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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc.and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.
Author’s Note: Those of you who know my work and read these little author’s notes I’m so fond of know, aside from being absolutely in love with Jarod (mmm…fine male specimen) and the Pretender I’m a true blue x-phile to the core. I decided that, based on this, I might as well cross them over and see what happened, but remember kiddies, this is not an easy thing. Characterization if tough on the Pretender, but damn near impossible on the X-Files unless you’re really…really good (so I’ve found). So be patient, and if I totally botch this and mess with these beautiful characters to too high a degree beyond the comprehension of the meticulous mind, please feel free to rip on me all you like. I’ll deserve it. The Lynns feature prominently, as ever, so don’t mind them, I had loads of fun with this one. Thanx ever so much for your attention. On with the show.
Summary: At the whim of the Centre, the very earth will tremble and seize. At the whim of the Centre, the precious blood is spilled, and the game becomes real.
Little Earthquakes
Go go go go now
Out of the nest it’s time
Go go go now
Circus girl without a safety net
Here here now don’t cry
You raised your hand for the assignment
Tuck those ribbons under your helmet
Be a good soldier
- -Tori Amos: Mother
Precious Blood
Part 1: Little Earthquakes
Matrea Nara
Miss Parker stood in the middle of the living room of Jarod’s latest lair, hands on her hips, her face a scornful ice mask that glared disapprovingly at anyone who chanced to approach her. Another failure. He was gone again.
But this time something was different. Before today every lair they had found of Jarod’s had been immaculate, cleaned out, with only the items he wanted them to find left behind. This one though…it was so lived in. It was personal, distinctly Jarod. Looking around Miss Parker could almost believe he was still living here, or, if not, he had only recently left and left in a hurry. He wasn’t expecting them, she realized with a start. For once they had taken the pretender completely by surprise. She felt a slow, smug smile creep onto her face and quickly suppressed it. She was a Parker. She was a machine. She was not proud. Shouldn’t…shouldn’t be proud.
“Miss Parker! In here.” It was Sam, with a note of urgency in his gruff voice that demanded immediate response. She covered the distance to the bedroom with long, purposeful strides, ignoring the way the sweepers scattered from her path.
“What is it Sam?” she demanded. He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
The room had been trashed. Even the queen-sized bed had been upended, though who or what would have had the strength to do something like that she had no idea. The sheets were bloodied, as was the floor in places, and there was a smear of blood on the whitewashed drywall by the door in the shape of a hand. The only window in the room had been smashed in, and there were bullet holes on the inside near it, as if someone had been shooting at someone coming through. There were also bullet holes in the walls on this side of the room. Whoever Jarod (she could only assume) had been shooting at had obviously shot back, and given better than he got by the looks of it. The room was in a shambles, and who ever had been in here when whatever had happened had happened was likely in no better condition. Standing here, Miss Parker knew for certain that Jarod had not meant to leave this lair like this for them to find. He would never purposefully put Sydney through this. He older man had come up behind Parker when Sam called, but left shortly thereafter. It was difficult for him, the bullet holes and the blood.
All the typical trappings of Jarod lay strewn about, but here there was something more. Sam picked up and handed to her a picture frame that had formerly resided on the dresser, now smashed, the picture blood-stained like so much else in this place. It was a photo of Miss Parker, dressed in a black pants suit and long black leather jacket, hair windblown and sunglasses perched on her nose. She had obviously not been aware that the picture was being taken at the time, which was probably why it was such a good one of her. She had been taken unawares, and in this there was nothing false about her.
There were other photographs on the floor, of Jarod’s parents and of Kyle, but whoever had knocked them down and smashed them had not done so as a random act of violence. Several frames were empty. There had been something here no one was supposed to find.
“Someone else was living here with him,” a new sweeper, called Glennon, reported.
