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Disclaimer: All characters and are the property of NBC and TNT. I don’t own them, I just borrowed them.
Not in Kansas Anymore
part 3
by Charlatan
The Helen Keller
As she climbed onto the Helen Keller Miss Parker grimaced in disgust. The deck was dirty, with cheap, wood trim that had been bleached and warped by the elements.
Compared to its sparkling neighbors, the pretender’s boat was an eyesore.
She walked toward the door of the cabin. Her shoe stuck momentarily, and was then pulled free by the force of her momentum. She barely caught herself in time. Behind her, the annoying little fisherman let out a guffaw, painfully reminding her that he was still there.
“Great!” she hissed glancing down at her now tar covered imported Italian pump. “When I get back, Jarod, you’ll pay for this,” she murmured.
“Careful Miss, the man said as he stepped forward as though to assist her, and immediately stepped back and retracted his outstretched hand when he caught one look at the danger in her eyes. He pointed to the tar, “Looks like some of Jarod’s junk got blown over in a storm.”
“Junk?”
“Yeah,” the man replied. “Jarod was always collecting the things other people didn’t want. He said it made him sad to watch so many treasures going to waste. He was a strange one, that Jarod. One night, I watched him cart mountains of wires and broken machinery up here. Don’t know where he put it all—maybe it’s in the cabin.”
Miss Parker glanced at the cabin. She reached out and tried the knob. It was locked, but not for long. She pulled out her gun.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the fisherman stammered in disbelief.
“Looking for a treasure trove.” She cocked the gun.
The man stepped forward, and stood between her and the door. “Now listen Miss, I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but around here we don’t go shooting the locks off cabin doors. We call that ‘breaking and entering’.”
She smiled evilly and her voice never rose above a harsh whisper. “If you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to give a new meaning to that cliché—mainly the breaking part.”
She was unable to make good on her promise, as her ringing cell phone interrupted the standoff. She let it ring several times, never dropping her threatening posture and scathing glare, before she finally stepped back and clicked open the phone.
“What,” she answered in her most threatening voice.
“Angel? I was worried. Where are you?”
“Daddy,” Miss Parker replied her tone at once loosing its confidence and changing into that of a petulant child.
“Well? Where are you?”
She paused, not wanting to tell him. After all he must already know; she had logged a flight plan with the Centre airstrip before leaving. “I’m in Boston, Daddy.”
The already gruff voice on the other end of the line hardened considerably. “You’re supposed to be in Blue Cove, setting up the Michaels’ account.”
She cringed inwardly. Just that word, “account” left a bitter taste in her mouth. In the time she’d been chasing Jarod she’d learned two things: the pretender was a pain in the ass, and she never wanted to again occupy her boring and stiff job with Corporate.
“I know Daddy, but I’ve been following a lead on Jar—.”
He cut her off sharply. “I don’t want any excuses. I want you back here, pronto. Are we clear?” His voice softened. “Now Angel, you don’t need to worry anymore about Jarod. He’s back in the Centre where he belongs, and by the end of the day you’ll be back in corporate where you belong.”
She could almost hear the unspoken addendum: “or else.”
She wanted to laugh, to hang up on him, but instead she said, “Yes Daddy. I’m on my way.” The Helen Keller would have to wait, but next time she wouldn’t need to follow breadcrumbs to find it.
***
The Centre (11 days later)
Someone was going to die. Going postal would be the her only option, if she had to endure one more petulant, rich client with their sniveling problems--that wouldn’t even exist if they had half a brain. That’s all it took her to fix them. Maybe that’s what really bothered her: that she was so good at covering their indiscretions.
She sighed forcefully, and briefly entertained a fantasy of marching around the Centre, up and down the sublevels blasting everyone into infinity. Except Broots, and maybe Sydney. She scowled. She still didn’t know what Sydney was up to, or Jarod for that matter.
When she returned to Blue Cove, her father had all but ordered her to stay away from her former staff, and especially keep her distance from the pretender project--he was sure her brother could handle it. She grimaced, recalling Lyle’s gloating smile at the exchange. “Do yourself a favor, sis,” he had said as they left Mr. Parker’s office. “Forget about Jarod, and just go back to doing what you do best. In the meantime I’ll take care of business in this corner of the world.”
She had smiled coldly at him, and walked away. Her father’s dressing-down had left her, for once, without any clever retorts.
