dressed in Sox colors, everyone except Paul and his family, who wore Yankee pin-striped blue, and at that very moment every Bo Sox fan noticed, their collective anger turning from the field to seats 12A through D. Paul started to sweat, he could feel the moisture trickling down his back, down his chest. He began looking for an exit, for a way out. He and Jeannie took the kids by the hand; Paul charged left; Jeannie pulled right. They were both defiant, pigheaded in the certainty of their escape. And then the fans moved toward them, getting closer, their chanting like a lion’s roar.
Busch bolted upright in his car seat, his heart pounding, a glaze of sweat covered his body. He had fallen asleep on Cambridge Street in Boston with the car turned off and the windows up. The sun pounded his face, heating the car to one hundred and five. Busch looked around, looked at his watch. He opened the door of the Corvette, reveling in the morning air, which was at least thirty degrees cooler. He cursed himself for not putting the top down. He got out of his car, locked it, and headed toward Franklin Street. There was no sign of Michael and he hadn’t called. Busch was concerned but hoped he was overreacting. He walked past the stretch of elegant town houses and continued to 22 Franklin.
When he noticed the front door open, his heart raced into double time. He leapt up the stairs in seconds and came upon a woman who was tearing herself from bindings. Busch had never seen anger like he did in this woman’s eyes.
Busch stood over her, her wrists bruised from the ropes, her mouth still red from tearing off the duct tape. She was calming herself, turning inward, her breathing controlled as she seemed to be gaining composure. Busch offered his hand to help her up, but she ignored it.
But then her calm washed away as she quickly stood and charged at the library doorway. Michael stood there holding the open door; he had a bewildered look on his face as if he had just seen the face of death and couldn’t comprehend it.
But then the woman’s fist snapped him out of his fog as she connected with his jaw. She recocked her hand but Michael caught this one in midair.
“What have you done with Stephen?” she screamed. And she didn’t let up, her punches coming faster now. Michael was doing everything in his power to ward off the onslaught without returning aggression.
Finally, she rose in the air as Busch picked her up, pulling her back, her arms and legs flailing despite his size and strength. “Calm down,” Busch said in a soothing voice. “It’s OK.”
“He kidnapped Stephen—”
“He didn’t kidnap anybody.” Busch looked up at Michael, a question in his eye, just to ease his mind that Michael didn’t, in fact, do something so foolish.
Michael walked through the large house, into the parlor, and sat on an unfamiliar floral sofa. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. The large fireplace sat dormant for the summer; in place of the logs was a huge bouquet of flowers. Above the mantel was an oil painting of a mountain stream: not a master, but not cheap. The room was designer caliber: elegant curtains, leather and suede chairs. Michael looked about as if the room would tell him something, but it was silent. There was no character here. No pictures, no books, no sense of identity. And when he looked up, his mind coming back to the moment, Susan and Busch were standing there, both hesitant to speak, as if it would somehow set Michael off.
Finally, Busch stepped into the room. “You all right?”
Michael looked up at him but didn’t respond.
“What the hell happened?”
Michael flinched in his seat, startled. He reached for his chest and pulled out the cell phone. He looked at it as it continued to vibrate. He flipped it open. “Yeah.”
“Well?” Julian’s voice sounded tinny through the phone.
“Well, what?” Michael said.
“You’re sitting in the guy’s house trying to digest what I said as the clock
Busch bolted upright in his car seat, his heart pounding, a glaze of sweat covered his body. He had fallen asleep on Cambridge Street in Boston with the car turned off and the windows up. The sun pounded his face, heating the car to one hundred and five. Busch looked around, looked at his watch. He opened the door of the Corvette, reveling in the morning air, which was at least thirty degrees cooler. He cursed himself for not putting the top down. He got out of his car, locked it, and headed toward Franklin Street. There was no sign of Michael and he hadn’t called. Busch was concerned but hoped he was overreacting. He walked past the stretch of elegant town houses and continued to 22 Franklin.
When he noticed the front door open, his heart raced into double time. He leapt up the stairs in seconds and came upon a woman who was tearing herself from bindings. Busch had never seen anger like he did in this woman’s eyes.
Busch stood over her, her wrists bruised from the ropes, her mouth still red from tearing off the duct tape. She was calming herself, turning inward, her breathing controlled as she seemed to be gaining composure. Busch offered his hand to help her up, but she ignored it.
But then her calm washed away as she quickly stood and charged at the library doorway. Michael stood there holding the open door; he had a bewildered look on his face as if he had just seen the face of death and couldn’t comprehend it.
But then the woman’s fist snapped him out of his fog as she connected with his jaw. She recocked her hand but Michael caught this one in midair.
“What have you done with Stephen?” she screamed. And she didn’t let up, her punches coming faster now. Michael was doing everything in his power to ward off the onslaught without returning aggression.
Finally, she rose in the air as Busch picked her up, pulling her back, her arms and legs flailing despite his size and strength. “Calm down,” Busch said in a soothing voice. “It’s OK.”
“He kidnapped Stephen—”
“He didn’t kidnap anybody.” Busch looked up at Michael, a question in his eye, just to ease his mind that Michael didn’t, in fact, do something so foolish.
Michael walked through the large house, into the parlor, and sat on an unfamiliar floral sofa. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. The large fireplace sat dormant for the summer; in place of the logs was a huge bouquet of flowers. Above the mantel was an oil painting of a mountain stream: not a master, but not cheap. The room was designer caliber: elegant curtains, leather and suede chairs. Michael looked about as if the room would tell him something, but it was silent. There was no character here. No pictures, no books, no sense of identity. And when he looked up, his mind coming back to the moment, Susan and Busch were standing there, both hesitant to speak, as if it would somehow set Michael off.
Finally, Busch stepped into the room. “You all right?”
Michael looked up at him but didn’t respond.
“What the hell happened?”
Michael flinched in his seat, startled. He reached for his chest and pulled out the cell phone. He looked at it as it continued to vibrate. He flipped it open. “Yeah.”
“Well?” Julian’s voice sounded tinny through the phone.
“Well, what?” Michael said.
“You’re sitting in the guy’s house trying to digest what I said as the clock
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