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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.
Revised 10/2001
Stop Telling Me What To Do
Part 1 : Don't Hold Your Breath
by paula h
The Centre has an ambience, a cold brooding exterior, and shadow-patterned interior. Sometimes it's the perfume of the place that brings it to my mind: laundered air, stainless steel, disinfectant, dank corners, gunpowder, and a sprinkling of fear.
Some nights, when I take my first breath of outside air, I feel like I've been holding my breath all day. Some nights, when I'm at home alone, I feel like I've been holding my breath for years.
It's early morning and I'm sitting curled into a ball with my back against the headboard. I had a dream; Thomas and I were walking in the woods. It's evening, just cooling off, and the grass and leaves smell of life. There is a thunderstorm in the air, Thomas tells me to hurry, and he laughs. The rain starts and we run, chased by lightning. Thomas runs around the front of the house. There is a flash of lightning and a loud crack. I stop; then walk slowly around the corner to the porch. I can feel my tears mix with the rain. I know I'll find Thomas dead, and the best part of me dead with him.
The tears followed me out of the dream. I got up, went to Thomas's drawer, and pulled out one of his shirts. I picked a worn flannel, with the remnants of his scent, and wrapped myself around him.
The sun came up about an hour ago. Now I have to move, to go back to The Centre, to face his killer. I Brigitte pulled the trigger but I don't know who's responsible for Thomas's death, not yet. I'll be their tool until I can be the instrument of their death. I put the tear-dampened shirt, and my memories back into the drawer. I trade my robe for a power suit and heels. The all night drizzle continues while I drive to The Centre. The rain stops as I park the car. Water evaporated from the pavement hangs heavy in the air. I inhale deeply and walk through the door.
I am several strides into the building before I realize that I'm holding my breath. I have to smile at myself. A passing sweeper glances at me nervously; that makes my smile broaden. Miss Parker is back, more persona than person; it's the mask that allows me to do The Centre's bidding. Then the smile disappears. Something is different in the air, disturbing because it doesn't belong here. I hurry to my office.
A wave of apple pie fragrance hits me as I open the door. Broots was there before me, with his back to the door. I push him aside and stare at the Easy-Bake Oven on the desk.
"Broots, what the hell?"
"I don't know. The oven came addressed to me, with the door taped shut and a note to set it up on your desk and start it half an hour ago."
"And you followed those instructions because?"
"The note was from Jarod. He always has a reason for what he does."
"Try to remember, Broots, the last time Jarod and I met we nearly got blown up. He has certain...issues...with The Centre. This little gift might be a bomb."
"I checked it out, Miss Parker, and there's nothing unusual about it. Debbie had one when she was little. Didn't you?" I just stare at him.
"Www..well," he stammers, "It's just a light bulb and a little pie mix and filling."
"Ever hear of plastique?"
"Jarod wouldn't do that."
"Your confidence in him is overwhelming."
The phone rings; I pick it up. "What?"
"The smell of apple pie. Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven," Jarod, in his best smirking announcer's voice.
"There's usually a point to your machinations. Want to get to it?"
"Doesn't the smell of baking make you think of home and Mom?"
An alarm goes off in the back of my mind. "Whose mother? Mine or the one you can't remember?" Always go for the jugular.
It works, Jarod pauses, his voice hints of anger, "I remember her, and I will see her again."
It is my turn to pause; think of the mother I will never see again. He always seems to turn the argument back on me. "Touché. You get the point. Now get to yours before I hang up."
"I have something of your mother's. Would you like it?"
"You could have sent it, instead of baked goods."
"The pie is free. This has a price."
"How much?" Jarod has never asked for money before.
"Information on my family."
"I doubt if I can access that information."
"See what you can do." Jarod hangs up, and so do I.
The oven alarm chimes. Broots opens the door and removes the pie, burning the tips of his fingers in the process. "It looks good. Do you want it?" he asks, expectantly.
"No." Pie from Jarod? Not today.
Broots smiles and steals a file folder to protect his hand from the hot pie while he takes it from the room. "Broots, did it occur to you that Jarod might have put something in the pie?"
"Poison? Jarod wouldn't...." He stops when I raise my hand. Spare me.
"There are non-lethal, but unpleasant, things he might have added," I smile. "Enjoy."
Broots looks at the pie with suspicion, sniffs it, shrugs, and leaves.
I just sit in my chair and stare at the back of the oven. So, Jarod wants information on his family. He must have hit a dead end after his escape, no father, no clone, no family and no leads. One thing about that group, they certainly know how to disappear.
My files on Major Charles, et al, are sparse and I'm sure Jarod has that information and more. I need something that will surprise him, better yet, shock the hell out of him. I flip through the files looking for ideas or gaps. I find myself chewing my cheek and switch to gum. Something available on a "need to know" basis would do, and right now I need to know. I press the intercom button, "Broots, get back here."
Broots is still licking his fingers when he returns to my office. He's not thrilled with the assignment but what else is new. I send him on his way.
At noon I go to his hole-in-the-wall to make sure he's awake. He spent the better part of the morning accessing files he has no business accessing. His results are not impressive. Major Charles leaves about as many bread crumbs as Jarod. If Jarod expects me to tell him where to find his father he will be disappointed.
On the other hand Major Charles' financial information is relatively complete, not highly classified, and only six months outdated. The Major does not spend lavishly. However, travel and research are expensive. When his expenses were analyzed against his earnings from the odd jobs he held over the years they did not compare well. Where is Major Charles getting his money? Broots first thought was that the Major, like his son, is siphoning off Centre funds. His next theories were family money or a military pension. There are no family monies or Centre withdrawals. There is a military pension, but, since the Major has been declared dead, the pension is deposited in his wife's name. It is untouched. I wonder what she's been living on?
At four o'clock I check again. Broots has no solution to the mystery of Major Charles' income and he has a new question: how did Major Charles get declared dead? That, along with Jarod's mother's income and his sister's whereabouts, is a whole other project. I add them to Broots to-do list and tell him to get back to finance tracking.
An hour later, he tells me he's found the first glimmer of an answer. Threads of a financial trail lead in and out of several dummy accounts. The Major has a regular income, in the form of small hidden deposits, which he accesses in different ways when needed. It adds up to a large sum of money. The next job is finding the money's source.
When I walk in two hours later, Broots has a headache and a few answers. I can tell he was considering sneaking out the back door when he heard me coming.
I stand at the top of the landing, hands on the railing, and lean over the rail. "You better have something to show for today."
"I do. But it's not what I expected, and I don't think Jarod will like it." He hands me a data disk and a printout.
I scan the evidence. "Are you sure about this?"
"As sure as I can be without breaking into Mr. Raines' office."
"When will you be doing that?" Just a little push.
Never, he mumbles to himself. Aloud he says, "Mr. Raines just left for the day. His assistant is still clearing the office. It won't be empty for at least and hour and Debbie has a soccer game. If I have to go in there again," he looks at me hopefully, "it won't be till early next morning."
I contemplate Broots for a moment, the way a woodpecker contemplates a bug. I want to make him stay but Debbie is the best excuse he could have used. "Fine, go. I'll take care of it myself. Jarod will be calling and I want him to see this." I wave the disk. "How will I know when it's 'safe' to go in?"
"The woman who cleans Raines' office cleans mine after. She complains that Raines won't even let her empty the trash until everything has been secured. She's a nice woman. She sees some interesting things, and will talk about them if you ask her the right way."
"Research is your job. If it turns out the cleaning people know more than you, I may have to reevaluate your position."
Broots erases his data trail, packs up, and runs out the door. I turn and leave, smiling at the tinge of fear I saw on his face. He is so easy.
I wait the next hour in my office. Jarod has not called. When Carl, the man who cleans my office, comes in the door, I leave. I don't think I've ever said three words to him. I don't even know his last name. I wonder what he tells people about me.
The cleaning woman is busily dusting Broots' office.
"Is he gone?" I ask.