She stared out her window--a real window--with a fantastic view of the peaceful blue waters that bordered the Centre. They were like the calm before the storm. She made a decision.
Miss Parker reached down and pushed her intercom.
“Yes?” came the timid voice of her secretary. Miss Parker frowned. That woman’s fear of her would give the Broots she had met four years ago a run for his money.
“Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. I need to take care of the Michaels’ account. Call and get the Centre jet ready.”
“Y-you’re going out of town? I mean, didn’t you already settle that account?” Miss Parker frowned, wondering if this secretary could be trusted. Her instinct won out.
“I have to go to Rhode Island, and meet with Mr. Michaels personally,” she lied. “Something’s come up.” She could picture secretary flinching as Miss Parker disconnected the call with a flourish. You just couldn’t get good help these days.
****
Sublevel 22
Sydney sat pensively in his office, frowning at the sleeping form of his pretender on the surveillance feed. Jarod looked terrible, and aside from a genuine concern for the young man’s well being, the psychiatrist was getting tire of being kept in the dark.
He remembered that moment, two weeks ago, when they’d first let him see Jarod. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Lyle to agree, and that fact alone was cause for concern.
When he’d entered the darkened room where the Pretender was being held he took one look at him and knew something was up. Jarod jumped to his feet—or better yet his foot, as one leg seemed significantly impaired—and his eyes focused on the floor.
“Jarod?” he had begun hesitantly. “It’s Sydney. You can look at me.” There was no response, and he stepped forward intent on eliciting one.
At that moment the pretender lost his balance, and toppled into his long-time mentor.
Sydney caught him in surprise. Staggering back under the young man’s weight, he barely had time to hear the words hissed into his ear, before the vigilant sweepers threw the pretender roughly into the wall.
“How dare you attack someone!” The head sweeper yelled, and slammed his first into Jarod’s stomach. The pretender doubled over in pain, crumpling to the floor, but he did not cry out.
“Stop this!” said Sydney in a surprisingly sharp tone that commanded the sweepers’ attention. “He clearly fell, and I’m not demanding any physical repercussions for an accident.”
The head sweeper eyed him cockily.
“I will,” Sydney said in a low threatening voice, “make that demand in reference to other individuals if they do not desist at once.”
The sweeper was actually impressed. Maybe there was more to this soft-spoken man than met the eye. After all, you didn’t last as long as Sydney had without having a few sharpened fangs--well hidden as they might be.
“You heard the Doctor.” A voice from behind them called. The sweepers backed off as Mr. Lyle stepped into the cell. He walked over to Jarod. “On your feet!” he ordered. The pretender stood up, and found his focal point on the ground. “Good boy,” the thumbless man said mockingly. Jarod gave no reaction. On previous days Jarod had seemed a little bit “testy,” but today, he appeared...defeated. That was good.
Despite Jarod’s initial complacent behavior Lyle had still be able to detect the slightest hint of some indiscernible emotion. Whether it was barely controlled fear or suppressed hatred, Lyle hadn’t sure, but he was determined to find out.
For the last three days Lyle had noted a steady decline in the labrat’s autonomic behavior. Maybe it had been fear after all. Needless to say, it was time to put this gradual submission to the test. He knew just how to do it. Although the Centre had not officially announced the pretender’s return, simulation requests, with large revenue attachments, had suddenly started pouring in.
The depraved man smiled, “Tomorrow, you and Sydney are going to start working on simulations. Do you understand?” The pretender nodded dumbly.
Satisfied, the man escorted Sydney out of the room. “I expect you to be here bright and early to work with him. If that’s going to be a problem, well, there are so many other bright doctors who could probably …fill the job.” His voice trailed off threateningly.
“I’ll be here.”
Lyle looked surprised. “It’s amazing how agreeable everyone around here is being. Must be something in the water.” He studied the aging man’s face for a moment trying to discern his cryptic expression, and than strode away.
Sydney turned back to the still open cell door, and cast one last look at its lone, desolate occupant. He turned away, and walked after Lyle. The pretender’s words followed him up the hallway, echoing in his mind: “Please, just play along. Just play along.”
***
The Helen Keller
It had almost been too easy. It was truly amazing how even the best trained Centre operative crumbled at the wrong end of a steel barrel. It had taken very little effort for her to persuade the jet’s pilot to change his route midair, and take her where she really wanted to go.
