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Geniusboy?
 
Jarod smile inwardly at the sobriquet.
 
It's going to be a long night, he mused (innocently enough) in jest, not in prophecy; fate, however, could certainly toss a mean curve ball.
 
Lightning split the eastern sky approximately fifty minutes into his monologue. The obligatory storm lacked the violence and longevity of the devil's storm they'd weathered in Carthis; it disrupted electricity, nevertheless.
 
The pair indulged in hollow laughter, located a box of matches and candles, and relapsed into their respective chairs. They paused in reverence, perhaps concern, when a protracted snarl crescendoed across the sky; the deafening clap punctuated the blue flash that illuminated the kitchen.

Jarod smiled feebly, stifled a yawn. A second peal of thunder jarred the windows, and gained Jarod's undivided attention, before retreating, a rumbling diminuendo.
 
"Impressive." He commented.
 
"Yeah." Parker concurred.
 
Their brittle laughter died a quick death. Jarod knitted his brow suddenly, observed as Parker, propelled from the chair by concern, leapt to her feet. "Is that a tornado si-" He fell silent, yanked the candle up and followed Parker into the bedroom.
 
"Where is she?" Parker demanded, fumbling in the pitch blackness. "She's not in bed!" She screamed at Jarod, screamed right in his face, raging with all the fury of a hurricane and then snatched the candle from him, dropped to her knees, crawled away.
 
"Holy Mother of God!" Jarod's father roared from the open door. The sharp lightning illuminated the shock of white hair that spilled obliquely across his forehead. "Will someone tell me-"
 
"Be careful," Jarod shouted, "not to step on-" He fell silent with redoubled horror, felt as if his blood had turned to ice in his veins; his child didn't even have a name.
 
"The baby's missing?" His father asked. "I'll get flashlights," he called over his shoulder.
 
Jarod nodded, blinked against the flash of lightning and joined Parker on the floor where he reached blindly, futilely. He nearly sobbed when four bright beams danced into the room.

His father materialized at his side, his mother joined them; the trio shifted their beams towards the bed, drew a protracted sigh of relief when two small arms extended from underneath.

Parker struggled momentarily to extract the child from the cocoon of blankets she'd fashioned around her small form. The toddler lunged forward suddenly, threw herself into Parker's trembling arms, wrapped herself, writhing arms and legs, around her mother, clutched Parker's blouse, skin and wisps of hair in her tight angry fists.
 
The discordant wail faltered; the child drew a quick breath. Her rage steadily dissolved into tears, spastic sobs, and then protracted whimpers- all of which were but a prelude to a haunting atonal chant that she sang— for nearly two hours— to protest the absence of light: No dahk no dahk no dahk no dahk no dahk!

She concluded the heart wrenching aria with surprising insouciance, and a sudden soprano pitch: "and no dahk-tors!"
 
The toddler yawned, burrowed her moist face in her mother's neck, murmured indistinct affection. When she opened her eyes, however, and looked over her mother's shoulder, she became rigid once more at the sight of the men in her bedroom. The girl screamed a litany of unintelligible allegations at her father, guttural protestations, erratic arpeggios.
 
"It's okay," Parker hummed, rocking gently on her knees. "they brought light." She explained softly, extending one hand towards Jarod, who nudged his mother and ignored Parker's disapproving scowl. "See?" Parker whispered, taking the flashlight from Margaret and offering it to her daughter. "They brought light," Parker repeated, "for you."
 
The toddler swiftly wrested the offering from her mother; the flashlight disappeared so suddenly that Jarod wouldn't have known where the girl stashed it had Parker not gasped. Between their bodies? It would be safe there, safe with her mother, just as she was safe with her mother.
 
He'd sat in awe, sat patiently, long after his mother and father returned to their own bed, trying to wrap his mind around this maternal? incarnation of Miss Parker, trying to quantify the extent of the toddler's trust in her mother, and her manifest distrust of him, the extent of the abuses she'd suffered, the resulting impact, the psychological damage.
 
