Loose ends

9.

A coyote howled mournfully in the night as Max and Michael crouched behind some outcropping rocks atop a ridge overlooking the hillside entrance to the gruesomely-named Slaughter Canyon Cave. They had arrived at the canyon well before midnight, so that they could take up a concealed position before either Morton or Lieutenant Ramirez showed up to conduct their mysterious business. Although the cave itself had closed at sunset, all-night camping was permitted on the. park's thirty-something miles of back-country trails, allowing the two teenagers to reach this location without having to sneak past any guards or barriers, like they often had to do on covert missions like this. So far, so good, Max thought.

He hated having to leave Liz's side again, especially after her total meltdown at the Bat Flight, but there was no way around it; he couldn't trust this job to anyone else, not even Michael. If anyone's going to uncover Mortons dirty dealings, it's going to be me, he vowed silently. I owe it to Liz-and myself.

Fortunately, Liz had calmed down some after they'd gotten her away from the burgeoning bats and crowds. In theory, she was resting now in a room at the Days Inn, where Maria, Alex, and Isabel could take care of her. It had torn his heart out to see Liz so scared and miserable, which only increased his resolve to take care of Joe Morton, one way or another. With luck, Liz would feel better, and more like her old self again, once she knew that the loathsome gunman could no longer threaten her.

A cold fury possessed him, spreading from his gut out to his fingertips, which tingled with pent-up psychic energy. He clenched his fist, feeling the red-hot power building within him, waiting to burst free. The alien energies at his command were fully capable of killing a man, Max knew, but was he? He tried to imagine what it would be like, setting Morton's heart on fire with the power of his mind, melting the man's rib cage until it resembled one of the shapeless calcite formations found in the caverns below. The image both horrified and intrigued him.

Could I actually kill Morton in cold blood? he asked himself, uncertain of the answer. A vivid mental picture, of Liz dying on the floor of the Crashdown, blood seeping from her wounded belly, her beautiful brown eyes dimming, sprang into his mind, as real as life. He had never felt so scared, so desperate. Maria screaming in the background. Michael trying to hold him back. Liz's smooth, soft skin growing cold and still… "No, please, no! You can't die, Liz. You can't!"Max shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the awful memories from his thoughts. He shuddered, his body responding irrationally to events that had taken place nearly two years ago. The remote canyon, lit by a thin crescent moon, could not have been more different than the Crashdown with its kitschy decor, yet he suddenly felt as though part of him, the most important part, was still kneeling on the diner floor, next to Liz's bleeding body How could anyone do this to her, to Liz of all people? One very special person like Liz, so beautiful, so bright, and so caring, was worth more than a hundred worthless scumbags like Joe Morton. How dare he come so close to extinguishing Lizs life forever? Max's alien blood boiled in his veins and he knew that, at that moment at least, he was more than capable of obliterating Joe Morton for good.

"You okay, kemo sdbe?" Michael asked. Like his friend, the alien youth squatted in the dirt behind the craggy ridge, and had discarded his blond disguise in favor of his usual mop of messy brown hair. High-powered binoculars, purchased at one of the shops in Whites City, rested on his lap, next to a medium-size bottle of Tabasco sauce.

"I'm fine," Max asserted. "I just want to get this over with, and get back to Liz." He peeked at the Indiglo display on his watch; it was already 11:35 p.m. "Not much longer," he promised Michael.

"So why do you think this place is called Slaughter Canyon anyway?" Michael asked casually. He took a sip of the bright red Tabasco sauce. "Are we talking some sort of ghastly Indian massacre here or what?"I have no idea," Max stated, grimacing slightly. His legs were growing numb from holding the same position, so he shifted his weight slightly. "And I don't particularly care." He glanced over at his friend to see how he was holding up.

What he saw sent a chill through his blood. "Michael!" he whispered urgently. "Don't move!" Max froze as well, taking care not to make any sudden movements. "Whatever you do, don't move."There in the moonlight, coiled in the shadow of a flowering cactus plant, its burnished copper scales glittering, a full-grown rattlesnake lifted its serpentine head, only inches away from Michael's ankle. Diamond-shaped markings along its coils advertised its deadly nature and species, while a forked tongue flicked between its predatory jaws.

