A Hero's Heart by Mirage
Summary:

When Jarod and his clone are presumed dead and further cloning attempts prove futile, Raines is determined to find another way. He finds it in Dry River, Arizona.

 


Categories: Post IOTH Characters: All the characters, Jarod, Miss Parker, Other Non-Centre Related Character, Sydney
Genres: Angst, Drama, General
Warnings: None
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 26 Completed: No Word count: 69644 Read: 143555 Published: 29/03/13 Updated: 06/06/19

1. The Missing Piece by Mirage

2. Silent Treatment by Mirage

3. Truce? by Mirage

4. Welcome Back, Jarod by Mirage

5. Help by Mirage

6. Flight of Fancy by Mirage

7. An Ace in the Hole by Mirage

8. Exile by Mirage

9. Unfinished Business by Mirage

10. Tension by Mirage

11. Demons by Mirage

12. Recompense by Mirage

13. Traffic by Mirage

14. Gone (Part I) by Mirage

15. Gone (Part II) by Mirage

16. Gone (Part III) by Mirage

17. Gone (Part IV) by Mirage

18. Gone (Part V) by Mirage

19. Gone (Part VI) by Mirage

20. Gone (Part VII) by Mirage

21. Gone (Part VIII) by Mirage

22. Gone (Part IX) by Mirage

23. The Missing Piece by Mirage

24. The Missing Piece (Part II) by Mirage

25. The Missing Piece (Part III) by Mirage

26. The Missing Piece (Part IV) by Mirage

The Missing Piece by Mirage
Author's Notes:

Story notes? My dog ate them?

 

           

  


         

܀

 

The two-lane road was nearly deserted, uncluttered by traffic; it and the town were both windswept by the rapidly approaching storm. Several power lines were already aslant; beyond them, the sky was a severe, ominous shade of gray, nevertheless, she remained steadfast, her discerning eyes dutifully looking after the bus as it pulled away from the curb.

Foreboding tugged, twisted at her maternal instincts; she squinted with worry in the pre-dawn twilight, unable to articulate her fears, to name the thing she feared.

She was afraid of losing him, of existing in a world in which her son no longer existed. His demise.

It's the weather, came a suggestion conceived of logic, one contrived with rationale rather than truth (because the truth sounded too much like insanity for a sheriff- she had shattered the glass ceiling; now wasn't the time for the walls to cave in on her).

Meteorologists were predicting possible tornadoes; her fears were therefore justified. A long drive in bad weather. Inauspicious at best. She shuddered at just the thought. No one exactly lives to travel in less than favorable conditions, no one wants a funnel cloud to drop out of the black sky and come barreling at them at ungodly speeds. On the highway. With no where to hide.

Yes, yes, it's the storm. Of course it is. She repeated, exasperated.

You hear about these kinds of things all the time, she added in her endearingly mercurial way of speaking that, at times, bordered manic and was heavy with hyperbole: "cars upside down in ditches, twisted steel, sirens screamin' and people runnin' and cryin and bleedin all over the highway.'" She added with a note of dread and dismay as if that particular scene were being accessed as she spoke; J.R. imagined an old movie reelwith its scratches and distorted audiospinning on a battered projector in her mind.

Her son, of course, smirked at her accent, accused her of being one of those psycho copter-moms, always fretful, weeping into a Kleenex.

Thisshe prayed silently, her hands clasped tightly at her chestwill turn out like the day she'd discovered her son was trying out for the high school basketball team.

She'd dropped her bakery goods and ran to the school and right into the gymnasium and onto the court to severely admonish him in front of his friends and the coach and the other parents who were all sympathetic. Stunned with their jaws unhinged, and eyes wide with disbelief, but sympathetic nevertheless.

She'd been too late: the try-outs had already ended and he'd made the team, much to his mother's chagrin. One hurdle was successfully behind him, while a million more littered his path to all-star fame and glory.

They both knew that her fears were mostly illusory, unwarranted, and in some instances contrived. But possible. Yes, possible; the doctor had agreed with her. As possible as a meteor arbitrarily dropping through the ceiling and joining her on the sofa.

Her son was in as good as or to quote the good doctor: "hell, in better physical condition than the average young man that comes in here for an examination: his heart is strong, Marilyn- as strong as his will."

There were no absolute tangibles, there was no evidence to suggest he was at risk- any more at risk than the rest of us are at any given moment; at an impasse, they disagreed in circles, she with her proclivities, her reasonswith every concerned mother's reasonsand he assuaging, placating and cogent, without a hint of animus or surliness, negating those well-intended maternal concerns in throaty baritone with the patience of a saint.

Little by little, she had relinquished her hold and observed, misty-eyed and proud, as year after year, achievements and milestones were reached; he was lauded by coaches and accolades were added to the mantel. He had chosen his battles wisely, skipped parties and the weekend "scene"; he was pedantic, excelled academically.

He had proved that he could juggle a part time job, school and basketball and she had finally conceded. An implicit concession at best but J.R. had hardly been in any position to complain. He'd only been a child then, fifteen with dreams of fame swirling about in his head.

I'm a grown man now, mother. He informed her often. A grown man indeed, and a freshman in college. Not everyone is drafted fresh out high school- he had gently reminded.

We could drive up together, she said, ingratiatingly.

I'll be meeting the rest of the team along the route, he explained, his voice tinctured with sympathy, his smile jovial; however, his eyes very distinctly conveyed to her the futility in attempting to sway him; he would not be hemmed in by her fears, confined here in Dry River where there was very little opportunity for growth and even fewer eligible women, where the economy was as dried up as the river the town was named for.

The umbilical had been severed, after all. She had to let him go.

"Mom, I'm a grown man."

"You're always goin' to be my baby", she chided tearfully and observed as he nodded. She waved when he boarded.

She didn't stop waving until the bus made the left turn at the end of Main Street and turned onto the state highway, out of her line of sight.

Faith. She relied on her faith; after all, the fact that her son was even alive to be on that bus wasin of itselfa miracle. Marilyn believed in that miracle, her miracle boy; she believed there was some greater purpose for him, he was exalted; why else had he been given a second chance, saved by an unlikely hero, a stranger among the several strangers who had entered their lives, entered their small town that fated morning all those years earlier?

She stared stolid, vacuously for several moments longer, stared at the emptiness, noted her own emptiness and then blinked absently when the first tell-tale drops cascaded down her lapel; she looked skyward suddenly, her face twisted in revulsion at the stinging, cold rain.

With a final wistful sigh, she pivoted aroundabstractedlyto the sheriff's office.                                                                           

܀



The psychiatrist was lounging in the recliner with a book in his hand but thoughts of Jarod in his mind, of where the prodigy had wandered off to, his reasons for the silent treatment and when he'd resurface.

And oddly enough, the telephone chose that moment to ring. And that old feeling returned. Jarod.

 

"This is Sydney."

"Hello?" He asked with knitted brows. "Hello, is anyone there?"

"It's a nice day for a drive." Jarod said gruffly and ended the call.

Jarod! Sydney was both relieved and mortified. He returned the phone to its cradle and collected his coat, hat and umbrella. The psychiatrist drove for twelve miles, confident that he would be contacted and instructed further by Jarod.

At a red light, he adjusted his rear view and noticed that he'd been joined by a blue compact vehicle that tailed him closely- but not too closely. Sydney held his mobile in his right hand. Why haven't you phoned again, Jarod? Sydney asked aloud, his cadence in perfect time with the slapping of windshield wipers.

Six years, Sydney mused. Presumed dead. And now he has returned. Finally.

The psychiatrist slowed the car when he came to a chaotic scene in the road caused by a fallen tree. Crews were working to remove the large oak from the highway while police officers directed motorists. Sydney tipped his hat to the young officer who waved him through the first leg of the detour. The smaller road was heavily congested and the inclement weather complicated matters further.

He was eventually forced to pull the vehicle to a stop alongside the orange traffic cones. Drivers behind and in front of him honked their horns, as if that helped anything. Patience. Patience is key.

He flipped open his mobile and then gasped when the driver's door was suddenly flung open. The phone flew from his hand and in the next instant, he was pulled from his seat. His mind was still registering those events when he was pushed into a large work truck.
And then, quite suddenly, was face to face with the Pretender.

"Jarod!" He exclaimed. "My god!"

The pretender floored the pedal, and steered the truck off the beaten path and into the tree line; within minutes, they were on the empty highway.

Sydney was still gazing across the cab of the truck at his abductor. His abductor. He chuckled at the thought.
How fitting.

"Mr. Broots' house is empty."

"Broots is at some sort of convention with Debbie."

"Centre mandated?"

"No." Sydney frowned at Jarod's distrust, felt his heart grow heavy with guilt. "It's a pleasure trip, I believe. Did you need to speak with him or Miss-"

"I can't reach Angelo;", Came Jarod's pithy interruption, "I've been completely locked out of the Centre."

"The Centre is making changes to the computer system as well as its security. Jarod? You seem troubled. Is this about your disappearance? Did something transpire when you were in Carthis? I'm asking you because Miss Parker refuses to even allow me to ask a single question regarding-

Jarod shook his head, emitted a grunt of disgust, shook his head with, Sydney believed, the ferocity one might employ when one wanted a memory shook loose from one's head. The Pretender gestured dismissively, as if the subject in question (Miss Parker) never even crossed his mind.

Sydney was rather confoundedconfounded because Miss Parker had reacted similarly: the dismissive wave as if some trifling insect were flying about, perhaps pestering her with its incessant buzzing and she didn't necessarily want it dead, she only wanted it to pester someone else (Lyle, perhaps), and then the set of jaw, the square of shoulders, the tilt of head which accompanied the deliberate hand-on-hips stance, and finally that trademark 'thank-you-Sydney-but-I'm-a-big-girl-now' smile of hers.

Something had transpired, then, Sydney surmised. But something else had transpired to bring Jarod back.

Jarod "pretended" that Sydney had not even inquired about Carthis or Miss Parker.

"That's because I am troubled, Sydney", Jarod grumbled and cast a disparaging glance at Sydney. "And I need your help." Jarod confessed and then added with a forlorn exhaustion that emphasized his dark, haunted eyes: "A life depends on it."

Another life. There is always another. One fire is put out, another ignites, a child abducted, a woman assaulted, a man killed. There was no shortage of tragedy, no shortage of people crying out for help, for justice. He was weary, wary. I can't save them all.

"Jarod! Look out!" Sydney cried.

Jarod's gaze swung around. Too late. He didn't see the falling tree, not until the truck slammed into its limbs, still filled with pine needles; the cab of the truck was immediately filled with the scent of pinehe would remember the smell more vividly in the coming years, more so than even the fissures spread out across the windshield or the one large limb that had split the cab of the truck in half and separated him from Sydney.

The engine knocked, scrubbed, made a rather odd grinding sound, and then, in a cloud of thick smoke, shuddered to death, and Jarod was going to share some off-hand and no doubt comical comment or anecdote but when he turned, he came face to face with thick, wet pine bark.

"Sydney!" Jarod blurted, panicked, and craned his neck, despite the fear of what he might see.

"I-I'm all right." Alive, at least, Jarod noted with relief; however, the strain in the psychiatrist's voice had betrayed him.

"Where are you hurt?" Jarod demanded when he reached the passenger side.

"Eeverywhere?" Sydney returned with a tight smile. "I'm certain I will be fine." He added and then moaned in pain and pointed at Jarod's face, the thin rivulet of crimson on the Pretender's cheek.

"A scratch", Jarod said dismissively, "can you walk, Sydney?"

He nodded, attempted to move. "I believe I-" The reply was clipped by a groan of agony and then deafening silence.

"Sydney? Sydney!"

Quite suddenly, there was another life to be saved: Sydney's.

And there was only one person who could help him.

Parker returned the mobile phone to the coffee table and returned her attention to the photo album. Mom. God, I miss you.

The tears standing in her eyes had just begun to spill past her eyelashes when the mobile she had set aside not ten minutes earlier rang. Again. "Look, Judd", she asserted somewhat angrily into the mobile, "I don't want to hurt you, but we were getting too serious and-

And in my world, people die when that happens.

I'm not looking for anything serious right now. Hello?" She asked and then strained to hear amid the static andwas that thunder? And whispering?

"Hello?" She demanded.

"Parker."

"Sydney?"

"It's aa lovely day outside, Parker, for a drive."

"Is it?" She chuckled and rose and walked over to the window. "Right." She said to the downpour. "I hope the ark docks close by", she remarked, "these shoes cost a small fortu"

"Parker." Sydney interrupted sternly; his tone conveyed more than his words had, more than his words could.

"I understand." She said. She understood that something was wrong. "I just" Don't understand what exactly is wrong.

When the line went dead, she froze. For a single instant. And then snapped into Pretender modeshe had been one, after all. She pocketed the mobile, grabbed an extra clip and rushed to her car.

He'll call back.

And he did.

"Where are you?" She demanded.

"You'll see a sign soon; be- be careful, Parker."

Careful?

Careful mean

Caution.

She saw the caution sign, the flashing lights and then proceeded on.

The following twenty minutes continued as such, a call from Sydney with the oddest directionsa corresponding sign, strange landmark substitutions, or initials of street signs or numbers that all seemed entirely randomcleverly encoded into his conversation.

Raines might very well be onto them, but the wheezing old maniac had no idea where they were. Yet.

When the mobile rang again, Sydney simply asked for confirmation: I do hope you haven't been in an accident.

She didn't know how he knew, but just over the hill was a scene that appeared to be nothing short of apocalyptic. 

In the midst of the chaos was a car, stalled out apparently. "Sydney." She whispered. 

Parker pulled her car to a ungainly stop and literally ran, shoes be damned, through the mud only to find that his car was empty, and his mobile had been left behind, still open.

She stood, and made a thorough three hundred sixty degree sweep of the area. Sydney was nowhere in sight.

She sighed in relief when her own mobile rang.

"You're early." Sydney said.

"You can hear the" sirens, she was going to say, but stopped herself.

"The thunder is something else, isn't it? Tell me, Parker, what you would do right now if you needed to keep a low profile? And how would you get there?"

There? Translates to here in Sydney-ese.


Another sweeping glance, all the way around and there it was; off the beaten path. The muddy road not taken- if in fact, it could be called a road.

What the hell kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now, my old friend?

"Destroy our mobiles."

"But Syd-"

The line was dead before the words left her lips.

Parker groaned in frustration but obeyed.

She pushed in the car's cigarette lighter, pulled the sim cards from the phones, brought the heated lighter to the cards and observed as they melted; she then shoved both phones deep into the mud.

Finding a vehicle proved a bit more difficult and involved flagging down a couple of off-roading ladies and trading her brand new fully loaded, customized boxster for an ancient, mud and rust colored customizedwith fat, large tiresland rover.

"Yet another fabulous Centre perk." She snarled sardonically, as shequite literallyclimbed up into the vehicle.

Sydney was a one of a kind tooabsolutely customizedshe'd realized at some point over the yearsof course, she would never admit that to anyone; she had an image to maintain, after all.

She followed the muddy trench into the undulating expanse of dense trees and brambles and enough poison ivy to keep every child on the eastern seaboard out of school for several weeks.

"What am I looking for? Where are you, Sydney?" She asked, aloud. "How am I even going" She slammed on the brakes when she saw the truck, and then the tree.

"Sydney!" She called as she climbed out of the land rover.

"Parker? Over here."

"Oh, my god, Sydney." She yanked off her coat, pressed it to his forehead. "I have to get help. I"

"Listen, now, I want you to listen: someone is here."
She bristled at that, and started for the gun.

"No, no." He chided gently. "A friend."

"Friend?" She asked.

"You do still consider me a friend, don't you?" Came the soft voice from behind her. Parker pivoted, whirled around, observed the rather neutral expression of "a friend."

Face to face at long last with the inestimable Miss Parker. Jarod had missed her, and then again, he hadn't. Jarod had indeed been off her radar for years; in fact, she hadn't even searched for him, and he knew that because she had never been off his.

His knowledge, however, was limited; he knew she kept an eye on Lylejust as she'd told Jarod she wouldand he knew she was safe. Most everything else was a question mark; for instance, he wasn't certain whether or not he'd have to physically subdue her, wasn't sure which incarnation of Miss Parker would rise to meet him and this challenge, or how hostile she'd behave towards him.

All those years of dead ends, stagnation. Would she be like the hungry hunter now? Pounce at the first scent of blood? Risk Sydney's life? Or could they find, and retain, a wee measure of comradeship, work together, save a life? Save two lives?

"Well? Don't you?" He asked again, and then he whispered her name- the name her mother had given her.

She blinked once in surprise under his penetrating gaze, and somehow managed to keep her jaw from unhinging. He looked like hell, from his tattered jeans and t-shirt to the stubble on his jaw and the nearly shoulder lengthand positively manic hair. He'd put on some muscle, taken some sun and one jagged line of dried blood ran the length of his right cheek.

The vaguely menacing style suited the man. Who knew?

And then her eyes met his.

Between them, in that fleeting second, there was a frisson, something.

They both felt it.

It was impalpable, that strong and steady pulse pounding against the walls they'd erected there in the empty space between themjust beneath the surfacewhere neither dared to tread.

And perhaps never would. They merely stood outside of each other, orbited each other, each at opposite ends of some invisible bridge, sometimes haphazardly dancing around the edges, but not too close. It was dangerous to fall.

She averted her gaze, abruptly, because someone had to, because she could, because she was Miss Parker; the façade didn't drop, her countenance never faltered.

She simply pursed her lips and tossed a glance at Sydney and addressed Jarod in a strange, toneless voice:

"Are you going to just stand there or are you going to help me move him?"

Jarod nodded, searched his mind; he hadn't had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of this particular incarnation of Miss Parker. Had he? Or had he altered her personality, altered everything by simply addressing her in the manner he had.
Her name. Was this the little girl? The one who had run away to hide all those years ago and had gotten lost somewhere inside of herself?

He hoped—and feared—it was.



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End Notes:

 

 

Silent Treatment by Mirage
Author's Notes:

Notes? They were left in my pocket and subsquently eaten by washing machine.

 

 

 



܀

 

Jarod squinted against the glare of oncoming headlights and, anxiously, peered into the side mirror, observed the vehicle until its tail lights faded in the distance.

They weren't being tailed, and if what Sydney had managed to convey to him were true, the Centre had called off the hunt. And why wouldn't they?

Raines had J.R. Miller; he had a Pretender's heart, and it didn't take a genius to guess the wheezing waste of skin's intentions.

Miss Parker hadn't commented on the Centre's newest acquisition, or Raine's latest sinister plan; Jarod assumed she was considering his proposition.

The memory, the pain, of his previous proposition was somehow- - after nearly seven years- - still fresh. An old wound that continued to suppurate.

He wasn't certain where her loyalties would lie when the dice finally landed on the table, was no more certain now than he had been in Glasgow.

After all, the woman was known (far and wide) for being intractable, even imperious; needless to say, he had anticipated flippancy,a scowl of petulance, perhaps a snort of disapproval or a decidedly serrated edged retort (or two) tossed in for good measure.

Jarod had exercised extreme caution, remained mindful of the pistol in his ankle holster, and prepared himself for overt hostility (or perhaps even a bullet in the foot); however, he had soon come to the realization that his fears had been unwarranted (and Defcon 1 had been overkill).

She hadn't even lamented the ruin of her Chanel trouser suit (still damp with rain and stained with Sydney's blood) or the Manolo Blahniks (which were currently caked in thick, dried mud).

Nor (to Jarod's astonishment) had there been objections when he'd unceremoniously taken the wheel, no grand, operatic gestures to exert her dominance, no threats made at gun point. She'd simply climbed into the rear of the vehicle. Wordlessly.

Jarod peeked into the rear-view, was presented with the back of her head; she was still crouched on the floor of the Rover, clasping Sydney's wrinkled hand.

Incalculable. Still. And it appeared that she was studiously ignoring Jarod- the notion caused him much perturbation, deeper rumination. Jarod obviously had every reason to feel uneasy; however, a word from her, a single word could have allayed his fears.

Instead, there was only the engine's monotonous drone, the hum of the windshield wipers, hard rain pelting down upon the roof, the swoosh of water under the tires.

The odd turn of events had indeed left Jarod rather unstrung. He fumbled for the radio, and refocused on the road that stretched out into the dark, stormy night as Glenn Frey proclaimed: it's those restless hearts that never mend.

He wasn't going to bore her with intolerably prosaic small talk; instead, Jarod tapped a thumb against the steering wheel- at least until the lyrics began to reprove him.

There's so many things you should have told her

Yes. Perhaps there were.

Goodbye for starters.

He hadn't done that. During that final telephone conversation, he'd heard the pain in her voice, recalled the way her face had crumpled in the cemetery on the first anniversary of Thomas' death, the tears standing in her eyes in Glasgow when he'd taken her hand, pleaded with her to take a hard look at her life.

He'd been asking for much, much more than an alliance against the Centre; after their intimacy in Carthis, he had no doubt that she'd realized- - precisely- - what he'd been asking of her.

She had responded with a tremulous, liquid: "this isn't the different ending..." Her tears, however, had belied, had been rather incongruous to her words.

He had- - directly- - caused her pain, he opined; the connection they shared, the unexplored, unnamed vastness in the spaces between- - where they, or rather, where she feared to ventured- - had been the source of her tears. The feelings existed, there was a connection; she, however, hadn't been comfortable exposing the feelings, confessing them, taking them and turning them outward, being bare and open to scrutiny.

A moment of weakness? Jarod nearly scoffed. Aloud.

He had concluded that his presence was doing more harm than good. He had hurt her with the truth in the past, had done that for her, to help her; however, hurting her out of selfishness, hurting her because he wore his heart on his sleeve and had revealed entirely too much of himself (and far too soon) was, he believed, a misstep, one which he could not abide. Or ever forgive. He had failed her tremendously and decided that he'd rather walk away- - even if hurt him to do so- - than remain in her life and cause her additional pain.

And just as he had that morning in the cemetery, he had vanished from her sight.

For nearly seven years.

He believed there would be questions, recriminations, and had prepared his explanation in advance; in fact, he had been preparing the explanation for six years, and was rather disheartened- - perhaps even disillusioned- - that she hadn't even asked where he'd been. Or why.

She hadn't said anything to him, in fact, aside from asking him whether or not he intended to help her move Sydney- they had done that, had stabilized the psychiatrist's wounds. In silence, in a tedious peace, a reticent- - and rather tenuous- - truce, neither needing the other to make commands or requests, each careful- - as punctilious as ever, in fact- - to avoid physical contact with the other.

Jarod had then gathered supplies from the truck he'd borrowed- - and had since totaled- - and transported them to the vehicle she'd traded. Parker, meanwhile, dispensed antibiotics and a mild sedative, all while soothing Sydney sweetly, dutifully, like a daughter would comfort her father; Sydney, of course, had succumbed to the sedative.

And then came the silence.

The familiar tense hush, the strange excitement. Nothing had changed.

Jarod's biggest fear was that perhaps nothing ever would change, that their fatalistic tap dance, the tedious orbiting- - and occasional colliding- - of each other's universe would simply continue. Eternally. If that was indeed what had been pre-ordained for them by some higher power, some cruel entity, he would take this opportunity to lay the past- - as well as the Centre- - to rest, put it all behind him, and get on with the business of living. Of a different ending. With someone else.

He was still considering the future after bypassing the highway and traversing several labyrinthine and deeply fissured dirt roads; he deftly slung the vehicle off the muddy path, sped through a ditch (that too closely resembled a small river) and drove straight into a broad expanse of brush and brambles. He pulled the vehicle to a stop under a small, and partially fallen tree where it could not be seen.

Inside the ancient, unpretentious lodge where meetings had once been called to order by a now defunct sect of Masons, Jarod observed as Parker remained steadfast at Sydney's side, clung to him in a manner that transported Jarod to their childhood, to the little girl.

He'd been quite certain that Parker would want to shower off the filth immediately upon arrival at the renovated lodge, and had retrieved some clean towels and a change of clothes in anticipation (the pyjama bottoms and tee shirt weren't what she'd consider soigné and were most likely ill-fitting- - considering she was much smaller than Jarod- - but the attire was clean and dry). Apparently, however, she was still tossing curve balls.

"He's going to be alright." Jarod assured her genially as he pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against; Parker observed dispassionately as he entered the room and pulled a rickety chair to the opposite side of the bed. There, in the sharp rectangle of light that spilled in from the hallway, their eyes met for the second time in nearly five hours; the second time in six years.

"We've set the bone, stabilized him." He had intended to expound on those words; instead he fell silent, observed her stoic countenance, her pursed lips, and then he fixed her with an expression of disbelief and slowly shook his head. "You're angry with me."

It all made sense now. Somehow. He was appalled by his limited clairvoyance; after all, he was usually perfectly attuned to the woman, he believed, not altogether in a flash of arrogance.

She hadn't been simply ignoring him. No. The woman had elevated the silent treatment to a high art, a science- although Jarod believed it was a silly term to apply considering that silence was anything but a "treatment"; silence had never cured anything. And never would. And he had no intention of allowing the status quo to prevail.

Parker's gaze dropped to Sydney's hands, and then, without ceremony, without so much as a sigh, she rose, launched a full retreat.

And very nearly made it to the washroom.

"You can't just walk away."

She blinked, started in disbelief at his poor choice of words, at the hilarity, his audacity. He had walked away. For six years! But she couldn't?

She observed the familiar, inquisitive tilt of head, the concern that creased his brow.

"Aren't you going to answer me?" He asked and then gestured impatiently, palms out, and with a exasperated roll of eyes, added: "I know, I know, you don't want to talk- not to me. I get it. Okay?" He asked, his brows raised, "But please: humor me. Just this one time?"

She heaved a sigh of exasperation, fashioned a smile- or rather, attempted to; the smile fell flat, was bitter, frothy and begrudging, indignant.

"You've never seen me angry." Came the pithy, cool answer.

"Oh, I believe I have." Jarod countered gently, a smirk tugging at his mouth, his brows raised high. "Enough times to recognize it. You're angry."

"Or perhaps I simply don't know what to say; what does one say to a dead man anyway?"

He fixed her with a sympathetic, wan long-suffering smile. "I run, you chase- those were your words, Parker; it was the decision you made. It was a decision I couldn't live with; we both deserved something more."

"I deserved to believe you were dead?" She asked, and then pivoted, attempted again to retreat.

"Wait." He called after her, solicitous, beseeching, on the verge of groveling, "Listen to me-"

"No!" She snarled as she sidled up to him. "You listen to me:" She thrust an angry, trembling finger at him, and then moved in close as if to share a secret, "the next time you disappear, fake your death", she cooed sweetly, "you damn well had better be dead", she hissed out through clenched jaw- all venom and serrated edge, "or I swear to God, Jarod-"

He wasn't certain how it was even possible, but Parker moved in closer, her lips not quite an inch from his ear, and then whispered: "I will kill you myself."

She then met his gaze, gestured slightly with her head as if to ask: are we clear? Jarod vigorously nodded his affirmation, and then- - literally- - gulped.

He was still nodding when he caught sight of her hand coming at him, the manicured fingers curling into a compact fist that collided with his lower lip and jaw with surprising force.
And then she was on him, all over him, falling with him; he wasn't certain if the thud was his spine against hardwood or if perhaps this was the sound of surrender, of two souls colliding- a whole other brand of falling.

The kiss was all passion, collision of teeth, gnashing and snarling and he was wide-eyed, shocked by her assault and still trying to process how this had happened and what, precisely, was happening but then, quite suddenly, his body was responding to hers and he was giving back as good- - and arguably even better- - than he was receiving.

He needed this, needed her- repercussions be damned.

She felt his fingers cupping her jaw, and then entwining the dark tresses, wrenching her head, her mouth closer.

His other hand dropped to her hips, sank in, grasped, pulled her against the evidence of his need, the erection that strained his faded denims.

Jarod let himself go, all the while severely castigating himself for not being stronger, for rushing her. Again. He'd already made this mistake with her- although, to my credit, not to this extent.

Perhaps it was his surrender that had prompted Parker's resistance.

She pulled away abruptly, wiped his blood and their collective saliva from her mouth with the back of her hand and fashioned a brutal glare, and leveled it directly at him. She then pivoted, left him- - shattered to pieces- - on the floor.



܀

Truce? by Mirage
Author's Notes:

Notes? Mm, they were drenched in coffee.

 

 

 



           ܀            



Jarod emerged from the washroom refreshed and decidedly optimistic; he was still alive, after all- a bit bruised, but alive, and he was certain that the latter was entirely unrelated to his lifting Parker's gun while she'd been preoccupied with Sydney.

He immediately sought out his nemesis and childhood friend- - a woman he wanted to trust implicitly, a woman whose trust he'd never tested- at least not to the degree he soon would, that is- - and found her sitting erect in an upright chair, wrapped snugly in his bathrobe, ostensibly waiting patiently, indifferently, for him.

"I trust you're comfortable." He announced amiably.

Parker tossed him a petulant glare, folded her arms across her chest, and then meaningfully swung her gaze towards the several thousand dollars worth of apparel that had been haphazardly draped over a door to dry.

She had trashed the irreparably damaged coat, hand-washed the shirt and slacks, scraped the mud from her heels, and had eagerly searched every square inch of the lodge for her gun, all the while murmuring a litany of obscenities.

Jarod perceived her anger, endeavored to stoically trudge ahead all the same; however, he knew there were boundaries, boundaries that were as absolute and impenetrable as they were invisible, and he knew that the particular glare on her face was clearly a harbinger of trouble, a warning.

He knew better than to follow her gaze; in fact, he was certain that she was daring him to look, and just as certain that she would kill him her bare hands should he glimpse any of her delicate underthings.

Instead, he nodded his understanding, or rather assumption (that she'd be more comfortable wearing her clothes; contrarily, Parker was as comfy as any woman possibly could be given the circumstances, however, she felt quite naked and vulnerable without her gun, and especially when she recalled the events that transpired the last time she'd worn a borrowed robe, sans gun) and then fully entered the room and unceremoniously sat in the only other available chair.

Neither he nor Parker was quite prepared for the uncomfortable silence that followed. She shifted restlessly (to conceal a shudder), gathered the robe tighter around her body- an act that transported Jarod to the stormy evening in Ocee's cottage nearly seven years earlier.

"If you're cold-" He ventured, rising slowly.

"I'm not." Came her brusque interruption, which Jarod responded to by stopping abruptly- - his knees bent in an awkward stance- - somewhere between sitting and rising. With a sigh of discontent, he relapsed into the chair and observed with growing impatience as Parker pinched imaginary lint from the robe.

He opened his mouth to speak, clamped it closed, and then, with ease and swiftness, changed positions, causing the old wooden chair to creak and groan beneath his weight. Finally, quite unable to sit still, he ejected himself from the chair once more. Jarod paced the length of the floor, came to a halt near the old fireplace and emitted a heavy sigh.

Parker's head remained lowered, her eyes seemingly transfixed on the robe; she, however, was quite cognizant of the brooding Pretender, his tangible unease, his dark, rapt gaze fixed on her. He pivoted around, averted his gaze, and dragged a hand through his hair. Parker perceived a sudden stillness and wondered briefly if it signaled an end to his well contained tantrum.

It didn't.

He threw several expectant glances at her over his shoulder, and then studied the floor. His growing exasperation was tempered with equal measures of desperation and guilt- the latter he couldn't explain to himself but he felt it just the same.

Jarod sighed again, and then, suddenly, pivoted and made quick, purposeful strides across the room and right up to Parker.

He felt rather compelled to fill the vacuum of silence, whether it be with compressed conversation or angry, hurtful words- be that as it may, he had vowed to himself that he would not- - under any circumstance- - apologize for walking away, which is why he was rather appalled to find himself doing precisely that:

"There are decisions", He said softly as he dropped to a crouch, "difficult decisions that can feel right at the time; it's only later, in retrospect", he continued, his dark, doleful eyes boring into hers, "that we realize-"

"Sorry", Parker interrupted coolly, leveling a steely glare at him, "will suffice." With that said, she averted her gaze from him, or more specifically, from his hands, the tentative- - hell, conciliatory- - gestures.

"I am. I am sorry." He said with a single, nearly imperceptible, nod. "I am truly sorry if I hurt you."

She wanted to assure him that he had done no such thing, and perhaps issue a threat, or at the very least fire off a caustic retort; however, for some inexplicable reason, she felt that she might choke on her own inhalations, felt empty and stripped bare without her gun, not to mention the strange and rather persistent pressure in her chest, as well a sharp agonizing pain that was tantamount to a blade in her midsection (and she couldn't make any sense at all of the mistiness blurring her vision)- to wit, she could barely draw breath, let alone counter his words.

Her current state- - as baffling as it was to her- - simply would not permit speech. But not because I was hurt! She assured herself and gingerly pressed a discreet palm to her abdomen and listened as Jarod continued, haltingly.

"Because-", here, his voice dropped to a soft whisper, "because that's precisely what I was trying to avoid when I left. You made your decision and I wanted to respect it. I wanted to. I wanted to give you what you wanted; however, I wasn't confident that I-" He paused here, shook his head, and then swallowed the knot of apprehension, "that I could adhere to the rules anymore, to-"

Parker moved suddenly, to no doubt eject herself from the chair, seek refuge at Sydney's side, and- - Jarod opined- - leave him alone and sulking. He refused to allow it. He needed her help, as loathe as he was to admit it; he did not, however, have any desire to resume the old game, fall back into worn patterns, the banter, the limbo, nor did have the time or inclination for lengthy explanations. Besides, words didn't carry much weight with Parker anymore.

Actions, however...

He dropped his gaze to her right hand, noted the way it gripped the battered arm rest, and his resolve was solidified. Jarod, unceremoniously, reached for her hand, observed her gray-blue eyes widen in surprise as she threw herself as far back into the chair- - and away from him- - as she possibly could.

She recoiled from him, from his hand, was considerly nonplussed by his cool impudence. Overwhelmed. Speechless.

Clearly, she hadn't forgotten that brief moment in Glasgow; in fact, as fleeting as the moment had been, her hand still bore his touch, indiscernible to the eye; indelible as a scar.

She refused to make that mistake again, and - - Jarod was disheartened to find- - had not disavowed (and most likely never would) her stance in regards to different endings and turning points. In that moment, he felt justified. And wounded.

Faced with a wall of obstinance, with the same dogged incredulity he'd walked away from years earlier, the hurt and bitterness surfaced, the anger bubbled inside of him.

Jarod thought it odd indeed that her rejection should still sting, that time hadn't healed all wounds after all. Not his and not hers. Especially not hers.

It wasn't anger staring back at him and before he identify what, precisely, he'd seen, it was gone. Her features changed, the wall of indifference had gone back up. Jarod's anger, tempered with concern and sympathy, was short-lived.

"This"- he said with a meaningful gesture not towards her, but rather the ever-present space between them, "is why I left." He explained softly and waited patiently for her to give up the mental search for her gun.

When he was certain that he had her undivided attention, he continued. "Your job was to pursue me. Have you ever asked yourself what would have happened had I stayed?"

She gaped at him in apparent confusion.

"Had I stayed and chosen not to run anymore?" Jarod clarified with one dark, arched brow. "Chosen not to run from you?" He observed as realization touched her features and then he slowly stood. "So, you see now", he asked, "why I had to leave? Yes?"

She responded with a somber nod.

"I thought you might." He said with a smirk before returning to his chair. "So, tell me:", he launched directly into his reason for returning, "have you given any thought at all to my proposition; time is of the essence as you well know."

Parker seemed grateful for the change in conversation and answered straight away. "You are aware of the risks, have no doubt tested the feasibility of implementation- - which is questionable at best- - and I've no doubt you have prepared for every contingency, nevertheless-"

"Just let me worry about implementation and contingencies." He interrupted, somewhat condescendingly.

"You asked for my help." She reminded.

"Yes, I did, but make no mistake, Miss Parker: I have never wanted to involve you, and especially in any exploits that might put you in the Centre's cross-hairs. Raines is dangerous, aligning yourself against him, against the Centre- well, it has proven for many to be quite a precarious, and sometimes deadly, endeavor. Your safety has always been my primary concern. Always."

Parker's perfectly defined brows arched at that bit of news.

"My safety." She repeated. "Has it?"

"Yes." Jarod answered with a nod. "Yes, it has, and will always be. Look: this isn't easy for me. Leaving my family, my life, coming back here-" He paused. "I had no intention of disrupting your life this way, yours or Sydney's. And believe me: asking you for help is the last thing I've ever wanted to do." He continued with a scoff. "I'm desperate."

"Indubitably." She returned peremptorily. "What you are proposing, however,", she purred, mingling in her voice her unique brand of overt arch-mockery with a rather deep-seated comradeship, "is madness."

She observed the change in his countenance, the hardness take shape in his dark eyes.

"Am I to assume then that your answer is no?" He asked, and then stood. "I should have known", he groused, "that this would be a waste a time. I was a fool to return to Blue Cove, to even consider asking you for anything!"

"I don't object to saving the young man." Parker said after several intervals of silence.

"Then what, Miss Parker, is it that you object to?" Jarod inquired, harsher than he'd intended.

"I don't mean to be the proverbial pin in your inflated ego, Jarod", she declared rather matter-of-factly, "however, there is- - invariably- - more madness in your method than actual method."

He pivoted, tossed an expectant gaze at her, impatiently waited for her to expound on the statement. "Some things never change." She added and then observed with a simper tugging at her lips as Jarod fixed her with a wan, longsuffering expression.

"Some things, on the other hand", she continued, "have changed: the Centre. Those old blueprints will no longer aid you in traversing the maze of vents and you certainly will not be tunneling your way off the premises again, Mario- getting in and out the way you always have?" She mocked playfully.

Parker grinned at his double take; he- - quite obviously- - was not fond of the reference to the video game, of being likened to an animated Italian plumber, although he had to admit: endless lives certainly appealed to him.

"Not to mention your source-", she paused here for what Jarod could only describe as a moment of reverence, it was only after several intervals of silence and a rather forlorn sigh that Parker continued, "Angelo has vanished."

"Vanished." Jarod repeated softly.

"You have no one on the inside now that Syd's out of commission, there will be no way out and-"

"I'll find a way!" Came his impassioned interruption.

"You won't be able to help yourself, let alone J.R., and that's why I must object to this lunacy. Have you given any thought to the repercussions if-"

"Raines has my brother's heart!" Jarod choked out the words on a harsh exhalation. "You know what that means! Perhaps you should give some thought to the repercussions if he is successful!"

"If I am going to help you-"

"No", Jarod interrupted rather brusquely, although, his heart soared at her words. If. She was at least willing, and Jarod was buoyed by hope, and yet, he was still extremely wary. "No, you will not insert conditions." He exclaimed.

"I know that I asked for your help, but, Miss Parker, I'm only asking you to help me to an extent, and I think you will agree that you have much to gain from this- this temporary alliance. Remember: I had no intention of even including you in this- well", he amended, "in the implementation, yes, but not in the planning phase."

"Why, may I ask, are you including me?" She inquired coolly; however, as she once again mentally retraced her steps and came to the (rather inconvenient) conclusion that she'd left her gun on the counter (in the washroom), she was feeling anything but cool.

She couldn't for the life of her remember actually removing the holster and placing the gun on the counter. In fact, the last time she recalled the gun being on her person, she was in the Rover, which meant...

Damn him.

"There's no one else I can trust." Jarod answered earnestly.

"Oh", she scoffed mirthlessly, "so you believe you can trust me now?"

"Your mother's voice", Jarod said softly, and then very casually revealed Parker's gun, "is still inside you." He was satisfied with her silence, the reverence, the absence of rebuttal. Parker blinked at the gun and then looked up into the face of her- captor, is it, now?- towering over her.

Parker found the idea comical; she stifled the burst of hilarity before it could wrench itself from her throat and then sedately observed as he dipped his head toward the gun.

She was transported to another time, to her home. Trust your inner sense, Miss Parker. I do.

Enough to give me the gun, to know I won't kill or return him to the Centre.

His confidence- - that bordered smug- - still managed, even now, to pique her anger.

Parker wordlessly accepted the gun.

"So, you'll help me then?" Jarod asked, wearing a look of consummate satisfaction.

"And just how do I know that I can trust you?" She asked pointedly.

He hadn't considered that she'd have reservations about trusting him, but this was the Centre, and her concerns were valid. If he could prove her disloyalty, usurp Raines by swinging a deal with Lyle, he'd not only score points, he'd probably be handed the chairmanship. And Parker would no doubt pay with her freedom, possibly even her life because unlike Jarod, she was- - presumably- - expendable.

The stakes were much higher for her; they always had been.

"There's only one way to find out." He said flatly.

"Oh?" She purred. "And which way is that?" She inquired and then observed the impish grin curve his lips. Jarod answered simply:

 


"Trust me." 


          ܀              



End Notes:

They haven't had sex, but at least they haven't killed each other. Right?

 

Welcome Back, Jarod by Mirage
Author's Notes:

Fitting title no? Mm?

 

 


܀


Parker had dreamed about it, had even fantasized about it; striding through the Centre corridors, however, with Jarod cuffed and at gun point- - amid gasps and shocked stares, no less- - was more exhilarating and surreal an experience than she had ever imagined it would be.


It was painfully obvious that everyone had doubted her, from Roy in custodial services down on the bottom rung of the ladder all the way up to the boys in the tower and the Triumvirate heads.


They had doubted her abilities and loyalties, but to see the woman's blood red finger nails digging into the black faux leather jacket Jarod wore, her stoic carriage, head held high, gun in her right hand, the prowess, aplomb, the sheer magnitude of power emanating from Miss Parker by God- - in all her glory- - all doubts diminished.

Seeing is indeed believing.

Raines glared up at her when his doors burst open. "What do you want Miss-" He growled on a angry rasp and then stopped abruptly. 

Wearing a positively vulpine smile, Parker shoved a recalcitrant Jarod into the office and addressed Raines. "The sign of loyalty you've been awaiting, Sir."


"How could you do this to me?" Jarod snarled.

Raines was pleased, was positively salivating. His thick, pale tongue traced the curve of his moist lips and Parker knew the wheels were already spinning. What unscrupulous ventures were taking shape in that demented mind? What nefarious activities awaited Jarod? The sick fool drew a deep grating breath. "It's good to know that the Parker killer instinct has not skipped this generation."

This generation. The words would return to her later, return to haunt her.

"Indeed." She returned amiably. "My full report will be on your desk within one hour of his processing." Parker continued, ignoring a distraught Jarod.

"It's not too late, Miss Parker, please!" Came Jarod's usual spiel. "Your mother would-"

"I am not my mother." Parker interrupted brusquely and leveled the pistol at him. And for the first time, Raines actually believed her words to be true.

Raines reached for the intercom. "I'll have Willie-"

"May I suggest, sir, that you send Sam instead." Parker said. "This occasion calls for muscle, not speed."

"And if Jarod runs?" Raines asked.

"He won't outrun a bullet." Parker returned flatly. She was rather incensed when both Sam and Willie arrived, each men obviously hectoring for control, for a promotion, for survival.

"No." Jarod whined. "No, please. Please." The Pretender's panicked pleas increased exponentially.

"Who the hell invited you?" Parker hissed at Raines' sweeper.

"The rumors are all true then." Willie said, ignoring Parker, staring at Jarod's uneasy form.

"Please, don't do this!" Jarod pleaded with Parker as he was pulled to his feet. "Don't let them do this to me!" He wailed and then dropped to the floor where he curled into a fetal position and plopped a thumb into his mouth.

"On your feet, Jarod!" Parker ordered.

"No. Please. No! No!"

"We have no choice but to sedate him." Raines announced, his voice colored with equal measures of mad, wanton desire and frantic energy; he was impatient to experiment and torture, all too thrilled to shoot someone full of drugs. "Here." Raines said, pulling open a drawer and withdrawing a small glass vial and a syringe. "Before he hurts himself." He offered the items to Parker, who very gracefully managed to prevent her mask of indifference from slipping.

"Hurts himself?" Parker spat. "If he doesn't behave", she said, nudging Jarod's shoulder roughly with the toe of her Louboutin pump. "I am going to hurt him. On your feet, moron."

"Mommy!" Came Jarod's high-pitched wail. "Help me, Mommy!"


Lyle, in his office at the opposite end of the corridor, shielded the headset's mouth-piece with a hand and bit back his frustration.

This is not the time or the place for such a commotion!

Not while he was groveling. Agitated, he paced a circle around his desk and strained to hear.

"I understand your concerns, honorable sirs, but those projects- those projects, sirs, were botched as a result of Jarod's interference- Sir, we've played this one close to the vest to ensure no complications, and now that Jarod is a non-issue, any concern that Project Omega might be compromised is, I assure you, unwarranted. Yes. Yes, sir."

Lyle listened intently until, finally, the line went dead with a resounding click. H
e tossed aside the head-set, observed as it skittered across the lacquered desk. His career, and quite possibly his life, hinged on the success of Omega, Raines' brainchild- an eyes only project protected by the blood of those who had assisted the old maniac over the years. He could afford no mistakes, no rumors.

Boiling over with anger, Lyle made quick, purposeful strides down the corridor and pushed opened the doors to Raines' office.

"I don't know or care what you were doing, but the next time I'm taking a call from the heads of the Triumvirate-" His eyes widened. "Jarod?"

"In the flesh, baby brother." Parker purred.

"I don't have the time or the inclination to take on another project." Lyle asserted.

Parker holstered her weapon and sidled up to Lyle. "Let's get something straight right now: You failed to capture and return him, Lyle. Whatever he may or may not be, Jarod is not, nor will he ever be, your project." She stepped away and accepted Raines' offering.

A hush fell over the office when she stabbed the glass vial with the needle and filled the syringe. Jarod- - writhing and whimpering on the floor- - observed in terror as Parker knelt. "No. Please." Came his halting gasps, soft hiccuped sobs. "No. Please. Don't this to me." He cried softly. "Miss Parker, friend."

"Hush now, Jarod. Shh." She commanded. "Let us help you."

"Pwromise you'll help?" He asked.

