Blindsided by Mirage
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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
The beginning?
The beginning, Jarod mused, seemed to imply, presage, an ending-- of a relationship, perhaps, or a young woman's life.
This is the beginning.
"I was hungry," Jarod answered grudgingly. Conceding to his huntress felt counterintuitive and prudent, natural and absurd. He yearned for conversation, a sympathetic ear, an opportunity to be entirely honest, yet felt incapable of sharing complete, intimate details with Parker.
Jarod felt wretched, much like, he imagined, a spouse confronted with infidelity might feel; he was too exhausted and afraid to analyze those feelings.
"I shouldn't have stopped here," Jarod confessed to Parker in a voice saturated with remorse and relief, and returned, in his mind, to the beginning.
The humble and sparsely populated unincorporated community had been entirely absent from the map still neatly folded and tucked away in his Monte Carlo's glove compartment.
If the signage bore any welcome at all it was too faded to discern; in freshly painted tall, bold font, however, DEEPSTEP POPULATION 108 bellowed at motorists.
It hadn't occurred to Jarod that the inhabitants therein were inhospitable, unwelcoming, determined to maintain their small population. Nor had it occurred to him to continue driving, put the community, and its poorly maintained dirt roads in his rearview.
The 1970 Monte Carlo he'd acquired in a game of poker pleaded for oil and fuel; Jarod empathized; he, too, craved fuel. There wasn't a whole hell of a lot mileage in chocolate bars, ranch flavored snacks, colas.
He sought protein, vegetables, food that wasn't tossed at him via a drive-thru window, processed beyond his ability to instantly recognize. His options were an obligatory fast food establishment and a small uninspired diner called, simply, Diner. Jarod decided to patronize the latter, and give the car the tlc it deserved.
The store front of R & R's Auto Service was squat and concrete with faded lettering and peeling paint. The front door, a frosted glass affair, was cracked, and a bell above it alerted a young receptionist to Jarod's arrival.
Jarod opened his mouth to speak, and was promptly directed via a wave of hand, to a doorless archway. Only when he glimpsed the rusty Volkswagen ragtop high atop the hydraulic lift did he feel his apprehensions subside.
"Hello?" Jarod called. "I'm looking for a—"
"Mechanic, I'll bet," a voice interrupted with a dry chortle, barely audible over the tune trickling from the speakers.
'holy, righteous dogs,
they claim to heal,
but all they do is steal'
"Be with you in just a moment."
"Okay," Jarod replied softly.
"There you are," the mechanic said, stepping from beneath the VW. She vigorously scrubbed oily hands on a soiled cloth, each movement loosening thick locks of hair from a claret headwrap. Her blue eyes widened, and instantly compelled Jarod's full attention.
"Here I am," Jarod agreed cheerfully. "Have--- we met?"
The woman conducted a protracted, and rather thorough, head-to-toe appraisal of Jarod, and answered with a broad smile. "As of now."
"Jarod," he said.
"Miuna," she returned amiably, "Azahaari."
"Beautiful name," Jarod commented softly.
"Extremely sus."
"Sus?" Jarod asked with an inquisitive head-tilt and eyebrows lifted high.
"Suspicious," Miuna answered. "You were suppose to recoil, inquire about my immigration status."
"Why would I do that?"
"Voi perkele," Miuna murmured. "You're one of the rare good ones that I've heard so much about, but have never actually seen in real life, and doubted existed, aren't you--sort of like a promachoteuthis sulcus? Why would you do it?" Miuna repeated blithely. "Father was born in Ad-Damāzīn, Mother hails from Lahti. I have her blue eyes, nose, and chin. I resemble my Father in every other way, however, and I share his surname, and that's why you would do it."
"No, I wouldn't," Jarod insisted. "Are your parents here with you?"
"Monterotondo," Miuna answered guardedly. "We moved there when I was twelve. I left last year."
Jarod, naturally appalled, asked, "You left your family to come here? Why?"
