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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
The Winds of Change
Chapter 7 (rating R Violence, Non-related Character Death, Mild Language)
Part Seven
Fayetteville, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1720 CST
The scratched and dented panel van tried to keep pace with the newer truck but Jeff, driving a much
less powerful vehicle and possessing somewhat inferior driving skills, had his hands full doing it. Marty,
meanwhile, impressed even Jarod with his handling of the large, four wheel drive truck as he darted in
and out of the traffic with a skill Jarod knew few possessed. It was a pity that his confidence would be
shaken today to the point where Jarod knew he would never drive like this again. Pity that such a
talented person possessed an extremely limited conscience. Jarod always felt some sorrow at the
thought of a life which had wasted limitless potential. The man would never know how truly blessed he
was, at least not until Jarod took it all away from him.
As they passed through Fayetteville at better than seventy miles per hour, it was fortunate that Kevin
knew most of the local police. Despite running through two speed traps at almost double the posted
speed limit, they weren’t hassled by the local police. Usually, the local law enforcement not only let
Kevin pass unmolested, but they turned and sped as fast as practical in the opposite direction. The
yellow truck and dilapidated panel van were well known throughout Tornado Alley and they were
regularly greeted with a welcome usually reserved for the Grim Reaper. Where Kevin went, tornadoes
followed.
Jarod decided to make a little light conversation with Marty. “So, where’d you learn to drive like this?”
“I was in the military,” Marty replied. “I was assigned embassy duty in the Corps and they sent me to
the CIA’s advanced driving school. You know, escape and evasion techniques. The training wasn’t
much use in the civilian world, but hell, it sure keeps me out of harm’s way now.”
In fact, Jarod had accessed Marty’s service record two weeks ago. Marty was a Marine (even Jarod
knew you never really left the Marine Corps) with an infantry background. Marty had shown promise
and was sent to Meteorological training within the Corps and worked in the headquarters company of
the 3rd Amphibious Brigade. He had been responsible for reporting on weather conditions for the
Grenada invasion and for numerous Desert Storm sorties. Between combat tours, Marty had been
assigned to the prestigious Embassy Guard and was assigned to the United States Embassy in both
Costa Rica and Columbia. These are still hot spots for American diplomats and assignment for these
posts was a special honor. Jarod knew Marty had received a great deal of escape and evasion training
as well as the usual weapons, survival, intelligence and security training requisite for a duty assignment to
the Embassy Guard.
Marty mistook Jarod’s silence as an invitation to continue the conversation. “So, how did you end up in
this line of work?”
Jarod never really understood the concept of small talk but he endured it the best he could. “Oh, I got
bored jumping out of airplanes.”
“Airborne, huh?”
“You might say that. I do a lot of things.” Jarod was being intentionally curt, hoping to end a
conversation he was beginning to regret starting.
“Yeah, well I guess you’re doing Bridgett now, too. She’s a little vixen, huh?”
Jarod couldn’t believe the infatuation that Jeff and Marty had with Bridgett. She told him they never
even talked to her about him but they couldn’t seem to keep her out of their conversations with him.
Strange. “Do Bridgett?” Jarod was confused by this particular slang.
“You know, bump uglies?” Jarod shrugged his continued confusion. “Slippin’ the salami, dipping the
dolphin, laying pipe? Jesus Christ, Jarod, don’t you know anything?”
Jarod was beginning to believe he understood what Marty was getting at but he still didn’t understand
the phrases. “You mean have I had sex with her?”
Marty rolled his eyes in disgust. If they had been in a locker room, Marty would have snapped Jarod
with a towel. “Yes, Jarod. I mean you’re screwing her, aren’t ya?”
Screwing is for carpenters, Jarod thought. “No, actually we aren’t ‘bumping uglies’ but we are great
friends. We even kissed last night.” Jarod’s far off expression belied his reminiscence of this
experience.
Marty blankly stared at the overgrown twelve year old next to him. Kissed? The guy was spacing out
like he was remembering the best sex of his life. Was this guy a virgin? Marty positively tingled at the
possibilities of teasing this know it all about being a virgin.
Jarod looked at Marty. Despite the tough exterior, Jarod could feel the inner conflicts within the man.
On impulse, Jarod continued. “Tell me, Marty, what do you miss most about being married?”
Marty felt the sting of a question which struck like a bayonet. Where the hell did that question come
from? “What do I miss most about being married? I guess the nagging.” Marty tried to laugh off the
comment but the noise was hollow coming from him.
“No, really.”
“Okay. Really, I miss my wife. Sure, the divorce was my fault. I was a crappy husband. I figured I
could have my cake and eat it too. Was I ever wrong. What I miss most is the sheer presence of
another person. With everything I accomplished since the divorce, I had no one to share it with. That’s
what killed me the most. I hated to come home to an empty place. I just wanted someone to be there
with me. Hell, I know it sounds lame. You wouldn’t understand it though.”
Jarod felt the crush of loneliness grab his internal organs in a vice and press them to some sort of burning
black hole inside him. His glance, not directly at anything in particular, told Marty that Jarod not only
understood, but he could write a book on the subject. Marty fell silent while Jarod’s mind raced off
along the downward spiral of his own existence.
No one to share it with, Jarod thought. Yes, I can understand this perfectly. Suddenly the entire picture
became clear, just like the computer modified pictures he had helped create for the Centre to use in
hidden message traffic. The full ramifications of his life became crystal clear through the previous static
of his subconscious. He had always wondered at his primal, dangerous obsession with Miss Parker.
Their history not withstanding, Miss Parker was a dangerous enemy and his continual baiting of her was
self destructive. But, without her closely following his trail, who would really know what he had done?
Who would have believed what he was capable of? Miss Parker chronicled his adventures and without
her, none of it mattered.
Who better than he could know the difference. Just a month ago he had come across a DSA where he
had been placed in a chamber and withdrawn from all human contact. After seventeen days, he had
begged to be released and Sydney complied. Another sim showed him in the same depravation
chamber, only this time he was allowed one visitor, whom he had never previously met, for ten minutes
per day. Each day, the visitor was a different person. During that sim, he had lasted only ten days
without begging that the sim be stopped. It came down to a fairly simple point, but a point which to this
point had eluded him. Without Miss Parker and Sydney, none of it mattered. Without these two
people who would know everything he was capable of, he could not have gone on. They were more
important to him than anything else in his life.
Jarod knew that at all times, Miss Parker and Sydney were concerned about him. They cared.
