Resolutions – 24

Homecoming

by MMB

"What time does your game start, Davy?" Sydney asked as he reached to take the plate of lunchmeat from Deb.

"At two," the boy replied. "But I promised Jeremy that I'd help him haul equipment from his house today – so I have to be over there at about one-thirty."

"Who are you playing this time?" Deb asked with curiosity.

"The Rattlers from Cameron Beach. If we can beat them today, then we're in the championship game next week."

"You actually play teams from other towns?" Kevin blinked in surprise as he took the plate of meat from his mentor and slipped two onto the waiting slices of bread that would be his sandwich.

"Most of the smaller ocean-side communities have sand-lot softball teams that play each other through the summer," Miss Parker told the young man as she spread mayonnaise on her bread. "Now that school has started, they have a sort of play-off season and then championship game. Blue Cove has a pretty talented team of kids."

"Is this what is known as Little League?"

"No, this is something far more informal and unorganized," Sydney informed him. "It's been going on for more than ten years – often with kids that grew up playing the sand-lot games ending up playing for their high-school teams and maybe in college." He smiled at his grandson. "Davy plays short stop."

"What's your team called?" Kevin asked his young friend.

"The Barracudas," Davy replied with a proud grin. "The meanest fish in the sea."

"I thought sharks…" Kevin looked at Sydney with some confusion.

"It's a euphemism," Sydney explained patiently, "that expresses team pride and certainty that they can defeat all comers."

"Oh," Kevin nodded, processing the information. "I get it."

"Deb," Miss Parker looked at the girl across the table from her, "how was your Dad today?"

"Getting ready to get out of his cast at the end of next week," she announced happily, "and to start physical therapy."

"I can imagine that after being laid up in bed for all these weeks, anything to get him up and even slightly mobile has got to look absolutely wonderful," Sydney nodded understandingly. "I was just telling Parker this morning that I'm getting very tired of being tied down to that couch in the den myself. I can sympathize with Broots completely."

"I bet," Deb nodded. "It's good to see you up and around a little bit again."

"What else did he have to say," Sydney pressed very gently. "Did you have a talk with him about…"

"I told him some of it," Deb admitted, washing her bite of sandwich down with a gulp of apple juice and hiding her blush behind her glass. "But not all of it. I decided I'd wait until after Monday and I've seen the doctor..."

"Are you sick, Deb?" Davy asked, his face suddenly very concerned.

"Nah. I just am going to have a check-up," she reassured her young friend with a sharp glance around the table at the adults to stop them from expounding on WHY she felt she needed a check-up yet. "I didn't tell Dad because I didn't want to worry him."

"Oh," Davy breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad."

"When does Jarod land?" Deb asked Miss Parker. "Before dinner?"

"Absolutely," Miss Parker replied. "I got word not long after I got here that they were able to be into the air by eight-thirty California time. That should put them on the ground in Dover at about five."

"Who's going?" Davy looked around the table expectantly.

"I think maybe Kevin and I should stay home," Deb said after a meaningful exchange of glances with the young Pretender. "That will leave plenty of room for you, Grandpa…"

"I called for a Centre limousine to be here at four-thirty," Miss Parker stated. "At least we'd all fit…"

Sydney shrugged and nodded. "That's fine with me – we wouldn't fit in my car anyway, and I really would prefer not to drive. I've spent the whole day off of that damned gizmo – I don't want to over-stress the knee anymore than that."

"I could always put you on the machine while you nap after lunch," Kevin suggested.

"Not on your life!" Sydney exclaimed. "I'm enjoying a day free from that damned thing today – and I'm looking forward to napping without having to work to ignore what that thing is doing to my leg just to get to sleep for once." He cast a fond eye at his grandson again. "I was actually thinking of going over to the park for a bit and watching some of Davy's game, to be honest…"

"I thought you said you didn't want to stress the knee," Miss Parker reminded him.

"A little walking isn't going to hurt me that much," Sydney protested, "and I know they have benches over there behind the backstop. Besides, I think Davy could use a rooting section today." He looked at Miss Parker. "Are you coming to the game?"

"You bet," she answered with a wide smile. "I wouldn't miss it for the world – and I can get most of the dinner put together to simmer all afternoon before we need to start heading in that direction."

"I'd like to watch the game too, if you don't mind," Kevin said finally.

"Sounds like you're going to have an entire cheering squad, Davy," Deb told the boy with a pat on the shoulder.

"Sounds good to me," Davy smiled back at her.

"How soon we get there, Daddy?" Ginger asked for the third time

Jarod tipped his arm over so that he could look at his wristwatch. "About two more hours, Sprite. Fifteen minutes since the last time you asked."

"Me gotta go potty, Gamma…"

Margaret looked over at her slightly frustrated son. "Go on, then, sweetheart," she told the girl with an indulgent smile. "Just don't play in the water like you did the last time, OK?"

Ginger's face fell a little, but she nodded and hopped out of her seat and headed toward the back of the plane. She was getting tired of coloring pictures, and most of her toys other than Bear had been packed away in one of the suitcases that she couldn't get at right now. She'd had no idea that this trip was going to be SO long…

"Be patient with her, Jarod," Margaret soothed her son from across the aisle of the little jet. "This is her first very long trip – and just think how good it is that she's talking to you and letting you know how she feels now."

"I know," Jarod sighed. "I just guess I used to watch all those television shows about kids bugging their parents with an 'are we there yet' every ten seconds and thought that it was broad parody – and had no idea that it was too true to be funny!"

"Actually, considering everything, she's doing pretty good for a seven year old," Margaret told him with a smirk of amusement. "I can remember traveling with Emily at that age – Ginger is lot more patient than your sister ever thought of being."

"That's encouraging, I think," Jarod shot his mother a chagrined look.

"You know, you could play a game with her when she gets back," she suggested with raised eyebrows at the tone in his voice. "Just remember she's a little kid and likes to win every once in a while, and you should be able to keep her nicely entertained…"

"She doesn't play chess," Jarod complained in surprise.

"I'm not talking about THOSE kinds of games," Margaret chuckled. "You could try one of those simple games that you play with pencils and paper. Kids love those."

"I never learned any of them," he reminded her pointedly. "You'd have to teach me first."

