Loose ends

6.

Good thing we don't have heat vision, Michael Guerin thought. Otherwise Max's ferocious glare would have burned a hole in the back of Joe Mortons skull.

The alien youths lurked at the back of the elevator, accompanying the mysterious gunman on his way back to the surface. Fortunately, Morton's size and girth made it fairly easy to keep track of him, even in the crowded elevator. Michael figured the odds that the scruffy stranger, who reminded him unpleasantly of his vanished foster father Hank, would recognize him and Max from the Crashdown were incredibly remote. Morton and his sleazy confederate had fled the scene of the shooting well before Max called attention to himself with his miraculous (and highly imprudent) laying of hands upon Liz. He never knew that his single bullet had changed all of their lives forever.

The baleful intensity with which Max's eyes shot daggers at Morton made Michael uncomfortable. It wasn't like Max to lose control like this. Usually he was more cautious, more thoughtful-except, of course, for that day at the Crashdown. Maybe I've got good reason to be worried, Michael thought; the last time Morton threatened Liz, Max had risked everything by using his powers in public. Who knew what rash action Max might take now that, after all these months, the deadly gunman had reentered their lives? Seven hundred and fifty feet later, the elevator disgorged its occupants into the Visitors Center atop the caverns. Morton ignored the various educational displays on the history of the park, featuring large mounted photos of such earthly luminaries as Calvin Coolidge and Herbert Hoover visiting the caves, and headed straight for the nearest exit. Max and Michael chased after him, trying hard not to be too conspicuous about it.

At the last minute, right before stepping through the swinging glass doors to the outside, Morton turned and looked behind him. Michael's heart jumped, and he hurriedly feigned interest in a map of the surrounding park-lands, but Morton paid no attention to either Max or him, glowering instead at the sealed doors of the elevator. Right, Michael guessed, with a strong sense of relief, he's not looking at us. He's checking to make sure the lieutenant is still underground and not leaving the caves at the same time.

Having assured himself that his nameless co-conspirator was nowhere to be seen, Morton left the Center. Michael counted to five, then took off after him, disturbed to see that Max was already several steps ahead of him. "Slow down, man!" he whispered forcefully to Max, catching up with his longtime friend. "Cool your jets, okay? You're going to blow our cover!"After spending the last few hours in the cool, artificially- lit recesses of the caverns, stepping out of the Center into the heat and glare of summer came as quite a jolt. Michael squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes. Days like this, he wished he had a protective inner eyelid, like Mr. Spock on Star Trek. Guess we're a different sort of alien, he thought wryly, searching for the designated target of their amateur manhunt. At first he couldn't locate Morton amid all the other tourists coming and going outside the Center. Then, despite the blinding sunlight, he spotted a familiar bright orange cap rising above the stationary vehicles crowding the large, spacious parking lot. "Over there," he alerted Max, pointing toward the departing figure. Morton was obviously planning to say adios to the park.

Max nodded grimly, no doubt reaching the same conclusion. "Get the car," he instructed Michael tersely, tossing him the keys to the olive-green, army- surplus Jeep he and Isabel shared to get around. "I'll stick with Morton."Are you sure?" Michael asked, a dubious expression on his face. The way Max was acting, he was reluctant to leave him alone with Morton, even for only five minutes or so. "How about the other way around?"Just do it," Max ordered, his intent gaze never leaving their unsuspecting quarry. He proceeded briskly along the edge of the parking lot, continuing the pursuit without a single glance backward.

Fuming in frustration, Michael kicked a discarded Pepsi can at Max's retreating back. Tell a guy he's the rightful heir to a distant alien civilization, and suddenly he thinks he can call all the shots. Realizing there was no arguing with Max in his present mood, Michael hustled to carry out his friend's instructions. He raced across the overpopulated parking lot, sliding between the tightly-packed vehicles until, only moments later, he reached the Jeep, right where they'd left it. Hopping into the driver's seat, he fired the ignition and backed out of their parking space, taking care not to run over any strolling tourists or (worse yet) bang into Maria's precious red Jetta, parked right next door.

