Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Revised 10/2001



Stop Telling Me What To Do
Part 1 : Don't Hold Your Breath
by paula h



The Centre has an ambience, a cold brooding exterior, and shadow-patterned interior. Sometimes it's the perfume of the place that brings it to my mind: laundered air, stainless steel, disinfectant, dank corners, gunpowder, and a sprinkling of fear.

Some nights, when I take my first breath of outside air, I feel like I've been holding my breath all day. Some nights, when I'm at home alone, I feel like I've been holding my breath for years.

It's early morning and I'm sitting curled into a ball with my back against the headboard. I had a dream; Thomas and I were walking in the woods. It's evening, just cooling off, and the grass and leaves smell of life. There is a thunderstorm in the air, Thomas tells me to hurry, and he laughs. The rain starts and we run, chased by lightning. Thomas runs around the front of the house. There is a flash of lightning and a loud crack. I stop; then walk slowly around the corner to the porch. I can feel my tears mix with the rain. I know I'll find Thomas dead, and the best part of me dead with him.

The tears followed me out of the dream. I got up, went to Thomas's drawer, and pulled out one of his shirts. I picked a worn flannel, with the remnants of his scent, and wrapped myself around him.

The sun came up about an hour ago. Now I have to move, to go back to The Centre, to face his killer. I Brigitte pulled the trigger but I don't know who's responsible for Thomas's death, not yet. I'll be their tool until I can be the instrument of their death. I put the tear-dampened shirt, and my memories back into the drawer. I trade my robe for a power suit and heels. The all night drizzle continues while I drive to The Centre. The rain stops as I park the car. Water evaporated from the pavement hangs heavy in the air. I inhale deeply and walk through the door.

I am several strides into the building before I realize that I'm holding my breath. I have to smile at myself. A passing sweeper glances at me nervously; that makes my smile broaden. Miss Parker is back, more persona than person; it's the mask that allows me to do The Centre's bidding. Then the smile disappears. Something is different in the air, disturbing because it doesn't belong here. I hurry to my office.

A wave of apple pie fragrance hits me as I open the door. Broots was there before me, with his back to the door. I push him aside and stare at the Easy-Bake Oven on the desk.

"Broots, what the hell?"

"I don't know. The oven came addressed to me, with the door taped shut and a note to set it up on your desk and start it half an hour ago."

"And you followed those instructions because?"

"The note was from Jarod. He always has a reason for what he does."

"Try to remember, Broots, the last time Jarod and I met we nearly got blown up. He has certain...issues...with The Centre. This little gift might be a bomb."

"I checked it out, Miss Parker, and there's nothing unusual about it. Debbie had one when she was little. Didn't you?" I just stare at him.

"Www..well," he stammers, "It's just a light bulb and a little pie mix and filling."

"Ever hear of plastique?"

"Jarod wouldn't do that."

"Your confidence in him is overwhelming."

The phone rings; I pick it up. "What?"

"The smell of apple pie. Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven," Jarod, in his best smirking announcer's voice.

"There's usually a point to your machinations. Want to get to it?"

"Doesn't the smell of baking make you think of home and Mom?"

An alarm goes off in the back of my mind. "Whose mother? Mine or the one you can't remember?" Always go for the jugular.

It works, Jarod pauses, his voice hints of anger, "I remember her, and I will see her again."

It is my turn to pause; think of the mother I will never see again. He always seems to turn the argument back on me. "Touché. You get the point. Now get to yours before I hang up."

"I have something of your mother's. Would you like it?"

"You could have sent it, instead of baked goods."

"The pie is free. This has a price."

"How much?" Jarod has never asked for money before.

"Information on my family."

"I doubt if I can access that information."

"See what you can do." Jarod hangs up, and so do I.

The oven alarm chimes. Broots opens the door and removes the pie, burning the tips of his fingers in the process. "It looks good. Do you want it?" he asks, expectantly.

"No." Pie from Jarod? Not today.

Broots smiles and steals a file folder to protect his hand from the hot pie while he takes it from the room. "Broots, did it occur to you that Jarod might have put something in the pie?"

"Poison? Jarod wouldn't...." He stops when I raise my hand. Spare me.

"There are non-lethal, but unpleasant, things he might have added," I smile. "Enjoy."

Broots looks at the pie with suspicion, sniffs it, shrugs, and leaves.
I just sit in my chair and stare at the back of the oven. So, Jarod wants information on his family. He must have hit a dead end after his escape, no father, no clone, no family and no leads. One thing about that group, they certainly know how to disappear.

My files on Major Charles, et al, are sparse and I'm sure Jarod has that information and more. I need something that will surprise him, better yet, shock the hell out of him. I flip through the files looking for ideas or gaps. I find myself chewing my cheek and switch to gum. Something available on a "need to know" basis would do, and right now I need to know. I press the intercom button, "Broots, get back here."

Broots is still licking his fingers when he returns to my office. He's not thrilled with the assignment but what else is new. I send him on his way.

At noon I go to his hole-in-the-wall to make sure he's awake. He spent the better part of the morning accessing files he has no business accessing. His results are not impressive. Major Charles leaves about as many bread crumbs as Jarod. If Jarod expects me to tell him where to find his father he will be disappointed.

On the other hand Major Charles' financial information is relatively complete, not highly classified, and only six months outdated. The Major does not spend lavishly. However, travel and research are expensive. When his expenses were analyzed against his earnings from the odd jobs he held over the years they did not compare well. Where is Major Charles getting his money? Broots first thought was that the Major, like his son, is siphoning off Centre funds. His next theories were family money or a military pension. There are no family monies or Centre withdrawals. There is a military pension, but, since the Major has been declared dead, the pension is deposited in his wife's name. It is untouched. I wonder what she's been living on?

At four o'clock I check again. Broots has no solution to the mystery of Major Charles' income and he has a new question: how did Major Charles get declared dead? That, along with Jarod's mother's income and his sister's whereabouts, is a whole other project. I add them to Broots to-do list and tell him to get back to finance tracking.

An hour later, he tells me he's found the first glimmer of an answer. Threads of a financial trail lead in and out of several dummy accounts. The Major has a regular income, in the form of small hidden deposits, which he accesses in different ways when needed. It adds up to a large sum of money. The next job is finding the money's source.

When I walk in two hours later, Broots has a headache and a few answers. I can tell he was considering sneaking out the back door when he heard me coming.

I stand at the top of the landing, hands on the railing, and lean over the rail. "You better have something to show for today."

"I do. But it's not what I expected, and I don't think Jarod will like it." He hands me a data disk and a printout.

I scan the evidence. "Are you sure about this?"

"As sure as I can be without breaking into Mr. Raines' office."

"When will you be doing that?" Just a little push.
Never, he mumbles to himself. Aloud he says, "Mr. Raines just left for the day. His assistant is still clearing the office. It won't be empty for at least and hour and Debbie has a soccer game. If I have to go in there again," he looks at me hopefully, "it won't be till early next morning."

I contemplate Broots for a moment, the way a woodpecker contemplates a bug. I want to make him stay but Debbie is the best excuse he could have used. "Fine, go. I'll take care of it myself. Jarod will be calling and I want him to see this." I wave the disk. "How will I know when it's 'safe' to go in?"

"The woman who cleans Raines' office cleans mine after. She complains that Raines won't even let her empty the trash until everything has been secured. She's a nice woman. She sees some interesting things, and will talk about them if you ask her the right way."

"Research is your job. If it turns out the cleaning people know more than you, I may have to reevaluate your position."

Broots erases his data trail, packs up, and runs out the door. I turn and leave, smiling at the tinge of fear I saw on his face. He is so easy.

I wait the next hour in my office. Jarod has not called. When Carl, the man who cleans my office, comes in the door, I leave. I don't think I've ever said three words to him. I don't even know his last name. I wonder what he tells people about me.

The cleaning woman is busily dusting Broots' office.

"Is he gone?" I ask.

"Mr. Broots?" the woman responds, "Yes, he is."

"Him and others." I turn to leave. "Thanks." Where did that come from?

The woman gives me a surprised smile and nod.

I slip into Raines's office. Broots would be pleased to see how quickly I access the files I want. I copy an old employment record and a few newer entries onto the data disk. If Jarod wants information on his father, he'll get it. I replace everything the way I found it and exit the building.

I'm half the distance to my house when the cell-phone beeps. Guess who. "What?!"

"Gas tank full?"

"Yes."

"Remember the way to Donoterase?"

"Yes."

"There's an apple orchard just before you turn off the road. I'll be waiting. Come alone." He cuts the link. I turn the car and drive.

I never thought I would drive down this particular dirt road again. I wonder why Jarod wants to meet here. Better yet, I wonder why I agreed to meet him here. The last time I saw Jarod he was angry with me. He thought I had betrayed him. Should I be helping him now? Am I helping him?

The information I have is the truth. He seems to enjoy shoving truth in my face, but he may not want to know it. Most of the time I wish he would just leave me alone. I really don't understand him at all. He's a genius among geniuses. He can be anything he wants. I could excuse his immaturity because The Centre kept him isolated. When I think about him as a boy stolen from his family, my heart aches. When I think about him the way he is now, a jibing smart-ass... well that's not quite true, I chase him; he taunts me. It may not be mature but in a childish sort way I suppose it's fair.

Jarod's been loose in the world for a long time and he still has the maturity quotient of a five year old at times. Some men never grow up but they don't have the depth of character others tell me he has. I've never seen it personally... well that's not true either, he occasionally says or does something nice between insults. Broots and Sydney trust him, and I must trust him because I'm meeting him on an unmarked road, in the middle of the night, alone.

The phone rings, startling me.

"What?" My voice that sounds tired and distracted, even to me.

"Pull over at the gate."

"It's too dark to see anything. What gate?"

"The one you just passed."

"Shit!" I hit the brake. The car skids slightly on the gravel. I shove the car into reverse, spinning up more dirt.

"That's rather hard on the road, don't you think?"

"I may try it on you face for dragging me out to this cow pasture in the middle of the night."

"The cow pasture is on the other side of the road."

I swear under my breath. I can visualize Jarod laughing much better than I can see the gate. I park the car in the middle of the road. "Then what?"

"Get out of the car, go through the gate, and keep on walking." He hangs up, as usual.

I drop the phone on the floor and get out of the car. Jumping a small ditch proves interesting in the dark. I open the gate and walk through.

Well here I am, waiting for Boy Wonder to jump out and grab me. He wants me to walk. These shoes are not and asset. That may be his plan, he spread a little minefield of cow pies for me to walk through. Not as inventive as the roach motel, but it would give him a chuckle. And I would be forced to hurt him.

I sniff the air; then take a deep breath. It seems alright. All I can smell are apple blossoms and a hint of honey.
I look around, adjusting my eyes to the darkness. I start walking. If this is a trap, it's a beautiful one. The apple trees are just past full bloom. Their fruit-sweet perfume is intoxicating. There must be half an inch of dropped petals on the ground; it's like I'm walking on silver. I didn't notice how bright the night is until now. The air is full of moonlight through the branches.

I see large white boxes beyond the next trees. The scent of honey grows until it overpowers the apple blossoms and buzzing fills the air. The boxes are beehives here to pollinate the apples. They must be packed with bees and honeycomb. I can see small drips of honey coming through the joint between hive sections. It shimmers like polished amber. I reach out to touch it. The hive is hot to the touch and the honey flows over my fingertips. I pull my hand away. Bees cling to the outside of the hive, fanning the heat and honey smell with hundreds of tiny wings. They take no notice of me, too busy to worry about my minor theft.

I put my fingers to my mouth and the honey flows over my tongue. It tastes like the sunshine of Spring and the promised fruit of Autumn. The air is thick with the musky sweetness of the honey and the lighter perfume of the blossoms. Moonlight dances between the leaves. The bees sing their rhythmic song of contentment. The sound of knowing your place in the world and what you life's work should be.

Parker is lost in the earth magic of the night. She does not see me approach through the trees. I stop several feet from her, watching her watch the bees. I like seeing her like this. She looks younger, relaxed, human, and beautiful. I want to tell her so. I want to speak to her about the beauty of the night. Instead, I say, "I told you to keep walking."

Parker spins toward me. Her hand goes from her mouth to her gun, hesitates, and then drops to her pocket. "The walking was your idea; not mine."

I grin, "Do you like the honey?"

She realizes that I've been watching her. A blush spreads up Parker's neck; her anger rises to meet it. "The only reason I came on this little nature hike is that you have something of my mother's. Do you plan to show me what you found?"

I continue to smile. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine." I love baiting her; I have my hands behind my back so she can't see what I hold.

"Dream on," she still doesn't smile, and crosses her arms. The conversation is over.

We stand, looking at each other for several minutes, each refusing to make the first move. Finally, a guard bee breaks the deadlock. It launches itself at Parker's face, circles, and makes another pass. Parker ducks and moves quickly away from the hives.

"Fine, Jarod, have it your way! I'm going where I should have gone in the first place, home."

"Miss Parker, wait." I hold out a small packet, and try to make my face expressionless. Parker looks at me then takes the packet. She watches my face while she undoes the clasp. Inside are a few black and white photographs of a baby and young girl. They remind me of Parker's baby pictures, but the clothes were from a different period. It may be hard to tell in the moonlight. She turns the pictures over, and sees the name "Catherine," and date, neatly printed on each picture in the same hand. The most recent photo has "Catherine and Maria." That photo shows her mother, at the age of nine, in front of a church, with an infant.

"Where did you get these?"

"The sisters at St. Catherine's Convent. They kept a few things your mother left there.

"Who is Maria?"

"I don't know for sure."

"You never give answers, do you, Jarod? Just more mysteries." Parker sounds tired and angry.

"Our lives are made of mysteries; built on lies."

"There's no winning with you," Parker sighs and lowers her voice, "or The Centre. I guess I'll be spending my spare time the next few weeks looking for this Maria."

"It's better than dwelling on your losses."

"You're in no position to fault anyone for dwelling on the past.

"I don't have enough past to dwell on..." That response is always on the tip of my tongue and it always annoys her.

"Alright, Jarod!" Parker cuts me off. She puts the pictures in her pocket, and pulls out a data disk. She holds the disk out to me. "This is information on your father."

I reach for the disk and she pulls it back. "It will not tell you where he is." She looks me in the eye.

I hold my hand out by force of will; doubt crawls up from the back of my mind. "What will it tell me?" Do I want to know? I can't let her see my indecision

"Who the man you call father is. The truth about his connection to The Centre."

"Truth is good." Do I still believe that?

"Not always. Read this over and let me know if you still feel that way." Parker hands me the disk; I step back into the shadows. She stands there until she thinks I'm gone; then she turns toward the fence and walks to the road. She quickly gets into her car and drives off.

She thought I left, but I would never leave her alone in the darkness, any more than I will ever leave her alone about her father. I smile to myself. There are many things she needs to know. Things I'd like to tell her if she would listen. Many things...

I wait until night sounds are all I can hear before I pull on my beekeeper's suit and veil. I smoke the beehives well and staple the units together. I use smoke and a soft brush to coax the outside bees into the hives and seal the entrances. When I'm satisfied I retrieve the flatbed truck parked nearby; use the attached lift to move the hives onto the truck bed; then secure them in place. Once the hives are ready to move back to their beeyard, I settle into the seat to wait for morning. That gives me some rest and a few stragglers a chance to return to their hives. Ten or twenty bees are of as little importance to a hive as an individual is to The Centre. But Parker says I "have a thing" for the little guy. I guess it's true even if the little guy is a bee.

I have the bees home and off the truck before their keeper makes it out to the yard. We unload supers filled with honey, and I help the older man take them into his processing shed. We spend the rest of the day extracting honey.

The beekeeper is grateful for the help, "You did an excellent job, Jarod. The hives are full. The bees are happy and healthy. This is more honey than I've ever gotten in a year. You've done the work of three men. I've got all the time in the world to finish the honey and tend to the bees. That's the definition of retired." He smiles benignly. "You told me you were doing this as a 'vacation' three weeks ago. I assume you can afford the time off but, unless you've decided to retire, you should be getting back to your real life. Are you avoiding something?"

Apparently you don't have to be a "genius" to see through one. I look at the man and smile. "I guess I should get back to work." I clean up, eat the offered supper, pack and start up my car.

The old farmer shakes my hand and hands me a gallon of apple-blossom honey. "A little for the road," he laughs. He knows about my sweet tooth. "It's been a pleasure working with you. If you're in the neighborhood, be sure to look me up."

"I get back here pretty regularly, whether I want to or not." A private joke I won't share with him. I wave as I drive off. My smile disappears by the time I reach the highway. I know I'm avoiding the information Miss Parker gave me but I'm not sure why.

Four hours and two states later, I pull into a Holiday Inn. I settle into a nice room, order room service, and open my laptop. The sigh that comes from my chest surprises me, but the information on the data disk won't go away and I did ask for it.

According to the employment records, The Centre's Data Retrieval Unit hired Major Charles after he retired from the Air Force. The Circle of Fire was not mentioned. The Major was rated as "skilled" and "knowledgeable" in information gathering and computers; his unnamed interviewer gave him a glowing recommendation. He also had private sources in several military branches. At his six-month, one and two year evaluations he was classified as an asset. Four years later, he resigned and disappeared. My birth date falls somewhere between those dates.

The financial data Broots garnered described Major Charles' income with no absolute reference to the source. The expenditure page was straightforward and held no surprises. The intricacy of the income trails indicates that my father and his benefactor(s) do not want the funds traced. The only thing Broots could verify was that the money was in no way connected to The Centre. I examine the data and agree with his conclusions. The trails lead to Europe, then muddy. I choose one at random and dig deeper. Just when I think I've found the end of the maze, the cheese blows up in my face. I click on an entry and the site crashes. The laptop screams a virus warning and it's everything I can do not to loose all stored data. I choose a second data group. I'm more cautious but come to the same near-disaster. I hear myself swearing, frustrated. These people have great guard-dog programs. My searches have alerted the source, additional attempts will only erase more data and possibly leave my father without funds.

I look over Broots' information again. I will have to make a trip to Switzerland in the near future. I run three different virus scans before shutting down the laptop. It's dawn; that road is blocked; I'm irritated. Then a thought makes me smile, I think I'll share. I pick up the phone, dial and wait.

"What?" As predicted.

"Good morning, Miss Parker. I hope you slept well. Any luck with the Maria mystery?"

She sighs, then she starts, "I've slept well the last two nights, no dreams and no phone calls from you. Speaking of mysteries; haven't you ever wondered where your father got the money to chase you all over the map?"

I would prefer an evasive answer but have to settle for the truth, "No."

"And you think I'm naive?"

"I don't think you're naive, Parker, I think you ignore the truth about the man you still call father."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black."

"Excuse me?" I know what she means.

I hear her exasperated sigh, "What did you learn from the data disk?"

"That my father discovered what The Centre really is and felt he had to hide himself and what was left of his family from them."

Parker chuckles softly, "And he was an innocent little lamb, led astray by the Big, Bad Centre." She huffs. "Do you think your father's that stupid? And have you ever known The Centre to hire stupid people?"

"Only for expendable positions." I think of Kenny. "I doubt that everyone employed by The Centre knows who and what they work for." Parker may not catch the reference, but she knows what I mean.

"You make The Centre sound like a spider waiting on its web."

"More like a pitcher plant, beautiful, sweet, and once you fall in there is no escape."

"So the truth doesn't bother you at all."

"I have to verify Broots' data."

"Broots thinks rather highly of you. I thought you'd return the compliment."

"I do." Really, I do. "I just need to follow his leads."

"I'm sure you'll do it with your usual obsession."

"I prefer to think of it as tenacity."

"You say tomato..."

"What?" That reference has no meaning to me. Tomato?

"You're ruining my morning. Remind me to return the favor when I find you."

"If."

"When!" Parker hangs up. I visualize her grinding her thumb into the "off" button.

I was watching the morning fog lift while nursing a mug of coffee when the phone rang. I knew it was a mistake to bring it outside with me, but I did. My reward is Jarod-induced indigestion. I toss the remainder of my coffee onto the lawn and stalk into the house. I wish Jarod would just disappear and leave me alone... permanently. Dammit, I can't even sit on my own porch without harassment. He makes me feel like I'm in grade school and some little brat has taken my lunch money. That only happened once, Jimmy, Jimmy Sloan in the second grade. I ran to the teacher crying and she wouldn't do anything because she had no proof. When I told Daddy he said I had to stand up for myself, I was a Parker. A week later, Jimmy tried it again and I hit him in the face with my library book. He got a nosebleed instead of the money and he didn't have the guts to tell the teacher because I threatened to do worse if he did. So he told her that he walked into a door... that's what Mommy told me the first time she got a black eye, the first time Raines hit her. I stare sightlessly out a window. Why wasn't she strong enough to stand up for herself? Why didn't she tell Daddy what Raines did? Or did she? Some day I'm going to know the truth not just the stories I've been fed all my life.

I notice the time. I better get moving. I exchange my fleece robe for a light gray flannel suit. Daddy expects me for breakfast. If I'm not punctual he won't wait and I want to ask him if Mommy ever mentioned Maria. Then I intend to find Broots and get him looking for Jarod instead of the donut lady.

Plans changed. I didn't mention the photographs or Maria to Daddy at breakfast; instead I tell Broots to find out what he can. It turns out to be very little. I put the photos in a locked drawer and try to put the matter out of my mind. Jarod is noticeably silent and untraceable.

Two weeks later I give up my struggle against curiosity and pull out the pictures again. I make a trip to St. Catherine's Convent myself. One of the oldest nuns remembers Mother as a "good little girl; always obedient; always helping with the younger children and the babies." She cannot recall if the baby in the picture is related to Catherine. In the days before abortion was an option, and unwed mothers were not accepted, infants were frequently abandoned at the convent. Most girl babies were called Mary or Maria during their short stay at the convent; their names changed when they were adopted. The nun also recalls the "nice young man" who came looking for Catherine's things. If he was the one who gave me the photos, perhaps I could ask him. Done that; been there; back where I started.

