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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: Do any of us really own anything? Can anyone claim to possess the lives of these characters that we hold so dear? You betcha. But it isn’t me. Don’t own them. Just borrowing them. This is just my feeble attempt to keep the Pretender alive and well until we finally get to find him again on DVD release. If anyone tries to sue, I’ll disavow all knowledge.
-Author’s Note: Believe it or not, the examples of what Jarod will do for coffee as described in this story, are taken from real life. I have seen my husband do it. Is it a guy thing? Or is it just a desperate addiction to the stuff? I’m a tea drinker myself.
-
The Straight Path Lost
-
By Phenyx
05/31/04
-
In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a
dark wood where the straight way was lost. Dante Alighieri (1265 - 1321), The Divine Comedy
-
Margaret would never forget the first time she looked into her son’s eyes.
When she thought about those eyes and that first glimpse, she did not recall the very first time she saw them. The image of her first-born child, slick and squalling as he joined this world, was burned into her mind as with any mother. But it was not the newborn blue that she remembered when she thought of him. She did not think of the eerily piercing gaze he’d given her as the babe suckled at her breast.
For even on the day of his birth, Margaret had known that those eyes would not stay blue for long. As she had nursed her son for the first time, she wondered at the deep sea-like color that stared up at her. Exhausted and a little loopy from the whiffs of gas she’d been given during labor, Margaret had been enraptured, nearly hypnotized by the dark wisdom she had seen in those tiny eyes.
Yet these memories were not the ones that assaulted her when she thought of a first glimpse of her son. What she remembered was a crowded sidewalk on a busy street more than four decades later. Margaret recalled the tall lean man who had stared at her as she stepped from a cab. She would have known him anywhere. She immediately recognized those eyes and the dark gaze that seemed to speak to her.
Now, a handful of months after finding him again, Margaret was only beginning to understand the depth that hid in her son’s eyes. Jarod could transmit so much information, with no more than a flickering glance. Most of the time, his chocolate-colored eyes readily broadcast emotions to anyone who wished to see them.
Margaret could often see joy, curiosity and mischievousness dancing in her son’s eyes. Concern was a regular visitor. And once, as she roused him from a nightmare, Margaret had seen fear in his disoriented gaze.
But there were times when Jarod’s eyes went hard and blank. At times like that, Margaret knew that her son was hiding things. Her instincts told her that pain was lurking there, sorrow and regret. But these she could never see, for Jarod hid them well.
Yet there were clues, hints that revealed what Jarod tried so desperately to hide. It broke Margaret’s heart to see them. More so when she realized that the oddities of Jarod’s behavior completely escaped him. He did not recognize them as strange.
The most obvious of these was his fascination with food, especially that of the sweeter variety. Jarod hoarded snacks and kept a ready supply in his pockets at all times. He rarely described food in terms of taste but instead spoke of the way certain confections made him feel. In a very serious discussion with his younger twin, Jack, Jarod had gone on at some length about the nuances of ice cream. Soft serve cones were like freedom while a single scoop in a bowl held a welcoming, homey feel to it. The entire conversation had seemed to make sense to the boy but to Margaret and her husband it had been nonsense.
Other aspects of Jarod’s character manifested themselves in more frightening ways. His uncanny ability to move in complete silence never ceased to amaze his mother. One moment she would be sitting alone in a room, and the next, Jarod would be standing beside her as if he had materialized out of thin air.
Margaret’s son preferred darkness whenever he was indoors. Given the choice Jarod would rather be outside in the sunshine. But when that was not possible, he tended to lurk in the corners, or among the shadows. Jarod rarely turned on the lights without prompting. Margaret had asked him once, why he sat in the dark so much.
Jarod had smiled sadly. “Still hiding from the cameras I suppose,” he answered. He had seemed about to continue, but then the familiar hardness glittered in his eyes and he said no more. Jarod rarely spoke about the life he’d led away from his family. What little Margaret knew had been drawn from other sources.
