Resolutions – 17
New Directions
by MMB
Crystal looked around her and began to shudder as the elevator went down into the ground rather than up — then realized that she'd gotten into an elevator with no UP to go TO. She had heard people talking about "The Centre" in town in the time since she'd arrived, but none that she'd heard speaking had ever been IN the Centre. She still wasn't very happy that she was going to actually visit the place. But, as the massive man at her elbow had informed her as he helped her into the ambulance, "Sydney said that you needed to be seen, and so that's what we're going to do."
She had been examined quickly by one of the ambulance medics and then loaded into the vehicle with the man she now knew as Sydney — DOCTOR Sydney something, no less. And when she would have bolted once the ambulance stopped and everyone started to get out, the huge man who had arrived with the ambulance had positioned himself at her elbow and had taken hold of her firmly — although not painfully. He then made it clear that she WASN'T going anywhere other than where they wanted her to go. Now that they had arrived, evidently the direction they were taking her was Down.
Sam looked down as he felt a shudder in the elbow of the tattered young woman that had so unexpectedly helped them find Sydney. After Joe had told him what Sydney had said just before passing out, Sam had made it his business to take responsibility for her. From the looks of her face, Sydney had been right — she did need to have medical attention. No doubt Miss Parker would be wanting to talk to her as well — hopefully after they had gotten her cleaned up a bit. Sam's nose wrinkled at the variety and possible sources of the smells that were wafting from her.
But he had to admire the way the young woman was holding up to being swallowed whole by the might and power of the Centre. It had swooped down around her and a pretty bedraggled looking Sydney on that dingy backdoor stoop and was now carrying the two of them along in an inexorable tide. The shudder was the first indication that her façade of courage was anything less than rock-solid. "What's your name, kid?" he asked kindly as they traveled down toward the newly reopened Renewal & Medical wing.
"Crystal," she answered in a steady monotone without looking up into her keeper's face. "And I'm not a kid."
Sam's lips quirked in a small and understanding smile. He could remember being that age and trying to act tough and impervious well enough to know the bravado in her tone of voice intimately. "Well, in case nobody's said it yet, Crystal, you should know that we're all very grateful to you for helping us find Sydney. He had us pretty worried."
Crystal focused her eyes on the still form of the man lying on a gurney next to her. "Who is he anyway?" She finally looked up into the face of the man who held her elbow.
Sam nodded. She deserved at least that much. "His name is Dr. Sydney Green. He's the head of the Psychogenics Department here… a psychiatrist," he added at the quick brush of confusion across her features.
"A shrink? Oh, that's rich," she burst out in a cynical chuckle, shaking her head.
The elevator door slid silently open, and Sam held Crystal back while Sydney's gurney was removed first, heading down the hallway for the first set of swinging doors. Sam then steered Crystal down the same hallway and through the second set of doors into a room where the sterile white curtains helped disguise the fact that the room was deep below ground. Sam pointed to the examination table. "Get up on that," he directed.
"I don't think so," Crystal balked and headed for the one straight chair in the room and planted herself in that instead. "How do I know that you don't intend to run all kinds of evil experiments on me? You should HEAR the speculation in town…"
"I can imagine," Sam's lips quirked again and then remarked cryptically, "The good news is that we aren't in that kind of business anymore." He bent and picked her up bodily and sat her down on the exam table and then put his hands on both sides of the table near her thighs to prevent her from jumping down again. "Look, if we wanted to use you for our evil purposes, don't you think we wouldn't have sedated you a long time ago and saved both you and ourselves a whole lot of fight? Use your head, kid. This isn't a conspiracy theory come to life."
The dark eyes flashed in anger and some fear. "How do I know I can trust you?" she challenged him.
"Because you did us a big favor and helped us find a friend of mine," Sam answered simply. "I owe you. We all do."
The stark simplicity of the answer astounded her, and some of the fear faded as a white-garbed doctor and a nurse entered the room. Under their gentle hands, Crystal finally relented and allowed herself to stretch out supine on the table while they began fussing over her. "Now that you're in good hands, I'm going to go check on Sydney," Sam announced to her, backing away at last. "I'll be back in a little bit."
"Take your time," she called back to him in a chipper tone, surrendering to her fate. "I don't think I'm going anywhere."
She heard the big man chuckle. "Hang in there, kid."
Admiral Samson smiled to himself as he walked down the corridors of power in the Pentagon with a contingent of MP's at his heels. It had been a long time since he'd come up through the ranks — he'd been what he himself had once caustically labeled a "desk jockey" for far too many years. It felt GOOD to be in the thick of things again — actually leading men into action, even if it was merely executing an arrest warrant.
He turned a corner and moved into the outer office of General Curtis, knowing that at this same moment, a similar contingent of MP's under the leadership of his own attaché was walking through the doors of Colonel Harris. "Don't bother announcing us," he cautioned the lieutenant sitting behind the desk. "Just move over there with and stand next to that officer there for the next few minutes, unless you'd like to join your boss in the brig." The pale lieutenant immediately stood and did as he was told while Samson motioned for the rest of his contingent to follow him. He knocked on the inner door.
"Who is it?" Curtis' gravelly voice inquired from within.
"Someone you really didn't want to see," Samson announced and pushed through the door.
"Is there something I can do for you, Admi…" Curtis' words cut off as he saw the MP's behind the member of the Joint Chiefs. "What is this?"
"This is a valid arrest warrant with your name on it," Samson stated, pulling the document from his breast pocket. "You will come with these gentlemen now."
"I'll need…" Curtis began reaching for the telephone, only to have the portly black Admiral's hand suddenly fall very heavily on his and keep him from picking up the receiver.
"If you need to make a call, you can do it after you've been processed," Samson told him in grim satisfaction. "General Curtis, you are under arrest for conspiracy, conduct unbecoming and aiding and abetting of a felony."
"I demand to see a lawyer," Curtis spat.
Samson merely smiled at him. "I'm sure that can be arranged — you can call him as soon as you've been fingerprinted and charges filed." The older officer looked up at the burly officer at Curtis' left. "You may take the General away, Captain." He then pointed to another of the MP's. "This office and its contents are to be sealed until my team has had a chance to go through it — nobody is to enter except myself and those demonstrating they are working under my direct authority, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir!" the MP replied.
The Admiral pulled out his cell phone and punched two buttons. The moment the voice answered on the other end, he growled, "Well?"
"Harris is in custody, sir — his office has been sealed."
