Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn’t me. Don’t own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I’ll disavow all knowledge.

-Author’s Note: Believe it or not, the examples of what Jarod will do for coffee as described in this story, are taken from real life. I have seen my husband do it. Is it a guy thing? Or is it just a desperate addiction to the stuff? I’m a tea drinker myself.

-

The Straight Path Lost

-

By Phenyx

05/31/04

-
In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a
dark wood where the straight way was lost. Dante Alighieri (1265 - 1321), The Divine Comedy

-

Margaret would never forget the first time she looked into her son’s eyes.

When she thought about those eyes and that first glimpse, she did not recall the very first time she saw them. The image of her first-born child, slick and squalling as he joined this world, was burned into her mind as with any mother. But it was not the newborn blue that she remembered when she thought of him. She did not think of the eerily piercing gaze he’d given her as the babe suckled at her breast.

For even on the day of his birth, Margaret had known that those eyes would not stay blue for long. As she had nursed her son for the first time, she wondered at the deep sea-like color that stared up at her. Exhausted and a little loopy from the whiffs of gas she’d been given during labor, Margaret had been enraptured, nearly hypnotized by the dark wisdom she had seen in those tiny eyes.

Yet these memories were not the ones that assaulted her when she thought of a first glimpse of her son. What she remembered was a crowded sidewalk on a busy street more than four decades later. Margaret recalled the tall lean man who had stared at her as she stepped from a cab. She would have known him anywhere. She immediately recognized those eyes and the dark gaze that seemed to speak to her.

Now, a handful of months after finding him again, Margaret was only beginning to understand the depth that hid in her son’s eyes. Jarod could transmit so much information, with no more than a flickering glance. Most of the time, his chocolate-colored eyes readily broadcast emotions to anyone who wished to see them.

Margaret could often see joy, curiosity and mischievousness dancing in her son’s eyes. Concern was a regular visitor. And once, as she roused him from a nightmare, Margaret had seen fear in his disoriented gaze.

But there were times when Jarod’s eyes went hard and blank. At times like that, Margaret knew that her son was hiding things. Her instincts told her that pain was lurking there, sorrow and regret. But these she could never see, for Jarod hid them well.

Yet there were clues, hints that revealed what Jarod tried so desperately to hide. It broke Margaret’s heart to see them. More so when she realized that the oddities of Jarod’s behavior completely escaped him. He did not recognize them as strange.

The most obvious of these was his fascination with food, especially that of the sweeter variety. Jarod hoarded snacks and kept a ready supply in his pockets at all times. He rarely described food in terms of taste but instead spoke of the way certain confections made him feel. In a very serious discussion with his younger twin, Jack, Jarod had gone on at some length about the nuances of ice cream. Soft serve cones were like freedom while a single scoop in a bowl held a welcoming, homey feel to it. The entire conversation had seemed to make sense to the boy but to Margaret and her husband it had been nonsense.

Other aspects of Jarod’s character manifested themselves in more frightening ways. His uncanny ability to move in complete silence never ceased to amaze his mother. One moment she would be sitting alone in a room, and the next, Jarod would be standing beside her as if he had materialized out of thin air.

Margaret’s son preferred darkness whenever he was indoors. Given the choice Jarod would rather be outside in the sunshine. But when that was not possible, he tended to lurk in the corners, or among the shadows. Jarod rarely turned on the lights without prompting. Margaret had asked him once, why he sat in the dark so much.

Jarod had smiled sadly. “Still hiding from the cameras I suppose,” he answered. He had seemed about to continue, but then the familiar hardness glittered in his eyes and he said no more. Jarod rarely spoke about the life he’d led away from his family. What little Margaret knew had been drawn from other sources.

But the thing about Margaret’s son that frightened her the most was an eerie stillness. When startled or angry, Jarod completely ceased to move, momentarily freezing in place. This wasn’t the immobility of a frightened creature preparing for flight. It seemed more like the stalking tension of a large predatory animal or the coiled threat of a snake. On the rare occasions that Margaret had seen it happen, Jarod’s body radiated with menace and she had known, unequivocally, that this was a dangerous man.

However, despite these darker aspects of his character, Jarod was for all intents a warm and caring individual. He smiled often and laughed a great deal. His loved to sit at his parents’ feet and listen to stories about his past. He was openly affectionate, though Margaret wondered if this wasn’t due to intentional effort on his part. But he was happy.

Jarod seemed happy, at any rate.

Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, cinching the belt on her terrycloth bathrobe as she watched her eldest child. It was early, with dawn just creeping through the windows. Yet it was obvious that Jarod had been awake for some time. He wore a comfortable looking pair of pants and a simple white t-shirt. The cotton shirt clung to his damp body and rivulets of perspiration ran down his neck. Jarod had been exercising and now stood panting at the sink as he gulped down a glass of water.

“Good morning dear,” Margaret said as she entered the room.

Jarod wiped his mouth on the back of one hand and grinned, “Good morning Mother.”

“You made coffee,” she observed.

With an apologetic shrug Jarod’s smile grew. “Jack asked me to make it before I went jogging,” he explained.

Margaret shook her head indulgently. It had become a little game that she and Jarod played. Which of them would wake up first and make the coffee? Margaret usually won because her son allowed it. She knew that he rarely slept more than four hours a night. But he would find other things to do, conveniently “forgetting” to start the pot brewing. As a result, Margaret performed the simple chore each morning. Jarod would then pout playfully and complain that the coffee wasn’t strong enough. Margaret would tease him about having a poor palate for java.

Then again, the things Margaret had seen her son do for a caffeine fix made her shudder. On more than one occasion, she had watched in horror as Jarod poured cold, day-old coffee into a mug. He could gulp down the sludge without batting an eye. He didn’t even bother to microwave it. Margaret made extra effort to make sure they never ran out of ground coffee. For if they did, Jarod would simply run tap water through used grounds straight into a cup. Seeing her son drink the resulting concoction made Margaret’s stomach turn, especially so when she thought of the amount of sugar it contained.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Margaret asked as she poured herself a cup from the steaming carafe.

“Pancakes?” Jarod asked.

Knowing her son’s penchant for an extra scoop of mix in his coffee recipe, Margaret moved to the sink and filled the last fourth of her cup with hot water. “I was thinking eggs and bacon,” she answered as she further diluted her drink with cream and sugar.

“Even better,” Jarod answered.

Sipping cautiously at her cup Margaret asked, “Has Jack eaten yet?”

“He was pouring a bowl of cereal when I left,” Jarod said. “But he wouldn’t turn down eggs and bacon.”

“Jack would never turn down food,” Margaret chuckled. “The boy is a bottomless pit.”

“He’s still growing,” Jarod replied with a shrug.

Margaret smiled at her son. “And what’s your excuse?” she teased.

Jarod’s answering grin seemed to brighten the room. “Want some help?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “You go shower up. It should be ready by the time you are done.”

Jarod obediently kissed his mother on the cheek and strolled out of the room.

Margaret watched him go for a moment, listening to his low voice float through the house as he stopped along the way to talk to Jack. She couldn’t quite hear what they said to each other but it was undoubtedly an update regarding the upcoming meal. With an indulgent smile she turned to the refrigerator to gather the things she would need.

As she worked, Margaret thought about her son. ‘Sons’ she corrected herself. It still felt strange at times, thinking of the precise relationship between Jarod and young Jack. They were not brothers nor were they father and son. More alike than identical twins, yet they were separated by decades. It was like a tale from some B-rated science fiction film.

They were so very much alike and yet different. Their mannerisms, the way each tilted his head when confused, were perfectly mirrored between them. Jack, his voice cracking and changing with puberty, often sounded so much like Jarod that Margaret wouldn’t know which she was speaking to if she could not see them.

And yet, Jack was lacking in patience where Jarod’s seemed endless. Jack was moody, just as easily depressed as he was jubilant. Added to that was Jack’s insecurity, the belief that he was no more than a pale copy of the “brother” he adored so much.

Margaret worried about the boy and his periods of inconsolable misery. They came and went without warning, usually in a matter of hours. Jarod had a talent for snapping the boy out of a funk, but it wasn’t always an easy task. Jack could be exceedingly cruel when in one of these moods and more often than not, that malice was pointed towards himself.

The boy’s name was a perfect example of this self-inflicted spitefulness. When they had met, the Major had told the boy to pick out a name, thinking this would be a treat for the young man who had only recently discovered the world. But Jack had been wallowing in one of these bouts of self-pity and had chosen accordingly. He called himself John Doe, saying that no other moniker was as fitting. He claimed to be no one, from nothing, little more than a number.

For a time Charles had called the boy Johnny. Even after the sour mood had lifted, the young man had stubbornly held onto the name. It was Jarod who had summarily found a less morbid nickname.

“John is a good strong name,” Jarod had said upon learning of his twin’s choice. “Like John Kennedy. Did you know that his friends called him Jack?” Since that day, the boy had answered to no other name.

Charles had told his wife this story nearly two years after it had happened. It was odd, learning she had a child she had never birthed. Margaret had been told of Kyle’s death the same day so needless to say, her mind had been reeling. But it had not taken long to accept the boy into her heart. Jack was so desperate for affection and a mother’s attention that she could not help but give the boy what he needed.

Dealing with Jack could be hard at times. He had led a troubled life. Being sixteen years old didn’t help matters. It was a difficult age for any child let alone a boy who had already suffered so much.

Margaret shook her head as she expertly cracked eggs into a hot skillet. She could do no more for Jack than she was already doing. She loved him whole-heartedly and showed him how much she cared at every opportunity. She just hoped that he would adjust, learn to accept who he was and what had happened to him, as his older brother had.

Margaret wondered again at how different her boys were. They were supposedly identical. Yet Jack was so tormented by his past while Jarod, who had lived that same life for much longer, seemed almost serene. Then again, Jarod had more experience with his emotions. Perhaps he had learned to deal with things better. Or maybe, he was simply better at hiding what Jack could not.

Her spatula froze in the air, hovering over the skillet as Margaret allowed that last fearful thought to grow in her mind. What if Jarod was much more like his young twin than anyone realized? Could it be possible that Jack’s depression, guilt and insecurity were reflected in his brother but simmering just beneath the surface? Thinking of the hard, flat gaze that sometimes crossed Jarod’s face, Margaret began to realize the truth of it.

“You’re going to burn the bacon,” Jarod said.

Her son’s abrupt appearance at her side startled a gasp from Margaret’s lips. “Damn it Jarod,” she snapped, surprise making her tone sharp. “I wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Jarod’s eyes filled with a look of pain, as though she had just slapped him. “I’ll try to do better.”

Margaret sighed. “No dear, it not your fault. I’m sorry for being cross,” She ran one hand through the damp hair on Jarod’s head, ending the caress with a loving stroke of her fingertips down his stubbly cheek. “I was a million miles away. A herd of elephants could have tiptoed up on me,” she added with a smile.

Jarod smiled back, the hurt from a moment ago was forgotten. He took a fork from the countertop and began to lift crispy bacon from the pan and transfer it to a paper towel-covered plate. Margaret quickly turned her attention to the eggs she was cooking. If she burned Jarod’s breakfast he would tease her about it all day.

“Something smells good in here,” Jack called as he bounded into the room. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You just want to eat sooner,” Jarod said with a wry grin.

“Yup,” the boy admitted.

Margaret pointed in the opposite direction with her cooking utensil and said, “Pop a few slices of bread into the toaster for me.”

“Do you think you can handle that?” Jarod teased.

Jack strolled over to the toaster and eyed it critically. Playing up to the joke for everything he was worth, the young man jiggled the knobs and levers experimentally. He peered into the slots and tested the plug. He finally straightened, turned to his brother and said in a perfectly deadpan voice, “I think I can manage.”

Margaret’s sons remained serious for about two seconds, after which they both broke into a fit of laughter. Margaret smiled with them. It was moments like these that helped to chase away her worries. Despite the trauma that had darkened their lives, her sons were happy. As long as they were together as a family, where they could receive the love and affection they both craved, her boys would be just fine.

Setting three plates on the table, Margaret sat down next to Jarod. Jack flipped the power switch on the small television resting on the counter before he joined them. Breakfast in this family was usually a solitary affair. Sometimes, like this morning, the meal was served in waves. The two boys would eat first followed in about an hour by Emily and the Major. The fact of the matter was, there were few mornings where everyone got out of bed at the same time.

It suited Margaret just fine. She took the opportunity to focus more individually on each of her children. Even Charles, the husband she’d been separated from for so long, needed special time from her on occasion.

Jack shoveled food into his mouth as he kept his eyes glued to the television screen. A twenty-four hour news channel was running a story about the most recent Hollywood actress to appear in Playboy magazine.

“Most kids your age would be watching music videos, you know,” Jarod said as he crunched at a piece of toast.

Jack gulped at his coffee before answering. “I want to catch the weather forecast,” he said. “I figure we’ll be moving on soon and I’d rather not have to drive in the rain. Just too depressing.”

Margaret glanced at Jarod. “Are we moving on?” she asked.

“We probably should,” he nodded.

Just like that, the decision was made. The family never argued with Jarod’s gut instincts in the area. When he felt the need to go, they went. He seemed to have a sixth sense for this sort of thing. The more intense his desire to leave a place seemed to be in direct correlation to how close they were to being caught. Jarod’s calm declaration this morning indicated that there was no immediate hurry. Yet Margaret knew by the end of the day, tomorrow morning at the latest, she and her family would be on the road again, wandering like a band of gypsies.

Margaret’s sons were chatting about what could be their next destination when a frown crossed Jarod’s face. He was glaring at the television so intensely that Margaret was taken aback. She turned around in her chair so that she could see what had grabbed his attention.

The young man at the news desk was talking. “We now bring you a CNN news exclusive. A known terrorist and wanted assassin was taken into federal custody on Monday. Known to authorities only as ‘The Chameleon’, he was captured after a vicious shoot out with police that left four officers dead and two F.B.I. agents critically wounded.”

“Oh Alex,” Jarod moaned softly.

“After days of interrogation, this accused assassin has revealed the locations of several terrorist training camps around the globe. The largest of these, sheltered under the guise of a scientific think-tank, is located right here in the United States.”

“Damn,” Jarod said as his fork clattered onto his plate.

“Reputable sources say,” the newscaster continued. “The East coast facility has been under investigation for some time. Yet only now do authorities have enough evidence to make a move on this national threat.”

The image on the screen changed. Obviously shot from a helicopter, the picture showed a bright clear morning at The Centre. Dark vans and police cars could be seen converging on the building. Soldiers, clad in green camouflage ran across the parking lot, moving into position.

“Damn!” Jarod cried, jumping from his seat. He snatched his cell phone from the counter nearby and punched a single button. “Come on, come on,” he hissed as he put the phone to his ear and waited. “She should be there. It’s nearly ten o’clock their time.” He didn’t fidget as he waited. Instead he had that scary stillness surround him as he glared at the T.V. set.

“Parker,” he blurted as someone answered on the other end. “Don’t talk. Just listen,” he snapped. “There are soldiers closing in on The Centre. Get out of there. Grab Sydney and get out NOW! The place is surrounded, you’ll have to sneak out the way I did. Move it!”

Jarod paused a moment to look at the people sitting at the table. “Jack, wake Dad and Em” he commanded. “We have to go.”

Turning his attention back to the phone, Jarod snarled. “I’m watching the whole thing on CNN! For once in your life, please don’t argue with me. Just run!” Jarod’s demeanor changed slightly. The person he was talking to must have been cooperating because Jarod’s instructions took on a serious but more reasonable tone. “Go down,” he said. “Get to SL-27 and take the left corridor all the way to the end. Let me know when you get there. I hope your phone is well charged Parker. This could take a while.”

Jarod glanced at the television, concern etched across his features as he watched the authorities move in. “I know, Parker. I know,” he said. “Let’s tackle one problem at a time. Just hurry.”

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn’t me. Don’t own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I’ll disavow all knowledge.

-

The Straight Path Lost Part 2

- By Phenyx

06/07/2004

-

Sam leaned against the wall in Sydney’s office and did what sweepers do best. He drifted into the background so seamlessly that he doubted anyone else realized he was in the room. It was a sweeper’s job to blend in, to exist unnoticed, until required to do otherwise. At that point, when they were needed, sweepers became something else entirely.

Intimidation was what Sam was needed for most often. Like a big, burly bouncer in a popular club, it was often a sweeper’s job to look menacing in order to keep control. At other times, stronger means were necessary. A sweeper could be called upon to do many things, from protecting an innocent to assassinating politicians, and Sam had done it all during his years of employ.

Sam had been a Centre sweeper for more than a decade and a half. As the years had slipped by, Sam found himself pledging his loyalty less to the Centre and more to a single branch within the Tower’s upper echelon. That lone individual sat just a few yards away, her nicely rounded backside cushioned in the psychiatrist’s leather chair. Her long, nylon clad legs stretched out so that her crossed ankles could perch on the edge of the desk.

To the casual observer, one would think that her beauty was what instilled devotion. It was true that the woman turned heads. She knew that and ruthlessly used it to her advantage. Yet, although she was arguably the most devastatingly gorgeous thing Sam had ever laid eyes upon, it was not attraction to Miss Parker’s long legs that drew him to her side.

Among the Centre’s twisted ruling family, only Miss Parker still walked in the light of sanity. Sam followed his orders regardless of where they came from, but with Miss Parker, he felt fewer shadows weighing on his soul as a result. Her father, rotting in hell if there was a god, had been a cold and calculating son-of-a-bitch who had authorized incredible atrocities in order to increase the Centre’s profit margin. Mr. Raines, her uncle, was a power hungry, walking corpse with a knack for tormenting others.

The worst among them was Mr. Lyle. Fiendishly clever, Miss Parker’s twin was always plotting, always calculating his way into the Triumvirate’s good graces. His goal was to gain control of the Tower and take over as chairman, no matter what the cost.