She climbed onto the deck of Jarod’s boat, and walked over to the cabin door. She pulled out her gun, and screwed on a silencer. On a sudden impulse she tried the doorknob one more time. The door swung open. She frowned wondering who could have left it unlocked. Had her father sent a sweeper team here after she left?
As she climbed down the latter into the cabin, the only sounds were the clinking of her heels and the pounding of the surf. But as she dropped passed the last few rungs, the real world faded away, and she found her self in Jarod’s strangest lair yet.
The entire cabin was a mess of wiring—from telephones to computers and back again. She stood over the main computer, regretting that she’d left Broots back at the Blue Cove. The technician had a plethora of painful idiosyncrasies, but at times like these she realized how valuable an asset he could be.
The screen was blank except for a box requesting a multi-digit pass code. She was going to have to wait to explore this treasure trove.
She sighed, but even as the breath left her lungs inspiration hit her. She rapidly typed in a code, and the main menu screen popped up. ‘Thank you, Jarod,’ she thought. ‘The ‘seeing may see little,’ but those who remember see all.’
She stared at the menu, and clicked on the bar called Triple Jeopardy. Despite her technological inefficiencies, Miss Parker could still read between the lines. The list on the screen before her looked more than vaguely familiar. The bottom accounts were all new, but one caught her eye. It had only recently been sent, and was from a little fictional firm named Troika. She snorted at the name. “The one thing I can always say about you, Jarod, is that you’re definitely clever.” She pulled out her cell phone and dialed.
“Hello?” A familiar voice answered.
“Broots, I need you down here ASAP.”
“M-miss Parker?” he stammered, “Where are you? And I can’t meet you anywhere, Mr. Lyle made that very clear to me when I was transferred to security.”
‘Damn him,’ she thought, “Lyle’s always sticking his distorted hand where it doesn’t belong.’
Aloud she replied: “I don’t want to hear any of your fear driven excuses about how you’re not working for me any longer. As for Lyle, leave him to me. I don't care if you have to beg, borrow, or steal a plane, just come to our last location on the yellow brick road,” she said vaguely, aware that the line was probably monitored. “I think I found the Emerald City.”
part 3
by Charlatan
The Helen Keller
As she climbed onto the Helen Keller Miss Parker grimaced in disgust. The deck was dirty, with cheap, wood trim that had been bleached and warped by the elements.
Compared to its sparkling neighbors, the pretender’s boat was an eyesore.
She walked toward the door of the cabin. Her shoe stuck momentarily, and was then pulled free by the force of her momentum. She barely caught herself in time. Behind her, the annoying little fisherman let out a guffaw, painfully reminding her that he was still there.
“Great!” she hissed glancing down at her now tar covered imported Italian pump. “When I get back, Jarod, you’ll pay for this,” she murmured.
“Careful Miss, the man said as he stepped forward as though to assist her, and immediately stepped back and retracted his outstretched hand when he caught one look at the danger in her eyes. He pointed to the tar, “Looks like some of Jarod’s junk got blown over in a storm.”
“Junk?”
“Yeah,” the man replied. “Jarod was always collecting the things other people didn’t want. He said it made him sad to watch so many treasures going to waste. He was a strange one, that Jarod. One night, I watched him cart mountains of wires and broken machinery up here. Don’t know where he put it all—maybe it’s in the cabin.”
Miss Parker glanced at the cabin. She reached out and tried the knob. It was locked, but not for long. She pulled out her gun.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the fisherman stammered in disbelief.
“Looking for a treasure trove.” She cocked the gun.
The man stepped forward, and stood between her and the door. “Now listen Miss, I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but around here we don’t go shooting the locks off cabin doors. We call that ‘breaking and entering’.”
She smiled evilly and her voice never rose above a harsh whisper. “If you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to give a new meaning to that cliché—mainly the breaking part.”
She was unable to make good on her promise, as her ringing cell phone interrupted the standoff. She let it ring several times, never dropping her threatening posture and scathing glare, before she finally stepped back and clicked open the phone.
“What,” she answered in her most threatening voice.
“Angel? I was worried. Where are you?”
“Daddy,” Miss Parker replied her tone at once loosing its confidence and changing into that of a petulant child.
“Well? Where are you?”
