"Does that mean something to you?" Liz asked.

"Maybe," Valenti admitted. "Thirty years ago, my dad started looking for Leroy Wilkins's partner. A one-eyed man named Terrell Swanson."

A chill flashed through Liz. "Wilkins mentioned that name in the cafe. He said that was Swanson chasing him."

Valenti twirled his hat again, his preoccupation evident. "My dad never found Terrell Swanson. He believed that Wilkins killed Swanson in a fight over a uranium strike back in the sixties, then hid the body."

Liz stared into Valenti's blue eyes. "You think the ghost is real?" she asked.

"I think," Valenti said, "that I want to talk to Michael. He's still at the Crashdown?"

"Yeah," Liz said.

"How is Wilkins doing?"

"I don't know. The EMTs who arrived at the cafe thought he was having a heart attack. I don't think they know if he's going to make it." Will that mean there’ll be one more ghost to haunt Roswell? The thought sent tiny goose bumps up the back of Liz's neck.

"You going to be around for a while?"

Liz nodded.

Glancing back toward the ER proper, Valenti said, "Let me know if anything happens here that I need to know about."

"Sure," Liz said.

Valenti placed his cowboy hat back on, smoothing the brim with a forefinger. He gave Liz a solemn look. "I'll be in touch if this looks like something that might spill over on you and your friends." Then he was gone, striding back through the waiting room and hitting the crash bars on the doors to the main parking area.

Mind racing, facing unwelcome thoughts and feeling the absence of Max, Liz returned to the waiting room and gave her father his coffee. He was so mired in his conversation with the insurance people that he barely acknowledged the coffee's delivery or her departure.

Liz returned to her chair and held the soda can in her hands. She gazed out through the slatted windows.

Oh Max, where are you?

Max trudged back to his car with River Dog at his side. The hot sun beat down on him, sapping his reserves. He looked forward to the Cutlass's air-conditioning.

"You should forgive George Grayhawk and the men with him," River Dog was saying. "Fear makes men do many strange things."

Max stopped by his car and gazed back down at the Mesaliko city. During the walk back through the houses, he had seen a number of people staring at him. The weird thing was, he couldn't be certain how many of them were really alive and how many of them… weren't. "Something's wrong," Max said.

"What do you mean?" River Dog asked.

"If the ghosts really wanted you out of the area, why doesn't an army of them appear and chase your people out?"

"There have been several appearances of the spirits, and this has been going on for days. They are gathering."

"You saw what Henry Callingcrow did to everybody back there. If a group of them got together like that, they could level your village."

River Dog nodded, taking time before he spoke. "Until today, until your arrival, the ghosts have been unable to make physical contact with anyone."

"But Callingcrow wrecked that house before we arrived there."

"True, but you were in the village."

Max looked at the sprawl of houses scattered across the hills. "It can't be," he said. "You told me this first happened hundreds of years ago. The spaceship that stranded us here didn't arrive until 1947. No one like me was around hundreds of years ago."

"I do not know all the answers, but I know that your presence here has had an effect on things. I think it would be better now if you left."

Pain stung Max, and part of the emotion turned into anger. He didn't belong anywhere. Tess had betrayed him, betrayed them all, and Liz wasn't exactly glad he'd stayed around these days.

Max opened the Cutlass's door. "After the reception I got here, I don't want to come back." He stepped into the car and slid behind the wheel. The seat cover was hot.

"You came here for reasons of your own today," River Dog said.

Max's throat felt thick, and he couldn't swallow the painful knot that had formed there. "I have a son."

"Blessings be upon you," River Dog said. "A son is a powerful thing to have, as well as a great responsibility."

"He was taken from me," Max said.

Sorrow showed in River Dog's eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I was hoping that you knew something more of the Granilith. Or a way I might go after my son."

River Dog shook his head. "I told you all I know of the things that Nacedo told me of the place where you came from."

"Then maybe there's something else out here," Max said. "Something Nacedo didn't give you. Something that might help me track the Granilith."

"Once I get this thing done," River Dog said, "and I get my people settled in and protected again, I'll be glad to help you look."

"Thank you," Max said.

"When you get back to Roswell," the shaman said, "see if you and the others can find out more about the spirits that are haunting Roswell."

Max narrowed his eyes, reducing his field of vision. "What do you mean?"

"The spirits are also invading Roswell."

"How do you know?"

"People from the village have returned from shopping there today. While I was caring for Cathy Callingcrow at her home, several of them talked to me. There was an attack at the Crashdown Cafe."

Oh my god, Max thought. Liz! "Was anyone hurt?"

"Only a man," River Dog answered. "His name is Leroy Wilkins."

The name meant nothing to Max.

"Wilkins is known to us," River Dog went on. "Nearly thirty years ago, Wilkins was almost put in jail for mining on reservation land."

"I've got to go," Max said. He twisted the key in the ignition, listening to the engine rumble to life.

River Dog leaned back from the car's window and stood. "A piece of this journey yet remains to you."

Max waved the man's words off as he jammed the transmission into reverse. The Cutlass's tires spun against the sand-covered ground, stirring up a cloud of dust. Screeching to a halt, Max put the car in a forward gear and peeled out, getting back onto the road that would take him to the highway back to Roswell.

As he followed the crooked trail back up the hillside that led to the highway, movement on Max's right caught his attention. Amid the waves of shimmering heat coasting above the sandy terrain, a dozen riders gathered on horseback.

All of the riders were Indian braves. Although the images didn't come across as sharply and distinctly as had the images of Bear-Killer and Henry Callingcrow, Max had no problem recognizing the war paint that turned their faces into angry, otherworldly masks. The ponies pranced and shifted, tails flicking as the riders talked to one anther and stared at the Cutlass.

Then, with voices yelling loud enough to be heard over the Cutlass's engine and air conditioner, the warriors kicked their mounts into full gallop. They lifted their spears and bows high as they took up pursuit of Max's car.

Watching the rearview mirror, staying in the middle of the dirt road to avoid the bar ditches and ruts on either side, Max saw the war party disappear in the fog of swirling dust that the Cutlass stirred up. He could no longer see River Dog, either.

At the top of the rise, Max kept the accelerator pressed down hard and ignored the stop sign at the end of the road. He yanked the wheel to the left, throwing the Cutlass into a controlled skid across both lanes of the highway. Rubber shrilled, and for a moment he fought the car for control. Then he had the Cutlass aimed for Roswell, hoping that he didn't trip a state policeman's radar.