"Mr. Broots?" the woman responds, "Yes, he is."
"Him and others." I turn to leave. "Thanks." Where did that come from?
The woman gives me a surprised smile and nod.
I slip into Raines's office. Broots would be pleased to see how quickly I access the files I want. I copy an old employment record and a few newer entries onto the data disk. If Jarod wants information on his father, he'll get it. I replace everything the way I found it and exit the building.
I'm half the distance to my house when the cell-phone beeps. Guess who. "What?!"
"Gas tank full?"
"Yes."
"Remember the way to Donoterase?"
"Yes."
"There's an apple orchard just before you turn off the road. I'll be waiting. Come alone." He cuts the link. I turn the car and drive.
I never thought I would drive down this particular dirt road again. I wonder why Jarod wants to meet here. Better yet, I wonder why I agreed to meet him here. The last time I saw Jarod he was angry with me. He thought I had betrayed him. Should I be helping him now? Am I helping him?
The information I have is the truth. He seems to enjoy shoving truth in my face, but he may not want to know it. Most of the time I wish he would just leave me alone. I really don't understand him at all. He's a genius among geniuses. He can be anything he wants. I could excuse his immaturity because The Centre kept him isolated. When I think about him as a boy stolen from his family, my heart aches. When I think about him the way he is now, a jibing smart-ass... well that's not quite true, I chase him; he taunts me. It may not be mature but in a childish sort way I suppose it's fair.
Jarod's been loose in the world for a long time and he still has the maturity quotient of a five year old at times. Some men never grow up but they don't have the depth of character others tell me he has. I've never seen it personally... well that's not true either, he occasionally says or does something nice between insults. Broots and Sydney trust him, and I must trust him because I'm meeting him on an unmarked road, in the middle of the night, alone.
The phone rings, startling me.
"What?" My voice that sounds tired and distracted, even to me.
"Pull over at the gate."
"It's too dark to see anything. What gate?"
"The one you just passed."
"Shit!" I hit the brake. The car skids slightly on the gravel. I shove the car into reverse, spinning up more dirt.
"That's rather hard on the road, don't you think?"
"I may try it on you face for dragging me out to this cow pasture in the middle of the night."
"The cow pasture is on the other side of the road."
I swear under my breath. I can visualize Jarod laughing much better than I can see the gate. I park the car in the middle of the road. "Then what?"
"Get out of the car, go through the gate, and keep on walking." He hangs up, as usual.
I drop the phone on the floor and get out of the car. Jumping a small ditch proves interesting in the dark. I open the gate and walk through.
Well here I am, waiting for Boy Wonder to jump out and grab me. He wants me to walk. These shoes are not and asset. That may be his plan, he spread a little minefield of cow pies for me to walk through. Not as inventive as the roach motel, but it would give him a chuckle. And I would be forced to hurt him.
I sniff the air; then take a deep breath. It seems alright. All I can smell are apple blossoms and a hint of honey.
I look around, adjusting my eyes to the darkness. I start walking. If this is a trap, it's a beautiful one. The apple trees are just past full bloom. Their fruit-sweet perfume is intoxicating. There must be half an inch of dropped petals on the ground; it's like I'm walking on silver. I didn't notice how bright the night is until now. The air is full of moonlight through the branches.
I see large white boxes beyond the next trees. The scent of honey grows until it overpowers the apple blossoms and buzzing fills the air. The boxes are beehives here to pollinate the apples. They must be packed with bees and honeycomb. I can see small drips of honey coming through the joint between hive sections. It shimmers like polished amber. I reach out to touch it. The hive is hot to the touch and the honey flows over my fingertips. I pull my hand away. Bees cling to the outside of the hive, fanning the heat and honey smell with hundreds of tiny wings. They take no notice of me, too busy to worry about my minor theft.
I put my fingers to my mouth and the honey flows over my tongue. It tastes like the sunshine of Spring and the promised fruit of Autumn. The air is thick with the musky sweetness of the honey and the lighter perfume of the blossoms. Moonlight dances between the leaves. The bees sing their rhythmic song of contentment. The sound of knowing your place in the world and what you life's work should be.
Parker is lost in the earth magic of the night. She does not see me approach through the trees. I stop several feet from her, watching her watch the bees. I like seeing her like this. She looks younger, relaxed, human, and beautiful. I want to tell her so. I want to speak to her about the beauty of the night. Instead, I say, "I told you to keep walking."
Parker spins toward me. Her hand goes from her mouth to her gun, hesitates, and then drops to her pocket. "The walking was your idea; not mine."
I grin, "Do you like the honey?"
She realizes that I've been watching her. A blush spreads up Parker's neck; her anger rises to meet it. "The only reason I came on this little nature hike is that you have something of my mother's. Do you plan to show me what you found?"
I continue to smile. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine." I love baiting her; I have my hands behind my back so she can't see what I hold.
"Dream on," she still doesn't smile, and crosses her arms. The conversation is over.
We stand, looking at each other for several minutes, each refusing to make the first move. Finally, a guard bee breaks the deadlock. It launches itself at Parker's face, circles, and makes another pass. Parker ducks and moves quickly away from the hives.
"Fine, Jarod, have it your way! I'm going where I should have gone in the first place, home."
"Miss Parker, wait." I hold out a small packet, and try to make my face expressionless. Parker looks at me then takes the packet. She watches my face while she undoes the clasp. Inside are a few black and white photographs of a baby and young girl. They remind me of Parker's baby pictures, but the clothes were from a different period. It may be hard to tell in the moonlight. She turns the pictures over, and sees the name "Catherine," and date, neatly printed on each picture in the same hand. The most recent photo has "Catherine and Maria." That photo shows her mother, at the age of nine, in front of a church, with an infant.
"Where did you get these?"
"The sisters at St. Catherine's Convent. They kept a few things your mother left there.
"Who is Maria?"
"I don't know for sure."
"You never give answers, do you, Jarod? Just more mysteries." Parker sounds tired and angry.
"Our lives are made of mysteries; built on lies."
"There's no winning with you," Parker sighs and lowers her voice, "or The Centre. I guess I'll be spending my spare time the next few weeks looking for this Maria."
"It's better than dwelling on your losses."
"You're in no position to fault anyone for dwelling on the past.
"I don't have enough past to dwell on..." That response is always on the tip of my tongue and it always annoys her.
"Alright, Jarod!" Parker cuts me off. She puts the pictures in her pocket, and pulls out a data disk. She holds the disk out to me. "This is information on your father."
I reach for the disk and she pulls it back. "It will not tell you where he is." She looks me in the eye.
I hold my hand out by force of will; doubt crawls up from the back of my mind. "What will it tell me?" Do I want to know? I can't let her see my indecision
"Who the man you call father is. The truth about his connection to The Centre."
"Truth is good." Do I still believe that?
"Not always. Read this over and let me know if you still feel that way." Parker hands me the disk; I step back into the shadows. She stands there until she thinks I'm gone; then she turns toward the fence and walks to the road. She quickly gets into her car and drives off.
She thought I left, but I would never leave her alone in the darkness, any more than I will ever leave her alone about her father. I smile to myself. There are many things she needs to know. Things I'd like to tell her if she would listen. Many things...
I wait until night sounds are all I can hear before I pull on my beekeeper's suit and veil. I smoke the beehives well and staple the units together. I use smoke and a soft brush to coax the outside bees into the hives and seal the entrances. When I'm satisfied I retrieve the flatbed truck parked nearby; use the attached lift to move the hives onto the truck bed; then secure them in place. Once the hives are ready to move back to their beeyard, I settle into the seat to wait for morning. That gives me some rest and a few stragglers a chance to return to their hives. Ten or twenty bees are of as little importance to a hive as an individual is to The Centre. But Parker says I "have a thing" for the little guy. I guess it's true even if the little guy is a bee.
I have the bees home and off the truck before their keeper makes it out to the yard. We unload supers filled with honey, and I help the older man take them into his processing shed. We spend the rest of the day extracting honey.
