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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 3 : Get Over It
by paula h
It's the end of August and I'm still on retreat in Vermont. "Retreat," that's exactly what I did. Actually it was more of a rout than a strategic withdrawal. Hell, it was a stampede over a cliff.
I almost feel normal now. If you can call the person I was normal. Then again, what is normal? Never mind, I've obviously spent too much time with Syd and Syd Junior.
A while ago I learned that the man I call Daddy isn't really my father; I still don't know who is and at times I don't even believe it's true. I've learned that he loved my mother but agreed to her murder. I've learned he sanctioned Thomas' murder knowing what it would do to me. He does love me, but he's a survivor. I thought I was a survivor until Alex and then Jarod shoved the truth in my face. I couldn't accept it, so I ran from it, out of The Centre, into a bottle, over a cliff. If Jarod hadn't been there to catch me I would have fallen to the bottom...of the lake.
Jarod, my guardian angel and harassing devil all wrapped up on a nice body and a stupid grin. When he threatened to stay with me he meant it. Damn him! He was in my face constantly the first weeks. Fortunately for him, he hid my gun. As a matter of fact it's still hidden. When we're speaking again I'll have to ask him where he put it.
The first week, when I might have walked right back into the lake, he barely let me out of his sight. After he decided I was safe from myself he let me out on a longer leash. I immediately scared the hell out of him.
It was a hot morning and the woods were so much cooler than the cabin, I took a little walk and wound up at the lake. I heard Jarod calling me but we had just had one of his amateur psychologist sessions and the sound of his voice was getting on my last nerve. I half-considered drowning myself in the lake just to spite him. Instead, I walked in up to my ankles. He must have some kind of radar because he chose that moment to come out of the woods. The look of fear on his face would have been endearing if his mouth hadn't started moving. He put his arm around my shoulder and kept saying he shouldn't have left me and he should have paid more attention and he thought I was alright, while he led me out of the water. God, he was Sydney on amphetamines. I was going to tell him that he misunderstood, but then he said, "Suicide won't solve anything." I said, "Murder might," turned on him, pushed him backward into the lake, and walked back to the cabin laughing while he sputtered. We didn't talk the rest of the day...and it was wonderful!
The next morning he broke the silence; he apologized. I told him where he could stuff his apology. He laughed and said it was nice to have me back. I hadn't realized it until then but I had been drifting somewhere. He asked me if this meant I was going to do my share of the cooking. I glared at him for a second then asked, "You call what I've been forced to eat cooking?" Jarod replied that they never taught him cooking at The Centre. He also pointed out that cooking seems a bit domestic for me. After weeks of his cooking I almost volunteered to do it all, but came to my senses. We bantered back and forth for a few minutes and finally agreed to split all the chores evenly.
It was a month ago when Jarod finally stopped smothering me and left me on my own, keeping an eye on me but trying to be unobtrusive. He's the only other person here; aside form the caretaker who brings groceries once a week. Jarod goes out pretty regularly, most often to help people. You know, that helping the little guy thing he's into.
On one of his outings Jarod found a vintage Cadillac, something from the fifties I gathered. It was in the shed of some farmer he helped with the haying. Mr. Greenjeans tracked hayseeds and enthusiasm all through the cabin. I started sneezing uncontrollably, which made him laugh, which really made me angry. I stormed into my bedroom, slammed the door and propped my back against it. The sound of him smashing his nose into the door made me laugh and probably ruined his mood. Supper was tense. Fortunately for him it was a leftovers night because I had no intention of cooking and he - clean and silent - almost fell asleep sitting up. That silence was golden too.
The next day he expected to pretend nothing had happened but my head was completely stuffed and I still refused to talk to him. Peace making is not a valued skill in my family and at the time I didn't care. He slammed the door on his way out. When he came home that evening, after another day of haying, he changed on the porch before he came in. I had supper in the oven and we did the Americana home scene for the evening, worthless small talk over supper, and me reading while he worked at the computer, as usual, till lights out.
He does love that laptop. It is, of course, state of the art with an untraceable satellite hookup and enough speed that he should have hacked his way through the Pentagon by now. But he seems frustrated. I asked him how it was going once when he seemed to have found something important. He told me it was his business. Fine. Somehow, from past experience I guess, I can't imagine anything he finds bringing any real comfort, to either of us.
A couple days later Jarod finished the farm work and made a trip into town. He came home with a Cadillac repair manual he must have gotten through a post office box and two cardboard boxes of books from a library garage sale. That night he actually took a break from the laptop to read the manual. I plowed through the boxes. There were a couple popular mystery novels, Under the Tuscan Sun, Bulfinch's Mythology, a bible, several books on angels, but mostly paperback Modern Romances. I would rather audit Centre expense accounts than read most of them but one or two looked interesting.
Jarod spent the better part of the next week tinkering with the Caddy, searching the Internet for authentic parts or picking them up at the post office. He tracked mud and grease into the kitchen the first night. He cooked supper listening to me slam a bucket around while mopping the floor. He reciprocated by slamming pots, pans and dishes. One glass did not survive the non-conversation. I refused his offer to dump the bucket of dirty water, and when I went outside I saw that there were tools on the porch. I asked how I was supposed to explain them to Daddy if he came up. He picked them up and threw them into the woods. We spent that evening in tense silence. But he has not tracked mud, grease or hay into the cabin since.
While he was fiddling with that stupid car, I did my best to pull weeds in a small garden the caretaker planted beside the cabin. It's fenced to keep animals out but a lot of the produce is still exiting with non-paying shoppers. That's fine; rabbits have more entertainment value than cabbage or cars. At night Jarod was back to his Internet truth search while I chewed my way through the books.
I'm doing my best but it never seems to be good enough for Parker. I can't do anything right. I saved her life and the gratitude lasted fifteen minutes.
I found an old farmer who needed help because he had a minor stroke. Mr. Oldham, the farmer, struggled out with his walker every day to watch me work. When I finished up the very first day I was there, he told me I could have the farm. I refused, so he took me to a shed in back of the barn and showed me an old car in pieces. He told me I had to take it at least; it was meant for me. He was alone, wife dead, no kids, and no money to hire anyone. I got in his hay then hooked him up with a young ex-con who knew his way around a farm and wants to turn his life around.
Parker never wondered why I was helping him; all she cared about was that I tracked some grass into the cabin. She got mad and when I tried to apologize she slammed her door in my face. The next day I tried to say good morning and she treated me like a piece of furniture. Now I just try to stay out of the way. She even begrudged me Mr. Oldham's car. I make a mess; I leave tools on the porch; I smother her; I ignore her; I breathe wrong. So now I just strip on the porch before I go in. ...I wonder if she ever watches?
Parker just glides through the days. She doesn't give a damn about the truth, anything or anyone else, or me.
Mr. Oldham's car was a godsend. It helped me hold things together for the week I worked on it. The week I found out the truth about my father. It gave me something to take my mind off the information I couldn't find, the information I couldn't decipher, and the truth I didn't want to believe. It was a '56 Cadillac DeVille. It needed a ton of work, but now I know how to put a car together. Mr. Oldham calls it a real car, not one of those computerized modern things. He said I should get to know something that doesn't depend on computers. I think that's true.
The other truth I learned that week is that Major Charles is not my father. I finally found his medical records. The caring and all-too-missing Major's blood type is O Rh Positive. He could not have fathered an AB child. Does he know? Does he know and not care? Or does he just want to use me like The Centre used me? Is he protecting my clone or has he cashed in that chip? Parker asked me what I found that day and I told her to mind her own business. Maybe I should tell her. She may find it amusing. I keep telling her she doesn't know anything about her father and now I find I don't even know who mine is.
Thank God, Zoë didn't stay with the Major after he rescued her. She and I both came to our senses; we can never have a life together. I set her up with a new identity. I will never see her again, never spend much time with anyone or form any attachments. That would probably amuse Parker even more. Especially considering our current situation. We've been playing house for two months. Some times I want to sit her down, put my arms around her and really really talk to her; other times I want to walk out the door and never look back. I don't know how much longer I can just sit here.
Every night I sit at the computer, either trying to find new information or crack the encryption of a few files I got from Nugenesis, Donoterase and The Centre. The encryption on them is the best I've ever seen. I know it had to have been the work of another pretender. If he could invent the codes I can crack them. Any files that important must hold answers.
I finished rebuilding the Caddy in record time. I took Mr. Oldham for the first ride. When I dropped him off at his house he clapped me on the back with his good arm and said he was proud of me. It felt so good; I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. It wasn't till I was half way back to the cabin that I remembered where I had heard that before. The Major said he was proud of me, Sydney said he was. Did either of them mean it? And my mother was proud of me... I choke and realize there are tears running down my cheeks. Is Margaret really my mother? Was she proud? Or just playing a part? There's that photograph of her with Catherine Parker. Were they friends? Did The Centre manipulate her just like everyone else?
I take several deep breaths and push those thoughts away for now. Today is about taking Parker for a joy ride in this great old car; getting us both out of the house. Tomorrow the Caddy goes to the dealer and I go back to fact-finding.
When I pull into the driveway Parker comes running around the side of the house. She looks so surprised to see the car, almost disappointed. Maybe she thought it was Daddy come to take her home. I put on a smile and show her the car. Pretty soon my smile is real, and information I know she has no interest in is gushing from my mouth. She stands there with an indulgent look. I finish with, "She's such a beauty; I think I should name her The Angel." That was stupid. Name the car what Mr. Parker calls her?
But she laughs, "But, Jarod, it's so...so PINK!"
Well, of course it's pink, pink paint with a white top and white leather interior. Just like in the Bruce Springsteen song. That's what makes it so great, a pink Cadillac. Zoë would have loved it. I start to defend my opinion but Parker waves me off and, still laughing, jumps into the front passenger seat. At least she's letting me drive. We cruise down the back roads with the windows open and the wind blows her hair around. We're both smiling for a change.
Parker turns to me and says, "I feel like I should be wearing a poodle skirt. When to we stop for the burger and shake?"
The poodle skirt reference escapes me but I let it go, the burger and shake sound good. "And fries?"
"Of course!" and she laughs. I get the strangest feeling in my chest when she laughs. I have a grin stuck on my face. We eat at Wendy's. Great greasy junk food, and Parker enjoys it. We smile the whole way home and I don't even turn the computer on. I hunt through the boxes and pull out books on angels and a bible. I've been meaning to study the bible. Parker pulls out a Modern Romance called The Marriage Lesson. Well, Parker could definitely use one. I keep my opinion to myself; she's in a good mood and so am I. I won't do anything to ruin it.
Jarod drove up to the cabin in that ridiculously pink car. When I heard the motor I thought it might be sweepers and Jarod would walk into a trap. But it was him, full of enthusiasm again, and I let myself get caught up in it. That evening was a bright spot. One of those moments when you forget who you are and what a crappy life you live. When I looked at Jarod grinning that stupid grin, driving that stupid car, I got the funniest feeling. I smiled about it the whole next day, until he came home that night and told me he sold the car. Of course he did it to get money for that needy farmer. I almost chewed him out for not asking me to buy it first. That foolish impulse passed quickly. What would I want with a pink car? A black Mercedes maybe, but not a cotton candy clunker.
The car was gone and Jarod spent his days and nights at the computer. When he did take a break it was to read the bible. Even that involved referencing text on the Internet. He seemed more intense every day.
Two weeks ago he made some kind of breakthrough. I was sitting on the porch and I heard "Yes!" in a tone of victory. I walked over to try to look over his shoulder. He turned the computer and told me it was private for now. The look in his eyes was so strange, sad and fixated, that I decided not to challenge him. He returned his gaze to the scrolling lines of text. I watched emotions flicker across his face as he read; none of them was close to happiness. He printed the document, scanned it, stuffed it into his pocket, and shut down the computer. I asked if he wanted to talk about what he found; what was wrong, but he shook his head and walked out the door. I heard him start up his Jeep and drive off. He came back the next evening, walked straight into his room, and fell immediately asleep.
The sound of Jarod's voice woke me in the middle of the night. He was begging someone in his sleep, begging him not to do something. I threw on a robe. He screamed twice before I got to his room. He was awake and sitting up in bed. He looked miserable. I wanted to comfort him but I can't seem to do that, I'm afraid of where it will lead. I asked him what was wrong. He told me it was just a dream; everything was fine. It was a lie. Back in my bed, it dawned on me that this was the first nightmare he'd had since he came to the cabin. He's had them every night since.
He's gone most of the time now, doing whatever he does. I don't ask; he doesn't tell. When he's here we avoid each other. Neither of us could be called comfortable. Things change but things stay the same. I know Jarod's there if I need him. I think he needs me. I don't quite understand how that makes me feel.
When he came back yesterday he was subdued. He looked like he wanted to talk a couple of times. Then he just sort of bit his lip and turned away. I wondered what he wanted to talk about but just couldn't bring myself to ask.