"Thank you, Major," he answered and disconnected, then punched up another call. "This is Admiral Samson at the Pentagon. Is Senator Ashland available? Yes, I'll hold…" While he waited, he moved to behind Curtis' desk and sat down in the comfortable chair and began sorting distractedly through the papers on the man's desk.
"Gregory?" Becca Ashland finally came on the line. "What is it?"
"We have the military end of this thing in the bag. What news from the civilian side of law enforcement?"
"The man General Curtis and Senator Canfield were speaking about this morning — Phillip Baldwin — is dead. Two agents, one FBI and one NSA, are on their way to examine any evidence that might have been with him at the time of his death," the Senator replied. "We've also discovered that Mr. Baldwin had a cabin not far from where he was killed — and the warrant that takes custody of Mr. Baldwin's personal effects also covers the contents of the cabin."
"So when do you move on your renegade legislators, my dear?" Samson asked, running a hand through his short and steel-gray hair.
"As soon as I hear back from the FBI or NSA that we've found what we needed," Ashland answered. "Face it, Gregory, it will be fairly difficult for sitting Senators to try to just disappear during full legislative session."
"Just make sure we don't lose your half of the prize," Samson cautioned.
"I don't think we will," she reassured him. "Baldwin was running — and it only takes one good snag to ruin an entire expensive nylon, you know… All we need is for him to have the evidence of what they've been up to, and their entire house of cards flies apart."
"Keep me informed, then," Samson told her. "And I think we can meet for drinks openly now — seven o'clock at the Grey Goose? I'm inviting Colonel Fox to lift a celebratory glass."
Becca chuckled. "I'll be there with bells on. I'm not missing out on a chance to enjoy the company of TWO men in uniform…"
"I came as quickly as I could," Miss Parker cast her eyes down the Renewal & Medical corridor, waiting for her inner sense to tell her which set of swinging doors to charge through to get to her surrogate father.
Sam caught at her arm before she could move forward more than a step or two. "He's got a couple of broken ribs, the incision from his recent surgery tore open, and he damned near poisoned himself with the whiskey," he tallied the injuries Sydney had suffered, "but he's a tough old bird. The doctors are stitching him up again, and then I think they're going to want to hold him overnight for observation before turning him loose to go home again." He let go. "He's still out cold, Miss Parker."
"Damn it!" Miss Parker exploded in worry. "You know," she shook her finger at him, "Syd hasn't had a healthy day since he was shot — and that's been weeks ago now."
"I know," the Security Chief put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly, "but let's hope that he's finally finished serving his sentence at the bottom of the Wheel of Fortune for a good long time. Face it, it's a damned good thing that little tramp of a girl decided that a muttered name in the middle of a nightmare must refer to the one person she knew in Blue Cove by that name."
"Speaking of whom," Miss Parker paused, finally settling down and relaxing now that Sydney was safe and back where she could make sure he got proper care, "what do we know about this girl anyway?"
Sam shrugged. "I got a name — Crystal — now whether that's a street name or her real one is anybody's guess. From the looks and smell of things, she's been street trash for a while now."
"Where is she?"
Sam pointed to the second set of doors. "She looks like she ended up on the receiving end of a right cross — I think the doc's going to be taking x-rays to make sure nothing got busted up under there, or that she's not got a concussion or anything." He wrinkled his nose. "Then I'm going to suggest that somebody take her somewhere where she can get disinfected and a clean set of surgical scrubs while the clothes she's been wearing get burned. Not that Sydney smelled a whole lot better, though…" Sam's face registered his disgust with the whole situation, then he looked at her expectantly. "Did you call Jarod in California? He's bound to be worried…"
"I called him right after you called me," she told him. "We didn't speak long — just long enough for me to tell him that Syd had been found and that I'd talk to him tonight and give him a full report."
"Then why don't you go in and meet our unlikely heroine while I call Kevin and Deb at Sydney's and bring them up to date," Sam suggested. "I'll tell Deb to drive Kevin over to visit with Syd later this afternoon — by then, Syd should be awake again, we hope."
Miss Parker nodded and then pushed through the indicated swinging door and brushed aside the white curtain. Sam was right — the author of the rescue was tattered and filthy, and she looked like hell. The dark-haired girl was trying to lie still while the doctor daubed carefully at her the edges of her swollen eye with a swab. Miss Parker watched for a while, then asked, "Well, Doc, is she going to live?"
"Yes, ma'am," Bennett reassured his boss with a brisk nod. "She won't be looking out of the left eye for a few days and should leave off the use of makeup for a while after that, but there's no lasting damage." He looked down at Crystal. "You're lucky, young lady — I'd say that blow was strong enough to literally shatter your cheekbone, but evidently he was at an angle from you when he threw the punch." He backed away from the girl so Miss Parker could move closer.
The Centre Chairman caught at his arm. "Make arrangements for some surgical scrubs in her size, and let's get her bathed and tidied up before she gets much further." Bennett nodded and gestured for the nurse to follow him, leaving Miss Parker alone with his patient. Miss Parker moved closer so that the girl could see her out of her good eye. "Sam tells me your name is Crystal. Is that your real name?"
A suspicious and wary dark eye peered up at her. "As real as any name is," the girl quipped darkly, then struggled to prop herself up on an elbow. "Who wants to know?"
"My name is Parker — I run this place," Miss Parker answered without riling at the insolence in the girl's tone. "That's my father you helped out."
"You the shrink's daughter, eh?" Crystal looked closer into the woman's face. "And you say you run this place? Does that mean that you can spring me so I can get out of here?"
"Why? You have someplace important to go?" Miss Parker shot back skeptically. "From the looks of you, you haven't been eating well for quite a while — and frankly… Crystal, is it?… you stink."
"Yeah? Well that comes from not living where there's regular running water," Crystal remarked bitterly and then lay back down and turned away from the tall and imposing brunette, unhappy that she'd betrayed even the slightest hint of her personal situation.
"That's what I thought," Miss Parker nodded. "But, you see, running water isn't much of an issue around here — so take heart. You're going to get a bath in just a bit and some clean clothes to wear until you can get yourself something far more presentable. Once you look and smell more civilized, I'll have Sam take you up to the cafeteria where you can have whatever you want to eat, and as much of it as you want. But as for springing you, you'll have to wait until Sydney wakes up. I have a feeling he'll want to see you at least once more before you crawl back into the woodwork."
"I don't need your help…" Crystal struggled to sit up again, only to have Miss Parker's hand land on a shoulder and hold her down far too easily.
