LOCATION:

JOE'S SPORTS VIEW CAFE

CINCINNATI, OHIO
DATE:
1/12/00

TIME:
8:30 PM

I'm only telling it because it's so unbelievable. I need to get it the hell out of my head. I mean, I can't seem to think about anything else since it happened.

I've chosen a Pretender Fan Fiction page to relate this crazy-ass tale because, quite frankly, I feel that you readers are perhaps the only people who might understand, even a little. You all like the show, too, right? So you'll at least know what the hell I'm talking about, even if you don't believe me. I mean, I write horror fiction, and even I don't believe myself.

But it really happened. I swear it did. Anyone familiar with the city of Cincinnati will probably recognize where it all took place.

Have you ever heard of that bar off of Queen City Avenue? It's called Joe's Sports View Cafe. No? You haven't? I'm sorry. You might want to look it up sometime, if you're ever in town.

The place may have a weird name, but it's kind of become a hangout for those of us watching this year's Olympics. It really is a bar. You'd think they'd only serve coffee there because of the "Cafe" part, but their coffee really sucks. The brews and mixed drinks are great, though.

There's this huge wide-screen TV--well, there's actually two of them, but my crowd only favors the one in the back room. It's great to watch the Olympics on it--it's almost like you're really there. Remember that guy who wiped out skiing? It was like actually seeing that in person. You could almost feel the pain--not that we weren't all pretty well anesthetized by then, of course. It being a weekend and all.

The next night--Saturday--we made plans to watch Women's Figure Skating. That's always been a favorite of mine. Remember Katarina Witt? I do. I was in fourth grade back in 1984, when she made her first Olympic appearance, and she was an idol of mine for a good many years.

The Saturday in question was gonna be especially boring, because NBC wasn't going to be showing an episode of "The Pretender" that night. It'd been pre-empted in favor of the Olympics. I figured that they were at least decent for showing figure skating in its place. My best friend Angie and I usually get together to watch "The Pretender" Saturday nights, so we extended our tradition to include the Olympics.

And Joe's Sports View Cafe just seemed the logical place to go to--we figured, with that name, they'd have good TVs. And they do.

Originally, there was supposed to be about six of us going. But Mike had to study for the first of this quarter's exams (which I, at least, was happily neglecting) and Julie had the flu. Casey--well, she was mad at Julie and wouldn't come, just in case Julie did. (Casey, in case you ever read this--it's college, time to grow up.) So it ended up being just me and Angie.

Angie and I figured that we would have "our" whole huge table all to ourselves. When we got to Joe's, the place was crowded, as it always is on Saturday nights. It was hard to actually make out who everybody was because of the funky colored lights, and the way that one of those mirrored disco-light things was casting weird shadows over the whole scene. (I often wonder why Joe didn't just break down and call the place "Joe's Sports View Cafe and Disco.")

The TVs were on, but no one was really paying attention to them yet. We had a few minutes until the actual Olympics would be broadcast--just enough time to settle in and order our first drinks.

On our way to the back room, we stopped by the bar to order our beers. Joe was tending the bar that night--he usually does, or maybe his little brother, Mark. It's a family business, you know? That's why Joe can greet us by name and anticipate our orders. He already had our beers ready, and an ashtray that we could take to our table.

"But, Joe," Angie protested. "I was going to change my order tonight. Now you tell me I can't get my daiquiri?"

Joe leaned on the mangled wooden bar (the wood's so scratched up he didn't even cast a reflection) and looked skywards, seeming to assert to no one in particular, "Well, you'll just have to drink that beer anyway, Angie. I mean, I already opened it and all."

"Like there's no one else in this entire bar who won't take it," Angie interjected.

"Like me," I threw in.

Joe glanced back over at us, mixing what appeared to be a rum-and-Coke. "Like I don't know that joke already, guys."

"Uh-huh, business as usual, right, Joe?" I commented, grabbing my long-necked bottle of Miller Genuine Draft.

He looked vaguely regretful--which was probably all he could manage, considering how busy Joe's Cafe was that night. "Uh . . . there's a little problem with your table, ladies. See, this guy came in just five minutes ago, and there was no one sitting there, and nowhere for him to sit, so . . . "

"You co-opted our table over to him," Angie finished, trying to see into the dark back room, over the constantly moving sea of human life.

Joe handed the rum-and-Coke to some guy at the other end of the bar, and began to wipe down the bar at our end. He was pretending he was busy so that all those other people behind us would just have to continue waiting while he talked to us. He really did seem to be pointedly ignoring the lady behind us--she seemed halfway drunk already, and pissed off, too. "He asked me about the Olympics, so I figured you'd all get along if you had to sit together. Where's the rest of the gang?"

"Skipping out tonight," I told him. "As if this were Shakespeare I class or something."

Joe laughed--he should. He knows we're all a bunch of English majors. "Well," he continued. "That guy--I think he's new in town, and he's feeling a little out of place. I don't think he'll be any problem. He's been working on this weird-looking laptop computer. Say--he never did order a drink. Could you guys maybe--I'm swamped--"

"Yeah, we'll ask him if he wants anything," I assured Joe; meanwhile, the lady behind us sighed dramatically. I didn't even have to see her to know that she was in that one position where you cross your arms over your chest and tap your foot. "C'mon, Ange."

We picked up our beers and the ashtray. The bitch behind us gave an even more obnoxious sigh--this one probably signified relief the likes of which mere mortals like us would never understand. I saw poor overworked Joe roll his eyes heavenward as we turned to walk back to our table. As I passed the bitch, I whispered to her, "Sorry about your asthma, ma'am." I left her looking appropriately scandalized.

"I wonder if she'll hit on Joe or something," Angie joked as we wove our way through the undulating crowd.

"Yeah. Probably literally, right?" I asked, laughing. "She looks pretty mean."

The TV over our table was on, with the volume turned down. Joe always cranks it up for what he calls "showtime" (i. e., any major sporting event), though.

Angie stopped suddenly--so suddenly, in fact, that I damn near collided with her. "My beer!" I protested, watching a little of it slosh over the rim of the bottle. "What's your problem?"

"Ohmigod," Angie said, all as one word like that. "Do you see that guy?"

"No, not from this angle, I don't!" I had no hope of seeing around her, directly in front of me as she was, with the crowd penning us in on either side.

"It's . . . "

"It's what, Ange?"

