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Title: Pretend
Author: DCE
Email: geek-tastic AT gmx DOT com
Web Page: http://www.dlc.fi/~dce/fic/index.html
Archive: Nowhere without my written permission.
Disclaimers: All Pretender characters and concept belong to MTM and
NBC Productions. No infringement is intended. This story,
however, is written and copyrighted by me.
Feedback: That's a rhetorical question, right?
PRETEND
by DCE aka ViciousGurl
(c)2000
His thinning silver hair whipped around in the wind as he watched them
pull the car from the river. The grey dawn gave way to the first rays
of the rising sun but nature's efforts were wasted on the man; nothing
could have teared his eyes away from the muddy car. He'd recognized
it, even from a distance, but the licence plate confirmed it beyond
any doubt. Beyond any hope. They hadn't been able to find the body
yet, but he knew it was only a question of when, not if.
Wrapping his long coat more securely against the cold wind, the man
closed his eyes. He could feel the burning of tears prickling in his
eyes, fighting to get free, but this was not the time nor the place.
The tears would have to wait until later, until he was alone.
It was a losing fight but he pretended that it was just the wind in
his eyes watering them. Centre employees didn't cry.
Opening his eyes at last he was surprised to find it was no longer
dusky. It was a beginning of a glorious spring day, and he was weary
to the bone. He was getting old. Too old for scenes like this one. One
could accept the passing away of one's elders, after all, it was the
natural order of things, but losing those young enough to be one's
children... The ones you thought of as your children....
Shaking his head tiredly the man turned his attention back to the car.
They'd gotten it out of the water by now, and for the first time he
could see its shuttered windshield.
Tears forgotten, he could feel anger rising deep in his stomach.
He should have known. Hell, he *had* known. The moment he'd received
the call, he'd known. And yet, he'd hoped. In vain. He should have
known. There was no hope in the Centre.
Staring at the tell tale hole in the windshield, he took a deep
breath, steeling himself. Heads would roll for this, but not before
the inevitable power-struggle. A struggle for the survival of the
fittest.
In cold determination, his lips pressed tightly against his teeth. Not
this time. Not if he could help it. This time, just this once, the
heads rolling would be of the guilty party, not of the losing party.
This would not be brushed under the carpet. They wouldn't get away
with this. Not this.
With one last look at the battered car he turned and walked away.
* * *
He wanted to glance at the people milling around him but he didn't
dare. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the monitor while his fingers
flew over the keyboard. It was better to appear busy and totally
focused on the task at hand than to draw attention to himself.
Especially today.
Despite the beehive-like activity it was eerily quiet. Swallowing
quietly, he tried not to sweat too loudly. The Centre had never been
anyone's idea of a safe haven but now... He shuddered to think of the
coming changes. If he could, if he had the spine, he'd leave. Even
after what had just happened. Especially after what had just happened.
These people, this place, ate everything and everyone alive, not even
bothering to stop to spit out the dry bones once they were finished.
He freely admitted to being a coward. A coward had a better chance at
surviving in the Centre than a self-confessed pitbull. A coward was a
pushover, offering occasional amusement, but inevitably came in handy
when the pitbulls wanted something. A coward was someone to be barked
at. Another pitbull was there to be ripped apart. Literally.
No, he had no problem with being a coward, but sometimes he wished
that he could bite back.
Staring blindly at his screen he concentrated on his breathing,
forcing the threatening hyperventilation back. Taking deep breaths he
tried to think of his daughter, but today even she couldn't help him.
No matter how he tried not to, his mind kept playing the reports he'd
been getting all morning. The reports of the 'accident'.
At first, he hadn't believed them. In a way, he still couldn't. It
seemed so --. He struggled to find a word to describe his feelings but
his mind drew blank. Giving up, he finally stopped trying to sort out
his emotions and simply let them wash over him.
That was a mistake. Once the gates had been opened it was impossible
to stop the flood.
Struggling to his feet he rushed to the men's room, grateful for small
miracles as he found it empty, and locked himself in one of the
cubicles.
Shutting his eyes, he silently rocked back and forth, hugging himself
tightly. He didn't cry, but he could no longer pretend not to hurt as
the Centre nipped off yet another small part of him.
* * *
One year later
His dark hair was plastered to his skull by the trickling rain as he
stood by the grave, still as the marble statue marking the grassy
mound.
It was late and the only lights were in the far distance but he didn't
mind. Darkness felt fitting, somehow. It was fitting that he should
visit her in secret, in the cover of darkness. Hadn't that been the
way he'd always gone to see her? Only, this time he had all the time
in the world, this time he wasn't running from her. He wished that he
still could be chased by her. He wished he could hear the clicking of
her heels right behind him, hear her voice as she cursed him, see her
face as he turned around to wave his hand good-bye.
