RED RAIN

by Victoria Rivers ©1997


Jarod didn't know how long he had been traveling, wasn't sure where his latest sojourn had taken him. He stood in line at the bus stop, glancing around him wearily for some sign that would tell him where he was. Not that it mattered much. One place was much the same as any other, and Athena no longer waited for him to come home to her. She was gone. Dead. Murdered right before his eyes. For weeks he had been buying tickets to wherever the person in line before him had gone, not caring where he ended up, even if it took him back to Delaware.

Flagstaff, the sign read. He sighed heavily, setting the Halliburton down between his feet while he waited for a bus that would take him to anywhere. Fatigue was a constant companion now, but he refused to take time to sleep. If he laid down and closed his eyes, the demons would come for him, and he would be lost in the red rain that reminded him vividly of what he had done. Exhaustion stole up on him now and then as he rode in the back of a taxi while the driver ran up his fare, or when he sat in the cushioned seat of an airplane, train or bus, and he would succumb to the siren song of sleep, only to wake when the blood of Damon Winterbourne and his victims began to shower down on him from above. Jarod's guilt knew no bounds, and even though he tried to convince himself that he was justified in killing the psychopath, it was the first time he had ever taken a life with his own hands. He shoved those hands into the pockets of his black trousers, feeling the ever-present stickiness of blood that would not quite wash off.

He wanted to get away, to end his pain, but nowhere that he had traveled held the key to that equation. The December chill made him draw his jacket more closely about him, and he wondered idly what the date was. A glance at the newspaper stand on the corner told him, twisting an invisible knife in his chest, and he shut his eyes tightly, fighting back the tears he had not been able to allow free.

December 10. Athena's due date. The birthday his children would never have.

He remembered a simulation he had done when he was 20, concerning a scientist who had died mysteriously while working on a government project. Arthur Kragen had been in his prime, brilliant, wealthy, deeply involved in his work, but his wife had left him for another man almost a year earlier. Kragen had seen his ex-wife the week before his death, and she was happier than she had ever been with him. All of Kragen's dreams of winning her back once his project was finished died a sudden, violent death, and shortly afterward Kragen came to the realization that life without love was a pointless exercise.

Arthur Kragen had committed suicide by wrapping his ankles in heavy steel chains and pushing himself off the end of a pier near his country home, and the simulation had bothered Jarod for months afterward. He couldn't understand the depths of such despair over loneliness; solitude was so much a part of his world it was normalcy to him. There wasn't a day that he didn't rise wondering what it would be like to be surrounded by people living normal lives, nor a night he didn't retire to his bed in the depths of the Centre to dream of the relationships he explored for others, yet could never have for himself.

Jarod stood with his head down in line, concentrating on increasing his body temperature to combat the cold, relaxing into the warmth. He glanced up at his reflection in the window of a nearby bakery, his stomach rumbling from hunger, reminding him that it had been days since he'd eaten. The ghostly image in the glass was a stranger to him now, and he turned away from it.

Someone behind him tapped him on the shoulder and asked the time. After checking his watch, Jarod gave a brief reply without looking at the man.

"Wrong," the stranger replied. "It's time to kill!"

Jarod glanced over his shoulder quickly at the familiar voice, gooseflesh rising on his back and shoulders as his brown eyes met the cold, soulless blue ones of Damon Winterbourne.

"You're dead," Jarod whispered hollowly, wondering if Miss Parker had managed to get Damon to a hospital before his last breath was expelled, if the doctors there might have managed to save him and patch him up. If they had, the Centre would certainly have sent him back out on the hunt once again.

But Jarod knew better. He had felt the knife in his hand puncture tough heart muscle, felt the fountain of hot blood spray up onto his hand, his face, his shirt, painting him in gore. He had twisted the knife, intending to do more damage internally, before yanking it free of Damon's body. He had seen the light go out in Damon's eyes before stepping away from the corpse to bolt as Miss Parker fired her gun at him. He was absolutely certain Damon was dead.

He blinked, massaged his weary eyes, and tried to focus on the stranger's face again, but there was no one there. Jarod glanced around, looking for him, and spied the familiar, boyish face a few feet away, smiling back at him in the glass. Dressed in black, and standing with a silver Halliburton between his feet in the queue.

"No," he breathed. Damon's reflection laughed back at him in place of his own.

"This is what you become, handsome," said the ghostly image. "This is what the Centre makes of you."

Jarod shook his head, trying to clear it, refusing to believe.

"This is what you are, Jarod," said Damon. "You're just like me. You take pleasure in the pain of others. You need it, need the rush it gives you to watch them suffer the way you suffered. Admit it, and be free."

"No!" cried Jarod, bringing his hands up to his head, holding his ears to keep from hearing any more. But the voice rang inside his head, and the face loomed closer as he stepped toward the glass. "I'll never be like you!"

He planted his feet and drew back his fist to smash the glass, but it was too late. In the window he watched Damon pull a knife from inside his jacket and turn to the person nearest him. Jarod saw the blade streak across the throat of a woman holding her little girl's hand, and heard Damon's mad laughter echoing all around him. He saw the other Pretender slash and stab recklessly, darting in and out of the holiday pedestrians, leaving a bloody trail behind him. Jarod put his hands to his face, unable to look any more, but they were sticky and when he looked at them, they were dripping with blood.

Clouds gathered above him, angry black vapors that hovered low above his head, and he raised his face to the heavens to plead for mercy when the first few warm drops began to pelt against his face. They were salty and viscous, and filled his eyes so that he couldn't see. He wiped them on his sleeve and blinked at the sidewalk beneath his feet to clear his vision. The drops were rich, vibrant crimson, and they splattered against the cement, against the brick wall of the store, against the glass, against his clothes and skin. In a moment he saw that he was standing in a puddle of the thick red stuff, and surrounding him were bodies of women, children, old people, young adults. Everyone who had been standing near him at the bus stop was dead, mutilated, and Damon slithered up beside him and placed the slippery knife in his hand.

"Your turn, baby," he whispered. "Let's have some fun!"

Jarod wanted to drop the knife, but it wouldn't fall out of his hand. He turned the blade toward himself, aimed the point toward his own heart, but Damon's hand closed over his fist.

"I won't let you do that," he cooed. "Too much to do yet. Too many people to kill. Just try it once, and I promise you'll give up the Dudley Do-Right gig. You want to dispense some real justice? I can show you how."

The shower continued to fall around them, painting the landscape a vivid crimson.

"Bathe in it, Jarod. Drink it in. It's sweet, you know? Taste the justice in it. Justice for what was done to you. They deserve it. All of them do."

Red rain.

Jarod's head came up with a jerk and he gasped as his eyes flew open. The nightmare was only that, and he trembled with relief as he saw people standing patiently in the queue with him, walking to and fro on their personal journeys, unaware of the horror of his recurring nightmare.

The line shuffled forward a few steps as a bus pulled up to the stop, and Jarod reached down to lift the heavy Halliburton as he prepared to board. With a strangled cry of surprise he saw that the case was gone and glanced around for the thief who had taken it. The expensive silver briefcase was nowhere in sight. He ran to the corner, glancing around for the gleam of flashing metal and caught a glimpse of reflected light just as a taxi door closed. It could have been anything, but instinct told Jarod that it was his case, and he ran down the street after the departing car. The vehicle pulled away into traffic at a steady speed, leaving him far behind in seconds.

"No!" Jarod cried, the last of his world crumbling around him as he lost sight of the car. Panic set in, and he dashed back to the curb at the insistence of an irritated driver's horn. He glanced around quickly for a car he could appropriate to catch up to the taxi, but all of the vehicles he spied were either moving or parked and locked, keys in their owners' pockets. It was too late. He had lost everything. The DSAs were his only concrete reference to his past, proving to him on more than one occasion that the memories he retained were somehow corrupted or missing completely. Those disks and photos were the only proof that he had lived, and without them he did not know who he was.

The emptiness of Arthur Kragen's loss filled him once again, and this time he was powerless against it. He understood it at last, and there was nothing left to make him want to hold on any longer. He could feel the comforting weight of steel chains around his ankles, the heaviness that would anchor him to the bottom, making his feet adhere to the sidewalk beneath him. He stared at the smooth concrete and saw planks of wood, giving way to gently lapping, cool water below. Closing his eyes, he stepped forward and felt the sudden downward plummet, chilly water soaking his clothes and closing quickly over his head. His arms were buoyant, floating upward, and he held his last breath a moment longer before expelling it. In his mind's eye he saw Athena waiting for him at the trailer, ready to welcome him home. Jarod inhaled, water burning its way into his lungs.

Only it wasn't real. He felt a sudden peace with the decision he had made, and scanned about for a means to the end. It was time. He was ready for relief from the constant agony of life, and stood ready to welcome whatever came afterward.

A moving van was approaching the intersection to his left, and the light was green. The truck was heavily loaded and moving at a good clip toward the intersection. Jarod calculated its mass and speed, potential impact and damage capabilities, and prepared to move. His whole body vibrated with agony beyond his capability to bear. He had to make it stop.

He stepped out into the street and faced Death, welcoming it with open arms.

"Refuge," he sobbed softly, his eyes fixed on the swiftly approaching chromed grill.

Somebody grabbed his coat sleeve and hauled him back to the curb just before the truck made contact, and he fell onto his rescuer, knocking her backward onto the sidewalk.

"Well, that was a bloody inconsiderate way to go!" she admonished him angrily. Her British-flavored speech softened along with her gaze as he got off her and sat down beside her on the curb. "I'm sorry, son. I didn't mean to snap. I'm sure you're in a lot of pain right now or you wouldn't have tried to off yourself."

Jarod said nothing. He couldn't look at her, couldn't reply. He was sure his whole body would break into pieces at any moment, and waited for oblivion to bring him the peace he so desperately needed. The woman touched him, began to rub his back and shoulders comfortingly, ending with a one-armed embrace. She urged him to his feet and into the back of a limousine parked at the curb just as a crowd began to gather after witnessing the save.

"It's all right, love," she murmured, her arm still around his shoulders as she sat beside him on the wide seat. "I know you think you can't make it, but that will change. If you check out now, you'll never know what wonders are waiting for you down the road a bit." She pulled him close, laid his head down on her shoulder and began rocking him like a mother does a wounded child.

A shudder shook him as her warmth enveloped his body, seeping slowly into his heart, and he began to cry the tears he had refused to shed when Athena died. He had tried to convince himself that his soul died with her, that he could no longer feel, and the residual pain was simply a reflex action that would pass in time. But as he wept in the arms of a compassionate stranger he knew that he had been trying to fool himself, denying his grief in favor of guilt and self-loathing. He had been ready to give up everything, and had it not been for a stranger's concern, he would have succeeded. Great sobs shook him as grief took control, and when his tears were spent he lay back against the seat wearily and looked into the eyes of the woman who had rescued him.

"My name's Grace St. James," she said softly, offering him a warm smile. "What's yours, son?"

"Jarod," he said hoarsely, his voice shaking along with the rest of him. He tried to remember the name he was currently using, the one he had chosen to wear when he wasn't being anyone in particular. "Jarod Black."

"You look like you could use a little something, dear," observed Grace. "There's a cafe just down the street here that makes a mean plate of fajitas. My treat. How about it?"

Not knowing what else to say, he agreed and his stomach rumbled its hearty approval of the idea. The driver took Grace's destination through the intercom and pulled away from the curb into traffic, delivering them to the restaurant moments later. The woman was quiet while Jarod wolfed down a plate of chicken fajitas and a bowl of tortilla soup. She studied his clothing, which looked new yet smelled as if he had worn the outfit for several days. He was unshaven and his hair needed a trim, but he didn't have the air of homelessness about him that she expected from her first sight of him in the street. He simply looked as if he had been through an emotional wringer and stopped taking care of himself some time back. And she wasn't at all surprised when he pulled out a huge roll of bills to pay for lunch in spite of her protest, and left an outrageously large tip without a second thought.

"What did you mean, that was inconsiderate of me?" Jarod asked as he pushed his empty plate away, picking up a blue corn tortilla chip and dipping it into the bowl of spicy salsa between them on the table.

Her brow furrowed for a moment, and then she remembered her earlier comment. "I know that when people want to off themselves, it's an innately selfish act. They don't usually consider the feelings of those their act will affect. Like that truck driver. Imagine what smashing you into the pavement would have done to him."

Jarod stopped chewing for a moment and did just that. He swallowed the chip audibly. "I'm sorry. I guess I wasn't thinking clearly."

"You've been through a lot," Grace said, stroking his forearm as it lay on the table. "That's evident in your face, son. But things can't be so bad that waiting another day won't help. That's the trick to surviving. Just take it one moment at a time. Get through the next hour, and then the next one after that. Pretty soon, it's one day at a time, and it gets easier from there. But the pain never quite goes away. That's something we just have to learn to live with."

He met her eyes again. "Sounds like the voice of experience," he mused thoughtfully.

She nodded and pulled back the sleeves of her sweater to show him a pair of deep scars along her wrists. For a moment she said nothing. "I lost the man I loved years ago, in the first blush of newlywed bliss," she told him quietly. "I thought I had lost everything. But after this..." She stroked the scars familiarly, and pulled the sleeves down to cover them again. "...after I woke up in hospital, the doctors told me I was pregnant with John's child. Turned out I had something to live for after all." Her smile glowed with pride. "Jonathan's a Navy pilot now. I don't get to see him much these days."

Jarod took in her neatly styled, graying auburn hair, her intuitive brown eyes, and thought of his mother. Suddenly he was ashamed of giving up, realizing there was still a very important mission for him to accomplish with his life. Someone was waiting for him, and hoping.

"Thank you, Grace," he said softly. "You kept me from making a permanent mistake."

"I'm glad you think so, Jarod." She smiled again. "But I hope you'll pardon me if I don't believe you for a few days, at least until I know a bit more about you."

"I understand," he returned. "Listen, do you know where the newspaper office is? I'd like to post a reward for my briefcase that was stolen just before we met. It has my whole life in it."

"Don't you want to call the police first?" she asked, but the guilty, closed look on his face was answer enough. "Well, I don't live in Flagstaff, but I'm sure if we take a taxi, they'll know."

"You here on business or visiting someone?" he asked casually.

"Business, actually. I'm the director of the St. James Stewardship Foundation, up near Marble Canyon, and every year I come to Flagstaff to report to our investors on the progress of our long term cases. I can stay in Flagstaff a little longer, if I like. Until I'm sure you're all right."

"What, exactly, does the Foundation do?" He was getting interested, and attaching himself to a worthwhile project might be just what he needed to get back on his feet emotionally. He hadn't read a newspaper in months, hadn't considered helping anyone else since Athena died.

Grace laughed a little nervously. "That's rather hard to explain. We just, sort of... help people who need help. Mostly children, but there are a few adults in some of our programs as well." She frowned and glanced away, shifted in her chair, then suddenly brightened. "An idea has me, Jarod! Why don't you come with me? I'd like to show you Galleons Lap."

Jarod's brows twitched together. "Who is Galleon and why would I want to see his lap?"

She laughed brightly. "Galleons Lap is the name of my estate. From the Winnie-the-Pooh stories."

"Winnie the Who?"

"Pooh. As in Bear," she explained patiently. "Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet? The children's stories?"

Jarod still looked puzzled but Grace decided to explain later. She could see by the shift in his expression that he was considering something else, something more serious. "What's the matter, Christopher Robin?"

"My name's Jarod." Frowning at her apparently short memory and deciding to forgive her for it, he pondered aloud about his briefcase, trying to figure the best way to retrieve it. He decided not to mention the fact that he was on the run, or why he didn't want to get the police involved, but Grace seemed to understand his need for avoiding the authorities without asking obvious questions. He still had his cellular phone, and decided to put an ad in the newspaper requesting the finder call with information regarding the briefcase, and take it from there.

"So you'll come to visit me?" Grace asked hopefully.

"In a day or two. I want to see what my ad turns up here first."

"Then I'm staying as well," she insisted, and hauled him out to the curb to hail a taxi.


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Sydney waited for the door to be unlocked and strolled casually into a bright, simply furnished room. He smiled at the thirty-something woman seated at an easel beneath a false skylight, and she greeted him, smiling, without looking up from her painting.

"Hi, Sydney. It's been too long."

"Visiting you is a pleasure I should indulge in more often, Samantha," he said softly, wandering closer. "I don't often take time to do things for myself, but I should. You need to know that you have friends here, too, rather than just being used for your talents."

