Beginnings, Part Two: Connections
By Andrea Christine
This story is dedicated to those who encouraged me to continue the story told in "Beginnings."
The telephone rang in Sydney's office. "This is Sydney," he answered in his usual calm, lilting manner.
"Sydney! I need to talk to you!" Jarod was clearly upset.
"Jarod, whatever is wrong?" Sydney lowered his voice in order to conceal yet another of his private, forbidden conversations with Jarod, the man whom he was supposed to be hunting.
"I had the strangest dream," Jarod began.
"Dream?" As a research psychologist, the topic of dreams was sure to picque Sydney's interest. "Tell me about it, Jarod."
"I dreamed that I saw the founding of The Centre," Jarod said. "Miss Parker and I were together in Fairbanks, Alaska, at the Roslyn Hotel. It was sometime in the early fifties. She was getting ready for this dinner party and didn't like anything was out of the ordinary. But I had no idea about what was going on."
Sydney grew quiet, listening. He was glad that Jarod was not able to see the mixture of shock and nostalgia in his eyes. "Did you say the Roslyn Hotel?"
"Yes, that was it." Jarod took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But the strangest part was that my mother was there with Catherine Parker. They were only eighteen years old, sitting right across from us. Then Mr. Parker was there; apparentely, the party was being given in his honor. He gave a short speech and then went back to the cigar room with Dr. Raines and a few other men. But that wasn't all... my grandfather was there. General Charles. He was helping them. Also, the bandleader, who was playing the piano, looked just like Angelo. I know it was a dream, Sydney, but my dreams have often led me to the truth. What can you tell me about this night?"
Sydney sighed and stared down at his desk. High-heeled footsteps clicked along the hallway outside Sydney's office. "I have to go," he said quickly, hoping Miss Parker wouldn't overhear anything. "We'll talk again, soon." He hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. Memories flooded his mind, making the present seem like a mere shadow.
"Syd?" Miss Parker sounded furtive. "Do you have a minute?" She peered around the corner to make sure that she was not being followed by Lyle, Raines or anyone else on the sinister staff of The Centre.
"Come in, Miss Parker," Sydney motioned to the overstuffed chair across from his desk, which was usually reserved for visitors, "I need a break from this paperwork as it is."
"I think my inner sense is trying to reveal something," Miss Parker began. "I had a very unusual dream last night."
"A dream," Sydney said to himself, suppressing a wry chuckle.
"That's what I said, Freud," Miss Parker snapped. "A dream. About how The Centre was founded," her voice lowered to a secretive whisper. "I saw it. I was there, somewhere in Alaska when Daddy and Raines started it. The part I really can't believe was that my mother -- along with Jarod's mother -- was there too."
"This is truly bizarre," Sydney stated, a smile threatening to form on his lips.
"What?" Miss Parker was getting annoyed. The two sat in silence for a moment. "You've talked to Jarod, haven't you?"
"Jarod does call me from time to time," admitted Sydney. He left his desk to close the door. "Yes, Jarod did call me, and he had a very similar vision."
"Please, Syd, what can you tell me about this? It has to mean something."
Sydney sighed and leaned back in his chair. He wasn't sure if he wanted to open this can of worms, but Miss Parker already knew too much to let the rest be concealed. It would to be too risky to place a call to Jarod and explain the truth to them at the same time. He would tell Miss Parker now and inform Jarod later, if no one else had already done so. "It was real," Sydney began. "The Centre was founded on the night of March 15, 1953 at a reception held in your father's honor at the Roslyn Hotel in Fairbanks, Alaska..."
* * *
The message that arrived at Jarod's newest hideout read "DREAM TRUE. FAMILY INVOLVED." It was signed with the initials C. J., due to the sender's propensity for Cracker Jacks.
"Angelo," Jarod always spoke fondly of the childhood friend who often helped him by sending clues. "It's exactly what I was afraid of."
