1. TWILIGHT'S END by Raiven
2. Chapter 2 by Raiven
3. Chapter 3 by Raiven
LOCATION:
THE CENTRE
BLUE COVE, DELAWARE
DATE:
11/14/96
Miss Parker couldn't even tell that there was only a week until Thanksgiving, here in the austere halls of the Centre's lower levels. Most of her co-workers had gone on brief holiday vacations. Sydney had left for his mountain cabin yesterday, and Broots was at home, spending the precious time off with the daughter he'd bragged so much about.
Mr. Raines was still here, upstairs, in his secured sleeping quarters. Angelo, the empath Raines had just brought in on the Jarod Project, was here somewhere, too--as far as she knew, neither of them had any other home.
Her father was gone, and he hadn't informed her where he was spending his vacation. She walked faster, remembering their recent argument.
Her father had pulled her out of Corporate three weeks ago, exactly one week after Jarod had escaped from the Centre--and never mind her protests. As far as Daddy was concerned, both her former position as the head of Centre Security and her childhood friendship with Jarod would prove invaluable in the hunt for their escaped protege.
And as far as she was concerned, Miss Parker had come to share her father's determination to track down Sydney's errant Science Fair project. Unlike her father, though, she planned on killing the bastard once she finally caught up with him. Thus neatly ending the Jarod Project--or the Jarod Problem, as she privately referred to it. Forever.
Miss Parker smiled to herself.
The staccato sound of her high heels tapped out her path through the marble-floored halls as she walked--she wasn't exactly pacing, but she didn't have any particular destination in mind, either. The Centre, as lonely and desolate as it seemed, had been her home for so many years that it was somehow right to spend the holidays here. Later tonight, she would return home to her waiting supply of champagne.
Her wanderings had taken her to the wing where Sydney's office was located--whether she'd chosen this path due to some subconscious motivation or out of mere force of habit, she didn't know. Sydney would have been able to tell her, had he been here.
But he wasn't.
His office wasn't even locked. Miss Parker went inside, intending to use the phone. The computer on his desk was turned off for once, a sure sign that its user was absent. A dim light shone fitfully from the office's other exit; it was enough to light her way.
Miss Parker sat down on the edge of Sydney's desk, crossing her long legs at the ankles, the room's air cold against her bare skin.
She flipped on Sydney's desk-lamp and pulled his phone towards her. She dialed her father's number; while she waited, she examined the top of Sydney's desk. Usually, he cleared it off before taking his leave; this time, there was a cardboard box in the exact center of the smooth mahogany surface. Her curiosity piqued (and still no answer at the other end of the line) she leaned over and drew the box towards her.
"Jarod?" Miss Parker said aloud, her eyes widening as she read the address on the box. This had to be Jarod's handwriting--it was the same neat, somehow generic, capital letters he'd favored in the red notebooks he'd used to write out his simulations. She'd read so many of the damned things these past few weeks that she saw his handwriting in her sleep.
Jarod wasn't dead, as Miss Parker had been theorizing in the weeks since his escape.
Sydney's pet project was alive and well.
And he'd evidently decided to send his surrogate father an early Christmas present.
There was no return address.
Her father forgotten, she hung up the phone and turned her attention to the package. She felt no qualms about taking Sydney's silver letter-opener and slitting open the plain brown paper wrapping and peeling back the flaps of the box. Inside, she saw the glint of red foil: another box.
Jarod does so love his little games, she thought as she pulled out the second parcel. Just as she'd suspected, it seemed to be a Christmas present, neatly wrapped in red foil and green ribbon. She didn't bother suppressing a snicker as she read the tag: Merry Christmas, From Jarod. Miss Parker shook her head. All these weeks since the little lab monkey escaped neatly back into the jungle, and then he sends us a damn Christmas present.
She started to lift off the lid.
She heard a sudden sound from the hallway. Startled, she glanced up, only to see Angelo silhouetted in the doorway. It's like being in a circus, she mused darkly, surrounded by freaks all the time.
"Come in, Angelo," she said, deliberately adding a little warmth to her normally chill tone. "It's me--Miss Parker." Miss Parker often wondered about whatever bizarre occurrence had produced Angelo, the nearly autistic man who ceaselessly prowled the Centre, simultaneously afraid to leave and afraid to stay. Miss Parker could sympathize.
Angelo hesitated in the doorway, and then entered the room. "Daughter have present?" he ventured, not meeting her eyes. He seemed as preoccupied with absolutely nothing as he usually did.
Speaking carefully, like one addressing a child, she said, "Yes, Angelo. It's a present. From Jarod." Was it her imagination, or did he perk up a little at that? "I'm just about to open it."
She lifted the lid of the box and upended its contents on Sydney's desk as he came closer.
A motley assortment of items fell out: a toy tractor, a large quartz crystal, two pieces of paper, one big and one small. The final item missed the desk and clattered to the floor at Miss Parker's feet. She reached down after it and drew her hand back with a muffled curse. "Damn thing's sharp."
Indeed, when it fell, the silver dagger had cut through the police evidence bag that had contained it, and had subsequently lanced her index finger.
She picked it up, carefully this time, as a small rivulet of blood welled from her finger. The dagger's razor-sharp edges gleamed harshly in the bright glare of the 100-watt bulb in the desk-lamp. She turned it in the light, noting the red stone set in both sides of the hilt and the cryptic runes that were written along the blade. She doubted that their translation would read Made In China. "I thought Jarod was too young to play with these things," she muttered, stealing a tissue from Sydney's Kleenex stash to wrap around her wounded finger.
Angelo, meanwhile, had zeroed in on the tractor like a child who had just discovered a new favorite toy. He was turning it over and over in his hands, getting God alone knew what empathic information from it--or maybe he was just playing with the damn thing.
Miss Parker set the dagger down on Sydney's desk, almost irrationally relieved to have the damned thing out of her hands. She picked up the larger piece of paper. It was a flyer for something called "The National Tractor-Pulling Championship," with the name of the city, exact location, and date blacked out.
The second, smaller, piece of paper turned out to be a Tarot card. The drawing on it showed a grinning skull pierced through the cranial cavity by four swords; faint lettering identified the card at the bottom. "'Four of Swords,'" she read aloud. "'Deception.' Very clever, Jarod."
"Deception . . . " Angelo echoed, still fixated on that goddamned tractor. She half-expected him to put it down on the desk and push it around, all the while making tractor-noises.
The quartz was a pure white thrust of crystal; she lined it up with the dagger, the card, and the flier along the edge of Sydney's desk. She eyed Angelo's tractor. "What do you think, Ange? Is our boy taking up farming?"
Angelo shook his head.
"Well, what do you think?" Miss Parker questioned, impatiently. "If anything." She tried to be nice to him, but sometimes it was so goddamned difficult.
"Sad . . . " Angelo's voice was almost inaudible as he turned the toy tractor over and over, over and over. "He's so sad."
"Poor thing," Miss Parker interjected, dryly. "Can you tell me where he was, physically, when he sent it?"
"Cold. Very cold." Angelo shivered as he looked up; for that moment, at least, Miss Parker could have sworn that she saw Jarod looking out at her.
She'd always known that Angelo's empathic abilities were strange, but sometimes (like now) they seemed to border on the psychic. Or the ridiculous, whichever way she chose to see it. She often had a hard time deciding which opinion to take.
Angelo spoke again, this time in the first person, as if he were Jarod. "She's like my mother, isn't she? Being chased." He glanced down at the quartz crystal. "But even that can't keep the bad man away, can it?"
"The bad man?" Miss Parker said, her voice seeming loud and harsh next to Angelo's near-whispering tone.
The empath muttered something that sounded to Miss Parker like "the night-man," as if that was really supposed to clarify anything.
"Angelo, have you been sneaking comic books from Broots again?" she asked him, irritated. "I thought I told you--"
"I'm there, but I'm here, too." Angelo continued along a line of thought that only he could understand as he looked around the room. "It's all coming back again. It's real again."