She paused, not wanting to tell him. After all he must already know; she had logged a flight plan with the Centre airstrip before leaving. “I’m in Boston, Daddy.”
The already gruff voice on the other end of the line hardened considerably. “You’re supposed to be in Blue Cove, setting up the Michaels’ account.”
She cringed inwardly. Just that word, “account” left a bitter taste in her mouth. In the time she’d been chasing Jarod she’d learned two things: the pretender was a pain in the ass, and she never wanted to again occupy her boring and stiff job with Corporate.
“I know Daddy, but I’ve been following a lead on Jar—.”
He cut her off sharply. “I don’t want any excuses. I want you back here, pronto. Are we clear?” His voice softened. “Now Angel, you don’t need to worry anymore about Jarod. He’s back in the Centre where he belongs, and by the end of the day you’ll be back in corporate where you belong.”
She could almost hear the unspoken addendum: “or else.”
She wanted to laugh, to hang up on him, but instead she said, “Yes Daddy. I’m on my way.” The Helen Keller would have to wait, but next time she wouldn’t need to follow breadcrumbs to find it.
***
The Centre (11 days later)
Someone was going to die. Going postal would be the her only option, if she had to endure one more petulant, rich client with their sniveling problems--that wouldn’t even exist if they had half a brain. That’s all it took her to fix them. Maybe that’s what really bothered her: that she was so good at covering their indiscretions.
She sighed forcefully, and briefly entertained a fantasy of marching around the Centre, up and down the sublevels blasting everyone into infinity. Except Broots, and maybe Sydney. She scowled. She still didn’t know what Sydney was up to, or Jarod for that matter.
When she returned to Blue Cove, her father had all but ordered her to stay away from her former staff, and especially keep her distance from the pretender project--he was sure her brother could handle it. She grimaced, recalling Lyle’s gloating smile at the exchange. “Do yourself a favor, sis,” he had said as they left Mr. Parker’s office. “Forget about Jarod, and just go back to doing what you do best. In the meantime I’ll take care of business in this corner of the world.”
She had smiled coldly at him, and walked away. Her father’s dressing-down had left her, for once, without any clever retorts.
She stared out her window--a real window--with a fantastic view of the peaceful blue waters that bordered the Centre. They were like the calm before the storm. She made a decision.
Miss Parker reached down and pushed her intercom.
“Yes?” came the timid voice of her secretary. Miss Parker frowned. That woman’s fear of her would give the Broots she had met four years ago a run for his money.
“Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. I need to take care of the Michaels’ account. Call and get the Centre jet ready.”
“Y-you’re going out of town? I mean, didn’t you already settle that account?” Miss Parker frowned, wondering if this secretary could be trusted. Her instinct won out.
“I have to go to Rhode Island, and meet with Mr. Michaels personally,” she lied. “Something’s come up.” She could picture secretary flinching as Miss Parker disconnected the call with a flourish. You just couldn’t get good help these days.
****
Sublevel 22
Sydney sat pensively in his office, frowning at the sleeping form of his pretender on the surveillance feed. Jarod looked terrible, and aside from a genuine concern for the young man’s well being, the psychiatrist was getting tire of being kept in the dark.
He remembered that moment, two weeks ago, when they’d first let him see Jarod. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Lyle to agree, and that fact alone was cause for concern.
When he’d entered the darkened room where the Pretender was being held he took one look at him and knew something was up. Jarod jumped to his feet—or better yet his foot, as one leg seemed significantly impaired—and his eyes focused on the floor.
“Jarod?” he had begun hesitantly. “It’s Sydney. You can look at me.” There was no response, and he stepped forward intent on eliciting one.
At that moment the pretender lost his balance, and toppled into his long-time mentor.
Sydney caught him in surprise. Staggering back under the young man’s weight, he barely had time to hear the words hissed into his ear, before the vigilant sweepers threw the pretender roughly into the wall.
“How dare you attack someone!” The head sweeper yelled, and slammed his first into Jarod’s stomach. The pretender doubled over in pain, crumpling to the floor, but he did not cry out.
“Stop this!” said Sydney in a surprisingly sharp tone that commanded the sweepers’ attention. “He clearly fell, and I’m not demanding any physical repercussions for an accident.”
The head sweeper eyed him cockily.
“I will,” Sydney said in a low threatening voice, “make that demand in reference to other individuals if they do not desist at once.”