Jarod's dreams were continually haunted by the vision of his grandfather at the Roslyn Hotel. He had always pictured his family as random victims of The Centre, individuals whose children had been taken from them because of a rare gift which corrupt people wished to exploit. However, his grandfather's alleged involvement in The Centre, the very place that had stolen his life, shed a whole new light on everything. Even though it was dangerous, Jarod knew he had to contact his father, Major Charles.
"Dad," Jarod was surprised to successfully contact his father on the first attempt. "We need to talk."
Major Charles was concerned. "Is something wrong, son?"
"Not exactly," Jarod hedged. "I need to speak with you in person, the sooner the better. We'll make arrangments another way, since this line may be tapped."
Two days later, Jarod and his father met in a busy sidewalk café in Chicago. Jarod had been able to send a certified letter stating the day and time of their meeting, certain that no one at The Centre would find out.
"What's on your mind, Jarod?" Major Charles asked as they waited for their lunch to arrive.
"I need to know something about our family," Jarod began, showing his father the message from Angelo. "I had a very strange dream that Sydney has all but confirmed to be the truth. Was my grandfather part of The Centre? All I know is that his name was General Charles, he was from Delaware, and he had a son in the Air Force. He looked very much like you."
Major Charles felt the old sense of horror sink further over him with every detail Jarod revealed. "Yes, your grandfather was a general. But I really don't know any more than that." He cleared his throat and looked his son directly in the eye. "We lived in Delaware in the early 1950's, when I met your mother, Margaret Matthews. She lived down the street from us. That's all. There were... rumors about my father and secret organizations, but that's just what they were, rumors. By the time I joined the Air Force, I saw very little of the General. A lot could have gone on that I didn't know about." He shrugged. "Sorry, son." Forgive me, Margaret, he thought.
Jarod nodded, but something didn't feel right. Another dead end.
* * *
"Come on, Broots," Miss Parker crept noiselessly into the computer tech's area. "I just had a talk with Sydney about the dream, and I just know there's something he's not telling me."
Broots groaned inwardly. Whenever Miss Parker had a mission in mind for him, he could bet that he'd end up with sore feet and a permanent bend in his neck from looking over his shoulder. He was flattered, however, that he had been one of the first people in whom Miss Parker had confided her strange dream the day before. "What are we looking for?"
"I told Sydney about the dream," she explained, "and all he would tell me is that The Centre was founded in March 1953 in Fairbanks. Nothing about my mother, nothing about General Charles. There's got to be something in the Archive about this."
"There's got to be something," Broots said. "After all, a place that records every moment of Jarod's life would have to have some account of its own beginning."
"So, Brootsie," Miss Parker used the name that made him cringe, "where can we find this sort of thing?"
"I'll, um, get to it right away," Broots turned to his keyboard and began a search.
Above them, in the air vent, Angelo hummed the tune which the band had played on that fateful night in 1953. "Truth is coming," he said to the empty air around him. "Coming."
* * *
Jarod returned to his hideout alone. Major Charles had to return to Boston as soon as they had finished lunch, leaving Jarod with nagging questions about his grandfather. In the past, Jarod had never doubted his father's word. However, everything in the dream itself and in Sydney's reaction gave him the unexplained knowledge that there was much more to the story.
If his father would not tell him the truth, he would find it on his own.
* * *
The Centre, SL-35
Archive Room
The Centre Archive Room looked as if it had not been inhabited for decades. Piles of papers and film reels lay under a thick coat of dust. Broots sneezed as he opened the door and shone his flashlight into the room. "This must be it," he announced.
Miss Parker surveyed the room and sighed. "OK, Broots, you take that side," she gestured with her flashlight, "and I'll take this end. We'd better hurry, in case anyone comes looking for us."
Most of the material they uncovered was nothing more than a collection of lengthy DSA accounts of various experiments, machinery, medicinal concoctions and other simulations created by Jarod and the few other pretenders held captive by The Centre.
"Nothing," Miss Parker was frustrated.
"I wouldn't say that," Broots aimed his flashlight at a tall blue file cabinet at the back of the room. A label on the top drawer read 1953.
"Looks like we've struck gold." Miss Parker rushed over to the cabinet and opened the drawer. She and Broots stuffed as many film reels and notebooks into the duffel bag which the computer tech had brought along for transporting their find.
