Chapter 1 - Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

It was late at night, and the ancillary personnel that worked in the Sim Lab by day had long since gone home. Sydney moved through the Sim Lab like a well-tailored, silver-haired ghost and turned the ambient light down to minimum before entering his office.

It was another night at the Centre — another night like so many others in many ways. And yet, this night was different. Sydney moved to sit down heavily behind his desk. He was here to retrieve very specific items — nothing more, and nothing less. He pulled out one of the side drawers and extracted from its depths a wooden box that he rarely ever touched. He set the box on the desk, closed the drawer and then took a deep breath before lifting the lid. The grey Smith & Wesson lay silent and lethal against the blue velveteen, the clip loaded and to the side. He'd been issued the weapon during the early days of the Centre, detested it even then, and put the box away where he'd rarely encounter it. He'd actually used it only once, in a futile assassination attempt. He lifted the piece from the box, slid the clip into the handle without chambering a round and then slipped it into his pocket.

With a sigh he set the now-empty gun box aside and then pulled open the lowest drawer to retrieve the metal box in which he kept his life's treasures. Of all the possessions that were scattered throughout the shelves and bookcases of the office, this box and its contents were the only things that held any real sentimental value to him. He didn't need to lift the lid to know what was inside — a hand-made Father's Day card that had been crumpled and thrown away and then carefully retrieved, a complicated piece of origami, a red plastic monkey. These were things that spoke of a relationship that had somehow managed to survive despite his best efforts to maintain distance and objectivity — and despite his longstanding betrayal of the person from whom he'd received each and every one of them.

He leaned his elbows on the desk ahead of him on either side of the box, and then leaned his chin into the palms of his hands while casting his gaze all about the room. His numerous diplomas and certificates of achievement hung in frames on the walls, and the bookcases were groaning with the burden of books on the human psyche and the nature of genius — a couple of them his own work. Yet, none of it meant more to him in real terms than the contents of that metal box. He had file cabinets filled with reports and essays and DSAs cataloguing decades of scrupulous research and note-taking — and yet his life's work, the real one, fit easily into the bottom of a 6 inch by 12 inch by 12 inch metal container.

It was a commentary of sorts on his life, he thought to himself in a fit of brutal honesty. A creature of science, he had come late to the understanding that the true meaning of life couldn't be weighed or measured or documented like a psychological experiment, but only experienced first-hand and then only remembered. The irony of it all, however, was that understanding the true nature behind all those experiences had forced him to face the truth about his own blindness, his own weakness, his own moral capitulation — and the true meaning of THAT as well. The one person from whom he desperately needed forgiveness had once more let him know in no uncertain terms that his actions, or lack of them, could never be forgiven. He'd spent a lifetime's work laying the pathway to his own private Hell one stone after another. The time had come for him to traverse that path — he'd put it off long enough.

He felt no real sadness as he opened the metal box and carefully moved the contents into his briefcase to take with him, away from this office with its diplomas and certificates and research documentation. He would not be coming back here again — and the only things that he couldn't bear to leave behind him for others to find and mock or destroy were that crumpled hand-drawn Father's Day card and the origami and the red plastic monkey. To them he would add a photograph to be collected from his home on the way out of town. They would be his only mementos of nearly forty years of life buried in this lab. They would be all the company he'd need on this last journey.

Of course the others would eventually know that he had left — Miss Parker was far more open to her inner voices than she let on, she would know that things had changed instantly when she came back on Monday. And she'd figure out it was a permanent change when she'd find his office empty with the empty metal box and the empty gun box sitting open on his desk. Broots would eventually figure it out when Miss Parker started searching for him and dragged her tech into the effort. But by then it would be too late. He hoped that his leaving would give Broots the incentive to pull himself free of the emotional and technical quagmire that was involvement with the Centre — but he really seriously doubted it would do much good. Broots would stubbornly remain blindly loyal to Miss Parker, no matter what, bound by a hopeless crush and a severe case of hero-worship — although Broots would never recognize it as such.

