Summary: -
Categories: Indefinite Timeline,
Stories Characters: Jarod, Miss Parker, Original Character
Genres: Angst, General
Warnings: Warning: Language, Warning: Violence
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 6
Completed: No
Word count: 10214
Read: 4142
Published: 23/12/21
Updated: 18/04/24
Story Notes:
This isn't a Christmas scribbling (but I've included some flickering lights).
1. Chapter 1 by Mirage
2. Chapter 2 by Mirage
3. Chapter 3 by Mirage
4. Chapter 4 by Mirage
5. Chapter 5 by Mirage
6. Chapter 6 by Mirage
Pulsating blue illuminated a quarter mile of poorly maintained Georgia highway extending from an ancient fire hydrant suffocated by kudzu to the city limit sign, and ventured no farther, punctuating the isolation, the absence of refuge, escape, as if nothing existed beyond the sign, beyond the city; for Jarod, nothing did.
The Pretender endeavored to ignore the instinct to resist the detaining hands, the handcuffs tightening around his wrists and biting into his skin. The dried blood coating his nostrils and right cheek served as a reminder of the consequences of resistance, the two deputies thrusting his face into the hood of a police cruiser.
Exhausted and battered, Jarod stared silently into the darkness, ignoring the sheriff's angry, "You can make this a lot easier on yourself by telling us where she is. At least," the sheriff pleaded, "tell us if she's still alive."
"She was when I last saw her," Jarod murmured softly, and was startled by the sound of his own voice, the desperation in it. And the guilt.
"Keep walking," a gruff voice commanded.
"Walking," Jarod repeated numbly, realizing only then that his legs were, inexplicably, moving, that he was, in fact, presently being escorted past enraged county deputies and state police officers whose florid faces were washed in revulsion and frantic blue.
And he thought of her eyes, a more vivid blue, and the tears in them when he'd last seen her, said goodbye. And Jarod thought, too, of another woman's blue eyes while vehicles, lights, and enraged faces revolved around him. "We've got the son of a bitch," a young deputy shouted into his mobile. "Hell, yeah, I'm sure."
"Please," Jarod attempted to explain to people who had already tried and convicted him,"if you-"
He fell silent at once—as if a blade had severed his rebuttal—when a clot of saliva, thick and warm, struck the back of his head.
The impact was painless, but nonetheless effective.
Jarod's vision blurred, his knees buckled. Thick fingers clutched and contused his shoulders, and Jarod might have felt them-- had he been conscious.
It was, Jarod knew, a matter of when, not if; he counted the days and displayed no surprise when, shackled and handcuffed, he was escorted by three deputies to a 20X20 concrete enclosure and deposited, roughly, into a metal chair.
The eldest deputy unlocked one cuff and briskly closed it tightly around a metal bar that had been bolted to a long, low table.
"I didn't ask for an attorney," Jarod snarled, knowing precisely which lies littered the particular avenue that the Centre had traversed to make contact with him.
"Lo and behold," the deputy drawled bitterly, "one has been provided for you. Be sure to send a thank-you card to the bleeding hearts at the ACLU."
Jarod snorted his discontent; he had, in fact, been an admirer of the ACLU for years and sent the dedicated folks there millions of Centre dollars each year. He scowled openly at the retreating deputies, and met his attorney's gaze.
"What? No decontamination team, Miss Parker?"
"As much as I'd like to dispose of those assholes for you, Jarod, we couldn't get in front of this thing. You may not be aware of this, genius, but when a beautiful young woman is missing it attracts national and international attention, and everyone is eager to find someone to blame and make them pay, and today, Jarod, you're the someone. Talk," Parker demanded.
"Talk? About?"
"Where is she?"
"Are you-- is this a joke?"
"Does this look like my joking face? What did she do to bring you all the way down here to hell's small intestine? Who did she hurt?"
"She'd never hurt anyone."
Parker nodded. "Fine. Who hurt her?"
"I didn't come here to pursue justice for anyone. I was passing through, and she invited me to dinner. They think I hurt her. There are no other suspects."
"Everyone in this town is a suspect," argued Parker. "Don't forget that. Why did you come here? Don't leave out a single detail. And, Jarod: start at the beginning."
"I- no, I can't. I need to be out there searching for her."
"I probably don't have to tell you that it's not a good look to insert yourself into the investigation. Are you eager to be sent to prison?"
"As opposed to being hauled back to a Centre prison by you?"
"I didn't bring Kleenex so spare me the tragic tale, Jarod. Say what you will about the Centre, but bear in mind that the boys in the tower value your life, and that's a helluva lot more than can be said about those losers out there who were joking about chaining you to a truck and placing hypothetical bets on how many miles you'd struggle to stay on your feet before you were entirely, and I quote, skinned clean like a twenty-two point whitetail. You're expendable here, Jarod. Worthless."
"Need I remind you that the Centre killed me once?"
"Raines killed, and then immediately resuscitated, you," corrected Parker tersely. "He didn't de-flesh and disembowel you on a Georgia highway. This is a death penalty state, and you can bet your smart little ass that when they kill you it'll be for keeps. I'll leave if you want me to, but I guarantee you that when your appeals are all denied and the death march begins you'll be soiling your pants and praying to every god there is to go back to the Centre and work with Sydney again."
"How is Sydney? Does he know I've been arrested?"
"No, he doesn't and I intend to keep it that way. Broots worked his mojo on Sydney's television, radio, and devices. He'd want to be here for you if he knew. "
"He needs to rest. I agree. You and Broots made the right decision. Thank you for that."
"You can thank me when we're back in Delaware," Parker returned hotly, and prompted rather impatiently, "The Beginning, Jarod. You said you were passing through."
The beginning?
The beginning, Jarod mused, seemed to imply, presage, an ending-- of a relationship, perhaps, or a young woman's life.
This is the beginning.
"I was hungry," Jarod answered grudgingly. Conceding to his huntress felt counterintuitive and prudent, natural and absurd. He yearned for conversation, a sympathetic ear, an opportunity to be entirely honest, yet felt incapable of sharing complete, intimate details with Parker.
Jarod felt wretched, much like, he imagined, a spouse confronted with infidelity might feel; he was too exhausted and afraid to analyze those feelings.
"I shouldn't have stopped here," Jarod confessed to Parker in a voice saturated with remorse and relief, and returned, in his mind, to the beginning.
The humble and sparsely populated unincorporated community had been entirely absent from the map still neatly folded and tucked away in his Monte Carlo's glove compartment.
If the signage bore any welcome at all it was too faded to discern; in freshly painted tall, bold font, however, DEEPSTEP POPULATION 108 bellowed at motorists.
It hadn't occurred to Jarod that the inhabitants therein were inhospitable, unwelcoming, determined to maintain their small population. Nor had it occurred to him to continue driving, put the community, and its poorly maintained dirt roads in his rearview.
The 1970 Monte Carlo he'd acquired in a game of poker pleaded for oil and fuel; Jarod empathized; he, too, craved fuel. There wasn't a whole hell of a lot mileage in chocolate bars, ranch flavored snacks, colas.
