Loose ends r-1

by Greg Cox

  Unwilling to go quite that far to blend in, she contented herself to transforming her comfortable hiking garb to a stylish black sequined dress and high heels. Rearranging molecules in a dream was even easier than in real life, so it took next to no effort at all to spruce up her hair and makeup as well. Isabel checked her reflection in the polished silver casing of a nearby slot machine, nodded in approval, and marched confidently down the red carpet, casually joining the carefree crowd watching Morton try his hand at the roulette wheel. "Excuse me," she murmured, elbowing her way to the very edge of the gaming table, across from Morton.

  On closer inspection, she was surprised to see that the spinning wheel had been done up to resemble a flying saucer. Silver glitter sparkled like Stardust on the rotating disk while a green papier-mache alien sat atop the hub of the wheel like the pilot of a cartoon spaceship. That looks nothing like Nasedo, she thought with a frown, disturbed to find alien imagery creeping into Morton's fantasies once again. Looking around, she now observed that the entire casino had an extraterrestrial motif, not unlike the campy, kooky decor of the Crashdown Cafe. Model rocketships and flying saucers hung from the ceiling. Painted ray-guns and bug-eyed monsters decorated the sides of the slot machines, while many of the strolling showgirls now looked like extras from Bar-barelh., complete with ftshbowl helmets, pointed ears, or silver antennae, just like the waitresses at the Crashdown wore.

  Where did all this come from? Isabel wondered, somewhat baffled. Had she somehow missed all this sci-fi kitsch before, or had the casino just been completely redecorated by some tremor in Morton's sleeping consciousness? In dreams, almost anything was possible, she recalled, but why did the slumbering Morton, immersed in his private fantasyland, still have aliens on the brain? I don't like this, Isabel thought, chewing on her newly painted lips. Where's this space-age symbolism coming from? The spinning roulette wheel slowed to a halt, causing the rolling ball, which was painted to resemble the planet Earth, to bounce from wedge to wedge before coming to rest in Black Eighteen. A roar of approval rose from the crowd of awestruck spectators as Morton chortled triumphantly and, gripping his cigar between his jaws, scooped up an appallingly large pile of bright plastic chips into his corner. He magnanimously threw a handful of chips into the air and laughed as his adoring entourage scrambled madly after the flying chips, one of which landed directly in front of Isabel, who felt obliged to grab for it in order to avoid attracting attention. She snatched up the blue plastic disk, which bore a printed sticker reading $100, and smiled weakly across the table at Morton, trying to look appropriately avaricious. His gleaming, carnivorous eyes made contact with hers, and Isabel had to repress a shudder. "Do I know you?" Morton asked, winking lecherously Thankfully, the bimbos flanking Morton, unable to secure any of the flung $100 chips on their own, chose that moment to raise a fuss, pouting and complaining, and Morton had to look away from Isabel to appease them, eventually buying their smiles and sloppy kisses with a handful of chips for each of them. "Help yourselves, ladies. My ship has definitely come in, or should I say my flying saucer? Hah!" He took a deep puff on his cigar, then reached for a crystal goblet sitting at one corner of the table. He raised the glass to his lips, then scowled as he discovered it was empty "Ramirez!" he shouted, snapping his fingers.

  The crowd of spectators and sycophants parted to reveal Lieutenant David Ramirez, in full dress uniform, standing at attention only a few feet away. Isabel's eyes widened as she spotted a black leather attache case resting upright on the red carpet next to Ramirez's black military boots. That has to be the case Max and Michael saw at Slaughter Canyon). she thought in excitement. The one with the unknown "merchandise."Excuse me." Slowly, inconspicuously, she started working her away around the circular table, toward the lieutenant and the briefcase. She almost left her $100 chip behind, but, at the last minute, remembered to hang onto it. "Excuseme, excuse me…"Get me some more whiskey!" Morton bellowed at Ramirez, as though he were a servant. The obnoxious gunman blew a mouthful of smoke into the lieutenant's face, then patted his own corpulent belly. "And get me a roast-beef sandwich while you're at it, with plenty of mayonnaise!" "Yes, sir!" Ramirez saluted Morton smartly, then executed a crisp about-face and started to march away, briefcase in hand. Nol Isabel thought in dismay, afraid that the dream- lieutenant would depart with the case before she could get close enough to follow him.

