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, perhaps 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.
Morton and his bearded accomplice got away in real life, Isabel knew. But not this time, she vowed, determined to track Morton all the way back to his own trigger-happy psyche.
Two blocks from the crime scene, Morton and the other man darted into a gloomy- looking side alley which Isabel was almost positive didn't exist in the real town. She hesitated at the entrance of the alley, fearful of the unknown. Shadows, surprisingly dense and impenetrable for such a sunny afternoon, shrouded the alley in darkness, hiding what lay ahead from the clairvoyant alien teenager. She heard Morton's lumbering footsteps retreating down the alley, getting farther and farther away from her, and realized she had no choice. Chewing nervously on her lip, she braced herself mentally and plunged into the murky alley.
It was like stepping into another world. The sun disappeared as the scene shifted abruptly from day to night. The temperature dropped ten degrees or so, making Isabel shiver despite her blue turtleneck sweater. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she found herself jogging uneasily through a dirty, squalid alley that stretched between the soot-blackened walls of two anonymous concrete buildings. Obscene graffiti defaced the walls further, while the broken pavement was littered with discarded cigarette butts, beer cans, broken glass, and syringes. Greasy puddles, which Isabel took care to step around, reflected the slivers of harsh white light that escaped from broken windows a few stories above her. The alley stank of spoiled garbage, spilled booze, and urine. Rats scurried between dented metal trash cans and Dumpsters, while, all around her, Isabel heard raucous laughter, racing police sirens, and loud honky-tonk music. Somehow I don't think we're in Roswell anymore, she thought nervously, feeling like a modern-day Dorothy who had just landed anywhere but Oz.
She doubted, too, that she was still in Liz's dream, unless Liz Parker, honor student and founder of Roswell High's Future Scientists Club, was leading a double life straight out of a David Lynch movie. Where am I now, Isabel wondered uncomfortably, and do I really want to be here? Experiencing a failure of nerve, she paused and looked back the way she'd come. To her dismay, Roswell's safe, sun-drenched Main Street was nowhere to be seen, replaced by yet more of the grimy, disgusting alley, which now, impossibly, seemed to lead back only to more darkness, decay, and Dumpsters. Overturned trash cans, their rotting contents spilling onto the greasy pavement, served as barricades, blocking her escape route. Enormous rats, the size of porcupines, patrolled the scattered refuse, their black eyes glittering malevolently.
There was nowhere else to go but forward, she realized, after Morton. Straining her ears, she thought she
