Shades

8

small as the house had seemed on the outside, the structure seemed even smaller on the inside. Max felt awkward and embarrassed and scared all at the same time.

A woman… Max had to assume she was Cathy Callingcrow… cowered in a corner with her hands over her head. Blood wept from a long cut on her cheek. Sobs and violent trembling wracked her slight frame. She wore jeans and a mans T-shirt, and didn't look thirty yet.

The furniture in the room had been overturned. Ragged tears across the material testified to the use of knives or claws. Holes showed in the walls. A kitchen chair stuck out from one wall, two of its legs curled and bent underneath while the other two legs pierced the wall. The chair was a match to the one out on the porch. Pictures lay scattered across the carpeted floor.

"Where is he?" Grayhawk demanded.

"I'm here, George Grayhawk!" a harsh voice roared.

Looking to the center of the room, amazed at the destruction that had already taken place, Max saw a tall man dressed in jeans, a khaki shirt, and stained work boots standing in the doorway to the small kitchen on the other side of the room. He wore his gray hair braided on either side of his head. A beaded headband crossed his forehead, marked with a twist of eagle feathers that hung down behind his head. His face was lined and parched like leather that had been left out in the sun too long.

River Dog looked at Max. "Do you see the spirit?" the shaman asked.

Max nodded. "You don't see him?"

"Henry Callingcrow is not my ancestor," River Dog said. "He is of my family, but not of my fathers blood. Where is he?"

Max pointed toward the doorway to the kitchen. "There."

"What is he doing?" River Dog asked.

"He's here to punish me," Cathy Callingcrow croaked from the corner. "He says our people should not be here. He says we are all going to be punished by violating the treaty that the Mesaliko agreed to with the spirits."

"I don't see anyone here," Grayhawk challenged.

"He knows you," Max replied. "He called you by name."

Uneasy, Grayhawk turned to peer at the doorway

"He's there." Cathy Callingcrow wiped at her face with a shaking hand. "He said he was going to kill me."

River Dog moved, staying away from the doorway and walking to a position in front of the woman. "I won't allow him to hurt you now, child," the shaman promised.

Henry Callingcrow darted into movement without warning, stepping into the group of men. His fists flailed, knocking the men down like a WWE wrestler mowing down ninety-eight-pound weaklings. Thunder crackled in the room, and lightning blasted a jagged streak down one wall. The burn pattern smoked and stank.

George Grayhawk and the other men yelled and cursed in fear and rage as they tried to regroup. Grayhawk managed to swing his crowbar, evidently judging the ghost's location from another man who suddenly flew backward. If the crowbar touched the spirit… and Max wasn't sure that it did… the heavy tool did nothing to slow it.

Henry Callingcrow stepped toward River Dog and the cowering woman. She screamed in terror and buried her face behind her arms.

Another group of men reached the doorway of the house and started to come inside.

River Dog held up a hand to the men. "Stay. You can do no good here."

The new arrivals didn't like the idea, but they also saw how the spirit had left George Grayhawk and his construction team sprawled on the floor.

Knowing he couldn't stand by and do nothing, though unsure if there was anything he could do, Max moved to intercept the ghost. He stopped in front of River Dog with a hand outstretched. In the small confines of the room, there wasn't much room to maneuver.

Henry Callingcrow's face was livid with rage. "Go away, outsider," he ordered in a hoarse voice. "Go away and maybe you'll live."

Max wanted to speak, but if the ghost was really some ethereal remnant of the man who had once lived, he didn't know what to say to him.

River Dog began to chant behind Max. "Listen to me, Cathy Callingcrow," the shaman said, "listen to me and don't be afraid. Vengeful spirits are powered by our fears. Our ancestors learned this the first time they faced them. If you are not afraid, they can't hurt you."

Max didn't believe that. But as he watched, the manifestation standing before him seemed to waver, like a computer monitor scrolling to refresh an image.

River Dog continued chanting.

"No!" Henry Callingcrow barked. Then he threw himself forward.

