As it turned out, Jarod's leg pain had only been a partial ruse. The doctor came by ten minutes after the initial summons and explained to a mute audience that the bullet had precipitated some nerve damage which may well have been the culprit for an acute muscle spasm.
"Unfortunately, I cannot promise the muscle spasm won't happen again. I'll be roping your physiotherapist into the conversation about this prior to your assessment with her at four, later today."
For the first time since their fight in the stairwell, Jarod looked at Miss Parker, a quick assessing glance. Miss Parker's head jerked minutely, an almost imperceptible 'no'. They'd be well on their way to Blue Cove by then. Jarod snorted audibly.
The doctor looked briefly disconcerted, then continued.
"Up until now, you have refused any pain-relieving medication, Mr. Parker. Please understand, I don't want you to feel like we are taking advantage of a moment of vulnerability to try to coerce you into options you've previously rejected. But, seeing you in such pain, I also want to make sure you are aware of your options. Are you certain you do not want help managing the pain in your thigh?"
Miss Parker fully expected Jarod to refuse outright, and was surprised when he remained silent and, when she braved a look at his profile, contemplative.
"Fine," he said, finally. The word was quiet enough that Miss Parker did not so much hear it as read it on his lips.
The doctor smiled. "I'll have a technician come around and explain the risks and benefits to you. We'll start you on a low dose, especially since you need to be alert for your physio assessment later."
Low dose or not, once the drip had been set up, Jarod became markedly more relaxed. Along with Jarod, their cohabitation quarters became observably less tense. The news from the doctor that Jarod's lungs were clear brightened the atmosphere further. On the other hand, Jarod had also become more talkative.
"I have you to thank for the lung GSW not causing as many complications as the leg. Quick thinking with the page protectors over the wound. Quick thinking, too, taking Lorefice out before he shot me in the head," he said, words slurring together. He frowned. "Did I thank you?"
Miss Parker looked up from her Reader's Digest.
"What?" she said, though she'd heard the question just fine.
"I don't think I did," Jarod continued, almost to himself. "Thank you, Miss Parker. You saved my life! That was nice of you. Of course, you also tipped Lorefice off in the first place. So, should I thank you or not?"
Miss Parker returned to her reading, an inane human interest story which had, thus far, left a less than null impression on her.
"Ask yourself that question again when you get back to Blue Cove later today," she said, without looking up.
"Who are you doing this for?"
A complete non sequitur, likely the products of the pain meds. Miss Parker carefully ignored it. Jarod carefully scooted his chair to face her, wincing when he put too much weight on his injured thigh. While dropping off their lunch trays, one of the nurses had encouraged him to get a little crazy and sit on a different soft surface for a while. He'd chosen a maroon armchair by the window.
"We're both of us trapped by parental motivations," Jarod said. "I spent years trying to find my parents. You spent years trying to find out the truth of your mother's death, that was always part of it. But your job, this pursuit. Chasing me. I always figured it was in part for approval from your father. Was I right?"
Miss Parker didn't answer. She looked at the clock. Three o'clock couldn't come soon enough. After a pointed pause, Jarod continued.
"It might be painful to think about, Miss Parker, and I'm sorry about this, but your father is gone. So, who are you doing this for?"
"Why do I have to be doing this for anyone? Me, I'm doing it for me."
"You were ready to leave the Centre for Thomas —"
"Oh wow, you are just full of my favourite topics today, huh?" Miss Parker snapped. She was still flipping through the Reader's Digest blindly, not absorbing a single word. When she chanced a quick glance up, Jarod had the grace to look remorseful.
"Again, I'm sorry, but there's a point to this. You were ready to leave then, but part of what held you there was loyalty to your commitments and to your family. Are you still committed? Do you still owe anything to, what, to Mr Lyle? Or to Raines, whatever he is to you?"
Miss Parker slammed the Digest down on the side table.