Miss Parker managed to keep them all at bay. Sam didn’t understand how she did it. He doubted Miss Parker knew herself. Perhaps it was her obsession with the truth. Maybe her continuous nosing around in The Centre’s darkest secrets, kept the people hiding them too busy to do anything else. Whatever it was, Miss Parker held some intangible power within The Centre, even if she did not realize it.

How else could Sam explain the continued existence of the people in this room? Between them, these four had stolen secrets and given them to the one person who could use them best. Sam knew for a fact that they had all aided the missing pretender in one way or another, intentionally or not. Other people had vanished from this Earth for far less meaningful crimes against the Centre. Yet Broots had partnered with Jarod for a brief time and lived to see another day. Sydney had always had a soft spot for his pupil and had actively prevented his capture more than once. Why did they still breathe? It was Miss Parker who protected them. She would allow nothing to harm them.

Sam shifted slightly though not enough to draw attention. Miss Parker was only half listening to Broots and Sydney as they rattled on about some new idea they had for tracking Jarod. They would blather on. Miss Parker would approve the plan. The scheme would come close working if they were lucky, but the pretender would still escape. Sam knew they would never catch Jarod, especially now that he had found his family. Jarod had so much more to lose now that they were reunited. The quarry with more to lose became far more dangerous prey.

A familiar tone chirped through the air. Sam watched as the others all got the “whose cell phone is ringing?” looks on their faces. Miss Parker rolled her eyes and sat up, drawing those long legs from the desktop and out of Sam’s line of vision. As another ring pierced the air, Miss Parker patted her suit pockets, trying to determine the exact location of the device.

She finally located the cell phone and with a flip of her wrist, placed it to her ear. “What?” she said wearily.

Sam was immediately on the alert as he watched Miss Parker’s body language change. Her back straightened regally and her face pinched in a frown. She bolted up from the chair to stand angrily beside Sydney’s desk.

“Surrounded?” Parker growled into the receiver. “What the hell are you talking about? How do you know?”

By now all three men in the room were staring at Miss Parker with concern. Sam felt a rush of adrenaline as Miss Parker glanced around, startled fear beginning to register in her eyes.

“Jarod,” she began. The pretender must have cut her off for Miss Parker nodded as though he could see her. “We need to go.” Miss Parker said to the stunned trio watching. “The Centre is under attack.”

“There are procedures to follow,” Sydney argued.

Miss Parker whirled around. “There is no time,” she yelled. “We go NOW. Follow me. Sam, cover our flank.”

Dashing into the hallway, Miss Parker ran for the stairwell, her cell phone still attached to her ear. “Jarod,” she said, glancing behind her to check her team’s progress. “We haven’t destroyed any of our files. I don’t think Sydney has even logged out of his computer.”

Their footsteps clattered down the stairs, echoing ominously. They went down, twirling around the railing at each landing until Sam began to feel a bit dizzy. Yet still they continued their descent.

“Angelo!” Sydney cried suddenly. “We must find Angelo!”

“Sorry Syd,” Miss Parker replied. “I’m afraid he’s on his own this time.”

Sam caught the doctor’s worried glance and felt a moment of remorse. Angelo had always been a strange and unpredictable creature but Sam knew that the empath would only hinder their escape.

“What about my daughter?” Broots panted.

Miss Parker barreled down the steps, talking as she went. “Jarod,” she spoke into the phone. “We need to get to Debbie.”

Miss Parker listened for several minutes, obviously taking instructions from the pretender on the other end of the line. “I’m on SL-24,” she said, halting for a moment on that level. “I’m about to lose this connection.”

After another pause she growled, ”Very funny Rat-boy. Just tell me how long we should wait.” Glancing at her watch, Miss Parker nodded again and said, “Right. Don’t be late Jarod.” With that, she ended the call and tucked her cell phone into her pocket.

Running as though the devil was on her heels, Miss Parker rushed down the next flight of stairs. She relayed Jarod’s directions over her shoulder. “We won’t be able to get out while the facility is under assault. We have to hide until the coast is clear.”

“There is little doubt,” Sydney heaved. “That the authorities will carefully search every level.”

“That is why we’ll hide on the level that doesn’t exist,” Parker explained. “We lay low until nightfall and then slip by the police once it’s dark.”

As Sam reached the last stair, he heard a far away popping sound as it echoed down the stairwell from 26 levels away. “Gun fire,” he said simply as he glanced toward Miss Parker.

She made no sign indicating that she had heard him. Rushing through a dimly lit hallway, Miss Parker found the metal hatch in the floor that led to SL- 27. Clambering down the ladder, the group found themselves fumbling in the dark. None of them had brought a flashlight.

“Damn,” Miss Parker muttered. “I wish I hadn’t quit smoking. At least I’d have a lighter.”

“I have one,” Sam spoke up. Creating a makeshift torch with Sydney’s handkerchief and a broken chair leg, Sam was able to light the way just enough for the four to continue.

“Jarod said we should take the corridor on the left,” Miss Parker said. “All the way to the end.”

The going was slow. Debris from the explosion two years ago had never been completely cleared. As a result, the group was forced to edge around the mess. When they could go no further, Sam turned toward Miss Parker and waited. He watched curiously as she stepped up to the wall.

Holding the flickering torch aloft, Sam did his best to light Miss Parker’s way, but he wasn’t quite sure where the illumination was needed. She placed both palms on the wall and caressed the flat surface. Mimicking his boss’s actions, Sam began to feel the smooth wall with his free hand. The plaster was even and cool to the touch. It had that faintly cushioned feel to it as though there were too many layers of paint covering the surface.

When Sam’s fingertips brushed across a mild ridge, he nearly missed it. In the dim light, he couldn’t see anything unusual but the perfectly vertical line was definitely there. “Miss Parker,” Sam called.

Turning toward him, Miss Parker pushed Sam aside and felt for the abnormality. She clawed at the line with her fingernails until it pulled apart with a whisper of sound. The line became a crack, the crack an opening, as Miss Parker yanked hard on the hidden doorway.

“Check it out,” she commanded.

Sam ducked into the crevice that had formed and found a narrow tunnel. Dust covered and draped in old spider webs, the corridor was little more than two feet wide, forcing Sam to stand sideways to accommodate his body. There was no telling how far the tunnel went. Sam scouted the first several yards, holding his light in front of him in order to see as much as he could.

“It’s pretty narrow,” Sam reported back to Miss Parker. “Not a lot of room.”

“Good thing none of us are claustrophobic,” she drawled as she ushered the others into the hidden area. “Help me, Sam,” Miss Parker ordered. Between them, she and Sam were able to pull the secret door closed with a thud. Brushing her hands off, Miss Parker sighed and said, “We’ll wait here.”

Sam took a position between Miss Parker and the closed doorway. He leaned against one wall and tried to get comfortable. He did his best to keep the flame burning on his torch for as long as possible. But all too soon, the cloth was consumed. The wooden handle had a shiny painted coating that wouldn’t burn. As a result, they were soon immersed in darkness.

Total darkness is not something one comes across everyday. Sam spent his time admiring the simplicity of it. Unable to see his hand in front of his face, he felt disoriented at first. He couldn’t tell up from down. The people with him could have been miles away rather than separated by only a few feet.

As his other senses adjusted to the pitch black, Sam could feel the strange floating sensation disappear. He knew that Miss Parker was to his immediate left. He could smell the soft flowery scent of her perfume and sense the warm softness of her. She was breathing deeply and regularly, indicating that she was probably asleep.

Sam could hear a fidgeting rustle on Miss Parker’s other side. Mr. Broots was jerking fitfully at regular intervals as though he was afraid of the creatures that may be crawling over him in the dark. His breathing was rapid and labored, seeming very loud in the confined space.

The sweeper knew that Sydney was with them. He could sense the psychiatrist’s presence more than he could hear it. Once in a while, Sam heard the older man as he shifted his feet or changed his position. But for the most part, Sydney was quiet.

Time ceased to have any meaning as Sam listened to the void. At some point, he must have dozed off because he felt himself abruptly snapped back into consciousness. The blackness around him was still thick as he glanced around him. Had he heard something? He strained his ears but found nothing except the mild snores of someone nearby, probably Broots.

Sam shifted, trying to improve the circulation in his limbs. Another faint sound reached him, setting him on the alert. He straightened and listened again. As he cocked his head, he peered into the darkness. Could he see a dark shape curled on the floor at his feet? Perhaps he was imagining it, but Sam crouched down and reached for the barely discernable shadow.

The blob was little more than a darker shape in the blackness, yet when Sam touched it, he found Miss Parker’s shoulder. He nudged his boss from her sleep. “Miss Parker,” he whispered.

Sam’s boss woke quickly.

“Someone is coming,” Sam told her. “There is a light approaching.”

As the sweeper spoke, more illumination filtered into the area. Looking over his shoulder, Sam could see a turn in the corridor only a few yards further down. From around that corner, a beam of light wavered, growing stronger with each moment.

Miss Parker leaned down and covering Broots’ mouth with her hand, shook him awake. Sam pulled his weapon from its holster, aiming toward the unknown figure that approached. He edged past Sydney, giving the doctor a gentle kick to rouse him. Sam placed himself between the beam of light and the others, protecting his charges as best he could.

With a click that seemed to echo in the quiet corridor, Miss Parker cocked her pistol and stood at Sam’s side. Together they held their ground, ready for whatever fate could throw at them. They waited in silence as the beam, obviously a flashlight, bounced closer. Just before the light would have rounded the corner, it halted abruptly. Sam raised his gun, ready to fire.

“Miss Parker,” a voice called cautiously down the hall.

“Jarod.” Miss Parker huffed. “You’re damn lucky we didn’t put a bullet in your ass.”

The pretender rounded the corner and pointed his flashlight at the tense little group. Even hidden behind the ray of light, Sam could see Jarod’s rakish grin. “No time for sweet talk, Parker,” he said. “We are under a bit of a time crunch here.”

Jarod handed Sam the flashlight as he deftly pulled another from his belt. The pretender smiled and greeted his old mentor with an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

“My daughter,” Broots asked nervously. “What has happened to my daughter?”

“She’s fine,” Jarod reassured him. “Debbie is waiting with my mother. She’s a bit confused and probably a little frightened, but she’ll be okay once she sees you, Mr. Broots.”

“Let’s go,” Miss Parker said as she headed back the way Jarod had just come. “Is it far?” She asked the pretender.

“Far enough,” he replied. Jarod led them through the winding corridor. He kept his voice low as he spoke. “The authorities are all over the place. There are soldiers and police officers with dogs searching the grounds.”

“How will we get by them?” Sydney asked.

“Carefully,” Jarod answered. “And as quickly as possible. Alex has made us all very unpopular people.”

“What has that lunatic done now?” Miss Parker asked in an icy tone.

“I believe the phrase ‘sang like a canary’ is appropriate,” Jarod said. “He won’t shut up. The reporters are standing in line to interview him.”

“Why would they believe that nut?” Miss Parker shook her head.

Jarod shrugged. “Mainly because everything he’s telling them is true,” he admitted. “The Centre has been training pretenders to kill for years. Terrorist plot is just another term for what we call simulations.”

“Jarod.” Sydney scolded. “That’s a bit harsh don’t you think?”

The pretender stopped and turned to look forlornly at his aging mentor. Even in the dim light, Sam could see the hardness glittering in Jarod’s black eyes.

“No, Sydney,” Jarod answered. “I don’t think it is harsh at all.”

“How much further?” Miss Parker interrupted when it appeared that Sydney might argue.

“This way,” Jarod led on without really answering the question.

They continued to make their way through what Sam recognized as a maintenance access. The narrow corridor seemed even smaller now because cables and pipes lining the walls had thickened dramatically as they moved onward. The group fell silent as the floor sloped steeply upward. The smell of fresh air floated into Sam’s senses.

After what seemed to be hours of walking, they came to the end of the passageway. Jarod shouldered open a heavy metal door and peered out. As they filed quietly through the opening, Sam looked up and saw thousands of stars twinkling in a clear night sky. The moon was shining but only at half crescent, so there was enough light to see the way but little more than that.

Sam waited as Jarod stepped out of the brush that hid the door they had just come through.

“Move quickly and quietly,” the pretender whispered. “There is a van waiting on the road about half a mile north of here.”

With a final glance around, the pretender grabbed Sydney by the arm and started to hurry across the grass toward a large stand of trees. Sam gave Broots a shove in the general direction and followed Miss Parker as she ran after Jarod. They made it to the trees without incident.

The pretender was fast. Sam knew from experience that Jarod could easily outdistance them. But the pretender was not fleeing from them this time. Instead he was running with them, so his speed was hampered by Sydney’s abilities. It was an eerily quiet dash through the dark. Trees flashed by as Sam ran. Across the night, a dog barked and then another. There was a shout from behind.

Sam was right on Miss Parker’s heels as they burst from the tree line and onto another field of grass. Excited voices filtered through the trees. They were being chased.

Sam glanced at his boss, silently begging her to hurry. Sam could have put forth a bit more speed but he wanted to stay between Miss Parker and the barking dogs to the rear. She ran, the tails of her suit jacket billowing behind her like a cape. Jarod was nearly dragging Sydney, urging him to go faster. Broots, spurned on by fear, was dashing ahead of the rest of them.

“Halt or I’ll shoot!” a deep male voice hollered.

They ran.

“Halt!”

The first shot that rang through the air was from a 9mm handgun. Sam could tell from the sound. What followed was a staccato echoing of a variety of different calibers. Broots began to whimper but otherwise the fugitives ran on unfazed.

Sam heard the bullet hit him. Fired from a rifle, the shot blasted into the sweeper with the force of a two-ton truck. The force of impact pushed Sam forward with a jerk. He slid to his knees with a stunned look on his face. Looking down, he saw a large red stain spreading across his chest, darkening the white silk shirt he wore.

“Jarod!” Miss Parker screamed. She turned and ran to Sam’s side, trying to help him up.

“Keep going,” Jarod yelled at Sydney and Broots before coming to Sam’s aid. But before Jarod could get to the fallen sweeper, one of the bullets zinging through the air caught Miss Parker in the chest. She went down immediately.

Jarod knelt at Sam’s side, unable to spare a moment for Miss Parker just yet. Sam couldn’t breathe. It was as if the air was made of water, too thick to inhale. He lay there, gazing up at the stars as he felt the life draining from his body.

“Hang in there, Sam,” Jarod murmured as he yanked Sam’s shirt away from his chest.

“Too late,” Sam gasped. “I’m a goner.”

Jarod glanced at the exit wound. The look on the pretender’s face told Sam the truth of it.

“Miss Parker,” Sam said, clutching Jarod’s jacket with one bloodied hand.

Jarod looked over at the fallen woman for a moment before answering. “She’s alive.”

“Get her out,” Sam breathed. “Nothing else matters.”

The pretender nodded solemnly.

“Promise me. Promise you’ll get her out of here,” Sam frowned. The stars had faded into the blackness above. “Go!”

Jarod knelt at Miss Parker’s side long enough to check her pulse. Then he lifted her onto his shoulder and stood. Sam glared meaningfully at the pretender and lifted his gun. Jarod nodded once, turned and fled.

With the last of his strength, Sam rolled onto his stomach and steadied his aim. The figures approaching from the woods were no more than blurring shadows. Sam fired at them nonetheless. His shots had the desired effect. The figures chasing them fell back, looking for cover among the trees.

The sweeper fired the last round from his clip before he lost consciousness. He died moments later with his eyes open and his gun in his hand.

-

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn’t me. Don’t own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I’ll disavow all knowledge.

-

The Straight Path Lost Part 3

- By Phenyx

06/12/2004

-

Emily sat in the front passenger seat and tried not to bite her fingernails. The window beside her was open so that she could hear her parents as they talked outside. Her father had been fumbling around out there for ages with a jack in his hands. The dark minivan parked on the berm didn’t have a flat, but the Major had worked hard to give the impression that it did.

The vehicle was a remarkably effective cover as the group waited on the dark road. Emily’s mother stood at her husband’s side looking fretful and concerned, without needing to act too much. There were bicycles lashed to the top of the car and a bumper sticker that claimed some child had made the honor roll at a nonexistent public school.

The disguise had worked so well that passing motorists had stopped to offer assistance twice in the last ninety minutes. The Major had thanked them, claiming that he was nearly finished. Emily and the children had waved enthusiastically from the van as the good Samaritans drove away.

Emily turned and glanced at the bench seat behind her. The girl sitting there was doing her best to remain calm, despite the havoc of the last few hours. The slender little brunette was being very brave considering Jarod had literally kidnapped the child as she headed home from school.

There had been no time for explanations or cautious pleasantries earlier that afternoon. Emily had held the sliding door open while Jarod hopped from the van. With a quick glance around, her brother had rushed up to the girl and plucked her from the sidewalk. Jarod’s hand over the girl’s mouth muffled her cries as he dragged her into the car. Within moments, the van was speeding away from the curb. No one had seen the child vanish.

Emily had felt nauseous when she’d seen the fear in the girl’s eyes but Jarod had managed to calm her quickly.

“My name is Jarod,” he had told the child. His voice had been level and soothing, even though his hand still served as a gag. With one knee he had pressed the girl against the seat, restraining her flailing limbs. “Listen to me, Debbie,” he commanded. “I am not going to hurt you. Your dad is in trouble. He sent me to find you.”

This had been enough to ease the girl’s struggles but her wide eyes still looked around fearfully.

“I’m going to let you up now, Debbie,” Jarod had told her. “I want you to buckle your seatbelt and try to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”

The child nodded cautiously.

Jarod had smiled that devastating grin of his. “Good girl,” he said. “We have a lot to do before we meet your dad and Miss Parker.”

That had been the extent of the explanations offered to the little girl. Emily was surprised at how readily Debbie had accepted the abrupt change of events. But then, Jarod had a way of instilling that kind of trust.

