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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
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Jarod heard the screams—of the children he'd been certain didn't exist—the moment he turned into the near-empty lot of Paints Plus. Their cries emanated from a doubled parked van that was every bit as hideous as Magdalena said it was.
"Help me, Sage," came the plaintive cry.
A toddler- three and a half, guessed Jarod, with a crown of Shirley Temple curls screamed help twice more from the confines of her safety seat; Jarod and Parker both observed breathlessly—after leaping from the truck and advancing—as an older girl, approximately six and with stringy blond locks, offered the toddler a Finding Dory sippy cup. "This game isn't fun anymore, Rosemary."
"Dillon plays all the time, Sage," came Rosemary's soft retort. "Dillon doesn't mind playing Go-get with me."
"I'm not Dill," said Sage.
"Shh," a boy said urgently, and Parker spied a tuft of spiked blond hair and a pair of astute green eyes peeking out from behind the decal on the window of the van.
"Shh," a boy said urgently, and Parker spied a tuft of spiked blond hair and a pair of astute green eyes peeking out from behind the decal on the window of the van.
"People are listening."
"What people," said Sage, ever the cynic.
"What people," said Sage, ever the cynic.
"A man and a woman. They're looking," he said, and then shrieked, "Daddy, Daddy! Daddy, help!"
Daddy surprised both Parker and Jarod by rising suddenly from the van's left rear tire with a tire iron clutched in a grease-coated hand.
Tyler Perkins was only slightly perturbed by Jarod's questions; in his early thirties, he walked with a perceptible limp- an injury sustained gliding six stories to the ground on a panel of sheet metal. He summarized the morning's events, the U-turn in the alley necessitated by young Rosemary's sudden desire for waffles, and his wife's doctor's appointment.
"She works nights and I work days. We usually avoid this take-your-kid-to-work hassle. But we may be adding another car seat to the van. It didn't seem appropriate for the children to accompany her, considering- uh, you know."
"Ohh," Jarod exclaimed cheerfully and then nose-dived into a herbs-as-names conversation that Parker was (justifiably) certain only Jarod could find entertaining.
Tyler Perkins, however, indulged the Pretender's suggested names for a possible fourth child. He nodded thoughtfully as the strange man, a Federal Agent no less, shrugged out of his suit jacket and folded up the sleeves of his pressed shirt and loosened lug nuts while simultaneously rattling off, in alphabetical order, names of herbs.
The father-of-three even lauded such gems as Tansy and particularly Juniper.
Parker meanwhile stood with her back pressed to the van window, aware of Sage's gentle, stealthy fingers braiding her brunette locks but nevertheless tolerant of the girl despite being tetchy and overcaffeinated.
She'd been tempted to slap those small hands away when she first felt them tugging lightly at her hair. Her mother had been the last person, had been the only person, to brush her hair, braid her hair; it was a sacred rite that Parker had cherished, a sacred memory that Parker feared could somehow be diminished, supplanted.
Sage had seen and felt the woman tense and had withdrawn her digits in response. But then slowly and cautiously she returned her hands, whispering a soft, soothing, "Shh, s'okay," as if Parker were instead an untamed beast, one Sage was intent on taming.
And Sage did; Parker yielded to the girl against her own better judgment. She closed her eyes and was transported into her mother's arms, safe from the harsh world of missing children and agonized parents.
She was less listless, markedly more at ease, inexplicably drowsy.
The air was delightful on the back of her neck and the girl's cool hands Oh, blessed air conditioning! occasionally brushed her skin as she weaved her hair into a tight braid.
"And Za'Atar," concluded the Pretender with a self-satisfied smile, rising from the rear of the van and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He offered the tire iron to its rightful owner and sought out Parker.
"Za'atar, huh? I take it you like your food spicy," Tyler commented, accepting the tool and following Jarod to the front of the vehicle.
Jarod nodded, riveted his gaze on Parker. "Oh," he answered boastfully and with a wicked grin, "I like everything spicy."
Ultimately, Jarod settled for something sweet.
"How the hell can you eat?" Parker asked and observed in growing anger as Jarod sank his teeth into a third donut. He shook his head in appreciation, groaned in pleasure, swallowed with his eyes closed. It seemed to be a singularly religious experience. Or sexual.
"Relax," he said after a sip of coffee. "Get comfortable. Have a donut. Go head," he urged softly. "Take one," he insisted. "They are exquisite."
"Only you would refer to deep fried fat as exquisite," she retorted with a snort of disdain. "Your notes said Clemente was in contact in with Dante-"
"You read my notes?"
"While you were finishing up with Perkins. There was no address-"
"No," Jarod said sharply, severing her voice with his. "Even if there were, we wouldn't follow up."
"I put my foot on the bastard's throat and he will talk."
"That's not going to happen. We are to have no contact with Dante. If we spook him, we'd be jeopardizing lives- and not just our own. Now," he said with a beckoning gesture at the waitress, who smiled and advanced, "what are you going to order?"
Parker revolved her eyes in frustration and said to the waitress, "House salad, no dressing. And water."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," responded the waitress with a pout. "We don't serve salad."
