DISCLAIMER: "The Pretender" and all its characters and situationsbelong to NBC

DISTRIBUTION: Please ask before archiving or forwarding to mailing lists. I doubt I'll say no, but I want to know where it is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Carolyn for great beta services.



~~~~~ For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her ~~~~~
Part I:
Takes One to Know One
by Maggie McCain



PART: 1 of 2

The corridor was bright with alphabet posters and smelled of Play-Doh and peanut butter. The glassed-in tops of classroom doors revealed groups of children involved in playing, reading, napping, and the myriad of other little activities that make up the school day.

The dark man smiled, bending nearly double as he took a drink from a tiny water fountain. As he stood, something in
his posture eased. This place was so normal, so peaceful. He looked around the hall again and sighed.

"Is something wrong, Dr. Sullivan?"

"No. I was just... this place makes me feel nostalgic."

His companion grinned. "I know what you mean. Every time I come down here, I get a sudden urge to eat paste and sing the alphabet song. I think that's one of the reasons we've been so successful here. Parents like to feel that their children aren't missing out on a normal school experience. The kids get the special attention they need without feeling like guinea pigs. I'm sure you can understand how important that is. A cold, clinical atmosphere does more harm than good in cases like these. We can't help these kids if we don't allow ourselves to care about them for more than their research value."

The dark man was silent for a moment, some strong emotion glinting in his deep eyes.

"Dr. Sullivan?"

He shook his head, as if to banish an unwelcome thought. "I couldn't agree with you more. And please, call me Jarod."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"Dr. Harrison?"

The young woman looked up and smiled. "Hello, you must be Dr. Sullivan. I'm Jessica Harrison- but everyone around here just calls me Jessie."

He grinned. "Only if you'll call me Jarod."

"It's a deal. So, Jarod, I hear you're doing some great things with autism treatments. Your last article was fascinating."

"Actually, Jessie, one of the main reasons I came here was your last article."

"The case study?"

"Yes, the little girl- Gracie. Your description of the case was fascinating; I have never encountered a case that was quite so resistant to treatment before."

"I know. I've been working with autistic children since I was an undergrad at Columbia, and this is the first case of this kind I've ever run across- her real name is Maggie, by the way. She isn't hostile or uncooperative like some of the children; in fact she is wonderfully behaved. But no matter what therapy we use, her condition remains the same. Her tests have been practically without fluctuation since she came here, and that's simply unheard of. Her symptoms are actually not severe. All the patients I ever seen with similar ones have responded well to treatment. I just don't understand why she hasn't. It's such a shame. Her intelligence scores are very high, but it's as if she's a prisoner inside herself."

"Jessie," asked Jarod, "would you be willing to let me take over Maggie's treatment while I'm here? I've had some amazing successes in my work before, and I would like to try to help her."

"Of course," Jessie replied. "I'll take you to her this afternoon. I hope you can do something for her. She is such a sweet child."

"Is she here now?"

"Yes, she's in the all-day program. They're napping right now, but if you like I could give you her file and you could look over it before you go see her."

"That would be perfect, thank you."

Flipping her dark braid over her shoulder, Jessie rummaged in a drawer, extracting, after a slight struggle, a hefty file, bound with rubber bands to prevent the contents from escaping. She handed it to Jarod. "Here you go. You can look this over until about two... it has some information that wasn't in the article. I'll be by your office then to take you to meet Maggie."

"Thanks, Jessie. I'll see you at two o'clock then."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Naptime was ending as Jarod and Jessie entered the classroom. The class was small, three children being cared for by two teachers, who were putting away sleeping mats while their charges pursued their own interests for a few moments. The demeanor of the students, whose normal appearances made their behavior seem even more abnormal, cruelly undercut the resemblance to an ordinary schoolroom.

These were the difficult cases, the ones that weren't responding to treatment. A cherubic boy with blonde curls sat in a corner, clutching a tattered stuffed dinosaur. He rocked back and forth as if to an inaudible rhythm, making a chuffing sound to himself. A girl who was obviously his sister was seated in front of a stack of oversized blocks, piling them atop each other in a fantastic tower. When one of the teachers, pausing to speak to her, placed her hand on the child's shoulder, she jerked as if the touch were painful and screamed in fury.

The third student was Maggie. Jarod recognized her from the picture in her file; she was a beautiful child, with a head full of red ringlets and startling green eyes that were too large for her tiny pale face. She was standing in corner of the room, seemingly oblivious to the commotion surrounding her. She clutched a large book to her chest as though it were a teddy bear. Jessie crossed the room to her.

"Come on, Maggie, let's take a walk." The child did not respond, but when Jessie placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her forward, she came without resistance. Jarod followed them out the door and into a smaller room, furnished with low-lying tables and chairs.

"Here, Maggie," Jessie said, "sit down and you can read your book." She gently led her to a chair, and, taking the book from her hands, opened it to a marked place and laid it on the table. Jarod looked at the title: *Little Women.*

"Does she read?" he asked in surprise.

"Oh, no, but she loves to look at books. She seems fascinated by the shapes of words. She will sit and concentrate on a single one for hours. She even turns the pages. It's the only thing we can get her to focus on."

"How do you know she doesn't understand what she's reading?"

"Well, actually I can't say for certain. But she has been with us for over a year and she has never spoken or reacted to verbal stimuli. If the medical tests hadn't proved otherwise, I'd have diagnosed her as a deaf-mute. But she can hear us; she's just buried so deep inside herself that she doesn't seem to realize we're even here. It must be heartbreaking for her poor mother... to have such a beautiful little girl and have to live knowing that she doesn't even seem to know you exist."

Jarod sighed. "Yes, it must be."

"Well," said Jessie, "I'll leave you with her for a while. I know you want to make some observations before you begin treatment."

"Thank you." He watched in silence as Jessie left, shutting the door behind her. How many doors were shut on Maggie? Was there any way for him to open them? He knew only too well the tragic existence of a child who was locked away from its family by doors and armed guards... but what if Maggie's guards were in her own body, her own mind? What if, somewhere inside herself, she wanted to escape as badly as he had? Jarod vowed to himself that, if there were any way to help her, he would do it. He would do everything he could think of to take that dull stare out of her big eyes. He sat at the tiny table across from where she sat, focussing at the pages of her book.

"Maggie," he said softly. "I know you can hear me. My name is Jarod. I am here to help you."

She made no response.

"Dr. Jessie says you like to read. What are you reading now?" He leaned over the book. "*Little Women.* I like that book. It's about a family, with four sisters. Do you have any sisters? Or brothers maybe?" He watched her carefully as he spoke, searching for any sign that she heard him.

