'Where is he?' Grayhawk demanded.
'I'm here, George Grayhawk!' a harsh voice roared.
Looking to the center of the room, amazed at the destruction that had already taken place, Max saw a tall man dressed in jeans, a khaki shirt, and stained work boots standing in the doorway to the small kitchen on the other side of the room. He wore his gray hair braided on either side of his head. A beaded headband crossed his forehead, marked with a twist of eagle feathers that hung down behind his head. His face was lined and parched like leather that had been left out in the sun too long.
River Dog looked at Max. 'Do you see the spirit?' the shaman asked.
Max nodded. 'You don't see him?'
'Henry Callingcrow is not my ancestor,' River Dog said. 'He is of my family, but not of my fathers blood. Where is he?'
Max pointed toward the doorway to the kitchen. 'There.'
'What is he doing?' River Dog asked.
'He's here to punish me,' Cathy Callingcrow croaked from the corner. 'He says our people should not be here. He says we are all going to be punished by violating the treaty that the Mesaliko agreed to with the spirits.'
'I don't see anyone here,' Grayhawk challenged.
'He knows you,' Max replied. 'He called you by name.'
Uneasy, Grayhawk turned to peer at the doorway
'He's there.' Cathy Callingcrow wiped at her face with a shaking hand. 'He said he was going to kill me.'
River Dog moved, staying away from the doorway and walking to a position in front of the woman. 'I won't allow him to hurt you now, child,' the shaman promised.
Henry Callingcrow darted into movement without warning, stepping into the group of men. His fists flailed, knocking the men down like a WWE wrestler mowing down ninety-eight-pound weaklings. Thunder crackled in the room, and lightning blasted a jagged streak down one wall. The burn pattern smoked and stank.
George Grayhawk and the other men yelled and cursed in fear and rage as they tried to regroup. Grayhawk managed to swing his crowbar, evidently judging the ghost's location from another man who suddenly flew backward. If the crowbar touched the spirit… and Max wasn't sure that it did… the heavy tool did nothing to slow it.
Henry Callingcrow stepped toward River Dog and the cowering woman. She screamed in terror and buried her face behind her arms.
Another group of men reached the doorway of the house and started to come inside.
River Dog held up a hand to the men. 'Stay. You can do no good here.'
The new arrivals didn't like the idea, but they also saw how the spirit had left George Grayhawk and his construction team sprawled on the floor.
Knowing he couldn't stand by and do nothing, though unsure if there was anything he could do, Max moved to intercept the ghost. He stopped in front of River Dog with a hand outstretched. In the small confines of the room, there wasn't much room to maneuver.
Henry Callingcrow's face was livid with rage. 'Go away, outsider,' he ordered in a hoarse voice. 'Go away and maybe you'll live.'
Max wanted to speak, but if the ghost was really some ethereal remnant of the man who had once lived, he didn't know what to say to him.
River Dog began to chant behind Max. 'Listen to me, Cathy Callingcrow,' the shaman said, 'listen to me and don't be afraid. Vengeful spirits are powered by our fears. Our ancestors learned this the first time they faced them. If you are not afraid, they can't hurt you.'
Max didn't believe that. But as he watched, the manifestation standing before him seemed to waver, like a computer monitor scrolling to refresh an image.
River Dog continued chanting.
'No!' Henry Callingcrow barked. Then he threw himself forward.
Moving on instinct, Max intercepted the ghost, putting out both hands to stop the creature. There was a momentary resistance, as if he were pushing through heavy pudding or gelatin, a terrible cold feeling, then lightning blazed into the room again.
In the next heartbeat the ghost faded from sight.
Panicked, breathing hard, not daring to believe the thing was really gone, Max glanced desperately around the room. What had made it go? River Dog's ancestor had passed into his body before disappearing.
'Is it gone?' River Dog asked in a quiet voice.
Max stared at Grayhawk, who was urging his men to their feet.
'I think so,' Max said. Then he noticed that the young woman was limp against River Dog. 'Is she…is she…'
Understanding his concern, River Dog shook his head. 'She's alive. She just passed out.'
Drawn to the woman, Max leaned down. He studied the long tear on her face. Even with a good plastic surgeon, he knew the wound would leave a terrible scar, and she would be in horrible pain. He didn't want that for her. Mastering his energy, he placed his hand on her face.
'What are you doing?' Grayhawk challenged behind him.
'Silence,' River Dog ordered.
Max healed the woman, watching how the flesh knitted back together. In seconds, her breathing deepened and evened out, then there was not even a scratch to mark where the wound had been.
Feeling drained, Max took his hand away. He glanced up at River Dog. 'In a few days,' he said, 'she'll have a mark on her face. A silver imprint of my hand.' He remembered the imprint Liz had shown him on her stomach. 'It'll fade. It's nothing to worry about.'
'I understand,' River Dog replied.
Max nodded. 'You'll probably have one on your chest from this morning.'
'Thank you,' River Dog said.
Slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves with Gray-hawk and his men standing so close behind him, Max stood. His knees trembled. He looked at River Dog. 'I don't understand any of this.'
The shaman nodded. 'We will. In time, we will. Help me with her.'
Before Max could step forward and help with the unconscious woman, Grayhawk shoved him aside and gathered Cathy Callingcrow into his arms. 'I've got her,' Grayhawk said to River Dog. 'Get the Visitor out of our town. His presence here is making things worse.'
Stung, Max felt his face burn. All he wanted was to be out of the village and back in Roswell.
'What happened here?'
Michael looked up from the broom and dustpan he was using to sweep broken glass from the floor of the Crash-down Cafe. After the incident with Leroy Wilkins, Liz's parents had closed the cafe and assigned the crew to clean up. Michael wasn't particularly happy with the continued work, because he'd been looking forward to getting home and taking a nap. He still hadn't gotten quite caught up on sleep after working in the desert last week.
Isabel stood only a few feet away looking around. She looked freshly dressed and smelled like soap and shampoo, like she'd just stepped out of a shower.
'I thought you were working today,' Michael said.
'I was. I am.' Isabel fixed him with one of those imperious looks he knew so well. 'I'm kind of in a hurry here.'
'Me too,' Michael said. 'I was hoping to get off some time today.' He waved the dustpan at the windows where shards of glass still clung to the frames. 'The cafe's closed, but I'm going to be working harder than ever cleaning the place up.'
Isabel crossed her arms. 'I heard some kind of freak dust devil trashed the cafe. I also heard that a poltergeist destroyed everything. I wanted to know which it was.'
'And if I told you it was a ghost?' Michael asked.
'What kind of ghost?' Isabel asked.
Looking over the destruction of the cafe, Michael said, 'Well, it definitely wasn't the Casper the Friendly Ghost type. He was more like the Ghostly Trio, by way of Steven Spielberg.'
'I need more than that.'
