܀

Taos Puebla was unpretentious, wholesome. Had Jarod been traveling alone, he might have sought refuge there with its Native inhabitants, performed services in exchange for extended lodging. It would have been a simple life—that's all he'd ever wanted.

He surveyed the startling blue horizon, the contrasting looming mountain forests, the two Native men standing four feet away, and then, inevitably, swung his gaze to his former huntress.

Parker seemed rather altered upon glimpsing the adobe structures, their azure doors, the Rio Pueblo de Taos. She'd seemed altered for at least three days, when she first discovered that she was to meet Ethan in New Mexico.

Thinking back, she'd been decidedly altered since Carthis—but only to a degree. The tale had invariably ended the same as each one before it. Granted, the surprise twists were becoming more intriguing.

Near kiss.

Kiss.

Hell, the painful endings, in some ways, were worth the closeness, no matter how brief.

He wanted more.

We both deserve something more.

Jarod's neutral expression twisted into a grimace when his gaze fell upon her hand. She continued to refuse treatment, and, in addition to applying her own revisionist spin to the previous forty-eight years and becoming as difficult as possible with each passing day, hadn't been too keen on eating or sleeping. 

Bereft of her possessions (and her sanctum sanctorum), she was disoriented, enraged that Jarod had razed her life, the only life she'd ever known. She felt misplaced, lost. It has to be frightening, mused Jarod (he knew she'd never admit that to him).

Jarod wasn't at all alarmed by her discontent; he believed she couldn't find herself until she'd lost herself. And lost her job, her security, her foothold in the universe.

Her assets had been seized, her passport invalidated, her driver's license suspended, her life tipped on its head. She wore clothes that were not of her own choosing: jeans, a sleeveless, textured number the color of pale pink, sensible sneakers rather than gratify-defying heels.

Indeed, Jarod imagined that her blood-red fingernails were desperately scraping the bottom of her seemingly endless stock of endurance. She'd been so certain of the Centre's perpetuity, its power, it's refuge. The thread of power, however, had been tenuous; Jarod had known precisely where to sever it.

And he knew that eventually she would react, panic, perhaps attack. When the shock subsides.

Until then, however, he had no choice but to await her storm in the eerie calm; the gathering tension was already thick enough to asphyxiate them both.

Unspoken words hung between them.

She, nevertheless, refused to speak to him, to even look at him, this woman who had punched him in square in the mouth and then kissed him.

Parker wanted her clothes and her life back; she wanted to go home; she wanted her father. Her mother. The longing was augmented by apprehension, and manifested itself in restlessness, and—refusing to be suppressed—had dealt it's crushing blow while she'd slept.

She'd dreamed her parents were alive—a dream so vivid that she awoke with the taste of cocoa lingering on her lips, her fingers trapped in the past, tapping a forsaken game board.

Sim that, you son of a bitch.

To add insult to injury, she'd opened her eyes to find Jarod standing over her, back-lit by the twisting splinters of blue neon that penetrated the dark hotel room. The rich hue suffused his face, accentuated his cheekbones and his height—all of those things, combined with Parker's unmitigated disorientation, lent Jarod an altogether intimidating aura.

It had taken an enormous effort for Parker to arrange and maintain a carefully blank expression. Her voice didn't betray her, but only because her throat was constricted with sorrow.

And fear?

She could scarcely draw breath, let alone cry out.

The man at her bedside looked positively deranged.

His voice, however, was soft.

The incongruity had shaken her to full alertness; her eyes focused at last, her brow contracted, and it all slowly folded into comprehension. Jarod. Jarod and intimidating? In the same sentence? She wanted to laugh.

Oh, how she wanted to laugh. At herself. At him. Especially him.

"You were talking," he intoned gently.

Parker hadn't been cognizant of talking in her sleep, the tears on her face, and had they (or rather she) been on speaking terms, she might have denied it. You're a liar, Jarod—those words, had she been able to articulate them, would have been woefully inadequate, puerile.

She wanted to be reasonable, rational; instead, she deemed the moment a weakness, berated herself for her inability to control her own mind, for still craving a mother's embrace, a father's love.

Mama.

Daddy.

Don't leave, Daddy.

Jarod didn't know precisely how she knew that her father was dead; he, however, wasn't entirely surprised. She was quite adept at gathering missing pieces, completing the puzzle.