Back at The Centre, I take the photographs to Daddy's office before I allow myself second thoughts. I walk straight his desk and put the photos on top of the file he's reading. He glances at the pictures, turns them over and reads the back. He looks up again, smiling. Why does his smile seem insincere?

"It's amazing how much you resemble your mother." He doesn't even ask where got the pictures.

"Do you know anything about Mother and this Maria? Is she a relative?"

"Well, Sweetheart, I... umm... I don't think I know this Maria. Umm... your mother never mentioned her." His smile seems fixed, then fades, "Your mother's family has all...hemmm... passed on. These pictures are nice, but that's the past. This family is all that matters now. You, Lyle and the baby mean everything to me."

"Mother never spoke about her time at St. Catherine's?" I can't stop myself from asking again.

"I know we've covered this ground before, Angel. Why bring it up again? She put the past behind her when we married. You need to stop dredging it up. Look to the future." He stood; came around the desk; handed me the pictures and put his arm around my shoulders, walking me to the door. "Our family has a duty to influence The Centre. You have the ability but you need to turn all your attention toward that goal. We have work to do."

I accept his answer without further comment, but do not find it comforting. I allow myself to be escorted from his office and return to mine.

Daddy was so evasive, I wonder if he told me the whole truth. He misled me before, saying it was for my own good. I plop into my chair and throw the photographs onto the desk. Oh God, now I'm starting to examine everything he says.

Jarod probably knew the Maria picture was a dead end when he gave it to me and this whole exercise was just to put more doubts in my mind. I hope I returned the favor. I pick up my mother's picture. I run a fingertip along her cheek, like the path of a tear. Maria was just another child my mother tried to help.

The phone rings; I know who it is before I pick up the receiver.

"What?"

"Miss me?"

"Only if my aim is off."

Jarod laughs. Why, Miss Parker, I feel threatened."

"Care to tell me where you've been hiding or, better yet, where you are?"

"I don't think you need the target practice. I haven't been hiding, I've been in Europe."

"A tour?"

"...Of financial institutions in Switzerland. The Swiss banking system is very interesting and secretive; some of their more confidential records are not computerized. I tried to follow the money trails back to their source. They lead to several numbered accounts, but those accounts are dummies and virtually untraceable, at least at my current security clearance."

"You failed?" I try for sarcastic astonishment.

Jarod ignores my tone; his voice brightens. "Not completely. I found a new trail of funds leading back to North America, and possibly to my father."

"You'll be sure to let me know when and where you find your daddy?"

There is a short pause. Will he let me know? Or will he disappear? "Yes, I'll tell you when I find my family. What did you learn about Maria and yours?"

"She was a foundling. No relation."

"Sorry," I think he means it. "I guess I owe you some family information," the last with just a touch of sarcasm.

I want anything that connects me to my mother, but the thought of Jarod's information somehow frightens me. "You owe me the same nothing I owe you."

"Someone owes you some truth in your life."

"Do you know just how repetitious you are?"

"Repetition, that's the way I was trained. Blame it on The Centre."

I can hear the grin in his voice, I smile, but it's too much of an opening, I ask, "If you find your father will he blame everything on The Centre or will he tell you the truth? Do you have the guts to ask him?"

"I'll face the truth, and I'll deal with it," just short of a snarl. "I have to hang up now."

"Feel free to talk longer."

"Staying free is more my intention. Your phone tracers had enough time to get close. When I have something to say I know where to find you."

"Unless I find you first."

"Don't hold your breath." (click)

My computer screen lights up five minutes after the call. Jarod is somewhere in the northeast United States. The phone trace programs were recently improved and he stayed on the line slightly longer than he intended. I call Broots and dump the information on him.

Three hours later he comes back with an update.

"Well?"

"I downloaded records of bank transactions between Switzerland and the US, and excluded banks outside the Northeast. Then I developed a program with the appropriate variables to exclude all traceable contributions and/or withdrawals. Once the computer has done it's job I'll hand sort, and run the remnant past Angelo, if possible."

"Can you pinpoint the bank?"

"I can narrow the search to four or five possibilities."

"How soon?"

He's fidgeting; this won't be a good answer. "Forty-eight hours."
"Real or Scotty estimated time?" He just looks at me, I know he's a Trekie and he over-estimates. "Speed it up." I wave him out of the room.

Thirty-six hours later, Broots presents me with a list of ten accounts, narrowed from several hundred. He has not been able to see Angelo. He seems pleased with himself, and when I look at the data I can tell he's put a lot of work into narrowing the possibilities.

"Ten accounts in four cities. This will be great for my expense account."

His face drops; I should tell him he did a great job, but I dismiss him, "That will be all, Broots. It's the sweepers turn now." He nods and leaves. I dispatch search teams to the cities involved. Jarod probably has two more days to find his father before they find him.

It's three days since I called Parker; I'm sitting in a small sub-let apartment in New York City. I've just reviewed, for the fifth time, all the financial records Broots and I have gathered over the past few weeks. I really thought I found a good lead, but it's another dead end. I keep hoping my father will find a way, make some effort, to reunite. It never happens. I seem to end up back where I started. I rest my head on my hands, elbows on at the small kitchen table I'm using as a desk. How do I explain my father's finances and associations? Who is paying him? Why? What does he owe them in return? I sigh. What if Parker is right?

Questions, never answers. Isn't that what she said about me? A smile slips across my mouth. She might be the only one to understand... reluctantly. I want to tell her I saw the sweepers and they walked right past me. I want to see if my package arrived yet. The smile fades. I have some information, some truth, about her father. It will hurt her deeply and she's been hurt so much. I'm not sure if I should give it to her, but she has a right to know the truth.

I'm sitting in my office; I've just reviewed the financial transaction information Broots gathered on Jarod's father for the tenth time. Broots agrees it's a dead end. The sweeper teams are useless.

There's a cardboard box on my desk. It holds a plastic bear filled with apple blossom honey, a small pie pan, a Jiffy piecrust mix, and the biggest golden apple I've ever seen. The note says, "Still got the oven? Make something you can be proud of." The honey I appreciate, the notes I'm used to; but where did he get that apple?

The ringing phone gets the usual "What?"

"Hello, Miss Parker, I promised I'd call."

"You found your father?" I sit up, surprised and interested.

"No."

There's resignation in his voice; I want to say something consoling. Instead I say, "You'd think, if he cares so much, he'd find a way to leave you a message or at least a bread crumb."

"He's probably afraid you'd find it," he sounds angry. I hear him change gears, back to jibing, "Speaking of crumbs, did you get mine?"

"If I take a bite out of the apple will I sleep until Prince Charming comes along?"

Jarod chuckled, then he said, "You're in no danger; you're not quite Snow White."

I can't decide whether to laugh or slam the receiver in his ear. "And you're Prince Charming?" I realize the possible implication of what I said and immediately add, "The point of the apple is?"

"It's BIG. I have the family information I owe you, and I want you to have it. Since your sweepers walked right past me, I thought you needed a clue."

"A big apple? Want to be more obvious?"

"Only if it's necessary to get you to come to New York." He's taking no chances.

"Oh, I'm coming, with friends. Where shall we meet?"

"Just come; I'll leave a trail of bread crumbs." He pauses, "Parker, did you find any more information about my father's work at The Centre?"

Could that be a hint of doubt in his voice? "No. What I found was in Raines private file. You could ask him; I think he'd love talking to you."

The thought of talking to Raines nauseates me; I can guess how Jarod feels. His answer comes as a growl, "I don't see that happening."

"Then you'll have to wait and ask your Daddy. Have you ever thought that all that money might be payment to find you or your clone for The Centre's competitors?"

He ignores the money issue. How long can he do that? "What competitors?"

"That's one of those need-to-know topics, like Donoterase. I've been told I don't need to know."

"By your Daddy?"

"Yes." How does he always switch the conversation around? Damned infuriating.

"You should confront him; demand answers."

"Why don't you?" I'm loosing my temper...as intended, and it makes me angrier. "Come right over and ask him. Better yet, find your OWN father and confront him!"

"Ask your Daddy if he's proud of the things he's done," in that calm reasonable voice, "If you can be proud of the 'Parker' name."

"I AM proud of it. I'm proud of him," as an afterthought, "and I love him."

His voice rises slightly, "Open your eyes. Look at what he really is."

Anger is a knot in my chest, "Stop telling me what to do!"

"Don't hold your breath." and he's gone.

And here I sit. No further ahead. Trying to talk to Jarod about his father is a waste of breath. Asking my father about the past is a waste of breath. The most important men in our lives and we barely know who they are, who we are.

My past is almost as empty as Jarod's. What did he say? "Our lives are mysteries built on lies." I guess he's right. Emptiness and lies. Like this office, like this building, like my future. I feel like I'm waiting to for someone to teach me how to live... and the only volunteer doesn't know what he's doing.

Here I sit. No further ahead. Trying to have a conversation with her is a waste of time. We don't talk, we yell. I can't help it; she makes me angry. She refuses to see what that man she still calls father is. What The Centre has made him. What it will eventually do to her. She needs to see to the truth, even if I have to shove it down her throat.

And me? I need to find my father, to ask him her questions, so I can put The Centre behind me. The Centre, the center of my universe, always at the back of my thoughts. I can feel it, like a cold black cloud between me and the sun, always keeping me in its shadow.



Please let me know what you think

Disclaimer : The Pretender and all character associated with it belongs to NBC and 20th Century Fox. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.



Open Your Eyes

by paula h




Jarod is dead. I keep repeating it to myself, but I can’t seem to believe it. His laugh still echoes in my mind. That stupid grin still appears each time I close my eyes.

[Tears slip out of Parker’s eyes. She presses the heels of her hands into her eyelids to stop them. She opens her eyes and wipes at her cheek with the back of her hand, then the sleeve of her robe.

She picks up a glass and swallows the quarter-inch of Scotch in the bottom. She pours another glass from the half empty bottle and takes a mouthful for good measure.]

I don’t think I wanted to kill him, not really. I just wanted him to stop. Stop grinning, stop running, stop telling me truths.


He smiled and told me, "We’ve got to stop meeting like this." Stupid line. The man could understand nuclear physics and made stupid comments like that. We were on the edge of a wharf, closed for construction, in the middle of the night, in New York City. I don’t know why he was there. We never found his hiding place.

I had my gun pointed at him but he ignored it. "Come with me," he said as he ducked through the fence. I wanted to wait for the sweepers, they were behind as usual, but I followed him, like a sheep... a foolish little sheep.

[She takes another drink.]

Inside the fence, Jarod retrieved a small folder from beside a shed. He held it out to me. "This is for you."

"Does it explode?"

"In a way. It’s information about your father."

"Something you want me to see." A statement, not a question.

"You need to open your eyes."

I didn’t want to; I was right. I heard the sweepers at the fence. I fired a shot over Jarod’s head to get their attention. He didn’t even duck. He threw the packet to me. I let it hit the ground. He looked at me, then turned and ran.

The sweepers went pounding after Jarod. I walked down the center of the wharf. I knew he wasn’t done talking. Let him come to me.

He did. So predictable.

"Are we alone again?" He was smiling again.

"Not for long."

"Long enough. Do you want to know the truth about your father?"

"Your version?"

"His only truth: The Centre is All. It is above the law because it serves a higher purpose. The Centre must be protected even if it means the death of everyone you love and everyone they love. Your father said, ‘It will all add up in the end’"

"Exactly what are you trying to say?"

"Your father knew your mother was marked for death. He could have protected her, sent her away, finished her work, but he did nothing."

"He didn’t know what she was doing."

"Didn’t he?" He stood there looking at me with those black eyes.

"My father loved my mother."

"How can you love someone and permit their assassination?"

"Liar."

"He thinks he did it to protect you. The same way he protected you by agreeing to Thomas’s termination."

"LIAR!"

I shot at him. The bullet went over his shoulder; I wanted to aim lower. Jarod turned and ran, through scaffolding, around crates, over beams and trash. The sweepers and I ran after him, circled him and forced him out onto a crane hanging over the river.

"Climb back in, Jarod," I yelled from the wharf. "You have no choice."

"There are always choices, Parker." he yelled back. He climbed down a heavy chain and started it swinging. It looked like he was trying to reach another crane to his left.

"You’ll never make it, Jarod. Give up before you kill yourself."

"Have I had a life?" He wanted to make me feel guilty. He was good at that, making me feel guilty for his life, for mine; distracting me.

Suddenly, he shifted on the chain; swinging it harder in a different arc, toward the wharf where I was standing. I looked down. There was a platform hanging from the wharf by ropes. There was another rope from the platform to a small boat in the river. Nice plan. I wasn’t about to let it be that easy. I grabbed the end of a rope and pulled. He saw me and laughed. He didn’t think I could get it loose; neither did I. I called the sweepers and kept on pulling.

Jarod was swinging harder. He reached for the ropes; he missed. He tried again; he was almost there. The sweepers would never get here in time. I pulled out my gun and emptied the clip into the rope where it went over the edge of the wharf. It unraveled, but held. I switched clips.

Jarod saw what I was trying to do, and laughed again. He yelled up at me, "The Truth, Parker, see the truth."

"Shut up," I growled as I aimed the gun at him.

"Open your eyes," he hollered. He let go of the chain and jumped onto the platform.

"Shut up! SHUT UP!" I screamed, and emptied the second clip into the rope. His weight hit the planks; the rope broke; the platform collapsed. Jarod grabbed for the other ropes but he couldn’t get a hold. I saw him falling but couldn't see where he fell.

The sweeper on the crane thought he saw Jarod hit the river. We searched for an hour before we gave up. I called for a cleaner team, they’re better at finding bodies.

On the way out, I stepped over the folder Jarod had tried to give me. I turned around, picked it up and threw it into the car. We left.

I put the whole thing out of my mind for weeks. I half expected Jarod to call and complain about getting wet. But there have been no calls. Sydney made some attempts at being comforting, but he’s devastated. He said things like "Now Jarod will be free," and other crap like that.

[Parker finishes off the glass of Scotch.]

They haven’t found the body yet. Raines said it will "pop up" some day. What a ghoul.

I was fine; I kept moving and working; I didn’t think about him or what he said. Yesterday, I made a mistake. I thought about the things Jarod said about my father. I looked at my mother’s picture. She said "Trust can kill you or it can set you free." I trusted Jarod, and opened the folder.

There were papers inside incriminating my father in illicit deals. Nothing that affected me; nothing I couldn’t live with. There were two DSAs, one dated the day of my mother’s death; another from the day before Thomas was killed. I knew I should throw them away, but I put the older one in a DSA reader.

The scene was my father’s office. I watched Raines demand that my father control my mother, or he would. He told Daddy to choose The Centre and "all it means" or his family.

Daddy said, "Don’t touch my daughter!"

Raines said, "Not if you don’t interfere." Then he walked out of the room.

My father sat down at his desk and cried. He cried...but he didn’t save her. How can I accept that?

I put in the other DSA. Same angle. My father was talking with Lyle.

"I tried to bribe him," Daddy said. "It didn’t work."

Lyle answered, "You know what Raines said."

"I know. I gave your sister back her gun. At least she can protect herself; possibly him. He’s leaving in a couple of days. Distance can make you forget. I’ll talk to her again after he’s gone."

"And if that doesn’t work?"

"If she leaves, Raines will have her terminated. I can’t loose her too. If I can’t convince her to stay, Thomas will have to die."

Thomas had to die. My mother had to die. Jarod had to die. And here I sit, with nothing and no one, because of The Centre. The Damned Centre.

[Parker pours another glassful of Scotch. She chugs what’s left in the bottle.]

There’s a knock at the door. It takes her two tries to stand. She walks carefully to the door and opens it.

"Lyle! What a pleasant surprise. What brings you out in the sunlight?"

"Family. You didn’t show up at work this morning; you haven’t been answering the phone; Dad’s concerned. Syd told him you might be feeling guilty over Jarod’s recent demise."

"What would you, or your father, know about guilt?"

"Enough not to wallow in it. You’re drunk."

"Barely. It’s no wonder you came to work at The Centre, Fruit of my Father’s Loins. The rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the rotting tree."

"If you’re done slaughtering clichés, I’m supposed to drive you in to see Dad, so he can be sure you’re alright. Then I’m supposed to take you to the family’s cabin in Vermont."

"If I won’t go, are ya gonna shoot me?" Parker holds her arms out and backs into the room.

Lyle looks at her and the empty bottle. "Just how much have you had to drink?"

"Not nearly enough." Parker drains the glass in two gulps.

Parker dresses and packs a few things, too drunk to give Lyle much of a fight. She sobers by the time she walks into her father’s office.

I look up at the spot where the DSA recorder must be hidden. How fitting that it should also record my father’s death and then my own. My death on DSAs, just like Jarod’s life.

Daddy walks in and hugs me. I reach for my gun but don’t touch it. I can’t kill him. Even when I know what he really is, what he’s done, I can’t hate him enough to kill him. I still love him. God, I’m weak...like my mother...like a sheep. I burst into tears, and he comforts me. He tells me he’s having Lyle drive me to the cabin. Maybe he knows what I know. Maybe he’ll have Lyle kill me. No, he tells me I’m his Angel, I’m tough; resilient; a Parker. Everything I don’t want to be anymore.

So I do what he says and follow Lyle, silently, like a sheep.

[By the time Lyle drops Parker off at the cabin it is night, dark and moonless. Lyle barely gives her time to get on the porch before he turns around and leaves.]

I can make out the trees around the clearing in the light from Lyle’s headlights. Neither of us said more than two words on the way up here. This was his first trip, but he doesn’t seem interested in my nostalgia .

I remember this place; it’s familiar even in the dark. I remember my mother and father here. They were always smiling and joking. I remember one time Mommy was laughing, and Daddy was chasing her around the picnic table. He caught her and carried her down the path to the small dock. She was screaming and kicking. He threw her into the lake and jumped in after her. They laughed and splashed, and then they kissed. We were happy.

I can’t see the path in the dark. I wish I could see the lake.

[Parker walks into the cabin. A light is on and everything is stocked and ready, even the liquor cabinet. She drinks the better part of a bottle of Armagnac, and falls asleep on the couch untill dawn.]

It must be morning; some stupid bird is singing right outside the window. I think I’ll have to go shut it up.

[Parker picks up her gun and walks onto the porch, into the hazy sunshine.]

It’s July, but the air here isn’t very warm. It’s full of mist; the sunlight sparkles in it. There is a shimmer from the lake through the trees.

The bird flies past, a bright blue jewel, and I remember the gun in my hand. Someone used this gun to kill Thomas. I miss him so much. I used it to kill Jarod. I miss him too. I didn’t shoot him but I wanted him to fall, to be silent, to leave me alone. And here I am...alone. Be careful what you wish. I look at the gun for a long time, trying to decide if I want to use it.

Finally, I put it down and go back into the cabin. I pour another brandy and walk back out. Is that what I want? To join Jarod. He told me I had to see the truth. Did he know what the truth would do to me? I look down at the gun; I feel my shaking hand reach for it; I stop myself. I have to get away from it. I can never get away from Jarod or the truth.

I cross the clearing and walk through the trees, until I come to the lake. It is small and private; a clear, deep blue verging on black. There are waterlilies blooming on the far side. I think I’d like to take a closer look. I walk around the shore to the right. The ground is swampy and my heels are worse than useless. I take them off and step into the water. It’s cold around my ankles, clean and sharp. I’ve been dreaming my way through the last couple of days; maybe the water can wake me up.

I walk a little farther and the water gets deeper. When it reaches my knees I return to the spot where I stepped in. I finish off the brandy, then take off my clothes and hang them across a bush. There’s no one here to see me. I’m alone, always alone.

I walk slowly into the lake. My feet are numb but that doesn’t bother me. The water creeps up my calves. It swirles around my thighs, then over my hips. The bottom falls away and I swim to the lilies. They float like stars in the cold dark night. They are perfect.

It doesn’t look like a long swim back to the dock. I duck under the water and start strong slow strokes. As I cross the middle, I open my eyes to the black stillness under the water.

I’m tired. Too tired to swim any more. I roll over onto my back and look at the sky. All I can see is soft blue haze. All I can hear is the silence of the water. The icy clarity of the lake has seeped into my bones. I know I should move, should swim to shore, but it’s too hard. It seems unnecessary. This is so peaceful.

I close my eyes and I can see Jarod falling toward the river. I think I knew before I came here, that I would follow him into the water. I know I’m going to drown, to die, and I’m not frightened. I will be free.

There is a kind of weight on my shoulders, pulling them down. I can feel Jarod coming to take me into the darkness. I won’t resist. I let myself sink and slowly turn to embrace him. I let myself sink and feel my hair floating up. I exhale and float down.

Suddenly, something lifts me up and my face breaks into the air. I feel disoriented, unreal. I open my eyes...and see Jarod. Then I see nothing.



 







"Welcome back to life, Parker. It's good to see you open your eyes." Jarod is sitting next to me. I’m laying on the couch in the cabin, wrapped in towels and blankets. I’m almost warm.
"You’re alive," I say stupidly. I’m amazed that he’s alive; that I’m alive. "You’re ALIVE!" I can feel anger warming me, much more than the blankets. "You lied to me!"

He’s confused, "About your father? That was all true."

"I thought I killed you!" I punch him in the shoulder. I mean it to hurt but there’s little strength behind it.

"Oh, that," he shrugs, "I didn’t mean to fake my death but you were trying so hard to kill me that I decided to let you think you did." There’s that stupid grin. "It was just supposed to be another miraculous escape." He paused, "I guess the trip here means you watched the DSAs?"

The hopelessness returns. I lay back on the couch. "I watched them. Your job is done. Now, why don’t you leave me alone. I’m tired."

"Tired enough to die?" He looks serious now.

"That was the general idea." Tired unto death; I just want to close my eyes.

