The Vanished

A FRIEND IN DANGER . . .

Max received an image from Alex of pure fear, of shadowy threatening presences, of misery and loneliness. There was no place for Alex to relax or rest. He was constantly on the run. Running for his life.

What is it? Max sent out frantically. Alex, what's wrong? What are you running from?

But before Alex could reply, another being took his place — an unfriendly entity who blasted Max with images of fire and destruction. Max recoiled . . . and lost track of Alex in the whirlwind of auras.

He thrust himself into the storm, struggling to hold on to Alex's signature energy, but to no avail. The angry being had blocked Alex from further communication.

Alex, he sent, Alex, if you can hear me, we're trying to bring you back! We all miss you, and we want you to come home! I promise . . . I promise we will find a way to get you here where you belong!

Don't miss any books in this fascinating new series:

#1 THE OUTSIDER

#2 THE WILD ONE

#3 THE SEEKER

#4 THE WATCHER

#5 THE INTRUDER

#6 THE STOW AWAY

#7 THE VANISHED

#8 THE REBEL

#9 THE DARK ONE

#10 THE SALVATION

Available from POCKET PULSE

This book is a work of fiction. Although the physical setting of the book is Roswell, New Mexico, the high school and its students, names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2000 by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
Cover art TM and © 2000 by Twentieth Century Fox
Film Corporation. All rights reserved.

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ISBN-10: 0-7434-3448-X
ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-3448-5

First POCKET PULSE printing May 2000

POCKET PULSE and colophon are trademarks of
Simon & Schuster Inc.

Michael Guerin caught a whiff of something fresh and tangy. The smell of the ocean. God, he loved that smell.

Yeah, but do you love it because you love the ocean? he asked himself. Or do you love it because it's the way Cameron smells?

He ignored himself. He needed to get some sleep. And thinking about Cameron Winger was like chain drinking fifty cups of coffee. It made him feel like all his nerves were vibrating.

The ocean scent grew stronger. And Michael's nerves started vibrating faster, generating an electric current that raced through his body. Cameron was here. In his room, in his bedroom. He was sure of it.

Before he could sit up, he felt her arm slip around his waist, felt her breath warm against the back of his neck. Cameron wasn't just in his bedroom. She was in his bed.

He used to fantasize about exactly this when he was lying in his cell in the Clean Slate compound, held prisoner by Sheriff Valenti. The fantasies kept him sane in there. Kept him from thinking about exactly what the Clean Slate crew planned to do with him after they learned everything they could about his powers.

But those fantasies all took place before he found out the truth about Cameron. That was before he found out that she wasn't just another prisoner in the compound. She was working for Valenti, and her job was to get Michael to give her the names of the other aliens living in Roswell.

Was he just supposed to forget that Cameron had betrayed him? Was he just supposed to what — roll over and start kissing her or something?

Yes, you big idiot! his body screamed at him. Yes! Do it. Do it now!

“Can't you even look at me?” Cameron asked softly. “You haven't actually looked at me for days.”

It was true. He avoided looking at her because when he looked at her, he wanted her. And starting up something with Cameron again didn't seem like the smartest idea.

Cameron pulled her arm away. The mattress dipped as she slid to the edge of the bed.

“I guess I thought risking my life for you and your friends would mean . . .” Her words trailed off. “My mistake.”

Michael shoved himself up into a sitting position and leaned against the headboard. He shot a quick glance at Cameron. She was facing away from him, and the curve of her neck under that short red hair of hers almost annihilated him. There was something about that short-as-an-army-guy hair that made the rest of her look even more female.

“It did mean something,” Michael told her. “We probably wouldn't have gotten out of there alive without you.”

It was true. Cameron had risked her life to help them escape from Elsevan DuPris, an enemy who had proven himself to be much more dangerous than Sheriff Valenti and Project Clean Slate. Cameron knew DuPris was an alien with powers exponentially stronger than Michael's and the others', but that hadn't stopped her from hurling herself at DuPris unarmed. Totally defenseless.

“But?” Cameron asked.

