Parker fell asleep, and while asleep, she woke up.
In the way of dreams, she was convinced of facts that would seem bizarre in waking life. For one, she was convinced that she should expect someone beside her in bed, and just as convinced it should be… Jarod. Tommy? No, Jarod.
In the way of dreams, the next moment she was in her bathroom with no memory of having covered the intervening distance. The shower was running, steaming up the mirror, but nobody was inside. She knew that without having to check. She'd been here before, and besides, the dream told her: there is nobody in the shower. Go on, get to the next part. You know there's nobody there.
She didn't want to get to the next part. She didn't like the next part.
The next part was in the living room, where her belongings were strewn about, and they said: we're here to make it look like a robbery. Some of the books were floating, because her subconscious was having a bit of fun with this skewed re-enactment of one of the worst days of her life. That's kinda fun, let's have some books float.
Her bare feet, slipping on blood. The cane caught her at the last moment, kept her from falling. She already had the cane, though she hadn't at the time. At this stage, walking without it felt less natural than walking with it, and her sleeping brain couldn't remember a time without it.
Out onto the porch, now. Looking around and spotting the stacked wood, way more logs than they'd ever need for her little wood-burning stove. The sprawled form leaning against the wood. Her vision tunnelled and saw… she knew she'd see it, but it hit her like a truck anyway. Jarod, dead. The dream didn't bother with gory details. A little too-red blood around the mouth, that was all. He spoke, because dreams don't really get what death is all about, the same way a teddy bear doesn't understand a grizzly.
"Thank you for staying," said dead Jarod. The words were damp and salty, for some reason. How could words be damp? How could words be salty? Her sleeping brain didn't question it.
And then Parker woke up.
It took longer than it should have to sort out the facts. No, Jarod wasn't dead. No, he hadn't died like that, and he'd never slept in this bed. Tommy had died like that. That was back when Jarod was on the run and Parker was on pursuit detail. Jarod wasn't on the run anymore, either. He was sleeping in his little blue house a couple of blocks over. She'd see him tomorrow.
She looked over at her alarm clock. The digital display read 3:41 am. If she fell back to sleep now, she'd get another three-and-a-bit hours of sleep before her alarm sounded.
But she didn't fall asleep. Instead, she stared up at her ceiling, feeling disgusted with herself. That was Tommy's death. Why would her subconscious drop Jarod cut-and-paste style, right into Tommy's place in her memories? Such a cruel, tasteless thing for a mind to do. Just as she'd tainted the straightforward, unsullied, open nature of Thomas Gates with the ugly convolutions of her Centre ties while he was alive, now her sleeping brain was scribbling over the scene of his death with Centre-branded markers, like graffiti over cave paintings.
She stared at the ceiling for a long while before sleep overcame her once more. Her subconscious went back to work, weaving something more salacious this time. She didn't remember the second dream when she woke up.
"A car? You want our resident flight risk to have a car?"
Brigitte was sporting a baggy maternity top and a skeptical grimace. Parker's eyes kept flicking down to the slight suggestion of a bump around Brigitte's midsection. With a top that loose, she could be two months along or seven, there was no telling.
They'd returned from their third field mission the night before, after spending a long weekend up in Anchorage quelling a Teamster strike. It had been Jarod and Miss Parker's first mission on their own: no Lyle, no Sydney, no Broots. Theoretically, Lyle had been around, ready to jump in with field support when needed, but in practice, they hadn't bumped into him once. Their solitude might have been the makings of a disaster, but it hadn't been, to a disquieting extent: Jarod had done his job. Miss Parker had done her job. They'd quashed the strike, with no resistance from Jarod save for a couple of pointed comments about labour rights, all of which Parker had ignored.
For her part, Parker brought her own brand of chilly professionalism to Field Assignment #003, as it was dubbed on their briefing folders. On paper, her chief priority was to convince some Teamsters to back off their wage demands; in private, her chief priority was to pull away from the uncomfortable comfort that had crept up between herself and Jarod in the last couple of weeks. It had been easier than she dreaded, to the point of arousing suspicion. Jarod had been the perfect little worker bee. No personal comments, no passive aggression, no reminiscing about the past. Just… work.