"Yes." She smiled sweetly. "I'm going to pull up your sleeve and-"

"No!" He cried suddenly and flailed onto his side in an effort to escape. "Needles hurt! Mommy! Daddy! Daddy, help me!"

"Sam!" Parker ordered.

The sweeper joined the pair, held Jarod's cuffed hands, but was no match for the panicked Pretender.

"Lyle, Willie: hold his legs!" Raines rasped, his eyes large and filled with rage.

"Tighter!" Parker demanded and then in one fluid moment, brought the syringe down and emptied its contents.

"You pwromised." Jarod accused with tear-filled eyes- which to Parker, seemed like overkill. "You pwromised." He wailed, rocking onto his back and then onto his side, back and forth and again. "Miss Parker a wiar." He sniffled and then commenced to audibly sucking his thumb.

"A wiar?" Lyle asked mockingly, obviously amused.

"He's reliving the night he was first brought here." Raines observed. "He grew despondent and rebellious; he was just as difficult to handle the second time we captured him."

"Well then", Parker said, pressing both palms into her lower back, "let's not make the mistake of allowing him to escape the Centre a third time. Sam: put Jarod in his space."
 
The sweeper nodded, obeyed; he literally dragged Jarod to his "space" and then closed the door with a resounding clang. "Welcome back, Jarod." Sam said and then smile triumphantly.

Processing the Pretender.

The demands flowed effortlessly and were heeded without hesitation. No one defied the inestimable Miss Parker, and she had no qualms about reminding the staff of the fate they'd suffer should they dare to.

As promised, she deposited her reports onto Raines' desk, and then gloated at Lyle's expense. She finalized two vacation requests, signed off on nutritional requirements, menus and supplements and then graciously thanked both the boys in the tower as well as the recently installed Triumvirate head, Jaha Yeboah, for their praise as well as the promotion.

Day one of her "long term future" had gone off without a hitch.


The new Parker legacy begins with you, Mr. Parker's words came ricocheting through her mind.

"And so it begins." Parker said upon entering her new office.

"And so it does." A voice behind her echoed.

"Mr. Cox." She addressed him genilally, without turning and began the process of unpacking boxes.

"The Zulus are quite pleased indeed."

"Not half as pleased as I am." She replied.

"Oh, I can imagine." He returned with a light chuckle, slipping a single finger across the surface of the walnut desk. "All those bread crumbs leading you off into oblivion." He gestured slightly, sweeping his thumb across his fingers, seeking out dust- which was unheard of inside the Centre (a fact that caused him to ponder where precisely Jarod had found the mold and dust he'd use to create the sedative that had enabled his initial escape).

Cox shrugged, picked imaginary lint from his Armani suit and swept his palms together in a gesture one would typically use to dust off something unsavory or plot something of an equally unsavory nature.

"All those games." Cox continued. "The two of you, hunter and huntress, tokens moving on a board, always ending in a stalemate, if you will. But here you are." He smiled and gestured at her as if she were some glorious work of art. "Check and mate. The Queen still stands."

"I suppose that is one way of looking at it." Parker said nonchalantly.

"Your report indicates that Jarod lost control, that Sydney was injured in this", Cox grinned, "final pursuit."

"Sydney's whereabouts at this time are still unknown; however, I'd like to believe the umbilical between the pair acted to bridle Jarod's rage somewhat. My men are scouring the area as we speak."

"For a body?"

"Presumably."

"Ah, so you do fear the good doctor is dead then?"

"Good doctor?" Parker asked, skeptically. "Mm, I wouldn't go as far as that." She said and observed as Cox chuckled. "I was never very fond of headshrinkers myself, Miss Parker; however, Sydney does have Jarod on his résumé, and in the past, you have warned us against severing the emotional umbilical. Do you disavow your stance?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then there will be ramifications if Sydney is indeed dead."

"I can assure you that there will be." Parker asserted. "Sydney is the only person capable of harnessing the Pretender's intellect, the only person capable of squeezing high profit returns from the Centre's most valued asset."

"And our asset's psychological status?" Cox inquired standing rigid, arms akimbo, at parade rest.

"Certainly no one is more qualified to coddle Jarod than Sydney."

"Jarod is still unconscious?"

"He is." Parker replied. "There'll be much work to do when he wakes."

"Yes, Madam Chairman, there most certainly will be." He smiled amiably, not clamoring for a ride on her coat tails, not brown nosing as Lyle had.

Cox didn't have to grovel.

"I'd like to walk you to your car uh- if, of course, you'll permit me."

"Of course." Parker gathered her briefcase and then met the man's gaze. "That would be lovely."


        ܀          


End Notes:

 

 

Help by Mirage
Author's Notes:

Chapter notes? They were caught in the spokes of my bicycle and subsequently shredded. It was a freak thing. *shrugs*

 


 

 ܀


The isolation ward was frigid, dry, and smelled of formaldehyde and antiseptic in equal measures. The Pretender lay still, ostensibly unconscious. When he concluded his countdown from eight hundred thousand, he discreetly fondled the adhesive skin-tone communications device located behind his ear. "Broots, come in."

"Yeah, I'm here- uh until they find out what we're doing anyway and then- - and this should go without saying- - I won't be here. I won't be anywhere. Because I'll be dead."

"There'll be plenty of time to soil yourself later, Mr. Broots." Jarod assured. "Right now I need to know: how are you coming with the cameras?"

"Five minutes to showtime."

"And how is Miss Parker getting on with Dr. Cox?"

Broots keyed the handheld device, observed the footage, frowned.

"She's smiling at him." Broots groused and then pouted, sub voce: "She never smiles at me."

"She's never deceived you either." Jarod reminded.

Broots brightened, declared gaily:  "Hey, you know something: you're right."

"Well", Jarod grinned impishly, into his pillow, "I am genius."

"I certainly hope you are", Broots returned, dryly, "because my daughter needs her father. Hey! Okay, here we go. Cox is on the move. And Miss Parker is stepping into her car."

"Tell her to pull over in a mile and check for bugs."

Broots obeyed, came back a moment later: "Uh, I can't repeat what she just said."

"Just tell me one thing: was she smiling?"

"Uh, that's a negative."

"Good." Jarod grinned. "Now: I want you to keep your eye on her until she rendezvous with Dad at the lodge."

"And then?"

"Keep me posted."

"Won't you be busy?"

"How are those cameras coming, Mr. Broots."

"You are clear."

"Finally." Jarod murmured and then groaned and tugged the painfully adhesive, self-resealing hazmat bag from beneath his faux leather jacket. The particular item was as absorbent as it was uncomfortable. Extremely. Jarod was wearing some of Raine's drug despite Parker's impeccable aim with the needle; not even a drop had entered his body, however, and there had been no pooling of the drug on the floor- - which would have been damning evidence against Parker- - or on his clothing.

"The door should be unlocked now." Broots advised.

"Guards?"

"Everything is going according to plan, Jarod." Broots assured the Pretender. "You have a fifty second window."

"Left, two rights, maintenance access shaft. Correct?"

"We rehearsed this a thousand times." Broots berated rarely severely; his unease increased exponentially, audibly. "Please, don't screw this up, Jarod." Broots cautioned. "Syd, Miss Parker and me- that's it, Jarod, that's all my daughter has."

"Have I ever let you down, Mr. Broots?" Jarod asked, playfully, rhetorically, and then, finding the door unlocked, opened it and slipped into the empty corridor. "Do you have Cox's twenty?" Jarod inquired coolly.

Broots feverishly pressed several keys, studied the red indicator on the map.

"Uh, yeah, I do. GPS is tracking him through downtown Blue Cove."

"Switch to channel eight, antenna cam; I want the real time visual."

"Done. He's in his car, just passing the old water tower, his window is down and he is uh- he's miming a song."

Jarod moved stealthily towards the shaft entrance. "Initiate interior audio. I've just got to hear this." Jarod chuckled.

"Devo." Broots chortled. "He uh, he's", Broots shook his head, "the man is singing Jocko Homo." He announced with a frothy smile.

"Mm, I've always been curious about the musical preferences of sadistic assassins."

"Well, now you know." Broots said.

"And I wished I didn't." Jarod said flatly. "Okay, I'm in the shaft. If we lose the signal, give me twelve hours to re-establish contact before you call in reinforcements."

"Miss Parker will kill me if we deviate from the plan and I don't tell her immediately, Jarod."

"And they will kill her if they discover what she has done. And then they will come for you. Is that what you want?"

"Uh, no, it's not, but-"

"I'm nearing wing C. You still have eyes on lock up?"

"Yeah. The isolation ward is clear. Do you think you can hurry it up, Jarod. I- I feel sick."

"I'm on wing C. Is the cargo elevator clear?"

"Uh, yeah, you're all clear for lift off. Hurry, Jarod."

"How are things looking on sub-level twenty-three?"

"Sector eight, corridor eleven is uh, hold on, Jarod. Two sweepers at the end of the hall uh, are- they are moving east, turning the corner."

"Seen any good movies lately?" Jarod asked, blithely.

"Very funny." Came the tech's dry reply. "They are stepping on the elevator. You are clear." Broots advised.

"How is our egress coming?" Jarod asked.

"First things first, Jarod."

"Door 1689. I'm here."

"Disengaging lock."

"Do we have eyes inside?"

"Affirmative. Thermal infrared. The hostage is alone. He appears to be sleeping."

"Let's just hope that he isn't sedated." Jarod said and then unceremoniously opened the door and stepped into the room.

"Please!" J.R. exclaimed and bolted upright. "I don't know anything! I don't know. I-" The young man dropped his hands from their defensive position and then blinked in disbelief. "Jarod?"

"There isn't time to explain-"

"Then don't bother. Let's just get the hell out of here."





"Sydney? Major?" Parker surveyed the seemingly empty lodge, and then reached around for the gun. "Sydney?" She called again and started when the bathroom door slightly opened.

"Back here, Elaine." Jarod's father shouted over the running water. Parker resumed her entrance, closed the door on a darkening cerulean sky, and then came to an abrupt halt. Elaine? Her mother's middle name. Parker swallowed a harsh gasp, knitted her brows (and unbeknownst to her, Sydney paused in his ablutions to frown similarly).

Jarod apparently felt that it was safe to share her secret- - her lie- - with his father. All the years and strong boxes and wonderboy still doesn't know the truth.

The memory fled its too shallow grave, returned fresh, raw. Haunted her. Another game. Another lie. A simulation. Mandated by her father.

The kiss. The questions. The lies she'd told. What's your name? Your real name?

The Major's voice shattered her reverie. "Elaine, are you all right?"

"Fine." Parker returned with a reticent smile that didn't meet her eyes.

"Good. Uh, Sydney needed a hand with his sponge bath. We'll be right out. Oh, and I hope you brought food. We're starving!" The Major exclaimed.



The woman had brought a feast. And no one was more appreciative than Jarod when he arrived with a confused, but alive, J.R. in tow.

"Pizza, burgers, hotdogs, and uh, salad." He scrutinized the carrots and grape tomatoes, directed a frown at the latter- - which seemed to cause his previous excitement to briefly wither- - and then bypassed the greenery (as if it were instead poison ivy) and loaded a small pizza box with two of each of the former.

"I see that your return to the Centre hasn't diminished your appetite." Sydney observed Jarod with a smile of faint amusement tugging at his lips.

"I'm- mm- mmm- I'm starving." Jarod declared between large bites, and then turned to Sydney. "Broots is planting my fingerprints in security?"

"Parker telephoned while you were showering. Broots is ahead of schedule."

"Good. I don't want any loose ends." Jarod managed between bites. "Did she remind him to upload the patches to the bug tracking systems in the library database and embed the codes into  the mainframe?"

Sydney shrugged. "She didn't say."

"Did she have any new information?" Jarod inquired.

"Information?"

"Anything on Cox? Potential snags? Any hint of raised suspicions?"

"Son", The Major answered, "she dropped off the food and the Vicodin and then she left. I'm sure if there were any issues, she would have alerted us."

Jarod frowned, rose, dialed her number. "This is precisely why I asked her to stay until I arrived."

"You also advised her to create a paper trail that puts her away from the Centre at the time of your escape", Jarod's father said, placatingly, and then after a glance at his watch added: "Which will occur in less than four hours."

"Ten minutes to brief me. That's all I asked of her." He argued defensively. "Why the hell isn't she picking up the telephone?"

"There was to be no contact from us- that was your rule, Jarod." Sydney reminded gently and then observed in growing concern as J.R. Miller paced his way to the front door and back again. The Major followed his gaze, frowned and then addressed the young man: "Don't you want another slice of pizza?"

"I can't stop thinking about my mom. She's probably worried sick."

"She is." Jarod confirmed. "The FBI is working the case."

"Oh, God." J.R. erupted, exasperated. "I haven't even been gone that long!"

"Your mother loves you." Sydney grinned at the young man's discontent.

"Yeah. And she's overprotective. And I think I know why." J.R. shook his head morosely, "It probably has something to do with you and that brunette and this Cox person you speak of- who ever the hell that is. Look, Jarod, I'm grateful to you for finding me a heart but I- I want to know more about the person it belonged to. Was it that man? The one that tied up Mrs. Delmont in the desert? Is that why the Centre wants me? He worked for the Centre too, right? So it makes sense that-"

"I told you before, J.R.-"

"But you didn't tell me why I was shot with a tranquilizer dart and carted into that place with a hood over my head? What other reason could there be?"

Jarod rose and retrieved a photograph from his black duffel. J.R. studied the photo, shook his head and met Jarod's tear-filled gaze. "I don't understand." J.R. said haltingly. "Why do you have a photograph of Doctor Kyle with you?"

"Doctor Kyle?" Jarod inquired, his voice colored with skepticism.

 

 



"Kyle." Parker breathed the name, shook her head. "Is alive?" Her brows were arched high in surprise, disbelief.

Jarod nodded. "He's been planning this since we were children!" Came the whispered exclamation.

"Planning what, exactly?" Parker inquired and then observed as Jarod fondled the silicon face mask and blond wig he held in his hand. He nervously toyed with the latter, unceremoniously shoved it into the back pocket of his janitor uniform, and then observed as Parker studied the astonishingly life-like mask intently.

She'd seen that face before somewhere, and wondered if he'd kept tabs on her? He could have been anyone, could have gone anywhere, could have walked beside her on a busy sidewalk, confidently, without fear of detection.

"Well, he was rather vague with the details; he did, however, mention taking down the Centre." Jarod answered and then grimaced and smiled, sympathetically.

"Excuse me?" Parker exclaimed.

"I attempted to dissuade him."

"Tell me that you succeeded." Parker remarked dryly and then pressed her palms into her lower back. Jarod observed in faint amusement as she pivoted around to face the mirror and make a quick adjustment to hair.


"No. No, I didn't. Not exactly." Jarod answered.

Parker's indignant gaze met Jarod's in the mirror.


"Your hair is lovely." He commented sweetly and offered her a rather urbane smile.


Parker managed an indulgent, tired smile, and then thrust a finger at his reflection. "Flattery will you get absolutely nowhere, Mister." She informed him brusquely. "What does "not exactly", she mimicked, "mean?"

To which Jarod shrugged. "He actually provided a cogent argument."

A burst of hilarity erupted from Parker's throat. "Perfect."  She purred with a roll of eyes and pithy smile. "You ambushed me in the ladies room to tell me this?"

"Yes. And to thank you for helping me rescue J.R.- I couldn't have done that without your help." He explained, and then added in a voice textured with reverence and sympathy, "your mother would be very proud of you."

Jarod observed as she pivoted, retreated, came to an abrupt halt and tossed her head back in what many people would describe as frustration. She released an audible breath, folded her arms across her chest, fashioned an expression of malevolence- - to no doubt mask her true emotions- - and whirled around to face him.

"I've been appointed chairwoman." She announced without further ceremony.

"I know." Jarod said, softly. "And I imagine that it's going to be rather difficult for you to cope with additional responsibilities, and especially now. You're not a child anymore, Miss Parker, you're not naive or stupid, and your father is no longer here to pacify you with lies. You know the truth about what they do."

She knew. She knew everything, knew because Jarod had poked large, gaping holes into her veil of cognitive dissonance. Parker swallowed the riposte, couldn't quite stomach the taste of denial, or the same old rusty but trusty: "that's a lie and you know it" on her tongue.

She couldn't defend Mr. Parker. He might not have been a monster, Parker opined, but he sure as hell wasn't Mr. Rogers. The truth still hurt, nevertheless. She loved her father, missed him.

Consequently, she wanted to hurt Jarod, hurt him the way he hurt her when he disparaged her career, emphasized the Centre's crimes, highlighted her father's faults.

She knew it was pointless to attack. Maligning Jarod with her malicious barbs had never benefited her in the past, even when she had truly believed that he was the monster.

She recalled her father, his lips pressed into a tight line, the overt hostility towards Jarod, the dictum of disgust. The lies. Monster. He's a monster. Jarod perpetuates lies. Lies about your mother.

Those words were patently untrue. If only I'd known that back then.

"They." Jarod repeated. "They. I've been grateful that, to date, the distinction has not become blurred", he explained, and then, as an afterthought added, "well, not so blurred that I can't see the real you. In time, however, I'm afraid that when I refer to the Centre, it will be impossible for me to distinguish you from your brother, from Raines. I don't want to lose a friend. And I- I can't help but to imagine what your mother would have to say about your chairmanship if she were alive."

"Don't." Parker cautioned tremulously. "Don't you dare use my mother to advance your argument. I", Came the snarled invective, "am not her." She reminded sullenly, somewhat abstractedly, and bristled beneath his rapt gaze.

No, not Catherine Parker. Loving mother and wife, philanthropist. Sweet Catherine with her kind heart and warm smile. No. Never her. Catherine had suffered terribly, suffered from misplaced trust, manic depression and perhaps a pinch of Nostalgie de la boue tossed in for good measure.

"I'm not arguing, Miss Parker." Jarod assured her with a tight smile. He was pushing, perhaps pushing her too hard, however, he was certain that he had made some progress.

Notwithstanding the difficulties, lies, the manipulations and setbacks, he'd always been able to reason with her to, at least, a certain extent, either by employing his skills as a Pretender, or by sheer luck, or, by way of variation, sometimes an equal amalgamation of both.

"I know that you often wish she were here to advise you. I know that you did when you were younger, and it's obvious that you still do. Don't you?" Jarod inquired. "And don't you wonder what she would say? Or- or how she would react to the news that you are Chairwoman of the Centre? I certainly do."

"And I think", he added with a wistful smile, "that she would laud you for helping me rescue J.R. and she would say that you-" Jarod dragged in a breath, continued unblinkingly, "you've taken an enormous first step, you've launched a true strike against the Centre. I believe that she would ask you to take another step, and another, and see yourself clear of the Centre and the Triumvirate. She wants what all loving parents want for their children, what Broots wants for his daughter: security, happiness, love, marriage. A life. Something more than this- this perennial stasis."

"Something more." Parker slung the words back at him, twisted two rather benign words into some sort of perverted vernacular that was not altogether unpleasant. "Something more?" She screamed at Jarod-  Jarod with his éclat and posturing and aggrandizements. Damn him!

"You interrupted my date for this." Parker accused flatly, her voice liquid, anguished. "To proselytize." She tacked on in wide-eyed disbelief.

"I'm simply asking you to follow through. I'm asking you", Jarod smiled gently, "to do what your mother", he said with that familiar modulation in his voice- the one reserved soley for Catherine Parker, "died trying to do. Finish it. Destroy that place before it destroys you."

"I don't know the details of her plan, Jarod." Parker blurted, deflated, and then observed the inquisitive tilt of his head. "I don't know what she wanted or the unfinished work she was referring to or-"

"And so your answer is do nothing?" Jarod interrupted, his voice was grainy, wheedling, filled with anguish, his eyes were soft and hard, challenging and sincere. "To continue to do nothing? To devote your life to that place, to the people who killed your mother and killed Thomas?" Jarod inquired, his voice edging anger.

Parker was clearly incensed by the accusations, the painful truth in his words. She felt her confidence wither and her anger deflate beneath the intense scrutiny of his dark, doleful gaze. "She died trying to rescue you, Miss Parker. You are the unfinished work. Nothing else could have been more important than saving her little girl. Nothing."

"What if you are wrong? What if it's something else? What if Raines knows the truth?" Came the litany of hypothetical forebodings. "What if-"

"What if I'm right?" He asked softly.

"But what-"

Ever the tragedian, Miss Parker. Jarod shook his head and raised a finger to silence her.

"What if her plan begins with you? What if the end of the Centre marks the beginning of her plan, the beginning of your new life?" He posed gently, and then grasped Parker by her bare shoulders, ignored her protracted gasp, and spun her around roughly to face the mirror.

She - -  owing wholly to the unexpectedness of the gesture and the subsequent lightheadedness- - came to a rather ungainly halt on precarious heels; she could do little more than sag against Jarod for support and gape at herself in abject disbelief.

"What if the answer is right in front of you?" Jarod continued, impassioned.

Their eyes met again in the insipid light of the ladies room. "What if you and Broots and Debbie, and Kyle- what if we fight and win and walk away to live a life of our own choosing?" Jarod asked softly, and then, decidedly resolved, simply commanded:

"Let me help you."


܀


End Notes:

End notes? *see chapter notes*

Flight of Fancy by Mirage


܀



Divine providence. Jarod believed it was nothing short of divine providence.


His baby brother was alive, his family was complete, and Miss Parker was finally ready to talk turning points and different endings- admittedly, he'd just about given up on the latter. And oddly enough, the latter seemed even more unlikely, more inconceivable to Jarod than Kyle's second miraculous escape from what Jarod believed had been certain death.

It's no miracle, Kyle explained without being prompted by Jarod. You weren't the only one they cloned, you know.

Jarod hadn't known. He'd feared, yes, and had dismissed those fears.

Until now.

Kyle offered documentation, photos, surveillance footage- all of which had been authenticated.

The Centre employs the best of the best. Top assassins, shrinks, researchers, specialists. Their cryonics facility was state of the art. They weren't only preserving clones, either. They were also regenerating organs, limbs.

Regenerating.

Preserving.

Jarod dropped leadenly into a straight-back chair.

Preserving.

He was reminded of an old farm house- - where he'd once sought refuge- - whose pantries and basement were filled with hundreds of shelves of preserved fruits and vegetables in tight-lidded jars- to be taken down and opened when resources were low, when the opened jars were all used up.

He grimaced in disgust, his eyelashes fluttered slowly, the muscles in his jaw worked of their volition.

That's all we are to the Parkers, it's all we've ever been, Kyle continued gravely, resources to be used at their discretion, to be replicated and stored away in the event that we are no longer viable- it's the only way they could guarantee their success, maintain their status. They will always need a Pretender, they will always need leverage. He told a tale of labeled petri dishes, frozen semen by the barrels, replacement body parts numbering in the tens of thousands, all of which contained his, as well as Jarod's- - among others'- - DNA.

He had considered stealing the clone but considered the rampant paranoia that likely accompanied any position within the Centre. The boys in the tower were inherently suspicious. It would've been awfully convenient for Kyle's clone to vanish on the very evening that Kyle died in his brother's arms. Furthermore, Kyle believed such a strike to be an extraordinary facile one. He wanted the theft and the death to be two separate incidents, intended to leave no room for doubt.

There had been one option, one chance to pull it off. And there had been sixty casualties.

Kyle talked briefly about the events that had occurred behind the scenes, the friendships he'd developed- friends who'd helped him pull off the job. "They're former Marines. I met them during one my shorter stints in the Corps when I was between prison sentences. They'd been court-martialed."

"And you cleared their names?" Jarod asked. "That's why they helped you."

Kyle nodded, somewhat disinterestedly. "When I called in the IOU, they didn't even hesitate."

They approached stealthily, severed the facility's surveillance feed and communication, and jammed all mobile devices. The men then entered and opened fire on employees. The clone was id'd, transported to the hospital morgue where Kyle impatiently waited.

Following the transplant, the corpse was returned to the facility; Kyle knew that the Centre recovery team would comb the debris for charred bones and teeth. They had.

"Three days later, we reestablished communication with the Centre, looped old surveillance and security video, made a few vital edits, and had one of the hostages report an incident with the onsite crematory. A break in a gas line." Kyle clarified. "By that time, we'd already doused the place with an undetectable military-grade accelerant."

"The Centre suspected no foul play." Emily said, appreciatively.

Kyle nodded his affirmation. "The break was blamed on earthquakes; off the record, however, the investigators believed that Raines was too greedy with funding to have the facility regularly inspected and maintained."

"And the hostages?" Troy (Jarod's clone) inquired, eagerly.

Kyle turned, stared out the window, and then answered, woodenly:

"The two hostages attempted to escape. And were killed."

Kyle indulged their questions (well into the morning hours) with sometimes vague- - but never glib- - answers, satisfied every curiosity. And Maggie had aplenty. And was the only member of his family to voice suspicions.

"If there is indeed a clone- or was a clone, how do we know that you are the genuine Kyle and not the replica? How do we know that you aren't on their side?"

She believed he was a cold blooded killer. And he believed she was hypocritical and austere. Kyle shook his head and simply replied, "you don't", which prompted Jarod to intervene.

"The Centre would have been hard pressed to replicate scars and tattoos, especially scars and tattoos that they weren't even aware existed. If he was an imposter, mom, an enemy, we'd be in the Centre now, instead of discussing this."

"I still don't understand." Margaret declared irritably. Her mouth was drawn tight in reflection, her brow creased in confusion, her voice colored with a restrained formality and just a hint of derision- as if she didn't believe her son was alive and well and standing before her. She was angry, too.

Angry that he'd been alive all those years and hadn't sought his family, and angry too that she lived in a world where- - courtesy of cutting edge advancements in science- - she could no longer even trust her own eyes. "Didn't you operate on him, Jarod? Weren't you on the transplant team?"

"I was only the delivery man."

Maggie wasn't quite placated. Yet.

"Was the clone alive?" She blurted impatiently. "Or- or did you-"

"Mom!" Emily exclaimed her objection abruptly in a tone colored with acrimony and dolor.

Who is he to decide who lives or dies? He could hear the voices chastising. Who are you to decide who lives or dies? Who are you, Kyle? Who? Who!

Kyle snapped his eyes closed, drew in a fortifying breath and pivoted around to face his family.

"It's all right, Emily." He said, fashioning a tight smile. "My clone, apparently, sustained some sort of brain injury."

"Brain injury?" Maggie repeated fretfully, an expression of abject incredulity marring her features.

"Records indicate that he'd been on life support for three months. His organs were viable; his brain- uh, not so much. Invasive behavior modification gone awry." Kyle surmised with a grimace of disgust contorting his lips.

"Frontal lobe separation?" Jarod ventured.

"Or cortex deafferentation," Kyle answered, "or a number of other barbaric procedures." Kyle added with a dismissive wave. "That bastard Raines is a regular Doctor Ishii." He snarled and shared an expression of contempt with Jarod.

"But- well," Maggie stammered, weakly, "you didn't answer the question. Was he alive?"

"Mom!" Emily decried once more with renewed pique.

Who are you to decide who lives or dies you sniveling little piece of excrement? You are nothing!

Kyle returned to his attention to the window.

Who are you to decide who lives or dies? Who are you to decide who lives or dies? Who are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or dies

Shut up.

Who are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or dies

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up godamnit!

"Shut up!"

"W-what?" Maggie asked, feebly and clutched her husband's hand for support.
 
"Kyle." Jarod said softly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Kyle answered gruffly, "Uh, for all intents and purposes, no. He was not alive when he was transported. He was on life support, he was never taken off the ventilator: the heart had to be viable." Kyle answered and then, when his mother- - reflected in the glass- - continued to gape at him uncomprehendingly, he added quite simply (perhaps too simply): "he was already dead." With a snort of anger, Kyle erupted bitterly: "Look: I'm not like you. I'm not like any of you! I'm certainly not like Jarod." Kyle pivoted, yanked his leather jacket from the coat rack. "I've spent my entire life searching for you, mom. I realize now that you didn't want me to find yo-"

"Son," Major Edward Charles emphatically interjected, "your mother is only concerned. She's suffered a shock. We all have."

"You were shot!" Maggie exclaimed tearfully. "Jarod watched you die. He was certain that you were dead. He said there was blood."

An irritated Jarod silenced his mother with a dismissive wave and pushed a cup of coffee into Kyle's hand - all the while gently coaxing the jacket from his brother's grasp. "Lyle could have killed you, Kyle." Jarod said softly. "You were taking a huge risk by stepping into his line of fire and taking a bullet that was intended for me."

"He could have killed me, had he fired an live round instead of a wax one. I had a few moments alone with his gun, if you recall."

Jarod nodded his affirmation, returned his brother's jacket to the rack. He vividly remembered his visit to Red Rock, remembered every detail. "You do realize that people have been killed with blanks, that even rubber bullets can be deadly, don't you?"

Kyle grinned. "You know, there were moments when I was certain that you felt my heart beating."

Jarod had been so stricken with grief, he wouldn't have felt his brother's heart, wouldn't have noticed the slight rise and fall of his chest.

"The only thing that matters now is that we saved a life, and, more than that, we're going to end this war with the Parkers, for once and for all."

"That's something we need to discuss." Jarod said softly.

"You're damned right it is, big brother. It's time to make the Parkers pay."

"Not all of the Parkers." Jarod corrected and observed as his brother's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, let me guess: you've been bewitched by Miss Parker, fallen under the spell of the ice queen."

"Kyle-"

"The woman is bad news, Jarod."

"Just hear me out."

Kyle listened, however, he didn't believe, didn't want to believe.

Miss Parker.

Miss Parker?

Kyle shook his head grimly. Miss Parker.

The "get-Kyle" Miss Parker siccing the sweepers on him at the Dragon House. She had been more wary than aggressive when she'd visited the hole he'd been thrown into down on death row. Kyle still vividly recalled the maximum security sector of ward thirteen- the place was a regular quacks-R-us, and Miss Parker had been afraid. Angry and afraid.

She was all emotion. She wore her feelings across her features, would have made for a lousy poker partner, and an even lousier war buddy. Which brought him to yet another fault: Miss Parker didn't strike him as the type of woman who played well with others. She seemed incapable of compromise and to his knowledge possessed no leadership skills, had no friends. In fact, aside from that incisive tongue of hers and those cold blue eyes, she had nothing to offer; after all, wars were not won with dagger glares and rapier wit.



Those astute blue eyes were presently regarding- - somewhat morosely- - the finger of bourbon swirling about in the crystal tumbler, and filling with tears that she would not allow to spill past her eyelids.

It hadn't been a horrible plan. In fact-

No.

No.

"No." She whispered aloud to the emptiness.

He was waiting for her, waiting near an old tree, in an open field underneath a bowl of stars. Probably smiling up appreciatively. A lovely night, an omen.

"No." She repeated. The sepulchral tick-ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner stabbed the silence, answered, admonished her.

Focus, Parker. Focus.

She hadn't.

Jarod's proposition had distracted her briefly. His dreams always had. She recalled afternoons wandering the Centre's labyrinthine sub-levels (the place seemed to be one enormous maze in which every door, corridor and employee looked exactly the same) by his side and listening intently as he romanticized about one elaborate adventure after another.

Leaving the Centre via teleportation, whisking the two of them off to Lichtenstein or some other obscure locale where they'd drink hot cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream and do whatever they wanted: listen to music, watch television, ski, swim, surf. Or hot-ballooning around the world- it'll be just like the book, except we'll never land.

We'll go to Capileira and sleep, he'd once suggested prior to a month long simulation involving sleep-deprivation.

Her father (the only father she'd ever known) had since cautioned her against Jarod and recklessness. Spontaneity. Capriciousness. And dreaming. She was to never behave erratically. There were rules; she vividly recalled them:

No walking off in a huff of rebellion.
No changing your mind once you've made it up.
No outburst of tears. Or laughter. One must control their emotions, and never allow their emotions to control them. A person controlled by emotions is weak.
The heart is fickle. People can be fickle. Your mother was fickle. And weak. And she's dead now- I certainly wouldn't want that to happen to my Angel.

She'd heeded his advice and fashioned a perfect mask of indifference, had learned to exude confidence, to become self-possessed, structured, stable. And she was still alive, was older now than her mother had been at the time of her death.

Because she had listened to her father and not those damned voices. (And yet, it was her father's voice telling her that Jarod couldn't be trusted, that the new Centre legacy begins with her, that the scrolls are real- and she was listening.)

I'd be fool to leave now, to join Jarod in launching an assault against the Centre. We'd never win. The Centre will never fall.

She simply couldn't envision a life outside the Centre, a world in which the Centre as she knew it no longer existed. The corruption was too widespread, its root system complex, deep-seated. The Centre, she opined, was insurmountable.

From her perspective, it was logical to work from the inside, attempt to reduce causalities and iniquities and over time, restore the Centre to its former altruistic glory.

To abandon the Centre was to abandon every chance of finding the truth. As if to punctuate that thought, the half hour tolled from the dark corner, resonated the empty house.

I've worked too hard for too many years to walk away now, and to put not only herself but Broots and Debbie in danger, to risk it all on a scheme that sounded like every other fantastical notion Jarod had ever dreamed up: too good to be true.

I've come too far to be swayed by the whims of Franken-boy and his criminally insane brother.

Jarod would have frowned down upon the pet names, however, he had anticipated her second thoughts. He knew there would be doubts. He also knew that the longer Parker remained at the Centre, the more difficult it was going to be for her to leave it behind. Nevertheless, he guesstimated that she'd be no more than ten minutes late.

Or fifteen, he amended minutes later- - with withering confidence- - and willed her headlights to appear on the horizon.

To his left, Kyle hissed a string of obscenities, continued staring off at the distance.

"This is insane, Jarod."

"What is?"

"This." Kyle gestured impatiently. "How do you know that the black choppers aren't en route?"

"Call it a gut feeling."

"Are you sure that what you're feeling in your gut isn't hunger?"

Jarod chuckled heartily and parked his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Kyle, we can trust her."

Kyle grimaced, shrugged off the hand- he continued to struggle with displays of affection. "If we can, if what you say is true, if she has begun batting for our side, where the hell is she?"

"I don't know." Jarod answered with a only a cursory glance at his watch. She was late. Another look at the minute hand wouldn't change that.

"This is the correct rendezvous point?" Kyle asked.

"Yes."

"Is it possible that she spotted me- I can understand how it might spook her to see a dead-"

"No. She knows that you are alive. And Miss Parker isn't easily spook-"

"She knows? Wait a minute: you told her that I'm alive? Jarod, my God! How do you even know that you can trust her?"

"Calm down-"

"No, I won't calm down! I know that you are besotted by the woman, Jarod, but the success of our plan is hinged on the element of surprise, their believing I'm dead, that the only hostile witness to their clandestine operations is a non-factor."

"Your secret is safe with her."

"How do you know that?"

"I know her."

"Oh? You know her?"

"Her loyalties have shifted, Kyle. Trust me."

"Trust you?" Kyle chuckled. "Those words have become your de facto trademark, big brother, and I've no doubt that some troubled soul out there might be comforted by your little catch-phases but where the Parkers are concerned I trust no one."

"She has changed".

"Why? Because she helped you rescue J.R.?" Kyle eyes narrowed. "Jarod, she had everything to gain. She's chairwoman now, in case you hadn't noticed. Do I need to remind you just how many years that woman has been terrorizing our family?

The casual blindness, the utter disregard and nonchalance with which she has regarded the horrors orchestrated by her father, by Raines? She watched as I pretended to die in your arms and then she- what was it that she said again, Jarod? What words of comfort did she offer you in your time of grief?"

"Kyle-"

"Time to come home, Jarod." Kyle mocked, cruelly.

"What was she supposed to say to me, Kyle, when Centre sweepers were present?"

"Oh, so you're telling me that it was all a pretense?"

"No. I can't tell you that it was all a pretense; however, I do believe that she's proven herself worthy of a second chance."

"Why?"

"Everyone deserves one."

"No. Not everyone. She is a Parker, Jarod, she deserves-"

"We can trust her, Kyle!" Jarod trudged on resolutely.

"Stop saying that word!" Kyle, clearly nettled, erupted angrily. "You don't know that you can trust her. You don't even know her."

"I know her. I've always known her. I know her heart. I know that-"

"Jarod, you don't even know her name, let alone-"

"Of course I know her name!" Jarod exclaimed incredulously.

Kyle crossed his arms, challenged his brother.

"Okay then, tell me: what is her name?"

"I'm not supposed to tell anyone- and, I've already accidentally told our father. It's a- it's a secret."

"A secret." Kyle repeated. "Well, you're right about that- in fact, that may be the only thing you've gotten right where that woman is concerned. Since you're sworn to secrecy and I am not, I will tell you the name- - the secret- - she shared with you: Elaine- Catherine's middle name."

"How-"

"I've turned the Centre's records inside out. I have the transcripts and results of every simulation, including the ones that your infallible Miss Parker participated in."

"Simulation? What are you-"

"No." Kyle said. "I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to show you."

Because seeing is believing. Or used to be anyway, back before his mother deduced that he was an imposter clone sent by the Centre to infiltrate the Charles family, back when his brother ran from Miss Parker. The old Jarod would never have attempted to ally himself with a Parker. Jarod, would, with any luck, see the error of his ways. Soon.

When all of the evidence had been viewed and the screen darkened, Jarod ejected himself from the leather chair, accused Kyle of altering the video, of demonizing an innocent woman- aware all the while that Parker was not completely innocent and that his behavior was both irrational and reprehensible.

Kyle stood patiently and listened intently while Jarod paced angrily and cursed. Finally, Jarod thrust a trembling hand into his shirt pocket.

Wordlessly, he retrieved his mobile, punched in Parker's number with rigid angry fingers and paced the floor, up the hall and down again and growing more furious by the second.

A lie. It was all a lie. Everything she ever told me was a lie!

Jarod didn't give her the opportunity to answer the telephone in her usual rude manner. And who the hell answers the phone like that anyway? What the hell is wrong with her?

"Wh-"

"Where were you?"

"I-" She began coldly, fell silent. "I believe you've dialed the wrong number."

Jarod assumed that she was in a meeting, imagined Lyle sneering at her from across the table. "We need to talk. I'll be at the same location again tonight. Nine o'clock."

"It's no problem at all." She answered frothily and promptly ended the the call.

It became apparent to Jarod at approximately half past nine that, contrarily, there was a problem. An enormous one. He found this whole being-stood-up-by-a-woman business rather infuriating. It was a first, to his knowledge. He wanted it to be a last.

He dialed her number. Again. And more angrily than before. Misdialed. Redialed. Cursed under his breath. Dialed again. Success. And not success: the machine picked up. He snarled intelligibly. And then pocketed the mobile, which to his surprise, rang two minutes later.

"Yes." He said gruffly.

"J-Jarod."

"Mr. Broots?"

"Broots. Just Broots, okay? Because uh- well, it's a little strange to be addressed as Mister by someone older than I- and uh, eww, this phone booth smells weird. Geez, what the hell is that-"

"Broots!" Jarod's voice thundered.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Where is Miss Parker?"

"She's still in a meeting with Lyle and the Triumvirate. And that creepy Mr. Cox."

Jarod digested that for a moment with a sneer of disgust curving his lips, and then swallowed and asked: "What kind of meeting?"

"The information-gathering kind. They aren't calling it an interrogation but every Centre employee was summoned and Mr. Cox is asking a helluva lot of questions."

"Do they suspect her?" Jarod asked.

"Uh, no. I was afraid they would, but no they don't. They have zero suspects and no leads on J.R.- but they didn't actually tell us that. Tony did. Tony works in security and-"

"Broots!" Jarod yelled. "I don't care about Tony. If they don't suspect her, why is she still in the meeting?"

"Well, they were going to let her leave with me, but Mr. Cox believes she could be useful. She's Chairwoman now and-"

"Useful." Jarod interrupted. "Useful how?"

"Hey," Broots chuckled, "you gotta admit it: she can be intimidating- what with the gun and all."

"Yes, the gun. It can be quite intimidating. Does she have it with her now?"

"Ha." Broots laughed. "No. Of course not."

"No. Of course not," Jarod concurred, his voice and gut both filling with dread- and with an incomprehensible rapidity, "and I think you will agree that she's not terribly intimidating- not in the least without the gun, and certainly not invincible. How do you know that she's not in trouble? That she hasn't been found out? That she didn't walk into a trap? That she's safe?"

"See," Broots grinned at Jarod's concerned, "I knew you would ask that and I'm way, way ahead of you: I'm listening via communication device."

"You planted one on her. Very clever, Broots." Jarod lauded and could almost hear Broots' ego spike several degrees.

"Yeah, they are undetectable, skin tone. Uh- ooh, she's on her way out now."

"Then, I'll call-"

"No!" Broots blurted. "Uh, well, what I mean to say is that y- you shouldn't. I- how did she word it? She-"

"She's decided to stay on and run the place, hasn't she?" Jarod asked, shirtily.

"Uh, well, that's not exactly what she said, but-"

"Damn it!" Jarod growled.

"Whoa now, don't shoot the messenger!" Broots exclaimed.

"Why not?" Jarod asked, dryly.

"She's going to contact you when it's safe."

"So, I should expect her," Jarod ventured, "never?"

"Huh?" A puzzled Broots returned.

"You know, she's not nearly as smart as I believed her to be, and Broots: you can tell her that I said so."

Jarod believed he could goad her into an argument, at least make her angry enough to telephone him. He was wrong. And his parents were given the opportunity to see their oldest son brood, to see Jarod-the-sulky. It wasn't pretty. And they were certain he would have grown out of the temper tantrum phase by the age of forty.

He groused and murmured obscenities long after his family retired to their bedrooms, sleep rolls and assorted cots. At the breakfast table, over a large glass of orange juice, he back-talked his mother and discovered what it was to be admonished by a father: "Don't take that tone with your mother, young man!

Coming out of hiding was a mistake but we allowed it because you believed Kyle's DNA had fallen into the wrong hands. Now that J.R. is safe, however, and we are all together again, we should return the young man to his mother, get him back to his life and get back to our own lives."

It felt good in some ways (his father still loved his mother; years and miles apart had only strengthened their marriage) but mostly he felt ashamed of himself. And even more angry with Parker. His father was right- Jarod knew it, knew that he couldn't continue to wait for her.

There were so many lives at stake. And there were so many variables.

Too many variables.

Jarod didn't know how exactly he intended to make everyone happy: J.R. was rather anxious to return to his mother, basketball and some semblance of normality.

Edward and Maggie longed for security, for their family to go underground. Together. Emily, however, wanted to continue with her career in journalism- even if meant venturing out on her own again.

Similarly, Troy wanted to study medicine, have a real life- the sort of life that J.R. spoke of incessantly, the kind of life Miss Parker had discussed with him all those years ago. He wanted the kind of life other people had, normal people. I'm tired of hiding, of running.

Kyle agreed, ingratiatingly. He wasn't keen on the prospect of going underground either, and insisted that everyone would be satisfied if they simply moved forward with his plan. With the Parkers out of the picture, they'd be safe to live the lives of their choosing and Maggie and Edward wouldn't have to worry.

"Out of the picture?" Ethan exclaimed in protest. "That's my half brother and sister you're talking about!"

Ah, Joie de Vivre! Jarod thought they might strangle one another, and long before they decided how best to proceed. He made no attempt to referee the battles and he certainly couldn't fault Ethan for being furious, for defending Miss Parker, for wanting to go to her, protect her- it's what brothers are supposed to do, after all.

Maggie and Edward once again refused to give their blessing. The former wept and finally became hysterical and once again, a sulking Ethan remained with his family. Safe.

Safety all costs.

The only cost was his happiness.

To further complicate matters, Sydney couldn't return to his home yet, couldn't simply be deposited at the steps of the Centre either. And it would raise suspicions if the shrink were discovered recuperating in Miss Parker's home.

Miss Parker.

Every conservation, every journey, every road, every argument, every thought and dream brought Jarod right back to Miss Parker.

He didn't want her caught in the crossfire, didn't want her to be a patsy, serve a life sentence for criminal activities she hadn't even been aware of and wouldn't have condoned had she been aware. She'd already served a life sentence. They both had. And he didn't want to be move on without her. Not again.

She was intractable, haughty. Jarod couldn't force her to leave the Centre- although a quick and tidy abduction did cross his mind on occasion. He wasn't above throwing himself at her feet and begging.

"Jarod," Ethan advised gently, "I know her. Look: there is nothing you can do or say to change her mind."

Jarod agreed, and then stormed off in a rage and locked himself in the tiny den for several days. When he emerged, he conferred with his brothers and J.R. for several hours and then sought out his father and inquired about a plane.

"Taking a trip?"

"Let's just say that I have some unfinished business."

"Don't do anything hasty, Jarod."

"I won't, Dad."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive." Jarod answered softly. "I've considered every contingency, and," Jarod grinned toothily and jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Kyle, Ethan, his clone Troy, and J.R., "I won't be alone."

The Major smiled and nodded and assisted Jarod and Kyle with the pre-flight. "What, exactly are you going to do, Jarod?"

"I'm going to make it impossible for her to ignore me."

Had Parker heard those words, she would have (later) deemed them the understatement of the millennium.

But she had not heard his impassioned vow, and wasn't given an opportunity to brace herself for what- - or more specifically who- - was coming.

Presently, she was in her new office sitting upright, with her eyes closed. Meditating. Breathing in positivity, breathing out the stress.

The stress of yet another disastrous break up- this time with a plastic surgeon. Three dates. It wasn't even a relationship. Yet. Michael (the aforementioned surgeon), however, believed otherwise. There was apparently some secret third date rule she wasn't privy to; things moved faster in the land of scalpels and syringes. A kiss on the first date somehow implied a promise of intercourse on the third date- had she known that, she would've sent him on his way after the second date.

Men weren't nearly as important in the lives of women as they believed themselves to be and furthermore, none of them were Thomas. And unlike the surgeon (Doctor Receding-hair-line), she didn't have to be impatient. She wasn't interested in having a passel of miniature Doctor Receding-hair-lines tottering about underfoot. She could afford to be discriminating. And why not?

