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The sun was burning the fog off the sloping countryside when the minibus came to a halt perpendicular to the main road. The once-loose bricks that designated the winding drive were now cemented in seven decades of packed dirt and shot through with burnt yellow grass.
 
Two large windmills, austere and still fully functional, towered over the ninety-year-old clapboard farm house, an unattached guest house, a barn, and fifty acres of undeveloped property.
 
It was untamed land flanked by sprawling ivy and dense brambles interspersed with honeysuckle, jasmine, and wild plum trees. Julian and Cate—each with their own reasons, and each entirely without fear in only the way that toddlers and the terminally ill ever can be—eagerly strode and tottered, respectively, down the bus aisle.
 
Go," cried Cate spasmodically, shaking her tight fists impatiently, her entire being quivering with anticipation.
 
The child had sketched and colored, and had quietly eaten her meals and daintily nibbled vegetables and played video games and watched videos. She had recited, incorrectly, poems and ancient tales, and had chanted chilling renditions of Kri Kra Kroten-Fuss, Gänse Laufen Bar-Fussin and Hänschen Klein. She'd hummed, sang with Ethan, Emily, and her Oma, oftentimes ebbing into doggerel.
 
She had waved at countless ponies galloping across pastures. She had stared longingly at fallow meadows and fields of daisies and had longed to run barefoot through them all. Wie die gänse.
 
Instead, she had shuddered, writhed in her confines, fidgeted in the car seat, and she had nodded her fervent concurrence at Julian's withering, 'Oh, god, are we there yet,' which Cate mimicked, or attempted to, only it was no desperate query that had departed her lips, but rather an urgent command, 'There yet!"
 
The ride had exhausted Cate's patience; it was imperative that she play.
 
Standing on the bottom step, she squealed with delight at the prospect of gathering smooth stones and stroking brittle cattails, and (unbeknownst to her parents) simultaneously burst into tears. Julian, too, was relieved to be home- as it were, almost happy enough to shed a few tears himself, and therefore wasn't terribly concerned by Cate's. He deemed it a natural and a rather healthy catharsis, one her parents needn't be made aware of.
 
The child was on the verge of explosion. The frequent albeit brief stops hadn't appeased her, nor had they dispelled the nagging fear that she might be returned to the mean men, or taken to some other dark place. Perhaps somewhere worse. Surely if there were better places than the dark place, there were worse places. 
 
Far worse.
 
But with the great unknown in full view beneath an endless blue sky, she realized she had nothing to fear. She absorbed the land in one sweeping glance and knew no evil could touch her here. Not here. 
 
Not with the nice people looking on, protecting her. Her fears tucked away, she was eager to know the grass, and that tree, and those flowers. "Go," Cate demanded once more when her shoes touched the ground.
 
And go she did, and as fast as her tiny legs would carry her, in the direction of a dilapidated pump house that stood haggardly beyond a picket fence. A fence, Jarod realized helplessly and with a sense of dread—as he observed Cate passed through it with ease—he would spend the evening repairing with his father and Ethan.
 
The Pretender's alarm was allayed when Julian gently grasped the child's hand and knelt beside her, and then pointed out a massive anthill. He was cautioning her, Jarod realized. And it occurred to him that he should have done that himself prior to leaving the villa.
 
Cate was entirely ignorant of wasps, ants, cougars. She possessed an awareness of human monsters, days of pitch blackness, abject neglect—horrors in which no child should be familiar; she was, however, unaware of a diamondback's rattler and what it meant, or that she would drown if she toddled a mile to the west and into the lake.
 
There was a great deal to teach her, and so little time to prepare her for the rest of her life, and Jarod didn't know where to begin or when, and couldn't imagine how he would instill the presence of numerous, seemingly endless, potential dangers without instilling fear.
 
He didn't want her to live in constant fear. She already feared the dark, feared her mother would leave- although he was certain the separation anxiety would resolve on its own, eventually.
 
His daughter had even feared him until she realized that he wasn't impervious to "owies"; he had worked diligently to earn and maintain her trust, dispel her fears. He didn't want to replace natural curiosity, childhood discoveries—fireflies and caterpillars and honeybees—with fear.
 
Cate didn't appear to be frightened at all, Jarod observed with relief and wonder. She didn't take a compensatory step back, she didn't cower. Like her mother. Exactly like her mother.
 