"I'm sure you're quite capable," Miss Parker responded with dry sarcasm. "But you see, what I just told you was going to happen isn't negotiable. You WILL have a bath, get yourself presentable, and then eat a good meal. Once you get a chance to talk to Sydney again, THEN we'll see about springing you. Deal?"
"Do I have a choice?" Crystal grumbled, her heart actually leaping at the chance to be clean again and eat an honest-to-God meal after so much time but unwilling to let anybody HERE know that.
Miss Parker shook her head very matter-of-factly. "Nope, you don't." She gave the girl's shoulder a pat and then moved away. "I'm sure we'll talk again before you leave here. Until then…"
"Yeah, sure…" Crystal saw the nurse enter the room with some folded blue-green material in her arms on top of folded white terrycloth. "I think my bath-time's here…sooo…"
"Sam, keep an close eye on our little guest here," Miss Parker told the sweeper in tones deliberately meant to be overheard. "I'm going to be in with Sydney."
"Yes, ma'am." The nurse led Crystal out of the examination room and down the hall, with Sam trailing along behind two paces behind. Crystal had never had the experience of being guarded quite so closely or quite so well before.
Before she could decide whether it was something she actually enjoyed or not, the nurse led her into a small dressing room with a white tiled shower enclosure just beyond. "Put your clothing in this bag here," the nurse indicated a waiting plastic bag from a wire frame, "and when you come out, put on these scrubs. I'll take care of…"
"I got it," Crystal interrupted, anxious to wash the grime of the past few weeks with Scooter away and starting to peel away her old clothing with no hesitation or embarrassment at all. The moment the nurse walked away, Sam closed the door to the bathing cubicle discretely from the corridor and turned his back to it with arms crossed. It wasn't long before he could hear the sound of water running hard.
Slowly the white SUV made the tortuous trek back up through the underbrush it had crashed through once before, the steel cable from the tow truck taut and vibrating as the winch ground and retracted. At the edge of the roadbed, Gillespie and Sylvie Gotham watched the progress as well as studied the terrain, looking for any signs of anything that might have spilled from the careening vehicle on its plummet. A short distance away, a Virginia trooper leaned back against his cruiser, observing the federal agents that he'd transported from the clearing a mountain top and a half away from the accident scene.
Gillespie could see no sign of anything that had escaped the SUV on its way down the mountainside. "Looks like everything he had is still in the car," he told Sylvie.
"Yup," she agreed. "Any idea what we're looking for?"
"Documents," Gillespie told her with a shrug. "Accountant's books, files — anything that a man intending to spend time at a fishing cabin WOULDN'T be hauling from work with him. From the transcript of the last call Canfield made to General Curtis, it seems our NSA accountant was the moneyman of the operation. With him gone, I'm betting those Senators are going to be trying to distance themselves from the military men hung out to dry already as fast and as effectively as possible. If Baldwin doesn't have the stuff with him, or if it isn't at the cabin, our end of things is up Shit Creek without a paddle except for phone tap information."
"How in the hell did all of this slip under our radar all this time?" Sylvie asked rhetorically. "I mean, from the sounds of it, these bozos have been dealing with the Centre for years — with the Centre before its recent change of heart, that is…"
"The Centre has money — LOTS of it — and that money has bought power and access," Gillespie answered. "You don't want to know where some of that money came from, or what they had to do to earn it." He shrugged. "They pulled strings to keep things quiet, and this bunch made full advantage of a corporation with few scruples and the will to do whatever the hell it wanted to for profit."
"I hear the new Chairman over there came up from the ranks," Sylvie remarked as the SUV teetered on the edge of the roadbed and then, with a groan, settled back with its tires safely on asphalt. "I wonder what made her decide to turn the place around. I mean, with all that power…"
"The woman has principles," Gillespie told her in a respectful tone. "She has brass and she suffered from the lack of scruples herself back when. The moment she got the reins, she hauled back and hasn't stopped working to turn the place around. I met her, you know…"
"What's she like?"
"Quite a lady," the FBI agent said, remembering. "I wouldn't want to cross her." He pointed. "Let's go see what our friend was carrying with him, shall we?"
A couple of good hard yanks opened the passenger side door to the front seat. "Lookie here," Gillespie crowed, pulling out a briefcase. He hauled it over to the hood of the vehicle and drew his pocketknife from his trousers pocket and pried the locked clasps open. "Bingo!" he cried, bringing Sylvie's head out of the car and over to him. "Account books," Gillespie showed her, then opened one. "Accounts receivable has a payment noted transferring funds from a Vermont consortium to a Centre bank account in the Cayman Islands, with initials 'TJ' in the margin." Gillespie scratched his head. "Wonder what that means?"
"How about a little black book of names, addresses, phone numbers and associates," Sylvie nudged Gillespie's arm with the address she'd taken from the same briefcase. "I see Harold Burns, George Canfield, Douglas Curtis, Gerald Harris,…ah! I think I found your 'TJ' — Tom Jackson."
"This is what we needed," Gillespie smiled grimly. "We got those bastards. Finally!"
"We'll need more than just notations in an address book," Sylvie reminded him and walked back to the SUV and continued her digging.
"Something tells me that between this car and the cabin up the mountain, we don't have much to worry about," Gillespie closed the briefcase again and gestured for the Virginia State Trooper to pop the trunk of his cruiser so that the briefcase could be safely stored within. "But, knowing my luck, getting more that enough wouldn't hurt at all…"
Miss Parker sat next to Sydney's bed, stroking his silvered hair back from his forehead repeatedly as she had for the past two hours. He had yet to awaken, although the doctor had assured her that it was sleep and not unconsciousness from a concussion. It would take his body some time to detoxify from the amount of alcohol he'd evidently imbibed, the doctor told her kindly — and she'd need to be patient.
She had grabbed her cell phone and proceeded to dump as many of her remaining appointments for the day on Tyler as would fit in his schedule, as well as left instructions for Mei-Chiang to reschedule anything that Tyler couldn't handle. She'd even notified Davy's afternoon sitter to be prepared to run late that day, in case Sydney didn't awaken when everybody figured he probably would. Her calls finished for the time being, she'd been beside Sydney ever since, waiting for him to wake up, to look at her again. Until he did — until she could see that she had him back again — there was no way anybody was going to pry her from her seat.
Beside her, Sydney gave a long, deep breath and slowly became aware of the gentle caresses on his forehead. His eyes fluttered sporadically for a very long while before they finally consented to open — and then it took a while for the fog to clear from his vision so that he could see clearly who was sitting next to him. Her grey eyes were full, both of tears and gratitude, and he turned his head slightly to look at her a little more fully. "Hey," he whispered.