"What's real?" She ran the fingers of her good hand through her hair impatiently.
"What happened to me here." Angelo shivered again, and his Angelo-as-Jarod eyes filled with a dark sort of fear as they met hers. "The dreams are back. And sometimes . . . sometimes I think I'm back here. Back at the Centre."
"Jarod's finally cracking, isn't he?" Miss Parker's lips twisted into something that fell decidedly short of a smile. "Nightmares and flashbacks. That's what you're telling me, isn't it?"
"Not nightmares . . . dreams," Angelo clarified. His shivering turned into a violent shudder as he whispered something.
"What?" Miss Parker leaned in closer, her hand brushing against the dagger. She gave a shudder of her own, pulling away in distaste. "Say it again."
Angelo looked up, his Jarod-eyes guilty. "I didn't mean to see it. I swear I didn't." He lowered his voice like a conspiratorial child. "Don't tell Dr. Billy. Please don't tell him."
Miss Parker didn't miss the reference to Dr. Billy, Raines's nickname among the children he'd deemed "special" enough to participate in his equally "special" experiments . . . Angelo was lost somewhere in Jarod's childhood now, wasn't he?
Angelo looked up at the security camera tucked away in one dark corner; all that could be seen of it in the blackness was its blinking red light. "But he already knows, doesn't he?" Angelo's shoulders slumped in defeat. "He knows, and he's going to take me to the secret place. He won't even help the nice lady!"
"Why do you have to speak entirely in pronouns?" Miss Parker lamented. "What 'nice lady,' Angelo?"
"Miss parker's mother."
"My mother?" Miss Parker said sharply, focusing on the blinking red light, endlessly signaling its warning that they were being recorded . . .recorded! Everything, it seemed, ended up on one DSA or another. "Angelo--what you're talking about . . . is it on a DSA?"
Angelo nodded.
"Can you find it for me?"
He shook his head. "Dr. Billy won't let anybody else see." And then, "I told them that it would happen. I told them she'd die."
"Jarod knew?" Miss Parker grabbed Angelo by the shoulders. "Jarod knew my mother was going to die?"
"I tried to tell Sydney, but he wouldn't listen." Angelo's mouth frowned in a child's angry pout. "I did! I really, really did!"
Miss Parker let go of him, stepped back a few paces. "Jarod knew! He knew they were going to kill my mother. But how in the hell could he know?"
"The dream," Angelo said. And then, bizarrely, "'All that we see or seem--'"
"'--is but a dream within a dream?'" Miss Parker filled in the rest of the quote. "Poe, Angelo?"
Angelo said nothing.
"At least I know you've been reading more than Broots' comics." She paused, and then asked another question, her voice low, mindful of the recording devices. If anyone ever heard her say this, she'd never live it down. "Are you Jarod . . . somehow? Right now?"
This time, Angelo shook his head vehemently. "He won't talk to you. You want to hurt him. Daughter mean." When he met her eyes this time, she saw that whoever he'd been up until now was gone.
"Angelo, can you find me the DSA?"
He looked at her, tilting his head in that posture she'd seen him take when he was carefully considering something. "Present . . . for Angelo?"
"You want to trade? This--" She snatched the toy tractor out of his hands. "For the DSA."
"Can I keep it?"
"Yes. It'll be your tractor." She smiled at him, her teeth gleaming mellowly in the light. "Until then, it's my tractor. Deal?"
Angelo turned and left the room, his sock-covered feet whispering his passage.
Miss Parker watched him go, and then gathered together the contents of Jarod's strange present. She wrapped the dagger in the plain brown paper that had originally surrounded the box, careful with its sharp blade. That's why he sent this shit to Sydney, she thought. You'd need to be a shrink to figure it out.
Miss Parker turned off the desk-lamp, picked up the package and left Sydney's office.
I wonder what the hell Jarod's up to now?
As he walked along the snowy sidewalk, Jarod's mind kept returning to his past, despite his efforts to concentrate on this cold and windy present. He tucked his ungloved hands even deeper into the pockets of his black leather coat, and glanced up at the cloudy gray sky, which was just beginning to take on the deeper blues of twilight.
He paused at the corner of Main Street and Wooster, waiting for the walk light to change. There wasn't much traffic out tonight, pedestrian or otherwise.
The light finally changed to WALK; Jarod continued on, stepping over yet another dirty-white snowdrift heaped carelessly along the curb.
The deserted twilight town did nothing to help Jarod forget his dark thoughts. He was one of the few people who dared brave the elements tonight; everyone else had already reached whatever destinations they were bound for, or so it seemed. They were no doubt celebrating the holiday season with family and friends, while he wandered the streets, restless and alone.
The year would soon be ending, yes . . . but what else would draw to a close with the season? The brief freedom he'd managed to steal from his captors? Jarod's short time in the outside world had been frightening at times, but it had also provided him with many unexpected joys.
He wasn't sure if it was just the time of year weighing on his mind or not--but, for whatever the reason, he felt haunted by the unquiet ghosts, both dead and living, that roamed the dark halls of his memories. Catherine Parker, mysteriously murdered deep within the secret places of the Centre. Mr. Raines, whose shadowed face and raspy, breathless voice still animated Jarod's nightmares. Sydney, father-figure but certainly no father. Angelo (and which side of the life/death line was he on, with his strange mind? Jarod wasn't sure). Miss Parker, long-ago friend and present-day sworn enemy. And, of course, the other "subjects" in the projects they'd all been forced to endure; the friends, few and far between though they'd been, who'd made Centre life bearable. The girl, Jillian--but he stopped that thought before it could even begin.
Jarod could leave the Centre, but the Centre would never leave him. He could pretend to be anyone, they'd told him. They were wrong. He could never pretend to be what he wanted to be the most--someone who could love and be loved, someone with a future that didn't involve being hunted by the Centre. Someone who didn't dread sleep because of the inevitable nightmares, the nightmares and the dreams . . .
He shook his head, attempting to dispel these tiresome thoughts, and concentrated on the scene at hand.
The businesses he passed were closed for the night, doors locked and lights turned off--they were not closed against him, but seemed to be, nonetheless.
Only his destination was still lit.
He could see, even from this distance, that the harsh effect of overhead fluorescent lights within the little shop was dulled by the cheerful glow of table-lamps, making the place seem that much more inviting.
A moderate shower of freezing rain was beginning to fall, and the freshening wind was cold even through his thick coat; he was eager to be inside. In seconds, his spiked dark hair was soaked. Even though the sensation was vaguely discomforting, he managed to enjoy it--anything different from the monotonous sameness inside the Centre was a welcome gift that he'd never expected to receive. The cold made him feel so much more real, alive for once.
Jarod walked faster, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the sidewalk as he crossed alternating patches of snow and concrete. Closer now (he could see the colorful details of the many items hung in the store's wide front window), he retrieved his current red notebook from the inside pocket of his coat.
He angled to the right, walking towards the snowdrift that marked the edge of the curb, and stopped--he was directly across the street from the shop now, and that was close enough for a time. In a very short while, he knew, the bitter cold would start to numb his bare hands; for now, though, he wanted to savor this moment, the beginning of his newest identity, his newest life.
Jarod opened the notebook, turning to the first page. The headline, "BGSU Student Missing," had long ago engraved itself in his mind. Kimberly Ann Ebhart had never finished her second semester at Bowling Green State University. Her roommate had reported her missing after she'd failed to return from a visit to nearby metro Toledo on April 9 of this year. The picture showed a smiling African-American girl in her late teens.
Jarod paged past the article titled, "Search for Missing Girl Continues," straight to an article dated two weeks later: "Search for Ebhart Ends In Tragedy." The abandoned building in downtown Toledo where the girl's body had been found was a ruin of scorched brick and metal starkly illuminated against a gray sky.