He sought protein, vegetables, food that wasn't tossed at him via a drive-thru window, processed beyond his ability to instantly recognize. His options were an obligatory fast food establishment and a small uninspired diner called, simply, Diner. Jarod decided to patronize the latter, and give the car the tlc it deserved.
The store front of R & R's Auto Service was squat and concrete with faded lettering and peeling paint. The front door, a frosted glass affair, was cracked, and a bell above it alerted a young receptionist to Jarod's arrival.
Jarod opened his mouth to speak, and was promptly directed via a wave of hand, to a doorless archway. Only when he glimpsed the rusty Volkswagen ragtop high atop the hydraulic lift did he feel his apprehensions subside.
"Hello?" Jarod called. "I'm looking for a—"
"Mechanic, I'll bet," a voice interrupted with a dry chortle, barely audible over the tune trickling from the speakers.
'holy, righteous dogs,
they claim to heal,
but all they do is steal'
"Be with you in just a moment."
"Okay," Jarod replied softly.
"There you are," the mechanic said, stepping from beneath the VW. She vigorously scrubbed oily hands on a soiled cloth, each movement loosening thick locks of hair from a claret headwrap. Her blue eyes widened, and instantly compelled Jarod's full attention.
"Here I am," Jarod agreed cheerfully. "Have--- we met?"
The woman conducted a protracted, and rather thorough, head-to-toe appraisal of Jarod, and answered with a broad smile. "As of now."
"Jarod," he said.
"Miuna," she returned amiably, "Azahaari."
"Beautiful name," Jarod commented softly.
"Extremely sus."
"Sus?" Jarod asked with an inquisitive head-tilt and eyebrows lifted high.
"Suspicious," Miuna answered. "You were suppose to recoil, inquire about my immigration status."
"Why would I do that?"
"Voi perkele," Miuna murmured. "You're one of the rare good ones that I've heard so much about, but have never actually seen in real life, and doubted existed, aren't you--sort of like a promachoteuthis sulcus? Why would you do it?" Miuna repeated blithely. "Father was born in Ad-Damāzīn, Mother hails from Lahti. I have her blue eyes, nose, and chin. I resemble my Father in every other way, however, and I share his surname, and that's why you would do it."
"No, I wouldn't," Jarod insisted. "Are your parents here with you?"
"Monterotondo," Miuna answered guardedly. "We moved there when I was twelve. I left last year."
Jarod, naturally appalled, asked, "You left your family to come here? Why?"
"To prove I could."
"They're displeased, I gather."
"Understate much, Jarod? No matter," Miuna sang. "Does that Monte Carlo out front belong to you?"
"It does," Jarod answered gleefully, smiling mischievously to himself, "now."
"I heard her crying when you drove up. Your lady needs a new fan belt, Jarod. She's also tapping. Is she drinking her weight in oil?"
"As a matter of fact," Jarod answered neutrally. He could hardly voice condemnation; after all, he'd been drinking his weight in cola, and wondered if his check engine icon would brighten and blink manically in the coming years.
"She's mature. so it might just be seal wear. Leave your key with Dolores out front, and come back in four hours."
"All right. I'll be across the street at the Diner." Jarod turned at the archway, called softly, "By the way, what would you recommend?"
"That you eat somewhere else," Miuna answered with a grimace, and turned her attention to the lift's power unit. She and Jarod followed with their eyes the VW's descent to the garage floor. "Anywhere else," Miuna added with grave emphasis.
"That bad?"
"To say the least. The entrees are your basic supermarket sealed-in-plastic, freezer-to-microwave blahs, only they charge sixty percent more than what you'd pay for them at market. It's nearly eleven, and that means the crisphead is already turning brown, so that would be a hard pass on the house salad for me. The breakfast items, while fresh, are all heavy on the carbs and mystery meats, and that, clearly, disheartens you. I recommend a grilled wild salmon filet, a monstrous Caesar salad, and maybe panna cotta with grilled figs for dessert."
Jarod moaned his approval, said, "How far will I have to walk for that?"
"Just a few meters. My extraordinarily humble abode sits at the end of the dirt trail behind the garage. The downside is that you'll have to wait until my shift ends in twenty minutes."
"Don't you think it's unwise to invite a stranger into your house?"
Miuna laughed. "It's a rusty caravan, tetanus on wheels, not a house, and I wouldn't have invited you if I thought it unwise. Besides, I have the home advantage of knowing where all of the firearms are hidden."
"All?" Jarod asked, dryly.
"It's a joke, Jarod," Miuna said. "Granted, I do own a pistol," she confessed, "but that's strictly for the mosquitos."
Jarod laughed. "Ah, that was a joke, too, wasn't it?"
"You, obviously, haven't seen the mosquitos here, Jarod."
The garage dropped away with alarming swiftness, and Jarod drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes, but remained disoriented. His head and ribs ached, and he was still wearing saliva, could feel it in his hair, and was quite eager to wash it out.
"You said you shouldn't have stopped here," Parker said. "Why?"
"Do you really need me to answer that question," Jarod counterquestioned aggressively, and observed much of Parker's haughtiness and confidence wither. "Do you? You really don't know," Jarod added incredulously.
"Know?" Parker asked.
Jarod's answer was a tight, agonized groan. "You can't see what was obvious to even a blind woman."
Parker drew back rapidly, and lowered her gaze to the folder opened on the table between them. "Are Miuna's parents here?" She asked.
"I assume they are," Jarod answered with an exasperated breath. "When I returned from Delaware, and couldn't find her I called them."
"When was that?"
"Wednesday. The tenth. Just before dawn. Afterwards, I drove to the Sheriff's department in Pleasant Springs to file a report; they weren't particularly helpful," Jarod said. "I launched my own investigation. Are you going to stare at the folder until you leave or-"
"I'm sure the cops over in Pleasant Springs appreciated you doing their job for them," Parker interrupted tartly. "Did Miuna have an admirer, stalker, jealous ex-lover?"
"I don't know," Jarod answered softly. "None that I'm aware of."
"You don't know," Parker said with some skepticism.
"I met her on the fifth," Jarod explained with some reticence. "My car needed minor repairs, and she's a mechanic. I— I stayed, helped her in the garage the following morning, met her parents via FaceTime. I went home with her again. That evening, just after midnight, you called to tell me Sydney was in the emergency room, and I immediately flew to Delaware."
"I see," Parker murmured quietly.
"You see," Jarod repeated angrily before Parker could elaborate. "What? What is it that you see? Do you see that a young woman has mysteriously vanished after falling for, and being seduced—or worse—by, the charming transient, a much older drifter? Because that's what the police see. Is that what you see?"
Parker had intended to sympathize with Jarod. For four days you've been in jail for potential involvement in Miuna's disappearance, and you only spent two days with her. It isn't fair.
