The Rules Have Changed
part 1
Tahlia

Her legs ached as she pushed tired feet against the cold pavement. Her boots
were hardly ideal for running in the first place, much less with the variable of
the last night's rain. The residual moisture left the ground slick, and as she
skidded around the corner, she momentarily felt her feet lose themselves around
her. Her left hand (her gun lay nestled in her right) braced her against the
cold, wet brick of the alleyway, and she resumed the chase.

Behind her, a puddle splashed: Lyle. Again they were playing nice, pretending
to be the cordial brother and sister they were not. They didn't share leads
anymore, and Parker most certainly did not report to him like she once had. The
only reason he and his sweeper team were in close pursuit behind her was that
Broots had made the mistake of speaking a little too loud that morning in the
Centre lobby. Now they both new of Jarod's latest occupation: homicide detective
in New York City.

She managed to catch a glimpse of retreating black hair, and for a moment,
her mind wandered to the question of why. Why, of all places, had Jarod chosen
New York City? Sure, in the wake of all that had happened, it was a magnet for a
good Samaritan like Jarod, but with those tragedies also came a higher level of
scrutiny. Or so she assumed.

At the end of the alley, she noticed that Jarod could go either right or
left. He hesitated, she saw, and she wondered if both were dead-ends. She could
only hope she picked the right one, and found him standing innocently at the end
with his hands in surrender. That would be the day.

She had her personal safety to worry about, after all.

"Parker!"

Her head whirled at the sound of her brother's voice, her body still running,
but one of the occupants of the surrounding buildings took that moment to turn
on the dryer. In the cold dryness of winter, the steam vented into the alley,
filling the air with the smell of detergent and semi-thick cloud of white.
Lyle's form was lost in the sea of steam.

In the next instant, she looked back at Jarod, but found his body gone. Shit.
The last thing she needed was Jarod disappearing right in front of her eyes,
right in front of Lyle. She knew he'd jump at the chance, now more than ever, to
crucify her.

She slowed to a jump, looking side to side. It was her own worst nightmare.
Both alleys led onto busy Manhattan streets. Jarod had escaped again. Her eyes
lingered on the black catwalk, squinting and praying for a crouching figure on
them. No such luck.

A gunshot shattered the brick on the wall facing her.

Parker's first reaction was to duck, thinking the shot had come from above.
Why would Jarod shoot at her? Only as she moved did she feel the searing pain
shooting up her right arm. It was so intense that her fingers loosened their
grip on the 9 mm in her hand, and the gun fell to the ground, lying useless on
the pavement.

Her back pressed against the wall, she watched Lyle emerge from the cloud of
steam, gun in hand. His smile of satisfaction sickened her. She was gripping her
arm now, feeling the warm blood leaking through her hands. Her breath was ragged
as it puffed out in front of her.

"What?" he asked innocently, standing five feet away. He leveled the gun at
her, aiming straight between her eyes. "You're not going to plead for your
life?"

"Go to Hell, Lyle," she spat.

Instead, he chuckled, his composure calm. It was disgusting. "I really am
going to miss your wry wit, Miss Parker."

He frowned mockingly. "It's a shame you're going to die alone in some
alleyway in New York City. You deserve so much better." Adding, "but then,
that's the price you pay for not asking 'how high,' when the Centre said
'jump.'"

She knew she should have expected that Lyle would settle this contest between
them with a gun in a back alley. He moved, Parker flinched inwardly, but instead
of pressing the trigger, he continued his small speech. She wondered if this was
the worst part for all the women Lyle had crossed over the years: the waiting
before the end.

"You had your chance, of course, in fact you probably had one too many
chances for your own good. Always went crying to Daddy when you were stuck in a
jam. Except there's no one who cares anymore, Sis." He pursed his lips. "Poor
little Miss Parker."

Parker glanced up at the catwalk. Did she hear movement, or was that just her
imagination?

Lyle caught her. "He doesn't care, either." That brought her back. "Don't
look so shock, Sis. He's so close to his family you're slowly becoming useless
to him. Which," Lyle added with a smirk, "means you're becoming useless to us,
too."

Us. He included the Centre administration in his declaration before murder.
Which didn't make it murder. It made it-

"You got it," he replied. Realization must have dawned on her face.

His finger cocked the trigger on the 9 mm in his hand. Despite the icy facade
she had spent years perfecting, she couldn't help the breath she involuntarily
took in. She didn't want to die now, here, alone.

His question punctuated the city silence of the alleyway. "Any last words?"

Years seemed to pass between them. She couldn't find anything to say; hell,
she wasn't sure if she wanted to dignify his request. She simply stared, letting
time slow and lethargically pass them by. Each assumed the other would say
something, do something, to provoke the moment. Despite the turmoil of the
moment, both were surprisingly calm, as one faced murder at the hands of her own
blood. Well, maybe her own blood. For that Parker wasn't completely sure of, not
anymore.

"Guess not," he supplied for her.

Parker shifted a bit, and intense pain again shot up her arm. There was
simply too much pain for the bullet to have simply grazed the flesh, and she
feared that there was a discarded scrap of metal now embedded in her upper left
arm. But then, she thought objectively, that was the least of her worries at the
moment.

Lyle straightened his aim, correcting the angle slightly to compensate for
her slight lean now that her pain had returned. He gazed into her eyes, and
Parker wasn't surprised to find not an ounce of compassion in his icy stare.

He opened his mouth to speak, possibly wishing her farewell and promising to
meet her in the afterlife, when the gunshot cut him short. Instinctively,
Parker's eyes flew shut and she ducked, and thought she felt the scrap of metal
enter between her eyes. She froze, waiting to feel her lifeless body slide down
the cold brick wall. She suddenly wondered if the bullet entering her frontal
lobe would cause instant death.

It was so cliche: it took a moment for her mind to register the fact that no
pain had been inflicted. Cautious to open her eyes, Parker wondered if this was
what death felt like, to sudden go from instant peril to an atmosphere of zero
pain. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid she would have some godforsaken
out-of-body experience. Dead or not, the last thing she needed was the image of
her bleeding corpse sliding lifelessly down a wall.

She moved an inch and for a third time was greeted by intense pain in her
arm. Either she'd entered Hell, where pain was like oxygen, or she wasn't dead.
Her mind voted for the latter, and made a mental note to go ease on the injured
limb.

"Parker!" A second voice, a familiar voice.

Her eyes slid open and she heard the metal rungs of the catwalk scrap against
the wall as Jarod bounded down them. A .38 hung loosely from a free hand. Lyle
was lying lifeless on the cold asphalt, his blood spilling out and mingling with
a puddle of water and city grim. A fitting end, she surmised.

He was on street level now, advancing towards her. "Parker," he called to her
again, but she didn't respond. No matter how much she disgusted the man he was
and the things he had done, she couldn't pull her eyes from her brother. He
looked like a piece of discarded trash.

"He's..." she began.

The corpse groaned. Perhaps not a corpse after all.

"...still alive," Jarod finished. His hand gripped her elbow, jarring her
hand from its position as emergency bandage and causing slight more pain.
Neither noticed. He was pulling her down the alley he had earlier retreated
down. "We've got too move quick."

She glared at Jarod, trying to find some signal that he was lying to her,
that this was some elaborate trap. That, or a very bad albeit real dream. But
she couldn't find anything, only the unchecked compassion and worry in his eyes.
Despite what Lyle had said, he actually appeared to care.

Both could hear the footsteps of Lyle's sweeper team -- or was it hers? --
making their way down the alley. Parker could almost make out shapes in the
clearing laundry steam. Apparently, someone had heard the gunshots. Oh, she
thought, what a surprise they'll stumble upon.

