by Greg Cox
Instead they found several torn and ragged sheets of a strange, silvery metal foil, folded meticulously to fit within the shallow confines of the case. Carefully, almost reverendy Max removed one sheet from the case and spread it out atop the bed, where it was revealed to be about the size of a large pillow case. Once laid flat, each and every crease in the foil disappeared completely, so that it looked as though it had never been folded at all. Max tugged on one corner of the sheet, experimentally trying to tear off a small piece, but the exotic material resisted his increasingly strenuous efforts, remaining stubbornly intact and unrumpled. Liz had to marvel at whatever cataclysmic forces must have been required to have torn apart these sheets in the first place.
"Liz," Max whispered in an awestruck tone. "Do you realize what this is?" The metallic sheet reflected the starry radiance shining from his upraised hand, casting an effulgent glow over the entire scene. "This is the same unbreakable stuff that Captain Carver found at the Crash site in '47, that he showed to Michael back in October."Liz nodded, understanding. The retired air force pilot, now deceased, had given Michael an eyewitness report of the Crash and its hectic aftermath, and had shown him a much smaller sample of a very similar material, which Carver had covertly pocketed at the debris field over fifty years ago. She gazed at the unearthly material in wonder. It was amazing to realize that, more likely than not, they were looking at an actual piece of the alien spacecraft that had brought Max and die others to Earth so many years ago. How many light-years had this ragged leaf of foil traveled? she marveled.
To confirm his suspicions, Max picked up the sheet and crumpled it into a small ball, about half the size of his fist. He placed the ball back atop the bed, and he and liz watched in amazement as the compressed wad of foil automatically unfolded itself, so that, within seconds, the sheet once more laid flat upon the bed, looking as pristine and unwrinkled as before.
Max and Liz exchanged knowing looks. This tendency to reassume its original form, even when folded or compacted, was highly characteristic of the unearthly materials found after the Crash, according to Michael, Carver, and any number of alleged witnesses from '47. "It's true," Max gasped, delicately touching the silver foil as though it were a sacred relic. "This is from the Crash!"No wonder there were no test samples aver by the lab equipment, liz realized, impressed by the alien material's preternatural resilience and durability; the poor science guy probably hasn't been able to break off a single piece of the sheet for testing purposes. "The air force must be experimenting with this stuff at White Sands," she deduced. Although the details were top secret, everyone knew that the Pentagon tested new aircraft and missile systems at the nearby base. "That must be how Lieutenant Ramirez managed to get his hands on this stuff."But what does Morton want with it?" Max wondered, sorting quickly through the rest of the samples in the black briefcase. There were also fragments, Liz saw, of an almost weightless tan substance, as smooth as plastic, that, based on Max's tentative attempts to bend or break them, were just as invulnerable as the silver foil. These smaller fragments were embossed with cryptic pink and purple hieroglyphics that bore a striking resemblance to the obscure petroglyphs she and Max had once found in a cave outside River Dogs Indian reservation, markings made by Nasedo decades before Max and the other human-alien hybrids emerged from their pods. The tan-colored fragments, Liz knew, also gibed with testimony given by others involved in the Crash investigation back in 1947. (You didn't grow up in Roswell, New Mexico, without picking up a thorough grounding in basic UFO lore.) "He probably intends to sell it to the highest bidder," she guessed. "Even without the Roswell connection, which might appeal to wealthy UFO enthusiasts, materials like these-lightweight, indestructible-would be worth millions if they could be duplicated. We could be talking industrial espionage here, never mind foreign governments that might want to find out what the U.S. is up to at White Sands." She couldn't resist wadding up the sheet herself, just to watch it unfold miraculously once more. "One way or another, Max, we're talking big money here."Money enough to kill far, she thought somberly. A shiver ran through her as she realized that the huge potential payoff inherent in these artifacts was almost surely what must have ignited Morton's violent outburst in the Crashdown way back when. I almost died for these fragments, she acknowledged, but, for once, she managed to keep the post-traumatic flashbacks at bay; it helped somehow to be using her brain to unravel the mystery. The mad, unreasoning panic was still there, prowling around at the back of her mind, poised to overwhelm her sanity and intellect once more, yet she felt a little less like a victim now that she was finding out for herself what the shooting had been all about. It was no longer just a random, meaningless act of violence, but part of a larger conspiracy whose outline was rapidly becoming clearer.
She peeked quickly at her watch, unsure how much longer Maria and the others would be able to keep Morton and his pet PhD occupied. Almost ten minutes had passed already, so she and Max had to be running out of time. "We've got to go," she warned Max, whose fascination with the alien wreckage, however understandable, might have conceivably overcome his instinct for self- preservation. "And we've got to take this stuff with us."Are you sure?" Max asked, even as he refolded the silver sheet and placed it back in the briefcase with the rest of the debris. "Morton will know we've been here if his so-called 'merchandise' disappears."I don't care, Max," she stated, feeling more decisive and certain of her judgment than she had since running madly out of that underground gift shop the day before. "What if Morton really is planning to sell these samples to a hostile country?" She touched Max's hand gingerly, hoping she could make him understand. "I know you and Michael and Isabel have little reason to trust the federal government, especially after the way they tortured you in that white room, but I'm still an American, Max, and I can't just let Joe Morton sell our secrets to gods know who!"To her relief, Max did not challenge her patriotic concerns. "That's fine, Iiz," he told her without hesitation. He closed the lid of the attache case and locked the clasp. "You're right. I don't like the idea of this technology falling into the wrong hands, either." He gave her a joking smile as he lifted the case by its handle, easily managing its weight. "Just don't ask me to personally hand-deliver this package back to the army boys at White Sands."I was thinking maybe Area 51 instead," she teased him right back. She couldn't believe how good it felt to smile again, to indulge in a bit of playful repartee with the boy she loved. Suddenly, she was very glad that she had summoned the courage to break-and-enter along with Max. This was just what she'd needed to get over her pathological fear of Joe Morton and his gun.
Now we just need to get out of here, she decided, heading for the door, before he gets back.
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 ta
ble 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.