She chuckled softly, lifting a lock of her long brown hair back from her face with the shaft of her paintbrush. "It's okay, Sydney," she assured him. "I know who really likes me and who doesn't. And I know you're busy. Besides, I stay occupied and live pretty stress free in between assignments." Her smile faded away. "Which is why you've come. You have some work for me to do. I'm surprised they didn't send Theda to lead me through the exercise."

Sydney didn't need to acknowledge her prediction. That was part of her unique abilities, and as he watched her clean her brush and put away her paints, he noticed the grace of her movements, slow and dance-like, as though she was walking in a dream. He loved her after a fashion, and that brought an element of trust between them that helped them work well together. But it also skewed the results at times, which was why the Centre had matched her up with Theda, a woman psychologist, as her usual guide.

"I'm ready now," Samantha announced, and stepped away from the easel to take a seat on the off-white sofa hugging the wall. "You're looking for someone," she stated certainly, and closed her eyes. After a moment she opened them again. "I can't see him, but he's someone you care for deeply. Your son?"

He shook his head. "No. One of the other residents of the Centre. He's on assignment, and he hasn't contacted us for a while. We're concerned about him." Sydney hoped she wouldn't feel the lie he had told her, and remembered Jarod stretched out on his belly on the floor of his quarters, books of all sorts strewn around him as he studied for a simulation. That was the sort of image he wanted her to find in his mind. "I have no children, Samantha. But Jarod's the closest thing I have to one. He's my protege."

Samantha closed her eyes and was quiet for a long time. "I can't see him, Sydney. Do you have something of his that I can touch?"

From a manila envelope held beneath his arm, Sydney retrieved the origami figure of Onysius, god of retribution, laid it on the envelope like a serving tray and held it out to her. She took it gingerly, careful not to bend any of the precise folds, and laid the paper angel in her lap. While she was busy with the exploration of that, Sydney walked around the room, looking at the little drawings she had scattered about here and there on tables, and eventually made his way to the easel. He stepped around and glanced at the painting, and froze. On the left half of the canvas was a black background supporting half of a child's face, round and innocent, with a big brown eye and a shock of close-cropped dark hair. On the right side of the painting, against a painfully bright sky filled with white clouds was the half-face of a grown man, matched perfectly in size to the boy's, so that the viewer could see that they were the same person, young and grown-up. Sydney recognized the person immediately, but held his comment until Samantha spoke again.

"Sorry, Sydney. I'm sure it will come to me in time. You know these things are never precise."

"Who is this you're painting?" he asked casually.

Samantha smiled warmly. "I've been dreaming about him for a while," she answered with a trace of wistful affection in her eyes and voice. "He comes to me as an angel, wings and all, but sometimes he's dressed in black and sometimes in white. So I'm never sure if he's one of the good guys or not. He's always so sad when he's in black."

"Does he talk to you in your dreams?"

Color filled her face and she turned away. "No. Not verbally, anyway."

"Ah," said Sydney knowingly. "He's your dream lover."

"C'mon, Syd," Samantha returned quickly. "You know I can't have sex. But no, what I share with my angel is a different kind of communication, one I can't describe."

"I know it's hard for you to let people touch you," Sydney rephrased. "But it's not impossible..."

She hugged herself, her shoulders rising up in revulsion as she remembered some of the things she had felt in the past when someone made physical contact with her. "I can't Sydney. I see too much. I feel too much. It... it overloads me with things I can't handle."

"Yes," he agreed with a nod, sliding his hands into his pants pockets and strolled closer to the couch. "I know how difficult it is for you. And I'm sorry."

Her eyes grew large and frightened, but her expression was filled with regret. "You know I'd like to be held once in a while," she said softly. "I remember my mother holding me to comfort me. And sometimes my brother would, too. It didn't bother me with them."

Man and woman stared at each other, wishing to cross the great chasm between them, yet neither willing to take the first step.

"Perhaps, if you loved enough," Sydney suggested, "and were loved enough in return..."

"I know you care for me," she whispered tightly. "But I can't. I just can't. I have enough darkness inside me, Sydney." She stood and moved toward him, almost touching his face, but withdrew her hand before she made contact. "I couldn't handle all of yours, too."

He nodded, closing his hands into fists inside his pockets to keep from reaching out to her. "I have loved you from the first moment I saw you last year, Samantha--"

"Sydney," she cut in quickly, turning away. "The Centre won't allow it, even if I could. Please, don't do this."

He backed down immediately, turning off his desire for her and stepping back into his role. "I'm sorry, Samantha. It won't happen again." He paused, meeting her eyes steadily, warmly, with a touch of sadness. "I want you to look forward to my visits, not be defensive."

She smiled, regret sparkling in her bright gaze. "Then what would you like to talk about, my old friend?" she asked him warmly, and sat down again on one end of the sofa, gesturing him to be seated on the other.


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At four a.m. Jarod's phone rang. He was sitting at the desk in a hotel room that Grace insisted he rent so he could clean up and rest, browsing the Web on his new laptop computer instead of sleeping after his bath, trying to keep his demons at bay, when the warble of the ringer on his cellular phone caught his attention. He lunged for his new jacket hanging on the back of the chair and answered before the third ring.

"I have your briefcase."

It was a woman's voice, unfamiliar, yet with a foreign cadence to her speech. Her accent was an unusual mixture of British and American, but he knew that English was her second language, though he couldn't identify her origins just yet.

"Have you looked inside it?" He clutched the edge of the desk and held on, hoping this would be the right caller and not a hoax to try to collect the reward.

"Interesting little machine in there," said the thief. "Even more interesting life, Jarod."

Something inside him wilted, knowing that his secrets had been bared to a stranger. "I'm willing to pay handsomely for the return of my property. All of it, intact."

"I don't want your money," said the woman. "But I will give it back to you. In about a week. After I've seen all these little memories of yours. They are yours, aren't they? The man on the disks looks like the man at the bus stop, and the voice is the same, so I'm assuming this is Jarod."

"It is." He didn't know what to say. He felt suddenly naked, more vulnerable than at any time before in his life. "Please. Don't do this. Just give it back to me. I'll pay you everything I have."

"Don't beg," she snapped back. "It doesn't become a man of your stature and brilliance." There was a slight pause, and then her voice deepened with reluctant emotion. "I promise to give it back to you, Jarod. I was supposed to take someone else's Halliburton at the stop today, but I think this was an omen. Only before I can figure out what I'm supposed to do, I have to know more about you."

"Why? You know my whole life is in that case. I almost died today when I realized it was gone."

"I know. I saw that woman pull you out from in front of the truck." She sighed. "I know it's impossible for you to trust me, but I must ask you to for now. No one else will see any of this, I swear. Your secrets are safe with me. I'll call you again in a week to arrange its return."

The connection died in his ear and he slammed the phone shut, shoving it deeply into the pocket of his jacket again. One week, he told himself, could be far too late, and he would need to be out of the immediate vicinity by the time the Centre's sweeper team arrived in response to the newspaper ad. He would call the paper and cancel the ad first thing in the morning, then go with Grace to her estate up north, where he would still be in range to receive the thief's next phone call, and close enough to meet to pick up his briefcase.

That is, if she meant to return it to him at all.


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Jarod admired the rugged scenery flying by his window as he rode in the limousine with Grace. He stared at her curiously when she began to applaud softly and give a little cheer to God for the beautiful sunset, but he said nothing. She hummed softly to herself, a nonsense little tune that he rather enjoyed. He felt comfortable with her, even in long stretches of silence during the drive, as if they had been friends for a long time and didn't need to fill up the empty spaces between them with unnecessary words.

After they left Flagstaff she asked him what kind of music he liked, and he spent the next hour browsing through the limo's CD library and playing with the stereo. He adjusted volume and balance, re-set the levels incessantly, wandered from classical to rock to country at random points, and rather than growl at him for his irritating behavior, Grace joined in, handing him CDs with her comments on particular tracks and then digging through the stack for more. They were like a pair of ten-year-olds, happily playing together in perfect harmony.

The car turned off the main road and drove for another half hour as dusk fell, but Jarod could clearly see tall adobe walls ringing Grace's home, rising up out of the rocky terrain. Once past the automated front gate and inside the perimeter, Jarod noticed large plots of neatly cultivated gardens, an athletic field, an archery range, sheep pens, and a large water tower dominating the landscape. The house itself was huge, more like a university campus surrounded by smaller outbuildings, all connected with covered walkways or arbors clouded by dormant vines.

Grace led the way into the main house, where the staff greeted them with warm smiles and questions about her trip. She introduced Jarod only by his first name, and he noticed that the staff was dressed in the same uniform: long-sleeved white tunics and loose-fitting white pants with soft suede moccasins on their feet to set them apart from the residents and visitors. Many Navajos moved purposefully about, and Grace explained that the house was built on the fringes of the reservation, bordering the Kaibab National Forest and overlooking the Colorado River. She provided jobs for a large number of the natives, and the tribal council was involved in the operation of the Foundation.

"But as much as I would love to show you the whole place tonight, Jarod, I can see that you're exhausted," Grace added to her lecture. "I'll take you upstairs to one of the guest rooms, and you can soak in a hot tub, put on some fresh clothes -- I hope you don't mind white -- have a quiet meal in your room and get some sleep. We can talk in the morning, after you've rested. All right?"

He followed her to the third floor and sat down experimentally on the bed. He did need a bath and a shave, and wanted another meal, but he did not want to lie down and intended to go exploring after freshening up.

The hot water made him drowsy and he nodded off in the tub, only to jerk awake when the sky clouded over and the red rain began to fall. He was pleased that the bathroom came equipped with a brand new razor and toothbrush, and after polishing off a large salad and vegetable stew that had been brought to his room, he brushed his teeth and went downstairs to check out the rest of the place.

An old man sat alone in the library, reading beneath a Tiffany lamp, and Jarod wandered in to see what books the huge room held. There were technical sections with everything from quantum physics to medical anatomy, sections of philosophy and the classics, and a large number of children's books, all located on the lower shelves where small hands could reach them easily. He found A.A. Milne's The World of Pooh and sat down to read through it, hoping to find a clue to the reason why Grace named her estate so oddly. He smiled as he recognized familiar characterizations of Sydney the owl, Broots as Piglet, and Miss Parker playing a rather nasty version of Eeyore.

"There are no doors to my soul," the old man said after a long pause. "There are no doors, because there are no walls on which to hang them." He sighed. "I love that one. Don't you?"

Jarod glanced up from the book in his lap, realizing the question was for him. "Excuse me?"

The grizzled old fellow rose from his cushioned seat and hobbled over to Jarod, sitting down again on the ottoman by his chair. "The poem," he said casually, and repeated it for his audience. "Beautiful sentiment, don't you think? Though I expect most of us have all too many walls around our souls."

"Who's the poet?" asked Jarod, studying the book in the old man's hands for a title and author.

He chuckled, watching the younger man's eyes go fishing. "Why, this is Pooh's journal," said the elder bemusedly. "She keeps her old ones here in the library for all of us to read, if we like. And of all people, I expect it would be most true of her. No walls. She lets people walk right in and make themselves at home in her soul. You're new here, aren't you?"

"Just got in today. I'm Jarod. Isn't Pooh a bear?"

"I'm Byron. Byron Hastings. We call Grace Pooh because she's... well, because she is. Why did you come to Galleons Lap?"

Not sure exactly what he was asking, Jarod replied, "I was invited."

"We all were," said Byron. "Sometimes by Grace, sometimes by the wind. We come here because we need to be here for a while. I take it you don't want to get the shut-eye Pooh offered?"

Jarod frowned, wondering how Byron knew about that, but when he arrived there were people everywhere, moving about performing their duties. This old fellow could have been among all the others dressed in white, and Jarod might not have noticed. "I like to read before bed," he told the man, trying to throw him off the scent.

"I like to drink before bed," Byron admitted enthusiastically. "Want some? It helps keep the demons at bay."

The Pretender's wary smile vanished. Had he become so easy to read?

"Sorry, I don't drink alcohol."

Byron shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if you want a deep sleep without dreams, this is the stuff to get you there." He rose and unlocked the liquor cabinet, poured himself a large glass of Scotch and a spare, then set the extra glass on the table beside Jarod.

The old man was on his third glass when Jarod lifted the tumbler to his lips. He sniffed gently, and the fumes burned his nose, making his eyes water. Experimentally, he took a sip and grimaced as the liquid scorched its way down his throat.

"Good stuff, eh?" asked Byron delightedly. "Pooh has some Greek ouzo -- or something like that -- that'll set your socks on fire from the inside. But she keeps that in her private rooms."

Jarod tried to form an answer, but his mouth wouldn't work. He took another swig of whisky, and a moment later finished the glass. The warmth seeped through his whole body, and he decided he'd had enough.

Byron poured him another. After the fifth glass, the old man helped the young one stagger up the stairs and laid him out on his bed, turned off the lights and closed the door with a smile. He stopped by Grace's room long enough to congratulate her on her plan, then toddled off to find his own bed further down the hall.


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"I'm impressed," said Jarod thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming after his tour of the grounds next morning. "This is a completely self-sufficient community, with everyone fulfilling a necessary and appreciated role. It's perfectly balanced, and everyone seems so... happy."

"Most of us are," Grace agreed. "But it takes a while for some. There's usually a trauma or tragedy that brings people here, and we give them a place to recover. Some of them never leave."

"Like Byron," Jarod assumed. The old man seemed to know the people and Galleons Lap intimately.

Grace smiled. "Like Byron," she agreed. "He came here as an architect 30 years ago, and has continued to find some project or other that keeps him here. He won't admit this is his home now. Still keeps his suitcases in his closet in plain sight, though I don't expect he'll ever use them again."

Jarod rubbed his forehead and wondered if it had shrunk to normal size yet. His sunglasses helped keep the bright day from becoming unbearable, and indoors they dulled the ambient lighting to a tolerable level. So much for his initiation to demon alcohol, he promised himself. One night of drunkenness was more than enough.

"You're doing good things here," he complimented the older woman at his side. "I was surprised to see all the different types of trauma recovery you're dealing with. And the programs are designed to aid whole families in adjusting to their new circumstances, rather than just the victims. That's a very compassionate way of doing things."

"You can't cure a disease by treating only the symptoms," she returned wisely. "You have to treat the whole person. Or the whole family. And that's what I shoot for with this place. Curing the children of abuse, or the victims of physical trauma. Those we can't cure, like the wonderful fey people trapped in autism, or the children who are seen as 'different,' we try to help in other ways. There's room for everyone on this beautiful Earth of ours. We just have to learn to live in it together. That's what the Foundation is for." She shrugged. "Well, part of it, anyway."

They strolled from one of the dormitories toward the main house, shadowed by an arbor covered in wysteria vines. Though still dormant for winter, he could easily imagine how beautiful the clusters of pink, white and purple flowers would be in the spring. "Do you have any positions open? Any staff you're particularly short on at the moment?"

Grace glanced up at him curiously. "Well, we could use a doctor," she admitted. "We've got a medic on premises and a hospital in Marble Canyon, plus the helicopter for emergency lifts, but it would be nice to have one here for dire emergencies. Aside from that, we need teachers, both for trades and for the school, another psychologist... The list goes on. Any of those up your alley, my friend?"

He shrugged. "I've had a pretty extensive education," he answered vaguely. "If I can get a schedule working, I could fill in several of those slots till you find replacements. How about that?"

The woman stopped walking and touched his sleeve. "You really are a doctor?"

"Wanna see my diploma?" he teased. "Come on. Let's get back to the Infirmary and see what kind of equipment you need. And I'll check the stock of meds, too. Are you set up for any emergency surgical procedures? I practiced as a thoracic surgeon a while back."

"Well... no. But if you're capable, I mean, we do occasionally have accidents here and--"

"Then we should be prepared. Just like the Boy Scouts." He took her arm and led her back through the maze of hallways and corridors to the Infirmary, did a quick visual check of supplies and started reeling off a list of things he thought should be added, then politely inquired if the Foundation's budget could handle the expenses. If not, he offered to purchase some of the more expensive items himself.

Grace sat down heavily on a nearby chair and put both hands to her head to hold it steady. "You're moving way too fast for a Bear of Very Little Brain," she told him dazedly.

"Oh, Pooh!" he grinned, getting the reference from the book he had scanned through the previous evening. "You know, it's odd that a woman as obviously intelligent as yourself would identify with such a simple-minded creature as that."

"Bother," said Grace with a slow smile. "Winnie the Pooh is a Bear of much greater wisdom than most people initially grasp. Ever hear of a book called, The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff?"