After a few months, Kim's story had been replaced by more "current" stories and relegated to the third page. "Was Kim Ebhart Ritually Murdered?" another title questioned. He paused at this clipping and read, " . . . might signal the return of the known cults that once practiced human sacrifices in Connersville in the early eighties." Rural Connersville was located a little over fifteen miles south from Bowling Green. "By 1988, police had recovered several bodies of victims, mostly young girls, who had been reported missing. There was evidence of ritualized abuse in each case . . . " Jarod had read the police reports about each of the victims, and had read the coroners' reports of the exact condition of their remains. Personally, he agreed with both the authorities' and the reporter's statements.
A less recent headline, dated November 4, 1986, read, "Suspected Cult Leader Escapes Raid." This was only partially true--the man (and a few of his most dedicated followers) had fled their small compound before the police had even arrived. The included picture showed that the "leader," one Michael Gray, was a powerfully-built man in his late thirties. His blond hair was worn in a military cut that was even shorter than Jarod's own; he was smiling a disconcertingly warm, normal smile for a man who was suspected of leading the ritual slaughtering of eight victims. Eight known victims, Jarod's mind corrected. There had probably been others.
The freezing rain marked Gray's picture like tears as Jarod turned the page.
The final articles concerned the one woman who, he thought, had encountered the "cultist" killer or killers and lived.
The first had warranted little more than a few sentences in a section of The Toledo Blade called The Police Blotter, which chronicled car wrecks and crimes both big and small. His copy of the article was a hazy microfiche printout--the actual event had taken place in late 1986. "Ms. Jasmine Allen of Bowling Green reported being assaulted by an unknown assailant on East Merry Street. The assailant has not been found." It was the first mention of the woman in print.
In the spring of 1987, she'd given birth to a baby girl. The child's birth announcement also occupied a page in his notebook. No father was listed.
A car slowly cruised by, its driver wary of the ice and therefore tapping on the brakes every few seconds. The pages Jarod turned were lit in alternating flashes of streetlight-white and brakelight-red.
The rest of the articles were culled from various tabloids between 1984 and 1986. Jasmine Allen was a practicing psychic who had gained national fame for her work with the Ohio and Michigan police during these years. She'd helped them, among other things, recover a missing girl in 1986, working from the sketchiest of clues. No reputable newspaper would have printed her sketch of the uncaptured man who'd taken the child, but the tabloids did. The man in question bore a striking resemblance to Michael Gray.
Less than two weeks later, Gray's compound (a dismal bunch of buildings surrounded by cornfields) had been raided. An amazing stockpile of weapons had been found, along with enough evidence to confirm that the man had, indeed, been heading a small but exceedingly bizarre cult. Given enough time, the authorities claimed, Gray's cult could also have become exceedingly dangerous.
And more than one tabloid had claimed that Jasmine Allen had been personally responsible for the information leading to the raid, though no reputable paper had dared to voice such insupportable opinions.
The final article's headline ran, "Local Psychic Opens Store." The date was August 15, 1990. Jarod briefly studied the included black-and-white picture of the little shop Jasmine had named The Spirit Centre. The irony of the name's spelling had not been lost on Jarod.
Jarod raised his eyes and looked across the street at the store in question.
On one side of the small building was the local Ben Franklin Arts and Crafts store; on the other was a combination coffee shop/used bookstore known as Grounds For Thought. The Spirit Centre had changed little in the intervening years since the picture had been published--the most obvious difference was the multi-colored Christmas lights around the door and display window. Their cheerful glow dispelled the gloom that shrouded the shiny-wet street, and raised Jarod's spirits a little.
He could see Jasmine Allen behind the counter. Even from this distance, she could see how drawn and tired she looked.
The Centre comes home to The Centre, Jarod thought, cryptically, as he started across the street.
LOCATION:
THE CENTRE
BLUE COVE, DELAWARE
DATE:
11/14/96
Miss Parker reached down and snatched a piece of hard candy from the little glass dish that adorned her desk as she waited for an answer at the other end of the line. Her desk-lamp's metal neck was angled directly towards the cleared-off middle of her desk; Jarod's package sat in the exact center of that harsh circle of light like the sole prop in a minimalist play.
She balanced the phone between her shoulder and her ear, awkwardly, as she unwrapped the candy and popped it in her mouth. Come on, Broots, pick up, she thought, even as she grimaced: sour apple. Damn.
Finally, on the seventh ring, she heard him pick up the phone. "Hello?"
"Doing anything special, Broots?"
"Miss Parker! Uh . . . no, I'm not."
Miss Parker could hear music playing faintly in the background, proving his words false. "Good. I have something I need you to do."
"But Miss Parker--"
"It's your Thanksgiving vacation. I know. But the Centre never really closes, Mr. Broots."
"Right," he sighed in response.
She could hear childish laughter at his end of the line--his precious daughter, no doubt.
"Uh, what is it this time?" he asked.
"This is a quick errand. You can even do it from your home terminal. I need you to pinpoint the location of--" She glanced down at the flyer. "--a National Tractor Pulling Championship, held at an unspecified time in an unnamed fairground."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Do I ever 'kid', Broots?
"Well . . . no."
"It seems we made Jarod's first Christmas gift-list. A flyer advertising this . . . er . . . exciting little tourist attraction came in the mail to us, along with a few other items."
Broots cleared his throat. "Postmark?"
"What do you think, Broots?"
"Oh. Well, this . . . uh . . . tractor-pulling thing shouldn't be that hard to track down. I mean, it sounds like a one-of-a-kind event."
"As it no doubt should be," Miss Parker commented, idly twirling the phone cord around one finger.
"Yeah." Another voice in the background. "Wait--what? Hold on."
Miss Parker could clearly hear him talking to his daughter, telling her he'd be off the phone in a minute. "Go wait in the living room, Debbie," he stage-whispered, and then, louder, "OK. I'm back."
"You can reach me on my cell phone as soon as you have the answer--and don't let it wait until morning, either."
"Is that all?"
"Not quite, Broots."
Obviously disappointed, he said, "What else?"
"Tell your daughter I said Happy Thanksgiving," Miss Parker added, knowing full well that Broots would do no such thing.
She hung up the phone before he could say another word.
Her cell phone was in the locked top drawer of her desk; she retrieved it before gathering up her coat and Jarod's "present."
She hoped that Jarod was enjoying his freedom, wherever he was, because she would make damned sure he wouldn't have it long.
DATE:
11/14/96
A bell on a string clattered as Jasmine pushed open the door of the Spirit Centre. Jarod noticed immediately that her eyes were a beautiful ice-blue color, a detail he hadn't been able to retrieve from the newspaper photos of her--her eyes had been that anonymous gray common to all black-and-white images.
And those intimidating ice-blue eyes were now fixed directly on Jarod's own. Her stare was electric, piercing--it was as if she were trying to see into his very soul. And given her reputation as a psychic, she probably was trying to read him somehow. He looked down and to one side, away from her intense gaze. At the moment, he wasn't pretending to be anyone in particular, as close to being himself as he ever could be. He didn't have enough confidence in who that "self" was to let her see too deeply into it.
She looked him over, her gaze actually traveling the whole length of his body before finally settling on his face again. She seemed on the brink of saying something--she actually opened her mouth to do so--but then she evidently changed her mind, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.
Jarod forced himself to relax. "If you've already closed, I can just come back tomorrow." He looked almost longingly back over his shoulder at the wet street.
Jasmine's voice was husky, almost rough. "No--wait a minute." All the while, her eyes never left his face. "I--" She shook her head, once again negating whatever idea was in her head before giving it voice.
"What is it?" Jarod shifted nervously on his feet, wishing now that he'd never come to this place. She was a stranger, and strangers were--
"Come in, come in." She held the door open wider. "God, it's freezing."
--unpredictable. Strangers were dangerous. Like this whole wide world he'd so recently entered. The shop's warm air was the deciding factor--it breathed life back into Jarod's wind-numbed hands as he moved further inside, at least as far as the front window. She just kept looking at him, her eyes brilliant in her pale face--he had to say something. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "I was surprised to find your store open at all." He shook the quickly melting droplets of icy water from his hair. "It's some night out there."