Figuring that Morton, once he got into his own car, would be headed for the exit at the northeast end of the lot, Michael drove that way as well. Sure enough, he found Max waiting alongside the exit, looking impatient enough to spontaneously combust. Michael pulled up next to him, and Max bounded into the front passenger seat, not even bothering with the Jeep's door. "That's him," he snapped, pointing at the access road leading out of the park. "The blue Chevy convertible with the Texas plates." He vibrated with frustrated antagonism. "Don't let him get away!"The Jeep accelerated out of the parking lot, onto N. Mex 7. Michael spotted the navy-blue Chevy Max was talking about, two or three vehicles ahead, and got into the same lane. He wondered how long Max was willing to follow Morton. All the way to Texas, or to hell and back? I'm betting on that last one, he thought sourly. He still wasn't convinced that this was a good idea. We don't have enough troubles and enemies on our hands, we have to go look-ingjor more? Keeping one hand on the wheel, he snatched a half-empty bottle of Tabasco sauce off the dashboard and took a deep gulp of the bottle's fiery red contents. The refreshing liquid heat coursed down his throat, tantalizing his alien tongue and taste buds. Ahh, he thought appreciatively, that really hits the spot. He offered the rest of the bottle to Max, but Max brushed it aside with a curt gesture, obsessively focused on the blue Chevy and its occupant.

Without stopping, Morton passed through the tiny tourist trap of Whites City, heading northeast on National Parks Highway, better known as El Paso Road, toward Carlsbad itself, about half an hour away. Sun-baked desert plains, spotted with occasional stands of mesquite or yucca plants, stretched out monotonously on both sides of the park highway. Pushing the speed limit, the Jeep's forward motion generated a cooling breeze that helped to make the sweltering heat slightly bearable.

Michael cautiously kept a couple of vehicles between the Jeep and the Chevy, much to die frustration of Max, who kept urging him to close the gap. "You're too far away," he complained, restlessly drumming his fingers upon the dashboard. "We're going to lose him."No, we're not," Michael assured him for what felt like the fifteenth time. Talk about your role reversals, he thought. I'm supposed to be the reckless, impulsive one. "Do you want him to figure out we're tailing him?" he asked Max in exasperation. "This snaz2yjeep of yours is pretty conspicuous."Max did not respond, instead falling silent as he continued to stare darkly at the speeding Chevy. His icy expression and smoldering eyes spooked Michael, who tried to figure out just where his friend's head was at. I haven't seen Max so angry, he thought, since that final confrontation with Agent Pierce. "So what's the master plan?" he asked worriedly. "What exactly are you planning to do once we find out what this creep is up to?"Whatever I have to," Max said, looking straight ahead, his seething gaze glued to Morton's convertible.

"What the hell does that mean, Max?" Michael didn't like the tone of his friend's voice. His hands gripped the wheel tightly as he let Max know exactly what he thought. 'Are we talking murder here, Max? Is that the plan? Are you planning to kill Morton yourself, to avenge Liz Parker's sacred honor?" Squeezing the wheel so hard his knuckles whitened, he cast an accusatory look at the obsessed alien teenager sitting next to him. "Just how far are you planning to go, Max?"I don't know," Max answered, after too long a pause. His expression darkened as he considered his options where Joe Morton was concerned. His jaw twitched and an angry vein pulsed along his brow. "Far enough, I guess."Oh yeah?" Michael challenged him, dividing his attention between the road, the Chevy, and Max Evans. "Let me clue you in on something, glorious leader. Killing another person, human or otherwise, isn't like skipping class or lying to the cops. Itfe something you have to live with, every day for the rest of your life."He spoke from painful experience. It had taken him months to come to terms with having killed Agent Pierce, and that had been in self-defense. Sometimes he still had nightmares about it, vivid flashbacks that woke him up in the middle of the night. He could just imagine the torments Max's anguished conscience would put his best friend through if Max actually killed Morton in cold blood. "You don't want to do that, man."Max looked unconvinced, but at least he appeared to be considering what Michael had said. His fingers stopped drumming violently on the dashboard and his stormy gaze turned inward for a time. Let's hope I got through to him, Michael prayed, before he does something we all regret.

They drove in heavy silence for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes or so, before Michael saw the Chevy's right turn signal flash on. A stretch of cheap motels lined both sides of the highway, and Michael watched intently as Morton turned his car into the parking lot of a Motel 6. He exchanged a wordless look with Max, acknowledging that they'd both noted the detour the Chevy had just taken, Guess we're not driving to Texas after all, Michael concluded somberly. Which makes sense, I suppose, if Morton really is planning to meet the lieutenant at Slaughter Canyon tonight He wouldn't want to get too jar from the Park for the time being To avoid tipping off Morton, Michael drove past the Motel 6. Max squirmed impatiently as he did so, but recognized the necessity of maintaining their cover. He waited stiffly, tapping his foot against the floor of the Jeep, as the army-surplus vehicle circled back, eventually coming to rest in front of the Days Inn directly across the street from Motel 6. The minute Michael hit the brakes, Max hopped out of the Jeep and ran to the edge of the road, peering across the highway at the motel parking lot where they had last seen Morton's convertible. Michael didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that the blue Chevy was still parked prominently in front of Motel 6.