His dark eyes had lost their mischievous glint the night she'd lost
her life. No matter how many times in the past he'd wished for her to
stop her hunt he'd never thought he'd get his wish like this. He had
never wanted to see her dead, not really. He'd only wanted her to face
the reality about the Centre, the truth about her father. He'd wanted
her to see him as he was, not a lab experiment. He'd wanted her to...
He nipped the thought before it became fully realized. There was no
point to his thoughts. Not anymore.
Burying his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket he
stared at the small angel statue her father had chosen to mark her
empty grave with.
Empty grave - empty life? Did anyone back at the Centre remember her
anymore? Miss her anymore? Did her father ever think of her?
"I'll remember you."
His voice was low and almost inaudible but he knew that she could
still hear his promise. Her grave might've been empty but she'd never
let such a trivial little detail stop herself, not even in death.
The thought brought a small smile on his lips, but it was soon
forgotten as his mind unavoidably turned to those horrible days after
her death.
He knew that Sydney and Broots had done everything they possibly could
have to find out who was responsible for Miss Parker's murder. But,
despite all the evidence they'd uncovered, in a true Centre style her
death had soon been water under the bridge. No use to rock the boat,
so to speak. And, within weeks it had been all business as usual in
Blue Cove, Delaware.
The rage he'd felt back then still burned inside him. It had taken
them hours to find her car that morning, and by the time they'd
located it her body had been swept away by the strong currents. She
never did like wearing the seat belt and when the car had driven off
over the cliff and hit the water the doors had come open, leaving her
to the mercy of the elements.
He'd done everything he could to find out the truth but the Centre
wasn't giving up its secrets. Oh, he knew the how and the when but
even he had been unable to find out the who. Someone had pulled the
trigger of the gun that had fired the bullet which had pierced first
her windshield, then her and finally the back seat of her car. Someone
had given the order to terminate her, someone mighty high in the
Centre's ladder, but he hadn't been able to find a name to match the
faceless bastard.
When he closed his eyes he could still see her face. In his mind her
face looked softer than he'd ever seen it in real life. In his mind
she was happy, her blue eyes sparkling and her red lips turned into a
carefree smile. In his mind he saw her the way she should've,
would've, been had she never even heard of the Centre. But he also
remembered the reality. He remembered her voice on the other end of
the line when he'd call her in the middle of the night. He remembered
the times she'd threatened to shoot him unless he did what she wanted,
the foul smoke of cigarettes she used to enjoy so much. He remembered
the times he'd observed her when she'd thought she was safe from
prying eyes in the privacy of her home. He remembered every little
detail about her.
He missed her.
"I miss her."
He tensed at the voice coming from his left. He'd been buried so deep
in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard him walk over.
"Sydney."
"I wasn't sure if you'd come here tonight but I thought I would take a
chance." The older man looked at him from under his umbrella for
awhile before turning his eyes to the grave. "I waited for you here a
year ago, as well."
"So did the Sweepers," the younger man snorted.
They'd known that he'd be there, that him not coming wasn't an option.
Thanks to their persistence, he'd had to wait for two whole months
before he'd been able to visit her for the first time. She would've
been pissed off at him for making her wait. Patience had never been
one of her strong suits.
"How are you?"
Sydney felt like offering him the cover of his umbrella but Jarod was
already soaked through so there wasn't much point to it. Taking
another look at the haggard figure next to him he tried to suppress
his worry as he waited for his answer.
After Miss Parker's death Jarod's calls had become few and far
between. He no longer dangled clues under their noses and when he did
call he was always quick and to the point. Sydney was afraid that even
those meager contacts would come to an end sooner rather than later.
And when that happened, when Jarod would decide to completely drop off
the map, he, and the Centre, could kiss him good-bye. Without Jarod's
clues there was no hope for them to ever find him.
"Just peachy."
His use of the familiar Parker phrase tugged at Sydney's heart.
"I.. She left me a few mementos in her will. If you'd like, I
could..."
Sydney's voice trailed off as he saw Jarod shake his head.
"No, she wanted you to have those things. I have my own mementos."
Sydney wondered if he'd ransacked her house after Mr. Parker had
closed it down, a week after her death. Then, shrugging a little, he
decided that it was just as well; no one ever went to the house
anymore, so no one would be the wiser.
Buried in their own thoughts the two men stood side by side in the
rain, staring at the small marble angel.
