Disclaimer in part 1
Guilty
by imagine
Part 13/?
Jarod had no idea how long he'd been asleep; but, when he opened his eyes he found himself in a room lit only by a fireplace and tucked into an almost too-soft bed. Turning on to his back, he sunk deeper into the mattress and stared at the slow revolutions of the ceiling fan. Despite the fact he could not remember where he was, or how he had gotten there, the Pretender released a soft, contented sigh. He was warm, relaxed and, except for a few dubious thoughts he was trying to ignore, he was at peace.
Something told him not to question it.
Pushing at the mound of blankets that covered him, Jarod sat up and, after allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light, surveyed his surroundings. In addition to the sleigh bed he occupied, the room was furnished with a padded rocking chair, a dark cherry wood nightstand and a matching armoire. The walls were painted a soft, warm coral and the floor was wooden, covered with one large braided rug that disappeared under the bed. With the exception of the fireplace that jutted out from the far wall, the room seemed to be void of any light fixtures, however there were two large windows to his left that were covered tightly with long rose colored drapes.
To his right, on the same wall that the bed curled against, was a door he assumed led to the rest of the house. Slipping his legs over the side of the mattress, he felt a cold draft and immediately brought both feet back under the blankets. He curled his toes against the wooden frame and stared at the gap between the door and the floor, listening to the soft, murmured voices that seeped in from the other side. After almost a full minute, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and slowly moved from the bed.
The door opened quietly, leading him into a hall that ran the width of the bedroom, no more than fifteen feet. Directly in front of him was another door that, though it was closed, he decided led to a second bedroom. At the end of the corridor, to his right, was the bathroom. Jarod could see a black and gray tiled floor, the corner of a black marble sink and the edge of a beveled mirror.
"I don't have time . ."
"Then, I suggest you make the time. We're not going anywhere until you tell me what I want to know."
Pressing one hand against the wall, for support, Jarod moved cautiously to his left, toward the sounds of other people. The voices were familiar and were not loud, by any definition, but the room that harbored them was large. The ceiling was two stories high and the acoustics would have been a musicians dream.
"Then make yourself useful," the older woman replied, retrieving a pot from one of the lower cabinets, "Fill that with water and put it on the stove to boil. When it does . ."
The instructions were interrupted by the clanging of the pot as the brunette threw it back in the cabinet. "I am not here for a cooking lesson. Answer my question."
Though Jarod considered interrupting their disagreement and acting as referee, he decided whatever was happening between them should be left for them to settle. At least for the moment, he was better off opting to continue his silent tour of the house.
The dining area consisted of a table, six chairs and a sideboard made of oak. Each was highly polished and, except for the lace runner and a small vase of plastic daffodils at the center of the table, they were unadorned.
An open staircase divided the house, lengthwise, into two sections and a balcony ran around the second floor. A large Belgian world atlas tapestry, made from gold, black and burgundy threads, hung from the edge of the railing, effectively blocking his view of the upper level, so Jarod turned his attention back to the first floor.
Beyond the stairs was the kitchen and, to its right, the living room. Thick burgundy drapes hung open on the side wall, revealing windows that not only filled both rooms with light, but offered a view of the snow covered road and the ridge beyond it.
Two deep cushioned chairs, upholstered in a floral pattern, a hunter green sofa and matching loveseat, and a thick, oak coffee decorated the main part of the room, each of them pointing toward a cold stone fireplace. In the corner, a floor lamp a potted palm and roll top desk completed the living room.
"What did Cox and Alex want from you?"
"I don't know."
"Like hell you don't."
Decorated with European style cabinets, a butcher block island and dark appliances, the kitchen was smaller than it appeared. The window above the sink was shaded with plain, yellow curtains and, above the stove, a clock in the shape of a cat ticked off the seconds with its tail.
With their backs to him, neither woman was aware of his presence. Whatever his mother was slicing at the counter, was being cut with quick, abrupt motions that told him she was annoyed with the conversation. Meanwhile, Parker was standing only inches from his mother, purposely invading her personal space. It was a tactic she had used on him hundreds of times, when they were children, in order to get her way.
"Fine. They wanted to know why I was on Carthis," she sighed, glaring at the younger woman for the first time.
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing."
"Why were you there?"
She stiffened for a second, then glared at the other woman. "If I didn't answer their questions, what makes you think I'll answer yours? The last time I checked, you were employed by the Centre. You're one of them."
"Then you had better look again, lady. After what happened last night, Syd and I are not exactly marked for employees of the month."
Judging by the cat on the wall, the silence carried on for more than a full minute before Miss Parker crossed her arms and took a step back. With her head tilted to the side, she stared at his mother, waiting impatiently for her to continue. Finally, the brunette slapped her hand over the other woman's wrist and effectively halted the vegetable chopping.