He understood some of that sentiment all too well. Once he'd figured out that Jarod was more than capable of maintaining his freedom with very little help from him, he too had stayed because of Miss Parker — bound by a sense of obligation to a long-ago promise. But the time had come to let even her go at long last. Her scathing brush-off that afternoon had convinced him of that. She had chosen the path her life was going to take, and it was not one he could share with her any longer. She had chosen to live with the lies and the deceptions — where he'd finally recognized them for what they were and chosen to walk away at long last. Jacob had long ago wanted him to take this step, even as Catherine had wanted to before her life's path had been chosen for her. In the end, Catherine had begged him to protect her little girl, and he'd done his best considering the circumstances — but that little girl now steadfastly refused to allow him any influence on her life at all. The time had come to leave her to her choices — before the consequences of those choices came home to roost. He couldn't bear to watch that happen, and he knew that the inevitable conclusion was unavoidable at this point.

His gaze brushed past the air conditioning vent and he gave a sad sigh. Angelo. There would be no goodbye on that front, and for a moment Sydney's resolve finally wavered in a moment of indecision. Despite their upbringings and the malignant tampering in their lives that the Centre had perpetuated on Jarod and Miss Parker, both as children and as adults, they had remained relatively sane, stable and functional people. Angelo, on the other hand, had been severely damaged early on and stood no chance whatsoever of surviving outside some sort of institutional setting. Sydney had often felt like Angelo was the third child that Heaven had put under his watch — and for him to just leave like this would be to betray that responsibility. It would be another betrayal in a life filled with them.

But the fact was that Angelo was as functional WITHIN the Centre as Miss Parker or Jarod were outside it — and with his knowledge of the heating, cooling and ventilation systems, he knew how to make himself scarce when he really needed to be. Besides, even if Sydney were to try to protect him, Angelo was officially Raines' project — authority for his disposition was in other hands than his. There was no way to adequately protect Angelo that would justify his remaining behind anymore — and even Angelo's ultimate fate would not be something that Sydney would want to witness. No, the tie to Angelo was simply not strong enough to hold him any longer — not with all the rest completely cut loose now. And the empathic little man would know what was going on and understand what was going through his mind and heart — to say goodbye would be redundant, if not painful for them both.

He snapped the briefcase closed and rose, leaving the metal box open and empty on the desk, along with his Centre-issued cell phone and the empty gun box. When Parker came to work on Monday and later came to find him, as was her habit, it would be a clear message: Ladies and gentlemen, Sydney has left the Centre. He knew what the consequences of that would be once the message had spread to the Tower — and he welcomed it now. He'd lived too long, seen too much, done too much or too little, to worry about his welfare anymore. He more than deserved his fate. But he'd have a few days head start — his absence would draw little attention until it was far too late, and he was counting on that buffer of time. At least he would meet that fate in a place and manner of his own choosing — and in so doing, rob the Centre of its malignant revenge.

He looked about the room, and his eyes landed on the little Plexiglas chess set, sitting as it had been since last he and Broots had relaxed with a game. It was his move, as he remembered. He walked over to the shelf and studied the board, then moved the one pawn to a position that left his entire defense open to quick and decisive slaughter. He chuckled to himself perversely, wondering what Broots would say when he saw the board and figured out what was being said symbolically, then collected the briefcase and walked to the door. One more glance back at thirty-five years of no life to speak of, and he turned off the light and sauntered nonchalantly through the Sim Lab toward the elevator for the last time.

oOoOo

"What?"

"When was the last time you talked to Sydney?"

"Jarod," Miss Parker groaned and then rolled up onto an elbow and peered at the clock on her nightstand. "You're calling me at one-thirty in the morning to ask me…"

"Just answer the question Parker." Jarod's voice was tight and worried. "It's important."

"I left him in the Sim Lab at about five-thirty — quitting time. I assumed he was on his way home…" She pulled the hair out of her face with her fingers. "What's this about? What's wrong?"

"I said some things… to Sydney… this evening…" Jarod began, remorse embellishing his tone, "…and he just… hung up on me. I haven't been able to reach him since."

"What do you mean, he just hung up on you? What the hell did you say to him?"

