A little while later, Alex was sitting on the floor, leaning against the faded couch and rattling off possible--though not very plausible--explanations for Michael's mysterious voice. "Maybe someone else is putting the voice inside his head. Like a ventriloquist with a hate for bad haircuts," he said, trying to break the somber mood. "Or maybe Michael's possessed. Enough bizarre things have happened around you guys that I'm almost willing to give in and accept the whole demonic possession thing. Or hey! How about a ghost? Maybe he's haunted."
Isabel didn't lose her grave expression. She shivered, thinking of what her almost-brother was going through. "Haunted? You mean...by Pierce?" Remembering the look on Michael's face when he had realized Pierce was dead, she pressed her lips together tightly. A furrow appeared on her brow.
"Well, I don't mean by the Ghost of Christmas Past," Alex told her in a last attempt to cut the tension. Becoming more serious, he continued, "You know, I'm a lot more willing to believe it's some sort of FBI trick. I mean, if they could plant that camera in his apartment, they could certainly rig up a miniaturized receiver and speaker there as well."
"I thought Nasedo was keeping a tight rein on the Special Unit," Liz pointed out. "Isn't he, Max?"
"I think so. Although he hasn't been in contact since he left," said Max. "So we can't be sure."
"No overt signs of an FBI presence, though, right?" asked Alex.
"No. Everything's been quiet on that front," Max assured him.
"The FBI doesn't make sense anyway, Alex," said Maria. "I mean, he hears the voice all the time. Everywhere. What do you think he's doing, carrying the FBI equipment around with him?"
"Well, not knowingly," Alex admitted, unwilling to give up on this explanation just yet.
"You think he just accidentally carries it around in his pocket without knowing it's there?" asked Isabel in an irritated tone. "Come on, Alex. He'd find it if it were there. Even Michael puts on clean clothes occasionally."
"Besides, nobody else can hear it," Maria objected, dismissing the idea.
Alex suggested, "Maybe it's in a frequency that we can't hear, but Michael can."
"What, you mean like a dog whistle?" Maria said in disbelief.
"Yeah, something like that. Too high or too low to be heard by the human ear."
"Oh, that's going to go over great," she sputtered. "I can't wait to see Michael's reaction when you start blowing dog whistles at him."
"Well, I didn't actually mean--"
"And besides," she continued, "if it were that, Max and Isabel should be able to hear it too, shouldn't they?"
The tension was beginning to wear at Isabel. "I did hear it," she reminded Maria, "but only in the dreamwalk. Never in real life." She rose abruptly and crossed to the kitchenette, feeling a sudden urge for activity. "This is all giving me a headache," she complained.
"I thought you didn't get sick," said Alex in surprise.
"We don't," she informed him. "Not the way you mean." Swinging open the refrigerator door, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "God, hasn't Michael ever heard of baking soda?" She began to reach for a paper towel, but changed her mind with a shudder. "Forget it. He can clean his own refrigerator," she muttered, and began to rearrange the few possessions in Michael's cupboards.
Maria watched her stalk around the small kitchen, straightening things that weren't really all that out of place. It still amazed her that Isabel would turn to domestic tasks to help herself deal with stress. But there she was, lining up a half-empty cereal box so that it was perfectly even with the edge of a shelf. Not exactly what you'd expect from the high school social snob that Maria had thought Isabel to be just a year and a half ago, much less from someone from outer space.
Watching Isabel, her mind wandered back to a different alien. She hoped that Michael wasn't feeling so trapped, that getting out had helped him to clear his head a little. And that he wasn't standing in the middle of a street somewhere, stuck in another trance. She frowned. He was being tormented by this voice, thinking he was going crazy, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She didn't know how.
Her lack of knowledge was nothing new, though. She hadn't known what to do when he'd gotten so sick the year before, either, and he'd almost died from that. It had taken all five of them, plus River Dog, to get him back then. She gave herself a mental shake. He'd come out of that just fine. He would come out of this okay, too.
Muttering something under her breath, Isabel tightened the cap on a bottle of Tabasco. Maria watched her thoughtfully. Isabel, despite her current proclaimed headache, was never ill, and Max's few health problems had been either the result of that car accident or--Maria swallowed nervously--torture at Pierce's hands. They were both extraordinarily healthy. If this was due to their alien constitutions, then why was Michael so susceptible to things going wrong? Well sure, not normal human things, like colds or the flu, but bizarre stuff. Stuff that could only have to do with his Czechoslovakian status, like his self-immersion in webbing as he lay dying, and this voice only he could hear. And of course there was the whole Jeckyll & Hyde thing that he'd just come out of.
She sucked in a deep breath of air, and really thought about what had happened to him only five or six weeks earlier. She'd never taken the time to question just why his mind had split in two--she'd been too busy trying to get him back to worry about the reasons for it. Was it a species-wide problem, or peculiar to one stubborn, poorly groomed individual?
"Max? Isabel?" she asked. "What if all this stuff that's happening to Michael is a Czechoslovakian phenomenon? We don't know why it happens. What if it happens to you, too?"
The siblings looked at each other for a moment, "We've talked about that," said Max. "And we'll deal with it if it does."
"It might not happen, anyway. We don't know much about our prior existence, remember?" Isabel responded. "We don't have any idea how much variety there is within our kind. And then to change alien traits even further by mixing them with human DNA...who knows what kind of wild results you'd end up with?"
Alex frowned. "But I thought you were engineered. Designed to be germ-resistant and all that."
"We were," said Isabel with a shrug.
Something was nagging at Maria. The talk of being engineered sparked a memory for her. She knew something, but she didn't know what she knew. It was something Michael had said...She could almost hear his tone of voice, if not the words themselves. Something about...being broken?
Her eyes widened. "Do you remember the argument you and Michael had at my house, Max?" she said intently. "He said something about being flawed, remember? That he was born broken, or something like that." She looked at him, worry in her eyes. "What if he's right, that something went wrong when he was created? Maybe that's why he's had problems that the two of you don't."
