"Hey, uh, Miss Parker?" said Broots. "Could I have a word? In private?"

A wretchedly early dusk was settling over the living room of Broots's bed-and-breakfast — formerly shared with Parker, he now had the run of the place. This was a perk of not being undercover. Jarod and "Marcie Jamison" both had to appear stampeded under the hooves of life to seem like likely candidates for The Serene Few, so they'd both been allocated run-down apartments in the cheap part of town. Broots, meanwhile, was free to live as upscale as the QS-9300 budget allowed.

Parker and Jarod were living on the principle that, without explicit evidence to the contrary, they must assume they were being watched at all times. This meant lots of trips to the unemployment office, the gym, and Narcotics Anonymous meetings for Jarod. For Parker, it meant going to offices around town and masquerading (not Pretending, mind you) as a temp, and hanging around Jarod's apartment in the evenings, with occasional overnight stays. They ran into Webster and Sandra twice more, once at the market and once at a yoga class. The cultist couple was always very friendly, very effusive, very much on the point of offering an invite to their beloved commune… but never quite following through.

It was necessary, from time to time, to check in with Broots. He didn't want to be spotted anywhere near their apartments, so they came to him. A heat run around town, with lots of unpredictable turns, sudden stops, u-turns and lane changes, should be enough to shake any possible tails. Jarod had just left Broots's place, post-group meeting; Parker was about to do the same when Broots called her back.

"What is it?" she said.

"Ah… oh, boy, this is awkward." Broots sat in a winged armchair and leaned his elbows on his knees. He stared at his hands. "I'm still not one hundred percent sure I should tell you."

Parker rolled her eyes. "Spit it out or I'm gone."

Broots stared at her for a long moment, chewing his bottom lip with an agonized air.

"Okay. Okay. So… you know how the Centre records all the answering machine messages left for both of you, to transcribe and compile for your reports? Mostly in case anyone from The Serene Few calls."

Parker hadn't known, but it wasn't a huge shock. The Centre had never had an award-winning grasp on privacy.

"Sure," she said.

"Well. I intercepted a message yesterday on Jarod's machine. Intercepted and deleted, 'cause I don't… hm. I don't necessarily want Jarod getting in trouble for this. Especially not before I get your take on it."

A prickly feeling at the back of Parker's neck made her shoulders shift. A phone message that would get Jarod in trouble — what could that be? Emily, reaching out? That could get him in trouble, but why would it make Broots look so constipated?

"What was on it?"

"Here," he said, and pressed a button on his keyboard. The audio crackled to life.

"Afternoon, Jarod, hope you're well. This is Hazel, from next door." The voice on the message belonged to an older woman by the sounds of it, a pack-a-day sort of voice. "Listen, you're a great guy, very sweet, but I've reached my limit after today. I'm very happy for you and the young lady visiting you, but when I'm doing my crossword, I need to have some peace and quiet. I can't be listening through the wall to you two getting frisky. It sounds like a lot of fun, but it's best done quietly. Thanks so much, love. You're staying safe, right? Ah, it's not my business. Ta-ta for now."

The message began to loop, but Broots pressed a button to stop it.

"Yeah. There you go," he said.

Parker wasn't sure whether to laugh or fly out the door to go throttle Jarod's next-door neighbour. To hell with Hazel, and to hell with her crosswords, too. Was Parker embarrassed? Not particularly. She'd lived in student residence during college, she knew the reality of living in proximity to other people. A little noise was part of the bargain. More than embarrassment, she resented the difficulty this would create. She didn't need this shit.

"Okay," she said. "And you're wetting your pants about this because…?"

This was clearly not what Broots expected, or wanted, to hear.

"Are you kidding? We're in the middle of an assignment. Jarod's supposed to be undercover, and he's inviting some girl over for, for… congress! I mean, I get the guy has needs, but now hardly seems like the time, right?"

"Some—" Parker bit off her indignation. Broots didn't realize that the other person at Jarod's place had been her. Was there half an exit plan out of this, after all? Maybe Jarod would get a stern talking-to from Broots, of all people, but at least there would be no danger of the team being dissolved.

