between her mom and dad.
"I will do something," Nancy replied in a strained voice. "You've always accused me of putting things off, and you've been wrong. Mother, I don't want to talk about that anymore."
A cold chill filled Liz. Her maternal grandmother had passed away years ago.
"No, Mother," Nancy said, "I'm not avoiding the issue."
Liz drew back from the door. How could her mother possibly be talking to her grandmother?
"Of course I love Liz, Mother," Nancy Parker responded angrily.
The fear inside Liz intensified. Chill out, she told herself. There has to be a reasonable explanation.
"I'll tell you what I'm doing for her," Nancy Parker snapped. "I'm giving her the space she needs to sort things out, Mother. That's something you never quite understood about me when I was growing up. I respect the space Liz needs."
Pots clanged on the stove inside the kitchen.
"No!" Nancy Parker roared over the clatter of pots and pans. "Don't you dare say that, Mother! Don't you… "
Unable to stay on the other side of the door while her mother went through whatever she was going through, Liz pushed through the door. j
Her mother stood by the stove. She looked over at Liz, then blinked as if dazed.
No one else was in the room.
"Hi, Liz," Nancy Parker said. She glanced down at the frying pan and saucepan she held as though surprised to see them.
Other pots and pans cluttered the stovetop and counter space. Evidently the conversation had been going on longer than Liz had heard, because her mom had taken a number of dishes, pots and pans, and other cooking utensils from the cabinets and strewn them about.
"Hey, Mom," Liz said. She wanted to say more, but she couldn't. How's your sanity today? was a question that she just couldn't ask. Just dropped in for a reality check. That wasn't any better.
Nancy Parker checked the clock on the stove as she carefully put the two pans down. "You're late."
"I'm headed down now," Liz said. An unaccustomed chill filled the room, but she figured that the window had been left open. Roswell was always hot by noon, but sometimes the coolness from the desert night took a while to burn away. Her mother must have left the window open.
"Did you need something?"
Liz froze for a moment. "Nope," she answered. "I heard you talking in here… "
"I wasn't talking."
Liz stared at her mom. "Okay, maybe I left the radio on in my room and I thought it was you."
Nancy Parker smiled. "Maybe we should have your hearing checked."
My hearing is fine, Liz thought, but she said, "Is there anything you need? Before I go downstairs, I mean?"
"No. Thanks."
"Where's Dad?"
"I don't want to nag," Nancy Parker said, "but you're late. Maria and Michael are depending on you to get ready for the lunch crowd."
"I know. On my way." Liz walked to the door and glanced back at her mother.
Nancy Parker looked in perplexed confusion at the pile of pots and pans and dishware in front of her.
"Mom," Liz said.
"What?" Her mother seemed preoccupied.
"You'd talk to me if you needed to, wouldn't you?" Liz asked. "I mean, if anything was wrong."
Nancy Parker stared at her daughter quietly, then smiled. "Of course I would. Just like you'd talk to me if something was going on in your life that you needed help coping with."
Liz returned her mom's look for a moment and felt incredibly guilty. She had hardly told her mother anything about the last year and a half.
"Sure," Liz said, starting through the door. "If something comes up, just keep in mind that I'm around. Okay?"
"I will," her mother promised, then began putting the pots and pans away.
Uncertain and still feeling a little unsettled, Liz pushed through the door. One of us is losing it, she told herself. Part of her was afraid that person was her, not her mom.
As the door closed Liz t
hought she saw a silvery metallic flash in the kitchen. She stopped and opened the door again, looking around the room. Nothing silvery caught her eye, but she was certain she'd seen something.
"Liz!"
"I'm going," Liz replied. As she pulled her head back she noticed the cold chill that filled the kitchen. Only then did she realize that the window wasn't open as she'd thought. That's weird.
Without another word, knowing that her mother was on the verge of getting irritated, Liz turned and headed down the hallway. The wrongness of the morning tugged at the back of her mind, the place where she filed all the strange things she'd encountered since getting to know Max Evans.