  Turned out Morton wanted to keep an eye on the case, too. "Hold on!" he gruffly ordered the departing soldier. He pointed with his cigar at the floor by his feet. "Leave that here with me."Ramirez obediendy deposited the briefcase next to Morton before goose-stepping away to fetch the bullying killer's refreshments. Isabel took this as more evidence that, in the real world, Morton had some really prime dirt on the actual lieutenant. She was less interested, though, in what Morton had on Ramirez than in what was in the attache case, which she slowly but surely drew nearer to. Was there any chance that she could snatch the case with- out Morton noticing? That seemed unlikely, but she was at a loss for what else to try. What I really need, she realized, eyeing the mysterious case covetously, is a good distraction.

  "Ohmigod, that's him! That's the man who shot me!"The shocked cry caught both Isabel and Morton by surprise. Spinning around, the dreamwalking teenager was amazed to see Liz, with her original brown hair and all, staring in horror at the high-living gunman. Behind her, Carlsbad Caverns's underground gift shop now appeared to occupy one corner of the casino. At first the dream-Liz seemed to be clad in the same outfit she had worn to the caves that morning, before Isabel gave her a molecular makeover, but then Isabel blinked and rubbed her eyes as Liz's casual attire was suddenly replaced by her Crashdown waitress uniform, complete with a gaping, bloody hole just above the silver apron. "There he is!" Liz shouted to all concerned, pointing accusingly at Morton. "That's him!"His cigar drooping from his lower lip, Morton glowered at Liz, his good mood replaced by anger with pathological speed. Snarling, he shoved his flunkies and bimbos aside, then reached into his buckskin jacket and drew out his pistol, which now looked as large as a bazooka. Fire erupted from the muzzle of the handgun and a cascade of hot lead slammed into the displaced gift shop, blowing apart shelf after shelf of souvenir plates, mugs, ashtrays, and snow globes. Gamblers and showgirls ran for cover, shrieking in fear, but every shot missed Liz, who continued to point an accusing finger at the gun-wielding felon, Obviously, Isabel realized, cringing at the repeated blasts from the oversize pistol, Morton's unconscious mind had finally made the connection between the brown-haired girl at the gift shop and the waitress he had shot at the Crashdown two years ago. This is just what Max was afraid of, she thought in dismay. Morton's figured out that Liz can expose him.

  As distressing as this development was, Morton's maniacal attempt to blow away the dream-Iiz left the crucial briefcase momentarily unguarded. Seizing the opportunity, Isabel pushed her way through what was left of Morton's entourage, tossing a peroxide blonde to one side, and grabbed onto the handle of the attache case. Without missing a step, she yanked the case from the carpet and ran like mad away from the roulette table. Got itl she thought triumphantly.

  But the theft had not gone unnoticed. "Hey! What the-?" Morton exclaimed angrily. Forgetting Iiz for the moment, he hollered and aimed his massive artillery at Isabel. "Come back with that, you bitch!"The pistol boomed and a slot machine exploded only a few inches away from Isabel, showering silver dollars in all directions. Isabel's heart missed a beat, and she dropped her $100 chip, but she kept on running, trying to put as much of the casino as possible between her and Morton. The high heels slowed her down, so she kicked them off as she ran, preferring to sprint barefoot upon the springy red carpet. She ducked to the right, down a corridor of clattering one- armed bandits, all of which seemed to feature spinning UFOs and oval-eyed E.T.s instead of lemons and jokers and such.

  Morton chased behind her, firing his gun wildly. Bullets smashed into gamblers and gaming tables alike, turning the lavish casino into a scene of
bloody pandemonium. Frightened screams rilled Isabel's ears, yet, bizarrely, no police officers or security guards made any attempt to stop the amok gunman from chasing an apparently unarmed high school girl through the crowded edifice. Sometimes dreams can be just too darn weird, she thought irritably.

  Fortunately, the alien teen wasn't nearly as defenseless as she looked, not as long as she still possessed her special powers. Halting long enough to spin around and look back the way she had come, she raised her open palm and concentrated. An entire row of slot machines, jolted by an unseen telekinetic force, toppled forward, blocking Morton's path. Then, to retard his progress even further, she concentrated again, transmuting a stretch of velvety red carpet into gooey black sludge instead. She watched, with a smirk of satisfaction, as Mortons expensive-looking snakeskin cowboy boots bogged down in the thick, viscous muck. "What?" he growled in frustration. "Where did all this goddamn goo come from?"Good, Isabel congratulated herself. That buys me a little time. Darting out of range of Morton's pistol, she hurriedly looked around for someplace where she could inspect the stolen briefcase in privacy. Her gaze immediately fell upon the entrance to the ladies' room, which was identified as such by the silhouette of a space woman wearing a fishbowl helmet and Judy Jetson skirt. Perfect, she decided.