Those words dissolved on Parker's tongue. Instead, she answered unequivocally, "No. Charming is the absolute last word I'd ever use to describe you. Officers claim," Parker continued without missing a beat, "that you, Jarod Doe, arrived in Deepstep—"
"I'm sorry," Jarod interrupted. "It sounded like you said Doe instead of Doyle."
"Oh, I'm sure the FBI would love to have a little sit-down with Agent Jarod Doyle, but these assclowns haven't released your mugshot or contacted the FBI about that badge they found in the trunk of your car. Hell, if Miuna's parents hadn't contacted the media no one would be looking for her." Parker met Jarod's gaze, frowned at the thin ribbon of crimson slipping from beneath dark locks. "Your head's bleeding," Parker said softly, rising and examining the contusions, abrasions, and lacerations.
"Yes," Jarod remarked saltily, "it tends to do that when it's slammed into the hood of car. Twice."
With a snort of rage, Parker demanded gauze and a bandage from an officer standing guard outside the door.
Adamant about not meeting Parker's gaze the man unapologetically offered her napkins and an apathetic shrug. "Bastards," Parker seethed, re-entering the room. "Do you want something for the pain?"
"No thank you," Jarod declined politely. "If police haven't released the mugshot or contacted outside agencies how did you know I was here?"
"I have my ways."
"Pray tell," Jarod purred, lifting his head to look at Parker.
"More pressing matters," Parker intoned coolly, "This probably needs stitches."
"They'd rather I bleed to death," Jarod said, closing his eyes, and tensing in anticipatory pain.
"Imbeciles," Parker snarled in evident rage, her voice abrasive, her words incisive, her eyes hard. Parker's fingers, however, were so gentle that Jarod wasn't certain when, precisely, she'd pressed the napkins to his wound. There was only the sensation of pressure, the same dull pain. I guess my old theory regarding pain anticipation still holds.
"Have you even eaten?"
"No. One of them brought me water yesterday. I think. They passed it through the slot. They won't verify that I was in Delaware, or communicate with me, or allow me to make any calls. It's like they don't want anyone to know I'm here, which is probably why they're so displeased by your presence."
"Good," Parker said with a satisfied smile.
"No, it isn't," Jarod argued softly. "I have a feeling that these aren't the sort of men you want to anger."
"These kinds of men are already angry, bitter, small-minded, and pathetic, Jarod, and I might as well clip their balls right now, and carry them back with me to Blue Cove in my briefcase, because when I'm done here none of these bastards are ever going to be able to get it up again. They're claiming you first arrived in Deepstep two days ago, and loitered near the garage until an officer arrived at Miuna Azahaari's request, and asked you to leave. They typed up a report that accuses you of stalking, and forged her signature."
"That isn't true. I've been here, in a cell, for four days. Wait. How do you know they forged her signature?"
"Shh, listen," Parker chided.
"Listen?" Jarod asked, curiously observing Parker's frown of concentration--and deeper frown of consternation. "Is it your inner sense?"
"Hush," Parker repeated, and after several moments, explained tersely, "Broots' team just completed an analysis of the FaceTime transcript they retrieved, and it places you in Deepstep on the fifth and sixth. Several receipts that Sam found in a pair of jeans that belong to you corroborate the team's findings."
Jarod frowned deeply. "Just completed?"
Parker sidled closer. "Earbud," she answered succinctly.
"What else?" Jarod asked. "What else are they accusing me of?"
Parker met Jarod's gaze, said, "Sam says you have a concussion."
"Yes, well, considering how many concussions Sam has personally administered," Jarod replied with a indignant snort, "he would certainly know. Am I being framed?"
"Mm, yeah, ya think," Parker cooed. "The question is by whom."
"And for what," Jarod added darkly, tugging, unconsciously, at his binds. "Oh, god, what if she-"
"Don't," Parker interrupted sharply. "This isn't the time or place to lose your shit. Jesus, that's loud," she hissed, adjusting the left earbud, and intently listening to the information being relayed to her. "Regardless of how this goes you have to stay calm, clearheaded, and watch your back-- as much for Miuna as for yourself."
"Have you considered the possibility that Lyle might be involved?"
"Explored and eliminated," Parker answered distractedly.
"What just happened?" Jarod asked, eagerly. "What are they saying?"
"The food courier arrives in fifteen. Do you think you can eat?"
"I don't know," Jarod answered with a forlorn head-shake.
"Well, you're going to do it anyway. And you should know that Broots' people are taking a closer look at Miuna's father. He was livid when he discovered that you'd spent the night with his daughter. Is it possible that he or Miuna's mother convinced her to fly back home?"
"No, it isn't."
"Are you sure about that?"
Jarod whispered Parker's name, and said gently, "Not all fathers are like yours."
"Looks like the bleeding's stop," Parker said, "For now, at least," she added, closing bloody napkins in her fist and depositing them discreetly into her briefcase. "Is it possible that Miuna followed you to Delaware?"
Nodding gratefully, Jarod said, "Thank you for saying that. It's a nice thought. Her in Blue Cove searching for me while I'm here-- after being arrested while searching for her. Uh," stammered Jarod, "why didn't you toss the napkins in the garbage?"
Parker resumed her seat, smiled warmly, and ignored Jarod's question. "They're using the term detained, not arrested."
"Detained for?" Jarod asked.
"Probable cause," Parker answered, adding softly, "pending a warrant. Don't worry," she added. "Broots is on it."
"Is he, really?" Jarod asked gravely, gazing past Parker at the door, and glimpsing Broots through the rectangle of ballistic glass.
Parker swiveled in the chair, and shook her head slowly when a pale and sheepish Broots timidly and frantically gestured for her to join him.
"Something's happened," Jarod whispered, drawing a sharp, involuntary breath when his skin prickled uncomfortably. Cutis anserina. Or, as Miuna had once said, Olen kaikkialta kananlihalla.
The table and handcuffs evanesced, and Jarod was outdoors, sitting across from Miuna on a small tract of land that she'd affectionately designated my ungraceful lanai. Reclining in an aluminum folding chair, and tugging at fraying webbing, she said, "So, Jarod, what was that earlier?"
"Earlier?" Jarod asked.
"When our eyes met it was-- I don't know, somewhere between Father's, "jislaaik" and Mother's, "puulla päähän lyöty rimmaa", and like someone walked on my grave or," Miuna added softly with a shrug, pushing a bead of perspiration from her forehead, "something." She fondled her glass, pushed a finger through the condensation, and gazed up at the sky.
"Your grave," Jarod said with a perplexed smile. "You're much too young to have purchased a funeral plot."
"Literal kind of guy, aren't you?" She said, laughing at his inquisitive head-tilt. She returned her glass to a small table, folded her arms over her chest, and hastily explained, "It's an idiom I hear often here. Goosebumps, an involuntary tremor? See?" she said, lowering her gaze to her arms. "Olen kaikkialta kananlihalla."
Walked on her grave. Did she know even then that it would end this way?
"They've found a body," Jarod whispered.
Parker swung an alarmed gaze at him. "You don't know that. I'll be back in—"
"No, no, down," Jarod shouted, looking past Parker in alarm, "Get down."
