by Greg Cox
11.
A one-hour photo shop in Whites City had already processed the pictures Alex had shot while trailing Joe Morton through the caverns. Isabel stared at a slightly blurry snapshot of Morton and made a face; even from several yards away, it was clear that Liz's shooter was no Ricky Martin. Ordinarily, I wouldn't even want to get near him, she decided, wrinkling her nose at the overweight hoodlum's slovenly appearance, let alone go inside his head.
Unfortunately, that was exactly what she had to do.
"I really appreciate dais, Isabel," Max said. For privacy's.sake, they'd moved over to the guys' motel room, next door to the one where Liz, Maria, and Michael were waiting. Only Max and Alex had accompanied her here, to watch over her while she attempted to slip into Morton's dreams, which were almost certainly bound to be sleazy and disgusting. I can hardly wait, she thought sarcastically.
"You know I'd do this myself if I could," Max continued, sitting across from her on the next bed over, "but, of all of us, you've always been the best at dreamwalking." This was not meant as manipulative flattery, merely a statement of fact. "You're the only one who can find out what's in that briefcase, and whether he recognized Liz from the Crash-down this morning."Lucky me," she intoned bleakly. Despite her misgivings, which she felt were perfectly reasonable, she knew that Max was right; not knowing how much Morton knew about them, and the Crash, was arguably worse than whatever she might find poking around in the gunman's subconscious. And, boy oh boy, did she ever have plenty of experience when it came to waltzing through other people's sleeping minds. "Practice makes perfect, I guess."She took another look at the 3X5 color photo of Morton pacing in front of a large, gnarled stalagmite. His ill-shaven jowls and sagging beer belly repulsed her; the last thing she wanted to do was make an intimate connection to the man in the photo. "What if he's not asleep right now?" she stalled. "You know how hard it is to get into someone's mind when they're still awake. Especially someone I've never even met."Standing over by the window, Alex drew back the closed curtains and peered through binoculars at the motel across the street. "No lights on in #19," he reported. "In fact, no signs of any activity at all."It's almost two-thirty in the morning," Max reminded her gently, aware of her trepidations. He reached across the narrow gap between the beds to take her hand, while staring at her with that stoic, responsible expression she knew so well. "He's probably asleep, Iz."So much for that excuse, she sighed inwardly. "Okay then, let's get this over with." Taking a deep breath, she placed her fingertips against Morton's picture, feeling tentatively for a link to his identity. At first, she didn't feel anything, and was extremely tempted to give up right there and then, but she closed her eyes and pressed further, her own genetically-engineered mind prowling like some sort of telepathic search engine through the tangled web of psychic vibrations hanging over Carlsbad and vicinity like so much mental smog. Still clutching Morton's unflattering photo between her manicured fingers, she laid back on the neatly- made bed, resting her head on the soft foam pillow. Alex thoughtfully dimmed the lights as she reached out with her mind, searching for the unique cerebral landscape that belonged exclusively to Joe Morton.
Was it Yoda or Obi-Wan Kenobi who said that the Force connected all living things, binding them together? Either way, Isabel knew that Star Wars had it wrong. It wasn't the Force that connected us; it was dreams. Dreams were the secret tapestry that linked her mind to everyone else's, even Joe Morton's.
She kept his image, as depicted in the photo, locked in front of her, while her subconscious compared it against the blur of dream-images and impressions that raced through her mind at the speed of thought. After only a second or two, a match was made and, bracing herself for what was to come, she followed the thread back to the slumbering mind where Morton's loathsome persona also dwelled. Oh joy, she thought caustically. The things I do for my friends…
To her surprise, she found herself standing in the middle of the Crashdown Cafe, back in Roswell. Boy, she thought, looking around at the tacky UFO art upon the walls, and at the cozy booths and counters where she had spent so many leisure hours, this place must have really made an impression on Morton, if he's still dreaming about it two yean later. A chill gripped her heart as another, more compelling explanation occurred to her; maybe Morton was dreaming of the Crashdown because he had spotted Liz at the cav-j erns earlier, and was worrying about his crime catching up with him. That's not good, she realized. Max might be right about Morton coming after Liz again, and maybe the rest of them as well.
