Loose ends

18.

Morton and his anonymous partner made good time. Less than ten minutes after Michael hung up on the murderous outlaw, the two men entered the Denny's, looking about avidly for the unknown party who had lured them here. Michael must have done a good job of planting doubts in Morton's mind, Isabel concluded, repressing a shiver at the very thought of the killer's warped psyche. She knew from firsthand experience what an ugly place that was.

Neither man was carrying the infamous black attache case. Good, Isabel thought, assuming that the case was back at Morton's motel room; at least that part of Max's scheme had gone off as planned.

Michael raised a hand to catch Morton's eye, just in case their disguises didn't attract his attention. To bolster their assumed identities as associates of Lieutenant Ramirez, both she and Michael had transmuted their street clothes into reasonable facsimiles of U.S. Air Force uniforms. Mirrored sunglasses further concealed their actual origins, while Michael had even gone so far as to give himself a military-style crew cut to complete the deception. It didn't look bad on him, actually.

An ugly scowl upon his face, Morton marched over to the booth the two bogus officers had occupied. His unknown associate followed him, looking nervously around the restaurant as though deathly afraid of being recognized. He seemed ready to bolt and run at the slightest provocation.

That's no good, Isabel thought. They needed to keep both men occupied, so that Max and Liz would have time enough to search their room at the Motel 6. She gave the scrawny Asian guy a friendly smile, hoping to put him more at ease.

Without ceremony, Morton planted himself down in the booth, across from the disguised teens. "All right, I'm here," he growled sourly, his blood-rimmed eyes wishing them off the face of the Earth. "Who are you and what do you want?" His palpably uncomfortable companion slid into the booth next to Morton. "And make it quick."That's the one thing we can't make it, Isabel fretted. Morton's close proximity made her skin crawl, remembering the vile sights, sounds and smells she'd experienced while slumming in his unconscious mind. She could still see the biker's brains splattering the walls of that dismal alley, feel Morton's beefy fingers digging into her arms moments before she'd finally escaped the nonstop greed and violence that filled the loathsome killer's nocturnal fantasies. Max had thoughtfully erased the bruises Morton had inflicted on her, but she still had her memories of being chased like a hunted animal through that gaudy, ghastly casino.

"Well?" Morton demanded. His real-life attire was a good deal less flashy than what he had worn at the height of his imaginary glory and success. An open pack of cigarettes was stuck in the top pocket of a faded flannel shirt, while his hunters cap covered what Isabel suspected was a balding scalp. She craned her neck, trying to look inconspicuously for the telltale lump of a gun beneath the bottom of his untucked shirt; the tabletop, alas, blocked her view of Mortons waistband. "Speak up!" he snapped at Michael. "Let's hear what you have to say."Michael had already agreed to handle most of the talking, since Morton had already heard his voice. Isabel had only come along, despite the risk of Morton recognizing her from last night's dream, to help out with the special effects they had in mind.

"Hold your horses," Michael stalled. He took a long, slow sip of coffee before continuing. "Anyway, as I previously informed you, my friend and I are associates of Lieutenant David Ramirez, whom I believe you are acquainted with."Stupid son of a bitch!" Morton spat, unable to contain his aggravation. "Can't keep his big mouth shut." He shook a meaty finger in Michael's face. "You tell that cowardly excuse for a soldier that I don't appreciate him blabbing about our business. I don't care who you are. He's going to regret this, believe me!"Isabel winced, hoping that this scam of theirs didn't get the poor lieutenant killed. He hadn't seemed like that bad a sort back when she'd flirted with him by the Bottomless Pit. She suddenly imagined Ramirez in that alley, his blown- apart brains joining the biker's on the blood-stained wall. Then she remembered that Ramirez's crooked deal with Morton had already put Liz in danger, and threatened to expose all of Roswell's alien secrets. We're just doing what we have to, I guess.

"That's between you and Ramirez," Michael said diplomatically, responding to Morton's vehement threats against the blackmailed pilot. "We're interested in striking our own deal with you, as well as your employers."Oh yeah?" Morton said. A waitress swung by to see if the two newcomers wanted to order anything, but Morton chased her away with a dirty look and a snarl. The science guy just squirmed and sweated next to Morton, trying to hide his face behind a menu. "What kind of deal?" Morton snarled.

