---

---

by Galen Peoples
   It started with the missing pictures.
   Early that Saturday morning–so early she had not left for work yet–Maria was sitting cross-legged in the lounge chair she favored particularly, and leafing through the family album, while her mother carried four tote bags to the front door, one on each shoulder and one in each hand. She felt annoyed that her daughter (and only housemate) did not bestir herself to help her, but Maria was lost in the past: hers and her mother's. All at once, there came flooding over her features a tide of anxiety, mingled with deprival. She looked to Amy. "Mom, it's not here!"
   Amy was struggling to turn the doorknob without putting down (and then having to pick up again) any of her baggage, and she finally managed it. "I have to be going, honey. Whatever the problem is–"
   "But the picture's not here! Did you take it?"
   "Picture? Which picture?"
   "The one of you and Dad. The only one of you and Dad."
   "Yes, and does that tell you something? I haven't touched it. It's probably just misplaced."
   "No! I was looking at it last night."
   "You see? It must have come unstuck and fallen into the sofa cushions. Keep looking. I'm sure it'll turn up."
   Maria flipped the page. "Another one's not here! The one of me and Roman!"
   "Roman, your Dalmatian?"
   Maria had a frightening inductive flash. "Somebody must have broken in and stolen them!"
   "Who'd do a thing like that? The only person who's been here is Jim, and he wouldn't–" Amy stopped, realizing that she could not be absolutely sure of this. But at the moment her thumbs were sore from carrying and, as she had said, she had to be going. "I'll find out when I get back from the festival. See you on Monday." She squeezed out the door with her cargo. Belatedly, Maria got up to lend her a hand, and together they loaded the bags into the back seat of the Jetta. Amy gave Maria a hug. "'bye, honey. Love you."
   "Love you too." To this family-ritual response she added, as Amy buckled up, "Divértete. Have fun, Mom."
   Amy threw her a gimme-a-break look. "The crowd has fun, honey. I just sit there and hawk my wares." Then she embarked on her drive, which would normally take seven hours but which she was confident, based on experience, that she could reduce to five if the state police were obliging; that is to say, somewhere else. Maria went back inside, her thoughts still on lost pictures, and lost days. "Poor Roman," she grieved. He had died when she was seven, and his death had hit her hard that she had refused to have a pet since. So that evening the house was entirely hers, and without a visit from Michael or a phone chat with Liz to keep her up late she was in bed a little past 9.
   Date: 04/09/00. Time: 0120 hr. That was the official estimate that appeared in the eventual police report. A semi rig was approaching the city on the 285, its headlight beams sweeping the grey asphalt ahead. They flashed onto a human figure lying motionless in the brush, just off the shoulder of the highway. The driver pulled over, stopped as far ahead as it took him to brake, and walked back, bracing himself against the wind of other trucks as they passed; at that hour they had the road largely to themselves. When he reached the spot, he found that his eyes had not deceived him: the body was sprawled in a stillness beyond sleep. There was no doubt of the man's condition, but the trucker knelt and felt the neck, just to make sure: it was pulseless and cold. "You're a goner," he declared.
   Then he turned the body over–and started at what he saw. Across the rib cage, lying exposed through the rents in the shirt, shone a silver handprint, whose like he had never seen before. He ran back to the truck, hauled himself into the cabin, and switched the mike on. "Breaker, breaker, any station, emergency. There's a dead man, repeat, a dead man, on boulevard 285 north of Roswell. Notify sheriff, repeat, notify sheriff." He kept it up, the same message again and again, until someone out in the night answered him, assured him the sheriff was on his way.
   It was still dark when the knock came at Maria's door. Ignore it as she tried, it would not cease, and soon it was augmented by Valenti's voice: "Amy? Come on in there!" Maria sat up growling, and felt on the floor for her top and jeans. By the time she undid the front door latch, she had primed herself to let him know just how much she disliked being roused at that hour of the morning. But the complaint died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. It had a simple seriousness to it, like a minister's, that she had not seen there before. "What's wrong?" she asked. Then a sickening fear grabbed her. "Something's happened to Mom, hasn't it?"
   "No, it's her I came to–oh, shoot, she's in Taos. At that balloon thing." He thought for a moment. "Afraid I'll have to ask you to come downtown with me."
   "Why, am I in trouble?" Another fear grabbed her. "Has Michael been arrested again?" Odd she should still be worried about him.
   "No, nothing like that." Maria waited. "Okay, I don't know how to break this to you easy, so I'll just say it straight out. It's your dad. He's dead. I need you to ID the body. I'd ask your mom, but...."
   "My dad? No, he–" She began to say there must have been some mistake, because her dad had not been around for years.
   "A body was found out on the highway. There was no ID on it, but the prints are a match. The FBI's got his on file from that time...." He let it drop.
   "But we haven't seen him in, like, ten years." Then she made the connection. "Oh, my God. The pictures. It was him. Not you."
   "Not me?"
   "Some pictures are missing from the album. Mom said you were the only one who'd been in the house."
   "She thought I'd take something of yours without asking?"
   Maria cared little just then about his hurt feelings. "Must have been my dad. He sneaked in and took them. He always used to take things without asking, Mom said–money usually. That's the only thing that makes sense."
   "Not a whole lot of sense," Valenti murmured.
   "No, don't you see? He didn't have any pictures of us and he wanted some to remember us by. It shows we still mean–meant something to him, after all."
   "Well, maybe," Valenti allowed.
   Maria realized she had not yet asked the obvious question. "How did he die?"
   "We don't know. But there's a–" He stopped, preferring to hold off for the moment. "You'll see when we get there. Go grab your jacket." Maria felt a churning sensation in her stomach. Her father had meant little enough to her, but she had never seen a dead body except at a funeral service, and this would be different: no minister and no mourners (unless you counted her), just the police.
   The churning sensation returned as she faced the double row of slabs in the basement of the sheriff's station–six slabs in all; Roswell had never needed more. Tonight only two were occupied. The morgue attendant led her to the farther one and turned down the sheet covering the body. As Maria stared into the face, she discovered it to be as devoid of meaning as it was of life; this was not the person she had known, however vaguely, only a faint echo of him. "Maria?" Valenti prodded gently. "Is it him?"
   "Oh, it's him, definitely. Didn't know for sure if I'd be able to tell, it's been so long. But, seeing him like this...." She began crying in spite of herself. "Damn!" Valenti brought her a tissue from the counter, and she blew her nose on it. "What do you suppose they use these things for down here?" then she shook her head. "Forget it, I'd rather not know."
   "Sorry. I didn't expect it'd get to you like this."
   "It's not because I loved him!" she broke out. "I mean, maybe I did, back then, but I don't remember."
   "It's a reflex," Valenti suggested. "You see your dad's body, so naturally–"
   "Mmp-mm." Maria blew again. "What it is, is he wasn't there when I needed him, and now he won't ever be. Of course I knew he wouldn't be coming back, but I could always pretend. And now...." She began crying again. "¡Chechon!" she scolded herself. Valenti moved to hug her, and she slid away. Not in a million lifetimes, she thought. Or deathtimes. "Who did this to him?"
   "We don't know. Except for this." He folded the sheet down again to reveal the silver handprint. "I'll ask you to keep this–"
   Maria sprang back, and glared up at him like a cornered animal. "You put that there!" Everything was clear to her now. "That's not my dad! It's a trick, to try and get me to tell you things! I know how you operate. But I'm not buying it. You understand? None of it!"
   "Maria!" Valenti and the attendant both started toward her at once.
   "Don't touch me! Both of you, keep away!" She ran out to the stairs.
   "Her mom'll love this," Valenti muttered. He ran after her, but she was faster than he was, and by the time he reached the street-level doors she had vanished into one of the surrounding alleyways. "Damn!" he said. But he had his ID; he could go home to bed now.
   Maria could not–or had much rather not–and to her surprise she ended up at Michael's apartment. In spite of everything, she felt he was the only one who would understand and be able to help. None of their friends had thought it necessary to inform her of his having left, since they knew the two had stopped seeing each other. Admitting herself with her key, which Michael had neglected to confiscate, she saw a figure stretched out on the sofa, evidently asleep. "Michael?" she whispered. The figure half rolled over; she could see now that it was the wrong size. In alarm, she flicked on the light. "Max!" she cried out.
   She was disappointed, but she was also relieved. What would she have said to Michael? And what would he have said to her?
   "Maria?" Max sat up, yawning. "What are you doing here this late? And what time is it?"
   Maria did not know and so could not tell him. "Where's Michael?" she asked.
   "Gone."
   "What do you mean, gone? Gone where?"
   "We don't know. I had a hope he might come back to his apartment. Not much of a hope, I admit, but–"
   Maria fell into the chair opposite him and reviewed, with greater clarity of mind than before, what had occurred at the morgue. "Max, Nasedo's here. In Roswell."
   "Then you have seen Michael." Since he and Nasedo were together, the conclusion seemed obvious.
   But it confused Maria. "Seen him? No, I came to warn him."
   "Then how do you know about Nasedo?"
   "He's killed–somebody else. Valenti showed me the body. It had his handprint on it."
   "Why would Valenti show you?"
   "Because–it was my father. Nasedo killed my father. I went into denial mode, acted muy loco. But it was him. I knew. I mean, I identified him." Max wanted to express his condolences but was unsure what form they should take. "It's okay," Maria assured him. "I mean, you know, relatively speaking. Death is never okay really. But I'm not broken up over it or anything. I mean, I hardly knew the man. And based on what I do know, he was no great loss to anybody." She corralled herself back to the point, which she was working out in her head as she was speaking. "But he was my father. And I'm his only child–at least the only one I know of. The last of the Delucas. So it's on my shoulders."
   Max was not quite following. "What is?"
   "What needs to be done. You know–whatever." Having said this, she realized she had already a half-formed idea of what it was. "You don't know, do you?" she went on. "Until a thing like this happens. Then you see it and you say, yeah, this is why I'm here instead of some place else. And you say, right, okay then, I'm on, I'm down, I'm here to play. Or else you run. And I'm not running. Mom never did, you can bet on that." She sat reconciling herself to her decision. "And so I'm pretty much cool with it. I mean, totally. Totally cool." But it felt awfully final. She wondered why she did not feel more frightened about it than she did; maybe at the moment she was beyond further feeling.
   Max had continued to listen dutifully, but with increasing perplexity. "Excuse me, Maria, I have no idea what you're talking about."
   This brought her out of her rumination. "Good," she said. "That's good." Then she returned to a thought which encouraged her slightly, the one that had brought her there in the first place. "I can get Michael to help me. When he gets back from–wherever he's gone." Even though he had broken it off with her, wanted no more to do with her apparently, this transcended that; this was about Nasedo.
   Max did not know how to break it to her. "Maria, Michael...."
   The expression on his face did frighten her. "What about Michael?"
   "He–may not be coming back. Ever." He was reluctant to tell the rest. "He left with Nasedo. The two of them together."
   Maria took this in. "You're sure?"
   "I saw them. We all did." Maria had to admit that it was something he could have done, would have done. Max quickly added, "But I'm sure he had nothing to do with what happened to your dad."
   "How are you sure? To Michael we're the enemy, right?"
   "That's–just his way of talking." It came out sounding hollow; both of them heard it.
   "What did Nasedo look like?" Maria asked. "I mean, when you saw him."
   "Hispanic. Tall and lean, with a beard. I'd seen him in that form before, only I didn't know it." Maria had too, at the gym. "But he looks weaker than he did. Like this world's been weighing on him, draining his energy."
