Shades (13 page)

On most days Max seemed like he'd been born with internal conflicts. Getting involved with Liz Parker had only put an edge on those conflicts, and given them a central point to revolve around. Love was hard on him.

On the other hand, Michael had a nature destined for hardship and confrontation. Looking at him, Isabel thought, most people would think love wouldn't be a problem for Michael because he'd beat that emotion into whatever shape he wanted. Only his relationship with Maria wasn't working out that way either.

Max was one of the most caring and understanding guys Isabel had ever seen, though she probably wouldn't tell him that. And Michael was one of the most thoughtless and self-absorbed people she knew, and she had told him that… more or less… upon occasion.

To a degree, Max and Michael were extremes when it came to relationship issues. Yet, neither one of them could maintain relationships with people they truly cared about without a lot of heartache involved.

Isabel walked back into the hospital and made her way to the ER waiting area. She halted at the door when she saw Max and Liz sitting together. She didn't want to intrude.

Max and Liz sat only inches apart, but they didn't touch. The silence and stillness that kept them apart might as well have been a steel barricade, Isabel thought. For the first time she understood the pain that her brother was going through. To be so dose… and yet… so apart.

Kyle sat on the side of the hospital bed in the hospital emergency room. His arm throbbed with pain as the doctor examined the long laceration on his forearm.

"We got really lucky here," Dr. Bohr said, gently prying at the flesh around the cut.

"How do you figure?" Kyle asked. He didn't feel especially lucky. He also didn't look at the wound, because the bloody mess reminded him too much of the ghost or hallucination he'd seen back at the work site.

"It's a big wound," Dr. Bohr said, "and deep, but you didn't nick any tendons. A few stitches… "

"Stitches?" Kyle asked, looking at the doctor.

The doctor was young, not yet thirty, and he wore a Remy Zero concert T-shirt under the pale blue scrubs. He peered at Kyle through rimless glasses and smiled a little. "Stitches," he repeated. "We can call them sutures, if you'd like."

"How about we call them Band-Aids?"

"I can't just tape this together/' the doctor said. "I'll have a nurse prep you, and we'll get that arm numbed.

Then I'll put in about… eight stitches will do it, I think."

"Sure," Kyle grumbled, taking his arm back from the doctor. Gently, he folded his arm across his chest, trapping the limb with his other arm across his wrist. He tried to remember the last time he'd gotten stitches.

"Want me to let your dad know you're okay?" Dr. Bohr asked.

"My dad?" Kyle asked. "Is he here?"

A confused expression settled on Dr. Bohr's face. "I thought that the gentleman who brought you in… "

"He's not my dad," Kyle said, surprised at the resentment that filled him. "He's my boss."

"Oh," Dr. Bohr said. "My mistake. I'll see you in a little while."

"Sure," Kyle said.

As Dr. Bohr passed through the curtained section that marked the entrance to the emergency room area, Quin-lann stuck his head inside. "Could you use some company, kid?"

"After as long as I've been here," Kyle said, "I'm surprised that you're still here."

Quinlann walked over to the bed and shrugged. "I brought you here. I wanted to make sure you made it home okay."

Kyle looked at his employer, getting a sinking feeling in his stomach. "You haven't been able to reach my dad, have you?"

Quinlann shook his head. "I left a message on the answering machine at your house."

Moving gingerly, still aware of the pain throbbing in his injured arm, Kyle lay back on the bed, settling in for the long haul. He tried not to let any of the unhappiness he felt at his dad's absence show.

Figures, Kyle thought sourly. Any other day of the week, Dad would be home with a can of beer in one hand and watching ESPN. Some of the resentment he was starting to feel about the elder Valenti's lack of interest in finding a job made his stomach roll. He felt his increased heartbeat thump at his temples.

"You okay?" Quinlann asked.

"Yeah," Kyle said. "Just the arm."

"Looks nasty."

"Doc says it's not as bad as it looks."

Quinlann nodded. "That's good. I don't want your dad upset with me."

"This isn't your fault."

"Did the doc say how long you're going to be dealing with a busted wing?" Quinlann asked.

"When I get out of here," Kyle said, "I'll be ready to get back to work."

Quinlann laughed and scratched his head. "You got sand, kid, I'll sure give you that. But once they get through working on that arm, you may be surprised at how much it hurts. I'll get someone to cover you for the next couple days."

"I don't want to take any days off," Kyle said. I can't afford to. The bills are piling up at the house and Dad isn't even looking at them anymore.

