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"What the hell, Jarod," shouted Kyle, indignantly.
"Jarod isn't responsible for my sister's abduction," asserted Ethan fretfully.
"What's being done to get her back," Kyle hissed. "Has there been a demand for ransom? Are you tracking her mobile?"
Jarod grimaced, paled and for an instant, it appeared he would vomit and he certainly felt that vomiting was a distinct possibility, an appropriate response. He felt bilious, off-kilter, physically and emotionally ill, positively addled and misplaced, as if he—and not Parker—was missing.
 
"Her mobile," Kyle repeated impatiently.
"I," Jarod answered hoarsely, contritely, "deactivated it."
Kyle didn't ask, didn't have to. He tucked away his rage and pivoted.
"Where are you going?"
"To find her," he answered, sidling up to his brother. "Or recover her body at least and give her brother some closure," he added conspiratorially. "Do your high-tech cop stuff, I'll do my low-tech street stuff. Ethan here can use his voodoo. Keep me apprised," Kyle commanded over his shoulder.

"Do the same," Jarod said and retrieved a notepad upon which he hastily scribbled. "This is our room," he explained, oblivious to Ethan's grimace. Parker and Jarod's half-brother apprehended at once the abounding implications enshrined in so small a word. Our. There was a mournful longing in Jarod's voice, an urgency to preserve the shared room, sustain a reality in which Parker existed unharmed. "Do you have money?"
"I do," answered Ethan softly. "Are you okay, Jarod?"
Jarod snatched the paper loose and offered it and a key to Ethan and answered in troubling non-sequiturs, "I swear I'm going to find her, Ethan, and everything is going to be all right."

Ethan frowned at the fervent optimism in his brother's words and the terror and tears in his eyes that belied each syllable spoken. Jarod not only believed that Parker was critically or mortally wounded, he felt entirely responsible. 
"It's not your fault, brother."
"I'll find her," Jarod assured softly, squeezing his brother's shoulder.

"I'll see you this evening then," Ethan called when Jarod pivoted. "Back at the hotel?"
"I'll bring her to you at the hotel," Jarod vowed. "Wait for us there, okay?"
"Yeah," Ethan answered and observed as Jarod staggered, paused to get his bearings, and with some effort sought out Agent Kirkland.

"Do we have anything yet," Kirkland said to Tu Takahashi, the area's only forensics specialist.
"Nothing doing. The lessor was cooperative, gleefully provided us Swanson's credentials. Thing is, Magdalena Swanson doesn't exist. We ran the photo against facial recognition databases. Zilch. Do you want to break it to the big fellow over there because I sure as hell don't."

"Break what to the big fellow," Jarod demanded.
"So," remarked Takahashi lightly, "this guy's a lip reader, too, eh?"
"Magdalena Swanson might not be a victim here," explained Kirkland. "The name's an alias. Identification she provided the lessor is bogus. This rules out the theory that traffickers targeted her for narcing."
Jarod frowned. "Isn't it possible she supplied fake credentials to protect herself, maybe from an ex-husband or a loan shark and isn't it possible the ex-husband or loan shark found her? Parker could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Sure, it's possible," Kirkland said. "Hence might not be a victim. I realize you want to pursue this aggressively; it will be wise, however, not to sprint balls-out in the wrong direction. I suggest we analyze this from every angle, follow the evidence, be thorough."
"There is no evidence," Takahashi reminded bluntly.
"You're certain of that?" Jarod asked. "No blood?"
"Not a drop and no prints either," Takahashi answered. "Timeline doesn't allow for a clean-up, but if it's any consolation, I detected no bleach."

"Told you so," sang Little Miss Parker with a spectacular feigned yawn. 
"And the cameras?" Jarod asked impatiently with a furious gesture at one of the aforementioned devices mounted on the parapet.
"Decoys to dissuade criminals," Kirkland answered grimly. "Agent Fuentes is reviewing footage from cameras on adjacent streets but my guess is whoever abducted Parker took her down the elevator and into the garage."
"Seal it off," Jarod said.
"Done. You'll be my first call if they find anything."
"Your first call? If you believe I'm going back to the hotel without her you are out of your mind."
"No, I know you're not going back without her; I also know that you don't play well with others. I know that whatever it is you do, Agent, you're accustomed to doing alone. I have no intention of getting in your way. All I ask is that you don't kill anyone. Again, I will call you if we find anything or if the abductors call."