It's my turn to cook. He's working on his laptop while I finish supper. Suddenly he swears and starts hitting keys, getting angrier by the minute. He is so focused. Fifteen minutes later, he sits, staring at the computer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. I leave him alone until I get supper on the plates and walk to the table.
All I say is, "Jarod, it's time to eat."
He looks up but I don't think he sees me. Then he looks at the computer screen. I can see that it's blank. His hands ball into fists; he smashes the laptop closed and sweeps it off the table and across the room. It crashes into the wall.
I stand there for a second; put his plate in front of him, and - I can't help myself - say, "That's not supposed to be good for computers."
The plate follows the laptop to the wall, and I say, "That wasn't especially productive either."
He looks up and sees me then, "What would you know about productive?! All you know is making my life HELL!!" He rises; his chair tips backward and hits the floor. I stand my ground. He is so unreasonably angry that I expect him to hit me next. He takes a step toward me and raises his arm. I brace myself. The look on his face....
I must have blinked in reflex, because when I open my eyes Jarod is standing perfectly still, looking at me. "I almost hit you," he sounds distant. "I'm... sorry," his voice gets softer. "Just stay away from me for a while..." and softer, "please." He turns and walks quickly out of the cabin. I hear the Jeep drive off.
It's four a.m. when I wake to from another nightmare. I find myself sitting in the Jeep, on the berm of a two-lane highway in Maine. I know where I am but can't exactly remember how I got here. I know I drove and I stopped for gas a few times. I'm calm again; I guess that's something. And the car is aimed back toward Vermont, so I guess I intend to go back to the cabin, to face Parker. I don't know if I'm up to explaining what's wrong, let alone what nearly happened.
I haven't had more than two or three hours sleep in the last week. I avoid it. The nightmares started two weeks ago; they get worse every night. I drag myself through the days doing what I always do, righting wrongs, helping the helpless, tilting at windmills. Meanwhile my world has tilted.
Two weeks ago I cracked the code on the Donoterase files. My clone, my exact genetic match, was the first success after years of trying. Since his birth they have been attempting to improve the process, mainly with animals, but they have also experimented with invitro fetal development, accelerating growth and, now that my genome has been mapped, recombining DNA to create their own designer/pretender baby. Some of the trial results were sold to other facilities to aid their research. The Centre has always been ahead of its time and cloning was no exception. Profit and progress gained at the expense of how much suffering and death?
The worst part of the file information were the prospectus files, future plans for future experiments. That information curdled my blood. I read it as it scrolled across the computer screen. I read it after I printed it; I read it by flashlight in the Jeep. I read it one last time by the light of a small campfire. I burned it into my memory and then I burned it in the fire.
While the Donoterase pages were printing I tried the same code key on The Centre files. One file used the same code but its information was similar to what I knew. I've tried versions of that encryption code on the Nugenesis data and the rest of The Centre files over the last weeks.
Today I finally cracked another code; and opened a set of Centre files. I was reading the files as they decoded, but, somewhere in the middle, my mind blanked out. I refocused after several seconds and paused the program while I read what I'd missed. I restarted the decoding program, waiting to learn the rest of the story, the story of my parents. But something happened; the program slowed, the text degraded. I tried to stop the process, but it didn't work. I tried antiviral programs, rescue programs, firewalls. I have the best but nothing stopped the destruction. It went under and through all the protections I'd set up. It ripped the hard drive apart. At the end I was left with a blank screen. Everything on it is gone. Of course I have most files backed up and stored elsewhere but that laptop held the whole story of my life. Those files held the truth about my mother and they self-destructed rather than give it to me. The Centre gives; The Centre takes away.
I have nothing to show for the past two months except a dead computer and an upset Parker. Why was I angry with her? Because she hunted me? That's not her fault. She can't help what The Centre made her any more than I can. Or is it because she warned me about how dangerous the truth could be and I ignored her? She was so right. I don't want her to know the truth. The truth I searched for every free moment. The truth I don't want now that I have it.
I suppose I was in denial, and still am. That's why the dreams started. My old nightmares were about things that the Centre did to me, from my kidnapping on. The new ones are more bizarre, if that's believable. I remember the first one best. I was in a garden, a luxurious tropical mixture. There was an apple tree in the center, with apples as big as my head. Only my head was smaller, I was five years old again, lost, calling for my mother. A snake wrapped around the tree spoke to me, in Mr. Parker's voice, "This is where you belong...I don't expect you to understand. In the end it all does add up. Just eat the apples and you will know." and its head turned into Mr. Parker's head. I ran.
I was running away and I heard my mother's voice, "Just eat the apple, baby, and you can come home." I called out to her, running in circles until I saw her. She was an angel, no Nemesis, no an angel in white. She gave me an apple and told me to take a bite. I did and suddenly I saw it all. "For God knows that when you eat from it then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods who know good and evil." She wasn't an angel; she wasn't real. Her robes turned gray, then black and her loving smile turned into an evil grin. Her face shifted and became his, Raines. He was holding a bible. He opened it and read, "But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."
He looked straight at me and I thought my heart would stop. I backed away, and he read, "And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked." I looked down and I was naked. "The LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them." I was covered in some kind of furred skins. "Now that the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil, he must not be allowed to stretch out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever." He pointed at me and I ran.
I could hear voice roaring behind me, enveloping me, "So the Lord God drove out the man from the orchard in Eden...."
Things were whirling around me, dark things. I was crying "No, no, no..."
"He placed on the eastern side of the garden of Eden sentries, Cherubim, who used the flame of a whirling sword to guard the way to the tree of life." I looked over my shoulder; the Garden had turned to thorns and rock. An angel stood with a flaming sword; it was my mother. I woke.
Parker stood in the bedroom door, hugging her robe to herself. She really seemed concerned; she asked what was wrong. I needed her, I needed her so much, wanted her to hold me, make things right. "And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help for him who is like him." I told her it was nothing; I was fine. It was a lie.
Can I tell her the truth? Those Centre files were my baby record book. The Donoterase files were a blueprint of my soul. "So God created man in his own image." I am a Centre experiment, a Centre creation and it's property. Can I tell her that? Could she already know? Does Sydney know?
I feel the anger and frustration starting to rise again. I start the Jeep and drive. It will be afternoon till I get back to the cabin. I have to work this out in my head before I get there. She's my closest link to that abomination and she doesn't know how close I am to the edge right now. If she says the wrong thing.... A smile comes to me from somewhere; we always say the wrong thing to each other, even when it's the truth. The best thing may be to tell her everything and go from there. Go where? Back to the bosom of my "real" family? What's real about The Centre? And what's real about me?
I feel the tears burning behind my eyelids. I have to blink many times to clear my vision. Wouldn't want to wreck the jeep and kill myself, I'm valuable property. I concentrate on the road and the cold night air rushing in through the windows. In the pre-dawn light I can see some of the trees are starting to change color. It's the beginning of September; Autumn is coming, followed by cold stark Winter. The Centre reminds me of Winter.
I guess the interlude is over. My father called this morning, he pretty much demanded that I come home; I can't put it off much longer. Lyle, dear little brother that he is, volunteered to come get me. I asked Daddy if they found Jarod's body or any indication he's alive; he said no to both. He wants me to find Major Charles and Jarod's clone. I can't seem to drum up any enthusiasm for the assignment. Jarod can't find them; I doubt that they have much to fear from Broots or me. I wonder what Jarod will think about me chasing his dear daddy?
There was a stupid owl somewhere in the woods hooting off and on all last night. They're supposed to bring bad luck or something; at least that's what they say in pulp fiction and some popular song I heard on the local oldies station. What it brought me was insomnia. All I did was toss and turn, and since Daddy's call, all I've done is pace. Jarod's been gone all night and this morning. But I'm not worried about him. No, not really. He's a big boy; if he wants to tell me what the problem is he certainly knows where he left me... rather abruptly.
I hear the Jeep return and walk quickly out onto the porch. Why did I do that? Am I expecting him to say, "Honey, I'm home."? I settle into an Adirondack chair on the porch. No one calls me "Honey," everyone calls me "Miss," probably "Miss Bitch" behind my back. And that's just fine, let them keep their distance; I love my privacy. If that's true why am I so lonely?
My mother is gone and she loved me. Thomas is gone and he loved me. My father loves me in his own bizarre way, but he's back at The Centre. Jarod's here. But Jarod doesn't love me. At least he doesn't act like he does. If Jarod loved me he would not be able to hide it. I would be getting roses every day, at The Centre's expense of course, and more gifts than my house could hold. What has Jarod ever given me? A virus, a candy heart, a stained glass picture, the truth. That last gift was nearly a killer. It frightens me to think how close I came to ending my life. If Jarod hadn't been there.... then I think about the look on Jarod's face as he stood up from the table; it frightens me too. I think he wanted to kill me for a minute.
What, exactly, was that all about? I've seen Jarod angry before. I've made him angry, most times deliberately, but I've never seen him so close to loosing control. He faked madness a few times in and out of The Centre. But this was real, very real, too real. So, I'm out here waiting for a man who pretty much threatened my life. Waiting, just like my mother waited for my father. Just like my mother? I'm not my mother! I will not be my mother! I'm nothing like my mother! I'll tell Jarod where to get off threatening me. Nobody threatens me!
The thought brings me to my feet and the top of the steps. Jarod steps into the clearing. His head is down as he crosses the lawn. Even from thirty feet away he looks like hell; he walks like he's exhausted. He climbs the steps to the porch without looking at me. I will not be ignored, "Aren't you even going to say hello?"
"No." He snaps the word.
I start to snap back but he gives me a look that stops me mid-breath; I flinch.
I flinched? I don't flinch. I've had guns pointed at my head and I didn't flinch. He says one damn word and I practically jump back. If this is an aftereffect of my near-death experience, I don't like it. I follow Jarod into the cabin. I'll be reasonable, "Jarod, we need to talk about yesterday."
"What part of 'no' didn't you understand?" He is not angry, but he avoids my eyes. "I can't talk about it and I'm too tired to fight." He walks back out of the cabin, brushing me aside in the process. I follow him to the door. I want to demand an answer. I want to know what's wrong. I watch him walk toward the lake in silence.
I sit on the porch for two hours, watching the leaves change color. This is a waste of time. I've wasted the whole summer in a daze. What was I waiting for? Prince Charming to come riding along and take me away on his big white stallion? To live "happily ever after?" Save it for fairy tales. I may just call Lyle and tell him to come for me tomorrow. I can't sit here waiting for nothing. I think I'll go tell the local hero-wanna-be.
A walk through the woods is always calming. The light is softer, greener, full of mist. Coming to the edge of the dark woods into the afternoon sunshine is almost blinding. Insects and dust motes dance in the air. A dragonfly flashes its jeweled body past my face and draws my vision toward the lake...and Jarod lying on the grass. I walk over and stand near him, leaning against a young tree. I'm not sure if I want to disturb him. I'm almost afraid to disturb him, to make him angry. I dislike the feeling but I accept it, for now, till I find out if I have cause to be afraid.
I stand for a while, looking at Jarod. He has his arm over his eyes but I don't think he's asleep. The dragonfly returns, it circles, hovering above Jarod's face before flying off again. Winter is coming, the end of warmth and its life. Does it sense the end; just accept it? Did my mother live her life not thinking about what she knew the future could bring? What does my future hold? More time at The Centre? Yes. The destruction of Raines? Yes, after I position myself so that I have power over him. Killing him would be too easy, too good for him. I want to see him squirm. And I will find out who ordered my mother and Tommy killed. I will see them pay; I will enjoy that. I feel myself smile.
"I saw that smile on an alligator once." Jarod is awake; he has his arm resting on his chest; he draws up one leg and turns slightly toward me. "Anything I should know?"
"I'm going back to The Centre."
"I expected you would, even after you knew the truth. Do you intend to support your brother in his quest for power? Or try for the Chair position yourself?"
" Whatever furthers my goals."
"Your goals. I was a fool to think you might change them."
My muscles tense to leave, but I stay. "Nothing has changed for me." I still love my father. I hate Raines...and The Centre. I just can't walk away. Jarod has no idea what I want. "The truth only makes things harder. Don't you realize that?"
"I do...finally I do. I'm sorry I gave it to you. I'm sorry I went looking for it at all. Playing with fire causes burns."
"You're usually more original than that, Jarod."
"Original. That's me. Prototype for a veritable new species. And to think, they managed to produce me before genetic engineering. I'm supposed to be original, it's my destiny." His voice is angry, tinged with something like hysteria, and disgust.
"Talk in circles, and I'll leave."
"You are leaving, going Home. And we always talk in circles." He closes his eyes and covers them with his arm. I guess the conversation is over; I can't think of anything to add.
I turn to leave. "Life goes on. It's your turn to cook." I think he almost smiles, but I walk away.
"Stop telling me what to do," I murmur softly when I'm sure she's out of range. I get up. Life goes on? Yes, I suppose. The other choice doesn't appeal to me either. I walk back to the cabin. Parker did not return here before me. It's just as well, I could feel myself getting angry while we were talking and it's better if I keep some distance. Playing with fire causes burns. She said that was not original, but it's true. I feel like I've caught my soul on fire.