Jasmine returned to her stool behind the cash register. "The weather is something this year," she agreed. "Five inches of snow already, and you usually never even see flurries before Thanksgiving." She indicated a much-folded newspaper as if in support of her argument; the headline read, "Sudden Winter Storms Hit Home."
"Can I stay for just a few minutes? I'd like to warm up a little, before I go back out there. I have a few blocks to walk before I get home." He looked out the wide front window and shivered. He'd spoken no lie.
"Are you from around here?" Jasmine asked, making an obvious attempt to start a conversation that she probably didn't welcome.
Jarod turned away from the window. "I just got into town two days ago. I'm renting an apartment on Wooster Street. It's over the Chinese restaurant." She nodded, understanding the reference. "Look, I'm sorry to bother you, but your store seems to be the only place open tonight, and I've walked all the way over from campus."
Now it was Jasmine's turn to look away. "I'm sorry, too. I know I seem . . . well, unfriendly. But . . . seeing you was a bit of a shock." She hesitated, something that didn't ring quite true with Jarod--she seemed to be a forcibly direct woman. He sensed that, for some reason, he made her very nervous. "I mean--I mean that I'm not used to seeing anyone out this time of night, when it's this cold. In this weather."
Jarod suspected that she was hiding something--and never mind the fact that they'd just met. He decided not to press the issue, and turned away from her, curious to explore what he hoped would be his new environment, at least until the Centre finally caught up with him.
He was studying the wide array of incense sticks for sale when Jasmine asked, "You say you came over from the University? Are you a student there?"
"Not officially," Jarod replied. Again, not a lie. "I'm just studying there for a while." His intuition told him that she'd know if he were lying, just as it had told him a month ago that it was finally time to leave the Centre for good. He shrugged a little ways out of his coat, revealing an orange sweatshirt with the words 'Support the BGSU Falcons' emblazoned across the front.
"I see you've got the shirt for it," Jasmine commented, a small smile softening her features.
"I have a few more at home," Jarod replied, picking up a stick of incense and smelling it, his expression serious. He totally missed the slightly puzzled look she cast in his direction. He moved past the incense, pondering the intricate webs of leather, stones, and feathers decorating one wall. "What are these?"
"They're called Indian dream-catchers." Jasmine got up and walked over to him. "If you put one over your bed, it'll keep bad dreams away."
Jarod saw that she was wearing a small silver dream-catcher on a matching chain around her neck. He looked at her thoughtfully for a second. "I'll take two."
"Two?"
He nodded, saying matter-of-factly, "I have a lot of nightmares. Can you pick me out a couple?"
"Well, that's a new request. Most people only buy one." Jasmine looked up at him--the top of her head only reached his shoulders. Her gaze was as intense as it had been when she'd answered the door.
Jarod finally met her eyes, a crooked half-smile gracing his normally solemn features. "Why do you look at me like that?" He returned his hands self-consciously to his pockets, knowing that he looked like he was ready to run and helpless to look any other way--God, she was intimidating.
"I'm trying to figure out what element you are--checking out your aura."
"Aura?"
"The life-energy surrounding everyone."
"And does mine . . . check out?"
"If it didn't, I wouldn't have let you in here to begin with. I'm not stupid. Now, I'm just . . . looking deeper."
Jarod's dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he absorbed these new ideas. "What do you see?"
She remained silent for another moment, then said decisively, "You are somewhere between wind and water." Apparently, she caught Jarod's puzzled expression, for she continued, "No, no--don't ask. There are four elements--"
"But what about the other hundred and sixteen?"
"No--not those elements. Spiritual elements. Like the four elements in ancient times--earth, air, fire, water. People's energies tend to be divided up among these elements. Wind is the element of the mind and of communication. Water is the emotions, love."
"And what purpose does this knowing serve?" Jarod's nervousness was forgotten now--he was intent on acquiring her knowledge.
"I can tell things about people. For instance, the water-energy in you runs deep and dark, like a storm. Usually that means a person's known a lot of pain. You have, haven't you?" She glanced down, embarrassed. "Never mind. You don't have to answer that."
But Jarod answered honestly. "Yes. My life has been . . . difficult."
Jasmine continued. "Your version of wind . . . is associated with flight, speed. Quick thinking. You're very intelligent, good at teaching and learning. But whatever hard times you've had makes it difficult for you to relate to other people."
"Is it possible to know all this from the aura?"
Jasmine shrugged. "You tell me. Am I right?" She folded her arms nervously across her multi-colored T-shirt. "I've done stranger things. I mean, I used to help the cops--psychically, you know? They don't like publicity, but it made the papers anyway."
Jarod said nothing, knowing somehow that she'd catch him if he pretended not to know anything about it.
"Since I know so much about you . . . well, my name's Jasmine."
"An unusual name."
"I like it," Jasmine said, reaching up absently and brushing a chin-length blonde c<!-- -->url back from her face.
"And you can call me Jarod." He glanced out the front window and saw the lights from the Ben Franklin store next door reflecting on the wet pavement. "Jarod Franklin."
"Jarod, huh? Not exactly the world's most common name, either."
Jarod glanced down at his watch, squinting slightly to see the numbers through the orange and brown BGSU Falcons logo decorating the face. "Oh--I'm sorry. I've kept you too long, haven't I?"
"Don't worry about it. You've been . . . interesting." Jasmine reached past him, too close to him for his liking--with an effort, he controlled the urge to flinch back from her. An abnormal fear-reaction would make him seem strange to her, no matter what his instincts told him he must do.
She grabbed one of the dream-catchers and held it out to him. "Here. Free of charge."
He took it from her, noting the softness of the supple gray leather and the carefully threaded webbing holding the dark feathers together. He couldn't keep the astonishment from his voice as he said, "For me? Thank you!" He paused for a second, and then added, "Really?"
"Well, yeah. Why not?" He could see silent laughter in her eyes now. "What--never gotten a gift before?"
Jarod chose his words carefully. "Where I grew up, people rarely gave gifts."
Jasmine just shook her head, apparently deciding not to ask. "Don't worry. I make these dream-catchers. You're not ripping me off or anything. I mean, it is Christmas--well, almost--and it seems like you need it more than me."
"Don't you have nightmares?"
Jasmine looked away, her hands rubbing up and down her folded arms, as if she were cold. All the ease had gone out of her expression, leaving only the tired lines of tension he'd seen around her eyes and mouth upon coming in. "Believe me, Jarod, I do."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Listen, I didn't mean to--"
Jasmine shrugged again--Jarod was beginning to think it was a characteristic gesture of hers. "Not your fault. It's just that . . . well, something happened to me, not too long ago."
"I know what it's like to be alone," Jarod murmured, still looking at his new dream-catcher. "With no one to talk to and a lot to talk about." He glanced up again, only to find Jasmine looking at him speculatively.
"Yeah, I'll bet you do. I'm not alone, exactly. I have my parents and my daughter." She shook her head, smiling sadly. "But let's just say that the whole world looks different to me than it used to. It's no longer such a friendly place."
"Do you want to talk about it? I hardly know you, but I've found that sometimes a stranger can be the best listener." He inspected the dream-catcher's feathers closely, running them along the extended fingers of his left hand.
"Those are genuine Golden Eagle feathers," Jasmine commented, eager to change the subject. "I found them in the Rocky Mountains last summer."
Jarod glanced at his watch again. "When will your store be open in the next few days? I'd like to come back and take a better look around, maybe actually buy something."
"We're closed the day before Thanksgiving, until the Saturday after. We're on holiday hours right now--from ten in the morning until four o'clock at night. We're open longer when school's in session."
"We?"
"My partners and I--Eric and Simone."
"So why did you stay open late tonight?"
