I'm going to kill them all.
 
If they don't shut the hell up, I will kill them all.
 

"Please," he murmured softly. "Please be quiet."
 
Sleep, after all, is essential; sleep, nevertheless, was denied him: their unceasing chatter was relentless, and as maddening as a leaky faucet.
 
"Come on," he groaned and repeated the request. "I asked politely."
 
"That's your problem," came the lofty reproach. "You're a pushover."
 
A pushover, he mused.
 
We'll see about that.
 
He curled his lean body tighter, flexed broad, stiff shoulders and then swiftly rolled onto his hands and knees and lifted his eyes to the sky.

Bathed in insipid moonlight, he appeared, at first glimpse, to have shed his human sheathing and slipped into something a bit more feral.
 
When his mouth opened, however, his words rang clear.
 
"Shut up," he shouted. "Shut the fuck up."
 
Depleted from his exertions, he collapsed onto the cold, splintering pine floor. Yawning boisterously, he stretched and stared up at a stained, crumbling ceiling that simply stared back at him; the ceiling, he thought, mocked with its rigid indifference.
 
The ceiling, he supposed, was afforded that privilege.
 
He grimaced at the discordant laughter and swatted languidly at a black housefly that was guilty only of bad timing, miscalculation. His timing was marginally worse: the creature escaped unharmed. He observed its ascent with a sneer of disdain. "You're dead next time," he snarled. "You and the others. You're disgusting. Everything about you disgusts me and one day-"
 
Sharp laughter interrupted him.
 
"Oh, god," he screamed into his hands. "Stop laughing. Stop that laughing. Please."

He shouted himself hoarse, shouted until he was gasping for breath, until anger dissolved into agony, cries, strangled whimpers, into something that sounded neither human nor animal; it was the eerie creak of architectural collapse: shifting beams, crumbling foundation; he'd learned to mimic his humble refuge: pitch- perfect squalor.
 
He lifted his head several inches, and dropped it onto the floor with as much force as he could muster. And then he listened.
 
Yeah. That's it. That should teach them. That'll do it.
 
Thems the breaks kiddos.
 
Now shut the ever-loving fuck up.
 
Dear blessed silence.
 
Brief blessed silence.
 
"No," he groaned. "Oh, please. Why? Why!"
 
It was inexplicable.
 
The impact should have alarmed them; it should have quietened them.
 
They should have feared for their own safety, their lives. They knew what he was capable of, after all; they knew he would jar them and smash them.

Even if doing so killed him, their not-so gracious host, as well.
 
"No," he shrieked. "Not that! Don't say another word about that place," he demanded, stumbling to his feet. "I don't want to remember that."
 
He tugged frantically at his hair, tore loose a double handful of dark locks and then threw a punch at the emptiness.
 
"I want to forget. I have to forget. Forget," he cried, shadowboxing in tiny circles, battling demons only he could see.

At last he wiped his brow with a wrist and shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded demins. "Oh, my god," he said, panicked. "Oh, god, no. No," he cried. "What did you do with my pills? Answer me," he demanded. "Which one of you bastards stole my pills?"
 
The bastards, however, didn't reply. Instead, they continued their dark symphony of hisses and whispers, their laughter.
 
They are laughing at me.
 
He squeezed his eyes closed; his face twisted in agony. "Don't say that name. Not that name. Stupid shrinks! Stupid fucking shrinks. No! No, I'm not going to do that. I would never do that to anyone. I won't do it. I won't," he swore with his mouth.
 
His feet, however, took him across the room and hastily past a twisted oxygen cylinder cart. "I won't do that. I would never hurt anyone," he vowed solemnly, disregarding the undulating blanket of flies that neatly concealed the decomposing body on the floor. "I would never do something like that to anyone," he said, stepping through the fractured archway where a door once stood and into the cold night.

"Never."

Sydney heard the floorboards groan, felt the room change. He lay his novel aside, rose from his chair, called softly, "Jarod? Jarod, is that you?"
 
It wasn't.
 
The man standing in Sydney's foyer was markedly emaciated and several inches taller than the Pretender. His copper hair had been shaved close, his blue eyes were vacant, emotionless.
 
Perhaps more disconcerting, a rusted crowbar dangled haplessly from his left hand much like an atrophied appendage. 
 
"Can I help you," said Sydney politely.
 
"You could have," the stranger answered. "You only made it worse.  You made it worse," he repeated, advancing.
 
"Let me help you now," offered Sydney diplomatically, his voice revealing neither panic nor disdain for the intruder. He gestured kindly, said, "Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?"
 
"Tea," the man repeated, his brows knitted in perplexity.
 
"Yes, tea," answered Sydney softly, "and perhaps some scones."
 
He's stalling, you moron. He's going to call for help. You must really love electroshock treatment. Treatments ha-ha. Some treatment. Bzzz.
 
"No," said the stranger.
 
"Then please, let's sit," Sydney said.
 
Bzzz.
Bzzz.
 
"No, no. Stop."
 
Sydney acquiesced, studied the man.
 
"I said stop," shouted the stranger. "They don't do that anymore. They can't do it now. Stop making that dreadful sound. Please," he cried, "stop making that sound."
 
"I can stop them," Sydney vowed sharply, cutting for a brief moment through the tangle of madness. "If you will allow me, I will silence the voices. We can restore the peace."
 
"Peace. Yes. Please, please," whispered the stranger. "Yes- o- oh, no," came the mournful howl, "Oh, god, no. Look out!"
 