"You won't find anything and there'll be no calls- you know that. Parker saw something."
"Do you have any idea what that something might be?"
"No. I was across the street ordering us lunch- according to witnesses," Jarod said. "I don't recall hearing screams. Look, I know her; she's a fighter."
Kirkland concealed a grimace. The woman wore a splint on her hand, an unfortunate disadvantage. "Then we can assume she was unconscious or otherwise silenced, probably restrained."
 
Jarod scrutinized the Omega Seamaster on his wrist and pushed a trembling hand through his hair. He stifled a maniacal laugh, disbelieved reality: time had screeched to a halt and six hours had elapsed since he'd last seen Parker. 

"Can you think of anything else, anything you haven't already told me?" 
"Door chain, deadbolts thunking. Eyes watching me. Swanson is paranoid, doesn't care for cops."
Kirkland's eyebrows lifted. "That could imply a criminal lifestyle; if she and Parker scuffled, however, it was a clean one."
Jarod answered with a headshake, "If Parker had fought it wouldn't have been clean. There would have been signs of a struggle."
"No shots were fired and neither blood, sedatives, nor poisons were found on the premises."
"She would fight for her life," Jarod asserted.
"I don't doubt that," Kirkland said. "Sometimes fighting for one's life means not fighting. It might not have been her own life she was thinking about at the time," Kirkland said. "Someone gained entrance to the apartment, held a gun to Magdalena's head and threatened to kill her if Parker didn't cooperate? You know her, you tell me."

"Her primary concern is the investigation. She would have allowed Magdelena and herself to be killed before compromising those children."
"And yet, there were no signs of a struggle. Taser?"
 
"It's possible," Jarod said, unwilling, still, to entertain his delusion; presently that delusion glared at him and said sweetly and factually, "You've never been able to ignore me, Jarod."
 
"Or a tranq gun," Kirkland theorized. "Perhaps the threat of a gun?"
 

"No," sputtered Jarod. "It depends."
"On what?"
"If she believed the gunman was involved in the abductions, believed the shooting would lead us to the children she would have allowed herself to be shot."
"You're contradicting yourself, Agent. You said she'd fight for her life."
 "She's a contrary woman," Jarod stammered, considering, objectively, the methods and motives, the madnesses and complexities that comprised the woman who had chased him with every intention of returning him to the Centre, the same woman who had vowed to rescue his clone from the Centre.

Captor and savior.  His best friend, his first kiss. His arch-nemesis. She'd pressed her palm against a glass wall and touched his soul and grown into the woman who had snatched her hand from his. Prohibited from touching, he'd been creative, found other ways, against all odds, to nevertheless touch her, albeit not physically.

"You're suggesting she'd put herself in danger if she believed enough evidence remained to identify the abductors or if she thought she'd be taken to the girls?"

"Without a doubt," Jarod answered with conviction. After years of dismissing his theories, distancing herself from herself—adult from the child—distancing herself from her mother, she'd revealed the truth to him with this single act, quite possibly her last.

The neat spin she'd put on her father's lies had, at long last, unraveled. You were never lost to me, only concealed.

"She would allow herself to be tased or tranquilized?"
"Yes," Jarod answered. "It wouldn't compromise the investigation."
"No, in fact, it intensifies it, fine-tunes the focus. I've scheduled a sketch artist-"
"No need," interrupted Jarod.
"Wait," Kirkland said. "You sketched the old lady? When did you have time?"
"When I was waiting for a cab to pick me up at the hospital. By now, every law enforcement agency and major media outlet has the sketch and a photograph of Parker."
"We're going to find her, Jarod, her and those babies. Come on. I'll give you a ride back to headquarters."
 