"Hey yourself," she responded, glad to hear something like a normal tone from him. A huge load dropped away from her heart at the sound of his voice in her ear again. "That was quite some toot you took yourself on, Freud."
The chestnut eyes closed for a long moment as the memories of the afternoon and night before — those he could still recall — flooded his mind. "Parker…" he began, opening his eyes again and looking up at her pleadingly.
She shook her head. "You know, about eight years ago, I think it was, our positions were reversed. I was the one waking up with foggy memories of bourbon and telephone poles. Now granted, I didn't have to bail you out of jail… but…" She moved closer and took a very firm hold on his closest hand. "We promised each other back then that we were family — that you would help me get my feet back under me, but that the relationship it would take to do that would be a mutual one that could never be rescinded. Do you remember?"
He nodded mutely. He knew exactly where she was going — and he couldn't really blame her.
"What happened, Sydney, that you would climb into the bottom of a pair of whiskey bottles rather than come to me? I thought we promised we'd lean on each other, and not on anything or anybody else?"
"You're right, we promised," he answered slowly. "I just… I ran when everything came back to me like that…" He looked up at her with tragic eyes. "You have to understand, I had pushed aside almost all my memories of… that time… everything — I forced it into the back of my mind and shut it away. I had to — it was the only way I could survive when everyone I loved other than Jacob was led off to the gas chambers and then carted to the ovens. I wasn't ready to have it all come back at me at once." He choked on the last bit.
Miss Parker leaned over him and brushed her fingertips over his forehead again. "You don't have to relive it, Syd…"
"But that's just it, Parker," he explained in distress, "I DID begin to relive it. All I could hear was the screams from the showers… the sound of the carts hauling corpses all day and all night… the smell… It was overwhelming, and all I could think of was to get away from it." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was haunted. "All I have to do even now is close my eyes, and I'm there again. I'm still reliving it — I can't shut it away anymore, as much as I want to."
"Sydney…"
The chestnut eyes opened wide. "And then to find out that we ended up there NOT because Papa was in the resistance or because we had Jewish blood, but because the CENTRE had an interest in Jacob and me because they thought we were special. The fact that twins research was something the Nazis were interested in too was beside the point. To hear that my family was killed not because of our lineage but because the CENTRE wanted all emotional ties that we two might have with anyone but each other cut…" He caught back a sob. "And now to think that when I became a man, I stole the life and put through a living hell another special person — and became a willing part of the same machine that had done all that to me and Jacob. And in my turn, I withheld emotional support from Jarod as much to keep his focus on his work as anything else — and deliberately crushed every attempt he made to forge emotional ties with me as a surrogate parent, no matter how much I knew it was cruel…"
His hand turned in hers. "I told you once that I couldn't kill Krieg because he and I were too much alike. What I didn't know then was how much alike you and I were — how much like Jarod I was. Only my sin was to become the spitting image of that which had done me so much evil… to commit the same evil in my turn and pretend not to see what I was doing." The tears were rolling down the side of his face. "I couldn't face you, knowing the monster I really am… the monster the Centre made me…"
"Stop that, Sydney!" Miss Parker barked at him. "You are NOT a monster! You've never been a monster…"
"Not to you, perhaps, but to Jarod…"
"You listen to me!" she whispered fiercely. "You are NOT a monster, you're the father of my heart," she insisted, clinging to his hand and shaking it with the force of her emphasis. "Both of the men who claimed to be my biological father were in fact REAL monsters — so I know a monster when I see one. And you aren't a monster, I promise you, despite everything you've done. You're a victim, just like me, like Jarod. And I know how much that hurts."
She leaned her forehead into his upper arm. "I love you — you're the father I always wanted and didn't get until it was almost too late. And since then, I've leaned on you emotionally so many times that I can't remember them all now — and never, not once, have you needed to lean on me emotionally until now. But I'm right here, and I'm telling you that you CAN lean on me, Sydney. Give me the chance to give back just a small portion of what you've given me all this time."
The tears continued to pour from the chestnut eyes. "I don't deserve you," he choked in a whisper.
"I didn't deserve you that night eight years ago either," she reminded him and wiped at his tears with her fingertips. "You had put up with an awful lot of my shit for a very long time — but that still didn't stop you. You still got out of bed in the middle of the night to bail me out of my jam, and then you pieced me back together into a stronger and healthier person than I'd ever been in my life."
"That was different…"
"No, it wasn't." Her fingers stroked his forehead again. "Eight years ago we made ourselves into a new family on the strength of an agreement. I'm not letting you out of that agreement, and that's all there is to it. We're a team. And maybe the time has come for you to finally share with me that part of your life that you've always kept hidden from the both of us — from everyone. Let me in, Syd. I'm your daughter — you made me your daughter eight years ago. That gives me the right to ask this of you. Don't shut me out now."
Sydney's hand reached up and cupped Miss Parker's cheek gently. "I didn't mean to shut you out, Parker. But this is a part of myself that even I cannot face — the part that makes me ashamed of my life as a whole. Maybe I wasn't the monster to you, ma petite. But to Jarod…"
"Jarod will be home this weekend, and I think you should take that up with him then. I'm certain he'll tell you the same thing I've told you — but it may be that you need to hear it from him face to face before you'll actually believe it." She turned her head to kiss the palm lying against her cheek and caught sight of the number 54679 that had been tattooed onto the inside of his forearm all those many years ago by his Nazi captors. He caught sight of what she was looking at and tried to cover it with his other hand, but she caught the hand away. "No," she shook her head gently. "No more hiding — not from me. That is as much a part of you as anything else. I'm not afraid to hear any part of it." She ran gentle fingertips over the smooth skin and the dark numbers.
This was why he always wore long-sleeved shirts, she realized with a jolt — she couldn't even remember the last time she'd seen him in short sleeves or bare-armed, at home OR at work — he'd been denying this for as long as she could remember. It had been a long time since she'd seen the visible proof of the ordeal he had endured as a young boy. "This is as much a part of what makes you who you are as anything else that has happened to you along the way — and you don't have to worry about my rejecting anything you might tell me. We've both seen the worst we each can do, Sydney, so whatever memories bubble up, we can face them together. You'll be OK."
"I'm afraid," he admitted in an ashamed whisper. "I don't want to remember the ugliness — the things I saw and heard and… had done to me... And I'm ashamed… of what I've done…"
"I know," she soothed, brushing the backs of her fingertips across a cheek. "But I'm here." She pulled back and took hold of his hand firmly and then sandwiched it between both of hers. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you have to say. Hang onto me — let me help you. Please!"
