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Chapter or Story
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"You should see the other guy," murmured Parker, conscious—and rather dismissive—of Jarod's scrutiny; with strained patience, she endured a thorough examination of the stab wound. To shut him up.
"Not funny," Jarod moaned and then stiffened and inquired eagerly, "Wouldn't proper disposal of the corpse preclude any possibility of seeing him."
"Relax, Jarod."
Jarod's face clouded with consternation; he hastily pushed a hand over his face, sheltered Parker from his disappointment. Strangely, he was incapable of criticizing her.
Nor would Gracie and Celeste's parents condemn Parker for murdering human traffickers; they'd applaud her accomplishments.
She and I aren't dissimilar.
In the pursuit of justice Jarod had forbidden slaughter, stopped short of murder, despite the intermittent, sometimes overwhelming temptation.
Parker and Jarod harbored the same darkness; hers was an excruciating must; she needed to eradicate child rapists; it was as essential to her survival as breathing. Jarod refused to jeopardize Parker's survival.
He swallowed inquiries, rebuttals, however, he was tempted to explain all the reasons he couldn't relax. Murdering child abductors must have become rather mundane at some point: while in the neighborhood, Parker had assassinated soldiers blocking food and medical supplies intended for Yemen.
She was solely responsible for sinking a warship that blocked ports and stealing missiles that perpetuated suffering. She'd escorted and guarded humanitarian aid workers, had made a remarkable transition from bounty hunter to freelance warrior.
Or not a transition at all. My God, I'd be rotting in a Triumvirate prison if she'd truly been dedicated to capturing me.
"What are you doing," Parker demanded softly, bemused by Jarod's continued inspection, his silence. "Surprised it isn't gangrenous?"
"I've never doubted your ability to care for yourself," answered Jarod somberly, applying a fresh bandage to her right thigh and averting his eyes from dozens of scars—flesh that had been scored and burned and had healed.
Each wound had been deliberate and intimate and there was, Jarod believed, a story in them, a tale of barbarity that Parker probably would never remember in its entirety. Small miracles.
Jarod recalled the ampoules collected in Wyoming where the investigation had narrowed considerably. During a search operation there in an unrelated missing person's case, volunteers had discovered a remote and abandoned mine, glimpsed discarded syringes, and radioed patrol officers.
A latent fingerprint, deemed unreliable by a cagey and rather uncooperative Sheriff, matched one on file belonging to Agent Misha Clemente.
Suspicions were merely aroused; requests for an exhumation order were denied- until the discovery of DNA on the needles.
Jarod had arrived at the field office fresh from physical therapy slightly hungover, but alert and terribly eager, nonetheless, to speak to Kirkland about aforementioned DNA-- as substantiated by eighteen Federal Agents who witnessed Jarod seize the man's lapels in his fists and snarl, "Whose DNA god damn it?"
"I'm sorry, Jarod," answered Kirkland calmly. "The better news is we haven't recovered a body or enough blood to suggest Parker isn't alive."
"Were any substances detected on those needles or was this," the words lodged in Jarod's throat, as thick and rancid as vomit, "textbook torture?"
"Heroine and Midazolam," answered Kirkland glumly. "Who ever did this, Jarod, burned the fucking textbook."
"Any idea who that might be," Jarod snarled, dropping his hands to his sides.
"Not yet."
"Unacceptable," the Pretender shouted. "Where are the cameras, reporters?"
"The less the public knows the better. Our exhumation order's finally been granted. If Clemente did this, Jarod, we'll prove it and we'll find her."
"I don't give a god damn about Clemente."
"Parker's alive," Kirkland said, raising his voice to silence Jarod. "For all we know she was dumped here and Clemente, or whoever did this, doesn't know she's still alive."
"I'm listening," Jarod said.
"Look at this place. The abductors have been clever, cocky until now. This is sloppy, disorganized. They left Parker's DNA all over this mine; they wouldn't have had any reservations about leaving the rest of her here. There is no indication she was dragged out of here by animals and no human remains have been found in this area."
"You're saying if they discover she's still alive they'll-" Jarod's words dissolved into suggestive silence.
Finish her.
