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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Part II
His handling of Alan Cross was not the best, Jarod knew, but he had made his move and would think on it further to determine his next course of action. In the interim, he wanted to find Nathan and see how the boy had fared in his absence. He found the child in a day room, sitting on the lap of a silver-maned Navajo elder, his long hair done up in the traditional bun at the nape of his neck. The two were surrounded by other school children, all of them watching cartoons until the morning bell rang for school to begin.
Jarod greeted the boy warmly, but only warranted a brief, automatic acknowledgement. Nathan's attention was tightly focused on a strange blue and purple bird with a body no larger than a teaspoon, and a tall, lean coyote intent on making a meal out of the speedy fowl. Jarod took a seat on a sofa with a view of the courtyard, opened his laptop and went to work deciperhing the enigmatic past of Alan Cross.
Momentarily, the peal of a large iron bell outside brought the children to their feet, but the old man kept his seat and continued to watch the cartoons, chuckling softly to himself at the coyote's antics.
Jarod couldn't keep quiet any longer. "What I don't understand is, how can the coyote keep missing his mark? After the second or third mistake, you'd think he would know to plan better, take more account of probabilities."
The old man turned in his chair to face his questioner. "Simple," he replied quietly. "He doesn't look far enough ahead. He overthinks everything and misses the obvious. And he doesn't allow for the roadrunner's incredible natural luck."
The Pretender sat very still for a moment, instantly recognizing the elder's voice from his dreams. He argued with himself about that, and ignored the flicker of intuition as an error. "Nobody can be that lucky consistently," Jarod returned gently. "And with a company like Acme at his command, Wile E. Coyote should be fat and happy with hundreds of kills on his record. I still don't get it."
"Then you and Coyote have a lot in common," the old man said with a wink and a grin. "Until Coyote learns to become Roadrunner, he will never catch him. But then, that's asking a little too much depth of a children's cartoon." He rose from his chair and came to stand in front of the younger man. "The roadrunner is the lesson. Don't you see?"
Jarod frowned, his mind turning the point over and over, but unable to guess the elder's meaning. He shrugged. "Tell me what you think it is."
The old man did not offer his hand in friendship. "Ya-ta-hey," he said, greeting in Navajo fashion. He smiled when Jarod did not extend his hand as most whites would do. Navajos preferred not to touch strangers, who could be witches or other evil influences, and he was pleased that this one accepted that about his people. "I'm Hosteen Gorman. 'Hosteen' is like 'grandfather.' That's what they call you when you're old, even if you don't have any grandchildren."
"Ya-tay," replied Jarod casually. "I'm Jarod. Pleased to meet you, Grandfather. So what is the lesson of the roadrunner?"
Gorman sat down on the sofa beside Jarod, but far enough away not to intrude in his space. "The roadrunner is Wu-wei. He knows that, at any moment, Coyote could eat him for lunch, but he doesn't let the threat of imminent death get in the way of his enjoying life. Roadrunner lives, sometimes full tilt, sometimes dead stop. But he lives. He sees. He goes. He does. He is. Coyote spends so much time and energy trying to outsmart Roadrunner, that he merely exists, and he has even lost sight of the fact that he's just trying to feed himself. So he goes hungry, and loses more energy planning the next trap. Not very smart, for all his brilliance. Don't you think?"
"Wu-wei is a Chinese concept, isn't it?" Jarod asked warily, eyeing this obviously well-educated man with a note of suspicion. "Sort of 'achieving without doing,' right?" This old man reminded him of Ernie Two Feathers, a fact which made Jarod feel both guilty and warm. Ernie died because of his friendship with the Pretender, and Jarod didn't want history to repeat itself.
Gorman nodded, smiling with pleasure. "Good! A man who knows his philosophy."
"So the roadrunner's attitude is typically Zen. He's an uncarved block, of sorts." Jarod was beginning to see tremendous symbolism in the cartoons now, nodding as his eyes brightened and he began to warm to the subject. He felt a connection with this old man, as if there was a significance to the dawning relationship. "And with his goodness comes luck, a Karmic reward for the purity of his soul, whereas the coyote's pitfalls are the result of his murderous intent, and his hatred. I see. I see. This is fascinating."
Hosteen Gorman laughed out loud, slapping his thigh as his dark eyes twinkled merrily. "And sometimes, Coyote, a cigar is just a cigar. It's just a cartoon, Jarod. The people who wrote those things weren't out to deliver a world-changing subliminal message. They wanted to make people laugh."
"But a moment ago you were talking about philosophy and symbolism and--"
The old man chuckled softly and rose from his seat, slipping his hands in his jeans pockets. "There are few people who can truly see the world in a grain of sand, and experience eternity in an hour. But for those who can, life will never be boring or without meaning. There's an old Chinese proverb that says, 'I chased the butterfly and could not catch it, but when I sat down to rest, it came to light on my hand.' That's the lesson Coyote needs to learn from Roadrunner. Don't try so hard. If he spent a little less time trying to show how smart he is and just waited by the water hole, he'd get a meal soon enough."
Jarod turned his gaze down to his laptop to consider Gorman's words, and when he looked up the old man was gone. He thought about the conversation a moment more before turning back to his work, and let the message slip silently away without holding onto it.
It was late afternoon by the time Jarod finished his investigation into the background of Alan Cross, and confirmed his suspicions that Cross was a dangerous man. He stopped by the infirmary for a long visit with Dr. Ndele, who asked his assistance on a research project whenever Jarod had time to spare. The Pretender left with a promise to return early the next morning, and hurried to Faith's cabin to see if she had arrived home with the twins.
He found Alan Cross peeling potatoes at the kitchen table while Faith stood at the stove, browning several lambchops for dinner. She glared at Jarod with an angry look, and turned her attention back to the pan.
"I invited Alan for dinner," she announced tersely, without looking up at him again.
"Should I leave?" Jarod asked her coolly, standing in the kitchen doorway with his hands dangling at his sides in uncharacteristic stillness.
"I think the three of us should have a talk," she returned, pushing the frying pan's handle back toward the center of the stove. She wiped her palms on a small towel tucked into the front pocket of her jeans, and turned to face him, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest.
Alan sat silently at the table, keeping his eyes on the knife in his hands, the merest shadow of a smile dusting the corners of his mouth.
"Alan told me you said we've been married for three years," she said quickly. "But this morning you told me we never actually said vows. And that we met a little over a year ago in Nashville. So which of us were you lying to, and why?"
Jarod felt her eyes on him, hot with anger, and the heat of her gaze made his face warm to such a degree that his hand rose unconsciously to touch it. Something told him that his color had deepened as well, and that blushing was an automatic response to deep embarrassment or shame. The realization surprised him. He had never felt that before, and the sensation was strange, uncomfortable. He had been caught in an untruth by the one person who deserved his complete honesty, and he felt he was diminished now in her estimation.
"To him," Jarod replied slowly, maintaining eye contact with Faith and avoiding acknowledging the other man's presence for a moment. "I wanted him to leave you alone. I thought he might if he knew we were involved."
