Date: Mon, 18 Jun 2007 21:41:02 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael: Part Seventeen

      "Wait," breathed Detective Mason as his boss, Leanne, raised her
fist to knock on the apartment door.  "Do you have your game face on?  If
we screw this up, we screw this whole case over."
      It doesn't quite work that way, Leanne thought, but knew what Mason
was driving at.  What he meant to say was that if they screwed this up
they would cut off a major lead.  Leanne nodded curtly and knocked on the
door.
      From inside she heard startled movement.  The sound of scraping
chairs, quick foot steps, a pause, and at long last the door knob twisted
and the door opened.  A lady in her late forties - clearly Hispanic, with
flowing black hair was standing before them - the chain lock was still in
place.
      "Yes?"
      "Rosa Sanchez?" Detective Mason queried, holding up his badge.
"I'm Detective Mason of the NYPD.  This is Prosecutor Leanne Boyle.  May
we come in?"
      "I'm sorry - but you've reached me at an inconvenient time.  I was
just about to run to the grocery store."
      Leanne looked past Rosa.  Another lady who looked like Rosa's
sister was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a younger boy.  They
were playing some kind of board game, but their total attention was
presently focused on the door.  "I promise you, we won't be long."
      The door closed briefly, Boyle heard the clicking of the lock and
then it opened it back up a second later.  "We'll sit in the kitchen,"
she said as she motioned Mason and Boyle into the apartment.
      They walked through the sparsely decorated apartment and into the
kitchen overlooking an alleyway.  There were several framed photos on the
wall.  Mason briefly studied them noticing that Michael was in none of
them.  Did they have the right apartment?
      Rosa's sister picked up the game board and shooed the little boy
into the next room, leaving with him.
      "So what brings NYPD officers to this area of town," Rosa said in a
would-be-calm tone.
      "Michael Douglas," Leanne answered promptly, placing a photo on the
kitchen table and sliding it across to Rosa.
      Rosa studied it and her features suddenly turned hard.  "What about
Michael?"
      "We were told that you might know where he is heading," Mason
said.  "He did - after all live with you for eighteen years."
      Rosa shrugged.  "I can't deny that he lived here for his whole
life, but you're wasting your time in asking me where he is.  One day he
just left.  Kids runaway all the time."
      "Your husband," Mason said, ignoring her.  "He's - uh -
unemployed?"  He didn't wait for a response.  "And so are you?  In fact,
the only person who is employed would be your sister.  Reason being,
without the completed forms and without Michael you're not considered a
permanent resident in the United States."
      Rosa swallowed over a lump in her throat.  "I'm not sure what you
are talking about, Detective Mason.  Michael is an insignificant factor."
      Boyle held her eyes.  "If you can tell us where Michael is heading
then we won't have you arrested for being here illegally.  Hell, we'll
even hire a guide dog to help you through the process."
      "I don't know where he is Prosecutor, and I don't know where he is
heading."  Rosa pushed back her chair.  "It's been a lovely visit, but I
have better things to be doing right now."
      "Somebody wants to hurt Michael and his friends," Mason spoke up,
pulling out the big fact-o.
      Clearly Rosa did not know.  The color drained from her face
slightly and she remained silent.  Leanne continued, "As far as we know
two people have been killed on their trip so far.  We're not sure who
wants to hurt him, but we've received acrimonious online messages about
it."
      Finally Rosa found her tongue.  "I still have no idea and I'm not
sure what you are getting at."
      "Your husband must know.  After living for such a long time in this
good country he'd probably hate to be exported on account of some kid ran
away..."
      Rosa shot back, "Just leave my family out of this!  We would never
hurt him! Michael Douglas was only sent to live here as a child because
his own mother checked herself into a correctional facility in Ohio after
her husband died.  And you want to say we're the bad ones?  That we're
mooching off of Michael?  How dare you!  Just please leave and don't come
back here!"
      The moment Boyle and Mason slid into the car the palms of their
hands smacked together.  "Did you see how flustered she got," Mason said,
throwing the car into drive.  "We're definitely on to something."
      "And how about this correctional facility?  I want to find out
which one she's in - eventually Michael will be there for a visit and
will have unexpected visitors."

