Disclaimer: I have absolutely no right to use these characters, just an abiding admiration for the creative work of the cast and crew of The Pretender.  All rights to all characters within this story are owned by NBC and the fine folks who created and slaved over this sorely-missed gem of a series.  Although the story is original, it is a "derivative work" and I claim no copyright.  No profits are made in any way in the writing or distribution of the work.  It is written solely for creative enjoyment.

"Excuse me, I’m looking for – Miss Parker?"

Miss Parker looked up from the file she was reading to gaze at the woman who’d come in the workroom door, already predisposed to tell her to get the hell out. The words died on her lips, because this woman was carrying a box in her arms. Some kind of ergonomic keyboard, books, the kind of toys only computer geeks put on their desks. The woman was short, blonde, round-faced, and terminally happy.

"Yes?" Parker gave her a long, forbidding stare. The woman dumped her box on the nearest flat surface – Broots’ work desk – and came forward with her hand outstretched. Short, unpainted nails. Parker ignored the gesture.

"Um, I’m Peggy, Peggy Wilton – I’m your new data specialist?"

"My what?"

Peggy’s lips curved into a nervous smile. "Your geek?"

"I’ve already got a geek. Where is Broots, anyway. Sydney?" She spun her chair toward Sydney, who glanced at her over the top of reading glasses.

"I’m afraid I don’t know."

"Perfect. Listen, Penny – "

"Peggy."

"Whatever, there’s been a mistake. Turn around and go back to whatever cube you crawled out of." When Peggy didn’t seem inclined to move beyond shuffling her feet, Parker sharpened her gaze. "Go."

"But I was assigned by Personnel. Regina sent me." Peggy seemed be having difficulty grasping the concept of no. Parker picked up her phone and dialed the number for Personnel.

"Regina?" Parker took a hit off a cigarette and blew smoke in Peggy’s general direction. The geekette cringed. "I’m sending Penny Wilson – "

"Peggy Wilton," Peggy whispered.

"—back to you and – listen to me carefully – I want Broots back. I don’t care what kind of alternate assignments – "

On the other end of the phone, Regina said, "Miss Parker? I’m sorry, you want who back?"

Parker gritted her teeth against the need to slap somebody senseless. "Broots. Want me to spell it for you?"

She heard the sound of flipping pages, Regina’s soft troubled umm and hmmm. Finally, Regina said, respectfully, "Miss Parker, maybe there’s been some kind of mistake. I don’t have any Centre employee by that name."

"Broots." Parker tried again, with volume. "Jesus, he’s been with me for two years. You can’t just misfile him."

There was a brief, telling silence on the other end of the phone, and for the first time, Parker felt a tingle of unease at the back of her neck. Regina said, slowly, "Miss Parker, I’m telling you exactly what I know. There is no one named Broots at the Centre. I have no files on him. I’m sorry."

She hung up. Parker stared at the phone for two or three seconds in silence, then looked at Sydney, who was still watching her with a troubled frown. Perky Peggy watched them both with a wide, friendly, interested expression.

"Peggy," Parker said. "Get out."

"But I’m assigned – "

Parker turned her head and pinned her with a look, lowered her voice to a husky whisper. "Get. Out."

Peggy did, abandoning the box. Parker crossed her arms and paced nervously back and forth, and said, "Sydney, according to Personnel, Broots doesn’t exist."

Sydney pushed his chair back, frowning, thinking. Silence stretched long past the point where Parker was accustomed to it breaking; she realized she’d been waiting for Broots to make his usual inane contribution.

"Sydney?" she prodded.

"I’ve seen it happen. So have you."

"Not to one of my people." She wandered close to him, close enough to drop her voice to a whisper. "Why grab Broots? Why not all of us?"

"Perhaps they see Broots as the weak link," Sydney suggested, and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that clearly indicated he agreed.

"Except that Broots doesn’t know anything that might be potentially damaging." She cocked her head slightly to look at Sydney’s friendly, impassive face. "Does he?"

"That depends on what they are looking for, Miss Parker. I don’t think we have anything to hide regarding Jarod. But the Centre’s in turmoil, you know that. There are rumors someone’s attempted the life of one of the Triumvirate three times now in two weeks."

Besides that, they all had a great deal to hide in other areas. Broots had been heavily involved in digging up dirt on Dr. Raines, for instance – researching Parker’s mother’s murder – a hundred things that might suddenly turn dangerous.

Parker thought of the old Arizona desert cartoon: landscape, with Indians. A horizon, a sun, a cactus. You never knew where the enemies were, in the Centre.

"Get over to Broots’ house. Check on him, see if anything’s out of place. I’m going to talk to Daddy," she said aloud.

"Are you sure that’s wise?"

She smiled. "I’m sure it’s not. But I’m not going to lose a valuable resource without a fight."

Broots was more than that, of course. She owed him – for all her bullying and snide contempt, she respected him, and in some ways even admired him. He was a good father to his daughter, Debbie; he was an honest man; he was loyal.

That may be what kills him, she thought, and felt a tiny shiver work its way down her spine. That just may be what kills me, too.

His head hurt. Really hurt, to the point that Broots woke up moaning, curled on his side, cradling his head in both hands. Nausea cramped his stomach, but he didn’t have the strength to move; he kept very still, breathing hard, until he felt steady enough to try to open his eyes.

A white room. Blinding white – smooth white walls, white floor, no windows, no doors he could see. Even the cot he was lying on was white. He groaned again as pain lanced through his head, centered just above his right eye. His mouth felt dry and swollen.

The Centre. I’m at the Centre. It wasn’t the first time he’d been dragged out of bed and thrown into some scary room, but it was the first time he’d been drugged stupid. That was bad enough, but this room – he didn’t recognize this room at all. That was terrifying. The next person through that door will be Miss Parker. Everything’s going to be fine. Well, as fine as it ever is.

He didn’t really believe it, but then he never did, and things always worked out. Broots carefully moved his head, found the pain wasn’t any worse, and tried sitting up. Bad idea. He rolled over on his back instead, staring up at the harsh halogen lights and wishing, not for the first time, that he’d taken that job with Microsoft when he’d had the chance.

A door whirred open. He forced himself to sit up, clenched his teeth against the nausea, and tried to look as harmless as possible.

He didn’t know the man who came in, carrying a plain white chair with him. A standard Centre suit, nothing out of the ordinary about him except the wide, friendly smile on his face. Broots didn’t like it when people smiled in the Centre. It was almost always bad news.

"Mr. Broots," the man said – young, clean, puppy-dog friendly. He put the chair down two feet from where Broots sat and offered his hand. "I’m Mr. Frye. How are you feeling?"