"It's . . . Michael T. Weiss."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, Angela. My, aren't you just the comedian tonight?" I pushed my way around her, trying to look tough enough so that no one would punch me for shoving him/her out of the way. It wasn't real hard, considering that the punk clothes I wear do a lot to further that image.

The thing is, it really was Michael T. Weiss, the guy who plays Jarod, of Pretender fame.

He was sitting there at "our" table, drinking nothing, intently studying that aluminum-case computer Jarod always carries around on the show. That was the "weird laptop" Joe had mentioned. And he was dressed like Jarod, too--the same all-black clothes and leather jacket--he hadn't even bothered to remove the coat yet, like he wasn't planning on staying long.

"Hol-eee shit," I whispered. "And he's at our table, Angie!"

"What's he doing in Cincinnati?"

"Let alone at our table. Come on." I had to drag her by the arm to get her moving again (losing a few more drops of my precious beer in the process). Not that I blame her--it's not every day you realize that you're going to share a table with one of your favorite TV actors.

I came to a stop just before the table. Angie was standing so close to me that we must have looked like a couple of scared kids or something. He still didn't look up, so I (rather loudly) set my beer on the table.

He glanced away from what I just couldn't help feeling were the DSAs. (Well, it happens all the time on the show.)

"I'm sorry if I--we--startled you," I stammered. "It's just that . . . well, we didn't expect to see you here."

He looked us over, and not unkindly, either. It was exactly the same appraising look we'd seen him give to people on the show, as Jarod. He just kept looking at us, evidently expecting us to begin the conversation.

"Uh, you are Michael T. Weiss, right?" Angie asked. "The guy who plays Jarod? From 'The Pretender'?"

He laughed, though there was more tension in it than anything else. "Actually, I'm not. Though I do get mistaken for him a lot."

"Oh," Angie said, obviously disappointed. I discreetly elbowed her in the side: that's rude.

"Well," I began, still somewhat hesitant--I've never really been too good with strangers. "Can we maybe sit here?" I glanced around the packed bar. "I mean, there's nowhere else to sit."

He relaxed a little as he closed the aluminum computer-case. "Sure," he said, cracking a little half-smile.

As I sat down, I noticed that he put the "weird laptop" directly on the seat next to him, where most guys would seat their dates. Either he wanted to keep it within easy reach, or he wanted an excuse to keep Angie and I across the table from him. Maybe both.

"Thanks," Angie murmured, her eyes still wide--he did look a hell of a lot like Weiss (down to that little mole under his eye) even if he wasn't. He even had the little facial expressions and mannerisms down, too--well, Jarod's, anyway. I really don't know how many of Jarod's mannerisms are actually characteristic of Weiss, or if he's just acting.

I took a sip of my beer while he looked on expectantly. What--couldn't this guy actually start a conversation on his own? Well, I reasoned. Neither can I, usually. "Uh . . . so, how's it going?"

"Fine."

"Oh, yeah," I remembered. "Joe--that's the bartender--wants to know if you want anything to drink."

"What would you recommend?"

"I'm having a Miller Genuine Draft--it's my favorite beer."

"I'll get you one," Angie added. She was the closest to the aisle, so she had to go tell Joe. She looked like she needed a minute to collect her thoughts, anyway. I mean, how fast she took off . . .

"Uh, hi, I guess. My name's Jane." I extended a hand across the table.

He hesitated, but then shook my hand. "I'm--well, you're not even going to believe this. My name really is Jarod. Jarod Kerrigan."

"Really?" I inquired. "Pretty weird, man." I drained a full third of the beer in a few delightful gulps--God, but I was uncomfortable around this guy for some reason. It's not that I thought he'd try to kill me or something like that, but there was just something kind of off about him.

"Do you watch that show a lot--'The Pretender'?" Jarod--I mean Michael--I mean, well, whoever the hell the guy was, asked.

"Yeah, I do. Angie--that's the woman I'm with--and I are big fans." I pulled out my Marlboro Lights. "I even surf the Net and read the fanfic and visit the web sites," I continued, lighting a cigarette. "Say--you don't mind, do you? No? Good. I've been wanting to make up a story of my own, but I just haven't had any free time. Damn exams this week and all." I put the lighter down on top of the cigarette pack.

"Oh? I've never really been to college."

"School's OK. Jarod Kerrigan, huh? That sounds like a name Jarod would use on the show, you know that? It has a decidedly Olympic theme. Like if he decided to go to this bar and just watch the Olympics . . . "

And that, Gentle Reader, is when I really began to wonder. Like I said before, I write horror fiction, and so I'm not totally against entertaining impossible ideas, even if only for the sake of argument. Most of my stories come about when I ask, "What if . . . " So, really, what if Jarod was at a bar, watching the Olympics? It'd make a good story, if nothing else, right?

The guy's dark eyes narrowed, almost as if he knew exactly what I was thinking somehow. "A lot of people do mistake me for Jarod--Michael, I mean--and my first name just doesn't help."

"So, uh, Jarod . . . do you think that Jarod--the other one, I mean--would like the Olympics?"

Jarod glanced down at his hands. "I think he would. He hasn't ever seen them before, after all."

"Where the hell is that girl?" I muttered. Angie was nowhere in sight. No--wait--there she was, attempting to forge her way back through the jungle-like thickness of crowd. All she needed was a machete to complete the part--that, and maybe a pair of binoculars, so she could see us from all the way over there. "Angie's coming back with your drink."

Just then, the TV sound came on, and the Olympic theme song (whatever it's called--I forget) began to play. The wide screen gave the illusion that one was actually flying over the snowy tundra surrounding Moscow.

I noted that Jarod was observing the TV with that sort of awe you just shouldn't see on the face of anyone who's grown up in the latter half of the Twentieth century. Once again, the resemblance to the TV Jarod was uncanny. I mean, does anyone remember the look on his face when he got that fruitcake during the first season's Christmas episode? This look was kind of like that. Weird. I was beginning to wonder if it was perhaps the beer--I didn't drink that much of it, but still . . . Deja-vu, you know?

If any of our crowd was gonna show up, they would've by now. So I figured that it would be just me, Angie, and . . . Jarod?

The announcer on TV said something about the beauty and grace of figure skating--I didn't catch it all because Jarod interrupted with, "Where is that?" He sounded desperate somehow--he was so intent on finding out that he'd actually lost track of how he sounded.

"That's Moscow. Post-U.S.S.R., of course."

He glanced over at me as the TV camera panned over the stadium where the figure skating was to be held. "It's so beautiful. I've never seen so much snow."

