Disclaimer: All characters and are the property of NBC and TNT. I don’t own them, I just borrowed them.



Not in Kansas Anymore
part 1
by Charlatan




The Centre

“Three days!” Three days to accomplish all that! Her information had to be wrong-- had to be incorrect. Weird might be the status quo at the Centre, but fairy tales were still fiction at Blue Cove. “Not true, not true…” her stiletto heals chanted as she stormed down the corridor.

“Broots!” she barked as she passed the computer geek’s hole. He stumbled out of the office in an innate drunken stupor, and scooted up the hallway, to match the furious strides of the woman who had not paused for him in her journey.

“Miss Parker,” he breathed heavily, choking from fear and hyperventilation. She didn’t even glance back, nor did her stride acknowledge his presence.

“Where is he?” she seethed.

“W-well, he stuttered. I talked to Dep in electrical maintenance—you know the guy with the extra pinky? He claims it helps him manage things-.”

“Broots!” she hissed, “Spit it out!”

“Renewal wing, sublevel 22.”

She turned abruptly, coming to a halt in front of the elevator, and he had to swerve to avoid marching right into her. He recovered his balance to find himself staring face to face with the highly pissed off woman. For a second he feared for his life. The elevator announced its arrival with a high-pitched ding. As shaft opened, the lone occupant took one look at the angry woman and exited swiftly. It was only as the doors began to close that the technician regained his composure. “Miss Parker,” he whispered, “What are you going to do?”

“Slay the dragon,” she hissed, “and change the ending to this fairy tale.”

***

Sublevel 22

The elevator doors opened to reveal two serious looking sweepers, who were only temporarily intimidated by dominating woman’s arrival. “This floors off limits to all but necessary personal,” ‘GI Joe’ number one informed her. She smiled like a crocodile.

If one must be “necessary”, she cooed, “than how did you two ever make it onto the list?”

Unperturbed the smaller man put a hand near his gun, “I’m sorry Miss Parker. If you have a problem take it up with the Tower.”

“Yes,” she said smartly, “perhaps in keeping with this fairy tale they’ll throw down a braid of hair that I can climb up to speak with them.”

The sweeper was not amused. “You’ll have to leave now.”

She smirked, buying for time. Realizing she had no good ideas, short of pulling out her nine millimeter Smith and Wesson and blasting her way through, —which might be fun—she threw one last deadly glare and turned to get on the elevator.

“I see you’ve found Xanadu.” A cocky voice called from behind her.

She turned to face the newcomer, “If it’s not the wizard himself. They say you make dreams come true--grant wishes.”

The thumbless man smiled, and waved his deformed hand, “I have the right touch—in some areas. Come see for yourself.” She started forward, glared at the two guards who hesitated a little too long in getting out of her way, and made her way down the dark and sterile corridor. At the end of a hallway was a small window, and through it was the cave of wonders.

“Sydney?” she breathed in disbelief at the sight before her.

“You see,” the man behind her smiled. “I’m not so foolish after all—good genes and all.”

She glared at him, but the shock had left little substance behind it. ‘How could this be—I don’t believe it.’ She pondered.

Guessing at her thoughts the estranged twin smiled. “Amazing really. I’ve always believed in the superiority and power of the Centre, but one man almost made me doubt it all.” He laughed, and there were undertones of maniacal glee. “It seems,” he continued, “that the Centre holds power over that man after all.”

She spun and looked at him for a moment, and then turned silently back to the scene unfolding before her. A space shuttle exploded, and men rushed around yelling and screaming. Lights flashed and klaxons blared. The men hurried to douse the smoldering capsule. Suddenly the door popped open, and the cabin’s lone occupant stumbled out. Immediately the hustle and the bustle stopped, the lights returned to normal, and a distinguished man strolled casually out to the “fallen pilot.” “How does it feel?” he asked. “Why didn’t they save him?”

The grounded man stood up. He shoulders were hunched in a defeated manner, and his eyes firmly fixed on the spot where he had lain only moments before. “Betrayed.” He murmured. His voice hardened. “And I know just how to make them pay.”

The old man didn’t even blink. “Very good, Jarod. Now let’s go explain your idea to the gentleman waiting outside.”

***

Later that day

“Broots.” The technician flinched, but was surprised that a few hours had reduced the potency of his boss’s venom. He turned to look at her, noting the puzzled expression that lined her face. “He’s doing their sims.” She said.

Broots raised his eyebrows in surprise, “B-but how—why?”

“I don’t know.” She answered. “But we’re going to find out.”

“We?” he gulped.

“I need to get to him.” She continued, ignoring his reluctant behavior. “If I can only talk to him I can figure out what’s going on in this rabbit hole.”

“I’ve been checking security on SL22 since you left. That place is a fortress to personnel without the correct clearance. Unless you can shift shapes or change appearances there’s no way to get through there.”

“Broots,” she said with amusement. “I think I may just need my fairy godmother.”

***

SL22

A lone figure crept passed the bored sweepers. They had been standing there for countless hours, with no visitors to keep them alert; sneaking passed was a breeze. She paused in front of the door. “No guards?” she wondered. “Broots’ information had been correct. It didn’t make sense, but it was accurate.

She slid the newly created fake id through the scanner. Broots had been very reluctant to create it; illicit entry was not encouraged at the Centre, and it was a clear way to an early “retirement”. In the end, Miss Parker seemed more threatening than the elusive “401K” plan. For a moment it seemed as though the pass would be rejected, but at the last second the door clicked open.

Even though it was the middle of the night, lights still remained in the sleeping man’s room as per Centre regulations. She walked forward, and paused to stare at his sleeping figure. His arms were straight down at his sides, and he lay in an unnatural and apparently uncomfortable position. A smile flickered across her face, “Are you even asleep?” she queried. There was no response. She glanced up at the camera in the corner; the light was no longer on. “Thank you Broots,” she would have to remember to give him the weekend off—sometime.

“Wake up sweet Prince.” The pretender opened his eyes suddenly and stood up. --So quickly that she rocked back into a defensive position. But once standing his posture was anything but threatening. His shoulders maintained their Centre issue slump, and his eyes fixated on the spotless floor.

“How can I help you?” he asked in voice devoid of life.

‘Fine.’ She thought. ‘If you want to continue this with me than I’m game.’

“Tell me Jarod,” she said aloud, circling him like a vulture. “How does one break a genius like you in three short days?” He gave no reply, and his face yielded no answer.

“You’ve been doing Sims. You said you would never help them again. What’s changed?” There was still no answer. “Answer ME!” she hissed--more annoyed than she cared to admit.

“How can I help you?” he politely intoned.

“Look at me when I talk to you!” she shot back. He raised his eyes to meet hers. She choked back a gasp. His eyes were like black holes. The sparkle was gone. There was no trace of the obnoxious, fun-loving Jarod she had chased for the last four years. And yet, despite her initial reaction she sensed something there, lurking behind, that made her wonder if it was all some carefully calculated façade. He was a pretender after all.

“Miss Parker!” a voice behind her demanded. “You’re not supposed to be here!” She turned around to face the new threat.

“If you have a problem,” she growled, “take it up with my father. I still am the head of this Pretender project.” The nightshift was not as brave as the sweepers she’d run into earlier that day.