"I have one of each. A brother, and a sister," *had,* he added silently, but pushed the wave of sorrow for Kyle away as he continued. "Do you want to know their names? My brother's name is Kyle, and my sister's name is Emily." A subtle movement caught his eye. Did he imagine it, or had there been a flicker of change in her expression? He paused a moment, then continued. "So there were five people in my family; my Mommy's name was Margaret, and my Daddy's name was Major Charles, and they had three children, Emily, Kyle, and me, Jarod. We-" he stopped abruptly. The child who had never responded to verbal stimuli had jerked her head up with a gasp and was staring at him, a look of shocked recognition on her face. Before he had time to do anything but stare, her head had dropped back to the book and her eyes, momentarily so clear, were again vacant and dull.

"Maggie?" Jarod was shaken. He reached across the table and gently cupped her chin in his hand, raising her face from the book. Her expression was unchanged. With a sigh he released her, and her head again dropped toward the page. He returned her to classroom and hurried to his office, his mind seething with questions. He needed answers-answers that this school didn't have. He was going to have to get his research team to work on Maggie Mackenzie.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Jarod sat hunched over his laptop, oblivious to the gathering shadows outside his window as the day slipped into dusk. He had never given as much concentration to anything as he did every day to ensuring that his father and "brother" would stay safe. He sighed. This life was lonely, of course, but without the desperation he had begun to feel before he had found them. The fact that he could call them, talk to them, made the ache bearable. It was still far from the normal family life he'd always dreamed of, but it was so sweet. And someday, he was sure, there would be a time when they would be together-all of them-free at last from the echo of pursuing footsteps.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Five minutes to trace, Dad. How are you?"

"We're doing fine. We went fishing yesterday."

He smiled. "That sounds great. I wish I could have been there."

"So do we, son." Major Charles was silent for a moment. "Have you found anything?"

"Maybe. I want you to find out everything you can about a girl named Margaret Emily Mackenzie, date of birth September 22, 1993. Send the information to box 23."

Jarod heard his father gasp. "Margaret Emily?"

"I know, I felt the same way. It may be coincidental, but I can't just let it go."

"I'll do what I can. Expect it tomorrow afternoon."

"Good."

"I love you, son."

"I love you too, Dad. Both of you."

"Goodbye."

Jarod hung up with a smile. Tomorrow morning he would try talking to Maggie again. Tomorrow afternoon he would have her history. And tomorrow evening he intended to visit the Mackenzie home.

His eyes turned to the picture of his mother, holding the infant Emily in her arms. "I'm getting closer, Mom," he whispered. "I can feel it."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Jarod could feel his stomach churning as he parked outside Maggie Mackenzie's house. The information his father had uncovered had confirmed his suspicions. He was sure that Carolyn Mackenzie knew something about his family. But from what he had learned about her, she would be extremely unwilling to part with any information. Her behavior was that of a woman with a secret, but no one could keep silent forever; there had to be a way to convince her to talk. Taking a deep breath, Jarod started up the walk.

The house was a pretty little two-story, with a big yard that was perfect for a child to play in. It was neat, but there was a certain air about it that spoke of making do; Maggie's tuition couldn't be cheap. Jarod made a resolution that the Centre was due to make a charitable donation soon. He knocked on the door.

"Yes?" Carolyn Mackenzie answered the door hesitantly, holding it in front of her like a shield. Her eyes, green like Maggie's, were wary and concerned.

"Hello, Mrs. Mackenzie. I'm Dr. Jarod Sullivan. I have taken over your daughter's treatment at Ferncrest," he said, smiling in an attempt to put her at ease.

"I was unaware that Dr. Jessie was leaving," she remarked, her voice tense.

"No, she isn't going anywhere. She has asked me to consult on Maggie's case. I have had some remarkable successes in treating autistic patients in the past."

"So then why are you here? Don't you see enough of her during the day?"

"Mrs. Mackenzie, I would like to speak with you about your daughter. I spent some time with her today, and I think I can help her. Please, may I come in for a little while?"

She was quiet for a moment, examining Jarod with a look of appraisal. Finally, she nodded. "Come in."

Jarod entered the front hall, and watched as Carolyn fastened several locks on the door.

"From outward appearances, I wouldn't have picked this neighborhood to have much of a crime problem," he remarked mildly.

"I have to protect Maggie," she said quickly. "She's... different from other children, I have to be very careful."

Jarod followed her into the living room. "Family is the most precious thing we have. You're wise to protect her; when you lose your family it makes a hole inside you."

"You sound like you speak from experience." Carolyn's voice had softened.

"I was taken from my family when I was very young."

"Taken?"

"Yes. I-" he was interrupted by a crash and a scream from upstairs. Carolyn bolted from her seat and ran towards the sound, Jarod close behind her. They followed the sound of crying to a little blue-and-yellow bedroom upstairs, where Maggie sat in the midst of a vast pile of blocks, holding her wrist and sobbing.

"Sweetie, what is it? What happened?" Carolyn was frantic as she tried to catch hold of her daughter's injured arm. To Jarod's amazement, she answered her mother.

"I was trying to finish my building," she wailed, "And I stood on the chair to put the top on and it fell over and I hurt my arm!"

Jarod cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said. "I think we have some things to talk about." Both the Mackenzies whirled around with looks of shock and horror on their faces. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to turn you in. But I would like to know why a treatment-resistant autistic is suddenly able to communicate."

Maggie had stopped crying and was staring at him intensely. She tugged on her mother's sleeve and whispered something
in her ear that seemed to startle her. "No, Maggie, that's impossible," she said.

"It *is,* Momma. I know it is. I can tell."

"Mrs. Mackenzie," Jarod interrupted, "I don't know what is going on here, but I promise I am not here to hurt you or Maggie. I just need to ask you some questions."

Carolyn regarded him with suspicion. "You can ask, but I can't promise to answer."

Jarod reached into his pocket and pulled out the pictures of his mother and sister that he carried with him everywhere. "Have you seen either of these women?"

Carolyn shook her head in disbelief as she looked from one picture to the other. "Who are you, really?" she asked, her voice sharp with suspicion. "Where did you get these pictures?"

"My name is Jarod. I was taken from my family when I was very young. I have been searching for them for years. This is all I have been able to find of my mother and sister."

"I can't believe this," she said. "This is impossible. You..."

"You know them, then?" Jarod's voice was high with excitement. "You know Mom and Emily?"

"Know them? Emily is my best friend. We were roommates in college; we even got tattoos together on her twenty-first birthday. She used to talk about you all the time. I never thought... I never even dared to hope I'd see you someday."

Jarod felt his heart beating as though it would tear through his ribs. "Do you know where they are now?"

She shook her head regretfully. "Something happened about three years ago and they had to go into hiding. I get a card or an email every once in a while, but never anything I could trace."

Jarod squeezed his eyes shut to hide the disappointment that hit him like a strong left hook. Three years ago... Boston. He could see it playing on the backs of his eyelids: the cab, the shots, and his mother pressing herself to the back window as she drove away from him... after a moment, he raised his head.

"Mrs. Mackenzie-"

"Carolyn."

"Carolyn, would you- please, could you tell me about them? What are they like? Do they-" his voice wavered. "Do they miss me?"



END (01/02)

DISCLAIMER: "The Pretender" and all its characters and situationsbelong to NBC

DISTRIBUTION: Please ask before archiving or forwarding to mailing lists. I doubt I'll say no, but I want to know where it is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Carolyn for great beta services.