At first, Michael looked mystified by Max's whispered warning. "What?" he mouthed silently, taking pains to obey Max's instructions even though he didn't yet comprehend die why of them. Then the rattler shook its tail like a maraca, filling the still night air with a dry, staccato warning. Understanding-and fear-dawned in Michael's eyes. "Oh crap," he whispered.

Would rattlesnake venom affect Michael's alien biology? Max didn't want to find out. Holding his breath, he watched the snake with vigilant eyes, hoping that die poisonous reptile would slither away harmlessly. Just go about your business, snake, he pleaded silently, regretting that, unlike some movie aliens, talking to animals was not among his inhuman abilities. Don't mind us. We won't give you any trouble.

If the diamondback could read his mind, which was highly unlikely, then it definitely wasn't listening to him. The dry rattle increased in volume and tempo as the serpent appeared to grow more and more agitated by the hu-manoid intruders trespassing on its domain. The snake hissed again, more vehemently, and Max caught a glimpse of curved yellow fangs, dripping with venom. Its coils rustled atop the dirt and gravel, and the rattler's head reared up, poised to strike at Michael's ankle.

"No," Max declared, unleashing the destructive energy he had been saving for Morton. His outstretched ringers glowed with an unearthly radiance and a bolt of incandescent heat and fury flashed between Max and the attacking serpent. The hiss of burning meat replaced the diamondback's own sibilant vocalizations, and the angry rattling ceased abruptly Startled by the strobelike flash, Michael yelped and scrambled away from the zapped rattler on his hands and knees, not looking back until he had put many yards between himself and his former location. "Whew!" he exclaimed, forcefully expelling all the air from his lungs. His chest rose and fell irregularly as he looked back in surprise at what was left of the snake.

Thin white tendrils of smoke rose from a blackened lump of charred bones and skin. The volcanic heat of Max's psychic blast had even scorched the earth around the smoking snake skeleton, leaving a crust of gray-black ash atop the soil. Climbing onto his feet, Michael nudged the cremated remains with the toe of his sneaker. Nothing rattled, since the fiery mental thunderbolt had fused the rattler's natural noisemaker into a single, inert mass of smoldering cartilage. Michael pushed the barbecued snake parts farther aside, revealing a patch of once-gritty sand that had been transformed by die extreme heat into a thin sheet of cracked and discolored glass, like the epicenter of a miniature atomic explosion. The glazed sand reflected silvery fragments of die moonlit sky overhead.

"Yo, Max," Michael said, shaking his head in disbelief, "you have really got to work on your control." Rescuing his bottle of Tabasco sauce from the ground where it had fallen, he took a deep gulp from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not that I'm not grateful for the timely save, mind you, but, if you don't watch out, you really are going to kill somebody one day."Max contemplated the smoking debris with a sense of grim satisfaction. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he hadn't needed to incinerate the rattler, that he could have just projected a force field instead, but he had few regrets at the way the scene had played out. One snake down, he thought. One more to go.

"Boy, what is it about us and creatures that like to shed their skin?" Michael asked rhetorically, continuing to inspect leftover pieces of rattlesnake. Wired by his near brush with terminal snakebite, he stretched his limbs and gazed past Max's brooding form, out over the canyon. His eyes widened suddenly, and he dropped to the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust and sand. Max started to sneeze, but Michael hastily placed a finger beneath his friend's nose, then raised another finger over his own lips, signaling him to silence. "Sssh!" he hushed Max, tilting his head toward the canyon below. "Look."Crouching lower, onto his hands and knees, Max cautiously lifted his head until he could just peer over the tops of the jutting rocks. He sucked air through his clenched teeth as he spotted what Michael had seen only seconds before.

