Shades r-1

by Mel Odom

  "I don't mean to cut this short," Liz said, "but I've got to get back to the Crashdown."

  Max looked uncomfortably at Kyle. "I'm her ride. After I drop her off, I can come back."

  Kyle shook his head and waved the offer away. "It's cool. My boss is going to stick around and get me home."

  After brief hesitation, Max said, "If your dad knew you were here, he'd be here."

  "I know," Kyle said, but the answer was automatic, not even close to the confusion that he truly felt. His relationship with his dad had always been hard because his dad

  had held such high expectations for him. Now with his professional life in chaos around him, his dad didn't seem able to fight back, or to demand the same high standards he'd exacted.

  After Liz and Max said their good-byes, Kyle blew his breath out and tried to block the pain from his arm. He closed his eyes, blowing his breath out again, then breathing in through his nose the way his football coach had taught him to control pain and regain his focus. The exercise had worked in the past, but the results at the moment weren't worth mentioning.

  Suddenly the firm surface of the hospital bed seemed far away, like the bed was supporting someone else's body. Disorientation made his head swim, almost triggering a bout of nausea.

  You know the Outsiders, a clear, cold voice accused. They are your friends, Kyle Valenti. Don't you know that you should fear that which is different?

  That would be the whole high school, Kyle thought.

  Don't trust the Outsiders, the voice went on. They are not like you. They don't have the same agenda that your people do. You can't trust anyone outside your own species.

  Kyle struggled to wake but couldn't. Then pain flamed along his injured arm. He groaned, and found he was suddenly able to move again. Blinking his eyes open, he spotted the silver thing on the wall behind the bed. He had a brief impression of wire-thin tentacles and an oblong body the size of a quarter. Soundlessly, the insect-thing spread diaphanous wings that resembled see-through aluminum foil. The thing hurled itself into the air and sped away, glinting occasionally under the lights of the emergency room.

  Pain flared in Kyle's arm again, drawing his attention down in time to watch Dr. Bohr shove a hypodermic into his forearm again. The impersonal pressure of the anesthetic filled his arm, turning the limb numb. At the same time, his mind seemed to clear as if a cloud had lifted.

  "This is going to sting a bit," Dr. Bohr said. "Sorry. 1 thought you were asleep."

  "Not asleep now." Kyle looked up at the wall over his bed. The silver thing with wire-thin limbs seemed to have disappeared. Hallucination, he told himself. That's all it is.

  But he was scared that it hadn't been.

  15

  Winded and tired, mind racing with the knowledge of all the things that were taking place back in the Mesaliko town, River Dog halted his journey up the side of the tall hill. From where he stood, he could see the lights of the houses back in his village. Darkness had fallen only moments ago, scattering shadows across the desert that would only turn gray when the moon burned in full.

  The wind had started to change as he neared his destination, blowing out the last of the diurnal heat and bringing in the first of the nocturnal chill that filled the desert at night. River Dog pulled the ceremonial robe he wore more tightly about his body.

  The lights in the town were dim, only a mere handful compared with what was usually there. Many of the Mesaliko people had left, gone to stay with relatives and friends in other cities and reservations. After Max Evans had left, the power of the spirits had seemed to dwindle. No longer could the spirits make physical contact with the Mesaliko, but they appeared and disappeared with unnerving timing. They also shouted and raved, talking against the Visitors, ordering the Mesaliko to drive the Visitors from their midst, and from Roswell.

  Resolutely, River Dog turned and continued his journey back up the hill. His eyes followed the whip-crack trail barely noticeable against the rugged rocks and scrubby cacti. The knoll and the cave it hid were less than fifty yards away.

  River Dog leaned into the climb, putting more weight on the walking stick he used. The backs of his legs burned with fatigue, but he never hesitated in his assault upon the hill.

  He had told Max Evans the truth when he'd said he hadn't known the location of the place where the Sun God had punished his ancestors and Raven. Rather than stay within the village for the spirits of his ancestors to haunt, he'd chosen to journey to one of his places of power. The cave was one of those places.

