THE COLOR OF HELL
a Pretender novel by
D.W. Chong
#
CHAPTER ONE
Newark, New Jersey
Tuesday, February, 2nd, 1999
3:07 a.m.
#

White was the color of Limbo.

White couch, white walls, white chairs, and the wall-to-wall, milky-auraed, fluorescent glow of
ceiling panels with no 'off ' switch.

In dreams it was less a memory than an alien landscape: sterile, monotonous, inescapable; a
waiting room without doors.

Grey was the color of Hell.

A lifetime captured on three hundred ninety-six, three inch super high density compact disks.
Black and white images of lost moments, ingrained memories, and familiar terrors that played
across his mind's eye in a never-ending loop.

His legs kicked feebly, hobbled by the paralysis of REM sleep. His cheeks slapped against his
pillow in subconscious denial.

Black was the color of justice.

Jarod had spent most of his life terrified of the dark. As a child, darkness equalled punishment.
During his first fourteen years in The Centre, the only time he had not been bathed in artificial
light was when he misbehaved. Then, two Sweepers --members of The Centre's private security
force, who were always posted somewhere along the corridor-- would come to whatever room he
was in, grab him by the arms, carry him out and shove him into a concrete cell where he remained
for days at a time.

His skin knew this mini-prison far more intimately than his eyes, for he had only ever seen it in the
brief seconds the door was open. Once shut, the only breach in the utter blackness was the baleful
red pinprick of the night-vision surveillance camera's indicator light in the northeast corner of the
twelve foot high ceiling.

Inside that four by four foot room the world was reduced to six cold walls, a thin trickle of
running water, and his body's complaints.

His hands recalled the rough texture of the walls, the raw end of an iron water pipe to the right of
the door, nearly flush with the wall and four feet above a three inch wide waste pipe that marked
the nadir of the slightly sloped floor.

Thirst drove him to lick water off the wall, but he could not slake his hunger, or fend off the cold
that seeped into his bones, or even, eventually, stretch himself out fully to sleep.

Even a few hours in the closet made him remorseful, but his pleas of repentance fell on deaf ears.
Punishment was never stinted in The Centre, if anything, the monitoring here was more intrusive.
In here he couldn't even relieve his bowels in private.

Jarod's anguish finally pierced the veil of dreams and his eyes snapped open as his heaving chest
spasmed out the last of a string of protests. "...no!"

He stilled.

Took stock.

He was alone. In bed. In the dark.

//Too dark for colors,// he thought.

He shivered in the gloom as his brain registered the night-shrouded, weighty opaqueness of the
plaster ceiling overhead.

//Too dark.//

He was not in That Place.

Jarod sagged back into the mattress with palpable relief.

Black was the color of freedom.

Once, being locked in that concrete cell was more torturous than the most harrowing simulations
he had ever run. (Had that continued to be the case, the darkness might not have lost its power to
terrify him.)

Once, being in a darkened room made him jumpy, unable to sleep. Now, far from panicking him,
the inky void soothed his nerves like a subliminal lullaby.

He replayed the exact moment he had befriended the once terrifying void: it was March 30th,
1996, his first night in the Everest Base Camp. He had gone outside to use the latrine. The night
sky had been so clear, the atmosphere so thin, the stars had no twinkle, but shone like an army of
searchlights. It had frozen him in place. The vista of fiercely bright pinhole lights shining through
the velvety black of darkest night robbed him of his breath without any help from the high
altitude. He had dropped to his knees and wept.

Despite three intense years Outside, that moment remained the most profound experience of his
life. Nor had the sheer thrill of being immersed in the world's lushness, variety, and chaotic energy
abated. If anything, the sensations had intensified, as if he would never --could never-- get
enough of its novelties, its rawness, its starry, starry nights.

When Jarod returned to civilization, he discovered that he no longer panicked when he entered a
darkened room, no longer needed the lights to burn from the time he entered a lair until the last
moment of his final exit. The thirty-three year tyranny of artificial light had ended.

Now he was content to live in harmony with the natural circadian tides of light and dark, only
resorting to artificial illumination when the ambient light from the nearest window was insufficient
to perform some needed task.

It made collecting himself after one of his chronic nightmares so much easier.

Assured that he was still at liberty, a moment's contemplation supplied Jarod with his current
location: Newark, New Jersey. Not as far from Snow Hill, Maryland as he had planned to be
--was it only two days ago? But he was nothing if not adaptable.

He breathed deeply, allowing his heart and respirations to slow to normal, and lifted his eyes to
the clock on the opposite wall: 3:07 a.m. Barely two hours since he'd fallen asleep.

He felt vaguely irritated at his psyche for waking him up so soon, even though he'd known when
he'd laid down that he was too wound up from his final face-to-face encounter with Douglas
Willard --and his all too narrow escape from his personal huntress, Miss Parker-- to rest easily or
long. Still, he'd hoped to put a bigger dent in his sleep debt than a measly hundred twenty-four
minutes.

Knowing that further attempts to court sleep would only be time stolen from more productive
pursuits, Jarod tossed back the covers and swung his black sweatpant clad legs over the edge of
the bed. His hands ran down his face with a well-practiced motion, wiping the vestiges of terror
from face to palms to sweat-drenched black T-shirt.

Luckily, he was refreshed enough to skate through the next fifteen hours drouse-free --though
he'd need eight solid hours of nightmare-less down time to recover from his non-stop pursuit of
Carl Schumann and his puppet-master, Douglas Willard, before he could once more perform at
peak efficiency.

While at The Centre, Sydney, Jarod's project coordinator, mentor, and surrogate father, had
forced him to take sleep breaks every twenty hours --when it didn't interfere with a SIM, that
is-- because Jarod preferred to push himself till he collapsed from exhaustion to placidly
surrendering to Morpheus.

Now that he was responsible for his own well-being, Jarod found himself adhering to this
long-enforced sleep schedule far more diligently than when he'd been in Sydney's charge.

But if the last three days proved he was nowhere near as strict with himself as Sydney had been, it
could, in no way, compare to the seven consecutive days he'd somehow survived on sheer force
of will in the first frantic weeks following his escape.

He was more than happy to let *that* record stand, never mind that he'd come within twenty
hours of matching it on more than one occasion. The life or death emergencies that had become a
staple of his new existence had made him conservative, and he took every opportunity to
stockpile a healthy cushion of mental and physical reserves so that he *could* abuse himself when
necessary.

Jarod did not bother to change out of his sweat drenched clothes, nor, despite the numbing cold
of the bare floor, did he put on either socks or shoes before ducking his six foot two inch frame
under the pull-up bar he had installed across the bedroom's access way and padding into the
cabinet-demarked kitchen.

He flicked on the naked overhead bulb and mentally ticked off the items on the kitchen table as
though the probability of their being precisely as he had left them was negligible: empty
dome-lidded glass cake plate; plastic bowl full of pink frosting; two jars of seedless raspberry jam;
a sizable hill of strawberry Pez packs, (they didn't make raspberry); a box of birthday candles; a
book of matches; a narrow spatula; a laptop computer, and a cellular phone.

