He felt a presence by his side, but neither man said a word. In silence they
stood for ages, watching the small child perform tasks beyond his reach.

The comment pierced the air. "He should have a name."

Cox regarded the man beside him with bewilderment. Perhaps the man was going
soft in his old age. Desperate as he was to jab at the old man's visible
weakness, Cox resisted. Repercussions came to those who insulted the chairman.

"I don't believe that will be beneficial to his development," he replied
simply, detached.

The old man wheezed a little. In the darkness, he couldn't see Cox's eyebrows
shoot up in amusement. "True," he began, and paused as the boy -- a mere two
years old -- touched the large continent, declaring it 'Africa,' "but we can't
exactly call him Baby Parker for the rest of life either."

Another gesture of amusement from Cox, this time a chuckle.

The matter was quickly abandoned as others surfaced. "How much longer?"

Cox stroked the angle of his own jaw. "Another two weeks?" he ventured. "I
still have two or three preliminary simulations I want to run him through before
transfer. He's showing remarkable progress, especially considering his age, and
I imagine he'll acclimate quite nicely."

"Yes," the old man asserted, pausing in a sense of melodrama Cox detested,
"he *is* special." He noted his use of 'special,' and didn't doubt the
observation for a moment. In fact, he would bet his life on it. Perhaps, he
thought, it was even...an understatement.

The darkness of the observation lounge was pierced by the light of a door
opening, and a man -- a sweeper, Cox guessed -- entering. He noted how gingerly
he stepped, in hopes that his shoes would not make an unbearable racket.

"Mr. Raines?" the sweeper asked.

Raines nodded to Cox and brought the sweeper into a corner of the lounge,
near the door. They spoke in hushed tones, and Cox pretended not to listen. Then
Raines quietly excused himself from Cox's presence, the beginnings of a smirk
playing on Raines' lips. He knew the techs had found him a location, no doubt.

*

She was standing outside the nursery of a generic hospital, gazing into the
room full of squirming infants barely hours old. An endless variety of blue and
pink bonnets covered their heads. She pressed her hand to the window, her
fingers splaying across the glass, trying to connect with the small infant in
the third row, fifth bassinet from the left. She knew he couldn't hear her, even
if she wished she could hear his small whispers in her ear, in her mind.

"It doesn't work that way," a voice beside her said. It was soft, amused, and
it familiarity didn't bother her. "You're trying to too hard, honey."

Parker glanced at her mother. She hadn't aged a day. It was like looking in a
mirror. "I shouldn't even bother," she replied dejectedly. "He can't hear me."

Instead of inspiring pity, her words made her mother smile. "And what makes
you think that?"

"He's my father's son." She glanced back into the nursery. "Not yours."

Parker felt her mother's hand massaging her shoulder, and sighed at the
pleasure it brought.

Her mother sighed. "He's neither." Parker looked back at her mother, her
reply confusing her, but the 'older' woman would have no such questioning.
Instead, she placed her own hand around her daughter, bringing it from the glass
to rest over her daughter's heart. "Go to him, baby girl. He needs you now."

Again a glance was stolen of the nursery. A young pediatric nurse had opened
her brother's bassinet and cradled him softly in her arms. "What could I do?"
she asked.

Her mother dropped her hand and retreated back down the hallway she had come
from. Parker didn't chase after her as her mother's specter retreated back into
the recesses of wherever she lived. Instead, she heard haunting words that
seemed to fill every room of the hospital.

"You could give him the world."

*

For a moment Parker was aware she was dreaming, that her body was covered
with a warm blanket, and that someone made gentle snoring sounds beside her. But
the pain was too great in her head, and she soon lulled back in unconsciousness.

*

In his rush the previous night, he had forgotten to shut the drapes on the
windows completely, and through the small hole a bright ray of sunlight shone
in. It bathed him in light, and roused Jarod from the light and ultimately
restless sleep he had managed to catch in the rather uncomfortable chair. He had
pulled it closer to the bed, close enough to hear her shallow breaths, close
enough to notice if they ceased altogether.

Jarod stole a glance at the prone Parker. She had barely moved an inch since
he had gingerly tucked her under the cover hours earlier. Occasionally, her head
lolled side to side, and her lips moved as they murmured some phrase that meant
nothing except in her dreams, but for the most part she remained still. After a
second, he leaned in close, assuring himself her breathing was sequential and
normal. Softly he pulled her right arm from under the cover, checking the
bandage.

The small clock at the corner of his laptop read 7:15 as he booted up the
machine. It took a while for the call to connect.

"Jarod," Major Charles exclaimed, his voice and face still damp with sleep.
"We were getting worried."

Jarod smiled sadly. "I got..." his head turned involuntarily to Parker
sleeping soundly, "...there was a little change of plans." Carefully, Jarod
maneuvered the laptop so that the computer affixed to the top of it would
capture his sleeping visitor.

Major Charles' recognition was obvious to find. "Is everything all right up
there?"