Parker opened her mouth, probably, Jarod mused, to ask why, protest. Anticipating resistance, Jarod attempted to launch himself over the table top, and was more perturbed by his inability to shield Parker from exploding glass and bullets than by the pain surging through his bound wrists.
"Oh, god, Miss Parker," Broots cried when the gunfire ceased, kneeling beside Parker. "Are you hurt? Are you-"
"I'm okay, Broots," Parker groaned, quickly ascertaining that neither Broots nor Jarod had been injured. "What the hell happened?"
"Uh, well," Broots answered with a grimace, "it's-"
"Me," Lyle announced blithely. "I appreciate your attempts to avoid bloodshed via legal avenues, but Jarod's mug is going viral as we speak. Apparently, Mom and Dad Azahaari shared your little FaceTime chat with the Feds," Lyle said to Jarod. "And, as you can probably imagine, the men in black would like a word with the great pretender."
"So your answer is to kill everyone?" Parker asked.
"Don't be dramatic, Sis," Lyle answered indignantly. "I didn't kill everyone," he added with a meaningful look at Jarod. "One resident of this unincorporated hellhole was dead when I arrived. Oops," Lyle bellowed in mock sympathy when Jarod groaned, and, noting Parker's reproachful glare, asked, "Too soon?"
"When did you arrive?" Parker asked.
"Relax," Lyle whispered. "We all know that she wasn't my--- flavor."
Parker averted her eyes in disgust and shook her head.
"What? You know how crazy I am about Asian, Sis. Okay, fine," Lyle added with an eye-roll and an expression of mock sympathy, "I should have read the room, yes, but is it really my fault that everyone inside of it is too sensitive?"
"When did you arrive?" Parker repeated with a strained snarl.
"I intercepted Broots half an hour ago. He'll tell you. Tell her, Broots."
"Roy landed the chopper fifteen minutes ago," Broots said.
"Thank you, Broots," Lyle cooed. "Our devoted tech here walked in the front door to distract everyone with his garlic breath, and I snuck in through the rear of this little compound."
"Miuna isn't really?" Parker asked softly.
"In a freezer in a back room," Lyle answered coolly, "really, and the thermostat's struggling to cool below room temperature. Four of these Gitmo cosplayers—no offense, Broots, I loved you as Ziggy Stardust last year—were arguing about how to link Jarod to her murder. But don't take my word for it. I knew you and Jarod would want some answers, so I left one of the basic-training rejects alive and gift-wrapped for you in the freezer. Oh, and, by the way," he said tartly, "you are both welcome."
"Uh, Miss Parker," Broots said, and artificially cleared his throat. "Shouldn't we be leaving?"
"Yes, we should," Lyle agreed with Broots, but his gaze never strayed from his sister's face. "Find the handcuff key, Broots."
"Don't bother," Sam groused, advancing rapidly with bolt cutters. "Should I do the honors?"
"Quickly, Sam," Parker said.
"I vote we torch this place," Lyle suggested, "unless someone else has a better idea."
"Do it," Parker demanded.
"You've got it, Miss Parker," Sam confirmed with a nod, freeing Jarod's wrist from the table, and withdrawing from the room.
"What about the girl?" Lyle asked Parker.
Parker swung her gaze at Jarod. "We'll transport Miuna to a morgue in Dover, have them," Parker hesitated, drew a breath, continued, "collect any evidence, clean her up, and shroud her. Nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Lyle asked. "Not even an autopsy?"
"Her parents'll want to take her home, make their own arrangements."
Jarod nodded slowly, murmured a quiet thank-you.
"Do you want to tell them?" Parker asked.
"It would only exacerbate their pain," Jarod whispered.
"What should I do with G.I. No?" Lyle interjected, adding with an expression of disappointment, "He's probably not even shivering yet."
Again, Parker met Jarod's gaze; neither spoke this time, however. Words were entirely unnecessary.
"Let's bring him along," Parker answered in a voice both buoyant and furious, "and conduct our own little interrogation."
"I can't believe this is happening," Jarod murmured despondently, staring at the distant flames beyond the jet's windows.
Parker couldn't believe it either, although she'd never admit it to anyone. Quietly, she unpacked a parchment wrapped sandwich, Kind bar, thermos, and two bottles of water from a paper tote.
"You should eat," she informed Jarod softly. "Green Goddess on sourdough, loaded miso ramen, and something for that sweet-tooth of yours."
"What," Jarod asked, gazing up at Parker's face in disbelief when she unlocked the handcuffs, "starve a fever, feed a griever?"
"Eat," Parker demanded. "And don't try anything."
Jarod removed the cap from a bottle of water, and asked with some cynicism, "Why the urgency?"
"Did you forget how bad Centre food tastes?"
Jarod answered with a head-shake, and incisive one-note laugh, "Some things are too revolting to be forgotten. Are you going to smuggle food into the Centre for me like you did when we were children, or do you intend to finally make your great escape from the Centre?"
"Let's just-- get through this," Parker answered guardedly, and observed as Jarod sheepishly unwrapped the sandwich.
With an appreciative moan Jarod bit greedily into layers of avocado, frisée, watercress, radicchio, and arugula. He ate enthusiastically, licking avocado oil from his fingers, and immediately washed the sandwich down with an entire bottle of water.
"There aren't sedatives in that, I hope," Jarod said when Parker emptied the soup into a large sturdy paper cup. "No chopsticks?" He asked. "No, I suppose there wouldn't be," he murmured bitterly, his words clipped, his voice filled with anger, however, Jarod permitted neither anger nor grief to take precedence over fueling his body.
He tipped the cup carefully, incrementally, slurping soba, vegetables, and tofu, savoring each bite, and washed it all down with broth.
"Afraid I'll attack?" He asked, offering Parker the empty cup. "Using chopsticks?"
"The Centre knows what you're capable of," Parker answered softly, accepting the cup, and discarding it.
"They think I'm guilty, that Sydney's myocardial infarction triggered me, and, as predicted, I snapped, don't they? Was the soup transferred to a paper cup because a thermos, in capable hands, might become a weapon of opportunity? Do you think I'm guilty, dangerous-- after everything, after Carthis, after we-"
"Dessert," Parker reminded brusquely.
Jarod smiled sympathetically, and removed the bar's plastic wrapping. "Now this is interesting," he said. "Dark chocolate, nuts, and cherries. Mmm," he hummed. "Delicious. Would you like some?" He asked Parker, and observed her head-shake. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't aware that the topic was off-"
Jarod's words dissolved to sudden silence when the jet jerked to life. Startled, he inhaled sharply, and rose.
Parker rose as well, and withdrew her gun from its holster, and cautioned in a low, tight voice, "Don't make them sedate you, Jarod."
"Them," Jarod asked darkly, "or you?"
"This is your only opportunity to find out who murdered Miuna, and why," Parker reasoned, relaxing fractionally when Jarod grudgingly sat.
"And then what?" Jarod asked, determined not think of Miuna, resolved only to escape. "I lose my freedom, family? And what about you? Do you think they're going to just let you walk away?"