"Miss Parker," Jarod warned.

Taking one last glimpse at Lyle - whose wound hadn't rendered him completely
immobile, and who was begin to move lethargically against what she assumed was a
hole in abdomen - Parker let Jarod lead her down the alley. Her footsteps were
labored, each contact with the asphalt sending small shoots of pain through her
entire body. Amazing, she thought, at the amount of pain a small hole in her
upper arm could cause.

There was a small black sports car waiting at the entrance to the alley, and
Parker hardly waited for the gentleman in Jarod to open the door before she
bounded in. As they peeled away from the alleyway, and Miss Parker glanced
around to see sweepers -- Lyle's sweepers -- skidding to a halt where the alley
met the busy Manhattan street, she suddenly realized why Jarod had picked New
York City.

In rush hour, you could disappear.

Their exodus from New York City was done in the heaviest of silences, as if
the utterance of a single word might give away their location to the sweeper
team combing the city. Jarod kept his eyes on the road, though Parker could
occasionally feel his gaze briefly on her, but by the time she turned to look at
him, he was already back on the road. They played this game down through Times
Square and the Lincoln Tunnel.

Without a word, Jarod maneuvered the vehicle into the southbound lane. Parker
dared not to ask what was south of New York City, save for Blue Cove, fearing
the twisted answer she anticipated. Instead, she kept to herself, looking out
the passing scenery, the retreating skyline of the city framed by the shrinking
sun. Dusk was upon them.

Putting the residual light -- and their highway coasting speed of 65 mph --
to good use, Parker unbuckled her seat belt and carefully peeled off her black
jacket (her *new* and expensive black jacket) to inspect the damage Lyle's gun
had caused. She winced as the material ripped away from the parts of the skin
where it had been acting as a makeshift bandage. The sleeve of her crisp,
tailored white shirt was stained burgundy. Feeling around the skin, she found
that for the most part, the bleeding had stopped.

"Looks pretty bad."

His comment only interested her slightly. She glared at him for a moment
before returning her gaze to the wound, and her more immediate question: the
possibility of a bullet lodging itself in her flesh. She wondered suddenly if
Jarod happened to have any bandages floating around in the glove compartment.
However, she surmised from the distinct smell of the vehicle's interior that
Jarod hadn't exactly had time to stock it up with the essentials of running for
your life.

Running for her life. Parker refused to think of herself as the prey in
Lyle's thirst for blood.

"You *could* help me," she suggested absentmindedly. She wasn't sure if she
actually wanted his help -- after all, despite his impeccable timing, she hadn't
exactly invited him to be her knight in shining armor -- but the need to keep of
this game of theirs, taunting and teasing, struck her as the appropriate course
of action for the moment. Anything to keep her mind of the pain, which increased
with each movement.

"Duffel bag, behind the driver's seat."

Did he enjoy watching her wriggle in pain? Apparently so. She grabbed the bag
that came complete with new waves of pain, and unzipped it. Inside was
everything she needed: antiseptic, bandages, gauze...

"Ever the Boy Scout," she commented.

Parker had to rip along the seam of her shirt in order to properly bandage
the wound. It was somewhat of a tight fit inside the vehicle's interior as she
wrapped the small ace bandage around her arm. Granted, not the most effective
bandage she'd ever done, but considering the circumstances, it was impressive.

He kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. "Take out your cell phone."

"Excuse me?" Now he glared at *her* and he didn't seem to be in the mood to
bicker. "Fine," she conceded.

Her unbandaged arm reached into her back waistband and pulled out the small
phone. She replaced her seat belt. As Jarod's gaze darted between the phone and
the duffel bag, Parker feared his next request would include chucking both items
out of the car.

"There's a scrambler in that bag. Attach it to the bottom of your phone." His
request was cool and collected, as if this was something or than life and death.
"You don't want the Centre tracking your cell signal, now do you?"

She replied coolly, "You could just tell me to chuck the phone."

"Don't tempt me." He was grinning like a fool.

Halfway through New Jersey, they veered east, crossing into Pennsylvania.
Even in the semi-early hour, dusk had come and gone, and darkness now settled on
the unfamiliar surroundings. How long had they been driving? Despite her
assumption that Jarod had arrived in that alleyway fully prepared, eventually
they would have to stop for gas. Parker kept glancing nervously at the gas gage
and the numerous passing rest stops. A few times Jarod caught her, but said
nothing and smiled.

Where the hell were they going? Parker hoped he wasn't just aimlessly driving
somewhere.

Three hours away from the city, somewhere west of Philadelphia, Jarod finally
pulled off the Turnpike and into the rest area. He had barely turned off the
ignition and put the black sports car in park before she was flying out of the
car. She felt the grimy city air blast her face, but compared to the car ride
she had just endured, it was a bit of 'freedom' she was glad to have. Before she
slammed the car door, she made it a point to grab her jacket -- to hide the
bandage and keep her warm -- and her cellphone from the console.

He didn't question her hasty exit. Parker thanked God for simple pleasures.

The rest area smelled like greasy travel food: truck drivers and families of
five and six packed into the fast food joint embedded in the building, while
commuters jonesing for a caffeine hit waited patiently in the curly-Q line that
was the Starbucks kiosk. The bubble crowd surprised Parker, considering the
hour, but maybe it wasn't half bad. In a crowd she would hardly stand out. For a
moment, she felt what Jarod must have felt, but quickly shook the feeling.

In the restroom, she inspected her appearance in a dingy mirror framed by
out-of-place bouquets of fresh flowers. At first glance one might not have
noticed she made barely escaped with her life from a back alley in New York City
hours earlier. Of course, on further inspection, the dark rings under her eyes
gave away her stress and exhaustion. She massaged the bridge of her nose,
squeezing her eyes shut to will away the sudden wave of dizziness, and quickly
remembered the bandage on her arm as a dull throb reminded her.

Next to her was a woman, mid 20's with dingy, stringy blonde hair. Her face
showed the kind of road-weary daze induced by a minivan full of three children.
Parker wondered how a woman could put herself in that situation. The woman was
staring quite noticeably at Parker's sleeve, at the dried burgundy stain she
could only guess was blood.

"What?" Parker snapped. The woman, put off by her defensive response,
retreated. Parker didn't bother to watch her leave, leaving her alone in the
bathroom. How unusual, she remarked, considering the traffic outside. She
didn't, however, make much use of the observation.

Ring!

The shrill ring of her cell phone startled her, coming almost as if on cue.
For a moment, Parker simply stared at the piece of technology as it rang; or
rather, the rather crude device slapped on the bottom of it. If she answered the
call, she would be putting her trust in something Jarod probably wiped up from
spare parts and things he bought at Radio Shack. This was her life she was
talking about here, and the last thing she wanted to do was deliver herself to
the Centre with a nice big ribbon in the form of a telephone signal.

Ring!

However was on the other end of the phone call was persistent, which meant it
could only be one person. He'd be worried, she knew, worried about them both.
She took a deep breath, suppressing the second wave of lightheadedness by
bracing herself against the sink, and made a decision.

"Sydney?" she answered. The need in her own voice surprised her.

"Parker," he sighed over the line, and Parker could imagine the grin on his
face. "Are you all right?"

"I'm..." She glanced at herself in the mirror, wondering how much she should
lie. "I've been better."

He got straight to the point. "Where are you?"

"Sydney," she chided. "You know I can't tell you that."

Parker knew that he knew. They were half playing to whoever may be listening
in, half trying to extract information from one another. Now it was her turn.

"How's Lyle?" It made her sick that she even cared.

