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.