CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When they landed at the Dublin airport, Jarod decided that he had to see if anyone new about the Jamiesons and MacEarrans, rather than listening to Miss Parker getting so emotional and saying things like, "How can I survive? My own assumed father married my mother for her inner sense, so he could create a super Pretender. He didn't love her," etc. etc. and so on and so on.

Actually, Jarod knew if he heard that from her, he would retort with well, "No one cared about me being taken from my family, forced to do sims that harmed people, with no reward for my efforts and how lonely I was, how they told me they were dead and tried to make me forget," etc, etc.

No, with the children around, it would do no good for them to see the parents arguing. He left a note, informing Miss Parker that he was going alone to find out what happened. He also explained that if there were some from the old Centre still alive, it would be best that they do the tourist thing. Besides, it would be an education for the kids. He wrote Miss Parker a note that he would meet them at the front square of Trinity College at eight in the evening.

If the Centre satellite, in Ireland, was still in operation and knew about him — Jarod required some makeup, a wig, and extra clothes. Since he was the Centre's chief Pretender and possession, every former Centre employee and business, who did not know about the changeover, would be after him. Luckily, he had enough cash on hand, Miss Parker knowing that people would question if she was always paying, and he was not. He spent an hour buying the means to apply his disguise from a rag shop, a theatrical supply house, and then slipped into a washroom to apply his disguise.

He picked up a lap top computer sized briefcase, which with his other clothes — in case the first disguise did not work — took almost all his ready cash.

Since Jarod was a Pretender, it was easy for him to get a ride to the neighborhood where Import Export shop Miss Parker's grandfather worked in, stood. Only it was not there. It its place, there was a modern apartment. He then took out his map, and walked down the cobblestone streets to find the flat where the MacEarrans lived, but in its place was a park. He checked the granite stone with the plaque at its entrance. It had been donated somewhere in the 1950s. He looked for a place to hide his briefcase

He closed his eyes to get into the Pretender mode, put on a dated tweed coat with a vest, a pair of spectacles, hid behind a tree and soon found a man in his eighties

"Excuse me, names's Professor Eric Vanderstrag," said Jarod in his best Dutch accent as he gave the impression he had just come from the park, "I was looking in the journal of my predecessor, Johann Emerstaul, who vas here during the fifties. He mentioned something about an apartment."

"There has always been a park here."

Jarod knew the man was lying. "No, der vas a family, the MacEarrans."

The old man started to shiver. "A family named MacEarran here, never."

"The daughter married a Jamieson."

"Leave me alone. I can't say anymore. Constable! Constable!"

Jarod wisely left before the police officer approached and ducked into the nearest lavatory, removed his spectacles, peeled off the artificial flesh, washed off the remaining sallow stage makeup, removed his wig, and the additional bulk from inside his jacket that made him look older. Waiting until the lavatory was empty, he neatly packed what he could into the briefcase he took out of his denim satchel, folded it, and inserted it into the briefcase after taking out a cap, slacks, shirt, and a vest. It took some time for him to get out the wrinkles, using the hand dryer. He quickly dressed and looked for the nearest pub.

There was one in the working class district, populated by the locals whom he hoped did not contain the old gentleman. Jarod entered, and sat down at one of the booths, ordering a lager, and listening to the ensuing conversation. When a police officer came in, and looked him over, he thought for a minutes his disguise had not worked, but the officer just walked on.

"Aye, and we had them all beat but the blikers came out and …"

"Sure and Fiona comes out dressed like a tart with that O'Donnell boy and him looking like Dracula."

"And her poor mother almost in the grave. Saints preserve us."

None of these looked the correct age. What he needed was the conversation of someone like that old man, but brave enough or drunk enough to not matter who he talked with — unless it was a son of that same individual..

The old man who Jarod had encountered appeared at the door, but did not recognize him.

"About sixty, spectacles, yellow white hair, bulky," he said to the constable, "a cad. Tried to make trouble."

"And in what way, MacDougal?"

"Asked about the MacEarrans, you know they donated the Park."

"Can't have that can we, MacDougal? I'll keep an eye out."

Jarod kept listening. The Centre had done its work well, probably forging the MacEarran name to a will donating their land as a park. However, the MacEarrans were not the only ones. There were at least six families in the flat at the time. He knew that those who were home at the time also perished, and those who were away later killed by the Centre goons. They would allow no witnesses or survivors, a cleanup.

Then there was Mr. Jameison who married the MacEarran daughter. The Centre could have offered him a job, get him to take along his wife and wait until Catherine was born, but they chose to kill them.

There had been no mention of a Jamieson in this area, a sure sign that the Centre had eradicated their existence.