"I know you were searching for the scrolls."
"You know nothing of the sort," she insisted, pulling free, "and I'm getting bored with this fishing expedition, Miss Parker. I have things to do, so if . ."
"Jarod and I spoke with Ocee. She told us you had been to her shop."
At the mention of the shopkeeper's name, Margaret hesitated, then retrieved the pot from the cabinet. "I wandered in and she made me some tea. There is nothing more to tell."
"She's dead, you know. Someone shot her."
Moving to the sink, she slid the pot beneath the faucet and nodded. "I know. She was a nice woman, she didn't deserve to die the way she did."
"What did she mean, when she told Jarod you were searching for truth about who he really was?"
Margaret was silent.
"You were looking for the scrolls, weren't you?" she asked softly.
"That's a big jump, Miss Parker."
"But it's the truth. You had the doll."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Angel's doll, the one with a clue to where the scrolls were hidden. The doll that her father, my grandfather, brought to America. The doll you left in the confessional at the chapel," she finished. "Remember, I saw you, Margaret. Why did you leave it behind?"
"I'd been shot." Placing the pot on the stove, she ignited the burner beneath it. "I thought it might distract my pursuers long enough for me to escape."
"Do you know who shot you?"
"No," she admitted, adding snidely, "I assumed it was someone working for the Centre."
"So, you knew there were Centre operatives on Carthis."
"I saw the helicopter land. I had my suspicions," she sighed.
"Did you know Jarod was on the island, too?"
As if she'd just been slapped, Margaret turned on Miss Parker with a face that was red with emotion. Her hands were trembling and her breaths were suddenly shallow, but she locked on to the brunette's icy gaze and met it with one of her own.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she demanded, her voice low and threatening. "Jarod is my son. I gave him life. When he was taken, it almost destroyed me."
Letting the blanket around his shoulders slip slightly, Jarod moved to the foot of the stairs. Suddenly, it seemed important to intervene; but, before he had the chance, his mother broke the brief silence.
"Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I lived with the agony of not knowing where my child was or what was happening to him. I was filled with so many nightmares, so many memories and regrets that, after awhile, I could not tell them apart. I lived with gruesome mental images that my own mind created and, to this day, refuses to purge. I was terrified, Miss Parker, terrified that Jarod was paying the price for a mistake I made."
Seemingly oblivious to her tears, she dipped her hands from her sides, into her pockets and then clasped them in front of her before slipping them back into the sweater. He felt the urge to move to her side, to comfort her and protect her from the memories she was reliving; but, Jarod could not find his legs.
"Then, one day, I realized Kyle was missing his brother as much as I was and began concentrating on him. He saved my life," she said, a bit too calmly. "The nightmares didn't stop but, every time he smiled, or cried, or begged to be held, I felt a little better. I told myself that Kyle needed me now and that Jarod would need me when he came home. I had to be strong for them. I had to survive."
He dropped his eyes as she spoke, remembering his brother. He remembered his anger, his determination and, most of all, his plea that his parents never find out about the things Raines made him do. As his mother continued, Jarod wondered if, somehow, his brother knew the amount of comfort he had given their mother, as a toddler. He hoped he did.
"The day they took Kyle, the day they had both my sons, my heart shattered and, it was more painful than I thought possible. As much as I wanted to, though, I didn't die. Charles and I searched for our boys and I did everything I was supposed to do - I cried, I wrung my hands, I obsessed, I even laughed, when it was appropriate. To the outside world, I appeared to be a woman struggling with the loss of her sons.
Jarod's eyes flicked to Miss Parker. Though she wore the mask of the Ice Queen, he saw her uneasiness. Whatever response she had been looking for, when she asked her question, this was not it.
"But, Charles isn't a stupid man. He knew I had changed and did his best to keep me sane by giving me control. He taught me how to use a gun, how to fight, how to know when I was being followed and how to follow someone without being seen. My husband understood that the only emotions I felt anymore were terror for my children, hatred toward those who took them and guilt for allowing it to happen. He told me, time and again, that he felt the same way and, though I never doubted him, I wondered if he really understood how much I had changed. When I found out I was pregnant with Emily, I almost . . I considered . ."
Shaking her head, Margaret turned away and saw Jarod, for the first time. Standing no more than ten feet away, tears glistened in his eyes. While he stood there, dressed only in a T-shirt and pair of sweat pants, barefoot and wrapped in a thick white quilt, he looked younger than his forty-four years. In his eyes, she saw her little boy and Margaret found it difficult to find her voice.
"To answer your question, Miss Parker, no, I did not know Jarod was on Carthis," she finally said, never taking her eyes off her son, "If I had, I would never have left him."
"And, yet, after the accident, you left him on the river bank, unconscious and . . ."
"Parker, that's enough!"