He raised his eyebrows in question, waiting for her to go on.

"Rather intuitive of Mr. Hoff to see that Pooh is actually a Taoist master," said Grace with a wink. "And at the moment, you make a perfect Christopher Robin, Jarod. There's such an air of innocence and caring about you. But I can see you as a potential Pooh yourself."

"So that's why everyone calls you Pooh," mused Jarod thoughtfully. "Because you're masquerading as a Bear of Very Little Brain, but you actually know exactly what you're doing. Hmmmm." His brow creased. The woman was perplexing, to say the least. He liked that about her.

"By Jove, I think he's got it!" teased Grace. "Now, come on and let's get your list done up proper on one of the computers. And no need spending your money on us. The Foundation's got quite enough support from me and mine to be able to handle the purchases."

Jarod keyed in his list for Grace on her office computer and went back to the Infirmary, setting up shop and arranging everything to suit himself. He gave the place a thorough cleaning, too, and was just finishing up when a woman walked in with a small boy about five years old. They were so dissimilar in appearance that he thought she might be his teacher or sitter, and waited for confirmation.

"Can I help you?" asked Jarod.

The woman had very short brown hair and brown eyes, and there were several areas on the left side of her face that were swollen and red, obviously from some fairly recent trauma. Her wide eyes were wary as she clutched the little boy's hand, and when she got her first good look at the new doctor, she seemed suddenly nervous and agitated. Jarod took note of the fact that she was heavily pregnant, due any day, and wondered what it was about himself that so obviously frightened her. The little boy was brown-skinned and raven-haired, probably Navajo, and he stood sucking his thumb while Jarod looked them over and waited for a reply.

"Um, Nathan wanted to see you," she said softly. She kept near the door as if she might bolt through it at any moment.

Jarod's eyes went back up to the woman's face when she spoke. The timbre of her voice was so familiar it reached right into his soul, but the face was nothing like what he expected to be attached to the sound. A lump formed in his throat, and he tried desperately to swallow it down.

"Is he sick?" asked Jarod huskily. He turned away to set the bottle of cleaning solution down and strip off his latex gloves. He glanced over his shoulder at the pair in the doorway and watched the woman squat down beside the boy so he could whisper in her ear.

"He says he just wanted to look at you," the woman answered with a helpless shrug. "Sorry. We didn't mean to disturb you."

"It's okay. I'm the new doctor here." He came forward and held out his hand to the boy, who backed away and hid behind his companion.

"My name's Jarod," he said softly, withdrawing his hand and squatting down to be less threatening with his height. "What did you want to see me about, Nathan?"

He waited patiently, making eye contact with the hesitant child, and smiling back with an honesty he knew the boy would recognize and understand.

Abruptly Nathan stepped forward, yanked his thumb out of his mouth and scribed a circle in the air around Jarod's head.

"Many faces," the boy said. Then he stepped back behind the woman and plugged his thumb back in.

Jarod glanced up at the woman for translation of that cryptic remark.

She was smiling fondly at the child, and gave another little shrug. "I guess that's going to be your tribal name, doc," she said slowly. "I'm Faith. Faith Wise." She stroked the boy's head affectionately. "Nathan doesn't talk to many people, doctor. You should feel privileged that he addressed you directly."

Jarod's eyes went back to the boy's face, and he made eye contact again. "I hope we'll become good friends," he said earnestly. Glancing at the woman's protruding belly, he stood and met her eyes. "And I'll bet I'll be seeing you soon, too. When are you due?"

Faith sighed heavily. "Any time now, I suppose. We didn't have a conception date to work from, so the doctors in El Paso were just guessing." Shifting nervously from one foot to the other, she began to stroke Nathan's hand anxiously as she explained. "I have amnesia. I don't know anything about who I was before the accident."

"When was your last exam?" he asked, heading for the file cabinet to pull her information to read.

"About a week and a half ago," she told him. "Just before I left to come here. Dr. Rafael Garcia recommended me to the Foundation. They're very nice people here."

Jarod smiled and glanced down at the boy. "Is Nathan your son?"

"Nah," Faith grinned, ruffling his hair and then stroking it back into place. "I'd like to claim him, but he was already here when I arrived. His family lives on the reservation. Nathan was waiting for me in my room when I arrived. It was like he was expecting me, though only Grace knew I was coming."

"You have a wonderful name," Jarod observed warmly, his eyes moving back to Faith's damaged face. "Did you pick it out yourself?"

"Yeah. 'Faith', because that was all I had left when I came to in the hospital, and 'Wise' in the hope that my decisions about my babies' future would be so."

He smiled warmly, appreciating the meaning.

"What does 'Jarod' mean?" the woman asked innocently.

Jarod couldn't see her frown, or the guilt creeping into her downcast gaze. His hands were trembling, so he crossed his arms over his chest to keep them still. "It's a Hebrew name. Means 'descendant or inheritor.' "

"Are you Jewish?"

Out of habit he threw an embarrassed glance at the floor. "I wouldn't know."

A tense silence stretched between them, and he suggested that she come back later in the day for an exam, once Nathan was in his kindergarten classes. She agreed reluctantly, and escorted the boy out, while Jarod opened up Faith's medical records and began to read.

RED RAIN

Part II



Jarod strolled down a hallway in the Learning Center, one of the larger buildings on the estate, where Grace had her office. He passed by a small classroom where a Navajo man was teaching a course in carpentry to a pair of middle-aged men and a teenage boy. Both of the men had the appearance of having spent most of their lives behind desks, and Jarod was intrigued to see them taking up something new at the half-way point of their lives. Further down the hallway was a class in accounting and bookkeeping, the adult students looking as if they had spent the bulk of their lives in the outdoors. He began to be curious about the Foundation, but there were more important things on his mind at the moment.

He swung into Grace's office, with its commanding view of the grounds, and glanced around at the odd assortment of books, antique weaponry, masks and stuffed animals that haphazardly decorated the room. Grace sat cross-legged on her futon sofa, eyes closed, feet bare, but aware when he breezed quietly into the room.

"Many happy returns of the day, Jarod," she said with a smile, not bothering to open her eyes. "What can I do for you this afternoon?"

"I wanted to talk to you about Faith Wise," he began casually, taking the chair across from her desk and pulling it up near the sofa. "I've just read her file, and it's full of holes."

Sadness settled into her expression and stayed there. "Yes, Jarod, but that's all we know about her. None of the missing persons searches turned up anything, and with all the damage she suffered, it's a wonder she's done as well as she has."

"The medical report states that she was probably in an auto accident, but there was no accident report filed with the highway patrol. Since she had no identification and no one came forward to claim her, I know they did the best they could in rebuilding her face, but I find it odd that no one would be looking for a pregnant woman. I can't help wondering about that."

"We don't all have family to fall back on," she returned quietly. "Like you, I'd guess. If you had a family, I don't think you'd have tried that stunt in the street. But Faith is strong, and she's ready to get on with her life. Nathan's helping her adjust to living here, so she'll be ready when the baby comes."

"Babies," he corrected quickly. "The last sonogram she had at the hospital shows she's having twins." An old ache flared up in his chest, and he rubbed at it unconsciously, grimacing at the pain. "But, Grace, how will she go on from here? She has no job skills, no--"

"That's what we do here," Grace admitted freely. "We help people who need help, remember? Whatever she wants to do, we can arrange for her to learn."

He was quiet for a moment, watching the woman's pleasant, open face for tell-tale signs of deception and finding none. "Everyone here isn't an amnesia victim," he said suspiciously. "What do you do for them?"

She sat up slowly and reached out, taking his hands in hers and looking deeply into his eyes. "It's different for everyone, darling," she told him. "Sometimes the Foundlings are referred here by doctors, like Faith was. Sometimes they just wander in. How they come to be here isn't the important thing, though. It's what they find here that matters. Some just need a place to rest and recover their strength. Others need a fresh start, for a variety of reasons. We help them do that, in whatever fashion they need. And then there are those who just need a place to call home."

Jarod accepted her explanation, but there was more he needed to know. His curiosity had been piqued by the things he had seen and the people he had met there, and he needed more details. It was too soon to ask Grace herself, so he would look for his answers elsewhere. "I'd like to use a computer for a day or so," he requested formally. "I've got some research projects I'm working on and I need access to the Internet."

"They're upstairs in the computer center," she told him frankly. "Our Net accounts are open to all residents. Just don't hack into any forbidden systems, like the Pentagon, or inject any viruses into the system, and you're welcome to use them whenever you like."

His gaze fell to the floor and he leaned forward, resting elbows on knees and clasping his hands loosely in front of him. "I just can't help thinking that Faith must have someone who cares for her out there, going crazy with worry, wondering what's happened to her. The babies' father, maybe." He frowned, fighting back his memories.

She cocked her head at him, studying his pained expression. "You're a funny sort of lad, Christopher Robin," she observed with the beginnings of a smile. "Your heart is too big for your shirt sometimes, isn't it?"

His brows twitched together as he faced her. "Hmmm?"

Grace laughed softly and rubbed his head, disturbing his short hair and leaving it standing on end. "You need to have more fun and stop being so serious," she teased. "There's plenty of time for that in a day. How about some cookies? I've got Oreos in the crock on the windowsill, and milk in the little fridge in the corner."

"Oreos? Cool! I love those."

After their snack, he remembered why he had come to see her in the first place.

"Grace, Faith is due anytime now," he informed the woman. He watched the woman getting out a game board from the bookshelf, and a small box of playing pieces from beside it. "If the birth is normal, I won't have any trouble handling it myself, but it's always best to have facilities handy for complications..."

She wasn't listening, humming a little tune to herself while she set up the board in the middle of the floor.

"Um, Grace?"

"We'll get you whatever equipment you need, love," she said casually. "Now, come and play a game of chess with me. I use it as a personality test after a fashion. You look like a chess sort of person, anyway. Do you play?"

Jarod didn't want to tell her he'd beaten Bobby Fisher as a child, or that he still played the reclusive master occasionally over the Internet. He decided to go easy on her and play to her level, whatever that was.

Thirty minutes later he walked out of the room with a new respect for the unassuming, matronly redhead, who had very nearly beaten him in several of the fastest games he had ever played. She was the most unpredictable opponent he'd bested, and Jarod was looking forward to completing the other challenging game that they had been engaged in since the moment she pulled him out of the street days earlier.

He went upstairs and found an unoccupied terminal in a corner, took a seat and turned the monitor so none of the other people in the room could see what he was about to do. First, he hacked into the Foundation's records and looked up their finances, who contributed money and how much. The answer to that startled him, for the list of corporations and individuals were among some of the most eclectic in the world, with grants from places like Children of the World and the Nobel Foundation. There were a wealth of advisors, too, from such organizations as Amnesty International and the US Justice Department. The list was impressive, but the donations and grants were fairly small and funneled through a variety of hands that effectively covered the existence of the Foundation to any casual investigators.

A red flag went up, and Jarod decided to dig deeper.


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The phone on Grace's desk rang, and she answered it warmly. "Hallo, there, friend."

"Security ops, Grace," said a woman's voice on the other end of the phone. "Dr. Black is doing some snooping. He's finding his way into places no one else has been able to crack yet."

Mrs. St. James frowned, wondering if she had misjudged her young rescue. "Watch him quietly, and give me regular reports," she suggested. "We've had infiltrators before, but I don't think Jarod is working for anyone else. Still, I want to know what he does. Just make sure no one is obvious about keeping tabs on him, or he'll know it."

"Yes, ma'am."

When she got off the phone, Grace gave the problem some serious thought. She had only known Jarod for a few days, and in that time she had found him to be charming in a melancholy sort of way, definitely in need of some emotional security. But he was still a stranger, and therefore a risk to her operation, and it would pay to be ready for anything he might do. She knew that he was a quick thinker, and that he could move in swiftly and go for the throat when pressed, but given the option and plenty of time, he preferred to strike from the least expected direction. That much she had gotten from playing chess with him.

Grace switched on her computer and logged onto the Internet to find out everything she could about Dr. Jarod Black.


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The next day Grace visited a small room behind the computer center that looked very much like an audio/visual classroom to a casual visitor, and had a chat with the woman she had spoken with briefly the previous afternoon.

"It's the craziest thing," said the Navajo woman admiringly. "He spent a couple of hours dissecting the Foundation from the inside out, and then programmed this... well, I'm not sure exactly what you'd call it, because it isn't a virus or anything like that, but it functions like a one way glass, kinda. We can see out, we can contact anyone out there on the Net just like always, but this program hides us from the rest of the electronic world out there. It's like we're suddenly invisible, but our e-mail comes in just like normal, too. He's built us a cloaking device."

The older woman nodded as if she had been expecting such a revelation. "I think it's time we quietly tightened up our security, Jane. From what I've been able to discover about Dr. Black, I think we may be having some unexpected company soon, and I want to be ready to roll out the welcome mat for them."

Jane Deer shrugged and shifted her weight slightly onto one leg, glancing at a monitor just behind the other woman. "What did you find out?"

Grace sighed worriedly. "That he doesn't exist. And nobody has records as clean as his are."

The two women exchanged a serious, meaningful glance, and then Grace left, headed for her office and the telephone. She had several calls to make, and was fairly certain one of them would be beneficial in locating some trace of the enigmatic visitor that was slowly stealing her heart. She had watched him in the elementary school that morning, teaching an art class and getting more paint on himself than on any of his students' posters. He endured it all with such absolute delight that Grace could not help but be charmed by his radiance. He may not have been what he said he was, but the fact that he was a good man was unmistakable for her. She was as certain of that as she was her own name, and no discovery about his past would be able to change that belief. She knew there was some dark secret he was fleeing, and if she was going to be able to help him, she would have to know what it was.


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Exactly one week had passed since he had lost his briefcase, and Jarod thought about it every day, wondering if the bandit would keep her word. When his cellular phone rang at noon on the seventh day, he answered it immediately, leaving the dining room in the main house for some privacy to carry on his conversation. It was the thief again, and Jarod dared hope he would be able to talk her into an exchange.

"I've seen the disks," she said coolly. "Now I have questions."

"I'm not sure I have the answers you want," he returned evasively, trudging up the stairs to his room. "Most of what you saw I never knew the outcome of, or how the information was used."

"I want to know where the Centre is," the woman demanded firmly.

"They'll kill you," he cautioned her after a slight hesitation. "Security is very tight."

"You beat it, didn't you?" she asked with a trace of humor in her voice. "I also want you to tell me how you escaped. I feel certain they didn't just give you a gold watch and a pat on the head when they were done with you."

Jarod felt his chest tightening. He didn't want to get anyone killed, and if he told her his secrets, he felt sure she would go there to investigate, and end up dead. "Please, don't ask me to do this," he begged softly. "I don't want anyone else to die because of me. There's enough of that on my conscience already."

"I'm not giving you an option, here, Jarod," she reminded him coldly. "You tell me what I want to know, you get your Halliburton back, intact. You don't cooperate, I heave the whole thing into Lake Powell. Now, which will it be?"

His free hand stroked over the back of his neck as he tried frantically to come up with something that would change the balance back into his favor.

"Good-bye, Jarod."

"Wait!" he cried into the phone.

"I'm listening."

He sighed, defeated. "The Centre's in Blue Cove, Delaware. But it isn't on any maps."

"Now, we're getting somewhere."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" he growled dispiritedly. "How do I know you won't take the case back to them and try to sell it? Which will get you killed, by the way."

"Thanks for your concern, darling, but I can take care of myself," she said with a smile in her voice. "Now, explain to me in great detail how you got out. Tell me everything you know about the building. Cooperate, and I'll bring the case to you in person. But don't lie to me, or you'll be killing me with your own hands."

Jarod slid his free hand off the back of his neck and stared at it. He could see, feel, smell Damon's blood on it, and it sickened him. He told the voice in his ear everything it wanted to know, and made arrangements to meet in Flagstaff the following evening after dark, in a hotel room that the thief would rent for him. But as he hung up the phone, he began to simulate the mysterious woman, trying to find out why she wanted the information she had asked for, and what she expected to accomplish with delivering the Halliburton in person.


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Night passed slowly, but Jarod kept busy with personal projects that required some calculation as he waited in the 14th floor room of the non-descript hotel. He was tired after the drive in the car he had borrowed from the Foundation for the trip, and lay down on the neatly made bed to rest until his visitor came at the appointed hour. He expected a knock on the door, but a slender shadow stepped lightly, soundlessly on the railing outside, walking with a sure, cat-like step along the narrow half-wall that bordered the balconies on that floor.