She'd caught herself wondering whether Cox's disciplinary strategy had actually worked. The Centre had really gone and broken down Jarod into a compliant employee. That was, until his next shot, when all that boiling resentment bubbled to the surface.
By the time they got back, she was ready for a break. Which was why, now, she was making a formal request for a car for their resident flight risk.
"The Centre spent the week after San Juan spelling out in big, uppercase letters what precisely would happen if he ever entertains the thought of being a flight risk," said Parker. "He'd have to be pretty slow on the uptake not to get the idea by now: if he hits the bricks, he gets to spend one week minimum in his own personal hell."
"Plus, you don't want to carpool with him."
"Plus, I don't want to carpool with him."
Wonder of wonders: Brigitte smiled. A real smile, not the maniacal leer one gets while twirling one's moustache and tying a woman in pigtails to a set of railroad tracks. And at something Parker had said, no less.
"I thought you and the brain boy were getting along," said Brigitte. "Lots of mixed signals here. First, you agree to stay on past the month-long probationary period without even attempting to negotiate some additional employee benefits out of the deal, now you want to get him his own vehicle just 'cause you can't bear to sit alone with him for an extra half-hour each day. Trouble in paradise?"
"I could've negotiated extra benefits? Damn."
Another smile. Was Brigitte on uppers? That couldn't be good for the baby.
"I'll think about it," said Brigitte. She paused. "No, you know what, sure. I'll make it happen, I'll put an allowance on a card, you'll have it by five. If nothing else, it'll make my next request go down smoother."
Parker's eyes narrowed. "What is it?" she said flatly, already dreading the so-called "request".
Brigitte leaned in close and dropped her voice to just above a whisper. "I can't order you to do this, but I strongly recommend that you keep an eye on Jarod after clock-out today. That is, overnight."
"Keep an eye on him?" echoed Parker. "Why — is someone trying to hurt him? … More than usual?"
"No, and even if they were, you'd make a terrible bodyguard… no offence. What I had in mind was more in the vein of a stakeout. The guys on security are expecting him to make a move tonight. If you're there, you could keep him from doing something he'll regret or, if the mood strikes you, let him do it and make him regret it after the fact."
Make a move?
"What exactly are these 'guys on security' expecting? And how do we even have this level of intel on Jarod? The surveillance equipment you installed in his house has all been destroyed."
This brought Brigitte up short. "Destr—what do you mean?"
"The same week he moved in, I spotted a pile of crushed mics and bugs on the kitchen counter. I assume those were ours."
Brigitte's face puckered like she'd bitten into a stalk of rhubarb.
She swore. "I hoped he'd only deactivated them. We spent a fortune on that surveillance system. He got most of them, yes. Not all of them, though the ones we have left are outside and have an imperfect view of anything helpful. He was pretty thorough."
"He tends to be. He's likely to spot a stakeout, too."
They'd reached the sim lab. Inside, the key players in the QS-9300 field team were setting up for the morning's work. Brigitte came to a halt and gave Miss Parker a companionable back-slap. Parker jumped forward with a look of searing indignation.
"Just keep an eye on him, okay? One night only. You don't have to keep it a secret if you aren't up to it. If you like, you can even take him to The Slippery Fork again. Make an evening of it."
The Slippery Fork? How did she…? Parker's eyes bulged.
"You're having me followed?"
"I'd be within my rights, but no," said Brigitte cheerfully. "You're not the only Centre employee who enjoys their fried pickles."
On that enigmatic note, she departed.
From the direction of the sim lab came the voice of Broots: "Miss Parker, you're here!"
Parker tore her eyes away from Brigitte's retreating back. Broots came trotting up, looking much more cheerful than when she'd last seen him. Over by his usual observation post, Sydney granted her a wave before burying his nose once more in his notes.
"Observant as always, Broots," she said. "What's on the menu today?"
"Brigitte didn't tell you? We're doing a lab sim."
Parker looked around. "Yes, that much is obvious, based on the… what is that?"
