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Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: Jarod, Miss Parker, et al. are the property of Steven Long Mitchell, Craig W. Van Sickle, MTM Entertainment, NBC, the actors, writers, and all other persons known or unknown with a legal claim on the characters. All characters unique to this story are the property of R. Franke. This is a story of fan fiction, written for the purpose of personal satisfaction and the enjoyment of others, and monetary or other compensation is neither expected nor desired. Copyright 1999 by R. Franke. Permission is given to archive this story, provided it is archived without alteration, including this disclaimer and copyright notice, and the author is contacted at
LAVENDER
Part I
by R. Franke
"For somebody who is supposed to be a genius, that was a pretty boneheaded move," Miss Parker snapped.
"It was a legal warrant," Jarod replied hotly.
"Oh right," she snorted. "And when the judge wanted to question Detective Jarod Peel, where was he? Nowhere to be found. Throw out the warrant, throw out the evidence collected with it, and the State’s Attorney drops the case due to lack of evidence. Now Lyle’s on his guard, on the warpath, and it’s going to be ten times harder for us to find something to pin the bastard on!"
"If you had done what I asked you to-"
"And if something had gone wrong we would have been left twisting in the wind while you got away clean," Miss Parker interrupted. "You had no right to put Sydney and Broots in that kind of danger."
"Put them in-" Jarod gaped. "Do you think for one minute I would’ve put any of you into to anything I couldn’t get you out of?"
Miss Parker sighed and leaned back against the wall. "And every one of your Pretends has turned out exactly as you planned it?"
Jarod slumped against the wall beside her. "The odds were good."
"Not good enough," she replied. "My people, my decision."
Jarod raised an eyebrow. "Your people, your decision? How positively feudal of you, Miss Parker."
Miss Parker smiled. "Yeah. Mess with me and I’ll get medieval on your ass."
Jarod chuckled. After a moment he asked, "Lavender, Miss Parker? That’s not your usual scent."
"I decided to make a few changes in my life," she replied.
"Is one of those changes getting out of the Centre?"
"Damn it, Jarod, we’ve been through this. I’m not leaving until I find some definite answers."
"And what good will your definite answers do you if you’re lying in the ground beside your mother?"
Miss Parker turned her head and glared at him. "Don’t you dare bring my mother into this."
Jarod sighed. "All right. Between the two of us, we’ve got Broots and Sydney buried so deep God himself can’t be sure if they were involved or not. You, on the other hand, are a lot more exposed."
"I can handle it, Jarod. I’m not one of your damsels-in-distress-du jour."
"I never said you were," Jarod replied evenly, twisting around to stand in front of Miss Parker. He braced himself against the wall as he tried to convince her. "But you’re not indestructible either. Damn it, Parker, if you won’t let me protect you, at least- Shit!" Jarod’s head snapped around and his eyes narrowed.
"Wai-" Miss Parker’s reply was lost as Jarod’s fist slammed into her abdomen. She doubled over from the pain, and her world exploded into darkness from the second blow to the back of her head.
"Well, it’s about time you woke up, sleepyhead," a voice chirped. "Sydney and I were starting to worry."
"Brigitte." Miss Parker groaned as she tried to sit up. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Don’t try to get up, Parker," Sydney counseled, gently but firmly pressing her back down on the bed. "You could have a concussion."
"Jarod," she hissed, her eyes narrowing in anger.
"That’s right, luv," Brigitte smirked. "The Tower has a few questions about your little tete-a-tete down on SL-25. Samuel, assist Miss Parker."
"Thank you, Sam," she replied, subtly emphasizing the sweeper’s preferred name, "but I can manage on my own."
"Yes, Miss Parker," he murmured, not moving from his position beside the window.
She swung her legs out of the bed and stood, swaying slightly as the darkness threatened to close over her again. "Shoes?" she croaked, fighting back the nausea rising in her throat.
"They don’t seem to have made it up here," Brigitte replied solicitously. "I’m sure the Tower would be willing to wait until somebody fetches you a new pair."
"I’ll manage," Miss Parker stated dryly. She strode barefoot to the door. "Are you coming?" she threw back over her shoulder as she opened the door and walked out.
"Sam, with me," Brigitte growled as she scurried after Miss Parker.
"Wish to hell she’d’ve stayed AWOL," Sam muttered as he followed, just loud enough for Sydney to hear.
"We find it very difficult to believe that you have no idea what Jarod wanted on SL-25, Miss Parker," a baritone voice rumbled ominously. "Why would he risk capture for no reason?"
