The Rules Have Changed
part 3
Tahlia

She knew she was at least dozing on and off. The clock seemed to jump from
7:43 to 8:05. Not once had Jarod expressed exhaustion from driving for over six
hours. Parker wondered just where this seedy motel was, but didn't have the
energy to threaten him if he just pulling her chain.

She been dozing off again, and in the back of her mind she could hear Jarod
saying something, but she couldn't will herself to care enough to open her eyes
and ask him to repeat him. So she decided to nestle into her seat and ignore
him, pretending to be asleep.

Suddenly he was shaking her more violently than her head would have liked.

"Parker!" he was shouting. "Wake up!"

Opening her eyes, she saw worried plastered all over his face. In a way it
made her very sad. "What?" she asked groggily.

"I..." He didn't answer. To cover his embarrassment, he focused back on the
road. "You didn't answer me, that's all."

Parker understood. She sighed inaudibly. He must have thought she had slipped
into unconsciousness. Cute, she thought.

"I was asleep," Parker reminded him, even though she wasn't.

Jarod cast a disbelieving look at her, and she could have sworn he was
cracking a smile, too. "No, you weren't."

"Of course I was," she countered, surprised at the groggy playfulness in her
voice. He surprised her by flashing a characteristic smile -- it was surprising
because it often did not appear without an accompanying tease or practical joke.
No, here, she remarked, it seemed genuine, and she didn't really seem to mind as
she glanced back out the window.

Parker noticed they were no longer on the interstate. When, she wondered, had
they pulled off and gone through the toll booth? Had that been during one of her
dozing periods? They passed motel after motel, dimly lit and posting 'vacancy'
signs. Some were much dingier than others, and as one of the more decrepit ones
approached, she prayed Jarod had at least gotten the high end of the shitholes
in Pennsylvania.

"How's your arm?" Jarod asked.

"Fine," she replied automatically. Adding somewhat truthfully, "a little
sore. I'll live." She still didn't disclose her dizziness at the rest stop.

Pause. "I know you didn't change the bandage, Parker."

The comment through her for a loop. "What?" In all honesty, she wasn't sure
if she was missing out a key piece of information.

"At the rest stop," he continued. "I thought you knew you were supposed to
change your bandage every three hours or so. Prevents infection."

They were three hours out of city, her on the run from a Centre-issued death
sentence and him with a sweeper team intent on preventing him from ever again
experiencing the outside world, and he was worried about whether or not her
*wound* got infected?

All traces of her relatively good mood were gone. "Well, excuse me," she
snapped. "I had more pressing things on my mind."

"Like a phone call?" His eyes were steady on the road.

Her head whipped around. Not pleasant for her headache, but her anger didn't
really care. In a second her mind connected the pieces: while no doubt he had
managed to supply her phone with a scrambling device, he most likely always
included a listening device, as well.

"You bugged my phone," she hissed. Good ol' Miss Parker was back.

Jarod, however, was his ever-smug self. Now she remembered how pissed off she
had been ours ago. "I had to take the necessary precautions."

She couldn't order him to do anything to shut him up, and this lack of power
annoyed her. She could only sit and sulk in the passenger seat as he drove to
God knows where. What's worse was she understood why he had done what he did,
and the contradiction infuriated her more.

The last part of the trip -- no more than ten miles, she was sure -- seemed
like hours as they sat in tense silence. For almost six hours they had managed
not to kill one another, and in one instant all their hard work had dissolved.
It was heaven when Jarod pulled the sports car into the Jolly Roger Motel, with
a large image of a pirate with an eyepatch as a holy image. Her coupled
exhaustion and annoyance allowed her to ignore the flickering neon 'Free HBO'
sign.

Jarod parked the car near the manager's office, but to her surprise, noticed
that he was instead walking towards the direction of the rooms. Parker slammed
the car door in protest, ignoring the shock it sent up her arm.

"Do *not* tell me you've already got a room," she warned loudly.

In compliance, he said nothing; only held up a silver room key that shined in
the pale pink reflection of the motel's neon sign. Attached was a large plastic
keychain, imprinted with the same image of a pirate and the number three. Jarod
smiled, and turned back towards the room. Parker could only sigh in disgust and
shake her head.

She heard the manager's door creak open, and a small old man appeared in the
door, framed by the light of his well-lit office. The sound of an old television
wafted out. "Mr. Flemming!" the old man -- Parker assumed he was the manager --
called out. His voice rasped with the hint of a severe cigarette addiction.
Jarod stopped at the man's calling, and turned to him with a look of
recognition. Parker groaned inwardly. "Didn't think you'd be back so soon!"

The manager was advancing on the pair. He was short, and slightly dirty.
Parker tried her damnedest to make her opinion of him known with a simple snarl.
"I had Bessie change the sheets on the bed," he commented. Then he looked at
Parker and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. His intention was obvious, and she
looked away in disgust. Her eyes searched -- pleaded -- for room three.

