by Melinda Metz
"I didn't mean it that way." Max slumped down on one of the tall stools across from Michael. "Look, according to the consciousness, Trevor could be a threat to all of us. You should have felt the fury coming off the beings when I sent out an image of him."
Max saw Michael stiffen, and he rushed on before Michael could interrupt him. "I didn't get any sense that Trevor is a killer, but that's what Alex felt from him in the wormhole. I just want to know if there's anything you and Trevor talked about that will help me get all this straight."
Michael flicked the striker a few more times, then tossed it behind him. "Have you ever considered the possibility that the consciousness could be lying to you?"
It was as if Michael had sucker punched him. Max actually felt a little dizzy, a little wobbly perched on the stool. He stuck one foot down to steady himself.
Max had linked himself to the consciousness for life. He was a part of it. It was a part of him. If it could lie… if it could have some kind of evil intent…
No. Impossible. His parents were part of the consciousness. Ray was part of the consciousness.
"The consciousness isn't a single entity," Max explained, talking to himself as much as Michael. "It's an immense collection of beings-the number of them is practically unfathomable. I don't get how something of that size and structure could lie."
"Well, how do you explain the fact that Trevor went through his akino and lived?" Michael asked. "I mean, according to the consciousness, you don't join, you die."
Wait, did that mean Max hadn't had to join? Did that mean-
Max shook his head. He realized there was a very obvious answer to Michael's question. But it didn't seem that Michael had given it a thought.
"Have you ever considered the possibility that Trevor could be lying to you?" Max asked, trying very hard to keep his tone nonconfrontational.
"He's my brother," Michael answered, as if that said it all.
Max stood up so fast, he knocked the stool over. "So am I," he insisted. "In every way that matters, I'm your brother, too."
Didn't Michael get it? Didn't he understand that the bond between them was deeper than the one created by being born of the same parents? He and Michael had shared every important experience of their lives. Michael and Trevor were practically strangers.
"If that's true, if you're my brother, then why don't you trust me?" Michael exploded. He shoved himself away from the counter. "I'm out of here."
Max watched him leave. He wanted to call Michael back, but what was the point? Michael had made his choice.
Max stood up and turned on the faucet next to him. He stuck his face under and let the water pour over him until his skin turned numb with cold. Then he snapped off the faucet and dried himself off with one of the rough brown paper towels.
Then he heard a little squeaking behind him.
"You're not going to give me grief, too, are you, Fred?" he asked. He walked over to the cage of white mice and pulled out the skinniest one. He stared into its little red eyes. "Remember, you owe me. I saved your life once. I saved Michael and Liz's lives too, not that they're bothering to be grateful."
Fred squeaked again. Max pretended he could understand him. "Yeah, I know." Max sighed. "They've saved my life at least once each. So I should go try and work things out with them before someone wanders by and sees me going all Doctor Doolittle."
He put Fred back in the cage, then felt a tingle of curiosity from the consciousness. No. No way. There are some things I won't do, he thought.
The tingle grew to an insistent electric sizzle.
"Okay, fine," Max muttered. He picked up one of the food pellets from the mice's dish and popped it into his mouth.
The blend of flavors was more complex than he'd expected. He closed his eyes and chewed slowly, sharing the experience with the other beings.
TEN
Liz pulled out her key and then stood there on the porch, staring at her front door. Adam is right, she told herself. You have to do this. You have to at least try.
She slid her key into the lock, but before she could turn it, the door flew open and she was in her mothers arms.
"Mija, we were so worried. Where were you?" She pulled away and gave Liz's shoulders a little shake, then hugged her again.
"I stayed with friends," Liz said when her mama finally let her go. "I couldn't be in the same house with Papa. I just couldn't."
Her mother was wearing the same overalls she'd had on last night. She looked as if she hadn't slept at all. "Liz, your father loves you more than life. You know that, don't you?"