The beekeeper is grateful for the help, "You did an excellent job, Jarod. The hives are full. The bees are happy and healthy. This is more honey than I've ever gotten in a year. You've done the work of three men. I've got all the time in the world to finish the honey and tend to the bees. That's the definition of retired." He smiles benignly. "You told me you were doing this as a 'vacation' three weeks ago. I assume you can afford the time off but, unless you've decided to retire, you should be getting back to your real life. Are you avoiding something?"
Apparently you don't have to be a "genius" to see through one. I look at the man and smile. "I guess I should get back to work." I clean up, eat the offered supper, pack and start up my car.
The old farmer shakes my hand and hands me a gallon of apple-blossom honey. "A little for the road," he laughs. He knows about my sweet tooth. "It's been a pleasure working with you. If you're in the neighborhood, be sure to look me up."
"I get back here pretty regularly, whether I want to or not." A private joke I won't share with him. I wave as I drive off. My smile disappears by the time I reach the highway. I know I'm avoiding the information Miss Parker gave me but I'm not sure why.
Four hours and two states later, I pull into a Holiday Inn. I settle into a nice room, order room service, and open my laptop. The sigh that comes from my chest surprises me, but the information on the data disk won't go away and I did ask for it.
According to the employment records, The Centre's Data Retrieval Unit hired Major Charles after he retired from the Air Force. The Circle of Fire was not mentioned. The Major was rated as "skilled" and "knowledgeable" in information gathering and computers; his unnamed interviewer gave him a glowing recommendation. He also had private sources in several military branches. At his six-month, one and two year evaluations he was classified as an asset. Four years later, he resigned and disappeared. My birth date falls somewhere between those dates.
The financial data Broots garnered described Major Charles' income with no absolute reference to the source. The expenditure page was straightforward and held no surprises. The intricacy of the income trails indicates that my father and his benefactor(s) do not want the funds traced. The only thing Broots could verify was that the money was in no way connected to The Centre. I examine the data and agree with his conclusions. The trails lead to Europe, then muddy. I choose one at random and dig deeper. Just when I think I've found the end of the maze, the cheese blows up in my face. I click on an entry and the site crashes. The laptop screams a virus warning and it's everything I can do not to loose all stored data. I choose a second data group. I'm more cautious but come to the same near-disaster. I hear myself swearing, frustrated. These people have great guard-dog programs. My searches have alerted the source, additional attempts will only erase more data and possibly leave my father without funds.
I look over Broots' information again. I will have to make a trip to Switzerland in the near future. I run three different virus scans before shutting down the laptop. It's dawn; that road is blocked; I'm irritated. Then a thought makes me smile, I think I'll share. I pick up the phone, dial and wait.
"What?" As predicted.
"Good morning, Miss Parker. I hope you slept well. Any luck with the Maria mystery?"
She sighs, then she starts, "I've slept well the last two nights, no dreams and no phone calls from you. Speaking of mysteries; haven't you ever wondered where your father got the money to chase you all over the map?"
I would prefer an evasive answer but have to settle for the truth, "No."
"And you think I'm naive?"
"I don't think you're naive, Parker, I think you ignore the truth about the man you still call father."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black."
"Excuse me?" I know what she means.
I hear her exasperated sigh, "What did you learn from the data disk?"
"That my father discovered what The Centre really is and felt he had to hide himself and what was left of his family from them."
Parker chuckles softly, "And he was an innocent little lamb, led astray by the Big, Bad Centre." She huffs. "Do you think your father's that stupid? And have you ever known The Centre to hire stupid people?"
"Only for expendable positions." I think of Kenny. "I doubt that everyone employed by The Centre knows who and what they work for." Parker may not catch the reference, but she knows what I mean.
"You make The Centre sound like a spider waiting on its web."
"More like a pitcher plant, beautiful, sweet, and once you fall in there is no escape."
"So the truth doesn't bother you at all."
"I have to verify Broots' data."
"Broots thinks rather highly of you. I thought you'd return the compliment."
"I do." Really, I do. "I just need to follow his leads."
"I'm sure you'll do it with your usual obsession."
"I prefer to think of it as tenacity."
"You say tomato..."
"What?" That reference has no meaning to me. Tomato?
"You're ruining my morning. Remind me to return the favor when I find you."
"If."
"When!" Parker hangs up. I visualize her grinding her thumb into the "off" button.
I was watching the morning fog lift while nursing a mug of coffee when the phone rang. I knew it was a mistake to bring it outside with me, but I did. My reward is Jarod-induced indigestion. I toss the remainder of my coffee onto the lawn and stalk into the house. I wish Jarod would just disappear and leave me alone... permanently. Dammit, I can't even sit on my own porch without harassment. He makes me feel like I'm in grade school and some little brat has taken my lunch money. That only happened once, Jimmy, Jimmy Sloan in the second grade. I ran to the teacher crying and she wouldn't do anything because she had no proof. When I told Daddy he said I had to stand up for myself, I was a Parker. A week later, Jimmy tried it again and I hit him in the face with my library book. He got a nosebleed instead of the money and he didn't have the guts to tell the teacher because I threatened to do worse if he did. So he told her that he walked into a door... that's what Mommy told me the first time she got a black eye, the first time Raines hit her. I stare sightlessly out a window. Why wasn't she strong enough to stand up for herself? Why didn't she tell Daddy what Raines did? Or did she? Some day I'm going to know the truth not just the stories I've been fed all my life.
I notice the time. I better get moving. I exchange my fleece robe for a light gray flannel suit. Daddy expects me for breakfast. If I'm not punctual he won't wait and I want to ask him if Mommy ever mentioned Maria. Then I intend to find Broots and get him looking for Jarod instead of the donut lady.
Plans changed. I didn't mention the photographs or Maria to Daddy at breakfast; instead I tell Broots to find out what he can. It turns out to be very little. I put the photos in a locked drawer and try to put the matter out of my mind. Jarod is noticeably silent and untraceable.
Two weeks later I give up my struggle against curiosity and pull out the pictures again. I make a trip to St. Catherine's Convent myself. One of the oldest nuns remembers Mother as a "good little girl; always obedient; always helping with the younger children and the babies." She cannot recall if the baby in the picture is related to Catherine. In the days before abortion was an option, and unwed mothers were not accepted, infants were frequently abandoned at the convent. Most girl babies were called Mary or Maria during their short stay at the convent; their names changed when they were adopted. The nun also recalls the "nice young man" who came looking for Catherine's things. If he was the one who gave me the photos, perhaps I could ask him. Done that; been there; back where I started.
Back at The Centre, I take the photographs to Daddy's office before I allow myself second thoughts. I walk straight his desk and put the photos on top of the file he's reading. He glances at the pictures, turns them over and reads the back. He looks up again, smiling. Why does his smile seem insincere?
"It's amazing how much you resemble your mother." He doesn't even ask where got the pictures.
"Do you know anything about Mother and this Maria? Is she a relative?"
"Well, Sweetheart, I... umm... I don't think I know this Maria. Umm... your mother never mentioned her." His smile seems fixed, then fades, "Your mother's family has all...hemmm... passed on. These pictures are nice, but that's the past. This family is all that matters now. You, Lyle and the baby mean everything to me."
"Mother never spoke about her time at St. Catherine's?" I can't stop myself from asking again.
"I know we've covered this ground before, Angel. Why bring it up again? She put the past behind her when we married. You need to stop dredging it up. Look to the future." He stood; came around the desk; handed me the pictures and put his arm around my shoulders, walking me to the door. "Our family has a duty to influence The Centre. You have the ability but you need to turn all your attention toward that goal. We have work to do."
I accept his answer without further comment, but do not find it comforting. I allow myself to be escorted from his office and return to mine.
Daddy was so evasive, I wonder if he told me the whole truth. He misled me before, saying it was for my own good. I plop into my chair and throw the photographs onto the desk. Oh God, now I'm starting to examine everything he says.
