Chapter II: Prelude Part 2

Friday, May 24th, 07.10 a.m.

The following morning, Erin woke up quite early, as it was her habit. Even if she had slept far less than usual, she had rested well, and this surprised her, in view of the previous evening's facts. Well, all the better, she thought, opening the sliding panel trying to make no noise.

Jarod was already awake, seated on the bed with only his jeans on; he had opened his metallic case and placed it in front of him, and he was looking at its content. From the pale iridescent luminosity dancing across his face, Erin assumed it was a laptop computer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jarod saw the movement and lifted his gaze to his amazing host.

"Good morning", he said friendly, and noticing her puzzled look, he hurried to find a quick explanation, "You caught me at work: I'm an on-line consultant of software programs."

"Oh!" she commented, flinging her legs out of bed. She didn't worry about getting dressed before: living closely in the narrow space of the motorhome, they would inevitably catch each other in scanty clothes, sooner or later, so it was better beginning at once to forget some useless modesties. Anyway, even Jarod didn't worry about getting dressed completely, she noticed, and so maybe he had already thought by himself about the topic.

"Full breakfast?" she asked him. Jarod closed the suitcase before answering her with a smile:

"Yes, gladly: I'm hungry."

As Erin busied herself at the stove, he made carefully his bed, then began to store his belongings in the wardrobe she had shown him the night before.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked him, shaking the non-stick frying pan in which she was cooking two eggs. Jarod saw that her hair was very long, reaching past the middle of her back.

"Very well, thanks. You, too?"

"Yes, and I'm surprised about it, because I was expecting nightmares."

"Because of yesterday evening?"

"Yeah. You know, I'm easily affected. I don't even look at horror movies!" Erin laughed, with a certain auto-irony that Jarod appreciated.

"As for this, I don't look at them, either", he admitted, "I prefer far more adventurous movies, especially science fiction."

"Really? I'm a big Star Trek fan, but I like Star Wars, too.."

As they breakfasted with eggs, bacon, cereals and pancakes with maple syrup, sipping a deliciously aromatic coffee, they chatted with great enthusiasm about those two sagas, true milestones of the science fiction genre.

Afterwards, Jarod offered to wash up and Erin took advantage of it to freshen up and get dressed.

"It strikes you!" she panted, coming out from the bathroom and referring to the cold water, "But it gives you a real energy blow."

"I'll try it, too", Jarod said; the first spout left him breathless, but he agreed with Erin.

They resumed travelling shortly after nine o'clock and began chatting again. Science fiction is a topic that, branching in an endless quantity of matters, makes one often jump from one thing to another; so it was for Jarod and Erin who, without knowing exactly why, found themselves speaking about music, sport, TV shows, but also about drugs, racism, occultism, topical news, and then about cars and motorcycles, fashion, even about make-up. They passed Los Angeles and noon arrived in a flash; the young woman slowed down and stopped the motorhome at an equipped layby.

"Do you like Italian cuisine?" she asked, getting off. Jarod nodded:

"I'm fond of penne all'arrabbiata (author's note: very spicy pasta-treat)."

She thought about it for one second, then smirked:

"I can arrange that."

Her father's parents, she told him, arrived in America from Italy in the Thirties, and she had learned to cook Italian from her grandmother Francesca; she knew very well also Irish cuisine because her mother Maureen came from Connemara, a county in the south-west of the Emerald Island.

Because it was pleasant to eat outside, she asked him to set one of the wooden tables with benches that stood on a shady meadow around the layby, using a plastic cloth and paper crockery. Within half an hour, she served very spicy penne all'arrabbiata: the first bit filled Jarod's eyes with tears, and he fumbled in search of a piece of bread. Erin looked at him, worried:

"Too spicy?"

"You're kidding!" he panted, swallowing fire, "I adore tongue-burning food!"

Seeing that she was even more worried, he swiftly reassured her:

"No, I mean it for good; as a matter of fact, I adore also Mexican cuisine and I can have jalapeños as a starter."

Relieved, Erin went on eating; they drank red wine, just a sip because they had to drive, and much water.

After throwing the garbage in the dedicated trashcans, they resumed their journey; Jarod insisted to take her over driving and she accepted, glad to be able for once to relax on one of the comfortable passenger seats. She turned on the stereo, choosing a CD of Tina Turner, a compilation of old and new hits, and soon she began singing softly. Noticing that Jarod seemed to appreciate it, Erin adjusted the stereo controls, taking off almost completely the original voice so she could sing on the tunes; it was the turn of We Don't Need Another Hero, a quite aggressive rock that required a scratching voice. The next song was Dancer For Money, very sweet and somewhat sad, to which she gave a suffered and moving performance.

