In December she had buried an empty coffin in place of her father. How
ironic, she thought, as they lowered the weighted casket into the hole in a plot
next to her mother's empty grave. Her father. She had turned the hollow phrase
over in her brain as she stood at the podium on that cold and dreary day, her
eyes finding a sickly man in the front. Her uncle...her father? Even the words
etched on his headstone, which arrived a week later, bore the lie he had lived
and perpetuated for years: 'Father, Husband, Friend.'

The affair had been a small one; her father had been a fallen man, and not
many in the Centre chose to ally themselves with a fallen man. She had watched
those who had had a hand in her father's choice to jump hide their joy beyond
tears and grief-stricken expressions. Not more than a week after her ordeal, her
body still showed the signs of snow, cold, lies and truths, and Parker hid
behind sunglasses and a rather large hat. Quiet she sat in the front row as her
brother spoke, his words hardly registering in her brain. She refused to shed a
tear as the mourners threw dirt on the empty coffin; she simply stared straight
ahead, unmoving, unbelieving.

After the others had paid their respects, hallow as they may have been,
Parker lingered near the empty ground. There was no body to recover, no body to
dress, mourn, and bury. The chances, numerous people had reminded her, and
finding her father's body in one piece were slim to none. She had lowered her
eyes and her mind retreated to the dark thought of Mr. Parker's corpse slowly
being gnawed on by fish big and small. She had felt the tear pooling in the
crevice were her sunglasses (despite the overcast skies) met her face. It was
warm on her face, and she brushed it off with the conviction that it would
freeze on her face if it didn't. Parker wouldn't admit to herself that her
father's devotion to a daughter devoid of human weakness (feelings and emotions) had outlived him.

Walking to the car, she noticed the lone figure by the tree. Not stopping,
she recognized him, made eye contact. There was a hesitation in her step, a
fault only she noticed...and then she moved on. Parker had kept walking. Oh, how easy it could have been to stop, nod to one of the dozens of sweepers and
cleaners and Centre personnel about the cemetery, and the Centre's prized
possession would be theirs again. But she only kept walking.

In the car heading back to her home, her mind tried to collect what was left
of the Parker family tree. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead and replaced by another. Her brother had made it clear that he would rather ally himself with the winning faction, which, of course, did not include her. Her little brother, less than a week after his birth, had been whisked away to a secret location; to do what she knew not what, and she feared to think of the possibilities. Ethan was no doubt in hiding, under the protective custody of Jarod's father, who had made it clear he did not wish for her to interfere with the situation. She had to admit that Sydney, Broots and Debbie, and, sadly, Jarod, were as close to a real family as she would ever get.

And now? The scenery hadn't changed for over a day, and onward Jarod drove,
further and further south to a destination unknown. Not surprisingly, they
hadn't exchanged much in the way of conversation. Parker began to wonder if
Jarod's destination included somewhere in the heart of Texas, considering all
the remote states he was passing up. Unlike their first stay, pleasantries had
hardly been exchanged as they checked into the hotel room after a day of
driving. They spoke long enough to decide who was sleeping where, and what time they would leave. Then quietly and defiantly, Parker had shut the light off and  stayed awake the entire night. After an hour she heard Jarod's gentle snores, much like she had as she had dodged in and out of consciousness, and felt the need to kick him. How could he sleep at a time like this?

What sleep Parker did manage to catch was once again in between toll booths
and rest stops. Each time her mind would slowly fade to black and for a few
moments she would linger in a peaceful sleep. Then suddenly her father was
there, his very undead eyes staring back at her through the black and white
photo. She would jolt awake, Jarod would glance at her in concern, and then
continue driving. The pattern continued all the way to the Texas border.

There was a voice in her head, one her father had planted there over twenty
years ago, that told her not to trust Jarod. Those photos could be fake, it
whispered with malice. This could all be a trap. The sun was setting, but the
last rays illuminated Jarod's face from time to time, giving him the appearance
of an angel. In that moment of illumination she saw there was no room in Jarod's
heart for that kind of deception.

The rope was wrapped tight around her arms, her chest, her waist, her legs. Her back was pressed flat against the cold metal pole, and the temperature sent chills up her spine. Her hair was matted against it. She was vulnerable, exposed, weak, and it killed her inside.

He still had the flare gun tucked in his waistband. "Why did you save my
life?" she asked, quiet and pleading, and still inherently defiant. By now she
had expected to be lying in a pool of her own blood.