* * *
Two years later
Jarod sat on a park bench, savoring his cone of strawberry ice-cream
and the summer sun blazing down on him. He'd arrived to Montreal three
weeks ago and he was enjoying the sense of freedom being in another
country always gave him. It was as if he could breath more easily
knowing that there was an official border between him and the Centre.
It was all an illusion of course but he felt pretty confident that the
only way the Centre would be able to find him was by accident.
As always, thoughts of the Centre were closely followed by thoughts of
Miss Parker, the two being irrevocably intertwined in his mind. He
still missed her. Her loss had affected him more than he'd ever
thought possible. He'd never denied her importance to himself but he
hadn't been prepared for the persistent emptiness he'd felt inside
ever since her death. She'd been his friend, his nemesis, the object
of his wildest boyhood fantasies. The girl who'd given him his first
kiss. The woman who had chased after him through heaven and hell. And
he'd failed her. He'd never found out who had given the order to
terminate her, and he'd never found the one who'd pulled the trigger.
Sighing, Jarod put on his sunglasses, his eyes were suddenly beginning
to sting from the sun's glare.
After Miss Parker's death his contacts with the Centre had become less
and less frequent. He'd still hack into their network for whatever
information he was after, but his messages to Sydney had become a rare
occasion. The loss of his childhood friend had made Jarod evaluate his
life in a new way, and he'd found it sadly lacking. What was the point
of being outside in the real world, yet not truly live?
That question was part of the reason for his trip to Montreal. He was
on a vacation. The real purpose though, was to decide whether or not
he could actually have a 'real life'. He still wanted to find his
family, he'd never give up that quest, but could he do that and still
have a 'normal' life? Could he settle down, have a home and perhaps,
one day, a wife and children of his own? Could he leave the Centre
behind, in the past where it belonged?
He felt that he was on to a good start. He hadn't been in contact with
the Centre for well over a year now and he knew that the new team
assigned to hunt him down, though more ruthless than Miss Parker's
team had ever been, would never come as close as she had. They didn't
know him as she and Sydney had, they never would. That was part of the
Centre's problem, they valued the wrong kind of people.
Then, setting firmly all thoughts of the Centre aside Jarod tossed the
last of the cone into his mouth and, wiping his hands, got up to
continue his stroll in the park.
Jarod had taken less than a dozen steps when he suddenly saw something
that made his heart first stop, and then twenty seconds later, pound
like a freight train.
It couldn't have been. It was impossible. She was dead.
But if it looked like Parker and if it walked like Parker, how far
fetched was the idea that it actually *was* Parker?
Jarod felt his mouth go dry as he watched the long legged brunette
laugh at something her friend had just said. He couldn't hear the
words, they were too far away, but he doubted he would've heard them
even if they had stood right next to him. All of his attention was
focused on looking at her. Just looking. Absorbing the tiniest, most
minute detail of her being. He'd heard the cliché of the drowning man
and water but never until that moment had he truly grasped everything
the old saying could mean.
He was so absorbed in his worship he almost panicked when the two
women suddenly stopped. He wasn't ready to see if he'd made a mistake.
Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted to continue his private little
fantasy for just a little longer. A few more minutes, that's all he
wanted. It wasn't such a huge thing to ask for, was it? A few more
minutes.
When the women continued their walk a little later, he followed. Come
hell or high water, he had to know.
Hurrying up a bit he caught them in no time. Afraid that if he was
right she would bolt he grasped the brunette's arm, ready to be thrown
to the ground. He still hadn't forgotten Parker's excellent reflexes
or her martial arts skills.
Instead of eating dust he found himself confronted by two pairs of
cold eyes.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Let go of me!"
The brunette tried to yank her arm free of his hold.
"I'm sorry..."
His explanations were cut off by the other woman whose brown eyes
flashed a warning at him.
"Get your paws off her, or I'll call that nice Police officer over
there." She nodded towards a patrol car parked not too far from them.
"Look, I'm sorry. I'm not trying anything, I just..." His voice
trailed off as he found no spark of recognition in the brunette's blue
eyes. "You just really look like someone I used to know."
"And we've never heard that line before", the brown eyed woman
snorted.
Jarod ignored her and concentrated on the brunette. He searched her
face, a face that was identical with Parker's, for any sign of
recognition but found none. His mind raced as he was going through
different options. It wasn't her, just someone who looked exactly like
her. It was her, but she suffered from amnesia. It wasn't her, he was
hallucinating. It was her. Wasn't her.
"Parker..." His voice broke a little as he looked deep into those eyes
which looked so much like the ones he remembered, only less steely.
He knew his time was running out and he tried to find something,
anything, in her that would tell him the truth. Was it her or not?
