A dog started barking excitedly. Running footsteps echoed between the small dwellings. A moment later, a young girl with feathers and turquoise twisted into her braids ran toward them. She wore khaki hiking shorts and a lavender spaghetti-strap tank, and couldn't have been more than ten years old.
'George Grayhawk,' the young girl called out. 'River Dog is waiting for this man.'
Grayhawk, the man with the hammer, gave ground reluctantly at the little girl's approach. The speckled hound kept pace with her, continuing to bay eagerly.
The little girl stopped in front of Max, looking him over from head to toe as if he were a lab specimen. 'You are Max?' she asked.
'Yes,' Max answered.
The little girl reached up tentatively and took Max by the hand when he didn't come immediately. 'My name is Sarah Swiftfox. You don't have to be afraid.'
'I'm not afraid,' Max said, getting into motion and following Sarah past Grayhawk and the other two men.
'Yes you are,' Sarah replied, glancing over her shoulder.
Do children always know the truth? Max wondered. The possibility was something to think about. When his son met him again… and Max was somehow certain that would happen… would he believe the story Max told him about why he'd stayed behind instead of leaving with his mother? He let out a breath, realizing that his son might believe him, but the real question was whether he would understand.
The dog trotted along beside Max and Sarah as the little girl led the way out of the village and up into the surrounding hills. The sun burned down against the scorched earth.
Here and there Max could spot runnels and washes left over from the heavy rains three days ago, but they were all dried out now, leftover scars that the dry wind would soon rake smooth again. The bright purple, white, red, and yellow blooms of the various cacti spread across the cracked earth were still open at the moment.
Sarah stopped and pointed. 'There's River Dog.'
Following the line of her finger, Max spotted the shaman seated cross-legged on a blanket facing the rising sun. The shaman wore traditional dress, complete with symbols painted on his chest, arms, and face.
Unease rattled through Max's mind. 'Is something wrong with him?' he asked the girl.
Sarah wrinkled her face as she watched the shaman. 'I don't know. He hasn't told me anything was wrong.'
'Why did he send for me?' Max asked.
The speckled hound whined for the girl's attention.
'I don't know.' Sarah knelt and took the hound's muzzle in her hands. The animal ceased whining and lapped at her face. 'Our stories, the legends of the People, often say that two people who are incomplete, each with his or her own problems, often find ways to help each other.' She stood. 'I can see that you have problems of your own. Maybe that was what River Dog was thinking when he sent for you. I hope it's true.'
Me too, Max said. One of the avenues he'd intended to explore to help him find his son had been the Mesaliko shaman. He just hadn't known how River Dog was going to do that, and he hadn't been ready to tell the shaman what was going on. River Dog had helped them discover the healing stones, and Nacedo after a fashion, but he hadn't been entirely supportive either. River Dog's comments to Liz had shown that. Still, the shaman had helped when Michael had gotten sick.
Max turned back to the girl, intending to thank her. Instead he saw Sarah halfway down the hillside with the speckled hound at her side.
Resolutely, Max turned back to the shaman and crossed the ridgeline. His shoes crunched through the baked surface of the hillside.
Only a few feet from the shaman quick movement darted through rocks and small, barrel-shaped pear cacti. Max tried to track the movement, catching a glimpse of a silvery blur that disappeared into the cracked earth.
In the next instant a wall of air slammed into Max hard enough to make him stumble. He straightened, turning into the wind and facing in the direction of the rising sun. Hooves drummed the ground with deafening loudness.
The wind had whipped up a yellow, alkaline dust cloud from the hillside, then swept the mass toward the ridge where River Dog sat. The sound of the hooves grew louder.
The dim outline of a horse and rider formed in the dust cloud, gaining speed till the animal and man burst free of the swirling haze. A Native-American warrior sat atop the charging horse. Both man and animal were marked with war paint. The warrior wore a breastplate made of bird bones and a rawhide loincloth. Eagle feathers stood up from his warbonnet. A leather shield covered his left arm, and he carried a feathered war spear in his right.
Without breaking stride, the mounted warrior screamed in angry defiance and rode straight for River Dog. He drew the war lance back smoothly, arm muscles rippling as he prepared to throw the lethal weapon.
3
Standing in front of the mirror in her room, Liz Parker took stock of her image. Okay, so do I look like someone barely holding it together here? Like somebody one short step from the edge?
The questions were fair ones. How many people could keep it together and face what she was facing? The whole your-boyfriend-is-an-alien thing had been a real stretch for the last year and a half, especially helping him seek out his home world. But coupled with the fact that Max had also fathered a child with someone he'd been married to in another life, someone who turned out to be the murderess of one of Liz's best friends, was more than anyone should have to handle.
And that's the real choice, isn't it? Liz asked her reflection. To deal or not to deal. Working out a relationship was hard enough between two normal people.
An image flashed into her mind, reminding her how she'd handled Max's decision to return to his home world in the Granilith only a few short days ago. They'd sat in the jeep in front of the Crashdown Cafe.
I wish, I wish this all could have been different, Max had told her. I wish that so much. Then he'd leaned in and kissed her, and the familiar weirdness of the kiss had slammed through her.
Then, when he'd pulled back, she'd looked at him, not knowing what to do, feeling Tess between them. I guess that this is our good-bye, she'd said. Then she'd asked one of the most frightening and difficult questions she'd ever asked. Just tell me one thing. Do you love her?
Max hadn't hesitated. Not like I love you.
Liz had almost stayed with him then. But she hadn't been able to. She'd been a mass of confused emotions barely contained. Leaving him there and walking into the Crashdown had taken all of her strength, all of her nerve, and she'd clung desperately to the hurt that his words had brought her.
Tears burned, brimming at the backs of Liz's eyes. She steeled herself, holding the helpless emotion back. She couldn't lose herself in Max Evans again. She wouldn't allow herself to be lost again.
She crossed the room, barely aware of the music streaming from the radio by her bed. She glanced at the clock and discovered she had only minutes to make it to work on time. The good thing was that she worked in the cafe downstairs, but the bad thing was that the cafe was downstairs all the time. She could be called in to work at a moment's notice. Her folks usually didn't do that, but the opportunity existed.
Trying to get focused again, Liz grabbed her apron and order book and left her room. Out in the hallway she
heard voices. At first she thought perhaps her mother and father were in the living room talking, then she realized her father wouldn't have been home unless something was wrong.
Only feeling a little guilty about eavesdropping because 'she was worried, Liz moved to the door of the small kitchen the Parker family maintained above the cafe. She hadn't heard anyone enter the family dwelling area, and despite the muffled noise from the business below, she usually could.
'I know something is going on,' Nancy Parker was insisting. 'Liz hasn't been herself for weeks.'
Liz's heart leaped into her throat. She'd known her parents were aware that she was having a difficult time, but if they were going to talk about it that meant they weren't far from trying to do something about the situation.