Sydney did, indeed, look; in fact, his gaze never strayed from the stranger.
 
He observed as the man launched himself forward with appalling alacrity, and comprehended the futility of dissuading or countering the fellow.

The crowbar sliced the air and Sydney reacted instinctively to defend himself from the impending blow, lifting both hands to his face. He grunted when his fingers were smashed brutally against his nose and again when his temple was struck.
 
The darkness swallowed Sydney at once; he was unconscious before his body plunged to the Persian rug.

Amorphous and a shade darker than the door's surface, it could have been Bordeaux. That, mused Parker, could have explained Sydney's absence: he'd mishandled the bottle and gone out to purchase another.
 
Bordeaux could not have, however, explained the unlocked kitchen door Parker passed through an hour earlier, or why Sydney hadn't answered her calls the previous evening. Or why Syd's car is in his garage.
 
The answering machine was full; the messages therein provided no clue to the psychiatrist's whereabouts. Moreover, his closets were filled, his luggage untouched. The library was undisturbed, a novel lay on an end table, next to a lamp that burned bright and promised his amiable companionship, pleasant conversation.
 
It was only upon exiting his home via the kitchen door—through which she'd entered—that she glimpsed the odd stain on the door. She was careful not to disturb what could very well be potential evidence, all the while denying it was evidence.
 
 
When the door unceremoniously opened a fraction more, she instinctively raised the 9mm.
 
And managed quite nicely to conceal her surprise. The intruder wore a pressed suit, a tie, and a badge; his eyes were alert and appraising. The five o'clock shadow and slightly disheveled hair, however, told an altogether different tale.
 
Parker avoided eye contact with him and studied, instead, the Glock's dark eye- the piece was pristine, glorious. Truly.
 
Gun enthusiast that she was, Parker could appreciate proper maintenance even if the gun in question was pointed at her. Also, the gun provided a nice distraction; she preferred the indifferent gaze of the Glock to the steely cold glare of the gun's handler.
 
"Put it down, Parker," commanded the Glock's owner, interrupting the quiet standoff.
 
"You first," she returned haughtily.
 
Jarod conceded with a slight nod, peeled back the black overcoat he wore and coaxed the gun into his shoulder holster. His observant gaze strayed briefly from her face, dropped to the mocha camisole blouse, the black skirt, the heels. He sought incriminating attributes, and simply waited, expectantly, for her to holster her weapon.
 
At length, she compressed her lips and lowered her gaze. And lowered the 9mm; she did not holster the gun.
 
"What are you doing here," she said with a withering glare, and, for good measure, a sharp snort of annoyance.
 
"He wasn't answering calls," answered Jarod succinctly, entering Sydney's home and ignoring the several obligatory steps backward Parker walked to prevent a collision with him.
 
He moved about the kitchen as if it were his own, dominated the space, scrutinized it and its contents, and then wheeled around and met her surprised gaze. "What are you doing here?"
 
"Orders," answered Parker with an expression of disgust. "When Sydney didn't show up this morning for his post-employment examination, Lyle-" she stiffened, fell silent. "There were concerns," she concluded hastily.
 
"Orders," repeated Jarod woodenly. "You're taking orders from Lyle now? Hmm," he continued with a sharp, cruel laugh. "This is the different ending you wanted for yourself?" He folded his arms across his chest, shook his head. "If I'd only known you wanted to be submissive, Parker-"
 
"What I want," came her piquant riposte, "is to find Sydney."
 
"As if you care, interrupted Jarod. "You're only here because your sadistic brother ordered you to come. You forced Sydney out of the Centre. You forced him into retirement." Jarod's eyes narrowed. "How do I know that you didn't have something to do with his disappearance? How do I know he isn't in his bedroom bleeding to death right now," he snarled at her and then leveled a pointed look at the gun in her hand.
 
Jarod's words and eyes were incisive tools, were weapons, were as dangerous as the Glock he'd holstered. He was armed. Intrinsically well-armed. And he knew his adversary well, knew there were chinks in the armor, knew he'd personally deposited several himself, knew the coordinates of them all; he could trace with a finger the fissures in her facade. He knew where to strike; he did so with precision, with breath-stealing accuracy.
 
"It wouldn't be the first time you've shot him," he added, directing at Parker a brutal scowl that transported her instantly to another time and place: the walls of Sydney's cozy home dropped away to reveal a sandy shore, a receding boat.
 
She recoiled from the impact of his words—a violent head-to-toe undulation—and withdrew from him.
 
A bullet, she believed, would have been kinder. A bullet wouldn't have been quite as intimate or savage. Jarod clearly wasn't in the mood just then to be kind or formal.
 
Or merciful.
 
He observed her retreat with something akin to maniacal fascination. And he advanced on her without hesitation, with a predator's impulse.
 
"If you were involved in Sydney's disappearance," he said, hissing her name through clenched teeth—the name no one else dared to utter—and sidling dangerously close to her, "I will spend the rest of my life making you pay," he continued, pointedly didactic. "Do you understand me," he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, added brutally, "I'll make you pay in a uniquely painful and horrific-"
 
Parker gaped blankly at the stranger before her and glimpsed the future- some distant moment in time when Sydney's mitigating expertise would be as elusive to her as it was essential.
 
Now, for instance.
 
She didn't recognize this particular incarnation of Jarod; it was the Jarod no one wanted to encounter, the Jarod who resorted to extreme measures to procure confessions, attain justice.
 
