Greg Cox - Loose ends

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…

Isabel peeked at her own stomach, making certain she had left the bullet wound behind, and considered what to do next. She wasn't done yet, she knew, turning to watch Liz's memory of Joe Morton, along with his equally panicked partner, run toward the diner's exit. Stop, she commanded mentally, freezing the entire scene in place, Morton included, while she pondered her next move. The fleeing gunman, along with all the other characters populating Liz's personal dreamscape, became as still as mannequins, frozen in position. All except for Isabel, who wandered over to the counter and helped herself to a refreshing sip of Tabasco sauce from the dream's imaginary inventory. The spicy draught tasted just like the genuine article, helping her put her borrowed memories of the shooting behind her.

I have to move on, she realized, placing the fictitious bottle back on the counter. She still had to track down Mortons own dreams and insinuate herself into them. But first, before exiting this unintended detour, she felt compelled to help liz escape, if only for the moment, from this hellish nightmare.

She didn't want to wake Liz, who certainly needed the sleep, but maybe she could make her dreams a bit more pleasant. Isabel searched her memory again, trying to remember a time when she saw Liz laugh, when they had all been able to enjoy a brief respite from all the cover-ups and conspiracies. It was a depressing measure of just how stressful their lives had become that it took Isabel a moment or two to come up with a single occasion unmarred by danger, heartache, or the threat of exposure. That evening, after closing, when she and liz and Maria had all danced in the diner to their favorite CDs? No, that had ended with Max, a bloody handprint upon his chest, bursting into the Crashdown to tell them that Nasedo had been murdered. Isabel's own surprise birthday party? No, that had been the night Tess was kidnapped, and Isabel had been forced to battle that Skin congresswoman to the death. "Why do we even bother?" she sighed.

Finally, though, her memory threw up a fleeting interlude that, she thought judiciously, just might do. And it won't even take too much redecorating she noted approvingly: Several months ago, before Tess arrived to complicate matters, when Max and Liz (and, indeed, Isabel and Alex) had, for once, had nothing better to do than 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.