"He doesn't even know me. I know that you don't think I'm like… I shouldn't have said that to you. But Papa does," Liz said softly. "He thinks I'm this person who needs to be under a twenty-four/seven drug overdose prevention watch." Liz felt tears sting her eyes, and she blinked them away.
"He just wants you to be safe," her mother answered. She turned Liz around and gave her a gentle push down the hall. "He's in the backyard. Go talk to him."
Liz hesitated. Isn't this what you came here for? she asked herself. Then she strode directly to the big glass door, slid it open, and stepped outside. Her father was lying on the grass with his eyes shut.
Automatically she listened for the music that would give her a clue to how her papa was feeling. But the backyard was silent. It was so weird. Her father even had one of those waterproof radios. He couldn't stand to be without his tunes long enough to take a shower.
Liz took a step forward, then glanced back toward the house. Maybe she should go get her mother. Maybe it would be better to do this as a three-way talk. Maybe-
"Did she call yet?" Liz's papa asked, without opening his eyes.
"Aren't you cold?" Liz said. He wasn't even wearing a jacket.
Her father sat up slowly and shoved himself around to face her. She waited for him to start yelling or to at least say something, but he didn't. What was he thinking? Was he waiting for her to apologize, or-
Just say what you've got to say, she told herself. "I have a question," she announced. "Do you think it's possible for someone to be-at least very likely be-valedictorian while getting high on a regular basis?" she asked. "Do you think someone doing tons of drugs would remember to call every time she wasn't going to come home straight after school? Or-"
Liz had almost half a lifetime of examples, but her throat had gotten too tight for any more words of her logical argument to squeak through. I'm going to cry, she thought, horrified. She never cried in front of her parents. Never. It was part of being the daughter who made up for the daughter who died.
And suddenly she was sobbing, sobbing as hard as she had in the museum. But now no one's arms were around her. Now she was standing all alone, with her father miles and miles away, just looking at her.
"I tried… everything perfect," she choked out. "Grades… at the Crashdown… room clean. God, everything." Liz swiped her arm across her eyes, but the tears kept coming. She rushed on. "Can't do anything to make Mama and Papa worry. Can't do anything that might scare them… and make them think that I… that I was going to turn out like Rosa. Have to be perfect, perfect, perfect."
"Well, you're not perfect," her father said. He pushed himself to his feet with a little grunt but didn't move toward her. "You always hog all your abuela's green sauce."
A surprised laugh escaped Liz. She wiped away her tears again, and this time they stayed gone.
Her papa smiled at her. "See, I know you. Rosa liked red sauce, Liz likes green sauce. Rosa liked to color, and Liz played Roller Derby in the driveway. Rosa always said, 'Papa, tell me a story.' And Liz always said, 'Papa, I have a question.'" He shook his head. "You used to ask me the most amazing things. 'Papa, I have a question-do butterflies remember that they used to be caterpillars, or do they look at caterpillars and just think, eww, gross?'"
"I don't remember that," Liz admitted.
"I do. I remember everything about you," her father answered. He walked over and took her hand,
the way he used to when she was a little girl. It almost made Liz start to cry again.
"I know you're not Rosa," he said, meeting her gaze squarely and directly. "You have never given me any reason to think that you were getting yourself into the kind of danger she was." He squeezed her hand. "But I didn't see it in Rosa. I was her papa, and I didn't see it. I have to live with that. But I don't… I can't…"
"I know, I know," Liz answered. She squeezed his hand back. "You won't have to. I promise."
They started toward the house, then Liz's father paused and pointed up to the flying pig weather vane on the top of their house. "Remember how Rosa used to say that I bought that just so she'd be too embarrassed to have any of her friends come over?"
Liz smiled. It was like now that he'd finally started talking about Rosa, he couldn't stop.
"Yeah, she even had a name for it. What was it?" Liz asked.
"It kept changing. Mr. Sausagestuff was one of the less raunchy ones," he answered. He led her to the sliding door, and he didn't drop her hand when they stepped inside.
"Papa, I have a question," Liz said. Then she stopped herself. In the last few minutes they'd talked more about Rosa than they had since she died. But maybe her question would be pushing things too far.
"What? Ask it," her "father urged, sensing her hesitation.
"I was wondering what happened to all the pictures of Rosa," Liz said. "There's not even one in the whole house, and I-I miss them."
Her father's grip on her hand tightened painfully. Liz shot a worried glance at his face. There were tears in his eyes. Liz didn't think she'd ever seen her papa even this close to crying.
"It's not important," Liz said quickly. She'd hurt him, maybe more than he could bear. Why did she-
"Estela," her papa called out.
Liz's mama appeared in the doorway an instant later. She's been going nuts this whole time, I bet, Liz thought.
"Liz and I wanted to look at some pictures of Rosa. Do you know where they are?" he asked.
"I-yes, I'll go get them." Liz's mother smiled at them, a quavering smile, but a smile. "I'd like to look at them, too."
***
"Are you carless?" Maria heard Michael call as she headed out of the school.
"Yes, unfortunately, I'm almost always sans car," she answered when he caught up to her.
"I could give you a ride," he offered as he slung his backpack over one shoulder.
"Oooh, a ride in that big car of yours. That's so sweet." Maria batted her eyes at him, almost tripping over the curb as they started across the parking lot. "I hear that you own your own apartment and a business, too. Is that true?" She ran her fingers up and down his arm in an exaggerated flirt maneuver.
Hey, if she could touch him and stay in buddy mode by pretending she was just goofing around, why not? Well, except for the fact that it left her feeling like a dog that had been teased by a piece of meat hanging just out of reach over its head.
"That's right, sweetcakes. Now all I need is a little arm trophy, and I'm set. I could probably get you an… audition, if you're interested in the position," Michael answered.
But she could tell his heart wasn't in it. The boy was troubled. As soon as they were both settled in his car, she turned to him and said, "Okay, come on. Tell Dr. Maria everything."
"What?" Michael asked, looking at her like she was nuts.
"What?" she repeated, looking at him like he was nuts, mocking him.
Michael started the car and got in the line of vehicles moving out onto the street. He kept his eyes locked on the windshield.
"Oh, you want me to use my famous psychic powers." Maria wiggled her fingers at him. "I see Max. I see Trevor. I see you in the middle," she intoned, trying to do some kind of Romanian gypsy accent.
"Max is practically forcing me to take sides against him," Michael burst out. "He won't even consider the possibility that the consciousness could be wrong about Trevor."
"Max doesn't like to take chances with the safety of the group," Maria reminded him. "You know him-Mr. Responsibility."
Michael got his turn at the driveway and pulled out onto the street. "What he doesn't seem to get is that Trevor is my brother," he answered. "My brother isn't going to be a threat to the group."
"You don't know that for sure," Maria said as gently as she could. She felt so awful for Michael. He'd been wanting a real family his whole life. He should be in the midst of a party marathon, showing Trevor everything, doing brother stuff. But instead Michael's best friend-let's be real, practically Michael's other brother-was trying to convince Michael that his only living family member was a deranged killer.
"So you agree with Max?" Michael demanded. He screeched the car to a stop at a red light.
Maria shot out her hands and braced herself on the dashboard. "I'm thinking you might be more dangerous," she muttered. But at the hurt that she could see in Michael's gray eyes-the hurt he was working so hard to hide-she relented.
"I'm not sure what to think," she admitted. She couldn't tell him that she was positive, absolutely positive, that Trevor was a wonderful guy-even though she knew that's what Michael wanted to hear. "Alex and Max both seem pretty sure that there's some kind of-of problem. I just want us all to be careful until we figure out exactly what it is."
"But you'll at least give him a chance?" Michael asked as he turned onto her street. "That's all I ask, that you don't make any assumptions about him until you get to know him."
"I will absolutely, totally give him a chance," Maria promised. She had to do that much for Michael, even though her intuition was twanging away inside her, telling her it was a bad, bad idea.
Neither Alex nor Max was the type to jump to conclusions. If they both thought Trevor could be dangerous, they were probably right.
Michael swung into her driveway and stopped the car-a nice, gentle stop this time.
"You want to come in?" Maria asked. "I promised Kevin I'd help him do a mock newspaper for social studies. You should hear his headlines about Magellan. He makes the guy sound like a comic book hero."
"Sure, why not?" Michael answered. "Although I was hoping I could talk you into making brownies or something for Trevor. I'm meeting up with him later."
"We'll do that, too," Maria said. She hopped out of the car, happy to have something nice to do for Michael's brother that wasn't potentially life threatening. "Should I do my carob ones or the-"
"The other ones, definitely," Michael said as he followed her into the house. "Maybe with white vinegar icing."
Maria made a gagging sound. "It will keep Kevin from snagging any, at least," she answered. "Kevin, the clock's ticking," she shouted. "I told you, I'm not staying up until two A.M. like last time."
"Maybe we beat him home," Michael suggested.
"He should have been here at least half an hour ago. But it doesn't look like he came in and then went out again. It's way too neat." Kevin usually started tossing things the second he hit the hall-backpack here, coat there, shoes on the coffee table. "I guess I should check the fridge for a note, just in case he grew a completely new personality and left one."
She hurried into the kitchen, Michael right behind her. She spotted a bright orange sheet of paper under one of the magnets. "Color me amazed," she said. She dropped her backpack on one of the kitchen chairs and grabbed the note.
She sank down on the kitchen floor as she read it. She didn't even think about the chair a few feet away from her.
"What?" Michael demanded.
The note fluttered like a hummingbird's wing as she handed it to him. She couldn't make her fingers stop shaking even when she knotted her hands together.
Michael read it out loud. "You give me what I want. I give you what you want." He sat down on the floor next to Maria. "I don't get it."
Maria swallowed hard. "It's not from Kevin. I think it's from…" She stared down at her hands, not even able to look at Michael. How could she look at him when she was thinking what she was thinking? But wh
at she was thinking was the only thing that made any sense.
"Michael, I think the note's from Trevor," she finally said.
"What are you talking about?" Michael flipped the note over, then flipped it back. "I don't see anything that-"
"Kevin?" Maria yelled sharply. "Kevin!" The house was empty. "Don't you get it?" Maria cried, what little self-control she had snapping. "It's a ransom note! Don't you get it? Trevor kidnapped Kevin. He's not going to give Kevin back until we hand over the Stone!"
***
"I think Michael's right. We shouldn't necessarily trust the consciousness, at least not blindly," Liz declared from the backseat of his car.
Thank God for Liz, Michael thought. And Adam. At least they were adding some sanity to the group. And Isabel was still doing her Switzerland impersonation-totally neutral so far. But Max, Maria, and Alex were in full-throttle Trevor-is-evil-incarnate mode.
"Can't you go any faster?" Maria cried, clearly a breath away from all-out hysteria.
Michael pressed the accelerator down a little harder. "This car isn't exactly designed for desert driving," he told her. "But we're almost to the cave."
"Kevin is going to be fine," Max said from the shotgun seat.
"Yeah," Alex agreed. "Trevor's smart enough to know that he has to keep Kevin safe or he won't have any value as a bargaining chip."
Maria let out a little moan. Alex winced. "Sorry," he told her. "I was trying to be encouraging. I forgot to give you the nonstupid translation."
"We should have taken the Jeep, too. I hate getting all squished," Isabel complained. Then she looked over her shoulder at Maria. "Sorry. I forgot to give you the non-self-centered translation."
"It's better that we only took one car," Michael said. "I don't think it's a good idea to convoy to the cave. It could get noticed."
It wasn't the real reason he'd wanted them all in one car. He didn't want anyone getting to Trevor without him. The only reason he'd even told them Trevor's whereabouts was so that Trevor could prove he was innocent.