"Recovering in the Infirmary," replied Sydney. "You should thank Jarod for
being such a lucky shot."

She bucked at the remark. "I would hope it was more than luck, Sydney,
say...good aim?"

She heard him smiling. "So you're with Jarod." It was the question he hadn't
asked.

"I never said that."

He chuckled. Perhaps, she thought, it was a defense mechanism on his part.
"I'm sure Jarod's slapped some sort of scrambling device on your phone, Parker.
They won't be able to trace your call."

"They could still be listening, Syd." Her paranoia surprised her.

The sound of heels clicking along the tiled floors startled Parker, and
thinking they belonged to sweepers, she hunched over her phone and tucked
herself as much in a corner as she manage without generating much undue
attention. Only when she cast a glance at the entering figure did she notice
that it belonged to a woman in a business suit with a small child perched on her
hip. Not a sweeper, she assured herself.

"Parker?" Sydney asked. He sounded frantic when she hadn't spoken.

"I should go." Her voice was more a whisper.

He paused for a moment. "Be careful, Parker."

"Thanks, Syd," she replied genuinely. She quickly ended the call, tucking the
phone back into her waistband.

*

The walk back to the car was slightly more taxing than she had expected. By
now the bullet in her arm had been sitting there for over three hours, her every
movement aggravating it. She surmised that the dizziness she had experienced in
the bathroom hadn't been simple exhaustion, instead linked to the infection she
could have been developing. Seeing Jarod leaning against the car with a
self-satisfying grin on his face, probably from having successfully filled the
gas tank, Parker tried to pretend she was fine.

"Feel better?" he asked as she approached, making his way back to the
driver's seat. It was a question that she didn't dignify. She also decided *not*
to inform him about her conversation with Sydney.

"Just..." She didn't finish, instead bracing herself against the car frame as
another wave passed over her. First, the pain and now this. She wasn't sure how
much longer she could put up with these constant attacks on her immune system.
Parker knew that the bullet in her arm would eventually have to come out before
it killed her. "...drive."

She took her frustration out on the car door, swinging it rather violently
open. No doubt Jarod noticed, but hell, she didn't very much care *what* he
thought.

Entering the highway again, she engaged him in the conversation that had
abstained from on their previous drive. "Mind letting me know where exactly
we're going?"

Jarod didn't take his eyes from the road "A seedy motel in a small town along
the Pennsylvania-Ohio border. We're staying the night." Adding, "I'll change
that bandage for you, too."

She glared at him. "And after that?"

He looked at her once, regarded her, and was staring at the road again. "You
and I have some catching-up to do."

*

The young lab tech tried not to tremble as the older man leaned over his
shoulder. Even in the noisy communications room, he could hear the man's
wheezing breaths.

He saw Raines' satisfied expression reflected in his computer terminal as the
telephone call ended. "Locate them," he commanded.

The tech gulped. "Um, that's the thing, sir, I'm running into some kind of,
um, well, interference."

"Interference?" Uh oh, the tech noticed, he didn't like Raines' tone.

"Yeah, feedback or something. I, uh, can't seem to make heads or tails of
it."

The tech heard Raines mutter something under his breath; a name or a word, he
wasn't sure. After a moment, he felt a cold hand clamp on his shoulder, and a
shiver ran down his spine. He prayed Raines didn't notice how much he scared the
living daylights out of him.

"Find her," he hissed.

The tech didn't turn to watch Raines retreat, instead listening as the oxygen
tank squeaked into the distance.

The Rules Have Changed
part 3
Tahlia

She knew she was at least dozing on and off. The clock seemed to jump from
7:43 to 8:05. Not once had Jarod expressed exhaustion from driving for over six
hours. Parker wondered just where this seedy motel was, but didn't have the
energy to threaten him if he just pulling her chain.

She been dozing off again, and in the back of her mind she could hear Jarod
saying something, but she couldn't will herself to care enough to open her eyes
and ask him to repeat him. So she decided to nestle into her seat and ignore
him, pretending to be asleep.

Suddenly he was shaking her more violently than her head would have liked.

"Parker!" he was shouting. "Wake up!"

Opening her eyes, she saw worried plastered all over his face. In a way it
made her very sad. "What?" she asked groggily.

"I..." He didn't answer. To cover his embarrassment, he focused back on the
road. "You didn't answer me, that's all."

Parker understood. She sighed inaudibly. He must have thought she had slipped
into unconsciousness. Cute, she thought.

"I was asleep," Parker reminded him, even though she wasn't.

Jarod cast a disbelieving look at her, and she could have sworn he was
cracking a smile, too. "No, you weren't."

"Of course I was," she countered, surprised at the groggy playfulness in her
voice. He surprised her by flashing a characteristic smile -- it was surprising
because it often did not appear without an accompanying tease or practical joke.
No, here, she remarked, it seemed genuine, and she didn't really seem to mind as
she glanced back out the window.

Parker noticed they were no longer on the interstate. When, she wondered, had
they pulled off and gone through the toll booth? Had that been during one of her
dozing periods? They passed motel after motel, dimly lit and posting 'vacancy'
signs. Some were much dingier than others, and as one of the more decrepit ones
approached, she prayed Jarod had at least gotten the high end of the shitholes
in Pennsylvania.

"How's your arm?" Jarod asked.

"Fine," she replied automatically. Adding somewhat truthfully, "a little
sore. I'll live." She still didn't disclose her dizziness at the rest stop.

Pause. "I know you didn't change the bandage, Parker."

The comment through her for a loop. "What?" In all honesty, she wasn't sure
if she was missing out a key piece of information.

"At the rest stop," he continued. "I thought you knew you were supposed to
change your bandage every three hours or so. Prevents infection."

They were three hours out of city, her on the run from a Centre-issued death
sentence and him with a sweeper team intent on preventing him from ever again
experiencing the outside world, and he was worried about whether or not her
*wound* got infected?

All traces of her relatively good mood were gone. "Well, excuse me," she
snapped. "I had more pressing things on my mind."

"Like a phone call?" His eyes were steady on the road.

Her head whipped around. Not pleasant for her headache, but her anger didn't
really care. In a second her mind connected the pieces: while no doubt he had
managed to supply her phone with a scrambling device, he most likely always
included a listening device, as well.

"You bugged my phone," she hissed. Good ol' Miss Parker was back.

Jarod, however, was his ever-smug self. Now she remembered how pissed off she
had been ours ago. "I had to take the necessary precautions."

She couldn't order him to do anything to shut him up, and this lack of power
annoyed her. She could only sit and sulk in the passenger seat as he drove to
God knows where. What's worse was she understood why he had done what he did,
and the contradiction infuriated her more.

The last part of the trip -- no more than ten miles, she was sure -- seemed
like hours as they sat in tense silence. For almost six hours they had managed
not to kill one another, and in one instant all their hard work had dissolved.
It was heaven when Jarod pulled the sports car into the Jolly Roger Motel, with
a large image of a pirate with an eyepatch as a holy image. Her coupled
exhaustion and annoyance allowed her to ignore the flickering neon 'Free HBO'
sign.

Jarod parked the car near the manager's office, but to her surprise, noticed
that he was instead walking towards the direction of the rooms. Parker slammed
the car door in protest, ignoring the shock it sent up her arm.

"Do *not* tell me you've already got a room," she warned loudly.

In compliance, he said nothing; only held up a silver room key that shined in
the pale pink reflection of the motel's neon sign. Attached was a large plastic
keychain, imprinted with the same image of a pirate and the number three. Jarod
smiled, and turned back towards the room. Parker could only sigh in disgust and
shake her head.