Erin's skill in performing the different musical situations amazed Jarod; it was as if she would change skin every time, and his mind came up with the disquieting thought that she could be a potential Pretender.

At the end of the second piece, he sighed with a little envy and said:

"I wish I could sing like you."

"So try it out!" she invited him lively, "Or are you tone-deaf?"

"I don't know", Jarod confessed innocently, "I never sing."

Erin looked askance at him, incredulous:

"Not even under the shower?"

Jarod frowned and returned her gaze:

"No, really", he declared, with a face that looked like why, one sings under the shower? Erin blinked: she was even more perplexed. It wasn't the first time Jarod seemed... odd to her.

"But where are you coming from, Mars?!", she asked him playfully. Jarod thought amused about all the times he had been asked this very question: nobody knew how much he or she were near the truth, even if not in a literal sense.

"No, even if the place I'm coming from doesn't seem of this world", he answered, giving to his voice a playful tone to make her believe that it was just a joke, "Would you teach me?"

"To sing? Well, I may try, on condition that you are in tune. By ear, you should be a baritone, but you could be also a low tenor. To verify it, you have to try and make some vocalisms; just follow my voice."

Erin trained his voice on different combinations of notes. It turned out that Jarod was a high baritone, meaning the capability to digress lightly on the tenor.

"They tried to make me study piano as a young girl", she told him laughing, "but I hated it, and after two years they yielded."

Well, so there was something that she wasn't able to do, Jarod thought amused. Some more time and he would begin to think that there was nothing this extraordinary girl couldn't do.

Then, Jarod tried to sing something he knew well, with Erin performing the leading voice.

"You are talented", the young woman told him in the end, smiling at him. He felt like melting down at the heat of her smile and, for a moment, he just looked in her eyes, as if charmed, before remembering he was driving and it was quite better if he kept his gaze on the road.

For a long time, he kept asking himself what the queer sensation he had begun to feel in his stomach might be.

OOO

They arrived in San Francisco in the late afternoon. Erin lived at about one and a half hour from the metropolis located on the famous bay and she could have gone on with no problems until reaching home, but something got her to ask him:

"You've never been in Frisco?"

Jarod had been many times in this big town, one of the most fascinating in the United States, during the years following his escape from the Centre, but he had never been able to visit it properly.

"A few times, for business", he answered therefore, and this wasn't so far from the truth, "But I never stopped long enough to sightsee it."

"I wouldn't come and live here – I don't like metropolis – but it's a very beautiful town", she declared, and then added impulsively, "I know a camping place right on the bay: if you like, we can stop there and tomorrow I'll take you to see the most picturesque places."

Jarod flashed her a smile:

"If it's not too much trouble..."

"If it was, I wouldn't make you the offer", she replied, frowning: maybe he had no wish to prolong their meeting but was too polite to say it straightaway... Damn, one time she had met a truly interesting guy...

"Anyway, if you don't want to, you have only to say it", she concluded, using a rougher tone than she had intended. Jarod realised he had somehow offended her and quickly declared, sincerely:

"No, no, I'd love to... It's true!" he emphasised, perceiving her dark glare. Finally convinced, she smiled at him, suddenly in better spirits. The short exchange made him realise that Erin had a character that got easily upset, but in the same easy way got... downset. He decided she wasn't one to bear a grudge, because she had a sunny personality, shining, passionate and generous.

It was pointless denying it any more: he liked her.

Half an hour later, they arrived at the camping place; after the small formalities required at the reception, Erin parked the motorhome on the spot they had chosen, and her skill in manoeuvring the large vehicle, including the trolley, impressed Jarod.

The camping place was very nice, having been earlier the garden of a luxury Nineteenth Century residence; huge trees shaded it, mostly sycamores and oaks, but there were also birches and willows, growing on a large lawn carefully mown; there was a big swimming-pool and a sunbathing area, equipped with deck-chairs and beach-umbrellas, and a snack bar.

"I go for a swim", Erin announced, pointing to the pool they could see not far away, "Are you coming?"

"Sure!"

Erin changed first, and when she got off the motorhome, Jarod could not help but stare at her in plain admiration: she wore a very simple one-piece swimsuit, which highlighted her hourglass-shaped figure, and the fluorescent colours emphasised her tanned complexion; the low braid in which she had gathered her wonderful brown hair gave her a very young look.

Noticing his stare, Erin opened her mouth to tell him calm down, boy, but, watching better, his face seemed to her more the face of a teenager in adoration of a beautiful woman, rather than the face of an adult man trying to make a move. She thought this was really odd, because Jarod was unmistakably a full-grown man, surely closer to his forties than to his thirties, but she felt disarmed and chose to hold her tongue, sensing that if she didn't, she would embarrass him heavily.