Jarod sighed. "Suffice it to say that I got angry, OK, and I said a few things without really thinking them through."

"And I should care about this why?" She flopped back into the pillow, feeling like a second string psych worker. "I'm not a therapist, Jarod, especially at this crappy hour of the night. If you want to apologize or get yourself verbally lobotomized, I suggest you talk to Sydney — go wake HIM up."

"That's just it," Jarod burst out. "I've called his home, his cell, his office — no answer at any of them."

Miss Parker frowned. "That doesn't sound like our Freud — Dr. Feel-good never seems to put away his 'The Doctor Is In' sign, no matter what the hour. Especially, I think when it comes to you."

Jarod was silent for a moment, and she knew she'd scored a hit. "Look," he began finally, "I wouldn't normally be asking this, but…"

She sighed. "You want me to go make sure that he's OK? Good God, Jarod — Sydney's a big boy, and he's allowed to turn off all his phones and sulk if you did a good enough job of insulting him this time, don't you think?"

"How often has he turned off all his phones and sulked when YOU insulted him, Parker?" Jarod asked back bitingly.

She had to admit, the Lab-rat had a point. Sydney had always seemed to have a thick skin when it came to receiving personal digs or low blows. How often had he weathered one of her scathing attacks on his manhood with his enigmatic and infinitely patient smile, and still been right there at her side in the next moment, as loyal as ever? "True," she admitted, "but then, how often have YOU actually insulted him openly?"

"Look, we can argue about this later. I wouldn't ask you at all, but I'm not…"

"Uh-huh," she sighed in frustration. "You're nowhere close enough to do the deed yourself."

"Parker, please!"

"OK! OK!" she gave in and began rolling into a sitting position. "I'll go — and when I wake him out of a sound sleep, I'll tell him to give YOU the chewing out."

"I'll call you in an hour," he informed her, then disconnected.

"Son of a bitch!" she spat tiredly, looking longingly at her beckoning pillow. "Son of a bitch!"

oOoOo

Driving down the darkened street towards the housing tract in which Sydney had purchased his home, Miss Parker found herself wishing desperately that she had a cigarette. As she turned and navigated the twisting tangle of lanes, the feeling that something had indeed gone very wrong with her old friend began to mount in the back of her mind. And when she pulled into his driveway to stare into the open garage, with no sign of Sydney's comfortable sedan anywhere, the whine of frantic voices at the back of her mind struck a fevered pitch.

She climbed from her car and, not knowing what to expect, drew her gun from her waistband as she stepped with care and alertness into the darkness of the garage, heading for the interior door. With the garage door open to the world, and the interior door unlocked, the house was an open invitation to plunder — and it ratcheted up her concern levels considerably. Sydney was not the kind of person to deliberately leave himself or his property open to vandalism or looting.

The interior of the house itself was pitch dark — and she reached and fumbled until she found the light switch and flipped it, illuminating the neat kitchen. Her gun led the way into the dining room, twisted first this way and that in case of unexpected company and then led the way out into the front foyer where she found another light switch to flip. The living room was dark, the hearth cold and empty — the house echoed abandonment from every corner. She made her way cautiously upstairs and then searched the bedrooms and the bath, to no avail. Not a thing was out of place — the house was neat and tidy, as if awaiting the return of its owner — but of Sydney there wasn't a single sign. His bed had not been slept in, his clothing still hung in neat arrangement in his closet, his toiletries were still set out on the bathroom counter for daily use — but HE was gone.

Feeling like she was forgetting something, she leaned against the doorjamb and tried to think. She wasn't seeing something, she just knew it — the voices in the back of her mind were screaming at her. Miss Parker straightened and re-entered the bedroom to make a more thorough search — a search for something that was where it wasn't supposed to be, or for something that wasn't where it should be. She searched upstairs and worked her way downstairs again, and it was in the living room that she found the first sign of what she was looking for — a sign that something had been removed that belonged there: a picture. The place where it had obviously hung on the wall for a very long time was readily visible. Not being familiar with the décor of Sydney's house, she couldn't tell of what or whom the picture had been taken, only that one was missing.