He pointed out another bedroom across the apartment from this one. Not just one other person, but three had lived there. A bunk bed stood against one wall, with a hammock strung between it and the corner. There had been photos in this room too, but they had all been taken. Whoever had been here had made a stand against the invaders just as Jarod had, but had fared no better. In the bookshelf, alongside countless works of fantasy and science fiction by such authors as Kate Elliot, George R.R. Martin, A.A Attanasio, Anne McCaffrey, and Dean Koontz, was a collection of half-a-dozen home movies. Parker commandeered these, took one last look about the place and left with a look of disgust on her face.
“Get some cleaners up here,” she said. Sam nodded briskly and moved to obey, but before he was out the door of the apartment she called to him.
“Yes Miss Parker?”
“Sam, what size bullet holes do those look like to you?” He paused, studying said holes thoughtfully.
“9 millimeter I’d say. The ones on this side anyway. Jarod was shooting at the window, and those rounds were from a forty-five easy.” 9 millimeter…Centre issue. She thanked him and sent him on his way to call the cleaners. Sydney met her outside, looking troubled and confused.
“Someone attacked him Parker,” he said at once. “Someone attacked Jarod and quite possibly wounded him.”
“Or killed him. Listen Syd I shouldn’t say anything but the gun that made those holes in the wall was…”
“Excuse me!” Miss Parker and Sydney turned as one to face the person hailing them, and found themselves face to face with the FBI.
The pair approaching them from across the street could not have been more different in appearance if they tried. He was tall and lanky, with medium brown hair, a proud nose, and brooding, knowing eyes. She was short and hourglass with hair like fire, fine features, and an expression of cool calculation on her face. They might have been at opposite ends of the spectrum, but like different colors of a rainbow they blended together, portraying a sense of oneness, each one feeding off and balancing out the other. They were a pair you stopped and took notice of, though a person might pass either one individually on the street and never look twice.
It was the woman who spoke; her companion merely studied them, noting every word and action to the point where he was making even Miss Parker uncomfortable. “I’m Agent Scully, this is Agent Mulder, we’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Can I ask what your business is here?” She flipped out her badge, precise and professional with her protocols. He did so only when she did, almost as if it was an afterthought.
“Can ask what business you have asking?”
“Touche,” he said, smiling lazily. There was something unsettling about this man, something familiar.
“We’re conducting an investigation here,” Scully explaining evenly, calmly. “You’ve just walked in the middle of it and we’re a little curious to know why.”
“An investigation of our own.” Miss Parker kept her response curt, aware that they were weighing her every word and movement carefully.
“In the apartment of a federal officer?”
“Jarod was working for the FBI?” Sydney asked. The woman’s mouth worked for a moment or two, but no sound came out. She faltered, surprised to hear Jarod mentioned, looking to her partner. Agent Mulder’s expression had not wavered.
“Is, working for the FBI actually,” he deadpanned. The woman was now watching Parker’s cleaners, men in black suits with black ties loading boxes of materials into black town cars. The fingers of her gun hand curled, but she did nothing. “As of yesterday at least.”
With a start Miss Parker realized what about that man was so familiar. He had pretender eyes. They were softer than Jarod’s, quieter, but there was an intelligence behind them she had only seen one other place before. As he watched her she got the unsettling feeling that he understood, that he saw and comprehended everything about her, that he knew. What he knew she couldn’t have said if asked, but it was something. A brilliant man stood before her now, a man with pretender eyes. She must be wary of him as she was wary of Jarod. But she could by no means trust him like she trusted the other, this she knew. She and Jarod knew how to play off each other just as these two FBI agents did, though she was assured her and Jarod’s dance was infinitely more deadly.
“But you haven’t seen him since yesterday?” Sydney asked in light of his companion’s silence. Had he seen it too she wondered?
“No,” the red-haired woman replied. “Have you?
Parker snorted derisively. “We haven’t seen Jarod in three months.”
“But you’ve spoken with him.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t reply.
“What are those men taking out of Jarod’s apartment?” What that a defensive note in Scully’s voice?