~~~~~ For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her ~~~~~
Part I:
Takes One to Know One
by Maggie McCain




PART: 2 of 2


Seated in Carolyn Mackenzie's living room, Jarod felt his happiness surround him with an almost palpable warmth. After a lifetime spent with two old pictures and a few indistinct memories, he had found a priceless gift-- a woman who had known his lost mother and sister intimately for many years, and was prepared to spend hours in happy reminiscence of the time she had spent with them. Carolyn had dug out a box of mementos and scrapbooks for him to look at, and as Maggie played contentedly on the rug beside them, she told him the story behind each theater stub and snapshot in the box.

"What on earth is this, Carolyn?" Jarod held up a small piece of glossy cardboard. It was a replica of the Land O Lakes margarine logo, with certain changes. The logo now read, "Land O Tats" and he was certain that the kneeling Indian maiden had not been bare-chested the last time he had looked at a margarine tub. The bottom of the card read, simply, "Colette."

Carolyn took the card from him and laughed. "This is the business card of the tattoo artist Emily and I went to," she said, pulling up her pant leg to reveal an intricate design etched onto the skin of her ankle. "Em had wanted a tattoo for ages, but your mom was scared she'd catch a disease from the needle. So do you know what she did?"

"What?" Jarod was fascinated.

"She started doing research, and found out more information on tattoos and tattooing than I even realized existed. Then she told Miss Meg that the last recorded case of anyone contracting a serious disease while getting a tattoo was in 1964, that reputable artists used autoclave sterilization and disposable needles, and that she was over eighteen and there was nothing that she could do to stop her, so she might as well stop worrying."

Jarod grinned. "How did she talk you into going with her?"

Carolyn shrugged. "It wasn't hard. Em's very persuasive. Besides, she was my best friend. There was no one I would rather have with me."

"So, what kind of a tattoo did she get?"

Carolyn shook her head, a wicked grin on her face. "I'll leave that to her to tell you," she said. "I want you two to have something to talk about." Her voice caught a little, and she blinked back tears. "I can't believe you're still alive, Jarod," she said. "They thought you were dead."

"Who told them that?"

"Apparently your dad had tried to rescue you once," she said, looking to him for confirmation. He nodded.

"Well, apparently he told your mom that if he hadn't met them at a pre-arranged spot in three days, that they should assume that he was dead and go into hiding. Em was really little then, but she remembers it. A priest came and told your mom that they had found a car that had crashed and exploded on a road leading away from the Centre. It held the bodies of a man and two small boys. They were burned beyond recognition... the car had been run off the road." She took a shaky breath. "Miss Meg was devastated, but she was even more determined to keep Em safe. She was like you, you know?"

"Like me?"

"Smart like you, I mean. Miss Meg was terrified that the Centre would find out she had another genius child and take Emily too."

"So what did she do?"