While they'd both been distracted, understandably, by the overly territorial rattler, Joe Morton had come trudging up the steep desert trail to the entrance of Slaughter Canyon Cave. Brandishing a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other, and carrying a canvas backpack upon his beefy shoulders, Morton was breathing heavily by the time he reached the top of the trail, just outside the shadowy gap in the hillside. Posted signs warned hikers not to explore the hazardous cavern except in the company of an experienced guide, but the burly gunman did not look like he was planning any unauthorized spelunking; arriving at the end of the trail, he slipped the backpack off his shoulders, planted his hefty butt on a conveniently flat-topped boulder, and settled down to wait for Lieutenant Ramirez. The night was quiet enough that Max could hear him muttering grumpily about the steepness of the climb, the lieutenant's lack of punctuality, and the general crappi-ness of life in general. He spit a mouthful of chewing tobacco at the base of a sign listing general park regulations. "Lousy, stinkin' nature," he groused. "Who needs all this nothing anyway? Ought to build a casino here or something."Squatting behind the craggy ridge, Michael stared at Morton in disgust. "A real class act, this guy," he whispered softly to Max, his voice filled with contempt. "Reminds me of my absent-and-unlamented foster dad, Hank."Given that Michael's former legal guardian, now happily missing for many months, had been an abusive, bad-tempered drunk, Max knew just what Michael meant. He could readily imagine an irate Hank shooting up the Crashdown the way Morton had, the way Morton had nearly taken Liz away from him forever. Blood soaking through her goofy, adorable space-waitress uniform, her brown eyes glazing over, staring blankly into the void…

The very sight of Morton brought Max's simmering rage to a frothing boil once more, throwing him back mentally to all the anger and fear of that terrible day at the diner. Adrenaline flooded his system and every muscle in his body felt primed to explode into action. Veins throbbed at his temples, the rapid, arrhythmic pulse making him slightly queasy. He felt an overpowering compulsion to smash Mortons piglike face in, to wipe him off the face of the Earth and any other planet he could think of. Without thinking, he started to rise up from behind the ridge, his clenched fist emitting an eerie silver glow.

"Max! What are you doing?" Michael frantically grabbed onto Max's arm, tugging him back down behind the rough concealment of the rocky ridge. "Have you lost your mind?"Michael's blurted words hit Max like a splash of cold water. What was he doing? Morton hadn't even met up with the lieutenant yet, let alone revealed the secret of his nefarious scheming, yet he had almost given away his and Michael's position in a moment of unthinking hatred. Max blinked in confusion, staring in shock and disbelief at his own glowing fingers. Resting his back against the stone outcropping, he struggled to regain command of his temper and higher faculties. He panted raggedly, hyperventilating, and Michael worriedly clasped a hand over Max's mouth, forcing him to breath through his nose. Max felt light- headed, out of control, and, for the first time since Liz spotted Morton in the caverns, he wondered if Michael had been right all along, if there really was something wrong with him.

Gradually, though sheer willpower, Max forced himself to come to his senses. His breathing slowed, and the pounding in his veins and temples diminished to a dull throb. He held his hand up before his eyes and watched as the silver glow slowly dimmed until it disappeared entirely. Michael sighed in relief as the eldritch light faded, and he looked quizzically into Max's eyes. Reassured by the re- stored sanity he found there, he withdrew the hand covering Maxs mouth. "Sorry about that, pal," he apologized, "but you looked like you were losing it."I was," Max confessed. "Thanks."Michael smirked and shrugged his shoulders. "No problem, you crazy kid. I dimly recall you've done the same for me."Many, many times," Max reminded his impetuous pod-brother. Michael had been a loose cannon for as long as he could remember.

"Hey, who's counting?" Michael said with a grin. Confident that Max wasn't going to go berserk in the next few minutes, he raised his head to check on events over by the cave entrance. "Heads up," he alerted Max in a low voice. "Looks like it's show time."Although anxious to see what was happening in the canyon, Max took a couple of deep breaths first. His temporary mania appalled and disturbed him, and he didn't want to risk losing control again at the sight of Morton. Keep cool, he counseled himself, trying to remain focused on tonight's primary objective. This is a fact-finding mission, not a rumble or assassination attempt. I need to stay cool, keep quiet, and find out what Morton's up to. He could always stage a showdown with Morton later, after they all had a better idea of what was at stake.