She wouldn't dine out just anywhere, was mindful of the food she ingested, which cosmetics were allowed to touch her skin; she believed that her vagina (and the rest of her) deserved the same consideration. If she needed a release, and sometimes she did, she was quite capable of of satisfying herself- no batteries necessary.

She dated for companionship, for conversation, for the remote possibility that one day someone, anyone, would touch her the way Thomas had.

Oh, Thomas. I'd still trade everything for one chance to-

The intercom buzzed just then.

Parker frowned, pressed a button.

"What."

"Mr. Lyle is here to see you, ma'am."

Again?

"Send him in, Jane."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sis." Lyle nodded.

"Twice in one day, Bobby." Parker purred. "You know," she said, "when I looked over the personnel records this morning, brown-nosing had not yet been added to your dossier."

Parker observed his quirk of lips. He was furious. And- and on the verge on soiling his Armani briefs.

He shifted uncomfortably, and glanced over his shoulder suddenly; Parker followed his gaze. Sweepers?

No. Those were not Centre sweepers.

Triumvirate.

"I'm here on business, sis."

Parker bristled. "And just what business do you have with the Triumvirate, Bobby?"

"I'm just the messenger."

"Oh?"

"An emergency meeting has been called. Another T-board. It appears the recent breach is a greater security concern than-"

Baby brother's explanation was cut short when the smallest of the Triumvirate goons stepped forward stealthily and brought the pistol down in one swift fluid motion. Bobby emitted a single pained grunt and crumpled to the floor.

Parker, of course, referred to Daddy's advice. Survival. At any cost, Angel. She remained aloof, neither praised nor admonished the violence she'd just witnessed. One mustn't choose sides too early in the game- when the game is survival.

She studied the droplets of blood and simply said: "one of us should call house-keeping- and preferably before that stains the floor."

Her words were ignored.

"I'm to escort you to the tribunal." The larger of the men informed her.

Raines. But who else? It's just like the sleazy son of a bitch to go behind my back like this. I will kill him this time. Painfully. A neat Colombian neck-tie. If he doesn't kill me first.

"Under whose authorization?" She inquired through clenched teeth. As if I don't know. The men simply stared. Waited. She frowned at the approaching footfalls, felt fear- - raw and nascent- - slip beneath her skin. She imagined Raines taking aim, murdering her in cold blood just as he'd murdered Catherine. It cannot end like this.

"Under whose authorization?" She yelled authoritatively and hoped- no, she prayed the urgency and rage that textured her voice would galvanize the men into some sort of action that she could use to her advantage. But neither men so much as flinched at her outburst.

And time was up. She imagined the grandfather clock, a final tick. A concluding toll. For her.

No. Not yet.

Not inside the Centre.

She reached behind her to retrieve the gun- that last ditch effort died a quick death. Parker found herself looking down the business end of a Glock 38, and was supremely displeased. Irate. She stilled her moments, brought her hands up slowly and swung her gaze towards the corridor.

There were murmurs outside. Raines- he was probably giving one of his pet idiots last minute instructions.

She observed as both Triumvirate goons stepped aside and bowed graciously, obsequiously at the newcomer, Mr. Persona Non Grata.

Parker gasped.

Gasped. Audibly.

She noted the black shirt and tie that paired perfectly with the black Caraceni suit that had set him back at least twenty grand, and the matching black shoes polished to a high shine. Her brows knitted, her eyes narrowed. Her jaw nearly unhinged.

Instead, her lips formed a perfect circle. O.

O!

O, indeed.

She observed as Jarod waved the two men away and closed the door. He then pivoted and casually slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants and answered simply (although Parker had forgotten the question at that juncture):

"Mine."



܀


 

An Ace in the Hole by Mirage
Author's Notes:


 


܀


Pacing.

She was pacing- just as she had the day Mr. Parker had found her with her hands around Raines' neck, quite literally in the throes of attempted murder, after being "played like a piano" by the Centre puppeteers.

She couldn't stop herself, no more than she could have all those years ago, and, Jarod opined, she appeared to suffer an intrinsic, acute aversion to stasis; inside the Centre, that made perfect sense: movement is life.

All those years ago, however, she'd moved, somewhat spasmodically and restively across the room and back again, under Daddy's watchful gaze.

Today is different.

Different?

Ha!

A fucking precedence.

Genius or no, Jarod was a man at the core, human and far from infallible, and that, he supposed, was why he derived a certain amount of pleasure, a sick and terrible pleasure, from watching Parker squirm, seeing her confounded- - hell, downright bothered- - to this degree.

Power.

Control.

It's such a slippery slope. He could imagine just how slippery, how quickly one's morals and good intentions could be seized by madness here in this place where moral atrophy ran rampant, and humanity has deteriorated.

Men had lost themselves in macabre fascination inside these walls, traded their sanities and souls and even their families for money and power. If a building ever could truly be evil, could harbor evil, surely it was this building. 

Nothing terrified him more than losing control of himself, of becoming the monster, and in his current position, the only consequences that would befall him were those of conscience. His conscience- and that was more severe than any punishment the Centre or the authorities could mete out to him. I'll be careful- he vowed to himself. Careful.

Parker pivoted suddenly, in mid-pace, and in a single fluid movement, tugged the Glock from its holster and leveled it directly at his chest.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you?" She hissed- -in as measured a tone as she could affect- - through clenched teeth.

To which Jarod grinned roguishly and shrugged. "I can't think of a single one." His answer was whispered softly and accompanied by an amiable smile- a smile that Parker mistook for a simper. A smug simper. And she wanted to blow it right of off his fucking face.

"If you've made up your mind to kill me, I doubt I could talk you out of it anyway." He gave her a moment to process his words and then continued, nonchalantly, and advanced. "If you are not going to kill me, however, I suggest you put that," here, his head dipped toward the gun, "away."

She started at his initial advance and took a single step as if to-- what? Retreat?

Oh, no.

Hell-fucking-no.

Parker checked herself, shifted her weight, squared her shoulders. Rooted herself to the spot. She "stood her ground" as certain trigger-happy Americans might boast.

Jarod observed Miss all-bark-and-no-bite, her rigid stance, feet 12 inches apart, her jaw clenched- - and jutted defiantly- - in a ferocious scowl, as if she were a threatened, angry animal, backed into the corner.

A cat. A wild cat. And how much easier it would be if she were, Jarod opined: all he'd have to do is bridge the distance, reach over and grasp her by the scruff of her neck, and quickly, lest she shred his arm, open a vein.

And then, she'd be paralyzed and at his mercy, dangling haplessly from his palm, dancing from the strings he pulled.

"Why should I?" She snarled.

Back to this, Jarod thought.

Game reset.

Square one.

Back to black, as Miss Winehouse sang.

He was angry. Mostly disappointed. And hurt. The regression was infuriating. And it shouldn't have been. After so many years, he felt he should have expected this from her.

They'd played this game before, after all, had argued back and forth and around in circles in cold clipped tones, prodigally slung stones and cold glares at each other and snarled their snide ripostes via telephone for more than a decade.

The pair had worked together, sometimes at a great distance- - sometimes unaware that the other had taken up the sword and joined in the cause- - and sometimes side by side in an effort to find answers, and each time only the ending had ever been the same.

The ending was always the same.

Why did I think this time would be any different?

Why, indeed, when in a world as convoluted as theirs one step forward (his step forward) had always equated to two steps back (her two steps back) and therefore, regardless of choices made, words exchanged, roles shifted, or how they metamorphosed, evolved, or how her mask might have slipped and regardless of how he tried- - and God, he had tried and tried- - to reach her there would always, always, always be that one step, that empty space- - a buffer- - between them.

The space was necessary to maintain status quo, perspective, to maintain her precarious position; she was perpetually equidistant to both Jarod and the Centre, was no more loyal to one than the other, and tangled in perpetual tug of war. This is the dance. The dance we do. A reticent, fatalistic waltz. And she circumvented him at every turn.

His fury was tempered by only one fact: she had told him no lies; there hadn't even been tacit acquiescence. She hadn't so much as implied a willingness to leave the Centre. She hadn't even agreed to meet him again. In fact, she hadn't said anything. Not to him anyway.

She'd simply exited the ladies room, and rambled off apologies to her date (she couldn't even remember the man's name now), and drove to the hotel. That too was a blank blip on the hard drive of her memory. She didn't remember navigating traffic or ascending the steps or even using the key card on the room's door.

Meeting Jarod in a hotel. It all seemed rather sleazy. Wrong. Verboten.

Nevertheless, she'd entered the room and observed as he emerged from the darkness wearing jeans and a black tee (instead of the janitor get-up). He'd suggested she sit and she'd refused with a curt shake of head, and even then the wheels were spinning in that head of hers and he hadn't even noticed.

Because he had not wanted to notice.

He could only imagine the internal dialog and knew without a doubt that it wasn't her voice and certainly wasn't Catherine's voice that had poisoned her mind, poisoned her against him.

She'd gotten caught up, the voice reprimanded, carried away. It was caprice or perhaps even something as ordinary as plain ol' stupidity. Or, Jarod mused, her heart had contrived, had betrayed her common sense, and she'd forgotten herself, forgotten him, forgotten where her loyalties lay- or with whom they were supposed to lay and now he should forget as well.

Just forget what happened, Jarod.

Forget what happened when we were children. Forget what happened on that Island. Forget what happened in the lodge when I punched you, and I kissed you. Just forget, Jarod. Forget.

He didn't want to hear it. And he didn't want to hear the excuses, demands. He'd heard them all before. He knew the lines, all the cues.

What am I suppose to do?

What, indeed.

And why did she always direct such questions to him when they both knew that she intended to reject his answers anyway.

Oh, but that was her cue and her next line of course was: What do you want from me, Jarod?

What, Jarod?

What more?

How much more?

And she'd have a point there- even he'd have to admit it. Hadn't she worked with him to save Sydney's leg? And hadn't she risked her life and Broots' to help him rescue J.R.? She'd worked with him just as she had in Carthis, and she'd ignited his hope just as she had in Carthis- hope that she might make the overtures, follow through, finally finish her mother's work. It certainly wasn't her fault that he wanted more of her than she could ever give him.

He couldn't blame her.

He didn't blame her.

He blamed himself. He should have known better than to hope. Should have known better. He was angry with himself for allowing himself to believe in her, and angry too for allowing himself to hope.

Lesson learned.

And now it was her turn.

He regarded her with faint amusement and absolutely no animosity when she spoke: "Cat got your tongue, boygenius?" And then Jarod came to a halt in front of her. Much, much too close to her.

She'd made this mistake before.

And remembered too late the error and the consequences of aforesaid error.

She took a single step back to correct the mistake that, in the face of any other adversary, would have been fatal.

Too late.

She felt his hand grip hers, and then, suddenly, the room blurred as she was thrust forward and then spun and then- ah, a variation on a theme of Jarod's astonishing stealth (as he'd demonstrated once before in her home).

She fought him.

Of course she fought. Jarod knew she would, and might have been disappointed otherwise. The woman was contentious; she had an intrinsic proclivity to fight, to resist change (the latter, her obstinance- - the interminable inertia- - was the catalyst that had prompted Jarod to play the ace and take the house).

There was an audible snap of fingers (her fingers) and a protracted gasp of surprise and dread when the gun made the swift transfer between hands.

Parker was still processing the aforesaid when her back collided with his chest. To add insult to injury (although to Jarod's credit, only her pride had been injured), the barrel of the gun (her gun, for fuck's sake) was pressed to her temple. Her gun. Her temple. Fuck.

"Why no, Miss Parker, the cat does not have my tongue." He answered. "Your interest and concern, however, in that particular piece of my anatomy- - although unwarranted- - is quite appreciated and has been duly noted for future reference."

It was then, only then that she realized that her desk was directly in front of her. One sudden push forward and he- oh, my God! And every single emasculating moniker she'd ever hurled at him returned to her: Boygenius. Boywonder. Franken-boy. Monkey-boy. Ratboy. Boy. Boy. Boy.

Parker wondered if perhaps Jarod had orchestrated this, simmed it. Did he intend to exact revenge? Like this? Surely Jarod- no. He wouldn't?

He wouldn't.

It was a bit of comic twist, and a completely unplanned one and Jarod could have reassured her- oh, but then watching the woman squirm, or better still: feeling her shudder against him was its own reward. He had a feeling that he'd just been referred to as "boy-anything" for the last time.

She tensed when she felt his breath spill across her shoulder, and snapped her eyes closed when his lips grazed her earlobe. This. Is. NOT. Happening. It's not happening.

But it was.

You can't allow this to continue.

She couldn't. She lifted her pump from the floor and-

Froze.

Her foot froze in midair when Jarod roughly grasped her hip, and squelched her efforts to attack him and defend herself, and then, as if to confirm her thoughts (why, Grandma, what large testicles you have!), he held her body tightly against him in a most salacious manner. The boy has lost his fucking mind.

"Don't. Even. Think. About. It." He whispered the words through clenched teeth and she almost didn't hear, almost couldn't hear- couldn't hear over the voices in her head screaming at her to do something for fuck's sake, to do anything, to make him stop.

The pressure of his fingertips on her hips bordered painful.

And bordered something else too.

Something she refused to allow herself to even imagine- and to think what might have been lurking just under the surface since her childhood, that the two of them had been on the razor's edge of- no. No!

Her frenzied thoughts shifted to Carthis. She didn't want to think about the vagaries of the heart, the mistakes that, thus far, she had made. And the ones she had not made.

She didn't want to consider that there might be something so monumental between them (the reason he had been at side during every difficult moment in her life) that it had been too enormous of a thing to even glimpse. The big picture that one must take several steps back to see clearly. Parker hadn't seen it at all.

Until now.

"I suggest you be very careful if you want to live." He advised through clenched jaw. "If Jaha believes for one second that you are beyond my control, things are going to take a rather ugly turn." He cautioned, and then added, rather thickly, rather angrily: "For you." With that said, and no doubt comprehended by Parker, Jarod released her.

He then pivoted and a gave her a brief moment to compose herself, to smooth down the skirt that, for some reason, suddenly felt entirely too short.

It was clear that she was shaken, shaken to the core, every muscle in her body trembled. And worse still, she'd apparently lost the use of her voice (darn those tongue-robbing cats--- the cute little motherfuckers could be awfully cunning) and possibly even her legs as well, which felt liquid and unreliable and had just enough strength to bend at the knee and allow her to unsteadily, leadenly, relapse into her chair.

Ever the gentleman, Jarod fetched her a glass of water and pushed it into her hand and then sank into the chair opposite hers.

"You are never" he advised authoritatively, "to point weapons at a superior. Are we understood?"

"Superior?" She repeated absently. "How?" She breathed.

Jarod smiled gently. Poor Miss Parker. The woman had been reduced to one-word replies and questions, and even that required a great deal of effort.

"Ah," Jarod nodded, "Well, you see: it's not about who knows what, Miss Parker. It's about who thinks they know what, and about what I want them to believe."

"Centre," She said dryly, "motto." Her father had once said those words to her, almost verbatim. "I suppose you want the Triumvirate," She managed weakly, and then reddened and bristled beneath his rapt gaze when she expended her oxygen too soon and was forced to drag in yet another tremulous breath, "to believe that you- what?" She asked. "What am I missing?"

"Missing." Jarod repeated with a hearty chuckle. "Miss Parker," He laughed- laughed at her, the bastard, "you are not missing anything." He explained and then smugly clarified: "You know exactly what I want you to know."

"Nothing." She murmured.

"Very good." He nodded. Bastard. How dare he patronize me!

"Good?" She hissed. "How is that good?"

"Come, now, Miss Parker," Jarod admonished gently, "Nothing was enough for you back when it was all your father ever gave you. Nothing was more than enough, in fact. I've watched you cling to nothing, to absolutely nothing, for years. By now, you should be accustomed to it, accustomed to nothing." He fell silent for several moments, and then added, wistfully: "I suppose we should both be."

"How long are you intending to masquerade-"

"I'm not masquerading." Jarod corrected her brusquely, and then rose and glanced at his watch. "Oh, but would you look at the time! Let's not keep the honorable gentleman waiting."

܀

Exile by Mirage

 

 

 


܀

 

 

Gentlemen?



Gentlemen?

Parker scowled at Jarod and then at the door he held open.

Gentleman, indeed.

He gestured for her to exit, and smiled sweetly when she acquiesced.

She averted her gaze, feigned disinterest, boredom Fuck him- yes, him and the white stallion he rode in on and surveyed the corridor, east to west. "Where is everyone?" Parker inquired in a hushed whisper, and observed with growing dread the easy, confident smile tugging at Jarod's lips.

"Exactly where I want them to be, Miss Parker." Answered Jarod neutrally.

"Right." She drawled, sardonically. "Make no mistake, Jarod," Parker cautioned, "they will never allow you to walk out of here."

"No?" He inquired softly with a squint of skepticism.

Parker shook her head, gravely expounded, "They're going to ambush you."

"Hmm," Came Jarod's guttural hum, "now that wouldn't be very nice of them."

"Nice?" Parker returned, piqued, "No, it's not going to be nice. You're walking into a trap, you're unarmed, undermanned. This is your last chance to return my gun and-"

"Contrarily, Miss Parker," he rejoined impassively with a soupçon of arrogance and a thick brow lifted in amusement, in challenge, "I am armed and not only am I leaving the Centre," he continued softly, sidling closer and fashioning a conspiratorial leer, "I'm taking you with me."

Parker drew a breath, pressed her lips together in a tight line. She shuddered in anger and rolled her eyes at his toothy grin, "Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on or-"

"Or." Jarod interrupted brusquely, peremptorily, and then pulled open the board room door. "After you, Miss Parker." He said amiably.

"Jarod-"

"After you, Miss Parker." He reasserted sharply, coolly, pressing his palm lightly to the small of her back.

Parker shrugged out of the semi embrace, and entered the room of her own volition- that's what she told herself.

"I believe you know Troy, Ethan and Kyle. And this," Jarod said, indicating the large black man, "is Jaha."

"Sir." Parker said and observed warily the somber nod of head with which she was acknowledged, merely tolerated.

Little else could be gleaned by Parker as Jarod chose to communicate with the African in bastardized Cilubà and Swahili-Kikongo fusion. The meeting adjourned after a grueling four and half hours whereupon Parker's confusion increased exponentially: Jaha advanced on Jarod, came to an abrupt halt and bent fully and swiftly at his waist in an acquiescent bow.

Parker observed, in horror, as Jaha smiled amiably and then exited, with a parade of men falling in line behind him.

"Where are they going?" Parker asked. "Africa?"

Jarod shook his head, answered impassively, "Into exile."

"That's what they want you to believe." She hissed. "You're insane if you truly believe that this is over."

"Jarod," Kyle snarled, "if you don't shut her up, I-"

"You'll what?" Parker hissed, and then wheeled around and sought out Ethan and Troy— potential allies— who were listening intently to their wireless headsets. Suddenly, they turned and departed via a narrow egress that Parker hadn't even been aware existed. Damn it.

"Enough." Jarod demanded, sharply. "Both of you. I want you to radio the jet, Kyle."

Kyle obeyed, grudgingly, and keyed his headset.

"Jet?" Parker inquired.

"Yes," Jarod answered, "we're taking a little trip."

"I'm not going anywhere with you." She asserted, feinted to Jarod's left, and then pivoted suddenly, and found herself looking down twin barrels of death, lethal infinity.

Parker thought it oddly ironic that a figure eight was the last thing a person lined up in Kyle's sights would see.

"Kyle." Jarod intervened.

"Of course." Kyle grinned. "I have my own." He said, handing the gun off to Jarod. Armed, indeed. The bastard.

Both men were armed. Well armed, in fact.

Kyle wore a Glock, and a pump action shotgun (it was of the tactical variety, short barreled, and Parker couldn't help but be impressed by the racking action- even if the weapon was leveled at her thigh), and he had a grenade launcher stashed away inside a secret compartment, an unholy reliquary, that had been built into the white T-shaped table.

"Miss Parker?" Jarod said with some urgency. At last, Parker met his impatient gaze, obvserved as he jerked his head to the side, indicating that she should walk. Or else.

She suspected the gun wasn't loaded. Jarod wouldn't dare point a loaded gun at me.

An opportunity to confirm (or deny) the suspicion never presented itself. There had been no ambush, not while approaching Concourse Twelve and not on the tarmac.

They weren't blown out of the sky, nor were they escorted by the Triumvirate's fleet of jets to an undisclosed location and summarily executed.

She endured with sangfroid the first leg of the flight, behaved as if she had ordered the jet when in fact she had been ordered at gun point to board it. Parker deemed the abduction unfathomable, too horrible to contemplate.

What the hell is Jarod trying to prove? Why is Jaha eating out of his hand? Where the hell are we going?


Cool indifference dissolved, was replaced with anxiety, with anger; Jarod was certain that he could hear the pretenses drop. She wanted an explanation, demanded an explanation; instead, she was issued an apology.

"I'm sorry." Jarod's voice was graveled baritone, wheedling, choked with remorse. Concern creased Parker's brow; she feared he was ill, stopped herself from laying the back of her hand across his forehead. "I didn't want it to come to this. I never wanted this."

"You never wanted to become the men who snatched you from your bed?" She returned with equal measures of hostility and incredulity.

Jarod leaned forward, his hands stretched wide across his legs. "Miss Parker," he said, softly, "I didn't snatch you from your bed, and you are not a child. I intend to do you no harm. Remember: you are not innocent in all of this." He shrugged. "None of us are."

"What, exactly, do you intend to do with me, Jarod?"

"Uh," Jarod intended to hedge; he wasn't going to tell her about the scrolls, that he had read them (the text had been upside down and Mr. Parker's heavy panting had been rather distracting, and he'd been trying to escape his binds, however, he'd read them nevertheless) the same night her father had. He had no intention of reciting to her the words: the Chosen, a boy named Jarod who will reign-

Lunacy!

"Jaha wanted you," he vomited the words, "did you know that?"

Parker's eyes widened in surprise.

"It would have been rather remiss of me to allow him to abduct you."

"Right." She cooed. "Instead, you abducted me. What aren't you telling me, Jarod?"

Jarod rose. "I suggest you sleep now."

"Why?"

He glanced at his watch and informed the hour hand: "It's past your bedtime."

"No." She said, brusquely, and frowned; he'd misunderstood. "Why did you stop him?"

Jarod frowned, his jaw tightened. "Why didn't I allow Jaha to take you?" Jarod asked for the sake of clarification and observed Parker's nearly imperceptible nod.

"Sleep." He simply answered.

Parker glared at his retreating form and then swung her gaze skyward and flung herself, angrily, against the seat.

Jarod had a penchant for being cryptic; usually, however, he tossed her a breadcrumb, a hint intended to pacify her, a little something sweet to dissuade her from shooting him and dragging him to the Centre.

Parker was troubled by his behavior, his apology and abstruseness, the absence of profundity. She realized suddenly that he no longer had to placate her, he didn't have to be kind or provide her with answers- answers to questions that, as Centre Chairwoman, she should have known. He held all of the cards now, all of the pieces of the puzzle and she was out of the loop, truly an outcast.

She refused, however, to take orders from Jarod, refused to sleep- it was act of defiance. And, as par for her usual course, only she suffered the results of that defiance.

Parker slept through what she was certain would be her only opportunity to escape, and she only reached that conclusion when she awoke with a start in an empty nondescript sedan.

Jarod was paying for fuel and Kyle was returning from the adjoined fast food establishment with a large white paper bag that was already transparent courtesy of the splotches of fat seeping through.

"Hungry?" Kyle asked.

"No." Parker snarled.

"No?"

"No." She averred. "I'd kill for a cup of coffee."

"I've no doubt that you would kill for less, Miss Parker." Kyle returned and then whistled through his teeth. "Caffeine withdrawals are a bitch." He added as he retrieved his mobile and punched in a number. "One extra large coffee," he sang, "to go. What? Fine, I'll tell her." Kyle tossed a glance over his shoulder. "The cappuccino machines are in the back, near the restrooms- if you catch his drift; if you don't, I'll speak plainly: you might want to take a leak now."

"Mm you're a real charmer." Parker returned dryly and opened the door.

"Oh, I know." He called after her. "Don't forget to flush and wash your hands."

She was enraged, positively enraged, was certain she might kill Jarod, and she might have indeed done that had her attention, and rage, not been diverted elsewhere.

The pleasant faced toddler had a contagious laugh, bouncy dark curls and wore a sagging diaper and yellow sundress stained with what Parker guessed was grape juice. Presently, the girl was engaged in a game of peek-a-boo with Jarod and having a grand time, was- at least until a tall, stout, bespectacled woman with pinched features strode into the store screaming obscenities.

She was hunched in the shoulders and, Jarod opined, bore a slight resemblance to a caricature of Hugo's Quasimodo. Her brown eyes narrowed and disappeared into the deeply etched crow's feet gathered at her temples.

Her thick, black eyebrows were perpetually slanted and situated precisely one inch above the ebony squares that framed her field of vision; both brows were visible through the platinum blond hair that hung— dreadlock-esque— in stiff ringlets.

She had the waddling gait that was de rigueur among many all-you-can-eat buffeteers, and clearly, Parker mused cruelly, suffered a surfeit of nourishment; each step she took vibrated her face and loosened stray crumbs from her thick, square chin that, in turn, rained down upon the pink jogging suit she wore.

The woman advanced rapidly, nevertheless, with a speed heretofore unimagined by Parker, and dropped a wadded up napkin from her chubby hand. She then unceremoniously grabbed a fistful of dark curls and yanked the toddler a good three inches off the floor. "There ya are! I tole ya a thousant times not to wanda off! Whut the hell is wron' wit' ya? Are ya stupid?"

Jarod was still processing. Parker was poised for battle, and across the room in three long strides. She captured the woman's left elbow, wrenched her arm high behind her back. "Let. Her. Go." Parker snarled, punctuating her words with a forward jerk.

The woman howled in pain, and released the toddler (who instinctively tottered across the room and into Jarod's open arms) and then she swung around, threw a punch.

Parker ducked, feinted to the right, threw a punch that connected with the woman's right cheek, and then pivoted, ducked. She grabbed a fistful of crunchy over-moussed hair a taste of the bitch's own medicine and kicked- kicked the woman through the massive store-front display. The woman's body came to an ungainly stop near the plate glass window upon which a bas-relief Christ stared stoically at the comings and goings below, perhaps disparaging the unfavorable condition of the human condition.

There was a collective gasp, unhinged jaws, two manic voices murmuring their concerns to 911 operators.

No one was more appalled (or impressed) than Kyle. He leapt from the car when Jarod rang him. From the parking lot it was quite obvious that a fracas of some sort was in full swing and he could only wonder what sort of riot Parker had instigated. The woman was trouble, dead weight. Nothing but trouble, and Jarod was an idiot for sparing her.

Kyle came to a halt in the store entrance, observed the various cans rolling languidly across the floor, the dozens of boxes crushed beneath a rather heavy woman with a split lip and an expression of surprise etched upon her chubby face. He sought out Jarod, noted the sobbing toddler and guessed the rest. He couldn't help but smirk when Parker dropped to a low crouch and grabbed the aforementioned woman by the lapels of her blouse. "People like you should be sterilized."

"She wundered off." Came the woman's weak explanation. "I don't like to hit 'er, but when she's bad I have to teach 'er a lessen."

"A lesson?" Parker repeated with a snort of disdain. "I have a lesson for you: it's her job to wander, it's your job to watch her." Parker shook her head, wheeled around, left the woman on the floor and struggling to sit.

"I was watchin 'er! I always watch 'er. I tole 'er to stay in the car an' color."

"In the car?" The manager of the fast food establishment asked, incredulously. "She was in the car all that time? While you were inside eating? You left her in the car?" He asked again, his hairy gray brows furrowed over startling blue eyes that regarded road-weary travelers through wire rimmed spectacles. He was thin and tall, well over sixty, and possessed the stoop of someone who worked for a living. He was a war Veteran and a grandfather and he simply could not comprehend such cruelty. His eyes filled with tears. "In this heat?" He queried and then made the sign of the cross and murmured sotto voce, "Pope on a Pogo!"

"She's my child," the mother exclaimed, "an' I can do as I damn well please with 'er. I brought 'er into this world an' I can take 'er right back out again. I gave 'er life!"

Parker froze, and then whirled around once more, a neat pirouette on four inch heels. She leaned in close for the parting shot, thrust a trembling hand towards the sobbing toddler and with such fury that Jarod started: "She didn't ask to be born," Parker hissed, "not to the likes of you," she added contemptuously, dragging her gaze over the woman, a scowl of disgust pinching her features. "I'd wander off too if you were my mother."

Kyle observed Parker's departing form, the nearly undetectable limp. He whistled through his teeth, shook his head. That one is hell in heels. "You know," He said, sidling up close to his brother, "your Miss Parker isn't half bad."

"No," Jarod agreed with an impish grin, "no, she isn't."

 

܀

 


Unfinished Business by Mirage
Author's Notes:


Petuary you might ask? I was a bit curious (among other things) about it myself when I woke up at a quarter after four with the word on my lips (the internet has since assured me that such places exist).

Note: Crimson Sphere is one of the fictional terrorist rings that Sergeant Major Muse (formerly Lady Muse) dreamed up (for The Return series). For those of you who love the longer chapters: maybe next time. Email reviewers: you've been rather busy and I appreciate your feedback; I will respond to every email and every review.


No pets were harmed during the writing of this thing.

Unbetaed (or however it's spelled).

   


܀


    "Precious Paws Petuary and Crematory," Parker read aloud, glowering at the edifice's brick façade over the top of her sunglasses, noting the tall, mullioned windows as well as the lingering pall overhead; her voice was dry, unimpressed. "Gee, Jarod, you've truly expanded your horizons."

"What?" Inquired Jarod solicitously. "You don't believe that pets deserve the same love and respect as humans? You certainly used to." He added in low a whisper, alluding, no doubt, to the bunnies (that he would most likely hold over her head until one of them succumbed to death); he leaned in close with an amiable smile that blossomed into a impish grin when her face hardened. "Well?"

"I believe," Snarled Parker, "that if this little field trip doesn't come to an end soon, I'll cremate you, Jarod, and," she tacked on, dropping her gaze briefly to his chest, "that bleeding heart of yours will still be beating when I stoke up the fire."

Jarod dipped his head to side and then cast a cursory glance at the ersatz Rolex he wore before meeting her angry gaze. "Technically," he answered smugly, and with air quotes no less, "we don't stoke up the fire."

Parker scowled, gestured dismissively.

"I trust that you won't mind waiting in the car." Jarod said, cordially, rising from the seat and exiting the vehicle.

"With him?" Parker seethed, alluding to Kyle.

Jarod bent at the waist, met Parker's gaze. "Had you behaved, Miss Parker, you would have seen for yourself exactly what it is that I do here."

"Speaking of which," Parker returned forcefully, prompting Jarod to bend once more and meet her gaze through the open door, "what are we doing here?"

Jarod's reply was a smile— a smile punctuated by the slamming door.

"Damn you." Parker hissed at his lumbering form.

"Hey," Kyle admonished from the back seat, looking up, at last, from the whetstone and hunting knife, "be nice."

"And if I don't?"

Kyle straightened from his reclined position and leaned forward, draping his arms loosely over the driver's seat. "Oh," he sang, spinning the knife nimbly in his palm, "you don't really need me to answer that, Miss Parker."

"Shouldn't you be helping him? Mm? Or aren't you as charitable as big brother?"

"Charitable?" Kyle chuckled, "That's in Webster's, isn't it, Miss Parker, between calamity and chlamydia?"

Parker rewarded his efforts (at a proper riposte) with a haughty smile and then studied her fingernails. Amateur.

"You know," Kyle snorted at her silent rebuff, "I've seen some uptight women in my time, but you," he paused briefly, slung the knife's blade towards Parker and gave it yet another twist. "you are really something else, Lady."

Parker swung her indifferent gaze at Kyle and then, in one fluid motion, extended her left hand and caught the knife in mid air. "Yes," she agreed coolly, twisting the knife deftly in her palm. "I certainly am." She gave the hunting knife a light toss, caught the blade with her fingertips— all without breaking eye contact with Kyle— and then offered the knife to its rightful (and needless to say, stunned) owner.

Kyle whistled through his teeth, grinned. "Not bad, Miss Parker." He lauded and then unceremoniously launched into the tale of how he'd taken possession of the blade (as he endearingly referred to the hunting knife) during a clandestine skirmish with Crimson Sphere.

Parker listened attentively and contributed her own war stories when the conversation shifted to Raines and the Centre. He inquired about her hand, which Jarod had assured her hours earlier she had fractured (the dreaded "boxer's fracture") during the now notorious convenience store scuffle. Kyle smiled at Parker's easy, nonchalant: "I'll live."

They played a single, benign round of scar show and tell, each indicating old injuries on their arms and Kyle lifting his chin to illustrate his narrative of a how a drunken, machete wielding Guerrilla in the Congo damn near took my head off.

Apocryphal, perhaps; riveting, nonetheless. Kyle was besotted with danger, a desperado, and nothing at all like his brother. Kyle had walked away from the Congo intact, the victor of the fracas after administering a coup de grâce to the Guerrilla who had quite literally fallen on his sword.

The man had a plethora of tricks and tales—and very few weaknesses—in his repertoire, Parker discovered.

Onto their respective seats—as Kyle recounted tales he'd collected from various exploits in the South Seas, misadventures in Tijuana and while stationed aboard a certain aircraft carrier—they collapsed into peals of laughter, both starting when the car door opened.

The pair straightened as if they were instead errant children, caught red-handed, elbow deep in an unsuspecting cookie jar, and in fear of corporal punishment (both Parker and Kyle, however, were unaware of Jarod's exploits, unaware that he'd been meting out his warped idea of justice; Jarod's variety of punishment, needless to say, compelled the likes of corporal punishment to scurry off and cower beneath a bed).

"Good," Jarod drawled languidly as he slipped behind the wheel of the car, "I see no obvious injuries." He turned to Parker, who managed quite nicely to remain composed, "I hope you two weren't too nasty to each other," he continued, somewhat enigmatically, "while I was wrapping up a little unfinished business."

"Unfinished business." Parker teased with a snort of derision. "Right."

"What do you mean?" Inquired Jarod.

"You returned to this hole to exact revenge." She answered, decidedly.

"Revenge— that's not the word I'd use to describe what I do." He exacted justice, not revenge, he assured himself. Again.

"It's the word I'd use." Parker asserted loftily.

"Unfinished business." Jarod contended, offering her an envelope, perhaps as evidence of aforesaid business. Exhibit A, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Parker cast a sidelong glance at him and then examined the envelope's contents. "You expect me to believe that you drove here to collect your final paycheck?"

"A man has to eat, Miss Parker." Came Jarod's pithy reply.

He didn't want to lie to her. Nor was he keen on explaining that her empty threats of "living cremation" (the woman was a genius!) had inspired him to alter his plans and accentuate the terror, or rather the justice foisted upon the owner of the Petuary, a maniacal sociopath who, over the course of three years, had abducted and brutalized thirty-four career women (women much like Miss Parker) and then disposed of their corpses in the crematorium, his lair, this abattoir.

"Now," Jarod said, turning to face her, an expression of genuine concern etched upon his face, "why don't we get an ex-ray of that hand, hmm?"

Parker sat prim and silent, ostensibly contemplating his proposal. We, no doubt, translates to Jarod playing doctor.

"No, thanks."

"Miss Parker," he chided gently, "surgery could be indicated—"

Surgeon Jarod?

Mmm even worse.

"No." She hissed. "I'll see my own doctor in Dover. I meant what I said earlier," she continued, prompted by his absent stare, "this excursion is over. I know that you delight in tormenting me—"

"What?" He interrupted with a measure of incredulity, his brow knitted. "Tormenting you?"

"If you hadn't strolled into the Centre yesterday," she explained, condescendingly, "and abducted me, I wouldn't have," here her voice dropped several octaves to mock him, "fractured my fifth metacarpal."

"If I hadn't strolled into the Centre, Miss Parker," Jarod countered angrily, "you would be in Africa now, married to that—"

"And I lied," Parker exclaimed indignantly, modulating those vocal cords of hers and yet still not quite recognizing herself, "when you examined my hand this morning: it did hurt! Your bedside manner, Jarod, is execrable."

"Bedside manner." Jarod repeated neutrally, tasting the word and finding it rather agreeable indeed. "Why, Miss Parker," he intoned salaciously, "I didn't realize that you were so interested in my bedside manner."

"You bastard." She spat her disgust.

"Christ, you two," Lamented Kyle from the back seat, "get a room."

Kyle's words were comparable to frigid water and quite effective in dousing the sparks; the pair returned to their respective seats, appalled to find that they'd gravitated towards the center of the vehicle, towards each other.

"I can't take you home, Miss Parker."

"Why the hell not?" She demanded tartly. "What possessed you to drag me this far?"

"I promised Ethan that I'd deliver you safely to New Mexico; I'll be out of your hair as soon as I drop you off."

"New Mexico?"

"Taos." He answered with a curt nod, shifting into drive. "Look: I know that you have questions, Miss Parker; Ethan has your answers."

Answers? In Taos? Why,
ruminated Parker, hadn't Ethan simply relayed aforesaid answers to her in Blue Cove? Why the trek across the country?

Those were all questions that Jarod could have answered; to wit: he knew all of the answers, her answers; he, however, had taken a vow of confidentiality and he refused to betray his half-brother.

Jarod, of course, had argued after the fact, had cautioned Ethan that Parker would eventually connect the dots, and long before they reached their intended destination.

After all, why would the truth—the truth and the answers she'd been seeking—warrant travel (of any distance)?

Unless—

Ethan isn't going to tell me the truth.

He's going to show me the truth.

Parker deemed it odd and somewhat comical that with the truth a mere eight hundred miles away she should have second thoughts about her quest for answers.

I don't need answers; they're probably all lies.

The truth in her heart was enough and her father—

He'll turn up; he always does. Always.

But he hadn't, and there was no doubt now.

He won't.

Ever.



And she knew why.


Unfinished business, indeed.


܀


 


End Notes:

If the thing felt rushed, let me assure you: it was

Tension by Mirage

܀

 

Taos Puebla was unpretentious, wholesome. Had Jarod been traveling alone, he might have sought refuge there with its Native inhabitants, performed services in exchange for extended lodging. It would have been a simple life—that's all he'd ever wanted.

He surveyed the startling blue horizon, the contrasting looming mountain forests, the two Native men standing four feet away, and then, inevitably, swung his gaze to his former huntress.

Parker seemed rather altered upon glimpsing the adobe structures, their azure doors, the Rio Pueblo de Taos. She'd seemed altered for at least three days, when she first discovered that she was to meet Ethan in New Mexico.

Thinking back, she'd been decidedly altered since Carthisbut only to a degree. The tale had invariably ended the same as each one before it. Granted, the surprise twists were becoming more intriguing.

Near kiss.

Kiss
.

Hell, the painful endings, in some ways, were worth the closeness, no matter how brief.

He wanted more.

We both deserve something more.

Jarod's neutral expression twisted into a grimace when his gaze fell upon her hand. She continued to refuse treatment, and, in addition to applying her own revisionist spin to the previous forty-eight years and becoming as difficult as possible with each passing day, hadn't been too keen on eating or sleeping. 

Bereft of her possessions (and her sanctum sanctorum), she was disoriented, enraged that Jarod had razed her life, the only life she'd ever known. She felt misplaced, lost. It has to be frightening, mused Jarod (he knew she'd never admit that to him).

Jarod wasn't at all alarmed by her discontent; he believed she couldn't find herself until she'd lost herself. And lost her job, her security, her foothold in the universe.

Her assets had been seized, her passport invalidated, her driver's license suspended, her life tipped on its head. She wore clothes that were not of her own choosing: jeans, a sleeveless, textured number the color of pale pink, sensible sneakers rather than gratify-defying heels.

Indeed, Jarod imagined that her blood-red fingernails were desperately scraping the bottom of her seemingly endless stock of endurance. She'd been so certain of the Centre's perpetuity, its power, it's refuge. The thread of power, however, had been tenuous; Jarod had known precisely where to sever it.

And he knew that eventually she would react, panic, perhaps attack. When the shock subsides.

Until then, however, he had no choice but to await her storm in the eerie calm; the gathering tension was already thick enough to asphyxiate them both.

Unspoken words hung between them.

She, nevertheless, refused to speak to him, to even look at him, this woman who had punched him in square in the mouth and then kissed him.

Parker wanted her clothes and her life back; she wanted to go home; she wanted her father. Her mother. The longing was augmented by apprehension, and manifested itself in restlessness, and—refusing to be suppressedhad dealt it's crushing blow while she'd slept.

She'd dreamed her parents were alive—a dream so vivid that she awoke with the taste of cocoa lingering on her lips, her fingers trapped in the past, tapping a forsaken game board.

Sim that, you son of a bitch.

To add insult to injury, she'd opened her eyes to find Jarod standing over her, back-lit by the twisting splinters of blue neon that penetrated the dark hotel room. The rich hue suffused his face, accentuated his cheekbones and his height—all of those things, combined with Parker's unmitigated disorientation, lent Jarod an altogether intimidating aura.

It had taken an enormous effort for Parker to arrange and maintain a carefully blank expression. Her voice didn't betray her, but only because her throat was constricted with sorrow.

And fear?


She could scarcely draw breath, let alone cry out.

The man at her bedside looked positively deranged.

His voice, however, was soft.

The incongruity had shaken her to full alertness; her eyes focused at last, her brow contracted, and it all slowly folded into comprehension. Jarod. Jarod and intimidating? In the same sentence? She wanted to laugh.

Oh, how she wanted to laugh. At herself. At him. Especially him.

"You were talking," he intoned gently.

Parker hadn't been cognizant of talking in her sleep, the tears on her face, and had they (or rather she) been on speaking terms, she might have denied it. You're a liar, Jarodthose words, had she been able to articulate them, would have been woefully inadequate, puerile.

She wanted to be reasonable, rational; instead, she deemed the moment a weakness, berated herself for her inability to control her own mind, for still craving a mother's embrace, a father's love.

Mama.

Daddy
.

Don't leave, Daddy.

Jarod didn't know precisely how she knew that her father was dead; he, however, wasn't entirely surprised. She was quite adept at gathering missing pieces, completing the puzzle.

She'd had years of practice, and years of games, hotel rooms, nightmares, Jarod.

Jarod!

By simply witnessing yet another of her difficult moments, he'd somehow become complicit. Her withdrawal from him complete at last, Parker endeavored to be more careful when she was most vulnerable.

Everyone is vulnerable when they sleep, Jarod would have assured her, and she, invariably, would have given those blue-gray eyes a brilliant spin and reproached him:

I'm not everyone.

I'm a Parker.

Spoken like a woman condemned to hell.

Unfortunate connotations could be attached to any surname; it didn't necessarily mean that one was cursed.

Jarod didn't believe in curses.

He believed in Parker.

She's Catherine's daughter, too, damn it
that had to mean something.

Everything means something
.

It meant something that she hadn't tried to flee, reject his help. Nights in hotels, meals in restaurants. She'd had ample opportunity to steal the car, and nothing was stopping her from twisting around, running; Mexico was less than a day's drive away.

He stole another surreptitious glance at Parker when she folded her arms across her chest. Jarod would have even gone so far as to say that she was hugging herself. He wondered when she'd last been held, was quite tempted to walk over and take her into his arms.

The heat has clearly made me delirious.

Jarod couldn't avert his gaze, try as he might, and he couldn't stop thinking about different endings. With her.

Parker's eyes never wavered from the rich earth that surrounded them. She, however, felt the weight of Jarod's stare, felt that she might crumble beneath that weight.

She was biding her time, maintaining her composure. She'd meticulously cultivated an aura of impenetrability; it would not fail her now. Her foul mood aside, she was looking forward to gaining her half-brother as an ally, a sympathetic ear.

Jarod, as if plucking her thoughts from her mind, assured softly, "He'll be here soon."

Kyle or Ethan?

The former had excused himself twenty minutes earlier; the latter was still a no-show.

The two cars that pulled to a halt yards away didn't contain his and Parker's half brother. One was filled with too-tanned, road-weary tourists, cameras in hand, dream-catchers hanging from their necks (each "authentic" hand-made trinket bearing a small white sticker that read 'Made in Bangladesh').

Parker was processing the still-enthusiastic summer vacationers when a woman advanced on them, or rather on Jarod, after stepping from her car, one four-inch heel at a time. Svelte and dressed sharply in a tailored pantsuit, each movement was purposeful, measured. The sun intensified the blond highlights in her auburn locks, which were swept neatly into a loose French twist. Behind expensive sunglasses, she squinted up at the scorching sun, worried her bottom lip.

Wordlessly, Jarod pivoted, grasped the woman gently by the elbow and steered her well out Parker's hearing range. Soft laughter reached Parker's keen ears, however; she arched a brow in response, observed as the woman touched her hair, stroked her neck, pulled her bottom lip full into her mouth, worried the lip thoughtfully, thoroughly.

The pair embraced, leaned in to each other, stood much too close for the relationship to be anything approximating platonic. Jarod's hand lingered on the small of the woman's back.

Parker's eyelids fluttered. She simply could not keep track of his lovers, and was quite relieved that it was no longer her job to do so.

She averted her gaze, and then started; she frowned, briefly, and then squinted over the top of her sunglasses as Ethan—ever the Mirageappeared in the distance, closing a turquoise door behind him. In the space of a week, he'd taken a great deal of sun, and allowed his facial hair to grow. And probably hasn't bathed. He wore jeans, a white shirt whose top three buttons were loose; a breeze parted the diaphanous fabric; whorls of dust rose beneath his feet with each step.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Parker stammered hastily, forcefully, her voice strained.

Still at some distance, Ethan scarcely recognized her voice; her words were unintelligible.

His stride briefly faltered, his face was blank with incomprehension; it was his heart, and not the frenzied chorus in his once tangled mind, that provided him sufficient elucidation. She knows.

He drew to a halt at last, looked into her face.

