Date: Thu, 24 May 2012 22:13:21 -0600 From: michaelpete@hushmail.com Subject: Where There's A Will Chapter 6 Dear readers: Please consider supporting Nifty with donations as that is how they are able to continue their great work. Ten bucks is fine though more is a lot better. Be advised that in the following one will find graphic sexual depiction between minors and minors and adults. The story is fiction but based mostly though not entirely on real characters, events, places and situations. There is no relationship between the names used and that of any real person. Send comments to michaelpete@hushmail.com. Michael Peterson CHAPTER VI ESCAPE By the time William had finished relating his incredible adventures, I'd already contacted the human smuggling arranger and was to meet him the following day. I was concerned about leaving William alone but Kevin agreed to babysit. Would he be tempted to go for some sex? Would the always curious William? If it happened, would there be a problem? I found myself unable to say anything to either about it. What puzzled me a bit during the get together with the arranger was the man's seeming lack of curiosity about why I would want to move an eleven year old boy from the US to Honduras but I was gradually able to dismiss my concerns of a potential problem with the thought that men like this surely couldn't care less about the reasons people wanted to sneak around as long as the money was right. After all, they'd been known to leave their customers, including children, to die in locked trucks or on the desert rather than get caught themselves. This situation was small potatoes alongside what effectively was homicide. The man did ask what the boy looked like explaining that the coyote who would take `your boy' through would have to make him look Latino. His hair would be dyed and some kind of make up put on to darken his skin. He'd go by bus all the way accompanied by a man who worked that route regularly but in the opposite direction. The fee was fifteen thousand dollars, ten before departure and five immediately on delivery. I agreed and went straight home to prepare for one frightening and life changing undertaking. First, though, I had to clear the idea with William. I wasn't sure how to broach the matter so just dove in. "William," I said with the boy planted on the sofa close in front of me, his hands in mine, "how would you like to live in Honduras. We might even be able to find your friend Soliman." His eyes lit up. "Sho'! When we goin'?" Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kevin rolling his. "It's not going to be all that easy. There's no way you can go legally like on an airplane. A coyote is going to have to smuggle you there. I'll meet you there." "Tha's okay. So when we goin'?" "I don't know, soon. I have to make a lot of arrangements like selling this house, my car, other stuff, convincing my boss to let me work from there, other things I haven't thought of yet." He pressed me on a day but it seemed certain that things would take longer than imagined. William's passage was expected to take from a week to ten days. I would need to be in San Pedro Sula within six days of William's departure. Communication would be via a cell phone to be provided me the day I handed William over. Kevin was understandably worried, even distressed. For one thing, he was losing his long time best friend, And, even though he was recommended as reliable by my friends at the Salvadoran restaurant, he didn't entirely trust the arranger. "You're giving ten thousand dollars and a small boy to a man mixed up in a very shady business. I know you could come back here and look for this guy if something were to go wrong but, then, what could you do? You sure as hell couldn't go to the police." "I could sure damage his reputation in the Latin community. That reputation is his bread and butter." In the end, Kevin agreed to handle the sale of my house and belongings. I'd still have to sign any contracts of sale but that could be done via a notary public at the local U.S. Embassy. As I expected, Harry Martinson, my boss, thought I was going through some kind of midlife crisis. "How old is she?" he asked. "Eighteen, twenty? It sounds to me like you're throwing a very promising carreer away on some romantic fling. Christ! Why do you have to go there. Can't she stay here? You gonna move in with her family and support them? Harry, come back down to earth!" He too finally caved, with a smile, and was perfectly content to have my services at half of what it currently cost. "They do have electricity down there, don't they?" was his last remark. I immediately upped my Spanish lessons schedule to daily. Within five days, the house was up for sale, there was a buyer for my beloved Triumph, I had a ticket, round trip to avoid problems with immigration once I arrived and the name of a San Pedro Sula law office that handled Honduran residencies, William was excited, retelling me stories about Soliman and Jorge, going over a map of Honduras with me, trying to find the village Soliman had told him about, and working on my Spanish. His was not only fluent but his second language didn't bear a whiff of his southern drawl. He didn't look remotely Latino but then photos I'd seen did show some light skinned Hondurans. Israel, the coyote agent, only needed a week's advance notice to have someone pick up William. The relatively short period of time during which he could have a coyote available suggested a great volume of groups crossing the border as well as the enormous amount of money being made.. Unable to locate Soliman's village on either maps or the internet from internet cafes, not my house, I decided to let that matter go until I was in Honduras. No need to give anyone a clue as to where exactly I would be. Even sex was occasionally interrupted by questions about the trip, Honduras or what we'd do there or enticing comments about different ways Jorge had fucked him. Where our sex had been principally a physical thing before, it was now more emotional, loving. He'd kiss me on my cheeks, shoulders, all around my groin though never on the lips, and make love to my cock when sucking me. He suggested increasingly novel ways to fuck him but, in the end, if I can put it that way, his favorite was from the front, his knees up to his chest, eyes closed, bottom lip tucked under his upper teeth, dick fully erect. I'm sure my cock was poking his premature but certainly operational prostate. When I came, a few strokes of his cock, by me of course, brought on a strong, prolonged orgasm. Though he did press for them, I was far too timid to walk into a sex shop or even order off the internet the sex toys his truck driver friend had used. As the day of departure neared, I repeatedly went over what William should and should not say to the coyote who would be taking him on those long bus trips, first from where we were to the Mexican border, then through Mexico to Guatemala and from there into Honduras. There was no doubt he'd ask questions even if just to converse during the many hours they'd be together. The agreed on story was that he was going to join a family he'd lived with for several years but which had been deported. I was merely facilitating the move and would be returning to the US once he was settled. I was a nice man who he'd met working supermarket parking lots. He'd told me his story and, for some unknown reason, I had offered to help. William wasn't to have any idea about my motivation. If asked, he was to appear surprised by any reference to possible sexual motivation or activities. The coyote, a man who said his name was Juan Garcia, an obvious alias, arrived at my house on a Friday morning in a recent model Mitsubishi SUV driven by a second man who made a point of