"To prove I could."
"They're displeased, I gather."
"Understate much, Jarod? No matter," Miuna sang. "Does that Monte Carlo out front belong to you?"
"It does," Jarod answered gleefully, smiling mischievously to himself, "now."
"I heard her crying when you drove up. Your lady needs a new fan belt, Jarod. She's also tapping. Is she drinking her weight in oil?"
"As a matter of fact," Jarod answered neutrally. He could hardly voice condemnation; after all, he'd been drinking his weight in cola, and wondered if his check engine icon would brighten and blink manically in the coming years.
"She's mature. so it might just be seal wear. Leave your key with Dolores out front, and come back in four hours."
"All right. I'll be across the street at the Diner." Jarod turned at the archway, called softly, "By the way, what would you recommend?"
"That you eat somewhere else," Miuna answered with a grimace, and turned her attention to the lift's power unit. She and Jarod followed with their eyes the VW's descent to the garage floor. "Anywhere else," Miuna added with grave emphasis.
"That bad?"
"To say the least. The entrees are your basic supermarket sealed-in-plastic, freezer-to-microwave blahs, only they charge sixty percent more than what you'd pay for them at market. It's nearly eleven, and that means the crisphead is already turning brown, so that would be a hard pass on the house salad for me. The breakfast items, while fresh, are all heavy on the carbs and mystery meats, and that, clearly, disheartens you. I recommend a grilled wild salmon filet, a monstrous Caesar salad, and maybe panna cotta with grilled figs for dessert."
Jarod moaned his approval, said, "How far will I have to walk for that?"
"Just a few meters. My extraordinarily humble abode sits at the end of the dirt trail behind the garage. The downside is that you'll have to wait until my shift ends in twenty minutes."
"Don't you think it's unwise to invite a stranger into your house?"
Miuna laughed. "It's a rusty caravan, tetanus on wheels, not a house, and I wouldn't have invited you if I thought it unwise. Besides, I have the home advantage of knowing where all of the firearms are hidden."
"All?" Jarod asked, dryly.
"It's a joke, Jarod," Miuna said. "Granted, I do own a pistol," she confessed, "but that's strictly for the mosquitos."
Jarod laughed. "Ah, that was a joke, too, wasn't it?"
"You, obviously, haven't seen the mosquitos here, Jarod."
The garage dropped away with alarming swiftness, and Jarod drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes, but remained disoriented. His head and ribs ached, and he was still wearing saliva, could feel it in his hair, and was quite eager to wash it out.
"You said you shouldn't have stopped here," Parker said. "Why?"
"Do you really need me to answer that question," Jarod counterquestioned aggressively, and observed much of Parker's haughtiness and confidence wither. "Do you? You really don't know," Jarod added incredulously.
"Know?" Parker asked.
Jarod's answer was a tight, agonized groan. "You can't see what was obvious to even a blind woman."
Parker drew back rapidly, and lowered her gaze to the folder opened on the table between them. "Are Miuna's parents here?" She asked.
"I assume they are," Jarod answered with an exasperated breath. "When I returned from Delaware, and couldn't find her I called them."
"When was that?"
"Wednesday. The tenth. Just before dawn. Afterwards, I drove to the Sheriff's department in Pleasant Springs to file a report; they weren't particularly helpful," Jarod said. "I launched my own investigation. Are you going to stare at the folder until you leave or-"
"I'm sure the cops over in Pleasant Springs appreciated you doing their job for them," Parker interrupted tartly. "Did Miuna have an admirer, stalker, jealous ex-lover?"
"I don't know," Jarod answered softly. "None that I'm aware of."
"You don't know," Parker said with some skepticism.
"I met her on the fifth," Jarod explained with some reticence. "My car needed minor repairs, and she's a mechanic. I— I stayed, helped her in the garage the following morning, met her parents via FaceTime. I went home with her again. That evening, just after midnight, you called to tell me Sydney was in the emergency room, and I immediately flew to Delaware."