Max leaned his chin on his hand as he considered. Finally he spoke. "Maybe. We don't know enough to tell. But I hope not, for his sake."
Isabel clenched her fingers tightly together. "Maybe he was supposed to be different from us. Maybe it's for a reason. Max, what if he was wrong?"
Liz, who had been quietly observing their discussion, chuckled suddenly. At Max's questioning look, she explained, "I know--this isn't funny at all. But I was just thinking that...I never thought I'd say it, but I was thinking how much I wished Nasedo was here."
Isabel paused in straightening Michael's scanty collection of silverware and raised one eyebrow. "I thought you didn't like him."
"I don't. He seems very...alien to me, in a way the three of you never have. He scares me, actually. But he may know more than he's told you. He might be able to help us figure out how to help Michael."
"I'm not sure Michael would let him help," Max said frankly.
"Why not?"
"Because Michael doesn't trust him."
Isabel rolled her eyes. "Michael has a hard time trusting anybody. He always has."
"But once the shock of getting the whole message from our mother began to wear off, he started questioning everything. You saw him, Isabel. His paranoia hit redline."
"What?" cried Maria in outrage. "You mean I spent the whole summer moping about him, breaking my heart that he left me to follow his so-called destiny, and the whole time he didn't even believe it?" Her voice rose to a shriek. "He was avoiding me for nothing?"
"It wasn't nothing," Isabel said fiercely. "He really wanted to believe that he had a destiny, you know. Not to be with me, but to have a purpose. A reason for existing. He could have just happily accepted it." Her voice softened. "But he didn't. He made the choise not to believe, Maria. He chose against destiny."
"But he talks about helping Max win your war..." Maria started.
"You know Michael. What he says and what he does and what he really thinks are not always the same thing. In fact, they're quite often radically different." Isabel smiled sympathetically. "I wouldn't worry so much about what he says. It's much more interesting why he says it."
"What do you mean?"
Isabel smiled widely at her. "Well, duh. Think about it for a minute. Why wouldn't he want to accept his destiny? What would he rather be doing?"
"You mean..." Maria's voice got stuck in her throat and she was unable to finish the hopeful question.
Nor was Isabel given the chance to answer it. All five of them jerked in surprise as the apartment door was flung back on its hinges. Before Maria had time to so much as blink, Michael rushed into the room.
"God, Michael," said Isabel, recovering first. "I know it's your apartment, but you don't need to--"
He interrupted her. "Let me see the note," he demanded, looking down at Maria.
"What? What for?" she asked.
"C'mon, the note. The one you got today. Just let me see it, all right?" he rushed on, his hand outstretched.
Pulling it out of her pocket, she placed it in his hand. His fingers trembled for a moment and he seemed almost to hesitate; then he closed them tightly around the paper, shutting his eyes in concentration. Maria, watching as his brow wrinkled and his jaw clenched, realized he must be trying to get a vision, to pick something up from the note. She put a gentle hand on his arm, silently giving him support. With a sudden jerk, Michael stumbled a bit, his equilibrium lost. He somehow managed to catch himself, and stood holding the note loosely. Letting out a deep breath, he shook his head as if to clear it and then looked down at Maria, his eyes full of confusion.
Alex coughed.
It was only then that Michael seemed to realize that there were four other people in the room. And they were watching him. Maybe judging him. And, thinking back to his earlier confession, probably feeling sorry for--His face closed off.
Thrusting the note back into Maria's hands, he took a step back and looked around at them, before heading back to the apartment door and rushing through it. The door slammed behind him.
"What was that all about?" asked Max.
"I don't know," said Maria. She stood for a moment, unsure, and then grabbed the faded blanket from its place on the back of the couch and headed for the door.
* * * * *
Michael didn't have to hear the step on the sidewalk to know that Maria was nearby. He could almost feel her following before she stepped out of the apartment building and looked around. Trying to find him, probably.
"You shouldn't be out here without Isabel or Max," he said gruffly. She started and turned towards where he was standing, leaning against the brick of the apartment building.
Her voice was calm. "I'm sure they're happy to have a break from the baby-sitting." Wrapping the blanket she held in her arms around her for the second time that evening, she joined him in leaning against the building. She tilted her head back against the chilly brick and looked up towards the stars.
Staring into the night, Michael frowned. "So did you come out here to pump me, or what?"
"Nope," she said, with a laugh in her voice. "Don't you think I know better than that by now? I just came to get some fresh air." She continued to gaze at the tiny specks in the night sky.
He turned his head to study her in the dimness. "You shouldn't be out here," he repeated stubbornly. "That fresh air you want? It's too cold."
It was too cold for her but not for him? He just wanted to be alone, that was all. Besides, she could hack it if he could. "I've got your blanket, Spaceboy. I'm fine." She gave a half smile at her inadvertent use of his usual word.
Fiddling with one of his silver rings, Michael turned it around and around on his finger, not wanting to ask what he knew he was about to ask. He told himself to just suck it up and ask. He might as well know the worst. When he spoke, his voice was husky. "So did you tell them?"
"Yeah." He nodded and stared down at his feet. She continued, "It's all right, Michael. It's good that they know. They don't feel any differently about you, though, you know. And neither do I, for that matter."
He continued to fiddle with his ring. After a moment, he said, half to himself, "Yeah, well, I'm not sure I do either."
Maria gave a tiny little Michael-style smirk into the darkness. That was just like him. "Of course not. That would be too simple, wouldn't it?" she teased. But she remembered what Isabel had said, that what Michael said and what he really thought weren't necessarily the same thing. "I'm going back in," she decided. "You coming?"
"Yeah. I guess." Silently he followed her back into the building and up the stairs. He seemed to brace himself for a moment before he stepped back into the apartment.