Margaret sighed and crooked her finger for him to join her in Ginger's seat. She stood and pulled Ginger's playtime backpack from the overhead compartment and removed a blank piece of paper from the back of one of the notebooks. Taking her seat again, she took a couple of minutes putting a grid of dots all over it.

Jarod watched her with an intent look, and then gazed at her when she looked up, finished. "Now what?"

"Each of us takes turns putting a single line between two of the dots. If the line finishes a square, then you get to draw another line. The one with the most boxes at the end, wins. Try it."

Mother and son bent over the paper silently for a long time, each drawing lines, and then started to chuckle at each other as the game got closer to being finished. Finally Jarod looked up at his mother in surprise. "How the heck did you get four more than I did?"

"Superior intellect and the fact that I've played this before," she grinned at him. "But you'll probably beat the tar out of Ginger if you're not careful, so give her a fighting chance, OK?"

"Speaking of whom," Jarod looked around. "She's not out of the rest room yet."

Margaret sighed. "She's playing in the water again, I'll bet you…"

"No takers!"

"I'll get her," she said, rising. "You make up the next grid and be ready to play with your little girl for a while. Meanwhile, I'll try to get some sleep – I never do sleep well before a big trip. I want to be a little bit rested when we get to Delaware."

Jarod flipped the paper over that he and his mother had used to play their game and began making a similar grid of dots. He smiled to himself when he heard a frustrated, "Gamma!" come out of the tiny rest room, and looked up when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Ginger's tee shirt looked a little water-splattered, and she definitely looked as if she'd been caught in the act.

"Let's hope its nice and warm when we get to Delaware," he told her as he held out and arm and had her walk into his embrace. "You look like you need some quality time in a wading pool."

"Daddy," Ginger snuggled against her father, "nuffing to do. Me tired of sitting."

"Grandma just taught me a new game – wanna learn to play it with me?" he replied after giving her a little squeeze.

"Can Bear help?" she asked, glancing over at where Margaret had put Bear in Jarod's former seat.

"Sure he can, Sprite," Jarod told her and let her go so that she could scamper and fetch her favorite toy. "Here," he pointed to Margaret's former seat, "you sit where Grandma was, and she'll sit where I was a little bit ago."

Ginger peered up at him with sparkling eyes. "How we play this?"

As his daughter bent her head to watch the fast-moving game intently after he'd explained the few rules to her, Jarod turned and shot his mother a glance of deep gratitude – only to find her with her seat reclined back and eyes closed. He chuckled quietly to himself and turned back to see just how well his new daughter could do at a competitive game like this.

He'd have to remember this game – the potential it held for giving a quick assessment of intelligence and reasoning abilities for the very young was tremendous. Why, he found himself wondering silently, had Sydney never taught him this one?

Colonel Fox pulled his sedan to a stop in front of the little cement pillbox building that housed the Blue Cove Police Department and local jail. His office had received a call that morning that the Air Force officer being held there had been demanding to speak to someone in authority, and a quick call to Admiral Samson's office had confirmed that even the senior office had thought that giving the jailed man an ear at least once wouldn't do any harm.

"Officer," he said as he walked through the door and up to the counter, "my name is Colonel Fox, and I received a call from a prisoner you're holding…"

"Yeah," Officer Donaldson nodded and shoved a sign-in clipboard across the counter. "Sign yourself in and we can check in your weapon, and then you can go back there. He's sure been making an awful lot of noise about wanting to talk to somebody."

Fox quickly scrawled his name into the place indicated by the officer's pudgy finger and then pushed the clipboard back across the counter.

"Your weapon," Donaldson said next and placed a tag on the counter. "Fill this out, and we'll lock your weapon in our safe until you're ready to leave."

Fox retrieved the pen and filled out both parts of the tag and then laid his service pistol on the counter next to it. Donaldson quickly attached the tag to the trigger guard and tore off the receipt half of the tag to hand it to the military man. "OK," he said finally, pushing the buzzer to let Fox through, "follow me."

Obviously Blue Cove was not the most prosperous community, Fox thought to himself as he walked past desks that looked as if they'd been purchased in the fifties and through a metal door that looked as if it hadn't been painted in the last decade. The jail, it seemed, was at the very back of the building – two cells with no privacy whatsoever, separated one from the other by nothing but bars. In one, a man was lying on a pallet-thin mattress and snoring away loudly, and the floor looked as if it had been recently hosed down. In the next, a military officer sat on the edge of his mattress and sprang to attention the moment he saw a fellow Air Force officer.

"Chairs are over there," Donaldson pointed to a pair of folding chairs leaning against the wall. "Give a pound on the door there when you're ready to leave."

"Thank you," Fox told the officer and then patiently waited until the metal door had clanged closed again before turning to face Stiller. "My name is Fox," he told the man in the cell in a brisk and business-like tone. "I've been sent down here to listen to what you have to say, so start talking."

"Are you a lawyer?" Stiller asked, not relaxing from his posture of attention.

"I was the lead investigator responsible for rounding up your colleagues," Fox replied sharply. "If you wanted a lawyer, all you had to do is…"

"No," Stiller shook his head. "A lawyer would be telling me to keep my yap shut – and what I want is to testify against the others in exchange for a reduced sentence."

"I can't guarantee you anything," Fox told him honestly. "And whether or not I even present your information depends on just what kind of information you have to exchange. No matter what, you ARE going to be court-marshaled."

"I realize that," Stiller snapped. "I want some assurances…"

"You aren't going to get them," Fox snapped back. "So either you start talking, or I figure that this was just a mammoth waste of my time and government money and head back to DC."

"I can give you names," Stiller told him in a slightly quieter tone, as if still worried that his talking to the authorities could be overheard by those who could make life very difficult.

"What kind of names?"

The jailed officer relaxed a little. "Brigadier General Douglas Curtis, for one – he was my direct superior and ordered me to pressure the Centre scientist to try to convince her to restart one of the projects she'd been in charge of at the Centre…"

"We have plenty of evidence against General Curtis," Fox told him with a shrug. "So that part of it is old news. Tell me something I don't know."

"Colonel Harris of the Pentagon…"

"Is behind bars too." Fox looked at Stiller tiredly. "You're still not saying anything I don't already know."