The brunette finally freed her arm from his now slack hold and she
took a step back, looking at him sincerely if a bit cautiously.
"I don't know anyone called Parker, but I hope you'll find what you're
looking for."
Her voice was Parker's voice. If he imagined her hurling curses at him
he could believe that it was her, back from the grave. But when he
looked at her, those blue Parker eyes told him she'd never seen him
before.
"Come on, Hunter, we'll be late."
Her brown eyed friend took a few steps, and after the shortest
hesitation the brunette, Hunter, followed her, leaving Jarod staring
after them.
Was it her or wasn't it?
Jarod watched the two women walk past the patrol car. Hunter's friend
had turned to look back a few times, probably making sure that he
wasn't following them, but Hunter's steps never wavered, she never
turned around.
Something nagged at the edge of Jarod's usually sharp mind but today
it took him a moment to realize what his brain was trying to tell him.
When he finally got it, a beautiful smile spread across his face.
She didn't look back.
She never looked back.
* * *
That night she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, longing
for a cigarette for the first time in years. Setting the brush down
she stared at her reflection, trying to see what *he* had seen earlier
that day.
Her hair was still the same length even if the style was a tad less
severe than before. Her make-up was a little softer, now, but
basically she still looked the same. She still liked her clothes well
tailored and her heels sky high. She hadn't tried to change herself.
What little difference there was was because she didn't have to put up
an icy, unbeatable front anymore. She had to be careful, yes, but she
wasn't constantly expecting to be stabbed in the back these days.
There was no doubt in her mind that he'd stumbled across her quite by
accident. There was also no doubt in her mind that he'd been following
her for the rest of the day. By now, he would have run a thorough
check up on Hunter Jamison.
Tapping her fingers against the dresser, Miss Parker tried to think of
what to do. She could pick up and leave, start over some place else -
and he could follow her and force her to run forever. Or, she could
stay put and play this thing out - and let him do his worst.
Sighing, she thought she *really* could have used a cigarette right
about then. With a final glance at her own image she then turned away
from the mirror and got ready for bed. Once tucked in, she stared at
the ceiling of her new home, her thoughts a jumble.
It had taken her years to get to the point of leaving her father, the
Centre and everything and everyone else that included. She hadn't had
a big row with anyone to make her finally decide that enough was
enough. No, it had been all the little things amassed together that
had finally prompted her into action. She'd grown tired of all the
secrets, all the lies and half-truths she'd been forced to swallow for
all those years. She'd been tired of her ulcer, tired of chasing
Frankenboy, tired of constantly being second guessed and double
crossed by those who were supposed to be working with her. She'd been
tired of not being able to breathe anymore, not being able to *feel*
anymore. Afraid that she'd soon lose whatever she had left of her
mother. Afraid that it might already have been too late. So, she'd
decided to retire her illustrious career at the Centre.
It had taken her closer to six months to prepare for her exit. The
hardest part had been deciding on how she should die. It had become a
macabre, if somehow amusing, game, trying to plot an unsolvable murder
against herself. Then, there had been the whole process of creating a
new identity, three of them, just to be on the safe side, with
appropriate paper and register trails. Also, knowing she couldn't take
anything with her had created its own problems, but she'd prepared as
carefully as she knew how. Over the years, she'd kept a stash of money
at home. During those six months she'd gradually taken some of her
savings out of the bank, never too much at a time to draw attention,
but when the time finally came she'd had enough cash to comfortably
start a new life. She had also debated for the longest time whether or
not to take her photo album with her but in the end she'd left it
behind. Her father would surely have noticed had it been missing.
Instead, she'd had a copy made of one single picture. One of her
mother as she held her in her arms, smiling towards the camera. That
picture, along with the money, had been the only things she'd been
able to take with her.
And now Jarod was threatening everything she'd managed to build during
the last three years. Well, of the two of them he might be the trained
pretender but she wasn't exactly helpless herself. She'd built a life
for herself, a life she happened to actually *like*, and she'd be
damned if she let Frankenboy make her run. No, she was the hunter, he
was the prey and that's the way she'd always liked it. If it wasn't
broken, why fix it, right?
* * *
It took him two days to approach her again.
The moment she saw him she knew that he knew. The lost look in his
dark eyes was gone, and the old glint was back. That meant that she
had to adjust her approach. The plan of keeping him guessing was out.
Now, it was just the two of them playing a game of pretend, to see
which of them would break the rules of two strangers, first.
Suppressing a smile, she smoothed down her skirt and straightened her
posture.
Let the games begin.
