PART SEVEN

Floating. She was floating through a quiet museum, maybe the National Gallery, down the corridors like a restless spirit. She hovered periodically, just studying a wall of paintings spread before her, until she found the room that felt most like home.

She settled there on a soft bench, drawing her legs up beneath her as she examined the works on the long wall. First, there were Michael’s familiar canvases, so much a part of her that they almost undulated with her heart’s rhythm. They represented all that was beautiful and perfect in her life now. She sighed softly, just drinking them in. So like Michael’s spirit, she thought, breathing in the colors and movement with each slow inhalation.

Then her gazed shifted, as she discovered David’s paintings hanging just beside Michael’s. They were arousing, moving her deepest places, and somehow, though she’d never noticed it before, powerfully erotic.

A nearly forgotten sensation of heat crested low in her body, as she gazed at the faceless stranger in Segue to Dream. The artist had revealed nothing of himself, yet somehow she knew he was exquisite and handsome. She was sure of that fact, as she studied the dark head of hair, the suggestion of shoulder.

Suddenly the figure in the painting turned slightly, his face coming into view.

And there was nothing, only a bland, featureless mask.

"But that’s not right," she ached to cry. "Something here is so wrong."

Then the painting shimmered momentarily, and was as it had been before. Liz rubbed her jaw, puzzling over the canvas, and wondered why it seemed something crucial lay just beyond her understanding. Something critical that she couldn’t piece together yet.

Finally, she allowed her gaze to wander further, and it fell on a familiar series of engravings, depictions of The Seven Wonders of the World.

A mausoleum, a temple, a lighthouse. A template of mankind’s melancholy greatness lay in ruins before her—now little more than a remembered glimmer in Herodotus’ eye.

In her sophomore year, she’d been particularly captivated by a painting of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, imagining herself to be the exotic princess, brought from lands far away. And Max to be the king who loved her enough to create a replica of a distant home, light years across the galaxies.

Max her prince, the man who could give her the universe if only she asked. The one who held the twinkling stars in the mere palm of his hand, weaving legends around their love as easily as gossamer.

Max, alive and beautiful, his golden eyes shimmering with alien fire, more princely than he’d ever seemed on earth. Surrounded by servants and jewels. Nebuchadnezzar recreating an Earthly garden of hanging mysteries.

All for her, because he ached to woo his bride, his alien queen.

But then the projector had clicked again, shifting the slide, light replaced by dark. A new painting, a new dream, the old ones too stifling.

But knowing Max was dead hadn’t stopped the dreams. And that image of the gardens had imprinted on her mind’s canvas, burned in like an encaustic painting. Her hopes, hardened like wax, unyielding to touch. Smothering her soundlessly, night after night.

****

4:35 a.m.

Almost like a nightly rendezvous, a secret tryst between Max and herself. She’d never even told Michael about her nightly wakings, though he understood a bit. And now, Liz lay in the dark, her heart hammering painfully in her chest, as she stared at the digital clock. Such a long distance existed between the bathroom and her bed, such cloying fears along the way.

One more night. One more rotation of the Earth, two more journeys of the clock’s hands around the dial. Eight years marked in passing.

She’d been sleeping soundly in her dorm that night in late February, the room glowing brightly because of newly fallen snow blanketing the earth outside. Already the familiar noises of the snowplow had begun, as it spread salt on the drive outside her dorm window. She’d passed in and out of sleep all night, wrestling thick dreams of Max. Harsher dreams than in the past months, when things had muted a bit after she’d first left Roswell.

But that night the images had been keener, more circuitous. Over and over, she’d seen his eyes, pleading. But for what? He knelt before her, head bowed, dark hair unusually damp. She reached her fingers to slowly stroke it, to soothe him.

Shh, she whispered softly. I’m here, Max. Right here.

But when she’d pulled her hand away, the fingers had been sticky with blood. Redder than her own, alien blood. She’d opened her mouth to scream, to cry out, her jaw aching with indescribable pain. I’m here, she’d shouted, but only muffled sounds had escaped her lips. Max, don’t give up. I’m here…with you. I’d never leave…never leave.

She’d felt him reach for her, as surely as if he’d been holding her in his arms. He looked up, golden gaze on her again, but the animating flash that was so familiar had disappeared, utterly vanquished.

Then she felt only coldness, enfolding her like a deathly lover’s embrace.

"Max!" she screamed, waking again with a shuddering start. She bolted up in bed, feeling all around in the dark covers. Everything was damp. Her hair, the sheets, and her face throbbed with blinding pain. "Oh, Max," she whispered again, glancing at the clock.

4:54 a.m.

"I miss you so much," she murmured into the thick darkness, as she rubbed her chest with her open palm, willing her heart to settle. "God, I never stop aching like this, Max…for you."

