A one-hour photo shop in Whites City had already processed the pictures Alex had shot while trailing Joe Morton through the caverns. Isabel stared at a slightly blurry snapshot of Morton and made a face; even from several yards away, it was clear that Liz's shooter was no Ricky Martin. Ordinarily, I wouldn't even want to get near him, she decided, wrinkling her nose at the overweight hoodlum's slovenly appearance, let alone go inside his head.

Unfortunately, that was exactly what she had to do.

"I really appreciate dais, Isabel," Max said. For privacy's.sake, they'd moved over to the guys' motel room, next door to the one where Liz, Maria, and Michael were waiting. Only Max and Alex had accompanied her here, to watch over her while she attempted to slip into Morton's dreams, which were almost certainly bound to be sleazy and disgusting. I can hardly wait, she thought sarcastically.

"You know I'd do this myself if I could," Max continued, sitting across from her on the next bed over, "but, of all of us, you've always been the best at dreamwalking." This was not meant as manipulative flattery, merely a statement of fact. "You're the only one who can find out what's in that briefcase, and whether he recognized Liz from the Crash-down this morning."Lucky me," she intoned bleakly. Despite her misgivings, which she felt were perfectly reasonable, she knew that Max was right; not knowing how much Morton knew about them, and the Crash, was arguably worse than whatever she might find poking around in the gunman's subconscious. And, boy oh boy, did she ever have plenty of experience when it came to waltzing through other people's sleeping minds. "Practice makes perfect, I guess."She took another look at the 3X5 color photo of Morton pacing in front of a large, gnarled stalagmite. His ill-shaven jowls and sagging beer belly repulsed her; the last thing she wanted to do was make an intimate connection to the man in the photo. "What if he's not asleep right now?" she stalled. "You know how hard it is to get into someone's mind when they're still awake. Especially someone I've never even met."Standing over by the window, Alex drew back the closed curtains and peered through binoculars at the motel across the street. "No lights on in #19," he reported. "In fact, no signs of any activity at all."It's almost two-thirty in the morning," Max reminded her gently, aware of her trepidations. He reached across the narrow gap between the beds to take her hand, while staring at her with that stoic, responsible expression she knew so well. "He's probably asleep, Iz."So much for that excuse, she sighed inwardly. "Okay then, let's get this over with." Taking a deep breath, she placed her fingertips against Morton's picture, feeling tentatively for a link to his identity. At first, she didn't feel anything, and was extremely tempted to give up right there and then, but she closed her eyes and pressed further, her own genetically-engineered mind prowling like some sort of telepathic search engine through the tangled web of psychic vibrations hanging over Carlsbad and vicinity like so much mental smog. Still clutching Morton's unflattering photo between her manicured fingers, she laid back on the neatly- made bed, resting her head on the soft foam pillow. Alex thoughtfully dimmed the lights as she reached out with her mind, searching for the unique cerebral landscape that belonged exclusively to Joe Morton.

Was it Yoda or Obi-Wan Kenobi who said that the Force connected all living things, binding them together? Either way, Isabel knew that Star Wars had it wrong. It wasn't the Force that connected us; it was dreams. Dreams were the secret tapestry that linked her mind to everyone else's, even Joe Morton's.

She kept his image, as depicted in the photo, locked in front of her, while her subconscious compared it against the blur of dream-images and impressions that raced through her mind at the speed of thought. After only a second or two, a match was made and, bracing herself for what was to come, she followed the thread back to the slumbering mind where Morton's loathsome persona also dwelled. Oh joy, she thought caustically. The things I do for my friends…

To her surprise, she found herself standing in the middle of the Crashdown Cafe, back in Roswell. Boy, she thought, looking around at the tacky UFO art upon the walls, and at the cozy booths and counters where she had spent so many leisure hours, this place must have really made an impression on Morton, if he's still dreaming about it two yean later. A chill gripped her heart as another, more compelling explanation occurred to her; maybe Morton was dreaming of the Crashdown because he had spotted Liz at the cav-j erns earlier, and was worrying about his crime catching up with him. That's not good, she realized. Max might be right about Morton coming after Liz again, and maybe the rest of them as well.

