The Vanished (4 page)

“When you're right, you're right,” Michael said.

“Well, you're going to call them and apologize,” Mr. Cuddihy said. “In fact, I want to hear from them that you did some serious groveling.”

“No problem,” Michael replied.

For a moment Mr. Cuddihy gazed at Michael in silence. Finally he let out a long sigh. “The Pascals and I weren't the only people looking for you, you know.”

That got Michael's attention. He sat up straight in the metal folding chair, causing a loud, obnoxious creak. All the tiny hairs on his neck stood on end.

“Who?” he blurted out. Had the Clean Slate people tracked him down? Had DuPris contacted his social worker? “Who else?”

“Oh, I doubt you know these people,” Mr. Cuddihy said. “They had some news to share with you . . . good news, actually.”

“Who?” Michael repeated.

“A legal firm representing a man named Ray Iburg,” Mr. Cuddihy answered. “I believe you knew him, although I'm not sure how.”

Ray? Michael thought. What could Ray's lawyers possibly want with him? He wasn't even aware that Ray
had
lawyers.

“My friend Max worked for him at the UFO museum,” Michael explained slowly. “We both hung out there a lot. He gave us our own sets of keys.”

Mr. Cuddihy nodded. “That's not all he's given you,” he said. “Iburg's lawyers have informed me that there was a very interesting clause in his will, which he added recently.”

“Yeah?” Michael said, clueless as to where this was going.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Cuddihy said. “The upshot of the clause is that if Iburg didn't check in with his lawyers for one month, they were to take immediate action. All of Mr. Iburg's belongings — including the museum, the apartment, the car, and everything contained therein — are to be turned over to you, Mr. Michael Guerin, free and clear, for use as you see fit.”

Michael stared at Mr. Cuddihy. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“I told you it was good news,” said Mr. Cuddihy. “See, this is why I'm someone you should keep in touch with.”

“There has to be a catch,” Michael said. This wasn't the kind of thing that happened to him.

“No catch,” Mr. Cuddihy said. “It's a bizarre request, but it's legal. And since good things seem to be heading your way at this point in time, I thought I'd help out a little myself. There's no reason to torture the Pascals with your presence any longer.”

Michael blinked at his social worker. “What are you saying?” he asked.

Mr. Cuddihy smiled. “I've decided to help you get emancipated minor status. You're almost eighteen, anyway, and now that you have your own place to stay and you have the museum for income, I figured we could ease social services' burden of taking care of you. I don't see any reason why you shouldn't live on your own.”

Michael sat back in his chair and gaped at Cuddihy. “Really?” he choked out.

“Really,” Mr. Cuddihy confirmed. “Of course, you'd still have to stay in contact with me until your birthday, but our biweekly meetings should be more than sufficient.” He popped another peppermint, chomped it. “Michael, I know you've had a rough time over the years, and you've handled shuffling between homes better than anyone had a right to expect. It's my pleasure to tell you congratulations. And good luck. So how does this all sound to you?”

“It sounds . . . it sounds unbelievable,” Michael said. He pushed himself out of his chair as Mr. Cuddihy came out from behind the desk. Michael reached out his hand for a handshake.

“Enough with the formality,” Mr. Cuddihy said. “I'm happy for you, Michael.” Before Michael had time to back away, Mr. Cuddihy reached out and gave him a bear hug. Michael stiffened automatically, but as he looked down at the social worker who had kept an eye out for him for years and who now had set him free —
free
— Michael couldn't help patting the guy on the back.

“Thank you,” Michael said as Mr. Cuddihy let go.

“You have to promise me you'll show up for our meetings,” Mr. Cuddihy said, trying to be businesslike again. “That's a firm condition of this whole deal.”

Michael stood beside the social worker, what felt like a totally dorky grin on his face. A meeting every other week? For no more foster home boogie? For being able to live on his own? For being in control of his own life?

“I'll be there,” Michael promised. “You can count on me.”

Liz wandered down the aisle of the auditorium at school, searching the rows for a glimpse of Max's shaggy blond hair. The auditorium was packed with students — all there for a mysterious all-school assembly during the period before lunch.

Finally she spotted Max a few seats in from the aisle in the middle of the auditorium. She squeezed through the row and plopped down into the empty seat beside him.

“Hey,” she said. “Any idea what this is all about?”

“Huh?” Max replied. He turned to face her, and his beautiful silvery blue eyes seemed glazed.

“The assembly,” Liz said. “Do you know what it's about?”

“Oh . . . no,” Max said. He offered her a weak smile. “Sorry, I was . . . I was thinking about something else.”

“Alex?” Liz asked.

Max nodded. “The ship was the only hope we had of getting him back. I mean, it was a long shot, but it was a shot.”

Liz reached up and brushed a lock of hair out of his weary eyes. “All of us are going to have to get together later and figure out what to do,” she said.