She heard the manager's door creak open, and a small old man appeared in the
door, framed by the light of his well-lit office. The sound of an old television
wafted out. "Mr. Flemming!" the old man -- Parker assumed he was the manager --
called out. His voice rasped with the hint of a severe cigarette addiction.
Jarod stopped at the man's calling, and turned to him with a look of
recognition. Parker groaned inwardly. "Didn't think you'd be back so soon!"

The manager was advancing on the pair. He was short, and slightly dirty.
Parker tried her damnedest to make her opinion of him known with a simple snarl.
"I had Bessie change the sheets on the bed," he commented. Then he looked at
Parker and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. His intention was obvious, and she
looked away in disgust. Her eyes searched -- pleaded -- for room three.

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Burbage," Jarod replied brightly. Parker
watched him look in her direction for a moment, smiling with anticipation, and
she dreaded the words that were tumbling out his mouth. She pretended not to
listen.

"My wife and I really appreciate your hospitality."

Parker stopped in her tracks, her heels making a loud skid on the pavement.
At that moment she wished she had taken the time to retrieve the weapon that had
clanged to the ground in New York City.

*

He must have trusted her. He was placing the spare .38, holster and all, in
plain view on the dresser below the mirror. Either that, or he had lost his
mind. Neither seemed like an appealing option. She hated Jarod's implicit sense
of trust almost as much as she hated the insanity she knew he must have been
capable of.

She made her move, ignoring the pain in her arm as she pulled the weapon from
in holster and leveled it at the back of my head.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't blow your brains all over those clean
sheets." She heard a sound from him: a laugh. Parker cocked the gun to show she
was serious, as he obviously thought she was not. "I don't have all day, Jarod."

It had been almost an hour since her dizziness had fought to control her.
Parker thanked her lucky stars Jarod didn't notice her step falter, that the
thin carpet managed to muffle the sound of her heels. She was strong now, she
was in control. From the next room, as if out of movie fraught with cliches and
bad background music, a guest had managed to tote around a record player in the
back of their car. She recognized the hints of static over the haunting and yet
optimistic piano solo. It was vaguely familiar, but frankly, Parker didn't care.

"Tchaikovsky," Jarod said in a whisper.

Parker snorted. "*That's* your reason for living?"

He shook his head, still laughing, unable to take the situation seriously.
She wanted to advance on him and stick the muzzle of the gun right into the back
of his neck. She restrained herself, saving the desire for later. Again, she
felt dizzy, and again, her step faltered.

"Our neighbor is playing Tchaikovsky." Adding, "it's a rather unusual
variation, too. Not the Swan Lake or Nutcracker he's famous for."

Parker was not in the mood for a musical lesson, much less Jarod's
preferences when it came to Tchaikovsky. "I've haven't got much patience, Jarod,
and frankly," she paused, squeezing her eyes to will the world to remain in
focus, "you're not helping matters."

He began to turn around. "Stay put," she hissed, and he stopped. Parker hated
the way he just stood there -- most people with a gun to their head would have
at least raised their hands in mock surrender by now, but Jarod remained stock
still.

Parker took the time to survey the room; after all, her goal who been she
keenly fixed she hadn't taken the time to take in her surroundings. Maybe it was
because she wasn't planning on staying very long. Jarod was facing the room's
only bed, which was covered in sheets that were faded and no doubt smelled as
musty and used as they looked. Not like Parker intended to stick around and find
out. Her back was to the room's singular dresser and mirror; the door was on her
right and a dingy, yellow-colored bathroom was to her left. Also to her left was
a small table; atop it lay the first sign Jarod had inhabited this place
previous to their arrival: his silver Haliburton case lay open on top, various
small DSAs littering the table. Parker made a mental note to grab the container
and its contents before leaving.

"Aren't you even the least bit curious?"

At first she swore he had caught her eyeing the Haliburton, but a quick check
revealed he hadn't moved an inch. "About what?" she hissed.

"About what Lyle said," he said, "why the Centre wants you out of the
picture." Jarod paused, and Parker thought she heard immense pain seeping into
his voice. "About my family."

Mentions of Lyle made her face snarl up in disgust. "Babblings of a mad man
trying to justify murder," Parker replied. "I've never put much stock in what
Lyle says."

"Even when he speaks the truth?"

Another wave of dizziness. She gulped, suppressing the darkness tempting
itself to overcome her. She leveled gun at Jarod once more, thankful he couldn't
see this. "You've got a minute, Jarod. Make it good."

He paused, thoughtful Parker imagined, trying to frame his plea for life
carefully. "Do you remember what your father said to you, right before he jumped
out of that plane?" In her mind, she thought back three months, the pain her
father's death had caused still raw with guilt and abandonment. "'The new Parker
legacy begins with you.'"

It was becoming increasingly harder to will away the dizziness. "You're not
helping your chances, Jarod."

He was getting passionate now, almost as intent on convincing her of what he
said as he was convinced about saving his skin. "What do you suppose he meant,
Parker? That you should continue your mother's work, take over the Centre and
become its first altruistic chairmen?" The thought seemed to disgust him. "Or
was it something else?"

Jarod turned suddenly, startling her and sending her stepping backward a few
times. The jarring movement sent her head spinning, and her efforts to maintain
aim on Jarod failed as she rushed to control her balance. For a moment, the
entire room was still, as if the world had shifted into a slow-motion action.
The worry in Jarod's face barely registered in her mind.

The sound of the gun hitting the carpet was dull in her head. Parker hardly
noticed her sore arm colliding with the floor either. Her last image, groggy and
blurry as her mind slipped into unconsciousness, was of Jarod towering over her,
an entire lifetime of concern pouring over her.

And then it was black.

He felt a presence by his side, but neither man said a word. In silence they
stood for ages, watching the small child perform tasks beyond his reach.

The comment pierced the air. "He should have a name."

Cox regarded the man beside him with bewilderment. Perhaps the man was going
soft in his old age. Desperate as he was to jab at the old man's visible
weakness, Cox resisted. Repercussions came to those who insulted the chairman.

"I don't believe that will be beneficial to his development," he replied
simply, detached.

The old man wheezed a little. In the darkness, he couldn't see Cox's eyebrows
shoot up in amusement. "True," he began, and paused as the boy -- a mere two
years old -- touched the large continent, declaring it 'Africa,' "but we can't
exactly call him Baby Parker for the rest of life either."

Another gesture of amusement from Cox, this time a chuckle.

The matter was quickly abandoned as others surfaced. "How much longer?"

Cox stroked the angle of his own jaw. "Another two weeks?" he ventured. "I
still have two or three preliminary simulations I want to run him through before
transfer. He's showing remarkable progress, especially considering his age, and
I imagine he'll acclimate quite nicely."

"Yes," the old man asserted, pausing in a sense of melodrama Cox detested,
"he *is* special." He noted his use of 'special,' and didn't doubt the
observation for a moment. In fact, he would bet his life on it. Perhaps, he
thought, it was even...an understatement.

The darkness of the observation lounge was pierced by the light of a door
opening, and a man -- a sweeper, Cox guessed -- entering. He noted how gingerly
he stepped, in hopes that his shoes would not make an unbearable racket.

"Mr. Raines?" the sweeper asked.

Raines nodded to Cox and brought the sweeper into a corner of the lounge,
near the door. They spoke in hushed tones, and Cox pretended not to listen. Then
Raines quietly excused himself from Cox's presence, the beginnings of a smirk
playing on Raines' lips. He knew the techs had found him a location, no doubt.