At last, the girl's wretched hiccuping subsided and Parker gently tucked her into bed. Jarod observed, in wide eyed reverence, as Parker gently removed a fistful of brunette strands from the child's left palm, and then removed the child's thumb from the small lips still pursed in a moue of discontent.

Parker's hands were tender now, soft, comforting and yet those same hands had grasped him roughly by his lapels, in a cemetery of all places; those hands had steadily leveled a Ladysmith and Wesson 9 mm at his chest. Those same hands, bare hands, would no doubt kill anyone that ever threatened his little girl.
 
Parker stood to her full height, staggered backwards and into the wall, and sucked in a breath that hollowed her cheeks.
 
"I know what you're thinking," Jarod said, softly, "and I know that this is a difficult time for us, but you are her mother, and she won't always be this-"
 
A single glare silenced him.
 
"Difficult." Parker hissed. "A difficult time for us?" She repeated incredulously, a scowl of disbelief creasing her brow. "No," Parker corrected tremulously, her eyes wide and anguished, "she is having the difficult time and I don't know how to help her." 
 
Jarod smiled. "You just did."
 
"Did you hear what she said? Doctors? Raines." Parker hissed, recalling the raspy adenoidal drawl, the rheumy eyes and palsied limbs. I wish I had killed him. She imagined the scene, lining his twisted body up in her sights, racking the Glock's slide, those final incoherent ravings punctuated with an exclamation mark. Non compos mentis. The bastard.
 
"Miss Parker?" Jarod prompted her to continue. "You were saying?"
 
"She's afraid of Raines." Parker rejoined.
 
"So were you." Jarod reminded gently. "Most people are. He was a monster. Isn't that why you had him killed?"
 
Parker replied with a curt nod.
 
"It is the reason that you had him killed, isn't it?" Jarod asked, with a squint of skepticism.
 
"That's what I said." She snarled, peremptorily. "No dark." She repeated her daughter's words. "No dark, Jarod- and that's a standing order!"
 
"Yes, Ma'am." Jarod agreed with a mock salute. "It's dawn, the batteries in these lights have another hour of life. Now, shall we return to the kitchen?" He asked. "Unless you're tired. I'm not. Not now. I don't know about you," he said, holding the door for her and then closing it softly, "but I'm too concerned, too overwhelmed to sleep. That was- uh, intense."
 
"Mm," Parker agreed, "now is fine."

In the kitchen, she listened attentively as Jarod conveyed his ideas, unfolded a sort of verbal schematic complete with detailed contingencies. He was buoyed by her occasional nods of agreement, the amity, the blossoming rapport, "and bear in mind," he'd said softly, raising a forestalling hand, "these are merely suggestions."
 
All of which Parker believed to be reasonable.
 
Then came the inevitable snafu.
 
"Are you insane?" Came the stultifying exclamation.
 
He titled his head inquisitively, looked askance at her.
"That's not a rhetorical question," he asked softly, "is it?"
 
Parker answered with a nearly imperceptible shake of head.
 
"Look," he said, "I don't understand-"
 
Parker snorted. "This isn't a lost chapter of Swiss Family Robinson, Jarod!" She hissed tartly and observed, incredulously, his frown, his brow creased in confusion.
 
"Pardon?" He queried, noting her aggressive macho posturing, the narrowed eyes, her lips drawn back contemptuously from her teeth, as if she intended to draw his blood.
 
"Have you discussed this with your wife?"
 
"Nia," he answered softly, "grasps the situation, Miss Parker." He shook his head. "I don't understand," he said, "you-"
 
"And your family?" Parker interrupted, her voice full, forceful. The candle's flame danced, was nearly extinguished by her breath; the dimming light deepened the shadows across her face.
 
"They are adjusting." He stated simply. "They are survivors; Ethan spent four years with monks in Tibet, my mother lived for two years as another man's meek wife in an Amish hermitage in Pennsylvania. Emily infiltrated the KKK- she had racist skinheads eating out of her hand. My family is nothing if not adaptable."
 