Kyle knew he shouldn't be mad at his dad. His dad had been through hell lately because of Max, Michael, Isabel, and Tess. The sheriff's job had disappeared because of his involvement with the Roswell aliens, and maybe his dad had lost some of his spirit when he'd discovered how evil Tess had been. Alex's parents still didn't know what had happened to him, and Kyle knew his dad had to sit on that knowledge too.

"You'll take a couple days off," Quinlann said. "At least. Then we'll see how it goes."

Kyle knew he should be thankful that he had such an understanding boss, but all he could think of was getting a short check. "If I can, I need to make up the time."

"What time?" Quinlann asked. "You were hurt on the job, kid. Me and the insurance will take care of you."

The information made Kyle feel a little better. He lay back on the pillows and tried to relax. He also tried not to think about where his dad was.

Just as the pain in his arm seemed to die down, he heard someone screaming from the area behind the curtain on his left.

13

Michael stared at the helmeted motorcycle rider. Judging from the riders size against the machine, the rider was a kid.

Valenti stepped forward and dropped the crowbar down against his leg so the tool wasn't so prominent. "Hey," he called, waving a hand. "This isn't what it looks like."

The motorcycle helmet shifted, going back and forth between Michael and Valenti a few times. Then the rider reached down and switched off the two-cycle engine. Reaching up, the rider took off the helmet and shook out her ponytail.

She gazed at Michael. Sunlight gave her chestnut hair a reddish gleam and made the spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks stand out. Her braces gleamed silver.

"If I didn't know you, Sheriff Valenti," the girl said, "I'd hightail it back home and call nine-one-one."

Valenti showed her an easy smile. "I'm glad that you didn't, Kelli."

"However," Kelli said, "I also know that you're not the sheriff of Roswell anymore. And I'm guessing that you used the crowbar to break into Mr. Wilkins's garage. So I want an explanation of what you and the hunk are doing here."

Valenti looked at Michael.

Hunk? Michael thought, feeling more than a little embarrassed. The girl was maybe twelve years old and acting way beyond her years.

"There's been an accident in town," Valenti said, looking back at the girl.

"Mr. Wilkins had a heart attack," Kelli said. "I saw it on the news just after lunch. The local news team interrupted the baseball game. Then they kept interrupting so much, I figured I'd go for a ride and catch the box scores later. The game was a blowout anyway." She paused. "That doesn't explain what you're doing down here."

Sharp kid, Michael couldn't help thinking. And obnoxious.

"I came down to check on Wilkins's house," Valenti said. "I know he used to keep cockatiels. It looks like Wilkins's stay in the hospital is going to be a while. I know that he doesn't have any family that he can call to take care of the birds."

Kelli pushed the motorcycle's kickstand down, then leaned the dirt bike over while she hopped off. "I can help," she offered, trudging toward them.

"Help?" Valenti repeated, and Michael could tell from Valenti's tone that that was the last thing he wanted.

"Sure," Kelli said. "Mr. Wilkins sometimes hires me to do housecleaning and take care of the birds."

"I didn't know that," Valenti admitted.

"Helping Mr. Wilkins is how I earned the money for the motorcycle," Kelli said. "I'm surprised that you remembered the birds. I was on my way down here to take care of them."

"You've got a key to the house?" Michael asked.

Kelli rolled her eyes at him. "There's other ways to get into places than with keys." She glanced at the crowbar along Valenti's leg. "Or crowbars."

"I'm not used to breaking into places," Valenti said. "Usually I've been around to prevent that."

"Well," the girl said, "you stink at it. But you did get the job done."

"Thanks," Valenti said. "I think."

Kelli stopped just inside the garage where the darkness started. "Did you or the hunk think to bring a flashlight?"

"I've got one in the truck."

"It's okay," Kelli said. "We can use mine." She reached into her jacket and brought out a small halogen flash.

Michael was impressed, but didn't let it show on his face.

"Do you see Wilkins on a daily basis?" Valenti asked as they filed by the orange and green spotted Willis jeep.

"More like three times a week," Kelli answered. "Mr. Wilkins doesn't have as much money as a lot of people around here think."

"Yeah," Valenti said. "I knew that."

The girl shone the flashlight over the boxes of ore sample and tools at the back of the garage. "Mr. Wilkins still went prospecting from time to time. I guess you knew that."

"Yeah," Valenti said. "Sometimes I'd catch him out in the desert on that three-wheeler he used to ride, and

sometimes in the jeep, and I'd check on him. Make sure he had enough water and wasn't getting overheated."

