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    "Precious Paws Petuary and Crematory," Parker read aloud, glowering at the edifice's brick façade over the top of her sunglasses, noting the tall, mullioned windows as well as the lingering pall overhead; her voice was dry, unimpressed. "Gee, Jarod, you've truly expanded your horizons."

"What?" Inquired Jarod solicitously. "You don't believe that pets deserve the same love and respect as humans? You certainly used to." He added in low a whisper, alluding, no doubt, to the bunnies (that he would most likely hold over her head until one of them succumbed to death); he leaned in close with an amiable smile that blossomed into a impish grin when her face hardened. "Well?"

"I believe," Snarled Parker, "that if this little field trip doesn't come to an end soon, I'll cremate you, Jarod, and," she tacked on, dropping her gaze briefly to his chest, "that bleeding heart of yours will still be beating when I stoke up the fire."

Jarod dipped his head to side and then cast a cursory glance at the ersatz Rolex he wore before meeting her angry gaze. "Technically," he answered smugly, and with air quotes no less, "we don't stoke up the fire."

Parker scowled, gestured dismissively.

"I trust that you won't mind waiting in the car." Jarod said, cordially, rising from the seat and exiting the vehicle.

"With him?" Parker seethed, alluding to Kyle.

Jarod bent at the waist, met Parker's gaze. "Had you behaved, Miss Parker, you would have seen for yourself exactly what it is that I do here."

"Speaking of which," Parker returned forcefully, prompting Jarod to bend once more and meet her gaze through the open door, "what are we doing here?"

Jarod's reply was a smile— a smile punctuated by the slamming door.

"Damn you." Parker hissed at his lumbering form.

"Hey," Kyle admonished from the back seat, looking up, at last, from the whetstone and hunting knife, "be nice."

"And if I don't?"

Kyle straightened from his reclined position and leaned forward, draping his arms loosely over the driver's seat. "Oh," he sang, spinning the knife nimbly in his palm, "you don't really need me to answer that, Miss Parker."

"Shouldn't you be helping him? Mm? Or aren't you as charitable as big brother?"

"Charitable?" Kyle chuckled, "That's in Webster's, isn't it, Miss Parker, between calamity and chlamydia?"

Parker rewarded his efforts (at a proper riposte) with a haughty smile and then studied her fingernails. Amateur.

"You know," Kyle snorted at her silent rebuff, "I've seen some uptight women in my time, but you," he paused briefly, slung the knife's blade towards Parker and gave it yet another twist. "you are really something else, Lady."

Parker swung her indifferent gaze at Kyle and then, in one fluid motion, extended her left hand and caught the knife in mid air. "Yes," she agreed coolly, twisting the knife deftly in her palm. "I certainly am." She gave the hunting knife a light toss, caught the blade with her fingertips— all without breaking eye contact with Kyle— and then offered the knife to its rightful (and needless to say, stunned) owner.

Kyle whistled through his teeth, grinned. "Not bad, Miss Parker." He lauded and then unceremoniously launched into the tale of how he'd taken possession of the blade (as he endearingly referred to the hunting knife) during a clandestine skirmish with Crimson Sphere.

Parker listened attentively and contributed her own war stories when the conversation shifted to Raines and the Centre. He inquired about her hand, which Jarod had assured her hours earlier she had fractured (the dreaded "boxer's fracture") during the now notorious convenience store scuffle. Kyle smiled at Parker's easy, nonchalant: "I'll live."

They played a single, benign round of scar show and tell, each indicating old injuries on their arms and Kyle lifting his chin to illustrate his narrative of a how a drunken, machete wielding Guerrilla in the Congo damn near took my head off.

Apocryphal, perhaps; riveting, nonetheless. Kyle was besotted with danger, a desperado, and nothing at all like his brother. Kyle had walked away from the Congo intact, the victor of the fracas after administering a coup de grâce to the Guerrilla who had quite literally fallen on his sword.

The man had a plethora of tricks and tales—and very few weaknesses—in his repertoire, Parker discovered.

Onto their respective seats—as Kyle recounted tales he'd collected from various exploits in the South Seas, misadventures in Tijuana and while stationed aboard a certain aircraft carrier—they collapsed into peals of laughter, both starting when the car door opened.

The pair straightened as if they were instead errant children, caught red-handed, elbow deep in an unsuspecting cookie jar, and in fear of corporal punishment (both Parker and Kyle, however, were unaware of Jarod's exploits, unaware that he'd been meting out his warped idea of justice; Jarod's variety of punishment, needless to say, compelled the likes of corporal punishment to scurry off and cower beneath a bed).