"You're definitely not from around here, then. Why, we got 17.7 inches of the white stuff just last week--" I cut myself short, because I was beginning to sound like my grandmother, like when she sits on the porch and reminisces about the Great Blizzard of '23 or something.

Jarod's attention was focused back on the TV as the stadium (seemingly) drew closer to the viewer. "Oh, I've lived all over. I haven't had time to follow the Olympics, though. I've been very busy lately."

Man, the way he was fixating on that TV . . . I figured I might just be able to slip one past him and prove my little theory once and for all. It didn't make any sense, but there seemed to be no other explanation for how...well, how Jarod-esque he seemed--and I still believe it, even now, after all the shit that happened . . . well, happened. "So, Jarod. Who were you helping out this time?"

He didn't even seem to realize what he was saying as he answered, "There was this woman down in Tennessee. Her little boy was missing. I--" His eyes widened as he finally caught on to his own words. "That is--I mean--"

"C'mon, man. I'm in college. Despite that, I'm not totally stupid. You're it, aren't you? That silver case--your expressions--the way you've never even seen the goddamn Olympics before? You're the real thing. It's impossible . . . but you are."

"It is impossible," Jarod said, almost as if he believed it, too.

Right then, Angie showed up again. She unceremoniously deposited Jarod's beer, not even noticing that she spilled a little of it as she sat down.

"Uh, Ange, conference time here." I motioned for her to lean closer to me. We needn't have worried about Jarod overhearing us--he was so into the TV it wasn't even funny. "Let me remind you that I'm an honest, upstanding, sane person before I tell you this," I cautioned her; she nodded. "But this really is Jarod."

"What was that part about 'sane' again?" Angie asked, rolling her eyes heavenward--or TV-ward, whatever the case may be.

Jarod glanced in our direction, obviously wondering what all the whispering was about.

"Never mind," I told Angie. "We'll talk about it later. Trust me."

I wasn't sure if I could convince her. Or myself, for that matter. Despite what I write, I'm essentially a very rational person. I read somewhere that horror writers have a harder time believing in the impossible than most people--they write it, and they're naturally a little more skeptical than most people. That's certainly true of me.

I was having one hell of a time believing all this. As I took another good, long swig of beer, I wondered if this really was Jarod, somehow, or was this a crazy guy who only thought he was Jarod? But, even so, how could he look exactly like the real--well, sort of, anyway--Jarod? They could have been identical twins.

The only explanation for the impossible seemed to be the impossible, and that just wasn't right. I mean, I sure in hell wouldn't write it that way. Readers need logic--which is why I don't expect any of you reading this to believe me.

Anyway, Jarod's eyes kept shifting back and forth, between me and the TV. It was kind of like observing a kid who's been told by a parent, "Listen to me!" while his favorite cartoon was on. He reached over and touched the aluminum computer-case beside him, as if reassuring himself that it was still there. He obviously wanted to cut and run, but, for whatever the reason, just wouldn't. Maybe he thought that his back was safer against the wall that it was currently against or something. Or maybe it was just me.

I didn't flatter myself--he wasn't staying for me. Or for Angie. He was staying for the TV.

"Look, Jarod . . . " I began. Finally, his eyes settled once and for all on me. "I don't really know how the hell all this is happening, but I just want you to know, I'm not going to hurt you or anything."

I glanced over at Angie, who was watching me, her eyes betraying a certain amount of shock that I was addressing a total stranger like he was . . . was . . . well, you know. Jarod, or something.

Jarod, meanwhile, just stared at me until his nervousness became catching. I fidgeted in my wooden chair as I decided to fill in the uncomfortable silence with, "I'm not going to turn you in or try to sell you to . . . to . . . but this is real life. Is there anyone to sell you to?"

"Real life," he repeated. "Whose real life?"

Angie's mouth was open, but she was making no sounds within the humanly audible range.

"Uh, my real life," I answered Jarod. "And yours. You seem real enough."

"Then so are they."

"They?"

"The people from TV."

Jarod's voice was barely audible (especially over the announcer's on TV) and I had to lean in to hear him.

Angie finally found her voice again with, "The people from TV. You mean--but that's impossible."

"The people from the Centre. They're real, too. Sydney is, anyway." He had the look of a child talking about a nightmare--his eyes were wide and frightened, and he leaned back into the corner behind him, as if for protection. "And Sydney's coming here. Tonight."

TIME:
8:46 PM

"Sydney's coming here? Tonight?" Angie echoed.

"Let me get this goddamn well straight," I said; where Jarod's voice had been overly quiet, mine was overly loud. Hell, I could swear I saw him flinch. He might look all calm and cool on TV, but in reality, he's actually very much on edge. Loud noises and stuff like that startle him. "OK. The people from the Centre--that's Miss Parker and company, right?--those people are real? And one of them is coming here? Here, as in Joe's Sports View Cafe?"

Wordlessly, Jarod nodded.

"This is not good," Angie whispered to me. "Somebody's crazy around here, and I don't think it's us."

I waved a hand to silence her. "What the hell is Sydney coming here for?"

"Because I told him to."

"Because you told him--" Like he'd really be able to get away with coming here alone. While the prospect of someday meeting Andrea Parker was an interesting one, the idea of running into the actual Miss Parker was another matter entirely. And then there was Mr. Raines. Ye gods. "If you're real, and the situation is the same as it is on TV--them after you, and you having escaped--?" I looked at him, expecting an answer.

Again, he nodded assent.

I continued. "You called Sydney and--"

"Arranged a meeting," he said, eyeing me warily, obviously unsure how to handle my outraged tone. "I--I did tell him to come alone."

"Like he's really gonna do it! Are you--" I took a deep breath and lowered my voice. "Are you crazy?"

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"OK," I said. "You called in the dogs because you think you're crazy? Seriously?"

"It's on TV," Jarod said. "It's not real. Except . . . " He glanced down at the "weird laptop."

"Except you actually have the DSAs to prove it," I finished for him. "Show me one?" Here was the real Jarod (or so it seemed) and he was doubting his own reality. This was entirely too much. "Jarod, let me see a DSA. No--I don't mean watch it, not here. I just want to look at one, you know?"

Jarod hesitated, but then decided to go along with me. He opened the case, watching me the whole time. He handed over a small silver CD. In awe, I turned it over in my hands, watching the play of multicolored lounge lights flash over its surface. On the non-playing side, the CD was blank, save for the ominous words CENTRE USE ONLY etched in forbidding black letters.