The mounted warrior bore down on River Dog. Sunlight sparked from the cruel metal blade of the spears tip as the horse and rider cleared the swirling, dusty fog.
Max threw himself into motion. "River Dog!" he yelled, afraid he wouldn't arrive in time.
The Mesaliko shaman lifted his head, turning to glance at Max. He didn't move from the horse's path.
The horse's hooves thundered against the ground, digging up clumps of sandy loam, slicing through cacti. Drawing up smoothly on the horse's back, keeping himself in place with his knees, the warrior issued a feral cry. The war paint marking his features made his threatening expression even harsher. His arm whipped forward as he hurled the spear.
In a low, flat dive, Max covered the ground separating him from the Mesaliko shaman. As he thudded into the other man, sending both of them sprawling across the ground, he glimpsed the spear embedding in the ground only inches away.
The warrior rode by. The horse's hooves hammered against the ground only inches from Max's head.
"What are you doing?" River Dog demanded.
Max scrambled frantically, pushing himself to his feet and trying to aid the shaman. "Saving you."
"There is no need."
The warrior reined in his mount, bringing the big animal around in a tight turn that churned up a spray of dust and sand. His angry eyes focused on River Dog.
Max glanced at the spear jutting up from the ridge only a few feet away. "He would have killed you."
"He can't kill me." River Dog spoke confidently.
Max looked around desperately, searching for some way to get them to safety until help could come. Surely the warrior's yells hadn't gone unnoticed by the people in the village below.
The painted warrior leveled an accusing finger. "River Dog!" he said in a gruff voice. "Betrayer of our people!"
Max glanced at River Dog. "You know him?"
"Bear-Killer," the shaman answered, nodding and locking eyes with the warrior. "He is my ancestor. He died nearly two hundred years ago."
Not comprehending, Max stared at the warrior. The painted face looked maybe twenty years old.
The warrior kept pointing at River Dog, standing up in the saddle stirrups. "You brought the Visitors among us. You are the reason our tribe will finally wither and die after all these years of pain and sorrow."
"No," River Dog answered, his voice strong and rolling over the hill.
"You should have killed the first Visitor," the warrior said.
Max guessed that the warrior was speaking about Nacedo. All those years ago River Dog had found Nacedo after the spaceship that had brought them had crashed in Roswell. River Dog had nursed him back to life, and kept the secret about the man's extraterrestrial origins. He'd even been entrusted with the healing stones that Max and the others had later recovered.
The painted brave pulled a long-bladed hunting knife from a sheath at his belt. He kicked his horse in the sides, urging the animal into motion, and gave a fierce war cry.
Max grabbed River Dog's arm and tried to pull him away.
"No," the shaman said, resisting Max's efforts.
"He'll kill you," Max said.
"No," River Dog insisted. "He can't kill me. There are things going on here that you don't understand."
Max accepted that. There were a lot of things about his life that he didn't understand.
"Release me and step away," River Dog commanded.
Max hesitated.
"Do it now," River Dog said.
Knowing that he could never budge the man in time if he resisted, Max released his hold on River Dog and moved away. Panic welled inside him as he watched the mounted warrior ride straight for the shaman.
River Dog never flinched. The shaman stood his ground. As the warrior and horse closed in on him, River Dog held his arms up at his side. In one fist he clutched a turquoise necklace. In the other he held eagle feathers painted red and white. He broke out in native song, the cadence rolling amid the noise of the thundering hooves.
In stunned fascination Max watched as the warrior and horse disappeared inside River Dog. Horse and rider vanished like a mirage, fading out of existence. The dust cloud that the horse's hooves had turned up rolled over River Dog. Then an electric pulse exploded in front of the shaman, strong enough to make Max's hair stand on end. River Dog left his feet and flew backward as if a bus had struck him.
River Dog stared up at the cerulean blue sky with unseeing eyes. His body lay relaxed. The sand around him was pristine, smooth as new-fallen snow. Max guessed that the force of the warrior and horse disappearing had blown the sand smooth.
Fearing the worst, Max put his fingers against the side of the shaman's neck. There were no wounds on the man's body. Not even a bruise.
