Table of Contents [Report This]
Chapter or Story 
Chapter or StoryAuthor's Chapter Notes:
A reader asked for music during the Parker-Jarod-ness of the story: "Lots of different music." I deduced (no doubt incorrectly) that the reader wanted different genres, decades, artists, etc. and the only reasonable way (in a normal universe) to achieve that was- well, you'll see.
܀
"We can speak freely now," Jarod announced jovially and observed as Parker extended her left hand and switched on the radio.
The truck's cab filled with white noise and then apologetic baritone introducing the best of easy listening. The DJ interrupted his apology with Flack's 'Killing Me Softly', and then, after a hollow rimshot sound effect, introduced Steven's (formerly) 'How Can I Tell you.'
Parker's face was turned to the passenger window, her body was rigid, her fingers were curled into tight fists. She occasionally shook her head, perhaps disbelieving the wicked twist her life had taken.
No. She's angry.
He'd broken the rules, obliterated them.
Again.
He'd simply intended to give her a gentle nudge in the right direction, onto the path her mother intended for her. He had not considered beforehand that she might perceive the gentle nudge as a shove. Over a mountain's edge.
He, clearly, hadn't anticipated the abounding complications and he didn't understand her anger and surprise upon hearing that his feelings were unchanged. Jarod was discovering there was much he didn't understand, would perhaps never understand.
But the music offered a measure of solace. The heady combination of profound yearning and simplistic melodies at deafening decibels was an entirely new experience for Jarod. The lyrics were remarkably relevant and while navigating the world's worst traffic jam, he failed to ignore them.
How can I tell you that I love you?
Wherever I am, girl, I'm always walking with you.
Whoever I'm with, I'm always talking to you.
Again.
He'd simply intended to give her a gentle nudge in the right direction, onto the path her mother intended for her. He had not considered beforehand that she might perceive the gentle nudge as a shove. Over a mountain's edge.
He, clearly, hadn't anticipated the abounding complications and he didn't understand her anger and surprise upon hearing that his feelings were unchanged. Jarod was discovering there was much he didn't understand, would perhaps never understand.
But the music offered a measure of solace. The heady combination of profound yearning and simplistic melodies at deafening decibels was an entirely new experience for Jarod. The lyrics were remarkably relevant and while navigating the world's worst traffic jam, he failed to ignore them.
How can I tell you that I love you?
Wherever I am, girl, I'm always walking with you.
Whoever I'm with, I'm always talking to you.
And then, of course, the inevitable dagger through the heart:
It always ends up to one thing, honey, still I kneel upon the floor.
Distracting.
Infuriating.
Stopped at a traffic light eight commercials later, the still-penitent host treated listeners to a quarter of Abba's 'Winner Takes It All', a few refrains of Cross's 'Think of Laura', and then lost the plot entirely.
Nirvana. Heart-shaped Box.
Annoyed, Jarod lowered the volume.
"You can't ignore me forever," he said and observed Parker's eyebrows lift high above her sunglasses.
"That," he softly intoned, "wasn't a challenge. Look: you asked a question," he reminded her gently. "I'm very sorry that you're displeased with the answer. I'm sorry," he repeated emphatically, dispensing with games and casting aside pride (and perhaps good sense as well) and becoming quite serious.
"FYI, Miss Parker: not everyone is as adept at turning off their feelings as you are."
She punched the volume selector to the max and stared out her window and Dave Matthews sang of strange allies with warring hearts playing wicked games. It was all strangely familiar. Somehow.
Look at us, Dave sang, spinning out in the madness of a roller coaster.
Jarod lowered the volume. Again. "Why didn't you take the car? You could be halfway to Mexico-"
It always ends up to one thing, honey, still I kneel upon the floor.
Distracting.
Infuriating.
Stopped at a traffic light eight commercials later, the still-penitent host treated listeners to a quarter of Abba's 'Winner Takes It All', a few refrains of Cross's 'Think of Laura', and then lost the plot entirely.
Nirvana. Heart-shaped Box.
Annoyed, Jarod lowered the volume.
"You can't ignore me forever," he said and observed Parker's eyebrows lift high above her sunglasses.