Broots rubbed his forehead. "Like hell. Uh – why am I here, exactly?"

"You know where here is, then?"

Broots suddenly was stricken with a truly terrifying notion. What if it wasn’t the Centre? What if these guys were business rivals, coming to get information – oh God. He hoped he didn’t look as scared as he was.

"The Tower?" he guessed. His voice broke on the word. Mr. Frye nodded encouragingly.

"That’s right. You see, Mr. Broots, there’s been some trouble, and it was thought you could help us straighten it out."

"Me? What could I – uh – "

Mr. Frye reached in a coat pocket and pulled out a black notebook, leather. He opened it to a page and perused the contents. Closed it and returned it to the pocket.

"As a matter of fact, there really isn’t much I need to ask you about the matter itself – I’ll just describe it for you, instead. You see, we found seventeen hotmail IDs on your home computer, exactly the same kind of hotmail IDs that someone has been using to tip off Jarod when Miss Parker and her team – your team, Mr. Broots – gets too close. Further, we found transaction records showing bank transfers from accounts we know Jarod opened, into an account we know you opened. An offshore bank. A very clean transaction, by the way – if it hadn’t been for diligent and careful work, we’d never have found it. I congratulate you."

"I don’t know what you’re – "

"Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Broots." Frye’s voice turned from puppy-dog to pit-bull. "You sold Jarod information about the movements of Centre teams. You aided and abetted him. This is fact. Not under discussion. I’m not interested in your protests or your reasons."

"But I didn’t – " Sick was not the word for what he felt. He knew – knew – that somebody had set him up, but the absence of Sydney and Miss Parker indicated strongly that nobody cared. "I would never have done that."

"Why not? It was a lot of money."

"Because I – I’m loyal to the Centre." That sounded so pathetically unlikely he knew Frye wouldn’t believe it. "Because I’m a coward. Because – I know you’d catch me."

Mr. Frye sat back in his hard white chair, eyebrows up; he looked unconvinced. In fact, he looked bored.

"You know what I think? I think you’re a very clever man. I think you put on a wonderful act of cowardice, but I don’t think you’re a coward at all. In fact, Broots, I think it’s very likely that you’re even an idealist. The most dangerous kind of traitor."

"I’m not an idealist!"

"You helped Jarod. That is the work of either an idealist or an anarchist – and either way, the Centre cannot tolerate you. So, to put it simply, you have been terminated, Mr. Broots. Fired. Booted."

Broots swallowed hard. Oh, sure, he’d known it might happen someday, but what he’d always expected to feel was anger, or loss, or something.

He just felt relief. Sweet, overwhelming relief. "So this is my exit interview?"

"In a manner of speaking." Mr. Frye scooted his chair closer. Broots scooted back. "Since we’re not disputing the facts I’ve already laid out to you, we’ll move on to what we consider the more serious questions."

More serious … questions. Broots didn’t say anything. Frye’s mild blue eyes looked far too happy.

"So let’s get started, shall we? Let’s talk about the conspiracy you’re a part of to bring down the Triumvirate."

"What?" Broots yelped.

Frye raised a hand languidly in the air. Behind him, the door hissed open again, admitting two more tall men in suits. These, Broots recognized. Cleaners.

"These are fill in the blanks questions," Frye said. "I suggest you start filling."

Sydney was waiting for her on the sidewalk when she pulled her car to the curb. Nothing ever bothered Sydney; his expression was untroubled as he watched her slam the door and stalk toward him.

"How’d it go with your father?" he asked. He did that constantly, asked questions he already knew the answers to. A therapist’s idea of conversation. She shot him a filthy look and brushed by him to swing open the gate to Broots’ yard.

"What did you find?" she asked. Odd. She didn’t remember Broots’ lawn being this neat. Somebody had mowed recently. No toys in the corners, no sparkle bike parked by the gate.

"I think you should see for yourself," Sydney said. Another typical shrink’s answer. Wouldn’t want to taint the patient’s response. She went up the walk, Sydney close behind, and as she went she clicked off the important points. No one obviously watching them. No damage to the front door of the house. Broots’ car missing from the driveway.

"The door’s open," Sydney said. She pushed.

There was empty, and then there was empty. Bare white walls, still scarred from the normal wear and tear of life. Carpet still dented by the ghosts of old furnishings. Fixtures still burning. She walked down the hall, into the kitchen, and opened up cabinet after cabinet to find – nothing. The refrigerator was clean and empty.

"It’s the same upstairs," Sydney said.

"Basement?"

"Cleaned."

It was a deliberate choice of words. Her eyes locked with his for a moment, and she was the first to look away.

"And Debbie?" she asked. Sydney’s face turned, if anything, more unreadable.

"She was withdrawn from school, apparently by permission of her father. I took the liberty of contacting her mother. She’s heard nothing at all, nor have Broots’ relatives."

"So either Broots took his daughter and skipped – "

"Or," Sydney finished softly, "Someone took them both. And I think we can guess who."

"Not why." She slammed a cabinet door shut. "I need to know why, Sydney. Nobody poaches my people and doesn’t even give me a reason. Nobody."

"And your father was – unhelpful."

"Let’s just say Daddy has other things on his mind right now. He told me to forget about it and get on with the search for Jarod." Which was, she knew, what she should be doing.

But there was something about the coldness of this, the utter calculation, that made her angry. Broots, for all his annoying personal habits, didn’t deserve this. His daughter didn’t deserve it at all. That was what she couldn’t turn her back on. Debbie Broots, locked away somewhere at the Centre’s whim. Or worse.

"Suggestions?" Sydney asked. She turned a slow circle, staring at the kitchen. At the ghost of Broots’ life.

"Let’s get to work," she said, and strode out of the house.

The woman was back when Parker returned, this time sitting behind Broots’ desk and playing with the computer. She shot to her feet when Parker stiff-armed the door, looking for all the world like Broots would have in the same circumstances.

"M-m-miss Parker! I’m so sorry -- I -- uh -- Regina sent me back. She said you should call her if you don’t want me and she’ll assign somebody else." Peggy Wilton looked wretched. Parker pinned with a gaze like a straight pin.

"Can you type?" she asked. Wilton nodded.

"Yes ma’am."

"Sit." Parker made it a canine command, and it worked. Wilton dumped herself into the seat, fingers on the keyboard, and waited for instructions. "I want you to find Broots for me in there."

"Broots?" Wilton repeated blankly. She looked up, confused. "But -- I thought he was – Miss Parker, there are strict orders -- "

"Was I unclear?" Parker asked. Wilton shook her head. "Good. Get to work."