"Well, stayed on the move and kept a low profile. Miss Meg worked a little but your dad had some money for emergencies and it was enough to support them. When Em started school, she dumbed herself down on purpose. Your mom spent hours teaching her things like how to mispronounce words and make mistakes on her math problems. She made herself seem average enough that nobody took much notice of her."

Jarod smiled, picturing a tiny girl with dark, intense eyes laboring to master the art of mediocrity. "I think that the whole family has become experts at blending in."

Carolyn smiled sadly. "When I first met Em I thought she was the most normal person I'd ever seen. Then I got to know her a little better and thought she must have had some deep emotional problems, because she was incredibly paranoid. Eventually I realized that she was one of the more stable people I knew, so if she took precautions, she must have a good reason. When she told me about her family, though, I was so amazed... I mean, she's had so much to cope with, and she's still such an incredible person."

"Tell me more about her," Jarod asked, entreaty edging his voice.

"She's extremely intelligent, but you probably know all about that," Carolyn began. "Apparently it runs in your family."

Jarod nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"Emily is so strong. You'd never know it to look at her, but she can fight like some kind of action hero. When we were in college she took all these classes-- every form of martial arts she could think of, kickboxing, self-defense... anything. She didn't have to study much, so she spent a lot of time training. She was always at the gym or the firing range, practicing. She's a great shot."

"I'm glad," Jarod said. "I recently found out that the Centre has been trying to track her. I was afraid she
wouldn't be able to defend herself. It's good that she took
precautions."

Carolyn shook her head. "You don't understand, Jarod. She wasn't taking precautions. She was training."

"Training?"

"She was trying to make herself into some sort of female Rambo so that she could punish the Centre for what they did to her family."

"I don't understand," Jarod said. "If she thought we were dead, why didn't she just go on with her life, live normally?"

She shot him a piercing glance. "You wouldn't have."

He sighed in resignation. "No, I wouldn't have. Not once I knew what the Centre had done... what they continue to do. They can't be allowed to do to other families what they did to ours."

"You sound just like Em." She was silent for a moment, thinking. "Jarod, have you ever read any fairy tales?"

"A few."

"There's a story by Hans Christian Andersen called 'The Wild Swans.' It was about a princess whose eleven brothers were turned into swans. To break the enchantment, she had to pick stinging nettles and use them to weave coats for her brothers. When she placed the coats on their bodies, the spell would be broken; but from the time she began her task until the time she finished, she could not speak a word, or her brothers would die. The nettles burned her hands, and she was imprisoned for being a witch, but she never tried to defend herself. She spent all her time weaving so that she could save her brothers, and they could all be together again."

Jarod was silent as Carolyn paused for a moment.

"Emily told me that 'The Wild Swans' was her favorite story. Your dad used to read it to her when he tucked her in at night. She told me once that the morning he left to try to rescue you from the Centre, the last thing she said to him was that if he couldn't save you, she would... just like the princess in that story."

He shut his eyes, trying to restrain the tears that pressed at them.

Leaning forward, Carolyn laid a warm hand on his, clenched into a fist on his lap. "They thought you were dead, Jarod, but they never forgot you," she said softly. "Every year they had a holiday for your birthday, your dad's birthday, and Kyle's birthday. They did the same thing every year, no matter what else was happening in their lives. Every year on your birthday, as soon as Emily got out of school, they would go to church and light a candle for you. Then they would find a park, someplace beautiful and peaceful, and they would talk about you. Your mom would tell Em all the stories she could think of, anything to make her feel like she had known you. Then they would go home, and your mom would make your favorite dinner..."

"Chicken and mashed potatoes," Jarod said, suddenly and unarguably sure as a vivid memory swept him. For a bare moment, he could taste it... Mom would pick the chicken off the bones for him and drop it into the hole he had made in the center of his fluffy potatoes, and she would cover them with golden brown gravy, salty and tangy on his tongue.

"Yes." Carolyn's voice was soft. "Our senior year of college, Em got sick and she couldn't go home for Jarod's Day. I went to church and lit the candle for her, and found a diner that made chicken and mashed potatoes and brought it back to the dorm. While we were eating, she told me stories about you... you would never know that she was born after you were taken. She told me about a time that you fell off a ladder and cut your back..."

"I still have the scar," said Jarod quietly.

She looked at him, her perceptive eyes deep and green and still. "I think you still have a lot of scars," she said.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"There's one thing I don't understand, Carolyn," he said, when she had talked herself hoarse telling him about his sister.

"What?"

"Why does Maggie pretend to be autistic? She's obviously a normal child."

Carolyn smiled ruefully. "That's where you're wrong, Jarod. Maggie isn't a normal child. But she's not autistic, either." She beckoned to the girl, who had been amusing herself quietly while they talked.

"Maggie, tell Jarod what you've been studying with Mommy."

The child pushed a red curl out of her face, regarding him with curiosity. "When I go to school, I read fun books and take naps. I have my lessons with Mommy at home at night and on the weekends. Right now we're learning geometry, and I'm studying the French Revolution for history. For homework I have to write an essay comparing how the French Revolution was portrayed in books written by English and French writers."

Jarod stared at her in amazement, then turned to Carolyn. "Why?

"I'm afraid." She turned to her daughter. "Sweetie, your favorite show is coming on in five minutes. Why don't you go watch it in Mommy's room while Jarod and I talk some more?"

Maggie nodded and picked up *Little Women* before leaving the room.

"What's her favorite show?" Jarod asked curiously.

Carolyn grinned. "Biography."

He shook his head. "So you have a genius child, but you send her to a school for children with severe learning disabilities?"

She leaned forward, suddenly intense. "My husband David and I were having trouble conceiving a child, so we went to a
fertility clinic. It worked; I got pregnant with Maggie, and we were so happy..."