“How can you be so sure it’s Jarod’s apartment?”
“Oh I think we established that a while ago,” Mulder said, smiling wanly, turning to face the cleaners. A moment’s awkward silence hung between them before it became apparent that Miss Parker had no intention of answering the question. Jaw set, Mulder nodded and turned, his partner at his heels. Parker watched them go, baffled, befuddled, and curious beyond measure.
“What the hell was that all about?” Miss Parker asked her companion.
“It would appear Jarod has been working with the FBI.”
“You do know how to state the obvious don’t you Syd.”
“And they expected to find him here this afternoon.”
“Yeah but the way they looked at us…it seemed like…”
“They knew who we were?” She nodded, still staring blindly at the place where the agents’ car had been. “It’s entirely possible. As far as we can tell Jarod had been settled here for some time. He could have been trying to make a home, settle down. I see no reason why he would not share some of his past with whoever he has befriended here.”
Miss Parker didn’t say anything about her observations of Agent Mulder, that he had pretender eyes. If Sydney hadn’t noticed it was probably all in her head. But Miss Parker knew Jarod’s eyes like no one else, knew the intensity and the brilliance that lived behind them. She knew as well that if she and this man ended up at opposite ends of the proverbial gun he would prove to be a formidable opponent.
****
Parker was used to being strong. She knew how to hide her emotions, and she did so now with no undue skill. Fear, uncertainty, anxiety, anger warred for dominance within her, but outside she was ice, professional and coldly indifferent as she watched Jarod’s personal effects being sifted through at the Centre’s D.C. office. The Triumvirate had determined that it was not likely Jarod had left the city, based on the condition of his lair, and had ordered Parker’s team to settle in for as long a stay as was necessary to gather some more conclusive evidence regarding his whereabouts.
Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it. Something didn’t add up. Jarod was hurt, possibly dead, and several items had been stolen from his home, besides him, whoever he was living with, and the photos. First of all, the DSAs were nowhere to be found, and judging by the amount of blood at the scene it was doubtful * Jarod* had taken it anywhere. The landlady, a Mrs. Gracie Chamberlain, said that several more personal items were gone as well. Jarod kept a photo album, she said. A camera she had given him for Christmas, a box of files he was always sifting though in his free time, a laptop, a strongbox he kept under his bed…all missing. But Jarod hadn’t taken them. All his clothes were here, though it looked as if he had been packing.
She was worried about him. She didn’t want to admit it, let anyone see it, but as time wore on a niggling fear came alive in her belly. Her legs felt weak and her hands trembled. When she tried to speak her throat caught. If he was dead…if she lost him too…
Parker purged that thought from her mind the very instant it came to her. She was a Parker. She was a machine. Jarod was property.
But she didn’t believe it anymore. He had deftly infiltrated her heart now and there was no pulling back. She remembered Dover, the way they had come together, their naturally affinity for each other. She remembered the day they thought Bartlett was going to kill Jarod, and the fear not so different that this. She remembered the bunny, the first kiss, the book Jarod wrote for her, the candy he sent her, the day he saved her father’s life. She remembered all he pieces of her past he had opened up for her, the blindfold he had pulled away from her eyes, the person she was before and the person she was now with thanks to him. She remembered the chains that had bound her heart, that he by himself and later through Thomas had broken. No, she could no longer think of Jarod as property, and she could no longer be a machine. He had made her something more, and he was all she had left. He had been the one constant in her life from the time she was a girl, and she trusted him where she trusted no one else. If he had been killed, whether it was the Centre or whatever pretend he was working on, the killer would pay dearly for his life.
Miss Parker was dimly aware of her cell phone ringing. Shaking her head to clear it, ignoring the hitch of her heart at the sound, she flipped it open and answered tersely.
“You’re late.”