Jarod was finally able to recover and climbed in to change. When he came out, it was Erin's turn to feel stunned and stare at him: if dressed he looked like a model, with only his swim trunks he was a Greek statue. He had to work out hard... Anyway, being smart enough, she was able to hide her agitation without difficulty under a cool smirk, but walking by his side to the swimming pool, she couldn't help but look sideways at him a few times. Many women turned to stare at him while he was passing, and Erin saw that he didn't notice it at all. Was it for modesty or for habit?, she wondered, but instinctively she inclined to believe the first hypothesis. Anyway, for the same reason she didn't notice the men who turned to look at her.

But Jarod noticed them, and felt suddenly jealous: how did they dare to look at her that way? He wondered perplexed about the reason of his reaction: he knew her barely for twenty-four hours, he didn't know anything about her, and those men after all were only gazing. It was surely not a crime. So why was he yearning to punch them on the nose?

They arrived at the swimming pool and Jarod gave up examining the topic, fearing he would only make a headache out of it. As a matter of fact, Sydney, his mentor at the Centre, had taught him that often questioning too much one's feelings brings only more confusion; therefore, it's much better accepting them as they are, and sooner or later the answer comes by itself.

Erin swam very well, with long regular strokes, and showed a resistance that put Jarod on a hard trial.

"Hey, where did you learn?" he asked her, out of breath, when they stopped, "You're a fish!" he looked at her better, "No, I should say a mermaid", he corrected in a gallant tone.

"My father said it, either", she laughed, not embarrassed at all by the compliment, "Anyway, I lived fourteen months in Munich, near the Olympic Quarter. There they call it the Olympiagelände. The swimming pool was within walking distance from my house, so I devoted myself to swimming, and from that moment on I never ceased."

Jarod recalled that the Munich Olympic Games had been in 1972 and that Mark Spitz, an American swimmer, had won seven gold medals in the different swimming disciplines, breaking all previous records and remaining still unbeaten as for number of victories in the same Olympiad.

Those Olympic Games had witnessed also a terrible tragedy: a terroristic fedaykin commando had slaughtered eleven Israeli athletes. Jarod's Pretences had been useless to point out the culprits... but now he suspected that they had been used more to hide their trail than to find them: the Centre could have been likely paid for it by the terrorists.

"I understand you travelled much all around the world", he said.

"Enough", Erin confirmed, "My father worked for the government and we – my mother, my brother and I – followed him wherever they sent him. I took advantage of it by learning something particular in each place we went to, included a few languages."

"Indeed, yesterday night you spoke Spanish: what other tongues do you know?"

"Italian and Irish Gaelic, obviously, from my parents; and then German, French, Portuguese, and also a little Japanese and Russian."

"Wow!" Jarod muttered, once more impressed by that incredible girl, "And what did you learn, in the Countries speaking those languages?"

"Oh well... many things", Erin answered, feeling suddenly embarrassed: what if he thought she was boasting? She decided to divert their chat:

"And what about you?"

"Oh, I speak Spanish, French and Russian", Jarod answered vaguely, but thanks to his Pretender skills he potentially knew many more, "but I have never been abroad, safe once. I must say that I'd love really much visiting other Countries, meeting people with different customs and habits, seeing new places...", where the Centre is not there to hunt me, he added by himself, with sudden, stinging bitterness, which he carefully hid. But Erin possessed formidable capability to read into one's soul, so she noticed it all the same, and could not help but wonder about the reason of it.

"Travelling enriches you much", she asserted, trying to turn him away from what were, by any evidence, sad thoughts, "The secret is accepting the diversity without judging, and adapting to the local way of living without being amazed or shocked about anything. The traveller's vade-mecum is essentially summarised by the motto: When in Rome do as the Romans do."

Jarod nodded to show he agreed, then changed subject:

"May I ask you what you do for a living?"

Seeing her frowning, he quickly added:

"Hey, you don't need to tell me, if you don't want to."

Erin smirked to reassure him:

"No, no... I was only wondering about how they are managing it without me. I think as good as usual, it's not the first time that I take two weeks off... Well, I own a gym, and I like my job very much. But to tell you the truth", she added impulsively, not knowing exactly why she was doing it, "my secret dream is to be a writer."

"Really?" Jarod said, thinking of the romantic novel he wrote under a pseudonym a few years earlier, dedicating it to Miss Parker, "And what do you write, science fiction?"

"No, I'm more inclined to fantasy, because SF requires technological notions that I don't possess. With fantasy instead I can pen my fancies without fearing writing foolishness because I lack the basis."