staying inside the vehicle and keeping his face out of sight. In passable English, he explained that I needed to be in San Pedro Sula by the twenty-ninth of September and would receive a call on the cellphone he handed me with details on where and when to pick up William. The final six thousand dollars would be required at that time. I said, "We agreed on fifteen, not sixteen thousand." "Israel says ah gotta make him look Mexican an' tha's gonna cost you a thousand. You don' wanna do it, you gotta talk to Israel." The idea of changing his appearance had been discussed and did made good sense though I couldn't imagine why it would cost a thousand dollars. Nonetheless, I agreed. Trepidation built as they drove away, William looking back at me happily through the rear window. What the hell had I gotten myself into? I'd quit my job. My home was receiving potential buyers. I was driving a rental. My investments were being moved into gold and less lucrative but safe European and Asian stocks. My savings account had been closed and that money plus the remaining cash from the extortions placed in a dollar account in a Caribbean bank. I had nine thousand five hundred dollars in cash, five hundred less than the amount required to be declared on entering Honduras. Worst of all, I was involved in what could quite easily be called the international kidnapping of a wanted underage boy I'd been having daily sex with and was planning to live with, protecting him as an illegal alien as well as probably acquiring false papers for him, in a country from which a number of Americans had been hauled back to the US for sex tourism. I had to be completely out of my mind. Love was the problem, the impetus. I was completely, crazily, in love with William, willing to brave any peril to be with him. It wasn't possible in the United States of 2006. It was, albeit not entirely safe in Honduras, but safer if we could find Soliman and his family and, of course, if they were accommodating. Just three days after William had begun his journey, after a tearful goodbye from Kevin, with nine thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills esconced in a money belt under my shirt and five hundred more in my wallet, I boarded a Taca jet and flew to San Salvador then transferrered to another aircraft for the flight to San Pedro Sula. After checking into a four star hotel being promoted there at the airport and putting my cash in the hotel safe, I hit the streets armed with a map and a hundred dollars in local currency looking for a place where William and I wouldn't be under the eyes of suspicious gringo tourists. After the air conditioned airport, van and hotel, I was immediately struck by the heat, humidity and closeness that was San Pedro Sula. Sweat broke out all over me, possibly not entirely due to the weather. That same trepidation I'd felt with William's departure returned as I gradually grasped some of the realities of this Third World country which was to be my new home. The farther I walked from the area of my hotel, the more the poverty was apparent. The first thing I noticed was the dilapidated public transportation vehicles, busses and tricycles, with men in the open doors calling out destinations to potential riders. There were cars and pickups which, in the states due to their poor condition, would not have been allowed on the streets. The tallest building I could spot was about five or six stories high. There weren't many over two. Mostly, I was hit by the untidiness. Trash littered the streets in front of dirty business fronts. The first hotel on my list was a glassed front affair that looked more like some kind of cheap goods store. The desk was alongside a kiosk that sold everything from newspapers to candy to bananas. A room with private bath and cable television was seventeen dollars and change. The young man who showed me a sample room took me on an elevator with no interior door, something found frequently in Europe but which I'd never seen in the U.S. The only marginally clean room smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The second hotel on my list was a few blocks east and nicer, three dollars more but with a desk clerk who for some reason I sensed to be a nosey type. The next was another seventeen dollar a night place whose large lobby was filled with folks who tended to watch everyone entering and leaving. It took the rest of the day and half the next before I met an English speaking cabbie who, although he congratulated me on how good my Spanish was, communicated entirely in his broken but quite understandable English, and who, perhaps from experience with other foreigners seeking someplace discreet, seemed to sense what I wanted. The side street hotel he recommended featured entry to its decent rooms via a hallway close to the main door but well off to the side of the desk. The clerk didn't ask for any identification so I registered as Henry Aldritch, for some reason the first name that came to mind, and took a third floor rear room. My cabbie smiled pleasantly at his ten dollar tip. Rather than trust the new less than one star hotel with nine thousand U.S. dollars in cash, I paid a fee to keep my money where it was for a month. Non-residents, I'd found, couldn't open bank accounts. The next task after moving in was to try and locate the town where Soliman told William his aunt had resided. That was resolved to a certain extent by another cabbie who informed me that there were two `aldeas' by that name and offered to take me to both, one of which was two hours away, the other six. It seemed best to wait for William so I took the man's name and cellphone number and promised to call when I was ready. The coyote's phone call came three days later. The caller asked where I was staying then said he'd be there in twenty minutes. I'd planned to meet somewhere else but the brief conversation didn't allow for that. I wanted a definitive break with the coyote and whoever else he was working with. A quick move would be necessary. I hardly recognized William with jet black hair including eyebrows and lashes and the deep tan the coyote's makeup artist or tanning parlor had given him. The eyes, however, were the same, Right there in front of the hotel, he ran and jumped into my arms, hugging and kissing my jaw. Passersby didn't seem to notice. The coyote appeared unimpressed. I put the boy down and pulled the cash laden envelope from my pocket, laughing at myself since this wasn't the first time I'd handed over a similar sum for William in his presence. The coyote went back to his late model, tinted glass car and drove off as we walked inside. The moment we entered my room, William went for my fly. He smelled of days without a bath. "You need a shower, my friend." "They got hot water?" he inquired with one hand gripping and massaging my near immediate boner. The `yes' reply prompted, "We kin do it in theah." `In theah' was where I found that the skin darkening was complete, including his cock and balls. When soap and water weren't turning him back into a white boy, it became apparent they'd used some kind of very thorough sunless tanning technique. "They put me insahd this kahnda shar an' sprayed this stuff all ovuh me an' wuz turnin' me aroun' an even in mah ass. Don Juan said it'll go `way in three o fo' weeks," William informed when asked about it. I kind of liked the brown flesh but worried having what appeared to be a Honduran boy with me in the hotel would look like, well, kind of what it was. We needed to speak a lot of English around there. I'd told the desk clerk that the boy coming was my grandson, here to see his Honduran relatives. Washing William was difficult in the small shower with him humping my leg and fondling my balls. Before it was possible to cover him