"Isn't he?" She asked again, eagerly, her brow knitted.

Ethan grasped her hand, and then, upon noting the bruising, gently released it and tentatively put his arms around her. "I'm so sorry," he said.

Parker stiffened at his touch, withdrew abruptly, shrugged off her half-brother's comforting hands. Jarod, observing silently several yards away, flinched.

Kyle reacted similarly to touch, to affection. Still. He hoped Ethan wouldn't be dissuaded from future attempts to reach out to Parker.

After all, it wasn't her fault that her mother had been murdered, that Mr. Parker had been parsimonious with emotions, economical with love. Stingy with tenderness.

Her father had given her just enough affection to whet her appetite, leave her craving more, foster the unwavering determination to do his bidding, please him, earn herself an embrace or the opportunity to hear his fanciful boasting: My Angel caught Jarod today but Raines' sweeperdammit, he let him get away!

(and Jarod used the term "father" rather loosely; he considered Mr. Parker a coldblooded beast; that, however, wasn't fair to coldblooded "beasts"amphibians for instance, some that are, in fact, much better fathers to their offspring than Mr. Parker had even been to his).

Ethan could no more blame Parker than Jarod could blame Kyle. The pretender certainly had no intention of giving up on his brother; Jarod hoped that Ethan would realize (if he already didn't) that Parker wasn't as callous as she wanted everyone to believe.

Kyle too seemed positively impervious to emotional vulnerability, intimacy, affection. They were both rigid, intractable, easily angered. Displaying pain was a weakness; crying a capital offense; intimacy difficult (but not impossible).

Parker straightened her back, squared her jaw. She was on the verge of tears. Had Ethan not relinquished his hold on her, Jarod was certain she'd be sobbing against his chest. What she needed most, she denied herself.

"Where is the body?" She demanded.

"Near the ruins," answered Ethan.

She drew a fortifying breath.

Don't let your emotions run away with you, Angel!

"Show me," she said.

"I can't. Not yet. I'm sorry," and she knew he was. Ethan planted a hand on his sister's shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. Parker neither shrugged off the hand nor stiffenedshe was already quite tense.

"This is sacred ground. We are trespassing—"

"This is my father we're talking about," she argued, her voice lilting, falling, filling with tears, never completely breaking. She drew another breath. Sucked in another. Another.

"It's out of our hands," Ethan said. "His body will be transported to the morgue tomorrow morning. You can
identify the—uh remains then."

With a huff of frustration, Parker pulled her uninjured hand through her hair, tucked a lock behind her ear.

"What aren't you telling me, Ethan?"

Ethan opened his mouth and then blinked, and lifted his distracted gaze several inches above and to the left of her. She turned, followed his gaze, nearly stumbled into Jarod.

"Sister," he said softly, his face blankly affable, his hands dropping uselessly to his sides.

Parker turned, met his gaze. She scrutinized both men, said, "One of you better start talking."

Ethan and Jarod exchanged grave glances, remained resolute, silent.

"Now!" Parker snarled.

"I've arranged," Jarod said, unflinching, pausing momentarily to remove the dots of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead, "to have a doctor in Taos take a look at your hand."

Parker lifted both hands suddenly, as if perhaps to strangle either Ethan or Jarod, or both of them, and then, perhaps not knowing which infuriating man to begin with, or how exactly to go about strangling either of them with one hand injured, she simply ground her teeth and drew a breath. She deduced that there was worse news, perhaps pertaining to the condition of her father's body, the manner in which he'd died, and Ethan preferred to tell her in private, after she'd rested, and after her hand had been xrayed.

Her half-brother; her half-brother's half-brother.

Both men extortionists.

Masters of the quid pro quo.

There were conditions that she had to meet and she had no gun with which to bypass aforesaid conditions. She was rather disheartened that it had been the gun all along, and not her, that everyone had feared.

She intended to procure a weapon (illegally, no doubt), sooner than later, and rectify the tragedy. Respect or fear
she didn't care which it was that produced the results she desired.

In the meantime, she chose to make what she could of each situation, which wasn't a whole lot. She could do little more than sneer at Ethan's back, observe in consternation as he
strode with purpose to the rusted '76 Scout and simply waited for her. At long last, after several moments in which only she suffered in the breath-stealing heat, Parker grudgingly put one sneaker in front of the other and climbed into the passenger seat. 

Jarod, clearly, had every intention of staying behind with the woman, presumably to wait for Kyle. Parker issued no inquiries and Ethan didn't divulge.

Instead, the latter strove for idle conversation. And fell far short: Parker refused to speak; she felt that she'd made quite enough concessions.

Upon arrival at the hospital, the pair were immediately ushered into a small room by a man garmented in a black suit. The feds.

Parker observed, in a daze, and as if from some great distance, as her hand was examined, xrayed. A doctor informed her that she wouldn't require surgery and in the next breath chastened her for not seeking treatment sooner. His words were firm and gentle, much like the deft hands that buddy-taped the injured digit to her ring finger and applied a splint. 

Back in the heat, she turned to her half brother. "Drive me to the airport, Ethan."

"Pardon?"

"I want to go home," she answered.

"You
—I—I'm sorry. You know that is not an option right now."

"The woman with Jarodfed?"

Ethan nodded his affirmation, smiled broadly. "Rachel," he said, putting a name to the face.

Parker shook her head. "Jarod and his equally sadistic brother abducted me from the Centre at gunpoint, Ethan. If I'm carted off to prison, your brothers are damn well going too."

"Sister," Ethan said, climbing into the scout, "you aren't going to prison. Jarod assured the feds that you would cooperate, that you have been cooperating with him, that you helped him rescue a young man from the Centre and in doing so put yourself at great risk. The fact that you are here confirms as much. Jarod's schemes aren't always
—uh—"

"Legal," supplied Parker, fastening her seat-belt and then casting a glance at the side mirror, and confirming her suspicions that they were, indeed, being followed.  "Humane? Sane?"

"Apparent," corrected Ethan gently. "Your presence in Taos secures your freedom, so you see now? Jarod does nothing without a valid reason. He encouraged you to join him here to ensure that you wouldn't live out the remainder of your life in a maximum security prison."

"Mm, I see, he was momentarily denying my freedom to ensure my freedom."

"Exactly," agreed Ethan, brightening.

"Getting his rocks off," hissed Parker tartly, labeling Jarod's actions with neither restraint nor compunction. "Your brother is patently sociopathic, Ethan. This is simply a parting shot, a last opportunity for him to strip me of control
." She shook her head, expelled a breath of frustration. "Bastard."

"I
," stammered Ethan, concealing his unease with a cough. Her harsh words were wholly unexpected, and, opined Ethan, entirely unwarranted. The Jarod he knew was sedulous and compassionate, venerable. He was occasionally assertive, he possessed panache in spades, and Ethan could understand how Jarod's passion could easily be misinterpreted. He believed that Jarod had employed canny restraint, and had answered the Centre's gratuitous violence
and innumerable atrocitieswith passivity, tact. Jarod had taken great measures to ensure that neither Parker nor her pursuit team were incarcerated. "I'm sure that was never Jarod's intention."

"No?" Inquired Parker. "He could have simply told me
—"

"Would you have believed him?"

"I don't know," she answered forthrightly, and then, before she could stop herself, revealed more than she'd intended, "I would have appreciated having the choice, for once, to believe him."

 
"Is that what you're really angry about?"

"Damn right it is," she snarled. "I put Broots in danger."

"You saved a young man's life."

"Debbie has one parent, Ethan. What the hell gives me the right to play God with her life? Broots has fought like hell to survive
not for himself, for her."

"You care about him, him and his daughter?"

"Mm, yes," she purred, "the malevolent Ice Queen cares about someone besides herself. Don't," she added, her voiced hardening, "keel over, Ethan."

"I
—I didn't mean it like that—what I mean—"

"Sure you meant it," she said, and then clarified, testily: "Broots is
as much a brother to me as you are, and his daughter is
—she's special."

"Then, I'd like very much to become acquainted with both Broots and his daughter." He turned the ignition, pulled onto the highway. "Look, Sister, rescuing J.R. was the right thing to do. Jarod took a risk too; he faced a lifetime of captivity. Fortunately, it didn't come to that. Broots is safe, free. Jarod is free. You are free
—or you will be, at least, this time next week."

"I'm willing to bet that Jarod made arrangements with the feds prior to rescuing J.R.. If I'd turned on him or been killed, or had Broots or even J.R. been killed, Jarod would have walked, after ensuring the clone's heart could not be exploited. We were all pawns, tokens. That's all I've ever been to Jarod. It was a game for him, Ethan. Like a fool, I played right into his hands. Again."

"I'm sure that's not true."

Parker shrugged noncommittally, remained stolid and ill-mannered the remainder of the day. She displayed no gratitude when Ethan carried her things (things that Jarod had chosen for her) inside the stately hacienda she apparently would be sharing with Kyle, Ethan and Jarod.

And Jarod's lover, no doubt.

Fortunately, the estate was spacious enough to accommodate additional guests, and rather comfortably. One week, she reminded herself. She could endure almost anything, no matter how infuriating or hellish, provided that an eventual cessation to the torment existed.

Smothering a yawn, she chose a book from the sparsely filled shelf in the den and then sat prim and composed on a squat, beige love seat that afforded a view of the kiva fireplace in the adjacent corner as well as the mountain peaks beyond the glass doors (not to mention the ten or so Federal Agents who believed they were well-concealed from her).

She was engrossed in the novel when Kyle arrived just after five in the evening, with Jarod and his fed friend trailing behind. The woman's laughter preceded her entrance into the den.

"It wasn't that funny," Kyle murmured as he passed the love seat, his words reaching only Parker's ears.

She was still processing Kyle's words when Jarod and his fed friend with benefits came into view. The woman tugged Jarod's hand, led him towards the den's entrance, placing herself and Jarod directly in Parker's line of sight. There, she nuzzled Jarod's neck, caressed his shoulder; her hand lingered on the nape his neck. The woman's coral painted fingernails were a startling contrast to Jarod's dark hair; she tugged gently at his skin, and then angled her head, poised for a kiss.

Feeling rather amenable, Jarod leaned forward, captured the woman's lips with his, the pair turned a half circle.

Parker observed, surreptitiously, as the woman drew closer still. Her fingers disappeared well below the collar of the jet black shirt whose top three buttons were already loose. "Hmm," she hummed, caressing both the fabric and the bare skin beneath. The woman, Parker opined, was as aroused by Versace as she was by Jarod.

They continued their lover's dance; the woman placed a string of kisses along Jarod's chest, reached for his belt.

They're going to make out? Here?

Oh, for fuck's sake!

Jarod's eyes opened languidly, met Parker's over the top of Rachel's head, and widened. He drew back suddenly, straightened, began the process of removing incriminating stains from his mouth.

"Uh," he stammered uneasily, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his pressed slacks.

"What?" Rachel asked, her voice husky and wounded.

"Miss Parker," he said.

The woman's face didn't register surprise
when she turned her head, and glimpsed Parker—a curiosity that didn't escape Jarod's attention.

"I didn't know," he stammered.

"We got caught up," Rachel explained. "in the heat of the moment
—I'm sure you know how that is."

"Mm," hummed Parker benignly with a nod of agreement. "And thus far, the only heat I've seen is in this dull murder mystery," she tacked on lightly, flipping a page.

"Excuse me?" Rachel cried.

Parker met the woman's ferocious gaze, and with a noncommittal shrug, sang, "T
omato, tomahto."

"Look," Rachel began, and then yelped, and staggered backwards. Jarod's feet, too, jerked, instinctively, when something brushed his leg.

"Lucky!" Cried Rachel.

Lucky?

Parker was bemused, until the golden retriever emerged from between the pair of legs and
bounded through the foyer, its coral painted toenails clicking chaotically atop the adobe floor, its intent quite obvious. Parker stood just as the canine leapt into the air, and effectively avoided a lap-full of fur.

The dog landed on the love seat with a thump, and seemed rather disconcerted to have missed his target (Parker). Baffled that any human could resist his charms, he wagged his tail enthusiastically, and drew close to Parker, perhaps to persuade her to pet him, (despite her apparent disinterest).

She glimpsed the approaching tongue dripping with saliva, jerked her hand away (Jarod grimaced; he could certainly sympathize with the poor fellow), and then hissed in a tone that would have stopped most any man or beast in its tracks, "Down, mutt."

In her peripheral, Jarod averted his gaze.
.
"Oops," exclaimed the auburn haired woman jovially, and then turned to Jarod. Cupping a palm over her mouth, the woman whispered conspiratorially, tossed her head back and laughed exuberantly.

"Oops indeed," said Parker, blandly.

"You don't like animals?" Inquired the woman with a chuckle of amusement.
 
"I like them,"
answered Parker crisply, "medium rare."

Rachel clamped her mouth closed, compressed her lips tightly. She regarded Parker narrowly for a moment, and then sought Jarod's assistance with her eyes.


"Rachel," he interjected cordially, right on cue, "this is Miss Parker. And this," Jarod added blithely, indicating the retriever, is Lucky."

"He won't be if he touches me," Parker warned, her eyes wide with fury.

"Ah, now," Jarod chided gently, "Lucky here has been struck four times by automobiles
—once by an eighteen wheeler, and"

"
Mm," hummed Parker, interrupting, "let me borrow your keys, Jarod; I can assure you that the fifth time will be a charm."

Jarod simply smiled, and then, holding Parker's steely gaze, addressed Rachel. "Excuse us for a moment, Rachel."

The woman nodded, grasped Lucky's leash and made herself scarce.

"Are you all right?" He asked amiably in genuine concern.

"Am I
—" Parker fell silent, and then, after a moment spent considering her deceased father, the circumstances she found herself, was quite unable to stifle a burst of hilarity—a mirthless, one-note snort. "Never better, Jarod."

"Rachel agreed that we should stop by and invite you to join us for dinner."

"After allowing that mutt to try to hump me, the least she can do is offer to buy me dinner
."

Jarod lifted both hands in defeat, took a compensatory step backwards, "I know that you're in pain
—"

"Shut up!" She demanded sharply, thrusting a finger at him. "You don't know anything."

Jarod lowered his gaze to the finger, noted it, remained staid. He lifted his sympathetic eyes to a face pinched with anger, eyes filled with tumult. "No?" He said.

Parker dropped her hands to her sides and her gaze to the floor.

"I don't know anything?" He pressed gently, his cadence precise, his voice unwavering.

"You were going to leave after you dropped me off herethat's what you said."

Jarod recoiled as if he'd been struck. His eyes narrowed.

"You find my presence unendurable?" He ventured placidly, studying her face.

The silence widened between them.

"I'm sorry if you do," Jarod said suddenly. The inflection and odd wheedling prompted Parker to meet his gaze. "I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with me for a while longer, Miss Parker," he added amiably, an enigmatic expression on his face. "I suppose, however," he continued, lifting a single brow as he spoke, "that you're entitled to a reprieve tonight if you prefer to be alone. And," he added softly, "I am truly sorry for your loss."

Oh, I'm sure that your heart is just breaking, Jarod.

He gave her ample time to change her mind, to offer a rebuttal, to demand he elaborate, to ask, "how much of a while longer, boygenius?" She, however, relapsed onto the love seat, making it plain that she wanted to be alone.

"You can't hide forever," he said in a voice tight with tension, thick with anger. "Whether you like it or not, we are going to have to talk."

Parker affected a smile
—one that more closely resembled a murderous sneer than a smile and swung her gaze at Jarod, "You've kept Rachel waiting long enough."

Jarod considered her words, measured the pain in them.

"She's a patient woman, Miss Parker; she's aware that you and I have unfinished business."

Parker regarded Jarod with exaggerated scorn, arched a brow. "Business," she hissed, "that will mercifully end this week."

"Well," he said with some solemnity, and decided, after a moment of rumination, to leave her on that cheerful note, and not correct her,
although he was rather doubtful that she could be completely ignorant of her precarious foothold with the bevy of officials he'd met with hours earlier (the boys and girls in the DOJ were not feeling particularly merciful, and at the close of the meeting had unanimously agreed that there was plenty of blame to go around and punishment to mete outa portion of the blame had even landed at Jarod's feet, much to his dismay). 

Parker was an intelligent woman, after all. She, Jarod mused, likely believed she'd face a stint in prison. Perhaps she believed that pecuniary recompense was expected of her as well. She was not, however, going to believe his account of the day's events.

Jarod thought it best to arrange to be alone with Parker. He certainly couldn't tell her while Rachel waited just outside. He wanted to spare Parker any indignity. If she fainted, cried, or suffered a complete unraveling of the psyche (or tried to kill him
—he couldn't rule out that possibility) she certainly wouldn't want a large audience.

She's going to want to kill me.

Jarod smiled warmly, attempted to loosen the tangle of anger and tension. He sought the woman he'd nearly kissed in Carthis, the woman who had helped him save Sydney and J.R., rather than the woman presently ignoring him, a look of absolute malevolence twisting her face.


"Goodnight," he said.

"You too," she offered with all of the civility that her aching heart could muster.

 

܀

End Notes:

I know that some of you wanted a good ol cat fight (I'm sorry?). Some of you also wanted longer chapters (this is). Unbetaed, et cetera.

Demons by Mirage
Author's Notes:

I guess this little tale wasn't complicated enough- that's no longer an issue. I borrowed some lyrics for this (they aren't mine either).

Warning: Kyle also uses slang (tsk-tsk).

 

 


܀

 

Parker eyes lifted expectantly when the door clicked open at eleven-fifteen, and slammed closed.

"Don't worry," Kyle assured her when he materialized in the archway, "he'll probably stay at Rachel's hotel tonight."
Parker shrugged noncommittally, regarded him narrowly over the top of the book—after a double-take. Kyle wore Varvatos. Black trousers, shirtsleeves. A tie. His neatly combed hair was slightly mussed.

"Is that relief or remorse," he asked. 

Parker blinked absently.

"Neither," she answered, her face expressionless, mirroring the indifference she felt.

"You know," Kyle said, dropping onto the sofa opposite her and loosening his tie, "I thought you'd be asleep by now."

Parker laid aside the book with deliberate force, and without having read a single word of it.

"You can't sleep," he said with alarming astuteness, and then grinned at the displeasure that marred her face,  confirmed his words.
Reaching into a coat pocket, he retrieved a pack of Marlboros, shook one into his hand and brought a lighter to its end. Suddenly, he paused with a questioning gaze. "You mind?"

Parker answered with curt shake of head and observed as he lit up. "Of course you can't sleep," he said, his words unspooling from his mouth on a cloudy coil of smoke.
"Look: I'm no shrink and I don't care much for Jarod's lengthy heart to hearts, but I do know what it's like to lose a parent."

"Your parents are alive," Parker corrected tersely, her eyes hard and cool below brows drawn together tightly.

"But I wasn't alive, not in their minds. They grieved for me. Mom is still grieving my death." He shook his head, took another drag. "You know, Dad's always been concerned about Mom's health: I remember when the Centre took Jarod. We woke up that morning and he was just—just gone. His lunchbox was on the floor, the sheets were tangled. The mattress was wet. Mom didn't change anything, wouldn't let Dad wash the bedding, or air the mattress. The room, the entire house, reeked of urine. She stopped cooking, stopped caring. Stopped caring about me, herself. Dad shut down, internalized. I lost my brother and my parents that morning. I lost everything." Kyle said, his eyes tearing, his jaw tight, his voice bitter, filled with pain.

He
leaned forward with his elbows pressed to his thighs. Ribbons of smoke unfurled from the cigarette he held between two fingers; the adjoined thumb was pressed to his forehead. He studied the floor for several moments and then lifted his head, observed as her face softened. "I was three, but I remember. Mom fell into a massive depression—I remember that. It all eventually came to a head, a full blown crisis. I hated seeing her like that. I hate that it's happening again, that she-she couldn't make it through dinner tonight without the hysterics." 

He shrugged and continued with a sheepish, boyish smile, and a rather lackadaisical, "So, that's our filthy family secret. And it's my fault. It's all my fault. Hell, I would have stayed dead if I'd known that Mom's meds would have to be readjusted, that she—she—shit," he hissed between his teeth. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this. I don't know why I am," he said, bringing the Marlboro to his lips once more.

Parker observed the cigarette's glowing end brighten. She moistened her lips, said amiably and with a frown creasing her brow, "It's not a filthy secret, and it's not your fault. Her children were taken from her—that's enough to send anyone over the edge. She's not rejecting you, Kyle. It can't be easy to live in her mind, battle those demons. Pain," Parker said softly, "pain changes people."

Kyle lifted his head
fractionally, said, his words smoking as they left his lips, "Like it changed you."

Parker answered with a half-hearted one-shoulder shrug and an expression of mild disdain intended to dissuade him from prying further.

Kyle dragged a hand over his face, clearly unhappy with the course the conversation had taken. He didn't want to talk, compare bruises, losses. He wanted to forget. "I don't know about you," he said, crushing the cigarette into a stainless coaster, and retrieving from the pocket of his coat a fifth of Mescal, "but I'm going to have drink. Before I go mad. Want one?"

Do I ever!

En route to the kitchen, he flipped on the radio, threw himself fully at the mercy of the disc jockey.

Parker, wordlessly, followed behind. In the kitchen, she observed with something akin to suspicion as Kyle spilled Mescal into two large tumblers.

Shot glasses are for amateurs and pussies.

Contrarily, Kyle discovered that they were not
it all depended on their intended purpose. A tumbler would fit too snugly in the waist of man's trousers or
between a woman's breasts.

A shot glass, however, fit quite nicely.

The tumblers were literally tossed aside (their shards coated the inside of the sink and the floor)
and two shot glasses were thrust onto the table with a thud, alongside a box of sea salt and four ripe limes.

Parker surveyed the items with disinterest. "Aren't we a bit old for bodyshots?"

And much too old for the music:

Bittersweet migraine in my head
It's like a throbbing toothache of the mind

"Says who?" He asked.

"I say," she answered, reaching for the bottle.

"Ah-ah-ah," Kyle sang, "if you want the tequila," he said, filling the glass and then tucking it into the waist of his pants, "come and get it." He bit into a lime, held it between his teeth, sprinkled a trail of salt over his chest.

His gaze met hers.

A challenge.

"Forget it," he said. "You don't exactly strike me as the kind of woman-"

He lapsed into silence when she advanced.
She was going to show him exactly what kind of woman she was.

God, I love to be underestimated.

She dropped to an unsteady crouch, felt the room undulate.

Closed her eyes.

Out of body and out of mind
kiss the demons out of my dreams

She removed the trail of salt that dead-ended at his waist, retrieved the shot glass with her teeth, tossed her head back, and then stood on feet that felt ill-equipped to support her.

Drain the pressure from the swelling
The sensation's overwhelming

Kyle braced her against him, pulled back briefly, teasing her with the lime, riveting his blues eyes on hers. Rather than allow her to take the lime, he held it fast
between his teeth; together they drank its juice.

Give me a long kiss goodnight
And everything will be all right
Tell me that I won't feel a thing

She didn't.

Didn't feel a thing.

There had been the eerily false and dreamlike upsurge of heat, the strange, not unpleasant sensation of warm lips on her belly, the sandpaper-on-skin feel
of salt being pushed across her flesh, someone lapping at her belly button, lapping up the tequila inside her navel, lapping a trail along her lissome body, between her breasts, seeking out her mouth.

There had been something approximating an interrogation, the intention to cover bases, cover asses:
"How drunk are you?" Kyle asked, and Parker was only fractionally aware of reaching again for the bottle.

"Not drunk enough," came Parker's alarmingly coherent answer.

"Hmm, tell me something," he said, his voice unnaturally firm, sober, his hands unbelievably tender, impossibly soft (she'd seen the callouses, the scars; he was not a gentle man). He pushed a sweat-drenched tendril from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers slipped along her skin, came to rest beneath her chin. "if Jarod were here, instead of spending the night at Rachel's hotel, would you be doing this with me?

I have to ask," Kyle explained, "because he's my brother. If there is something going on between you two"

Parker shook the disbelief from her face, lifted her brows high, and said with a measure of arrogance tainting her voice, "if there were something going on between me and your brotherhell, if there had ever been anything between me and your brother, he wouldn't be with Rachel right now."

"No?"

"Mm, no," she purred, "the intelligent ones never downgrade."

"Ah, I see. And if I told you that he had his own room at the hotel?"

Parker's answering chuckle was low and throaty.

"That wasn't supposed to be funny."

"Mm but it is," she rejoined, her words just barely intelligible. "You once extinguished a cigarette on a man's tongue, you're a prison escapee, you were
plotting to kill me and my family when you faked your death the second time."

"Guilty," he said with a crooked grin.

Parker swung a hand through the air, the careless flourish more closely resembled a frantic swat. "And yet," she said with renewed laughter, her eyes bloodshot and unconcerned as her body sagged against his.

"And yet?"

"And yet casual sex violates your stringent moral code
?"

"You do have a point there." 

Convention mattered very little; he lived by no moral rule book. Certainly he didn't want to hurt his brother; his main objective however was avoiding additional jail time. He'd been simply ascertaining her ability to consent, ensuring that there'd be no blurred lines and subsequent arrests, his specifically. The prospect of returning to prison held absolutely no appeal. She was no lightweight and was quite aware of both her motives and his: sex. Just sex.

And there had been music.

When your dreams all fail
And the ones we hail
Are the worst of all

When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide

Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside

She'd felt the pulsing bass move through their bodies when he captured her lips with his, and felt her own body humming to the melody. She caught only snatches of the lyrics, until, at last, the music, too, faded, receded into the distance.

And then there was nothing.

Only darkness.

 

܀


End Notes:

What happened next is anyone's guess. It's all right; Jarod will sort it all out.

Recompense by Mirage
Author's Notes:

I wasn't going to post anything so soon after the (numerous) horrific events (and there simply are no words; there is only hope); however, a rather kind reader from the lovely city emailed me and asked me to update. I couldn't say no.

 

 


܀

 

Consciousness slowly returned to Parker, stabbed through the blackness in much the same way that the insipid gray outside filtered obliquely through the blinds and into the darkened den.

Somewhere a door slammed. Shards of glass crunched beneath shoes. Parker became cognizant of unhurried movements in the Hacienda—the steady, purposeful strides of one who has some idea of what will be discovered, and is in no rush to make said discovery. The stairs creaked and suddenly heavy footfalls were advancing to the rhythm of a much older tune. The lyrics were clipped abruptly; the speakers fell silent.

Parker jerked awake, opened her eyes all at once. And groaned in disapproval. Wearing dark jeans, a black tee, and an expression of mild anger—mingled with vague disappointment—Jarod towered over her. The radio's power cord hung limply in his right hand, a black bathrobe dangled from his left.

"Which one of you wants to tell me what happened here last night?" He inquired blandly, and observed confusion wash over Parker's features. 

Last she'd checked, there had been only one of her. But knowing that sniveling son of a bitch Raines

Just then Kyle's arm moved beneath her neck and recollection fell upon her. Crushed her. Pinned her to the floor. Parker opened her mouth, moved her lips. It was much too soon to talk. Her throat was dry, sour with alcohol, her eyes were gritty. Her temples throbbed. She closed her eyes, wished Jarod away.

"Nothing happened," Kyle answered, stifling a yawn. And although Jarod's unbelieving and unwavering gaze remained riveted on Parker's pale face, Kyle added coolly. "We had a few drinks."

Jarod might have been convinced by his brother's explanation had it not been for the rather disconcerting state of undress in which he'd found the pair.

Oh, they just had a few drinks.
In their underwear.

Happens all the time.

Parker wore Kyle's shirt, and not much else, and she looked younger in it. In fact, she looked eerily childlike with only her fingertips protruding from the sleeves. All of which somehow made the discovery even more disturbing, especially when contrasted by the sharp angle of her hips, bare save for the black panties she wore.

"Mhm," The Pretender hummed, and then opened his left hand, allowed the bathrobe—his bathrobe—to slip through his fingers. Parker felt it drop across her bare belly, and grudgingly shoved her injured hand into a sleeve. "You're expected at the morgue in less than hour—you knew that."

Gee, the poor thing woke up on the wrong side of Rachel this morning. Parker eyelids fluttered in annoyance. She sharped her vicious riposte to a fine point, and, prepared to slay the ill-miened beast, met his dark, measuring gaze. The words were forgotten, lost. There was something proprietorial in his eyes, something vaguely menacing. She dropped her gaze to the robe—it was a rather lovely pretext. And she was grateful to Jarod for, unwittingly, supplying it. Gathering her wits, and the robe around her body, she decided that she had been mistaken, and decided, too, that it mattered little either way. This was the final refrain, the final corte in their decades long tango. She was mere days away from life sans boygenius.

"I'm not going," she said testily, petulantly, tying the robe tightly around her waist, and Jarod cringed at her childishness. He felt ill, suddenly, and much too out of sorts to comprehend why.

"Miss Parker—"

"I've made my decision," she snarled, sounding—to Jarod's relief—more like herself, her adult self. Thank God.

"All right," he said. "I'll identify his body."

"No," she argued. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"Look," Jarod said with growing impatience, "I'm not going to argue with you. Okay? The DOJ is concerned only with their own itinerary and neither you nor I are in positions to make demands," he explained and then, immediately contradicted himself by demanding, with more authority, more grit than he'd intended, "Go upstairs and pull yourself together. I'll go identify the body; when I get back, you and I are going to talk."

Bastard.

Parker didn't care much for this particular incarnation of Jarod. He wasn't all that pesky when he was whining about his parents, marinating in his own woe and self-loathing or begging for his life. But when boygenius has his shit together—No. Just no. Just fucking no. She could think of only one thing worse than taking orders from Raines, or Lyle, or Cox: taking orders from Jarod.

Parker narrowed her eyes at him, and then brushed past him. When she was gone, Jarod's gaze slid over to Kyle, "Clean up this mess, cook her some breakfast and keep the coffee coming. Strong coffee, Kyle. I want her sober and clear-headed when I return." That said, he pivoted.

"You're angry at me?" Asked an incredulous Kyle. "I didn't get her drunk. Hell, if I hadn't been there, she would've polished off the bottle."

Jarod turned, faced his brother, regarded him narrowly. "If you hadn't been here, she wouldn't have even touched the bottle. You brought it into the house."

"I didn't think she was going to still be awake when I got back."

"You didn't think at all, Kyle."

"Whoa. What the hell is this about?"
Jarod glanced at his watch, said, "I can't be late."

"We were just blowing off steam, Jarod," Kyle shouted, defensively.

"Is that all?"

"Is that—is that all? Why? Why do you care?" Kyle asked, and mused—angrily—that Jarod wanted Parker to be more than just sober and clear-headed. He wanted her. Period. And yet: "You said there was nothing between the two of you. Hell, you were with Rachel."

"I've known Rachel for quite some time," came Jarod's rather self-righteous reply.

"I've known Miss Parker longer than you've known Rachel, Jarod."

"Rachel isn't vulnerable right now, Kyle," Jarod explained. "Her father's body wasn't just discovered, she wasn't just taken at gun point from the place where she was practically raised, her life wasn't just thrown into upheaval. And you don't know Miss Parker," Jarod said shiftily, enunciating each word. He then admonished severely, "You shouldn't have run away last night."

"I didn't have any incentive to stay where I, clearly, wasn't welcomed."

"Mom was asking for you."

"For me?" Inquired Kyle. "Or for some picture perfect idea of me that she's created in her mind? The three-year-old Kyle? I"m not a child anymore, Jarod. I can't be her little boy."

"You have to give her some—"

"Save your breath," Kyle interrupted. "I know, I know: pain changes people, she needs more time, et cetera, et cetera. I heard it all last night, and I get it. I get it now! Okay? Damn it," groused Kyle, pivoting. "I'm starving and you are late," he called over his shoulder.

Jarod observed in stunned silence as Kyle withdrew from the room and then he lifted his curious, dark gaze to the arch—at the top of the stairs—through which Parker had, no doubt, angrily stamped ten minutes earlier. Pain changes people? What the hell happened here last night? He intended to find out the moment he returned.

Parker, however, had plans of her own; those plans didn't involve him. Apparently.The first indication that something had transpired in his absence were the two SUVS that blocked the intersection, their flashers blinking maniacally in the downpour. "What now?" Muttered Jarod when a yellow-slickered Agent Morales jogged up to the car. He killed the wipers, lowered the window, said, "Tell me you didn't let her leave."

"You know me better than that," answered Morales. "She waited for the shift change, took off towards the mountains, used the rain and brush to her advantage. We headed off her at the lake." Jarod averted his gaze, shook his head. "I underestimated her," he confessed to himself. "Uh, tell me: was my brother involved in her escape attempt?"

"No. Your brother assisted us in apprehending her."Jarod studied the man for a moment, and then opened the door and stepped out of the car. Morales called over the rain, "A word of caution: she's not happy."

"Happiness isn't on the table," Jarod returned dryly, and then entered the house, where an ill-tempered Kyle was still cleaning up last night's party. Alone.

"Where is she?"

"Outside," answered Kyle with a jerk of head to indicate the back yard.

"In this rain?" Inquired Jarod, with a squint of skepticism.

"Give her a few more minutes," Kyle suggested, and observed his brother's bemused expression morph into absolute suspicion. "Have a cup of coffee with me, Jarod."

"Is this some sort of diversion," Jarod ask, turning to the kitchen exit.

"If it is, Kyle—"

"Diversion? No," explained Kyle, "I just think you should give her a break. Jarod," he called, futilely. "Jarod? Jarod!"

Fresh out of breaks, Jarod quietly slipped outside to discover that Parker hadn't colluded with Kyle after all, and, furthermore, appeared to have no intention of attempting, again, to escape. Alone with her demons, she seemed to have resigned herself to fate, and seemed rather perturbed about it. Beneath a eleven by five inch white awning, she paced back and forth in short, choppy strides and sucked ferociously on a Marlboro. It was the season of change, of promises broken. The ones she'd made to herself. Those her father had made to her.

Jarod observed her, unnoticed, for several moments, the sort of head-to-toe scrutiny that wasn't allowed in their game, because it meant that he cared—that, too, was disallowed. By her. It was unwritten, unspoken law.

She hadn't regained her color; in fact, her face seemed to disappear in the opaque clouds of smoke that hung low beneath the awning. She pushed a tremulous hand into her coat pocket, retrieved the hard pack and then hastily pinched a cigarette from it. She removed the dying butt from her lips, used it to light the fresh one. Closed her wind-stung eyes. Sucked deeply. Smoked like she did most everything: all in. No half measures.

After a moment, a cloudy curl of smoke unfurled from her mouth. She's self-destructing. Or is this what grieving a monster looks like? Or could this possibly be the morning after blowing off steam with Kyle? And just what, he wondered, did that entail anyway? Had it been grudge sex? Jarod distinctly recalled Kyle's disdain for Parker, which, to his astonishment, far surpassed his own disdain for her. And was she able to consent, or was she completely blitzed the entire time? And did Kyle procure a condom at some point during their road trip? And when did he purchase the tequila? Had he been planning to blow off steam with Parker prior to last evening? Plotting to get her drunk? The questions only raised more questions, and some of the questions were rather unpleasant to entertain, were unpalatable.

Jarod considered returning to the kitchen to beat the answers out of his brother. And he likely would have; Parker, however, pushed a hand through her hair, pivoted, and narrowed her eyes. At Jarod.
She felt the small stretch of dry land shrink considerably when he joined her beneath the awning.

"I don't suppose," said Jarod softly, "I have to tell you that cigarettes are bad for you."

She jerked her gaze away from his. "Leave it alone, Jarod," said Parker tartly, her face hard and inscrutable.

He answered with a despairing and dramatic sigh, and weighed his words before, at last, announcing, "We have to talk."

"Talk," she commanded, detesting his primacy, detesting everything about him, and for no solid reason, nothing logical, nothing that she could articulate. It bothered her, and she found that incomprehensible; after all, she'd never needed a reason to hate him before.

"This isn't quite what I had in mind," he said, surveying the heavy rain.  She drew to a halt, inquired sharply, "Was Daddy murdered?"

"No," answered Jarod softly. "No, he died from exposure."

"Exposure," Parker repeated with a measure of incredulity, her voice thickening with grief. She resumed her fretful pacing, shook her head in disapproval. "Right," she hissed, the words wavering with rage, with pain. "I bet your little autopsy didn't tell you if his exposure was coerced," she said with a nasty, empty laugh.

"Foul play isn't suspected."

"Why would it be? An old man wandering around lost and disoriented? Dehydrated?" She threw her hands up in a grand, angry gesture, nearly dislodging the cigarette from her fingers in the process. "It happens all the time—that's exactly what his killer wants you to believe."

"It doesn't matter what I believe, Miss Parker. There will be no investigation."

"And that's it?"

"No," he answered, with a compressed, pained smile. "No, I'm afraid not. Look: can we go inside?"

"You're really starting to piss me off, Jarod," she snarled.

"I am starting to piss you off," he retorted incredulously.

"Yeah," she said, in a tight, toneless voice. "Snitching to the feds, your casual dismissal of my—" The remainder of her diatribe caught in her throat, and, she decided, it was just as well. He couldn't possibly comprehend the depth of her loss. Or the depth of her self-loathing. The previous nights' events returned to her; measure by measure, the music pulsed through her mind, made fuzzy and distant by the tequila. She couldn't stop feeling her body beneath Kyle's, and perhaps more perplexing, couldn't recall much else that transpired. She took a nice, long pull on the Marlboro and Jarod observed its end glow bright.

"Miss Parker? Your what?"

"Fuck you, Jarod," she said, exhaling an cloudy plume of smoke, her words smoking, her eyes smoldering. "I don't answer to you and I never will and it's going to take a helluva lot more than this little Draconian cop routine of yours to keep me here," she said, piercing the air between them with a angry finger that Jarod was quite certain she could kill him with if given half a chance—and most likely would before the day was done.

"I don't know which badge you are hiding behind," she hissed, her voice tremulous, "but you can pass along this message to your boss: heads are going to roll if I have to stay here another night."

Jarod took a compensatory step back, held up both hands, affected the most conciliatory tone in his impressive repertoire and asked, "Could we possibly start over?"

Parker narrowed her eyes, composed a thin, triumphant smile and sidled up to him. "We're done."

"No, Miss Parker," Jarod said to her departing form. "No, we aren't," he said, jogging to catch up with her. "I'm not a cop," he called out desperately, and stopped shy of reaching for her—it required a Herculean effort to withdraw his hand, and not grasp her arm. He then shouldered his way into the house, entirely unaware that she was trying to lock him out. In the rain. Where he deserves to be. The bastard.

"You aren't staying here another night," he said with some urgency, his voice following her through the kitchen, into the living area and up the stairs. When he finally caught up with her, she was sitting dead center of the stairs, resting her forehead in her hands.

"I'm listening," she said tersely.

He affected a warm expression that typically invited friendly smiles, kind greetings; Parker, however, was anything but typical; her face remained blank, her eyes cold.

"Still take your coffee black, Miss Parker?" He asked softly as he ascended the steps, and offered her a cup that clinked softly atop a saucer.

"I'm not doing this, Jarod" she said.

"This?" He inquired as he sat precisely two steps below her.

"Willfully participitating in your manipulation," she answered. "Following your lead in this same old dance. I am not going to drink coffee and act like I want to be here in return for answers. You are going to tell me everything you know or I am going to walk out the door. That's the deal," she hissed.

"You won't get far," Jarod cautioned grimly, setting cups and saucers on the step between them. "The men outside aren't going to allow you to leave. In fact, the DOJ has been considering charging you with a number of crimes and requesting the maximum sentence. Abducting and exploiting children, false imprisonment—they are Federal crimes, Miss Parker, in case you didn't know."

"Then arrest me."

"It's a little more complicated than that, I'm afraid. Actually," he amended sheepishly; brown eyes skittered to the coffee cups. "it's a lot more complicated. Just prior to our road trip, I met with parties from several agencies and pitched a deal. I offered them exculpatory evidence in your defense—"

"What evidence?"

"The fact that you're here now," Jarod answered simply. "Also, you played a large role in rescuing J.R, you've collaborated with me in the past. You pleaded with your father to put you back in corpora—" He stopped himself abruptly. Much too late.

She dropped her hands to her sides, paled. "How did you find out about that?"

He lifted a cup to his lips, drank a steamy sip, and then straightened. Returning cup to saucer, he met her gaze, and confessed.

"There's very little I don't know about you," he said, his eyes hard, unblinking. "I couldn't afford to be ignorant," he said with a measure of distaste in his voice. "My best friend grew up to lead the team pursuing me. It wasn't personal, Miss Parker—that's what you always said. It's not personal," he mocked with a shrug, "it's just business. Well," he continued, "you were correct. It was business. It was my business to know where you were, who you were with, what you were doing, what you were planning, to study your face, your expressions, your voice, your every move, and to know when to run, to know when to try to reason with you, to know—well, to know you. It was just business."

"You spied on me?"

"Unceasingly," he answered, his voice sharp and cold, unapologetic.
Her jaw unhinged. She stammered something unintelligible, fell silent briefly and began again, her cheeks aflame. The hateful words, the panoply of unmitigated insolence and hubris clogged her throat; quite unable to speak, or even think, coherently, she averted her gaze.
Jarod observed as she resumed her former position, this time closing her eyes and leaning forward into her hands, and clutching her head. She remained there, stiff and quiet. And speechless. He was absolutely amazed. Had it not been for the angry glare (and the accompanying flicker of embarrassment), he would have sworn she'd suffered a mini-stroke, and summoned an ambulance.

He cleared his throat artificially. Parker, however, didn't lift her head. She simply commanded, "Talk." And that's precisely what Jarod did.

"I believed that I had successfully secured your freedom prior to yesterday's meeting. Certain parties," he said, his voice softening perceptibly, "however, have since chosen to re-neg owing primarily to the lack of recompense. Unfortunately Broots, who I mistakenly believed was safe, and my brother, were used as bargaining chips, and were both facing stints in prison. I'm not even sure how they knew Kyle was still alive, but they know; they know I was harboring a known felon."

"Recompense? You want pecuniary recompense?" She said, tossing her head back, trying to relieve the gathering tension in her neck. "I'll write you a check, Jarod."

"It won't be that simple," he said.

Parker, exasperated, closed her eyes. "Tell me that Broots isn't going to prison."

"Broots isn't going to prison."

"Good," Parker said, genuinely relieved. "He wouldn't last an hour; I'm much better suited for it. When is my arraignment?" She asked, her tone blithe, oddly bereft of apprehension, and Jarod couldn't help but respect her loyalty.

And he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. He, however, decided that now wasn't the time to tell her that he was fully responsible for Broots' involvement with the Centre: Jarod had intercepted each of the candidates vying for the full time IT position. As a result—and just as Jarod had planned—Broots had been upgraded from standby contract hire to full time IT position. Jarod had personally handpicked Broots for the pursuit team, not for his IT expertise, but because Broots had two things that none of the other candidates had: a child, and a conscience. And Jarod had used both to his advantage.

Watching her face closely, Jarod observed a spasm of dread mar her features, and responded with a self-deprecating smile. "You aren't going to prison either," he said, and then added, enigmatically, "at least not the way you think you are."

"Meaning?"

"Some uh, some charges have brought against you. A string of misdemeanors essentially contrived to inconvenience you—"

"Cough it up, Jarod," she said impatiently.

"They're willing to make it all go away."

"The catch?"

"The catch," answered Jarod, "is that The FBI lost communication with one of their undercovers, Agent Misha Clemente, two days ago. They believe she was murdered, in an unrelated crime, before she could infiltrate a human trafficking ring suspected of abducting them," he said, presenting Parker with a selfie photograph of two young girls coated in glitter; their open smiles revealed braces. Parker glanced at the photo, and then frowned, looked away in disgust, distress. "Gracie Livingston and Celeste Steel," Jarod explained. "They disappeared during Gracie's tenth birthday party."

"So go find them, Jarod!"
Jarod answered Parker's impassioned exclamation with an expression of incertitude.

Surprise twist time.

"Look," he explained. "Rachel, for some insane reason, got the impression that you were a flight risk. She refused to disclose this information to me unless I promised I wouldn't tell you. I knew I'd break that promise to her before I made it."

"Tell me what?"

"Agents are spread thin, and losing Clemente has jeopardized the entire east coat operation. You are fluent in several languages, you have weapons training. You're intelligent. With very minimal supervision and direction you can do this. Look: I want you to know that the FBI isn't prepared to accept no for an answer," Jarod said, pressing the cup between his hands; he was tempted to crush it in his grasp. "You do this for them," he said, frowning into his coffee, "or you go to prison. You, Broots, and Sydney."

"Sydney," she whispered breathlessly. "In prison?"

"Rachel wants your answer by midnight."

Rachel. It was probably her idea. Or Jarod's. What better way to atone for the sins of my father? Karma. In all its splendor. 

"I'll do it," Parker said, and then added tartly when Jarod looked up from his cup, "And you can tell your girlfriend that she didn't have to threaten me with prison." Parker rose and a took a single step.

"There is another option," Jarod said gravely, and observed as Parker came to a halt. "We run," he said. "We can take my car, drive to the Centre's private airstrip in Sante Fe. We can flee the states, seek asylum in—"

"I'm not running," she said. "I don't run."

"You ran this morning," reminded Jarod softly. She was suddenly quiet, suddenly economic with her rebuttals, her glares. She didn't turn, didn't meet his gaze. She couldn't deny his words, no matter how much she wanted to.

"Ah, I see," he purred, sidling up to her. "You only run from me," he said, his breath spilling across her neck.

"Don't flatter yourself, Jarod," she said. And he opened his mouth to inquire why he should be flattered, when, in fact, his feelings were quite different, quite the opposite, but then she said, cynically, "Wait a minute," and twisted around to address him: "We?"

"Pardon?"

"You said we can flee the states. You included yourself. Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"If it were would I have asked?"

"I suppose not. Uh, I've obstructed justice, tampered with evidence, I've removed organs from unwilling donors, coerced confessions—the NSA considers that excessive force, and they are awfully angry about it. I've exposed numerous agencies, as well as hospitals, dental offices, midwifery clinics, legal and accounting firms to all sorts of scrutiny.