Perhaps not in the loving and nurturing way that he craved, but they cared none the less. If they
followed him, the cared. If they tried to trap him, they cared. If they tried to kill him, they cared. They
cared whether he lived or died and no one else in his world could stake that claim. Miss Parker has
risked her life in Florida to get him. I was these unconscious displays of concern and caring that
motivated Jarod to continue.
Nia cared about him like a kindred soul. They shared pain and suffering and they shared a similar
history, but they did not specifically care about each other in this way.
Bridgett cared. She made Jarod feel whole, but in a way that he knew was destructive to his lifestyle.
Bridgett was the other half to his perfect partnership. Bridgett represented to him the ideal of perfection
and love that he had never experienced before. Bridgett was an equal who cared and possibly loved
him not for what he could do, who he could be or what he had done in the past. Bridgett did not want
anything from him, except his caring in return. Bridgett was a fiercely independent, beautiful, confident
woman who could stand on her own with or without him. Her decision to care about him was not
based on need but on mutual respect and understanding. Jarod loved her like no other.
Bridgett was everything that he missed in life. Everyone else who loved or cared about him, with the
possible exception of his family, loved him because of what he could do, not who he was. That would
make parting with Bridgett even harder. He was thankful that he had thought to bring his laptop with
him today. He would slip off in the aftermath of the tornado and never be seen by these people again.
This morning he had seen Bridgett for the last time.
And he didn’t even say good bye.
*****
Springdale, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1730 CST
The fire trucks pulled up to the corner of Westwood and Huntsdale only to find the seventy-year-old
home burning out of control. Instead of fighting the fire directly, the volunteers began to spray the
nearby trees and grass to keep the fire from spreading. The steady winds had whipped the flames
through the house before the first of the firefighters arrived.
The call had come from the Pastor of the church across the street. The firemen noticed that the Chevy
truck and van were gone, yet a number vehicles remained in the yard. As they started to form a rescue
party to enter the home to search for people, the roof, weakened with age, crashed down through the
structure. The volunteer fire chief arrived less than a minute later and gave the order: Kevin and
Dorothy Schmidt’s home was NWS (not worth saving). They would let it burn to the ground.
In the Episcopal church across the street, a tall muscular man lit a single candle.
*****
Russellville, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1730 CST
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am,” the strapping State Patrol officer apologized to the irate Miss
Parker. “My radar gun is not working and I visually observed you traveling at well above the posted
speed.”
Having memorized his name and badge number, Miss Parker was ten minutes past Full Rage. “Are you
finished?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Have a good day.”
Cretin, she thought to herself as she slid back into the drivers seat of the idling Porsche. The smug grin
on Sydney’s face clearly indicated his mirth at her misfortune. “Shut up, Syd.”
The small Porsche sprayed rocks at the police car as Miss Parker attempted to regain her cruising
speed in record time.
In the squad car, the policeman radioed ahead to a couple of friends patrolling I-40 near Clarksville. A
woman like that was meant to be shared. Too bad she went for older men, he thought, or he might
have even dragged her in to the station and checked her story out. He would be thinking about that
possibility all night.
*****
Fort Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1750 CST
It wasn’t often that the team arrived in time to actually see the formation of a tornado. Usually they
arrived in the path of the beast or spotted a formed tornado in the distance and chased towards it.
Today was a remarkable exception.
They parked the van in the parking lot of the small Englander Motel. A small, run-down, single floor
disappointment, the Englander Motel had a pool with brackish black water and a penchant for missing
the tourist market, despite lying on the major North - South thoroughfare through Ft. Smith, U.S. Route
71. The Englander had the look of a place where maid service was not the only service which could be
obtained for a price. It reminded Marty of many places he had stayed over the years. Kevin knew
he’d rather spring for a Motel 6. The sloped parking lot, pool with less than a quarter of the required
water and the multiple wide accesses to the parking lot made the dingy hotel the perfect command post
area. Also, situated two blocks off of Rogers Avenue, the main east-west street in Ft. Smith, they
would have an unobstructed but safe place to view the twister from. Any residents the Englander may
have once had were apparently out for the day.
Bridgett pulled a step ladder from out of the van and used it to gain the van’s roof. From there it was an
easy jump to the roof of the low roach motel to set up her video equipment. Already the team could
see the counter-clockwise spin of the cumulus clouds indicating the very real possibility of a large
tornado. They had little time to set up before the event.
Kevin gained the roof immediately after Bridgett and surveyed the weather conditions. The heavy rain
had given way to hail, and he was glad for the safety glasses he wore. Bridgett wore a pair of mirrored
Oakley wrap-around sunglasses to ward off the pebble sized hail. Fortunately, there was little moisture
left in Erika. The golf-ball sized hail sometimes associated with tornadic storms made this kind of
observing impossible. Today, real research would be possible, although exposure to the elements
would be painful. Bridgett didn’t seem to notice, though, as she worked with the speed and assurance
of a twenty year veteran.
Kevin climbed back to the ground and gave Jarod the signal to take the truck up to main street. The
tornado was indeed forming near the city center and they needed to be in position. Tornadoes in cities
were notoriously short lived as they had little room to really develop. The problem with them, though,
was the incredible potential for loss of life. Kevin figured this tornado would clock in at about a force
two or three and maybe run for about a mile and a half. Unfortunately, that mile and a half would be
straight down the center of Ft. Smith.
Jeff was busily getting the links set up for the DOROTHY beacons. He wasn’t sure exactly why they
were dragging that old failure back out again, but Kevin insisted and Jeff wasn’t one to argue. The feed
had to be set up before the truck left for placement because if the link couldn’t be set up, it was no use
placing the spheres in harm’s way. The monetary considerations not withstanding, placing the
DOROTHY spheres in the path of a tornado had resulted in a number of lawsuits from people claiming
their windows or cars had been damaged by the spheres when they returned to the ground, often miles
away. Not that any of these sue happy parasites had won a case, but Kevin realized his exposure on
the issue. Besides, he hated to pay for the lawyer’s fees.
Jeff completed the link-ups and gave Marty the traditional carrier deck salute to signify all was a go with
the mission. Marty left black tire prints from the tall off-road tires forty yards up Rt. 71.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1755 CST
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to alarm you…,” the stammering gas station attendant began as he ran up to the
shiny red Porsche at the full service island.
“Just fill it up, Pedro. I’m in a hurry.” Miss Parker was at the end of her rope. Patrolman Williams
would pay dearly for showing her off to his corn-fed, testosterone excessive, mindless circle-jerk club.