Jarod probably knew the Maria picture was a dead end when he gave it to me and this whole exercise was just to put more doubts in my mind. I hope I returned the favor. I pick up my mother's picture. I run a fingertip along her cheek, like the path of a tear. Maria was just another child my mother tried to help.
The phone rings; I know who it is before I pick up the receiver.
"What?"
"Miss me?"
"Only if my aim is off."
Jarod laughs. Why, Miss Parker, I feel threatened."
"Care to tell me where you've been hiding or, better yet, where you are?"
"I don't think you need the target practice. I haven't been hiding, I've been in Europe."
"A tour?"
"...Of financial institutions in Switzerland. The Swiss banking system is very interesting and secretive; some of their more confidential records are not computerized. I tried to follow the money trails back to their source. They lead to several numbered accounts, but those accounts are dummies and virtually untraceable, at least at my current security clearance."
"You failed?" I try for sarcastic astonishment.
Jarod ignores my tone; his voice brightens. "Not completely. I found a new trail of funds leading back to North America, and possibly to my father."
"You'll be sure to let me know when and where you find your daddy?"
There is a short pause. Will he let me know? Or will he disappear? "Yes, I'll tell you when I find my family. What did you learn about Maria and yours?"
"She was a foundling. No relation."
"Sorry," I think he means it. "I guess I owe you some family information," the last with just a touch of sarcasm.
I want anything that connects me to my mother, but the thought of Jarod's information somehow frightens me. "You owe me the same nothing I owe you."
"Someone owes you some truth in your life."
"Do you know just how repetitious you are?"
"Repetition, that's the way I was trained. Blame it on The Centre."
I can hear the grin in his voice, I smile, but it's too much of an opening, I ask, "If you find your father will he blame everything on The Centre or will he tell you the truth? Do you have the guts to ask him?"
"I'll face the truth, and I'll deal with it," just short of a snarl. "I have to hang up now."
"Feel free to talk longer."
"Staying free is more my intention. Your phone tracers had enough time to get close. When I have something to say I know where to find you."
"Unless I find you first."
"Don't hold your breath." (click)
My computer screen lights up five minutes after the call. Jarod is somewhere in the northeast United States. The phone trace programs were recently improved and he stayed on the line slightly longer than he intended. I call Broots and dump the information on him.
Three hours later he comes back with an update.
"Well?"
"I downloaded records of bank transactions between Switzerland and the US, and excluded banks outside the Northeast. Then I developed a program with the appropriate variables to exclude all traceable contributions and/or withdrawals. Once the computer has done it's job I'll hand sort, and run the remnant past Angelo, if possible."
"Can you pinpoint the bank?"
"I can narrow the search to four or five possibilities."
"How soon?"
He's fidgeting; this won't be a good answer. "Forty-eight hours."
"Real or Scotty estimated time?" He just looks at me, I know he's a Trekie and he over-estimates. "Speed it up." I wave him out of the room.
Thirty-six hours later, Broots presents me with a list of ten accounts, narrowed from several hundred. He has not been able to see Angelo. He seems pleased with himself, and when I look at the data I can tell he's put a lot of work into narrowing the possibilities.
"Ten accounts in four cities. This will be great for my expense account."
His face drops; I should tell him he did a great job, but I dismiss him, "That will be all, Broots. It's the sweepers turn now." He nods and leaves. I dispatch search teams to the cities involved. Jarod probably has two more days to find his father before they find him.
It's three days since I called Parker; I'm sitting in a small sub-let apartment in New York City. I've just reviewed, for the fifth time, all the financial records Broots and I have gathered over the past few weeks. I really thought I found a good lead, but it's another dead end. I keep hoping my father will find a way, make some effort, to reunite. It never happens. I seem to end up back where I started. I rest my head on my hands, elbows on at the small kitchen table I'm using as a desk. How do I explain my father's finances and associations? Who is paying him? Why? What does he owe them in return? I sigh. What if Parker is right?
Questions, never answers. Isn't that what she said about me? A smile slips across my mouth. She might be the only one to understand... reluctantly. I want to tell her I saw the sweepers and they walked right past me. I want to see if my package arrived yet. The smile fades. I have some information, some truth, about her father. It will hurt her deeply and she's been hurt so much. I'm not sure if I should give it to her, but she has a right to know the truth.
I'm sitting in my office; I've just reviewed the financial transaction information Broots gathered on Jarod's father for the tenth time. Broots agrees it's a dead end. The sweeper teams are useless.
There's a cardboard box on my desk. It holds a plastic bear filled with apple blossom honey, a small pie pan, a Jiffy piecrust mix, and the biggest golden apple I've ever seen. The note says, "Still got the oven? Make something you can be proud of." The honey I appreciate, the notes I'm used to; but where did he get that apple?
The ringing phone gets the usual "What?"
"Hello, Miss Parker, I promised I'd call."
"You found your father?" I sit up, surprised and interested.
"No."
There's resignation in his voice; I want to say something consoling. Instead I say, "You'd think, if he cares so much, he'd find a way to leave you a message or at least a bread crumb."
"He's probably afraid you'd find it," he sounds angry. I hear him change gears, back to jibing, "Speaking of crumbs, did you get mine?"
"If I take a bite out of the apple will I sleep until Prince Charming comes along?"
Jarod chuckled, then he said, "You're in no danger; you're not quite Snow White."
I can't decide whether to laugh or slam the receiver in his ear. "And you're Prince Charming?" I realize the possible implication of what I said and immediately add, "The point of the apple is?"
"It's BIG. I have the family information I owe you, and I want you to have it. Since your sweepers walked right past me, I thought you needed a clue."
"A big apple? Want to be more obvious?"
"Only if it's necessary to get you to come to New York." He's taking no chances.
"Oh, I'm coming, with friends. Where shall we meet?"
"Just come; I'll leave a trail of bread crumbs." He pauses, "Parker, did you find any more information about my father's work at The Centre?"
Could that be a hint of doubt in his voice? "No. What I found was in Raines private file. You could ask him; I think he'd love talking to you."
The thought of talking to Raines nauseates me; I can guess how Jarod feels. His answer comes as a growl, "I don't see that happening."
"Then you'll have to wait and ask your Daddy. Have you ever thought that all that money might be payment to find you or your clone for The Centre's competitors?"
He ignores the money issue. How long can he do that? "What competitors?"
"That's one of those need-to-know topics, like Donoterase. I've been told I don't need to know."
"By your Daddy?"
"Yes." How does he always switch the conversation around? Damned infuriating.
"You should confront him; demand answers."
"Why don't you?" I'm loosing my temper...as intended, and it makes me angrier. "Come right over and ask him. Better yet, find your OWN father and confront him!"
"Ask your Daddy if he's proud of the things he's done," in that calm reasonable voice, "If you can be proud of the 'Parker' name."
"I AM proud of it. I'm proud of him," as an afterthought, "and I love him."
His voice rises slightly, "Open your eyes. Look at what he really is."
Anger is a knot in my chest, "Stop telling me what to do!"
"Don't hold your breath." and he's gone.
And here I sit. No further ahead. Trying to talk to Jarod about his father is a waste of breath. Asking my father about the past is a waste of breath. The most important men in our lives and we barely know who they are, who we are.
My past is almost as empty as Jarod's. What did he say? "Our lives are mysteries built on lies." I guess he's right. Emptiness and lies. Like this office, like this building, like my future. I feel like I'm waiting to for someone to teach me how to live... and the only volunteer doesn't know what he's doing.
Here I sit. No further ahead. Trying to have a conversation with her is a waste of time. We don't talk, we yell. I can't help it; she makes me angry. She refuses to see what that man she still calls father is. What The Centre has made him. What it will eventually do to her. She needs to see to the truth, even if I have to shove it down her throat.
And me? I need to find my father, to ask him her questions, so I can put The Centre behind me. The Centre, the center of my universe, always at the back of my thoughts. I can feel it, like a cold black cloud between me and the sun, always keeping me in its shadow.