"'Whatever he is to you?' Seriously, where are you getting this, Jarod? Do you have me bugged? Why are you so allergic to me having any pri —" She bit down on the word before it escaped in full, but it was too late.
"Privacy?" Jarod finished. His lips twisted into a sleepy smile, tinged with irony. "I hope both of us can get the privacy we deserve some day, Miss Parker." He scratched at the bandages around his chest. "To half-answer your question, I have sources. Mainly, I'm just intuitive. Are you going to answer my question?"
"I don't need to tell —" You do. Who else would you tell? Who else would really hear you? She restarted, speaking slowly as the thought was drudged up from wherever she'd buried it. "I… No, I don't owe Lyle or Raines anything. They've both threatened to kill me at least once. But the Centre is not just Lyle and Raines. There's Syd, and Broots —"
"Coworkers."
"They're more than that," she snapped. Too late, she caught the calculating look on Jarod's face, unobscured by the fog of opioids. He'd pulled the admission from her on purpose. Why should it be so important to him that she admit what Sydney and Broots were to her?
"Friends?" Jarod suggested. "Or family?"
Family, or as good as, Miss Parker thought. It wasn't a thought she was ready to voice aloud.
When she didn't answer, Jarod continued. "They've both had their lives threatened by the Centre, too. What a family you make."
Jarod was capable of tossing out truly cruel comments when he needed to. Then again, so was Miss Parker.
"And what about yours?" she asked, every word corrosive. "Still scouring the country for Mommy and Daddy? That line you always trotted out about not knowing who you are, give me a break. As if two people who knew you as a four-year-old are going to be able to give you an encyclopedia entry on the True Meaning of Jarod."
Jarod's jaw clenched. That characteristic righteous fury emanated off him in waves.
"How am I meant to discover who I am, otherwise? I've only ever learned the lives of others, only ever run —"
"Simulations, I know, I've heard it a dozen times." Miss Parker snorted. "That's bullshit, Jarod. You don't pretend all the time. I've seen DSAs of your down time, in the discs you've sent back. I've seen you out of character. You don't have a job between Pretends, but you're still that damn irritating Jarod in your off time. None of that came from your limited exposure to your family, or from your genes. You want to tell me that your family decides who you are, when you were the one to badger me into figuring out what Lyle keeps under his floorboards?"
By the end, she had nearly run out of breath, and was stunned to realize she'd made a damned good point. They — she and Jarod both — were always so hell-bent on chasing their families. But weren't they also the perfect portraits of finding identity outside of familial legacy?
"It, it just comes back to my question," said Jarod. Miss Parker's smirked at his stammer. For once, she'd thrown him off his game. "You don't owe the Centre any loyalty. They've done nothing but hurt you and your family. They've only kept you captive all this time, just as much as they've kept me captive."
Miss Parker dropped her head back against the chair's backrest in exasperation.
"We've had this conversation at least twice before, Jarod. We're talking in circles. Sure, I'm trapped. That's the point. I can't stop chasing any more than you can stop running."
"I run, you chase," Jarod quoted. "I have to hope you'll see past that mantra some day. Not only because I'd like to stay put somewhere without having to hitch a ride out of town before the week is up — though of course, I would. I want you to escape, too. The Centre wronged us both when they positioned us as enemies, Miss Parker, when we're uniquely suited to help each other."
The Centre wronged us both when they positioned us as enemies. It was an echo of Miss Parker's own thoughts earlier that day, down in the stairwell with Jarod's frustration and panic reverberating off the walls. We should never have been pitted against each other, Jarod. It wasn't fair to do that to us. Miss Parker squirmed. When she finally dredged up a retort, it came out hoarse.
"Help? Is that what you call it? Those pointless riddles, the scavenger hunts, always making me jump through hoops instead of just telling me things I needed to know? That wasn't help, Jarod, that was torment."
Jarod didn't seem to have heard. He was looking over at the control hub for his pain relief medication drip. After a moment, he pushed himself out of his chair, poked a few buttons, and yanked out a wire.