*

She was standing outside the nursery of a generic hospital, gazing into the
room full of squirming infants barely hours old. An endless variety of blue and
pink bonnets covered their heads. She pressed her hand to the window, her
fingers splaying across the glass, trying to connect with the small infant in
the third row, fifth bassinet from the left. She knew he couldn't hear her, even
if she wished she could hear his small whispers in her ear, in her mind.

"It doesn't work that way," a voice beside her said. It was soft, amused, and
it familiarity didn't bother her. "You're trying to too hard, honey."

Parker glanced at her mother. She hadn't aged a day. It was like looking in a
mirror. "I shouldn't even bother," she replied dejectedly. "He can't hear me."

Instead of inspiring pity, her words made her mother smile. "And what makes
you think that?"

"He's my father's son." She glanced back into the nursery. "Not yours."

Parker felt her mother's hand massaging her shoulder, and sighed at the
pleasure it brought.

Her mother sighed. "He's neither." Parker looked back at her mother, her
reply confusing her, but the 'older' woman would have no such questioning.
Instead, she placed her own hand around her daughter, bringing it from the glass
to rest over her daughter's heart. "Go to him, baby girl. He needs you now."

Again a glance was stolen of the nursery. A young pediatric nurse had opened
her brother's bassinet and cradled him softly in her arms. "What could I do?"
she asked.

Her mother dropped her hand and retreated back down the hallway she had come
from. Parker didn't chase after her as her mother's specter retreated back into
the recesses of wherever she lived. Instead, she heard haunting words that
seemed to fill every room of the hospital.

"You could give him the world."

*

For a moment Parker was aware she was dreaming, that her body was covered
with a warm blanket, and that someone made gentle snoring sounds beside her. But
the pain was too great in her head, and she soon lulled back in unconsciousness.

*

In his rush the previous night, he had forgotten to shut the drapes on the
windows completely, and through the small hole a bright ray of sunlight shone
in. It bathed him in light, and roused Jarod from the light and ultimately
restless sleep he had managed to catch in the rather uncomfortable chair. He had
pulled it closer to the bed, close enough to hear her shallow breaths, close
enough to notice if they ceased altogether.

Jarod stole a glance at the prone Parker. She had barely moved an inch since
he had gingerly tucked her under the cover hours earlier. Occasionally, her head
lolled side to side, and her lips moved as they murmured some phrase that meant
nothing except in her dreams, but for the most part she remained still. After a
second, he leaned in close, assuring himself her breathing was sequential and
normal. Softly he pulled her right arm from under the cover, checking the
bandage.

The small clock at the corner of his laptop read 7:15 as he booted up the
machine. It took a while for the call to connect.

"Jarod," Major Charles exclaimed, his voice and face still damp with sleep.
"We were getting worried."

Jarod smiled sadly. "I got..." his head turned involuntarily to Parker
sleeping soundly, "...there was a little change of plans." Carefully, Jarod
maneuvered the laptop so that the computer affixed to the top of it would
capture his sleeping visitor.

Major Charles' recognition was obvious to find. "Is everything all right up
there?"

"After a little minor surgery," Jarod replied, replacing the laptop. His
father's worried expression that his son had received injury prompted a further
explanation. "I had to remove a bullet from Miss Parker's arm."

Behind him, she stirred. Jarod knew she was still too far below consciousness
to possible have heard her own name, and called the event coincidence.

"And you're sure there'll be no," his father chose his word carefully,
"complications?"

Jarod knew Charles was not referring to his surgical feat. "That I'm sure
of." He left it at simply that. There wasn't enough time for complicated
explanations, which was what their situation required. It was hard to explain to
his father the sense of implicate trust he held in her, despite their past. To
be honest, he wasn't sure if *he* understand it, really.

Charles hesitated on his next question. "Have you told her anything?"

Jarod had meant to. He had meant to tell her everything. But fate had
intervened, she had passed out on the floor as the infection spread from her
bullet wound. Maybe it was for the better on her part, he mused. The last thing
she needed on that day was a possible life-altering revelation.

His silence on the subject, however, spoke volumes. "You have to," his father
urged.

"I know." Again he glanced at her, repeating, "I know."

"Oh!" Charles' exclamation brought Jarod back to reality. He watched as his
father popped a disk into his hard drive. The action was followed by a prompt on
his own machine: would he accept the file transfer? "I almost forgot about
these."

Jarod accepted. "What are they?"

"Explanations from your friend," he replied. His voice lingered on 'your
friend,' unsure how the term applied to his son and his companion. "Taken in
Africa over the past week."

"Taken by whom?" The download was half-complete.

His father smiled. It was a large grin, the size of which Jarod had seen only
once before: the first time he had met Charles. Jarod could only guess what that
meant. "That, son," his father said, "you'll learn when you come and see me."

A prompt alerted him that the photos were done downloading. He quickly
located the file, opened it and sent it immediately to the taskbar, yet
unwilling to view their contents.

Jarod smiled in return. "I'll see you in a day or two."

They exchanged pleasantries, and the conversation ended.

*

No one needed to come and retrieve him from his work station. The sound of
Raines' oxygen tank in desperate need of an oil job could be heard from yards
away. That sound prompted his gaze to linger near the doorway. The man was
standing in it, and he merely had to nod to him. The lab tech scurried from his
station, document in hand.

They were bathed in the shadow of a corner office, out of sight and hearing
of the busy tech room. "Well?" Raines rasped in a whisper.

The tech took a deep gulp, handing him the paper. "I traced the call to a
rest stop along the Pennsylvania Turnpike."

"This was hours ago," Raines replied bluntly. "They're gone."

The lab tech, though temporarily stunned by the man's rebuff, pressed on. "I
know, but the station is accessible only from the westbound lanes, making it
reasonably to assume they are traveling in that direction. I was always able to
ascertain that a dark-haired man bought a full tank of gas and was met by a
woman fitting Miss Parker's direction. He," the tech suppressed a chuckle,
"thought she might need a strong drink."

Though interested, Raines' patience was growing thin. "The point?"

"Calculating how far a car might travel on one tank of gas, I was able to
narrow down their next destination." Adding with hesitation, "assuming, of
course, they stay on the Turnpike." The tech didn't want to fathom the
repercussions that might come to him if that assumption was wrong.

Raines' attention was piqued. "Here's the interesting part," the tech said.
"On a hunch, I searched the area's newspaper articles. I found one story
detailing the arrest of a local politician for the kidnapping of a college
student, prompted by the girl's criminology professor." The tech paused for a
bit of drama, knowing the insertion of a prized Centre asset would tip the
scales for Raines. "Dr. Jarod Flemming."

Raines' reaction wasn't what he suspected. The man was hardly stunned; in
fact, the tech thought he might have already known of the Pretender's
involvement in the disappearance of Miss Parker. Instead, Raines placed a heavy
hand on the tech's shoulder, and started to smile. The expression was
frightening.

"You've done well," Raines complimented. Leaning close, he added, "I won't
forget that."

Then he was gone. No doubt summoning sweepers to the location he had marked
on the sheet of paper.

*

Jarod and Parker sat next to each other on the rumpled bed. Her hair was a
mess, matted in some places and standing on end in others. Her clothes were
creased and rumpled, the seam of her white shirt torn open. A fresh bandage had
been placed over her wound, which was now "professionally" cleaned and sewn up.
The bullet had been removed.

Waking up had been surprisingly easier than Jarod had expected. She hadn't
fought much, as much as he would expect from an exhausted woman like Parker, and
the mood of surrender had been a comfort. Twice he had caught her gaze lingering
on the weapon lying again alone on the dresser, and he learned to tuck the gun
in the waist of his pants. If she ever got that close, there were other issues
that probably should be worked out first.