Jarod leaned close, so close Parker could smell a pungent combination of
sweat, rain, and aftershave. Together it was repulsive and alluring. She tried
in vain to find the evil in his eyes her father had assured her was there, but
to her surprise she found only worry. As if he regretted tying her, his nemesis
and hunter, to a pole in the middle of a hurricane.

Outside, the storm raged savagely. Rain pelted the glass windows, shutters
banged on metal siding, tree limbs snapped or scrapped against the sides of
buildings. The sound was all around them, and yet removed.

"Because," he answered, the memory flickering in his brain, "I still the little girl," he hesitated, "who gave me my first kiss."

His smile was genuine. Her eyes filled with sorrow as they watched him exit
into the raging hurricane.

In the setting sun a light rain had begun to fall. Parker leaned her cheek
against the glass window, its coolness refreshing against her skin. The memory
floated away quietly, and she shut her eyes again.

*

Faded photos kept Sydney company in his empty office. A small desk lamp
provided the only light in the room; the dark was shut and the blinds had been
drawn to both the hallway and the outside world. In his fingers he flipped the
pen randomly, trying to discern some pattern to his behavior. But it served no
purpose, other than to supplement his own wandering mind. His mind was full of
worry for Miss Parker, and for Jarod, as well. Suddenly the danger for them both
was equal in strength.

It had been two days since his abbreviated conversation with Parker, but what
he feared most was not the Centre's technicians rapidly closing in on the pair
of fugitives, but the bickering between them. Their chemistry was extreme and
quite volatile, even at a young age, and this volatility scared Sydney more than
anything. Raines had once commented harshly that Miss Parker's introduction into
Jarod's life brought out the mischievous side of the young pretender, the side
that would rather play and reek havoc than work and complete simulations.

"Her presence is unhealthy for Jarod," Raines said, taking a
drag from his cigarette and glancing in through the two-way mirror. The children
sat across from each other at a table, deep in conversation. "Contact must be
strictly limited."

Sydney shook his head. "I've said this before, Raines," he began, "and I'll
say it again: what's unhealthy is isolating Jarod from human contact. He can't
be expected to bond with the subjects in his simulations if he's not allowed to
see other human beings."

Raines smiled. "He has you." Sydney heard the unveiled malice in the doctor's
voice. It was no secret Raines resented him simply for his unfettered access --
and trust -- to Jarod.

The doctor was shaking his head again. "Three times this month I've caught
Miss Parker exiting the ventilation ducts on SL-13. Needless to say, the
Chairman is not pleased."

Sydney spun on Raines. "You told Mr. Parker?" she shouted. "Are you *trying*
to undermine my work, Raines?"

"I had to," he replied in his own pathetic defense. Adding, "Besides, if I
remember correctly, you were one of the only backers of Miss Parker's addition
to Jarod's routine, and I do recall you agreeing to accept full responsibility
of the possible consequences, both positive and negative." It was Raines' way of
delivering a veiled threat.

Seeing the flustered expression of the psychiatrist's face, Raines smiled and
blew a thin cloud of smoke in his face.

Sydney and Broots had been about a block behind Lyle's sweeper team, maybe
less, in New York City, but had missed the action completely. The suits had
pushed them back as they wheeled Lyle away, back to the renewal wing in Blue
Cove, but not before Sydney could see the scene in the alley. There was a pool
of blood - Lyle's blood -- on the ground by the wall...and a smear that was
decidedly not from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The logical conclusion was
that it was Parker's blood, which would mean the first shot he had heard had
been Lyle firing at Parker. She hadn't, however, mentioned a wound in their
short exchange.

The questions swirled in Sydney's head. Where were they headed? How prepared
was Jarod? Did Miss Parker realize what was going on? Did Jarod? If he did, how
did he find out? What missing piece to the equation did Jarod have and Miss
Parker desire? There was always a missing piece between them, Sydney thought.

There was a hesitant rap on his closed office door. Startling him from his
thoughts, he quietly beckoned in the only visitor who he imagine matched the
sound. Broots quietly shut the door, afraid a large sound might trigger some
sort of unwanted attention.

"Did you find anything?" Sydney asked expectantly.

Broots hesitated. "I-I-I-I'm not sure."

Whereas Parker would have snapped, Sydney sighed softly. "Go on."

