Author’s Note: I had always felt Broots had a thing for Miss Parker early on, but the show didn’t really touch on that till Season 3. So, here’s a Season 1 fic exploring that and other ideas. (Season 1, post Unhappy Landings, Allusions to Season 3, Risque Business; Season 4, Inner Sense) Broots/Miss Parker

Part One
Mr. Raines encompassed all the horrible elements that his nightmares were made of. Darkness. Immorality. Hopelessness. Raines was the main reason Broots didn’t sleep at night; he spent countless hours watching his little girl sleep. Broots never claimed to be a brave man, but nothing would ever keep him from watching over his daughter and protecting her. Raines was like the Boogie Man; hiding in his daughter’s closet waiting for the opportune moment to leap out and scare her senseless. Yes, Mr. Raines was evil. Broots was convinced of that.

If this man had the power to frighten him so, then why was Broots digging through documents he knew he shouldn’t be?

He had found a note on his desk written in a scrawl so insufferable, he had a hard time making out the message. After a few minutes of squinting, he made out the words: Server ASL33 needs repair. Usually Judy in the computer lab next to his checked up on the servers, but when he went in search of her, she was out to lunch. How convenient. After reading the note again, he managed to make out his name written across the top. Whoever wanted the server fixed specifically wanted him to do it.

Broots,
Server ASL33 needs repair.
Signed, ???

His eyes simply couldn’t make out the last word. He would never know who was sending him down to Sub Level 9.

He anxiously watched the numbers light up one by one indicating which floor he was on. SL- 9 came faster than he wanted it to. He walked the long, misty corridor until he reached the very end. After pushing through heavy, metal double doors, he was met with rows and rows of computer servers stacked high and wide. They held all the secrets that people like Mr. Raines wanted to stay hidden, or so he fantasized.

A man like him dreamed of one day hacking into the mainframe and taking everything. He imagined the rush of exposing The Centre for what it really was would be unbelievable, but alas the risks were greater than the reward. Not to mention, a certain genius named Jarod would’ve probably taken this course of action a long time ago if these computer servers held all the secrets. So Broots would ignore his fantasy of becoming the greatest computer hacker in the world. He would meander through his job like the good techie he was and repair the damaged server on Sub Level 9. He was never meant to be a hero.

Broots checked the different rows and quickly deduced where Server ASL33 was located. When he got there, he soon saw there was absolutely nothing wrong with the server. Every little green and orange light that indicated it was working was lit. A manila folder greeted him instead, tucked between two pieces of computer equipment. The tab read “Rescued”.

Rescued? Oh no. No. No. No.

Broots had swore to himself and Miss Parker he was done with the Rescued children. They were all dead. He liked the idea of breathing.

The folder was resting there staring back up at him expectantly and he tried to avoid it’s powerful hold on him. He nervously glanced around and whispered, “Is anyone there?” A noise in the air ducts met his question causing him to jump in fear. He repeated a little louder this time, “Hello? Anyone there?” Broots froze trying to listen, but the sound ceased. He was all alone.

His gaze fell on the folder again. A few more nervy glances over his shoulders and he picked up the folder and bolted. A strong part of him just wanted to leave it there, but his heart wouldn’t let him.

Broots remembered the look in her eyes when she had asked for his help. Unbeknownst to her, he could occasionally see the torment of working at The Centre eating away at her. Solid ice walls were the protective barrier around her soul, doing the best they could to keep her together, but he knew she was slowly unraveling.

The “Rescued” children that her mother had tried to protect all those years ago had somehow begun to melt those icy walls. Miss Parker was human after all. Yes, she was human and Broots wanted nothing more than to provide comfort. Just once, he wanted to take her hand in his and say “It’ll be alright.” She needed that kind of attention whether she wanted to admit it or not. She needed someone like him, but the fact remained she would never want someone like him. Yet, he remembered the look in her eyes when she asked for his help and he couldn’t refuse his heart. He took that folder because he had some foolish notion that she would be grateful for his assistance. Maybe she would be grateful to have a friend like him, always watching her back. Always willing to help.

Unlike the executive suites on the upper floors of The Centre, the bathrooms on his floor reeked of urine and bleach. He had locked himself in a stall trying to accustom himself to the horrid combination of odors. He lowered the toilet seat and then sat down to read. His fingers seemed to lock up on him as he flipped through the pages. His knuckles ached. His fingertips were sweaty. These documents described an unthinkable act. A cover-up. It concerned the woman Miss Parker went to see only to find out she had passed away. Darra Landers.