"Let's go," Max said as soon as Michael joined him at the roadside. Apparently, locating Morton's temporary lodgings was not good enough for Max; he was determined to take this foolhardy expedition another step further.

"Wait," Michael cautioned him. "We ought to do something else first." Max grudgingly let Michael drag him back into the parking lot, where they hid from sight between two oversize sports utility vehicles. Michael looked up and down the narrow space between the two humongous gas guzzlers, making sure no one was watching them. "Isabel had the right idea," he explained, "just so Morton doesn't recognize us from the elevator."Concentrating, the way Nasedo had taught him, Michael ran his hand through his hair. A mop of disorderly brown hair lightened dramatically, all the way to bleached white. "Let's find out if blonds really do have more fun," he cracked. With a few more passes of his hand, he changed the cut and color of his clothing, replacing his black T-shirt and jeans with a bright blue football jersey and khaki slacks. A pair of dark sunglasses added a final layer of anonymity. "Your turn," he told Max when he was finished.

Nodding, Max disguised himself as well. Perhaps in solidarity with Liz, he gave himself sandy red hair, then changed his flannel shirt and jeans into a white tank top and a pair of cutoffs. "Good job," Michael commented, barely recognizing Max with his new look. "The sweat stains are a nice touch."Those are authentic," Max said dryly, glancing up at the sun. He put on his own shades and stepped out from between the parked SUVs, into the full heat of afternoon. "C'mon, we haven't got all day."Actually, we have until midnight, Michael recalled, but didn't bother to correct Max. He wanted to get this over with, too, and return to Maria and the others. Wonder how they're doing back at the caverns? He hoped Maria was doing a better job of calming down Liz than he was doing with Max. Which one of us got the tougher assignment, I wonder.

Crossing the busy highway was not easy. They had to hike about a half mile up the road, breathing in lungfuls of gritty dust and exhaust, before finding a lighted crosswalk, Heat waves rippled over the hot asphalt, giving their time-consuming trek a feverish, hallucinatory quality. More than once, Max had been tempted to make a dash for it, but Michael successfully convinced him that turning themselves both into road pizza was not going to do Liz any good-or put Joe Morton safely behind bars.

Once across the highway, they had to backtrack the same half mile to reach Motel 6 at last. The whole time, Max had worried that Morton would pull up stakes and move on before they got back to the blue Chevy, which they ultimately found parked right outside room #19, facing the highway. Treading softly upon the cement walkway running past the wing of cheap motel rooms, Max placed his ear up against the door of #19. A few feet away, standing guard in case anyone came along, Michael thought he could hear voices coming from the other side of the door, "Is it him?" he whispered to Max.

Max held up a finger to silence Michael and listened some more at the door, his face screwed up in concentration. "1 think so," he said finally, stepping back from the door. "But there's somebody else in there with him. Another man."Michael scowled, not liking what he was hearing. Another stranger, besides Morton and the lieutenant? This whole thing was getting too damn complicated. How many people were in this stupid conspiracy anyway, assuming that there was, in fact, some kind of criminal conspiracy going on? "What now, fearless leader?" he asked Max sarcastically. He certainly hoped Max wasn't seriously thinking about barging into Morton's room right this very minute. They had their special powers to fight with, of course, but Morton and his unknown associate almost certainly had guns, and the willingness to use them. C'mon, Max, he urged silently. His mouth was dry and he would have killed, figuratively speaking, for another spicy sip of Tabasco sauce. Let's not get crazy here.

Fortunately, Max wasn't that far gone yet, no matter how out of character he had been acting. "I have a plan," he announced after a moment's thought. Indicating that Michael should follow him, he walked to the far end of the outdoor walkway, then stationed himself in front of the ice machine roughly ten yards away from Morton's door. "This should be far enough," he stated cryptically. "Get ready."For what?" Michael asked, having no idea what Max had in mind. "What's the big plan?"Watch," Max instructed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, marshalling his preternatural mental energies. Then he opened his eyes and extended his arm, pointing his index finger at the dusty blue hood of Morton's convertible, several yards away.