"My mom called from my place and told me her car wouldn't start. She's watching Brandy--my daughter, at my place until my dad can get into town to pick her up. I live too close to bother taking a cab." She went behind the counter and retrieved a coat and scarf. "I don't really want to walk home alone. Except, thanks to our freaky weather, I'm gonna have to." She shook her head in annoyance. "It's not even supposed to snow this early in the year, let alone this three-day snowstorm shit."
Jarod knew that it was less than a block to her apartment from here. He could nonetheless understand her reluctance to be out alone at night. Her attacker had come for her on a night much like this one, as she was walking home to her old apartment on East Merry Street from work. He also understood why she'd subsequently taken up residence closer to her store.
Jarod went to the door as Jasmine put on her coat. "Which way are you going, Jasmine? Maybe I could walk with you for company." He knew she'd refuse if he mentioned her nervous reluctance to go alone.
"If you're heading towards that China Village restaurant, that's my way." She tucked a paperback book into her pocket and adjusted her scarf. "My apartment isn't that far, though."
"Thank you for the dream-catcher. I'll buy my other one tomorrow--this should do for tonight."
"You act like it's an emergency or something," Jasmine said, producing a large bunch of keys.
"You have no idea, Jasmine." He opened the door and stepped out into the bitterly cold night, automatically scanning the area for potential danger. He was closely followed by Jasmine; she, too, looked around cautiously.
The wind hit them immediately, bearing with it the sting of an ice-shower--the freezing rain had solidified until it resembled miniature hail. Jarod immediately thrust his hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind.
Jasmine locked the door behind them. "You're not from the north, are you? You're just wearing that coat--no scarf, no gloves, no hat."
"You must be a wonderful mother," Jarod said.
Jasmine tucked the keys back into her pocket as they started walking. "Sorry. Force of habit, I guess. You have any kids?"
"No."
"Brandy--my little girl? She's wonderful, but . . . well, you know."
Jarod didn't know, but he decided against informing Jasmine of that. He'd had precious little experience with children.
"Well, seriously, Jarod, you really should invest in some winter gear. The weather is downright hostile around here. A year ago, we had a blizzard." She pointed down the street, to a lit window on the second floor of a storefront, about a block down. "There's my place. We're almost there." She sounded relieved.
Jarod had located her apartment shortly after arriving in Bowling Green, and knew that the residential floors were situated atop a small store called Wizard Graphics.
"So," Jasmine began, disentangling her wind-tossed scarf. "Uh, where do you plan on spending the holidays?"
"Actually, I'm staying in town." Jarod shrugged, trying to think of something positive to say. "This will be my first Christmas here." His first Christmas ever, in fact, and he'd be spending it alone. He'd never even heard of Christmas until he'd escaped the Centre late last month and seen what appeared to be the whole country madly gearing up for the light-bedecked Event. And the one holiday message that he'd seen over and over in almost all of the holiday paraphernalia had been the sentiment that had stung him the most: Christmas was a time for family.
"What about Thanksgiving? I mean, if you can find it around all the early Christmas decorating people can't seem to resist."
"Thanksgiving?" Jarod carefully sidestepped what appeared to be a minor glacial ice-flow in front of a small secondhand store. "I hadn't even thought about it." True enough--he'd already dismissed Thanksgiving as the minor opening ceremony for what appeared to be a month-long Christmas orgy. The few Thanksgiving images he'd seen had emphasized family as much as the Christmas ones had, featuring groups of smiling relatives situated around tables heaping with food.
Jasmine interrupted his thoughts even as she seemed to echo them. "Doesn't your family miss you?"
"No. I . . . I haven't seen them in a very long time."
"Are you serious? That's awful, if you haven't seen them in so long. Family's important. Believe me, I know."
"Family's important to me, too, but . . . well, what can I do?"
"What happened to them?"
"I don't even know for sure. I was . . . adopted." He took a deep breath. "I don't really want to talk about it."
"All right." Jasmine stopped in the doorway of her apartment building. "Well, here we are." She dug her heavy collection of keys and keychains back out of her pocket. Metal jingled merrily as she searched for exactly the right key.
The wide front window of Wizard Graphics was dark, almost opaque. Jarod could see his and Jasmine's reflections in the mirrored surface. The look in his eyes shocked him--they seemed darker than usual, and radiated the sadness and emptiness that he'd been working so hard to hide.
He leaned closer to the window, trying to modify his expression into something that resembled happiness. His breath in the frosty air immediately caused his reflected image to fog over, erasing it as completely and as easily as his real self had been erased from the "real" world.
"Jarod?" Jasmine's voice brought him back to the present. She was standing just inside the lighted doorway. "Thanks for walking me home."
"No problem. Good night, I guess." Jarod turned away from her and began his solitary walk home.
LOCATION:
SL-12
THE CENTRE
BLUE COVE, DELAWARE
DATE:
11/14/96
Blink . . . blink . . . blink . . .
Something he wanted.
Blink . . . blink . . .
The toy tractor.
The little red light flashed. The Eye blinked.
His blue eyes shifted to the left, taking in the blank screen and keypad located next to the security camera. The keypad, too, boasted a little blinking light. Its light was green. Green for go. It blinked on and off, its rhythm quicker and therefore not in unison with that of the red light.
To his right, red: blink . . . blink . . . blink
Angelo frowned.
To his left, green: blinkblink . . . blinkblink . . . blinkblink . . .
He didn't like that, the way the lights weren't blinking together.
It was wrong, like his mind.
One of the little blinking lights would just have to go.
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small box. Its red lettering was faded--he'd had this particular box for a long time. Nonetheless, he held it to his nose and sniffed; its current contents rattled like the long-ago candy the box had originally contained, but they didn't smell the same. The dry, sweet scent of the Cracker Jacks hadn't yet faded away, however.
Blink went the red.
Blinkblink went the green.
Angelo reached into the box. His sensitive fingers found the plastic card; he held it to his nose, as well. The papery smell of candy had covered the non-scent of the plastic. The hologram flashed in the corridor's overhead light; Angelo looked down at the world, contained within a scrap of plastic with THE CENTRE superimposed across it in 3D letters. The Centre over the world. The Centre's world.
His right hand flashed out as he swiped the card through the magnetic sensor attached to the keypad; with his left hand, he keyed in a rapid series of numbers.
The green light blinkblink'd.
Angelo glanced to his right.
The red light was dark. The Eye was blind.
"You're not on 'Candid Camera' anymore," Angelo murmured, cocking his head again as he stared at the green light.
SL-12 was experiencing yet another brief lapse of power to its security cameras.
Even the Centre's advanced technology was not immune to those nasty little bugs that infected computers worldwide. Angelo thought of some of the bugs as his pets--after all, he'd put them there, and they did tricks for him.
Such as this trick.
The screen beside the keypad was no longer dark.
IDENT? the computer queried in its cryptic Centre-speak.
Angelo typed in another password.
The green light brightened as the machine within the machine hummed to life.
White light flashed across the screen.
Angelo looked into the flash and saw
(jarod in the light too bright too bright escape)
what had happened almost a month ago.
Angelo removed his hand from the console.
IDENT POSITIVE the computer decreed. WELCOME MR. WILLIAM RAINES
After Jarod's escape, the Security Techs had modified the system. And, after their work was done, Angelo had modified the system.
The dense metal door opened with a suprisingly benign click. Humming softly to himself, Angelo stepped across the threshold.
The Centre was a big place. It was a world unto itself. Still, there was Outside. Jarod was Outside now. But . . . Angelo glanced down at the plastic card. THE CENTRE still presided over its holographic world, frozen forever in its dominance.
Jarod would need help.
Angelo had Connections. His influence had embraced vast worlds--the finite but all-powerful world inside the Centre Mainframe, and the limitless world Outside. His people roamed the world outside the Centre like his "pet" bugs roamed the strange encoded realms of the Mainframe. Some of them had even escaped the Centre, much like Jarod had. Some of them
(i decide who lives or dies)
had even escaped other places since then.
Jarod was not alone. There were others.