Jarod raised up on his elbows on the bed, watching.

The curvaceous silhouette told him it was a woman, but the moonless night gave him no clue what she might look like. Dressed from head to toe in black, he could discern none of her features. She unlocked the balcony door with practiced ease and slid it open slowly, then crept on silent feet toward the bed. Light from the hall outside seeped under the door and illuminated enough of him that she could see he was up and waiting, and she stopped halfway across the room.

"Where's the briefcase?" he asked warily, having noticed she carried nothing with her.

"At my place," she said softly. "I wanted to talk to you in person before I handed it over. Just to see if my impressions of you are correct."

Jarod sat all the way up slowly, not wanting her to bolt because of any threatening moves on his part. "Why?"

"I've always fancied myself a bit of a Robin Hood," she confessed. "Now, perhaps I'll become Joan of Arc."

"Robbing who?"

"Never mind, friend," she said softly. She came fully into the room, moved surely toward the bed and clicked on the lamp on the nightstand so he could see her at last.

She was a small woman, slight of build, lithe and athletic, with long black hair that reached almost to her waist and eyes the color of pine needles. Her face had an elfin look to it, her upward slanted eyes gleaming with mischief and half-hidden mirth. There was a delicateness to her that made her seem fragile, but an air of certainty that gave her an undercurrent of forcefulness that Jarod felt immediately. She was pretty, but not the kind of woman that would make heads turn in a crowd. Something about her tugged at him, making him edgy and restless, but he held still, feeling it building within him. Her scent filled his head, and he inhaled deeply, reveling in it, trying not to be distracted by it.

"My name is Gemini," she said softly, smiling up at him. "Gemini Rising. And I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Jarod. You've become rather important to me over the last few days."

"Did you pick that name yourself, or was your mother into astrology?" he taunted, and was upset by the angry tone in his voice.

The woman grinned up at him, her eyes darkening as she cocked her head, studying him for a moment. "Not what I expected from you at all," she observed, crossing her arms over her ample chest and arching a delicately curved, black eyebrow at him. "But then I suppose you're entitled to be angry with me, after what I've done. Get your keys, then. You can follow me to my place and we'll talk there. All right?"

"This feels like a trap."

She reached up to stroke across his cheek with her palm, but he jerked backward from her touch and grasped her wrist tightly. "I'm setting you free, my friend," she said softly. The humor in her expression faded quickly away, replaced by the gleam of something much more sultry. She tried to pull free of his grip, but his long fingers tightened around her wrist instead until it hurt. She could see the muscles in his jaw flexing, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't force it out.

"It's all right, Jarod," she assured him quietly. "I won't hurt you. I just want to help."

He let go of her wrist abruptly, grabbing her by the shoulders instead. "Don't go to the Centre," he snarled, giving her an angry little shake. "You can't-- They'll kill you. I've seen what horrible things they're capable of..."

Red rain.

Gemini was breathing harder now, a flash of fear washing across her face. But as he pushed her away from him, her aroma drawing him back, he staggered forward a little, his body brushing briefly against hers. Then her hands came up between them, sliding up his chest to steady him, and suddenly he pulled her close, his mouth crushing hers, his arms squeezing her so hard she could barely draw breath.

He felt as if he was on fire, and her passionate answer to his demanding kiss made him burn even hotter. He did not know how he came to be naked on the bed with her, or where the condom he wore had come from, but when it was over and he lay sprawled across her panting, shuddering body, he was sure that it was the biggest mistake he had ever made.

Jarod barely spoke to the woman afterward, encumbered by profound embarrassment as they went downstairs together. He followed her to her apartment in his borrowed car, going over and over what had happened between them, and not understanding how it had come about, which of them had made the first move toward the other. She made no demands on him, and wished him well when she watched him leave her apartment much later with his belongings. He didn't wait until morning before returning to the Foundation, hesitating only long enough to check the contents of the Halliburton in his car before he left the thief behind.

Over the next few days he thought about her several times, even visited the library in search of Robin Hood, and was surprised by what he found out about the thief. Picturing her robbing from the rich and giving to the poor seemed somehow out of character, even though her apartment had been a modest affair perched atop a tattoo parlor where she worked when she wasn't stealing people blind. He just couldn't equate thievery with justice, though the woman seemed to find her own thread of truth in it.

What bothered him most about her was the memory of mindless lust and how it still affected him. He daydreamed about her, wondering if she was all right, if she had left to begin her quest or was still safe in Flagstaff. The thought of her dying at the Centre ate at him, and finally he decided to call her at the tattoo shop to see if she might be dissuaded from her foolish idea.

He was relieved to find her there, and surprised himself by asking if he might see her again. They met at a coffee shop near the highway in Cameron, halfway between Flagstaff and Galleons Lap, shared a quiet cup of tea while each of them pondered what to say, and left to stand outside in the snow by their cars. The cold drove them inside his borrowed vintage Mustang, and in the privacy of the car's interior they began to talk, but the words gave way to caresses and kisses, and the man and woman surrendered to their primal urges in the back seat of the car, parked in a far corner of the parking lot. Two hours later the windows were thoroughly steamed and Jarod held her in his lap, unwilling to let go of her.

He persuaded Gemini to find lodgings in Marble Canyon where he could visit her every day, ostensibly to help her with her quest for information about the Centre.

She saw through his plan immediately as a way to keep tabs on her, but she was in no hurry and decided to take him up on his offer. They drove into the city and checked her into a hotel, and Gemini resumed the second stage of the seduction she had started in his car before letting him return to the Foundation.

Jarod tried to think about what he was doing with her, why he wanted to maintain contact with her, and how dangerous it could be, but the only thing that stuck in his mind was that he wanted her. The breathy sound of her voice in his ear was all it took to arouse him, and watching her smile pushed him over the edge. He didn't love her, and knew it, but his desire for her was like a living thing that he could not control. And every time he thought about her leaving he could see her cold, lifeless body washing up on the rocky Delaware coast, destined to remain unidentified and buried in an anonymous grave. He had to keep her with him, and hoped his frequent visits would provide her inspiration enough to stay.


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Byron came into his room shortly after he arrived and offered him a whisky, which Jarod declined politely. The older man told him that Grace wanted to see him in her office, gave him a wink and a smile, and left with his glass half-empty.

"Close the door," she said warmly when he arrived. A fire was laid in the fireplace and she had her shoes off, relaxing comfortably on a large pillow near the hearth. She held a glass of white wine in her hand and offered him some, and when he shook his head she invited him to sit with her on the floor for a talk.

"I spent most of the week trying to lay hands on your list, and most of it should be here by now. But there are more important things brewing inside this old red head and tonight I need a bit of distraction. Do you enjoy games, Dr. Black? Other than chess, I mean."

"Please call me Jarod," he insisted. "I'm more comfortable with that, and yes, I love to play games." He watched her drag a large wooden board across the Aubusson carpet and slide it into place between the two of them. The board was scribed into a series of tiny squares, with incised circles at parallel junctures. "What's this one called?"

"The game of Go," she told him proudly. "It's been played in Japan for centuries, by the simple minded and the educated, great warriors, poets and lovers, by the ancient and the very young. It's a game of great elegance and challenge. Where chess can be likened to a duel of fine minds, Go is a whole war."

"Sounds intimidating." He accepted the delicately carved wooden bowl filled with small, smooth black river pebbles and saw that her playing pieces were white or pale grey. "What's the object of the game?"

"To surround your enemy and make him helpless," she answered with a slow smile. "You can take prisoners, but there's no killing involved." She described the prime areas of the board for play, how the moves were made, and the ideal layout of the stones to win the game. "But there are also rules of etiquette to be observed during play. Be decisive about making your moves. Don't let your hand hang over the board and obstruct your opponent's view. Sit up straight, so you have a clear view of the playing field." She rose from her reclining position and sat ramrod straight, making eye contact with him while he arranged himself more upright.

"This one I take to be both figurative and literal, for those who indulge. 'Don't blow smoke in your opponent's face.' "

Jarod's short, involuntary bark of laughter surprised even him. He couldn't help picturing Miss Parker doing just that.

Grace cocked a questioning auburn eyebrow in his direction, but when no explanation was forthcoming, she went on. "Try to win by playing superior Go, rather than capitalizing on your opponent's weaknesses. Prisoners captured are placed so as to be visible to the opponent during the game."

Jarod frowned, thinking of Athena.

Grace continued. "It's considered a courtesy to avoid playing your first stone in your opponent's right hand corner. If you're a spectator, don't offer advice or comments unless someone asks you."

He thought of Sydney and Broots.

"And finally, if you win, don't gloat. If you lose, no excuses. Got it?"

Quite seriously, he replied, "I think I may have played this game before."

"And how did you do?"

The Pretender raised his smoky, unreadable eyes to hers. "I don't know. The game's still in progress."

She nodded as if she knew exactly what he was talking about. "Then I'll expect a good game from you, Jarod. Black plays first."

He reached into his bowl for a stone, enjoying the feel of its smoothness beneath his fingertips, all thoughts of Gemini suddenly gone.

"And remember the old Go proverb," Grace added, her voice vibrant and powerful in its softness, "Corners first, Sides next, Centre last."

Jarod dropped his pebble back into the bowl accidentally, startled by her stress of the next to last word. He stared at her worriedly, but she smiled up at him with warmth and kindness, and a hint of mischief sparkling in her eyes.

"Come on, Jarod. It's just a game... And as Nietsche said, 'That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.' "

He wondered if it truly was just a game anymore.


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Jarod woke suddenly, holding his breath, his body drenched with sweat after his struggle with the nightly demons. He sat up in bed and exhaled shakily, wiping his face on the sheet, and flinched when he heard an insistent knock on his door.

"Dr. Black, it's time," panted a soft, feminine voice. "My water's broken, and I'm having contrac--" Faith's words melted into a deep, pained groan and she leaned heavily on the door.

Jarod leaped out of bed and hurried toward the door. He opened it to the woman, catching her as she crumpled toward the floor. He lifted Faith in his arms, felt her belly straining against his chest, then relaxing as the contraction passed and another one began seconds afterward.

Jarod headed for the stairs and Faith curled up in his arms, stifling a scream, clenching her jaws to hold it in. He took care to walk smoothly and not jostle her while he hurried toward the infirmary, but he could tell by the strength of the contractions pushing against his pectorals that the onset of her labor was sudden and hard. That meant there would not be time to get her to the hospital at Marble Canyon. He would have to deliver the twins himself.

Nathan was waiting by the Infirmary door as Jarod breezed past. The lights were already on, and in a moment Dan Two Bears, the Foundation medic, was at his side, scrubbed and ready to work. Jarod didn't question their presence, but sent Nathan for Grace, and started to scrub up after setting Faith down on the table.

"Want me to shave her?" asked Dan, reaching for the shaving cream and a razor.

"No time," said Jarod, and slipped into the gown and gloves Dan offered instead. He grabbed a bottle of Betadine and some large gauze pads, then rocked Faith back against Dan to swab her perineal area and do a quick vaginal check.

"She's crowning!" he announced surprisedly. "I've never seen a labor so fast. Dan, help me get her on the floor. You've got to squat, Faith, so I can catch the baby."

"Don't you want her on the table, doc?" asked the medic uncertainly.

"Prone deliveries are for the doctor's convenience," Jarod shot back quickly. "They work against the process Nature designed. I want to do this the right way."

He glanced at the woman's face while he helped ease her off the table, and her strain was evident, along with soul-deep pain that went right through him. "Come on, Faith. It's all right," he murmured. "We're gonna do this together, okay?"

He positioned her on her feet, her legs spread, her hands gripping her knees, and she put her head down to push. The sound started low, a deep groan that rose in pitch and volume until it was a deafening roar emanating from her throat as she labored, head thrown back to give full voice to her pain.

"We've got a head!" Jarod cried, cradling the tiny dark scalp in his hand. "Dan, get down here with some warm towels and the instruments. You take this one as soon as it comes out. Is Grace here yet?"

"Here," came a breathless voice from the doorway.

"You get over here, too. You get to catch the next one. Scrub up and put on some gloves and a gown. We're having babies tonight."

For the next 15 minutes the Infirmary was a melee of sound and motion. Faith's screams brought residents from all over the main house, and as soon as word spread about the delivery, almost everyone came to wait outside the door. Jarod worked quickly, efficiently, expertly, and soon Faith lay on the table, two small bundles cleaned and wrapped and nursing happily in her arms.

Someone brought Faith a clean gown and baby clothes from her room, and Byron brought a padded rocking chair from a sitting room upstairs. After Jarod finished cleaning her up, he helped Faith into the fresh gown and assisted her to the chair, then took a seat on a rolling stool beside her. He washed her face with a warm, damp cloth, hoping to refresh her a little. Grace was in the process of sending all the residents back to their beds for what remained of the night, but Nathan had curled up in a corner and fallen asleep with this thumb in his mouth, intent on staying with Faith.

Jarod glanced at the boy, then up at her and suddenly forgot what he was going to say.

"You have blue eyes," he said wonderingly. He was sure they were brown when he first saw her, and the flush of color in her cheeks confirmed that.

"Contacts," she admitted shyly. "I take them out before bed."

His eyes wandered over her newly sculpted face and settled on the dimple in her chin. His heart ached, and the dark haired newborns drew his attention as they squeaked and yawned and stretched in their mother's arms.

"Let's get you to your room," he suggested. "I'll stay with you for a while, if you want."

"What about Nathan?"

"I'll take him to my room for the night," Grace offered, and scooped the boy up in her arms. She smiled a good-night to the doctor and his patients, kissed the sleeping child in her arms on the head and left the Infirmary with a yawn.

Faith handed one of the babies to Jarod and eased slowly to her feet. "I wonder when we'll be able to tell if they're identical or fraternal?"

"Only one placenta," he answered quickly. "They're identical." He sighed wearily. "Have you thought of names for them?"

The woman beamed as she gazed into the tiny face peering out at her from the fuzzy white blanket. "This one is Justin," she said, proudly naming the little one she held. "And that one is Michael. I just decided on the names this morning."

Jarod felt his heart drop into his bare feet and splatter against the cold tile floor. He clutched the newborn tighter against his heart and tried very hard not to cry. They were simple, familiar names that struck at him mercilessly. Justin and Michael were the choices he and Athena had made for their own twins, and it was all he could do to keep from confessing that to Faith. That wasn't something she needed to know, and he didn't want to spoil her moment of joy with a tragedy from his past.

RED RAIN

Part III



Samantha stood outside the door on Sub-Level 15, her palms sweating. Theda, her guide, stood slightly behind her, signaling the security people to open up the vacant quarters. This had been Theda's idea, to try to help Samantha get a fix on the missing man named Jarod, and though Samantha had wanted to clear it with Sydney first, Theda told her not to bother. Raines approved of the idea, and so it would be done.

They walked into the small apartment, and Samantha froze the moment she entered the room.

"I have to leave, Theda," she said urgently. "Don't make me stay here. Please."

"You have a job to do," Theda reminded her coolly. "Give it some time. This is where Jarod lived. You need a deeper connection to him if you're going to be able to find him."

Samantha's shoulders drooped, and she turned back to face the rooms reluctantly. Unnatural cold swirled around her, making gooseflesh prickle her skin, but she knew Theda wouldn't feel it. This was a warning of what was to come, and suddenly she didn't want to know who Jarod was, or why the Centre wanted him. She wandered around, touching his possessions, running her hands over his books, sitting on his furniture, but the presence she felt clinging to the space was one that terrified and disturbed her, and as she walked through the room she hugged herself against it, trying to keep it out.

She did not read the stack of red notebooks lying on the coffee table before the couch, but when she touched them she felt such a wave of agony that she couldn't maintain contact.

"I can't do this, Theda," she whimpered. Her eyes were pleading.

"Raines wants it done. We have no choice here."

The older woman's gray eyes were hard, shutting her out. Samantha picked up one of the notebooks and could easily visualize the man reading it. She felt his ideas forming in her mind, and dropped the book onto the white carpeted floor. She wiped her palms on the sofa cushions and retreated toward the bedroom, bouncing off the open doorway as if she had impacted against a plate glass window.

"Jesus," she swore softly.

"Go on, Samantha. He'll be stronger in the bedroom," Theda urged. "You can touch his dreams in there."