I'm not interested in cooking but, as she said, it is my turn. If Miss Parker wants gourmet she'll have to take over all the culinary duties. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches are my speed right now. I am hungry. Hunger is one of the basic needs.
Basic needs. Where did that come from? Oh, yes management theory, Maslow's Hierarchy. Which pretend? The personnel manager or the MBA at the advertising firm? Both, several others, real life. The Hierarchy of Needs: basic, food and shelter; safety and security; social and belonging; status and power; and the fifth level, realizing one's potential. The Centre managed to take me straight from two to five and skip the in-betweens. That's what I'm looking for, belonging and control of my life. At least that's what I think I want. There are times that all I want is power. Power is the primary motivator at The Centre.
Speaking of basic needs, I guess I should return Parker's gun now, she'll need it when she's back at The Centre. How can she go back there after what she knows? After what they did to her mother and Thomas and her...and me? She knows the truth about her father and it changes nothing. She'll go back like nothing ever happened. The pain and deception mean nothing to her. Nothing. That's what they left me. No family, no identity, nothing. It's like my family died but I can't even grieve, because they weren't real. I feel rage burning in the pit of my stomach. I push those thoughts away.
What was I thinking about? Oh yes, basic needs...I wonder where being clean comes in on that list? I tried not bathing back at The Centre. It wasn't pleasant for anyone, including myself. I retrieve Parker's gun from its hiding place and leave it where I found it on the porch. Then I head for the bathroom.
After a shower and shave, I feel more human. There's some discussion as to the "human-ness" of genetic constructs. Do they have a soul? If a soul is the criteria then Raines is not human. I smile. And if I have no soul will that make me another Raines? Raines or Mr. Parker. The end justifies the means. Are my sims an exercise of justice or an exercise of power? Some philosopher - or was it Mr. Spock (?) - said, "A difference that makes no difference is no difference." Maybe I'm just like them.
That's my purpose after all, a little graft onto The Centre's family tree. And a productive one at that. I make them millions and provide genetic material so they can keep the line going. The prototype. They just made a few tiny errors, like letting me believe I had a family.
I had a family. I did I did. I believe my mother cared for me. I remember her as a kind, loving woman. Is she really my mother or was she paid to pretend? I barely remember my father-who-isn't-my-father. Has he been searching for me because he wants his family back or because he's been paid? Did he pretend to love me? I am tired of being manipulated; I won't allow it again. My family was a sim. I've been simed all my life, and there was no "justice" at the end. I want justice.
I sit down at the table and begin to draw in a notebook. I draw a family; the man has no face; the boys are smiling and the mother looks at them with love. For a second I can imagine it's real, that I can find it again, that I'm there with them. Parker returns, gun in hand, and I tense, till she puts it in the back of her belt. She walks over and pushes my wet hair back. Her hand is cool and smooth. I want to lean into her; tell her about the things I don't want to know; tell her how empty I feel. Then she says, "What's for supper?"
I crumple the paper and stand, faster than I intended and the chair falls over. Fine, you want supper; I'll make supper. She's surprised. Is that fear in her eyes? Afraid of me? Good. She should be, if she keeps pushing; sometime I'll push back. I'm tired of being controlled. No one will tell me what to do again.
I throw the pan on the stove and start it heating. I schlep a can of Campbell's into a pot and turn up the heat. A trip to the refrigerator provides a can-full of milk, some cheese and margarine. The pan is too hot for the margarine but I could care less, I just want to get done and get out of the cabin. I need some air.
As I walk up the steps to the cabin I see that my gun has magically reappeared. At least I didn't have to beg for it. I pick it up and walk into the cabin. Jarod is drawing something. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad sign, but he looks drained. He notices the gun stiffens. I hide it behind my back and walk over to see what he drew. His hair is dripping on the paper. Such a little boy. For some reason I reach over and comb it back with my fingers. He leans into my hand and it makes me uneasy. I feel like I should distance myself; I don't want this turning into a Modern Romance. I need to say something. It's his turn to cook supper. I'll help if he wants; he cooked all those times when I wasn't up to it; it's only fair. I ask, "What's for supper? Can... (I help?) The rest of the sentence is lost in the scraping and crash of his chair. I'm startled. He looked so peaceful for a second. That's over. He crumples the drawing and tosses it in the garbage. A pot and pan slam onto the stove.
I right the chair and move the notebook off the table. I can see the impression of his drawing on the next sheet of paper. He was drawing his family. What can I say? The Centre took him away from them and I'm going back there. I place the gun in a dresser drawer and return to the kitchen. Perhaps it's better if I don't say anything, just sit and wait until he calms down.
He's burning the soup; probably doing it deliberately to get a rise out of me. I decide it's better to ignore his little tantrum. The sandwiches are blackened. My appetite is gone. He drops the food onto the table. I won't give him the satisfaction of saying anything. I eat a little, and clean off the table. As I wash the dishes, I see him at the edge of my vision, and I can tell he's fuming. He shoves his chair under the table and goes out the door. I finish the dishes and try to decide how to handle him. I have a choice. I can sit in here and smell burnt cheese and tomato soup or I can go out there and make him tell me what the hell his problem is. Hmmm, singed sandwich or singed pretender? I opt for fresh air and answers.
Jarod is sitting on the arm of one of the porch chairs, staring into space. I take a deep breath and plow right in, "I'm tired of this tango. You are going to tell me what put you in this foul mood."
"Maybe I'm pretending to be like you," he smiles grimly, still focused on the distance. "How can you go back there?" he's begging for an answer, "You'll ignore what happened and go back. Do what they tell you, knowing what they are."
"I don't have to explain myself to you." I can't quite explain it to myself. The real truth is I have to finish with The Centre before I can start anything else. Even if it kills me. Is that what my mother thought? ...even if it kills me.
The conversation has paused; Jarod is looking at me. "You're already back there," he snarls. "I thought I was 'saving' you. I tried to tell you, to help you. But nothing changed. You've given yourself to The Centre. You are a waste of time." He's gets up and goes back into the cabin. I really don't feel like following him, but I want answers, so I go in.
"I never asked you to save me. I don't need to be saved."
"You would be dead if I hadn't dragged you out of the lake."
"Excuse me? You forced your wonderful 'truth' on me, Jarod." He looks at me; I continue, "Why? Why did you do that to me?" His mouth opens. "No. Don't answer, I already know. You were saving me from The Centre. You have no idea how much damage 'The Truth' can do, and you are never satisfied. You never will be. Nothing can give you the life you missed. So, while you were 'saving' me, you pushed me too far, right into the lake. It was your fault. Don't be so proud of yourself for correcting your mistake.
"Now that you've completely recovered from the truth you can go back to what you were doing"
"Not exactly. I don't have to chase you around anymore. You're dead. Remember? My new assignment"...this will tick him off..."is to find Major Charles and your clone." His reaction is not quite what I expected; he smiles ironically, then laughs softly, not pleasantly.
"Chasing my clone is chasing me. And Major Charles is not my father, genetically at least. He may have been paid to raise me for The Centre. That part is a bit hazy, but he can not be my father," there is a hint of anger in his voice. "With any luck he may just turn my clone over the way he did me. That's a truth I forced on myself."
"You ran away from The Centre to find out who your father is and the answer is back there?" All the answers are back there. Isn't this ironic." I have to laugh, bitterly. "And that's why you've been acting like a spoiled brat the last few days? Because your daddy isn't who you thought he was? Welcome to my world. Are you this upset because Major Charles isn't your father? Or is it because you didn't want me to know your family isn't off the set of 'Leave It To Beaver'?"
"I knew this would make you happy." He is angry. Happy? How would it make me happy? "You couldn't have set me up better if you tried. I wanted a lead on my family and you gave it to me..."
"Be careful what you wish."
"You sent me to a truth I find hard to accept, that Major Charles is not my father." He starts pacing. "And a truth I cannot even conceive - conceive... yes, that's an appropriate word - that I am the result of The Centre's selective breeding program. An exercise in Mendelian genetics taken to heights only The Centre could imagine. When Raines says The Centre owns me I thought he meant figuratively, because they kept me and trained me. But he means it literally; they bred me," he spits out the words. His eyes glitter with tears. "They bred me, they implanted me, paid my 'parents' to raise me, then took me back to test me. If I had been less proficient at pretending they would have enhanced me like they did Kyle, or experimented on me like they did Angelo. But I seem to be the culmination of their breeding program. Shouldn't I be proud?" He stops walking; there are tears on his cheeks.
I'm stunned; I can't think of anything to say.
"So instead they locked me up and worked me like a draft animal. And I'm sure they intended to breed me eventually if cloning hadn't become an option. Just like a prize bull, just like The Centre's cattle in Argentina." He stops talking. I can tell he's trying to regain control. He is not successful.
He starts pacing again, "So Parker, you can laugh. God knows, no, the Devil knows who my real parents are. The Devil and The Centre. The difference is hard to distinguish. Can you still tell? Or have they bought your soul? Have they sucked you in after our fathers?" He stops for a moment and stares at me, sizing me up. "Did you know, Parker?"
"About your father? No."
"About the breeding program?"
"I don't believe that there was one. I think you're exaggerating because you're upset. There isn't a breeding program, Jarod." I can't believe that. "It's not some vast scheme. That would mean... No! The Centre just searches for talented children. It's no less wrong, but it's more plausible. They would need a plan, a blueprint going back generations to do what you said. They can't breed human beings."
He smiles, but it's a cold smile, and his eyes..., "Allow me to finish the sentence you were afraid to complete, 'That would mean ...'that my mother knew; that both our mother's knew. Don't be foolish, Parker, your mother had to know. She didn't return the children to their families. She hid them away, gave them to strangers, so they couldn't be returned to The Centre." He's coming toward me, "I thought it was to hide them from sweepers but now I see that it was to keep them from being returned to their 'rightful owners' by the people hired to raise them."
He continues to advance on me. I find myself backing into a wall.
"Breeding humans isn't hard, Parker. All you need is a test tube, and a womb. The hard part is figuring a way to steal the baby. Maybe you could tell them he was stillborn. Then they would never even look for him. If all else fails you just kill the surrogate. That's easy. The breeding part is easy." He has me up against the wall, with his arms on either side of my shoulders.
Jarod's voice holds menace, " There are other ways. You can pick two people with the appropriate genes, throw them together constantly, until they want each other."
Does he mean to try what I think he does? He is leaning toward me; breathing harder. I get ready to push him back. He moves his left arm up the wall till he's inches from my face; his right hand is on my side at the waist applying pressure, massaging, with his thumb. "Or you could arrange for one of them to escape and send the other one chasing after them." His hand moves to my ribs, then back down to my waist, around my back, caressing motions. His voice is husky, "Adrenaline is a wonderful hormone; it stimulates so many others." Why the hell did I put that gun away? "You know fight or flight. Or other things..." He pulls me to him, shoving me against the wall and I feel exactly what he means.
I hear myself say, "I think you should go," in a surprisingly commanding voice. "Now."
Jarod frowns and draws in breath. The leer returns and he growls into my ear, "What's wrong, Parker, not rough enough? From what I've seen that's the way you like it. And I've seen everything." He presses his body against me.
"Get the fuck away from me!" Not a particularly good choice of words. I try to slap him but he knocks my hand away as he steps back. "You bastard!" There are angry tears in my eyes; I take another swing.
He deflects that slap too, but something got through. He hesitates; I can see his thoughts clearing in his eyes. "Yes," is all he says. He turns and walks out the door.
I follow him onto the porch, shaking with anger. I scream after him, "Keep going! Don't you fucking even think about coming back here! You go straight to Hell!!" Tears are streaming down my cheeks; my nails are biting into my palms.
Jarod stops and I see his shoulders stiffen. Is he coming back? The gun, I want my gun. Could I shoot him if I had it? Right now I could. He starts moving forward again, crossing the lawn without a backward look, followed by a long black shadow. I breathe again. Night is coming early; I see dark clouds to the east. I wonder, absently, if it will rain.
I hear him start the Jeep. I wait a moment and walk back into the cabin. The shaking gets worse, much worse. I have to sit down for a moment. Suddenly I start crying in earnest.
I pull myself together by force of will. Stand up, wait for my legs to stiffen and walk into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and towel it off. I pull out the makeup I haven't used since I came and put on my other face. I walk into my bedroom and change into my other skin, a tailored pants suit and heels. My gun goes back into its holster on my waist.
I walk back out to the living room and dial the phone, the direct number to my father's office. No preamble when he picks up, "Daddy, I'm ready to get back to work." I won't be here if he comes back.
"'Bout time, Princess." he tries to sound jovial; it sounds false. "I'll send someone tomorrow."
"I've had about as much life in the woods as I can stand. Send someone now. I want to get away from this spider-infested wood pile as soon as possible."
