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.

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.