Moving on instinct, Max intercepted the ghost, putting out both hands to stop the creature. There was a momentary resistance, as if he were pushing through heavy pudding or gelatin, a terrible cold feeling, then lightning blazed into the room again.

In the next heartbeat the ghost faded from sight.

Panicked, breathing hard, not daring to believe the thing was really gone, Max glanced desperately around the room. What had made it go? River Dog's ancestor had passed into his body before disappearing.

"Is it gone?" River Dog asked in a quiet voice.

Max stared at Grayhawk, who was urging his men to their feet.

"I think so," Max said. Then he noticed that the young woman was limp against River Dog. "Is she…is she…"

Understanding his concern, River Dog shook his head. "She's alive. She just passed out."

Drawn to the woman, Max leaned down. He studied the long tear on her face. Even with a good plastic surgeon, he knew the wound would leave a terrible scar, and she would be in horrible pain. He didn't want that for her. Mastering his energy, he placed his hand on her face.

"What are you doing?" Grayhawk challenged behind him.

"Silence," River Dog ordered.

Max healed the woman, watching how the flesh knitted back together. In seconds, her breathing deepened and evened out, then there was not even a scratch to mark where the wound had been.

Feeling drained, Max took his hand away. He glanced up at River Dog. "In a few days," he said, "she'll have a mark on her face. A silver imprint of my hand." He remembered the imprint Liz had shown him on her stomach. "It'll fade. It's nothing to worry about."

"I understand," River Dog replied.

Max nodded. "You'll probably have one on your chest from this morning."

"Thank you," River Dog said.

Slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves with Gray-hawk and his men standing so close behind him, Max stood. His knees trembled. He looked at River Dog. "I don't understand any of this."

The shaman nodded. "We will. In time, we will. Help me with her."

Before Max could step forward and help with the unconscious woman, Grayhawk shoved him aside and gathered Cathy Callingcrow into his arms. "I've got her," Grayhawk said to River Dog. "Get the Visitor out of our town. His presence here is making things worse."

Stung, Max felt his face burn. All he wanted was to be out of the village and back in Roswell.

"What happened here?"

Michael looked up from the broom and dustpan he was using to sweep broken glass from the floor of the Crash-down Cafe. After the incident with Leroy Wilkins, Liz's parents had closed the cafe and assigned the crew to clean up. Michael wasn't particularly happy with the continued work, because he'd been looking forward to getting home and taking a nap. He still hadn't gotten quite caught up on sleep after working in the desert last week.

Isabel stood only a few feet away looking around. She looked freshly dressed and smelled like soap and shampoo, like she'd just stepped out of a shower.

"I thought you were working today," Michael said.

"I was. I am." Isabel fixed him with one of those imperious looks he knew so well. "I'm kind of in a hurry here."

"Me too," Michael said. "I was hoping to get off some time today." He waved the dustpan at the windows where shards of glass still clung to the frames. "The cafe's closed, but I'm going to be working harder than ever cleaning the place up."

Isabel crossed her arms. "I heard some kind of freak dust devil trashed the cafe. I also heard that a poltergeist destroyed everything. I wanted to know which it was."

"And if I told you it was a ghost?" Michael asked.

"What kind of ghost?" Isabel asked.

Looking over the destruction of the cafe, Michael said, "Well, it definitely wasn't the Casper the Friendly Ghost type. He was more like the Ghostly Trio, by way of Steven Spielberg."

"I need more than that."

Shrugging, Michael said, "It was the ghost of some old prospector named Swanson. Kind of a goofy-looking guy."

"The ghost wasn't a little kid?"

Michael stared at her, seeing that the veneer of calm and control was wearing thin. "You've seen a ghost."

"I've seen something," Isabel agreed. "Although what we need to call it remains to be seen."

"Where did you see your ghost?" Michael wasn't terribly interested, but at least now Maria would have to listen to Isabel talk about ghosts too.

"Later," Isabel replied. "Look, we need to get together and talk. Do you know where Max is?"

"No," Michael replied. "He hasn't been around."