-----------------------------
Guilty
by imagine
Part 13/?
Jarod had no idea how long he'd been asleep; but, when he opened his eyes he found himself in a room lit only by a fireplace and tucked into an almost too-soft bed. Turning on to his back, he sunk deeper into the mattress and stared at the slow revolutions of the ceiling fan. Despite the fact he could not remember where he was, or how he had gotten there, the Pretender released a soft, contented sigh. He was warm, relaxed and, except for a few dubious thoughts he was trying to ignore, he was at peace.
Something told him not to question it.
Pushing at the mound of blankets that covered him, Jarod sat up and, after allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light, surveyed his surroundings. In addition to the sleigh bed he occupied, the room was furnished with a padded rocking chair, a dark cherry wood nightstand and a matching armoire. The walls were painted a soft, warm coral and the floor was wooden, covered with one large braided rug that disappeared under the bed. With the exception of the fireplace that jutted out from the far wall, the room seemed to be void of any light fixtures, however there were two large windows to his left that were covered tightly with long rose colored drapes.
To his right, on the same wall that the bed curled against, was a door he assumed led to the rest of the house. Slipping his legs over the side of the mattress, he felt a cold draft and immediately brought both feet back under the blankets. He curled his toes against the wooden frame and stared at the gap between the door and the floor, listening to the soft, murmured voices that seeped in from the other side. After almost a full minute, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and slowly moved from the bed.
The door opened quietly, leading him into a hall that ran the width of the bedroom, no more than fifteen feet. Directly in front of him was another door that, though it was closed, he decided led to a second bedroom. At the end of the corridor, to his right, was the bathroom. Jarod could see a black and gray tiled floor, the corner of a black marble sink and the edge of a beveled mirror.
"I don't have time . ."
"Then, I suggest you make the time. We're not going anywhere until you tell me what I want to know."
Pressing one hand against the wall, for support, Jarod moved cautiously to his left, toward the sounds of other people. The voices were familiar and were not loud, by any definition, but the room that harbored them was large. The ceiling was two stories high and the acoustics would have been a musicians dream.
"Then make yourself useful," the older woman replied, retrieving a pot from one of the lower cabinets, "Fill that with water and put it on the stove to boil. When it does . ."
The instructions were interrupted by the clanging of the pot as the brunette threw it back in the cabinet. "I am not here for a cooking lesson. Answer my question."
Though Jarod considered interrupting their disagreement and acting as referee, he decided whatever was happening between them should be left for them to settle. At least for the moment, he was better off opting to continue his silent tour of the house.
The dining area consisted of a table, six chairs and a sideboard made of oak. Each was highly polished and, except for the lace runner and a small vase of plastic daffodils at the center of the table, they were unadorned.
An open staircase divided the house, lengthwise, into two sections and a balcony ran around the second floor. A large Belgian world atlas tapestry, made from gold, black and burgundy threads, hung from the edge of the railing, effectively blocking his view of the upper level, so Jarod turned his attention back to the first floor.
Beyond the stairs was the kitchen and, to its right, the living room. Thick burgundy drapes hung open on the side wall, revealing windows that not only filled both rooms with light, but offered a view of the snow covered road and the ridge beyond it.
Two deep cushioned chairs, upholstered in a floral pattern, a hunter green sofa and matching loveseat, and a thick, oak coffee decorated the main part of the room, each of them pointing toward a cold stone fireplace. In the corner, a floor lamp a potted palm and roll top desk completed the living room.
"What did Cox and Alex want from you?"
"I don't know."
"Like hell you don't."
Decorated with European style cabinets, a butcher block island and dark appliances, the kitchen was smaller than it appeared. The window above the sink was shaded with plain, yellow curtains and, above the stove, a clock in the shape of a cat ticked off the seconds with its tail.
With their backs to him, neither woman was aware of his presence. Whatever his mother was slicing at the counter, was being cut with quick, abrupt motions that told him she was annoyed with the conversation. Meanwhile, Parker was standing only inches from his mother, purposely invading her personal space. It was a tactic she had used on him hundreds of times, when they were children, in order to get her way.
"Fine. They wanted to know why I was on Carthis," she sighed, glaring at the younger woman for the first time.
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing."
"Why were you there?"
She stiffened for a second, then glared at the other woman. "If I didn't answer their questions, what makes you think I'll answer yours? The last time I checked, you were employed by the Centre. You're one of them."
"Then you had better look again, lady. After what happened last night, Syd and I are not exactly marked for employees of the month."
Judging by the cat on the wall, the silence carried on for more than a full minute before Miss Parker crossed her arms and took a step back. With her head tilted to the side, she stared at his mother, waiting impatiently for her to continue. Finally, the brunette slapped her hand over the other woman's wrist and effectively halted the vegetable chopping.
