Resolutions – 31
Last Gasp
by MMB
"You're looking a little more sane this afternoon," Sydney told Jarod as Ginger clambered up into an easy chair across from him, Bear securely in tow as usual.
"I'm feeling a little more in control of things," Jarod admitted in return. "Missy came home for lunch, and she and Ginger reached an understanding." His face broke into a wide and pleased smile. "Actually, they made a break-through."
"Did they really?" Sydney smiled wide in return. He glanced over at the child in the easy chair, occupied with her teddy bear. "That's good to hear. Maybe you can tell me about it later?"
Jarod nodded, not really wanting to discuss it with Ginger right there in the room with them. "Listen, I thought I'd give Kevin a hand going through the archives while you do your thing with Ginger," Jarod pointed toward the living room. "But before then, is there anything I can get for you…"
"As a matter of fact," Sydney pointed at a shelf of one of the bookcases that ringed the room. "There are some Dr. Seuss books that I could use over here, to see just what level she's learned to read — if at all."
Jarod fetched the books Sydney wanted and then turned and bent over his daughter. "I think Grandpa's going to want you over there closer to him," he nodded in the direction of the couch. "Let's see how good you do for him today, shall we? He's going to help you get ready to go to school with Davy, you know…"
"'Kay, Daddy," Ginger answered, hopping down from the easy chair and walking over to where her grandfather was waiting to give her a hug. "Where you go now?"
Jarod smiled gently at the sign that she was already beginning to correct her speech. "I'll be out in the living room with Kevin. And when you're done, we'll go over to the park and see about those swings, OK?"
Ginger nodded vigorously. Daddy waved at her and she waved back, and then he walked back into the kitchen on his way to the living room.
Sydney moved a little on the couch so that Ginger could have a place to sit next to him. He celebrated quietly when she seated herself next to him without the slightest hesitation or reservation. "Now, let's see if you can remember your alphabet for me. Do you think you remember that song…"
"A, B, C, D," Ginger began obediently in a slightly off-pitch voice, encouraged by the nodding of the silvered head as she remembered each of the letters in sequence. It had been a long time since she'd thought of such things…
Jarod heard the faint sounds of his little girl singing her alphabet and broke into a contented smile as he rounded the corner into the living room.
Kevin looked up from his latest wad of papers. "You look happy today," the young Pretender observed.
"It's been an up and down day — right now, it's mostly up," Jarod nodded and found a place on the long couch. "So… Where are you and where do you want me to start?"
"You? Start?" Kevin was confused.
"Yeah," Jarod answered. "Since Sydney's going to be taking time to work with Ginger, getting her ready to go back to school, I thought I'd pitch in and help out with the big job you two have been doing." He shrugged. "All the sooner to get this stuff out of the living room, right?"
Kevin nodded slowly, grateful. The sooner this job was done, the sooner Sydney would begin to retrain him to be a proper Pretender. "You bet! I've got Project Silverfish right now — you can take the next one on the stack."
Jarod tipped his head to read the label on the folders. "Project Basura," he read, then looked up. "That's 'garbage' in Spanish. You wonder sometimes what went through the minds of those responsible when they gave names to some of these things…"
Broots lay very still as the thoroughly vicious-sounding saw vibrated its way through the plaster of Paris cast that had been his prison for weeks. He had looked forward to this moment with both anticipation and dread — for now he would actually discover just how much more he would be able to recover, rather than just lie in bed and speculate about it. The doctor had sounded hopeful when he had reported on the last set of x-rays, but made no secret of the fact that there was still a chance that spinal damage had happened. Not knowing for certain had been definitely wearing at him over the last few days. Now, at least, the not knowing would end one way or the other.
The saw suddenly stopped, and the nameless technician had simply appeared in Broots' room unplugged the saw and put the device back on the rolling table on which he'd brought it in. Carefully, then, he lifted on the upper right side of the cast, and with a crunching sound, the top right quarter of the cast peeled away, leaving Broots' skin open to the air for the first time in weeks. As the top left quarter was similarly removed, Broots got his first whiff of body odor, and was grateful that, no matter what, one of the first things that would happen to him now that the cast was off was that he'd get a sponge bath. He needed it!
Now, suddenly, there was a male nurse assisting the technician in rolling him up onto his left side slightly so that the bottom right quarter of the cast could be removed, and then carefully the same movement was made to the right — and he was free. The nurse pulled a light sheet up over his naked body while the technician packed the discarded pieces of cast into a container hooked to the cart.
"There you go," the technician said with a contented smile. "Now, don't let me catch you dancing in the corridors here for a while."
"You just watch out," Broots quipped back. "I'll be winning footraces against you in no time."
"I hope so, buddy," the technician said, clapping a hand on the patient's shoulder and then getting a grip on his rolling cart. In just a moment, Broots' liberator had slipped from the room.
"Good afternoon," Doctor Kasparian announced briskly as he pushed through the door almost before the door had closed completely from the technician's departure. "I see I'm just in time for the unveiling." He put the metal-cased chart on the roll-around table and smiled down at his patient.
"You missed it, actually," Broots remarked, keeping his spirits deliberately high. "My cocoon has already been taken away."
"Had the bath yet?"
Broots grimaced. "Nope. And I know for a fact that I haven't smelled this bad since falling down in the cow pasture after a rainstorm."
Kasparian chuckled. "Well, before we get you all pretty-smelling and human again, I thought I'd check your feet — see whether we have any muscle activity down there. You do want to know if you're going to walk again…"
"Moment of truth, huh?" Broots asked nervously, watching the thin man in the white physician's coat carefully pull up the bedclothes from the foot of the bed and uncover the pallid feet.
"Do you feel this?" Kasparian asked, running the capped end of a ballpoint pen the length of the bottom of Broots' left foot and noting the lack of reflexive response with some concern.
"Nope," Broots replied with a small frown.
"How about this?" The ballpoint traveled the length of the bottom of the right foot.
Broots concentrated. "I'm not sure," he answered that time. "Do it again." The physician obliged. "I think so – a little…"
"How about this now?" Kasparian ran the ballpoint over the top of the foot toward the ankle.
"Yeah," Broots answered this time with a smile. "I can feel that for sure!"
Kasparian put the right foot down and repeated the test with the left foot. "And now?"
"Uh-unh." Broots looked up into his doctor's face in concern. "What does that mean?"