"The Centre isn't the only place I've been acting as liaison for," Stiller said, his voice growing tight with worry. "Sure, the Centre was the main contractor for the projects we were funding – but it wasn't the only place we were dealing with."

"Keep talking," Fox said and finally felt he had a decent enough reason to reach for one of those folding chairs and put it nicely out of reach outside the bars of Stiller's cell.

Stiller resumed his seat on the edge of the thin mattress and leaned forward slightly to put his elbows on his knees. "Through the Centre, we've had contact with an off-shore firm known as the Triumvirate. I've been sent to Africa at least a couple of times to run interference on the projects that they've been involved in."

"Who have you contacted, and what projects are these?" Fox asked, now drawing out a notebook and beginning to take notes.

"Most training projects for intelligence operatives and armed forces to be deployed in black ops settings," Stiller began, "and most of my dealings were directly with members of the consortium board – specifically a man by the name of Otamo Ngawe."

"So, let me get this straight," Fox scratched his head with his pen and looked through the bars at Stiller. "Funding from corporations were fed to lobbyists, who then handed the funds over to legislators in your group, who THEN handed the money over to foreigners to pay for further military training for US troops?"

"Not exactly. The Africans weren't training American military personal, sir," Stiller shook his head. "They were training mercenaries – and the money was going to pay retired US officers to handle the training on foreign soil, using weapons and other products provided to us by the Centre, to avoid detection by US law enforcement and categorization as a militia."

Fox was astounded. "Did the corporations who donated to the lobbyists have the slightest idea where the money was ultimately going?"

"Of course they did," Stiller replied, shocked at the idea that they might not have been. "All of the involved corporations stood to make a hefty profit as a result of destabilization of certain key areas of the globe — areas that the official government would meet a great deal of resistance trying to influence one way or the other."

"For example…"

"Well, think about it," Stiller challenged the Air Force officer on the other side of the bars. "Are you aware of just what Project Black Hole entailed?"

"I have a rough idea…"

"OK, then put that rough idea into this scenario: we quietly take several of the prisoners still stuck in Guantanamo, erase their personalities and substitute personalities that have been tailored to serve the interests of our unofficial forces in the Middle East. We handle all the processes in their native tongue, so that when we're through with them, they'll blend in easily in their home environment, but be disposable wedges within Afghan or Iraqi society. Some of them might even be trained as assassins."

"Good heavens!" Fox's eyes were wide. The implications of what this man was telling him were huge — and unthinkable. "Will you sign a statement regarding all of this?"

"What will it buy me?" Stiller knew better than to let this information get away for free — without a statement with his signature on it, it would take investigators weeks if not months to figure out all of the nuances of the group's activities.

"I'll talk to the Judge Advocate General — I'll see what he might be willing to offer you in exchange for your testimony at military courts-marshal as well as any civilian proceedings that might come as a result."

Stiller folded his arms and leaned back in a slouch against the brick wall behind him. "I'll need an offer on the table before I sign anything."

Fox rose and carefully and quietly filed the folding chair back where he'd found it, his temper rising at the audacity of the man — and the fact that he DID indeed possess information the investigation needed desperately. "I'll let you know what the Judge Advocate General has to say."

"Maybe you can even get me transferred to a military facility one of these days?" Stiller suggested, figuring he had nothing to lose at the moment. "This place is drafty and…" He cast a disparaging glower in the direction of the still-snoring man in the next cell. "…beneath my dignity as an officer in the United States Air Force."

Finding it hard to keep from laughing out loud at the thought that the man had any dignity to get beneath after all he'd done, Fox walked over to the metal door and pounded on it with a heavy fist. "I'll be in touch, Colonel." He wanted to get out of there, to get in touch with Admiral Samson and pass along what he'd learned. Perhaps there would be a way to make use of Stiller's information without having to deal with the man for it.

Stiller was a slime, Fox decided. If there was a way to rob him of any advantage, he was going to make sure THAT was the way things went down.

Jarod reached over and fingered a wayward tendril of dark hair out of Ginger's face as she nestled against his shoulder and dozed, and then shook her shoulder gently. "We're getting ready to land, Sprite — we're almost there."

Ginger blinked several times to orient herself, then tipped in the opposite direction so that she could peer out the porthole at the ground which seemed to be coming closer and closer. She pointed at a spot that Jarod couldn't see. "We land there, Daddy?"

Jarod unfastened his seatbelt very quickly and half-rose to see what she was pointing at. He nodded as he dropped back into his seat and buckled himself back in. "That's right, sweetheart. That's where we land."

Across the aisle from the pair, Margaret roused and blinked, then straightened her seat. "Already?" she asked.

"You've been asleep for a while, Mom," Jarod answered. "A couple of hours at least."

Margaret pushed some of her red and silver hair back away from her face. "At least I feel a little more refreshed," she commented as she watched her granddaughter watch the landing process out the window. "I'd forgotten how tiring cross-continental or transcontinental flights can get."

"I'm glad this is the last one for me for a while," he agreed with her and then peered over Ginger's head at the rapidly closing ground.

"Daddy, we going fast!"

"Yes, we are," he chuckled, enjoying his daughter's experience of discovery and fascination. "And look," he pointed at the edge of the runway now easily visible, "there's Mommy, waiting for us."

"Dat Her's car?"

"No," Jarod said after a moment, "that's a car that belongs to the Centre — it's bigger than either your Mommy's car or Grandpa Sydney's."

"You gots car a too, Daddy?"

"Yes," he told her with an indulgent glance at his mother at yet another question and answer session. "My car is here already. The one I was using in California was a rental."

Ginger squeaked and grabbed for her father's hand as the little jet finally touched ground again and the ride turned rough again after so many hours of smooth travel. "We goed past them's car!" she chirped excitedly.

"We'll turn around and come back to it," Jarod promised his daughter. "You'll see."

Ginger had both of her hands at the base of the window and watched as the jet found the end of the runway and then, as her father had promised, seemed to do a very tight turn around and start back in the direction they'd just come in. Soon enough the jet was pulling to a stop not far from the limousine, and Ginger pointed. "Her's here!"

Jarod peeked over her head. "Yup, she sure is…"

"Who dat wit' Her?"

"That," he announced with a smile, "is your Grandpa Sydney. I was hoping he'd come out to greet us." He bent and released his daughter's seatbelt, and then his own. "Let me get you your backpack now, sweetheart — it's almost time to get off the plane."