Once inside, he headed directly over to a plastic crate in the corner of the room and rifled through it, finally pulling out a small sketch pad and pencil. Ignoring the others, he sat down at the counter that doubled as a table and opened up the pad, flipping through it until he found a blank page. He closed his eyes for a minute, as if to try and recapture an image in his head, before beginning to make tentative lines on the paper in front of him.
Maria watched him with interest. "What are you drawing, Michael?"
Focused on the page in front of him, he answered absently, "Don't know."
She moved over to stand looking over his shoulder. There were a few curved lines and some shading marring the pristine whiteness of the paper, but she couldn't for the life of her make out what she was seeing. Was he into abstract art or something?
Hunching over the sketch pad, Michael looked up at her. "Do you mind?" he said in a rather rude tone.
"No, I don't mind," she answered blithely. "Not as long as you tell me what you're doing."
He gave a quick roll of his eyes at the ceiling, but gave in with ill-mannered grace. "I told you, I don't know what it is. I'm trying to figure out what I saw when I held the note, okay? I'll let you know when I know."
So he had seen something. Well, she could wait. She wasn't going anywhere.
"Okay," she said, reining in her curiosity. She glanced over to the others. None of them had done more than glance up quickly when she and Michael had returned, and now they still seemed rather intent on their conversation. Well, on Max and Liz's conversation, that is. Her eyebrows raised. If she didn't know better, she would almost think that the two were having an argument. Of course, being Max and Liz, it was conducted quite politely and at a reasonable volume.
Moving to Alex's side, she asked him what was going on. "They're...disagreeing about Tess," he told her.
She nodded her head wisely. "That again, huh?"
Alex shook his head. "Not in the way you think. Liz wants to bring her in on this, to see if Nasedo's been in contact. Max doesn't want her involved."
This was a surprise. "Liz wants to call in Tess?" she blurted in amazement.
"Yep," Alex said with a nod. Maria focused with interest on her best friend.
"It's a matter of priorities, Max," the brown-haired girl was saying. "All we do is complain about not having enough information. I for one think it's time to do something about that."
"You sound like Michael," said Max, frowning.
"I heard that," came a gravely voice from over by the kitchen counter.
Max ignored it. "I realize that we don't know enough. But it's not worth taking any chances. If we keep calm and be careful, no one will get hurt. We can't rush into anything."
"It's been months since we've heard anything at all from him!" protested Isabel. "We are not rushing. This is long overdue. And if he can help with Michael--"
"If who can help with what?" said Michael abruptly.
"Nasedo. Liz thinks maybe he can help us figure out why you're hearing the voice," Maria explained. "And she wants to talk to Tess to figure out the best way to contact him."
"No. No way," he said, his voice rising.
"But Michael," Liz said in a reasonable tone, "We need to talk to him. He might hold the key to what's been happening to you."
"He might, and he might not," he told her stiffly. "But we're not gonna ask him."
Isabel and Maria exchanged a pointed glance. "See?" said the taller girl. "We told you he didn't trust Nasedo."
"You told them..." Michael began, rising from his seat in exasperation. "Does the whole world have to know everything about me? What the hell are you going to do next--read them my diary?"
"You have a diary?" asked Alex, momentarily diverted.
"No, I do not have a diary," roared Michael. "That's not the point! The point is, since when does everyone have to know my business?"
"Since the day you became our friend," said Maria heatedly. "God alone knows why, but some of us are stupid enough to care about what happens to you!"
"We are obviously not going to come to an agreement about this tonight," Max cut in smoothly. "Why don't we all take some time to cool our heads? We can talk about it tomorrow."
Liz looked cautiously over at the spiky-haired alien. "Michael? It's your problem we're dealing with here. At least in part. What do you want us to do?"
His eyes met hers coldly. "Why don't you stop butting in and just go home? You heard our fearless leader--Max will decide what to do and tell us tomorrow," he said in a harsh voice. "It's late. You better all get home before your mommies and daddies start to worry about you."
He ignored the hurt look in her brown eyes--a look he was much more used to seeing in Maria's. "All right," Liz said evenly. "We'll talk about it tomorrow." She paused by the door. "Michael?"
"What?" he snapped.
"Get some rest, okay?" She turned to the others. "I'll wait for you outside."
Max crossed to his second-in-command. "That wasn't necessary," he said in a voice shaky with controlled anger. "She was just trying to help."
Michael refused to look at him.
Allowing Alex to take her hand and pull her up from the couch, Isabel chimed in. "You've been hanging around us for eight years, Michael. You'd think that in that time even you would have picked up some rudimentary manners." She gave him a pointed look. "Major apologies are due here, brother. I suggest you start practicing."
"Not a good move, man," said Alex quietly enough so only Michael could hear. "A pissed off Isabel is not a fun Isabel." His voice got even quieter. "And you hurt Liz's feelings like that again and you're going to have me to deal with. Actually, that goes for any of my ladies. Got it?"
Michael didn't answer, but his eyes met Alex's for a brief moment. Evidently satisfied with what he saw there, Alex relaxed and turned to the small blonde still standing defiantly across the room. "Coming, Maria?"
"I don't think so," she answered slowly. "I already told Liz I was staying here tonight. Besides, I think Michael and I need to have a little talk." A pair of intense brown eyes shot over to meet hers.
"All right," answered Alex. "Your choice. But call us if you change your mind." With that, he followed the two aliens to the door, leaving Michael and Maria alone to stare at each other in silence.
CHAPTER 38
With a jerk, Michael turned away and stalked to the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of Tabasco, he poured its contents liberally into a half-empty can of soda and unceremoniously chugged the whole thing, then stood, still turned away from her.
Maria raised an eyebrow. It was a good thing the Czechoslovakians stuck to soda. She'd hate to see what Michael would be like if he downed a beer that fast. Or, thinking of how romantic Max had become with one sip, maybe she wouldn't. She studied Michael's back. "Well," she said. "That was interesting."
"You should have gone with them."
"What? And miss the opportunity for more yelling?"
