LOCATION:

SL-12

THE CENTRE

BLUE COVE, DELAWARE

DATE:

11/14/96

Blink . . . blink . . . blink . . .

Something he wanted.

Blink . . . blink . . .

The toy tractor.

The little red light flashed. The Eye blinked.

His blue eyes shifted to the left, taking in the blank screen and keypad located next to the security camera. The keypad, too, boasted a little blinking light. Its light was green. Green for go. It blinked on and off, its rhythm quicker and therefore not in unison with that of the red light.

To his right, red: blink . . . blink . . . blink

Angelo frowned.

To his left, green: blinkblink . . . blinkblink . . . blinkblink . . .

He didn't like that, the way the lights weren't blinking together.

It was wrong, like his mind.

One of the little blinking lights would just have to go.

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small box. Its red lettering was faded--he'd had this particular box for a long time. Nonetheless, he held it to his nose and sniffed; its current contents rattled like the long-ago candy the box had originally contained, but they didn't smell the same. The dry, sweet scent of the Cracker Jacks hadn't yet faded away, however.

Blink went the red.

Blinkblink went the green.

Angelo reached into the box. His sensitive fingers found the plastic card; he held it to his nose, as well. The papery smell of candy had covered the non-scent of the plastic. The hologram flashed in the corridor's overhead light; Angelo looked down at the world, contained within a scrap of plastic with THE CENTRE superimposed across it in 3D letters. The Centre over the world. The Centre's world.

His right hand flashed out as he swiped the card through the magnetic sensor attached to the keypad; with his left hand, he keyed in a rapid series of numbers.

The green light blinkblink'd.

Angelo glanced to his right.

The red light was dark. The Eye was blind.

"You're not on 'Candid Camera' anymore," Angelo murmured, cocking his head again as he stared at the green light.

SL-12 was experiencing yet another brief lapse of power to its security cameras.

Even the Centre's advanced technology was not immune to those nasty little bugs that infected computers worldwide. Angelo thought of some of the bugs as his pets--after all, he'd put them there, and they did tricks for him.

Such as this trick.

The screen beside the keypad was no longer dark.

IDENT? the computer queried in its cryptic Centre-speak.

Angelo typed in another password.

The green light brightened as the machine within the machine hummed to life.

White light flashed across the screen.

Angelo looked into the flash and saw

(jarod in the light too bright too bright escape)

what had happened almost a month ago.

Angelo removed his hand from the console.

IDENT POSITIVE the computer decreed. WELCOME MR. WILLIAM RAINES

After Jarod's escape, the Security Techs had modified the system. And, after their work was done, Angelo had modified the system.

The dense metal door opened with a suprisingly benign click. Humming softly to himself, Angelo stepped across the threshold.

The Centre was a big place. It was a world unto itself. Still, there was Outside. Jarod was Outside now. But . . . Angelo glanced down at the plastic card. THE CENTRE still presided over its holographic world, frozen forever in its dominance.

Jarod would need help.

Angelo had Connections. His influence had embraced vast worlds--the finite but all-powerful world inside the Centre Mainframe, and the limitless world Outside. His people roamed the world outside the Centre like his "pet" bugs roamed the strange encoded realms of the Mainframe. Some of them had even escaped the Centre, much like Jarod had. Some of them

(i decide who lives or dies)

had even escaped other places since then.

Jarod was not alone. There were others.

Angelo moved down the corridor, not quite running, silent in his stocking feet.

But not all of those others wanted to help Jarod.

He glanced up, into a far corner. The security camera's light was dead: the Eyes were no longer watching him. They were blind to his passage.

Jarod had known about the dreams.

(i didnt mean to see it)

The special dreams.

(all that we see or seem)

They had come for Jarod in the night and taken him to the secret place.

(is but a dream within a dream)

Angelo knew about the dreams, too.

(all that we see or seem)

And what They did to the children They took to the secret place.