"Alright, Angel. I'll send a car. We'll have lunch when you get back," he hangs up. Promises, promises. Nothing changes. I have to produce the old man and the clone if I ever want to have lunch with him. I'm a disappointment. I have to prove myself. I will, but it may be at The Centre's expense.
Most of the clothes I've worn over the summer can stay here. After my bag is packed I try to sleep. That lasts about five minutes; I'm back up and pacing. I'm glad I'm committed to going back - like I really had a choice - and I want to be there NOW. One of my passes takes me close to the liquor cabinet. I haven't had more than a glass of wine since my little swim. Jarod wanted me to give my stomach a break. Well, he's gone and my nerves are shot. I need a drink. I pour a scotch on the rocks. I take it and a heavy plaid blanket out to the Adirondack chair.
I spend the rest of the night watching clouds scud across the half moon. I must have dozed off somewhere around dawn. A sound from the woods wakes me, and I wonder if it's Jarod. Just as I get up the energy to check, a doe tiptoes her way into the clearing. She notices me and snorts, trying to catch my scent. I freeze. We just look at each other -she is beautiful- for several moments. The phone in the cabin rings. She spins and bounds back into the bushes; I walk into the cabin.
"What?"
"Well, Dear Sister, are you packed and ready to go?"
"Lyle? Where are you?"
"Turning onto the road to your little home-away-from-home."
"You drove up here to get me? Why?" Why would he do that? What's he got planned?
"Not exactly. I got a driver and car from Transportation. And our father asked me to." The truth from Lyle? Now there's a new concept. "I'm supposed to make sure you're alright and ready to get back to work." And if I'm not?
"Maybe you'd like to trade places? I hear Vermont is lovely in Autumn."
"I spend plenty of time outdoors when I can, it revitalizes me. But right now I have other engagements." Did he mean to remind me of his extracurricular activities with Oriental women? To shake me? If he did he'll never know.
"This little idyll has put me off country life. Get that heap up here so we can get it turned around."
"Hang up and walk out on the porch." Click.
I put the phone down, pick up my suitcase, and walk outside. Another beautiful late summer morning, the clouds are gone, the sky is brilliant, and I'm on my way back to the underworld. A Lincoln Town Car pulls into the driveway. At least I'm going to Hell in style. I decide to wait at the top of the steps; I don't want Lyle to think I'm eager to see him. It's almost a relief really, there's no turning back now. A Centre driver, who I vaguely recognize, gets out and opens Lyle's door. Lyle hasn't changed over the summer. Still smooth on the outside and sharp around the edges. He walks slowly toward the cabin, smiling like a fox. The driver walks ahead for my bag.
Just as the driver pulls my suitcase off the porch I catch movement in the air near the Lincoln, something bright. There is a crash of broken glass, an explosive pop, and the car bursts into flame. I flinch back; Lyle ducks and falls to one knee; and the driver nearly falls over when he spins around. There isn't a lot we can do; the interior of the car is engulfed in flame. Hope Lyle took out the extra insurance. I walk over to Lyle; he is standing again and staring at the automotive bonfire.
"You might want to shut your mouth." He snaps his mouth shut. The windows are already shattering from the heat. "We might also want to back up; I would expect the gas tank to go up soon."
He glances at me, then starts to back away. "You didn't by any chance have something to do with this, did you?" He draws his gun and holds it loosely at his side. The tires explode one by one.
"Sorry. I didn't happen to think of it." Wish I had. "How many cars does this make?" I grin at him; he is not amused.
"I've lost count. Did you happen to see anything?" We have backed to the porch, a relatively safe distance. The driver is standing there holding my suitcase.
"Just some sort of fire bomb flying through the air," I'm still grinning. The gas tank explodes. The three of us duck. The driver says, "Shhiiitt," in an awed voice. I have to agree.
Lyle gives him a dirty look. "Do you have a gun?"
"No, Sir. My function is driver on non-hazardous assignments. A gun is not required."
"Where the hell did they come up with that classification?"
"Well, Sir, it is a much lower pay scale than cleaner and..."
"Never mind!" Lyle turns to me, "Do you have a gun?"
"Of course." I pull my gun from behind my back. "Who knew you were coming here?"
"I don't know. Sister retrieval isn't exactly classified. And I wouldn't have thought it's hazardous either." He looks at the still-awed driver. "If you can pull yourself away from the show, get inside and call Delaware. I want a sweeper team up here. Then call New York. I want a helicopter ASAP." The driver nods, drops the suitcase, and goes inside. Lyle looks at me "This could have been aimed at you, you know."
"Doubt it. I've been up here, unprotected, for a while. Why would they wait till now?"
"Two Parkers for the price of one? Let's see if we can find the bastard and ask him."
Lyle and I split up. He goes into the woods nearest the car; I go toward the lake. I skirt the lake and take a deer trail to one of the spots where Jarod had hidden his Jeep. It had to be him.
The Jeep is not there. It is amazing how thick and untamed these woods are. Someone could be watching me and, unless they move, I'll never see them... until it's too late. I feel the hackles go up on the back of my neck. I continue my search for over half an hour. At one point I flush a young deer by nearly stepping on it. Like I needed the extra adrenaline. I am relieved when I come to a private road leading to another cabin. I was beginning to wonder if I'd lost my bearings. The day is heating up rapidly and I'm wearing a suit. I stand still for a few moments to cool off.
I feel prickles at the back of my neck. I spin around, bringing the gun up, and there's Jarod, leaning against a tree. He's smiling that irritating, superior grin. I let the gun slowly drop to my side.
"Was that little fireball aimed at me?"
"No. It was just a bit of practice."
"Practice?"
"That Lincoln was a Centre car. It will come out of Lyle's budget. I owe him and The Centre a world of pain."
"Do you owe me pain too?"
Jarod pauses, "I'm... I didn't intend for that to happen."
That's probably as close to an apology as I'll get. " Just so you know, I am really pissed at you." That comes out a lot milder than I feel.
Jarod nods. I wonder if he realizes just how angry I am?
"Lyle will know this was your doing; he'll reopen the search; even if you're supposed to be dead."
"You can't keep a good man down," and he smiles again.
"A good man? Are you? You sound like you might have gotten over your little run-in with reality. Have you decided to get on with your life?"
"My life, such as it is, appears to revolve around The Centre. I can't "get on" with it until I finish with them." The smile is gone.
"You would be better off playing dead."
"Oh, I'll be playing, but it will be a different game," he is serious. Then he smiles, "If you're planning to take me back, you should be pointing that gun at me."
"At the moment you're better off if I keep my distance."
Jarod shrugs, "Things change; things stay the same." He backs away from the tree, "Sorry about your ride."
Yeah, right, sorry. "You should see someone about that pyromania."
"I'll call Sydney." He moves back from the tree.
"Don't call me." I yell. He fades into the ferns like a Cheshire cat.
He sounded better but there was something frightening about him. I decide to take the fastest route back to the cabin. I walk down the road toward the cabin road. I hear a motor. I jump a ditch onto the drive as Jarod roars by. I barely catch a glimpse but I think he's waving. One egocentric male down; now I have to go face the other.
By the time I trudge back to the cabin, the Town Car is slag. The driver is leaning up against a tree, staring at it. No wonder he's on a lower pay scale. Lyle is sitting on the porch steps, still holding his gun. I have long since holstered mine. I sit down next to him.
"You can probably put that away," I motion at the gun. "The arsonist is long gone."
A spark of interest, "Did you see him?"
"Not well. I was busy getting out of his way. He tried to run me down." A minor lie. "It was a 'he' and he was driving a dark blue Jeep. I've heard motor sounds through the woods since I came here but I never paid attention. There are several other cabins in the area." I pause; Lyle holsters his gun. He looks hot and distracted. "You look like you could use some water." I get up and go in; Lyle follows.
"Got anything stronger?"
"Why Lyle, drinking before lunch?" I pour two scotches and two waters.
"It's been a long morning." He takes a swift drink and holds out the glass for another, "You didn't quite answer my question. Did you get a look at the driver?"
I down the scotch, and discover that I really didn't want it. I clear my throat, "I'm not sure if I should tell you," pretend a little weakness, keep him guessing, "I know you'll think I'm paranoid because of 'guilt' but I thought the driver looked like Jarod." Let him wonder if I'm hallucinating; my back is covered if Jarod is stupid enough to return from the dead. "Like I said, I didn't get a good look."
Lyle's eyes widen briefly, and then narrow in thought. "Jarod?" spoken softly, "Yes, that would make sense. We didn't find a body. He likes to torch my cars. But why here?" Lyle examines my face, "Has he tried to contact you? How did he know you were here?"
"No. And how would I know?" Keep it simple. "People at The Centre know what I did this summer. Jarod always manages to access any damn thing he wants. I'll sic Broots on it when I get back. By the way, I'd like to get there in this lifetime. How long for the helicopter?"
"Any minute." Lyle's mind is no longer on the conversation. He downs the second scotch, lost in thought. I take my water onto the porch. Lyle joins me, third scotch in hand, just as the noise of the helicopter announces its approach. It fits neatly into the clearing. I shouldn't have wondered why my father demanded such a large, well kept lawn in the middle of the woods. He has a reason for everything. We finish our drinks and walk to the helicopter. The driver brings my suitcase and waits for an invitation to board. Lyle ends his hope, "The sweepers will be happy to see they have someone to drive them back. It's a non-hazardous assignment." He shuts the door.
We take off. The trip to Blue Cove does not include small talk.
I was concerned that the sweepers might find something in the trash, too many toothbrushes, too many dirty glasses, something miniscule and forgotten. All they found was a note stuck under what was left of a windshield wiper. The note said, "Get Over It." Was it aimed at Lyle or me? The official report of the incident said that the driver fell asleep on the porch while he waited for the sweepers. Jarod would never have missed the opportunity to double-check the cabin. Short of fingerprints, which the sweepers did not check, Jarod would have eliminated all evidence that he was ever there. I remember how careful he was, he kept his things in the Jeep. He was never at home with me in the cabin; he just pretended to care for a while.
There has been no further indication that Jarod still lives. I have Broots search daily. I ask Syd if he's heard from him. Nothing, This morning I walk into my office and log into The Centre's Intranet. A message flashes onto my screen, "I'm Baaack!!!" I lean back in my chair and wait for reactions. Broots is first through the door.
"Did you see it?!" He's excited and rather pleased. You would think he made a discovery rather than had a billboard put up in front of him.
"Hard to miss, Broots. Want to tell me who's back and what 'back' means?"
"It has to be Jarod," he's less enthusiastic now. He turns to leave. "I'll find out what he's up to, if I can."
Lyle walks in fuming, "Don't bother, I know."
I guess I'm supposed to ask, "Well?"
"Someone just blew up Donoterase. Incendiary bombs; the entire complex; the whole area just collapsed like a sinkhole. That someone took the time to herd all the cows into the apple orchard next door. Sound like anyone you know?"
"Sounds like Jarod has developed a love of fire. I assume I have my previous assignment back."
"Yes, I made the minor error of telling Father what I planned to do to Jarod when I caught him. The Powers That Be want him alive and relatively undamaged. The assignment is yours."
"Good." I lower my voice, "And, Lyle, I don't think it's necessary to tell Dad and Raines completely informed on everything we do. Do you? We might be able to arrange a little private time with Jarod before we turn him over."
Lyle smiles, a smile that would chill hot coffee, "I would enjoy that," he rubs his thumb-less hand. "But why?" still suspicious.
"I have my reasons," and you may not like them. "We'll talk privately some time." Lyle nods and leaves. Broots stands frozen.
"Don't you have a previously dead pretender to locate? Or would you rather wait till your office blows up?"
"Jarod wouldn't..."
"He might. And I will. Get to work." He leaves. I know Broots wonders what's going on between Lyle and me, but what he doesn't know won't hurt either of us.
I hope Broots is right; Jarod won't blow up his office until after he herds him into an apple orchard. But we are not as safe as we like to think. I saw the look in Jarod's eyes in Vermont; I felt his anger. It reminded me of Lyle. And Lyle would like to be alone with Jarod? He should be careful what he wishes.
Six in the evening and I'm still at The Centre. The phone rings. "What?"
"Hello, Miss Parker. Did I rattle the windows?" he sounds jovial.
"What few there are here." I'll be noncommittal.
"Ahh, another success story," he sounds pleased.
"So did blowing up Donoterase make you feel better?"
"No, it wasn't enough." He sounds tired.
"I doubt if anything will be enough for you."
"I'll know when it's enough." He's angry.
"You should talk to Sydney."
"I don't think I want to do that just yet." Stubborn.
"You need to get over this fixation, or whatever it is, Jarod."
"I have a lot of things to think about; a lot of things to do." Confused.
"Are you sure you're thinking clearly?"
"I'm thinking the way I was bred to think." Lost.
I should tell him to take care of himself.
The phone goes dead. Gone.