I handed it over to Angie, careful not to smudge the "reading" side with my fingertips. A small smile played about my lips. Nothing was funny, exactly--I was just discovering that the fabric of reality as I knew it wasn't stitched together all that well, if you know what I mean. And it was one of those "either laugh or cry" (or maybe "scream" would be a better word) moments.

Angie examined the CD-ROM and then handed it back to me. I passed it on to Jarod, as though we were all performing a weird technological communion. The rite over with, he returned the DSA to its proper place in the case.

Angie asked the relevant question: "So when is Sydney getting here?"

"What time is it now?" Jarod glanced down at his watch (one of those fancy ones with dials that tell you everything from the barometric pressure to the current time in Tanzania, for all I know). He frowned and looked back up at the TV. "I was hoping to watch more of the Olympics, before--"

"That's what I was afraid you'd say," I muttered. I picked up my beer again--damn, empty. And I didn't want to just up and leave this little scene for the paltry purpose of acquiring another brew. I grabbed my lighter and started turning it around in my fingers.

"What're we gonna do?" Angie asked me. "I mean, shit! We wouldn't stand a chance against the Centre--"

"--but we can't let them just steal Boy Genius here, either!" I finished.

But Angie and I seemed to be doing all the obligated worrying in this situation--Jarod's concentration was back on the TV, where Tara Lipinsky was skating around the ice amidst flashing overhead spotlights and loud classical music.

"What is he--oblivious?" Angie snarled.

I merely looked at her. Around and around went the lighter until--dammit. I dropped it.

"He's oblivious." Angie answered her own question.

I bent down, practically crawling under the table as I searched for my lighter. It's a black Zippo, my name engraved on it and everything--I wasn't about to lose it.

"Try 'easily distractible,' a new voice interjected.

A new female voice. A new harsh female voice.

I froze, leaning down, my hand on the floor under the table. I raised my head a little, so that I was looking out from under the table. I could see feet--or shoes, to be exact. Black stiletto heels.
"Oh . . . shit . . . " I breathed. Behind me, I heard Angie's quick indrawn breath.

My eyes panned upwards like a slow-motion camera, over tanned legs . . . long gorgeous legs . . . Miss Parker's legs.

I lunged back in my seat, nearly hitting my head on the bottom of the table in the process.

Behind her was Sam the Sweeper. And behind him was Sydney. They were all arrayed out around the table, which was backed into a corner on one side, anyway. None of us was going anywhere.

"I believe you lost this." Miss Parker said. She bent down and reached under the neighboring booth, silver leather trench-coat swirling around her legs. Next thing you know, Miss Parker was handing me my own Zippo. The woman had this smug little half-smile on her face and a certain glint in her eyes--oh, she knew the effect she was having on us, all right. And she was just soaking it up.

"Uh, thanks," I breathed. "I think."

"And I believe we lost this," Miss Parker continued, indicating Jarod.

Jarod wasn't taking all this too well--I could tell by how pale he'd gotten since the last time I'd checked. Like, yeah, he'd called Sydney here, but now that they were all here, he regretted the hell out of the decision. Surely he knew now that he really wasn't crazy--after all, here they all were, the various personalities from his paranoid delusion. Oh, yeah, he wanted to cut and run now--I could read the barely-controlled tension all through his body--but it was too late for that now.

"This does not look good," Angie managed, just before I elbowed her in the side.

Miss Parker suddenly lunged forward, towards Jarod, who drew back--he seemed to want to disappear back into the corner behind him, as if it could protect him. But she was only going for his beer. Jarod wasn't the only one surprised by her sudden move, I saw--Sam actually had a hand under his suit-coat, presumably reaching for his Centre-issue Special.

Miss Parker took a swig of beer. "What, Jarod?" she said. "You didn't drink much. You should've, considering you're not gonna get another one for a very, very long time--"

Right then, a drunken college kid lurched in the wrong direction. I knew him vaguely--Rob Something-or-Other. The poor unfortunate soul collided with Miss Parker's arm. The beer sloshed onto the front of her expensive dark purple blazer even as she turned on him. "You stupid asshole!"

"I--I--" Rob stammered.

"Get out of here, you moron!"

Rob made a run for it, glancing back at me, obviously wondering what I was doing with such a bitch. I shrugged, indicating that I didn't really know her. I watched him go, jealous that he was able to encounter Miss Parker and leave. I had my doubts as to whether or not Angie and I would be so fortunate.

Miss Parker, meanwhile, continued where she'd left off. She smiled sweetly as she slammed the bottle back down on the table in front of Jarod; everyone present jumped a little at the sound. "And it's too bad about your friends here--"

'Friends here.' Meaning Angie and me. It was that 'too bad' part that worried me, though. "Uh, 'too bad,' what?" I asked. And then I offered what had to be the only thing currently in our favor: "Remember, Miss Parker, there's all kinds of witnesses here."

Miss Parker didn't even look my way as she snapped, "Keep your mouth shut, kid." She walked the few steps over to the chair next to Jarod. She picked up the aluminum computer-case and set it on the table and sat down next to him. "Now, Wonder-Boy, are you going to be a good little rat and come running home to the lab?" She reached out to take him by the arm; he raised his own hand, ready to strike hers out of the way. She gauged Jarod's reaction, and then added, "Or do we have to take hostages?"

"Hostages?" Angie squeaked. She really did--squeak it, I mean. Never heard anything like it before, and never have since.

Miss Parker nodded to Sam, who stepped forward--and this is when I realized that I was the most likely "hostage," given that I was sitting in the spot closest to Sam. "No, uh-uh, I don't think so," I demurred, even as Sam moved aside his sport-coat just enough so that I could see the butt of his gun.

"Witnesses, hell," Parker snarled, pulling a small gun from a holster behind her back. She jammed it into Jarod's ribs. At least I think that's what she did--all this was below the table, mind you. "I could shoot you dead right now and no one would even hear it over the damn TV. We'd be in and out of here, a clean sweep."

Jarod stayed very, very still, his eyes fixed on hers. I tell you, he looked miserable.

"Parker--" Sydney broke in. He didn't seem to like the fact that Miss Parker was holding Jarod at gunpoint. I don't think he trusted her.

"Shut up, Syd," Miss Parker snapped.

I wasn't looking all to happy myself, with Godfather II hovering over me like he was--and here I'd never had any particular urge to get close to Sam. "Let's talk about this 'hostage' thing," I began, opening the floor to debate. "We're all reasonable adults--" One glare from Sam won the debate before it even had a chance to begin. I shut up. So much for the Reasonable Adult Theory.