Her nostrils flared and her lips pressed together whitely. When she spoke again it was a verbal explosion aimed directly at Jarod. "But we aren't involved, Jarod! Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you? Whatever went on before is over, gone. We're starting at the beginning here, and Alan's got just as much of a chance to be a part of my life as you do. The decision is mine who I spend time with, not yours, and I won't have you playing territorial alpha male and chasing off my friends because you don't want anybody in your way. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly," he snapped, turned on his heel and left the cabin at a brisk walk that became a pelting run as he headed toward the canyon. By the time he reached the bottom he was seething with rage, feeling the anger, hurt and frustration building up to uncontrollable heights that he knew would make him a dangerous man to be around. Jarod found a large boulder sunk into the sandy floor of the chasm and started pushing against it, using it as a focus for his strength to bleed off some of the excess energy, to wear him out physically while he cooled off and regained his emotional control. His mind conjured up vivid images of violent acts against his rival, escalating into deadly force that would end the rivalry forever. Jarod could see Cross's mangled body bleeding on the dance floor in the very spot where he had kissed Faith, could smell the tinny odor of gore, so strong in his nostrils it made him gag. And he could feel the blood drying on his hands, making them sticky as they moved.
Red rain.
Sanity returned, stealing back quietly as he stared at his hands. The blood faded away with reality, and he wiped them nervously on his jeans, stunned and fearful that he had actually indulged in such a fantasy. When he was past it he climbed up the well worn path to the plateau on which the Foundation sat, jogged slowly back to his room, showered and put on fresh clothes. He could think clearly again, and decided to return to Faith's cabin to try to work things out between them and get back into her good graces again.
It was dusk, and shadows moved in the blue edge of twilight as Jarod left the main building. The sparkle of golden feminine laughter drew his attention upward, and he could see a couple standing at the edge of the roof garden, dancing and holding each other closely. It startled him for a moment when he realized that the woman was none other than Miss Parker herself, and he was immediately curious about the identity of the tall, broad-shouldered man whose face was buried into her neck.
He decided it would wait, and turned back to the path leading across the school yard by the Learning Center. Rounding the corner, he meant to run through the playground equipment once before continuing on his way, but stopped short when he reached the dome-shaped jungle gym.
There was someone lying on the ground beneath the hollow canopy.
Jarod ran to help, ducking through the interwoven steel bars, and knelt down beside the man. In the waning light Jarod could see that he was Navajo, and he was quite dead. With fingers pressed against the carotid in the man's neck, Jarod felt for a pulse, already certain there would be none. He stood up, checked around quickly for clues, but there were so many footprints in the sandy yard from playful children that he couldn't discern any clear ones that might help him judge which way the killer went.
He studied the shadows of the surrounding landscape and saw nothing suspicious. Turning away, he walked toward the Learning Center to notify Grace and the tribal police, but the crime stimulated his instinctive thinking patterns and he began to simulate the murder.
Two men stood in the shadows of nightfall on the playground. They were not strangers, but there was undeniable tension between them. They kept their voices low as they talked, neither wanting to draw attention to their private meeting. It was twilight, that period of indistinct light and heavy shadows before the campus lighting turned on. They wandered over the playground together, discussing some matter of import between them. One of them picked up a bat and ball from the equipment rack, and when the other least expected it, he tossed the ball straight up into the air as a distraction, and slammed the bat into the other man's head. The victim fell backward in the sand, still conscious, and tried to drag himself to safety. His jaw was broken, preventing him from screaming for help. It took only a few more blows to fracture the poor man's skull and crush his windpipe, and the killer had stayed long enough to make sure his victim had expired. There were so many tracks in the sand that it would be difficult to match up any in particular with the murderer, and the killing produced such a small amount of blood that, in the falling darkness, no one would have taken notice of such evidence as the murderer departed the scene.
Jarod knew the killer had not gone far, but was someone who lived on Galleons Lap, and would be watching with pleasure as Jarod and the tribal police walked through their investigation. The presence of a murderer on Foundation lands put all of its residents in danger, and Jarod would not allow the sanctity of his home to be violated. He would protect his new family at all costs, and was determined to find the killer, even if it meant setting himself up as a target. And if he pushed hard enough, he was sure he could get the killer's attention and flush him out.
For nearly forty years, Sydney had been a servant of science, selling his soul and giving up his morals for the sake of knowledge, but in the wake of Samantha's death he was no longer willing to shelve his emotions. He was past disillusionment, past outrage, and there was only one course of action left for him to follow. He tidied up all his notes, gave the miniature marvel of architecture that had been Jarod's initial accomplishment one final fond caress, and picked up his briefcase. He did not look back even once on his way down the long corridor to the outside, and when he started his car and drove home to pack he gave no thought to the consequences. He was on Centre business, after all, and by the time they discovered he wasn't coming back it would be too late to do anything at all.
Jacob was safely stowed away at a new nursing home, and as soon as he could, Sydney would send for him. He had enough money hidden away in secret accounts to support both of them for a long while, so that when The Centre cut off his funds to force him into returning, they would find themselves without leverage. He boarded the company plane with a pair of suitcases and a small shaving kit, and within hours sat in the back of a limousine as it passed through the gates of the St. James Stewardship Foundation. And as he exited the car and watched it drive away without him, he let his buried emotions begin to surface, and was nearly sundered by the vanguard of monumental regrets.
A Navajo woman in white greeted him and showed him to a room upstairs, and in the silence of late evening he sat down on the bed and wept.
It was almost midnight when he got up the courage to pay his hostess a visit. Dressed in gray collegiate sweats, he padded barefoot down the hall to Grace's rooms and knocked softly on the door. After only a moment or two he was looking into her eyes, so weary himself that he hardly noticed the fatigue in her face.
"It's late," she said shortly. "Would you mind looking me up in the morning? It's been a rather trying day."
Sydney remained planted firmly on her threshold. He sighed, bowed his head briefly, and made eye contact again. His elegantly European voice was shadowed with grief when he spoke, and for once he did not play games with his words.
"I've come to ask for asylum, Ms. St. James," he said quietly. "If there is asylum for a Judas of my caliber."
Grace stared at him unblinking for a full minute, studying him for some sign of hidden agendas. She took in his red-rimmed, swollen eyes, which could be accounted for through lack of sleep, but there was something about his lax posture, his air of loss that was unmistakably genuine, and she opened the door wide to invite him in.
Sydney collapsed on a Queen Anne settee in her sitting room and began to talk without waiting for her invitation, and Grace went to her small private bar and hoisted out her hoarded bottle of ouzo and two glasses. If ever a night called for the strong stuff, she told herself, it was this one. She set the bottle between them and saluted him with her glass as she downed the first draught.
Faith wasn't in her cabin. Jarod could understand her concern about sleeping in the remote building in the wake of a murder, and tried her old room in the main house. She roused instantly when he opened the door, and he stole silently inside, shutting them up again in quiet darkness. He checked on the twins first, then sat down on the edge of Faith's twin bed.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered angrily.
"You're afraid," he answered softly. "I want to protect you."
She frowned, contemplating his reasoning, and responded with gentler curiosity. "Where do you plan to sleep?"
He shrugged. "I don't. I can go for days without it."
The campus lighting shining through the sheer curtains in her room revealed a shift in her emotional state, a concerned curiosity leaching the last of her anger away. "I don't want you to do that," she returned. "You'll get sick again."
He reached up to touch her face, but remembered her earlier rejection and drew his hand away uncertainly. "Go to sleep," he told her huskily. "As long as you're safe, that's all that matters." He waited for her to obey, and smiled to reassure her, moving his hands to his lap.
Faith lay down on her pillow, settling onto her back where she could see his face better. Half of his features were blackened by shadows, but in the pale silver light she could read the concern and love in his face clearly.
"Jarod." She swallowed hard, clutching the covers to keep from touching him. "I don't belong to you."