Angelo moved down the corridor, not quite running, silent in his stocking feet.
But not all of those others wanted to help Jarod.
He glanced up, into a far corner. The security camera's light was dead: the Eyes were no longer watching him. They were blind to his passage.
Jarod had known about the dreams.
(i didnt mean to see it)
The special dreams.
(all that we see or seem)
They had come for Jarod in the night and taken him to the secret place.
(is but a dream within a dream)
Angelo knew about the dreams, too.
(all that we see or seem)
And what They did to the children They took to the secret place.
(is but a scream within a scream)
All the cameras were dark now; all the Eyes were closed against the work Angelo had to do here on SL-12. As they had been the night that Jarod had stolen his life from out of Their hands.
Angelo continued down the hall towards the dark office that was his destination.
Mr. Raines' office.
The doctor was not in.
LOCATION:
THE SPIRIT CENTRE
BOWLING GREEN, OHIO
DATE:
11/14/96
Jarod had only managed a few careful yards--the sidewalks were so unsalted and icy that keeping his footing was difficult--when Jasmine's voice halted him. "Jarod! Wait a minute!"
He stopped walking and turned back. "What?"
She motioned for him to walk the few yards back; he did so, feeling the cold already beginning to bite into his hands and feet again. He still managed to enjoy the experience--after all, he'd never been outside in the winter before.
"Look," Jasmine said. "You don't seem to have anything much to do, and it's too early to go in for the night."
Jarod said nothing, merely watched her, his eyes narrowed against the biting wind.
Jasmine motioned him inside. "It's colder'n hell out there--get in here." When she slammed the door behind them, the overhead lights began to flicker. "Oh, hell," she said, enunciating the words with determination. "I wish they'd do something about this crazy wiring. Anyway, do you want to maybe get a bite to eat somewhere?"
Jarod's eyes widened. "Dinner? With you?"
"Nothing serious--not like that. We each pay our own way, OK?"
"But is there even anywhere open in this weather?"
Jasmine nodded. "There's one other place--besides mine, of course--where the people are crazy enough to stay open on a night like this: the Corner Grill."
Jarod had not yet been to the Corner Grill, though he'd passed the plain 1950s-style building several times as he'd gone about his various errands around town. He remembered thinking that the Corner Grill's name was especially apt--it was an L-shaped building, literally built in the shape of the corner it covered. "Well, I guess I could use the company."
"Great!" Jasmine's eyes lit up in a genuine smile--the expression seemed more natural on her face than the dour tension he'd seen etched there so far. "Uh . . . I do need to go upstairs for a minute, OK?"
"I'll wait here, if you don't mind." The hallway was cold and dark, but it was still preferable to the numbingly cold weather. Jarod was determined to experience as much as he could, but even he had his limits. Having decided that he was going to stay, he glanced around, getting his bearings. There was a small hallway branching off of the main entranceway; at the end of it was a door that most likely opened on Wizard Graphics. Its chipped, gray-painted surface reminded him of the drab, utilitarian doors at the Centre, the ones where the only locks were those that could be opened from the outside . . . He shivered.
"What?" Jasmine asked, concern darkening her pale blue eyes.
Jarod hadn't even realized she'd been watching him.
"You OK?" she ventured further.
"I . . . well, my mind was wandering." An understatement--all Jarod could think about these days seemed to be his experiences at the hands of the Centre's highly trained staff. He'd read about such things as flashbacks and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, of course, but somehow he'd never expected these torments to surface in him. Until they did. And no matter how good Jarod might have been at helping other people, he was at a loss when it came to helping himself.
Jasmine said no more on the subject, but it was obvious from the look in her eyes that she didn't believe him. He felt as vulnerable as a child around her--if she really could "read" his energy, surely all his emotional turmoil must be apparent to her.
He watched her start up the stairs.
The stairwell was lit only by a fitfully sputtering forty-watt bulb dangling from a chain at the first floor landing. "Ah, Newlease," Jasmine commented. "I love them--they always fix everything right away." Her voice echoed back from the narrow walls as she reached the landing.
"Newlease? I'm renting my apartment from them, too." He paused. "Are you aware that these stairs are slanted at a ninety-five degree angle?"
Jasmine stopped on the landing, her gloved hand lightly grasping the second staircase's scarred wooden handrail. "Nah--it's just the rest of the world that's crooked."
Something about that made sense to Jarod, although she'd probably meant it as a joke. "The stairwell in my own building slants at approximately a ninety-two degree angle. Are these angular staircases a feature of Newlease properties?"
"The way Newlease maintains their buildings, I wouldn't be surprised." Jasmine began the next flight of stairs and was lost from sight.
The damned echoes in this place were trying to draw Jarod's mind into the past again--the hollow marble halls of the Centre, walking with Dr. Raines down the central corridor of--of--
Of where?
At least Jasmine was no longer observing him. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and took a deep breath. What the hell's wrong with me? he wondered. Flashbacks--that's what's wrong. I'm going into flashbacks again. He took another deep breath and slowly exhaled. I can't control them anymore.
Upstairs, the sound of Jasmine's keys, and a door opening. Jarod caught the words, "Where is--" before the door slammed shut.
(i wait for sydney where are you sydney the dream the dream was so bad its dark in my room/cell except for the lights the lights through the vents all alone)
Light continued its erratic dance with shadow as the present twisted into the past and Jarod remembered
(if they knew what i saw theyd send me to the secret place where the kids are taken who never come back and i dont want to go there i dont want to just be gone and never come back)
Jarod clenched his hands into fists, digging painful half-moons into the tender flesh of his palms. The real-life Jarod, that part of him that was just watching, not reliving, thought There's a good reason why I never remembered any of this one before, isn't there? I've got to make it stop even as the rest of his mind flatly disobeyed that order and continued to see
(sydney sydneys here and i want him to hold me protect me i tell him about the dream and oh no what if dr billy finds out about this?)
"I didn't mean to," Jarod whispered, and the whisper gave way to a moan as he closed his eyes again, fully into the flashback now. "I didn't
(mean to see it sydney i didnt i swear believe me please believe and don't tell dr billy but shes going to die sydney sometimes i pretend shes my mother and not miss parkers mother but it was a dream only a dream wasn't it sydney it didnt/wont happen just don't tell dr billy or he will do the bad things to me sydney he will he will he)
"He did," the real-life Jarod murmured, distantly feeling the air of the real-life hallway, cool against his hot face. He looked up into a far corner, as he'd done that long-ago childhood night, his eyes blank and empty and focused on another time and place. In that dark corner, his real-life eyes saw, actually saw, the
(camera oh sydney the camera he will know anyway let go of me sydney ive got to get out of here ive got to let go of me you don't believe me i told you and you don't believe me and now hes going to take me to the secret place hes going to kill me)
Of course, he hadn't been killed, or he wouldn't have lived to become the real-life Jarod. But it might have been better for him if he had been killed, because that night, the night of the dream, Raines had taken him down to the secret place for the first time.
Enough that's enough the real-life Jarod thought, unaware that the half-moons his fingernails had dug into his palms had started to bleed. Fine--I remember it now. I don't need to see any more so stop it-- But even now the memory refused to release Jarod from its frantic clutches and he saw
(raines its dr billy oh sydney keep him off me sydney no help me hes got a needle a needle sydney i dont want a shot i dont need to sleep now i dont sydney stop him sydney)
and the real-life Jarod flinched at the fresh pain of the long-ago needle as he whispered, "And you held me down, Sydney . . . ."
Somehow this next realization was the worst of all; the child-Jarod's voice was agonized as it cried
(and you didnt believe me sydney even though i told you but i have to stay awake have to have to i hate you sydney i hate you go to)
"--hell!" The real-life Jarod came out of it at the sound of his own desperate cry. For a second, he had no idea where he was, but then cold reality reasserted itself. Jasmine--Jasmine would be back soon, and she couldn't see him this way. How long had it been? Jarod had the sense that the whole time-distorting episode had taken just a few minutes, but he couldn't be sure.