"Apparently this was before they invented the DSA," Broots observed.
They were on their way up to their offices when a clanging noise in the overhead air vents signalled that Angelo wanted to talk.
"What is it, Angelo?" Broots asked the empath.
"Use old room," Angelo responded, smiling mischeviously. "Old room has movies."
"What old room?" Miss Parker glanced over her shoulder. The last thing they needed was for Raines or Lyle to discover them getting help from Angelo.
"Come up," Angelo pointed to the vent. "Show you."
"All right," Broots answered cheerfully. He was anxious for a look at the old reels.
Miss Parker groaned. She didn't particularly like the idea of crawling through air ducts on hands and knees with Broots and Angelo, but whatever the reels contained was worth a little discomfort. She climbed in after them.
"See," Angelo said when they had reached the end of the duct "Secret room. Movies."
"It's a vintage tape reel!" Broots exclaimed. "Boy, I haven't seen one of these since the third grade. Miss Martin would show us films about ocean wildlife and spiders. She was my favorite teacher ever. I had a little crush on her..."
"Save the stories, Broots." Miss Parker wasn't up to one of Broots' tangents. "Let's see the film."
Levels above the film room, Sydney was sitting quietly in his office, cleary reminiscing about the past. He reached into his drawer, pulled a DSA out of the hidden strongbox and slipped it into the player. The scene which filled the screen was the very same which Miss Parker, Broots and Angelo were watching in the film room.
"Wow," Broots exclaimed, turning to Miss Parker. "This is just like what you told me."
"Music," Angelo said, pointing at the screen, which depicted the orchestra at the Roslyn Hotel in black-and-white. The camera focused on the pianist-bandleader, then on the men giving speeches in Mr. Parker's honor.
"It's the same thing, word for word." Even though Miss Parker had become rather accustomed to her inner sense, the complete accuracy of the dream was startling. After her father's speech, the men filed out to the cigar room while the rest of the crowd began to dance to the music of the orchestra.
"Isn't that your mother?" Broots asked, smiling. "Over to the left."
Miss Parker squinted. The film was rather grainy, but it wasn't hard to find Catherine in the crowd, as her long, dark hair made her stand out. She was dancing with a man they did not recognize. "That's her."
The camera turned toward the orchestra, where the bandleader was directing his musicians. Angelo was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, in rapt attention. "Like Angelo," he spoke of the bandleader.
"Was he your father?" Broots was curious.
Angelo didn't answer, but the expression on his face showed the answer as he watched the man on the screen. "Music," Angelo said, in a state of pure delight.
A familiar image flashed across the screen as the film ended.
"Go back, Broots. What was that?" Miss Parker couldn't believe what she had just seen.
Broots set the screen in slow motion as the film's last few seconds appeared again. Half-hidden behind the bandleader was the saxophone section, where a younger Sydney was standing, playing his horn.
* * *
The sun was setting over Chicago as Jarod turned his computer on and started working fervently to crack the code of the local cellular network. It would be easier to convince his father to reveal the truth if there was no chance that the call would be monitored.
* * *
"Sydney," Miss Parker strode into Syd's office, trailed by Broots. "I need to talk to you."
"Come in, Miss Parker, Broots." The older man stood up and put his hands in his pockets. "I had a feeling that you would want to see me."
"There's no easy way to ask this," Broots began, nervously shuffling his feet. "We saw some film taken in Fairbanks on March 15, 1953, and you were there."
"In the band," Miss Parker added. "Care to tell us why you didn't bring this up earlier?"
Sydney closed his eyes, remembering. "I didn't tell you because, on that night, I had no idea about who your father was or what he and his associates were doing. I was just a man in the band."
"Just a man in the band?" Miss Parker was incredulous. "Come on, Syd. You really expect us to fall for that?"
"It's true, Miss Parker." Syd sat down and opened a desk drawer. He briefly rifled through its contents, finding a small black-and-white picture. "Here."