She had been stopped three times since Williams first pulled her over. President or not, daddy would
give the native of this pitiful excuse for a state an earful when he heard about this.
“B - but ma’am. There’s a tornado heading this way.”
Lightning flashed both in the distance behind Miss Parker and in the depths of her mind. Of course!
The red notebook had contained some historical references to Hurricane Camille and certainly there
were no hurricanes in Arkansas. Didn’t Broots say Jarod logged into the National Weather Service?
Damn! Jarod had led them here after all! Racing as hard as she could for hours to be one step ahead
for once and Jarod knew all along that she’d be here. Every damn time she thought she was one up on
him, he remained two more ahead of her. Damn!
Miss Parker fired the Porsche engine to life in a roar and released the parking break and clutch at the
same time. The rear of the Porsche kicked sharply two feet to the right and struck the attendant,
knocking him back into a display of oil cans. Sydney, who had been busily making preparations to exit
the car and head for shelter, was thrown around and struck his head on the windshield support, drawing
a thin trickle of blood and an instant headache. Miss Parker did not let up at all on the gas pedal until
they had spun around 180 degrees and were speeding towards the now quickly forming funnel cloud.
“Miss Parker,” Sydney began, trying to clear the already dangerous throbbing in his head. She didn’t
acknowledge him except to shift from third to fourth gear. “Damn it, Miss Parker! What are you
doing?”
“Sydney, don’t you see? Jarod’s here, at the tornado. That’s what he’s doing here!”
Although Sydney did not really see, he buckled back up his seat belt and reached for his Polo
sunglasses from the bag underneath his legs. The rain had started and more than an occasional drop
was coming low enough over the windshield to catch him in the face. He knew the hail would be
coming next and he didn’t want to damage his eyes.
As Miss Parker blew through an intersection at ninety-five, the little car became airborne for a few
seconds. At just over twenty four hundred pounds, though, that was far too long for a small car to be
airborne in a steadily increasing forty knot cross wind. The car landed unevenly on the two passenger
wheels, weighed down both by the cross-wind and by Sydney’s substantially heavier weight. On a
good road, this would have merely been an inconvenience, but on a road pock marked with pot-holes
and uneven black-top patches, it caused a critical change in the tenuous equilibrium of the car.
Miss Parker fought the hard right veer of the car and countered by turning the wheel and releasing the
gas. The line of cars parked on the far side of the road suddenly loomed large as the Porsche crossed
the centerline and Miss Parker began to fight to recover the car back to the right. Finally starting to
panic, she touched the brake first lightly and then harder as she fought the vicious oversteer of the rack
and pinion steering system which had been jarred loose by the uneven impact. Despite all of this,
though, Miss Parker could have recovered the Porsche. That is until the drivers side front tire
disappeared into a four inch deep pothole. The tire, blistering hot after a day of one-hundred thirty-plus
mile-per-hour running, was in no condition to survive impact with an abrupt edge at seventy miles an
hour. The tire exploded on impact and sent the Porsche straight over the curb and into the brick
storefront of “Betty’s Hair and Nails” a small beauty shop located in the old post-office. Point of
impact for the Porsche was the passenger side headlamp.
*****
Fort Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1800 CST
The funnel touched down two hundred yards west of the Cathedral. It began to work its way steadily
up main street tossing anything in its path immediately into the buildings which lined this industrial center
of Ft. Smith. Long time residents and tourists alike had long since either evacuated the area or had
headed for shelter inside the basements or lower levels of the buildings. The deafening roar of the funnel
was punctuated only by the staccato bursts of automobiles crashing through storefronts, plate glass
breaking and light poles being ripped from their foundations.
Marty had positioned the truck along the center of the street and the two of them were waiting for the
final touchdown of the funnel before dropping DOROTHY into the path of the tornado. Seeing the
funnel touch down, the two of them pushed the DOROTHY unit out of the back of the truck, released
the tie downs and raced back around to get in the truck. Marty was surprised to find the truck engine
had died. He turned the key and nothing happened. Except that the driver’s door locked.
“Scary, isn’t it?”
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1801 CST
Miss Parker fought her way through the deployed airbag. Finding that her door would no longer open,
she climbed out of the car and began to stagger down 10th Street, moving steadily towards the tornado
cleaving its way up the Rogers Avenue, only two blocks in front of her. She was moving on pure
instinct. She never turned to see the unconscious, bleeding form of Sydney lying in the car. The
passenger airbag had deployed and spared Sydney from any real harm, but the small car had folded
around his long legs, breaking one in two places. Thankfully, the violence and shock of the accident
rendered him unconscious to the pain.
Miss Parker drew her gun and continued to move in the direction of the noise. Her vision was foggy
and a trickle of blood began to obscure her left eye. She made no effort to clear the blood away and
continued to stagger down the road. As she approached the road, she couldn’t help but wonder why
two men were parked in a yellow truck in the middle of the path of the tornado.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1802 CST
“What the hell is wrong with the truck.”
Jarod felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through his body like a drug. “I’ll bet your feeling a little
helpless now, aren’t you Marty.” In his pocket, Jarod clicked on the small tape recorder he carried
with him for just such occasions.
“Jesus, Jarod, what have you done?”
“Oh, I’ve just disabled the ignition system and relayed the door locks to the starter circuit.” Glancing
over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching tornado, Jarod added, “I’d better get going. That thing’s
getting close.”
To give Marty credit, he didn’t lose his cool. Marines never did, Jarod knew. “Okay, what is this
about?”
Jarod withdrew a stack of canceled checks from his inside jacket pocket and threw them at Marty.
“Five hundred dollars? Do you know how many people have died because of information you leaked?
At least twenty people are dead because of you. Now, it’s your turn to be helpless in the path of a
tornado. It’s your turn to pay them back for your services.” Jarod turned, opened his door and
climbed out of the truck, hitting the lock mechanism, whose unlock relays were disconnected, and
started to close the door behind himself.
“Jarod, wait! I did it! Okay, I’m sorry! I was trying to get extra money for my sister. She’s on
dialysis and insurance doesn’t cover it all. I was just trying to help her! Please, you gotta believe me!”
Jarod felt the very unfamiliar tugs of doubt in his mind. The rush of this Pretend had not allowed him to
properly research where the money was going. Could Marty really have some excuse for his actions?
No, twenty people’s lives weren’t so unimportant that he couldn’t have found another way to make the
money. Jarod turned back towards Marty. “Tell it to the judge.”
