dayglo_parker@yahoo.com
PART TEN
Parker wondered if they had had the decency to name her son.
The rain had stopped, with only the wind howling against the window now, and they lay together like a painter's silhouette. They were perfectly arranged - her arm thrown across his bare chest as it rose and fell, her head positioned over his heart as its beat slowly lulled her into a dreamy trance - as if someone had taken great pains to place them that way. It was the way they had simply fallen; their legs woven together like an intricate knot, it was a wonder they weren't simply lying on top of one another.
Jarod had fallen asleep easily. It had been a rough few days and sleep was something one normally got when the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky became black. Parker should have been asleep, too; she had been for a while, in fact, but more dreams of her mother had driven sleep from her eyes. She was content to listen to his breathing, and think about her son.
Her son. The words were foreign to her.
In her mind, the scene played quiet before her. She was handing her brother, no - her son - over to her father. Mr. Parker's eyes had gleamed with anticipation, and at the time she had ignorantly believed her awaited to hold the bundle of joy that was his legacy, as he so bluntly put it. And the boy was his legacy, in a way Parker could never have imagined. The boy's eyes had been so plaintive, his small hands clenched in a fist and his body struggling and squirming as she handed him over. She had been blind to the implications of it at the time, but he hadn't. From the second he born, the boy had known right from wrong, and his small cry had tried to convince her.
Blinded by her father's half-truth and flat-out lies, she hadn't understood.
*
Maybe the Centre had lightened up a bit, thought Cox as the sweepers carried the sleeping child into the bedroom. The boy had been given a sedative - rather than handcuffs and a traditional black hood - for his transfer from the Centre sublevel he had known his entire life to the safe house in Montana. Actually, it had been Cox who had issued the request, citing such barbaric methods might hamper the boy's performance for the Triumvirate Counsel in two days. He had seen the fear in Raines' eyes about a possible failure, and quickly approved it.
With a harsh voice, he ordered the sweepers stand guard outside the room and locked the doors. He glanced at the resting boy before walking to the windows and throwing up the curtains. Bright rays of sun invaded the dark space, as the party had arrived just at sunrise. The scene outside was nothing short of bucolic - mountains and fields tinged with enough snow to mirror a postcard. Too bad they couldn't stay longer, mused Cox. As his involvement with Prometheus grew, he had been neglecting his second profession, as a taxidermist.
Cox regarded the scene for a minute longer before retrieving his doctor's bag, ironically the same one he brought to another cabin two years ago to pronounce the death of the boy's surrogate mother. He opened it, still laughing aloud at the irony, and took out the hypodermic needle and the proper medication to counter act the sedative he had been given. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he filled the needle with the appropriate dose, tapped out the air bubbles, and slowly injected it into the boy's arm. He was moving his head as he rose back to consciousness, his tiny hands trying to cover a yawn as he awoke.
His eyes fixed on Cox. "Baby sleepin'," he said, the maturity of his words not surprising Cox. It hadn't been a surprise when his language skills manifested themselves six months earlier than expected.
"Yes," he said, placing the medical equipment back in his bag. He noted how the child referred to himself as 'Baby,' as the Centre staff hired to train and take care of him had not bothered to provide him with a real name. Names, someone had once told him, fostered an emotional connection to something, and, remembering Sydney, Cox knew the last thing anyone needed was an emotional connection to this boy. They had decided, then, that should he pass the Centre's tests and be adopted as an official Centre subject, he would be given a name. Then, and only then.
"Baby dream."
Cox regarded the child with false interest. "Of what?" he asked in a gentle voice. If Cox appeared interested in the child's inane babblings, then perhaps he would begin to trust Cox.
The boy dipped his head shyly and smiled. "No tell." He put his finger crudely to his lips. "Secret."
Cox leaned closer. "You can tell me, can't you?" He sounded genuinely trusting.
The boy regarded him for a moment, and Cox was sure he was reading his mind, or at least sensing something inside him, as they had purposely stalled while developing his abilities so quickly. After all, he hadn't been born an empath by accident. Finally, the child nodded and whispered loudly in Cox's ear. "Momma!"
Cox had heard about this, too. For six months now, the boy had held knowledge of a woman he had never met. It was only likely the knowledge came from the very inner sense he had been bred to possess, and it was only natural that he might see Catherine late at night, or in his dreams. His insistence on calling her 'momma,' however, troubled Cox, simply because of the possible problems such an attachment could and would cause later in his development. After all, family had driven the Centre's other prized possession to run away five years ago, and Cox wasn't ready to admit the same defeat at the hands of a child.
