Resolutions – 27
Good Morning, Sunshine…
by MMB
Ginger watched with wide eyes as Davy shouldered his backpack after taking his breakfast dishes to the sink. "Where oo go?" she asked around a mouthful of cereal.
"You, Sprite, not oo," Davy reminded her.
"Where yyou go, Davy?" she repeated obediently, still wanting to know.
"School," he answered with a glance around the table. His mother had tucked his week's lunch money into the front pocket of the backpack, he knew — she always had done that by the time he got up from the breakfast table. But today there were more at the table than usual, so that he hadn't noticed her doing that little chore for him for a change. He had been distracted by his father joining him at the table and sipping at his coffee and his new sister tumbling into her seat, still in her flannel pajamas. Now she had at least poured herself a helping of cereal and was contentedly eating – but he found himself wishing that she were dressed and ready to go with him. "Dad, when's Sprite going to start school too?"
"I'm going to talk to your Grandpa about that today," Jarod answered and then showered a smile on his daughter, who had turned her head to look at him and follow the conversation from speaker to speaker. "We need to find out how much she remembers, so we can work to bring her back up to speed with kids her own age. And we'll have to talk to the school district about permission for home schooling her until she's ready to go with you."
"Is that going to take long?" the boy asked wistfully.
Jarod chuckled. "That depends entirely on your sister," he said and reached out to pat Davy on the shoulder. "Have a good day."
"Thanks." Davy turned back to Ginger. "You be good and learn lots from Grandpa so you can come to school with me soon," he told her very seriously.
"'Kay," she replied hesitantly, not exactly sure what learning from Grandpa Sydney had to do with anything but wanting to please her big brother nonetheless.
Miss Parker smiled at Jarod, listening to the two youngsters. From the look on her face, Ginger idolized her brother already — and maybe Davy's encouragement for her to work with her grandfather would do some good. "Be good, little man," she said, giving her son his usual kiss on the cheek before he headed out.
"See you later, Mom." Davy headed toward the back door.
"Don't forget to come home to your Grandpa's house this afternoon," Jarod reminded the boy as the screen door opened. "We'll pick you up there."
"'Kay. Bye, Dad." And Davy was gone through the screen door, his steps just a little livelier for having two parents and a younger sister to tell farewell to and to return home to later on.
"Me go 'kool too someday, Daddy?" Ginger asked her father anxiously.
"Yes," he reassured her. "But we need to help you catch up first. It's been a long time since you've been in school, hasn't it?"
Ginger nodded with wide, serious eyes. Her school days had abruptly ended on the day that she'd sought shelter in the silence — a week or so after she'd been removed from the Big Man's house. "Me wanna go 'kool with Davy."
"Then you'll need to let Grandpa help you," Miss Parker pressed very carefully. "He's a really good teacher — he taught your Daddy nearly everything he knows, and I bet he can teach you too."
"Good morning," Margaret greeted everyone from the doorway still clad in a quilted bathrobe over her nightgown.
"Goo' morning, Gamma," Ginger answered brightly and then stuck another heaping spoon of food in her mouth. "Dffhe g'hn…"
Miss Parker reached over and patted the girl on the head. "Nobody can understand you with your mouth full, Sprite," she told the child gently. "Chew, swallow, and then try it again."
"How'd you sleep?" Jarod asked, pointing his mother to a kitchen chair and rising to bring her a fresh cup of coffee.
"Well, thank you," Margaret smiled. Jarod was still walking around the kitchen in a pair of jeans and a white tee shirt while Missy was quite elegantly dressed and coiffed. "Almost ready for work?" she asked.
"Davy gone," Ginger finally announced after working hard to chew and swallow like She had told her to. "Him go 'kool."
"Already!" Margaret gave her granddaughter a wide-eyed smile. "I'm sorry I missed him."
"I gotta go," Miss Parker drained the rest of her coffee and rose to put the mug in the sink. "I'll see you at Sydney's later this afternoon, right?"
"Sounds good to me." Jarod rose too and put an arm around her from the back so that he could kiss the back of her neck before she could escape. "Don't you work too hard now," he told her in a soft voice.
"I'm a Parker," she reminded him with a lofty smile, her eyes dancing to show she was playing with him a little, "and we always work too hard." She tipped her head back and to the side so that she could share a very gentle kiss with him, appreciating yet again just how much it meant to have him HERE, with her, and not thousands of miles away.
"Have a good day, Missy," Margaret said from behind her coffee mug.
"'Bye," Ginger chimed in.
"I'll see you later, Sprite," Miss Parker made a quick detour so that she could give her new little girl a hug and kiss on the top of the head. "You take good care of your Daddy and Grandma while I'm gone, OK?"
"'Kay," the child nodded seriously.
Once more the back screen door slammed. "My goodness, but things get started early here," Margaret commented with a stifled yawn. "Or is it that I'm still not functioning in Eastern time yet?"
"I think you've still got some jet lag to work out," Jarod told her honestly. "I'm having a hard time getting used to the time change myself. I think the only one of us who's made the change quickly is our Sprite here."
Margaret didn't get a chance to answer before the telephone on the counter rang. Jarod shrugged as he watched his mother close her mouth, and he then rose and picked up the receiver. "Yes?"
"Miss Parker? Jarod?" The voice on the other end of the line was Broots', and he sounded excited or upset.
"Mr. Broots," Jarod smiled into the air. "You just missed her — she's on her way to work."
"Damn… I mean…"
"What's up?" Jarod's face grew serious. "Is something wrong?"
"Have you read the newspaper yet this morning?"
"No…" Jarod glanced over at the kitchen table, on which the morning newspaper was folded in half and left at his place for when he had time to read through it. "Why?"
"Read it." Broots' voice sounded as if he was angry. "I'll try to reach Miss Parker at her office in a little bit."
"My God, Broots, what's going on?"
"Just read it. You'll know." Jarod frowned and hung up the receiver when Broots unexpectedly disconnected the call without any of the civilized niceties. That was completely out of character for the man, who was a master at the mild mannered persona most of the time.
