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Chapter or Story
Chapter 9
The lights are on when I finally reach the summer cottage. The lights are on, the Boxter is in the driveway, and the shades are open.
Not a good sign.
In all the time I have known her, Parker has never had her lights on after midnight. Her vision is fantastic by any standards, human or animal, and she moves just as skillfully at night as she does during the day. She has never in her life left her car in the driveway, of all places. It's a Porsche after all, and it happens to be her pride and joy. It gets stored in her garage every night, shining with its weekly coat of wax. And ever since that whole thing with the pictures of her and Thomas in bed, her shades are religiously closed each evening at eleven. So naturally, when I saw my partner's house, I assumed she was in trouble--that these little nuances of her personality had been deliberately left out for me to see and to react to.
So being the white knight that I am, I quickly drew my gun and picklocks, setting to work on the back door, kneeling down on the cold doorstep. No one was going to hurt my best friend on MY watch!
...My feet are beginning to fall asleep.
There?
No.
There?
Nyet.
How 'bout here?
Nada.
Arg!
Just as I am about to pull my gun out and mimic that Masterlock commercial, my pick hits the sweet spot, and I feel the door unlock under my fingers. Victory wiggle time!
"Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh uh huh uh huh!" I whisper softly with a shake of my shoulders and gyration of my hips. Damn, I feel like a high school kid who just hit his date's G-spot on his first thrust. Who's good? I'm good--recognize the skills, baby!
The knob is cold in my hand, and I focus all of my energy and attention into trying to turn it without alerting whomever might be holding Parker captive. Easy now, eaaaaaaaaaasy...
The knob turns by itself, and the door is yanked open, light spilling out, outlining the figure in the doorway. The gun metal is cool against my forehead, brushing for just a moment, before being withdrawn and shoved into a waistband.
"Rich, why, may I ask, are you crouched at my backdoor picking my lock?"
I blink up at her, and she scowls before pulling me in and stripping me of my coat, throwing it over her arm and padding barefoot to the living room.
What just happened here?
I follow, my lips pursed, my hand still on the butt of my gun. Hey, you never know--she could be a fembot who's replaced the real Parker. Hm...If she is electronic, wonder if she'll have a shag with me.
Oh be-have!
"Rich," she says calmly, looking me up and down. "Why didn't you just use your key?"
I sniff the air, searching it for danger--cologne. Her assailant was hiding somewhere in the shadows. I'd put a stop to that!
Ignoring her question completely, I pull my gun out and hold it straight out, listening to the air very carefully, ignoring her indignant, "Rich!"
There, in the corner.
Swinging my gun up to face the shadowy intersection of walls, I speak in what I hope is a commanding voice, my unique accent becoming more pronounced with the growl.
"You! Stand up nice and slow and come out with your hands up. Any sudden movements and I'll blow your head off." Parker looks at me and puts her hands on her hips.
"Richard Gordon Cox, you put that gun down right now, or I swear to God--I'll bitch slap you into next Tuesday!"
Uh oh. Full name. I am in deep shit. And the worst thing is-- I haven't even done anything wrong to deserve it!
I put my gun down, glaring at her, and the man comes out of the shadows. I swing my eyes around to meet his, and gasp at what I see.
"By God, those eyes!" He stares at me, and Parker pushes me down onto the couch before going over to him.
"Rich, I'd like you to meet Mr. Jonathan Hunter. He's my father." She says this all in a '2+2=4' sort of tone, and I wipe my brow with my sleeve.
"Your father."
"Yes."
I swallow and rub my eyes, feeling strangely deflated at this statement.
"Parker, love, I came here to tell you that your father's *dead*. Mr. Parker was found shot in his hospital bed by a Centre issue 9MM. The cameras were looped, the guards were gone, and the nurses didn't hear anything."
Silence.
Her face has gone quite pale, and wow-- I didn't know her eyes could turn that color. The gray currently tinting the ice blue irises looks like something I've seen on battleships, and I mentally add it to my list of "Parker Unique Thingies." She swallows, then sits down beside me.
"I... I honestly don't know how to take this," she says with a whimper, before opening one palm, face up on her knee. Hunter seems to sense what she's doing before she does it, and reaches over to grasp her hand, tightly. Damn. If my mental facilities are still functioning right, they're telling me this guy really is her father. If he isn't, he's sure doing a better job that Mr. P ever did. I mean, even I could see that guy wasn't fulfilling any of his parental responsibilities, and I've only met him during my rebirth as Mr. Cox.