They were memos only a few sentences long, but the instructions were very clear. Broots recognized HTML dispersed throughout the text indicating these were directly downloaded from an outside source. These memos were undoubtedly email messages outlining orders to rid the Centre of any garbage cluttering their shelves. Specifically files on children who used to be subjects at The Centre. The names of these children were all in the “Rescued” folder Miss Parker gave to him. These same children were relatively young men and women who died under mysterious circumstances within the last 6 months.

Poor Darra Landers. She was the only one mentioned in the memos more than once indicating only one inevitable solution. She was a specific target. She must’ve been the key to something important, but to what? He wanted to read on, but nausea took him. How could this place be so vile and unforgiving? How could they murder these innocent people?

A toilet flushed and Broots nearly jumped out of his skin. When did someone come in? He never heard anyone else enter the bathroom. That meant he wasn’t alone and he couldn’t risk being caught with such highly dangerous documents. He organized the papers and shoved them back in the folder. Then he stood up, flushed his toilet and opened the stall door cautiously. A short guy was washing his hands. Suspenders, shiny black shoes and a red tie. Broots knew who it was and realized he was safe. He tucked the folder under his arm, walked over to a sink and cut on the water. He squawked, “He-Hey, George.”

George turned to face Broots and stared at him through thick lenses,”Broots! Hey, haven’t seen you in the cafeteria in a while. Got sick of the Special Surprise Meatloaf?”

“Uh, well, my boss keeps me busy,” Broots muttered, then fumbled with the towel dispenser. He tore the thin paper and then dried his hands. “Uh, there’s just. . .uh, not a lot of time to socialize, you know? I get even less time to eat.”

“Oh, right. The ‘special’ project that you can’t talk about,” George rolled his eyes. He waved his goodbyes and smiled, “You always were one for theatrics, Broots!”

“If you only knew,” Broots muttered, waiting a few minutes before exiting the bathroom himself. Broots used to be George. An innocent. A lab technician just trying to make ends meet and provide for his daughter. Then word got out the Chairman was looking to promote one of them. To help with a very special project that required the best mind in the business. There was also rumor they would be paired with the Chairman’s daughter. That excited the male candidates more than the women. All in all, they were all zealous, trying to guess who would be the chosen one. They picked Broots. Why didn’t they pick George?

Once back at his desk, Broots shoved the folder in a drawer refusing to hold it any longer. He wasn’t sure what to do now, but he knew his hands had been stained. He eyes were burned with the text he had just read. Darra Landers was murdered. Why? To keep certain people from knowing the truth. What truth? Now that, Broots did not know. It was something Miss Parker desperately searched for and constantly came up just short of finding out.

Should he tell Miss Parker about this folder? It was bad enough Raines caught him disconnecting from the network. That meant they were watching him a little more closely. Would it be wise to once again risk his neck over something he nearly lost everything for? Something that wouldn’t change his life or effect him in any way? He remembered the look in her eyes when she asked him for help. Yes, he would risk his life again. His heart would never let him say no.

He took a deep breath and tried to think rationally about this. Someone set him up. Someone wanted him to find that folder. He grabbed his coffee mug and sipped on the cold contents within needing the comfort of caffeine in an effort to calm himself. Who would want him to find it? Why him?

A hand skirted his shoulder and he bounded out of his chair in surprise. His cold coffee spilled all over the front of his shirt causing him to screech at the sudden chill. He swatted at the mess and stared incredulously at the woman standing next to him. He whispered in a hushed tone, “You have got to stop doing that!”

“I was trying to be discreet,” Miss Parker replied quietly, her words still having some bite through the soft tone. She puffed her cigarette and viewed the coffee stain on his shirt with disgust. She rolled her eyes and remarked, “‘Trying’ being the key word there.”

“Well, I . . ., ” Broots stammered. He couldn’t find any words to describe his discontent. Parker had this way about her that caused every function in his brain to shut down. He lost the power of speech, common sense, and courage. As much as he wanted to yell his frustration over the spilled coffee, he merely let his arms dangle at his sides. He was putty in her hands. He shrugged and asked politely, “Did you need something?”

Parker’s eyes lit up sending him cold daggers as she grumbled, “You left a note on my desk saying I should see you.”