The doctor didn't reply immediately, as he was repeating the test for reflex action once more on the bottoms of both feet to confirm what he suspected. Indeed, there was the tiniest of reaction from the right foot, and none from the left. He put both feet back into a comfortable position on the mattress and covered them again to keep them warm.
"Doctor?" Broots pressed again, a little bit more worried. "Is there a problem?"
The orthopedic surgeon who had done the repair work on Broots' pelvis opened the medical chart and made a few notes, then closed the chart and looked at his patient with understanding and sympathy. "The good news is that your spinal cord was not completely severed. Chances are that you'll regain control and use of your right leg with therapy. I'm going to order a few more tests, however, to see whether what we're dealing with here is damage to the left sciatic nerve. Your pelvis was far more shattered on the left side than the right – and it is possible that your left leg will remain numb and unresponsive."
"Does that mean I'll be in a wheelchair?" Broots asked bravely, seeing his dreams of being able to be as mobile and energetic as he had been before evaporating before his eyes.
"Not necessarily," Kasparian shook his head. "There are a number of options that could return some sensation to the leg that we can consider once we know the extent and exact location of the damage. Even if it doesn't, there are always the options of braces with or without a crutch that would get you back on your feet, even if not exactly graceful or fleet of foot." The doctor's hazel eyes were sympathetic. "I know that this is a disappointment, Mr. Broots – but you have to consider that this isn't the worst possible outcome."
"I know that," Broots sighed in disappointment.
"I'm going to leave now so that you can have that bath you both need and want, and I'm going to schedule you for that battery of tests I told you about to start first thing in the morning. I'm also going to get you started with our physical therapy department tomorrow, because you WILL need to start building up muscles that haven't exactly been all that active lately. You'll need to begin building upper body strength and stamina because, until we get you up on your feet again, you'll be in a wheelchair for the time being."
"How soon can I get out of here?" Broots asked next, deciding that he wanted to know as much about his near future as possible.
"Depending on the results of the tests and your therapy to get you ready for life in a wheelchair in the short term, maybe a week – possibly two." Kasparian put out a hand that Broots then shook. "Hang in there a little longer with us, Mr. Broots. I'm certain that we'll have you on your feet again – just not as quickly as I'd hoped we would."
Broots stared at the rises in the sheet that were his feet for a long time after the doctor left, trying to will them to move. His brow creased with concentration, but his feet remained utterly motionless.
Only when the nurse returned, this time with a basin of steaming water and an assortment of towels and washrags, did Broots let up on his efforts. As the warm cloth was run carefully and efficiently over a body that had been starved for the touch of anything but the padding within the cast, he deliberately focused his mind on the sensations of being washed and clean again. The nurse caring for him didn't deserve to become the target of his frustrations.
He'd wait until he was alone again before he started pounding his fists into his pillow.
"I do not want green eggs and ham, I do not want them, Sam-I-Am," Ginger intoned slowly and carefully, her finger keeping her place in the book. She looked up into her grandfather's face expectantly. "Right?"
"Veeerrrry good, Sprite," Sydney grinned and gave her another hug. "You're doing a wonderful job remembering for me."
"Me can read more, Gampa?" she asked brightly.
"In a little while," Sydney said, setting the book aside within easy reach for later. "Why don't you go get me that little box on my desk there," he pointed, indicating a small, wooden box sitting innocuously on the desk in the corner of the room.
Ginger slipped off the couch and trotted obediently over to bring back the desired item. "What this?" she asked curiously, handing over the box and slipping back into her spot on the couch next to her grandfather. She smiled contentedly as she felt him pull her close again. She was growing to like Gampa a lot – almost as much as Gamma – and her ear was becoming accustomed to the musical way in which he spoke that was different than the way everybody else did.
"Open it," Sydney suggested, putting the box in her lap.
She gave him a quick and startled glance and then looked down as her fingers found the side of the box with the hinge and opened the other side. Inside the box were stones – shiny, red glass stones – lots of them. "Rocks, Gampa?" she asked in confusion.
"Count me out ten of them," Sydney directed gently. "Put them in my hand and count out loud as you do."
Ginger carefully did as her grandfather had asked, counting "One, two, t'ree, fo, fi, six, sem, eight, nine, ten," slowly and depositing each stone in his open and waiting palm.
"Veeerrry good," Sydney smiled at her. "Now, take two of the stones out of my hand and put them back into the box." He waited for her to follow instructions. "Now, can you tell me how many stones I still have?"
"Eight," she answered immediately, then grinned. "Me liked nummers in 'kool before," she explained happily. "Me good nummers."
"Yes, you are," Sydney replied, adding an encouraging hug. "OK. Put those two back in my hand…" he waited, "…and now put ten more in, and keep counting up from ten. Eleven," he modeled as Ginger's fingers started adding new stones to the pile he was holding.
"Twel', t'irteen, fo'teen, fi'teen, si'teen, semteen, eighteen, nineteen, twenny."
"VERRRY good!" Sydney beamed at her. He carefully poured his handful of stones back into the box. "Now, can you put the stones in my hand two at a time and count up by twos?"
Ginger complied, and counted correctly by twos all the way to twenty without error.
"How are we coming in here?" Jarod's voice sounded from near the door, and Davy pushed past his father to get to his grandfather and sister.
"Grandpa! Sprite! Whatcha doing?" the boy asked, pulling to a halt and looking at the box of stones and his sister slowly handing them into his grandfather's hand.
"Gampa he'p me 'member nummers, Davy," Ginger explained with eyes that sparkled happily. "An' he'p me 'member reading."
"I think that will be all for the day," Sydney sighed contentedly. "I'll bet your Dad can make you both a snack, and then you can go out and play in the tree house until your Mom gets here."
"Mommy come here?" Ginger responded immediately, turning excitedly.
Sydney nodded, watching the pleased look that was on Jarod's face as the little girl realized the sequence of events that was to come. What was more, he suddenly realized, Ginger had called Missy 'Mommy' instead of 'Her' – which was definitely progress.
"Davy, why don't you get yourself and your sister two cookies and take them outside," Jarod suggested. "I'd like a chance to talk to your Grandpa for a bit."
"We go park too?" Ginger asked, remembering her father's promise from before.