Miss Parker continued. "In fact, Jarod, if it was up to me, I would end this here and now." Her smile widened, which definitely did not bode well for the rest of us. Hers was a decidedly predatory grin.

"But it's not up to you, Miss Parker," Sydney said, stepping forward.

"Thank God," I muttered.

Miss Parker retorted, "Well, it sure in hell isn't up to you!"

"There's no need to hold me at gunpoint," Jarod interjected, speaking for the first time since Miss Parker and Company had arrived.

Miss Parker focused her attention on him again. "Do you think I'm stupid, you little shit?" She dug the barrel of the gun into Jarod's ribs; he winced, but made no protest. "'No need to hold me at gunpoint,'" she mimicked, sarcastically. "How many times have I been this close to catching you once and for all, and then you--"

"This isn't necessary," Jarod said, his voice low and calm, totally contradicting the expression in his eyes, which betrayed just about everything but calmness. Miss Parker was crazy-angry with him about something, and we all knew what that meant. You've watched the show, too, right? You understand. You know just how impulsive she can be when she attains high levels of that particular emotion. But Jarod wasn't done yet. "Put the gun away."

"Don't you even tell me what to do, Jarod!" Miss Parker yelled, her gray-blue eyes glinting dangerously.

"Parker," Sydney cautioned. "This is a public place, for God's sake."

"Yeah," I agreed. Everyone turned around and stared at me, as though they'd forgotten I was there until I'd spoken. Geez, some hostage I was, right? I mean, nobody remembers I'm there, until it's time to kill me or something. "I know I'm the hostage, and you don't have to listen to me, but--"

"You're right." Miss Parker considered, the somehow psychotic grin never wavering. "You are the hostage. And I don't have to listen to you. But I'm sure Lab Rat here wouldn't want to see anything happen to you." She looked at Jarod, pointedly, as she added, "Innocent blood on your hands, and all that." She smiled even as she returned her gun to its holster.

Everybody relaxed. A little. Jarod actually breathed a small sigh of relief--I think he really believed she might do it. Shoot him, I mean. I myself didn't relax all that much, considering that the "innocent blood" in question was my innocent blood.

Miss Parker reached under the back of her blazer again. We all tensed, thinking she was going for her gun. No--just a pair of handcuffs. The woman was packing more equipment than a cop.

"Turn around," she ordered Jarod. "Face the wall."

But the last thing he wanted was his back to that woman. "I don't want to."

"Does it look like I care?" she snapped. "Now do it!"

Reluctantly, he faced the wall.

"Hands," she commanded. "Where I can reach them."

Jarod accommodated her, putting his hands behind his back. She pushed up the sleeves of his leather jacket; Jarod actually flinched at her touch. That gave Miss Parker pause for a second, for whatever the reason, but she went through with it anyway. The handcuffs closed around Jarod's bare wrists with a metallic snap that seemed to be the very sound of finality itself.

"Now," Miss Parker said, triumph in her voice. "We're going home, Jarod."

"The Centre is not my home," Jarod said, watching her over his shoulder.

"Shut up, Jarod," Miss Parker told him, giving a little tug on the handcuff-chain, just because she could, just to show him who was in charge. "Sam, get the DSAs." Sam grabbed the aluminum computer-case off the table as Miss Parker eyed Angie and I. The smile finally disappeared from her lips as she deliberated what to do with us. "And it looks like you two ladies are coming along for the ride."

LOCATION:

PARKING LOT

JOE'S SPORTS VIEW CAFE

CINCINNATI, OH

DATE:

1/12/00

TIME:

8:53 PM

You're a fan of "The Pretender," too, right? Yeah, I know. I like the show too. It's great, you know? A wonderful show. But, as Miss Parker escorted all of us out to the unmarked Centre van, I wished it would stay that way--just a TV show. I mean, here I was, getting into a van, one that was owned by the Centre and populated entirely by Centre personnel and/or former residents, along with my hapless friend Angie.

The really scary thing was that no one had even noticed any of this--Miss Parker and her gun, the fact that she was escorting this guy out in handcuffs, the way that Sam the Sweeper had been looming over me the whole way out of the bar, in case anybody made a wrong move. Nobody'd even glanced up and seen the tenseness or the forced order to the positions in our little crowd. I was beginning to understand how robberies could be carried off without a single witness seeing a thing beforehand.

And nobody noticed it--well, except for those of us who were immediate participants in the event--when she pulled out her gun again after we left the building. There was nobody to notice anything--the entire parking lot of Joe's Sports View Cafe was empty, at least of people. It was, however, filled with cars and trucks--and I was wishing to be getting into any one of them besides the one I was actually getting into.

"You can't just take us like this," I protested. "This is America, for God's sake!"

"America?" Jarod actually laughed aloud at my admittedly feeble protest. He stopped walking and turned back to face me. "The Centre runs America." I heard a certain amount of hysteria in his voice. "Remember, I'm a citizen, too--well, I was."

"Move it, Uncle Sam." Miss Parker grabbed hold of his arm and forced him forward the few steps to the van, even as she said to me, "Sorry, girlfriend--the wrong place, the wrong time, and all that."

Another Sweeper, Willie, materialized from inside the van, appearing from behind the double doors in the back of the van, holding the doors open.

Miss Parker had her gun on Jarod the whole time. I, for my part, was being a nice, quiet little hostage, mostly due to the fact that Sam was practically breathing down the back of my neck.

"You're not seriously going to bring them in," Sydney said, indicating Angie and I. "They're just--"

"Potential witnesses, Syd." Miss Parker interrupted, turning Jarod around to face the van. "Who knows how much classified information your little science fair project has already enlightened them with? Blame Jarod, not me." She jammed the gun into the small of Jarod's back. "Get in."

"Shoot me," Jarod said, his voice low. "Because I'm not going back there." I couldn't see his face--he was facing the van, not me--but I could read in the firm set of his shoulders that he was determined. He really meant it.

"Don't test me, Jarod," Miss Parker warned. "Now. Get. In. The. Van." She cocked the gun.

Jarod whirled around, ducking low to the ground, even as he lunged at Miss Parker, knocking her off-balance as he collided with her.

"Jarod!" Sydney shouted, even as Jarod forced Miss Parker back, leaning into her with one strong shoulder, shoving the barrel of the gun back in her direction. "Parker, don't shoot!" Sydney ran forward, intent on intervening in what could easily become a worse situation than it already was

Miss Parker managed to keep her balance a little--she was only knocked to her knees by a move that was probably meant to send her careening backwards onto her mini-skirted ass. And then Jarod was on past her, heading for the back of the lot, and never mind the handcuffs. Sydney was running after him.