"What about Jarod?"

Parker stared at her for so long that the other woman began to melt into a puddle of sweat. And then she smiled. "Well, even rabbits have teeth, don’t they? You’ll do what I tell you, Wilton, or I’ll have another nerd in here faster than your body cools. I’m not screwing around here. Find Broots. You leave Jarod to me."

Wilton nodded and started tapping keys. Parker left her to do it and slammed down the hall to Sydney’s office, where he was calmly reviewing a file. He looked up at her over the tops of his glasses.

"Well?" she demanded.

"I’m fairly certain that Raines knows nothing about this. If someone has Broots, the orders have come down from a much higher level. I’m afraid there may be nothing we can do."

"Bullshit," she said. "Any word from Carlos?"

Sydney shook his head, then paused when his telephone rang. His eyebrows ratcheted up. Parker smiled.

"Hello?" he asked the handset. She saw his expression wipe clean as he sat straight up. He gestured to Parker with one hand to come closer, wrote five quick letters on a pad of paper.

JAROD.

She picked up a second phone and turned away to speak to person who answered her call. "Jarod’s on Sydney’s line. I want the originating number. If you don’t get it, your next assignment will be filling out your own toe tag."

Behind her, Sydney said, quietly, "It’s all right, Jarod. I’ll be glad to help you."

She could never tell, with Sydney, if that was a line or the actual truth. She set down the tracer phone and moved next to him, bent close enough to feel the smooth texture of his freshly-shaved cheek. She’d always liked his aftershave – subtle and somehow quite sexy, but dignified. Oh, Parker, you really need to get laid more. This was Sydney, for God’s sake. Old enough to be her –

All illicit fantasies about Sydney were wiped away by the sound of Jarod’s voice as Sydney angled the receiver toward her.

"I thought maybe I could help you," Jarod said. "You seem to be falling behind. I thought I might see you in Columbus, but you missed the boat."

"Very funny," Miss Parker said. "I didn’t appreciate spending the night poking through the Columbus Municipal Landfill."

"The landfill’s a wonderful place. Teaches you a lot about people, don’t you think? What they throw away is almost as important as what they keep." Was there some hidden message there? Probably, knowing Jarod. She racked her brain for anything incriminating she might have disposed of in the past week. No bodies, thankfully. "Besides, Miss Parker, I thought you needed to get your hands dirty."

"I’ll have my manicurist bill you. Let’s cut the crap, Jarod. I’m not in the mood to be taunted."

"How about informed?"

"Inform me where you are."

He was staying on longer than she’d expected. She kept an eye on the clock, half-expecting to hear a click in her ear; Jarod was notoriously whimsical when it came to conversations. She wondered if he knew how much it bugged her when he hung up first. Of course he did.

"All right," he said. "I’m in Baltimore. I’m at a diner called the Blue Moon Grill. Come and get me."

He hung up. Parker looked at Sydney, eyes wide, got a shocked look in return. What the hell was that? Trouble, that’s what that was. No question about it.

Parker punched buttons on the phone. "Tell me you have a trace or call your undertaker."

"Ma’am, we’ve got him! Baltimore, Maryland -- a diner called the -- "

"Blue Moon Grill," she finished. She hung up and glared at Sydney. "What kind of a game is this?"

"A new one," Sydney said. He looked interested, almost amused. "One I’m afraid we don’t know the rules to yet. I think we should be very careful, Miss Parker. Very careful indeed."

Peggy Wilton was still clicking keys in the corner. She raised her head and said, hopefully, "Need any help?"

Parker gave her a look. No words, just a look. That was all that was necessary to melt the woman back into her chair.

Peggy did have some very attractive features. No backbone, for one thing. Broots’ had been vestigal, but he’d had one, and that had been damned annoying at times.

It had also saved her life. Damn it, she wished she knew where he was. She hated not knowing.

"Just find Broots," she said to Peggy, and cast a commanding look toward Sydney. "Let’s take a trip."

By the time they made it to the Centre’s airstrip -- the only airport Blue Cove could claim, they were thirty minutes from the nearest commercial flight -- the jet was idling on the runway, steps invitingly lowered. Parker parked the car and flicked the butt of her cigarette out the window onto the tarmac, eyes narrowed against a drift of smoke. Sydney, in the passenger seat, made no move to get out either.

"What’s he doing, Syd?" she asked. "You know him. Why would he give us that kind of advantage?"

"Maybe it isn’t an advantage. Maybe he’s luring us into another trap; it would hardly be the first time."

She smiled humorlessly. She hadn’t paid him back yet for all the humiliation -- handcuffed, jailed, strip searched. Oh, but she would. Starting today.

"Traps can backfire," she said, "and I’m really not in the mood for another strip search unless he’s found a town with George Clooney as the sheriff. Bail, Sydney. Let’s get rolling before he does."

She popped the door and stepped out into the warm afternoon sun. A hint of breeze combed her hair back from her face.

A shadow blocked the sun. She turned toward it and saw a tall man in a dark suit and trenchcoat, standard Centre stalking issue.

"I didn’t request Sweepers," she said. The man looked at her steadily, and she finally matched his face to a name. Harman. He was one of the Tower goons.

"Let’s do this quietly, Miss Parker," Harman said, and took her elbow. "If you please."

"What?" She jerked away from him. Fear and rage bolted through her and left a sick metallic taste in her mouth. "You have about two seconds to tell me what’s going on or I start making phone calls."

"Call away." He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and offered it. "Try your father. He won’t be available."

Oh God. She’d known it could happen someday. Playing politics in the Centre was a life-threatening habit, but Daddy was one of the oldest sharks in the tank, battle-scarred, reliable -- she hadn’t heard any hint of trouble, she would have heard --

"Move," Harman said. He took hold of her elbow again.

She slammed it into his jaw, spun, and kicked high, hard enough to lay him out flat on the tarmac. She spun toward Sydney and saw a second Sweeper behind him, holding the older man’s arm.

He had a gun to Sydney’s head.

Harman moaned and rolled to his knees behind her. She wanted to turn and give him one more kick, side of the head, snap his neck like a wishbone --

She said, instead, "Drop the gun or Sydney will hurt you."

Sydney, always composed, smiled. The Sweeper didn’t bother to say anything.

She heard Harman get up. Heard the click of the safety switching off on his automatic just before the barrel pressed cold against her neck.

"Move," he said again.

It sounded like he meant it this time.

