The kid, Gabriel, shook Jarod’s hand looking more relaxed.

Gabriel said, “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for information on the Vespasian Scrolls.”

Gabriel shifted a little and shrugged. “I don’t really deal in info, man. Just objects.”

Jarod knew Gabriel had left several queries about a WWII spy named Elizabeth Bronte in different chat rooms and message boards all over the internet. He had covered his tracks pretty well for an amateur, but he had definitely been looking for information. He gave Gabriel a wry grin. “I traced your searches about Elizabeth Bronte back to your PC’s MAC address.”

Gabriel cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing on Jarod. “If you did that, then you don’t need me to do your research.”

“True, but the… oh, let’s just call it, ‘rare’ antiquities business is one based on reputation, and you, Gabriel, have quite the reputation.” Jarod shrugged. “I could do the research myself, but it would take time that I just don’t have. I will pay you well for your time and your discretion.”

Jarod understood that building relationships in this business took a long time, particularly when dealing with objects of questionable provenance, but he needed the information. While he still wasn’t convinced about the mystical powers of the scrolls, he felt that there were answers in them as to why The Centre wanted him back so badly. And if he knew that, then he could start figuring out a way for The Centre not to want him back. He also didn’t really believe that they foretold his future – and Miss Parker’s – but he was, admittedly, a little curious as to what the prophecy was.

“What kind of info do you need?” Gabriel asked.

“Anything, really. But most importantly, I need to know what they say or where they are. If you can acquire them, money is no object.” Jarod almost smiled. It was The Centre’s money, after all.

Gabriel’s eyebrows went up ever so slightly. “Okay, I’m in. Tell me what you know about these scrolls.”

“After the Crusades, an offshoot of the Knights Templar known as the Vespasian monks took the scrolls to Carthis – an island off Scotland. For centuries, the scrolls were under the protection of the monks. About two weeks ago, the scrolls were in transport when they were lost.”

Gabriel looked him up and down. “You a monk?”

Jarod smiled. “Not today.”

Gabriel smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

He reached into a jacket pocket and took out a map. He unfolded it before Gabriel. Jarod had checked the maps of ocean currents and, based on the airplane’s approximate location when Mr. Parker had jumped with the scrolls, he had made a reasonable guess as to where the scrolls may have washed up on shore. He pointed to the Spanish Mediterranean coast. “Best guess is that the scrolls washed up somewhere here.”

“If they washed up at all.”

“I have some people looking into that. I want you to concentrate on information – about the monks, the scrolls, what they say. If they were found, someone might be trying to sell them – or study them. I want to know who.”

After haggling over Gabriel’s fee and exchanging contact information, Jarod headed back towards his current hideout a few short blocks away. The money and the myth appealed to Gabriel and he would search for the information and for the scrolls, of that Jarod was fairly certain, but the real question was whether there was anything to be found.

~*~*~*~*~

Jarod looked around his warehouse apartment. The spartan furniture and the few bags of belongings were about the same as almost all the other places he had stayed at in the last five years. It wasn’t home; it was just a place to sleep. A table strewn with Twinkies, Little Debbie cakes, and PEZ candy dispensers was his workplace. Sometimes he had a mattress on the floor, occasionally an actual bed, but usually it was a cot. His duffel contained both his precious belongings and his necessary belongings. The Halliburton aluminum case that contained his life before his escape from The Centre was never far. Most days he didn’t really mind living on the run, probably because he was too busy to think about it. Lately, though, he thought more and more of settling down – perhaps because he had found so much of his family and was so close to finding the one missing member. He wanted to be close to his family, spend time with them… actually get to know them.

He sat at the table and turned on his laptop. While it booted up, he picked up the television remote and turned on the tv. He scanned the channels until he found some local news. He had avoided watching the local news and reading the paper the last few days, trying to avoid an injustice to right and to stay focused on finding his mother. He had tracked his mother from Scotland to Amsterdam and then, following an email tip from Ethan, to New York City. Tracking her in New York had not been easy: a cabbie had picked her up at the airport and dropped her on a corner by a subway station; Jarod had hacked into the transit system’s security video logs and after hours of video, saw his mother exiting a station just a few miles from where Jarod himself was staying. That was his next stop today, after a quick bite and checking his email.

He glanced around the table, smiling at the Little Debbie cakes which he had first bought because they reminded him of little Debbie Broots, but ultimately choosing a pack of Twinkies. He slowly ate the first Twinkie, scanning his email for any emergencies. There was only one new email - confirmation from Broots that he would leave Miss Parker’s birthday present on her doorstep in the morning. Jarod smiled, thinking about what Miss Parker’s reaction would be to the present, a box of Ocee’s special tea for “emotional upheaval” carefully placed in a small toy dump truck and a bottle of the Vespasian monks’ brandy. He told himself he wanted to remind her of how their adventure on Carthis let them reconnect as allies, as friends. He hoped she would be amused and that she would smile that beautiful, genuine smile like the one she had when they found the box in the reliquary… He wanted her to know that he hadn’t given up on her yet. If he was honest with himself, however, he would admit that he wanted to remind her of the last time she drank that tea, of how close they were... He remembered feeling her warm breath on his lips, wondering at the time whether she would taste like the tea… He sighed. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t hurt by her rejection in the limo, but, well, he was stubborn. She knew that. He was starting on the second Twinkie bar, barely listening to the television when a bit of news caught his attention.

“…shot early yesterday morning. Police are still trying to identify the victim. She is described as being in her early sixties with red hair and blue eyes. If you have any information about the woman or the shooting, please contact the 11th Precinct of the NYPD. Sports and weather after…”

No, no, no…Panic overtook Jarod. He was halfway to the door with his coat in hand when he realized that he had to go in with a plan. If it was her, he wanted to be able to track down her killer and a grieving son wouldn’t be allowed that kind of access. It might be a Centre trap – it wouldn’t be the first time they used his family against him.

He went over to his cot and upturned his duffel bag. He sifted through the contents until he found what he was looking for – an FBI ID for Jarod Webster. He went to his laptop and easily accessed the FBI personnel database; after he had hacked into it the first time, he had left a backdoor for himself. He verified that Special Agent Jarod Webster of the Detroit Office (currently on unpaid leave) would pass a background check by the NYPD. He went back to his duffle and opened a side pocket. He took out the laminated picture of his mother. He looked at it for a long moment, the panic starting to overtake him again. He didn’t even know why he had immediately thought it was her. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. He placed the picture in his back pant pocket. He put on his coat, grabbing the badge and ID from the table. He stuffed them in his coat pocket, then headed out to the 11th Precinct.

~*~*~*~*~

To be continued...