"This being dead stuff isn’t so bad, you know. No one chasing you; no one shooting at you; or dropping you into rivers...."

I just look at him. His smile disappears.

"No one telling you where you can and can’t go."

"What are you doing here?" I close my eyes.

"Following you for a change. I forced the truth on you, Parker, I couldn’t leave you with nothing and disappear. I know what it’s like to be alone."

"Here and I thought we had the hate/hate thing going. What now?"

"Now I decide how I live. I may haunt The Centre; or return from the dead; or stay gone. You need to decide how you want to live."

"Do I want to live? I can't remember."

"You want to live." He sounds so sure. I try to open my eyes but it's too much effort. He pushes the damp hair away from my face. "I’m not going away until you remember."

It almost sounds like a threat.

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Revised 10/2001



Stop Telling Me What To Do
Part 3 : Get Over It
by paula h




It's the end of August and I'm still on retreat in Vermont. "Retreat," that's exactly what I did. Actually it was more of a rout than a strategic withdrawal. Hell, it was a stampede over a cliff.

I almost feel normal now. If you can call the person I was normal. Then again, what is normal? Never mind, I've obviously spent too much time with Syd and Syd Junior.

A while ago I learned that the man I call Daddy isn't really my father; I still don't know who is and at times I don't even believe it's true. I've learned that he loved my mother but agreed to her murder. I've learned he sanctioned Thomas' murder knowing what it would do to me. He does love me, but he's a survivor. I thought I was a survivor until Alex and then Jarod shoved the truth in my face. I couldn't accept it, so I ran from it, out of The Centre, into a bottle, over a cliff. If Jarod hadn't been there to catch me I would have fallen to the bottom...of the lake.

Jarod, my guardian angel and harassing devil all wrapped up on a nice body and a stupid grin. When he threatened to stay with me he meant it. Damn him! He was in my face constantly the first weeks. Fortunately for him, he hid my gun. As a matter of fact it's still hidden. When we're speaking again I'll have to ask him where he put it.

The first week, when I might have walked right back into the lake, he barely let me out of his sight. After he decided I was safe from myself he let me out on a longer leash. I immediately scared the hell out of him.

It was a hot morning and the woods were so much cooler than the cabin, I took a little walk and wound up at the lake. I heard Jarod calling me but we had just had one of his amateur psychologist sessions and the sound of his voice was getting on my last nerve. I half-considered drowning myself in the lake just to spite him. Instead, I walked in up to my ankles. He must have some kind of radar because he chose that moment to come out of the woods. The look of fear on his face would have been endearing if his mouth hadn't started moving. He put his arm around my shoulder and kept saying he shouldn't have left me and he should have paid more attention and he thought I was alright, while he led me out of the water. God, he was Sydney on amphetamines. I was going to tell him that he misunderstood, but then he said, "Suicide won't solve anything." I said, "Murder might," turned on him, pushed him backward into the lake, and walked back to the cabin laughing while he sputtered. We didn't talk the rest of the day...and it was wonderful!

The next morning he broke the silence; he apologized. I told him where he could stuff his apology. He laughed and said it was nice to have me back. I hadn't realized it until then but I had been drifting somewhere. He asked me if this meant I was going to do my share of the cooking. I glared at him for a second then asked, "You call what I've been forced to eat cooking?" Jarod replied that they never taught him cooking at The Centre. He also pointed out that cooking seems a bit domestic for me. After weeks of his cooking I almost volunteered to do it all, but came to my senses. We bantered back and forth for a few minutes and finally agreed to split all the chores evenly.

It was a month ago when Jarod finally stopped smothering me and left me on my own, keeping an eye on me but trying to be unobtrusive. He's the only other person here; aside form the caretaker who brings groceries once a week. Jarod goes out pretty regularly, most often to help people. You know, that helping the little guy thing he's into.

On one of his outings Jarod found a vintage Cadillac, something from the fifties I gathered. It was in the shed of some farmer he helped with the haying. Mr. Greenjeans tracked hayseeds and enthusiasm all through the cabin. I started sneezing uncontrollably, which made him laugh, which really made me angry. I stormed into my bedroom, slammed the door and propped my back against it. The sound of him smashing his nose into the door made me laugh and probably ruined his mood. Supper was tense. Fortunately for him it was a leftovers night because I had no intention of cooking and he - clean and silent - almost fell asleep sitting up. That silence was golden too.

The next day he expected to pretend nothing had happened but my head was completely stuffed and I still refused to talk to him. Peace making is not a valued skill in my family and at the time I didn't care. He slammed the door on his way out. When he came home that evening, after another day of haying, he changed on the porch before he came in. I had supper in the oven and we did the Americana home scene for the evening, worthless small talk over supper, and me reading while he worked at the computer, as usual, till lights out.

He does love that laptop. It is, of course, state of the art with an untraceable satellite hookup and enough speed that he should have hacked his way through the Pentagon by now. But he seems frustrated. I asked him how it was going once when he seemed to have found something important. He told me it was his business. Fine. Somehow, from past experience I guess, I can't imagine anything he finds bringing any real comfort, to either of us.

A couple days later Jarod finished the farm work and made a trip into town. He came home with a Cadillac repair manual he must have gotten through a post office box and two cardboard boxes of books from a library garage sale. That night he actually took a break from the laptop to read the manual. I plowed through the boxes. There were a couple popular mystery novels, Under the Tuscan Sun, Bulfinch's Mythology, a bible, several books on angels, but mostly paperback Modern Romances. I would rather audit Centre expense accounts than read most of them but one or two looked interesting.

Jarod spent the better part of the next week tinkering with the Caddy, searching the Internet for authentic parts or picking them up at the post office. He tracked mud and grease into the kitchen the first night. He cooked supper listening to me slam a bucket around while mopping the floor. He reciprocated by slamming pots, pans and dishes. One glass did not survive the non-conversation. I refused his offer to dump the bucket of dirty water, and when I went outside I saw that there were tools on the porch. I asked how I was supposed to explain them to Daddy if he came up. He picked them up and threw them into the woods. We spent that evening in tense silence. But he has not tracked mud, grease or hay into the cabin since.

While he was fiddling with that stupid car, I did my best to pull weeds in a small garden the caretaker planted beside the cabin. It's fenced to keep animals out but a lot of the produce is still exiting with non-paying shoppers. That's fine; rabbits have more entertainment value than cabbage or cars. At night Jarod was back to his Internet truth search while I chewed my way through the books.


I'm doing my best but it never seems to be good enough for Parker. I can't do anything right. I saved her life and the gratitude lasted fifteen minutes.

I found an old farmer who needed help because he had a minor stroke. Mr. Oldham, the farmer, struggled out with his walker every day to watch me work. When I finished up the very first day I was there, he told me I could have the farm. I refused, so he took me to a shed in back of the barn and showed me an old car in pieces. He told me I had to take it at least; it was meant for me. He was alone, wife dead, no kids, and no money to hire anyone. I got in his hay then hooked him up with a young ex-con who knew his way around a farm and wants to turn his life around.

Parker never wondered why I was helping him; all she cared about was that I tracked some grass into the cabin. She got mad and when I tried to apologize she slammed her door in my face. The next day I tried to say good morning and she treated me like a piece of furniture. Now I just try to stay out of the way. She even begrudged me Mr. Oldham's car. I make a mess; I leave tools on the porch; I smother her; I ignore her; I breathe wrong. So now I just strip on the porch before I go in. ...I wonder if she ever watches?

Parker just glides through the days. She doesn't give a damn about the truth, anything or anyone else, or me.

Mr. Oldham's car was a godsend. It helped me hold things together for the week I worked on it. The week I found out the truth about my father. It gave me something to take my mind off the information I couldn't find, the information I couldn't decipher, and the truth I didn't want to believe. It was a '56 Cadillac DeVille. It needed a ton of work, but now I know how to put a car together. Mr. Oldham calls it a real car, not one of those computerized modern things. He said I should get to know something that doesn't depend on computers. I think that's true.

The other truth I learned that week is that Major Charles is not my father. I finally found his medical records. The caring and all-too-missing Major's blood type is O Rh Positive. He could not have fathered an AB child. Does he know? Does he know and not care? Or does he just want to use me like The Centre used me? Is he protecting my clone or has he cashed in that chip? Parker asked me what I found that day and I told her to mind her own business. Maybe I should tell her. She may find it amusing. I keep telling her she doesn't know anything about her father and now I find I don't even know who mine is.

Thank God, Zoë didn't stay with the Major after he rescued her. She and I both came to our senses; we can never have a life together. I set her up with a new identity. I will never see her again, never spend much time with anyone or form any attachments. That would probably amuse Parker even more. Especially considering our current situation. We've been playing house for two months. Some times I want to sit her down, put my arms around her and really really talk to her; other times I want to walk out the door and never look back. I don't know how much longer I can just sit here.

Every night I sit at the computer, either trying to find new information or crack the encryption of a few files I got from Nugenesis, Donoterase and The Centre. The encryption on them is the best I've ever seen. I know it had to have been the work of another pretender. If he could invent the codes I can crack them. Any files that important must hold answers.

I finished rebuilding the Caddy in record time. I took Mr. Oldham for the first ride. When I dropped him off at his house he clapped me on the back with his good arm and said he was proud of me. It felt so good; I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. It wasn't till I was half way back to the cabin that I remembered where I had heard that before. The Major said he was proud of me, Sydney said he was. Did either of them mean it? And my mother was proud of me... I choke and realize there are tears running down my cheeks. Is Margaret really my mother? Was she proud? Or just playing a part? There's that photograph of her with Catherine Parker. Were they friends? Did The Centre manipulate her just like everyone else?

I take several deep breaths and push those thoughts away for now. Today is about taking Parker for a joy ride in this great old car; getting us both out of the house. Tomorrow the Caddy goes to the dealer and I go back to fact-finding.

When I pull into the driveway Parker comes running around the side of the house. She looks so surprised to see the car, almost disappointed. Maybe she thought it was Daddy come to take her home. I put on a smile and show her the car. Pretty soon my smile is real, and information I know she has no interest in is gushing from my mouth. She stands there with an indulgent look. I finish with, "She's such a beauty; I think I should name her The Angel." That was stupid. Name the car what Mr. Parker calls her?

But she laughs, "But, Jarod, it's so...so PINK!"

Well, of course it's pink, pink paint with a white top and white leather interior. Just like in the Bruce Springsteen song. That's what makes it so great, a pink Cadillac. Zoë would have loved it. I start to defend my opinion but Parker waves me off and, still laughing, jumps into the front passenger seat. At least she's letting me drive. We cruise down the back roads with the windows open and the wind blows her hair around. We're both smiling for a change.

Parker turns to me and says, "I feel like I should be wearing a poodle skirt. When to we stop for the burger and shake?"

The poodle skirt reference escapes me but I let it go, the burger and shake sound good. "And fries?"

"Of course!" and she laughs. I get the strangest feeling in my chest when she laughs. I have a grin stuck on my face. We eat at Wendy's. Great greasy junk food, and Parker enjoys it. We smile the whole way home and I don't even turn the computer on. I hunt through the boxes and pull out books on angels and a bible. I've been meaning to study the bible. Parker pulls out a Modern Romance called The Marriage Lesson. Well, Parker could definitely use one. I keep my opinion to myself; she's in a good mood and so am I. I won't do anything to ruin it.

Jarod drove up to the cabin in that ridiculously pink car. When I heard the motor I thought it might be sweepers and Jarod would walk into a trap. But it was him, full of enthusiasm again, and I let myself get caught up in it. That evening was a bright spot. One of those moments when you forget who you are and what a crappy life you live. When I looked at Jarod grinning that stupid grin, driving that stupid car, I got the funniest feeling. I smiled about it the whole next day, until he came home that night and told me he sold the car. Of course he did it to get money for that needy farmer. I almost chewed him out for not asking me to buy it first. That foolish impulse passed quickly. What would I want with a pink car? A black Mercedes maybe, but not a cotton candy clunker.

The car was gone and Jarod spent his days and nights at the computer. When he did take a break it was to read the bible. Even that involved referencing text on the Internet. He seemed more intense every day.

Two weeks ago he made some kind of breakthrough. I was sitting on the porch and I heard "Yes!" in a tone of victory. I walked over to try to look over his shoulder. He turned the computer and told me it was private for now. The look in his eyes was so strange, sad and fixated, that I decided not to challenge him. He returned his gaze to the scrolling lines of text. I watched emotions flicker across his face as he read; none of them was close to happiness. He printed the document, scanned it, stuffed it into his pocket, and shut down the computer. I asked if he wanted to talk about what he found; what was wrong, but he shook his head and walked out the door. I heard him start up his Jeep and drive off. He came back the next evening, walked straight into his room, and fell immediately asleep.

The sound of Jarod's voice woke me in the middle of the night. He was begging someone in his sleep, begging him not to do something. I threw on a robe. He screamed twice before I got to his room. He was awake and sitting up in bed. He looked miserable. I wanted to comfort him but I can't seem to do that, I'm afraid of where it will lead. I asked him what was wrong. He told me it was just a dream; everything was fine. It was a lie. Back in my bed, it dawned on me that this was the first nightmare he'd had since he came to the cabin. He's had them every night since.

He's gone most of the time now, doing whatever he does. I don't ask; he doesn't tell. When he's here we avoid each other. Neither of us could be called comfortable. Things change but things stay the same. I know Jarod's there if I need him. I think he needs me. I don't quite understand how that makes me feel.

When he came back yesterday he was subdued. He looked like he wanted to talk a couple of times. Then he just sort of bit his lip and turned away. I wondered what he wanted to talk about but just couldn't bring myself to ask.

It's my turn to cook. He's working on his laptop while I finish supper. Suddenly he swears and starts hitting keys, getting angrier by the minute. He is so focused. Fifteen minutes later, he sits, staring at the computer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. I leave him alone until I get supper on the plates and walk to the table.

All I say is, "Jarod, it's time to eat."

He looks up but I don't think he sees me. Then he looks at the computer screen. I can see that it's blank. His hands ball into fists; he smashes the laptop closed and sweeps it off the table and across the room. It crashes into the wall.

I stand there for a second; put his plate in front of him, and - I can't help myself - say, "That's not supposed to be good for computers."

The plate follows the laptop to the wall, and I say, "That wasn't especially productive either."

He looks up and sees me then, "What would you know about productive?! All you know is making my life HELL!!" He rises; his chair tips backward and hits the floor. I stand my ground. He is so unreasonably angry that I expect him to hit me next. He takes a step toward me and raises his arm. I brace myself. The look on his face....

I must have blinked in reflex, because when I open my eyes Jarod is standing perfectly still, looking at me. "I almost hit you," he sounds distant. "I'm... sorry," his voice gets softer. "Just stay away from me for a while..." and softer, "please." He turns and walks quickly out of the cabin. I hear the Jeep drive off.

It's four a.m. when I wake to from another nightmare. I find myself sitting in the Jeep, on the berm of a two-lane highway in Maine. I know where I am but can't exactly remember how I got here. I know I drove and I stopped for gas a few times. I'm calm again; I guess that's something. And the car is aimed back toward Vermont, so I guess I intend to go back to the cabin, to face Parker. I don't know if I'm up to explaining what's wrong, let alone what nearly happened.

I haven't had more than two or three hours sleep in the last week. I avoid it. The nightmares started two weeks ago; they get worse every night. I drag myself through the days doing what I always do, righting wrongs, helping the helpless, tilting at windmills. Meanwhile my world has tilted.

Two weeks ago I cracked the code on the Donoterase files. My clone, my exact genetic match, was the first success after years of trying. Since his birth they have been attempting to improve the process, mainly with animals, but they have also experimented with invitro fetal development, accelerating growth and, now that my genome has been mapped, recombining DNA to create their own designer/pretender baby. Some of the trial results were sold to other facilities to aid their research. The Centre has always been ahead of its time and cloning was no exception. Profit and progress gained at the expense of how much suffering and death?

The worst part of the file information were the prospectus files, future plans for future experiments. That information curdled my blood. I read it as it scrolled across the computer screen. I read it after I printed it; I read it by flashlight in the Jeep. I read it one last time by the light of a small campfire. I burned it into my memory and then I burned it in the fire.

While the Donoterase pages were printing I tried the same code key on The Centre files. One file used the same code but its information was similar to what I knew. I've tried versions of that encryption code on the Nugenesis data and the rest of The Centre files over the last weeks.

Today I finally cracked another code; and opened a set of Centre files. I was reading the files as they decoded, but, somewhere in the middle, my mind blanked out. I refocused after several seconds and paused the program while I read what I'd missed. I restarted the decoding program, waiting to learn the rest of the story, the story of my parents. But something happened; the program slowed, the text degraded. I tried to stop the process, but it didn't work. I tried antiviral programs, rescue programs, firewalls. I have the best but nothing stopped the destruction. It went under and through all the protections I'd set up. It ripped the hard drive apart. At the end I was left with a blank screen. Everything on it is gone. Of course I have most files backed up and stored elsewhere but that laptop held the whole story of my life. Those files held the truth about my mother and they self-destructed rather than give it to me. The Centre gives; The Centre takes away.

I have nothing to show for the past two months except a dead computer and an upset Parker. Why was I angry with her? Because she hunted me? That's not her fault. She can't help what The Centre made her any more than I can. Or is it because she warned me about how dangerous the truth could be and I ignored her? She was so right. I don't want her to know the truth. The truth I searched for every free moment. The truth I don't want now that I have it.

I suppose I was in denial, and still am. That's why the dreams started. My old nightmares were about things that the Centre did to me, from my kidnapping on. The new ones are more bizarre, if that's believable. I remember the first one best. I was in a garden, a luxurious tropical mixture. There was an apple tree in the center, with apples as big as my head. Only my head was smaller, I was five years old again, lost, calling for my mother. A snake wrapped around the tree spoke to me, in Mr. Parker's voice, "This is where you belong...I don't expect you to understand. In the end it all does add up. Just eat the apples and you will know." and its head turned into Mr. Parker's head. I ran.

I was running away and I heard my mother's voice, "Just eat the apple, baby, and you can come home." I called out to her, running in circles until I saw her. She was an angel, no Nemesis, no an angel in white. She gave me an apple and told me to take a bite. I did and suddenly I saw it all. "For God knows that when you eat from it then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods who know good and evil." She wasn't an angel; she wasn't real. Her robes turned gray, then black and her loving smile turned into an evil grin. Her face shifted and became his, Raines. He was holding a bible. He opened it and read, "But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."
He looked straight at me and I thought my heart would stop. I backed away, and he read, "And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked." I looked down and I was naked. "The LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them." I was covered in some kind of furred skins. "Now that the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil, he must not be allowed to stretch out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever." He pointed at me and I ran.

I could hear voice roaring behind me, enveloping me, "So the Lord God drove out the man from the orchard in Eden...."

Things were whirling around me, dark things. I was crying "No, no, no..."

"He placed on the eastern side of the garden of Eden sentries, Cherubim, who used the flame of a whirling sword to guard the way to the tree of life." I looked over my shoulder; the Garden had turned to thorns and rock. An angel stood with a flaming sword; it was my mother. I woke.

Parker stood in the bedroom door, hugging her robe to herself. She really seemed concerned; she asked what was wrong. I needed her, I needed her so much, wanted her to hold me, make things right. "And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help for him who is like him." I told her it was nothing; I was fine. It was a lie.

Can I tell her the truth? Those Centre files were my baby record book. The Donoterase files were a blueprint of my soul. "So God created man in his own image." I am a Centre experiment, a Centre creation and it's property. Can I tell her that? Could she already know? Does Sydney know?

I feel the anger and frustration starting to rise again. I start the Jeep and drive. It will be afternoon till I get back to the cabin. I have to work this out in my head before I get there. She's my closest link to that abomination and she doesn't know how close I am to the edge right now. If she says the wrong thing.... A smile comes to me from somewhere; we always say the wrong thing to each other, even when it's the truth. The best thing may be to tell her everything and go from there. Go where? Back to the bosom of my "real" family? What's real about The Centre? And what's real about me?

I feel the tears burning behind my eyelids. I have to blink many times to clear my vision. Wouldn't want to wreck the jeep and kill myself, I'm valuable property. I concentrate on the road and the cold night air rushing in through the windows. In the pre-dawn light I can see some of the trees are starting to change color. It's the beginning of September; Autumn is coming, followed by cold stark Winter. The Centre reminds me of Winter.

I guess the interlude is over. My father called this morning, he pretty much demanded that I come home; I can't put it off much longer. Lyle, dear little brother that he is, volunteered to come get me. I asked Daddy if they found Jarod's body or any indication he's alive; he said no to both. He wants me to find Major Charles and Jarod's clone. I can't seem to drum up any enthusiasm for the assignment. Jarod can't find them; I doubt that they have much to fear from Broots or me. I wonder what Jarod will think about me chasing his dear daddy?

There was a stupid owl somewhere in the woods hooting off and on all last night. They're supposed to bring bad luck or something; at least that's what they say in pulp fiction and some popular song I heard on the local oldies station. What it brought me was insomnia. All I did was toss and turn, and since Daddy's call, all I've done is pace. Jarod's been gone all night and this morning. But I'm not worried about him. No, not really. He's a big boy; if he wants to tell me what the problem is he certainly knows where he left me... rather abruptly.

I hear the Jeep return and walk quickly out onto the porch. Why did I do that? Am I expecting him to say, "Honey, I'm home."? I settle into an Adirondack chair on the porch. No one calls me "Honey," everyone calls me "Miss," probably "Miss Bitch" behind my back. And that's just fine, let them keep their distance; I love my privacy. If that's true why am I so lonely?

My mother is gone and she loved me. Thomas is gone and he loved me. My father loves me in his own bizarre way, but he's back at The Centre. Jarod's here. But Jarod doesn't love me. At least he doesn't act like he does. If Jarod loved me he would not be able to hide it. I would be getting roses every day, at The Centre's expense of course, and more gifts than my house could hold. What has Jarod ever given me? A virus, a candy heart, a stained glass picture, the truth. That last gift was nearly a killer. It frightens me to think how close I came to ending my life. If Jarod hadn't been there.... then I think about the look on Jarod's face as he stood up from the table; it frightens me too. I think he wanted to kill me for a minute.

