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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
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Careful.
I asked her to be careful.
Parker, however, wasn't being careful if the chalky antacid discs and ibuprofen tablets scattered atop Agent Kirkland's battered desk were any indication.
"She's too goddamned tenacious," Kirkland had ranted sixteen months earlier. "Do something, Jarod."
Jarod had most certainly done something; he had followed Parker to the middle east, had sex with her, and had calmly sipped cardamom tea while she'd sped away in the hybrid land cruiser he'd rented.
He almost hadn't found Parker then, had done nothing but fail to find her since making love with her. There were claims that she'd been murdered, explained Kirkland, tossing back Excedrin and Rolaids and a double shot Mylanta chaser spiked with Kraken rum.
"Right," Jarod said, skeptically. "I've heard that one before."
"Dover P.D. was contacted this morning by someone from the consulate -"
"Where is she?"
"Poveglia," answered Kirkland.
Jarod shook his head, asked, "Poveglia Island?"
Another haunted island?
An abandoned haunted island.
"I think you should prepare yourself for the worst; the woman I spoke to provided a succinct albeit accurate description."
"Of the island?"
"No, not the island. The body. I'm sorry. The claims are credible, Jarod," said Kirkland gravely.
Jarod's eyes tightened. The sorrow was sudden and asphyxiating; he strangled on an aborted rebuttal, shook his head in negation. He turned before his name departed the agent's lips. At the end of the corridor he pushed open double doors knowing only that if Parker was on an haunted island, alive or dead, he needed to be there, too.
Eleven hours later he was.
A friendly multilingual fisherman in Venice who refused to speak anything but his native Italian—and spoke primarily in Zen Koans and euphemisms—cheerfully accepted seven hundred euros from Jarod and agreed to transport the pretender to the haunted island.
The déjà vu was both eerie and painful.
He recalled Carthis vividly, their closeness, almost kissing her. There'd been no monstrous apparitions; only monstrous humans as par for the usual course.
He'd seen absolutely no spectres in Scotland and had returned to the states alive and well and haunted only by a single word: Almost.
Jarod supposed he would depart the haunted island of Poveglia, regardless of the existence of ghosts, truly haunted-- by sorrow, a story's abrupt ending. Another word: once. Only once.
Once and almost were similarly insufficient.
Once wasn't enough.
Almost hadn't been enough.
If I leave this island. Jarod entertained the notion of staying; after all, if Parker had been killed on the island and if phantasms did, indeed, inhabit the land and structures there was a chance he'd see her again.
If.
When Jarod departed the boat, the fisherman reminded him to simply wave when he'd found the corpse and he'd swiftly return, although it was evident the man dreaded the idea of being near the island.
A discarded Il medico della peste mask, authentic but modern, that lay shattered on the ground at Jarod's feet had probably been launched from a passing boat. Because even vandals are too frightened to step on this land, Jarod surmised, lifting his eyes to the structures that inhabited the island.
Scaffolding, although rusted and crippled, suggested construction, progress, inhabitants, and was rather incongruous to crumbling terracotta, absent doors, fractured staircases. Ivy seized the broken asylum, enveloped it, and infiltrated its interior, had possibly, over time, gained entrance to the edifice by first shattering the windows.
Jarod truly believed in that moment that the ivy would eventually tighten its grasp and raze the building, wholly entomb it, nourish its hearty roots with each countless horror that had transpired within the ruined edifice. How quickly and thoroughly nature reclaimed itself without man's incessant meddling. Perhaps there were no souls in perpetual unrest at all and the mystery of the island was simply the work of nature itself, of earth claiming and reclaiming, uncompromising in its determination to be undisturbed by humans.
Claiming. His reason for treading on this land, to claim Parker's body. Patiently, diligently, Jarod investigated each crevice. A twisted bed frame was the sole occupant of one room; a once white bath tub, now gray-green, hosted a variety of plant life. Outside, Jarod read aloud the warning etched in a stone plaque, "Ne Fodias Vita Functi Contagio Requiescunt MDCCXCIII."
Christ.
The author could rest assured; Jarod had no intention of disturbing the land or the remains of deceased plague victims. He suspected he would not be disturbing Parker's corpse either, and was heartened. Because there was no corpse. After some speculation, Jarod deduced that Parker had conceived, and was actively promulgating, the tale of her demise.
She doesn't want me to find her.