"I don't doubt that, Jarod; however, I believe that your wife, your family, would feel more comfortable residing in separate living quarters, separate spaces."
 
"Ah, I see," he said, still maintaining a mild-mannered mien, "you would feel more comfortable with separate living spaces."
 
"I believe it would be more appropriate."
 
"Appropriate." He repeated testily, tasted the word. "Right," He said, "you— of all people— are concerned about something as trivial as convention when here we are running for our lives." He ejected himself from the chair with such force that it overturned and skittered across the floor. "Poor Miss Parker." He cooed, sourly, in mock sympathy and then pivoted around to face the window, and gasped at the face staring back at him.
 
My God. Is it any wonder that she doesn't want to live with me?
 
Her reservations were not irrational. Hell, he was finding it rather difficult to live with himself.
 
Jarod lowered his head, gave her ample time to return volley, to offer an incisive "I told you so, Frankenboy", or perhaps inject a sardonic "file that tantrum under 'why I loathe the idea of cohabitation"; in fact, he would have preferred her stinging derision to the insidious silence that descended upon them.
 
"I'm sorry." Came the contrite concession. "I'll make a few inquiries and confer with you in twenty-four hours."
 
 
Approximately thirty-nine hours later, they were mere lumbering shadows— exhausted from the interminable drive— disgorging languidly, somnambulantly from the forty-five foot sleeper coach Jarod had purchased with cash.
 
"Ladies and Germs," Concluded Ethan's travelogue, "we have arrived at the exclusive Camelot: Villa and Vineyard- rescued recently from foreclosure." After a moment's hesitation, he thumbed the PA system's mic, and added with a blithe chuckle, "Pets and children are allowed on the premises under the new management; smoking, however, is still prohibited. The local time is zero four sixteen hours, the current temperature is a toasty eighty-two degrees fahrenheit. The skies are clear, the moon is full and the stars are bright. Thank you for traveling with us, and enjoy your stay." He laughed at his antics and replaced the microphone.
 
"Smart ass." Parker clucked, swatting his hair when she walked past, drawing from her half-brother's lips an exaggerated, "Ow!"
 
"On one hand," she said, "I'm relieved that you've cultivated a sense of humor."
 
"And on the other hand?"
 
"One Jarod is enough."
 
"Two, you mean, Miss Parker," Julian chimed in with a hearty laugh. "Two? Ha! Get it?" 
 
Parker smiled in spite of herself.
 
"Oh, no," Ethan disparaged, "not the clone jokes again." He offered his half sister a grin. "It seems that Julian here is a chip off the old genome." He chortled, punctuating each word with halfhearted punches to the younger man's shoulder.
 
"Yeah," Julian singsonged in jest, and added with a wink: "only the chip is more handsome than the old genome."
 
"A clone, by definition, cannot be more handsome." Ethan corrected.
 
"Perhaps; however, I'm younger and I'm the better chess player." He announced and then addressed Parker, "Play a game of chess with me; who knows?" he continued with a noncommittal shrug, "I might even let you win."
 
"Mm, I appreciate the offer-"
 
"But," Jarod interjected coolly; his voice, orotund and staid, preceded him onto the bus, "Miss Parker is going to be indisposed for several days. She doesn't have time for your games, Julian."
 
Parker lifted a brow, held Jarod's gaze and continued as if she hadn't been interrupted, "I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain-check, Julian."
 
"Well," Julian returned impishly, pausing briefly to deliberate before adding, "I'll have to check my schedule, but I'm sure I can squeeze you in sometime next week."
 
"Mm, I look forward to that." Parker returned with a conspiratorial leer and then pivoted and gathered the sleeping bundle from the car seat. "Shh, shh." She soothed the whimpering child and whispered to Ethan, "Goodnight."
 
"Goodnight." He returned softly, "Do you need a hand with anything?" He offered. "Either of you?"
 