Then, on the desk, she finally found what she'd been looking for — a letter on the desk, at first hidden from view by a stack of psychiatric journals, was addressed to her in Sydney's elegant handwriting. She seated herself in Sydney's comfortable leather chair and turned on the desk lamp and, after putting the gun down within easy reach, opened the envelope, pulled out a sheet of writing paper and two other enclosed enveloped notes. Choosing to start with the letter, she began to read:

"Miss Parker —

"By now I'm certain you've figured out that I'm gone — and I assure you that I have no intention of returning. I wish that it could be possible for me to take my leave of you in person, but I know better. Please don't try to find me — you will not like what you discover.

"The time has come for me to step out of your life and away from involvement in Centre intrigues altogether. I should have walked away years ago, but stayed to try to keep a promise I made years ago to your mother to protect you. I now know I cannot keep that promise anymore, and I cannot bear to be there and watch helplessly while the Centre slowly kills your soul as it did mine. You have made your choice to remain amid the deceptions and lies, and I cannot protect you when you refuse to accept my help. Perhaps, however, you will at least do me the courtesy of forgiving an old man for any mistakes he has made in trying to watch over you. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions — and in regards to my actions toward you, I have never had any but the best intentions."

"But Raines and the Triumvirate have been pressing in hard on me to resume the kind of work I can no longer do in all good conscience. I don't know that removing myself from the picture protects anyone other than myself, but I simply cannot allow myself to be a willing participant in the obscenity anymore. Add that to your decision to let the Centre destroy you like it destroyed your mother and Jarod's apparently implacable anger. Then, when you consider the news I just received in the notes I've left for you in addition to all the rest, you should be able to understand I came to the decision that I have nothing left anymore to keep me here. However, I am determined to meet my destiny in a place and time of my own choosing. I refuse to simply sit around and wait for one of Raines' or Lyle's sweepers to do the deed for me…"

She dropped the letter and picked up the two enclosed letters — one from Michelle Stamatis and the other from Nicholas, both dated only days ago. Each person had written essentially to inform Sydney that they were moving on with their lives and had no wish to include him in their plans. Michelle announced her engagement to be married again, while Nicholas told Sydney at length that he needed to find out who HE was on his own, not as his son. They were two gently deadly betrayals — two lovingly worded torpedoes to the heart.

The notes in one hand, she lifted the letter again and blinked against tears to read the end of it:

"I know it is probably too late to say this, but I want you to know anyway that I've always thought of you as the daughter I never had — and I have loved you very much in my own way. I always thought of Jarod as the son I never had as well — and I have loved him too, more than he'll ever know or believe. I also know that neither of you return that affection, and that it's my fault that I allowed that to happen. I thought that by keeping my feelings for the both of you hidden, I could stay close and protect you both from the worst of what the Centre could do to you — and I was so very, very wrong. I can only hope that by taking myself out of the picture in this way, you both will finally find it within you to move on — to do whatever it takes to leave the Centre behind and make new and healthier lives for yourselves.

"I'm sorry for all I've ever done that has hurt you. I'm sorry that this will hurt you too — but it will be the last time, I promise. Whether you wish to believe it or not, it has been a great honor to have known you, Miss Parker. Goodbye.

"Sydney."

Her cell phone chose that moment to chirp at her. She snapped it open. "What in the HELL did you tell him, Jarod?"

"What did you find?" Jarod ignored her question.

"Listen to me — I have what sounds suspiciously like a suicide note in my hand, along with notes from both Michelle and Nicholas essentially telling him to get lost…"

"What?" Jarod was dumbfounded. "Maybe that was why…"

"Why what?" she demanded. "What did you two argue about?"

"But, Parker… that's the thing — we DIDN'T argue. Sydney was in a very strange mood — and he started talking like he did once not long after I escaped. Evidently you'd sent him a box with clippings that spoke of all the uses the Centre had made of my work…"

"I remember." She still couldn't believe how callous she'd been to send her colleague such a damning thing. The hurt she'd caused him that day had haunted her for a long time.