Parker briefly contemplated the question, as if she truly possessed answers, or something approximating control, as if there were infinite options, or even a single alternative.
"If I recall correctly," Jarod said, "the deal you made to return to corporate was with your father. Do you expect the Centre to honor, or even acknowledge, that arrangement now that he's gone?"
Parker slowly sank into an aisle seat, and cradled her gun in her lap. "You should hydrate."
"Or the Centre will do it for me? Yes," Jarod said, "I'm all too aware. Are you?"
"Am I what," Parker said, irritably, observing him swallow the remaining water.
"Aware," Jarod clarified. "If you aren't aware you will be soon-- if they renege, if you aren't reassigned to corporate. You're going to have to prepare yourself, prepare to witness the barbarity firsthand, and actively participate in it. You can't intervene if they decide to coerce a relapse into my childhood drug addiction, stop my heart, clone me, ship me off to Malabo."
"Intervene," Parker repeated with some incredulity. "I might finally get some peace with you on another continent."
"Perhaps," Jarod said amiably. "Assuming they don't assign you to the Pretender project, and send you to another continent with me. If you think about it, think this all the way through you might find that peace is a lot more difficult to attain than you'd like to believe it is."
"You should worry about yourself," Parker advised tartly, tossing the handcuffs into the seat next to his. "And put these back on."
"Why shouldn't I worry about you?" Jarod asked, cuffing himself. Correctly interpreting Parker's single lifted eyebrow, Jarod demonstrated that the handcuffs were indeed locked. "Aren't you worried about yourself?"
"I'm not worried about anything," Parker answered crisply.
"Not even Sydney? How do you think he's going to react when he discovers what you've done?"
"Better than he'd react if I'd left you here to die," Parker answered confidently, however, the conviction with which she spoke was tenuous and ephemeral—was, in fact, a mere memory when the jet touched down in Blue Cove.
"Imagine you're somewhere nicer," Jarod whispered when he and Parker disembarked.
"What?" Parker asked, appalled that he would utter her name.
"You look like you're the one they're going to strip search, force into a shower, and toss into a cage."
"Yeah," Parker rebutted quickly with cursory glance at the evening sun, "I guess I dread working late as much as everyone does."
"I don't suppose I can change your mind about this. I feel like I should at least try."
"It'd be easier if you didn't."
"Easier for you," Jarod said. "Yes?"
"Don't give anyone here a reason to shoot you," Parker intoned neutrally. "You've lost enough blood already."
"Look at me," Jarod pleaded. "Please, look at me."
"I know this dance already," Parker asserted softly. "I'm sitting this one out."
"You know too much," Jarod warned. "They'll kill you before they let you walk away."
"Yes, that's been established already, thanks," Parker murmured sardonically.
"You don't want to do this," Jarod stammered, hesitating at the double doors that would deliver him to concourse seven. "You never have. You were going to let me go until Lyle arrived, weren't you?"
"You're really going to recite every page in the playbook, aren't you, Sigmund," Parker said. "Mom's next, right? You love getting off rubbing salt into open wounds, using Mom to manipulate me, but I'm not her, so save your breath, and keep walking."
"No, you certainly aren't your mother," Jarod agreed, and explained savagely, "because she would never do this me, and you don't need anyone to tell you how disappointed in you she'd be if she were here right now."
Words were presently the only weapons at Jarod's disposal; his were particularly injurious.
He observed Parker's face lose color, felt her shudder at his side, and he deliberately twisted the blade. "If your mother were still on speaking terms with you," Jarod admonished Parker impassively, "she'd tell you that herself."
Notably stunned by his words, Parker faltered mid-stride, discreetly clutched a handrail for support, and blinked away the tears blurring her eyes. She yearned for a flawless rebuttal to silence him, but none existed, and she was incapable of speaking, and, in fact, Parker was absolutely inclined to agree with Jarod.
"Your mother was murdered because she was trying to save both of us, and instead of fighting for her, for the people she gave her life to protect you are fighting her, so the snub is warranted," Jarod snarled. "But I'll bet she's talking to Ethan."
"Enough," Parker demanded in a strangled voice that appalled her, and her alone, to hear.
I'm not falling apart. A dozen more steps and fake smiles, and the tormenting ends, Parker consoled herself, lied to herself. She believed she'd never escape Jarod, that even death would deny her reprieve, liberation.
"Hardly enough," Jarod sang crossly. "Are you going to let them murder Ethan when he comes for me? Need I remind you that your mother was murdered-"
"Yeah, and I'll be murdered, too, if I try to stop this," Parker argued hotly. "Or is that what you want?" She purred, and observed Jarod's reflexive recoil and gasp.
"No," Jarod answered weakly. "You know it isn't," he whispered, turning his head towards the sound of rapidly advancing footfalls. "Lyle's coming," he cautioned, swinging his anxious gaze at Parker, and addressing her by name. "Shouldn't we be walking? Let's go," Jarod pleaded eagerly. "Now."
Parker tightened her grasp, and struggled to fashion a false smile with which to greet her brother.
"What's the hold-up here, Sis?" Lyle asked, irritably.
"It's me," Jarod remorsefully and hastily stammered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ly-- uh," he said with a clipped grunt, prompting a frown from Lyle. Slowly dropping to his knees, Jarod noted Parker relinquishing her hold on the handrail, and palm-shaped condensation. He explained in a pained voice, "Eating all of that food on an empty stomach was a mistake."
"It's probably just all the excitement," Lyle assured Jarod with a cheerful smile and a light pat on the back.
"Excitement," Jarod murmured softly, handily concealing his revulsion. "Yes," he agreed demurely. "That must be what it is."
"You'll be good as new once you're in the infirmary. For God's sake, Willie," Lyle exclaimed, "get our Pretender here a wheelchair. I have to make some calls," he said, addressing Parker. "You got this, Sis?" Lyle asked, repeating himself when Parker didn't immediately answer. "Sis? Can you handle intake and processing? Jarod here doesn't look like he's going to give you any trouble."
"No, he doesn't," Parker agreed.
If only looks weren't deceiving.
Mark Norris, aka G.I. No, was still naive enough to believe that anything he desired was within his reach if he truly wanted it, and worked for it. He had amassed many a follower on his social media apps by sharing such feel-good sentiment, all the while unsuccessfully walking his talk.
Among everything else he called his own but hadn't earned, the title of deputy was as false as the structure that Mark and his fellow militia buddies referred to as a police station. He'd dreamed aloud of leaving his small town, and becoming a police officer and soldier, but had always omitted that control and respect-on-demand were his primary reasons for desiring such occupations.
Failing each written, oral, and physical examination put before him were strong indicators that desire and work would never deliver him the power he craved. Instead of correctly interpreting those failures, and choosing another career path he had chased his dream to an even smaller town, and had joined a group of civilians who, as the man called Mr. Lyle had accurately worded it, got off on cos-playing cop.
Mark didn't appreciate Lyle's accusation; was, in fact, specifically, offended that someone had looked at him, looked straight through him, and had seen the truth.