The silence between them was unbearable. Parker couldn't help but eye the
photos turned face down in Jarod's lap. They were inviting; she craved to know
whose image they had captured, what dirty little Centre secret their shades of
grey held. Who was doing something they weren't supposed to be doing? What new
horror had the Centre dragged from its closet to become the future of the
corporation? Parker's mind drifted back to her dream, and her mother's request.
She shuddered at the thought.

"You know..." he said, his quiet whisper thundering through the heavy
silence. He paused, hesitating; Parker couldn't recall the last time a simple
silence had rendered him so speechless.

Finally, he gathered his voice, and his eyes were looking tenderly at her.
They were filled with worry and pity, sorrow and joy, gazing into her soul. She
hated that look; she could never quite get it out of her mind. "I don't have to
show you these if you don't want to see them."

Her hand made a grab for the thin pile, but he quickly flinched, pulling them
from her grasp. Her bandage rubbed against his arm, sending a rather dull wave
of pain through her for a moment.

She stared at her lap, her hands folded neatly and her fingers looping around
one another. "I have to," she whispered.

Parker heard him sigh, and looked straight ahead, unable to meet his eyes
should he seek out hers again. The guilt was building up inside her already,
threatening to explode. She felt the pile's edges pricking at her folded hands,
and recognized he was giving the black-and-white photos to her. Shutting her
eyes for a moment, she turned them up, rifling through each one.

One by one they fell to the floor. Her grasp was unable to steady them and
they floated quietly down, not making a sound as they hit the carpet. She didn't
really notice, she didn't really care.

It wasn't possible.

Her chest heaved with a sob, her mouth quickly covering her mouth to bottle
the escaping sound. She succeeded for the most part, but her defensive breakdown
was obvious: the sting of a warm salty tear began at her eye and traveled down
her cheek. Parker felt the tender pressure of a hand on her leg, reassuring and
comforting. No doubt he had expected this, and it bugged to her to no end.

"B-b-b-but..." She was stuttering, making herself look like a fool as her
emotions overcame her. This was too much, too much for her life and too much
even for the Centre. "How?" she finally managed.

The question hung between them. Parker wondered if Jarod even knew anything
of the photographs he possessed. She gave into the urge to turn, to see his
reaction: his eyes showed signs of pink puffiness. Apparently he did not. He
knew nothing. Parker sighed, somehow feeling worse and better at the same time.

Jarod gulped. "We have to leave soon." His voice betrayed the calm exterior
he was portraying, instead revealing the emotion beneath him. "By now they've
already estimated our position. We should get going."

Jarod had risen from the bed, moving towards the dresser to gather the
medical supplies and Haliburton that were arranged neatly on the top, but Parker
remained still. She made no effort to retrieve the fallen photos. She knew Jarod
intended to escape to a safe house, where she knew not, but for some reason she
could explain...she trusted his motives. He had had sense enough to show her
those photographs that lay abandoned on the carpet, which indicated he knew the
reaction they would stir.

Perhaps, she thought, he means to provide me the answers he cannot give.

They were gone before Mr. Burbage came to remind them of their complementary
breakfast in the motel lobby.

*

The moment the limos and the towncars and the sweepers pulled into the small
Pennsylvania motel parking lot, he knew they were gone.

He found the photos lying abandoned near the bed with the crumpled sheets
that no one had bothered to fix before they left. Some had turned over as they
floated down, their images pressed up against the carpet, but one upturned was
enough to startle Cox.

He rifled through them much as he expected their previous holder had. He
noticed the time stamp, dating back only a week. Could such dates be forged? It
would have been useful in this situation.

Sweepers filed in, as did the distinct sound of an oxygen tank.

"What did you find?" Raines rasped.

Cox spun, handing the five photos to the old man. "A dead man," he replied
simply.

Regarding the photos, Raines' hand clenched in frustration around the first
image, crumpling it where he grasped it. "This is not possible."

"But it is," Cox said, the hint of a smile on his lips, as he gestured to the
photos. "Ever the more reason to speed up the transfer."

Raines handed the photos off to a sweeper with an order to track down their
origins, keeping one of them for himself. "You said so yourself that there were
still simulations to be completed."

"Exigent circumstances have forced me to," he smiled now, "reevaluate my
assessment. I now declare the boy fit for transfer."

The look of success was evident on Raines' face. The small hurdle he held in
his hands was nothing to bar him from enjoying the small success they had
achieved. "When this is over, Cox, I shall make you a very important man. I know
you're fond of the boy, but perhaps you could divide your attention between him
and, say," he paused, "Centre liaison to the Triumvirate."

Cox tried to appear unimpressed. "Sir, wasn't that possession expected to be
held by your son?"

The thought of Lyle's failure in New York danced across Raines' face, but the
dim event soon faded as the old man smiled sadly. "My son will have to earn my
trust just like everyone else. Provided," he added, "he lives through the week."

The sweepers stayed another hour, interrogating the motel manager, but
nothing was accomplished. The fact remained that no one had seen the pair leave,
no one knew what direction they were traveling. So they waited patiently for
another bread crumb to drop.

Inside the motel room, the image of Mr. Parker lay abandoned once more on the
table, beads of sweat dotting his greytone forehead.

In December she had buried an empty coffin in place of her father. How
ironic, she thought, as they lowered the weighted casket into the hole in a plot
next to her mother's empty grave. Her father. She had turned the hollow phrase
over in her brain as she stood at the podium on that cold and dreary day, her
eyes finding a sickly man in the front. Her uncle...her father? Even the words
etched on his headstone, which arrived a week later, bore the lie he had lived
and perpetuated for years: 'Father, Husband, Friend.'

The affair had been a small one; her father had been a fallen man, and not
many in the Centre chose to ally themselves with a fallen man. She had watched
those who had had a hand in her father's choice to jump hide their joy beyond
tears and grief-stricken expressions. Not more than a week after her ordeal, her
body still showed the signs of snow, cold, lies and truths, and Parker hid
behind sunglasses and a rather large hat. Quiet she sat in the front row as her
brother spoke, his words hardly registering in her brain. She refused to shed a
tear as the mourners threw dirt on the empty coffin; she simply stared straight
ahead, unmoving, unbelieving.

After the others had paid their respects, hallow as they may have been,
Parker lingered near the empty ground. There was no body to recover, no body to
dress, mourn, and bury. The chances, numerous people had reminded her, and
finding her father's body in one piece were slim to none. She had lowered her
eyes and her mind retreated to the dark thought of Mr. Parker's corpse slowly
being gnawed on by fish big and small. She had felt the tear pooling in the
crevice were her sunglasses (despite the overcast skies) met her face. It was
warm on her face, and she brushed it off with the conviction that it would
freeze on her face if it didn't. Parker wouldn't admit to herself that her
father's devotion to a daughter devoid of human weakness (feelings and emotions) had outlived him.

Walking to the car, she noticed the lone figure by the tree. Not stopping,
she recognized him, made eye contact. There was a hesitation in her step, a
fault only she noticed...and then she moved on. Parker had kept walking. Oh, how easy it could have been to stop, nod to one of the dozens of sweepers and
cleaners and Centre personnel about the cemetery, and the Centre's prized
possession would be theirs again. But she only kept walking.

In the car heading back to her home, her mind tried to collect what was left
of the Parker family tree. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead and replaced by another. Her brother had made it clear that he would rather ally himself with the winning faction, which, of course, did not include her. Her little brother, less than a week after his birth, had been whisked away to a secret location; to do what she knew not what, and she feared to think of the possibilities. Ethan was no doubt in hiding, under the protective custody of Jarod's father, who had made it clear he did not wish for her to interfere with the situation. She had to admit that Sydney, Broots and Debbie, and, sadly, Jarod, were as close to a real family as she would ever get.