   At the same moment Maria heard the word "energy", she saw it written in Michael's hand on a slip of note paper lying atop the coffee table between them. "Energy sources," the top line read, in letters big enough for her to distinguish from where she was sitting. When Max was not looking she leaned forward and scooped up the note. Then she rose. "Gotta get home," she said. "I need my beauty sleep."
   Since Max insisted on escorting her she had no chance to read the rest of the note until she got inside. "Energy sources," she read. "Lib. AG. Rocks. RR Mus–ask Liz." The only way she would ever be able to make sense of it would be to do as the last two words directed. She would have preferred not to ask Liz the time of day; but then, she would have preferred not to be in the position she was, not to have to do any of it. She was not sure she could do it anyhow. She searched the family album for another picture of her father, though she knew none existed. In its absence she spoke to the unfaded rectangle that marked where the one had been. "I'm gonna do this for you this once, okay? But don't expect me to make a habit of it." So much and no more had she achieved by 4:30 or so, when sleep kicked in. The alarm was set for 6.
   In the grey half-light she walked to the Crashdown and stood in the alley alongside while she tried to work out the best approach to take with Liz. If I can't deal with her, she said to herself, how will I ever handle–him? Before she could resolve either issue, Liz came out and spoke to her. "Hey, Maria," she said, sounding caring rather than hostile. "I was sorry to hear about your dad."
   Maria was astonished. "How do you know about that?"
   "Deputy Owen's our first customer. You know that."
   "Oh, yeah. Don't suppose he mentioned–no, Valenti would be keeping that quiet."
   "Keeping what quiet?"
   Maria hesitated to tell her: it felt like disclosing family business to an outsider. "There was a handprint on the body."
   "You mean like–"
   "Like Nasedo." She hesitated again. "And, Liz, Michael's with him. They're together."
    "So he did find out," said Liz. "F-word!" She never, but never, used that kind of language, and was immediately ashamed of herself for it. "Sorry," she offered, "I lost control there for a second."
   The obvious implication–that she had known something about Michael that Maria had not–passed Maria by; her concern lay in another direction. "I should have seen it coming, you know? Not the alien murder part of it, which is not a thing you normally look for, but the part about Michael cutting himself off from me for all time. That was, like, fated. In the genes. Oil and water–can't mix."
   "Oh, you're so right, Maria. More than you have any idea." Given this vent, all of it poured out of her. "You and Michael, or me and Max–any human and one of them–we can't ever have–ever make–ever engage in–" Her cheeks grew redder and redder as she spoke.
   "Liz, I get it, all right?"
   "I mean, ever. Ever ever. It's not safe. I should have told you before. I owed you that much. I was waiting for further observations to confirm it."
   That was Liz to the teeth. "Scientist girl."
   Liz nearly smiled at that. "Yeah."
   "So what was to confirm?"
   The near-smile evaporated. "Their blood–it poisons ours. So it's reasonable to suppose the other–substances their bodies produce may be equally harmful. You understand what I'm saying?"
   What am I, ¿la estupida? Maria thought. "How do you know? About their blood being poisonous?"
   "Easy," said Liz. "It poisoned me." And her manner was easy–calm, intelligent, and direct; she had come to terms at last with the fact of her own temporariness.
   Maria, however, had still to do so. "Oh, my God," she said. "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod." Despite their recent differences, she felt a vast outpouring of sympathy for the girl she had been friends with for so long. "Then does this mean–are you going to–" She could not bring herself to finish.
   Liz helped her out. "Not tomorrow. Probably not for a long time yet. I mean, Grunewald's still with us. But eventually, I guess–yeah."
   "Oh, Liz!" Maria could not think of any words more adequate to the occasion.
   "It's okay, you know? I'm dealing."
   Maria was silent for a few moments while she sorted things out, much more slowly than Liz would have in her place. "You know, though, in a way it's good. For me, that is."
   "Happy to help," Liz said bleakly.
   Maria missed the irony. "I mean, it makes the situation totally clear. They're the enemy. Bottom line, right?"
   "That's what Michael kept saying. That this was what it would come down to in the end and we'd all do terrible things to each other."
   "See, that's what I mean. You always do that–make things clear. It's how you run your life. If only mine was that way. It's so much easier to do things when you–"
   "Plan them ahead?" Liz suggested.
   This was true, but not what Maria had had in mind. "–see them clearly. So make one more thing clear for me, mi amiga."
   "If I can."
   "Oh, you can. It says so on this note Michael left." She produced it from her purse. "You'll know what it means."
   Liz looked it over. "These must be places on that map of his–the one from the cave. This one's the library–"
   "I know about that."
   "'AG' is Angels' Ground. I don't recognize the others. Michael must have found them on his own."
   "What does it mean, 'energy sources'?"
   "That's what they are. Repositories for cosmic energy of some kind. In fact–"
   "Energy!" Maria interrupted. "If Nasedo ran dry, that's where he'd go to fill up. One of those places. You wouldn't have a copy of that map?"
   "No, why?" Liz made a quick inference. "You're not thinking of going after him?"
   "Them," Maria corrected. "Going after them."
   "And what happens if you find them?"
   "Then–I've found them. The two that killed my father." Her face was set.
   "You don't know that Michael was involved."
   "I didn't for sure–until I talked to you."
   Liz regretted this. "Supposing you do find them? What then?" She was getting an uneasy feeling that she already knew.
   "They must have asked themselves that, don't you think? Michael looks at Nasedo and he's, like, 'Hey, Nas, buddy, what do we do here? Give this guy a break? Show him some mercy? Or do we off the sucker?' Well, we know their answer, don't we? Worked for them, works for me."
   "You're not saying–"
   Maria met her gaze without blinking. "Aren't I?"
   Liz was aghast. "Maria, think what you're doing!"
   "Get in that habit, I'd end up not doing anything." Liz started to protest further. "Michael almost went over to him once before. Did you know that?" Liz had not. "That time it was only about me and I could let it pass. This is family."
   "Maria, your dad abandoned you. You don't owe him."
   "It's not him personally. It's the obligation. Working where you do, you should understand that."
   "Maria, look–"
   Maria held up her hand. "Stop. Just stop. But if I'm not back in a couple of days and my mom asks what gives...." She paused and smiled. "There isn't a damn thing you can tell her, is there?"
   Liz cast around in her mind for another argument she could bring out, and she could think of none. She felt more helpless than she ever had before in her life. Her best friend (she supposed that their talking like this made them best friends again) was planning a terrible, an inconceivable act. Liz could not say absolutely that it would be wrong, considering the circumstances–but it was unconsidered, unwise, and probably impossible; Maria would only end up hurting herself, and maybe Michael–and what if Michael were innocent? But Liz knew it was of no use to keep at her about it; nobody could stop Maria from doing what she had made up (or, as in this case, pretty much made up) her mind to do. However, at least the two of them were "okay" now; that, Liz was thankful for. They sealed their mended bond with a long hug and a short goodbye; Liz hoped it would not be their last. Then Maria set out for the place she knew she had to go next.
   It was not yet mid-morning when she reached the sign welcoming visitors to the "Homelands of the Mesaliko." On Sundays the gift shop was closed, and the reservation–which was never bustling even at its busiest–seemed almost deserted. Of the few people out and about, the nearest were a pair of old women scuttling across the empty gravel lot in front of the tribal administration building.
   Maria approached the pair. "Uh, ladies? Excuse me? Can you direct me to the–" She had expected them to stop, but they scuttled on past her as if she had not been there. "To the cave with the paintings?" she said, more loudly. "Or can you direct me to River Dog's place?" At her utterance of the name, one of the women spared her a glance back and a tight shake of the head before she and the other one trotted off out of sight. Maria presumed the woman spoke English (all the other Mesaliko she knew about did), but it was unclear whether the question she had answered was the same one Maria had put.
   In any case, she did not need directions, really; she remembered that the cave entrance stood near a river which sliced through the reservation, and which she expected would be easy to find. Once she had left the road, she indeed found it without difficulty, but it was blanketed in a mist that hid all but a few yards of the surrounding terrain. She followed the tall grass along the bank for about a quarter mile, then diverged from it for half that distance, backtracked, then backtracked the other way, and got to where no habitations, and certainly no cave, were to be seen. It was then Maria realized she was lost. Each subsequent change of direction seemed more wrong and made her more frantic until, when she was nearly at her wits' end, she stumbled onto the cave mouth. "Knew it was around here," she said, in a sudden advent of unwarranted self-congratulation.
   Once inside the cave, she found herself pulling her jacket collar closer. She followed the passage to the map on the wall, took out a pen, and began to copy the hieroglyphics onto the back of Michael's note.
   "Why are you here?" said a voice she would have been unable to hear on a busy street; in the quietude of that setting, it so startled her that she cried out aloud. She turned to see a man sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall.
   "You scared me!" said Maria. Then she recognized his jacket. "Deputy Owen?"
   He seemed a different person there, hermitlike and meditative. "You know you're trespassing? This cave's council property. Whites aren't allowed unless they're specially invited."
   "I was invited, once. I helped save someone's life." On hearing this, Owen regarded her with greater interest. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," Maria added glumly.
   "Doesn't look like anyone's in jeopardy now, though."
   "No, I'm–doing a project for school. On Indian cave paintings."
   "If you knew anything about them you'd know these aren't Indian. They were made by–a visitor."
   "Nasedo?" The word escaped her involuntarily and she quickly tried to cover herself. "That's Mesaliko for 'visitor,' isn't it?"
   Owen nodded gravely. "But it's a word not often heard nowadays in this community. It was tainted for us by a visitor we had once, many years ago." He stared at her. "But you know about him, and what he did to your family." It was not a question. Maria's anger rose to her face; a moment later, she masked it. But Owen had seen. "The knowledge has planted a dark seed in you," he said. "It shows behind your eyes." Maria averted them. "Let it die, girl. He's too powerful for you. He's a brujo."
   "That word's not Indian either."
   Owen shook his head. "There is no Indian word for what he is."
   He was unable to tell whether Maria had understood; she gave no sign one way or the other, and that was deliberate. Just then she did not need opposition; she already had little enough confidence in her ability to carry out what she had undertaken. She changed the subject to the one that had brought her there. "You know how to read this?" she asked, turning back to the map.
   Owen got to his feet and joined her in front of it. "All my life I've studied these figures, trying to see the meaning in them. It's still a mystery."
   "But not totally, right?" said Maria. "I mean, it's a map. Here's the library. And somewhere on it is Angels' Ground."
   Owen ran his eyes over the symbols and picked out the one that Michael had guessed. "This is the shape of it. Strange, I've seen it from the helicopter, but I didn't recognize it before. When I'm here, on the homeland, I leave my white job out there." He stared at Maria again. "How did you know?"
   "I didn't. Michael did. And rocks–his list says there are rocks."
   Owen pointed to the symbol Topolsky had identified. "I've seen rocks like this, somewhere."
   "Somewhere close to here?"
   "No, not close."
   "What about 'RR Mus'?" She was reading from the slip of note paper. Even after having it spelled out, Owen did not get it, and Maria showed him the written words (if they could be called words).
   Owen pondered them for a little, together with the two unassigned symbols, and finally extended his finger toward the one Michael had discovered for himself. "'RR' is 'railroad'," said Owen. "This is the railroad museum. Has to be."
   "I know where that is! Thanks." Maria took back the note and returned it to her purse. "You know, you shouldn't be so down on yourself. You're great at this seeing stuff."