“Jarod.” She was unable to keep the relief from her voice. Indicating that Broots was to follow her (Sydney was out with Sam securing hotel rooms for the team), she moved away from the crew of sweepers and cleaners sifting through Jarod’s possessions and went to the far corner of the room. “Where are you?”
“Nice try Parker.” She could hear it now, the pain in his voice, the wheezing in his breathing.
“What happened this morning?” she demanded. She didn’t mean for her voice to be so soft, so concerned. Broots was looking at her strangely, but she was past the point of caring.
“A long story.” He paused, catching his breath. Just these few words had taken a grievous toll on him. “Parker I need a favor.” Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped. Jarod wanted a favor from her? Now here was an interesting development. “You owe me,” he added. Never before had he tried to use all the many things he had done for her to his advantage. This must be some favor he needed. She knew she should be angry, accuse him of doing all he had done for himself, but she wasn’t. She did owe him after all.
“What?” She shouldn’t be so willing. She should interrogate him; engage him in taunting banter like always. But she didn’t think he had the strength, and for some reason she cared about that.
“I was working with some FBI agents here…”
“Mulder and Scully. I met them this morning.”
“Did they see the apartment?” He sounded incredulous. The tone didn’t fit him.
“No. The cleaners had been in there already.” She really did have to cooperate so much with him. She should just demand that he turn himself in and have done with it. He had helped her of his own choice. She had not asked him. She owed him nothing. “You have a message for them?” She could almost see him nod, heard him fight for a good breath.
“Tell them…tell them I went to Maggie’s and to get there as fast as they can.”
“That’s it?” She was disappointed. She had hoped for some explanation.
“That’s it on this line.” That was a lie. He was have scrambled the call if he was worried about the line being secure. He didn’t want her to know.
“I’ll tell them Jarod.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated. “And Miss Parker? Watch your back.” He hung up.
“What the hell is going on?” She asked no one. Broots just shook his head, looking as spooked as she felt. “Broots can you hack into the FBI system? I need a phone number.”
***
Oh these little earthquakes.
Here we go again.
Author’s Note: Those of you who know my work and read these little author’s notes I’m so fond of know, aside from being absolutely in love with Jarod (mmm…fine male specimen) and the Pretender I’m a true blue x-phile to the core. I decided that, based on this, I might as well cross them over and see what happened, but remember kiddies, this is not an easy thing. Characterization if tough on the Pretender, but damn near impossible on the X-Files unless you’re really…really good (so I’ve found). So be patient, and if I totally botch this and mess with these beautiful characters to too high a degree beyond the comprehension of the meticulous mind, please feel free to rip on me all you like. I’ll deserve it. The Lynns feature prominently, as ever, so don’t mind them, I had loads of fun with this one. Thanx ever so much for your attention. On with the show.
Summary: At the whim of the Centre, the very earth will tremble and seize. At the whim of the Centre, the precious blood is spilled, and the game becomes real.
Little Earthquakes
Go go go go now
Out of the nest it’s time
Go go go now
Circus girl without a safety net
Here here now don’t cry
You raised your hand for the assignment
Tuck those ribbons under your helmet
Be a good soldier
- -Tori Amos: Mother
Precious Blood
Part 1: Little Earthquakes
Matrea Nara
Miss Parker stood in the middle of the living room of Jarod’s latest lair, hands on her hips, her face a scornful ice mask that glared disapprovingly at anyone who chanced to approach her. Another failure. He was gone again.
But this time something was different. Before today every lair they had found of Jarod’s had been immaculate, cleaned out, with only the items he wanted them to find left behind. This one though…it was so lived in. It was personal, distinctly Jarod. Looking around Miss Parker could almost believe he was still living here, or, if not, he had only recently left and left in a hurry. He wasn’t expecting them, she realized with a start. For once they had taken the pretender completely by surprise. She felt a slow, smug smile creep onto her face and quickly suppressed it. She was a Parker. She was a machine. She was not proud. Shouldn’t…shouldn’t be proud.