with soap, he took the bar from me, lathered up my cock and ordered me to sit down. With my feet sticking out under the plastic curtain, he carefully sat, facing me, down onto my cockhead. His eyes closed as it slipped inside. Holding onto my elbows, he leaned back and slid around in soapy circles. After a few moments, I had to stop him or our session would have been far shorter than he preferred. Lying in bed naked after drying off, he filled me in on his relatively uneventful journey. After a day becoming a Latino in appearance, they'd spend the bulk of their time on busses, Greyhounds in the states and something similar right through Mexico and Guatemala. There'd been hotel stays at the Mexican side of the U.S. Mexican frontier, another shortly before crossing into Guatemala and the last one in Guatemala City. In all cases, William had slept untouched in the same bed as his guide. At all the Mexican and Guatemalan borders, William had crossed unnoticed on foot, wearing flip flops and humble clothing, right past government personnel. He'd crossed the Honduran border hidden in the back of the car that brought him to my hotel. During conversations, the man had asked about why he was making the trip, who I was and why I was putting up all this money if I wasn't a relative and wasn't going to be living with him. William said he'd followed my instructions and provided very little information. Sex hadn't come up. I hoped that was true. I vacillated on my earlier determination to switch hotels, particularly since I was now with a boy whom the hotel staff believed to be an American visiting his family. The hotel itself was off the beaten track, its only foreign guests apparently Central Americans, and didn't have my real name. That afternoon, I bought William two sets of outer and four sets of under clothing though, with the heat, it didn't seem likely he'd be using the latter. The next morning, after some torrid sweaty sex requiring another shower, I called the taxi driver who knew the two same name villages where I hoped we would find Soliman and his aunt. With all our belongings, we took the two hour ride in air conditioned comfort. The driver had a different, nicer car from the one he'd used as a city cabbie. The first `aldea' was about a couple of miles down a dirt road off the main highway. William wandered about asking for anyone with Soliman's or his aunt's last names. There were two, both of whom said they had no young kin named Soliman or Jorge. It was about that time that the cabbie asked why an American kid was interested in a Honduran family. I told him a partial truth that they'd been his foster family but had been deported as illegals. With that, he got out and joined William in his quest. I stayed with the car out of concern for our belongings. Moments later, William and the cabbie came back to the car followed by a small mob. No one looked angry so I got out. William was excitedly holding onto the arm of a woman and saying, "This heah's Tia Lili's sistuh an' she says Tia Lili's back up the road in that town we wen' through. Membuh wif tha' place wif the big chicken?" I nodded. He'd pointed it out as we'd gone by. "She's workin' in a res'rant theah an' this lady gonna take us an' Soliman an' Jorge's livin' wif `er theah so le's go!" He was already getting into the back as he spoke, tugging the nervously smiling woman in behind him. I hopped in the front. The driver, apparently almost as excited, had us on our way before my door was closed. On route, the cabbie informed me that Tia Lili's sister and others there had heard about `Yackie', the gringo boy who'd lived for a couple of years with Tia Lili and her boys. The town was nearly half an hour back and large enough to get lost in. Tia Lili's sister had to re-orient herself once when she took us up a wrong street. The establishment in question wasn't the kind of spot I'd have picked for a meal. Even the sign was dirty. The few bare single fluorescent fixtures inside were turned off. The light coming through two large windows in front and a row placed high on the right side wall barely illuminated the place. There were a couple of dozen tables, a few pushed together, most with working class patrons, men except for two women, eating or waiting. William rushed inside. I followed warily, concerned about what the folks inside would think about this obvious foreigner with the apparently Honduran preadolescent. As I cleared the door, William was standing front of a waitress, staring up at her. She was bent slightly over, as though trying to figure out what the boy was saying. Suddenly, though, she threw her arms around him and he, his around her. The customers she'd been serving seemed amused, certainly not annoyed that their service had been interrupted. After a few affectionate twists and turns, William pulled loose and turned toward me. The woman looked up and smiled broadly. After begging her customers immediately given forebearance, the two, arm in arm came to me. "This' heah's mah aunt Lili," announced William proudly with tears in his eyes though not as wet faced as his `aunt'. She wiped her hand on her apron and held it out. We shook and I replied in my best Spanish, "Mucho gusto," a sort of pleased to meet you. After a pair of additional embraces, aunt Lili excused herself to finish serving her customers and rushed back to the table where an excited conversation took place, the two men there looked my way and nodded pleasantly. Tia Lili, a great smile fixed on her tear covered face, kept turning toward William. I was being tugged toward the rear of the place. "Soliman's out back heah. C'mon!" I was dragged by the arm through a better lit, basic kitchen with two domestic refrigerators, a long table top gas stove and a woman working feverishly cutting vegetables at a well used wood work table. She didn't look up as we flew through. Behind was a dirt lot with two shacks, both with bamboo sides and corrugated metal roofs. William called out, "Soliman" three times. A boy about William's age wearing nothing but a pair of blue shorts appeared in the curtained doorway of one and stared for a moment before bursting into a great grin and shouting back, "Yackie! Yackie!" The two met half way alternately hugging and poking each other, babbling away in staccato Honduran Spanish before William whipped the boy my way and said to me, "This is mah bro' Soliman," wrapping an arm around the boy's neck as he did. The love free for all went on for several minutes and included both rolling in the dust.then sitting up where they were and trading tales, or so it seemed. My thoughts were more mundane like where we were to sleep that night. I had no desire to return to San Pedro Sula. Certain there had to be taxis in such a sizeable town, I turned to go find the cabbie, nearly bumping into him. He too was in the doorway enjoying the reunion out in the yard. I added a twenty dollar tip to the fifty dollars he requested in the naïve hope that would buy some loyalty. He helped me put our two bags inside the restaurant kitchen. Tia Lili was the only waitress dealing with the lunch crowd so couldn't speak to me. Her sister had no knowledge of hotels in the area. She did inform me that Soliman's brother Jorge had a job at his uncle's nearby metal working shop. William and Soliman came inside and offered to take me along with them to Jorge's workplace. Two blocks from the restaurant, I was privileged to watch another emotional though less physical reunion and exchange of tales that went on for two or three minutes before either William or Soliman thought to mention my presence. Jorge, a strapping fifteen or sixteen year old, came straight to me and held out his dirty hand then gave me a fierce hug as he thanked me for bringing his `little