  Sometime in the middle of his next step, a spirit materialized beside him, matching the step with ease, as if it had been there all along. The spirit was a wizened old man.

  "River Dog," the spirit said, and his voice sounded frail and weak.

  "I do not know you," River Dog said. He never broke his stride, putting one foot in front of the other as he continued the climb to the cave.

  "I am called Hunts with Owls," the ancient one said. "I was once medicine man to our people."

  River Dog looked at the spirit's leathery face, taking in the intricate woven beads of his leathers and the tiny bone carvings of owls that held back his hair braids. The eyes

  gaped like black holes in the shadows, but River Dog felt the heat of the spirit's gaze.

  "I have heard of you," River Dog acknowledged. "You were very powerful in our tribe, and you helped many people with sickness brought by the Europeans."

  "I also fought and warred against those who took our lands," the spirit said.

  River Dog planted his walking stick and continued up the steep hillside. "What do you want with me, Hunts with Owls?"

  "What do you seek here?" the spirit asked.

  "A better understanding of what is happening to my people."

  "We have tried to explain what is happening to your people."

  The one word, your instead of our, grated on River Dog's mind. How could the spirits feel that way? He turned his attention to the thing at his side. With the moonlight coming out now, the spirit turned pale gray and translucent.

  "You are not of my people," River Dog stated. "You set yourself apart from us."

  "Your ways have changed," the spirit snarled. "You know they have changed, River Dog. You have fought those changes. These people now, they are not what my people were. Not what our people were."

  River Dog turned from the ghost and fixed his attention on the cave at the top of the knoll. "I will hear no more. I do not know what manner of creature you are, but you are not Hunts with Owls."

  "Fool!" the thing snapped. In the next breath, the spirit was gone.

  River Dog continued the walk up the hill. When he reached the cave, he went inside. The familiar dry and musty scent of the cave made him feel at home.

  The cave was small, scarcely having enough room for River Dog to sit cross-legged under the low ceiling. He spread out his robes and sat, then began chanting, willing himself into a state that would be more receptive to the things that were going on in the world around him.

  The spirits were not ancestors who had returned. All the violence he had seen until now had led him to think that way. And the fact that the spirits only became physical when Max Evans was around let River Dog know they were not what they claimed to be.

  River Dog continued chanting, feeling himself slip into that halfway state that took him away from himself. Some days, when he cast his spirit out as he was doing now, he flew above the desert with Hawk and could feel the wind beneath his wings. At other times, he padded on tough leather paws with Coyote through the desert night. Not all of the young men he trained could still do such a thing. It was a way of life, a way of becoming one with nature that was disappearing.

  Suddenly River Dog felt that he was no longer alone inside the cave. He opened his eyes, surprised at the mist that coiled at the mouth of the cave.

  Four figures strode into the cave. They were manlike in shape, but much too tall and disproportionate. They wore silver and red skintight un
iforms and red boots. Pale blue skin made their opalescent green eyes stand out in triangular faces ridged with heavy bone over the eyes and along the jaw. Their noses were almost flat. Mobile antennae, segmented like earthworms but chitinous as horn growth, twisted atop their heads.

  River Dog tried to stand, but found his body unresponsive. He was trapped in his own flesh, unable even to cry out as the four figures closed in on him.

  "You were warned," one of the figures said. "You should have listened."

  Helpless, River Dog watched as the lead figure reached for him, covering his eyes with a four-fingered hand. River Dog felt the hard chitin of the figure's hand close over his eyes, then his mind seemed to implode, flooding his senses with black pain that took him far away.

  Max sat on the floor in front of the television in Michael's house. He watched the news programs and special reports in disbelief, flipping through the channels by using his powers. Story after story showed witnesses testifying about close encounters of the ghostly kind that had taken place during the day and were still going on in the evening.

