dayglo_parker@yahoo.com
PART SEVEN
The light from Parker's flashlight danced in front of her as the pair ran. In the darkness, the end of the tunnel never seemed to come; no matter how hard or fast she ran, it was static in its distance away, an unreachable goal. All around them, the dates of the test specimens were growing closer to the present, the details of their grosteque features no doubt becoming more and more human. What kind of atrocities had been committed here, in the name of science and the continuation of the Centre? Behind her, Parker heard the thud of sweepers on the packed earth, their footsteps mingling with the pleas of "stop!" For a moment, she thanked the stars the tunnel was the length of a football field, keeping some distance between the pair and the sweepers.
Jarod had already reached the exit door when she arrived, and she found him banging mercilessly on its steel structure, yelling. The action didn't quite register with Parker, however; her attention was caught on the wall. She had found it--the final specimen in a line of hundreds. Its date--a little over two years before--hung unassuming in the file number. In her mind, another revelation fell into place, only confirming what she had known all along. That...that she knew who Prometheus was.
In the distance, the sweepers were getting closer.
Vaguely she heard the steel door depressurizing -- opening -- but her mind and body were consumed by other activities. Parker pulled open the file drawer, removing the folder within. She found it considerably heavier and thicker than the others; this, she realized, was success. In the realization, she froze, unable to open the folder...unable to face the scientific detachment contained in its reports and evaluations.
Parker felt the urgent tug on her arm, jolting back to the reality of the crowded Colorado tunnel. Jarod was grabbing hold on her sleeve, and in an instant she was thrust into the light of the abandoned aircraft hanger. Before her eyes were assailed by the immense brightness, however, they registered the small blue box attached silently the tunnel wall. A blue box! Her memory tucked the observation away in her brain for safekeeping.
Instead she blindly stumbled forward, unaware--and uncaring--of where they were heading. She made out the form of a third person, and heard a voice vaguely recognized, leading them away from the tunnel, but with sweepers on their trail she didn't question the act of generosity. For the moment, she placed an odd sense of trust in Jarod and his friend. Right then she was glad sweepers weren't there to greet her and finish the job her brother had started.
Someone was pushing her into a black unmarked helicopter; the ground was slowly retreating from view as they lifted up into the crisp Colorado air. Now she took the time to spy her savior, sitting quietly in the pilot's seat, and found him sharing a fatherly grin with Jarod.
"Major Charles," Parker said bluntly, letting the surprise seep into her voice.
She imagined he would have craned his neck to spy her had he had the opportunity, but his position as helicopter pilot only allowed him a sideways glance at his son before he answered. Charles countered, "Miss Parker."
The introduction was, of course, awkward. How could it not? She was his son's pursuer, the representation of everything his family had been running from. Now he was helping her? Parker's most vivid memory of Jarod's father was staring down a gun barrel as he sat tied to a chair, beaten and ever defiant. She imagined a long talk was in order once they were safely out of immediate danger.
Then a familiar feeling washed over Parker: yet again, she had no idea where the helicopter was heading. Except this time, she took pleasure in knowing that Jarod probably didn't either.
*
The strong man he seemed, he was dreading the phone call he was about to make.
"Yes?" a familiar voice rasped.
"We lost them sir." Adding, "I'm sorry."
He heard the old man cursed under his breath.
"Don't make excuses, Ari," Raines hissed, his voice like acid. "You failed."
He tried not to sound desperate. "They had help, sir," he said, watching the black dot retreating south in the sky. "Headed somewhere south."
"Major Charles?"
"I believe so, sir."
"Find them." There was no room to move or breath in Raines' ultimatum, and Ari didn't want to imagine the possibilities that would arise should he fail. Unlike the woman he pursued, he didn't have a father fighting for him, making excuses when he failed to do as he was told. He knew that failure to comply would get him a bullet between the eyes.
He agreed and was about to hang up when the old man added to his orders. "Kill the Major if you have to, but I want those two alive."
"Yes, sir."
*
Broots found Sydney staring into space in his office. To be honest, he wasn't sure if the psychiatrist had even left that room since Broots had last seen him. Instead, the aging man was leaning back in his chair, contemplating a thought in a point in space that Broots was unaware of. He could, however, guess the people that might have been on his mind. Broots would be lying if he said their disappearances hadn't bothered him the past few days.
Gently, the technician rapped on the doorframe, and gasped a bit when Sydney jumped almost a mile.
"I'm sorry, Sydney. I didn't mean to startle you." Broots cautiously stepped into the office, conditioned to be humble after years of training from Miss Parker. Sometimes he forgot to tell the difference between her and Sydney.
Unlike Parker, the psychiatrist smiled warmly. "I was just thinking..." his voice trailed off.
About Jarod, Broots filled in on his mind. His eyebrows shot up. "I think I, um, might have...found them."