Jack had taken the little girl under his wing after that. Even now, he chattered on incessantly while they waited. The teen had found a deck of cards somewhere and the two children had passed the time playing quietly together. Debbie’s wariness had eased somewhat as she taught Jack how to play a new game. If the girl thought it strange that Jack had never heard of ‘go-fish’, she did not mention it.

Emily turned to face the windshield and sighed. She glanced at the reflection of her parents in the side mirror as her fingers began to drum nervously on her thigh. When she realized what she was doing, Emily made a conscious effort to stop her twitching fingers. It had been so eerie the first time she saw her brother making the same agitated tapping that Emily was trying to break the habit.

All her life, Emily had been told about her missing brothers. One a brilliant child who had been stolen for profit, the other a hostage kept to silence grieving parents. Finally meeting Jarod had been like bumping into a legend. Emily had found it hard to believe that the handsome, laughing man had been the child her mother had spoken about so often.

The Major’s head popped through the window abruptly, startling Emily from her thoughts. “Someone is coming,” he said.

Emily glanced in the direction her father indicated and peered into the night. A lean man, bald except for a ring of short hair around his crown, was running toward them. Emily felt herself tense up, ready to defend the children against this stranger if need be.

But Debbie eased her worries as the little girl cried, “Daddy!”

When the child would have dashed from the car, Jack held her back. Emily clambered around and yanked open the sliding door. The Major jumped into the vehicle and made his way to the driver’s seat. As he started the ignition, his wife took the position that Emily had just left.

Emily held the door and gestured to Debbie’s father. The man hesitated only a moment before rushing into the van past Emily. He grabbed his daughter in a warm embrace and held on as though afraid the child would disappear.

“Daddy, Daddy,” the girl whimpered.

The man Jarod had called Broots caressed the back of Debbie’s head, hushing the child in a soothing voice. “Hey kiddo, hush now. It will be alright.”

Emily had only a moment to admire the affection evident between father and child. Still holding the door by the handle, Emily’s attention was drawn to the sound of rapidly running footsteps. She turned to see an older man approaching from the same direction Broots had come.

“Sydney?” Emily asked as she helped the man into the vehicle. He nodded. Jarod had told his family little about the people he’d come to Delaware to help. Emily knew names, knew that these people held a special place in Jarod’s life, but that was all.

Emily leaned forward, searching for her brother. For several long heartbeats there was nothing, she could hear only the far off sound of a dog barking. Emily didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until Jarod burst from the trees and air rushed from Emily’s lungs with relief.

Emily frowned when she saw that her brother was not alone. Over his shoulder he carried a woman, her arms dangling limply across his back. Skidding to a halt at the door, Jarod shooed his sister aside and gently laid the woman on the floor of the van.

“Go!” Jarod demanded. Before the door had completely closed, the vehicle was driving off into the night.

“Miss Parker!” Debbie gasped as she looked down at the unconscious woman.

Jarod reached in his pocket and withdrew a menacing looking switchblade. With a flick of his thumb, the knife opened and he used it to slice away the fabric of the woman’s expensive jacket. Blood stained the front of a fine silk shirt. Turning the woman on her side, Jarod quickly scanned her back but there were no additional stains visible.

“No exit wound,” he mumbled to no one in particular. Placing the woman back down, Jarod tore open her blouse and examined her wound. The round bullet hole was to the right of the woman’s sternum, piercing her breast just above her brassiere. “Smaller caliber, probably a 38,” Jarod said. “There’s not enough blood to indicate damage to the major veins or arteries.”

Jarod grabbed the first-aid kit Emily handed to him, quickly located a gauze pad and held it against the woman’s wound.

“What about Sam?” the older man asked.

Emily caught the minor hesitation in Jarod’s movements. She saw the flash of sadness in his eyes.

“He’s dead,” Jarod said simply.

“Are you sure, Jarod?” Sydney asked.

Jarod nodded as he worked. “He took a shot in the back. High caliber rifle. The bullet made a sizable hole as it left his body through the chest. There was nothing I could do.”

Emily felt ice in her veins at Jarod’s matter-of-fact tone. His voice was emotionless and flat. Craning his neck to see out the front window Jarod seemed to search for some landmark, gathering his bearings.

“She needs medical attention, Dad,” Jarod said. “I know a place.”

Emily glanced at her father who nodded in understanding.

“Tell me,” the Major answered.

For the next several minutes, all was quiet save for Jarod’s steady directions. “There it is,” he said finally. They pulled into the parking lot of a medical facility. It was one of those doctors’ offices that stayed open late, providing care for those who could not wait for a conventional appointment, but were not yet serious enough for the emergency room.

“Cut the lights and pull around back,” Jarod said. At this time of night, the building was dark and the lot empty. “Emily, put your hand here,” Jarod ordered. He grabbed Emily by the wrist and replaced his hand with hers over the bloody bandage. “Keep the pressure firm,” he said. “Don’t be afraid of hurting her.”

Emily nodded uncertainly but did as she was told. As the vehicle stopped, Jarod grabbed up the woman’s discarded jacket and felt around in the pockets. He quickly found what he was looking for, a cylindrical piece of metal about four inches long. Emily’s eyes grew wide as she watched her brother fasten the silencer to the muzzle of a gun.

Jarod eased open the van door and scanned the area. Without pause, he took aim and pulled the trigger. Emily had never heard a silenced pistol before. It sounded like the pop of an air gun. A tinkling of glass followed as one of the nearby streetlamps went out.

In moments, the parking lot was immersed in darkness. Jarod slid the gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. It disappeared beneath his leather coat. As he stepped from the van, he retrieved another knife from his pocket. This one was a utility knife, with various foldout attachments.

Emily found herself wondering how heavily armed her brother was right now.

“Wait here,” Jarod commanded.

From her vantage point, Emily could see out the side door of the van. She watched Jarod hurry to the employee entrance and kneel before the electronic security pad located to one side. Emily was astonished at the speed with which her brother disabled the system and picked the lock on the door.

In less than a minute, Jarod was back at the van lifting the woman into his arms. “Jack,” he said. “Hold open the door. Emily, I want you to walk with me. I need you to keep applying pressure while I get her inside.” He continued to bark orders as everyone began to move. “Dad, watch the front. Sydney, you’re with us. If she wakes up, I may need you to help calm her.”

Emily hurried into the building, doing her best to press down on the woman’s chest as she shuffled backwards. Jack rushed ahead, opening doors while the others trailed behind them.

“The last room on the right is equipped for trauma cases,” Jarod told them.

Glancing at her big brother, Emily briefly wondered at where Jarod had gained that piece of information. But there was no time to ask. She doubted he would have told her anyway.

As Jarod eased his burden onto the examination table the woman suddenly gasped, arching her back in pain. She coughed once, pink-tinged spittle settling on her cheek.

Debbie, standing in the doorway with her father, began to cry.

“Get her out of here,” Jarod demanded. “Jack find some antibiotics and an I.V. if you can.” Jarod stepped back for a moment, threw off his jacket and yanked open a nearby drawer, leaving bloody prints on the handle.

The woman beneath Emily’s palm was writhing, her hands clawing at the air. Her breath came in gurgling rasps. The old man tried to soothe the woman’s brow but she seemed not to register his presence.

“Put this on,” Jarod ordered. Emily looked up and saw the surgical mask he was offering her. His face was already covered and in his other hand he held a scalpel.

“You can’t operate,” Emily said in wonder.

“You would prefer to stand here and watch her die?”

Jarod’s eyes glittered coldly. Emily could see the tension in his gaze but his actions were incredibly calm. Although her innards were trembling into mush, it was with relatively steady hands that Emily took the mask and did as she was instructed.

“Jarod...” the injured woman whispered. She clutched at Jarod’s shirt, smearing blood on the plain white cotton. “Please,” she gasped. “Let... me... go.”

Emily flinched. The look of horrified anguish in her brother’s face was enough to cause an ache in Emily’s own breast. She suddenly realized how important this mysterious lady must be to her big brother. His agony seemed to be a tangible thing.

Then the moment was over. A flat, blankness took over Jarod’s features. The tender misery was gone so quickly Emily thought she might have imagined it.

“No,” Jarod hissed in a hard, angry voice. “Why should I do for you, what you would never have done for me?” Jarod eased a syringe into the woman’s arm. Leaning in close he whispered to her as she drifted into unconsciousness. “I will never let you go, Miss Parker.”

Aside from some basic first-aid, Emily had no medical training. She did her best to help her brother as he worked over Miss Parker. But his terse instructions only served to make Emily more nervous.

Jarod performed the surgery as though he had done it a hundred times. He quickly sliced through layers of tissue to locate the slug. He repaired some minor damage to a punctured lung, narrating his actions as he worked. As he closed the wound, Jarod spent extra care in doing so, using many more sutures than were really necessary.

“She’ll kill me if I leave a bad scar,” Jarod explained.

“Will she be okay?” Jack asked as Jarod bandaged the woman.

Emily held her breath expectantly, sighing with relief when Jarod nodded.

“I think so,” he said. “We’ve managed to keep the blood loss to a minimum. I don’t think we’ll need a transfusion, but we’ll take supplies for one just in case. Sydney shares her blood type so that won’t be a problem.”

“Now what?” Emily asked.

“Keep her warm,” Jarod replied brusquely. “Jack, get the others to the van. Then you and I need to wipe the place down. I don’t want to leave any prints.”

Emily helped move the woman into the van. They laid her on one of the bench seats and hung the I.V. from one of the hooks above the door. As Emily tested the sturdiness of the peg, she realized that she would never again be able to hang dry-cleaning from such a hook without remembering its alternate uses.

Jarod remained in the building for a long time. When he and Jack finally exited, Jarod knelt by the door for several long minutes. Anxious to leave, Emily was about to tell her brother to hurry when the purpose of his actions dawned on her. He was fixing the door and the by-passed security.

Emily stared, dumbfounded, as Jarod ran to the van and hopped on board. He tossed a red plastic bag in one corner before slamming the door closed behind him. Emily blinked at the bag, instinctively knowing that it contained every tool, needle or gauze pad they had used during the operation. With a certainty that could not be shaken, Emily understood what her brother had been doing for the last half hour. Aside from the broken streetlights and some missing medical inventory, there would be absolutely no sign whatsoever that anyone had been here tonight.

As the van began to move, Jarod knelt on the floor at Miss Parker’s side. He checked her pulse and caressed her forehead. Then he looked up at Emily and smiled.

Emily wanted to cry. That smile was devastating. It was a bright, open grin that made one think that all was right with the world. Until tonight, Emily had believed in that smile. She had thought her brother was one of the sweetest, most tenderhearted beings to ever walk the earth. For who but angels or saints carried such a look of pure innocence.

But now Emily knew better. That heart-stopping smile hid an entirely different person. This other being, living just under the surface, was cold and calculating. For the first time since she’d met him, Emily was afraid of Jarod. She feared the stranger who now lived with her family.

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn't me. Don't own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I'll disavow all knowledge.

Author's Note: Here you go Rev. I'll try not to take so long with the next chapter.


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


The Straight Path Lost Part 4

By Phenyx
06/23/04

Charles walked through the house, checking the locks and turning out lights. It was late, nearly twenty-four hours since he'd driven away from a darkened parking lot in Delaware. After driving until nearly dawn, the major had slumped in one of the passenger seats and slept while other members of his family took turns behind the wheel.

In the hours that had passed, the major and his family had managed to put nearly half a continent between them and the Centre. Jarod had directed them to this large farmhouse in a secluded area of the Mid-West. With little more than a phone call Jarod had arranged for the keys and unlimited access to the well kept home.

Charles went to the kitchen and spent a few moments opening cupboards until he found a glass. Pouring juice from a container in the refrigerator, the major took the cup and carried it down the dimly lit hallway. He stopped in front of a half open door.

The only bedroom located on the first floor of the house, this is where they had brought Miss Parker. She was weak from her injury, wavering in and out of consciousness since joining the group. Jarod seemed confident that she would recover, claiming that with rest she would be fine. But Jarod had yet to leave the wounded woman's side.

Charles gazed through the open door at his son. Jarod was precariously balanced on a wooden chair. His body was awkwardly folded over itself to lean forward on to the mattress. Crossed forearms rested on the bed to serve as a pillow for Jarod's head. He had one hand wrapped around Miss Parker's wrist while he slept, as though he was monitoring her pulse even while unconscious.

With a wry smile, the major stepped into the room. There was a sudden blur of motion, occurring so fast that Charles didn't even have time to flinch. The tender scene that the major had witnessed a moment ago was gone. Instead, the older man found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Jarod, sitting bolt upright in the chair, had a weapon trained on the major.

It took only an instant for Jarod to recognize the intruder. The moment he did, Jarod pointed the gun at the ceiling and released his grip, allowing the pistol to twirl around his finger by the trigger guard. "Sorry, Dad," he mumbled.

Charles shrugged. "Not a problem," he said. "Just please, don't do that to your sister. No need to make her any more uneasy."

"Uneasy?" Jarod asked.

The major nodded. "I thought you might want something to drink," Charles said in an attempt to change the subject. "Apple juice. It was your favorite when you were little."

Jarod smiled as he took the glass. After a few sips he asked again, "Why is Emily uneasy?"

Charles didn't want to make Jarod aware of the recent change in dynamics between him and his sister. But Margaret was right. Jarod needed to know of the problem, if only to prevent matters from getting any worse.

"I've frightened her," Jarod replied in answer to his own question.

The major sighed. "She doesn't understand."

Gazing solemnly at the sleeping woman, Jarod said flatly, "What's to understand? I'm capable of frightening things. Her anxiety is well justified."

"Emily is your sister," Charles scolded. "You would never harm her."

"Wouldn't I?" Jarod's dark eyes carried a look of despair. "I've just pulled a gun on my own father. What makes you think Emily is safe?"

Charles stepped closer and placed a reassuring hand on Jarod's shoulder. "She is safe because Emily is no threat to either you or Miss Parker," he said. "You do what you have to in order to survive. You are simply protecting yourself and those who are important to you."

The skepticism in Jarod's eyes was all too easy for the major to see. Gazing at his son thoughtfully, Charles sighed. "You are a good man, Son. A good man forced to live in extreme circumstances."

"Dad," Jarod began to argue.

"No," the major held up one hand to stop him. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. "I want to tell you about your namesake." Charles saw Jarod frown in confusion at the abrupt change in the conversation. "Now, don't look at me like that. You'll understand why I bring it up once you've heard the tale. But Jarod," Charles glared at his son. "I've never told your mother about this and I prefer her to stay ignorant of the entire thing. No need to trouble her over ancient history."

Jarod nodded. His interest had been aroused and he looked up at his father curiously.

"I wanted to name you Jarrett, after a man I greatly admired." Charles began. "But your mother thought the name sounded like a cartoon character. 'Jarrett the ferret' she said." The major grinned wryly at the old memory. "So we compromised a bit. She changed the spelling and found a name she liked. I felt it was close enough to pay homage to the man I had known. Besides, I couldn't really argue the point. Your mother went through a lot to give me a son." The major reached out and caressed his son's hair. "The least I could do was let her choose his name."

Jarod smiled at his father as the major carefully sat on the edge of Miss Parker's bed.

"I met Sergeant Robert Jarrett during my first year in the military," Charles remembered. "Years before I came to know your mother. I was as naïve as they come, the greenest recruit you've ever seen. I joined the Air Force before I'd finished high school. Less than a week after graduation I was on my way to boot camp. Six months later I was stationed in South Korea, surrounded by a war I barely understood."

"I wasn't a pilot then." Charles went on. "I didn't fly jets until 'Nam. Those first few years in Korea I was nothing more than a grunt on the stiff watch." At Jarod's puzzled look the major explained further. "We were a chopper crew of five. There was the pilot, navigator and three corpsmen. Our job was to fly into an area after a battle and retrieve the bodies of American casualties. We brought back as many as we could." Charles sighed. "Sometimes there were too many to get them all on the chopper. We'd run across the fields, dodging sniper fire on occasion, snatching up as many dog tags as we could. Once in a while we'd find a live one, someone that the medics had missed. Bringing a breathing soldier in to a M.A.S.H was so much more rewarding than hauling the corpses out of one.

"Anyway," Charles continued. "The sergeant was one of the crew. He was a grizzled old army veteran who had served as a paratrooper during World War II. He was a decorated hero with enough medals to easily intimidate a young airman."

Charles chuckled to himself as the memories washed over him. "Sergeant Jarrett ran me ragged, I'll tell you. He wasn't my superior officer, of course, but he acted like it. And not a day went by that he didn't make some crack about soft cheeked mama's boys." The major continued. "He was an old army soldier stationed with a bunch of young Air Force recruits who all had chips on their shoulders because they hadn't been chosen for pilots."

"It must have been difficult to get along," Jarod mused.

"Not one bit," Charles replied. "We all adored him. He'd give any one of us the last dollar in his pocket. Let us read letters from home to him over and over, until he knew our families as well as we did. When the homesickness and fear came to be too much, well, let's just say that he was very supportive for the rest of us."

"He sounds like a nice person," Jarod observed.

The smile slipped from Charles face as he went on. "For the most part. But at the core of it all, Jarrett was a soldier. He was at Normandy on D-day, fought in some of the bloodiest battles of World War II, and lived to tell about it." Charles looked at his son, trying to instill in the younger man some sense of the gravity of what he was about to say.

"One cold November afternoon, we were on a mission when our chopper was shot down," Charles said quietly. "Sergeant Jarrett and I were the only two to make it out of the wreckage. We were twenty miles behind enemy lines. I was scared to death and thought we were done for."

"What did you do?" Jarod asked breathlessly.

"We started to walk," the major said. "'Believe you'll make it, Airman.' he told me. 'A soldier who thinks he's dead, is dead.' He promised we'd get out of there, and in exchange made me promise to name a kid after him." Charles smiled ruefully. "He was trying to keep my spirits up, I suppose."