The sort of scrutiny that costs taxpayers millions of dollars, the sort of scrutiny that ruins careers, lives. Good cops, Agents, and even several internal affairs investigators have been terminated for trusting me, for looking the other way, for not following protocol. The CIA is rather interested in learning more about their obvious security flaws; they are rather displeased. The DHS is especially suspicious of me, and, despite Rachel's testimony, the Secretary tells me I can expect to be on probation for the rest of my natural life—and I quote," he said. "My passport has been revoked; I will never be allowed to legally travel overseas again. The Attorney General was at least polite—chilly, but polite, which is more than I can say for the Directors of the FBI and ATF. They seem to think I enjoyed impersonating their Agents. They believe I enjoyed it so much in fact that the FBI is sending me out on a legitimate operation. With you, Miss Parker. You know, since I'm so smart and all."

"No," she said, clutching the stair rail for support, and sinking slowly down to the step. "You said a week. And—and—"

And just like that her mouth had forgotten how to work again.

"Look on the bright side," he said cheerfully.

"There is no brightside," she interrupted grimly.

"Sure there is. Had you rather spend thirty to forty-five in Federal prison?"

"Yes," she said, "If my only other option is—"

"This is your only option," Jarod interrupted. "I've successfully secured your freedom, and Mr. Broots', and it wasn't easy; however, it does comes with a price."

"That will only cost us our sanities."

"Hmm, unlike life in prison which, believe me, is a real sanity booster," quipped Jarod. "I've no intentions of losing my freedom, of living in a cage. We will be monitored at all times, however, that's a rather small price to pay—"

"Monitored?" She asked, and leaned forward once more and held her aching head.

"Miss Parker," he asked softly, "are you all right?"

"You wouldn't happen to know a cure for hangovers?"

"Only one," answered Jarod. "Don't drink."

"Well you're useless," she retorted, "as usual," she added with a sigh, and then moaned, "Monitored," she mused aloud, "I'm going to be treated like a common criminal."

"No," he corrected gently. "An uncommon criminal. We are both believed to have hidden funds, here in the states and abroad, as well as powerful connections, specifically in Asia. We are considered flight risks."

"I have neither funds nor connections in Asia."

"You don't have to pretend, for my sake," Jarod said, gruffly, "that you aren't acquainted with the Tanakas."

"I'll leave the pretending to you, Jarod,"  Parker returned fire. Reloaded. "I'm not acquainted with the Tanakas. I was once acquainted with Tommy Tanaka—that was before I discovered his father was a child murderer."

Jarod sliced the air dismissively. "The DOJ has determined that we are flight risks, and are not open to further rebuttals or negotiations."

"If I do this, Broots and Sydney walk?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to want that in writing and I will want proof."

"I'll have to ask if that can be arranged—"

"No," she said flatly. "That's the deal. If they can't guarantee it, if they can't supply proof," she said, impassioned and anguished, "there is no deal." She rose, and then came to a sudden halt when Jarod raced ahead of her up the stairs, blocked her retreat. "Miss Parker—"

"I'm not negotiating Debbie's happiness or Sydney's health," she hissed. "I already regret helping you with JR; I put Broots' life at risk and Sydney was injured, and that is your fault, but I feel responsible, and I'm not going to do it again. Woo your girlfriend if you must, Jarod; hell, ask her to marry you if need to, but don't you dare ask me to disrupt the lives of the people who matter most to me, the only family I have left, not after everything I've done to protect them." She folded her arms across her breasts, drew a breath, and said softly, "Can we argue about this later?"

"I don't want to argue with you or—" frustrated, he fell silent, pushed a hand through his hair, said, "Do we have to argue?"

"I suppose not," she answered with a half-hearted attempt at a shrug, and then studied him expectantly. You're supposed to get out of my way now. Preferably before I toss you down the stairs.

"I'm sorry that I have to bring this up now, and I am truly sorry for your loss," he said, thinking in that moment that there were other topics he'd rather broach, words unspoken, conversations unfinished. He had theories regarding the cabalistic symbols he'd glimpsed in Carthis, and about the Triumvirate, not to mention the text of the  abstruse—and supposed foretelling—scrolls, which he was certain he had positively identified as English (and certainly not to mention the infamous moment of weakness).

They were all conversations the pair would likely never have. He was certain that something else, something more pressing, would always take precedence. In this case, her father, who continued, in his death, to be an obstacle. "Your father," he said after a long pause, "has been transferred to a funeral home. They are awaiting your instructions."

"Tell them to cremate him," she said mildly.

"I'm sorry," he said, blinking wide, "what?"

"He wanted to be cremated."

"And his ashes?"

"Scatter them in one of the Centre's sixty hybrid biotracts."

"I wish there was more time, but there isn't. I can give you another six hours," he said. "Look: if you're going to see him, and I think you need to, it has to be today. If you need some more time to decide what to do, where to bury—"

"I want him cremated and shipped to Blue Cove."

"You were serious?" He asked, and then studying her expression, amended "you are serious. Uh, okay. What about visitation? I can accompany you to the funeral home if you'd—"

"Thanks but no. I'm not going," she informed him. "Excuse me," she said, and attempted to pass him.

"Just—wait," he said. "Don't you think you should go, if for no other reason than to attain closure?"

"Closure? I'm not certain that's possible. Until I know why he was murdered there won't be closure."

"There is no indication that he was murdered. Miss Parker, if you don't say goodbye," he importuned," you will regret it."

"Not as much as I'll regret not knowing why, knowing who killed him. Sometimes, there is no closure," she said with a facile smile.

Stunned into silence, Jarod lowered his gaze and stepped to the side, and felt, rather than observed, her hasty retreat.

"You understand," he called urgently after her, "that if you don't see your father in the next few hours, you will never see him again?"

She answered blandly, answered without turning, without missing a beat,

 

"Life goes on, Jarod."

 

܀


End Notes:

YOU decide which tune was playing in the beginning of this chapter, and at what point, precisely, the lyrics were clipped. Go crazy with it.

Traffic by Mirage
Author's Notes:

Fact check: flash drives were invented in 1999-2000ish, so naturally, the Centre was already using the things (Jarod probably invented them ages ago) and Parker could very well have pressed one of them into Jarod's palm during that infamous limo-hand-crushing-pleading scene.
 

 

 


 

܀

Traffic was backed up a quarter of a mile on the two-lane street that split the town. The previous night's storm had wreaked havoc on the stop lights; a large ladder truck, its flashing bulbs chaotic and yellow, blocked an entire lane. The banners and ribbons, however, had already been replaced—as a matter of course. Small town priorities. Two of the Zelkova trees that lined each side of the street had been replaced as well after sustaining wind damage. Around the trunk of each tree was tied a yellow ribbon; each recently installed solar lamp that dotted the street was adorned with banners of red, white, and blue.

A large poster proclaiming the date and time of the fireworks display—a crowd pleasing event that had been canceled pending the safe return of Celeste and Grace—undulated gently outside the old barber shop in this largely conservative town where change came slowly, but came inevitably, despite its resistant citizens.

The road forked sharply a mile south. Straight ahead the town's obligatory Walmart, the fast food chains and the convenience stores where one could fuel up a car,  purchase a fountain drink and meal consisting of the deep fried fare Jarod typically favored. It could have been any other American town. There were no distinguishing landmarks, nothing to set it apart.

Until now.

Jarod forewent yet another artery-clogging burger, flipped on the the left blinker. He took the turn too fast, too hard, slung the vehicle deftly around a small park in a wide arc and drove straight into the suburbs. He glanced quickly into the rearview, ensured that he hadn't roused Parker.

Bringing her along was a mistake. He'd reiterated his misgivings to department heads, to directors and deputy direcctors, who in turn issued assurances that they believed were cogent and would effectively silence him. The feds were insistent.

Rachel was insistent.

And Rachel could be very convincing. She talked of his expertise and the ease with which he picked up new skills, his knack for languages and dialects and subtle inflections, his ability to meld into his surroundings, melt into the shadows.

Fodder for his ego.

When Parker pulled him to the side and confided her concerns to him, he was dismissive and smug. "Jarod, something is wrong. These people aren't covering all of the bases here. I know I'm not genius, but they have people for this, and—I don't know. The Director seems familiar. I don't trust him. And I don't trust Rachel. They've provided us with little intel and only vague—"

"Yes," he interrupted. "Something is wrong. You are selfish and cold. You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself. You never have. And you're right: you're not a genius."

She reproached and rebutted and launched an assault on his intelligence.

Rachel was there to make him feel like a super god, beyond reproach, and soothe his injured pride and remind him that two very frightened little girls were depending on him. "They need you, Jarod."

Perhaps, agreed Parker, who overheard their conversations, and the bed groaning beneath their combined weight when they made love. But they don't need me.

Parker hadn't spoke to him since. She refused to even look in his general direction. She took her meals alone. She spoke to Kyle often—until, that is, Jarod persuaded Rachel to sever communications between the pair, deactivate Parker's mobile. She was the outcast. Again. Just as she'd been inside the Centre.

Just as she'd been her entire life.

Jarod, clearly, hadn't anticipated the long hours on the road, the desultory nights in hotels, the maddening silence. Parker was accustomed to isolation; she wasn't afraid of silence, of being alone with her own thoughts. She could be alone. Jarod could not. He needed constant reassurance, he needed someone to feed his ego, walk it, stroke it, take it outside to play.

Nia had picked up where Sydney had left off and there had been a string of women since. Zoe, Rachel. Some real estate mogul named Cynthia.

Parker listened in disgust to Jarod's pouting: "I don't know what I'm going to do without you next week, Rachel."

And Rachel had answered Jarod's post-coital musings with, "The bitch is a fungus, lover, and funguses are raised in shit and thrive in the cold and the dark. Call me when you get lonely; I'll keep you warm."

But Rachel wasn't picking up the telephone. He'd left ten messages in half as many hours.

He was desperate, tetchy. He needed to talk.

He'd settle for an irrational argument. Eager to satisfy that desire, his eyes jerked to the rear-view mirror.

"Time to wake up," he shouted and then twisted around and punctuated his demands with a swift, but rather effective kick to the rear passenger seat.

Parker lifted her head, and then sat and stretched. She didn't so much as groan. She lodged no complaints, swallowed her sharp rispostes.

Damn her.

He decided to settle for pleasant discourse.

"We're almost there. I'm going to stop for fuel. I'll get us coffee and pastries," he said with false cheerfulness, and glanced into the rear-view at her, at her closed mouth.

Ultimately, he settled for tense silence.

The tension was all his.

He returned from paying for the food and fuel, set the cups of gas station brew on the roof of the black sedan and opened the door. And frowned at the empty rear seat. Empty.

She was gone.

Furious, he pivoted. And then somehow grew even more enraged to glimpse her crossing the near-emtpy intersection, returning from some rather pretentious establishment that had the audacity to call itself 'Brew la-la', with a small cup in her right hand and the morning breeze blowing her hair around.

"I said I would get us coffee and pastries," he shouted at her, causing heads to jerk around. He indicated the white paper bag in his left hand and shook it fiercely and he and Parker and everyone nearby could, indeed, see the bag, exhibit A, streaked translucent with fat. "I want you to know," he snarled at her when she slipped onto the backseat, removing his mirrored sunglasses, "that it's too late to renege. If you're thinking about running now, you had better rethink."

His words implied that there had been an agreement, that she had negotiated with him, with the Feds, when, in fact, she had not.

"I sent a letter to the Director," she said tartly, and swallowed her words with a sip of the latte.

"Your letter was intercepted," he said, smiling at her in the rear-view, and then becoming frustrated when she didn't meet his gaze in the mirror. She was being economical with her words, with glances. She didn't waste a single syllable on him.

"By Rachel? That's a Federal offense."

"So is abduction and false imprisonment. You didn't seem to mind committing crimes to please Daddy. Did you, Miss Parker? You obeyed his every command without so much as blinking. You shot at me, chased me—"

It became quite clear that he intended to recite his entire life's dissertation. Parker interrupted Jarod just as he was passionately building up to the part where she had fucked everything up in Carthis by "terrorizing" his mother, and he didn't even stop to thank her for the flash drive that she'd pressed into his palm when he'd grasped her hands and pleaded with her. She wanted to tell him that she would have been killed if the Centre discovered the numerous times she'd helped him. Numerous. Instead, she returned the focus to the woman who'd intercepted her letter,

"I'm not a Federal Agent."

"You are now."

And Parker was certain they were making a terrific blunder. She suspected a cover-up, a covering of arses. After all, the government, the military had been in bed with the Centre for decades, from the beginning. Raines had shared his cloning techniques with high ranking officials, Jarod had completed thousands of simulations for the military. That Jarod would trust the Centre's highest bidder, the United States Government, was both frightening and hilarious.

The narrative was tidy, the language friendly. The Government wanted her to believe they were doing her a favor, that with this single assignment the slate would be wiped clean, that no charges would be pressed, that she and her friends would walk free.

But suits are suits
.

She recognized the futility in communicating with Jarod. He was still rather naive, more so than he should have been. Any talk of misgivings prompted a scathing rebuttal; Jarod could be cruel, arrogant; he was all too eager to silence her when she spoke of her distrust. "You are the absolute last person who should be talking to me about trust, Miss Parker." 

She'd had very little to say to him since, and had no desire to speak to him again. Parker never corrected him when he spoke of her plans to escape. She had no intention of running. Someone had to watch his back, the invisible target there that only Parker could see, and ensure that Rachel and her pals didn't thrust a knife through it.

Parker wasn't naive. She knew the game, the politics, the depths to which the most culpable would sink when careers and freedoms are threatened. She knew. She'd watched her own father applaud Raines' most nefarious successes. And for what?

Presently, she turned her face to the window and observed as the landscape transitioned.

The lower middle class neighborhood was well maintained, the lawns in varying stages of death, all mostly yellow, some strangely naked beneath the July sun. Maple trees were festooned with patriotic banners and ribbons. Typically mesquite, pecan and oak would be smothered beneath the more potent scent of lighter fluid. This year, however, there were no barbecues. Summer had ended early and with a scream of terror that signaled the death of a small town's innocence.

Despite his impatience, Jarod heeded the warnings, slowed the sedan to a languid 15 miles per hour as advised by the numerous signs alerting drivers to children at play. It was entirely unnecessary, however, courtesy of a strict, city-wide curfew imposed on all citizens; children, therefore, were at play in the safety of their homes.

Much like sentinels, armed with shotguns and pistols, the elders were holding vigil; they observed Jarod drive past, reported the damning out-of-state plates to Cathy, one of the 911 operators. Parker and Jarod, or rather Agents Deidra Vella and Kane Mortenson respectively, were questioned, cleared, and welcomed with open arms.

Contrarily, the dark van that crept along the avenue days earlier had gone largely unnoticed (and would have been most certainly unwelcome).

But there'd been no reports of strange vehicles in the area; no one had seen a black van, no one had seen anything out of the ordinary. It was a small community, ruled by a strict homeowner's association.

While Jarod shook hands with Celeste's father and offered platitudes and sympathetic smiles, Parker studied the diaper-clad toddler running spasmodically on unsteady legs. The child, called Tess, chewed on her pacifier and was grunting and screaming with eagerness to squeeze past the legs of the visitors.

Tess wanted to reach the storm door before the adult hands could close the heavy, wooden door that obstructed her view of the quiet avenue. And while Parker heeded the father's piteous, "please don't let her go outside," she also heeded the toddler's wishes.
Indeed, Parker had no intention of hindering a child whose face was set in such eager determination. There was something about that defiance, that fierce urgency that Parker understood and respected. She wanted out, too. And she, too, would be contented, for now, to just see the way out, to visualize it.

With her goal accomplished, Tess expelled a gleeful chorte and smashed her face right up against the glass storm door. She spat the pacifier onto the carpet, drew an excited breath and shrieked, "Ma! Ma ma ma ma ma ma!"

Parker was unimpressed.

But then a red minivan came into view on the empty avneue, as if the child had summoned it up with her chant, and pulled into the winding drive and right up to the front steps. "Ma. Ma."

Tess was thrilled to see her mother arrive home, and positively elated to see the squirrels, furry acrobats, diving from low hanging branches. It was a return to what she'd known before.

Tess was overcome with happiness and began kissing her reflection, pressing moist lips to the glass with endearing smacks.

She'd been similarly waiting for her mother days earlier and been supremely displeased by the sight of a battered black van. The driver had seen her muou of discontent, her knitted brows.

Tess had cried silent, impatient tears, licked the little girl in the glass, comforted herself. She'd wanted her mother, but her mother had been late that day, called away by Gracie's parents, called away by the tragic news. The wooden door had slammed closed prior to lunch on that ill-fated day. Tess's young friend in the glass had disappeared that day, and so had Tess' big sister.

She'd missed that little girl in the glass, wondered where she lived when the door was closed; she had feared her friend in the glass wouldn't come back.

The young mind easily grasped the incontrovertible fact, the concept of loss: people sometimes go away and they don't come back, and it doesn't matter how hard you cry for them.

But the girl in the glass wasn't gone. Tess processed this miracle with a loud squeal of incomprehensible joy and slapped the glass door twice. Her big sister was just away, because the wooden door had been closed, just as her little friend in the glass was away when the door was closed. Celeste, or Zest, as Tess affectionaly referred to her sister, would return.

Parker stepped aside, allowed the mother to enter the house. Tess wriggled in the woman's slender arms, and Parker stepped outside, knowing that the door would remain open for young Tess so long as she, a "Special Agent", remained on the premises.

Parker stood in the sun, walked the perimeter, moved languidly to the front lawn, towards the empty street. The yard had been neglected, but the neighbors would soon come over with leaf blowers and lawn mowers, or noise pollution, as Tess' mother referred, with distaste, to it. Parker wondered if they would arrive before the next rain. If not, there'd likely be flooding.

Last night's storm had clogged the rusted drains with debris. She surveyed the contents: a segment of a yellow ribbon, a hair barrette, a single cigarette butt, a Dunhill, stained red with rust, a green glow bracelet, a pacifier.

"What are you doing?"

Parker's head jerked up. She looked past Jarod, and waved at Tess, who gave the glass a final whack before being pulled away, one last hurrah before the wooden door closed.

"We have to go," Jarod said.

Parker didn't so much as nod.

She simply turned towards the car.

 

܀


End Notes:

Consolation: at least it's free. I think I was supposed to update Darkness Falling first. Oops. I might have that update posted today as well (this means you can stop screaming at me via email, and FYI: one exlamation mark will suffice).

Gone (Part I) by Mirage

 

 


܀

 

"You're awfully quiet, Miss Parker," Jarod said, observing her in the rear-view mirror. She'd insisted upon sitting in the back seat, no doubt to place as much distance as she could between herself and Jarod. She wasn't coping all that well with the loss of her independence, but to her credit hadn't physically assaulted him. Yet. "I don't bite," he assured her. "And," he added when she continued to ignore him. "We are adults. Honestly, you don't have to sit back there all alone and sulk."

"I don't sulk," came the bland rebuttal.

"Ah, she speaks." And continues to furiously tap her fingernails.

He knew she was bothered, that she was eager to see Kyle, that she wanted to go home. Or prison. She wasn't all that particular. Jarod didn't yet know what bothered her most, however: the circumstances and inconveniences he'd orchestrated, or those circumstances that were beyond even his control. Jarod was leaning towards the latter. He wanted it to be the latter. He craved her trustit was a visceral yearningin much the same way she craved the unhealthier vices.

"The Livingston home is just up ahead," he said. "You don't have to sneak out of the house the way you did back there. You won't learn anything by running away. Should you have questions for the Livingstons by all means speak up," added Jarod as he parked parallel to the curb. Parker expelled a breath, observed as he stepped out of the vehicle and approached her. He bent at the waist, met Parker's gaze over the top of the partially raised window.

"Coming?"

"No."

"No," came his sharp inquiry.

She shook her head, stared straight ahead. Saw nothing. "This doesn't feel right," she said.

"You think questioning the parents is wrong," he asked for clarity's sake.

"These people are in pain, Jarod. And I've already told you-"

"Or," he purred, "they are pretending to be in pain to conceal the fact that they are cold blooded murderers. The jury's still out, Miss Parker," he added, his jaw clenched in anger.

Parker swung her gaze at him. "You believe Celeste and Gracie are dead," she asked, and then immediately and instinctively attempted to conceal the distress in her voice with an artificial cough.

Veteran Centre operatives, employees more qualified and experienced than Parker had died for revealing less than she just had. Her internal dialog was scathing, and for valid reasons. She'd obliterated one of the tenets of Centre law. She'd always considered indifference a friend, particularly in the presence of enemies.

Presently, her enemy's face softened. "That's what I'm trying to find out," he answered with some solemnity, his voice low, soft. He opened the door, and dipped his head at her. "And you're coming with me," he informed her with false joviality.

"No," she said. "I am not."

"Ah, I see," Jarod said. "You're feeling guilty, aren't you?"

"Guilty," inquired an incredulous Parker.

"I was taken, too, and you haven't confronted-"

"I didn't abduct you, Jarod," she interrupted tartly. "I wasn't even born when you were kidnapped. But now that you've mentioned it: how do you think your parents would've felt if they'd been interrogated," Parker asked and observed his face become rigid, darken in anger, briefly. She wasn't certain if the dismissive gesture that followed was directed at her or himself.

"This is a part of the job," Jarod said. "A job you know nothing about."

"All the more reason for me to sit this one out."

All the more reason for me to assist her in getting out of the car. He was tempted to do precisely that. He looked past her for a moment, considered repercussions, studied the pieces of some unseen puzzle.

"All right," he conceded. "I probably don't need to remind you; I"m sure you know already how utterly futile any attempt to run away would be. What you may not realize is that I will be appointed to hunt you downand trust me, I will find youand my efforts to find you will divert time and resources away from the search for Celeste and Gracie."

One damning emotional slipJarod was employing it to control her. She had supplied the ammunition, true, but he had mishandled it, he had thoughtlessly squeezed the trigger. The boy shoots to kill.

Parker smiled sweetly, and then intoned rather blithely, "My father always said you were Triumvirate material, Jarod. I believe he underestimated you."

Jarod recoiled, blanched, was so wounded by her assault he could do little more than gape at her in disbelief. She'd conflated him with the Triumvirate, with her father, no doubt with Lyle. And he couldn't even defend himself, not against the truth.

Parker dropped her gaze, studied her fingernails, tried not to imagine clawing his face open with them. "I wouldn't dare challenge your authority, Agent," she said cynically.

"Uh," he stammered, and averted his gaze. "Yeah," he answered absently, nearly strangling on self-loathing, and quietly closed the car door.

Parker expelled a breath, expelled an obscenity. And Jarod turned, as if he'd heard her thoughts. Or perhaps he's the one who is sulking. Parker didn't care either way, or at least gave an ovation-worthy imitation of not caring.

At length, he pivoted and scrutinized the Spanish colonial and the unkempt property upon which it was neatly situated. The landscape contrasted sharply to that of the Steeles'; the signs of neglect, however, were just asif not moreevident.

A river of white meidiland roses cascaded haphazardly over a four foot wall of flagstone and into a sea of creek pebbles and from there onto the terrace steps. The latter were flanked by stone pillars and cordyline in enormous stone planters, and were somewhat obstructed by serpentine vines.

Taking great care not to trip, Jarod ascended the steps to the lawn proper. There, a blue-stone footpath bisected a wide ribbon of buffalo grass wherein archipelagos of lavender, yucca, and purple verbena clung to dear life.

He walked the path at an even stride, past terraced beds of succulents and lupine in varying stages of death, mulched berms peppered with large stones and bald spots where varieties of plant life had once lived (and had since died), past thickets of rosemary, purple sage and blue-eyed grass battling each other for precious real estate.

Red kangaroo paws that dotted the property were limp and had been baked to a dull brown. Four small lemon trees that fringed a small water feature had fallen to their deaths. Coyote mint hugged, and trespassed upon, the semi-circular drivewayat the end of which was parked a Harley that had seen its better days and a pink Prius.

Jarod followed the path up to the front door, noting that the crime scene tape was gone. Gonejust like Gracie Livingston and Celeste Steele.

His knock was answered by Gracie's father, Pierce, or rather the unshaven shell of the man that had once been Pierce Livingston. His expensive, tailor-fitted clothes were rumpled, limp and much too large for his body. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery and he blinked them several times before scanning Jarod's face. "Oh," he said, and Jarod observed as recognition slowly morphed into hope before all too quickly dissolving into bitter disappointment. "More questions?"

"If you don't mind," Jarod said.

"If you think it'll bring my little girl home I don't mind at all," he said, resigned and defeated. He stepped aside, allowing Jarod to enter his home.

"My little girl?" A woman's voice exclaimed, and Jarod turned to greet Gracie's mother, rushing into the room, looking hopeful.

Joana Livingston was in her early thirties, a unhealthily pale woman with startling green eyes and blonde hair that hadn't been washed in some time. She gaped at her husband, digested the absence of her daughter with apparent distaste, and shook her head. "I told you to send him away," she snarled.

"He's here to help."

"Oh, is he?" She asked and turned to Jarod. "Unless you have my daughter, there is nothing you can do to help me. You don't have her with you. And she's not here. She's not here. I've searched every square inch of this house, and the houses in this neighborhood. I looked in the theater and in the old public pool, and the abandoned lot at the edge of town. I thought she might have fallen into the wellI remember that it happened before. I've heard about it. I know it's happened. Children fall into wells. They tumble right down. I know it happens," she insisted. "But it's all filled in. It's all filled in," she repeated. "I've searched this entire town. She's. Not. Here. She's not here," Joana screamed at no one in particular, and then pivoted and with a grunt flipped over a wing-back chair. "Gracie isn't here," the woman cried, and then attacked the sofa, tearing at the cushions, lifting them, shoving them onto the floor, "and she's not here," the woman said, continuing her rampage. She stumble-walked down the narrow hall and flung open a bright pink door. "I checked beneath her bed, and in the closet, and in all the drawers and behind the shelves and- and everywhere," she said, and then demonstrated how she'd searched and described to Jarod the cold she'd felt in her veins and how numb her legs became and how she'd struggled to breathe when Gracie hadn't been in any of the places she'd looked.

Shouting her child's name, she pushed past Jarod, and staggered mid-stride and struggled to regain her balance. She caught the door jamb with a hand, and Jarod's gaze riveted on the bloodied fingertips, the infected nail-beds. The woman had gnawed her fingernails and then, when the nails were gone, the tips of fingers (and judging by the sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones, ate little else). She was disappearing, little by little; she was being eaten alive by the loss, the unknown, the dread, fear.

He wondered if his own mother had felt the same blood-chilling panic, if she'd been too full of fear to eat. He was transported to his own bedroom, to blue drapes, airplanes suspended overhead, action figures tucked securely beneath his bed, a Bonanza lunchbox.

Joana Livingston continued to slip, fall, rise, slip, fall, rise—a cycle that she couldn't break alone. Her husband offered his support, and on somewhat firm footing at last she called her child's name, and then ran from room to room. "Gracie!"

Jarod followed Joana into the washroom, just off the kitchen, and observed as she bent at the waist and opened the dryer door with such force that she sank to her knees. "Gracie's not here," she cried, her voice echoing inside the machine's drum. She then crawled to the kitchen and opened the cabinets. She returned to washroom, threw her body against the washing machine and flung open the lid. "You don't understand. You'll never understand," she said in a voice that soundly eerily calm, considering the tumult that raged on inside of her. "I hated myself for not checking here first. I couldn't believe I'd checked the dryer and then left this room- I left-left this room," she stammered, "without first checking the washer. She might have drowned while I was looking in the cabinets," Joana said, answering the question in Jarod's eyes, and at the same time raising more questions. "I should have checked the washer first and then the cabinets. Don't you see," she said, noting Jarod's continued blank stare, and deeming him the unreasonable one. "It's obvious," she said. "It's so horribly obvious. It's so strangely simple. But you don't understand, do you? Don't you see? Nothing in the cabinets could have hurt her. But the washershe might have drowned. She might have drowned! Don't you see? Don't you see?"

Only then did Jarod nod his understanding. He certainly did see. He could see that the agony of losing a child had penetrated skin and bone and had carved away Joana Livingston's rationale. Gracie couldn't have possibly contorted her body to such a degree that she would fit inside the washer or dryer—not by any stretch of the imagination, and Jarod possessed quite the imagination. Furthermore, Gracie could no longer hide inside cabinets. She couldn't have hidden beneath a chair or sofa. 

"It was the clown," Joana said, suddenly, so used to tears that she didn't push them out of her face. "I slapped, kicked him. I pushed him into the pool. I thought it was the clown. I hoped. I hoped it was that clown," she added, tearing at her hair. "I wanted him to be guilty. Don't you understand? Can't you understand! Why can't anyone understand? I wanted it to be him. Because if it was him, and he was still here at the party then she was close. She must have been. He couldn't have taken her far. He couldn't have hurt her. He couldn't have, couldn't have" the woman's words dissolved into sobs. Her husband eased her onto an sturdy oak chair, where she continued to sob quietly.

Pierce Livingston cleared his throat. "The clown, Bruce Wells, didn't leave the premises at all during the party. We videotaped it. He cooperated, volunteered to undergo a polygraph, supply various DNA samples; he didn't want us to waste time better spent searching for our Gracie. He's been investigated thoroughly."

"I wasn't aware there had been a suspect," Jarod said with a knitted brow.

"Bruce shouldn't have been a suspect. He organized the first search party from county lockup. The one call he was allowed," Pierce explained. "He didn't use it call his mother or a lawyer to throw his bail. He called the local recruiter's office, a friend of his from the Air Force. Within minutes, two dozen men and women were here. They printed fliers. They went door to door. They monitored interstate traffic, reported suspicious activity. One of those reports led to the arrest of a known sex offender- a cold case they were working, unrelated to Gracie. A known offender? Known," Pierce snorted. "Why do they release these monsters back into society? Why?"

"I don't know," Jarod confessed and slid his gaze cautiously to the oak dining table. Joana Livingston was rocking spasmodically, and still sobbing, staring off into space. When Jarod called her name, she didn't respond, didn't react at all.

"She's been this way since Gracie was taken," Pierce explained. "Alternates between extreme hysteria and abject despondency. It's one or the other. She won't eat, and her fingers- god," he murmured, dragging a hand over his face.

"Mr. Livingston," Jarod said softly, sympathetically, "your wife should be under a psychiatrist's care."

"My wife is under a psychiatrist's care, Agent. This is one of the better days. Joana, honey," he said, returning to his wife's side, "why don't you lie-"

"Don't honey me," she screamed at her husband, rising. She turned her rage on Jarod, struck him in the face. Twice. "Answer me, I said," she screamed in Jarod's face. "Answer me!" And Jarod would have answered, or would have attempted to at least, had she asked him a question.

"No, Joana," Pierce chided sharply, grasping his wife's thin shoulders.

"Why are you in my home?" She screamed, and clearly, she harbored no disdain for Jarod, or for police in general, but rather, what Jarod's presence represented: the absence of her daughter. "I don't see my baby. Why are you here if you don't have my baby with you? Why? Why," she screamed, and Jarod could only gape at her, at the bulging veins in her neck and forehead, the tears on her face. "What have you done with my little girl? What have you done?"

"Joana," her husband said, grasping her about the waist and putting himself between his wife and Jarod. The woman fought and resisted and then collapsed against her husband's body.

These people are in pain, Parker's words returned to him.

Celeste Steele's parents had another child, a toddler. They felt the loss the same, without a doubt. They both struggled, both lived in dread. Celeste and Tess's father, Eliot, had become the caretaker, a telecommuting stay-at-home father. He was quite unwilling to leave Tess with anyone. He was afraid the abductors would return for Tess.

Tess, who needed to be provided for, provided her parents, in return, with resources they weren't aware existed within them, with the stuff that sustains life. She was their saving grace.

Gracie's parents, on the other hand, were missing their only child. Their only child. Jarod thought again of his parents, and then of Emily. He wanted to fly to New York and give his baby sister a hug, thank her for simply existing.

"She didn't mean it," Pierce Livingston said, jerking Jarod from his thoughts. "She intended to strike me instead," he lied politely, but there was truth in the lie. Joana had struck her husband. And often. The gashes and bruises were visible when Pierce turned his head and unintentionally exposed his neck. "Please," he continued helplessly, "she's been through enough. If you press charges-"

"No," Jarod interrupted. "No, of course not."

"I don't know what else to say. I don't know what you want to me do. Another polygraph? Another blood draw? What can I do? Tell me what I can do."

"I," Jarod stammered. "I just wanted to follow up. I didn't intend to upset you or your wife. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Don't," he said, to Jarod and to his wife who sobbed against his chest. "Just, please, please bring Gracie back to us. Safe."

"I will," Jarod vowed, and he was relieved that Parker had stayed behind in the car, that she hadn't heard him lie.

 

 

܀


Gone (Part II) by Mirage

 

 


܀

The sky was deep cerulean and partially obscured by a patchwork of waxen clouds; Jarod stared up at its vastness until beads of perspiration dotted his brow, threatened to grow heavy and drop down his face.

He withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket, erased the moisture, observed as a breeze stirred the trees, loosened the clouds. The lie lingered on his tongue, a bitterness that was reminiscent of something Raines might have meted out to him in massive doses when Sydney was away at some Centre-mandated symposium or during the holidays. The lie was, in fact, something the Centre had meted out to him daily until his escape.
 
He warred with the temptation to open the door, confess to the Livingstons that they would in all likelihood never see their daughter again, neither alive nor dead. Someone should apprise them, caution them. Even in the unlikely event she was found alive, the child returned to them wouldn't be the girl they'd known, no more than he was the same person taken from his childhood bed. The longer she was out there, the more of a stranger she'd be to them, to herself.
 
He'd found the lie more palatable, however, than the horrible truth; the words had unfurled effortlessly from his lips. He'd lied with an ease that was startling. Maybe she's right. Maybe I am Triumvirate material.
 
He drew his hand from the door, wended his way through the thirsty gardens, beneath arches and down terraced steps, over a retaining wall, and couldn't help but be marginally surprised to see the sedan by the curb where he'd left it, engine idling. He realized with a start that he'd expected Parker to be gone.
 
She certainly had the wherewithal to flee; she wouldn't have even had to take the trouble to hot-wire the vehicle. Mexico bound. He imagined her on a beach, sipping margaritas with Kyle, laughing uproariously, grounding out her cigarette in the sand. He imagined her free, preferred it to reality.
 
Bypassing the tangle of vines, he hurried down the remaining steps and towards the car, and then came to an abrupt halt.

Parker observed as he retrieved his mobile.
 
The conversation was short. She heard his low chuckle, his "me, too,"—a halfhearted reply to Rachel's declaration of love no doubt before the call was disconnected.
 
With brusque, choppy movements, he fondled the device for several moments examined it? and then, rather than slip behind the wheel, walked briskly to the rear door and swung it open.
 
"Get out," he demanded.
"What," Parker said in mild alarm, her eyebrows raised high, inquisitively over sunglasses.
"Out," he repeated. "This is as good as place any to stretch your legs."
She leveled a scowl at him, noted her reflection in his mirrored aviators. What next? A lecture on deep vein thrombosis? "I'm fine," she said crisply. "Thanks."
 
"Miss Parker," he snarled at her. His expression however, was rather incongruous to the exaggerated rage in his voice. Exaggerated. She observed as fear flitted across his face and disappeared so swiftly she couldn't be certain she didn't imagine it. "I won't ask you again," he said to her in a voice generally reserved for victims of his retribution.
 
She wasn't impressed.
 
"If you insist, Dollfuss," she said with a resigned—and rather protracted—sigh, following the cue, playing the part. She stepped out of the car and followed him across the quiet avenue, and past several feet of crumbling sidewalk. He slowed to a stop on a wooden footbridge engraved with love and peace hieroglyphs and bits of poetry written in heavy grunge lettering.
 
"Tell me," she commanded.
"I'm sorry I shouted at you," he said. "I didn't know how else—"
"Skip the credit roll," Parker said impatiently.
"They're listening," Jarod said. "Not with this," he added, indicating the mobile.
"You believe they bugged the car?"
"I don't know," he said with a measure of distaste and then amended with more certainty, "Yes, I do. They weren't completely honest with us— with either of us. They had a suspect and didn't mention it."
"Was the suspect investigated? Cleared?"
"That doesn't matter. It would have been in the file, should have been in the file. They falsified documentation. And just now— she knew exactly when to call."
 
Rachel. Downgraded to a contemptible she.
 
How tragic, love on the rocks.
 
"What are you going to do?"
 
"I don't know. Yet." He turned to her then beneath the gathering clouds and inquired gravely, "Do you trust me, Miss Parker?"

"What," she exclaimed, incredulity straining her voice.
"That's not a very encouraging answer," he said rather blandly and with a grimace. "Look: you said I couldn't trust them. Do you have any proof of that? Something-"
 
"Tangible," she interrupted sharply, feeling as if she'd been struck. Just like Daddy. And she remembered all too vividly the endless disappointments and bitter tears and how she'd never had anything tangible to offer the man and how he had never given her anything but pain. It had been a relentless cycle of give and take and she'd given all she had and it had never been enough. It wasn't a place she longed to revisit, not with Jarod, not with anyone. Ever again. Jarod didn't trust her, no more than her father had trusted her, no more than she trusted him. "No, I don't," she said, pivoting.
 
"Then I'll take your word for it," Jarod said, and observed as Parker's feet slowed to a stop, mid-stride. "I trust you," he added simply, as if it were truly simple. Maybe it is.
 
Parker concealed her astonishment behind dark sunglasses, and waited quietly for him to continue.


"You said it didn't make sense. Us being here. And you're correct. However, there were extenuating circumstances, special circumstances. We both have a knack for languages-"
 
"Jarod, listen to yourself," she interrupted.
 
"You believe this is some sort of diversion, that they want us out of their way, but within their reach."
 
"Do I?"
 
"Yes, you do," he said, noting her caution, and easily comprehending her reasons for it. Given the paucity of evidence, she fully expected him to dismiss her claims as specious. Because that's what her father did. He concealed the burgeoning anger (at Mr. Parker) with a compassionate smile."You think they're trying to decide whether or not we pose a threat to them, and how best to discard of us if we do. I'd like to know why."
 
Parker composed a shrewd smile. "Your words. Not mine. And there is a reason you chose them."
 
"And that reason is?"
 
"You've been in the FBI's cross-hairs before."
 
"Kyle was an escaped felon," Jarod said after a brief moment of reflection. "They were doing their jobs. Weren't they?"
 
"He still is an escaped felon," Parker reminded. "Their job was to arrest, not kill, the felon or the innocent citizens who accompanied the felon."
 
"You have a point there. I'm listening," he said.
 
"I know," she answered weakly, blowing out a breath and then pursing her lips. "The kill order came from Raines," she said softly, and then drew a fortifying breath and dropped her gaze to her feet. She then continued hesitantly, and so quietly that Jarod almost didn't hear. "and my father. I'm aware that it- it's a flimsy argument," she added with a thin smile.
 
"Maybe a flimsy argument was the intention," Jarod said, his voice revealing no hint of doubt. "I always assumed that I was indispensable, essential. Hours after the van exploded, however, Raines raised his gun at me and if Sydney hadn't intervened he would have killed me. It makes sense that he'd want to eliminate threats, kill Kyle even if meant killing me, kill me rather than allow me to find my family, because we each had our own strengths and intel. We were stronger together, strong enough to be a threat." Jarod surveyed his surroundings, thriving cedars that nearly concealed a warren of small prefab outbuildings, wild flowers withering along a steep ravine. "The FBI put this deal on the table," Jarod said, and the words echoed through his head. Intelligence. Munitions. Languages. Proficient in -
 
Thunder murmured in the distance, and both Parker and Jarod started; they expected to see a ball of fire, the burning shell of the sedan.
 
"You are I are in a position to expose any ties the FBI may have had to the Centre."
 
"May have had? Jarod, my father was close friends with the Secretary of Naval Operations. The Centre influenced elections, brokered coups and defense contracts, negotiated dictatorships. Some of the crimes were more covert than others, but all were perpetrated under the watchful eyes of the CIA and the FBI. Who do you think authorized funding for that special school you attended?"
 
Jarod frowned. "That explains why they're listening. They're trying to find out how much we know." He withdrew the mobile from his pocket, swiped the device's face. "Let's walk back, " he said and then lowered his voice intimately. "Look, it's no excuse, but you should know: I was angry at you because you skirted another turning point. I don't think you'll ever comprehend how frustrating that was for me. Kyle and I waited for you to show up. We waited hours. I was angry- that's why I met with the Triumvirate elders."
 
"And ripped up the road and redrew the map," Parker said with her usual snark. "I wouldn't go to the turning point so you brought the turning point to me."
 
"Uh, something like that," he said with a smile tugging his lips, earning himself a scowl of disapproval.
 
"It wasn't your decision to make, Jarod."
 
"You're right," he said. "It was your mother's."
 
Parker threw up her hands in a dismissive gesture. Experience had taught her that arguing with him was futile. Not because he's right. He's not.
 
"And later," Jarod added softly, "I was hurt."
 
Hurt?
 
The mobile chirped back to life. Parker dropped her gaze to the device, and then studied him for a brief moment.
 
He was hurt?
 
"I promised our brother I would bring you back to him in one piece," he said, pausing to look both ways before crossing back to the car. "I take my promises seriously, Miss Parker," he added, and then reached over her shoulder and pulled open the car door.
 
"Hurt," she said with knitted brow. "Why?"
 
"Because," he said quietly, his lips motionless against her hair, his words reaching only her ears. "you slept with my brother."
 
She turned her head, arched an eyebrow. "And?"
 
"Get in the car," he said.
 
"Answer the question."
 
"I already have," he said enigmatically and then clarified after a sigh of resignation. "Six years ago," he continued softly with a slight inflection that suggested she already knew the answer.
 
Parker looked askance at him, scrutinized the tender smile and the fire in his eyes, and then she unceremoniously slapped him hard across the face, knocking his aviators aslant.
 
"Don't ever pretend with me, Jarod," she said in an eerily calm voice, and then slid into the car and slammed the door closed on his rebuttal.
 
He staggered, clenched the muscles in his stinging face, tested range of motion, ascertained injury. He'd live, he deduced- so long as he kept his mouth closed. The other guy—or rather, woman—looked a hell of a lot worse than he did. Emotionally battered, it seemed. She sat in the front passenger seat with her arms crossed tightly over her breasts and he didn't have to remove the sunglasses to know her eyes were brimming with tears. The truth had struck her much harder than she had struck him.
 
"It shouldn't have," he murmured to himself and then walked around to the driver's side of the car.
 
I've never pretended with you, he wanted to tell her. He couldn't pretend with her. The simple fact was: he'd never had to pretend with her. He'd never feared revealing his true face to her, being brutally honest with her. He knew she'd never accept pretenses, the easy lies he offered to others, the masks he wore. He had never comforted her with dishonesty, placated with a lie. And I'm not going to start now.
 
They traversed the winding avenue in tense silence. Turning abruptly to link up with the freeway, he'd never felt farther from the woman sitting beside him. He observed as a bolt of lightening split the darkening sky and drove, unblinking, straight into the storm.
 

Parker was napping (or pretending to) when he swung the sedan into the parking spaces reserved for field agents.
 
She was out of the car before he threw the gear into park. When he finally caught up with her, she was sipping from a paper cup the hot, vile sludge that someone had the audacity to accuse of being coffee. Parker gulped the brew at a steady pace, seeking the caffeine boost, ignoring the taste. Brave woman.
 
"Whoa, no, no, no," a lean, bald man exclaimed from across the narrow corridor. He observed as Parker met his gaze in the steam winding upward from the small cup. "That stuff's not suitable for human consumption," he said, widening his pale blue eyes for emphasis. His gaze swept the length of her and then riveted on the cup. "And you look human to me," he said, coaxing the cup from her hand. "I keep the good beans in here, Miss?"
 
"Parker," she said.
 
"Vella," corrected Jarod, slipping his sunglasses into the pocket of a pressed shirt. "Agent. I'm Mortenson. We were told you'd be expecting us."
 
Kirkland's gaze slid past Parker. He studied Jarod briefly, returned his gaze to Parker. "Some proper coffee first, Agents?"
 
Parker eagerly trailed the man into a low-ceilinged fifteen by twenty space lined with books. A yucca in a clay pot sat on a squat window sill, Thoreau's Walden—dog-eared and ragged—occupied an oak desk alongside a laptop, a small stack of files and a single notepad.
 
"Agent Sawyer Kirkland," the man said, his tone even, his words leaving his mouth in rapid bursts. "Sawyer works for me but I generally answer to anything these days," he explained as he measured out beans and emptied them into a burr grinder. "I guess I get no argument there from you, eh, Agent Vella," he addressed Parker and chuckled. He held up an index finger and then with a fluid nose-dive gesture pressed a button and brought the machine to life. "We've had a call about your girls," he said, shouting over the grinder. He moved with ease around the office, filled a kettle with water and thrust it onto a two burner cook-top. "But the description of the vics is shaky and the eyewitness who called it in even more so. She's eighty-nine, legally blind, suffers from essential tremors. I've been told you'll want to follow it up although I can't imagine why. A legally blind eyewitness? Tough break, eh. I don't know what it was you two did to piss off the Director and I don't want to know. I'm here to provide gear, weapons, and back up if necessary." He returned to the grinder just as it sputtered to a halt. "Sugar and cream," he asked, spilling the ground beans into a coffee press. "Soy? I make a mean latte."
 
"Black," Parker said.
 
"Well," Kirkland answered cheerfully, "at least you're certain of that much." He opened a folder, peeled two segments of paper from the top and offered them to the pair. "Supply room is at the end of the corridor, third door on the left- the one with the large sign that reads supply room. You can't miss it. Choose a duffle and fill it with everything on this list. Oh, and if you're interested, these are Agent Clemente's files on the trafficking case."
 
