Michael stared at the image. The man looked like he was in his forties. His face was seamed and tight, the features of a man who had been out often in the elements. The most memorable aspect of the man's face was the eye patch.
"That the guy you saw?" Valenti asked.
"Yeah," Michael replied, "this is him. Who is he?"
"His name is Terrell Swanson," Valenti said. "He turned up missing thirty years ago. My dad investigated Swan-son's disappearance. His feeling was that Swanson was dead. What about the other ghost you saw?"
"Tiller Osborn's dad."
Valenti nodded. "I heard something about that. Bulmer had to bring Tiller back and admit him to the hospital. The doctor had to sedate him to get him to calm down. Was it Tiller's dad?"
"I don't know. I never really paid attention to Tiller's dad. He was never around much. Tiller seemed to think it was."
"He'd probably know," Valenti agreed. "What happened?"
Michael recounted the events of that night, drawing the comparisons between the two ghostly apparitions.
"A static electricity buildup?" Valenti asked when he'd finished.
"Yeah."
"Any reason why?"
"No."
"And no one but you and the victims saw the ghost today or that night?"
"No."
"Any ideas why not?"
Michael shot Valenti a look.
"Right," Valenti said with a sigh. "At least a static electricity buildup is something I can sense even if I can't see the ghosts." He flipped the file open again for an instant, then put Swanson's picture back in the folder.
They drove in silence for a time. Only the hum of the tires filled the truck cab.
"So don't you want to know where I'm taking you?" Valenti asked.
"I know where you're taking us," Michael said.
"You think so?"
"Wilkins's house," Michael said. "That's why you checked the address again."
Valenti grinned mirthlessly. When the mile marker on the highway came up, he turned right and followed a dirt road section line that had a clutch of chaparral and a truck full of kids selling farm produce with their grandparents at the corner. Valenti honked and waved.
"Know why I'm bringing you with me?" Valenti asked.
Michael glanced at the mirror mounted on the passenger side of the truck. A dust cloud whipped along in their wake, eerily remindful of the ghosts he'd seen. "Because I see dead people," Michael answered.
12
When he reached Roswell, Max stopped at a convenience store a couple blocks down from the Crashdown Cafe. Leaving the car, he crossed to the pay phone mounted on the front of the liquor store. The sun beat down into the town, baking the pavement of the streets and parking areas and heating the air into a convection oven.
He swiped his prepaid phone card through the phones reader and punched in Isabel's cell phone number. Anxiously he peered at the SUV with the news markings and the group of people standing in front of the Crashdown.
Isabel answered on the fourth ring.
"What took you so long to answer the phone?" Max asked.
"Max?" Isabel responded.
"Yeah. I heard about the Crashdown. About the ghost."
"How did you know?" Isabel asked.
"I've seen a few ghosts myself." Max didn't want to go into the whole story over the phone. "Is Liz okay? I heard she was at the hospital." A hurried conversation on the street at a stoplight with a guy he knew from school had netted him that information.
"Liz is fine," Isabel answered. "We need to talk."
"I know," Max agreed. "I don't know for sure what happened at the Crashdown, but these ghosts are real. Maybe they're not ghosts, but they're something."
"I know. I've seen one myself."
"Where?" Max demanded. "Were you at the Crash-down?"
"No. Somewhere else." Isabel paused. "We need to meet somewhere tonight, Max."
"We will. Where are you?"
"The hospital."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
But she didn't sound fine, Max knew. He could hear the anxiety and uncertainty in his sister's voice. Those weren't qualities he usually attributed to Isabel Evans.
"Is Michael there?" Max asked.
"No. He had been at the Crashdown, but Maria called a few minutes ago to say that he'd gone off with Valenti."
"Where did Michael and Valenti go?"
"Maria didn't know."
Frustration chafed at Max. He knew he needed to be doing something, but he didn't know what he was supposed to do. He told Isabel that he was on his way, then hung up and climbed back into the Chevelle.
"So this guy was a uranium miner?" Michael asked as Valenti pulled the truck to a stop in front of Leroy Wilkins's house.
Valenti looked up at the three-story home. "Yeah. One of the more successful desert rats who ever lived that kind of life. His dad was a miner before him. Taught Leroy everything he knew about mining. The elder Wilkins did a lot of mining for uranium used by the United States government during their nuclear weapons testing back in the forties and fifties. There's an underground uranium mining museum over in Grants, New Mexico, that has some exhibits Leroy's father was responsible for."
Michael studied the house. Trees had grown up around the house, closing in on the structure. Peeling paint looked like diseased areas. Shingles lay in the overgrown weeds in the yard and left bare spots on the roof. If the roof weren't leaking now, it soon would be. The railing around the porch had come loose in some areas and was rotting in others. Maintenance obviously wasn't part of the house's routine.
"This doesn't look like success," Michael commented.
Valenti opened the truck door and got out. "This is past success. Leroy Wilkins was one of the last wildcat miners. Guys who bought up land rights and went hell-for-leather against the bedrock hoping they found enough to earn out the investment."
Michael watched a pair of hawks floating in lazy circles in the sky.
"Wilkins was successful enough to buy this property here and have this house built," Valenti continued. "He threw a lot of parties back in his day. He was also a high stakes gambler who spent a lot of time out in Vegas. He spent every dime he made. Barely had enough to keep from losing this house to back taxes."
Michael followed Valenti toward the front door.
"As you can tell," Valenti said as he stepped up onto the porch, "Wilkins didn't make a lot of lasting friends in spite of the way he spent his money."
Valentis boots thudded across the uneven surface of the warped porch.
"You said he killed his partner," Michael pointed out. "Maybe that had something to do with his lack of friends."
Valenti tried the front door, but it was locked. "I never said Wilkins killed his partner. I said Terrell Swanson disappeared."
"But he never managed the reappearance, did he?" Michael asked sourly.
"No."
"Why would Wilkins kill his partner?"
Valenti peered through the windows. "Because they found the strike that was as close to the mother lode as they'd ever found. Both of them had wills that gave their half of any mine to the surviving partner. Most of the business in those days done between partners instead of corporations operated like that. Strictly Old West rules."
Boredom settled in over Michael. He leaned back against a section of the porch railing that looked like it would support his weight.
Valenti glanced at him. "Don't get too relaxed. You're supposed to be the lookout."
"If I see a ghost," Michael said, "I'll scream."
"Yeah," Valenti said sarcastically, "that works for me." He walked from the porch down to the two-car garage around the side of the house.
The garage had been built into the hillside that provided the elevated foundation for the rest of the house. With the construction the way it was, the garage was on a split-level beneath the house.