Parker did, however, seize at once the significance of his presence: the other Jarod, her friend, was unavailable to her, unreachable. Irrevocably.
 
The revelation was uniquely painful.
 
"You already have," she said softly, expressing her thoughts aloud, and interrupting his diatribe.
 
Jarod's brow knitted in perplexity, his face darkened in anger. "What," he fairly barked at her; he wasn't daring her to repeat herself; contrarily, he hadn't heard her over his rage. "What did you say?"
 
"Back off," she answered authoritatively, and then, gun still in hand, she fled. Jarod truly believed she was running. From him.
 
Oh, the times they are, indeed, a'changing. The change, bizarre as it was, wasn't nearly as gratifying as he believed it should have been, as it had been in dreams; cold reality was rather anticlimactic.
 
And he had never wanted their positions reversed.
 
He had never wanted her to run from him.
 
He had never wanted to pursue her.
 
And yet.
 
He lunged with appalling rapidity to halt her- an impulsive move, as autonomic as breathing.
 
She heard his footfalls behind her, felt his breath on her neck. When his fingertips sank into her skin, she cried out, hissed objections and obscenities; Jarod detected the word help among the litany of reproofs.
 
The instinct to obey her, to help, was so deeply ingrained that Jarod's grasp on her arm slackened marginally. In fact, he almost relinquished his hold on her completely, almost sought out an assailant. He almost wanted to comfort her, protect her. Help her.
 
He suffered a brief moment of disorientation after which he concluded that the instinct to save her was more puissant than it had any right to be. He concluded, too, that his feelings for her were unchanged.
 
Jarod didn't berate himself or his heart for betraying him; he supposed everyone was susceptible to moments of weakness. Even Parker, the veritable dragon woman herself, had suffered a moment of weakness- a fleeting bout in Carthis and, some months after, an entire weekend of uncharacteristic failings, one after another, and each shared with him.
 
Nothing had changed, but everything was different. She certainly seemed altered:
 
Help? Who is this woman and what has she done with Parker?
 
"Help," he repeated with an abrupt, mirthless laugh. "Help?"
 
Parker affirmed with an impatient nod. "Sydney needs help," she asserted, enunciating each word carefully. She watched his face expectantly, waiting for the moment when comprehension replaced perturbation, suspicion, rage.
 
Damn it, Sydney. You should have installed an abort button on your boy.
 
With a meaningful glance at Jarod's hand, she added irritably, "Don't make me shoot you."
 
Jarod's jaw—and grasp on her arm—tightened. He disregarded her gun, an instrument she had come to loathe over the years, the same gun that had taken her lover from her, and furthermore, and perhaps more disconcerting, he disregarded her and her words, her threats. Idle threats.
 
The threats were a thin defense, were crumbling battlements of a fallen fortress; they rang false:
she wasn't going to kill him, she wasn't going to shoot him, she wasn't going to drag him back to the Centre. Under any circumstances. Ever.
 
Her mother's work was sacrosanct; Jarod was part of that work. Returning him to the Centre was tantamount to taking up arms against Catherine. And Ethan. Parker could not, would not, betray her mother.
 
Nevertheless, for old time's sake, and more importantly to indulge Centre personnel who may or may not have been listening, Jarod thought she should expend the energy necessary to read once more through the forsaken script, deliver the lines, play the game.
 
Her disinclination to pursue him, her eagerness to ignore him and forfeit familial obligations were not new developments; they were, however, no less puzzling. And ironic.
 
Speaking of Centre personnel and puzzling developments-
 
"You're awfully certain that Sydney needs help," Jarod said. "Why is that? Hmm?"
 
"Jarod, let go of-"
 
"Tell me: is your brother using Sydney as bait?"
 
Parker's face twisted in incredulity. His query, appalling as it was, halted her efforts to free her arm. She chuckled. "I'm sure Bobby wishes he'd-"
 
"Yes or no," Jarod shouted. "Answer me damn it," he said impatiently through teeth clenched in anger, punctuating each word with a tug on her arm. "Look," he said, and drew a breath, and attempted to bridle his rage, and put away his fear. "Just tell me where they are holding him. Please."
 
"I don't know that they are holding him," answered Parker impassively. "There is no indication of Centre involvement." Prompted by the questions and accusations in his eyes—which were presently riveted on the large, wheeled Halliburton—she added, sourly, "Initially I was ordered to determine why he was a no-show. In light of the suspicious circumstances-"
 
"Of course," Jarod purred. "How convenient that you were once a sweeper. You're capable of finding evidence. And destroying evidence. That's why you're here. Why else would you come here without an army of sweepers?"
 
"Assembling a team requires authorization and time. I didn't want to wait. I telephoned Nicholas; he's flying in from Antibes."
 
"What if Nicholas arrives before you complete your sweep?"
 
"Nicholas is vaguely aware that his father and I are frien-" she stumbled briefly but quickly recovered, "associates. If he finds me here, I will-"
 
"What," interrupted Jarod. "Lie," he said with a measure of distaste, regarding her narrowly. "Tell him you're watering plants? Returning a novel?"
 
"A lie is preferable to the alternatives."
 
"Alternatives," repeated Jarod, vaguely amused. "Such as?"
 
"The truth," she answered simply. "If Nicholas discovers the truth, he could be-"
 
"Murdered," Jarod supplied when Parker fell silent. "You admit then," he added forcefully, "that you work for assassins."
 
"All the more reason for Sydney to resign," returned Parker coolly. "Before his loyalty to you gets him killed."
 
