Loose ends

14.

Liz Parker's journal: Sunday, June 3rd.

I don't know who I am anymore. Am I the Liz Parker who successfully coped (more or less) with the discovery that human-alien hybrids lived among us, even right next to me at school, or am 1 the Liz Parker who, all of a sudden, can't get past the fact that I was shot by accident two years ago? Alex says that it's "post-traumatic stress disorder," and he's probably right. Alex was always more interested in psychology than I was; I'm more of a hard sciences kind of girl, at least I was before I ran into Joe Morton again, eight hundred feet beneath the ground. Now I feel more like a test animal than a laboratory scientist, like a frightened white mouse beingforced to take part in some cruel psychological experiment, which I suspect I'm flunking. Why, 1 don't even have enough strength to run through any mazes, which must be terribly disappointing to whomever's conducting thb experiment.

I'm rambling, I know, but I don't know what else to do. I was hoping that writing in this journal would help me make sense of things, maybe put my traumatic memories behind me, but it doesn't seem to be working. I'm all alone here in this gloomy motel room, with the curtains drawn and the blankets pulled up to my armpits so that I don't have to look at that silver handprint again. I want to be with Max and the others. but I'm afraid to even step outside, for fear that Joe Morton will find me again.

Which is irrational, I realize. Morton wasn't even trying to kill me in the first place. It was all one big stupid accident, like you hear about on the news all the time. "Innocent Bystander Hit by Stray Gunshot." No big deal.

But I almost died. For good. And that's the part that I can't forget anymore, even when I try to close my eyes and go to sleep. (Except for one weird moment last night, when, right in the middle of that same awful nightmare about the shooting, I suddenly found myself reliving a completely different incident: that time when Max and I double-dated with Alex and Isabel, after that silly Jame* Bond movie. Where did that come from?) So what do I do now? Talking to a psychiatrist wouldn't do any good. Last fall, after that whole mess with Tess and Nasedo and the Special Unit, Max's parents made him see a shrink for a couple of sessions, but it was a big waste of time because Max couldn't tell the doctor anything about what had really happened to him. I'd just run into the exact same problem. How can I discuss what happened at the Crashdown when I can't even mention being shot? And how do I explain to an ordinary shrink where this weird glowing handprint came from? I guess I have to cure myself somehow, but how can 1 do that when I don't even know who I am? When I look in the mirror, I can barely recognize myself, and not just because Isabel turned me into a redhead. Who's that pale, trembling, pathetic, little mouse I see where my own reflection should be? That's not who I want to be. That's not who I am.

Alex said I have to confront my fears, so I guess that's what I'm going to have to do, no matter how terrified I feel. One way or another, I have to stop feeling like a victim.

Even if it kills me.

“Maxwell, we need to talk."Perched in the back of the Jeep, keeping watch over Morton's motel room and convertible, Max lowered his binoculars as Michael approached the parked vehicle. He scowled impatiently, squinting against the intense morning sunshine. "Have I ever told you how annoying 1 find that nickname?" he grumbled.

"Trust me, you've got bigger problems, bro," Michael informed him as he clambered into the front seat of the Jeep, then twisted around so he could speak to Max directly. Although it wasn't even eleven yet, the temperature in the quiet motel parking lot was already climbing toward the upper nineties; Michael wiped his sweaty brow with the front of his T-shirt and put on a pair of shades to protect his eyes from the glare. It's way too hot out here, he decided. Lousy weather for a stakeout.