This got Sydney's attention. A part of Broots' heart couldn't help but break as he heard the hope in his voice. "Are you sure?"
Broots quickly took the seat in front of Sydney's desk, his eyes pausing briefly on the open DSA case. "I, um, intercepted an order for a Priority sweeper team dispatched somewhere in Colorado. They left about a half hour ago."
Priority, the Centre's elite team of sweepers. On call almost twenty-four hours a day, they could be across the country in under an hour; with teams on the East and West coasts as well as the Midwest, nothing was out of their reach. Not many people had the authority to order a Priority, and recent events had dwindled that list to only a short few.
"Priority," Sydney said, rolling the word over in his mouth. His eyes were glowing. "It has to be Jarod! Raines wouldn't spare the effort now if it wasn't." After a moment, he added, "But why Colorado? Maybe Jarod and Miss Parker found a safe house."
"For what it's worth, there's no evidence in the Centre mainframe of any Centre-owned property in Colorado."
Sydney chuckled, shaking his head. "Not everything is in the Centre mainframe, Broots."
Good point, he added to himself. Silence fell between the two men, and Broots remembered the manilla folder he was holding in his hands. Slowly he placed it on the desk, not opening it or making any indication towards it. Sydney's eyes caught it, but he made no effort to open it.
"I, uh..." Broots paused, "I finished the decryption." Still, Sydney was silent. "There really isn't the detailed description I was expecting, just transcripts, mostly of phone conversations. Almost every single mentions Jarod, not surprisingly most of them are between Miss Parker and Jarod. To be honest, Sydney, I really didn't know how much contact those two were in. I mean, I know he called her every once and a while, but the stuff they talk about sometimes..."
The psychiatrist was staring, and Broots realized he was rambling. "Um, sorry."
Sydney asked simply, "What did you find?"
"That's the thing," Broots replied, leaning closer to Sydney and lowering his voice, "I'm not sure if I'm drawing the right conclusions. I mean...I think...that is...somehow, someone was under the belief that Miss Parker might be...collaborating with Jarod. Purposely delaying bringing him in."
The psychiatrist was shaking his head softly. "Not true."
"I know," he replied, "but someone sure thought so." Sydney's eyes were narrowing -- he was interested. Broots opened the folder finally, pulling the top sheet out and handing it to Sydney. "This was the most heavily encrypted and, incidentally, the oldest file."
Sydney put on his reading glasses and skimmed over the conversation, reading the words exchanged about Parker's father. He threw the sheet down in mild disgust. "This proves nothing."
"I never said it did," Broots said in his own defense. He was uncomfortable broaching the next question. "Syd, did Miss Parker ever, you know, talk about her experience with Jarod in December? About what happened to her father?"
The smile on Sydney's face was warm. He understood that Broots only meant to best. "You know I'd never betray a confidence, Broots, especially Miss Parker, but," pausing, "I've always sensed there was something more than she told us."
Broots remembered chillingly Parker's return after her excursion to Carthis Island. Her responses to queries about her state of health were short--at least, shorter than usual--and she seemed distracted. After Raines' ultimatum about Lyle and Jarod, she opened up--at least, as open as Miss Parker got. In the darkness of Sydney's office and nursing a second scotch, she told in chilling detail how her great-grandfather burned his entire family alive and moved to America to found the Centre. She talked about the adventure on the airplane, about her father jumping ship with his arms tightly wrapped around the box of scrolls. But that was where she stopped, and neither Broots nor Sydney pursued the hesitation.
"Do you think something happened?" Broots asked. "Between Jarod and Miss Parker, that is."
Sydney didn't answer, only stared at the transcript he had abandoned on his desk.
*
Parker hadn't eaten much in the last few days, just a bite or two here and there on her escape from New York City, and now it was taking its toll on her psyche and physical condition. Besides the adrenaline crash, her concentration was shaking, her vision was blurring, and her muscles felt weighted. Even the gentle touchdown on the helicopter on the ground sent her head spinning. God, she was hungry.
The helicopter door slid open, revealing the piercing light of morning. Though hidden from view, a single hand reached into the cabin, and without thinking, Parker grabbed it. Her balance faulted as her feet hit the ground, and she found Jarod's hands steadying her arms. He flashed her a half-smile. "You OK?" he asked cautiously.
"I'm fine," she answered coolly, trying to maintain her detached demeanor. Pushing past him, she added, "I just need some damn food." Behind her, she thought she heard Jarod laughing.
Major Charles appeared from inside the house and produced a shiny red apple. He offered it to Parker silently, and she guessed he was either psychic or he had overheard her brief exchange with Jarod. Her stomach growled in anticipation of the object, and she could hardly muster the strength to refuse. She took the apple from his hand, and watched the Major stroll back towards his son.