Isabel held her breath as she waited tensely to see how Michael was going to finesse that particular query. This would be easier, she thought, if we actually knew what Morton had extorted from Ramirez. Thinking back, she remembered what she had found within the dream-version of the black briefcase: that disturbing peek at the Crash itself. Unfortunately, that kind of visual symbolism, no matter how powerful and emotionally devastating, was of limited use in the present circumstances.

Still, Michael did his best with what they'd managed to glean from Morton's dreams. "Again, as I believe I stated on the phone," he said long-windedly, "this concerns a certain controversial incident that occurred several miles north of here, over fifty years ago."Yeah, yeah," Morton grumped irritably. "The Crash at Roswell. You don't need to be so cute about it." He toyed menacingly with a bread knife he lifted from the table; Isabel still couldn't tell if he was carrying a gun or not. "Cut to the chase, buddy. How do I know you jokers are on the level?"Michael leaned forward, lowering his voice to a furtive whisper. "Mr. Morton, you and I both know that what crashed at Roswell in 1947 was no top secret spy balloon, no matter what the authorities would now have us believe."Maybe," Morton said skeptically, "but UFO nuts and would-be con artists are a dime-a-dozen in these parts, like the clowns who sold that phony 'alien autopsy' video a few years back. What makes you two any different?"That video gave me nightmares for weeks, Isabel recalled, even though I knew it had to be fake. She shuddered when she remembered how close Max had come, after the Special Unit captured him, to starring in a real-life alien autopsy. Don't think about that now, she told herself. Concentrate on the task at hand, fooling Morton and his accomplice.

"What makes us different?" Michael echoed, dragging out the discussion. "An excellent question." He maintained a cool, cocky expression as he strung Morton along. "Perhaps it's that we have access to certain 'souvenirs' left over from the Crash itself." He nodded at Isabel, letting her know that it was time to carry out the next part of Max's plan. "As we are fully prepared to demonstrate…"Show time, she thought mordantly, retrieving a rumpled backpack from the floor by her feet. Reaching into the pack (which she had borrowed from Alex), she removed two curious items and placed them carefully on the table. The first item was a length of copper-colored wire twisted into a complicated rosette design, reminiscent of the crop circles famously found in England during the nineties. The second was a peculiar, futuristic-looking skullcap made from a silvery, iridescent material that reflected the fluores- cent lights overhead, producing a prismatic dance of colors across the pliable surface of the cap.

In fact, the two items were, respectively, a wire hanger and a rubber shower cap, both filched from their rooms at the Days Inn, then cosmetically enhanced by a little creative mo- -lecular rearrangement. Not bad work, Isabel thought, admiring her craftsmanship, but would they really fool Morton and his scientific sidekick, at least long enough to keep the two men occupied awhile longer? Suddenly, she had her doubts.

"Well, gentlemen?" Michael said shamelessly, gesturing toward the two oddball artifacts. Isabel decided that she never, ever wanted to play poker against Michael. "Are you taking me a little more seriously now?"The nerdy science guy was obviously impressed, peek-ing out from behind his menu for a better look, but Morton snorted disparagingly. "Are you kidding?" he snickered, sounding more amused than annoyed for the moment. "I've seen better props in carnival sideshows." Bushy eyebrows lowered balefully as his bad humor reasserted itself. "You better not be wasting my time, punk."I wouldn't dream of it," Michael insisted. He arched his eyebrows and waved theatrically over the two counterfeit items. "Watch this."He delicately tapped the wire rosette with his index finger and the copper wire began to emit an eerie white glow that caused even Joe Morton to drop his jaw. Within seconds, the ornately-configured wire was glowing so brightly that Morton and his tremulous cohort were forced to look away. Michael then tapped the modified coat hanger again, and the glow faded almost immediately. He waited until the two men were once more gazing at the now-inert wire before lifting the ersatz alien artifact to reveal the flowery rosette design now burned into the polished wooden table-top. "Holy cow!" the science guy exclaimed, while Isabel made a mental note to fix the table before they left.

