Northwestern Africa

It was a sudden loud chuckle that snapped him awake. He groaned and blinked his eyes open slowly; before him he could see the blurry outline of three men sitting at a table, smoking long, wooden pipes. Shifting slightly, still disoriented, he realized that he was laying on a scratchy mattress made of what felt like old grasses and leaves. As he squinted, his vision slowly became clearer, and he found that he was in a small hut. All at once, his senses came back to him and he remembered everything: going to the island, the plane, Jarod...the scrolls. He frantically sat up and began looking for the sack he had been carrying when he jumped from the plane.

Mr. Parker heard deep voices and turned - slowly, because moving his head at all made him dizzy - to find that the three men he had seen earlier were pointing at him, muttering amongst themselves. Their pipes had been extinguished, and their eyes were fixed on him. All three were dark-skinned, which, he realized, made perfect sense. From where he had abandon the plane, it would only be logical that he would have ended up in western Africa.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice hoarse and gravelly.

"Ivory Coast," one of the men confirmed as he got to his feet from the wooden chair. "Abidan," he pointed to one of the sitting men, "found you on the shoreline. You were delirious, speaking of crazy things, slipping in-and-out of confidence."

"Did you find anything along with me?" Mr. Parker asked anxiously, but the man called Abidan shook his head.

"Abuja and I searched the area," he explained, getting to his feet, "but we found nothing more than your parachute. I am sorry."

Abuja, the man who had first spoken, nodded. "There was nothing else."

The only sitting man coughed, and Mr. Parker glanced briefly at him. It was the first sound, or, for that matter, movement, that man had made. Mr. Parker looked back at the two standing men and massaged his temples wearily. "I need to get to Morocco," he said. "Can you bring me there?"

"Our ways of transportation are limited," Abuja said, shaking his head. "We are surrounded by a dense rain forest to our right, and water to our left; very few vehicles can come here. The only way we can get to Morocco is by a canoe along the coast."

Mr. Parker sighed and looked around. "One of those will have to do, then. Unless you have any means of contacting people in Morocco…?"

"I am sorry, but even if we could, we cannot let you leave. We have been told to keep you here."

"What? By who?" Mr. Parker barked, trying to stand. Abuja gently pushed him back onto the cot.

"You are in no condition to travel as it is," he said, ignoring Mr. Parker's question. "You must rest here until we receive further orders."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Mr. Parker opened his eyes later that night. He couldn't see more than a couple inches in front of him in the utter darkness that surrounded him, but he knew exactly what he needed to do. He had to get to the Centre branch in Morocco soon – he couldn't remain here for more than another day. Already, lies and explanations of his actions were beginning to form in his head.

He slowly and painfully got to his feet. Even when (if in fact he could find a way to Morocco) he got to the Centre and if he managed to speak with the Triumvirate, he wouldn't be safe. Everything of his had been taken. His gun, his phone, all identification. The scrolls. He knew they were here. Abidan and Abuja had undoubtedly found them. Whether they were keeping them along with his other belongings with unknowing, selfish greed, or because they were ordered to, he didn't know. But he needed them back.

His tired eyes were adjusting slowly to the darkness, and he began to search around. There wasn't much to search. Under the bed, around the table, and near the chairs. That was all that the hut contained.

As he looked under the final chair, a hand rested on his shoulder.

"You will find nothing there." He turned to see the only man who hadn't spoken earlier standing behind him with a large leather sack around his arm. "These are what you're looking for, I assume," he said, handing the sack to Mr. Parker.

Mr. Parker pulled the sack opened and dug madly through, pushing aside all items that, in any other situation, would have been of great importance. Where were the scrolls? Deep down, in the crease of the bag, he felt his hand close around something cylindrical. He held his breath as he lifted it from the sack. As he looked at the scroll in his hand, he let out a long, deep sigh of relief.

The man looked at him questioningly and asked, "These are yours?"

"Yes," Mr. Parker said, tightening his grip for fear his things would be taken again.

The man nodded. "My name is Batna. When my brothers found you, they also found your belongings. We were under orders to keep all washed up items, so please, do not judge them too harshly for lying to you."

"Whose orders?" Mr. Parker narrowed his eyes.

"Our…what do you call it in America…mayor?" Batna answered. "We are not a wealthy community, and when there comes a chance that we might have found something worth money, we are supposed to bring it to him."

Mr. Parker wondered whether or not he could trust Batna. Finally, deciding he had no other choice, he asked, "Can you get me to Morocco?"

"Yes. There is a boat that we can use. Follow me." Batna lead Mr. Parker to a river where a small canoe was half in the water, half on the land. "The Matoro River," Batna said. "The currents go towards Morocco. With any luck we should be there in less than a week. I have enough supplies prepared for twice that."

"Very well," Mr. Parker said, a half-smile forming under his scruff. "Thank you, Batna."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

East Coast of Scotland

Michael McFarnon looked up from his fishing rod to watch the ferry unloading. As he watched the people slowly coming off the ship, he felt a warm satisfaction in knowing that, at 87 years old, he was on first name terms with all of them. The village where he lived was small, and had few visitors – in fact, the visitors the port town had had in the last 70 years, he could name off the top of his head. But today, it was all locals he saw. Men with round, smiling faces, and equally pleasant women with red hair; all familiar to him.

He waved and smiled, shouting out occasionally something like, "How was your trip?" or, "How're your folks doing?"

Once he was almost sure the boat was emptied, he focused his attention back to his fishing, whistling a made-up tune as he looked into the clear blue water.