"Sure, Sprite – after I talk to Grandpa. Davy can come too, if he wants – or if he doesn't have too much homework." Jarod jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "But go get your cookies before your Mom gets here and decides she doesn't want you spoiling your supper…"
"'Kay, Dad," Davy replied, grabbing his sister's hand and pulling her into the kitchen with him.
"That IS progress," Sydney commented as he closed the top of the box and set it on the coffee table. "Was she calling her 'Mommy' before this?"
Jarod shook his head. "No, not at all. You should have seen her, Sydney, hanging onto Missy like her life depended on it."
"Considering the way you said the day started, that's a big turn-around. What happened to change things?"
"Mom talked to Sprite," Jarod explained, "and reminded her that she was a mommy too."
Sydney's brows furled. "What did that have to do with it?"
"That's right — I never told you Ginger's complete story, did I?" Jarod asked. Sydney shook his head. "Well, it seems that every woman who was responsible for Ginger's welfare before now has been abusive to her in one way or another. Her birth mother was the one that burned her…"
"What?" Sydney was shocked.
"Haven't you noticed the scars on her upper arm?" Jarod saw his former mentor shake his head slowly. "Maybe she's been wearing longer sleeves lately. Anyway, her birth mother burned her repeatedly with cigarettes, and then she was placed in a foster family where the father molested her and evidently the mother, when Ginger tried to tell her what was happening, hit her to keep her quiet."
"Mon Dieu!" Sydney looked over the back of the couch and watched Davy hand his sister two of the packaged sandwich cookies and then lead her toward the arcadia door and the tree house beyond. "And this is why she stopped talking."
"That started it," Jarod confirmed. "Her last foster mother was verbally abusive because Ginger was starting to withdraw — and that just drove her even deeper into her silence. She's afraid of big men because of the molestation, but terrified of women because they all either abused or abetted abuse by others. When Missy took a swat at me yesterday morning, Ginger saw it and interpreted it as simply more of the same old same old. Mom dug it out of her, and convinced her to look past surface appearances by reminding her that SHE was a mommy and that SHE hadn't hurt her – and that Missy hadn't either."
"Missy must have done more than that to have Ginger ready to give her the benefit of the doubt, though," Sydney shook his head. "A child that badly damaged doesn't let go of an effective defense mechanism or fear without plenty of good reason."
"Sammy tore an arm off of Bear, and Missy repaired it for her when she was in California," Jarod told him. "I think that was the biggest thing. I think there have been other, smaller, things that have been slowly adding up, but that was the biggie."
"And Missy is pleased with the way things worked out, I hope?" Jarod's face wore the answer without need for words. Sydney smiled. He'd known that his foster daughter had had the potential to be as good a mother as her mother had been for her; her taking over the care and raising of Davy had only proven that to him. For her now to have a little girl to love and cherish the way Catherine had cherished her would heal a great many wounds that had gone long without attention or balm. "I'm glad, Jarod. It looks as if you've finally found that family you always wanted."
"Oh yeah!" Jarod's face was ecstatic. "And I even have both halves of my family talking to one another now. Mom and Missy get along so well, and now you and Mom are getting along well enough…" Sydney's face softened unexpectedly at the mention of Margaret Russell, and Jarod had to struggle not to let his surprise show. "Oh yeah?" he repeated, this time unable to repress his astonishment.
Sydney glanced at his former protégé with something akin to embarrassment and then cleared his throat. "I simply think that your mother is a remarkable woman, that's all," he protested. "I told you that already."
"If you say so," Jarod rose and patted Sydney on the shoulder as he walked by, quietly pleased. "You feeling like taking a short walk over to the park and playing with a couple of kids for a little while?"
"I feel like walking over to that bench not far from the duck pond and watching a couple of kids entertain themselves," Sydney responded, grateful for the change of subject. "If you can help me get out of this damned gizmo…"
Dr. Ezekiel Cavendish was the quintessential old-school psychiatrist. His office boasted a warm polished-wood décor that included the traditional leather-covered couch, with a chair slightly to the back so that he could sit out of his patient's sight during therapy. He'd served many years with the Centre mostly doing counseling for the employees themselves. Because of the paranoid attitudes of those in authority, however, his files had been rifled through so many times by those looking for God only knew what about whomever that he'd virtually given up being able to keep them in order before the change in administration. Now a mild stroke had made his retirement imminent and correcting that filing problem a necessity.
The process of trying to make some kind of sense of over fifty years' worth of practice there in the Centre was a long one. He'd sought and then been given permission to ask for help from the clerical department for a file clerk flunky to come down to his office and help with the sorting and cataloging that needed to happen before his retirement date of January first rolled around. A month after the request was originally filed, the woman in charge had finally seen fit to release into his den the most delightful and patient of youngsters he'd had the pleasure of working with for years. Crystal was bright, capable, and easy to talk to. She was politely interested in the many stories he had to tell — and a lonely old man with virtually nobody to keep him company had thoroughly enjoyed their time together the previous day.
Today, however, Crystal seemed quieter, more reserved. It had been much more difficult to pull even a soft smile from her, much less get her to chuckle. A couple of times Cavendish had caught her staring off into space over the open file cabinet drawer — just as she was doing right now.
"You know, I may be old and almost infirm, but I can spot a depression a mile away," he stated at last, crossing his hands over his thin chest and frowning. "You've been too quiet today, young lady."
Crystal blinked and blanched. "I'm sorry," she blurted hastily and worked at focusing her attention back on the files she was resorting. What was wrong with her? She couldn't afford to disappoint Doctor Cavendish…
"Listen to me," Cavendish said softly, walking up next to his temporary assistant and putting a gentle hand on an upper arm. "You've got something eating away at you — I can tell. Maybe if you tell me what it is…"
"It's nothing, really," she replied with a firm shake of her head. "I'm sorry."
"It's not nothing, and you know it," he disagreed with her. He took the files from her hands and put them on the top of the cabinet, led her over to that leather couch and sat her down — then sat down next to her. "What is it?"
"I really should be working…" She tried to rise, but the skeletal hand at her arm wouldn't let her go.
"Young lady, neither of us is going to get a lick more work done until you answer my question," Cavendish announced in his high-pitched voice. "What has put that dark cloud over your pretty head today?"
She cast a guilty and apprehensive glance into the old man's watery blue eyes, unsure of whether she could trust him or not. "Just between us?" she asked cautiously. "You won't tell anybody else?"