"Dere Davy!" Ginger exclaimed and began to wave. "Hims seed me!"

"C'mon, Sprite," Jarod held the backpack out to her so that she could slip it over a shoulder. He already had his computer case and carry-on bag down and was handing his mother her carry-on. "Time to go say hi to Mommy."

"Daddy…" Ginger turned a suddenly apprehensive face up to her father.

"Let me take your stuff, Jarod," Margaret could almost hear her granddaughter's hesitancy. "You take her. She's going to need a little reassurance with strangers in the crowd here."

Jarod leaned down and caught his daughter up into his arms and then reached over and snared the computer case back from his mother. "I can get this one, Mom." He slung it casually over his free shoulder. "You go first — I'll follow."

By the time Margaret's feet had finally touched the ground, Miss Parker and Davy had come forward and had her enveloped in a hug. "Maggie, it's so good to see you again," Miss Parker told her as she kissed her future mother-in-law's cheek."

"And you," Margaret smiled and then bent to Davy. "And you too," she kissed him on the cheek.

"I'd like you to meet my… well, I think of him as my father. Sydney Green, this is Margaret Russell, Jarod's mother." Miss Parker turned and gestured in Sydney's direction.

"Mrs. Russell," Sydney said in his musical accent, limping forward on just one crutch. He put out a hand and instead of shaking hers, raised it to his lips. "I'm delighted to meet you at long last."

"And I'm very glad to meet you too," Margaret said, a little surprised and flattered at the very continental gesture. "Jarod hasn't told me half as much about you as I want to know."

Miss Parker turned and focused all her attention on the tall man carrying the little girl down the few steps to the ground. "There you two are," she sighed to nobody in particular and took the last few steps to throw her arms around them both. It was in that moment that she knew that there was nothing that felt half as good as the sensation of having Jarod's arm slip around her waist and hold her tightly to him again. "God, I've missed you!" she exclaimed after Jarod bent and kissed her gently.

"I've missed you too," he agreed, and then turned to look at Ginger. "What do you say?"

"Hi," Ginger said in a small voice.

Miss Parker's mouth dropped open, and then her hand was cradling the side of Ginger's head. "You're talking now?" She turned stunned grey eyes on the Pretender. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"We wanted to surprise you, didn't we, Sprite?" he asked, to which his little girl nodded vigorously.

"Can I have a hug?" Miss Parker asked in a soft and hesitant voice, and held her hands out to her new daughter.

Ginger thought for a moment and then reached and let Her taker her and Bear from Daddy's grasp. She looked into those pretty grey eyes for a long moment and then wrapped her arms around Her neck and snuggled down. "Me glad see oo," she told Her softly. It was true — after She had left them in California, there had been a hole in her life.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you too, baby," Miss Parker whispered with a lump in her throat. She carefully touched Bear's arm. "I see he's all better now." Ginger nodded somberly. "What's his name?"

"Bear."

"Has he been taking good care of you?"

"Uh-huh…" Ginger cradled her Bear to her. "An' me take care him too."

"I'm sure you have been," Miss Parker smiled widely. What a thrill it was to have this charming little girl in her arms, actually talking to her rather than cringing back and running away. Still, there was someone Ginger had yet to meet. "I want you to meet somebody very special," she said and carried Ginger over to where Sydney was standing with Margaret. "This is your Grandpa Sydney," she said softly, watching closely as her old friend finally could get a good look at the child in her arms.

Sydney's eyes widened and he glanced into Miss Parker's eyes sharply before returning to stare at the child. His mouth opened as if to speak, and then he closed it again. It was impossible, but the little girl in Miss Parker's arms bore a remarkable — almost uncanny — resemblance to his little sister, lost so many years ago in the Holocaust.

"This is Ginger," Miss Parker continued the introduction cautiously, knowing that her old friend had just had his world rocked yet again, as she had suspected he would. "This is your new granddaughter, Jarod's little girl."

"My God, Parker!" was all he could say, and another glance at Miss Parker told him that she knew exactly what he was talking about. Slowly he put out a hand to touch the little girl's back very softly, very gently. Cautious and wary dark eyes watched his every movement as he straightened a braid and then touched one sparkling butterfly with a tentative finger. He turned startled chestnut eyes to look at his former protégé. "She's beautiful, Jarod."

Ginger tipped her head against Her shoulder and watched with great interest as the man that She'd introduced as Grandpa Sydney was suddenly enveloped by a warm hug from Daddy. "It's good to see you up and about again, Sydney," Jarod was saying as he clapped the older man on the back. Grandpa seemed a little dazed, but finally hugged Daddy back again before turning to stare yet again at Ginger.

She turned to look at Her again, then squirmed a bit. "Me say hi Davy, please?" she asked Her.

"Absolutely," Miss Parker responded and put Ginger down.

"Hey there!" Davy exclaimed the moment his little sister was in reach and wrapped an awkward arm around her shoulder. "I'm glad you're here."

"Hi Davy," Ginger answered with a shy smile. "Me glad see oo too."

"Mom! Sprite's talking!" Davy exclaimed after picking his jaw up off the tarmac.

"I know," she told him, then turned to Sydney and Margaret behind him. "Well, I suppose if we all want to get in the car…" She nodded at the pilot, who had the storage compartment of the small jet open and had the larger pieces of luggage already on the ground, and he began carrying them to the limousine while she pressed the key and opened the trunk for him. "Deb and Kevin are babysitting our supper at Sydney's — I figured we'd eat there and then head home after that."

At a very faint sound from behind him, Sydney tore his eyes away from the dark-haired child and gave a glance to Jarod's mother — only to find her looking around in carefully disguised concern and suspicion. "Mrs. Russell — is everything all right?"

"I was just wondering," she replied as Jarod's attention came back to her at Sydney's comment, and she then directed her question at Miss Parker. "Where are the sweepers?"

Miss Parker's face smoothed into understanding. "I didn't think we needed any this afternoon — do you?"

Margaret blinked. A Centre limousine with not a sweeper in sight — the very concept strained at the imagination after all these years of fear and distrust. "No," she said finally, "I suppose not…"

"I think you'll find that many things you thought you knew about the Centre have changed a great deal lately, Mrs. Russell," Sydney soothed at her in his most gracious tone of voice.