With an effort, he slowed his breathing and unclenched his hands. His palms stung--he looked down and saw the bloody little half-moons etched into them by his fingernails. He shook his head. No matter how bad the flashbacks had been before, he'd never managed to do that to himself. And, more ominously still, he didn't even remember doing it.
His mental condition was getting worse, instead of better, wasn't it?
He was fully aware of the fact that there were many blank spaces in his memories. He'd understood instinctively that children could bury traumatic memories so deeply that they were simply no longer there, long before he'd read about the concept. By the time he'd read about it, he'd done it so many times himself.
Upstairs, the sound of a door opening.
He heard Jasmine's voice, low but distinct; it was followed by a peal of childish laughter that echoed out into the upstairs hallway.
Echoes . . . The flashback was stirring up other memories in Jarod's head, echoes, if you will. Memories that, mercifully, had nothing to do with the horrors of the secret place. Of all his suppressed memories, Jarod suspected that those long-dead recollections were buried in the deepest of all graves, and no doubt with good reason. But they weren't resting quietly, no matter how deeply he'd dug the graves, were they? Not any more.
"Do you want me to bring you guys anything back?" Jasmine said, quite clearly, upstairs.
In fact, Jarod had never clearly remembered just how he'd ended up with an extended tour of Raines' little "secret place" in the first place. Until now.
"Fries!" the little girl demanded. She said something else that Jarod couldn't make out.
He adjusted his coat, ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, and otherwise tried to make himself presentable. He knew he'd have a lot to think about when he got home later, but until then . . . well, he'd have to pretend he was a normal person, one who wasn't haunted almost to the breaking point by past traumas.
Footsteps--
"Hey, Jarod," Jasmine greeted him, rounding the landing and taking the remainder of the stairs two at a time. "I'm sorry I took so long." As she walked up to him, her eyes narrowed. "What is it? What's wrong? Something's wrong. I can feel it."
Jarod indulged in an echo of his own. "You can . . . feel it?" He had no idea what she was talking about.
"It's coming off of you in waves, Jarod. Fear and anger, but mostly fear."
"I--"
"You've lived in the shadows for so long it's impossible for you to get out, isn't it?" Jasmine's eyes--her deceptively cold and emotionless hawk's eyes--stared into his. "It's eating you alive."
Jarod hesitated, then nodded in assent.
Jasmine put her hand on his arm, a simple act of human compassion that Jarod realized was totally foreign to him. "Look, Jarod, whatever it is that happened to you, it's over now."
"It's never over," Jarod told her, his voice barely audible.
"I don't know exactly what 'it' is--you've got 'it' hidden but good." She looked up at him thoughtfully. "In fact, it's hidden so good that even you don't really know it. Yet." Her hold on his arm tightened a little. "Jarod, you need to remember it."
"No," Jarod said, flatly.
"Jarod, you need to own it. It's owning you now--it's killing you." Jasmine's sharp tone softened a little. "I know. I've been there." She looked away, but not before Jarod could see that the ice in her eyes had been thawed by a burning pain that even the intervening years had not cooled.
If what Jarod suspected had happened to her had really taken place, then she had most definitely had 'been there,' as she put it.
"I don't know what happened to you," Jasmine continued, her voice made low by whatever emotional pain she was feeling. "But it hurts." Her voice broke. "It hurts so bad." She put a hand to her forehead. "Like me. Like what happened to me." Her head was lowered; her hair obscured her face.
"Jasmine, I--" Jarod began--and stopped. He didn't know what to say.
"I never told anybody about a lot of it. It was too . . . too bad to. I didn't think anybody would believe me, you know?" Jasmine's voice sounded more under control now--she'd fought off her tears before she'd shed a single one. "It all just kind of festered. Like an abscess, but of the mind. And that's how you are, too."
Jarod took a few steps back, towards the wall, until he felt its cold, hard surface against his back. He closed his eyes--somehow, it was easier for him to talk in the dark or with his eyes closed. "What's happening to me?" He felt almost on the verge of tears himself as all the confusion and pain began to dig at him again like a living thing. "What's happening to my mind?"
"You're remembering," she said, simply. And then, "You've escaped that place, and now you're finally remembering."
Jarod's eyes flashed open. "How did you know? I never told--"
"Anyone? I know. I can't tell you how I know--not yet. But . . . " She paused, held out her hands to him. "Come here, Jarod."
"Why?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Please."
Jarod saw that the look in her eyes boded no harm towards him, so he went to her.
Jasmine took both his hands in hers and turned them over so that the bloody half-moon cuts were visible. It was as if she knew they'd be there. "I did that, too," she murmured. "When I remembered."
She reached out with one hand and pulled him closer.
He took a step back. "What--"
"Jarod, I just want to give you a hug, OK?" And she did just that, reaching around his heavy leather jacket to do so, resting her head on his chest. "You need a hug more than anybody else I've seen."
After a moment, he relaxed into her embrace, and put his arms around her shoulders. She was solid and warm and safe. She raised her eyes to his for a second; in them was a profound sort of love--not the romantic kind, but instead a love born of deep compassion. He held her closer, lowering his head until he could feel her hair on his face. He could smell the lingering scents of shampoo and the vanilla incense she'd been burning at The Spirit Centre. He closed his eyes again, giving himself up to the experience.
"It's going to be OK, Jarod," she murmured, rubbing his back gently with one hand. "It's going to be OK. Whatever happens . . . " She paused. "And something will, won't it?"
"It will," Jarod said, and shivered a little.
"Sshh." She kept rubbing his back. "Calm down, Jarod. I'm going to help you, Jarod. It's something I've known I'd have to do for a while. I've been . . . learning things. Preparing."
"You know about me?" He raised his hand to her hair and began to smooth the blonde c<!-- -->urls. His breath caught in his throat. The sheer experience of touching another human being (and a woman, at that) was so unfamiliar and so overwhelming that Jarod didn't know quite what to do with it.
"Yes, I do. Soon we'll exchange stories--"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Jasmine." Her hair was so soft, so wonderfully soft . . .
"Yeah, well, wait'll you hear my story."
Jarod kept stroking her hair, wondering if such a simple, everyday thing could be as wonderful to her as it was to him. "Jasmine . . . what are you doing to me?"
"You can tell?"
"Yes. You're doing--something. Something. I don't know how to say it."
"I'm trying to calm you down, Jarod. With my energy. I'm sending you good energy."
"It's working," he told her, dreamily. "It's hypnotic."
"I know. I think you're a little more receptive to this kind of thing than I originally thought."
"OK."
"Yeah." She paused, and he could concentrate fully on the motion of her hand on his back. "Jarod, whatever happens to you, know that you're not alone anymore, all right? I'll help you through it."
"Thank you." Jarod held her even closer for a second, savoring the feel of her warmth against him, and then let her go. "I . . . that means . . . everything."
"Yes. And . . . you'll be here for me, too?"
Jarod thought of the Centre. "I will." He was living on borrowed time now--no, not borrowed, stolen--and there was no telling how long it would be until they came to collect. "For as long as I can be."
"No, Jarod. We're going to beat our demons, both inside of us and outside. We're going to win our freedom. And," Jasmine continued. "In the meantime, we're gonna go get us something to eat. Time to lighten the mood a little. OK?"
"Fine by me." The cracked brass doorhandle was cold in Jarod's hand. "Let's go."
LOCATION:
MISS PARKER'S HOUSE
BLUE COVE, DELAWARE
DATE:
11/14/96
Miss Parker adjusted the three-way table lamp to its lowest setting as she returned to her living room. Her freshly-poured glass of champagne fizzed merrily away on the mahogany end table beside the couch as she lit a fresh cigarette. She smoothed the hair back from the collar of her gray silk pajamas and tucked her slippered feet underneath her as she sat down on the couch.
She took a sip of champagne and then picked up her cellular phone.
She dialed Sydney's number from memory.