And now? The scenery hadn't changed for over a day, and onward Jarod drove,
further and further south to a destination unknown. Not surprisingly, they
hadn't exchanged much in the way of conversation. Parker began to wonder if
Jarod's destination included somewhere in the heart of Texas, considering all
the remote states he was passing up. Unlike their first stay, pleasantries had
hardly been exchanged as they checked into the hotel room after a day of
driving. They spoke long enough to decide who was sleeping where, and what time they would leave. Then quietly and defiantly, Parker had shut the light off and  stayed awake the entire night. After an hour she heard Jarod's gentle snores, much like she had as she had dodged in and out of consciousness, and felt the need to kick him. How could he sleep at a time like this?

What sleep Parker did manage to catch was once again in between toll booths
and rest stops. Each time her mind would slowly fade to black and for a few
moments she would linger in a peaceful sleep. Then suddenly her father was
there, his very undead eyes staring back at her through the black and white
photo. She would jolt awake, Jarod would glance at her in concern, and then
continue driving. The pattern continued all the way to the Texas border.

There was a voice in her head, one her father had planted there over twenty
years ago, that told her not to trust Jarod. Those photos could be fake, it
whispered with malice. This could all be a trap. The sun was setting, but the
last rays illuminated Jarod's face from time to time, giving him the appearance
of an angel. In that moment of illumination she saw there was no room in Jarod's
heart for that kind of deception.

The rope was wrapped tight around her arms, her chest, her waist, her legs. Her back was pressed flat against the cold metal pole, and the temperature sent chills up her spine. Her hair was matted against it. She was vulnerable, exposed, weak, and it killed her inside.

He still had the flare gun tucked in his waistband. "Why did you save my
life?" she asked, quiet and pleading, and still inherently defiant. By now she
had expected to be lying in a pool of her own blood.

Jarod leaned close, so close Parker could smell a pungent combination of
sweat, rain, and aftershave. Together it was repulsive and alluring. She tried
in vain to find the evil in his eyes her father had assured her was there, but
to her surprise she found only worry. As if he regretted tying her, his nemesis
and hunter, to a pole in the middle of a hurricane.

Outside, the storm raged savagely. Rain pelted the glass windows, shutters
banged on metal siding, tree limbs snapped or scrapped against the sides of
buildings. The sound was all around them, and yet removed.

"Because," he answered, the memory flickering in his brain, "I still the little girl," he hesitated, "who gave me my first kiss."

His smile was genuine. Her eyes filled with sorrow as they watched him exit
into the raging hurricane.

In the setting sun a light rain had begun to fall. Parker leaned her cheek
against the glass window, its coolness refreshing against her skin. The memory
floated away quietly, and she shut her eyes again.

*

Faded photos kept Sydney company in his empty office. A small desk lamp
provided the only light in the room; the dark was shut and the blinds had been
drawn to both the hallway and the outside world. In his fingers he flipped the
pen randomly, trying to discern some pattern to his behavior. But it served no
purpose, other than to supplement his own wandering mind. His mind was full of
worry for Miss Parker, and for Jarod, as well. Suddenly the danger for them both
was equal in strength.

It had been two days since his abbreviated conversation with Parker, but what
he feared most was not the Centre's technicians rapidly closing in on the pair
of fugitives, but the bickering between them. Their chemistry was extreme and
quite volatile, even at a young age, and this volatility scared Sydney more than
anything. Raines had once commented harshly that Miss Parker's introduction into
Jarod's life brought out the mischievous side of the young pretender, the side
that would rather play and reek havoc than work and complete simulations.

"Her presence is unhealthy for Jarod," Raines said, taking a
drag from his cigarette and glancing in through the two-way mirror. The children
sat across from each other at a table, deep in conversation. "Contact must be
strictly limited."

Sydney shook his head. "I've said this before, Raines," he began, "and I'll
say it again: what's unhealthy is isolating Jarod from human contact. He can't
be expected to bond with the subjects in his simulations if he's not allowed to
see other human beings."

Raines smiled. "He has you." Sydney heard the unveiled malice in the doctor's
voice. It was no secret Raines resented him simply for his unfettered access --
and trust -- to Jarod.

The doctor was shaking his head again. "Three times this month I've caught
Miss Parker exiting the ventilation ducts on SL-13. Needless to say, the
Chairman is not pleased."

Sydney spun on Raines. "You told Mr. Parker?" she shouted. "Are you *trying*
to undermine my work, Raines?"

"I had to," he replied in his own pathetic defense. Adding, "Besides, if I
remember correctly, you were one of the only backers of Miss Parker's addition
to Jarod's routine, and I do recall you agreeing to accept full responsibility
of the possible consequences, both positive and negative." It was Raines' way of
delivering a veiled threat.

Seeing the flustered expression of the psychiatrist's face, Raines smiled and
blew a thin cloud of smoke in his face.

Sydney and Broots had been about a block behind Lyle's sweeper team, maybe
less, in New York City, but had missed the action completely. The suits had
pushed them back as they wheeled Lyle away, back to the renewal wing in Blue
Cove, but not before Sydney could see the scene in the alley. There was a pool
of blood - Lyle's blood -- on the ground by the wall...and a smear that was
decidedly not from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The logical conclusion was
that it was Parker's blood, which would mean the first shot he had heard had
been Lyle firing at Parker. She hadn't, however, mentioned a wound in their
short exchange.

The questions swirled in Sydney's head. Where were they headed? How prepared
was Jarod? Did Miss Parker realize what was going on? Did Jarod? If he did, how
did he find out? What missing piece to the equation did Jarod have and Miss
Parker desire? There was always a missing piece between them, Sydney thought.

There was a hesitant rap on his closed office door. Startling him from his
thoughts, he quietly beckoned in the only visitor who he imagine matched the
sound. Broots quietly shut the door, afraid a large sound might trigger some
sort of unwanted attention.

"Did you find anything?" Sydney asked expectantly.

Broots hesitated. "I-I-I-I'm not sure."

Whereas Parker would have snapped, Sydney sighed softly. "Go on."

Broots glanced nervously around the room, expecting a monitor of some sort,
and quickly took the seat in front of Sydney's desk. His voice lowered to a
whisper. "I was able to locate some information in one of the Centre databases
regarding the," he hesitated around the word, "hit on Miss Parker. It's an old
database, one that's mostly storage of old files from the Nixon era."

"Someone wanted to hide," Sydney pondered.

Broots nodded. "Exactly. Which is why I'm not sure if I understand everything
clearly."

"What do you mean?"

He paused. "If it's correct, then the hit was ordered over three months ago.
Right after-"

Sydney cut in. "-Mr. Parker's funeral." Adding, "Any particular reason why
they waited so long?"

"I've found references to surveillance files, both video and audio. I'm
thinking they've bugged Miss Parker's home and office." He paused. "The
information I found were simple transcripts of email, encoded but not that hard
to break. The surveillance files, on the other hand..."

The doctor smiled. "You're working as hard as you can, Broots. No one is  complaining."

His eyes found his lap. "Miss Parker would," he replied with a halfhearted
smile. "It's strange," Broots said. "I never in a million years thought I'd hear
myself say this, but...I miss her, Sydney."

Sydney nodded solemnly. "I do, too."