“Yeah,” Max said, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I'm drawing a blank.”

Liz peered at his gaunt, drawn face. He looked a little stronger than he had yesterday but was still obviously worn-out. He was gorgeous, of course, but Liz was starting to think that Max would look gorgeous to her if his hair fell out and he erupted in oozing volcanic zits. She was that far gone.

“You okay?” she asked.

Max turned to face the stage as the principal, Ms. Shaffer, walked toward the podium.

“I'll live,” Max said. His voice sounded far away, as if it was an effort to speak.

Slumping back into the hard wooden seat, Liz thought that maybe he should have taken a sick day and spent the day with Rosie and Jerry and Ricki. She knew he couldn't tell his parents the real reason he was feeling so out of it, but couldn't he have pretended he had the flu or something so he could get some rest?

She was about to ask him that very question when Ms. Shaffer called for attention. The auditorium got a fraction quieter as the lights dimmed. Liz waited for Max to take her hand, but he continued to stare straight ahead, his hands clasped together in his lap. Wasn't this the guy who said touching her was absolutely essential, like breathing?

Well, it's not like he doesn't have a lot on his mind, Liz thought, swallowing her disappointment. She knew that Max felt responsible for everything that happened to anyone in their group of friends, and that meant he had to be blaming himself for what had happened to Alex. Which was an
accident
. Or more accurately, it was DuPris's fault. Certainly not Max's fault.

As Ms. Shaffer blathered on about someone she was very pleased to introduce to them all, Liz leaned against Max's shoulder and concentrated on sending him happy, positive love energy. Maria would approve.

Liz decided that she would find a way to distract Max once the assembly was over. She basked in his nearness, wishing they could be alone together right now. The moment they had some privacy, she'd give him the kind of kiss that was guaranteed to take his mind off his problems, at least for a little while.

“Okay, everyone,” Ms. Shaffer called, “may I present Kasey Dodson, the new interim sheriff of Roswell!”

Liz sat up, suddenly alert, and exchanged a startled look with Max as the crowd of students around her applauded halfheartedly. She shouldn't have been surprised — after all, Sheriff Valenti had been killed at the Clean Slate compound. Even though no one but them knew that's what had happened, everyone knew the sheriff was gone. Obviously the town would have to appoint someone new. But Sheriff Valenti had been such a mainstay of her nightmares that Liz hadn't even allowed herself to consider that he might be replaced.

But here she was, the new sheriff. Liz watched as Sheriff Dodson walked toward the podium. She was a tough-looking woman with shoulder-length dark hair and a lean, muscular body under her brown uniform.

“Thank you, Principal Shaffer,” Sheriff Dodson said with a smile. She had a warm, smoky voice that made her sound friendly, but Liz wasn't going to be fooled by that. She knew better than to be taken in by appearances — after all, Liz was dating an alien disguised as a human.

“Roswell has never been a town with a high crime rate, and I pledge to do my best to keep it that way,” Sheriff Dodson continued. “This town has always been safe to enjoy even at night . . . and barring an alien attack, I see no reason why that shouldn't continue to be true.”

Most of the students laughed at her joke. Everyone in Roswell loved its weird reputation as UFO central. But a shudder ran through Liz from head to toe.

What did she mean by that? Liz wondered, rubbing her arms to ward off the sudden chill that had invaded her body. Was she joking, or was that a threat? Is she another Clean Slate agent like Valenti?

Liz glanced at Max. He was shaking his head. He had to be as worried about this new development as she was — if not more.

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to calm her pounding heart.

Liz and her friends would have to watch Sheriff Dodson carefully . . . very carefully. Valenti had come uncomfortably close to discovering Max, Isabel, and Michael's secret. In fact, he
had
discovered it. He'd just been killed before he could tell anyone.

Liz knew that Michael thought Project Clean Slate was destroyed along with the compound, but Liz wasn't so sure. It was quite possible that the organization existed outside of Roswell. And if it did, it made sense that Project Clean Slate would place another of their group in a hot spot like Roswell.

Just what we need, Liz thought. Something new to worry about.

Four months ago her biggest worries had been getting to work on time, making valedictorian, and making sure her parents never had to worry that she'd end up like her sister, Rosa, dead from an overdose. She'd been constantly stressed, but that was nothing compared to obsessing over whether or not some secret agency — or some evil alien — was going to show up one day and kill you and your friends. Or that one of your friends might never make it back from another planet. It was insane. If only she could make everything go back to normal so she could hang out with Maria and Alex, make out with Max, study for SATs, and just worry about stuff like the prom —

Stop. You've got to deal with reality before it deals with you, Liz told herself. No matter how twisted reality is.

“. . . and if you need to talk about anything or if you have something to report, please don't hesitate to stop by the station,” Sheriff Dodson said. “I'm looking forward to getting to know all of you very well.”