Wiping at her eyes, she put her head down and forced her way inside the room, struggling to move forward as if she was resisting a strong wind, her mind open to whatever horror still lived there. Sitting down on the bed, she flinched as if she had been struck, feeling the echoes of violence and residual pain freshly in her own body. Scrubbing more tears away, she gripped the bedclothes and held on, trying to locate the man she felt so clearly. But there was nothing, nothing but hatred, twisted desire and blood, a shower of red rain pouring down on her, and she stumbled to her hands and knees on the floor, sobbing and screaming to be released from the exercise.

Theda finally gave in and Samantha shot out of the room, flinging her body against the entry door, pounding on it to be let out. When it opened, she fell into the hallway and curled up in a ball, covering her face with her hands.

Sydney stopped pacing as soon as the door opened and gasped when he saw her tumble out onto the polished tile floor. He raised furious eyes to the woman standing in the apartment and growled softly, "I came as soon as I heard what you were doing. You should have consulted with me first. This was a stupid idea! Don't you know who was in there last?"

Theda frowned and lifted her chin haughtily. "It doesn't matter. This place has the most concentrated energy from your missing man, so it's the best starting point we have for Samantha."

"Jarod's been gone from there for so long it may not matter," Sydney snarled back angrily. He knelt beside the young woman sobbing on the floor, clenching his fingers as he held back from touching her, needing to help. He turned an accusing stare back to his colleague. "The presence of the last occupant to spend time in there was much stronger than what Jarod left. You should have known better than to take Samantha in there."

Under his breath he muttered, "Fool." He could hear the woman's intake of breath as she bristled at his insult.

"So who was in there last?" Theda demanded.

"Damon Winterbourne."

Theda's gasp of horrified surprise was covered by Samantha's cry of pain.

"Oh, God, Sydney, make it stop!" she begged him.

Not knowing how else to help her, he scooped her up quickly in his arms and carried her toward the elevator that would take them far away from the Pretender's apartment.

No one said a word about him making physical contact with her, nor did Samantha recoil from his touch. She slid her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder as she sobbed.


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Grace yawned as she opened her office door, breezing sleepily into the room and letting the door drift gently shut in her wake. She stopped short at the sight of the man sitting at her desk, busily tapping away on the keys of her computer. A delighted smile broke on her face and she rushed over, pushing the chair back and sitting in the visitor's lap so she could reach him better for a hug and quick kiss.

He chuckled merrily and responded with reserved warmth, giving up on trying to finish his task on her keyboard. He smoothed his snow-white hair back into place after she finished rustling her fingers through it, and his coffee colored eyes danced merrily as he watched her glow with happiness.

"Joaquin, it's been too long," she declared, kissing him again lightly. "You are staying for Christmas, I hope?"

His expression grew serious, and he turned his attention back to the computer for a moment. "Your security is getting lax, Grace," he commented idly, a note of warning in his rich, deep voice. "I got in here without anyone raising so much as an eyebrow."

Grace winked at him, turned her head and spoke out into the otherwise empty room. "Jane, when did you first locate my brother-in-law approaching the estate?"

From the intercom on the telephone console a woman's voice answered clearly, "First check point near the canyon, two miles out. He drove up in a gray metallic Bronco, license plate--"

"That's enough, dear," Grace interrupted with a smile. "I think he gets the picture."

Joaquin St. James kissed the redhead in his lap on the cheek once more with a pleased smile. "I should have guessed you'd be on your toes, as usual. Expecting someone?"

Her air of excitement melted away to solemnity. "Yes, actually. We have a young man here who will be bringing us a great deal of trouble, I think. I've been trying to find out some information about him, but as far as I can determine, he doesn't exist. I thought at first that he might be a rogue CIA agent, possibly even deeper cover than that."

"Yes, Jarod," he confirmed, his hands leaving the keyboard and settling lightly around her waist. "That's what brought me here, darling Pooh. I've deleted all electronic inquiries about him from your system, and erased all your records concerning him, what little you have. But I'm afraid you've already attracted the attention of the wrong people in investigating him. That's why I'm here."

"Not for Christmas with me?" she asked, pouting.

"Be serious, Grace." There was not a trace of humor in his dark eyes or lined face. "This young man could get you killed if you're not careful."

"Who is he, then, Joaquin? He seems so kind and gentle, yet so utterly lost in the world. He's as much a little boy as a man, sometimes moreso. And he carries such tragedy around in his heart. Not that he's told me much about himself, but I can see it in his eyes, in the way he looks at the families here, almost as if he never had one himself."

Joaquin sighed heavily. "I don't know who he is, Pooh, but I do know where he came from. Just as we have those who protect us here and benefit from the good work that we do, the Centre has its benefactors as well, people who have invested heavily in it. With their lives, sometimes."

She eased out of his lap and sat on the corner of her desk so she could see him better. "Tell me about this Centre."

He met her gaze solidly. "It had the same beginnings as we did, nearly 80 years ago, but we split off from them decades back. Originally, we were exploring the capabilities of man with an eye toward the future. Lots of Flash Gordon type projects, studying things like psychic phenomena, genetics, aberrant psychology -- both positive and negative forms -- and a whole host of other things that the founders thought would improve mankind, bring us peace and enable us to live in harmony with each other. My father was one of the men who helped create it, and headed up several of the projects. Then during World War II, the government began looking for alternative weapons, and some new projects were added. There were chemical research projects regarding things like biological weapons and mind-altering drugs, and we began to take a serious turn toward the negative. I was working there then, as a very young man, as a researcher. John was part of it, too." He frowned, remembering his brother's death too vividly. "There was a power struggle among the board, and John and I wanted to stay on track, keep the War Department out of our budget and our agendas. But there were others who wanted to allow them more control."

Grace glanced away, unable to bear her brother-in-law's obvious pain.

Joaquin laid his hand over hers on the desktop and went on. "We decided on a split right after John's death." His voice was thicker, deeper when he added, "I was never sure if Parker killed John, or if the accident was truly that, just an accident."

For several moments Grace did not even breathe.

"Parker?" she asked. "Who is that?"

"He was a young scientist with his ambition in overdrive," Joaquin answered slowly. "He's pretty much in control of the Centre now. I've heard of some of the experiments they're working on there, Grace. We think they've given up on the concept of developing the perfect soldier-slash-spy since the Cold War's over now, but the people they use in their experiments did not all volunteer themselves as guinea pigs. That much I know for a fact. I think this Jarod of yours may be one of them."

"Might he be a spy for them, sent to infiltrate us?"

"The Centre knows what we do here, and doesn't interfere with us, so they have no need to plant a mole," he stated certainly. "On the other hand, we have only vague ideas of what they're doing, except that it's not all for the benefit of mankind. In fact, I'd say very little of it is for positive purposes."

"How so?"

"They have a lot of twins there," he answered slowly, steepling his fingers as he spoke, his elbows resting against the arms of her chair. "Imagine if you were one of them, and you were sent into an industrial giant's secret vaults. If your twin could read your thoughts over great distances, then he could report everything you see, without being detected by any electronic countermeasures or security systems catching on. The perfect industrial spies."

"Is Jarod a twin?"

Joaquin stood up, pushing the chair back with his calves as he reached his full height, towering over the woman seated on the desk. "I don't know, Grace. All I do know is that the Centre's looking for him, and they want him back at all costs."

"Then I really do need to find out everything I can about him," she said slowly. "For our sake, as well as his."

"Ask him directly, then. Tell him what you know, and what the Foundation is all about, if he hasn't figured it out himself by now," Joaquin suggested. "Win his trust by offering him yours. Then let him choose if he wants to stay and be a part of this, or go on his merry way."

Grace stood up and laced her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. "Please tell me you're staying for Christmas, Joaquin?" she asked softly against his fisherman's sweater. "You come to visit so rarely these days... I miss you."

"I just came to plug a leak in the dam, Pooh," he smiled wistfully at the top of her head, and kissed her hair. "Watch your back, love. And prepare for visitors. I'm sure they'll be coming soon."

"We'll be ready for them," she promised. "Stay?"

"I can't, Pooh. People to spy on, you know? And thanks to your little investigation, I have even more work to do than I thought."

"I know how you like to keep busy," she grinned. "Which reminds me... How's your love life? Still in a coma?"

"My heart's taken," he answered with a slow, tender smile full of secrets. "It always has been. So don't even think of trying to fix me up again."

"Ah, the mystery woman, still."

"Always, Grace." He kissed her lightly on the end of her nose and pulled away, meeting her knowing gaze steadily. "Always."


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Jarod stood outside Gemini's motel room, preparing to knock and trying to quell his body's expectant response to what lay on the other side of the door. He berated himself for becoming Pavlov's dog, since every time he made the 20 minute drive he ended up between the sheets in a matter of minutes, and once the sex was over, Gemini would be rushing him out the door again. This time he wanted it to be different between them, less primal. He wanted to talk, to explore her personality, to find out how her mind worked, since he knew virtually nothing about her.

But he wasn't exactly prepared for what he found this trip.

When she didn't answer his knock, he pressed his ear to the door and heard the faint echo of water running, surmising that Gemini must be in the shower. He opened the locked door with a credit card and slipped inside, took a seat at the card table she had set up by the bed and glanced at the files she had been working on.

There were four of them cascading across the laptop screen, and curiosity got the better of him. The first one was an adjustment to a viable experiment on cloning for a laboratory in Scotland; next was a children's tale in the difficult, unique language of the Basques; then a long series of esoteric mathematical computations and instructions for an astronomer in California that made his head spin. The fourth file was a financial report similar to his own, and the woman's net worth vastly outweighed his expectations.

Still, Jarod wasn't exactly surprised. He knew she was keeping a great deal from him, but wasn't sure if she was just terribly private or operating on a hidden agenda. He thought about opening other files and reading about some of her other interests, but the water shut off and he knew Gemini would catch him in the act. He set the files back in their original order and folded his hands innocently in his lap, facing the bathroom door as it opened.

Gemini was naked, her freshly washed hair still damp and dripping down her back. She stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, just staring at him once the moment of surprise had passed. Her gaze flicked between him and the laptop, and he saw that she knew he had been snooping when she hadn't expected him to be there for another few hours.

He glanced away from her face to the dragon's head lying against her left shoulder, painted into her skin. The creature's body wound over the crest of her trapezius, down her back and over her right hip, its tail coiling around her right thigh almost to her knee. She had called it her spiritual armor, but Jarod didn't understand. The artwork was exceptionally realistic, and from across the room it almost looked like it was breathing. The tattoo was part of his fascination with her body, and when she strutted over and sat in his lap, he knew he couldn't resist.

Without a single word passing between them, without the need for a kiss to initiate foreplay, she drew down his zipper and expertly freed his stiffening erection from his jeans, encouraging it to harden to its full length with her hands, then adjusting her position to straddle him.

"Gemini, I don't--"

She saw to it that his mouth was too busy to finish his protest, and soon he had completely forgotten what he wanted to complain about at all.

Until he was on his way back to the Foundation and the pleasant haze of sexual bliss began to fade.

Gemini had done it to him again.


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He sat alone in the Music Room, holding a guitar in his lap and experimenting with the frets and a plectrum. After discovering how to produce chords and practicing both strumming and picking of the individual strings, he began to try to reproduce a few of the songs he had played during his stint as a disc jockey. There were several James Taylor tunes he liked, and even sang them to amuse himself, really letting go and getting into the music. But as the session was winding down he began to think of Athena and the time he had heard her playing in a Nashville band, and started picking out the tune he had heard her perform on a balalaika, humming the melody to the old Russian folk song while he tried to remember the words.

A voice wafted in to him from the next room, and as he continued to play it grew louder, singing the lyrics clearly, accented with perfect Ukraine pronunciation.

His fingers stilled on the strings, but the voice sang on. Jarod set the guitar on its stand, wove the pick into the strings on the neck, and stood up. His heart twisted up inside him as he followed the siren song, tears filling his eyes until he could barely see.

"Athena?" he whispered painfully, knowing it was foolish to even hope to see her face attached to that voice. It was impossible, but the voice was hers. His whole body vibrated with shock, and he felt as if he was going to explode. The singer drew him to the open doorway, and he glanced out into the adjoining room to find the woman responsible.

Faith lay on the polished wood floor of the dance classroom, the twins placed close together on a blanket beside her. She was stretching, preparing to do her daily workout and practice her dancing, singing softly now to herself since the accompaniment died away. She looked up at him and smiled.

"You play beautifully," she commented admiringly. "I just heard that song for the first time last week. Grace has it on a CD in her collection. Divine Comedy by Milla Jovovich. But then I guess you've heard it already, haven't you?"

"The song, but not the CD," he answered slowly, painfully. "I'll have to check it out."

"I've been learning the words and singing it as a lullaby to the boys," she confessed. "And I've been learning Russian by computer, so I know what the lyrics mean. Grace has an awesome library here."

Jarod nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat and letting it fade away. With some regret he realized that it was becoming easier to get past his grief now. Even his memories of Athena were blunting, shifting out of focus and starting the process of fading away. He wondered if that was how he had lost his parents, as well.

"That song was very special to me," he responded. "I wasn't aware it had been recorded by anyone in this country."

She saw the sadness in his eyes and turned back to her stretching, embarrassed. "Yeah, well, it's a good album. You should check it out sometime."

"I will," he promised, and turned away. His exploration in the music room was over, but he wasn't through with the guitar yet. He signed it out on the Borrower's list and walked back to his room to play a little more.

When he came down for dinner, it seemed everyone who lived at Galleons Lap was in the main house, dressed in their Sunday best. Gone were the white uniforms of the staff, in exchange for velvets and lace and satins and suits. There was a feeling of excitement in the air, of anticipation, and Jarod returned to his room to change into the black turtleneck and trousers that had been hanging in his closet since he arrived.

Back downstairs, he greeted everyone he knew, gradually finding his way into the great hall where all the children were gathered in the center of the room, their parents standing back a respectful distance to watch and listen as the little ones sang Christmas carols. After that was an exchange of gifts, which were taken to private apartments to be opened later, and then everyone headed for the Christmas trees decorating every room, removing the paper decorations and bringing them to the barbecue pits outside the kitchen, where great fires were blazing.

Jarod stood among a small group of other newcomers as Grace explained the Foundation's holiday tradition.

"We don't always get to say goodbye to the ones we love," she said clearly. "And sometimes we have to leave our dreams behind us. Things happen in our lives that we can't control, but there is always a part of us that needs that ending before we can begin again with something new. That's what we're doing here tonight. Some of us have written letters to those we've lost, or apologized for things we've done wrong and can't atone for, or sometimes just put down a wish that we hope will come true one day. We made those papers into ornaments or sealed them into envelopes, and in a moment we will put them into the flames, where they will burn into ashes and fly up to heaven with the spirit of our words along with them. These fires will burn night and day for the next week, and will be put out on New Year's Day to signify a fresh beginning with a clean slate. I hope those of you who are newest among us will participate as well, and allow this little ceremony to help cleanse your soul and bring you some comfort."

She scanned the sea of faces, seeking out one particular pair of upward slanted brown eyes to linger on for a moment longer. "Some of us need this more than others. Some don't need it at all. But each of us according to his own nature. Merry Christmas, my friends."

Jarod saw that Grace had an armful of origami cranes, made of paper in the hues of the rainbow. She turned toward the nearest brick pit and flung them in, watching them catch and be consumed by the flames. Others came closer then, tossing in paper airplanes and other origami creatures, small slips of folded paper and huge manila envelopes stuffed full of pages. After adding their contributions and incinerating them, everyone wandered away, most of them back to their own apartments or to the public rooms for some entertainment or conversation to fill the rest of the evening. He moved closer to the biggest of the pits, stoking it with sticks of firewood from a nearby woodbox, and watching the flames devour the wood.

He thought about what he would write, the things he wanted to say, and the concept of absolution from a higher power. He had often contemplated the idea of a Supreme Being, but couldn't satisfy the logic that overrode his glimmers of wistful faith. Still, he understood the psychology of symbols and recognized the validity of Grace's tradition. It would be good to start over again, though his slate would never be clean.

The sound of a baby cooing made him look up. Walking up to the far side of the pit, he saw Faith with a child in each arm, struggling to find a way to drop her note without dropping one of the boys.

"Let me help you," he offered, and scrambled around the pit. She gratefully unloaded one of the blanketed bundles into his arms, but instead of throwing her letter into the flames she met his steady, kind gaze and held it, shifting on her feet as if there was something she needed to say but couldn't quite get it out.

Faith handed him the envelope and took back her baby, then walked quickly back into the main house.

Jarod could hear her crying softly as she hurried away from him.

He turned back to the pit and tossed the letter into the fire, watched it burn, and returned to his rooms for the night.