"What are you doing?"
"Turned off the drugs," he replied, curt.
Miss Parker raised an eyebrow. Jarod was on patient-controlled analgesia, so the dosage was entirely within his control. Then again, when you had relief immediately at hand, maybe it was too easy to say yes, and too hard to say no. She could relate to that. She definitely hadn't kept any half-full cigarette cartons around the house once she'd quit nicotine.
"I was getting too comfortable," Jarod said, though she hadn't asked for an explanation. "Heart-to-hearts with you are only going to make the next part harder."
Miss Parker couldn't agree more.
The third-floor thoracic surgery clinic was a wash, Sydney decided.
"Even if Miss Parker was here at some point, she's not here now," he said to Broots, who nodded.
They passed a wall of windows which looked out over the parking lot, and the Delaware River beyond it. Sydney ran through his mental checklist: they'd covered thoracic surgery, now the next floor up was pediatrics, which they could skip, and then — Sydney's train of thought was interrupted by a sudden dearth of Broots. He hadn't followed Sydney. Sydney looked around and within seconds spotted his friend. Broots had doubled back to the window and was squinting at the parking lot below.
"Something wrong?" asked Sydney.
Broots didn't reply for a moment, then pointed down at the parking lot.
"Who does that look like to you? Does that look like Jennings, and the other cop who caught us at the office building?"
Sydney followed his finger to two small figures emerging from a police cruiser. They did, in fact, look like the two detectives they'd met at the scene of Lorefice's homicide.
"Damn," he said. "We need to find Miss Parker and Jarod soon, we don't have the resources to go up against the Philadelphia PD."
Below them, the figure they'd identified as Jennings held a radio up to her mouth. Down the hall, another radio crackled to life.
"—e advised, do not allow current patient Jake Parker or his spouse Margot Jamison to leave the building, they are wanted in connection with a violent crime. High possibility of concealed firearms. Contain both to the fourth floor if possible. Jennings and Hobbes on site to make the arrest."
"'Spouse'?" repeated Broots incredulously.
Sydney ignored him. "Fourth floor," he muttered, and took off towards the stairs.
"Have you ever heard of the Monty Hall problem?"
An ambiguously negative grunt from Miss Parker. Jarod soldiered on.
"It's a math problem, all about probability. I taught it to some undergrad kids once, when I was Pretending at a college. In the puzzle, you're in a game show, and the host shows you three doors. Behind two doors there are goats, and behind the other is a new car. The host asks you to a pick a door. Once you do, the host — who knows what is behind each door — chooses a door you have not picked and reveals that a goat is behind it. The host then offers to let you change your choice to the remaining door. The puzzle asks, do you switch to the other door, or do you stick by your choice? The brain teaser assumes you want a car, and not a goat. To each their own. I think I'd rather have a goat."
Stick by your choice, Miss Parker replied, but only in her head. The problem sounded familiar, but she wasn't about to admit to Jarod that she had any knowledge of contentious probability problems. She was tempted to make a crack about the time Jarod had sent her a Monty-Hall style game show parody to drop some breadcrumbs for the Centre mystery-du-jour. That would have led to another conversation, however, so she kept mum. She had no interest in getting embroiled in another conversation, especially not now that Jarod's time on the outside could be measured on the scale of minutes rather than hours or days. This was a transaction, a concrete task. She had to check a box, and she would be free.
"The puzzle made a lot of people angry, because few people understood the answer. If you want the car, which most people do, you should switch to the other door. You have double the chance of getting the car if you switch than if you stay put. I had to devote half a lecture to it before I got everyone on board, the kids got pretty wound up about it. I'll spare you the explanation." Jarod had a half-smile on his face, the product of nostalgia. Miss Parker wondered how long it had been since he'd last taken a whole weekend off from Pretending. Did he miss it?
"'Preciate it. I'll take your word for it," said Miss Parker, and cringed inwardly. She hadn't meant to say anything.