Jarod unplugged the laptop from the phone outlet and moved it to the far side of the table to
make room for the three rounds of slightly browned raspberry chip cake he fetched from the
refrigerator.

He had only rented the furnished loft yesterday afternoon, and had spent the rest of the day
getting the utilities turned on, buying provisions, baking, and using the laptop to erase all trace of
his 'Jarod Ressler' identity from the Department of Justice's data base.

He took a seat before his array of goodies and, drawing his bare feet up into the baggy ends of his
sweatpants, lifted the glass dome off the empty cake plate and set it aside, ignoring the shiver in
his hand that caused the lid to tinkle against the tabletop. The cold air quickly made his dampened
T-shirt clammy but, now that he was focused on his latest project, his own comfort was the least
of his concerns.

Daubing a glob of frosting onto the cake plate as an anchor, Jarod centered a cake round onto it.
A mortaring layer of raspberry jam followed, then a second and a third tier, and his cake was built.

He smoothed pink raspberry frosting over the raspberry-chip cake, next, stuck three candles, in a
triangular formation, on the cake top and, with a patience born of decades of meticulous precision
work, began to unwrap the Pez and circle the individual pink candies, end up, into the frosting
surrounding the candles.

Ninety minutes later, Jarod inserted the last piece of candy into the cake's side, sat back, and
admired his handiwork. The cake was now an alluringly exact, if incised and draped, pink on
pink, two dimensional representation of the interference wave patterns generated by three
equi-distant non-resonant frequencies.

His nagging authoritarian superego berated him for the pleasurable flush of accomplishment he
felt for what was, ultimately, a colossal waste of time.

//You may as well have stayed in bed,// the stentorian tones inside his head sneered.

//And missed all this fun?// Jarod grinned, mentally jibing himself for his twinge of guilt. He
enjoyed tweaking the Project Coordinator Within almost as much as he did Miss Parker.

Since his escape from The Centre he had embraced the concept of 'fun' whole-heartedly. It was
fun to celebrate the anniversary of his emergence into the outside world by baking his very first
scratch-made birthday cake. But 'random' did not exist in his lexicon. Tossing the candies on
scatter-shot would have only frustrated his pattern-needy, inner perfectionist to distraction.

Over the course of three years, he had learned to balance his hunger for sheer fun with his
compulsive-obsessive need to produce, analyze, winnow, and discern patterns in anything and
everything he perceived or performed.

If he was constitutionally incapable of doing a thing haphazardly, even something as trivial as
decorating a cake only he would see, then he would accommodate both urges and revel in his
ability to mentally visualize and physically plot a complex waveform by painstakingly poking
candy into a bed of frosting for ninety minutes. It made each moment as delicious as the pink
raspberry butter cream frosting he had licked off the spreader.

That it had been The Centre's own relentless 'profit before all' regimentation that had both
nurtured his natural patterning tendencies into a full-blown obsession, and instilled in him the
mental discipline required to wring 'fun' out of the kinds of absurdly superfluous, time-consuming,
and wholly unprofitable activities with which he now regularly indulged himself, was a delicious
irony in itself.

He went to the refrigerator, grabbed a glass tumbler with a spoon already in it, a gallon of milk,
and a jar of chocolate flavored Ovaltine and set them on the table. He scooped an obscene
amount of powder into the tumbler, filled it with milk, stirred, sucked the spoon clean, then lit a
match and touched its flame to the candle wicks with one hand, while he activated his cell phone
with the other. Blowing out the match, he waited, phone to ear, for his speed-dialled party to pick
up.

"Sydney, here," a distinctly foreign and refined voice said --somewhat wearily, Jarod thought,
after the fifth ring.

"Happy birthday to me," Jarod decrescendoed into the phone, and promptly blew out the candles.

There was a lingering silence from the other end of the line as the rudely awakened former
mentor/controller recovered from his surprise at being contacted a mere twenty hours after Jarod's
previous call, (usually indicative of a state of distress and/or confusion on the subject's part), then
took a moment to consider Jarod's...'message'. The thought that his caller had finally lost his last
grip on reality briefly crossed his mind, but then he reminded himself with whom he was dealing,
and he decided to give Jarod the benefit of explaining himself. "It isn't your birthday, Jarod," he
said, with a measured, practiced tone that conveyed a professional detachment that did not extend
to his heart.

Jarod cut a wedge of the three layer cake out with the frosting knife, ran his tongue across the top
line of seedless raspberry jam filling, then nibbled off the narrow end of the wedge, crunching
happily on the Pez-studded frosting. He swallowed.

"Umm! I know that, now, but, by the time I discovered my real birth date I'd already adopted this
one. Anyway, it's so much more appropriate, don't you think?"

Sydney stifled a sigh at this latest in a series of cryptic comments, and glanced again at his
nightstand clock: 4:46 a.m. He did not bother to ask why Jarod was calling at such an ungodly
hour. He'd never known Jarod to get a full night's sleep in the thirty-six years he'd known him.

In fact, Jarod was clinically narcophobic, and it was no great stretch of the imagination to
understand why. If Sydney had had nightmares with the frequency Jarod had all his life, he
wouldn't find the prospect of eight hours repose very inviting, either.

"What's important is that you feel it's appropriate, Jarod. In the final analysis, that's all that
matters," Sydney said in neutral psychiatrist-ese as he pinched the bridge of his nose and
tried to fathom the significance of the date. He knew intuitively there had to be one. Jarod never
called without a reason, but he seemed to be taking his time in getting to the point this morning.

Detecting Sydney's incomprehension, Jarod elucidated: "It's February 2nd, 1999, Sydney. I'm
three years old today."

Sydney gasped at his obtuseness, but immediately forgave himself for his lapse, his mind had been
occupied with the other matter, only just concluded. "Of course!" He could not help a slight
smile. "Yes, Jarod, the date is entirely appropriate," he agreed.

"I haven't cracked up yet, Sydney," Jarod said, not needing to clarify his implication that, if he
could survive this latest batch of ordeals with his humanity and psyche intact, he could
survive anything.

Sydney could not tell if Jarod's tone was admonishing or defensive, but, either way, he did not
think it would be prudent to argue the point, for, clinically speaking, while Jarod had managed to
recover in his own, inimitable and astoundingly accelerated fashion --without any help from
Sydney, he had, in fact, suffered the equivalent of two nervous breakdowns in the last year alone.
There was no guarantee that he would recover as swiftly from any subsequent episodes --and
every indication that he would eventually succumb to another one.

"That's a matter for debate, although I will concede that you're handling your exposure to the
world far more competently than I had thought possible." Sydney could almost hear the other
man's chest swell with pride.

"Unfortunately, the longer you remain at large, the greater the likelihood that something will go
seriously awry. It's a simple matter of probabilities. And even you must admit, the effects would
be quite devastating to someone with your...psycho-neurologic patterning."

Sydney sensed Jarod shutting down emotionally in the silence that followed this pronouncement,
but, as he hadn't intended to undermine Jarod's fragile self-esteem, he quickly added: "In the
words of that Han Solo fellow you're so fond of: 'Don't get cocky, kid.'"