Miss Parker sighed as she shifted her weight onto her right leg, hoping to ease the cramp forming in her left calf. Her head still swimming, she replied calmly, "Again sir, I don’t know what reasons, if any, Jarod had for-"
"It’s obvious what happened," a woman’s smoky alto voice interrupted waspishly. "Miss Parker is our leak. She and Jarod were meeting to pass information when he spotted the camera and struck her to make it appear that she had come upon him unexpectedly."
"And why would she do that?" asked a mild tenor voice. "What on earth would she have to gain?"
"She and Jarod are lovers," the alto stated. "And they’re planning to take over the Centre."
Miss Parker laughed. "I’m sorry." She waved a hand in apology to the three shadowy figures at the head of the T-Board. "I must have misheard you."
"You did have a relationship with Jarod when you were children," commented the tenor.
"When we were children," repeated Miss Parker. "It’s been a long time since we were children. As for lovers," she indicated the scene of Jarod hitting her, frozen on a monitor off to the side, "Do you really think that Jarod could do that to somebody he cared about? Or that I would allow somebody to do that to me?" She shook her head. "Even if I did have any feelings for Jarod, that would have ended them. As it is, it just gives me a more personal reason to catch him."
The three shadowy figures conferred for a moment. "Then why was Jarod in the archives, Miss Parker?" the baritone asked again.
"Seventeen-and-a-half hours," she answered her ringing telephone, "of good cop/bad cop, standing on a tile floor, in my bare feet, with a concussion."
"I’m sorry," Jarod replied. "We should have had at least another ten minutes. I did the only thing I could think of to keep you safe."
"I got your package," she answered, her voice still cold. "What do you want for it?"
"Nothing," Jarod said miserably. "It’s yours."
"Was there anything else?"
"That’s all I was able to find."
"Good. Don’t call me again unless you find more information I can use," Miss Parker snarled as she hung up.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"Hello, Daddy," Miss Parker replied. "I’m still a little sore, and the room spins if I turn my head too fast, but otherwise I’m just peachy. Thank you for asking."
Mr. Parker sighed. "I deserved that. But, Angel, I do worry about you, even if I’m not very good at expressing it." He settled into the chair in front of his daughter’s desk. "Meeting up with Jarod, alone, in the Centre was not the smartest move you could have made. Especially after what he tried to do to your brother."
Miss Parker rubbed her stomach. "Believe me, that wasn’t what I expected," she replied dryly.
"Then why were you down there?"
Miss Parker closed the file on her desk and handed it to her father. "Simulation 56-91"
Mr. Parker opened the folder and scanned its contents. "Ah, yes. One of Jarod’s more spectacular failures. The Company was not happy about the way the Oversight Committee raked them over the coals. But," he continued, "shouldn’t this be down in the archives? Nobody should need this information."
"Nobody should need simulations 76-91, 07-91, 47-91, 36-91, 34-91, or 24-91," she replied, pointing to the stack of folders on her desk. "But somebody has been looking at them."
"Jarod?"
"Apparently so," Miss Parker answered. "I knew somebody had been looking through the old Sim files, I just didn’t expect it to be Jarod. And I don’t think he expected me."
"Have you figured out why Jarod wanted those Sim files? Any commonality?"
"Except for the fact they were all done in 1991, not that I’ve found."
"Well, keep looking, Angel." Mr. Parker stood. "Raines asked for a meeting, I suppose I had better see what he’s up to."
"And how is His Holiness these days?" she asked, standing and walking around the desk to accompany her father out of her office.
Mr. Parker rolled his eyes in reply. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Angel, I want you to do two things for me. Figure out what Jarod’s up to, and watch your back."
"I will," Miss Parker promised, leaning forward to kiss her father on the cheek. "Don’t worry."
Miss Parker closed the door behind her father and turned back to her desk. She noticed one of the screws on the vent in the wall extended out from the grille approximately one quarter of an inch. She sat down at her desk and began going over the Sim files again, tapping her pen on her coffee cup in a seemingly aimless pattern. When she left for the night, all the screws were flush with the grille.
"Damn it Broots, how the hell could you have made such a stupid mistake?" Miss Parker snapped.
"I-I’m sorry," Broots stuttered.
"It did seem logical, Parker," Sydney commented mildly.
"Idiots," she muttered to no one in particular and stalked off.
Mr. Cox raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever heard of Dale Carnegie, Miss Parker?" he asked her retreating figure. He turned to Sydney. "We need to get back to the Centre."
Sydney nodded and walked after her. He came around the corner of the building to see her taking a large swig from a bottle of antacid. "Parker-"
"Can it, Syd," she snarled. "I’ve got it under control."
"I sincerely hope you do, Miss Parker," Mr. Cox came around the corner, Broots in tow. "Despite my reservations, the Triumvirate still considers you to be more of an asset than a liability, and they do like to keep their assets well maintained."