He turned back around and folded his arms across his chest. "So let's get it over with."
"Get what over with?" She raised artless eyes to his.
He glared at her. "You know very well what. You're going to ream me out."
"Why ever would you think that? What could you possibly have done to warrant that?" she burst out. "Oh, yeah, maybe it's that you totally went off on Liz for absolutely no reason. You think?"
He pressed his lips tightly together and didn't answer. Aha. Stoic Michael was back. She sighed. "Look, Spaceboy, I know you're under a lot of pressure right now. But that's not a reason to lash out at any of us. You have to think a little before you lose your temper. Don't take it out on us--save it for 'When Aliens Attack.'"
He waited, knowing she couldn't possibly be done yet.
"I mean, we are all trying to help you out here. Because we care about you. So why did you have to be so mean? What were you thinking?"
"Sorry," he muttered.
She opened her eyes wide and put a hand to her ear. "I beg your pardon? Did you say something?"
"I said I was sorry, all right?" he burst out. "What do I have to do, embroider it on a sampler for you?"
Her lips twitched as a very unlikely picture popped into her head. Michael, sitting in a rocking chair, taking delicate lavender stitches into a square of linen..."No, no," she managed, "The verbal apology is just fine."
"Got it."
"But you're going to have to make it to--"
He cut her off. "To Liz. I know."
She raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, well. Spaceboy's not so backward after all."
"I got it, okay?"
"Yeah. It's okay." Michael moved around the counter and sat down in front of his forgotten sketch pad. His shoulders slumped as he hunched over it.
"Michael?"
"What?"
"Just because you're my...friend...and I'm trying to be all supportive and stuff--it doesn't mean I'm not going to call you on it when you do stupid things, you know. But it doesn't mean I don't..." Her voice trailed off.
"So does that mean I get to call you on your stupid stuff?" he asked, not looking at her.
"You already do, pal," she pointed out. "Who was yelling at me just a few hours ago for going to the park?"
"Oh. Yeah." He sat for a few moments in silence, then picked up his pencil and added a few more strokes to the sketch pad in front of him. "We done here?"
"For now," she told him. He looked over at her suspiciously. "I make no promises about the future." Maria wandered idly over to the couch. Picking up the blanket from where she'd tossed it when she and Michael had come back in, she folded it neatly and draped it once more over the back of the couch.
"So," she said, looking around the small apartment.
"What now?"
She gestured towards the sketch pad. "You done with that thing yet?"
"No, I'm not done with it. I told you I'd tell you when I figured it out, didn't I?"
"Right." She sat for a moment, then rose and began to pace across the room.
"Look, I'm trying to work here," he said. "Can't you find something to do?"
"Like what?" she complained. "It's not like there's a whole lot to choose from."
"Never seemed to bother you before," he commented absently, adding another pencil stroke to the page.
Well, of course not. Most of her other visits--at least the ones before the summer--had involved them making out on the couch. She didn't need any other entertainment then. Now, however, was a different story. Although tonight he had kissed her...She shook her head. "You should get some magazines or books or something."
With a sigh, he got up and moved across the room, back to the crate where he'd found the sketch pad. He dug through it and then tossed a worn paperback to her.
"Oliver Twist?" she asked in surprise. "You have a copy of Oliver Twist?"
"It's from the library. So what?" He headed back to his sketch.
"You're reading Oliver Twist?"
His tone was defensive. "I'm working my way through Dickens. What about it?"
"Well, nothing. I knew you could read. I mean, you told me about Ulysses and all. I just didn't know you...read."
"Yeah, well, don't spread it around."
She fingered the book. "They made this into a musical, you know. It's one of my favorites." His only response was a noncommittal grunt. "I sang a song from it for my Little Shop audition." He placed the pencil carefully down on the counter and turned around, giving her an exasperated look. "What? Why are you stopping?"
"Because I can't concentrate with your mouth running on like that," he said bluntly.
"Well, why didn't you just tell me to shut up then?"
"What, and risk another lecture?" He raised one eyebrow. "If you're not going to read, go to sleep already. It's getting late."
She looked around the studio apartment, suddenly uncomfortable. She'd been there before, but never to spend the night. Where--?
He seemed to understand her unspoken question. "The couch. Take it or leave it," he said matter-of-factly.
She sat back down on the couch in question. It was not terribly comfortable. That hadn't bothered her in the past, when she was occupied with...other things, but to spend a whole night on it? And he slept there every night? It was a wonder he didn't have massive back problems. "Michael," she said firmly, "you really need to get a proper bed."
"Well, it's either that or buy groceries. I don't know about you, but I'd rather be able to eat," he returned shortly. "Besides, I don't sleep all that much anyway."
"I know," she said, prodding a lumpy cushion. "With this couch, who could blame you?"
"So pick up the phone and call Liz. Spend the night there if this isn't good enough for you, Princess."
"That's not what I mean. God, Michael, you don't have to make such a big hairy deal out of it."
"I don't have to..." he repeated dumbly. "Look, I'm not the one making a big deal out of it! You're the one who's complaining, okay? In fact, you're the one who invited yourself over here in the first place!"
"Okay, okay. Gotcha. The couch is fine," she said obediently.
Crossing to the closet, Michael pulled out a pillow and tossed it to her. "You can use the blanket from the couch," he told her.
"Okay. So, do you have something I can sleep in?"
He blinked and then seemed to pull his mind away from whatever mental picture it had just created. "No," he bit out. "Sleep in your clothes. Mine are off-limits." She noticed with amusement that he actually looked a little flustered.
"Can I at least take off my shoes?" she asked innocently.
"What? Oh, yeah, shoes. Shoes are good." He pulled himself together. "Look, just get some sleep, okay? You can run your mouth off in the morning."
Opening her mouth indignantly, she stopped before the words could pour out. There was a look in his eyes...He'd made that last comment on purpose. To bug her. Well, two could play at that game.
"Aren't you coming to bed?" she asked nonchalantly as she removed her shoes.