“You can stay,” he relented, “but I must ask you to allow the pretender to get his rest. His cycle’s just begun, and he has a full day ahead of him.” She glanced back at Jarod. She had been so stunned by the darkness of his eyes that she’d missed the circles beneath them.

‘That’s what five hours of sleep and 18 hour work days will do to you,’ She thought.

“Very well, Jarod,” she said. “go back to bed. It would be a shame if a lack of sleep impaired your work tomorrow.” The man shuffled back into bed. She raised her eyebrow.

“What happened to his leg?” she demanded of the timid sweeper as the two of them stepped outside the room.

“He broke it.” The man stated. “Jumping out of a second story window when he was trying to escape the initial capture team. It was something else. I’ve never seen a man go down that hard—compound fracture n’ all—and then get back up and keep going.”

The ice blue eyes bore into him. “They didn’t capture him easily?”

“Hell no,” the man exclaimed, ”We only were able to catch up to him by the trail of blood, and when we finally reached him he fought like a mad man—even though he had no hope for escape. It wasn’t until we reached the Centre that he became calm. It was eerie. You ever saw the biggest mouthed person falls silent in a Church? That’s how it was with him. He crossed the threshold and changed his manner. They worked on him for three days; convinced his behavior must be some sort of a trick. But they realized it was for real. He even suggested they not put a hard cast on his leg, since the soft cast would still do the job, but make it more difficult for him to run away.”

“Wow,” said Miss Parker flatly. “I really have tumbled down the rabbit hole. The question is,” she murmured glancing back in at the sleeping figure. “When are we all going to discover it’s all a very nice dream, created by the maddest hatter of all?”

Disclaimer: See the first part for disclaimer.



Not in Kansas Anymore
part 2
by Charlatan



The Next Day

“Sydney!” A voice behind him called. The aging psychiatrist turned to the approaching woman.

“Miss Parker.” He said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Jarod’s here.” She stated simply, “and that means I can’t be far behind.” He nodded.

“When will you be going back to corporate?”

The air whooshed out of her lungs. “Who says I’m going back?”

The older man shrugged. “The chase is over,” he pointed out, “and unfortunately Lyle was the one who brought Jarod in.”

“Lyle’s part of the team.” She defended herself lamely.

“Yes,” said the psychiatrist. “I’m sure your father will see it that way. Miss Parker,” Sydney ventured, “You’re won’t let your apparent emotional distress over Jarod’s return take hold of you?”

She turned on the older man. “In other words, am I going to behave irrationally…fall into the abyss?” The older man did not respond. “Of course not Sydney, I’m a Parker, and that still means something around here.” She paused, “I know who I am, the question is who are you, and what are you doing helping?” She turned not waiting—or wanting to hear the answer.

“What are you going to do?” he called after her a she stalked away.

“Put the puzzle together,” she retorted over her shoulder, ‘and,’ she silently added ‘see what truth it holds.’

“Speaking of puzzles, sis, I’ve got a riddle for you.”

“Can this day get any better?” She responded with false cheerfulness, turning around to place the newcomer in her crosshairs.

Her twin was unperturbed. “Tell me, how do you plan the perfect kidnapping.”

She smiled coldly. “What kind of a game is this?”

The smile dropped from his face, “A real one. You see, my dear sister, I had this, well, call it a ‘gut feeling’, that the perfect kidnapping requires an expert. And who can be better qualified than a man who has been kidnapped himself.”

“Jarod.” She whispered in realization.

“Great minds think alike. He’s simming it right now. Care to join me?”

“That’s ok,” she smiled, “I have a life.” She turned and marched away, her head spinning.

Despite the recent barrage of weird events, Miss Parker knew one thing for sure: Jarod would never allow another child to be kidnapped—and would certainly never help plan that kidnapping. Something was very wrong.

“Oh sis.” Lyle called after her. “I’m really going to miss all these fun times when you go back to corporate.” She didn’t acknowledge the remark, but her stiletto heals seemed to dig a little bit deeper into the unforgiving steel floors as she stalked away.

***

Broots’ office

“What do you have, and it better be good.” The technician looked up eagerly as the woman entered.

“I got them all,” he announced excitedly. “They really weren’t even classified. It’s like someone wants to flaunt how many sims there are—coming in and leaving.”

“Well Lyle never was very good at being subtle.” Miss Parker pointed out.

“I did what you said, scanned for content. It looks like Jarod has completed sims that could be easily used in a questionable ways. This one Z93 from DreiDesert firms, is a real doozy, but it was one of the first ones Jarod solved.”

Miss Parker picked up the file and paged through it. “They’re located in Boston.” She noted. She thumbed intently through the other files; an idea had begun to form in her mind, but she could not quite grasp it. Instinctively she asked “Broots, how many of these corporations have dealt with the Centre before?”

He shrugged, “I’m not sure, but I can run it through the main computer.”

She stood up, “Call me as soon as you know,” she ordered as she turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To Boston, “ she said. “I hear they serve a great tea.”

***

Boston, Massachusetts

“I’m looking for a Mr. Jim Belguli of the Dreidesert firm. Have you seen him?”

The secretary twirled a fire engine red curl between her bright red fingernails. “No he don’t work here no more. Works at the docks now, I think.”

“Thanks for your time.” Miss Parker said, turning to leave. ‘Well if there’s one thing Jarod’s shown me,’ she thought as she glanced back at the secretary, ‘its how many dead ends there truly are in the human evolutionary chain.’

A sudden thought came to her. She walked back to the woman manning the desk, smiled, and glanced at the nametag.

“Sylvia, isn’t it? Do you know if Mr. Belguli was independently wealthy?”

“Inde- what?” the woman queried.

“Did he have a lot of money?” Miss Parker replied slowly, annunciating every syllable.

“Oh! Who Jim!” the woman exclaimed. “He couldn’t even afford his rent! He lived paycheck to paycheck.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Parker, “You just made my day.”

“Don’t know how I did that.” Sylvia mumbled. “Some people are so strange.”

***

Boston Harbor Dock

“Mr. Jim Belugi?!” she called to the round balding man lying peacefully on his boat in a tone that demanded his attention.

“What now?” the middle aged man began as he sat up. “What part of leave me alone do you idiots—“.

Miss Parker smiled like a Chessirecat at the speechless man. Once again her impeccable grooming had worked its magic. “I’m sorry to bother you sir,” she said in a tone that falsified the syntax of her words, “but I need to speak with you about your account.”

“My account?” he blurted in confusion. “Are you from the bank or something?”

“Hmm, something indeed.” She smiled. “Something called the Centre.”

The man’s eyes widened, and then narrowed. “I thought we agreed to never meet like this.”

The smile never left her face. “I know that this is not exactly status quo, but I’m heading a committee designed to assess how valid the solutions generated by our firm have been in the field. We randomly selected a number of past clients for follow up visits—your number came up.”

The boater’s shoulders relaxed, and the predator in Parker’s nature was aroused by his false sense of security. “Come aboard.” He gestured toward the small distance from ship to shore. She took the small leap—heels and all—with the grace of a panther.

“So tell me,” she began, “How did your little ‘adventure’ work out?”

***

The Centre

“It doesn’t make sense Miss Parker. Jarod’s capture—his complete surrender—none of it makes sense!”