Jarod finished his last bite of crab cake and watched the parking lot shimmer in the noon heat. The Blue Moon Grill didn’t get a lot of business this time of day, but it would; the trouble with the local "protection" racket that had plagued them for months had just gotten sorted out. Some of his best work, really. Jarod flipped his notebook closed, satisfied, and tucked it under his empty plate for Mitzi, his waitress, to clear away. She’d been warned what to do with it. The only duty he had left was to finish his excellent frozen margarita and wait.

He didn’t have to wait long. He licked the last of the salt from the glass as a bulky black sedan pulled into the parking lot, and three standard-issue Centre Sweepers got out. They fanned out, no discussion; they’d be covering the kitchen entrance, the fire door, and the front.

He watched the woman get out of the back seat, swallowed the last of his margarita, and sat back, arms folded.

She came into the restaurant and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light, saw him and smiled. A wide, delighted, evil smile. Jarod cocked his head and returned it, exactly the same smile, exactly the same look. It didn’t seem to worry her.

She slid into the booth opposite him, folded her hands on the table, and said, "Nice to finally meet you, Jarod. Peggy Wilton."

She offered her hand -- short nails, unmanicured. None of the Miss Parker polish about her -- shaggy hair in need of a cut, shapeless clothes, no makeup. But the eyes -- a definite resemblance in the eyes. Cool, calculating, ruthless eyes, without Miss Parker’s mitigating vulnerability. This was a woman with no vices, no chinks in her armor.

A born predator.

He took her hand and shook it.

"Where’s Parker?" he asked. He kept his fingers on the pulse point in her wrist, but the beat stayed steady and quiet. He was using his looks, his touch, to try to throw her off balance -- it worked with most women, but not with this one. That was disturbing.

"On the bench," Peggy said. "I put myself in a position to succeed, Jarod, and I’ve succeeded. That’s the power of positive thinking."

"I hope you’ll understand that I’m not impressed."

"You will be." Peggy glanced into the distance behind him, and that childlike grin of happiness widened. "Let’s take a little trip, Jarod. There are some people who are going to be very glad to see you, and even happier to give me whatever I want. And I feel a definite need to shop."

He heard the scrape of footsteps behind him. Her Sweepers had arrived.

He took the empty plate in front of him and sailed it like a discus through the huge plate glass window. It shattered into a storm of glitter, and he dived, hit the ground and rolled. Broken glass bit deep but he shook it off and continued the roll to a crouch, dodged behind a parked car, heard Peggy Wilton’s outraged scream from the diner behind him.

Parker, he thought. She wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. Sydney. His absence was even more chilling.

I was too late. He heard gunfire and rolled under a parked truck, speed-crawled out the back and checked, from ground level, the positions of his pursuers. Peggy’s worn leather moccasins were just coming out of the diner. Two sets of gleaming Sweeper dress shoes were coming around on either side. The third pair was still inside, looking for a clear line of sight.

"Hey!" That was Mitzi, the waitress -- white orthopedic shoes, dyed red hair, more makeup, as she’d told him, than a convention center full of Avon sales reps. Mitzi wasn’t frightened by much, except losing her job. Jarod heard her rack the ancient pump shotgun she kept behind the counter. "Next shot gets fired is mine! Drop ‘em!"

Three guns hit the pavement. Nothing from Peggy, but Jarod didn’t think she was holding back; she wasn’t the handgun type. Poison in a ring, a knife in the back; those were her weapons.

If Parker’s dead --

He pushed the thought away, not sure how to finish it. Not sure if the feeling was rage or relief.

He ran for the sedan and got in the driver’s seat, waved to Mitzi, who nodded back, steely-eyed; she was holding the shotgun on Peggy. Mitzi had a gift, she’d told him, for smelling out the rats. It looked like she was right.

Jarod started the car. He reached for the gear shift.

Click. He froze at the sound of a gun coming off safety right behind his head, glanced in the rear view mirror and saw another Sweeper, this one petite and female, sitting behind him in the back seat. She lifted a radio to her mouth and said, calmly, "Got him."

"I knew you would," Peggy’s voice responded. "Congratulations. I’m giving you Parker’s office."

There are worse things. Broots kept saying it to himself, over and over, because it was the only thing he could think of to cling to. There are worse things.

Because this was pretty bad. He couldn’t get his breath, there was a hundred-pound weight of terror on his chest, and as the last manacle clicked in place and secured him to the T-Board, he thought maybe I’m just die and save them the trouble, but the trouble was he couldn’t seem to do that. He was too afraid to live, too afraid to die -- too afraid.

He’d seen the T-Board before -- a table in the shape of a crucifix, black, forbidding, uncomfortable to be around, much less be on. He’d been forced to sit in a chair right there, right where his feet were pointing, but at least he’d been sitting then, scared to death but not -- not --

Oh God. The faceless people in the shadows finished locking him down and went away. The room was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat, fast as a conga rhythm, please, let me out, I’ll do anything, say anything --

And he would. He knew he would. There were some limits to loyalty, and one of them was this.

The door opened at the end of the room. He lifted his head at a neck-breaking angle and stared down the length of his body -- still in pajamas -- at the knot of people who’d just come in.

Miss Parker. Bruised along one cheek but still ice-cold, perfectly dressed. If she had a motto in life it was either screw you or no fear, depending on who she was talking to. He’d never been so glad to see anybody in his entire life, he felt an urge to burst into tears but that would have just infuriated her and he needed -- needed --

The other person he recognized in the group was Sydney. No hurt, but not happy; he could see that in Sydney’s eyes as the other man regarded him with sad, knowing eyes.

"Move," snapped the man behind Parker, and gave her a shove.

She was a prisoner. Broots dropped his head back to the table and hardly even felt the impact. I’m screwed. And that was the understatement of the year.

"Hands off." Parker’s buzzsaw attitude still had that razor edge. "You use them again, Harman, you lose them."

"You know, I’m getting real tired of your mouth, and I’ve got no reason to play by your rules any more." Broots lifted his head again and saw Harman take a fist full of Parker’s hair and yank her head savagely back. "Payback’s a bitch."

"So am I," she said, and elbowed him in the chest hard enough to make Broots wince in sympathy. Harman didn’t let go. He wrapped his other hand around her throat and squeezed, squeezed until Parker’s breath squeaked in her throat and Broots was afraid he’d have to watch her die right there, right in front of him.

Harman let go and shoved her to a chair. She fell into it, gasping for air, and didn’t resist as Harman fastened the manacles on her arms.

"Thank you," Sydney said, and sat down without urging. He let himself be handcuffed, too, then looked at Parker with that careful expression of concern he was so good at. Was it genuine? Broots could never tell, but then he didn’t think he was a very good judge of character, really. Obviously. Or he wouldn’t be tied to a torture table waiting for the floor show to begin.