And I remembered my hostage status--even as Sam reached around me from behind. He wrapped one beefy arm around my throat; the other hand held the gun. And within a half-second of Sydney's shout, I could feel the cold barrel of that gun pressing into my temple.

"Let go of her!" Angie cried, seeing my plight. Willie reached out, grabbed her, and started forcing her in the van.

My hands automatically went for the arm that Sam had around my neck, but it was like trying to remove myself from the implacable grip of a statue. I wanted to cheer Jarod on, but . . . you understand. This whole hostage thing was making me selfish.

"Doctor, get out of the way!" Sam yelled at Sydney. "Jarod!"

And I'm damned if I know how all of Joe's patrons managed to miss this whole production in the parking lot. Just when we could've used some actual witnesses to dial 911. It figures. I've never had good luck, though, and I had a feeling that Jarod's luck wasn't the greatest, either. Luck, hell--the whole parking lot was one big sheet of ice, and it was slowing Jarod up considerably. You can't run where you can't even walk, after all.

With Angie out of the way, Willie took off after Jarod, his own gun drawn.

"Jarod, you stupid shit!" Miss Parker got to her feet, immediately training her gun on Jarod. "Stop or Sam shoots the kid!" That's her--she's not even the one with the gun to my head, and here she is, telling Jarod I'm gonna buy it if he doesn't do what she says.

Even as Jarod stopped running, Willie tackled him from behind. Jarod hit the ice hard--he couldn't reach out to break his fall, what with the handcuffs. That, and Willie landed on top of him. It was like watching touch football gone awry. Willie got off of Jarod just far enough so that he could whack Jarod a good one on the back of his head with the butt of the gun. I saw Jarod go completely still as Willie turned him over on his back.

And then I didn't see anything else because Sam turned me around and practically tossed me in the back of the van with Angie, who was crouched by the back seat. Just before the door closed, I saw why she hadn't tried to exit through the front doors--there was another Sweeper seated in the driver's seat. I landed on my knees and scrambled over to Angie; we grabbed onto each other like a couple of frightened kids at a horror movie.

The Sweeper up front watched us in the rear-view mirror, impassively.

"You OK?" Angie asked me, and then the whole thing just kind of hit me and I started shivering uncontrollably. Angie held me tighter, offering what little comfort she could. I just kept feeling the gun to my head and all the terror that came with it--

"I thought he was going to--" I began, and then the back door opened, letting in a wash of cold air that felt suprisingly good against my hot face.

"Get him inside," Miss Parker barked, even as Willie and Sam brought Jarod into the van. They stepped up and in on either side of him, their hands under his arms, half-escorting and half-carrying him--he was semi-conscious from the blow to the head Willie had given him. In the glare from the overhead light, I could see blood darkening his hair in the back.

Angie and me only held each other tighter as Willie and Sam threw Jarod to the floor of the van beside us.

Sydney climbed in after Willie and Sam; Miss Parker followed, pulling the doors closed after her. "Drive! Drive!" she yelled to the Sweeper up front.

The van lurched into motion.

There were two benchlike seats in the back of the van, facing each other; there were also two rows of seats facing the front. Angie and I were huddled beneath the back of the last seat facing the front. Miss Parker sat down on the bench closest to us as she returned her gun to its holster again. Willie and Sam went up front, to the seats just behind the driver.

Jarod was dead to the world--he'd landed on his left shoulder, with his back facing us, and hadn't moved since.

Sydney knelt down beside Jarod, just in front of us. "Jarod?" He put a hand on Jarod's shoulder and turned him over. Jarod was so close to me now that his head and shoulder were actually touching my jeans-clad leg.

"Sydney!" Miss Parker snapped. "Sit down!"

"I need to see how badly he's hurt--" I could see actual concern for Jarod in the older man's eyes--and of all the people here tonight, Sydney's eyes had been the only ones to reflect that emotion at all.

"He's a big boy, Syd." Miss Parker reached into a blazer pocket. I wondered what she'd pull out this time--a stun-gun? Mace? No--just her silver cigarette case. "He'll live. Now sit down!"

Reluctantly, Sydney got to his feet--right when the van made a particularly sharp turn. Sydney almost fell, and he would've landed right on top of us, too. But he reached out and caught his balance on the seat-back that rose above Angie and I.

Miss Parker shook her head in annoyance as she watched this whole display.

What she didn't see was Sydney's look--he glanced from us to Jarod, and back again, pointedly. The look clearly said 'Help him.' Then the psychologist turned around and sat down on the bench across from Miss Parker.

Parker, meanwhile, had been scrounging around in her pockets, looking for something, holding a cigarette in her other hand. It was pretty obvious what she was looking for and not finding. My suspicions were confirmed when she looked down at me, smiled, and said, "I know you have a lighter."

I reached into the breast pocket of my vest, moving slowly just in case anybody got the wrong idea. Miss Parker leaned down as I reached out to hand her my black Zippo. She lit her coffin-nail and handed it back.

Miss Parker's first smoke-filled exhalation was a sigh of relief. I wondered if she would be nicer now, then concluded that even Marlboros couldn't perform miracles.

"We're going to the Greater Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky Airport, aren't we?" I whispered to Angie. She nodded, as I added, "They probably came here that way--private corporate jet." I shook my head. "We are so doomed."

"Do you think they'll kill us?" Angie asked me.

I shrugged. I knew that, the closer we got to the Centre, the smaller our odds of actually surviving this ordeal became. Once inside the Centre--my God, if they could keep Jarod there forever, what chance did we have of ever making it out? And that's if they didn't just pull a Mafia and shoot us on the spot.

The van was going pretty fast--I surmised that we were already on I-75, heading into Kentucky. With no windows in the back, it was hard to tell. But once we did hit the E-way (if we hadn't already), I knew it would be about forty minutes to the airport. I doubted the driver would speed, either--there was always the risk of being pulled over by one of Cincinnati's Finest--or Kentucky's, depending on which side of the Ohio river we were on. And you try explaining a van full of nondescript "government" guys, a stressed-out woman with a concealed weapon, an unconscious handcuffed man, and two kidnapped college girls. Somehow, I didn't think they'd take the chance.