Sitting down at his desk, he pulled up his financial records on his laptop computer. He made adjustments, decided on some investments, and changed the names on some of the accounts. He had control of Athena's money since her death, and since Faith's twins were born he had been considering setting up a trust fund and financial maintenance account for Faith to help her get back on her feet again. Athena would have approved of him assisting the new mother in regaining her independence, and he had been looking for a way to make the offer without her knowing who the gift had come from. Santa Claus provided him with an obvious way to do just that.


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"You wanted to see me, Grace?" asked Jarod casually, taking a seat across from her at the game table she had arranged before the window. Fresh snow had fallen outside, and he still wore a dusting of it on his hair and shoulders.

The woman smiled warmly, but there was a sadness in her eyes that surprised him.

"Yes, Jarod. Thank you for coming." She was wearing a flowing caftan with a hood draped over her back. Rather than the usual white, the cloth was patterned faintly with ivory, beige, light tan and warm pink in a Navajo design. She sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap, regarding him with a guarded expression. "I've wanted to talk with you for some time now, but have been waiting for the right time, the right signs to tell me you were ready to hear what I have to say."

Something in the young man's warm brown eyes suddenly shifted closed, and Grace saw it, hoping she would be able to open the doorway again.

"Do you know what we do here, my friend?"

He nodded. "I think I've done a pretty thorough investigation."

"Then you know about the new identities we provide people who have run afoul of the law from time to time."

"Yes. They seemed justified to me, too."

Grace relaxed visibly, and smiled at him again. "Good. I was hoping you would be more interested in the spirit of the law rather than the letter."

He glanced down at the gameboard between them, then out the window. "I've done a little tinkering with the scales of justice myself from time to time," he admitted.

The woman nodded in approval. "So I hear."

A gleam of warning flashed in Jarod's eyes and he crossed his arms over his chest, waiting to hear more and thinking ahead.

"I've been watching you since you first came here, Jarod," Grace began. "Worrying over you, I suppose, would be more correct. There's an air of tragedy about you that I've only rarely seen before, and since you were so closed about your past, I thought I should wait patiently for you to open up to me. That is, until you invaded the Foundation's private files."

He expected that, but much earlier. Regarding her warily, he waited for the rest of her opening volley.

"Of course, since I had my own secrets to keep, I had to know who I was dealing with, so I looked you up. Or rather I tried."

"And found nothing," he summed up.

"On the contrary," she returned quickly. "I know exactly who and what you are, Jarod. At least, as much as you know about yourself."

"You looked at the DSAs when I was in town with my girlfriend," he assumed unhappily.

"What are DSAs?" she asked with a frown.

"The Digital Simulation Archives in my Halliburton."

She seemed suddenly interested in that bit of information, but quickly set her curiosity aside. "No, I didn't," she confessed. "But I did ask questions, and eventually got an answer. Rather along the lines I suspected, but not exactly. I thought at first that you were some sort of spy."

Jarod almost grinned, but it faded away before it reached his lips. A hint of dimple flashed in his cheeks, and then the amusement died in his eyes. "So they'll be coming for me soon," he guessed.

Grace nodded. "But you'll be safe here, if you want to stay. The Centre can't touch you, as long as you're on Foundation grounds."

He stood up, facing the window and gazing out at the pristine white scenery. "It would become just another prison, eventually, Grace," he said slowly. "I thought I might stay here for a little longer, but..."

She rose and put her hand on his shoulder, rubbing in a small circle. "We'd love for you to stay, Jarod. The work that you've done in the month you've been here has been just short of astounding. You've taught a breadth of classes that boggles the mind. You've delivered babies and done emergency medical procedures that have saved several lives, but what touched me the most was your work with the autistic children. Three of them are able to talk now because of you. It's as if you knew exactly what they needed, and have been able to make a connection with them that years of therapy hasn't been able to accomplish."

Jarod shrugged off her praise. "I know what it feels like to be in a universe of one."

Grace stepped in front of him and demanded his full attention. "I can't imagine what they did to you at the Centre, son." Her eyes were filled with pain, and she gripped his biceps to keep him still until she was finished. "But I do know that they'll never give up trying to get you back, no matter how futile it is. You can stay here as long as you like, and be safe, but I know you can't stand to feel caged, either. You'll be leaving eventually, but please know that you can come back here whenever you want, and find sanctuary from the hunters. Until you know more about yourself, you have a home here with us. Will you accept that offer in the spirit that it's given, son?"

He blinked away the tears gathering in his eyes. "Home?" he whispered disbelievingly. "I wasn't expecting that."

She smiled back at him, and let her own tears roll freely down her cheeks. "Those are the very best gifts of all, Jarod." Her arms slid around his chest, and she hugged him to her, pleased when he returned her embrace.

"I don't want to endanger you or the others," he whispered against her hair. "I should go now, to keep you safe."

"The Foundation has friends just as powerful as the Centre's," she assured him. "You don't need to be afraid for us. We're ready for whatever they can throw at us."

He hugged her tighter, then eased out of her embrace. "Not yet," he corrected. "But I can suggest a few things that will help."

Grace winked at him. "Like the one-way-glass program you installed on our computer system? That was a novel idea."

Jarod grinned back at her. "You were watching me?"

"I have eyes in the back of my head, dear boy."

"That must be painful," he teased.

"So why don't you show me those disks of yours, son? I'd love to know what sort of projects those people were working on. But if they're too personal, I understand."

"Some other time, maybe."

She hugged him again, more fiercely, and teased him about his frequent trips to town, and what he might be hiding there.


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"This wasn't supposed to happen, Sydney," whispered Samantha. "No one's allowed to touch me. You know that."

"Was I supposed to just leave you lying in the floor in the hallway?" he asked, cradling her in his arms as they sat on the sofa in her quarters.

"No, but I never expected that would lead to this." She stroked her fingers through his graying hair and tilted his chin up for another kiss. "They're going to be very angry with us," she breathed against his lips as he drew away.

"I daresay." But at the moment he didn't care. He had given up enough of his life to the Centre. It was time he got a little something back. As long as Samantha wasn't punished for his lapse in judgement and control.

"I'm sorry, Sydney," she said solemnly, her mood changing suddenly. "I just couldn't get a fix on that monster you wanted me to look for. The traces of him left in those rooms just overwhelmed me. I can't believe the Centre actually uses people like that. All he though about was killing."

He sat very still and gazed up into her eyes. "That wasn't who I wanted you to find, darling," he said slowly. "Damon Winterbourne is dead, which is probably why you couldn't locate him. The man I wanted you to find is Jarod." He hesitated, not knowing if she would feel betrayed when he finished. "The man in your painting."

Samantha closed her eyes for a moment, and sighed, frowning. She laid her head on his shoulder and let the image come. "Look near a canyon, close to the Grand," she intoned flatly. "There's a large estate overlooking a river. It has a water tower with a bear on it. He lives there now."

She opened her eyes and met Sydney's relieved smile with her own. "He's a good man, isn't he, Sydney?" she asked slowly. "He's just in a lot of pain."

"Yes, darling Samantha. More than you can imagine."

RED RAIN

Part IV


A limousine pulled into the gates and drove up to the main house, parking right outside of the carved double doors. Servants met the visitors and ushered them cordially into the great hall, where they were given refreshments while the mistress of Galleons Lap was called. Grace greeted the young woman and older man warmly, as if they were old friends, and insisted that they take a tour of the facilities.

Without seeming to, each of their protests was cut off with a shift in topic, and the trio walked from building to building, hearing all about the various programs the Foundation offered to its residents. The last building they entered was the school, and as they walked down the hallway, glancing into the classrooms through interior windows, Grace explained about some of the special programs they offered. She pointed out the Autistic Center, and the three of them stopped to observe while the older woman extolled the virtues of their latest teachers.

A woman with short brown hair sat on the floor with a baby in her arms, rocking the infant in a precisely measured pattern. Facing her was a little girl with a doll in her arms, copying the motions exactly. Sitting with his back to the window, a tall man with short, dark hair watched a little boy lay out a spread of colorful Tarot cards, and then nodded and held his hand out for the deck. The boy picked up the cards on the table between them and handed them over without protest.

"Jarod," said the tall, thin redhead triumphantly from the far side of the glass. She turned to their tourguide and announced, "This is the man we've been looking for. He's a wanted fugitive. We'll take him into custody and let you get back to--"

"Oh, but that's impossible at the moment," explained Grace calmly. "The autistic children depend on things being regimented, without variation. We can't interrupt these classes. You'll have to wait. Won't you come to my office while the class finishes?"

"You don't understand, Ms. St. James." Miss Parker was trying to hold onto a modicum of patience, but it was an obvious strain. "Jarod killed a man not long ago. He's a dangerous criminal, and you're risking those children's lives by allowing him to stay in the room with them--"

"Nonsense," Grace chided disbelievingly. "Dr. Black is perfectly harmless. Now, come along with me to my office."

"Oh, so he's supposed to be a doctor again? Uh-uh. I'm staying right here." Miss Parker reached into her purse for a cigarette and put it to her lips while she went after her lighter.

Grace St. James flicked the paper tube between thumb and forefinger, breaking it in half and spilling tobacco onto the floor. Clucking her tongue in motherly fashion, she said, "There are children here, Miss Parker. We must protect their little lungs."

The tall redhead glared down at the shorter one with an intensity that could have cut glass, pulled the broken cigarette out of her mouth and let it drop to the floor, maintaining eye contact with her adversary. "I didn't see any no smoking signs," she growled frostily.

"Common sense, my dear. We have everyone's best interests at heart here. You knew that before you entered the gates."

Miss Parker glared at Sydney, who stifled a smile on his lips, but not in his eyes.

"You may smoke outside, if you like," Grace offered bemusedly, and watched the young woman stride away down the hall to an exit door, leaving the others to wait for her return. Grace snagged a passing teacher and asked him to direct Miss Parker to her office, and then she took Sydney by the elbow and led him away, leaving the teacher standing guard at the doorway to the Autistic Center.

When Miss Parker arrived, still brushing snow off her clothes irritably and trembling from the cold she had endured without her coat, Sydney was engaged in a game of chess with their hostess and chatting amiably about unimportant things.

"I want Jarod turned over to us immediately," Parker snapped. "He isn't a doctor any more than I'm the Queen of England."

Grace's eyes lit up with warm humor. She rose from her chair and bowed a graceful curtsey. "Your majesty, you do us such honor with your presence at our humble establishment."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Miss Parker said gently with a cold, serpentine smile, "it's illegal to practice medicine without a license. Your minion told me all about Dr. Jarod's work in the Infirmary here."

"Oh, he's fully qualified, I assure you," Grace countered cheerfully. "Would you like to see his diploma from Harvard? Or perhaps you'd like to speak with one of his teachers in person? I have his entire transcript, all his grades, references and et cetera ad nauseum for your inspection, whenever you're ready to see them."

The younger woman frowned, searching for more ammunition for the next salvo. "He's still wanted for murder. You don't want a man like that around your precious charges, now, do you?"

"Jarod is innocent," Grace stated confidently. "Possibly one of the most innocent people I've ever met."

Miss Parker strode across the room and glared down into her hostess's face. "I watched him stick a knife into a man's heart while he begged for his life, Ms. St. James. I know what Jarod is capable of, and you're endangering people by letting him walk around free. If he knew we were here he wouldn't think twice about taking some kid hostage to bargain his way out."

Grace beamed as if she'd just heard a child tell a joke that wasn't funny, but was proud of the child's effort. "Then he must have had an excellent reason for doing so. Don't you think?"

Reaching into her clutch purse, Miss Parker took out another cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke into Grace's face after her first drag.

"No children in here," she said with a crocodilian smile.

The older woman backed up a step, waved away some of the haze with her hands and said brusquely, "Bad form, dear girl. I should call the game for that."

Miss Parker grasped the other woman's upper arm with her free hand and snarled, "This isn't a game, Ms. St. James."

With a sigh of disappointment, Grace took hold of Parker's little finger and bent it backward. The pain registered quickly on the young woman's face, and Grace pressed her advantage, making Parker release her grip on her arm and forcing the young woman down into a chair before letting go of her pinkie.

"Life is a game, Miss Parker," said Grace coolly. "You can't win if you don't know you're playing."

Sydney smiled softly, folded his hands and studied the chessboard in front of him, considering his next move.

"Ms. St. James," he began.

"Please. Call me Grace. Or Pooh. All my friends do."

Miss Parker groaned, rolled her eyes and took another drag from her cigarette.

"Grace," Sydney corrected himself warmly. "We can present you with documentation from the State of Delaware that says Jarod has committed the aforementioned crimes and should be released into our custody for transport back--"

"And I can present you with dozens of personal accounts from local people that say Jarod has lived here quietly for the last 20 years," Grace shot back. "Excepting the time he spent at Harvard Medical School, of course. Which do you think a court of law would believe?"

Miss Parker rose stiffly and smoothed down her short navy skirt, carelessly flicking ashes onto the carpet as she put the cigarette back to her lips for another puff. "If you're sure you want to play this game, then I'm up for it," she said calmly. "But you know, you might not feel protecting Jarod is worth the cost. Everyone has vulnerabilities." A brittle smile crackled against her maroon-painted lips. "You might suddenly find your taxes haven't been paid and the IRS comes to sieze your assets here, turning your foundlings into the desert. Or your bank accounts suddenly go dry. Things like that happen these days, and nobody knows why."

"Easy enough to correct with a few keystrokes in the hands of the right person."

"Check," said Sydney quietly as he moved his rook, more to himself than to either of the two women.

Grace turned back to the board, studied it for a moment and put her queen into play.

"I know that move," Sydney announced, and tipped over his king in acknowledgement of her inevitable victory. "The queen sacrifice is a classic, in a game of elegance. I'm impressed."

The older woman handed him the small crowned chess piece and closed his hand over it in acknowledgement of his salute, urging him to keep it as a souvenir. He tucked it into his jacket pocket without protesting the gift.

"This isn't the mutual admiration society, Syd," Miss Parker growled. Fixing the older woman with a frown of cataclysmic proportions, she added, "People could get hurt."

Grace's eyes wandered toward the doorway, where Jarod had come up quietly and posted himself, arms crossed over his chest, face impassive. "They have already been hurt. And I daresay it's still going on."

Sydney's bemused expression faded into sad acknowledgment, and he glanced guiltily at his hands.

"This isn't over," Miss Parker declared hotly and stomped toward the door. "Come on, Sydney," She waited beside him until she heard her companion rise and move toward her. Sydney stepped around her and opened the office door in gentlemanly fashion, and when he did Miss Parker reached into her suit jacket and pulled out a very large, shiny automatic pistol and pressed it against the back of Jarod's head. "We'll be on our way now, Grace," she hissed with false politeness, catching Jarod by the arm to haul him out with her.

"Checkmate," said Grace smoothly. "Do you want the game to end so soon, Miss Parker? We've been preparing for your visit for some time now."

"Well, I've got the upper hand, and Jarod, so I think we can say I've won this round." She started backing out the door, and bumped into a warm body just behind her. "Move your ass, Sydney, or I'll put a bullet in it and leave you here with Goody Two-Shoes."

From well back in the hallway outside the door, Sydney cleared his throat. "That isn't me, Miss Parker," he announced hesitantly, trying to catch her attention before she went too far.

The click of a hammer cocking open in a revolver next to her ear made her glance away and behold a small army of silent men and women who had filled the hallway in response to the attempted abduction.

"I'll take that, Miss Parker," said a Navajo woman near her elbow, and took the gleaming pistol from the redhead's hand easily.

Miss Parker bristled silently, then turned her scorching gaze up to the tall man she had come hunting. "Enjoy your little friends while you can, Jarod. They can't protect you for long," she snarled.

"Jarod hasn't decided yet if he wants to play with us or manage a separate game yet," Grace said quietly. "But the decision is his, after all. He should have the final say in what becomes of him. We all have that right. Don't we, Miss Parker?"

The young woman slanted a hot gaze down at the older woman, slowly approaching from behind the desk. "We'll get him one way or another," she promised.

Grace smiled, a dangerous gleam in her warm brown eyes. "Have fun trying," she warned lightly. "And feel free to visit any time. Jarod's friends are always welcome here."

Miss Parker pushed her way through the guards at the doorway and nodded to Sydney to follow her.

"Actually, I think I'd like to stay for a few days, Miss Parker," he said quietly.

"You're coming with me. Now." She yanked on his arm and pulled him along after her. "You're not getting chummy with these people if I have any say in it. And I do."