But there was also no pulse.
I he electrical discharge must have stopped his heart, Max reasoned as he stared down at River Dog, struggling to control the panic that threatened to engulf him. His own body still tingled with the ionized force that continued to dissipate.
Frantic, knowing that he was working against the clock, that every second River Dog's heart refused to beat was causing the shaman's body to shut down, Max laid his hand on the man's chest. He felt for the warmth, for the connection that would bind him to River Dog. He shifted his hand, sliding his palm over the area where he thought the heart would be.
Feeling the power building within him, Max pushed the force through him, willing River Dog's heart to resume beating. At first he was afraid that his efforts weren't going to be enough, that he was going to be left there with River Dog's corpse.
Then, intermittent at first, like a worn starter dragging on a cold morning, River Dog's heart lurched into an irregular beat. Max felt the uneven thumping vibrate against his palm.
C'mon, Max thought fiercely. Breathe!
Suddenly River Dog's mouth opened and he took a ragged breath. Lifting an arm, he seized Max's wrist in his hand.
"Enough," River Dog gasped hoarsely.
Max allowed his hand to be taken away.
River Dog glanced around. "The rider?"
"He's gone," Max said. "We've got to go." He stood and offered his hand.
River Dog pushed himself into a sitting position but ignored Max's hand. "No."
Max looked around, listening to the lonely echo of the wind sailing across the harsh land. Tall chaparral stood in places, leaving only short, blunt shadows that looked gray against the sand instead of black. Vultures circled the sky.
"Are you sure the rider won't be coming back?" Max asked.
River Dog looked at him. "It doesn't matter where we go," he said softly. "Bear-Killer will come for me again when he wants to."
Turning, Max swept the land around them with his gaze. He could see for what looked like miles. How had the warrior ridden up on them on horseback without being seen?
"How can he be two hundred years old?" Max asked.
"He's not two hundred years old," River Dog said. "He hardly looks more than twenty. He died in battle with a tribe who was our enemy at the time."
"Two hundred years ago?"
"About that."
Max grew irritated at the quiet calm the shaman exuded. The sun beat down on him. Off in the distance, tiny swirls of rising heat created near mirages. "How is he here now?"
"It's part of an an
cient prophecy," River Dog answered. "That's why I asked you to come here."
"What prophecy?"
The shaman waited a moment. "That one day the dead would rise and punish the living," River Dog answered.
Liz hurried among the tables as the lunch crowd continued descending on the Crashdown Cafe. With its out-of-this-world decor, the Crashdown Cafe was one of the local tourist attractions. Ideally located near the center of town, local businesspeople and employees ate there, sharing tables with the tourists who came in to gawk at the sights.
"Hey, waitress," a truck driver with an Atlanta Braves baseball cap called. "I'd like a refill on this tea sometime today."
Liz glanced at the man. Civil, she told herself. Just be civil. The clock is ticking, and the shift will be over. And being civil means bigger tips.
"Yes sir," she replied, putting on a smile that was just as plastic and phony as one of the art deco rocket ships hanging on the wall. She snagged a bottle of ketchup from the empty table she passed and dropped it off at a table of teenagers who had already gone through two bottles. They didn't even look up to acknowledge her.
Terrific. If I can't get to something someone needs, everybody sees me. But the minute I get something right, it's like I'm the Invisible Girl.
Liz took a deep breath and let it out. She was experienced enough not to take too much to heart. She managed to take another order, a family of five with something special on each entree, then swept back toward the servers table to grab a pitcher of tea.
Maria was already there, stuffing her apron pockets with sugar and sweetener packets.
"So," Maria said, "do you think your mom is going to become a basket case?"
"That's real tactful." Liz stuffed another handful of paper-wrapped straws into her apron.
Maria glanced knowingly at the nearly filled-to-capacity restaurant. "We don't exactly have time for tact." She took a pot of decaffeinated coffee from the wanning plate. "So… we can either talk about the situation, or we can ignore it." Without another word, she stepped back into the dining area amid an immediate flurry of calls for her attention.