Parker felt Jarod's fingers twitch on her skin, felt the tension emanating from his body, and prepared herself for what might come next. A snapped humerous perhaps.
 
Jarod's hold on her didn't tighten, and was not painful; the weight of his hand simply conveyed the gravity of the situation, was a measure of his rage. It was, more than anything else, evidence of his desperation; nothing more than mere posturing.

His primary motivation was fear- Parker continued to bear that in mind. Jarod, however, made absolutely no effort to facilitate her decorous endeavor. 
 
"And that's it," he inquired with harsh brevity. "That's your explanation?"
 
"No," she said, violently jerking her arm free. "It's the truth. Believe me or don't," she added impassively. "I have work to do."
 
"I don't believe you," he stammered hastily, producing a pair of handcuffs from beneath the coat. Rage and despair had coalesced and culminated in illogical speculation, threats. "Last chance."
 
"Do what you have to do, Jarod," she said, resigning herself to whatever depraved interrogation tactics he conceived, all the while reminding herself that resignation in no way equated to surrender or consent, reminding herself that Sydney's life was likely at stake. 
 
There were other reasons for her capitulation, reasons that were as obscure as they were baffling, and entirely unrelated to the Centre's uncompromising policy on returning their Pretender alive and unharmed, reasons that perhaps should have been, but were not, interwoven with her loyalties to Sydney, Ethan, and Catherine Parker.
 
"When all of this is over," she added tartly and in no way ingratiatingly (she didn't want Jarod to mistake her words for a plea for leniency), "you can explain to Sydney that you wasted time tormenting me- time that we could have spent searching for him."
  
Jarod reached for her gun, and gently addressed her reluctance to surrender it to him. "This doesn't have to escalate," he said softly and with forbearing, albeit startling, politeness. Parker was certain she could scour the entire universe and not find a more considerate persecutor than Jarod.
 
"Sydney will be displeased if it does."
 
"Unlikely," said Jarod brusquely. "In light of the atrocities you've executed on the Centre's behalf, I'm quite certain that Sydney will believe I'm justified. He won't question any interrogation technique I employ to extract the truth from you. He understands that oftentimes the hapless marionette becomes ensnared in its strings and has to be disentangled, and sometimes even severed from its puppeteer, by an outside-"
 
"Christ, Jarod," she groused at the protracted digression. "Waterboard me and get it over with."
 
"If only time weren't a factor," he purred.
 
"Time is something Sydney may not have," she said, surrendering the weapon to him with a grimace of disgust. "Take it," she hissed, acutely aware that his incertitude prevented him from wresting the weapon from her, prevented the confrontation from becoming physical.
 
Jarod accepted the gun cautiously and with a brow knitted in apprehension.
 
Doubt was foreign and uncomfortable, an ill-fitting skin that he immediately wanted to discard. He rarely questioned himself, his intentions; intuition rarely led him astray. He lay the gun aside, observed her arms outstretched and steady, awaiting the cuffs. "You telephoned Nicholas," he inquired solicitously.
 
"My call history," she said archly, "doesn't lie."
 
"Even if its owner does," came Jarod's lofty retort. "All you have to do is tell me where-" Jarod words were clipped, his attention arrested by a heavy engine approaching rapidly. He estimated one, possibly two, Centre sedans.
 
Sweepers.
 
The squeal of tires acted as arbiter; they called the battle in Parker's favor.
 
 Or so she believed. Cold steel caressed her temple and prompted her to believe otherwise. "Not a sound," commanded Jarod.
 
"Miss Parker! Miss Parker," cried Broots. His voice preceded his footfalls on the front walk and Parker knew without knowing how that it wouldn't immediately occur to him to explore the rest of the property or follow the winding drive to the rear of the property where her car was parked.

"Miss Parker- oh, my gosh! Are you in there?" Parker and Jarod both observed as Broots pressed his face to the stained glass and shielded his eyes with his hands. The window, in turn, immediately fogged over. "Okay, I guess she's not," Broots said, grimly. "Voice mail," he murmured and rested his head on the glass and at the tone, stammered into his mobile,
 
"Miss Parker, I have good news and bad. The good news is Mr. Lyle isn't angry that you aren't on a jet accompanying him to Harrison, Arkansas where Jarod is working for the postal service."
 
Postal? How fitting. Jarod is nothing if not postal.
 
"He's worried about Sydney, too, although not for the same reasons you and I are. He wants you to stay behind and launch a full investigation. Effective immediately, you are authorized to use any Centre resources necessary to locate Sydney. He has concerns that Nicholas will involve himself and will definitely involve the police, and we both know what Lyle thinks of law enforcement- he really doesn't want them snooping around."
 
She could almost empathize with Bobby; she cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Law Enforcement and his badge and gun. And his fucking handcuffs. Her opinion of law enforcement wasn't exactly at an all-time high either just then.
 
"The bad news is," continued Broots, "Lyle's en route to Arkansas where Jarod is working for the postal service! I don't have to tell you that if you haven't already found Sydney we are probably going to need Jarod's help finding him and uh Jarod can't help us find Sydney if Lyle brings him in. Should I call for another jet? I don't know what to do. I don't - oh, gosh. I'm heading back to the Centre to snoop around Sydney's office again. Uh bye."
 
Parker closed her eyes, resisted the compulsion to call out to Broots; ultimately she decided she had a big enough mess to clean up already. The last thing I need is Broots strolling in here, seeing the gun to my head, and soiling Sydney's polished floors.
 