“Don’t wet yourself Broots” she replied. Despite her words to Broots, she recognized that he was voicing the frustration she felt. She had been so sure Belugi would give her something—something she could use to figure this mess out, but aside from being a GQ nightmare, and dumb as a doorknob, he didn’t tell her anything. What he did let her know was that the Centre would deal with any idiot with a fistful of cash. Also, Belugi had made one slip that seemed to indicate he had mob connections—which accounted for the source of his money.

She forced herself to focus. She glanced at a file lying on Broots’ desk. It was a contract for a fugitive search and destroy mission, belonging to a company called “Tresmaenner”. She flipped idly through the file, catching phrases here and there that indicated this mission had no intention of helping out the public at large. She felt as though she were staring the cause of her recent “gut feelings” right in the face, and completely missing the punch line. She tossed down the file, and picked up the list of new companies: Trihealth, Denbars, Tripple-Doppler. Nothing rang a bell.

“Broots,” she said, “Let’s switch tactics. I want you to get me a list of all the most “sensitive” sims Jarod has completed since his return.” She picked up a ticket off his desk. The Wizard of Oz, Broots? Aren’t you a little old for fairy tales?”

“You’re never too old, Miss Parker,” he whined defensively, “and besides, they’re for Debbie. She has a pair of sparkly shoes that she wears constantly. She loves the movie, and when I saw the local theatre was putting on the play—“.

“Thank you, Broots.” He trailed off at her interruption and watched as she suddenly moved toward the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked, startled by her newfound sense of purpose.

“Well if memory serves me, the answer was with “her” all along.”

“Who?” he asked, clearly confused.

“Dorothy Gale,” she called back as the doors hissed shut behind her.

***

SL22

This time the pretender’s room was not lacking in security.

“He’s sleeping.” The “marble statue” at the door informed her.

“Then I’ll just have to wake him up” she smartly retorted. The man hesitated, clearly weighing the consequences he would be facing with Mr. Lyle if he allowed her to enter. She graced him with her meanest glare. The immediate threat won out, and the cell door opened with a beep and a hiss.

Despite the guard’s assertion, Jarod was not in his bed. Instead, he was working intently at his computer. The pretender stood up immediately when Miss Parker entered, and his eyes sought the floor. She stalked up to him, and stopped very close. Her heels clicked together, within his field of vision. “Do you know what that means?” she asked him. There was no response. “That means,” she informed him, “that I’m getting close to the answer to this little puzzle. I won’t be in Oz for long.”

Was it her imagination, or had he shifted uncomfortably—perhaps it was just his injured leg.

“There is an answer? Isn’t there Jarod—or a game? Look at me!” His face shifted up, and soulless eyes met hard ice blue. “I visited one of your clients today. A Mr. Belugi. Do you remember him?” He shook his head, but there was the slightest change in his demeanor that made her eagerly push forward. “He seemed thrilled. Your work was excellent. All the right people died.”

She had expected something from him at that last comment, but his countenance remained the same. “Well,” she insisted, “don’t you have anything to say?” He looked at her.

“How’s corporate treating you?” the pretender intoned in a sterile voice--but had she caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth?

‘Fine, Jarod.’ she thought. ‘If you want to play, I’ll play.’

“I’m getting a new corner office, in the expansion wing we’re building with the profit your work brings in,” she lied.

He issued a robotic nod. “Congratulations, from that window you’ll be able to see.”

“See what?” The ingrained response spilled out before she could stop herself.

“So much, perhaps, but than again they say “the seeing see little,”” he replied.

She regarded him carefully, painfully aware that this conversation was being recorded. Choking his obnoxious little hide for an explanation would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention.

“That’s what they say?” The top of his head bobbed up and down, as his eyes had once again become fixated in the floor. Clearly he had said all he was going to say.

“Remember, Jarod,” she said, “maybe we’re all not the scarecrows you take us for.” And with that last remark she stalked out.

Her footsteps were cut short as the door swished shut, but even if she had remained, she would not have heard his silent reply: ‘I know Parker, I know.’

***

Broots’ Space

“Broots!” she said “Do you have that list for me?”

“Y-yes Miss Parker,” the technician stammered. She paused reflectively in front of his desk. “Broots, do you know the phrase, “’the seeing see little’?”

“Well,” he began I guess it makes sense when you really---”.

Miss Parker didn’t even have the time to suck in the air to cut off his misinterpretation of her question before a voice behind her said, “Helen Keller.” She whirled around.

“Debbie!” she said as a genuine smile lit her face. “I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“Well,” the younger girl answered, “Dad told me to be quiet since he was working, and you are in a bad mood. Of course, he always says you’re in a bad mood.”

“He said that, did he?” The girl nodded. “He and I will have to discuss that sometime.” Broots cringed. Miss Parker noted his expression, and, once satisfied that he was repentant, continued, “So tell me Debbie, what did you mean by Helen Keller?”

“That phrase is the title of one of her poems,” the little girl answered, “I just finished reading it in school.”

Miss Parker frowned pensively. “Wonder boy knew we were being watched, but maybe he still couldn’t resist thumbing his nose at me—at the Centre.” She glanced at the list in her hand. “Broots, reprint this list, but this time only with the names of the contact for each company. The tech went to work. ‘I may not see everything like you Jarod,’ she thought, ‘but I still have my gut feelings.’

****

Broots’ Hole

Miss Parker rapidly ran down the list of names Broots had given her. Q. Langly, R. Keith, H. Keller. There it was in black and white. “Looks like the man behind the smoke and mirrors has just been discovered,” she said smugly. Her smile vanished as she saw where the contact was located. “Broots,” she said, “Call the Centre jet and get it ready for take off.”

***

Boston Harbor

The fisherman casually watched as the Amazon woman flew by him for the second time in two weeks. Her angry run came to a stop in front of the space that had once housed Jim’s Boat. He watched her fists clench at her sides and her posture grow stiff. Then she turned around and saw…him. His stomach churned as she marched toward him like a Fury full of fiery vengeance. The leggy woman towered over him, and he had to squint up at the bright sun in order to look at her. He had expected a deep hateful voice to come from this dark figure, but when she spoke her tone was surprisingly neutral. “Do you work here?’ she asked. He nodded dumbly. “Excellent,” she said. “Do you know where I can find the man who used to dock his ship there? A Mr. Belugi?”

“You mean the ship?” he asked. The woman looked at him as though her were a complete moron.

“No,” she said with exaggerated patience and pronunciation, “the man named Mr. Belugi who used to dock his ship here, but does not currently have it located where it used to be.” He smirked at this treatment.

“Lady,” he began smartly, and than modified his tone as he got one look into the raging depths of her eyes, “there was a ship docked here called the Mr. Belugi, but there was never a man by that name.”

“But, I met him,” she protested, “I spoke with him.”

“Well, unless you have some kind of sixth sense it wasn’t Mr. Belugi--he’s been dead a real long time.”

She frowned, and turned to go. She suddenly whirled back on him and pulled out a picture. “Have you seen this man?” she asked forcefully.

“W-who? Jarod? Sure, I know him.” The dark haired woman grinned, and he thought he caught a glimpse of fangs.

“Was he here?”

“Yeah, a few years back he worked for Jim.”

“Jim?” she queried.

“Jimmy owns the Belugi there.”

Her lips twitched. “Why didn’t you mention Jim in the first place?”

His grin widened, “You never asked.” She turned to go, and this time he stopped her. “Don’t you want to see his boat?”

