Chapter Twelve
Authors note: Yes, it has been a very long time. Forgive me. I'm trying to hammer the rest of this out, so I can get this unfinished story off my conscience. I'm going to stop writing personal replies to reviews, because they seem to take as long as the writing itself, but that doesn't mean I'm not reading and taking every single review to heart…so…. Be nice.
Disclaimer: Hey diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed to see such fun
And the ran dish away with the spoon
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'and today the millions cry "we need a drink" when tomorrow they die'
Bloody Sunday, U2
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'It will be a case of simple classical conditioning Sydney' commented Jarod as the psychiatrist removed the dressing from his head to check and clean the wound. The three of them had moved their base of operations once again and Parker was currently having a shower in the bathroom of the hotel room they all shared.
'Hardly simple Jarod. Never underestimate your opponent.' Sydney cautioned the pretender as he gently peeled back the tape that held the swabs onto his forehead.
'I'm not. Nevertheless, there will be very little he can do.'
'If Lyle tried this on you, would you find a way out?'
'Yes. But he is not me. It will work Sydney. Ow!'
'Hold still. I don't doubt that you can pull this off Jarod, but don't be over confident.'
Jarod sighed long sufferingly. However long he had been out from under Sydney's direct tutelage, the old man would always be his mentor, whatever the situation. It gave Jarod a strange sense of comfort, knowing that Sydney would always be looking out for him. He winced as the dressing came off at last.
'Well, it's not infected. It looks like it is healing well actually.'
Jarod didn't answer that, just lay back as Sydney began to clean the dried blood off, wincing occasionally when cloth brushed against the wound. He was thinking. He had been assuming that Lyle would passively allow his path to be steered any way that Jarod wanted. He would rail and fight against his fate of course, but the pretender had been counting on the fact that he would not come up with any worrying resistance. But Sydney was right; he had been assuming a little too much about an opponent.
There was a click as a door opened. Jarod lifted his head to watch Parker emerge from the bathroom but Sydney firmly pushed him back down so he could finish washing the wound. Jarod grinned as he appealed to Parker. 'Miss Parker, could you tell Sydney to stop fussing over me?'
He heard the snort of amusement, slightly muffled as she dried her hair with the towel. 'You'll get no help from me Lab Rat. If Syd says you need doctoring then sit still.'
Jarod sighed theatrically. 'I rescue you both from the Centre and this is the thanks I get?'
'Oh stop complaining' she shot back, then re-entered the bathroom to start blow drying her hair. Sydney claimed his attention then, starting the painful process of sticking a new dressing over the gash on his forehead. But now his mind was racing once again after a brief pause in his plotting to banter with Parker.
As they neared the 24 hour deadline, it would be a wise idea to have a backup method of getting Broots and his daughter out. Perhaps a modified version of one of the plans they had discarded... There was one that had been rejected in favour of a plan that achieved a more dual purpose, but would work fine should Lyle throw in a last minute wrench. He'd need to get in touch with Angelo…
Sydney smiled as Jarod's eyes began to stare into another dimension. He had long ago learnt that when Jarod's eyes unfocused like that, his mind was sharpened to a point, picking away at all the possibilities of a whatever future reality he was seeing. As well as the more immediate fact that meant the pretender would stay still whilst he dressed the wound, it also meant that, more than likely, some ingenious plot was being manipulated to fit the current reality. And that meant that Broots and Debbie would be just fine.
It wasn't that Jarod would ever, ever even dream of neglecting the fate of a person that he had the ability to protect. It was just that Sydney understood that however calmly he was acting, and maybe even thinking, Jarod's need for revenge was far more primal. Sydney knew, because if he had his way, Lyle would have been crucified, then hung, drawn and quartered a long time ago. And so, with gentle manipulations, (which the psychiatrist was surprised that he still possessed the ability to perform) Jarod needed to be nudged toward remembering the reason why Lyle was being bought low.