She'd had years of practice, and years of games, hotel rooms, nightmares, Jarod.

Jarod!

By simply witnessing yet another of her difficult moments, he'd somehow become complicit. Her withdrawal from him complete at last, Parker endeavored to be more careful when she was most vulnerable.

Everyone is vulnerable when they sleep, Jarod would have assured her, and she, invariably, would have given those blue-gray eyes a brilliant spin and reproached him:

I'm not everyone.

I'm a Parker.

Spoken like a woman condemned to hell.

Unfortunate connotations could be attached to any surname; it didn't necessarily mean that one was cursed.

Jarod didn't believe in curses.

He believed in Parker.

She's Catherine's daughter, too, damn it—that had to mean something.

Everything means something.

It meant something that she hadn't tried to flee, reject his help. Nights in hotels, meals in restaurants. She'd had ample opportunity to steal the car, and nothing was stopping her from twisting around, running; Mexico was less than a day's drive away.

He stole another surreptitious glance at Parker when she folded her arms across her chest. Jarod would have even gone so far as to say that she was hugging herself. He wondered when she'd last been held, was quite tempted to walk over and take her into his arms.

The heat has clearly made me delirious.

Jarod couldn't avert his gaze, try as he might, and he couldn't stop thinking about different endings. With her.

Parker's eyes never wavered from the rich earth that surrounded them. She, however, felt the weight of Jarod's stare, felt that she might crumble beneath that weight.

She was biding her time, maintaining her composure. She'd meticulously cultivated an aura of impenetrability; it would not fail her now. Her foul mood aside, she was looking forward to gaining her half-brother as an ally, a sympathetic ear.

Jarod, as if plucking her thoughts from her mind, assured softly, "He'll be here soon."

Kyle or Ethan?

The former had excused himself twenty minutes earlier; the latter was still a no-show.

The two cars that pulled to a halt yards away didn't contain his and Parker's half brother. One was filled with too-tanned, road-weary tourists, cameras in hand, dream-catchers hanging from their necks (each "authentic" hand-made trinket bearing a small white sticker that read 'Made in Bangladesh').

Parker was processing the still-enthusiastic summer vacationers when a woman advanced on them, or rather on Jarod, after stepping from her car, one four-inch heel at a time. Svelte and dressed sharply in a tailored pantsuit, each movement was purposeful, measured. The sun intensified the blond highlights in her auburn locks, which were swept neatly into a loose French twist. Behind expensive sunglasses, she squinted up at the scorching sun, worried her bottom lip.

Wordlessly, Jarod pivoted, grasped the woman gently by the elbow and steered her well out Parker's hearing range. Soft laughter reached Parker's keen ears, however; she arched a brow in response, observed as the woman touched her hair, stroked her neck, pulled her bottom lip full into her mouth, worried the lip thoughtfully, thoroughly.

The pair embraced, leaned in to each other, stood much too close for the relationship to be anything approximating platonic. Jarod's hand lingered on the small of the woman's back.

Parker's eyelids fluttered. She simply could not keep track of his lovers, and was quite relieved that it was no longer her job to do so.

She averted her gaze, and then started; she frowned, briefly, and then squinted over the top of her sunglasses as Ethan—ever the Mirage—appeared in the distance, closing a turquoise door behind him. In the space of a week, he'd taken a great deal of sun, and allowed his facial hair to grow. And probably hasn't bathed. He wore jeans, a white shirt whose top three buttons were loose; a breeze parted the diaphanous fabric; whorls of dust rose beneath his feet with each step.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Parker stammered hastily, forcefully, her voice strained.

Still at some distance, Ethan scarcely recognized her voice; her words were unintelligible.

His stride briefly faltered, his face was blank with incomprehension; it was his heart, and not the frenzied chorus in his once tangled mind, that provided him sufficient elucidation. She knows.

He drew to a halt at last, looked into her face.

"Isn't he?" She asked again, eagerly, her brow knitted.

Ethan grasped her hand, and then, upon noting the bruising, gently released it and tentatively put his arms around her. "I'm so sorry," he said.

Parker stiffened at his touch, withdrew abruptly, shrugged off her half-brother's comforting hands. Jarod, observing silently several yards away, flinched.