"I know you were searching for the scrolls."
"You know nothing of the sort," she insisted, pulling free, "and I'm getting bored with this fishing expedition, Miss Parker. I have things to do, so if . ."
"Jarod and I spoke with Ocee. She told us you had been to her shop."
At the mention of the shopkeeper's name, Margaret hesitated, then retrieved the pot from the cabinet. "I wandered in and she made me some tea. There is nothing more to tell."
"She's dead, you know. Someone shot her."
Moving to the sink, she slid the pot beneath the faucet and nodded. "I know. She was a nice woman, she didn't deserve to die the way she did."
"What did she mean, when she told Jarod you were searching for truth about who he really was?"
Margaret was silent.
"You were looking for the scrolls, weren't you?" she asked softly.
"That's a big jump, Miss Parker."
"But it's the truth. You had the doll."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Angel's doll, the one with a clue to where the scrolls were hidden. The doll that her father, my grandfather, brought to America. The doll you left in the confessional at the chapel," she finished. "Remember, I saw you, Margaret. Why did you leave it behind?"
"I'd been shot." Placing the pot on the stove, she ignited the burner beneath it. "I thought it might distract my pursuers long enough for me to escape."
"Do you know who shot you?"
"No," she admitted, adding snidely, "I assumed it was someone working for the Centre."
"So, you knew there were Centre operatives on Carthis."
"I saw the helicopter land. I had my suspicions," she sighed.
"Did you know Jarod was on the island, too?"
As if she'd just been slapped, Margaret turned on Miss Parker with a face that was red with emotion. Her hands were trembling and her breaths were suddenly shallow, but she locked on to the brunette's icy gaze and met it with one of her own.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she demanded, her voice low and threatening. "Jarod is my son. I gave him life. When he was taken, it almost destroyed me."
Letting the blanket around his shoulders slip slightly, Jarod moved to the foot of the stairs. Suddenly, it seemed important to intervene; but, before he had the chance, his mother broke the brief silence.
"Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I lived with the agony of not knowing where my child was or what was happening to him. I was filled with so many nightmares, so many memories and regrets that, after awhile, I could not tell them apart. I lived with gruesome mental images that my own mind created and, to this day, refuses to purge. I was terrified, Miss Parker, terrified that Jarod was paying the price for a mistake I made."
Seemingly oblivious to her tears, she dipped her hands from her sides, into her pockets and then clasped them in front of her before slipping them back into the sweater. He felt the urge to move to her side, to comfort her and protect her from the memories she was reliving; but, Jarod could not find his legs.
"Then, one day, I realized Kyle was missing his brother as much as I was and began concentrating on him. He saved my life," she said, a bit too calmly. "The nightmares didn't stop but, every time he smiled, or cried, or begged to be held, I felt a little better. I told myself that Kyle needed me now and that Jarod would need me when he came home. I had to be strong for them. I had to survive."
He dropped his eyes as she spoke, remembering his brother. He remembered his anger, his determination and, most of all, his plea that his parents never find out about the things Raines made him do. As his mother continued, Jarod wondered if, somehow, his brother knew the amount of comfort he had given their mother, as a toddler. He hoped he did.
"The day they took Kyle, the day they had both my sons, my heart shattered and, it was more painful than I thought possible. As much as I wanted to, though, I didn't die. Charles and I searched for our boys and I did everything I was supposed to do - I cried, I wrung my hands, I obsessed, I even laughed, when it was appropriate. To the outside world, I appeared to be a woman struggling with the loss of her sons.
Jarod's eyes flicked to Miss Parker. Though she wore the mask of the Ice Queen, he saw her uneasiness. Whatever response she had been looking for, when she asked her question, this was not it.
"But, Charles isn't a stupid man. He knew I had changed and did his best to keep me sane by giving me control. He taught me how to use a gun, how to fight, how to know when I was being followed and how to follow someone without being seen. My husband understood that the only emotions I felt anymore were terror for my children, hatred toward those who took them and guilt for allowing it to happen. He told me, time and again, that he felt the same way and, though I never doubted him, I wondered if he really understood how much I had changed. When I found out I was pregnant with Emily, I almost . . I considered . ."
Shaking her head, Margaret turned away and saw Jarod, for the first time. Standing no more than ten feet away, tears glistened in his eyes. While he stood there, dressed only in a T-shirt and pair of sweat pants, barefoot and wrapped in a thick white quilt, he looked younger than his forty-four years. In his eyes, she saw her little boy and Margaret found it difficult to find her voice.
"To answer your question, Miss Parker, no, I did not know Jarod was on Carthis," she finally said, never taking her eyes off her son, "If I had, I would never have left him."
"And, yet, after the accident, you left him on the river bank, unconscious and . . ."
"Parker, that's enough!"
-----------------------------