Up front, the driver turned on the radio. The distressingly normal voice of Jay Gilbert, a DJ at WEBN, filled the van. It was decidedly out of place, here, where I was being abducted with my best friend and the title character of our favorite TV show.

"Turn that shit down," Miss Parker snarled. Immediately, the volume was cut.

Beside me, Jarod moaned in his unnatural sleep. I wondered if he was having some kind of nightmare, or if the metal floor of the van was just hurting his already-wounded head. Sydney and Miss Parker were both watching as I took off my vest and rolled it up. I slid the makeshift pillow under Jarod's head.

"Parker," Sydney began. "Can I--"

"No." She took another drag off of her cigarette. "You're not going near him, Sydney. Not after the way you were acting tonight." She shook her head. "Jarod calls and asks you to meet him--"

"I could have brought Jarod in, without him being hurt, and without these poor girls--"

"'Girls?'" I said. "I'm 25, for God's sake." They both turned and looked at me, as though they'd forgotten I was there again. "I know I don't look it, but--"

"You're the hostage in this little performance, remember?" Miss Parker informed me. "And it's not a speaking role. So shut up." She turned on Sydney again, this time accusing him in a lower voice. "If the Tech Lab hadn't intercepted that phone call--and you'd even gone ahead and booked the jet without telling me!" She pointed her cigarette at him accusingly. "You're only here because I couldn't trust you enough to leave you behind! And don't you forget it."

I was beginning to understand just why Miss Parker was so angry tonight. She hated nothing more than people going behind her back.

"At least take off the handcuffs," Sydney pleaded. "My God, Parker, he's not going anywhere. There are three armed men in this van, not counting you or I. And he's probably got a concussion. I'd be able to tell for sure if you'd let me examine him."

"You're not going near him!" she repeated. "Someone at the Centre's been helping him, and I'm beginning to really believe it's been you all along." When she paused, her full lips were pressed together in a thin line of anger. "Your baby boy will just have to tough it out until we get him back in his playpen."

"Of course someone's going to get hurt," Sydney said, "when you go in with three Sweepers and make a big production out of it--and how do you think the Tower will respond when you show up with your two 'potential witnesses'?"

"'Potential witness,'" I muttered. "Sounds a lot better than 'hostage.'"

"How do you think the Tower will respond when I tell them about that phone call?" Miss Parker retorted. "You'll be lucky if they just hold a T-Board in your honor."

Sydney frowned at the thought, prudently abandoning all arguments save one. "The handcuffs?"

Miss Parker knew Sydney was right about that much, at least--Jarod wasn't going anywhere. "Oh, all right," she snapped. "I'll save Houdini the trouble." She smashed the remainder of her cigarette into the ashtray in the arm of the bench, and then got up and walked across the van to where we were, carefully keeping her balance in the moving vehicle.

She knelt down beside Jarod, her trench-coat flowing out behind her like a long silver cape. She was so close to me that I could smell her perfume. It wasn't Chanel No. 5, either, as the TV show had once asserted. I could've easily reached out and touched her, but I didn't dare--between the glare of warning she gave me and the fact that there were three operatives up front, I was intimidated.

Miss Parker pulled a small key out of the inside pocket of her blazer and pushed Jarod over onto his side again so she could get at the handcuffs behind his back. With a small click, the handcuffs were off. She sat back on her heels and looked at me . . . looked down at the handcuffs in her hands . . . and then looked back at me again.

Miss Parker smiled.

"Oh, no," I said, shaking my head. "Uh-uh. Whatever it is you're thinking--no."

"Yeah, really," asserted Angie. "We won't pull any tricks--we promise."

"Oh," Miss Parker said through her smile. "It's not your tricks I'm worried about."

We all looked down at the still-unconscious Jarod.

"What are you thinking, Parker?" Sydney asked, his tone ominous. "What are you going to do?"

But she ignored him, still focusing on me. "Do you ever watch the show?"

"Huh?" I said, intelligently--I hadn't expected her to say that, of all things--and then, "Yeah..."

"Then you'll understand why I have to do this!" Before I could even move, I saw the flash of metal--and one handcuff-bracelet closed around my left wrist. The other one went back around Jarod's right wrist. Miss Parker sat back on her heels again, smiling triumphantly.

"What the hell--" I looked down at Jarod and the new metal connection between us. "Actually, no, I don't understand why you had to do that."

"Now let's see him try to escape," she told her captive audience. "I think it would be much more fun if Jarod had the hostage, don't you?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" I asked Miss Parker.

"Oh, you're quite the smart-ass, aren't you? You remind me a little of myself when I was your age." She shook her head, the smile finally disappearing. "Bad attitude, cigarettes, and all. I suggest you lose that attitude around me."

Sydney apparently couldn't resist adding something to this conversation. "And exactly how quietly would you take to being a hostage, Miss Parker?"

She glared at me, knowing he was right, as she rolled Jarod over onto his back again. He was still out cold. "It's time for Show and Tell, Jarod. And since you can't 'tell,' you're damn well gonna 'show.'" She leaned down and began to go through his pockets, methodically. She produced a little red notebook from the inside pocket of his leather jacket; digging in further, she found three Christmas-theme Pez dispensers. "It's like mugging a child," she muttered, as a Santa dispenser looked up at her accusingly. She tossed everything she'd located on the bench behind her.

In short order, a plastic neon-yellow "Virtual Pet" key-ring, a wallet, a half-pound bag of special Olympic M & M's, and six unopened Pez lemon refill packages joined the other items.

After she was done rifling through his pockets, she expertly patted him down, just in case he had anything hidden anywhere else. "Not a single weapon on him," she concluded, coming up empty-handed. "Unless he's trying to kill somebody with calories." She snorted in disgust as she got to her feet. "Wouldn't surprise me. He's managed to synthesize just about everything else into a weapon." She sat down next to her small pile of trophies and started to sort through the more relevant ones.

Sydney looked on, his face anxious.

Miss Parker opened the red notebook first and paged through it. "No newspaper clippings, no bizarre chemical equations?" She was honestly puzzled. "What the hell is this?" She held out the small book so that Sydney could see it.

"It's a journal," Sydney said, his eyes narrowing. "Jarod's diary. As far as I know, he's never kept one before."

"Perfect," she said, snatching the book back out of Sydney's reach. "Just perfect. Probably all about his traumas at the hands of the Centre." Her tone was sarcastic. "It's a good thing this didn't fall into the wrong hands."

"It probably just did," I murmured, watching Miss Parker open the notebook again. Fortunately, she didn't hear me. Sydney heard me, though--he glanced over at me and the look in his eyes didn't contradict me at all.