“I did? Me?” Broots faltered slightly, his eyebrows rising so high they appeared to disappear into his thinning hairline.

“Yes, you did,” Parker said slowly, this time her voice inquisitive. Curious. She reached into the breast pocket of her suit jacket and revealed a note. She shoved it at him and laughed lightly, “I have to say, your handwriting could use some improvement.”

Broots’s hands trembled as he viewed the same scribble that was on his note. Whoever wanted him to find that folder also wanted Parker to see it as well.

Parker,
Urgent. See me about rescued.
Broots

The computer techie gulped after reading it. He tried to crack his neck, but nothing alleviated the tension he was feeling. “Uh, well, I got a note too, Miss Parker.” He reached over to his desk and held it up. She inspected both notes and noticed the similar markings on each. “It said I needed to repair a server on Sub Level 9. Instead I found something else.”

“Well, let’s see it. I don’t have all day,” Parker snapped.

“I don’t know if I should,” Broots hissed strongly. “You may be willing to risk life and limb, but I’m not sure I am willing to let you.”

He wasn’t exactly sure where that came from, but she was less than pleased with his attempts at being protective and chauvinistic. Parker approached him until her face was mere millimeters from his. Cigarette smoke filtered out of her nostrils and past her slightly parted lips, the nicotine smell nearly choking him. She growled, “Did I just hear you correctly?”

Broots gulped, not ready to back down just yet. “You heard me, Miss Parker.”

She flashed a brilliant, yet wicked smile full of teeth. It could’ve been a sign of how impressed she was with his boldness. It also could’ve been a sign of how much pleasure she would have in firing a bullet in his ass. Her eyes remained cold and unfeeling. Not once did they blink. They stared deep into his just daring him to speak again. He could feel himself shrinking, a shiver tickling his spine. After a few moments of this intolerable eye contest, she asked smartly, “You gonna show me what you found now, Broots?”

“Uh, yeah,” Broots relented and quickly escaped her potent stare. He fished the folder out of his desk drawer. She snatched it from his hands before he had time to think. He stood there, waiting on her reaction. He knew she wouldn’t just let this go. He knew she would want to investigate. He sneaked a peek at her and noticed the change immediately. The stiffness in her shoulders was gone. Her eyes were incredibly cheerless and tempestuous all at the same time. He rubbed the back of his neck and coughed. “I read most of them. Darra Landers . . .she was. . .”

“Murdered,” Parker finished gravely, flipping through the memos. “None of these are signed. Can we find out who sent them?”

“I thought about it,” Broots admitted. “Unfortunately, I wouldn’t know where to start looking.”

“Then figure out a way,” Parker ordered threateningly. Her eyes were still scanning the memos when she paused. It was an insightful pause. It only made him feel more ill at ease. Her tone was gentle, but her words demanded attention, “On second thought, follow me.”

She began to walk away leaving him slightly bemused. She wanted his help. He could see the look in her eyes when she was given proof of Darra Landers murder. As much as he wanted to stay within the safety of his cubicle, his heart wouldn’t let him. He grabbed his coat and rushed after her despite his misgivings. As he followed he began to ask himself for the umpteenth time in the last year, why didn’t The Centre pick George for this job?

----------------------------------------

The fabric in The Centre issue car immediately took in her scent. Not even the pine fragrance car freshener hanging from the rearview mirror could drown out her perfume. He fiddled with the seatbelt as he watched the scenery fly by. He wanted to focus on anything that didn’t involve taking in deep breaths of the intoxicating, sweet smell.

He remembered the first day he had been assigned to work with her. Assigned to help track Jarod. He was naive. Most definitely lovesick. She was just as guileless, not realizing the depths of Jarod’s knowledge. He wanted desperately to impress her, but as time wore on, he let his fantasy morph into illusion. His illusion into reality. His reality was that she would never see him in that way. Never want anything more than a passing relationship.

A bump in the road broke him from his thoughts. Broots didn’t really know where they were going, but he didn’t have the courage to ask. There was just something about her that made him lose any shred of dignity.

Their journey ended at a small, yet elegant home. As they pulled into the driveway, he noticed the porch lights were the only illumination. Judging by the garden work and lack of light, he deduced that whoever lived here rarely got out. A stray cat crept across the lawn. It’s yellow eyes stared at him briefly before bounding away in a frightened manner. He smirked. Maybe the tabby had already met Miss Parker.