Jarod accepted the stack of folders, skimmed casually. Parker, on the other hand, had no intention of lingering any longer than necessary.
 
She walked with purposeful strides to the supply room, and was grateful for the few moments' respite, for even a single moment without Jarod. Just a moment. The air between them was stifling, combustible. She shut the door behind her, pressed her back against it. Removed the sunglasses. Closed her eyes. But could not escape Jarod's voice.
 
"Did you know Agent Clemente well?"
 
Kirkland nodded. "Dedicated. Misha worked nineteen hours a day on this thing. These babies—you know how it is. You look at the photos long enough you begin to imagine it could be your kid. And you start imagining what those monsters could be doing. And you know what they're doing. Selling these girls to wealthy businessmen, bringing them out as party favors for millionaires, circulating them with the trays of champagne and mini pissaladières. It becomes personal. Sometimes it becomes too personal," he added, averting his gaze.
 
"Too personal," Jarod asked.
 
"Clemente told me once she'd do anything to break the case," Kirkland explained with a arched eyebrow. "Anything is exactly what she did. You might as well hear it from me. She engaged our only suspect."
 
"Engaged?"
 
"She embedded herself, got involved. She developed a relationship with him that became sexual in nature."
 
"This man," Jarod said, tapping a finger on a photograph of a man who appeared to be in his early forties, in possession of a full head of dark hair, and thin, angular features. "Dante Benedetti," Jarod read the man's name.
 
"Yeah," Kirkland said with a nasty grimace. "He's being careful about soiling his hands, but Misha said he was guilty and I believe her."
 
"You don't believe he orchestrated her murder?"
 
"He didn't know she was FBI. Hell, he was at her memorial service- the public one, that is. He sobbed, still hasn't left his house. If I wasn't familiar with his work, I'd swear he was grieving, had a heart, that he might have loved her." Kirkland thrust a index finger at Jarod. "You two are here to look and listen. Scut work. Nothing more," he said. "You might as well get packed up, huh," he suggested and observed as Jarod pivoted.
 
Parker heard the supply room doop open and quietly slipped out of the ladies room and returned to Kirkland's office.
 
"Coffee," Sawyer Kirkland said, offering Parker a ceramic mug. He glimpsed the splint on her hand, said, "What happened there?"
 
"Fracture."
 
"Fracture, huh? Interesting. You didn't happen to fracture your hand on your friend Mortenson's face, did you, Agent Vella? I detect tension."
 
"We're not friends," Parker answered sullenly, just as Jarod returned to the room.
 
"I see," Kirkland said, smirking over his cup. "You didn't answer the question."
 
"Minor altercation."
 
"When and where?"
 
Parker waved dismissively and sipped her coffee.
 
"Wrong place, wrong time," Jarod said. "Overt neglect, child abuse."
 
"In public?"
 
Jarod nodded. "I guess you could say the woman didn't appreciate a stranger's words of advice on child rearing. She attempted to assault Vella when she intervened."
 
"Unaware that Agent Vella here is an expert in Jujutsu," Kirkland said and filled a thermos. He offered it to Parker. "This is for you. Come back in three hours with an update and you'll win a free refill and a dozen doughnuts."
 
"My lucky day," Parker said crossly.
 
Kirkland swung his gaze at Jarod. "She always this cheerful?"
 
"I'd say this is her baseline."
 
"Ah, such fun," Kirkland said with a wink.
 
"I'm right here," Parker said with an expansive gesture, leaving the obvious unsaid: if you have a question about me, ask me.
 
Kirkland became quite serious. "Okay then. This is unorthodox and I can't say I'm pleased with the Director's decision, but here we are. Might as well make the best of it, eh? Can I get you two anything else before you go?"
 
"You wouldn't happen to have something with a little more horsepower," inquired Jarod.
 
"Ready to trade up from the old sedan, are you? Can't say I blame you. We have thirteen vehicles out in the yard. I'll radio Ron in the guard house. He'll be down to sign you out whatever it is you want."
 
Jarod nodded his gratitude, smiled. What I want is to prevent the Feds from eavesdropping on my conversations.
 
"Radio checks at the top of the hour," Kirkland said. "No high speed chases- no matter how tempting. Call me if you have any questions or should any problem arise."
 
"You're not anticipating trouble, are you," inquired Jarod warily.
 
"I wasn't," answered Kirkland conspiratorially, "until your partner walked in."

 

܀


Gone (Part III) by Mirage
Author's Notes:

A reader asked for music during the Parker-Jarod-ness of the story: "Lots of different music." I deduced (no doubt incorrectly) that the reader wanted different genres, decades, artists, etc. and the only reasonable way (in a normal universe) to achieve that was- well, you'll see.

 

 

 


܀

 

 

"We can speak freely now," Jarod announced jovially and observed as Parker extended her left hand and switched on the radio.

The truck's cab filled with white noise and then apologetic baritone introducing the best of easy listening. The DJ interrupted his apology with Flack's 'Killing Me Softly', and then, after a hollow rimshot sound effect, introduced Steven's (formerly) 'How Can I Tell you.'

Parker's face was turned to the passenger window, her body was rigid, her fingers were curled into tight fists. She occasionally shook her head, perhaps disbelieving the wicked twist her life had taken.
 
No. She's angry.


He'd broken the rules, obliterated them.
 
Again.
 
He'd simply intended to give her a gentle nudge in the right direction, onto the path her mother intended for her. He had not considered beforehand that she might perceive the gentle nudge as a shove. Over a mountain's edge.
 
He, clearly, hadn't anticipated the abounding complications and he didn't understand her anger and surprise upon hearing that his feelings were unchanged. Jarod was discovering there was much he didn't understand, would perhaps never understand.

But the music offered a measure of solace. The heady combination of profound yearning and simplistic melodies at deafening decibels was an entirely new experience for Jarod. The lyrics were remarkably relevant and while navigating the world's worst traffic jam, he failed to ignore them.

How can I tell you that I love you?

Wherever I am, girl, I'm always walking with you.

Whoever I'm with, I'm always talking to you.



And then, of course, the inevitable dagger through the heart:

It always ends up to one thing, honey, still I kneel upon the floor.

Distracting.

Infuriating
.

Stopped at a traffic light eight commercials later, the still-penitent host treated listeners to a quarter of Abba's 'Winner Takes It All', a few refrains of Cross's 'Think of Laura', and then lost the plot entirely.

Nirvana. Heart-shaped Box.

Annoyed, Jarod lowered the volume.

"You can't ignore me forever," he said and observed Parker's eyebrows lift high above her sunglasses.

"That," he softly intoned, "wasn't a challenge. Look: you asked a question," he reminded her gently. "I'm very sorry that you're displeased with the answer. I'm sorry," he repeated emphatically, dispensing with games and casting aside pride (and perhaps good sense as well) and becoming quite serious.
 
"FYI, Miss Parker: not everyone is as adept at turning off their feelings as you are."

She punched the volume selector to the max and stared out her window and Dave Matthews sang of strange allies with warring hearts playing wicked games. It was all strangely familiar. Somehow.
 
Look at us, Dave sang, spinning out in the madness of a roller coaster.

Jarod lowered the volume. Again. "Why didn't you take the car? You could be halfway to Mexico-"

Parker raised the volume. 

And Dave trudged on, undeterred by the tension in the truck.

The space between the bullets in our firefight is where I'll be hiding, waiting for you.

Traffic, meanwhile, slowed to a stop on La Cienega; Jarod's sotto voce damn it was lost in Pearl Jam's thick percussion. The music was entirely too loud. And what should have been a half hour drive stretched into a two-hour ordeal.

I'm getting too old for this shit.

PJ Harvey was singing about vulvas and breasts when Jarod lost his patience—depite his sudden interest in the tune—and switched off the radio. Parker had anticipated such a move by him and had placed a deterring hand on the control; she had not, however, foreseen his hand finding hers, or that she would, in shock, fiercely withdraw her hand and concede the battle to him.

But that's precisely what she did.

The silence that stretched between them was louder than any music, louder than the screaming sirens and obnoxious car horns.

The silence was louder than any lie the Centre had told them.

When Jarod pulled into the parking garage his head was throbbing. He killed the engine, jingled the keys idly, and swung his gaze at Parker. He was a breath away from asking her if she intended to sit this one out as well when she opened the door, climbed out of the truck.

Apartment 7C was accessible via elevator, but Jarod didn't care for the confined underground garage, no more than Parker cared for elevators. The pair emerged from the darkness, followed a buckled sidewalk past an array of thriving cacti, through a crumbling stone arch and up to the main building.

Bracketed by full palm trees, the building was rambling and impractical; its façade was patterned concrete breeze block—the color of burnt peach—that wrapped around the car garage and the exterior stair-landings and lent privacy to eccentric residents and their visitors.

Parker took the stairs two at a time and at the top was accosted by a hale, anxious woman garmented in a blue floral print muumuu. Her short bouffant (circa 1960) was dyed bright red, teased tightly, and sprayed in place with a gratuitous amount of hairspray. She regarded Parker with suspicion for several moments, squinted through her cat-eye spectacles and then smiled to reveal perfect teeth. Perfectly false.

"I need a cigarette," she informed Parker around a Salemn that dangled precariously from her cracked lips. "Got one?"

"You live in 7C," Parker inquired.

"Why," came the tentative query. "You a collector?"

"No."

"A process server?"

"FBI," Jarod interjected lightly.

"Ooh, now that's rich," the woman said, bringing her hands up to her hips. "What do you want from me, Mister FBI?"

"Miss Swanson-"

"Miss," she decried. "That's Mrs, young man," she corrected Jarod and then turned to Parker and grasped her hands. "My Douglas has been gone six years this July but I'm not some old spinster. Damn it. I'm not a spinster and I don't have three hundred cats! Kids these days have no respect. They are all so sexist. It's disgraceful! Why, you and I were having a nice little chat, Deary. What were you saying before he interrupted you?"

"We have a few questions about the van you saw this morning," Parker said.

"Why the blazes didn't you say so in the first place? Come in and have a seat and I'll tell you what happened," she offered sweetly. "Not so fast, tall guy," she exclaimed suddenly in a deep, raspy voice achieved through decades of chain smoking, halting Jarod's advance with an extended hand. "Show me some ID. I'm not a bleeping damn idiot you know. I watch CNN, I see the movies. I know what men like you get up to!"

After scrutinizing the requested id, the woman pivoted, beckoned her guests to follow her.

The trio crossed the threshold and were, at once, plunged into blackness. "This way," the woman spat, leading the pair into a tidy, cavernous room with dark wood paneled walls illuminated by a fifty-inch flat screen television that revealed a man and woman seated on a white sofa.

"This baby," the woman on the screen said in a tight, sibilant voice, caressing her swollen belly contemplatively, "might not be yours." The camera panned to the man's face, now filled with shock. "It could be your father's. Or-"

"Or," pressed the man eagerly, on cue with dramatic synth. There was the smallest beat and then the woman sobbed.

"Or it could be your brother's," she confessed.

Parker revolved her eyes. Christ.

"Juicy," Magdalena Swanson purred, reclining in her cushioned upright. "Or," she added, drawing deeply on her cigarette, "it could be his best friend's, or the neighbor's, or that hot Cuban pool boy's, or his brother-in-law's hmm mmm," she moaned lewdly, exhaling a plume of smoke. Piercing the air with a cigarette, she added, "Hell, the rugrat-to-be might even be her gynecologist's- a real dreamboat from Greece. Ha," she chortled and pinched a Camel from a flip box of mixed—presumably cadged—cigarettes and chain lit.

She spent fifteen minutes talking about everything except the van she'd seen. "Those darn bratty ass grandchildren never visit but still cash the cheques I slip into their birthday cards. Oh, and the damned construction never ends, I swear! California is going to look wonderful, I'm sure, if they ever finish it.

Tractor trailers in the alley at all hours of the night, road closed signs and traffic cones blocking the west garage exit! And that thumping. That goddamn awful music thumping- it's not even music. All I hear is rattling metal. I wish their bleeping cars would rattle apart! And the white-collar crime these-"

"Speaking of crime," Parker interjected coolly, interrupting the rather lengthy digression, and Jarod was grateful; his eyes had returned to the television screen and were presently riveted on a champagne toast, a dark haired man kissing a platinum blond woman on the lips, the neck, collar bone, and pushing her back onto the bed. A slip of cleavage, a glimpse of black panties. He averted his gaze when Parker spoke. "You saw a van this morning."

"I did," Magdalena said, snapping her fingers. "Damn it. It was blue, scratched up to hell and back. One of those hideous things. I couldn't read the letters on it, but there was a paint bucket drawn on it. It was that painting company. Now, the police officer on the phone thinks it could have been a plumbing company and he must be stupid, because look here," she said, thrusting the cigarette at Parker. "I'm not an accountant, Sweetheart, but I can sure as blazes add things up. Paint bucket plus van equals painting company where I come from, Honey. White bucket, green mop handle—I always thought that was queer. Green mop handle? Maybe on those new gadgets that don't clean crap, but not on the kind of mop you gotta put your elbow into. Oh, no, no sirree."

"But you weren't able to read a logo?"

"No, but I recognized the mop handle and that's a logo, isn't it, young man. I mean, hell," she said, drawing deeply on a Lucky Strike, "How many people could be dumb enough to paint a mop handle green when it's supposed to be brown? It's that sorry outfit over on Ingleside. That place with the stupid jingle that comes on channel eight when I'm trying to watch my soap operas. Ridiculous damn ads with miscolored mops and a jingle that doesn't even rhyme when I'm trying to watch my soap operas! Criminal," she hissed. "They should only advertise wine and cigarettes while my stories are on. Hot and heavy on the tube if you know what I mean," she said with a wink and a conspiratorial grin that bordered evil and alarmed Jarod, "and the bastards cut to a mop with a green handle.

Sex and cleaning. Here's your sex. Here's your mop. A whole phallic motif being pushed on us," she said, waving her cigarette wildly. "I'm on to their brainwashing. I know what they're doing! And then those ads for microwave dinners that taste like cardboard and always have plastic melted onto them? Every wife's dream! And let me tell: if your wife has energy left to mop the floor after you have sex with her you are doing it wrong, Mister," she fairly shouted at Jarod.

The Pretender turned three shades of red, lowered his gaze.

"And if you feed her out of the bleeping microwave instead of wining and dining her like those stud dudes on the stories then you deserve to lose her. Those damned microwaves—I never had one. Dangerous things," she said, bringing the cigarette to her cracked lips. "Burn the outside of your food to a black crisp while the inside's still a bleeping block of ice. Loose radiation. Damn things cause cancer," she exhaled words and smoke together. "Oh, oh," she exclaimed suddenly, "they were screaming."

"The microwaves," Jarod asked, confused.

"No, no. No, outside," she said. "There were screams. In the alley. Just out back. Where the van was. Someone was crying for help. Some little girls. At least two of them. Maybe more. The police said they'd send someone over. I'll say! It took you two long enough to get here! I went down there in my night dress and half asleep and my hair up in rollers, but the van was gone. I don't get on like I used to.

Used to I'd chased the sons of bitches down myself, and beaten the helluva them. Screaming microwaves," she murmured her disgust. "Christ on a cracker, Son." She swung her gaze at Parker. "Mr. Tall Guy always this dim, Sugar?"

"Mhm," answered Parker, "I'd say this is his baseline."

"Yikes, Doll," Magdalena shook her head. "Screaming microwaves? You're local, aren't you, Boy? You aren't smoking up all the crack in the evidence locker, are you?"

Jarod dismissed that question with an expansive wave. "Then you didn't see anyone," he asked.

"Of course I saw someone! Didn't you hear a word I just said? You are smoking the crack! I saw a van and they don't drive themselves around," she said, crushing her fourth cigarette, a Kool, into a Julio Iglesias ashtray filled with spent butts and a volcano of ash. "Not yet anyway," she added. "Mhm, I have to say," she began in a voice that sounded strangely philosophical, languidly stroking the engraving on the ashtray that read: To all the girls I've loved before.

"I like the son better."

"Son?"

"Enrique," she fanned herself with a hand. "Sweet baby Jesus," she exclaimed, tugging frantically the top of her muumuu. "Gotta fan the ladies, too," she explained, alluding to her breasts. "Amor Amor Amor," she sang. "If only I were fifty years younger. It's so unfair. Life is so unfair. Oh. The world's gone to hell. And they sent you two to straighten it out huh? Lord, but someone has a wicked sense of humor!

Now that damn painting company was down there and they had little girls in a van. I didn't see them, but I heard them. It might not be the girls you're looking for, Mister, but whoever they were, they were children and they were screaming for help, because they needed help, and isn't it your job to help them?"

"Okay," Jarod said, rising.

"What is that," she asked Parker. "What's he mean by okay?"

"We'll follow up," Parker assured the woman with a patient smile. "Ingleside. Correct?"

"No, why no, of course not. That's not correct at all. Cantcha hear, Sugar? Inglewood. I said Inglewood! I know what I said. Find them," she pleaded. "Find them before it's too late. And if you come back here again," she called eagerly, "bring me some damned cigarettes."

"God, what a nightmare," Jarod said, pulling the door closed.  "Well," he said after drawing a deep breath, "I'm starved. What about you?"

"No."

"Then you can watch me eat."

"No," Parker said, more firmly.

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Inglewood."

"Don't tell me you believe her? She's not credible. She said Ingleside. You heard her."

"She's nearly ninety, Jarod."

"Yes, and rather senile."

"I believe she heard screams."

"It was probably the television."

Parker glared at Jarod.

"What," he said defensively and observed as she revolved her eyes and then swiveled around, towards the west alley.

"Hey," he commanded sharply. "Where are you going?"

"To do my job," she answered simply.

"Okay," Jarod said. "We'll drive over to Inglewood, run the plates on any blue van we find and have a look around. But I'm telling you now: there were no screaming children.

܀


End Notes:

I believe I've responded to every email review. If I missed you, please know that it wasn't intentional.

I realize that I was supposed to update The Return, however, I had more requests for this thing.

Thanks for the feedback.

Gone (Part IV) by Mirage

 

 


܀



Jarod heard the screamsof the children he'd been certain didn't existthe moment he turned into the near-empty lot of Paints Plus. Their cries emanated from a doubled parked van that was every bit as hideous as Magdalena said it was.

 "Help me, Sage," came the plaintive cry.
 
A toddler- three and a half, guessed Jarod, with a crown of Shirley Temple curls screamed help twice more from the confines of her safety seat; Jarod and Parker both observed breathlesslyafter leaping from the truck and advancingas an older girl, approximately six and with stringy blond locks, offered the toddler a Finding Dory sippy cup. "This game isn't fun anymore, Rosemary."
 
"Dillon plays all the time, Sage," came Rosemary's soft retort. "Dillon doesn't mind playing Go-get with me."

"I'm not Dill," said Sage.
"Shh," a boy said urgently, and Parker spied a tuft of spiked blond hair and a pair of astute green eyes peeking out from behind the decal on the window of the van.

"People are listening."
 "What people," said Sage, ever the cynic.

"A man and a woman. They're looking," he said, and then shrieked, "Daddy, Daddy! Daddy, help!"

Daddy surprised both Parker and Jarod by rising suddenly from the van's left rear tire with a tire iron clutched in a grease-coated hand.

Tyler Perkins was only slightly perturbed by Jarod's questions; in his early thirties, he walked with a perceptible limp- an injury sustained gliding six stories to the ground on a panel of sheet metal. He summarized the morning's events, the U-turn in the alley necessitated by young Rosemary's sudden desire for waffles, and his wife's doctor's appointment.

"She works nights and I work days. We usually avoid this take-your-kid-to-work hassle. But we may be adding another car seat to the van. It didn't seem appropriate for the children to accompany her, considering- uh, you know."

"Ohh," Jarod exclaimed cheerfully and then nose-dived into a herbs-as-names conversation that Parker was (justifiably) certain only Jarod could find entertaining.

Tyler Perkins, however, indulged the Pretender's suggested names for a possible fourth child. He nodded thoughtfully as the strange man, a Federal Agent no less, shrugged out of his suit jacket and folded up the sleeves of his pressed shirt and loosened lug nuts while simultaneously rattling off, in alphabetical order, names of herbs.

The father-of-three even lauded such gems as Tansy and particularly Juniper.

Parker meanwhile stood with her back pressed to the van window, aware of Sage's gentle, stealthy fingers braiding her brunette locks but nevertheless tolerant of the girl despite being tetchy and overcaffeinated.

She'd been tempted to slap those small hands away when she first felt them tugging lightly at her hair. Her mother had been the last person, had been the only person, to brush her hair, braid her hair; it was a sacred rite that Parker had cherished, a sacred memory that Parker feared could somehow be diminished, supplanted.

Sage had seen and felt the woman tense and had withdrawn her digits in response. But then slowly and cautiously she returned her hands, whispering a soft, soothing, "Shh, s'okay," as if Parker were instead an untamed beast, one Sage was intent on taming.

And Sage did; Parker yielded to the girl against her own better judgment. She closed her eyes and was transported into her mother's arms, safe from the harsh world of missing children and agonized parents.

She was less listless, markedly more at ease, inexplicably drowsy.

The air was delightful on the back of her neck and the girl's cool hands Oh, blessed air conditioning! occasionally brushed her skin as she weaved her hair into a tight braid.

"And Za'Atar," concluded the Pretender with a self-satisfied smile, rising from the rear of the van and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He offered the tire iron to its rightful owner and sought out Parker.

"Za'atar, huh? I take it you like your food spicy," Tyler commented, accepting the tool and following Jarod to the front of the vehicle.

Jarod nodded, riveted his gaze on Parker. "Oh," he answered boastfully and with a wicked grin, "I like everything spicy."

Ultimately, Jarod settled for something sweet.

"How the hell can you eat?" Parker asked and observed in growing anger as Jarod sank his teeth into a third donut. He shook his head in appreciation, groaned in pleasure, swallowed with his eyes closed. It seemed to be a singularly religious experience. Or sexual.

"Relax," he said after a sip of coffee. "Get comfortable. Have a donut. Go head," he urged softly. "Take one," he insisted. "They are exquisite."

 "Only you would refer to deep fried fat as exquisite," she retorted with a snort of disdain. "Your notes said Clemente was in contact in with Dante-"

"You read my notes?"

"While you were finishing up with Perkins. There was no address-"

"No," Jarod said sharply, severing her voice with his. "Even if there were, we wouldn't follow up."
 
"I put my foot on the bastard's throat and he will talk."
 
"That's not going to happen. We are to have no contact with Dante. If we spook him, we'd be jeopardizing lives- and not just our own. Now," he said with a beckoning gesture at the waitress, who smiled and advanced, "what are you going to order?"

Parker revolved her eyes in frustration and said to the waitress, "House salad, no dressing. And water." 

"Oh, I'm so sorry," responded the waitress with a pout. "We don't serve salad."

"No, of course, you don't," murmured Parker, irritably. "Just water," she demanded.

"Uh, excuse me, Miss," Jarod said. "Your baconbeast cheeseburger is topped with red leaf lettuce and tomatoes- yes?"

"And pickles and onion. Would you like one?"

"And the pear surprise is served on," Jarod read from the menu, "on a bed of fresh spinach."

"Mhm," nodded the waitress. "I can bring you both one," she said and touched her hair, her neck.

"And your Texican feast is served with avocados and red cabbage." He met the woman's bemused gaze. "Correct?"

"You want one of each," she said lamely.

"Your Ameriterranean omelet contains red and yellow peppers, feta cheese, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes and comes with a side of arugula and pesto-garlic naan."

"You must be really hungry, Hon," said the waitress.

"No," he said patiently. "My point is that, technically, you serve salad."

"Well, for you," began the waitress coquettishly.

"I'll just have the damn water," interjected Parker disagreeably. "Go away now," she hissed at the waitress, who hastily obeyed.

"What are you doing," Jarod said incredulously. "She was going to bring you a salad."

"She was going to cream her panties," corrected Parker indignantly.

Jarod's eyes widened. "Pardon?"

"Nothing."

"Look," he said gently, "I know you're upset. You feel helpless. You want results. I understand that. But you have to understand that this isn't the Centre. You cannot knock down Dante's door and put your foot on his throat and threaten to shoot him. We have to follow protocol."

"Your answer is to wait?"
 
It was, and an hour later, back at the field office, Kirkland reiterated as much, reiterated their futility.

"A day's work and nothing to show- that's about par for the course on this one. "Come back tomorrow morning at eight and I'll find you something to do. Maybe you two can fuel up the cars in the yard and file some paperwork, eh."

"Please tell me that someone is actually looking for those little girls."

"We have our best people on it. Look on the bright side: your hotel has a swimming pool and if you squint, you can almost see the ocean."

Parker glared at the man, and then at Jarod.

"Sweet dreams," Kirkland called after them.

Their dreams were anything but.

At six the next morning, Parker and Jarod exchanged miserable glances and inhaled coffee. "This is worse than prison," Parker snarled.

"Worse than Sydney in prison," Jarod inquired sharply.

"Stupid question, Jarod." She frowned, thrust the menu onto the table, and studied her fingers with a grimace. "This dive is nauseating. And you are giving me a migraine."

"Would you like some aspirin."

"Why not," she said loftily. "I have to eat something."

"What would you like to eat," he asked and then, prompted by the suspicion in her eyes, added softly, "humor me."

"Fruit."

"Fruit," he repeated. "Hmm. I think I know a little place," he said with a wink and dropped a ten dollar bill on the table. "Let's go."


"Little," remarked Parker, squinting against the sun and heat.

"The fruit stand," he clarified. "Not the park."

Parker chewed her mango thoughtfully. "How do you know about this place?"

Jarod's smile vacated his lips. He averted his wounded eyes.

"You don't remember," he said softly with a long-suffering sigh and then explained sullenly: "We've been here before, Miss Parker, you and I. I sat here on this very bench, devouring an apple, and I watched you run past. It occurred to me that you weren't all that aware of your surroundings for someone commissioned to retrieve me, but this was in the early days before you had ample opportunity to gain a better understanding of your prey."

"Prey," she chortled dismissively. "Jarod, you're such a drama queen sometimes."

"This from the woman who referred to motel rooms and YMCAs as lairs," he fired back. "Lairs," he repeated dully. "You do realize that I'm not a bear or a vampire?"

"Ah," she said with a grin, "but you do have an unnatural affinity for red meat."

"True," he agreed. "Very true. How's the mango?"

"Delicious," she answered and chewed thoughtfully. "We're not far from Magdalena's, are we?"

"A couple of miles. Why?"

"I'm not eager to fuel cars and sit on my fists. Tell Kirkland you are going to follow up."

"Follow up? With Magdalena? Are you serious?"

"You were dismissive and arrogant, Jarod. You won't engender confidence or cooperation by discounting witnesses. The FBI asked anyone with information about these abductions to come forward and someone did."

"Oh, I know: maybe we should hand out medals to everyone who calls the tip line," he said wryly.

"Maybe we should," Parker agreed, hotly. "I'm not suggesting you incentivize giving a damn but you could at least genuinely thank her for caring. A lot of people don't; rather than intervene or pick up the phone they record crimes on their god damn mobile phones, upload them to the internet and make money off the views."

Jarod frowned. He couldn't imagine why Parker was suddenly eager to subject herself to Magdalena, Our Lady of Soft Porn.

"What are you suggesting?" Jarod asked.

"Tell the woman the children she heard were playing, that they are safe and the FBI is appreciative. And stop being a pompous asshole, Jarod. You don't even know that Rachel betrayed you; if she did it's not your failing. She probably didn't have a choice."

"Don't assume she didn't have a choice. There is always a choice," Jarod said.

"Don't assume," rebutted Parker, "that a choice is always obvious."

"Hmm," Jarod hummed after a few moments. "I wonder if Magdalena likes mangoes."

܀


Gone (Part V) by Mirage

 

 


܀

 

 

"Walking is refreshing," suggested Jarod amiably. "If your feet are aching I'll carry you."

"Ha," retorted Parker crisply. "Don't overestimate yourself, Jarod."

He seized her elbow, advised delicately. "Don't do this."

"Mm," Parker hummed, acknowledging his sympathetic countenance with a long, contemptuous look. "She wasn't murdered in an elevator, Jarod."

"You didn't always know that," he reminded, grimacing when Parker defiantly stepped into the carriage.
 
Jarod, predictably, rather dramatically thrust out his hand at the last possible moment to prevent the doors from closing.

"Elevators aren't faster," he announced irritably, accompanying her and tucking an index finger between his neck and shirt collar. "People are lazy."

"I'm not."

"You're worse. You're stubborn, always trying to prove something."

She offered no rebuttal. Instead, she willed the lift to ascend quickly. The parking garage level two indicator continued to glow brightly.

"We've stopped," observed Jarod.

"Yes, Mister Obvious," she began sardonically and then yelped at the explosion of light and metal that accompanied the carriage's sudden drop.

Jarod propelled himself forward— into the shower of sparks and burning debris—and pressed Parker to the wall. He shielded her body with his, braced himself for impact.

When the car screeched to an abrupt halt, he withdrew fractionally, met her stunned gaze.

"Are you all right?" He asked softly, examining the contusion on her cheek.

"I think s—" She gasped and directed a murmured, "ow" at the fingertips palpating her face.

"I know," he whispered, wincing and sucking in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry," he added softly when Parker, apparently amused with his violent, genuine reaction to her discomfort, offered him a suggestion of a fleeting smile. Jarod delivered his diagnosis: "it's superficial."

"Is it?"

"Hmm," he affirmed softly, plucking debris from her shoulders. "It's going to look worse than it feels."

She arched a brow. "You could be wrong."

"I'm never wrong," he assured her smugly, dropping his gaze, briefly, to her lips.

"There's a first time for everything," she challenged.

"I suppose." He was inexplicably reluctant to be contrary. "Is," he asked softly, unconsciously stroking a lock of her hair, "this permitted?"

"Is what permitted?" She asked.

"This," he answered softly, drawing closer, deliberately and unhurried, eliminating any doubt regarding intentions.

Jarod's lips, gentle and tentative against Parker's, merely tendered an inquiry. There was nothing, however, tentative in her response.
Her mouth tasted of fruit and lip balm and a piquancy that was, indubitably, as unique as it was tantalizing.

She intended only to merely dance along the shore, moisten her feet; complete immersion, she opined, would precipitate devastating repercussions, turmoil.

Ergo, the kiss was calculated and executed with open eyes; Jarod, therefore, experienced the pleasure of witnessing the precise instant that judiciousness evaporated and internal conflict subsided. She ceased to consider her father's condemnation and what an entanglement with Jarod might look like to Sydney.

Fuck appearances. This feels phenomenal. 
 
They kissed deeply with a fierceness that stole their breaths. She tugged at his sportcoat and then quite suddenly seized his tie in her fist— it was a Ted Baker, silk blend, and Jarod couldn't be certain whether she wanted to strangle him with it or simply remove it.
Neither? Both?
She was struggling to maintain control.

"No," she panted and repeated resolutely, albeit with a quaver in her voice and her palms pressed to his chest.

He had anticipated incertitude, denial. Evolution is a process. He had not anticipated the reasons she presented; he hadn't anticipated a reason. She didn't ever need a reason to say no.

"We shouldn't do this," she said. "If Raines sees us he'll tell Daddy."

"Wait," Jarod said with a disbelieving laugh and a crumpled brow, "What? Oh," he groaned when her eyes hardened and ignored the tense twitch in his intestines. "Oh, God, I am so incredibly sorry that I," he began contritely, feeling like a scoundrel, and yet feeling no remorse; he regretted only the circumstances: "You're concussed."

"You're partly correct," she said lightly, twisting out of his embrace and segueing into an exquisite counter-clockwise triple pirouette that unwound the clock, the years.

She spun herself through the wall of the carriage and into one of the Centre's tenebrous corridors and smoothed down the skirt of her school uniform— until that moment he believed he couldn't feel more abominable.

School uniform?
Great holy hell.

"Are my ribbons straight? Last time they weren't," she informed him tartly.

The ribbons were. Jarod might have assured her.

He, however, was trying to recall when he might have dropped acid or taken ecstasy. Jarod longed for assurance of his own; the assurance, for instance, that he hadn't committed a felony and wasn't depraved.

He renounced the integrity of each convoluted inference his mind offered and, consequently, was precluded from reaching any ineluctable and discernible truth with, perhaps, the exception of insanity.

"Oh, my God," he declared twice, terror-stricken. "You're—no. No."

"Fascinating," she said dully. "This is what a nervous breakdown looks like. You're hyperventilating and sweating profusely," she observed disinterestedly. "Are you experiencing chest pain?"

"I've been drugged." Jarod gestured wildly, announced animatedly, "You're a child."

"You think you're an adult?"

"Aren't I?"

The lower back pain indicated he was, indeed, a bona fide adult. He couldn't identify the precise moment Parker ceased to be one and he found the transformation rather disconcerting.

Incontrovertible evidence, however, proved advantageous, mitigated his distress considerably: the anachronistic creature scrutinizing him couldn't comfortably reach his lips. Thank God and optimized nutritional supplements for that.

He offered the girl a fulsome smile, said, "We're inside the Centre."

"Ooh, you are a genius."
 
Jarod bristled. "You've always been a smartas-" stammered Jarod indignantly, "smart person."

"Didn't you just have your hand on my smartass, Old Guy," she argued, advancing predatorily. Little Miss Parker perceived his consternation and hasty retreat with a cursory smile and at length, discontinued her pursuit, issuing a colorful colloquialism whose meaning transcended Jarod's imagination.

He averted his eyes from the withering expression that was, he opined, patently superfluous. The intrepid girl was afflicted, in spades, with existential angst and adult pretensions.

Jarod didn't have the strength or patience to endure her and yet already imagined himself transitioning into someone dull and avuncular, entirely hands-off.
 
"That wasn't you," he answered shirtily with a spasm of self-reproach that penetrated bone. "Was it?" He asked, dubiously, recalling the absence of ribbons prior to stepping onto the decrepit lift.

"Me in thirty years. It's stifling in here."

"What does that mean?"

"Relax, Jar," she said sullenly, "before you have a myocardial infarction. Old people are revolting and adults, typically, are obtuse. Nevermind she was sixteen before-"

"Don't say it," he interrupted, tetchily, tugging at the tie and contemplating strangling himself with the damn thing.

"I've read Lolita," she offered with a sly grin, gratuitously flaunting her carnal erudition. "Does candid discourse frighten you, Jarod?"

He lifted a hand, gestured dismissively. "You're trying to annoy me."

She giggled— the melody was blithe, ethereal, plaintive and its frailty was distressing; Jarod felt something inside him fracture, burst.

"You're more afraid of me," Little Miss Parker said, overtly antagonistic and the cold, broken smile returned, marring her otherwise pleasant features, "than you've ever been of her."

"Stop it," pleaded Jarod. "Tell me what has happened?"

"Mhn," she murmured with a fierce headshake.

"Why not?"

"I abhor shouting," she answered, studying her glitter-coated fingernails indifferently.

"I remember. I won't shout."

"You're irascible and overwrought."

He drew a fortifying breath and gently assured her. "I promise."

"Mm-kay," she returned hesitantly. "What do you remember?"

"The adult Miss Parker and I were on our way to visit Magdelena."

"In retrospect, you'll deem that a mistake."

"Why?" He asked.

"It wasn't. There are no mistakes, Jarod."

"You say that now," he rejoined.

"It's the truth."

"You'll change your mind. Trust me."

"You're wrong," she countered impassively. "But I do trust you. I always have."

"That's going to change, too," he said, bitterly.

"Stop confusing me and her. She's gone."

"Gone?" He asked, incredulously. "Where?"

"Like you care. You painted my face, you returned to me when you nearly died of hypothermia. You want my heart in her body- I know how these things are. Girls mature much faster-"

"This is inappropriate," he interrupted brusquely.

"Inappropriate? That's cute. Aw, stop sulking. It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable."

"Tell me," he said with an impatient flourish, "where she has gone? Is she here inside the Centre?"

"She's not here. Neither are we," she answered softly and gazed skyward.

Puzzled, Jarod watched her face expectantly.
Shafts of pallid light alternated rapidly with pitch blackness and were accompanied by a low thrum. Bizarre shadows and lambent hues of indeterminate origin kaleidoscoped across her features.

"The elevator is ascending," Jarod said.

"Wrong again, Genius," she informed Jarod haughtily, circling him and chanting a forgotten lullaby.

He observed as she knelt in the sand and began constructing a castle.

"I said I'd bring you here one day."

"I remember." He smiled warmly.

"I like it here. Isn't it beautiful?"

"It is. I've already seen the sea. All seven of them, in fact."

"They weren't lies," she said and added absently, "There were no lies."

"Like there aren't any mistakes?" He challenged.

"Give me a break, Jarod. I'm eleven. And my Daddy—"
She fell silent, studied the sand castle, and worried her lower lip.

"What," Jarod said thickly. "What did he do to you?"

"You aren't allowed to ask questions," she said darkly, embracing those injurious precepts her father had, diligently, inculcated in her. She was suspicious of his solicitude, of even benign and generic inquiries.

"Look," he began softly, sitting opposite her and gathering sand because when in Rome— "you can trust me."

"Stop saying that," she said irritably, rising suddenly and brushing sand from her legs. "You don't fully comprehend what you're asking. And anyway she'll kill me if I tell you."

"She cannot kill you."

"Fuck you, Jarod," returned Little Miss Parker equably; she fashioned a self-satisfied grin when Jarod's jaw unhinged. "She drowns me, buries me. You always exhume me. The two of you are at cross-purposes in a decades-old emotional tug-of-war; I'm caught in between. It's not fair!"

"Where is she?"

"If you don't wake up soon you'll never find out."

"Wake up," he repeated with a knitted brow.

"That's right, Silly," she said, shouting over the cries of seagulls and shoving him onto his back. With appalling rapidity, he plunged over a steep declivity. He cried out and reached into the darkness; efforts to break the fall were futile. With a grunt of agony, he skidded to a halt on a street crowded with cars and pedestrians.

He squinted beneath the sun, groaned. Someone screamed in the distance and someone else—someone closer—nudged Jarod's knee with a size sixteen cleat.

"Don't move him. You're not supposed to move someone who's been in an accident. Ugh, dude, that's, like, a lot of blood."

A door slammed and two medics shuffled through the gathering throng and knelt at Jarod's side. The lulling rhythm, deceptively comforting, had been traffic, not waves. The cries sirens, not seagulls.

Jarod cried a name that no one recognized, a name he wasn't supposed to know and was not allowed to utter.

"Where is she," Jarod demanded.

"Anyone see a body," the female medic shouted at onlookers who shook their heads in unison and steadied their mobile devices.

"Cha-ching!  Live stream heaven."

"Folks, listen up. Did anyone see what happened here," said a plain-clothes officer who identified himself as Sergeant Alvarez.

"I did," a young woman said, advancing and adjusting her knapsack. "I was on the roof," she said, careful to omit she'd been purchasing pot and an eightball of blow, "and this guy came running down the middle of the street," she thrust a finger at the horizon. "He would have caught the car but an SUV clipped him and volleyed him onto the roof of a Mercedes. He bounced, landed right there. Ew," she groaned, screwing up her face in disgust, "is that brain matter?"

"Was there a woman with him?"

"That's a stupid question. There may have been and she couldn't keep up. 'Did I see a woman' is what you should have asked. No, I didn't. He was running alone like his life depended on it. He would have chased that car to the end of the earth."

"It's dried gum," the amateur videographer shouted, gravely disappointed by the absence of brain matter.

"Says here you're FBI," the medic said to Jarod with an affable nod.
Jarod tried to sit, observed the world tumble onto its side. "I am concussed."

"Why else would I be here," Little Miss Parker injected dryly.

"You're still here," Jarod said to her, ignoring the coterie of emergency personnel accessing his injuries and their queries.

"You are concussed. And obsessed. Which is kinda creepy. Oh, and FYI: if you continue to speak to me these clowns will lock you in a padded cell. Tell them you are wearing a wire and communicating with the mothership or whatever."

"I'm wired. I must have lost communication."

"It was probably damaged in the accident," the medic said. "Any neck pain?"

"I'm fine," he groused, pushing away the hands—suddenly there were dozens—and trying to stand. It wasn't his intention to become combative; he refused, however, to be pinioned.

"You lost consciousness," the officer informed Jarod, adopting a distinctly minatory tone. "Let the medics get you onto a board and into a cervical collar."

"I didn't lose consciousness," Jarod insisted, piqued.
 
"You're rather disingenuous," observed Little Miss Parker with a moue of discontent. "I'm disappointed, Jar."

His brow crumpled. The prescient and rather intractable child had the audacity to impugn his motives. Her words were sharp imprecations with jagged teeth. He recalled disparaging Parker's career and family, her loyalties, mistakes. That must have hurt her.

Jarod apologized to her and addressed the officer. "I was pursuing a—"
The officer lifted a concerned brow.

"Begins with a p," Little Miss Parker cooed. "E," she added helpfully. 

"Perpetrator," Jarod said, still quite incapable of accurately delineating the significance of the chase or the particulars of his injuries. 

"Plural," the girl sang. "Also tell them about the victim if you want her back."

He swung his gaze at Little Miss Parker. "Oh, my God, no," he said with a sharp gasp and features twisted in despair. He observed the girl's forlorn sigh and helpless shrug.

"What," the officer asked.

"They have my partner. Call it in," he bellowed, hastily. "Now," he shouted eagerly, impassioned. "Now."

"That's what I'm doing," he was impatiently assured.

"Female, 5'10, approximately one hundred twenty-five pounds, early forties, brunette, blue eyes." Jarod retrieved his mobile phone with a bloody hand and dialed Agent Kirkland's personal number. "She was wearing-" Jarod fell silent, observed the street rotate rapidly, violently.

"Black slacks, blue blouse. She was carrying—'
 
"She wasn't carrying anything, Jarod. Don't you remember?"
"I'm certain there was a large tote—"
"Was," his young friend sang. "Think, Jarod."
"I'm trying to think," he said.

"You were inside the apartment. You gave the fruit to the old lady."

"Get a team to Coral Gardens right now. You'll want to question a Magdelena Swanson in 7C."

Again, the girl shook her head. "They won't be questioning the old lady. You should know that," she added gravely. "Also: the mobile is dead."

Jarod was certain the elderly woman was dead as well. "She dialed the tip line," he continued. "She was just trying to-"

"Help," supplied Little Miss Parker. "Oh, she was invaluable. Who do you think was driving the getaway car, Genius? Look at your foot; the inimical old beldame ran over it before you chased her two miles."

Jarod didn't appear to be perplexed by the absence of pain; he supposed furor and unease occluded the pain. Anesthetized by adrenaline and determination, he staggered to his feet and whispered conspiratorially to the child: Is Miss Parker running from me? Was this an escape attempt or an abduction?"

The child narrowed her eyes and said, "You know the answer."

Jarod shook his head, blinked away tears. "Oh, no," he murmured.

Escape implied she was in control and safe. An escape attempt, even a successful one, was preferable to an abduction. "Okay," he exclaimed raggedly, pushing his hands over his battered face and through his hair.

"I need a car," he said to no one in particular and jogged to a police cruiser.

"Hey, pal, that's my car," said Alvarez. "You are in no condition to drive."

Jarod opened his mouth to disagree.

And collapsed.

 

܀


Gone (Part VI) by Mirage
Author's Notes:

The ghost of Little Miss Parker continues to bedevil Jarod (he sorta has it coming after all those years of tormenting adult Miss Parker).

 

 

 

 


 

܀

 

"Hospitals," groused Little Miss Parker with a moue of discontent, "are wretched. I despise doctors. Can't we do this another time?" 

Jarod's eyelids fluttered. He couldn't recollect summoning the girl, was acutely aware that her presence was beyond the realm of possibility. Rather than ignore the no doubt trauma-induced delusion, however, he engaged her, politely imparted some wisdom believing it would hasten her departure. "You fear them," he corrected groggily albeit sympathetically. "You find anger a more palatable-"

"No." The irreproachable apparition was emphatic, imperious. "I hate them."

"Perhaps," remarked Jarod indulgently. "Hatred is rooted in fear," he explained gently. "And-"

"Hate leads to the dark side," she interrupted cynically. "Stow the pop psychology, Yoda. You must have damaged your prefrontal cortex," she added tartly and Jarod found it rather baffling that the girl—a mere manifestation of head trauma—would be as evasive as her adult counterpart. He believed that because the creature existed only in his mind she should be more forthcoming and pleasant.

"Must have," Jarod agreed mechanically, reconsidering strategy and promptly determining he lacked both the desire and energy to quarrel with the child. Instead, he pressed a palm to his bandaged ribs, accessed the damaged he'd incurred. He wore multiple gauze bandages on his body and a fresh cast and sling on his right arm. Supplies on a nearby medical cart indicated his left foot was being prepped for a fiberglass cast he had no intention of wearing. He, however, intended to filch the crutches when the room—revolving around him—slowed to a halt. "You cannot still be here."

"I defy logic. It's difficult to grasp."

"It gives me no pleasure to inform you you're wrong."
"Wrong?"
"You're a hallucination triggered by head trauma and perhaps psychological trauma associated with—"

"With what? Or is it whom mm," she pressed tenderly when he fell silent. "You can confess your feelings. I can't exactly go blabbing to anyone if I don't exist."

Jarod seized the bed rails, propelled himself to his feet. Exertion and vertigo rooted him to the floor. With an anguished groan of defeat, he executed a controlled and painful drop to the mattress.

"Tell me where she is," pleaded Jarod, exasperated.
"Let me get this straight, Wise Guy: You don't believe I exist but you believe I can tell you what happened. Think about it, Jarod. If I'm a manifestation of the trauma you sustained I can only convey knowledge you possess. I'm not omniscient."

"Of course," Jarod murmured irritably, massaging his temples, endeavoring to retrieve aforementioned knowledge—memories—poised at the periphery of his addled mind.

"Who are you talking to, Jarod?" Rachel asked with an uncertain laugh.