In the middle of the floor sat a… contraption. It looked like something from a 1970s sci-fi TV show; all it was missing was superfluous blinking lights. It looked like an enormous chess pawn wearing a curtain as a dress. It looked like an elegant robot in a very tight belt.
"It's a replica prototype of the Soyuz TMA." So saying, Jarod emerged from behind the prototype, pulling a bright blue jumpsuit over his shoulders. "Russian spacecraft."
"I thought we had cut ties with Roscosmos," said Parker.
"Things change," said Sydney without looking up. "I gather it was a negotiating point in the last meeting between your father and the Triumvirate. He demanded they support his efforts to excommunicate Raines. They demanded, among other things, that we start accepting contracts from the Russians. Everyone got something they wanted. Today's is the first sim we'll do for them since the sixties."
The Triumvirate must be particularly attached to this Roscosmos contract, because they'd been digging in their heels about Raines for months, with no solid explanation as to why he was worthy of their support after staging an attempted coup and — worse, in the eyes of such people who staffed the Triumvirate — failing at said coup. Daddy was getting nervous; with that kind of power behind him, even a fugitive Raines could pose a threat. At The Slippery Fork, Jarod had admitted to finding Raines's fugitive status to be pretty damn funny — truly, the shoe was on the other foot.
Over at the observation desk, Parker read over Sydney's shoulder.
"Optimal provisions," she mused as she read. "For a manned flight, I take it?"
Sydney nodded. "It's always important to cut down on weight when one is leaving the Earth's atmosphere, obviously, and at the same time they'd also like to cut down on costs. Jarod is going to simulate a few hours in the craft and get us some preliminary data."
Jarod patted one of the struts. "It's an honour. She's beautiful."
Beautiful. Parker's mind travelled back to their night at The Slippery Fork, before they'd left for Anchorage. His innocuous compliment, her disproportionate reaction. Christ, as far as she knew, she may even have blushed.
"Don't tell me you're looking forward to this, Jarod?" she said. "You're very bright and bushy-tailed for a guy we've had to drag kicking and screaming into field missions."
The mission to San Juan and its immediate aftermath were still fresh in everyone's minds, Anchorage having done little to cleanse the palate. Sydney and Broots both ducked their heads to dodge the inevitable reaction. Jarod, however, replied with a radiant grin.
"That's exactly why I'm looking forward to this. The field missions so far have involved the risk of hurting others directly. Here, the worst harm I can do is indirect." He gazed adoringly up at the Soyuz TMA, his co-Pretender for the day. "Besides… it's space. I've only been once, but it's an incredible experience."
"You've been to — no, what am I saying, of course you've been to space," said Parker. It would be foolish to be surprised at this point. "Syd — a few hours, you said? So Jarod will be done by clock-out?"
Jarod paused mid-way through lacing a pair of thick-soled boots, raising his head to listen.
"Yes," said Sydney. "Well, the sim won't necessarily be done, but we're not working late. We can pick it up again tomorrow if there's more to do."
"Do we have plans I don't know about, Miss Parker?" asked Jarod. His tone was light and teasing. It was a little surreal seeing him in such a good mood. "If it's dinner, I insist on paying."
He didn't say again, he didn't say this time. He stopped short of advertising to the rest of the room that they'd shared a drunken meal at The Slippery Fork. Something in Parker's head pushed back against this pointless discretion. There was nothing there worth hiding.
"No, you won't. You won't pay for anything, any more than you paid for drinks the other night. Lyle will. How he hasn't frozen the credit card you stole, I can't pretend to understand. I guess he's even more of an idiot than I thought."
Jarod laughed. It was a full, joyous laugh, too big for the space. It made the miserable environs shrink and cringe before it.
"Oh, he has. He also froze the credit card before that, and the one before that," he said, still laughing. "You didn't say anything about it, I wasn't sure you'd noticed."
"You paid for a water bed, chances were pretty good you were using somebody else's funds." Parker couldn't help a snicker. "Poor, dear Lyle. He must be regretting some of his choices these days."
Jarod's smile shifted to something a little darker.
"If he isn't now, he will soon."
Broots, whose head had jerked up in alarm upon Parker's mention of Jarod paying for drinks the other night, watched the exchange like a tennis match, brow furrowed. He coughed in shock at the words water bed.