Stealthily turning around behind the ridge, he crouched down and peered over the piled rocks. His eyes widened as he saw that Morton was no longer alone; another man was coming up the trail to Slaughter Canyon Cave, carrying a black attache case in one hand. Although the newcomer was clad in strictly civilian garb, a leather flight jacket and jeans, Max guessed from Alex's and Isabel's descriptions that this was the mysterious Lieutenant Ramirez. Guess that lab guy from the 1ms Cruets isn't showing up for this meeting, he inferred, still wondering how a particle physicist fit into this byzantine puzzle.

Morton did not waste time with pleasantries or small talk. "Is that it?" he demanded, spotlighting the lieutenant with the beam of his flashlight. He clumsily lurched his heavy body off the boulder he had been using as a seat, then pointed at Ramirez's briefcase with the muzzle of his pistol. The braying sound of his voice sent a fresh eruption of white-hot wrath through Max's body, but he bit down hard on his lip and merely kept watching. "Have you got it?" Morton challenged Ramirez.

Max wished he knew what "it" was. To hell with pronouns, he thought furiously, tell us what's in the stupid briefcase! Snatching the binoculars off the ground, where they had fallen during the altercation with the rattlesnake, he pressed the viewpieces against his eyes and tried to get a closer look at both Ramirez and his coveted case.

It took him a few seconds to get either of the clandestine pair in the binoculars' sights, during which time his eyes were treated to highly magnified views of cacti, yucca, and gravel, until, all of a sudden, he abruptly found himself staring into Morton's scowling, ill-shaven face and bloodshot eyes. The gunman's hated and hateful visage gave Max a momentary start, but then, using Morton as a guidepost, he managed to shift the view to the other participant in this midnight conference.

Ramirez looked just as clean-cut and well-groomed as he'd been described. He also looked extremely unhappy and distraught. Sweat beaded on his bronzed forehead, and a stray muscle twitched spasmodically beneath his cheek. Max could practically hear the mans teeth grinding together convulsively as the lieutenant climbed die last few yards to the cave's entrance. I'd be worried, too, Max thought, if I had to deal with Morton, especially in a lonelj canyon late at night. No wonder Ramirez looked so troubled.

"Well," Morton repeated, shining his flashlight directly in the lieutenant's face. He glared at the other man irritably "Have you got the merchandise?"Yes, damnit," Ramirez said, squinting through the glare of the harsh white beam. He held up his hand to shield his eyes. "I've got it all right, although I wish to heaven I didn't."Sounds like the lieutenant is having second thoughts, Max guessed. He lowered the binoculars so as to examine Ramirez's attache case more closely. Unfortunately, the matte-black finish of the case provided absolutely no clue as to its contents.

"Quit whining," Morton barked at the lieutenant, "unless your superiors at White Sands find out what you've been up to." He sneered sadistically, clearly enjoying his hold over the officer, and spat another mouthful of tobacco juice onto the trail. "You'd be looking at court-martial for sure, I figure, so don't go having any last-minute changes of heart now. You're in way too deep, flyboy."Sure, Max thought restlessly, but too deep into what? Temporarily taking off the binoculars, he exchanged a frustrated look with Michael, who looked equally in the dark. All they could tell for sure was that Morton was somehow blackmailing the lieutenant.

"Fine, okay!" Ramirez conceded. He ran an agitated hand through his bristling military crew cut and looked away from Mortons blinding spotlight. "Just turn off that damn light!"Having established who had the upper hand, Morton clicked off his flashlight. The crescent moon shining overhead provided sufficient illumination to complete their shadowy transaction. He placed the inactive flashlight on the flat-topped boulder and nodded toward the black leather case in the lieutenant's grip. "Hand it over," he ordered. "The key, too."His cheek muscle twitching like a Mexican jumping bean, Ramirez surrendered both the briefcase and a small metal key to Morton, who plopped the case down on top of the boulder and unlocked the latch. Max peered intently through the binoculars, fiddling compulsively with the focus in his determination to get a glimpse of what was lurking inside the case. To his frustration, however, Morton's expansive back blocked his view completely. He looked over at Michael, offering him the binoculars just in case Michael had a better view, but the other teenager shook his head glumly. Damn! Max thought. If only he and Michael had set up shop on the opposite side of the canyon! "You see," Ramirez said bitterly. His arms hung at his sides, his fingers uselessly clutching at the empty air, as though wishing that the precious briefcase was still in his possession. He swallowed hard, forced to digest the sour taste of treason. "Where's my money?" he demanded.