"Listen Norman Bates," she paused, and her shoulders slumped. "I’ve already made an appointment with my gastroenterologist. 9 am, Monday morning."
Mr. Cox smiled. "Excellent."
"Broots, have you seen Miss Parker?"
"Huh? Oh, Sydney. She left, said after this debacle she was going to get an early start on the weekend."
"That’s not like our Miss Parker," Sydney said thoughtfully.
"Her ulcer must be bothering her even worse than we thought."
"You know I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry."
"Jarod." Miss Parker sighed. "Chief Therman decided to run a surprise inspection. He didn’t tell anyone."
"I’m still sorry," Jarod replied. "I should have had a plan for that possibility."
"Yes, you should-" Miss Parker paused as a sound came faintly through the telephone. "Where are you, Jarod?"
"Now that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it, Miss Parker?" Jarod answered smugly.
"You know what would be fun? You telling- Oh!" Miss Parker gasped in pain, dropping the receiver. Jarod’s voice came from its tiny speaker, frantically calling her name. "It’s my ulcer," she snapped. "You’ve started it acting up again." She slammed the receiver down and stood up, heading for her bookcase.
Jarod stared at his cell phone in shock. "Hey, Jarod," a voice floated down from above him. "Get your ass moving." Pocketing his cell phone, Jarod grabbed his ditty bag off the piling and ran up the gangplank.
"One long, three short," she muttered to herself, thumbing through the book. "Where is it? One long, three-aha!" she crowed in triumph. She picked up her telephone and dialed. "Broots," she barked as soon as the receiver on the other end was picked up, "Jarod’s on some kind of a ship. Have something for me by the time I get in tomorrow."
"Good morning, Broots."
"M-Mr. Lyle," Broots stammered. "Y-you, you’re back."
"Yes," Lyle smiled. "And so happy to be back in the loving bosom of the Centre. Speaking of which, has my dear, sweet sister come in yet?"
"Uh, no. Not yet. I think she had a doctor’s appointment this morning. For her ulcer."
"It’s acting up again? No wonder she’s been cranky. Well, when she makes it in, tell her I’d like to see her, please." Lyle nodded politely and walked off.
"Oh God," breathed Broots as soon as Lyle was out of sight. He picked up his telephone and dialed. "Please, please answer, Miss Parker."
"Y’know, I hate it when they’re young and pretty," the attendant said as he opened the morgue drawer. "One less beautiful woman who’ll never know the supreme sexual ecstasy of being with the master."
"And who would that be?" asked his partner as they placed the body in the drawer. "’Cause I sure as hell ain’t looking at him. Not if what Stacy up in pediatrics says is true."
"Fuck you. And fuck her too," the first attendant replied, shutting the drawer. "C’mon, it’s almost quitting time." The two left, turning off the lights and locking the door behind them.
Angelo waited for over an hour, until he was sure nobody would be returning. Then he crawled out of his hiding place and went over to the morgue’s computer. After it had booted up he slipped a disk into the drive and typed furiously for a few minutes, then printed out the results. He shut off the computer and placed the printout in a file he placed in the medical examiner’s out box. Having done that, he walked over and opened the drawer. There was one last thing he had to do. "Cracker Jacks," he whispered, looking down at the still form.
Jarod smiled as he walked down the gangplank, nodding politely to the police officer stationed on the pier. Behind him, he could hear the voice of the detective reciting "…have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford…" The detective’s voice faded out as Jarod walked away, his sea bag slung over his shoulder.
After a brief detour to pick up the Haliburton Jarod entered the hotel room he had rented at the start of this pretend. He had been out of contact with the world for three days, and he needed an update on his pursuers. If all had gone well, they were still chasing their own tails, looking in every little port up and down the East Coast. Too bad I’m in Seattle he mused as he booted up the computer.
"You have, two, new messages," the computer announced. One from CJ, and one from Refuge. Curious, Jarod clicked on the one from CJ. Very bad, it said. See me. Very bad. He clicked on the one from Refuge. Call me immediately that one said. Worried, he picked up his cell phone and hit the speed dial.
"I got your message. What happened?"
"Jarod." Sydney paused. "I’ve tried to think of an easy way to tell you this, but I can’t." He took a deep breath. "Jarod, Miss Parker died sometime Sunday night."
Jarod sat on the bed, his legs suddenly too rubbery to hold him up. "How?" he croaked.
"Her ulcer," Sydney replied. "The service that cuts her lawn found her on Monday. The boy doing the edging around the house happened to look in the window and saw her lying on the floor."
"When is the funeral?"
"Tomorrow. She’ll be buried next to her mother."