brother' home. He was as strong as he looked. The `herrero', iron worker, who ran the shop, already knew enough of the kids' past history together to join the others in offering his thanks and even a stronger handshake. He told me the town had two good hotels, the one farther out the better. It had hot water showers and a swimming pool. He offered to take me there in his pickup, a battered at least twenty year old Toyota that ran quite well on the ride back to the restaurant. Tia Lili suggested her `sons' go with us to the hotel and come back in time for a dinner she'd prepare for us all. Her sister had to get back to her own family so I paid a man with an old Camry taxi to take her home, I was urgently seeking an opportunity to counsel William on what he should and shouldn't say to his friends, specifically how he described how we met and what when on, and didn't, between us. Of course, I was also wondering what sex would be like with Soliman but then I'd been fantasizing that sort of thing with most boys I'd spotted most of my life. His large though still still preadolescent looking body was a bit chunky for my tastes but sported an interesting little lump in his loose fitting shorts. I doubted he was wearing any underwear. I seemed to remember William mentioning that he had a decent sized cock. Jorge was nearly a man and of no physical interest. Having been given the seat of honor up front with the driver, my only conversation was a difficult one with Ricardo, the herrero or metal worker, difficult to hear over the rattling of the pickup on poorly patched asphalt as well as due to his rapid speech. I did manage to communicate that I was from the Atlantic coast of the United States, worked with computers and thought William was very intelligent. He reiterated his appreciation for my bringing William here to a life he was sure would be much better than that in some children's home. I assumed he expected William would be living with Soliman's family. I'd considered that and wasn't against it. It would probably prove far less problematic than constantly having to explain his presence to neighbors and, of greater importance, to the school personell I expected someone would eventually have to deal with. First, of course, there was the matter of finding someone who could arrange a local birth certificate for him, illegally get him legal. The hotel was a rambling two rows of motel style rooms complete with a palm tree surrounded parking lot in front of the doors and an office at the end of one row. All the rooms were the same price, roughly fourteen dollars US. There was a restaurant off to one side in front of the relatively large, sparkling clean swimming pool. The boys were hot to get in there and no one complained when they did so in their pants. I knew William didn't have on underwear and Soliman pushed his pants down inside the door to prove I'd been right that he hadn't any either. Unfortunately, he did so in the back showing off a nice rear end but not allowing me to learn what he had in front. The uncle and Jorge went back to work while I sat in a beach chair and enjoyed watching my two happy guests frolic in the water, showing off their golden brown skin, one the real McCoy, the other chemically produced. I was going to have to go to the internet to research how long the latter was likely to last and would it just slowly fade or turn splotchy. Sadly, rather than take off their pants in my room to dry, they lay in the sun long enough for it to do the trick. Dinner at Tia Lili's was local but fun. The chicken had a rather strange flavor to it. The ice cream for desert worried me. Was my gringo gut going to handle it? It did. William begged to be allowed to spend the night in Soliman's hot shack. I slept alone in air conditioned physical comfort. The two of them showed up early the next morning in time for breakfast. Finding a house was my priority for the day. Soliman's uncle showed me the real estate section of the area paper. Most of the rentals were in other surrounding towns. The few in our small city were apartments or rooms. However, there was a real estate office advertised. I went along in a tuk tuk, a battered three wheeled motorcycle, to centro, the middle of town, on one side of a block sized very public park, to see what they had to offer. The woman there wanted to sell me a house but eventually, dug out a list of three homes for rent. We went in another nicer tuk tuk I paid for to see all three. The first, a single story home on the outskirts near the road back to San Pedro Sula was the best. It had two bathrooms, three bedrooms, a living / dining room combination and a small kitchen. A nine foot high wall surrounded it as did similar walls the other dozen or so houses in the block and nearby. The rent was steeper than I imagined but probably due to the color of my skin. Still, three hundred dollars a month was well within my budget. A two month deposit was required. That required a quick trip, if almost five hours qualifies as such, back to San Pedro Sula to get two thousand dollars from the hotel safe and change half of it into Lempiras. It wasn't until I moved in the next morning that I realized it hadn't hot water in the single shower. Still, the water wasn't all that cold and roughing it was part of the fun. William didn't seem to mind. I finally got to see Soliman completely naked when they both insisted on using the shower. He was well endowed in front and pubing though his balls seemed small for the size of his cock which probably reached four inches hard. William slept with me that night. It was wonderful. The next morning, I asked him what his friends had said or asked about me. "Jorge asted if'n you wuz a fag but ah said no. Soliman jes' thanks y'all's a real nahs man." A little later, he volunteered that, "Jorge got a real big `un. It kahnda hurt when he fucked me but not all that bad. Soliman done me fust. Jorge hadda use ole from the res'ran kitchen. He din't have none a that stuff we used back in Mis'sippi but the ole wuz okay, jes' smelled kahnda lahk fried stuff. Kin Soliman `n' Jorge stay heah sumtahms?" I told him I'd have to think about that. "Cuz a the naybuhs?" Smart boy. "Yes. Let me see what they're like first." He didn't object when I bought notebooks, pencils and a first grade Spanish reader and both paid attention and did the assignments I gave in hopes of preparing him for entry into a school where my help would enable him to skip grades and eventually catch up to this proper level. He spent his afternoons at Soliman's. We had dinner each night at the restaurant where Soliman's mother worked and lived with her two adopted sons. I got to know the menu well enough to pick foods I liked. During the third afternoon in my new home, I went to San Pedro Sula to speak to two lawyers regarding legal residency and, with one who seemed the more knowlegable as well as flexible, what might be possible with money to arrange a birth certificate for someone who had never gotten one and whose family had abandoned him. I had hopes that William's clearly Honduran Spanish and current coloration would make that possible. The English speaking lawyer, Licenciado Gaspar Montnegro, seemed to believe I was talking about myself so it was necessary to assure him it wasn't and that the person in question did speak the local lingo without an accent. He thought about it for a moment then said he doubted he'd be able to help in such a matter but would look around for someone who could. William progressed rapidly with his studies, learning most of the alphabet, the Spanish version, in three days. He was able to read the simple sentences in the first few pages of the reader. He was spending every other night at Soliman's house, coming home early when Soliman went off to