Jarod remained transfixed as Julian rose slowly and guided Cate to the safe side of the fence, where he spoke to her again, gesturing to the limb that had fallen from the walnut tree and crippled the cedar gate. How odd, he thought, that in the space of two minutes, his daughter had learned a hard truth: dangers existed above and below, were all around her at any given moment, and were unpredictable. It might have been too overwhelming for some children, and even many adults, to process, to accept, but Cate's face never crumpled.

She was completely absorbed in Julian's words, not fearing, simply comprehending. She unceremoniously reached without hesitation and cupped Julian's chin in her small hand. She murmured something, appeared to examine his features closely. The man's resemblance to her father had to be perplexing.
 
And just how the hell do I explain that one?
 
Helplessly, rather desperately, Jarod turned and sought Parker. Certainly, he mused, the two of them could stumble upon the correct course of action.
 
We're not completely inexperienced here; we were both children ourselves once.   
 
Sorta.
 
 
Parker, however, had yet to disembark.
 
She stared at the window, rather than through it. She saw nothing.
When she finally realized the bus had stopped, she looked up and at once was transfixed by—and quite unable to avert her gaze from—the single oriel window that seemed to beckon from the second story.
 
And it was rather difficult to label her behavior odd because to Jarod's immediate left was his sister. He glimpsed Emily in his peripheral, returned his gaze to Parker and then immediately pivoted back around and frowned. He was absolutely bewildered: his sister had dropped rather theatrically to her knees; there, she pantomimed kissing the earth, and quietly disparaged what Jarod referred to as driving.
 
No, we weren't followed. Doh! No one else, not even those homicidal Triumvirate assholes, is insane enough to drive fast enough to keep up with us.
 
"Emily," Maggie sang diplomatically, stepping patiently, all grace and ease, around her daughter en route to the house, "sweetheart, you can drive next time."
 
"Next time," Emily expostulated. "Next time, I'm driving to Boston. To my home," she enunciated sharply. "You can keep your bucolic joy and still life sunsets; I crave mid-morning glares over mocha lattes, and impossible-to-meet deadlines, eleven car pile-ups during rush hour, extended middle fingers and blaring horns. And one night stands. I miss weed. I miss sex. I haven't been mugged in ages.

I thrive on existential privation and systemic anomie," she said, somewhat in jest, but somewhat in guileless honesty, reminiscing briefly about brushes with death and various exploits she'd survived 'underground.' "I'm not going to acquire critical acclaim for my yet-to-be-written, and needless to say, scathing editorials and exposés if I'm languishing in ease out here in walnut-friggin-grove."
 
"Um," Ethan said, perhaps to dissuade her from continuing the diatribe. "It's hardly Walnut Grove, and FYI: the cast of Little House on the Prairie blew up the set of—"
 
"Ethan," Emily said sympathetically. "No. Just no. God," she moaned. "Take a look around you. This place is a walnut grove," she explained very slowly, stretching out her syllables, underlining her words, speaking in capital letters, and indeed, she was correct: the narrow tongue of crushed grass on which they'd traversed split a robust stand of walnut trees. "You need to turn off the television and get out more. See that, my loving parental units," Emily sang across the distance to where her father held open the door for her mother, "I have to escape before that," Emily said forcefully, thrusting a finger at her half-brother, "happens to me."
 
"Don't be dramatic," Ethan said.
 
"I'm a journalist, Ethan. Drama is my life. Hmm," hummed Emily, staring contemplatively at the door her parents had just slipped through. "I just had a terrible thought."
 
"Honey," Ethan said softly, "you know you're going to get your career back on track and I can already see the interviews, all the major networks, shelves filled with awards for outstanding journalism."
 
"That's sweet, Ethan. Thank you. But um, no, that's not what I meant. The way Mom was looking at Dad when they went inside- yeah," she said with a broad grin, "they're totally going to break in the new bed."
 
"Ew," groaned Ethan in abject disgust. "Emily."
"Told you it was terrible," she said with a chuckle. "You know what? Screw. It." She rose to her feet and kicked off her boots and socks. "I'm going to chase betterflies with Cate."

"You mean butterflies, yes?"
"Whatever," Emily called over her shoulder. "Everything sounds better in Catespeak. Oh, Sydney," she cried, after just barely avoiding a collision with the psychiatrist. "Sorry!"
 