Miss Parker picked up the photo to examine it. A big band consisting of fifteen men were assembled on a bandstand. As was customary, the name of the bandleader was written on the trap set. Timothy Thompson. "T.T.," she said under her breath. Sh e nearly asked if he could have been related to Dr. Tommy Thompson, Centre research doctor, but she kept silent, letting Syd continue.
"I started to play the saxophone as soon as Jacob and I arrived in America after the war. I needed to get away from the music that made me homesick and reminded me of our parents, so I chose the instrument in order to play popular music. By the early fifties, I was playing to help pay for medical school. I met Timothy Thompson in 1952 and joined his band for a few months. We were there in Alaska that night at the Roslyn Hotel. That's..." Syd paused for a moment, a smile forming on his lips, "all that happened." As he spoke of that distant night, it was as if he was once again near the woman he had loved all his life, the woman he had met in Fairbanks.
* * *
"Dad," Jarod spoke freely, having achieved anonimity for a few precious moments. "Please tell me the truth about what happened with the General in Alaska. The line is safe, but it won't be for long."
Major Charles sighed, resigned to tell his son everything. "I'm sorry I wasn't forthright earlier, Jarod. Your grandfather did help found The Centre. That's part of the reason you were taken. He took a sample of my blood used for testing in the Air Force and determined that I had the potential to father a prodigous child. My father also wanted me to join him in The Centre's work. I refused, but he kept insisting that I become part of his organization. Your mother and I were going to move the family to a secret location, away from my father and The Centre, but it was too late. You were taken the week before we were to leave. Even after we went to the farm in New York, they still found Kyle. I still blame myself. If I had only moved the family sooner..."
Jarod was shocked. He couldn't believe what he had heard, but they needed to end the conversation soon. It was hard to find his voice. "Thanks, Dad. I know how hard it must be for you to tell me this, but I needed to know. We'll talk again soon."
They hung up and Jarod sat alone in the dark, contemplating this discovery. It made him sick to think that his own family was involved in something as depraved as The Centre. One phrase continued to echo in his mind... his organization... his organization. Was it possible that General Charles had taken a larger role in The Centre's work, beyond its establishment?
To Be Continued. . .
By Andrea Christine
This story is dedicated to those who encouraged me to continue the story told in "Beginnings."
The telephone rang in Sydney's office. "This is Sydney," he answered in his usual calm, lilting manner.
"Sydney! I need to talk to you!" Jarod was clearly upset.
"Jarod, whatever is wrong?" Sydney lowered his voice in order to conceal yet another of his private, forbidden conversations with Jarod, the man whom he was supposed to be hunting.
"I had the strangest dream," Jarod began.
"Dream?" As a research psychologist, the topic of dreams was sure to picque Sydney's interest. "Tell me about it, Jarod."
"I dreamed that I saw the founding of The Centre," Jarod said. "Miss Parker and I were together in Fairbanks, Alaska, at the Roslyn Hotel. It was sometime in the early fifties. She was getting ready for this dinner party and didn't like anything was out of the ordinary. But I had no idea about what was going on."
Sydney grew quiet, listening. He was glad that Jarod was not able to see the mixture of shock and nostalgia in his eyes. "Did you say the Roslyn Hotel?"
"Yes, that was it." Jarod took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But the strangest part was that my mother was there with Catherine Parker. They were only eighteen years old, sitting right across from us. Then Mr. Parker was there; apparentely, the party was being given in his honor. He gave a short speech and then went back to the cigar room with Dr. Raines and a few other men. But that wasn't all... my grandfather was there. General Charles. He was helping them. Also, the bandleader, who was playing the piano, looked just like Angelo. I know it was a dream, Sydney, but my dreams have often led me to the truth. What can you tell me about this night?"
Sydney sighed and stared down at his desk. High-heeled footsteps clicked along the hallway outside Sydney's office. "I have to go," he said quickly, hoping Miss Parker wouldn't overhear anything. "We'll talk again, soon." He hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. Memories flooded his mind, making the present seem like a mere shadow.
"Syd?" Miss Parker sounded furtive. "Do you have a minute?" She peered around the corner to make sure that she was not being followed by Lyle, Raines or anyone else on the sinister staff of The Centre.