“Whose boat?”

“Jarod’s,” he said. “The Helen Keller.”

Disclaimer: All characters and are the property of NBC and TNT. I don’t own them, I just borrowed them.



Not in Kansas Anymore
part 3
by Charlatan



The Helen Keller

As she climbed onto the Helen Keller Miss Parker grimaced in disgust. The deck was dirty, with cheap, wood trim that had been bleached and warped by the elements.

Compared to its sparkling neighbors, the pretender’s boat was an eyesore.

She walked toward the door of the cabin. Her shoe stuck momentarily, and was then pulled free by the force of her momentum. She barely caught herself in time. Behind her, the annoying little fisherman let out a guffaw, painfully reminding her that he was still there.

“Great!” she hissed glancing down at her now tar covered imported Italian pump. “When I get back, Jarod, you’ll pay for this,” she murmured.

“Careful Miss, the man said as he stepped forward as though to assist her, and immediately stepped back and retracted his outstretched hand when he caught one look at the danger in her eyes. He pointed to the tar, “Looks like some of Jarod’s junk got blown over in a storm.”

“Junk?”

“Yeah,” the man replied. “Jarod was always collecting the things other people didn’t want. He said it made him sad to watch so many treasures going to waste. He was a strange one, that Jarod. One night, I watched him cart mountains of wires and broken machinery up here. Don’t know where he put it all—maybe it’s in the cabin.”

Miss Parker glanced at the cabin. She reached out and tried the knob. It was locked, but not for long. She pulled out her gun.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the fisherman stammered in disbelief.

“Looking for a treasure trove.” She cocked the gun.

The man stepped forward, and stood between her and the door. “Now listen Miss, I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but around here we don’t go shooting the locks off cabin doors. We call that ‘breaking and entering’.”

She smiled evilly and her voice never rose above a harsh whisper. “If you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to give a new meaning to that cliché—mainly the breaking part.”

She was unable to make good on her promise, as her ringing cell phone interrupted the standoff. She let it ring several times, never dropping her threatening posture and scathing glare, before she finally stepped back and clicked open the phone.

“What,” she answered in her most threatening voice.

“Angel? I was worried. Where are you?”

“Daddy,” Miss Parker replied her tone at once loosing its confidence and changing into that of a petulant child.

“Well? Where are you?”

She paused, not wanting to tell him. After all he must already know; she had logged a flight plan with the Centre airstrip before leaving. “I’m in Boston, Daddy.”

The already gruff voice on the other end of the line hardened considerably. “You’re supposed to be in Blue Cove, setting up the Michaels’ account.”

She cringed inwardly. Just that word, “account” left a bitter taste in her mouth. In the time she’d been chasing Jarod she’d learned two things: the pretender was a pain in the ass, and she never wanted to again occupy her boring and stiff job with Corporate.

“I know Daddy, but I’ve been following a lead on Jar—.”

He cut her off sharply. “I don’t want any excuses. I want you back here, pronto. Are we clear?” His voice softened. “Now Angel, you don’t need to worry anymore about Jarod. He’s back in the Centre where he belongs, and by the end of the day you’ll be back in corporate where you belong.”

She could almost hear the unspoken addendum: “or else.”

She wanted to laugh, to hang up on him, but instead she said, “Yes Daddy. I’m on my way.” The Helen Keller would have to wait, but next time she wouldn’t need to follow breadcrumbs to find it.

***

The Centre (11 days later)

Someone was going to die. Going postal would be the her only option, if she had to endure one more petulant, rich client with their sniveling problems--that wouldn’t even exist if they had half a brain. That’s all it took her to fix them. Maybe that’s what really bothered her: that she was so good at covering their indiscretions.

She sighed forcefully, and briefly entertained a fantasy of marching around the Centre, up and down the sublevels blasting everyone into infinity. Except Broots, and maybe Sydney. She scowled. She still didn’t know what Sydney was up to, or Jarod for that matter.

When she returned to Blue Cove, her father had all but ordered her to stay away from her former staff, and especially keep her distance from the pretender project--he was sure her brother could handle it. She grimaced, recalling Lyle’s gloating smile at the exchange. “Do yourself a favor, sis,” he had said as they left Mr. Parker’s office. “Forget about Jarod, and just go back to doing what you do best. In the meantime I’ll take care of business in this corner of the world.”

She had smiled coldly at him, and walked away. Her father’s dressing-down had left her, for once, without any clever retorts.

She stared out her window--a real window--with a fantastic view of the peaceful blue waters that bordered the Centre. They were like the calm before the storm. She made a decision.

Miss Parker reached down and pushed her intercom.

“Yes?” came the timid voice of her secretary. Miss Parker frowned. That woman’s fear of her would give the Broots she had met four years ago a run for his money.

“Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. I need to take care of the Michaels’ account. Call and get the Centre jet ready.”

“Y-you’re going out of town? I mean, didn’t you already settle that account?” Miss Parker frowned, wondering if this secretary could be trusted. Her instinct won out.

“I have to go to Rhode Island, and meet with Mr. Michaels personally,” she lied. “Something’s come up.” She could picture secretary flinching as Miss Parker disconnected the call with a flourish. You just couldn’t get good help these days.

****

Sublevel 22

Sydney sat pensively in his office, frowning at the sleeping form of his pretender on the surveillance feed. Jarod looked terrible, and aside from a genuine concern for the young man’s well being, the psychiatrist was getting tire of being kept in the dark.

He remembered that moment, two weeks ago, when they’d first let him see Jarod. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Lyle to agree, and that fact alone was cause for concern.

When he’d entered the darkened room where the Pretender was being held he took one look at him and knew something was up. Jarod jumped to his feet—or better yet his foot, as one leg seemed significantly impaired—and his eyes focused on the floor.

“Jarod?” he had begun hesitantly. “It’s Sydney. You can look at me.” There was no response, and he stepped forward intent on eliciting one.

At that moment the pretender lost his balance, and toppled into his long-time mentor.

Sydney caught him in surprise. Staggering back under the young man’s weight, he barely had time to hear the words hissed into his ear, before the vigilant sweepers threw the pretender roughly into the wall.

“How dare you attack someone!” The head sweeper yelled, and slammed his first into Jarod’s stomach. The pretender doubled over in pain, crumpling to the floor, but he did not cry out.

“Stop this!” said Sydney in a surprisingly sharp tone that commanded the sweepers’ attention. “He clearly fell, and I’m not demanding any physical repercussions for an accident.”

The head sweeper eyed him cockily.

“I will,” Sydney said in a low threatening voice, “make that demand in reference to other individuals if they do not desist at once.”

The sweeper was actually impressed. Maybe there was more to this soft-spoken man than met the eye. After all, you didn’t last as long as Sydney had without having a few sharpened fangs--well hidden as they might be.

“You heard the Doctor.” A voice from behind them called. The sweepers backed off as Mr. Lyle stepped into the cell. He walked over to Jarod. “On your feet!” he ordered. The pretender stood up, and found his focal point on the ground. “Good boy,” the thumbless man said mockingly. Jarod gave no reaction. On previous days Jarod had seemed a little bit “testy,” but today, he appeared...defeated. That was good.

Despite Jarod’s initial complacent behavior Lyle had still be able to detect the slightest hint of some indiscernible emotion. Whether it was barely controlled fear or suppressed hatred, Lyle hadn’t sure, but he was determined to find out.