Revised 10/2001
Part 3 : Get Over It
by paula h
It's the end of August and I'm still on retreat in Vermont. "Retreat," that's exactly what I did. Actually it was more of a rout than a strategic withdrawal. Hell, it was a stampede over a cliff.
I almost feel normal now. If you can call the person I was normal. Then again, what is normal? Never mind, I've obviously spent too much time with Syd and Syd Junior.
A while ago I learned that the man I call Daddy isn't really my father; I still don't know who is and at times I don't even believe it's true. I've learned that he loved my mother but agreed to her murder. I've learned he sanctioned Thomas' murder knowing what it would do to me. He does love me, but he's a survivor. I thought I was a survivor until Alex and then Jarod shoved the truth in my face. I couldn't accept it, so I ran from it, out of The Centre, into a bottle, over a cliff. If Jarod hadn't been there to catch me I would have fallen to the bottom...of the lake.
Jarod, my guardian angel and harassing devil all wrapped up on a nice body and a stupid grin. When he threatened to stay with me he meant it. Damn him! He was in my face constantly the first weeks. Fortunately for him, he hid my gun. As a matter of fact it's still hidden. When we're speaking again I'll have to ask him where he put it.
The first week, when I might have walked right back into the lake, he barely let me out of his sight. After he decided I was safe from myself he let me out on a longer leash. I immediately scared the hell out of him.
It was a hot morning and the woods were so much cooler than the cabin, I took a little walk and wound up at the lake. I heard Jarod calling me but we had just had one of his amateur psychologist sessions and the sound of his voice was getting on my last nerve. I half-considered drowning myself in the lake just to spite him. Instead, I walked in up to my ankles. He must have some kind of radar because he chose that moment to come out of the woods. The look of fear on his face would have been endearing if his mouth hadn't started moving. He put his arm around my shoulder and kept saying he shouldn't have left me and he should have paid more attention and he thought I was alright, while he led me out of the water. God, he was Sydney on amphetamines. I was going to tell him that he misunderstood, but then he said, "Suicide won't solve anything." I said, "Murder might," turned on him, pushed him backward into the lake, and walked back to the cabin laughing while he sputtered. We didn't talk the rest of the day...and it was wonderful!
The next morning he broke the silence; he apologized. I told him where he could stuff his apology. He laughed and said it was nice to have me back. I hadn't realized it until then but I had been drifting somewhere. He asked me if this meant I was going to do my share of the cooking. I glared at him for a second then asked, "You call what I've been forced to eat cooking?" Jarod replied that they never taught him cooking at The Centre. He also pointed out that cooking seems a bit domestic for me. After weeks of his cooking I almost volunteered to do it all, but came to my senses. We bantered back and forth for a few minutes and finally agreed to split all the chores evenly.
It was a month ago when Jarod finally stopped smothering me and left me on my own, keeping an eye on me but trying to be unobtrusive. He's the only other person here; aside form the caretaker who brings groceries once a week. Jarod goes out pretty regularly, most often to help people. You know, that helping the little guy thing he's into.
On one of his outings Jarod found a vintage Cadillac, something from the fifties I gathered. It was in the shed of some farmer he helped with the haying. Mr. Greenjeans tracked hayseeds and enthusiasm all through the cabin. I started sneezing uncontrollably, which made him laugh, which really made me angry. I stormed into my bedroom, slammed the door and propped my back against it. The sound of him smashing his nose into the door made me laugh and probably ruined his mood. Supper was tense. Fortunately for him it was a leftovers night because I had no intention of cooking and he - clean and silent - almost fell asleep sitting up. That silence was golden too.
The next day he expected to pretend nothing had happened but my head was completely stuffed and I still refused to talk to him. Peace making is not a valued skill in my family and at the time I didn't care. He slammed the door on his way out. When he came home that evening, after another day of haying, he changed on the porch before he came in. I had supper in the oven and we did the Americana home scene for the evening, worthless small talk over supper, and me reading while he worked at the computer, as usual, till lights out.
He does love that laptop. It is, of course, state of the art with an untraceable satellite hookup and enough speed that he should have hacked his way through the Pentagon by now. But he seems frustrated. I asked him how it was going once when he seemed to have found something important. He told me it was his business. Fine. Somehow, from past experience I guess, I can't imagine anything he finds bringing any real comfort, to either of us.
A couple days later Jarod finished the farm work and made a trip into town. He came home with a Cadillac repair manual he must have gotten through a post office box and two cardboard boxes of books from a library garage sale. That night he actually took a break from the laptop to read the manual. I plowed through the boxes. There were a couple popular mystery novels, Under the Tuscan Sun, Bulfinch's Mythology, a bible, several books on angels, but mostly paperback Modern Romances. I would rather audit Centre expense accounts than read most of them but one or two looked interesting.
Jarod spent the better part of the next week tinkering with the Caddy, searching the Internet for authentic parts or picking them up at the post office. He tracked mud and grease into the kitchen the first night. He cooked supper listening to me slam a bucket around while mopping the floor. He reciprocated by slamming pots, pans and dishes. One glass did not survive the non-conversation. I refused his offer to dump the bucket of dirty water, and when I went outside I saw that there were tools on the porch. I asked how I was supposed to explain them to Daddy if he came up. He picked them up and threw them into the woods. We spent that evening in tense silence. But he has not tracked mud, grease or hay into the cabin since.
While he was fiddling with that stupid car, I did my best to pull weeds in a small garden the caretaker planted beside the cabin. It's fenced to keep animals out but a lot of the produce is still exiting with non-paying shoppers. That's fine; rabbits have more entertainment value than cabbage or cars. At night Jarod was back to his Internet truth search while I chewed my way through the books.
I'm doing my best but it never seems to be good enough for Parker. I can't do anything right. I saved her life and the gratitude lasted fifteen minutes.
I found an old farmer who needed help because he had a minor stroke. Mr. Oldham, the farmer, struggled out with his walker every day to watch me work. When I finished up the very first day I was there, he told me I could have the farm. I refused, so he took me to a shed in back of the barn and showed me an old car in pieces. He told me I had to take it at least; it was meant for me. He was alone, wife dead, no kids, and no money to hire anyone. I got in his hay then hooked him up with a young ex-con who knew his way around a farm and wants to turn his life around.
Parker never wondered why I was helping him; all she cared about was that I tracked some grass into the cabin. She got mad and when I tried to apologize she slammed her door in my face. The next day I tried to say good morning and she treated me like a piece of furniture. Now I just try to stay out of the way. She even begrudged me Mr. Oldham's car. I make a mess; I leave tools on the porch; I smother her; I ignore her; I breathe wrong. So now I just strip on the porch before I go in. ...I wonder if she ever watches?
Parker just glides through the days. She doesn't give a damn about the truth, anything or anyone else, or me.
Mr. Oldham's car was a godsend. It helped me hold things together for the week I worked on it. The week I found out the truth about my father. It gave me something to take my mind off the information I couldn't find, the information I couldn't decipher, and the truth I didn't want to believe. It was a '56 Cadillac DeVille. It needed a ton of work, but now I know how to put a car together. Mr. Oldham calls it a real car, not one of those computerized modern things. He said I should get to know something that doesn't depend on computers. I think that's true.
The other truth I learned that week is that Major Charles is not my father. I finally found his medical records. The caring and all-too-missing Major's blood type is O Rh Positive. He could not have fathered an AB child. Does he know? Does he know and not care? Or does he just want to use me like The Centre used me? Is he protecting my clone or has he cashed in that chip? Parker asked me what I found that day and I told her to mind her own business. Maybe I should tell her. She may find it amusing. I keep telling her she doesn't know anything about her father and now I find I don't even know who mine is.
Thank God, Zoë didn't stay with the Major after he rescued her. She and I both came to our senses; we can never have a life together. I set her up with a new identity. I will never see her again, never spend much time with anyone or form any attachments. That would probably amuse Parker even more. Especially considering our current situation. We've been playing house for two months. Some times I want to sit her down, put my arms around her and really really talk to her; other times I want to walk out the door and never look back. I don't know how much longer I can just sit here.
Every night I sit at the computer, either trying to find new information or crack the encryption of a few files I got from Nugenesis, Donoterase and The Centre. The encryption on them is the best I've ever seen. I know it had to have been the work of another pretender. If he could invent the codes I can crack them. Any files that important must hold answers.
I finished rebuilding the Caddy in record time. I took Mr. Oldham for the first ride. When I dropped him off at his house he clapped me on the back with his good arm and said he was proud of me. It felt so good; I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. It wasn't till I was half way back to the cabin that I remembered where I had heard that before. The Major said he was proud of me, Sydney said he was. Did either of them mean it? And my mother was proud of me... I choke and realize there are tears running down my cheeks. Is Margaret really my mother? Was she proud? Or just playing a part? There's that photograph of her with Catherine Parker. Were they friends? Did The Centre manipulate her just like everyone else?
I take several deep breaths and push those thoughts away for now. Today is about taking Parker for a joy ride in this great old car; getting us both out of the house. Tomorrow the Caddy goes to the dealer and I go back to fact-finding.
When I pull into the driveway Parker comes running around the side of the house. She looks so surprised to see the car, almost disappointed. Maybe she thought it was Daddy come to take her home. I put on a smile and show her the car. Pretty soon my smile is real, and information I know she has no interest in is gushing from my mouth. She stands there with an indulgent look. I finish with, "She's such a beauty; I think I should name her The Angel." That was stupid. Name the car what Mr. Parker calls her?
But she laughs, "But, Jarod, it's so...so PINK!"
Well, of course it's pink, pink paint with a white top and white leather interior. Just like in the Bruce Springsteen song. That's what makes it so great, a pink Cadillac. Zoë would have loved it. I start to defend my opinion but Parker waves me off and, still laughing, jumps into the front passenger seat. At least she's letting me drive. We cruise down the back roads with the windows open and the wind blows her hair around. We're both smiling for a change.
Parker turns to me and says, "I feel like I should be wearing a poodle skirt. When to we stop for the burger and shake?"
The poodle skirt reference escapes me but I let it go, the burger and shake sound good. "And fries?"
"Of course!" and she laughs. I get the strangest feeling in my chest when she laughs. I have a grin stuck on my face. We eat at Wendy's. Great greasy junk food, and Parker enjoys it. We smile the whole way home and I don't even turn the computer on. I hunt through the boxes and pull out books on angels and a bible. I've been meaning to study the bible. Parker pulls out a Modern Romance called The Marriage Lesson. Well, Parker could definitely use one. I keep my opinion to myself; she's in a good mood and so am I. I won't do anything to ruin it.
Jarod drove up to the cabin in that ridiculously pink car. When I heard the motor I thought it might be sweepers and Jarod would walk into a trap. But it was him, full of enthusiasm again, and I let myself get caught up in it. That evening was a bright spot. One of those moments when you forget who you are and what a crappy life you live. When I looked at Jarod grinning that stupid grin, driving that stupid car, I got the funniest feeling. I smiled about it the whole next day, until he came home that night and told me he sold the car. Of course he did it to get money for that needy farmer. I almost chewed him out for not asking me to buy it first. That foolish impulse passed quickly. What would I want with a pink car? A black Mercedes maybe, but not a cotton candy clunker.
The car was gone and Jarod spent his days and nights at the computer. When he did take a break it was to read the bible. Even that involved referencing text on the Internet. He seemed more intense every day.
Two weeks ago he made some kind of breakthrough. I was sitting on the porch and I heard "Yes!" in a tone of victory. I walked over to try to look over his shoulder. He turned the computer and told me it was private for now. The look in his eyes was so strange, sad and fixated, that I decided not to challenge him. He returned his gaze to the scrolling lines of text. I watched emotions flicker across his face as he read; none of them was close to happiness. He printed the document, scanned it, stuffed it into his pocket, and shut down the computer. I asked if he wanted to talk about what he found; what was wrong, but he shook his head and walked out the door. I heard him start up his Jeep and drive off. He came back the next evening, walked straight into his room, and fell immediately asleep.
The sound of Jarod's voice woke me in the middle of the night. He was begging someone in his sleep, begging him not to do something. I threw on a robe. He screamed twice before I got to his room. He was awake and sitting up in bed. He looked miserable. I wanted to comfort him but I can't seem to do that, I'm afraid of where it will lead. I asked him what was wrong. He told me it was just a dream; everything was fine. It was a lie. Back in my bed, it dawned on me that this was the first nightmare he'd had since he came to the cabin. He's had them every night since.
He's gone most of the time now, doing whatever he does. I don't ask; he doesn't tell. When he's here we avoid each other. Neither of us could be called comfortable. Things change but things stay the same. I know Jarod's there if I need him. I think he needs me. I don't quite understand how that makes me feel.
When he came back yesterday he was subdued. He looked like he wanted to talk a couple of times. Then he just sort of bit his lip and turned away. I wondered what he wanted to talk about but just couldn't bring myself to ask.
