Date: Fri, 29 Jun 2007 09:35:51 -0700 (PDT)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: Michael: Part Eighteen

      Paul was anxious.  He gripped the steering wheel loosely, wondering
if he could just casually start back up and drive away.  It was just a
fender bender.  But no.  That would be too conspicuous.  He glanced in
his side-view mirror and saw the man step lightly out of the Jetta, hands
on hips, staring at the front of the car.
      "Michael," Macy said from the back.  "Aren't you going to get out?
Just be careful what you say.  He doesn't know - or need to find out -
that this car was stolen."
      Stolen! Paul's heart almost gave way.  Fuck if he knew that these
weird-o's hijacked this beastly SUV.
      Regretfully, Paul tossed open the driver's door, brushing hair away
from his eyes.
      "This is really unfortunate," the man called through the snow.  His
tone was gentle, but his facial expression was clearly angered that he
was dealing with a teenager.
      "Accidents happen," Paul said lamely.  He saw Adam, Dylan, and Macy
casually glancing out the car windows, trying to make sense of the
conversation.
      To Paul's extreme delight both cars were merely dented.  He shoved
his hands in his pockets, saying, "Hey, listen, it's a freezing cold day,
we both probably have somewhere to be.  Instead of getting the police
involved and exchanging information why don't we just forget this
happened and continued on our way."
      The man looked hesitant.  Like a person prone to consistently
follow the laws, but entertaining the notion that a fender bender isn't a
situation to strictly abide by the law for.  Suddenly, the cell phone in
his hand rang.  He brought it up to his ear, "Yeah, honey.  I had to stop
for gas, right.  I'll be home shortly."
      While he continued his conversation he waved Paul away and slid
back into his Jetta.
      Heading back to the car, Paul felt like he just dodged a serious
bullet.
      And was ready for the next one to come his way.

Somewhere between New Jersey and Pennsylvania, the rented Taurus bounced
along the frigid roads.
      Michael's breath blossomed across the window as the scenery slid
away.  He felt dizzy.  Sick.  Tired.  Hungry.  All of those rolled into
one big nauseating ball.  Don Rafael kept on saying that they would stop
and eat soon.  But how soon was soon?  Where were Adam and Macy and
Dylan?  Did they realize they were with an impostor?
      And did Don Rafael realize that slowly, but surely, Michael was
working the lock to the door upwards.
      Probably not.
      Between his index and middle finger, Michael noiselessly pulled at
the look.  His breath became shorter and shorter with nervousness.  At
one point Don Rafael slowed down at a stop light, causing Michael to
inwardly panic.  When the car picked up speed, Michael began to count.
      One.
      The lock was lifted slightly.
      Two.
      His palms began to sweat, he heard the click.
      Three.
      In one quick, successive movement, Michael grabbed the handle of
the car door.  He pushed the door open.  Wild wind rushed around him.
Don Rafael swerved and nearly collided with the car next to them.  Horns
were blaring.  The pavement crashed up to greet Michael as he tossed
himself on the ground.  Rocks dug into his skin and for a few brief
moments he recklessly rolled.
      Don Rafael slammed on the breaks.  The tires squealed with agony
and under the padding of snow slipped viciously.
      Still nauseas and slightly incoherent from the vapors that were
used to knock him out, Michael blundered toward the opposite direction
thinking only of his friends and, of course, his mother.  Yellow-white
lights of headlights swarmed by him in a blur.
      The rented Taurus Don Rafael was driving was parked in the
emergency pull-over side of the road.  Michael heard a car door
slamming.  Yelling.
      Michael's legs could barely support his weight as he staggered
forward, his feet smooching and now actually seeming to slip a little at
each step.
      Breathing rapidly, Michael glanced over his shoulder, drums
pounding in his ears.  The large frame of Don Rafael was approaching.
      "No, no, no," Michael said in a tone that was not his.  Get back,
he tried to say, but he could no longer speak.  His heart was hammering
at a terrible pace; if it went much faster, it would explode.
      Gasping for breath like a runner nearing the end of a long race,
Michael put a hand to his chest, as if to soothe his heart.  He felt it
beating and the feeling reminded him of his rapid heartbeat when he was
with Dylan.  The feel of it, the memory of him, steadied him a little -
brought him back a little.  He became aware that he was crossing the busy
highway.  He was aware of the snow swirling around him frantically.  He
could feel the air crowding against his ears in soft, coagulating clots.
      But he was back a little, enough to be positive of one thing: he
had to make it back to his friends.  The thought of Don Rafael with his
pistol didn't bother him, and the idea that the impostor was with his
friends had entirely left his mind.
      Michael grasped the barrier fence that divided the highway.  Caught
his breath.  Ignored the honking.  Ignored Don Rafael's protest.  Michael
felt free.
      He waited until the lanes were clear when he took another step
closer to his friends.
      Then Michael felt it before he heard it.  The blow to his shoulder
sent him staggering forward.  He gasped loudly.  Placed his hand to his
shoulder and felt the warm blood oozing.
      He had been shot.