"Will you?" said Jarod with surprise. "Most people don't."
"Do I look like a math student to you? Most people you've discussed probability with probably don't get invited to parties much, Jarod."
Jarod massaged his leg. Miss Parker wondered vaguely if the analgesic was wearing off, allowing the pain to rear its ugly head.
"Probably true," he allowed. "Neither do I, truthfully. I'm rarely around long enough to earn an invitation to a party. Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Get invited to parties?"
What was with his unerring knack for pulling her into a conversation? Miss Parker sighed.
"Invitations, sure. I never have the time to go, though, do I? I'm always chasing after you."
Jarod ignored the jibe.
"Anyway, the math is interesting enough, but what's really fascinating is how people react to the Monty Hall problem. For one, how angry people get. I've seen people throw punches over Monty Hall. Most people, when they first hear the puzzle and haven't thought through the math yet, think it doesn't matter if you switch or not. The odds are fifty-fifty, they say. But what's interesting is that, when simulations were run of the problem, among people who were either mistaken about the math or didn't bother with the math at all, the vast majority did not switch their door decision. Surely if the choice of switching or not switching really didn't matter, roughly half of them would choose to switch?"
Miss Parker had adopted an affectation of untouchable boredom, but she listened despite herself. This must be what it's like to be in a lecture hall with Jarod as your teacher, she thought. Except at some point, it would turn out your dean had murdered a student, or something, and your professor would then vanish two weeks into the semester.
"When the people who did not switch doors were interviewed afterwards, they were very defensive of their choice. There was value in what they already had, simply because they already had it. Psychologists call it the endowment effect." Jarod caught Miss Parker's eye, and in one sinking moment it struck Miss Parker that this lecture was not some dead-end tangent. He was making a point. "Better to make a mistake by sticking to their guns, rather than make a mistake through action."
"What are you getting at, Jarod?"
Jarod smiled wistfully.
"You're not like the people who switched doors, Miss Parker. You're not like the people who chose to stand by their original choice, thinking they had a fifty-fifty chance at happiness, either. You're a whole new category of game show contestant."
From down the hall, a clock started to chime the hour. Bong, bong, bong. Three o'clock. She'd asked Sam to arrive at three o'clock. They'd run out of time.
"Why's that?" Miss Parker said. There was no power behind the question. She felt numb. This was how he was using his last minutes of freedom?
"You already know there's a goat behind your door. It's a mean, vindictive goat, and it's tearing you down every day. But you still won't switch doors. That's a real shame, Marcelle. I think you deserve a shiny new car. Don't you?"
She knew exactly what he was doing. It was a weird, quintessentially Jarod approach, trying to persuade her to defect from the Centre via a brain teaser about goats behind doors. The invocation of her first name was particularly underhanded. Objectively, it was a terrible case. Not in the least convincing.
That's all you have?, she wanted to shout. Brain teasers? Give me something better. Give me a reason. Give me ammunition. Which was funny, wasn't it? Ostensibly, she had no use for ammunition, a reason, something better. She was taking Jarod to the Centre, and then she would be free.
Still, she found herself speechless, gaping at him across the hospital room like a fish rudely pulled from water onto dry land.
She was still staring when the phone in her balled fist began to ring. It rang twice before she finally broke eye contact and looked down at the caller ID. It was Sam. On automatic, she flipped the phone open and leaped to her feet.
"What?" she barked.
"We're coming in to land on the roof of the hospital, Miss Parker. Where should we meet you?" Miss Parker met Jarod's eye. From the look on his face — scared, disappointed, and so tired, would you look at the dullness in his eyes — he'd recognized the voice if not the words, and pieced together what it meant. "Hello? Miss Parker?"
She hadn't replied. She had to say something. She couldn't just… not act. Better to make a mistake through action…
Here's another brain teaser for you, Parker. Let's treat it as a hypothetical, watch it play out just for fun. You've picked door number 1. Look at that, behind door number 2 is a tyrannical employer and the homicidal dregs of a half-dead family. What say you to door number 3?