(is but a scream within a scream)

All the cameras were dark now; all the Eyes were closed against the work Angelo had to do here on SL-12. As they had been the night that Jarod had stolen his life from out of Their hands.

Angelo continued down the hall towards the dark office that was his destination.

Mr. Raines' office.

The doctor was not in.

LOCATION:






THE SPIRIT CENTRE

BOWLING GREEN, OHIO

DATE:






11/14/96

Jarod had only managed a few careful yards--the sidewalks were so unsalted and icy that keeping his footing was difficult--when Jasmine's voice halted him. "Jarod! Wait a minute!"

He stopped walking and turned back. "What?"

She motioned for him to walk the few yards back; he did so, feeling the cold already beginning to bite into his hands and feet again. He still managed to enjoy the experience--after all, he'd never been outside in the winter before.

"Look," Jasmine said. "You don't seem to have anything much to do, and it's too early to go in for the night."

Jarod said nothing, merely watched her, his eyes narrowed against the biting wind.

Jasmine motioned him inside. "It's colder'n hell out there--get in here." When she slammed the door behind them, the overhead lights began to flicker. "Oh, hell," she said, enunciating the words with determination. "I wish they'd do something about this crazy wiring. Anyway, do you want to maybe get a bite to eat somewhere?"

Jarod's eyes widened. "Dinner? With you?"

"Nothing serious--not like that. We each pay our own way, OK?"

"But is there even anywhere open in this weather?"

Jasmine nodded. "There's one other place--besides mine, of course--where the people are crazy enough to stay open on a night like this: the Corner Grill."

Jarod had not yet been to the Corner Grill, though he'd passed the plain 1950s-style building several times as he'd gone about his various errands around town. He remembered thinking that the Corner Grill's name was especially apt--it was an L-shaped building, literally built in the shape of the corner it covered. "Well, I guess I could use the company."

"Great!" Jasmine's eyes lit up in a genuine smile--the expression seemed more natural on her face than the dour tension he'd seen etched there so far. "Uh . . . I do need to go upstairs for a minute, OK?"

"I'll wait here, if you don't mind." The hallway was cold and dark, but it was still preferable to the numbingly cold weather. Jarod was determined to experience as much as he could, but even he had his limits. Having decided that he was going to stay, he glanced around, getting his bearings. There was a small hallway branching off of the main entranceway; at the end of it was a door that most likely opened on Wizard Graphics. Its chipped, gray-painted surface reminded him of the drab, utilitarian doors at the Centre, the ones where the only locks were those that could be opened from the outside . . . He shivered.

"What?" Jasmine asked, concern darkening her pale blue eyes.

Jarod hadn't even realized she'd been watching him.

"You OK?" she ventured further.

"I . . . well, my mind was wandering." An understatement--all Jarod could think about these days seemed to be his experiences at the hands of the Centre's highly trained staff. He'd read about such things as flashbacks and Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, of course, but somehow he'd never expected these torments to surface in him. Until they did. And no matter how good Jarod might have been at helping other people, he was at a loss when it came to helping himself.

Jasmine said no more on the subject, but it was obvious from the look in her eyes that she didn't believe him. He felt as vulnerable as a child around her--if she really could "read" his energy, surely all his emotional turmoil must be apparent to her.

He watched her start up the stairs.

The stairwell was lit only by a fitfully sputtering forty-watt bulb dangling from a chain at the first floor landing. "Ah, Newlease," Jasmine commented. "I love them--they always fix everything right away." Her voice echoed back from the narrow walls as she reached the landing.

"Newlease? I'm renting my apartment from them, too." He paused. "Are you aware that these stairs are slanted at a ninety-five degree angle?"

Jasmine stopped on the landing, her gloved hand lightly grasping the second staircase's scarred wooden handrail. "Nah--it's just the rest of the world that's crooked."

Something about that made sense to Jarod, although she'd probably meant it as a joke. "The stairwell in my own building slants at approximately a ninety-two degree angle. Are these angular staircases a feature of Newlease properties?"