The students applauded, but the sheriff's words sent a shiver racing down Liz's spine.

I'm looking forward to getting to know all of you very well.

Liz had to make sure that never happened.

Max was in shock.

As he filed out of the auditorium beside Liz, so many worries demanded attention in his mind that he couldn't keep track of them all. How to get Alex back. How to find the ship. How to find DuPris and deal with him. How to keep connecting to the collective consciousness without risking permanent brain damage. How to keep his alien identity secret. And how to avoid a new sheriff who might or might not be someone who wanted him dead.

Max followed Liz through the dispersing crowd in the hall. How was he supposed to handle all this stress while feeling more exhausted than he'd ever been? He was so turned around and tired that he felt like his whole life was happening underwater. And he knew he needed to be alert in order to survive.

“Hey, Max, are you there?” Liz asked.

He looked up to find that he'd followed her up the stairs and over to the supply room across from the bio lab.

“Wait. Shouldn't we be in the cafeteria?” Max asked.

Liz opened the supply-room door and stepped in. “Get in here,” she said with a mischievous smile.

Max hesitated. “I don't think we're allowed — ”

Liz groaned, grabbed his arm, and yanked him into the room with her, closing the door behind him.

Max leaned against a wall next to shelves covered with battered microscopes and Bunsen burners. “So what did you think of Kasey Dodson?” he asked. “Think I have another psycho stalker?”

“Besides me?” she asked. She used her body to press him up against the wall. “I don't know about you, but the smell of formaldehyde . . . it makes me crazy.”

Max just looked at her, his brain a cluttered fog.

“Crazy?”

Liz put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the lips. Instantly the fog started to clear.

“Oh,” Max said when she pulled away. “Crazy.” He smiled as he tucked his hands under the hair that fell like a thick, silky curtain around her face.

He pulled her closer, releasing a long exhalation of breath as her warm, soft body pressed against his. How could he have allowed his worries to interfere with getting his minimum daily requirement of Liz? He was so stressed, he hadn't even been thinking about kissing her, and that was wrong. Deeply wrong.

His lips found hers again, and he opened himself up to the intense passion of their kiss. Liz tasted sweet and deliciously alive. Max could feel his heart racing as her tongue glided across his own, sending tingles of pleasure echoing throughout his body. As always, kissing Liz made him feel inside out, as if all of himself was concentrated on the one small, soft spot where they were connected. It was the best feeling Max could ever imagine.

As he lost himself in her, a strange sensation started to creep up his neck, tingling over his scalp. Suddenly his mind seemed to open, as if it were exposed to the universe. And then the myriad beings of the consciousness made themselves known, reacting to his and Liz's kiss. Confusion, curiosity, pleasure, amusement — Max received all of those emotions in flickering images. They wanted to know what Max was doing, and they were there to share it with him.

Startled by the unexpected intrusion, Max pulled away from Liz abruptly. He hadn't even tried to connect to the consciousness.

Liz's beautiful brown eyes fluttered open in confusion. “What?” Liz asked, sounding hurt. “What's the matter? Did I bite you or something?”

“No, no,” Max assured her. “I just felt a little . . . dizzy for a second, that's all.” And violated, he added silently.

Liz searched his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Max said, attempting to smile. He couldn't tell Liz what had happened. She was already distrustful of the collective because of the physical effects connecting had on Max. If he told her about the intrusion, she'd be even more freaked out than he was. “It was nothing. Maybe all that formaldehyde went to my head.” He smiled at her. “Or maybe it was you.”

This time, as he leaned forward to kiss her, Max focused part of his attention on blocking the consciousness from trespassing again. He managed to keep them away, but it took effort — effort he should have been focusing on Liz. And he couldn't shake the creepy feeling that he was no longer completely alone with her.

“Is everybody coming over now?” Adam asked Michael.

“In a little while,” Michael replied. He picked up a tiny plastic rocket ship off the floor of the museum and placed it on a shelf. “We're going to try to figure out what to do now that the ship's been stolen and maybe do a little work on this place at the same time.”

Adam's eyes swept over the museum. He didn't remember trashing the place, but he had when DuPris had turned him into the Adam puppet.

“Is Liz coming?” Adam asked, trying to sound casual. He picked up another rocket and set it next to Michael's.

“Yeah. She and Maria and Isabel and Max,” Michael answered as he continued to reorganize the shelves.

Adam smiled. He did that every time someone said the name Liz. They didn't even have to be talking about his Liz. Well, Max's Liz, really. Liz Ortecho. They could be talking about any Liz, and Adam's lips would just start to curve up. Sometimes just the sound of the letter
l
was enough to do it.

“Let's turn on some music,” Michael suggested, walking over to a big, mailbox-shaped machine in the corner. The machine had lots of blinking lights in it, along with rows of strange silver disks.