"Night fell and we spent hours sneaking across the countryside, sometimes even crawling on our stomachs. When the sun rose the next morning, we found ourselves less than five hundred yards from an entire unit of North Korean soldiers. They were bivouacked in this little farming village and we were hiding in one of the barns."

Charles went on talking, doing his best to keep his voice level and calm. "So there we were. Huddled in the straw trying to be very quiet when a girl came into the barn to feed the animals. She couldn't have been a day over fifteen, a lovely, sweet young girl." Charles shook his head. "I sat there and watched as Sergeant Jarrett sliced her throat so that she could not scream. He cut her larynx and then, before she had time to realize what was happening, he put the blade between her ribs and killed her with one swift jab."

Jarod's throat clicked as he swallowed. For a long moment, father and son stared at each other in silence.

"She wasn't the only one," Charles continued. "There were others over the next two days. Those we couldn't avoid, who crossed our path at just the wrong moment. I made it back because Sergeant Jarrett was a damn good soldier. He did what he had to do, what he had been trained to do. Right or wrong, I am here today because that man did what he needed to in order to survive."

Jarod glanced away, gnawing at his lower lip in anxiety. Charles rose and stood before the wooden chair. Taking his son by the shoulders, the major turned Jarod toward him.

"Jarod," Charles said with gentle firmness. "You do what you to have to do, what you have been trained to do. You're a soldier who has been at war for a long, long time. Survival is all you've known."

Charles placed a reassuring arm around his son's shoulders. "Emily can't understand," he said. "Reconciling the kind-hearted brother with the determined soldier just isn't something she can deal with right now. You need to give her time to realize that both can exist in the same man."

"But, Dad," Jarod said. "I don't believe they can. Light and darkness are mutually exclusive. Where one is present, the other is not. One aspect of the personality is real, the other is a façade, no more than a mask." Jarod sighed. "The hell of it is, I'm never sure which is the genuine persona and which is just pretend."

"Jarod," the major frowned, shaking Jarod's shoulders gently. "The world isn't as simple as that. You see things as extremes, all or nothing, black or white. But the truth is that no one on this earth is purely evil, or purely good for that matter. We each of us carry the seeds of both."

Jarod gazed at his father with large soulful eyes. "You don't know, Dad," he whispered. "You don't know the terrible things I've done."

Charles straightened with a sigh. "Do you want to tell me?"

"You saw the DSAs," Jarod said with a frown.

"Only a few," the major countered.

Jarod shrugged. "Watch the rest if you want."

"I shouldn't have seen the ones I did," Charles said kindly. "I didn't ask for permission. I shouldn't have invaded your privacy that way."

Jarod tossed his father a strange look that the major couldn't quite interpret. With a sigh he said, "Privacy isn't a concept I've quite been able to grasp."

A snorting sound rose from the bed, soft yet rude. "Common problem among stalkers," Miss Parker said in a raspy voice.

Charles was amazed by the abrupt change in his son. A delighted smile spread across Jarod's face, brightening the room with its intensity.

"I'm not a stalker," Jarod gasped, feigning shock. "Yours is the only privacy I invade on a regular basis, Miss Parker."

"Liar."

Sliding gracefully onto his knees at Miss Parker's bedside, Jarod laughed. "It's all a matter of perspective, I guess."

The insolent scoff came again from the lithe form on the bed as Miss Parker's eyes fluttered open.

Jarod caressed the woman's smooth forehead, checking her temperature as he smiled at her. "How do you feel?" he asked tenderly.

"I'll live," she croaked in response. "I can blame you for that I suppose."

"Yup," Jarod said as he sat on the mattress beside her. "Don't expect me to apologize for it either."

"Bastard," Miss Parker sighed as her eyelids closed wearily.

"I do my best."

The gray-blue eyes opened again, looking up at Jarod inquisitively. "How's Sam?" she asked.

Jarod glanced toward his father, as though looking for support of some kind. Jarod's dark brown gaze then fixed on the girl soulfully. It was apparent that Miss Parker had little trouble deciphering the look. When Jarod shook his head sadly, the woman flinched.

"Sam," she whispered.

Charles frowned as he watched the younger couple, trying to understand what kind of relationship existed between them. Jarod was looking decidedly uncomfortable, his back straight and his movements stiff as the woman looked away sadly. There suddenly seemed to be a distance between them. It was a distance that far surpassed the mere twelve inches of space separating their bodies.

"Would you like me to go find Sydney?" Jarod asked.

Miss Parker shook her head.

Grabbing the nearly full glass from the nightstand where he'd placed it, Jarod offered, "Would you like some juice?"

"No," she refused quietly.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence in the room.

"What can I do for you, Parker?" Jarod asked finally.

"Nothing," was the soft reply.

With a heavy sigh, Jarod nodded. "Try to rest," he said. He tucked the blankets around Miss Parker's body before settling himself back on to the chair. With a sigh, the injured woman let her eyelids drift shut and before long, she was breathing in a deep rhythmical way that indicated sleep.

"You should follow your own advice, Son," the major whispered. "Get some sleep."

Jarod nodded. "Thanks, Dad."

Charles patted his son affectionately on the shoulder then left the room, quietly pulling the door closed behind him. He made his way through the darkened house, up the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. As silently as he could, he tugged off his clothes and slipped into bed beside his wife.

"How is he?" she asked.

Charles shrugged, knowing that she could not see him in the dark. With a troubled sigh, the major curled against his wife's body and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Charles," Margaret's voice took on a scolding tone.

"He's fine," the major said. "Miss Parker woke for little while. It seems that she'll be okay."

Twisting in his arms, Margaret turned to look at Charles. "There is something between those two," she said.

"Without a doubt," the major agreed. "But what that is has yet to be determined."

"It frightens me, Charles," Margaret said. "He seems so different with them here. So... anxious somehow."

The major grunted as he pondered his wife's words.

"These people pursued him for years," Margaret continued. "That Sydney held him captive all his life. Do you suppose Jarod might be afraid having them here?"

"No," Charles said thoughtfully. "He doesn't fear them. He seems to be connected to them in some way, as though they share a terrible secret."

"I'm afraid we'll never know our own son well enough to learn that secret," Margaret sighed.

The major kissed his wife's temple and snuggled her against his chest. "There's nothing we can do about it tonight," he soothed. "Stop worrying and go to sleep."

Margaret sighed contentedly. Charles held her tight until long after she had drifted off. But for the major, rest would not come. His mind kept flitting back to a far away night on the Korean countryside. He thought of the sergeant he had loved and feared in equal measure. He thought of his son and tried to imagine what pain haunted the younger man's eyes.

In his heart, the major knew that he never really wanted to know what horrors his firstborn had lived through. He didn't want to know what evil had dwelt in Jarod's life. And yet, Charles had a gnawing feeling in his gut that the darkness of Jarod's past would catch up to them. No matter how hard they tried to ignore it.

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn’t me. Don’t own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I’ll disavow all knowledge.

-

The Straight Path Lost Part 5

- By Phenyx

07/02/04

-

Sydney stood at the screen door and watched the man sitting on the porch. The psychiatrist was becoming more concerned about Jarod with each passing day. Sydney’s protégé was doing what he had done almost constantly for the week that had passed since Parker had risen from her sickbed. Jarod was intently focused on his laptop computer, watching a twenty-four hour news channel spew inane factoids about the terrorist cell that had been uncovered at The Centre.

The capture of the pretender known as Alex had set into motion a series of events that left the entire country in a state of shock. The Center was now under the control of the Department of Homeland Security. Accusations of conspiracy among government officials and secret military connections were racing through the most powerful and influential offices around the globe.

The media was latching onto the most minute of details, dragging forth any number of obscure “specialists” to interview on whatever topic seemed relevant at the moment. The consequences of isolation, the chemistry of brain washing, and the effects of torture on children, all were discussed at great length on a variety of stations.

Jarod was fixated on every word. He sat, curled up in a wicker chair, frowning at the monitor before him. Sydney’s worry deepened when he noticed Jarod chewing at his knuckles. The pretender gnawed at the knuckle of his left hand, at the joint between the second metacarpal and it’s proximal phalanx bone.

It was a nervous habit that the pretender had not displayed for years. During Jarod’s adolescence, he had begun to bite at his knuckle the way some teens chewed their fingernails. Within a matter of weeks, a bloody lesion had developed and Sydney had been forced to extreme measures to stop the boy’s self-mutilation.

Stepping quietly onto the wooden porch, Sydney approached his protégé. With a gentle caress across the back of Jarod’s hand, Sydney said simply, “That flesh is tender, Jarod. Please stop.”

The younger man’s reaction was immediate. Jarod straightened in the chair, his hands slipped to his sides and his fingertips curled beneath his thighs. As the dark eyes looked up at Sydney expectantly the psychiatrist sighed. Jarod wasn’t aware of the conditioned response. The fact that the combination of tactile and verbal cues still worked so well was an eerie reminder of the depth of Jarod’s Centre training.

Sydney squelched the guilty stab from his conscience, easily done after so many years of practice. He leaned against the porch railing and met Jarod’s innocent gaze unflinchingly.

“Tell me what’s bothering you, Jarod,” Sydney said kindly.

“Nothing,” was the reply. “I’m fine.”

With a disappointed shake of his head, Sydney leaned forward and took Jarod’s left hand between his palms. Rubbing his thumb across the angry red marks on Jarod’s knuckle Sydney said softly, “I haven’t needed to tend this kind of wound for a very long time.”

The pretender shrugged without comment.

“When you were a boy,” Sydney remembered. “This behavior was triggered by Miss Parker’s departure to Europe. You were very upset to learn that she would be finishing her education over seas.”

Jarod glanced away in an attempt to hide his chagrin. “Was I so obvious?” he asked.

“Only to me,” Sydney answered with a smile. “The habit didn’t manifest itself until she’d been gone for a couple of months, so no one else ever made the connection.”

Jarod sighed. “I didn’t realize she’d left until then.”

“I know.”

“She never even said goodbye,” Jarod said in a forlorn voice. “I think that’s what bothered me the most.”

“You were a lonely boy,” Sydney added. “And she was important to you. On some level you must have felt abandoned.”

“It wasn’t her fault that her father sent her away,” Jarod said.

“But the reality, the logical reasoning behind things, rarely has much impact on the feelings that are generated,” Sydney observed. “You can’t help how it made you feel.”

Jarod nodded, a troubled frown creasing his brow.

Sydney tilted his head curiously. “Does having her back in your daily life distress you?”

“Oh no,” Jarod said. “Not at all.” The pretender glanced up at Sydney, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Well...” he continued. “She does bother me in a way. But it is not the way that you think.”

Sydney smiled. “You find the sexual attraction to be distracting.”

Jarod’s head nearly spun around in shock. Wide brown eyes stared up at Sydney in a wonder that bordered on fear. “You know about that?” he cried.

The psychiatrist did his best not to laugh out loud. “Anyone who has ever been in the same room with the two of you knows about it.”

“How?” Jarod moaned. “We’re at each other’s throats half the time.”

“Yes,” Sydney said wryly.

“She hates me,” the pretender declared.

The psychiatrist hid his amusement. Jarod was more caught up in Parker’s spell than Sydney had realized. “Miss Parker’s feelings are something you should discuss with her, not me,” Sydney said kindly.

“Do you think so?” Jarod asked. At Sydney’s nod Jarod sighed. “I think she would beat me within an inch of my life if I even hint at anything of a romantic nature,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Sydney agreed. “But she’s a beautiful woman. It could be worth a beating in the long run.”

Jarod stared up at Sydney with wide eyes. After a moment, the pretender began to laugh, delighted ripples of sound flowing from him. “Sydney,” he chortled. “You’re teasing me.”

Sydney smiled affectionately at his protégé. “Just a little,” he admitted. “But is good to see you smile. You’ve been terribly hard on yourself lately.”

Jarod’s amusement vanished and he looked away, trying to hide his anxiety.

“Jarod,” Sydney urged. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I don’t understand why you are so upset when everything seems to be coming together for you. The Centre can’t hurt you anymore. Your family is safe.”

The pretender nodded. “I’ve never been so close to having the life I have always dreamed of,” he whispered. “I’m about to lose it all. And that scares me to death.”

“Lose it? Why?” Sydney frowned.

“Can’t you see, Sydney?” Jarod asked woefully. “Don’t you understand what is happening?”

Placing a hand on Jarod’s shoulder, Sydney begged, “Tell me.”

“Alex,” the pretender growled. Shrugging away from his mentor’s touch, Jarod stood angrily and began to pace. “They are crucifying him. One minute they are claiming he’s a lunatic, the next he’s an evil genius bent on destroying democracy.”

“You aren’t worried about Alex’s well-being,” Sydney said.

“No,” Jarod snarled. “I should be, but I’m not.” With a hiss of frustration, Jarod strode across the porch and yanked open the door. He hurried into the house, as though attempting to escape the conversation. Sydney rushed after him.

Catching up to the younger man in the kitchen, Sydney could see the near frantic look in Jarod’s eyes. The pretender was trapped between Sydney and his family as the latter gathered at the table in preparation for a meal.

“Jarod?” the major asked warily. “Are you okay?”

Jarod abruptly seemed very calm, an icy stillness falling over him. Sydney tensed, knowing his pupil well enough to realize that this composure was a thin mask for the emotions churning beneath the surface. “I’m fine,” he said softly.

“Bull shit,” Miss Parker said from her seat at the table. Her hair was haphazardly pulled back with a clip, the extent of her styling ability curtailed by the arm that was still immobilized, tied to her body with a sling.

“We were discussing the situation with Alex,” Sydney explained to the group. “Jarod seems to be concerned about the way Alex is being portrayed by the media.”

“Don’t fret over that psychopath,” Margaret said in a bright tone as she placed a dish of warm rolls onto the table.

“Sociopath,” Miss Parker murmured. “Alex is a sociopath, not a psychopath. There’s a difference.”

Sydney caught the quick glance that flickered between Jarod and Miss Parker. He briefly wondered what it meant.

“Either way,” Margaret went on. “It has nothing to do with us.”

Jarod’s voice grew louder as his frustration began to change to anger. “It has everything to with us, with me. How can you not understand?”

“Jarod,” the pretender’s mother frowned. “That man is a murderer, an assassin.”

“And you think that I’m not?” Jarod’s voice was low, cold and dangerous. Yet, his dark eyes shimmered with pain-filled tears. “I was the Centre’s best and brightest pretender. Alex was always a pale second to my talent.”

“Jarod, don’t,” Sydney pleaded. The pretender’s anguish rolled off of him in waves of almost visible despair. Sydney felt the younger man’s pain as though it were his own. Years of pent up guilt and self-hatred were boiling to the surface. And there wasn’t a damn thing Sydney could do to stop it.

“Alex is a killer,” Jarod went on. “But I have a far larger body count tallied on my scorecard.”

“I don’t believe that,” the major stated firmly.

Jarod laughed, a sorrow filled cackle. “Shall I enlighten you, Father?” The pretender turned his back on his stunned audience to glare angrily out the window as he spoke. “Simulation 1141,” he hissed. “It was supposed to be a rescue operation. An ATF operative’s cover was blown. He was being held in a drug lord’s processing facility in a small village in Columbia. The assignment was to retrieve the agent and take down the facility with a minimal incursion force.”

“You don’t need to do this, Jarod,” Sydney said softly.

The pretender leaned his forehead against the glass pane in resignation. “They need to understand, Sydney.” With a heavy sigh, Jarod continued. “I came up with a plan that required only two operatives. Disguised as farmers, they could enter the village in a pickup truck. No one would think twice about two men hauling fertilizer.

With a simple detonator, they could blow up the truck and portions of the processing plant. In the ensuing confusion, they could rescue the prisoner. No worries.”

Jarod heaved a broken gasp as he fought tears of shame and pain. “The Centre didn’t even sell the simulation,” he said. “They gave it away, used it as a demonstration for a higher profile client. It was as simple as a few mathematical ratios, a bigger truck and a different target.”

“One hundred and sixty–eight people died at the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. Nineteen of them were children,” Jarod said. “They died because I thought up an economical way for one man to do a great deal of damage.”

“You... you couldn’t have known,” Margaret said in a voice little more than a whisper.

Jarod turned and gazed sadly at his mother. “Ignorance is no excuse for murder,” he replied. Running his hands through his hair, Jarod thudded his back against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. “Ignorance is no excuse,” he repeated to himself.

“One bit of good news though,” he chirped with a false cheerfulness. “The World Trade Center wasn’t me.” A haunted look of woe filled those dark eyes as Jarod said softly, “It was one of us. I have no doubt of that. I wasn’t the only pretender raised in those dark halls. The destruction of the Twin Towers had the Centre written all over it. It was beautifully planned, so precise, so efficient. It was god damned pretender poetry.”

Jarod gazed up at the ceiling, absently wiping moisture from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I could find out, I suppose,” he sniffed. “It wouldn’t take much to dip into the mainframe and find out whose simulation led to the attack.”

A small mewling sound crossed the room. “Please, don’t.” The voice was raspy and weak, as if dragged from a soul on the very edge of oblivion.

Sydney, so focused on Jarod and his distress, had effectively been ignoring everyone else in the room. But now his attention was drawn to the figure curled on the floor in the far corner. The boy was in a fetal position with his knees pulled in close to his chest. His face was wet with the tears that still flowed silently down his cheeks.

“Jack!” Jarod wailed. The pretender lost his battle with his own misery and burst into sobs. He literally crawled across the room, batting away Sydney’s attempts to help him. When he reached the youngster’s side, Jarod pulled the boy into his arms. “I’m sorry,” the pretender groaned as he wrapped his body around the child in a protective embrace. “I’m so sorry.”

“We killed them, Jarod,” the boy sobbed. “All those people died because of us.”