It took eons for him to blink, and his closed expression did not change. "I know that. I just thought what we had together was important enough for you to give me a chance to help you learn to love me again. I didn't want anyone to get in the way of that."
"Then you shouldn't have run away," she reminded him gently. "I'm confused enough by what's happened to me. While you were gone I thought, maybe I should look for someone more stable, someone who'll be there when I need him. I like Alan. He's a nice man, and he doesn't mind that I have kids."
"I never make the same mistake twice," Jarod promised. "I'll be here for you. I'm here now. And Alan Cross is not someone you should be around. He has a past you don't want to be associated with."
She shook her head against the pillow. "No, Jarod. You weren't here. When I heard about the murder, I went to get the twins, and then to find you. And you were right in the middle of everything, talking to Foundation security, to Grace, to the cops. You were up to your eyebrows in it, directing people, giving them orders, answering questions. You loved it. And it wasn't until everything was done that you thought about us and came to find me. I want a man who will put his children first, and then see about everything else. That's what it means to be a father, Jarod. And you have no right to snoop into Alan's past, which is what I assume you must have done. Grace won't be pleased if you did."
He knew she was right, and made no attempt to defend his actions. He simply nodded and rose, moving to stand by the window, looking out at the night and thinking. He didn't look at her, couldn't. His chances of winning her back were bleeding away quickly, and if he fell far enough behind, he believed she would turn to someone else for the comfort and security she needed. He didn't want his sons to be raised by another man, but unless his sense of values shifted, that might be a better solution than having him gone whenever he was needed most. He had to learn how to be a father, not just as a pretend, as a simulation, but to follow his heart and listen to that quiet voice when danger threatened.
When he thought she was asleep he went over the murder simulation again, looking for things he had missed the first time, and then repeated it in pantomime, working through details. Dawn was coloring the sky when he risked another glance at her again. Faith's eyes were still open, and Jarod wasn't sure if she had seen him performing his bizarre dance, but she said nothing. She rose to check on the twins, and just as she bent over their shared crib, one of them gurgled and greeted her with a coo of pleasure. She lifted baby Justin out of the bed after changing his diaper, and settled into her rocking chair to feed him breakfast.
Jarod watched the scene, understanding how she had known the baby was waking even before he made his first noise, how she knew he needed to be fed and changed. Mother's instinct was strong, and he wanted to believe he was capable of the same. He wandered over to the crib, telling himself that Michael was awake, but found the tiny child still and silent, his dark eyes innocently closed to the world.
"I love them so much, Faith," he whispered huskily.
But she wasn't listening. She was holding onto one tiny hand, gazing happily into Justin's coffee-colored eyes and talking to him with a vocabulary of meaningless pleasure-sounds while she smiled down into his face.
Jarod turned back to the window and squared his shoulders, determined he would not let his pain win. He would hold it inside until it died, and then he would be free to fill up his soul with a father's love.
Faith frowned as they left her rooms, and turned to him as he carried baby Justin against his chest. "What were you doing last night?" she asked cautiously.
"Trying to solve the murder," he answered succinctly, wanting to spare her the details of what he was thinking.
She accepted his explanation without further description, but when word of another killing arrived in the dining room, he left her with the babies and a brief word of apology, and went to see for himself.
The victim's ten year old daughter had found her, and when Jarod arrived the child was sitting on the grass with Hosteen Gorman and little Nathan, both of whom were offering their compassion and support, but the child was on the verge of hysteria. Jarod decided not to question her, and spoke with the security guard standing watch until the tribal police could arrive. It took some doing to convince the man to allow him into the scene to look for clues, but eventually he blustered his way in and took brief note of the placement of items in the living room, heading straight for the bedroom doorway. He did not go in, but surveyed the scene from the threshold, and let his mind wander.
Not a stranger, he mused. Someone she has known well. They had a drink on the sofa first, but the killer already removed the glass he touched. They talked for a long time before he coaxed her into the bedroom, but she went because she knew him. She had slept with him before, and expected nothing different than the last time she had been with him. When was that?
Jarod saw that the woman was still partially clothed, leaned back against the bed with one leg still dangling off the mattress, as if her lover had just laid her down, his body still covering hers. And then, while he kissed her, he took his knife and pierced her heart with it, swallowing her scream of pain and horror. Her death was quick, and after she was gone he sliced open her chest and cleaved her heart in two with several jagged strokes.
When he was done, he simply left, not disturbing the child whose presence in the house was obvious from the toys left on the floor and the school book sitting beside her mother's glass on the coffee table.
Jarod stared hard at the woman's bloody chest, thinking, his eyes narrowing. The killer had taken his shirt off and left it on the sofa. His trousers were dark, possibly left in the other room as well. With the first stab, he would have been covered in blood, and with the successive cuts it would have gotten worse. But no one had been seen wearing bloody clothes the night before, so he must have cleaned himself somewhat on a handy item. Jarod checked in the bathroom and assumed there was a towel missing until he checked the kitchen. The stainless steel sink was filled with a strange soupy mass, and a sniff confirmed his suspicions. In order to dispose of the biological evidence he might have left at the scene, the killer had wiped himself off on a pillowcase, the naked pillow still hidden beneath the bedclothes, and then dissolved the case in acid, which was eating through the rubber seals on the drain and about to pass down into the pipes.
The killer was someone Marissa May knew well. She hadn't seen him for a while, but was willing to renew their previous romance. That was why she had let him in late at night, after her daughter had gone to bed. But he had returned to her life specifically to murder her, in the midst of seduction, swallowing her death scream in his kiss. It was his final revenge for her breaking his heart years before, and he had everything planned out to the merest detail. He had walked away clean, without leaving the slightest trace of what he had just done.
Jarod informed the guard on duty about the acid so he would tell Officer Tso when he arrived, and left in search of Faith.
"I hear they found another body this morning," said Miss Parker over her morning coffee.
"Yeah," Jay agreed, stretching out on his back on her well mussed bed. "One of the women who worked in the kitchen. Marissa something." He opened sleepy green eyes and flashed his dimples at her. "Not exactly the kind of subject I wanted to wake up to, Ruby Tuesday."
She smiled, but her eyebrows twitched together in confusion. "Where did that name come from?"
He rolled over toward her and propped himself up on one arm. "Well, you hate your given name, so I thought I'd try out some nicknames. How about 'Ruby' for short?"
She took another sip and hummed the old Rolling Stones tune to herself as she set the cup back onto its china saucer. "It does fit a little, doesn't it?" she mused. "Only I hope you won't be saying goodbye anytime soon."
"Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday. Who could hang a name on you?" he sang as he slithered out from beneath the sheets, crawling toward her on hands and knees, a lustful gleam in his eye. Her legs were discreetly crossed, one foot dangling in the air, and he nibbled across the instep of her right foot, up her shin, toward her knee. She laughed and pushed him away.
"I swear, you're insatiable!" she teased. "Just the way I like it!" She set her cup on the breakfast tray beside her and pounced on him.
Hours later, she lay on her belly with her lover stretched out on top of her back, purring as he massaged her neck with his fingertips. "You know, I don't know anything about you, Jay. But now I find myself wanting to know who you are, where you come from." She opened her eyes, but dared not look at him. "That scares me a little."
"Good," he grinned. "I want you to be scared. Just a little. Keeps the excitement up."
She chuckled softly. "As if you needed any help at all in that area..."
Rolling out from underneath him, she sighed wearily. "I'm falling down on the job because of you, Jay. I'm supposed to be working while I'm here."
"Yeah? On what?"