It's my turn to cook. He's working on his laptop while I finish supper. Suddenly he swears and starts hitting keys, getting angrier by the minute. He is so focused. Fifteen minutes later, he sits, staring at the computer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. I leave him alone until I get supper on the plates and walk to the table.
All I say is, "Jarod, it's time to eat."
He looks up but I don't think he sees me. Then he looks at the computer screen. I can see that it's blank. His hands ball into fists; he smashes the laptop closed and sweeps it off the table and across the room. It crashes into the wall.
I stand there for a second; put his plate in front of him, and - I can't help myself - say, "That's not supposed to be good for computers."
The plate follows the laptop to the wall, and I say, "That wasn't especially productive either."
He looks up and sees me then, "What would you know about productive?! All you know is making my life HELL!!" He rises; his chair tips backward and hits the floor. I stand my ground. He is so unreasonably angry that I expect him to hit me next. He takes a step toward me and raises his arm. I brace myself. The look on his face....
I must have blinked in reflex, because when I open my eyes Jarod is standing perfectly still, looking at me. "I almost hit you," he sounds distant. "I'm... sorry," his voice gets softer. "Just stay away from me for a while..." and softer, "please." He turns and walks quickly out of the cabin. I hear the Jeep drive off.
It's four a.m. when I wake to from another nightmare. I find myself sitting in the Jeep, on the berm of a two-lane highway in Maine. I know where I am but can't exactly remember how I got here. I know I drove and I stopped for gas a few times. I'm calm again; I guess that's something. And the car is aimed back toward Vermont, so I guess I intend to go back to the cabin, to face Parker. I don't know if I'm up to explaining what's wrong, let alone what nearly happened.
I haven't had more than two or three hours sleep in the last week. I avoid it. The nightmares started two weeks ago; they get worse every night. I drag myself through the days doing what I always do, righting wrongs, helping the helpless, tilting at windmills. Meanwhile my world has tilted.
Two weeks ago I cracked the code on the Donoterase files. My clone, my exact genetic match, was the first success after years of trying. Since his birth they have been attempting to improve the process, mainly with animals, but they have also experimented with invitro fetal development, accelerating growth and, now that my genome has been mapped, recombining DNA to create their own designer/pretender baby. Some of the trial results were sold to other facilities to aid their research. The Centre has always been ahead of its time and cloning was no exception. Profit and progress gained at the expense of how much suffering and death?
The worst part of the file information were the prospectus files, future plans for future experiments. That information curdled my blood. I read it as it scrolled across the computer screen. I read it after I printed it; I read it by flashlight in the Jeep. I read it one last time by the light of a small campfire. I burned it into my memory and then I burned it in the fire.
While the Donoterase pages were printing I tried the same code key on The Centre files. One file used the same code but its information was similar to what I knew. I've tried versions of that encryption code on the Nugenesis data and the rest of The Centre files over the last weeks.
Today I finally cracked another code; and opened a set of Centre files. I was reading the files as they decoded, but, somewhere in the middle, my mind blanked out. I refocused after several seconds and paused the program while I read what I'd missed. I restarted the decoding program, waiting to learn the rest of the story, the story of my parents. But something happened; the program slowed, the text degraded. I tried to stop the process, but it didn't work. I tried antiviral programs, rescue programs, firewalls. I have the best but nothing stopped the destruction. It went under and through all the protections I'd set up. It ripped the hard drive apart. At the end I was left with a blank screen. Everything on it is gone. Of course I have most files backed up and stored elsewhere but that laptop held the whole story of my life. Those files held the truth about my mother and they self-destructed rather than give it to me. The Centre gives; The Centre takes away.
I have nothing to show for the past two months except a dead computer and an upset Parker. Why was I angry with her? Because she hunted me? That's not her fault. She can't help what The Centre made her any more than I can. Or is it because she warned me about how dangerous the truth could be and I ignored her? She was so right. I don't want her to know the truth. The truth I searched for every free moment. The truth I don't want now that I have it.
I suppose I was in denial, and still am. That's why the dreams started. My old nightmares were about things that the Centre did to me, from my kidnapping on. The new ones are more bizarre, if that's believable. I remember the first one best. I was in a garden, a luxurious tropical mixture. There was an apple tree in the center, with apples as big as my head. Only my head was smaller, I was five years old again, lost, calling for my mother. A snake wrapped around the tree spoke to me, in Mr. Parker's voice, "This is where you belong...I don't expect you to understand. In the end it all does add up. Just eat the apples and you will know." and its head turned into Mr. Parker's head. I ran.
I was running away and I heard my mother's voice, "Just eat the apple, baby, and you can come home." I called out to her, running in circles until I saw her. She was an angel, no Nemesis, no an angel in white. She gave me an apple and told me to take a bite. I did and suddenly I saw it all. "For God knows that when you eat from it then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods who know good and evil." She wasn't an angel; she wasn't real. Her robes turned gray, then black and her loving smile turned into an evil grin. Her face shifted and became his, Raines. He was holding a bible. He opened it and read, "But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."
He looked straight at me and I thought my heart would stop. I backed away, and he read, "And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked." I looked down and I was naked. "The LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them." I was covered in some kind of furred skins. "Now that the man has become like one of us, knowing good and evil, he must not be allowed to stretch out his hand and take also from the tree of life and eat, and live forever." He pointed at me and I ran.
I could hear voice roaring behind me, enveloping me, "So the Lord God drove out the man from the orchard in Eden...."
Things were whirling around me, dark things. I was crying "No, no, no..."
"He placed on the eastern side of the garden of Eden sentries, Cherubim, who used the flame of a whirling sword to guard the way to the tree of life." I looked over my shoulder; the Garden had turned to thorns and rock. An angel stood with a flaming sword; it was my mother. I woke.
Parker stood in the bedroom door, hugging her robe to herself. She really seemed concerned; she asked what was wrong. I needed her, I needed her so much, wanted her to hold me, make things right. "And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help for him who is like him." I told her it was nothing; I was fine. It was a lie.
Can I tell her the truth? Those Centre files were my baby record book. The Donoterase files were a blueprint of my soul. "So God created man in his own image." I am a Centre experiment, a Centre creation and it's property. Can I tell her that? Could she already know? Does Sydney know?
I feel the anger and frustration starting to rise again. I start the Jeep and drive. It will be afternoon till I get back to the cabin. I have to work this out in my head before I get there. She's my closest link to that abomination and she doesn't know how close I am to the edge right now. If she says the wrong thing.... A smile comes to me from somewhere; we always say the wrong thing to each other, even when it's the truth. The best thing may be to tell her everything and go from there. Go where? Back to the bosom of my "real" family? What's real about The Centre? And what's real about me?
I feel the tears burning behind my eyelids. I have to blink many times to clear my vision. Wouldn't want to wreck the jeep and kill myself, I'm valuable property. I concentrate on the road and the cold night air rushing in through the windows. In the pre-dawn light I can see some of the trees are starting to change color. It's the beginning of September; Autumn is coming, followed by cold stark Winter. The Centre reminds me of Winter.
I guess the interlude is over. My father called this morning, he pretty much demanded that I come home; I can't put it off much longer. Lyle, dear little brother that he is, volunteered to come get me. I asked Daddy if they found Jarod's body or any indication he's alive; he said no to both. He wants me to find Major Charles and Jarod's clone. I can't seem to drum up any enthusiasm for the assignment. Jarod can't find them; I doubt that they have much to fear from Broots or me. I wonder what Jarod will think about me chasing his dear daddy?
There was a stupid owl somewhere in the woods hooting off and on all last night. They're supposed to bring bad luck or something; at least that's what they say in pulp fiction and some popular song I heard on the local oldies station. What it brought me was insomnia. All I did was toss and turn, and since Daddy's call, all I've done is pace. Jarod's been gone all night and this morning. But I'm not worried about him. No, not really. He's a big boy; if he wants to tell me what the problem is he certainly knows where he left me... rather abruptly.
I hear the Jeep return and walk quickly out onto the porch. Why did I do that? Am I expecting him to say, "Honey, I'm home."? I settle into an Adirondack chair on the porch. No one calls me "Honey," everyone calls me "Miss," probably "Miss Bitch" behind my back. And that's just fine, let them keep their distance; I love my privacy. If that's true why am I so lonely?
My mother is gone and she loved me. Thomas is gone and he loved me. My father loves me in his own bizarre way, but he's back at The Centre. Jarod's here. But Jarod doesn't love me. At least he doesn't act like he does. If Jarod loved me he would not be able to hide it. I would be getting roses every day, at The Centre's expense of course, and more gifts than my house could hold. What has Jarod ever given me? A virus, a candy heart, a stained glass picture, the truth. That last gift was nearly a killer. It frightens me to think how close I came to ending my life. If Jarod hadn't been there.... then I think about the look on Jarod's face as he stood up from the table; it frightens me too. I think he wanted to kill me for a minute.
What, exactly, was that all about? I've seen Jarod angry before. I've made him angry, most times deliberately, but I've never seen him so close to loosing control. He faked madness a few times in and out of The Centre. But this was real, very real, too real. So, I'm out here waiting for a man who pretty much threatened my life. Waiting, just like my mother waited for my father. Just like my mother? I'm not my mother! I will not be my mother! I'm nothing like my mother! I'll tell Jarod where to get off threatening me. Nobody threatens me!
The thought brings me to my feet and the top of the steps. Jarod steps into the clearing. His head is down as he crosses the lawn. Even from thirty feet away he looks like hell; he walks like he's exhausted. He climbs the steps to the porch without looking at me. I will not be ignored, "Aren't you even going to say hello?"
"No." He snaps the word.
I start to snap back but he gives me a look that stops me mid-breath; I flinch.
I flinched? I don't flinch. I've had guns pointed at my head and I didn't flinch. He says one damn word and I practically jump back. If this is an aftereffect of my near-death experience, I don't like it. I follow Jarod into the cabin. I'll be reasonable, "Jarod, we need to talk about yesterday."
"What part of 'no' didn't you understand?" He is not angry, but he avoids my eyes. "I can't talk about it and I'm too tired to fight." He walks back out of the cabin, brushing me aside in the process. I follow him to the door. I want to demand an answer. I want to know what's wrong. I watch him walk toward the lake in silence.
I sit on the porch for two hours, watching the leaves change color. This is a waste of time. I've wasted the whole summer in a daze. What was I waiting for? Prince Charming to come riding along and take me away on his big white stallion? To live "happily ever after?" Save it for fairy tales. I may just call Lyle and tell him to come for me tomorrow. I can't sit here waiting for nothing. I think I'll go tell the local hero-wanna-be.
A walk through the woods is always calming. The light is softer, greener, full of mist. Coming to the edge of the dark woods into the afternoon sunshine is almost blinding. Insects and dust motes dance in the air. A dragonfly flashes its jeweled body past my face and draws my vision toward the lake...and Jarod lying on the grass. I walk over and stand near him, leaning against a young tree. I'm not sure if I want to disturb him. I'm almost afraid to disturb him, to make him angry. I dislike the feeling but I accept it, for now, till I find out if I have cause to be afraid.
I stand for a while, looking at Jarod. He has his arm over his eyes but I don't think he's asleep. The dragonfly returns, it circles, hovering above Jarod's face before flying off again. Winter is coming, the end of warmth and its life. Does it sense the end; just accept it? Did my mother live her life not thinking about what she knew the future could bring? What does my future hold? More time at The Centre? Yes. The destruction of Raines? Yes, after I position myself so that I have power over him. Killing him would be too easy, too good for him. I want to see him squirm. And I will find out who ordered my mother and Tommy killed. I will see them pay; I will enjoy that. I feel myself smile.
"I saw that smile on an alligator once." Jarod is awake; he has his arm resting on his chest; he draws up one leg and turns slightly toward me. "Anything I should know?"
"I'm going back to The Centre."
"I expected you would, even after you knew the truth. Do you intend to support your brother in his quest for power? Or try for the Chair position yourself?"
" Whatever furthers my goals."
"Your goals. I was a fool to think you might change them."
My muscles tense to leave, but I stay. "Nothing has changed for me." I still love my father. I hate Raines...and The Centre. I just can't walk away. Jarod has no idea what I want. "The truth only makes things harder. Don't you realize that?"
"I do...finally I do. I'm sorry I gave it to you. I'm sorry I went looking for it at all. Playing with fire causes burns."
"You're usually more original than that, Jarod."
"Original. That's me. Prototype for a veritable new species. And to think, they managed to produce me before genetic engineering. I'm supposed to be original, it's my destiny." His voice is angry, tinged with something like hysteria, and disgust.
"Talk in circles, and I'll leave."
"You are leaving, going Home. And we always talk in circles." He closes his eyes and covers them with his arm. I guess the conversation is over; I can't think of anything to add.
I turn to leave. "Life goes on. It's your turn to cook." I think he almost smiles, but I walk away.