"What is it?" Margaret asked, concerned at her son's expression.
"He wanted me to read the paper this morning," Jarod said, walking over to the table, sitting down and unfolding it so he could begin to read, starting with the banners at the top of the front page. "Oh, my God!"
The rap on George Canfield's door was sharp and brief. Canfield opened the door and let Special Agent Gillespie into his spacious apartment, looking around after the FBI man had entered to see whether anybody was outside to notice his early morning guest. Once the door was closed again, he turned to find Gillespie retrieving a small black plastic case from his jacket pocket.
"Are you ready for this?" Gillespie asked, opening the little case and withdrawing a thin strip of metal barely thick enough to see with the naked eye.
"No," Canfield answered honestly, "but I want to get it over and done with."
"Where's the jacket you intend to wear today?" was the next question.
"Hold on." Canfield walked quickly into his bedroom and retrieved from his bed the elegant suit jacket that he'd intended to wear that day.
Gillespie waited until the jacket had been donned before approaching the Senator. "I seriously doubt that anybody will ever guess that you're wearing a wire," he grinned and then lifted the silken lapel to insert the thin wire into the facing of the garment. "You'll have to trust that we'll be listening — but I can guarantee you we will! Just act normally, and hopefully things will be just fine."
"Are you sure they won't know?" Canfield asked nervously.
"Not if you don't give it away with your jitters," Gillespie noted crisply and critically. "You gotta get a hold of yourself, Senator."
"I'm trying," Canfield protested, "But I've never done anything like this before…"
"You're not doing anything," Gillespie informed the legislator calmly. "This little piece of spyware is doing all of it for you. Your job is just to sit there and participate in the meeting like you usually do — nothing more, and nothing less. Don't try to lead the conversation any more than you usually do, and just relax. They won't know — and with any luck, you won't have to wear this jacket again."
"But what if they don't say anything you can use? How will I know…"
Gillespie closed down the little plastic case and slipped it back into his pocket. "Either I or my boss will be in touch with you this evening and let you know if you need to wear the suit again or whether your job is finished. If it's finished," he started towards the door of the apartment, "then you'll need to get yourself in contact with a good attorney. Hell, you probably wouldn't be out of line to start letting your fingers do the walking through the yellow pages under 'Attorney' as it is."
Canfield shuddered. "And where will your men be?"
"Not far behind the limo you're in," the agent reassured him. "If we hear anything over the wire that sounds like you're getting in any kind of trouble, we'll move in. But for as long as you can keep cool, calm and collected, things should go smoothly."
"And I'll have a deal on the table when it's all over?" Canfield insisted.
Gillespie shrugged. "More than likely. You do realize that you stand a good chance of being censured by the Senate Ethics Committee, don't you?"
"I know." The Senator's head was down. "I have it coming."
Gillespie frowned. This Senator Canfield had a defeated attitude about him that was seriously troubling. "It won't be the end of the world, you know," he reassured the legislator. "I'm willing to bet that the prosecutor will be willing to make sure that you don't serve much time, if any at all, in exchange for your assistance now and testimony later on."
Canfield nodded, working at integrating the information, then looked up at Gillespie. "I suppose you'd better get back to wherever it is you're going to hang out," he suggested with a return of the nervousness. "It wouldn't do for anybody to notice you were in or out of here and start asking questions."
"You hang in there," Gillespie gave reassurance one more college try. "You'll hear from me this evening, I promise."
"Sure. Thanks." Canfield held the door open for him and then closed it again tightly after once more checking to see if there were any witnesses to what had happened this early in the morning. He brought his right hand up and smoothed down the opposite lapel, under which the FBI agent had inserted the thin wire. No, he thought to himself, Gillespie is right — there's no way of noticing that the wire was there.
He headed in the direction of the bathroom and the medicine cabinet. For the first time in a very long time, he was going to need a relaxant. His fingers hovered over the little cobalt plastic pill bottle for a long moment before he finally grasped it and twisted the top open.
Maybe with this he could survive the next twelve hours with something resembling his sanity intact. Just maybe.
"Good morning, Mei," Miss Parker breezed past her secretary with a contented smile on her face.
"Good morning, Miss Parker," the Chinese woman replied with an answering smile. "I have your day's schedule already out for you on your desk. You have about a half hour until you're supposed to meet with representatives from the West Dover Mental Institute about the prognosis of the mental patients you transferred there?"
"Oh yes." Miss Parker remembered those poor souls all too well. "Will I be seeing Dr. Stevens?"
Mei-Chiang rechecked the appointment calendar. "Yes, ma'am. He's part of the West Dover staff, I understand."
"He is now," Miss Parker corrected her absently. "Fine. Do me a favor and get me a cup of coffee — nice and strong."
"You didn't sleep well?" Mei-Chiang inquired in concern.
"I just didn't get any sleep until late," Miss Parker answered honestly but without any clarification — not at all willing to admit that half the reason she was as sleepy as she was this morning was her own fault and not just Jarod's. Having him back in her life and back in her arms again made for an intoxicating dalliance — one she'd have to be a little more circumspect with when indulging when there was work the next morning. "Thanks, Mei," she told her secretary and then pushed through into her inner sanctum.
The telephone began ringing almost immediately, and Mei-Chiang paused on her way to get Miss Parker's coffee to field the call. "Miss Parker's office…" she stated briskly.
"My name is Broots, and I'm a friend of Miss Parker's. I need to speak to her right away," the voice on the telephone stated without hesitation.
"Just one moment," she said and put the caller on hold while she activated the intercom. "Miss Parker, there's a Mister Broots on line one for you – he says that it's important."
"Thanks, Mei," Miss Parker said after taking two hurried steps to her desk to answer the intercom buzzer. She put her briefcase on her desk and reached for the receiver. "Hey there, Scooby! What's got you up and bothered this early in the morning?"
"Miss Parker, have you read the morning newspaper yet?" Broots asked, obviously not in the mood for idle chit-chat.
Miss Parker frowned slightly. "No," she told him. "Is there a problem?"
