Greg Cox: Loose ends

Her friends flanked her on both sides, offering her reassurance and support. "That's right," Maria insisted once more. She took Liz's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "It was just a car, Liz."Alex seconded Maria's emphatic assertions. "It's okay, Liz," he said, taking hold of her other hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Everything's fine."Really? Liz wondered hopefully. The unreasoning panic began to subside as her friends' calming words sank in. She felt her pulse slowing to something closer to normal. Her breathing grew softer and more regular as she shakily contemplated the adjacent parking lot, which was crammed with dusty station wagons, SUVs, and vehicles from all over the country. It could have been a car, her fear-stricken mind gradually conceded. That ear- shattering, nerve-jangling bang might have been just a routine backfire, brought on by a faulty muffler or carburetor. But what about the pain, the agonizing impact of the bullet striking her flesh? She could've sworn that she'd been shot once more.

Liberating her hand from Marias consoling clasp, she gripped the bottom of her T-shirt and tugged the fabric upward, needing to see for herself that she was indeed unharmed. Her worst, most dire fears and expectations were not at all allayed when both Alex and Maria gasped out loud at the sight of her exposed belly. Filled with fear and trepidation, she looked down and let out a startled cry herself. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

There was no wound, no blood, but something else caused her eyes to widen and her jaw to drop. There, emblazoned on the quivering flesh of her bare stomach, was a phosphorescent silver handprint, glowing brighter than the noonday sun.

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.