"Anyway, he came to me begging my forgiveness — and I told him that for as long as he couldn't tell me about my mom and dad, that I couldn't forgive him."

"That's cold, Jarod. He didn't know a thing about your parents." Miss Parker just shook her head. "But what does that have to do with what happened tonight?"

Jarod sighed. "He asked for my forgiveness again tonight, right out of the blue — and I told him that I still couldn't forgive; that with few exceptions, he'd betrayed me at every turn, that I could never trust him completely. I… guess I finally vented some of the anger I felt at finding out what had been done with my work — at finding out what the Centre had done to me and to my family — and I blamed him, at length. He listened… and then he just… hung up."

"Well, congratulations, Boy-Genius — you may have driven him to try to off himself." She winced. She'd not exactly been approachable for days either. When Sydney had finally worked up the nerve to very quietly ask for a bit of her time it had been obvious that he was very upset about something. But instead of taking the time to find out what was going on, she'd told him to "go find another mental masturbation partner" just that afternoon. She couldn't admit this to Jarod, but she knew herself to be probably just as much to blame for Sydney's mood as the Pretender was. The suicide note had been addressed to HER, after all… "Where do you think he went?"

"Would he have gone to White Cloud?" Jarod suggested.

"Possibly," she replied, nodding. The fishing cabin up at White Cloud Lake was the one other place that Sydney would feel safe. And, "Jacob's buried up there…"

"You're a lot closer than I am…"

"Where the hell are you, anyway?"

Jarod's chuckle was mirthless. "So you can turn that information over to Sam while you go for Sydney? I don't think so… Leave it to say that I'm several days away, and while I'd be glad to go myself, I don't think I'd make it in time."

"What if he's not at White Cloud, Jarod," she asked in a soft voice, speaking the unthinkable.

"Then we will have lost him," Jarod replied in a shaky voice. "We can't afford to be wrong. He only has a few hours head start on you, Parker."

"I'm on it," Miss Parker said, coming to a decision. "And Jarod?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you hit the panic button. He may be a pain in the ass for both of us, but something tells me that he means a great deal to both of us too. Maybe we need to learn to cut him a little slack. Life hasn't exactly been a cakewalk for him either…"

"Find him for us, Parker," Jarod answered. "I don't think I want to live with myself knowing that I might be the cause of…"

"Give me three hours and then call me again," she directed him. "I should be able to make it to White Cloud by then."

"Good luck, Parker."

"I'll need it. Pray I'm not too late!"

oOoOo

Sydney sat in the dark on the dust-sheeted couch holding his half-full glass of Chivas to his chest and staring into the cold and empty metal fireplace. Through the picture window beyond, he could see the very beginnings of color in the sky that indicated the sunrise was not far away. And once the sun was up, he would be able to see to walk the path to Jacob's gravesite — and his own place to meet destiny face to face. His gun, freshly cleaned and oiled and loaded with a round ready in the firing chamber, lay on the coffee table in front of him — he would pick it up when it was time, but not before.

Also spread on the coffee table in front of him were those precious possessions he'd brought with him to keep him final company as he waited for the sunrise. Arranged where he could see each of them clearly were the Father's Day card, the origami, the monkey, and the picture of Catherine and a young Miss Parker taken during those happier days before the darkness that was the Centre had begun poisoning them all. He saluted them all with his glass and threw back and healthy mouthful of the powerful drink.

He didn't care that he was abusing the fine liquor — he wanted it to make him numb, to take away the pain those precious objects inflicted on his soul so that he'd have the courage to deal with the pain of living in a very final way. This was his third glass, and the pain was now only a faint echo. Another glass and it would be only a memory. He tossed back the rest of the drink and reached unsteadily toward the floor at his feet for the bottle, which he emptied into his glass and then set carefully at the far end of the coffee table. No need to leave any more of a mess than necessary…

Eventually the sound of a car's motor tickled at the edge of his attention, but he was far more interested in the colors that were filling the sky. It was time. He tossed back half of what was left in his glass and reached for the gun.