"Ghosts," he answered, handily concealing his surprise. "Has Kirkland found her?"
"He's following protocol," she assured him. "I didn't think you should be alone."

Jarod suppressed a chortle. If she only knew.

"Leads," he said, rising with a grunt of pain.
"Not yet," Rachel answered, adding in mild alarm, "Jarod, you're not getting out of that bed."

"Oh no?" He challenged. "Swanson?"

"Lie down," demanded Rachel, confounded by the chilling intensity in his eyes, the realization she'd never perceived it before. "The credentials Swanson supplied the lessor were fictitious. "What the hell happened, Jarod?"

"I lost her," he answered succinctly, retrieving his personal belongings.

"Maybe she wanted to be lost," Rachel ventured disinterestedly.

"No," he said, tearing the gown away violently and ignoring Rachel's horrified gasp.
"Jarod, my God. You're covered in abrasions and bruises."
"She was abducted, possibly at gunpoint," Jarod theorized, thrusting his hands into bloodied, starched sleeves with a grimace of pain.
"We found no blood in the apartment, no sign of a struggle."

"Hence gunpoint," Jarod returned sharply. "She's a fighter. Even with the fracture, she would have struggled. Trust me."
"Trust? Jarod, witnesses allege you fled Swanson's apartment carrying a large canvas bag. The police suspect you had something to do with her abduction."

"They're correct. I'm responsible. I need to take a look at Swanson's apartment."
"Absolutely not."
"Rachel," Jarod cautioned, "you don't have to help me but you're not going to stand in my way."

"Ew, you're having sex with her, aren't you," Little Miss Parker interjected, a grimace of distaste marring her otherwise placid expression.

"Is that a threat?" Rachel asked.

"It sure as hell sounded like one to me," said Little Miss Parker with a hearty chuckle. "I said adults were obtuse. Didn't I?"

"Yes," Jarod said, answering all three questions—unintentionally answering Little Miss Parker's question about sex (which resulted in Jarod feeling positively abominable). He swung his gaze at Rachel, expounded gravely, "If you prefer to perceive it as one."

"Are you in love with her," Rachel and Little Miss Parker asked simultaneously.

"Two very frightened little girls are missing, Rachel. They're going to be sold into prostitution," he said with a snort of rage and considered amending and digressing, explaining to her that children cannot be prostitutes, cannot legally consent. He wanted to shout and overturn furniture while explicitly expressing his blistering disdain for the people who decided it was easier to refer to the atrocity as "child prostitution" rather than call a fucking spade a spade: "evil people paying to rape children."

Instead, he drew a tremulous breath. "If they haven't already. My partner has been taken by the same people." Renewed terror abruptly replaced hollowness; Jarod forwent socks, wrestled shoes onto bare feet with trembling hands.

"You don't know that."

"She was taken during an active investigation. You can't believe it's a coincidence."
"Why would they take her," Rachel argued vacuously. 
Jarod found her tepid reluctance to accommodate his theory infuriating. "She must have discovered something. They might kill her."

"If your suspicions are correct she's already dead," Rachel said boastfully. "It fits the profile."
 
Jarod's face hardened, his hands stilled on his belt buckle. His eyes narrowed. "Don't ever say that again," he cautioned through clenched teeth. He was enraged and rather distressed by the swiftness with which Rachel's timbre and intent shifted. He deduced her earlier concern was feigned, a pretext.
 
"The sooner you accept-"
"Don't," he shouted and thrust out at hand that drew dangerously close to Rachel's cheek.
 
"Jarod," Little Miss Parker scolded and observed as the hand dropped to his side, curled into a tight fist. The girl's eyes were wide with righteous indignation, concurrently savage and beautiful and he wanted to retreat and hide with an urgency he'd never felt before with her adult counterpart. How dare this child materialize and upend my life.

"You weren't going to strike her were you, Jarod?"

"You were going to hit me," Rachel exclaimed. "You're out of control. Did she piss you off, too, like I just did?"
 
"She's been pissing me off," Jarod said bluntly, "for at least twenty years."
"And finally pushed you too far, didn't she?"
"Is that what the profile says?"
"My profile says you're a loaded gun, Jarod, and that I shouldn't trust you."
Jarod's brow creased. He contemplated potential strategies, conclusions, and ramifications; he apprehended easily that an ingratiating smile would resolve nothing. Rather than attempt to neutralize and waste additional time, he opted to escalate. "She's never pushed me too far. But you are now. Stop it. Please," he implored, seizing the hospital's telephone.

"Who are you calling?"

"My brothers. I need a team."

"You have a team, Jarod," argued Rachel defensively, her cheeks reddening, "I'm on that team."

"One that I can trust," clarified Jarod.

"That's it," she hissed. "You're off the case. I'm recommending the Director shut you down. And I'm taking you in for questioning and a psych eval," Rachel said, advancing with handcuffs.

"You don't want to do that," warned Jarod with illy-concealed wrath, grudgingly relinquishing the telephone.
 
"Why not? What are you going to do to me," she challenged, launching herself at him. And Jarod was thrilled that she'd finally asked. 
 
"This," he said, capturing her left arm and hastily cuffing her hand to the bed rail.
 
"Jarod," Rachel screamed. "Walk out of this hospital and you'll be looking at life in prison." 

"That's a small price to pay to get her back," he snarled, resolutely, over his shoulder. 

"Whoa! She is thoroughly pissed," Little Miss Parker exclaimed in the corridor. "What now, Genius? You're just going to hobble out of here without stealing any meds?"
 "I don't need meds."
 "What do you need?"
 "To find her," he answered brusquely.
 "You have everything you need to do that. You just don't know it yet." 

"The hell is that supposed to mean," he retorted incredulously and, arriving at a bank of elevators, punched the down arrow. 

Little Miss Parker giggled when the doors parted and again when Jarod exited the carriage in the hospital lobby.

"What's funny," he remarked, ill-tempered, emerging painfully but determinedly into the breath-stealing heat. He squinted beneath the unforgiving sun and transversed a throng of smokers wearing weary expressions. They had no right, he opined, to assemble on the sidewalk and pollute the air others breathed. "What do you want from me?" He murmured at the little girl.

"It's not what I want from you, Jarod. It's what you need from me." 

"Which is?" 

"You've forgotten something inside the apartment."
"I knew it," he snarled. "I have to go back."
"No. It's too late to do that. Stop walking so fast," she cried.
"Too late?"
"It's gone."
Jarod's face twisted in disbelief. "Evidence was stolen?"
"It's not evidence, exactly, and it wasn't stolen. It sort of— um dissipated."
"Dissipated? Look, Nancy Drew," purred Jarod sardonically and rather condescendingly, "evidence doesn't dissipate." 

"Stop walking," she screamed at him. "Close your eyes."

"Why should I do that?"
"Close. Your. Eyes. Now inhale. You returned from the deli with the sandwiches."

"I don't remember a deli or any sandwiches. I don't remember leaving her with Swanson."

"What's important is there was no answer when you knocked. You jimmied the door. Remember? And you knew immediately. Jarod, you knew something was wrong."

"The smell," he said, opening his eyes. He regarded with a blank expression little Miss Parker plucking a smoldering cigarette from the sidewalk. Comprehension slowly unfolded across his face when she extinguished the butt with her fingertips and discarded it with a theatrical flourish. "Burnt flesh, hair. Oh, God," he murmured, retrieving his mobile and dialing a number. "Some sort of modified taser?"

"Don't ask me," Little Miss Parker answered tartly. "I don't exist. Put the mobile down," she commanded. "What are you going to do hmm? Interrogate everyone who has ever purchased a taser? Raid area illusionists and seize their fire shooters? Track down everyone who owns a flame thrower? You need to focus on why she was attacked, Jarod, if you want her back. You need to see what she saw."

"What did she see?"
"You have to go back to the beginning and retrace her steps."
"The beginning? The Centre?" 

Little Miss Parker expelled sharp exasperation, revolved her eyes, and answered him saucily, "No, Einstein, the beginning of this investigation."

܀


Gone (Part VII) by Mirage

 

 


܀

 

 

 

"What the hell, Jarod," shouted Kyle, indignantly.
"Jarod isn't responsible for my sister's abduction," asserted Ethan fretfully.
"What's being done to get her back," Kyle hissed. "Has there been a demand for ransom? Are you tracking her mobile?"
Jarod grimaced, paled and for an instant, it appeared he would vomit and he certainly felt that vomiting was a distinct possibility, an appropriate response. He felt bilious, off-kilter, physically and emotionally ill, positively addled and misplaced, as if he
and not Parker—was missing.
 
"Her mobile," Kyle repeated impatiently.
"I," Jarod answered hoarsely, contritely, "deactivated it."
Kyle didn't ask, didn't have to. He tucked away his rage and pivoted.
"Where are you going?"
"To find her," he answered, sidling up to his brother. "Or recover her body at least and give her brother some closure," he added conspiratorially. "Do your high-tech cop stuff, I'll do my low-tech street stuff. Ethan here can use his voodoo. Keep me apprised," Kyle commanded over his shoulder.

"Do the same," Jarod said and retrieved a notepad upon which he hastily scribbled. "This is our room," he explained, oblivious to Ethan's grimace. Parker and Jarod's half-brother apprehended at once the abounding implications enshrined in so small a word. Our. There was a mournful longing in Jarod's voice, an urgency to preserve the shared room, sustain a reality in which Parker existed unharmed. "Do you have money?"
"I do," answered Ethan softly. "Are you okay, Jarod?"
Jarod snatched the paper loose and offered it and a key to Ethan and answered in troubling non-sequiturs, "I swear I'm going to find her, Ethan, and everything is going to be all right."

Ethan frowned at the fervent optimism in his brother's words and the terror and tears in his eyes that belied each syllable spoken. Jarod not only believed that Parker was critically or mortally wounded, he felt entirely responsible. 
"It's not your fault, brother."
"I'll find her," Jarod assured softly, squeezing his brother's shoulder.

"I'll see you this evening then," Ethan called when Jarod pivoted. "Back at the hotel?"
"I'll bring her to you at the hotel," Jarod vowed. "Wait for us there, okay?"
"Yeah," Ethan answered and observed as Jarod staggered, paused to get his bearings, and with some effort sought out Agent Kirkland.

"Do we have anything yet," Kirkland said to Tu Takahashi, the area's only forensics specialist.
"Nothing doing. The lessor was cooperative, gleefully provided us Swanson's credentials. Thing is, Magdalena Swanson doesn't exist. We ran the photo against facial recognition databases. Zilch. Do you want to break it to the big fellow over there because I sure as hell don't."

"Break what to the big fellow," Jarod demanded.
"So," remarked Takahashi lightly, "this guy's a lip reader, too, eh?"
"Magdalena Swanson might not be a victim here," explained Kirkland. "The name's an alias. Identification she provided the lessor is bogus. This rules out the theory that traffickers targeted her for narcing."
Jarod frowned. "Isn't it possible she supplied fake credentials to protect herself, maybe from an ex-husband or a loan shark and isn't it possible the ex-husband or loan shark found her? Parker could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Sure, it's possible," Kirkland said. "Hence might not be a victim. I realize you want to pursue this aggressively; it will be wise, however, not to sprint balls-out in the wrong direction. I suggest we analyze this from every angle, follow the evidence, be thorough."
"There is no evidence," Takahashi reminded bluntly.
"You're certain of that?" Jarod asked. "No blood?"
"Not a drop and no prints either," Takahashi answered. "Timeline doesn't allow for a clean-up, but if it's any consolation, I detected no bleach."


"Told you so," sang Little Miss Parker with a spectacular feigned yawn. 
"And the cameras?" Jarod asked impatiently with a furious gesture at one of the aforementioned devices mounted on the parapet.
"Decoys to dissuade criminals," Kirkland answered grimly. "Agent Fuentes is reviewing footage from cameras on adjacent streets but my guess is whoever abducted Parker took her down the elevator and into the garage."
"Seal it off," Jarod said.
"Done. You'll be my first call if they find anything."
"Your first call? If you believe I'm going back to the hotel without her you are out of your mind."
"No, I know you're not going back without her; I also know that you don't play well with others. I know that whatever it is you do, Agent, you're accustomed to doing alone. I have no intention of getting in your way. All I ask is that you don't kill anyone. Again, I will call you if we find anything or if the abductors call."

"You won't find anything and there'll be no calls- you know that. Parker saw something."
"Do you have any idea what that something might be?"
"No. I was across the street ordering us lunch- according to witnesses," Jarod said. "I don't recall hearing screams. Look, I know her; she's a fighter."
Kirkland concealed a grimace. The woman wore a splint on her hand, an unfortunate disadvantage. "Then we can assume she was unconscious or otherwise silenced, probably restrained."
 
Jarod scrutinized the Omega Seamaster on his wrist and pushed a trembling hand through his hair. He stifled a maniacal laugh, disbelieved reality: time had screeched to a halt and six hours had elapsed since he'd last seen Parker. 

"Can you think of anything else, anything you haven't already told me?" 
"Door chain, deadbolts thunking. Eyes watching me. Swanson is paranoid, doesn't care for cops."
Kirkland's eyebrows lifted. "That could imply a criminal lifestyle; if she and Parker scuffled, however, it was a clean one."
Jarod answered with a headshake, "If Parker had fought it wouldn't have been clean. There would have been signs of a struggle."
"No shots were fired and neither blood, sedatives, nor poisons were found on the premises."
"She would fight for her life," Jarod asserted.
"I don't doubt that," Kirkland said. "Sometimes fighting for one's life means not fighting. It might not have been her own life she was thinking about at the time," Kirkland said. "Someone gained entrance to the apartment, held a gun to Magdalena's head and threatened to kill her if Parker didn't cooperate? You know her, you tell me."

"Her primary concern is the investigation. She would have allowed Magdelena and herself to be killed before compromising those children."
"And yet, there were no signs of a struggle. Taser?"
 
"It's possible," Jarod said, unwilling, still, to entertain his delusion; presently that delusion glared at him and said sweetly and factually, "You've never been able to ignore me, Jarod."
 
"Or a tranq gun," Kirkland theorized. "Perhaps the threat of a gun?"
 

"No," sputtered Jarod. "It depends."
"On what?"
"If she believed the gunman was involved in the abductions, believed the shooting would lead us to the children she would have allowed herself to be shot."
"You're contradicting yourself, Agent. You said she'd fight for her life."
 "She's a contrary woman," Jarod stammered, considering, objectively, the methods and motives, the madnesses and complexities that comprised the woman who had chased him with every intention of returning him to the Centre, the same woman who had vowed to rescue his clone from the Centre.

Captor and savior.  His best friend, his first kiss. His arch-nemesis. She'd pressed her palm against a glass wall and touched his soul and grown into the woman who had snatched her hand from his. Prohibited from touching, he'd been creative, found other ways, against all odds, to nevertheless touch her, albeit not physically.

"You're suggesting she'd put herself in danger if she believed enough evidence remained to identify the abductors or if she thought she'd be taken to the girls?"

"Without a doubt," Jarod answered with conviction. After years of dismissing his theories, distancing herself from herselfadult from the childdistancing herself from her mother, she'd revealed the truth to him with this single act, quite possibly her last.

The neat spin she'd put on her father's lies had, at long last, unraveled. You were never lost to me, only concealed.

"She would allow herself to be tased or tranquilized?"
"Yes," Jarod answered. "It wouldn't compromise the investigation."
"No, in fact, it intensifies it, fine-tunes the focus. I've scheduled a sketch artist-"
"No need," interrupted Jarod.
"Wait," Kirkland said. "You sketched the old lady? When did you have time?"
"When I was waiting for a cab to pick me up at the hospital. By now, every law enforcement agency and major media outlet has the sketch and a photograph of Parker."
"We're going to find her, Jarod, her and those babies. Come on. I'll give you a ride back to headquarters."
 
"Don't you find this self-congratulatory circle jerk a wee premature," Little Miss Parker called to Jarod.
 
"Headquarters, yes," Jarod repeated and added softly, "The beginning of the investigation." Craving confirmation, he swung his reticent gaze at his childhood friend and was rather perplexed when she shrugged and offered weakly, "Are you certain of that?"
 
He was not.
Inside the squat and sprawling brick edifice, Jarod sat in a faux leather chair and endeavored to become the monsters despite reservations; the notion was as repulsive to him as it was terrifying and, nonetheless, still a more delightful and effortless prospect than life without Parker in it.

"This, obviously, isn't where the investigation began," announced Little Miss Parker.
"You're not here," Jarod said softly through clenched teeth.
"It's your fault, you know, if they kill her."
"You want me to return to the Steele residence and torment Celeste's parents."
"No, I don't," sputtered a baffled Little Miss Parker. Torment? That's my line.
"If they see me they'll think I have news about their daughter." He drew a fortifying breath and insisted calmly, "I need to concentrate, focus- that means you need to be quiet."
The child observed Jarod's lowered head, closed eyes, and measured respirations with incredulity. And she screamed her frustration:
 
"What are you doing, Jarod!"
What are you doing?
What.

Jarod lifted his head, jerked open his eyes, observed as Parker lifted her head with a similar abruptness and swung her gaze at him.
What are you doing?
What are you doing?

I said those words to her.
When?

Jarod sought the memory that lingered on the periphery. "What are you doing," he said softly. Her expression had bordered hopeful, perhaps eager, her lips were parted. She stood on the precipice of some disclosure; uncertainty danced across her features and she backed away.
What did you see?
"What did you see," he whispered, following her gaze to the ground.
The truth dealt a sharp, violent blow that swept him from the chair and onto his feet.
How many times have I seen that expression? On her face, on the faces of Detectives? On my own face? 
He realized he was wearing that same expression when Takahashi ambled into the room and came to an abrupt halt, "Uh, you look different, kinda like one of those animations where a little light bulb materializes overhead."
"I remember something. I hope," he said. "Did anyone look inside the storm drain outside the Steele residence?"
"Hernandez went down, took photos. There were no prints, tracks, pertinent evidence. It was nearly completely clogged with debris- courtesy of the Home Town landscapers who blow leaves into the drain. Here," Takahashi said, "these are the photos and a log of the contents."
"Hair barrette," Jarod read aloud.
"Yeah, I thought about that too but the parents say a playdate tossed it into the drain prior to the abduction."

"I'm not going to say it," Little Miss Parker purred dispassionately with a theatric throw-back of her head. Jarod swung his gaze at her, regarded the ribbon of smoke depart her clear-glossed lips with a scowl of disapproval.
"Cigarettes can't kill me if I'm already dead," declared Little Miss Parker, regarding him narrowly while rather deliberately tapping the ashes on the floor.

"Ash," Jarod stammered and fingered a large bin filled with evidence bags. "Ashtray. The uh, ashtray from the apartment- where is it? Weren't you able to pull any prints off-"

"Whoa, calm down, Jarod. Do you need to sit?"
"I need the ashtray,"  snarled Jarod.
"There were no ashtrays. There were ashes, mostly ground into the carpet."
"Are you certain?"
"Positive. I logged the evidence."
There was a struggle. Jarod observed helplessly as spent butts and ashes spilled onto the carpet. The blurred images looped, sharpened, gained clarity; he did not. He pushed a hand through his hair. 

"I think Kirkland should take you back to the hospital, Jarod. Just for the night."
"No," Jarod said, pivoting. 
"Where're you going?"
"The Steele residence."

"Finally," exclaimed a rather exasperated Little Miss Parker when Jarod darted out of the room. She rose, flicked the butt across the room, and murmured scornfully, "Damn vile cigarettes."
 
Takahashi jogged to the door, leaned into the corridor and called, "The Steele's? What the hell for?"
 
Jarod shouted his answer, "I'll let you know when I find out."

 

܀


Gone (Part VIII) by Mirage
Author's Notes:

To all of you who've said Jarod (during the tv series) didn't frequently sweat/perform manual labor: this one's for you. The poor man. I almost feel sorry for him. He, however, rises to the occasion I think--- no, no, not that kind of rising; drag your minds out of the gutter.


Speaking of gutter—

 

 




܀



The sedan jerked to a dramatic halt, scattering grass and sand, and was still creaking its objections when its furious owner slammed closed the driver's side door. She tugged down her sunglasses and her mouth followed suit, unhinging in equal measures of awe and disbelief.

For several moments, she observed as Jarod sparred with a prybar, his stained white sleeves folded at the elbows, his back bent, his dark hair falling obliquely across—and somewhat adhering to—a forehead sheathed in perspiration. A pair of freshly stolen aluminum crutches, recently abandoned when they proved to be an impediment, lay on the ground beside him. He grunted loudly in both pain and frustration and snarled obscenities.

Rachel was displeased. She didn't like this new Jarod, had never even met him and desperately blamed a concussion for the aberrant behavior. He didn't so much as acknowledge her arrival, this man who had stared into her eyes and made love to her. It must be the concussion. She wasn't prepared to examine other implications, accept any other possibility. It was entirely inconceivable that he'd been searching her eyes for someone else, imagining someone else.

Throwing up both arms as if she were a winged creature preparing to launch herself skyward, she strode confidently to Jarod's side and narrowed her eyes.

"Uh-oh," cooed Little Miss Parker. "Here comes the drama queen."

"I just got off the phone with the Director of the FBI. He wants to know why you're so interested in this storm drain."

"Not now," Jarod said.

"Yes now," she shouted.

"I was informed that Hernandez thoroughly searched and logged the contents of this drain."

"He did. He uses the drain camera every chance he gets."

"He didn't physically go down there, he didn't log that cigarette butt," said Jarod with a curt head jerk. He felt Rachel shifting at his side and knew she'd dropped to a crouch.

"Looks like it's been down there for years," she said, squinting. "It has rust on it." Rising, she added, "Probably happened when it fell through the grate."

"Probably," returned Jarod, in a brutal, clipped tone that she'd only recently become acquainted with and already loathed. "Don't you find it the least bit odd that the cigarette is stained with rust but the grate itself is pristine? The cigarette is evidence."

"You don't know that."
 
"It has to be."
 
"Has? Jarod, listen to yourself."
 
"Oh, I am," he said surlily. "I sure as hell am not listening to you."

"Agents," Kirkland interposed, approaching the storm drain with a garbage grabber. "The neighbors are watching."

"Not to mention the ever-present child," protested Little Miss Parker, indicating herself with a theatric flourish. "Language, Jarod," she teased, winking mischievously when he averted his gaze in shame.

"I can't believe you're helping him, Kirkland," spat Rachel indignantly.

"Damn," cursed Kirkland. "The teeth aren't small enough to fit through the slats. Even if they were, this thing would need some sort of extension to reach the butt. I'll see what else I can find," Kirkland called, jogging to the house.

"Isn't there someone you can call?" Rachel asked. "Public works?"

"They'll be here in an hour."

"Then you should rest."

"Can't," he panted. "There's a flash flood warning in the area. In about twenty minutes, the waters will rise and potential evidence will be carried to the bottom of the catch basin and eventually into the Pacific and quite possibly the stomachs of unsuspecting marine life."

"Jarod, this is insane," she said and gasped aloud when he swung his angry gaze at hers. Rachel's face was already flushed beneath the California sun while Jarod remained pallid despite vigorous physical endeavors.

"Fine," he said. "I'm insane. If that's what you want to write in your report do it. That cigarette butt is stained—possibly with blood and not rust after all—and is at the scene of a Federal crime that likely spans an entire decade and two continents and has claimed untold numbers of victims. Think carefully how you will explain to the Director that you obstructed justice."

"But- I-" stammered Rachel.
 
"Stand on the pry bar," Jarod said.
 
"What?"
 
"Do it," he insisted, his forearms and shoulders trembling from exertion.
Rachel obeyed begrudgingly. "It's not working," she said.

"Jump on the bar," he ordered.

"It's just a cigarette-"

"Just a cigarette," mocked Little Miss Parker, revolving her eyes.

"Do it," shouted Jarod ignoring both Rachel's wounded look and Litte Miss Trouble's stray comments, trying again to prise the grate that stood between him and potential evidence.

"I need a plasma cutter," murmured Jarod breathlessly.

"I'm afraid you'll have to settle for the next best thing," Kirkland said, arriving with Celeste Steele's father, Eliot, and a stick welder. "Couple of sixty eleven rods, crank the amps-"
 
"What the hell are you two talking about," interrupted Rachel. "Isn't that welding equipment? Welders weld. They don't cut."

"God, she's slow," remarked Little Miss Parker.

"Arc cutting," explained Kirkland succinctly.

"But the rain," Rachel exclaimed futilely. The men were stretching extension cords, considering grounding options and then Jarod was donning earplugs, helmet, and gloves.

Murmuring a few words about grounding and electrocution, Eliot dropped a rubber pallet onto the dead grass upon which he unfurled a massive rubber welcome mat. He jogged out of sight, still stammering absently with a frown of concentration, and returning with a simple canopy that would lend Jarod minimal protection should the weather forecast be inaccurate and a fire extinguisher.

Grief-stricken as he was, Eliot still possessed the presence of mind to consider safety measures that would tip the scale in favor of the Federal Agent, who had been struck by two automobiles just hours earlier and likely wasn't particularly eager to be electrocuted as well. Admittedly, his reasons were somewhat selfish: Jarod, he was certain, was his little girl's only hope.

"Go inside, Burke," Kirkland instructed, feeding the stringer an electrode.

Inside the Steele home, Rachel averted her eyes from the deluge of molten metal. She was quite unable to discern the low rumble of thunder over the explosion of noise emanating from the welder. 

At last, the cacophony ceased, prompting her to look out the window. She nearly propelled herself through the glass. Frightened, she darted across a smoldering front lawn that was beginning to sizzle and steam beneath the light mist of rain. Rachel stared in disbelief at the pooling water. "It wasn't supposed to rise here until the rain began to fall."

"The water upstream from here didn't know that," Kirkland said. "Storm drains in town must be clogged."

"Where is Jarod?" Asked Rachel.

"The flow dislodged the cigarette; Jarod went after it. He's on the other of this tow rope."

"Is that blood," she cried, staring in disbelief at the jagged edges that surrounded the drain.

"Uh, it is, I suppose. Cutting wasn't precise."

"Precise? It looks like it was gnawed on by Jaws." The ominous concavity, now overflowing with water, resembled what she imagined the inside of a shark's mouth would look like, she thought but did not say. "He went down through that? You let him? There could be toxins, sewage, dead animals."

"Let him," exclaimed Kirkland with a sharp laugh. "Are you serious?"

"Agent Kirkland tried to stop Agent Mortenson. We both did," explained Eliot. "I was going to grind the edges, dull them at least, but he wouldn't wait. Hey," he said suddenly. "Towels. If I cover the edges with towels he won't wound himself coming back up. I'll be back," he called over his shoulder.

"Wound himself more, you mean," quipped Rachel. "How severe were his lacerations?"

"We won't know that until he resurfaces," Kirkland said.

"How long has he been down there?"

"Nearly two minutes."

"Pull him up," she said, pushing a hand through her hair. "He's already concussed and injured."

"He said ten minutes."

"He can't hold his breath that long. You don't even know how much blood he's lost. He could be bleeding out down there. He could be unconscious. Dead. Pull him up. Pull. Him. Up," she demanded.

"Stand down, Agent," Kirkland snarled.

"I've got the towels," father said, relieved to be useful for a change, to help those who were trying to help his daughter. He hated the seemingly endless waiting, doing nothing. His neighbors brought meals, tidied the house, cared for his wife, Celia, and Tess, his toddler. He was ordered to rest and while his body could, his mind would not. Idleness was an enemy.

"He's going to die down there," Rachel exclaimed, pushing rain out of her face.

"No," Jarod said with a grunt of exertion and a ragged pant. "I'm not. Don't lose this," he said, offering the spent butt to Agent Kirkland who hastily tucked it into an airtight container.

"You're covered in blood," Rachel observed.

"Among other things," agreed Jarod, heaving himself up out of the water with a nod of appreciation at Eliot Steele. "May I?" Jarod asked. Observing the nod, he scooped up one of the towels and pressed it against a wound that ran the length of his ribs.

"We need to get you to a hospital," Rachel said.

"The woman has a point for once," Little Miss Parker agreed. "The labwork's going to take a while."

"No, I have to get this evidence to Takahashi." To Kirkland, he murmured, "You wouldn't, by any chance, happen to have a suture kit on you?"

"I do," Eliot volunteered, jogging away in another heated rush and then returning and explaining, "I pack it every time we go camping. Sounds stupid now. I was prepared for snake bites, lacerations and choking. Nothing could have prepared us for this."

Jarod accepted the kit and, prior to climbing in Kirkland's SUV, reiterated to Eliot his commitment with a boyish grin, "I'm going to find your daughter."

Contrarily, Jarod was not going to find anyone. Jarod was bleeding internally and hemorrhaging the adrenaline that had, thus far, sustained him, bolstered his uncompromising sense of duty, nurtured his longing to deliver Parker safely to her brother and the children to their parents.

Intelligence and desperate longing would carry him only another hour and only as far as a small, efficient laboratory wherein Takahashi's competent hands manipulated state of the art equipment. The latter winced when Jarod pleaded with him not to further compromise potential DNA evidence, to be certain to isolate his blood from any existing DNA. He knew Jarod didn't doubt his proficiency. A sort of forlorn madness had prompted the frenzied remarks- the same madness that infected many parents of missing children. That same miasma of despair enveloped Jarod and oddly, opined Takahashi, it didn't seem to be unfamiliar territory.

"He's not stupid, Jarod," chided Little Miss Parker. "But you are. You can't help her if you're dead," she explained when he frowned in confusion. "You know that. Stop ignoring me," she screamed when he stood to pace the floor.

"It's not blood," Takahashi said equably. "I'll bet you a steak dinner at Dominic's that this stuff isn't rust either. In fact," he began lightly, abruptly pivoting at the crash behind him. "Jarod. Jarod," he shouted at the man crumpled on the floor.

"Jarod," he called, pounding the large glass window with an open fist to gain Kirkland's attention. He was still gesturing wildly when Kirkland threw open the door and glimpsed Jarod's motionless body.


܀

End Notes:

I know, I know. We didn't need another reason not to litter.

Gone (Part IX) by Mirage

 

 


܀

 

 

Broots glimpsed movement in his peripheral and lifted his gaze from the magazine. "Uh," he announced softly, "Syd, I think he's waking up."
 
Sydney jerked his gaze at Broots, lay aside his novel, and rose eagerly. "Jarod," Sydney cried. 
 
Jarod expelled a breath, groaned. "Sydney," he murmured, his eyes wide suddenly, his voice low, hoarse. "My leg?"
 
"Is the least of your worries," Margaret announced, covering Jarod's abraded hand with hers.
 
"What-- happened?"
 
"Blunt trauma," Margaret answered tearfully. "Internal bleeding. Jarod, are you trying to drive your mother crazy?"
 
"Sydney," Jarod pleaded in mild alarm.
 
"You sustained injuries to your liver and spleen."
 
"They said you were in shock," an overwrought Margaret interjected. "Shock! My God, Jarod, they almost had to remove your spleen."
 
With a horrified grunt, Jarod lifted his head fractionally, studied the bandages. He then swung his inquisitive gaze at Sydney.
 
"The surgeon successfully repaired both injuries with only minor complications," explained Sydney. "Your kidneys are bruised, however, with bed rest-"
 
"My leg," Jarod groused. "Hurts."
 
"The fracture has been stabilized with an open reduction and internal fixation."
 
"They operated," murmured Jarod absently.
 
"Try getting yourself into an airport with all those plates and screws," scolded Margaret. "The nurse said you could have more morphine if you need it. I'll-"
 
"No," stammered Jarod, struggling for coherency. "No drugs. The children. Parker? How long have I been unconscious?"
 
"Seven hours."
 
"News?"
 
"Dozens of children were recovered," answered Sydney with a bright smile. "Gracie and Celeste are, physically, unharmed."

"Parker?"
"After interviewing victims and witnesses, Kirkland has reason to believe that Parker escaped her binds and overpowered one of the traffickers."
 
Jarod searched the room, one slow, sweeping expectant scan and then silently sought an explanation from Sydney, who wore a somber gaze.
 
"Oh, God, no," Jarod said with a harsh gasp and tears standing in his eyes.
 
Sydney lay a restraining hand on Jarod's shoulder. "Agent Kirkland vowed to pursue leads, find her; my advice is to believe him capable and," added Sydney sternly, "focus on healing."


"The cigarette? The stain? Was it her blood?"
 
"The substance wasn't anyone's blood, Jarod. It was dye."
 
Dye.
Die.

 
The hospital room fell away and Jarod, momentarily, found himself inside Magdalena Swanson's dull apartment.


"Their pastrami on rye is to die for," Swanson's raspy voice returned to him.
"Go, Agent," Parker had eagerly insisted, "I'll help Mrs. Swanson with the fruit salad."

 

"Tell me about the dye," Jarod demanded into the mobile phone and listened, with growing impatience, to Takahashi's digressive and exceedingly exuberant narration.
 
"We identified DySecure as the manufacturer; that particular hue is distributed to a handful of banks. We narrowed our results to a robbery two years ago. One of the suspects was an elderly woman; her feigned coronary made for a hell of a distraction. Around that time, dozens of stop-and-robs were also hit, robberies that were never connected to the bank job. Until now. The perps took cash, beer, cigarettes— over a thousand cases of Dunhills, and novelty items. They shouldn't have put all their loot in one basket hehe. Know what I mean? The bank's dye-pack apparently ruptured. The loot and suspects were never recovered and the case was closed."
 
Jarod pressed the speaker function, dropped the mobile on the bed, and held his head in both hands. "Circumstantial," he groused.
 
"I'm not finished, Jarod. Swanson is on bank surveillance."
 
"She doesn't exist," rebutted Jarod.
 
"I'm still not finished, Dude. I found traces of dye along with Witch's Butter and False Turkey Tail- uh, that's Tremella Mesenterica and Stereum Hirsutum, respectively in the tobacco ash we found embedded in Swanson's carpet.

Those same traces are present on the butt you retrieved from the storm drain. I went on a limb hehe—a dead limb covered in fungi to be precise—and sent some ecologists out. We got a hit in Orange County, a park. A team went out, took samples from the fallen tree and you won't believe this."
 
"There are traces of dye on decaying trees," remarked Jarod dispassionately.
 
"Bing! Yes. And microbes indigenous to the area are present on the butts we found at Swanson's. This places Swanson or her accomplices at the scene of the abduction and at the bank robbery and in that park. There could even be DNA-"
 
"Little good that does when we don't have Magdalena Swanson."
 
Or Miss Parker.
 
"What I don't understand is why she telephoned the tip-line."
"To distract us, pump us for information." The bitch.
"Make sense. Hey, aren't you even going to ask," Takahashi said.
"About," inquired Jarod curiously.
"The blood inside the shipping container."
"Blood," repeated Jarod thickly. "What blood?"
"Uh, damn. Fuck," hissed Takahashi. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he repeated in rapid-fire succession. "They didn't tell you. Did they?"
"Tell me what," Jarod demanded.
"A witnessed reported that Agent Vella was shot on scene; cast-off pattern, however, suggests she was struck. There is no evidence to indicate Vella sustained massive blood loss. Samples collected from the arterial spray, pooling, and misting belong to one of the perpetrators, Josiah Edigers, paroled rapist, and that's consistent with the second witness's claims."
"Claims?"
"Vella didn't just hold off the traffickers until the vics escaped, she kicked their asses and shot Edigers—fatally, probably."

She pissed them off?

Perfect.

If she wasn't dead before—
Jarod dragged a hand over his face.
"Let's talk again in four hours."
 
"Sure thing, Jarod," agreed Takahashi jovially. "Be well already."
 
"Sydney lied to me," Jarod murmured aloud.
"I'm certain he had his reasons, Jarod," Margaret consoled gently.
"It was your decision, wasn't it? To withhold information from me? What else are you hiding, Mother," inquired Jarod, loftily.
"I don't appreciate your self-righteous tone, Jarod. When you behave like a dim-witted child expect me to treat you like one. Mothers aren't supposed to bury their children. And speaking of hiding things, Mister," mocked Margaret blithely, "the nurse insists that this was with your personal belongings," explained Margaret skeptically. "I told her she was mistaken-"
 
"She wasn't," interrupted Jarod softly, extending a hand, closing his fingers around the pendant when Margaret pressed it into his palm.
"I didn't realize you were religious," said Margaret, sheepishly.
"Neither did I," Jarod said, explaining succinctly, "It's from her."
 
"Catherine's daughter gave you this?"
"Saint Anthony," confirmed with a nod. "The patron saint of lost and missing items. She also gave me a thumb drive containing data," Jarod continued softly, recalling the tarmac, Parker at his side, her hands in his. "Data the Centre compiled-- regarding you, known associates, data she stole from the Centre."
 
Margaret frowned. "Jarod, are you saying what I think you are saying?"
Jarod dropped his gaze to the camel colored hospital blanket. "It's no coincidence that I found you one month after Carthis, Mother. You have Miss Parker to thank for that." 
 
Haltingly, Jarod confessed in a low, clipped tone, "I never did."

Jarod was certain he'd never be presented with an opportunity to thank her.

 

܀


The Missing Piece by Mirage

 

 


܀

 

 

Fifteen months later

 

 

Miss Parker was dead, had been confirmed dead by international intelligence. The Pretender, however hadn't been dissuaded by speculative claims or gruesome detailsregardless of plausibilityrecounted by associates.

Jarod demanded evidence, accepted nothing less.
 
When, at last, Jarod found Parker it wasn't in any morgue rumored to be in possession of her remains. Nor did he find Parker in any hospital battling death.
 
Jarod didn't find Parker in a quaint cafe in Liguria—as he'd anticipated—either or in Marseille, Enschede, Málaga. For several agonizing moments Jarod wasn't certain he had, indeed, found Parker and ruminated upon the probability of eventually discovering her in a morgue after all.
 
Intel was sketchy, contacts shifty, coordinates faulty. And the lodgings weren't up to par, weren't lodgings at all and Jarod didn't recognize her face, could not, in fact, see her face; he recognized a familiar presence, however.
 
Tucked inside a tiny recess in an Arabian canyon, concealed from occasional patrols or travelers, she wore an abaya, niqab, dark sunglasses, and was competently preparing cardamom tea.
 
"I appreciated your message," announced Jarod, installing himself opposite her and removing his sunglasses.
 
Aforementioned correspondence had transpired six months earlier at Parker's memorial service during which Jarod glimpsed the gardenia arrangement.

He'd recognized the stray branch partially concealed in the potting soil and promptlyand correctlyidentified it as Prosopis juliflora. The overwhelming surge of optimism refused to be vanquished.
 
Jarod envisioned Parker plucking the branch from the tree of life in Bahrain.
 
Life.
She's alive
.
 
Eager to conceal the discovery, Jarod pushed the plant into Sydney's hands and with dark, beseeching eyes, said meaningfully, "You've been meaning to acquire this particularly variety."
 
"Why, in fact, I have," Sydney agreed, cheerfully. "You've no objections to parting with it?"
 
"None," answered Jarod solemnly, embracing the older man and whispering a few words.
 
Margaret had quietly observed the psychiatrist leave and murmured sotto voce, "No, no, that wasn't strange at all. Don't fret, Son; I saw nothing."
 
Presently, Margaret's son scrutinized the woman shrouded from head to toe in ebony clothing. Softly, Jarod addressed her.

"Additional clues would have been helpful but were not forthcoming. Aside from converting," Jarod continued with some solemnity, "is there a logical reason you're disguising yourself, appropriating the local culture?" 
 
Having inquired, Jarod frowned, modestly lowered his eyes. He longed to sit quietly, not interrogate her. Nor was Jarod eager to inquire about torture and rape and all that those topics entailed.

It had occurred to Jarod months earlier in Bhutan, and, againweeks laterin St. Margaret's Hope that if Parker was indeed alive, she might also be pregnant, and, assuming the worst—that she was injured and non-ambulatory—had packed accordingly, adding to first aid supplies a box of laminaria sticks. "Are you concealing scars?"
 
The woman's attempts to flee were hastily thwarted. Jarod rose suddenly, grasped her elbow, and felt her body stiffen beneath his hand, dispelling any lingering incertitude regarding identity.

Local women, Jarod reasoned, would have felt threatened and screamed. This woman only wants to be alone. Rather than engage in a physical confrontation, she wordlessly returned to her blanket.
 
"You're early," she softly announced.
 
"She speaks," sang Jarod bitterly. "Finally. You're traveling light; that's good. The Director would like a word."
 
"I have two in mind," remarked Parker tartly.
 
"Now, now," soothed Jarod sweetly, "expletives are entirely unwarranted. Come along nicely; I assure you the handcuffs and gun will remain out of sight."
 
"You're six months early," Parker repeated blandly.
 
"Are you implying I was to receive another message?"
 
"Jarod, I'm aware of the Bureau's suspicions, threats, your distrust. I know you're not here to return me to the states. Your ass is on the line and life is going to get ugly if you don't bring her in alive."
 
"She was here," inquired Jarod skeptically.
 
"Been and gone."
 
"Let me guess," Jarod said, "she's in Netivot; however, en route she made several stops and paid young women to accompany her because she knew her bosses would kill her if she arrived without the promised children."
 
"That's a rather specific guess."
 
"Will her men be returning here with her?"
 
"Not here," Parker said. "Riyadh. You aren't simply guessing, are you?"
 
"No, I'm not and I know that five of her men have been murdered. "I- uh, how did you word it, ah, yes, put my foot down on Dante Benedetti's neck and discovered that you, as promised, put your foot down on his neck. What I don't understand is-"
 
"Eleven men," corrected Parker softly. "I know you don't understand why I killed them. Someone like you never could."
 
Jarod's eyes narrowed. "Someone like me? I understand—when no one else can. Is that what you're afraid of?"
 
Parker stared into the fire, contemplated the question for several moments. "No," she answered softly and then murmured thoughts aloud "Dante betrayed me."
 
"Mhn," Jarod corrected hastily. "The horror in his eyes betrayed him. Before you interrupted I was saying I don't understand how you knew Dante is an unwitting fall guy."
 
"Dante reached that conclusion while trying to find the children he believed the woman he loved died trying to save. He financed my holiday, supplied his private jet"
 
Holiday? Only Parker would refer to a multi-continent killing spree as a holiday.
 
"He's aware then that Misha's report implicated him in the abduction."
 
"He vomited when he discovered the accusations-- ruined an eighty thousand dollar rug. If you spoke to Dante you know Clemente isn't dead and Magdalena Swanson doesn't exist. What else did Dante tell you?"
 
Jarod averted his eyes, said, "I'm displeased with the tidy framing of inquiries that indicate you wouldn't confide in me if I didn't already possess knowledge of this."
 
"Aw, Jarod's displeased," Parker said thinly.

"I am trying to help you."
 
"Oh, you're trying to help me? By threatening me with a gun and handcuffs? How considerate."
 
"That's fair," Jarod agreed sheepishly. "It's my fault that you're misinterpreting my motives." Jarod drew a breath, said, "Dante limited our brief chat to his former fiancée: she faked her death and is permanently masquerading as an eccentric, chain-smoking elderly woman. You sought Dante's help and not mine because?"
 
"You were under surveillance."
 
"That's rather specious, Miss Parker. Dante continues to be rigorously surveilled. Why didn't you come to me?"
 
"The truth," Jarod added after several silent moments, "can't be that unsavory."
 
"It is," rebutted Parker, impassioned. "You almost died trying to retrieve me; I didn't ask you to do that, Jarod."
 
"I did it because I care about you," Jarod confessed incautiously.
 
"I didn't ask you to do that either," argued Parker numbly, defensively.
 
Jarod smiled warmly, sympathetically. "Why did you really spare Misha? You know where she is and you haven't even confronted her."
 
Prompted by Parker's silence, Jarod pressed softly, "Are you going to answer the question?" 
 
"I'm afraid of what I'll do to the bitch," answered Parker, reflectively.
 
Jarod paled. "You've killed eleven men," he said, thickly, "and yet you're afraid of what you'll do? I'm not certain I understand."
 
"Consider yourself fortunate," remarked Parker cynically.
 
"Beyond ending Clemente's life and potentially spending the remainder of yours in prison what could you possibly fear?"
 
"Becoming her," answered Parker indignantly. "I've thought about it-- about chaining her up somewhere dark and cold and torturing her for the rest of my life."
 
"The desire for revenge is normal, human-"
 
"I want to tell Gracie and Celeste that the bitch can't hurt anyone else," Parker explained hastily, interrupting Jarod. "When they ask me how I can be certain I can either tell them it's because Misha is in prison or that she's being tortured six ways from Sunday, twenty-four seven, and praying for a visit from the grim reaper. What do you suggest, Agent?"
 
"I see. You realize," said Jarod, gingerly, "that if you pursue this you'll be called to testify. If you ignore the subpoena a warrant will be issued. I want to caution you: her attorneys are going to treat you like the suspect, try to trip you up- it's what they do. They're going to demand specific details and they'll likely object to the sunglasses and niqab."
 
"Make no mistake, Jarod, when they see what that bitch did to my face her attorneys will wish I'd kept it covered."
 
"And the limp? Is that more of Clemente's handiwork?"
 
"I was stabbed two days ago."
 
"Her men?"
 
Parker affirmed with a nod.
 
"Tell me," Jarod demanded, "is there evidence out here? Are there witnesses that can connect you to the deaths of her men?"
 
"Are you suggesting we remove any witnesses or-"
 
"It isn't simply a suggestion," Jarod interrupted coolly. 

"Corpse disposal is Centre training 101, Jarod."

Jarod frowned. "You were stabbed two days ago? She's had ample opportunity to track you here and-" Jarod fell silent with startling abruptness.

"And murder me," Parker said tartly.

"You killed Clemente's men in self-defense," Jarod said. "She doesn't know you're alive, does she?"

"If Clemente knew, Mister Obvious, she'd send more men."
 
"It was self-defense," Jarod insisted.
 
I'll be damned.
He does understand.

 
"What, Jarod, no I-told-you-so?"
 
"I've made too many mistakes to be smug."
 
"Mistakes," repeated Parker, incredulously. "You?"
 