"Excuse me?" The deep, unfamiliar voice caught McFarnon off guard. He turned around to see a tall man dressed entirely in black leather standing behind him, a kind, but somehow hollow, smile on his thin lips.

"Careful, Sonny, you almost scared me right off the wharf there!" McFarnon chuckled. "Name's Michael McFarnon – how can I help you?"

"I'm terribly sorry. My name is Jarod," the man said. "I'm looking for someone who might have come here about a week ago – when people were being evacuated from Carthis Isle."

"Who're you looking for – I'm sure I can help you," McFarnon nodded, smiling. "All boats to-and-from Carthis stop here."

"Thank you," Jarod said, sighing in relief and reaching into his pocket. "I'm looking for this woman."

McFarnon looked at the picture of a red-haired, cheery-looking woman for no more than a second before he smiled and nodded.

"You know her?" Jarod said, feeling his heart race. "Have you seen her – where is she?"

"Aye, Margaret," McFarnon said. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Jarod, but I've not seen her for a long time."

"She didn't get off the boat from Carthis?" Jarod asked, his stomach sinking.

"I don't know whether or not she was on the boat," McFarnon answered honestly. "My right elbow gets creaky when there's a storm coming, so I stayed inside and watched from my window. I wouldn't have seen her if she was going towards the mountains." McFarnon pointed behind Jarod, who turned and saw that, indeed, behind him, there were large, rocky mountains with a very small, very narrow valley in between them.

"Only two ways in and out of this town," McFarnon said. "The ferry you came in on just now, and that valley there."

"But you would have seen her if she was staying in the town?"

"Unless she's been hiding in her old house all day, yes."

"Her old house?" Jarod frowned.

"Aye, the house her grandparents left her when they died," McFarnon nodded. "Just down the lane here, toward the center o' town. Would you like me to show you?"

"Yes!" Jarod said, more of a an excited exhale than I word. "Please."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Blue Cove, Delaware, USA

"Miss Parker? Miss Parker, are you there?" Broots called through the window he had been pounding on for the last three minutes.

Sydney rubbed his gloved hands together and looked up at Miss Parker's dark house in front of him. "She's not here, Broots, let's go. Rains will start looking for us if we don't get back soon."

"Then where is she, Syd?" Broots asked, turning to him, his eyes narrowed. "I haven't seen her for days, and when I call her, she never answers!"

"I'm concerned about her as well," Sydney said. "But we can't risk the safety of all three of us by hunting around. Miss Parker probably just needs time by herself. If we could contact her, we would help, but it doesn't seem as though she wants to talk to us right now; if she did, she would have told us where she was going." Broots was still looking at him skeptically, so Sydney added, "If you had found out that Rains is your father, wouldn't you want some time to yourself? She is probably very upset."

"Finding out that that bald-headed creep is your father would upset anyone," Broots agreed, then grimaced. "Almost anyone; since Lyle found out, he's spent every waking hour hunting for Jarod. You think Rains was telling the truth, Syd? I mean when he said that the first one of them to Jarod wins a future at The Centre and the other…dies?"

"You never know with The Centre, Broots," Sydney shook his head. He placed a hand on Broots's shoulder and led him away from the house. "I'm worried about her too, but there's nothing we can do." As they stepped onto the driveway to leave, a buzzing came from Sydney's pocket. He reached his hand in and pulled out his phone. "This is Sydney," he answered. He raised his eyebrows when he heard the voice on the other end. "Miss Parker!" he exclaimed, hitting the speaker button so Broots could be part of the conversation. "It's good to hear from you - are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Syd," Miss Parker's voice came through the phone static-y, and it was hard for either of them to judge her mood or sincerity.

"Where are you?" Broots asked, his foot tapping with anticipation.

"I'm…" she paused, "at my house."

"Your house?" Sydney raised his eyebrows at Broots. "Really?"

She answered hesitantly,"Yes. Why? What's wrong? Where are you?"

Sydney and Broots exchanged looks, then glanced back toward's her dark and empty home before them. "Your house," Broots answered.

There was silence on the other end for several seconds, then Miss Parker asked, "Are you two alone?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "Go to the back of the house," she instructed. "Under the lilac bush there's a small black box with a key in it. Make sure nobody else has been in the house, then keep the key with you, okay?"

"O-okay," Broots said. "But, then, where are you?"

"I can't tell you now, Broots," she said, though not in her usual impatient tone. "Call me when you've looked around, and maybe I'll tell you."

"But Miss Parker, wait!" Broots pleaded. The phone clicked off and started to hum. "Damn it, Sydney, where is she?"

"I don't know, Broots," Sydney muttered, looking around nervously. "Let's just look around inside, and quickly."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Well, nothing seems out of the ordinary," Sydney announced half an hour later. "Everything's in place, the eating utensils and plates and bowls are all clean, there's old food in the refrigerator. The bed's made, the showers are dry. It looks like no one has been here for about a week."

"Some there's lots of empty space in her closets," Broots noted. "And I couldn't find a hairbrush or toothbrush anywhere in the bathrooms. D'you think she packed up and left?"

"That's exactly what I think," Sydney answered, frowning and stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps we'll get lucky and she'll tell us. Perhaps she won't - if she has run away from The Centre, she would have plenty of reason not to."

For a few tense minutes, the two friends stood still in her living room, worried and wondering about Miss Parker. Finally, Broots broke the silence. "Come on, Syd, let's get out of here," he said, giving a final paranoid look over his shoulder. "It's only a matter of time before Lyle or Rains start poking around in here, too."