"Don't you find this self-congratulatory circle jerk a wee premature," Little Miss Parker called to Jarod.
 
"Headquarters, yes," Jarod repeated and added softly, "The beginning of the investigation." Craving confirmation, he swung his reticent gaze at his childhood friend and was rather perplexed when she shrugged and offered weakly, "Are you certain of that?"
 
He was not.
Inside the squat and sprawling brick edifice, Jarod sat in a faux leather chair and endeavored to become the monsters despite reservations; the notion was as repulsive to him as it was terrifying and, nonetheless, still a more delightful and effortless prospect than life without Parker in it.

"This, obviously, isn't where the investigation began," announced Little Miss Parker.
"You're not here," Jarod said softly through clenched teeth.
"It's your fault, you know, if they kill her."
"You want me to return to the Steele residence and torment Celeste's parents."
"No, I don't," sputtered a baffled Little Miss Parker. Torment? That's my line.
"If they see me they'll think I have news about their daughter." He drew a fortifying breath and insisted calmly, "I need to concentrate, focus- that means you need to be quiet."
The child observed Jarod's lowered head, closed eyes, and measured respirations with incredulity. And she screamed her frustration:
 
"What are you doing, Jarod!"
What are you doing?
What.
Jarod lifted his head, jerked open his eyes, observed as Parker lifted her head with a similar abruptness and swung her gaze at him.
What are you doing?
What are you doing?

I said those words to her.
When?
Jarod sought the memory that lingered on the periphery. "What are you doing," he said softly. Her expression had bordered hopeful, perhaps eager, her lips were parted. She stood on the precipice of some disclosure; uncertainty danced across her features and she backed away.
What did you see?
"What did you see," he whispered, following her gaze to the ground.
The truth dealt a sharp, violent blow that swept him from the chair and onto his feet.
How many times have I seen that expression? On her face, on the faces of Detectives? On my own face? 
He realized he was wearing that same expression when Takahashi ambled into the room and came to an abrupt halt, "Uh, you look different, kinda like one of those animations where a little light bulb materializes overhead."
"I remember something. I hope," he said. "Did anyone look inside the storm drain outside the Steele residence?"
"Hernandez went down, took photos. There were no prints, tracks, pertinent evidence. It was nearly completely clogged with debris- courtesy of the Home Town landscapers who blow leaves into the drain. Here," Takahashi said, "these are the photos and a log of the contents."
"Hair barrette," Jarod read aloud.
"Yeah, I thought about that too but the parents say a playdate tossed it into the drain prior to the abduction."

"I'm not going to say it," Little Miss Parker purred dispassionately with a theatric throw-back of her head. Jarod swung his gaze at her, regarded the ribbon of smoke depart her clear-glossed lips with a scowl of disapproval.
"Cigarettes can't kill me if I'm already dead," declared Little Miss Parker, regarding him narrowly while rather deliberately tapping the ashes on the floor.

"Ash," Jarod stammered and fingered a large bin filled with evidence bags. "Ashtray. The uh, ashtray from the apartment- where is it? Weren't you able to pull any prints off-"

"Whoa, calm down, Jarod. Do you need to sit?"
"I need the ashtray,"  snarled Jarod.
"There were no ashtrays. There were ashes, mostly ground into the carpet."
"Are you certain?"
"Positive. I logged the evidence."
There was a struggle. Jarod observed helplessly as spent butts and ashes spilled onto the carpet. The blurred images looped, sharpened, gained clarity; he did not. He pushed a hand through his hair. 

"I think Kirkland should take you back to the hospital, Jarod. Just for the night."
"No," Jarod said, pivoting. 
"Where're you going?"
"The Steele residence."

"Finally," exclaimed a rather exasperated Little Miss Parker when Jarod darted out of the room. She rose, flicked the butt across the room, and murmured scornfully, "Damn vile cigarettes."
 
Takahashi jogged to the door, leaned into the corridor and called, "The Steele's? What the hell for?"
 
Jarod shouted his answer, "I'll let you know when I find out."

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