Please let me know what you think
Revised 10/2001
Part 1 : Don't Hold Your Breath
by paula h
The Centre has an ambience, a cold brooding exterior, and shadow-patterned interior. Sometimes it's the perfume of the place that brings it to my mind: laundered air, stainless steel, disinfectant, dank corners, gunpowder, and a sprinkling of fear.
Some nights, when I take my first breath of outside air, I feel like I've been holding my breath all day. Some nights, when I'm at home alone, I feel like I've been holding my breath for years.
It's early morning and I'm sitting curled into a ball with my back against the headboard. I had a dream; Thomas and I were walking in the woods. It's evening, just cooling off, and the grass and leaves smell of life. There is a thunderstorm in the air, Thomas tells me to hurry, and he laughs. The rain starts and we run, chased by lightning. Thomas runs around the front of the house. There is a flash of lightning and a loud crack. I stop; then walk slowly around the corner to the porch. I can feel my tears mix with the rain. I know I'll find Thomas dead, and the best part of me dead with him.
The tears followed me out of the dream. I got up, went to Thomas's drawer, and pulled out one of his shirts. I picked a worn flannel, with the remnants of his scent, and wrapped myself around him.
The sun came up about an hour ago. Now I have to move, to go back to The Centre, to face his killer. I Brigitte pulled the trigger but I don't know who's responsible for Thomas's death, not yet. I'll be their tool until I can be the instrument of their death. I put the tear-dampened shirt, and my memories back into the drawer. I trade my robe for a power suit and heels. The all night drizzle continues while I drive to The Centre. The rain stops as I park the car. Water evaporated from the pavement hangs heavy in the air. I inhale deeply and walk through the door.
I am several strides into the building before I realize that I'm holding my breath. I have to smile at myself. A passing sweeper glances at me nervously; that makes my smile broaden. Miss Parker is back, more persona than person; it's the mask that allows me to do The Centre's bidding. Then the smile disappears. Something is different in the air, disturbing because it doesn't belong here. I hurry to my office.
A wave of apple pie fragrance hits me as I open the door. Broots was there before me, with his back to the door. I push him aside and stare at the Easy-Bake Oven on the desk.
"Broots, what the hell?"
"I don't know. The oven came addressed to me, with the door taped shut and a note to set it up on your desk and start it half an hour ago."
"And you followed those instructions because?"
"The note was from Jarod. He always has a reason for what he does."
"Try to remember, Broots, the last time Jarod and I met we nearly got blown up. He has certain...issues...with The Centre. This little gift might be a bomb."
"I checked it out, Miss Parker, and there's nothing unusual about it. Debbie had one when she was little. Didn't you?" I just stare at him.
"Www..well," he stammers, "It's just a light bulb and a little pie mix and filling."
"Ever hear of plastique?"
"Jarod wouldn't do that."
"Your confidence in him is overwhelming."
The phone rings; I pick it up. "What?"
"The smell of apple pie. Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven," Jarod, in his best smirking announcer's voice.
"There's usually a point to your machinations. Want to get to it?"
"Doesn't the smell of baking make you think of home and Mom?"
An alarm goes off in the back of my mind. "Whose mother? Mine or the one you can't remember?" Always go for the jugular.
It works, Jarod pauses, his voice hints of anger, "I remember her, and I will see her again."
It is my turn to pause; think of the mother I will never see again. He always seems to turn the argument back on me. "Touché. You get the point. Now get to yours before I hang up."
"I have something of your mother's. Would you like it?"
"You could have sent it, instead of baked goods."
"The pie is free. This has a price."
"How much?" Jarod has never asked for money before.
"Information on my family."
"I doubt if I can access that information."
"See what you can do." Jarod hangs up, and so do I.
The oven alarm chimes. Broots opens the door and removes the pie, burning the tips of his fingers in the process. "It looks good. Do you want it?" he asks, expectantly.
"No." Pie from Jarod? Not today.
Broots smiles and steals a file folder to protect his hand from the hot pie while he takes it from the room. "Broots, did it occur to you that Jarod might have put something in the pie?"
"Poison? Jarod wouldn't...." He stops when I raise my hand. Spare me.
"There are non-lethal, but unpleasant, things he might have added," I smile. "Enjoy."
Broots looks at the pie with suspicion, sniffs it, shrugs, and leaves.
I just sit in my chair and stare at the back of the oven. So, Jarod wants information on his family. He must have hit a dead end after his escape, no father, no clone, no family and no leads. One thing about that group, they certainly know how to disappear.
My files on Major Charles, et al, are sparse and I'm sure Jarod has that information and more. I need something that will surprise him, better yet, shock the hell out of him. I flip through the files looking for ideas or gaps. I find myself chewing my cheek and switch to gum. Something available on a "need to know" basis would do, and right now I need to know. I press the intercom button, "Broots, get back here."
Broots is still licking his fingers when he returns to my office. He's not thrilled with the assignment but what else is new. I send him on his way.
At noon I go to his hole-in-the-wall to make sure he's awake. He spent the better part of the morning accessing files he has no business accessing. His results are not impressive. Major Charles leaves about as many bread crumbs as Jarod. If Jarod expects me to tell him where to find his father he will be disappointed.
On the other hand Major Charles' financial information is relatively complete, not highly classified, and only six months outdated. The Major does not spend lavishly. However, travel and research are expensive. When his expenses were analyzed against his earnings from the odd jobs he held over the years they did not compare well. Where is Major Charles getting his money? Broots first thought was that the Major, like his son, is siphoning off Centre funds. His next theories were family money or a military pension. There are no family monies or Centre withdrawals. There is a military pension, but, since the Major has been declared dead, the pension is deposited in his wife's name. It is untouched. I wonder what she's been living on?
At four o'clock I check again. Broots has no solution to the mystery of Major Charles' income and he has a new question: how did Major Charles get declared dead? That, along with Jarod's mother's income and his sister's whereabouts, is a whole other project. I add them to Broots to-do list and tell him to get back to finance tracking.
An hour later, he tells me he's found the first glimmer of an answer. Threads of a financial trail lead in and out of several dummy accounts. The Major has a regular income, in the form of small hidden deposits, which he accesses in different ways when needed. It adds up to a large sum of money. The next job is finding the money's source.
When I walk in two hours later, Broots has a headache and a few answers. I can tell he was considering sneaking out the back door when he heard me coming.
I stand at the top of the landing, hands on the railing, and lean over the rail. "You better have something to show for today."
"I do. But it's not what I expected, and I don't think Jarod will like it." He hands me a data disk and a printout.
I scan the evidence. "Are you sure about this?"
"As sure as I can be without breaking into Mr. Raines' office."
"When will you be doing that?" Just a little push.
Never, he mumbles to himself. Aloud he says, "Mr. Raines just left for the day. His assistant is still clearing the office. It won't be empty for at least and hour and Debbie has a soccer game. If I have to go in there again," he looks at me hopefully, "it won't be till early next morning."
I contemplate Broots for a moment, the way a woodpecker contemplates a bug. I want to make him stay but Debbie is the best excuse he could have used. "Fine, go. I'll take care of it myself. Jarod will be calling and I want him to see this." I wave the disk. "How will I know when it's 'safe' to go in?"
"The woman who cleans Raines' office cleans mine after. She complains that Raines won't even let her empty the trash until everything has been secured. She's a nice woman. She sees some interesting things, and will talk about them if you ask her the right way."
"Research is your job. If it turns out the cleaning people know more than you, I may have to reevaluate your position."
Broots erases his data trail, packs up, and runs out the door. I turn and leave, smiling at the tinge of fear I saw on his face. He is so easy.
I wait the next hour in my office. Jarod has not called. When Carl, the man who cleans my office, comes in the door, I leave. I don't think I've ever said three words to him. I don't even know his last name. I wonder what he tells people about me.
The cleaning woman is busily dusting Broots' office.
"Is he gone?" I ask.
"Mr. Broots?" the woman responds, "Yes, he is."