"It's going to take some getting used to," Margaret confided shakily.

"I can imagine," he commented understandingly. "You've had good reason to be wary for a very long time."

Miss Parker looked at Jarod with the beginnings of a smile. Contrary to her fears, Sydney and Margaret seemed to be getting along well enough so far — obviously Jarod must have spoken to her more effectively than she'd expected, and Sydney was plainly going out of his way to try to make the woman feel at home. "C'mon, folks, into the car," she urged. "I don't know about you people, but I'm starting to get hungry. Jarod, you can sit up front with me," she grinned at him mischievously, "Syd, you can keep Maggie and the kids company, can't you?"

Although he gave her a less than confident look, Sydney's voice was soft and steady. "I think that can be arranged…" He shifted his crutch so that he was no longer standing in the open door of the limousine. "Davy…" he called.

"C'mon!" Davy caught at his little sister's hand, and the two of them scrambled into the roomy passenger area.

Margaret chuckled at the way Davy was already taking charge of his little sister, a chuckle that she heard echoed from Sydney. "They were getting thick as thieves in Monterey, before Davy and Missy left," she explained quickly, "and it looks like they're going to pick up right where they left off." At Sydney's gesture, she climbed into the car and then reached out to help handle the crutch as the injured man maneuvered himself into the seat next to Davy.

Jarod slipped into the passenger seat next to Miss Parker. "It's quite a treat to be driven around in a Centre limousine by the Chairman herself," he quipped with a mischievous smirk as she turned the key and started the engine.

"Don't get too used to it, Pez-head," she smirked back. "And you'll probably have to help me calm your mom down when we reach Sydney's — the sweeper who brought this over from the Centre garage is waiting there to take it back."

"She'll be OK," Jarod assured her as she nosed the long vehicle through the gate to the airstrip and onto the access road that led to the two-lane highway that would take them to Blue Cove.

Davy had immediately begun to chatter at his grandmother. "You shoulda seen it, Grandma! Steven hit a double, then I got on, and then Greg blasted the first pitch right on out of the diamond!"

"I'll have to be sure to come by and watch one of your games while I'm here," Margaret smiled at her grandson. "So, tell me all about the position you play…"

Sydney found that he couldn't stop staring at the little girl who sat across from him and stared back with dark and wary eyes. She was such a tiny thing, much smaller than most seven-year-olds he'd ever seen. A relatively new teddy bear was clasped tightly to her chest. This was ridiculous, he thought to himself, to be so stymied by a small child who seemed as unsure of him as he was of her. No doubt his reaction wasn't making her any more comfortable around him either.

He motioned to the bear with a restrained finger. "What is your bear's name?"

"Bear," she answered simply. This Grandpa Sydney talked funny – she could understand the words, but they sounded… different… when he said them. And Daddy seemed to like him a lot — that helped some. "What wrong your leg?" she pointed to his bad knee.

"I hurt my knee and the doctor had to fix it," he explained simply. "It's still trying to get better again."

That seemed straightforward enough, and Ginger accepted the explanation with a blink. Then Davy was calling upon him to confirm something he was trying to tell Grandma, and Ginger watched as Grandpa turned his attention to her new brother and helped him tell his story. Davy seemed to like Grandpa a lot too — but then, he'd like the Big Man too…

And Grandpa wasn't a small man. When Daddy had given him a hug, she'd seen how the two had been almost the same height — and Daddy was TALL. She snuggled into her Grandma's side as the three others seemed to have a rather lively conversation going, happy to have Grandma with her and happy to just sit and watch.

Margaret looked down as she felt Ginger lean into her arm and then lifted her arm to wrap it around her granddaughter comfortingly. A glance told her what Ginger was uneasy about, and Margaret shot Sydney an understanding glance when she saw that he had noticed the girl's shyness and was feeling regretful. "She takes a while to warm up to strangers," she found herself explaining again.

"Parker told me a little of her history," Sydney replied. "She's actually doing quite well, considering."

"Do you remember me telling you about the tree house at Grandpa Sydney's?" Davy aimed his question at his little sister. Ginger shook her head against her grandmother's chest. "Well, I have this really neat tree house there. Maybe we can go check it out before dinner?"

"'Kay," Ginger agreed shyly. "What a tree house?"

Davy stared and gaped. "You've never seen a tree house?"

"I think there are a lot of things that you're going to be able to show your sister for the first time," Sydney told his grandson gently. "She's going to need you to help show her all the things to do and teach her the rules we live by."

"I can do that," Davy grinned at Sydney and then at his little sister. "We're going to have so much fun, Sprite..."

"Sprite?" Sydney's brows folded.

"That's Jarod's nickname for her," Margaret said, cuddling the girl just a little closer. "I guess Ethan was the one who said she looked like a wood sprite, and it just caught on."

"Sprite," Sydney pronounced again, bringing the dark eyes back to look at him attentively. "You do look a bit like a fairy child."

Ginger blinked. Grandpa knew the private name Daddy called her already — without being told? Maybe She was right, and he WAS a special person!

Lawler stared at the package that had landed on his desk for a long moment before reaching out for it eagerly and slicing it open to get to the contents. He pulled another thick sheaf of documents from the manila and began reading immediately — and began to smile.

The very first document in this latest anonymous offering was a missing person's report dated 1963 for a five-year-old boy named Jarod Russell. It seemed that the boy had vanished from his bedroom in his parents' home in Baltimore in the middle of the night. The document that followed was dated nearly a year later, and the officer in charge of the case had ruled that the case had gone utterly cold and had been filed away to release resources for more current endeavors.

The next few documents were attempts by the boy's father, a Major Charles Russell of the US Air Force, to get authorities to reopen the case of his son's disappearance, complete with allegations of kidnapping on the part of a Delaware organization known as the Centre. The pleas were impassioned, and responses to those pleas sympathetic but firm: no new information had been presented, and what information did exist led nowhere.

Interestingly enough, there was another missing person's report filed three years later that detailed the unexplained disappearance of another Russell child – another son, this one named Kyle. Lawler hauled out the first envelope and sifted through the documents that it contained until he found the one he was looking for: a Centre memo listing the eight children designated as Red Files. There it was: the name Kyle was fifth on the list. Lawler turned back to the new information and found that the Russells had once more tried to keep law enforcement involved and interested in investigating the disappearance of now two of their children, to no avail. Once more, evidence and information was scarce, and even the new case was eventually relegated to the bin of unsolved and unsolvable cases and left on a shelf to gather dust.

