Date: Sun, 3 Jun 2007 08:47:39 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael: Part Fourteen

      Michael lay on his back in bed, watching passing headlights splash
patterns on the ceiling.
      He'd woken up so many times during the night, he wasn't even sure
that he'd slept.  Now, at a few minutes to 6:00 a.m., he was as awake as
if a fire alarm had gone off under his pillow.
      He threw back his blankets, careful not to stir Macy, silently
pulled on his jeans, and tiptoed to their hotel room balcony.  There he
leaned against the railing, looking out on the highway, shivering against
the cold winds that swept around his bare chest.  Somehow the bitter air
allowed him to clear his mind.
      Two days passed since Dylan was released from the hospital.  Two
and half days passed since Mrs. Kloves was murdered.  That night still
made Michael cringe with a combination of disgust and vengeance.  The
death was a gross violation as well as a loss.
      As for the journey at hand, they had slowed down their pace due to
Dylan's temporary condition.  They made it a point to eat all three meals
in a day - usually at cheap diners, and get at the minimum, six hours of
sleep.  Luckily, they had not encountered any trouble, save for the
financial issues, which Adam consistently claimed was not a problem.
      If Michael had to guess, he would say that the police and Carlos's
goons did not know their location, because Michael didn't even know where
they were.  He could take an educated presumption and say that they were
somewhere in middle New Jersey.
      Suddenly, from behind him, the glass door slid open with a soft
rumble.  Michael turned, slightly startled.  Adam greeted him with a
faulty smile, while lighting a cigarette.  "Can't sleep either?"  He
said, joining Michael in leaning thoughtfully against the railing,
blowing a cloud of smoke towards the frigid, starry sky.
      "Nah, I was sleeping so well I thought I'd try it out here," he
responded, his comment laced with sarcasm.
      Adam grinned.  "Shut up, you cheeky bastard.  You know, I'm proud
of us for making it this far.  To tell you the truth, when we first
started out I didn't even think we'd make it out of Queens.  And here we
are.  New Jersey: The Garden State.  Have you ever been in this
territory?"
      "Yeah-effing-right, the furthest I've been from home is Manhattan.
Rosa and Carlos would never permit me to travel any further."
      Adam took a long, pensive drag on his cigarette.  "Let's see, the
furthest I've been away from home is Niagara Falls.  It was my family's
vacation spot, though I never enjoyed going there.  When I was little my
dad would jokingly pretend to through me over the railings.  Scared the
little kid shit out of me, but that's my dad - always the wry jokester."
He paused, then continued, "To be even more honest, I thought we'd hit a
dead end at the hospital.  I'm glad we didn't, though."
      Michael kept rubbing his arms against the chill as he took in the
sight of the far-off landscape.  Adam must have noticed, because he
eventually offered Michael what was left of the cigarette.  "It will warm
you up, and calm you down."
      For a few seconds Michael's hand hovered diffidently above it.
"Come on, molasses, or else it will burn out."  Without a second
deliberation, Michael casually pinched the end and brought it up to his
lips.
      Adam turned his gaze at the horizon, where there was the slightest
shimmer of sunlight.  "I'll tell you something else, Michael; I enjoy
these little talks of ours.  I'm not sure who else would stand out here
in sub-zero weather and talk about nothing."
      "That must be why we're friends."
      "Must be," Adam agreed and patted him on the back.

"What is this?" Dylan said without thinking.  "I mean - looks good.
Smells good."  He got behind Michael, who was currently in line at the
continental breakfast in the hotel lobby.  "Oh sweet Jesus, its real
food," he said with a little bit too much enthusiasm.  Other tenants were
glancing in their direction.
      Macy put a big spoonful of fresh fruit on her plate, trying to hush
up Dylan, while Adam and Michael were indirectly encouraging him with a
round of soft laughter.
      Once seated, Dylan picked up his spoon and put a smile on his
face.  "Thank you Lord, I'm not going to starve," he said, taking a
bite.  "'S great," he said with his mouthful.  He waved his spoon in the
great.  "Fan-tastic."
      "People-are-staring," Macy said, crouching down slightly, as though
trying to hide behind her cereal bowl.
      Michael sat at the table with a cup of coffee, enjoying the
banter.  It was a little past eight in the morning.  The hotel itself was
brewing with occupants.  In ways, it was a risk to be openly hanging
around in public.  But last night, before retiring to bed, the four of
them made a communal decision to begin traveling by daylight again.  It
turned out both day and night were hazardous, but nighttime was more so.
      Michael's thoughts flitted between Dylan and their cold expedition
that they would soon continue.  The other day, Macy had convinced Adam to
stop at Wal-Mart so that they could buy new, heavy clothes.  Thirty
minutes after having a decent size breakfast, Macy was sliding on her
winter jacket.
      "Time to hit the road," she announced.  "If we want to make good
time."
      They left the hotel.  A bitterly cold wind came from the east, and
Adam prohphesied snow.  One moment the sun was in their eyes, the next
they were almost blown over by the wind.  They walked up the bridge-slop
in twos, and a boy coming the opposite direction carrying a parcel was
swept off the pavement.  The marshalling yards below were covered in
mist; ascending sounds of jangling trucks were enveloped and dulled by
its dampness before floating up to the road.
      Michael purposefully hung behind Dylan.  If there was one thing
that fit Dylan well, it was his jeans.  They weren't overly tight, and
they weren't so loose that they were around his knees.  Instead, with
every other step they would slip an inch, revealing his underwear.
Although, after having spent five or so days with him, Michael already
knew what he carried with him: three pairs of boxer briefs.  Burgundy,
black, and navy blue, Fruit of the Loom and they were stored in Michael's
book bag, seeing that Dylan did not have anything to carry along with
him.
      Still, Michael got a small thrill every time the waistband of
Dylan's jeans would slip down ever so slightly.  Today he was wearing the
burgundy colored ones.  It did his heart well to be so close to Dylan and
he wondered if Dylan felt the same.
      Of course there's only one way to find out, Michael thought.  Ask
him.