"Him and others." I turn to leave. "Thanks." Where did that come from?
The woman gives me a surprised smile and nod.
I slip into Raines's office. Broots would be pleased to see how quickly I access the files I want. I copy an old employment record and a few newer entries onto the data disk. If Jarod wants information on his father, he'll get it. I replace everything the way I found it and exit the building.
I'm half the distance to my house when the cell-phone beeps. Guess who. "What?!"
"Gas tank full?"
"Yes."
"Remember the way to Donoterase?"
"Yes."
"There's an apple orchard just before you turn off the road. I'll be waiting. Come alone." He cuts the link. I turn the car and drive.
I never thought I would drive down this particular dirt road again. I wonder why Jarod wants to meet here. Better yet, I wonder why I agreed to meet him here. The last time I saw Jarod he was angry with me. He thought I had betrayed him. Should I be helping him now? Am I helping him?
The information I have is the truth. He seems to enjoy shoving truth in my face, but he may not want to know it. Most of the time I wish he would just leave me alone. I really don't understand him at all. He's a genius among geniuses. He can be anything he wants. I could excuse his immaturity because The Centre kept him isolated. When I think about him as a boy stolen from his family, my heart aches. When I think about him the way he is now, a jibing smart-ass... well that's not quite true, I chase him; he taunts me. It may not be mature but in a childish sort way I suppose it's fair.
Jarod's been loose in the world for a long time and he still has the maturity quotient of a five year old at times. Some men never grow up but they don't have the depth of character others tell me he has. I've never seen it personally... well that's not true either, he occasionally says or does something nice between insults. Broots and Sydney trust him, and I must trust him because I'm meeting him on an unmarked road, in the middle of the night, alone.
The phone rings, startling me.
"What?" My voice that sounds tired and distracted, even to me.
"Pull over at the gate."
"It's too dark to see anything. What gate?"
"The one you just passed."
"Shit!" I hit the brake. The car skids slightly on the gravel. I shove the car into reverse, spinning up more dirt.
"That's rather hard on the road, don't you think?"
"I may try it on you face for dragging me out to this cow pasture in the middle of the night."
"The cow pasture is on the other side of the road."
I swear under my breath. I can visualize Jarod laughing much better than I can see the gate. I park the car in the middle of the road. "Then what?"
"Get out of the car, go through the gate, and keep on walking." He hangs up, as usual.
I drop the phone on the floor and get out of the car. Jumping a small ditch proves interesting in the dark. I open the gate and walk through.
Well here I am, waiting for Boy Wonder to jump out and grab me. He wants me to walk. These shoes are not and asset. That may be his plan, he spread a little minefield of cow pies for me to walk through. Not as inventive as the roach motel, but it would give him a chuckle. And I would be forced to hurt him.
I sniff the air; then take a deep breath. It seems alright. All I can smell are apple blossoms and a hint of honey.
I look around, adjusting my eyes to the darkness. I start walking. If this is a trap, it's a beautiful one. The apple trees are just past full bloom. Their fruit-sweet perfume is intoxicating. There must be half an inch of dropped petals on the ground; it's like I'm walking on silver. I didn't notice how bright the night is until now. The air is full of moonlight through the branches.
I see large white boxes beyond the next trees. The scent of honey grows until it overpowers the apple blossoms and buzzing fills the air. The boxes are beehives here to pollinate the apples. They must be packed with bees and honeycomb. I can see small drips of honey coming through the joint between hive sections. It shimmers like polished amber. I reach out to touch it. The hive is hot to the touch and the honey flows over my fingertips. I pull my hand away. Bees cling to the outside of the hive, fanning the heat and honey smell with hundreds of tiny wings. They take no notice of me, too busy to worry about my minor theft.
I put my fingers to my mouth and the honey flows over my tongue. It tastes like the sunshine of Spring and the promised fruit of Autumn. The air is thick with the musky sweetness of the honey and the lighter perfume of the blossoms. Moonlight dances between the leaves. The bees sing their rhythmic song of contentment. The sound of knowing your place in the world and what you life's work should be.
Parker is lost in the earth magic of the night. She does not see me approach through the trees. I stop several feet from her, watching her watch the bees. I like seeing her like this. She looks younger, relaxed, human, and beautiful. I want to tell her so. I want to speak to her about the beauty of the night. Instead, I say, "I told you to keep walking."
Parker spins toward me. Her hand goes from her mouth to her gun, hesitates, and then drops to her pocket. "The walking was your idea; not mine."
I grin, "Do you like the honey?"
She realizes that I've been watching her. A blush spreads up Parker's neck; her anger rises to meet it. "The only reason I came on this little nature hike is that you have something of my mother's. Do you plan to show me what you found?"
I continue to smile. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine." I love baiting her; I have my hands behind my back so she can't see what I hold.
"Dream on," she still doesn't smile, and crosses her arms. The conversation is over.
We stand, looking at each other for several minutes, each refusing to make the first move. Finally, a guard bee breaks the deadlock. It launches itself at Parker's face, circles, and makes another pass. Parker ducks and moves quickly away from the hives.
"Fine, Jarod, have it your way! I'm going where I should have gone in the first place, home."
"Miss Parker, wait." I hold out a small packet, and try to make my face expressionless. Parker looks at me then takes the packet. She watches my face while she undoes the clasp. Inside are a few black and white photographs of a baby and young girl. They remind me of Parker's baby pictures, but the clothes were from a different period. It may be hard to tell in the moonlight. She turns the pictures over, and sees the name "Catherine," and date, neatly printed on each picture in the same hand. The most recent photo has "Catherine and Maria." That photo shows her mother, at the age of nine, in front of a church, with an infant.
"Where did you get these?"
"The sisters at St. Catherine's Convent. They kept a few things your mother left there.
"Who is Maria?"
"I don't know for sure."
"You never give answers, do you, Jarod? Just more mysteries." Parker sounds tired and angry.
"Our lives are made of mysteries; built on lies."
"There's no winning with you," Parker sighs and lowers her voice, "or The Centre. I guess I'll be spending my spare time the next few weeks looking for this Maria."
"It's better than dwelling on your losses."
"You're in no position to fault anyone for dwelling on the past.
"I don't have enough past to dwell on..." That response is always on the tip of my tongue and it always annoys her.
"Alright, Jarod!" Parker cuts me off. She puts the pictures in her pocket, and pulls out a data disk. She holds the disk out to me. "This is information on your father."
I reach for the disk and she pulls it back. "It will not tell you where he is." She looks me in the eye.
I hold my hand out by force of will; doubt crawls up from the back of my mind. "What will it tell me?" Do I want to know? I can't let her see my indecision
"Who the man you call father is. The truth about his connection to The Centre."
"Truth is good." Do I still believe that?
"Not always. Read this over and let me know if you still feel that way." Parker hands me the disk; I step back into the shadows. She stands there until she thinks I'm gone; then she turns toward the fence and walks to the road. She quickly gets into her car and drives off.
She thought I left, but I would never leave her alone in the darkness, any more than I will ever leave her alone about her father. I smile to myself. There are many things she needs to know. Things I'd like to tell her if she would listen. Many things...
I wait until night sounds are all I can hear before I pull on my beekeeper's suit and veil. I smoke the beehives well and staple the units together. I use smoke and a soft brush to coax the outside bees into the hives and seal the entrances. When I'm satisfied I retrieve the flatbed truck parked nearby; use the attached lift to move the hives onto the truck bed; then secure them in place. Once the hives are ready to move back to their beeyard, I settle into the seat to wait for morning. That gives me some rest and a few stragglers a chance to return to their hives. Ten or twenty bees are of as little importance to a hive as an individual is to The Centre. But Parker says I "have a thing" for the little guy. I guess it's true even if the little guy is a bee.
I have the bees home and off the truck before their keeper makes it out to the yard. We unload supers filled with honey, and I help the older man take them into his processing shed. We spend the rest of the day extracting honey.