"Yes, of course. Thank you, Sydney." Jarod hung up and stared blindly at the wall as a single tear rolled down his cheek.
"I have to be sure," Lyle whispered to Brigitte. "Anybody?"
Brigitte looked around. "We’re clear."
Lyle quickly unbuttoned Miss Parker’s blouse and folded it back. His shoulders slumped as he saw the Y-incision from the autopsy, and the heavy staples holding her flesh together. With a sigh, he rebuttoned her blouse and smoothed it flat. "I can’t believe she’s gone."
Brigitte smiled ruefully. "Her ulcer. Her Goddamn ulcer." She frowned, then reached into the casket and pulled out a box of Cracker Jacks.
"We are going to have to do something about that freak," Lyle growled.
"Are you serious?"
"Perfectly, Mr. ah, Lyle." The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. "Your sister’s will is quite specific. It leaves the bulk of her estate, including all shares of Centre stock, to Deborah Broots, to be administered by her father, until Miss Broots twenty-second birthday."
"I can’t believe my daughter would cut off her own family like this," Mr. Parker complained.
"You may of course challenge the will," the lawyer continued. "But I must warn you that the courts are very reluctant to overturn the final wishes of the deceased without a clear and compelling reason."
"Thank you, counselor," Mr. Parker replied has he stood. "We’ll be in touch."
"Which judge do we need to guide it to?" Lyle whispered to his father as they left the lawyer’s office.
"We don’t," Mr. Parker replied shortly. "Years ago, your sister proposed adding a probate judge to the Centre’s payroll. It was decided that those resources could be better used elsewhere."
"Mr. Broots, your daughter is now a very wealthy young woman. She needs protection."
"Sir, you really don’t have to do this. Debbie-"
"Is now a target for every nutcase who thinks he can get rich by kidnapping a wealthy child." Mr. Parker paused to briefly rub his chin. "It never works of course. The FBI is very good at that sort of thing."
"I still don’t-" Broots began.
"Of course," Mr. Parker continued, "while the apprehension rate is nearly one hundred percent, the statistics on the return of the child safe and sound are significantly lower."
"L-lower?" stammered Broots. "H-how much lower?"
"I don’t recall exactly," Mr. Parker replied.
"I’m just worried about how all this will affect Debbie."
"She’ll be fine." Mr. Parker dismissed Broots’ concern with a wave of his hand. "My daughter grew up in the same situation, and look how wonderfully she turned out."
"All right, Mr. Parker," Broots conceded. "But there is one thing I will insist on," he continued, his voice firming. "I want final approval on all members of the protective detail. If I don’t like anybody, for any reason, out he goes."
"Of course, Mr. Broots," Mr. Parker replied in a faintly injured tone. "I expected nothing less."
"Doctor-" Lyle began, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"Look, Mr. Lyle," the doctor spoke quickly. "They’ve assured me if I take an early retirement they’ll drop the investigation and allow me to keep my pension. If I don’t, who knows how far the investigation could go? Besides which," he added bitterly, "I’m sure it won’t be that difficult for you to find another M.E. you can work with."
"All right," Lyle replied, mollified. "It’s just an annoyance, not a problem. And don’t think your retirement ends our association completely."
"I’m not that lucky."
"Because she what, Sam?" asked Mr. Parker, calmly pacing behind the sweeper. Sam stood at rigid attention, his eyes fixed forward. A droplet of spittle dried on his cheek, sprayed there moments earlier by a ranting Mr. Parker. "Because she what?" he asked again, his voice hard. "And who is she?"
"Miss Parker, sir," answered Sam.
"My daughter?" Mr. Parker’s eyebrows rose. "Explain," he growled.
"She ordered me to take care of Miss Broots, sir. She never rescinded that order, sir."
"She can’t rescind that order now."
"Yes sir. I know that, sir."
Mr. Parker walked around Sam and sat at his desk. "Inform Mr. Broots that I have appointed you as head of his daughter’s protective detail, pending his approval."
"Yes sir." Sam turned on his heel and left.
"How do you do it?" Mr. Parker asked the pictures on his desk. They were the only things of his daughter’s he had taken. "How do you command their loyalty so thoroughly?" His wife smiled back at him, their baby daughter held securely in her arms.
"I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here," Jarod said, placing a rose on Miss Parker’s grave. "It took me a while to convince them that I had already been here and therefore stationing a sweeper here was just a waste of time and money. Angelo gave me this," he continued after a moment, pulling at the chain around his neck. Miss Parker’s square silver ring dangled from the end of it. "Said you told him to give this to me." He idly traced the name and dates on her tombstone with his finger, smiling ruefully. "Even now, they still won’t give you your name back." He let his hand drop to his side. "Oh God, I am so sorry. I should have been there. I could have done… something," he trailed off miserably as the tears welled up in his eyes. Jarod bowed his head and wept as great wracking sobs of grief shook his whole body.