Jarod slammed the door shut, turned and ran down the street. Behind him, Marty began to scream and
frantically beat at the windows of the truck. Jarod turned and hit the remote to enable the ignition
system. The tornado was right behind the truck and he could start to see the DOROTHY unit begin to
shake violently from the winds.
He watched as Marty again tried to start the truck, to no avail. Jarod began to panic as he frantically hit
the disable button only to see Marty try repeatedly to start the completely dead truck. Marty broke the
driver’s side window just as the tornado picked the truck up and began to carry it upwards into the sky.
Jarod screamed.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1804 CST
Miss Parker began to feel light and the buffeting winds of the storm began to pelt her with all manner of
debris and junk. As she came down the last block towards the yellow truck, she saw a tall man climb
out of the truck and begin to run down the street. The driver of the truck did not leave and instead
continued to try and either start the truck or just beat his way out of the truck. Perhaps it was shock
from the accident or perhaps even she could not believe the scene played out in front of her.
Whichever, it wasn’t until he screamed that she realized the man she was looking at was Jarod.
“JAROD!” Even through the roar of the tornado, she could see him turn to face her directly.
Jarod felt fear. Pure, naked, encompassing fear. Incredibly, Miss Parker had somehow found him and
now he had just killed Marty because something went wrong with his ignition disabler. His mind was
racing, trying desperately to come up with some possible answer which would satisfy Reason. He had
almost forgotten the tornado bearing down on him, fifty yards back.
Miss Parker dropped to one knee and leveled the SIG Sauer 10mm pistol she was carrying. The
ripples of shock made her hand increasingly unsteady, but she was not about to let Jarod go this time.
Had some part of her rational mind been functioning, she would no doubt have either run for shelter or
advised Jarod to do the same. If she shot Jarod, even just to wound him, the tornado would sweep him
up and finish the job. She didn’t want Jarod dead anymore than Sydney did. Truthfully, much less than
Sydney ever would.
It was the two bullets ripping past him, one tearing a part of the jacket he was wearing, that jarred Jarod
back to reality. He ran.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1805 CST
From her vantage on top of the hotel roof, Bridgett watched the truck as it was picked up off the
ground and thrown two blocks into a small grocery store. She placed the small key chain with remote
actuator transmitter into the pocket of her shorts. She also saw Miss Parker advancing on Jarod.
Bridgett couldn’t believe her eyes when Miss Parker started inexplicably shooting at him. Damn her,
how did she get here? The Tower had assured her that there would be absolutely no interference.
Jarod did not need to be killed. What was that bitchy little daddy’s girl thinking?
In one swift motion, Bridgett leaped off the roof of the hotel and landed next to the open door of the
van. Jeff was marveling over the stacks of data coming in and rapidly being deleted by the computer in
front of him. The DOROTHY spheres only fed information for a few seconds and then were destroyed
by the tornado. Immediately after the data stopped loading, the screen flashed dialog box asking if data
was complete. Jeff clicked yes and a map popped onto the screen with a few dozen small triangular
symbols scattered throughout the coverage area. Each triangle symbol had a date, F rating and a
danger rating of 1 to 10. Jeff was amazed to see that all of the dates were in the future.
Kevin was ecstatic. He saw the screen fill up with dates, locations, strengths and paths of projected
tornadoes. This was what he always said that DOROTHY could do. He was right! This little device
would save thousands of lives. He would make Jarod a very famous man.
Kevin was still staring at the screen when it was hit by a red spray obscuring half of the viewing area.
Baffled by the source of the jelly-like spray, he turned towards Jeff, only to see a four inch hole were
Jeff’s right eye had once been. The last thing he saw was Bridgett holding a very large handgun with a
strangely small barrel leveled at him.
“It’s just business,” she told him as she pulled the trigger.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1806 CST
Jarod dove through the cracked plate window of the Downtown Book Store as the tornado passed,
pulling books and any loose object into its hungering belly. Jarod rolled up to the wall under the remains
of the plate window and found an eddy in the wind flow to protect himself. His arms and legs were cut
dozens of times both from the glass he was laying in and the glass flying around the store. When he felt
the tornado pass, Jarod jumped back out into the street and began to follow the tornado up the street.
Already he could feel the power of the storm beginning to dissipate.
The predictor had indicated that the storm would end three blocks before the Varsity Sports Bar. He
turned and looked back towards the direction Miss Parker had shot at him from, but he couldn’t see
her. He continued to keep pace with the tornado. A few hundred yards further down the road the
storm lost contact with the road and the funnel retracted into the clouds. Jarod picked up to a run to get
to the rental car.
Miss Parker rounded the corner just as the funnel retracted itself and she headed down main street after
Jarod. She cursed the wind and her rapidly narrowing field of vision which she knew indicated an
impending loss of consciousness. She was running on pure adrenaline and pure emotion and her tank
was running on fumes. She didn’t even have the energy to yell or raise her weapon.
Jarod reached the car and jumped inside. The Dodge Stratus fired immediately to life and Jarod peeled
his way out of the parking lot. In the rear view mirror, he could see Miss Parker slumping lifelessly to
the ground.
*****
Epilogue
Lafayette, LA
August 23, 1997 2300 CST
The smoke filled room was sparsely populated with heavy drinkers and bar flies. Bob’s Pub had a
regular open mike Blues Jam every Wednesday and Thursday night and the crowd of regulars were
used to the mixed bag of musicians which showed up. Many small label recording artists, local talents
and a few local wanna bees showcased their talents, or lack thereof, in front of the often hostile
audience each Wednesday and Thursday night. The regulars noticed the tall boyish man who had been
first on the sign in list, arriving at five o’clock for the honor, stride up to the microphone. His guitar was
a brand-new Ibanez 470 RG, a common guitar among the younger alternative and heavy metal bands.
The regulars prepared to level the onslaught of catcalls for the apparent beginner.
The bartender stopped the pre-recorded music and the house drummer and bassist stepped back up to
the stage to the cheers of the regulars. From the back of the room, the announcer made the traditional
announcement of the play order. Jarod Guy was first.
As Jarod stepped up to the microphone, he felt the familiar impending embarrassment of the initial
stages of any Pretend. In order to master anything, he needed exposure. In order to become a
musician, he needed to play with musicians. With four open mike Blues Jams a week, Lafayette was a
perfect city to play with all types of musicians and learn the skills he would need for his next mission.
The salesman at Vince’s Backstage Music this morning gave him enough to get him started, and now he
would perfect this skill like he had perfected many others before it.
Jarod stepped to the mic and opened the night’s entertainment with “Johnny B. Goode.”