   "Mmm" was Owen's only answer. He was conning the map further, trying to "see" the last, most mysterious symbol, the spiral, by judging the distances and envisioning how they would appear from the county helicopter. Suddenly it came to him: "Why, this is–" He looked to where Maria had been standing, and then out to the passage whither she had gone. "Wait! Come see!" She did not come back, but Owen continued speaking to her as if she were there. "Better you'd waited," he said, "and seen. You're a part of it too. All of you." However, the particular part that Maria had chosen for herself was one that Owen (to the extent his own power of seeing could inform him) forecast that no good would come of. "Next time we meet," he said, "I fear it will be in my job out there." He had always kept a strict separation between his two worlds, personal and professional, Apache and white, but wondered whether the situation, this once, called for him to violate it.
   Soon Maria was wishing she had asked the deputy for directions back. But the mist had now lifted and, to her relief, within a few minutes she could see the road, or rather, the cluster of adobe and wood houses that surrounded it. She had found her way out.
   She took the road back to town as far as the industrial quarter, then turned off and headed for the railroad yard and former site of the Aickman Museum. Three out of five's not bad odds, she told herself, referring to the map symbols; as she thought more about it she realized the odds were closer to three out of four, since the rocks would be out in the desert, too far to be Nasedo's first choice for a pit stop (as she termed it in her mind).
   Maria reached the chain link fence which enclosed the rusted cars and she scaled it nimbly. As she dropped to the ground, a barking started up somewhere nearby. A watchdog? She made ready to take to the fence again if she had to. Around the cowcatcher of the locomotive appeared the head of the creature that had done the barking: a white head with black spots. A second later the rest of him trotted into view, all the way down to the wagging tail. He did not act mean in the least, and Maria loved him on sight; he looked just like Roman! A chill shot down her spine: it was Roman. It was the same dog, and he was dead.
   Maria jumped back. The dog turned and scampered out of sight around the engine. She stood frozen, almost too scared to follow, but for her family's sake she forced herself, one foot at a time, until she had rounded the engine nose and could see up the cabin steps. A man was sitting at the top. He smiled down at her.
   At first Maria took him for a tramp, and then she recognized the face, unchanged from twelve years before. It looked more like him than the one she had identified in the morgue. Another chill seized her, and she backed away from him. "Baby lamb!" he said, as if his feelings were hurt. "Don't you know your own father?"
   "You're not," Maria protested, as much to herself as to him. "You're the one that killed him."
   The man smiled again. "Nothing gets past you, does it?" Maria hated him, just looking at him, and wished she had a gun to kill him with. She actually considered attacking him with her bare hands, but he was bigger, and (when his medicine was working) a brujo–and there was nothing else around she could use as a weapon. She was forced to stand there, powerless, and watch as the man's features turned drippy, like jelly, and changed to those of Coach Clay. The clothes that had fit perfectly hung limply on him now. "Oh, dear," he said. "I liked Señor better–or was it Signore?" His face turned drippy again and changed back; the clothes resumed their shape.
   Then he hopped down from his perch. If his energy had been flagging, the place had indeed restored it, as Maria had surmised it would. "So you know about him. Then you also know he wasn't worth mourning. What else do you know?"
   Maria felt his consciousness wedging into hers. "Excuse me?" She pointed to her temple. "See the sign–'No trespassing'?"
   "Sorry." She felt him withdraw. "I do so hate to pry. But sometimes–"
   "You were acquainted with my dad, then?"
   "Briefly. Even more briefly than you. I believe you were only four years old when–"
   "I know the history. I lived it. How did you come to meet him? If you did." She was taking nothing he said at face value.
   "You might call us business associates. It was I who lured him here with a proposal to extort money from your mother." Maria saw no reason to doubt that. "It was only a pretext, of course. My true purpose was to take his measure–and, ultimately, his shape."
   "Why? Why him, of all people?"
   "Why, the better to fool you with, my dear. Unhappily, events betrayed me. The remains were discovered too soon. I knew I ought to destroy them, but it hardly seemed worthwhile. In addition, I failed to take into account your own native shrewdness."
   "I'm flattered," said Maria, meaning the opposite.
   "On one point, however, I'm afraid you're in error. The handprint on your father's corpse was your boyfriend's, not mine."
   "Michael?" Maria both believed and disbelieved this. "Where is he now?"
   "Why, I was hoping you could tell me."
   She stared at him. "I was told he was with you."
   "Was, yes. He went to retrieve some belongings from his house–gifts of yours to carry as keepsakes on his journey. He's very sentimental that way, you know. The cognizance of having lost all chance of your forgiveness weighed heavily on his spirit."
   "That is such a crock." It sounded so little like Michael, it almost made her laugh. But what had happened, then? Why was Nasedo looking for him? Or was he? Had he invented the story for a different purpose?
   "You're right," he said abruptly, as if he had read her thoughts again. "We're still together. Inseparables. And he's waiting for me a little way from here. If you want to get back at us for your father–I know you do, I can feel it–you'll have to find us." He shifted shape again, dwindling and mutating into the Dalmatian, then shook himself free of his human clothes, and ran to the fence, in which there suddenly opened a hole ringed with fire. He leapt through it, and it closed back after him. Then he sprinted off across the field beyond.
   "I will!" Maria shouted after him. "You bastard, you." This, she said in a voice not meant for him to hear. "You killed my dad." And for some reason then she began to cry. Didn't make much of a showing there, she thought. I had him in my sights and I let him go. And how will I ever find him now?
   She sensed that he and Michael had never been together; that when he had said so, he had been lying. Yet Max had said the same, and he had been telling the truth. That was logically impossible. There was something she was not seeing–something somewhere–somewhere Michael was, with Nasedo....
   She could not be sure afterward when she fell asleep. Or if she was actually sleeping when the vision appeared to her. It might have been a dream, or an image derived from the mental energy stockpiled in that place (though maybe that was all any dream was); whatever the nature of it might have been, it revealed to her, so clearly as to leave no doubt, Michael's–and Nasedo's–destination. She should have been able to guess it before, it was so obvious. Nobody ever fled north, only south; Michael–and Nasedo, probably–would know only one hideout in that direction. But Maria did not have to work out the logic of it; this was contained in the image before her. And all around her: she was at once inside and outside the place presented to her view. A place she remembered: a geodesic dome. And when she returned to normal consciousness, Maria knew where she had to go.
   She had intended to allow herself a good night's sleep, which she knew she would need for what lay ahead of her. But anticipation kept her wakeful late, and woke her early. In the morning, she filled her big knit bag with enough clothes and other personal items to last the week. By the end of that time she would–should–have achieved what she had set out to; she dared not think about what would happen if she failed, or for that matter if she succeeded. She was at the brink of a precipice, about to jump, and staring down into the chasm below, assailed by a cramping fear in her chest and belly–but it had been there since she had made up her mind to act; she was resigned to it now.
   Only for herself, however; not for her mother. And her concern was not totally unselfish. If her mother became frightened for her, she would tell Valenti, he would put out an APB, and Maria would be stopped before she had started. What was needed was a phone memo that would obviate the possibility of worry. So she improvised one. "Mom," she said into the receiver, affecting as casual a tone as possible in the circumstances, "I need a break from things. Thought I'd head out to Vegas and chill there for a few days. I've got friends there. In the casinos. So you don't need to worry." She paused and clicked the machine off. "Not even close."
   She started again. "Hey, Mom? Guess you've heard about Dad dying and that. I'm pretty broke up about it, so I'm taking some time off to heal my profound grief. Going camping up at the Toro rocks. Just me and my bedroll." She clicked off again. "Camping?"
   She tried a third time. "Mom, life so sucks."
   And once more–but this time without pressing "Start." "Mom, you've always told me families have to stick together. Everybody still thinks Dad ran out on you. I'm the only one who knows you ordered him out. Unless he changed his ways, which he refused to, being a total pendejo and general pig–rest his soul. But I never heard you bad-mouth him to other people. If they did, you took his side. And the same with me. When people would come and complain about me–with just cause, God knows–you'd put them in their place. And I always knew if anyone ever did anything to hurt me–which, thank God, it never happened–you'd track them down if it took your whole life."
   Maria paused. "You wouldn't do that for him now, I know. He's not your responsibility any more. But he is mine. Just because he was my dad. I don't know how this will all end–God, I don't even know how to start–but somehow–"
   She was interrupted by a pounding at the door, which at first she took for a gunshot: it was the way her mind was running. "Maria! You cooping in there?" The voice was Valenti's. Then he said to someone with him, "Shoot, she doesn't know anything. If she did I'd have picked up on it." The phrase "fat chance" for some reason recurred to Maria then.
   "She knew his Indian name." The second voice was Owen's. "She might know more than that. You should question her about it." On hearing this, Maria assumed that he had reported their whole conversation, and she was disappointed in him for it. She did not know that he had made an intentional effort to preserve as much as he could of her privacy, and the sanctity of his own retreat, by telling his boss as little as necessary that would still (he hoped) keep her dark seed from flowering.
   "Probably found it out from her boyfriend," said Valenti. "Or Liz Parker. They've got the stick-to-it-iveness to dig up stuff like that. But not Maria."
   "She seemed pretty inquisitive to me." She silently thanked Owen for that.
   "Yeah, but there's a difference between–is that the phone I'm hearing?"
   It was. Maria did not dare answer it with them standing at the door and able to hear in. So she left it to the machine. Following the recorded message, she heard her mother's voice on the line. "Honey, I know you're at school this morning. Just calling to let you know I'll be in Taos an extra day." Maria desired desperately to run and pick up the call, to talk to her mother one last time before–whatever was going to happen happened. But the two men were at the door. "Man at the festival wants to discuss distributing my novelties," her mother's voice continued. "Can you believe it?"
   Through a window Maria saw the sheriff returning to the Rover; Owen was already in the front seat. They were leaving at last! "By the way," her mother's voice asked, "did that picture of your father ever turn up? Love you. 'bye." Maria raced to the phone and grabbed up the receiver. "Mom?" She heard a click on the other end. "No," she said sadly, "it never did."
   The arrival of the message reminded her that she had still to compose one herself. She thought of a cousin who had just sent a post card to her and to Liz both, at Liz's address, so that her mother had not seen it and did not know that the family was vacationing in Cancun–a location from which they could not readily disprove an alibi. This inspired Maria to a final recording session. "Mom," she said, "I've got to get away from here for a few days, on account of Dad and everything. Get my head clear. Erica and her family have invited me to spend a week with them. Hope you won't mind." That was not all she was hoping, but the rest could not be said. "Don't bother calling me. I'll call you. Love you. 'bye." Then she replaced the receiver. Done.
   After a long, slow look around, as if it might be her last, she left the house. As she walked the block and a half to the bus stop, she got the uneasy feeling she was being followed. She quickly swung around, intending to surprise whoever it was, but she saw no one. On reaching the bus bench, she dropped her bag onto it and herself alongside. The uneasy feeling persisted. Maria put it down to nerves.
   A grey Mercedes in the far lane slowed down as it passed her, then stopped at the corner, made a U, and returned. Maria transferred her bag to her lap, ready to run if necessary. The car veered close to the curb and pulled up square in front of her. By then she had recognized it, and so when the window rolled down, she was not surprised to see Mr. Evans at the wheel. "Well, hi there," he said, with that superficial cheerfulness which many adults affected and which few teens trusted. "Shouldn't you be in school today?"
   "I'm going to visit a sick–aunt."
   "Oh?"
   Yeah, oh, Maria thought. How do you answer a question like that? It's not even a question. So she did not try to.
   "Hop in," said Philip. "I'll take you to the station." Maria tried to think of a plausible excuse. "Quicker than waiting," Philip pointed out. Maria realized how suspicious it would look to refuse. So she got into the car. Once they were underway, however, she sat with her eyes on the floor and did not volunteer speech. "Seen Max lately?" Philip asked, with seeming casualness.