Parker cut the engine, then leaned back in her seat. She appeared to be apprehensive. Unsure. Well, she wasn’t the only one feeling unsure. Broots had no idea what to say or do next. Where were they? He bravely turned to look at her, but she wouldn’t look at him. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she said stiffly, “This is my home. We just need to pick up a few things, so don’t get comfortable.”

Before he could respond, she exited the vehicle. This was her home? Well, that explained the lack of lights in the house and the inattentiveness that was obvious in the garden. Working for The Centre gave one no time to indulge in the simple pleasures in life. Broots opened his side of the car and slid out. He followed her to the front door and waited for her to unlock it. He gave her a genuine smile and complimented, “This is a very nice home, Miss Parker.”

“Well, take a picture because you’ll never see it again,” she spat at him before stepping inside. He sighed before entering himself. She had already disappeared to some other part of the house leaving him in the foyer alone. He heard movement upstairs, but was wise enough to just stay where he stood. It was perceptible that Parker didn’t invite many people into her home. He didn’t want to overstep any boundaries by snooping.

After a few moments, however, he grew curious. This was Miss Parker’s home. He took brave steps further into the house, his hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets. With every step, the smell of her grew stronger. The furniture in the living room was graceful, just like their owner. Candles, potted plants, crystal ware and oriental rugs. The only thing that gave this room less dignity was the pile of cigarette butts on the coffee table. A few bottles of alcohol strewn about in random places. One near the fireplace. One tucked between two pillows on the couch. It was then he pinpointed that faint aroma he occasionally noticed was mixed in with her perfume. The one he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t nicotine.

It was alcohol.

He imagined the taste was permanently etched onto her lips. He felt the need to chastise her for such behavior, but he knew the reasons behind it. All too often he found himself drinking one too many beers when he got home. The only thing that kept him from becoming a complete drunk was his daughter. Unfortunately, Miss Parker didn’t have that kind of crutch in her life.

“Broots?”

He turned around at the placid sound of her voice. She had changed clothing. Still a very sleek pant suit, but her shoes almost had a non-existent heel. The entire outfit appeared to be more comfortable and unstrained. Her hair was pinned up off her neck, shaping her face beautifully. It was a nice look for her. It suddenly occurred to him he hadn’t spoken yet and was stupefied once again by her beauty. He was staring at her like a buffoon. “Yes, Miss Parker?”

“Take your jacket off, Broots,” she ordered, walking past him towards her kitchen. He saw her slap the folder of memos down on the table. She then found a cigarette from somewhere on the counter. She probably had secret stashes all over this house.

Broots rocked on his feet for a moment, still keeping his hands in his pockets. He craned his head to the side out of nervousness and stuttered, “But. . .you said don’t get comfortable. I thought. . .”

“Relax. We’re not at The Centre,” Parker sneered, while expertly lighting a cigarette that rested between her lips.

“Okay,” Broots mumbled, quickly shedding the article of clothing and dropping it on the couch. He walked into the kitchen where she motioned for him to sit down.

“Read that,” she pointed with a wiry finger. Her nail clicking against the hard surface of the table as she tapped the selected memo sitting before him.

Broots shot one more nervous glance in her direction before reading what was in front of him. His eyes scanned the words. This memo was much longer than the others, nearly a page. It was going on about Darra Landers. How her gift was so unique, but not as unique as Jarod’s. That she was valuable, but expendable. Her genius was going to be no one else’s if she didn’t come back to The Centre. Then his soul took a blow when he read what was next. The order was to kill her if she refused. It was obvious what her decision had been. They knew about her scheduled surgery, replaced real doctors with Centre personnel and they killed her. He gulped slightly and tried to loosen the collar on his shirt. The memo wasn’t finished.

The next order was to preserve her. Mummification. They wanted the ability to extract DNA in the future, just in case something happened to the Centre. Broots pushed the memo away, not able to finish. After a few moments of silence, he muttered, “Bastards.”

“I’m glad to see this upsets you too, Broots,” Parker said listlessly, smoke wafting out of her nose and up towards the ceiling. An ashtray on the table was her next stop as she put the nicotine stick out. She leaned on the table, bending down close enough to his ear and whispered hauntingly, “She’s buried in the same cemetery as my mother.”

Shivers and tingles ran down his cold spine quickly as he sat back and stared at her incredulously. What was she suggesting? He whispered back, “You want to dig her up?”

