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Fifteen months later

 

 

Miss Parker was dead, had been confirmed dead by international intelligence. The Pretender, however hadn't been dissuaded by speculative claims or gruesome detailsregardless of plausibilityrecounted by associates.

Jarod demanded evidence, accepted nothing less.
 
When, at last, Jarod found Parker it wasn't in any morgue rumored to be in possession of her remains. Nor did he find Parker in any hospital battling death.
 
Jarod didn't find Parker in a quaint cafe in Liguria—as he'd anticipated—either or in Marseille, Enschede, Málaga. For several agonizing moments Jarod wasn't certain he had, indeed, found Parker and ruminated upon the probability of eventually discovering her in a morgue after all.
 
Intel was sketchy, contacts shifty, coordinates faulty. And the lodgings weren't up to par, weren't lodgings at all and Jarod didn't recognize her face, could not, in fact, see her face; he recognized a familiar presence, however.
 
Tucked inside a tiny recess in an Arabian canyon, concealed from occasional patrols or travelers, she wore an abaya, niqab, dark sunglasses, and was competently preparing cardamom tea.
 
"I appreciated your message," announced Jarod, installing himself opposite her and removing his sunglasses.
 
Aforementioned correspondence had transpired six months earlier at Parker's memorial service during which Jarod glimpsed the gardenia arrangement.

He'd recognized the stray branch partially concealed in the potting soil and promptlyand correctlyidentified it as Prosopis juliflora. The overwhelming surge of optimism refused to be vanquished.
 
Jarod envisioned Parker plucking the branch from the tree of life in Bahrain.
 
Life.
She's alive
.
 
Eager to conceal the discovery, Jarod pushed the plant into Sydney's hands and with dark, beseeching eyes, said meaningfully, "You've been meaning to acquire this particularly variety."
 
"Why, in fact, I have," Sydney agreed, cheerfully. "You've no objections to parting with it?"
 
"None," answered Jarod solemnly, embracing the older man and whispering a few words.
 
Margaret had quietly observed the psychiatrist leave and murmured sotto voce, "No, no, that wasn't strange at all. Don't fret, Son; I saw nothing."
 
Presently, Margaret's son scrutinized the woman shrouded from head to toe in ebony clothing. Softly, Jarod addressed her.

"Additional clues would have been helpful but were not forthcoming. Aside from converting," Jarod continued with some solemnity, "is there a logical reason you're disguising yourself, appropriating the local culture?" 
 
Having inquired, Jarod frowned, modestly lowered his eyes. He longed to sit quietly, not interrogate her. Nor was Jarod eager to inquire about torture and rape and all that those topics entailed.

It had occurred to Jarod months earlier in Bhutan, and, againweeks laterin St. Margaret's Hope that if Parker was indeed alive, she might also be pregnant, and, assuming the worst—that she was injured and non-ambulatory—had packed accordingly, adding to first aid supplies a box of laminaria sticks. "Are you concealing scars?"
 
The woman's attempts to flee were hastily thwarted. Jarod rose suddenly, grasped her elbow, and felt her body stiffen beneath his hand, dispelling any lingering incertitude regarding identity.

Local women, Jarod reasoned, would have felt threatened and screamed. This woman only wants to be alone. Rather than engage in a physical confrontation, she wordlessly returned to her blanket.
 
"You're early," she softly announced.
 
"She speaks," sang Jarod bitterly. "Finally. You're traveling light; that's good. The Director would like a word."
 
"I have two in mind," remarked Parker tartly.
 
"Now, now," soothed Jarod sweetly, "expletives are entirely unwarranted. Come along nicely; I assure you the handcuffs and gun will remain out of sight."
 
"You're six months early," Parker repeated blandly.
 
"Are you implying I was to receive another message?"
 
"Jarod, I'm aware of the Bureau's suspicions, threats, your distrust. I know you're not here to return me to the states. Your ass is on the line and life is going to get ugly if you don't bring her in alive."
 
"She was here," inquired Jarod skeptically.
 
"Been and gone."
 
"Let me guess," Jarod said, "she's in Netivot; however, en route she made several stops and paid young women to accompany her because she knew her bosses would kill her if she arrived without the promised children."
 
"That's a rather specific guess."
 
"Will her men be returning here with her?"
 
"Not here," Parker said. "Riyadh. You aren't simply guessing, are you?"
 
"No, I'm not and I know that five of her men have been murdered. "I- uh, how did you word it, ah, yes, put my foot down on Dante Benedetti's neck and discovered that you, as promised, put your foot down on his neck. What I don't understand is-"
 
"Eleven men," corrected Parker softly. "I know you don't understand why I killed them. Someone like you never could."
 
Jarod's eyes narrowed. "Someone like me? I understand—when no one else can. Is that what you're afraid of?"
 
Parker stared into the fire, contemplated the question for several moments. "No," she answered softly and then murmured thoughts aloud "Dante betrayed me."
 
"Mhn," Jarod corrected hastily. "The horror in his eyes betrayed him. Before you interrupted I was saying I don't understand how you knew Dante is an unwitting fall guy."
 
"Dante reached that conclusion while trying to find the children he believed the woman he loved died trying to save. He financed my holiday, supplied his private jet"
 
Holiday? Only Parker would refer to a multi-continent killing spree as a holiday.
 