   Maria had been prepared for an interrogation; this opening question was easy. "Yup, saw him yesterday, as a matter of fact."
   "And Isabel?"
   "Our paths don't often cross."
   "I get a feeling there's something the two of them would like to tell me. But they're feeling kind of shy about it." He glanced at Maria. "You wouldn't have any idea what that might be?"
   "Sorry, out of the loop these days. Since I stopped hanging with Liz."
   Philip shook his head. "Yes, I'm quite disappointed in that girl. She appears to have set everyone in your circle at odds." The criticism was miscalculated: even when she had been her angriest at Liz, Maria would have recognized it to be untrue. "What could her motive be, do you suppose?"
   "Like I said, I'm in the dark as much as you."
   The car pulled up at the bus station. "Here you go, Maria."
   She stepped out. "Thanks for the lift."
   "You're visiting, who was it now? Sick uncle?"
   "Aunt."
   Philip put on a puzzled frown. "Could have sworn you said it was your uncle."
   Maria looked him in the eye. "No, sir. She's always been my aunt."
   He smiled at her. "Have a safe trip."
   She smiled back with equal insincerity. "You just bet."
   "I'll give your best to Max." A shadow of doubt crossed Maria's face; it was fleeting, but it was enough to satisfy Philip that she had not quite told all. With the push of a button, he rolled up the window, and his Mercedes glided off; just to be safe, Maria watched it until it had disappeared.
   But now she was feeling guilty. Philip often had that effect on people, especially young people; many grown-ups did. Maria wondered if they had to practice until they got it down. Shaking off her feeling of guilt, she faced east and trudged toward the 285 with her bag slung over her shoulder. No turning back now, she thought. I mean, yeah, I could, but I packed all this stuff.
   Liz had been worrying about her all night and all morning, and took the first opportunity she found to communicate her worry to the one person she thought might be able to help. But Isabel was having none of it. "No offense, Liz," was her response, "but at this point I think it'd be best if we all kept our distance from each other." And she continued down the locker hall.
   –or tried to, but Liz obtruded. "Michael's pretty distant right now, isn't he?"
   Isabel stared at her. "You know about that?"
   "I know he's with Nasedo. But you can find them, can't you?"
   "And suppose I could? Why should I tell you where they are?"
   "Maria's gone after them. Nasedo killed her father. I think she's going to try and settle the score."
   "She won't, he'll settle her." Isabel gave a little huff. "Why can't you humans see to yourselves?" Liz had no answer for that. "Anyway, I wouldn't be able to reach them. Michael will have a firewall up. So will Nasedo."
   Liz had an answer this time. "But Maria won't."
   "True. But outreach only works on humans when they're asleep."
   "Maybe she's sleeping now."
   "In the middle of the day?"
   "Worth trying."
   So Isabel tried, but with no confidence in the result. "You know this won't work," she said, twice. Then, to her amazement, it did: she made contact almost without effort. It happened that Maria, still short on sleep, was half-dozing as she stood on the shoulder of the highway, holding a hand-lettered sign that read "Marathon, TX." A sidewind from the next truck brought her to her senses, but by then Isabel had had a peek into her dreamspace and at the only object in it: a geodesic dome. "Marathon, Texas," she said.
   "That's where they've gone?"
   "It's where she's going." This gave her a new idea. "Wait." She shut her eyes and concentrated. Half a minute later, she opened them again, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Wow, do they ever have a firewall up. The four of them combined. I could never penetrate that. But their collected energy is so strong, I was able to trace it to its source."
   "Which is?"
   "In the vicinity of highway 90."
   "That's the way to Marathon!"
   "Exactly."
   "We have to go after them!"
   "Yes, I suppose we do." Obviously she was not thrilled by the prospect. "I'll hunt up Max."
   "I'm going too."
   "Oh, no, you're not. You'd just be one more human to rescue." Liz had to acknowledge that she was probably right. "And what would you tell your parents?"
   "What will you tell yours?"
   "Oh, Max will come up with something."
   "What? Tell me! What?" he demanded of her after she had told him the plan. Before the two of them left for home that afternoon, they had run through all the possibilities and ascertained that none of them would work–at any rate, not with their father: he was used to cracking alibis.
   "You realize I have no idea what I'm going to say," he confided to Isabel as they entered the house.
   As she was about to reply, their mother called into the front hall from the living room. "Kids, is that you? Come say hello to our guest." With an exchange of wary looks, Max and Isabel rounded the corner to find their parents sitting and having drinks (whether alcoholic or non-, they could not discern) with one of the people they would have least wished to see there (the others were all Nasedo, in his different forms). "You know Ms. Topolsky," Diane said. Topolsky flashed them that smile which always seemed to be masking something.
   "You're later than usual today," their father observed. He was right; their discussion had taken much longer than they had been aware of while it was going on. "Where were you all this time?"
   "Library," said Isabel.
   "School," said Max, overlapping her. But he quickly corrected himself. "School library." Philip stared at both of them, a little too long, as they stared at their guest.
   Sensing her cue, Topolsky rose. "Time I was going." But the children's relief was short-lived. "You have my card," she reminded their parents. "You can call me at any time. But use my cell–I'm working out of home at the moment." After a polite exchange of goodbyes, Diane saw her to the front door.
   "Why do you have her card?" Max asked his father.
   "She's investigating a rash of teenage crime here in Roswell." He looked from one to the other of them. "Neither of you is involved in any sort of illegal activity, are you?"
   "Did she say we were?"
   Diane heard him as she came back. "No, nothing like that. She was just asking us to keep our eyes open and report anything unusual we observe."
   Few things shocked Isabel; this did. "So now you're spying for the FBI?"
   "When the community's facing a threat," said Philip, "it's up to everyone to pull together."
   "And anyway," said Diane, "our family has nothing to hide." She looked hard at Isabel. "Have we?" Before they could reply, another concern pushed that one to the side. "Heavens, I should be starting dinner."
   "Our turn," Isabel promptly offered. When Max was slow in agreeing she led him out by the arm. Once they had left, their parents leaned close together and spoke in whispers, as the children listened from the kitchen.
   "We'll have to watch them," said Max.
   "You mean while they're watching us?"
   Max smiled at the irony. "One big happy family."
   "What do we do about going to look for Maria?"
   "We don't–not with the FBI breathing down our necks. We'll just have to–trust to Maria's natural common sense."
   Isabel considered this. "As Dad would say, you're assuming a fact not in evidence." Max nodded, acknowledging the point. He could see she was unhappy about the situation, and so was he. But what else could they do?
   Some time between that evening and the next morning, the object of their worry woke in the big steel cab of a sixteen-wheeler that was barreling west on highway 180. It reminded her of the locomotive engine she had seen at the museum. But the driver definitely did not remind her of Nasedo, in any of his guises; more than anything else, he reminded her of a cheeseburger. He had introduced himself as Barry when he had pulled over to stop for her. Now he was looking down at her small but attractively rounded form with a good deal more than abstract interest. "Woke up, did you, sweet pea?" he asked cheerily.
   Maria looked around vaguely. "Why am I here?" Then it all clicked into focus, and the weight of her obligation–the one overriding obligation–descended on her again. "Oh," she said. "Yeah." She gazed out onto a landscape not perceptibly different from the one she had left behind. "Where are we now?"
   "A ways from Marathon yet. You go on and sleep." Maria obediently curled up and shut her eyes. "We got plenty of time to get acquainted." Barry reached down and squeezed her knee. "Nice seat covers, doll." Maria's eyes immediately popped open as the truck barreled on.
   In spite of her best efforts, however, she again nodded off, and dreamed of an empyrean that was furnished in geodesic domes of all colors and sizes. She floated from one to another, searching, ever searching, and kept discovering more domes that she had missed, so the search went on endlessly, and she could find nobody in any of them, not Michael or Nasedo or her father or....
   When she woke again, a cold grey dawn had risen, exposing flatland on all sides. The truck was parked on the shoulder of the road, and Barry was standing a few yards out from it with his hands at his midsection and (mercifully) his back turned. Maria thought of running away while he was relieving his need, but then thought twice about it: what if he ran after her? Safer to play him along for a while and wait for a better chance.
   She noticed that the glove compartment was not latched and an oily rag was wedged into the crack. This offended her sense of order, which (in spite of appearances) was acutely developed, the start of its development dating from that morning when she had woken to find her father gone. She stuffed the rag into the compartment and tried to shut the hatch again, only to discover that the rag had been the only thing holding it in place; the latch was missing.
   As she began to return the rag to where it had been originally, she glimpsed an inch or so of what looked like a gun barrel at the very bottom of the compartment. She slid aside the top items to reveal a Taurus .38 and a box of ammunition, both of which she immediately made up her mind to steal. This was, like, fate. She would need them for what she had in mind, and in addition, she would now be armed to make her getaway.
   She took out the gun and the box, pushed them down to the bottom of her bag, and wedged the glove compartment shut with the rag. She was just reaching for the handle of the side door when the other door swung open. Maria quickly shut her eyes. As soon as she heard the door slam, she opened them again and turned to Barry, now re-enthroned beside her. "Huh? Wassa sim?" she mumbled, yawning and stretching. "Is it morning?"
   "Sun was up ahead of you, baby socks. And breakfast is on the boy here." Maria gathered that by "the boy" he meant himself. "Only fair, after a girl spends the night with me." He winked and laughed. Maria's face puckered involuntarily; she tried to cover it over with a would-be playful smile. "Truck stop's up ahead," said Barry.
   "Lobo Truck Cafe," read the dusty sign, and followed it up with the promise of food, drink, and music. Barry parked at the outer edge of the lot. Maria, after negotiating the climb to the ground, walked around the mouth of the truck to where he was waiting for her. "Giddy-up, little filly," he commanded. "Nose bag time." Her indignation at being so addressed was immediately displaced by a greater concern: a state trooper's white-on-black was sitting in front of the building. Maria tilted her chin down and hunched forward, as if trying to shrink herself to the point of being undetectable; this was not lost on her companion.
   Entering, she saw the trooper seated at a counter to their left. She swung to the right and, jockeying into position ahead of Barry, led him to an end booth, where she chose to sit with her back to the room. As they skimmed the menu, the waitress (Maria had an idea they were still called waitresses out here) stepped up to the table. "Coffee for the boy here," said Barry. "How 'bout you, sugar loaf?"
   Maria peered at the badge the waitress was wearing. "Brenda," she said, "hi there. I'm Maria." Brenda said nothing. "Okay," she continued, "so would you have, um, a selection of herbal teas?"
   "We have tea."
   "Tea," Maria said, "will be fine."
   Brenda's gaze had been alternating from one to the other almost with the precision of a metronome; it was starting to make both uncomfortable. "She's my niece," Barry volunteered. "I'm her uncle."
   Brenda's expression did not change. "I'll just fetch that coffee. And a tea for your...."
   "Niece," Barry repeated, enunciating the word distinctly. He glared after her as she left. "That one could stand to be a mite friendlier." He eyed Maria. "You too, sunbeam."
   Maria turned cautiously toward the front and saw the trooper rising to leave. Relief showed in her face. Barry grinned slyly. "You're a runaway, ain'tcha?" Maria tensed as she turned back to him. "Don't fret, peach blossom. I'll take care of you." He extended his foot and nudged hers. Maria immediately withdrew both legs and squirmed out of the seat. "Back momentarily," she said. As she started off she realized she had left behind the bag with the gun in it. She hurried back to pick it up and then hurried off again. "Be sure and flush that radiator good!" Barry yelled after her. "We got us a long drive ahead."