"And just who would I tell, my dear?" he smiled at her encouragingly. "Of course it can stay just between us. You've been my temporary secretary — think of me as your temporary shrink, with everything you say to be kept completely confidential."
Crystal's shoulders sagged. "I found out today that my father has been arrested," she blurted out finally, unable to keep it to herself any longer.
"That's not good," Cavendish nodded understandingly.
"No, you don't understand. That's almost miraculous," Crystal contradicted him instantly. "My father is not a nice person — he DESERVES to be in jail for what he's done over the years."
Cavendish looked closely at the girl's face. "Things he's done to you," he surmised and said softly.
"Among other things," she nodded. "I just haven't thought about him for a while. And once I did, I started to wonder about my mom — whether she's still OK or if he's…" She closed her mouth before she could say more, but Cavendish was no less astute than she would expect any other psychiatrist to be.
"And you're worried about her?"
She nodded slowly. The not knowing whether her mother was alive or dead — or in what shape she was in — had indeed been eating at her all day to the point that she had considered walking away from the Centre during lunch and heading north — toward home. Only knowing how much Doctor Cavendish was depending on her, and how much Sydney would be disappointed in her if she just up and vanished, had brought her feet back to the elevator into the sublevels after lunch.
"How long has it been since you've seen your mother?" Cavendish could tell that the topic of Crystal's parents was a sensitive one, but one that she desperately needed to air with someone before it made her do something rash.
"Almost two years," was the soft reply. "I ran away the night of my sixteenth birthday."
The psychiatrist quickly did the math in his head and then raised bushy silver eyebrows at her. "Does Miss Parker know that you're underage?"
She nodded. "She knows my dad used to knock me around — she though that if she let me just quietly work here until after my eighteenth birthday, it would be legal for me to be out on my own and he couldn't…"
"Ah." Cavendish nodded slowly. So much for the consistent rumor over the years that Miss Parker was an Ice Queen with no heart. Rescuing employees trapped underground could be written off to preserving the bottom line – but not THIS. "But now…" He gazed with knowing blue eyes into her still-bruised face. "Now, maybe, you need to go home?"
Crystal shook her head. "I'm afraid if I do that, and dad ends up getting bailed out, he'll find me again, and…" She shook her head again. "I can't let that happen." She gazed up into the friendly watery blue gaze pleadingly. "There's got to be some way that I can find out what I need to know without Dad finding out…"
"Have you thought to talk to Miss Parker…"
"Oh no!" Crystal shook her head vehemently this time. "She's such a busy person, I don't want to bother her."
"I know," the old psychiatrist began to beam. "You're a friend of Sydney Green, aren't you? We'll call him and see if he'd know someone to talk to."
"Dr. Cavendish…"
"No." He shook his finger at her and pointed at the couch. "You stay put and let me see what I can do." The old man rose and went over to his desk and sat down to flip quickly through his Rolodex, then dialed the phone. He listened for a bit, then hung up with a frown. "Hit his answering machine — he must be out."
"I'll be OK," Crystal told him in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. "It's just that I guess maybe I needed to talk to someone." She rose and went back over to the filing cabinet. "And it's getting close to quitting time — so let me see if I can finish this one drawer."
"You'll be back tomorrow, won't you?" Cavendish asked pointedly. "You won't just be up and taking off for home again, will you?"
"I won't leave you in the middle of this," she replied, waving her hand at the various pieces of office furniture that were still piled high with files. "I'll be here tomorrow — you can count on it."
As she blinked hard to get the tears out of her eyes so she could read the file labels properly, she knew that there was no way she wanted to leave. She was safe here — regardless of her mother's condition or whereabouts, if she wanted to remain safe, she needed to stay where she was. She didn't dare trust that her father wouldn't get out somehow — and heaven help anyone who crossed him after that!
"Callie! Come here right now!" Tom Jackson bellowed the moment he slammed through the front door of the townhouse. It had taken hours to get through the booking process to finally demand his phone call that had gotten his lawyer scurrying — and the arraignment where he had been formally charged and made bail by virtue of his very public office had been just a little while earlier. Obviously his idiot of a wife hadn't done as he'd told her to do, and so now she was going to have to pay. The silence within the dwelling was almost echoing. "Callie?" he yelled again, moving swiftly through one room to another, finding each just as uninhabited as the next.
She was gone.
Jackson ran frustrated fingers through his short hair, feeling the driving need to put his fist through something and only having walls and furniture in any position to supply targets. Where the hell WAS she? She knew that she wasn't allowed out of the house when he didn't know where she was going or how long she intended to stay out. Damn it…
His eyes hit the telephone, and he picked up the receiver, hit redial and listened. "South D.C. Women's Shelter," answered a voice on the other end of the line.
"I'm sorry, wrong number," Jackson growled and slammed the receiver back into the cradle. How dare she! No doubt she was spilling her guts to some bleeding heart counselor about how tough she'd had it. First Karen had run off and now Callie thought she could get away with doing much the same…
A lamp crashed into the opposite wall and shattered the mirror hanging here, and then a bookcase was pulled away from the wall and its contents dumped onto the floor. Jackson upended the heavy coffee table with a feral growl and sent it tumbling into the couch. A bouquet of flower that normally graced the foyer table smashed into the smaller panes of glass in the front door, shattering vase, windows and sending water and foliage all about the place. Jackson looked about him at his handiwork, panting, and then stomped through house to his office, where he sat down at his computer and stared at the white screen of his journal program and began typing.
As his psychologist had long suggested and he'd resisted doing for so long, he suddenly found himself pouring his anger and frustration into the keyboard. The words poured out of him in a vitriolic regurgitation of real and imagined slights, betrayals and outright contradictions. He let go of all of his inhibitions against letting anybody have the opportunity to find out his REAL inner thoughts, and named the names of those who had caused his misfortunes: his wife, Callie, his daughter, Karen, that damned FBI agent, Berghoff – and, of course, that Parker bitch.
When the words finally had finished falling from his mind through his fingers into the computerized journal, he simply got to his feet and walked away from the machine and made his way out the back end of the house into the garage. He threw the car into reverse and spun the tires peeling out backwards until he could aim it down the narrow alley toward the street.