"That," he softly intoned, "wasn't a challenge. Look: you asked a question," he reminded her gently. "I'm very sorry that you're displeased with the answer. I'm sorry," he repeated emphatically, dispensing with games and casting aside pride (and perhaps good sense as well) and becoming quite serious.
"FYI, Miss Parker: not everyone is as adept at turning off their feelings as you are."
She punched the volume selector to the max and stared out her window and Dave Matthews sang of strange allies with warring hearts playing wicked games. It was all strangely familiar. Somehow.
Look at us, Dave sang, spinning out in the madness of a roller coaster.
Jarod lowered the volume. Again. "Why didn't you take the car? You could be halfway to Mexico-"
Parker raised the volume.
And Dave trudged on, undeterred by the tension in the truck.
The space between the bullets in our firefight is where I'll be hiding, waiting for you.
Traffic, meanwhile, slowed to a stop on La Cienega; Jarod's sotto voce damn it was lost in Pearl Jam's thick percussion. The music was entirely too loud. And what should have been a half hour drive stretched into a two-hour ordeal.
I'm getting too old for this shit.
PJ Harvey was singing about vulvas and breasts when Jarod lost his patience—depite his sudden interest in the tune—and switched off the radio. Parker had anticipated such a move by him and had placed a deterring hand on the control; she had not, however, foreseen his hand finding hers, or that she would, in shock, fiercely withdraw her hand and concede the battle to him.
PJ Harvey was singing about vulvas and breasts when Jarod lost his patience—depite his sudden interest in the tune—and switched off the radio. Parker had anticipated such a move by him and had placed a deterring hand on the control; she had not, however, foreseen his hand finding hers, or that she would, in shock, fiercely withdraw her hand and concede the battle to him.
But that's precisely what she did.
The silence that stretched between them was louder than any music, louder than the screaming sirens and obnoxious car horns.
The silence was louder than any lie the Centre had told them.
When Jarod pulled into the parking garage his head was throbbing. He killed the engine, jingled the keys idly, and swung his gaze at Parker. He was a breath away from asking her if she intended to sit this one out as well when she opened the door, climbed out of the truck.
Apartment 7C was accessible via elevator, but Jarod didn't care for the confined underground garage, no more than Parker cared for elevators. The pair emerged from the darkness, followed a buckled sidewalk past an array of thriving cacti, through a crumbling stone arch and up to the main building.
Bracketed by full palm trees, the building was rambling and impractical; its façade was patterned concrete breeze block—the color of burnt peach—that wrapped around the car garage and the exterior stair-landings and lent privacy to eccentric residents and their visitors.
Parker took the stairs two at a time and at the top was accosted by a hale, anxious woman garmented in a blue floral print muumuu. Her short bouffant (circa 1960) was dyed bright red, teased tightly, and sprayed in place with a gratuitous amount of hairspray. She regarded Parker with suspicion for several moments, squinted through her cat-eye spectacles and then smiled to reveal perfect teeth. Perfectly false.
"I need a cigarette," she informed Parker around a Salemn that dangled precariously from her cracked lips. "Got one?"
"You live in 7C," Parker inquired.
"Why," came the tentative query. "You a collector?"
"No."
"A process server?"
"FBI," Jarod interjected lightly.
"Ooh, now that's rich," the woman said, bringing her hands up to her hips. "What do you want from me, Mister FBI?"
"Miss Swanson-"
"Miss," she decried. "That's Mrs, young man," she corrected Jarod and then turned to Parker and grasped her hands. "My Douglas has been gone six years this July but I'm not some old spinster. Damn it. I'm not a spinster and I don't have three hundred cats! Kids these days have no respect. They are all so sexist. It's disgraceful! Why, you and I were having a nice little chat, Deary. What were you saying before he interrupted you?"
"We have a few questions about the van you saw this morning," Parker said.
"Why the blazes didn't you say so in the first place? Come in and have a seat and I'll tell you what happened," she offered sweetly. "Not so fast, tall guy," she exclaimed suddenly in a deep, raspy voice achieved through decades of chain smoking, halting Jarod's advance with an extended hand. "Show me some ID. I'm not a bleeping damn idiot you know. I watch CNN, I see the movies. I know what men like you get up to!"