"Come in, Miss Parker," Sydney motioned to the overstuffed chair across from his desk, which was usually reserved for visitors, "I need a break from this paperwork as it is."
"I think my inner sense is trying to reveal something," Miss Parker began. "I had a very unusual dream last night."
"A dream," Sydney said to himself, suppressing a wry chuckle.
"That's what I said, Freud," Miss Parker snapped. "A dream. About how The Centre was founded," her voice lowered to a secretive whisper. "I saw it. I was there, somewhere in Alaska when Daddy and Raines started it. The part I really can't believe was that my mother -- along with Jarod's mother -- was there too."
"This is truly bizarre," Sydney stated, a smile threatening to form on his lips.
"What?" Miss Parker was getting annoyed. The two sat in silence for a moment. "You've talked to Jarod, haven't you?"
"Jarod does call me from time to time," admitted Sydney. He left his desk to close the door. "Yes, Jarod did call me, and he had a very similar vision."
"Please, Syd, what can you tell me about this? It has to mean something."
Sydney sighed and leaned back in his chair. He wasn't sure if he wanted to open this can of worms, but Miss Parker already knew too much to let the rest be concealed. It would to be too risky to place a call to Jarod and explain the truth to them at the same time. He would tell Miss Parker now and inform Jarod later, if no one else had already done so. "It was real," Sydney began. "The Centre was founded on the night of March 15, 1953 at a reception held in your father's honor at the Roslyn Hotel in Fairbanks, Alaska..."
* * *
The message that arrived at Jarod's newest hideout read "DREAM TRUE. FAMILY INVOLVED." It was signed with the initials C. J., due to the sender's propensity for Cracker Jacks.
"Angelo," Jarod always spoke fondly of the childhood friend who often helped him by sending clues. "It's exactly what I was afraid of."
Jarod's dreams were continually haunted by the vision of his grandfather at the Roslyn Hotel. He had always pictured his family as random victims of The Centre, individuals whose children had been taken from them because of a rare gift which corrupt people wished to exploit. However, his grandfather's alleged involvement in The Centre, the very place that had stolen his life, shed a whole new light on everything. Even though it was dangerous, Jarod knew he had to contact his father, Major Charles.
"Dad," Jarod was surprised to successfully contact his father on the first attempt. "We need to talk."
Major Charles was concerned. "Is something wrong, son?"
"Not exactly," Jarod hedged. "I need to speak with you in person, the sooner the better. We'll make arrangments another way, since this line may be tapped."
Two days later, Jarod and his father met in a busy sidewalk café in Chicago. Jarod had been able to send a certified letter stating the day and time of their meeting, certain that no one at The Centre would find out.
"What's on your mind, Jarod?" Major Charles asked as they waited for their lunch to arrive.
"I need to know something about our family," Jarod began, showing his father the message from Angelo. "I had a very strange dream that Sydney has all but confirmed to be the truth. Was my grandfather part of The Centre? All I know is that his name was General Charles, he was from Delaware, and he had a son in the Air Force. He looked very much like you."
Major Charles felt the old sense of horror sink further over him with every detail Jarod revealed. "Yes, your grandfather was a general. But I really don't know any more than that." He cleared his throat and looked his son directly in the eye. "We lived in Delaware in the early 1950's, when I met your mother, Margaret Matthews. She lived down the street from us. That's all. There were... rumors about my father and secret organizations, but that's just what they were, rumors. By the time I joined the Air Force, I saw very little of the General. A lot could have gone on that I didn't know about." He shrugged. "Sorry, son." Forgive me, Margaret, he thought.
Jarod nodded, but something didn't feel right. Another dead end.
* * *
"Come on, Broots," Miss Parker crept noiselessly into the computer tech's area. "I just had a talk with Sydney about the dream, and I just know there's something he's not telling me."
Broots groaned inwardly. Whenever Miss Parker had a mission in mind for him, he could bet that he'd end up with sore feet and a permanent bend in his neck from looking over his shoulder. He was flattered, however, that he had been one of the first people in whom Miss Parker had confided her strange dream the day before. "What are we looking for?"