What, exactly, was that all about? I've seen Jarod angry before. I've made him angry, most times deliberately, but I've never seen him so close to loosing control. He faked madness a few times in and out of The Centre. But this was real, very real, too real. So, I'm out here waiting for a man who pretty much threatened my life. Waiting, just like my mother waited for my father. Just like my mother? I'm not my mother! I will not be my mother! I'm nothing like my mother! I'll tell Jarod where to get off threatening me. Nobody threatens me!

The thought brings me to my feet and the top of the steps. Jarod steps into the clearing. His head is down as he crosses the lawn. Even from thirty feet away he looks like hell; he walks like he's exhausted. He climbs the steps to the porch without looking at me. I will not be ignored, "Aren't you even going to say hello?"

"No." He snaps the word.

I start to snap back but he gives me a look that stops me mid-breath; I flinch.

I flinched? I don't flinch. I've had guns pointed at my head and I didn't flinch. He says one damn word and I practically jump back. If this is an aftereffect of my near-death experience, I don't like it. I follow Jarod into the cabin. I'll be reasonable, "Jarod, we need to talk about yesterday."

"What part of 'no' didn't you understand?" He is not angry, but he avoids my eyes. "I can't talk about it and I'm too tired to fight." He walks back out of the cabin, brushing me aside in the process. I follow him to the door. I want to demand an answer. I want to know what's wrong. I watch him walk toward the lake in silence.

I sit on the porch for two hours, watching the leaves change color. This is a waste of time. I've wasted the whole summer in a daze. What was I waiting for? Prince Charming to come riding along and take me away on his big white stallion? To live "happily ever after?" Save it for fairy tales. I may just call Lyle and tell him to come for me tomorrow. I can't sit here waiting for nothing. I think I'll go tell the local hero-wanna-be.

A walk through the woods is always calming. The light is softer, greener, full of mist. Coming to the edge of the dark woods into the afternoon sunshine is almost blinding. Insects and dust motes dance in the air. A dragonfly flashes its jeweled body past my face and draws my vision toward the lake...and Jarod lying on the grass. I walk over and stand near him, leaning against a young tree. I'm not sure if I want to disturb him. I'm almost afraid to disturb him, to make him angry. I dislike the feeling but I accept it, for now, till I find out if I have cause to be afraid.

I stand for a while, looking at Jarod. He has his arm over his eyes but I don't think he's asleep. The dragonfly returns, it circles, hovering above Jarod's face before flying off again. Winter is coming, the end of warmth and its life. Does it sense the end; just accept it? Did my mother live her life not thinking about what she knew the future could bring? What does my future hold? More time at The Centre? Yes. The destruction of Raines? Yes, after I position myself so that I have power over him. Killing him would be too easy, too good for him. I want to see him squirm. And I will find out who ordered my mother and Tommy killed. I will see them pay; I will enjoy that. I feel myself smile.

"I saw that smile on an alligator once." Jarod is awake; he has his arm resting on his chest; he draws up one leg and turns slightly toward me. "Anything I should know?"

"I'm going back to The Centre."

"I expected you would, even after you knew the truth. Do you intend to support your brother in his quest for power? Or try for the Chair position yourself?"

" Whatever furthers my goals."

"Your goals. I was a fool to think you might change them."

My muscles tense to leave, but I stay. "Nothing has changed for me." I still love my father. I hate Raines...and The Centre. I just can't walk away. Jarod has no idea what I want. "The truth only makes things harder. Don't you realize that?"

"I do...finally I do. I'm sorry I gave it to you. I'm sorry I went looking for it at all. Playing with fire causes burns."

"You're usually more original than that, Jarod."

"Original. That's me. Prototype for a veritable new species. And to think, they managed to produce me before genetic engineering. I'm supposed to be original, it's my destiny." His voice is angry, tinged with something like hysteria, and disgust.

"Talk in circles, and I'll leave."

"You are leaving, going Home. And we always talk in circles." He closes his eyes and covers them with his arm. I guess the conversation is over; I can't think of anything to add.

I turn to leave. "Life goes on. It's your turn to cook." I think he almost smiles, but I walk away.

"Stop telling me what to do," I murmur softly when I'm sure she's out of range. I get up. Life goes on? Yes, I suppose. The other choice doesn't appeal to me either. I walk back to the cabin. Parker did not return here before me. It's just as well, I could feel myself getting angry while we were talking and it's better if I keep some distance. Playing with fire causes burns. She said that was not original, but it's true. I feel like I've caught my soul on fire.

I'm not interested in cooking but, as she said, it is my turn. If Miss Parker wants gourmet she'll have to take over all the culinary duties. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches are my speed right now. I am hungry. Hunger is one of the basic needs.

Basic needs. Where did that come from? Oh, yes management theory, Maslow's Hierarchy. Which pretend? The personnel manager or the MBA at the advertising firm? Both, several others, real life. The Hierarchy of Needs: basic, food and shelter; safety and security; social and belonging; status and power; and the fifth level, realizing one's potential. The Centre managed to take me straight from two to five and skip the in-betweens. That's what I'm looking for, belonging and control of my life. At least that's what I think I want. There are times that all I want is power. Power is the primary motivator at The Centre.

Speaking of basic needs, I guess I should return Parker's gun now, she'll need it when she's back at The Centre. How can she go back there after what she knows? After what they did to her mother and Thomas and her...and me? She knows the truth about her father and it changes nothing. She'll go back like nothing ever happened. The pain and deception mean nothing to her. Nothing. That's what they left me. No family, no identity, nothing. It's like my family died but I can't even grieve, because they weren't real. I feel rage burning in the pit of my stomach. I push those thoughts away.

What was I thinking about? Oh yes, basic needs...I wonder where being clean comes in on that list? I tried not bathing back at The Centre. It wasn't pleasant for anyone, including myself. I retrieve Parker's gun from its hiding place and leave it where I found it on the porch. Then I head for the bathroom.

After a shower and shave, I feel more human. There's some discussion as to the "human-ness" of genetic constructs. Do they have a soul? If a soul is the criteria then Raines is not human. I smile. And if I have no soul will that make me another Raines? Raines or Mr. Parker. The end justifies the means. Are my sims an exercise of justice or an exercise of power? Some philosopher - or was it Mr. Spock (?) - said, "A difference that makes no difference is no difference." Maybe I'm just like them.

That's my purpose after all, a little graft onto The Centre's family tree. And a productive one at that. I make them millions and provide genetic material so they can keep the line going. The prototype. They just made a few tiny errors, like letting me believe I had a family.

I had a family. I did I did. I believe my mother cared for me. I remember her as a kind, loving woman. Is she really my mother or was she paid to pretend? I barely remember my father-who-isn't-my-father. Has he been searching for me because he wants his family back or because he's been paid? Did he pretend to love me? I am tired of being manipulated; I won't allow it again. My family was a sim. I've been simed all my life, and there was no "justice" at the end. I want justice.

I sit down at the table and begin to draw in a notebook. I draw a family; the man has no face; the boys are smiling and the mother looks at them with love. For a second I can imagine it's real, that I can find it again, that I'm there with them. Parker returns, gun in hand, and I tense, till she puts it in the back of her belt. She walks over and pushes my wet hair back. Her hand is cool and smooth. I want to lean into her; tell her about the things I don't want to know; tell her how empty I feel. Then she says, "What's for supper?"

I crumple the paper and stand, faster than I intended and the chair falls over. Fine, you want supper; I'll make supper. She's surprised. Is that fear in her eyes? Afraid of me? Good. She should be, if she keeps pushing; sometime I'll push back. I'm tired of being controlled. No one will tell me what to do again.

I throw the pan on the stove and start it heating. I schlep a can of Campbell's into a pot and turn up the heat. A trip to the refrigerator provides a can-full of milk, some cheese and margarine. The pan is too hot for the margarine but I could care less, I just want to get done and get out of the cabin. I need some air.

As I walk up the steps to the cabin I see that my gun has magically reappeared. At least I didn't have to beg for it. I pick it up and walk into the cabin. Jarod is drawing something. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad sign, but he looks drained. He notices the gun stiffens. I hide it behind my back and walk over to see what he drew. His hair is dripping on the paper. Such a little boy. For some reason I reach over and comb it back with my fingers. He leans into my hand and it makes me uneasy. I feel like I should distance myself; I don't want this turning into a Modern Romance. I need to say something. It's his turn to cook supper. I'll help if he wants; he cooked all those times when I wasn't up to it; it's only fair. I ask, "What's for supper? Can... (I help?) The rest of the sentence is lost in the scraping and crash of his chair. I'm startled. He looked so peaceful for a second. That's over. He crumples the drawing and tosses it in the garbage. A pot and pan slam onto the stove.

I right the chair and move the notebook off the table. I can see the impression of his drawing on the next sheet of paper. He was drawing his family. What can I say? The Centre took him away from them and I'm going back there. I place the gun in a dresser drawer and return to the kitchen. Perhaps it's better if I don't say anything, just sit and wait until he calms down.

He's burning the soup; probably doing it deliberately to get a rise out of me. I decide it's better to ignore his little tantrum. The sandwiches are blackened. My appetite is gone. He drops the food onto the table. I won't give him the satisfaction of saying anything. I eat a little, and clean off the table. As I wash the dishes, I see him at the edge of my vision, and I can tell he's fuming. He shoves his chair under the table and goes out the door. I finish the dishes and try to decide how to handle him. I have a choice. I can sit in here and smell burnt cheese and tomato soup or I can go out there and make him tell me what the hell his problem is. Hmmm, singed sandwich or singed pretender? I opt for fresh air and answers.

Jarod is sitting on the arm of one of the porch chairs, staring into space. I take a deep breath and plow right in, "I'm tired of this tango. You are going to tell me what put you in this foul mood."

"Maybe I'm pretending to be like you," he smiles grimly, still focused on the distance. "How can you go back there?" he's begging for an answer, "You'll ignore what happened and go back. Do what they tell you, knowing what they are."

"I don't have to explain myself to you." I can't quite explain it to myself. The real truth is I have to finish with The Centre before I can start anything else. Even if it kills me. Is that what my mother thought? ...even if it kills me.

The conversation has paused; Jarod is looking at me. "You're already back there," he snarls. "I thought I was 'saving' you. I tried to tell you, to help you. But nothing changed. You've given yourself to The Centre. You are a waste of time." He's gets up and goes back into the cabin. I really don't feel like following him, but I want answers, so I go in.

"I never asked you to save me. I don't need to be saved."

"You would be dead if I hadn't dragged you out of the lake."

"Excuse me? You forced your wonderful 'truth' on me, Jarod." He looks at me; I continue, "Why? Why did you do that to me?" His mouth opens. "No. Don't answer, I already know. You were saving me from The Centre. You have no idea how much damage 'The Truth' can do, and you are never satisfied. You never will be. Nothing can give you the life you missed. So, while you were 'saving' me, you pushed me too far, right into the lake. It was your fault. Don't be so proud of yourself for correcting your mistake.

"Now that you've completely recovered from the truth you can go back to what you were doing"

"Not exactly. I don't have to chase you around anymore. You're dead. Remember? My new assignment"...this will tick him off..."is to find Major Charles and your clone." His reaction is not quite what I expected; he smiles ironically, then laughs softly, not pleasantly.

"Chasing my clone is chasing me. And Major Charles is not my father, genetically at least. He may have been paid to raise me for The Centre. That part is a bit hazy, but he can not be my father," there is a hint of anger in his voice. "With any luck he may just turn my clone over the way he did me. That's a truth I forced on myself."

"You ran away from The Centre to find out who your father is and the answer is back there?" All the answers are back there. Isn't this ironic." I have to laugh, bitterly. "And that's why you've been acting like a spoiled brat the last few days? Because your daddy isn't who you thought he was? Welcome to my world. Are you this upset because Major Charles isn't your father? Or is it because you didn't want me to know your family isn't off the set of 'Leave It To Beaver'?"

"I knew this would make you happy." He is angry. Happy? How would it make me happy? "You couldn't have set me up better if you tried. I wanted a lead on my family and you gave it to me..."

"Be careful what you wish."

"You sent me to a truth I find hard to accept, that Major Charles is not my father." He starts pacing. "And a truth I cannot even conceive - conceive... yes, that's an appropriate word - that I am the result of The Centre's selective breeding program. An exercise in Mendelian genetics taken to heights only The Centre could imagine. When Raines says The Centre owns me I thought he meant figuratively, because they kept me and trained me. But he means it literally; they bred me," he spits out the words. His eyes glitter with tears. "They bred me, they implanted me, paid my 'parents' to raise me, then took me back to test me. If I had been less proficient at pretending they would have enhanced me like they did Kyle, or experimented on me like they did Angelo. But I seem to be the culmination of their breeding program. Shouldn't I be proud?" He stops walking; there are tears on his cheeks.

I'm stunned; I can't think of anything to say.

"So instead they locked me up and worked me like a draft animal. And I'm sure they intended to breed me eventually if cloning hadn't become an option. Just like a prize bull, just like The Centre's cattle in Argentina." He stops talking. I can tell he's trying to regain control. He is not successful.

He starts pacing again, "So Parker, you can laugh. God knows, no, the Devil knows who my real parents are. The Devil and The Centre. The difference is hard to distinguish. Can you still tell? Or have they bought your soul? Have they sucked you in after our fathers?" He stops for a moment and stares at me, sizing me up. "Did you know, Parker?"

"About your father? No."

"About the breeding program?"

"I don't believe that there was one. I think you're exaggerating because you're upset. There isn't a breeding program, Jarod." I can't believe that. "It's not some vast scheme. That would mean... No! The Centre just searches for talented children. It's no less wrong, but it's more plausible. They would need a plan, a blueprint going back generations to do what you said. They can't breed human beings."

He smiles, but it's a cold smile, and his eyes..., "Allow me to finish the sentence you were afraid to complete, 'That would mean ...'that my mother knew; that both our mother's knew. Don't be foolish, Parker, your mother had to know. She didn't return the children to their families. She hid them away, gave them to strangers, so they couldn't be returned to The Centre." He's coming toward me, "I thought it was to hide them from sweepers but now I see that it was to keep them from being returned to their 'rightful owners' by the people hired to raise them."

He continues to advance on me. I find myself backing into a wall.

"Breeding humans isn't hard, Parker. All you need is a test tube, and a womb. The hard part is figuring a way to steal the baby. Maybe you could tell them he was stillborn. Then they would never even look for him. If all else fails you just kill the surrogate. That's easy. The breeding part is easy." He has me up against the wall, with his arms on either side of my shoulders.

Jarod's voice holds menace, " There are other ways. You can pick two people with the appropriate genes, throw them together constantly, until they want each other."

Does he mean to try what I think he does? He is leaning toward me; breathing harder. I get ready to push him back. He moves his left arm up the wall till he's inches from my face; his right hand is on my side at the waist applying pressure, massaging, with his thumb. "Or you could arrange for one of them to escape and send the other one chasing after them." His hand moves to my ribs, then back down to my waist, around my back, caressing motions. His voice is husky, "Adrenaline is a wonderful hormone; it stimulates so many others." Why the hell did I put that gun away? "You know fight or flight. Or other things..." He pulls me to him, shoving me against the wall and I feel exactly what he means.

I hear myself say, "I think you should go," in a surprisingly commanding voice. "Now."

Jarod frowns and draws in breath. The leer returns and he growls into my ear, "What's wrong, Parker, not rough enough? From what I've seen that's the way you like it. And I've seen everything." He presses his body against me.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Not a particularly good choice of words. I try to slap him but he knocks my hand away as he steps back. "You bastard!" There are angry tears in my eyes; I take another swing.

He deflects that slap too, but something got through. He hesitates; I can see his thoughts clearing in his eyes. "Yes," is all he says. He turns and walks out the door.

I follow him onto the porch, shaking with anger. I scream after him, "Keep going! Don't you fucking even think about coming back here! You go straight to Hell!!" Tears are streaming down my cheeks; my nails are biting into my palms.

Jarod stops and I see his shoulders stiffen. Is he coming back? The gun, I want my gun. Could I shoot him if I had it? Right now I could. He starts moving forward again, crossing the lawn without a backward look, followed by a long black shadow. I breathe again. Night is coming early; I see dark clouds to the east. I wonder, absently, if it will rain.

I hear him start the Jeep. I wait a moment and walk back into the cabin. The shaking gets worse, much worse. I have to sit down for a moment. Suddenly I start crying in earnest.

I pull myself together by force of will. Stand up, wait for my legs to stiffen and walk into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and towel it off. I pull out the makeup I haven't used since I came and put on my other face. I walk into my bedroom and change into my other skin, a tailored pants suit and heels. My gun goes back into its holster on my waist.

I walk back out to the living room and dial the phone, the direct number to my father's office. No preamble when he picks up, "Daddy, I'm ready to get back to work." I won't be here if he comes back.

"'Bout time, Princess." he tries to sound jovial; it sounds false. "I'll send someone tomorrow."

"I've had about as much life in the woods as I can stand. Send someone now. I want to get away from this spider-infested wood pile as soon as possible."

"Alright, Angel. I'll send a car. We'll have lunch when you get back," he hangs up. Promises, promises. Nothing changes. I have to produce the old man and the clone if I ever want to have lunch with him. I'm a disappointment. I have to prove myself. I will, but it may be at The Centre's expense.

Most of the clothes I've worn over the summer can stay here. After my bag is packed I try to sleep. That lasts about five minutes; I'm back up and pacing. I'm glad I'm committed to going back - like I really had a choice - and I want to be there NOW. One of my passes takes me close to the liquor cabinet. I haven't had more than a glass of wine since my little swim. Jarod wanted me to give my stomach a break. Well, he's gone and my nerves are shot. I need a drink. I pour a scotch on the rocks. I take it and a heavy plaid blanket out to the Adirondack chair.

I spend the rest of the night watching clouds scud across the half moon. I must have dozed off somewhere around dawn. A sound from the woods wakes me, and I wonder if it's Jarod. Just as I get up the energy to check, a doe tiptoes her way into the clearing. She notices me and snorts, trying to catch my scent. I freeze. We just look at each other -she is beautiful- for several moments. The phone in the cabin rings. She spins and bounds back into the bushes; I walk into the cabin.

"What?"

"Well, Dear Sister, are you packed and ready to go?"

"Lyle? Where are you?"

"Turning onto the road to your little home-away-from-home."

"You drove up here to get me? Why?" Why would he do that? What's he got planned?

"Not exactly. I got a driver and car from Transportation. And our father asked me to." The truth from Lyle? Now there's a new concept. "I'm supposed to make sure you're alright and ready to get back to work." And if I'm not?

"Maybe you'd like to trade places? I hear Vermont is lovely in Autumn."

"I spend plenty of time outdoors when I can, it revitalizes me. But right now I have other engagements." Did he mean to remind me of his extracurricular activities with Oriental women? To shake me? If he did he'll never know.

"This little idyll has put me off country life. Get that heap up here so we can get it turned around."

"Hang up and walk out on the porch." Click.

I put the phone down, pick up my suitcase, and walk outside. Another beautiful late summer morning, the clouds are gone, the sky is brilliant, and I'm on my way back to the underworld. A Lincoln Town Car pulls into the driveway. At least I'm going to Hell in style. I decide to wait at the top of the steps; I don't want Lyle to think I'm eager to see him. It's almost a relief really, there's no turning back now. A Centre driver, who I vaguely recognize, gets out and opens Lyle's door. Lyle hasn't changed over the summer. Still smooth on the outside and sharp around the edges. He walks slowly toward the cabin, smiling like a fox. The driver walks ahead for my bag.

Just as the driver pulls my suitcase off the porch I catch movement in the air near the Lincoln, something bright. There is a crash of broken glass, an explosive pop, and the car bursts into flame. I flinch back; Lyle ducks and falls to one knee; and the driver nearly falls over when he spins around. There isn't a lot we can do; the interior of the car is engulfed in flame. Hope Lyle took out the extra insurance. I walk over to Lyle; he is standing again and staring at the automotive bonfire.

"You might want to shut your mouth." He snaps his mouth shut. The windows are already shattering from the heat. "We might also want to back up; I would expect the gas tank to go up soon."

He glances at me, then starts to back away. "You didn't by any chance have something to do with this, did you?" He draws his gun and holds it loosely at his side. The tires explode one by one.

"Sorry. I didn't happen to think of it." Wish I had. "How many cars does this make?" I grin at him; he is not amused.

"I've lost count. Did you happen to see anything?" We have backed to the porch, a relatively safe distance. The driver is standing there holding my suitcase.

"Just some sort of fire bomb flying through the air," I'm still grinning. The gas tank explodes. The three of us duck. The driver says, "Shhiiitt," in an awed voice. I have to agree.

Lyle gives him a dirty look. "Do you have a gun?"

"No, Sir. My function is driver on non-hazardous assignments. A gun is not required."

"Where the hell did they come up with that classification?"

"Well, Sir, it is a much lower pay scale than cleaner and..."

"Never mind!" Lyle turns to me, "Do you have a gun?"

"Of course." I pull my gun from behind my back. "Who knew you were coming here?"

"I don't know. Sister retrieval isn't exactly classified. And I wouldn't have thought it's hazardous either." He looks at the still-awed driver. "If you can pull yourself away from the show, get inside and call Delaware. I want a sweeper team up here. Then call New York. I want a helicopter ASAP." The driver nods, drops the suitcase, and goes inside. Lyle looks at me "This could have been aimed at you, you know."

"Doubt it. I've been up here, unprotected, for a while. Why would they wait till now?"

"Two Parkers for the price of one? Let's see if we can find the bastard and ask him."