By God, she'd pay. She had to come out of that place sooner or later — and, by God, he'd be waiting for her. And when he was done with Callie, maybe he'd have the chance to go after that damned Miss Parker too. After all, it was SHE who had ruined everything for him…
"Come on Daddy — make me swing high!" Ginger cried as her father's hands settled against her back again and gave her another push.
"Bet I can go higher than you," Davy crowed, on the swing next to her pumping as hard as he could.
Margaret had walked over to Sydney's after she'd called each of her family in California except Ethan, only to be directed over to the park by Kevin. She'd found Sydney sitting on the park bench and joined him without a word and watched the antics with a light heart. Now she glanced over at the man sitting next to her on the park bench and found him watching the activity near the swing set with a very paternal kind of pride. "He's got quite the family now, doesn't he?"
"Mmmm," he grunted, nodding. "He's got everything he's ever wanted in life — he found you and Charles, his sister, Ethan, Jay, and now he has Missy and the children to make life complete." He was finding it a pure delight to watch the scene in front of him. Jarod was completely at ease, playing with the children, laughing a kind of carefree laugh that he'd never been allowed in all his years in the Centre. He was a completely happy and fulfilled man — everything Sydney had ever wanted for his protégé. The old psychiatrist glanced over at his companion on the bench and found her now studying the trio at the swings. "You know, I've been quite remiss — I haven't yet told you how sorry I was to hear about Major Charles' death. That must have been very hard for you."
"Everything ended too soon," Margaret admitted, not taking her eyes from her son and his children. "I had been happy at last, with Charles and Emily and the boys. But, you know," she turned to face Sydney, "I'd spent the greater share of my married life by myself — raising Emily alone because I didn't dare come out of hiding long enough for Charles to find me. By the time Jarod put us together as a family again…" She fell silent for a while. "It just wasn't the same. We'd lost something in the years on the run, Charles and I..."
"I know what you mean," Sydney nodded quietly, returning his gaze to the swing set. "When I finally found Michelle, and her husband died soon after, I was hoping that we could begin again. But like you say, it just wasn't the same between us. We had changed as people over the years — and even though I still cared for her, there was something missing."
"When Charles died, I thought I would too for a little while. It wasn't fair that I'd just found him and had him quietly in my life the way he was supposed to have been all these years only to have him die so soon. And then Jarod left almost the moment Charles was in the ground — off to find you." Margaret studied her hands. "God, how I resented the fact that he had another family to go to — someone who could comfort him and make up for his loss while I was left alone! When he'd call, I'd make his life miserable — begging him to come home again."
"I remember," Sydney said softly, glancing down at her. "There was a stretch of time when he genuinely didn't know which way to turn. He knew he'd promised you that he'd go back to California. But he was falling in love with Missy and finding out that Davy was his son in fact, and as soon as that happened — and it really was inevitable, Maggie — I knew he'd want to try for a life with her."
"I almost lost him," Margaret said very softly. "I was so selfish, only thinking of how I was all alone without Charles anymore — never thinking that I had Ethan and Jay and Emily around me. It was like I was right back to a time eight years ago — missing my husband AND my son."
"Don't be too hard on yourself," Sydney told her gently. "Just a few years of a so-called 'normal' life isn't going to overwrite the feelings of decades of doing without. When suddenly the situation changes so that that which was missing is missing again, it would be natural for you to fall back into old attitudes and feelings. You'd miss your husband all over again in new ways…"
"But that's the thing. If I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that I'm not missing Charles the way I should. By the time we took up our married life again, we'd grown apart in a lot of ways. I loved him — but not the same way." She paused, suddenly realizing to whom she was speaking. "And I haven't got the foggiest idea why I'm telling YOU this…"
"Maybe because I've been there too in a manner of speaking too," he replied gently. "I was never allowed to have a married life with Michelle — never allowed to know my son — and when the time came that such a thing could happen again, I discovered that she'd grown away from me and I from her. We are still very fond of each other — we talk by phone often — but I know that I will never have that kind of place in her life again. And Nicholas has made his own life, one that includes me only very peripherally. He and his wife Kate have decided not to have children, so this…" he waved his hands at Jarod and the children at the swings, "is all I have — and it isn't really mine."
She was quiet for a long time watching Jarod thoroughly enjoy the opportunity to play with both of his children. "What I am finding really strange is that I feel I know you, better maybe than I should in just the few days of our acquaintance," she finally stated carefully. "Jarod is so much like you in so many ways, that I can almost predict some of your gestures or reactions or ways of saying things."
"I can see you in him too, now," Sydney returned. "Some of the expressions that come over his face are you all over again. You couldn't deny him as your son to save your soul."
She smiled and looked into the craggy face of the man she'd hated for so long. It was spooky — he was so much like Jarod, or Jarod so much like him, that Margaret could feel her emotions tangling dangerously. What was wrong with her, she berated herself, she'd just lost her husband — a man with whom she'd waited for decades to be reunited. How dare she allow another man to catch her attention in this way so easily and quickly! But having grown used to her son and his mannerisms in the last few years, how could she NOT find herself helplessly captivated by the very same mannerisms in what was evidently the original. And those golden-brown eyes of his were like pools that she could get lost in — and his voice…
Sydney was finding it very hard not to fall into and lose himself in those brilliant blue eyes that looked up into his with such intelligence. In Margaret, he was finding a kindred spirit the likes of which he'd never expected, along with an echo of Jarod that he could now see was the benefit of genetics. Being fond of the son, he was finding it difficult not to become just as fond of the mother. What was wrong with him, he chided himself harshly, the woman had just lost her husband only a few months earlier. How dare he even consider…
"This is dangerous," Margaret murmured when she noticed that the two of them had apparently leaned in closer to each other during that long and silent moment just passed.
"Unwise indeed," Sydney agreed, trying to find a good reason to move away and not coming up with anything other than the fact that he hadn't really known this lady for but four short days. "I think we're both rather vulnerable right now."
"I know we are," she replied, searching her soul for something that would make her move away from the warmth that he represented. What would Charles say if he saw her now? No, not even that worked, for the only thing she could hear in her husband's voice was "he seemed to be a good and decent man, Maggie…"
"Gamma! Gampa! See me go higher than Davy!" Ginger called out to the two on the bench in an excited voice.
"We see you, cheri," Sydney called back with a chuckle that turned into a silent tug of air when Margaret's hand landed on his arm.
