Part Three

“Hold still,” Parker groused at the computer technician, batting Jim’s hands away from the wound on Broots’ head. “Now tell me - what the hell happened?”

The day had passed with infinite slowness, Parker had thought, as they waited for night to fall and the other four members of their group to return. With much encouragement, Debbie had finally dropped off to sleep just before midnight, Ben and Sydney following not soon after. She, however, had not been able to do the same. The voices were restless, mumbling low and wary. Miss Parker’s nerves had been on edge from the moment she woke that morning, food refusing to stay down and fatigue weighing her muscles. She was still seated in the living room, tracing the edge of a pillow when Major Charles, Broots, Ethan, and Jim had burst through the door.

Dried blood covered the right side of Broots’ forehead and cheek; his eyes were wide and bloodshot. Major Charles guided him in the door by the elbow, pushing him toward the first chair in the room. Ethan and Jim had exchanged startled glances upon seeing her on the sofa across the room, then moved to drop their bags on the floor behind the chair.

“Ouch!” Broots yelped when Jim reached forward to prod at the cut on his temple. Without realizing she was moving, Parker had slipped toward them and was hovering over the chair in which the man was sitting. Pushing Jim’s fingers away, she eyed the still-bleeding wound and then gazed toward the lamp near the door. As if reading her thoughts, Major Charles flicked the switch and flooded the room with light.

“Parker,” Major Charles acknowledged, an expression of cautious concern spread across his tired features.

She nodded back, then turned to her brother and pointed to the next room. “Ethan, first aid kit’s in the bathroom.”

The four men were dressed in black, much as they had been the night before: black turtlenecks, slacks and sneakers. Ethan still had a baseball cap perched on his head, and Jim’s was looped through his belt. “Hold still,” she dropped her hands to Broots’ shoulder, wincing at the furrow near his temple. “Now tell me,” her eyes drifted to Jim, then Major Charles, “What the hell happened?”

Jim stubbed his toe against the carpet, looking down guiltily. “He forgot his ball cap,” the boy muttered. “One of the guards regained consciousness early and fired off a shot as we were leaving the storage facility.” Major Charles crossed his arms over his chest as Ethan flew back into the room, holding out the requested first aid kit. Jim took the kit from his brother and popped it open.

Sucking in a breath, Parker grabbed a package of gauze and sterile alcohol pads from the kit. Dropping the material to her brother’s hands, she grabbed the wet rag he’d thrown over his wrist. “He must have been a sorry shot,” she commented, dabbing at the cut, dried blood smearing the color of rust against the cloth. “You were lucky, Broots.”

Cautiously, he cleared his throat, then winced. “Ouch!” After a few moments of silence, she dropped the rag back into Ethan’s hands and grabbed the alcohol and gauze.

“This is going to sting, Broots, but it doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches – too late now anyway. Why don’t you tell me what happened?” she asked, more as an attempt at distracting the technician than out of her own curiosity.

“Th-there’s good news and th…then there’s bad news,” Broots ventured, voice shaking. He shifted in the seat, turning slightly sideways in the chair. Parker realigned herself, her chest nearest his back as she leaned over the chair.

“I can do it, Miss Parker,” Jim offered, glancing at the vacant seat near Broots.

Shaking her head, she dabbed the wound with alcohol and listened to the man’s hissed intake of air. “He’s my geek,” the words were muttered. “Give it to me, Broots.”

Major Charles shucked his leather jacket as they spoke, then lifted the laptop bag to the coffee table. Ethan, following his father’s lead, grabbed the second padded bag and placed it nearby. Both men sat on the couch.

“The… the good news is, everything went off without a hitch. Other than this part, anyway,” he spoke, trying to ignore the sting of the alcohol and the tenderness of her hands. “The bad news is that the blue box doesn’t contain any information regarding this Project Illusion, or Mirage for that matter.” Her fingers swept near his eye as she patted the wound with gauze, then held it firm against his temple.

“The component we installed in the storage facility may give us access to that information remotely,” Jim offered, watching quietly as Parker ripped the clear tape with her teeth then secured the cotton near her friend’s brow. She nodded at the boy’s words, letting out a small sigh. Across from him, Ethan yawned.