Jarod was retrieving the Haliburton from the luggage compartment of the helicopter (which his father had graciously recovered before their rescue) when his father stopped by his side. "Feisty," he said of Parker.
Jarod glanced at her before answering. She was examining the mid-sized house, glaring up at an open second-story. Jarod agreed, "Yes, she is." In his mind, he made the mental note to check her bandage when he got the opportunity...if she even allowed him to.
"And you're sure there isn't a catch to all of this?"
Jarod stood, disbelieving what his father had just uttered. Of course, he understood why his father might have been hesitant about her, but beyond that feeble grasp, he didn't know what to think. "They shot at her, Dad!" His raised voice caught her attention, and he lowered his tone to a strong whisper. "This isn't a Centre trap. I'm sure of it."
He wasn't sure the Major believed him. There was hesitance in his eyes, but Charles tried hard to bury it with a smile. He pat his son on the shoulder. "If you trust her, then I trust her." Jarod knew that wasn't completely true, but at least they were attempting to compromise.
Charles picked up the duffel bag on the ground, slung it over his shoulder, and walked back to the house, announcing on the way that there were people inside that needed to say 'hello.'
*
The boy was playing with familiar mathematical blocks when the door opened. The sweeper ushered Cox out of the room and into the presence of his awaiting visitor. The expression on his face was one of disappointment, and Cox knew he should have expected this.
"Ari failed," Cox said simply. This was Jarod they were talking about, after all, the man who seemed to disappear.
"There's more," Raines whispered. "Your safehouse in the Centre mainframe has been accessed, files decrypted."
Cox was nonplused by the revelation. He turned back to observe the boy from behind the two-way mirror. He made a mental note to congratulate Mr. Broots on his successful fact-finding mission. Cox had made sure to clear out extremely sensitive information already.
"What does our contact in Africa have to say about all this?" Cox asked, still staring at the boy solve the mathematical equation. His progress was impressive, already showing the intelligence at age two what all the other subjects had illustrated at four and five. Impressive, indeed.
Raines was silent, and Cox smiled. "You haven't told him."
"I'm waiting for the situation to play out," Raines supplied.
Cox shook his head at the flimsy excuse. "Boil it down, and this is your project, your ass on the line, not mine." Cox stepped closer to the oxygen-dependant old man. "I suggest you remedy this situation before it's more than you can handle."
He left Raines standing indignant in the shadows, nearing the door. Suddenly he stopped, throwing a nonchalant glance over his shoulder. "Forgot to mention it earlier, but your son woke up an hour ago."
Cox disappeared into the boy's room again.
*
Since the day her mother was taken away from her, the central figure in Parker's life had made it known she wasn't living up to his standards. The decision at age thirteen to remove her from the distractions of private tutoring and weekends spent in air ducts at the Centre was at first made to seem for her own benefit. Her father had brought her into his office, sat her down on the couch, and explained that she needed stimulation beyond the concrete walls of the Centre. "You need somewhere to develop that special talent of yours," he had said, tapping her forehead lightly.
"Talent?" she had asked curiously. Up until that point in her life, talent was something the shadowed figures on SL-27 had.
"You're a Parker, Angel." His hands had straightened her shoulders, correcting her slumping posture. It was uncomfortable, rigid, but she hadn't dared to slouch again. "It's time you started acting and thinking like one."
Of course, Parker had been too young to understand the true motivations behind her uprooting; to a confused young teenager, she saw in it her own failure towards her father. She wasn't old enough yet to grasp the real reason he only friend didn't live in a house like hers, and why he did things Parker didn't. She had no idea of the twin brother she had shared a womb with, and believed only the lie her father had forced upon her of her mother's "suicide." Her emotional detachment from normal life-preservers forced her to cling to the one constant in her life--her father--and she said goodbye to the United States for almost ten years with a hope that when she returned her father had finally accept her.
The hope had slapped her in the face far too many times to count.
Now, Parker's neck came to rest on the back and the worn sofa, her eyes squeezing shut and her mind trying to block out squeals of glee from the room next door. All her life, her father had made her feel inferior, silently acknowledged the small voices inside her that told her she wasn't good enough for him. Mr. Parker had made no secret of his desire for a son and that he was forced to "make due" with the hand he was dealt. On the outside, Parker tried to remain strong, but as her classmates returned to their respective homes at Christmas and she remained, she began to isolate from her father.
The decision to smoke had been half of spite--her father had always abhorred the things--and half of desperation for her father's attention. Coupled with glass of scotch, she partied as hard as the male students at the private school in Italy. Yet he raised no red flags when the dean's quarterly assessment advised that further behavior might endanger her academic career. No doubt he sent the institution a large donation and a subtle request to drop the matter. The privileges of money and clout sheltered her from punishment.