Would he even answer it, on his so-called vacation? He wasn't the only one who could indulge in psychoanalysis--
Three rings.
--and she had a sneaking suspicion that he'd left for his cabin ahead of schedule this year to escape the emotional stress brought on by the search for his recently-escaped protégé. Miss Parker knew that Sydney had worked too long and too closely with Jarod to view him as just another experiment.
Five rings, now.
Like her, Sydney just wasn't the type to have others around to witness his feelings, despite all his psychobabble about the validity of emotions and the need for their expression.
After the tenth or so ring (she hadn't kept track beyond the sixth, save for the fact that she was already a quarter of the way through her newest cigarette) he answered with a curt, "Sydney." He was obviously tired.
"Did I wake you?"
"Hello, Parker. May I assume you haven't merely called to wish me Happy Holidays?"
"Actually, I would like to pass on holiday greetings, but not from me."
Sydney sighed, a sound that was more resigned than tired. "Jarod."
"You know it. Your baby boy's been thinking of you--after all, the holidays are a time for family."
"Please, Parker. Spare me your acid wit, just this once. I'm afraid my sense of humor and my patience are both shorter than usual this year."
"All right." Miss Parker relented a little. "Are you handling things OK up there?"
"Oh, it's beautiful this time of year. I remember all the times Jacob and I shared here before his accident . . . " He trailed off.
"Listen, Syd--" Miss Parker hesitated, taking the opportunity to get a good hit off of her cigarette. "I know what you're going through. My mother--"
"I understand, Parker." Mercifully, Sydney seemed to want to spare her the agony of expressing her feelings.
"It's just--oh, hell," Miss Parker stood up and began to pace the length of the room. "It's just especially hard around the holidays, isn't it?"
"Yes. Your mother loved Christmas. Is that why you called? To talk?"
"No." Miss Parker realized how perilously close she was to her feelings, and immediately focused herself on the task at hand. "My mother died over twenty years ago, Sydney. I'm fine," she lied, knowing full well that he wouldn't believe her. Business--get back to business. "We're in the process of deciphering a present from Jarod--and he forgot to include the decoder ring."
"What is it?"
"An early Christmas present. What else? Addressed to you."
"And you already opened it."
"Of course. Opening the junk mail is one of the little perks that comes with being your boss. Come on, Syd. You could spend hours interpreting it, and you probably will."
"Just tell me what it is, Parker. It's been a long drive, and I'm tired."
"Like I'm always telling you, Sydney, the smart ones always do something stupid. Looks like our day's finally come. He sent a flyer for a specific event. We've got it narrowed down--"
"You have a location pinpointed?" Sydney couldn't disguise the concern (no doubt for Jarod) in his voice, much to Miss Parker's annoyance.
"Not quite. He sent us a flyer. For a National Tractor Pulling Championship, if you can believe that shit. Broots is working on triangulating the location. It shouldn't take long."
"Anything else?"
"A toy tractor--Angelo just loved it." Miss Parker rolled her eyes heavenward. "I might give it to him when all this is over. Jarod also included a quartz crystal and a Tarot card, and a little silver dagger. What can you make of that?"
"The quartz crystal has a definite spiritual connotation, especially when combined with a Tarot card."
"Maybe Jarod's found religion."
"Doubtful, Parker. His training won't allow for that. He's too rational. But he is expressing an interest in spirituality and in the hidden recesses of the human mind."
"What the hell could he possibly want with spirituality?"
"Spirituality isn't just ghosts and witches, Parker. Jarod is acting on a healthy desire to find his purpose, his role in the grand scheme of things."
Miss Parker sighed, annoyed. "Or maybe he thinks he's psychic."
"Does the issue of spirituality bother you? You seem concerned . . . "
"Frankly, I think religion's just the sort of sentimental drivel Jarod would be drawn to."
Sydney didn't even hesitate as he snapped, "Of course. What can you expect from a man who has nothing?"
"Testy tonight, aren't you?" Miss Parker responded with equal sarcasm. "Is there something you're not telling me, Syd? These Pretenders aren't clairvoyant on top of everything else, are they?"
"The Centre has never entirely ruled out that possibility."
Miss Parker sat up straighter. "You're shitting me."
"A normal person only utilizes a small portion of his or her brain's total capacity, Parker. A Pretender is in touch with so much more of that potential than you or I . . . . Anything is possible with these sorts of experiments."
"Oh, Jesus," Miss Parker shook her head in exasperation. "Am I even hearing you right?"
"You are." Sydney was obviously warming to his subject now. "The Pretender Project has always been about unlocking the hidden potential of the mind. Many of those who have studied so-called 'psi-phenomena' have concluded that people who display extraordinary abilities are merely tapping into unexplored regions of their brains. That's what our Pretenders have been trained to do."
"You're saying Jarod really could be trying to find out if he's psychic? You've been spending too much time alone on those dark sub-levels, Sydney."
"You can't tell me we can totally eliminate the idea."
Miss Parker sighed as she admitted defeat, at least for now. It was impossible to argue with a man who probably kept a framed picture of Sigmund Freud on his bedside table. "Never mind the analysis right now. We need you back here, Sydney. I guess we have a little searching of our own to do."
The uncharacteristic tiredness returned to Sydney's voice as he said, "The Centre won't allow him--or any of us--peace, will they? Not even this time of year." He paused. "Did you ever consider how Jarod must feel?"
"No, and I don't particularly care." Miss Parker didn't bother to disguise the coldness in her voice. "Jarod's feelings aren't my concern. His recapture is my concern. And his recapture should be a priority of yours, too," she reminded him.
"Jarod's freedom was your mother's concern, Miss Parker."
"What--should we just give him Thanksgiving off? Maybe a Christmas bonus, too? Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot." She laughed harshly. "He's already stolen it out of Centre funds and--"
"Parker," Sydney cautioned. "Your anger is getting the best of you."
"Sometimes I get the impression that you think you're a kindly old child psychologist, and not one of the top shrinks in the Centre Psychogenics Department. Jarod's an investment, nothing more--and a bad one, at that."
"Jarod is a human being, in case you've forgotten." Despite the obvious conviction in his words, Sydney's voice was low and dispirited; evidently, he wasn't in the mood to argue.
"Prove it," Miss Parker stated flatly. "In case you've forgotten, he's a brainwashed genetic freak. And he's dangerous to the Centre, running around like some damn mutant rat escaped from the science lab."
"The Centre's just as dangerous to him. Do you think they'll give him another chance--"
"The Centre's dangerous to all of us," Miss Parker interrupted. "We've got to have results, Sydney. And soon."
"You're worried about your father."
"Maybe you're psychic, too--you must be a mind reader." Miss Parker leaned over, depositing her cigarette in the ash tray before the last burning remnant of ash could land on her carpet. "Ever hear of sore winners? The Jarod Project's a competition, and you know what happens to the losers around here."
"They're involved in mysterious automobile accidents or shot in elevators."
"Exactly. It's Jarod or us, Sydney. That's what it comes down to. Get used to it." She slammed a fist down on the coffee-table for emphasis; the ash tray rattled loudly in the otherwise silent room. "How soon can you be back here?"
"Is it better to die for something that you believe in, rather than to live for nothing at all? Your mother knows the difference."
"Cut the crap, Sigmund. That sounded like one of Jarod's little riddles. I can see where he gets it from. Now, for the last time--"
"Give me ten hours. I need to sleep, and it's a five-hour drive, and I'm about as tired as I've ever been."
"Seven hours. Sleep three, speed for four, and drink coffee."
"Fine."
Miss Parker could tell Sydney was too tired, both physically and emotionally, to argue any more. "I'm going to get together a Sweeper Team--we're probably going to make out an exact location sometime tomorrow."
"Congratulations, Parker. I'm sure your father will be pleased."
"See you at seven." Miss Parker hit the DISCONNECT button, declining to engage in whatever verbal fencing match Sydney was attempting to start.
It had been a long day, and Miss Parker had had enough.