After scrutinizing the requested id, the woman pivoted, beckoned her guests to follow her.
The silence that stretched between them was louder than any music, louder than the screaming sirens and obnoxious car horns.
The silence was louder than any lie the Centre had told them.
When Jarod pulled into the parking garage his head was throbbing. He killed the engine, jingled the keys idly, and swung his gaze at Parker. He was a breath away from asking her if she intended to sit this one out as well when she opened the door, climbed out of the truck.
Apartment 7C was accessible via elevator, but Jarod didn't care for the confined underground garage, no more than Parker cared for elevators. The pair emerged from the darkness, followed a buckled sidewalk past an array of thriving cacti, through a crumbling stone arch and up to the main building.
Bracketed by full palm trees, the building was rambling and impractical; its façade was patterned concrete breeze block—the color of burnt peach—that wrapped around the car garage and the exterior stair-landings and lent privacy to eccentric residents and their visitors.
Parker took the stairs two at a time and at the top was accosted by a hale, anxious woman garmented in a blue floral print muumuu. Her short bouffant (circa 1960) was dyed bright red, teased tightly, and sprayed in place with a gratuitous amount of hairspray. She regarded Parker with suspicion for several moments, squinted through her cat-eye spectacles and then smiled to reveal perfect teeth. Perfectly false.
"I need a cigarette," she informed Parker around a Salemn that dangled precariously from her cracked lips. "Got one?"
"You live in 7C," Parker inquired.
"Why," came the tentative query. "You a collector?"
"No."
"A process server?"
"FBI," Jarod interjected lightly.
"Ooh, now that's rich," the woman said, bringing her hands up to her hips. "What do you want from me, Mister FBI?"
"Miss Swanson-"
"Miss," she decried. "That's Mrs, young man," she corrected Jarod and then turned to Parker and grasped her hands. "My Douglas has been gone six years this July but I'm not some old spinster. Damn it. I'm not a spinster and I don't have three hundred cats! Kids these days have no respect. They are all so sexist. It's disgraceful! Why, you and I were having a nice little chat, Deary. What were you saying before he interrupted you?"
"We have a few questions about the van you saw this morning," Parker said.
"Why the blazes didn't you say so in the first place? Come in and have a seat and I'll tell you what happened," she offered sweetly. "Not so fast, tall guy," she exclaimed suddenly in a deep, raspy voice achieved through decades of chain smoking, halting Jarod's advance with an extended hand. "Show me some ID. I'm not a bleeping damn idiot you know. I watch CNN, I see the movies. I know what men like you get up to!"
After scrutinizing the requested id, the woman pivoted, beckoned her guests to follow her.
The trio crossed the threshold and were, at once, plunged into blackness. "This way," the woman spat, leading the pair into a tidy, cavernous room with dark wood paneled walls illuminated by a fifty-inch flat screen television that revealed a man and woman seated on a white sofa.
"This baby," the woman on the screen said in a tight, sibilant voice, caressing her swollen belly contemplatively, "might not be yours." The camera panned to the man's face, now filled with shock. "It could be your father's. Or-"
"Or," pressed the man eagerly, on cue with dramatic synth. There was the smallest beat and then the woman sobbed.
"Or it could be your brother's," she confessed.
Parker revolved her eyes. Christ.
"Juicy," Magdalena Swanson purred, reclining in her cushioned upright. "Or," she added, drawing deeply on her cigarette, "it could be his best friend's, or the neighbor's, or that hot Cuban pool boy's, or his brother-in-law's hmm mmm," she moaned lewdly, exhaling a plume of smoke. Piercing the air with a cigarette, she added, "Hell, the rugrat-to-be might even be her gynecologist's- a real dreamboat from Greece. Ha," she chortled and pinched a Camel from a flip box of mixed—presumably cadged—cigarettes and chain lit.
She spent fifteen minutes talking about everything except the van she'd seen. "Those darn bratty ass grandchildren never visit but still cash the cheques I slip into their birthday cards. Oh, and the damned construction never ends, I swear! California is going to look wonderful, I'm sure, if they ever finish it.