Chapter 7 (rating R Violence, Non-related Character Death, Mild Language)
Part Seven
Fayetteville, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1720 CST
The scratched and dented panel van tried to keep pace with the newer truck but Jeff, driving a much
less powerful vehicle and possessing somewhat inferior driving skills, had his hands full doing it. Marty,
meanwhile, impressed even Jarod with his handling of the large, four wheel drive truck as he darted in
and out of the traffic with a skill Jarod knew few possessed. It was a pity that his confidence would be
shaken today to the point where Jarod knew he would never drive like this again. Pity that such a
talented person possessed an extremely limited conscience. Jarod always felt some sorrow at the
thought of a life which had wasted limitless potential. The man would never know how truly blessed he
was, at least not until Jarod took it all away from him.
As they passed through Fayetteville at better than seventy miles per hour, it was fortunate that Kevin
knew most of the local police. Despite running through two speed traps at almost double the posted
speed limit, they weren’t hassled by the local police. Usually, the local law enforcement not only let
Kevin pass unmolested, but they turned and sped as fast as practical in the opposite direction. The
yellow truck and dilapidated panel van were well known throughout Tornado Alley and they were
regularly greeted with a welcome usually reserved for the Grim Reaper. Where Kevin went, tornadoes
followed.
Jarod decided to make a little light conversation with Marty. “So, where’d you learn to drive like this?”
“I was in the military,” Marty replied. “I was assigned embassy duty in the Corps and they sent me to
the CIA’s advanced driving school. You know, escape and evasion techniques. The training wasn’t
much use in the civilian world, but hell, it sure keeps me out of harm’s way now.”
In fact, Jarod had accessed Marty’s service record two weeks ago. Marty was a Marine (even Jarod
knew you never really left the Marine Corps) with an infantry background. Marty had shown promise
and was sent to Meteorological training within the Corps and worked in the headquarters company of
the 3rd Amphibious Brigade. He had been responsible for reporting on weather conditions for the
Grenada invasion and for numerous Desert Storm sorties. Between combat tours, Marty had been
assigned to the prestigious Embassy Guard and was assigned to the United States Embassy in both
Costa Rica and Columbia. These are still hot spots for American diplomats and assignment for these
posts was a special honor. Jarod knew Marty had received a great deal of escape and evasion training
as well as the usual weapons, survival, intelligence and security training requisite for a duty assignment to
the Embassy Guard.
Marty mistook Jarod’s silence as an invitation to continue the conversation. “So, how did you end up in
this line of work?”
Jarod never really understood the concept of small talk but he endured it the best he could. “Oh, I got
bored jumping out of airplanes.”
“Airborne, huh?”
“You might say that. I do a lot of things.” Jarod was being intentionally curt, hoping to end a
conversation he was beginning to regret starting.
“Yeah, well I guess you’re doing Bridgett now, too. She’s a little vixen, huh?”
Jarod couldn’t believe the infatuation that Jeff and Marty had with Bridgett. She told him they never
even talked to her about him but they couldn’t seem to keep her out of their conversations with him.
Strange. “Do Bridgett?” Jarod was confused by this particular slang.
“You know, bump uglies?” Jarod shrugged his continued confusion. “Slippin’ the salami, dipping the
dolphin, laying pipe? Jesus Christ, Jarod, don’t you know anything?”
Jarod was beginning to believe he understood what Marty was getting at but he still didn’t understand
the phrases. “You mean have I had sex with her?”
Marty rolled his eyes in disgust. If they had been in a locker room, Marty would have snapped Jarod
with a towel. “Yes, Jarod. I mean you’re screwing her, aren’t ya?”
Screwing is for carpenters, Jarod thought. “No, actually we aren’t ‘bumping uglies’ but we are great
friends. We even kissed last night.” Jarod’s far off expression belied his reminiscence of this
experience.
Marty blankly stared at the overgrown twelve year old next to him. Kissed? The guy was spacing out
like he was remembering the best sex of his life. Was this guy a virgin? Marty positively tingled at the
possibilities of teasing this know it all about being a virgin.
Jarod looked at Marty. Despite the tough exterior, Jarod could feel the inner conflicts within the man.
On impulse, Jarod continued. “Tell me, Marty, what do you miss most about being married?”
Marty felt the sting of a question which struck like a bayonet. Where the hell did that question come
from? “What do I miss most about being married? I guess the nagging.” Marty tried to laugh off the
comment but the noise was hollow coming from him.
“No, really.”
“Okay. Really, I miss my wife. Sure, the divorce was my fault. I was a crappy husband. I figured I
could have my cake and eat it too. Was I ever wrong. What I miss most is the sheer presence of
another person. With everything I accomplished since the divorce, I had no one to share it with. That’s
what killed me the most. I hated to come home to an empty place. I just wanted someone to be there
with me. Hell, I know it sounds lame. You wouldn’t understand it though.”
Jarod felt the crush of loneliness grab his internal organs in a vice and press them to some sort of burning
black hole inside him. His glance, not directly at anything in particular, told Marty that Jarod not only
understood, but he could write a book on the subject. Marty fell silent while Jarod’s mind raced off
along the downward spiral of his own existence.
No one to share it with, Jarod thought. Yes, I can understand this perfectly. Suddenly the entire picture
became clear, just like the computer modified pictures he had helped create for the Centre to use in
hidden message traffic. The full ramifications of his life became crystal clear through the previous static
of his subconscious. He had always wondered at his primal, dangerous obsession with Miss Parker.
Their history not withstanding, Miss Parker was a dangerous enemy and his continual baiting of her was
self destructive. But, without her closely following his trail, who would really know what he had done?
Who would have believed what he was capable of? Miss Parker chronicled his adventures and without
her, none of it mattered.
Who better than he could know the difference. Just a month ago he had come across a DSA where he
had been placed in a chamber and withdrawn from all human contact. After seventeen days, he had
begged to be released and Sydney complied. Another sim showed him in the same depravation
chamber, only this time he was allowed one visitor, whom he had never previously met, for ten minutes
per day. Each day, the visitor was a different person. During that sim, he had lasted only ten days
without begging that the sim be stopped. It came down to a fairly simple point, but a point which to this
point had eluded him. Without Miss Parker and Sydney, none of it mattered. Without these two
people who would know everything he was capable of, he could not have gone on. They were more
important to him than anything else in his life.
Jarod knew that at all times, Miss Parker and Sydney were concerned about him. They cared.