Let's treat it as a hypothetical, watch it play out just for fun. How would it work? Was there time? What were the odds of survival?
Miss Parker shook her head to clear the nonsense, and rattled off the room number. Sam repeated it back for confirmation.
"By the way, you've got a couple of cop cars pulling up to the building, should we be prepared for them to try to prevent Jarod's extraction?" he asked.
Miss Parker exhaled between clenched teeth. There was no time to deal with cops.
"I'll meet you at the fourth-floor elevators with Jarod," she said, and hung up.
Over on the other side of the bed, Jarod's whole body had retreated in on itself the moment Miss Parker had pronounced the room number. Miss Parker hesitated, her hand hovering over the gun holster under her suit jacket. She let her hand drop.
"We're leaving," she said. Jarod tensed. An argument congregated on his face.
"Miss Parker," he started. So it was 'Miss Parker' again. What happened to 'Marcelle'? (Not that she was complaining. She kept that name under wraps for a reason.)
"You want to wait here and get arrested?" she asked. Jarod guffawed.
"That was less rhetorical than you intended, I suspect. If that's on the table, I'll take it. Between prison and the Centre, bring on prison."
She didn't have time for this. With a tinge of regret, she unholstered the gun. She couldn't quite muster the nerve to point it straight at Jarod; instead, she pointed it somewhere in the region of his feet.
"Neither of us want to see you get shot again, Jarod. I won't say it again, we're leaving. Get your shoes on."
He got his shoes on.
Miss Parker covered Jarod's back with the gun as they emerged into the hallway. To the left was the stairwell, to the right the elevators, where they were meant to wait for Sam and the rest of her sweeper team. Down the hall directly in front of them was the route to the head desk for the trauma unit. A quite literal fork in the road.
There was movement down by the head desk, a small knot of people collecting around the authoritarian nurse Miss Parker had encountered earlier that day.
"Is that…?" said Jarod.
It was. Sydney and Broots, of all people, were talking to the desk nurse and two other people Miss Parker instantly recognized as police officers. They were plainclothes, but their posture and bulky shoulder holsters marked them as cops. Plus, she was fairly certain the shorter one was Sergeant Hobbes.
Miss Parker and her captive were frozen in place for a moment, until Hobbes (for yes, it was indeed Hobbes) began to turn away from the Centre employees. Sydney happened to glance over the sergeant's shoulder and, in doing so, spotted Miss Parker and Jarod.
"One more thing, officer," he called, louder than was absolutely necessary. Hobbes turned back.
It was all the distraction Miss Parker needed. She'd have to buy Sydney something nice to say thank you for the assist, if she ever got the chance.
"Stairs," she hissed at Jarod's back. For once, he didn't put up any argument. They slipped through the doorway leading to the stairs.
It was a long way up to the roof. Three flights up, Jarod was already flagging. His injured leg wobbled precariously every time he put weight on it, and his damaged lung made it a constant fight for adequate air.
"We could take the elevator —" He groaned as a tremor ran through his thigh. " — From this floor, to meet Sam. We haven't heard anyone coming up behind —" Wheeze. "— us. The cops may still be down on fourth."
"We're not meeting Sam at the elevators," said Miss Parker. She could tell from the look on Jarod's face that he didn't understand, but that was all right. He wasn't meant to. For once, she was the one with all the information. Finally, Jarod broke eye contact to look up at the distance left still to cover. He put one foot up on the next step. His leg shook visibly. This close to, Miss Parker could hear the slight wheeze whenever Jarod inhaled.
He wouldn't make it on his own.
Miss Parker refused to look at Jarod as she seized his arm and draped it around her shoulders, then curled her own arm around Jarod's waist. Jarod tensed at the contact, then slowly relaxed into her. His weight gradually settled across her shoulders. When she felt stable enough to do so, Miss Parker returned to the task of climbing the stairs, conscious the entire time of the warmth and solidity at her side.