"Like what?" Max asked skeptically. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and Michael noted other signs of strain in his friend's face and manner. His face looked gaunt and sunburned, while his whole body seemed noticeably tense and jittery. He fidgeted with the binoculars in his lap and kept looking away from Michael to check on the Chevy parked on the other side of the busy highway. Was Max's ragged state caused by simple lack of sleep and concern for Liz, Michael wondered, inspecting his friend carefully, or was Maria right that something more serious was going on? "Tell you the truth, Max, you've looked better." Not wasting any time with chitchat, Michael confronted Max with Maria's theory that the young alien leader had picked up a bad case of post-traumatic stress disorder via his intimate connection with Liz. "Kind of like catching mono, if you know what I mean."Max responded with instant denial. "So what are you saying, Michael, that I'm suffering from the emotional equivalent of secondhand smoke or something? Don't be ridiculous." He sneered at the notion. "And since when are we taking psychiatric advice from Maria DeLuca of all people? I mean, no offense, Michael, Maria's a sweet person and all, but she's definitely a bit on the flaky side."As opposed to your girlfriend, who freaks out when a flock of bats fly overhead? Biting down on his tongue, Michael resisted the temptation to spring to Maria's defense. "That's not the point," he argued. The sun was baking his brains, but he knew he had to get through to Max somehow. "You and I both know that youVe been acting weird ever since Liz spotted Morton at the caverns."Not at all," Max insisted defensively. "I'm just taking seriously a serious situation, the same way I always do. You heard what Isabel said; not only is Morton's crooked deal mixed up with the Crash somehow, but he also knows about Liz, which puts her in genuine danger. Excuse me if that makes me a little uncomfortable." He turned his back on Michael and placed the binoculars back over his eyes, once more aiming the lenses across the street at the closed door to room #19. "Now then, if your little one-man intervention is over, I'm kind of busy here."But Michael wasn't about to be dismissed so easily. "Bullshit," he told Max bluntly. He leaned back between the Jeep's front seats and roughly snatched the binoculars away from Max's face. "I want to keep Liz safe, and find out what Morton's up to, as much as you do, but that's what we're talking about here. You look me in the eye and tell me that you weren't on the verge of completely losing control last night up on the ridge. I saw your hand heating up like an acetylene torch last night, Max, and don't tell me you did that on purpose!"His face flushed with anger, Max grabbed wildly for the stolen binoculars, which Michael defiantly held up above his head, out of Max's reach. "Give me those, Michael!" he growled, clenching his fists at his sides. "I don't have time for this psychobabble garbage."No way, Max!" Michael stood up on the Jeep's front floorboard, making sure Max couldn't get his hands back on the binoculars. "Not until you admit that there's something seriously wrong with you, that you're not acting like yourself." The blazing sun beat down on Michael's head and shoulders, toasting the back of his neck and making him even more in a hurry to make his traumatized friend see sense. "Look at me, Max!" he challenged. "Tell me everything's okay with you. I want to hear you say it!"Damnit, Michael!" Max roared, the veins in his neck standing out like hydraulic cables. He threw up his hand and unchecked power burst from his open palm. A blinding flash hit Michael like a tidal wave, sending him tumbling backward over the Jeep's windshield and onto the vehicle's hot metal hood. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and the binoculars flew out of his fingers, crashing to the pavement several yards away. After sitting in the sun all morning, the Jeep's army-green hood seared his bare arms where they came in contact widi the overheated metal. Still somersaulting backward, Michael managed to use his own momentum to roll awkwardly off the Jeep onto the blacktop below, landing with a thud upon the baking asphalt. Ouch, he thought, wincing in pain. Did someone get the license number of that ballistic missile? Fortuitously, the Days Inn parking lot wasn't terribly active this late in the morning, most of the visiting tourists having already gotten an early start on the day's sight-seeing and outdoor activities. Even still, Michael felt obliged to leap instantly to his feet, ignoring his bruised and battered flesh, and call out to whomever might be listening, "I'm cool! Nothing to worry about! Just a little fall, clumsy me!"A pair of slow-moving senior citizens, wearing matching Hawaiian shirts and straw hats, regarded Michael uncertainly from the sidewalk in front of the motel. How much had they seen? he worried, hoping that the entire incident had happened much too quickly for any eyewitnesses to really grasp what Max had done. "Sorry for the excitement, folks," Michael said loudly, brushing the dust and grit of the parking lot from his arms and clothes. "A flashbulb went off by mistake," he improvised, despite the absence of any visible camera. "Gave me a bit of a start, I guess, but I'm okay now. Just a couple of bumps and scrapes, that's all-in fact, his ribs felt like they had just been pounded on with a sledgehammer, making him flinch with every breath, and there was a suspicious black scorch mark on the front of his T-shirt which, quickly turning away from the two apprehensive retirees, he quickly made disappear. Is anyone buying this? he wondered, fully aware of just how lame his impromptu explanations sounded. Or am I ending up on the front page of the Weekly World News or maybe on "American's Most Incriminating Alien Videos"? He held his breath as the elderly couple shook their heads disapprovingly and muttered darkly among themselves, but then they continued on their way to the coffee shop, apparently not wanting to get any more involved in whatever suspicious activity the two teenage boys were involved in. Thank God, Michael thought, expelling a sigh of relief once it became obvious that the two old folks were not about to start screaming "Alien!" That was a close one, he realized.