"You might call it that," Broots answered, looking down at where he had the article advertised by the front banner open in front of him. "Listen to this: We all have seen the footage of the valiant lady Chairman of the Delaware firm known as The Centre as she emerged from what was little more than a hole in the ground after rescuing literally hundreds of her employees after a bomb blast. But how much does the public actually know about The Centre itself – of the kind of work it did? This reporter has been unexpectedly made aware of just what this supposed think tank has been up to for the last few decades, and the question now is, how much is it safe to know? Perhaps a more immediate question might be just how much Miss Parker might be hiding about her role in…"
"WHAT?" Miss Parker's legs grew weak beneath her, and she sagged into her chair as if no longer able to stand. "Who wrote this?"
"A man by the name of David Lawler," Broots answered her in a frustrated voice. "What do you think – do we have a disgruntled ex-employee who's trying a smear campaign?"
"God, I don't know," she sighed in reply, racking her brain to come up with an explanation of such an explosive and potentially damaging article. "Read the rest of it to me – no, cancel that. I'll have Mei bring me a copy."
"Miss Parker," Broots warned, "it mentions Jarod by name – and the Pretender Project. It doesn't include any actual facts, just asks an awful lot of leading questions that I'm not sure you want to have to answer right now."
"Damn." The expletive was voiced softly, but Broots could hear the frustration and deep anger that lay behind the short and succinct little word. "I should have known that things couldn't just begin to settle down so that I could begin to do business like a reputable and legitimate think tank director should." She put up a finger to halt Mei-Chiang from leaving the office too soon after delivering the coffee she'd ordered such a short while earlier.
"I just thought you should know," Broots said, his voice finally apologetic rather than angered or frustration. "What are you going to do?"
"I've got to see what I'm up against," she replied briskly. "I'll be in touch – I may need your computer skills, and I'm hoping you're up to doing some work from there."
"Lay it on me, Miss Parker," he replied with determination. "I'm bored stiff here – no pun intended – and could use something meaty to get my teeth into."
"Good. I'll be in touch," she nodded.
"I'll be here, Miss Parker," he assured you. "Until they get me out of this damned cast, I'm not going anywhere."
"Thanks, Broots." She hung up the receiver and turned to her secretary. "I need a copy of this morning's paper, and I need it like yesterday."
Mei-Chiang could hear the steel behind the voice, and she nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Anything else?"
Miss Parker sighed. "I really do need to talk to the West Dover people – but cancel the rest of my morning appointments and get the Legal department to send up someone who can tell me what I want to know."
The telephone rang again, and Mei-Chiang's hand was quicker to reach for the receiver. "Miss Parker's office…" Then she held out the implement. "It's Jarod."
"Get me that paper, Mei," Miss Parker directed as she took the phone from her secretary and put it up to her ear. "I heard," she said without preamble.
"Broots called you," Jarod guessed.
"We really don't need this right now," she sighed in frustration. "I'm going to get Legal to look at the article and see if there's anything libelous or slanderous in it that we can go after."
"Did you dis this Lawler fellow, Parker?" he asked immediately. "Did you do anything to piss him off – at a party a few months ago, perhaps, or maybe blow him off when he made a pass at you…"
"I don't know a David Lawler, Jarod," she snapped back. "I make it a rule never to talk to reporters anyway. Besides, I've got a child at home – I don't exactly have time to go schmoozing with the press and the corporate suits anymore."
"All right, then do you suppose this is more left-over bilge from Raines' administration slopping over into yours?" he asked next, refusing to let her mood affect him in his searching for an explanation.
She shook her head, realizing that he was putting his skills to work trying to understand the situation and deciding that growling AT Jarod would do little good. "I don't know that there's any way to know short of talking to the bastard Lawler himself," she growled anyway, "and the moment I hear from Legal, that's EXACTLY what I intend to do."
"Whoa! Hold it right there, Parker," Jarod cautioned. "You go blowing your top to a reporter over an exploratory article like this, and he's going to KNOW that he's hit a nerve. You're going to have to stay cool, calm and collected until we figure out just exactly which direction this is coming from."
"Cool, calm and collected nothing – I want to rip this reporter's balls off and shove them up his ass to his throat, Jarod," she spat and struck her blotter with a clenched fist. "And THEN I have more interesting plans for whatever son of a bitch editor rubber-stamped this article – and I figure stump-hanging is too good for that shit-head! In the last few months, my twin brother has been murdered, my father shot, I've been kidnapped, had my headquarters blown to smithereens, my best friend mangled, my son and foster daughter kidnapped and practically killed – I'm not exactly in the mood for being genteel or mealy-mouthed."
"Shhh! Missy! Calm down before you get your ulcer all riled up again!" Jarod barked at her more sharply than normal in order to break through what he knew was a red curtain of absolute rage. "You don't need to end up in the hospi…"
"DAMN IT!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, then folded in on herself. She leaned her forehead into her hand again. "Damn it!"
"Get Tyler and Sam going through the files of people who have recently been let go, and let's see if we can find out who gave this reporter his information. I've got to go over to Sydney's for a while before he leaves for therapy…"
"Oh God – what about Syd?" Miss Parker straightened again and blanched. "This is going to hit him hard, Jarod – how are we going to soften the blow?"
"I'll prepare him myself," Jarod promised, "and I'd better get myself over there before he reads the article on his own. I'll come in to the Centre after I'm through with Sydney so we can start to work some sort of answer to this."
"Just make sure Sydney doesn't use this as another reason to fall into the deep end of things," she begged. "He's been through enough lately."
"I'll do what I can. You get a hold of yourself and calm down. Read the story, so we'll all be on the same page when I get there. Talk to Tyler and Sam. Talk to Legal. Hang in there."
"I still want to kill somebody," she hissed at him.
"I know, Missy," Jarod commiserated. "But I didn't come all the way across the continent to have to visit you in prison. I'll see you in a few hours."
She hung up the phone without saying goodbye and then stared out the casement window of her office at the slowly rising skeleton of her new Centre. "Shit," she spat quietly, rising and walking over to watch the construction workers absently while waiting for Mei-Chiang to round up a copy of the offending newspaper. "Shit, shit, shit…."
