When Allison calls to confirm that no one's heard of Mike in months, Mac finds himself going to work on the problem with weird self-confidence.
He doesn't say anything to Sergeant Olson, just asks if he can have a look at the arrest records to match up some suspected thefts from the shop. There's her name down, for possession and intent to distribute, and malicious destruction of property (property being the back records on juvenile delinquents, he's amused to see). Mission City has an arrangement with the FCI, to hold anyone charged with a felony while they're awaiting trial…so she made it into the prison, at least.
He doesn't go anywhere near the place for a few days, enlisting his mother to take over the coffee deliveries. (It's a good way of letting her work off some energy, and Ellen loves her sleep.)
He does ask both of them if he's doing the right thing.
"Don't, honey," Ellen implores. "We're so happy- I couldn't bear it, if anything went wrong."
"I think you're old enough to make your own decisions," his mother says. "And your own mistakes."
Well. A boy should always listen to his mother.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It's kinda disappointingly easy to smuggle himself in. Everyone's always so happily distracted by the coffee- and even if someone does notice, the guards are used to seeing him 'round the place. Mac has no trouble getting to the laundry for a guard uniform.
Disguise next. Quite a bit of Ellen's makeup, to give him a sunless pallor. An application of cotton wool to change his jawline, like Jack had shown him once for a Halloween party; and what's more painful but convincing than either, cropping his hair to a neat crewcut. The whole town knows he's worn the same long mop for years. Nobody's ever going to recognise him like this, even if they see him; and with luck, they won't.
Then it's just a matter of curling up under a pile of scratchy blankets. He goes to sleep, trusting instinct to wake him if anything should happen. It doesn't.
Simplicity itself at nightfall, to calmly help himself to a sandwich and start rifling through the prisoner records- well, at least it's simple for someone who stole a peek at the guard schedule. No, there's more to it than that; he's keenly alert, awake in a way he's never been before. Nobody ever mentioned that fear was going to feel this good. Even better than hockey.
Michelle Forrester. He pulls the file out, flips through it as fast as calf-skin gloves will allow. Brought in on such and such a date, incited a riot to strike for better living conditions (that sounds like Mike, all right), punished with solitary confinement…
His heart starts thumping at the details. Weeks kept alone in a tiny cell, hardly any light or food- how could all this be happening in America? So close to Mission City's hospitable friendliness?
("Haven't you read any of my letters?" he can all but hear Allison saying. "What do you think I've been protesting? The Establishment that lets this sort of thing happen!")
Mac flips back. Here's her cell number. He has to find her.
It isn't the right decision, but he can't do anything else.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
There are people screaming.
There are a great many people screaming, and he wants to save all of them but he's only got enough time to cut open this one door with his oxy-gasoline torch (expensive, but small and discreet).
"Mike," Mac whispers as he enters. "Mike, are you okay?"
There's a body lying, not on the bed but under it. He doesn't think it's asleep.
"It's me. Mac- MacGyver. Please tell me you're okay."
He pulls the door to and gets down on his knees, holding a light to her face. Her eyes follow the movement only sluggishly, with catatonic dullness.
"I gotta get you out of here," he mutters.
Hard work, getting her upright and to the cell door, but he manages it- whereupon she sobs and dives straight back in. Huddling in the corner, trying to make herself as small as possible.
"Too much space out there," Mike whispers. "Too much space."
"Please! I gotta help you!"
For a moment, there's a flicker of intelligence in her eyes. She crawls across the floor to the bed again, taps on it.
"What? Am I looking for something?"
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Here: thin sheets of paper, rolled up inside the bed leg. Mike keeps tapping while he reads them, with a sickening monotony. The proposed article of her prison experiences, her loopy flowing hand narrowing to tightness as she ran out of paper and sanity. A reporter's meticulous chronicle of her own disintegration.
The last note: "I can't seem to remember sky, now. Or why I wanted it."
He tries one last time to drag her out of the cell, but she whimpers and won't come. All he can do is tuck her last article safely in his pocket.
Mike doesn't even seem to notice, when he leaves.