"Good for you, Sprite!" she called out in her turn, then turned another smile on Sydney only to find him watching her with chestnut eyes that were warmer than she'd expected.
"This is very dangerous, Maggie," he warned her with his voice hitting a lower register, and then very carefully and deliberately covered her hand on his arm with his other hand. "And at our age, we should know better."
"Perhaps," she agreed tentatively, enjoying the warmth of his hand over hers. "Then again…"
Jarod stepped back from pushing Ginger on her swing and let his eyes wander to where his mother and Sydney were sitting together on the park bench a short distance away. He grinned suddenly when Sydney lifted a hand from covering his mother's hand on his arm and carefully brushed a tendril of red and silver away from her face. His mother immediately tossed her head saucily and smiled and said something that made his old mentor grin from ear to ear. It was good to see those two getting along so well — and to see that Sydney had found a way to make his mother sparkle in a way that he'd never seen before, not even before his father died.
"Look, Daddy, Mommy comed!" Ginger exclaimed and immediately began dragging her heels in the soft sand to slow herself so that she could jump from the swing and run. "Mommy!" the girl called and then was caught up in waiting arms.
Yes, Jarod thought to himself as he listened to Davy slowing his own swinging now so that he'd be able to greet his mother properly, he had finally come home. This was what he'd always wanted — the woman he loved, two children he adored, his mother, his siblings, his mentor…
"You're looking inordinately pleased with yourself," Miss Parker told him with a mischievous smirk as she walked over to him with Ginger perched happily in her arms and Davy at her side after his hug.
"I've decided I've got everything I could ever had wanted in life — and then some." He tipped his head and led her to turn and look across the green to the park bench where Maggie and Sydney were now involved in a very animated discussion. Maggie now obviously had her hand tucked into Sydney's arm, and his other hand was very clearly holding it in place there.
Miss Parker turned back to Jarod with eyebrows flying high. "Whoa," she commented softly. "Your mom works fast. I underestimated her."
"Sydney's not exactly being uncooperative there, if you care to notice," Jarod protested with a smile. "I have to admit, this is something I hadn't seen coming."
"C'mon," she twitched her head now. "Let's see where we're all eating supper tonight. I think it's my turn to cook…"
David Lawler sat back and surveyed his handiwork after hitting the save button. This would definitely set the record straight as far as what the public needed to know about the Centre — and would probably give Whisper Man fits. Using nothing but the Centre's own documents, he had systematically and very definitely put the responsibility for all of the shady dealings detailed in the previous article exactly where it belonged: squarely on the shoulders of Mr. Charles Parker and Mr. — formerly Dr. — William Raines.
He opened up his email client and then pulled from his pocket the business card that Miss Parker had given him — the one with her corporate email address printed on it. He copied the article he intended to have published in the next day's morning edition and shipped it off to her. She should be pleased, he smiled to himself. As he had promised, everything that he had threatened in the last article he'd put in its proper place with this one.
As he was sending it off to his editor, the phone rang. "David Lawler."
"Hi Dave. This is Chuck Evans."
"Chuck! I was starting to think that I wasn't going to hear from you again."
"I told you that this wasn't going to be a quick thing — but I DID finally get that information for you that you wanted."
Lawler picked up a pen and grabbed for a piece of scratch paper. "Shoot."
"You were in luck — I owed one of the directory assistance operators a dinner, and I took her to Chef Rick's after she brought me the information you wanted. You owe me forty-five bucks, man…"
"You'll get it, I promise. What did you find out?"
"The call to your phone at the time you gave me was placed from a townhouse in Georgetown."
"That's all?" Lawler was disappointed. "No name to go with it?"
"Oh no, I got a name. But my question to you is just why a Senator from Vermont would be calling you?"
"Say what?"
"Senator Tom Jackson was the one who placed the call you wanted traced."
"Wait a minute…" Lawler made a grab for the copy of the evening edition, the front page of which carried a follow-up story about the arrests of three Senators for conspiracy charges. "You mean the same Senator Tom Jackson that got his carcass hauled into jail for conspiracy charges?"
"The very same." Chuck Evans waited for a moment. "What are you going to do with this information?"
"I'm not sure," Lawler told him honestly, "but I intend to do something with it. Nobody plays me like that and gets away with it."
"Whaddya mean, plays you?"
"This Jackson fellow is the whispering voice I talked about in the article — the one taking credit for giving me the info on the Centre — and just wait until you read the follow-up that should come out sometime tomorrow!"
"More dirt on the Centre?"
"Not exactly," Lawler said bitterly. "Say, thanks, Chuck. I owe you one."
"You owe me one on top of the forty-five bucks for dinner," Evans reminded him pointedly.
"You know I'm good for it…"
"That's the only reason you got the info without my seeing the green first, my man. I'll be in touch."
Lawler replaced the receiver with a thoughtful motion. So here was even more proof that Jackson was in some kind of conspiracy — this one aimed at smearing the Centre and Miss Parker's good name. THAT was information that could prove very useful.
He just had to figure out how to use it to his advantage.
Jackson sat in the darkness of his car, staring moodily at the entrance of the South D.C. Women's Shelter and debating his next move. He knew better than to try to get into the building — in the first place, even he was aware of the locks on the door and the fact that nobody got in without being allowed entry. No, whatever he intended to do, it would have to be from the outside.
She had to come out sometime, he decided. Either to go somewhere else or to visit a shrink or some other bleeding heart service person, she'd have to come out this very door. He could wait. He wouldn't be expected at his lawyer's office until in the morning – with any luck, nobody would try to get a hold of him anytime before that other than perhaps Burns or Canfield, and right now both of them could go to Hell for all he cared.
It was all falling apart. There would be no putting the group back together to take care of the matters of national security that the administration couldn't take care of officially due to legal proscriptions. The military had managed to corral all of the best operatives that had been making their efforts such a success, and now even the group itself was under siege. It had to be that Parker bitch's fault, he told himself as he pounded his steering wheel with frustration. If she hadn't pulled the plug on all those projects, none of this would have happened.
The judge in the case had been very specific – he had been prohibited from leaving the D.C. area for any reason, not that this would stop him. Once he'd taken care of his traitor of a wife, he could make tracks to that little town in Delaware where his downfall had been engineered. Nobody interfered with his plans and was allowed to get away with it – and it didn't matter if that person were a wife or daughter or even a virtual stranger. The whole situation simply couldn't go unanswered.