That danger, Jarod, presently, reminded himself, still exists. He handily concealed discomposure, continued to scrutinize the details of their lovemaking—with the same uncompromising thoroughness accorded the knife wound and scars, recalling in vivid detail each breath Parker had drawn, those hissed through teeth, those violently inhaled, the tangle of gasps.
Jarod calculated repercussions, pondered his impulsiveness, recklessness. "But I am surprised," he added, swinging his gaze at Parker.
"I'll just bet," Parker purred, retrieving her bra and blouse.
"I," Jarod stammered, "didn't anticipate -"
"Don't," Parker cautioned, expelling a breath of exasperation.
"Don't," Jarod repeated gently, watching her dress. "What?"
"Over-think. Explain. Analyze. You've spent your life preparing for every contingency; if you were entertaining the remotest hope of having sex you would have packed condoms."
"You riffled through my bag while I slept?"
"Mm, an entire box of laminarias," Parker commented dully, tucking her blouse into the waist of her slacks.
Jarod titled his head, answered lightly, "What was it you said? Every contingency."
"Including impossible ones, apparently," remarked Parker coolly. "I'm quite capable of terminating a truly miraculous albeit unwelcome high-risk pregnancy without your assistance. Also: Clemente's men were impotent imbeciles and I'm not a junkie. Narcan and antipsychotics, Jarod," Parker disparaged, her voice tight, guttural. "You believed you'd find me knocked up, strung out, and off the trolley?"
No. I believed I wouldn't find you at all.
Not alive.
Jarod had no intention of defending his decisions; he'd hacked Rachel's computer, familiarized himself with her preliminary profile, a thorough analysis of victimization patterns, and data pertaining to additional murders thought to be connected to Clemente.
Bearing in mind Jarod's violent reaction to her initial belief that Parker was dead, the Profiler was reluctant to convey additional unpleasant truths to him and instead remained vague, laudatory.
"Your girl put up a helluva fight," remarked Rachel coolly when an impressive amount of blood matching Clemente's was discovered on an overturned four-door sedan outside Great Falls.
My girl? If you call Miss Parker that to her face she'll fight you.
"I don't understand," Jarod said. His dark eyes were red rimmed and filled with confusion. He inquired hesitantly, "Is there evidence that suggests Miss Parker was in that vehicle?"
Rachel averted her eyes, worried her lower lip. Kirkland straightened in his chair and gently informed Jarod that blood and hair follicles collected from the trunk were Parker's.
Trunk.
Jarod heard little else; he wasn't listening when Rachel announced that blood collected from the driver's seat belonged to neither women, that the evident struggle indicated Parker was alive, defiant.
Trunk.
Jarod recalled his abduction, the hand over his mouth, hood over his head. The accompanying screams were not his own; they were Parker's and were completely muted.
Kirkland was nodding his agreement with Rachel and emanating positivity when Jarod's mind wandered away and climbed inside the trunk with Parker.
Jarod was cold and disoriented in the dark, unfamiliar cavity and Parker was neither screaming nor hammering the lid. She was unconscious, bound, gagged and Jarod wanted to wake her, advise her to wrestle the duct tape and blood-stained ropes, make an effort to loosen her binds or dislocate her thumb or shoulder- she'd done both before. You can do it again; just try.
Escape, Jarod recognized, was futile; soundproofing material, concealed by thick layers of polypropylene, lined the compartment, and, perhaps more horrifying, he and Parker were lying beneath a false bottom. Even if the car had been stopped and searched, officers would have discovered only an empty trunk upon raising the lid.
Wake up, Miss Parker. Please. We have to get out of here. There's no air; we can't breathe. Jarod inhaled sharply, lowered his head, scrubbed his face with trembling hands, massaged his temples.
Rachel shared a look of concern with Kirkland and in vain resignation said to Jarod, "You were right about the checkpoints and Clemente's intentions to cross the state border. She was probably already in Montana before we learned about the mine, but don't worry, Jarod, she'll never make into Canada."
Rachel's files significantly contradicted her comforting words.
She'd been briefed about six additional women, all brunette, self-possessed, assertive, in their early forties; all had been sexually assaulted and tortured. Three of the women shared roadside graves with fetuses; two women had attempted to claw the unwanted fetuses from their bodies. Their deaths, spanning seven years and six states, had initially been ruled suspicious drug overdoses by police.