   "That's what you think," Maria muttered. Passing the register, she noticed a help-wanted sign taped to the front. This inspired one of the brainstorms she was prone to–which were often sound, though she usually could not explain them well enough for other people to see it. She approached Brenda, who was busy preparing the tea. "Um, excuse me?" Brenda glanced up. "That guy I'm with, el zorro, down there? He's not really my uncle."
   Brenda called into the kitchen. "Sully, guess what?" A round face with a stubbly chin appeared at the order window. "Not her uncle."
   "Life's amazin'," Sully pronounced.
   The unexpected addition of a third, masculine party threw Maria off a little as she gave her account, which she had rehearsed only slightly. "Okay, what happened was, I bummed a lift in his rig back–back a ways. Which was not the wisest move, I admit. But it was a ride, and it was free. Not that I'm looking for a free ride," she hastened to add, "either literally or symbolically. But at the time he seemed like a real person, you know? Neck a tad pink, coming on to red–but I'm a strong believer in tolerance toward persons of all colors, and body types. And he was okay to start with–not particularly sensitive to women's issues, but not a serial predator. Only then he started moving into–areas of concern." She stopped. "Do you have any idea what I mean?"
   Brenda laughed. "Kitten, I knew what you meant before you started."
   "So I was thinking–that is, if you wouldn't mind–"
   Sully came out to them and picked up a baseball bat from under the counter. "You want I should teach the bum a lesson?"
   Maria waved her hands. "No, no! Envisioning something slightly less extreme. For instance, I was thinking, if you could pretend you were hiring me for that job you have posted, I could disengage without a big 'the power compels you' confrontation. If you wouldn't mind." She waited hopefully.
   Sully did not hesitate. "Come with me," he said. He peeled off the help-wanted sign, marched back to Barry's table with the two women following him part of the way, and slapped the sign down in front of Barry. "I'm short me a waitress. I'm hirin' your friend. Any objection?"
   Barry looked down at Maria. "Thought you were headed for Marathon."
    "I changed my mind."
   Barry was obviously disgruntled. "You know she's a runaway? Prob'ly underage. She tell you that?"
   "Sorry," said Sully, "little deaf in this ear."
   Glancing out the window, Barry spied the trooper, who was still sitting in his unit. "If you're not interested," Barry said, "bet he will be."
   "Hal?" said Brenda. "I just bet he will–uncle."
   Barry practically jumped out of his seat. "I never touched her!" He waved a finger at Maria. "And you can't say I did!"
   "You took a liberty with my knee," she pointed out.
   Barry's face grew red. The other two stood staring at him. "All right for you, then. But see if I ever stop here again." He picked up the vest jacket he had shed.
   "You promised me a breakfast," Maria reminded him. Suppressing an oath, Barry pulled out his wallet, found the smallest bill in it–a twenty–and flung it onto the table. A few seconds later he was over and out. "I think I lost you a customer," said Maria.
   "And good riddance," said Sully. "We don't need his kind anyways."
   The three of them walked back to the counter together. "Have a seat," said Brenda. "We'll talk." She brought Maria her tea. "Twenty bucks buys a lot of breakfast. What'll you have?"
   "Short stack of Vermonts," said Maria, without thinking.
   Sully, who was just re-affixing the help-wanted sign, looked up with interest. "Either you got a relative in the restaurant business or you've waited tables yourself."
   "Sure, I've waited tables. You want to know how to get the last half-teaspoon out of a can of coffee, ask me."
   Brenda leaned on the counter. "Where was that, now?"
   "The Crash–" Maria stopped in mid-word. "The Cash 'n' Carry. In Las Vegas. But it closed. Months ago. Years, actually." She hoped this sounded more convincing to her listeners than it did to her.
   Brenda glanced at her boss. "What do you think, Sully?"
   "Think you can handle a room this size?" he asked Maria.
   She calmly sipped her tea "Piece of cake."
   "Okay." He peeled the sign off again. "Job's yours. Nine bucks an hour."
   "Deal," Maria said, automatically. No antennae, anyway, she thought. A second later she realized what she had done. "Job? No, wait. I can't–" Then she reconsidered. Of the several facts that were vying for her immediate notice, trying to cut in front of one another to be first in line, the one that beat out the others was that she had little cash on her (and the state of her bank balance was such that ATMs–even if she could find one–would be of little use). In the zeal that had launched her on her mission, she had insufficiently taken into account her practical needs (except of course food). She had allowed herself a week, but had not truly expected the task to take that long; two or three days at the most. Now she began to see the limitless range of possibilities real life held to frustrate even the simplest plan.
   "All right," she said finally, "but it can't be for long. There's something I have to do." Or maybe she did not really want to do it; maybe accepting this job was just an excuse to postpone the moment of truth. But Maria chose not to think about that. Truth be told, she always preferred not to delve into her feelings and motives; it made her kind of antsy, and in the end you were the same person no matter whether you liked it or not, so what was the purpose?
   "I'll take whatever you can give," Sully said amiably.
   "And who knows?" said Brenda. "We might grow on you." She bestowed a smile on her such as she had not shown Barry. "You can sleep on the sofa-bed in my trailer." This sounded okay to Maria.
   Then she noticed for the first time the door to the lounge. "You have entertainment here?"
   Sully shrugged. "Depends on your definition."
   "There's a band comes in," Brenda said more helpfully.
   It was fate again. "Because, as a matter of fact–I also sing."
   So that evening the easel standing next to the lounge entrance held a placard, done up with indelible marker in the performer's most artistic lettering, announcing the Culberson County debut of Lizz Alexx (the best-sounding stage name she had been able to devise at short notice). A little before showtime, two young men arrived in matching black shirts and pants; one uncased a guitar, and the other seated himself at the drum set already in place. Maria, having changed to the only other outfit she had brought with her (which like most of her outfits, luckily, suited the theatrical setting), stepped up to introduce herself. But it turned out she did not need to. "You're the singer, huh?" said the guitar man.
   "What's it look like?"
   He barely spared her a glance. "Like a little nobody with a slick-sounding story managed to b.s. her way into a gig here."
   "Yes, which having done, I feel entitled to claim a certain respect as my due. How quick can you pick up a song?"
   "How quick can you drop it?" he shot back.
   "You have possibilities," she said. "Definite possibilities." Her eye lingered on him for a second; he was not unattractive, for a back-country type. "But that's not why we're here," she concluded.
   "Got that right." His attention remained fixed on his instrument.
   "Well, good. As long as we're clear on that." But she could not help feeling slighted, in the same way she had often felt with Michael in times past; long, long past.
   For the next half hour she stood to one side watching the crowd collect, until she realized that those she was seeing were all there would be. But of course, it was only her first tour, and she had not had time to get out the publicity. And an audience was an audience. Her first number (of the three total), she had chosen to suit the venue; it was her only composition that qualified as country. This was the first verse:
      "Well, he took me to the movies
      And he took me to the town
      Then he took me to the cleaners
      While the stars were looking down.
      Now I'm lost out in the desert
      And it's lonely all around
      And I never will forgive him
      While the stars are looking down."
   Her employer was taking in the performance from the doorway. When the song ended, Brenda, who was serving, looked to him for his verdict and felt unaccountably proud when he delivered a thumbs-up. By the end of the set, the audience, and even Maria's back-up, seemed to agree. So great was the pleasure she took in this that it filled her head to the exclusion of everything else, including the purpose for which she had traveled so far.
   It even followed her to bed that night. When she slept she dreamed again of geodesic domes, but this time the dome was a club where she was the featured act. At the close of her set the lights rose on the listeners to reveal them all as monsters from the planet Lizz, with bills for mouths and flippers for hands. But they were a good crowd–a great crowd. "So where you all from?" she asked, and then realized she already knew. And among their number was Michael (she recognized him somehow), sitting at ringside and clapping his flippers vigorously.
   At that point Maria woke–she had to, the show was over–but that image of Michael remained in her mind. She had come to get justice on him and his partner, not to become a music legend; it was the old story, forest for the trees. "I made a vow to myself," she said, aloud. "Well, not a real vow. More like a promise. But it wasn't a promise either–I mean, I never actually used the word 'promise.' It was more of a thought. Like, there are soft thoughts and hard thoughts, and this one was definitely hard–'You are doing this, girl!' Yeah, more like that."
   She had to get going–and she would, definitely–but not for a few days yet. She owed that much to Sully, and to her own financial solvency: a person had to eat, after all. "I didn't plan this very well," she said. "A few more days will give me time to plan it better." This was true, but she would never do it (unless she were forced), whether she had a month, a year, or a decade at her disposal–and somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew that, or half knew it; people had told her often enough. "Five days," she said. "I'll give myself five days. Or seven maybe. They'll still be there." Since they were in flight, this prognostication was by no means certain–and Maria half knew that too. "Probably will," she amended. Then she dozed off again.
   Her travel alarm brought her out of it. The trailer was dark, but she forced herself out of bed: the Lobo, like the Crashdown, opened at 6. Its first customers were a pair of farmers who always came in together. Maria tried on them the greeting she had worked up the previous afternoon: "Good morning and welcome to the Lobo Truck Cafe, where you can always count on service with a smile–or a low-carb, high-energy substitute. What can I get you two?"
   "You can git on over here and sit on my lap," said the shorter of them. "How 'bout that?" He was not being genuinely lecherous, like the departed Barry; only tiresome, after the manner of older men with younger waitresses.
   "And again I wonder," said Maria, "is there something about operating a tractor that paralyzes the higher brain functions?"
   "Nope," said Brenda, coming to her rescue if need were, "Dan's always been this dumb."
   Dan seemed not to mind the insult. "Know one thing for a fact." He stirred his coffee slowly. "You see Hal coming, you better tuck this 'un out of sight."
   "Who's Hal?" asked Maria.
   Brenda looked worried. "Why, what's she done?"
   "Nothin' as I know of. But he's been showin' a picture around looks a whole lot like her. Says it's somebody went missin' up in Roswell."
   "Was Hal that trooper?" asked Maria. She thought of the stolen gun in her bag.
   "Tony and me," Dan continued, "we figgered it was one of them alien abductions." He squinted up at Maria. "Must be a accidental resemblance, huh?"
   "Yeah," Maria murmured, "must be."
   "Come with me, kitten," said Brenda. She led Maria away until the farmers were out of earshot and then handed her a key ring. "Go to the trailer and wait there."
   "What are you going to do?"
   "Tell you when it's clear in my own mind. I know I'm not letting Hal or anybody take you back, unless you're of a mind to go." She looked squarely at her. "You're not, are you?"
   It would have been the perfect chance for Maria to escape her obligation; no one would have blamed her. But she was not that much of a coward. She shook her head. "Not yet."
   "I thought not. You git on out there. I'll think of something."
   The "something" turned out to be a bottle of hair dye, and within a few minutes Maria was submerging her head in the bathroom sink. "Is this really necessary?" she asked.
   "You got a better idea for getting out of here incognito?" Maria did not. So she stayed under, and bobbed up in a short while to face the mirror with a new crop of jet-black plumage. "See there?" Brenda trumpeted. "Your own mama wouldn't know you."
   "My mom's seen my hair every color. And just for information, I know some people who could do this a lot faster."
   "Well, excuse me for keeping you." Brenda handed her a towel. "Here, dry." She went into the front room, took her wallet from her purse, and cleaned it out. She called into the bathroom. "I got enough here to pay you for the time you worked. Plus, I'm putting in a bonus to see you a few miles farther." A tingle of intuition prompted Maria to come out into the front room, just in time to see Brenda open the knit bag–but not in time to stop her seeing the object lying at the bottom. Too late, Maria ran up and grabbed the bag away.