Perhaps not in the loving and nurturing way that he craved, but they cared none the less. If they
followed him, the cared. If they tried to trap him, they cared. If they tried to kill him, they cared. They
cared whether he lived or died and no one else in his world could stake that claim. Miss Parker has
risked her life in Florida to get him. I was these unconscious displays of concern and caring that
motivated Jarod to continue.
Nia cared about him like a kindred soul. They shared pain and suffering and they shared a similar
history, but they did not specifically care about each other in this way.
Bridgett cared. She made Jarod feel whole, but in a way that he knew was destructive to his lifestyle.
Bridgett was the other half to his perfect partnership. Bridgett represented to him the ideal of perfection
and love that he had never experienced before. Bridgett was an equal who cared and possibly loved
him not for what he could do, who he could be or what he had done in the past. Bridgett did not want
anything from him, except his caring in return. Bridgett was a fiercely independent, beautiful, confident
woman who could stand on her own with or without him. Her decision to care about him was not
based on need but on mutual respect and understanding. Jarod loved her like no other.
Bridgett was everything that he missed in life. Everyone else who loved or cared about him, with the
possible exception of his family, loved him because of what he could do, not who he was. That would
make parting with Bridgett even harder. He was thankful that he had thought to bring his laptop with
him today. He would slip off in the aftermath of the tornado and never be seen by these people again.
This morning he had seen Bridgett for the last time.
And he didn’t even say good bye.
*****
Springdale, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1730 CST
The fire trucks pulled up to the corner of Westwood and Huntsdale only to find the seventy-year-old
home burning out of control. Instead of fighting the fire directly, the volunteers began to spray the
nearby trees and grass to keep the fire from spreading. The steady winds had whipped the flames
through the house before the first of the firefighters arrived.
The call had come from the Pastor of the church across the street. The firemen noticed that the Chevy
truck and van were gone, yet a number vehicles remained in the yard. As they started to form a rescue
party to enter the home to search for people, the roof, weakened with age, crashed down through the
structure. The volunteer fire chief arrived less than a minute later and gave the order: Kevin and
Dorothy Schmidt’s home was NWS (not worth saving). They would let it burn to the ground.
In the Episcopal church across the street, a tall muscular man lit a single candle.
*****
Russellville, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1730 CST
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am,” the strapping State Patrol officer apologized to the irate Miss
Parker. “My radar gun is not working and I visually observed you traveling at well above the posted
speed.”
Having memorized his name and badge number, Miss Parker was ten minutes past Full Rage. “Are you
finished?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Have a good day.”
Cretin, she thought to herself as she slid back into the drivers seat of the idling Porsche. The smug grin
on Sydney’s face clearly indicated his mirth at her misfortune. “Shut up, Syd.”
The small Porsche sprayed rocks at the police car as Miss Parker attempted to regain her cruising
speed in record time.
In the squad car, the policeman radioed ahead to a couple of friends patrolling I-40 near Clarksville. A
woman like that was meant to be shared. Too bad she went for older men, he thought, or he might
have even dragged her in to the station and checked her story out. He would be thinking about that
possibility all night.
*****
Fort Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1750 CST
It wasn’t often that the team arrived in time to actually see the formation of a tornado. Usually they
arrived in the path of the beast or spotted a formed tornado in the distance and chased towards it.
Today was a remarkable exception.
They parked the van in the parking lot of the small Englander Motel. A small, run-down, single floor
disappointment, the Englander Motel had a pool with brackish black water and a penchant for missing
the tourist market, despite lying on the major North - South thoroughfare through Ft. Smith, U.S. Route
71. The Englander had the look of a place where maid service was not the only service which could be
obtained for a price. It reminded Marty of many places he had stayed over the years. Kevin knew
he’d rather spring for a Motel 6. The sloped parking lot, pool with less than a quarter of the required
water and the multiple wide accesses to the parking lot made the dingy hotel the perfect command post
area. Also, situated two blocks off of Rogers Avenue, the main east-west street in Ft. Smith, they
would have an unobstructed but safe place to view the twister from. Any residents the Englander may
have once had were apparently out for the day.
Bridgett pulled a step ladder from out of the van and used it to gain the van’s roof. From there it was an
easy jump to the roof of the low roach motel to set up her video equipment. Already the team could
see the counter-clockwise spin of the cumulus clouds indicating the very real possibility of a large
tornado. They had little time to set up before the event.
Kevin gained the roof immediately after Bridgett and surveyed the weather conditions. The heavy rain
had given way to hail, and he was glad for the safety glasses he wore. Bridgett wore a pair of mirrored
Oakley wrap-around sunglasses to ward off the pebble sized hail. Fortunately, there was little moisture
left in Erika. The golf-ball sized hail sometimes associated with tornadic storms made this kind of
observing impossible. Today, real research would be possible, although exposure to the elements
would be painful. Bridgett didn’t seem to notice, though, as she worked with the speed and assurance
of a twenty year veteran.
Kevin climbed back to the ground and gave Jarod the signal to take the truck up to main street. The
tornado was indeed forming near the city center and they needed to be in position. Tornadoes in cities
were notoriously short lived as they had little room to really develop. The problem with them, though,
was the incredible potential for loss of life. Kevin figured this tornado would clock in at about a force
two or three and maybe run for about a mile and a half. Unfortunately, that mile and a half would be
straight down the center of Ft. Smith.
Jeff was busily getting the links set up for the DOROTHY beacons. He wasn’t sure exactly why they
were dragging that old failure back out again, but Kevin insisted and Jeff wasn’t one to argue. The feed
had to be set up before the truck left for placement because if the link couldn’t be set up, it was no use
placing the spheres in harm’s way. The monetary considerations not withstanding, placing the
DOROTHY spheres in the path of a tornado had resulted in a number of lawsuits from people claiming
their windows or cars had been damaged by the spheres when they returned to the ground, often miles
away. Not that any of these sue happy parasites had won a case, but Kevin realized his exposure on
the issue. Besides, he hated to pay for the lawyer’s fees.
Jeff completed the link-ups and gave Marty the traditional carrier deck salute to signify all was a go with
the mission. Marty left black tire prints from the tall off-road tires forty yards up Rt. 71.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1755 CST
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to alarm you…,” the stammering gas station attendant began as he ran up to the
shiny red Porsche at the full service island.
“Just fill it up, Pedro. I’m in a hurry.” Miss Parker was at the end of her rope. Patrolman Williams
would pay dearly for showing her off to his corn-fed, testosterone excessive, mindless circle-jerk club.
She had been stopped three times since Williams first pulled her over. President or not, daddy would
give the native of this pitiful excuse for a state an earful when he heard about this.