So now Jarod's mind purred, like a well oiled V8 engine, whilst Sydney finished his task, and moved onto the next gash, a quiet smile still on his features.
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Deborah Broots squashed herself hard into the unyielding corner, her face pressed against her knees in an attempt to block out the blood spattered walls, and the stains that pooled on the floor, which she knew were there, despite the all consuming blackness. She couldn't block out the smell of it though, and the knowledge that she was prisoner here. Even worse, the lack of knowledge about why she was prisoner here. Her father had barely come in the door, a goofy smile on his face as he told her they were moving when behind him had burst a swarm of black suited men, seemingly out of nowhere. They had been everywhere she had turned, as her father had screamed at her to run, and hearing the desperate fear in his voice she had twirled around to flee, only to run into another group of them, entering through the back door.
Rough hands restraining her and a chemical smelling cloth over her nose and she had woken up here, with her dad was nowhere in sight. She was terrified. She didn't know how long it had been, it felt like an age. The position she had been curled in for a long time was making her muscles hurt but she didn't dare move. The last thing she remembered before she had blacked out had been a thumbless man pacing towards her, a triumphant smile on his face. Her father had once told, warned, her, about the man that was Miss Parker's twin brother. Really all he had said was to try to stay out of his way, but she had seen the terror in his eyes and from then on, from time to time, the thumbless man haunted her dreams.
She willed for something to happen, someone to save her. There was a rack in this room, that had held delicate tools of some sort, and chains hung from the ceiling- she had seen them before the lights had abruptly cut out. It was clearly a demonstration that her captors did not keep her here for her own benefit. She was hungry and cold and scared and she really hoped that her dad was OK, because…because she couldn't bear to think of the alternative.
There was a scuffling sound and a faint thump, and Debbie, if possible, sunk further into the corner. Suddenly a soft pressure touched her shoulder. She jumped into a standing position with a scream. Her back to the corner, she looked wild eyed around the cell, trying to pick up something, anything, in the complete blackness that pushed into her eyeballs. 'W…Who's there?' she whispered fearfully, blinking in an attempt to clear the darkness.
'Friend' a soft and warm voice, that came from close by.
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Jarod sat back in the computer chair and frowned, then winced as a droplet of warm liquid dripped down his forehead. Grabbing a tissue, he pressed it lightly to the cut that had just pulled open. Holding it there, he read once again the short and slightly cryptic e-mail that had just appeared in his inbox. He had just logged in to send Angelo a heads up, and to ask the empath to take Debbie and Broots some food, but it appeared that was unnecessary. The e-mail, in a roundabout fashion, that Angelo was holding up his end of the line and that Jarod should go ahead and make Lyle sorry.
And Jarod intended to do just that. It looked like the Centre had managed to get their power back on sometime last night, but that didn't matter because the power was just the start. Making sure it was untraceable, and completely anonymous, he sent a tip off email to the IRS about the Centre. Normally they would ignore the corporation, but luckily for Jarod, it was an election year, and well…
As soon as Lyle was nearly through dealing with his extensive tax audit, Jarod began scaring off long time customers of the Centre- not enough to seriously jeopardise the Centre's income (had he been able to do that, Jarod would have done it a long time ago), but enough to, as with everything else he did, annoy Lyle.
Next, small mishaps began to occur at certain Centre outposts. A storage facility for less important Centre files burnt down. The suppliers of technical equipment went out of business. A few long time employees quit, leaving no appropriate replacements. One of the Centre buildings got a roach infestation and had to be shut down for several days.
Then there were the personal attacks on Lyle himself. The pot plants in his office died. The manufacturer of his car recalled his model, leaving him on public transport on the way to work. He got a cold.
Jarod let his imagination run wild- every little curse he had ever wished upon those at the Centre, he now exacted. It made his day when reports began to filter through that Lyle was losing his hair from stress. The pretender let it go on a little longer, then picked up the phone once more. It had only been a week, but Jarod was quite sure that the new chairman would be beginning to crumble.
TBC… (I promise)