“That would be the ideal solution, wouldn’t it?” Parker almost laughed, taking a seat in the empty chair next to him. “We inform her family, dig her up and have her body secretly moved to another location. Bury her somewhere safe. A place where she could truly rest in peace.”

He could tell Parker was resisting the urge to light up another cigarette. He could tell this information was weighing heavily on her mind. In a way, she was leading them in the right direction. They couldn’t undo Darra’s death, but they could improve upon her afterlife. Possibly cremate her and spread her ashes into an ocean. They would never have her DNA ever again. Broots twiddled his thumbs as he thought aloud, “Even if we could move Darra, the Centre most definitely has her DNA already on file.”

“I think we’re missing the bigger picture here, Broots,” Parker droned on, her eyes now shut in frustration. “What we’re not asking is why? Why do they want her DNA?”

“Why?” Broots repeated. He let his mouth hang open in stunned silence. He was still naive, wasn’t he? They both were. Then another thought hit him. He stared at Parker with fearful eyes.

Parker smiled wickedly. She was reading his mind as she said, “I know, Broots. If they have her DNA, who else do they have?”

To be continued. . .

Broots could easily visualize the ramifications of what could happen to someone who knew too much. “Death” was one of the alternatives that came to mind and as stated before, he liked the idea of breathing. He loved his daughter too much. He wouldn’t leave her alone on this earth all because he stuck his nose where he shouldn’t. Hell, Miss Parker was the Chairman’s daughter and even now he was dubious to believe that she would be protected if they took this too far.

She had a small backyard with a horrible excuse of a brick patio to complement. Just like in the front, the flowers and brush could’ve used some weeding, but despite their unkempt appearance all the flowers represented life. They were alive. He was standing there, remembering what it was like to use his lungs and he was thinking. He was thinking very hard about what Miss Parker was proposing. She had laughed off the notion of actually digging up Darra Landers body at first, but as time began slipping away, that idea became much more appealing. He also had a good idea a few swigs of vodka were helping to fuel her ambition.

Only, Broots was disliking this crazy scheme more and more while she was trying to sell it to him like they were merely talking about Girl Scout cookies.

One of the memos was clear. Darra was buried in the exact same cemetery as Catherine Parker. Unfortunately, they were smart enough to keep which grave she was buried in a secret. So even if he agreed to this insane plan, how would they know where to start? They couldn’t just dig up every grave without someone taking notice! There had to be another way!

Broots’ ears picked up the sound of metal hitting dirt. Miss Parker was out in her shed dragging out two shovels. He had to stop this. “Wh- -, wait a minute. I think we need to go over our options one more time. . .”

Parker merely cackled then said ruefully, “What options? We have no options, Broots.”

“I think we do,” Broots argued, trying to sound as confident as possible. He could see she was becoming impatient. “We can’t just go in there and start digging. We need a more concrete plan.” He paused there not sure how to continue his next train of thought.

“I get the feeling you have more to say?” Parker said, picking up on his reluctance to finish.

Broots took a deep breath, “I don’t like this anymore than you do. I want to help, but I also value my life. I care whether or not you live to see another day. . .er, even if you don’t.” He twiddled his thumbs to let his last statement linger in the air, then finished abruptly, “I think we need help.”

To his surprise, Parker was speechless. But only momentarily. She slammed a shovel into his chest and warned, “If you have a better solution, I’m all ears. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m going to save Darra from anymore scrutiny.”

Broots could feel his fear rising from the pit of his stomach and resting in his throat. He couldn’t really think of another plan that she would like. He shook his head in exasperation and asked pointedly, “Why do you want to do this?”

“Because I’m not a coward like you.”

“No! That’s not what I mean, Miss Parker!” Broots nearly whined as he began to pace. His nerves were on high gear as he ranted, “You’re talking about digging up a body! A body preserved for the extracting of DNA! I want to know why you’re risking everything for a person you’ve never met!”

“For the same reason I tried to track down the Rescued children in the first place,” Parker nearly growled back. She raised a scolding finger to Broots, before saying softly, “I’m doing this because. . .because I think my mother would have wanted me to.”

Broots could hear the sincerity in her words, but could sense there was something else too. He gripped his shovel tightly and pushed, “What aren’t you telling me, Miss Parker?”