"How do you know—" he started.
"By the way, Broots," said Jarod, his voice lowering to a confidential register. "Miss Parker told me you, ah, visited me. When I was on the Renewal Wing."
Broots threw a betrayed look Miss Parker's way. She mouthed an obstinate "what?" back at him.
"Uh, yeah," he said, turning back to Jarod. "Your last day locked up. Sorry? Everyone else had seen what your, that is, what it… what it's all about. What you, you go through. I thought I would be more informed if I saw you with my own two eyes."
"No, I get it," said Jarod. He shrugged, deliberately casual. "I'd want to know, if it were someone I was working with. Listen, I'm sorry if what you saw scared you. It scares me, too."
Broots looked like he'd been caught in a butterfly net, desperate to escape but immobilized by his aversion to offending others.
"That's, no, you didn't scare me," said Broots. He made a face; even for Broots, it had been a clumsy lie. "Well, okay, you did. But it wasn't you, I understand that. I'm not crazy about that other guy who takes over, but—" He broke off with a nervous laugh. "If we do our jobs right, maybe we'll never have to see him again."
Jarod nodded slowly, his smile sliding away. "Maybe."
"Alright, time for final preparations," Sydney called out. "First trial provisions batch loaded. Jarod, are you ready? I'll be sealing you in the Soyuz in three minutes."
Parker watched Jarod duck into the beached spacecraft, curious despite herself.
"So, how does this work? It… spins?"
"Basically," said Jarod. "I can explain more later, when Sydney lets me out." He tilted his head, the forty-five-degree angle presumably allowing him a deeper analysis of her person. "Do we have plans after this?"
"In fact, we do," she said. "We're going car shopping. Brigitte is putting an allowance on a card for you."
Jarod blinked at her. "Why would—" A slow smile spread over his face. "Miss Parker! Did you vouch for me?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"You're getting comfortable again, brain boy." She swung the hatch shut in his face, and raised her voice to a yell so her words would permeate the convoluted insulation. The last thing she saw before the hatch closed was his still-broad smile, like Alice's Cheshire cat. "Think it over! Field trip to the car dealership at five!"
Jarod hunkered down in the Soyuz TMA, leaving Parker to the task of conning herself into dismissing her misgivings. She was being professional. He was being professional, too. They were being nothing less than entirely professional.
And if anyone tells you different, they're looking too far into it.
Parker dismissed Brigitte's suggestion out of hand; there was no way in hell that she planned to hang out with Jarod all evening. Ever since that first dream — slipping on blood in her living room, thank you for staying — every time Jarod smiled at her, she felt something inside her curl away, like a snail into its shell at the first touch of snow. The dream had returned several times since then, each rerun airing with minor variations. Sometimes Jarod's eyes would be red, sometimes clear. Sometimes she checked the shower, sometimes she didn't bother.
Being around Jarod was hard, in part because being around Jarod was much easier than it had any right to be. It was a phenomenon she'd noticed back during their predator/prey days. They could be at each other's throats when the immediate circumstances pitted them against each other, but without that framework of antagonism, they fell back easily on the long-established foundations of Jarod-and-Miss-Parker, the foundations that started back when they were both young and naïve enough to believe the Centre would let their friendship live.
They weren't friends, that was for damn sure. Jarod's friend wouldn't now be sitting in a car outside his house, headlights off, staking out his place.
At the car dealership, Parker had expected him to pick out something flashy and pricey, something that would max out the allowance and give him an excuse to put the difference on Lyle's stolen card. Always one to dash her expectations, he'd picked out a sensible station wagon with the most impressive cargo space on the lot. It sat in his driveway now, collecting a thin strip of frost along the bottom of each window. She had followed him back from the car dealership, always making sure to keep two cars between his car and hers. Still, she couldn't be positive he hadn't spotted her.
A detour had taken him to the post office, where he'd picked up three packages. He had emerged from the post office with two of the three in his arms, while a postal worker trailed him, carrying the third. The two of them laughed and talked like old friends. The postal worker pointed at the car with an expression of surprise — so, he knew Jarod well enough to know the car was new. How much mail was Jarod getting, exactly?