Despite his hostile attitude, Morton appeared impressed as well. Looking about quickly to make sure no one else had witnessed the wire's miraculous illumination, he slid a paper placemat over the burned impression of the wire. "Okay," he said grudgingly, settling back into his seat. He nodded at the silver skullcap. "What does that one do?"Somehow Michael managed to keep a straight face as he explained that, "We believe that this unique item may be some manner of extraterrestrial crash helmet." He lifted the sparkling shower cap from the table and handed it back to Isabel. "As you'll see, it possesses a number of unusual properties, as my colleague will be happy to demonstrate."Feeling more like a magician's beautiful assistant than an undercover alien, she held up the rubber cap and, using both manicured hands, tore it down the middle until the two halves were held together by less than an inch of silvery material. She then laid the bisected "crash helmet" back on the table and gently smoothed it out upon the flat wooden surface. As she did so, the cap magically reknitted itself, the severed parts joining back together seamlessly until the headpiece was completely intact once more. Voilfll she thought sarcastically, holding up the restored cap for the two men's inspection.

"Is that all?" Morton asked, eyeing both the cap and the wire emblem greedily. Isabel imagined she could see the dollar signs forming in his bloodshot, piglike eyes.

"Not at all," Michael said boldly. He nodded at Isabel again. "If you please, lieutenant."She resisted a snarky impulse to salute, instead placing the glittering shower cap over her own sandy-blond hair. Closing her eyes behind her mirrorshades, she concentrated intently on the effect she aimed to achieve. Both Morton and the nerdy guy gasped out loud as, chameleon-like, the rubber cap morphed to match the tawny color of her tresses, becoming all but invisible. "As you can see," Michael announced, sounding like the host of some cheesy, late-night infomercial, "the helmet is endowed with astounding camouflage capabilities."Michael seemed to be enjoying himself, in a perverse sort of way, but Isabel felt extremely uncomfortable using her powers so openly in front of Morton and the odier man, even with the fig leaf of plausible deniability provided by the supposed alien technology. Unable to avoid a morose scowl, she peeled die shower cap off her head and slapped it back onto the tabletop, restoring its futuristic silver coloration as she did so. Morton reached out to inspect the cap and the wire personally, but Isabel snatched them up before he could grab onto them, and placed them back in Alex's pack in an impressive display of brisk, military efficiency., Morton grunted brutishly and tried for the pack itself, but Michael blocked him by leaning across the table between Morton and Isabel. "Whoa there, pal," he discouraged the overeager gunman. "Show and tell is over." Michael assumed a tough, hardball attitude. "Time to talk a little turkey." He coldly appraised the mismatched pair sitting across from him. "We've proven we're legitimate. What do you two bring to the table?"Watch the lip, punk," Morton rasped, bristling. Giving up on the pack for now, he crossed his arms atop his chest, regarding the two "officers" with open distrust. "Don't get smart with me. As far as I'm concerned, I still don't know you from Adam." He cocked a beefy thumb at Isabel. "What's her story anyway," he groused. "How come she never says anything?"Isabel's stomach did a nervous somersault, but Michael handled Morton's aggressive challenge with aplomb. "My colleague prefers to let me handle the verbal aspect of our negotiations," he said smoothly. "That's our own business, though. I don't see where that concerns you." He subjected the furtive scientist to a scornful stare. "After all, I don't see you volunteering the name of your silent partner there."Morton stiffened, picking up on something Michael had just said. "You don't know his name?" the startled gunman said. A suspicious edge entered his voice. "Not at all?"Oh no! Isabel thought. On the phone, she recalled, Michael had hinted that he knew all about the nameless technician from Las Cruces. Now his minor slipup seemed to have Morton reevaluating his prospective new business partners.

Cunning, red-rimmed eyes narrowed as Morton looked them both over one more time. "Just how much did Ramirez tell you anyway? And how did you find out where I was staying? I never told Ramirez that."Er, we have our own sources of information," Michael improvised vaguely, trying to recover from his careless slip of the tongue. "Like I said, that's none of your concern."Morton wasn't buying it. "No dice," he blustered. "I don't deal with anybody unless I know a hell of a lot more about them than they do about me." With surprising speed, he reached out and yanked Isabel's sunglasses off her face.

Shocked, she flinched and threw herself backward, into the far corner of the booth. For a fraction of a second, she felt like she was back at the Hangar 18 casino, staring down the barrel of the heartless killer's oversize pistol. Fearful brown eyes, suddenly exposed to Morton's scrutiny, stared in alarm at the gunman's bestial features.