But the thing about Margaret’s son that frightened her the most was an eerie stillness. When startled or angry, Jarod completely ceased to move, momentarily freezing in place. This wasn’t the immobility of a frightened creature preparing for flight. It seemed more like the stalking tension of a large predatory animal or the coiled threat of a snake. On the rare occasions that Margaret had seen it happen, Jarod’s body radiated with menace and she had known, unequivocally, that this was a dangerous man.
However, despite these darker aspects of his character, Jarod was for all intents a warm and caring individual. He smiled often and laughed a great deal. His loved to sit at his parents’ feet and listen to stories about his past. He was openly affectionate, though Margaret wondered if this wasn’t due to intentional effort on his part. But he was happy.
Jarod seemed happy, at any rate.
Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, cinching the belt on her terrycloth bathrobe as she watched her eldest child. It was early, with dawn just creeping through the windows. Yet it was obvious that Jarod had been awake for some time. He wore a comfortable looking pair of pants and a simple white t-shirt. The cotton shirt clung to his damp body and rivulets of perspiration ran down his neck. Jarod had been exercising and now stood panting at the sink as he gulped down a glass of water.
“Good morning dear,” Margaret said as she entered the room.
Jarod wiped his mouth on the back of one hand and grinned, “Good morning Mother.”
“You made coffee,” she observed.
With an apologetic shrug Jarod’s smile grew. “Jack asked me to make it before I went jogging,” he explained.
Margaret shook her head indulgently. It had become a little game that she and Jarod played. Which of them would wake up first and make the coffee? Margaret usually won because her son allowed it. She knew that he rarely slept more than four hours a night. But he would find other things to do, conveniently “forgetting” to start the pot brewing. As a result, Margaret performed the simple chore each morning. Jarod would then pout playfully and complain that the coffee wasn’t strong enough. Margaret would tease him about having a poor palate for java.
Then again, the things Margaret had seen her son do for a caffeine fix made her shudder. On more than one occasion, she had watched in horror as Jarod poured cold, day-old coffee into a mug. He could gulp down the sludge without batting an eye. He didn’t even bother to microwave it. Margaret made extra effort to make sure they never ran out of ground coffee. For if they did, Jarod would simply run tap water through used grounds straight into a cup. Seeing her son drink the resulting concoction made Margaret’s stomach turn, especially so when she thought of the amount of sugar it contained.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Margaret asked as she poured herself a cup from the steaming carafe.
“Pancakes?” Jarod asked.
Knowing her son’s penchant for an extra scoop of mix in his coffee recipe, Margaret moved to the sink and filled the last fourth of her cup with hot water. “I was thinking eggs and bacon,” she answered as she further diluted her drink with cream and sugar.
“Even better,” Jarod answered.
Sipping cautiously at her cup Margaret asked, “Has Jack eaten yet?”
“He was pouring a bowl of cereal when I left,” Jarod said. “But he wouldn’t turn down eggs and bacon.”
“Jack would never turn down food,” Margaret chuckled. “The boy is a bottomless pit.”
“He’s still growing,” Jarod replied with a shrug.
Margaret smiled at her son. “And what’s your excuse?” she teased.
Jarod’s answering grin seemed to brighten the room. “Want some help?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “You go shower up. It should be ready by the time you are done.”
Jarod obediently kissed his mother on the cheek and strolled out of the room.
Margaret watched him go for a moment, listening to his low voice float through the house as he stopped along the way to talk to Jack. She couldn’t quite hear what they said to each other but it was undoubtedly an update regarding the upcoming meal. With an indulgent smile she turned to the refrigerator to gather the things she would need.
As she worked, Margaret thought about her son. ‘Sons’ she corrected herself. It still felt strange at times, thinking of the precise relationship between Jarod and young Jack. They were not brothers nor were they father and son. More alike than identical twins, yet they were separated by decades. It was like a tale from some B-rated science fiction film.
They were so very much alike and yet different. Their mannerisms, the way each tilted his head when confused, were perfectly mirrored between them. Jack, his voice cracking and changing with puberty, often sounded so much like Jarod that Margaret wouldn’t know which she was speaking to if she could not see them.