Sydney stood helplessly as the two pretenders clung to each other and wept. When the psychiatrist tried to soothe them, Jarod turned on him angrily, nearly snarling.

“Leave us alone,” Jarod cried. “Please, Sydney. We are what you’ve made us. You can’t unmake what we have become. You can’t fix this. No one can.”

The pretender’s words struck Sydney as harshly as if they had been physical blows. The older man flinched away, wounded by the honest bitterness in Jarod’s tone. Sydney glanced around the room sure he would find only rage and recrimination on the other faces. But he saw no accusations in the eyes of Jarod’s parents. He found only sorrow and tears.

Everyone was crying. Not even Miss Parker was immune to the tragedy unfolding before them. Sydney looked toward her, praying he would see forgiveness in her expression. She stood and came to Sydney, stepping into his arms and allowing him to draw comfort from the act of comforting her.

After a long moment, Parker looked up at him and nodded. Moving away from Sydney, she crouched on the floor beside the distraught pretenders. With her good hand she cupped Jarod’s cheek in her palm. “Jarod,” she called gently. “You were only a boy. Don’t blame yourself.”

She turned slightly, transferring her hand from Jarod’s face to the boy’s. “Jack, look at me.” Miss Parker urged. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Wide brown eyes peered at her over Jarod’s bicep.

“You are a good boy,” she whispered. “It wasn’t your fault.”

--

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn't me. Don't own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I'll disavow all knowledge.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Straight Path Lost Part 6

By Phenyx
07/04/04

-

Jack did his best not to squirm. His butt was sore and tingling from resting on the linoleum for too long but he didn't want to wake Jarod. Jack wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting there, alone in the dark. He knew only that he had cried for a long time, the pain ripping from him until he had fallen into an exhausted slumber. Now his eyes were puffy and the skin on his face felt tight as salt from dried tears stiffened his pores.

Yet despite his physical discomfort, Jack wanted nothing more than to stay exactly were he was at this moment. He felt safe wrapped in Jarod's strong arms; precious and protected in a way no one else could make him feel. Jarod was the only one who could make Jack feel real, like a person in his own right.

It was rather ironic. For as long as Jack could recollect, this man had haunted his nightmares. Taught by Mr. Raines to hate and fear Jarod, Jack had been terrified when they had first met. But Jarod had been patient and kind, delicately easing Jack into the knowledge of his incredible origins. There had been no accusation in Jarod's tone, no expectation in his eyes.

There had been only an earnest vow. "You come from here," Jarod had said, splaying his hand over his own heart. "And I come from two people who love me very much."

Within a matter of hours, Jarod had been able to unravel the years of deception that Raines had built. In had been easy, for Jack inherently trusted his sire. He could find no reason to fear the gentle pretender with the kind, dark eyes. But in his years under Raines' tutelage, Jack had gained far too much experience with the wheezing doctor's capacity for cruelty. Choosing between them had been a simple task.

Jack was unable to suppress the shudder that accompanied the thoughts of his old keeper. In his sleep, Jarod registered the motion with a sigh and a gentle caress of one hand across the back of Jack's head. The boy closed his eyes and savored the purity of the sensation.

Jarod loved him, of that Jack had no doubt. It was a love unlike the affection he received from the rest of their family. In his mother and father, Jack sensed a transference of feeling more than a unique love. They had lost a little boy and, in Jarod, found a man, a stranger. Subconsciously, Jack's age made him easier to accept as the child they had been searching for.

Jack didn't blame them. He wasn't really their son and he knew it. Yet he gladly accepted whatever affection the family could give him, even if it was only the overflow of emotion that they felt for Jarod.

In the eyes of the newer members of their group, Sydney, Miss Parker and Mr. Broots, Jack saw himself as an oddity, a scientific curiosity that they found amazing. Again, feelings for Jarod and the boy he had once been, translated into an automatic acceptance of Jack. It had not taken long for Jack to understand whom Miss Parker had been referring to when they had first met.

But with Jarod, Jack found unconditional love, absolute acceptance. Only after they had been reunited for some time, had Jack begun to comprehend the true scale of Jarod's devotion. It had taken that long for the boy to gain some glimpse of the life Jarod had been forced to lead.

For every year that Jack had been locked away, Jarod had suffered more than twice as long. Jack, like Jarod, had been forced to do simulations for as long as he could remember. But the younger twin had been yanked from that world before being shipped off to the Triumvirate. Jarod had not been so lucky. No one had come to his aid. The worst of the tortures Jarod had been subjected to had not occurred until he'd reached physical maturity. Jack, on the other hand, had been spared that pain.

Jack's nightmares, guilt and self-recrimination were surely magnified in Jarod. Jarod knew exactly what horrific things the Centre had forced Jack to do. He knew what depths Jack would sink to in order to find approval. Jarod knew, yet he did not judge. He knew because he had lived the same life, felt the same self-doubt.

Despite the things Jack had done, the lives he had been responsible for ending, Jarod still found the boy worthy of something so precious as love. For Jack, it was nothing short of a miracle. In the simple act of caring for him, Jarod had given the boy a sense of value in his own individuality.

Jack repaid the older pretender in the only way he could, with unadulterated adoration. The boy worshiped Jarod, wanting nothing more than to please his elder twin. Jack often wondered if his relationship with Jarod was like that of a son to his father. He didn't know. He'd had no past experience to use as a comparison.

Jarod was often a mentor, directing Jack to the best resources for learning as well as patiently teaching him the things that he wouldn't find in any book. But Jarod never disciplined the inquisitive boy, leaving that paternal task to the major. Jack was never intentionally disobedient, but he knew that at times, he pushed the family's rules to the limit. Emotionally, he felt forced to test the boundaries of his position in the lives of those around him.

"Are you hungry?" Jarod's sleep roughened voice jerked the boy from his reverie.

"No," Jack answered.

Jarod's arms tightened, pulling the boy into a warm hug. Jack sighed in contentment. Physical displays of affection such as this were few and far between for them. For years, each had been taught only isolation. The act of reaching out to another human being had always been discouraged, sometimes punished. Overcoming those instilled reservations wasn't easy.

Placing one hand against Jack's crown, Jarod tucked the boy's head beneath his chin with a sigh. The sound was heavy and forlorn, making Jack frown in consternation. "What is it?" the boy asked.

"Nothing," Jarod answered. "It's nothing to worry about."

Jack sensed the unspoken word that lingered between them and gave it voice. "Yet," he added.

Jarod nodded. "Yet," he agreed.

"They are going to come after us, aren't they?" the youngster said.

"Yes."

"When?" Jack asked.

"Soon," Jarod admitted. "My name made the J.T.T.F. most wanted list this afternoon."

"We were better off with just the sweepers on our tail," Jack groaned. "The National Joint Terrorist Task Force has a lot more resources at its disposal."

"Unfortunately," Jarod said with a sigh.

Jack felt his lower lip trembling as tears built again in his throat. "It will never be over. Will it, Jarod?"

"I'm afraid not."

"We'll be running for the rest of our lives," Jack predicted.

Jarod took the boy's smooth face between his palms and gazed intently into the matching brown eyes. "I will," he said in a serious tone. "But I don't think it has to be both of us."

Wide young eyes looked up at Jarod in wonder. "I don't understand," Jack whispered.

"References to the pretender project are all over the Centre mainframe," Jarod explained. "You can't spit in that place without coming across some file or memo regarding the pretenders. The authorities couldn't miss the information regarding me and those like me."

Jarod tilted Jack's chin up tenderly as he continued. "But Gemini was top secret. Very few people were involved. There's little in the system about it or Donoterase. After the infiltration at Pakor, evidence of the project was destroyed to cover their tracks."

"I don't think the feds will ever know you exist." Jarod said fiercely. Pulling Jack close once more, Jarod went on, "They can't prove anything anyway. Fingerprints, blood tests even DSA's will all point to me, not you."

"You're going to leave me behind!" Jack cried, jumping to his feet with sudden distress.

"Jack," Jarod crooned sadly as he rose from the floor. "A life in the shadows is no kind of life for a child."

"I'm no child," Jack snapped. "I can help."

"I don't doubt that you could," Jarod said. "But I won't let you."

"But, I need you." Jack gasped.

Jarod blinked away the moisture building in his eyes. "I need you too, Jack," he said as he grabbed the boy gently by the arms. "I need you to live the life that I can never have. I need you to have friends and go to school and discover girls like other young men do. I need you to have a home, to find love, to have the children that will never be mine."

"No," Jack whispered. "I want to go with you." He swiped roughly at the dampness on his cheeks, abruptly angry with himself for being such a crybaby tonight.

"Jack," Jarod frowned, shaking the boy softly. "My life is gone, taken away from me ages ago. But you still have a chance. Don't degrade everything I've fought for by tossing away the very hope I've always clung to."

Jack sniffed, rubbing his nose on one sleeve. "That's low," he said with woeful resignation. "You sure don't pull any punches, do you?"

"No," Jarod replied. "Not when the stakes are this high."

"What will you tell Mom and Dad?" the boy asked.

"The truth, "Jarod answered with a shrug. "Lord knows they deserve some semblance of normalcy after all these years. Emily will finally know what it means to have a home."

"What about you, Jarod?" Jack gazed at the older pretender intensely. "When will you find a home?"

With a sad smile, Jarod cupped his younger twin's cheek in his palm. "I'll visit. And I'll call every chance I get. I'm going to live vicariously through my little brother, so be prepared to share details, buddy."

"At least you won't be alone," Jack said thoughtfully. "You will have to take the others with you."

Jarod nodded. "The three of them had high profiles within the Centre's power structure. They will be pursued rather intensely." Looking down at the boy, Jarod continued. "This will be hardest on Debbie. I'm not sure she fully understands the situation."

"You'll have to leave her here," Jack said.

If Jarod felt any astonishment at the similar lines of thought between him and his clone, he did not show it. "A life in the shadows is no kind of life for a child," Jarod repeated with a nod. "She will need a friend to help her through this, someone who can understand how it feels to be alone."

"I understand," Jack said quietly.

"I know you do," Jarod said. "And I'm counting on you to be there for her."

Jack looked up at the man who was so important to him. The boy's eyes pooled again as he thought of how little time they had left together. "It's not fair," Jack sniffled.

"As Miss Parker is so fond of reminding us," Jarod replied. "Life is seldom fair."

Throwing his arms around the taller man, Jack pressed his cheek against Jarod's shoulder. "It hurts," the boy said.

"Yes, it does."

Jack felt the strong arms tighten around him once more and he squeezed back with all his might. The injustice of it all overwhelmed him and Jack suddenly had an incredible urge to protect his favorite protector. In his mind he began to flip through scenarios, fantastic ideas for hiding Jarod in an attic or a cellar. Jack knew that he would gladly die to keep Jarod safe. If it came down to it, the boy knew he would kill if Jarod were to ever ask it of him.

It was at this thought that Jack realized he would let go. He would allow Jarod to walk away because that is what the pretender had decided was best. Jack would swallow his pain and bury his sorrow, knowing that Jarod would struggle to do the same.

Jack would take Debbie under his wing and look after her to the best of his ability. He would go to school and make an effort to fit in. Jack would take this gift that Jarod had given him, and he would cherish the future that had been won for him at so high a price.

"I'll miss you, big brother," Jack rasped.

Jarod nodded. "Be happy, little brother."

"I'll try," the boy said. "I'll make you proud of me."

"I know," Jarod answered. "I'm sure of it."

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn't me. Don't own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I'll disavow all knowledge.


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



The Straight Path Lost Part 7
- By Phenyx
07/08/04

-

"Miss Parker," a gentle voice asked softly. "Would you like some more lemonade?"

Parker reached up and tilted her sunglasses from the top of her head to cover her eyes before opening them. Gazing up at the gray-haired man, she smiled affectionately as she stretched in the wooden deck lounger. "Sounds lovely, Ben. Thank you."

"Sydney?" Ben asked, graciously offering the psychiatrist more to drink.

Placing one hand over his cup, the other man politely refused. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

With a nod and a wink at Miss Parker, Ben smiled. "I'd better give the rest of the jug to the boys."

Parker watched the older man cross the yard and head toward the two-story garage. She shook her head wryly at Ben's choice of words. It had been a long time since either Jarod or Broots could have been mistaken for children. Then again, Ben was old enough to be father to both of them.

"It is too hot for them to be up on that roof," Sydney said with a frown. The psychiatrist sat in one of two wicker chairs only a few feet from Miss Parker. Between the two chairs was a sturdy table, upon which sat a chessboard. The two older men, Sydney and Ben, where currently involved in a match that had taken the better part of the afternoon.

Parker paid no heed to her colleague's concerns. Sydney had been fretful all day, intermittently worrying in a fashion that Parker recognized as his way of pouting. Sydney's sulking was due to the fact that he had been forbidden to help with the project Jarod and Broots were tackling.

Roofing was no easy task, especially in the unseasonably warm weather that had existed all week long. Though Ben Miller had tried to convince them all that it was unnecessary, Jarod had insisted that he perform this service in exchange for the room and board Ben was providing.

"You don't need to work, Jarod," Ben had scolded him when the subject had first come up. "You are permitted to visit just for sake of visiting."

"I always help you get the place ready for the season," Jarod had said. "With all these extra hands, we can get the job done in no time."

Indeed, the first few days of their stay had been busy for everyone. They cleaned the large house from top to bottom in a spring-cleaning frenzy. In preparation for the summer tourists that Ben was expecting, they had aired out rooms, beaten rugs and dusted places a mouse couldn't see. Parker, much to her companions' amusement, had even polished the good silver.

After the windows had been washed and a couple of loose shutters repaired, Jarod had discovered a leak in the garage roof. Immediately setting to the task of replacing the damaged section, all the men had been up on ladders yesterday, ripping up warped shingles and removing cracked planks of wood. It had been hot, dirty and exhausting work.

Miss Parker, however, was still on a form of restricted duty. It had been nearly a month since Jarod had removed the bullet from her chest. Her wound was now little more than an angry red line visible just above the edge of the halter-top she was wearing. Yet the pretender still insisted that she remain cautious. He wouldn't allow her to lift anything weighing more than five pounds for fear that the strain would pull at the flesh and increase her scarring.

Parker thought it was a load of crap and she had told him so. "I am perfectly fine, Jarod," she had hissed at him. "And I swear if you don't stop coddling me I'll put my fist through your nose to prove it."

In the end, she'd been out-voted, four to one. So, the men had torn off the old roofing while Parker had spent the day fetching cold drinks and making sandwiches, grumbling every minute. The sexist domesticity of her assigned task had grated on her nerves and somehow, she felt Jarod knew it. He knew it and was thoroughly enjoying it.

Today was a different matter. Sydney had woken this morning, barely able to get out of bed. His overtaxed muscles, unused to manual labor, had rebelled, making it impossible for the aging man to be of any help on the roof. Ben had been grounded just before lunch, when the heat had gotten to be too much for him.

So now Jarod and Broots were alone on top of the garage, banging away with hammers in a rhythmic manner. Parker was too relaxed to be annoyed by the noise. She watched the two men as they paused in their work, eagerly gulping down the refreshments Ben provided.

Broots and the pretender were getting along exceptionally well. The two had similar interests, talking for hours about computers and equations and similarly incomprehensible nonsense. Jarod was fascinated by Broots' endless repertoire of meaningless trivia. Both had nauseating tastes in food.

But most significantly, Jarod and Broots had both been forced to leave their families behind. Having lost those most important to them, each was grief-stricken. In their shared sorrow, the two men sought companionship from one another. Parker was not yet sure if the alliance served to ease the pain, or if their depression simply fed one off of the other.

At times, the melancholy atmosphere each man projected spread until the gloom was nearly palpable. To make matters worse, Jarod and Sydney had yet to make nice after the incident at the farmhouse last month. Parker knew that the psychiatrist had tried to broach the subject on more than one occasion. However, Jarod's sullen mood had made him irritable and unapproachable. Only with Broots did the pretender show any tolerance.

Parker was trying very hard to stay neutral. The rift between Sydney and his protégé obviously caused the older man grief. But Parker just couldn't find it in her heart to blame the pretender. Jarod had every right to be angry. The years of pain and disappointment had been bottled up for too long. It may have taken three decades, but Jarod's rage was finally finding release.

It was a disillusionment that Parker understood only too well. How many times in these last few years had Sydney triggered her own fury? How many secrets did the psychiatrist still hold behind that furrowed brow?

In her relationship with her father, Parker had found a flimsy emotional bond that she'd spent a lifetime trying to strengthen, to no avail. She knew how it felt to crave a father's affection, yet never receive it. Jarod's connection to Sydney held many of those same characteristics. For no matter how many members of his family Jarod managed to find, Sydney had been the one to raise him. It was Sydney that Jarod had tried so hard to please for most of his life.

With sympathetic regard for the troubled men, Miss Parker had been trying her best not to be too pushy. The last couple of weeks had been an exercise in patience. It had required a concerted effort on Parker's part to reduce the bitchiness level a notch or two, especially when Jarod was being particularly gruff.

Overall she'd done well, hardly ever yelling at Mr. Broots. With Jarod it had been harder, as he seemed to actively enjoy pushing her buttons. Even so, it had been a full day since Parker had raised her voice and that particular situation had been extreme. Broots and Jarod had been debating over which was the best Muppet. For three quarters of an hour, Broots had seriously laid out the finer characteristics of someone named Grover while Jarod raved on about a blue pile of fuzz known as Cookie Monster.

Parker couldn't help it, she'd snapped. She had snarled at them both about childish fools and the nonsense they spewed. In her annoyance, she had railed at them in royal ice queen fashion. Parker immediately regretted it for her fury had sent Broots skittering off to his room. The scene had put a damper on the evening for the rest of them.