Broots glanced nervously around the room, expecting a monitor of some sort,
and quickly took the seat in front of Sydney's desk. His voice lowered to a
whisper. "I was able to locate some information in one of the Centre databases
regarding the," he hesitated around the word, "hit on Miss Parker. It's an old
database, one that's mostly storage of old files from the Nixon era."

"Someone wanted to hide," Sydney pondered.

Broots nodded. "Exactly. Which is why I'm not sure if I understand everything
clearly."

"What do you mean?"

He paused. "If it's correct, then the hit was ordered over three months ago.
Right after-"

Sydney cut in. "-Mr. Parker's funeral." Adding, "Any particular reason why
they waited so long?"

"I've found references to surveillance files, both video and audio. I'm
thinking they've bugged Miss Parker's home and office." He paused. "The
information I found were simple transcripts of email, encoded but not that hard
to break. The surveillance files, on the other hand..."

The doctor smiled. "You're working as hard as you can, Broots. No one is  complaining."

His eyes found his lap. "Miss Parker would," he replied with a halfhearted
smile. "It's strange," Broots said. "I never in a million years thought I'd hear
myself say this, but...I miss her, Sydney."

Sydney nodded solemnly. "I do, too."

After a moment in silence, Broots got up to leave, but hesitated as he
reached for the doorknob. The small man turned back to face Sydney, his face
washed in worry and confusion. "It doesn't make sense, Sydney. Why put an order
out in December and then wait three months? That doesn't sound like Centre
efficiency."

The question loomed between them. The doctor knew the answer, however painful
it was to stomach.

"Maybe," he began, trying to frame his answer carefully, "it was efficient
for a different reason. After all, Miss Parker leads the team in charge of the
Centre's priority number one, and Mr. Raines made it quite clear that bringing
Jarod back was a matter of life and death for her and her brother. Perhaps Lyle
felt...conventional methods weren't working."

The answer registered in Broots' mind. His face twisted in disgust. "Lyle
would do that? Use Miss Parker as bait to reel Jarod in?" He shook his head,
trying to clear his mind of the thought.

"In a heartbeat," Sydney replied solemnly. He knew full well the malice and
evil Lyle was capable of, and selling his sister to the devil was low on that
ladder. "And I doubt he would get much opposition from the Tower. Mr. Parker was
her last hope, Broots. The others aren't as tolerable with her inability as her
father was."

Broots found his way back to the chair, slumping into it. "The surveillance:
I bet Lyle was trying to see how often Miss Parker was contacted and failed to
report it. He was tracking them both like animals."

Sydney imagined Lyle, fully recovered, standing in the doorway and sneering.
'Who's the hunter now?' he would rasp, laughing maniacally to himself.

*

She had fallen for Jarod's deception once again, and inwardly she was happy
she had. Their diversion from an expected course might throw the sweepers
tailing her off course for a few days, giving her and Jarod ample time to...

Parker looked out the airplane window at the ever-approaching ground below.
To do what, exactly -- escape? The idea of being on the run with Jarod made her
shudder.

An hour and a half into Texas the black sports car had driven off the road
suddenly, jerking Parker from her restless sleep. In the dead of night the car
stopped, and Jarod ordered her out. For a brief second, she feared what he was
planning to do next. Instead, with humidity still clinging to the air around
them, they began to walk a path that seemed miles long, but could have only been
feet. She had been in constant motion, in some form or another, for almost three
days, and she was exhausted. Each step took the energy of ten or fifteen. She
didn't need to remind herself of how utterly inappropriate her choice of
footwear was for damp grass.

Jarod had banged on the door to the flight manager's office, who had also
been roused from a brief nap in front of television playing reruns of
The Price is Right. Parker should have expected the smile of
familiarity on the man's face, no doubt another lonely soul who had been rescued
by Jarod's aberrant sense of justice. At the late hour she didn't dare speculate
on the circumstances. Instead she was a spectator as the two negotiated a "loan"
(as Jarod later called it) of a small twin-engine plane. After the deal had been
worked out, the man had nodded a kind goodbye to Parker and retreated back into
his office. She never uttered a word.

They had been in the air for almost an hour before anyone broke the
foreboding silence between them. It almost seemed to crackle with potential
energy.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He turned for a moment, regarding with a coy smile, almost as if he was
contemplating whether or not to tell the truth. The expression inspired
annoyance in Parker. "Colorado," he answered simply.

"What's in Colorado?" she prodded.

He took a moment to think, then answered, "Answers, I hope."