End Part I
Comments and opinions are appreciated.
Part I
by R. Franke
"For somebody who is supposed to be a genius, that was a pretty boneheaded move," Miss Parker snapped.
"It was a legal warrant," Jarod replied hotly.
"Oh right," she snorted. "And when the judge wanted to question Detective Jarod Peel, where was he? Nowhere to be found. Throw out the warrant, throw out the evidence collected with it, and the State’s Attorney drops the case due to lack of evidence. Now Lyle’s on his guard, on the warpath, and it’s going to be ten times harder for us to find something to pin the bastard on!"
"If you had done what I asked you to-"
"And if something had gone wrong we would have been left twisting in the wind while you got away clean," Miss Parker interrupted. "You had no right to put Sydney and Broots in that kind of danger."
"Put them in-" Jarod gaped. "Do you think for one minute I would’ve put any of you into to anything I couldn’t get you out of?"
Miss Parker sighed and leaned back against the wall. "And every one of your Pretends has turned out exactly as you planned it?"
Jarod slumped against the wall beside her. "The odds were good."
"Not good enough," she replied. "My people, my decision."
Jarod raised an eyebrow. "Your people, your decision? How positively feudal of you, Miss Parker."
Miss Parker smiled. "Yeah. Mess with me and I’ll get medieval on your ass."
Jarod chuckled. After a moment he asked, "Lavender, Miss Parker? That’s not your usual scent."
"I decided to make a few changes in my life," she replied.
"Is one of those changes getting out of the Centre?"
"Damn it, Jarod, we’ve been through this. I’m not leaving until I find some definite answers."
"And what good will your definite answers do you if you’re lying in the ground beside your mother?"
Miss Parker turned her head and glared at him. "Don’t you dare bring my mother into this."
Jarod sighed. "All right. Between the two of us, we’ve got Broots and Sydney buried so deep God himself can’t be sure if they were involved or not. You, on the other hand, are a lot more exposed."
"I can handle it, Jarod. I’m not one of your damsels-in-distress-du jour."
"I never said you were," Jarod replied evenly, twisting around to stand in front of Miss Parker. He braced himself against the wall as he tried to convince her. "But you’re not indestructible either. Damn it, Parker, if you won’t let me protect you, at least- Shit!" Jarod’s head snapped around and his eyes narrowed.
"Wai-" Miss Parker’s reply was lost as Jarod’s fist slammed into her abdomen. She doubled over from the pain, and her world exploded into darkness from the second blow to the back of her head.
"Well, it’s about time you woke up, sleepyhead," a voice chirped. "Sydney and I were starting to worry."
"Brigitte." Miss Parker groaned as she tried to sit up. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Don’t try to get up, Parker," Sydney counseled, gently but firmly pressing her back down on the bed. "You could have a concussion."
"Jarod," she hissed, her eyes narrowing in anger.
"That’s right, luv," Brigitte smirked. "The Tower has a few questions about your little tete-a-tete down on SL-25. Samuel, assist Miss Parker."
"Thank you, Sam," she replied, subtly emphasizing the sweeper’s preferred name, "but I can manage on my own."
"Yes, Miss Parker," he murmured, not moving from his position beside the window.
She swung her legs out of the bed and stood, swaying slightly as the darkness threatened to close over her again. "Shoes?" she croaked, fighting back the nausea rising in her throat.
"They don’t seem to have made it up here," Brigitte replied solicitously. "I’m sure the Tower would be willing to wait until somebody fetches you a new pair."
"I’ll manage," Miss Parker stated dryly. She strode barefoot to the door. "Are you coming?" she threw back over her shoulder as she opened the door and walked out.
"Sam, with me," Brigitte growled as she scurried after Miss Parker.
"Wish to hell she’d’ve stayed AWOL," Sam muttered as he followed, just loud enough for Sydney to hear.
"We find it very difficult to believe that you have no idea what Jarod wanted on SL-25, Miss Parker," a baritone voice rumbled ominously. "Why would he risk capture for no reason?"
Miss Parker sighed as she shifted her weight onto her right leg, hoping to ease the cramp forming in her left calf. Her head still swimming, she replied calmly, "Again sir, I don’t know what reasons, if any, Jarod had for-"
"It’s obvious what happened," a woman’s smoky alto voice interrupted waspishly. "Miss Parker is our leak. She and Jarod were meeting to pass information when he spotted the camera and struck her to make it appear that she had come upon him unexpectedly."