The hand tightened around her fingers and pulled her hands to his heart. "Help me, Parker. I can't do this alone." Admitting his fear and then admitting he needed help were two of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life.
Miss Parker rested her forehead against his upper arm again. "I'm here, Sydney. I'm not going anywhere — you're not alone. I love you."
His other hand came up and held their clasped hands close. "I love you too," he gasped, tears running freely. "I don't think I knew how much until just now."
She stretched up and kissed his cheek, tasting salty tears. "You have to promise me — no more whiskey for you," she whispered. "No more hiding."
"No more," he agreed hesitantly. "I promise." He felt the pressure of her head against his shoulder return — and it was the oddest feeling to know that it was there not to draw strength from him but rather to give it BACK to him. It was a humbling experience to realize that he genuinely needed her strength, and that she was giving it to him unreservedly — unconditionally — just as he had once given it to her. Being on the receiving end of that kind of unconditional love while in a state of desperate need for the first time in so many, many years certainly made for a change in perspective.
He closed his eyes and willed himself to think of nothing but the feel of that head against his shoulder, of her hands holding tightly to his. This was what it really meant to have a daughter — that he not only had the responsibility to hold her together when she needed him but also the responsibility of letting her hold HIM together sometimes when he needed her as well. It was a lesson he wouldn't soon forget.
By now, Crystal was used to having Sam's hand at her elbow as she walked through the corridors of the Centre. She had to admit that it felt good to be rid of the layers of dirt and grime that had been beneath the worn and filthy clothing — to have clean hair hanging straight down her back, making the back of her scrub tunic wet. She had forgotten how good it felt.
Sam steered her in the direction of the elevator again, which took them up two levels to where a cafeteria had been set up in an old clerical pool. He handed her a tray and a couple of plates and then followed her as she moved slowly down the line. He noticed that she was picking the kinds of foods that she probably hadn't had in a long time — a green salad, a bowl of soup, an egg salad sandwich, and finally a bottle of cold spring water. Impressed, Sam flashed a card at the cashier and then led the girl to a table off in a corner. Crystal sat down so that she could see everything going on in the room — a little piece of habitual caution that resonated with Sam.
She closed her good eye and munched slowly and appreciatively on the fresh greens with the simple vinaigrette dressing. She hadn't had a green salad since she'd left home, and she hadn't realized how much she'd missed it. "Looks like I don't have to ask you if it tastes OK," Sam commented with a touch of humor.
Her eye popped open, and she took the time to see if he was making fun of her before answering. He wasn't. "It's been a long time," she admitted around her food, then swallowed. "I haven't had anything like this for a while."
"I think we've all figured that one out," he replied kindly. "Where are your from — originally, that is?"
"Vermont," she answered and then took a sip of the hearty chicken noodle soup and hummed with contentment.
"Do you have any family we can contact — anybody you want us to call and tell where you are and that you're alright?"
The dark eye snapped at him. "If I wanted them to know where I was, I wouldn't have run away to begin with, ya know?"
That confirmed something Sam had been suspecting. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Old enough," she bit back, stabbing at her salad viciously.
Sam's hand came out and restrained her from taking the bite of salad to her mouth. "How old?"
"Nineteen," she replied with her chin up.
"Nice try," he said without rancor, obviously dismissing the patent lie, "but I know jail bait when I see it. How about the truth this time?"
She tried to wrestle her arm free, then grumbled, "Seventeen," when it became obvious that he was far stronger than her and knew how to use that strength to keep her from moving without hurting her in the process. "And a half," she added when he released her arm again.
Sam settled back in his chair. "Why'd you run?" he asked then.
"None of your damned business!" she snapped at him. "Can I eat in peace — please?"
"Once you answer the question, perhaps," he allowed. "The fact is that since you're underage, you're going to have to come up with a pretty damned convincing story to keep me from finding out where you belong and sending you back there as soon as you're finished here."
"OK. Fine. My dad used to use me as a punching bag sometimes," she answered with a tired sigh. "Especially when he'd hit Mom enough that if he hit her again, it would show — and he COULDN'T let anybody know that he was beating on her. Appearances, you know…"
Sam's eyes narrowed. She had the attitude all right. "So you're telling me you ran away because your dad was abusing you physically?"
"You don't honestly think this is the first time I've had one of these, do you?" she asked bitterly while pointing to her swollen eye and bruised cheek. "There. Are you happy now?"
"No," he answered honestly. "I don't like to hear that anybody's been put through something like that. I lived through enough of that myself when I was a kid. But I WILL let you eat and leave off any more questions until after. Fair enough?"
The dark eye widened in surprise. She wasn't used to getting a fair shake from anybody, and this was most definitely fair — and combined with a bath and clean clothing and fresh, tasty food, made her feel as if she'd just found a treasure. "Thanks," she replied softly, genuinely grateful. She looked down into her food and concentrated on eating.
Sam watched the young girl dive into her meal with a hunger that was substantial and folded his arms across his chest. Miss Parker would need to hear what he'd just discovered before a decision as to what to do with her could be reached. But HIS inclination was to make sure she wasn't rewarded for helping find Sydney by being sent back into an intolerable situation — whether it be into homelessness or into an abusive household. This girl was a survivor — she deserved better.
If he could, he'd make sure she GOT better.
Dr. Ziegler frowned. It had been hours since his call to Captain Lewis, and he had yet to receive word that the information he needed — the information that had been stolen from him — was on its way back into his possession. The afternoon was aging, and he was anxious to start work once more. Several more batches of the drugs involved would need to be concocted, and then he'd need Lewis to acquire two more test subjects on whom to test the final nuances of drug and psychological treatment.
As it was, he had some leftover paperwork from the convention to finish, and he'd been poking his way through the reports and assessment sheets for the better part of the day while waiting his call. He sighed heavily and leaned his chin into his hand and tried vainly to focus on the questions he needed to write responses to. He should NEVER have agreed to be a reviewer for the next journal…
The telephone rang. Instantly alert, he reached for it before the second ring. "Yah, Ziegler here."
"Doctor Ziegler," an unfamiliar voice sounded in his ear. "This is Cody Tyler in Administration. I was wondering if you could come up to my office, please?"
"Mr. Tyler, I was just up in administration yesterday, speaking to the Chairman herself. So unless this is urgent…" the German's accent thickened in his disappointment.