(The worst-case scenario definitely wasn't "what if the team was dissolved?", but Parker didn't know how to articulate this specific dread, even in the privacy of her own head.)

"Though, come to think of it, I'm not sure when the right time would be," Broots was saying. "I don't know. At the very least, I'd be worried about the neighbours blowing his cover if he's seen with someone else."

"Yeah, can't have that," Parker said, with ironic joviality. "I'll talk to him."

Broots looked like his birthday had come early. "Oh, God, would you? Not that I can't, it's just… you know, you two know each other a little better than I know him, since you go way back. I wouldn't know what to say to him."

"I've got a pretty good idea what to say." Probably something about the acoustics in Jarod's bathroom. She remembered the day of the complaint. They'd made excellent — albeit over-amplified — use of the shower. "Leave it to me."

"I will. Thank you," Broots gushed. He leaned forward, dropping into his usual tech support role. "Do you need to know who it was? The identity of the woman? 'Cause I could probably figure that out for you. I could, hm. Yeah, I could narrow things down from the timeline, take a look at the building's surveillance tapes. That would have been Thursday around… two? Yeah, two." Parker opened her mouth to shut him up; him checking surveillance feeds was the last thing she needed. Broots bulldozed onwards: he had puzzle-solving blinders on now. "Two o'clock, or around there, because that's right after Hazel brings in the paper. She's like clockwork, you can set your watch by her, it's kinda funny. You know — you know! You might even have bumped into this woman in the hallway, since that's around when you were scheduled to give… Jarod… his…"

Broots's sentence ground to a halt as realization washed over him. Parker cursed internally.

"… Shot," she said quietly.

Penny, dropped.

Parker watched her friend for signs of overreaction. Broots stared back, jaw hanging agape. He rearranged his mouth three times, ready to start three different sentences, none of which reached the air. He swallowed.

"There isn't another woman," he said hoarsely.

It wasn't a question. There wasn't much point in denying it.

"No."

"It was you."

"Yep."

"With Jarod."

"Yeah, and Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick. Have you short-circuited?"

"Jarod?"

"Jesus Christ, yes," Parker snapped. "And? What's your problem?"

Broots blustered. "I don't even know how to begin to answer that. I could start with the fact that you've been chasing him for years — I used to think you hated him! And now you're, what, you're together?"

A corrosive noise of disdain from Parker's throat. "Together, Christ alive. You sound like a gossiping teenager. We aren't going steady, we haven't exchanged promise rings and letterman jackets. It's sex. It's fun. Don't have an aneurysm."

She wasn't an idiot. On some level, she knew, this was about jealousy for Broots. The guy had tried his best to hide his little crush, but it had been obvious for a while. He was usually reasonably mature about it — he'd always seemed happy for her and Thomas, for one — but she could see how Jarod might be a different picture. Why, she wasn't sure.

Broots dragged his hands down over his mouth and chin.

"That's why Jarod suggested you come with him," he said. His face screwed up in contempt. "And why he suggested posing as his girlfriend. Kind of selfish, isn't it? Putting you in danger just so he can get off."

Parker pushed herself to her feet, cane first.

"He didn't put me in danger, I'm doing my job. At least he trusts me to do anything he can do. Apparently, even though you know who I am and what I'm capable of, you still think less of me than that."

"I don't mean the assignment, you can handle that. I mean — him! He is dangerous, I know you know that! What if you were… together… and he went supernova, what then?"

"I'd handle it. I'm the only one who could handle it, remember." She turned on her heel and headed for the door. "Don't think I didn't notice, you weren't worried about safety when you thought he was sleeping with some random woman."


Parker wished for an excuse to avoid Broots until he cooled down, and for her sins, her wish was granted. The excuse came in the form of a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," said Parker. Jarod was elbow-deep in suds and dishes.

She opened the door to reveal Sandra and Webster Pike. Sandra tapped her toes together and waved eagerly.

"Marcie, hi! I'm so glad we got the right place."

Seconds later, Jarod came around the corner with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and soap dripping from his fingers. His stance had already shifted to that of the prospective cultist he was playing.

"Sandra, Webster! It's so good to see you guys. I must be so out of it, I don't remember giving you my address, that's… man, I gotta get my act together."