school. Saturday, after buying both swimming suits, I took them back to the hotel swimming pool then to a park with swings and a soccer field. That required the purchase of a soccer ball. A look at the inside of William's mouth convinced me a dentist was required. Wary of the possibly lower skill level of some locally trained dentists, I went to the yellow pages and picked the one with the most impressive ad. He was quite happy to give me an appointment but it was three weeks hence. Since William claimed not to be any discomfort, I accepted the date and wrote `dentist' over the day on a calendar William drew up and taped to the wall. Sunday morning, after spending the night again with Soliman and Jorge, William came home to me rather than go to church with Soliman's mother. "Ah don' lahk churches. All they do is tawk stupid and wan' e'ryboy ta give `em money." When I asked what kind of church Soliman's family attended, he answered, "Cath'lic but ah don' lahk them neithuh. `Jes a bunch a bullshit, sorry, uh, crap." He told me Jorge had fucked him hard the night before and he didn't think he could handle my dick "back theah" for a few days. Moreover, he thought it best to stay with me for a while until his ass felt better. "But we kin still suck on each'n othuh." That's what we were doing the next norning at around seven when there was a loud knocking at the outside door along with two rings of the doorbell. "Tha's the cops!" burst out William. "No, probably just some salesperson. Wait, let me see." Worried that William's street honed instincts might be correct, I dressed as quickly, and completely, as I could and told him to do the same. There was more knocking and door bell ringing before I could get out the front door of the house and to the wall entry. I opened the small window in the metal door. There were several men outside, none in any kind of uniform nor in suits, just clean street clothes. One at the door held up an ID of some sort and said in English with a mild Spanish accent, "Interpol, Mr. Frysdale. Please open the door. Shocked, I asked, "What do you want?" "We need to talk to you, and the boy." "What about?" "Mr. Frysdale, open the door or we'll have to break it open." Completely unsure of my grounds I still asked firmly, "Do you have a warrant?" "I don't need a warrant, Mr. Frysdale. Now, open the door now!" He sounded angry. Once again, I insisted on a warrant. The man backed off and another carrying a door ram approached. I said, "Wait, let me see your identification again." The open wallet was briefly held up to the window then snatched away before I could read it. I began to suspect this was a robbery. The only doubt was how robbers would have my real name. The man with the ram again approached. I opened the door. Four men pushed past me, two heading straight inside the house. As they passed, I saw the holstered automatics on their belts. They probably were what they said they were. I hoped William would be calm and not resist. I was told to go outside where two more men awaited me, one with handcuffs dangling from his fingers. I felt doomed. The two turned me around and put my hands on top of one of the three recent model cars parked across the front of my house. After a brief frisking during which the house keys were taken out of my pants pocket, one hand at a time was pulled behind me and cuffed. The rear car door was opened and I was pushed down and inside. They closed the door. Moments later, two of the men inside raced out the door and jumped into the two other cars. One shot forward, shooting gravel back at the car I was in. The other backed rapidly to the corner. Through the rear view mirror, I saw him turn right quickly and take off up the cross street. The man in charge came out the door speaking into a cellphone, a frustrated look on his face. I was sure William had somehow eluded them. The man apparently in charge went back inside, still on his cellphone only to come back at a trot and open the door beside me. "Where's the boy, Mr. Frysdale, and no bullshit. You're already in enough trouble? Where is he?" There was fury in the man's words and face. I thought quickly. Without William, there didn't seem to be anything they could accuse me of. "I think I better speak to a lawyer first." "Look, my friend, you're in my country now, not the United States. You don't get a lawyer unless I say you do. Now, where's the boy?" Another thought struck me. It was always "the boy". They didn't know his name. Shutting up seemed the best strategy at the time so I did. That enfuriated the man further. "You know what Honduran jail is like? Nothing like those nice safe places in your country. You're a child molester, Mr. Frysdale, Hondurans hate child molesters. You understand what I'm saying? So, where's the boy?" He almost shouted the last few words. I was increasingly sure he knew he had nothing without William, and, considering how tough and savvy the boy was, not catching him in my house or with me, maybe nothing in any case. Unfortunately, I didn't count on the outside pressure and help he had. Both cars were back within fifteen minutes. One was sent off somewhere with two men. I was hauled to a San Pedro Sula police station and locked in an unfurnished room where I sat on the tiled floor, still handcuffed and ignored for hours. It must have been mid afternoon before the same man came to see me. He was calmer but still carried a certain degree of anger. For a few moments, he stood staring at me sitting there on the floor. Then, "You hungry? I can order you a sandwich or something?" "What am I doing here?" "C'mon, Mr. Frysdale, you know why you're here. Now, you hungry or not?" "Even here, whatever your name is, you can't just lock somebody up without telling them what they are charged with and letting them have a lawyer. What am I supposed to have done?" "I already tole you that. You're a child molester. Tha's a crime here jus' like where you come from. So, why don' you jus' tell me where the boy is and maybe we can jus' deport you and not put you in prison here." I shook my head. "None of that's true and I think you know it. I'm sure it's also against the law to drag someone out of their house and lock them up with no proof they've done anything." "We got witnesses, very good witnesses and maybe we can charge you with something else and I think you know what I mean so quit being stupid and tell me where you got the boy." "I want a lawyer." That was the last thing I said to him even though he went on with his threats for another fifteen minutes or so then left as angry as he'd been earlier. The sandwich offer was forgotten. My silence netted me a day and night without food, little sleep and increased discomfort with my hands still cuffed behind me. It was difficult to resist the temptation to shout and kick at the door. Just when I was close to giving in to my frustration, a uniformed officer came in with two pieces of overdone roast chicken with rice in a Styrofoam container, a Coke and keys to the cuffs. It was painful moving my arms forward. He didn't respond to my attempt in Spanish to ask why I was there. He locked the door after he left. I was still a prisoner. Two more meals and a second night on the floor passed with no communication. Finally, around midday on Tuesday, a suited man with even better English than the first came to speak to me. He had a folder with several papers in it along with my passport and checkbook. He called me by my first name and identified himself as Detective Lieutenant Francisco Caballeros. "Harry, you're in a lot of trouble here, and not just with us. Your people want you too for kidnapping. You got a lawyer? You're gonna need one, a very good one if you wanna stay out of prison here." "If you have my things there, his card