"What happened?"

"I hadn't seen Emily in a long time, but she appeared on my doorstep one day out of the blue. She made me come with her to a loud restaurant, where she was sure we couldn't be overheard, and she told me that my baby was in danger. She found out that the Centre owned the clinic where we had gone for treatment. Her research into your kidnapping had led her to believe that the clinics were being used to try to find children that the Centre could use. She was afraid that something terrible would happen to me, like it did to Miss Meg. She was snooping around in some computer records and found a list of children's names, with percentages by them. Maggie's name was on the list, and she was rated at eighty-seven percent."

"What do the percentages mean?" Jarod asked intently.

"We don't know. We think that they were trying to determine how likely the children were to be like you and Emily are, so they would know who... who to take." She looked over her shoulder as if reassuring herself that there were no intruders in her house.

"So what happened then?"

"Emily convinced David and me that the only way to keep our baby safe was to disappear like her mom had done, and try to hide Maggie's intelligence if we could. She got us false identities to use; she set it all up. I left first... I told everyone that I was going to visit my mother. Then a few days later David was supposed to meet me." She shuddered. "He never made it to the meeting place, Jarod," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "They said it was a drunk driver..."

"I'm so sorry about your husband," he said gently.

She gave him a watery smile, swallowing back the tears that threatened to spill. "After that I was terrified. I lived with your mom until Maggie was born... she and Emily helped me so much. I could never have made it without them."

"So Maggie is named after my mother and sister?"

"Yes." Carolyn drew a deep breath, steeling herself for the end of her story. "When Maggie was just a tiny baby, your mother recognized the signs. I never thought I would be sorry to hear that my daughter was a genius. But all I wanted was for her to have a happy life, a normal life like a normal little girl. I knew that if I sent her to school it would only be a matter of time before the Centre found us. I didn't think she could fool standardized tests as young as she was. So we taught her how to be autistic. When she was two we moved here, with falsified medical records that Em gave us, and enrolled Maggie in Ferncrest."

"Forgive me if this is too personal a question, but how do you pay her tuition? It isn't cheap, and you have so much else to worry about."

"I don't have to pay anything," she said. "Emily took care of that. She set up a dummy foundation that gave Maggie a 'scholarship.'" She grinned suddenly and managed a chuckle as she wiped away her tears. "I have a strong suspicion that the Centre is inadvertently funding my daughter's education."

"I hope so," said Jarod. "They owe you much more than that." He sighed. "I'm worried, though, Carolyn. How is this affecting Maggie? It can't be good for her to live like this."

"I know. I've worried about that too. But for now, it seemed like the best plan. We're planning on trying to move next year, go to a new town with a new identity. In the meantime, we're going to practice Emily's tricks and see if Maggie can successfully pretend to be a normal child. We've already started misspelling lessons."

Jarod smiled at the idea of the six-year-old sitting down gravely to practice making errors in her schoolwork. "That sounds like a good idea, Carolyn. Before I go, I'll give you a way to contact me. If I can ever help you, or if you find out where Mom and Emily are, please get in touch with me."

"I will, Jarod. I promise."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=


Jarod sat in his dingy hideaway for long hours, turning over a precious little box of pictures and keepsakes that Carolyn had given him. He hadn't found his mother and sister yet, but he was closer than he had ever been. He had gotten so much information about Emily from her friend that he felt, for the first time in his life, as if he knew her.

He was leaving Ferncrest in two days, called back by a manufactured family emergency. Before he moved on, there were some things he wanted to take care of. Somehow, he wanted Emily to know that her father and brother were trying to find her, that they loved her despite the years that widened the gap between them.

The syncopated tapping of computer keys was the only sound in the room as Jarod typed far into the night.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


With a sigh that spoke of bone-deep fatigue, a young woman dropped her luggage onto the lumpy mattress of yet another musty bed in yet another seedy motel. She drew the blinds tightly shut, and moved through the room with deft hands and keen eyes, searching for hidden cameras, minute transmitters, hidden assassins, anything that would threaten her privacy. When she was assured of her solitude, she removed her tousled blond wig and laid it on the scarred chest of drawers. As she removed the pins that held her dark hair close to her head, she removed a slim notebook computer and switched it on. Unplugging the room's phone from the wall, she plugged in the modem and began working.

Hours later, frustrated by her fruitless efforts, she decided to take a break. She clicked "home" on her web browser, and was returned to a page on Hans Christian Andersen. She wanted to read her story tonight, to remind herself of her father and the promise she had made. When she located the text of the story, however, there was a new link beside it. "Hear this story," she read. "Link provided courtesy of Eldest Swan Productions." Curious, she downloaded the file. When it began to play, she heard a rich voice with a touch of Britain around the edges.

"Far away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter, dwelt a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named Eliza. The eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school with a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. They wrote with diamond pencils on gold slates..."

As the first words of the story filled the room, she had gone pale and still, listening as though she could force the sound to coalesce into a person by the sheer force of her will. As the story took its well-remembered course, she reached a trembling hand to caress the speakers of her laptop. "Daddy," she whispered, choking back a sob. "Oh, Daddy..."

Her fatigue forgotten, she sat on the sagging motel bed and listened to her father's voice, as he read her favorite bedtime story over and over to her in the quiet of the night.