"No," Cox said as he shook his head. "You don't have a momma."
The boy was frowning and nodding his head at the same time. "Yes I do! Baby see Momma in bed. Momma sleepin', too." Cox watched the boy twist his face into a strange expression, as his genius mind searched for the proper words to describe the situation in his mind. He may have been intelligent and empathic beyond his years, but his vocabulary was still limited to his age. "Momma…cold. Man put blankie on Momma so she not cold." He frowned again. "Man leave Momma."
Cox couldn't help but sigh, standing up off the bed and walking towards the bed. Momma and Man were, he figured, figments of the child's mind. There was no way his senses could be so refined at such a young age…the Centre had made a point to develop him slowly. Unless he was receiving outside lessons - something they had monitored, just in case - there was no way the things we said we true. It was logistically possible. They were mere ramblings…
The doctor stopped, the idea suddenly occurring to him.
He turned to the boy, startling him. "Do you know where Momma is?"
The boy regarded Cox with a look of fear and dread. "No tell," he whispered.
Cox continued to stare at him, and the boy began to squirm. A little longer, Cox mused, only a little longer before his innocent resolve shatters. This was bordering on the humane guidelines the Prometheus staff had set out in the beginning, but Cox didn't care. 'Momma' was a problem that needed to be dealt with *now*. "Tell me where your Momma is," he demanded.
There was a break in the boy's expression. For a second, Cox was hopeful. And then it dissolved into Cox had seen before, in the boy's father once or twice. He was the cat who ate the canary. "I no have Momma, silly." He swatted at Cox's arm, much to the doctor's dismay. "You funny!"
Cox glared at the boy for a moment longer before storming out of the bedroom, his head slamming into the doorframe in anger.
*
Her back was pressed up against the cold brick wall again; only this time she wasn't cowering as her brother aimed a pistol at her. Now, she was deadly still, only the sound of her labored breath and the hiss of a laundry venting steam. She was hiding, waiting, for the sound of footsteps on the paved alleyway.
Silence.
"Jarod?" she whispered, looking around frantically. She could barely see to the other side of the alley through the thick steam, let alone notice someone joining her. No one answered, and she realized she was utterly alone.
It was then that she…felt the pistol pressed against her temple. It was cold outside, and the metal was even colder.
And then, her brother's voice echoed in the alley…
"You're dead."
Parker bolted upright in bed, Lyle's words-- whether they were dreamed or remembered words--bouncing around in her head. Immediately, her skin was assaulted by the chilliness of the room, and her fingers instinctively grabbed the sheet around her before it slipped off. For a split second, she considered her modestly, noting her distinct lack of clothing. Only after a few seconds did she realize she was utterly alone in the quiet bedroom.
At the foot of the bed she noticed a small pile of clothing--presumably from Emily-- and a white slip of paper. Parker reached for it, noticing the familiar handwriting and the singular word. Outside. She glanced out the window, seeing the panes slightly fogged over. Involuntarily, her body shivered.
The door to the backdoor slammed shut as she left, and for a moment Parker wondered if it might wake up the rest of the sleeping house. The air outside was heavy and hazy, resembling spring air more than winter. She carefully walked the path to a small pond, noting that the puddles from last night's rain had frozen overnight. She exhaled, watching her breath materialize and then dissipate in front of her, and wondered why it hadn't snowed; after all, it was the middle of February in Colorado…
A breeze came from behind her, and Parker tugged on the arms of the thick sweater to keep warm. She doubted she'd be out for very long with only the sweater. In front of her, a haze coming from a half-frozen pond - another obscure sight, considering the season - helped to conceal the figure standing by the shore. She could make out his outline faintly, and was almost next to him before she could fully see him. He, too, was wearing a thick but inadequate sweater.
Parker stopped beside him, trying to search for the place his gaze was so fixed on. She was unsuccessful.
"How long have you been out here?" she asked, purposely skipping the awkward greeting she knew would be forthcoming.
Jarod sighed, exhaling a puff of air. "Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen," he replied.
Curiously, she asked, "Aren't you cold?"
Now he turned to face him, the early hour reflected in his tired face. That, and something else her mind dwelled on for a moment too long… "Yes," he said succinctly.