"They're driving a stolen SUV," Prosecutor Leanne Boyle reported,
scribbling down the notes.  She glanced up from her desk, surprised to
see that outside the command center window was dark.  Time flies when you
are having fun, she thought lamely.
      Detective Tom Mason stood up and stretched to his near six two.
"Are we positive?"
      Boyle handed him the sheet.  "Look at this report.  Patrick Love of
Dover, New Jersey reported that four teenagers stole his car while he was
making a withdrawal from the ATM.  The time of day matches almost too
perfectly up with the time the Fantastic Four were reported hanging
around that area."
      "They're moving quickly."
      Boyle drummed her fingers irritably on her desk.  "Get this Love
guy on the phone," she finally instructed.  "We'll have his license plate
number as well as his account of the report sent out to all police
stations across Pennsylvania."
      "If they were smart enough, they would take the back roads," Mason
commented.
      "That won't do much good.  I'll have those roads, as well as the
highway covered with patrol cars.  They're driving into our trap."
      Mason tossed Boyle her jacket.  "Let's go get a few beers.  We
deserve it."
      Boyle looked hesitant.  Almost afraid to leave her work behind.
      "I'll pay," Mason added.
      And at those words Boyle got up and slipped on her jacket.

Paul was satisfied with the fact that they got away from the car accident
without exchanging any information.  Reason being: he didn't have any
information, especially since the car was stolen.
      Currently the four of them were seated around a table at IHOP, the
large SUV parked outside.  Macy was talking rapidly about where they
would go next.  She seems almost too excited, Paul thought.
      He looked over at Adam, who was shoveling down a plate of
buttermilk pancakes.  Then Paul glanced at Dylan.  Dylan was on to Paul.
Unless Dylan naturally hated Michael, because he kept on giving Paul
these skeptical looks.
      Paul avoided his eyes.
      "We're almost to Lancaster," Macy was informing them.  "That's
close to Harrisburg and Harrisburg is practically the halfway point in
Pennsylvania."  She smiled around the table, but that smile immediately
faded when the front door to IHOP opened.
      "Michael!" She exclaimed in an almost confused tone.
      All of them whirled around.  Paul's heart was beating quickly, too
quickly.  How the hell did this happen?  This wasn't in the plans!
      Michael looked torn.  Defeated.  Blood seeped through the heavy
jacket he was wearing.  He strode up to their table.  Everyone else
blinked, looking around giving new meaning to the word dumb - Paul cursed
under his breath.
      "Michael?" Adam asked, staring at Paul.
      "Michael!" Macy shouted again.
      "Yes," both Michael and Paul answered at the same time.
      Paul looked at Michael and his eyes narrowed.
      "They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," Michael
said snidely.  "So I guess you're really sucking up.  Let's solve your
personality crisis."
      Without thinking, Paul launched himself at Michael, right over
their table at IHOP, head first.