is among them, Licenciado Marroquin." The man looked and found the card. After reading it over, he said, "This isn't what you're gonna need. He's, you know, business and immigration. You need a good criminal lawyer, unless you wanna talk to me and maybe we can do something that works for both of us." "Detective, I haven't done anything wrong, certainly not kidnapped anybody so there's nothing I can tell you. Why don't you let me talk to my lawyer and see what he says?" "Look, Harry, maybe you think just because we don't have the kid we can't charge you but you're wrong. We got witnesses at two hotels and back where you was living including two kids know what you was doing. And the Americans got witnesses too so here's the way it is. You work with me and maybe you just get deported and only gotta fight with the Americans who maybe don't got as good a case as we do." There was no way any hotel person had seen me having sex with William and I didn't believe William had said anything incriminating to Soliman or Jorge, nor did I believe two kids who'd lived for years as illegals in the states were going to say much if anything to any kind of authority. "I want to speak to my lawyer." They left me in the room for another day, again trying for twenty-four hours to convince me to talk. I didn't and was finally allowed to call Licenciado Marroquin, reaching him on the third try. By the time he arrived late Wednesday afternoon after a final attempt by the detective to get me to talk, I had a story ready. He asked "Who is this boy they are talking about? Is this the person you were talking about with me?" "I don't know who they are talking about. I was talking about a woman I know. The only kids I was around were her relatives. They were always wanting me to go eat with them where they lived and take them places. I certainly never had any sex with them. Anybody who says anything like that is flat out lying." "Then who made the calendar they say they found on your wall? They said it was made by a child." I'd forgotten about that but the answer came easily. "One of the kids at my friends house gave it to me. It was all I had so I put it up." That seemed to satisfy him. He confirmed what the police were saying wasn't his kind of matter and suggested another lawyer he'd already spoken with. "He's very good but also very expensive. You'll need at least ten thousand dollars just to get him to take your case." Less than two hours later, Licenciado Wilfredo de Leon was in my room. He got the officers in charge of my things to give me my check book and I signed over ten grand. His English was heavily accented but easily understood. Half an hour after he arrived, I was on the street but without my passport. In a ritzy, by local standards, restaurant I was paying for, he told me, "Look, Mr. Frysdale, I don' think they got anything on you. They talk about this boy but don't have his name or anything, not even how old he is. Without a boy, they don't have anything to charge you with. Somebody says you did something to some kid nobody knows don't mean anything." He explained they'd have to either have a hearing soon or give me back my things. The man he'd spoken to didn't seem to be interested in doing anything but getting rid of me. He didn't know anything about the Americans wanting to charge me with something. "If it's the same kid that nobody knows, how they gonna charge you with doing something to somebody nobody knows? "So, you go on back home but don't go around nobody connected with this or maybe you oughta come stay someplace here in San Pedro, at least for a while." My passport would take a few days but, since he doubted I was going to be charged with anything, they'd have to give it back. During our talk, I got the impression he knew there was substance to the police charges and was suggesting I stay away from the boy they were seeking. After spending the night in a hotel and buying a cheap cellphone that charged minutes off a card, I returned to my rented house. It had been ransacked. The new refrigerator, stove, microwave oven and TV had been stolen. Even the dishes and pans I'd bought and the sheets off the bed were gone. I didn't bother looking for my expensive laptop. I called the landlord and told him what had happened. He already knew and wanted to meet with me immediately. His concern, apart from his damaged house, was why I'd been arrested. "I think they confused me with someone else," I claimed in probably incorrect Spanish. I told him the police had taken my keys and apparently hadn't bothered to lock up after leaving. He told me neighbors called about a truck taking things out. I asked, stupidly, why they hadn't called the police. He replied, they thought the men they saw were police. I didn't pursue the matter any further. The landlord wanted me to pay for repairs. At first, I refused, but on examining the damage, there didn't appear to be more than a broken electrical socket where they had apparently pulled the refrigerator out without unplugging it. So, I agreed. I had to assure him I wasn't a criminal and nothing illegal was going on in his house. If the police had spoken to him, or the neighbors for that matter, they certainly would have mentioned boys, but the subject didn't come up. I went into the bedroom and lay on the uncovered mattress. Why hadn't the police questioned the neighbors about a boy or boys in my house? I had to be sure so I knocked on my neighbors doors, three of them in order to find one at home. She was with a pair of friends so hadn't much time to talk. After explaining my situation was almost certainly a case of mistaken identity since in the end the matter was dropped without telling me what it was all about, I asked about the truck that had taken away my belongings. She hadn't seen it but according to the man who lived next to me, his maid had seen the men and asked if I was moving out. They told her to go away which she did when she saw the pistol on the belt of one. Had the police been around asking questions? Not that she knew of. As I was about to leave, she told me the neighbor she'd mentioned had been accepting my mail. I figured it must have been advertisements since, other than the landlord, the furniture and appliance stores that delivered my things and Soliman's family, no one knew I was living there. I'd originally come in a tuk tuk to look it over but there was no reason the driver would be involved. On a hunch, I called my lawyer and got lucky. He was in. "Do you know the detective involved in my case?" "I just talked to the captain there. What was his name?" I had to think but remembered, "Detective Lieutenant Francisco Caballeros." "Detective lieutenant? You sure he said detective lieutenant?" "That's right." "We don't got detective lieutenants here, just on American television." He was silent for a moment then, "You paid for me. Let me ask..., I'll call you back. I got your number. Just be careful, okay?" I didn't need him to call back to know who was behind this, the Americans, but why? Did they somehow know about William being brought through by the coyote? Were they following up on me due to the extortion attempt? Were they watching me? My thoughts that day revolved around whether I should stay there or take De Leon's advice and get a place in San Pedro Sula. I wasn't ready to give up on finding out what happened to William and supporting him in any safe way I could. Though I almost went for lunch at the restaurant where Soliman's mother worked, caution took precedence and I chose a pizza house in the shopping center where I bought my appliances. De Leon did call back later that afternoon. The only Francisco Caballeros in the police department in that region was a young man who'd been on the force for just a year. There was no