Lyle and I split up. He goes into the woods nearest the car; I go toward the lake. I skirt the lake and take a deer trail to one of the spots where Jarod had hidden his Jeep. It had to be him.

The Jeep is not there. It is amazing how thick and untamed these woods are. Someone could be watching me and, unless they move, I'll never see them... until it's too late. I feel the hackles go up on the back of my neck. I continue my search for over half an hour. At one point I flush a young deer by nearly stepping on it. Like I needed the extra adrenaline. I am relieved when I come to a private road leading to another cabin. I was beginning to wonder if I'd lost my bearings. The day is heating up rapidly and I'm wearing a suit. I stand still for a few moments to cool off.

I feel prickles at the back of my neck. I spin around, bringing the gun up, and there's Jarod, leaning against a tree. He's smiling that irritating, superior grin. I let the gun slowly drop to my side.

"Was that little fireball aimed at me?"

"No. It was just a bit of practice."

"Practice?"

"That Lincoln was a Centre car. It will come out of Lyle's budget. I owe him and The Centre a world of pain."

"Do you owe me pain too?"

Jarod pauses, "I'm... I didn't intend for that to happen."

That's probably as close to an apology as I'll get. " Just so you know, I am really pissed at you." That comes out a lot milder than I feel.

Jarod nods. I wonder if he realizes just how angry I am?

"Lyle will know this was your doing; he'll reopen the search; even if you're supposed to be dead."

"You can't keep a good man down," and he smiles again.

"A good man? Are you? You sound like you might have gotten over your little run-in with reality. Have you decided to get on with your life?"

"My life, such as it is, appears to revolve around The Centre. I can't "get on" with it until I finish with them." The smile is gone.

"You would be better off playing dead."

"Oh, I'll be playing, but it will be a different game," he is serious. Then he smiles, "If you're planning to take me back, you should be pointing that gun at me."

"At the moment you're better off if I keep my distance."

Jarod shrugs, "Things change; things stay the same." He backs away from the tree, "Sorry about your ride."

Yeah, right, sorry. "You should see someone about that pyromania."

"I'll call Sydney." He moves back from the tree.

"Don't call me." I yell. He fades into the ferns like a Cheshire cat.

He sounded better but there was something frightening about him. I decide to take the fastest route back to the cabin. I walk down the road toward the cabin road. I hear a motor. I jump a ditch onto the drive as Jarod roars by. I barely catch a glimpse but I think he's waving. One egocentric male down; now I have to go face the other.

By the time I trudge back to the cabin, the Town Car is slag. The driver is leaning up against a tree, staring at it. No wonder he's on a lower pay scale. Lyle is sitting on the porch steps, still holding his gun. I have long since holstered mine. I sit down next to him.

"You can probably put that away," I motion at the gun. "The arsonist is long gone."

A spark of interest, "Did you see him?"

"Not well. I was busy getting out of his way. He tried to run me down." A minor lie. "It was a 'he' and he was driving a dark blue Jeep. I've heard motor sounds through the woods since I came here but I never paid attention. There are several other cabins in the area." I pause; Lyle holsters his gun. He looks hot and distracted. "You look like you could use some water." I get up and go in; Lyle follows.

"Got anything stronger?"

"Why Lyle, drinking before lunch?" I pour two scotches and two waters.

"It's been a long morning." He takes a swift drink and holds out the glass for another, "You didn't quite answer my question. Did you get a look at the driver?"

I down the scotch, and discover that I really didn't want it. I clear my throat, "I'm not sure if I should tell you," pretend a little weakness, keep him guessing, "I know you'll think I'm paranoid because of 'guilt' but I thought the driver looked like Jarod." Let him wonder if I'm hallucinating; my back is covered if Jarod is stupid enough to return from the dead. "Like I said, I didn't get a good look."

Lyle's eyes widen briefly, and then narrow in thought. "Jarod?" spoken softly, "Yes, that would make sense. We didn't find a body. He likes to torch my cars. But why here?" Lyle examines my face, "Has he tried to contact you? How did he know you were here?"

"No. And how would I know?" Keep it simple. "People at The Centre know what I did this summer. Jarod always manages to access any damn thing he wants. I'll sic Broots on it when I get back. By the way, I'd like to get there in this lifetime. How long for the helicopter?"

"Any minute." Lyle's mind is no longer on the conversation. He downs the second scotch, lost in thought. I take my water onto the porch. Lyle joins me, third scotch in hand, just as the noise of the helicopter announces its approach. It fits neatly into the clearing. I shouldn't have wondered why my father demanded such a large, well kept lawn in the middle of the woods. He has a reason for everything. We finish our drinks and walk to the helicopter. The driver brings my suitcase and waits for an invitation to board. Lyle ends his hope, "The sweepers will be happy to see they have someone to drive them back. It's a non-hazardous assignment." He shuts the door.

We take off. The trip to Blue Cove does not include small talk.

I was concerned that the sweepers might find something in the trash, too many toothbrushes, too many dirty glasses, something miniscule and forgotten. All they found was a note stuck under what was left of a windshield wiper. The note said, "Get Over It." Was it aimed at Lyle or me? The official report of the incident said that the driver fell asleep on the porch while he waited for the sweepers. Jarod would never have missed the opportunity to double-check the cabin. Short of fingerprints, which the sweepers did not check, Jarod would have eliminated all evidence that he was ever there. I remember how careful he was, he kept his things in the Jeep. He was never at home with me in the cabin; he just pretended to care for a while.

There has been no further indication that Jarod still lives. I have Broots search daily. I ask Syd if he's heard from him. Nothing, This morning I walk into my office and log into The Centre's Intranet. A message flashes onto my screen, "I'm Baaack!!!" I lean back in my chair and wait for reactions. Broots is first through the door.

"Did you see it?!" He's excited and rather pleased. You would think he made a discovery rather than had a billboard put up in front of him.

"Hard to miss, Broots. Want to tell me who's back and what 'back' means?"

"It has to be Jarod," he's less enthusiastic now. He turns to leave. "I'll find out what he's up to, if I can."

Lyle walks in fuming, "Don't bother, I know."

I guess I'm supposed to ask, "Well?"

"Someone just blew up Donoterase. Incendiary bombs; the entire complex; the whole area just collapsed like a sinkhole. That someone took the time to herd all the cows into the apple orchard next door. Sound like anyone you know?"

"Sounds like Jarod has developed a love of fire. I assume I have my previous assignment back."

"Yes, I made the minor error of telling Father what I planned to do to Jarod when I caught him. The Powers That Be want him alive and relatively undamaged. The assignment is yours."

"Good." I lower my voice, "And, Lyle, I don't think it's necessary to tell Dad and Raines completely informed on everything we do. Do you? We might be able to arrange a little private time with Jarod before we turn him over."

Lyle smiles, a smile that would chill hot coffee, "I would enjoy that," he rubs his thumb-less hand. "But why?" still suspicious.

"I have my reasons," and you may not like them. "We'll talk privately some time." Lyle nods and leaves. Broots stands frozen.

"Don't you have a previously dead pretender to locate? Or would you rather wait till your office blows up?"

"Jarod wouldn't..."

"He might. And I will. Get to work." He leaves. I know Broots wonders what's going on between Lyle and me, but what he doesn't know won't hurt either of us.

I hope Broots is right; Jarod won't blow up his office until after he herds him into an apple orchard. But we are not as safe as we like to think. I saw the look in Jarod's eyes in Vermont; I felt his anger. It reminded me of Lyle. And Lyle would like to be alone with Jarod? He should be careful what he wishes.

Six in the evening and I'm still at The Centre. The phone rings. "What?"

"Hello, Miss Parker. Did I rattle the windows?" he sounds jovial.

"What few there are here." I'll be noncommittal.

"Ahh, another success story," he sounds pleased.

"So did blowing up Donoterase make you feel better?"

"No, it wasn't enough." He sounds tired.

"I doubt if anything will be enough for you."

"I'll know when it's enough." He's angry.

"You should talk to Sydney."

"I don't think I want to do that just yet." Stubborn.

"You need to get over this fixation, or whatever it is, Jarod."

"I have a lot of things to think about; a lot of things to do." Confused.

"Are you sure you're thinking clearly?"

"I'm thinking the way I was bred to think." Lost.

I should tell him to take care of himself.

The phone goes dead. Gone.

Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.

Most facts are in accordance with the series and the movies, just slightly twisted.



Stop Telling Me What To Do
Part 4 : Take Control
by paula h



Jarod hasn't called.

That should make me happy I guess; I can sleep through the night undisturbed. Not that I've ever slept through the night. My waking life is far too interesting to allow blissful sleep.

I've made my peace with Thomas, and my Mother's voice has become a comfort. On the live relative front, Lyle is being, well, Lyle; I have a baby half-brother who is kept at The Centre and an adult half-brother who keeps himself God-knows-where. Lovers? I have none; I don't want any. I haven't even got time for friends unless you count Sydney and Broots who are working at/trapped in The Centre with me. It's not safe to get too close to me, someone might notice. Let's see, any family I missed? Well, just the father I don't know and the pseudo-father I do.

Daddy is of the very vocal opinion that Lyle and I should still consider him our father. Genetics doesn't matter; he raised me and he would have raised Lyle if Raines - said in a sincere growl - hadn't stolen him at birth. I asked Daddy how Mom could not know that her other child was alive. He answered that she never really understood her gift and how to control it. Raines had given her drugs and she believed him when he told her the child was dead. She got flashes of insight at times and she sometimes spoke of hearing the child. Daddy said he never knew that the baby lived. He even denied that he knew about Ethan; said he thought that baby died when she was killed, and never knew that Mirage/Ethan was hers. I don't know whether to believe him or not. I've believed him so much for so long that I'm too tired of lies to care if he's telling the truth this time.

Mother's voice is comforting at the odd times I hear it. I also have little control over my gift. Syd helped me a bit, so now I can understand sentences if I really listen, but it's nothing like what Ethan endures. Ethan seems better now that he understands what he is and what the voices are. I hope he's all right on his own. He's made no attempt to contact me and I doubt that Jarod's caring for him. Jarod's preoccupied with his own agenda.

My agenda has been modified so many times I doubt I have one any more. Chasing Jarod is not only a waste of time but now my heart isn't in it. Even if I should somehow 'bring 'em back alive' I doubt I could get out of here, not alive at any rate. I'm trapped here, part of some greater plan that I may never know. I'm still looking for the truth about my past, surreptitiously of course. I would give practically anything to locate my mother's DSA, or to find out the goal of The Centre's machinations. I would love to know the story behind that photograph of my mother and Margaret. And now I want to know who my biological father is. Daddy made it clear he will not speak about it and Lyle is not even vaguely interested. I guess he's had enough fathers in his life.

Lyle probably has an agenda. He's being nice, but a nice-Lyle makes me uneasy. He seemed genuinely hurt when he found out that he/we are not Parkers. Maybe he's just worried Daddy has no genetic reason to protect him from his sins. Perhaps that's why Lyle's disappeared only once since I came back last month. A hunting trip, he told me. I was ready to check unsolved homicides across the country, but he showed me a Canadian Safari Adventures brochure and a photo of himself beside a trophy-size elk. Now he has the head mounted at his apartment, or so he says. I have no intentions of going anywhere near that place if I have a choice.

Lyle is acting almost human since he started seeing the newest Centre shrink. According to Broots' housekeeping sources Lyle is taking meds she prescribed. There was a Centre Pharmacy bottle in the trash but the medication name was blacked-out. Broots can't check via computer because the pharmacy is not on the system. At any rate, whatever the pills are they haven't made him any less smarmy. I will never turn my back to him; he might stab it. I will never turn my back on him either; he is my brother.

My father brought in the new psychiatrist that's treating Lyle. Her name is Alicia Ayers. Her main assignment is working with my youngest brother, the child I delivered into this wonderful life, the child I love. If there is one good thing that came out of Jarod's pulling me out of that lake it's that I am still here for Seth, to love him for himself. Who would have loved him if I were dead? Seth is such a big boy now, almost two, walking and talking better than children twice his age. He already reads a bit and understands more than I wish he did.

Dr. Ayres seems all right. She's good with Seth and she is working with Lyle. If Lyle told her his whole story and she's willing to help him I give her credit for a strong stomach and guts. Then again, she's relatively safe; Lyle knows better; even a crocodile doesn't eat the plover.

I know why Daddy sent me away. Raines is back in favor with the Triumvirate. He was at The Centre several times while I was gone. Lyle was quite unhappy about that, but had orders not to tell me until Daddy did. We still avoid talking, especially about Raines, but Lyle expects he will be back to stay in the near future. The way things go around here, Lyle will be returning the thumb and Raines will pretend Daddy and Lyle never tried to kill him. Life goes on.

Raines lied to my mother about my twin and he killed her, but I really wonder if Daddy knew that he took Lyle. We are all part of some big experiment. All of us. What did Jarod say? "Our lives are made of mysteries; built on lies." I'm not even sure what I want to happen to Raines. I wish Daddy had killed him, but I can't see myself correcting that failure. Lyle took revenge on Raines for all he did to him but I doubt that it was enough. I wonder if it will ever be enough. Jarod said he would know when his need for revenge was satisfied. I doubt it.

That's not to say Jarod has disappeared. He went missing for a month but now he's as busy as ever. Two nights ago three sweepers and I were trouping through a flophouse room just about an hour after Jarod slipped out. He'd solved another kidnapping and murder. That's turned into his specialty. He moves in, finds the felon, beats the crap out of him if the opportunity presents itself, and moves on. Jarod hasn't contacted Syd, and I can't tell him I know what started Jarod's descent into violence.

The red notebooks have stopped too. Sydney is extremely concerned because it seems Jarod has stopped associating with civilians, not even the victims. He has nothing to tell us. It seems he's no longer interested in learning about life. And he hasn't called.

Today will be another dead end. There isn't a red notebook but Jarod has started a new pattern. Now there will be a bible, a different version or translation. He seems to prefer the Old Testament and Revelation. Some books have been in Greek or Latin, ancient versions, modern versions, occasionally some Pseudepigrapha, Gnostic texts, or parts of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Sydney says Jarod's searching for something to support him in his isolation. I think he's looking for something to support his anger and pain.

The Book of Enoch in English is the morning's offering. This one I've seen before. Broots says it about vindication of the persecuted righteous by divine judgment and punishment of their persecutors. As usual there is an origami Nemesis used as a bookmark.

Today's pretend was slightly different than his usual. A farmer shot at the police when they tried to foreclose on his farm. He was killed. The bank that owned the mortgage will be under new management and its former administrators are on their way to jail for embezzlement and theft. The bank's VP said the guy who tied him up was going to shoot him, but then just walked away. He's probably still around here somewhere, laughing at us. I hear he doesn't laugh much anymore. I wonder if either of us has laughed since the day we went joyriding in the pink Cadillac. I wish he would call.

For Jarod this was a light week. At least this pretend was in Virginia; a reasonable drive home for a change; first night in my own bed for over a week.


[There she is, rummaging through my things. I don't leave her much of myself anymore; there's not much to leave. They say life makes you what you are...]


Home sweet home, there's no food in the fridge, and a thin layer of dust covers everything. I call for takeout Chinese. While waiting for the delivery boy I start cleaning. I do laundry while I eat General Tso chicken. After eating, I go upstairs and repeat the process. By the time I come out of my cleaning frenzy it's two a.m. Great, all day all I wanted to do was come home and relax and I barely sat down.

I get a hot shower and make the bed and pretty much fall into it. I look at the phone, as though I could will him to call. It rings and I jump. It takes a moment for me to get my heart out of my throat and pick up the receiver.

"What?"

"Can't you sleep either?"

"I was trying" That's a lie. "To what do I owe the honor of this call?"

"Just checking to see if you missed me."

"By a couple of hours. What's with the bibles?"

"A hobby. People put a lot of faith in God." He chuckles.

I'm not sure it's funny. "Do you put faith in God?" I ask.

"I like the idea of just desserts; penalties and retribution."

I don't find that promising. "What about forgiveness of sins?"

"Sure," he answers, "You should mend your evil ways."

"My ways are my ways. And not particularly your business."

"They say that if you save someone's life they are your responsibility." He has to bring that up.

"They say a lot of things. Aren't you tired of these nowhere conversations?"

He answers after a moment, softly, "I'm very tired." He pauses as though he had not meant to say that. "I'll let you get some sleep. You'll need it in the morning."

"Why?"

"The devil is alive and well, and back at The Centre." He hangs up.

I lay in bed unable to sleep until sunrise.


[At least I warned her. I didn't mean to tell her I'm tired. I am tired. I don't sleep much anymore. Not that I ever did. I wonder if she can sleep?

I miss talking to her.]


At sunrise I go in to work. Daddy and Lyle are not in their offices. I am heading to Sydney's office to tell him I finally heard from Wonder Boy when I notice that the door to Raines' office is open. Hmm, wonder if I have time to snoop?

I slip in the door and head for the files, and come face to face with Raines. He's baaack.

"Why, Miss Parker, nice of you to visit. I was just about to leave you a message telling you that I've returned to The Centre, but I see you've already heard."

"Yeah, I just came to see if you were settling in." I don't think I managed to make that sound sincere.

"Just fine, thank you. It's good to be home." He smiles that creepy smile that always makes me want to shower. He rubs his hands together.

I look down. His left thumb is bandaged...he has two thumbs again. He notices my look and the smile broadens. "Ah yes, things are being returned to their rightful order now."

Not without a struggle I'm sure. "Where's Lyle?"

"At home, pouting, last report. You would do better not to ally yourself with him."

"And my father?"

"Away." Just 'away,' said in a tone that discouraged further questions on the subject.

"Is Sydney still here or is it a mass exodus?"

"He was in his office when I spoke to him earlier."

I turn on my heel and walk out of his office, and straight to Sydney's.

Sydney looks up when I walk in his door. He must be able to read my expression because he closes the folder he's reading and folds his hands on the desk.

"Is there a reason you didn't warn me?"

"I just found out myself an hour ago. What purpose would it have served to wake you with the news?"

"I wouldn't have walked in there and had to pretend I was looking for him. What do you know about Lyle and Daddy?"

"Mr. Parker left rather abruptly at noon yesterday. Mr. Lyle was not at The Centre yesterday or this morning, although, from what Mr. Broots tells me, his thumb is."

"Yeah, I wish Broots was as good at finding Jarod as he is at getting the local gossip. Speaking of gossip I got a call last night, or rather, early this morning."

Sydney knows from whom. "What did he say? How did he sound?"

"Something about crime and punishment. He sounded more tired than usual, sad."

"I wish he would call me." Sydney shakes his head.

"He will when he's ready. In the mean time I want to see if there are any clues from Jarod's Virginia pretend. I also want to know what Broots knows about the pecking order around here."

Broots' information pipeline is dry, and there is nothing new about anything taken from Jarod's last rooms. I spend the day catching up on paperwork. I decide to end my day with Seth. I haven't seen him all week.

Dr. Ayers is working with Seth when I walk into the sim lab and sit down. He immediately leaves her side and climbs into my lap.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I thought you would be done by now."

"It's not a problem, Miss Parker, we were winding down. We had a bit of a late start. Your brother was not in the mood to work this morning. He mentioned your name; I think he missed you."

"I missed him too." I look down at Seth, the one joy in my life. He smiles and hugs me; I hug back. "Has he been doing well?"

"Yes, fine." Something about the way she says it makes me doubt it. "We have to remember he isn't quite two. His reading is progressing and his verbal skills are comparable to a four-year old. He's very imaginative..."

"But?"

"But he is not ready to do sims." She asserts nervously.

I am not happy, "Who wants him to do sims?" I wrap my arms around Seth and he squirms.

"His father, your father," she seems relieved, "I was afraid you approved."

"I do not. I'll speak to my father when he gets back."

"Well, you may want to speak to Mr. Raines before that. He wants to see results before Christmas or I will be reassigned." She looks nervous about that prospect.

"I'll speak to him in the morning. Now, I think I'll take my brother to his supper."

"Yes, of course."

We both get up. She gathers her papers; I gather up Seth.

Dr. Ayres pauses at the door, "Ah, Miss Parker, if you talk to your other brother could ask him to beep me?"

"I doubt that he'll call me, but if I hear anything I'll let you know."

"Thank you, and good evening." She leaves.

I take Seth to his rooms and keep him company while he eats. After supper we play for a bit. Dr. Ayres was right, he gets smarter every day, and I will not allow Raines to turn him into another Jarod or Kyle or Lyle.

The next morning I corner Raines before he makes his office.

"Seth will not be doing sims."

"I doubt if that's your decision, Miss Parker."

"I am making it my decision and I mean it, Raines. He's too young."

"That may well be the case, but we can't be sure until Dr. Ayers tries."

"And that's another thing. Where do you get off threatening her? My father hired her to work with Seth, it's not your concern."

"Everything here is my concern. When, or if, your father returns I will discuss Master Parker's future with him. As far as Dr. Ayers feeling threatened, she has no reason to be. If I do transfer her to other projects it will not be a demotion."

"Now if we're done? We both have other duties that need our attention."

I just stare at him. This is not over.

He just walks away.

I spend the day doing paperwork. I spend the next week of days doing paperwork and spend every evening with Seth.

My father is supposedly in Canada and Lyle has totally disappeared. I have Angelo scanning the newspapers for murders of oriental women. I would have asked Broots but he needs to concentrate on tracing Jarod. It's been a week since I talked to him and he must have finished another mission by now.

Broots ends my week with a report of nada, some possible leads but nothing concrete. It does look like Jarod is staying on the West Coast, as far away from Delaware as possible. That's fine by me. I go to Seth's rooms. He's packed and waiting in his going-outside-to-play clothes, jeans. Sydney, Dr. Ayers and, of course myself, agreed that Seth should have outings. Daddy was not especially hard to convince; I assume past failures had as much influence as our opinions. Unexpectedly, Lyle supported the idea. He said nothing to me, but Daddy mentioned it.