The beekeeper is grateful for the help, "You did an excellent job, Jarod. The hives are full. The bees are happy and healthy. This is more honey than I've ever gotten in a year. You've done the work of three men. I've got all the time in the world to finish the honey and tend to the bees. That's the definition of retired." He smiles benignly. "You told me you were doing this as a 'vacation' three weeks ago. I assume you can afford the time off but, unless you've decided to retire, you should be getting back to your real life. Are you avoiding something?"
Apparently you don't have to be a "genius" to see through one. I look at the man and smile. "I guess I should get back to work." I clean up, eat the offered supper, pack and start up my car.
The old farmer shakes my hand and hands me a gallon of apple-blossom honey. "A little for the road," he laughs. He knows about my sweet tooth. "It's been a pleasure working with you. If you're in the neighborhood, be sure to look me up."
"I get back here pretty regularly, whether I want to or not." A private joke I won't share with him. I wave as I drive off. My smile disappears by the time I reach the highway. I know I'm avoiding the information Miss Parker gave me but I'm not sure why.
Four hours and two states later, I pull into a Holiday Inn. I settle into a nice room, order room service, and open my laptop. The sigh that comes from my chest surprises me, but the information on the data disk won't go away and I did ask for it.
According to the employment records, The Centre's Data Retrieval Unit hired Major Charles after he retired from the Air Force. The Circle of Fire was not mentioned. The Major was rated as "skilled" and "knowledgeable" in information gathering and computers; his unnamed interviewer gave him a glowing recommendation. He also had private sources in several military branches. At his six-month, one and two year evaluations he was classified as an asset. Four years later, he resigned and disappeared. My birth date falls somewhere between those dates.
The financial data Broots garnered described Major Charles' income with no absolute reference to the source. The expenditure page was straightforward and held no surprises. The intricacy of the income trails indicates that my father and his benefactor(s) do not want the funds traced. The only thing Broots could verify was that the money was in no way connected to The Centre. I examine the data and agree with his conclusions. The trails lead to Europe, then muddy. I choose one at random and dig deeper. Just when I think I've found the end of the maze, the cheese blows up in my face. I click on an entry and the site crashes. The laptop screams a virus warning and it's everything I can do not to loose all stored data. I choose a second data group. I'm more cautious but come to the same near-disaster. I hear myself swearing, frustrated. These people have great guard-dog programs. My searches have alerted the source, additional attempts will only erase more data and possibly leave my father without funds.
I look over Broots' information again. I will have to make a trip to Switzerland in the near future. I run three different virus scans before shutting down the laptop. It's dawn; that road is blocked; I'm irritated. Then a thought makes me smile, I think I'll share. I pick up the phone, dial and wait.
"What?" As predicted.
"Good morning, Miss Parker. I hope you slept well. Any luck with the Maria mystery?"
She sighs, then she starts, "I've slept well the last two nights, no dreams and no phone calls from you. Speaking of mysteries; haven't you ever wondered where your father got the money to chase you all over the map?"
I would prefer an evasive answer but have to settle for the truth, "No."
"And you think I'm naive?"
"I don't think you're naive, Parker, I think you ignore the truth about the man you still call father."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black."
"Excuse me?" I know what she means.
I hear her exasperated sigh, "What did you learn from the data disk?"
"That my father discovered what The Centre really is and felt he had to hide himself and what was left of his family from them."
Parker chuckles softly, "And he was an innocent little lamb, led astray by the Big, Bad Centre." She huffs. "Do you think your father's that stupid? And have you ever known The Centre to hire stupid people?"
"Only for expendable positions." I think of Kenny. "I doubt that everyone employed by The Centre knows who and what they work for." Parker may not catch the reference, but she knows what I mean.
"You make The Centre sound like a spider waiting on its web."
"More like a pitcher plant, beautiful, sweet, and once you fall in there is no escape."
"So the truth doesn't bother you at all."
"I have to verify Broots' data."
"Broots thinks rather highly of you. I thought you'd return the compliment."
"I do." Really, I do. "I just need to follow his leads."
"I'm sure you'll do it with your usual obsession."
"I prefer to think of it as tenacity."
"You say tomato..."
"What?" That reference has no meaning to me. Tomato?
"You're ruining my morning. Remind me to return the favor when I find you."
"If."
"When!" Parker hangs up. I visualize her grinding her thumb into the "off" button.
I was watching the morning fog lift while nursing a mug of coffee when the phone rang. I knew it was a mistake to bring it outside with me, but I did. My reward is Jarod-induced indigestion. I toss the remainder of my coffee onto the lawn and stalk into the house. I wish Jarod would just disappear and leave me alone... permanently. Dammit, I can't even sit on my own porch without harassment. He makes me feel like I'm in grade school and some little brat has taken my lunch money. That only happened once, Jimmy, Jimmy Sloan in the second grade. I ran to the teacher crying and she wouldn't do anything because she had no proof. When I told Daddy he said I had to stand up for myself, I was a Parker. A week later, Jimmy tried it again and I hit him in the face with my library book. He got a nosebleed instead of the money and he didn't have the guts to tell the teacher because I threatened to do worse if he did. So he told her that he walked into a door... that's what Mommy told me the first time she got a black eye, the first time Raines hit her. I stare sightlessly out a window. Why wasn't she strong enough to stand up for herself? Why didn't she tell Daddy what Raines did? Or did she? Some day I'm going to know the truth not just the stories I've been fed all my life.
I notice the time. I better get moving. I exchange my fleece robe for a light gray flannel suit. Daddy expects me for breakfast. If I'm not punctual he won't wait and I want to ask him if Mommy ever mentioned Maria. Then I intend to find Broots and get him looking for Jarod instead of the donut lady.
Plans changed. I didn't mention the photographs or Maria to Daddy at breakfast; instead I tell Broots to find out what he can. It turns out to be very little. I put the photos in a locked drawer and try to put the matter out of my mind. Jarod is noticeably silent and untraceable.
Two weeks later I give up my struggle against curiosity and pull out the pictures again. I make a trip to St. Catherine's Convent myself. One of the oldest nuns remembers Mother as a "good little girl; always obedient; always helping with the younger children and the babies." She cannot recall if the baby in the picture is related to Catherine. In the days before abortion was an option, and unwed mothers were not accepted, infants were frequently abandoned at the convent. Most girl babies were called Mary or Maria during their short stay at the convent; their names changed when they were adopted. The nun also recalls the "nice young man" who came looking for Catherine's things. If he was the one who gave me the photos, perhaps I could ask him. Done that; been there; back where I started.
Back at The Centre, I take the photographs to Daddy's office before I allow myself second thoughts. I walk straight his desk and put the photos on top of the file he's reading. He glances at the pictures, turns them over and reads the back. He looks up again, smiling. Why does his smile seem insincere?
"It's amazing how much you resemble your mother." He doesn't even ask where got the pictures.
"Do you know anything about Mother and this Maria? Is she a relative?"
"Well, Sweetheart, I... umm... I don't think I know this Maria. Umm... your mother never mentioned her." His smile seems fixed, then fades, "Your mother's family has all...hemmm... passed on. These pictures are nice, but that's the past. This family is all that matters now. You, Lyle and the baby mean everything to me."
"Mother never spoke about her time at St. Catherine's?" I can't stop myself from asking again.
"I know we've covered this ground before, Angel. Why bring it up again? She put the past behind her when we married. You need to stop dredging it up. Look to the future." He stood; came around the desk; handed me the pictures and put his arm around my shoulders, walking me to the door. "Our family has a duty to influence The Centre. You have the ability but you need to turn all your attention toward that goal. We have work to do."
I accept his answer without further comment, but do not find it comforting. I allow myself to be escorted from his office and return to mine.
Daddy was so evasive, I wonder if he told me the whole truth. He misled me before, saying it was for my own good. I plop into my chair and throw the photographs onto the desk. Oh God, now I'm starting to examine everything he says.
