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Broots glimpsed movement in his peripheral and lifted his gaze from the magazine. "Uh," he announced softly, "Syd, I think he's waking up."
 
Sydney jerked his gaze at Broots, lay aside his novel, and rose eagerly. "Jarod," Sydney cried. 
 
Jarod expelled a breath, groaned. "Sydney," he murmured, his eyes wide suddenly, his voice low, hoarse. "My leg?"
 
"Is the least of your worries," Margaret announced, covering Jarod's abraded hand with hers.
 
"What-- happened?"
 
"Blunt trauma," Margaret answered tearfully. "Internal bleeding. Jarod, are you trying to drive your mother crazy?"
 
"Sydney," Jarod pleaded in mild alarm.
 
"You sustained injuries to your liver and spleen."
 
"They said you were in shock," an overwrought Margaret interjected. "Shock! My God, Jarod, they almost had to remove your spleen."
 
With a horrified grunt, Jarod lifted his head fractionally, studied the bandages. He then swung his inquisitive gaze at Sydney.
 
"The surgeon successfully repaired both injuries with only minor complications," explained Sydney. "Your kidneys are bruised, however, with bed rest-"
 
"My leg," Jarod groused. "Hurts."
 
"The fracture has been stabilized with an open reduction and internal fixation."
 
"They operated," murmured Jarod absently.
 
"Try getting yourself into an airport with all those plates and screws," scolded Margaret. "The nurse said you could have more morphine if you need it. I'll-"
 
"No," stammered Jarod, struggling for coherency. "No drugs. The children. Parker? How long have I been unconscious?"
 
"Seven hours."
 
"News?"
 
"Dozens of children were recovered," answered Sydney with a bright smile. "Gracie and Celeste are, physically, unharmed."

"Parker?"
"After interviewing victims and witnesses, Kirkland has reason to believe that Parker escaped her binds and overpowered one of the traffickers."
 
Jarod searched the room, one slow, sweeping expectant scan and then silently sought an explanation from Sydney, who wore a somber gaze.
 
"Oh, God, no," Jarod said with a harsh gasp and tears standing in his eyes.
 
Sydney lay a restraining hand on Jarod's shoulder. "Agent Kirkland vowed to pursue leads, find her; my advice is to believe him capable and," added Sydney sternly, "focus on healing."

"The cigarette? The stain? Was it her blood?"
 
"The substance wasn't anyone's blood, Jarod. It was dye."
 
Dye.
Die.
 
The hospital room fell away and Jarod, momentarily, found himself inside Magdalena Swanson's dull apartment.

"Their pastrami on rye is to die for," Swanson's raspy voice returned to him.
"Go, Agent," Parker had eagerly insisted, "I'll help Mrs. Swanson with the fruit salad."
 

"Tell me about the dye," Jarod demanded into the mobile phone and listened, with growing impatience, to Takahashi's digressive and exceedingly exuberant narration.
 
"We identified DySecure as the manufacturer; that particular hue is distributed to a handful of banks. We narrowed our results to a robbery two years ago. One of the suspects was an elderly woman; her feigned coronary made for a hell of a distraction. Around that time, dozens of stop-and-robs were also hit, robberies that were never connected to the bank job. Until now. The perps took cash, beer, cigarettes— over a thousand cases of Dunhills, and novelty items. They shouldn't have put all their loot in one basket hehe. Know what I mean? The bank's dye-pack apparently ruptured. The loot and suspects were never recovered and the case was closed."
 
Jarod pressed the speaker function, dropped the mobile on the bed, and held his head in both hands. "Circumstantial," he groused.
 
"I'm not finished, Jarod. Swanson is on bank surveillance."
 
"She doesn't exist," rebutted Jarod.
 
"I'm still not finished, Dude. I found traces of dye along with Witch's Butter and False Turkey Tail- uh, that's Tremella Mesenterica and Stereum Hirsutum, respectively in the tobacco ash we found embedded in Swanson's carpet.

Those same traces are present on the butt you retrieved from the storm drain. I went on a limb hehe—a dead limb covered in fungi to be precise—and sent some ecologists out. We got a hit in Orange County, a park. A team went out, took samples from the fallen tree and you won't believe this."
 
"There are traces of dye on decaying trees," remarked Jarod dispassionately.
 
"Bing! Yes. And microbes indigenous to the area are present on the butts we found at Swanson's. This places Swanson or her accomplices at the scene of the abduction and at the bank robbery and in that park. There could even be DNA-"
 
"Little good that does when we don't have Magdalena Swanson."
 
Or Miss Parker.
 
"What I don't understand is why she telephoned the tip-line."
"To distract us, pump us for information." The bitch.
"Make sense. Hey, aren't you even going to ask," Takahashi said.
"About," inquired Jarod curiously.
"The blood inside the shipping container."
"Blood," repeated Jarod thickly. "What blood?"
"Uh, damn. Fuck," hissed Takahashi. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he repeated in rapid-fire succession. "They didn't tell you. Did they?"
"Tell me what," Jarod demanded.
"A witnessed reported that Agent Vella was shot on scene; cast-off pattern, however, suggests she was struck. There is no evidence to indicate Vella sustained massive blood loss. Samples collected from the arterial spray, pooling, and misting belong to one of the perpetrators, Josiah Edigers, paroled rapist, and that's consistent with the second witness's claims."
"Claims?"
"Vella didn't just hold off the traffickers until the vics escaped, she kicked their asses and shot Edigers—fatally, probably."

She pissed them off?

Perfect.

If she wasn't dead before—
Jarod dragged a hand over his face.
"Let's talk again in four hours."
 
"Sure thing, Jarod," agreed Takahashi jovially. "Be well already."
 
"Sydney lied to me," Jarod murmured aloud.
"I'm certain he had his reasons, Jarod," Margaret consoled gently.
"It was your decision, wasn't it? To withhold information from me? What else are you hiding, Mother," inquired Jarod, loftily.
"I don't appreciate your self-righteous tone, Jarod. When you behave like a dim-witted child expect me to treat you like one. Mothers aren't supposed to bury their children. And speaking of hiding things, Mister," mocked Margaret blithely, "the nurse insists that this was with your personal belongings," explained Margaret skeptically. "I told her she was mistaken-"
 
"She wasn't," interrupted Jarod softly, extending a hand, closing his fingers around the pendant when Margaret pressed it into his palm.
"I didn't realize you were religious," said Margaret, sheepishly.
"Neither did I," Jarod said, explaining succinctly, "It's from her."
 
"Catherine's daughter gave you this?"
"Saint Anthony," confirmed with a nod. "The patron saint of lost and missing items. She also gave me a thumb drive containing data," Jarod continued softly, recalling the tarmac, Parker at his side, her hands in his. "Data the Centre compiled-- regarding you, known associates, data she stole from the Centre."
 
Margaret frowned. "Jarod, are you saying what I think you are saying?"
Jarod dropped his gaze to the camel colored hospital blanket. "It's no coincidence that I found you one month after Carthis, Mother. You have Miss Parker to thank for that." 
 
Haltingly, Jarod confessed in a low, clipped tone, "I never did."

Jarod was certain he'd never be presented with an opportunity to thank her.

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