That very morning they had talked also about this literary genre, Jarod recalled, and about the authors who both preferred, finding themselves very close in tastes.

"And what kind of fantasy do you write?" he asked, vividly interested.

"Heroic fantasy", she answered, chuckling, "This means, going around fencing with a big sword... except that my latest heroine is not only a formidable swordswoman, but also a healer. Or, if you prefer, first she slices you and then she sews you whole again!"

Jarod burst into laughter, but he suspected that this heroine was very alike her creator.

"I'd like to read something of yours", he declared, meaning it. Erin shook her head:

"Thanks for your interest, but I have nothing with me, and in any case I allow only very few and very intimate people reading my writings."

She said it in such a definitive tone that Jarod was dissuaded to insist; realising she had been too rough, Erin smiled to apologise.

"I'm hungry", she announced, clutching the gangway to get off the water, "And you?"

"Sure I am!"

Going back to the motorhome, Jarod realised that she had avoided asking him more details about his doings, and wondered if this lack of curiosity was indifference or discretion; intuition told him it was the second one.

For dinner, they decided to have a barbecue, of which Jarod took care, while Erin prepared some salad. Once again, they ate outside, using the table and the pliable chairs contained in the large baggage van of the motorhome. Giving it a casual glance, Jarod commented:

"Nice motorcycle."

"True", Erin confirmed, glad about his interest, "even if my real love would be for super-sport bikes. But those are suitable for circuits, or short and winding journeys, surely not for the large and straight American roads and their long distances. So I chose this one, which is a good compromise between a sport and a touristic bike."

Motorcycles were the subject of the evening, and Jarod discovered that Erin knew about them far more than him; growing up in the Centre's aseptic environment, he had been educated without any prejudice of race, religion or gender, but he knew that in the outer world it was unusual to find a woman having an interest in such a subject. Thinking it better, Erin had an interest in many subjects unusual for a woman: besides motorcycles, also racecars, firearms and martial arts, and who knows how much more that he didn't yet even imagine. His curiosity and admiration for this uncommon girl grew even more.

At a certain moment, Erin glanced at her watch and said:

"I go and have a look at today's news."

Having seen no television receiver in the motorhome, Jarod looked at her perplexed as she climbed in and decided to follow her. He watched her taking out a little black case from the cupboard between the table and the niche containing the double bed in which she slept, placing it on the table and opening it; he realised it was a laptop computer with colour LCD monitor and satellite connection to the internet, very modern and quite expensive.

"Do you want to have a look, too?" Erin asked him. At his nod, she moved the laptop on the table, so that both could sit down, and they watched the CNN news. After it, Erin went looking at the site of the network that had shot the accident the night before, finding a paragraph and a short film, in which also her motorhome was to be seen, but neither her, nor Jarod. He tried not to show his relief, but he realised it was useless as Erin, showing once again her perspicacity, commented:

"You're safe, this time."

"Yeah", he admitted, reluctantly, and after a pause he added, "You surely wonder about the reason..."

He stopped, and she nodded:

"Yes, definitely", she confirmed, "but I won't force you to tell me. As I said yesterday night, I'm sure you have your good reasons."

Jarod was grateful for her discretion, because he hated the idea to deceive her, making up a story. Odd: in those last six years, he had never cared about weaving nets of lies around himself to make his presence in any place plausible. Obviously, because he always had acted with the best intentions, he didn't regret anything of what he had done in the past. But now, suddenly, with Erin, it annoyed him.

"Thank you", he said in a low voice, looking her straight in the eye, "I'm very grateful for your trust."

She turned off the computer.

"We all have our secrets", she asserted, with a serious, almost stern face, "As long as they don't damage anyone, we can keep them. But it's wrong to do so when they begin to hurt someone... including ourselves."

Jarod wondered when his secret would begin to destroy him. Very soon, he answered himself, if it hadn't already begun. His weariness, moral even before physical, could very easily be the first symptom...

Erin, who had not slept much the night before, went to bed early. Jarod did as much; he always slept very little, troubled by bad dreams, probably because of the experiments the Centre had made on him over the years. Tonight, very unusually, he fell asleep almost immediately and slept for an extraordinarily long time. He had the usual nightmares, but they were somehow dull, veiled, far away, and he was able to keep them under control. When he awakened, he realised astonished that six hours had passed since he had closed his eyes, and that he had rested incredibly well. Even if he didn't see anything in the darkness, his gaze moved towards the niche were Erin was sleeping; he was hit by the conviction it was her presence that had this effect on him. As if the mere fact she was there had the power to drive away from his mind all the horror he had passed through in that hell-on-Earth, the Centre. He wondered uncertain about the reason: it couldn't be only because she was a kung fu expert and owned a gun, therefore she was able to protect him. No, it had to be a different quality, something she had inside of her and wasn't apparent to a superficial inquiry. At last, it dawned in his mind: Erin had an uncontaminated soul. Oh, she was not a saint, far not. But she possessed the rare skill to enlighten everything around her with an aura of purity, in which whoever was standing next to her could find shelter and feel safe. And whoever came her near with a corrupted soul, was irresistibly driven back.