“Miss Parker! In here.” It was Sam, with a note of urgency in his gruff voice that demanded immediate response. She covered the distance to the bedroom with long, purposeful strides, ignoring the way the sweepers scattered from her path.
“What is it Sam?” she demanded. He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
The room had been trashed. Even the queen-sized bed had been upended, though who or what would have had the strength to do something like that she had no idea. The sheets were bloodied, as was the floor in places, and there was a smear of blood on the whitewashed drywall by the door in the shape of a hand. The only window in the room had been smashed in, and there were bullet holes on the inside near it, as if someone had been shooting at someone coming through. There were also bullet holes in the walls on this side of the room. Whoever Jarod (she could only assume) had been shooting at had obviously shot back, and given better than he got by the looks of it. The room was in a shambles, and who ever had been in here when whatever had happened had happened was likely in no better condition. Standing here, Miss Parker knew for certain that Jarod had not meant to leave this lair like this for them to find. He would never purposefully put Sydney through this. He older man had come up behind Parker when Sam called, but left shortly thereafter. It was difficult for him, the bullet holes and the blood.
All the typical trappings of Jarod lay strewn about, but here there was something more. Sam picked up and handed to her a picture frame that had formerly resided on the dresser, now smashed, the picture blood-stained like so much else in this place. It was a photo of Miss Parker, dressed in a black pants suit and long black leather jacket, hair windblown and sunglasses perched on her nose. She had obviously not been aware that the picture was being taken at the time, which was probably why it was such a good one of her. She had been taken unawares, and in this there was nothing false about her.
There were other photographs on the floor, of Jarod’s parents and of Kyle, but whoever had knocked them down and smashed them had not done so as a random act of violence. Several frames were empty. There had been something here no one was supposed to find.
“Someone else was living here with him,” a new sweeper, called Glennon, reported.
He pointed out another bedroom across the apartment from this one. Not just one other person, but three had lived there. A bunk bed stood against one wall, with a hammock strung between it and the corner. There had been photos in this room too, but they had all been taken. Whoever had been here had made a stand against the invaders just as Jarod had, but had fared no better. In the bookshelf, alongside countless works of fantasy and science fiction by such authors as Kate Elliot, George R.R. Martin, A.A Attanasio, Anne McCaffrey, and Dean Koontz, was a collection of half-a-dozen home movies. Parker commandeered these, took one last look about the place and left with a look of disgust on her face.
“Get some cleaners up here,” she said. Sam nodded briskly and moved to obey, but before he was out the door of the apartment she called to him.
“Yes Miss Parker?”
“Sam, what size bullet holes do those look like to you?” He paused, studying said holes thoughtfully.
“9 millimeter I’d say. The ones on this side anyway. Jarod was shooting at the window, and those rounds were from a forty-five easy.” 9 millimeter…Centre issue. She thanked him and sent him on his way to call the cleaners. Sydney met her outside, looking troubled and confused.
“Someone attacked him Parker,” he said at once. “Someone attacked Jarod and quite possibly wounded him.”
“Or killed him. Listen Syd I shouldn’t say anything but the gun that made those holes in the wall was…”
“Excuse me!” Miss Parker and Sydney turned as one to face the person hailing them, and found themselves face to face with the FBI.
The pair approaching them from across the street could not have been more different in appearance if they tried. He was tall and lanky, with medium brown hair, a proud nose, and brooding, knowing eyes. She was short and hourglass with hair like fire, fine features, and an expression of cool calculation on her face. They might have been at opposite ends of the spectrum, but like different colors of a rainbow they blended together, portraying a sense of oneness, each one feeding off and balancing out the other. They were a pair you stopped and took notice of, though a person might pass either one individually on the street and never look twice.
It was the woman who spoke; her companion merely studied them, noting every word and action to the point where he was making even Miss Parker uncomfortable. “I’m Agent Scully, this is Agent Mulder, we’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Can I ask what your business is here?” She flipped out her badge, precise and professional with her protocols. He did so only when she did, almost as if it was an afterthought.