END (02/02)

End of Story

DISCLAIMER: "The Pretender" and all its characters and situationsbelong to NBC

DISTRIBUTION: Please ask before archiving or forwarding to mailing lists. I doubt I'll say no, but I want to know where it is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Carolyn for great beta services.



~~~~~ For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her ~~~~~
Part II:
The Heart is a Strange Pretender
by Maggie McCain




Most people would say it’s impossible to love someone you’ve never met. I don’t agree. I am the living refutation of that claim. In spite of everything, all the years of emptiness when I didn’t know of your existence, then those of aching loss when I knew and couldn’t find you, I never knew anything about you-- except for the most important things of all.

You are my little sister. Your name is Emily. And I love you.

Until my encounter with Carolyn and Maggie, the love I had for My Sister was an idealized conception, born of a lifetime of bizarre isolation coupled with an all-too-brief stint of relative normalcy. But after seeing your namesake, after hearing Carolyn speak of you as a loved friend, I feel that I finally have a chance-- even if it is a little one-- to love, not the idea of having a sister, but the sister I actually have. Carolyn gave me a precious gift, a little Essence of Emily. Don’t get me wrong, the things I learned about Mom were wonderful additions to my miser’s store of memories. But, Emily, I had no memories of you... and now I have. Not memories of us together, but the next best thing: memories from someone who loves you too, telling me that, even as I blindly love My Sister, Mom has taught you to think of us with love. The missing men in your life-- Dad, who you barely remember, and Kyle and me, whom you never knew-- are given life and love and a part in our lost family through Mom’s stories and the pictures she hoards in the locked box under her bed.

The heart is a strange pretender. It can take little more than a hope and a whisper of memory and build a love strong enough to motivate a lifelong search. Now that I have some concrete facts to go on, I am more determined than ever to find you.

I will find you someday, Emily. I promise. Somehow we will escape from the constant need to look over our shoulders for sweeper teams. We will be together in life as in our dreams; wearied by the journey but strengthened by each other. Until then, please know that we are longing for you. Dad misses the little angel who brightened his dark life; I miss the bratty kid I never got a chance to tease; our new brother misses being spoiled, being the baby, being made to play tea party with a ragtag bunch of dolls and teddy bears. We all want to know the tenderhearted woman who befriended Carolyn Mackenzie, the brilliant mind that faked mediocrity for 12 years, The radiant beauty that could be my memories of Mom, with a little of me, she said, around the eyes. We will never stop looking. I will never end my search.

I love you, Emily.

End (01/01)

DISCLAIMER: "The Pretender" and all its characters and situationsbelong to NBC

DISTRIBUTION: Please ask before archiving or forwarding to mailing lists. I doubt I'll say no, but I want to know where it is.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Carolyn for great beta services.



~~~~~ For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her ~~~~~
Part III:
Outstanding Mediocrity
by Maggie McCain




Some days my life seems like something out of a made-for-TV movie. Here I am again, checked into yet another no-tell motel that would shock poor Mom, if she hadn’t lost her ability to be shocked. Somewhere in between losing all the male members of her family and running for her life, the shocking became mundane for her. I don’t really think that the sweepers will have a harder time finding me in places like the Hotel LaSalle than they would in the Hilton or the Embassy Suites, but the plain fact is, I can’t afford nice places. My budget only runs to "squalid" these days.

I could get the money easily enough in this brave new world of computerized transfers and e-commerce, but I don’t like stealing. If I can drain the Centre I do it; I consider it a down payment on the price I will exact some day for what they did to us. Everywhere else is off-limits. Simple as it would be, I can't bring myself to rob innocent parties just so I can have little luxuries like clean sheets and a toilet seat that’s sanitized for my protection. When you live in twilight, sometimes it's hard to distinguish between the shades of gray,but I do the best I can. Mom may have raised a vigilante, but she didn't raise a thief.

I toss my stuff on a bedspread that might have been stylish when Nixon was still considered an asset to the GOP and sigh. The room smells like dust and mildew and illicit activity. I close my eyes and miss my mother.

Things were so much easier when we thought they were all dead. We had managed to drop off the earth with a fair amount of success. We had spent years living in a nice little town under assumed names, and I had a childhood so average it looked like a sitcom, as long as no one looked too closely.

When Mom had noticed me showing the same early signs of genius that Jarod and Kyle had, she knew she had to take action. Some of my earliest memories are of being told never, never to let anyone besides Mommy and Daddy know that I could already read, add, or understand things at a much higher level than I should have been able to. I rarely spoke around strangers, and when I did I used exaggerated baby talk. I think my pediatrician was a little concerned about my slow development. They were happy to let him worry.

Then came the rescue attempt. They were trying not to scare me, but I had already discovered the sound-carrying capabilities of air ducts, and I knew what was going on. Daddy was going to the bad place to rescue my big brothers. I remember lying on my tummy on the floor of my room the night before, pressing my ear to the vent and straining to hear what was going on. What I heard was the scariest sound in my life: my mommy was crying.

"What if something goes wrong, Charles?" she had sobbed. "I don’t think I could bear to lose you, too."

"I know, Meg, I know," he had said, so low I could barely hear. "I’m scared, too. But I have to try. This is our best chance to get them back. Our sons, Meg, our little boys. God knows what those people have been doing to them. You heard what Catherine Parker said."

"I know. And I know we have to take that chance. But promise me..." she choked off a sob. "Promise not to leave us, Charles. You and Emily are all I have left now."

"I promise, Meggie. I’ll do all I can. You know the meeting place. I’ll be there in three days with our boys."

"And if you’re not?" My mother’s voice had been little more than a whisper.

"Then you take Emmy and the emergency fund and disappear. Don’t try to find us, Meg. If this doesn’t work I doubt we’ll be anywhere where we can be found."

I hadn’t wanted to hear any more. I had crawled into my bed and as I had tightly clutched my Pooh bear in one arm and my Paddington bear in the other, I tried to pretend that we were like the families on TV. In my fantasy, my big brothers were asleep in the next room and my Daddy didn’t have to carry a gun. We had the same last name all the time, and I never had to worry about forgetting what we were being called this week. I had drifted off to sleep deciding that we would have two dogs and three cats and their names would be Jarod, Kyle, Mr. Tinky, Stripey and Democrat. I didn’t know what "democrat" meant, but I had read it in one of Daddy’s magazines; I thought it sounded grown up and important. I had a vague impression that it was something like an actor.