"Maybe we haven't been around for him." Isabel frowned and gave Michael a reproachful look.

Michael didn't say anything. He didn't feel guilty. Max was a big boy. Max didn't have trouble seeking Michael out when he wanted something, and Max had developed a habit of doing his own thing whether Isabel or Michael approved. That tendency was one of the things Michael respected about Max.

Isabel looked around. "Where's Liz?"

"Hospital."

Concern lit Isabel's features. "Was she hurt?"

"No. Liz's dad had her go to the hospital and make sure everything is taken care of. She's a witness for the police reports on behalf of the cafe. Insurance and stuff like that in case the guy sues."

"Good," Isabel said. "I want to go there myself. If you need me, that's where I'll be."

Irritated, knowing Isabel had seen a ghost and hating the way she left him hanging even though she'd demanded answers to all her questions, Michael watched her go. If Isabel was interested in the ghosts, if she'd seen one as well, things were about to take another turn into the strange and unpredictable in Roswell.

Across the street, a number of teenagers and townsfolk had gathered to gawk at the damage. Dozens of rumors were already making the rounds about the damage. There was even a suggestion that the Crashdown Cafe had been built over an old Indian burial ground.

"Does that broom still fit your hands?"

Turning at the sound of Maria's voice, Michael found her standing a few feet behind him. "I was talking to Isabel."

Maria made a point of looking around. "She's gone now, so unless you're using telepathy, you're done."

Recognizing the tone of disapproval in Maria's voice, Michael asked, "Are you mad about something?"

"No," Maria answered flatly. "Should I be?"

"No," Michael said. He gestured at the ruined state of the cafe. "I didn't do this."

"There are a lot of things you don't do, Michael. There are a lot of thing you evidently don't even think about doing." Without another word, Maria turned and walked back into the kitchen area.

Michael tried to get back to work, but he knew he couldn't. When he totally had no clue about what was upsetting Maria, Michael knew there was only one course of action. Sighing, he put his broom and dustpan down, then unknotted the strings of his apron and left it on a table.

He walked through the door into the kitchen and found Maria scrubbing pots and pans in a sink full of soapy water. Soap and water splattered the floor around her work area, mute testimony to the fact that she'd gotten herself worked up before she'd come looking for him.

Michael leaned a hip against the grill, crossed his arms over his chest, and prepared for the worst. Anytime Maria got this way, he knew she blamed him for something. The ghost wreaking havoc in the Crashdown Cafe was the biggest thing he could think of. And he wasn't responsible for that. "I didn't bring the ghost here," he said.

Maria kept washing dishes.

Michael prepared a mental list of things that had gone badly. "I didn't volunteer us for the cleanup detail."

"No," Maria said in a cold, distant voice. "I did that. I knew we could both use the money, and Liz's parents could use the help."

"You didn't ask me," Michael pointed out. "I could be mad about that."

Maria looked at him. She'd been washing dishes with enough effort that small puffs of soap had splashed up into her hair. "Are you mad about that?"

Wisely, based on considerable experience with that tone of voice and that look, Michael chose discretion as the better part of valor. "No. Extra money is good. Even though I've still got quite a bit put back from the work out in the desert."

"So you didn't need this?"

Michael sighed. This is going to be bad. As much as he racked his brain, though, he couldn't think of one thing he'd done wrong. There hadn't even been time, really.

"Um, about not telling you about the ghost," Michael tried. "I was wrong about that. I should have told you."

"I wouldn't have believed you," Maria said.

Michael blinked in confusion. Had he missed something? "I don't understand why you're mad, then," he admitted.

Maria blew out her breath in obvious frustration.

Michael cringed and took a step back. He hadn't backed away from the ghost of the old prospector even when lightning started striking inside the Crashdown Cafe, but he backed away from the wrath Maria exhibited.

"Did you even think about what you did?" Maria asked.

"I didn't do anything," Michael protested.

"Yes, you did."

"What?"

"You saved Liz from the ghost," Maria said, "and I was standing right there\ You didn't think about saving me!"