"Can't tell you all the details, but I'm supposed to be watching someone." She turned her back to him and rose from the bed, smoothing her long auburn hair back from her face with one hand as she searched for her slippers. "So don't get all jealous on me when you see me with him."
Jay lay on his back with hands crossed beneath his head, and closed his eyes. "I don't know how to be jealous, babe," he assured her. "I'm not a territorial kind of guy."
"Good," she responded brusquely. But somehow that saddened her a little. She shrugged the feeling off and set about dressing for the day.
"Don't you think you should announce yourself downstairs?" she asked when she was finished. "You haven't left my room for two days. I thought this was your home."
"It is," Jay responded, rolling onto his belly beneath the covers. "But I'm enjoying myself for the first time in... well, a very long time. I'm not ready to face my people just yet. They'll see me when the time comes." He grinned into the pillow. "And I'm having a wonderful time with you. Like the whole world is just us. It's nice... Almost like being in love... as if such things really existed."
"You sound bitter," Miss Parker mused thoughtfully.
He shrugged. "Just call 'em like I see 'em, ma'am," he groaned lazily, and heaved a contented sigh.
She exited her penthouse rooms and stepped into the elevator, wondering what woman in his past had burned him so badly that he continued to shut them all out. But idle curiosity vanished when the doors opened in the downstairs lobby and she saw Jarod deep in conversation in the Day Room with an officer of the tribal police. Taking a seat not far away from the two men, she picked up a book someone had left on a nearby table and opened it, feigning interest in the handwritten journal as she listened.
"So you knew the victim, Dr. Black?" asked Officer Tso flatly.
"Yes," answered Jarod succinctly. "I treated a burn for her last January when I was serving as the Foundation's resident physician. Marissa May was a nice young woman. I can't think why anyone would want to kill her."
Jarod's emotional distress was obvious only in the thickness of his voice, which vibrated with righteous anger. His face showed only mild interest in the officer's questions, carefully schooled to give nothing away. But when Brendan Tso finished his interview and casually commented on the sad fact that Marissa's daughter had found her body, Jarod gave only a curt nod of his head and walked away.
Miss Parker followed him to the gymnasium, and stood by silently while Jarod beat the stuffings out of a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. She saw the murderous gleam in his eyes as he visualized something other than leather and cotton wadding before him, and decided to wait until he had cooled down before continuing her surveillance. She didn't want to get too close just then. Jarod was becoming a much more dangerous man than she had ever imagined he would be. Years of buried emotion lay under an easily irritated surface, and if he was pushed too hard, all that rage and hatred would erupt... and with disastrous consequences.
If they hadn't already. Two murders had occurred on Foundation grounds in the space of less than 24 hours, and that tiny voice of intuition that she so rarely heeded told her that more were on the way. She went back up to her room to fetch her pistol, and throw on a jacket with a pocket she could slip it into, easily in reach.
Jay was sleeping soundly, and she left without disturbing him.
Lt. Tso stood outside the cabin and felt the sunshine on his face, taking a deep breath to clear away the horror of the carnage he had just seen. Unlike most Navajos, Brendan Tso had distanced himself from the beliefs about the malevolent spirits that all dead souls became, partly because his Protestant mother had instilled a different set of beliefs in him from childhood, but also because he had known from an early age that he wanted to be a policeman, and that policemen dealt regularly with the dead.
This case, however, brought up a sense of horror that made him ill, and it was difficult to push his revulsion away far enough to examine the evidence and put the clues together into a coherent picture. The sight of the pretty young woman's body cut up like a side of beef sickened him, and it was several more moments before he could get to the next stage of the investigation.
He walked steadily away from the once comfortable little house, purposefully avoiding a glance at the little girl sitting nearby, weeping softly. He had already interviewed her, and now that he had seen the crime scene he knew what horror she had seen, how she would be forever changed, her precious innocence shattered. He had questions, and there was only one person he trusted to answer them with the truth.
Tso found Grace St. James in her office, and he sat down wearily across from her.
"You've got problems," he said softly.
"I know you'll find whoever's doing this, Officer Tso," Grace responded tensely. "We haven't had the best relationship over the years, but I respect you and what you stand for."
He shrugged. "I may have a personal problem with what the Foundation does for people I should probably be arresting, but I know you, Grace. You're made of stern stuff, and not easily fooled."
She gave him a slight, brief smile of acknowledgement, and waited for the rest.
"I've been looking into your Dr. Black," he said solemnly. "Quite a stellar career the man's got. I don't know how he ended up here, but I'm sure it's a blessing for you and your people."
Warm pride glowed in her brown eyes, and she realized the cop had been investigating Jarod's fabricated background. It amazed her how well constructed it was, down to letters of recommendation from a handful of Harvard instructors in an actual paper file at university headquarters. She had a copy of everything in her own files, in case anyone asked about him, and was thankful she had the foresight to have ordered a history put together for him.
"Yes, lieutenant. Jarod is a godsend. He's been invaluable in keeping everyone calm during these... difficulties. In fact, he might have a theory on who's committing these horrors. Perhaps you should talk to him."
Tso nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I intend to do just that. Any idea where he might be, just now? I'd appreciate any help he could give me. He's already tipped me off to something I'd never have thought to check at the May's house."
Grace smiled fully then, and told Lt. Tso where she thought the Pretender might be at that hour of the day.
Jarod squatted in the shade of a mesquite tree, watching the cabin intently. After his meeting with Lt. Tso, he had seen Alan Cross walking Faith to the Nursery and then to her first class, and decided not to interrupt and incur her wrath again. He returned to the cabin to watch the adolescent girl who now sat on the front steps, perfectly still, her swollen eyes staring blindly at the reddish dirt beneath her feet. She had been weeping steadily for an hour, and finally run out of tears for her dead mother. Her slender frame was bowed with grief, and Jarod's posture matched it as he observed her. Nathan sat nearby, drawing in the sand, but he did not look at her, nor she at him. At the moment she had nothing to say, and the boy just kept her company until she felt like talking.
Jarod didn't hear the soft step approaching, or start when the man spoke to him, but turned his head quickly to see who had addressed him so unexpectedly.
"You have the hungry look of a hunter, Coyote," said the old man. "What are you hunting?"
Jarod picked up a stick and began to break it into small pieces, throwing them away as he severed them. "I want to know who killed Agapita's mother," he growled.
"The police will find him," Hosteen Gorman assured the Pretender. "It's their job, and Brendan Tso is good at it."
"Maybe I'm better," Jarod offered, glancing down at the stick. His eyes hurt from looking at the child.
Gorman nodded. "You probably are," he agreed, sticking his hands into the front pockets of his worn jeans. "But that doesn't make it right for you to be the hunter. I think maybe you're hunting something else, something that you think will be changed when you find this man. Only part of you knows it won't."
Jarod turned a suspicious eye on the man above him. "Been talking to Pooh?" he asked sarcastically. "Sounds like she's told you quite a bit about me."
The old man grinned warmly. "Been talking to Nathan, actually. He's the son of my youngest sister." He motioned to the boy, who joined them and sat down on the dirt and began to draw again.
Gorman squatted on his haunches beside Jarod and fixed him with a frank, intense gaze, ruffling the boy's hair absently. "What is it that you want, Coyote? What one thing, more than anything else?"
The Pretender argued with himself for a moment. He wasn't sure how he felt about people knowing who he was, what kind of life he had led. But he also knew that was the price he would have to pay by choosing to stay at one place in order to be with his family. People ferreted out your secrets if you let them get to know you, and his life had already begun to unfold for public view. He looked at the dirt as he cast another piece of twig away.