"Where oo go, Daddy?"
"You, Sprite, not oo."
"Where you go, Daddy?"
"I need to go over to Grandpa Sydney's right away," he explained to his bright-eyed little girl, with a cautionary glance up into his mother's gaze. "I need to prepare Sydney for that article and its consequences as well as talk to him about tutoring Sprite and a few other, private issues."
"I think Sprite and I will just hang around the house today," Margaret told him, hoping to assist by removing herself and the little girl as points of worry. "You go ahead and do whatever it is that you have to – I'll see what Missy has in the fridge and have some kind of meal ready for everyone when you get back this evening, then."
"Daddy go wo'k now?"
"Maybe for a little while," Jarod said, swooping down and grabbing Ginger up into his arms to give her a tight hug and ignoring the feel of damp hair against his arm from her recent bath. "But you can stay with Grandma, right?"
"Gamma he'p me play dollhouse?" The bright, dark eyes gazed up into her grandmother's expectantly.
"I'm sure that can be arranged," Margaret nodded, then gave Jarod a quick hug. "I think I can even remember the way to Grandpa Sydney's house, and we can walk if you want to go play in the park later on."
"Thanks, Mom," Jarod breathed gratefully. He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out a shiny, new key and handed it to her. "Missy meant to give this to you yesterday, but forgot with all the excitement – and you may very well need it today after all so you can go in and out as you please. For what it's worth, I'll get you a key to my car either today or tomorrow too, so you can have wheels when you need them." He gazed at her a little sadly. "I'm just sorry that this whole nasty business had to bust open during what was supposed to be a vacation for you…"
She shook her red and silvered head vigorously. "I'm just glad that I could be here when you needed an extra hand," she countered. "You go on now. Sprite and I will be just fine."
Jarod gave Ginger a quick buss on the cheek and then put her back down to hug his mother equally quickly. "See you two later."
"Bye, Daddy." Ginger put her hand in her grandmother's and watched her father head toward the back of the house. She looked up. "Gamma come he'p with dollhouse now?"
"OK, kiddo – let's go see what all you have in this dollhouse of yours," Margaret nodded with a big smile, then walked with Ginger towards the front stairs, swinging their joined hands to and fro with every step.
David Lawler stretched back with his coffee in hand and feet on the coffee table, the morning edition beside him and folded back so that he could see his article actually in print. Hitchens had come through for him magnificently – that top banner tag had caught his eye very quickly and drawn his attention to where the article was located, on the second page. He sipped at his coffee and thought about just what he was going to do that day at the office. Would he begin to make telephone calls and try to arrange interviews with the main cast of characters at the Centre? Would he be fielding calls from other media people, asking permission to reprint the article and/or interviews of HIM?
When the phone rang, he simply reached out for the handset and answered without thinking. "This is David Lawler."
"Good work, Mr. Lawler, for an opening article."
Lawler's feet hit the floor abruptly – it was Whisper Man. "You saw it?"
"I was wondering when you'd feel you had enough to get the ball rolling," the whisper continued. "
"Everything I have is circumstantial, and you know it," Lawler countered. "Until I start talking to people who know and can lead me to irrefutable proof…"
"Everything you have is a copy of things that I have in original form," Whisper Man snapped. "You can see clearly the Centre logo on most of the documents. Emails, well, they're harder to substantiate without doing a forensic job on a hard drive…"
"I still don't get it," Lawler told him stubbornly. "Why are you doing this?"
"You don't think that people should know what kind of monkey business this media darling Miss Parker has been up to in her life?" the whisper demanded.
"Whether I do or don't is moot," Lawler argued. "You have to have an agenda to be exposing the Centre this way."
"I have my reasons," the whisper conceded slowly. "They are none of your business, however."
"They ARE my business if you're trying to smear Miss Parker with things that she had very little control over," Lawler snapped. "I'm all for exposing criminal organizations whenever and wherever possible. But from what I read on the Centre's own website, Miss Parker has only been at the helm of the Centre for a month and a half – she took over just before the bomb took out her headquarters. Meanwhile, the documents you gave me – that you gave me copies of, that is – are years old."
"It doesn't matter," Whisper Man countered firmly. "Whether she was in a position to prevent or not is immaterial. The fact is that much of what those documents allege is plainly against the law. If she knew any part of it and didn't report it to the authorities, it makes her guilty of conspiracy."
Lawler took a long sip of his coffee and thought about what Whisper Man was saying. At least superficially, it made sense. "Are you saying that she did know…"
"Oh, come on now," the whisper chided harshly. "She headed up the search party for Jarod after his escape – and did so for more than five years. In order for her to do her job, she had to both know what the Pretender Project was all about – which in and of itself makes her guilty of conspiracy. By cooperating with the search, it also made her guilty of conspiracy to kidnap. Don't be fooled by that pretty face – she's not the kind of person you want to mess with."
"And yet, it's MY by-line on this article," Lawler reminded his source pointedly. "If she's going to come after anybody, it's going to be ME – because this article did just mess with her, big time!"
"I'm betting that she'll be rather understated in any response she makes," the whisper told him. "You did a good job staying just far enough away from anything that might constitute libel or slander while still putting very uncomfortable questions out into the open where she'd going to have to answer to people she doesn't normally have to even talk to." The whisper paused. "Don't get your panties in a knot. She's not going to come after you."
"So you say," Lawler grumbled. "So… are you going to give me anything else to work with?"
"I told you, you have all you need to get you started. Once you start getting confirmation of some of this from sources you develop yourself, you aren't going to need me at all anymore. That's why I called today. You won't hear from me again, Mr. Lawler. You're on your own."
"Wait a minute…"
"It has been very… satisfying… doing business with you." Lawler pulled the receiver away from his ear as he heard a very final-sounding click of disconnection.
He frowned as he put the receiver back down on the couch next to him and picked up the newspaper to stare at his own article. Something wasn't right – and he was starting to get the idea that he'd been used.