"Sydney?" There was a knock on the front door of his cabin that began softly and grew in volume. "Sydney? Are you in there?"

He tossed the rest of his whiskey down and set the glass on the coffee table with an angry thud. The LAST thing he wanted to do right now was to deal with her. He'd left her behind at the Centre, where she'd finally been conquered by all the lies — she had no business here, now. "Go away!" he growled loudly enough to be heard and hiccoughed silently. The Chivas had been stronger than he remembered.

"Sydney?" Miss Parker pushed the door open and let herself into the cabin, turning on the light in the entryway and moving in the familiar abode until she stood looking down at him as he sat in the dim light, cradling his gun in his lap. The sight chilled her to the soul even more than his letter had. "Syd," she began again, moving slowly into his line of sight, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Go away, Parker. Go back to the Centre, where you belong." His words were slower and slightly slurred, but his message was clear. He tightened his grip on the gun and then hugged it to his chest. "Leave me alone."

"You know I can't do that, Syd," she purred softly, easing herself down on the coffee table to his side.

"Don't sit there — you're on ma stuff…" he yelled and pushed at her to get her off of the picture frame of Catherine and her daughter. "Go away. I don't want you here."

She complacently moved things aside and sat down again. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily," she shook her head, keeping an eagle eye on the gun in his hand. He had his finger through the trigger — all it would take would be a single mistake, and at that angle the bullet would go straight through his brain. "I got your letter."

"You weren't supposed to find it 'til Monday," he complained, his chestnut eyes glaring blearily at her. "Yer early."

"So sue me," she retorted and moved just a little closer. "Jarod's the one that called me — got me out of bed, in fact — so you can sue him too. He's the one that got worried when he couldn't reach you, and convinced me to do the dirty work to try to find you."

"Hmmph! Jarod." Sydney seemed thoroughly unimpressed and looked away in apparent boredom.

"Sydney, please…" Miss Parker's voice grew soft and pleading. "You said some things in that letter that I want a chance to discuss with you. Please…"

"Too late," he grumbled, shaking his head vehemently and drunkenly. "Nothing to discuss. And as you can see, I FOUND the mental masturbation partner you wanted me to, thank you very much." He patted the gun against his chest clumsily with his free hand. "It's all the company I need now. I don't need you anymore."

She held her breath that the drunken gesture wouldn't tighten that finger on the trigger. "I was wrong, Sydney," she said, reaching out her fingertips to touch his knee. "I should never have said that to you…"

"Doesn't matter anaway now," he mused back and glanced up at the picture window. "The sun's up. Time to go." He put the hand with the gun down at his side in an unsuccessful attempt to push himself to stand.

Miss Parker saw her opportunity and darted forward to put her hand on top of his holding the gun, to press it down harmlessly into the cushion of the couch. Her face came close to his, and she could smell the overwhelming scent of alcohol on his every breath. "Sydney, listen to me. I just… I mean… My mother supposedly killed herself — and Daddy just walked out of a jet plane over the Atlantic. Do I have to lose someone else I care about to suicide too?"

"Hmmm?" The chestnut came up to meet her grey again, and the expression was heartsick and despairing and very, very drunk. "You don't care. Yer just confusing me. You'd rather believe THEM."

"No, Syd," she shook her head. "I don't believe them anymore than you do. Christ, I though you knew me better than that."

"But…" The chestnut eyes grew genuinely confused. "You stay… you keep on…"

"I still need answers," she replied, "and I still need you there."

"No…" The silvered head shook vehemently in disbelief.

"Yes." She put a hand up to his whisker-stubbled cheek. "And Jarod needs you too."

He whipped his face away from her hand. "Now I KNOW yer lying," he growled belligerently and began to work at getting his gun free from her grasp. "Lemme go!"

The gun discharged in the struggle, the bullet shattering the empty whiskey bottle before burying itself in the wall beyond. "For God's sake, Sydney," she cried, then came to a desperate decision. "Oh, Hell!" she shook her head, doubled up her fist and threw all of her weight behind a swift upper cut to his jaw. She heard his teeth snap shut and saw an expression of surprise fill those pained chestnut eyes just before the lights went out and he sagged back, unconscious.