Jarod probably knew the Maria picture was a dead end when he gave it to me and this whole exercise was just to put more doubts in my mind. I hope I returned the favor. I pick up my mother's picture. I run a fingertip along her cheek, like the path of a tear. Maria was just another child my mother tried to help.
The phone rings; I know who it is before I pick up the receiver.
"What?"
"Miss me?"
"Only if my aim is off."
Jarod laughs. Why, Miss Parker, I feel threatened."
"Care to tell me where you've been hiding or, better yet, where you are?"
"I don't think you need the target practice. I haven't been hiding, I've been in Europe."
"A tour?"
"...Of financial institutions in Switzerland. The Swiss banking system is very interesting and secretive; some of their more confidential records are not computerized. I tried to follow the money trails back to their source. They lead to several numbered accounts, but those accounts are dummies and virtually untraceable, at least at my current security clearance."
"You failed?" I try for sarcastic astonishment.
Jarod ignores my tone; his voice brightens. "Not completely. I found a new trail of funds leading back to North America, and possibly to my father."
"You'll be sure to let me know when and where you find your daddy?"
There is a short pause. Will he let me know? Or will he disappear? "Yes, I'll tell you when I find my family. What did you learn about Maria and yours?"
"She was a foundling. No relation."
"Sorry," I think he means it. "I guess I owe you some family information," the last with just a touch of sarcasm.
I want anything that connects me to my mother, but the thought of Jarod's information somehow frightens me. "You owe me the same nothing I owe you."
"Someone owes you some truth in your life."
"Do you know just how repetitious you are?"
"Repetition, that's the way I was trained. Blame it on The Centre."
I can hear the grin in his voice, I smile, but it's too much of an opening, I ask, "If you find your father will he blame everything on The Centre or will he tell you the truth? Do you have the guts to ask him?"
"I'll face the truth, and I'll deal with it," just short of a snarl. "I have to hang up now."
"Feel free to talk longer."
"Staying free is more my intention. Your phone tracers had enough time to get close. When I have something to say I know where to find you."
"Unless I find you first."
"Don't hold your breath." (click)
My computer screen lights up five minutes after the call. Jarod is somewhere in the northeast United States. The phone trace programs were recently improved and he stayed on the line slightly longer than he intended. I call Broots and dump the information on him.
Three hours later he comes back with an update.
"Well?"
"I downloaded records of bank transactions between Switzerland and the US, and excluded banks outside the Northeast. Then I developed a program with the appropriate variables to exclude all traceable contributions and/or withdrawals. Once the computer has done it's job I'll hand sort, and run the remnant past Angelo, if possible."
"Can you pinpoint the bank?"
"I can narrow the search to four or five possibilities."
"How soon?"
He's fidgeting; this won't be a good answer. "Forty-eight hours."
"Real or Scotty estimated time?" He just looks at me, I know he's a Trekie and he over-estimates. "Speed it up." I wave him out of the room.
Thirty-six hours later, Broots presents me with a list of ten accounts, narrowed from several hundred. He has not been able to see Angelo. He seems pleased with himself, and when I look at the data I can tell he's put a lot of work into narrowing the possibilities.
"Ten accounts in four cities. This will be great for my expense account."
His face drops; I should tell him he did a great job, but I dismiss him, "That will be all, Broots. It's the sweepers turn now." He nods and leaves. I dispatch search teams to the cities involved. Jarod probably has two more days to find his father before they find him.
It's three days since I called Parker; I'm sitting in a small sub-let apartment in New York City. I've just reviewed, for the fifth time, all the financial records Broots and I have gathered over the past few weeks. I really thought I found a good lead, but it's another dead end. I keep hoping my father will find a way, make some effort, to reunite. It never happens. I seem to end up back where I started. I rest my head on my hands, elbows on at the small kitchen table I'm using as a desk. How do I explain my father's finances and associations? Who is paying him? Why? What does he owe them in return? I sigh. What if Parker is right?
Questions, never answers. Isn't that what she said about me? A smile slips across my mouth. She might be the only one to understand... reluctantly. I want to tell her I saw the sweepers and they walked right past me. I want to see if my package arrived yet. The smile fades. I have some information, some truth, about her father. It will hurt her deeply and she's been hurt so much. I'm not sure if I should give it to her, but she has a right to know the truth.
I'm sitting in my office; I've just reviewed the financial transaction information Broots gathered on Jarod's father for the tenth time. Broots agrees it's a dead end. The sweeper teams are useless.
There's a cardboard box on my desk. It holds a plastic bear filled with apple blossom honey, a small pie pan, a Jiffy piecrust mix, and the biggest golden apple I've ever seen. The note says, "Still got the oven? Make something you can be proud of." The honey I appreciate, the notes I'm used to; but where did he get that apple?
The ringing phone gets the usual "What?"
"Hello, Miss Parker, I promised I'd call."
"You found your father?" I sit up, surprised and interested.
"No."
There's resignation in his voice; I want to say something consoling. Instead I say, "You'd think, if he cares so much, he'd find a way to leave you a message or at least a bread crumb."
"He's probably afraid you'd find it," he sounds angry. I hear him change gears, back to jibing, "Speaking of crumbs, did you get mine?"
"If I take a bite out of the apple will I sleep until Prince Charming comes along?"
Jarod chuckled, then he said, "You're in no danger; you're not quite Snow White."
I can't decide whether to laugh or slam the receiver in his ear. "And you're Prince Charming?" I realize the possible implication of what I said and immediately add, "The point of the apple is?"
"It's BIG. I have the family information I owe you, and I want you to have it. Since your sweepers walked right past me, I thought you needed a clue."
"A big apple? Want to be more obvious?"
"Only if it's necessary to get you to come to New York." He's taking no chances.
"Oh, I'm coming, with friends. Where shall we meet?"
"Just come; I'll leave a trail of bread crumbs." He pauses, "Parker, did you find any more information about my father's work at The Centre?"
Could that be a hint of doubt in his voice? "No. What I found was in Raines private file. You could ask him; I think he'd love talking to you."
The thought of talking to Raines nauseates me; I can guess how Jarod feels. His answer comes as a growl, "I don't see that happening."
"Then you'll have to wait and ask your Daddy. Have you ever thought that all that money might be payment to find you or your clone for The Centre's competitors?"
He ignores the money issue. How long can he do that? "What competitors?"
"That's one of those need-to-know topics, like Donoterase. I've been told I don't need to know."
"By your Daddy?"
"Yes." How does he always switch the conversation around? Damned infuriating.
"You should confront him; demand answers."
"Why don't you?" I'm loosing my temper...as intended, and it makes me angrier. "Come right over and ask him. Better yet, find your OWN father and confront him!"
"Ask your Daddy if he's proud of the things he's done," in that calm reasonable voice, "If you can be proud of the 'Parker' name."
"I AM proud of it. I'm proud of him," as an afterthought, "and I love him."
His voice rises slightly, "Open your eyes. Look at what he really is."
Anger is a knot in my chest, "Stop telling me what to do!"
"Don't hold your breath." and he's gone.
And here I sit. No further ahead. Trying to talk to Jarod about his father is a waste of breath. Asking my father about the past is a waste of breath. The most important men in our lives and we barely know who they are, who we are.
My past is almost as empty as Jarod's. What did he say? "Our lives are mysteries built on lies." I guess he's right. Emptiness and lies. Like this office, like this building, like my future. I feel like I'm waiting to for someone to teach me how to live... and the only volunteer doesn't know what he's doing.
Here I sit. No further ahead. Trying to have a conversation with her is a waste of time. We don't talk, we yell. I can't help it; she makes me angry. She refuses to see what that man she still calls father is. What The Centre has made him. What it will eventually do to her. She needs to see to the truth, even if I have to shove it down her throat.
And me? I need to find my father, to ask him her questions, so I can put The Centre behind me. The Centre, the center of my universe, always at the back of my thoughts. I can feel it, like a cold black cloud between me and the sun, always keeping me in its shadow.
Please let me know what you think