"I suppose you think Broots is colluding with the Centre, too," Parker said, petulantly, when the car pulled away.
 
"No," answered Jarod, holstering his weapon. "Apparently, you and Broots are both puppets," he added with chilly remoteness, and produced a mobile from a coat pocket and punched in a number. Her mobile. When the hell did that happen?
 
He activated the speakerphone function and offered her the device. "I want to know where Lyle is going," Jarod said peremptorily, certain that Lyle had abducted Sydney.
 
Parker revolved her eyes, and with as much grace as she could muster, and every ounce of belligerence she owned, accepted the mobile, jerking it from his hand grudgingly.
 
Pacing the floor of Sydney's library Parker rattled off her inquiries, or rather Jarod's inquiries, with professional ease. She then demanded radar confirmation of the Centre jet and crisply disconnected the call. "Harrison, Arkansas," she said, deflated, to the window facing Sydney's garden. "And as you heard," she added dourly, pivoting to return the device to Jarod and to deservedly upbraid him for wasting time.
 
The contemptuous words lodged in her throat.
 
She regarded the empty room with indifference and returned to the kitchen. There, she opened the Halliburton and pushed her hands into a pair of gloves. Working quickly, she retrieved a razor blade and envelope and collected from the door the substance that most assuredly wasn't Bordeaux.

Harrison, Arkansas, United States

There was no doubt that in the search for him, Parker and Jarod would discover the truth; Sydney preferred death.

No, mused Jarod, as he sped towards Lyle's home, continuing a dangerously escalating, and, inexorable, cycle, that would lead him back to Parker.

And I'll never forgive myself.

"You've soiled yourself," an unfamiliar voice announced. "Hey! I said you soiled yourself. Inconsequential, I suppose. The nurses undressed and bathed you." The words were punctuated with a stinging slap across Sydney's face that effectively roused him. "Can you hear me?"

Sydney could, and could not. The psychiatrist straddled two worlds: his present captor's rather humble dwelling and Krieg's hideous laboratory in Dachau, the barracks and degradation, barbed wire fencing, isolation, incalculable abuses.

No. That hell ended, I recall; indeed, it ended and the world agreed that it wouldn't be forgotten, and, certainly, never repeated.

The world is a goddamn liar.

And God must truly be dead for allowing it to happen again.

The dreadful internment camps were one of Sydney's earliest memories, some of the most painful memories. He loathed the thought of dying now, not because he feared the end, but because his final memories would be of the broken promise, of history repeating itself, the resurgence of internment camps, children screaming for help, crying for their parents, illness, terror, death.

The world's inhabitants were as evil as he'd believed they were when we was a child in Krieg's lab.

Nothing had changed.

I've changed nothing.

Sydney believed he was going to depart the earth in the coming hours, leave it in the same irreparably shattered condition it had been when he was a boy.

"I've sent the nurses home for the evening," Sydney's captor continued brusquely, quite confident in his delusions.

Sydney refused to nurture any delusions. He did, however, with some effort, lift his face, and open his eyes.

He'd, evidently, survived a barbaric variant of electroconvulsive therapy with his mind intact; his horror, however, was redoubled at the prospect of being nude in his disordered captor's presence.

The undiminished fetor negated declarations of bathing, nurses, cleanliness. An already oppressive stench was exacerbated by Sydney's bodily evacuations. Decomposition and blood mingled with vomit, feces, scorched hair and flesh, the tang of perspiration.

Improbably, hunger relentlessly gnawed at Sydney just beneath the terror; his body shuddered uncontrollably. The notion of being hungry, particularly while the continued assault on his olfactory system was waged, angered Sydney. Sustenance and warmth seemed like nonessential factors in the face of captivity, abject squalor, the immense potential for further abuses. Escape was Sydney's primary objective.

I must think only of escape.

Rumination was a double-edged sword.

Oh, dear God, how did Jarod ever forgive me?

Like Jarod, Sydney would refuse any meal offered him, was quite unwilling to eat given the appalling circumstances.

Sydney recalled that Jarod was force-fed, that his spirit was broken; he eventually yielded, cooperated with abductors. And that was the true, ultimate cruelty, the most loathsome indignity.

The abduction itself was criminal, horrible; coercing the victim to comply⁠—and eventually collaborate⁠—with his captors was remarkably heinous.

This is my destiny.

Fate is avenging what Jarod could not. Would not.

Because Jarod loves me.

Sydney started when his abductor shrieked wildly and argued with a blood-splattered wall.

"No! You won't cure anything if you're always afraid to fail. It's called ground breaking for a reason. Your unprofessionalism will not be tolerated. I've killed no one. The patient was fatally ill, had been a chain-smoker for four decades; he killed himself. Because," he continued smugly after several moments of intense anticipation, "I don't want to do anything even remotely invasive unless it's absolutely warranted. Surgery, thus far, has not been indicated, nor will I retrieve the fleams until it's medically necessary; they are still being sterilized. I am, first and foremost, a naturopath. You others," he shouted, "you're butchers, always eager to carve."

Sydney's attempts to inquire proved futile. His lips refused to cooperate, word retrieval was laborious; the aphasia—a term that Sydney struggled to recall—was, he hoped, only temporary.

"Phlebotomy therapy has been widely used with no ill effects as has hirudotherapy. Hirudo medicinalis."

Sydney stared blankly at the man, and recoiled and attempted to withdraw when the fellow crouched, extended a hand, and removed saliva from his chin with a fraying handkerchief. "Can you feel them?"