  The rest room was conveniently empty, except for a coin-operated robot dispensing toiletries, so Isabel wasted no time throwing the briefcase down on the counter by the sinks and tugging at its lid. The case was locked, of course, but that was no problem; a single touch of her fingertip undid the lock, which came Open widi a click. Taking hold of the sides of the lid with both hands, she paused in hushed anticipation for only a single heartbeat. Okay, she thought gravely, let's see what the big deal is.

  She lifted the lid and a blinding silver glare escaped from inside the case, forcing Isabel to blink and look away, her eyes watering. The unearthly glow faded after a moment, though, and she cautiously shifted her gaze back toward the case's exposed interior, eager to see what the initial burst of light had concealed.

  To her surprise, she saw that the bottom of the case had turned into a kind of window, through which she saw a gleaming silver saucer cruising through space toward a bright blue sphere that she quickly identified as the planet Earth. A frown twisted her lips as, mystified and disappointed, she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. This can't possibly be the literal contents of the case! she theorized in a rush, based on equally surreal experiences on other dreamwalks. More like some freaky symbolic metaphor.

  Before her bewildered brown eyes, the spinning saucer entered Earth's atmosphere, glowing brightly red as some sort of protective aura shielded the alien spacecraft from the searing heat of entry. The saucer sped downward, approaching the surface of the planet at a precipitous angle, and Isabel gasped out loud as she swiftly guessed what she was witnessing. She recognized the blue skies and arid terrain of southeastern New Mexico only seconds before the shining saucer collided violently with the ground, throwing up a cloud of flying dust and debris. I knew it, she thought, her appalled eyes aflame with realization. It's the Crash! A lump formed in her throat as she waited for the smoke and dust to settle, revealing all that was left of the space-faring vessel after it disintegrated on impact. Part of her didn't want to see the twisted wreckage and broken, inhuman bodies, but she couldn't look away either. This was, after all, the same fateful accident that had stranded her and Max and the others on a planet where they could never truly fit in. Is this what the Crash really looked like, she wondered, or just how Morton imagines it? There was no way to know for sure, but the inexplicable, eyewitness coverage of the alien craft's earthshaking demise stirred powerful emotions in Isabel, so that she was completely caught off guard when the door banged open and Joe Morton barged into the ladies' room, tracking sticky black tar onto the tile floor. "There you are!" he snarled, thrusting his immense gun in Isabel's face while his free hand slammed the lid of the briefcase shut. "Who the hell are you anyway?" he demanded, standing so close to Isabel that she could see the tobacco stains on his teeth. He grabbed onto her arm and shook her roughly. "Who are you working for?"Heat radiated from the red-hot muzzle of Morton's firearm. The smoky smell of gunpowder, like Fourth of July fireworks, filled her nostrils. She heard the gun cock ominously Okay, she decided. Enough is enough. Briefcase or no briefcase, I'm getting the heck out of here.

  "Spill it, you witch!" Morton barked at her, spraying saliva in her face. His beefy fingers dug painfully into her arm. "Who are you, and how did you pull that stunt back there, with the tar and the slots? Tell me, you thieving slut."In your dreams," Isabel replied. She spit directly into his fuming, beet-red face, and he pulled the trigger at trie very split second that she- -woke up back at the motel room, the deafening boom of Morton's gun still ringing in her ears. She sat up in bed, shaking and soaked in sweat, provoking gasps from both Max and Alex, who hurried to her side instantly. "Iz! Are you okay?" they asked almost simultaneously.

  She nodded woozily, too breathless to speak right away. Tremors shook her from head to toe, and her own blood pounded in her ears, making her dizzy. "Just give me a minute," she murmured finally, as she struggled to readjust to reality. Exhaustion, both emotional and physical, washed over her body, which felt as though it had actually run for its life across the length of the imaginary casino. Despite the air-conditioning, the room felt unbearably hot and stuffy, so she peeled off her heavy sweater. That's a little better, she thought, although the short-sleeved silk blouse underneath felt soiled and sticky with sweat.

  Glancing at the clock radio by the bed, she was startled to see that less than thirty minutes had passed since she had first lowered her head onto the cheap motel pillow. Is that all? she marveled; it felt as if she had been stalking Joe Morton for half the night.