- The End -
There is a sequel: The Game
Author: DCE
Email: geek-tastic AT gmx DOT com
Web Page: http://www.dlc.fi/~dce/fic/index.html
Archive: Nowhere without my written permission.
Disclaimers: All Pretender characters and concept belong to MTM and
NBC Productions. No infringement is intended. This story,
however, is written and copyrighted by me.
Feedback: That's a rhetorical question, right?
PRETEND
by DCE aka ViciousGurl
(c)2000
His thinning silver hair whipped around in the wind as he watched them
pull the car from the river. The grey dawn gave way to the first rays
of the rising sun but nature's efforts were wasted on the man; nothing
could have teared his eyes away from the muddy car. He'd recognized
it, even from a distance, but the licence plate confirmed it beyond
any doubt. Beyond any hope. They hadn't been able to find the body
yet, but he knew it was only a question of when, not if.
Wrapping his long coat more securely against the cold wind, the man
closed his eyes. He could feel the burning of tears prickling in his
eyes, fighting to get free, but this was not the time nor the place.
The tears would have to wait until later, until he was alone.
It was a losing fight but he pretended that it was just the wind in
his eyes watering them. Centre employees didn't cry.
Opening his eyes at last he was surprised to find it was no longer
dusky. It was a beginning of a glorious spring day, and he was weary
to the bone. He was getting old. Too old for scenes like this one. One
could accept the passing away of one's elders, after all, it was the
natural order of things, but losing those young enough to be one's
children... The ones you thought of as your children....
Shaking his head tiredly the man turned his attention back to the car.
They'd gotten it out of the water by now, and for the first time he
could see its shuttered windshield.
Tears forgotten, he could feel anger rising deep in his stomach.
He should have known. Hell, he *had* known. The moment he'd received
the call, he'd known. And yet, he'd hoped. In vain. He should have
known. There was no hope in the Centre.
Staring at the tell tale hole in the windshield, he took a deep
breath, steeling himself. Heads would roll for this, but not before
the inevitable power-struggle. A struggle for the survival of the
fittest.
In cold determination, his lips pressed tightly against his teeth. Not
this time. Not if he could help it. This time, just this once, the
heads rolling would be of the guilty party, not of the losing party.
This would not be brushed under the carpet. They wouldn't get away
with this. Not this.
With one last look at the battered car he turned and walked away.
* * *
He wanted to glance at the people milling around him but he didn't
dare. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the monitor while his fingers
flew over the keyboard. It was better to appear busy and totally
focused on the task at hand than to draw attention to himself.
Especially today.
Despite the beehive-like activity it was eerily quiet. Swallowing
quietly, he tried not to sweat too loudly. The Centre had never been
anyone's idea of a safe haven but now... He shuddered to think of the
coming changes. If he could, if he had the spine, he'd leave. Even
after what had just happened. Especially after what had just happened.
These people, this place, ate everything and everyone alive, not even
bothering to stop to spit out the dry bones once they were finished.
He freely admitted to being a coward. A coward had a better chance at
surviving in the Centre than a self-confessed pitbull. A coward was a
pushover, offering occasional amusement, but inevitably came in handy
when the pitbulls wanted something. A coward was someone to be barked
at. Another pitbull was there to be ripped apart. Literally.
No, he had no problem with being a coward, but sometimes he wished
that he could bite back.
Staring blindly at his screen he concentrated on his breathing,
forcing the threatening hyperventilation back. Taking deep breaths he
tried to think of his daughter, but today even she couldn't help him.
No matter how he tried not to, his mind kept playing the reports he'd
been getting all morning. The reports of the 'accident'.
At first, he hadn't believed them. In a way, he still couldn't. It
seemed so --. He struggled to find a word to describe his feelings but
his mind drew blank. Giving up, he finally stopped trying to sort out
his emotions and simply let them wash over him.
That was a mistake. Once the gates had been opened it was impossible
to stop the flood.
Struggling to his feet he rushed to the men's room, grateful for small
miracles as he found it empty, and locked himself in one of the
cubicles.
Shutting his eyes, he silently rocked back and forth, hugging himself
tightly. He didn't cry, but he could no longer pretend not to hurt as
the Centre nipped off yet another small part of him.
* * *
One year later
His dark hair was plastered to his skull by the trickling rain as he
stood by the grave, still as the marble statue marking the grassy
mound.
It was late and the only lights were in the far distance but he didn't
mind. Darkness felt fitting, somehow. It was fitting that he should
visit her in secret, in the cover of darkness. Hadn't that been the
way he'd always gone to see her? Only, this time he had all the time
in the world, this time he wasn't running from her. He wished that he
still could be chased by her. He wished he could hear the clicking of
her heels right behind him, hear her voice as she cursed him, see her
face as he turned around to wave his hand good-bye.