She looked around for more clues to Morton's state of mind. Daylight shone through the large glass window at the front of the restaurant, facing Main Street, indicating that, in Morton's dream at least, it was broad daylight. Isabel spotted Maria waiting tables a few yards away, once again wearing the same short, faux Meg Ryan hairdo she had been experimenting with when she and Isabel had first gotten involved in each other's lives. She looks better now, Isabel concluded absently, now that she's let it grow out some.
Scanning further, her alert gaze fell upon Max and Michael, holding a whispered conversation in a booth near, the front window. Drained bottles of Tabasco sauce littered I the tabletop between them, and Michael's hair still had that moussed- up, spiky look that Maria had eventually convinced him to give up. Isabel wondered what Morton's unconscious mind thought they were talking about, feeling; deeply disturbed that this violent stranger had remembered her friends with such uncanny detail. She suddenly felt very glad that she had not personally been present the last time Joe Morton had actually visited the Crashdown.
Loud, heated voices caught her attention, and she turned to see Morton himself arguing with another man at a nearby booth. Morton wore a plaid shirt and a blue cap, and his brutal features were flushed with anger, as were those of his companion, a large, bearded man wearing a black leather vest over a heavy metal T-shirt. Whereas Morton looked like a trucker, the other man struck Isabel as more of a biker type. His booming voice, impossibly loud, reverberated throughout the formerly peaceful diner as he shouted furiously at Morton. "I WANT MY MONEY NOW!" he thundered. An angry sweep of his brawny arm knocked both men's plates and glasses onto the floor, where they shattered noisily "GIVE IT TO ME OR ELSE!"Rising volcanically to his feet, the biker grabbed Morton by the collar and dragged him forcibly out of the booth. A gun, metallic and menacing, somehow appeared in Mor* ton's free hand, the sight of the weapon hitting Isabel with the impact of a physical blow. "No!" she gasped, knowing what was about to happen but unable to halt the relentless chain of events. She looked around frantically for Liz, desperate to warn her, but could not spot the small brunette waitress anywhere. She racked her memory furiously, trying to remember where Max had said Liz was when she was shot. Over by the counter, wasn't it, in front of the kitchen? Isabel struggled to orient herself, locating the counter immediately to her left. She glanced back over her shoulder at the swinging kitchen doors, realizing with growing horror that she herself was standing exactly where Liz should have been. I don't understand, she thought, paralyzed and panicky. What's happening? The nightmarish scene played out in slow-motion, with Isabel unable to react any faster than the dream-figures around her, her mind and body seemingly mired in mo- lasses. "GIIWE MEEE MYYYY MONNNEEEY!" the biker bellowed, grappling with Morton for control of the gleaming blue-metallic pistol, which went off abruptly. Maria let out an endless scream as the muzzle of the pistol flared. Liz, watch out! Isabel thought, only seconds before an overwhelming impact struck her below the ribs. She fell backward onto the floor, searing pain setting her nerve endings on fire, and stared at the ceiling in shock and confusion, watching as gauzy black shadows crept over her vision until, just as the shadows threatened to eclipse the world entirely, her brother's face appeared above hers, staring down at her with anguished eyes. "Look at me, Liz," he pleaded hoarsely "You have to look at me, Liz!"Liz? Doesn't he mean Iz? Isabel suddenly realized her mistake. This wasn't Morton's dream at all, it was Liz's! Max's traumatized girlfriend must have final
ly drifted off to sleep next door, and was now reliving the whole ghastly experience in her dreams. Searching for Morton's dream-image, Isabel had inadvertently stumbled into Liz Parker's own recurring nightmare. Poor Liz! she thought in a moment of heartbreaking empathy and insight. Now wonder she's such a wreck right now! Making a deliberate mental effort, she disengaged her own consciousness from Liz's troubled awareness, stepping out of Liz's crumpled dream-self like a phantom and rising up from the blood-stained floor of the illusory Crashdown, For a few heartbeats, she stood there, looking down at Liz's bleeding form and at her brother crouching there beside the wounded girl. So this is how it all began, she reflected somberly. Funny, how certain events can change your life completely, even if you weren't even there in the first place…
Isabel peeked at her own stomach, making certain she had left the bullet wound behind, and considered what to do next. She wasn't done yet, she knew, turning to watch Liz's memory of Joe Morton, along with his equally panicked partner, run toward the diner's exit. Stop, she commanded mentally, freezing the entire scene in place, Morton included, while she pondered her next move. The fleeing gunman, along with all the other characters populating Liz's personal dreamscape, became as still as mannequins, frozen in position. All except for Isabel, who wandered over to the counter and helped herself to a refreshing sip of Tabasco sauce from the dream's imaginary inventory. The spicy draught tasted just like the genuine article, helping her put her borrowed memories of the shooting behind her.