For himself, Morton looked almost as stunned as the young woman he had so roughly unmasked. "You!" he blurted, crushing the stolen shades inside his fist. "You're the witch who stole my case last night." Outright fear and confusion came over his coarse, ill-shaven face as he realized that he was remembering a dream. "What the hell?" he exclaimed, loud enough to attract scandalized looks from the staff and patrons of the restaurant. "What kind of freaky head game are you playing?"Next to him, the scrawny scientist panicked. "What's the matter?" he squealed, shrinking into his seat. "What's happening?"Morton shoved the techie out of the booth in his haste to get away from Isabel. Lurching to his feet, the frothing gunman pulled out a handgun and waved it in front of Isabel and Michael. "Gimme that pack!" he roared. "Now!"Terrified shouts and screams greeted the surprise appearance of Mortons weapon. "Watch out! He's got a gun!" someone shouted as cashiers, waitresses, and customers ducked for cover. "Someone call die police!" another voice yelled.

It's the Crashdown all over again, Isabel realized, flashing on her borrowed memories of the shooting. Horror melded with deja vu as, her heart pounding, she gladly surrendered the backpack and its worthless contents to the volatile hoodlum. Morton snatched the pack by its taut straps and tossed it over to the science nerd, who clutched it against his chest. "Nobody follow us!" he shouted for all to hear, firing a bullet into the ceiling for emphasis.

Leaving the disguised aliens alone in their booth, Morton and his accomplice ran for the exit. "Oh my God," Isabel gasped. What if the two men went back to their motel room to reclaim the vital briefcase? "We have to warn Max and Liz!"Her hands shaking, she found the cell phone in her purse and somehow managed to dial the number for the Motel 6. Meanwhile, Michael stood up and, exploiting his phony uniform for all it was worth, tried to calm the upset denizens of the Denny's. "Everyone remain calm," he ordered with mock authority. "Remain in your seats. We'll be taking statements shortly."C'mon, c'mon," Isabel muttered fervidly, waiting for the motel operator to pick up. Standing up in the booth, she watched through the restaurant's clear glass windows as Morton and the other man plowed dirough an approaching party of tourists, shoving the startled bystanders aside in their headlong flight from the restaurant. She listened anxiously to the ringing of the cell phone, knowing there wasn't a minute to lose. They couldn't let Morton catch Max and Liz in his room! "Hello, Motel 6 here," a voice said chirpily into her ear, on about the fourth or fifth ring. "How can I help you?"Finally/ Isabel thought. "Connect me with room #19, right away, please! It's an emergency!"The operator obligingly transferred the call, but, to her intense distress, nobody answered. The cell phone gripped in her sweaty palms, Isabel waited in an agony of suspense to hear her brother's voice at the other end of the line. Come on, Max! Pick up the damn phone! Michael gazed at her with a worried, mystified expression, obviously wondering what was taking so long, while the phone continued to ring maddeningly. "I'm sorry," the operator broke in after a minute or so. "There seems to be something wrong with that line. May I take a message for you?"Isabel hung up the phone. "I can't get through to them," she told Michael, scared to death. "Something's gone wrong."Damn!" Michael swore, fully aware of the danger their friends were in. "Come on," he said, grabbing onto her hand and pulling her out of the booth, onto her feet. "We've got to get over there!"They ran, hand in hand, for the exit. "Wait!" someone shouted after them. "What about those reports?" A hefty male cashier tried to block their escape, but Michael knocked him aside with a blast of concussive force. Isabel hoped to heaven that their disguises were still working.

Dashing out the door, into the full heat of the afternoon, they saw Morton and the science guy pile into the blue Chevy and speed out of the parking lot. Horns honked and brakes squealed as the Chevy recklessly cut straight across the highway, causing pileups and rear-end collisions in both north and south lanes of traffic. The nerve-jangling thunder of crashing metal only heightened Isabel's acute feeling of dread as she watched Morton's convertible roar into the parking lot of the Motel 6, where her brother and his girlfriend were about to be caught snooping by a psycho with a gun.

Get out of there, Max! she thought, climbing into the driver's seat of the Jeep as fast as she could. Michael buckled himself into the seat next to her, staring furiously through the windshield as Isabel started the ignition and pulled out after the Chevy. Even with her foot flooring the gas pedal, she knew she couldn't catch up with Morton in time.

Now, Max.' Get out of there now!