The thought ricocheted through his mind, made sleep impossible; his desire to find her grew exponentially. During the return flight to the states, Jarod redoubled his efforts to locate Parker, speaking to contacts in one hundred fifty countries, putting out feelers with Australian, British, Chinese, Indian, French, and German intelligence, exercising discretion and caution, doing nothing to endanger Parker. In fact, he gave no indication it was Parker he sought or that the person he sought was even alive.
Ill with worry and unable to eat, he slept at last, waking abruptly from a fitful fever dream and then inhaling sharply and closing his eyes. Jarod realized only then just how unwell he truly was, because, typically, when he opened his eyes Parker's visage evanesced and he was alone again with his sick stomach and fears and she was beyond his reach, possibly dead or abducted, being tortured.
Instead Parker sat on his bed, a sharp shaft of moonlight illumining her left eye and several locks of damp hair. Jarod dragged a trembling hand over his brow, murmured thickly, "I'm hallucinating." At least this time the hallucination is adult Miss Parker and not an insufferable little pain in the-
"That sounds," intoned the hallucination crisply, "like something you should discuss with Sigmund."
Jarod rose from the pillows, sat, opened his mouth to inquire. There was no need, however, for Parker to assure him she was real or unharmed. His eyes adjusted to the dark, leaving no doubt. The cautious smile Jarod wore faltered, fled. Hastily, he reached for the lamp, observed Parker recoil, squint, shield her eyes with a hand.
Parker wore his bathrobe and a smile that was incongruous to the angry purple blemishes that ringed her neck, a sort of grotesque necklace that Jarod would never purge from his mind.
Her chin was heavily abraded, her nose discolored. The bruising was extensive. Her right eye was blue and swollen shut; the cheek below was lacerated and bleeding. Parker pressed a wash cloth to the injury for a moment and then swept away crimson that trickled steadily from an apparent knife wound above her left brow.
Jarod could muster only a helpless groan prior to rising with abruptness. He returned with sterile gloves, damp cloths, an advanced first aid kit. He's predicted this, had known it was a matter of when not if.
Silently, he examined and cleaned her wounds, sutured her brow, and offered her ibuprofen and dinner. "Or breakfast if that's your preference?"
She accepted the pills graciously and devoured the contents of the large plate Jarod placed before her, consisting of smoked salmon, capers, arugula. An hour later, as Parker drained a third glass of water, Jarod's demeanor became grave, anxious.
"What," Parker said.
"Nothing," he answered softly. "Can I get anything else? Dessert? I have raspberry frangipane, flourless chocolate tart filled with matcha mousse, several cartons of Ben and Jerry's."
"No, I'm fine. Just when the hell did you become Martha Stewart?"
Sometime after you became Jonn Wick, he might have retorted. Instead, Jarod frowned, shook his head. He hadn't heard her question, was preoccupied with her answer. "Fine," Jarod repeated cynically. "That's not the word I'd use to describe this. Your right eye is swollen shut and there are thirty-eight stitches above your left. You should probably be in a hospital."
"I passed two of those on the way here. Didn't feel like stopping. Even if I had, my Centre health insurance plan is as void and nonexistent as the Centre."
"I'm sorry," Jarod said, his discomfit evident. "I imagine you're rather displeased that you had no choice but to come to me. This must be rather uncomfortable for you. Had you telephoned me from one of those hospitals you drove past I would have made arrangements to pay—"
"Shut up," groused Parker. "I chose to come here. Was that a mistake?"
"I hope not," Jarod answered softly.
Parker bristled. "You don't believe me."
"I believe," asserted Jarod, "that circumstances can be coercive, can limit and even entirely eliminate options. And I believe you didn't want me to find you. If this is unpleasant for you— "
"I didn't want you to find me," Parker confirmed.
"Because we slept together," Jarod said. "You have regrets."
"Jarod," chided Parker, crisply, "you think entirely too much."
"Then you don't have regrets?"
"Do you?"
"No. Of course not."
"Neither do I."
"You didn't want me to find you."
"I'm aware you're disappointed in me, Jarod, that you and Sydney have spent several hours discussing my disintegrating scruples and potential incarceration; I unintentionally eavesdropped. Both Sigmund and Kirkland pleaded with you to stop me; you're seriously considering their request."
"It's true that I want you to stop; I want you to stay. More importantly and precisely I want you to make those decisions." Finding her explanations inadequate, Jarod asked, pointedly, "Why did you want me to believe you were dead?"
"I didn't. A haunted island, Jarod, couldn't have been more obvious."