For the last three days Lyle had noted a steady decline in the labrat’s autonomic behavior. Maybe it had been fear after all. Needless to say, it was time to put this gradual submission to the test. He knew just how to do it. Although the Centre had not officially announced the pretender’s return, simulation requests, with large revenue attachments, had suddenly started pouring in.

The depraved man smiled, “Tomorrow, you and Sydney are going to start working on simulations. Do you understand?” The pretender nodded dumbly.

Satisfied, the man escorted Sydney out of the room. “I expect you to be here bright and early to work with him. If that’s going to be a problem, well, there are so many other bright doctors who could probably …fill the job.” His voice trailed off threateningly.

“I’ll be here.”

Lyle looked surprised. “It’s amazing how agreeable everyone around here is being. Must be something in the water.” He studied the aging man’s face for a moment trying to discern his cryptic expression, and than strode away.

Sydney turned back to the still open cell door, and cast one last look at its lone, desolate occupant. He turned away, and walked after Lyle. The pretender’s words followed him up the hallway, echoing in his mind: “Please, just play along. Just play along.”

***

The Helen Keller

It had almost been too easy. It was truly amazing how even the best trained Centre operative crumbled at the wrong end of a steel barrel. It had taken very little effort for her to persuade the jet’s pilot to change his route midair, and take her where she really wanted to go.

She climbed onto the deck of Jarod’s boat, and walked over to the cabin door. She pulled out her gun, and screwed on a silencer. On a sudden impulse she tried the doorknob one more time. The door swung open. She frowned wondering who could have left it unlocked. Had her father sent a sweeper team here after she left?

As she climbed down the latter into the cabin, the only sounds were the clinking of her heels and the pounding of the surf. But as she dropped passed the last few rungs, the real world faded away, and she found her self in Jarod’s strangest lair yet.

The entire cabin was a mess of wiring—from telephones to computers and back again. She stood over the main computer, regretting that she’d left Broots back at the Blue Cove. The technician had a plethora of painful idiosyncrasies, but at times like these she realized how valuable an asset he could be.

The screen was blank except for a box requesting a multi-digit pass code. She was going to have to wait to explore this treasure trove.

She sighed, but even as the breath left her lungs inspiration hit her. She rapidly typed in a code, and the main menu screen popped up. ‘Thank you, Jarod,’ she thought. ‘The ‘seeing may see little,’ but those who remember see all.’

She stared at the menu, and clicked on the bar called Triple Jeopardy. Despite her technological inefficiencies, Miss Parker could still read between the lines. The list on the screen before her looked more than vaguely familiar. The bottom accounts were all new, but one caught her eye. It had only recently been sent, and was from a little fictional firm named Troika. She snorted at the name. “The one thing I can always say about you, Jarod, is that you’re definitely clever.” She pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

“Hello?” A familiar voice answered.

“Broots, I need you down here ASAP.”

“M-miss Parker?” he stammered, “Where are you? And I can’t meet you anywhere, Mr. Lyle made that very clear to me when I was transferred to security.”

‘Damn him,’ she thought, “Lyle’s always sticking his distorted hand where it doesn’t belong.’

Aloud she replied: “I don’t want to hear any of your fear driven excuses about how you’re not working for me any longer. As for Lyle, leave him to me. I don't care if you have to beg, borrow, or steal a plane, just come to our last location on the yellow brick road,” she said vaguely, aware that the line was probably monitored. “I think I found the Emerald City.”

Disclaimer: All characters and are the property of NBC and TNT. I don’t own them, I just borrowed them.



Not in Kansas Anymore
part 4
by Charlatan




SL22

He moved obediently between the two sweepers, as he had done every morning for the last two weeks. This day would be different. Today he would be free. As much as he had enjoyed his reminder of why he hated the Centre so much, the magician had realized his act was over. It was time to come back to reality—even if it meant enduring the blinding pain of his injured leg.

They came to the bend in the hallway, where the two fields of the cameras, according to his precise calculations, did not completely overlap. He pretended to stumble, and the sweepers, who had in the last few weeks grown placate, were caught off guard. They both reached down to pick him up, and at the precise moment he neatly slammed their heads together. One crumpled instantly, but the burlier sweeper grabbed for his throat. Jarod reached around, and placed pressure at the perfect spot on the base of the man’s neck; the sweeper fell to the floor.

“Resistance is illogical,” he quipped to the fallen sweepers. Then a nearby grate popped open and Angelo crouched there smiling at his longtime friend.

“Jarod come,” he said. “Don’t keep queen waiting.”

***

The Helen Keller

“This is ingenious.” Broots giggled for the millionth time. “Jarod’s really outdone himself this time.”

Miss Parker closed her eyes and counted to three.

“Broots,” she said with exaggerated patience and a hint of danger, “Will you stop acting like a tourist, and start acting at least like the half-baked moron I know you can be?”

The computer tech got to work. He pulled up a map of the world on his computer screen. Red lines crisscrossed each other, but they all seemed to end at one point. A little spot in Boston.

“You can see that each of these lines represent individually activated telephone calls. These calls came here, and acted as passwords to send Data Files. Those files all went to the same place. “

“The Centre.” Miss Parker said with a caustic smile.

Broots nodded. “It seems that all the sims Jarod has been doing were created by him. He even left his calling card, so to say. All the companies names contained the number “3” in some way. For example, Dreidesert, had “drei”, which is German for 3. It seems that he most commonly inserted “tri”—I’m not sure why.”

Miss Parker shook her head. “Our favorite labrat must be stretching his opposable joints with all the nose thumbing he’s doing at us. Tri, Broots?” She pointed to the firm that had caught her interest earlier. “Perhaps you recognize Troika?”

Understanding lit his face. “Troika is another word for triumvirate: a ruling body with three members. And the rest…tri as in triumverate. I can’t believe he’d send such an obvious clue.”

She sighed, “Jarod’s clues are always obvious—from a certain point of view. I’m guessing he doesn’t think the Centre can see the “obvious” very well with its head stuck in the sandbox.”

She shook her head again and moved on. “So all those spots in the world contain some device designed to make a telephone call?”

“Possibly,” the balding man replied.

“Broots,” she said as inspiration hit her. “Pull up a map of all the sites for Jarod’s pretends.” The computer tech nodded, and the information flashed up on his screen. “Now superimpose it over the map of the calls.” Broots hit several keys, and the request was accomplished. “Look familiar?” she asked in a satisfied tone.

“They match.” The man noted.

“Hey!” came a voice from behind them. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

Miss Parker stood up and turned around. The man’s eyes widened with recognition.

“Well, Mr. Belugi,” she said softly, “You don’t look dead to me.” She pulled out her Smith and Wesson. “But don’t worry, I can fix that.”

***

Centre VIP Parking Lot

From his hiding place amongst the trees Jarod frowned. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I designed Triple Jeopardy. Well, I guess it is figuratively,” he said with a hollow laugh.

The pretender shook his head; the failure of Triple Jeopardy still smarted. What a waste of all that work! If anything, this would reinforce their power over her. She would never learn that the only way to end the game was to stop playing by the rules. Triple Jeopardy would have given her a push—bent those rules. But now it was over. Another fantasy slashed by the reality of the Centre.

There was no time to think about that now.