"You could give Mother a hand with her suitcase." Jarod suggested. "I'll show your sister to her villa."
 
Ethan nodded. "I'll see you three at breakfast then- uh, in the courtyard, right?"
 
"Yes." Jarod confirmed. The courtyard. Neutral territory.
 
The courtyard was private and quaint and fully encompassed by ten identical villa units- each consisting of two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living area, a kitchen and dining room, and each with its own access to the aforementioned courtyard. 
 
"From all outward appearances, you wouldn't even guess there was a courtyard- it's only visible from inside the villa. Just think of it as protecting her, of fencing her in," Jarod had explained sedately to a wary Parker, "without actually fencing her in; I want to her have a sense of freedom. It's beautiful, airy. I think you will both like it."
 
It had been a tough sell, and he'd resented the doubt in her eyes, the distrust. Only Parker could make him feel vile, dirty, make him feel like a crooked used car salesman intentionally foisting a lemon onto some poor elderly woman.
 
Jarod wasn't without scruples however and Camelot was hardly a lemon. He had sought the property with her specifications in mind, had procured what she'd deemed "appropriate living arrangements", he'd given her precisely what she wanted, and still, she had the audacity to doubt him, to grill him, voice misgivings.
 
She'd boarded the coach with a glare of disapproval and a sotto voce perfect and had formed her opinion of the property while in transit, had passed judgement on the villa, declared it unfit, grumbled that she was en route to hell. Hell. She envisioned a dilapidated building, loose boards and peeling paint or perhaps a cold and impersonal utilitarian affair constructed of red brick and white mortar.
 
Jarod, piqued by her sour mood, suggested that she at least tour the premises before condemning the property, to give him a chance, to trust him. "Can't you, just this once, trust me?"
 
She'd recoiled from him, reeled backwards, appalled and stunned. Revulsion prevented her from answering; Jarod could only imagine what her answer might have been had she been able to speak.

They were mired in stalemate.

They were bound by interdependence.

An infuriated Jarod opened his mouth, intended to press her for an answer, back her into a corner, perhaps use her mother to advance his argument. Your mother trusted me, why can't you, Miss Parker?
 
Ethan, however— in an attempt to defuse the conflict— keyed the mic and cleared his throat and addressed the pair as if they were errant children: "Don't make me stop this bus."
 
Jarod's face tightened with anger when Parker averted her eyes. Insult to injury. Her fingernails tapped idly on the cushioned seat. No doubt yearning for a Glock to fondle. And that isn't all. He imagined her nimble fingers pinching a Davidoff from its sealed box, those gray-blue eyes squinting against the flame, the noxious effluvium of sulfur mingling with pungent tobacco. He had never understood the appeal, try as he might, of consuming a product that in turn consumes its consumer. You suck the life out of it; it sucks the life out of you.
 
She intrigued him, however, as did the initial protracted pull, the twin billows expelled, basilisk-esque, through the nostrils, while another jet simultaneously issued from her pursed lips, the accompanying two fingers of Johnnie Walker swirling indolently in her glass.

Jarod was no longer captivated; he was disgusted. He found it impossible to tolerate her defensive posturing, the rapier wit, the contempt in her eyes, that savage scowl on her face.

He rose, leaned across the aisle to address Parker. "I can't tell you how much I wish she trusted me;" he whispered somberly, alluding to the slumbering child tucked safely in her car seat, "if she did," he continued, his eyes wide, angry, his voice incongruously soft, "you wouldn't be here." He leveled a chilling glare at Parker, reveled in the expression on her face, the anguish in her eyes.

A direct hit. I'll be damned, he mused, The Ice Queen isn't bullet proof after all.

He clenched his jaw, and at last pivoted and chose a seat in the rear where anger and disgust percolated, simmered to a unpalatable brew, a toxic distillate to choke on.
 