"As a matter of fact, it IS rather urgent," Tyler insisted, casting his eyes on the plastic container with the collection of vials and notebooks that had been retrieved from the private safe in the abandoned lab office. "Can you be up here in fifteen minutes, please?" he asked politely, his eyes looking up into those of the sweeper who have brought the container. He hung up the phone. "I want you to remain here — I'll probably need your services here in a bit."
"Yes, sir." Fred nodded and moved to find a place against the wall to wait patiently.
When Xing-Li announced Ziegler's arrival, the good doctor just barged right on through into the inner office and tossed his coat and briefcase on a chair.
"Going somewhere, Doctor?" Tyler inquired in a cool voice, a glance at Fred directing the sweeper to move and stand directly behind the psychiatrist.
"I'm not getting much accomplished here today," Ziegler brushed off the question and stalked up to stand in front of the desk. "I thought I might have more luck taking some of my work home with me."
Tyler's eyes dropped to the container on his desk, and the glanced up in time to catch the change in expression in Ziegler's gaze to one of astonishment and then alarm when the good doctor followed Tyler's glance. "I see you're familiar with this," Tyler put his hand on the edge of the container, rattling the vials together gently in a tinkle of glass.
Ziegler's expression had quickly grown stony and cold. The German drew himself up and remained silent.
"I'm not surprised you have nothing to say," Tyler continued as if having an exchange with the psychiatrist wasn't what he'd had on his mind in the first place. "When your project was discontinued, you were directed to give ALL your research information and all materials to the sweepers. Imagine our surprise when our cameras caught you in the act of checking your private safe to see if this little stash was still safe…"
"But the cameras weren't…" Ziegler exploded in frustration and then caught himself before he could go further.
"But they were," Tyler smiled coldly and flipped a still photo of Ziegler opening the safe onto the desk where the scientist could see it. "Did you honestly think that after warning all of you NOT to talk to your military liaisons, should you be contacted directly, and after having one of your fellow scientists attacked, that we would leave entire sublevels worth of labs without any security whatsoever?"
"This is nothing," Ziegler finally spouted in righteous indignation. "I have a right to protect my research…"
"Research owned by the Centre, Doctor — not you personally. What were you intending to do with this, by the way?"
Ziegler's eyes met Tyler's. "I don't think I have to answer that question."
"As you choose," Tyler shrugged. "Fred, Dr. Ziegler's briefcase is confiscated as of now — and I want his keys, key cards and all other Centre-owned property removed from his person."
"What are you doing, Herr Direktor? Firing me?" Ziegler bristled arrogantly.
"Nothing quite that innocuous," Tyler replied. "You will be escorted to a holding area pending the culmination of an FBI investigation, after which you will be handed over into their custody to face whatever they might throw at you — and you ARE fired, Doctor. No doubt there will be a search of your home, courtesy of the FBI, at which time any Centre-owned property not pertinent to the case at hand will be returned to us."
"You can't do this to me!" Ziegler landed on Tyler's desk with both hands folded into fists. Fred started forward, only to be restrained by a glance from Tyler.
"I not only CAN do this, but I AM," Tyler answered in a deceptively calm voice. "We will not put up with anything that remotely resembles the kind of work this corporation used to do in days past."
"Folly!" Ziegler straightened and shook his head. "Self-righteous weakness. The Centre has always been about power and the ways such power could be put to use."
"It still is about power," Tyler signaled to Fred to take the psychiatrist into his custody. "We just choose to exercise that power in different directions than you're used to. You had your chance to be a part of something new and better."
Ziegler's face grew disgusted. "Spare me the gushing, Herr Direktor."
"Get him out of my office," Tyler spat finally. "Keep him somewhere very secure and very comfortable until we hear from the FBI."
"Yes, sir." Fred opened the door and let in his partner, who took Ziegler by the arm while Fred took charge of the briefcase.
Xing-Li popped her head around the corner of the open door. "Are you ready for your next appointment, sir?"
Tyler waved her into his office. "Give me a minute," he breathed, pushing the plastic container on his desk as far away from him as he could. He looked up into her pretty face and remembered how he'd managed to cajole several honest smiles and a couple of shy chuckles from her over their shared banana split the evening before. "It takes me a while to get over being in the presence of so much bad will."
"Shall I remove this for you?" she pointed to the plastic container.
"Yeah," he replied, pushing it just a little bit closer to her. "Call Security and have them put it somewhere VERY secure. I have a feeling our friends at the Pentagon will be very interested in seeing it."
She took the container and then cast an appraising eye at her boss. "Ready now?"
Tyler sighed. "Anybody ever tell you that you're a slave driver?"
"No," she replied with a shy smile, "but the people sitting in my office have been telling me about how busy they are…"
Tyler put his hands to his eyes and rubbed tiredly. It had been a LONG day, carrying his own load and Miss Parker's as well again. "Very well, send in the next appointment."
"Hey, Syd, there's someone here who'd like to see you," Sam announced, taking some small comfort from the return of a little color to the aging psychiatrist's face. He turned and pushed Crystal ahead of him into the room and then shut the door behind her so that she could have a little privacy with the man she'd literally saved.
Sydney watched with silent interest as the girl glanced back over her shoulder as if surprised or disconcerted at the loss of Sam's presence at her elbow and then looked all around the room with one bright, dark eye. Finally she stepped far enough into the room that he could see that while her face was still bruised and swollen, the rest of her features were delicate and finely chiseled. When she healed, the girl would be genuinely pretty.
Crystal could feel the man's eyes on her every movement, and finally she screwed up her courage and just walked up to the side of the bed and looked down at him. He certainly looked much better — his face had a touch of color in it, and his eyes were clear. "So," she said finally. "They tell me you're a shrink."
"And you figured out where to go for help after all," Sydney added with a nod.
"You're Kevin's uncle." It wasn't a question.
"And you're the girl who has been calling him all sorts of names." That wasn't a question either.
Crystal despised the sense of awkwardness, and she put a hand on one hip. "Listen, they told me that I needed to talk to you before they'd think about letting me go. So…"
"Is that such a bad thing?" Sydney asked gently. "At least it gives me the chance to say thank you — as inadequate as that may be under the circumstances." He would have reached up to her, but wasn't sure how the gesture would be interpreted and so kept his hand still on top of the blankets. "What did the doctor say about your face?"
"That I was lucky that my cheek wasn't busted," she answered almost before she had a chance to think about it and then blushed. "But I'll be OK after a while – he said the swelling will go down in a couple of days."
"Good." Sydney's face reflected a genuinely contented look at her news.
"What about you? What's the damages on your end?" she asked curiously.