Kyle reacted similarly to touch, to affection. Still. He hoped Ethan wouldn't be dissuaded from future attempts to reach out to Parker.

After all, it wasn't her fault that her mother had been murdered, that Mr. Parker had been parsimonious with emotions, economical with love. Stingy with tenderness.

Her father had given her just enough affection to whet her appetite, leave her craving more, foster the unwavering determination to do his bidding, please him, earn herself an embrace or the opportunity to hear his fanciful boasting: My Angel caught Jarod today but Raines' sweeper—dammit, he let him get away!

(and Jarod used the term "father" rather loosely; he considered Mr. Parker a coldblooded beast; that, however, wasn't fair to coldblooded "beasts"—amphibians for instance, some that are, in fact, much better fathers to their offspring than Mr. Parker had even been to his).

Ethan could no more blame Parker than Jarod could blame Kyle. The pretender certainly had no intention of giving up on his brother; Jarod hoped that Ethan would realize (if he already didn't) that Parker wasn't as callous as she wanted everyone to believe.

Kyle too seemed positively impervious to emotional vulnerability, intimacy, affection. They were both rigid, intractable, easily angered. Displaying pain was a weakness; crying a capital offense; intimacy difficult (but not impossible).

Parker straightened her back, squared her jaw. She was on the verge of tears. Had Ethan not relinquished his hold on her, Jarod was certain she'd be sobbing against his chest. What she needed most, she denied herself.

"Where is the body?" She demanded.

"Near the ruins," answered Ethan.

She drew a fortifying breath.

Don't let your emotions run away with you, Angel!

"Show me," she said.

"I can't. Not yet. I'm sorry," and she knew he was. Ethan planted a hand on his sister's shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. Parker neither shrugged off the hand nor stiffened—she was already quite tense.

"This is sacred ground. We are trespassing—"

"This is my father we're talking about," she argued, her voice lilting, falling, filling with tears, never completely breaking. She drew another breath. Sucked in another. Another.

"It's out of our hands," Ethan said. "His body will be transported to the morgue tomorrow morning. You can identify the—uh remains then."

With a huff of frustration, Parker pulled her uninjured hand through her hair, tucked a lock behind her ear.

"What aren't you telling me, Ethan?"

Ethan opened his mouth and then blinked, and lifted his distracted gaze several inches above and to the left of her. She turned, followed his gaze, nearly stumbled into Jarod.

"Sister," he said softly, his face blankly affable, his hands dropping uselessly to his sides.

Parker turned, met his gaze. She scrutinized both men, said, "One of you better start talking."

Ethan and Jarod exchanged grave glances, remained resolute, silent.

"Now!" Parker snarled.

"I've arranged," Jarod said, unflinching, pausing momentarily to remove the dots of perspiration that had gathered on his forehead, "to have a doctor in Taos take a look at your hand."

Parker lifted both hands suddenly, as if perhaps to strangle either Ethan or Jarod, or both of them, and then, perhaps not knowing which infuriating man to begin with, or how exactly to go about strangling either of them with one hand injured, she simply ground her teeth and drew a breath. She deduced that there was worse news, perhaps pertaining to the condition of her father's body, the manner in which he'd died, and Ethan preferred to tell her in private, after she'd rested, and after her hand had been xrayed.

Her half-brother; her half-brother's half-brother.

Both men extortionists.

Masters of the quid pro quo.

There were conditions that she had to meet and she had no gun with which to bypass aforesaid conditions. She was rather disheartened that it had been the gun all along, and not her, that everyone had feared.

She intended to procure a weapon (illegally, no doubt), sooner than later, and rectify the tragedy. Respect or fear—she didn't care which it was that produced the results she desired.

In the meantime, she chose to make what she could of each situation, which wasn't a whole lot. She could do little more than sneer at Ethan's back, observe in consternation as he strode with purpose to the rusted '76 Scout and simply waited for her. At long last, after several moments in which only she suffered in the breath-stealing heat, Parker grudgingly put one sneaker in front of the other and climbed into the passenger seat. 

Jarod, clearly, had every intention of staying behind with the woman, presumably to wait for Kyle. Parker issued no inquiries and Ethan didn't divulge.

Instead, the latter strove for idle conversation. And fell far short: Parker refused to speak; she felt that she'd made quite enough concessions.