Satisfied with what he saw, Morton slammed down the lid of the attache case and locked it shut, then stowed the key in the front pocket of his plaid flannel shirt. "Oh, that's right, your money," he said snidely. His Smith amp; Wesson remained pointed at the lieutenant. "You're not so proud and guilt-stricken, I see, that you don't want to get paid for delivering the goods and committing a major breach of national security."Ramirez's cheek jumped as though an alien was about to burst from his skin. "Just give me the cash, Morton, and get out of here." His eyes hungrily focused on the canvas backpack resting on the ground near Morton's feet. "I never want to lay eyes on your ugly face again."But Morton was in no hurry to finish their business. "About that money, Lieutenant," he taunted Ramirez maliciously. "You only get half now, and the other half after 1 have this merchandise"-he patted the top of the closed briefcase-"authenticated by an expert."A-ha! Max thought, finally guessing how one piece of the puzzle fit into the whole. That must be what the science guy back at the motel is for, to verify that the "merchandise" whatever it is, is the real deal. Now all he needed to do was figure out what kind of classified contraband needed an expert physicist to give it a seal of approval. So much for the idea that this was just some sort of mundane drug deal…

"What?" Ramirez shouted resentfully. He took an angry step toward Morton, who brandished his semi-automatic menacingly. The infuriated lieutenant backed off, physically, but seemed no less outraged and upset. "That's wasn't the deal, and you know it!"Sorry," Morton said with a blatant lack of sincerity. His cocky attitude implied that he found the pilot's predicament amusing. "There's no chance you're getting the rest of the money, not until I'm one hundred percent certain that you're not pulling a fast one on me." His expression darkened, and menace crept into his voice, as he considered the mere prospect of deceit. "And you'd better hope, for your sake, that you've handed over the genuine article. Nobody cheats Joe Morton, at least not more than once."Ramirez shook with barely-contained fury. He pointed fiercely at the case he had so unhappily relinquished to Morton. "But you saw it yourself, right there in that briefcase! That's no fake! It's just what I promised!" His voice sounded hoarse, and increasingly desperate. "You can't do this to me! I came through with my side of the deal, I want my money-now!"Tough luck, flyboy," Morton said, not at all bothered by the lieutenant's indignant protests. Keeping the muzzle of his gun aimed squarely at Ramirez's chest, he took hold of one of the backpack's straps and carelessly lobbed the pack at the profoundly unhappy test pilot. The bundle landed with a thud at Ramirez's feet. "Sure, what's in the case looks kosher to me, but what do I know? I'm no rocket scientist, just a guy who has what it takes to make a buck or two." He reached over and picked up the briefcase by its handle. "Once my handpicked PhD signs off on the merchandise, then you'll get the rest of the cash, not before."His anguished face slick with sweat, Ramirez snatched the backpack from the rocky trail and fumbled with its flaps, in a panicky rush to check its contents. Finally getting the pack open, he balanced the canvas parcel on his knee as he groped inside the pack with his free hand. "It's not fair," he muttered sullenly. "I did my part!"Using the binoculars, Max zeroed in on the open backpack just in time to see Ramirez's trembling hands pull out a wad of hundred dollar bills bound together with rubber bands. He riffled the stack of green paper bills with his thumb, making sure there was cash all the way through, then tossed it back in the bag and pulled out another wad. He eyed the bundled hundreds lustfully, like an addict hungry for a fix, or a Skin in need of a fresh husk. "It has to be here," he croaked hoarsely. "All of it…"Don't fool yourself, Ramirez," Morton scolded the other man smugly "You can count it yourself, if you like, but I'm telling you, there's exactly half of your payment in that pack." He spat tobacco juice in the perturbed lieutenant's direction, "The rest of the cash isn't even here tonight. I've got it stowed away miles from here, where you can't possibly get at it."The Motel 6, I'm guessing, Max thought. Across the street from where Liz and the others are staying. Ironically, he knew more of Mortons recent movements than Ramirez did, but not what all this wheeling and dealing was about. We've got to find out what's in that briefcase, he realized, but how? "Damn you, Morton," Ramirez cursed his back-stabbing partner. Finally realizing that he had lost this battle, he gave up counting the loot and crossly threw the first few bundles of bills back into the pack. "Can't you at least tell me who you're working for, then?" he pleaded pathetically "I don't know about you, Morton, but I'd sleep better nights knowing that I haven't turned that so-called merchandise over to any terrorists or enemy nations, that this is just industrial espionage, and not anything that really damages America's security?" A sob caught in his throat; he sounded like a man trapped in his own private hell. "If I can't have all the money now, at least give me something for my conscience!"Morton shrugged. "Not my problem, Ramirez. I don't give a flying saucer how you sleep, and the people I work with pay me good money to keep their names out of it."like whom? Max fretted. "Without even knowing what Ramirez was so reluctandy selling, he couldn't help worrying about whom Morton was representing in this illicit and unsavory business. China? Libya? Iraq? The Skins? His paranoid suspicions weren't all that was bothering him, however. After crouching in the same position for several minutes, his legs were killing him. He felt his arching limbs going numb as his static vigil cramped their circulation. Handing the binoculars to Michael, he tried to quietly shift his weight, but shooting pains made him gasp involuntarily at his first modest attempt at movement. Ouch, that hurts! he thought. Too bad there's no top secret alien trick to waking up your legs after they've fallen asleep. Wincing, he braced himself against the stone outcropping and laboriously attempted to lift first one leg, then another, despite the excruciating sensations that resulted as the blood started rushing into his inert lower limbs.