"I see," Parker murmured quietly.
"You see," Jarod repeated angrily before Parker could elaborate. "What? What is it that you see? Do you see that a young woman has mysteriously vanished after falling for, and being seduced—or worse—by, the charming transient, a much older drifter? Because that's what the police see. Is that what you see?"
Parker had intended to sympathize with Jarod. For four days you've been in jail for potential involvement in Miuna's disappearance, and you only spent two days with her. It isn't fair.
Those words dissolved on Parker's tongue. Instead, she answered unequivocally, "No. Charming is the absolute last word I'd ever use to describe you. Officers claim," Parker continued without missing a beat, "that you, Jarod Doe, arrived in Deepstep—"
"I'm sorry," Jarod interrupted. "It sounded like you said Doe instead of Doyle."
"Oh, I'm sure the FBI would love to have a little sit-down with Agent Jarod Doyle, but these assclowns haven't released your mugshot or contacted the FBI about that badge they found in the trunk of your car. Hell, if Miuna's parents hadn't contacted the media no one would be looking for her." Parker met Jarod's gaze, frowned at the thin ribbon of crimson slipping from beneath dark locks. "Your head's bleeding," Parker said softly, rising and examining the contusions, abrasions, and lacerations.
"Yes," Jarod remarked saltily, "it tends to do that when it's slammed into the hood of car. Twice."
With a snort of rage, Parker demanded gauze and a bandage from an officer standing guard outside the door.
Adamant about not meeting Parker's gaze the man unapologetically offered her napkins and an apathetic shrug. "Bastards," Parker seethed, re-entering the room. "Do you want something for the pain?"
"No thank you," Jarod declined politely. "If police haven't released the mugshot or contacted outside agencies how did you know I was here?"
"I have my ways."
"Pray tell," Jarod purred, lifting his head to look at Parker.
"More pressing matters," Parker intoned coolly, "This probably needs stitches."
"They'd rather I bleed to death," Jarod said, closing his eyes, and tensing in anticipatory pain.
"Imbeciles," Parker snarled in evident rage, her voice abrasive, her words incisive, her eyes hard. Parker's fingers, however, were so gentle that Jarod wasn't certain when, precisely, she'd pressed the napkins to his wound. There was only the sensation of pressure, the same dull pain. I guess my old theory regarding pain anticipation still holds.
"Have you even eaten?"
"No. One of them brought me water yesterday. I think. They passed it through the slot. They won't verify that I was in Delaware, or communicate with me, or allow me to make any calls. It's like they don't want anyone to know I'm here, which is probably why they're so displeased by your presence."
"Good," Parker said with a satisfied smile.
"No, it isn't," Jarod argued softly. "I have a feeling that these aren't the sort of men you want to anger."
"These kinds of men are already angry, bitter, small-minded, and pathetic, Jarod, and I might as well clip their balls right now, and carry them back with me to Blue Cove in my briefcase, because when I'm done here none of these bastards are ever going to be able to get it up again. They're claiming you first arrived in Deepstep two days ago, and loitered near the garage until an officer arrived at Miuna Azahaari's request, and asked you to leave. They typed up a report that accuses you of stalking, and forged her signature."
"That isn't true. I've been here, in a cell, for four days. Wait. How do you know they forged her signature?"
"Shh, listen," Parker chided.
"Listen?" Jarod asked, curiously observing Parker's frown of concentration--and deeper frown of consternation. "Is it your inner sense?"
"Hush," Parker repeated, and after several moments, explained tersely, "Broots' team just completed an analysis of the FaceTime transcript they retrieved, and it places you in Deepstep on the fifth and sixth. Several receipts that Sam found in a pair of jeans that belong to you corroborate the team's findings."
Jarod frowned deeply. "Just completed?"
Parker sidled closer. "Earbud," she answered succinctly.
"What else?" Jarod asked. "What else are they accusing me of?"