"I want to know who I am."
Hosteen chuckled. "Most folks go through their whole lives without discovering that," he returned sagely. "What you want is to put the facts together, tie up the loose ends. If you wanted to know who you are, you'd have taken a different journey than the one you're on." He pursed his lips and met the young man's wary gaze with a piercing one of his own. "You're afraid of finding out the truth, Coyote. You're afraid you might not like yourself very much. Maybe something else, too. You want to tell me the rest?"
Jarod watched Nathan drawing spirals and jagged lightning bolts in the sand, and returned the boy's brief smile. The Pretender closed his eyes and let his mind go blank, and let the answer come out without hindrance or conscious thought.
"I'm afraid of finding a monster in the shadows," he heard himself saying. "I don't want to hurt people. I've had to do too much of that. But I see the demon in my dreams, and I think he might be me."
Gorman nodded. "The only way to know for sure is to go there and face the darkness."
Nathan drew a mask, a hideous demon's face, with features Jarod recognized all too well.
Red rain.
Struggling to inhale, Jarod felt his fear intensify and knew he couldn't answer.
"I'll go with you if you can't do it alone," Gorman offered quietly. "You might need someone to help you find your way back, after you've embraced the shadows."
Jarod turned haunted eyes up to the old man's face as the remains of the mesquite twig fell limply from his fingers. "I can't," he said quietly. "Not yet." He had already gotten one old man killed, and didn't intend to help another into his grave.
The old man stood up and dusted the sand off his knees. He frowned solemnly at the younger man, and slipped his hands back into his pockets. "Just remember, Coyote. Sometimes tomorrow never comes."
"The bad man knows you're watching him," Nathan said gently. "He knows this place."
Jarod stared at the child, wondering if the boy had experienced a vision about the killer.
"What do you see, Nathan?" he asked. Jarod did not look up as Hosteen Gorman walked away to sit beside Agapita May on her porch.
The boy shrugged, his expression uneasy as he replied. "I see me. I see you. Yesterday and tomorrow." He shook his head. "I don't know how to explain it, Many Faces. Just... yesterday and tomorrow. That's all."
Jarod pondered the meaning of the cryptic message, and then smiled and held out his arms to the boy, who came to sit in his lap and tell stories about other things, and to laugh with his friend.
Secrets were an integral part of daily life within the walls of Galleons Lap. People came there for renewal, and sometimes that took the form of gaining new identities. Those secrets in particular were closely guarded, with only Grace and a handful of the instructors ever learning the truth about the people they were helping.
But some slipped into new personas more easily than others, and Alan Cross was not having an easy time of adapting. He often ignored people when called by his new name, and caught himself several times telling Faith stories about himself as a boy in East Texas. She knew enough about who he really was to be able to discover his real name, if she was that kind of person, but he trusted her enough to believe his secrets were safe with her.
As a measure of gratitude for her silence, and as a way of getting closer to her, he told her the truth, unaware that someone was eavesdropping electronically as they strolled across the Foundation's courtyard, thinking they were quite alone. And Alan Cross unwittingly added another name to a list that would soon be crossed off in blood.
Angel frowned as he switched off the surveillance device after the couple reached the main building. Finding Steven Chamberlain had been ridiculously easy, but taking care of personal business came first. The assassin kept tabs on the whereabouts of his target, who he spoke with, and what he said, though little of it mattered to him personally. He would not turn the tapes over to his employer with proof that the contract had been carried out, for that could endanger his own life. But the knowledge that he gleaned from his victims before he killed them sometimes came in handy, and he would be certain to find out as much as possible before striking Chamberlain's name off the page. And there was one other score to settle from the past before hunting Chamberlain down. The last kill would be the most important one of all. Murdering the woman who had borne him and put him at the mercy of Father Nichols would be a special pleasure, one that he would relish carrying out in the flesh even more than the thousand ways he had dreamed of doing it over the last three decades.
He put away his gear and went to pay a visit to his mother.
"How about 'Rio' for a nickname?" Jay suggested as he strolled across the campus with his arm draped over Miss Parker's shoulders. " 'Her name was Rio, and she dances in the sand...'" he sang, humming through the parts of Duran Duran's song where the lyrics escaped him.
"Maybe," the redhead replied with a bemused smile. "But you don't know if I can dance or not, Jay."
He laughed softly. "You certainly can between the sheets, doll." His hand drifted down to her waist and he pulled her into a quick embrace, stealing a hungry kiss and giving her derriere a sly grope as he let her go. His eyes shifted to the door of the Learning Center as a movement caught his attention, and he stood away from Miss Parker as another redhead approached, arms flung wide. A tall dark-haired man followed in her wake, but hung back at the door once he made eye contact with the younger woman. Jarod stayed far enough away to give mother and son a little privacy, but not too far to hear what passed between them.
"Jonathan!" Grace cried joyously as she hugged him to her. "Baby, why didn't you tell me you were coming home? I've missed you!"
She kissed his cheek and let him go, sensing his stiffly unhappy demeanor instantly. "What is it, son? What's the matter?" Drooping a little, she added, "I had thought you'd be over the past by now."
He glanced from his mother to his lover and saw the surprise on Miss Parker's face, the accusation in her eyes. "They retired me from flying, Pooh," he ground out bitterly. "I'm too old now, they said. 'Let the younger jet jocks have a shot.' So I resigned my commission. I'm not in the Navy anymore."
Grace noticed the look pass between the younger woman and Jonathan, and observed quietly, "I see you two have met. What do you think of my son, Miss Parker?"
"I think he needs to learn how to make a proper introduction, Ms. St. James," she snapped angrily, turned on her heel and stalked back the way she had come, with a warning glare thrown over her shoulder toward the man lingering in the doorway.
Grace watched her go pensively. "That's a very troubled young woman, Jonathan," she mused. "I wish I could help her, but she's one of those prickly sorts that won't let anyone near."
Jonathan St. James crossed his arms over his chest. "Maybe you just aren't trying the right technique, Pooh," he returned coolly.
For a moment Grace was silent, meeting her son's stony gaze warily. "You still haven't forgiven me, have you?"
"Do you always have to be so fucking right?" he demanded icily.
"I can't change the past, love," Grace began apologetically. "But we don't have to keep up this war between us. We're family. We should get on with life, and let the wounds heal."
"Easy for you to say," Jay shot back hotly. "You weren't the one with your heart ripped out and left beating on the floor. You had to warn off every girl I ever wanted, didn't you? That's why I left, you know. I didn't want you chasing away every woman I glanced at twice, and here you are doing it again."
"Do you think I didn't suffer, too?" she demanded gently. "You're all I have of your father. How could I take pleasure in your pain?"
He said nothing, just stared at her through narrowed, accusing eyes.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat, and a weary frown perched on her lips. She sighed. "Well, it's a good thing you didn't show up two days ago, or you might be a suspect in a murder. Welcome home." She started to move away from him, but he caught her arm and held her there.
"Whose?"
"Father Nichols," Grace replied with a subtle note of triumph. "Somebody finally explained to him what he did was wrong."
"Miss Parker tells me there have been two others, here on the grounds," he ventured slowly. "Joseph Nails and Marissa May."
Grace nodded, sadness etching deeper in her face. "Kids you knew growing up," she acknowledged flatly. "I can't imagine who would do this to them. Joseph was quite the bully as a boy, but he grew out of it. And Marissa... I just can't imagine..."