detective with that name. "Might have been Interpol but they can't arrest anybody. It's not what they do, at least not here. I think the Americans want you for something. Not much I can do for you there unless they try to extradite you back to the states. You got problems there?" "Not that I know of. Shouldn't be." I told him I'd stay in touch. He again admonished caution. When I heard my neighbor's garage door open, I went to ask about my mail and see what more he might know than his neighbor. Before getting the single letter he had for me, he told me no one had asked him anything except other neighbors and none of them, to the best of his knowledge, had been spoken to by the police. His maid had thought the men emptying my house had probably been policemen. When he brought out my letter, he brought the maid with him. She told me the men looked and acted like police. The letter had a woman or girl's handwriting. The single `i' had a circle instead of a dot. The `i' was in Harri. Frysdale was spelt `Fraisdel'. The address was correct. Inside was a folded letter size paper with eight numbers on it. I dialed them on my cellphone. Jorge answered, immediately asking what happened. I gave him a brief standard mixup reply and asked about William or `Yackie' as they called him. "He's staying with my uncle in his house. Where are you so I can come see you?" He spoke slowly from experience with my poor understanding of rapid local speech. "Did anyone come and ask you or your mother or Soliman questions about me?" "No, we just knew the police took you when Yackie told us." "Let me call you later and we can meet. So Yackie's okay?" "Yeah, he's okay but he was crying a lot because he thought he wasn't going to see you again. How come the police let you go? Is it..." I cut him off. "We'll talk about that later when I call. Don't call this number. Wait for me, okay?" I hung up. It had to be the Americans. But how could they know about William being brought here? Unless they caught the coyote or his arranger and they were trading me for their own benefit, or, the police involved in the extortion killings were keeping an eye on me via the FBI or someone with people in Honduras. The first man who claimed to be Interpol had never let me clearly see his ID. Anyhow, Interpol was a worldwide operation, not specifically American though, I guessed, they'd probably cooperate if the Americans said the word `pedophile'. Damn near any governmental or even non-governmental organization would. We generated great headlines. Finding out if there was someone tailing me seemed critical. I walked out to the main street, flagged down a tuk tuk and told him I was looking for a place but wasn't sure where it was. I'd pay for his time in searching for it. I don't know if the driver noticed, but after every indicated turn, I watched out the rear window for any vehicle following along. After three turns, it appeared there was, a small green sedan, but then he was gone. However, two turns later, there was another, this one a light blue late model Ford, hardly a car I'd expect someone in that town to be driving. It took the next turn too then was replaced by the original green car on a major boulevard. I was definitely being followed. I directed the driver to a large, by local standards, shopping center and handed over the requested hundred lempiras in front of a large supermarket. It was getting dark but I spotted the Ford stop three rows back on the parking lot. I skirted the supermarket and went inside the mall looking for an alternate exit. Not finding one immediately, I ducked into a clothing store and hid behind a row of jeans watching to see who would come in. No one suspicious appeared. A walk around let me know why. There were only three entries, all of which could easily be observed by two cars parked apart communicating by cellphone or radio, the latter seeming most likely. And, with all my obvious attempts to lose them, they were probably aware I knew I was being tailed. I called Jorge. William answered, "Harry?", bringing tears to my eyes. I turned toward a display window and quickly said in Spanish, "Please, I need to speak just to Jorge. Don't say anything." Smart boy that he was, he replied in accentless local lingo, "Okay, I'll get you Jorge. You okay?" I answered in Spanish, "I'm fine." Jorge's uncle took the phone. "We're very happy you're okay. You need any help?" "No, I'm okay for now but we can't meet for a few days while I fix something." "That's okay. We understand. But you need help, you call, okay?" It was his friendly attitude that led me to go back to the appliance store where I purchased a new, smaller refrigerator, stove and microwave. In the supermarket, I bought sheets and a blanket. It was, as I was handling the refrigerator door, that it occurred to me why the original units as well as pots and pans were taken: fingerprints on the appliances, pots and pans and evidence of sex on the sheets. William's prints were sure to be on all. They probably took the TV to make what they did appear more like a standard burglary. The computer was likely to search for kiddie porn they seemed to believe all peds possessed. I wasn't sure if any trace of the lubricant we used was going to be found on the sheets. My semen went either into William's rear end or down his throat so they weren't going to find any of that. Surely they found my tube of KY. It wasn't there with what was left in the house but I could quite reasonably say it was for masturbation. They had no way to prove otherwise. The big question was whether anyone had ever taken William's prints. He'd never mentioned it but, those days, who knew? If they did, they probably also had his photo. I paid for all with my US credit card. There was no need to hide my presence in Honduras from people who knew I was there and at exactly what address. The large items would be delivered in the morning. Those that I could carry were left at the personal belongings check in table at the supermarket when I went in to buy some non-perishable food. Since I now knew about the surveillance, I had to assume they'd seen me buy the cellphone. After dropping into a drugstore and an electronics emporium, watching for any observers and spotting none, I stopped at a kiosk selling cellphones bought another cheap card unit requiring a name but no ID along with a couple of hundred lempira cards. For two days, I put my house back in order including replacing the broken electrical socket and changing the locks on the carport and front and side house doors. After buying a new laptop, I called my boss to let him know my computer had been stolen and arrange for him to courier the programs, files and information I needed to get back to work. "You ready to come back?" he asked tongue in cheek. The material requested on seven DVD's was delivered barely sixty hours later, a good sign for service in Honduras. I went right to work. All this time, I'd been planning how to get loose of those watching me. After five days, I figured a late night walk out of my street wouldn't be on their radar. So, donning a pair of dark pants and a navy blue sweat shirt with hood, carrying a pack of crackers and a bottle of water, I took a two AM stroll. There were no parked cars in sight. Nor were there any forms of public transport. Jorge's uncle's shop was at least three miles away and in a working class area I didn't remember very well. It was easy to tell that no one was following me in the quiet, dark night. I ate all the crackers and drank the liter of water, finding the iron working shop shortly before dawn. The uncle arrived first and rushed me inside. After assuring him no one followed me, he called Jorge on his cellphone and calmly told him to go fetch William but not why. . The reunion