"No, of course, you don't," murmured Parker, irritably. "Just water," she demanded.
"Uh, excuse me, Miss," Jarod said. "Your baconbeast cheeseburger is topped with red leaf lettuce and tomatoes- yes?"
"And pickles and onion. Would you like one?"
"And the pear surprise is served on," Jarod read from the menu, "on a bed of fresh spinach."
"Mhm," nodded the waitress. "I can bring you both one," she said and touched her hair, her neck.
"And your Texican feast is served with avocados and red cabbage." He met the woman's bemused gaze. "Correct?"
"You want one of each," she said lamely.
"Your Ameriterranean omelet contains red and yellow peppers, feta cheese, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes and comes with a side of arugula and pesto-garlic naan."
"You must be really hungry, Hon," said the waitress.
"No," he said patiently. "My point is that, technically, you serve salad."
"Well, for you," began the waitress coquettishly.
"I'll just have the damn water," interjected Parker disagreeably. "Go away now," she hissed at the waitress, who hastily obeyed.
"What are you doing," Jarod said incredulously. "She was going to bring you a salad."
"She was going to cream her panties," corrected Parker indignantly.
Jarod's eyes widened. "Pardon?"
"Nothing."
"Look," he said gently, "I know you're upset. You feel helpless. You want results. I understand that. But you have to understand that this isn't the Centre. You cannot knock down Dante's door and put your foot on his throat and threaten to shoot him. We have to follow protocol."
"Your answer is to wait?"
It was, and an hour later, back at the field office, Kirkland reiterated as much, reiterated their futility.
"A day's work and nothing to show- that's about par for the course on this one. "Come back tomorrow morning at eight and I'll find you something to do. Maybe you two can fuel up the cars in the yard and file some paperwork, eh."
"Please tell me that someone is actually looking for those little girls."
"We have our best people on it. Look on the bright side: your hotel has a swimming pool and if you squint, you can almost see the ocean."
Parker glared at the man, and then at Jarod.
"Sweet dreams," Kirkland called after them.
Their dreams were anything but.
At six the next morning, Parker and Jarod exchanged miserable glances and inhaled coffee. "This is worse than prison," Parker snarled.
"Worse than Sydney in prison," Jarod inquired sharply.
"Stupid question, Jarod." She frowned, thrust the menu onto the table, and studied her fingers with a grimace. "This dive is nauseating. And you are giving me a migraine."
"Would you like some aspirin."
"Why not," she said loftily. "I have to eat something."
"What would you like to eat," he asked and then, prompted by the suspicion in her eyes, added softly, "humor me."
"Fruit."
"Fruit," he repeated. "Hmm. I think I know a little place," he said with a wink and dropped a ten dollar bill on the table. "Let's go."
"Little," remarked Parker, squinting against the sun and heat.
"The fruit stand," he clarified. "Not the park."
Parker chewed her mango thoughtfully. "How do you know about this place?"
Jarod's smile vacated his lips. He averted his wounded eyes.
"You don't remember," he said softly with a long-suffering sigh and then explained sullenly: "We've been here before, Miss Parker, you and I. I sat here on this very bench, devouring an apple, and I watched you run past. It occurred to me that you weren't all that aware of your surroundings for someone commissioned to retrieve me, but this was in the early days before you had ample opportunity to gain a better understanding of your prey."
"Prey," she chortled dismissively. "Jarod, you're such a drama queen sometimes."
"This from the woman who referred to motel rooms and YMCAs as lairs," he fired back. "Lairs," he repeated dully. "You do realize that I'm not a bear or a vampire?"
"Ah," she said with a grin, "but you do have an unnatural affinity for red meat."
"True," he agreed. "Very true. How's the mango?"
"Delicious," she answered and chewed thoughtfully. "We're not far from Magdalena's, are we?"
"A couple of miles. Why?"
"I'm not eager to fuel cars and sit on my fists. Tell Kirkland you are going to follow up."
"Follow up? With Magdalena? Are you serious?"
"You were dismissive and arrogant, Jarod. You won't engender confidence or cooperation by discounting witnesses. The FBI asked anyone with information about these abductions to come forward and someone did."
"Oh, I know: maybe we should hand out medals to everyone who calls the tip line," he said wryly.
"Maybe we should," Parker agreed, hotly. "I'm not suggesting you incentivize giving a damn but you could at least genuinely thank her for caring. A lot of people don't; rather than intervene or pick up the phone they record crimes on their god damn mobile phones, upload them to the internet and make money off the views."
Jarod frowned. He couldn't imagine why Parker was suddenly eager to subject herself to Magdalena, Our Lady of Soft Porn.
"What are you suggesting?" Jarod asked.
"Tell the woman the children she heard were playing, that they are safe and the FBI is appreciative. And stop being a pompous asshole, Jarod. You don't even know that Rachel betrayed you; if she did it's not your failing. She probably didn't have a choice."
"Don't assume she didn't have a choice. There is always a choice," Jarod said.
"Don't assume," rebutted Parker, "that a choice is always obvious."
"Hmm," Jarod hummed after a few moments. "I wonder if Magdalena likes mangoes."
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