And then it happened: The dusty rock upon which he had placed the bulk of his weight came loose without warning. Max tumbled forward, losing his balance, while the dislodged boulder rolled down the side of the ridge, precipitating a mini-avalanche of falling rocks and rubble that noisily descended on the canyon below while throwing up a cloud of dust and sand.

Oh, crap! Max thought, throwing himself flat against the ground, then rolling quickly until he was safely behind one of the surviving boulders, only inches from where Michael looked on, aghast. Holding on tightly to the binoculars, Michael gulped and ducked beneath the ledge he had been peering over. "Oh, man, we're in trouble now," he predicted.

The cacophonous rockfall interrupted the tense, unequal confrontation between Morton and Ramirez. "What?" Morton shouted fiercely. "Who's that? Who's up there?"Looking about nervously, Ramirez hastily slung the cash-filled backpack over his shoulders. "Maybe it's just some animal," he said hopefully, sounding like he was ready to bolt at any moment.

Morton, on the other hand, sounded more offended than anxious. "Show yourself, damnit! I'll teach you to spy on me, you sneaky bastards!"Facedown against the gravel, holding his breath, Max found himself wishing desperately that he possessed Tess's gift for warping human perceptions. If only he could project a realistic illusion of a coyote, or maybe a couple of mule deer, into the minds of the two men below! Alas, he had yet to master that trick.

"Oh God," Ramirez moaned, facing imminent exposure and ruin. "We've gotta get out of here!"But Morton wasn't listening to him. "Show yourself!" he demanded again. Max heard the heavy man climbing toward the ridge, his feet slipping and sliding in the loose rubble. "Give yourself up, or I'll blow you to pieces!"Wordlessly, Max and Michael looked at each other, both hoping that the other knew what to do next. Max was torn; part of him wanted to throw Morton's threats back at him, pitting scathing psychic energy against hot lead, but the lifelong imperative to conceal his powers helped him resist that reckless impulse. But what else can I do? he agonized. Keep low and hope Morton doesn't find us? Michael had another, crazier idea. Throwing back his head, he cupped his hands around his mouth, and let out a feeble imitation of a coyote's howl. Max stared at his friend in disbelief, but Michael merely shrugged in return, his defiant expression plainly asking if Max had any better ideas.