"What? No, I'm gonna try and get some more work done," he stammered.
She looked him over carefully. "It's all right, Spaceboy. I think we'll fit."
"What?" he repeated, his voice hoarse.
"On the couch. We'll both fit on the couch," she responded, holding back a giggle.
"I'll, uh...I'll crash on the floor. I do it at Max's all the time."
"Why? Don't you think we'll fit? Do you think I'm too fat or something?"
"What? No--I don't--" He stopped, finally picking up on the amusement in her eyes. He ran a hand through his hair. "It's hard enough walking through the usual conversational minefield with you humans without you throwing booby traps in just for the hell of it," he told her. His tone became more challenging. "No, I don't think you're fat. Why? Do you think I'm blind?"
"Only sometimes," Maria admitted in a small voice.
He let out a breath of air and looked away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Just go to sleep, okay?"
"Not until you do too."
In exasperation, he barked, "Maria--"
"I mean it, Michael. You don't have to worry about guard duty; I'm right here. So at least try to get some rest, okay?"
He capitulated in a clipped tone. "Fine. If it'll shut you up."
Heading back to the closet, Michael pulled a crocheted afghan from the shelf. Maria took one disbelieving look and burst into choked laughter. "What?" Michael snapped, self-consciously clutching the pink and white bundle.
"Nice afghan," chortled the girl. "Wow. With three-dimensional crocheted roses, no less. It's so very you, Michael."
His jaw clenched. "Yeah, well, Mrs. Evans gave it to me. Her mother made it. And Isabel refused to change it for me, okay?"
"Suuure, Spaceboy," Maria drawled. "Now all you need are a macram� wall hanging and a few doilies, and you'll be all set."
"Well, if someone hadn't invited herself over, I would be using my blanket instead, wouldn't I?" he said snidely.
"No, you'd be lurking in the shadows at the Crashdown," she reminded him. He opened his mouth to retort, obviously searching for a comeback, but finally gave up.
"Fine. I have a wussy afghan. Deal." On his way back past the door, he flicked off the light switch. Blinking in the sudden darkness, Maria listened to the sound of him kicking off his shoes and settling down on the floor.
"Michael?"
"What?" he answered sharply.
She hesitated for a moment, and then said quietly, "Good night."
The only response was a grudging, "Yeah."
"And...thanks."
His voice was cross. "What for?"
"For coming to get me at the park. For looking out for me. And for letting me stay tonight."
"Didn't have much choice there, did I?"
"Well, yes, you did. So thanks."
"No problem," he lied. "Just make sure your mother doesn't find out."
"Don't worry, she won't."
Michael let out a doubtful grunt. With a smile, Maria lay back on the couch and pulled the blanket up under her chin. She lay there for a few minutes, suddenly feeling very wide awake.
"Michael?" she said hesitantly.
"Go to sleep," he ordered.
Ha! Now he would know what it was like. "I can't."
"Well, that's just great, isn't it? What do you expect me to do about it?"
"Nothing. I just--"
"What?"
"Nothing. Good night."
Again, the response was a muttered, "Yeah."
She lay in the darkness, listening to him breathe. Well, even if she couldn't sleep, maybe he would be able to. And he could certainly use it. All she had to do was to be quiet. She grimaced into the dark. Not so easy as it sounded.
Her mind wandered to the next day. She had to work a double shift, but maybe the six of them could get together and talk afterwards. There was still a lot to discuss, and some fences to be mended. She shifted uncomfortably, thinking about Michael's reaction to the Nasedo idea. Maybe they were being a little harsh with him. After all, there they were, deciding things about his life and not even consulting him about it. No surprise that he'd blown up at them. At least he hadn't done it literally.
And come to think about it, in his situation she probably would've done the same thing. Frowning, she tried to decide where the line was drawn between caring about someone enough to make sure they did what was best for them and totally overrunning their life. No wonder Michael was having such a struggle. And then she'd had to go and lecture him about behaving better...She bit her lip. Maybe he wasn't the only one who needed to apologize.
"Michael?" she said for the third time. When he didn't answer, she propped herself up on one elbow and peered across the room, trying to make him out in the darkness. "Michael?" she repeated. The only sound was his deep, even breathing. A smile blossomed on her face. "Michael?" she said softly. "Are you asleep?" There was no answer.
With a grin, she snuggled deeper into the folds of the blanket, ignoring the lumpiness of the couch. Finally, he was getting some rest. So all she had to do was be quiet so she wouldn't wake him up...She could do that...Giving a contented little sigh, she allowed her suddenly sleepy eyes to close. With one last thought of Michael, she let herself drift off into sleep.
* * * * *
Pushing her hair back off her hot forehead, Maria headed back to the pass-through to pick up the next order of hamburgers. The Crashdown was packed, and she could barely keep up with the demand. Where was everyone else? No Liz, no Agnes...and she didn't even know who was working in the kitchen. She didn't have time to look--all she could do was take the orders and turn them in and pick up the next order and deliver it...and why was everyone ordering rare hamburgers anyway? Hadn't they ever heard of chicken? Or salads? The Crashdown was jam-packed full of heart attacks just waiting to happen.
She finally got a breather and headed into the storeroom for more ketchup. She'd just put out new bottles and worry about marrying the old ones together later. Stacking the bottles on a tray, she pushed the door open with her hip and went back into the main dining room.
The dining room that wasn't there.
What?
Instead of the familiar surroundings of the Crashdown, she was standing in another familiar place. A desert. Michael's dream desert.
Oh. Okay. So she was dreaming. At least the nightmare Crashdown shift wasn't real. But why would she be stuck dreaming about Michael's desert?
She turned around to find that the door she'd come through was no longer there, and realized that she wasn't holding the tray of ketchup bottles. They'd disappeared. But she was still wearing her Crashdown uniform, complete with silver antennae. That sucked. If she was going to dream, why couldn't she be wearing something fabulous?