Parker accepted this, biting back the replies her mind was creating. Even for her, it was too early for their normal banter. So the two stood in silence, staring out at the pond. The house faced an eastwardly direction, and thus the rising sun was casting an eerie glow on the half-frozen water. However, nature rarely held Parker's attention for very long, and the silence soon became unbearable. "Any reason we're standing out here in the freezing cold?"
Jarod shrugged. "To talk?" he suggested. Adding, "We haven't been talking much in the last few days."
Parker couldn't help the cock of her head and the small laugh that escaped her lips. "Oh, really?" The playfulness in her voice was surprising, even to her. "As I recall, we did a great bit of talking last night…" Jarod was glaring at her now, and she thought she saw vain attempts at controlling a smile working in his face. Her tone became serious again. "I just don't see why we couldn't…talk in the comfort of heat or over some breakfast."
He was rocking back and forth slightly, on the balls of his feet. It was an almost unnoticeable nervous tick. "Because…I thought we might need a little privacy, that's all."
Oh no, she thought, not this. Inwardly, Parker was dreading this conversation. How did one go about starting this? Finishing? Would was she supposed to say? Shit - the thing that always bugged Parker the most was not being in control. So she did the only thing she could do - stand there and wait.
"I…" Jarod began, glancing nervously at Parker. "I don't want…this," he gestured to the space between them, "to…get in the way."
She couldn't help but stare incredulously. "'Get in the way'?" Parker laughed nervously. "You have been spending too much time with me, Jarod."
He sighed; he was not pleased. "Listen, Parker. Just listen for once and don't make any smart ass responses, okay?" he said briskly. The look on his face as he finished led Parker to believe he hadn't been thinking, that he'd spoken too soon. All she could do was stare, vaguely nodding.
Jarod continued. "I don't want to act like last night never happened, that it was some kind of mistake." Parker opened her mouth to protest, but he was quick to quash the words. "Listen," he reminded her. "Look, I know right now is not the best time to try and work things out…" She added unconsciously, what with both of us on the run for our lives and the fact that you've got a son somewhere. "…but once this is all over…" He didn't define 'this', and Parker didn't push it, instead waiting for him to finish. He didn't, however, leaving the thought hanging.
"Once this is all over…?" Parker encouraged. Still, he said nothing. And then it dawned on her. "What, are you expecting some kind of long-term relationship?" She was spitting the words in his face. "I can't believe this," she mumbled. "And I thought our roles were complicated before…" There was more than spite in her voice now; no, she was patronizing him…patronizing and ridiculing him. It felt good, the way putting someone down always made her feel that much better. "I suppose you'd want me to fly to whatever hole-in-the-wall, no-name hell hole you've been hiding in for a quickie, too." Such malice, she thought.
Parker laughed; she couldn't help but laugh. The whole situation itself was humorous. Jarod looked pained and slightly humiliated. Parker didn't care; in fact, his puppy dog eyes looked rather pathetic to her. "Did you honestly think after one night I was going to swoon and declare my undying love for you?" She shook her head, and crossed her arms across her chest in an unconscious defensive position. "You truly are naïve, even after all these years…"
She was afraid he was going to crack, to explode in a rage, to be so possessed with anger he would say something they both would regret. Even as her ridicule-laced words poured out of her mouth, she feared the backlash. Parker had backed herself into this familiar corner, and now she waited. Waited for the inevitable response.
Silence.
Where was the anger she saw bubbling beneath him?
Silence.
God, she hated this.
Silence.
He was trying to provoke her, she thought. This is what he did - he played games to get to her, and they always worked.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, say something!" Parker demanded.
Jarod stepped towards her, invading her space and not giving a damn. He stopped so near her for a split second she actually thought he might try and kiss her. Parker tried to decide whether or not she would make an attempt to stop him. "Answer me one question, just one," he finally whispered. His voice was calmer than Parker knew he must have felt.
She moved her head slightly in response. For an instant his fingers reached up and stroked her cheek tenderly, and then they were gone. "Tell me with a straight face that you never thought about…us. Together."
Her eyes were wide. What a ridiculous question! She bit back a response to the effect. Of course she never thought about something like that. Those were fantasies she abandoned when she left the country at thirteen. And yet…Goddammit, why did he does this? Why did he make her second guess herself? They were adults, she told herself, mature adults. But could she lie to him…could she lie to herself? Perhaps she had to face the fact that once or twice, late at night, she would pass the hours by thinking about all the what-ifs in her life…
Mature adults, she reminded herself.