"He's aware then that Misha's report implicated him in the abduction."
 
"He vomited when he discovered the accusations-- ruined an eighty thousand dollar rug. If you spoke to Dante you know Clemente isn't dead and Magdalena Swanson doesn't exist. What else did Dante tell you?"
 
Jarod averted his eyes, said, "I'm displeased with the tidy framing of inquiries that indicate you wouldn't confide in me if I didn't already possess knowledge of this."
 
"Aw, Jarod's displeased," Parker said thinly.

"I am trying to help you."
 
"Oh, you're trying to help me? By threatening me with a gun and handcuffs? How considerate."
 
"That's fair," Jarod agreed sheepishly. "It's my fault that you're misinterpreting my motives." Jarod drew a breath, said, "Dante limited our brief chat to his former fiancée: she faked her death and is permanently masquerading as an eccentric, chain-smoking elderly woman. You sought Dante's help and not mine because?"
 
"You were under surveillance."
 
"That's rather specious, Miss Parker. Dante continues to be rigorously surveilled. Why didn't you come to me?"
 
"The truth," Jarod added after several silent moments, "can't be that unsavory."
 
"It is," rebutted Parker, impassioned. "You almost died trying to retrieve me; I didn't ask you to do that, Jarod."
 
"I did it because I care about you," Jarod confessed incautiously.
 
"I didn't ask you to do that either," argued Parker numbly, defensively.
 
Jarod smiled warmly, sympathetically. "Why did you really spare Misha? You know where she is and you haven't even confronted her."
 
Prompted by Parker's silence, Jarod pressed softly, "Are you going to answer the question?" 
 
"I'm afraid of what I'll do to the bitch," answered Parker, reflectively.
 
Jarod paled. "You've killed eleven men," he said, thickly, "and yet you're afraid of what you'll do? I'm not certain I understand."
 
"Consider yourself fortunate," remarked Parker cynically.
 
"Beyond ending Clemente's life and potentially spending the remainder of yours in prison what could you possibly fear?"
 
"Becoming her," answered Parker indignantly. "I've thought about it-- about chaining her up somewhere dark and cold and torturing her for the rest of my life."
 
"The desire for revenge is normal, human-"
 
"I want to tell Gracie and Celeste that the bitch can't hurt anyone else," Parker explained hastily, interrupting Jarod. "When they ask me how I can be certain I can either tell them it's because Misha is in prison or that she's being tortured six ways from Sunday, twenty-four seven, and praying for a visit from the grim reaper. What do you suggest, Agent?"
 
"I see. You realize," said Jarod, gingerly, "that if you pursue this you'll be called to testify. If you ignore the subpoena a warrant will be issued. I want to caution you: her attorneys are going to treat you like the suspect, try to trip you up- it's what they do. They're going to demand specific details and they'll likely object to the sunglasses and niqab."
 
"Make no mistake, Jarod, when they see what that bitch did to my face her attorneys will wish I'd kept it covered."
 
"And the limp? Is that more of Clemente's handiwork?"
 
"I was stabbed two days ago."
 
"Her men?"
 
Parker affirmed with a nod.
 
"Tell me," Jarod demanded, "is there evidence out here? Are there witnesses that can connect you to the deaths of her men?"
 
"Are you suggesting we remove any witnesses or-"
 
"It isn't simply a suggestion," Jarod interrupted coolly. 

"Corpse disposal is Centre training 101, Jarod."

Jarod frowned. "You were stabbed two days ago? She's had ample opportunity to track you here and-" Jarod fell silent with startling abruptness.

"And murder me," Parker said tartly.

"You killed Clemente's men in self-defense," Jarod said. "She doesn't know you're alive, does she?"

"If Clemente knew, Mister Obvious, she'd send more men."
 
"It was self-defense," Jarod insisted.
 
I'll be damned.
He does understand.

 
"What, Jarod, no I-told-you-so?"
 
"I've made too many mistakes to be smug."
 
"Mistakes," repeated Parker, incredulously. "You?"
 
"There's innocent blood on my hands. Your blood; I want to wash it away in the blood of the men that hurt you. Somehow that seems appropriate."
 
"You came all this way to commit murder on my behalf," Parker purred softly, rising suddenly, and desultorily stirring ashes. "I'm honored," she added blandly. "But you're too late."
 
"That's not why I came, initially," Jarod clarified. "You know why I'm here. And didn't you say I was too early?"
 
"You're both," Parker answered plainly. "Too early to collar Clemente. Too late for revenge."
 
"I suppose my timing has never," Jarod began miserably, falling silent and parting his lips in surprise when Parker disrobed and unceremoniously straddled him, proving that perhaps her timing was—improbably—even worse than his.
 
Parker removed the sunglasses and niqad, revealing a scar partially obscured by brunette locks; the incision had traversed her face, missed her left eye by centimeters, and continued to the tip of her middle toe.
 
"You don't have my blood on your hands," Parker informed Jarod sternly.
 
Jarod didn't argue with Parker nor was he inclined to stop her. 
 
He, however, imagined himself nobly drawing back, stammering something appalling—something that would dissuade Parker from eagerly tugging down his jeans.
 
Instead, Jarod kissed Parker's mouth and grasped her hips, and in the small fire's waning light watched her face.

 

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