He glanced back at the contents of the tote before him. “This is never going to work, Angelo.”

“Have faith.” His coconspirator said with a grin. Jarod reluctantly picked up the bag, sitting next to them.

“This is going to be my hardest pretend ever.”

***

The Helen Keller

Miss Parker’s aim never wavered. “You had five seconds to convince me not to shoot you. I want to know everything you know, and I want to know it right now.”

“Had?” he queried. Her glare riddled him with holes. The man gulped, and began eagerly.

“A couple years ago a man came to work for my employer. He said his name was Jarod, and that he was, well, a fixit man of sorts.”

“Let me guess,” Miss Parker said wryly, “Your employer wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen.”

The man nodded. “He had me trapped. Made me do things I didn’t want to do. We were into drugs at first, but than they asked me to kill someone—a client who couldn’t pay. I decided that I wasn’t going to be a part of the “team” anymore, and tried to walk away. Than he threatened my sister’s life.”

“Several weeks before that I refused to help them with another “case”, and by the next day my stepfather had disappeared. He went fishing and never came back. He was missing for a week before they found him; he washed up onto shore. The coroner concluded he drowned while swimming, but he was an excellent swimmer. The warning was not lost on me. Nor was my part in the deed. I never pulled the trigger, but I killed him….” The man’s voice trailed off sadly. “The Belugi is his boat, and I used his last name for Jarod’s scheme to, well, honor his memory with something good. Something that would help instead of hurt someone.”

He sighed, and returned to his tale, “I knew they were responsible for his death, and I had no illusions that they wouldn’t hurt my sister as well. She had a family, with two beautiful daughters. How could I ever look my nieces’ in the eye and tell them their mother wasn’t ever coming home—just like their grandfather?”

“And Jarod helped you?!” Broots chirped in eagerly. Miss Parker wiped the smile off his face with a single look.

Jim ignored the exchange. “After it was all over, I asked Jarod if there was anything I could do for him. He gave me a device that plugged into my computer. He told me that there were people after him, and he had a “feeling” they would be catching up to him shortly. Apparently, this device would offer him a safety net for a short time against these people. It’s strange though, I think a relocation to another country would have been my idea of a safety net, but Jarod almost acted like he wanted to get caught…eventually.”

Miss Parker digested the information for a moment. Clearly the untalented Mr. Belugi had grossly underestimated Jarod’s intentions. Jarod, wanting to get caught? Never. A flash on a computer screen woke her from her reverie. “What about the Helen Keller? Did you help Jarod set this up?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “This ship was destined to be scrapped, but Jarod was determined to buy it. He said that a ship with the name of Helen Keller deserved a second chance. The owner told him that it was a lost cause, but Jarod informed him that he didn’t believe in lost causes: only that the people who had created them were lost. It’s kind of funny, now that I think of it, he told me that he was going to use this ship to steer someone back onto their path. I wonder who that was…” he looked at her, “Maybe it was you?”

Her hardened features wavered for a moment, and then resumed their cold appearance. “The only reason I ever step off my path is because Jarod’s left another obstacle in my way. Taking his help, would be like jumping headfirst into ocean waters newly chummed for sharks. Either way, you can hope for the best, but you’re not getting anywhere without losing a few appendages.”

‘Besides,’ she continued to herself, ‘he probably was just referring to the victim he was going to help in his next pretend. And, when it you really came down to it, who knew why Jarod said half of the strange things he did? Probably just because he liked to think of cryptic one-liners to leave behind for the sweeper teams. Ones that had an uncanny habit of wedging their way into your thoughts…just like now.’ Her face flushed. ‘Get it together Parker!’ an inner voice ordered. She dismissed the confusing implications, and focused on the matter at hand.

The man squirmed under her penetrating gaze.

“How did it work?” Broots interrupted. As a frequent victim of that same piercing laser, he could sympathize with the unfortunate prisoner.

The man looked up thankfully, but without a clue as to what the computer technician was asking. Miss Parker had a way of rendering her prey dumb.

“The system?” Broots elaborated. “How did it operate?”

The man smiled gratefully, thankful to be led to more solid footing. “Well every three days it received a message from Jarod, and as long as it did it was not to be activated. Then, one day it began beeping. Jarod told me that if this ever happened I was to call the number he gave me, and punch in a passcode. He warned me that people like you might show up, and that I should just talk in vague phrases, and be friendly and you would go away. He said everything would be fine as long you had your money, and the passcode I typed in would ensure that.”

“It’s true,” Broots confirmed from his place in front of the computer. “All of these “accounts” are linked to separate anonymous banks. I guess, Jarod must have given those devices to people he met on his pretends.”

Miss Parker sighed. “So now we know how the process works, but the question is, how long does it last? How long can Jarod go before he comes across a sim he didn’t invent?”

“Two weeks,” the man at the end of her gun said helpfully.

“But that would be now!” she exclaimed. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed.

***

The Centre

“This is Sydney,” came the familiar Belgian accent.

“Sydney,” said Parker. “Is Jarod there?’

The man hunched over his desk, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “It seems Miss Parker, that Jarod is missing. They haven’t found him yet. Where are you? In your office?”

“Not at the moment, but I’m on my way back there right now.”

***

Centre Guardpost

Mr. Lyle was in a bad mood. He’d been called back to the Centre from a crucial business meeting. This had better he important, or heads were going to role.

As he drew nearer to the guard post he noticed a car approaching from the other direction. “Well if it isn’t my favorite twin,” he murmured to himself. “Cutting the day a little short aren’t you?” In fact, it was almost unheard of to see that car and its occupant moving around in broad daylight. His sister usually arrived at a time he considered excruciatingly early, and left long after dark. He doubted her schedule would drastically change now that she was back in corporate.

He frowned, as the cars passed each other at the exact moment that the guard post was between them. He might have felt better if he could have at least seen her face. Even an angry scowl might have clued him in on what she was up to. Another opportunity for sibling torture missed. He pulled into the parking lot, and stepped out of the car. Across the lot he could see two sweepers talking, clearly discussing some business outside of the range of the Centre’s cameras, and listening aids. He approached them.

“What can we do for you Mr. Lyle?” Willie asked.

Lyle liked Willie. No matter how many times this sweeper switched teams he still liked him. After all, they were both in a way “brought into their own” by Raines, and that made them what—kindred spirits? Probably not, but at least it made them dangerous.

“I want you to follow my sister,” he informed them. “She just left, and I want to know why.” He paused. “Use the tracking beacon placed in her car if you need to.” The seasoned sweeper nodded professionally—always the good soldier.

“We won’t let you down Mr. Lyle.”

The thumbless man watched as they climbed into a nearby towncar and drove off in pursuit. His cell phone beeped.

“What!” he answered, sounding exactly like the woman he was currently hunting. Lyle only listened to part of what the person on the other line had to say before he threw the phone into the nearby wall in frustration. “Damn it!” he yelled. This was going to be a very lousy day.

Disclaimer: All characters and are the property of NBC and TNT. I don’t own them, I just borrowed them.