Sydney's answering laugh was soft; his eyes, however, were troubled.
"I'm looking for your half sister," he informed Ethan.
"She's still on the bus, I think," Ethan said. "And Jarod's with her."
"Then, they're talking," Sydney said, with illy concealed surprise. "That's probably for the best."
 
Ethan wanted to agree; his dubious smile, however, indicated uncertainty.
 
 
Jarod, seated across the aisle from Parker, was even less certain.
 
"If you're intending to stage a revolt," announced Jarod softly, "I recommend seizing a windmill, and then disrupting the utilities. I should probably warn you, though: we're off the grid."
 
Parker tore her eyes away from the second story window, turned her head, and met Jarod's gaze. Vacant blue eyes slowly filled with recognition. "What?"
 
"Welcome back," he said with a tender smile. "Do you want to talk about it?"
 
She maintained her carefully blank expression, asked softly, "What do you think would have happened if Lyle hadn't found you in Estonia?"
 
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do, Jarod."
"No," he insisted. "No, I don't, and neither do you."
 
"Cate would still be-"
 
"We don't know that," Jarod interrupted sharply, and then, softening his voice added, "I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself." He pushed a hand over his face, pinched the bridge of his nose. "The Centre was, and I quote you, 'hemorrhaging funds." You were in the process of scrutinizing each department, conducting a company-wide audit. It was only a matter of time before you located those discrepancies and Cate. Stop torturing yourself. She is here, she is happy. This is where we are now."
 
Where we are now.
 
Where they were, clearly, wasn't where she wanted to be- or more specifically: inside the old Gothic farmhouse; she opted to postpone entering. She feigned interest, instead, in the guest house and the barn, and demanded a tour of each.
 
Julian and Ethan, she learned, would be sharing the former, a smaller, modern two bedroom replica of the main house. The barn was more attractive than she'd imagined and housed two freezers, shelves of dry goods and essentials, gardening implements, miscellaneous furniture and a tiny office tucked in the rear of the building.
 
The office was bare save for a large black metal desk, a black chair with wheels, and a battered metal filing cabinet. A door on the immediate left stood ajar and revealed a closet filled with dozens of sealed cardboard boxes; Jarod wordlessly shut it and explained, rather sheepishly that he'd have to unbox before sunset.
 
Parker nodded her understanding and smiled, but when Jarod switched off the overhead light in the office and pulled the door closed, he was certain he'd seen unease cross her face.
 
She was, no doubt, aware of his predawn conferences with Broots, and had guessed, correctly, that the men intended to converse in the office. It wasn't unreasonable of her to feel excluded or uncomfortable.
 
Jarod opened his mouth to assure her, perhaps prematurely. He spoke at the same moment she did. Parker didn't wait for him to fall silent, and she did not mince words.
 
"Why did we leave the villa," she asked.
 
When he met her gaze, she added testily, "And don't say you're not at liberty to answer the question. I have a right to know whether or not we were in immediate danger."
 
"No," he answered simply and then extended his hand to indicate the open barn door. Parker hesitated briefly before following his lead, and even managed to swallow the acerbic remarks. Outside, they both squinted against the sun and heat; there, he expounded on his response. "No, we weren't in immediate danger. Uh, as it turns out, Nia was telling the truth: there was another man."
 
Parker swung her surprised gaze at Jarod, observed his nod.
 
"No," she said. "There couldn't have been."
 
"The two of them had been corresponding for eighteen months. Broots- well, you know Broots. He was concerned that their letters had been intercepted by Triumvirate operatives."
 
"She," Parker stammered, and then fell silent and shook her head. "I don't believe that."
 
"No, but you will," he assured her with a roguish smile that dissolved with an alarming swiftness. "You recall the evening I confronted you about Estonia?"
 
As if she could ever forget.
 
"Mm," she hummed reflectively, observing the grass collapsing beneath her shoes. She became acutely aware of her fingers occasionally brushing his, and aware, too, that neither she nor Jarod made any attempt to prevent the incidental caresses. With a noncommittal shrug, she answered him with the tiniest hint of a smile, "Vaguely."
 
 "Vaguely," he repeated. "I'm sure," he said with a disparaging shake of head. "I couldn't look her in the face while I tasted you on my lips and lie, even if the truth hurt her."
 