The next complete file folder contained reports on intelligence tests that had been run on selected subjects designated only by alphanumeric sequences 'RF-1' and 'RF-5' – subjects whose results essentially tested off all the established charts of intelligence. A Centre psychiatrist – Dr. Sydney Green – filed half of these documents between April and October of 1963, and another Centre psychologist –Dr. William Raines – had filed the other half between April and October of 1966. The insinuation was unavoidable – 'RF-1' was the impersonal way the Centre classified the child Jarod, and 'RF-5' was Kyle.

From there on, however, the documentation showed that the training given each subject diverged greatly. 'RF-1' had been given concentrated schooling in the sciences and disciplines of strategy and logic. Disturbingly, 'RF-5' had been given basic educational training, but his curriculum had included marksmanship and martial arts training. Jarod had become a scientific genius, where Kyle evidently had been trained in the arts of sabotage and assassination.

By the time Lawler had worked his way through the folder, he was beginning to feel sorry for both Red File subjects. 'RF-5' had been given rigorous training in physical and psychological endurance and survival skills, and some of the reports detailed what amounted to torture sessions that the boy had been expected to weather without complaint or outcry – and the description of the punishment that he'd earned when he didn't endure quite as expected was brutal.

'RF-1', on the other hand, had moved into an entirely new area of research and was doing complex and detailed simulation problem-solving and predictive exercises for his handler. Some of the simulations that the boy had been expected to virtually relive were horrific – he had been expected to relive the Apollo 5 accident where all the astronauts had burned to death, a submarine accident where the personnel involved had slowly suffocated at the bottom of the ocean, and several others just as terrifying. He would be presented with scenarios and was expected to accurately predict how the situation would be resolved, or carried out, and what additional equipment or supplies would be needed for the outcome to be as desired. What was more, he was starting to be expected to run chemical and biological experiments and work through complex problems in pharmacology and weaponry that the Centre then could sell both to the American government and abroad as it saw fit.

The final folder held copies of signed contracts between the Chairman of the Centre at the time, a Mr. Charles Parker, and any number of individuals representing foreign governments and military men from the US Armed Forces. Each contract in the folder was accompanied by a news story detailing where a situation that Lawler had read about in the folder regarding the boys' training had been moved to the real-world arena – more often than not resulting in death and chaos for whatever party was opposed to the purchaser of the simulation information. Some of the contracts were for outright killings – Lawler could only guess that it had been 'RF-5' who had ended up being assigned the hit.

The information on 'RF-5' dwindled over the years, but 'RF-1' apparently continued to do as his handler and the administration of the Centre told him to do until September of 1995, when there was a memo from Mr. Parker to Centre Security, authorizing a search team to retrieve "'RF-1' – hereby to be referred to as Jarod' as soon as possible. Here was the first blatantly obvious sign that 'RF-1' WAS Jarod Russell, a child stolen from his parents in 1963.

A final, thin folder contained ten reports filed by 'M. Parker' on the progress being made in the search for Jarod. Each report listed as team-members M. Parker, Dr. Sydney Green, and Lazlo Broots. Lawler found himself grinning like a fool – each of the reports ended with the line "subject evaded capture" which, he was sure, would grate on anybody forced to file such reports time after time.

Lawler sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head and considered all the information he'd just received, in light of the information that he'd already received. He jumped, however, when the phone on his desk began to jangle.

"Lawler."

"Did you get it?" Lawler grimaced – the whisper was getting very old.

"Yeah, I got it. Interesting reading," he allowed.

"So? Did I get you what you needed?" the voice asked.

"For the most part," Lawler told him. "You neglected to include any information that I could follow up myself – like the present location of the Russell family, or biographies of the main characters listed…"

"You're a smart man," the whisper answered him, "I'm sure you'll find a way to rip away the masks of anonymity that these people have enjoyed all this time. As a matter of fact, I know I've given you enough that if you dig in the right places, you should be able to uncover even more interesting reading all on your own now."

"Wait a minute…"

"I'll be watching to see just what you do with all this information, Mr. Lawler. Are you going to sit on it because the public is in love with the pretty Centre Chairman who descended into the bowels of hell to rescue her staff – or are you going to step up to the challenge of uncovering one of the most insidious organizations the US has ever spawned?"

"I need…"

"Good night, Mr. Lawler. Remember, I'll be watching." The line was disconnected in Lawler's ear with no further ado.

"Damn!" he swore quietly and looked down at the file folders and documents that covered his desk. Yes, there was more than enough to write at least the beginnings of an expose – and if this whisperer was right, he had enough to give him clues as to where to do his own digging that would a bit more productive than his superficial Internet search. After all, asking the Centre website about the Pretender Project hadn't earned him a "No such project" error message, but rather a request for a password.

That meant that more information on this Pretender Project probably lay in the Centre mainframe. Or had – before the explosion.

Lawler turned on his word processing program and, after staring at the blue screen for a long moment, began to type: "The world has been awed and enchanted by the actions of a corporate Chairman who put her very life on the line for her staff when a bomb ripped through her headquarters. But how many of us know anything about the organization she heads, known as The Centre?"

He stared at his opening paragraph with the beginnings of a smile. Sometimes, great reporting began with knowing what questions to ask and put before the public so that it was the public that could begin to demand answers.

"C'mon – this way!" Davy urged, grabbing his little sister by the hand the moment she had deposited her backpack in an out-of -the-way corner of the den. Ginger trotted obediently behind him as he dragged her toward the sliding glass door that opened onto a large and verdant grassed area bounded by shrubs, flowers and several large trees near the back fence. One of those large trees had wooden slats that had been nailed to the trunk, and it was to this one that Davy dragged Ginger. "That," he exclaimed proudly, pointing almost straight up at the boxy construct sitting high in the branches, "is a tree house."

Ginger looked up into his face with eyes that shined with excitement and a little bit of fear. "Is high – how get up there?"

Davy demonstrated how to place feet and hands on the slats that served as steps up the trunk. "See? It's easy!"