The intent, clearly, was to trick Morton into thinking there was nobody up on the ridge except maybe a harmless coyote or two. It might have worked, too, if Michael had been able to pull it off convincingly; unfortunately, to Max's ears, Michael's heartfelt howl had sounded just like what it was: a desperate teenager trying unsuccessfully to mimic the real thing. Nice try, Max thought, but, geez, Michael, Wile E. Coyote sounds more believable than thatl Morton wasn't fooled for a second. "Yeah, right!" he laughed nastily; apparently all Michael had succeeded in doing was insult the hot-tempered gunman's intelligence. "Take this, smart guy!"Gunshots rocked the night, and bullets slammed into the stony crags, chipping off bits of stone and dusting the two teenagers' heads with pulverized rock. Instinctively, Max threw up a force field between them and the disintegrating outcropping; a concave bowl of shimmering green energy blocked the bullets while casting an uncanny emerald radiance upon the hillside.

Max heard Morton's heavy tread stomping up the ridge toward them. More gunshots sounded, provoking semi-hysterical cries of protests from Ramirez. "Are you crazy?" the jittery, guilt-stricken lieutenant shouted. "Put away that gun! Someone will hear!"Max could have told Ramirez, from personal experience, just how trigger-happy Morton could be once he lost his temper. If the hotheaded crook could draw his pistol in the middle of a crowded diner in broad daylight, what was going to stop him from opening fire alone in the wilderness well after midnight? He's not going to give up, Max realized. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he tried to think while simultaneously maintaining the force field. We have to get away. We can't let him see us.

"Get ready," he warned Michael tersely. He placed his palms against the side of the ridge and closed his eyes. This was going to take careful timing.

"Get ready?" Michael echoed in confusion. The lambent glow of the force field cast greenish shadows upon his face, making him look more, well, alien than usual. "Ready for what?"This!" Flexing his mental muscles, Max converted his defensive shield into a battering ram of psionic force that smashed into what was left of the outcropping, sending another avalanche of rocks tumbling toward Morton, who fired wildly, the unblocked bullets ricocheting off the hillside behind, one of the stray shots ripping apart a cactus only a few feet away from Max, who grabbed onto Michael's arm and leaped to his feet. Pins and needles stung his stiff legs, but Max ignored the pain in his eagerness to escape from Mortons murderous gunfire. Another ricochet shattered the Tabasco bottle, staining the soil red and filling Max's nostrils with its hot, spicy smell. "Run, coyote-boy, run!" he shouted to Michael. "Follow me!"Running uphill would have slowed them down too much, not to mention presented Morton with a pair of easy targets, so instead Max took a chance, clearing the ridge and taking off down the hill, passing by Morton, who had thankfully been knocked off his feet by the rockfall Max had just triggered. Half skidding, half sliding, Max reached the floor of the canyon in seconds, with Michael right behind him. To his relief, Ramirez was nowhere to be seen; Max guessed that the gun-shy test pilot had decided to make tracks before any cops or park rangers showed up, drawn by the sound of gunfire. Not a bad idea, Max decided.

He sprinted down the trail, away from Slaughter Canyon Cave. Mercifully, the crescent moon provided enough illumination to see by, so he didn't need to risk generating any additional light on his own. He kept his gaze glued to the rough trail ahead, watching out for obstructions and pitfalls, even if that meant that he couldn't look back to see if Morton had regained his footing yet. Michael's racing footsteps smacked against the uneven ground behind him, letting Max know that the other teen was keeping up with him.

Suddenly, gunshots erupted from the top of the trail. "Come back here, you sons of bitches!" Morton hollered, having obviously recovered from the landslide. "Come back here!" he yelled irrationally, like anyone was really going to turn around and run back toward the crazed lunatic shooting at them. "Who the hell are you stupid kids? Where did you come from? How much did you see?"Not enough, Max thought gloomily, putting on another burst of speed in hopes of evading Morton's blistering fusillade. This entire midnight excursion had turned into a disaster, and they hadn't even learned what was in that blasted attache case. Bullets pelted the steep mountain trail, throwing up agitated plumes of sand and dirt. What's the range of one of those pistols anyway? Max worried. The ferocious cascade of bullets nipped at his and Michael's heels, and he realized that he never had learned why this particular corner of die park was known as Slaughter Canyon. He hoped and prayed that the name would not prove prophetic.

I'm sorry, Liz! More dian anything else, he feared leaving her alone in a world that still held the threat of Joe Morton. I tried to protect you! I should have killed him when I had the chance!