He'd continue to investigate the Centre – there was enough there that needed at least clarification. But there were ways and means to investigate just who the hell had started to feed him information too. And if he HAD been used, then heaven help the bastard that set him up.
Dr. Lauren Mitchell looked up as the door to her laboratory swung open and let in a man in a suit. Down on these levels, being visited by suits was no longer as normal an occurrence as it had been before the days of Miss Parker's administration, so it drew her attention away from the complicated set of chemical formulas she'd been staring at for the past hour. "Hey there," she smiled up at Hugh, whom she hadn't seen for the better part of a week.
"Hey there," the big sweeper replied, touched that he'd been greeted with a smile.
"What brings you down this deep into the Centre?"
He grinned a little wider and came closer. "Mr. Atlee got a call early this morning from the Blue Cove PD. Seems that the military has taken custody of your Colonel Stiller and transferred him to a military stockade outside Baltimore. Mr. Atlee thought that you might like to know that he thinks that it will be safe for you to return to your home."
Lauren's face broke open into a dazzling smile. "Really?" she asked excitedly. "You don't think that he'll be let off so that he can just come back, do you?"
"No, ma'am," Hugh shook his head. "There's enough evidence that even if the military lets him walk, he'd have to face a civilian court for his crimes against you – and I seriously doubt that the military would let him free. He'd just get transferred back to the nearest jail cell – and you'd be informed ahead of time, no doubt."
"So I can go home finally," she mused to herself and then looked up again. "I appreciate your coming down and telling me."
He smiled at her again. "Not a problem, Dr. Mitchell. I knew that you were wanting to get back into your own digs as soon as possible."
"I won't have you hanging around anymore, will I?" she asked, some side effects of the fact of her situation finally sinking in.
"You won't be needing me anymore, ma'am," he told her. "With Stiller in Baltimore…"
"I didn't mind having you around," Lauren said frankly, surprising even herself with the level of honesty. "I didn't, you know…"
"I appreciate that, ma'am. I…" Hugh stumbled, not knowing whether it was entirely proper to tell one of the research scientists that he'd found her company very stimulating on those evenings when she'd nervously insisted that he stay with her inside her little temporary shelter. "I enjoyed your company too." He shifted nervously and noted that she'd looked back down at her virtually unintelligible formulas. "I suppose I should let you get back…" he said, turning to leave.
"Hugh?"
He turned again to find her looking at him with an unreadable expression in her gaze. "Yes, ma'am?"
"When do you get off tonight?"
Hugh blinked at her. Was she asking him what he thought she was asking him? "Five-thirty, ma'am."
Lauren started to smile. "How about I fix you supper at the apartment, and maybe you can help me get moved back into my own place?" She gazed evenly into his startled face. "I had help getting moved in the first place – I could use a hand…"
"Are you sure, Doctor Mitchell?"
"Say, six o'clock at my apartment for pizza and salad – and maybe some beer at my house when we're finished?" she continued, forcing her voice not to reflect the hesitation she was feeling at taking the lead in such a way.
Hugh began to smile in return. "That sounds like an interesting way to spend an evening, ma'am. I'd like that a lot."
Lauren felt the worry fall away from her shoulders. "Good," she beamed up at him. "I'll see you at six then."
"Yes, ma'am. It's a date." Hugh turned away reluctantly and started out the lab and back towards the elevator that would lead him back up to ground level. Had he actually been able to make a friend of the good doctor in the midst of a personal trial for her — he, a mere sweeper?
Suddenly the hours until quitting time looked very long and very boring.
"He's in the kitchen, still drinking coffee," Kevin announced as he opened the door and let Jarod in. "I think he was reading the newspaper when I left."
Jarod worked hard not to flinch visibly. "How's his mood today?"
"About the same as usual for a day he has to go in for therapy," Kevin grinned. "He's a little grumpy because he knows that Pete's going to be stretching him further than he's made the CPM machine go, and that it's probably going to hurt – but otherwise…"
"Where's Deb?"
"She came down and started talking to him a few minutes ago," Kevin said with a soft smile. "I think she's scared about what she might find out today and wanted to get a little moral support."
"Are you ready for the news?" Jarod couldn't help asking.
Kevin shook his head. "Not really – but I really don't have a choice, do I?"
Jarod landed a sympathetic hand on the younger man's shoulders. "I'll let him know that I want to talk to him before he leaves and then hang around out here with you until he's finished with Deb."
"That's fine with me," Kevin replied. "You can help read through these files while you're here then – I'll bet you know most of what all is documented here in the first place, and can figure out better than I can what should be saved and what should be incinerated."
"Getting tired of reading ancient history, are you?" Jarod grinned.
"Sydney promised that he'd try to re-train me as a Pretender when we get through this mess," the young Pretender told him, gesturing at the tall stack of boxes that had yet to be disemboweled and gone through. "I'd like to have it happen sometime before I start to get as grey as he is."
"He offered to re-train you?" Jarod was surprised. "Do you have any idea what all that will entail?"
"It doesn't matter," Kevin replied evenly. "I'd like to be able to work as a Pretender to support Deb and me eventually – and to do that, I'll need someone to correct all the errors that Vernon made with me to begin with."
"Sydney's the best," Jarod nodded, "and if he's willing, I'll bet Miss Parker will be able to make use of your talent."
"That's what I'm hoping."
"OK, then let me go tell Sydney I'm here, and then I'll be right out to give you a hand."
"Thanks." Kevin watched the older Pretender walk through the dining room on his way to the kitchen and the den beyond. Jarod would know if the re-training process was possible – and he hadn't been pessimistic at all. That boded well, and made it even more important that the stack of boxes in the corner be dealt with as soon as possible. Especially if he had a baby on the way…
Jarod knocked gently on the doorjamb between the kitchen and dining room and then peeked his head around the corner. Deb was in a kitchen chair facing Sydney, who was sitting upright and looking quite contented being unencumbered by his therapy machine yet again. The morning paper was folded in half and sitting between the two coffee cups on the table. "I don't want to interrupt, but I'd like claim a chance to talk to you before you take off for Dover," he told his mentor. "It's important."