As if startled by the sound, Parker jerked from Broots and let her eyes fall to Ethan. “Any other war wounds I need to know about, boys?” Her eyes flicked from her brother to Jim, hands resting lightly on Broots’ shoulders. Ethan watched tiredly as she refused to meet his father’s eyes.

“It’s almost 4am, sister. We should all rest now and then we’ll tell you all what happened in the morning. Everyone is okay,” he smiled at her wary expression. “And we got what we went there for.” Without further encouragement, both he and Jim rose with the intention of heading downstairs.

Parker removed her hands from Broots’ shoulders. “Go,” she directed, eyes following as he too stood and headed toward the stairs with the younger men.

“Miss Parker…” Broots began, clearing his throat and turning as his hand landed on the stair rail. “It was…”

“Not many men have been shot for me, Broots,” she forced a smile. “Consider yourself the conquering fairy tale hero and go get some sleep,” Parker dismissed him, carefully taking the seat Broots had vacated and letting her eyes focus on the older man who had remained in the room. He sighed, placing his head in his hands, and the living room dropped into silence.

Her intent had been to muster her concern, frustration, and anger into a tongue lashing over the health and wellbeing of her friend, but Major Charles beat her to it. “He could have been killed. Any one of them could have been killed.” With his guilt-ridden words, her anger dissipated.

“Yes,” the brunette agreed, eyes still fixed on the down-turned head. “You could have been killed, too.” Taking a deep breath, Parker blew it out slowly and added. “You knew the risks, all of you. And you all boarded that helicopter with intent, and you all came back in one piece.” A smirk played at her lips, “More or less.”

Major Charles shook his head, lifting it slowly to settle on her. “It’s late, Parker.”

“I was worried,” she shrugged, “for good reason it seems.” She saw the man open his mouth as if to explain and held up a hand to ward off the words. “Tomorrow, Major Charles. We all need sleep. Perhaps then we’ll all be able to think more clearly.”

The Major nodded, not making a move. Guilt had settled over his shoulders like the warmth of the room. Forcibly pushing down the frustration and anger that had risen in her throat over the last half hour, Parker stood carefully and crossed to the older man, laying a hand on his back. “Go to bed, Major. I’ll undoubtedly have the entire house awake in a few hours, anyway.”

Confused eyes met her own, and the brunette swallowed against the knowledge that Jarod’s lost expression was inherited. “This morning sickness thing…” she indicated her midsection, “and the thin walls in this house.”

Major Charles chuckled genuinely, without thought patting her stomach. This time, no flashes of consciousness or emotion crossed between them, and neither seemed to notice the gesture. “Still bad?”

With a grimace, the woman started for the stairs, listening as his footfalls sounded against the hardwood floor behind her. “Worse.”

--

Friday morning, Parker had come to the conclusion that women who had more than one child were, as a whole, completely masochistic. Saturday morning, she was fairly certain she would not survive being pregnant with her first – and only – one.

After retiring to bed at four, she had slept less than two hours before being awakened by the rolling of her own stomach. By six-fifteen, she was absolutely exhausted but had no energy to move. Reaching for the counter, she grabbed a towel and placed it under her head, then dozed off propped against the bathroom counter. Ten minutes later, the cycle began again.

Closing her eyes tightly, tears running down her face, she felt a warm arm settle around her middle as she leaned forward. Steeling her jaw, Parker glanced behind her, eyes widening as they settled on Thomas Gates’ face. His name slipped past her lips, gravelly and tired.

“It’s okay, Parker,” his words were gentle and his fingertips light as he brushed sweat-dampened hair from her face.

“I wish you were real,” she murmured, leaning into his touch. “God, Tommy.” The brunette drew in a ragged breath as his other arm slid around her and cradled her closer.

“I love you, Parker,” he whispered against her forehead, “and it’s going to be okay.” Dropping a light kiss against her skin, Thomas leaned away from her, catching her freshly-opened eyes with his own. “Take care of him, Parker,” a light hand caressed her abdomen before settling in place. Her eyes closed again, holding the image behind her eyes. “He’s the one.”