Turning a called-out shade of crimson from the neck up, Mark passionately argued, "Protecting the world from terrorists is honorable, not cosplay, but y'all know that."
"The world," Lyle drawled with false interest. "My sympathies go out to the world if you're its guardian. You're not even capable of protecting yourself from a genuine threat, a real terrorist. And," Lyle added with a friendly wink at Broots, "who said cosplay isn't honorable?"
Mark, enraged suddenly, jerked his gaze to the others in the room, those seated at the white, odd-shaped table, and those in the shadows whose faces were unseen but whose presence he felt.
Mark—woefully unaware that Lyle was referring to him—desperately sought the terrorist Lyle spoke of, longed to slay the person based entirely upon hearsay, without an arrest, a trial, or evidence.
Justness, truth, and proof were foreign concepts to Mark. Typically, he lied his way out of trouble, and, after planting incriminating evidence, pointed fingers at others. He was entirely unaccustomed to accountability.
Mark stood suddenly, and shouted, "It's my duty to kill terrorists."
"Kill them?" Lyle asked. "Are you positive it's your duty to kill them, and not arrest them, ensure they have a fair trial?"
"I kill them," Mark repeated sharply.
Parker, weary of the theatrics after two hours of Mark's self-righteous blather, injected coolly, "Like you killed Miuna?"
"That's right," Mark answered, arrogantly, resuming his seat. "After we all did that to her, I-"
"What," Lyle asked pointedly, "did you all do to her?"
"I," Mark answered neutrally, "I stopped by the garage, and I don't know why she ran. I ordered her to stop, but she didn't. She provoked me. I think she was going to the diner, which is something she never did because she likes her food kosher or something, but I caught her and dragged her into the woods. I had sex with her there, and-"
"Stop," Lyle demanded. "What was that again? You had what with her?"
"Sex. I thought the others would kill me for it because she's not our kind. She's too good for our food. That thing she puts her hair up in? Everything about her is different. We're not suppose to have sex with people who are different-"
"You didn't have sex, Mark. You raped an innocent woman."
"Same thing basically. We both know she isn't innocent. She's not from here, and she was wearing that thing on her head! Where I'm from people keep their love lives quiet, it's not everyone's business, and we didn't have a bisexual like her. She had another girl with her for a while, and they spent all of their time in that trailer, and I know what they were doing because I looked in the window one night. They were doing unnatural things."
"Oh, then people who are in love don't get married in your birth place of origin?" Lyle asked casually.
"They get married, alright, but it ain't natural to-"
"So," Lyle continued casually, "people aren't all that quiet about being in love in your small town after all. I didn't think so. They aren't quiet about their affinity for fatty foods, or religion, either, and probably proudly wear a lot of church merch in hopes of offending an atheist. Tell me, Mark: how do they feel about rape and murder in your small town?"
A young woman who wore sunglasses and a sharp dagger through her green bouffant leaned forward, and informed Mark crisply, "Nothing is more unnatural than rape."
Mark noted her forked tongue and recoiled. These people, he was beginning to suspect, weren't one of the more popular clandestine military contracting agencies, evidently.
"We blew off steam. After the others were done with her, I snuck back in the old moonshine cellar to be alone with her. She woke up and started fighting me, and screaming."
"Moonshine cellar," Lyle repeated, addressing the shadows, and, unbeknownst to Mark, a text was hastily composed and sent to a Centre operative still on the ground in Georgia.
"Did you kill Miuna Azahaari?" Parker asked, irritably.
"Yes, I killed her. I killed her with my bare hands. Even y'all recognize the value in that, and that I'm an asset. That's why I'm here, right? Working for a place like this is what I always wanted."
"Tell us, Mark," Lyle rejoined, "why you chose to implicate Jarod in Miuna's death."
"That wasn't my idea. Why does it matter? No one even knew who that guy was. He had no known associates or family, no work experience, no priors, nothing in any database that we could use. Plus, he really fouled up our plans to frame him, too. We thought he'd left town for the day to pick up car parts for his girlfriend, but by the time he got back days later her bod was already getting ripe, and he got himself caught on a Stop and Rob's surveillance camera filling up that car and buying a water- once on his way out of the state and again on his way back in."
"Hmm," Lyle hummed. "Is that why he was rotting away inside that pathetic excuse for a holding cell?"
"Partly. We were going to starve him to death, make it look like he'd escaped, got trapped in the woods."
"And Miss Azahaari's body?"
"We were going to plant it a few yards from Jarod's body, in a shallow grave filled with evidence that incriminated Jarod, but then that bitch's parents went on the news and called in the Feds and ruined that plan."
"That doesn't track, Mark. Either there was dissent in the ranks or you and your people planted Miss Azahaari's blood in her laundry room, specifically in the hamper. Test results reveal that bed sheets were the primary target. You knew she and Jarod had slept together, and how it would look."
"No, I didn't. I mean, yes, I know how that would look, but I didn't do that. None of us did. So, anyway, I'll take this gig," Mark said. "What kind of payday am I looking at here anyway? Six figures? Seven?"
"Close," Lyle answered Mark with an amiable smile, recalling Jarod's fondness for the figure eight, and addressed those in attendance, "I propose we proceed now to phase two of the trial."
"Trial," Mark shrieked. "You mean interview?" He was, he still believed, above reproach.
A balding gentlemen in a purple ballgown nodded agreement at Lyle, and, said impassively, "I second."
"You mean interview, right?" Mark asked again, recoiling from the large man approaching him.
Another stiff in a dark suit.
Mark, still in his tactical camouflage and kevlar cosplay ensemble, swung his fist, punched only air, and gasped when a hand closed around his neck.
"Careful," Parker shouted at Sam, reminding authoritatively, "He is Jarod's."
"Wait, Jarod's alive?" Mark asked, struggling to escape the detaining hands. "Why would you let him live?"
Mark's questions weren't answered, would never be answered, and he wouldn't have believed that, between himself and Jarod, Jarod was the valuable one.
It was another phase of the interview, Mark convinced himself. He didn't resist being escorted onto an awaiting lift, and off again. To my Crucible, Mark mused, clinging to soothing mantras and delicious fantasy.
He was more curious than frightened when Sam shoved him into an immense room that smelled of death and kerosene. Concrete flooring and flickering fluorescent reasonably aligned with Mark's lofty delusions. Of course there's a cage. No cage fight is complete without one. Wait. Are those--
"Shackles mounted in the wall?" Mark asked with withering certitude, but succeeded in inspirational-quote-ing away the doubts.
The toughest soldiers fight the toughest battles.
Onward Christian soldier!
A torture wonderland made perfect sense to Mark, and it did, undoubtedly, in a warped psychologically-mind-fucked, evil-shadow-government, black ops kind of way. For all of his grousing about deep states Mark had absolutely no objections to being recruited into the deepest and darkest of the deep states.