Them?

Sydney's abductor referred to leeches, marvelous bursts of olive thickly delineated with bands of ebony, many ringed with droplets of blood. The parasites were greedily latched on to the psychiatrist; their engorged bodies were an indication that they'd been feeding for some time.

They were scattered about Sydney's body, all strangely out of place, entirely medically unnecessary, and reminiscent of William Raines' more unorthodox doctrines, and, quite possibly, Jacob's as well.

"It doesn't hurt at all, does it? Hmm? You don't even feel them; the leeches release anesthetic compounds when they latch on."

Contrarily, Sydney detected immediately an appreciable contrast between exposed skin and skin concealed by leeches. The small lustrous bodies contracted, undulated, suctioned, and would not be ignored. Sydney believed the pain, when several leeches reattached themselves, was comparable to a thorn's prick.

He was grateful for the binds that prevented him from instinctively plucking off the creatures violently; they would have, in turn, regurgitated their stomach contents into the incisions they'd made on Sydney's body, doubtlessly ensuring transmission of infection.

"Their saliva contains antihistamine vasodilators, too," the fellow continued didactically, "as well as a potent anticoagulant and platelet aggregation inhibitors that enable them to imbibe deeply, and more hastily detoxify your blood. And that clear fluid there is water that the leeches have removed from the blood; I suppose you know already. It's all rather fascinating, isn't it, Doctor Jacob? Or at least you said it was when you allowed these awe-inspiring creatures to feast on me. I was five. This was before my medical training, of course, and, being an imaginative and pessimistic child I believed I'd be eaten alive. And you laughed at me, at my fear."

Sydney's brow crumpled; anger dissolved.

Dear God, Jacob, how could you have been so cruel?

Sydney's questions raised more questions.

How could I have been cruel to Jarod?

"Odd," Sydney's captor added with a sly smile, "You're not laughing now."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," snarled Parker, attempting, nonetheless, to ignore the vibrating mobile. Three in the goddamn morning. "I'm going to kill the rat bastard," Parker groused, grudgingly retrieving the object and angrily pushing her index finger across its screen. "What do you want, Jarod?"

"Uh, I'm sorry?" The caller, a woman, spoke timidly, hesitantly. "Miss Parker?"

"What do you want," demanded Parker.

"I'm a nurse at St. Andrews in Dover. We retrieved your number from a cell phone that a- um, a Mr. Lyle had on him."

"On him?" Parker repeated, irritably.

"He's misplaced his car, keys, wallet, and clothes. This number is listed as an emergency contact; it's the only number we could find in the phone."

"The phone that Lyle claims doesn't belong to him?"

"That's correct yes, and he's convinced that you're the only one who can protect him."

Parker revolved her eyes, stifled a yawn. "Protect him from what?"

"From Satan."

Satan?

Mm.

Hell of an upgrade, Jarod.

"Don't you people have a psych ward for these kinds of things?" Parker inquired testily.

"Recent funding issues-"

"I don't care," Parker interrupted brusquely.

"If you're unable to remove your brother from the premises he'll likely spend the evening in jail."

Police involvement.

Fabulous.

____________________

Parker's battered and partially bald—and rather traumatized—brother leapt at her car.

"Oh, thank God," Lyle shrieked, sliding and stumbling, and falling into the passenger seat, and then frantically clutching the hospital gown he wore. "Lock the doors. Hurry!" Lyle shouted, his words all strangely muffled.

If he drops food in my car I'll kill him.

"Loosen your sphincter, Bobby," Parker instructed sternly. "Jarod doesn't take life," she added, and met Lyle's gaze. And gasped. Audibly.

Had she received a different telephone call, one from a coroner, had been asked to identify her brother's remains, she would have been entirely incapable.

"You were saying," Lyle said, making quite an effort to speak with a mouth filled with gauze. "He dislocated both of my shoulders, electrocuted me, fractured my good thumb-"

"Your only thumb," Parker corrected incisively.

"--and my face, evidently," Lyle continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, and observed his sister's face contort as she strained to understand him. "He broke three of my teeth. I can barely see. He could have blinded me. My entire body hurts, I'm going to have to shave my entire head now, and he knew I would. I have to take antibiotics. When my face heals I'll need to see an oral surgeon, and that's if I don't die before my face can heal."

"Die?" Parker asked. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not supposed to be alone for the next thirty-six hours; the swelling might interfere with my breathing; if it does I have to come back. I don't have anyone to care for me. I don't know where my car is. You say Jarod doesn't take life, but I could still die. I could stop breathing, develop an infection-"

"You're not going to die," Parker fairly screamed, exasperated.

"He's not done yet. He's going to come back and finish me."

Parker's face twisted in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"He promised he would. You- Parker, you're the only person who can protect me from him."

"Fine," Parker shouted, infuriated. "You can stay with me."

"Knew I could count on you, Sis."

"Don't ever call me that," Parker snarled.

"Fine, fine. You won't regret this," vowed Lyle, and observed Parker's scowl.

"I already regret it," hissed Parker, acutely cognizant that Jarod would view the babysitting stint, regardless of how temporary, as a robust Parker sibling alliance, that placating Lyle would invite the Pretender's continued ire and interference in her life.

I might as well send Frankenrat an invitation now.

Jarod, unperturbed by the absence of Parker's hastily composed missive cordially inviting him to harass her, predictably materialized in Parker's bedroom precisely at midnight.