But Michael's problem was figuring out which was the real Cameron. The girl who betrayed him. Or the girl who saved his life.

He sighed. If he was going to try and explain that to her, he had to at least look her in the eye. Even if it caused some kind of electrical fire inside him.

Michael reached out and pulled Cameron around to face him. And then he screamed. He couldn't help himself.

It wasn't Cameron sitting there. Not anymore. It was DuPris.

“Wake up, Michael,” DuPris told him. “You're a whole different species than that . . . girl. A superior species. Don't taint yourself.”

What did DuPris want? He couldn't have taken on Cameron's appearance just to give Michael advice on his love life.

“Wake up, Michael,” DuPris repeated. But it didn't sound like DuPris anymore. It sounded like Max Evans, Michael's best friend.

Michael felt a pair of hands shaking him, although DuPris hadn't touched him. DuPris wasn't even in the room anymore.

What the hell?

“I know you need your beauty sleep, but you have to wake up,” Max's voice insisted.

Michael jerked upright and opened his eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “I was having a heinous nightmare. Cameron turned into DuPris and —” He shook his head. “You get the idea.”

“Nasty,” Max said. He stepped back, and Michael noticed for the first time that the rest of the group was there, too. Max's sister, Isabel, hovered by the bedroom door along with Liz Ortecho, Maria DeLuca, and Adam.

For a moment Michael wondered what he'd done to earn the honor of a group wake-up call, but then he groggily recalled the plan.

They were supposed to go out to the ruins of the Project Clean Slate compound to find their ship — the one DuPris had crashed back in 1947, killing Michael's and Max's and Isabel's parents . . . and Adam's. For years Michael had searched for the ship. Then just a few weeks ago he and his friends had discovered that Project Clean Slate, an organization dedicated to tracking down and possibly disposing of alien life on earth, had been hiding it in their secret compound for decades.

Unfortunately, Michael had only discovered the ship because Sheriff Valenti had trapped him in the compound. Michael's friends had stormed the place and broken him out, and the compound was destroyed in the process. The upside was Valenti and the rest of the Clean Slate crew were history. Ashes. Vapor. The enemy had been obliterated.

The downside was the ship might be history, too.

“So, the gang's all here,” Michael said. “If I could get a little privacy, I'll get dressed and then we'll hit the road.” Then he noticed the silence and the worried looks on his friends' faces. “What's up?” he asked.

Nobody replied, and a sick feeling twisted Michael's stomach. Somebody's missing, he realized, the first wings of panic fluttering in his chest. And it's not Alex. . . .

Sadly, Michael had already gotten somewhat used to the lack of Alex Manes's bright orange aura in their group. A few days had passed since Alex had been mistakenly pulled through the wormhole that Max had opened to their home planet. Max had been trying to send DuPris back there, but DuPris had tricked them all, and now DuPris was free and Alex was in a galaxy far, far,
far
away. And who knew how the beings felt about having a human tourist.

“It's Cameron,” Maria said quietly, pushing a stray blond curl behind her ear.

Michael was out of bed in an instant. Without bothering to pull a pair of jeans over his boxers, he rushed into the living room and over to the pile of flattened beanbags where Cameron Winger had been crashing for the past few nights. It was vacant. Michael put his hand on the cushion closest to him and found it cold. Cameron had left hours ago.

He spun to face Adam. “Did you see her leave?”

He, Adam, and Cameron had all been staying in Ray Iburg's apartment. They figured Ray wouldn't have minded. Before he died, he'd been kind of a mentor to Michael, Max, and Isabel, the only adult survivor of the Roswell Incident crash.

At least that's what they'd all thought until Elsevan DuPris revealed the truth about himself.

“I was asleep,” Adam answered, his green eyes dark with sympathy.

Max cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, man,” he said, placing his hand on Michael's shoulder.

For a moment Michael was surprised to feel how weak Max's grip was. But it made sense, with all he'd been through recently.

“It's okay,” Michael said, taking a deep breath. “It's fine. We have something more important to deal with right now.”