"And why would she do that?" asked a mild tenor voice. "What on earth would she have to gain?"
"She and Jarod are lovers," the alto stated. "And they’re planning to take over the Centre."
Miss Parker laughed. "I’m sorry." She waved a hand in apology to the three shadowy figures at the head of the T-Board. "I must have misheard you."
"You did have a relationship with Jarod when you were children," commented the tenor.
"When we were children," repeated Miss Parker. "It’s been a long time since we were children. As for lovers," she indicated the scene of Jarod hitting her, frozen on a monitor off to the side, "Do you really think that Jarod could do that to somebody he cared about? Or that I would allow somebody to do that to me?" She shook her head. "Even if I did have any feelings for Jarod, that would have ended them. As it is, it just gives me a more personal reason to catch him."
The three shadowy figures conferred for a moment. "Then why was Jarod in the archives, Miss Parker?" the baritone asked again.
"Seventeen-and-a-half hours," she answered her ringing telephone, "of good cop/bad cop, standing on a tile floor, in my bare feet, with a concussion."
"I’m sorry," Jarod replied. "We should have had at least another ten minutes. I did the only thing I could think of to keep you safe."
"I got your package," she answered, her voice still cold. "What do you want for it?"
"Nothing," Jarod said miserably. "It’s yours."
"Was there anything else?"
"That’s all I was able to find."
"Good. Don’t call me again unless you find more information I can use," Miss Parker snarled as she hung up.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"Hello, Daddy," Miss Parker replied. "I’m still a little sore, and the room spins if I turn my head too fast, but otherwise I’m just peachy. Thank you for asking."
Mr. Parker sighed. "I deserved that. But, Angel, I do worry about you, even if I’m not very good at expressing it." He settled into the chair in front of his daughter’s desk. "Meeting up with Jarod, alone, in the Centre was not the smartest move you could have made. Especially after what he tried to do to your brother."
Miss Parker rubbed her stomach. "Believe me, that wasn’t what I expected," she replied dryly.
"Then why were you down there?"
Miss Parker closed the file on her desk and handed it to her father. "Simulation 56-91"
Mr. Parker opened the folder and scanned its contents. "Ah, yes. One of Jarod’s more spectacular failures. The Company was not happy about the way the Oversight Committee raked them over the coals. But," he continued, "shouldn’t this be down in the archives? Nobody should need this information."
"Nobody should need simulations 76-91, 07-91, 47-91, 36-91, 34-91, or 24-91," she replied, pointing to the stack of folders on her desk. "But somebody has been looking at them."
"Jarod?"
"Apparently so," Miss Parker answered. "I knew somebody had been looking through the old Sim files, I just didn’t expect it to be Jarod. And I don’t think he expected me."
"Have you figured out why Jarod wanted those Sim files? Any commonality?"
"Except for the fact they were all done in 1991, not that I’ve found."
"Well, keep looking, Angel." Mr. Parker stood. "Raines asked for a meeting, I suppose I had better see what he’s up to."
"And how is His Holiness these days?" she asked, standing and walking around the desk to accompany her father out of her office.
Mr. Parker rolled his eyes in reply. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Angel, I want you to do two things for me. Figure out what Jarod’s up to, and watch your back."
"I will," Miss Parker promised, leaning forward to kiss her father on the cheek. "Don’t worry."
Miss Parker closed the door behind her father and turned back to her desk. She noticed one of the screws on the vent in the wall extended out from the grille approximately one quarter of an inch. She sat down at her desk and began going over the Sim files again, tapping her pen on her coffee cup in a seemingly aimless pattern. When she left for the night, all the screws were flush with the grille.
"Damn it Broots, how the hell could you have made such a stupid mistake?" Miss Parker snapped.
"I-I’m sorry," Broots stuttered.
"It did seem logical, Parker," Sydney commented mildly.
"Idiots," she muttered to no one in particular and stalked off.
Mr. Cox raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever heard of Dale Carnegie, Miss Parker?" he asked her retreating figure. He turned to Sydney. "We need to get back to the Centre."
Sydney nodded and walked after her. He came around the corner of the building to see her taking a large swig from a bottle of antacid. "Parker-"
"Can it, Syd," she snarled. "I’ve got it under control."
"I sincerely hope you do, Miss Parker," Mr. Cox came around the corner, Broots in tow. "Despite my reservations, the Triumvirate still considers you to be more of an asset than a liability, and they do like to keep their assets well maintained."
"Listen Norman Bates," she paused, and her shoulders slumped. "I’ve already made an appointment with my gastroenterologist. 9 am, Monday morning."
Mr. Cox smiled. "Excellent."