Tractor trailers in the alley at all hours of the night, road closed signs and traffic cones blocking the west garage exit! And that thumping. That goddamn awful music thumping- it's not even music. All I hear is rattling metal. I wish their bleeping cars would rattle apart! And the white-collar crime these-"
"Speaking of crime," Parker interjected coolly, interrupting the rather lengthy digression, and Jarod was grateful; his eyes had returned to the television screen and were presently riveted on a champagne toast, a dark haired man kissing a platinum blond woman on the lips, the neck, collar bone, and pushing her back onto the bed. A slip of cleavage, a glimpse of black panties. He averted his gaze when Parker spoke. "You saw a van this morning."
"I did," Magdalena said, snapping her fingers. "Damn it. It was blue, scratched up to hell and back. One of those hideous things. I couldn't read the letters on it, but there was a paint bucket drawn on it. It was that painting company. Now, the police officer on the phone thinks it could have been a plumbing company and he must be stupid, because look here," she said, thrusting the cigarette at Parker. "I'm not an accountant, Sweetheart, but I can sure as blazes add things up. Paint bucket plus van equals painting company where I come from, Honey. White bucket, green mop handle—I always thought that was queer. Green mop handle? Maybe on those new gadgets that don't clean crap, but not on the kind of mop you gotta put your elbow into. Oh, no, no sirree."
She spent fifteen minutes talking about everything except the van she'd seen. "Those darn bratty ass grandchildren never visit but still cash the cheques I slip into their birthday cards. Oh, and the damned construction never ends, I swear! California is going to look wonderful, I'm sure, if they ever finish it.
Tractor trailers in the alley at all hours of the night, road closed signs and traffic cones blocking the west garage exit! And that thumping. That goddamn awful music thumping- it's not even music. All I hear is rattling metal. I wish their bleeping cars would rattle apart! And the white-collar crime these-"
"Speaking of crime," Parker interjected coolly, interrupting the rather lengthy digression, and Jarod was grateful; his eyes had returned to the television screen and were presently riveted on a champagne toast, a dark haired man kissing a platinum blond woman on the lips, the neck, collar bone, and pushing her back onto the bed. A slip of cleavage, a glimpse of black panties. He averted his gaze when Parker spoke. "You saw a van this morning."
"I did," Magdalena said, snapping her fingers. "Damn it. It was blue, scratched up to hell and back. One of those hideous things. I couldn't read the letters on it, but there was a paint bucket drawn on it. It was that painting company. Now, the police officer on the phone thinks it could have been a plumbing company and he must be stupid, because look here," she said, thrusting the cigarette at Parker. "I'm not an accountant, Sweetheart, but I can sure as blazes add things up. Paint bucket plus van equals painting company where I come from, Honey. White bucket, green mop handle—I always thought that was queer. Green mop handle? Maybe on those new gadgets that don't clean crap, but not on the kind of mop you gotta put your elbow into. Oh, no, no sirree."
"But you weren't able to read a logo?"
"No, but I recognized the mop handle and that's a logo, isn't it, young man. I mean, hell," she said, drawing deeply on a Lucky Strike, "How many people could be dumb enough to paint a mop handle green when it's supposed to be brown? It's that sorry outfit over on Ingleside. That place with the stupid jingle that comes on channel eight when I'm trying to watch my soap operas. Ridiculous damn ads with miscolored mops and a jingle that doesn't even rhyme when I'm trying to watch my soap operas! Criminal," she hissed. "They should only advertise wine and cigarettes while my stories are on. Hot and heavy on the tube if you know what I mean," she said with a wink and a conspiratorial grin that bordered evil and alarmed Jarod, "and the bastards cut to a mop with a green handle.
Sex and cleaning. Here's your sex. Here's your mop. A whole phallic motif being pushed on us," she said, waving her cigarette wildly. "I'm on to their brainwashing. I know what they're doing! And then those ads for microwave dinners that taste like cardboard and always have plastic melted onto them? Every wife's dream! And let me tell: if your wife has energy left to mop the floor after you have sex with her you are doing it wrong, Mister," she fairly shouted at Jarod.