Jarod realised that, as long as he would stay with Erin De Rossi, the Centre would have no power on him and couldn't reach him.

Saturday, May 25th, 07.30 a.m.

The next morning, they got off their beds early and had a light breakfast, and later Jarod helped Erin to unload the motorcycle from the trolley. As they finished, he asked her all of a sudden:

"Do you know a good restaurant in town?"

"I know a few", she answered, surprised, "What kind of a restaurant do you have in mind?"

"Something very chic. No, the most chic of all."

"Oh, well… there's Rocheford's down at the port. They have the best grilled seafood in all Frisco. Why, do you want to take there your girlfriend?" Erin inquired grinning, but hiding deep inside of her a stinging envy.

"No… but I would ask you if you'd do me the honour of coming out this evening for dinner. A way to thank you for the lift, for today's trip and, what's most important, for your company."

His offer caught Erin by surprise, and for a long moment she couldn't utter a single word. Realising she was holding her breath, she inhaled and was finally able to answer:

"I'd love to, Jarod. Thank you."

Shaking off the odd embarrassment that had caught her, she looked at him critically:

"We have to find a helmet for you", she said, "For no reason I'd drive about someone without."

They asked to the camping place owner, learning he was a passionate biker; he offered very kindly to borrow Jarod a helmet. It was an open model, more suitable for a chopper than for a street motorcycle, and it was a little too large, but for the time being it would fit.

Erin arrived sporting a leather suit, red like her bike, with matching gloves, boots and helmet. Jarod stared at her in amazement: the night of the accident, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, she had looked very young; the day before, at the swimming pool, she had looked like a charming mermaid; and now she seemed almost masculine. Plainly, she had a multi-faceted and eclectic personality, in some way chameleon-like. The thought made him smile: chameleon was one of the nicknames Miss Parker used to call him, along with boy wonder and labrat. Of course she meant to insult him with those epithets, but Jarod didn't pay attention any more since he had realised, a long time ago, that Miss Parker was his enemy only apparently: deep inside her exacerbated heart, she was and always would be the sweet childhood friend who had soothed the loneliness of a secluded boy who had been taken away from his family.

Jarod returned to the present hearing the rumble of the engine. Erin get into the saddle with the ease of the expert motorcyclist; slightly hesitant, because he had never been the passenger, he put on his leather jacket and climbed behind her, finding out that the position was quite comfortable.

"Put your arms around my waist when I speed up", she instructed him, "and when I brake, place your hands on the tank, so you don't weight on me. When I lift, follow my movement, don't oppose it because you would compromise the behaviour of the bike. As for the rest, simply trust me: I think to be quite a good rider."

During the half-an-hour-journey, Jarod proved to be a fine passenger, even if his hair stood on end when Erin passed a series of cars, which were already beginning to slow down to prepare for a bend, braking at what it seemed the last second; but after a while he understood that the brakes of a motorcycle, compared to the vehicle mass, are much more powerful and effective than the brakes of a car and therefore require a much shorter braking space. He saw she had told him the truth asserting she was a good rider; he relaxed and enjoyed the trip.

First thing, Erin took him to see the Golden Gate, the world-famous bridge on the San Francisco Bay, from the scenic perspective of the same name park.

Later, the young woman took him on a panoramic tour around the town centre, facing free and easy the chaotic traffic of the typical up-and-downs of the hills on which the town is built; Jarod could appreciate the agility and the practicality of the two-wheeled vehicle and decided that, if ever one day he could settle down somewhere, he would buy a bike.

They visited Chinatown, the picturesque Chinese quarter that Erin, because of her great interest for oriental culture, knew very well; for lunch, among other things, she got him to try some delicious chicken skewers with soya sauce.

