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.