Parker met Jarod's gaze, said, "Sam says you have a concussion."
"Yes, well, considering how many concussions Sam has personally administered," Jarod replied with a indignant snort, "he would certainly know. Am I being framed?"
"Mm, yeah, ya think," Parker cooed. "The question is by whom."
"And for what," Jarod added darkly, tugging, unconsciously, at his binds. "Oh, god, what if she-"
"Don't," Parker interrupted sharply. "This isn't the time or place to lose your shit. Jesus, that's loud," she hissed, adjusting the left earbud, and intently listening to the information being relayed to her. "Regardless of how this goes you have to stay calm, clearheaded, and watch your back-- as much for Miuna as for yourself."
"Have you considered the possibility that Lyle might be involved?"
"Explored and eliminated," Parker answered distractedly.
"What just happened?" Jarod asked, eagerly. "What are they saying?"
"The food courier arrives in fifteen. Do you think you can eat?"
"I don't know," Jarod answered with a forlorn head-shake.
"Well, you're going to do it anyway. And you should know that Broots' people are taking a closer look at Miuna's father. He was livid when he discovered that you'd spent the night with his daughter. Is it possible that he or Miuna's mother convinced her to fly back home?"
"No, it isn't."
"Are you sure about that?"
Jarod whispered Parker's name, and said gently, "Not all fathers are like yours."
"Looks like the bleeding's stop," Parker said, "For now, at least," she added, closing bloody napkins in her fist and depositing them discreetly into her briefcase. "Is it possible that Miuna followed you to Delaware?"
Nodding gratefully, Jarod said, "Thank you for saying that. It's a nice thought. Her in Blue Cove searching for me while I'm here-- after being arrested while searching for her. Uh," stammered Jarod, "why didn't you toss the napkins in the garbage?"
Parker resumed her seat, smiled warmly, and ignored Jarod's question. "They're using the term detained, not arrested."
"Detained for?" Jarod asked.
"Probable cause," Parker answered, adding softly, "pending a warrant. Don't worry," she added. "Broots is on it."
"Is he, really?" Jarod asked gravely, gazing past Parker at the door, and glimpsing Broots through the rectangle of ballistic glass.
Parker swiveled in the chair, and shook her head slowly when a pale and sheepish Broots timidly and frantically gestured for her to join him.
"Something's happened," Jarod whispered, drawing a sharp, involuntary breath when his skin prickled uncomfortably. Cutis anserina. Or, as Miuna had once said, Olen kaikkialta kananlihalla.
The table and handcuffs evanesced, and Jarod was outdoors, sitting across from Miuna on a small tract of land that she'd affectionately designated my ungraceful lanai. Reclining in an aluminum folding chair, and tugging at fraying webbing, she said, "So, Jarod, what was that earlier?"
"Earlier?" Jarod asked.
"When our eyes met it was-- I don't know, somewhere between Father's, "jislaaik" and Mother's, "puulla päähän lyöty rimmaa", and like someone walked on my grave or," Miuna added softly with a shrug, pushing a bead of perspiration from her forehead, "something." She fondled her glass, pushed a finger through the condensation, and gazed up at the sky.
"Your grave," Jarod said with a perplexed smile. "You're much too young to have purchased a funeral plot."
"Literal kind of guy, aren't you?" She said, laughing at his inquisitive head-tilt. She returned her glass to a small table, folded her arms over her chest, and hastily explained, "It's an idiom I hear often here. Goosebumps, an involuntary tremor? See?" she said, lowering her gaze to her arms. "Olen kaikkialta kananlihalla."
Walked on her grave. Did she know even then that it would end this way?
"They've found a body," Jarod whispered.
Parker swung an alarmed gaze at him. "You don't know that. I'll be back in—"
"No, no, down," Jarod shouted, looking past Parker in alarm, "Get down."