As far as I know Raines doesn't know about the arrangement. I want to keep it that way. I make sure he's long gone before Seth and I make our exit.

We stop at McDonald's for supper and the video store for something Disney. There will be no health food or educational activities this weekend. Seth goes straight for the TV. I insist we unpack first, but the look on his face wins the argument. Yeah, yeah, so he's a little spoiled at my house. What are spinster aunts, or in my case, spinster older sisters for if it's not spoiling little boys?

Hercules starts playing and I head for the kitchen. I stocked the cupboards earlier in the week so we don't have to get into the car until Monday morning. I start the coffee maker and pull out a bag of chocolate chip cookies, then stand in the kitchen doorway and watch Seth watching the cartoon till the coffee is done. I take a cup of coffee, cookies and a glass of milk (a nod at nutrition) and join him in the living room. Seth climbs up onto the couch beside me, chubby little legs barely long enough to make it. He is a joy - pleasant, easy, possessing a smile that would melt a heart. If Raines had one I would feel a lot better about Seth's future.

Seth looses interest in the movie after about half an hour. That's fine; it's here all weekend. We head upstairs for the delayed unpacking. We no sooner walk into the room I fixed up for him than Seth drags me to the bathroom. He' hopping from foot to foot, telling me to hurry. I try not to laugh, and resist asking him why he waited so long. We make it in the nick of time. Daddy may be right and Seth is a genius, but he is still a baby in so many ways. I complement him on his potty training; he's only been at it a month and he's learned it as quickly as everything else.

After redressing and washing up, I tell Seth to go play with the toys in his room while I change clothes. I think I'll pull out the jeans I hardly ever wear and a blue sweater. Seth likes blue. I just get the sweater over my head when the phone rings.

"What?"

Jarod's voice, "Do you think that children really can see angels?"

"What?"

"They're supposed to be closer to God, you know. '...Their angels in heaven always behold the face of my Father in heaven.' Are you his guardian angel?"

I have a bad feeling about this call. "Whose?"

"Master Parker's. It's good to know you care about him. It's surprising that they let him out in the sunlight."

How does he know? Where is he? "Things change; I think they want Seth to be a little more well rounded than the last generation of pretenders."

He snorts. I hate it when he does that. "Nothing changes. Seth, is it? Take care of him, Parker; don't let them do what they did to the rest of us. Angels are supposed to protect. Bear him up, lest he dash his foot against a stone."

"Jarod, you need to put that Bible down for a while."

"Maybe you should pick it up. Satan and The Centre both will tempt you. They tell you what you want to hear and then they cast you into the darkness."

"Which darkness? The sublevels of your mind?"

"I am what The Centre made me. Wait, they'll be doing it to Seth soon. He's almost as old as I was when my nightmare started."

He hit right on my biggest fear. "Don't you think I know that?" That was a bit more than I wanted to let slip. Well, I can't take it back so I continue, "I'll take care of him."

"There's one other thing I want to know."

"Yes?" bracing myself.

"Does Play-Doh stain carpeting?"

"How would I know?" Now Jarod's playing with Play-Doh? "Aren't you getting a little old for toys?"

"When's the last time you checked on Seth?"

"I didn't buy him Play-Doh..."

"...playing on that brand new tan carpet."

I drop the receiver down and head for Seth's room. There's Seth, opening a container of red Play-Doh. I did not buy Play-Doh. There's a container of blue beside him, and a lump of yellow on the carpet near his feet. I grab the unopened containers and Seth screams. I hand him the glob of yellow Play-Doh and he subsides slightly, squishing it between his fingers. Bits of yellow clay fall on the carpet. My vacuum cleaner is dead meat, and so is Jarod. I stomp back to my bedroom, Doh containers in hand.

I retrieve the receiver, "You are a sonofabitch."

"It's just Play-Doh."

"Then you won't mind if I shove it up..."

"Uh, uh, uh, Seth might hear you."

"Hear this, Jarod. You had no right coming in my house. Stay out of it and stay out of my business."

"Your business is Centre business is my business."

"Jarod, get a life!" I slam the receiver and head back to cajole the rest of the Play-Doh away from Seth. I wonder if Jarod left us any other presents? I cannot believe he was in my house again.


[Get a life?

I've never had much of a life. The Centre took that away from me. I tried getting a life, settling down in LA, after I left Vermont. I got a job as a public defender because there was an immediate opening, and just to see if I could defend both the guilty and the innocent. It kept me busy for the first week. Since I hardly sleep anymore I got a second job as a sound technician at a small independent studio. No money but it kept me moving. When I wasn't working I hit the gym, at least four hours a day not counting the jogging. You can meet some really interesting people jogging at two a.m. in the bad sections. But I only ever met them once. I enjoyed that.

When I was exhausted enough my mind stopped moving for a while and my eyes closed but then the dreams came. I started taking mild sedatives, only once a week, so I could sleep at least six hours.

LA lasted month and a week. I swore I was not going to do any pretends or right any wrongs on my own, aside from thinning out the muggers, but then I was assigned this thirty-something blue-collar scumbag. The DA plea-bargained him down to ninety days and the wacko leans over to me in the hall and tells me, in his cigarette and beer breath, that he killed a prostitute the same night he was arrested for possession with intent, so ninety days is nothing. He laughed. I thought for a second I might kill him right there.

Instead I checked out the prostitute murders for that night. There were two, neither was being actively investigated and I couldn't find any evidence leading to wacko on either case. Actually, the crime scenes were so botched that there was no evidence. So I checked into the girls' backgrounds. It turned out that one of them had a brother at the same prison where wacko just went. I paid brother a visit. Wacko died in a prison riot the next week. I quit my jobs the next day.

I can't have a normal life; it was an impossible dream. I've gone back to what I did for the last few years, righting wrongs, saving little guys, tilting at windmills. I am driven to do. It doesn't matter what, I just have to keep doing.]


It took me an hour to calm down after Jarod's call. Seth caught my mood and got whiney. That turned into hyperactive and obnoxious. Thank god he still likes baths. He insisted on taking in every tub toy, but it relaxed him.

I put Seth to bed and picked up his toys while he dozed off. I will have to wait till morning to get the Play-Doh out of the rug; it's probably in there for good. The yellow stain reminds me that Jarod was in my home.

Why does he do that? Circle me and watch me and violate my privacy? Is he trying to make me understand the way he felt at The Centre? Well, the big news is that I already knew how he felt. I hated it when I spent time there as a girl, dodging the sweepers and cameras. Is he just playing with me? Does he think it's funny? What he does went way past teasing a long time ago. He just doesn't seem to see it.

Seth and I are both back to normal the next morning. I scoured the house before I went to sleep on Seth's floor. The Play-Doh was Jarod's only present. Just enough for him to show he can do whatever he wants and I can't stop him. Maybe it's just a boundaries problem. Well, I haven't got time to teach Jarod about personal boundaries so I guess I'll have to improve mine.

I don't let Seth out of my sight for the entire weekend, and I scan constantly for Jarod. I feel like he's watching. Monday morning, Seth is safely returned to his rooms and I make arrangements for a little home remodeling care of The Centre. Seth and I spend time in my house so it needs to be secure.

By the end of the week you would need a bomb to get in the doors, and they still look good with the house. The windows and every nook and cranny are secure and there is a state-of-the-art alarm system. That should keep Snoopy out. I have heavy drapes downstairs and opaque curtains upstairs. The house is too dark but I'm only home at night. I can go outside if I want sunlight and now no one can see in here at all.

I also had the house swept for cameras and bugs. None were found. That's oddly comforting - one boundary he didn't cross. The funny thing is I don't feel any safer.

The week at work was totally unproductive. Jarod has to be doing something besides watching me. Doesn't he? But there's no sign of him anywhere. Broots walks into my office at five pm on Friday. I guess my weekend is about to be ruined.

"Did you hear?"

"I assume that's rhetorical."

"Yeah," undeterred, "There was a fire at the San Francisco office."

"Fire?" It can't be that bad, the place is modern, has sprinklers and more than enough people to man the fire extinguishers. Actually, I consider them overstaffed and way too casual.

"Yeah, two o'clock this morning California time. One of the file rooms sort of exploded, the sprinklers in that part of the building failed. They lost years of records, but nobody was hurt."

"Well, that's good," without inflection. Why is it that the only thing running through my head right now is "Jarod"? "What was in that file room? The place is a bit new for electrical problems."

"Mostly unclassified records, outdated financial and personnel information, and that's the thing," dramatic pause, "it was arson. That's why it was hush-hush all day. They were investigating; grilling everyone."

"Let me guess. They found nothing?"

"No, yes, well not exactly...they found the accelerant."

Like pulling teeth. "And?"

"The accelerant is unusual and exactly the same as the one Jarod used at Donoterase."

Not a surprise. "When do we leave?" I stand.

"We don't. The S F office manager told me they don't want anyone from here out there, per Mr. Raines."

I'm around my desk and heading for the door. "We'll just see about that."

The door opens in front of me. "See about what, Miss Parker?" It's Raines.

"Going to California."

"No. You will not involve yourself with West Coast affairs."

"But the accelerant is the same as Jarod..."

"It may have been the pretender you should have brought back here years ago. Then again, other people had access to information on the Donoterase fire, including your father and brother."

"You think my father did this?" I laugh.

"No, but there is a schedule seven order on your brother. I suggest you stay out of it." He leaves without waiting for an answer.

Surely he doesn't believe Lyle did it? No, it's just an excuse. Well, Lyle knows how to take care of himself so I don't think I need to worry too much. And Jarod won't leave much of a trail, so the trip would have been a waste of time anyway.

I turn around to see Broots' unsure expression. "Well Broots, looks like you just got the weekend off. Try not to have too much fun." I lightly punch his shoulder as I walk past him.

"Thanks, Miss Parker, you too." He hurries out the door.

I pick up my briefcase, stop for a few groceries, then I go home to wait for a call. It comes at midnight, but the caller is unexpected.

"What?"

"Angel?"

"Daddy! Where are you? Are you all right?"

"Yes, Darlin', I'm fine. Just gotta lay low for a while longer, till Lyle gets things fixed up. Have you heard from him?"

"No, Daddy. Do you know where he is?"

"Not where, Angel, but I know what he's doing. When he gets back he'll fix things. You wait and see."

I sigh to myself; it's not worth the fight. "Do you need anything, Daddy?"

"I just need you to help your brother if he asks. It's important. Gotta go." He cuts the call. Well, at least I know he's alive and there's a good possibility Lyle is missing on business rather than a killing spree. Things are really looking up. I stretch out on the couch and try to relax while I wait for the other phone call.


[I tried to call her at midnight but the line was busy. I was tempted to check in on her using the surveillance cameras I installed while I was hanging all those drapes. If I can't see what's going on one way, I'll find another.

I haven't used the cameras. They're just there in case I need them. Parker would be furious if she knew about them. Actually, furious seems mild. Knowing about them might push her away from me and toward The Centre. I couldn't stand that.

I put the cameras in so I'll be able to protect her. Not knowing what's going on got Thomas killed. I have to stay up on things; be able to control the situation, or The Centre will.

It was nice to see Parker with Seth. She really seems to love him. I only hope she can protect him; be his angel.

It's three in the morning now. I got involved in other things for a few hours. I can't sleep and I'm sure Parker is waiting for a call. I pick up my cellular and hit the speed dial.

"What?" Groggy, I must have woken her.

"Have you heard from your other brother? Or aren't you his keeper?"

"Did you do something to Lyle?" So suspicious.

"Not yet. I assume your reaction means 'no.' Checking America's Most Wanted? Or is that Centre's most wanted?" She makes a disgusted noise; I smile and my face muscles feel odd. Smiling uses seventeen muscles. Mine are out of practice.

"You're at the top of The Centre's list."

"I intend to stay there. I hear your brother has joined me."

"He'll be at the other end of the chase before you know it."

"We'll see. I see you've remodeled. Can I get the name of your decorator?"

"Come by my office and I'll give it to you. Do you like the new look?"

"Can't see much from here." Let her think I'm right outside. "I'll come in later and you can give me the tour."

The string of language Parker responds with would burn my ears if I were sensitive. I didn't know she knew all those words. Speaking of burning...

Once she is done swearing at me, I say, "I expected you to be flying west today, to admire my handiwork."

"I'm not fond of charcoal artwork." She sounds slightly out of breath. One school of psychology says that swearing is good for you.

"I thought it was quite effective."

"What effect are you going for?"

"In San Francisco? A little damage, a little confusion, a message of impending doom. I thought it was only fair; they did it for Sodom and Gomorrah. Or did you mean just now? I wanted to check your profanity vocabulary, and I knew just how to do it."

"You think you know everything."

"Just put a book in front of me."

"Anything but bible quotes."

"I can read and say anything I want...now"

"But not on my time." The receiver slams in my ear.

I think I know everything? I wish I did; I wish I knew how to stop thinking and sleep.

How many days has it been since I took pills? Only five? I'm tired, I think I'll take them a little early this week, just this time, just once. It won't hurt anything. And I think I'll take an extra one to make sure I don't dream this time.]


At least I got the last word that time; last time too if I recall correctly. Twice in a row is gratifying. After a Jarod conversation I take what I can get.

Speaking of which, I need to get some sleep. I hit my bed. It seems like only minutes later when I hit the alarm off. Why did I set the alarm? Oh, yes, Dr. Ayers and I promised Seth an outing. Just on Centre grounds this time but there are plenty of fallen leaves and lots of room to run around. It will take both Alicia and I to wear him out but it will be fun.

I keep telling myself that while I groan my way out of bed through a shower and into clothes. My mood improves as soon as I see Seth. Alicia joins us shortly with cookies and hot chocolate. The day gets better and better until I put Seth to bed and go home exhausted.

Saturday was perfect. Sunday was calm, call-less, and I slept in. Monday was a comedown but quiet.

Lyle made his triumphant return Tuesday morning. I was in my office when Broots came running in with his usual calm, collected way, jogging in place till he could follow me out the door. He came close to pushing me down the hall but jumped back when I made a grab for his collar. If he wore ties I would have caught him. Then again, if he wore ties they would be clip-ons.

Broots was gratified by the way my mouth dropped open when I got to the lobby. I saw him out of the corner of my eye but I was too interested in the group in the foyer. Lyle, two of his personal sweepers who had gone missing shortly after he did, and a young man I would recognize anywhere, Jarod's clone.

Jarod-2 was back at The Centre and did not look happy. I knew someone else who would not be happy. I watched Raines come around a corner and take in the scene. If looks could kill there would have been four dead bodies in the lobby. Fortunately, guns are the weapons of choice around here and there were a few too many witnesses. I guess pretender clones beat schedule seven orders so Raines lost the hand. He put a smile on his face and welcomed Lyle back to the fold.

Lyle looked at me over Raines shoulder and gave me a big smile and a wink. I'm actually glad he's back. Lyle makes me nervous but Raines is a bigger threat to Seth. The few times I've seen Lyle with his baby brother he seemed skittish but honestly friendly, like a big dog around a little yappy one. And Seth must have sensed Lyle's unease because he hung on him. I won't say that I completely trust Lyle with Seth, just that I trust him more than Raines on the subject.

J-2 was looking around glumly when he followed Lyle's gaze to me. The boy grinned, Jarod's same infuriating endearing grin, and I had to smile back. Sydney swept into the entrance hall to take the boy under his wing. Raines objected but Lyle handed his prize over to Syd willingly and then faced-off with the opposition. Rarely but occasionally Lyle makes me proud.

It took the rest of the day to get Lyle alone so I could ask him what happened. He didn't know where Daddy went but said not to worry; he would be back soon. He did not give details about loosing his recently acquired thumb. Apparently Raines found out Lyle had a lead on Jarod's clone and wanted the information so he could take credit for it. He decided on some personal questioning. Lyle got away sans thumb and then went after the boy.

They got J-2 in Fort Worth, while Major Charles was out. He returned as they were getting the boy into the car. The Major launched a rear assault. One of the sweepers tried for a headshot, and aimed a little wide. If the man hadn't thought he was such a crack marksman and shot for the chest Jarod wouldn't ever have a chance to ask the Major his questions. According to Lyle, Major Charles barely escaped.

I tend to believe Lyle told me the truth; he has no particular reason to lie about it. At least I hope it's true; I hope the Major didn't sell any children into slavery, now or before.

The boy calls himself Jenis. He's been with Sydney for a nearly a week now. Thank god for small favors, if he'd been given to Raines I would never be allowed to see him. I visited him this morning and told him I was glad to see him again, but not necessarily here. He said he remembered me from before and smiled again. Sydney scowled but it was halfhearted, I don't think he wants the boy, or rather the young man, here either.

Sydney is thrilled with Jenis' performance. He says that Je's time out in the world has improved his empathy and broadened his emotional references. I just nod. Looking at Je reminds me why Jarod was my first kiss. He is quite a young man. He's got a mind that moves faster than anyone else's yet he's not manipulative at all. He's nice, and handsome. I bet the girls will be lining up for him... if they have a chance. The Centre is not the place for him to spend puberty; lack of socialization seemed to cause problems in those of us who did.

Things have been relatively quiet the last couple weeks. No calls from Jarod; still no Daddy; Lyle has been prowling around with a Cheshire cat grin; Raines is keeping to himself; Seth and Jenis are working with their respective mentors; and everyone is leaving me alone.

My office door opens. "Hey, Sis."

I spoke too soon. "Hello, Lyle."

"Coming to lunch?" He has big news and he wants me to beg for it, I can tell.

I won't take the bait. I rise and come around the desk. "Chinese at your place?"

"Club sandwiches in Dad's office."

"He won't like coming back to crumbs on the floor."

"Then you better tell him not to leave any."

Light dawns. "He's back?"

Lyle gets no time to answer as I push him out of the way and hurry to my father's office.
Daddy is sitting behind his desk with a big smile on his face and Seth on his knee. Daddy looks none-the-worse for his absence. He even has a bit of a tan. Seth is unsure of how to act; he hasn't spent much time with Daddy. He reaches for me as soon as he sees me and I rescue him. Daddy looks a bit relieved.
"Hello, Angel, I hear you've been taking good care of your brother while I was gone. Things will get back to normal now."

Back to me being too busy to spend time with Seth? "It's good you're back."

"Yes, well, politics you know. There were administrative changes in the Triumvirate, so there were some repercussions here. Things are working themselves out. Lyle tells me Jarod caused a bit of trouble."

"We've beefed up security."

Lyle adds, "But it would be nice," he elongates the word and looks pointedly at me, "if someone would finally bring him in."

I guess we're jockeying for approval, the only problem is that I don't really care if Daddy likes him better than me. "Jarod has changed his behavior patterns; Sydney is still analyzing his actions but..."
Lyle interjects, "That'll take a couple more years."
"But Jarod seems to be acting out his anger over what was done to him as a child."

Daddy looks worried, "He could become dangerous. Do you want additional help, Angel?"

"No, I think Jarod will come to us now that we have his clone. More people will keep him away. I'll be ready." Seth starts to squirm in my arms. "I think Seth wants to get back to his studies." I look at him in my arms, "Don't you?"

He looks up at me and makes a face then he smiles. I can never deny that smile. I kiss his forehead and put him down. Lyle and Daddy are both looking at me as though I've grown a second head.

Daddy clears his throat, "Of course, Angel. But Seth needs to go to Sydney' work area. He and the clone... did you say he has a name?"

"His name is Jenis."

"Yes. Well, Seth will be working with Jenis today." Daddy waits to see if I object. I keep silent. "I'll speak to you later, Angel. Sydney is waiting."
Seth takes my hand and I take him to Sydney's lab. I wonder what Daddy and Lyle said after I left. Probably they think I've gone soft. Maybe I have. All I want is for Seth to have a life, if it takes all my time and energy, even if it takes my life. No, I haven't gone soft at all. I've just found an agenda.

Dr. Ayers is in the lab with Sydney and Jenis. She doesn't say anything but seems pleased with the arrangement.

Sydney introduces the boys to each other and they play a bit with a couple toys that Dr. Ayers brought down. After about an hour Sydney tells Seth they are going to pretend something and the boys try a simple sim. Jenis gets into work mode immediately; Seth has to be coaxed. Once they begin Seth follows Je's actions and directions. He just drinks in knowledge.

Sydney keeps their interaction short. Everyone is pleased with the meeting and another is scheduled. Am I the only one who doesn't see this as a good thing for Seth?

Last night there was a fire at the Denver field office, the first in a month. Denver was a small operation, an information-clearing center. The information is cleared now. No one was injured but the computers were melted and the place is a complete loss. I expected a call but none came.

Jarod hasn't called me in a month. He obviously doesn't know Jenis is here. I know he would have been on the phone the next morning, if not at the door. The only sign we'd had of him up till yesterday was three more solved murders. I asked Angelo about it. I know he would help Jarod if he needed it and I think he leaks information to him at times.

Angelo said Jarod did not need to know.

That surprised me so I asked why.

He said Jarod was in a dark place and knowing might kill him.

I try not to take what Angelo said too literally. Angelo may be right but I think Jarod has a right to know.

The boys have been doing small sims together almost daily for a week. Seth has a natural talent. They work together so smoothly you would think they read one another's minds. I am not happy about Seth pretending, but I love watching them together when they're not working. In a week they've made a miniature family for themselves. Je teases Seth and Seth torments Je, they argue, they wrestle, they occasionally have to be separated. I worry about what will happen to them if they are permanently separated.

No one else sees a problem with the arrangement, including Sydney and Dr. Ayers. She says that Seth thinks of the sims as a form of play and that she was wrong to worry before. She seems more confident of Seth's future and her position now that Daddy is back. She has no idea how quickly things can change around here.

Today is one of the few holidays The Centre is officially closed. It's Thanksgiving, and an outing day for Seth and me. I considered doing the whole domestic scene myself and nixed the idea. I hoped Daddy might have a family get-together but that was whimsy, and the thought of eating with Lyle creeps me out. So I opt for noon reservations at a nice restaurant in Blue Cove.