“B - but ma’am. There’s a tornado heading this way.”
Lightning flashed both in the distance behind Miss Parker and in the depths of her mind. Of course!
The red notebook had contained some historical references to Hurricane Camille and certainly there
were no hurricanes in Arkansas. Didn’t Broots say Jarod logged into the National Weather Service?
Damn! Jarod had led them here after all! Racing as hard as she could for hours to be one step ahead
for once and Jarod knew all along that she’d be here. Every damn time she thought she was one up on
him, he remained two more ahead of her. Damn!
Miss Parker fired the Porsche engine to life in a roar and released the parking break and clutch at the
same time. The rear of the Porsche kicked sharply two feet to the right and struck the attendant,
knocking him back into a display of oil cans. Sydney, who had been busily making preparations to exit
the car and head for shelter, was thrown around and struck his head on the windshield support, drawing
a thin trickle of blood and an instant headache. Miss Parker did not let up at all on the gas pedal until
they had spun around 180 degrees and were speeding towards the now quickly forming funnel cloud.
“Miss Parker,” Sydney began, trying to clear the already dangerous throbbing in his head. She didn’t
acknowledge him except to shift from third to fourth gear. “Damn it, Miss Parker! What are you
doing?”
“Sydney, don’t you see? Jarod’s here, at the tornado. That’s what he’s doing here!”
Although Sydney did not really see, he buckled back up his seat belt and reached for his Polo
sunglasses from the bag underneath his legs. The rain had started and more than an occasional drop
was coming low enough over the windshield to catch him in the face. He knew the hail would be
coming next and he didn’t want to damage his eyes.
As Miss Parker blew through an intersection at ninety-five, the little car became airborne for a few
seconds. At just over twenty four hundred pounds, though, that was far too long for a small car to be
airborne in a steadily increasing forty knot cross wind. The car landed unevenly on the two passenger
wheels, weighed down both by the cross-wind and by Sydney’s substantially heavier weight. On a
good road, this would have merely been an inconvenience, but on a road pock marked with pot-holes
and uneven black-top patches, it caused a critical change in the tenuous equilibrium of the car.
Miss Parker fought the hard right veer of the car and countered by turning the wheel and releasing the
gas. The line of cars parked on the far side of the road suddenly loomed large as the Porsche crossed
the centerline and Miss Parker began to fight to recover the car back to the right. Finally starting to
panic, she touched the brake first lightly and then harder as she fought the vicious oversteer of the rack
and pinion steering system which had been jarred loose by the uneven impact. Despite all of this,
though, Miss Parker could have recovered the Porsche. That is until the drivers side front tire
disappeared into a four inch deep pothole. The tire, blistering hot after a day of one-hundred thirty-plus
mile-per-hour running, was in no condition to survive impact with an abrupt edge at seventy miles an
hour. The tire exploded on impact and sent the Porsche straight over the curb and into the brick
storefront of “Betty’s Hair and Nails” a small beauty shop located in the old post-office. Point of
impact for the Porsche was the passenger side headlamp.
*****
Fort Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1800 CST
The funnel touched down two hundred yards west of the Cathedral. It began to work its way steadily
up main street tossing anything in its path immediately into the buildings which lined this industrial center
of Ft. Smith. Long time residents and tourists alike had long since either evacuated the area or had
headed for shelter inside the basements or lower levels of the buildings. The deafening roar of the funnel
was punctuated only by the staccato bursts of automobiles crashing through storefronts, plate glass
breaking and light poles being ripped from their foundations.
Marty had positioned the truck along the center of the street and the two of them were waiting for the
final touchdown of the funnel before dropping DOROTHY into the path of the tornado. Seeing the
funnel touch down, the two of them pushed the DOROTHY unit out of the back of the truck, released
the tie downs and raced back around to get in the truck. Marty was surprised to find the truck engine
had died. He turned the key and nothing happened. Except that the driver’s door locked.
“Scary, isn’t it?”
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1801 CST
Miss Parker fought her way through the deployed airbag. Finding that her door would no longer open,
she climbed out of the car and began to stagger down 10th Street, moving steadily towards the tornado
cleaving its way up the Rogers Avenue, only two blocks in front of her. She was moving on pure
instinct. She never turned to see the unconscious, bleeding form of Sydney lying in the car. The
passenger airbag had deployed and spared Sydney from any real harm, but the small car had folded
around his long legs, breaking one in two places. Thankfully, the violence and shock of the accident
rendered him unconscious to the pain.
Miss Parker drew her gun and continued to move in the direction of the noise. Her vision was foggy
and a trickle of blood began to obscure her left eye. She made no effort to clear the blood away and
continued to stagger down the road. As she approached the road, she couldn’t help but wonder why
two men were parked in a yellow truck in the middle of the path of the tornado.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1802 CST
“What the hell is wrong with the truck.”
Jarod felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through his body like a drug. “I’ll bet your feeling a little
helpless now, aren’t you Marty.” In his pocket, Jarod clicked on the small tape recorder he carried
with him for just such occasions.
“Jesus, Jarod, what have you done?”
“Oh, I’ve just disabled the ignition system and relayed the door locks to the starter circuit.” Glancing
over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching tornado, Jarod added, “I’d better get going. That thing’s
getting close.”
To give Marty credit, he didn’t lose his cool. Marines never did, Jarod knew. “Okay, what is this
about?”
Jarod withdrew a stack of canceled checks from his inside jacket pocket and threw them at Marty.
“Five hundred dollars? Do you know how many people have died because of information you leaked?
At least twenty people are dead because of you. Now, it’s your turn to be helpless in the path of a
tornado. It’s your turn to pay them back for your services.” Jarod turned, opened his door and
climbed out of the truck, hitting the lock mechanism, whose unlock relays were disconnected, and
started to close the door behind himself.
“Jarod, wait! I did it! Okay, I’m sorry! I was trying to get extra money for my sister. She’s on
dialysis and insurance doesn’t cover it all. I was just trying to help her! Please, you gotta believe me!”
Jarod felt the very unfamiliar tugs of doubt in his mind. The rush of this Pretend had not allowed him to
properly research where the money was going. Could Marty really have some excuse for his actions?
No, twenty people’s lives weren’t so unimportant that he couldn’t have found another way to make the
money. Jarod turned back towards Marty. “Tell it to the judge.”
Jarod slammed the door shut, turned and ran down the street. Behind him, Marty began to scream and
frantically beat at the windows of the truck. Jarod turned and hit the remote to enable the ignition
system. The tornado was right behind the truck and he could start to see the DOROTHY unit begin to
shake violently from the winds.