  "It's everywhere," Liz commented quietly. She stood in the cramped kitchen by the table, a piece of pizza forgotten in one hand. They'd pooled their money together, even raiding some of the stash Michael had put back from the job out in the desert, and bought a modest dinner.

  "It's not everywhere," Isabel replied calmly. She sat on Michael's couch and watched the television. "Only a few dozen people have claimed to have seen ghosts."

  Only a few dozen. Max repeated the words in his mind. Only a few dozen. But those numbers are growing. Less than three hours ago, they'd all rendezvoused at Michael's house, including Valenti and Kyle, fresh from the hospital with his arm tightly bandaged.

  "However many ghosts there actually are," Michael put in, "those things are after us. Let's keep that in perspective too."

  "The question is," Valenti said, "why are they after you?"

  Nobody had an answer.

  Finally Maria said, "Look, I didn't want to be the one to point out the obvious, but we have to consider that maybe these ghosts are things that Tess might have sent after you guys."

  "Why would she do that?" Michael asked.

  "Because she didn't quite get her way when she left," Maria said.

  "She got to escape," Michael said. "She got Max to father her child, a child she might be able to get elected the new king."

  "Kings aren't elected," Maria said.

  Michael frowned. "Whatever. The point is, maybe Momma Queen is going to have a lot of power too."

  The pang of loss vibrated through Max again. He could still feel the weight of his son in his arms, and he guessed that the feeling was probably a lot like the phantom pangs of an amputation victim.

  "Tess didn't get everything she wanted," Maria said. "She wanted all of you to go back with her. That's why she killed Alex, remember? Because he found out she was here to set you guys up and turn you over to the enemies you had in your past lives."

  "This isn't Tess," Valenti said in a quiet, calm voice. "She'd claim credit if she was behind this."

  Max heard the pain in Valenti's voice. Tess had lived with Valenti and Kyle, becoming a sister and a daughter for a time.

  "This is something outside everything you guys have been through so far," Valenti went on.

  "Then how do they know about us?" Michael challenged.

  "Because maybe they can sense you the same way you can sense them."

  "We don't sense them," Michael said.

  "You see them," Valenti pointed out. "Every time there's been a ghost, you've seen them when no one else could."

  "You've seen ghosts too," Maria said. "Liz and I are the only ones who haven't."

  "I didn't see the ghost until it wanted me to," Valenti reminded. "When Kelli was with us, she and Michael saw the ghost first. Later, after Michael took her away, the ghost changed shape, became someone I knew."

  "So how does that work?" Michael asked. "The ghosts only appear to certain people."

  "In Roswell," Max said, "that appears to be the case. No one except Wilkins and Michael saw the ghost of Terrell Swanson even though the Crashdown was full of people."

  "And I was standing there with him," Liz said. "Not to mention, my mother was speaking with my dead grandmother this morning, and I never saw her. I'm sure that was part of this."

  "Whatever is empowering the ghosts has the ability to be selective," Valenti said. "They appear to whomever they want, as whoever they want."

  "Or maybe whatever is causing the ghosts is limited," Isabel said.

  "Limited?" Michael snorted, and helped himself to another pizza slice. The problem hadn't affected his appetite. "Those things are throwing lightning bolts around like it was nothing."

  "There are things you can do that no one human can do," Maria pointed out.

  "How do they know who to appear as?" Valenti asked. "Isabel, you said the woman who nearly ran you down saw her daughter."

  "A daughter who died in childbirth." Isabel nodded.

  "Where did the ghost get its information?" Valenti asked. "How did it know who to appear as?"

  "An unborn child wouldn't be so hard," Michael said. "Especially when the ghost appeared as a little girl instead of a baby. The mother had never seen the baby as anything other than that."

  "What about Swanson?" Valenti persisted.

  "Wilkins killed him and buried him in his basement almost forty years ago," Michael said. "The eye patch may have been enough to freak Wilkins out."

  Valenti turned on him. "You looked at Swanson's pictures. You said it was he. Was it?"