"Good," Jarod drawled languidly as he slipped behind the wheel of the car, "I see no obvious injuries." He turned to Parker, who managed quite nicely to remain composed, "I hope you two weren't too nasty to each other," he continued, somewhat enigmatically, "while I was wrapping up a little unfinished business."

"Unfinished business." Parker teased with a snort of derision. "Right."

"What do you mean?" Inquired Jarod.

"You returned to this hole to exact revenge." She answered, decidedly.

"Revenge— that's not the word I'd use to describe what I do." He exacted justice, not revenge, he assured himself. Again.

"It's the word I'd use." Parker asserted loftily.

"Unfinished business." Jarod contended, offering her an envelope, perhaps as evidence of aforesaid business. Exhibit A, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Parker cast a sidelong glance at him and then examined the envelope's contents. "You expect me to believe that you drove here to collect your final paycheck?"

"A man has to eat, Miss Parker." Came Jarod's pithy reply.

He didn't want to lie to her. Nor was he keen on explaining that her empty threats of "living cremation" (the woman was a genius!) had inspired him to alter his plans and accentuate the terror, or rather the justice foisted upon the owner of the Petuary, a maniacal sociopath who, over the course of three years, had abducted and brutalized thirty-four career women (women much like Miss Parker) and then disposed of their corpses in the crematorium, his lair, this abattoir.

"Now," Jarod said, turning to face her, an expression of genuine concern etched upon his face, "why don't we get an ex-ray of that hand, hmm?"

Parker sat prim and silent, ostensibly contemplating his proposal. We, no doubt, translates to Jarod playing doctor.

"No, thanks."

"Miss Parker," he chided gently, "surgery could be indicated—"

Surgeon Jarod?

Mmm even worse.

"No." She hissed. "I'll see my own doctor in Dover. I meant what I said earlier," she continued, prompted by his absent stare, "this excursion is over. I know that you delight in tormenting me—"

"What?" He interrupted with a measure of incredulity, his brow knitted. "Tormenting you?"

"If you hadn't strolled into the Centre yesterday," she explained, condescendingly, "and abducted me, I wouldn't have," here her voice dropped several octaves to mock him, "fractured my fifth metacarpal."

"If I hadn't strolled into the Centre, Miss Parker," Jarod countered angrily, "you would be in Africa now, married to that—"

"And I lied," Parker exclaimed indignantly, modulating those vocal cords of hers and yet still not quite recognizing herself, "when you examined my hand this morning: it did hurt! Your bedside manner, Jarod, is execrable."

"Bedside manner." Jarod repeated neutrally, tasting the word and finding it rather agreeable indeed. "Why, Miss Parker," he intoned salaciously, "I didn't realize that you were so interested in my bedside manner."

"You bastard." She spat her disgust.

"Christ, you two," Lamented Kyle from the back seat, "get a room."

Kyle's words were comparable to frigid water and quite effective in dousing the sparks; the pair returned to their respective seats, appalled to find that they'd gravitated towards the center of the vehicle, towards each other.

"I can't take you home, Miss Parker."

"Why the hell not?" She demanded tartly. "What possessed you to drag me this far?"

"I promised Ethan that I'd deliver you safely to New Mexico; I'll be out of your hair as soon as I drop you off."

"New Mexico?"

"Taos." He answered with a curt nod, shifting into drive. "Look: I know that you have questions, Miss Parker; Ethan has your answers."

Answers? In Taos? Why, ruminated Parker, hadn't Ethan simply relayed aforesaid answers to her in Blue Cove? Why the trek across the country?

Those were all questions that Jarod could have answered; to wit: he knew all of the answers, her answers; he, however, had taken a vow of confidentiality and he refused to betray his half-brother.

Jarod, of course, had argued after the fact, had cautioned Ethan that Parker would eventually connect the dots, and long before they reached their intended destination.

After all, why would the truth—the truth and the answers she'd been seeking—warrant travel (of any distance)?

Unless—

Ethan isn't going to tell me the truth.

He's going to show me the truth.

Parker deemed it odd and somewhat comical that with the truth a mere eight hundred miles away she should have second thoughts about her quest for answers.

I don't need answers; they're probably all lies.

The truth in her heart was enough and her father—

He'll turn up; he always does. Always.

But he hadn't, and there was no doubt now.

He won't.

Ever.

And she knew why.

Unfinished business, indeed.

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