Jarod turned his attention to a conversation in the booth across the room from his. They were talking about the uprising, and then switched to neighborhood gossip, about when they were boys and a strange incident that had occurred.

The first man was in his sixties, pink faced, white haired, and with a receding hairline and was talking belligerently to another man, this one a little darker, what one called Black Irish.

"Do I have to listen to your story about them?"

"I don't know why you're so afraid. It's been over fifty years. A boy I was when I saw the fire and heard the screams."

"It's your imagination Tory and listening to the Telly that causes your brain to shrink."

"Sure and if I had not hid, by the Saints, I would be in the fire as well. And poor Jamieson dying in hospital the next day. And they said he had a cold."

"You were mistaken. We saw Uncle Pieter get on the plane."

"And why was he limping on his right leg? And why did he not know me? Uncle Pieter always said 'Hello little Tory' because I was named after me father, Big Tory. Another drink I'll have," Tory said to the girl who came over to their table.

Jarod didn't want to alarm them. He waited until that Tory spoke loud enough for a normal person to hear him. He listened to the rest of the conversation, which consisted of Tory bemoaning that his favorite 'uncle' had died alone in a charity ward in hospital and how he sneaked in to see him.

"And all puffed up with those orange spots, he was and the nurses all in masks and they closed the ward because people kept dying. Typhoid they say it was. My own grandmother died of typhoid and I got the shots. Sure and it was a horrible disease, something the devil gave to them."

Or the Centre, thought Jarod.

"Oh be quiet about the fire, Tory," said his friend, who by now was shouting. "And the attention you are getting." He looked over at Jarod who was staring rather intensely.

"I hope it weren't the same ones who burned down several houses in the United States," he said coming over.

"Aye when was this?" asked Tory's friend, "Mike's my name."

Jarod pulled out a card from his jacket pocket. "Private investigator," he whispered, "we're looking into a case of suspicious fires and deaths. They started back in the 1950s,

"Sure and you've investigated many fires?" asked Mike with a wary look at Jarod.

"Yes. We're better equipped." He took out a notebook and made as if he was calculating some facts. "Nineteen fifty-xix, house burnt down, ruled accidental at the time – grill off the fireplace. Nighty-eight conclusive action found that one of the logs was soaked with natural gas which smell is undetectable. Nineteen sixty-three, apartment in New Hampshire, kitchen fire. Assumed kids played with matches. Father absent, mother and children supposedly died of smoke inhalation. Consequent investigation in ninety-nine found that mother had a bruise to her skull unconscious at the time. Thread in older child's throat, led to suffocation. Chemical analysis from matches found the murderer threw them on the scene. Fire started by lighter. Father arrested for contracting out the murders for insurance. Need I go on?"

"And you think that you can bring up the fairies and tell me that Tory's not addled brained?"

Ï'll be the judge of that. Let me see, the apartment or what do you call them, flat, burnt to ashes. There were victims. It was set on a weekday evening and looked accidental. Previous to that, someone went missing and often times, if one kept hidden, they saw a black car about a week or so bef …"

Tory's face grew pale. "Black Sedan?"

"Back in the States, they'd be called Town Cars."

"Aye that's them."

Jarod took out a snapshot of a man and a woman supposedly in their sixties. It hadn't taken him long to age one of his photographs, and alter the features so they would match his supposed parents. The woman was a computer-generated figure, brown and brown eyes. It was one time he felt lucky he didn't look like his brother, then he'd have to use his mother's photograph and he didn't know whether these Tory's and Mikes had seen her. Besides having a 'mother' who was a brunette was easier.

"Sure and you have his looks."

"Thank you. Why would they burn the MacEarran place?"

"Cause they're descended from the Druids and sure that Uncle Pieter, he had a bit of the magic in him."

"Magic, Tory?" asked Jarod, "What kind of magic?"

"Sure and I do not know, but you have to go to where he came from, a village near Oslo."

"I'll do that. Now what about the MacEarrans"

Tory began. "According to Legend, the Druids ruled Ireland and the Kings and married any with the gift of second sights and by the saints, the gifts they passed down from father to son, but t' was strongest from mother to daughter. Right even after Saint Patrick came and drove the snakes away and still to this day. There's an old woman in County Cork who can tell you when you're going to die and when you —"

Jarod listened intently. It did make sense, but he still wondered about the Jamiesons. Was there a Norwegian counterpoint to the Druids and did the Centre arrange Pieter's meeting with Miss Parker's grandmother. He thanked the two, had a pint of ale, and some Dublin Coddle, then took out his lap top, sent a message to Broots telling him his theory,.

A few minutes later, he got a reply.

Broots was searching the Centre records and they'd meet him in front of Trinity College.