And yet, Jack was lacking in patience where Jarod’s seemed endless. Jack was moody, just as easily depressed as he was jubilant. Added to that was Jack’s insecurity, the belief that he was no more than a pale copy of the “brother” he adored so much.
Margaret worried about the boy and his periods of inconsolable misery. They came and went without warning, usually in a matter of hours. Jarod had a talent for snapping the boy out of a funk, but it wasn’t always an easy task. Jack could be exceedingly cruel when in one of these moods and more often than not, that malice was pointed towards himself.
The boy’s name was a perfect example of this self-inflicted spitefulness. When they had met, the Major had told the boy to pick out a name, thinking this would be a treat for the young man who had only recently discovered the world. But Jack had been wallowing in one of these bouts of self-pity and had chosen accordingly. He called himself John Doe, saying that no other moniker was as fitting. He claimed to be no one, from nothing, little more than a number.
For a time Charles had called the boy Johnny. Even after the sour mood had lifted, the young man had stubbornly held onto the name. It was Jarod who had summarily found a less morbid nickname.
“John is a good strong name,” Jarod had said upon learning of his twin’s choice. “Like John Kennedy. Did you know that his friends called him Jack?” Since that day, the boy had answered to no other name.
Charles had told his wife this story nearly two years after it had happened. It was odd, learning she had a child she had never birthed. Margaret had been told of Kyle’s death the same day so needless to say, her mind had been reeling. But it had not taken long to accept the boy into her heart. Jack was so desperate for affection and a mother’s attention that she could not help but give the boy what he needed.
Dealing with Jack could be hard at times. He had led a troubled life. Being sixteen years old didn’t help matters. It was a difficult age for any child let alone a boy who had already suffered so much.
Margaret shook her head as she expertly cracked eggs into a hot skillet. She could do no more for Jack than she was already doing. She loved him whole-heartedly and showed him how much she cared at every opportunity. She just hoped that he would adjust, learn to accept who he was and what had happened to him, as his older brother had.
Margaret wondered again at how different her boys were. They were supposedly identical. Yet Jack was so tormented by his past while Jarod, who had lived that same life for much longer, seemed almost serene. Then again, Jarod had more experience with his emotions. Perhaps he had learned to deal with things better. Or maybe, he was simply better at hiding what Jack could not.
Her spatula froze in the air, hovering over the skillet as Margaret allowed that last fearful thought to grow in her mind. What if Jarod was much more like his young twin than anyone realized? Could it be possible that Jack’s depression, guilt and insecurity were reflected in his brother but simmering just beneath the surface? Thinking of the hard, flat gaze that sometimes crossed Jarod’s face, Margaret began to realize the truth of it.
“You’re going to burn the bacon,” Jarod said.
Her son’s abrupt appearance at her side startled a gasp from Margaret’s lips. “Damn it Jarod,” she snapped, surprise making her tone sharp. “I wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. Jarod’s eyes filled with a look of pain, as though she had just slapped him. “I’ll try to do better.”
Margaret sighed. “No dear, it not your fault. I’m sorry for being cross,” She ran one hand through the damp hair on Jarod’s head, ending the caress with a loving stroke of her fingertips down his stubbly cheek. “I was a million miles away. A herd of elephants could have tiptoed up on me,” she added with a smile.
Jarod smiled back, the hurt from a moment ago was forgotten. He took a fork from the countertop and began to lift crispy bacon from the pan and transfer it to a paper towel-covered plate. Margaret quickly turned her attention to the eggs she was cooking. If she burned Jarod’s breakfast he would tease her about it all day.
“Something smells good in here,” Jack called as he bounded into the room. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You just want to eat sooner,” Jarod said with a wry grin.
“Yup,” the boy admitted.
Margaret pointed in the opposite direction with her cooking utensil and said, “Pop a few slices of bread into the toaster for me.”
“Do you think you can handle that?” Jarod teased.
Jack strolled over to the toaster and eyed it critically. Playing up to the joke for everything he was worth, the young man jiggled the knobs and levers experimentally. He peered into the slots and tested the plug. He finally straightened, turned to his brother and said in a perfectly deadpan voice, “I think I can manage.”