Brows wrinkled and eyes tightly shut, she asked, “the one what?”

Easing free of her weight, he replied, “The one they’ve been looking for.”

“The Centre?” she asked, eyes snapping open.

The bathroom was empty.

Drawing a shuddering breath, Parker closed her eyes and dropped her chin, hands clasped tightly against her stomach.

“Miss Parker?” a voice shattered the quiet after several minutes. Her head tilted sideways, eyes sliding open to take in the figure at the door.

“Broots,” she sighed, “you should be resting.”

Shrugging, the man crouched low on the floor a few feet away from her, expression concerned. “I couldn’t sleep so I was going to toast some Pop-Tarts for me and Debbie, but I heard you talking when I walked by your door.” He made no attempt to ask her who she was talking to or what she was saying.

Swallowing hard, the brunette flexed her fingers and pushed her hands against the floor as if testing her balance. Before she’d gotten more than a few inches from the floor, the urge to vomit once again struck. Turning her head, Parker leaned over the toilet. After a moment’s hesitation, Broots stood and walked behind her, kneeling and gathering her hair in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke after a few moments, voice filled with embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have mentioned…”

Holding up her right hand and waving at him, she cut him off, afraid he’d continue talking about breakfast.

“When, uh, when Debbie’s mother was… well, before Debbie was born, she said, uh…”

“Broots,” Parker groaned, urging him to get to the point.

“Here,” he slid forward and to her side, taking her slight wrist in his hands. Carefully pressing his thumbs against the inside of her wrist beneath the bone, circling outward. Leaning her head back against the cabinet, she sighed. Within minutes, Broots had helped her to a standing position, watched her rinse her mouth, and guided her back to bed. Watching her slide between the sheets, he tugged the comforter under her chin. “Crackers,” he muttered, “and tea.”

A small smile broke across her tired, pale face. “Broots,” she called as he turned to exit. “Debbie’s a lucky girl.” A rose blush tinted his cheeks and he scurried into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind himself as he left.

Sighing, Parker curled on her side, knees bent forward. “Tommy,” she muttered, eyes sliding closed. “The one what?”

--

It was almost noon when Miss Parker, freshly showered, followed Ethan upstairs. He had woken her up an hour earlier to ask if she had been able to decipher her mother’s voice in the preceding days. At her negative answer, he sighed and shook his head. He had heard very little, quiet static and a remote sort of chattering. Neither the static nor chattering were unusual, but since he’d found his sister, the absence of his mother’s voice was something he found odd. She left him sitting in her window seat, flipping through an album of her mother’s photos while she showered. When she emerged, he stood and started up the stairs with the book still in his hands.

The siblings entered the empty kitchen, Ethan seating himself at the table while his sister retrieved two bottles of water from the refrigerator. Taking the chair next to him, she glanced around his arm at the book. He was smiling as he looked at pictures of his sister and mother together, both in leotards at a ballet bar.

“What were you, six in this picture?” he asked, pointing at the black and white photograph.

“Five,” she corrected, smiling back. “Tall for my age. That was my favorite position.” Parker’s eyes traced the image of her mother, one hand on the bar, the other arced over her head. Little Miss Parker mimicked her faithfully, surprisingly well for such a young child.

“Position?” Ethan asked, turning to look his sister in the eye.

She nodded, flipping the page and letting out a laugh. “Oh, that was my first recital. I hated that costume!” Pointing at a blue, feathered leotard and skirt. “I was supposed to be a peacock.” She looked up to find Ethan still gazing at her. Rolling her eyes, she stood to her feet. “There are five positions in ballet that you have to learn before anything else.” Positioning her feet parallel and pointing inward, one arm over her head, she said, “Position four.” Letting go of the pose, she sat again in the chair.

“You liked ballet,” he stated, grinning widely at his sister.

“Mama liked ballet,” the brunette paused, her head tilted sideways, “I liked to see her happy.” After another moment, she continued, “Mama put me in classes as soon as I could walk, I guess. I remember hating it at first, then growing to love it as I got older. When Mama died, there was no one to take me to class so I simply stopped going. It wasn’t the same without her. I used to practice in the sim lab when there was no one else around.” Shrugging, she reached over Ethan’s left arm and flipped the page again.