Jarod's smile brightened instantly. Sydney was not trying to make him feel bad, nor regretting his
decision to pass up an opportunity to haul Jarod back to the prison in which he had so long
resided, he was merely expressing his concern. "You be careful, too, Sydney." Neither of their
lives were free from danger, these days.

"I shall endeavor to be so. And Happy Birthday, Jarod. Now that I know you have designated this
as your day, I shall circle it on my calendar."

"Thanks, Sydney."

And then he simply hung up.

Sydney sighed again. Despite Jarod's brilliance, he had never mastered the simple art of phone
etiquette. Not that he'd had adequate practitioners on which to model his behavior. At The
Centre 'etiquette' was a euphemism for unarmed combat, and phones were just a polite way of
yelling at people in the next room. One did not say 'good-bye' when one finished speaking to
people in the next room. One simply stopped talking and got back to whatever it was one had
been doing beforehand.

So it was with Jarod, who was, at that very moment, washing down the last of his slice of cake
with the tumblerful of malted chocolate milk.

Jarod had planned today's agenda before retiring: 1) get up; 2) do warm-up exercises; 3)
commence research on Officer Marchetti; 4) buy papers; 5) finish exercising; 6) shower and
dress; 7) decorate cake; 8) call Sydney; 9) eat cake; 10) establish pretend identity.

Waking up two hours ahead of schedule had forced him to adjust his timetable. The fact that this
made his planned call to Sydney so much more intrusive did not give him an instant's pause. The
only immutable item on his to-do list was Officer Marchetti.

Jarod covered the remains of the cake with the domed lid, carried his tumbler over to the
sink, rinsed it out, and, leaving it up-turned in the sink to dry, washed and dried his frosting and
crumb-bestrewn hands.

He then returned to the bedroom to don a pair of thick crew socks and his running shoes, went
back to the loft's common room for fifteen minutes of stretching and warm-up exercises, and
jogged over to his valet cum work desk to pocket his wallet and keys, and pull on his watch.
He patted the aluminum Halliburton briefcase like someone else might the head of a faithful dog,
debating where to stash it, for he never left it sitting in plain sight unless he was there to watchdog
it.

He decided to duct tape it to the back of the toilet tank. //Cool stuff, duct tape//, he thought. He
lifted the Halliburton from the huggermugger of desk lamp, Powerbook, four framed pictures, Mr.
Potatohead, twenty-six Mr. Potatohead accessory bits, a metallic blue slinky, a plastic tub of
Clay-dough, and nine loaded Pez dispensers and carried it to the bathroom. Then he lifted off the
toilet tank lid and checked the space behind it for fit. The case just did slide behind the tank.
He retrieved a roll of duct tape from the under basin cabinet, tore off two strips of tape long
enough to more than circle the briefcase completely, slid the case down the length of the tank,
then pressed the two tape leads onto the back of the tank, hanging the case up like a sling.
Another strip of tape crossed over the two leads to secure them, then he replaced the lid and eyed
the results. The case was undetectable from either the door, or a cursory glance at the
tank.

Jarod's front door was one of three access ways set into the cubular 'hallway.' He ran in place
while the elevator dropped him from the top to the ground floor, then jogged along the common
foyer with its bank of mail boxes, to the concrete walkway beyond the double front doors that
was bisected by a black, wrought iron security gate recessed some four feet from the public
sidewalk.

Jarod exited, made sure the gate latched, then jogged north seven blocks to Marchetti's place,
then ran up one side of Washington Street and down the other till Marchetti, also dressed in
sweats, emerged from his own gated apartment building.

Jarod checked his watch: 5:41, then tailed Marchetti through Washington Park to Broad Street,
through Military Park, back to Broad, to Franklin Street, and the headquarters of Newark's Police
corps. Jarod stayed on the opposite side of the street until Marchetti entered the building, and
checked his watch: 6:25, then he retraced his steps to Marchetti's apartment building and did
cool-down stretches beside Marchetti's security gate until someone left the building who did not
make sure the gate closed before they went on their way.

Jarod jumped to catch the gate, slipped inside, and took the elevator up to the top floor.
The layout of Marchetti's building was similar to his own, with six apartments on each of the first
three floors, four apartments on the next two, and two apartments on the top two floors, making
it pretty easy to find Marchetti's place.

He picked the lock and let himself in.

The place was as Spartan as a military post: not a speck of dust, not so much as a skewed
magazine or slightly off-center picture. The furniture was well-used, functional but tasteful, some
nubby white fabric with walnut wood accents. The component shelving was walnut, the books
were leather bound, the finish dull with use...and...was that a stereo? Jarod located a stash of LPS
in the bottom cabinet.
The Hotpoint refrigerator in the kitchen looked like it had been new sometime circa 1950. There
was an original model Mr. Coffee, an electric spice grinder, and a rubber sealed ceramic
coffee container on the counter.

Several varieties of instant breakfast foods packed an overhead kitchen cabinet, while the exotic
canned foods in the pantry looked like purchases from some 'dings and dents' discount store.
Marchetti liked to eat expensive foods, but he shopped like he couldn't afford retail, with the
exception of the gourmet coffee beans.

Jarod went into the bedroom. Marchetti's clothes were well used but in good repair. Jarod
guessed that the two 'newest' suits in the closet were one and four years old. There was a pair of
dress shoes, a pair of sandals, an extra pair of black Oxfords for work, and a pair of slippers in the
shoe tree, the heels and soles all worn in the same way, but not holey. An old photo album was
tucked up on the shelf above the suits, along with old cards and extra linens.

Jarod checked out the bathroom. One toothbrush, one razor. Nothing but standard
over-the-counter remedies in the medicine cabinet.

Jarod searched for bank papers that would indicate the existence of safety deposit boxes or
off-shore assets, personal or business correspondence. Besides a handful of credit card bills and
letters addressed to 'Occupant', he found nothing of interest.

Jarod toured the apartment again, this time looking for hidden caches and safes. After three years
of stashing his Halliburton, he had become expert at detecting hiding places.

Clean.

Somewhat frustrated, Jarod let himself out, relocked the door, and jogged back to Market and
Broad and the newstand he had noticed there his first go-round. Buying a copy of every
newspaper there made the newsie, one Mario, by name, quite effusive. Jarod chatted with the man
for a few minutes, then jogged back to his loft.

Making a looping circuit of the great room's furniture, he laid the papers on the end of the couch,
dumped his wallet, keys, and watch back onto the work table, then headed to the east wall, and
the exercise bar spanning the access way to the only enclosed spaces in the loft: the bathroom and
bedroom.

Facing the great room, he grabbed the bar and, holding his legs parallel to the floor, did fifty
pull-ups, then, dangling from his arms, he tried his best to touch his forehead with his shins twenty
times, (a position he was not actually able to achieve unless he could wrap his arms around his
legs and pull himself into place).

Shifting his grip to the other side of the bar, he launched his body into as prone a position as he
could with his arms behind him, and tried to lift himself up to touch his back to the bar twenty
times. He then moved to the nearby wall, got into a handstand, and did fifty push-ups with his
toes lightly braced against the wall.