Margaret’s sons remained serious for about two seconds, after which they both broke into a fit of laughter. Margaret smiled with them. It was moments like these that helped to chase away her worries. Despite the trauma that had darkened their lives, her sons were happy. As long as they were together as a family, where they could receive the love and affection they both craved, her boys would be just fine.
Setting three plates on the table, Margaret sat down next to Jarod. Jack flipped the power switch on the small television resting on the counter before he joined them. Breakfast in this family was usually a solitary affair. Sometimes, like this morning, the meal was served in waves. The two boys would eat first followed in about an hour by Emily and the Major. The fact of the matter was, there were few mornings where everyone got out of bed at the same time.
It suited Margaret just fine. She took the opportunity to focus more individually on each of her children. Even Charles, the husband she’d been separated from for so long, needed special time from her on occasion.
Jack shoveled food into his mouth as he kept his eyes glued to the television screen. A twenty-four hour news channel was running a story about the most recent Hollywood actress to appear in Playboy magazine.
“Most kids your age would be watching music videos, you know,” Jarod said as he crunched at a piece of toast.
Jack gulped at his coffee before answering. “I want to catch the weather forecast,” he said. “I figure we’ll be moving on soon and I’d rather not have to drive in the rain. Just too depressing.”
Margaret glanced at Jarod. “Are we moving on?” she asked.
“We probably should,” he nodded.
Just like that, the decision was made. The family never argued with Jarod’s gut instincts in the area. When he felt the need to go, they went. He seemed to have a sixth sense for this sort of thing. The more intense his desire to leave a place seemed to be in direct correlation to how close they were to being caught. Jarod’s calm declaration this morning indicated that there was no immediate hurry. Yet Margaret knew by the end of the day, tomorrow morning at the latest, she and her family would be on the road again, wandering like a band of gypsies.
Margaret’s sons were chatting about what could be their next destination when a frown crossed Jarod’s face. He was glaring at the television so intensely that Margaret was taken aback. She turned around in her chair so that she could see what had grabbed his attention.
The young man at the news desk was talking. “We now bring you a CNN news exclusive. A known terrorist and wanted assassin was taken into federal custody on Monday. Known to authorities only as ‘The Chameleon’, he was captured after a vicious shoot out with police that left four officers dead and two F.B.I. agents critically wounded.”
“Oh Alex,” Jarod moaned softly.
“After days of interrogation, this accused assassin has revealed the locations of several terrorist training camps around the globe. The largest of these, sheltered under the guise of a scientific think-tank, is located right here in the United States.”
“Damn,” Jarod said as his fork clattered onto his plate.
“Reputable sources say,” the newscaster continued. “The East coast facility has been under investigation for some time. Yet only now do authorities have enough evidence to make a move on this national threat.”
The image on the screen changed. Obviously shot from a helicopter, the picture showed a bright clear morning at The Centre. Dark vans and police cars could be seen converging on the building. Soldiers, clad in green camouflage ran across the parking lot, moving into position.
“Damn!” Jarod cried, jumping from his seat. He snatched his cell phone from the counter nearby and punched a single button. “Come on, come on,” he hissed as he put the phone to his ear and waited. “She should be there. It’s nearly ten o’clock their time.” He didn’t fidget as he waited. Instead he had that scary stillness surround him as he glared at the T.V. set.
“Parker,” he blurted as someone answered on the other end. “Don’t talk. Just listen,” he snapped. “There are soldiers closing in on The Centre. Get out of there. Grab Sydney and get out NOW! The place is surrounded, you’ll have to sneak out the way I did. Move it!”
Jarod paused a moment to look at the people sitting at the table. “Jack, wake Dad and Em” he commanded. “We have to go.”
Turning his attention back to the phone, Jarod snarled. “I’m watching the whole thing on CNN! For once in your life, please don’t argue with me. Just run!” Jarod’s demeanor changed slightly. The person he was talking to must have been cooperating because Jarod’s instructions took on a serious but more reasonable tone. “Go down,” he said. “Get to SL-27 and take the left corridor all the way to the end. Let me know when you get there. I hope your phone is well charged Parker. This could take a while.”