This does not look good. The gibbering idiot in his head was back, drooling and rocking back and forth. Not good. Not good.

Broots closed his head and tried for deep cleansing breaths. The Lamaze method. Wasn’t that how women handled childbirth? That pain was bad, right? Maybe that would work for him, breathe through the pain --

His eyes flashed open again at the sound of the door opening again.

"Daddy?" Miss Parker’s voice sounded rough and smoky, scraped by Harman’s choking. "Thank God. Will you tell these people -- "

He kept walking. Past her. Into the shadows. He went through another door, one in the shadows, and the sound of the door closing was the loudest thing Broots thought he’d ever heard. Cold. Final.

He didn’t look at Miss Parker. There was going to be enough pain to go around, he was pretty sure of that, and since he was the first batter up …

"Begin," said a remote, quiet voice from somewhere in the corner. Broots sucked in a deep breath and fought the urge to scream as two white-coated men rolled in a gleaming steel tray bristling with edges and points, all very medical and sterile. He couldn’t get his breath again. Oh God Oh God Oh God.

"Wait." His voice sounded faint and squeaky, as if he’d sucked down a mouthful of helium. "Wait, just tell me what you want me to say, you don’t need all that, I’ll -- "

"Just tell them," Miss Parker said. She sounded flat and cold and controlled again, but he could hear the tension under that.

"Did what?" His voice ratcheted higher. One of the white coats picked up something with a needle on the end. "Okay, what is that? Um, don’t you have to show me what it is first, explain -- "

"Just tell them, Broots!" Parker shouted. "Whatever the hell it is, tell them!"

"I can’t, I don’t know what they -- "

The needle slid home in his arm and cold poured in, ice in his veins, freezing him solid, so cold, so cold he couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, he floated on a slippery bed of ice and waited for the thaw. Somebody was calling his name. Miss Parker? No. No, she was gone, wasn’t she? Debbie?

"Debbie," he whispered. She was standing there, right at the edge of the table, looking down at him, her dark eyes so serious. "Honey, Daddy’s here. It’s okay. Daddy’s -- "

"Daddy, tell them who ordered you to break into the Tower secure encrypted records."

Even now, he knew Debbie didn’t talk like that. She was smart, she was so smart, but --- drugs. She’s not really here. But where was she? He’d been asking, and asking, but they wouldn’t say …

"Daddy, you have to answer or they’re going to hurt you," Debbie said. She took her hand out from behind her back. She held a scalpel. Light bled along the edge.

There was noise in the background, voices shouting. He thought he heard Miss Parker screaming I ordered him to do it but that couldn’t be right, because Miss Parker would never admit to something like that, never.

He said the only thing he could. The truth.

"I didn’t do it," he said. "I’m sorry, Debbie."

She looked so sad.

Miss Parker stood facing a blank wall, arms folded, and focused on the even metal seam at the corner. She had to focus, because her heart was pumping too fast, her palms sweating. She was scared, and she couldn’t have that. Not acceptable.

Daddy.

He’d walked by like she hadn’t existed, just another casualty in the great Centre war. Just like her mother. She’d never been able to believe, really believe, that her father could have sanctioned her mother’s murder, but she believed it now, it was hammered on her heart in the sound of his footsteps leaving her behind.

For no reason at all, she thought of Jarod. He’ll get away. This is all one big joke to him. Next time he calls, he’ll have some new playmates to amuse and abuse.

She wondered if that would matter to him at all. Oh, it would matter about Sydney, of course. Her, Broots … he cared more about complete strangers.

Broots. She took a deep breath and turned around, walked back to where he lay huddled on the low white cot. Still unconscious, thank God. She didn’t know what she was going to say when he woke up.

And then he did, a sudden jerk of his muscles. He almost fell off the bed; she reached out and held him in place until she could shift him over. He was shivering now, gulping air like a drowning victim. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she reached out and put a hand on his forehead. She didn’t know why, exactly, except that she remembered her mother doing it, making the pain go away.

"Debbie -- " he whispered. "Debbie, I’m sorry, I tried -- "

"You did fine, Broots," Parker said. His skin felt cool but it was warming in contact with hers. "Don’t worry. Everything’s fine."

She knew the look he would have usually given her, the disbelieving, half-panicked one, but this Broots had a glassy drugged stare, trusting, vulnerable.

"Miss Parker?" He sounded confused. Well, he should. "What -- what happened?"

"You’ve been through a T-Board," she said. "Don’t try to move. You’re still drugged."

"Drugged -- " His voice faded off, mystified. "Oh. Did I pass?"

"Yes," she lied. "Of course. Just -- relax. Lie still."

She left him and went to the cell door, angled to look out into the darkened room, lit with the cruciform glow of the T-Board.

Sydney wasn’t strapped to it, he was sitting in a chair. A small blessing; she didn’t think she could stand to see Sydney humiliated that way. She knew she wouldn’t take it herself. You’ll have to put a bullet in me first. Though that wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility.

Think of something. There was no one to rely on now, no allies waiting in the wings, no godlike power of Daddy to swoop down and rescue her. For the first time she felt what her mother must have felt in that elevator, that incredible, enraged helplessness. Trapped. There had to be a way out. There was always a way out.

They hit Sydney, a solid punch to the face, the first physical violence they’d shown toward him. Parker’s hand slammed flat against the door, an instinctive reaction, trying to block the punch. No. Not Sydney. She was the one who could take the pressure, the pain, not Broots, not Sydney.

They know that. The thought cascaded ice down her back, froze her solid. They knew watching this happen and being helpless to stop it was worse than her own pain. Of course they knew, it was in her psych records. How do you get to a control freak? Take away their control.

She clung to the hope that if she wasn’t watching they might not bother further. She sank down to a crouch, her back to the metal door, and let her head hang forward. No tears. Never. Just a pressure in her chest tight enough to kill. She remembered this feeling, this absolute helplessness, on the day her mother died; she’d run from it to the only comfort she knew. Sydney. Jarod. Never her father.

And now Sydney was being hurt, and her father did nothing.

Jarod. She shouldn’t hope for that. Shouldn’t hope for anything except the opportunity to take one or two of these bastards with her before she died.

But when she closed her eyes she saw his face.

"Miss -- " Broots voice failed on the second half of her name. She got up and went to him, sank down next to the cot and, after a long hesitation, took his hand. He was shaking all over.

"I’m here," she said. As if that were somehow a comfort.

"Debbie -- " Broots’ eyes filled with tears. "Debbie -- "

Parker squeezed his hand and looked away. She couldn’t comfort him. She didn’t know. She simply didn’t know.

"She’s fine," she lied. "I’ve seen to that."