"Oh, you didn't," said Webster. To his meagre credit, he seemed embarrassed to admit it. Although, it could be an act. "You were in the book, we let our fingers do the walking."

And he did the finger-walking gesture, index and middle fingers extended downwards like the logo from the Yellow Pages.

(Jarod was not in the book. He hadn't lived in Fredericton for nearly long enough. Presumably, Webster was relying on an assumption that Jarod was not the brightest knife in the shed.)

"Oh!" said Jarod, brightening. "In that case, welcome! You should have called ahead, I could have thrown something together. Do you want, uh…" He opened the fridge and stared in. "Cream soda?"

Parker couldn't help a fond smile. That was one thing she'd learned about Jarod since the beginning of Project QS-9300: he had the mother of all sweet tooths. She couldn't relate, but it was oddly endearing.

The Pikes laughed and declined.

"No, we're not here to stay long. We… this is a little momentous, actually," said Sandra. "Up north in our cozy community, we're pretty private. We don't warm up easily to new people — that's the whole point, or part of it, that we're putting the crowds behind us! But we have a really good feeling about you two. And, well…"

"We wondered if you'd like to visit us," said Webster, taking over. "Maybe for the week, or even just a weekend? We'd love to have you."

"That would be amazing!" said Jarod. "When? I've been daydreaming non-stop about this, about how cool it would be to visit a commune. Hell, to live on a commune — but hey, one thing at a time, eh?"

Jarod had even mastered the subtleties of the Canadian "eh?".

"That's very generous of you," said Parker. "Would your friends be okay with that?" She tried not to appear too eager. Jarod had established a character who was game for anything, but "Marcie" was a little more cautious. The eagerness was there, however, bubbling away in her chest. The sooner they got to the commune, the sooner they could dig their teeth into Gwen and the rest of the wayward cultists, and the sooner they could all go home.

"We asked them," said Webster. "They're all very excited to meet you. Both of you."

"Where would we stay?" asked Parker.

A secret smile snuck across Sandra's lips. "You'll see." She took a folded piece of paper out of her purse and handed it to Parker. "I wrote down the directions, you can come by any time, no rush. If you get lost along the way, ask any local for directions to Val-des-Soucis."

Parker's talent for languages kicked in.

"Val-des-Soucis — that's ambiguous, isn't it? Is it Valley of Marigolds, or Valley of Worries?"

"Oh, marigolds, definitely," said Sandra. "Not a single worry to be found."


They gave it a day of prep before heading north to Val-des-Soucis. Not knowing what to expect, they packed as if preparing for a long-term camping trip. This included a month's worth of counteragent, using pessimistic projections for what a month's worth would amount to. There was some early fretting about the potential for Jarod to scarper with the larger-than-usual stock, but realistically, a month's worth of counteragent was still not enough to keep Jarod afloat long enough to study its makeup. Plus, he no longer had a laboratory to study in.

Broots checked in often, clearly not comfortable enough to physically chaperone his co-workers, but doing everything short of that. Parker and Jarod set out early the next day, the back window obscured by duffel bags and (one of Jarod's contributions) a tarp for catching water in.

"You really think they won't have potable water there? They said they have electricity," Parker pointed out.

"Can't hurt," said Jarod, so they brought the tarp.

It was a relief to get on the road, to feel like they were finally making forward progress. Their route took them off the main highway and onto the back roads, through hills that must have been lovely in summer, but in January were wave upon wave of gravel-stained snow.

"Do you know why Broots kept looking at me like…" Jarod trailed off. It was the first thing he'd voiced since he had, with complete earnestness, offered to teach Parker how to sing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.

"Like he thinks you're gonna steal into his house in the middle of the night and murder him in his sleep? I noticed, yeah."

"He's not still scared of me, is he?"

"Oh, he definitely is," said Parker. Jarod's face fell. "That's not why he was giving you the eye, though." She sighed. "Apparently your neighbour Hazel heard us and left a message. Broots knows how we've been spending our time."

"Oh. You mean…?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." He looked more uncomfortable than she felt. "Should we be worried about that little fact getting back to the Triumvirate?"