"Just give me a few minutes, and we can talk," Sydney replied with a nod in Deb's direction. "We're just finishing up."
"I'll be out with Kevin, then," Jarod told him and pulled back to give the team in the kitchen their privacy back.
Sydney turned back to his granddaughter. "So… how many times have you had this new nightmare?"
"Last night and the night before," she told him quietly. "I really miss having Kevin with me in the night, Grandpa – he always can help me get out of the dream…"
"You're going to the doctor today, aren't you?" he reminded her gently, "and if you're not pregnant, you'll be taking care of necessary things, right?"
Deb blushed. "Yes."
"Then there's no reason you can't be with Kevin tonight, ma petite," Sydney told her with a soft smile. "Either way, after today, keeping the two of you apart won't make much sense anymore."
"I was afraid that you'd make us have to go find our own place," Deb told him honestly, "that you wouldn't approve of what we were doing unless we either moved out or got married and moved out…"
Sydney shook his head. "I may be a lot older than you, and I know I raked you over the coals pretty hard at first, but I'm not a complete prude, Deb," he chided gently. "And I do remember what it was like to be young and in love." He held out a hand to her, which she rose and took. "Maybe I'm being a little selfish, but by letting you two begin your life together under my roof, I'm hoping I can help smooth the way a little. At the very least, your staying here means I can keep you both safe from the external pressures that sometimes can kill relationships that are just getting started." He kissed the back of her hand and then let it go. "So go on now and let me talk to Jarod for a while — we can discuss this further while on the way to Dover."
"OK." She bent and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Grandpa. By the way, have I told you I love you lately?"
The older man's face grew soft. "Je t'aime aussi, ma petite," he whispered to her, his heart in his eyes. "And I know I haven't told you that often enough lately either."
She stayed bent long enough to give him a tight hug, which he returned in kind. She then straightened and with a clear voice called out, "Jarod, your turn," with a bemused look on her face. "Remember, now, we need to leave in a little over a half-hour, or we'll both be late to our appointments."
"I'll remember," Sydney promised as Jarod's footsteps could be heard approaching.
"You doing OK?" Jarod asked the young woman as they passed in the dining room just outside the kitchen doorway.
"I'm doing the best I can right now," Deb answered honestly. "But I think I'll go monopolize Kevin's time while you're with Grandpa. Just keep in mind that we have to be on the road in about a half-hour, OK?"
"You got it." Jarod stood aside so that she could move toward the foyer and then made his way into the kitchen. "How are you doing this morning?" he asked in a bright tone that he truly didn't feel at the moment.
"I never enjoy Mondays very much — not that I ever used to," Sydney said, reaching for what was left of the tepid coffee in the bottom of his coffee cup. "Would you mind giving me a refill? I'm still working off the last of effects of the pain medication Deb gave me last night."
"Sure." Jarod took the coffee cup from the outstretched hand and carried it to where the coffee maker sat on the counter. "Sydney, there's a few things we need to discuss this morning," he began as he pulled the nearly empty carafe from the coffee maker and drained it into Sydney cup.
"Considering that it's still relatively early in the morning and you don't live in this house anymore, I figured as much," Sydney replied, taking back the cup. "Thank you. So… what's so important that you had to beat an early path over here?"
Jarod seated himself where Deb had been just moments before. "Easy stuff first. I was wondering if you might be up to a little tutoring job with Sprite — giving her some quality home schooling to bring her up to speed with other kids her age so she can go back to school eventually?"
"She still hasn't entirely accepted me, you know," Sydney reminded his former protégé. "I'd be glad to work with her, but I don't want you to be upsetting her by leaving her with me when she's not entirely certain that I'm someone she's safe to be left with."
"I think that should clear up once she gets to know you better," Jarod replied, "but I can see your point. We can discuss this a little later on, then? Maybe Mom can bring her over here in the afternoons so she can get used to you? She likes the park across the street…"
"They all love the park across the street," Sydney chuckled, "even Kevin. But absolutely — have your mother bring her over. I'd be delighted to see her — and to talk with your mother again. I have a feeling she and I have at least one long, serious discussion in store yet."
"More than likely," Jarod nodded, ready to move to a slightly more difficult topic. "But now, on to something far more serious — I need to know. Have you seen the newspaper today?"
"I haven't even had a chance to open it," the older man said as he shook his head. "I was just going to get to it when Deb came down wanting to talk about a new wrinkle to her nightmare problems. Why?"
"There's a story in there…" Jarod began, paused for a moment to search for better words and then realized there would be no easy way to break the news. "Oh hell, Sydney. There's no good way to tell you. Somebody has given an investigative reporter at the Post some information… about the Centre…" He saw Sydney's eyes widen. "…and the Pretender Project. The reporter has written an article that will probably raise quite a lot of questions now and create a fairly big stir eventually."
"No!" Sydney reached for the newspaper and opened it, and his eyes flew immediately to the picture of his foster daughter and the damning headline nearby. "Merciful Heavens, not now!"
"That's what Missy said — although as you can imagine, she was a little more explosive in her epithets and explicit as to what she'd like to do in response." Jarod's meager attempt at levity failed miserably — he hadn't really expected it to work. "I think we'd better assume that it's possible that everything is going to come out eventually…"
Chestnut eyes full of pain and guilt were raised. "If anything," Sydney said finally in a defeated tone, "it's a wonder that Raines and Lyle were able to keep things a secret for as long as they did." He folded the paper closed again. "Did the reporter list names?"
Jarod shook his head. "No — at least none other than mine and Missy's in this piece. But you can tell from the way he wrote the article that he's got a lot more information that is quite detailed." He looked at his former mentor in sympathy. "I'm afraid there's no way to tell when he's not going to start spilling some serious beans — and no way to tell what the consequences of that will be."