He did a forward roll into the middle of the floor and finished up with fifteen more minutes of
stretching exercises, then ducked into the bathroom. He turned on the bathtub taps and activated
the showerhead, then shucked his clothes while the water warmed up.

After he was stripped, he checked the temperature with a hand. It was hot. He stepped carefully
into the spray and slowly turned, enjoying the nettle-like sting of the droplets pelting his
sweat-salted skin, then he grabbed a washcloth and bar of soap lathering the cloth up thickly
before he briskly scrubbed his arms and legs. It was like coating himself with liquid satin. He
turned his back to the spray and ran the cloth over his chest, moaning softly at the sensuous feel
of the foamy cloth.

His hand slowed as it circled lower, rounding his breasts strumming the distinct bulges of his
abdominal muscles, and delved into the triangle of his crotch. He teased his thatch, playfully using
the lather like hair mousse, pulling his pubes into little peaks that curled around his genitals like
unbaked meringue before cupping his sac in the creamy nest of hand and cloth. His legs spread as
he teased his perineum, and poked sudsy fingers down to tease his hole.

His other hand scraped the suds up from his belly and slathered it over his nipples, smushing and
tweaking them till they were hard little nubs, increasing the pleasure/torture of his arousal. The
cloth slipped over his hip, lavished both butt cheeks, sawed at his crack, and then he reached the
limit of his forbearance and he brought both hands over his weeping shaft, pulling back his
foreskin to rub his slit into the nubby, foam slicked cloth.

Funny how something as simple as a piece of cloth could make his hand feel so alien, almost as if
it wasn't his own hand at all, but some unseen lover's. The thought was both comforting and
titillating, and he dropped his bare hand to let his clothed hand milk his cock. Faster. Harder. His
head arched back and his face was pricked by a thousand hot needles of water. He shouted,
pulsing ejaculate into the cloth, the two creams mingling. And then he pivoted to let the spray
douse the cloth, and lather and cum dribbled to the drain in one milky stream while his
sex-sensitized penis danced beneath the assault of hot rain.

Jarod hung the cloth up, shut off the taps, and stepped out into the steamy bathroom proper. He'd
never enjoyed a shower like that in captivity, he grinned as he bellied up to the basin to shave. He
lathered up and scraped the razor over his chin, rinsed, and ran his fingers over his skin to make
sure he'd done a thorough job. Satisfied, he scooped up his discarded clothing and exited to dump
them onto the foot of the bed, then dug into his closet and dresser for a white Arrow shirt, pair of
black slacks, oxfords and dress socks.

So outfitted, he grabbed his black leather jacket and ducked under the exercise bar across the
access-way to grab a tumblerful of tap water and his laptop, slinging the jacket over the back of
the sofa en route to the kitchen.

He drank one glassful while standing at the sink, then filled the tumbler again and carried it and
the laptop out to the coffee table, nudging aside a Thomas Guide for the Newark area, a red
notebook, a pair of scissors, and a glue stick so as to situate it a comfortable arm's reach from
where he plopped unceremoniously onto the sofa.

He picked the notebook off the coffeetable and leafed to the first page, onto which he had pasted
a story from Jan. 31st's Star Ledger. He reread the article.

"COP SLAYS TEACHER BEHIND NIGHT CLUB
"Thomas Bell, 43, was killed during a shootout with off-duty
police officer Trent Marchetti at apx. 10 p.m. Sat. night. The
shooting occurred in the alleyway between the West Park Plaza
building and Marbles, a local night club located in the adjoining
complex.
"According to Police spokesperson Martin Florence, Officer
Marchetti, who is still on the job pending an investigation of the
shooting by the Department's Bureau of Internal Affairs, was on
his way home from a local bar and grill he frequents after shift,
when he observed Bell selling drugs in the alleyway.
"When Marchetti attempted to arrest Bell, Bell pulled out a
gun, and Marchetti opened fire, striking Bell three times in the
chest. Bell died at the hospital during emergency surgery. Seven
plasticine bags of cocaine were found on Bell's person. "

#

"SCHOOL SHOCKED BY DEALER TEACHER,"
a second article, dated February 1st, read.
"Larry Dolinski, a spokesman for Berringer High School,
expressed his shock and dismay at the shooting incident last Sat.
that left Thomas Bell, a tenured History teacher at the school,
dead. 'Mr. Bell would be the last person on this campus anyone
would ever suspect of selling drugs.'
"Dolinski went on to assure concerned parents that the school
board was funding an investigation into Bell's conduct on campus,
but was quick to defend the popular teacher, who had been at the
school for fifteen years.
"'Mr. Bell was a consummate professional, caring, and
concerned about all of Berringer High's students. He was active in
the school's anti-drug programs, and had volunteered his services at
Newark's Westside Teen Rehabilitation Center for years. He
often said his greatest pleasure was to see a love of learning
ignite in a student's face. He shall be sorely missed.'"
A picture of Bell and Marchetti had accompanied the story, and it had been that which had
captured Jarod's attention during his train ride to New York. Jarod knew, from the thousands of
picture drills he had performed with Sydney, that Bell was no drug dealer, that Marchetti was
hiding something, and that both men were homosexuals, or rather, in Bell's case, bisexual, since he
did have a wife and three children. It had been the three children that had clinched it.

Jarod had taken the next available train back to Newark.

Jarod's eyes drifted out of focus as he ran a mental simulation of the shooting through his head.

It was not Marchetti who had surprised Bell in the middle of a drug buy, but Bell who had
surprised Marchetti --with fatal consequences.

Bell had been in the club and had left the back way, partly because he didn't want to be seen going
out the front door of the club, partly because it was a shortcut to the Plaza's parking garage from
whence his car had been impounded Monday morning.

Whatever the reason, Bell had stumbled upon Marchetti at the precise moment when there was no
disguising his actions. Even then, things might have turned out differently had Bell and Marchetti
not known each other from former encounters in their insular social sphere.

Unfortunately, even though Marchetti was not in uniform, Bell knew he was a cop, and Marchetti,
in turn, knew Bell well enough to know how militantly anti-drug he was.

Desperate to keep his secrets safe, Marchetti had murdered his friend/acquaintance, then, in order
to cover up the crime, he had dressed the crime scene with a throw-away piece and a small
portion of the drugs in his possession, so it would look like a justifiable homicide, salvaging his
own reputation by savaging Bell's.

Jarod's eyes lost their far-away glaze. He tossed the red notebook down, took a sip of water, then
lifted off the first of the morning's cache of newspapers to skim through the headlines, in search of
further information on the Bell case.

"SECRET LIFE OF TEACHER EXPOSED," read the Times of Trenton.
"SLAIN TEACHER GAY," said the Star Ledger.
The stories themselves were remarkably similar, hinging on the fact that reporters going into the
club for background information had discovered it served a gay clientele. During police
canvassing, both the Marbles's bartender and 'host' had identified a picture of Bell as 'a regular'.
If the tone of the articles could be used as a gauge, cementing Bell's ties to the gay world had
thickened the tar coating Bell's reputation.