She looked around for more clues to Morton's state of mind. Daylight shone through the large glass window at the front of the restaurant, facing Main Street, indicating that, in Morton's dream at least, it was broad daylight. Isabel spotted Maria waiting tables a few yards away, once again wearing the same short, faux Meg Ryan hairdo she had been experimenting with when she and Isabel had first gotten involved in each other's lives. She looks better now, Isabel concluded absently, now that she's let it grow out some.

Scanning further, her alert gaze fell upon Max and Michael, holding a whispered conversation in a booth near, the front window. Drained bottles of Tabasco sauce littered I the tabletop between them, and Michael's hair still had that moussed- up, spiky look that Maria had eventually convinced him to give up. Isabel wondered what Morton's unconscious mind thought they were talking about, feeling; deeply disturbed that this violent stranger had remembered her friends with such uncanny detail. She suddenly felt very glad that she had not personally been present the last time Joe Morton had actually visited the Crashdown.

Loud, heated voices caught her attention, and she turned to see Morton himself arguing with another man at a nearby booth. Morton wore a plaid shirt and a blue cap, and his brutal features were flushed with anger, as were those of his companion, a large, bearded man wearing a black leather vest over a heavy metal T-shirt. Whereas Morton looked like a trucker, the other man struck Isabel as more of a biker type. His booming voice, impossibly loud, reverberated throughout the formerly peaceful diner as he shouted furiously at Morton. "I WANT MY MONEY NOW!" he thundered. An angry sweep of his brawny arm knocked both men's plates and glasses onto the floor, where they shattered noisily "GIVE IT TO ME OR ELSE!"Rising volcanically to his feet, the biker grabbed Morton by the collar and dragged him forcibly out of the booth. A gun, metallic and menacing, somehow appeared in Mor* ton's free hand, the sight of the weapon hitting Isabel with the impact of a physical blow. "No!" she gasped, knowing what was about to happen but unable to halt the relentless chain of events. She looked around frantically for Liz, desperate to warn her, but could not spot the small brunette waitress anywhere. She racked her memory furiously, trying to remember where Max had said Liz was when she was shot. Over by the counter, wasn't it, in front of the kitchen? Isabel struggled to orient herself, locating the counter immediately to her left. She glanced back over her shoulder at the swinging kitchen doors, realizing with growing horror that she herself was standing exactly where Liz should have been. I don't understand, she thought, paralyzed and panicky. What's happening? The nightmarish scene played out in slow-motion, with Isabel unable to react any faster than the dream-figures around her, her mind and body seemingly mired in mo- lasses. "GIIWE MEEE MYYYY MONNNEEEY!" the biker bellowed, grappling with Morton for control of the gleaming blue-metallic pistol, which went off abruptly. Maria let out an endless scream as the muzzle of the pistol flared. Liz, watch out! Isabel thought, only seconds before an overwhelming impact struck her below the ribs. She fell backward onto the floor, searing pain setting her nerve endings on fire, and stared at the ceiling in shock and confusion, watching as gauzy black shadows crept over her vision until, just as the shadows threatened to eclipse the world entirely, her brother's face appeared above hers, staring down at her with anguished eyes. "Look at me, Liz," he pleaded hoarsely "You have to look at me, Liz!"Liz? Doesn't he mean Iz? Isabel suddenly realized her mistake. This wasn't Morton's dream at all, it was Liz's! Max's traumatized girlfriend must have finally drifted off to sleep next door, and was now reliving the whole ghastly experience in her dreams. Searching for Morton's dream-image, Isabel had inadvertently stumbled into Liz Parker's own recurring nightmare. Poor Liz! she thought in a moment of heartbreaking empathy and insight. Now wonder she's such a wreck right now! Making a deliberate mental effort, she disengaged her own consciousness from Liz's troubled awareness, stepping out of Liz's crumpled dream-self like a phantom and rising up from the blood-stained floor of the illusory Crashdown, For a few heartbeats, she stood there, looking down at Liz's bleeding form and at her brother crouching there beside the wounded girl. So this is how it all began, she reflected somberly. Funny, how certain events can change your life completely, even if you weren't even there in the first place…