Abruptly, the Chevy came alive, as though struck by lightning. Its horn honked and its car alarm blared. The windshield wipers whipped back and forth across the curved glass, while the sprinklers squirted cleaning solution over and over. Even the car's engine surged to life, roaring beneath the hood of the Chevy like a prehistoric monster. "Hey, pretty cool, man!" Michael enthused, impressed despite himself. I've got to remember that trick, he thought.

No surprise, the earsplitting automotive commotion drew Joe Morton from his room in a hurry. The door slammed open and he came charging out, a Smith amp; Wesson semi-automatic pistol clutched in his hand. Gulping, Michael wondered if Max had figured on the gun when devising this ingenious plan. Morton ran to his car and hastily shut off the alarm, wipers, sprinklers, etc., all the while looking for the parties responsible for the disturbance. His bloodthirsty eyes fixed on Max and Michael, over by the ice machine, and Michael could practically see him calculating the distance between the Chevy and the two teenagers. "Hey, you kids!" he hollered, sounding perplexed as well as irate. "Did you see anybody messing with my car?"No, sir," Michael shouted back quickly, not trusting Max to respond without giving away his true feelings. Fortunately, he'd had a lot of practice at playing dumb. "We just got here."Morton must have ruled them out as suspects, since, without even thanking Michael for his eyewitness report, he paid no more attention to the pair of disguised teens. "What the hell-?" he muttered irascibly, giving his front tires a savage kick just for the hell of it. He removed his orange cap, revealing a sizable bald spot atop his cranium, and scratched his head in confusion. "I don't get it. How the devil-?"What is it?" a new voice asked nervously from the threshold of Morton's motel room. "What's the matter?"A second individual emerged from #19: a nerdy-looking Asian guy, at least a foot shorter than Morton and a lot less menacing in appearance, wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses and a Bujfy the Vampire Slayer T-shirt. He furtively looked up and down the row of motel rooms, as if fearful of being seen in Morton's company. The new guy had "guilty" written all over his skinny fan-boy face, prompting Michael to wonder again what sort of crooked deal was in the works. A thug, a lieutenant, and a geek, he thought, mentally running down their ever-growing list of suspects. Talk about your strange bedfellows.

Max reacted even more strongly to their first glimpse of the newcomer. "What?" he murmured under his breath, too low for Morton or his roommate to hear. "I know that guy. I've seen him before."Huh? Michael thought. He was positive that the little Asian dude had not been the second man at the Crash-down on the day Liz was shot, so where else could Max know him from? The UFO Museum in Roswell, maybe? That was the only thing Michael could think of right away. "What do you mean, man?" he whispered fervently. "How do you know him?"It took Max a couple seconds to place the guy. "Las Cruces University," he said eventually. Surprise and puzzlement temporarily drove the simmering animosity from his face. "I saw him at the university that one time, when I snuck into the particle physics lab to sabotage that experiment. He was one of the lab technicians performing those tests on Agent Pierces bones!"What?" Michael asked, stunned by this latest revelation. He could hardly forget the incident in question; if not for Max, he recalled pointedly, I'd probably be serving time for Pierce's murder right now. He watched numbly as the alleged science guy frantically convinced Morton to put his handgun away and step back inside the motel room. The painted turquoise door slammed shut, leaving Max and Michael alone outside the motel, with far too many questions to keep them company. "Are you sure?" Michael asked in disbelief. This can't be right. It doesn't make any sense! "Positive," Max insisted. His intense gaze remained fixed on the door to #19. Michael didn't hear a trace of doubt in his voice. "He was there, with Congresswoman Whitaker and the others."That Whitaker had ultimately turned out to be a Skin did not make Michael any happier. Okay, he thought, now I'm really feeling paranoid. It was one thing when he thought Morton was just another lowlife hood, and the shooting in Crashdown nothing more than a routine drug deal gone wrong, but now the surly gunman appeared mixed-up with something far more complicated and unnerving, something that conceivably tied in with the life-or-death dangers and deceptions that had become part of their daily existences, ever since Max first stopped Liz Parker from bleeding to death on the diner floor. What was Joe Morton doing in Roswell that day? he fretted anxiously. And what is he plotting now? "All right, you win," he told Max sourly. "We need to find out more about this guy. A lot more."