He would think about Cameron later. Much later. He wasn't going to let his feelings about some girl stop him from doing what needed to be done. Even some girl who turned him inside out, who betrayed him and saved his life.

If Max could stand up and face the disaster their lives had become, so could Michael. The withered, gray spots that had appeared on Max's face and neck after he'd opened the wormhole had faded, but he still had to be seriously exhausted. Michael was impressed that Max was even standing. His best friend was so painfully inspiring, it made Michael feel uplifted and nauseated all at the same time.

Michael grabbed a pair of pants and a T-shirt off the floor and yanked them on. “What are we waiting for?”

“To the Batmobile!” Maria cried. No one laughed. “Sorry. You know what happens when I get nervous. Brain Jell-O,” she muttered.

A few minutes later all six of them were crammed into Max and Isabel's Jeep. Michael sat squashed between Adam and Max in the backseat, with Liz more or less on Max's lap. Maria was riding shotgun, and Isabel was driving.

They zoomed through the flat, strip-mall-lined streets of Roswell toward the desert beyond. The sun blared down on them, and the air over the road shimmered with haze.

“Do you think the ship will still be there?” Maria asked. Her question echoed through the silence in the Jeep like the crack of breaking ice. “I've been trying to imagine it still in the base — to visualize it. Maybe if we all do that, if we all visualize it, it will —”

“What flavor of Jell-O is that in your brain, anyway?” Isabel snapped.

Maria bit her lip and didn't say anything else.

Every muscle in Michael's body tensed. There was a
thing
between Isabel and Maria lately. And he had a feeling he was the thing. They'd both made a play for him when all he'd been thinking about was Cameron. And even though they'd both backed off, there was still this thing, this little bit of attitude. He was about to tell them to chill, but thankfully, Liz beat him to it.

“Was that necessary?” Liz asked, leaning between the two front seats and glaring at Isabel.

“Maybe,” Isabel replied. Her shoulders were stiff, and she stared grimly at the road ahead of them. “I'm just not in the mood for one of Maria's little New Age games. Is that okay with you?”

“No,” Liz said. “It's not.”

“Everyone calm down,” Max interrupted. “We're all worried. But we can't take it out on each other.”

“Well, sorry if I'm paying attention to reality,” Isabel said. “But did any of you stop to think that when Adam trashed the compound, it might have alerted other people? Like the police . . . or even worse, the media?”

“First of all,” Michael replied, “Adam didn't blow up the Clean Slate compound. DuPris did, when he had control of Adam's body. You should understand that better than anyone, Izzy.”

That was because DuPris had taken over Isabel's body, too. Just thinking about it sent a surge of bile up Michael's throat.

“I know,” Isabel said. “But that doesn't change the fact that the police, or even a TV crew, could be waiting for us around the next corner.”

“The explosion was a few days ago,” Liz said. “The media would've been crawling all over Roswell by now if they'd heard anything.” She reached back and quickly twisted her long dark hair into a spiral down her back. “I know you're freaked, but that doesn't mean you can just be randomly mean to people.”

Isabel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'm sorry, Maria,” she said quietly. “I'm just in a mood. Don't take it personally.”

“It's forgotten,” Maria said.

The
thing
faded. Michael leaned forward slightly. “The ship should be undamaged,” he said. “Remember that piece of metal I found out in the desert? The ship is made out of the same stuff, and nothing I did to that scrap hurt it in the least. Not even a blowtorch —”

“The ship's fine,” Adam added. “I know for sure.”

“Did Valenti have you test it?” Max asked.

“Yeah, we beat that thing up endlessly. Nothing I did ever hurt it at all,” Adam replied, staring out the side of the Jeep.

Michael heard the distant tone of Adam's voice and felt a surge of anger. He didn't even like to imagine how Adam had been raised. The late Sheriff Valenti had imprisoned Adam in the under-ground compound and never let him know that there was anything outside, never taught him anything about the world. Valenti even told Adam that he was Adam's father, which to Michael pretty much defined the word
twisted.