He nodded and looked strangely peaceful for a moment. Angelic, almost.

And then he stopped breathing.

"Broots?"

His eyes continued to stare in her direction, but they didn’t move. The pupils slowly expanded. Parker’s heart lurched. She felt for a pulse in his wrist, pressed her ear to his chest.

"Damn it, don’t you do this to me. Don’t you dare -- Broots! Broots!" She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. His head flopped limply, eyes still fixed and staring. "Oh, God. God damn it."

She kicked the door, kicked it hard enough to make the metal sing and hum, kicked it over and over again and screamed for help, dragged Broots off the cot and onto the floor.

Her training had always been focused on stopping hearts, not starting them. She had no idea what to do, other than fake her way through it. Start with what you do know.

She slapped him. Hard. Slapped him again so hard it stung her palm.

"Wake up!" she screamed, and shook him again. "Broots, damn it, I am ordering you to wake up! You gutless coward, don’t you check out on me when I need you, I need you, do you hear me, I need you -- "

He coughed, blinked, and shuddered. Sucked in a startled breath. Parker, without quite intending to do it, let him fall into her arms and held him there. Funny, she hadn’t realized Broots had muscle under that protective geeky camouflage. Her fingers stroked his back gently, soothingly, and she closed her eyes and listened to him breathe.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Don’t thank me. I’ve wanted to slap you for years," she said, and pushed away from him. Just for a second their eyes met, Broots’ still clouded with confusion and the aftereffects of the interrogation drug, and she felt a shock of pure connection with him. I just saved his life. As he’d saved hers, on more than one occasion.

"You didn’t stop looking for me," Broots said. "Even when you knew it was dangerous. Thank you."

She stood up, went back to the door and looked out. They were done with Sydney. He sat alone in the room, still handcuffed to the chair, head bent forward. Still breathing. They were all still breathing.

"Don’t thank me yet," she said. "You might have been better off if I’d left you alone."

The Centre. Jarod had been back to it several times since his escape, but always by his own choice, on his own terms. He’d had a comfort zone with Miss Parker -- shared history, shared feelings although neither of them wanted to admit to it -- and he’d always known her limits.

This woman he didn’t know. Not at all. Oh, he could learn, given time and information -- he was sucking in details with every passing mile -- but he could only predict and Pretend so much so fast.

Her name was Peggy Wilton, he had that much. She worked at the Centre.

She had ambition that could only be measured in megatons, and if she had any scruples he hadn’t discovered them yet. She wasn’t interested in him personally except as a tool to further her career.

She wanted to become Miss Parker. No. Replace Miss Parker. Who was now a prisoner in the Tower, along with Broots and Sydney. Peggy was quite proud of that. A little computer sabotage, a little misinformation -- it didn’t take much, at the Centre, to bring somebody down if you knew where to hit. She’d hit where Parker was vulnerable.

She’d taken down Broots, gained access to the office, and finished the rest of her computer tampering right under Parker’s nose.

"Really," Peggy was saying, "what qualifications does she have for the kind of job she has? Genetics? It’s nepotism at its finest, Jarod. I’m faster than she is, smarter, more skilled. I can do my own computer tracking, I don’t need a Broots. I’ve studied all your records, watched all the DSAs. I know as much about you as Sydney does. I don’t need to drag him around behind me, either. In cost savings alone, it’s a huge advantage. I’m more mobile, better equipped on the ground, have a better organized team. Tell me, any reason why I shouldn’t be approved for the job?"

"Personal style?" he said blandly. She gave him a harsh look that told him he’d scored the point. She was sensitive about that, about Miss Parker’s polish and presence. Peggy might be technically superior, but she didn’t appear to be. And in the Centre, appearances were everything. "Maybe they’ll give you something else more interesting. Something inside the Centre. No contact with the public."

"Hide me away, in other words. Because I don’t wear a six five and get my hair styled every two weeks and spend two hours a day on my makeup. Typical." Peggy was seething now, staring out the window at the passing farm country. It looked deceptively peaceful. Jarod’s internal map told him he was running out of time; Blue Cove was less than ten minutes away. Find the lever. Push.

"You asked my opinion. Want to know how to get what you want, Peggy?"

"Oh, and you’d tell me," she sneered. "Well, sure, go right ahead. Tell me what I need to do, Jarod. I’m sure you’re just the expert on career development at the Centre."

"I should be," he said. "I’ve been there as long as Miss Parker. Of course, if you don’t want to know -- "

"Talk." Peggy slouched down in the car seat. Her driver glanced at her, his lips compressed in a thin line. Her staff doesn’t like her either. Too much of a comer. Jarod filed the information away.

"Miss Parker always told me that the day she brought me back to the Centre she was going to take me directly up to the tower and demand to see the Triumvirate. She wanted to look them in the eye and let them know what she’d done."

"Nobody sees the Triumvirate," Peggy said. She tapped short fingernails on the window glass. "Nobody. Ever."

"They’ll see you," Jarod said. "If you’ve got me, they’ll see you."

She fell silent, staring out the window again.

Take the bait, he thought. But he didn’t wiggle the line. Peggy was smart -- smarter than Parker, maybe. More ruthless. Less concerned with the bodies she might leave twitching in her wake.

Come on. Throw me in the briar patch.

"I have a present for you," she said. It wasn’t what he expected her to say, and he was once again reminded that he didn’t know her, didn’t know her well enough by any stretch to ensure this game could be played to his advantage.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a collar and chain.

"Image is everything, Jarod," she said, and leaned over the seat to fasten the collar around his neck. Her fingers slid warm over his skin, and he realized that he had gotten to her, but not in the way he’d intended. Peggy was someone who could wait for her gratifications. There would be time, later. Once she had her position secured, once he was trapped in the Centre and helpless to prevent anything that might happen to him. Once she could find levers to use against him, like Sydney and Parker and Broots.

She fastened a chain to the collar.

"Better," she said, and pulled on the chain. The collar snapped tight around his throat, and he coughed. Her eyes narrowed in pleasure. "Much better. Now shut up or I’ll drag you behind the car the rest of the way."

"You’ll never get Parker’s job," Jarod said. One last jab. She played with the chain, winding it in her fingers, the sound of it like cold broken glass. "You don’t have what it takes, Peggy. You’re an embarrassment to them."

"They’ll have to hire somebody for it," she said, and checked her watch. "She’s only got about half an hour until they shoot her -- and Sydney -- and Broots. I made sure of that before I left. I planted the rifle used in the most recent assassination attempt at Parker’s house. Broots has evidence on his computer linking him to the plot. Sydney -- "

"Leave Sydney out of it," Jarod said. He was losing control of the situation, but he had to try. "You need him. He’s the only expert you’ve got left on the Pretender program, and you know I won’t cooperate without him. Why waste an advantage?"