"Obvious," repeated Jarod incredulously. "No. No, I flew to Italy to retrieve your corpse and fly you back home so you could be buried near your remaining family. Family? You do remember Ethan, yes?"
"You are adorable when you're angry," Parker purred.
"I'm not angry. I'm," he said, shaking his head, "not angry. And I'm not arguing with you," he added peremptorily. "Do you want to sleep before we resume?"
"Resume," Parker repeated dubiously.
"I should probably take a look at the rest of your injuries. The bathrobe fell open earlier," he explained. "Your right knee looks bad."
"That's because it is bad, Jarod. Hurts like a son of a bitch. But it's not serious."
"And your thigh?"
Parker snorted. "You're guessing."
"I don't guess. I'm a Pretender. Remember? Tell me what happened and I won't have to do this."
Parker laughed. "That sounds, strangely, like extortion."
"Your wounds are fresh," observed Jarod. "You've been in the states for some time, haven't you?"
"Three months," clarified Parker.
"You were close?"
"Eighty miles."
"Is Dante still financing your criminal endeavors?"
Parker's lips briefly twitched. "Yes."
"Are you sleeping with him?"
"Careful, Jarod," cautioned Parker sternly.
"Are you?"
"The way you're sleeping with Rachel?" Parker laughed lightly and observed casually, "I'll admit, it is a nice fuckpad you have here, Jarod."
"Pardon?"
"Those bowls of bouillabaisse in your freeze are labelled, Genius, and I'm guessing the Chanel slingbacks in the bathroom closet don't belong to you; they're much too small."
"I see," drawled Jarod, thickly.
"Doubtful," rebutted Parker, darkly. "You are angry."
"No," countered Jarod, softly. "I'm--- trying to understand."
"Don't," commanded Parker. "The less you know the better."
"Better for whom?"
"I need to sleep," said Parker softly.
Parker slept hard. Jarod watched her for twelve hours, believing that, while asleep, any serious injuries she had concealed would reveal themselves to him. He imagined internal bleeding, anticipated her clutching her abdomen, crying out, convulsing, vomiting blood. Instead, Parker remained quiet; she stirred only to push a dead man's hands from her neck, and, four hours later, nuzzled and burrowed, fractionally, beneath Jarod.
He closed his eyes then.
For just a moment.
And awoke five hours later to find Parker gone. Jarod spent the better part of fifteen months searching futilely for her. Clemente was arrested, subpoenas were issued.
Parker was a no-show during the trial; she was, instead, meting out her own brand of justice; hers was far more effective and swift than any court room sentencing. When the judge—despite eye witness testimony, irrefutable evidence that included DNA, video, photographs, documentation, statements and testimony from hundreds of abduction victims, and a confession from Clemente—chose to be lenient even Kirkland, a by-the-book Federal Agent who had devoted his life to believing in the system, obeying the law, and following the rules, was forced to admit that justice was dumb, deaf, subjective, completely fucking insane, and unjust god damn it to hell!
He referred to the five year sentence, in protective custody no less, with the possibility of parole in three years as an obscene miscarriage of justice. Kirkland resigned in disgust, deeming the indignity the final straw, selling his home and possessions and leaving the states, Havana bound: Cohibas and Havana Locos are on me if you're ever in the neighborhood, Jarod. Hasta luego.
Jarod would be seeing Kirkland sooner than later—he had no way of knowing that when he shook the Agent's hand.
Nor could he have foreseen that fate or luck or some higher power would intervene, succeed where a corrupt judge had failed and issue its own sentencing. An agonizing death sentence.
Nor did Jarod believe that fate, luck, or a higher power was in any way involved when the van transporting Clemente overturned on the highway, crushing and trapping, but not immediately killing the sex trafficker.
The woman died in pain, pleading for her life, and Jarod devoted sixty consecutive and excruciating hours to the cause of the accident, believing Parker responsible, concluding at last that the crash was simply operator error, a combination of too little sleep, too dense fog, too much confidence behind the wheel, and possibly spilled coffee.
Jarod couldn't determine if the java was spilled before or during the accident and was content not knowing. His goal had been only to determine the extent of Parker's involvement in Clemente's death; he was dismayed by the lack of incriminating evidence and unwilling to accept his own findings. Absence of evidence is often indicative of a remarkably clever culprit and therefore in no way exonerated Parker.
Parker is nothing if not clever.
Jarod's concerns increased significantly and there was only one person in the world capable of confirming them.
If I can find her.
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