His dark eyes had lost their mischievous glint the night she'd lost
her life. No matter how many times in the past he'd wished for her to
stop her hunt he'd never thought he'd get his wish like this. He had
never wanted to see her dead, not really. He'd only wanted her to face
the reality about the Centre, the truth about her father. He'd wanted
her to see him as he was, not a lab experiment. He'd wanted her to...
He nipped the thought before it became fully realized. There was no
point to his thoughts. Not anymore.
Burying his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket he
stared at the small angel statue her father had chosen to mark her
empty grave with.
Empty grave - empty life? Did anyone back at the Centre remember her
anymore? Miss her anymore? Did her father ever think of her?
"I'll remember you."
His voice was low and almost inaudible but he knew that she could
still hear his promise. Her grave might've been empty but she'd never
let such a trivial little detail stop herself, not even in death.
The thought brought a small smile on his lips, but it was soon
forgotten as his mind unavoidably turned to those horrible days after
her death.
He knew that Sydney and Broots had done everything they possibly could
have to find out who was responsible for Miss Parker's murder. But,
despite all the evidence they'd uncovered, in a true Centre style her
death had soon been water under the bridge. No use to rock the boat,
so to speak. And, within weeks it had been all business as usual in
Blue Cove, Delaware.
The rage he'd felt back then still burned inside him. It had taken
them hours to find her car that morning, and by the time they'd
located it her body had been swept away by the strong currents. She
never did like wearing the seat belt and when the car had driven off
over the cliff and hit the water the doors had come open, leaving her
to the mercy of the elements.
He'd done everything he could to find out the truth but the Centre
wasn't giving up its secrets. Oh, he knew the how and the when but
even he had been unable to find out the who. Someone had pulled the
trigger of the gun that had fired the bullet which had pierced first
her windshield, then her and finally the back seat of her car. Someone
had given the order to terminate her, someone mighty high in the
Centre's ladder, but he hadn't been able to find a name to match the
faceless bastard.
When he closed his eyes he could still see her face. In his mind her
face looked softer than he'd ever seen it in real life. In his mind
she was happy, her blue eyes sparkling and her red lips turned into a
carefree smile. In his mind he saw her the way she should've,
would've, been had she never even heard of the Centre. But he also
remembered the reality. He remembered her voice on the other end of
the line when he'd call her in the middle of the night. He remembered
the times she'd threatened to shoot him unless he did what she wanted,
the foul smoke of cigarettes she used to enjoy so much. He remembered
the times he'd observed her when she'd thought she was safe from
prying eyes in the privacy of her home. He remembered every little
detail about her.
He missed her.
"I miss her."
He tensed at the voice coming from his left. He'd been buried so deep
in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard him walk over.
"Sydney."
"I wasn't sure if you'd come here tonight but I thought I would take a
chance." The older man looked at him from under his umbrella for
awhile before turning his eyes to the grave. "I waited for you here a
year ago, as well."
"So did the Sweepers," the younger man snorted.
They'd known that he'd be there, that him not coming wasn't an option.
Thanks to their persistence, he'd had to wait for two whole months
before he'd been able to visit her for the first time. She would've
been pissed off at him for making her wait. Patience had never been
one of her strong suits.
"How are you?"
Sydney felt like offering him the cover of his umbrella but Jarod was
already soaked through so there wasn't much point to it. Taking
another look at the haggard figure next to him he tried to suppress
his worry as he waited for his answer.
After Miss Parker's death Jarod's calls had become few and far
between. He no longer dangled clues under their noses and when he did
call he was always quick and to the point. Sydney was afraid that even
those meager contacts would come to an end sooner rather than later.
And when that happened, when Jarod would decide to completely drop off
the map, he, and the Centre, could kiss him good-bye. Without Jarod's
clues there was no hope for them to ever find him.
"Just peachy."
His use of the familiar Parker phrase tugged at Sydney's heart.
"I.. She left me a few mementos in her will. If you'd like, I
could..."
Sydney's voice trailed off as he saw Jarod shake his head.
"No, she wanted you to have those things. I have my own mementos."
Sydney wondered if he'd ransacked her house after Mr. Parker had
closed it down, a week after her death. Then, shrugging a little, he
decided that it was just as well; no one ever went to the house
anymore, so no one would be the wiser.
Buried in their own thoughts the two men stood side by side in the
rain, staring at the small marble angel.