"Mr. Wilkins could always take care of himself in the desert," Kelli said. "It was people he didn't trust himself around. He didn't like going into town."

"He came into town today," Michael said. He glanced through the boxes and boxes of rock chunks and soil samples, not seeing at all why someone would be interested in them. They looked all the same to him.

"Wilkins went into Roswell occasionally," Valenti said.

"Yeah." Kelli turned toward the house side of the garage. The flashlight beam tracked across the wall, revealing two doors next to each other.

"Was today one of the scheduled days?"

"No," Kelli replied.

"Are you sure?" Valenti asked.

"Yeah. Mr. Wilkins always had me watch his house while he was gone. I was one of the few people he trusted. During school session, he'd wait till I was home before he'd go into Roswell."

"Then Wilkins either went to Roswell to see someone," Michael said, "or something chased him out of here."

Kelli swung on him, shining the light in his eyes and causing him to raise a hand in defense. "Sorry," she said. "Don't you work at the Crashdown?"

"Yeah," Michael answered. "I do that when I'm not helping Valenti burgle the houses of old rich people."

Kelli grinned and laughed. "I knew you weren't here about the birds."

Valenti looked uncomfortable. "No. That was our cover story."

"So what's the real reason?" Kelli asked.

"Wilkins told people at the Crashdown that he was being chased by a ghost," Valenti said.

"Is that what he told you, brown eyes?" Kelli asked Michael.

"He didn't tell me," Michael replied. "He told a friend of mine. I was standing there when he did."

Kelli's face wrinkled. "Did he say who the ghost belonged to?"

"No," Valenti said.

"Swanson," Michael said, ignoring the glare he got from Valenti.

"The news didn't say anything about that," Kelli said.

"It's protected information," Valenti said.

Kelli's eyebrows raised in understanding. "You mean, in case it turns out someone was trying to scare Mr. Wilkins out of his house and steal his stuff."

Actually Michael hadn't been thinking that far ahead, but the conclusion sounded logical to him and would give them the leverage they needed to keep asking questions. "Yeah," Michael said.

"That still doesn't explain what an ex-sheriff and a short-order cook from the Crashdown is doing here investigating," Kelli observed.

"The new sheriff isn't interested in chasing down ghost stories," Valenti said.

"And you are?" Kelli shot him a doubtful look.

"He's tired of Oprah and Montel," Michael said.

"What about you?" Kelli asked.

"Do you think I want to be a short-order cook all my life?"

"And you're not going to be a short-order cook how?"

Michael smiled at her. "Professional ghostbuster."

Kelli smiled. "Cool."

Valenti grimaced, and Michael figured Valenti wasn't totally enthusiastic about the new cover story.

"Has Wilkins acted any differently lately?" Valenti asked.

"Mr. Wilkins has always acted different," Kelli said. She gestured with the flashlight beam toward the ore samples. "I mean, how many people keep boxes of rocks like this?"

Michael figured the girl had a point.

Nodding to the two doors, Valenti asked, "Where do these doors go?"

Turning her light to the doors, Kelli said, "The door on the left goes upstairs to the house, but the door on the right goes to the workroom."

"What's in the workroom?" Valenti asked.

"I don't know. Mr. Wilkins never let me in there."

"You never let yourself in there?" Michael asked. "I mean, you said you don't need a key to get into places."

Kelli rolled her eyes at Michael in pure disgust. The effort was worthy of something Maria could deliver. Michael figured the ability must be a gender thing.

"No," Kelli said. "1 respected his privacy."

Valenti stepped toward the door. "Somebody didn't. The lock's off the door." He knelt and picked up a padlock from the garage floor. "Let me see that light."

Kelli stepped closer and handed the flashlight over.

Lifting the padlock, Valenti shone the flashlight beam over the mechanism. "Doesn't appear to have been forced."

"Maybe Wilkins forgot to lock it behind him," Michael suggested.

"Mr. Wilkins never forgot something like that," Kelli said. "Whatever was in the workroom was important."

"Was?" Michael asked.

"If the door is open," Kelli said with major exasperation, "you can bet that whatever was in there is gone now."

"We'll see," Valenti said. He kept the flashlight and took a fresh grip on the crowbar. Then he glanced at Michael. "Keep her safe."

Michael nodded, catching the young girl by the elbow and pulling her back. She fought against him, but he kept her moving toward the garage opening, not stopping till she was behind the Willis jeep.