I have to move on, she realized, placing the fictitious bottle back on the counter. She still had to track down Mortons own dreams and insinuate herself into them. But first, before exiting this unintended detour, she felt compelled to help liz escape, if only for the moment, from this hellish nightmare.
She didn't want to wake Liz, who certainly needed the sleep, but maybe she could make her dreams a bit more pleasant. Isabel searched her memory again, trying to remember a time when she saw Liz laugh, when they had all been able to enjoy a brief respite from all the cover-ups and conspiracies. It was a depressing measure of just how stressful their lives had become that it took Isabel a moment or two to come up with a single occasion unmarred by danger, heartache, or the threat of exposure. That evening, after closing, when she and liz and Maria had all danced in the diner to their favorite CDs? No, that had ended with Max, a bloody handprint upon his chest, bursting into the Crashdown to tell them that Nasedo had been murdered. Isabel's own surprise birthday party? No, that had been the night Tess was kidnapped, and Isabel had been forced to battle that Skin congresswoman to the death. "Why do we even bother?" she sighed.
Finally, though, her memory threw up a fleeting interlude that, she thought judiciously, just might do. And it won't even take too much redecorating she noted approvingly: Several months ago, before Tess arrived to complicate matters, when Max and Liz (and, indeed, Isabel and Alex) had, for once, had nothing better to do than savor each others company and a blessedly uneventful night out. The four of them had caught the new James Bond movie at the cineplex, then relocated to the Crashdown to debate the abundant virtues and defects of the picture. She and Max had shared a custom-made hot fudge and Tabasco sundae (which, curiously, did not appear anywhere on the Crash-downs official menu), while Alex had consumed a small mountain of french fries while trying to convince them all that, really, Denise Richards was perfectly believable as a nuclear physicist. In retrospect, the whole evening had been perfectly frivolous and inconsequential, which may be why, thinking back on it now, Isabel felt a heartbreaking pang of nostalgia. We were happy then, if only for an hour or two.
Wiping her eyes, which had become unaccountably moist, she looked over at the booth they had all occupied that night. She closed her eyes for a second, re- creating the scene in her mind, and when she opened them again, dream-replicas of herself, Max, and Alex were seated around a table laden with sundaes, french fries, and other delectably unhealthy snacks. Just like I remember, she thought wistfully, experiencing another pang at the sight of the carefree smile on her own double's face. I should do that more often, she reflected, barely recognizing herself.
But this wasn't about her right now. Turning her back upon the reconstituted party at the booth, she helped Liz off the floor, erased her stomach wound with a pass of her hand, then escorted the dazed dreamer over to the booth, where she slid Liz in beside the dream-image of Max. "Here," she instructed the other girl while placing a spoonful of ice cream (sans hot sauce) in her hand. "I think you'll find this memory more appealing."Liz's battered psyche took refuge in the revised dream with encouraging speed. "But, Alex," she laughed gaily, as her waitress uniform dissolved into something more casual and attractive, "you can't be serious! She couldn't even pronounce 'nuclear' correctly…"Isabel took a step backward to assess her work. The four teenagers chattered enthusiastically to one another, appearing completely oblivious to the fleeing felons who remained frozen in place at the entrance to the diner. All four kids, both human and hybrid, looked just as relaxed and stress-free as she recalled.