"I told Sydney about the dream," she explained, "and all he would tell me is that The Centre was founded in March 1953 in Fairbanks. Nothing about my mother, nothing about General Charles. There's got to be something in the Archive about this."
"There's got to be something," Broots said. "After all, a place that records every moment of Jarod's life would have to have some account of its own beginning."
"So, Brootsie," Miss Parker used the name that made him cringe, "where can we find this sort of thing?"
"I'll, um, get to it right away," Broots turned to his keyboard and began a search.
Above them, in the air vent, Angelo hummed the tune which the band had played on that fateful night in 1953. "Truth is coming," he said to the empty air around him. "Coming."
* * *
Jarod returned to his hideout alone. Major Charles had to return to Boston as soon as they had finished lunch, leaving Jarod with nagging questions about his grandfather. In the past, Jarod had never doubted his father's word. However, everything in the dream itself and in Sydney's reaction gave him the unexplained knowledge that there was much more to the story.
If his father would not tell him the truth, he would find it on his own.
* * *
The Centre, SL-35
Archive Room
The Centre Archive Room looked as if it had not been inhabited for decades. Piles of papers and film reels lay under a thick coat of dust. Broots sneezed as he opened the door and shone his flashlight into the room. "This must be it," he announced.
Miss Parker surveyed the room and sighed. "OK, Broots, you take that side," she gestured with her flashlight, "and I'll take this end. We'd better hurry, in case anyone comes looking for us."
Most of the material they uncovered was nothing more than a collection of lengthy DSA accounts of various experiments, machinery, medicinal concoctions and other simulations created by Jarod and the few other pretenders held captive by The Centre.
"Nothing," Miss Parker was frustrated.
"I wouldn't say that," Broots aimed his flashlight at a tall blue file cabinet at the back of the room. A label on the top drawer read 1953.
"Looks like we've struck gold." Miss Parker rushed over to the cabinet and opened the drawer. She and Broots stuffed as many film reels and notebooks into the duffel bag which the computer tech had brought along for transporting their find.
"Apparently this was before they invented the DSA," Broots observed.
They were on their way up to their offices when a clanging noise in the overhead air vents signalled that Angelo wanted to talk.
"What is it, Angelo?" Broots asked the empath.
"Use old room," Angelo responded, smiling mischeviously. "Old room has movies."
"What old room?" Miss Parker glanced over her shoulder. The last thing they needed was for Raines or Lyle to discover them getting help from Angelo.
"Come up," Angelo pointed to the vent. "Show you."
"All right," Broots answered cheerfully. He was anxious for a look at the old reels.
Miss Parker groaned. She didn't particularly like the idea of crawling through air ducts on hands and knees with Broots and Angelo, but whatever the reels contained was worth a little discomfort. She climbed in after them.
"See," Angelo said when they had reached the end of the duct "Secret room. Movies."
"It's a vintage tape reel!" Broots exclaimed. "Boy, I haven't seen one of these since the third grade. Miss Martin would show us films about ocean wildlife and spiders. She was my favorite teacher ever. I had a little crush on her..."
"Save the stories, Broots." Miss Parker wasn't up to one of Broots' tangents. "Let's see the film."
Levels above the film room, Sydney was sitting quietly in his office, cleary reminiscing about the past. He reached into his drawer, pulled a DSA out of the hidden strongbox and slipped it into the player. The scene which filled the screen was the very same which Miss Parker, Broots and Angelo were watching in the film room.
"Wow," Broots exclaimed, turning to Miss Parker. "This is just like what you told me."
"Music," Angelo said, pointing at the screen, which depicted the orchestra at the Roslyn Hotel in black-and-white. The camera focused on the pianist-bandleader, then on the men giving speeches in Mr. Parker's honor.
"It's the same thing, word for word." Even though Miss Parker had become rather accustomed to her inner sense, the complete accuracy of the dream was startling. After her father's speech, the men filed out to the cigar room while the rest of the crowd began to dance to the music of the orchestra.
"Isn't that your mother?" Broots asked, smiling. "Over to the left."