"Hello, Jarod," Parker drawled glacially, dropping her fingers from blouse buttons grudgingly and silently. The disgust in her eyes, however, was damn near deafening; she had no intention of pretending that she hadn't been mere seconds from shedding her office attire and climbing into bed naked or that Jarod's presence in her home wasn't an imposition. "Or do you prefer to be addressed as Satan now?"

"I'd prefer to hear the truth," answered Jarod irritably, "but you Parkers seem to have some difficulty with honesty."

"And your solution is to beat it out of us?"

"One of you knows something. If Lyle isn't lying," Jarod explained softly in a voice that was equal measures deceptive tranquility and profound menace, "you are."

"And what? You put him in the hospital and now you're here to do the same to me?"

"Oh, no," Jarod sang darkly, advancing. Unabashed and with a conspiratorial wink he confessed, "I'm not exactly enthusiastic about pesky law enforcement involvement either."

Jarod observed Parker's face intently, anticipating her eyes widening in comprehension, perhaps a fleeting expression of perturbation.

Parker hastily and accurately apprehended the potential magnitude of Jarod's disclosure, whether conveyed deliberately or by mistake; she, however, thoroughly concealed her tumult from him. Parker refused to contemplate the extent of Jarod's voyeurism, rejected distractions. 

"Or," continued Jarod abruptly, "hospitals. Pain, after all, is pain regardless of severity. I'm quite capable of tidily, immaculately even, inflicting injury," he added, elevating a single eyebrow. "Obvious physical trauma and evidence can be easily avoided."

"You wanted to make a mess of Lyle," Parker accused tartly.

"Of course not," Jarod argued, wounded. "I wanted the truth, and I intend to have it. Don't worry: if you tell me where Sydney is nothing will happen to you."

"Do I look worried to you?"

"No, you don't look worried. Yet. You do, however, look exhausted, unarmed, smaller than me. Now," he continued gently, "I know what you're thinking."

"Doubtful," injected Parker, smugly.

"You're thinking that you've taken down men twice my size. I'm aware that you have, and aware, too, that those men all have the combined intelligence of a rock. They don't know you like I do."

"Make no mistake, Jarod, you know only what I want you to know, and that's all you've ever known, or will ever know, about me."

"I know you're not retreating, and I believe that's a wise decision."

"I don't run," returned Parker, fiercely, her voice low, tight.

"No, because you don't want this to escalate."

"I'm not afraid of you, Jarod," laughed Parker, "or of an escalation."

"Either you're lying or you're not as intelligent as I once believed you were."

"Mm brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I'm not as intelligent as you. No one is. Did that slip your mind while you were breaking faces and cases wide open?"

"Clever," lauded Jarod, addressing Parker by her name, the one she'd whispered to him when they children. "You want me to believe that you're not going to fight," Jarod said, and immediately shifted his weight to the left to avoid Parker's knee—and subsequent wounded testicles—and, simultaneously, grasped her wrists, anticipating each move before she made it. Jarod believed, erroneously, that Parker's weapon of opportunity was a vase, but only because he was unaware of the letter opener concealed beneath a book, "but I know you much too well to ever believe that."

"Let go of me," Parker ordered.

"That's not how this works," cooed Jarod.

"This isn't a line that you want to cross," cautioned Parker.

"No, it isn't," Jarod promptly agreed. "Tell me the truth, and I won't have to cross any line."

"Have to," repeated Parker with some incredulity, twisting her wrists in his grasp, attempting, again, with similarly futile results, to thrust her knee into his groin. "The way you had to fracture Lyle's face and glue a phone to his ear?"

"My point seemed rather obvious," Jarod explained. "He wasn't listening to me, and now you aren't listening to me."

"No, you aren't listening," Parker shouted. "Had you listened you wouldn't have deemed it necessary to terrorize Lyle, and you wouldn't be here now attempting to intimidate me."

"One of you has to be lying."

Parker laughed. "Has to? So, you're going to continue this endless loop of threats and violence, and return to Lyle if I don't tell you what you want to hear, alternate depositing my sadistic sibling and I at an emergency room until one of us dies? This is a you problem, Jarod."

"Hmm now you look worried," Jarod announced triumphantly.

"Thanks for finally noticing, mad genius. I am worried--- about Sydney. I've sorta gotten used to having the old guy around, and right now no one else is looking for him except Broots and me. So go ahead and do what you've gotta do, Jarod," she added with a shrug of indifference, "but do it quickly, because time is something Sydney probably doesn't have. And then leave, and don't come back."

Jarod's face crumpled, his hands dropped at his sides. "Oh, God," he cried. "If you don't know where Sydney is-"

"No," interrupted Parker, hotly, shoving Jarod with both hands. "No, no, no!" Parker screamed at Jarod. Hastily, and with an expression of horror, Parker withdrew her palms from Jarod's chest, and clumsily recoiled, stumbled away from him.

She murmured an obscenity, drew a breath, thrust a finger at him, commanded indignantly, "You keep your shit together or-"

Parker frowned, yelped when Jarod dropped leadenly to the floor with an agonized grunt-- revealing a third party, gleefully brandishing an ebony fire iron.

"I got him," Lyle cheered. "Yes. Ooh," he groaned in pain. "I think I opened a stitch."

"What part of bed rest don't you understand, Lyle?" Parker hissed, grasping her temples in evident exasperation and hastily kneeling at Jarod's side. "Brilliant. He's bleeding."

"Consider it appropriate comeuppance," answered Lyle simply. "He- he threatened you, had his hands on you. Someone has to hold Jarod accountable, Sis."