Not in Kansas Anymore
part 5
by Charlatan




Somewhere in Delaware

Jarod glanced in the rearview mirror for the second time in twenty seconds. They were still there, and had been for the last fifty miles. He didn’t get it. If they knew it was he, why hadn’t they tried to run him off the road yet? Tried to recapture him? There were several possible explanations: either they weren’t sure if it was him, and didn’t want to endure the wrath of a Parker, or they really believed they were following Parker—the clothes and wig Angelo had given him would clearly buttress the second theory. The wig was beginning to drive him crazy, and despite the steroids Angelo had injected, his leg was still killing him. Either way, they were going to find out the truth soon, as he had been watching the gas gauge slowly drop for the last half-hour.

‘Jeez Parker,’ he thought, ‘Couldn’t you have taken the time to fill up your tank?’ He grimaced as he imagined her smart response.

***

The Centre

Her four inch stilettos made pounding noises as they clicked along the same walkway that they had a few shorts weeks before, but this time they were singing a different tune. This time, the dark haired women who wore them marched along with a new purpose and a lighter mood. Although her countenance would never reveal it, her shoes seemed to give her away, as they moved in a “ha”, “ha”, all the way up the sterile hallway. The mockery didn’t end when the woman reached her destination--it only shifted form.

Miss Parker pushed open the doors to her twin’s office, and marched in with a regal grace. Lyle quickly removed his heads from his hands, but not in time to prevent her from seeing him in this vulnerable and defeated position. He had been wrong; his day could get worse. “Come to gloat?” he asked without any trace of his usual false humor.

She smiled innocently. “I don’t know what your talking about, but I do know that I came here to tell you that just because I’m in corporate, doesn’t mean we should drift apart. I mean, I’d hate to think you’d forget me, and everything that’s happened in, oh, say as short a time as three days? There seems to be a lot of that lately.” She leaned forward, “But don’t worry. You can bet that I haven’t forgotten, and I model myself after the…triumvirate.”

For a second a dangerous light played in his eyes, but a slight glance told him the same edge was mirrored in the ice blue eyes of the woman before him. He released the air from his lungs--slowly, and stood up. A quirky smile played across his lips.

“Even if he is gone I’ve still won. In the short time he worked for us, Jarod generated a plethora of revenue, and provided enough work to last quite a few years. In fact, I was considering giving him some time off.”

She grinned, highly aware that in a moment even a psychopath like her brother wouldn’t be able to smile, much less sneer. “How generous of you, I’m sure you’ll feel just as generous when you find out the research is flawed.” He looked at her suspiciously. With gusto, she slapped the folder down on his desk that she had brought with her. His eyes never left his face.

“What’s that?”

“It’s my report, on this entire fiasco. I hate to ruin the ending—oh wait you already know it—so let me just give you a plot summary: Jarod played you. From the moment you put the handcuffs on him, you were his property, his puppet.” She stepped forward, so his face was inches from hers: “I’ve seen this song and dance number before, but you--you get the prize. Your performance truly was memorable.” She stood back up, smiling, savoring the moment.

He glanced at her, and then at the report on his desk. “You knew. You knew all along. I’ll put you before a T-board for this.”

Her grin widened, “But it’s not my fault. I was officially taken off the pursuit of Jarod two weeks ago. I didn’t need to investigate anything. My report was just a courtesy—a family favor. Oh, and I should mention that identical copies of that report have been sent to the tower.”

He glared at her, “the next time you decide to do me a favor, include a life insurance policy in the packet.”

The brunette turned to leave. She took a few paces and then pivoted around to look at him, “Who says I didn’t? No more hints. I guess you’ll just have to read it and find out.”

As she moved out the door he called out to her, “See you soon. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her mood darkened slightly, “I know Lyle, not even Oz has enough magic to make that wish come true.”

* * *

As the doors shut behind his vengeful sister, Lyle opened her report to the last page. He took a minimal satisfaction out of knowing he would be spoiling the ending after all. It only took him a few moments to read about the morning’s adventures in Boston. Realization dawned on him. His sister had not left the Centre that morning—at least, not by way of car. He picked up his phone. “Patch me through to Centre’s car 66’s extension. NOW!”

Car 66
Duncan was bored and hungry. He’d missed lunch to day. Not to mention that this entire cloak and dagger spy-stuff really wasn’t his forte’. He preferred out and out assaults, with carnage and death. It was just his bad luck that he was standing at the wrong place at the wrong time. He had met Willie over his lunch break in an attempt to use the well-known sweeper to gain a foothold to the Centre Bigwigs’ sweeper teams. He was beginning to believe that the higher teams were not all they cracked up to be.

The phone rang. Duncan glanced over at the sweeper next to him. The stalwart man’s alert posture had not slacked in the least during the course of their journey.

The seasoned man picked up the phone. “Willie here.” The sweeper paused. “Yes, Mr. Lyle, we’re still following her. I see. I’m your man. Jarod will not escape.”

‘Jarod?!’ Duncan’s ears perked up.

Willie turned to him. “We have good reason to believe that the person in that car is not Miss Parker, but an escaped Centre test subject. We’re to retrieve him at all costs.”

Duncan nodded solemnly to Willie, but smiled to himself. Jarod wasn’t just any Centre test subject; he was the only Centre subject that truly mattered. That meant this could be his ticket to the big time. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad trip at all.

***

Miss Parker’s Car

Jarod glanced in the rearview mirror. Something had changed. The dark sedan was no longer keeping its distance. He glanced at the car’s cell phone, hesitated, and than picked it up.

***

The Centre

“What?!”

“Miss Parker, how’s your sight?” came a familiar voice.

“Jarod, I didn’t expect to hear from you quite this soon. Where are you?”

He smiled. “You’d never believe it.”

“Try me. I’ve been seeing some pretty strange things lately. Like companies that come in threes, blind boats with excellent vision, and a little white rabbit now and then.”

“I don’t know what you’ve been seeing—especially that last thing, but I do know exactly where I am: In your car, somewhere on the Delaware border.”

“Really. Another game Jarod? And if not, couldn’t you have taken Lyle’s?”

“Angelo provided the keys, and I wasn’t exactly in a position to be choosy.” He paused.
“You wouldn’t happen to keep an extra gun in your car?”

“You’re really in my car aren’t you? Ruining my wardrobe isn’t enough for you anymore, Jarod?”

“Miss Parker, I really am curious as to how corporate is treating you. An office with a view? That must be nice. What’s that like? Being in a part of the Centre with windows? I wouldn’t know.”

“Well why don’t you use that big brain of yours and figure it out?”

The pretender sighed. He hadn’t really called to tweak her conscience, just offer her an alternative to her current predicament at the Centre.

“The only thing my brain is telling me right now, is that if Lyle catches me, which he is currently very close to doing, then you get to spend your life working in that new beautiful wing I built for you. So, if that’s what you want, than just hang up the phone.”

She sighed heavily. Lab-rat had a point. “It’s in the ceiling, behind the sunglasses’ holder—which by the way, if you break my glasses or damage my car I swear the next time we meet I will shoot you in the knee.”

He popped open the compartment and barely restrained a sigh of relief as the needed weapon fell into his hand. He turned back to the conversation, “Well now Miss Parker, I thought it was my foot.”

He ended the call.

Jarod checked the rearview mirror. The black car was rapidly closing the gap. He opened the barrel and checked for bullets. He was only going to have one shot at this. Literally.

He focused on the approaching exit. As he neared the ramp he increased his speed, as though he suddenly realized he was being followed. The speed of the town car behind him increased. The sweepers’ car drew up behind him, and then flipped over into the other lane, apparently intent on ramming him off the rode.