Jay shrugged and loosened his grip on his mother's arm. "Someone with a score to settle, would be my guess," he responded with a touch less animosity. "Folks better be watching their backs, if they want to stay alive till this guy's caught. If he's caught at all." He gave Grace a closed look that spoke volumes. "People have a way of disappearing around here without a trace."
"Not murderers, Jonathan. You know that."
He cocked his head and studied her for a moment, then gave her a chilling smile. "At least, none that you know about, right, Pooh?" Hushed laughter followed in his wake as he turned back toward the main house, in search of the redhead whose ego he had bruised, and he did not look back.
Grace stood staring after her son as he disappeared into the house, and wondered why security had not notified her of his arrival. One of the new recruits passed by just then, and she hurried to catch up with him, the man at the door temporarily forgotten. Jarod turned and stole back inside the building again, a frown creasing his forehead.
Foundation Security officers wore brown uniforms complete with shoulder patches that identified them easily to residents and staff, and each candidate went through thorough background checks to make certain none of the protected visitors would be compromised. Grace interviewed each of them personally, and this young man's stellar record on the Taos Police Force had been an excellent recommendation. He was more solitary than she would have liked, but his work to date had been perfect, even in dealing with the murders.
James Rivers stopped as he heard the footsteps behind him, and turned to face his boss with a casual smile.
"What's up, Pooh?" he asked warmly.
"I just found out my son is here," she panted. "I'd like to know when he arrived and who decided not to tell me about it. Would you mind checking on that for me, please?"
The Navajo man shifted uneasily on his feet and his smile faded. "He came in Saturday, wee hours," Rivers answered. "Came in straight to Security and spoke to Jane Deer. Said he'd tell you himself, when he was ready, and Jane okayed it."
Grace frowned and glanced away at the hard-packed dirt path beneath their feet, winding through the landscaped entry outside the Learning Center. "Thank you, James. I'll go see Jane immediately."
"It's her day off, ma'am," the officer reminded her. "She's gone into town to do some shopping, I think."
Grace smiled at him thankfully. "You certainly keep on top of things, James," she commented admiringly. "I like that in my security people."
He nodded his acceptance of her compliment, and turned away to continue his patrol.
Grace headed back to her rooms in the main house, but passed her door at the last moment, moving to the next one down the hallway instead. A weary voice answered her knock, and she pushed open the door and walked in, closing it in her wake.
"Did you rest well, Sydney?" she asked softly, taking note of the man on the settee by the balcony doors. She came close and touched his shoulder, but he did not look at her, continuing to gaze out the glass doors at the bright day.
He made a noncommittal noise and patted her hand affectionately. "Thank you for last night," he said softly. "You're a fine hostess, Grace."
She stared out the glass at the rocky terrain beyond the walls and wondered what the woman Sydney grieved over had been like. Grace had a propensity for helping broken people, and she had great hopes for this particular one. She knew so little about him, but what she did know was that Sydney had a great deal of potential to heal others, once he patched together the broken pieces of his own soul. She could feel it in him, that he was a kindred spirit with a gift for seeing into the hearts of others. All he needed was a little guidance, and a great deal of forgiveness.
But that gift, she knew, might come with a terrible price.
She left him quietly to his grief, and exited the house after an hour of writing on her latest journal. As she crossed the campus she noticed Jarod offering a small wrapped package to little Agapita May. The child's heavy burden lightened for a moment as she opened the box and lifted out an ornately decorated carousel horse. She turned the key in the wooden base and listened to the delicate tune from the hidden music box, and blessed her new friend with a smile. After a quick word of thanks, she walked away from him, cradling her new treasure carefully in her arms.
Grace smiled at the thoughtful gesture until Jarod turned to face her and she saw for a moment the unmasked rage glittering in his eyes. Instinctively she felt that his anger was directed toward the unknown person who had killed the child's mother, but the sheer force of his emotion halted Grace in her tracks. A friendly, smiling mask slid over his soul, and his richly warm brown eyes softened to reflect his pleasure at seeing her. But for the first time she was aware of the simmering volcano seething silently beneath the surface of his personality, and she was afraid. For him.
"Hallo, there, Christopher Robin," she greeted him warmly. Her arms opened for a quick embrace, and he slid his arm around her waist, bringing her along the bricked sidewalk with him as he walked back toward the Learning Center.
"Many happy returns of the day, Pooh," he responded cheerfully. "Did you get any sleep last night? You look tired." He decided not to mention the private conversation he overheard between her and her son earlier in the day.
She sighed forlornly. "It's hard to rest with a murderer running loose on the grounds, love," she answered hollowly. "How is Faith? I know she must be going mad with worry. Any mother would in these tragic circumstances."
"I wanted to talk to you about that," he returned quickly. "I want to start teaching some self defense classes, and I'd like to make sure everybody comes. Can we work out a schedule where people come in shifts? Set up classes by age groups, maybe? It might help calm people's nerves during the interim, until the killer is caught."
Grace nodded. "That's an excellent idea, Jarod. Leave the details to me. You're about to be a very busy man."
"Are there any others here with experience in martial arts?"
"Most of my security officers. We could have several classes going at once."
Jarod nodded his approval. "That'll help. I won't have to be tied to classes all day. I'd like to teach the children, if that's all right with you."
They strolled down the hall and into Grace's office while they discussed details, and Grace shut the door behind them before taking a seat on the futon sofa.
"Security, privacy please," she said aloud to the room, and classical music began to play softly over the stereo system to signal that the request had been fulfilled. Jarod glanced sharply at her as he leaned his hips against her desk.
"Why--"
"It's time we had a talk, son," she stated firmly. He crossed his arms over his chest and she read the body language accurately. "Don't shut me out, Jarod. We need to discuss your feelings before you pop your cork."
"I can handle them," he returned evasively. His face was stony and cold.
"For now, yes. But you won't be able to tell me exactly when the load will become too great to bear. You need to express your outrage at what was done to you before you regret it." Grace's brown eyes were intent, passionate, and she did not allow him to break eye contact. "You've buried your anger so deep in your soul you think you can't feel it, but it's always there, choosing your path for you. You think you're controlling it, but it's controlling you. You just can't see it yet."
"I know exactly what I'm doing, Grace," he said stiffly. "I decide who I help, where I go, what I do. I'm free for the first time in my life."
She shook her head. "No, you're not. You're still in prison. There just aren't any walls to keep you inside anymore."
Jarod stepped away from the desk and began to wander around the room, hands on hips defiantly. He spied a framed certificate on the wall that he hadn't noticed before and let his eyes pass over the words. He was not surprised that Grace had a degree in psychiatry, or that she had chosen to use it on him. He just didn't like revealing his secrets to anyone, no matter how much he liked them.
"I don't want to get into this with you, Pooh," he said softly, and turned to face her again.
"You're upset about Marissa and Joseph, I understand," Grace acknowledged patiently. "You're hurt about Agapita finding her mother dead. You feel her pain as if it was your own. But you're avoiding the root of the problem, love. You have to address your hidden fury before it becomes uncontrollable and you end up hurting someone. I don't believe you're capable of murder--"
"Well, you're wrong," Jarod snapped, feeling himself heating up, sharp edges of broken bits of his soul jabbing at him inside. "I did kill a man, right after he murdered the woman I thought was Athena."