"A couple of cracked ribs, the incision from a recent surgery torn open again, and I have a helluva headache from the whiskey, but I'll live," he reported quietly. "Thanks in part to you…"
"What was a fancy shrink like you doing slumming in the worst part of town in the middle of the night all shit-faced anyway?" The dark eye pinned his chestnut gaze and wouldn't let it go.
Sydney shifted on the bed and felt the stab of pain from the bandaged ribs prevent him from moving much more than he did. "I acted before I thought – it was stupid."
"No duh. I thought shrinks were supposed to be smart people."
"Even smart people make mistakes," he told her in a humble tone. "Those that think they don't ever make mistakes are making the biggest one of all."
"So… Sydney…" Crystal could feel herself liking this man all the more, now that he was sober and not fighting her anymore. And, like the others here at this Centre place, he was treating her with respect and politeness – a pleasant change from her life over the last few months with Scooter. It made her feel nervous to be so comfortable around a virtual stranger old enough to be her grandfather. "Now that we've talked, can you tell your daughter to let me go?"
"I seriously doubt she's holding you prisoner," he replied with the beginnings of a smile. "Besides, where would you go – back to that warehouse that you have to run away from every morning before the workers there beat you for tresspassing?"
She lifted her chin proudly. "At least there I'm my own boss – nobody tells me where I can go or can't, what I can do or can't…"
"Until you fall in with another one like Scooter, who just beats you instead," Sydney remarked without any rancor or obvious intent to be hurtful. "What's your name?" When she looked at him sharply, he shrugged. "You know my name, it would be only fair for me to know yours…"
"Crystal," she answered, then looked down. "That's the name I want people to call me."
"Then that's the name that I shall call you," Sydney told her. He put out a hand, palm upwards. "I honestly don't know what Parker has in store for you, Crystal – but I give you my word on this: if you ever need my help, you have but to ask for it."
"You don't need to do that…" she shook her head as if afraid of the offer.
"Yes, I do. You went out of your way and risked your own safety on my behalf — that isn't something I can ignore or pretend wasn't worth something. This is the least I can do for you." Sydney held his hand still, palm still up and open. He had the sudden impression of being very close to a wary and feral creature that hadn't quite decided whether or not to trust him.
Very cautiously Crystal put her hand in that of the older man she had helped. "OK, thanks… I guess…" she said with deceptive carelessness, touched to the heart. Such things didn't happen to her anymore — especially from authority figures.
There was a knock on the door and Sam poked his head into the room. "Hey, Syd, Miss Parker wanted me to bring the kid up to her office when she was done here. You let me know when you're through, OK?"
"Are we done?" Crystal asked her new friend, pulling her hand back quickly in embarrassment before she could be tempted to hang on and never let go.
"For now," Sydney smiled. "Take good care of her, Sam. I don't want anything bad to happen to her."
"No problem, Sydney," Sam agreed easily. "I'll be glad to."
Gillespie sighed as he stepped into the elevator at NSA headquarters with his temporary NSA partner. It was nearly suppertime, and the haul that they had found at Phil Baldwin's fishing cabin at White Cloud Lake would take days to sort through. They had stopped at the nearest post office and commandeered a plastic bin into which they'd put everything they had collected for easy handling once they got back to DC. They had then watched carefully as the bin had been loaded into the storage compartment of the helicopter that had brought them back to the rooftop of the building.
Personally, Gillespie had held out the most recent ledger book of the group's activities — and found it fascinating reading during the flight home. Phil Baldwin had been a most exacting bookkeeper, taking precise and damning notes regarding how much money from which lobbyist had been summarily forwarded into the group's checking account on the one hand, and how much of that money had then found its way into the Centre coffers for which project on the other. What was more, the Centre wasn't the only research and development firm with which the group had had contact — two others had done similar work to a much lesser degree.
Sylvie Gotham, on the other hand, had been poring through an appointment calendar for the same period of time. The two had sat elbow to elbow and coordinated dates and times of meetings with ledger entries in a way that clearly implicated three Senators in the conspiracy: Canfield, Jackson and Burns. Entries in the ledger of cash withdrawals from the account could be enhanced by appointment dates in the calendar, along with detailed notes pertaining to which judge or other official had received that largess, and for what. Several officers with Pentagon security had accepted bribes from time to time to keep their eyes and mouths shut, as well as agents with the Treasury and Justice departments. Once all the warrants were made out and served, there would be nearly thirty people indicted for one reason or another between members of the military and civilians.
Sylvie signaled the clerk who had taken charge of the wheeled bins to follow her from the elevator toward her office. She pushed through the doors and stopped in surprise. Whelan was seated at the planning table along with another gentleman, and Chuck looked up immediately. "Ah! You're back. Do we have it?"
"Everything you would want to know about a conspiracy to develop banned weapons and deploy them is right there," Gillespie explained to his own boss, Gerald Berghoff, as he pointed to the bins. "We have names, dates, deposit and payment amounts, what it was spent on, who it was sold to afterwards — everything."
"Enough to satisfy a grand jury?" Berghoff asked quietly.
"Enough to satisfy even the most skeptical among us," Sylvie added. "And add to this the transcripts from the wire taps, and I doubt that any of them will see daylight for a while."
"Call Jim over at the Justice Department," Whelan said in a satisfied tone. "Give him a list of names for the warrants."
"I'll call the JAG office and let them know we have corroborating evidence for the charges against the military participants," Berghoff nodded.
"Call Senator Ashland too," Whelan suggested. "She deserves to know where we stand so that she can set up official ethics committee investigations against those three Senators as well. It's time she knows we have 'em."
"And you two can see what else you can find in Phil's office while we sort through this mess," Chuck added, then smirked as he saw his agent slump. "Cheer up, Sylvie — it's almost over."
"How much you want to bet that we don't get supper — and we end up working some serious overtime tonight?" she grumbled to her FBI partner as they walked from the room.
"Sounds about right," Gillespie yawned. "But look on the bright side…"
"There's a bright side?" Sylvie sounded skeptical.
"We'll get to sleep in tomorrow," he finished.
"If we're VERY lucky and aren't still HERE tomorrow, that is…" she retorted.
Gillespie scratched his head. "Yeah… There is that…"
"Hello?"
"Hi, Jarod — it's me."
"Missy." Jarod relaxed back against the wall of the hallway and listened as his daughter splashed happily in the tub. "How's Sydney?"
"Cracked ribs, he tore his incision, and he's hung over like crazy," she reported. "He was lucky he didn't get rolled any worse than that."
"What about his car? Did you find it eventually?" he was curious.