"The way Newlease maintains their buildings, I wouldn't be surprised." Jasmine began the next flight of stairs and was lost from sight.

The damned echoes in this place were trying to draw Jarod's mind into the past again--the hollow marble halls of the Centre, walking with Dr. Raines down the central corridor of--of--

Of where?

At least Jasmine was no longer observing him. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and took a deep breath. What the hell's wrong with me? he wondered. Flashbacks--that's what's wrong. I'm going into flashbacks again. He took another deep breath and slowly exhaled. I can't control them anymore.

Upstairs, the sound of Jasmine's keys, and a door opening. Jarod caught the words, "Where is--" before the door slammed shut.

(i wait for sydney where are you sydney the dream the dream was so bad its dark in my room/cell except for the lights the lights through the vents all alone)

Light continued its erratic dance with shadow as the present twisted into the past and Jarod remembered

(if they knew what i saw theyd send me to the secret place where the kids are taken who never come back and i dont want to go there i dont want to just be gone and never come back)

Jarod clenched his hands into fists, digging painful half-moons into the tender flesh of his palms. The real-life Jarod, that part of him that was just watching, not reliving, thought There's a good reason why I never remembered any of this one before, isn't there? I've got to make it stop even as the rest of his mind flatly disobeyed that order and continued to see

(sydney sydneys here and i want him to hold me protect me i tell him about the dream and oh no what if dr billy finds out about this?)

"I didn't mean to," Jarod whispered, and the whisper gave way to a moan as he closed his eyes again, fully into the flashback now. "I didn't

(mean to see it sydney i didnt i swear believe me please believe and don't tell dr billy but shes going to die sydney sometimes i pretend shes my mother and not miss parkers mother but it was a dream only a dream wasn't it sydney it didnt/wont happen just don't tell dr billy or he will do the bad things to me sydney he will he will he)

"He did," the real-life Jarod murmured, distantly feeling the air of the real-life hallway, cool against his hot face. He looked up into a far corner, as he'd done that long-ago childhood night, his eyes blank and empty and focused on another time and place. In that dark corner, his real-life eyes saw, actually saw, the

(camera oh sydney the camera he will know anyway let go of me sydney ive got to get out of here ive got to let go of me you don't believe me i told you and you don't believe me and now hes going to take me to the secret place hes going to kill me)

Of course, he hadn't been killed, or he wouldn't have lived to become the real-life Jarod. But it might have been better for him if he had been killed, because that night, the night of the dream, Raines had taken him down to the secret place for the first time.

Enough that's enough the real-life Jarod thought, unaware that the half-moons his fingernails had dug into his palms had started to bleed. Fine--I remember it now. I don't need to see any more so stop it-- But even now the memory refused to release Jarod from its frantic clutches and he saw

(raines its dr billy oh sydney keep him off me sydney no help me hes got a needle a needle sydney i dont want a shot i dont need to sleep now i dont sydney stop him sydney)

and the real-life Jarod flinched at the fresh pain of the long-ago needle as he whispered, "And you held me down, Sydney . . . ."

Somehow this next realization was the worst of all; the child-Jarod's voice was agonized as it cried

(and you didnt believe me sydney even though i told you but i have to stay awake have to have to i hate you sydney i hate you go to)

"--hell!" The real-life Jarod came out of it at the sound of his own desperate cry. For a second, he had no idea where he was, but then cold reality reasserted itself. Jasmine--Jasmine would be back soon, and she couldn't see him this way. How long had it been? Jarod had the sense that the whole time-distorting episode had taken just a few minutes, but he couldn't be sure.

With an effort, he slowed his breathing and unclenched his hands. His palms stung--he looked down and saw the bloody little half-moons etched into them by his fingernails. He shook his head. No matter how bad the flashbacks had been before, he'd never managed to do that to himself. And, more ominously still, he didn't even remember doing it.

His mental condition was getting worse, instead of better, wasn't it?