"After a little minor surgery," Jarod replied, replacing the laptop. His
father's worried expression that his son had received injury prompted a further
explanation. "I had to remove a bullet from Miss Parker's arm."

Behind him, she stirred. Jarod knew she was still too far below consciousness
to possible have heard her own name, and called the event coincidence.

"And you're sure there'll be no," his father chose his word carefully,
"complications?"

Jarod knew Charles was not referring to his surgical feat. "That I'm sure
of." He left it at simply that. There wasn't enough time for complicated
explanations, which was what their situation required. It was hard to explain to
his father the sense of implicate trust he held in her, despite their past. To
be honest, he wasn't sure if *he* understand it, really.

Charles hesitated on his next question. "Have you told her anything?"

Jarod had meant to. He had meant to tell her everything. But fate had
intervened, she had passed out on the floor as the infection spread from her
bullet wound. Maybe it was for the better on her part, he mused. The last thing
she needed on that day was a possible life-altering revelation.

His silence on the subject, however, spoke volumes. "You have to," his father
urged.

"I know." Again he glanced at her, repeating, "I know."

"Oh!" Charles' exclamation brought Jarod back to reality. He watched as his
father popped a disk into his hard drive. The action was followed by a prompt on
his own machine: would he accept the file transfer? "I almost forgot about
these."

Jarod accepted. "What are they?"

"Explanations from your friend," he replied. His voice lingered on 'your
friend,' unsure how the term applied to his son and his companion. "Taken in
Africa over the past week."

"Taken by whom?" The download was half-complete.

His father smiled. It was a large grin, the size of which Jarod had seen only
once before: the first time he had met Charles. Jarod could only guess what that
meant. "That, son," his father said, "you'll learn when you come and see me."

A prompt alerted him that the photos were done downloading. He quickly
located the file, opened it and sent it immediately to the taskbar, yet
unwilling to view their contents.

Jarod smiled in return. "I'll see you in a day or two."

They exchanged pleasantries, and the conversation ended.

*

No one needed to come and retrieve him from his work station. The sound of
Raines' oxygen tank in desperate need of an oil job could be heard from yards
away. That sound prompted his gaze to linger near the doorway. The man was
standing in it, and he merely had to nod to him. The lab tech scurried from his
station, document in hand.

They were bathed in the shadow of a corner office, out of sight and hearing
of the busy tech room. "Well?" Raines rasped in a whisper.

The tech took a deep gulp, handing him the paper. "I traced the call to a
rest stop along the Pennsylvania Turnpike."

"This was hours ago," Raines replied bluntly. "They're gone."

The lab tech, though temporarily stunned by the man's rebuff, pressed on. "I
know, but the station is accessible only from the westbound lanes, making it
reasonably to assume they are traveling in that direction. I was always able to
ascertain that a dark-haired man bought a full tank of gas and was met by a
woman fitting Miss Parker's direction. He," the tech suppressed a chuckle,
"thought she might need a strong drink."

Though interested, Raines' patience was growing thin. "The point?"

"Calculating how far a car might travel on one tank of gas, I was able to
narrow down their next destination." Adding with hesitation, "assuming, of
course, they stay on the Turnpike." The tech didn't want to fathom the
repercussions that might come to him if that assumption was wrong.

Raines' attention was piqued. "Here's the interesting part," the tech said.
"On a hunch, I searched the area's newspaper articles. I found one story
detailing the arrest of a local politician for the kidnapping of a college
student, prompted by the girl's criminology professor." The tech paused for a
bit of drama, knowing the insertion of a prized Centre asset would tip the
scales for Raines. "Dr. Jarod Flemming."

Raines' reaction wasn't what he suspected. The man was hardly stunned; in
fact, the tech thought he might have already known of the Pretender's
involvement in the disappearance of Miss Parker. Instead, Raines placed a heavy
hand on the tech's shoulder, and started to smile. The expression was
frightening.

"You've done well," Raines complimented. Leaning close, he added, "I won't
forget that."

Then he was gone. No doubt summoning sweepers to the location he had marked
on the sheet of paper.

*

Jarod and Parker sat next to each other on the rumpled bed. Her hair was a
mess, matted in some places and standing on end in others. Her clothes were
creased and rumpled, the seam of her white shirt torn open. A fresh bandage had
been placed over her wound, which was now "professionally" cleaned and sewn up.
The bullet had been removed.

Waking up had been surprisingly easier than Jarod had expected. She hadn't
fought much, as much as he would expect from an exhausted woman like Parker, and
the mood of surrender had been a comfort. Twice he had caught her gaze lingering
on the weapon lying again alone on the dresser, and he learned to tuck the gun
in the waist of his pants. If she ever got that close, there were other issues
that probably should be worked out first.

The silence between them was unbearable. Parker couldn't help but eye the
photos turned face down in Jarod's lap. They were inviting; she craved to know
whose image they had captured, what dirty little Centre secret their shades of
grey held. Who was doing something they weren't supposed to be doing? What new
horror had the Centre dragged from its closet to become the future of the
corporation? Parker's mind drifted back to her dream, and her mother's request.
She shuddered at the thought.