Where Parker's reaction had been a hearty broth of irritation, exasperation, and indignation, Jarod's knee-jerk response was disquiet. Perhaps that stood to reason. Parker stood to lose less than Jarod did, she knew. That had always been true. Just because the risk was part of the appeal for her, didn't mean it had to be for him.

"No. It's Broots, he'll be discreet."

To a point, she didn't say.

Val-des-Soucis was so small that they drove past it without noticing. At first glance, it looked more like a couple of houses on the side of the road, and old houses at that. It was little more than that on second glance, a two-by-three grid of roads, overwhelmingly residential, with a modest general store at its centre. As Jarod pulled up into the store's parking lot, a man with strawberry blond hair and a former high school quarterback's build came out, severely under-dressed for the weather. The man waited until Jarod opened the door before he spoke.

"What're you after?" he said. He had his hackles up from the first syllable.

"After? Friends and a good time, I s'pose," answered Jarod, his accent automatically converging on that of their one-man welcoming committee.

The man squinted. "Do you need directions?"

"Is this Val-des-Soucis?" asked Parker.

"It was," said the man. "Now it's ours. How'd you hear about Val-des-Soucis?"

"Friends, as I said," said Jarod. "Sandra and Webster, know 'em? This is a pretty small place, I assume everyone knows everyone."

The change which then came over the man was startling. The cold, gruff demeanour melted away, and an enormous smile appeared from the ether.

"Yes, of course, you must be Jarod and Marcie! We've heard so much about you, all good things. I'm Clint, Clint Friesen, I'm… well, 'mayor' is too civilized a word. I'm just the person who lived here before everybody else."

He held out his hand, and Jarod pumped it enthusiastically.

"Thanks for the warm welcome, Clint. This might sound weird, but the Pikes said we'd find out where we'd be staying once we got here. Does that make sense to you?"

Clint laughed. He had a laugh that was all mouth; his eyes did nothing while his mouth did all the work.

"It sure does. Listen to this: you can just go ahead and pick a house. Any house within the bounds of these couple of streets, as long as its door is bare, it's up for grabs."

"Just move in with whoever's there?" said Parker. This had been one of the things she was worried about: would they be able to get any privacy, or would they be forced to stay in-character the whole time they were there?

"Nah," said Clint. "There isn't anybody there."

Parker caught up.

"They're vacant. Abandoned houses."

"Gold star for you, Miss Marcie! Val-des-Soucis is a bona fide ghost town. It never did any what you could call thriving, but there were people here. They all trickled out, homes repossessed when the gypsum mine went defunct. Now…" He took a great whiff of the cold, sharp air. "Now it's home."

"So you're squatters?" said Parker skeptically.

"That's an ugly word, though I like how it sounds as though we've all got fantastic quadriceps." Clint winked. It took some effort from Parker not to recoil in revulsion. "The houses being empty isn't doing the previous owners any good, is it? No harm done."

"That's a good point," said Jarod. "We'll scope it out — how's that sound, my love?"

"Yep," Parker managed. She hadn't adjusted to all the pet names. Though she'd had boyfriends before, pet names had never been part of the equation. Sweetheart, that one she categorically did not like. It reminded her too much of her father talking to Brigitte. My love… that one felt ill-fitting. But then, the whole farce was ill-fitting.

"Pop over to my place around dinner time, we'll have a welcoming party. Always nice to have an excuse to party," said Clint, turning back to the general store entrance. "I gotta go back inside, I'm freezing my gonads off. See you later!"

"Wait, where's your place?" called Jarod after him.

"Big one! Red roof!" was Clint's only reply. When your town was as small as Val-des-Soucis, you didn't need street addresses.

A new custom of The Serene Few revealed itself as they browsed for a spot to stay: houses which were spoken for had a gorgeous, intricate marigold painted on the door. This is what Clint had meant by finding a bare door. The vacant houses had no marigolds and were outnumbered by marked houses.

The two of them scoped out the house closest to the highway, but it was drafty and there were patches of mould on the ceilings. The second house they looked at had similar issues, and the third was too far from the main road — if they needed to get out fast and quiet, road access would be ideal. Eventually, they settled on a house, a skinny thing with creaking stairs and flaking, dark green paint. It was also the only house that had been fully furnished, outfitted like a bed-and-breakfast. Sure, they had technically been given a choice of lodgings. They could choose to bed down in a drafty, mouldy, unfurnished box with their sleeping bags in the middle of a Canadian winter… or they could survive the night. In a practical sense, the choice had been made for them. The tailored choice also happened to be the house right next to Clint's.