Upon arrival at the hospital, the pair were immediately ushered into a small room by a man garmented in a black suit. The feds.

Parker observed, in a daze, and as if from some great distance, as her hand was examined, xrayed. A doctor informed her that she wouldn't require surgery and in the next breath chastened her for not seeking treatment sooner. His words were firm and gentle, much like the deft hands that buddy-taped the injured digit to her ring finger and applied a splint. 

Back in the heat, she turned to her half brother. "Drive me to the airport, Ethan."

"Pardon?"

"I want to go home," she answered.

"You—I—I'm sorry. You know that is not an option right now."

"The woman with Jarod—fed?"

Ethan nodded his affirmation, smiled broadly. "Rachel," he said, putting a name to the face.

Parker shook her head. "Jarod and his equally sadistic brother abducted me from the Centre at gunpoint, Ethan. If I'm carted off to prison, your brothers are damn well going too."

"Sister," Ethan said, climbing into the scout, "you aren't going to prison. Jarod assured the feds that you would cooperate, that you have been cooperating with him, that you helped him rescue a young man from the Centre and in doing so put yourself at great risk. The fact that you are here confirms as much. Jarod's schemes aren't always—uh—"

"Legal," supplied Parker, fastening her seat-belt and then casting a glance at the side mirror, and confirming her suspicions that they were, indeed, being followed.  "Humane? Sane?"

"Apparent," corrected Ethan gently. "Your presence in Taos secures your freedom, so you see now? Jarod does nothing without a valid reason. He encouraged you to join him here to ensure that you wouldn't live out the remainder of your life in a maximum security prison."

"Mm, I see, he was momentarily denying my freedom to ensure my freedom."

"Exactly," agreed Ethan, brightening.

"Getting his rocks off," hissed Parker tartly, labeling Jarod's actions with neither restraint nor compunction. "Your brother is patently sociopathic, Ethan. This is simply a parting shot, a last opportunity for him to strip me of control." She shook her head, expelled a breath of frustration. "Bastard."

"I," stammered Ethan, concealing his unease with a cough. Her harsh words were wholly unexpected, and, opined Ethan, entirely unwarranted. The Jarod he knew was sedulous and compassionate, venerable. He was occasionally assertive, he possessed panache in spades, and Ethan could understand how Jarod's passion could easily be misinterpreted. He believed that Jarod had employed canny restraint, and had answered the Centre's gratuitous violence—and innumerable atrocities—with passivity, tact. Jarod had taken great measures to ensure that neither Parker nor her pursuit team were incarcerated. "I'm sure that was never Jarod's intention."

"No?" Inquired Parker. "He could have simply told me—"

"Would you have believed him?"

"I don't know," she answered forthrightly, and then, before she could stop herself, revealed more than she'd intended, "I would have appreciated having the choice, for once, to believe him."

 "Is that what you're really angry about?"

"Damn right it is," she snarled. "I put Broots in danger."

"You saved a young man's life."

"Debbie has one parent, Ethan. What the hell gives me the right to play God with her life? Broots has fought like hell to survive—not for himself, for her."

"You care about him, him and his daughter?"

"Mm, yes," she purred, "the malevolent Ice Queen cares about someone besides herself. Don't," she added, her voiced hardening, "keel over, Ethan."

"I—I didn't mean it like that—what I mean—"

"Sure you meant it," she said, and then clarified, testily: "Broots is as much a brother to me as you are, and his daughter is—she's special."

"Then, I'd like very much to become acquainted with both Broots and his daughter." He turned the ignition, pulled onto the highway. "Look, Sister, rescuing J.R. was the right thing to do. Jarod took a risk too; he faced a lifetime of captivity. Fortunately, it didn't come to that. Broots is safe, free. Jarod is free. You are free—or you will be, at least, this time next week."

"I'm willing to bet that Jarod made arrangements with the feds prior to rescuing J.R.. If I'd turned on him or been killed, or had Broots or even J.R. been killed, Jarod would have walked, after ensuring the clone's heart could not be exploited. We were all pawns, tokens. That's all I've ever been to Jarod. It was a game for him, Ethan. Like a fool, I played right into his hands. Again."

"I'm sure that's not true."