Jarod picked up the scissors, clipped all the pertinent articles out of the day's newspapers, and
pasted them into his SIM journal. That done, Jarod took himself, his glass of water, and the
laptop, (which he plugged into the convenient desk-side phone jack), to his desk to flesh out his
bare bones profile on Marchetti, as he hadn't been able to do much more amid the chaos of
moving in yesterday than unearth Marchetti's home address.

After a few hours of work, Jarod discovered that Marchetti had lived in his apartment for twenty
years, and had been with the New Jersey Police Department for eighteen. The first eleven of those
years he had worked Patrol Division. He had then worked three years in the Youth Aid Unit
before transferring back to Patrol Division.

During his first stint on Patrol, he'd maintained an unremarkable, but balanced arrest profile. He
rarely discharged his weapon, was not in the habit of using excessive force, treated all ethnic
groups equally, for good or ill, and had never killed anyone before this incident, which would be
the tentpole of his defense at his up-coming Internal Affairs hearing. For a department fighting a
history of brutality and corruption, Marchetti was a choir boy.

But, in the last four years, his total arrests had not only dropped from his former average, they
had skewed from an equal percentage of drug and theft busts, (the types of offenses which made
up eighty percent of the reported crimes in Newark), to almost no drug arrests at all, and the
unlucky perpetrators had all been of non-Italian extraction.

The Department, anxious to make a ruling on the shooting, and doubly anxious that that ruling
prove favorable to the Department, was disposed to view Marchetti's career as a whole, which
would all but guarantee the shooting's being ruled a justifiable homicide.

The seeming contradiction of a man known for his anti-drug stance caught dealing drugs would
be explained as a clever ploy to disguise his shady dealings, which would make mock of all that
the man had stood for his whole life. One more reason why Jarod's talents would be needed to
reveal the truth.

Jarod hacked into Marchetti's bank records. He had the usual raft of credit cards, all carrying a
higher than average amount of debt, but nothing that couldn't be handled on Marchetti's regular
salary, and there were no records of him ever renting a safety deposit box in Newark or anywhere
else within a three hundred mile radius. Unless, of course, he was using an alias, something Jarod
wasn't going to be able to find out on-line.

In fact, the only way Jarod *could* find out such information, since a search of the apartment had
yielded no clues, was to compare a sample of Marchetti's handwriting with all of the thousands of
signature cards on file at each bank, a task that was clearly beyond his purview. If Marchetti had
any hidden assets, he was going to have to betray their existence to Jarod some other way. Of
course, that meant Jarod would have to get close enough to Marchetti --physically and
emotionally-- for him to do so.

The best way to do that was to become a cop, so he thought up a back story, a way to get himself
assigned to the currently desk-bound Marchetti that would also get that officer back on the street
where he could incriminate himself, and hacked into the Newark Police's personnel data bank to
make the necessary adjustments to the files. He then faxed himself a confirmation of employment,
duty orders, a W-4, and set up the necessary required tests for his latest incarnation as an officer
of the law.

He listed San Diego, California, as his 'prior residence', because that is where he had been when
he'd learned that seventeen year old Sarah Rickman had been abducted in Snow Hill, Maryland.

Jarod had abandoned his planned pretend there at once, because the Blue Moon had only been
days away. He'd had every intention of returning to San Diego once the would-be killer was
apprehended, until he learned that Miss Parker had discovered his last lair. He had cursed her
efficiency, knowing that it would be some time before he could safely resume that particular
pretend.

//Robert Burns was right,// Jarod thought. On the other hand, Miss Parker's unplanned West
Coast intrusion would allow him to concentrate wholly on this new pretend. Not a bad outcome.

Jarod turned his thoughts to his new persona.

'Jarod Reed' was enough of a 'rookie' to police work that assigning Marchetti as his Field Training
Officer wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Jarod's very real and too fresh bullet holes were explained
away as the work related injury which had caused 'Reed' to leave San Diego.

After double-checking that his name was on the firing range's small arms qualifications test roster,
he made an on-line search for the nearest uniform shop and used car dealership, then called for a
taxi. He loaded his pockets with wallet, keys, Pez, and fax, strapped on his watch, pulled on his
jacket, and took the elevator down to the ground floor, where he waited, just inside the security
gate, for the taxi to arrive.

The first thing Jarod did was obtain a car. And, since his newest persona was a man of modest
means, he financed, rather than bought, a black, '95 Honda Accord with all the amenities.
He then drove to the uniform shop with his confirmation of employment form in hand, (in some
cities they wouldn't sell police uniforms to just anybody off the street), and outfitted himself with
everything from hat to holster belt, new shoes to the proper patches for a uniformed patrolman,
and, not least, a handy, pocket-sized code book.

He returned to his loft, sewed the patches onto his three uniform shirts then ironed them and the
pants that matched them, pairing them on wire hangers hooked over the bathroom door. Then he
flopped onto the bed to memorize the code book. Try as he might, Jarod couldn't keep his
thoughts off Marchetti.

Marchetti had not indulged himself with any obviously new or expensive belongings in the last
four years. Nor did he act as if he were sitting on a secret horde of cash. In fact, he walked like a
man who was being pressed into the ground by heavy, if not quite intolerable burdens, and
dragged sadness about him like an invisible anchor.

If guilt was dragging Marchetti down, Jarod speculated, then perhaps, if he waited long enough,
Marchetti's own conscience would do his work for him.

Jarod rejected the idea immediately. However badly Marchetti felt, Bell's death had become just
one more straw to balance on his back, just one more burden to hide among the others. //But
what is the straw that will break this camel's back?// he wondered.

#

INTERLUDE ONE

Blue Cove, Delaware

Tuesday, February 2nd

9:00 a.m.

#



Miss Parker settled herself behind her desk and checked her mail and messages, idly wondering if

there would be a care package from Jarod among them.



Anticipation, expectation, desire and disappointment had become staples of her morning ritual,

and she didn't know which aggravated her more: the thought of Jarod smirking at her so

infuriatingly as he parcelled out the information she craved in dribs and drabs, or her own

gut-wrenching gratitude as she devoured each morsel.



It was so damned irritating.



She sighed. No gifts from Jarod today. Not that she had really expected one. Profusiveness was

not his hallmark, and he had sent Annie's locket --the final puzzle piece of the Snow Hill affair--

to Syd only yesterday.



She was still irked at Mr. Raines and Sydney about that fiasco. They had *both* known where

Jarod was, could have sent in a Sweeper team to pick him up at any time but, instead, they had

used their rank and influence to force her and Broots into a pointless trip to Florida. By the time

her trusty computer-nerd had figured the deceit out, Jarod had eluded them one more time.



A gelid spasm shivered up her spine and the muscles in her face set as firmly as concrete,

unimpressed by Jarod's success in capturing Carl Schumann, or in recapturing the fugitive,

Douglas Willard, who was the true mastermind behind Sarah Rickman's abduction, and one of

Jarod's old bogeymen.