The stairs led all the way up to the roof. There was a security card scanner on the exit to the roof, but Miss Parker already had an answer for that. She held out an expectant hand to Jarod and snapped her fingers. Jarod raised his eyebrows in a question.
"The security card, Jarod. I saw you with one when you tried to escape earlier. There's no way you let it out of your sight since. Give it."
"Oh, you saw that? Sharp eyes."
To Miss Parker's surprise, Jarod smiled. A real smile — not wistful or exasperated or mocking. It wasn't the sort of smile Miss Parker usually got to see. It was close-lipped and impish, like he'd discovered some new delightful corner of human existence. Like the world had lived up to his hopes in this tiny, mundane instance. It was a smile of gold star stickers, justifiably earned.
If this didn't work, Miss Parker hoped she'd be able to see that smile at least one more time.
Jarod teetered briefly as he took his free hand off the railing to reach into his back pocket, emerging with the security card. Miss Parker took it and turned it over. The face of a security guard she'd seen pacing the hallways glowered back at her out of an ID card photo.
"Remind me to watch your hands anywhere near my pockets the next time we meet," said Miss Parker. The next time we meet, she echoed in the privacy of her own head. Don't get ahead of yourself, Parker. One thing at a time. She press the card to the sensor and heard a whirring sound from within the door's locking mechanism. The door swung open.
The heat hit them like an oncoming truck; then came the wind off the helicopter blades, like a parade of motorcycles side-swiping them at the edge of a highway. No shouts greeted their arrival, no square-shouldered sweepers rushed to meet them. The helicopter shone black and bug-like on the dusty rooftop, ostensibly unguarded. Miss Parker's heart crawled up her esophagus as she and Jarod waddled around the chopper's perimeter. Only when the fuselage was in view did Miss Parker relax: it was empty.
"They've all gone down to the fourth floor," Jarod shouted over the rhythmic beating of the helicopter blades.
Miss Parker grinned. This was like facing down death. Nothing left to lose. She peeled his arm from around her shoulder and stepped back to revel in the moment. A minute or two couldn't hurt.
"There's that reputation of yours for being wily, finally coming in handy," she said, raising her voice as well. "Sam thinks they need a full complement to take you in."
Jarod gave her an appraising look. He hadn't figured it out yet. Miss Parker could have laughed aloud; she might, yet. It was like holding a royal flush when nobody else knew they were even playing poker. She wondered if this is what Jarod felt like when he took down a CEO or a dirty cop or fill-in-the-blank-here. This must be why he was so addicted to withholding secrets — knowledge (whatever kind) was power, and power was a rush.
"What if those police officers we saw down the hall intercept the sweepers? They might get held up answering questions," said Jarod. She saw his eyes dart to her holster, then glance away as if dismissing an idea. Miss Parker grinned harder. Everything seemed incredibly funny.
"That's what I'm counting on," she said.
Jarod frowned. "I don't understand."
"No, you don't, do you? I should take a picture, preserve the moment. I'll send you a copy."
Jarod's frown deepened, became concerned.
"Are you all right?"
"Not even a little. Jarod?" Miss Parker swayed on the spot. She felt drunk on the moment; in reality, she was probably just deliriously tired. "I'm letting you go. Isn't that ridiculous? I'm letting you go."
They were in a vortex of wind and sound, the two of them. Jarod didn't move, just stared at her. When he finally tore his eyes away, he looked to the helicopter, slowing powering down on the landing pad. Then back to her.
"Letting me go?" he repeated, as if the phrase was an unfamiliar idiom.
"You're a little moronic when offered freedom, you know that? Yes, I'm letting - you - go. That's what you wanted, isn't it?" The grin hadn't left her face since she set foot on the roof. She probably looked a little manic. At the image this conjured in her mind, she giggled quietly. Jarod stepped back, staggering slightly on the injury he'd momentarily forgotten all about. He made no move towards the helicopter fuselage, however. He didn't seem to grasp how momentous the occasion was.