Beneath the words serial killer?, were two black lines and the following:
These woman represent the suspect's mother, a sexually abusive psychopath that abandoned suspect at approx. eight years of age.
Note I: these abductions have distinct motivations separate from the trafficking of children i.e. the adult female victims attempted to intervene on behalf of the children and were "punished" by suspect.
Deep-seated resentment is apparent in suspect's brutality and discarding of the bodies; she is a sexual sadist repeatedly punishing her mother, achieving and reliving fantasy revenge fulfillment, and, ultimately, euphoric release.
Suspect likely began sexually assaulting women in her early adulthood.
Although the abduction of the women is primarily sexually motivated the suspect compulsively perpetuates abuse cycle by taking children from their mothers. It's worth noting that suspect was severely abused in the foster system until adopted at the age of thirteen by a devout and sadistic evangelical couple who extorted her daily, establishing in their home a currency of sorts: sexual favors in exchange for fundamentals (food, clothing, blankets). Suspect holds a deep conviction that the children she abducts must endure that same fate.
Suspect is delusional and will not, of her own volition, stop; she has long-cemented her justification. Any attempts to reason with her will be futile and violent.
Note II: Victim number seven is likely still alive and experiencing a marked escalation in savagery resulting from her role in freeing the children as well as her alleged execution of one or more suspects. Evidence recovered inside the mine and in the vicinity of automobile indicate suspect's sudden disorganization and while this potentially increases our likelihood of apprehending suspect it also heightens severity of victim's torture, particularly psychological torture. Potentially.
Other profilers speculate that the suspect has assigned the victim a new role, views her as an equal or superior, perhaps a sister self, and may even attempt to recruit.
Another opinion is that the suspect will coerce the victim to replay her initial role until the suspect's desired outcome is achieved as there can be no deviation from the original fantasy and no alternate ending as gratifying to suspect. Death.
It isn't likely suspect will abduct children at this time as suspect is confused, anxious, and obviously mentally deteriorated. Suspect may be uncertain about how to proceed. She will likely punish the victim harshly and sedate victim heavily for extended lengths of time.
Additional note: be advised regarding victim seven, if recovered, alive, psychosis must be presumed, either induced by some combination of drugs or abuse, or in conjunction; anticipate combativeness and paranoia. Avoid restraints and physical contact, if at all possible.
Jarod had little confidence in criminal profiling and remaining dismissive of the field revolved his eyes at much of the jargon. He believed Clemente was a greedy, evil bitch and sought no further explanation.
Jarod wasn't interested in the suspect or her excuses or Rachel's theories regardless of how widely accepted by colleagues; those were hastily discarded.
Instead, Jarod culled the facts from Rachel's files and packed accordingly, assembling a more relevant collection of first aid paraphernalia. He believed himself justified and was disinclined to debate his rationale.
Rather than answer Parker's question or display sheepishness, he smiled warmly, said, "Tell me: were you looking for something specific? If you need something—money, disposable phones, anything—all you have to do is ask." A gun, perhaps, Miss Parker?
"That's generous, Jarod," Parker said. "I'll ship you the handcuffs when I land in Barcelona."
Disheartened and stunned, Jarod explained somberly, "I had no intention of putting the handcuffs on you."
"Mm then you shouldn't be too perturbed that you've misplaced them."
"I would have given them—and the gun—to you had I known how little you trust me," Jarod said impulsively and was thoroughly and immediately appalled by his selfishness, ashamed for berating Parker. He pushed trembling hands through his hair, murmured remorsefully, "I'm sorry. That was considerably out of line. I'm so—"
"If you say sorry one more time, Jarod," Parker warned, collecting the blanket, "I swear to God I'll dig that Glock out of your bag and shoot you in the ass."
Jarod's face twisted in incredulity. She took the handcuffs but left the gun? He didn't feel confident that Parker would answer that question truthfully; instead, he said, "Why Barcelona?"
"You ask too many questions, Jarod."
"I'm afraid I have more-- difficult questions."