Exiting from the restaurant, they crossed a wedding procession; at the head of it came a dragon, made of red and golden cloths, symbol of prosperity and fortune; then came the bride and bridegroom, wearing rich Chinese costumes; a number of players followed, with drums, pipes and other traditional instruments; the guests walked behind, laughing and clapping their hands at the sound of the music. The crowd along the street stopped to look, cheering and shouting good wishes to the couple. Jarod and Erin stopped, too, cheering the newlyweds along with the others. The procession passed slowly, and over that period of time Erin saddened, because the memory of her own wedding day came to her mind, unavoidable, which had been truly the most wonderful day of her life, with a promise of happiness that at the time she thought to be destined to last forever. Heavy-hearted, she wished that the beautiful, young bride with almond-shaped eyes would have more luck than she had.

"Why are you sad, child?"

At the unexpected sound of the female voice, sweet and unfamiliar, Erin turned in surprise to see who it was. She looked upon an old Chinese woman of indefinable age, small and fragile, wearing a grey-blue kimono and with a long braid of snow-white hair.

Looking in her deep black eyes, Erin didn't wonder about how the elderly lady could possibly know she was sad: her instinct told her that this woman mastered the Chinese mystic arts. A sorceress, in a certain sense, but not in the way that Western people mean it, because Chinese magic is made mostly of deep wisdom and knowledge of the natural forces.

The answer rushed to her lips almost involuntarily:

"Because they are so happy, and I envy them, for I'm alone", she explained in a low voice. The elderly lady narrowed her eyes; Erin felt as if she was looking in the depths of her soul, probing the past and the future.

"Why do you say so?" she heard her mutter, "You're not alone any more, and you won't be ever again."

Erin blinked, confused; then, with a flashing intuition, she whipped around to look at Jarod, who hadn't noticed anything and with a great smile was waving to greet the newlywed couple. She turned again, but the old lady was going away, vanishing into the crowd; Erin felt the urge to chase her, to ask her for an explanation, but her feet seemed as if rooted in the ground and she couldn't move.

Jarod turned to Erin to make a comment, but his fellow traveller's bewildered face froze the words on his lips.

"What's up, Erin?" he asked her. She lifted suddenly her eyes to look at him, like waking up from a dream, and after a moment at a loss, she shook her head:

"I just had a curious exchange with an old wise Chinese woman", she answered, "She told me something about myself that I'd never have dreamed of."

She didn't say what, and Jarod respected her reticence, sensing that she wasn't ready to share it with him. Usually he was able to obtain very quickly someone's trust, knowing instinctively how to put them at ease, but he perceived that Erin had had her trust betrayed by somebody that she would never expect and had been so very deeply hurt, that now she had trouble to grant it again.

In the late afternoon, they returned to the camping place, where Jarod helped Erin to load her bike back on the trolley: having to dress in a formal attire for their dinner at Rocheford's, they couldn't surely use this vehicle to go back in town, so they had booked a cab.

E rin was glad she had been enough far-sighted to take with her a suitable dress; it was a black spaghetti-string dress, with a heart-shaped neckline showing off her décolleté, to which she added a jacket of black lace, hemmed with shiny silvery satin, and high-heeled sandals; besides, she carefully put on her best make-up and arranged her long brown hair in a coiffure that drew the eye on the elegant line of her neck and shoulders. At last, she used some drops of a perfume she had purchased several months ago, an intriguing vanilla fragrance, which the label declared to be an aphrodisiac.

Glancing at the mirror in the small bathroom of the motorhome, she had to admit by herself that she was trying to impress Jarod. Would she succeed…?

When Jarod caught sight of her, he felt breathless: once more, she had transformed, and was now playing a sensational model with the same ease she had played the little girl, the mermaid and the motorcyclist-woman.

Suddenly her scent reached his nostrils; he recognised the head note, vanilla, and then he caught also the heart, white musk... a very seductive mix that thrilled him.

With a shiver, Erin realised the effect she had obtained, and felt her mouth going dry. Anyway, Jarod was just as good, as she noticed when he came off the motorhome in his cream-white linen suit and the blue shirt with tie. Not for the first time, she thought he was a very attractive man, and not only from the sheer physical point-of-view: his kindness and his gaze, so often veiled with melancholy, made him even more charming.

The cab showed up sharp and took them to the elegant French restaurant, which had a terrace overlooking the port, where sailboats, catamarans and stunning yachts floated anchored on the docks.

"Mademoiselle De Rossi!" she was greeted by the maître, a tall and loose-limbed man, with distinguished manners, speaking French, "I am very pleased to meet you, after all this time. How are your parents?"

"Très bien, merci, Monsieur Dupont", she answered in the same language, smiling, "My father retired three years ago and now he and my mother live in a ranch near Napa."

"I am happy to hear that. When you called to book, today, I reserved to you and your escort our best table. Follow me, please."

"I lived here in San Francisco for some time, with my family", Erin explained to Jarod, while they were walked to their table, "We came often here for dinner."