The phone rings, and Parker rises to answer it. No doubt it's one of her two stooges calling to tell her what I just did. She picks it up and answers in a rough voice, "What?"
Her face twists as she hears the voice, and I give a rueful grin as I realize who it is. Wonderboy is just asking for a pre-mortem autopsy.
"Listen-- I meant it when I said this wasn't the right time to call me. Go save Timmy from the well and leave me the hell alone, got it?" She slams the phone down and reaches down to pull the phone cord out. Hunter and I share a smirk, and she turns back around to flop down on the couch, blowing out heavily. I slide my arm over her shoulder, and she nuzzles up to my chest with a groan.
"Is it really his purpose in life to fuck with me? Does he honestly have nothing better to do?"
I shrug. "Apparently not."
"I mean, there has got to be some innocent he could go save, some kitten to rescue from a tree, some old lady to walk across the street--is he really that stretched for ideas?" I smile and hug her shoulders.
Hunter rises and touches her shoulder. She gestures upwards. "Up the stairs, third door to the right." He nods and picks up his jacket off the couch.
"Don't stay up too late, all right?"
"I just got you back and already you're acting all concerned and parental?"
"Well, I've got a lot of time to make up for."
"If you start threatening to beat up sweepers for taking my lunch, I swear to God I'll have an aneurysm."
He laughs and pats her back, before turning and walking up the stair with a soft "goodnight." We're left alone, accompanied by the sound of the clock ticking on the mantle.
There's a rustle from the kitchen, and I turn, my gun ready and aimed...
"Oh, hey Holmes."
The large golden retriever I got her after the whole Thomas thing walks in, wagging his shaggy tail before walking over to us and nudging Parker impatiently. She smiles and looks at me.
"You're in his spot."
"Well, sucks to be him, don't it."
She laughs and shifts over to let the dog up, and I wait until he settles in before looking down at her and beginning the conversation. Almost unconsciously, I slip into my native Italian, the language we spoke in during out "errands" for Raines during our teen years.
"Lo avete ucciso?" *Did you kill him?* It lacks the finesse most of my words have, but it is a question that deserves to be asked.
She looks up at me, her calm blue eyes holding none of her earlier shock at hearing of his death. The battleship gray is gone, replaced with ice colored eyes. I know the answer. I won't ask her to say it.
"Quale piano d'azione era esso? Tredici o venticinque?" *Which scenario was it? Thirteen or twenty-five?*
For the life of me, I can't remember what the designation for such a simulation was. Raines had us tittle them all with number codes, and we obeyed, going through each method of execution painstakingly and with sharp attention to details. My fingers ache at the memory of those long hours, copying down out plans and plots into the pocket sized black notebooks he provided us with, writing each one in Aramaic for fear a sweeper or another doctor would find them and raise questions; resulting in a beating for us.
God the beatings...
Shaking my head to get rid of the topic, I look expectantly at her. She sighs.
"Era quindici. Richard, il dottore Billy sarebbe in modo da deludente in voi." *It was fifteen. Richard, Doctor Billy would be so disappointed in you.*
"And how it wounds me to think of his disapproval!" I roll my eyes and smirk at her, slipping back into English.
Parker laughs and leans against me, her eyes closing gently. I press a chaste kiss against her porcelain forehead and wrap my arm around her shoulders.
"I'm glad you're not going to pass judgment on me, Richard."
"Like I'm sinless enough to cast the first stone. Plus I can't really push the blame on you. YOU didn't do it. He pulled the trigger the day he stepped into the Centre and decided to try and be a key player. And," I add, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, "who ever it was that killed him, he had a making in it from start to finish."
She smiles at me, her eyes filled with tears of relief, and I pull her to me so I don't have to look at them. God--her tears would unravel my carefully gathered control, and I have no doubt that I'd soon be doing whatever humanly possible to take her mind off of her problems.
As good of fuck buddies as we are, I very much doubt she'd appreciate me putting the moves on her with her father upstairs.
"Thank you, Richard."
"No problem, 'Anna. Now, close those little eyes, and rest your little head on my shoulder, and don't worry that little heart of your-- ow!" She punches my shoulder playfully, and I grin at her. "Just get some rest, Parker."
"I suppose it's Hunter, now."
"Well, everyone else has gone through at least one name change-- I guess you deserve one. Get some rest *Hunter*. Happy?"
"Very-" *YAWN* "-Good night Richard."
I smile and kiss her forehead. "Night."
She drifts off to sleep with her head in my lap, and I stroke her hair idly until I drift off to sleep, one hand in her hair...and the other on my gun.
Hey, it ain't paranoia if they're really out to get you.