"Oh, no," she said, sympathetically, exhaling the words.
"Oh, yes," he asserted. "She wanted to blame you. She tried to. After hearing a detailed account of what transpired, however, she realized that you were, in no way, complicit."
 "Detailed?"
 "Hmm," he nodded. "I'm afraid so," he said, somberly. "She was devastated."
 "What were you expecting, genius? You kissed another woman."
 "I did," he agreed. "But I think she would have forgiven me adultery, all things considered."
 
"Apparently not," Parker said with a rather operatic flourish to indicate the woman's absence. "Writing a few letters isn't quite the same as kissing."
 
She observed his dubious expression, correctly interpreted its meaning, compressed her lips. Averted her gaze. Smiled. Nodded her agreement. She was unable to rebut the truth in his gaze. Communication, particularly between individuals with an emotional bond, could be more intimate, much more intimate than any physical relationship.
 
With that silently conveyed by Jarod and tacitly agreed upon by Parker, the former directly addressed Nia's absence. "It was the 'pinning you to the floor and kissing you' part that bothered her."
 
"Mm, you know, Jarod," said Parker dully, "when you word it that way it bothers me too." She punctuated the words with a sharp elbow and chortled when Jarod clutched his bicep and composed a wounded expression.
 
"I'm sorry the truth bothers you," he said ruefully. "It's the truth, nonetheless."
 
"Divorce seems a bit inordinate," Parker said. "You made one mistake."
 
"True. And then I abducted you," Jarod explained with a taut, mirthless smile. "She said she didn't know me."
 
"But that's not true. The two of you were married for four years. She knows you. It couldn't have come as that big of a surprise to her."
 
"No?"
 
"No. Somewhere along the way she had to realize that you're not the most conventional man in the world, that sometimes your methods are-"
 
"Criminal," supplied Jarod.
 
Parker revolved her eyes, shook her head, corrected crisply, "Unusual."
 
"Hmm," he hummed skeptically. "She was right. She didn't know me. The truth is: she didn't want to know me. In fact, she never wanted to know the truth, not even in the beginning. She was content with secrets. All she wanted—what she wanted more than anything—was the assurance that I was the man she believed I was, and I didn't disappoint. Until I did. She was horrified when she discovered I'd sedated you."
 
Parker expelled a breath of incredulity. "Again, genius, what were you expecting?"
 
"I was expecting her to be asleep," he said with unflinching candor. "She wasn't supposed to see me- the real me. I knew she wouldn't understand what it is I do; I never expected her to understand."
 
"But you were hoping she'd try."
 
"No," he said, "I was never that naive. I knew she'd eventually discover the truth about me and everything would change. I was right. Everything changed. Instantly. The marriage was over the second she saw you lying in the basement unconscious and bound. I knew exactly what I would see when she looked at me again."
 
"What?"
 
"The absence of recognition; I was an imposter, a stranger. She gaped at me as if I were something that had slithered into her room beneath the door, and she couldn't quite decide whether or not I was venomous."
 
And Parker could just imagine that scene, imagine a perplexed and frightened Nia moments after glimpsing the truth, glimpsing an altogether different incarnation of the man she'd fallen in love with, and weighing her odds: red touches yellow will kill a fellow? Or red touches black won't hurt Jack?
 
If the truth was that difficult to discern, that fine a line between life and death, then, clearly, any unease she felt was warranted. The safest course of action was to simply walk away slowly- and that's precisely what Nia had done.
 
"I didn't disagree with her when she called me a monster," he explained. "In two languages. I couldn't. It wasn't until later that I comprehended the significance of the designation. If she believed I was monster for breaking into your home and kissing you the way I did, and later restraining and abducting you, I didn't want to even imagine what you must have thought of me."
 
Parker snorted her disapproval and shook her head. "I thought you were insane, initially, but then you explained that a child had been created. And was being raised by the Centre. Your child," she said dourly, and then amended softly and with a great deal of effort (they were not, after all, the easiest words to utter), "Our child."
 
"That doesn't justify anything I did to you and-"
 
"You're right, Jarod," she interrupted sharply. "It doesn't. You could have done things differently. You could have picked up the telephone and asked me. But you didn't do that. You," she drew a breath, exhaled it slowly. "You made a decision."
 
"I made the wrong one. I had no right to terrorize you, to—"
 
"You're off-kilter at times—I'll grant you and your ex-wife that much," Parker said, snatching up a sunflower and then listlessly plucking off its golden petals. "You sometimes go to great lengths to make a point. I can't say that I've always condoned your tactics, particularly when I'm on the receiving end of them. But you are not a monster," she said. "Believe me," she added, tartly. "I've met quite a few of them and—"
 
"And," prompted Jarod when she fell silent and still. He stumbled to an abrupt halt, and followed her gaze to the house, sitting several feet away.
 