Gazing around her, she smiled as she felt a familiar little tingle. Michael. She looked around in excitement. Dream Michael--now that had possibilities. Not that she didn't love the real one, but the dream one was more likely to show the softer side that Spaceboy rarely let anyone see. She began to head in the direction of the tingle. Hey, it was her dream--she might as well enjoy it.
Before long, she saw him, feet planted firmly in the sand as he stood with his back turned, looking into the distance. "Hey, Spaceboy," she called as she neared him. He turned around with a startled jerk, his face clouding over when he saw her.
"Great," he muttered.
"Nice greeting, Quasimodo," she commented. He raised an eyebrow and turned away, focusing once again on something in the distance.
Great was right. What happened to her Dream Michael? You know, this sucked too. "Okay, I am officially requesting a different Michael. You know, less grouchy. Maybe even with a smile. But something exciting, anyway. How about Tattoo Michael? Or Ski Instructor Michael? Or Pirate Michael, you know, with an eye patch and a parrot?"
He turned back to her. "What the hell are you talking about?"
She shook her head. "No, see, this isn't what I want. Not Grumpy Difficult Michael. I mean, it's fine for everyday, but for now I want something different, okay?"
Michael rolled his eyes. "You are warped, you know that? Figures you'd drive me crazy here, too." He turned away. "The real you wanted me to get some rest. So why don't you stop bugging me and let me do just that?"
With an indignant gasp, Maria burst out, "Listen, pally, get this straight. My dream, my rules, got it?"
"Fine," he responded. "When it's your dream, you decide. But since it's mine, would you just leave me alone already?"
"It is not. It's mine. I can't help it if I'm warped enough to be dreaming about your stupid desert," she said crossly.
He stiffened, then faced her and looked at her very closely. Putting out a hand, he gently touched her cheek, then took her by the chin and stared down into her eyes. She held her breath. A furrow appeared on his brow and he dropped his hand, turning and beginning to look wildly across the desert floor.
"What on earth are you looking for?"
He ignored her, instead raising his voice and shouting across the expanse of sand. "Isabel!" he roared.
Maria looked at him in exasperation. "What are you doing? And why am I dreaming you're doing it?"
"I'm not a figment of your imagination. I'm dreaming and you're in my dream. So if you're dreaming, too, the only way you could've gotten in here is for Isabel to be playing her little dreamwalking tricks."
"That's crazy."
He shrugged. "Then it shouldn't be so unexpected, coming from me."
"Michael!" she chided. "So how do I know you're dreaming this too, and I'm not just dreaming that you've said all this? Prove it."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
"I don't know," she responded. Her eyes narrowed. "Yes, I do. Tell me something that you know and I don't know, but that I know you know."
"What?" he bit out, trying to follow her convoluted instructions. He shook his head. "Fine. Like what?"
She pounced on an idea. "Like what you saw in your vision."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know, all right? It happens really fast and all I get are impressions. It takes a while to figure out what I actually see."
"Oh," she said in disappointment.
He looked at her for a minute, then said reluctantly, "But I can tell you what I thought I'd see."
"Well, duh. Obviously a clue to who wrote the note."
"No, I mean specifically."
"What, then?"
"Your buddy Mark."
"What? Mark? Why would Mark leave me the note?"
"Well, duh," he mimicked. "To get you to the park."
"But why would Mark be sending me those threats? That doesn't make sense."
"Maybe not. But if you don't think it was Mark, why would you dream that I'd think it was Mark?" She considered this. "Besides," he continued, "how often in a dream do you actually realize you're dreaming?"
"You have a point."
"Yep."
She grabbed his arm. "Oh my god, Michael! How did we get in the same dream?"
"Isabel."
Maria shook her head. "I don't think so. I mean, the other times, we were together when she made the connection, and I saw a flash of white light before I got in. This time I was having a very normal wonky little dream about the Crashdown, and I went through the door, and here I was. It's not the same thing."
He shrugged.
"Don't you want to know?" she asked.
He didn't answer, instead plopping down on the sand and resting his elbows on his knees.
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to stop blathering. Or for me to wake up. Whichever happens first," he answered dryly.
"Oh, that's just fantastic. Here we are with yet another bizarre Czechoslovakian...thing happening, and you don't even care?"
"It's just a dream, Maria. I'm asleep, you're asleep. At some point we'll wake up. No big deal," he said in a calm voice.
"No big deal? Tell that to the people who braved your dreams to rescue you from them! And gee whiz, Michael, who would that be? Me, that's who! So don't you dare tell me it's no big deal! Who knows what can happen in here?" Her voice rose to a shriek.
"Calm down," Michael ordered.
"And if I don't? What are you going to do about it?" she challenged back.
His voice rose. "Well, I'm not gonna kiss you this time, that's for sure!"
"What? Who said anything about kissing me?" She stood over him, her hands on her hips. "And what's wrong with kissing me, anyway? You didn't seem to object to it earlier!"
"Maybe I should have!"
Trembling, she spoke in a shaky voice. "You were the one who started it, Michael. You kissed me, not the other way around."
"Well, maybe I shouldn't have."
She blinked rapidly. "You're right. You shouldn't have." Turning on her heel, she strode resolutely away from him, leaving a stream of footprints behind her.
Michael groaned and flung himself back onto the sand. Shit. Staring into the empty sky, he cursed his big mouth, and his tiny pinheaded brain that let it say things without thinking first. There they were, having a perfectly normal--for them--spat, and he had to go and put his foot in it. And his boot. And hell, probably half the lumpy sofa she'd been complaining about.
He hadn't wanted to kiss her. Well, he had, but he knew he shouldn't. He was too screwed up for anything like that right now. But somehow his human, seventeen-year-old body had taken over and he'd kissed her. Hell, if the others hadn't come in, he'd probably still be kissing her. Or more. If she'd let him.