Parker took a deep breath before continuing, “Those memos say Darra is buried in the same cemetery as my mother.”

“Yeah? So?”

“The very last one. It also states The Triumverate was upset that the mummification wasn’t completed.”

Broots’s eyes widened. He had missed that part. “It wasn’t?”

“Remember how I spoke with Darra’s mother? They had already cremated her body and spread her ashes over some mountain tops. She seemed pretty confident that this procedure went off without a hitch. So I’m thinking, whoever is buried in Darra Landers plot is not Darra Landers.”

“Oh,” Broots mumbled, casting his gaze down. Darra wasn’t mummified? She was cremated? Miss Parker was in the house by the time he looked up again. He rushed back in and found her lighting up a cigarette in the kitchen. Her shovel leaned against the table. He started to relax some knowing her drive to dig up a body had been quelled some. He walked up to her and asked, “What do you want to do?”

“I want to know who’s buried out there,” Parker stated sadly. “I want to dig up whoever it is and save them.”

“You can’t save them, Miss Parker. They’re already dead,” Broots said quietly, allowing his shovel to rest next to hers. He cautiously made his way up to her, then added, “But if that’s what you want, then I’ll help in any way I can.”

She stared at him then. Her eyes full of surprise, but her face remaining expressionless. Smoke drifted out of her nostrils slowly, soft amber light glowing from her nicotine stick. He found himself mesmerized by it all. Transfixed by her. He even managed to hold back his cough when she blew smoke in his direction. She finally spoke, “You are full of surprises, Mr. Broots.”

He laughed lightly, “Yeah, sometimes I amaze myself.”

He nearly died right there when she flashed a smile in his direction. She was beautiful when she smiled. He was so caught up in his reverie that he almost didn’t notice her move from his gaze. She walked back to the table, picked up her shovel and ordered, “Let’s go find out what’s buried out there.” She grabbed the memos and gave them to him. “I want you to scan those again. Maybe we’re missing something.”

“Right,” he agreed wholeheartedly. Moments ago, he had been the voice of reason, declaring how crazy this all was. Now having been on the receiving end of a brilliant Miss Parker smile, he was a puddle of mush. Before he could grab his coat, he paused, “Wait a minute.”

“What Broots?” she turned around to face him again.

“You said, ‘let’s find out what’s buried out there’,” Broots repeated. He could feel excitement racing through his veins. “You said Darra was cremated. What if we’re not looking for a body? What if we’re looking for a thing?”

----------------------------------------

They went back to The Centre, after Broots made the call to a babysitter of course.

Now that he had deduced they might be looking for a thing and not a person, searching the plots would be a bit simpler. They made their way toward an equipment room. It was one of those places all the techies at The Centre loved to visit. There were gadgets galore, but Broots was only in there for one gizmo this night. He unhooked the slender machine off the wall and held it up proudly for Miss Parker to see.

She frowned, then asked skeptically, “A metal detector?”

“Not quite. See this screen up here?” he pointed to the top of the long, handled machine. “It works like an x-ray. We turn this on, aim it toward the ground and we’ll be able to get a rough picture of what’s underneath on this screen. Granted the layer of dirt on top of the grave isn’t thicker than eight feet.”

She stared at the machine for a second longer, before turning on her heel and heading for the exit. Broots figured that was his cue to follow. They were soon back in the car, speeding toward the cemetery. He once again found himself trying desperately to concentrate on something other than the smell of her perfume. He suggested the radio, but she shot him a killer look that told him he better not touch anything in her car. Not that it really mattered if he turned it on or not. The music wouldn’t drown out her scent.

The car came to a silent halt at the gates. The headlights shone across the grass, lighting up the grave markers. Broots was ready to move, but he wouldn’t dare get out of the car before she said so. She was staring hard at the cemetery, her eyes glassy and clear. Her hands clenched the steering wheel in front of her tightly, her knuckles beginning to whiten. Her entire body was still.

“Miss Parker?”

She didn’t move. She continued to stare, her mouth opening as if she wanted to say something. Broots didn’t know what to do. Should he reach out and console her? No, no, no. She might slap him. Should he call her name again? Again, she might slap him.

She finally moved, leaving the car running and hopping out of the car. He followed suit almost immediately. He stayed close behind her as they traveled over the dead. He couldn’t fight the gulp of terror as he watched the names of the deceased whiz by. He couldn’t believe he was about to disturb this sacred place digging for only God knew what. They stopped.