Ginger looked up at the tree house with longing, but shook her head. "Me scared to go up. Only got one arm," she pointed out, indicating how she had to keep hold of Bear to keep him from falling to the ground.

Davy let go and dropped to the ground near Ginger and examined the situation. "You can put Bear inside your shirt, so that he's safe and you don't have to hold on to him," he suggested, lifting his own tee shirt to demonstrate what he meant.

With wide eyes, Ginger pulled her tee shirt out of her pants and slipped Bear between the stretchy cotton material and her skin, then smiled when she found that Davy was right and Bear was secure without her having to hang onto him. "What next?" she demanded.

Margaret smiled to watch her grandson patiently begin to show his new little sister the trick to climbing the hand-made ladder up into the old oak tree. "That's what she's needed," she commented to Miss Parker, who was cleaning vegetables to go with her dinner, "a big brother who would be patient with her and help her."

"This is very much what Davy has needed too," Miss Parker replied softly. "He never would say very much about it, but I knew that he always wanted a brother or sister – and a father. Syd has been a great Grandpa for him, but I could tell he felt there was always something missing from his world." She glanced at the older woman standing at the doorway. "When he found out that Jarod was his father, I don't think I've ever seen him so happy."

"It must have been hard raising him by yourself," Margaret remarked gently, "even if you did have help."

"It made me grow up finally," Miss Parker told her as she reached for another carrot. "I couldn't just leave him in the bowels of the Centre to be raised like another research subject – and once I had custody, I found out that I had to put his interests first, always."

"You didn't know he was your son?"

Miss Parker shook her head. "Not until Sydney had Broots run the genetic testing again and asked him to stand over it so the results couldn't be tampered with," she told her. "I knew that the chances that he was Da… Mr. Parker's son were remote – but exactly how he'd come to be I'd never been sure. I just accepted the cover story because it was easier than doing the research. It was Syd who got suspicious after Jarod came back and he saw Jarod and Davy together." She slipped a glance at the older woman. "Syd may have his faults and weaknesses, Maggie, but he's a GOOD man…"

"You don't have to defend him to me all the time, you know," Margaret told her gently. "I'm not out for blood, Missy — certainly not his."

Miss Parker blushed and turned to face her future mother-in-law. "I'm sorry – I didn't realize I was being that obvious. It's just that Sydney saved my life, and right now he's going through a really rough time…"

"He saved your life?" Margaret moved from watching her grandchildren to sitting at the kitchen table and watching her hostess' face.

"I was… upset… when Jarod disappeared finally – when he decided to stop playing cat and mouse with the Centre and find his family. I did something very stupid – got drunk and wrapped my car around a telephone pole – and then did the one really smart thing I've ever done in my life: had the police call Syd. Sydney bailed me out, cleaned me up and helped me put my life back together. I'd never really had anybody show that they cared about me very much since my mother died – except Jarod, that is – and Sydney and then the Broots turned around and gave me a sense of family when I thought I had nobody left in the world." She shrugged and glanced at Margaret. "Then, when I adopted Davy, he was right there again, helping me out and supporting me whenever I needed it."

"But Sydney was just a fellow Centre employee to you, wasn't he? Just someone at the Centre that you'd known a long time?"

Miss Parker shook her head. "When my mother died, he was the only adult to really try to comfort me – and when Daddy used to bring me to work, Sydney was officially the one responsible for me until Daddy had me brought around to go home. It didn't occur to me until much later just how much of my time with Jarod prowling the Centre happened because Sydney turned a deliberately blind eye to things — how he enabled our friendship by not preventing it as he probably should have. He taught me things too, after hours when Jarod had gone back to his room and we were alone — he taught me how to waltz, how to play chess… He was like an uncle to me until Daddy sent me away to school. And then, even while he was a colleague during the days we were searching for Jarod together, he was more than just an acquaintance or colleague. But it took that stupid accident to finally strip away all the obstacles to his becoming a real foster-father for me." She looked at Margaret evenly. "I love him very much, Maggie. Until Jarod showed up, he and Davy WERE my world — and he's still a very important part of it even now."

"That's why I'm here, Missy," Margaret told her sincerely. "Jarod, despite everything, is easily as fond of Sydney as he ever was of his own father – always has been, I find out now that Jarod doesn't feel he needs to hide those feelings away from me anymore. Jarod never knew, but I could see how hard it had been for him to walk away from Sydney — and you, I guess — in those first few months we were together. There were times when he and Charles would just not quite connect in a father and son way — times when Jay and Charles connected so much better— and I could see that the connection for Jarod belonged to Sydney instead. Now that I'm here, I can see how you are with him — that the connection is there for you too. I came because I wanted to see for myself what it is about him that makes Jarod willing to set aside decades of abuse and run back to his Centre keeper when his own father died." She smiled encouragingly. "Jarod told me about his latest troubles, and I promised him that I wouldn't deliberately upset him – now I give you the same promise. I just want to get to know the man, not rip him apart for having had Jarod when he really belonged to Charles and me."

"Gamma! Come look at me!" Ginger's voice called out across the lawn.

Miss Parker peeked out the window over the sink and grinned, and then turned to Margaret. "Better go check it out – Davy has her up in the tree house, with her feet dangling over the edge." She smiled back. "Thanks, Maggie – that makes me feel better."

Margaret's smile widened, and then she rose and went out the arcadia door. "My goodness, Sprite! You're certainly up high enough…"

"That went well," Jarod said as he disemboweled his huge suitcase and distributed his clothing into the right-hand side of the huge chest of drawers that sat next to the closet. The more formal sports jackets and trousers and button-down shirts from his garment bag had already found their new homes on hangers in the closet, arranged neatly next to the sizeable wardrobe Miss Parker had stored there.

"With Syd and your mom? I'll say," she responded contentedly. Dinner had been a very relaxed affair, with Deb and Kevin pretty well self-absorbed, Davy and Ginger chattering at each other happily, and the four adults chatting amiably until the time had come for children's bath-times and bedtimes.

"Deb and Kevin make a cute couple," he commented as he zipped the now-empty suitcase closed and opened his side of the closet to stow it high on the shelf. "And I have to admit that I've been expecting them to connect like this…" He closed the closet door and walked over to stand behind her as she sat at her vanity, combing out her hair. "I know what it is to see the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth as the first girl I ever saw and fall desperately, madly, in love with her right then and there."