Parker opened her mouth, probably, Jarod mused, to ask why, protest. Anticipating resistance, Jarod attempted to launch himself over the table top, and was more perturbed by his inability to shield Parker from exploding glass and bullets than by the pain surging through his bound wrists.
"Oh, god, Miss Parker," Broots cried when the gunfire ceased, kneeling beside Parker. "Are you hurt? Are you-"
"I'm okay, Broots," Parker groaned, quickly ascertaining that neither Broots nor Jarod had been injured. "What the hell happened?"
"Uh, well," Broots answered with a grimace, "it's-"
"Me," Lyle announced blithely. "I appreciate your attempts to avoid bloodshed via legal avenues, but Jarod's mug is going viral as we speak. Apparently, Mom and Dad Azahaari shared your little FaceTime chat with the Feds," Lyle said to Jarod. "And, as you can probably imagine, the men in black would like a word with the great pretender."
"So your answer is to kill everyone?" Parker asked.
"Don't be dramatic, Sis," Lyle answered indignantly. "I didn't kill everyone," he added with a meaningful look at Jarod. "One resident of this unincorporated hellhole was dead when I arrived. Oops," Lyle bellowed in mock sympathy when Jarod groaned, and, noting Parker's reproachful glare, asked, "Too soon?"
"When did you arrive?" Parker asked.
"Relax," Lyle whispered. "We all know that she wasn't my--- flavor."
Parker averted her eyes in disgust and shook her head.
"What? You know how crazy I am about Asian, Sis. Okay, fine," Lyle added with an eye-roll and an expression of mock sympathy, "I should have read the room, yes, but is it really my fault that everyone inside of it is too sensitive?"
"When did you arrive?" Parker repeated with a strained snarl.
"I intercepted Broots half an hour ago. He'll tell you. Tell her, Broots."
"Roy landed the chopper fifteen minutes ago," Broots said.
"Thank you, Broots," Lyle cooed. "Our devoted tech here walked in the front door to distract everyone with his garlic breath, and I snuck in through the rear of this little compound."
"Miuna isn't really?" Parker asked softly.
"In a freezer in a back room," Lyle answered coolly, "really, and the thermostat's struggling to cool below room temperature. Four of these Gitmo cosplayers—no offense, Broots, I loved you as Ziggy Stardust last year—were arguing about how to link Jarod to her murder. But don't take my word for it. I knew you and Jarod would want some answers, so I left one of the basic-training rejects alive and gift-wrapped for you in the freezer. Oh, and, by the way," he said tartly, "you are both welcome."
"Uh, Miss Parker," Broots said, and artificially cleared his throat. "Shouldn't we be leaving?"
"Yes, we should," Lyle agreed with Broots, but his gaze never strayed from his sister's face. "Find the handcuff key, Broots."
"Don't bother," Sam groused, advancing rapidly with bolt cutters. "Should I do the honors?"
"Quickly, Sam," Parker said.
"I vote we torch this place," Lyle suggested, "unless someone else has a better idea."
"Do it," Parker demanded.
"You've got it, Miss Parker," Sam confirmed with a nod, freeing Jarod's wrist from the table, and withdrawing from the room.
"What about the girl?" Lyle asked Parker.
Parker swung her gaze at Jarod. "We'll transport Miuna to a morgue in Dover, have them," Parker hesitated, drew a breath, continued, "collect any evidence, clean her up, and shroud her. Nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Lyle asked. "Not even an autopsy?"
"Her parents'll want to take her home, make their own arrangements."
Jarod nodded slowly, murmured a quiet thank-you.
"Do you want to tell them?" Parker asked.
"It would only exacerbate their pain," Jarod whispered.
"What should I do with G.I. No?" Lyle interjected, adding with an expression of disappointment, "He's probably not even shivering yet."
Again, Parker met Jarod's gaze; neither spoke this time, however. Words were entirely unnecessary.
"Let's bring him along," Parker answered in a voice both buoyant and furious, "and conduct our own little interrogation."