Jarod had no business chasing serial killers. Not even wannabes like Carl Schumann. Miss Parker

knew that better than anyone alive. Far better than Sydney or Mr. Raines, for damn sure, else

they'd have used Jarod's Willard fixation to capture him, instead of indulging him in his little law

and order fantasy. She cursed them soundly, then, having no venom left for them, cursed Jarod for

the pang of fear the pretend had spawned within her.



//Arrogant bastard! How dare you SIM a serial killer in an uncontrolled environment, without

safeguards or safe words or monitoring of any kind. What were you thinking? *Was* he

thinking?// Of course he was. Thinking he was invincible, untouchable, and incorruptible. //As if!

He's supposed to be so damned smart.// Was it machismo or hubris, competitiveness or guilt that

drove Jarod to such reckless behavior? No matter. The very fact that he had even contemplated

such a pretend proved it was way past time for him to be locked back up in his cage.



//Why can't he just concentrate on finding my mother's killer and leave the capture of twisted

specimens like Carl Schumann to men whose personalities aren't the human equivalent of Silly

Putty?// Miss Parker thought with a scowl.



Not that she was all that happy about Jarod's Holy Quest for Truth, Justice, and the quid pro quo,

quite the opposite. The fact that she spent as much time digging up the answers to his puzzles as

she did actually pursuing him was entirely beside the point.



//Why is my knowing the Truth about Mother's life and death so important to Jarod, anyway?//

There was no changing the past, afterall. The damage was done. So why bother? //It's probably

just a sneaky ploy to throw me off his scent.// He was sure trying his damnedest to turn her

against Daddy, but that, at least, hadn't worked. //So far.//



//Bite your tongue!// she immediately chastised herself. //I'm a loyal Centre employee.// She was

where she was supposed to be, doing what she was supposed to do or, she had been until

Frankenboy had pulled a Houdini on them and The Powers That Be had pulled her off the

corporate fast track to go chase his genius ass around the flagpole.



They had justified it at the time by telling her she was the best person for the job, but here it was,

three years down the road, and the bastard was still free, and cocky enough to juggle the lives of

innocents with the ultimate fates of two serial killers and his own sanity.



The buzz of the intercom interrupted her internal screed. She slapped the button that shut the unit

up and connected her to whoever wanted her attention. "What?" she asked sharply.



"Good morning, Angel," her father's remote if affable voice, slightly distorted by the intercom's

speakers, greeted her, seemingly oblivious to her hostile tones. "I'm calling a meeting on the Jarod

situation. Grab your stats and your team members and meet me in the boardroom in ten minutes."

"Of course, Daddy," she said, straining the words through her teeth so the abject panic behind
them wouldn't bleed into her voice. Whatever else she might fault her father for, his 'guilt
radar' was batting a thousand.

She gulped in oxygen, wishing, for just an instant, that it was laced with nicotine, but she had quit
and she was not going to backslide for something as trivial as an emergency meeting with her
father --and god knows how many other Centre board members-- about HER inability to catch
HIM. They were not going to hang her out to dry for this cluster foul-up. Oh, no. This time it was
Sydney and Raines who had better wear their macks.

She grabbed the phone and dialed Broots's extension.

"Uh, hi, Broots here," the cyber-nerd member of her tactical team greeted with cautious cheer.

"Print out a report of all our latest leads on Jarod and be ready to present them to the board in
five minutes," she ordered without preamble. "Is Syd in?"

"Uh, um, no, he's downstairs," Broots stammered.

She hung up without acknowledging Broots directly and sucked at the air greedily, needing the
bracing tonic of negative ions to steady her legs as she rose from her desk, grabbed up files left
and right, and headed at top speed down to SL-19, where Sydney's 'Project' office was located,
(as opposed to the more elaborate corporate office he kept on SL-5), the better to collate the data
coughed up by the rest of his human lab rats.

She didn't bother to knock, but leaned through the clear glass office door. "We're wanted to
discuss 'the Jarod situation'," she said, echoing her father's words, but adding the bitterness
herself. "Grab whatever it is you need and come along."

Sydney closed the file he had been perusing, and, with an unconcern bordering on natural
arrogance, went straight to her side, needing only himself to justify his existence to the board, the
Triumvirate, or God himself.

Miss Parker marveled at his confidence, but then, Sydney had been released from Renewal Wing
with sins forgiven, and wits and intrigues intact, a feat few could claim. Having 'Jarod' on his
resume had been oil enough to calm the Pacific ocean --so far. She wondered if it would save him
this time.

She retreated to the elevators, Sydney in tow, and hit the button for SL-5, where she knew Broots
would be busy diddling his computer in hopes of turning a hot lead on Wonder Boy before she
could arrive and shred his dignity for disappointing her once again.

Parker grimaced, fighting yet another urge for a cigarette. "Oh, God. Why do we have to do this
today?" she asked aloud, clearly not talking to nor expecting an answer from Sydney. In his own
circuitous fashion, Sydney provided her with one, anyway.

"Jarod called me this morning," he confided. "Seems today marks the third anniversary of his
escape."

"Oh, crap!" Parker cursed. That HAD to be the reason they were having a board meeting today,
instead of a simple debriefing yesterday. "It's Nuclear Winter and I just saw my shadow," she
sighed, with the sudden and utmost certainty that this meeting was not as impromptu as her father
had led her to believe. It was bad enough facing the board when she thought the events at Snow
Hill were to blame, but if they were going to dredge up her complete litany of failures, she'd rather
face a T-board. At least then she'd have some hope of release-- albeit a final one.

They collected Broots from his cubbyhole and made it to the upstairs boardroom with fifteen
seconds to spare.

Mr. Lyle, her erstwhile nemesis and newly unearthed twin brother, (the unwanted proof of which
she could also 'thank' Jarod for uncovering), was already lounging in one of the five black leather
chairs lined up along the far side of the walnut and leather topped table, sharing an amusing bon
mot with his former lover, current Cleaner, and future Stepmother, Brigitte, while Miss Arbuckle,
from accounting, sat at the other end of that same row of seats, primly counting and recounting
the stack of slim black vinyl binders before her as if that would somehow shield her from the duo's
playful antics.

As if Miss Parker needed further confirmation that today's agenda had been set well in advance of
her notification, The Centre's Director walked in behind her. Miss Parker felt a sliver of ice pulse
up her spine as the Negress took her seat at the head of the table with a stern look at the giggling
pair, (who were savvy enough to sober up and settle into their seats properly). Nobody called
Miss Makeda to a meeting at the last minute.

Mr. Raines shuffled in, next, wheezing his way to the seat beside Sydney, (for which Broots was
eternally grateful), his ever-present, squeaky-wheeled oxygen tank and his most faithful Sweeper,
Willy, trailing in his wake. Willy took up a post behind his employer, and against the inner wall,
out of range of the double doors, spread his feet and clasped his hands behind him in a classic
'parade rest' stance, and made like a mannequin.