They took a seat on the table from which they could see the best panorama. Dinner was sophisticated and tasty, seafood coming with a delicious Californian white wine, and ended with a lemon and champagne cake. Jarod payed using a perfectly shielded credit card, impossible to detect, tapping into the generous funds he had taken from the Centre, now safe in a bank in Nassau, Bahamas. Not much people owned the Titanium Card, but Monsieur Dupont was used to a high-class clientele and wasn't much impressed when he saw it handed over to him.

"The night is young", Erin said, "Would you like to go to a night-club? I know about a very nice one."

Jarod accepted promptly, glad to prolong the evening with this gorgeous woman whom destiny had unexpectedly put on his way.

They called another cab and went to the Red Cushion, a very discreet place with elegant furniture and dim lights. Here, too, Erin was recognised and walked to the best table, exactly in front of the stage where a striking black woman was singing, with the warm and sensual voice typical of her people, accompanied by a small orchestra. They ordered champagne and enjoyed the show, sipping the icy drink from the crystal flutes.

About ten minutes later, another singer took over the stage, this time a tiny blonde with a stunning contralto voice; to Jarod's amazement, the former singer came to their table.

"Erin, honey!" she cried, in a low voice as not to trouble the colleague's exhibition, "It's been way too long!"

"Hi, Yvonne, I see you're always in fantastic shape!"

"I manage", the woman said, modestly, "but you're more beautiful than ever. And who's your charming companion?"

Jarod, who had stood up in turn, addressed her a slight bow as Erin introduced them:

"Jarod, this is my friend Yvonne Vallier; Yvonne, Jarod O'Donnell."

They shook hands, then sat down. Erin beckoned the waiter to bring another glass and they made a toast.

"How many years is it, since we met?" Yvonne asked, frowning, "Almost twenty, I believe."

"Don't remind me! Time goes by at supersonic speed…"

"We meet too seldom… How long is it, eight months?" at Erin's nod, Yvonne went on, "I still remember our duets… do you still sing?"

"Always only for myself."

"What a waste! Mister O'Donnell", Yvonne said, turning to Jarod, "because I'm sure she didn't tell you, I will: Erin was the best student of the singing-course we attended together; with her talent, I never got it why she didn't make it a profession."

Jarod looked at Erin in wonder, and the young woman shrugged:

"I was too shy. Every time I had to perform as a soloist, I sweated cold. No, at that time, it wasn't a good idea, and I devoted myself to a completely different trade, like you know well."

"I can't believe you were shy", Jarod grinned, "From the moment I met you, you looked the boldest person in the world."

"I got over that phase when I realised I was just afraid people would negatively judge me, and that day I decided I didn't care any more about the others' opinion."

"Do you mean that a microphone doesn't scare you anymore?" Yvonne inquired, interested.

"No, in my gym they have often lectures and conferences and I'm in charge of all the introducing and leaving speeches."

"Fine! So what about singing a song together, like in the old times?"

Her suggestion caught Erin by surprise.

"But it's been twenty years!" she protested, "I don't remember a single text…"

"No, no, something more modern… I have a large repertory: Aretha Franklin, Dionne Warwick, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Diana Ross, Céline Dion… "

"I don't know…" Erin hesitated, looking around, uncertain. Jarod flashed her an encouraging smile:

"C'mon, I'm sure you'd be amazing, I heard what a voice you have."

She curled her lips in a charming pout and yielded:

"Very well, then. Yvonne, what of Mariah Carey's and Whitney Houston's song from the soundtrack of The Prince of Egypt?"

"Wonderful! Which part do you do?"

"Whitney."

"Fine, so I'll do Mariah. I go and tell the director."

In the following half-an-hour, the time the blond singer needed to finish her performance, Erin repented many times her decision. True, she didn't have stage-panic any more, but between presenting speakers at a conference and singing in front of an unknown audience, there was a great difference. But now she was into it, and she was taught that when it was this way, she had to go through with it.

Yvonne came and called her, and then she presented her:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce to you an old and very dear friend of mine; I studied singing with her and she was much better than me. Please welcome with a great applause Miss Erin De Rossi!"

Trying to control her nervousness, Erin entered the stage, greeted by a generous clapping, and took position behind the second microphone brought there for her. Her hands were icy and her heart pounded in her throat, but then she perceived Jarod smiling at her; seeing a friendly face among the audience calmed her down enough to allow her thanking everybody with no tremble in her voice.

Because she was not a professional, she had asked Yvonne to signal her when she had to begin. The orchestra played and her friend began with the first stanza; at her small signal, Erin aired the second one, without mistaking a single note of the difficult performance. The song went on in a crescendo, engaging the two singers at first as soloists and then together; on the finale, they unfurled their voices in a duet of incredible pathos that gave shivers to Jarod and to all the audience, which finally exploded in an ovation worthy of a theatre.