Prosecutor Leanne Doyle leaned back, ignoring the faint squeak of her
desk chair, a sound that had begun to annoy her and that several times
she'd made a mental note to get fixed.  Her office was one of the few
rooms she could find some peace and quiet to reflect in the entire City
Hall.
      Now fifty-three years old, Leanne had graduated from law school and
began her career as a clerk for criminal justice; after two years she
moved across the courthouse to become an assistant prosecutor.  For the
next thirty years, she worked her way up in that office, becoming trial
chief, first assistant, and finally, upon the retirement of her
predecessor five years ago, was named prosecutor.
      In her past history, she dealt with several bothersome cases that
she later washed her hands of.  Leanne was currently facing a similar
situation that was like a bone in the throat.  It was being called the
"Fantastic Four" case.  Four teenagers shoot and kill an officer, run
from the authorities, and are now running amuck across New Jersey heading
for God knows where.
      They had enough to indict the four kid's three life-times over, but
the trouble was catching them.  Only a few days ago they had been so
incredibly close to arresting them, but they slipped through their
fingers.  Just like water.
      Leanne pushed aside the sketching of the four kids with their dyed
hair aside the moment she heard a soft knock on her office door.  "It's
open," she called out, and then followed it up by warmly greeting
Detective Tom Mason.
      If Leanne would have to guess one other person who was working just
as hard as she was on this case, she would guess Mason.  The pair of them
worked at the Hall around the clock.  And if they were at home, they were
most likely on the phone with each other discussing matters.
      Tonight is just like any other night, Leanne thought wryly.  Tom
and I are the only breathing souls around.
      Unlike any other night, tonight Tom was wearing a small grin.
"They're in or around Dover, New Jersey, which is about mid-state," was
his greeting.
      "How can you be so sure, Detective?"
      He brandished a bank statement and pinned it to her desk with his
index finger.  "One of the kids is using his father credit card.  These
dates are recent.  The father wanted to cancel the card, but I would not
allow it, this is how we'll track them."
      Leanne's eyes scanned the piece of paper.  "Look at this one.
Hospital charges."  She looked up at Mason.  "One of them must be
injured."
      "And I don't think we'll need to worry about them stop using it."
      Leanne knew what Mason was driving at, she finished his statement,
"Because it's essential that they eat, get sleep, and stay warm.  It's
beginning to snow.  Why don't you go inform the parents that we know
where they are and we'll have them back shortly."
      Mason nodded and left to go make the phone calls.  When he was half
way out of the door, Leanne called out to him, "Good job, Detective.  For
the first time I can finally see an end to this case - and it's a great
feeling."

Not too far outside of Dover, New Jersey another pair of people in search
of the four teenagers were sitting lazily in a cleaned up, rented Ford
Taurus.  Smooth jazz was filtering through the car speakers.  Though Don
Rafael snapped the radio off almost immediately the moment his cell phone
rang.
      Pedro noticed the tightness in Don Rafael's jaw when he glanced at
the ID.
      "Hello Boss," Don Rafael said as greeting.  "No we got momentarily
delayed...Pedro...he was hurt...he's fine now...I can't do that,
sir...Okay, yes, I understand.  Right away...If you..." Don Rafael never
got to finish his sentence before the caller hung up on him.
      Pedro stared at him blankly.  "What was that all about?"
      Don Rafael shook his head from side-to-side.  "It was Carlos.  He
was not happy with our progress.  He said he just received a call from
the police that they're catching up with the kids.  So it's my job to
catch Michael first and get him back to Carlos."
      "You mean our job?"
      "No, Carlos said it's my job," Don Rafael said, leveling the
silvery gun.
      Pedro thought he should close his eyes - when the bright orange
flash exploded in his face.
      This adventure was getting personal.