Mr. Parker was the last to arrive, ambling to the seat opposite the Director as if tanning himself in
Miss Makeda's fiery gleam of silent disapproval. His own gaze swept over his two children --who
were, for once, not squabbling with each other-- and the lollipop sucking vixen who had had more
opportunities to kill him with sex than she ever managed with a bomb, with vague satisfaction.
The forces of Parker had been marshalled. The fact that they had aligned themselves on opposite
sides of the table, the better to hurl knife-like glares at each other, didn't perturb him in the least.

Miss Parker couldn't speak for her colleagues, but she felt distinctly ill at ease sitting with her
back to the frost etched double glass and brass doors --and Willie, however well he blended with
the dark paneling-- while Mr. Lyle and Brigitte kept their backs to the much more secure,
windowless outer wall. It made her shoulder blades itch with menace, and having Lyle's smug
little smile and Brigitte's candy-coated smirk pointed in her direction didn't help matters.

Mr. Parker cleared his throat as if signalling her to pay attention and she shifted in her seat to give
him her undivided attention. "Today marks the third anniversary of Jarod's escape," Mr. Parker
commenced. "A good enough reason to review and revise our efforts to recapture him."

Miss Parker flipped open the top folder in her stack. "We were able to trace Jarod's flight from
Maryland to Central station, New York, but the trail ends there. From what information we can
gather, he doubled-back on the next train out, and hasn't been seen since. Clean up teams in
Florida and California report no signs of him in either state. Whatever Pretend he was readying
before news of Sarah Rickman's abduction hit the airwaves has apparently been abandoned."

"In other words: we've lost him till he shows his hand, again," Lyle snorted. "We could have had
him! He could be sitting in his room in SL-24 right now, but, no! You two had to turn coat and
collude with him. And for what? A pile of dry bones and a silver locket."

"That 'pile of dry bones' was my little girl!" Mr. Raines gasped with righteous indignation, misting
a bit at the eyes.

"Yeah, and she's just as dead now as she was twenty-five years ago," Lyle continued without an
ounce of sympathy. "We squandered an opportunity to nab Jarod. Three years worth of lost
revenues. Money on the hoof. Poof!
"From where I'm sitting, Peter needs to have a serious consult with Paul about the penalties for
consorting with the enemy. Bad enough we have to keep a weather eye on Dr. Verne, here,
without adding you -- of all people-- to the traitorous mix," Lyle clucked disapprovingly. "How
many more of The Centre's personnel are going to offer Jarod aid and comfort before this long,
strange odyssey is through?"

Broots gulped --silently-- and got very interested in the oily finger trails he was smearing over the
tabletop in front of him.

"Next time you get a lead on Jarod, Sis, save the company some money and just requisition the
Bobsey Twins's phone luds. That way you'll know if you're heading for the right ballpark
beforeyou buy your ticket."

"Now, now, Lyle, the Snow Hill incident was a special case,"Mr. Parker said, turning an insincere
'Santa Claus' smile towards the two conspirators. "One that won't be repeated. Will it,
gentlemen?"

Mr. Raines scowled, not enjoying the dressing down, but not daring to defy Mr. Parker when a
T-board could be in the offing. He knew shaky ground when he stepped on it. "My feelings about
Jarod are well known," he wheezed through tortured lungs, nose sucking at the air hissing
through his plastic cannula. "Under any other circumstances the fact that I'd aided and abetted his
cause even unintentionally would grate on my nerves. But, as you say, this case was special." He
paused to collect himself once again, his lower lip quivering with the effort to not burst out in
tears. "I can only suggest that, if The Centre wants to eliminate Jarod's hold on me and my
loyalties, that the Willard and Schumman problem be dealt with in a more...'permanent' fashion."

"I hope that wasn't an attempt on your part to manipulate The Centre's operations into fulfilling
your personal agenda, Mr. Raines," the Director hissed. "You're already guilty of deliberate
dereliction of Centre policy to further your own aims, the misappropriation of Centre funds, and
the willful obstruction of an on-going priority operation. Only your past loyalty and continuing
value to The Centre has mitigated these transgressions. But, let me assure you, one more such
offense will earn you an immediate, and unappealable, stint in SL-14. The Centre has already
financed fifty-four legitimate, if ultimately fruitless, excursions in pursuit of Jarod. It will not be
made mock of by squandering precious resources on a wild goose chase."

"Which is why we'll be docking each of you gentlemen for the full cost of this little boondoggle,"
Mr. Parker added with a sharkish smile.

Mr. Raines made a noise that might be construed as a whimper of shock --or a particularly needy
breath, depending on how charitable one was feeling.

Sydney only shrugged. "The investment was small compared to the return," he asserted. "For let
us not forget that the end result of our 'collaboration' with Jarod was a life saved."

"No. Not a life saved, a Jarod redeemed," Miss Parker retorted. "Washed clean, in his own eyes,
of one more stain on his soul. That he saved a life in the process is entirely incidental."

"On the contrary, Miss Parker, saving Sarah Rickman's life and apprehending her abductor was of
paramount importance to all three of us," Sydney insisted. "And, I might add, quite selfless on Mr.
Raines's part, since he could not know beforehand that abetting Jarod in this instance would yield
any personal benefit."

Parker rolled her eyes, wanting but not quite daring to ask: 'Yeah? And what's your excuse?'
"Whatever. It still adds up to the same result: Jarod's going to become even more insufferable and
conceited than he already is."

"I agree. In fact, I posit that that's the way we shall ultimately catch him. Such confidence is
unrealistic, even for someone of Jarod's capabilities. At some point in the future he is going to fail
--rather spectacularly, I should think. When he does, he's going to want to crawl into a safe hole
and lick his wounds, and there is no safer haven for Jarod than the familiar confines of his Centre
lair."

Lyle snorted. "Right. I seem to recall a certain psychiatrist claiming that Jarod couldn't survive for
long in the outside world, too. Well, Doc, it's been three years and he doesn't seem to be suffering
unduly by my estimation."

"Then I dare say you haven't been paying attention," Sydney snapped. "Jarod has had several
emotional crises to date --the worst of them triggered by the supposed 'death' of his brother, Kyle.
He's managed to cope so far, but Jarod's psyche, while almost impossibly complex, is
indescribably fragile. You would do well to understand that any actions we take against him may
result in irreparable damage to that psyche."

"What I understand, Dr. Verne, is that so long as Jarod's free he's a danger to The Centre," Lyle
retorted. "Which is more than you seem prepared to admit. Even for an asset as valuable as Jarod,
there has to be a point of diminishing returns."

"Precisely," the Director said. "And as of today, that point has been reached.

"Miss Arbuckle, the stats," the Director prompted.

"Yes, Ma'am." Miss Arbuckle parcelled out eight of her nine binders, opening the last one herself.
"On page one you'll see a per trip accounting for standard expenses incurred on each of the
sixty-three trips on log, and, at the bottom of the column, the total. These are, of course, basic
costs, including av gas, hangar fees, pilot fees, meals, lodging, car rental, etc. which are itemized
on page two. Extraordinary costs like hospitalizations, clothing allowances, real property owner
compensation, etc., are itemized on page three.
"Basic per trip average cost is $18,327, which totals to date $449,327.
"If you'll turn to page three, you'll see that damages to Centre property alone is in excess of two
million dollars. Hospitalization and on-going medical expenses and retraining for on-the-job
injuries, worker compensation, recruitment, training, and replacement personnel salaries is over
half a million, damages to other real property, such as Mr. Lyle's car, amount to another two point
five million. Total to date: $58,598,062.00.
"Page four lists loss of revenue incurred and monies stolen by Jarod to date. Projections at this
juncture are in excess of two hundred million dollars." Miss Arbuckle closed her binder and
looked owlishly at their fearless leader.