Seth and I practiced table manners all week. He's usually quiet around adults so I expect no problems there. I bought him a wool blazer, stone colored cargo pants and a madras shirt. He's a Gap commercial. A pair of Buster Brown loafers and leather trench coat finish the look. If he was thirty-some years older, and not potentially related to me, I would propose here and now. It's been way to long since I had a date.

My little bud and I were heading for the door when he stopped and looked around. "Where's Je?"

"In his rooms, I imagine. He has today off too."

"I want him come with us."

"He can't, sweetie." Please take that as an answer.

"Why?"

I knew I wouldn't be that lucky. "Because he has to stay here."

"But why?"

"This is where Je lives." And I wanted him to learn to talk.

"But this where I live. Was he bad?"

"No, honey, he's very good."

"Then why?"

"He ran away and they brought him back but they're afraid he'll run away again so he can't go outside." Okay, the truth.

He's appalled, "Ever?"

"Not for a while." Liar.

I can see his mind moving in his eyes. They're huge when he looks up at me. "If I be bad will they make me stay forever?"

I take his hand and guide him toward the door. "You're not bad."

He walks slowly, thinking, "But if I be?"

My heart sinks while I search for a reply.

We reach the door; he balks. "I not go without my Je." I knew it was a mistake to let them get together.

"Okay." Think fast. "Okay, how about we go eat something because I'm really hungry. Then instead of going to my house like we were going to, we come right back here and spend the day with Je?"

Seth mulls that over. "We bring turkey? And cwanberries?" He brightens slightly.

I'm relieved, "We can stop and get a pie." There has to be a bakery open somewhere in Blue Cove.

Seth agrees to the plan. He's silent for the trip to the restaurant. The food is good and so is the service. Seth is a perfect gentleman. He eats more than I do and then downs a huge slice of pumpkin pie. He sits there for a moment in a food-induced haze watching other people's children misbehave. I wonder if this is too much exposure to the real world.

Suddenly Seth turns to me. "We go back now."

I feel a chill. Will he become like Angelo? Never wanting to leave The Centre; preferring its dark corridors. No, he just wants "his Je." I tell the waitress to bring a take-out meal. It includes a piece of pie so we go directly back to The Centre.

Jenis is surprised to see us, but happy for the company. He wolfs down the dinner. He shares the pie with Seth, who is always a bottomless pit when it comes to food. Then the two of them move into their private world and I am ignored while they talk and play. Je is better with Seth than I am; they really understand each other.

The afternoon is pleasant until a sweeper comes to take Jenis for his daily exercise. Je's face falls as the reality of his life returns. Seth doesn't understand but he knows something is wrong. He takes Je's hand.

"Next time you go out."

Je looks at me, "I can't." I have to look down.

Seth will not be denied. "I not go out if you not go out. You promise not run away."

Je smiles at Seth and looks at me from the corner of his eye, "Next time I go out you'll come with me." Like Jarod like clone.

I pretend not to have heard. I place my hand lightly on Je's shoulder as I take Seth's hand and lead him back to his room. Seth's evening caretaker is waiting so I kiss my brother and go home. What else can I do?

The phone rings as soon as I throw myself on the couch.

"What?" I say in a tired voice I haven't heard from myself for a while.

"What are you thankful for?" Jarod. My day is complete.

"Silence."

"Lots of that at The Centre. Is that why Seth wanted to go right back?"

He really doesn't know about Jenis. I sit up, instantly tense. He should know. How can I tell him?

"I saw you took leftovers with you. For Angelo? Or has brother dearest been moved to Renewal Wing?"

"You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Lyle brought Jenis, your clone, back to the Centre." My throat constricts.

Jarod swears, "Is he all right?"

"Yes, considering. He's with Sydney, and Raines is keeping his distance."

"Is the Major back in The Centre's good graces now?"

"No. He tried to stop the... kidnapping." What else can I call it? "He was almost killed. I'm not sure where he is now." I would guess Delaware but Jarod can jump to his own conclusions.

"If it was a kidnapping and not a purchase. Where are they keeping Jenis?"

"You know I can't tell you. But he's fine. He has more freedom than you did, within reason. He and Seth have become friends. The food was for him"

"Big of you. I'm surprised there isn't a sign saying 'don't feed the animals'."

"Jarod!" He slams the receiver in my ear. Crap. I wanted to ask him about Denver; tell him to call Syd.


[I hear her yell my name as I slam the payphone receiver down.

God damn it! What did she expect me to say? Wasn't that fucking kind of you to feed him real food on your day off? All she did was remind him of the life The Centre won't let him have.

God Damn it! God damn it goddamnit! I hit the wall near the phone. The convenience store customers are staring at me as I walk out the door. Shit, I made a scene. They'll remember if a sweeper asks. Oh, the hell with it. Let them remember.

I walk past my rental car and just keep walking into the early darkness. I have to think; have to calm down.
They have my clone. God damn it! That bastard let them have him! Probably gave him back. Sold him like an animal. God damn him. God damn him goddamnhim!
I find myself leaning my head against a cement wall; hitting it with a balled fist. I have to find the Major. I should have done it before, as soon as they disappeared. Instead I experimented with having a life. That was stupid of me. Now the trail is so cold it's taken me a month to find out where they were a month ago. And as punishment they took away my clone's life. Does that balance the scales? A life for a life.

I could just trade myself for him. I've had a few years of freedom. Not really, I've never been free. I can't find my family; if any of them are my family. I can't find answers. I can't seem to live a normal life and I can't walk away from my past. Sometimes now I feel like I'm loosing myself.

No, trading myself for Jenis would mean The Centre wins. They can't win; they've gone against the order of things, defied Nature and God. Such arrogance cannot go unpunished. Hmm, yes, divine vengeance for undeserved fortune, the province of Nemesis. "Baneful Night bore Nemesis, too, a woe for mortals..." Yes, woe, that can be arranged. I think a few more fires are in order. If they thought Denver was the worst I could do they have a lot to learn.]


It's been an interesting week and a half. Jarod must have been upset after our conversation because two small offices, one in Phoenix, one in Taos, pretty much burned to the ground within 48 hours. I haven't heard about the accelerant on those two but I would be willing to make a bet. There was a fire in Chicago three days after I talked to Jarod, and another, in St. Louis two days later.

The fires all had the same strategy. Start small in a non-populated area, engulf it, spread quickly to a large but contained portion of the building, always plenty of warning and always escape routes. Jarod is still careful. There's a pattern to the chosen cities too, or rather Lyle told me there is. I'm not sure how he's keeping track of Major Charles travels but Lyle says Jarod's following the Major's trail.

I pumped my brother for more information so I could intercept Jarod at his next target. Lyle said, and this time I don't believe him, that Jarod is ahead of The Centre's information. He also said he wants to see what will happen when Jarod catches up with his dad. Lyle thinks it's going to be funny. I think it's somewhere between tragic and terrifying.


[I can't get in contact with Angelo. I wonder what they've done with him? I need him to tell Jenis I'll get him out. I'll get Angelo out too.

My "father" never stops moving. That hasn't changed. Things change things stay the same. That's almost funny. The only thing you can change is your attitude. Mine has changed.

Parker told me the Major did not sell Jenis. We'll see as soon as I catch up to him. I'm still four hours drive from New York City and I want to get there tonight. It's a big place, big and anonymous, and it's going to take me a while to find his trail there. But I'm getting closer.

A honking horn brings me back to reality. I swerve my car to the right and nearly through the guardrails. I skid to a stop. Shit. How long has it been since I slept? Three days since I've lain down. Four since I took pills. I've had the usual catnaps sitting in a car or chair. Yesterday I dozed off standing against a wall. I need a shower and a shave too. I guess I'll get a motel before I kill myself. Kill myself? Ha. Wouldn't that piss them off?

I pull into the first open motel I see. It's a dive. I turn on the light in the bathroom and a cockroach scuttles behind the commode. Sleeping in the car looks better. I put my bag back in the car. I slam the door shut and a dusting of fresh snow fluffs into the air. I just stand there. I'm too tired to drive. It's too cold to sleep in the car for more than a few minutes. I sigh, pull my shaving kit out of my bag and go back into the room.

The shower looks clean and the water is hot. While I'm shaving I make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. The past five years have not been good to me. I see the years I've lost and the tears I need to cry written across my face. The circles under my eyes are as black as my hair and my hair has a few gray strands. I can't remember when they appeared but it looks like mortality is catching up to me. Getting old.

I shake my head. Not quite old, forty, just not young any more. Around forty; I would need my birth date to be sure. I can't believe I didn't ask my fa...the Major for it when I was with him. I'll ask him when we meet again, if I don't kill him first.

Clean hair, clean face, and clean clothes. I look around the room again. It's old but there's no dust and aside from the bathroom's other resident, now dead, the place looks decent. Okay, so it's an aged hotel and not sterile but and I'm exhausted and the sheets are clean.

Lying down on the lumpy mattress feels wonderful. My spine rearranges itself to the unaccustomed position and my muscles relax. I try to relax my mind, blank it out, deep breathing, meditation techniques, silent chanting. I doze off, and I dream.

It's the same dream every time. It's dark; everything is black. It's silent and dark, like a tomb, or a sublevel of The Centre. I hear Angelo crying like he's terrified or hurt. He screams once. I can't find him. I call his name and there's no answer, only whispers from the darkness.

I see a light; pale white; bright flashes; changing to red; then black, it comes and goes. I move toward it slowly quickly, the way you move in dreams. I want to get out of the dark with its dead whispers. But I don't want to get to the light, flashing, calling me.

I'm there. The light is soft and still. I see him, Jenis, and he's sleeping, no, dead, lying on the floor. He looks peaceful. "... 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd" I look into the pale light. It turns bright; I look back at the body. It's me strapped to a slab.

The light turns red and flashing like a car wreck, blinding black, red, white. I look up. I see them. Faceless bodies, milling around, sightless, are bumping into each other and the walls. A flash of white and one of them turns into me. He stands there staring at me, a mindless mirror image of myself. More flashes, younger 'me's, faster and faster, a sea of Jarods. Then they start screaming and dying and more faceless automatons, always younger, appear to take the place of dead and dying. The flashes get brighter and faster until I'm blessedly blind. The screams get louder and shriller until I start screaming with them.

Suddenly it's black and silent and I'm somehow looking at myself looking down at me and I know I'm dead.

I wake out of breath and gasping. So much for sleeping with no pills. I get up, my back complaining, and go to the bathroom. I take a double dose of sedatives with rusty-tasting water from the spigot. I lay back down and for some reason Hamlet comes into my mind and won't leave,

...To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause:

God, God, I hope there are no dreams after death. Is that what death is? One long dream. If it is then mine are visions of Hell.

...Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

Conscience makes us cowards. It keeps me from destroying them, stopping them now. I should have destroyed them as soon as I had the chance. Then Jenis wouldn't be trapped in there, and Seth wouldn't be at all.

I think too much, worry too much about the little guy getting hurt. The Centre doesn't worry about collateral damage; the end justifies the means. I won't turn away again. They've destroyed innocent lives. If someone gets hurt so be it. No one is innocent at The Centre.

Somewhere along that line of thought the pills kick in and I fall asleep. And dream.

I'm in a forest, and dressed in Elizabethan period costume; that's different. I'm hidden just off a trail. I see a group of men facing away from me carrying a coffin toward a grave dug in a clearing.

The men lower the coffin into the grave and start burying it. They talk while they work.

One man says, "I hear she drowned herself."

Another, "That's why she can't be buried in the Church."

The first man, "Aye, and a shame too. So fine; so like 'er mother."

A third man, whose face I cannot see, says, "I know the truth about the fair Ophelia."

The others stop working and look at him.

The third man straightens and I see his face. It's Angelo. He says, "Jarod did it."

The others look around fearfully and hurry to finish. They leave.

I walk up to the unmarked grave, pick up an abandoned shovel and uncover the casket. I feel unspeakable guilt and sorrow. Shakespeare's words come from my mouth, "The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remember'd."

I open the coffin and look into a deep blue lake. There is a beautiful face beneath the water lilies... No. Parker, No...

I wake up, gasping again, groggy and exhausted. I get up and leave the motel. If I fall asleep at the wheel and kill myself, so be it, but I can't lie there and wait for the dreams. I don't want to dream any more.

Shakespeare really understood people. And people haven't changed, not in all these years. Still evil and good; things change; things stay the same. Was Hamlet crazy? I think he wondered. I wonder if I am. The sedatives have stopped working. I'll prescribe stronger ones.]


Four more days passed; The Centre's offices in New York City caught fire. There was a fair amount of damage because the sprinklers on that floor of the building partially failed. Fortunately, the fire took place on a Saturday evening so there were few people in the building. Only minor injuries to a firefighter. The fire marshal found nothing suspicious.

I tried to find Angelo but he's in hiding at the moment; I think that may be a bad sign. Sydney is on a plane to Paris with Michelle. They plan to spend the holidays in France. Maybe I should call him but I think I'll let the plane land first. There's nothing he can do right now and I can give him at least a couple of days. He needs to get away too I guess.

It's been two weeks since my Thanksgiving conversation with Jarod. Yesterday the Dallas office had a series of "electrical" fires. Nothing big but they no sooner got one put out than another one started. The fires were, of course, arson and the accelerant was Jarod's special blend, but he added a new wrinkle. They evacuated the building so that it could be swept and then three well-placed charges went off. Then the building imploded. A couple sweepers had narrow escapes.


[Watching the Dallas offices collapse was very gratifying. The detonation was nicely planned; nicely executed. I got the timing perfect so the collapse was complete before the fire department had any chance of getting here. No innocent people were injured this time. Glad I signed this little piece of art.

It makes me smile, that signature. It was almost an afterthought but so appropriate. Now I'm off again to find my "father." I just missed him again.

The collapse just missed a couple sweepers. Too bad.]


Jarod seems to be out of the vigilante business, but he's pretty much shut down Centre operations across the country. The sweeper team in Dallas found a name seared into a wall that was otherwise untouched, Abaddon. Otherwise known as Apollyon, the angel-prince of hell, the minister of death and author of havoc on earth. Appropriate.

I called Sydney and told him what's happened. He agreed that the fires are reprisals for real or perceived wrongs by both The Centre and the Major. Finding and speaking with Major Charles may end the assault. Syd promised to catch the first flight home.

Security at The Centre has been tripled and I feel sure Seth is safe. I check on him anyway. Seth is going to be very angry with me. We had an outing planned for Saturday, Disney on Ice. I have to tell him that we can't go.

He reacts as predicted. First begging, then whining, then crying, finally throwing anything he can lift. He is not speaking to me at the moment. When I leave his room he has his back to me. I know it will pass but it still hurts. Before I walk out the door I ask Seth's caretaker to take him to Jenis' rooms later. Jenis can commiserate with him. I hope Jarod finds his father before Christmas.

The pyromaniac only took three days off after Dallas. Then a new office in Oklahoma City went poof. I didn't even know we had an office in Oklahoma. The Memphis office was toast two days later. Why do we have a Memphis office? Was Elvis a pretender? Doesn't matter now. That office is charcoal too.


[I finally talked to Angelo. He said he got my messages.

I asked him why he didn't answer.

He just said, "Not talk Angelo; talk Sydney."

I told him I would take him out of that hole.

He said, "Not go; not hurt." I don't know whom he meant. He refuses to leave that place. It reminded me of the dreams.

The dreams keep coming even with sedatives, unless I take them with a couple shots of vodka. Not that I'm turning into a druggie or an alcoholic, I'm very careful. It wouldn't do to get strung-out and tell my story to the wrong person or get drunk and get caught. And it's only one or two times a week, the rest of the time I just try to keep moving, do anything but sleep. I can do anything except stop doing.]


Then there was nothing for a week, an entire week. I began to believe, hope, that Jarod had come to terms with his father and his anger. I waited for a call.


[I found him. He's in there, in that motel room. Fucking right here in Blue Cove. I chased him all over the country and he ends up right here. The Centre of the universe, it just keeps sucking me back like a soul magnet. If I have a fucking soul.

Maybe he knows. I need to stay calm enough to ask him. If I walk in there now I might just kill him outright. I stand still and watch his door.

I must have stood across from the motel for a long time because it was afternoon when I got here and now it's dark. I walk over to the Major's door and knock. I feel him come to the door. He must have looked out because he swings the door open and says my name. He's smiling. I punch him.

He staggers back into the room, shocked, "What was that for?"

"Did you sell me?"

"Jarod, it's more complicated than that." His nose is bleeding. Don't whine.

"Did you sell Jenis?"

"No, no, I never sold Je." He denies it. He looks at me in the harsh lamplight as I turn from locking the door. He sees my expression and he's frightened I think. He pauses.

I guess I must look interesting. I haven't slept or shaved in days.

He tries to soothe me, "Jarod, sit down. I guess this time you deserve the truth."

I say nothing, just sit in the chair and hold on to the armrests.

"Listen, son, I..."

"I'm not your son."

He clears his throat and looks down, "No, I guess you aren't. But I've come to think of you that way."

I grunt out a laugh; I don't believe him, "Who is my father?"

"I don't know."

I must have tensed in the chair because he hurries on.

"I really don't know. That's the truth. From what Catherine Parker told me, there were several possible donors, men with your talents. She thought your father was a man with a brilliant mind who went mad and was given to The Centre for treatment. That was Renewal Wing's original purpose, a mental asylum for geniuses and idiot savants; a place for relatives to hide the family shame without guilt."

"My father was insane?" Well, this apple fell near the tree.

"Maybe. I never found out. Catherine said that with proper socialization and monitoring, you would be fine. I never worried."

"And what about my 'mother?'" I didn't know I could say that word with hatred, "Was she worried? Did she just pretend to love me?" Was she good at pretending?

"She didn't know until a long time after."

"Is Margaret my mother?" I hear the catch in my voice.

"I honestly don't know. She donated eggs to New Genesis but I don't know if they used them. She doesn't care either way. She loves you."

I feel tears in my eyes, I blink them back and I feel them burn in my throat. "She loves me?" softly, "but she isn't my mother?"

"We don't know. You are part of a plan, a genetics program. But, Jarod, you have to believe that she wasn't in on the deal. I knew. I knew what they wanted. They promised me things. Things that seem worthless now but I jumped for it. Your mother wanted children so badly and New Genesis services were offered to me free.

"If you were 'normal' you would stay with us. If you were slightly talented you would be watched and trained. But you're what you are and they demanded that I live up to my part of the deal. You were their creation and they wanted you there. They offered a repeat procedure, a replacement baby immediately."

"Kyle."

He nods, "I gave in."

"And Kyle was a loaner too."

"Kyle was supposed to be ours. I didn't know they were repeating...repeating the..." he stops.

"The breeding experiment?"

He nods sadly. Is he ashamed? He should be. "Kyle was bright. Not like you though, more distant. I didn't understand him; I worried that we couldn't give him what he needed. When I found out they intended to take him too, we ran. When they took him Margaret had a breakdown."

I never knew that.

"If we hadn't had Emily I don't know if she would have recovered."

"Is Emily another experiment?"

"No. She's ours." He smiles slightly.

His smile is like a bullet through my heart. She's theirs and I'm The Centre's. I can't breathe; I grip the chair.

"When your mother learned the truth, what I'd done, she left me." He looks up at me. "I deserved it."

"So, you knew where I was all that time?" He knew and he left us there.

"I tried to get you out, both of you, with Catherine. Catherine died."

"You sure you didn't have anything to do with that too?" I stand.

"You can't believe that!" He's offended. Or is that fear?

"I know you are a kidnapper, and the worst kind of pimp," I growl. "You pandered children's lives, your own sons. You stole my life. You sold my future for whatever The Centre gave you. You sold your soul." My voice hardly rose above a whisper. My jaws are clenched so tight it hurts. His shirt is in my fist.

He grabs my wrist; pushes my hand away. "I did. And I've spent the rest of my life trying to save you." He is calm but frightened.

I grab him by the neck, "Too late."

I hit him once. "Did you sell other children?" I hit him again. "Did you sell Je?"

"No!" his voice is strangled. He punches back.

I hit him a few more times, I don't know how many. I slam him against the wall. I'm choking him and I can't seem to stop.

He's lying on the floor. I kick him and he doesn't move. I don't care; I turn and leave.

I wonder if I've killed him? So be it. Let his soul be judged.]


Still no calls; the message Jarod finally sent yesterday was mildly cryptic, "For we will destroy this place, get out, lest thou be consumed in the iniquity of the city." I thought it was just a bit too biblical and not very specific. The message hit closer to home this morning.

Last night the data annex in Rehoboth burned down, arson again and signed Abaddon. This fire was different. It started in several rooms simultaneously and spread rapidly. It did not go quite as smoothly as the others. An older sweeper turned security guard tried to extinguish the fire. He got caught in a backdraft. He died of his burns this afternoon.

I don't know what this is going to do to Jarod but I feel sure he'll call tonight.

There is no call.


[After I spoke to the Major I finished up the arson work at the Data Annex. Then I went back to my room. I couldn't stop moving, I punched a hole in a plasterboard wall. I tried it again on a brick wall and spent ten minutes swearing while I stopped the bleeding. I couldn't rest; couldn't even sit. I took a few pills and a drink; then a few more. By the time I collapsed, literally, on the bed I had finished off a bottle of vodka and I'm not sure how many pills.

I could have killed myself. I was unconscious for ten hours. That's too long; someone could have followed me from the motel. They could have walked in and dragged me back to The Centre and I never would have known. It won't happen again.

When I finally got moving I went back to the Major's motel to see if he was alive. He was gone. I don't know how I feel about that; I feel nothing.

I set the incendiaries to go off the following night. I didn't stick around to watch the fireworks; I caught an afternoon flight to Minnesota. The fire should have been a good one, small but more dramatic than the others.