The name said Catherine Parker.

Broots stared at her expectantly, waiting on an order. She merely fixed her gaze on the gravestone, her face suddenly made of ice. His heart ached for her, wishing there was some way he could melt away that frosty exterior. Wishing there was some way for her to feel loved again. To feel like she isn’t alone in all of this.

“We won’t look at hers,” she stated calmly. “The Centre is a number of things, but I don’t believe they are so evil that they would tamper with my mother’s grave.”

“Are you sure?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He fearfully looked up at her as she glared at him.

“They wouldn’t because then that would mean Daddy. . .,” Parker began to explain, but stopped. It was almost as if she were beginning to realize an evil she had never encountered before. Broots and Sydney (and even Jarod) had suspected Mr. Parker’s intentions had been everything but honorable. What they didn’t know was, just how far would he go to have all the riches in the world?

Parker snapped out of it and finished, “That would mean Daddy would have to give the order to do so. He would never do that to her.” She flashed tempestuous eyes at Broots and finished, “He would never do that to me.”

“Of course not, Miss Parker,” Broots agreed quickly, not wanting to overstep his limits and make her angrier. She was angry enough as it was.

“Here,” she pointed to the grave next to Catherine’s. “We’ll start here.”

And so they began, waving the detector over the graves. Each time they saw the remains of some poor soul who had bitten the dust far before their time. Each time they saw the outline of a form, once resembling a human full of life, laid to rest for the all of eternity. Hours passed with nothing to find. They had figured The Centre wouldn’t use Darra’s real name, so there was no way to narrow the search.

Eventually, they made it back to the last row of graves. Broots had been so used to seeing skeletal remains, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he found a grave with no bones! He waved the detector over the grave one more time before stammering, “Miss–Miss Parker. . . ”

She was by his side immediately, looking at the screen, “What did you find?”

“It’s what I didn’t find,” he half smiled. “There’s no body. Actually, it looks like there’s nothing here at all.”

He swept the area another time, then exclaimed, “Wait, there is something here! I can’t make out what it is though.”

He was shoved aside almost immediately, hearing metal hit dirt. She was digging furiously, not paying any mind to him. That is until she noticed he wasn’t digging too. “Let’s get cracking, Broots!”

“Right,” he acquiesced, picking up the second shovel and joining her. Two shovels clanged and banged into each other in a mutually inquisitive fashion. They were lowering themselves deeper and deeper. All the while, Broots couldn’t help but wonder if they were missing something. It wasn’t like anything The Centre did was normal, but there was a peculiarity about this entire digging session that didn’t sit right with him. He still had no idea who left him that note back at the office. The one with the insufferable scrawl ordering him to fix one of the servers. The one that ultimately led them here, digging up a grave.

Furthermore, if Darra’s body wasn’t here, then why keep the plot? Why use a whole grave for just one little object? Well, who would look for anything suspicious related to The Centre in . . .Mrs. Jane Yauchling’s plot? Certainly not Broots. A man who wouldn’t even be here had it not been for that mysterious note and the persuasiveness of Miss Parker.

Parker’s shovel hit the coffin first. She glanced up at him, not a smile or a frown adorning her face. No indication that she was actually happy they hit something other than dirt. They both got down on their knees, using their hands and arms to sweep away the last bit of the crumbling barrier. Exposing the upper half of the coffin, she wasted no time in trying to open it. Broots switched positions and pulled with her. The top creaked open with a deafening sound. This was it.

They both looked at each other, soiled by dirt and sweat, taking this opportunity to catch their breaths. The headlights from the car were far reaching, giving them enough light in the dark, eerie night sky. He tentatively stared at the opening and asked, “Would you like to look first?”

She nodded and he moved up and out of the grave. She took up the space he previously occupied and leaned into the opening. Her arm reached in and searched diligently. After a few moments, she came back up for air holding what appeared to be an urn and a note. Broots was sitting on the ground now and waved her over to sit next to him. To his surprise, she did just that, plopping down next to him. She was exhausted just like him, but nothing would keep them from examining their new find.

First, she gently lifted the top off the urn. She frowned, “It’s empty.”

“What about the note?” Broots inquired. Had their digging all been for nought?

She picked up the aging envelope. It had obviously been underground for quite some time, but being protected by the coffin, it had not deteriorated completely. She opened the note slowly, scanned the words, then laughed, “That son of a bitch.”