"In short, we are hemoraging red ink," Mr. Parker concluded.

The Director nodded. "In light of our losses, and our field agents's continued failure to apprehend
Jarod, sterner measures must be taken. Jarod must be dealt with, and the sooner the better."

"I disagree," Sydney said, daring to contradict her. "I am as anxious as anyone to return Jarod to
The Centre, but my analysis of the situation has not changed. If anything, we should maintain the
status quo. At the moment, because of our assistance on his last Pretend, Jarod is more charitably
disposed towards us than at any time since his escape. We have proven that we are not the ogres
he paints us to be; that we do indeed care about humanity's general health and welfare; and that,
when we give him our word, we can be trusted.
"If we can maintain or build upon this perception, he will be all the more likely to turn to us of his
own free will. Despite his ability to win people's trust, because of the isolation and nomadicism we
force upon him with our very pursuit, he has had no opportunity to trust others in return, let alone
forge the deep emotional ties that would allow him to decompress from stressful situations. Thus,
when he suffers his inevitable emotional crisis he will have no one but me to turn to for help."

Lyle snorted. "I don't know which of you is the more naive, Doctor, you or your prot‚g‚. Once a
mandate has been handed down by the Triumverate, there is no arguing your way out or around
it. They have decided that they can no longer allow Jarod to bleed The Centre dry. Eventual
breakdown or no, he's run out of time."

Sydney drew himself up. "If you believe nothing else I say here today, believe this: the losses The
Centre has sustained so far are incidental, and will remain so so long as Jarod believes we can
supply him with information that will lead him to his family.
"The lesser the threat we represent to him, the stronger his impulse to preserve the least scrap of
information we possess. If The Centre becomes too much of a threat to him, he will cease his
other pursuits and devote himself to The Centre's destruction. So long as Jarod believes we are
valuable, so long as we do not present too much of a danger to him or his pretends, so long does
The Centre survive."

"Hah!" Lyle scoffed. "You give him far too much credit, Doctor. He's only one man against an
international corporation with military and governmental ties to the most powerful and
dangerous nations on earth."

Sydney sighed as the Director beamed at Lyle's assessment of the situation. "If The Centre is so
powerful, and Jarod is so helpless, why haven't we captured him?"

"The Triumverate's question, as well," Miss Makeda nodded. "And their answer is that the hunt
has not been conducted aggressively enough. The Snow Hill incident is indicative of the obstacles
to be overcome. We are no longer willing to sustain these kinds of losses. Therefore, it is the
determination of the Triumvirate that our Seeker teams develop new strategies to capture Jarod
and better means of neutralizing the collateral damage. And we suggest you generate and
implement them ASAP."

Miss Parker looked at the raft of files she had brought, realizing there was nothing in them that
would interest anyone now that Makeda had delivered her ultimatum. She set her lips into a thin,
determined line. If Sydney could talk back to the Director, she sure as Hell could. "I already know
what we should be doing."

The other's --including the Director-- froze for a nano-second then swivelled their collective
gazes onto her.

Miss Parker smiled like a deadly snake after it's pumped venom into its prey. "I don't think Jarod
has the *guts* to bring The Centre down. I say we recoup our money the old fashioned way:
barter for it.
"Jarod's already shown that he's willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for information on his
family. Let's us bleed *him* dry, for a change: I say *we* figure out where his family is, then, in
exchange for twice what he's taken from us, give him just enough information so he can figure out
where they are on his own. Only we get there first, and reel him in. We get back our money plus
dividends, *and* Jarod into the bargain. As long as we keep our money where Jarod's little
electric fingers can't pilfer it, we'll be home free."

Mr. Parker and Miss Makeda looked as if they'd eaten bugs. For some reason, they didn't want to
give Jarod the satisfaction.

"I'm afraid that's an untenable solution, Angel," Mr. Parker said. "We're here to find ways of
cutting costs, not fritter away your time and Centre money on helping Jarod accomplish his
objectives. Concentrate your efforts on finding Jarod more efficiently, hm?"

Miss Parker accepted the rebuff stoically, ignoring Lyle's smirk.

"Give us a day or so to strategize, and I'm sure Brigitte and I can come up with a better solution,"
Lyle challenged. "*And* The Centre won't have to retreat into the Stone Age for the duration to
do it," he smiled, every bit as lethally as she. //Ah,// he thought, //breeding does tell.//

"I'm sure your sister can come up with an alternative method of handling Jarod, as well," Mr.
Parker smiled avuncularly. "May the best idea win." He made the mistake of looking at his
financee, who made bunny noses at him. "Well, that should about cover it. Let's all get back to
our offices and get down to cases, shall we?"

Miss Parker glared at Brigitte, who was lapping her lollipop suggestively, and her father, who was
making goo-goo eyes back at her, and, stifling the impulse to puke, rose out of her chair as fluidly
as a tentacle, sheer muscle, no bones, and exited smartly, her stooges trailing in her wake.

Lyle, who, if it were possible, was even more distressed by the cooing couple, quickly dogged
them to the elevators only to jerk backwards with a disapproving bark as Miss Parker, with a
cheery wave, held down the 'close door' button, leaving him stranded in the corridor very nearly
sans body parts.

Miss Parker wiped the smirk off her face and rounded on her cohorts when the car --safely minus
Lyle-- headed to her office. "OK, guys, let's come up with something to staunch The Centre's
wounds before they plug up the hemorrhage with our lifeless bodies."

"Oh, gee, Miss Parker," Broots whined, "it's not like we don't try everything we can think up
already. What are we supposed to do?"

"Think it up last week and do it yesterday," Miss Parker seethed, stepping out of the car like a
prowling panther.

"Uh, O-Ok," Broots agreed. The doors slid shut and he turned to Sydney. "Oh, man, I hate this. I
can see weeks of unpaid over-time looming in my future."

Sydney smiled, but Broots couldn't tell if the doctor was amused by or sympathetic to their mutual
plight. "I recommend you concentrate on minimizing The Centre's losses, Broots. At the moment,
Jarod is more concerned with his quest for redemption than in wreaking vengeance upon us.
Become too efficient at interfering with his pretends, however, and the damage he has done to
The Centre to date will make a three hundred car collision on the Autobahn look like an
amusement park bumper-car ride by comparison."

Broots gulped audibly. No one had to tell him what a bad-ass Jarod could be when he was
properly motivated. "R-Right." He wondered immediately how he was going to appease Sydney
and Miss Parker *and* the Powers That Be all at once, and sagged against the wall. "Hoo, boy."
Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed.

#