"I'll mail you a statement the first chance I get," said Parker sharply.
Jarod murmured her name, adding tremulously, "I never stopped searching for you."
"Evidently," Parker acknowledged stiffly and then encouraged hospitably with a gesture at the tea dishes, "Help yourself."
Jarod rose hastily, stepped into his jeans and tugged up the zipper. "Let me bring you in. Please. We can protect you, provide medical attention," implored Jarod. "Come in until Clemente is no longer a threat to you."
Parker inquired brusquely, "Gonna shoot if I refuse?"
"You know I'm incapable of doing that to you," answered Jarod forlornly, "it's why you didn't take the gun. You should," he added emphatically, "also know that I'd never restrain you—or anyone who is post-trauma—while you're asleep and certainly not after making love with you.
It's my fault you don't," he continued wistfully, loathing the ghosts of silences past. Jarod deliberated briefly and confessed distinctly, guilelessly, "I'm in love with you."
Parker's halting head-tilt of negation and languid exhalation were unmistakable indicators of astonishment; she appeared to be absorbing a heinous revelation.
"It's a statement," Jarod assured Parker with genuine compassion, closing shirt buttons. "All right? I'm not trying to change your life or contribute to your confusion."
Parker rebutted with a shrewd smile, "I am not confused."
"I have no expectations," continued Jarod, neither countering nor conceding. "I— just wanted you to know."
"Why? What in the hell am I suppose to do with that?" Parker murmured numbly, gathering the niqab and folding it loosely over her arm. The space between them, incomprehensibly and abruptly, shrank; she hadn't perceived Jarod's movement, only his presence.
Parker opened her mouth to speak, clamping her lips closed when Jarod seized her hand. She mercifully directed her fierce gaze, filled with derision, elsewhere, rather than wound him. To protest or plea, Parker reasoned, would be utter hypocrisy.
Jarod's doing his job, following orders.
It's not personal.
I can't blame him for doing to me what I once did to him.
And yet:
"Don't do this, Jarod. Please don't-" With enormous effort, Parker silenced herself when his grasp tightened; furthermore, attempts to dislodge her fingers from Jarod's restraining hand were futile, and, strangely, few.
Fuck.
Okay.
Okay.
I deserve this.
Parker endeavored to calm herself, withdrew from panic's edge.
Initially, Jarod believed Parker was employing deception; however, when his grip fractionally slackened, Parker made no attempt to escape, apparently resigned herself to accompanying him, enduring hours of questioning regarding her slow and meandering stroll through hell.
Coercing her to relive it is inhumane.
She had emerged on the other side and it didn't matter how.
Jarod had agonized, for months, over the question of whether or not Parker was dead—time enough to know, without doubt, that only one question mattered and that the answer was standing in front of him.
"Take that with you to Barcelona." Jarod ruptured the silence and answered her question, at last. "Consider it a suggestion; I don't have all the answers, and, clearly, I didn't plan for every possibility; if I had," he explained, "I might have prepared a compelling peroration in advance of professing my love to you."
Bewildered, Parker knitted her brows, asked, weakly, "What?"
"Know that you'll always have a friend and -uh take this, too," Jarod continued softly, depositing an object into the palm of her hand. "I know this belonged to your mother; thank you for trusting me with it."
Parker lowered her head and studied for several moments, in stunned silence, the St. Anthony pendant. She lifted her gaze to Jarod's face—wet with tears—and searched moist, dark eyes. He explained softly, "I have finally found everything I was searching for; you will, too."
"You're letting me go?"
"Letting you," Jarod repeated with some incredulity. "No one is capable of stopping you once you've made up your mind," he reminded sweetly, slowly lowering his head, pressing his lips to her brow; Jarod lingered, closed his eyes, and murmured softly against her skin, "Never forget that about yourself."
Straightening, he met Parker's gaze, demanded from her a commitment, "Never. Okay?"
Parker nodded her reply, inquired sympathetically, "Is Kirkland going to chew your ass for not bringing me in?"
"I'm predicting slim pickings for Kirkland," Jarod answered, partly in jest, "chain of command being what it is." Becoming quite serious, Jarod released Parker's hand, insisted tenderly, "Be careful."
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