Someone encored them, at once followed by others, Jarod among them. Erin and Yvonne confabulated shortly, and then started again with Aretha Franklin's signature song, Chain of Fools: it was another triumph.

At that point, Yvonne hit the mark on her real purpose:

"Now it's your turn, Erin", she said simply, winking at her, and walked out on her, leaving her alone on stage. Erin stared at her, gaping.

"But how the hell should I do it?" she spelled out voicelessly; Yvonne pointed at the orchestra director.

Still disorientated, Erin turned to the handsome black man and stared at him, her eyes wide open.

"What do you wish to sing, ma'am?" he asked her, with a smile expressing his admiration. Erin thought she wanted to disappear into the ground and glared at Yvonne with fiery eyes, but she sensed the audience's expectation like a tension on her skin and realised that, should she leave the stage now, she would cut a poor figure. Furthermore, her friend would cut one, too.

She thought quickly and chose:

"Céline Dion, My Heart Will Go On. But please, beckon me when I must start."

The director nodded, and a few seconds later, she heard the first notes of the romantic song, soundtrack of a very popular movie a few years before.

It was a demanding piece, requiring a vast vocal extension and a high volume, but Erin didn't make a single mistake, facing the crescendo and bringing it to the highest point with such a powerful voice, it ruled the music instruments, and then ended speaking of her lost love in a very moving pianissimo. Again, the audience exploded in a deafening ovation, with whistles and appreciation cries.

Thrilled and pleased, Erin left the stage with a gracious bow and went back to her table, while Yvonne was taking again the stage.

"Luckily she goes", the singer commented, winking at the audience, "if not, the owner could fire me and engage her in my place."

All laughed loudly, except Jarod who looked worried at Erin:

"Could he really do it?"

Erin grinned:

"Hey, she the owner of the Red Cushion!"

Of course, he understood now the joke and laughed heartily.

Now it was the turn of a female dancing group of quite undressed but very good dancers, surely worth competing with the famous Blue Belles of the Lido in Paris, or the celebrated soubrettes of the Moulin Rouge. Yvonne came again to their table, and was very disappointed hearing that Erin and Jarod would not stay much longer in San Francisco.

It was quite late when they took leave and returned to the camping place in a cab.

"Thank you for the fantastic night, Erin", Jarod said, before they climbed into the motorhome, "All the men we met envied me."

She chuckled, flattered:

"Thanks, but as for this, all the women surely envied me."

"If you say so..." he replied in a perplexed tone, confirming her that she had been right thinking he didn't completely realise the appeal he had on the other sex. Erin was glad about that: she couldn't stand striking people knowing it and taking advantage of it.

Sunday, May 26th, 04.30 p.m.

"I thank you again", Jarod said, addressing Erin, "I spent a very pleasant time, with you."

"I was fine, too", she answered, hiding the sadness she was feeling behind a bright smile, "I wish you good luck."

"To you, too."

Because there was nothing more to add, Erin turned and climbed on the driver's seat. She was heavy-hearted, as if she was taking leave for evermore of a beloved person. Yet she had met Jarod less than sixty hours earlier... how could it be that they seemed to her like sixty days?

Starting the engine, it crossed her mind to ask him his phone number, but she rejected the idea. She was not the kind of woman making the first move, she never had been nor would ever be, in spite of the deep changes she had gone through during the last year and a half. And anyway, Jarod, too, could think about it, but because he evidently didn't, it was plain that he was not interested.

With a last parting smile, Erin plugged in the first gear and started the motorhome, pulling in the state road.

Jarod watched her driving away with a feeling in his stomach, like a heavy boulder crushing him. Often, in the six years he had spent running from the Centre, he had taken leave of people who he had come to love, but he had never felt such a deep sadness. Erin's presence had been like sunshine in his gloomy life, with her he had felt relieved, protected from the evil chasing him, implacably, tirelessly.

At a loss, he wondered how he could already feel Erin's absence, whom he after all had met for such a short time, and regretted not having asked her phone number, or address.

Suddenly he smiled: his photographic memory had filed the motorhome's licence plate, through which he could go back to Erin... But then, his smile went off: what purpose was there on finding her, if because of the Centre he could not stay with her all the time he would like to? Sure, he could avoid showing up again, but for how long could he keep the hounds away? Six months, one year?

No, as long as the Centre existed, he was condemned to an eternal run.

"Goodbye, sweet Erin", he whispered, his eyes damp with tears.