This is the part where people gasp loudly and then hold their breath until the next chapter. At least, that's what I would do if I was just reading this instead of writing it.

I own nothing except a few OCs. The Almighty Larson owns the rest.

Ed, Baker, Sanders, Maureen, Joanne, and Angel got out of the two cars they used for transportation to the home of Arthur Gibson. They parked right across the street from the house and studied it. It wasn't too big or too small. There was a swing on the porch. It looked like a generally happy home for a happy family. Angel thought of Connor and instantly felt bad for him. There was no way anyone could tell he needed help from the outside.

"It seems so . . . normal," she commented.

"Most abused children's homes seem that way," Joanne replied. The six of them made their way across the street and onto the porch, Ed leading them. He knocked on the door and stared at the porch swing while he waited for someone to answer. Maureen, Joanne, and Angel all sat on the swing to make sure they weren't in the detectives' way. After about a minute and a half, the door swung open. A man stood in the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight of six strangers on his porch.

"Arthur Gibson?" Ed said.

"Yes, who wants to know?" Arthur said. The three detectives took their badges out and showed them.

"Detectives Green, Baker, and Sanders with the NYPD." Arthur gasped and his expression went from surprised to panicked. "We need to ask you a few-"

"I'm sorry, but you can't be here," Arthur interrupted. "Please leave."

"Why can't we be here exactly?" Baker asked. Arthur's eyes shifted back and forth quickly. He seemed to be afraid of something. "Mr. Gibson?"

"My wife isn't here right now. You'll have to come back when she is. Until then, please leave my home." Arthur tried to shut the door, but Ed stopped him from doing so.

"You can't get rid of us that easily, Mr. Gibson," he told the nervous man. "All we want to do is ask you a few questions."

"I can't talk to you."

"Why not?" Sanders asked.

"Because my wife isn't here."

"What does your wife have to do with you answering our questions?" Ed pressed. Arthur's attention dropped to his shoes. "Are you afraid of your wife, Mr. Gibson?"

"Why would I be afraid of her?" Arthur was still looking at his shoes.

"Because of the abuse," Baker replied. Arthur winced at the word "abuse." He hoped the detectives wouldn't notice. "Your wife is hurting you, isn't she?"

"We can protect you, Mr. Gibson," Sanders promised.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Arthur lied. "I don't need protection from anything."

"What about Connor?" Ed asked. Arthur looked up at the detectives. "Don't you want to protect your son?"

"You're here to talk to me about Connor?"

"No, we're here to talk to you about the copies of a police case you requested from Vermont," Sanders told him. "Where are they and why did you ask for them? And think about your answer to that. We've got proof that you asked."

"I only asked for one copy," Arthur said. "And I don't have it. I . . . gave it to Connor."

"Why?"

"Because he . . . he needs to know."

"What does he need to know?" Baker inquired. Arthur fell silent. "Mr. Gibson-"

"You should really go," Arthur interrupted. He tried to shut the door and, once again, Ed stopped him. "Please, you have to leave."

"One more question," Ed said. "Do you know where Connor is right now?"

"No. He said he was leaving for spring break with some friends right after his classes yesterday."

"What about your wife?" Sanders asked. "Where is she?"

"I haven't seen her for a few hours, but she could be back any minute and she wouldn't be too happy seeing me talking to the police. Now, leave, please." Ed moved out of the way of the door and allowed Arthur to shut it.

"Well, that wasn't very helpful," Baker pointed out. "What do we do now?"

"The only thing we can do," Ed replied. "Wait for the copy of the file to come from Vermont and hope something in it helps us out."

"Can we really rely on that?" Angel asked.

"We're going to have to." The three bohemians and the three detectives started walking away from the house. When they were halfway across the street, Maureen stopped walking. She then ran back onto the porch and knocked on the door.

"Maureen!" Joanne called. The diva ignored her girlfriend and continued to knock on the door. The five others joined her on the porch.

"Go away!" Arthur demanded from inside the house.

"Mr. Gibson, has Connor ever said anything about his philosophy professor?" Maureen asked. All was still for a moment. The door suddenly opened slowly.

"Professor Collins?" Arthur said. "He talks about him all the time. He actually . . . writes poems about him."

"What kind of poems?" Angel asked.

"Love poems." Angel's eyes widened. "I thought it was just a crush, but then I found a notebook that he wrote . . . short scenes in."

"'Short scenes?'" Joanne repeated.

"I believe they're his fantasies. His . . . sexual fantasies." Angel wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn't. She was in complete shock. "I tried talking to him about it, but his mother got to him before I could."

"Are you sure you don't know where he is right now?" Baker asked. "We need to talk to him."

"Yes, I'm sure. Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"We don't know that right now, Mr. Gibson, but we'll let you know if it turns out he is," Sanders told him.

"If he is in trouble, you have to make sure you tell me. You cannot tell my wife."