   Brenda stared soberly at her. "I sure hope that's got nothing to do with the guy in your song."
   She's too good a guesser, Maria thought. "I keep it around for protection."
   Brenda clasped her hand in a way that was almost motherly, except that Maria's own mother would never have done it. "Kitten, I'm a big believer in letting everybody blaze their own trail. But there's some holes that's so big, once you step in 'em you can't ever get out. And all it takes is that one step."
   "I'll be careful," said Maria. "Seriously."
   "Easy to say." Of course, thought Maria; she had only said it to get the woman off her back. "But try to remember it when the time comes." She whisked Maria's new hair. "Dry enough. Time you high-tailed it out of here. The next town over's Valentine–not much bigger'n this, but it's got a bus stop. I'll take you in the truck."
   And so, much sooner than she had expected, tricked out in black hair and showgirl make-up (which she had applied in the truck), Maria found herself on board a Trailways bus, jouncing slowly but surely southeast toward Marathon.
   Late that afternoon, as the purple shadows stretched out lazily across the campus, two of the people she had left behind met for the first time (not counting the classes they shared) since their official estrangement. The one who was forcing the meeting, by waiting at an exit she knew the other had to use, was not looking forward to it. But she had to know what there was to be known–if there was anything. The other would have walked on, ignoring her, but she blocked his path. "Have you heard from Michael?"
   Max shook his head. "Maria?"
   Liz shook hers. A silence fell between them. "What's going to happen now?" she asked. "To them? To all of us?"
   "How would I know?"
   "What do we do if Maria–or Michael–" Liz could not bear to finish.
   "What we have been doing all along. Whatever's necessary."
   "You mean, kill them? Nasedo and–and Michael?"
   "Whatever's necessary," Max repeated. "But only when we know something for sure."
   "But how? We're not police, or soldiers. We're kids. How can we do things like that?"
   Max answered quietly–and, Liz thought, bitterly. "Once you and I thought we couldn't live without each other. Now we are. What you think is impossible becomes possible, if you have no other choice."
   Liz felt an ache she could scarcely bear. "Max–"
   "Like I said–sometimes people don't have a choice." He left, and this time she let him. The school grounds now looked more deserted than ever. Liz could not decide whom to feel more sorry for, Maria or herself. Finally she settled on herself, and went home to see if she could spread a little of her misery to her parents, who she secretly felt deserved it. However, by the end of the evening she was feeling ashamed of herself, and her sympathy shifted back to Maria–who, though Liz did not know it, would soon need all the good will she could get.
   The following morning, after disembarking in Marathon, she immediately began looking around for someone old. The man her eye eventually landed on exceeded the requirement: he looked as though he had been a fixture in the tiny park ever since the grass had been laid. His name (though Maria would never have a chance to learn it) was Carlos.
   "Excuse me?" he heard, in his dozing. He woke to find a girl standing over his bench, whose appearance he regarded with some astonishment, as being more outlandish than he was used to (or than she remembered). "There's a building somewhere around here," she said, "shaped like this." She bent her fingers as if holding a ball, and then wiggled them as if squeezing a sponge. "You know the one?"
   "Sure I do," he said–rather amazingly, given what he had been given to work from. "Atherton place. Queer fella, Atherton. Talked to himself a lot. He was a writer, you know. They're like that, writers. 'course, he's dead. Don't talk at all now."
   "Where is the place?"
   Carlos pointed. "Back the way you come about three miles, then north another two. You'll hit a dirt road and take that another mile. You're not walking, are you?"
   "What if I am?"
   "Pretty far piece to walk. 'course I done some walking in my day. Couldn't afford a car, and there weren't no buses then, so either you walked–"
   "¡Ay, mierda!" Maria quickly turned her head. A woman had walked past them on her way to the bus depot–a woman Maria had recognized, without doubt. But what would have brought Topolsky there?
   Carlos had seen her too. "Cops after you?"
   "What makes you think she's a cop?"
   "Why, ain't she?" He peered narrowly at Maria. "Gal, what you got it in mind to do?"
   "What I have to." It was good she had the chance to affirm that now.
   "Cops gonna try and stop you?"
   Maria watched Topolsky enter the depot. "Not if I can help it," she said. With that, she took her chance. It had been her design to leave inconspicuously, but Carlos defeated it by shouting loudly after her: "That's the spirit, gal! Don't let 'em nab you! This is a free country!" and following this exhortation with the first six bars of "My Country, 'Tis of Thee." Inexplicably, it did not bring Topolsky out, but it did cause someone else to look over: a man standing in the shadow of the building who had not been there a moment before; Carlos was certain of that. He would have remembered the face.
   Maria took care that she was not followed on her way out to Atherton's; the miles of empty desert, and mostly empty road, made it easy to tell. The walk was not so easy, but her job at the Crashdown had accustomed her to spending hours on her feet. She made such good time that when she arrived within sight of the dome, the stone house next to it, and the range of low hills behind, she still had most of the afternoon and the whole evening left to wait. She dropped her bag and plopped down in the dirt to rest her legs. The brush and the distance hid her from the view of anyone who might happen to be looking.
   She reached her hand into her knit bag and grabbed out a smaller plastic bag full of tortilla chips. The rip and crinkle of the plastic, and the crunch as she bit into the first chip, seemed to resound thunderously. She extracted each chip thereafter as if it she were handling an explosive substance, delicately and in slow motion.
   What did she think about while she was waiting? And what had she thought about during her walk? She could not have said afterwards herself. Maybe nothing, maybe other things; probably everything except what she should have been thinking about. She certainly did not reflect on her reasons for coming there, or the reasons why she should have stayed where she was. She had gone through all of that already, or as much as she intended to. And anyhow it was too late now; her course was set.
   Not until the sky began to darken did she feel the cold. Instead of buttoning up, she let it seep into her, to help prepare her for the task ahead, which still seemed unreal and abstract to her, as if she were reading about someone else who was doing it. She lifted out the Taurus and the box of ammunition. She had never loaded a gun before, but as a small girl she had watched her father do it; ironic that he was now helping her in his own behalf. But characteristic of him: it was always all to do with himself.
   She suddenly remembered that Michael believed Nasedo to be his father (she did not know he had since discovered otherwise). "I hope he is," she said. "Then we'll be even. And you'll understand why I have to do this." Of course, he would only have a few seconds to achieve this understanding–unless she took care of him first, in which case he would have no time at all. So she supposed it did not really matter either way.
   Not owning a watch, she had to guess at the time; she felt as if she had been sitting there for a week. Past midnight, as she guessed (it was actually closer to ten), she got up and started toward the dome, with the way lit for her by the stars and a gibbous moon. Her advance was so gradual that for many minutes she felt she was getting nowhere. She took care to tread softly, but from the relentless and unceasing silence she surmised that Michael and the others must have left–if they had ever been there at all; dreams were not always true, and perhaps hers had misled her.
   At long last she reached the dome. She approached the recessed door and peered through its single hexagonal pane. The view inside was darker than it was out. The doorknob was locked, as Maria had expected it to be. She began a circuit of the perimeter. A quarter of the way around, she found the first evidence of habitation: a Jeep Cherokee parked between the two buildings. She realized now that she needed a plan. And in the crunch, forced at last to come up with one, she did. Having laid down her bag, but holding onto her gun, she looked for some rocks to throw at the wall, to wake the people inside. To her disappointment those she found were too small to wake anybody. So she came up with another plan.
   She walked out to the Cherokee and began swinging with the gun at one of the side windows until she smashed it in. She intended thereby to set off the alarm, but when none sounded, she guessed (correctly) that the vehicle was Nasedo's antique and alarmless Cadillac, camouflaged so as to contradict any APB the police might have broadcast. However, she had made enough noise to achieve her purpose. The recessed door opened, and Michael appeared; Maria hastily took cover against the dome. As he went out to inspect the SUV, she stole inside behind his back, pressed herself against the curving wall, and waited there in the dark. Her heart seemed to be beating in double time. When Michael returned, he passed her without seeing her and continued into a tunnel that connected the dome with the house. Maria waited fifteen minutes longer, counting out the seconds by the "potato" method, and then followed him.
   The tunnel opened onto an ordinary corridor, which opened in turn onto a vacant room. Maria stopped in the entryway. Just enough moonlight flowed in through the bare windows to show that the house had never been completed–or perhaps Atherton had designed it that way, with its studs and joists exposed. Propped against one of them sat a tall, bearded man, whom she had once heard called Pete, and Michael was sitting catty-cornered to him; the others were lying on the floor. All appeared to be asleep. Maria stood watching them, the gun quivering along with the hand that was holding it.
   She could hear the noise Michael made in place of snoring; someone who had never heard it would have had to work to detect it. After it had gone on for five minutes without a let-up, Maria ventured a step forward. And then another. Michael emitted a loud cough, or something like it. Maria froze. A few seconds later, the former noise resumed. She continued, almost on tiptoe, and halted between her prospective targets, looking from one to the other. Finally her eye settled on Nasedo. She started to raise the gun–
   And found herself without the will to use it. After coming so far! Eres una gallina! she chided herself. What kind of a daughter was she? This kind, apparently: whatever she owed to her family, she did not want to kill for them; she did not want to be the kind of person who did that. She had not realized it until now, when she was called on to pull the trigger. Her imagination had not been vivid enough to foresee how horrible it would make her feel; like an attack of food poisoning.
   She lashed herself on by recalling–once, twice, three times–the wrongs he had done her; that they had both done her, Nasedo corrupting Michael and Michael welcoming it. The contempt they had shown her family! Herself forgotten about, her mother used without her knowledge, her father left as road kill. And the ingratitude of Michael! Her mother had made him feel welcome in their house (not at first, maybe, but later on), they had given to him and he had taken from them, emulating Nasedo–his idol, his mentor, probably his father–who took from every human being he met. Selfish, murdering bastards, the pair of them. She believed she could shoot them now. She raised the gun.
   Instantly a beeping arose. Maria had never heard it before, but she guessed its source. It was coming from Nasedo's direction. He and the others began to stir. Panicking, Maria waved the gun and squeezed the trigger before she meant to. The report echoed through the unfurnished room. The bullet landed in Nasedo's arm. Michael bounded forward and tackled Maria. She hit the floor painfully. He felt for the gun and yanked it away. The beeping subsided.
   Behind him a girl Maria did not recognize jumped to her feet and raised an arm. A fiery ring erupted in the middle of the air, throwing light everywhere. In a few seconds, it faded away like a flare, but enough light remained to see by. The girl knelt at Nasedo's side. A moment later a young boy joined her. Michael found himself staring down at the last face he would have expected to see. "Maria! What the hell did you think you were doing?"
   "He killed my father."
   Michael's face showed a new understanding. He slid off her, and his head drooped wearily. "No. He didn't."
   She sat up alongside him. "Then you did."
   "No!"
   "I saw the handprint! It had to be either you or Nasedo."
   "His name's Feddin. And he never killed any of those people." He looked to Neila. "How's he doing?"
   "I've healed the wound. But he's even weaker than he was before." He certainly looked it.
   "You up to explaining?" Michael asked him. "If you aren't–"
   "She has to know." The tall man addressed himself to Maria and to her only. "It's true I am a criminal. An undocumented alien. To live in the shadows was not my choice–it's my curse. But I'm no murderer."
   "The only one he ever killed was Hank," said Michael, "and that was by accident."