And with those words, her throat tightened convulsively, tears spilling down her cheeks. She grasped frantically at her hair, pulling at her scalp in a fruitless effort to stop the avalanche of emotion that she’d unleashed.

Finally, she crumpled on her side in a tight little knot, her chest racking with unspent sobs. Why can’t it just hurt less, Max, she wondered through the veil of tears. It’s been so long.

***

Liz stepped carefully along the sidewalk, through the hushed snow that had shrouded Santa Fe overnight. There were only a few inches, maybe three at most, yet all of town was still whisper quiet, though an occasional car would kick up damp slush as it passed by.

Mostly the sidewalks remained pristine, with only periodic footprints scattered ahead of her. Liz drew her scarf tight around her neck, lifting her mug of coffee close to her lips. The chocolate-laced aroma filled her senses, as she took a quick sip of the warmth. Rounding the edge of the plaza, she glimpsed the darkened doorway of her gallery, and thought for a moment that she saw a tiny package propped against the door, dry beneath the overhang.

She blinked once, certain that her eyes must be deceiving her, must be playing on her secret hopes. Yet, the neatly wrapped package remained.

Liz all but ran the last steps, the hot liquid sloshing in her mug. She knelt carefully, her boot slipping on the wet snow as she dropped to her knees. Right against the door was a very small package, a flat square in brown paper, probably no more than a foot or so in length and height.

On the front, the familiar neat handwriting read, Windows to the Soul. For Lovely Liz.

Liz cradled the package within her gloved hands, pressing it tightly against her chest, like a sacred treasure. She glanced around her quickly, as if she might find her enigmatic painter, lurking there in the shadows.

She felt watched, as if his artist’s gaze might be trained on her. She brushed a woolen hand over her hair, smoothing it nervously, as slowly she stepped to her feet.

And that’s when she saw the tracks, clearly discernible in the fresh snow. Two foot prints, and a third circular indention. One foot had obviously fallen heavier than the other, the mark was deeper, and the prints led neatly to her doorway.

Two shoe prints and a small circle the size of a quarter. Like a block print cut out, the imprint betrayed David’s gait. Just as he’d said, he walked with a cane.

Liz began slowly following his unique tracks away from her gallery. For a moment, she lost the path of him, as his markings melded with another’s, then reappeared a few steps further. If it hadn’t been so early, she never would have been able to see the prints so clearly, a blazing trail winding right back to him.

Five blocks she followed, until the footprints disappeared up a walkway leading to a small bungalow. Inside, soft lights filled what looked to be the kitchen, and a ribbon of smoke curled into the dark morning sky from the chimney. Liz ached to follow closer, straight up the path, and knock on David Peyton’s door.

And then she saw them. A pair of black hiking boots left neatly in front of the door, as if to dry. Her imagination filled in a portrait, David bending low to unlace the boots, while shifting his weight onto his cane. A young man, despite appearances. A perversely handsome man.

Liz brushed stray hair away from her eyes, her heart racing because of such a personal detail. Something so simple as his shoes, yet she knew she’d violated David’s protective walls, his self-imposed isolation by following him. But now that she was here, she needed so much more, needed to see what he’d meant by a "facial prosthetic." For she’d been left with far too many questions on that count, all of them more than disturbing.

She searched the exterior of the house for any further sign of him, for a shadow in the window, but glimpsed nothing. The small painting rested close against her chest, burning there, and she considered removing the note and leaving it inside his mailbox—letting him know that she’d found him. But that seemed like a slap in the face, when he’d only meant to leave her a gift.

And she had a sudden image of David as Boo Radley, leaving precious treasures in her tree trunk—in this case, her gallery doorway. Just as Scout had felt protective of Boo, she now felt that for her own shy stranger, a scarred recluse darting in and out of darkened shadows as he watched over her like an angel--a strangely seductive and sensual guardian.

Open your eyes, Liz…open your eyes.

She drew in a shuddering breath, remembering his beautiful angel painting, and carefully backed away.

***

Liz hadn’t responded to David’s last e-mail because she wasn’t sure precisely how she should. And every time she began slowly typing a reply, the words just seemed too flat. She still wasn’t sure what he’d meant by a "facial prosthetic," though a haunting thought had begun to shadow her.

One web site had struck a particularly eerie chord. It promised "A Whole New Life…Welcome to the World of Full Facial Prosthetics."

A whole new life. Something about the ironic slogan caused her to shiver uncontrollably. The images on her screen seemed anything but hopeful, as she gazed at an array of what could only be described as nearly featureless masks.

Faces for the faceless.

Liz wrapped her arms around herself, shivering again, and wondered what she could possibly say to David. She hadn’t opened his new gift yet, had saved it as a special treasure for later in the day, though it burned in her awareness like a smoldering fire.