The sweeper was actually impressed. Maybe there was more to this soft-spoken man than met the eye. After all, you didn’t last as long as Sydney had without having a few sharpened fangs--well hidden as they might be.
“You heard the Doctor.” A voice from behind them called. The sweepers backed off as Mr. Lyle stepped into the cell. He walked over to Jarod. “On your feet!” he ordered. The pretender stood up, and found his focal point on the ground. “Good boy,” the thumbless man said mockingly. Jarod gave no reaction. On previous days Jarod had seemed a little bit “testy,” but today, he appeared...defeated. That was good.
Despite Jarod’s initial complacent behavior Lyle had still be able to detect the slightest hint of some indiscernible emotion. Whether it was barely controlled fear or suppressed hatred, Lyle hadn’t sure, but he was determined to find out.
For the last three days Lyle had noted a steady decline in the labrat’s autonomic behavior. Maybe it had been fear after all. Needless to say, it was time to put this gradual submission to the test. He knew just how to do it. Although the Centre had not officially announced the pretender’s return, simulation requests, with large revenue attachments, had suddenly started pouring in.
The depraved man smiled, “Tomorrow, you and Sydney are going to start working on simulations. Do you understand?” The pretender nodded dumbly.
Satisfied, the man escorted Sydney out of the room. “I expect you to be here bright and early to work with him. If that’s going to be a problem, well, there are so many other bright doctors who could probably …fill the job.” His voice trailed off threateningly.
“I’ll be here.”
Lyle looked surprised. “It’s amazing how agreeable everyone around here is being. Must be something in the water.” He studied the aging man’s face for a moment trying to discern his cryptic expression, and than strode away.
Sydney turned back to the still open cell door, and cast one last look at its lone, desolate occupant. He turned away, and walked after Lyle. The pretender’s words followed him up the hallway, echoing in his mind: “Please, just play along. Just play along.”
***
The Helen Keller
It had almost been too easy. It was truly amazing how even the best trained Centre operative crumbled at the wrong end of a steel barrel. It had taken very little effort for her to persuade the jet’s pilot to change his route midair, and take her where she really wanted to go.
She climbed onto the deck of Jarod’s boat, and walked over to the cabin door. She pulled out her gun, and screwed on a silencer. On a sudden impulse she tried the doorknob one more time. The door swung open. She frowned wondering who could have left it unlocked. Had her father sent a sweeper team here after she left?
As she climbed down the latter into the cabin, the only sounds were the clinking of her heels and the pounding of the surf. But as she dropped passed the last few rungs, the real world faded away, and she found her self in Jarod’s strangest lair yet.
The entire cabin was a mess of wiring—from telephones to computers and back again. She stood over the main computer, regretting that she’d left Broots back at the Blue Cove. The technician had a plethora of painful idiosyncrasies, but at times like these she realized how valuable an asset he could be.
The screen was blank except for a box requesting a multi-digit pass code. She was going to have to wait to explore this treasure trove.
She sighed, but even as the breath left her lungs inspiration hit her. She rapidly typed in a code, and the main menu screen popped up. ‘Thank you, Jarod,’ she thought. ‘The ‘seeing may see little,’ but those who remember see all.’
She stared at the menu, and clicked on the bar called Triple Jeopardy. Despite her technological inefficiencies, Miss Parker could still read between the lines. The list on the screen before her looked more than vaguely familiar. The bottom accounts were all new, but one caught her eye. It had only recently been sent, and was from a little fictional firm named Troika. She snorted at the name. “The one thing I can always say about you, Jarod, is that you’re definitely clever.” She pulled out her cell phone and dialed.
“Hello?” A familiar voice answered.
“Broots, I need you down here ASAP.”
“M-miss Parker?” he stammered, “Where are you? And I can’t meet you anywhere, Mr. Lyle made that very clear to me when I was transferred to security.”
‘Damn him,’ she thought, “Lyle’s always sticking his distorted hand where it doesn’t belong.’
Aloud she replied: “I don’t want to hear any of your fear driven excuses about how you’re not working for me any longer. As for Lyle, leave him to me. I don't care if you have to beg, borrow, or steal a plane, just come to our last location on the yellow brick road,” she said vaguely, aware that the line was probably monitored. “I think I found the Emerald City.”