When Parker had gotten up this morning, she had been feeling badly about ruining the friendly camaraderie that had existed. Added to that was her sympathy for Sydney's physical pain. As such, she'd been a bit contrite, being far more hospitable than was her usual, pre-coffee norm.

Jarod had picked up on her emotions, of course. He must have sensed Parker's penitent mood and reacted to it. That was the only explanation for the strange encounter the two of them had shared that morning.

The day was still quite young when Parker had given up on sleep and made her way to the kitchen. The pretender was there, leaning against the counter as he sipped from a mug. She ignored him at first, shuffling across the room in her bathrobe and matching slippers.

"Good morning, Miss Parker," Jarod had said.

"Hmm," she grunted. Several minutes passed while she prepared herself some coffee and blinked the sleep from her eyes. "Is Sydney going to be okay?" she'd asked finally.

Jarod nodded. "He over did it. That's all."

"Not as young as he used to be," Parker smiled wryly.

"None of us are," Jarod agreed.

For a long moment, they stood in silence. "What?" Parker finally asked when she noticed the pretender staring at her.

He smiled. "Nothing," he said.

"You're laughing at me," Parker argued. Her tone held none of its regular bite, but instead came out low and soft.

"This side of you is different," Jarod shrugged.

Parker had raised a suspicious brow at the pretender. "This side?"

"This aspect of your personality," he rephrased. Jarod fluttered his hand in front of her in a vague gesture. "Soft, rumpled. You smell of warmth and cinnamon."

"What does warmth smell like?" Parker had asked with amused curiosity.

"Like fuzzy kittens." Jarod smiled. "Clean linen or a freshly powdered baby."

"Tuna breath, bleach and Desitin?" she shot back with a smirk.

Jarod shook his head slowly. He crossed the room, stopping only inches away from Miss Parker. The pretender's eyelids drifted shut and he inhaled deeply, sighing a wistful exhalation. "Warmth and cinnamon," he purred.

A shiver raced enticingly down Parker's spine. She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat before replying, "It must be the pastries that Ben made for breakfast. He likes to keep them warm in the oven."

Jarod's eyes opened, the dark gaze boring in to hers. "Something tells me that both are equally sweet to the taste."

For a heart-stopping moment, Parker had been sure that Jarod would kiss her at that point. But he hadn't. They had stared at one another for what had seemed an eternity, though it could not have been longer than a few seconds. When Broots had stumbled into the room, the moment shattered.

There had been few words between Parker and the pretender since that strange moment this morning. Jarod had been busy on the roof and had barely glanced Parker's way. She watched him now as he set his empty glass aside, stood up and stretched. Glancing at the sky, Jarod seemed to ponder the blue expanse for a moment. Then he reached over his head and grabbed the back of his t-shirt near his shoulder blades. With one hand he tugged at the cotton, casually pulling the garment off of his lean frame.

As the pretender used the wadded shirt to wipe his brow, Parker couldn't help but admire the sight. Jarod was a well-built specimen. Bare muscles angled across his shoulders and chest, leading to a rippled abdomen. His chiseled good looks and stubble-covered jaw gave him a roguish air. His hair was long, more so than suited Parker's taste, giving Jarod the look of a professional dancer.

An image of stuffing bills into the pretender's waistband abruptly popped into Parker's head, bringing a wry smirk to her face. He must have felt Parker's gaze upon him for Jarod chose that moment to look toward her. A slow, lazy grin spread across the handsome face in response. His smile was nonchalant and unassuming, totally without guile.

The effect on Miss Parker was as fierce as it was unexpected. Need rapidly built in the pit of her stomach, blossoming into a coil of heat. She instinctively licked her lips, an action that Jarod noted with a confused tilt of his head. Parker quickly looked away, suddenly finding the contents of her glass to be of great interest.

When the hammers began to pound a few moments later, Parker continued to study her lemonade. 'Lusting after Jarod is not wise,' she thought to herself. But once the notion had taken shape, she found herself wondering why. They were both adults. There was no Centre, no sweepers, no danger to be concerned about.

Parker allowed her gaze to drift back to the roof where Jarod was lining up a new shingle. She was forced to admit that the pretender was fiendishly attractive. There was little doubt that Parker would be able to engender interest on Jarod's part. Seduction was never something she'd had trouble accomplishing.

If both were willing, why shouldn't they take the opportunity to entertain each other? The more Parker thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. It had been a long time since she had actively gone in search of a physical relationship. There had been only one or two half-hearted encounters in the years since Tommy's death. Nothing memorable.

Jarod on the other hand, was sure to be an unforgettable lover. The pretender did everything very well, or he kept working at it until he became proficient. That made for an admirable quality in a sexual partner. Indeed, the more Parker pondered the possibilities, the more intrigued she became.

"If you keep staring at him that way," Ben said without looking up from the chessboard. "Jarod will start to get some new ideas." The older man smiled kindly as Parker did her best to remain nonchalant.

"Well," she replied as she arched one brow. "I'm forming a few thoughts of my own. It may take a little work for him to keep up."

Ben reached out and moved a bishop from one spot to another. "Something tells me that Jarod would gladly pursue the challenge," he said.

Sydney glanced at the pretender then back at Parker, a frown of concern etched on his face. "Parker," he said in a voice dripping with disapproval. "Do you think a relationship with Jarod is wise?"

"I take it that you do not," she answered haughtily. Parker sipped her lemonade, watching Jarod over the rim of her glass.

"On an emotional level, neither of you is capable of offering the support needed by the other," Sydney said. "Individuals with tumultuous pasts tend to require a partner with a stronger support structure. The only way to truly escape the chaos of a troubled childhood is in the security of a more stable personality."

Parker glared at the older man. "Are you suggesting that Jarod and I are both unstable?"

"Emotionally, yes." Sydney answered bluntly.

"Freudian bullshit," Parker snarled. "I happen to think that our similar backgrounds can only help. We know what to expect. We won't have to explain the nightmares or lie about our insomnia. There's no need to hide our weapons or tip-toe around what we do, or did, for a living." Nothing irritated Parker more than being told what she could and could not do. Sydney's critical attitude only served to make Parker more interested in the entire prospect.

"I just think that," Sydney began.

Parker didn't let him finish. "I don't care," she snapped. "It is none of your damned business anyway."

"If Jarod gets hurt," he replied. "It will become my business. This is a difficult time for him. His emotions are already raw."

Parker glared at the older man, more irritated by his meddling than usual. "You don't think I'm good enough for your precious lab-rat?" she hissed. She could see Ben's expression. The innkeeper wore a concerned frown, troubled by the abruptly antagonistic turn of events. Parker felt a fleeting moment of regret at having caused his distress.

"I'm sure Sydney didn't mean it that way," Ben said.

"I think he did," she answered.

"Miss Parker." Sydney leaned forward, carefully folding his hands in front of him. He studied the clasped fingers as he spoke. "Do you believe that you can focus on Jarod with the intensity that he requires?"

"You're talking about love, Syd," Parker replied with a sigh. "I'm talking about sex."

"I'm not sure Jarod has ever encountered the difference," Sydney shrugged.

Parker set aside her glass and rose from her chair in one quick motion. "Your little science project is all grown up," she told him. "He knows what he's doing."

Sydney caught Parker in a steely gaze. "But do you?"

For a moment, the air seemed to grow heavy around them as they stared at one another. The sounds of hammers pounding and birds singing echoed almost ominously.

"Butt out Sydney," Parker growled with finality. Turning away, she strode across the grass in a huff. With her arms crossed protectively over her chest, she left the men behind. She refused to look back as she entered the newly mown path that disappeared into the trees.

As the woods enveloped her, Parker sighed at the welcome coolness. Hidden from the afternoon sun by the young leaves overhead, Parker frowned as she mulled over her argument with Sydney. She tried to ignore the stab of pain that lanced through her. But she could not. Knowing that Sydney had greater concern for Jarod's feelings than he did for hers caused a deep ache.

"To Hell with them both," Parker muttered in wounded fury. Jarod was more trouble than he was worth anyway, that much Parker knew from experience. Worse yet, the pretender already knew her far better than any other man ever had.

Treading the fine line between affection and desire took a great deal of energy. With Jarod's insightfulness it would be even more difficult. Parker had stumbled across that line before, it could happen again. It was a possibility that scared her senseless.

Her thoughts continued to spiral for the next hour or more. She considered Sydney's words and pondered her chances of falling in love with the pretender. She thought of Thomas, and the guilty knowledge that the aching hole he'd left in her heart had been filled by time.

By the time Parker turned back toward the inn, the shadows were growing long. During her walk, she had burned off her ire and had come to the conclusion that Sydney was right. She and Jarod were a volatile mix. Bringing sex into the equation just wasn't smart.

Parker stepped from the trees and into the yard. The sound of hammers was gone and the chirping of crickets had replaced the birds' songs. The wicker chairs were empty. The chessboard had disappeared. There was no one in sight save for one long, lean figure with his back toward Miss Parker.

Jarod was still shirtless, standing motionless in the grass. His head was tilted in that way of his, indicating that he was concentrating on something. In the light of the setting sun, he was simply beautiful. As exquisite as a marble statue, the pretender was living proof that there was a god and that he, or she, was a magnificent artist.

Parker watched breathlessly as Jarod half turned toward her. He smiled delightedly and it took Parker a moment to find the source of the pretender's amusement. The soft motion was nearly lost in her peripheral vision but when the doe stepped tentatively forward once more, Parker saw it.

The deer was less than ten yards from where Jarod stood. She eyed the man cautiously for several seconds, sniffing the air suspiciously. Parker froze, unsure of which was the more stunning spectacle, the wild four- legged creature or the man who watched her.

For a long minute, two pairs of brown eyes stared at each other. When a spindly-legged fawn tottered up to its mother, Parker felt a sudden urge to weep. A moment later, as if on some unheard signal, the two deer abruptly bounded away, vanishing into the trees as if they had never been.

"Wow," Jarod's voice, no more than a whisper, conveyed all the wonder and magic he had just experienced.

Parker didn't remember crossing the grass but somehow, she was at Jarod's side. She couldn't seem to recall the decision she had come to during her walk. Her conversation with Sydney vanished into ancient history. She knew only that she wanted this man.

Reaching out, Parker caressed the skin on Jarod's chest. He was damp and a little grimy from a hard day's work. But she didn't care. All that mattered was the hard lump of need that had settled in the core of her being.

"Parker?" the pretender asked. It was a tentative question, as cautious as the doe's approach had been.

But Parker would have none of that. Ignoring her previous reservations, she threw her arms around Jarod and pulled him in to a passionate kiss. A moment later, she felt the pretender's fingers plucking at the tie on her halter as he tried to find more of her skin.

A triumphant growl of laughter bubbled from her as Jarod lifted Parker off the ground and guided her legs around his waist.

"Where?" he panted against her lips.

She smiled wickedly and asked, "Ever had a roll in the hay?"

When Jarod shook his head, Parker demanded, "Barn."

There was no time to wonder at the ease with which she seduced him. Parker was too busy trying to get the pretender out of his pants to worry about consequences. She was half naked herself and nibbling at Jarod's nipples when he displayed a slender thread of reason.

"Damn," he groaned. "I need protection."

Parker grinned. "From me?" she snarled against his neck.

"For you," Jarod hissed.

"Don't worry," Parker said as they tumbled in to the barn's loft. "I can't get pregnant."

Jarod flinched, his passion momentarily doused in surprise. "What?"

Parker kicked off the shorts she'd been wearing and straddled Jarod's stomach. "Had my tubes tied more than a decade ago," she told him as she bent to lick a trail along his jaw.

"I didn't know that," Jarod said.

"No one did," Parker admitted.

Jarod ran his fingertips down Parker's now bare back. "I thought I knew everything about you," he whispered.

"Not hardly," she replied. With a hard nip to Jarod's shoulder she added, "Allow me to demonstrate a few new things."

"I'm always eager to learn," Jarod said with a devilish smile.

Parker bit Jarod on the collarbone with enough force to make him yelp. "Eager is good," she told him.

"Very good, indeed."

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn't me. Don't own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I'll disavow all knowledge.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Straight Path Lost Part 8
By Phenyx

08/06/04

Jarod decided that this had been, without a doubt, the least romantic sexual encounter he'd ever experienced. Hay was not soft. Truth be told, it was rather prickly. He lay there, staring at the rafters as his breathing began to return to normal. It occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that he was dirty and sweaty from being on the roof all day. He probably smelled awful but was afraid to test his theory.

The soft, sultry body sprawled across Jarod stretched languidly. Reaching around her head with one hand, Miss Parker brushed aside her hair, revealing her face. She propped her chin on Jarod's chest and smiled at him.

'This is what they mean by chemistry,' the pretender thought to himself. Dirty or not, scratchy straw and all, Jarod wouldn't trade this moment for anything in the world. Passion like this could not be planned. One couldn't arrange it with flowers and candlelight. In his wildest fantasies, the pretender had never imagined that possessing this woman could be so incredible.

"I've waited so long." He didn't realize he'd spoken his thoughts aloud until Parker chuckled.

"It was inevitable," she replied. "You and I have been doing the dance for years. It was only a matter of time before we ended up this way."

Jarod ran one forefinger down the curve of Parker's jaw. "Are you saying we were destined to sleep together?" he asked with a smile.

"Either that or we were going to kill each other," she answered.

Jarod grinned. "I'm glad you chose this alternative."

"Hmm," Parker sighed as she snuggled her cheek against Jarod's chest. "This is much less hassle than putting a bullet in you."

"Hassle?" the pretender asked with a smirk.

Parker twined her fingers in the hair curling around Jarod's nipples. "No need to dispose of the body," she said.

This caused a delighted peal of laughter from Jarod. "I love you," he said. The declaration had been completely spontaneous, had in fact slipped out before Jarod had realized it was coming. He immediately regretted it.

"Don't," Parker bit. She abruptly sat up and reached for her clothes.

"Don't what?" Jarod asked, frowning. He recognized Parker's defensive posture, saddened that it should appear at this precise moment.

Yanking her shorts over her hips, Miss Parker glared at him. "Don't make this out to be more than it is, Jarod."

The pretender sat up slowly; suddenly aware of his nudity and the vulnerable position he was now in. "And what is that, exactly?"

Parker fumbled with her top for a few moments. She did not speak until she was fully dressed. "We are two healthy adults," she said. "Thrown together by the consequences of our lives. Just because we find some... enjoyment in each other, doesn't mean we are soul-mates."

"So glad I could entertain you, Miss Parker," Jarod's voice dripped with icy sarcasm.

"You wanted this as much as I did," Parker replied. "Don't be so melodramatic."

Jarod stared up at her in disbelief. "Why me?" he asked quietly. Rising slowly, Jarod grabbed his jeans and slid them on. "Sydney and Ben, I understand. Too old for a libido such as yours. But why me instead of Broots?"

The pretender could see the fury building in Parker's eyes but he could not stop the flow of words. "If Sam had lived, he'd be here now instead of me. Wouldn't he?" Jarod had never felt so much pain in the absence of a physical wound. "If he hadn't died to protect you, he'd have been the one you cradled between your legs."

The blow nearly rocked Jarod off his feet. The stinging of his jaw where Parker had hit him was a welcome distraction from the knife-like agony ripping through his chest.

"Don't you ever speak about him that way," Parker hissed. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as her voice shook with anger. "Don't even mention his name."

"It's true, isn't it?" Jarod asked, rubbing at the red mark on his cheek.

"What would or would not have happened is a moot point." Parker crossed her arms and glared regally. "We can't undo the past. All we can do is make the best of what we have now."

"We have nothing," Jarod said.

With a heavy sigh, Parker stepped forward, cupping Jarod's sore cheek in her cool palm. "The sex was good, wasn't it? You liked it, didn't you?"

"You know I did," Jarod admitted.

"Then why should either of us spend our nights alone?" Parker asked.

Jarod felt his lower lip trembling and he bit down on it hard. He would not let Parker see how much she had affected him. He would not cry in front of her.

"It isn't enough," he whispered. "I want more than just your body."

"You ask too much," Parker said as she withdrew her hand and crossed her arms again. "It's more than I can give you."

It is a strange thing, to feel a dream shatter. As Jarod stood there in that dark, musty barn he stared at the woman before him and abruptly realized that he didn't know her. All these years, he had attributed her with certain characteristics and feelings that had no basis in fact. He had imagined her to be someone that she was not. It suddenly became clear to him just why Parker had been so successful within the Centre's upper echelon. She may not have agreed with the things that went on there, but she had managed to fit in quite well.

The air around the pretender was abruptly too thick to breathe. He felt as though he was smothering, a fit of claustrophobia washing over him. Jarod turned and rushed from the building leaving Parker to stare after him. His legs carried him faster and faster until he was running through the woods.

On no discernable path, Jarod barreled through the trees as branches and brambles clawed at him menacingly. He ran, for how long he did not know. There was only an undeniable need to escape, to flee. Only when his body could go no further did he stop. Collapsing in a gasping heap, he pounded his frustration into the detritus of the forest floor.

Unfocused anger boiled in him and he screamed his rage at the uncaring night. It was all so unfair. He had come so close to achieving the life he had always dreamed of, only to learn that it would be forever denied him. He would never be a part of his family. He would never have a home of his own. The woman he cherished above all others would never really be his.

Worst of all, he could never stop running. Whether he was running from the Centre or running from the law, it made little difference. He would always be looking over his shoulder. Running was one thing he did really well. He'd had a lot of practice running from Parker, from her father and from his own past. He would spend the rest of his life running to the four corners of the Earth. Only now did he recognize, that no matter how far he went he could never escape himself.

The tears came. Jarod's fury morphed into a massive wave of self-pity and he wept at the misery that was his life, the emptiness that was his future. Never before, not even locked in the bowels of the Centre, had he felt so alone.