“Piano?” he asked, spotting a picture of a little girl seated on a piano bench. “I took piano lessons, too. My adoptive parents thought it was important. Are you any good?”

“Terrible,” Miss Parker admitted. “That’s a talent we do not share.” Before she could continue, Major Charles and Jim entered the kitchen, throwing the door wide open.

“Da-ad,” Jim groaned. “The last time you grilled chicken, I got food poisoning! It’s safer if I cook,” he reasoned.

“You did not get food poisoning from my chicken,” the older man defended, stopping in his tracks as he noticed the adults sitting at the kitchen table. Miss Parker and Ethan exchanged an amused look before forcing themselves to look back at the album. Sighing with exasperation, the Major caved in to his son’s demands. “You have cooked every night since we got here. I’ll put something in the slow cooker now for dinner and you can make sandwiches for everyone for lunch. Deal?”

The boy nodded, pleased with both suggestions. His father could not grill chicken, but was the master of a flavorful, slow-cooked stew. Both men approached the counter, taking opposite sides as they began pulling out the necessary kitchen utensils and appliances from the cabinets below.

The four remained quiet for several minutes until Ethan let out a bark of laughter. “That’s you?” he pointed to the grainy color photo in the corner, a toddler with a bare bottom staring up at the camera from her semi-crawling position on the floor.

Jerking the album from her brother’s hands, Parker rolled her eyes and leapt to her feet. “I should have never let you see these!” Even as she complained, she was forcing her lips not to tug upwards into a grin.

“Ooh, do you have any of you in the tub? I hear those are good blackmail material!”

“Ethan!” Parker yelped, smacking him in the arm with the book. Letting out an embellished cry of pain, he stood across from her, rubbing his injured left arm. She stood with her hands on her hips, the book in her left hand, glaring at her younger brother. Before she could say anything more, a delighted smile slid across Ethan’s face as she felt the book pulled from her grasp. Turning on her heel, Parker caught sight of Major Charles slipping to shield himself behind his young son, cracking the book open to an early page.

Letting out a chuckle, the Major tilted the book down for Jim. “Think we found your pictures, Ethan.” Glancing upward, he caught the embarrassed look on Parker’s face as a pink tint flooded her cheeks.

With a groan, Parker threw her hands in the air and sank back into the chair. “Oh, whatever. If you really want to laugh at my baby pictures, go ahead,” she let out a huff.

Grinning, Major Charles slid the book in front of her, displaying the pages he had opened the book to see. Instead of naked baby photographs, it was a picture of a toddler Parker seated on Sydney’s knee, flanked by an image of her and a young boy seated on a concrete floor with Lincoln Logs strewn on the floor between them. “Who is that?” Ethan asked, peering over her shoulder as a soft smile crossed her face.

“Angelo,” she laughed. “I wonder who added this picture. It was taken a few months after my mother…our mother… after I thought she was dead,” Parker finally settled on. Pointing to the box peaking out behind where the boy’s legs were crooked underneath him, she added, “He loved Cracker Jacks. Probably still does.” Shaking her head to break the spell of memory, she closed the book and turned to face Major Charles, who had returned to the kitchen counter and was plugging in his electric slow cooker. Parker shoved the album toward the center of the table and clasped her hands together. “I’d like to know what happened in Denver.”

Major Charles pulled the aluminum foil tab from a box of broth and slowly poured it into the cooker. After a few moments of silence, he turned the knob to the desired setting and faced the woman seated at the table. “All right,” he agreed, “if you tell us who you were talking to this morning, and what about.” The Major watched her brow furrow, “Broots mentioned that you were sick this morning. He said when he entered the room you were talking to someone, he assumed you were on the phone.” His tone was calm, curious, but not accusing.

With an eye roll and a sigh, Parker nodded. “Deal.” She cleared her throat, prepared to offer the answer before the Major began. Without acknowledging her easy acquiescence, Major Charles began to tell her the story.