"What do you think you're doing?" Kelli protested. She balled up her fists and shoved them into Michael's chest.

"Calm down," Michael told her, grabbing her wrists so she couldn't hurt him.

"You can't just take my flashlight!" Kelli yelled.

Terrific, Michael thought. I could have stayed at the Crashdown for this. He glanced over his shoulder and watched as Valenti entered the workroom. The flashlight cut through the darkness.

"Hey," Michael called, "you want to go ahead and blow the all-clear before I get my brains beaten in?"

The light stayed in one spot for a time, then Valenti turned back toward the open doorway. "You gotta see this to believe it."

Before Michael could respond, he sensed the buildup of static electricity charging the air. A savage wind whipped out of nowhere, amping up the atmospheric disturbance.

Dust and grit whirled up from the garage's paved floor and stung his eyes.

Kelli screamed. No longer intent on freeing herself, she reached for Michael, grabbing his shirt and pulling herself into him.

Through the blinding haze, Michael saw the monstrous shape rise in the basement space behind Valenti.

"Liz."

Drawn from the confused tangle of dreams and pain that her thoughts seemed to consist primarily of these days, Liz looked up and saw her dad standing before her. "Yeah, Dad."

Jeff Parker looked worn out. Tourist season was always hard, and demanded a lot of the whole family. "Why don't you go on back to the Crashdown. The sheriff tells me he's not going to need to do any more questioning."

"Is there anything Mom needs?" Liz pushed up from the chair.

Her dad sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "If there is, I didn't even think to ask."

"It's okay," Liz said. "I'll ask, then tell her you told me to."

Her dad smiled. "I appreciate that, Liz."

"No prob," Liz said. She was looking forward to being out of the hospital. "Are you going to be okay?"

" Ill be fine," her father assured her. "Tell your mom I'll be home soon."

Liz nodded, glancing across the waiting area, and saw Isabel and Max locked in a heavy conversation on the other side of the doorway that led to the vending machines. After Isabel had arrived a few minutes ago, she'd taken Max away to talk privately. Maybe some of the reason was because Max and Isabel didn't want to risk being overheard by Jeff Parker, but Liz was certain that part of the reason for the relocation was because Isabel and Max were trying to cut her out of their affairs.

Okay, Liz thought, maybe I'm being a little paranoid here. And didn't I just give Max the cold shoulder to a degree? I wasn't overly responsive to his attempts at conversation. She'd tried; she really had. But she just kept seeing Tess in her mind, kept hearing Tess's voice. And there were the images of Tess and Max together. She'd seen them together around school, but she'd never seen them intimate together. That didn't stop her mind from creating the images, though.

Jeff Parker's cell phone rang. He waved a final goodbye, and scooped the phone from his pocket.

A moment of indecision froze Liz. Wave good-bye? Or just go? She didn't know what was more acceptable with whatever relationship was left between them.

Then Max turned and glanced at her as if sensing she was about to leave. She gazed into his dark eyes, feeling herself drawn to him. Resisting the impulse to walk over to him, she waved and pointed toward the main entrance that led outside to the parking area.

Max checked his conversation with Isabel and came back to Liz. "What's going on?" he asked.

"All done here," Liz replied. "Dad says I can go back to the Crashdown and see what needs doing there."

Max hesitated a moment, and his discomfort was plain.

"I've got my car outside. I could give you a lift."

"It's only a few blocks," Liz replied, not wanting to interrupt the conversation between siblings that obviously wasn't meant for her. She felt a little guilt over the anger that beat through her.

"I don't mind," Max said. "I like the company."

Uncertainty threaded through Liz. God, why does this have to be so hard? Either I want to be with him or I don't. But it wasn't that simple even though she wanted it to be. And worse, she knew the decision to be around Max in whatever capacity was never going to be simple or easy again.

Liz wanted to say no. She didn't need any more complications in her life. But then she realized that maybe her mom was talking to the ghost of her dead grandmother and the pod squad were the only ones who could see the "ghosts."

Instead she said, "Okay," and the answer wasn't as solid or convincing as either of them would have wanted.

Max opened the front doors, and the blast of furnace heat of Roswell on a June afternoon rolled into the emergency room waiting area. Before they could go outside, a hoarse scream ripped through the waiting area.

"That came from the back," Liz said.

The scream was repeated, drawing the attention of everyone in the building. The nurses at the front desk abandoned their post and rushed to the back.

"Keep him away from me!" a man's hoarse voice screamed. "Oh god, keep him away from me! He's dead! He's dead!