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.