"Aah!" Miss Parker moaned aloud as she shook her hand out, the force of the blow she'd landed echoing up through her wrist to her arm in bone-jarring agony. She straightened him and gently eased him into a supine position with his head resting against the arm of the couch. She reached down for his gun, unloaded it, ejected the next round from the chamber, and tucked it into her waistband at the back with her own. Finally she rose and lifted Sydney's legs up onto the couch so he could be more comfortable, removing his shoes and setting them beneath the coffee table and then dragging the dust-sheeting down from the back of the couch to cover him.

Suddenly, it was as if all the tension of the last few hours drained out of her, and she slumped into a sitting position on the couch near his knees. Dumbly she stared at the items spread across the coffee table, and only after a long moment reached out for the crumpled card and saw what it was. Her brows furled as she touched the origami, remembering the day the two of them had found it in Jarod's quarters in the Centre. Then she saw the photograph, and her eyes filled with tears as she picked it up.

It was a copy of her favorite picture of herself and her mother. This was what Sydney had had hanging on the wall of his living room for so many years — and she'd never known it. She turned and looked at that leonine figure sprawled out on the couch as if she'd never really seen him before. She'd known he was a deep and deep-feeling man — the little secrets of how his life had been so thoroughly screwed over by the Centre had left their mark, but she'd never realized how deeply into his soul each of those wounds had reached. With a jolt she realized that she'd never let him close enough to her that she could get to know HIM at all. All she knew of who he was and how he felt about things was what she'd allowed herself to see or hear at work, or those few times when the lines blurred between his private life and his life at the Centre as one of his little secrets came out. The private man, with his private pains and sorrows, was a stranger.

Well, she was going to take care of him now, until he was safe enough to trust with his own welfare again. She patted his trousers and found where he had stashed his car keys and deftly fished them from the pocket. Then she rose and started pulling dust sheets from the other furnishings and folding them away. As she was folding the last one, her cell phone chirped again.

"What?" she barked into it, then sneezed.

"Did you find him?" Jarod asked without preamble.

"Listen," she hissed back, "I don't give a damn where you are or what pretend you're doing — you get your ass up here NOW. I don't know that I'll be able to handle him alone for very long once he wakes up…"

"What do you mean, once he wakes up?"

"I had to deck him to keep him from taking a gun to himself," she told him ruefully. "And when he finally does come around, he's going to have the mother of all headaches between the sock to the jaw and the fifth of booze he'd put down his gullet by the time I got here. And I damned near broke my hand!" She ran frustrated and still very sore fingers through her hair. "He's given up, Jarod — on us, on life… And I don't think I'm going to be able to put him back together without your help." Jarod was quiet for a very long time. "You still there?" she demanded finally, getting worried.

"I'm still here," he replied in a distracted tone. "But you can't keep him there at White Cloud. As soon as the Centre figures out that he's flipped out, that's going to be the first place they'll think to come looking."

"Shit!"

"Yeah. So, do you think you can get him into your car?"

Miss Parker eyed her old friend calculatingly. He was at least a head taller than she was in her stocking feet, and weighed quite a bit more than she did — and at the moment was dead weight. Still… "I can try, I suppose…"

"Good. Then here's what I want you to do…"

She listened to his instructions, marveling at his ability to put together such a creative plan in such little time and carving each important point into her memory diligently. "And will you be there when I get there?" she asked when he finally paused for a breath.

"This place is roughly halfway in between where you are now and where I am now — if we both leave right away, we should get there at approximately the same time. If I'm not there already, I soon will be."

"And what if he wakes up between here and there?"

Jarod sighed. "Use your best judgement. But if it comes right down to it, and he just won't cooperate with you any other way, deck him again. I'll help you apologize for it later."

"What about the Centre?" she asked suddenly. "They're going to know something's up on Monday morning, when neither Syd nor I show…"

"That's up to you," he replied gently. "What's more important to you?"

She didn't even hesitate. "Damn."