He had been home for around two hours now. Parker was parked on the same side of the road as the house, behind another car, so he couldn't simply look out his window and spot her. Through her binoculars, she'd watched him put dinner together. The driver's side window was cracked wide enough to admit the dinner's drifting aroma and set Parker's stomach to rumbling — what it was, she wasn't sure, but by the smell of it, mushrooms, shallots and garlic featured heavily. She had grabbed a sandwich from the Centre cafeteria on the way out from work, knowing she wouldn't be home for dinner. The sandwich was not now faring well in the comparison with whatever was sizzling on Jarod's stovetop.
Her chosen stakeout spot had an excellent view of the kitchen, but only a very narrow angle of the living room. It wasn't simply a matter of moving the car, either — Jarod had installed curtains and replaced the flimsy blinds with a more robust set. A sliver of the living room was visible through a hallway leading off from the kitchen, but other than that, the living room was invisible from the street. So, of course, after Jarod finished dinner and washed up, he disappeared into the living room.
No Monday night on the town for Jarod, apparently. That was fine in Miss Parker's book. Tailing him around town would have been a bitch and a half.
A creeping uneasiness overcame Parker as the minutes ticked by and no sign of Jarod's activities presented itself. He was likely reading, or on that new computer he'd bought. Nevertheless, something rang dissonant in her brain as another hour passed and the only evidence of Jarod's presence was the illuminated lights in the kitchen.
This wouldn't leave her alone, she would have to take it on foot. She grabbed her binoculars and her cane and slipped out of the car, taking care not to make a sound as she shut the door behind her. In neighbourhoods as close-knit as theirs, even an unexpected car door slam could be cause for comment.
A bit of sparse shrubbery lined the perimeter of Jarod's property, and Parker found out quickly that crouching on grass behind a four-foot-high shrub wall was absolute murder on a nerve-damaged leg. Ruing her placid decision to obey Brigitte's not-order — keep an eye on Jarod after clock-out today — she skirted the edge of the property, pausing occasionally to take the weight off her leg and rub at her arms. The Blue Cove nights had started to dip below freezing, and under her insufficient coat and thin scarf, her muscles seized up in the cold.
She turned the corner around to the southern boundary of the property, looked to the house and quickly ducked — there was Jarod, coming out of his bathroom with a toothbrush jutting out of the corner of his mouth. As she looked on, he puttered his way through the froth of a prototypical bedtime ritual. He was reading the same book she'd been reading during that first visit down to SL-25. Could be that he'd noticed it at the time and decided to check it out.
Parker let out an exasperated breath through puffed-up cheeks. What was she doing here? Jarod clearly planned to stay in for the night. Then, alarm bells rang — what if Brigitte had ordered her to Jarod's place as a ruse to keep her out of the way? And if so… out of the way of what? Since Parker would be home right now if Brigitte hadn't ordered her elsewhere, "out of the way" could only mean "away from home". Parker followed the theory where it led, even as it grew more outlandish and paranoid. Was Brigitte (or more likely, sweepers following Brigitte's orders) burglarizing her house this very minute? She couldn't imagine what Brigitte could want in her house, but she couldn't see an alternative. Why else would Brigitte send Parker to become Jarod's personal voyeur for the night?
She didn't feel truly voyeuristic, however, until Jarod shed his shirt in preparation for heading to bed. Knowing her luck, this would be just when the neighbour with the over-watered begonias would spot her and raise the alarm. By morning, she'd have gained a permanent neighbourhood reputation as a peeping tom.
(She wouldn't be above a cursory ogle, if not for the angry bruises still marring his left shoulder and back. These stood out on his skin, inadvertent tattoos from his time in room six, souvenirs of wrestling with cleaners, the furniture, and not one but two separate straitjackets.)
"To hell with this," she muttered to herself, and set off back toward her car. Seconds later, Jarod's bedroom light went dark, plunging her into darkness mid-step.