Jarod glanced at the television, concern etched across his features as he watched the authorities move in. “I know, Parker. I know,” he said. “Let’s tackle one problem at a time. Just hurry.”
-Author’s Note: Believe it or not, the examples of what Jarod will do for coffee as described in this story, are taken from real life. I have seen my husband do it. Is it a guy thing? Or is it just a desperate addiction to the stuff? I’m a tea drinker myself.
-
The Straight Path Lost
-
By Phenyx
05/31/04
-
In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a
dark wood where the straight way was lost. Dante Alighieri (1265 - 1321), The Divine Comedy
-
Margaret would never forget the first time she looked into her son’s eyes.
When she thought about those eyes and that first glimpse, she did not recall the very first time she saw them. The image of her first-born child, slick and squalling as he joined this world, was burned into her mind as with any mother. But it was not the newborn blue that she remembered when she thought of him. She did not think of the eerily piercing gaze he’d given her as the babe suckled at her breast.
For even on the day of his birth, Margaret had known that those eyes would not stay blue for long. As she had nursed her son for the first time, she wondered at the deep sea-like color that stared up at her. Exhausted and a little loopy from the whiffs of gas she’d been given during labor, Margaret had been enraptured, nearly hypnotized by the dark wisdom she had seen in those tiny eyes.
Yet these memories were not the ones that assaulted her when she thought of a first glimpse of her son. What she remembered was a crowded sidewalk on a busy street more than four decades later. Margaret recalled the tall lean man who had stared at her as she stepped from a cab. She would have known him anywhere. She immediately recognized those eyes and the dark gaze that seemed to speak to her.
Now, a handful of months after finding him again, Margaret was only beginning to understand the depth that hid in her son’s eyes. Jarod could transmit so much information, with no more than a flickering glance. Most of the time, his chocolate-colored eyes readily broadcast emotions to anyone who wished to see them.
Margaret could often see joy, curiosity and mischievousness dancing in her son’s eyes. Concern was a regular visitor. And once, as she roused him from a nightmare, Margaret had seen fear in his disoriented gaze.
But there were times when Jarod’s eyes went hard and blank. At times like that, Margaret knew that her son was hiding things. Her instincts told her that pain was lurking there, sorrow and regret. But these she could never see, for Jarod hid them well.
Yet there were clues, hints that revealed what Jarod tried so desperately to hide. It broke Margaret’s heart to see them. More so when she realized that the oddities of Jarod’s behavior completely escaped him. He did not recognize them as strange.
The most obvious of these was his fascination with food, especially that of the sweeter variety. Jarod hoarded snacks and kept a ready supply in his pockets at all times. He rarely described food in terms of taste but instead spoke of the way certain confections made him feel. In a very serious discussion with his younger twin, Jack, Jarod had gone on at some length about the nuances of ice cream. Soft serve cones were like freedom while a single scoop in a bowl held a welcoming, homey feel to it. The entire conversation had seemed to make sense to the boy but to Margaret and her husband it had been nonsense.
Other aspects of Jarod’s character manifested themselves in more frightening ways. His uncanny ability to move in complete silence never ceased to amaze his mother. One moment she would be sitting alone in a room, and the next, Jarod would be standing beside her as if he had materialized out of thin air.
Margaret’s son preferred darkness whenever he was indoors. Given the choice Jarod would rather be outside in the sunshine. But when that was not possible, he tended to lurk in the corners, or among the shadows. Jarod rarely turned on the lights without prompting. Margaret had asked him once, why he sat in the dark so much.
Jarod had smiled sadly. “Still hiding from the cameras I suppose,” he answered. He had seemed about to continue, but then the familiar hardness glittered in his eyes and he said no more. Jarod rarely spoke about the life he’d led away from his family. What little Margaret knew had been drawn from other sources.
But the thing about Margaret’s son that frightened her the most was an eerie stillness. When startled or angry, Jarod completely ceased to move, momentarily freezing in place. This wasn’t the immobility of a frightened creature preparing for flight. It seemed more like the stalking tension of a large predatory animal or the coiled threat of a snake. On the rare occasions that Margaret had seen it happen, Jarod’s body radiated with menace and she had known, unequivocally, that this was a dangerous man.