As he drove through the thickening snow, Don Rafael reviewed his
timetable.  Just about now that Paul kid would be with the other friends
and heading west on Route 80, while he drove along the same Route, but
going east and with the real Michael.
      To have Michael Douglas in his possession! Excitement made his skin
glisten.  He remembered the rush of warmth he felt when he tied him up.
      Don Rafael felt safe on the heavily traveled roads.  But from time
he would wonder.  Suppose, just suppose they were already watching for
this car! It made him panic slightly, but the smooth jazz filtering
through the radio eased his nerves.
      The other drivers were crawling along.  Fools.  Afraid of slippery
roads, afraid to take a chance, delaying him, making problems.  This
pulse in his cheekbone began to throb.  He felt the quickening, pressed
one finger on it.  He expected to be back in Queens within seven hours.
      He drove a half block east, then made a quick right turn into a
driveway that wound behind a warehouse.  There were no guards here...and
he only needed a minute.
      Stopping the car, he turned off the lights.  Fine, powdery snow
stung his eyes and face when he opened the door.  Cold.  It was so damn
cold.
      With intense concentration, his eyes darted around the darkened
parking area.  Satisfied, he reached into the back of the car and lifted
the coat he'd thrown over Michael.  He felt his eyes blazing up at him.
Laughing softly, he pulled out a tiny camera and snapped his picture.
The sudden flash made Michael blink.  Now he extracted an pencil-thin
flashlight from his inside pocket.  He waited until his hand was deep in
the car to flip it on.
      Deliberately he shone the narrow beam of light in Michael's eyes,
moving it back and forth slowly, an inch from his face, until he squeezed
his eyes shut and tried to turn his head.
      Quick strokes of the knife sliced the cords on his ankles and
wrists.  A faint sigh, muffled by the gag, a shuddering movement of the
body...
      "Feels pretty good, don't it, Michael?" he whispered.  "Now I'm
going to take that gag off.  If one scream comes out of you, I'll leave
your body here.  Understand?"
      He did not wait for the affirmative nod before he cut the knotted
cloth at the back of his head.  Michael spat out the wad of gauze in his
mouth.  Desperately he tried not to moan.
      Don Rafael pulled him up, stood him on his feet next to the car.
Vaguely, Michael felt the snow on his face.  He was so dizzy.  The
muscles in his arms and legs were frantic with cramps.  He staggered, was
roughly grabbed.
      "Put this on."  The voice was different now...urgent.
      Michael reached out, felt greasy, rough material...the coat that
he'd thrown over him.  He raised his arm.  Don Rafael pulled the coat
around him.  His other arm was thrust into it.
      "Put this scarf on and then get back into the car.  We're going to
get something quick to eat, then we'll be on our way." Roughly, Don
Rafael pushed him into the front seat.  Michael stumbled, trying to keep
his balance.
      Don Rafael darted around the car, was in the driver's seat, turned
the key in the engine.  The car moved cautiously forward.
      We're leaving Pennsylvania! The realization shocked Michael, helped
him to focus.  He had to be calm.  Don Rafael was concentrating intensely
on the roads.  Zooming along without care, periodically throwing threats
at Michael.
      Michael made it seem like he was gazing out the window.
      Trying not to make it noticeable as his hands fumbled with the
lock.

"Perhaps we should pull over," Paul suggested as the snow began to
increase.  He turned down the Billy Joel CD, somehow the loud music
distracted him.
      Dylan waved a dismissive hand.  "We're in a fucking SUV.  It can
tear through this weather.  Besides we're trying to make good timing
right?  The father we make it, the father we put the feds behind us."
      "Although stopping for lunch doesn't sound like such a bad
idea..."Adam commented.
      "All you do is eat," Macy said, folding her legs under her.  "Do
you think we could turn up the heat? It's freezing back here."
      "Add an extra dose of 'bitch' this morning to your coffee?" Adam
queried.
      "Oh, that's original," Macy rolled her eyes.  "Michael the next
exit is ours.  Once we exit we'll stop to get something to eat."
      Paul squinted ahead.  Despite the fact that it was the middle of
the afternoon, the thick snow clouds made it seem like night time.  He
kept his eyes peeled across the road in front of him.  Green highway
signs kept on passing.  Each sign was practically covered in snow.
      "Whoever heard of this much snow at this time of year?" Adam read
Paul's mind.  "Last week it was almost seventy.  This sucks.  Too bad
your mom isn't in Florida."
      "Right here, Michael," Macy perked up from the back seat.
      Gradually, Paul guided the SUV down the curved off-ramp.  He was
only dimly aware of the jerk tailing him.  Didn't the guy know that the
driving conditions were dangerous?
      "I spy an I-Hop," Adam said, pointing down the street.  He patted
Paul on the shoulder.  "Turn left at this light, Michael."
      About ten feet from the light, Paul began to slowly press on the
brake pedal, still rather pissed at the guy behind him still tailing his
bumper.  The car was coming closer to his bumper.  Paul saw it happen in
the rearview mirror before he heard it.
      The wretched driver drove right into the back of their car.  Their
SUV was larger in size than the tiny Jetta that bumped them, but still
the impact sent them forward.  The four of them felt the jolt...heard the
metal rubbing against each other, the driver was blowing the horn.
      "Well fuck you!" Adam shouted back, as if that solved the problem.
      "Oh shit," Dylan muttered, whipping around.  "Can't anything go
right on this trip?"
      Macy sighed.  "Michael just pull over the moment the light is
green.  Luckily there's a gas station not too far from the I-Hop, we can
refuel and see if they can fix the car."
      Paul did exactly that.  Right across the street there was a vacant
parking lot once owned by a Taco Bell.  The car followed closely behind.
Paul's mind was racing.  So maybe he didn't have this whole acting thing
down.  Sure he was Michael - but he still couldn't help but to wonder how
the real Michael would react.
      He needed to find a solution - and fast.

"The police stopped by today," Rosa Sanchez told her husband when he
returned from doing errands.  "They certainly are nosy.  I always thought
they took pride in sticking their noses in places where it doesn't
belong."
      "They always do," Carlos agreed as he hung his coat in the closet
by the entrance door.
      "I decided to prepare lunch," Rosa said unnecessarily.  The aroma
of various spices was permeating the kitchen.  "I'll have some toast on
the table in just a moment - I know how much you enjoy these lunches."
      Rosa knew her husband.  Ever since Michael ran away, Carlos had
been unraveling.  His emotions varied from one extremity to the next.
With such diversified reactions Rosa had to be careful around him.  She
watched as Carlos went over to the refrigerator and retrieved the pitched
of iced tea.  "But after meeting with them - are you sure you wouldn't
want to talk with them?  Perhaps confess.  I think they might be on
to..."
      Carlos swung around, his face contorted with guilt and rage.
"Don't say it, Rosa," he ordered.  "Don't say it and don't think it.
Because it isn't true.  I swear on a stack of bibles that it isn't true.
You believed me the other day.  You'd better keep believing me now, or
else we'll be seeing those officers again and it won't be a pretty
visit."