Parker had just rounded the corner, the car once more in sight, when she heard a sound. It recalled to mind a sound from her childhood, when her family had visited a family friend on his private island off the southern shore of Lake Erie. Much of the island had been wilderness, and while adventuring on the western tip of the island, far from the main house, she'd been expected to use an outhouse, much to her disgust. The sound of the outhouse door opening made that same sound: flexing, bending, wet wood sucking at its frame and, with a final tug, wobbling open.
She froze and peered through the darkness. After a few long, carefully silent minutes, a crouching shape slunk away from the house, visible only because it was several degrees darker than the surrounding black. The shape headed west, straight away from Parker's position.
There wasn't any mistaking that shape. Jarod was not going to bed any time soon. What had all that been about, then — brushing his teeth, getting into pyjamas, reading a bedtime story? Pantomime, perhaps, for the benefit of the remaining security devices on the premises? Possibly. After all, Brigitte had mentioned there were a few still functioning, albeit with poor angles of the house. Or perhaps he'd even noticed Parker's car on the road, and the pantomime was for her.
A year ago, she might have kept up with him on foot, but that was before getting hit with a ricocheting bullet and later self-discharging against medical advice. She watched him sprint for a tree line to the west before she turned and limped as fast as she could back to the car.
If the dice had rolled anything but boxcars, that would have been the last she saw of him 'til the morning. As it was, while trawling through the gloom with her headlights off, her eye snagged on a moving patch of blackness two blocks over. She followed him at a distance, eyes glued to her binoculars. Jarod wove an S-like pattern through row upon row of houses, skirting the glows of street lamps as he went. At the outskirts of the neighbourhood, he slipped through the gates of a self-storage yard. Parker parked a block down the road. She couldn't follow him in, not without being spotted. So she waited. Minutes later, Jarod re-emerged from the yard, now behind the wheel of…
"God damn it, Jarod, are you serious?" Parker muttered under her breath. She was bent forward across her steering wheel, squinting into the gloom. "You bought the same car twice?"
Same forest green station wagon, same roomy cargo space. Different license plate. For a moment, she considered he might merely have swapped the license plate, but no, she'd seen the new purchase sitting in his driveway before he left.
A few minutes later, Jarod merged onto the highway; five cars behind, his handler did the same. All the while, she bent her mind towards unravelling the most convoluted, irritating mind in the continental United States — what would drive someone to buy two copies of the same vehicle? Assuming, of course, that he wasn't simply an enormous fan of green station wagons. Each explanation she conjured was more convoluted than the last.
Whatever his reasons, they soon faded into the background as Parker recognized the route they were taking: they were headed back to Centre headquarters.
"A little late-night snooping, Jarod?" whispered Parker. It was nothing she hadn't done herself, so she was hardly in a position to judge. The problem was, if Brigitte's warning was anything to go by, the Centre already knew Jarod was coming. Breaking into headquarters was an efficient shortcut to another round of punishments. Could he survive another week in room six, so soon after his last Renewal Wing sojourn?
The station wagon pulled off the highway onto the side of the road. Parker frowned; they hadn't arrived at Centre headquarters yet. No longer troubling to keep her distance from the station wagon, she drew her car up behind it and turned off the ignition. A thin copse of bare trees separated the highway from a modest vineyard and, beyond that, an open field. The boxy shape of Centre HQ cast its severe silhouette against the distant sky, visible by the glow of dimly lit windows and maintenance lighting.
It was no use squinting through the windshield, she couldn't see where he'd gone. Armed with cane and binoculars, she got out of the car and almost immediately began to shiver. She combed the landscape with her eyes until — there! There, again, was the Jarod-shaped smudge, darting through the rows of dead vines, breaching the vineyard's limits, pausing like a deer on the edge of a thicket, sprinting across the field. Her binoculars pressed against her eye sockets, as if the pressure would help her see further and sharper. Finally, Jarod stopped at some sort of industrial access installation, some unobtrusive slab of concrete she must have seen thousands of times before but never considered.
When it became clear that Jarod was intent on lowering himself into the thing, Parker lowered her binoculars. So that was how Jarod used to get in and out of the Centre, she thought. We had a revolving door we knew nothing about.
That revelation could wait. Jarod had already infiltrated headquarters, and if she was to catch up, she needed to move fast.
