Date: Tue, 12 Jun 2007 06:33:34 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael: Part Sixteen

      Fight back! Michael's brain went from sleep to extreme,
annihilating panic in an instant.  He arched his back with all his
strength, bucking himself off the floor.  At the same time he tried
yanking his hands and feet apart as hard as he could, only to find they
wouldn't budge.
      His scream was muffled by the duct tape.  He heaved himself around,
trying to knock into someone or break something to make some noise, but
Macy and Dylan were on the beds and Adam was on the other side of the
hotel room.  Maybe there was something wrong with them...
      A big, dark figure leaned over him, trying to gather him up, but
Michael struggled against him with all his might.  He managed to knee the
abductor in the stomach, but it didn't do much.  Wild-eyed, he sucked in
air through his nose, already feeling like he was suffocating.
      All thought fled his brain - he struggled for his life, willing to
kill his captor, to do anything to stay alive.
      He was hyperventilating, screaming silently, gouging ridges in his
ankles and wrists where they were bound with plastic ties.
      Still unable to stop the black hood from coming over his head,
Michael struggled fiercely and at the last second before his eyes were
completely covered he saw a second person standing tall over him - and
for a split second Michael thought he was staring in a mirror only to
find out that he was staring at his impersonator.
      And he was pretty sure the fake Michael stayed with his friends.

Michael weighed 140 pounds but the abductor, who Michael automatically
assumed was Don Rafael, was rushing down the slippery pavement as though
he was weightless.
      He felt his shoulders hit against something cold, metallic.  A
car.  He tried to inhale deeply though his nostrils; to adjust his eyes
to the darkness.  He must clear his head; stop panicking, think.
      The grating sound of a door being opened.  Michael felt himself
falling.  His head glanced against an open ashtray.  His elbows and
ankles took the force of the jolt as he hit the musty smelling floor.  He
was in the back of a car.
      A door closed.  Footsteps scurried around the car.  The driver's
door opened, clicked shut.  The shadows moved.  He heard harsh
breathing.  Don Rafael was leaning down, looking at him.
      Michael felt something fall on him, something that scratched his
cheek...a blanket or a coat.  He moved his head trying to free his face
from the choking, acrid smell of stale perspiration.
      The engine started. The car began to move.
      Concentrate on directions.  Remember every detail.  Later the
police would want to know.  The car was turning left onto the street.  It
was cold, so cold.  Michael shivered and the tremulous movement tightened
the knots, causing the cords to dig tighter into his legs and arms and
wrists.  His limbs shrieked a protest.
      Snow.  If it was still snowing, there might be tracks for a while.
But no.  There was too much sleet mixed with the snow.  He could hear it
on the windows.
      The car picked up speed.  Where was he taking him?


"I want a list of all the wireless locations in Dover, New Jersey,"
Leanne Boyle told Detective Tom Mason the next morning.  "Whoever
contacted me through the internet had to have been using a wireless
laptop.  He said, and I quote, 'I am watching them eat lunch now.'"
      Detective Mason shook his head.  "Cheeky bastard.  You don't think
he would actually hurt the kids, do you?"
      Boyle arched her eyebrows and asked him the same question.  "Do you
believe he would?"
      "Let's just say I wouldn't put it pass him.  So the question is:
Who is he? And why does he care about the kids?"
      "My guess would be that he saw the news bulletin, recognized the
kids, and is just some twisted-minded person.  I wouldn't be surprise if
we get a ransom letter in the mail soon.  Shades of a case we worked one
before, no?"
      Mason sunk into a chair across from Boyle just as the office door
opened.  It was their long time civil secretary Jennifer Cruz, behind her
was a woman neither Boyle nor Mason ever saw before.  Jennifer apologized
for her rude intrusion.  "This here is Mrs. Jensen," Jennifer indicated
to the elder woman.
      Both Boyle and Mason exchanged looks of confusion.  Noticing their
baffled looks, Jennifer continued, "Mrs. Jensen lives across the hall
from Michael Douglas, you know one of the kids trekking across the east."
      Almost instantly Boyle perked up in her seat, extending her hand.
"Please, come in Mrs. Jensen.  Tell me what brings you here today?"
      Mrs. Jensen, a clearly shaken elder woman, smiled feebly at Mason
and sat down next to him.  "Well, I have information that might be of
help to you for this case.  Now, I promised Michael I wouldn't give away
where they are going to anybody - so I can't tell you that, but I will
say there is one thing that you don't know about his care takers," she
paused and looked at Boyle, saying, "you might want to relax Prosecutor,
it makes me uncomfortable when you look ready to rush me and this is a
long explanation.  First off, I never anticipated that their journey
would get out of hand and I could almost guarantee you they didn't
either."

After Don Rafael had taken the inferior Michael away from the motel, the
new and improved Michael, whose name was actually Paul, lay down in his
spot and pulled the blanket over him.  He closed his eyes, positive he
wouldn't sleep a wink.
      He was so hyped up - it was all finally happening.  No way would he
sleep...after this plan ended he would be filthy rich, just for taking
some dumb kids spot.  What was so important about him anyway?  That
Carlos fellow seemed destined to get him back.  There was no way Michael
was his son.  They looked nothing alike.
      "Ugh!" Paul woke up flailing, dreaming that he was being thrown
from tree to towering pine tree.
      He blinked slowly and looked around.  The sleazy motel room looked
even worse in the daylight than it had in the middle of the night.
      "Michael?" He looked up to see the bleached-hair kid - Adam
something or other - leaning over him.  His shirt was dangling from his
hand.
      "Uh, what?" Paul said.
      "You slept about five hundred hours past the time you said you
would get up."
      Paul sat up.  Showtime.  Now he would see how well he could play
Michael Alan Douglas.  "Right," he said, getting to his feet.  He was
sore and stiff from sleeping on the floor.
      The other two were still in the room, not that he really expected
them to go anywhere.  That Macy girl was studying the map and the
annoyingly-buff Dylan was struggling to pull on a pair of jeans.  Their
eyes met in the mirror.  Dylan smiled.  Paul gave a weak smile back,
wondering why on earth Michael bothered to stay with these goons.
      Fifteen minutes, after having showered and checked out, the four of
them were walking along the road, Paul had no earthly clue where they
were heading, so he allowed that Macy girl to lead, which she seemed to
enjoy.
      "So," Paul called out to the group, "how far do we plan to walk
today?"
      "Funny, Michael, real funny," Dylan said, brushing by him.
      Suddenly they were walking away from the road and heading towards a
thicket of bushes.  Paul caught a glimmer of a new SUV tucked away.
Well, Paul thought, who the hell would have guessed that they've been
traveling in style.
      Once they reached the car all of them stopped and looked at Paul.
Paul looked back.  "Well," Adam prompted.  "Where are the car keys?"
      "You do have them, don't you, Michael?"  Macy asked in an annoying
tone.  Jesus Christ, Paul thought, did Michael always carry this group?
Or was he just a sucker for being bossed around?
      Paul patted the pocket of his jeans and was surprised to find a
lump in his back pocket.  Acting stupidly bashful, Paul said, "Oops! Here
they are!"  He pulled out the dangling keys.  Michael would have acted
that way, right?
      Paul decided it didn't matter, because he was Michael now.