The crisis averted, Michael turned toward Max, who stood frozen at the back of the Jeep, staring in dismay at his own open hand. He looked utterly crestfallen, a mixture of shock and remorse written all over his face, which had gone pale beneath its outer layer of sunburn. "Oh my God, Michael!" he exclaimed, hopping out of the Jeep and rushing across the pavement to where Michael stood, grimacing in pain. "Are you all right?"Well, I'm going to think twice about getting between you and a vendetta again," Michael said wryly. After furtively looking around to make sure no one was watching, he peeled up his T-shirt to inspect the damage, which turned out to consist of a nasty black-and-purple bruise concentrated over his breastbone. Most of his chest was sore and sensitive to the touch, but, thankfully, nothing felt broken or seriously injured. "I'll live," he stated.

The sight of the ugly bruise caused Max's face to collapse. "God, Michael, you've got to believe me, I never meant to-I mean, I didn't want " Guilt and horror rendered Max momentarily speechless, and his hands drooped limply at his sides, as if he was afraid to raise them at all. "I'm so sorry, Michael…"I know that, man," Michael said, letting Max off the hook. I don't know what's more amazing, he marveled, that Max would use his powers against me, or that he would do so in public, and in broad daylight, no less. Michael leaned against the side of the Jeep, taking some of the load off his feet. "Maybe now, though, you'll admit that you've got a problem." He gave his friend a knowing look. "The Max Evans I know does not go around blasting his buddies in motel parking lots."Max nodded soberly. He stared at the pavement, unable to meet Michael's gaze. "Yeah, maybe you're right," he admitted after a moment or two. "There have been a couple of times this weekend when, okay, I felt like maybe I was losing control." He looked up at last, letting Michael see the anguish in his eyes. "I can't help it, though. Whenever I see Morton, or even think about him, it's like I'm back at the Crashdown, watching Liz slip away right before my eyes."That's textbook, man." Despite his aching ribs, he smiled wolfishly, thinking that maybe a bruised chest was a small price to pay to get Max to listen seriously to what he had to say. "According to Maria, who learned about all this from Alex, who read about it in a book somewhere, you've got yourself a classic case of post-traumatic stress disorder."Max frowned, disliking anything that impaired his ability to take care of his responsibilities, which included protecting both Liz and his fellow alien hybrids. "So what do I do about it?"Well, maybe you listen to your friends when they tell you that you're losing it. Let us provide a reality check for you whenever those Crashdown flashbacks start getting a little too intense. Beyond that,"-Michael shrugged his shoulders-"do I look like a shrink to you?"More like one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of freshly pounded ground chuck," Max joked, sounding more like his old self for the first time in over twenty-four hours. He nodded at Michael's black-and-blue torso. "Let's head back to the room and get that healed right away," he suggested.

"Aren't you afraid that Morton will sneak away while you're not looking?" Michael asked him pointedly. He looked past Max at the Motel 6 across the way.

Max hesitated, looking back over his shoulder at the hated gunman's current lair. Clashing priorities warred behind his eyes as indecision caused his lips to twitch. Then he shook his head and turned his attention back to Michael. "Maybe if we hurry right back," he proposed uneasily.

Now it was Michael's turn to shake his head. "Not so fast," he said firmly. "I appreciate the thought, Max, old pal, but want to find out what's inside that damn briefcase, too." Moving slowly, to minimize the wear and tear on his sore ribs, Michael retrieved the binoculars from where they had fallen, a few yards away from the Jeep. One lens had cracked, but a moment's concentration repaired the glass, making the instrument as good as new. Next, he gingerly climbed into the back of the Jeep, gritting his teeth against the pain, and turned the binoculars on Morton's door, which appeared not to have budged an inch during the time Michael had knocked some sense into Max by letting Max knock the wind out of him. "Go get Alex or Isabel or somebody to take over the stakeout," he suggested, "and then we can apply some old-fashioned alien healing techniques to my ribs."Morton must be sleeping late, Michael deduced, after his late night hunting us through Slaughter Canyon. "So," he asked Max, before the other youth could go for reinforcements, "do you have a plan for getting at that case?"Of course," Max declared, as if that went without saying. "What do you think I've been thinking about out here, besides wanting to teach Morton what an alien abduction really feels like." His voice still held a trace of seething malice and resentment. "Don't worry, though, I'll run the details by you, just in case I've completely lost my mind, you know."Thanks," Michael said. "I'll let you know about that, after I've heard your plan."