He was fully aware of the fact that there were many blank spaces in his memories. He'd understood instinctively that children could bury traumatic memories so deeply that they were simply no longer there, long before he'd read about the concept. By the time he'd read about it, he'd done it so many times himself.

Upstairs, the sound of a door opening.

He heard Jasmine's voice, low but distinct; it was followed by a peal of childish laughter that echoed out into the upstairs hallway.

Echoes . . . The flashback was stirring up other memories in Jarod's head, echoes, if you will. Memories that, mercifully, had nothing to do with the horrors of the secret place. Of all his suppressed memories, Jarod suspected that those long-dead recollections were buried in the deepest of all graves, and no doubt with good reason. But they weren't resting quietly, no matter how deeply he'd dug the graves, were they? Not any more.

"Do you want me to bring you guys anything back?" Jasmine said, quite clearly, upstairs.

In fact, Jarod had never clearly remembered just how he'd ended up with an extended tour of Raines' little "secret place" in the first place. Until now.

"Fries!" the little girl demanded. She said something else that Jarod couldn't make out.

He adjusted his coat, ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, and otherwise tried to make himself presentable. He knew he'd have a lot to think about when he got home later, but until then . . . well, he'd have to pretend he was a normal person, one who wasn't haunted almost to the breaking point by past traumas.

Footsteps--

"Hey, Jarod," Jasmine greeted him, rounding the landing and taking the remainder of the stairs two at a time. "I'm sorry I took so long." As she walked up to him, her eyes narrowed. "What is it? What's wrong? Something's wrong. I can feel it."

Jarod indulged in an echo of his own. "You can . . . feel it?" He had no idea what she was talking about.

"It's coming off of you in waves, Jarod. Fear and anger, but mostly fear."

"I--"

"You've lived in the shadows for so long it's impossible for you to get out, isn't it?" Jasmine's eyes--her deceptively cold and emotionless hawk's eyes--stared into his. "It's eating you alive."

Jarod hesitated, then nodded in assent.

Jasmine put her hand on his arm, a simple act of human compassion that Jarod realized was totally foreign to him. "Look, Jarod, whatever it is that happened to you, it's over now."

"It's never over," Jarod told her, his voice barely audible.

"I don't know exactly what 'it' is--you've got 'it' hidden but good." She looked up at him thoughtfully. "In fact, it's hidden so good that even you don't really know it. Yet." Her hold on his arm tightened a little. "Jarod, you need to remember it."

"No," Jarod said, flatly.

"Jarod, you need to own it. It's owning you now--it's killing you." Jasmine's sharp tone softened a little. "I know. I've been there." She looked away, but not before Jarod could see that the ice in her eyes had been thawed by a burning pain that even the intervening years had not cooled.

If what Jarod suspected had happened to her had really taken place, then she had most definitely had 'been there,' as she put it.

"I don't know what happened to you," Jasmine continued, her voice made low by whatever emotional pain she was feeling. "But it hurts." Her voice broke. "It hurts so bad." She put a hand to her forehead. "Like me. Like what happened to me." Her head was lowered; her hair obscured her face.

"Jasmine, I--" Jarod began--and stopped. He didn't know what to say.

"I never told anybody about a lot of it. It was too . . . too bad to. I didn't think anybody would believe me, you know?" Jasmine's voice sounded more under control now--she'd fought off her tears before she'd shed a single one. "It all just kind of festered. Like an abscess, but of the mind. And that's how you are, too."

Jarod took a few steps back, towards the wall, until he felt its cold, hard surface against his back. He closed his eyes--somehow, it was easier for him to talk in the dark or with his eyes closed. "What's happening to me?" He felt almost on the verge of tears himself as all the confusion and pain began to dig at him again like a living thing. "What's happening to my mind?"

"You're remembering," she said, simply. And then, "You've escaped that place, and now you're finally remembering."