But of course he couldn't tell her that. The mood she was in, she might have slapped him, anyway. So as usual, he'd pushed her away, and hurt her, like an idiot. Were all seventeen-year-old guys this dumb, or was it just him? Picking up a handful of sand, he tossed it roughly away from him. A second handful was about to follow when he heard it.
A voice. But not the unknown voice that kept plaguing him.
This was Maria's voice.
And she was screaming his name.
CHAPTER 39
Without consciously commanding his body to move, Michael found himself on his feet and bolting at top speed across the sand. His thudding heart caught in his chest for a moment as he saw her in the distance, a tiny figure in a blue-green dress. His eye caught the light glinting off that stupid antennae headband she wore as his feet pounded across the desert floor. Try as he might, he couldn't find a voice to call to her. He just sent out a mental message in the hope that she would know he was coming. It seemed to take forever, but eventually he skidded to a stop behind her.
Her Michael-radar must have been working, because in a heartbeat she had turned and thrown herself into his arms. He held her for a moment, then took her face in his hands and urgently searched her eyes for some clue as to what was happening. Was she all right? "Are you okay? What happened?" he demanded.
Maria buried her face in his shoulder and tried to stop shaking. "It's just a dream. I know it's just a dream, but...oh, Michael."
"What happened?" he repeated, pressing her to answer. When she didn't speak, he tightened his arms around her, saying hoarsely, "It's okay. Everything's okay. Just tell me what happened."
After a moment, she remembered how angry she was with him and gingerly detached herself from his arms. When she spoke, her voice was a little less tremulous. "You have to promise me you're not going to freak."
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "I think you have the market cornered on that right now."
"Promise me," she insisted.
"Okay, okay. I promise. Now what are you all upset ab--" His voice cut off as he followed her gaze to the sand a few feet away. She pointed.
"That," she said baldly.
There, lying half-covered with sand, was a navy blue trouser leg. And it wasn't empty. Michael swallowed. By his side, Maria began to babble. "I wasn't even looking where I was going, you know? I was too busy trying to decide where I could get a giant Acme anvil, and then, boom, I trip over...over that. I mean, I've never discovered a body before, and it kind of startled me, okay?" A frown appeared on her face. "And why is it that whenever I'm in one of your dreams, I run into things, or trip over them or something, anyway?" she asked angrily.
He looked down at the sand-covered form, willing his brain to work. Or his mouth, or something. Anything. What finally came out was not, upon consideration, the best thing he could have said. "Friend of yours?" She swatted him on the arm.
"That's not funny," she scolded.
"I know, I know," he told her. "So lay off the arm. It's just a dream, remember?"
"Yeah, I guess so," she said, regaining a little more composure.
"So there's not a real body lying there. It's just my subconscious trying to tell me something. No big deal." He listened to himself with skepticism. Was he trying to convince Maria or himself?
She gave him a disapproving look. "It may not be a big deal to you, Michael, but it sure scared the heck out of me. And me without my cedar oil."
He looked down at her and spoke in a firm tone. "There's nothing to be scared about. It's not real."
She nodded halfheartedly. "I know, I know. I mean, my brain knows that, okay? The rest of me just needs a little time to catch up." She glanced over at the still form on the sand. "So who do you think--Michael!" she yelped. "It's moving!"
Immediately on the defensive, he thrust her roughly behind him and turned to face it, his right hand out to ward it off. A moment later he relaxed. "It's not moving, Maria. It's just the sand blowing around." Sure enough, a slight breeze was picking up.
"Oh, that's reassuring," she complained. "The last time I was in one of your dreams, Isabel and I were almost killed by a giant rampaging sandstorm. I so don't need to hear that it's back."
Michael crouched down by the body and studied it closely. He could tell from the trousers that it was a man--or a very butch woman--but enough sand covered it to completely hide its features. Great. Trust his subconscious to make things difficult. Almost involuntarily, he reached out towards it.
"Michael! You're not actually going to touch it, are you?" Maria said, horrified.
"You're the one always bugging me, wanting to know what's going on in my head," he pointed out. "So here's your chance."
"I wanted a nice, straightforward conversation, that's all. Bodies--imaginary or not--were not involved."
He shrugged. Something in him wanted to--no, needed to find out what this meant. So he reached out and began to brush the sand from the still form.
"It's a good thing that you don't want to kiss me," Maria muttered behind him. "Because there's no way I would let you lay a hand on me after touching that."
He pointedly ignored her, working to clear the body of its grainy covering. If the feet were there, the arm must be...here. Michael uncovered a pale shirt sleeve and slowed his motions. He suddenly felt very uneasy about this whole thing. With a quick shake of his head to dismiss the feeling, he bent to his task once more. There was the shoulder. His hands found the top of the head and uncovered a shock of dark hair. Frowning, Michael slowly began to work on the face, a knot in his stomach. A moment later, he scrambled back with a curse. It wasn't just a body, it was a corpse.
Pierce's corpse. Its--no, his eyes stood open and stared blankly into the sky.
In an instant, Michael was caught up in a replay of that horrible moment when he'd...killed Pierce. Again he felt the hate, the rage at what the man had done to Max, the fear for himself and for the others, coming together in a burst of white-hot energy that shot forward and obliterated the agent as if he were no more than a bug, sending him flying backward into a display, to lie unmoving in a heap on the UFO Museum floor...Michael's mind grappled with the memory, playing it over and over for what seemed like forever...
...until the touch of a hand on his arm brought him to his senses. He turned burning eyes to see Maria kneeling beside him. He looked away, staring at the far-off horizon rather than at the corpse or the worried girl next to him. He swallowed and managed to find his voice. "Well," he muttered, "I guess this proves that subtlety is not my strong suit."
"Are you all right?" she asked. "For a moment there, I thought you'd zoned out on me again."
He shook his head. "Uh-uh. I...I almost wish I had. Believe me." His eyes shifted back to the still form and then away again.
Beside him, Maria spoke softly. "Come on, Michael. Let's get out of here."