Grace was silent for a moment, startled by the confession. "You have to find the source of your hatred, Jarod," she went on. "The Centre made you this way. The Centre stole your life from you, changed you. But there was no one person for you to concentrate your fury on, except for Sydney. And that wasn't allowed. So you shut it out, or thought you did. But it's still there, Jarod. And it's growing." She saw his pace quicken as he roamed the room, his eyes losing focus, gaining intensity. She was arousing him to anger, and only the most rigid control would keep it in check. She pushed him farther. "Every time you set up one of your stings, you come a little closer to hurting someone seriously, or even killing them. You know it. You feel it, yet you can't stop yourself. You have to do it, because that person, that villain, is someone you can focus on, direct your emotions toward. You can exact your own personal revenge on someone at last... only the need for vengeance keeps growing stronger. The only way you can conquer these feelings is to get them out into the open. Let me help you, Jarod. Let me--"
"Meddle with my mind like everyone else did?" Jarod snarled, whirling around and facing her like a tiger about to dine.
She pushed to her feet and stepped closer to him, into the arms of danger. "Feel it, Jarod!" she urged softly. "It's burning inside you, consuming you. What will you become when it's out of control?"
He flung his arms wide, a twisted, too wide grin contorting his face. "Anything I want to be!" he shouted back. "It's what I do, Grace. I'm everyone! I'm the cop who writes your traffic ticket, the doctor who stitches up your cut. I'm the guy in the roach coach who can't cook worth a damn and does it for a living. No challenge too big for me, no sir. Give me a problem and I'll solve it. Can't walk away from one. Did you know that? That's what they trained me to do, pushed me until I can't think any other way."
Grace noted the gleam of rising panic in his eyes, his confusion mounting as the volume of his diatribe decreased.
"They sure got their money's worth out of me," he continued bitterly. "Why, my success rate was 100 percent. I was the best. Stuck with every simulation until I got it right. Every one." His voice was little more than a whisper now, and he couldn't meet her eyes. "Every..." He swallowed hard, fighting back tears. "Every God damned one."
She reached out to him, arms open, inviting wordless comfort to take the place of his grief. After a moment's hesitation he fell into them, his head on her shoulder, tears soaking into her white tunic. This was not a technique she had learned in a university classroom; it was a mother's instinctive reaction to a wounded child. She held him until he had control of himself again, then brought him to sit down with her on the sofa for a long, honest conversation, the likes of which he had never had with another human being before.
She let him ramble at first, let him describe his life in words rather than illustrate it silently with the DSAs. But as she watched his eyes she could see them shifting, watched him stand and pace the room as if he was dodging something monstrous. She prodded him then, asked him gently about his hatred, his need to settle the score. She pressed him about Faith and his feelings for her, how he intended to fit into her life, and be a father to his sons. And she asked about Sydney, and whether Jarod believed he could ever forgive him for his sins.
The subjects were not resolved, for both of them knew that would take more than a few hours of tender counseling. But Jarod had someone now that he could talk with about his past, someone who could offer him more than loving sympathy. Someone who could show him the way home.
The young woman stood in the shade of a mesquite tree outside the Learning Center, smoking her last cigarette and watching the man and woman inside the large office at the front of the building. She had been following Jarod for hours, but there was not the slightest hint what he might have done with the DSAs. Her legs were tired of standing watch, and she desperately wanted to get out of the tranquility of Galleons Lap before she lapsed into a coma.
"Wanna put something exciting between your legs?" asked a merrily masculine voice behind her.
She jerked around to face Jay, frowning. "Get lost, Mama's Boy," she snapped. "I'm busy."
"Busy growing old," he shot back. "Come on. I've gotta shake this place for a little while. Come ride with me on my Harley."
Miss Parker tried valiantly to ignore him, but his smoothly practiced seduction chipped away her crumbling resolve, aided by boredom. She dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the dirt beneath her shoe. Fixing him with a superior gaze down the length of her perfect nose, she agreed to go with him if he would take her to buy more cigarettes.
"Sure, darlin'," he promised with a wink. "But you don't need those to keep smokin'." He took her hand and led her to the garage near the front gate, urging her faster until she had to run to keep up with him. The building was dark and empty, and he pulled her into a small stall separate from the room that housed the cars. He pushed her up against a wall and kissed her hungrily, devouring her mouth while his hands roamed over her form-fitting chocolate-colored silk dress.
When he pulled away, she was panting, her right leg draped over his hip, her hands working at unfastening his belt.
"Forgive me?" he asked breathlessly.
"For what?" she growled, freeing his erection from his jeans and climbing up his shoulders.
He lifted her up and impaled her against the wall.
"For not telling you I'm Grace's son."
"Who the hell cares?" she groaned blissfully. "Just shut up and fuck me, Jay."
He complied eagerly, and when it was over he offered her his comb to straighten her hair and hauled his motorcycle out of its narrow cubicle. Disregarding the helmets hanging on the wall, he straddled the powerful machine and watched appreciatively as she hiked her already short skirt to mount the seat behind him.
"Wait a minute," he said as he started to turn the ignition key. "We're doing this backwards. You need to be the one driving this hog. Trade places with me." Jay grinned and winked meaningfully at her over his shoulder. "That is, if you think you can handle it."
"Just don't eat my hair, stud," she shot back. Moments later she cranked the motor to life and wheeled the big bike down the bricked road toward the front gates, wind whipping her hair back into her companion's face. She handled the heavy machine expertly, and Jay laughed into the slipstream behind her head.
"My kinda woman," he shouted above the noise of motor and wind. His hands slid around her waist, and he rested his chin on her shoulder.
It was dark when they made it back to the Foundation, and she led him upstairs to the penthouse by the hand. He stopped at the door, and she turned to query him with her eyes.
"I wasn't sure I'd be welcome again, after my little deception," he ventured hesitantly. "That first time I saw you, bam! You knocked me for a loop. I mean, it isn't every day a guy wakes up and has a barefoot goddess in a thin silk nightie come to wish him a good morning. I couldn't remember who I was, much less my name."
"Cut the crap, Jay," she returned, a note of gentleness in her command. "You didn't want me to know you were Grace's son. Just leave it at that. Your reasons are none of my business, and I really don't care why you did it. Just don't ever lie to me again. Got it?"
He grinned, deep dimples cleaving both his well tanned cheeks. "Yes ma'am."
"Good. Now get in there and take your clothes off. I want to see your tattoos again. You did say you were a sailor?"
"Navy, yes. But not exactly a sailor..."
"I've got to go check on my quarry for a minute," she told him, interrupting his explanation. "You just be ready for me when I get back, okay?"
She flashed her dimples at him.
"Jesus! You could kill with that smile," he whispered.
"And I have, too," she growled sensuously.
His eyes rolled heavenward and he shivered. "God, what a way to go! Thank you! Thank you..."
She laughed softly, slapped him on the buttocks, and started back toward the stairs.
Jarod stepped outside into the brisk darkness, holding the door open for Grace. He had promised to escort her back to the main building after she finished her last classes, and to meet Faith in the main house. Grace chastised him gently about breaking into her private files, and he was attempting to explain his actions as they approached a bench where Faith and Alan were seated together, enjoying the night air while she waited for him to join her.
Faith stood up as they arrived, and smiled nervously at Jarod.
Alan asked Grace for permission to pick one of the park flowers, and she agreed hesitantly.
A shot rang out just as he bent down, and Jarod instinctively pushed Faith to the ground and shielded her with his body. His head came up, seeking the source of the noise, and he saw a figure, a black shape on the roof of the main house, lit up indistinctly by the campus lights. The sniper lowered his rifle and disappeared into the shadows, but not before Jarod had a chance to memorize the man's shape and the general look of the dark clothes he wore.