Parker shrugged noncommittally, remained stolid and ill-mannered the remainder of the day. She displayed no gratitude when Ethan carried her things (things that Jarod had chosen for her) inside the stately hacienda she apparently would be sharing with Kyle, Ethan and Jarod.

And Jarod's lover, no doubt.

Fortunately, the estate was spacious enough to accommodate additional guests, and rather comfortably. One week, she reminded herself. She could endure almost anything, no matter how infuriating or hellish, provided that an eventual cessation to the torment existed.

Smothering a yawn, she chose a book from the sparsely filled shelf in the den and then sat prim and composed on a squat, beige love seat that afforded a view of the kiva fireplace in the adjacent corner as well as the mountain peaks beyond the glass doors (not to mention the ten or so Federal Agents who believed they were well-concealed from her).

She was engrossed in the novel when Kyle arrived just after five in the evening, with Jarod and his fed friend trailing behind. The woman's laughter preceded her entrance into the den.

"It wasn't that funny," Kyle murmured as he passed the love seat, his words reaching only Parker's ears.

She was still processing Kyle's words when Jarod and his fed friend with benefits came into view. The woman tugged Jarod's hand, led him towards the den's entrance, placing herself and Jarod directly in Parker's line of sight. There, she nuzzled Jarod's neck, caressed his shoulder; her hand lingered on the nape his neck. The woman's coral painted fingernails were a startling contrast to Jarod's dark hair; she tugged gently at his skin, and then angled her head, poised for a kiss.

Feeling rather amenable, Jarod leaned forward, captured the woman's lips with his, the pair turned a half circle.

Parker observed, surreptitiously, as the woman drew closer still. Her fingers disappeared well below the collar of the jet black shirt whose top three buttons were already loose. "Hmm," she hummed, caressing both the fabric and the bare skin beneath. The woman, Parker opined, was as aroused by Versace as she was by Jarod.

They continued their lover's dance; the woman placed a string of kisses along Jarod's chest, reached for his belt.

They're going to make out? Here?

Oh, for fuck's sake!

Jarod's eyes opened languidly, met Parker's over the top of Rachel's head, and widened. He drew back suddenly, straightened, began the process of removing incriminating stains from his mouth.

"Uh," he stammered uneasily, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his pressed slacks.

"What?" Rachel asked, her voice husky and wounded.

"Miss Parker," he said.

The woman's face didn't register surprise when she turned her head, and glimpsed Parker—a curiosity that didn't escape Jarod's attention.

"I didn't know," he stammered.

"We got caught up," Rachel explained. "in the heat of the moment—I'm sure you know how that is."

"Mm," hummed Parker benignly with a nod of agreement. "And thus far, the only heat I've seen is in this dull murder mystery," she tacked on lightly, flipping a page.

"Excuse me?" Rachel cried.

Parker met the woman's ferocious gaze, and with a noncommittal shrug, sang, "Tomato, tomahto."

"Look," Rachel began, and then yelped, and staggered backwards. Jarod's feet, too, jerked, instinctively, when something brushed his leg.

"Lucky!" Cried Rachel.

Lucky?

Parker was bemused, until the golden retriever emerged from between the pair of legs and bounded through the foyer, its coral painted toenails clicking chaotically atop the adobe floor, its intent quite obvious. Parker stood just as the canine leapt into the air, and effectively avoided a lap-full of fur.

The dog landed on the love seat with a thump, and seemed rather disconcerted to have missed his target (Parker). Baffled that any human could resist his charms, he wagged his tail enthusiastically, and drew close to Parker, perhaps to persuade her to pet him, (despite her apparent disinterest).

She glimpsed the approaching tongue dripping with saliva, jerked her hand away (Jarod grimaced; he could certainly sympathize with the poor fellow), and then hissed in a tone that would have stopped most any man or beast in its tracks, "Down, mutt."

In her peripheral, Jarod averted his gaze.
.
"Oops," exclaimed the auburn haired woman jovially, and then turned to Jarod. Cupping a palm over her mouth, the woman whispered conspiratorially, tossed her head back and laughed exuberantly.

"Oops indeed," said Parker, blandly.

"You don't like animals?" Inquired the woman with a chuckle of amusement.
 
"I like them," answered Parker crisply, "medium rare."

Rachel clamped her mouth closed, compressed her lips tightly. She regarded Parker narrowly for a moment, and then sought Jarod's assistance with her eyes.