He studied the room with opened-mouth awe, envisioning himself as dungeon master. "Hey," he yelped when he was lifted off of the floor, and hoisted over Sam's shoulder. Sam, Mark realized, was not only well-groomed and expensively attired, he was unbelievably jacked. For a stiff in a suit, that is.
"Is it starting already?" Mark asked. "I don't get a tour or nothing first?"
Sam entered the cage, returned Mark's feet to the floor, and closed the cuffs tightly around his wrists and ankles.
"What now?" Mark asked. "Hey," he said when Sam withdrew from the cage. "You can't leave without saying something. Are there rules or do we fight to the death? Hey, are you going to answer me? Hey!" Mark shouted. "Are you nuts or something?"
"No," Sam answered brusquely, adding ominously, "but Jarod is."
Jarod? Jarod is nothing.
What's he going to do?
Come in here and cry at me about his girlfriend?
"Speak of the devil," Sam said, withdrawing hastily from the room.
Mark swung his gaze at the door where Jarod and Lyle stood. The pair looked strange standing there, Jarod in a black suit, the one called Lyle in white.
Suits. Two stiffs in suits.
"You," Mark shouted. "Hey, yeah, come on in, Jarod. What are you going to do? Hit me? Cry some more?"
Lyle, with tender encouragement, his words reaching only Jarod's ears, said, softly, "It's all right, Jarod. Go ahead. You know you want to. Consider it a gift."
Lyle wasn't wrong.
Jarod did want to. Terribly, in fact.
Miuna had been tortured and murdered, and he'd been beaten and starved, accused of hurting Miuna, and was now a fugitive in every U.S. state, and several countries as well. If he could escape the Centre, which was rather unlikely considering the hosts of long-overdue security upgrades, there was no where to run, no refuge for him. Because of the wannabe cop, Jarod was never going to leave the Centre again. Jarod was never going to see his family again. Furthermore, Mark deserved to be held accountable and punished for his crimes.
Miuna deserved justice.
Jarod wanted to seek justice for her, wanted, in fact, to exact revenge, and the Centre was offering him an opportunity to do precisely that; they had, quite literally, gift-wrapped Mark—in chains and steel shackles—for Jarod.
Sydney taught me better.
I'm better than this.
Miuna wouldn't want this.
I won't become this monster.
"What a pussy," Mark said with a triumphant scoff, breaking ground on his own grave. But he didn't know that yet.
Neither did Jarod.
"That's your problem, Pussy. You should have stayed and protected your bitch, and her nasty pus-"
For his enduring asininity, Mark was awarded a front row seat, a truly incomparable POV, to an incredible and terrifying transformation.
It was as if, Mark believed, someone had flipped a switch inside of Jarod.
Suddenly, and much too late, Mark wished someone would turn Jarod off.
There wasn't even time for Mark to process Jarod's entrance into the room, into the cage, Jarod loosening the cuffs—giving Mark the opportunity to hit back—the first punch, or the following ten.
Jarod had been standing near the door, and then the second hand jogged forward, and Mark's vision, inexplicably, blurred.
G.I. No immediately lost sight in his right eye, and couldn't open his mouth to complain about it, because Jarod's first punch had connected with his jaw, and not, as Mark believed, his eye. Pain and bright light exploded behind Mark's eyes, and his mouth filled with blood.
"Stop," Mark cried, exhaling blood and saliva, his words wet and slurred, sounding more like dod than stop.
And Jarod might have taken Mark's splintered pleas into consideration had he heard them over his rage.
Mark moved his lips to plead for his life, but three sharp blows, delivered in rapid succession, mangled his thoughts, as well as his bottom lip. Jarod's swift assault easily outpaced Mark's ability to process it.
Mark was still contemplating his partial blindness when his head recoiled off the wall behind him. He made an effort to beg again, but his lips weren't even working correctly. He pushed his tongue around his mouth and discovered, with a jolt of horror, that a segment of his bottom lip was inside his mouth, straddling, and imprisoned by, at least two of his teeth.
Suddenly, he was looking left instead of right; his theories regarding that were interrupted by a stomach-churning crack. Mark watched, in disbelief, the room spin and darken. His nose throbbed painfully, and with an eerie numbness that, he feared, indicated it was broken.
He heard himself gasping for air, and imagined a fish out of water, and a human in water, and saw Miuna's face marred in terror and mirroring his, and he wanted someone to shut off the television. He loathed the dreaded static noise screen, all gray fuzziness.
"No," Jarod snarled, and Mark's mind simply didn't know any better than to play along, provide appropriate imagery for the narrative. He observed as Jarod reached through the squiggly dot patterns, adjusted the rabbit ears, and, for good measure, conducted a little percussive maintenance on the television, but Jarod wasn't slapping the side of an antique television set. He was slapping Mark across the face. Repeatedly. "No. You don't get to lose consciousness."
Mark sought the strength to beg for his life, but there was nothing left inside of him but a whimper.
The abuse concluded as abruptly as it began, and Mark hoped that it meant they'd be moving on from the initiation phase.
Working quickly, attempting to outrun himself and what he'd done, Jarod cuffed Mark's wrists and ankles, observed the man's body dangle uselessly from the cuffs.
Jarod wanted to care. He truly did. He wanted to walk away, was already turning to leave.
But a thick ribbon of blood traveled down Mark's neck, and past the torn shirt collar.
Had Mark been capable of supporting his own weight, standing upright instead of slumped forward, Jarod wouldn't have seen the script tattoo on his chest, or the violent scabbed-over scratches that Miuna had righteously inflicted with her fingernails.
It worked, Mark thought. I'll be damned it worked! Because I wanted it enough. I'm going home. Going home with a new career.
Mark's favorite quotes rang alarmingly false.
He felt Jarod's fingers at his neck, and the single vigorous jerk of hands, and his shirt ripping down the middle, revealing his chest. He yelped and shuddered reflexively, and, as result, teetered violently from his binds.
"Miuna fought you," Jarod said with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "She scratched at that tattoo, those words," he added with a snarl, removing leather work gloves, and his suit jacket, and slinging them across the room.
Jarod appeared blurry and distant when observed through Mark's only properly functioning eye. Mark had sight enough to observe nitrile gloves, the kind healthcare professional use, and a scalpel. He knew what scalpels were from the various late night dramas he'd binged over the years, enough to know he didn't want one anywhere near him. He made a small sound of protest when Jarod passed the scalpel's tip over his blood-coated chest.
"Oh, no?" Jarod cooed in response, all mock innocence and bewilderment, "but it says right here on your chest that," Jarod squinted briefly, and carefully recited the words, "what you allow is what will continue. Apparently, you're allowing me to do this, Mark, and why shouldn't you? These words are what she saw last before you murdered her," Jarod added angrily, his voice catching, "and if the scratches are any indication she didn't like them."
With a new surge of rage, a more controlled and focused rage, a rage with a purpose and a real future, Jarod plucked away the scab, the first of dozens, ignoring the accompanying attempts at pleas and screams. "It's what she saw last," Jarod repeated angrily, noting with acute fascination that the largest scab almost entirely obscured the word allow.