"Once my name is mentioned, my career will be over," Sydney shook his head. "Oh well — it won't be anything I don't deserve…"
"Stop that," Jarod barked. "From the looks of things, this reporter intends to make me into the injured party here. In that case, there's no way in hell that I'm going to let…"
"Jarod." Sydney's voice was soft, as was the hand that landed on the Pretender's arm. "Let it go. It's time for the truth to come out at last."
"Sydney, fully half of the truth is that all of the fault for anything unethical about the Pretender Project can be laid at the feet of William Raines and Lyle Parker. Missy's part was coerced, yours was too."
"The press won't care about that," Sydney shrugged. "What a wonderful conspiracy story can be written about this, a sordid tale about an evil think tank that steals the brightest and best children it can find and holds them as slaves to nefarious agendas. Not only that, but it kills and blackmails and defrauds with impunity, has senators and congressmen buying its product and law enforcement and justice officials bought and paid well to look the other way. I can just see it now — some enterprising scriptwriter turning it into a weekly TV series. A genius escapes the evil corporation that has held him prisoner, and every week he Pretends to be someone different to help the little guy — meanwhile the evil henchmen try every week to recapture him…"
"Don't be ridiculous — that's a pretty damn stupid and lame premise for a TV show, even for American TV nowadays. Look, Missy is going to have the Legal department look into whether or not there's any obvious libel or slander to pursue," Jarod pushed ahead. "But in the meanwhile, I think you and I need to start having our discussions to work out the rest of what we have left unsettled between us. If it's all going to come out, you and I need to settle things so that we stay on the same page."
"What good will that do?" Sydney asked him pointedly. "Our settling any differences that remain won't change the fact that I was most directly and continually responsible for your imprisonment and abuse."
"You had little or no choice in the matter, Sydney," Jarod reminded him sharply. "You were programmed and then lied to — and when that didn't work anymore, you were threatened and blackmailed."
"I could have reported it," the older man insisted softly.
"To whom?" Jarod demanded. "How could you be certain that the law enforcement officer you reported to wouldn't be in old man Parker's back pocket?"
"I should have tried harder…"
"You'd have been killed — or worse — and the results of THAT would have been disastrous for me, at least." Jarod shook his head. "But you know, if you were as deserving of punishment as you think you are, none of the things you did back then would bother you a bit now — except maybe that you're finally getting caught for them."
Sydney found it extremely difficult to even look into Jarod's eyes anymore. "I don't know how you can even stand to be around me," he said bitterly, "when I did to you as bad as or, in some cases, worse than they did to me in Dachau. I've never forgiven Herr Doktor Krieg for the horror he and his Nazi comrades visited upon my family and me. Now, looking back at the horror I visited upon you, I find I cannot forgive myself, nor understand how you could possibly begin to forgive me for what I was a part of doing to you." He drew a shaky breath. "Your mother has been a most gracious guest — but I understand her even less than I do you. I don't know how she can do anything but hate me for having stolen your childhood, from having had your company during that childhood that should have been spent with her."
Jarod gazed at his mentor for a long time. "I did hate you, in a way, for years after I finally escaped. I was rather pointed in the way I demonstrated it too."
"I never blamed you for that…"
The Pretender seemed not to hear. "I hated you until I started to understand what was done to you to force your hand. You were as much a victim as I was, Sydney — worse, because you were eventually forced to perpetuate the evil done to you by being the instrument of it being done to me. Once I understood that completely, I began to forgive. And now that I know you as more than just my keeper…"
Sydney looked down, nodding. The condemnation Jarod had mentioned was nothing more or less than he expected — really. "You know that I'll not dispute any revelation the newspaper makes about…"
"If you won't, I will," Jarod announced quietly, drawing Sydney's gaze back up to meet his. "If they're going to make me into a martyr, then it will be MY call who gets the blame and who doesn't in the end. If they want to blame Missy for being a part of the search team — then let them hear what was done to put her there and keep her there. If they want to blame you, then let them hear what was done to you from your early days as a Holocaust victim onwards. They may even want to go after Broots — and even he had good reason to fear non-cooperation."
"Jarod," Sydney breathed, concerned. "If the Triumvirate catches wind of this, and finds out that you're back…"
"If I'm out and going very, very public with my story, my sudden disappearance will cause a MAJOR stink," Jarod said confidently. "I'm not afraid of them anymore, Sydney — once this thing really breaks, they wouldn't dare touch me." He smiled grimly. "That's the risk when someone tries to out an uncomfortable truth — very often the WHOLE truth is a lot less comfortable for a lot more people."
"This still doesn't get me off the hook with my own conscience," Sydney informed him calmly. "I regret that I made you suffer and kept you at the Centre, and I'll continue to do so until the day I die."
Jarod moved and put his hand on Sydney's arm this time. "Listen to me. My parents may have given me my bloodlines and genetics, but you gave me most of values that I live by today. If you hadn't been there, mentoring me every day of my time at the Centre all those years, either I'd be the monster Raines always wanted me to be, or I'd be dead." He tightened his grip. "Or do you blame yourself for that too?"
"Jarod…"
Jarod shook his head. "You can't have it both ways, Sydney. Either you are damned both for keeping me and making me who and what I am today, or you aren't responsible for any of it."
Sydney frowned in frustration. Jarod wasn't listening to him. "What about all those SIMs…"
"What about them?"
"They caused you such agony…"
"Did they make you any less uncomfortable?"
"That's not the point…"
"Yes it is!" Jarod rose from his chair and paced the floor. "Tell me you walked away from those SIMs without feeling just as depleted and abused as I did."
Sydney stared at him for a long moment. "I can't," he said finally in a whisper.
"And that's why I can forgive — because you did nothing to me that you didn't ultimately do to yourself."
The older man continued to stare at his former protégé. "But I am a monster," he protested. "I should have known better…"
Jarod shook his head. "You had no reason to have learned that lesson, Sydney," he said gently. "Ultimately, your upbringing was flawed enough that knowing better came late to you."
"No, Jarod, I knew better even then," Sydney insisted softly, "and I can prove it." He grabbed up his crutch. "Stay here — I have something to show you." He slowly vanished into the den and then came back out again a few minutes later bearing a metal box. He put it down in front of the Pretender and then dropped heavily back into the chair again. "Open it," he directed with a voice made gravelly with emotion. "You'll see what I mean."