"Stop telling me what to do," I murmur softly when I'm sure she's out of range. I get up. Life goes on? Yes, I suppose. The other choice doesn't appeal to me either. I walk back to the cabin. Parker did not return here before me. It's just as well, I could feel myself getting angry while we were talking and it's better if I keep some distance. Playing with fire causes burns. She said that was not original, but it's true. I feel like I've caught my soul on fire.
I'm not interested in cooking but, as she said, it is my turn. If Miss Parker wants gourmet she'll have to take over all the culinary duties. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches are my speed right now. I am hungry. Hunger is one of the basic needs.
Basic needs. Where did that come from? Oh, yes management theory, Maslow's Hierarchy. Which pretend? The personnel manager or the MBA at the advertising firm? Both, several others, real life. The Hierarchy of Needs: basic, food and shelter; safety and security; social and belonging; status and power; and the fifth level, realizing one's potential. The Centre managed to take me straight from two to five and skip the in-betweens. That's what I'm looking for, belonging and control of my life. At least that's what I think I want. There are times that all I want is power. Power is the primary motivator at The Centre.
Speaking of basic needs, I guess I should return Parker's gun now, she'll need it when she's back at The Centre. How can she go back there after what she knows? After what they did to her mother and Thomas and her...and me? She knows the truth about her father and it changes nothing. She'll go back like nothing ever happened. The pain and deception mean nothing to her. Nothing. That's what they left me. No family, no identity, nothing. It's like my family died but I can't even grieve, because they weren't real. I feel rage burning in the pit of my stomach. I push those thoughts away.
What was I thinking about? Oh yes, basic needs...I wonder where being clean comes in on that list? I tried not bathing back at The Centre. It wasn't pleasant for anyone, including myself. I retrieve Parker's gun from its hiding place and leave it where I found it on the porch. Then I head for the bathroom.
After a shower and shave, I feel more human. There's some discussion as to the "human-ness" of genetic constructs. Do they have a soul? If a soul is the criteria then Raines is not human. I smile. And if I have no soul will that make me another Raines? Raines or Mr. Parker. The end justifies the means. Are my sims an exercise of justice or an exercise of power? Some philosopher - or was it Mr. Spock (?) - said, "A difference that makes no difference is no difference." Maybe I'm just like them.
That's my purpose after all, a little graft onto The Centre's family tree. And a productive one at that. I make them millions and provide genetic material so they can keep the line going. The prototype. They just made a few tiny errors, like letting me believe I had a family.
I had a family. I did I did. I believe my mother cared for me. I remember her as a kind, loving woman. Is she really my mother or was she paid to pretend? I barely remember my father-who-isn't-my-father. Has he been searching for me because he wants his family back or because he's been paid? Did he pretend to love me? I am tired of being manipulated; I won't allow it again. My family was a sim. I've been simed all my life, and there was no "justice" at the end. I want justice.
I sit down at the table and begin to draw in a notebook. I draw a family; the man has no face; the boys are smiling and the mother looks at them with love. For a second I can imagine it's real, that I can find it again, that I'm there with them. Parker returns, gun in hand, and I tense, till she puts it in the back of her belt. She walks over and pushes my wet hair back. Her hand is cool and smooth. I want to lean into her; tell her about the things I don't want to know; tell her how empty I feel. Then she says, "What's for supper?"
I crumple the paper and stand, faster than I intended and the chair falls over. Fine, you want supper; I'll make supper. She's surprised. Is that fear in her eyes? Afraid of me? Good. She should be, if she keeps pushing; sometime I'll push back. I'm tired of being controlled. No one will tell me what to do again.
I throw the pan on the stove and start it heating. I schlep a can of Campbell's into a pot and turn up the heat. A trip to the refrigerator provides a can-full of milk, some cheese and margarine. The pan is too hot for the margarine but I could care less, I just want to get done and get out of the cabin. I need some air.
As I walk up the steps to the cabin I see that my gun has magically reappeared. At least I didn't have to beg for it. I pick it up and walk into the cabin. Jarod is drawing something. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad sign, but he looks drained. He notices the gun stiffens. I hide it behind my back and walk over to see what he drew. His hair is dripping on the paper. Such a little boy. For some reason I reach over and comb it back with my fingers. He leans into my hand and it makes me uneasy. I feel like I should distance myself; I don't want this turning into a Modern Romance. I need to say something. It's his turn to cook supper. I'll help if he wants; he cooked all those times when I wasn't up to it; it's only fair. I ask, "What's for supper? Can... (I help?) The rest of the sentence is lost in the scraping and crash of his chair. I'm startled. He looked so peaceful for a second. That's over. He crumples the drawing and tosses it in the garbage. A pot and pan slam onto the stove.
I right the chair and move the notebook off the table. I can see the impression of his drawing on the next sheet of paper. He was drawing his family. What can I say? The Centre took him away from them and I'm going back there. I place the gun in a dresser drawer and return to the kitchen. Perhaps it's better if I don't say anything, just sit and wait until he calms down.
He's burning the soup; probably doing it deliberately to get a rise out of me. I decide it's better to ignore his little tantrum. The sandwiches are blackened. My appetite is gone. He drops the food onto the table. I won't give him the satisfaction of saying anything. I eat a little, and clean off the table. As I wash the dishes, I see him at the edge of my vision, and I can tell he's fuming. He shoves his chair under the table and goes out the door. I finish the dishes and try to decide how to handle him. I have a choice. I can sit in here and smell burnt cheese and tomato soup or I can go out there and make him tell me what the hell his problem is. Hmmm, singed sandwich or singed pretender? I opt for fresh air and answers.
Jarod is sitting on the arm of one of the porch chairs, staring into space. I take a deep breath and plow right in, "I'm tired of this tango. You are going to tell me what put you in this foul mood."
"Maybe I'm pretending to be like you," he smiles grimly, still focused on the distance. "How can you go back there?" he's begging for an answer, "You'll ignore what happened and go back. Do what they tell you, knowing what they are."
"I don't have to explain myself to you." I can't quite explain it to myself. The real truth is I have to finish with The Centre before I can start anything else. Even if it kills me. Is that what my mother thought? ...even if it kills me.
The conversation has paused; Jarod is looking at me. "You're already back there," he snarls. "I thought I was 'saving' you. I tried to tell you, to help you. But nothing changed. You've given yourself to The Centre. You are a waste of time." He's gets up and goes back into the cabin. I really don't feel like following him, but I want answers, so I go in.
"I never asked you to save me. I don't need to be saved."
"You would be dead if I hadn't dragged you out of the lake."
"Excuse me? You forced your wonderful 'truth' on me, Jarod." He looks at me; I continue, "Why? Why did you do that to me?" His mouth opens. "No. Don't answer, I already know. You were saving me from The Centre. You have no idea how much damage 'The Truth' can do, and you are never satisfied. You never will be. Nothing can give you the life you missed. So, while you were 'saving' me, you pushed me too far, right into the lake. It was your fault. Don't be so proud of yourself for correcting your mistake.
"Now that you've completely recovered from the truth you can go back to what you were doing"
"Not exactly. I don't have to chase you around anymore. You're dead. Remember? My new assignment"...this will tick him off..."is to find Major Charles and your clone." His reaction is not quite what I expected; he smiles ironically, then laughs softly, not pleasantly.
"Chasing my clone is chasing me. And Major Charles is not my father, genetically at least. He may have been paid to raise me for The Centre. That part is a bit hazy, but he can not be my father," there is a hint of anger in his voice. "With any luck he may just turn my clone over the way he did me. That's a truth I forced on myself."
"You ran away from The Centre to find out who your father is and the answer is back there?" All the answers are back there. Isn't this ironic." I have to laugh, bitterly. "And that's why you've been acting like a spoiled brat the last few days? Because your daddy isn't who you thought he was? Welcome to my world. Are you this upset because Major Charles isn't your father? Or is it because you didn't want me to know your family isn't off the set of 'Leave It To Beaver'?"
"I knew this would make you happy." He is angry. Happy? How would it make me happy? "You couldn't have set me up better if you tried. I wanted a lead on my family and you gave it to me..."
"Be careful what you wish."
"You sent me to a truth I find hard to accept, that Major Charles is not my father." He starts pacing. "And a truth I cannot even conceive - conceive... yes, that's an appropriate word - that I am the result of The Centre's selective breeding program. An exercise in Mendelian genetics taken to heights only The Centre could imagine. When Raines says The Centre owns me I thought he meant figuratively, because they kept me and trained me. But he means it literally; they bred me," he spits out the words. His eyes glitter with tears. "They bred me, they implanted me, paid my 'parents' to raise me, then took me back to test me. If I had been less proficient at pretending they would have enhanced me like they did Kyle, or experimented on me like they did Angelo. But I seem to be the culmination of their breeding program. Shouldn't I be proud?" He stops walking; there are tears on his cheeks.
I'm stunned; I can't think of anything to say.
"So instead they locked me up and worked me like a draft animal. And I'm sure they intended to breed me eventually if cloning hadn't become an option. Just like a prize bull, just like The Centre's cattle in Argentina." He stops talking. I can tell he's trying to regain control. He is not successful.
He starts pacing again, "So Parker, you can laugh. God knows, no, the Devil knows who my real parents are. The Devil and The Centre. The difference is hard to distinguish. Can you still tell? Or have they bought your soul? Have they sucked you in after our fathers?" He stops for a moment and stares at me, sizing me up. "Did you know, Parker?"
"About your father? No."
"About the breeding program?"
"I don't believe that there was one. I think you're exaggerating because you're upset. There isn't a breeding program, Jarod." I can't believe that. "It's not some vast scheme. That would mean... No! The Centre just searches for talented children. It's no less wrong, but it's more plausible. They would need a plan, a blueprint going back generations to do what you said. They can't breed human beings."
He smiles, but it's a cold smile, and his eyes..., "Allow me to finish the sentence you were afraid to complete, 'That would mean ...'that my mother knew; that both our mother's knew. Don't be foolish, Parker, your mother had to know. She didn't return the children to their families. She hid them away, gave them to strangers, so they couldn't be returned to The Centre." He's coming toward me, "I thought it was to hide them from sweepers but now I see that it was to keep them from being returned to their 'rightful owners' by the people hired to raise them."
He continues to advance on me. I find myself backing into a wall.
"Breeding humans isn't hard, Parker. All you need is a test tube, and a womb. The hard part is figuring a way to steal the baby. Maybe you could tell them he was stillborn. Then they would never even look for him. If all else fails you just kill the surrogate. That's easy. The breeding part is easy." He has me up against the wall, with his arms on either side of my shoulders.
Jarod's voice holds menace, " There are other ways. You can pick two people with the appropriate genes, throw them together constantly, until they want each other."
Does he mean to try what I think he does? He is leaning toward me; breathing harder. I get ready to push him back. He moves his left arm up the wall till he's inches from my face; his right hand is on my side at the waist applying pressure, massaging, with his thumb. "Or you could arrange for one of them to escape and send the other one chasing after them." His hand moves to my ribs, then back down to my waist, around my back, caressing motions. His voice is husky, "Adrenaline is a wonderful hormone; it stimulates so many others." Why the hell did I put that gun away? "You know fight or flight. Or other things..." He pulls me to him, shoving me against the wall and I feel exactly what he means.
I hear myself say, "I think you should go," in a surprisingly commanding voice. "Now."
Jarod frowns and draws in breath. The leer returns and he growls into my ear, "What's wrong, Parker, not rough enough? From what I've seen that's the way you like it. And I've seen everything." He presses his body against me.
"Get the fuck away from me!" Not a particularly good choice of words. I try to slap him but he knocks my hand away as he steps back. "You bastard!" There are angry tears in my eyes; I take another swing.
He deflects that slap too, but something got through. He hesitates; I can see his thoughts clearing in his eyes. "Yes," is all he says. He turns and walks out the door.
I follow him onto the porch, shaking with anger. I scream after him, "Keep going! Don't you fucking even think about coming back here! You go straight to Hell!!" Tears are streaming down my cheeks; my nails are biting into my palms.
Jarod stops and I see his shoulders stiffen. Is he coming back? The gun, I want my gun. Could I shoot him if I had it? Right now I could. He starts moving forward again, crossing the lawn without a backward look, followed by a long black shadow. I breathe again. Night is coming early; I see dark clouds to the east. I wonder, absently, if it will rain.
I hear him start the Jeep. I wait a moment and walk back into the cabin. The shaking gets worse, much worse. I have to sit down for a moment. Suddenly I start crying in earnest.
I pull myself together by force of will. Stand up, wait for my legs to stiffen and walk into the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face and towel it off. I pull out the makeup I haven't used since I came and put on my other face. I walk into my bedroom and change into my other skin, a tailored pants suit and heels. My gun goes back into its holster on my waist.
I walk back out to the living room and dial the phone, the direct number to my father's office. No preamble when he picks up, "Daddy, I'm ready to get back to work." I won't be here if he comes back.
"'Bout time, Princess." he tries to sound jovial; it sounds false. "I'll send someone tomorrow."
"I've had about as much life in the woods as I can stand. Send someone now. I want to get away from this spider-infested wood pile as soon as possible."