The Pretender slipped beneath Miuna's skin, saw what she saw—vapid words concealing unpopular and unpleasant truths—and he knew what he had to do. He laughed darkly and abruptly, frightening Mark, and frightening himself.
Jarod laughed like a man who, after wandering lost in the dark, saw, at last, a flicker of light. He extended a hand, and collected a chisel and hammer from a rusty toolbox. Swiftly, he pressed the tip of the chisel to Mark's chest, and lifted the hammer.
Mark might have attempted to protest or compose a coherent question, despite the evident futility, but he was experiencing a rather tardy epiphany.
That Sam fellow hadn't misrepresented the truth, after all. Jarod was, in Mark's opinion, a newly unearthed breed of insanity.
Jarod was the thing waiting beneath the bed, lurking in the closet.
And the quotes, all of them, Mark realized, were horseshit. Mark had only ever needed to be on the other side of life's genuinely fucked up shit, experiencing it for a change, to understand that neither fate, faith, will, luck, hard work, nor his silly fucking quotes could save him—just as Miuna hadn't been saved.
Jarod answered the question in Mark's mostly-swollen-shut left eye, nevertheless, "I'm just finishing what Miuna started," and, with earnest determination and precision, struck the chisel with the hammer.
Concourse three was gelid and brightly illuminated, and despite the frenzied activity, and the anticipation and anxiety on the faces of the various work crews, unnaturally quiet.
There was no cacophony of excited laughter, only well-oiled efficiency. It was the Centre, after all, and board members insisted that all activity transpiring on Centre premises be conducted with rigid professionalism.
If Balsam firs and wreaths were installed in December, the edifice would be adorned with the same obstinate haste and stern straightforwardness as the shrouded marble statue presently being erected.
Parker knew already what lie beneath the cloth, but had been ordered, nonetheless, to be present at the pending unveiling.
And the subsequent circle jerk.
Chief elder Faraijii Mkhize had, in fact, dictated the to-be-issued-Centre-wide memorandum to his secretary declaring mandatory attendance for all Centre personnel. Parker, nevertheless, felt personally and directly singled out, and attacked.
She had returned the Pretender to the Centre, thus fulfilling her contractual obligation to both the Centre and Triumvirate, only to be informed—via a vaguely congratulatory letter from the Council—that aforesaid contract had been nothing more than a father's attempts to appease and motivate his daughter, and with apparent success.
The Council, nevertheless, vowed to consider honoring the contract, and intended to notify Parker of their decision, and the future of her relationship with the Centre and Triumvirate during the forthcoming employee review assembly.
My future. Parker knew a threat when she heard one. The Centre was hardly a pink-slip sort of a corporation. There were no retirement parties or cakes for departing employees, and no commendations for a job well done.
The Centre offered pats on the back only to terminated and treasonous employees who needed physical assistance in falling to their deaths.
I am not going to die here, Parker vowed to herself.
"So, the statue's ready," Lyle observed, startling Parker. "Funny, isn't it," he added with a laugh, absentmindedly tapping the folder in his right hand. "They're celebrating Jarod for being captured. He gets a statue of himself, and to be hailed as Centre guest of honor, and you don't even get a promotion for doing all of the work."
"It's hilarious," Parker sang sharply, agreeing with Lyle's sympathy-coated taunt. "What do you want, Bobby?"
"For you not to call me Bobby, for starters, Sis."
"I'll tell you what, Lyle," Parker said in a quiet, tight voice, "don't call me sis and I won't call you Bobby."
"I knew you could be reasonable, Si- uh, Miss Parker. Look, we have a problem. It's Jarod."
"Some things never change," Parker said with a meaningful look at the shrouded statue.
"Everything has changed this time," Lyle groused, "including how we address him. I'm partial to doctor myself, considering the surgical precision he applied to unaliving G.I. No. Look," Lyle said with obscene eagerness, opening the folder to reveal photographs of Mark's body. "Impressive, isn't it? What about you hmm? Will it be Dr. Jarod or Mr. Jarod?"
Parker averted her gaze from the lifeless eyes in the photographs, and, turning to leave, answered Lyle brusquely, "Get back to me about that when hell freezes."
"I haven't told you what the problem is," Lyle hastily called to Parker in a voice as menacing as it was soft. "Doctor Jarod hasn't touched the Orxxzyueiijs project, or his breakfast, and is asking to speak to Sydney."
"Tell him Mummy can't come to the phone right now."
"Been there, did that," Lyle said, lengthening his stride to catch up with Parker. "You're number 2 in his speed dial directory."
"Lucky me," Parker murmured, turning to the bank of elevators and slapping the down arrow with an open hand.
"You're not going up to see him?"
"No, I'm not," Parker answered.
"You have spoken to Jarod since depositing him in the infirmary two months ago, haven't you?"
"I've got work to do, Lyle," Parker said stiffly. She had tactfully avoided the Pretender, delegating Jarod-related responsibilities to Broots and Sam. "Meanwhile," added Parker fiercely, "he's living in luxury in the Chairman's wing with Tower access, his closets are filled with designer clothes, and his meals are prepared by a 9 star Michelin chef."
"That's because the board voted, unanimously, to house, clothe, and feed the Centre's preeminent asset like he is, in fact, the Centre's preeminent asset, and not a servant."
"Go back up there and remind the asset of the glorified closet the Centre kept him in for a decade, the gray pajamas, the green slop, and that forced feedings are never off the Centre's menu."
Lyle whistled quietly, and said, blandly, "Ouch. That's unnecessarily harsh."
With some effort, Parker smiled wickedly, ignoring the throbbing behind her eyes, the spasm of guilt in her chest. She handily concealed her relief when the lift opened behind her; she longed for the awaiting refuge, provisional as it was.
"It's called doing my job, Lyle," Parker rejoined casually, stepping onto the lift. "You might want to try it yourself."
"Jarod is your job," Lyle discreetly reminded Parker, extending a foot to prevent the elevator doors from closing. "Or have you forgotten?"
"Returning him was my job," Parker argued indignantly.
"Look," Lyle cautioned darkly, "the only thing you're going to accomplish here is pissing off the Director, the Council, and the Chief Elder. Faraijii likes Jarod. Hell, he's considering giving Jarod full access to the grounds."
"Full?" Parker repeated in astonishment, nearly choking on the word, and adding with a low snarl, "The Triumvirate wouldn't dare."
"What's wrong, Miss Parker, hmm, not comfortable with free range Jarod?" Lyle jested.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious," Lyle confided softly. "I don't know if they're planning to chip him or brainwash him, but I do know they're confident he won't escape. This means your job, and by extension you, could soon be-- obsolete.
Personally, I've always believed that it's important to have another skill to fall back on," he added with a cursory glance at his watch. "I hope your cleaning skills are up to par."
"Back off, Bobby, or you'll find out how up to par they are."
"That's the Parker spirit," lauded Lyle with a wink. "See you tonight, Sis," he added jovially as the doors closed.
Parker massaged her temples with a trembling hand and closed her eyes. Fucking perfect.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.