"Broots, have you seen Miss Parker?"
"Huh? Oh, Sydney. She left, said after this debacle she was going to get an early start on the weekend."
"That’s not like our Miss Parker," Sydney said thoughtfully.
"Her ulcer must be bothering her even worse than we thought."
"You know I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry."
"Jarod." Miss Parker sighed. "Chief Therman decided to run a surprise inspection. He didn’t tell anyone."
"I’m still sorry," Jarod replied. "I should have had a plan for that possibility."
"Yes, you should-" Miss Parker paused as a sound came faintly through the telephone. "Where are you, Jarod?"
"Now that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it, Miss Parker?" Jarod answered smugly.
"You know what would be fun? You telling- Oh!" Miss Parker gasped in pain, dropping the receiver. Jarod’s voice came from its tiny speaker, frantically calling her name. "It’s my ulcer," she snapped. "You’ve started it acting up again." She slammed the receiver down and stood up, heading for her bookcase.
Jarod stared at his cell phone in shock. "Hey, Jarod," a voice floated down from above him. "Get your ass moving." Pocketing his cell phone, Jarod grabbed his ditty bag off the piling and ran up the gangplank.
"One long, three short," she muttered to herself, thumbing through the book. "Where is it? One long, three-aha!" she crowed in triumph. She picked up her telephone and dialed. "Broots," she barked as soon as the receiver on the other end was picked up, "Jarod’s on some kind of a ship. Have something for me by the time I get in tomorrow."
"Good morning, Broots."
"M-Mr. Lyle," Broots stammered. "Y-you, you’re back."
"Yes," Lyle smiled. "And so happy to be back in the loving bosom of the Centre. Speaking of which, has my dear, sweet sister come in yet?"
"Uh, no. Not yet. I think she had a doctor’s appointment this morning. For her ulcer."
"It’s acting up again? No wonder she’s been cranky. Well, when she makes it in, tell her I’d like to see her, please." Lyle nodded politely and walked off.
"Oh God," breathed Broots as soon as Lyle was out of sight. He picked up his telephone and dialed. "Please, please answer, Miss Parker."
"Y’know, I hate it when they’re young and pretty," the attendant said as he opened the morgue drawer. "One less beautiful woman who’ll never know the supreme sexual ecstasy of being with the master."
"And who would that be?" asked his partner as they placed the body in the drawer. "’Cause I sure as hell ain’t looking at him. Not if what Stacy up in pediatrics says is true."
"Fuck you. And fuck her too," the first attendant replied, shutting the drawer. "C’mon, it’s almost quitting time." The two left, turning off the lights and locking the door behind them.
Angelo waited for over an hour, until he was sure nobody would be returning. Then he crawled out of his hiding place and went over to the morgue’s computer. After it had booted up he slipped a disk into the drive and typed furiously for a few minutes, then printed out the results. He shut off the computer and placed the printout in a file he placed in the medical examiner’s out box. Having done that, he walked over and opened the drawer. There was one last thing he had to do. "Cracker Jacks," he whispered, looking down at the still form.
Jarod smiled as he walked down the gangplank, nodding politely to the police officer stationed on the pier. Behind him, he could hear the voice of the detective reciting "…have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford…" The detective’s voice faded out as Jarod walked away, his sea bag slung over his shoulder.
After a brief detour to pick up the Haliburton Jarod entered the hotel room he had rented at the start of this pretend. He had been out of contact with the world for three days, and he needed an update on his pursuers. If all had gone well, they were still chasing their own tails, looking in every little port up and down the East Coast. Too bad I’m in Seattle he mused as he booted up the computer.
"You have, two, new messages," the computer announced. One from CJ, and one from Refuge. Curious, Jarod clicked on the one from CJ. Very bad, it said. See me. Very bad. He clicked on the one from Refuge. Call me immediately that one said. Worried, he picked up his cell phone and hit the speed dial.
"I got your message. What happened?"
"Jarod." Sydney paused. "I’ve tried to think of an easy way to tell you this, but I can’t." He took a deep breath. "Jarod, Miss Parker died sometime Sunday night."
Jarod sat on the bed, his legs suddenly too rubbery to hold him up. "How?" he croaked.
"Her ulcer," Sydney replied. "The service that cuts her lawn found her on Monday. The boy doing the edging around the house happened to look in the window and saw her lying on the floor."
"When is the funeral?"
"Tomorrow. She’ll be buried next to her mother."
"Yes, of course. Thank you, Sydney." Jarod hung up and stared blindly at the wall as a single tear rolled down his cheek.
"I have to be sure," Lyle whispered to Brigitte. "Anybody?"
Brigitte looked around. "We’re clear."