Hope. The feeling was not in vast quantities in the airplane's cabin. In the
distance, the sun was beginning to rise behind the plane, and the dim light from
the horizon lit the ground below them. Evidently, they had been flying through a
large mass of clouds, as the landing strip suddenly came into view out her
window. Parker felt the plane turn to the right, and watched the airfield grow
in size.

Unconsciously, her eyes slipped shut and her breath caught in her throat as
the plane skidded to a stop along the runway.

No one came to greet them. Jarod taxied the airplane along the runway for
several feet, and Parker looked expectantly out the window, assuming another one
of Jarod's friends would wave to them from hanger, indicating where they might
park. But no one came. It occurred to Parker that their plane seemed to be the
only activity along the airstrip, even for the early morning air. Actually, as
her eyes passed over the considerable layer of rust and general air of disuse,
Parker wondered how long it had been since anyone had landed here.

"Where the hell are we?" Parker asked.

She had expected a witty answer from Jarod regarding their location, such as
'Colorado,' but what she wasn't prepared for was the grim look she got instead.
With a heavy sigh, he exited the plane. His ignorance of her question infuriated
her. Forgetting the bandage on her still-tender wound, Parker slammed her own
door shut, running around the nose of the plane and coming inches from Jarod's
face.

"I asked you a question, Lab Rat," Parker hissed. The
derogatory name slid off her tongue like satin, covered in malice. It felt good.
Her voice punctuated the silence of the deserted airfield around them. "Where
are we?" She made sure to annunciate each word, every syllable. Oh, she thought,
what she wouldn't give for her weapon at a time like this. She imagined sticking
it under Jarod's chin, threatening to pull the trigger.

Jarod pursed his lips in defiance. "The Centre's now-abandoned Colorado
installation."

Parker snorted, stepping back and turning to gaze at the empty surroundings.
In the near distance she saw buildings with no visible entrances, all uniform
and quite foreboding. None of the structures were particular desuetude or
decrepit, but it was quite obvious no one had inhabited the site for some time.

She spun on him, her eyes wild with revelation. "The Centre doesn't
have a Colorado Installation, Jarod," she spat.

"Officially, they never did," he retorted. Then he retreated to the storage
cabin of the plane, pulling the Haliburton and the duffel bag from the
compartment. As he moved, Parker swore she saw an amused smile play on Jarod's
lips. She wished she could wipe away all traces of that expression. As he worked
he continued to speak. "When their work was completed almost three years ago,
they abandoned the installation permanently."

"'They'?" she asked, moving closer to the baggage compartment. "What work?"

He looked into her eyes, his face sincere and completely serious. "Genetic
research. For what or on who I don't know."

Parker tilted her head to the side. "And I suppose you're going to find out,
aren't you?" When he didn't reply, she pressed on. "While I'd love to uncover
more of the Centre's dirty secrets, I'm slightly more interested in finding out
why my brother intended on shooting me two days ago."

The comment flustered Jarod. The duffel bag slipped off his shoulder as he
moved towards her, thudding silently on the pavement. He grabbed her shoulder --
her unscratched one -- for emphasis, and she wriggled a bit under his tight
grasp. The movement had startled her. "You just don't get it, do you, Parker?"
Jarod asked. "The research in those buildings, what happened in New York City,
it's all connected. I have reason to believe your mother visited here several
times before she," Jarod was unsure how to phrase the words to describe the day
in question, "died."

"Says who?" she hissed. Suddenly, they were ten year olds
again.

He paused, collecting himself. "Says the same person who took those pictures
of your father." The mention of her father halted Parker's protests. She stopped
moving, but Jarod wasn't finished. His mouth froze in a half-open position, his
breath catching in his throat. In a moment, he composed himself, releasing his
hand from Parker's arm when he realized the tight grasp he had had on her. She
kneaded the spot for effect.

"I," he began, but stopped. Then, "I believe the person who contacted my
father was..."

His breath caught again, and Parker suddenly saw tiny beads of moisture
forming in his tear ducts. She bowed her head.

"...my mother."

Her head snapped up. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Jarod nodded several times, then stepped away, his face showing a level of
contentment unexpected for the moment. Obviously he had already dealt with this
issue, and was now ready to move forward. He was a few paces ahead of her -- she
still stood completely still -- and stopped.

He turned and extended his arm in her direction, palm up and open and
beckoning her hand. It was a pointless gesture, as the flat pavement was hardly
rocky and such that it required that they stay close to each other. Instead, it
was a gesture of truce.

"Coming?" he asked.