She began slowly composing a note, one that simply felt right in her heart, the only possible way to answer his vulnerable confession.

Dashing David,

You’ve showered me with yet another painting. And see, they’ve become more precious than Godivas to me, so I’m waiting to open this one as well. At least a few more hours.

As for your note of last night, it seems that you’re a man of mystique, then. If you intended to thwart my growing interest, I fear you’ve only fanned the flames.

Liz (who is now blushing)

With as flirtatious as she knew her words had been, she’d been unable to resist. She’d been compelled to write something that enticing, had yearned to make David feel as desirable as he’d left her feeling in the past few days. Perhaps his face was horribly disfigured, yet somehow she was certain it was oddly beautiful, too--if only because of its alluring uniqueness.

The bell tinkled on her door, and Liz glanced up, her face reddening instantly for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps because she felt discovered in her cyber-courtship. Her cheeks only flushed more deeply when Michael loped inside, bearing two cups of Starbucks coffee in his hands, and a small brown bag tucked between his fingers.

"Hey!" she called, knowing her voice sounded overly bright. Michael smiled softly, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

"Peace offering," he grumbled, yet his eyes revealed his utter sincerity as he plopped the bag onto the counter.

"Why do I think that’s a blueberry scone, lightly toasted?" she giggled, picking up the bag. He dropped his gaze, and she swore he seemed oddly shy with her, as she sniffed inside the bag theatrically. "Ummm…"

"Just sell my work in New York next week," he explained gruffly, his voice edged with slight bitterness, despite the overture. Liz felt her chest tighten with an inexplicable wave of pain.

"Of course I will, Michael," she answered softly. "I always do." He stepped away from her, turning his back as he sipped his coffee.

Liz followed him to where he stopped in front of David’s paintings that she’d hung on the wall, and for a moment she saw his confusion as he glanced around the gallery. She’d removed three of his key pieces in order to display David’s work, so she touched him lightly on the arm, rushing to explain.

"I moved yours to the window…as the major display."

He nodded without glancing at her. "Whatever, Liz," he answered coolly. "I trust you."

Something about those words seemed critical, about far more than her placement of his work within the gallery.

"But you’re still mad at me," she offered softly, chewing on her lip.

"No…no, I’m not," he answered in an aloof voice, rubbing his chin as he stared at the paintings. "More of the freaknik’s work, huh?"

"He’s not a freak," she answered defensively, feeling even more protective since David’s admission about the prosthesis.

"No, I don’t suppose so," Michael answered, and she was surprised by the way his tone had softened. "His work really is…powerful, isn’t it?"

"What does it make you think of, Michael?" she asked seriously, feeling the familiar kinship they shared flame to life. They were always at their best together this way, just talking art comfortably.

He combed his fingers through his hair thoughtfully, his eyes flickering between each painting. Finally, he drew in a breath as he stared at the untitled painting of the harsh landscape. The Ms. Parker painting. "The pod chamber," he answered evenly. "The pod chamber, but twisted somehow."

"What?" she cried, her eyes widening as she stared at the painting. The dark-haired beauty still turned, staring out at her coyly, and the vibrant colors still splashed across the exotic sky. How did Michael possibly see the pod chamber?

"Well, what does it make you think of?" he quipped, folding his arms across his chest with a light sigh of impatience.

She shook her head, staring in disbelief because the scene did vaguely remind her of the pod chamber rocks, now that she thought of it.

But she didn’t admit that to Michael. "Maybe Afghanistan or something," she murmured, staring at the woman, who haunted like the image of some refugee from the pages of National Geographic.

They fell silent again, just standing there together and Liz sensed that Michael longed to tell her something. But if she’d learned anything in all their years of friendship, it was that she couldn’t push him.

"I followed him," he admitted softly.

"Who?" Liz asked, because she really had no idea who Michael was referring to.

"David Peyton," he sighed, his eyebrows arching guiltily. "I got his address from the Fed Ex guy and followed him last night."

"What?" Liz all but roared. Her hands began shaking with tremors as her mouth open and shut in disbelief. "You, what?"

"You heard me," Michael snapped, taking a long sip of his coffee. "Did it to protect you."

"God, I just want to kill you!" she cried in exasperation. "I mean, am I not a grown woman?"

"He’s harmless, Liz." Michael half-smiled at her, gloating in the revelation. She swore his chest puffed out, as if he were proud to declare David worthy of her trust.

"As if I needed your say in that," she seethed, storming away from him.

"Aren’t you glad to know, though?"

"You drive me insane, Guerin."

"He walks with a cane," he announced, again seeming overly smug. As if he knew he’d squarely vanquished David Peyton before a race of romantic intentions had even begun.

"Yeah, well guess what?" Liz snapped, plopping down in her desk chair. "I already knew that, okay?"