Jarod's eyes flashed open. "How did you know? I never told--"

"Anyone? I know. I can't tell you how I know--not yet. But . . . " She paused, held out her hands to him. "Come here, Jarod."

"Why?" His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Please."

Jarod saw that the look in her eyes boded no harm towards him, so he went to her.

Jasmine took both his hands in hers and turned them over so that the bloody half-moon cuts were visible. It was as if she knew they'd be there. "I did that, too," she murmured. "When I remembered."

She reached out with one hand and pulled him closer.

He took a step back. "What--"

"Jarod, I just want to give you a hug, OK?" And she did just that, reaching around his heavy leather jacket to do so, resting her head on his chest. "You need a hug more than anybody else I've seen."

After a moment, he relaxed into her embrace, and put his arms around her shoulders. She was solid and warm and safe. She raised her eyes to his for a second; in them was a profound sort of love--not the romantic kind, but instead a love born of deep compassion. He held her closer, lowering his head until he could feel her hair on his face. He could smell the lingering scents of shampoo and the vanilla incense she'd been burning at The Spirit Centre. He closed his eyes again, giving himself up to the experience.

"It's going to be OK, Jarod," she murmured, rubbing his back gently with one hand. "It's going to be OK. Whatever happens . . . " She paused. "And something will, won't it?"

"It will," Jarod said, and shivered a little.

"Sshh." She kept rubbing his back. "Calm down, Jarod. I'm going to help you, Jarod. It's something I've known I'd have to do for a while. I've been . . . learning things. Preparing."

"You know about me?" He raised his hand to her hair and began to smooth the blonde c<!-- -->urls. His breath caught in his throat. The sheer experience of touching another human being (and a woman, at that) was so unfamiliar and so overwhelming that Jarod didn't know quite what to do with it.

"Yes, I do. Soon we'll exchange stories--"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Jasmine." Her hair was so soft, so wonderfully soft . . .

"Yeah, well, wait'll you hear my story."

Jarod kept stroking her hair, wondering if such a simple, everyday thing could be as wonderful to her as it was to him. "Jasmine . . . what are you doing to me?"

"You can tell?"

"Yes. You're doing--something. Something. I don't know how to say it."

"I'm trying to calm you down, Jarod. With my energy. I'm sending you good energy."

"It's working," he told her, dreamily. "It's hypnotic."

"I know. I think you're a little more receptive to this kind of thing than I originally thought."

"OK."

"Yeah." She paused, and he could concentrate fully on the motion of her hand on his back. "Jarod, whatever happens to you, know that you're not alone anymore, all right? I'll help you through it."

"Thank you." Jarod held her even closer for a second, savoring the feel of her warmth against him, and then let her go. "I . . . that means . . . everything."

"Yes. And . . . you'll be here for me, too?"

Jarod thought of the Centre. "I will." He was living on borrowed time now--no, not borrowed, stolen--and there was no telling how long it would be until they came to collect. "For as long as I can be."

"No, Jarod. We're going to beat our demons, both inside of us and outside. We're going to win our freedom. And," Jasmine continued. "In the meantime, we're gonna go get us something to eat. Time to lighten the mood a little. OK?"

"Fine by me." The cracked brass doorhandle was cold in Jarod's hand. "Let's go."

LOCATION:







MISS PARKER'S HOUSE

BLUE COVE, DELAWARE

DATE:







11/14/96

Miss Parker adjusted the three-way table lamp to its lowest setting as she returned to her living room. Her freshly-poured glass of champagne fizzed merrily away on the mahogany end table beside the couch as she lit a fresh cigarette. She smoothed the hair back from the collar of her gray silk pajamas and tucked her slippered feet underneath her as she sat down on the couch.

She took a sip of champagne and then picked up her cellular phone.

She dialed Sydney's number from memory.

Would he even answer it, on his so-called vacation? He wasn't the only one who could indulge in psychoanalysis--

Three rings.