He was curious to know how the world looked through her eyes, what she saw when she looked at the house. Did she see the structure as it was, a benign farmhouse in need of a little care and a family, or did she see a prison? Was she appreciative of the gables, the drapes dancing in the gentle breezes or were the windows barred through her eyes? Did see she armed guards on watch towers rather than windmills? Were the brambles and hedges instead high fences strung with concertina wire?
 
And was he a fellow prisoner, a co-conspirator to plot escape with? Or did she view him as the warden? A guard? Was he still the enemy? Was he destined to embody the role of her enemy in every scenario for the rest of their lives? And how strange, he thought, that a multitude of questions would arise in mid-conversation, while another, more pressing question already burned on his tongue.
 
"And," he repeated gently.
 
Parker slid her gaze to Jarod. "And," she answered brusquely, touching his bicep lightly, "you aren't one."
 
With that said, she drew a breath, and informed him that Cate would soon want her nap and then reminded him that he wanted to unbox the office before nightfall, and then—because two excuses alone might not quite prove sufficient—added, "and you know how moody I can get when I don't get my shower."
 
"If you want some help unpacking," he began sweetly but fell silent when she lifted a dismissive hand and said with a suggestive smile that she'd see him later.
 
He had no way of knowing whether she was playing him, whether or not it was a diversion, an underhanded ploy to throw him off balance, and he was too blindsided to care when her lips met his. Briefly. And then she was gone, leaving him to wonder what it all meant.
 
Later?
 
With his head in the clouds, his thoughts on what awaited him—later—he floated back to his small office and found Broots there, propped on the desk with his arms crossed, a grim expression marring his usually friendly face.
 
"Broots," Jarod said with a withering smile, noting the man's grave countenance and the 11 X 13 envelope he fondled. He entered the room, closed the door and came to a halt when his gaze riveted on the two glass tumblers and fifth of Glenlivet atop the desk. "You have unpleasant news."
 
"Not necessarily," Broots remarked impassively.
 
Jarod waited for him to continue, state the reason for his presence. He waited four minutes and then said, "I'm listening."
 
Broots cleared his throat, tapped the envelope with a finger. "I'm here to procure an ID on a person of interest," he said stiffly, his voice tight and entirely foreign to Jarod.
 
"Which case?"
 
"It's not a case."
 
"If not a case," Jarod said, "then what?"
 
Broots coughed into his palm. "I recovered a box of eight-inch diskettes from the Centre and I have questions pertaining to some of the data." His lips twisted into something that fell short of a smile. "You know how it is."
 
Jarod folded his arms across his chest. "No," he answered. "No, I can't say that I do. Why don't you tell me how it is?"
 
"I was cataloging evidence and Centre personnel-"
 
"Wait a minute," Jarod interrupted, slicing the air with his hand. "I encrypted the personnel files."
 
"I decrypted them."
 
"I gathered as much. Why did you do that?"
 
"I wanted to ensure everything was in order," Broots explained. "You know: dot the i's. Anyway," he said, rattling the envelope violently.
 
Jarod frowned, advanced, extended an arm. "All right," he said with a sigh of resignation.
 
Broots waited disinterestedly while Jarod shook an 8 X 10 photograph from the envelope and scrutinized carefully. He noted the misshapen head, the twisted features, the artificial eye, and jagged scars, the missing teeth. "What happened to this man's face?"
 
"Nothing he didn't deserve," answered Broots tersely with incisive candor.
 
"I don't see a date," Jarod said, flipping the photograph and examining it and then looking to Broots for confirmation. The latter shrugged noncommittally and observed as Jarod replaced the photo.
 
"I'm sorry," he said, offering Broots the envelope. "I've never seen him before."
 
Rather than extend a hand, accept the offering, Broots pushed both hands into the pockets of his slacks.
 
Jarod's brow knitted. "I don't understand."
 
"There has been a development," Broots said and expelled a sigh of discontent.
 
"Development," Jarod repeated warily.
 
"There's a loose end that threatens Miss Parker's freedom."
 
"No. Anything that could pose a threat to her freedom is gone."
 