A light rain had been falling since their arrival at the cabin tucked away in the mountains, and now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the clouds grew darker and the rain stronger. Parker sighed. She would never admit it in so many words, but Sydney had been more of a father to her than Mr. Parker would have ever been. The thought cut bitterly into her; it was hard to throw such words at a man dead and buried. Mr. Parker may have been dead, but Parker would find it exceedingly difficult to forget him. His lasting effects were all over her: on her demeanor, her home, her small circle of acquaintances, her choice of escape, her clothing. Everything was her, but really him. Only a small few things she could truly call her own, and she also hated to admit that she had Jarod to thank for all of them.
And Jarod has his family, and Parker wondered where that left her.
In the kitchen sat Jarod; his father, Charles; his younger sister, Emily; Peter, the boy cloned from Jarod. But what sat on the countertop, what Parker had seen with her own eyes, was the nail in the coffin: a handwritten letter from Margaret, Jarod's mother, dated four days earlier and detailing her arrival in less than a week. The family torn apart all those years ago by the prying eyes of the Centre was coming together once more. Parker felt like a selfish child for feeling so upset.
He's so close to his family you're slowly becoming useless to him. Which means you're becoming useless to us, too.
Lyle's words in her mind shot her eyes open, and in the dim light she saw a familiar figure standing in the doorway. Behind him the light from the fireplace danced on the walls. The voice inside her told her to open up and join the group in front of the heat, but the manilla envelope sitting on her blanketed lap drew her attention instead. Besides, she had rationalized, she hadn't wanted to intrude.
She and Jarod made eye contact for almost a minute before Parker looked away with a frustrated sigh, her hand cradling her cheek as she titled her head. After a minute, she said, "I'm happy for you."
Parker waited for the inevitable denial from him, knowing how easily he could see through her, but instead was answered by footsteps across the floor. Her eyes fixed on an unknown point on the wall, she felt the couch sink under his weight. His hand was resting on her leg near her knee--or rather, on the blanket that covered her legs. It had grown awfully cold since their arrival.
She heard his fingers brushing against the corners of the folder, the gentle slide of the object across the blanket and into his awaiting hand. Just then her hand snapped on tap of it, suddenly halting its progress. She glared at Jarod, but said nothing. Outside, the rain fell hard and the wind began to howl.
"You should eat something," Jarod said quietly.
The suggestion, though well-intentioned, annoyed Parker. "Don't mother me, Jarod. I don't need it."
Jarod could have easily defended his position, and a shouting match between them would have more than likely ensued, but he dropped the issue, not uttering a single word in defense of her snappy remark. His silence, of course, made her feel guilty, but she didn't apologize. She wasn't sure if she had anything to be sorry about.
"We could sit here all night," Parker whined, "or you could tell me what you want."
"What makes you think I want something?"
She resisted the urge to snort. "You didn't come in here without a purpose, Jarod. I know you better than that."
"I..." Jarod hesitated. Parker wasn't sure if he would finish the sentence or not. "I just came in here to see if you were all right. I hadn't heard a peep from you all night and I thought..." The thought hung between them. Suddenly, Jarod shifted gears. "Join us."
"What?"
His hand captured hers. "You can't stay back here forever, Parker. If you won't eat anything, the least we could do is talk. I'm sure there's plenty to talk about."
Parker's eyes widened. Her voice was incredulous. "You want me to go out there and pretend my last encounter with your father never happened?" She remembered his beaten, defiant face, and her blind determination. "I think it's pretty clear your family doesn't want a thing to do with me."
In her mind, it made perfect sense. Earlier that morning, she might have been keen to converse, but as the night waned, so did her belief in the idea. There weren't words to convey to Charles the tricky relationship she held with Jarod. (She wasn't even sure she could describe it to herself.) Parker was tied to an organization that had attempted Emily's murder, and created Peter. It didn't matter that she didn't condone the actions; to Jarod's family, her and the Centre were one and the same. Now she was supposed to drum up support from them? She had overheard Charles' hesitation by the helicopter, and she knew what she was up against. This, she had concluded, was the safest option.
Jarod's thumb was stroking the back of her hand. It was a comforting gesture, and Parker didn't flinch. "They don't blame you, Parker," he said softly. Sometimes she wondered if Jarod wasn't psychic after all.
Parker waited for her namesake to kick in, to rebuff Jarod's tenderness and ice over. But it never came. Parker wondered what the hell was happening to her.
"What makes you so sure?" Her voice was so small, so vulnerable, on the brink of spilling emotion.
Jarod smiled, patting her hand. "Come join us." When she began to protest again, he added quickly, "I think you should see something my mother sent. It might help clear up some of that doubt in your mind."
He rose. "Oh," he said, "bring that folder you're protecting. Peter might be able to make some sense of it."
A feeling of déjà vu settled on her as she received his outstretched hand.
TBC