"There's innocent blood on my hands. Your blood; I want to wash it away in the blood of the men that hurt you. Somehow that seems appropriate."
 
"You came all this way to commit murder on my behalf," Parker purred softly, rising suddenly, and desultorily stirring ashes. "I'm honored," she added blandly. "But you're too late."
 
"That's not why I came, initially," Jarod clarified. "You know why I'm here. And didn't you say I was too early?"
 
"You're both," Parker answered plainly. "Too early to collar Clemente. Too late for revenge."
 
"I suppose my timing has never," Jarod began miserably, falling silent and parting his lips in surprise when Parker disrobed and unceremoniously straddled him, proving that perhaps her timing was—improbably—even worse than his.
 
Parker removed the sunglasses and niqad, revealing a scar partially obscured by brunette locks; the incision had traversed her face, missed her left eye by centimeters, and continued to the tip of her middle toe.
 
"You don't have my blood on your hands," Parker informed Jarod sternly.
 
Jarod didn't argue with Parker nor was he inclined to stop her. 
 
He, however, imagined himself nobly drawing back, stammering something appalling—something that would dissuade Parker from eagerly tugging down his jeans.
 
Instead, Jarod kissed Parker's mouth and grasped her hips, and in the small fire's waning light watched her face.

 

܀


The Missing Piece (Part II) by Mirage








܀



"You should see the other guy," murmured Parker, consciousand rather dismissiveof Jarod's scrutiny; with strained patience, she endured a thorough examination of the stab wound. To shut him up.

"Not funny," Jarod moaned and then stiffened and inquired eagerly, "Wouldn't proper disposal of the corpse preclude any possibility of seeing him."

"Relax, Jarod."

Jarod's face clouded with consternation; he hastily pushed a hand over his face, sheltered Parker from his disappointment. Strangely, he was incapable of criticizing her.

Nor would Gracie and Celeste's parents condemn Parker for murdering human traffickers; they'd applaud her accomplishments.

She and I aren't dissimilar.

In the pursuit of justice Jarod had forbidden slaughter, stopped short of murder, despite the intermittent, sometimes overwhelming temptation.

Parker and Jarod harbored the same darkness; hers was an excruciating must; she needed to eradicate child rapists; it was as essential to her survival as breathing. Jarod refused to jeopardize Parker's survival.

He swallowed inquiries, rebuttals, however, he was tempted to explain all the reasons he couldn't relax. Murdering child abductors must have become rather mundane at some point: while in the neighborhood, Parker had assassinated soldiers blocking food and medical supplies intended for Yemen.

She was solely responsible for sinking a warship that blocked ports and stealing missiles that perpetuated suffering. She'd escorted and guarded humanitarian aid workers, had made a remarkable transition from bounty hunter to freelance warrior.

Or not a transition at all. My God, I'd be rotting in a Triumvirate prison if she'd truly been dedicated to capturing me.

"What are you doing," Parker demanded softly, bemused by Jarod's continued inspection, his silence. "Surprised it isn't gangrenous?"

"I've never doubted your ability to care for yourself," answered Jarod somberly, applying a fresh bandage to her right thigh and averting his eyes from dozens of scarsflesh that had been scored and burned and had healed.

Each wound had been deliberate and intimate and there was, Jarod believed, a story in them, a tale of barbarity that Parker probably would never remember in its entirety. Small miracles.

Jarod recalled the ampoules collected in Wyoming where the investigation had narrowed considerably. During a search operation there in an unrelated missing person's case, volunteers had discovered a remote and abandoned mine, glimpsed discarded syringes, and radioed patrol officers.

A latent fingerprint, deemed unreliable by a cagey and rather uncooperative Sheriff, matched one on file belonging to Agent Misha Clemente.

Suspicions were merely aroused; requests for an exhumation order were denied- until the discovery of DNA on the needles.

Jarod had arrived at the field office fresh from physical therapy slightly hungover, but alert and terribly eager, nonetheless, to speak to Kirkland about aforementioned DNA-- as substantiated by eighteen Federal Agents who witnessed Jarod seize the man's lapels in his fists and snarl, "Whose DNA god damn it?"

"I'm sorry, Jarod," answered Kirkland calmly. "The better news is we haven't recovered a body or enough blood to suggest Parker isn't alive."

"Were any substances detected on those needles or was this," the words lodged in Jarod's throat, as thick and rancid as vomit, "textbook torture?"

"Heroine and Midazolam," answered Kirkland glumly. "Who ever did this, Jarod, burned the fucking textbook."

"Any idea who that might be," Jarod snarled, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Not yet."

"Unacceptable," the Pretender shouted. "Where are the cameras, reporters?"

"The less the public knows the better. Our exhumation order's finally been granted. If Clemente did this, Jarod, we'll prove it and we'll find her."

"I don't give a god damn about Clemente."

"Parker's alive," Kirkland said, raising his voice to silence Jarod. "For all we know she was dumped here and Clemente, or whoever did this, doesn't know she's still alive."

"I'm listening," Jarod said.

"Look at this place. The abductors have been clever, cocky until now. This is sloppy, disorganized. They left Parker's DNA all over this mine; they wouldn't have had any reservations about leaving the rest of her here. There is no indication she was dragged out of here by animals and no human remains have been found in this area."

"You're saying if they discover she's still alive they'll-" Jarod's words dissolved into suggestive silence.


Finish her.


That danger, Jarod, presently, reminded himself, still exists. He handily concealed discomposure, continued to scrutinize the details of their lovemakingwith the same uncompromising thoroughness accorded the knife wound and scars, recalling in vivid detail each breath Parker had drawn, those hissed through teeth, those violently inhaled, the tangle of gasps.

Jarod calculated repercussions, pondered his impulsiveness, recklessness. "But I am surprised," he added, swinging his gaze at Parker.

"I'll just bet," Parker purred, retrieving her bra and blouse.

"I," Jarod stammered, "didn't anticipate -"

"Don't," Parker cautioned, expelling a breath of exasperation.

"Don't," Jarod repeated gently, watching her dress. "What?"

"Over-think. Explain. Analyze. You've spent your life preparing for every contingency; if you were entertaining the remotest hope of having sex you would have packed condoms."

"You riffled through my bag while I slept?"

"Mm, an entire box of laminarias," Parker commented dully, tucking her blouse into the waist of her slacks.

Jarod titled his head, answered lightly, "What was it you said? Every contingency."

"Including impossible ones, apparently," remarked Parker coolly. "I'm quite capable of terminating a truly miraculous albeit unwelcome high-risk pregnancy without your assistance. Also: Clemente's men were impotent imbeciles and I'm not a junkie. Narcan and antipsychotics, Jarod," Parker disparaged, her voice tight, guttural. "You believed you'd find me knocked up, strung out, and off the trolley?"

No. I believed I wouldn't find you at all.
Not alive.

Jarod had no intention of defending his decisions; he'd hacked Rachel's computer, familiarized himself with her preliminary profile, a thorough analysis of victimization patterns, and data pertaining to additional murders thought to be connected to Clemente.

Bearing in mind Jarod's violent reaction to her initial belief that Parker was dead, the Profiler was reluctant to convey additional unpleasant truths to him and instead remained vague, laudatory.

"Your girl put up a helluva fight," remarked Rachel coolly when an impressive amount of blood matching Clemente's was discovered on an overturned four-door sedan outside Great Falls. 

My girl? If you call Miss Parker that to her face she'll fight you

"I don't understand," Jarod said. His dark eyes were red rimmed and filled with confusion. He inquired hesitantly, "Is there evidence that suggests Miss Parker was in that vehicle?"

Rachel averted her eyes, worried her lower lip. Kirkland straightened in his chair and gently informed Jarod that blood and hair follicles collected from the trunk were Parker's.

Trunk.

Jarod heard little else; he wasn't listening when Rachel announced that blood collected from the driver's seat belonged to neither women, that the evident struggle indicated Parker was alive, defiant.

Trunk.

Jarod recalled his abduction, the hand over his mouth, hood over his head. The accompanying screams were not his own; they were Parker's and were completely muted.

Kirkland was nodding his agreement with Rachel and emanating positivity when Jarod's mind wandered away and climbed inside the trunk with Parker.

Jarod was cold and disoriented in the dark, unfamiliar cavity and Parker was neither screaming nor hammering the lid. She was unconscious, bound, gagged and Jarod wanted to wake her, advise her to wrestle the duct tape and blood-stained ropes, make an effort to loosen her binds or dislocate her thumb or shoulder- she'd done both before. You can do it again; just try.

Escape, Jarod recognized, was futile; soundproofing material, concealed by thick layers of polypropylene, lined the compartment, and, perhaps more horrifying, he and Parker were lying beneath a false bottom. Even if the car had been stopped and searched, officers would have discovered only an empty trunk upon raising the lid.

Wake up, Miss Parker. Please. We have to get out of here. There's no air; we can't breathe. Jarod inhaled sharply, lowered his head, scrubbed his face with trembling hands, massaged his temples.

Rachel shared a look of concern with Kirkland and in vain resignation said to Jarod, "You were right about the checkpoints and Clemente's intentions to cross the state border. She was probably already in Montana before we learned about the mine, but don't worry, Jarod, she'll never make into Canada."

Rachel's files significantly contradicted her comforting words.

She'd been briefed about six additional women, all brunette, self-possessed, assertive, in their early forties; all had been sexually assaulted and tortured. Three of the women shared roadside graves with fetuses; two women had attempted to claw the unwanted fetuses from their bodies. Their deaths, spanning seven years and six states, had initially been ruled suspicious drug overdoses by police.

Beneath the words serial killer?, were two black lines and the following:

These woman represent the suspect's mother, a sexually abusive psychopath that abandoned suspect at approx. eight years of age.

Note I: these abductions have distinct motivations separate from the trafficking of children i.e. the adult female victims attempted to intervene on behalf of the children and were "punished" by suspect.

Deep-seated resentment is apparent in suspect's brutality and discarding of the bodies; she is a sexual sadist repeatedly punishing her mother, achieving and reliving fantasy revenge fulfillment, and, ultimately, euphoric release.

Suspect likely began sexually assaulting women in her early adulthood.

Although the abduction of the women is primarily sexually motivated the suspect compulsively perpetuates abuse cycle by taking children from their mothers. It's worth noting that suspect was severely abused in the foster system until adopted at the age of thirteen by a devout and sadistic evangelical couple who extorted her daily, establishing in their home a currency of sorts: sexual favors in exchange for fundamentals (food, clothing, blankets). Suspect holds a deep conviction that the children she abducts must endure that same fate.

Suspect is delusional and will not, of her own volition, stop; she has long-cemented her justification. Any attempts to reason with her will be futile and violent.

Note II: Victim number seven is likely still alive and experiencing a marked escalation in savagery resulting from her role in freeing the children as well as her alleged execution of one or more suspects. Evidence recovered inside the mine and in the vicinity of automobile indicate suspect's sudden disorganization and while this potentially increases our likelihood of apprehending suspect it also heightens severity of victim's torture, particularly psychological torture. Potentially.

Other profilers speculate that the suspect has assigned the victim a new role, views her as an equal or superior, perhaps a sister self, and may even attempt to recruit.

Another opinion is that the suspect will coerce the victim to replay her initial role until the suspect's desired outcome is achieved as there can be no deviation from the original fantasy and no alternate ending as gratifying to suspect. Death.

It isn't likely suspect will abduct children at this time as suspect is confused, anxious, and obviously mentally deteriorated. Suspect may be uncertain about how to proceed. She will likely punish the victim harshly and sedate victim heavily for extended lengths of time.

Additional note: be advised regarding victim seven, if recovered, alive, psychosis must be presumed, either induced by some combination of drugs or abuse, or in conjunction; anticipate combativeness and paranoia. Avoid restraints and physical contact, if at all possible.

Jarod had little confidence in criminal profiling and remaining dismissive of the field revolved his eyes at much of the jargon. He believed Clemente was a greedy, evil bitch and sought no further explanation.

Jarod wasn't interested in the suspect or her excuses or Rachel's theories regardless of how widely accepted by colleagues; those were hastily discarded.

Instead, Jarod culled the facts from Rachel's files and packed accordingly, assembling a more relevant collection of first aid paraphernalia. He believed himself justified and was disinclined to debate his rationale.

Rather than answer Parker's question or display sheepishness, he smiled warmly, said, "Tell me: were you looking for something specific? If you need somethingmoney, disposable phones, anythingall you have to do is ask." A gun, perhaps, Miss Parker?

"That's generous, Jarod," Parker said. "I'll ship you the handcuffs when I land in Barcelona."

Disheartened and stunned, Jarod explained somberly, "I had no intention of putting the handcuffs on you."

"Mm then you shouldn't be too perturbed that you've misplaced them."

"I would have given themand the gunto you had I known how little you trust me," Jarod said impulsively and was thoroughly and immediately appalled by his selfishness, ashamed for berating Parker. He pushed trembling hands through his hair, murmured remorsefully, "I'm sorry. That was considerably out of line. I'm so"

"If you say sorry one more time, Jarod," Parker warned, collecting the blanket, "I swear to God I'll dig that Glock out of your bag and shoot you in the ass."

Jarod's face twisted in incredulity. She took the handcuffs but left the gun? He didn't feel confident that Parker would answer that question truthfully; instead, he said, "Why Barcelona?"

"You ask too many questions, Jarod."

"I'm afraid I have more-- difficult questions."

"I'll mail you a statement the first chance I get," said Parker sharply.

Jarod murmured her name, adding tremulously, "I never stopped searching for you."

"Evidently," Parker acknowledged stiffly and then encouraged hospitably with a gesture at the tea dishes, "Help yourself."

Jarod rose hastily, stepped into his jeans and tugged up the zipper. "Let me bring you in. Please. We can protect you, provide medical attention," implored Jarod. "Come in until Clemente is no longer a threat to you."

Parker inquired brusquely, "Gonna shoot if I refuse?"

"You know I'm incapable of doing that to you," answered Jarod forlornly, "it's why you didn't take the gun. You should," he added emphatically, "also know that I'd never restrain you—or anyone who is post-trauma—while you're asleep and certainly not after making love with you.

It's my fault you don't," he continued wistfully, loathing the ghosts of silences past. Jarod deliberated briefly and confessed distinctly, guilelessly, "I'm in love with you."

Parker's halting head-tilt of negation and languid exhalation were unmistakable indicators of astonishment; she appeared to be absorbing a heinous revelation.

"It's a statement," Jarod assured Parker with genuine compassion, closing shirt buttons. "All right? I'm not trying to change your life or contribute to your confusion."

Parker rebutted with a shrewd smile, "I am not confused."

"I have no expectations," continued Jarod, neither countering nor conceding. "I just wanted you to know."

"Why? What in the hell am I suppose to do with that?" Parker murmured numbly, gathering the niqab and folding it loosely over her arm. The space between them, incomprehensibly and abruptly, shrank; she hadn't perceived Jarod's movement, only his presence.

Parker opened her mouth to speak, clamping her lips closed when Jarod seized her hand. She mercifully directed her fierce gaze, filled with derision, elsewhere, rather than wound him. To protest or plea, Parker reasoned, would be utter hypocrisy.

Jarod's doing his job, following orders.
It's not personal.
I can't blame him for doing to me what I once did to him.

And yet:

"Don't do this, Jarod. Please don't-" With enormous effort, Parker silenced herself when his grasp tightened; furthermore, attempts to dislodge her fingers from Jarod's restraining hand were futile, and, strangely, few.

Fuck.
Okay.
Okay.

I deserve this.

Parker endeavored to calm herself, withdrew from panic's edge.
Initially, Jarod believed Parker was employing deception; however, when his grip fractionally slackened, Parker made no attempt to escape, apparently resigned herself to accompanying him, enduring hours of questioning regarding her slow and meandering stroll through hell.

Coercing her to relive it is inhumane.

She had emerged on the other side and it didn't matter how.

Jarod had agonized, for months, over the question of whether or not Parker was deadtime enough to know, without doubt, that only one question mattered and that the answer was standing in front of him.

"Take that with you to Barcelona." Jarod ruptured the silence and answered her question, at last. "Consider it a suggestion; I don't have all the answers, and, clearly, I didn't plan for every possibility; if I had," he explained, "I might have prepared a compelling peroration in advance of professing my love to you."

Bewildered, Parker knitted her brows, asked, weakly, "What?"

"Know that you'll always have a friend and -uh take this, too," Jarod continued softly, depositing an object into the palm of her hand. "I know this belonged to your mother; thank you for trusting me with it."

Parker lowered her head and studied for several moments, in stunned silence, the St. Anthony pendant. She lifted her gaze to Jarod's facewet with tearsand searched moist, dark eyes. He explained softly, "I have finally found everything I was searching for; you will, too."

"You're letting me go?"

"Letting you," Jarod repeated with some incredulity. "No one is capable of stopping you once you've made up your mind," he reminded sweetly, slowly lowering his head, pressing his lips to her brow; Jarod lingered, closed his eyes, and murmured softly against her skin, "Never forget that about yourself."

Straightening, he met Parker's gaze, demanded from her a commitment, "Never. Okay?"

Parker nodded her reply, inquired sympathetically, "Is Kirkland going to chew your ass for not bringing me in?"

"I'm predicting slim pickings for Kirkland," Jarod answered, partly in jest, "chain of command being what it is." Becoming quite serious, Jarod released Parker's hand, insisted tenderly, "Be careful."



܀



The Missing Piece (Part III) by Mirage









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Careful.
I asked her to be careful.


Parker, however, wasn't being careful if the chalky antacid discs and ibuprofen tablets scattered atop Agent Kirkland's battered desk were any indication.

"She's too goddamned tenacious," Kirkland had ranted sixteen months earlier. "Do something, Jarod."

Jarod had most certainly done something; he had followed Parker to the middle east, had sex with her, and had calmly sipped cardamom tea while she'd sped away in the hybrid land cruiser he'd rented.

He almost hadn't found Parker then, had done nothing but fail to find her since making love with her. There were claims that she'd been murdered, explained Kirkland, tossing back Excedrin and Rolaids and a double shot Mylanta chaser spiked with  Kraken rum.

"Right," Jarod said, skeptically. "I've heard that one before."

"Dover P.D. was contacted this morning by someone from the consulate -"

"Where is she?"

"Poveglia," answered Kirkland.

Jarod shook his head, asked, "Poveglia Island?" 

Another haunted island?

An abandoned haunted island.

"I think you should prepare yourself for the worst; the woman I spoke to provided a succinct albeit accurate description."

"Of the island?"

"No, not the island. The body. I'm sorry. The claims are credible, Jarod," said Kirkland gravely.

Jarod's eyes tightened. The sorrow was sudden and asphyxiating; he strangled on an aborted rebuttal, shook his head in negation. He turned before his name departed the agent's lips. At the end of the corridor he pushed open double doors knowing only that if Parker was on an haunted island, alive or dead, he needed to be there, too.

Eleven hours later he was.

A friendly multilingual fisherman in Venice who refused to speak anything but his native Italianand spoke primarily in Zen Koans and euphemismscheerfully accepted seven hundred euros from Jarod and agreed to transport the pretender to the haunted island.

The déjà vu was both eerie and painful.

He recalled Carthis vividly, their closeness, almost kissing her. There'd been no monstrous apparitions; only monstrous humans as par for the usual course.

He'd seen absolutely no spectres in Scotland and had returned to the states alive and well and haunted only by a single word: Almost.

Jarod supposed he would depart the haunted island of Poveglia, regardless of the existence of ghosts, truly haunted-- by sorrow, a story's abrupt ending. Another word: once. Only once.

Once and almost were similarly insufficient.

Once wasn't enough.
Almost hadn't been enough.

If I leave this island. Jarod entertained the notion of staying; after all, if Parker had been killed on the island and if phantasms did, indeed, inhabit the land and structures there was a chance he'd see her again.

If.

When Jarod departed the boat, the fisherman reminded him to simply wave when he'd found the corpse and he'd swiftly return, although it was evident the man dreaded the idea of being near the island.

A discarded Il medico della peste mask, authentic but modern, that lay shattered on the ground at Jarod's feet had probably been launched from a passing boat. Because even vandals are too frightened to step on this land, Jarod surmised, lifting his eyes to the structures that inhabited the island.

Scaffolding, although rusted and crippled, suggested construction, progress, inhabitants, and was rather incongruous to crumbling terracotta, absent doors, fractured staircases. Ivy seized the broken asylum, enveloped it, and infiltrated its interior, had possibly, over time, gained entrance to the edifice by first shattering the windows.

Jarod truly believed in that moment that the ivy would eventually tighten its grasp and raze the building, wholly entomb it, nourish its hearty roots with each countless horror that had transpired within the ruined edifice. How quickly and thoroughly nature reclaimed itself without man's incessant meddling. Perhaps there were no souls in perpetual unrest at all and the mystery of the island was simply the work of nature itself, of earth claiming and reclaiming, uncompromising in its determination to be undisturbed by humans.

Claiming. His reason for treading on this land, to claim Parker's body. Patiently, diligently, Jarod investigated each crevice. A twisted bed frame was the sole occupant of one room; a once white bath tub, now gray-green, hosted a variety of plant life. Outside, Jarod read aloud the warning etched in a stone plaque, "Ne Fodias Vita Functi Contagio Requiescunt MDCCXCIII."

Christ.

The author could rest assured; Jarod had no intention of disturbing the land or the remains of deceased plague victims. He suspected he would not be disturbing Parker's corpse either, and was heartened. Because there was no corpse. After some speculation, Jarod deduced that Parker had conceived, and was actively promulgating, the tale of her demise.

She doesn't want me to find her.

The thought ricocheted through his mind, made sleep impossible; his desire to find her grew exponentially. During the return flight to the states, Jarod redoubled his efforts to locate Parker, speaking to contacts in one hundred fifty countries, putting out feelers with Australian, British, Chinese, Indian, French, and German intelligence, exercising discretion and caution, doing nothing to endanger Parker. In fact, he gave no indication it was Parker he sought or that the person he sought was even alive.

Ill with worry and unable to eat, he slept at last, waking abruptly from a fitful fever dream and then inhaling sharply and closing his eyes. Jarod realized only then just how unwell he truly was, because, typically, when he opened his eyes Parker's visage evanesced and he was alone again with his sick stomach and fears and she was beyond his reach, possibly dead or abducted, being tortured.

Instead Parker sat on his bed, a sharp shaft of moonlight illumining her left eye and several locks of damp hair. Jarod dragged a trembling hand over his brow, murmured thickly, "I'm hallucinating." At least this time the hallucination is adult Miss Parker and not an insufferable little pain in the-

"That sounds," intoned the hallucination crisply, "like something you should discuss with Sigmund."

Jarod rose from the pillows, sat, opened his mouth to inquire. There was no need, however, for Parker to assure him she was real or unharmed. His eyes adjusted to the dark, leaving no doubt. The cautious smile Jarod wore faltered, fled. Hastily, he reached for the lamp, observed Parker recoil, squint, shield her eyes with a hand.

Parker wore his bathrobe and a smile that was incongruous to the angry purple blemishes that ringed her neck, a sort of grotesque necklace that Jarod would never purge from his mind.

Her chin was heavily abraded, her nose discolored. The bruising was extensive. Her right eye was blue and swollen shut; the cheek below was lacerated and bleeding. Parker pressed a wash cloth to the injury for a moment and then swept away crimson that trickled steadily from an apparent knife wound above her left brow.

Jarod could muster only a helpless groan prior to rising with abruptness. He returned with sterile gloves, damp cloths, an advanced first aid kit. He's predicted this, had known it was a matter of when not if.

Silently, he examined and cleaned her wounds, sutured her brow, and offered her ibuprofen and dinner. "Or breakfast if that's your preference?"

She accepted the pills graciously and devoured the contents of the large plate Jarod placed before her, consisting of smoked salmon, capers, arugula. An hour later, as Parker drained a third glass of water, Jarod's demeanor became grave, anxious.

"What," Parker said.

"Nothing," he answered softly. "Can I get anything else? Dessert? I have raspberry frangipane, flourless chocolate tart filled with matcha mousse, several cartons of Ben and Jerry's."

"No, I'm fine. Just when the hell did you become Martha Stewart?"

Sometime after you became Jonn Wick, he might have retorted. Instead, Jarod frowned, shook his head. He hadn't heard her question, was preoccupied with her answer. "Fine," Jarod repeated cynically. "That's not the word I'd use to describe this. Your right eye is swollen shut and there are thirty-eight stitches above your left. You should probably be in a hospital."

"I passed two of those on the way here. Didn't feel like stopping. Even if I had, my Centre health insurance plan is as void and nonexistent as the Centre."

"I'm sorry," Jarod said, his discomfit evident. "I imagine you're rather displeased that you had no choice but to come to me. This must be rather uncomfortable for you. Had you telephoned me from one of those hospitals you drove past I would have made arrangements to pay"

"Shut up," groused Parker. "I chose to come here. Was that a mistake?"

"I hope not," Jarod answered softly.

Parker bristled. "You don't believe me."

"I believe," asserted Jarod, "that circumstances can be coercive, can limit and even entirely eliminate options. And I believe you didn't want me to find you. If this is unpleasant for you "

"I didn't want you to find me," Parker confirmed.

"Because we slept together," Jarod said. "You have regrets."

"Jarod," chided Parker, crisply, "you think entirely too much."

"Then you don't have regrets?"

"Do you?"

"No. Of course not."

"Neither do I."

"You didn't want me to find you."

"I'm aware you're disappointed in me, Jarod, that you and Sydney have spent several hours discussing my disintegrating scruples and potential incarceration; I unintentionally eavesdropped. Both Sigmund and Kirkland pleaded with you to stop me; you're seriously considering their request."

"It's true that I want you to stop; I want you to stay. More importantly and precisely I want you to make those decisions." Finding her explanations inadequate, Jarod asked, pointedly, "Why did you want me to believe you were dead?"

"I didn't. A haunted island, Jarod, couldn't have been more obvious."

"Obvious," repeated Jarod incredulously. "No. No, I flew to Italy to retrieve your corpse and fly you back home so you could be buried near your remaining family. Family? You do remember Ethan, yes?"

"You are adorable when you're angry," Parker purred.

"I'm not angry. I'm," he said, shaking his head, "not angry. And I'm not arguing with you," he added peremptorily. "Do you want to sleep before we resume?"

"Resume," Parker repeated dubiously.

"I should probably take a look at the rest of your injuries. The bathrobe fell open earlier," he explained. "Your right knee looks bad."

"That's because it is bad, Jarod. Hurts like a son of a bitch. But it's not serious."

"And your thigh?"

Parker snorted. "You're guessing."

"I don't guess. I'm a Pretender. Remember? Tell me what happened and I won't have to do this."

Parker laughed. "That sounds, strangely, like extortion."

"Your wounds are fresh," observed Jarod. "You've been in the states for some time, haven't you?"

"Three months," clarified Parker.

"You were close?"

"Eighty miles."

"Is Dante still financing your criminal endeavors?"

Parker's lips briefly twitched. "Yes."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"Careful, Jarod," cautioned Parker sternly.

"Are you?"

"The way you're sleeping with Rachel?" Parker laughed lightly and observed casually, "I'll admit, it is a nice fuckpad you have here, Jarod."

"Pardon?"

"Those bowls of bouillabaisse in your freeze are labelled, Genius, and I'm guessing the Chanel slingbacks in the bathroom closet don't belong to you; they're much too small."

"I see," drawled Jarod, thickly.

"Doubtful," rebutted Parker, darkly. "You are angry."

"No," countered Jarod, softly. "I'm--- trying to understand."

"Don't," commanded Parker. "The less you know the better."

"Better for whom?"

"I need to sleep," said Parker softly.

Parker slept hard. Jarod watched her for twelve hours, believing that, while asleep, any serious injuries she had concealed would reveal themselves to him. He imagined internal bleeding, anticipated her clutching her abdomen, crying out, convulsing, vomiting blood. Instead, Parker remained quiet; she stirred only to push a dead man's hands from her neck, and, four hours later, nuzzled and burrowed, fractionally, beneath Jarod.

He closed his eyes then.

For just a moment.

And awoke five hours later to find Parker gone. Jarod spent the better part of fifteen months searching futilely for her. Clemente was arrested, subpoenas were issued.

Parker was a no-show during the trial; she was, instead, meting out her own brand of justice; hers was far more effective and swift than any court room sentencing. When the judgedespite eye witness testimony, irrefutable evidence that included DNA, video, photographs, documentation, statements and testimony from hundreds of abduction victims, and a confession from Clementechose to be lenient even Kirkland, a by-the-book Federal Agent who had devoted his life to believing in the system, obeying the law, and following the rules, was forced to admit that justice was dumb, deaf, subjective, completely fucking insane, and unjust god damn it to hell!

He referred to the five year sentence, in protective custody no less, with the possibility of parole in three years as an obscene miscarriage of justice. Kirkland resigned in disgust, deeming the indignity the final straw, selling his home and possessions and leaving the states, Havana bound: Cohibas and Havana Locos are on me if you're ever in the neighborhood, Jarod. Hasta luego.

Jarod would be seeing Kirkland sooner than laterhe had no way of knowing that when he shook the Agent's hand.

Nor could he have foreseen that fate or luck or some higher power would intervene, succeed where a corrupt judge had failed and issue its own sentencing. An agonizing death sentence.

Nor did Jarod believe that fate, luck, or a higher power was in any way involved when the van transporting Clemente overturned on the highway, crushing and trapping, but not immediately killing the sex trafficker.

The woman died in pain, pleading for her life, and Jarod devoted sixty consecutive and excruciating hours to the cause of the accident, believing Parker responsible, concluding at last that the crash was simply operator error, a combination of too little sleep, too dense fog, too much confidence behind the wheel, and possibly spilled coffee.

Jarod couldn't determine if the java was spilled before or during the accident and was content not knowing. His goal had been only to determine the extent of Parker's involvement in Clemente's death; he was dismayed by the lack of incriminating evidence and unwilling to accept his own findings. Absence of evidence is often indicative of a remarkably clever culprit and therefore in no way exonerated Parker.

Parker is nothing if not clever.

Jarod's concerns increased significantly and there was only one person in the world capable of confirming them.

If I can find her.



܀




The Missing Piece (Part IV) by Mirage





܀



Attired in a loose-fit mini dress with plunging V-neck, ankle-tie platform sandals, and designer sunglasses, Parker emerged from a modest, weathered cottage and into the bright, warm morning. The sky above was flawless azure, the streets empty; the tourists were over in Cancún or perhaps Tulum or Mexico City, and the localswith their unwavering work ethicdidn't come out to play until the work day ended.

A hemp tote high upon her shoulder, Parker strode with determination, crossing several streets, disappearing inside an expansive, brightly painted market. Two children shrieked wildly, pleading for galletas and empanadas, interrupting briefly their mother's transaction, the melodic flow of Spanish.

Parker selected fruit and was considering sunflowers for the vases in her bedroom when she felt an odd, not wholly unpleasant sensation and knew instantly that Jarod was close and evading him improbable.

"The man, the myth, the legend," purred Parker when Jarod was still easily fifteen feet from her. "What brings you to Mexico, Jarod? The paletas? The Convent de San Bernardino de Siena?"

Jarod smiled warmly, said her namenot the coerced childhood lie; her real name. He studied loose and wavy brunette locks that extended beyond mid-back, much longer than he'd ever seen her hair. Consequently, Jarod was spared the grimace that marred Parker's face, but not her soft, tremulous rebuttal. "That little girl is dead, Jarod."

"No," Jarod countered gently with alarming certitude. "No, she is notnot while I'm still alive she isn't; I won't let her die."

"Bastard," Cried Parker quietly, her voice a splintered whisper that too closely resembled a whimper. She drew a sharp, watery breath, blinked away tears, focused on avocados and the enduring carefree laughter and jaunty shrieks tumbling from paletas de aguasstained lips and abominable men in pools of blood staring into the void through lifeless eyes.

Jarod's voice breached the silence, refused to be ignored. "That little girl was my best friend; she saved my life; she is the reason dozens of other little girls are safe in their homes right now, the reason hundreds of children will still be safe in their homes tomorrow. If you want to kill her," Jarod continued, his voice suddenly hard, incisive, "you're going to have to kill me first."

"That's unfair," Parker hissed.

"Yes," Jarod agreed, recalling hundreds of instances in which Little Miss Holy Terror had echoed her adult counterpart's declaration. "Yes, I suppose it is. Fair or not it's the truth. And your mother would be proud that her little girl grew up to be-- you."

Parker closed her eyes, informed through clenched jaw, "I'm no longer chasing. Why the hell are you still tormenting?"

"I've never wanted to torment youfor what ever it's worth."

"Never wanted to," Parker repeated with a snort of disbelief. "Then I don't want to imagine the hell my life would have been had you actually put some effort into it."

"That would be a monumental misuse of imagination," Jarod said with some distaste, advancing at last. "You know, you're not an easy woman to find; I almost didn't," he confessed in a low, grave voice.

"Mm," hummed Parker, gathering two limes in an inexplicably unsteady hand; she mutely cursed the appendage, and Jarod. "Almost."

"Yes," agreed Jarod, stiffly. "It's almost as if you didn't want me to find you this time."

"What do you want, Jarod?" Rejoined Parker brusquely.

"Valladolid is beautiful," observed Jarod casually.

"Why are you here?"

"You know why I'm here," he answered. "I missed you in court. You never had any intention of testifying, did you?"

"Not my style," answered Parker numbly, offering a tall, slim woman a handful of bills and informing her in Spanish to keep the change.

"Executing people isn't either," Jarod murmured softly, following Parker outside. He whispered her name again, adding somberly, "This revenge spree has to end."

"It will," Parker assured him.

"When you've killed them all," Jarod asked, smiling enigmatically. "I cannot allow you to do that. Interpol has suspicions; it's only a matter of time before-"

"Allow," repeated Parker crisply, drawing to an abrupt halt. "They don't suspect me."

"No, they don't," agreed Jarod. "ICE, however, is investigating the disappearance of several high value assets and two of their known associates, all potential security risks, from its radar. I'm asking you to stop this before it's too late. Please. Because I can't protect you if-"

"I don't want your protection."

"That doesn't mean you don't need it," came Jarod's gentle retort.

Parker laughed.

"What's funny?" Jarod asked.

"Sex traffickers aren't assets. They're assholes, monsters; ICE should be more careful about who it climbs into bed with. And when did you become the hunter?"

"I didn't. I'm not hunting you. I'm trying to help you. I want the names of the traffickers; I can assure you they'll be arrested."

"Do what you have to do Jarod," Parker instructed with an expectant, rather scrutinizing gaze at dark jeans and a pale blue-grey shirt opened at the neck. No gun. No handcuffs. "I'm not coming along quietly or willingly and Mexico is no longer honoring any extradition treaty or cooperating, in any way, with the states- and I don't blame Mexico. And you-- if you are here to save the remaining living traffickers you're too late to stop what's already in motion. Even if I wanted to stop it, and I don't, I couldn't. By now they've landed on their private air strip in remote Russia. And it's funny: the same isolation that allowed them to sell children will be the end of them."

"How," inquired Jarod eagerly. "Timed devices? C-4? Trip wires? Dynamite? Cross-bows? Rifles? Grenades? What did you do? Booby trap their-"

"Yes," Parker interrupted curtly.


"Yes," repeated Jarod incredulously. "Yes to all?"

"I don't want them merely maimed, Jarod," Parker said, swiveling.

Jarod drew a breath, jogged to catch up with her. "I think you need to talk to someone about what happened," he suggested warmly.

"All right, Jarod," Conceded Parker impassively, her stride never faltering. "What happened is those bastards kicked me until I was unconscious, every day, sometimes twenty times a day-- just for shits and giggles, indulging their every disgusting, drug-fueled whim and for a brief time they had an audience of terrified children who cried and screamed. I don't really want to think about what might have happened if Clemente hadn't pumped the bastards with Valium and anaphrodisiacs. That's in my official statement. It's on Kirkland's desk. Rachel has a copy and I know you've read it already."

"Chemical castration," Jarod said, somberly.

"Yeah, and don't think for a second that her motives were selfless. It wasn't about protecting me or the children or even herself. That bitch cared only about money and knew that nothing hurt her precious bottom line like, and I quote, "damaged merchandise."

Jarod suppressed a retch, his step faltered. Parker heard him gulp for air, refused to give him even a moment to recover, compose himself.

No one gave me a fucking moment and most people have stopped giving a fucking moment's thought to the victims. And now wonder-boy is up in my grill, judging me. Fuck him.

"I think you'll agree that those details aren't necessary. You've, no doubt, read your girlfriend's analysis. You know what the crimes entail."

"I know Clemente was a sadist, child abductor, a-"

"Not to mention a rapist," interrupted Parker tartly, "and she probably enjoyed long walks on the beach and eighteenth century Russian poetry, too. Whatever. She's dead now. That's all anyone needs to know about her."

"But if you want to tell me-"

"The bitch filmed everything. There's a market for that brand of depravity, apparently. Her hired muscle certainly enjoyed watching. There's a market for snuff films, too. She recorded my supposed death with every intention of mass distribution. And before you ask, no, Jarod, I didn't kill those men to prevent them from distributing those recordings."

"I'm listening," he said when she fell silent.

"I was forced to listen to them describe, explicitly, the things they'd done to children and women and men over the decades. One of the knuckle-dragging morons decided that verbal recounts alone were inadequate, that seeing is believing. He held open my eyelids with hands that reeked of licorice and coerced me to watch his home movies. And that's why they are dead now. If you absolutely insist upon tossing up the Tuesday morning special that you, no doubt, ordered from Maria's Taqueria I'll elaborate for you."

"I only want you to say what you need to say- what ever that might be. I'm listening."

"Then listen to this," Parker snarled, pushing a hand through her hair, "God damn it, Jarod, if I could kill every single one of them again I'd do it."

"What about Clemente?"

"Spit that bitch's name out of your mouth, purge it, eternally, from your vocabulary, now. Or leave. She's no longer anyone's problem. Ding-fucking-dong, Jarod."

Jarod turned away as if he'd been struck, inhaled sharply, closed his eyes; he was still regaining his equanimity when Parker asked, "Are you coming inside or not?"

"This isn't a hotel," Jarod said, studying the crumbling stone arch and small, front lawn whose defense from the sun was a canopy of blue jacarandas and massive purple hibiscus trees. The cottage beyond the lawn was a Spanish colonial that might have been a bungalow in a previous life.

A battered brick footpath dead-ended at six sturdy steps that provided access to a narrow, unadorned veranda. Parker unlocked a heavy wooden doorwith medieval aspirationsbuilt into the house's sole turret and permitted Jarod's entrance with a sweeping flourish. 

"No, this is my home--- as if you didn't already know," answered Parker with a snort of incredulity, closing the door.

"I didn't know. Like I said, finding you wasn't easy."

Parker deposited her keys and sunglasses on a mahogany console table and chose to address Jarod's previous inquiry. "I wouldn't have dropped her into your lap if killing her had been my intention."

"What was your intention," Jarod asked, following Parker into a spacious kitchen brightened naturally by a bank of bare windows.

"I wanted her to suffer; that's why I gave her to you. I enjoyed the show, by the way. And then I left the states and here we are. ¡Viva México! I was rather overextended, and, karma, in all her glorious wonder, decided to lend a hand."

"You were watching," repeated Jarod thickly. "Then you know that her apprehension was nearly botched, she resisted."

"That's a hell of an understatement. I suppose there's no diplomatic euphemism for 'made the woman soil herself' hmm," Parker said, putting away her purchases. "My favorite part was when she nearly escaped six Agents--- only to collide with you. The look of complete horror on her face will be forever etched in my mind. I could never have provoked that kind of-" Parker fell silent and with a wicked smile, concluded contentedly, "visceral fear."

"I see," remarked Jarod, blandly.

"I almost felt sorry for her," Parker confessed and said with a gesture to indicate a high, narrow table and two chairs, "Shall we?"

Jarod sat, waited for Parker to do the same."You knew she'd be terrified of me. Was that your primary reason for texting me the coordinates?"

Parker shrugged noncommittally. "No one terrorizes better. Oh, Jarod," Parker purred when Jarod averted his disparaging gaze, "consider it a compliment. I believed she harbored resentment and a blinding disdain for authority in general; that she had issues with you, specifically, came as a pleasant surprise. To me; and you certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself as well."

"It was never about justice. Was it?"

"Justice. With a drizzle of something extra-- and dark."

"And you're telling me that I provided the something extra?"

"It's not exactly a secret. I read your notebooks, Genius. Hell, I interviewed the criminals that you terrorized prior to delivering them to the police. It wasn't necessary for you to nearly drown that hydrophobic rapist or torment that coronerwho is still being treated for post-traumatic stress disorder, by the way."

Jarod scoffed, disparaged sternly, "You have no idea what it is I-"

Parker's sharp laughter silenced Jarod. "A taste of their own medicine? What it is you do, Jarod, is neither legal nor sane. When you first began leaving behind those notebooks I believed you were crazy and out of control. Hell, maybe you were crazy and out of control and maybe that is the only way to get shit done-- someone has to do it because the justice system sure as hell isn't. Murdering those men has never felt wrong but I know that no one will ever tell me it was right. And I don't need to hear that it was right. It was necessary. And I don't regret killing them."

"Pierce Livingston doesn't regret your killing them either. He was ecstatic to learn that only two traffickers were alive."

"The Livingston's left their home. Joana still hasn't fully recovered; she barely survived, Jarod; the pair aren't certain their marriage will be as lucky."

"Why didn't you tell me that Pierce was planning to go after the traffickers if you didn't?"

Parker grimaced, briefly averted her gaze. "You didn't ask," she answered, at last, her voice so low that Jarod had to strain to hear her.

"He offered you half a million dollars to kill them. Why did you refuse the money?"

"Killing those men was my pleasure."

"You were protecting him, weren't you? You've been protecting him all this time, haven't you?"

"I was protecting his daughter. Those children and their families have suffered enough, Jarod."

"Do you think your family hasn't? That you haven't suffered enough? Ethan is worried sick about you."

"About me, the global economy, the fall of democracy, a planet in flames, the impending apocalypse, what brand of cereal he'll eat for breakfast tomorrow. Worrying is Ethan's signature characteristic, but he's still on his meds and he hasn't missed an appointment with Sydney. Should I be worried about Ethan?"

Jarod exhaled a ragged breath, pushed a hand over his puzzled face. Christ. "You've certainly polished your deflection skills, leveled up."

"Flattery, Jarod," said Parker, her eyes wide and challenging, "will get you everywhere."

"Except where I want to be, evidently."

"And just where the hell do you want to be, Pretender?"

"I'd settle for somewhere in the vicinity of the truth."

"I've told you the truth. You can either accept it or not. If you've come here to pull off scabs you're in the wrong house, my friend; I've seen enough blood." Parker drew a breath and with a satisfied smile, asked warmly, "Something to drink? I have agua de jamaica, papaya-lime agua fresca, cold brew coffee, tequila, water."

 

"No, I'm fine, thank you," Jarod answered and observed her noncommittal shrug. Frustrated, Jarod shook his head, said, "You didn't want me to find you."

Parker rose, strode determinedly to the refrigerator, seized a pitcher of coffee, filled two glasses.

"I know you have a reason," Jarod said. "I'd like to hear it."

"How's the family, Jarod?"

"They're well," answered Jarod, softly. "Thank you for asking. Why-"

"And Kirkland? Is he aware that you've left the states?"

"Tell me," insisted Jarod. "Why didn't you want me to find you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," Jarod answered sharply. "Yes, it does. It matters to me. You're avoiding the question-- just as you've been avoiding me. I want to know what I did wrong; I'd like an opportunity to make it right. If nothing else allow me to apologize."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"If that's true why-"

"Have you given any thought at all to what you're doing here?" Asked Parker. "To repercussions?"


Jarod's face twisted in confusion. "What? What is it, exactly, that you think I'm doing?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," murmured Parker. "You're in love with me," she shouted. "With me," repeated Parker indignantly. "God," she added with mirthless laugh. "You drop that kind of bomb, Jarod, you should anticipate some fallout."

"It is truly astonishing," Jarod said with some solemnity, regarding Parker sympathetically. "You didn't flinch in the face of Raines, the Centre, Triumvirate, voices in your head, homicidal monks, ghost children, human traffickers, death, or life in prison. Love, however-"

Parker revolved her eyes. "Doesn't frighten me either, ass-hat," she interrupted flatly. "I'm a murderer; I will always be a murderer. You. Are. A. Cop. And I shouldn't have to spell this one out for you-- considering you're also a genius." Parker set a glass in front of Jarod, punctuating her words with a dull thud.

Pressing her palms to the table top, Parker demanded testily, "Drink your coffee, Jarod, and then go home. Tell Kirkland," she advised crisply, "whatever it is you need to tell him to keep your job."

Jarod covered Parker's hands with his, gazed into her face, said, simply, "Kirkland's gone."

"Gone?"

"He feels responsible for you. The sentencing--uh enraged him. He had enough, moved to Cuba."

"Cuba," Parker repeated, her surprise evident. "I'll be damned," she added softly, studying their joined hands. "Good for him."

Jarod nodded his agreement. "He's happy." A beat. "Are you?"

"Is anyone?" Counterquestioned Parker, sharply.

"Perhaps," answered Jarod thoughtfully, displeased with Parker's non-answer. "I'm not," Jarod confessed. "I miss this, touching you. I work eighteen-hour days to avoid thinking about you-- only to dream of you when I finally sleep." Jarod whispered Parker's name and asked with an expression of bewilderment, "What in the hell have you done to me?"

"Nothing you didn't consent to," Parker answered with a sly smile.

"True," affirmed Jarod, amiably, forgetting himself entirely and staring at her. "That's very true."

An abrupt, one-note laughthat failed to conceal the escalating tension and annoyancedeparted Parker's lips. "Jarod, are you going to kiss me or just sit there?"

"The former," Jarod answered eagerly, drawing Parker into his arms, murmuring against her lips, "Definitely the former."


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