Parker turned her blank gaze to window, the verdant meadow— carpeted with wildflowers— undulating beyond the glass; she saw nothing. She wondered if Nia would rush to Jarod's side, could just imagine the woman sashaying to the rear of the bus, goading in subdued tones, perhaps even lying, and ultimately convincing Jarod to separate child from mother. Never underestimate the power of pussy.
 
Nia, however, remained seated, made no attempt to conspire with her husband to have Parker summarily removed from the coach. The woman was stolid and quiet, her head lowered, a magazine in her lap. Indifferent. Or so Parker had believed.
 
The woman laughed aloud at something she'd read and then extended a hand across the aisle and offered the magazine to Parker- Jarod observed the friendly exchange, Nia's congenial pat on the back.
 
Her back.
 
Jarod was transported, yanked, miles and years, into the past. He recalled the stutter of gunfire punctuating the din of helicopter blades whirring overhead, his heart lurching as if he instead had been shot in the back, the icy fingers of dread twisting his intestines, gathering her in his arms, trying to stop the bleeding, choosing to stay with her.
 
Much had transpired since, and nothing had changed- he wasn't certain how that was even possible. He wasn't certain why she wanted to drag him back to the Centre, and yet had intended to rescue Julian from the hellhole. She had draped a comforting arm around the boy, had promised to free him. Julian had relayed every word, expression, gesture, and inflection to Jarod.

Jarod burned with envy that he had no right to feel, wrestled with corollary self-loathing, deemed himself a fool.
 
A fool.
 
Presently he jogged to catch up with her, feeling every bit the fool. He matched her pace and dared a sidelong glance at her: suspicious eyes surveyed the structure that stood beyond the rose-arbored footpath. Suspicion? She is suspicious of me? Jarod swallowed back the renewed anger, fashioned an urbane smile.

The hatred in her eyes was a balm of sorts- it removed much of the sting of guilt; the bruise on her hand haunted him still, however. "You're awfully quiet. Are you feeling all right?"
 
"Yes, I am." she answered, brusquely. "You won't be, however, if you ever attempt to speak for me again." She snarled.
 
"You shouldn't flirt with Julian." He chided, gently. "It will only encourage-"
 
"Flirting?" She returned, incredulously. "That wasn't flirting. If he were twenty years older or I were twenty years younger, I'd damn well show you-"
 
"You've made your point." Jarod said, peremptorily, and then added, reflectively, "I've been on the receiving end of your charms after all, Miss Parker." She stiffened; Jarod could hear her teeth gnashing. It wasn't a taunt, however. He hadn't intended to anger her. "I know when you're flirting. I suppose you were being sweet to Julian. It's easy for a young man to mistake one for the other, however. You might want to be careful."
 
"I don't have designs on him. I'm engaged." She reminded him.
 
"All the more reason to take care." He advised and then announced lightly, "Here we are. This one is yours."
 
"Il Valpolicella Ripasso?" Parker read the placard affixed to the arched, ornate door.
 
"Yes, each room is named after a wine."
 
"Of course." Parker grumbled and waited impatiently for Jarod to turned the lock, push open the door. "I added some additional lighting." He explained, observing from the vestibule as Parker entered the villa and sought out their daughter's bed. After a cursory glance at his watch, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans and paced the floor.
 
"I hope you don't mind." He called out softly and then shrugged. "Do you?" He asked with growing impatience and then turned to close the heavy door; he reconsidered, however and left the door ajar. He then pivoted and followed the dulcet tones of Parker's soft humming.
 
Jarod stopped short of the bedroom, stood transfixed at the sight of Parker bending over their child, dropping a light kiss on the toddler's forehead. She studied the child intently for several moments, and then stood to her full height, pressed her palms to her back and pivoted. 
 
"I don't mind, Jarod." Parker answered.
 
"I had hoped you wouldn't. She's- she's terrified of darkness and I just thought," Jarod sighed, "well, she's afraid of me. I can't hum to her or comfort her when she screams but this- this is one thing I can do for her. I can give her light."
 
And you most certainly have. Parker surveyed the room. She was all astonishment.
 