The Pretender turned three shades of red, lowered his gaze.
"And if you feed her out of the bleeping microwave instead of wining and dining her like those stud dudes on the stories then you deserve to lose her. Those damned microwaves—I never had one. Dangerous things," she said, bringing the cigarette to her cracked lips. "Burn the outside of your food to a black crisp while the inside's still a bleeping block of ice. Loose radiation. Damn things cause cancer," she exhaled words and smoke together. "Oh, oh," she exclaimed suddenly, "they were screaming."
"The microwaves," Jarod asked, confused.
"No, no. No, outside," she said. "There were screams. In the alley. Just out back. Where the van was. Someone was crying for help. Some little girls. At least two of them. Maybe more. The police said they'd send someone over. I'll say! It took you two long enough to get here! I went down there in my night dress and half asleep and my hair up in rollers, but the van was gone. I don't get on like I used to.
Used to I'd chased the sons of bitches down myself, and beaten the helluva them. Screaming microwaves," she murmured her disgust. "Christ on a cracker, Son." She swung her gaze at Parker. "Mr. Tall Guy always this dim, Sugar?"
"Mhm," answered Parker, "I'd say this is his baseline."
"Yikes, Doll," Magdalena shook her head. "Screaming microwaves? You're local, aren't you, Boy? You aren't smoking up all the crack in the evidence locker, are you?"
Jarod dismissed that question with an expansive wave. "Then you didn't see anyone," he asked.
"Of course I saw someone! Didn't you hear a word I just said? You are smoking the crack! I saw a van and they don't drive themselves around," she said, crushing her fourth cigarette, a Kool, into a Julio Iglesias ashtray filled with spent butts and a volcano of ash. "Not yet anyway," she added. "Mhm, I have to say," she began in a voice that sounded strangely philosophical, languidly stroking the engraving on the ashtray that read: To all the girls I've loved before.
"I like the son better."
"Son?"
"Enrique," she fanned herself with a hand. "Sweet baby Jesus," she exclaimed, tugging frantically the top of her muumuu. "Gotta fan the ladies, too," she explained, alluding to her breasts. "Amor Amor Amor," she sang. "If only I were fifty years younger. It's so unfair. Life is so unfair. Oh. The world's gone to hell. And they sent you two to straighten it out huh? Lord, but someone has a wicked sense of humor!
Now that damn painting company was down there and they had little girls in a van. I didn't see them, but I heard them. It might not be the girls you're looking for, Mister, but whoever they were, they were children and they were screaming for help, because they needed help, and isn't it your job to help them?"
"Okay," Jarod said, rising.
"What is that," she asked Parker. "What's he mean by okay?"
"We'll follow up," Parker assured the woman with a patient smile. "Ingleside. Correct?"
"No, why no, of course not. That's not correct at all. Cantcha hear, Sugar? Inglewood. I said Inglewood! I know what I said. Find them," she pleaded. "Find them before it's too late. And if you come back here again," she called eagerly, "bring me some damned cigarettes."
"God, what a nightmare," Jarod said, pulling the door closed. "Well," he said after drawing a deep breath, "I'm starved. What about you?"
"No."
"Then you can watch me eat."
"No," Parker said, more firmly.
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Inglewood."
"Don't tell me you believe her? She's not credible. She said Ingleside. You heard her."
"She's nearly ninety, Jarod."
"Yes, and rather senile."
"I believe she heard screams."
"It was probably the television."
Parker glared at Jarod.
"What," he said defensively and observed as she revolved her eyes and then swiveled around, towards the west alley.
"Hey," he commanded sharply. "Where are you going?"
"To do my job," she answered simply.
"Okay," Jarod said. "We'll drive over to Inglewood, run the plates on any blue van we find and have a look around. But I'm telling you now: there were no screaming children.
܀
Chapter End Notes:
I believe I've responded to every email review. If I missed you, please know that it wasn't intentional.
I realize that I was supposed to update The Return, however, I had more requests for this thing.
Thanks for the feedback.