  "What happened?" Max asked insistently, kneeling beside the bed next to her, his dark, serious eyes searching her face for clues to what had transpired during her exploratory dreamwalk. "What did you see?"Isabel started to answer, but her mouth was as dry as the desert. "A glass of water, please," she croaked pitifully, mas- saging her throat, "with maybe a couple drops of Tabasco in it?"Alex sprang at once to secure her tonic. "I'm on it!" he announced eagerly, while Max stayed to watch over Isabel, waiting tensely until Alex returned from the bathroom with a glass of clear water faintly tinged with red. Isabel reached gratefully for the cup, but was startled when Alex reacted with shock and surprise. "Isabel!" he blurted, eyes wide with dismay. "Your arm!"She followed his own horrified gaze to where five ugly purple bruises defaced the toned white flesh of her upper arm, exactly where Joe Mortons brutal fingers had squeezed her arm so mercilessly. "Oh, that," she said archly, regarding the telltale bruises with icy disdain. "Nothing to worry about. Just a little souvenir from our friend with the gun, not to mention anger-management issues."Here, let me fix that," Max offered. His fingertips brushed over her arm, removing the bruises by healing the injured tissues beneath her skin.

  "Thanks," Isabel murmured. She sipped the Tabasco-flavored tap water, which soothed her throat and helped steady her nerves. Slowly, haltingly, she told her brother and her (sort of) boyfriend everything that she had experienced while exploring Morton's memorably nasty dreamscape, while also trying to interpret the dream's occasionally surreal symbolism. She didn't understand everything she'd seen and felt in the dank alley and lurid casino, but a few things seemed obvious.

  "Whatever he's got in that briefcase," she said with utter certainty, "it has something to do with the Crash." In her memory, the soaring UFO once again dived into the unforgiving Earth, and she started to choke up. Another gulp of cool water was required before she could deliver one more piece of bad news. "And that's not all, Max," she said, swallowing hard because she knew that her brother wasn't going to like what she was about to tell him. "Morton bows. He knows about Liz!"

  13.

  Joy, we couldn't look more hungover, Maria thought, than if we'd actually spent all of last night drink
ing.

  Breakfast was the morning buffet at the Denny's next to the Days Inn. Except for Liz, who was still recuperating in her motel room, and Max, whose turn it was to keep watch over Morton's temporary residence at the Motel 6, the rest of the vacationing teens were refueling with various combinations of coffee, orange juice, scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit, and breakfast pastries. An aspiring vegetarian, with occasional lapses, Maria had eschewed animal products in favor of toast, cantaloupe, grapefruit, and a plate full of melon balls, but her healthier diet failed to spare her from the subdued, enervated atmosphere at the table. Worn out by all their intensive snooping the night before, nobody was talking much, aside from Alex, who kept making sporadic attempts to get a smile or a laugh out of Isabel, who still seemed to be recovering, emotionally, from her nocturnal trek through Joe Mortons psyche.

  "So how was the food at that imaginary casino last night?" Alex asked her with forced levity. He dipped a rather soggy piece of toast into some scarify homogenous-looking scrambled eggs. "Better than this, I hope."I don't know, Alex," Isabel replied humorlessly. She stared distantly at her plate, absently soaking a chocolate donut in a pool of Tabasco sauce. "I didn't eat anything."Oh," he said, obviously hoping to generate a bit more conversation momentum than that. An awkward silence followed, making Maria wince inside, until Alex adopted another tack. "How are you doing, Iz?" he asked solicitously, his guileless green eyes beseeching her to open up to him about whatever was troubling her.

  That, clearly, wasn't going to happen. "I'm fine, Alex. Really." A touch of exasperation entered her dull monotone, and Isabel got up from the circular wooden table at which they were all sitting. Til be right back," she said, excusing herself as she headed for the ladies' room.

  Alex watched her depart with a stricken expression, and Maria decided to take advantage of Isabel's absence to offer her friend some much-needed advice. "You're trying too hard, Alex," she informed him in a low voice, leaning over the table toward the wiry young man. "Just give her a little space, okay, before you really piss her off."But I'm just trying to help," Alex protested. Frustration was written all over his adolescent face. "I hate seeing her all broody and depressed like this."I know," Maria sympathized. This was none of her business, of course, but she couldn't just sit by while Alex let his good intentions lead him astray where his dream girl was concerned. She'd seen this vicious circle play out before, and not just between Alex and Isabel: Person A won't leave Person B alone, forcing B to withdraw, which just makes A redouble his or her efforts to overcome B's de fense, thus driving B even further away, and so on. "Look,"she said compassionately, "I don't pretend to understand all the intricacies of your relationship with Queen Amidala, but I do know that you can't force somebody to be happy] or to open up emotionally, and they'll probably just resent: you if you try.", Had she managed to get through to him? Maria wanted to think so. Maybe she couldn't cure Liz of her debilitating! post-traumatic whatsit, but that didn't mean she still! couldn't play a positive role in her friends' lives. She con-' sidered offering Alex a bracing whiff of rosemary or Cyprus, but then recalled that, along with every other guy she'd ever known, Alex probably considered aromatherapy irredeemably girly. Their loss, she thought, sighing inwardly.