"Miss Parker, listen, this isn't —"
"No, you listen," she yelled, her smile finally dropping away. Her voice was growing strained from shouting over the noise. "I can't do it. I can't take you into the Centre, not after the last couple of days. Even if I didn't — even if you weren't the — even if you weren't Jarod, you wouldn't deserve it. You never deserved it, but I had to get over myself for that to matter. You won, OK? You made your case for freedom, after all your poking and harassing. I won't see you go back there. I won't. I want — I want you to be free."
It was frightening, it was freeing, it was deeply surreal to just say these things, to just say them! As if they were words for the open air, to speak aloud, instead of worrying over them in the most shadowy recesses of her mind where even her consciousness couldn't fully acknowledge their existence.
He'd leave now, and if she had anything to say about it, she wouldn't see him again. The thought made her embarrassingly wistful. He'd been the most important person in her life for so long. This would leave a Jarod-shaped hole in her life, and if nothing else, that would be jarring. She could — oh, what the hell, why not? If it was her last chance.
There was a roaring in her ears quite apart from the sound of the wind on the rooftop. She reached out, and Jarod was within arm's reach. She wasn't sure if she'd moved or he had. Before she had the time to second-guess, she curled the fingers of both hands around the nape of his neck, pulled him close and pressed a kiss against his mouth, hard. She left no time for him to react. Just a small indulgence, since she wouldn't get another chance. She pushed against his chest, firmly and without room for argument, so that he stumbled backwards towards the chopper.
"You're free. At least, from me. Now, go."
The loss of equilibrium seemed to snap Jarod back into the moment. His face hardened and he reached out to her. She stepped out of his grasp.
"I can't go. Not alone," he said — which was ridiculous, since that was all he ever did. He always moved on, and he always did it alone.
"Yes, you can," Miss Parker scoffed. "You're stalling, hell if I know why. Go, now, before the sweepers get away from the cops and come back up here. You want to lose your chance when I'm handing it to you on a platter — stop it!" Jarod was shaking his head at every word.
"I can't leave you behind," he insisted. "I know the Centre, I know how they'd react if they found out you let me go. You say I convinced you, but I don't think you were listening at all! This doesn't work unless both of us are free."
"What's the matter with you? You're the one addicted to unsolicited rescue, you should recognize it when you see it. Maybe you can't stand to share the glory, but you need to deal with that in your own time. You know I can't go with you. Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth and be rescued," she said. As if she had time for him to come to terms with someone else saving him for a change. What a prick.
Jarod smiled, an open-mouthed grin. It was a smile out of time, taking her back to the first time she'd stepped down the stairs into the Pretender project facilities and seen him beaming up at her.
She'd been flattered, she remembered, though she knew he was the first girl his age he'd ever met.
"Here, look at it this way if it helps," said Jarod. "I literally cannot go alone. I can't pilot this helicopter by myself."
"Bullshit," Miss Parker countered. "I've seen you fly helicopters alone."
"Not with two gun shot wounds. Not while on post-surgical analgesics. Your brave and selfless rescue will go to waste if my leg goes into spasm and I crash into a cow pasture."
Son of a bitch, he was right. If she sent him off by himself only for him to get killed in a helicopter crash, she'd never be able to look Sydney in the eye again. Hell, she'd have trouble looking herself in the eye.
All trace of her earlier delirious humour was gone.
"What are you suggesting?"
"You come with me."
"Yes, I got that," she snapped. "After that? What would we do?"
She knew what he was offering. Jarod wasn't the sort for short-term solutions. "Come with me" wouldn't mean "drop you off at the next gas station", rather something closer to "defect to my side and become a fugitive from the Centre". It was too big a question for a snap decision on a rooftop with sweepers and cops closing on their position with every passing second. The thought experiment was too tempting to ignore altogether, however. The Centre might assume the worst if she and Jarod vanished from the hospital at the same time, might assume she'd turned traitor. Whether this was a next-gas-station decision or a defection decision wasn't entirely in her hands. If it came to it, what would that mean?