--and she had a sneaking suspicion that he'd left for his cabin ahead of schedule this year to escape the emotional stress brought on by the search for his recently-escaped protégé. Miss Parker knew that Sydney had worked too long and too closely with Jarod to view him as just another experiment.

Five rings, now.

Like her, Sydney just wasn't the type to have others around to witness his feelings, despite all his psychobabble about the validity of emotions and the need for their expression.

After the tenth or so ring (she hadn't kept track beyond the sixth, save for the fact that she was already a quarter of the way through her newest cigarette) he answered with a curt, "Sydney." He was obviously tired.

"Did I wake you?"

"Hello, Parker. May I assume you haven't merely called to wish me Happy Holidays?"

"Actually, I would like to pass on holiday greetings, but not from me."

Sydney sighed, a sound that was more resigned than tired. "Jarod."

"You know it. Your baby boy's been thinking of you--after all, the holidays are a time for family."

"Please, Parker. Spare me your acid wit, just this once. I'm afraid my sense of humor and my patience are both shorter than usual this year."

"All right." Miss Parker relented a little. "Are you handling things OK up there?"

"Oh, it's beautiful this time of year. I remember all the times Jacob and I shared here before his accident . . . " He trailed off.

"Listen, Syd--" Miss Parker hesitated, taking the opportunity to get a good hit off of her cigarette. "I know what you're going through. My mother--"

"I understand, Parker." Mercifully, Sydney seemed to want to spare her the agony of expressing her feelings.

"It's just--oh, hell," Miss Parker stood up and began to pace the length of the room. "It's just especially hard around the holidays, isn't it?"

"Yes. Your mother loved Christmas. Is that why you called? To talk?"

"No." Miss Parker realized how perilously close she was to her feelings, and immediately focused herself on the task at hand. "My mother died over twenty years ago, Sydney. I'm fine," she lied, knowing full well that he wouldn't believe her. Business--get back to business. "We're in the process of deciphering a present from Jarod--and he forgot to include the decoder ring."

"What is it?"

"An early Christmas present. What else? Addressed to you."

"And you already opened it."

"Of course. Opening the junk mail is one of the little perks that comes with being your boss. Come on, Syd. You could spend hours interpreting it, and you probably will."

"Just tell me what it is, Parker. It's been a long drive, and I'm tired."

"Like I'm always telling you, Sydney, the smart ones always do something stupid. Looks like our day's finally come. He sent a flyer for a specific event. We've got it narrowed down--"

"You have a location pinpointed?" Sydney couldn't disguise the concern (no doubt for Jarod) in his voice, much to Miss Parker's annoyance.

"Not quite. He sent us a flyer. For a National Tractor Pulling Championship, if you can believe that shit. Broots is working on triangulating the location. It shouldn't take long."

"Anything else?"

"A toy tractor--Angelo just loved it." Miss Parker rolled her eyes heavenward. "I might give it to him when all this is over. Jarod also included a quartz crystal and a Tarot card, and a little silver dagger. What can you make of that?"

"The quartz crystal has a definite spiritual connotation, especially when combined with a Tarot card."

"Maybe Jarod's found religion."

"Doubtful, Parker. His training won't allow for that. He's too rational. But he is expressing an interest in spirituality and in the hidden recesses of the human mind."

"What the hell could he possibly want with spirituality?"

"Spirituality isn't just ghosts and witches, Parker. Jarod is acting on a healthy desire to find his purpose, his role in the grand scheme of things."

Miss Parker sighed, annoyed. "Or maybe he thinks he's psychic."

"Does the issue of spirituality bother you? You seem concerned . . . "

"Frankly, I think religion's just the sort of sentimental drivel Jarod would be drawn to."

Sydney didn't even hesitate as he snapped, "Of course. What can you expect from a man who has nothing?"

"Testy tonight, aren't you?" Miss Parker responded with equal sarcasm. "Is there something you're not telling me, Syd? These Pretenders aren't clairvoyant on top of everything else, are they?"

"The Centre has never entirely ruled out that possibility."