However, despite these darker aspects of his character, Jarod was for all intents a warm and caring individual. He smiled often and laughed a great deal. His loved to sit at his parents’ feet and listen to stories about his past. He was openly affectionate, though Margaret wondered if this wasn’t due to intentional effort on his part. But he was happy.
Jarod seemed happy, at any rate.
Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, cinching the belt on her terrycloth bathrobe as she watched her eldest child. It was early, with dawn just creeping through the windows. Yet it was obvious that Jarod had been awake for some time. He wore a comfortable looking pair of pants and a simple white t-shirt. The cotton shirt clung to his damp body and rivulets of perspiration ran down his neck. Jarod had been exercising and now stood panting at the sink as he gulped down a glass of water.
“Good morning dear,” Margaret said as she entered the room.
Jarod wiped his mouth on the back of one hand and grinned, “Good morning Mother.”
“You made coffee,” she observed.
With an apologetic shrug Jarod’s smile grew. “Jack asked me to make it before I went jogging,” he explained.
Margaret shook her head indulgently. It had become a little game that she and Jarod played. Which of them would wake up first and make the coffee? Margaret usually won because her son allowed it. She knew that he rarely slept more than four hours a night. But he would find other things to do, conveniently “forgetting” to start the pot brewing. As a result, Margaret performed the simple chore each morning. Jarod would then pout playfully and complain that the coffee wasn’t strong enough. Margaret would tease him about having a poor palate for java.
Then again, the things Margaret had seen her son do for a caffeine fix made her shudder. On more than one occasion, she had watched in horror as Jarod poured cold, day-old coffee into a mug. He could gulp down the sludge without batting an eye. He didn’t even bother to microwave it. Margaret made extra effort to make sure they never ran out of ground coffee. For if they did, Jarod would simply run tap water through used grounds straight into a cup. Seeing her son drink the resulting concoction made Margaret’s stomach turn, especially so when she thought of the amount of sugar it contained.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Margaret asked as she poured herself a cup from the steaming carafe.
“Pancakes?” Jarod asked.
Knowing her son’s penchant for an extra scoop of mix in his coffee recipe, Margaret moved to the sink and filled the last fourth of her cup with hot water. “I was thinking eggs and bacon,” she answered as she further diluted her drink with cream and sugar.
“Even better,” Jarod answered.
Sipping cautiously at her cup Margaret asked, “Has Jack eaten yet?”
“He was pouring a bowl of cereal when I left,” Jarod said. “But he wouldn’t turn down eggs and bacon.”
“Jack would never turn down food,” Margaret chuckled. “The boy is a bottomless pit.”
“He’s still growing,” Jarod replied with a shrug.
Margaret smiled at her son. “And what’s your excuse?” she teased.
Jarod’s answering grin seemed to brighten the room. “Want some help?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “You go shower up. It should be ready by the time you are done.”
Jarod obediently kissed his mother on the cheek and strolled out of the room.
Margaret watched him go for a moment, listening to his low voice float through the house as he stopped along the way to talk to Jack. She couldn’t quite hear what they said to each other but it was undoubtedly an update regarding the upcoming meal. With an indulgent smile she turned to the refrigerator to gather the things she would need.
As she worked, Margaret thought about her son. ‘Sons’ she corrected herself. It still felt strange at times, thinking of the precise relationship between Jarod and young Jack. They were not brothers nor were they father and son. More alike than identical twins, yet they were separated by decades. It was like a tale from some B-rated science fiction film.
They were so very much alike and yet different. Their mannerisms, the way each tilted his head when confused, were perfectly mirrored between them. Jack, his voice cracking and changing with puberty, often sounded so much like Jarod that Margaret wouldn’t know which she was speaking to if she could not see them.
And yet, Jack was lacking in patience where Jarod’s seemed endless. Jack was moody, just as easily depressed as he was jubilant. Added to that was Jack’s insecurity, the belief that he was no more than a pale copy of the “brother” he adored so much.