She had expected threadbare carpeting, stained drapes, a cockroach or three tossed in for good measure, perhaps a rat scurrying away in search of refuge, and of course some sort of unpleasant stench. This, however, was no typical hostel, no road side motel whose neon signed beckoned drowsy drivers and adulterers. "There are also shelves of books and photographs," She recognized bulky tomes on philosophy, astronomy and psychology alongside Charlotte's Web, Alice in Wonderland and other children's classics. "and fresh Wallpaper? She inquired softly, holding his gaze. "We've only been here five minutes, Jarod."
 
"Gray walls in a child's bedroom- it was too sterile, ascetic, too similar to the compound where she was kept prisoner. She's already going to be confused, perhaps disoriented in unfamiliar surroundings. I want her to feel safe here. I want both of you to feel safe and comfortable here."
 
Parker nodded, and then returned to the living room where she slumped wearily onto the sofa and shook her head.
 
"What?" He asked. "What's wrong?" Surely, something had to be wrong; something always was.
 
"Safe?" She returned caustically; her voice lacked conviction, however, held little bite. "Safe? Do you realize what I've done? Do you have any idea what they will do to me if they ever learn the truth? Mm?" She asked. "The Triumvirate will mount my head in the Centre foyer, Jarod, and," she added tremulously, crossing her arms over her chest, "I don't even want to think about what they will do to her."
.
"Then don't," he said, simply, "don't think about it. They aren't going to find us."
 
"You don't know that, you can't know that."
 
"As a matter of fact, I do, I can." He countered gently.
 
Parker rose suddenly, traversed the length of the hardwood floor, pivoted and then came to an abrupt halt and studied the slightly parted drapes. "Are those," she inquired, her brows knitted in bewilderment, "lights?"
 
Jarod held up a finger, ambled towards the large window and parted the drapes with a single flick of his wrists.
 
"The courtyard." He announced with a measure of joviality. "I strung a few lights over the pergolas and trellises, the arbors."
 
"A few." Parker murmured, studying first the double french doors through which she could gain access to the courtyard, and then the curtained transom above aforementioned doors, and, at last, the courtyard itself.
 
"Would you like to venture out? I could show you around if you'd like."
 
"No." She answered hastily, feigning disinterest.
 
"Are you sure? It's-"
 
"I'm sure." She interrupted, grasping his elbow and ushering him out of the villa. When the door closed behind him, she ambled across the floor, unlocked and pulled open the double French doors.
 
The north wall of the courtyard was lined with espaliered pomegranate trees- one's gaze riveted to the ruddy, globose fruit. Lavender and heather overflowed superfluously from split oak barrels; potted palms, ferns and peace lilies hugged the sturdy stone steps.

Butterfly bushes, hibiscus, gardenias and large stones comprised large berms that flanked the door. On the trellis to her right, a succulent variety of grape was ripe for the plucking.
 
Thorn-less rose vines, thick and serpentine, twisted a vertical path up several arbors. A small pond in the southwest corner was enclosed by a dense wall of trellised roses; a long, narrow archway led to a locked garden door through which, Parker presumed, the key-holder could sit and feed koi.
 
Two star-shaped hedge mazes were located at either end of the spacious courtyard, buttressed by stone footpaths. Three pergolas— adorned with roses and white lights— stood twelve feet high in the center of the courtyard at evenly spaced intervals, and lent minimal protection to the dining tables beneath them.
 
Parker padded across the stone floor to the center table upon which sat one glass of wine as well as a handwritten note on vintage stationery that she read aloud:
 
I knew you would come. Enjoy the vino.

-J
 
"Bastard." She said softly, a secret smile curving her lips. Parker grasped the stem, raised the glass to her lips, and then, instinctively, she whirled around to the exact window where Jarod stood, concealed by heavy drapes.
 
When Parker turned away, he released a breath, relaxed considerably and continued observing while she did what any self respecting parent would do: she explored the mazes.

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