That's better, she thought, feeling surprisingly moved by her own generosity. I'd better not let word of this get out, though, or it could completely ruin my reputation.
Next door, a worried Maria watched vigilantly over the sleeping form of her troubled best friend. While she was glad that Liz was actually getting some sleep, it broke her heart to see that, even in repose, the traumatized young woman could not escape from die ghastly nightmare lurking in her memory. Liz moaned and whimpered as she slept, grimacing in fear and pain. She tossed and turned beneath the thin cotton sheets, frequently clutching at her stomach as if newly shot. You don't have to be a creepy, Czechoslovakian dreamwalker, Maria mused sadly, to know exactly what Liz is reliving right now.
Her hand hovered over Liz's shoulder, uncertain whether to wake her friend from her unquiet dreams. Lord knew Liz needed the sleep, but how much rest could she really be getting, suffering through such frightening nightmares? Asleep or not, Liz looked totally miserable, and Maria was on the verge of waking her, when, unexpectedly, Liz stopped making those pathetic little cries in her sleep and actually seemed to relax noticeably. A peaceful expression, accompanied by the tiniest of smiles, came over the sleeping teen's previously haggard face, and her body's restless contortions subsided as she sank mercifully into a deep, seemingly undisturbed slumber.
Thank goodness! Maria offered up a grateful prayer to whatever Higher Powers might be paying attention as she listened to the calm, measured breathing now coming from the bed; this evidence of tranquil hibernation struck her as just what the doctor ordered for her friend. Pleasant dreams, honey, she wished Liz from the bottom of her overflowing heart. You sure deserve them.
"How's she doing?" Michael asked, emerging from the bathroom. A quick shower had washed the dust and residue of Slaughter Canyon from the handsome alien teen and slicked down his perpetually unmanageable brown hair. Wearing a white terry cloth bathrobe, he toweled his head roughly as he checked on Maria and her dormant charge.
Maria appreciated his concern. "Better," she reported happily, contemplating Liz's serene smile and quiet stillness. "I think she's taking a break from all this, at least for now."Good," Michael said tersely, before wandering back toward the bathroom, toothbrush in hand.
Despite everything else going on, Maria couldn't help wondering if Michael was still mad at her for dragging him to the caverns against his will. They'd barely had a chance to talk at all since Michael took off with Max to tail Joe Morton. Can't say I'd blame him if he was still ticked-ojf at me, she thought guiltily, considering the way this trip is turning out.
12.
Now then, Isabel thought, turning her attention to Joe Morton, whose dream- replica still lingered motionlessly at the Crashdown's exit. A frozen ribbon of gray smoke hovered about the muzzle of his upraised pistol. Your turn, she silently informed the gunman.
If dreams were indeed the unconscious corridors connecting the minds of humanity, per
haps she could use Liz's nightmare as a conduit to Mortons own depraved dreamland? If nothing else, it was certainly worth a try.
"Run," she ordered Mortons petrified figure, jolting the fleeing gunman and his accomplice out of stasis. Gun in hand, looking back worriedly at the scene behind him, Morton dashed out of the diner and into the street, only a few paces behind the other man. Isabel followed right behind him.
She chased them down the sunlit sidewalk of Roswell's main drag, past the UFO Museum, the Mexican folk art museum, and the rest of the tourist traps that sustained the town's struggling economy. Strolling sightseers, many of them in town for the upcoming UFO Festival, ducked out of the way in alarm as the armed criminals barreled through assorted clusters of pedestrians, pursued, inexplicably, by a tall blond girl in blue jeans. Behind her, back by the Crashdown, brakes squealed and a police siren blared as Sheriff Valenti arrived too late to apprehend the gun-wielding strangers.