   "I visited him in the guise of a social worker–"
   "Which, if one of them was an alien," Michael interjected again, "who'd know the difference?"
   "I warned him to cease mistreating Michael. He was drunk and he attacked me. I reached into his mind to calm him. But the awareness of another spirit inside him was more than he could abide. He tore at his mind as if he had been tearing at his flesh, to get me out of it. At last he tore it open. He pled with me to make the pain stop, and I did, in the only way I knew then. I had no part in those other deaths–though I was blamed."
   "He means 'framed'," said Michael. "There's this other Vallosan–that's the name of our planet, Vallosa–who came to Earth at the same time he did."
   "Klima. We were two of the sentries appointed to see the ships to Earth."
   "Ships?" said Maria. "There was more than one?"
   "A small fleet containing the seeds of our emigration. My ship carried Michael and the others–that is, the genetic matter from which they were to be formed."
   "It's complicated," Michael put in.
   "I was quartered in the outer shell," Feddin continued. "The genetic matter was housed in the core. On landing, the core was ejected, and torpedoed underground to a point miles away. I searched for it, and returned to search again. I never found it." He turned to Michael. "But I left the signs of the Stones for River Dog to reveal to you, in case you had survived."
   "He's also the one who healed River Dog that time in the woods," Michael noted.
   "I traveled far, searching for other ships and their sentries, while Klima did the same. Ultimately we found each other. I also found two ship-borns whose sentries had passed"–he nodded toward Neila and Ben–"and took them under my wing. Klima dreams of finding the rest and assembling them into a great army. The human woman Seaver dreams of harnessing them together into a living power station–and worse. Such ambitions are futile. For this world to survive, our races must live in harmony. Ones such as these would prevent that. So Klima murders and casts suspicion on me, to discredit me–because I counsel peace."
   Now Maria recognized the magnitude of the sin she had nearly committed. "I'm so sorry," she told his stepchildren. "I would have done the same thing to you that bastard did to me. You'd have had every right to kill me."
   Neila recollected a line from a song. "'And another eye for another eye, till everyone is blind.'" Maria saw the wisdom of it, but she wondered where justice fit in.
   "Klima has not much time left," Feddin went on, "nor have I. Your world is not ours. Its atmosphere withers us. There is no cure that we know. The tablets we take only retard the rate of decay."
   Maria remembered Nasedo's–Klima's–pill bottles. "What kind of tablets?" she asked.
   "All of Vallosa was saturated with a unique thermal energy, which you know as the Balance. Certain places in this world are possessed of the same energy. The pills are ground from the stone in those places."
   "But Michael doesn't need to take pills," said Maria. "Or Max, or Isabel."
   "No, the ship-borns have adapted–or were adapted. That's why it's up to them–to the next generation–to decide the future of our two peoples." He turned to Michael. "You still have the Stones I left you?" Michael nodded. "I left you this too. Under the tower." He held up an object that had been concealed by the folds of his coat. "You know it is called a Balancer. But do you know what the word means?"
   "Klima said it's a channeling device."
   "Klima said truly, but did not say all. This is a Lodestone–the Lodestone, the last one remaining. It calls to the other Stones with a greater power. One Stone to rule them all, one Stone to bind them. The lesser ones permit you to tap that power–the power that was Vallosa, the power stored in those places the Stones revealed to you, the power of the Balance. But with the Lodestone, the one Stone, you can channel the power when and where you will it, if you will it strongly enough."
   "The other Stones glow blue whenever they get near those places," Michael said. "Why doesn't this one?"
   "It does. You have not seen its true form. And you have not heard its true voice, for it has not yet called to you. But it will one day. And when it does, heed its summons. It will lead you to the truth of your destiny." He passed the Lodestone to Michael as if it were an orb and scepter. In doing so, his arm faltered, and Michael had to support it with his own. "You see? The power is now yours to wield. Not mine or Klima's. We're nearly spent."
   "Not yet," came a voice. The Lodestone sounded its clarion, and its spiral shone forth.
   "He's here!" Michael cried. The light Neila had created earlier had continued to dwindle, unnoticed; the corridor from the dome was now nearly pitch dark. Out of its darkness a figure sprang at Michael: Maria recognized the face as her father's. This was the real Nasedo–Klima! She grabbed back the gun and fired at him. This time her aim was true, and he doubled over with a groan. Michael reclaimed the gun from her. "No more weapons for you," he said. "You can't be trusted with them."
   Clenching his teeth, summoning every grain of energy left to him, Klima lifted his shirt and thrust his thumb and forefinger into his belly, whose flesh melted to admit them. At the same time he opened his jaws and produced a sound resembling a death rattle. When the thumb and finger re-appeared, the bullet was clasped between them. Klima emitted a long, weary sigh and then addressed Maria in a rasping whisper. "Ill-bred child! To shoot your own father."
   "Excuse me, we've established you're not."
   Slyness crept into his half-shut eyes. "But how you wish I were. It wasn't me you were trying to kill just now. It was him."
   "No!"
   "You ought to thank me for having spared you the task. The ingratitude of you humans." He turned his scorn on Feddin. "And you take their side, monk." The description surprised the others, yet it seemed to fit somehow.
   "I'm no monk."
   "No. And no immortal either." With more strength than they had suspected he had left in him, Klima conjured up a ball of lightning and sent it spinning toward his enemy. But its speed was only half of what he had willed, and Michael was able to block it. Klima did not send a second.
   Michael outlined a strip on the floor and made it rise, elongating itself as it went like a window blind being pulled in reverse, all the way to the ceiling. It made a wall between themselves and Klima. "Time you bailed," Michael told Feddin.
   "And you."
   "It's you he's after, not us."
   "He's right," said Neila. Feddin nodded. The new wall blocked the exit to the dome, but there was a door at the front of the house. The children hurried to it, and Feddin followed.
   "Thank you," Michael said. "For all you showed me."
   Feddin smiles. "You showed it to yourself. I only pointed out the way."
   "Will we ever see each other again?"
   "So I sense. But in a different channel of vision."
   "Like UPN?" asked Maria, who was feeling a little lost.
   "Farewell," said Feddin, "until that time."
   As he and the others left, Michael remained at the wall, prepared for a further attack, but none came, except for the tempter's raspings on the other side: "You've chosen the wrong ally, ship-born. But your friends won't. The day will come when you'll have to fight them, or join them." And this was followed by more, much more, of the same. Worry began to champ at Michael: he knew which side was the right one, but the others did not, and they would not believe him if he told them, any more than they had ever listened to him before; they would throw in with Klima, and their combined powers would be much stronger than his and Feddin's, with the latter as weak as he was, and then it would all be over, the world would be–
   Suddenly, like a bubble popping, the worry ended. Michael realized Klima had been feeding it into his brain, like wartime propaganda transmitted over the radio. But he had stopped now; the Balancer had gone dark. "He's gone," said Michael, and he returned the wall he had made into the floor.
   A minute earlier they had heard Feddin's car take off, and now they heard the growl of another one in the distance. Leaving by way of the dome, they saw a pair of headlights winding through the flats in their direction. "That would be Agent Topolsky," said Maria. She went to pick up her bag, which was still lying by the wall of the dome.
   "I understand what you did," said Michael. "I want you to know that." He added, after a pause, "I hope you understand what I did."
   "I do now."
   "Feddin taught me so much." Surveying the night sky, he spied the V shape, which Maria had forgotten all about. "Like that. When the ships came in, that's where they discharged their surplus energy. Every type of energy operates to a certain pattern, called an energy signature. In this case it's a V. It's linked to the original source–which is part of Aries, by the way–and also to the other outlets here on Earth. Like this one." For Maria this was one step too many; her confusion showed in her face. "The points on the map," Michael reminded her. "The library–"
   "–Angels' Ground, rocks, railroad museum," she recited. Michael was surprised that she knew them too. "Number five, unknown. Or did he tell you?"
   "He didn't know either."
   "But it's his map!"
   "He dreamed it, and just painted what the dream showed him. But he did say the spiral isn't like the other symbols. It isn't a picture of any place, it's a rune from their alphabet. A rune of power, he said."
   "So what does it mean?"
   "It can mean more than one thing, depending on the direction you're looking." Michael read her expression. "No, I don't get it either." He slapped his forehead suddenly. "I'm getting sidetracked here. What I wanted to say is, Feddin taught me that fighting's not the answer. It might have been on our planet, but not here." The next admission came hard, but only from lack of practice. "I was wrong, okay? But so were you, coming after us the way you did. If we can both get past that–"
   Maria would have liked to. But no. "It's no good, Michael," she said.
   "What isn't?"
   "Us. Now."
   "Why?"
   "You heard about Liz?"
   "The blood poisoning? I can fix that."
   "You can?" If so, he had been right about having learned a lot.
   "Molecular regeneration. You have to watch what you're doing, but–yeah. Not a problem. So we can still–"
   "No." Maria would not allow herself to forget the main issue, the only issue. "When we were faced with a choice, you chose Nasedo–the one you thought was Nasedo–and I chose my family."
   Michael could not believe she was still hung up on that. "That's history."
   "History is who we are. It's all we are." Maria had not realized this until she said it. "My father is dead. The one who killed him was one of you."
   "And the father that beat me up was one of you. So?"
   "So, we're enemies. You had it right the first time. Obviously we don't have to kill each other. But we can't–do the other thing either. It's in the genes. Oil and water." She repeated the last three words, faintly. And they were the last to be said; at any rate, Michael could think of no good reply. The two of them stood silently and unhappily in the white glare of the headlights, which were now very close, and drawing closer. When they were five or six yards away, they stopped and then went dark, at the same time that the car they belonged to–a black Impala–went silent. Michael remembered, almost too late, that he was still holding the Lodestone. He quickly dropped it into Maria's bag.
   Topolsky stepped out of the car and cast her eyes around. "Okay, where is he?" Michael and Maria pretended to look even more ignorant than teens did naturally, by Topolsky's observation. "Come off it! I know he's here. This is the only place that makes sense." The FBI was smarter than Maria had given them credit for. "The only car I passed on the road had a mother and two–" Only then did she realize what she had done, or failed to do. "I should have taken a closer look. They can't change shape, can they? But he can." She gazed out at the dark hills with an air of regret. "And this was my last chance. To know for a moral certainty what was true and what wasn't."
   A second pair of headlights was closing on them. "Lay you odds that's Agent Stevens. Into the car. Hurry." The other two hesitated, confused: weren't she and Stevens on the same side? "Trust me," she said, "you don't want to be found here." Once inside–Maria in back, Michael in front–they discovered that Topolsky had come there alone, which they were pretty sure was not the standard protocol for raiding the hideout of a suspected serial killer. She kept the lights off as she cruised around to the rear of the dome and then steered for the hills, driving half-blind, but also invisible to Stevens (if it were Stevens) and also, she hoped, eclipsed from his view by the Atherton buildings. She found, or knew, a pass through the hills and emptying onto the 385, which after a drive of a few hours intersected the highway they wanted: the highway to Roswell.
   During most of the ride the three did not speak, so preoccupied was each of them with concerns too private to share. Maria had done what she had come for, though not in the way she had expected: she had killed her father's murderer, but he was not the one she had thought he was, and he had brought himself back to life; this did not change the feeling that she had discharged her duty, and she was willing to let the matter rest there. After a little she fell asleep.
   She woke some time later to hear whispers from the front seat.
   "I need information."
   "Again?"
   "Of course. It's my–it's what I do."
   "Then I don't have a choice, do I?"
   "Now, don't be moody." The tone was almost flirtatious. "You were a great help last time. You always are. We'll talk more at your place."