“Can ask what business you have asking?”
“Touche,” he said, smiling lazily. There was something unsettling about this man, something familiar.
“We’re conducting an investigation here,” Scully explaining evenly, calmly. “You’ve just walked in the middle of it and we’re a little curious to know why.”
“An investigation of our own.” Miss Parker kept her response curt, aware that they were weighing her every word and movement carefully.
“In the apartment of a federal officer?”
“Jarod was working for the FBI?” Sydney asked. The woman’s mouth worked for a moment or two, but no sound came out. She faltered, surprised to hear Jarod mentioned, looking to her partner. Agent Mulder’s expression had not wavered.
“Is, working for the FBI actually,” he deadpanned. The woman was now watching Parker’s cleaners, men in black suits with black ties loading boxes of materials into black town cars. The fingers of her gun hand curled, but she did nothing. “As of yesterday at least.”
With a start Miss Parker realized what about that man was so familiar. He had pretender eyes. They were softer than Jarod’s, quieter, but there was an intelligence behind them she had only seen one other place before. As he watched her she got the unsettling feeling that he understood, that he saw and comprehended everything about her, that he knew. What he knew she couldn’t have said if asked, but it was something. A brilliant man stood before her now, a man with pretender eyes. She must be wary of him as she was wary of Jarod. But she could by no means trust him like she trusted the other, this she knew. She and Jarod knew how to play off each other just as these two FBI agents did, though she was assured her and Jarod’s dance was infinitely more deadly.
“But you haven’t seen him since yesterday?” Sydney asked in light of his companion’s silence. Had he seen it too she wondered?
“No,” the red-haired woman replied. “Have you?
Parker snorted derisively. “We haven’t seen Jarod in three months.”
“But you’ve spoken with him.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t reply.
“What are those men taking out of Jarod’s apartment?” What that a defensive note in Scully’s voice?
“How can you be so sure it’s Jarod’s apartment?”
“Oh I think we established that a while ago,” Mulder said, smiling wanly, turning to face the cleaners. A moment’s awkward silence hung between them before it became apparent that Miss Parker had no intention of answering the question. Jaw set, Mulder nodded and turned, his partner at his heels. Parker watched them go, baffled, befuddled, and curious beyond measure.
“What the hell was that all about?” Miss Parker asked her companion.
“It would appear Jarod has been working with the FBI.”
“You do know how to state the obvious don’t you Syd.”
“And they expected to find him here this afternoon.”
“Yeah but the way they looked at us…it seemed like…”
“They knew who we were?” She nodded, still staring blindly at the place where the agents’ car had been. “It’s entirely possible. As far as we can tell Jarod had been settled here for some time. He could have been trying to make a home, settle down. I see no reason why he would not share some of his past with whoever he has befriended here.”
Miss Parker didn’t say anything about her observations of Agent Mulder, that he had pretender eyes. If Sydney hadn’t noticed it was probably all in her head. But Miss Parker knew Jarod’s eyes like no one else, knew the intensity and the brilliance that lived behind them. She knew as well that if she and this man ended up at opposite ends of the proverbial gun he would prove to be a formidable opponent.
****
Parker was used to being strong. She knew how to hide her emotions, and she did so now with no undue skill. Fear, uncertainty, anxiety, anger warred for dominance within her, but outside she was ice, professional and coldly indifferent as she watched Jarod’s personal effects being sifted through at the Centre’s D.C. office. The Triumvirate had determined that it was not likely Jarod had left the city, based on the condition of his lair, and had ordered Parker’s team to settle in for as long a stay as was necessary to gather some more conclusive evidence regarding his whereabouts.
Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it. Something didn’t add up. Jarod was hurt, possibly dead, and several items had been stolen from his home, besides him, whoever he was living with, and the photos. First of all, the DSAs were nowhere to be found, and judging by the amount of blood at the scene it was doubtful * Jarod* had taken it anywhere. The landlady, a Mrs. Gracie Chamberlain, said that several more personal items were gone as well. Jarod kept a photo album, she said. A camera she had given him for Christmas, a box of files he was always sifting though in his free time, a laptop, a strongbox he kept under his bed…all missing. But Jarod hadn’t taken them. All his clothes were here, though it looked as if he had been packing.
She was worried about him. She didn’t want to admit it, let anyone see it, but as time wore on a niggling fear came alive in her belly. Her legs felt weak and her hands trembled. When she tried to speak her throat caught. If he was dead…if she lost him too…
Parker purged that thought from her mind the very instant it came to her. She was a Parker. She was a machine. Jarod was property.
But she didn’t believe it anymore. He had deftly infiltrated her heart now and there was no pulling back. She remembered Dover, the way they had come together, their naturally affinity for each other. She remembered the day they thought Bartlett was going to kill Jarod, and the fear not so different that this. She remembered the bunny, the first kiss, the book Jarod wrote for her, the candy he sent her, the day he saved her father’s life. She remembered all he pieces of her past he had opened up for her, the blindfold he had pulled away from her eyes, the person she was before and the person she was now with thanks to him. She remembered the chains that had bound her heart, that he by himself and later through Thomas had broken. No, she could no longer think of Jarod as property, and she could no longer be a machine. He had made her something more, and he was all she had left. He had been the one constant in her life from the time she was a girl, and she trusted him where she trusted no one else. If he had been killed, whether it was the Centre or whatever pretend he was working on, the killer would pay dearly for his life.
Miss Parker was dimly aware of her cell phone ringing. Shaking her head to clear it, ignoring the hitch of her heart at the sound, she flipped it open and answered tersely.
“You’re late.”
“Jarod.” She was unable to keep the relief from her voice. Indicating that Broots was to follow her (Sydney was out with Sam securing hotel rooms for the team), she moved away from the crew of sweepers and cleaners sifting through Jarod’s possessions and went to the far corner of the room. “Where are you?”
“Nice try Parker.” She could hear it now, the pain in his voice, the wheezing in his breathing.
“What happened this morning?” she demanded. She didn’t mean for her voice to be so soft, so concerned. Broots was looking at her strangely, but she was past the point of caring.
“A long story.” He paused, catching his breath. Just these few words had taken a grievous toll on him. “Parker I need a favor.” Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped. Jarod wanted a favor from her? Now here was an interesting development. “You owe me,” he added. Never before had he tried to use all the many things he had done for her to his advantage. This must be some favor he needed. She knew she should be angry, accuse him of doing all he had done for himself, but she wasn’t. She did owe him after all.
“What?” She shouldn’t be so willing. She should interrogate him; engage him in taunting banter like always. But she didn’t think he had the strength, and for some reason she cared about that.
“I was working with some FBI agents here…”
“Mulder and Scully. I met them this morning.”
“Did they see the apartment?” He sounded incredulous. The tone didn’t fit him.
“No. The cleaners had been in there already.” She really did have to cooperate so much with him. She should just demand that he turn himself in and have done with it. He had helped her of his own choice. She had not asked him. She owed him nothing. “You have a message for them?” She could almost see him nod, heard him fight for a good breath.
“Tell them…tell them I went to Maggie’s and to get there as fast as they can.”
“That’s it?” She was disappointed. She had hoped for some explanation.
“That’s it on this line.” That was a lie. He was have scrambled the call if he was worried about the line being secure. He didn’t want her to know.
“I’ll tell them Jarod.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated. “And Miss Parker? Watch your back.” He hung up.
“What the hell is going on?” She asked no one. Broots just shook his head, looking as spooked as she felt. “Broots can you hack into the FBI system? I need a phone number.”
***
Oh these little earthquakes.
Here we go again.