In the morning my daddy had come into my room while I was still asleep and picked me up and carried me to his big rocking chair, and he had held me and sung to me like he did when I was a little baby. Then he read me my favorite story. It was about a princess whose brothers had been stolen and turned into swans. She had saved them by weaving coats out of nettles, even though she had to live all alone in a cave and the nettles had stickers on them and they hurt her hands. Then he hugged me so tight it was hard to breathe. I felt him crying on my neck a little.

"I love you, Emmy," he whispered. "I’ll always love my baby girl."

"I love you too Daddy," I had said. "And Daddy?"

"Yes, baby?"

"If you don’t get my brothers back today I promise I’ll rescue them when I get bigger," I said. "Just like the princess in the story."

He made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. "I know, baby, I know."

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

Two weeks later we had gone to the meeting place to meet Daddy and the boys. We waited for three days, and with each one Mom got more and more tense and I got more and more scared. On the morning of the fourth day, a priest showed up at the door. Mom had told me to go to my room but I hid behind the door so I could hear what they were saying.

The rescue had been a disaster. Catherine Parker was dead, shot in the back. Centre security was on highest alert. And while speeding along King's Highway away from Blue Cove, a small car had been run off the road into a ravine, where the gas tank had exploded. The car had stolen plates and the police had so far been unable to identify the three charred bodies found inside.

The bodies of a man and two small boys.

When Mom came to get me she wasn’t crying, but she looked smaller, somehow, white and tired. When she picked me up her hands were icy cold.

The priest helped us hide. For three years after that day we lived in churches and convents, with nuns and clergy. The massive organized structure of the Catholic Church was our Underground Railroad. We went by so many different names that I couldn’t remember which one was really ours. We passed the time reading and talking. Mom was worried about sending me to school, so she taught me herself. In some places she would ask the people who were helping us to teach me.

I learned Spanish when we lived in Miami, pure French and Cajun when we were in New Orleans, and German in Pennsylvania. Everywhere we went the priests would tutor me in Latin. Once--I forget where we were living then--a community of Indians taught me the rudiments of Urdu and Hindostani.

When I was six we finally decided to settle down somewhere. We found a little town in rural Colorado and stayed there for nearly nine months before Mom saw a group of men in suits getting out of a Town Car downtown. We were gone the next day.

Eventually we got a little less skittish. By this time I was old enough to start school, and Mom knew that if she wanted to live anywhere for very long we’d have to enroll me. She was terrified to put me in school. It’s understandable; it wasn’t until after Jarod’s teachers had identified him as a genius that he had been taken. We had been successful at hiding my precociousness until then, but she was worried that I would let it slip. Finally, when I was seven, she decided to enroll me in first grade. The week before school started, she sat me down for a serious talk.

Mom had kept me entertained and quiet during the long hours of hiding and running by teaching me, drawing from her extensive reading as well as her school years. I had rarely played with other children, but I was intimately acquainted with my books and language tapes. In the years since we went underground, I had learned to speak four or five languages. I had done self-study math up to algebra, and I could read just about anything I wanted. My favorite author then was Jules Verne. All in all, I was not your average first-grader.

Mom told me that once I started school it would be very important not to let my teachers know how much I already knew. She told me that if I let them find out, they would try to put me in the special classes, and then the Centre would take me like they had my brothers. So I had to pretend not to know the things I knew. We spent that week practicing. Mom had gotten copies of the curriculum of the first grade at Aaron Burr Elementary in Johnsonville, Tennessee, and we practiced the things I would need to know: making pronunciation mistakes while reading aloud, writing with the uncertainty of someone who had been doing it for months instead of years, making computational errors while adding and subtracting, never using "big words" at school. Mom told me to pick out the fourth smartest person in my class, and try to do things like they did.

And so I started school with one goal: unobtrusiveness. Mom’s advice had been good; by modeling myself after the fourth smartest person in my class, I was passed over for both gifted classes and remedial ones. I led a strange life, as a child. We moved every year or two, afraid that staying too long in one place would be tempting fate. At school I honed my skills at feigning normalcy. I was utterly bored by all my classwork, so I amused myself by making a game of it. Whenever we were given tests I would set a goal for myself, a specific score that I wanted, and try to see if I could get it. I purposefully scored in the eighty-seventh percentile of every standardized test of every school I attended. I worked at being well-liked but not wildly popular; I was involved in a few activities but not too many. I was proud of my ability to be extraordinarily average.

At home, things were completely different. After being bored to death all day in school, I craved something interesting to do. I threw myself into advanced studies. Eventually I had exhausted my mother’s resources.

There was nothing left for her to teach me. For nearly six months I moped around the house, driving Mom crazy, until she got a brochure in the mail for correspondence courses through a local university.

Mom registered for the courses and I took them. By the time I started high school, I was halfway to a bachelor’s degree. I was excited about high school, mostly because Mom had promised me that we could stay in the same town for all four years. I would finally have the chance to stay at one school for the duration. We had decided that with a lifetime of high-normal academic achievement behind me I should be safe letting go a little more in high school. I had permission to be an honor student, to gradually improve until I was competitive for college scholarships and academic awards. I decided that I would be third in my senior class; high enough to look good, but not enough to have to draw attention to myself by making a speech.