For a long while, Jarod debated what he should do next. He'd never felt so lost before. He had always had some goal to strive for, some hope to attain. Now there was nothing. He considered standing up and just going. He could simply follow his nose and wander like some vagabond. There were cities where he could go, where the winters weren't too harsh. He could join the ranks of this country's gypsies, the homeless who wandered through the populace unseen.

How long would it be, Jarod wondered morosely. How long before he was pushing a rickety old shopping cart and mumbling to himself? With this thought came the understanding that he could not do it. Jarod knew that his sanity could never withstand being completely alone in the world.

For as lonely as his childhood had been, Jarod had never truly been alone. There had always been the cameras. Despised as they were, the eternal surveillance represented eyes that never left him. There had always been Sydney, or Parker. Even after he had fled from them, they had never been more than a phone call away.

With a sad acceptance of his fate, Jarod stood and began the long walk back to the inn. He tried not to think too much as he went, striving instead for a blank mind, devoid of pain. By the time he reached Ben Miller's place, the sky was beginning to lighten in the East.

Showering quickly, Jarod wrapped a towel around his waist and slipped into the hall. Moving through the silent house like a wraith, the pretender went to Miss Parker's room. He didn't hesitate, squashing the twinge of caution that flared in him. Crawling between the sheets of her bed, Jarod wrapped his arms around Parker's waist and spooned her body against his.

Parker moaned softly as she was roused from her sleep. Craning her neck to look at Jarod over her shoulder she sighed. "You said that this wasn't enough," she reminded him.

The pretender shrugged. "It will have to be enough," he said sadly. "It's all I've got."

Miss Parker rolled over and kissed him. "It is more than we had before," she whispered.

For the first time in his life, Jarod had sex for the sake of having sex. He took what Parker offered him, giving her little in return. He wasn't gentle, not even particularly kind. Perhaps he was punishing her in some way, he wasn't sure. But it angered him some to find her enjoying his forcefulness.

In the aftermath, Jarod pillowed his head against her breast, listening to Parker's heartbeat. He felt empty, bereft of feeling.

"Parker, tell me you love me," he begged. "I don't care if it's a lie. Just say it once, and I will make myself believe."

The soft body beneath him went incredibly still. "Jarod," she murmured sadly. "There have never been any lies between us. I won't start now."

Jarod nodded silently. If Parker felt the hot tears striking her flesh, she didn't mention it. The pretender lay there, listening to Parker's breathing as she drifted to sleep. He held her close and tried to decide which of them he despised more, her for using him this way, or himself for allowing it.

The sun was well over the horizon and the birds were singing merrily before Jarod's exhaustion overwhelmed him and he finally slipped into a dreamless slumber.

-

The days that followed passed in a blur for Jarod. He and his companions left Maine and Ben Miller's bed and breakfast. They stopped in Delaware for the afternoon of the thirteenth, allowing Parker a few hours at her mother's graveside. After that, they headed west only because east had little to offer.

Jarod got up every morning and went through each day like an automaton. He did the things that he seemed to be expected to do. He played chess with Sydney. He chatted about inane topics with Broots. Without any further discussion on the matter, Jarod and Miss Parker began to share a bedroom. Much to his chagrin, the pretender was able to perform for his new mistress upon demand.

Days became weeks and Jarod's listlessness grew. He slept a great deal, escaping into unconsciousness for six or seven hours each night and dozing some more each afternoon. He stopped reading the newspapers, and ceased his attempts to help others.

Depression was not unknown to the pretender. Locked away in the dark for three decades, the insidiousness of despair had nipped at Jarod's heels a number of times during his life. He knew the signs and he knew that he was slipping into that misery. But in the past, Jarod had been able to fight the shadows on his soul. He had always found some slender thread of hope to cling to. Hope of finding freedom, of finding his parents, of living a normal life. These dreams had kept him optimistic and had driven away the gloom. Now, he found himself wallowing in it.

Sydney noticed, of course. The older man hinted at the subject several times, but Jarod always deflected the thinly veiled questions. One day, nearly a month after they had left Maine, the psychiatrist stopped trying to be subtle. He confronted Jarod over breakfast one morning.

"You don't look well, Jarod," Sydney said. "And you aren't eating properly. You need to talk about this."

Shoving aside an untouched plate of pancakes, Jarod downed half a cup of coffee in one long gulp. The liquid was still hot, leaving a scorching trail along his throat. But the pretender didn't care.

"I just miss my family, "Jarod said sullenly.

"Jarod," the older man said sternly. "I have watched you for thirty years. I am an expert on your psyche. Your mental state is getting worse every day. You are clinically depressed, to the point that I am tempted to prescribe something for it."

"You don't like to give me drugs," Jarod replied.

"No, I don't." Sydney agreed. "But I am becoming very worried about you."

Jarod stared mutely into his cup.

The psychiatrist sighed. "I'm going to discuss this with Miss Parker," he told Jarod. "I want her to stop sharing a room with you."

"It's none of your business, Sydney." Jarod growled.

"She'll probably say the same thing," Sydney nodded. "But the relationship between you seems to be making matters worse. I don't understand why."

"She doesn't love me," Jarod said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "What does it feel like, Sydney?" he asked abruptly. "What is it like to be loved by someone?"

Sydney frowned. "You know what love feels like."

Jarod laughed, a feeble attempt to keep himself from crying. His voice held a mixture of anger and desperation as he replied. "Love hurts," he said. "It is a deep, unending ache that gnaws at you from within." The pretender nodded sadly. "Yes. I know what it feels like to love. But what is like to be loved? What does it mean to be the most important person in someone's life?"

Sydney smiled gently at his troubled protégé. "I'm not the best person to ask that question, I'm afraid."

"Why? Jacob loved you. Michele and Nicholas still do," Jarod said accusingly. Taking a deep breath, Jarod yanked an agonizing truth from his soul and gave it voice. "I always have. For as long as I can remember, I have adored you. Surely you knew."

"I knew," Sydney admitted.

"You used it against me," Jarod whispered. "Used it to manipulate me and keep me in line. Did you care about me at all, Sydney? Did you love me even a little?"

Leaping from the chair as if it were a flame, Jarod ran one hand through his hair. "Don't answer that," he hissed. "The truth is never easy."

"Jarod," Sydney stood and stepped forward as if to offer comfort.

The pretender stepped away. "I just want to go home," he murmured. Wrapping his arms around his chest, Jarod hugged himself defensively. "I want to be with my mother. I know she loves me. She does. But I've never spent enough time with her to understand what that really means."

"We can arrange a visit," Sydney offered.

"It isn't the same," Jarod said. He turned to stare forlornly out the window. With a sigh he decided to share an idea he had been toying with. Sydney wouldn't like it, Jarod knew that much. But it was time to discuss it.

Summoning his courage, Jarod turned and faced his mentor. "I think I know a way," he said. "I think I should turn myself in."

"What?" Sydney almost shouted.

"Hear me out," Jarod added quickly. "Alex has been sentenced to life in prison but that was largely due to the officers he killed during his capture. If I turn myself in quietly, without any struggle I won't get so harsh a sentence."

The psychiatrist eased slowly back into his chair, staring at Jarod in wide-eyed astonishment.

"I have the DSA's. I can use those during my trial and really play up the part of a victim. If I can build sympathy among the jury, they are sure to go easier on me." With a shrug, Jarod went on. "I'll have to do time for the things I've done since I escaped from the Centre. Impersonating an officer, a doctor, practicing law without a license, that kind of thing. But even if they charge me with every count I can't get more than a twenty-year sentence. I could make parole in ten."

"Jarod," Sydney gasped. "Are you mad? You're talking about being locked up for a decade."

"I've been locked up most of my life," the pretender argued. "I can do ten years standing on my head."

"Pardon me?" an icy voice asked from the doorway.

Jarod turned to find Parker glaring at him. He wondered exactly how much of the conversation she had heard. A moment later, Sydney was filling her in on whatever it was she might have missed.

"Jarod wants to surrender himself to the authorities," the older man said.

"Why the hell would you want to do that?" Parker snapped. She stormed into the room. The air around her nearly crackled with fury.

"Prison wouldn't be like the Centre," Jarod said defensively. "I would be allowed outside every day. My parents could visit. I would have cellmates and friends."

"Yeah," Parker hissed. "A big burly cellmate named Buford who would be only too glad to be friendly with a boy as pretty as you. With a face like yours, you'll be very popular on the cellblock, I guarantee it."

"But it would end," Jarod pleaded desperately. "I could count the days on the calendar until the time I would be truly free. No more running, no more hiding, no more secrets. Hell," the pretender laughed sadly. "If I make the trial sensational enough, I could get a book deal out of the whole thing."

"And what if the prosecutors find out about Oklahoma City, hmm?" Parker snarled coldly. "Or the chemical explosion in Argentina? Or the building collapse in Atlanta? In this age of terrorism and fear, do you really think they will ever let you roam free?"

Jarod shrugged. "At least there's a chance."

"What about us?" Parker asked. "What happens to Sydney when you show the world those DSAs. Do you honestly think they will blame the Centre? No. They will blame him," Parker pointed her finger at Sydney who just sat there, staring back at her.

Parker raged on. "You'll never see any of us again," she pointed out. "Sydney won't be able to come visit you in prison, Jarod. There's no telling where he'll be a decade from now."

Jarod sniffed and stared morosely at the linoleum under his feet.

Miss Parker stepped closer, leaning her knees against Jarod's. Cupping one soft palm beneath his chin, Parker tilted Jarod's face up to meet her gaze. "I know you miss your family. Hell, we've all had to leave the people and places we love. But we must go on, for their sakes."

"I can't run forever Parker," Jarod sighed in defeat.

"You can," Parker contradicted him. "You can and you will. Because you have no other choice."

Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, Jarod nodded sadly. Parker pulled him closer and Jarod fell into the embrace, welcoming her warmth. He pressed his cheek into Parker's abdomen and squeezed her hard.

'If only,' he thought to himself. 'If only this feeling were real.' For the briefest of moments, he felt safe, safe and cherished in Parker's arms. Jarod knew, without a doubt, that if anything could keep him going, it would be the love of this woman.

He would have to learn to fake it. He would have to settle for whatever scraps of happiness fate saw fit to toss his way. He was alive. He had the two people he loved most in the world standing by his side. To hope for more from them was greedy.

This was his life. Jarod would learn to make the best of it.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The path to our destination is not always a straight one. We go down the wrong road, we get lost, we turn back. Maybe it doesn't matter which road we embark on. Maybe what matters is that we embark. -Barbara Hall, Northern Exposure, Rosebud, 1993

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn’t me. Don’t own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I’ll disavow all knowledge.


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


The Straight Path Lost Part 9
-By Phenyx

08/09/04

-

Broots strolled casually down the beach. He kept his attention focused on his feet and the rippled edges of the water where the surf broke across his toes. Every few minutes, he would bend down to retrieve some shiny bit that caught his eye. He held each seashell aloft, allowing the sunlight to dance across the colorful patterns.

Reaching into his pocket, Broots would pull out the last shell he had found and compare it to the newest treasure. After a moment’s hesitation, Broots would choose the nicer of the two shells and cast the lesser back into the sea. The prized shell would go into the pocket and Broots would start the process again.

It was a lovely way to while away a morning. Walking alone on the beach like this was so relaxing. Given enough time, Broots knew that he would find the perfect seashell. It would be just the right size, shape and color. He would find some small piece of natural perfection and then he would send it to his daughter.

In the three months since Broots had seen her, he had sent Debbie a number of similar things. They were small objects, worthless for the most part. Dried bits of flowers, a matchbook, ticket stubs to an old movie and a plastic ring that Jarod had gotten out of a bubblegum machine, were just a few examples of items, lovingly packed and mailed to Broots’ little girl.

Broots didn’t worry about her as much as he had at first. He spoke with her on the phone at least twice a week. As a result Broots knew that his daughter was being treated well, welcomed into Jarod’s family with ease. Debbie was learning to adjust, slowly accepting the people who were now raising her.

However, knowing that the child was in good hands did not prevent Broots from missing her terribly. He thought of her almost all the time. He wondered what she was doing, who she was with. He agonized over the thought that she may be missing him yet feared the idea that she may not. Broots loved his daughter, and he knew that she loved him. But it ate at him to know that she would grow up without him.

Another family sacrificed to the Centre. At least Broots knew where his daughter was. He knew she was safe. He could talk to her whenever he felt the whim to do so. When he tried to imagine the life Jarod had led, when he thought of the pretender’s parents and the nightmare they must have gone through, Broots felt himself to be very lucky indeed.

Bending down to exchange yet another seashell, Broots allowed his thoughts to turn toward the eccentric pretender. Jarod was the core of their rogue little foursome. He was the axis around which the rest of them revolved.

Broots didn’t begrudge the pretender the attention. Jarod was totally unconscious of the demands he placed on the others. He had spent a lifetime under close supervision by any other presence in a room. The pretender’s magnetic personality must have made him a natural focus for the people he had met during his travels in the real world, only adding to his self-centered outlook. Whenever Jarod opened his mouth, especially with Sydney around, the pretender expected his audience to be attentive.

Even Miss Parker fed this peculiar characteristic. Broots wasn’t sure if she did it on purpose or if the behavior was totally subconscious, but Miss Parker tended to ask Jarod for his opinion on a regular basis. Granted, the two of them often disagreed, on occasion they argued with a ferocity that made Broots uncomfortable. But overall, Miss Parker submitted to Jarod’s wishes almost as frequently as he gave in to hers.

As a couple, Jarod and Miss Parker were well matched. Few men were tolerant enough or confident enough to pair with a personality as strong as Miss Parker’s. In return, Miss Parker had a cleverness that allowed her to keep up with the pretender. With their similar backgrounds, they each understood the other in a way that few others could. Most importantly, there was an inherent trust between the two of them, so strong that even Broots could see it.

Broots had felt a little awkward around the pair when Jarod and Miss Parker had first become intimate. However, those feelings had quickly dissipated. The four of them still traveled as a group, even though it would have been simpler to blend into society if they’d each gone their separate ways.

Miss Parker had firmly ended any discussions about splitting up. She blatantly refused to permit the idea. It was one the rules she had placed upon the rest of them. Another of her rules had been to set a standard for any and all accommodations.

“Just because we are on the run,” she had told them. “Doesn’t mean we need to live like homeless vagabonds. We have plenty of resources. We are fugitives with means.”

It was Miss Parker’s way of saying that there was no need to bunk in the roach infested hideaways that had been Jarod’s prior habit. Her money was what they all lived on, very comfortably too. Broots had been a little surprised to find out just how wealthy his employer truly was. Even excluding the assets that had been frozen by the government, what was left was a sizable amount.

As an exorcise, Jarod and Broots had begun looking for ways to get to the accounts that had been seized. It wasn’t easy, but neither was it incredibly difficult. Only yesterday, Broots had been able to hack into one of Mr. Lyle’s frozen accounts and had transferred all but fourteen dollars into one of Miss Parker’s Swiss bank accounts.

In for a penny, in for a pound as they say. Broots figured he was going to be fleeing the authorities anyway. There may as well be a good reason to do so. Besides, Lyle couldn’t spend it in prison. The thumb less man had been aristocratic and cruel in the past. Taking his money gave Broots a small sense of satisfaction in the petty revenge.

Crouching at the water’s edge, Broots pried up a large mollusk that had been half buried in the sand. Almost as large as the palm of one hand, the clam was a pearly white, almost pink in color. He washed away a few traces of sand as a wave swirled over his hands. Broots felt a shadow fall across him, but he was too engrossed in his find to bother looking up.

With a faint click, the clam shifted in Broots’ palm, abruptly tilting to one side. “It’s alive,” a deep voice said gently.

Broots nodded as the pretender hunched down beside him.

“You’ll need to throw it back,” Jarod added.

Broots nodded again, but did not move to do as suggested.

“Amazing isn’t it?” the pretender mused. “That something can be so perfect, so beautiful, and yet totally ignorant of its effect on us.”

Raising one eyebrow, Broots looked up at Jarod inquisitively. “Waxing philosophically this morning are we?” he asked.

Jarod shrug. “Just in a pensive mood, I guess,” the pretender said with a grin.

Broots gently tossed the clam into the sea and stood up. Jarod’s smile didn’t fool Broots. They had gotten to know each other very well over these last few months. One thing Broots had learned was that Jarod never said anything that did not hold some grain of truth to it. Even when Broots had been on the pretender’s trail, hunting him down, he had never known Jarod to really lie. Bending the facts, manipulating interpretations and guiding their impressions, Jarod did with a talent that was almost frightening. But every thing, every comment and every clue the pretender had ever left behind held truth. It had been up to his pursuers to find it.

“You know, Jarod,” Broots said. “For a guy who just crawled out of a beautiful woman’s bed, you seem awfully down.”

“Perhaps,” Jarod sighed.

Broots started walking again, watching the sand as he went. He felt rather than saw Jarod fall in beside him. They walked easily together. It was ironic really, when one thought about it. Only a few months ago, the two of them had been on the opposite sides of a war. Now, Broots felt more comfortable with Jarod than he had with anyone else in a very long time. He could say anything to Jarod and argue any point without fear.

Jarod had no expectations of Broots. He was neither intimidating nor condescending. Broots didn’t feel anxious around the pretender because he knew that no matter what, Jarod accepted him just as he was. It was rather liberating to know that regardless of what Broots said, the worst Jarod would do is stare at him in confusion.

“I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while,” Broots went on. “And I think we know each well enough that I can say it now.”

Broots glanced quickly at the man beside him and saw the look of puzzled concern on Jarod’s face.

“You don’t appreciate her,” Broots said abruptly.

“Why would you think that?” Jarod asked in a tone too neutral to be unpracticed.

Burying his hands in his pockets, Broots frowned. “Damn it, Jarod. I would give a limb to be in your shoes right now. I’d sell everything I owned to spend just one night with her.”

Jarod shrugged. “Ask her. You might just get your wish.”