Parker averted her eyes and said nothing. Somehow, Jarod got the message. Quietly, he mumbled 'OK', nodding his head and taking a step backwards. The briefly intimate moment was gone. She didn't know what to say, not knowing whether an apology would mean anything. Hell, she wasn't even sure if she was sorry for he things she had just said.
Jarod was staring at the pond again.
"I gave Peter those dates we found last night," he said. Their previous conversation was over, apparently.
Parker's arms crossed across her chest, though she made an attempt to look something other than confrontational. "He's up already?" she said, trying to be civil.
Jarod nodded. "He gave me a hard time there for a while, but I managed to convince him to pull the information off the Centre mainframe."
They were silent again. Parker felt like she was grasping at conversation straws - and missing every single one. Jarod mumbled he was going inside and brushed past her, leaving her alone by the water.
*
Broots crossed the hall to Sydney's office, another piece of the puzzle held tightly in his fingers. He was eager and apprehensive at the same time, he realized, the weight of this new discovery resting solely on him.
He knocked on Sydney's closed door; no answer. He realized he might have knocked to softly - that the psychiatrist might have fallen asleep at his desk - and Broots knocked again, louder. Again, no answer. He tried the door handle and found it locked. Sydney locked his office for only one reason - when he went home. Broots sighed with a small smile; the psychiatrist had been looking a little worse for wear every since this whole fiasco started.
Broots made his way to his small cubicle, making sure to dial the outside line with all the appropriate precautions and making sure no one in the room was listening. The connecting line rang several times, and just as Broots was about to hang up, he picked up.
"Hello?" Sydney's voice sounded tired.
"I woke you," Broots replied apologetically. "I shouldn't have called…"
Broots heard the psychiatrist chuckling. "It's all right, Broots." He paused. "What is it?"
Broots looked down at the folder in his hand. "See…I'm not quite sure. It just doesn't feel right, that's all." Sydney urged him to continue and he did. "A week ago, Cox ordered the transfer of some supplies to Triumvirate Station in Africa, to be delivered yesterday. But four days ago," the day Miss Parker was shot, he meant, "the transfer was halted. The day after they were ordered for immediate delivery, and then a day a later pushed back…"
"What kind of supplies?" Sydney asked.
Broots shook his head. "That's the thing! They're repeatedly referred to as 'Prometheus,' but that's the only description given."
"Prometheus," Sydney repeated. "It doesn't sound familiar."
"I ran it through the Centre databanks. It's not a known project, on or off the books."
Broots heard Sydney sigh. "I'm sorry, Broots, but I just don't see why any of this matters." He sounded exhausted.
Suddenly, the technician was excited. "It does matter, Sydney; at least, I think it does." He collected his thoughts. "Raines' final transfer order came shortly after a call I was able to trace to--get this!--Colorado. That's where that Priority sweeper team was sent after Jarod." Adding, "It makes you wonder…"
Sydney mumbled that it did, but Broots noted that he sounded distracted. The psychiatrist sighed. "Parker called last night," he said. "She said they were okay, but…I don't know, I think she was holding something back."
Broots took this in, but said nothing. It sounded like typical Miss Parker behavior.
"I'll ask her about Prometheus the next time we speak," said Sydney.
Broots agreed and then ended the call. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and examining the folder. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that Sydney was worried about Jarod and Miss Parker.
*
Cox slammed his hand against the doorframe in anger. Fate must be out to sabotage the natural order of succession, he thought as he glanced into the bedroom of the sleeping child.
It wasn't enough that Lyle had jeopardized everything by taking potshots at Parker. Or that she, with the help of Jarod, was on the run and ever-so-carefully inching closer to the truth. Or that Mr. Parker had somehow managed to survive his fall into the ocean and was alive somewhere. No, that wasn't enough. Now there was evidence the Prometheus project's core files had been breached on two separate occasions; what information was accessed was still undetermined. And to compound it all, there was no doubt in Raines' mind that the resurrected Mr. Parker had aided - possibly, facilitated - his supposed son's escape. The lines of allegiance were being drawn, and their enemies were slowly growing in numbers.
The doctor found the sweeper in charge, and pulled him aside.
"We leave tomorrow at nine," Cox hissed. "Chairman's orders."
*
He pressed the send button, knowing the email's recipient would greatly appreciate the information being passed onto him. Standing behind him, the figure's reflection shown on the computer monitor. He smiled.
"Our plan has been set in motion."
TBC