Broots nearly jumped back, watching her eyes close in utter amusement. Her chuckling was vile and bitter. It made him uneasy. What was so funny? She managed to compose herself and read, “To whom it may concern: This urn, which you have stolen, is now empty. Darra Landers is now resting peacefully, the way her family intended. Signed, Jarod. P.S. You wasted your time digging up the wrong grave.”

“Jarod?” Broots repeated, his mouth hanging open. “Jarod got here first?”

Parker shook her head and added bitingly, “Of course, Jarod got here first. He always does. And just like always, I get left holding nothing. I get left looking like a total buffoon, while Genius Boy watches from afar and laughs at me.”

Then why? Why the emotional torture? Broots could still feel his horror at finding the note. He could still feel his heart thump in nervousness when obtaining that folder of memos, detailing the destruction of the Rescued children. Why would someone lead them here if Jarod had already gotten here first?

“Well, at least we can look like buffoons together,” Broots muttered, now a rancor all his own rising within him. He heard Parker laugh again which prompted him to laugh uncomfortably with her. Considering how much time went into digging up this “nothing”, it was kinda funny in an ironic way.

He sniffed the air and caught that familiar nicotine scent. She was smoking, her eyes closed and her free hand running through her grimy hair. They could sit here and mope, which was highly appealing or they could move on. He rose to his feet and offered her his hand, “Let’s go home, Miss Parker.”

“It’s says we wasted time digging up the wrong grave,” Parker said aloud, her tone one of curiosity. Her eyes beginning to water. She shook her head and nearly growled, “What the hell does that mean?”

Broots didn’t move. His hand still waited for hers as he repeated, “Miss Parker? Let’s go home, okay? We can figure this out later.”

Her hand finally slipped into his, the warmth a welcome surprise. He nearly gasped fully expecting any physical contact with her to be as cold as snow in winter. He could get used to holding her hand all to easily knowing how good it felt.

He gently lifted her to her feet, her weariness causing her to stumble into him. He caught her, realizing for the first time that he was actually taller than her. She had kicked off her heels long ago in the midst of their digging. He was surprised for a second time in the last few minutes when she wrapped her arms around him, her head falling into his shoulder. He instinctively hugged her back, waiting for the muffled sound of tears to come.

They never did.

----------------------------------------

Broots awoke with his arms around the most beautiful woman he had ever known. She never cried last night and after a while, he realized how foolish he was to think she ever would. They spoke all of two words to each other the entire time. She didn’t ask to be held through the night. She didn’t ask for him to stay and he didn’t offer either. He had every intention of being the perfect gentleman.

He drove them back to her home, led her to her bedroom and tucked her in. It was only then that he saw the look in her eyes. He remembered how his heart shattered when she asked for his help. Kicking off his shoes, he stayed on top of the covers and curled up next to her. She didn’t tell him to leave. In fact, she seemed to relax a little. Somehow, in his sleep, his arm ended up cloaking her. Holding her. Protecting her.

“You can go home now, Broots,” she said, her tone returning to its normal frosty nature. He wasn’t aware she had awoken.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

She repeated bitterly, “Go home.”

He didn’t have the nerve to ask again. He quickly let her go, crawled off the bed and found his shoes. Slipping his feet in, he braved a peek at her. She was staring at him, the sunlight from the window accenting the dirt stains on her cheeks and forehead. He looked down at himself, noticing they had both fallen asleep in their messy, disheveled clothes. His eyes went back to her again and he knew he should leave, but he just stood there. To prolong his presence, he said, “I’ll start looking over the urn and note. Maybe it’ll help find Jarod. Maybe we can figure out what grave he was talking about.”

“You do that,” she replied now sounding slightly irritated.

Broots blew air between his lips in an attempt to whistle, but no sound came out. He rocked slightly on his feet and said, “I’ll show myself out.”

He locked eyes with her once more, before she turned away from him to lay on her other side. He could’ve sworn he caught a glimpse of gratitude in those arctic blues. He smiled, as he walked up to her bed, leaned over and did the bravest thing he could ever do. He brushed her hair back, then pressed a light kiss to her temple. He didn’t say anything, hoping that his small gesture would convey all that he wanted to say.

That she wasn’t alone. That she was loved by someone. That she had unearthed more than just an urn and a piece of paper.

She had found his heart.

The End