Margaret worried about the boy and his periods of inconsolable misery. They came and went without warning, usually in a matter of hours. Jarod had a talent for snapping the boy out of a funk, but it wasn’t always an easy task. Jack could be exceedingly cruel when in one of these moods and more often than not, that malice was pointed towards himself.
The boy’s name was a perfect example of this self-inflicted spitefulness. When they had met, the Major had told the boy to pick out a name, thinking this would be a treat for the young man who had only recently discovered the world. But Jack had been wallowing in one of these bouts of self-pity and had chosen accordingly. He called himself John Doe, saying that no other moniker was as fitting. He claimed to be no one, from nothing, little more than a number.
For a time Charles had called the boy Johnny. Even after the sour mood had lifted, the young man had stubbornly held onto the name. It was Jarod who had summarily found a less morbid nickname.
“John is a good strong name,” Jarod had said upon learning of his twin’s choice. “Like John Kennedy. Did you know that his friends called him Jack?” Since that day, the boy had answered to no other name.
Charles had told his wife this story nearly two years after it had happened. It was odd, learning she had a child she had never birthed. Margaret had been told of Kyle’s death the same day so needless to say, her mind had been reeling. But it had not taken long to accept the boy into her heart. Jack was so desperate for affection and a mother’s attention that she could not help but give the boy what he needed.
Dealing with Jack could be hard at times. He had led a troubled life. Being sixteen years old didn’t help matters. It was a difficult age for any child let alone a boy who had already suffered so much.
Margaret shook her head as she expertly cracked eggs into a hot skillet. She could do no more for Jack than she was already doing. She loved him whole-heartedly and showed him how much she cared at every opportunity. She just hoped that he would adjust, learn to accept who he was and what had happened to him, as his older brother had.
Margaret wondered again at how different her boys were. They were supposedly identical. Yet Jack was so tormented by his past while Jarod, who had lived that same life for much longer, seemed almost serene. Then again, Jarod had more experience with his emotions. Perhaps he had learned to deal with things better. Or maybe, he was simply better at hiding what Jack could not.
Her spatula froze in the air, hovering over the skillet as Margaret allowed that last fearful thought to grow in her mind. What if Jarod was much more like his young twin than anyone realized? Could it be possible that Jack’s depression, guilt and insecurity were reflected in his brother but simmering just beneath the surface? Thinking of the hard, flat gaze that sometimes crossed Jarod’s face, Margaret began to realize the truth of it.
“You’re going to burn the bacon,” Jarod said.
Her son’s abrupt appearance at her side startled a gasp from Margaret’s lips. “Damn it Jarod,” she snapped, surprise making her tone sharp. “I wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. Jarod’s eyes filled with a look of pain, as though she had just slapped him. “I’ll try to do better.”
Margaret sighed. “No dear, it not your fault. I’m sorry for being cross,” She ran one hand through the damp hair on Jarod’s head, ending the caress with a loving stroke of her fingertips down his stubbly cheek. “I was a million miles away. A herd of elephants could have tiptoed up on me,” she added with a smile.
Jarod smiled back, the hurt from a moment ago was forgotten. He took a fork from the countertop and began to lift crispy bacon from the pan and transfer it to a paper towel-covered plate. Margaret quickly turned her attention to the eggs she was cooking. If she burned Jarod’s breakfast he would tease her about it all day.
“Something smells good in here,” Jack called as he bounded into the room. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You just want to eat sooner,” Jarod said with a wry grin.
“Yup,” the boy admitted.
Margaret pointed in the opposite direction with her cooking utensil and said, “Pop a few slices of bread into the toaster for me.”
“Do you think you can handle that?” Jarod teased.
Jack strolled over to the toaster and eyed it critically. Playing up to the joke for everything he was worth, the young man jiggled the knobs and levers experimentally. He peered into the slots and tested the plug. He finally straightened, turned to his brother and said in a perfectly deadpan voice, “I think I can manage.”
Margaret’s sons remained serious for about two seconds, after which they both broke into a fit of laughter. Margaret smiled with them. It was moments like these that helped to chase away her worries. Despite the trauma that had darkened their lives, her sons were happy. As long as they were together as a family, where they could receive the love and affection they both craved, her boys would be just fine.