Jarod pushed quickly to his knees, jerked Faith up after him and pulled her toward the main house, which was nearest to them, knowing the killer had run down the outside staircase from the roof, and would be somewhere on the grounds, covering his tracks. Jarod shouted for Security and two officers on watch inside the building came running. One of them escorted Faith back inside, and the other ran toward the back of the building on Jarod's orders, his pistol drawn. Jarod dashed back to the bench and found Alan Cross huddled beneath it, and Grace lying in a pool of her own blood on the bricked path.
Her white tunic was sodden scarlet, her left shoulder all but blown away.
"Jesus, somebody help us!" Alan cried, his face white with fear.
"Oh, God," Jarod breathed, his attention fixed on the woman lying on the ground. He lifted Grace in his arms and carried her at a run toward the main house, the Infirmary, and Dr. Ndele.
Alan followed him inside, his eyes wide with terror, and ran to Faith, but she was concerned about Grace and broke away from him as quickly as possible so she could get closer to the Infirmary door, hoping to see what was happening, to assure herself that her friend would live. Faith calmed him down and sat with him in the Day Room, waiting with the growing group of others who had seen or heard about Grace's injury and come to offer their support. By the time the doctor arrived, Jarod was already scrubbed and directing the medic, Dan Two Bears, to set up the surgery.
Dr. Black had returned to duty, and between the three men, they made a miracle and put Grace back together again.
Word spread quickly, and when the operation was completed and Jarod had scrubbed out, he went to face the milling crowd at the door.
A tall, dark haired man in T-shirt and jeans accosted on him as soon as he appeared. Jarod recognized him immediately.
"Is she all right?" he demanded tensely. "I'm Grace's son, Jonathan. Is my mother all right?"
He gave the man a dark smile. "She's going to be," Jarod answered slowly. "Did Security catch the sniper?" He glanced around for someone in the familiar brown uniform and directed his questioning gaze at the nearest representative. He read the name tag. "Officer Rivers, was he apprehended?"
The man shook his head, concern flickering with anger in his fathomless black eyes. "He got away, Dr. Black. Just vanished. Jane's reviewing the surveillance tapes from the new cameras we put up, but I'm afraid it's too dark to get a good image. Maybe we'll have more in the morning, when we can get a good look at the tracks."
"He was on the penthouse roof," Jarod told him. "That's Miss Parker's room. Was she in when the shots were fired?"
"If I was, the son of a bitch would be dead right now, Jarod," the redhead snarled from the nearby staircase. "Nobody gets that close to me with a gun and walks away."
Jarod saw her glance at Jonathan St. James impatiently.
"I was in the room," Jay announced on cue. "I hit the floor when I heard the shot and rolled up to the patio doors to see what was going on. He was running by then, headed for the exterior stairs, but I didn't want to be a hero. He had a gun and I didn't, and decided not to give chase." Rage gleamed in his green eyes. "I didn't know he had just shot my mother. If I had, we wouldn't be looking for him now. He'd be on a slab at the morgue."
Jarod's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he regarded St. James. This man fit all the criteria: he had grown up at Galleons Lap, and had a long-standing feud going on with his mother. Jarod had asked some of the other permanent residents about him, and learned that Jonathan had an unpleasant history with both of the other victims. Adding his military training into the mix, Jarod found himself looking at the perfect suspect, but he was reluctant to believe such things of Grace's son.
He would have to make absolutely sure before he moved. But he had a better focus on the problem now, a direction in which to look, and he could protect those most at risk from him. Jarod would need allies in the hunt, and searched the sea of faces in the room, noting the expressions of relief after hearing that Grace would survive. But there was one visage that did not share the same sense of reprieve, and Jarod stared, trying to decipher the confusion he saw there. Hosteen Gorman was studying someone else in the room, but the crowd was so thick Jarod couldn't tell who had attracted the elder's attention.
The Pretender turned back to Jonathan and gave him permission to go into the Infirmary and see Grace, knowing that Dr. Ndele would be there to watch over her for a few more hours. Jarod waited for the throng of well-wishers to disperse, assuring them all that the danger had passed. Half an hour later he found Faith locked in her room upstairs with the twins, and Alan Cross sat hunched over in a chair by the window. A glazed look of mortal fear still sat heavily on his pale face.
Jarod sat down on the bed in response to Faith's nod, and waited.
Faith put her hand gently on Alan's shoulder and spoke quietly in the softly lit room. "Tell him, Alan. It's all right. You can trust him, I promise."
Jarod's eyes flicked back up to her face, and his heart clenched at her steadfast belief in him. It was a beginning, one he could build on, if he was careful. He turned his attention toward the other man then.
"We had been sitting in the park, talking about..." Alan hesitated, glanced up at Faith nervously, and the last vestige of hope vanished in his eyes. "...things. I... I saw this flower lit up by the landscape lighting, and I thought, maybe if I was more romantic than you..." He swallowed hard, waited a minute until he could control his voice a little better. "When I bent down to get it, that's when the shot..." A tear poured onto his cheek as he remembered, re-lived the scene all over again. "Jesus. Jesus! I think the guy was aiming for me, Jarod." He sobbed aloud, caught himself, and forced the rest of it out. "I pissed off a lot of powerful people when I turned State's witness. I know there's a contract out on me. I knew it before I agreed to testify. And now they know where I am, and they're going to kill me, and anybody else who gets in the way."
The man started to cry in earnest, but Jarod reached out and put a hand lightly on Alan's knee. "Did you know the other victims?" the Pretender asked softly.
Alan shook his head.
"Then I don't think the sniper was aiming for you," Jarod pronounced confidently. "The other murders were the result of hatred that's been carried around for a long time, possibly since childhood. Joseph Nails and Marissa May grew up around here. You didn't. I think he was aiming for Grace. But you should probably be extra careful, just in case. I'm going to ask the tribal police for some extra officers interested in moonlighting to work security here for a few days, and in the meantime, I'm doubling patrols. I want those uniforms extra visible." Jarod thought a moment. "If it'll make you feel better, Alan, I know one place in Galleons Lap where you'll be perfectly safe."
Cross lifted his head and wiped his cheeks dry, hope glimmering in his gray eyes.
"I'll have a cot moved into Security Ops for you, if you'd like," Jarod offered. "You'll be in the company of half a dozen trained officers coming and going, and that room is the one place on campus that never sleeps. You'll have to deal with lights and conversation going on around you all night, but I'll give you a sleeping pill if you think you might need it. What do you say?"
"As a temporary solution, sure," Cross replied wearily. "But you should probably put a guard on Pooh, too. We don't want to lose her. She's a very special lady."
Jarod smiled tenderly as he thought of Grace, and the warmth blossoming in his heart with her memory. He supposed that must be what it was like to love his own mother, so long ago. "Yes," he agreed. "We have to keep her safe at all costs. Let me walk you over to Ops, and I'll have a bed sent over for you."
Alan rose from the chair and held out his hand in friendship. "Thanks," he murmured softly. "I owe you."
Jarod could feel Faith's eyes on him, but he did not acknowledge her presence. He didn't want her to see how triumphant he felt, didn't want to rouse her ire again and push her farther away. He put his arm around the other man's shoulder and guided him from the room, a strange feeling of guilty sadness weighing his heart down. He had won back his territory, but the victory was much less than satisfying, and Jarod couldn't understand that at all.