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Burbage," Jarod replied brightly. Parker
watched him look in her direction for a moment, smiling with anticipation, and
she dreaded the words that were tumbling out his mouth. She pretended not to
listen.

"My wife and I really appreciate your hospitality."

Parker stopped in her tracks, her heels making a loud skid on the pavement.
At that moment she wished she had taken the time to retrieve the weapon that had
clanged to the ground in New York City.

*

He must have trusted her. He was placing the spare .38, holster and all, in
plain view on the dresser below the mirror. Either that, or he had lost his
mind. Neither seemed like an appealing option. She hated Jarod's implicit sense
of trust almost as much as she hated the insanity she knew he must have been
capable of.

She made her move, ignoring the pain in her arm as she pulled the weapon from
in holster and leveled it at the back of my head.

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't blow your brains all over those clean
sheets." She heard a sound from him: a laugh. Parker cocked the gun to show she
was serious, as he obviously thought she was not. "I don't have all day, Jarod."

It had been almost an hour since her dizziness had fought to control her.
Parker thanked her lucky stars Jarod didn't notice her step falter, that the
thin carpet managed to muffle the sound of her heels. She was strong now, she
was in control. From the next room, as if out of movie fraught with cliches and
bad background music, a guest had managed to tote around a record player in the
back of their car. She recognized the hints of static over the haunting and yet
optimistic piano solo. It was vaguely familiar, but frankly, Parker didn't care.

"Tchaikovsky," Jarod said in a whisper.

Parker snorted. "*That's* your reason for living?"

He shook his head, still laughing, unable to take the situation seriously.
She wanted to advance on him and stick the muzzle of the gun right into the back
of his neck. She restrained herself, saving the desire for later. Again, she
felt dizzy, and again, her step faltered.

"Our neighbor is playing Tchaikovsky." Adding, "it's a rather unusual
variation, too. Not the Swan Lake or Nutcracker he's famous for."

Parker was not in the mood for a musical lesson, much less Jarod's
preferences when it came to Tchaikovsky. "I've haven't got much patience, Jarod,
and frankly," she paused, squeezing her eyes to will the world to remain in
focus, "you're not helping matters."

He began to turn around. "Stay put," she hissed, and he stopped. Parker hated
the way he just stood there -- most people with a gun to their head would have
at least raised their hands in mock surrender by now, but Jarod remained stock
still.

Parker took the time to survey the room; after all, her goal who been she
keenly fixed she hadn't taken the time to take in her surroundings. Maybe it was
because she wasn't planning on staying very long. Jarod was facing the room's
only bed, which was covered in sheets that were faded and no doubt smelled as
musty and used as they looked. Not like Parker intended to stick around and find
out. Her back was to the room's singular dresser and mirror; the door was on her
right and a dingy, yellow-colored bathroom was to her left. Also to her left was
a small table; atop it lay the first sign Jarod had inhabited this place
previous to their arrival: his silver Haliburton case lay open on top, various
small DSAs littering the table. Parker made a mental note to grab the container
and its contents before leaving.

"Aren't you even the least bit curious?"

At first she swore he had caught her eyeing the Haliburton, but a quick check
revealed he hadn't moved an inch. "About what?" she hissed.

"About what Lyle said," he said, "why the Centre wants you out of the
picture." Jarod paused, and Parker thought she heard immense pain seeping into
his voice. "About my family."

Mentions of Lyle made her face snarl up in disgust. "Babblings of a mad man
trying to justify murder," Parker replied. "I've never put much stock in what
Lyle says."

"Even when he speaks the truth?"

Another wave of dizziness. She gulped, suppressing the darkness tempting
itself to overcome her. She leveled gun at Jarod once more, thankful he couldn't
see this. "You've got a minute, Jarod. Make it good."

He paused, thoughtful Parker imagined, trying to frame his plea for life
carefully. "Do you remember what your father said to you, right before he jumped
out of that plane?" In her mind, she thought back three months, the pain her
father's death had caused still raw with guilt and abandonment. "'The new Parker
legacy begins with you.'"

It was becoming increasingly harder to will away the dizziness. "You're not
helping your chances, Jarod."

He was getting passionate now, almost as intent on convincing her of what he
said as he was convinced about saving his skin. "What do you suppose he meant,
Parker? That you should continue your mother's work, take over the Centre and
become its first altruistic chairmen?" The thought seemed to disgust him. "Or
was it something else?"

Jarod turned suddenly, startling her and sending her stepping backward a few
times. The jarring movement sent her head spinning, and her efforts to maintain
aim on Jarod failed as she rushed to control her balance. For a moment, the
entire room was still, as if the world had shifted into a slow-motion action.
The worry in Jarod's face barely registered in her mind.

The sound of the gun hitting the carpet was dull in her head. Parker hardly
noticed her sore arm colliding with the floor either. Her last image, groggy and
blurry as her mind slipped into unconsciousness, was of Jarod towering over her,
an entire lifetime of concern pouring over her.

And then it was black.