"Good." Jarod had actually been holding his breath. "Get going — and I'll see you in about twenty-four hours. Oh, and Parker?"

"Yeah?"

"Ditch the cell phone and get yourself a new one somewhere on the way. The one you have now is Centre-issue — and probably has a tracking unit in it. Write this number down…"

"Hold it…" she told him and walked into the cabin's kitchen for something to write on and with. "Shoot."

Jarod rattled off a telephone number. "Take the pad with you," he advised. "I just gave you my private cell number, and I don't want it in Raines' hands day after tomorrow. Get rid of the cell somewhere other than there at the cabin. Don't leave them any sign that YOU were there."

"They're not stupid, Jarod."

"No, but they don't need to have everything handed to them on a platter, do they?" he barked back.

"I can't believe I'm doing this…" she suddenly breathed, suddenly realizing that by agreeing to follow Jarod's plan, she would be turning a corner and walking — or rather, running — away from the Centre, away from every familiar part of her life, AND taking Sydney with her. There would be no turning back once she committed to this path — for either of them.

"You can still walk away," he told her carefully. "But it would mean Sydney's death, and you know it."

"I know," she walked back to look down at the unconscious man on the couch. No, there was no way she could stand aside and just let him die — none! "It's just that this is happening so fast — I can't believe…"

"If you think about it too much, you'll back out."

She heaved a heavy sigh. "I'll call you when I have a new cell," she announced and disconnected the call from her end with a perverse smile. Let HIM eat dead air in his ear for a change!

She tucked the phone into her pocket and dropped the dustsheet on the stack of others, then walked back to Sydney's side. She nodded to herself as an idea to make it easier to get him out of the cabin and over to her car came to her, and she pushed the coffee table back with her knees to make room. Then she pulled on the dustsheet until Sydney's body slid off the couch and thumped limply onto the floor of the cabin. She twisted the sheet above his head into a thick coil and then used it as a handle to drag the Belgian's body across the room and out the front door. She took a little more time getting him carefully down the wooden porch steps, keeping his head high enough that only his arms and legs made the small thuds.

But she was puffing with the exertion by the time she had him next to the passenger door of her car, and she hadn't quite figured out how she was going to get him INTO the car. Hanging onto the coil, she opened the door and then pulled the sheet until she could almost prop him up in a sitting position against the running board. It took a great deal of lifting and shoving and pushing and bending, but finally she had him sitting in the passenger seat and belted in place, and the seat reclined back so that he could continue to dream on peacefully in relative comfort.

Miss Parker knew that time was an element, but she also had a little voice in the back of her head reminding her that part of what she needed to take with her was still spread across that coffee table. She had a hunch that Sydney would need those things with him if he were ever to be given back a reason to live. She walked back into the cabin and collected the items and found the briefcase that he obviously had brought them in. As an afterthought, she grabbed up his shoes and cobbled a makeshift pack from a button-down sweater and then tucked a few of the clothes that were obviously his she found in a drawer in the downstairs bedroom into it. Once packed, she grabbed up the briefcase, gave the cabin a quick glance and then pulled the locked door shut tight behind her. She opened the trunk of the car, tossed in Sydney's gun, briefcase and belongings, before climbing into the driver's seat next to her unconscious friend.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered to herself yet again as she gunned the motor and spun the wheels getting back on the small lane that led to the highway. Thirty miles later, she rolled down the window and tossed the cell phone against a brick abutment and watched with satisfaction as it shattered into tiny pieces. She stopped in a small town not far from Dover, found a branch of her bank and withdrew the maximum amount in cash that she could from each of her bank and credit cards. Knowing she'd never be able to use any of them herself again, she left them lying on the small ledge of the ATM machine for anyone less than honest to pick up. Chasing down the thieves trying to use the cards should sidetrack any search efforts for a little while. With over fifteen hundred dollars cash traveling money in her pocket, she put the car back on the highway and set the speed control for only five miles over the speed limit. As anxious as she was to get to her destination, she was in no mood to garner a speeding ticket on the way that would lead the Centre straight to them.