  A troubled look crossed Michael's face. "Yeah, it was Swanson."

  "So how did the ghosts know who to look like?" Valenti asked.

  "The ghost could have known about Swanson from old newspapers," Max said.

  "Maybe," Valenti conceded. "But in order to know about Wilkins and Swanson, they'd have known where to look and what they were looking for."

  "Everybody in Roswell knows the story about Wilkins and Swanson," Liz said. "After I figured out who he was, I remembered the story."

  "Okay," Valenti said, folding his arms across his chest, "I'm going to play the devil's advocate here. Why would the ghosts wait so long to make their move?"

  "He's right," Isabel said. "We've lived here all our lives. Excepting the fact that the ghosts want us out of here, they've had almost twenty years to do it."

  "They're not just after us," Max said. "They want the Mesaliko gone too."

  "Why?" Liz asked.

  "River Dog tied the manifestation of the ghosts to the old legend," Max said.

  "That's a bunch of bull, Maxwell," Michael said. "We all know that some old Indian legend isn't going to make ghosts suddenly start appearing."

  Max stared at Michael, and he noticed the rest of them did the same.

  "I don't think we can rule the legend out," Maria said.

  Michael turned stone-faced and shook his head in disbelief. "You're grasping at straws, people."

  "Give us something else," Maria challenged.

  Michael crossed his hands over his chest. "This is stupid."

  "Wait," Isabel said. "I think we're on to something here." She nodded to Valenti. "Keep going."

  Valenti held his hat in his hands, tracing the brim with one forefinger as he thought. "Boil it all down to what we know. The ghosts appear to certain people, and somehow know who to appear as."

  "They read minds," Kyle said.

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  Suddenly looking uncomfortable, Kyle shrugged. "How else can you explain it? I mean, the ghost I saw was the first dead man I ever saw. I don't know the guy's name, don't know if I ever knew it, but I remembered him because Dad and I were on our way home from a ballgame one night when Dad got a call in about a traffic fatality. Dad had to cover the accident till the EMTs arrived. The guy lost control of his motorcycle on 285 and got shredded."

  Max saw Liz's eyes narrow
as the gruesome image popped into her mind. Valenti had a pained look on his face, as if suddenly realizing some of the things he'd exposed Kyle to while growing up. But Max knew there was new guilt mixed into the feeling as well for not being there at the hospital today with Kyle.

  "Ghosts that read minds," Michael snorted.

  "Yes," Max said calmly. "That could explain how the ghosts knew who to appear as and how they were only visible to the people they chose to haunt."

  "We could see them," Michael said.

  "We're not exactly normal," Isabel put in.

  "And some of you," Maria said pointedly, looking at Michael, "are less normal than others."

  Michael scowled.

  Before Michael could pick up his end of the argument, Max said, "Some form of telepathy, then."

  "Let's start with that," Valenti said.

  "With telepathic ghosts," Michael said derisively.

  "That's where we're starting," Valenti said. "That's not where we're going to end up."

  "Max said the Mesaliko were experiencing more manifestations," Michael said.

  "Maybe it has to do with their spirituality," Kyle suggested. "Maybe the Mesaliko are closer to nature than our culture is. They believe in vision quests, and some of what River Dog has shown you guys has bordered on spirituality."

  "Not exactly looking for New Age answers here, Buddha Boy," Michael said.

  "That could have something to do with it," Max said. "But maybe it's something simpler."

  "Like proximity," Liz said.

  Max nodded. "Like proximity."

  "The legend may have been based on something that actually happened in the past," Isabel said.

  "Legends usually are," Valenti said.

  "But what event?" Maria asked. "Spirits returning to haunt the Mesaliko? If we go that route, we're right back where we started."

  "River Dog said Raven stole flames from the Sun God," Max said, his mind suddenly churning. "Raven brought the flames back to the Mesaliko, only he couldn't hold them in his beak. He spat the flames out, and they crashed to the earth, creating the desert."