"Alright, Angel. I'll send a car. We'll have lunch when you get back," he hangs up. Promises, promises. Nothing changes. I have to produce the old man and the clone if I ever want to have lunch with him. I'm a disappointment. I have to prove myself. I will, but it may be at The Centre's expense.
Most of the clothes I've worn over the summer can stay here. After my bag is packed I try to sleep. That lasts about five minutes; I'm back up and pacing. I'm glad I'm committed to going back - like I really had a choice - and I want to be there NOW. One of my passes takes me close to the liquor cabinet. I haven't had more than a glass of wine since my little swim. Jarod wanted me to give my stomach a break. Well, he's gone and my nerves are shot. I need a drink. I pour a scotch on the rocks. I take it and a heavy plaid blanket out to the Adirondack chair.
I spend the rest of the night watching clouds scud across the half moon. I must have dozed off somewhere around dawn. A sound from the woods wakes me, and I wonder if it's Jarod. Just as I get up the energy to check, a doe tiptoes her way into the clearing. She notices me and snorts, trying to catch my scent. I freeze. We just look at each other -she is beautiful- for several moments. The phone in the cabin rings. She spins and bounds back into the bushes; I walk into the cabin.
"What?"
"Well, Dear Sister, are you packed and ready to go?"
"Lyle? Where are you?"
"Turning onto the road to your little home-away-from-home."
"You drove up here to get me? Why?" Why would he do that? What's he got planned?
"Not exactly. I got a driver and car from Transportation. And our father asked me to." The truth from Lyle? Now there's a new concept. "I'm supposed to make sure you're alright and ready to get back to work." And if I'm not?
"Maybe you'd like to trade places? I hear Vermont is lovely in Autumn."
"I spend plenty of time outdoors when I can, it revitalizes me. But right now I have other engagements." Did he mean to remind me of his extracurricular activities with Oriental women? To shake me? If he did he'll never know.
"This little idyll has put me off country life. Get that heap up here so we can get it turned around."
"Hang up and walk out on the porch." Click.
I put the phone down, pick up my suitcase, and walk outside. Another beautiful late summer morning, the clouds are gone, the sky is brilliant, and I'm on my way back to the underworld. A Lincoln Town Car pulls into the driveway. At least I'm going to Hell in style. I decide to wait at the top of the steps; I don't want Lyle to think I'm eager to see him. It's almost a relief really, there's no turning back now. A Centre driver, who I vaguely recognize, gets out and opens Lyle's door. Lyle hasn't changed over the summer. Still smooth on the outside and sharp around the edges. He walks slowly toward the cabin, smiling like a fox. The driver walks ahead for my bag.
Just as the driver pulls my suitcase off the porch I catch movement in the air near the Lincoln, something bright. There is a crash of broken glass, an explosive pop, and the car bursts into flame. I flinch back; Lyle ducks and falls to one knee; and the driver nearly falls over when he spins around. There isn't a lot we can do; the interior of the car is engulfed in flame. Hope Lyle took out the extra insurance. I walk over to Lyle; he is standing again and staring at the automotive bonfire.
"You might want to shut your mouth." He snaps his mouth shut. The windows are already shattering from the heat. "We might also want to back up; I would expect the gas tank to go up soon."
He glances at me, then starts to back away. "You didn't by any chance have something to do with this, did you?" He draws his gun and holds it loosely at his side. The tires explode one by one.
"Sorry. I didn't happen to think of it." Wish I had. "How many cars does this make?" I grin at him; he is not amused.
"I've lost count. Did you happen to see anything?" We have backed to the porch, a relatively safe distance. The driver is standing there holding my suitcase.
"Just some sort of fire bomb flying through the air," I'm still grinning. The gas tank explodes. The three of us duck. The driver says, "Shhiiitt," in an awed voice. I have to agree.
Lyle gives him a dirty look. "Do you have a gun?"
"No, Sir. My function is driver on non-hazardous assignments. A gun is not required."
"Where the hell did they come up with that classification?"
"Well, Sir, it is a much lower pay scale than cleaner and..."
"Never mind!" Lyle turns to me, "Do you have a gun?"
"Of course." I pull my gun from behind my back. "Who knew you were coming here?"
"I don't know. Sister retrieval isn't exactly classified. And I wouldn't have thought it's hazardous either." He looks at the still-awed driver. "If you can pull yourself away from the show, get inside and call Delaware. I want a sweeper team up here. Then call New York. I want a helicopter ASAP." The driver nods, drops the suitcase, and goes inside. Lyle looks at me "This could have been aimed at you, you know."
"Doubt it. I've been up here, unprotected, for a while. Why would they wait till now?"
"Two Parkers for the price of one? Let's see if we can find the bastard and ask him."
Lyle and I split up. He goes into the woods nearest the car; I go toward the lake. I skirt the lake and take a deer trail to one of the spots where Jarod had hidden his Jeep. It had to be him.
The Jeep is not there. It is amazing how thick and untamed these woods are. Someone could be watching me and, unless they move, I'll never see them... until it's too late. I feel the hackles go up on the back of my neck. I continue my search for over half an hour. At one point I flush a young deer by nearly stepping on it. Like I needed the extra adrenaline. I am relieved when I come to a private road leading to another cabin. I was beginning to wonder if I'd lost my bearings. The day is heating up rapidly and I'm wearing a suit. I stand still for a few moments to cool off.
I feel prickles at the back of my neck. I spin around, bringing the gun up, and there's Jarod, leaning against a tree. He's smiling that irritating, superior grin. I let the gun slowly drop to my side.
"Was that little fireball aimed at me?"
"No. It was just a bit of practice."
"Practice?"
"That Lincoln was a Centre car. It will come out of Lyle's budget. I owe him and The Centre a world of pain."
"Do you owe me pain too?"
Jarod pauses, "I'm... I didn't intend for that to happen."
That's probably as close to an apology as I'll get. " Just so you know, I am really pissed at you." That comes out a lot milder than I feel.
Jarod nods. I wonder if he realizes just how angry I am?
"Lyle will know this was your doing; he'll reopen the search; even if you're supposed to be dead."
"You can't keep a good man down," and he smiles again.
"A good man? Are you? You sound like you might have gotten over your little run-in with reality. Have you decided to get on with your life?"
"My life, such as it is, appears to revolve around The Centre. I can't "get on" with it until I finish with them." The smile is gone.
"You would be better off playing dead."
"Oh, I'll be playing, but it will be a different game," he is serious. Then he smiles, "If you're planning to take me back, you should be pointing that gun at me."
"At the moment you're better off if I keep my distance."
Jarod shrugs, "Things change; things stay the same." He backs away from the tree, "Sorry about your ride."
Yeah, right, sorry. "You should see someone about that pyromania."
"I'll call Sydney." He moves back from the tree.
"Don't call me." I yell. He fades into the ferns like a Cheshire cat.
He sounded better but there was something frightening about him. I decide to take the fastest route back to the cabin. I walk down the road toward the cabin road. I hear a motor. I jump a ditch onto the drive as Jarod roars by. I barely catch a glimpse but I think he's waving. One egocentric male down; now I have to go face the other.
By the time I trudge back to the cabin, the Town Car is slag. The driver is leaning up against a tree, staring at it. No wonder he's on a lower pay scale. Lyle is sitting on the porch steps, still holding his gun. I have long since holstered mine. I sit down next to him.
"You can probably put that away," I motion at the gun. "The arsonist is long gone."
A spark of interest, "Did you see him?"
"Not well. I was busy getting out of his way. He tried to run me down." A minor lie. "It was a 'he' and he was driving a dark blue Jeep. I've heard motor sounds through the woods since I came here but I never paid attention. There are several other cabins in the area." I pause; Lyle holsters his gun. He looks hot and distracted. "You look like you could use some water." I get up and go in; Lyle follows.
"Got anything stronger?"
"Why Lyle, drinking before lunch?" I pour two scotches and two waters.
"It's been a long morning." He takes a swift drink and holds out the glass for another, "You didn't quite answer my question. Did you get a look at the driver?"
I down the scotch, and discover that I really didn't want it. I clear my throat, "I'm not sure if I should tell you," pretend a little weakness, keep him guessing, "I know you'll think I'm paranoid because of 'guilt' but I thought the driver looked like Jarod." Let him wonder if I'm hallucinating; my back is covered if Jarod is stupid enough to return from the dead. "Like I said, I didn't get a good look."
Lyle's eyes widen briefly, and then narrow in thought. "Jarod?" spoken softly, "Yes, that would make sense. We didn't find a body. He likes to torch my cars. But why here?" Lyle examines my face, "Has he tried to contact you? How did he know you were here?"
"No. And how would I know?" Keep it simple. "People at The Centre know what I did this summer. Jarod always manages to access any damn thing he wants. I'll sic Broots on it when I get back. By the way, I'd like to get there in this lifetime. How long for the helicopter?"
"Any minute." Lyle's mind is no longer on the conversation. He downs the second scotch, lost in thought. I take my water onto the porch. Lyle joins me, third scotch in hand, just as the noise of the helicopter announces its approach. It fits neatly into the clearing. I shouldn't have wondered why my father demanded such a large, well kept lawn in the middle of the woods. He has a reason for everything. We finish our drinks and walk to the helicopter. The driver brings my suitcase and waits for an invitation to board. Lyle ends his hope, "The sweepers will be happy to see they have someone to drive them back. It's a non-hazardous assignment." He shuts the door.
We take off. The trip to Blue Cove does not include small talk.
I was concerned that the sweepers might find something in the trash, too many toothbrushes, too many dirty glasses, something miniscule and forgotten. All they found was a note stuck under what was left of a windshield wiper. The note said, "Get Over It." Was it aimed at Lyle or me? The official report of the incident said that the driver fell asleep on the porch while he waited for the sweepers. Jarod would never have missed the opportunity to double-check the cabin. Short of fingerprints, which the sweepers did not check, Jarod would have eliminated all evidence that he was ever there. I remember how careful he was, he kept his things in the Jeep. He was never at home with me in the cabin; he just pretended to care for a while.
There has been no further indication that Jarod still lives. I have Broots search daily. I ask Syd if he's heard from him. Nothing, This morning I walk into my office and log into The Centre's Intranet. A message flashes onto my screen, "I'm Baaack!!!" I lean back in my chair and wait for reactions. Broots is first through the door.
"Did you see it?!" He's excited and rather pleased. You would think he made a discovery rather than had a billboard put up in front of him.
"Hard to miss, Broots. Want to tell me who's back and what 'back' means?"
"It has to be Jarod," he's less enthusiastic now. He turns to leave. "I'll find out what he's up to, if I can."
Lyle walks in fuming, "Don't bother, I know."
I guess I'm supposed to ask, "Well?"
"Someone just blew up Donoterase. Incendiary bombs; the entire complex; the whole area just collapsed like a sinkhole. That someone took the time to herd all the cows into the apple orchard next door. Sound like anyone you know?"
"Sounds like Jarod has developed a love of fire. I assume I have my previous assignment back."
"Yes, I made the minor error of telling Father what I planned to do to Jarod when I caught him. The Powers That Be want him alive and relatively undamaged. The assignment is yours."
"Good." I lower my voice, "And, Lyle, I don't think it's necessary to tell Dad and Raines completely informed on everything we do. Do you? We might be able to arrange a little private time with Jarod before we turn him over."
Lyle smiles, a smile that would chill hot coffee, "I would enjoy that," he rubs his thumb-less hand. "But why?" still suspicious.
"I have my reasons," and you may not like them. "We'll talk privately some time." Lyle nods and leaves. Broots stands frozen.
"Don't you have a previously dead pretender to locate? Or would you rather wait till your office blows up?"
"Jarod wouldn't..."
"He might. And I will. Get to work." He leaves. I know Broots wonders what's going on between Lyle and me, but what he doesn't know won't hurt either of us.
I hope Broots is right; Jarod won't blow up his office until after he herds him into an apple orchard. But we are not as safe as we like to think. I saw the look in Jarod's eyes in Vermont; I felt his anger. It reminded me of Lyle. And Lyle would like to be alone with Jarod? He should be careful what he wishes.
Six in the evening and I'm still at The Centre. The phone rings. "What?"
"Hello, Miss Parker. Did I rattle the windows?" he sounds jovial.
"What few there are here." I'll be noncommittal.
"Ahh, another success story," he sounds pleased.
"So did blowing up Donoterase make you feel better?"
"No, it wasn't enough." He sounds tired.
"I doubt if anything will be enough for you."
"I'll know when it's enough." He's angry.
"You should talk to Sydney."
"I don't think I want to do that just yet." Stubborn.
"You need to get over this fixation, or whatever it is, Jarod."
"I have a lot of things to think about; a lot of things to do." Confused.
"Are you sure you're thinking clearly?"
"I'm thinking the way I was bred to think." Lost.
I should tell him to take care of himself.
The phone goes dead. Gone.