"Rachel," he interjected cordially, right on cue, "this is Miss Parker. And this," Jarod added blithely, indicating the retriever, is Lucky."

"He won't be if he touches me," Parker warned, her eyes wide with fury.

"Ah, now," Jarod chided gently, "Lucky here has been struck four times by automobiles—once by an eighteen wheeler, and—"

"Mm," hummed Parker, interrupting, "let me borrow your keys, Jarod; I can assure you that the fifth time will be a charm."

Jarod simply smiled, and then, holding Parker's steely gaze, addressed Rachel. "Excuse us for a moment, Rachel."

The woman nodded, grasped Lucky's leash and made herself scarce.

"Are you all right?" He asked amiably in genuine concern.

"Am I—" Parker fell silent, and then, after a moment spent considering her deceased father, the circumstances she found herself, was quite unable to stifle a burst of hilarity—a mirthless, one-note snort. "Never better, Jarod."

"Rachel agreed that we should stop by and invite you to join us for dinner."

"After allowing that mutt to try to hump me, the least she can do is offer to buy me dinner."

Jarod lifted both hands in defeat, took a compensatory step backwards, "I know that you're in pain—"

"Shut up!" She demanded sharply, thrusting a finger at him. "You don't know anything."

Jarod lowered his gaze to the finger, noted it, remained staid. He lifted his sympathetic eyes to a face pinched with anger, eyes filled with tumult. "No?" He said.

Parker dropped her hands to her sides and her gaze to the floor.

"I don't know anything?" He pressed gently, his cadence precise, his voice unwavering.

"You were going to leave after you dropped me off here—that's what you said."

Jarod recoiled as if he'd been struck. His eyes narrowed.

"You find my presence unendurable?" He ventured placidly, studying her face.

The silence widened between them.

"I'm sorry if you do," Jarod said suddenly. The inflection and odd wheedling prompted Parker to meet his gaze. "I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with me for a while longer, Miss Parker," he added amiably, an enigmatic expression on his face. "I suppose, however," he continued, lifting a single brow as he spoke, "that you're entitled to a reprieve tonight if you prefer to be alone. And," he added softly, "I am truly sorry for your loss."

Oh, I'm sure that your heart is just breaking, Jarod.

He gave her ample time to change her mind, to offer a rebuttal, to demand he elaborate, to ask, "how much of a while longer, boygenius?" She, however, relapsed onto the love seat, making it plain that she wanted to be alone.

"You can't hide forever," he said in a voice tight with tension, thick with anger. "Whether you like it or not, we are going to have to talk."

Parker affected a smile—one that more closely resembled a murderous sneer than a smile and swung her gaze at Jarod, "You've kept Rachel waiting long enough."

Jarod considered her words, measured the pain in them.

"She's a patient woman, Miss Parker; she's aware that you and I have unfinished business."

Parker regarded Jarod with exaggerated scorn, arched a brow. "Business," she hissed, "that will mercifully end this week."

"Well," he said with some solemnity, and decided, after a moment of rumination, to leave her on that cheerful note, and not correct her, although he was rather doubtful that she could be completely ignorant of her precarious foothold with the bevy of officials he'd met with hours earlier (the boys and girls in the DOJ were not feeling particularly merciful, and at the close of the meeting had unanimously agreed that there was plenty of blame to go around and punishment to mete out—a portion of the blame had even landed at Jarod's feet, much to his dismay). 

Parker was an intelligent woman, after all. She, Jarod mused, likely believed she'd face a stint in prison. Perhaps she believed that pecuniary recompense was expected of her as well. She was not, however, going to believe his account of the day's events.

Jarod thought it best to arrange to be alone with Parker. He certainly couldn't tell her while Rachel waited just outside. He wanted to spare Parker any indignity. If she fainted, cried, or suffered a complete unraveling of the psyche (or tried to kill him—he couldn't rule out that possibility) she certainly wouldn't want a large audience.

She's going to want to kill me.

Jarod smiled warmly, attempted to loosen the tangle of anger and tension. He sought the woman he'd nearly kissed in Carthis, the woman who had helped him save Sydney and J.R., rather than the woman presently ignoring him, a look of absolute malevolence twisting her face.

"Goodnight," he said.

"You too," she offered with all of the civility that her aching heart could muster.

܀