Miss Parker squinted. The film was rather grainy, but it wasn't hard to find Catherine in the crowd, as her long, dark hair made her stand out. She was dancing with a man they did not recognize. "That's her."
The camera turned toward the orchestra, where the bandleader was directing his musicians. Angelo was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, in rapt attention. "Like Angelo," he spoke of the bandleader.
"Was he your father?" Broots was curious.
Angelo didn't answer, but the expression on his face showed the answer as he watched the man on the screen. "Music," Angelo said, in a state of pure delight.
A familiar image flashed across the screen as the film ended.
"Go back, Broots. What was that?" Miss Parker couldn't believe what she had just seen.
Broots set the screen in slow motion as the film's last few seconds appeared again. Half-hidden behind the bandleader was the saxophone section, where a younger Sydney was standing, playing his horn.
* * *
The sun was setting over Chicago as Jarod turned his computer on and started working fervently to crack the code of the local cellular network. It would be easier to convince his father to reveal the truth if there was no chance that the call would be monitored.
* * *
"Sydney," Miss Parker strode into Syd's office, trailed by Broots. "I need to talk to you."
"Come in, Miss Parker, Broots." The older man stood up and put his hands in his pockets. "I had a feeling that you would want to see me."
"There's no easy way to ask this," Broots began, nervously shuffling his feet. "We saw some film taken in Fairbanks on March 15, 1953, and you were there."
"In the band," Miss Parker added. "Care to tell us why you didn't bring this up earlier?"
Sydney closed his eyes, remembering. "I didn't tell you because, on that night, I had no idea about who your father was or what he and his associates were doing. I was just a man in the band."
"Just a man in the band?" Miss Parker was incredulous. "Come on, Syd. You really expect us to fall for that?"
"It's true, Miss Parker." Syd sat down and opened a desk drawer. He briefly rifled through its contents, finding a small black-and-white picture. "Here."
Miss Parker picked up the photo to examine it. A big band consisting of fifteen men were assembled on a bandstand. As was customary, the name of the bandleader was written on the trap set. Timothy Thompson. "T.T.," she said under her breath. Sh e nearly asked if he could have been related to Dr. Tommy Thompson, Centre research doctor, but she kept silent, letting Syd continue.
"I started to play the saxophone as soon as Jacob and I arrived in America after the war. I needed to get away from the music that made me homesick and reminded me of our parents, so I chose the instrument in order to play popular music. By the early fifties, I was playing to help pay for medical school. I met Timothy Thompson in 1952 and joined his band for a few months. We were there in Alaska that night at the Roslyn Hotel. That's..." Syd paused for a moment, a smile forming on his lips, "all that happened." As he spoke of that distant night, it was as if he was once again near the woman he had loved all his life, the woman he had met in Fairbanks.
* * *
"Dad," Jarod spoke freely, having achieved anonimity for a few precious moments. "Please tell me the truth about what happened with the General in Alaska. The line is safe, but it won't be for long."
Major Charles sighed, resigned to tell his son everything. "I'm sorry I wasn't forthright earlier, Jarod. Your grandfather did help found The Centre. That's part of the reason you were taken. He took a sample of my blood used for testing in the Air Force and determined that I had the potential to father a prodigous child. My father also wanted me to join him in The Centre's work. I refused, but he kept insisting that I become part of his organization. Your mother and I were going to move the family to a secret location, away from my father and The Centre, but it was too late. You were taken the week before we were to leave. Even after we went to the farm in New York, they still found Kyle. I still blame myself. If I had only moved the family sooner..."
Jarod was shocked. He couldn't believe what he had heard, but they needed to end the conversation soon. It was hard to find his voice. "Thanks, Dad. I know how hard it must be for you to tell me this, but I needed to know. We'll talk again soon."
They hung up and Jarod sat alone in the dark, contemplating this discovery. It made him sick to think that his own family was involved in something as depraved as The Centre. One phrase continued to echo in his mind... his organization... his organization. Was it possible that General Charles had taken a larger role in The Centre's work, beyond its establishment?
To Be Continued. . .