Miss Parker set the notebook aside and reached for the wallet. She opened it and pulled out a wad of cash. She flipped through the little plastic card-holders, only to produce a credit card; I could clearly see the light reflect off of a 3D hologram of a globe that had the words THE CENTRE superimposed on it. Below that was a VISA logo. She gave a short bark of laughter as she returned it to its slot, but otherwise offered no comment.

At the back of the wallet, she found a small card with a few sequences of numbers on it. "This one's my calling card number!" she cried, as she yanked the card out. "And this one's my ATM account! And this one's my Social Security number! And . . . and I don't even know what this last one is!" She glared down at Jarod. "Goddammit!"

But Jarod was still unconscious. Angie and I watched her, wide-eyed, leaning towards each other like frightened kids at a horror movie again. (And what was the fictional terror of any horror movie when compared to that inspired by the real-life Miss Parker?) Sydney just watched her, his expression neutral, obviously used to such explosions of rage.

Miss Parker tried to regain some of her composure as she said to Sydney, "Well, at least this explains those ATM withdrawals I haven't been making." She put the small white card in her inside blazer pocket. Along with the cash (hell, I figured maybe it was enough to cover her calling-card bill or something). "Not to mention all those calling card calls that I never made." She smiled ruefully. "Hell, Syd, that call he made to you tonight--it's probably charged to me, too."

"We didn't talk long."

"I know that, Syd." She brushed a strand of hair back from her face. "I listened to it. Very interesting conversation. Especially that part where you promised to come alone."

"I was just trying to allay his fears. There's no way Jarod--or anyone else, for that matter--would show up, knowing he would be surrounded by Sweepers." Sydney spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"Oh, yeah," Miss Parker snapped. "And I'm sure you were going to tell me all about it, right after you'd finished secretly booking the Centre jet."

"Actually, I--"

A muffled but decidedly frantic beeping sound interrupted Sydney's effort to justify himself. He fell silent as everyone looked around, trying to locate the source of the shrill sound.

I knew what the noise was; beside me, Angie stifled a snicker--she did, too. My God, was this situation surreal or what? We were being kidnapped and I was a hostage and it really wasn't funny . . . but it was funny. Know what I mean?

Miss Parker actually reached for her pager before her serious expression degenerated into a smirk. Her hand stopped halfway to her blazer and changed course. She felt behind her and produced Jarod's "Virtual Pet" key-chain. Now, out in the open, the virtual creature's beeping only seemed louder. "I'd forgotten about this damn thing." She shook her head in disgust, and muttered, "Mugging a child? Try 'pre-schooler.'" She grimaced as the beeping continued. "What the hell is this thing, anyway?"

"It's a Gigapet," Sydney said.

Miss Parker glared at him. "And how the hell do you know that?"

I felt Jarod move--there was this faint pressure on the handcuff-chain that hadn't been there before. I glanced down at him--his brow was furrowed in concentration--it was like he was trying to make himself regain consciousness. "You would wake up because your damn Gigapet needs something," I muttered.

I looked up again in time to see Sydney shrug as he answered with, "Broots's daughter has one."

Miss Parker held the small key-chain closer, squinting at the tiny computer-screen. "What a waste of modern technology. And how in God's name to you turn it off?"

"That, I don't know for sure." Sydney was smiling that one little smile he does on the show, when something amuses him. And God help him if Miss Parker noticed.

Miss Parker glared down at the tiny virtual life she held in her hand. "What is this thing, anyway? A chicken? A duck?" She smacked it with her other hand. "Dammit, shut it off!" she yelled over the shrill beeping as she tossed it to Sydney.

Sydney caught it in one hand and pressed one of the buttons, still smiling a little. "It wants attention. And I think it's a penguin." The beeping stopped.

"A penguin? Jarod has a pet penguin? Which exit ramp was marked 'The Twilight Zone,' anyway? Because we are definitely hell and gone from reality." She leaned back against the side of the van and shook her head tiredly. "I'll give that thing 'attention,' she muttered. "I'll shoot it like a clay pigeon."

Beside me, Jarod gave a really good tug on the handcuff connecting us--his natural reaction upon regaining consciousness was to reach for the wound at the back of his head. But he'd barely begun the move before he detected the handcuff; as I watched, he returned his right hand to his side and used his left hand to inspect the head-injury. He frowned at the sight of blood on his fingertips, and then glanced up at me.

I shrugged, trying to indicate that I had nothing to do with any of it--the wound, the handcuffs, the National Debt, I don't know.

I looked away from him and surveyed the other passengers in the back of the van. Miss Parker's eyes were still closed--God, she looked tired--and Sydney was still watching Jarod's penguin cavorting around on-screen, or whatever it was doing. Angie was watching Jarod over my shoulder.

Jarod's dark eyes narrowed even as they took in his current surroundings. "Where the hell--" he whispered. His eyes were kind of glazed--he was awake, yeah, but barely, and he seemed pretty disoriented. I don't think he expected to wake up here, of all places.

And I, for one, didn't want to be the one to tell him the bad news.

But he figured it out for himself as he raised his head a little and saw Sydney and Miss Parker. The dazed look in his eyes disappeared as the reality of the situation hit him. He grimaced and let his head fall back onto the leather vest-pillow I'd made for him earlier.

I felt someone watching us. I glanced up, right into Sydney's eyes. Jarod hadn't made a sound that anybody'd been able to hear, besides Angie and I, but Sydney had known he was awake, anyway. Sydney didn't alert Miss Parker, either. I (somewhat sarcastically) concluded that the older man just wanted Jarod's headache to go away, before Miss Parker laid into him and made it worse.

I looked back down at Jarod just in time to catch the glare he was giving Sydney. "You said--" Jarod's voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but Miss Parker's eyes flew open at the sound of it.

"Well, well, if it isn't Penguin Boy," she smiled, her tone deceptively sweet. "How's the head?"

Jarod touched the back of his head with his left hand again, and winced. "I'll live," he said, his voice still low. "Better luck next time."

Her tone sharpened a little. "If I'd been the one to do it, you'd be dead right now." She leaned forward again, her hands clenching into fists in her lap.

"Where--" Jarod cleared his throat and tried again, his voice stronger now. "Where are we?"

"You're the genius," Miss Parker smirked. "You figure it out."

"Parker," Sydney said, shaking his head in annoyance. "We're on our way back to Blue Cove, Jarod. Back to the Centre."