Keeping his eye trained on the lighted doorway through which he was certain Callie would emerge eventually, he reached across the car for the glove compartment. The first thing he drew out was his gun – one he'd put there for self-defense a long time ago. With a grim expression on his face, he slipped the weapon into his pocket and reached again. This time he pulled out a silver flask that had been stored there at least as long as the gun had, if not longer. Jackson sighed as his nimble fingers twisted the top of the flask until it fell away on its protective chain and then took a healthy slug of the strong liquor within.
Tired, hungry, he felt the effects of the whiskey go straight to his stomach, warming him from within. He put the flask to his lips again and this time sipped a little more carefully, holding the liquid in his mouth for a while until the burning had abated somewhat. He screwed the lid back on and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand holding the flask.
It felt good, he decided as he felt the warmth of the whiskey gradually filling his entire body, that he had no intention of going to jail. He slipped the flask into the pocket next to the gun and allowed his fingers to follow the sleek cold steel of the barrel. He had no intention of giving anybody the satisfaction of trying to hold him accountable. He was a Senator, after all – accountable only to his constituency and to God.
Wait! He sat up straighter. There was movement within the pool of light just inside the shelter doorway and suddenly there she was – and with a suitcase in her hand to boot! Just where the Hell did she think that officer was going to take her that HE couldn't get at her? The door of the shelter opened slowly, and the officer took Callie's arm and was obviously leading her toward a waiting vehicle just across the street.
Jackson gunned the engine and started the car moving. He got the most fleeting of glimpses of his traitor-wife's terrified face just before she disappeared beneath his front bumper and the car bucked as the tires handled the obstacle in the roadway. He didn't bother to check to see whether he'd managed to hit the officer as well, but slowed just long enough to see that the dark lump that had been Callie wasn't moving before he whipped the car around the corner and off into the quiet of the D.C. night to continue his mission.
One down, one to go.
"Thanks so much for your help, Deb," Miss Parker said, retrieving the dish cloth from the younger woman.
"If you don't mind, I think Kevin and I will take off for home," Deb said with a smile. "IF I can pry Kevin away from that chess game he started with Jarod, that is…"
Miss Parker chuckled. "Just tell Jarod that I promise not to reset the men so that the two of them can continue the game the next time it's my turn to cook," she suggested. "I have yet to understand what it is about the men of this family and that damned chess board…"
"Don't you play?" Deb asked her curious. "I'm sure I've seen you play with Grandpa once or twice…"
"Of course I play. Jarod taught me the game when I was very young, and your Grandpa and I have played often over the years." Miss Parker shook her head and shrugged. "It's just that it never hit me before now how central that game has been to our family dynamics."
"You'll just have to get another board, so you and I can have a game too one of these days," Deb smirked. "I'll get Kevin to give me some pointers that maybe my Dad hasn't tried before…"
"You think so?" the older woman returned with eyebrows floating halfway to the hairline. "I'll get Jarod to give me some pointers that he's used over the years to beat Sydney. That should make us about even."
Deb extended her hand. "You're on, then," she offered as a challenge.
"And you're dead meat," Miss Parker told her, shaking the hand firmly and then looking around. "I wonder where your Grandpa got off to, if you're getting ready to leave…"
Deb walked behind her old friend into the dining room and then bent over Kevin's shoulder to study the board from his perspective. "Who's winning?" she asked after dropping a kiss on his cheek.
"At the moment, Jarod is," Kevin replied in a glum tone.
"I think your lady-love would like to steal your attention from the chessboard, Kev," Jarod told his younger counterpart with an indulgent smile. "How about we pick up this game from here the next time you're over?"
"I promised Deb that I'd make sure the men didn't get reset," Miss Parker noted as she moved past the dining room in search of Sydney – then stopped in her tracks and wished with all her heart that she had her camera. Sydney and Margaret were seated on the couch next to each other, with Davy tucked cozily in between them. Sydney was tenderly cradling a sleepy Ginger against his chest, while Davy was ecstatically plying his grandmother with some tale complete with animated gestures. But what caught her attention was the very fleeting and occasional look that the grandparents would share between them – and Miss Parker knew immediately that there was more going on between those two than would meet the casual eye.
"…and Mrs. Gantry told me today that I could work with the second graders, helping them learn their addition and subtraction, in stead of sitting around bored," Davy was saying with a wide and proud grin. "I get to be a teacher, just like you, Grandpa!"
"I'm very proud of you, Davy," Sydney said in a quiet voice intended not to disturb the little girl in his lap any more than necessary. "But what is Mrs. Gantry intending to do about your own math lessons?"
Davy shrugged his shoulders. "She said that she's never had any kid in her class that was handling quadratic equations already – that she'd have to consult the principal to see what was available." He gazed proudly into his grandmother's face. "Grandpa has me working algebra and some geometry – math is SO easy…"
"And your Grandpa's a good teacher, I take it," Margaret asked quietly, forcing herself to pay more attention to her grandson than the topic of discussion. Her eyes had been surreptitiously finding excuses to rest on Sydney already too many times that evening – if she didn't watch out, he'd have her pegged as being forward.
"The best!" Davy crowed with a proud glance back at his Grandpa.
"Are you done with your homework, young man?" Miss Parker asked, not really wanting to break up the cozy scene but knowing that the children's bedtime rapidly approached.
"Didn't have much today, Mom," Davy told her easily. "I did most of my essay at school already."
"Then up into the bathtub, young man," Miss Parker told him with a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder, "and then to bed. If you're going to be teaching others, you'll need your rest."
"Aw, mom…"
"Your mother's right," Margaret spoke up. "Teaching is a responsibility you can't take lightly. You can tell us all about how it goes tomorrow when you get home, OK?"
"Oh, all right," Davy conceded and then kissed his grandmother's cheek and accepted a hug from Grandpa. "See you in the morning."
"Here, let me take Sleeping Beauty," Miss Parker bent over Sydney and carefully pulled Ginger up into her arms without managing to let Bear drop out of the little girl's grasp. "I think your ride is wanting to head to the other side of town," she informed her foster father and then dropped a kiss of her own onto his cheek. "I'll say goodnight now, since I'll have my hands full here in a minute…"
"I'll see him out," Margaret offered without thinking about it.
"Thanks, Maggie," Miss Parker accepted with a smile.