It wasn't till the next day that I found out about the retired sweeper. I don't remember him so he must not have been overly cruel. Just doing his job like any good concentration camp guard. He was a casualty of war. The Angels saw wickedness in Sodom and found that there were not even 10 righteous people living there. I gave them warnings. Soon they'll know.

I have a short side trip to make before then. I owe Miss Parker a message, a short lesson about what a mistake it was not to run away from The Centre when she had a chance. run away from Sodom and not look back. I want no innocents hurt. Soon they'll all know to run. Soon now the retribution really begins.]


Lyle came in this morning to personally inform me that Jarod is no longer following the Major's trail. I asked how he knows that and he handed me a memo saying the Minneapolis office was destroyed last night.

I said, "So?"

"On the nineteenth, Major Charles spent the day in a Dover hospital for injuries supposedly resulting from a fall."

"Not a fall?"

"He had a mild concussion and a couple cracked ribs; lots of bruises. The intern examining him noted neck bruising in the shape of a human hand. The Major left against medical advice when the cops showed up."

"So we lost track of him. How do you know he didn't head straight for Minnesota?"

"Jarod Copperfield got off a plane in Minneapolis on the nineteenth. We have a tip from Portland that he's there."

"We get tips from Portland?"

"They decided to move the Denver functions to Portland. A part-time geek working for the police was hired. He recognized Jarod from a file photo. I took the liberty of sending sweepers ahead."

"Ahead of what?"

"You."
"Lyle, it's three days before Christmas."
"Yeh, and Jarod is running out of Centre real estate to torch. Wouldn't you rather stop him before he turns this place into a charcoal briquette?" Lyle half-smiles but something tells me he's as nervous about that possibility as I am.
I wonder if I can find a nice big chunk of coal to give Jarod as a special present. I'd like to hit him over the head with it. I grab my overnight bag and head for the airport.

It's two days before Christmas and here I am in Portland, Oregon. I'm betting this is one of Jarod's message trips because the crime of choice seems a bit too bland for his present taste. A family of con artists was ripping off the elderly and stripping houses of all their Christmas presents. Three generations of thieves, previously living in one dilapidated trailer, are going away for the holidays. Except for a three-year old who's going to Children's Services and a soon-to-be younger brother who will join him in a week or so. Mommy is pregnant by her second-cousin husband. Sounds like they could be from The Centre. Jarod has already lined up a foster family who wants both of them for as long as necessary. Merry Christmas.

According to the paper, the families who had Christmas stolen have received money or replacement gifts from an anonymous donor. Only one family was willing to be interviewed. I look at the address and it's too familiar. It's not the house Thomas was moving here to remodel but it's on the same street. That's where I am now, parked in front of the house, looking down the street at the house where I might have been living.

I left Broots at home with Debbie, and Sydney has a head cold, so it's just me and the goons this trip. I get out of the car and tell the sweepers to stay put. A man and woman answer the door together, full of good cheer; I can hear kids in the background. I start to introduce myself as an FBI agent and the woman says, "You're not. Are you, really?"

"Excuse me?"

"He said to expect you."

"Who?"

"Thomas."

My heart drops and my throat closes, "T-thomas?" I feel dizzy.

"Thomas Gates, the man who gave us money so our kids could have Christmas. He was very nice but insisted that we not reveal his name to anyone until after you came. He said you would be following him; he seemed very sad."

The man is looking at his wife strangely, "He told you that was his name?"

"Yes... I thought so, and to be sure to tell her before we told the reporters."
The man turns to me, "I'm a little confused. He wouldn't tell me his name; he said he was doing this in honor of Thomas Gates. He also told me to let my wife do the talking and then give you this."

I am trying to regain the power of speech and blink back tears from my eyes as I take a small envelope. I thank them and manage to walk away from the house without staggering. I rip the envelope open; inside is a note with an angel on the cover. It reads, "This should have been your Christmas, yours and his." There's no signature; none is necessary. If he were here right now I would shoot him through the heart.

I get into the car and drive slowly down the street. I'm still shaking inside and I can't see well enough through the tears to navigate at speed. As I pass The House, the house that Thomas bought for us, I have to look. The family is in the yard. Mom is shoveling the walk; dad is doing something on a ladder with the lights; and two kids are trying to build a snowman in the yard, a goddamned snowman. Jesus, all they need is Norman Rockwell. It's almost too much and I pretend to sneeze so I can brush the tear off my cheek.

I make it out of the neighborhood and onto a highway, and then I hit the gas. We only fishtail a couple times but the sweepers seem happy to get to the motel. We've already collected everything from Jarod's room at a disgusting flophouse so I tell the boys they can do whatever they want, even go home early. I must be in the Christmas spirit or something. They look happy and hurry off before I can change my mind. I go to my room.

I go to my room by way of the bar in the motel next door. It's been a while since I did any serious drinking and it seems like a good time to start. The place is just upscale enough to have a bottle of Armagnac I can buy, thank god. My head is pounding from unshed tears.

I hit the room, loose the boots and coat, and pour myself a shot. After I swallow and almost choke I decide to get a bit of ice and water from the vending area, a minor detour on the way to inebriation. Back in the room I turn on the only FM station not playing Christmas music and work on my future hangover in earnest.

Three-quarters of a bottle later my head is still pounding and the FM station has started playing Handle's Messiah. I've had enough of saviors for the day. There's nothing else on radio or TV. I fish through my suitcase until I find some pain medication. I take a double dose and wash it down with the rest of the brandy. I turn off the lamp and pretty much collapse on the bed. After watching the room spin in the dark for a while I drift off toward sleep.

I sit bolt upright so fast I nearly fall off the bed. I fumble for the lamp switch. It's a good thing it's bolted to the table because just about everything else hits the floor. Amazingly, the glass doesn't break. I sit staring at the mess while I try to remember what woke me. After a few minutes the dream comes to me - Thomas and me in front of a fire in The House, holding hands. There's a knock at the door and Thomas gets up to see who it is. I don't want him to go, to open the door, to die again, but I am frozen in my spot and I can't even scream. Then the dream shifts and everything is gray and I hear my mother saying she loves me, and Thomas' voice saying he'll always be with me. Right now that's more than I can take. God damn Jarod for bringing Thomas back, God Damn Sydney for being too sick to bother, God damn Daddy for never being there, God damn Thomas for making me love him, and God damn me...god damn me for thinking I could ever have a normal life and love.

Well, this won't do, tears streaming down my face and nothing to drink. Hell, why am I drinking alone? It's been two years since Thomas and I am done crying. If Jarod thinks he can make me start again he's got another thing coming. I splash water on my face and fix my makeup, a little heavier than usual so they won't know I shed even one tear. My leather miniskirt is none the worse for being slept in; I trade my sweater for a stretch lace tank top I normally wear under suits. The bar is just across the parking lot so I decide to skip the coat and slip on a pair of spike heels. What the hell, let someone else pay for the drinks.

The night is calm and the cold air is sobering. I definitely do not want to sober up but it probably makes walking safer. The bar is warm and has a decent crowd, after work executives schmoozing with business travelers, and not too many sloppy drunks. Every eye is on me as I saunter up to the bar. I take a corner stool, order a scotch and wait for company.

They start circling immediately. I forgot how exciting this can be; it's been way too long. The first candidate has a ring on his left hand; I ignore him. The next two come over together, but they're smarmy and that's not what I'm looking for. Choice number three is a Raines-look-alike; gag me. Candidate four is dark and wearing jeans, I have to chug most of my scotch to fight off a panic attack.

Just when I decide to give it up and go stand on the street corner, Mr. Right-for-the-moment walks over and sits down. Blonde and brown eyes, just the opposite of Thomas, perfect smile but a little too sharp. He's wearing Armani and drinking Chivas, at least he has some taste. He'll do.

We chat each other up for about an hour and two more Chivas apiece. We decide to leave the bar while we can still walk. He has room in this motel so he invites me up to check out the honor bar. I go. We never get near the mini-fridge.

We're lucky we made it to the bed. What's Bob Seger say? "I used her; she used me. But neither one cared. We were getting our share." Change the pronouns; it works. We kept at it for three hours, three hours of totally mindless sex. When we're done Blondie, I can't remember his name, passes out. So much for small talk.

The real downside is that I'm only a little buzzed now and I have to get back to my room alone. There's that word, the one I was trying to avoid with three hours of gymnastics, right back where it belongs. I look down at Blondie while I dress; he isn't even that handsome, just young, so young, with years ahead of him before he wakes up in a motel room alone. Three hours of aerobics, three minutes of oblivion and I'm just as depressed as when I started.

I make my way out of the room, down the elevator and past a leering night clerk. He probably thinks I'm a professional; the smirk on his face makes me feel used. I go out the motel's front door and toward the parking lot. I wonder if Portland has all-night liquor stores or if the Quick Marts sell anything worth drinking? I'm looking down; paying attention to my footing but when I glance up for a second I could swear there's someone tall leaning against a streetlight in front of my motel. Jarod? I loose focus as I slip a bit on the ice. When I look up again there's no one there.

That's definitely what he wants, me imagining him any time I try to have some fun or what passes for it. Define fun. The wind picks up for a second and I shiver. Am I feeling guilty? I definitely feel worse than when I started. And now I imagine Jarod just to give myself guilt.

I turn into the parking lot and head for my car. I don't care if it's cheap hooch, there has to be some alcohol in this town. The lighting is not the greatest and I concentrate on not falling. I hang onto the fender a the panel truck parked next to my car which is, of course, parked on a sheet of ice.

Suddenly, someone grabs me from behind, a hard muscular arm pins my arms to my chest and a hand clamps over my mouth. I'm stunned for a second, just enough alcohol in my system to slow reactions. I brace myself to fight but he's not doing anything. He's just standing there, holding me too tight. I wait for him to make some move so I can use his momentum against him. But he's not moving, just breathing heavily and sort of rubbing his stubbled cheek on my hair. It makes my skin crawl, but still I wait. I know who it is; yet I hope it's a stranger.

He inhales deeply, breathing in the fragrance of my hair, my sweat and the smell of another man. His arm tightens, cutting off my breath and his fingers dig into my cheeks. I barely start to struggle; he relaxes again. Still we stand there.

I feel his breath hot on my neck as he nuzzles it, heavy breathing. It makes me shiver; I try to pull away. He moves his mouth to my ear, warm breath, harsh whisper, "It could have been me."

I'm free. He releases me, hand brushing my breast just a beat too long to be accidental, and I fall against my car. I spin around, catching my breath, trying to find the gun in my purse with numb fingers, but he's already in the shadows.

Oh my god, it was him. Jarod. Oh my god. I'm completely sober now. I have the gun in my hand and it's staying there. The whole time, he's been watching me. Oh my god, he was watching.

I slip and slide my way into my motel. The desk clerk sees the gun and probably the look on my face. "Mugger," to his unasked question, "I scared him off." I brandish the gun. He just nods and dusks his head; he does not want to know. I get on the elevator.

I scared Jarod? Not ever. But he just scared the shit out of me. Oh my god, he was watching. Does he always watch me? Oh my god, did he watch Thomas and me? Did he set us up so he could watch? Oh my god. I can't seem to stop thinking that mantra. I rub the heel of my hand into my forehead. Oh, God.

I have the gun ready when I get to my room. I shove the door hard in case he's behind it. I deadbolt the door. I check the closet, under the bed, behind the drapes, and the bathroom. I check my suitcase; everything looks undisturbed. At least he wasn't in here rummaging through my clothes.

I walk over to the bed again; the bed is still made, bedspread in place. Something is wrong but it takes a moment for me to place it. There's an indentation on the right side of the bed, the side I did not sleep on. I step closer and lift the spread. There, on my pillow are a candy cane heart and a condom. I grab them and throw both in the garbage.

I go back to the window and look out. Is that him in the shadows? I check the windows even though I'm on the fifth floor; they are sealed. I recheck the door. The clothes I was wearing follow Jarod's gifts into the garbage. Then I take the longest hottest shower I can stand. Oh, God.

There is no way I'm going near that bed again. I put on a pantsuit and sit in a chair near the window, facing the door. I don't think he'll come after me here but I'm not sure. I thought I knew him, felt safe when he was around, irritated but safe. Except for moments in Vermont, but I rationalized those. He was upset because of his father. Now I don't think I know Jarod at all; I don't understand what he just did. And when I think about the things he said in Vermont... Was he telling the truth about watching me?

My mind circles until dawn. I find myself peeking out the window every few minutes, waiting for the shadows to disappear so I can get to my car without watching every direction at once. Pedestrian traffic is starting to pick up, and there's no sign of Jarod anywhere. I think I'll get out of here before my paranoia nails me to the spot. I grab my coat and bag. I check the hallway and keep a hand on my gun until I reach the lobby.

Checkout, the drive to the airport and catching the first flight east were uneventful. I finally doze off in-flight but not deeply or for long. I want to go home and change all the locks again but first I need to talk to Sydney about Jarod.

What the hell is wrong with him?


Well, it's Christmas Eve and I'm sitting at my desk looking at Lyle. Ho, ho, ho.

I spoke to Sydney about the Portland adventure and Jarod as soon as I got back. He was surprised by Jarod's near violence toward me. Syd suggested I had overreacted then retracted the suggestion. He's worried because Jarod always separated his opinion of me from his hatred of The Centre. Now he's beat up his father, accosted me and hasn't spoken to Syd in over a month. Sydney is afraid Jarod will disappear or become another Alex. God, that's just what I wanted to hear.

Lyle's here because he was elected to tell me that I can't take Seth to my house for Christmas. Daddy was too occupied to come himself. Yeah, right, he was just afraid to face me.

Raines finally found out I've been taking Seth out of The Centre. While I was away being assaulted, someone expressed concern about our plans for tomorrow. Raines confronted Daddy. I would love to know how long the Chairman defended his children before he caved.

Lyle is apologetic. Maybe he has genuine feelings for his brother. That may be too much to hope for. It's more likely he would do anything to oppose Raines. But still he gave me presents for Seth and Je. When he saw my surprise he told me not to go all warm and fuzzy on him. Then he walked out.

So I get to spend Christmas at The Centre, another thing to thank Jarod for.

Christmas Day goes smoothly. I spend the majority of it with Seth and Jenis. They loved the clothes, books and art supplies I got them. They were thrilled with the Game Boy Advance systems that Lyle gave them. Seth can't quite handle his yet but I give it a week before he has Yoshie doing whatever yoshies do. Je, on the other hand, whizzed through Mario something and is now engrossed in Tony Hawke. Seth is trying to climb into his lap so he can watch the action. I predict a fight in a few minutes. I think I'll make a run for it now.

Sydney stopped in earlier. He lifted an eyebrow at the jeans and sweater I'd given Je, but said nothing. His eyebrows hit the ceiling when I told him Lyle was responsible for the Game Boys. He walked away smiling and shaking his head. Well, I still think it was nice. Nice Lyle, it still makes me nervous.

Sydney asked me to stop by this evening. I'm too tired but I go.


[I take a shot of vodka before I dial the phone; another while it rings, courage in a bottle. The sound of the receiver being lifted on the other end almost causes me hang up.

"Sydney here."

His voice sounds so good, so normal, from another world. For a second I can't speak. Then softly so I don't scare myself away, "Sydney."

"Jarod, thank God!"

"God has little to do with me I'm afraid. And I would think you'd be thanking him more if I just dropped dead."

"Jarod!" softly reprimanding. "Talk to me."

"Have I become what I hate?"

"If you can ask that..."

"Please, Sydney!" my voice cracks, "give me a straight answer just one damn time." Is it anger or despair?

"Your recent behavior is on the edge of real violence. But if you can still ask that question, then I would say you are not a sociopath."

"I think I've passed over the edge of violence. Don't you?

"You may have. Until recently I still saw clear signs of restraint, self-control. Now I worry. Do you know what do you want?"

"I want to be Uriel, the pitiless Fire of God. 'Uriel, the angel of God shall bring forth the souls of those sinners... they shall burn them... in everlasting fire; and after that all of them with their dwelling places are destroyed, they shall be punished eternally.' I want judgment."

"Judgment should be left to... God perhaps. I heard you fought with your father. Was that a form of justice?"

"It was a bit one-sided to be called a fight. I heard he survived. I believe I lost that self-control you speak of, just for a moment. In another way I felt in complete control. I think I liked it. I like the feeling of power when a building goes up in flames like a carefully orchestrated symphony." Fire can be a beautiful thing. Power.

"And the data annex in Rehoboth?"

"An accident. But there are no innocents working for The Centre so I feel no guilt." I feel nothing at the moment, a void where my soul should be.

"If that is true, why are you calling me?" He always manages to see through me.

Do I have a soul? Does Sydney know? "Angelo won't talk to me. He said he's afraid because I feel like Lyle, all black and angry. That's me, another Centre success story. So you don't think I've turned into another Alex?" Not for want of trying

"You are not Lyle or Alex. You are no one but yourself."

"No one? That seems appropriate. I'm Centre property; the construction of two unmarked test tubes in a lab."

"Your genetics were mapped out for years before you were conceived. You were not an accident"

"So you did know?" God, he's lied to me too... all this time. I should hang up now; pay him a visit; explain truthfulness.

"No, Jarod. I only found out after Donoterase. I don't know that many facts but I know you were meant to be."

Should I believe him? "So were Kyle and Angelo and all the rest engineered? Were they meant to be?"

"Genetics is an uncertain process."

"Well, of course it is in the field. So they switched to gene mapping and cloning, more precise and controlled. And after years of methodical experimentation they produced Jenis. If there's one thing I learned from The Centre it's the need for control."

"Your quest for control is understandable."

I laugh aloud. That's funny. That's really funny. "Is it Sydney? If so, you taught me. It's all I ever knew from you; what I got for Christmas and every other day."

"Jarod, you know I regret the things that were done to you and the others. You must come to terms with the truth and the past. For healing to begin, you must first forgive..."

"I can't forgive." I don't want to forgive. I want justice. I want my hands around your neck...

"Do not let your anger get the better of you. Control it, not it you. Let me come to you; we can talk."

I mentally blink. Around his neck? Oh God, do I hate him that much? "I can't talk to you any more." I have to get away from the phone, stay away from him. I need to walk.

"Jarod, please..." Sydney is still talking when I hang up my phone.

I should separate myself from them all; take away their power over me. I need to walk. It's only ten miles to Parker's house and I can't allow myself sleep this close to The Centre any way.

I should hate her. I thought she had changed. I hate what she does; what she did in Portland. I did hate her for that moment when she went with him; when I smelled him on her. I need to see her. It's only ten miles.]


When I get to Sydney's house Michelle answers the door. She tells me Syd is in his study and offers me food. I politely decline and she says she will be in the kitchen if I change my mind. She smiles but does not seem very joyous.

Sydney is pacing and wringing his hands when I walk in. He tells me Jarod just called him. He would not tell me what Jarod said but I don't think I've ever seen him that upset over anything Jarod's done. Then again, Jarod's never been this far over the deep end.

Syd wonders if Jarod's psychosis is permanent. He uses the word salvageable. That surprises me but I don't comment. I do ask if Jarod is ready to get help. Sydney just sits down at his desk and puts his hands over his face. I think he was crying. I walk over and put my hand on his arm. He says he needs to be alone.

I stop in the kitchen on my way out. Michelle promises to take care of him. I go home, make sure the place is locked up tight and Jarod has not managed to get through the alarms and security devices. I pour myself a short brandy and go to bed. I'm tired, the brandy hits me just right, and I fall asleep quickly. This has been a very Un-Merry Christmas.

He's in here, in my bedroom. I hear him breathing. He's at the foot of the bed; I hear the bad floorboard creak slightly. If I lay perfectly still maybe he'll think I'm still asleep. He'll just watch me and leave like he has before.

I don't know what woke me five minutes ago but it's been five minutes of hell. I concentrate on breathing slow and calm, even though my heart is pounding against my ribs. I reach for my gun under the pillow, slowly so the blanket doesn't move at all. It's not there. I know it was there when I fell asleep.

He's moving. His shoe scrapes on the on the carpeting. Stay calm. It sounds like he's leaving. No, he's moving up the bed. He's standing over me. He chuckles softly in his throat; it's not a pleasant sound.

"Do you think I can't tell the difference? I've watched you sleep a hundred times. I know how you breathe, how you move your lips, how you drool." He's leaning over me; I feel the weight of his shadow. "I've seen how your eyes move under the lids when you dream, how you move your arms and legs, how you throw back the blankets when you get hot."

He rips the blanket off. I open my eyes. My arm is still under the pillow; I throw it at his head and start to move. He bats the pillow away and laughs. He was expecting it. I don't even make it to a sitting position. He grabs my throwing arm with one hand, pushing it above my head. He catches my other wrist and pushes me down with his other arm. His knee is on my stomach and I can't breathe. His face, his wild face is over mine.

"Fight me, Parker, go ahead. I've wanted this for a long time."

I fight myself free of the blankets. I can't catch my breath. I'm awake, I'm awake and I'm alone. Jesus; Mary, Mother of God, it was a dream! I know I'm hyperventilating but I can't catch my breath. I deliberately hold my breath for a count of ten, and think about every breath after that. My gun. I rip the pillow off the bed and throw it across the room. My gun is right where it should be. It was just a dream.

I get out of bed and pull back the heavy curtain. There's a half moon and few clouds. Dawn is just a few hours away. I look down. There he is, standing against a tree. He looks up at me and pulls out his cell phone. I walk to the bed and bring the phone back to the window before the second ring.

"What do you want, Jarod?"

"I can't remember any more."

"You know, you could call Sydney again. He's very worried about you." So am I.

"So he said."

"Don't you think you've done enough?"

"I'll know when it's enough."

"Do you think so?"

He doesn't answer.

"Jarod, if you ask for Refuge I will... we will try to help you."

He drops the phone to his side and looks up at me silently. Is that glint a tear on his cheek? He looks down. He puts the phone back to his mouth, then closes it, turns and walks away. Merry Christmas, Jarod.