"In North Carolina," she answered. "I'm having a sweeper from the Charlotte office drive it back tomorrow. By then, Syd should be able to drive himself home again. The little bastard they arrested driving it is the same bastard that beat him up — and you can bet I'm going to press charges."
"I'm just glad that Sydney wasn't hurt any worse than he was," Jarod breathed a deep sigh of relief. "What about you? Are you OK?" he asked quietly.
"I am now," she replied, leaning her head into her hand at the dining table of her new home. "At least now I can spend the evening cleaning without worrying about somebody being missing or hurt."
"Cleaning?" Jarod frowned. "Where are you?"
"At the town house," she replied. "Davy and I have started to move in. We picked up most of our clothes and day to day necessities when I got home from work tonight, and we'll sleep here from now on. I hired a domestic team to finish the job tomorrow and Friday while we're out — and I'm hoping that we can move the rest of the important stuff from the summer house this weekend before you and Sprite get here."
"How about the mess at the Centre? How's that shaping up?"
"We haven't heard a word all day from the military man Tyler contacted — but we DID manage to catch us one die-hard left-over from the Centre's 'good ole days'. He was going to go ahead with his research project despite what he'd been told."
"What are you going to do with him?"
"Turn him over to the FBI when the time comes," she answered very matter-of-factly. "Tyler sent sweepers to the guy's house to make sure there wasn't anything there that belonged to us — under Blue Cove PD supervision," she added before Jarod could voice an objection.
"You're really adhering to the letter of the law, aren't you? He asked proudly.
"I'm trying," she sighed. "So what about you? How are things shaping up on your end?"
"Well, the court appointment is tomorrow morning," he listed, "and after that, I have to keep one last therapy appointment at the office before the only thing left to do is pack and call you to send a Centre jet for us. Oh…" he remembered. "Mom has decided to come back to Delaware with us to visit for a little bit."
"Your mother's coming with you?" Miss Parker was surprised. "I thought she never wanted…"
"She's decided she wants to meet Sydney," he told her. "And I can't think of a good reason to say no."
"Sydney's not in the best of shape to be grilled by an inquisition, Jarod," she warned him. "He's suffering flashbacks and the occasional anxiety attack from all the old memories of the Nazis and Dachau that have broken free. I don't want him to feel pressured to defend himself."
"I'll talk to her, Missy, I promise."
"How's Sprite?"
Jarod peeked around the corner of the bathroom and chuckled at the sight of Ginger with soap bubbles covering most of her body and head. "Very wet and currently covered with bubble bath bubbles," he replied. "She's getting better, Missy. I'm hoping the judge will see just how much from the photographs that were taken when she was removed from that… that… woman's care."
"I gave her a nice bedroom here, Jarod — my old room, actually. It looks out over the front of the house and has a canopy bed and the whole nine yards."
Jarod could almost feel how she was trying to reach out and establish a connection with her new daughter by giving her the bedroom she had had as a child. "I'm sure she'll like it," he reassured her. "I think she's even looking forward to seeing you again. I KNOW she's looking forward to seeing Davy."
"It will be SO good to have you home again," Miss Parker sighed. Maybe he would know what to do. "But right now, I need your advice, Jarod. I have this little problem that I'm not entirely sure how to deal with."
"What kind of problem?" He moved into his living room and sprawled comfortably on the couch.
"We found Sydney because this street kid figured out who he was and came looking for Kevin to get help for him," she explained. "We brought her in with him because she'd been beaten up a bit too — and we cleaned her up and fed her. Now we find out that she's underage and a runaway from an abusive home situation. Sydney is quite insistent that we do right by her, but I'm at a loss as to what to do with her. We can't just turn her loose — she's homeless and deserves a chance to make something of herself. We can't ship her home…"
"Because that would put her back in a worse place than making her homeless would," Jarod finished for her. "How much underage is she?"
"Maybe six, eight months."
"Where's she from?"
"Vermont."
"Well," Jarod mused aloud, "if nobody in authority knows where she is, then it's likely that wherever she goes, it will continue to stay under the official radar for the time being. Is there anybody there who might be willing to take her under their wing, as it were…"
"Sam's kinda taken a shine to her," Miss Parker smiled in remembrance. Her Security Chief had been adamant about NOT sending her back to her parents in Vermont, and had even suggested that they put her up in the Centre itself for the night in one of the old cells — unlocked, of course. As a compromise, a cleaner team had been sent to the apartment building where Xing-Li and Lauren Mitchells were staying to clean out one of the other empty units for temporary housing for the homeless girl. "Between him and Syd, Jarod, I swear…"
"What does the girl say?" he asked.
"That one's a tough little nut," she granted. "I'm sure she'd like nothing better than to convince us she could do all on her own. As it is, it took a bit of convincing on my part and Sam's that we really were putting her up in a decently clean and warm and dry and safe place for the night without any strings attached. I think Sam and Mei-Chiang were taking her out to dinner on the company card before dropping her off at the apartment for the night. I'm just hoping she's still there in the morning — Sydney seems quite taken with her as well. I wouldn't want to have to tell him she vanished in the night."
"Why don't you see if there are any jobs there at the Centre that she'd be willing to do in exchange for room and board for the time being. Maybe some quiet inquiries into how far in her schooling she got in Vermont before leaving wouldn't be a bad idea either. After she's eighteen, she'll be free to surface officially whenever she wants."
"Lemme think about it," Miss Parker replied. "That's a thought though — thanks."
"How's Davy's new class at school?"
"He likes the teacher so far…"
"That's good news…"
"Are we going to be putting Ginger in school here when she gets here?"
Jarod shook his head. "Until she's communicating in a more normal manner, Missy, it would be wasted time and energy for the teacher. She's better, but she's a long way from well." He smiled. "We'll discuss that part of it when we get there — and you can see how she's improved."
"Tell your mother I'm looking forward to seeing her again. And I'll warn Syd a little, so she doesn't catch him entirely unawares."
"Good thinking." He fell quiet. "I miss you," he said softly and gently. "It's time for me to come home."
"I know," she replied as softly. "I miss you too." She paused. "Do you think we might actually be able to start living a normal life once you get back?"
Jarod chuckled softly and the chuckle grew. "With the Centre, ANYTHING'S possible, Parker."
She broke into soft laughter. "I love you, Jarod, and I'll see you in just a few days."
"You betcha," he replied brightly. "And I love you too. Say goodnight to Davy for me."
"I will," she agreed, "if you say goodnight to Sprite for me. Give her my love."
"I will," he promised. "Goodnight, Missy."
"Goodnight, Jarod."
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