Loose ends

Giant, fifty-foot television screens, mounted high above the gaming area treated the paying customers to titan-size coverage of heavyweight boxing matches and high-stakes horse races. Drunken gamblers whooped it up, cheering every roll of the dice and spin of the roulette wheel. The overheated air smelled of cheap perfume, cigarettes, and spilled champagne.

So this is Morton's idea oj heaven? Isabel thought, aghast, her eyes and ears adjusting to the sheer sensory overload of the imaginary casino, which seemed three times larger on the inside than it did from outdoors. She couldn't believe that he was willing to blackmail and kill to attain such a tawdry vision of the good life. I'm not even from this planet, she thought, and I have better taste.

Given the colossal scale of the casino, she briefly despaired of ever finding Morton again. Looking down the long red carpet in front of her, however, she realized that she needn't have worried; Morton was, naturally enough, the undisputed center of attention, the strutting star of his own vulgar Vegas spectacle, presiding over a mob of breathless admirers and hangers-on at the biggest and snazziest of the roulette tables. He was even dressed for the part, having traded in the workaday clothes he'd worn on the day of the shooting for glitzier, more ostentatious attire. An ivory-colored, ten-gallon hat perched on his head, above a fringed buckskin jacket that hung open to accommodate Morton's protruding gut. An enormous silver belt buckle, the size of a showy brass door knocker, was studded with polished turquoise, as was the clasp of his bolo tie. A showy gold-plated watch glittered on one wrist, and he lit a grotesquely large cigar by setting a hundred-dollar bill on fire with a monogrammed silver lighter. Clinging to his arms on both sides, giggly bleached-blond bimbos, wearing rhinestone-studded dresses two sizes too small, oohed and aahed appreciatively at his extravagance. Isabel looked up to see that Morton's jowly face, smirking in smug self-satisfaction, now occupied every one of the fifty-foot television screens towering above her.

She couldn't believe her eyes. For this Liz Parker was almost killed? Some of Isabel's apprehension faded as she found herself looking forward to the prospect of bringing joe Morton down. Well see what a big man you are once you're safely behind bars, she thought venomously. Or maybe six feet under, Before heading in for a closer look, she took a second to consider her own costuming. While perfectly adequate for hiking through caves, the simple sweater and jeans combination she now wore seemed out-of-place amid the tacky glitz of the casino. Better switch to something less conspicuous, she decided, looking over the milling patrons of Morton's idealized gambling mecca. A scantily-clad showgirl, wearing only strategically-placed sequins and feathers, walked by at that moment and Isabel snorted huffily. Uh-huh, right, she thought, arching an elegant eyebrow. Like that's going to happen…

Unwilling to go quite that far to blend in, she contented herself to transforming her comfortable hiking garb to a stylish black sequined dress and high heels. Rearranging molecules in a dream was even easier than in real life, so it took next to no effort at all to spruce up her hair and makeup as well. Isabel checked her reflection in the polished silver casing of a nearby slot machine, nodded in approval, and marched confidently down the red carpet, casually joining the carefree crowd watching Morton try his hand at the roulette wheel. "Excuse me," she murmured, elbowing her way to the very edge of the gaming table, across from Morton.

On closer inspection, she was surprised to see that the spi

Where did all this come from? Isabel wondered, somewhat baffled. Had she somehow missed all this sci-fi kitsch before, or had the casino just been completely redecorated by some tremor in Morton's sleeping consciousness? In dreams, almost anything was possible, she recalled, but why did the slumbering Morton, immersed in his private fantasyland, still have aliens on the brain? I don't like this, Isabel thought, chewing on her newly painted lips. Where's this space-age symbolism coming from? The spi

The crowd of spectators and sycophants parted to reveal Lieutenant David Ramirez, in full dress uniform, standing at attention only a few feet away. Isabel's eyes widened as she spotted a black leather attache case resting upright on the red carpet next to Ramirez's black military boots. That has to be the case Max and Michael saw at Slaughter Canyon). she thought in excitement. The one with the unknown "merchandise."Excuse me." Slowly, inconspicuously, she started working her away around the circular table, toward the lieutenant and the briefcase. She almost left her $100 chip behind, but, at the last minute, remembered to hang onto it. "Excuseme, excuse me…"Get me some more whiskey!" Morton bellowed at Ramirez, as though he were a servant. The obnoxious gunman blew a mouthful of smoke into the lieutenant's face, then patted his own corpulent belly. "And get me a roast-beef sandwich while you're at it, with plenty of mayo

Turned out Morton wanted to keep an eye on the case, too. "Hold on!" he gruffly ordered the departing soldier. He pointed with his cigar at the floor by his feet. "Leave that here with me."Ramirez obediendy deposited the briefcase next to Morton before goose-stepping away to fetch the bullying killer's refreshments. Isabel took this as more evidence that, in the real world, Morton had some really prime dirt on the actual lieutenant. She was less interested, though, in what Morton had on Ramirez than in what was in the attache case, which she slowly but surely drew nearer to. Was there any chance that she could snatch the case with- out Morton noticing? That seemed unlikely, but she was at a loss for what else to try. What I really need, she realized, eyeing the mysterious case covetously, is a good distraction.