"Very well," Sydney acquiesced, and drew his arm out of her grasp, keeping pace with her as she left the building, following her to the limousine reluctantly.

Jarod stood at the window and watched them drive away. "They won't be gone for long, Grace," he mused pensively. "They might send sweeper teams in for me. It could even develop into a full scale war."

She eased up beside him and gazed out at the gently falling snow. "They won't, son. This land belongs to the Navajo nation. The Foundation is operated by a staff of Navajo managers, for the most part. Any attacks against these people would result in so much publicity the Centre would be standing naked in the spotlight, and they can't afford that. And of course, any subterfuge they apply to us we'll be ready for and able to counter. What we'll have to watch for is infiltrators. Single agents here and there could do a lot more damage, like slipping a mickey into the food or water supply and stealing you out covertly. We'll have to prepare for that sort of contingency."

He studied her for a moment, a feeling of unaccustomed warmth stealing into his heart. "You're really ready to fight for me, aren't you?" he asked wonderingly. "Why would you do that?"

She slipped her arm around his waist and leaned her head against his chest. "Decades ago I met a young couple that my husband, John, was working with. They were a part of a secret project funded by the government. What it was I never knew, didn't ask, because I respected John's duty to his research. They were working in different areas of this project, but somehow they met and fell in love. They were unusual people, Jarod, both of them brilliant, gifted in all sorts of ways. He flew experimental aircraft, and she was a researcher of some sort. They married and had a daughter, who was an incredible prodigy, and the subject of a research project all her own. But the little girl's mother wanted her to have a normal life and not feel like a guinea pig or laboratory rat. The government tried to take her away from her parents when they wanted to put a stop to all the tests and such. The family eventually went underground out of necessity, fearing they would be separated if they continued as they were. I helped them find a new life elsewhere, which sort of set the pattern for one aspect of the Foundation. From what little you've told me about yourself, I get the feeling something similar may have happened to you. Only there wasn't anyone to hide you away when you needed it."

"What was the girl's name?" Jarod asked, his curiosity warmed by a sense of kinship with the unknown child.

"Jennifer Tansey, but I suspect she wouldn't even remember her original name by now. She'd be about 28, I think. It's been such a long time ago." She hugged him close, and he reciprocated, resting his cheek on top of her head.

"I do wonder sometimes what became of her," Grace mused as she pulled away. "But now, I think it's time for a bit of distraction. Shall we play another game of Go?"

Jarod smiled. "This time I'm going to beat you. I think."


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Afterward he had kissed her on the forehead and thanked her for the game she so graciously lost, then wandered back to the music room for some time with the guitar he had come to love. Faith was already there, the twins playing on a pallet on the floor beside her. She cradled a mandolin in her lap, picking a tune Jarod had never heard before, and after he had the Martin settled in his embrace, he added a harmony to her melody.

Their impromptu jam session led to a long conversation followed by a rocking chair marathon in the Nursery, where the twins spent the day while their mother attended classes. Jarod held one of the babies until Faith had finished feeding his brother, then switched when she was ready to nurse the next one. He enjoyed spending time with this family, and was pleased that Faith seemed to be warming up to him at last. Her initial aversion to him had faded away, and a cozy friendship began to develop between them. Jarod felt comfortable with her, as if he had known her for a long time, and found himself talking to her about things he would not have told anyone else. She still didn't know about the Centre or how he had been imprisoned, though he had told her in broad, general terms about his life.

But Faith knew that he had a girlfriend in town, and was making an obvious effort to keep things platonic between them. He had come perilously close to kissing her when he walked her back to her room for the night, baby Justin cradled in his arms, and the desire to do so had stayed with him, even after going to bed. He lay in the darkness beneath the sheets and blankets, staring out at the night through the sliding glass doors that let out onto his balcony, wondering how to proceed.

A shadow appeared soundlessly on the railing outside, and Jarod leaped out of bed, moving stealthily toward the balcony. The silhouette opened the locked door easily and stole into the room, heading straight for the empty bed. Jarod flung himself at the intruder, landing hard on the floor with his fist drawn back, ready to pummel his visitor.

"Relax, lover," said a sultry feminine voice that he recognized instantly. "It's only me, up to my usual tricks."

"Gemini," he breathed, relief welling up in him. "This was a stupid thing to do. Security will be here any minute."

He heard her chuckle softly in the darkness. "Will they, now?"

Her arms slid around his neck and she pulled him down for a kiss.

He resisted, pushed himself off her and got to his feet. He moved to the bed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand.

"What's the matter, darling? Don't want to play anymore?" she teased, reclining on her side to show off her curves and entice him with her skin-tight spandex outfit.

Jarod's eyes wandered over her body briefly, and heat flooded his face as his manhood responded eagerly. "It's always been just sex between us, Gemini," he said quietly, taking a seat on the side of the bed. "I want more than that from a relationship."

"Like what?" she returned with a teasing grin. "My heart? Don't have one. I can safely say I've never been in love in my life, and I seriously doubt that will ever happen. In fact, I do what I can to make sure it doesn't. What we have together is fun and exciting, Jarod. Why ask for the impossible?"

"I don't know anything about you," he discovered aloud. "You've never once told me about your family or where you come from. I want to know you. I want to be part of you, not just scratching an itch."

In one fluid movement she gained her feet and came to sit on his lap, her arms draped casually around his neck. "I like the way you scratch, love. In fact, I'm itching right now..."

She moved in for a kiss, but Jarod turned his head.

"No. I want more from a relationship than just sex."

Gemini shrugged. "That's all you're going to get, darling. At least, from me it is." She stood up and wandered about the room, looking it over for items of interest and finding it strewn with Pez dispensers, Slinkies and other childhood memorabilia. "Well, actually, I did come out here for a reason other than to get laid, amor. All my preparations are finally in order, and I'll be leaving in a few days."

"Preparations for what?" He feared he already knew.

"A new job," she exclaimed delightedly.

"In Delaware?" he growled, frowning at her.

"How about one last roll in the hay before I go?" she suggested gaily. "Regrets are unpleasant burdens to carry about, and that's the only thing I'd wish for once I'm gone."

"Don't go there, Gemini. Please." He pulled her close, desperate to keep her safe, to find a way to force her to his will rather than give her the freedom to walk into a sure death. He kissed her, moving his hands up to her face, holding her gently, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. His seduction of her was a study in tenderness, every movement, gesture and glance designed to draw out her feelings. He didn't mean to fall asleep afterward, but he put all of himself into the encounter and was both physically and emotionally drained when they were spent.

The red rain woke him with a scream, and it took him a moment before he could breathe again. Gemini sat up beside him, her long black hair touseled from sex and restless dreams as she lay beside him. She touched Jarod's shoulder, intending to comfort him, but he jerked away instinctively, unable to bear the feel of another human being at that moment.

"You were dreaming about her again, weren't you?" Gemini asked huskily, her tone assured of the answer without waiting for his response. "I'm sorry you couldn't save her, Jarod. But I know you tried. Accept that good intention for what it is and stop blaming yourself. You did the best you could, because you loved her."

Lamplight still shone on them, and he turned to face her, grief and regret shining in his dark eyes. "I never said goodbye to her, Gemini," he confessed tightly. "I believed I could stop Damon from reaching her in time. I thought she would be safe, but I was wrong, and now she's dead. I don't even know where she's buried."

"Everybody makes mistakes, love," said the woman softly. "You can't be right all the time, or you wouldn't be human. What you have to concentrate on is that you shared life with her for a time. You laughed together. You made love to each other with your hearts and your bodies." She hesitated for a moment, and her voice deepened with unspoken desire. "Sometimes I wish I understood that, but I don't. I've never been able to let anyone inside, not even my parents. But I believe in love, Jarod. I've seen the miracles it performs, the noble sacrifices it makes. People will lay down their lives for love, and that makes it the most honorable thing of all. But it isn't for me. I can't limit myself to just one person for the rest of my life. If I could..." She swallowed hard and touched his stubbly face with her palms and gazed deeply into his eyes. "If I could fall in love, Jarod, I would fall in love with you."

He nodded, understanding. "You don't get to pick who you fall in love with, Gemini," he said slowly. "It just happens when you least expect it."

"Perhaps that's the trick," she said with a slowly dawning smile. "I've been looking for it too hard, and it's running away from me, waiting for me to look the other way. I shall have to try that."

She kissed him lightly on the lips and eased off the bed, picking up her clothes and dressing in them quickly.

"What's your hurry?" he asked lazily. "You could come back to bed."

Glancing up at him with a too-warm smile, she gave him a wink and poured herself into her spandex pantsuit. "It'll be light soon, and I have to be off the grounds by then or I'll turn into a pumpkin."

Jarod frowned.

"Cinderella," she explained quickly. "Look it up in the library."

"So nothing I can do will convince you to change your mind?" he queried, rising and heading for the closet where he kept his black clothes and coat.

"Best not even waste your breath trying, mate," she replied brusquely, pulling her hair into a ponytail with an elastic she had been wearing unobtrusively around her slender wrist.

He was dressed by the time she pulled on her black suede moccasins, and combed his hair with his fingers as he followed her to the balcony door.

"Where do you think you're going, darling?" she asked him over her shoulder.

"To find out how you got in without Security knowing about it, so I can patch the hole in our system," he replied evenly.

She chuckled softly. "Now that's an answer I'll let you get away with. Come on, handsome. If you can keep up!"

Gemini went out into the night on cat feet, walking on the balcony railing with unshakable balance and climbing down with the aid of a few slight uneven places in the adobe walls that she used for hand and toe holds. Once they were on the ground she kissed him long and hard, then said goodbye and melted into the shadows along a hedgerow. He followed as best he could, but her small size and feline grace carried her faster than he could travel, and he ended up tracking her off the grounds, down the cliff to the river and into the canyon that gave the nearby town its name.

The sunrise brought a wash of vivid color to the undulating stone walls, ribbonned in shades of red, crimson, sienna and tan, and he saw a lone shaft of sunlight break through to shine in a single bright beam on the flat, sandy bottom of the narrow passageway. It was beautiful in the canyon, the rock seemingly frozen in violent motion, sharp edges giving way to smooth curves that flowed close to the wall opposite the slender channel, then widening out again further on. There was something soothing about walking down the canyon floor, an almost womb-like sensation that comforted him and made him feel as if, for the first time in his life, he belonged somewhere. His thoughts turned back to the people he had left behind: Grace, Faith and the twins, Little Nathan and old Byron, and all the people he had come to care for in Galleons Lap.

He jogged back the way he had come without catching another glimpse of the elusive thief, and went to tell Pooh that he was home.


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Raines opened the door to his office and pushed his constant companion in first, the squeaky wheels of the cart holding the oxygen canister going silent on the short pile carpet. He closed the door and turned to make his way across the room to his desk, already puffing from the exertion of his long walk from the elevators. He should have taken an office closer to the front of the building, or at least closer to the elevator, but that would reveal a decline in prestige that he could not tolerate. Position was everything. Position was power, and he understood that implicitly.

He stopped short at the sight of a pair of small black boots propped on his desk top, the legs attached to them extending into the guest chair facing away from him, hiding the interloper from his view. Rage flared in his breast, but he did not call Security. He wanted to see the face of the person who had the audacity to invade his inner sanctum. After that, he would decide what manner of death the idiot deserved.

Pulling the oxygen cart behind him, he strode purposefully across the expensive Persian carpet, rounded the desk and took his seat authoritatively. His watery blue eyes went lazily to the stranger's face, and studied the young woman smiling smugly at him, twirling a lock of her long black hair between two fingers of her left hand. Her green eyes were cool, passionless, amused.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"I've been so many people, I'm not sure anymore," she quipped, her smile broadening slightly. "Jane Dough will do. Spelt D-o-u-g-h. As in money."

"And what do you think you want here?" he asked quietly, "because it certainly isn't what you're going to get."

She yanked her feet off his desk and stood swiftly, wandering slowly around his islands of furniture toward room center. "Actually, I came for a job." She chuckled softly to herself and glanced at him over her shoulder as she went on. "Aren't you going to ask me how I got in here?"

"No, I'm not," he rasped ominously. "Because when you're dead, it won't matter, now, will it?"

She smiled, did a little pirouette. "Phone your security ops and ask if there's anyone in here with you," she suggested. "They can see you, right?"

Raines folded his hands on his desktop in defiance of her, and waited.

"There should be a security team in here already, shouldn't there? To capture the intruder in a secure area?" She gave him a half shrug. "They aren't coming, because nobody knows I'm here."

Raines sat back in his chair and regarded her with bright rage and cold intelligence gleaming in his eyes, warring in him for control. "What exactly do you do, Little Miss Money?" he taunted.

"I'm a thief," she admitted proudly. "Rumor has it that I'm the best there is."

A grin slipped across the man's mouth, lost its footing and plunged to its death. He glared at her. "I have no use for your services, but thank you for offering. You have about five minutes to live."

"Ah, but you do need me," she continued, undaunted. "I understand from an associate of Mr. Parker's that you've had a security breach in the last year or so, resulting in the loss of some very valuable merchandise."

One skeletal hand reached down to the canister and adjusted the flow of oxygen higher. "And did this associate tell you what that item was?"

"A cash cow, I believe he called it," she answered with a wink. "But that's hardly the point. You've had a breach. You want to seal it up. I can do that."

"Oh, we've sealed it up already."

She shook her head and clucked her tongue at him as if he was a wayward schoolboy. "Mr. Raines, you're missing this all the way 'round. How did I get in here?"

He felt his face heating up, his blood pressure rising. He adjusted the oxygen again and forced himself to calm down before he popped a vessel.

"You have a security breach," she repeated, her smile melting away, her gaze steely and hard edged. "You have here in this building a security system that's one of the best in the world, or so I've been told."

"By whom?"

"Mr. Rostov, Mr. Parker's associate. I believe you know him?" She waited for his nod of acknowledgement before going on. "It's my job to find the holes in a security system, in order to break in and take what I want. Or what I've been hired to get." She let that point sink in. "But if I worked for you, I could continually sift through your systems, attack them individually, find their weaknesses and patch them up until the place truly is impregnable." She reached into a hidden pocket in her clothing and tossed a small plastic packet across the room and into an empty and conspicuously clean ashtray on the corner of his desk.

Raines reached for it, holding it up before his eyes to examine it.

"No use closing the barn door after the horse has gotten out," she said slyly.

The small plastic packet was imprinted with a business card, complete with e-mail address.

"It's a condom," he observed wonderingly, turning it over in his fingers to read the other side. It read, "Don't Fuck With Me." He meant to tell her how cheesy he thought the idea was, but when he glanced back at her she was gone.

Out of his office.

He picked up the phone and asked his secretary to stop the young woman leaving his office, but the man swore there had been no one in the foyer but Raines and himself. By the time Raines got up and made it into his private bathroom, anyone in good shape could have made an exit, but he still wasn't sure how it could be done. There were sensors in the air ducts, and the windows were for light only, welded shut so they wouldn't open to prevent people breaking in through that avenue. The glass itself was laced with tungsten wire both for extra strength and to complete an electronic circuit for additional security. When he got back to his desk he called Security Ops to see if they had taken notice of the visitor in his office earlier, but no one had seen anything except Raines himself, reading the newspaper and working on reports.

The old man leaned back in his chair and considered her outrageous proposal, wondering if he should risk making such a radical move without getting the Tower's approval first. But he didn't really care what any of them thought. He had finally stumbled across someone with some brains, and he didn't intend to let the opportunity go by without personal investigation. He phoned Rostov and had a nice long chat about a missing Faberge egg, then activated his computer and sent an e-mail message requesting his new security advisor begin work immediately.

He would watch her, of course, every moment of every day. He might even attach an electronic monitor to her so he could keep track of her personally as she moved through the complex, and assign her a security agent to keep tabs on her physically. She wanted something, and he suspected she was there to steal something eventually, hired by someone else to hit them from the inside. There was a short list of possibilities who had knowledge of The Centre at all, and one name came rather quickly to mind.

It would be unlike Jarod to purposefully throw someone else into harm's way, but the idea wasn't an impossibility. He smiled to himself, and wondered just how close to Jarod he could get with the pretty brunette spy. He promised himself to find out.

RED RAIN

Part V


Jarod cradled the baby's dark head in one of his hands and watched with wonder as Michael smiled up at him sleepily.

"You are so amazing, little boy," he cooed softly, rocking slowly in a chair beside Faith's, where she sat feeding baby Justin. It had become a habit with him to help her with the twins as the day wound to a close, one that he looked forward to more each time.