His response was firm. "No."
"Micha--" she began.
"You go ahead. Wait for me back where we started. I'll be there in a little while."
"I don't think that's a very good idea."
He forced himself to look back down at Pierce. "Why? He's not real. Max and Isabel...they changed him. Afterwards. He doesn't exist any more. And even if he was real...he's dead. He can't hurt me." He seemed to be trying to convince himself.
"Maybe not. But...it can't be good for you to...I mean...please, Michael, just let him be."
"It's not like I don't see him all the time anyway." He took in her look of alarm. "No, I'm not seeing things now. I just have a very clear picture of it all in my head. It's nothing new."
She gazed at him, concern in her eyes. Her close scrutiny made him acutely uncomfortable. "Look, why don't you head back? I'll be there in a little while. I just wanna..." He focused on a few grains of sand on Pierce's sleeve and repeated, "I'll be there in a little while."
"I'm not leaving you." Her statement was matter-of-fact.
"Fine. Do what you want."
Forcing himself to see what was in front of him, Michael studied Pierce's face. He couldn't tell if the frozen expression held more shock or fear. This wasn't someone to be afraid of. He was just a man. A man who had killed and tortured, with no regard for what was right. Michael wondered if he'd ever felt remorse for his actions, if he'd been weighed down by the thoughts Michael had now. Somehow he doubted it. But it didn't make him feel any better. Whatever Pierce had done didn't negate his actions.
He slowly dropped his eyes to Pierce's chest. His brain hadn't conjured up a silver handprint, but the man's shirt was burnt away, as was--Michael felt sick--the flesh beneath it. His eyes flew back to the man's face, somehow expecting to see accusation in it. He didn't. It was still blank, lifeless.
Michael grimaced. His brain was obviously holding on to this image, the idea. But he wasn't sure that the obvious horrible message it sent was all there was to it. Somehow it seemed as if there must be more. What was he setting himself up to do? There must be something. Surely his brain couldn't be just using the image to punish him, to torture him. If so, it was going to have to get in line behind the voice that kept accusing him.
A sick feeling rose in his throat. The voice--could it be Pierce's? Was he so screwed up that he had to create a mental projection to blame himself, rather than facing up to the truth of what he'd done? He clenched his fists. Alien or not, he was just seventeen. He shouldn't have to deal with this. It wasn't fair.
He laughed bitterly. But then, what in his life had been particularly fair? Not much. His life sucked. That was just the way it was. So be it.
Once more studying the body before him, Michael tried to figure out how he should be feeling. It wasn't real, after all. Should he even care? Should he be sorry for what he'd done, apologize to it? It wouldn't do Pierce any good--and he wasn't so sure he did feel sorry about it. He wasn't sorry that Pierce was dead. After what he'd done to Max, Michael could almost bring himself to believe that. So maybe he was just sorry that he had been the one who'd ended Pierce's life, that fate or karma or bad luck had set him up to do this terrible thing.
But it could've been Max. Or Isabel. And that would have been worse. Max, the leader, the healer...or Isabel, proud and strong...Michael couldn't bear it if one of them had done it. If they had been lessened by such an action. If there was blood on their hands...
Reflexively, he scrubbed his palms against his jeans, trying to rid them of their aura of guilt. It had been his hands, not Max's or Isabel's. His guilt. He had to live with it, at least long enough to keep Maria safe and to help Max and Isabel find their rightful place. If any of the whole 'come back and save us all' message was true in the first place.
Enough of this. Sitting here wasn't going to help anything. He needed to be on his feet, moving ahead, taking action. No more of this pussyfooting around. The sooner they solved Maria's problem, the sooner they could concentrate on Max's. And once that was taken care of, assuming they survived, then he could move on to--well, he didn't know what. But it didn't matter. He just had to be doing something.
Taking one last glance at Pierce, Michael grew more determined. The man was dead and gone. He couldn't do anything about it now. There was no time for guilt or remorse or fear; he had things to do. The rest could wait until afterwards. Until then, he would shut the door on Pierce and whatever he stood for.
Michael reached out once more, as if to say goodbye. To the man, to his actions, to...he wasn't sure what. But he placed a hand over the raw flesh of Pierce's chest and shut his eyes. This was his dream; he could do anything. He reached out, picturing the burnt body whole, the shirt pressed and new. A tingle ran down his arm, pressing thousands of tiny pinpricks of sensation into each of his fingers...and then it was gone. He slowly opened his eyes and looked.
Pierce's body was whole once more.
Feeling a little incredulous that he'd actually done it, even if only in a dream, Michael stared down at the body before him. The slight breeze picked up once more, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of it across his face. A hiss from behind him snapped his eyes back open. Maria. He'd actually forgotten she was there. How had she kept so quiet? This must be some sort of record for her.
But she was speaking now, saying his name in a tense voice. He looked over at her to find her eyes focused on Pierce, staring in shock. Turning, he saw that Pierce was...shimmering. The breeze shifted over the body, blowing away the grains of sand that still stuck to him, until he was perfectly clean. But it didn't stop there. As it continued to blow, the body seemed to turn to sand and began to blow away, little bits of Pierce spreading out over the horizon, being blown up and down.
And leaving in its place a glowing, humanoid figure, almost too bright to look at. It lay still and unmoving on its bed of sand, growing more and more brilliant and more and more blinding and more and more painful until Michael had to throw up his arms to shield his eyes from its intensity, sure that nothing would ever shake the afterimage from his brain.
And as it grew, eclipsing whatever light normally existed in this world, a soft whisper of a voice came from the desert around him. It was back, but he could hardly hear it, totally immersed in shielding himself from the glow in front of him. With one final burst of light, the figure was gone, leaving in its wake daylight that seemed black as pitch in comparison. And in the split second of the figure's passing, Michael could hear the voice, clearly this time.
It said, Killer.
And this time he recognized it.
Continue to CHAPTERS 40, 41 and 42
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