Setting three plates on the table, Margaret sat down next to Jarod. Jack flipped the power switch on the small television resting on the counter before he joined them. Breakfast in this family was usually a solitary affair. Sometimes, like this morning, the meal was served in waves. The two boys would eat first followed in about an hour by Emily and the Major. The fact of the matter was, there were few mornings where everyone got out of bed at the same time.
It suited Margaret just fine. She took the opportunity to focus more individually on each of her children. Even Charles, the husband she’d been separated from for so long, needed special time from her on occasion.
Jack shoveled food into his mouth as he kept his eyes glued to the television screen. A twenty-four hour news channel was running a story about the most recent Hollywood actress to appear in Playboy magazine.
“Most kids your age would be watching music videos, you know,” Jarod said as he crunched at a piece of toast.
Jack gulped at his coffee before answering. “I want to catch the weather forecast,” he said. “I figure we’ll be moving on soon and I’d rather not have to drive in the rain. Just too depressing.”
Margaret glanced at Jarod. “Are we moving on?” she asked.
“We probably should,” he nodded.
Just like that, the decision was made. The family never argued with Jarod’s gut instincts in the area. When he felt the need to go, they went. He seemed to have a sixth sense for this sort of thing. The more intense his desire to leave a place seemed to be in direct correlation to how close they were to being caught. Jarod’s calm declaration this morning indicated that there was no immediate hurry. Yet Margaret knew by the end of the day, tomorrow morning at the latest, she and her family would be on the road again, wandering like a band of gypsies.
Margaret’s sons were chatting about what could be their next destination when a frown crossed Jarod’s face. He was glaring at the television so intensely that Margaret was taken aback. She turned around in her chair so that she could see what had grabbed his attention.
The young man at the news desk was talking. “We now bring you a CNN news exclusive. A known terrorist and wanted assassin was taken into federal custody on Monday. Known to authorities only as ‘The Chameleon’, he was captured after a vicious shoot out with police that left four officers dead and two F.B.I. agents critically wounded.”
“Oh Alex,” Jarod moaned softly.
“After days of interrogation, this accused assassin has revealed the locations of several terrorist training camps around the globe. The largest of these, sheltered under the guise of a scientific think-tank, is located right here in the United States.”
“Damn,” Jarod said as his fork clattered onto his plate.
“Reputable sources say,” the newscaster continued. “The East coast facility has been under investigation for some time. Yet only now do authorities have enough evidence to make a move on this national threat.”
The image on the screen changed. Obviously shot from a helicopter, the picture showed a bright clear morning at The Centre. Dark vans and police cars could be seen converging on the building. Soldiers, clad in green camouflage ran across the parking lot, moving into position.
“Damn!” Jarod cried, jumping from his seat. He snatched his cell phone from the counter nearby and punched a single button. “Come on, come on,” he hissed as he put the phone to his ear and waited. “She should be there. It’s nearly ten o’clock their time.” He didn’t fidget as he waited. Instead he had that scary stillness surround him as he glared at the T.V. set.
“Parker,” he blurted as someone answered on the other end. “Don’t talk. Just listen,” he snapped. “There are soldiers closing in on The Centre. Get out of there. Grab Sydney and get out NOW! The place is surrounded, you’ll have to sneak out the way I did. Move it!”
Jarod paused a moment to look at the people sitting at the table. “Jack, wake Dad and Em” he commanded. “We have to go.”
Turning his attention back to the phone, Jarod snarled. “I’m watching the whole thing on CNN! For once in your life, please don’t argue with me. Just run!” Jarod’s demeanor changed slightly. The person he was talking to must have been cooperating because Jarod’s instructions took on a serious but more reasonable tone. “Go down,” he said. “Get to SL-27 and take the left corridor all the way to the end. Let me know when you get there. I hope your phone is well charged Parker. This could take a while.”
Jarod glanced at the television, concern etched across his features as he watched the authorities move in. “I know, Parker. I know,” he said. “Let’s tackle one problem at a time. Just hurry.”