As the two cars pulled even, Jarod caught only a glimpse of an unfamiliar sweeper’s face as he leaned out the window and fired a carefully aimed shot at the Centre car’s tire. As an added bonus, the irritating wig flew off his head, and into the open window of the sweepers’ car, preventing any return fire.

“Damn it!” he shouted realizing he’d missed the tire. Continuing with his plan anyway, Jarod spun the car onto the exit ramp at the last possible second. The Centre’s car shot past him. He peeled through the red light at the top of the exit, and sped off down the deserted highway.

* * *

The only witness to his high-speed antics was a dog sitting next to the sleeping gas attendants feet, and he couldn’t give directions as to which way the pretender went to the fuming sweepers whose stormy arrival awoke his master.

Willie threw the attendant down in disgust. Besides the fact that Jarod had a head start, who knew which way he had gone? They could drive forever in the wrong direction and never know it.

He pulled out his handkerchief, and carefully wiped the blood off his hand. He straitened his tie and buttoned his jacket. Then he picked up his phone. “Mr. Lyle,” he said in a professional tone, ever the stalwart soldier. “The pretender has escaped. I’m bringing you the body of the man responsible.” He paused to listen. “Yes, sir. I know sir, the tower will get their scapegoat.” He shut the phone. Duncan looked at him.

“Do you want to do him,” he said as he gestured to the prone figure in the dirt, “or should I?”

“Actually,” Willie said as he cocked his gun, “I’ll take care of this.” The sweeper pointed and fired. The last thought Duncan had was that he never should have been in that parking lot, and that because of this mission he’d missed the cafeteria’s special tuna surprise lunch; then the darkness swallowed him.

***

The Centre

It was finally over, at least for the moment.

Triple Jeopardy was a moot point--at least in this office. She would let her brother wrap up the rest of that fairy tale.

Miss Parker couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed. Despite everything, all the frustrating games and elusive clues, in the end she felt she owed him.

She owed him for getting her out of corporate, and not just this time, but the first time as well. Her adventures in the pursuit of Jarod had forced her to see the real world, and now she wanted desperately to be out there. If he hadn’t ever escaped the Centre, she might have spent her entire life going through the motions of loving a job she loathed. Not to mention that this time her removal from corporate had also saved countless numbers of would-be-murdered Centre employees. Score one for the little guy again.

Damn him! Why did life seem to always go his way? She smiled at the irony of that thought. The truth was that she wasn’t mad at him, but at herself, for daring to admit he might have helped her for once. Luckily this secret hadn’t moved beyond her. She would have to distance herself from this feeling.

She thought of her stripped down car. That did the trick. Although it had probably been done by drifters, Jarod still hadn’t kept up his end of the deal, and next time they met she owed him one bullet to the knee…or was it the foot? Maybe both.

Miss Parker grinned, and leaned back in her leather chair, which was situated in her newly restored sublevel office. She closed her eyes, grateful for the darkness, and steady hum of the air refreshers. ‘Who needs a window, Jarod?’

Earlier Broots had stuck his head in, and in his bumbling way managed to welcome her back. Miss Parker smiled: she was back, and the errant pretender had better keep looking over his shoulder.

She felt so comfortable and exhausted. When had she last slept? Fatigue overcame the brunette, but before she succumbed, her last thought was that someday she might like a window—but not with a view of the deceptively beautiful bay lining the Centre.

For now, she’d settle for what she had: concrete and steel abstractions with hints of color and light. If you stared long enough into their memorizing false depths you could almost see the world outside. Almost.

Parker drifted off to sleep.

She dreamed of white rabbits and yellow brick roads.

***

Epilogue

Sydney’s office

She always knew how to make an impression—coming and going. Sydney shook his head as Miss Parker disappeared like a fury into the night. She had just finished telling him, in no uncertain terms that she was willing to write off his strange involvement with recent events as a temporary loss of sanity. Whether he had been working with the pretender and betraying the Centre or vice versa, she really didn’t want to know. The brunette only wanted to remind him that she wasn’t Lyle, and Jarod’s tricks wouldn’t, hadn’t fooled her. The psychiatrist did find it interesting that in her tirade she had repeatedly focused on the fact that this incident had left her car in shambles—but the car had been repaired for several days now. It was fine, and her reference seemed to act more as a touchstone than any real indication of anger. Also, she hadn’t complained once about being pulled out of corporate to traipse after the pretender again. Very interesting, indeed.

The phone interrupted his analysis of the young woman.

“This is Sydney.”

“What happens when you spend an enormous amount of money on credit, and good stature, and then your cash flow not only dries up, but reverses itself?”

“Jarod, it’s good to here from you! I was worried when they found Parker’s car abandoned in the middle of nowhere.”

“How did she take it?”

“Surprisingly well, under the circumstances. Although I believe that mainly stemmed from the fact that it was less than two miles from the exit ramp where the sweepers lost you, and had an empty gas tank. If the sweepers had searched a short way up the street they might have caught up with you. Aside from that glaring failure, Lyle’s treading in dangerous waters between losing you, being fooled by you, and the unexpected disappearance of very large sums of money from Centre bank accounts. He’s blaming it on a grade 2 sweeper, but nobody really sees how that is possible. “

“Well,” said Jarod, “The seeing see little, and think little, but usually they also strangely enough live happily ever after. I guess they don’t get to in this fairy tale.”

“You’re referring to the end of Triple Jeopardy. You had to use it for a situation where it proved helpful, but it was not exactly what it was designed for.” The aging psychiatrist could imagine the grim smile that crossed his protégé’s face in the silence that followed.

“What gave me away?” the pretender finally asked.

“Your repeated referring to Miss Parker’s being in corporate, and your questioning whether or not she liked it. She mentioned your “mockery” to me. She thought you were saying it to torture her—to show how she could never be free. But that’s not how I see it. I think you designed this project so that you could be caught by her, didn’t you? So that she could collect on the deal with her father—your life for her freedom--and walk away from this madhouse.”

“They never would have let her go,” Jarod answered quietly.

“But at least than she would have known that, and as the Helen Keller reference referred to, she might have finally seen her father for who he is. Meanwhile you would have dutifully performed sims without a nagging conscience, and bided your time, waiting for the right moment to escape. You both could have been free.”

Jarod smiled grimly. “I guess we’ll never know if that is true. Maybe I just designed Triple Jeopardy to perform exactly the way it did—maybe it was just a precaution against my possible recapture.”

“and in that regard it worked, Jarod, but I doubt that next time your immediate cooperation will go over so well.”

“Well Sydney,” Jarod said with a jovial bitterness, “I guess I’ll have to make sure there won’t be a next time. I have logged enough hours in the Centre for a lifetime. Literally.”

He paused, and then in a boyish tone continued, “and besides, a good magician never does the same trick twice.”

The End


Author’s Note

I would just like to thank everyone for the great feedback and their patience in waiting for this to be completed. “Not in Kansas Anymore” was not just my first pretender fanfic, but my first fanfic ever. I actually had a dream about the story line, and then just filled in the details. I tried to make the story and characters believable. If anyone has any comments or questions, I’d love to hear form you. Once again, I hope you enjoyed it, and perhaps you’ll be seeing another story form me soon. After all, who knows where or when white rabbits will appear? Anything is possible at the Centre.