was great. Tears flowed. We hugged each other probably much too long. He whispered in my ear that he hadn't told anyone anything about `us' as he put it. Though they wanted to hear what had happened to me, I was far too curious about how William had escaped not to ask that first. "When ah heard that man talkin' ta you, ah knew he wuz a cop so ah got all mah stuff, even mah school stuff an' the toofpaste," which I assumed to mean the KY, "an' ah wen' out the sahd do' an' clum up them bamboo poles wuz out back onta the roof an' then ah pushed `em at the wall so's they wuz gonna think ah wen' ovuh the wall inta this othuh man's house an' ah lay down flat an' stayed lahk that fo' a long tahm `cuz ah din't know fo' sho' if'n all a them men wuz gone `til a heahed othuh people out front tawkin' an' ah waited fo' them ta go too `cuz ah din't wan' nobody knowin' ah wuz in theah `cuz ah wuz sho' the cops wuz theah `cuz a how ah cum wif that coyote an' ah wuz a eelegal. Then, when they weren't nobody no mo', ah cum down, fust ah dropped all mah stuff then ah got on the side an' dropped mahself wheah they was grass an' dirt an' ah wen' out an' real quick down ta the cohnuh an' got this tuk tuk an' cum ovuh heah an' tio Chico, he paid the man an' ah stayed heah, well, at `is house. "Couple tahms ah wen' neah the house ta see if'n you cum back but ah wuz skeered they wuz watchin' so ah nevah wen' close. Soliman's mothuh sent you that lettuh wif `is telephone numbuh an' you called an' tha's when ah knowed you wuz okay. "Whut they say to you how cum they wuz `restin' you?" I had to relate as much as I thought necessary from the knock on my door to my release. Basically, I admitted that it looked like William was right, that the Americans were after us both for how he'd come to Honduras but that I was sure they had no idea who he was. I asked him if his fingerprints had ever been taken. He'd seen it being done on TV and had been told how it had been done to Tia Lili and the others including Soliman so was sure they'd never done it to him. I told him how our house had been stripped of everything that might have had his fingerprints and that I thought he was very clever to take the `toothpaste' with him. Ricardo, the uncle he called `Chico', assured me that no one had been by his or his sister's asking any questions nor had they seen any suspicious vehicles or persons. When I said that it was going to be difficult for me to see him very often, William came up with a solution. "If'n you lived lahk raht nex' ta us, we could make a do' from heah inta yo' house." When he said it again in Spanish, Ricardo took me by the arm and showed me the empty lot behind his shop. It belonged to his deceased father. They'd been planning to sell it for years but one of the four siblings had always wanted to wait in case a family member wanted to buy it. "You are a member of our family now. You can buy it." Realizing that if the purchase, construction and move were to be hidden, the Americans would rightly guess it was an attempt to get close to the boy they were seeking. So, for a week, I hired tuk tuks to take me around looking at houses and empty lots for sale, eventually stopping to look at the lot I'd already arranged to buy. Only once did it appear I was being followed, this time, possibly cleverly, by a pair of tuk tuks. A lawyer was hired to handle the transaction, the lot bought and a cousin of Ricardo hired to build the house as I designed it. An architect was required to put structure to my plans and formalize them in order to get the required permits. It was during that week that my hard working lawyer called again. He had my passport and a police report that stated there were no charges then or ever before against me in Honduras. I was going to need that to go after my residency, a process he expected the Americans would try to thwart but felt confident Atty. Montenegro could overcome any obstacles they put in the way. The construction itself was painfully slow though I was told by my landlord and a neighbor that it would normally take six months to a year for a new house to be built. Mine was done in just under three months. A door through the rear wall was installed when all else was complete so none of the other workers by then gone would know it existed. The secret entry was hidden behind a vertical stack of construction lumber and used corrugated sheet metal roofing material. The door opened into the back of Ricardo's shop. Only a slim person could slip through behind the camouflage. William and I had our first night alone in bed the day the secret entry was complete. He told me that he hadn't allowed Jorge to screw him for a week just so his ass would be perfect for me. I'd have been just as happy to have him beside me in bed again but the sex was wonderful, both times. It's now been four years since I left the United States. There was a lot of bureaucracy and a couple of payoffs during the eight months it took to get my residency but it got done and, under the new regimen for Central America, my ID is also good for Guatemala, El Salvador and Nicaragua. William's birth certificate as Javier (the closest thing we could come up with to Yackie) Jaime Perez Bran cost close to eighteen thousand dollars but it is done and he is a citizen with a certificate for first year junior high in his folder. At fifteen, according to his Honduran papers, he will graduate from high school at nineteen. We'd been able to arrange multiple grades per year in a primary school, that hasn't proven possible since. He doesn't want to go to college, just computer repair school. He loves electronics. Of course, William is no longer the sixty-six pound, forty-five inch tall child I first met. He's moving slowly past five feet four and still slim. I doubt he'll add more than a couple of inches and, lucky for him, possibly never make it to medium build. It has been necessary to widen the secret entryway but not by much and mostly for the faster growing, and much thicker, Soliman, with whom I have never had sex. William and I still make love as before even though he has a girl friend from school. Actually, he's become quite creative over the years. We alternate who enters who and keep it oral once a week or so. His dick is long enough to get into me from every angle and side one could imagine. His favorite, both ways, is with the receiver on his back, ass in the air held up by his hands with elbows below and the giver standing and plunging in from above. It applies maximum pressure when passing the prostate and maximum tightness on the inserted cock in our well used, loose holes. To a far less pleasant subject, the surveillance became spotty after a couple of weeks. I guessed they figured the boy they sought would stay hidden for a time but sooner or later return making periodic surveillance an effective means of capturing him and then successfully take me. However, that patient methodology apparently wore thin since there's been no sign of watchers for three years. Nonetheless, we still use the secret entrance and don't go out in public. Tia Lili is his paper mother and handles school matters. It is a bother but, under the circumstances, a practical and effective precaution. Once he turns eighteen, screw `em! Even with all the political, economic and natural calamities this country has gone through and had to overcome, I've learned to love it here. William's presence in my life, of course, is a major factor, but there are a lot of great people here. The weather could be nicer as it is in Guatemala City which I've visited a few times, but, you can't have everything. So, what do I do when William leaves the nest? Who knows but I'm sure I'll find someone, though I'll probably try to keep it platonic. Times have changed, tragically.