* * *
Two years later
Jarod sat on a park bench, savoring his cone of strawberry ice-cream
and the summer sun blazing down on him. He'd arrived to Montreal three
weeks ago and he was enjoying the sense of freedom being in another
country always gave him. It was as if he could breath more easily
knowing that there was an official border between him and the Centre.
It was all an illusion of course but he felt pretty confident that the
only way the Centre would be able to find him was by accident.
As always, thoughts of the Centre were closely followed by thoughts of
Miss Parker, the two being irrevocably intertwined in his mind. He
still missed her. Her loss had affected him more than he'd ever
thought possible. He'd never denied her importance to himself but he
hadn't been prepared for the persistent emptiness he'd felt inside
ever since her death. She'd been his friend, his nemesis, the object
of his wildest boyhood fantasies. The girl who'd given him his first
kiss. The woman who had chased after him through heaven and hell. And
he'd failed her. He'd never found out who had given the order to
terminate her, and he'd never found the one who'd pulled the trigger.
Sighing, Jarod put on his sunglasses, his eyes were suddenly beginning
to sting from the sun's glare.
After Miss Parker's death his contacts with the Centre had become less
and less frequent. He'd still hack into their network for whatever
information he was after, but his messages to Sydney had become a rare
occasion. The loss of his childhood friend had made Jarod evaluate his
life in a new way, and he'd found it sadly lacking. What was the point
of being outside in the real world, yet not truly live?
That question was part of the reason for his trip to Montreal. He was
on a vacation. The real purpose though, was to decide whether or not
he could actually have a 'real life'. He still wanted to find his
family, he'd never give up that quest, but could he do that and still
have a 'normal' life? Could he settle down, have a home and perhaps,
one day, a wife and children of his own? Could he leave the Centre
behind, in the past where it belonged?
He felt that he was on to a good start. He hadn't been in contact with
the Centre for well over a year now and he knew that the new team
assigned to hunt him down, though more ruthless than Miss Parker's
team had ever been, would never come as close as she had. They didn't
know him as she and Sydney had, they never would. That was part of the
Centre's problem, they valued the wrong kind of people.
Then, setting firmly all thoughts of the Centre aside Jarod tossed the
last of the cone into his mouth and, wiping his hands, got up to
continue his stroll in the park.
Jarod had taken less than a dozen steps when he suddenly saw something
that made his heart first stop, and then twenty seconds later, pound
like a freight train.
It couldn't have been. It was impossible. She was dead.
But if it looked like Parker and if it walked like Parker, how far
fetched was the idea that it actually *was* Parker?
Jarod felt his mouth go dry as he watched the long legged brunette
laugh at something her friend had just said. He couldn't hear the
words, they were too far away, but he doubted he would've heard them
even if they had stood right next to him. All of his attention was
focused on looking at her. Just looking. Absorbing the tiniest, most
minute detail of her being. He'd heard the cliché of the drowning man
and water but never until that moment had he truly grasped everything
the old saying could mean.
He was so absorbed in his worship he almost panicked when the two
women suddenly stopped. He wasn't ready to see if he'd made a mistake.
Not yet. Not just yet. He wanted to continue his private little
fantasy for just a little longer. A few more minutes, that's all he
wanted. It wasn't such a huge thing to ask for, was it? A few more
minutes.
When the women continued their walk a little later, he followed. Come
hell or high water, he had to know.
Hurrying up a bit he caught them in no time. Afraid that if he was
right she would bolt he grasped the brunette's arm, ready to be thrown
to the ground. He still hadn't forgotten Parker's excellent reflexes
or her martial arts skills.
Instead of eating dust he found himself confronted by two pairs of
cold eyes.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Let go of me!"
The brunette tried to yank her arm free of his hold.
"I'm sorry..."
His explanations were cut off by the other woman whose brown eyes
flashed a warning at him.
"Get your paws off her, or I'll call that nice Police officer over
there." She nodded towards a patrol car parked not too far from them.
"Look, I'm sorry. I'm not trying anything, I just..." His voice
trailed off as he found no spark of recognition in the brunette's blue
eyes. "You just really look like someone I used to know."
"And we've never heard that line before", the brown eyed woman
snorted.
Jarod ignored her and concentrated on the brunette. He searched her
face, a face that was identical with Parker's, for any sign of
recognition but found none. His mind raced as he was going through
different options. It wasn't her, just someone who looked exactly like
her. It was her, but she suffered from amnesia. It wasn't her, he was
hallucinating. It was her. Wasn't her.
"Parker..." His voice broke a little as he looked deep into those eyes
which looked so much like the ones he remembered, only less steely.
He knew his time was running out and he tried to find something,
anything, in her that would tell him the truth. Was it her or not?