She beamed as she observed the big man and tiny infant interacting, each entranced with the other.

"You're very good with babies," she commented with a gleam of admiration in her eyes. "But then, you're good with everyone, with everything you do." Her cheeks flushed with color and she glanced quickly away when he turned his attention to her.

He put the infant up on his shoulder and began to thump lightly on Michael's tiny back to entice him to burp. Jarod wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand, to assure her that it was all right to have feelings for him, but both his hands were busy.

"Gemini's been gone for a month now, Faith," he ventured hesitantly. "But there wasn't any love lost between us. We liked each other, but we both knew there was no future in a relationship. We both wanted such different things, it would never have worked between us."

Her eyes were wary when they met his again. "What do you want out of life, Jarod?" she asked tentatively. "What are your dreams?"

Michael rewarded his efforts with a resounding burp and he slid the tiny bundle back into his arms so he could gaze into the elfin face again. "I want to know who I am," he said slowly. "I want to make up for all the bad things I did before." He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat and blinked away the tears forming in his eyes. "I want my family back." The tears started anyway, and he held the baby close, rocking faster as the emotions he had kept hidden for so long overwhelmed him. "I want my babies, Faith. I want my... my wife."

Faith's lower lip trembled as she watched him grieve. "I'm sorry, Jarod," she whispered, unable to reach out to him because her hands were busy as well. "I didn't mean to remind you of all you've lost. I'm so sorry."

"I've hurt a lot of people," he said, sniffing as he fought to regain control of his emotions. "Not because I wanted to, but because I was forced to." He wiped his eyes on the baby's blanket and traced a finger along the downy soft cheek, imagining that his own father might have done the same thing to him once upon a time.

"You don't have to tell me, Jarod," Faith said softly. Little Justin had fallen asleep in her arms, and she disengaged him from the nipple, wiped his mouth with a cloth diaper, and settled him over her shoulder for a burp. But before she finished that task, she reached out and stroked Jarod's arm in a gesture of comfort that drew his gaze to hers.

"I know how it feels to have no past," he confessed tightly. "I don't know who my parents are, or what my name is, or how the people who raised me acquired me. I've spent most of the last year looking for answers, and to fill in the blank spaces I've been trying to help people, to bring a sense of justice to my life, and to theirs."

"That's a noble task," Faith said with a shy half-smile. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

For a moment he looked confused. "I'm not sure I know how to tell it so it sounds real, Faith. People don't usually live like I do. But it's the only way I know how to be."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

He frowned and studied the baby's face while he spoke, so he wouldn't have to see the disbelief in her eyes. "In Alaska I was the captain of a freighter involved in illegal dumping that affected a village of Eskimos, making them sick. I turned them in to stop the pollution. In Baltimore I was a medical examiner, and forced a confession out of the chief coroner, who had murdered a homeless man. In New York, I was a thoracic surgeon, and exposed a doctor who had negligently paralyzed a boy by treating him when he was drunk. I was a lawyer once, and helped free a man who had been wrongfully convicted of a crime he didn't commit. I change my name and occupation like most people change their clothes. But I don't know how to be just one thing, just one person. You see how far fetched it sounds?"

Faith was quiet for a moment, slowly rocking the baby and rubbing his back as he slept on her shoulder. "I've seen you do incredible things here, Jarod," she replied evenly. "When you're not working in the Infirmary, you're teaching dance classes or drawing up plans for a new recreation hall. I've watched you pick up an instrument in the music room and learn how to play it in two hours as if you'd been doing it all your life. How can I not believe you? I mean, practicing medicine and law without a license is a pretty serious legal offense, but if you've got the skills and you're saving lives, I think it could be forgiven. You seemed to be pretty competent, if a little unorthodox, when you were delivering my babies."

She got up and laid Justin in his crib, then came to get Michael and put him down with his brother.

"I'll do it," Jarod said with a wave of his hand to hold her off. Both of them stood over the crib, watching the sleeping infants snuggle closer together instinctively.

"They always find each other," Jarod mumbled to himself, remembering the endless experiments with twins that the Centre often had him observe.

"They share the same soul," said Faith. "They used to be one person, after all."

Jarod put a hand to his heart, and thought about Athena. He turned away and slipped his hands into the pockets of his white tunic. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. "I sometimes wonder about the methods I use for bringing people to justice," he said slowly. "I try to make the people who have committed the crime experience what their victims did, feel what they felt. At first I thought I was doing it as a means of finding true justice."

"An eye for an eye," she put in. "That idea is as old as mankind."

"But the more I've lived among people in this strange new world, the more I've come to understand that I'm doing it for myself. I can feel what their victims have already been through when I take on the case," he admitted, glancing at the floor near her feet, unable to meet her eyes for fear of what he might see there. "But when I'm punishing the criminals, it's so I can feel what they feel, their fear and regret, their penance for the crime. It's the only way I can atone for the things I've done to the human race."

He flinched when he felt her hand touch his upper arm, her gentle warmth seeping through the light wool tunic and into his skin.

"Tell me about your crimes, Jarod."

There was such tenderness in her voice, that too-familiar voice, that he had no choice but to obey. He told her about the Centre, listed the projects he had worked on and the outcomes of the research that he had discovered once he found a way out of the facility. And when he finished she had her arms around his waist, her hands stroking gently down his back as his cheek rested against her hair.

"It wasn't your fault, Jarod," she said firmly. "They took your life away from you and gave you no choices in what you had to do. How you turned out so innocent and noble is a miracle in itself. Be thankful for that. They might have twisted you into a monster, if you hadn't been stronger than them."

"I killed a man, Faith," he whispered painfully. "I murdered him while he begged for his life."

She drew away from him and met his gaze with unwavering belief. "There was a very important reason for it, though, wasn't there?"

He made no sound or movement, just stared into her eyes.

"What did he do, Jarod? Why did you kill him?" she pressed gently.

"Because he had just murdered my... the woman I loved, and the twins she carried."

"Then you did what any loving husband would have done," she decided.

Suddenly he was aware how close they stood, the scent of babies and motherhood and femininity clouding his thinking. Her lips were right there, so close, and she seemed to be waiting.

He leaned down and touched her mouth with his, and it was if forgiveness itself poured into him from that tender, hesitant kiss. He drew away and brushed her cheek with his fingertips, noting the change in her expression. Desire and uncertainty warred in her eyes, and he let his hand stroke gently through her hair, down her shoulder and away.

Her voice was trembling along with her lower lip when she spoke. "It isn't because I remind you of her, is it? I want you to know it's me, and not someone else."

"The lines are still blurred for me there, Faith," he said sadly. "I watched Athena die. I know you're not her. It's just that... you're so like her in some ways. We both need to be sure of ourselves here. I don't want you to be afraid of me, either, like you were when we first met."

She glanced down at the floor to gather her thoughts before meeting his eyes again. "There might be someone out there, still trying to find me, Jarod," she reminded him. "I don't know if I need to keep being careful, or if my new face is protection enough."

"Grace said you weren't looking for your past. Maybe you should, just so you know who to stay away from."

Faith shook her head. "I'm afraid of what I might find. Or who might find me."

"You remembered something?" Jarod was at once hopeful and dismayed at the possibility.

She took a deep breath, and nodded. "Just dreams, mostly. People were chasing me. I was afraid they would catch me and take my babies away."

"Who were they? Did you know them?"

She shrugged. "No. But I was more afraid for the twins than I was for myself. They make me vulnerable. I don't know how else to explain it."

"I'd like to help you," he whispered. "If you want me to."

"I don't know, Jarod. There are things you should know first. Things I've been wanting to tell you, but didn't know where to start." Faith moved toward the desk and opened the drawer. A small box was nestled inside among the drawing implements and legal tablets filled with notes from her classes and other personal research. "Please understand, Jarod," she said softly, so softly her voice was barely audible. "I wasn't sure what sort of man you were for a long time. I was afraid it might have been you chasing me, in my dreams."

He nodded. "I'm glad you learned to trust me."

"And I do. Very much." She handed a box to him, wrapped in red paper and decorated with a tiny red bow. "Happy Valentine's Day, Jarod."

He kissed her cheek, saddened that he had not thought to get her a gift in return. "Thank you, Faith." He turned the box over and started to pull at the tape sealing the wrapping closed, but she laid her hand over his and stopped him.

"Open it later," she urged him with a weary smile. "I've got to get to bed before the boys wake me for another feeding. Okay?"

Jarod couldn't help smiling in return. "Okay. Good night, Faith."

She kissed him then, lingering sweetly in his arms until he drew away from her. Tears clung to her lashes, but she smiled as she wished him a good night and walked with him to the door of her suite.

He carried the box lightly in his hand on the way to his own rooms, and wondered what was in it. Thinking Faith would enjoy watching him open it, he decided to wait until morning and placed it on his nightstand. But sleep didn't come when he lay down for it, and he decided to check his e-mail for messages and cruise the Net instead of wrestling with his demons.

There were several posts from Sydney which he chose to ignore, and one from a writer he didn't recognize. He opened that one and read the short text from Tinkerbell.

Greetings from Never-Never Land! I'm finding my way into all sorts of challenges here, and managing to avoid the traps. >g< I have discovered answers I would not have believed, had I not seen the evidence myself. It didn't start with you, friend. You were a fortuitous accident for which many were grateful, but you were hardly the beginning. And your sanctuary has certainly caused a stir! More to come,

II

P.S. Perhaps you should read some of the winter newspapers from El Paso. You might find something of interest there. Off to cover my tracks...


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Jarod knew the "II" was the astrological symbol for the sign of Gemini, and hoped she knew enough about computers to effectively erase all signs of her electronic message to him from the Centre. He was worried about her, but she seemed to have survived her first month of employment there with no ill effects. He wondered what she had discovered in her initial explorations that led her to write the cryptic hints, and hoped she would have the chance to explain further. But more than anything else, he feared for her life. One tiny mistake could get her killed, and he would not be able to help her.

Unless he gave the Centre something else to concentrate on, a distraction that would take the focus off the new employees.

He went downstairs to the library and searched through the newspapers for a likely prospect for his next Personal Crusade. There was one story that caught his attention, concering a mentally retarded man who had been found murdered near the group home where he lived in St. Paul. It was a brutal crime without explanation, for the man had the mind of an innocent child, and kindness was his most noticeable trait. Jarod took the paper back to his room with him, and sat down at the desk to write a note of farewell. He slipped it under Faith's door after he had finished making his preparations to leave, then glanced at his watch.

Grace often rose early, so he risked a knock on her door and found her up and practicing yoga in her sitting room.

"I'm leaving," he said brusquely. "I have something to do. Someone needs my help."

"You know they'll be watching for you to go," she reminded him gently, and folded her body gracefully over her outstretched legs, held for a moment and eased slowly upright again.

"I know. But I have to go."

She gave him a wistful smile. "Will you be back?"

He beamed at her. "Of course, Pooh. This is home."

"Then I'll keep your room ready for you," she promised warmly. "You'll always have a place here, with us, whenever you want it, Christopher Robin."

Grace put her feet under her and pushed to a standing position, waited to make sure she had her balance. "You've become very important to me in the few months we've known each other, Jarod. There's something special about you that tugs at my heart, though I can't fathom what it might be. All I know is that I have come to love you like a son, and I wish you great happiness in everything you do."

His face sagged beneath a burden of sadness, and he bowed his head in shame. "I don't deserve to be happy," he mumbled. "If you only knew..."

"Don't be such a martyr, love," Grace shot back. "Of course you deserve the good things in life. You weren't responsible for the things you were made to do. The things I saw you accomplish on those disks were nothing short of miraculous, but it also constitutes some of the most horrifying child abuse I've ever seen."

"I could have refused."

She shook her head adamantly. "No, Jarod, you couldn't have. Think about why you can't remember your early life. I've watched your mind work, and when you experience something once, you've got it forever. A little boy's mother wears the face of God, and yet you carry around a photograph because you can't recall her at all. That isn't something a man with your intellectual gifts could ever forget... unless you had help."

Something shifted deep within him, and all of his attention focused on her. "What do you mean? Brainwashing?"

"Perhaps. Combined with certain drugs, it's entirely feasible that they wiped your early memories intentionally, to make you need the Center as home and family, to coerce you into cooperating even when you didn't want to. Joaquin suggested as much to me when he was here, and since he left I've been acquiring information from a lot of different sources on the results of Centre research."

"Who is Joaquin?"

"My late husband's younger brother. He first told me about the Centre. It was once part of the Foundation, when it was in its infancy."

Jarod could hardly breathe. "Tell me everything. Please."


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He ran to the garage, a set of Grace's car keys in his hand. It was snowing again as the sun began its upward journey, lighting his way to the gates and the open road. He gunned the Mustang's engine, pushing the car harder, faster down the highway. Jarod wiped his eyes on his coatsleeve, but the anguish and rage swelling up within him would not be satisfied with mere clouded vision. A great roar of pain leaped out his throat, and he pounded on the steering wheel with his hands. The car swerved on the empty road, and he stomped on the brakes, skidding to a stop in the middle of the pavement. He threw the gear shift into Park and battered himself against the interior, screaming and shouting his agony aloud, until he was bloody, bruised and spent.

Jarod picked up a thick stack of paper from the floorboard where it had fallen and leafed through the report once more. He re-read the passages Grace had highlighted, using a dim emergency flashlight that had rolled out from under his seat for illumination. The name of the drug that was the study's main focus was Styx-15, and its most remarkable feature was the manipulation of memory during REM sleep. Under its influence, the paper stated, subjects had many of their deepest-seated memories altered or completely removed, so that troublesome situations affecting work performance were erased without the subjects' awareness that anything had happened to them at all.

Styx-15 was never commercially produced, its distribution reserved for research purposes only, until side-effects could be studied. The report was nearly 30 years old, and the only name associated with the development of the drug was that of Dr. Raines. Stamped at the top of the report in bold red letters were the words "Project Cancelled" and a date less than 7 years from the inception of the study. Raines must have decided to keep Styx-15 for his own private use and cancelled the study before allowing the drug to become a new weapon for the War Department.

The Centre had stolen Jarod from his family, and then Raines erased Jarod's memories of them to keep him focused on his work. But equally frightening was the idea that he might have escaped from the Centre at other times and had all his experiences on the outside wiped clean from his mind... and if they caught him again, they'd do the very same thing and end up with a working Pretender once more. Styx-15 was also a reasonable explanation for why some of his memories differed in structure and content from the DSAs. Jarod surmised that was why he had always hated sleeping, because part of his subconscious was aware of the tampering that had gone on as he dreamed, and rebelled against it.

Red rain.

And one of the side effects that he lived with now was the vivid violence of his nightmares. Sleep was not a refuge for him, nor a place of rest. It was a descent into Hell.

When he could manage, he put the car back in gear and pressed the accellerator down slowly, his body and soul aching as he headed north across the forbidding landscape blanketed with pristine snow. The rising sun painted an unusual, brilliant dawn display as he drove, the cloudy sky clearing at the eastern horizon, just enough to let the first of the sunlight reflect on the new-fallen, still falling flakes of fluffy white. Jarod did not believe in omens, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up in response to the sight of the ruddy landscape, dressed in a mantle of crimson snow.


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Faith knocked softly on the partially open door, Jarod's note clutched in her hand. When he didn't answer, she pushed the door further open and poked her head in, checking to see if he was still sleeping. But his bed was neatly made, and there was no sign of him in the room. Her gaze fell on the tiny red package, still unopened, sitting on the nightstand, and she wandered over to it.

The note had said that he was going away for a little while, but that he would contact her by e-mail or telephone every day. She had thought it was because he couldn't face the revelation she had given him, but seeing the intact Valentine's gift, she realized his flight had to have been inspired by something else entirely.

Once more she read the letter in her hand, studying the bold, sure handwriting and the underlying emotion hidden in his words. He was learning to care for her, building a fragile trust between them, and she was afraid it might crumble when he found out he knew her better than she did herself. It had taken every ounce of courage she had to put the locket with his picture in it into that box and set it in his hand, and now that her secret remained hidden, she wasn't sure she wanted him to know that the woman he once loved was still alive. He might see her hesitance in revealing herself as an insurmountable obstacle between them, or be angry with her for waiting so long to tell him who she was. But he deserved to know the twins were his sons, whether he chose to continue their slowly blossoming relationship or not.

She picked up the box and put it in the pocket of her robe along with his letter, and closed his door firmly behind her as she left to return to her room. She would keep her gift safely in her quarters and make sure she was present when he opened it, upon his return home.