What if she could never go back?
It was depressing how little grief she could muster, in this hypothetical picture she'd painted in her mind. It wasn't as if there was nothing to mourn, though, she insisted to herself. The house, every inch of it graced with casual reminders of her mother's vibrant life and her father's steadfast affection. Sydney and Broots, always there to back her play — but then, if she were no longer at the Centre, would it perhaps enable them to leave as well? No, she couldn't entertain this, it was an irresponsible daydream. For now, this had to be a next-gas-station decision — it couldn't be more than that. She didn't have room in her brain for more. Nevertheless, she waited Jarod's answer with unconcealed hope. Give me a reason, give me ammunition.
Jarod shrugged and gave her a wobbly grin.
"How about that shiny new car, Miss Parker?"
In plain terms: leave everything behind. Throw everything you've ever known away, right here, right now, a split-second choice on a hospital rooftop, too much noise to hear herself think. The choice she'd been avoiding, because it was too far from the norm, too much of a departure from everything ingrained into her brain as… how things had to be. The choice to live apart from the Centre, apart from the Parker legacy. She'd considered it once before, when Thomas had asked her. She'd taken the leap and fallen on her face. It was near impossible to muster the nerve to leap again, when she'd already hit the ground so hard. But, if she could fly…
No.
Or, not yet.
It was too big for right now. She needed something more bite-sized, more manageable, something she could bend her head around. Escaping the cops, now that she could handle. Putting the hospital in the proverbial rear-view mirror, that wasn't so daunting a choice. Even if this was the first well-intentioned paving stone on the road to defection, for now it was just that, one step.
Finally:
"Let's go," she said. Jarod grinned, plainly thinking he'd won. She held up a hand. "I'm not committing to anything, but we need to get away from the hospital grounds. I don't plan on being arrested or T-boarded today."
They didn't spend any further time arguing or planning, which was for the best. No time for either to second-guess, and no time for anyone to interrupt their debate in its final stages. They climbed into the chopper, one on either side of the controls. Miss Parker eyed the foot pedals under their respective feet and was forced to admit (at least, to herself) that Jarod was right. He wouldn't have been able to pilot the chopper alone with an injured leg.
The chopper lifted slowly off the landing pad. When it had risen around thirty feet, the door to the roof burst open and vomited a small crowd onto the rooftop. Miss Parker had to crane her neck to see past Jarod — there were Sydney, Broots, and Sam, and a couple of nameless sweepers she'd never exchanged ten words with. Less expected, there were Sergeant Hobbes and his colleague. Those who were armed had their weapons drawn and pointed uncertainly at the retreating craft.
"Jarod!" hollered Sam, with something that sounded remarkably like real hatred. He fired, and there was a deceptively innocuous ping as the bullet struck home in the body of the helicopter. Miss Parker looked wildly around around for signs of real damage, and was brought up short by a hand on hers. Jarod had reached over and folded her hand in his larger one. Perhaps he'd meant it to be comforting, but she could feel his heartbeat hammering away where his wrist touched hers. That was a comfort of a kind, she supposed.
Below, the cops had turned their attention on Sam, who now lay face-down on the rooftop with his hands cuffed behind his back. The other sweepers were standing around awkwardly, trying to appear not half as armed as they really were. Broots watched the arrest unfold, but Sydney had not let the chopper out of his sight. He raised one hand in a wave. No smile, stone-faced. Jarod had no hands to spare, and did not wave back.
Just like that, they flew away. Miss Parker wasn't sure how far they'd get, but a choice had been made, and that was the important part. She'd have time for bigger choices later. She squeezed Jarod's hand, reluctant to let go just yet if she didn't have to. And she didn't have to.
So she held on 'til morning.