The brush slowed as it coursed through her hair, and Miss Parker looked up into her Pretender's face as he looked down at her. "I was the slow one," she said softly. "It took me months after you finally vanished to realize how I felt. It took a few more months to finally figure out that all the anger I'd felt for you while you'd been calling me late at night and teasing me with clues wasn't really anger but actually frustration that I couldn't be with you like I wanted to."

Jarod dropped his hands to her shoulders gently and smoothed them back and forth slowly over her silky skin. "I always thought that when I found my parents and sister, that I'd be content. And, for a while, I was. But then I came back here, and discovered that I'd just been making do – that the family I wanted to put together most was the one I wanted to make with you."

Miss Parker put the brush back down on the vanity and let herself lean back against him with her eyes closed. "I can hardly believe that you're actually here – and that I don't have to worry about you ever up and disappearing ever again."

"I will never leave you again," he promised in the low voice as he bent to the side and kissed the very top of her ear. He eased the spaghetti straps of the blue nightgown over the edges of her shoulders so that he could drop kisses there too without obstruction. "Ready or not, Miss Parker, you've caught your Pretender – I do hope you have some idea what you intend to do with him."

"Oh, I have a thought or two," she answered, turning her head to the side and tipping it up so that when he bent to her again, he could capture her lips with his in a very soft and gentle kiss. "I see you're thinking what I'm thinking," she commented softly when she could speak again.

"I've thought of very little else since Mom and the kids went to bed," Jarod smirked as he put a hand down to help her to her feet so that he could gather her into his arms and kiss her again, this time more insistently.

She sighed as he deepened the kiss and pulled her even closer with one hand wrapped around her waist even as the other tangled in her hair. Her arms came up and around his neck as his hand at her back smoothed down the silky material of the nightgown from the base of her skull all the way to the top of her hips. This was what she'd been wanting and dreaming of all those lonely nights alone since he'd left for California — to have his arms around her, ready to make her his once more. When his lips finally left hers to leave a hot trail of searing kisses down the column of her throat, she finally managed, "You're entirely overdressed for this, you know…"

"For what?" he asked obtusely and returned to kiss her with all the passion that he'd been forced to put on hold until he could come back and reclaim his life with her. He'd known the happiness of finding his real family and making a life of his own with them — now he understood the complete peace that came from finding and now coming home to the woman he adored and making a life with her and their children. His hands began to wander — from smoothing down her back to curling around her slender ribs, and then moving forward to more interesting territory. Her body arched into his in anticipation, and she could feel his desire for her against her lower stomach.

"For what I have planned for you," she whispered raggedly to him as he again dragged his lips to her cheek, her ear, her forehead, her eyes. Her hands came down from around his neck and began working the buttons at the top of his polo shirt and then pulling it from beneath his belt. Then her fingers had found warm skin of their own to play with, and she ran her nails lightly up his back, making him chuckle.

He let her go long enough to jerk his shirt over his head, only to find that she made quick work of his belt and the zipper at the top of his trousers. He turned and whipped an arm at the backs of her knees to scoop her up into his embrace and step out of his puddled trousers and toed-off shoes toward the bed. "Two can play that game," he growled at her as he deposited her on the bed — only to find that she refused to let go of him and so pulled him right over on top of her.

"I sincerely hope so," she growled back, then sighed as his hands began roaming again, easily finding the tight and hard nipples of her breasts as they strained against the silk of the nightgown. "God, I love you, Jarod," she groaned as his touch set her every nerve ending afire.

"I love you too," he whispered gently. Then his lips caught hers again, and there was no more need for talk.

Sydney lay against the pillows of his daybed, staring up at the pattern the moonlight through the leaves of the oak trees in the back made on the ceiling. It had been a big day and a tiring one, and yet sleep eluded him. He knew that he should probably get up and take one of the pain pills that could knock him out for the night, but just couldn't work up the ambition to rise.

He wasn't ready to leave the wonder of a day that had allowed him to entertain Jarod's mother in his home. He literally ached, knowing exactly how she felt. He'd had the chance to speak to George Stamatis, the man who had raised HIS son, not long before Stamatis had died. He too had had a child stolen from him by the Centre, to be raised by someone else entirely. Speaking to the man — reassuring him that he'd take care of Michelle and Nicholas after Stamatis' demise — had taken a great deal of self-discipline, for the acid of bitter jealousy had raged through his veins all that time. What Mrs. Russell must be feeling, knowing that he, Sydney, had raised HER son that had been stolen from her…

Was she seething inwardly, as he had? Did she resent the obvious attachment her son felt for him in the same way that he resented Nicholas' continuing devotion to his memories of the long-dead man who had raised him? Was it worse to be a mother and come face to face with the man who had shared her child's youth when it should have been she who had wiped his tears and shown pride in his accomplishments?

How could she smile and speak so graciously and cordially with a man who had overseen and not prevented the systematic abuse of her oldest son? Certainly had Nicholas been put through even half of what Jarod had endured, he would have been ready to rip Stamatis' throat out — how was she standing to be in the same room with him without rage?

What was it that Krieg had said during those dark hours when he had held his old tormentor hostage? "I know the people you work for — I know the work you do." To his eternal shame, so did he. Even now, even with people around him who loved him, he was a monster wearing the skin of a civilized man. Maybe Jarod's mother hadn't realized that yet. Jarod knew. She would too, eventually.

It was almost ironic that by coming back to Delaware once more, Jarod had brought with him a living reminder of a lifetime twisted by Nazi torture and then Centre agendas. Jarod's little girl had never relaxed around him, continued to look up at him with those great, dark, suspicious eyes of hers that looked so much like Yvette's that it was painful. The vision of his sister's body laying amid the other corpses in the cart, eyes staring and mouth agape, assailed him mercilessly. He hadn't saved her — and he'd been useless at protecting Jarod. At best, he was a pitiful excuse of a coward who didn't deserve a second chance with a granddaughter who looked as if she'd just walked out of a sepia-toned photograph. At worst, which he suspected was closer the truth, he was a monster who deserved only a cheated mother's wrath.

He sighed. Either way, he didn't deserve sleep.

Feedback, please: