look."
"Thank you," Max said.
"When you get back to Roswell," the shaman said, "see if you and the others can find out more about the spirits that are haunting Roswell."
Max narrowed his eyes, reducing his field of vision. "What do you mean?"
"The spirits are also invading Roswell."
"How do you know?"
"People from the village have returned from shopping there today. While I was caring for Cathy Callingcrow at her home, several of them talked to me. There was an attack at the Crashdown Cafe."
Oh my god, Max thought. Liz! "Was anyone hurt?"
"Only a man," River Dog answered. "His name is Leroy Wilkins."
The name meant nothing to Max.
"Wilkins is known to us," River Dog went on. "Nearly thirty years ago, Wilkins was almost put in jail for mining on reservation land."
"I've got to go," Max said. He twisted the key in the ignition, listening to the engine rumble to life.
River Dog leaned back from the car's window and stood. "A piece of this journey yet remains to you."
Max waved the man's words off as he jammed the transmission into reverse. The Cutlass's tires spun against the sand-covered ground, stirring up a cloud of dust. Screeching to a halt, Max put the car in a forward gear and peeled out, getting back onto the road that would take him to the highway back to Roswell.
As he followed the crooked trail back up the hillside that led to the highway, movement on Max's right caught his attention. Amid the waves of shimmering heat coasting above the sandy terrain, a dozen riders gathered on horseback.
All of the riders were Indian braves. Although the images didn't come across as sharply and distinctly as had the images of Bear-Killer and Henry Callingcrow, Max had no problem recognizing the war paint that turned their faces into angry, otherworldly masks. The ponies pranced and shifted, tails flicking as the riders talked to one anther and stared at the Cutlass.
Then, with voices yelling loud enough to be heard over the Cutlass's engine and air conditioner, the warriors kicked their mounts into full gallop. They lifted their spears and bows high as they took up pursuit of Max's car.
Watching the rearview mirror, staying in the middle of the dirt road to avoid the bar ditches and ruts on either side, Max saw the war party disappear in the fog of swirling dust that the Cutlass stirred up. He could no longer see River Dog, either.
At the top of the rise, Max kept the accelerator pressed down hard and ignored the stop sign at the end of the road. He yanked the wheel to the left, throwing the Cutlass into a controlled skid across both lanes of the highway. Rubber shrilled, and for a moment he fought the car for control. Then he had the Cutlass aimed for Roswell, hoping that he didn't trip a state policeman's radar.
10
Did it ever even cross your mind to try to save me while you were saving Liz?"
Pinned by the question, knowing that never in a million years would he have figured on being asked that, Michael stared at Maria.
Only silence, interrupted by the hissing pop of expiring soap bubbles in the three-compartment kitchen sink, stretched between them.
"I was standing between you and the ghost," Michael pointed out. "You were protected. Even when I knocked Liz to the floor."
Angrily, Maria put one soapy fist on her hip. "Since I couldn't see the ghost, I guess I'm supposed to take your word for that."
Michael thought about her statement. Like the previous question, whatever answer he gave was a minefield that could be turned against him. "You weren't hurt," he pointed out.
"I could have been."
"I could have been too," Michael said. "I wasn't. You weren't. We got off lucky."
Maria shook her head. "I can't believe you. That's the best response you have?"
"Maria, I thought about saving you."
"You thought about saving me?" Maria asked. "Knowing you deliberately chose not to save me makes this even worse, Michael."
Actually, Michael was of the opinion that things couldn't get any worse. Or that the change was
"Thank you," Max said.
"When you get back to Roswell," the shaman said, "see if you and the others can find out more about the spirits that are haunting Roswell."
Max narrowed his eyes, reducing his field of vision. "What do you mean?"
"The spirits are also invading Roswell."
"How do you know?"
"People from the village have returned from shopping there today. While I was caring for Cathy Callingcrow at her home, several of them talked to me. There was an attack at the Crashdown Cafe."
Oh my god, Max thought. Liz! "Was anyone hurt?"
"Only a man," River Dog answered. "His name is Leroy Wilkins."
The name meant nothing to Max.
"Wilkins is known to us," River Dog went on. "Nearly thirty years ago, Wilkins was almost put in jail for mining on reservation land."
"I've got to go," Max said. He twisted the key in the ignition, listening to the engine rumble to life.
River Dog leaned back from the car's window and stood. "A piece of this journey yet remains to you."
Max waved the man's words off as he jammed the transmission into reverse. The Cutlass's tires spun against the sand-covered ground, stirring up a cloud of dust. Screeching to a halt, Max put the car in a forward gear and peeled out, getting back onto the road that would take him to the highway back to Roswell.
As he followed the crooked trail back up the hillside that led to the highway, movement on Max's right caught his attention. Amid the waves of shimmering heat coasting above the sandy terrain, a dozen riders gathered on horseback.
All of the riders were Indian braves. Although the images didn't come across as sharply and distinctly as had the images of Bear-Killer and Henry Callingcrow, Max had no problem recognizing the war paint that turned their faces into angry, otherworldly masks. The ponies pranced and shifted, tails flicking as the riders talked to one anther and stared at the Cutlass.
Then, with voices yelling loud enough to be heard over the Cutlass's engine and air conditioner, the warriors kicked their mounts into full gallop. They lifted their spears and bows high as they took up pursuit of Max's car.
Watching the rearview mirror, staying in the middle of the dirt road to avoid the bar ditches and ruts on either side, Max saw the war party disappear in the fog of swirling dust that the Cutlass stirred up. He could no longer see River Dog, either.
At the top of the rise, Max kept the accelerator pressed down hard and ignored the stop sign at the end of the road. He yanked the wheel to the left, throwing the Cutlass into a controlled skid across both lanes of the highway. Rubber shrilled, and for a moment he fought the car for control. Then he had the Cutlass aimed for Roswell, hoping that he didn't trip a state policeman's radar.
10
Did it ever even cross your mind to try to save me while you were saving Liz?"
Pinned by the question, knowing that never in a million years would he have figured on being asked that, Michael stared at Maria.
Only silence, interrupted by the hissing pop of expiring soap bubbles in the three-compartment kitchen sink, stretched between them.
"I was standing between you and the ghost," Michael pointed out. "You were protected. Even when I knocked Liz to the floor."
Angrily, Maria put one soapy fist on her hip. "Since I couldn't see the ghost, I guess I'm supposed to take your word for that."
Michael thought about her statement. Like the previous question, whatever answer he gave was a minefield that could be turned against him. "You weren't hurt," he pointed out.
"I could have been."
"I could have been too," Michael said. "I wasn't. You weren't. We got off lucky."
Maria shook her head. "I can't believe you. That's the best response you have?"
"Maria, I thought about saving you."
"You thought about saving me?" Maria asked. "Knowing you deliberately chose not to save me makes this even worse, Michael."
Actually, Michael was of the opinion that things couldn't get any worse. Or that the change was
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