"Because he’s not an advantage, he’s a liability," Peggy said. "Which you know very well. Sydney is on your side, not mine. He loves you like a son. And you love him like the father you never knew. And I do have an expert in the Pretender program, as a matter of fact. Dr. Raines. He’s already got several experiments lined up for you, Jarod, that won’t require any cooperation on your part at all."

When he tried to reply she jerked the chain tight, choking him. She likes this. Parker would never have done it this way, not this way. Ambition aside, she was still the child of Catherine Parker.

Whose little girl are you? Jarod wondered.

He saved his breath.

"Hell of a shiner, Sydney," Parker said. She dabbed at it with a piece of fabric ripped from Broots’ pajamas -- not her own clothes -- and cleaned blood from a split lip. "Any pain?"

"A bit," he said. Strain in his voice brought out his accent. "Nothing too bad. I don’t think anything is broken."

They still hadn’t come for Parker. She wondered why that was, an uneasy prickling along her spine. The T-Board always sought confessions, voluntary or otherwise. They didn’t give up easily. Broots hadn’t caved, neither had Sydney. She had to be next.

"Miss Parker." Sydney’s hand closed over hers, warm and strong. His eyes forced her to be still and listen. "They have proof. They showed it to me. Someone has set you up. It’s very dangerous."

"I know," she said. "It’s somebody with access, somebody with ambition. Very neat."

"Do you know who it was?"

"Think, Syd. Who showed up on our doorstep so conveniently the morning Broots goes missing?"

"Peggy Wilton?" Sydney’s eyebrows rose. "She seems very -- "

"Very. But I know the type. Give her a makeover and a wardrobe change, and she’s ready to take over the world. I should have known when she crossed me the first time, but I let the disguise take me in." Parker let out the bitterness in a sigh. "My fault, Sydney."

"Don’t give up." He hadn’t blinked yet, and the intensity in his eyes was surprising. "I know something about being in the hands of enemies, Miss Parker. One thing you cannot do is surrender."

She smiled grimly, an outward expression of something wild and dark inside. "Oh, don’t worry. If I’m going down, Sydney, I’m taking that pasty-faced bitch with me."

The door clicked, a hard metallic sound like a gun cocking. Parker stood. Behind her, Sydney did too. Broots sat up on the cot, still groggy and pale.

Her father stood in the doorway. For the first time in her memory, he looked shaken. Scared.

"Princess -- " he said.

"Daddy, I was set up, you know I was."

"I know." He held out his hands to her, an awkward gesture, not one she took him up on. After a few seconds, he dropped them back to his sides. "Nothing I can do, honey. Make it easy for yourself. Just -- just tell them whatever they want to hear. No matter what it is. They’ve promised leniency if you make a full confession."

"A full confession of what? Doing my job better than anybody else? Making them look like idiots? What, Daddy?" She slammed her hand into the wall and used the pain to steady herself. "Just tell me what to say."

"I’ve done what I could," he said. "I have something for you when you come back. A peace offering."

He looked at her sadly, and she knew it really didn’t matter what she said. Not at all. He turned and walked away, a big man, heavy now with the weight of what he knew.

He was walking away. The way he’d turned his back on her mother’s body, the way he’d ignored her for so many years. Daddy’s response to any pain was to leave it behind.

Parker watched him go with hot, dry eyes. She shivered when Sydney touched her shoulder, refusing the comfort for a few seconds until she allowed herself to feel the hurt.

But there wasn’t time for comfort. There wasn’t time for anything. Two white-coated Doctor Frankensteins had appeared in the door now, and they were looking at her.

"Miss Parker," the woman said. "Let’s go."

Sydney’s hand on her arm tried to detain her. She gently disengaged and walked out under her own power, head up, heart burned into black fragile ashes.

Do your worst, she thought, and started to sit down in the chair.

"Not there," the woman said.

She looked at the T-Board.

Parker said, "Are you going to make me?"

She sat in the chair. For a few seconds nobody moved, and then the female Frankenstein nodded. Restraints snapped closed. Parker tested them idly, not expecting any give and not finding any. If there was one thing the Centre was good at, it was keeping people in their place.

She only had one weapon left, but it was a big one. Sharp. Deadly.

She smiled, crossed her legs, and said, "Let’s talk about the plot against the Triumvirate."

And then she told them who was behind it. In great and imaginative detail.

The car passed through the massive bomb-shelter doors of the parking area and descended, turning a spiral through levels until the headlights showed the quality of cars had gone up and the numbers down. Parking Level Six. Executive Parking. Peggy pointed to an empty space and got out of the car; she reclaimed Jarod’s leash and led him out, trailing an entourage of Sweepers, to the massive gleaming elevators that were guarded by two stiff-faced Security men.

"Ma’am," one of them said, and stepped in her way. "I’ll need your orders."

She produced them with a snap of her wrist. While he inspected them she said, "I need access to the Tower."

Click. Jarod’s plan, to this point only a jumble of disjointed pieces, began to fall into place. He kept his face blank, his gaze down. The collar and handcuffs were a constant reminder of just how fragile the plan was. Nothing to celebrate yet.

"Ma’am, that area’s restricted." The security man handed her pass back. "You’re cleared to proceed into the work area."

"Tower," she repeated, and gave a light jerk on Jarod’s chain to make him raise his head. "I trust you’ve heard of Jarod. The one who got away."

The guard’s eyes widened. He glanced at his partner, who raised his eyebrows. For a second neither of them moved, and then the second man stepped aside and keyed his radio. There was a soft-voiced exchange, and then he turned back and said, "You’re cleared for Tower access, Ms. Wilton. The elevator’s been programmed to deliver you to the right floor."

She smiled, and Jarod had to hand it to her -- it was a hard, cold, ruthless smile, a full Parker, no trace of weakness in it.

"Then you get to keep your job," she said sweetly, and tugged Jarod toward the opening elevator doors like a puppy. "Heel, boy."

The entire Sweeper team couldn’t fit in the elevator -- it wasn’t designed for large groups, probably a strategic element -- and she waved off all but one. The doors snapped shut on their impassive faces, and the elevator began to whisper upward. No controls inside, nothing but featureless steel walls.

And an access panel on the bottom of the floor, hidden under a layer of expensive carpet. Jarod only knew about it because he’d taken the trouble, during his long stay at the Centre, to know everything about everything. I need one minute. One minute.