Margaret rose and reached for the crutches that Sydney had leaned against the wall near the couch, then watched him struggle for a while before reaching down and grabbing an arm to help him to his feet again. "And this couch isn't even that much of a man-eater," she commented quietly as she handed him the other crutch.
"I've done a little more than I normally do in a day," he admitted with a sigh. "I don't normally take walks in the park – especially after three sets of those damned exercises the therapist has me doing now…"
"They're waiting for you in the car, Sydney," Jarod announced from the archway on his way up the stairs. "And I'll see you tomorrow morning – same time, same place."
"I'll have the coffee ready," Sydney promised, then returned his attention to the woman near him as they found themselves finally alone. "I want you to know that I've enjoyed our discussions this afternoon and evening," he said, not quite sure how to break through the awkwardness of the moment.
"I have too," she replied, looking down at the floor and then finally up into his face. "I hope that I haven't shocked you too much…"
"Not at all," he replied immediately. "And I hope that you don't think that I've been too personal…"
"No, no," she shook her head, then chuckled. "Look at us – tripping over ourselves like rank adolescents – this is ridiculous."
"Not ridiculous – I believe we agreed that this was dangerous," he reminded her in that deliciously lower register of voice, "and unwise."
"Well," Margaret decided to be the bold one and put her cards on the table first, "I don't know that that means we shouldn't… do you?"
Sydney's brows climbed toward where his hairline used to be. "Maggie, I seriously doubt that your family would approve of… this... You and I may have reached a point where we can leave our mutual distrust behind, but the rest of your family still views me and mine as enemies — and with good reason."
"I talked to Emily and Jay today," she told him quietly, matching her pace to his slow steps toward the front door, "and I tried to explain how wrong I – we – had been. They've accepted Missy and Davy, and I just wanted them to open their minds about you…"
"And they weren't hearing you, I take it," Sydney anticipated with a sad smile and then watched her shake her head slowly. "Are you really all that surprised?"
She shook her head again. "No, I suppose not. But that doesn't mean that I'm not going to ignore the reality I'm seeing with my own eyes – or see exactly what kinds of options I have now…"
"But you just lost your husband," Sydney started.
"I told you," Margaret interrupted him with a hand to one arm, "that things weren't exactly right between us. I loved him, and I do miss him greatly – don't get me wrong – but it's more like I lost one of my best friends, not the other half of my soul." The brilliant blue eyes peered earnestly up into concerned and warm chestnut. "Do you understand?"
"Maybe too well," he replied gently. "And so let me be the cautious one, making sure that neither one of us gets hurt. I refuse to be the cause of that for you now – you've had enough hurt for one lifetime…"
"From what I understand, so have you," she replied, moving closer.
"Mmmmm," he cautioned and then tsked at her softly. "Goodnight, Maggie," he stated very gently. "Will you do me the honor of bringing Ginger over to my house tomorrow afternoon – and maybe after the tutoring session, we can continue this discussion? I think it would be better that we leave well enough alone until after we've both had a chance to sleep on it…"
She nodded, appreciating both the wisdom and the caution. "Absolutely. Goodnight, then, Sydney." She tipped forward up on her toes just a little with the intent of giving his cheek a peck, but he moved just at that moment so that their lips actually brushed together very briefly.
Their eyes met in surprise, and then Sydney impulsively and contrarily bent to repeat the fleeting gesture very deliberately. "Until tomorrow, then," he said softly and then opened the front door and forced himself to walk through it without looking backwards. He had a feeling he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night – and this time, it wouldn't be because of nightmares.
He was playing with fire, and he knew it. He hoped with all his being that she realized it as well, because as it stood, they both risked getting burned.
"Senator Jackson?" Detective Simkins pushed the front door of the townhouse open and then stepped cautiously through the broken glass into the residence. "Senator? Are you all right?"
"Police officers, Senator," Detective Chesterfield announced, pulling out his service revolver at the lack of response and noting that his pony tailed partner now had her gun out as well.
Something had obviously happened here, and both detectives were cautious in checking the entire residence from room to room, only to find the place completely deserted and partially trashed. "I wonder what the Hell happened here," Simkins mused to herself, peering into what appeared to be the Senator's private office and then blinking to see the white of a computer screen still lit. She walked over and began reading.
"Hey, Greg," she called. "Look at this!"
Chesterfield joined his partner and both read what was on the computer screen with increasingly disturbed looks on their faces. Simkins was the one to look up first. "Well, I'll bet you that we now know who it was that ran Callie Jackson down in the street…"
"Yeah," Chesterfield nodded. "And we know where he's headed next."
"I'll call the FBI," Simkins pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket.
"Better tell them to call the Centre in Delaware," Chesterfield recommended grimly. "This Miss Parker deserves to be warned about what may be coming her way."
Chet Harrington carried his coffee cup, now brimming with a new helping of steaming brew, into the security monitoring station that kept track of the first three sublevels' worth of labs. Two of the rooms in the underground structure were still occupied with scientists and researchers, and Harrington seated himself before the array of monitors and stretched back in his chair to enjoy what promised to be a relatively quiet evening.
Again.
Actually, he was beginning to enjoy the fact that the Centre was no longer on a continual alert status as the situation around it settled down. The shape of his job as it would be in a Centre where there was no intrigue or subterfuge ongoing would be that of nighttime coordinator of security resources – something easily manageable from this single post. And once the new Tower facility was operational, he would inherit a post much more centralized and powerful that even this one – from there he would be able to keep track of everything going on all over the property, from outdoors to indoors, from upper floors of the new Tower to the bottom of the underground structure.
The last thing he was expecting, therefore, was the telephone to ring. "Harrington, Security," he answered with a long breath.
"This is Assistant Director Berghoff of the FBI," came a tight and tense voice from the other end of the line. "I need to speak to whoever is in charge of security at the Centre."
"At the moment, that's me," Harrington replied, straightening into alertness. "What can I do for you, Assistant Director?"
"I need you to get a security contingent over to the residence of Miss Parker right away," Berghoff told him without any preamble whatsoever, "until the FBI can arrive."
"What the Hell's going on?"
Berghoff sighed. "We have reason to believe that someone is going to make an attempt on the life of your Chairman – possibly even tonight."
Harrington nearly choked on his sip of coffee.
So much for a quiet evening…
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