"You know..." he said, his quiet whisper thundering through the heavy
silence. He paused, hesitating; Parker couldn't recall the last time a simple
silence had rendered him so speechless.

Finally, he gathered his voice, and his eyes were looking tenderly at her.
They were filled with worry and pity, sorrow and joy, gazing into her soul. She
hated that look; she could never quite get it out of her mind. "I don't have to
show you these if you don't want to see them."

Her hand made a grab for the thin pile, but he quickly flinched, pulling them
from her grasp. Her bandage rubbed against his arm, sending a rather dull wave
of pain through her for a moment.

She stared at her lap, her hands folded neatly and her fingers looping around
one another. "I have to," she whispered.

Parker heard him sigh, and looked straight ahead, unable to meet his eyes
should he seek out hers again. The guilt was building up inside her already,
threatening to explode. She felt the pile's edges pricking at her folded hands,
and recognized he was giving the black-and-white photos to her. Shutting her
eyes for a moment, she turned them up, rifling through each one.

One by one they fell to the floor. Her grasp was unable to steady them and
they floated quietly down, not making a sound as they hit the carpet. She didn't
really notice, she didn't really care.

It wasn't possible.

Her chest heaved with a sob, her mouth quickly covering her mouth to bottle
the escaping sound. She succeeded for the most part, but her defensive breakdown
was obvious: the sting of a warm salty tear began at her eye and traveled down
her cheek. Parker felt the tender pressure of a hand on her leg, reassuring and
comforting. No doubt he had expected this, and it bugged to her to no end.

"B-b-b-but..." She was stuttering, making herself look like a fool as her
emotions overcame her. This was too much, too much for her life and too much
even for the Centre. "How?" she finally managed.

The question hung between them. Parker wondered if Jarod even knew anything
of the photographs he possessed. She gave into the urge to turn, to see his
reaction: his eyes showed signs of pink puffiness. Apparently he did not. He
knew nothing. Parker sighed, somehow feeling worse and better at the same time.

Jarod gulped. "We have to leave soon." His voice betrayed the calm exterior
he was portraying, instead revealing the emotion beneath him. "By now they've
already estimated our position. We should get going."

Jarod had risen from the bed, moving towards the dresser to gather the
medical supplies and Haliburton that were arranged neatly on the top, but Parker
remained still. She made no effort to retrieve the fallen photos. She knew Jarod
intended to escape to a safe house, where she knew not, but for some reason she
could explain...she trusted his motives. He had had sense enough to show her
those photographs that lay abandoned on the carpet, which indicated he knew the
reaction they would stir.

Perhaps, she thought, he means to provide me the answers he cannot give.

They were gone before Mr. Burbage came to remind them of their complementary
breakfast in the motel lobby.

*

The moment the limos and the towncars and the sweepers pulled into the small
Pennsylvania motel parking lot, he knew they were gone.

He found the photos lying abandoned near the bed with the crumpled sheets
that no one had bothered to fix before they left. Some had turned over as they
floated down, their images pressed up against the carpet, but one upturned was
enough to startle Cox.

He rifled through them much as he expected their previous holder had. He
noticed the time stamp, dating back only a week. Could such dates be forged? It
would have been useful in this situation.

Sweepers filed in, as did the distinct sound of an oxygen tank.

"What did you find?" Raines rasped.

Cox spun, handing the five photos to the old man. "A dead man," he replied
simply.

Regarding the photos, Raines' hand clenched in frustration around the first
image, crumpling it where he grasped it. "This is not possible."

"But it is," Cox said, the hint of a smile on his lips, as he gestured to the
photos. "Ever the more reason to speed up the transfer."

Raines handed the photos off to a sweeper with an order to track down their
origins, keeping one of them for himself. "You said so yourself that there were
still simulations to be completed."

"Exigent circumstances have forced me to," he smiled now, "reevaluate my
assessment. I now declare the boy fit for transfer."

The look of success was evident on Raines' face. The small hurdle he held in
his hands was nothing to bar him from enjoying the small success they had
achieved. "When this is over, Cox, I shall make you a very important man. I know
you're fond of the boy, but perhaps you could divide your attention between him
and, say," he paused, "Centre liaison to the Triumvirate."

Cox tried to appear unimpressed. "Sir, wasn't that possession expected to be
held by your son?"

The thought of Lyle's failure in New York danced across Raines' face, but the
dim event soon faded as the old man smiled sadly. "My son will have to earn my
trust just like everyone else. Provided," he added, "he lives through the week."

The sweepers stayed another hour, interrogating the motel manager, but
nothing was accomplished. The fact remained that no one had seen the pair leave,
no one knew what direction they were traveling. So they waited patiently for
another bread crumb to drop.

Inside the motel room, the image of Mr. Parker lay abandoned once more on the
table, beads of sweat dotting his greytone forehead.