He watched as Marty again tried to start the truck, to no avail. Jarod began to panic as he frantically hit
the disable button only to see Marty try repeatedly to start the completely dead truck. Marty broke the
driver’s side window just as the tornado picked the truck up and began to carry it upwards into the sky.
Jarod screamed.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1804 CST
Miss Parker began to feel light and the buffeting winds of the storm began to pelt her with all manner of
debris and junk. As she came down the last block towards the yellow truck, she saw a tall man climb
out of the truck and begin to run down the street. The driver of the truck did not leave and instead
continued to try and either start the truck or just beat his way out of the truck. Perhaps it was shock
from the accident or perhaps even she could not believe the scene played out in front of her.
Whichever, it wasn’t until he screamed that she realized the man she was looking at was Jarod.
“JAROD!” Even through the roar of the tornado, she could see him turn to face her directly.
Jarod felt fear. Pure, naked, encompassing fear. Incredibly, Miss Parker had somehow found him and
now he had just killed Marty because something went wrong with his ignition disabler. His mind was
racing, trying desperately to come up with some possible answer which would satisfy Reason. He had
almost forgotten the tornado bearing down on him, fifty yards back.
Miss Parker dropped to one knee and leveled the SIG Sauer 10mm pistol she was carrying. The
ripples of shock made her hand increasingly unsteady, but she was not about to let Jarod go this time.
Had some part of her rational mind been functioning, she would no doubt have either run for shelter or
advised Jarod to do the same. If she shot Jarod, even just to wound him, the tornado would sweep him
up and finish the job. She didn’t want Jarod dead anymore than Sydney did. Truthfully, much less than
Sydney ever would.
It was the two bullets ripping past him, one tearing a part of the jacket he was wearing, that jarred Jarod
back to reality. He ran.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1805 CST
From her vantage on top of the hotel roof, Bridgett watched the truck as it was picked up off the
ground and thrown two blocks into a small grocery store. She placed the small key chain with remote
actuator transmitter into the pocket of her shorts. She also saw Miss Parker advancing on Jarod.
Bridgett couldn’t believe her eyes when Miss Parker started inexplicably shooting at him. Damn her,
how did she get here? The Tower had assured her that there would be absolutely no interference.
Jarod did not need to be killed. What was that bitchy little daddy’s girl thinking?
In one swift motion, Bridgett leaped off the roof of the hotel and landed next to the open door of the
van. Jeff was marveling over the stacks of data coming in and rapidly being deleted by the computer in
front of him. The DOROTHY spheres only fed information for a few seconds and then were destroyed
by the tornado. Immediately after the data stopped loading, the screen flashed dialog box asking if data
was complete. Jeff clicked yes and a map popped onto the screen with a few dozen small triangular
symbols scattered throughout the coverage area. Each triangle symbol had a date, F rating and a
danger rating of 1 to 10. Jeff was amazed to see that all of the dates were in the future.
Kevin was ecstatic. He saw the screen fill up with dates, locations, strengths and paths of projected
tornadoes. This was what he always said that DOROTHY could do. He was right! This little device
would save thousands of lives. He would make Jarod a very famous man.
Kevin was still staring at the screen when it was hit by a red spray obscuring half of the viewing area.
Baffled by the source of the jelly-like spray, he turned towards Jeff, only to see a four inch hole were
Jeff’s right eye had once been. The last thing he saw was Bridgett holding a very large handgun with a
strangely small barrel leveled at him.
“It’s just business,” she told him as she pulled the trigger.
*****
Ft. Smith, Arkansas
August 16, 1997 1806 CST
Jarod dove through the cracked plate window of the Downtown Book Store as the tornado passed,
pulling books and any loose object into its hungering belly. Jarod rolled up to the wall under the remains
of the plate window and found an eddy in the wind flow to protect himself. His arms and legs were cut
dozens of times both from the glass he was laying in and the glass flying around the store. When he felt
the tornado pass, Jarod jumped back out into the street and began to follow the tornado up the street.
Already he could feel the power of the storm beginning to dissipate.
The predictor had indicated that the storm would end three blocks before the Varsity Sports Bar. He
turned and looked back towards the direction Miss Parker had shot at him from, but he couldn’t see
her. He continued to keep pace with the tornado. A few hundred yards further down the road the
storm lost contact with the road and the funnel retracted into the clouds. Jarod picked up to a run to get
to the rental car.
Miss Parker rounded the corner just as the funnel retracted itself and she headed down main street after
Jarod. She cursed the wind and her rapidly narrowing field of vision which she knew indicated an
impending loss of consciousness. She was running on pure adrenaline and pure emotion and her tank
was running on fumes. She didn’t even have the energy to yell or raise her weapon.
Jarod reached the car and jumped inside. The Dodge Stratus fired immediately to life and Jarod peeled
his way out of the parking lot. In the rear view mirror, he could see Miss Parker slumping lifelessly to
the ground.
*****
Epilogue
Lafayette, LA
August 23, 1997 2300 CST
The smoke filled room was sparsely populated with heavy drinkers and bar flies. Bob’s Pub had a
regular open mike Blues Jam every Wednesday and Thursday night and the crowd of regulars were
used to the mixed bag of musicians which showed up. Many small label recording artists, local talents
and a few local wanna bees showcased their talents, or lack thereof, in front of the often hostile
audience each Wednesday and Thursday night. The regulars noticed the tall boyish man who had been
first on the sign in list, arriving at five o’clock for the honor, stride up to the microphone. His guitar was
a brand-new Ibanez 470 RG, a common guitar among the younger alternative and heavy metal bands.
The regulars prepared to level the onslaught of catcalls for the apparent beginner.
The bartender stopped the pre-recorded music and the house drummer and bassist stepped back up to
the stage to the cheers of the regulars. From the back of the room, the announcer made the traditional
announcement of the play order. Jarod Guy was first.
As Jarod stepped up to the microphone, he felt the familiar impending embarrassment of the initial
stages of any Pretend. In order to master anything, he needed exposure. In order to become a
musician, he needed to play with musicians. With four open mike Blues Jams a week, Lafayette was a
perfect city to play with all types of musicians and learn the skills he would need for his next mission.
The salesman at Vince’s Backstage Music this morning gave him enough to get him started, and now he
would perfect this skill like he had perfected many others before it.
Jarod stepped to the mic and opened the night’s entertainment with “Johnny B. Goode.”