After a moment in silence, Broots got up to leave, but hesitated as he
reached for the doorknob. The small man turned back to face Sydney, his face
washed in worry and confusion. "It doesn't make sense, Sydney. Why put an order
out in December and then wait three months? That doesn't sound like Centre
efficiency."

The question loomed between them. The doctor knew the answer, however painful
it was to stomach.

"Maybe," he began, trying to frame his answer carefully, "it was efficient
for a different reason. After all, Miss Parker leads the team in charge of the
Centre's priority number one, and Mr. Raines made it quite clear that bringing
Jarod back was a matter of life and death for her and her brother. Perhaps Lyle
felt...conventional methods weren't working."

The answer registered in Broots' mind. His face twisted in disgust. "Lyle
would do that? Use Miss Parker as bait to reel Jarod in?" He shook his head,
trying to clear his mind of the thought.

"In a heartbeat," Sydney replied solemnly. He knew full well the malice and
evil Lyle was capable of, and selling his sister to the devil was low on that
ladder. "And I doubt he would get much opposition from the Tower. Mr. Parker was
her last hope, Broots. The others aren't as tolerable with her inability as her
father was."

Broots found his way back to the chair, slumping into it. "The surveillance:
I bet Lyle was trying to see how often Miss Parker was contacted and failed to
report it. He was tracking them both like animals."

Sydney imagined Lyle, fully recovered, standing in the doorway and sneering.
'Who's the hunter now?' he would rasp, laughing maniacally to himself.

*

She had fallen for Jarod's deception once again, and inwardly she was happy
she had. Their diversion from an expected course might throw the sweepers
tailing her off course for a few days, giving her and Jarod ample time to...

Parker looked out the airplane window at the ever-approaching ground below.
To do what, exactly -- escape? The idea of being on the run with Jarod made her
shudder.

An hour and a half into Texas the black sports car had driven off the road
suddenly, jerking Parker from her restless sleep. In the dead of night the car
stopped, and Jarod ordered her out. For a brief second, she feared what he was
planning to do next. Instead, with humidity still clinging to the air around
them, they began to walk a path that seemed miles long, but could have only been
feet. She had been in constant motion, in some form or another, for almost three
days, and she was exhausted. Each step took the energy of ten or fifteen. She
didn't need to remind herself of how utterly inappropriate her choice of
footwear was for damp grass.

Jarod had banged on the door to the flight manager's office, who had also
been roused from a brief nap in front of television playing reruns of
The Price is Right. Parker should have expected the smile of
familiarity on the man's face, no doubt another lonely soul who had been rescued
by Jarod's aberrant sense of justice. At the late hour she didn't dare speculate
on the circumstances. Instead she was a spectator as the two negotiated a "loan"
(as Jarod later called it) of a small twin-engine plane. After the deal had been
worked out, the man had nodded a kind goodbye to Parker and retreated back into
his office. She never uttered a word.

They had been in the air for almost an hour before anyone broke the
foreboding silence between them. It almost seemed to crackle with potential
energy.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He turned for a moment, regarding with a coy smile, almost as if he was
contemplating whether or not to tell the truth. The expression inspired
annoyance in Parker. "Colorado," he answered simply.

"What's in Colorado?" she prodded.

He took a moment to think, then answered, "Answers, I hope."

Hope. The feeling was not in vast quantities in the airplane's cabin. In the
distance, the sun was beginning to rise behind the plane, and the dim light from
the horizon lit the ground below them. Evidently, they had been flying through a
large mass of clouds, as the landing strip suddenly came into view out her
window. Parker felt the plane turn to the right, and watched the airfield grow
in size.

Unconsciously, her eyes slipped shut and her breath caught in her throat as
the plane skidded to a stop along the runway.

No one came to greet them. Jarod taxied the airplane along the runway for
several feet, and Parker looked expectantly out the window, assuming another one
of Jarod's friends would wave to them from hanger, indicating where they might
park. But no one came. It occurred to Parker that their plane seemed to be the
only activity along the airstrip, even for the early morning air. Actually, as
her eyes passed over the considerable layer of rust and general air of disuse,
Parker wondered how long it had been since anyone had landed here.

"Where the hell are we?" Parker asked.

She had expected a witty answer from Jarod regarding their location, such as
'Colorado,' but what she wasn't prepared for was the grim look she got instead.
With a heavy sigh, he exited the plane. His ignorance of her question infuriated
her. Forgetting the bandage on her still-tender wound, Parker slammed her own
door shut, running around the nose of the plane and coming inches from Jarod's
face.

"I asked you a question, Lab Rat," Parker hissed. The
derogatory name slid off her tongue like satin, covered in malice. It felt good.
Her voice punctuated the silence of the deserted airfield around them. "Where
are we?" She made sure to annunciate each word, every syllable. Oh, she thought,
what she wouldn't give for her weapon at a time like this. She imagined sticking
it under Jarod's chin, threatening to pull the trigger.

Jarod pursed his lips in defiance. "The Centre's now-abandoned Colorado
installation."

Parker snorted, stepping back and turning to gaze at the empty surroundings.
In the near distance she saw buildings with no visible entrances, all uniform
and quite foreboding. None of the structures were particular desuetude or
decrepit, but it was quite obvious no one had inhabited the site for some time.

She spun on him, her eyes wild with revelation. "The Centre doesn't
have a Colorado Installation, Jarod," she spat.

"Officially, they never did," he retorted. Then he retreated to the storage
cabin of the plane, pulling the Haliburton and the duffel bag from the
compartment. As he moved, Parker swore she saw an amused smile play on Jarod's
lips. She wished she could wipe away all traces of that expression. As he worked
he continued to speak. "When their work was completed almost three years ago,
they abandoned the installation permanently."

"'They'?" she asked, moving closer to the baggage compartment. "What work?"

He looked into her eyes, his face sincere and completely serious. "Genetic
research. For what or on who I don't know."

Parker tilted her head to the side. "And I suppose you're going to find out,
aren't you?" When he didn't reply, she pressed on. "While I'd love to uncover
more of the Centre's dirty secrets, I'm slightly more interested in finding out
why my brother intended on shooting me two days ago."

The comment flustered Jarod. The duffel bag slipped off his shoulder as he
moved towards her, thudding silently on the pavement. He grabbed her shoulder --
her unscratched one -- for emphasis, and she wriggled a bit under his tight
grasp. The movement had startled her. "You just don't get it, do you, Parker?"
Jarod asked. "The research in those buildings, what happened in New York City,
it's all connected. I have reason to believe your mother visited here several
times before she," Jarod was unsure how to phrase the words to describe the day
in question, "died."

"Says who?" she hissed. Suddenly, they were ten year olds
again.

He paused, collecting himself. "Says the same person who took those pictures
of your father." The mention of her father halted Parker's protests. She stopped
moving, but Jarod wasn't finished. His mouth froze in a half-open position, his
breath catching in his throat. In a moment, he composed himself, releasing his
hand from Parker's arm when he realized the tight grasp he had had on her. She
kneaded the spot for effect.

"I," he began, but stopped. Then, "I believe the person who contacted my
father was..."

His breath caught again, and Parker suddenly saw tiny beads of moisture
forming in his tear ducts. She bowed her head.

"...my mother."

Her head snapped up. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Jarod nodded several times, then stepped away, his face showing a level of
contentment unexpected for the moment. Obviously he had already dealt with this
issue, and was now ready to move forward. He was a few paces ahead of her -- she
still stood completely still -- and stopped.

He turned and extended his arm in her direction, palm up and open and
beckoning her hand. It was a pointless gesture, as the flat pavement was hardly
rocky and such that it required that they stay close to each other. Instead, it
was a gesture of truce.

"Coming?" he asked.