The brunette finally freed her arm from his now slack hold and she
took a step back, looking at him sincerely if a bit cautiously.
"I don't know anyone called Parker, but I hope you'll find what you're
looking for."
Her voice was Parker's voice. If he imagined her hurling curses at him
he could believe that it was her, back from the grave. But when he
looked at her, those blue Parker eyes told him she'd never seen him
before.
"Come on, Hunter, we'll be late."
Her brown eyed friend took a few steps, and after the shortest
hesitation the brunette, Hunter, followed her, leaving Jarod staring
after them.
Was it her or wasn't it?
Jarod watched the two women walk past the patrol car. Hunter's friend
had turned to look back a few times, probably making sure that he
wasn't following them, but Hunter's steps never wavered, she never
turned around.
Something nagged at the edge of Jarod's usually sharp mind but today
it took him a moment to realize what his brain was trying to tell him.
When he finally got it, a beautiful smile spread across his face.
She didn't look back.
She never looked back.
* * *
That night she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair, longing
for a cigarette for the first time in years. Setting the brush down
she stared at her reflection, trying to see what *he* had seen earlier
that day.
Her hair was still the same length even if the style was a tad less
severe than before. Her make-up was a little softer, now, but
basically she still looked the same. She still liked her clothes well
tailored and her heels sky high. She hadn't tried to change herself.
What little difference there was was because she didn't have to put up
an icy, unbeatable front anymore. She had to be careful, yes, but she
wasn't constantly expecting to be stabbed in the back these days.
There was no doubt in her mind that he'd stumbled across her quite by
accident. There was also no doubt in her mind that he'd been following
her for the rest of the day. By now, he would have run a thorough
check up on Hunter Jamison.
Tapping her fingers against the dresser, Miss Parker tried to think of
what to do. She could pick up and leave, start over some place else -
and he could follow her and force her to run forever. Or, she could
stay put and play this thing out - and let him do his worst.
Sighing, she thought she *really* could have used a cigarette right
about then. With a final glance at her own image she then turned away
from the mirror and got ready for bed. Once tucked in, she stared at
the ceiling of her new home, her thoughts a jumble.
It had taken her years to get to the point of leaving her father, the
Centre and everything and everyone else that included. She hadn't had
a big row with anyone to make her finally decide that enough was
enough. No, it had been all the little things amassed together that
had finally prompted her into action. She'd grown tired of all the
secrets, all the lies and half-truths she'd been forced to swallow for
all those years. She'd been tired of her ulcer, tired of chasing
Frankenboy, tired of constantly being second guessed and double
crossed by those who were supposed to be working with her. She'd been
tired of not being able to breathe anymore, not being able to *feel*
anymore. Afraid that she'd soon lose whatever she had left of her
mother. Afraid that it might already have been too late. So, she'd
decided to retire her illustrious career at the Centre.
It had taken her closer to six months to prepare for her exit. The
hardest part had been deciding on how she should die. It had become a
macabre, if somehow amusing, game, trying to plot an unsolvable murder
against herself. Then, there had been the whole process of creating a
new identity, three of them, just to be on the safe side, with
appropriate paper and register trails. Also, knowing she couldn't take
anything with her had created its own problems, but she'd prepared as
carefully as she knew how. Over the years, she'd kept a stash of money
at home. During those six months she'd gradually taken some of her
savings out of the bank, never too much at a time to draw attention,
but when the time finally came she'd had enough cash to comfortably
start a new life. She had also debated for the longest time whether or
not to take her photo album with her but in the end she'd left it
behind. Her father would surely have noticed had it been missing.
Instead, she'd had a copy made of one single picture. One of her
mother as she held her in her arms, smiling towards the camera. That
picture, along with the money, had been the only things she'd been
able to take with her.
And now Jarod was threatening everything she'd managed to build during
the last three years. Well, of the two of them he might be the trained
pretender but she wasn't exactly helpless herself. She'd built a life
for herself, a life she happened to actually *like*, and she'd be
damned if she let Frankenboy make her run. No, she was the hunter, he
was the prey and that's the way she'd always liked it. If it wasn't
broken, why fix it, right?
* * *
It took him two days to approach her again.
The moment she saw him she knew that he knew. The lost look in his
dark eyes was gone, and the old glint was back. That meant that she
had to adjust her approach. The plan of keeping him guessing was out.
Now, it was just the two of them playing a game of pretend, to see
which of them would break the rules of two strangers, first.
Suppressing a smile, she smoothed down her skirt and straightened her
posture.
Let the games begin.
- The End -
There is a sequel: The Game