"Couldn't you have done that after we found Sydney and anywhere except my home?"

Lyle shrugged, murmured indifferently, "I'll get the handcuffs."

"Lovely," Parker groused, "now I have to babysit two sociopaths."

Indistinct murmurs and a brutal headache accompanied Jarod's alarming return to consciousness. He recalled the surprise blow to his head, and assumed Broots was the culprit.

He, however, possessed no immediate explanation for the murmurs---- until his eyes focused on the unarmed figure in a chair, her lean body curled around a book, an empty tumbler upside down in her lap, blue eyes closed.

Miss Parker, an ordinarily consummate professional, had fallen asleep on the job.

Jarod's brow creased in concern. He believed it was anomalous, thoroughly unlike Parker to be incautious, particularly after decades of vigilance, erecting and carefully maintaining boundaries, fortifying defenses.

Logic prompted him to remain silent; instinct, however, compelled him to rouse her. Sam and Lyle were, no doubt, en route to return him to the Centre; the men would find Parker disheveled, vulnerable, looking much too small.

Parker jerked awake before Jarod could arrive at a concrete decision. Seizing the mobile that presently served as a book marker, she quietly swore and frantically dialed. "Sam," she gasped, breathlessly, "anything on Sydney yet?"

Jarod observed her head lower in disappointment. "Damn it," Parker hissed, tremulously. "No, keep looking," she demanded hotly. "Then I suggest you enlist fresh eyes. Yes, more sweepers," she shouted, and swiped the device's face.

"That isn't nearly as gratifying as slamming down a telephone handset, is it?" Jarod asked.

"Son of a," Parker exclaimed, and, then, just as suddenly, fell silent. Her surprise transitioned to rage, and, then, attempts to conceal evident, and, undeniable surprise. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

"You didn't seriously forget I was here just now, did you?"  

"Your snoring made that impossible," answered Parker, irritably.

"You did, didn't you?" Jarod asked with increasing concern.

"Not now, Jarod," Parker cautioned brusquely, pouring herself a scotch.

Jarod whispered her name, said gently, "If returning me to the Centre is causing you this much distress perhaps-"

"I knew I was forgetting something," interrupted Parker tersely, lowering her glass. "A muzzle," she added softly.

"I'm sorry," Jarod said. "It isn't my intention to exacerbate the evident stress you're feeling right now. You're poised at a crossroad, on the threshold of a new era in your career. You're finally going to defy your mother to please the corporation responsible for her murder. She'll forgive you for that, and, as you are probably already aware I will escape again. This drinking, on the other hand-"

"Say it ain't so," repeated Parker, sardonically. "I can't remember a time when I wasn't."

Jarod nodded slowly, said, softly, "This isn't the life I wanted for you."

"Right," drawled Parker, doubtfully. "If that's true you have a helluva way of showing it."

"If?"

"You insist I stay, play this game, feed you information. You refuse to let me go. Why can't you just let me go?"

Jarod straightened in the chair, drew a sharp breath. "Untie me," Jarod demanded. "Briefly," he added swiftly. "You can restrain me again when I've made you coffee. Afterwards, when you're reasonable, we'll find Sydney."

Parker laughed. "I heard about your stint in stand-up comedy, but I didn't believe you were actually funny."

"You need to sober up and listen to me," Jarod said, gravely. "Only one person would disappear Sydney, Raines, and Willie. It wouldn't be the first time Lyle has acted independently."

"Wait," Lyle said, stepping into the room, interrupting Parker's rebuttal. "What am I being accused of now? Ah, the look on your face, Jarod. I wish I were live streaming this. My TikTok would be lit. I'm sure you already have a VPN capable of accessing-"

"Lyle," interrupted Jarod with a throaty snarl. "What are you doing here? And," he added, hotly, addressing Parker, "What is he saying?"

"I was invited-- unlike you," taunted Lyle.

"He was-- what? ighathad?" Jarod struggled to repeat Lyle, comprehend. "Invited?" Jarod asked Parker.

"Impressive, Jarod," Parker said. "With your intelligence and knack for languages I just knew you'd master the dialect quickly."

"He was invited? Tell me he isn't serious, Miss Parker."

"If you hadn't beaten him nearly to death he wouldn't be here--- with gauze stuffed in his mouth."

"He's no where near death," Jarod said. "But perhaps he deserves to be; after all, he killed Willie, and now Sydney and Raines are missing."

Lyle frowned at Jarod's accusation, and softly asked Parker, "You didn't tell him?"

Parker expelled a sharp breath, glowered at her brother.

Jarod swung his curious gaze at Parker, asked pointedly, "Didn't tell me what?"

Parker rose abruptly, and with a snort of frustration said, "I'm not doing this."

"No, no," Jarod demanded, impatiently. "Back up. What didn't you tell me?"

"He's going to eventually find out anyway," Lyle struggled to say clearly.

"Lyle's right," Jarod said. "For once. Excuse us for a moment hmm," Jarod addressed Lyle, and then returned his gaze to Parker, and prompted sternly, "I'm listening."

"I had help."

"We're going to get him through this," Jarod assured Parker-- and hoped he wasn't wrong.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Lyle released her, fled to the door, hammered savagely. "Steltzer," he shouted, hugging himself defensively, his eyes wide and furtive, and filled with tears. "Visitation's over."

"Lyle was feeling paranoid."

"No," Jarod silently murmured Parker's name, "I don't believe me either."