Jarod blinked at the old psychiatrist and then pulled the catch apart so that he could lift the lid and look inside. Startled, his gaze flicked up into that of his old mentor's, and then he was lifting from the box a slightly crumpled, hand-made Father's Day card that he had thought long since destroyed. He reached in again and brought out the origami figure of Odysseus that he'd folded just prior to his escape
"You see," Sydney said softly, "I did know better. I wanted so much to be able to show you that I did care — and I knew that if I did, that I'd lose you. I knew you needed to know that someone cared and believed, and I did nothing to be that person." He grimaced in memory. "I did worse than nothing — I deliberately tried to crush the feelings you had invested in me despite everything."
Jarod smoothed his hand against the card, straightening it just a little bit more, then opened it. How hard he'd worked on that picture of himself and Sydney — he could remember how he'd had to keep the project a secret from the prying cameras until the day came when he'd handed it over. He could also remember the empty feeling he'd had at the bottom of his stomach when Sydney had crumpled the card and tossed it in the trash and ordered him back to work. To find out now that the card had been retrieved and carefully saved for all these years…
"But tell me why you tried so hard to crush those feelings, Sydney," he demanded with soft vehemence.
"Because…" Sydney started and then tripped over the words. "Because I did care," he admitted at last in a voice that was anything but confident, "and I was afraid that showing it would mean you'd be taken from me. And," he looked up defiantly at Jarod, "because I wanted you to be able to walk — or run — away from the Centre without a single backward glance when the time came."
"So you're saying that you did indeed know better — better than to make me so emotionally dependent on you that I wouldn't run if I ever got the chance."
Sydney frowned. That wasn't quite what he'd intended to communicate but… "That too, I suppose…"
"And there's something wrong with that — wanting me to be able to get away cleanly if I ever got the chance because you knew that what you and I were involved in was wrong?" Jarod could finally see that he was beginning to make progress, but a glance at his watch told him that their time was rapidly coming to a close. "I want you to think about that for the rest of today — and not to worry about whatever that stupid damned newspaper article says. When the time comes, I'll put the story right myself."
Sydney blinked and shook his head. What Jarod was saying made sense — but it was a perspective that he'd never experienced before. "I'll think about what you said," he agreed, knowing it would take at LEAST a day to process the point of view enough to fully understand its implications.
"Then I'll let you get ready for your trip to Dover," Jarod let go of his mentor's arm and got to his feet. He carefully put the card back inside the box that had protected it obviously for years and closed the box. "Where do you keep this?"
"On the bookcase to the right of the television," Sydney directed, draining the now-cold coffee and reaching for his crutch again. Showing Jarod the contents of that secret cache had been a spontaneous action — he had both dreamed of and feared letting Jarod know of its existence since his former protégé had returned months ago. And Jarod had taken the revelation in stride — and then turned it into a message far different from the one Sydney had believed it contained all this time.
Jarod hefted the box and turned once more with it under his arm. "Will you think about what I said?"
"We'll talk about this again, I'm sure," Sydney hedged. "But yes, I'll consider what you said."
"Grandpa — I'm going to get the car out of the garage. Better put your shoes on…" Deb called from the living room. "We have ten minutes before we need to be gone."
"That's my cue," Sydney smiled at Jarod, almost grateful for the need to end the discussion. "She takes good care of me."
"You deserve it," Jarod replied pointedly and carried the metal box back into the den. His hand lingered on the box for a moment before leaving it in a spot that, from the looks of things, it had occupied for many years. A question that had always lingered in the back of his mind had been answered — Sydney had never NOT cared. If anything, that alone made Jarod more determined than ever to protect his foster father from what would surely come in a later newspaper article.
But how?
"David!" Detective Chuck Evans stretched back in his chair at his desk. "You're the last person I figured I'd be talking to today."
"Chuck, I have…" Lawler started.
"Quite an interesting article you wrote in the paper today, I must say," the balding detective commented, pushing the folded newspaper on his desk with a distracted finger. "I bet you can just smell that Pulitzer Prize in your future…"
"Chuck, this is about that," Lawler finally managed to sneak in a word sideways. "I need your help."
Evans pushed himself up to his desk. "My help?"
"Yeah. I just received a call from someone who has been… helping me with the story that goes with that article."
"So?"
"I want to know who I'm dealing with," Lawler stated flatly. "I have a funny feeling that something's just a little off, and I don't like being used."
The detective's eyebrows were climbing his forehead. "Phone records will need a court order, David," Evans informed his reporter friend, "you know that."
"And I know that there are ways around that," Lawler pressed. "I NEED to know, Chuck."
Evans thought for a moment and then sighed as he reached for a pen. "OK. What time was the call, and what number were you at when you received it?"
Lawler gave him all the pertinent information in a single breath. "When do you think…"
"A lot will depend on whether I'm in the good graces of the phone company today," the detective told him. "I'll call you when I have something."
"I'll be at work most of the day — or else on my cell. Lemme give you those numbers."
Evans noted down the numbers and underlined them. "I'll get back to you," he said and hung up the phone.
Lawler hung onto the receiver for a moment before pulling out a small spiral notebook and pen from his desk drawer and then dialing a new number. While he was waiting, he thought to himself, he might as well start working. It was time for him to start his own digging.
The bland operator's voice was soon on the line. "Directory Assistance. What city please?"
"Blue Cove. I'd like the number for Miss Melissa Parker."
"Hold on… I'm sorry, there's no listing under that name."
Lawler frowned and then shrugged. It seemed logical that the woman might have an unlisted phone number. "How about a number for Doctor Sydney Green?"
There was another pause. "I'm sorry sir, there's no listing under that name either."
"Damn," he whispered to himself. "What about Lazlo Broots?"
This time the voice on the end of the line after the pause was more informative. "The number you requested is 555…"
Lawler scribbled the number down with an expression of grim satisfaction. "Gotcha!"
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