For once in our lives, things went as planned. I was closer to normal in those years than I had ever been before. I started to do more out-of-class activities, to have more friends my own age. I took all four years of high school to finish my correspondence degree. I was happy with my life, on the whole, though it was lonely. I still missed my father, and, as strange as it might seem, my brothers too. Even though I had never met them, Mom had made them real to me. She told me all the stories she could remember about them. We kept their pictures prominently displayed in her bedroom. I had a locket with places for four pictures; it had Mom, Daddy, Jarod, and Kyle. We celebrated each family member’s birthday as if it were a regular holiday; I remember every year we would go shopping together in January and buy a calendar on sale, and take it home and write the important dates with a fat red marker: Mom’s Day, Daddy’s Day, Jarod’s Day, Kyle’s Day, and Emily’s Day. On my day and Mom’s Day we would just have a party or a fancy dinner, but on each of the others we had a special ritual. I would go straight home from school and we would go to church and light a candle for each of them, and then go to the park and tell our memories about them. Then we would go home and eat the favorite meal of whomever’s day it was. On Daddy’s Day we had pot roast; on Jarod’s Day we had chicken and mashed potatoes; on Kyle’s Day we had spaghetti and meatballs.

Our lives were, if not entirely happy, at least peaceful. It seemed we had finally escaped the sweepers, or they had lost interest in us. We lived from day to day stepping around the hole in our family. It was rare that we fell in, but Mom fell hard on her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I came into her room and found her crumpled on the floor. I’ve seen a lot of things, but nothing that frightened me more than that. For an eternal ten seconds I thought she was dead. Then I heard her whisper Daddy’s name. She didn’t know I was there, and I stood in the doorway torn between my desire to comfort her and my paralyzing fear of her grief. Ever since we heard about the explosion, Mom had been careful not to let me see her break down. I mean, sure we had cried together a million times, but never anything like this. It terrified me. And that night while my mother mourned alone I renewed the last promise I had made my father. I couldn’t rescue my brothers, but I could make the Centre pay. I could make sure that no other family ever had to endure the horrors we had. From that night forward I did everything with an eye toward my goal, and nothing could move my heart from its cold purpose.

After graduation we moved again, to Georgia this time. I had won a scholarship to Georgia Tech, and even though Mom was leery of straying so close to Nugenesis, we decided it was worth the risk. I already had a political science degree through my correspondence course, but to take on the Centre I needed technological skills, and Tech was on the cutting edge. I got my first BS degree there, in Electrical Engineering. After that I hopped from one university to another, doing increasingly technical work. I got a MS in Mechanical Engineering and a doctorate in Computer Science. I finished quickly; there was no longer any reason to hide. I had been Emily Pennington for nearly seven years now, and had seen no signs of sweepers or sinister sedans trailing me on the street.

I spent my college years well. Despite what I knew my mother hoped, I hadn’t given up on my vow. After class and on weekends I spent countless hours training my body as intensely as my mind. I took classes in martial arts, kickboxing, various forms of self-defense; I trained myself for strength, endurance, and flexibility. I bought myself a gun and started going to the shooting range. Men used to come on to me at the range, but if they got annoying I’d just take out the groin area of the target against the far wall and smile sweetly. They always walked funny on their way out the door.

After I got the Ph.D. I knew that the things I had left to learn weren’t taught at any universities. It was time to go underground for a while. I sent my mom to a new town where she would be safe, and made arrangements to allow us to contact each other. I had a refuge of my own lined up. When my preparations were complete, Emily Pennington disappeared off the face of the earth.

After that, I never kept a name long enough to get used to it. I adopted a code name--"The Yellow Tulip," after my favorite flower. It was cheesy and melodramatic, but effective. My new mission was to gather contacts and information: anything that could help me bring the Centre down. I had plenty of skills that were marketable in my new world of shadows. I never found out for sure--I didn’t want to find out for sure--but I think that I set up a state-of-the-art network system for the Mafia. They paid well, and taught me some very useful skills, as well as giving me a chance to brush up my Italian. Most of my jobs were on the barter system, though. Teach me to break into a building without leaving a trace; I’ll teach you to do the same to a computer system. Show me how to make false identification papers, I’ll help you with your Tae Kwon Do. I joined a militia group for a while and learned firsthand about munitions, explosives, and covert operations. I tipped the FBI after I left that bunch; they were truly dangerous. To this day four Domestic Terrorism agents all think one of the others sent the message.

I had spent three years underground, gathering knowledge and contacts and scraps of intelligence about the Centre. I knew that the odds were against me in this, and I needed to wait until I was ready before beginning my personal war.

Then I got the message that changed everything.

"Emmy--Explosion faked. Jarod alive. Meet me in fifth grade."

I was on the next plane to Boston, to meet my mother at the playground of Anne Bradstreet Elementary School, where I had attended fourth and fifth grade.

I caught just a glimpse of him through the window of the cab. I remember thinking that Mom was right to say I look like him, when his joyful smile crumpled into horror as he saw our doom racing with screeching tires down the streets of Boston. The cabbie was a friend of mine, or we never would have made it out of there. As I pressed against the back window, watching through my tears as my big brother fled for his life, I realized with a flash of joy that it wasn’t too late to keep my last promise to Daddy. There was still one swan to save.

From my battered attaché I take a worn scrapbook, turning over the pieces of my family that I've unearthed over the years since a view from a cab gave my life new hope and purpose. Yellowed newspaper clippings, all speaking of a mysterious hero who saves lives and reunites families. A precious few have pictures. I linger over one, Jarod in firefighting gear. He had just saved the life of a child. I trace his face with a fingertip, staring into his deep sad eyes.

My eyes.

I sigh and stretch and put the album away. He is looking for me, and I am looking for him. One day we will find each other.

And when we do, all hell will break lose in Blue Cove.

End (01/01)