Lyle quickly unbuttoned Miss Parker’s blouse and folded it back. His shoulders slumped as he saw the Y-incision from the autopsy, and the heavy staples holding her flesh together. With a sigh, he rebuttoned her blouse and smoothed it flat. "I can’t believe she’s gone."
Brigitte smiled ruefully. "Her ulcer. Her Goddamn ulcer." She frowned, then reached into the casket and pulled out a box of Cracker Jacks.
"We are going to have to do something about that freak," Lyle growled.
"Are you serious?"
"Perfectly, Mr. ah, Lyle." The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. "Your sister’s will is quite specific. It leaves the bulk of her estate, including all shares of Centre stock, to Deborah Broots, to be administered by her father, until Miss Broots twenty-second birthday."
"I can’t believe my daughter would cut off her own family like this," Mr. Parker complained.
"You may of course challenge the will," the lawyer continued. "But I must warn you that the courts are very reluctant to overturn the final wishes of the deceased without a clear and compelling reason."
"Thank you, counselor," Mr. Parker replied has he stood. "We’ll be in touch."
"Which judge do we need to guide it to?" Lyle whispered to his father as they left the lawyer’s office.
"We don’t," Mr. Parker replied shortly. "Years ago, your sister proposed adding a probate judge to the Centre’s payroll. It was decided that those resources could be better used elsewhere."
"Mr. Broots, your daughter is now a very wealthy young woman. She needs protection."
"Sir, you really don’t have to do this. Debbie-"
"Is now a target for every nutcase who thinks he can get rich by kidnapping a wealthy child." Mr. Parker paused to briefly rub his chin. "It never works of course. The FBI is very good at that sort of thing."
"I still don’t-" Broots began.
"Of course," Mr. Parker continued, "while the apprehension rate is nearly one hundred percent, the statistics on the return of the child safe and sound are significantly lower."
"L-lower?" stammered Broots. "H-how much lower?"
"I don’t recall exactly," Mr. Parker replied.
"I’m just worried about how all this will affect Debbie."
"She’ll be fine." Mr. Parker dismissed Broots’ concern with a wave of his hand. "My daughter grew up in the same situation, and look how wonderfully she turned out."
"All right, Mr. Parker," Broots conceded. "But there is one thing I will insist on," he continued, his voice firming. "I want final approval on all members of the protective detail. If I don’t like anybody, for any reason, out he goes."
"Of course, Mr. Broots," Mr. Parker replied in a faintly injured tone. "I expected nothing less."
"Doctor-" Lyle began, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"Look, Mr. Lyle," the doctor spoke quickly. "They’ve assured me if I take an early retirement they’ll drop the investigation and allow me to keep my pension. If I don’t, who knows how far the investigation could go? Besides which," he added bitterly, "I’m sure it won’t be that difficult for you to find another M.E. you can work with."
"All right," Lyle replied, mollified. "It’s just an annoyance, not a problem. And don’t think your retirement ends our association completely."
"I’m not that lucky."
"Because she what, Sam?" asked Mr. Parker, calmly pacing behind the sweeper. Sam stood at rigid attention, his eyes fixed forward. A droplet of spittle dried on his cheek, sprayed there moments earlier by a ranting Mr. Parker. "Because she what?" he asked again, his voice hard. "And who is she?"
"Miss Parker, sir," answered Sam.
"My daughter?" Mr. Parker’s eyebrows rose. "Explain," he growled.
"She ordered me to take care of Miss Broots, sir. She never rescinded that order, sir."
"She can’t rescind that order now."
"Yes sir. I know that, sir."
Mr. Parker walked around Sam and sat at his desk. "Inform Mr. Broots that I have appointed you as head of his daughter’s protective detail, pending his approval."
"Yes sir." Sam turned on his heel and left.
"How do you do it?" Mr. Parker asked the pictures on his desk. They were the only things of his daughter’s he had taken. "How do you command their loyalty so thoroughly?" His wife smiled back at him, their baby daughter held securely in her arms.
"I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get here," Jarod said, placing a rose on Miss Parker’s grave. "It took me a while to convince them that I had already been here and therefore stationing a sweeper here was just a waste of time and money. Angelo gave me this," he continued after a moment, pulling at the chain around his neck. Miss Parker’s square silver ring dangled from the end of it. "Said you told him to give this to me." He idly traced the name and dates on her tombstone with his finger, smiling ruefully. "Even now, they still won’t give you your name back." He let his hand drop to his side. "Oh God, I am so sorry. I should have been there. I could have done… something," he trailed off miserably as the tears welled up in his eyes. Jarod bowed his head and wept as great wracking sobs of grief shook his whole body.
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