Parker set her overnight things down in a bedroom on the top floor; if one was charitable, one could label it the "master bedroom". Jarod watched her unpack for a moment before lugging his duffel to the bedroom on the ground floor.

Parker was scoping out the kitchen when two big, curious eyes appeared at the window, staring out of a round, friendly face. A familiar face. The eyes and face belonged to Gwen, the daughter of Terry and Harjinder Boyce, their clients for this assignment. Parker's eyes met Gwen's, and Gwen startled.

"Oh — hi!" said the new arrival, her voice muffled by the glass. She looked around her for inspiration, apparently paralyzed by indecision, then rapped at the door. "Hello, hello! Can I come in?" She opened the door a crack. "Is — is this alright, can I come in?"

"If you want, but please hurry. You're letting the heat out." There wasn't much heat to let out. Parker had pulled on her thickest sweater before coming downstairs, and her fingertips were aching where they'd touched frost-bitten silverware. Gwen tiptoed in like she was afraid she'd wake the dead if she stepped too heavily. She carried a plate full of cookies on a baking pan, and she wore a knee-length woollen dress.

"Welcome to the neighbourhood," she said, in a half-whisper. "I wanted to stop by and welc… welcome you to the neighbourhood. I already said that." She giggled nervously. "Oops."

"Twice as nice the second time," said Parker, feeling the overpowering urge to reassure her new neighbour, though for what, she didn't know. "Is there a reason you're whispering?"

"Whispering? No," Gwen whispered. She cleared her throat and raised her voice to the point that it sounded like she was projecting for an audience. "No, no reason. I thought maybe your husband was taking a nap. Long trip and all. My husband is napping now, he wants to be rested for the party."

"Jarod's not my husband," said Parker.

"Oh — I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have assumed."

"It's alright."

Parker had known Gwen for about thirty seconds, but had made the firm decision that Gwen was a lot. She seemed to treat everything and everyone as a potential explosive. If she wasn't under orders to get cozy with Gwen and bring her home safe and un-brainwashed, she might already have seized her by the shoulders and shaken her until all the caution fell out by her ears.

"I'm your next-door neighbour. Gwen. Did I mention that? I live next door, in the house with the red roof. I brought you cookies. Do you like chocolate chip? If you don't, I can make ginger snaps, too. Do you want ginger snaps?"

"No, no, chocolate chip is perfect," said Parker. Gwen's words caught up to her. "You're in the house with the red roof? I thought Clint lived there."

"He does! That's my hubby," said Gwen with a fond smile.

Parker gave the girl a second once-over. Gwen couldn't be much older than twenty; in fact, if Parker was remembering her file right, she was twenty years old exactly. Clint, on the other hand, was pushing forty. Legal, yes, but not comfortably so.

A floorboard creaked, announcing Jarod's arrival.

"If you're here, and Clint is napping, who's putting the party together?" he asked. Gwen jumped, startled for the second time in as many minutes.

"Hey — Jarod, right? Party planning is my job. Which means I should probably get back… I'll see you for dinner, yeah? See you soon!"

She scurried off.

"So that's Gwen," said Jarod unnecessarily.

"Yeah… skittish, isn't she?"

"In my experience, skittish often means traumatized."

Parker exhaled a voiceless laugh. "In a cult? No. Tell me another one, Freud."

"Sandra and Webster never seemed traumatized," said Jarod, side-stepping the jibe. "They always seemed like they'd bought in completely, and were having the time of their lives. This could be good news for our odds of success for getting Gwen out. Or bad news."

"Or both." She thought of Clint's chipper, brittle politeness and juxtaposed that with Gwen's gentle, nervous demeanour. "The file didn't mention she was married to the cult leader. Now that's bad news. He's not going to let her go easily."

"No, he's not," said Jarod. "Men like that tend not to."

He looked at her sideways as he said this. She heard the double meaning in his words, and promptly dismissed it.