He started on the handcuffs, sliding a thin, flexible steel pin out of the lining of his jacket. Ten seconds. Twenty. He felt the click and the cuff on his right wrist loosened; the left on went faster. Thirty seconds. The collar was a problem, it would throw him off balance, and a hard enough tug could damage his throat --

He leaned against the steel wall and found the edges of the inset control panel, the maintenance area. The cover popped off; he held it in his left hand and traced wires by touch.

Pulled.

The lights went out. Jarod threw the steel panel cover edge-on at where he remembered the Sweeper had been, heard metal hit flesh, and grabbed the chain Peggy held in both hands.

He yanked. She cried out and fell into his arms. He took the end of the leash away and sent her flying into the opposite corner, dropped and rolled back carpet, found the edges of the access panel, lifted it, and slid through into darkness. Hanging by his fingertips.

Forty-five seconds. The elevator was slowing.

"Jarod!" Peggy screamed. He felt the trap door swing back on his fingers, a nasty shock of pain, heard the carpet thump back in place. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let go.

He fell into the darkness.

The elevator doors opened, and Peggy squinted against the sudden burst of light, shoved the wounded Sweeper away from her, and looked around the elevator.

Jarod was gone. Gone. Impossible. There was no place to go, no exit --

"No," she said, numbed. "No. Impossible."

She turned to the open elevator door and saw two more Security standing there. These had guns out. Leveled at her.

One of them shot her Sweeper in the chest as he went for a weapon. She screamed and covered her mouth with her hand, trembling; the other guard grabbed her elbow and dragged her out into the Tower.

Featureless dark room, weirdly lit, a cruciform table in the center of the room that glowed blue and cold. At the end of it sat Miss Parker, elegant and unhurt, smoking a cigarette. She blew smoke in a thick stream toward the ceiling and said, "Well, Peggy, what a surprise. Come in. Found Broots yet?"

"I found Jarod," Peggy snapped. "He was in the elevator with us, he can’t be far. Mobilize security -- "

Parker stubbed out her cigarette on the tabletop and stood up. Not handcuffed, not restrained. She crossed her arms and strolled over.

She leaned in very close and said, in a purring nicotine whisper, "Jarod’s mine, Peggy. And I. Don’t. Share. Oh -- I told them you were working for Mr. Lyle, by the way. You might want to think about that when they start questioning you. They’re very touchy about the subject of Mr. Lyle."

"I don’t work for Lyle!" Peggy sputtered. Parker’s steel-blue eyes drifted half-closed in pleasure.

"That’s nice," she said. "But believe me, it isn’t the substance that matters. It’s the appearance. And you just appear -- "

Parker looked her over. Slowly.

"Guilty," she finished, and jerked her chin at the guard on Peggy’s right. "Open that door. We’re leaving."

Peggy watched, weak-kneed and disbelieving, as Parker, Sydney and Broots left in the same elevator she’d arrived in.

They took her to the T-Board.

And she discovered there were, after all, limits to her ambition.

Miss Parker stiff-armed open the door to her father’s office, all her armor still firmly in place, and stopped a few feet from the desk. He looked at her and slowly got to his feet, face impassive. Nothing in the eyes. Nothing at all.

"Thanks for everything, Daddy," she said. "I assume you were listening to everything I said."

"Of course," he said. "They’ll find evidence supporting your entire story, exactly where you said it would be. I wouldn’t let my baby girl suffer, you know that."

Liar. She smiled.

"You said you had a peace offering," she said. "I’d like it now, Daddy. Before the truce is over."

He nodded and opened a door to a small room off the main office. Inside, Debbie Broots looked up from where she sat on the carpeted floor, surrounded by toys and games, a little enchanted wonderland that looked jarring out of place next to the tears on the girl’s face, the fear. She scrambled up and threw herself into Miss Parker’s arms, a warm weight that filtered through Parker’s armor like sunlight, melting away the hard frost and cold anger.

"Thanks," she said to her father. He nodded again. "You had her the whole time?"

"Since I knew they were coming for Broots," he said. "I couldn’t let them take her. I do have some scruples, you know, Princess. I knew you’d want her to be safe."

She smoothed Debbie’ dark brown hair and let the girl put her head on her shoulder. Fathers and daughters. There never seemed to be enough time to understand all the rules.

"Come on, Debbie," Parker said, and shifted her weight to an easier position. "Let’s go find your dad."

"Princess." She stopped and waited. "I -- I apologize. I wanted to stop them. But I couldn’t."

"Jarod’s loose," she said. "Peggy botched it. By now he’s miles away. This cost me, Daddy. You owe me for this."

She hadn’t alerted Security for nearly a half hour after Peggy’s arrest, but that was something nobody needed to know just now. Especially not Daddy.

"How can I make it up to you?" he rumbled. On secure ground now, gift-giving Daddy, always ready with a check or a present to cover up his absence.

"I’ll let you know," she said.

She didn’t let the door hit her on the way out.

She waited all day for the call, but he didn’t oblige until she was home, soaking in a hot bath, steam clinging to her hair and skin. Relaxed, finally. At peace.

She knew it was Jarod before she picked up the phone.

"Miss Parker?"

"So close and yet so far."

"Closer than you think," he said. "You were five minutes from a bullet in the head, did you know that?"

"I’m familiar with the concept," she said. She raised a knee through the bubbles and slid her hand underwater along the line of her thigh. "You tried to save me."

"Tried," he said. "But you didn’t need me, did you?"

"You gave up your location to get me and Sydney to Baltimore. You were hoping to get us out of the line of fire before it was too late."

"I had news that somebody was staging a coup. Somebody inside. It was just a precaution." She heard a smile in his voice. "You’re still the devil I know, Miss Parker."

"Want to tell me where you are?"

"I’d hate to start a trend," he said. "Let’s just say far away from you. Watch your back."

"I thought you were watching my back." She poured warm water over her shoulders and closed her eyes, listening to his breath, imagining beaches and sand and warm blue waters.

"No," he said. His voice had dropped lower, waking echoes in her like tides. "Not right now. I’m watching your front. I like the bubbles."

She sat up with a sudden hiss of surprise. Water sloshed. He laughed, rich and warm, on the other end of the phone.

"Bastard," she said. "Where are you?"

"Indianapolis, Indiana. And I can hear the water, Miss Parker. The bubbles were just a guess." He paused for just an instant. "Is she dead?"

"Peggy? Let’s just say -- Regina in Personnel doesn’t recognize the name anymore." Parker let herself sink back down in the bubbles. "Indianapolis."

"Indiana," he agreed.

"Too bad," she said. "I need somebody to scrub my back."

She hung up, set the phone on the floor, and smiled.

Gotcha.