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“—his loyalties changed, his intellect honed, his very identity so altered he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.”
I can see things. Things in others no one else can see. It’s why I’m an FBI profiler. And I see things in Jarod Doyle that perplex me. Sometimes the look in his eyes isn’t just the expression of a detective viewing disturbing, grisly remains. Sometimes when he speaks of the brainwashing of the Joshuas, I think he’s not actually talking about them. He speaks from some place deep inside him, some area of pain and memory. Sometimes I don’t see a man in him. I see a child trapped by his past, lost, alone, afraid. Who are you, Jarod?
They told me later what Jarod had done. How he attacked “Father” with no regard for his safety and the huge knife in “Father’s” hand, how they tumbled down the hill, how “Father” tried to attack him, how he attacked “Father” in return, how he beat him blindly, screaming, “No more killing! No more! No more!” How he ran desperately up the hill to the brainwashed boy sitting dazed and alone and clasped him in his arms, gasping, “It’s okay—it’s okay” over and over. My assessment: post-traumatic reaction. Jarod was a kidnapped child. What did they do to him?
Jarod hadn’t realized how much he owed Sydney. The Centre had done its best to erase who he was, and it had done a fine job. He barely remembered his parents. He didn’t know who he was. And yet he was still Jarod. The man who had raised him had never tried to brainwash him, had never trained him to do evil. In fact, he had taught him what was right and wrong, had trained in him a sense of justice and a desire to do good and help people. Sydney had protected him from cruel people like Mr. Raines.