   This exchange stayed with Maria all the way home. When the Impala deposited her at last in her driveway, she unloaded a look of disappointment on Michael which puzzled him deeply. He had not seen it when she had had him marked as Nasedo's accomplice; what could be worse than that?
   To Maria, it was this: Before her adventure, she would have believed Michael capable of collaborating with Nasedo–but never with Topolsky. Nasedo was not their personal enemy; they had made themselves his. But Topolsky was, and always had been; that was one of the core beliefs their group shared. Either Michael had abandoned the loyalties he had lived by–which was bad enough–or they had never been real and she had never really known him–and this was worse, this hurt the most. It was now night again, and Maria watched as the Impala was swallowed up into the darkness.
   She turned toward her house reluctantly, not quite ready to abandon the life of the road, brief as her experience of it had been, for the calmer waters of home life. But as soon as her mother appeared in the doorway and the first sight of her daughter safe and sound purged her face of its fears, Maria could not help feeling happy–dizzyingly happy. They ran to hug each other. "Honey!" said Amy. "Jim and I have been so worried."
   Only then did Maria take account of the figure standing just inside the door. She gently disengaged from the embrace. Her mother touched the black foliage Maria did not remember having. "What'd you do to your hair?"
   Jim looked annoyed. "Guess we can cancel that missing persons report." They followed him into the living room.
   As he took up the handset of the phone, Maria recalled the alibi she had prepared. "Didn't you get my message?"
   Amy's face took on a rather severe look. "You mean about Erica? Their machine says the family's on vacation."
   This part, Maria had rehearsed in the car on the way back. "Yeah, they took me with them. It was great. Sorry to run out on you–"
   "I'm the one who should be sorry. It must have been an ordeal for you." You have no idea, thought Maria. "I can't say I had any feelings left for your father. But he was your father. You know, you could have talked it over with Jim. He's helped a lot of young people with their problems."
   "These would be the ones he had put away?"
   Valenti had finished his call in time to hear this. "Hey, I'm not that bad. Besides, it's time you and me started getting closer." He winked at her. "A lot closer."
   Maria averted her eyes. "Um, if you're actually hitting on me with my mom in the room, this is 'way stranger than anything I care to be involved in."
   "No, no!" He stepped up to Amy and put an arm around her. "Better tell her, babe."
   Maria did not like that, or the arm. "Yeah, why don't you," she said, in an acid tone, "'babe'?"
   "I was getting there." Amy sounded slightly defensive. "Honey, you know how I've always said life has a way of balancing the bitter with the sweet?"
   "I never heard you say that."
   "Well, I just did. You lost a father–now you're gaining one. Jim and I are going to be married." Maria stared at them; they both seemed to be channeling the identical smiley face. She felt as if she had crossed over into a dream state, more unreal than her experience with the two Nasedos. "We'll be a real family again," said her mother. "That is, for the first time."
   "Without secrets," Valenti said pointedly.
   "Won't it be wonderful?" said her mother.
   "See me fight to contain my rapture." Her eyes were full of dread.
   A second later, it turned to panic. She had caught sight of her knit bag, which she had tossed carelessly onto the sofa; inside it a corner of the Lodestone was showing. Maria quickly reached over and shook the bag. The Lodestone slipped from sight. She breathed a sigh of relief. But how many more close calls would there be? My father the sheriff, she thought, and his daughter the felon. Luckily, she was only guilty of attempted murder. But no: on second thought, she decided there was nothing lucky about any of it.
   Late that night under the stars, and the lights that were not stars, an old man with long white hair, held in place with a plain cotton band, sat beside the placid river in the Frazier Woods. One he had known, wearing the shape he had known him by, walked out from the trees to sit beside him. River Dog did not have to look up. "My friend," he said. "I hoped we would meet again one day. They told me you were a killer."
   "They told you what they believed. What do you believe?"
   River Dog nodded. "I knew it was a lie."
   "The days pass quickly for us both. I think this will be our last meeting."
   "Yet it may be we will walk together after, in the forest that has no end." He reached out his hand.
   As River Dog clasped it, his tears blurred it to his sight. "I will hold this as my hope."
   "And so will I." They parted hands. The visitor rose and left as he had come.
   Before going to bed that night, Maria took out the family album, to speak again, as she had before leaving, to the space where her father's picture had been. "Dad–" She stopped as a jolt shot through her: the picture was back now. She flipped through to the picture of her and Roman; it was back too. She started to go ask her mother if she had found them and restored them to their places–and then Maria knew, as surely as anything could be known, that she had not: he had. He had returned to put them back, he had been there, in the house, maybe in the form of Valenti, or of her mother–or of her. And he might come again at any time, in the same form or in whatever form he chose. From now on she could never be sure of anyone again.
   After arriving at school the next day, one of her first acts (as the impositions of her academic schedule permitted) was to get together with Liz to resolve two matters very much on her mind. The first one, she quickly disposed of–or had thought she had–while they were visiting the girls' room and Liz was occupied in one of the stalls. But she came out in time to catch Maria in the mirror. "What did you just put in my purse?" she demanded She extracted the object, which was wrapped in a muslin rag.
   Maria glanced around edgily. "Don't let anyone see it!"
   "There's no one else here," Liz pointed out. She unfolded the rag. "Maria! I don't want this back!"
   "If it's with me Valenti will find it. He's in the house, like, all the time now."
   In the face of this threat Liz agreed to accept the consignment provisionally. But before they were finished with their break she had spotted Isabel in the quad and hastened out to her to arrange a transfer of the property without delay. "You take this," she said, exposing part of it for Isabel to see.
   But Isabel was not one to be ordered, especially by Liz, and especially in this matter; if anyone was going to be giving orders, it was her. "Put that thing away!"
   "It's not safe at Maria's because of the sheriff."
   "It's no different with us. Our parents are spies for Topolsky." Liz was nearly as shocked by this news as Isabel had been herself. "Why don't you try Michael?"
   "Not a wise move," said Maria, who now joined them, having followed Liz at an ambling pace. "He's spying for her too."
   "Michael?" It was Isabel's turn to be shocked again. "If that's true, there's no one else we can trust." She turned back to Liz. "Except you. You'll have to hold onto it for a while."
   "Why should I be the one to take the risk? Max and I aren't even together any more."
   "Liz, we've all taken risks."
   Liz answered quietly. "I think I've been handed more than my share."
   Isabel had not considered it in this light, and now saw the justice of Liz's position. "You're right. It's unfair to you. But I can't–" She stopped and considered. "Tell you what. You keep it for tonight, and I'll speak to Max about it. We'll–figure something out." Then she left them. Liz had no choice but to be content for the time being.
   Throughout the conversation Maria had been trying to think of a way to work around to her second purpose, and once they were alone again, Liz saw the marks of her thinking inscribed on her face. "Something else?"
   "Yeah, um, another favor–last one, promise. What it is is, I kind of got in trouble with my boss for taking all those days off. Which, needless to say, my teachers aren't thrilled about either. But they have to take me back and my boss doesn't–won't, actually. So what it comes to is, I'm out of a job. And I was wondering if you'd be willing to talk to your dad about letting me re-up." Liz opened her mouth and held it in that position. "Liz, did you hear me?"
   "Right, Maria, the thing is–"
   She was interrupted by Michael, stamping up to them from the same direction in which Isabel had left. "You!" he shouted, pointing at Maria.
   "You yourself," she retorted, unfazed.
   "Did you tell Isabel I was a mole?"
   "Why, did I blow your cover?"
   "I'm not!"
   "I heard you and Topolsky talking in the car."
   "That was none of your business. Anyway, she's not with the FBI any more. She lost her job."
   The removal of Topolsky as a threat considerably altered Maria's feelings about the situation, and she now tried to re-route the discussion into the area of friendly chat. "Wow, you know, now, that's a coincidence. Because I was just telling Liz–"
   "Lost her job how?" Liz had noticed lately how impatient with irrelevancies she had become; she put it down to stress.
   "Arrested the wrong person, apparently." Liz pondered this as Michael resumed talking to Maria. "She's been through a lot of stuff. If you talked to her–" He shook his head. "Forget it. You actually believed I'd rat you out to the FBI?"
   "You didn't trust me either, when you had the chance."
   "Guess I was right, then, huh?" And with that, he stamped off again, no happier than when he had arrived.
   He left Maria upset, and quivering in her upset. "Ohh...! Breathe deep, breathe deep...." She suited the act to the word. "What was I saying before?" Liz hoped it had slipped her mind. "Oh, yes. So if you could arrange to get me back in at the Crashdown, it would be helpful. In the way of financial remuneration, ¿comprende?"
   "Absolutely. That would be–perfect." Liz nodded several times and opened her mouth twice before further speech emerged. "See, Maria, the thing is, my dad and I aren't exactly seeing eye to eye these days. With the divorce and everything. Plus which, he's hired somebody else to cover your hours. So a rehire would be–problematic. At this stage." She smiled hopefully. "You understand."
   "Yeah," said Maria, "I get it." She had once accused Liz of being an ice maiden; at that moment Liz had nothing on her.
   "It isn't that I don't want to help–"
   "Of course not. How I could ever form a mistaken notion like that?" Maria watched the horde of students passing her by. "You're no different from the rest of them. Ursula Slavin, Pam Troy–the 'nice' kids. To you, I'm a nobody. Disposable."
   Liz could not believe her ears. "Maria!"
   "That's the one thing me and Michael had in common. Wrong side of the tracks, wrong side of the bed–wrong side of everything."
   "It's not like that at all!" Liz knew this sounded too glib, too prim, and too everything else she was at her least likable.
   "Well, when you figure out how it is, you be sure and let me know." Maria's voice broke on the last words, but she was determined not to let Liz see her cry. So she walked away. "Maria! Please!" she heard behind her, but she would not–could not–look back. She owed her pride, and her family's, that much.
   She did not weep, nor did any of the other mourners (so called) at the funeral of Alberto Antonio Deluca (July 17, 1953 - April 8, 2000); it began, it ended, and they left. Maria lingered as if wanting to say something to him, but when her mother called, she came. She returned later, when the cemetery was empty except for the dead, and she knelt before his headstone, but not in an attitude of prayer.
   "Dad," she said, "Dad, Dad. I don't remember much about you. And I'm sure you didn't remember much of me either. How could you? You weren't working at the time, but you for sure weren't hanging around the house–though I remember once you took me out for an ice cream. Then you disappeared, and the years slid by–years without you, and more years without even the sense of you. And then you came back. You did come back. True, it was to rip Mom off–but we all gotta look out for ourselves, ¿es verdad?"
   She was staring off to some place, or no place–any place. "See, Dad, the deal is, as of the moment I don't have a boyfriend, or a best friend, or a job. I'm even–" Her voice broke again. "–even losing Mom. And you could say, in a way, I did it all for you. The good daughter. So we're quits now. For the ice cream." She was silent for a few seconds. Then she mouthed a word that began with an "f", ended with an "r", and was not "father"; it was the last word she ever spoke to him, alive or dead.
   Maria had been abandoned. And that was how she felt. She could do nothing about the fact, but she would not permit the feeling: as she walked back home, she kicked it farther away from her with every step–and they were loud steps. She vowed never again to be lonely, just alone; two different things, and alone was better. As far as she could foresee any future for herself at that moment, those were the only options on the horizon.

---

Web Hosting · Blog · Guestbooks · Message Forums · Mailing Lists
Allwebco Web Templates · Build your own toolbar · Site Building Articles · Audio, Fonts, Clipart
powered by bravenet.com