Broots stared at the pretender in stunned disbelief. “I’ve just told you that I lust after your girl and you tell me to make a pass at her? I don’t get it. You’re the luckiest s.o.b. on the planet, and you are walking around acting like you’ve just lost your best friend.”

“Maybe I have,” Jarod answered with another sigh.

Broots stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?” he asked in exasperation.

Jarod glanced away, focusing his dark gaze on the water. “She doesn’t have any feelings for me,” the pretender said quietly. “It’s just a physical relationship.”

Broots stared at Jarod. For a moment, he thought the pretender was pulling his leg, but Jarod’s eyes were full of a longing that could not be faked. Broots began to realize that Jarod was totally serious in his belief that he was being used. Of course, there were far worse things in life than being the plaything of a woman like Miss Parker. But Broots had known her for a long time. He had seen men come and go in Miss Parker’s life. Conquests lasted for only a few days. She and Jarod had been together for months.

“Believe me,” Jarod was saying. “If she loved me I’d be the happiest man in the world. But she doesn’t.”

“How do you know?” Broots asked. It seemed a little surreal suddenly, discussing Miss Parker’s love life on a sunny beach. But Broots had always cared for his lovely employer. If he couldn’t be the one to make her happy, he wanted to help the man that Broots believed could.

“She said so,” Jarod replied.

“Did she?” Broots asked. “Did she actually say that she didn’t love you?”

Jarod frowned. “She refused to say that she did,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

“That’s not the same, Jarod.” Broots said as a smile began to tug at his lips. “Actions speak much louder than words. Especially for Miss Parker.” Broots tried to describe the impressions he had formed during the years he had worked for the woman. “Words are just promises, made to be broken. Her father saw to that. Words are meaningless lies. Those that do have value can be used against you as weapons.”

Broots paused for a moment, allowing Jarod to absorb what he was saying. “The three syllables you want to hear are very dangerous weapons indeed. Deadly in her experience,” Broots went on. “She may never say them out loud. But that doesn’t mean she can’t carry them in her heart.”

“But how do I know if she won’t tell me?” Jarod asked.

“You’ll feel it,” Broots said simply.

The pretender’s dark eyes flashed hopefully. “How do I know that I’m not just imagining it? Seeing things because I want to see them?”

“You don’t,” Broots said with a shrug. “You have to trust that want you feel is real, and not just an illusion.”

“What do you think, Mr. Broots?” Jarod asked. “Do you honestly think I have a chance?”

“I think she trusts you,” Broots told him. “I’ve seen her take your word over her father’s. I’ve seen her drop everything else to follow some tip you’ve fed her. I’ve seen her lie for you. I believe that there is very little in this world that she would not do for you. Do I believe she loves you?” Broots sighed. “What I think is irrelevant. The two of you are the only ones that matter.”

“What should I do?” Jarod shook his head in wonder.

“Pay more attention to the actions,” Broots said with conviction. “She shields herself with words she doesn’t really mean. Ignore them.”

“Ignoring Miss Parker is never a wise thing to do,” Jarod observed.

Broots smiled wryly. “You’re taking advice on your love life from a man who has a horrible track record for his own,” Broots said. “Who said anything about it being wise?”

Jarod’s laughter was a delighted, carefree sound. “You may have a point,” he chuckled.

“I know I do,” Broots said with an exaggerated rolling of his eyes. “My love life is nonexistent. I’m not sure I’d remember what to do with a woman in my bed.”

The pretender snickered. “It’s like riding a bike,” he said. “Once you figure out how, you never forget.”

“You’re doing it all wrong, Jarod,” Broots said pointedly. “It is nothing like riding a bike. No bike I’ve ever seen at any rate.”

At that, Jarod burst into a fit of laughter that was simply contagious. The two men laughed so hard that they nearly fell over. They were still chuckling when they reached the end of the beach. Turning back, they retraced their steps along the surf. As they headed back to the hotel, Broots continued searching the sand for the perfect seashell.

-

Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn’t me. Don’t own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I’ll disavow all knowledge.


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


The Straight Path Lost Part 10

By Phenyx

08/15/04

Ethan closed his eyes and listened to the silence. ‘Silence is golden,’ he thought to himself. How few people truly understood that old phrase? Silence was pure. It carried a weight far greater than it should. Like solid gold, complete silence had a distinct density to it.

Silence was rare. The world carried a constant hum, more so in this modern world of computers and cell phones. There were few places devoid of some type of mechanical buzz. Florescent lights, ventilation fans and traffic noises followed mankind throughout the civilized world.

Away from the hubbub of society there were other sounds. The noises of nature were everywhere. Birds singing, wind in the trees, the occasional bark of a dog all prevented the arrival of silence.

For Ethan, another sound persisted as an almost continual drone at the edge of his consciousness. The murmur of voices skittering through Ethan’s mind was an eternal presence. The constant hiss of a dozen whispers was the background noise of Ethan’s life.

But today, at this moment, even Ethan’s inner sense was quiet.

Standing at the foot of the porch steps, Ethan inhaled deeply and savored the biting cold as it tickled his lungs. The air was crisp, cold without being damp. More snow had fallen during the wee hours of the night giving everything a clean, smooth look to it.

It was early, still dark at this time of year, when the nights were long and the days fleetingly short. A full moon shined brightly overhead, giving the scene an icy blue color that seemed fitting, for it was quite cold. Ethan’s breath puffed from his nose and mouth in billows, like smoke from a dragon.

This was a peaceful place, far from the nearest city. A rented farmhouse on the edge of nowhere, it had taken weeks for Jarod to find it. Once located, the large rambling structure had been scrutinized for days to make sure it was safe. The building was old and the heat wasn’t very efficient. They’d been warned that a heavy snowfall could shut off the electricity. But the nearest town was fifteen miles away and the tiny burg had only one middle-aged man on the entire police force. The place was well isolated, making it a safe haven for the family to gather for a few days in order to celebrate the holidays. Extra wood for the fireplace and sweaters to keep them warm simply added to the festive atmosphere.

Ethan smiled as his inner sense kicked back on and began to tingle. More a feeling than a sound, the sensation whispered across Ethan’s shoulders and tickled down his spine.

“Good morning, Jack,” Ethan said softly.

A moment later, what had seemed to be an empty shadow shifted and took on the shape of the gangly boy.

“Still trying to sneak up on me, little brother?” Ethan chided.

A mischievous grin broke out on the boy’s face. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he answered. “One day I’ll trick you into thinking it’s Jarod creeping up on you.”

Ethan chuckled obligingly. Jack would never fool Ethan in that way, though Ethan wouldn’t dash the boy’s hopes by saying so. For even though Jarod and Jack were clones of the same flesh, Ethan knew them to be very different on a psychic level.

Jack hummed with enthusiasm and an almost desperate eagerness to please. The boy’s aura vibrated with a need for acceptance that Ethan understood only too well. It was this same desire in Ethan that Dr. Raines had exploited so well for all those years. Jack was easily interpreted, his thoughts and feelings broadcast without interference.

Jarod however, was the opposite. Jarod carried none of the desperate eagerness that Ethan and Jack shared. Not that Ethan could sense at any rate. Jarod was almost impossible to read, a fact that had frightened Ethan badly when the two brothers had first met. The elder pretender seemed to be enclosed within an envelope that Ethan’s inner sense could not penetrate. It had taken a while for Ethan to understand.

Ethan had come to realize that Jarod had a highly developed defense against mental probing. Whether it was a natural aberration or a learned behavior Ethan wasn’t sure. But the fact was, Jarod’s mind was not easy to reach through telepathy. On the one or two occasions when Ethan had made a concerted effort to break through the barriers, Jarod had glared at him in angry confusion. The pretender had been aware of Ethan’s efforts on some level, exactly how much so, Ethan wasn’t sure.

Jarod had been only the second person in Ethan’s life that he had been unable to sense. The first had been Dr. Raines. It was a similarity that had made Ethan very uncomfortable. If it had not been for Miss Parker, Ethan knew that he would never have felt at ease in Jarod’s presence. It had been her belief in the pretender that had gained Ethan’s trust.

Ethan had known Parker forever, long before they’d met on that train. Her mind was like an open book and she glowed with the radiance of her own inner strength. It had been her voice, so like the whispers in his mind, which had brought Ethan back to sanity that day. It had been Parker’s confidence in Jarod, her trust in him, which had given Ethan the power to trust him as well.

It had been an epiphany of sorts for Ethan, to learn that two people could count on each other so completely. Jarod and Miss Parker had, at the time, been at each other’s throats. But Ethan had seen the waves of faith that glowed from Miss Parker and it had confused him badly. Like a whirlwind of contradictions, Ethan’s half-siblings had made his head spin.

Perplexed and frightened, Ethan had been forced to step back a bit, to remove himself from the situation long enough to regain his bearings. Ethan had never told either of them that they had been the reason he’d left so abruptly. To explain would have meant telling Miss Parker about the feelings he could sense emanating from her. The auras, the thoughts and the colors Ethan could see had been a secret he had never shared with anyone. Not even Dr. Raines had realized the true extent of Ethan’s skills.

“Where is he?” Jack murmured, jerking Ethan from his thoughts.

“He’ll be here,” Ethan answered.

With a frustrated sigh, Jack stomped one foot impatiently.

“Calm down, Jack,” Ethan soothed. “The trees aren’t going to get up and walk away. We have plenty of time.”

“I know,” Jack grumbled. “But I’ve never chosen a Christmas tree before. I’m eager to get started.”

“We’ll need an axe,” Ethan suggested. “Why don’t you go get one from the shed?” Before Ethan had finished speaking, the boy was dashing off across the snow.

There was a soft sound as the door to the house opened and closed. The absence of any feeling from his inner sense told Ethan who was behind him. He turned and saw Jarod standing on the steps pulling gloves over his hands.

Jarod straightened the wool cap on his head and flipped up the collar of his coat. He was just about to descend the stairs when the back door opened again.

“Jarod,” a voice called softly.

Ethan had to squint against the brightness pouring from the house. He knew that the illumination had little to do with the lights in the kitchen. Miss Parker was standing in the doorway, holding something out toward Jarod.

“Here,” she said, handing the pretender a thermos. “Some coffee to help keep you idiots warm. Don’t get frostbite. I expect you all to come back with the same number of appendages you left with.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Ethan answered with a grin.

“It’s cold out here, Parker,” Jarod scolded. “Go back inside where it is warm.” Casually leaning forward, Jarod kissed her as he pulled the fluffy edges of her robe more snugly around her. The aura that Ethan could see around his sister suddenly brightened to a blinding intensity and wavered outward until it encompassed the man holding her.

“I’m going back to bed,” she huffed when their lips had parted. “No one in their right mind is up at this hour.”

Jarod smiled, ignoring the intended slight. “We’ll be back for breakfast,” he said. Turning, the pretender came down the stairs to join Ethan just as Jack bounded up to them, a long axe propped on his shoulder.

The trio of brothers headed off through the snow. For a time, they crossed the fields without speaking. The crunching of the snow beneath their feet was the only sound. The moonlight was enough to guide the way, so they had no need for the flashlight Ethan had in his pocket. They trudged on, each man savoring the surroundings in his own way.

Several minutes passed before Ethan said suddenly, “You are good for each other.” His voice was soft, yet it seemed very loud in the emptiness.

“What makes you think so?” Jarod asked with genuine curiosity.

“She keeps you grounded,” Ethan said with a shrug.

“Yeah,” Jack piped in. “You don’t give orders so much when Miss Parker is around.”

“I don’t give orders,” Jarod denied.

Ethan and Jack cast each other a sidelong glance and scoffed simultaneously.

“I don’t!” the pretender cried.

“No,” Ethan said sarcastically. “You simply know what’s best and make suggestions that no one is permitted to argue with.”

Jarod chuckled. “Parker and I argue plenty.”

“Exactly,” Ethan replied. “She keeps you humble.”

The pretender smiled wryly. “She makes me feel like an idiot at times.”

“Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” Ethan explained. “You tend to get a little cocky when you’re being the genius, big brother.”

“Keep it up, little brother,” Jarod growled. “And I might just deck you.”

Ethan grinned. He always loved playing this game with Jarod. It had taken practice, but once they had learned to relax with one another, the brothers had found this easy way of talking. Ethan could say just about anything to his big brother. They could have the most serious of discussions this way, veiled in taunts and petty insults.

“Are you and Miss Parker going to get married?” Jack asked with little grace.

“What?” Jarod seemed stunned, as though someone had tossed a bucket of cold water over his head.

“Married,” Jack repeated firmly. “Are you going to get married and have kids?”

“It’s a valid question,” Ethan added, when it appeared that no answer was forthcoming. “The two of you have been a couple for the better part of a year now. When do you intend to make an honest woman of her?”

“It’s only been eight months,” Jarod corrected.

“Don’t avoid the question,” Ethan said. He placed one hand over his heart as he lifted the other in the air, and began to expound dramatically. “You have besmirched my sister’s honor, sir. I demand satisfaction.”

“Shut up, Ethan.” Jarod’s tone was sharp and curt.

“Please don’t be angry,” Jack pleaded. Ethan felt his younger brother’s tension increase. He placed one arm around the boy’s shoulders in response.

Jarod sighed. “I haven’t really thought about it,” he said finally. “Parker never wanted children. We are both too messed up to raise a kid, anyway.”

“I think you would be a great dad,” Jack smiled in near rapture.

“Oh, sure,” the elder pretender mused. “I’d take paranoid overprotective behavior to a whole new level of neurosis.”

Ethan nodded, unable to argue.

“Seems to be little point in getting married if we are never going to start a family,” Jarod said.

“Mom says that two people get married because they love each other,” Jack said with sudden conviction. “They promise to belong to each other forever and ever.”

They walked in silence for a few moments before the boy added, “I think you should marry her.”

“What you think is irrelevant,” Ethan chided. Wrapping his arm around Jack’s neck, Ethan pulled the boy close in a playful headlock and scrubbed one hand through the thick brown hair.

The boy laughed, twisting away from Ethan’s grasp. “But you love her, don’t you?” Jack asked his eldest brother.

“Jack,” Jarod sighed in exasperation.

“You love her, don’t you?” Ethan repeated quietly.

Jarod’s gaze met his brother’s in a solemn moment of silence. “Yes,” he finally answered.

“Does she feel the same?” Ethan asked. He watched as hesitation darkened Jarod’s features. Ethan wanted to tell his brother what he had seen. He ached to find some way to explain what he already knew. But, like an iceberg concealing its true depth, Ethan fiercely protected the secret of his talent.

Ethan watched as Jarod’s face took on a faraway look. The pretender’s eyes fluttered closed in thought and one gloved hand brushed absently across his lips. His eyes opened and Jarod looked down at the thermos he carried. Jarod’s fingertips caressed the metal container and as he did so, a smiled began to spread across his face.

One did not need to be an empath to see what thoughts were running through Jarod’s head. Ethan knew that his brother was remembering the hundreds of moments that had occurred between him and Miss Parker in the last eight months. Moments when she had saved for him the last slice of dessert or slept on a miniscule corner of mattress so that he could have more than his share of the bed.

How many times had Ethan seen Miss Parker leave the last three bites of food on her plate, only to nonchalantly pass them to Jarod? How often had she perched on the corner of the couch to watch some senseless film for the hundredth time, while Jarod sat contentedly on the floor with his back propped against her legs? This had not been the first time Parker had risen early to see Jarod off on some new adventure. Ethan knew that it would not be the last.

Love, true and lasting, wasn’t in the romantic declarations. It wasn’t in roses or poetry. Real love was in the details, the dull minutia of daily life. True love meant caring for someone when they were sick, tolerating that person when a bad mood made them unbearable and finding security in simply being in the same room with them. This was the kind of relationship Ethan had seen blossoming between his half-siblings. He envied them both.

“Yes,” Jarod said finally as his grin widened. “I believe she does.” With a flick of his wrist, Jarod tossed the thermos in the air, letting it twirl several times before he caught it.

“Then you should get married,” Jack nodded at his twin in triumph.

The thermos hopped into the air again, turning end over end before returning to Jarod’s palm.

Without warning, Ethan was abruptly assaulted by a powerful sensation. Darting from his older brother like an arrow, the feeling pierced through the air with a force that stole Ethan’s breath. Nearly visible in its intensity, emotion poured from Jarod in a flash of heat like a blast from a furnace.

Yet, as quickly as it had appeared, the sensation was gone, doubling back on itself and vanishing behind the blankness that was Jarod. Though the moment had been brief, Ethan still had no trouble identifying what he had felt radiating from his brother. Joy, pure and simple, without reservation, was one of life’s most basic emotions and easily recognizable.

“Maybe,” Jarod was saying. “If she’ll have me.”

“She will,” Ethan replied automatically.

Jarod glanced at Ethan warily.

“Like I said,” Ethan said with a shrug. “You are good for each other.”

The older pretender smiled indulgently. “Right. She makes me humble,” he nodded.

“And you make her happy,” Ethan added gently.

“That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?” Jarod asked.

Ethan nodded solemnly. Jarod absently played with the metal container he carried as Jack dashed off to inspect the tree line. When the boy returned a moment later, the three continued their trek through the snow.

Ethan felt his earlier serenity return. The silence was gone, lost in the crunching of footsteps and Jack’s whistled Christmas carols. Yet the feeling of contentment persisted. Life was good. Ethan had his family around him and for the first time he began to believe that they were all going to be okay.

Jarod was finding his place in this world. It may not be the path the pretender had been looking for, but it was a good life none-the-less. Ethan knew that his brother would always need to be cautious, always need to run from those who pursued him. But the life Jarod was settling for was no longer one of loneliness. He had a partner now, one that had been with him all along. The years of conflict between Jarod and Miss Parker had simply been the friction caused as two separate pieces learned to fit together into the oneness they were meant to be.

They were good for each other. Together they were going to be just fine.

The End.