Miss Parker sat up straighter. "You're shitting me."

"A normal person only utilizes a small portion of his or her brain's total capacity, Parker. A Pretender is in touch with so much more of that potential than you or I . . . . Anything is possible with these sorts of experiments."

"Oh, Jesus," Miss Parker shook her head in exasperation. "Am I even hearing you right?"

"You are." Sydney was obviously warming to his subject now. "The Pretender Project has always been about unlocking the hidden potential of the mind. Many of those who have studied so-called 'psi-phenomena' have concluded that people who display extraordinary abilities are merely tapping into unexplored regions of their brains. That's what our Pretenders have been trained to do."

"You're saying Jarod really could be trying to find out if he's psychic? You've been spending too much time alone on those dark sub-levels, Sydney."

"You can't tell me we can totally eliminate the idea."

Miss Parker sighed as she admitted defeat, at least for now. It was impossible to argue with a man who probably kept a framed picture of Sigmund Freud on his bedside table. "Never mind the analysis right now. We need you back here, Sydney. I guess we have a little searching of our own to do."

The uncharacteristic tiredness returned to Sydney's voice as he said, "The Centre won't allow him--or any of us--peace, will they? Not even this time of year." He paused. "Did you ever consider how Jarod must feel?"

"No, and I don't particularly care." Miss Parker didn't bother to disguise the coldness in her voice. "Jarod's feelings aren't my concern. His recapture is my concern. And his recapture should be a priority of yours, too," she reminded him.

"Jarod's freedom was your mother's concern, Miss Parker."

"What--should we just give him Thanksgiving off? Maybe a Christmas bonus, too? Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot." She laughed harshly. "He's already stolen it out of Centre funds and--"

"Parker," Sydney cautioned. "Your anger is getting the best of you."

"Sometimes I get the impression that you think you're a kindly old child psychologist, and not one of the top shrinks in the Centre Psychogenics Department. Jarod's an investment, nothing more--and a bad one, at that."

"Jarod is a human being, in case you've forgotten." Despite the obvious conviction in his words, Sydney's voice was low and dispirited; evidently, he wasn't in the mood to argue.

"Prove it," Miss Parker stated flatly. "In case you've forgotten, he's a brainwashed genetic freak. And he's dangerous to the Centre, running around like some damn mutant rat escaped from the science lab."

"The Centre's just as dangerous to him. Do you think they'll give him another chance--"

"The Centre's dangerous to all of us," Miss Parker interrupted. "We've got to have results, Sydney. And soon."

"You're worried about your father."

"Maybe you're psychic, too--you must be a mind reader." Miss Parker leaned over, depositing her cigarette in the ash tray before the last burning remnant of ash could land on her carpet. "Ever hear of sore winners? The Jarod Project's a competition, and you know what happens to the losers around here."

"They're involved in mysterious automobile accidents or shot in elevators."

"Exactly. It's Jarod or us, Sydney. That's what it comes down to. Get used to it." She slammed a fist down on the coffee-table for emphasis; the ash tray rattled loudly in the otherwise silent room. "How soon can you be back here?"

"Is it better to die for something that you believe in, rather than to live for nothing at all? Your mother knows the difference."

"Cut the crap, Sigmund. That sounded like one of Jarod's little riddles. I can see where he gets it from. Now, for the last time--"

"Give me ten hours. I need to sleep, and it's a five-hour drive, and I'm about as tired as I've ever been."

"Seven hours. Sleep three, speed for four, and drink coffee."

"Fine."

Miss Parker could tell Sydney was too tired, both physically and emotionally, to argue any more. "I'm going to get together a Sweeper Team--we're probably going to make out an exact location sometime tomorrow."

"Congratulations, Parker. I'm sure your father will be pleased."

"See you at seven." Miss Parker hit the DISCONNECT button, declining to engage in whatever verbal fencing match Sydney was attempting to start.

It had been a long day, and Miss Parker had had enough.