She instantly regretted the declaration, when she saw Michael’s expression darken with unexpected disappointment. "I mean, he told me," she stammered awkwardly. But Liz couldn’t help wondering if Michael had gotten a look at David’s face.

"What did he look like?" she asked quietly, dropping her gaze quickly so he wouldn’t see how she blushed at the question.

"Didn’t see much," Michael explained. "Young I think…long, dark hair."

"Long?" she asked in surprise, imagining the risqué cover of some romance novel. "How long?"

"About my length, I guess," Michael answered, absently raking his fingers through his hair.

"And that’s it?" Liz asked. "You just followed him?"

And this time, Michael looked truly sheepish for a moment, as he moved away from her. "I had to be sure he was okay, Liz. Had to make sure you were."

"You searched his place." It was an acknowledgement, not a question on her part. Michael nodded guiltily.

"He went for a walk after dark, stayed out a while. He walks so damn slow, it was easy to do."

Liz closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. Suddenly, her head throbbed with inexplicable pain. "Alien mafia strikes again. Remind me to call Isabel later to commiserate."

"He’s just a painter, Liz. He’s alright."

"Glad I have your approval, dad. I mean, otherwise I could have been in real jeopardy," she snapped bitterly. "I mean, he might have beaten me with his cane or something."

"Damn it, Liz," Michael thundered, slamming his palm onto her glass counter loudly. "Would you just chill the hell out? Are you forgetting that there was a time when our enemies wanted you dead? You of all people should believe in that danger, since you’re the one who’s convinced that Max was murdered by them."

Electric silence instantly filled the gallery, as Liz stared at Michael in shock, feeling tears sting her eyes. Never had he mentioned Max’s death so bluntly, or so vividly with her. Their eyes locked for long moments, his brown depths filled with indescribable regret. Liz wondered if either of them would ever dare speak.

"But why would they still want me?" she finally asked, and Michael’s eyes closed instantly.

"Because you were everything to him, Liz," he answered quietly. "And destroying Max might not have been quite enough for them."

****

Beautiful Liz,

You’ve been upgraded, see? Although "beautiful" doesn’t contain quite the same alliterative joys for me, it seems a more apt description.

Well, guess who’s blushing now? Someone other than you, I can promise. Dashing? I think only through the snow, but nevertheless, I’ll take the compliment. Thank you.

So, how is our package? Opened or not?

Yours,
David

Liz read the note several times, each of them making her heartbeat quicken a little faster. Now, she’d made him blush. She wondered again what his face looked like, how those cheeks appeared, touched with reddish pink. Were they scarred? Or merely rugged? Without thinking, she traced her fingertips over the words flickering on the screen.

Dashing…compliment…opened. Harmless words were suddenly imbued with sensual energy, just because David cyber-whispered them in her ear.

The truth was she’d burned to ask Michael countless questions about David. What his house was like, if he was tall, if he might be handsome. If his home were as neat as his handwriting. But as earlier, when she’d found his little cottage, she backed away from such intrusive questions, and waited for David to reveal those details himself.

However, she did elect to push just a little bit harder this time, as she began typing her reply.

David,

I’d like to come by your place before I leave for New York. I fly out early next week. Might I just drop by for a short visit before then? I understand all that you’ve told me, but truly, you’ll find me quite safe and harmless (despite the barracuda reputation.)

Liz

Liz spun in her desk chair, noting that darkness had already fallen outside. The day was done, and yet her gift remained unopened. She picked it up from where it rested on the far side of her desk, and brushed her fingers along the wrapping, so neat and carefully folded. The painting held perfect promise this way, remained ever undiscovered. Tenderly, she gathered it within her arms, and for some inexplicable reason, decided to take it home with her.

***

Floating. She was floating over Roswell. First the Crashdown and her balcony, later the high school and Max’s house, then back down toward the park.

Disembodied, ethereal as a mist, she moved at dusk. Just watching from above, noting the sameness below her, despite the passing years.

Even as scattered as they all were now, to the afterworld even, life continued in Roswell, everything in its right place. Different children maybe, unfamiliar young loves, yet forever the same. Just a different era, a new epoch in time.

Liz felt wistful, as a young man opened the car door for his girlfriend, helping her from his Explorer onto the sidewalk. Max had been just such a gentleman. And as the blonde haired boy stole a quick, awkward kiss, Liz began to weep.

For her lost love and purloined innocence.

For her stolen youth.

But then she sailed onward, the clouds moving beneath her, the desert suddenly appearing, until she hovered just over the pod chamber’s jagged rocks. The scene changed and there was Michael, gazing at her where she crouched against the sun-covered rocks, everything bright as an overexposed photograph.

It was that moment, the one that had defined the two of them ever since. Michael squinting in the sun, as their eyes met.

Not like I love you…not like I love you…not like I love you.

And she just knew that Max was gone forever.