"If that happens to be the case, we'll make sure you receive the information before your wife does," Ed promised. He and the five others started to walk down the porch steps as Arthur closed the door. When they reached the cars, Baker's mobile phone rang. Everyone stopped and watched her answer it.

"Detective Baker," she said. "Yeah . . . okay. That sounds like the most promising thing right now. What time would that be? Got it, we'll be there." The female detective hung up and slipped the phone back into her jacket pocket. She then turned her attention to Angel. "As a request made by the dean and several faculty members of NYU, your boyfriend's name and picture are going to be on the news from coast to coast in about fifteen minutes."

"Really?" Angel replied.

"Yes and the lieutenant has set up a press conference. Do you think you'll be able to speak?"

"'Speak?'"

"I've dealt with hundreds of press conferences like this," Joanne told Angel. "You'd basically be holding a picture of Collins and asking whoever took him to bring him back home. You know, trying to make his kidnapper realize that he's a human being and he has people around that care about him."

"That makes sense."

"Do you think you can do that?" Baker asked again. The drag queen nodded.

"I'll do anything to bring Collins home," she said.

Collins sat on the couch in the living room of Connor's safe house. He was reading Anthem by Ayn Rand. The tour of the house took less time than he had expected. Immediately following the tour, Connor gave Collins his AZT, which was in his briefcase since he kept it with him at all times. The boy had been out of sight for quite a while, so Collins made himself comfortable and took a book off of the shelf that was next to the television.

"Professor?" he heard his student's voice say. He looked up and his mouth dropped open. Connor was wearing tennis shoes, blue jeans, and a T-shirt. His jacket was draped over one of his arms. He looked like a completely different person.

"Whoa!" Collins exclaimed.

"What is it?" Connor asked, beginning to feel self conscious.

"You . . . changed!"

"Yes . . . I did. I thought about what you said earlier and . . . you're right." Connor looked down at his clothes. "Do you like it?"

"I do. It suits you."

"I used to dress like this all the time."

"Why did you stop?"

"I was a twelve-year-old child prodigy in a public high school in New York City. I felt I needed to dress as though I was older than I was in order for people to take me seriously."

"Well, that's understandable. You know you didn't have to change because of what I said, don't you?"

"I know, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I missed these clothes. They're certainly more comfortable."

"And they look good on you." Connor smiled at his professor. "Were you going to ask me something before I noticed your clothes?"

"Oh, yes. I found a recipe for a vegetarian dish that I'd like to make for lunch, but there are a few ingredients that I don't have. Will you be okay staying here by yourself for a little while?"

"Of course. I'll be fine."

"Great. I should be back in twenty minutes and thirty seconds." Collins raised an eyebrow and stared at the eighteen-year-old. "Is there a problem?"

"Couldn't you have just said you should be back in twenty minutes?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I won't be back in twenty minutes. It will take me about five minutes to drive to the nearest market, one minute and thirty seconds to park, fifteen seconds to get inside the market, three minutes to find the items I need, four minutes to check out, one minute and forty-five seconds to get back to my car, and five minutes to drive back here. Ergo, I'll be back in twenty minutes and thirty seconds."

"Right . . . see you in twenty minutes and thirty seconds then." Connor smiled and walked out the front door.

Collins shook his head and went back to reading. He got to the part of the story where Equality 7-2521 meets Liberty 5-3000 before he decided to stop reading and turn the television on. He flipped through the channels until he found a news station. He was hoping that the broadcast would give him some sort of clue as to when the phone lines would be up and running again. He turned the volume up a bit and stared at the screen.

". . . the family of three was fortunate enough to make it out of the house unharmed," the female anchor was saying. She looked down at the stack of papers in front of her as the male anchor squinted obviously at the teleprompter.

"This just in: New York native and NYU philosophy professor Thomas Collins has been reported missing," he said. Collins felt his heart drop as a picture of him flashed onto the screen. A phone number was below it. "According to the New York Police Department, Collins was last seen leaving the university at around 7:00 pm yesterday evening. A press conference will be held later today. If anyone has seen or has any information on the whereabouts of Thomas Collins, please call the number at the bottom of the screen."

Collins reached beside him for the remote and turned the television off. He sat there for a moment, his eyes wide and his mouth half open. His heart was racing. Surely this was a mistake. He stood up slowly, secured his crutches under his arms, and carefully made his way to the room he had been staying in. There, he picked up the phone that was on the bedside table and sat on the bed. He put the receiver to his ear and frowned when he heard no dial tone. Then he saw it. On the floor, somewhat hidden underneath the table, was half of the phone cord. It was still plugged in the wall. He dropped the receiver on the bed and pulled the part of the cord that was attached to the phone toward him.

It had been severed.

The shit has hit the fan! I repeat: the shit has hit the fan!

Review please.