"Lyle isn't," contended Broots. "Gone, I mean. He's threatening to make a full confession to the FBI, one that will implicate Miss Parker. He claims he has irrefutable proof, damning proof. He gave me a name, said the guy- that guy," Broots said with gesture at the envelope, "is a witness and is holding said proof for him. Lyle won't back off unless he gets, and I quote, "the same cushy treatment big sis is getting."
 
Jarod murmured something that Broots couldn't repeat in mixed company, something, in fact, that was more colorful and creative than any filth that had ever slipped from Parker's lips. He advanced on Broots in great loping strides. Pivoting to the left, he bent at the waist and placed both hands flat on the desk.
 
"My concern is probably premature," Broots said. "Jarod, you know how shady the FBI can be, you know they were in bed with the Centre."

"I know better than anyone. They attempted to assassinate me and my brother," Jarod snarled. "Raines needed only to give the strings a tug."

"The Director doesn't exactly inspire confidence; he's irresolute, has displayed gross incompetence. He's not exactly clean."
"Do you think Lyle has an inside man in the FBI?"
"I don't know, but I think you'll agree that this merits some caution. If Lyle talks to the FBI, if he does indeed have the goods on Miss Parker and if an official investigation is launched into his allegations, it will be imperative that I mobilize quickly to shut it down. The last thing we need is for a grand jury to convene hearing on this thing."
 
"Shut it down? That doesn't sound legal."
 
"Jarod, I'm afraid it's a bit late for the obligatory lectures on legalities. Do you think the FBI hasn't done anything illegal? They have obliterated the law. Time and again. With all that in mind, I ran the name through a few databases."
 
"Lyle gave you the name," Jarod said with a snort of disbelief. "That's awfully generous of him. Do you want to tell me what you did to Lyle to make him give up the name?"
 
"I was going to track the man down," continued Broots stolidly, giving nothing away via expression or inflection,"steal the evidence he's holding for Lyle, and maybe threaten him. As it turns out, he's a former Centre operative and, according to his personnel file, isn't all that nice a guy. Jarod, he should be in prison." Broots drew a breath, exhaled forcefully. "Suffice it to say, what was going to be a fairly straightforward B&E job has become—"
 
"One hell of a development," Jarod said with an aggrieved sigh. "I assume Lyle has been placed in solitary confinement, no doubt illegally, while you attempt to resolve this."
 
"No doubt," Broots concurred.
 
Jarod lowered his head and closed his eyes. "I can't believe we're having this conversation. There were three ways out of the Centre: homicide, suicide, or with her brain sunny side up. She tried to leave once, tried to leave with Thomas-"
 
"Yeah, you're preaching to the choir," snorted Broots testily.
 
"Choir," an addled Jarod repeated. "What?"
 
"I'm on her side," clarified Broots. "I destroy the evidence this bastard is supposedly holding, and Lyle will be just another litigious criminal tying up the legal system to ward off boredom."
 
"That solves only one of our problems. Talk to me about this other bastard."
 
"Charlie Alan Whitman was employed by the Centre in 1955, worked the graveyard in the cafeteria for two weeks and then hopped aboard the fast track, et cetera. He was made project coordinator in '59 with his sights on the Tower. Concerns were raised several years later when a ten figure project went south. An investigation into the matter was halted by the Tower, as were all future attempts to launch an official query. Whitman was eventually relocated to one of the Centre's Asia ancillary offices and assigned to a desk with a noticeable reduction in salary."
 
"Ten figures," Jarod said, appreciating the man's brevity while simultaneously detesting his vagueness. "Tell me about the project."
 
"In its infancy, it was a legitimate endeavor, one spearheaded by Sydney's brother. Until his accident. And then Raines took over. As you can imagine, Dr. Frankenstien modified his motives to suit his own sordid agenda."
 
"Which was?"
 
"To communicate with his daughter, and ultimately bring her back."
 
Jarod stared blankly at Broots for several moments. Incomprehension morphed into incredulity. Jarod shook his head. "From the dead?"
 
Broots nodded. "Good ol' Dr. Frankenstien. It became a two-pronged project; a portion of allocated resources was redirected on the down-low to Lazarus—uh Raines' ghost project. A secret committee was assembled and Whitman was brought in as some sort of quasi-spiritual advisor."
 
"I don't recall a Lazarus project."
 
"No, you wouldn't. Raines was acting covertly; he outsourced the majority of the research, brought in fresh contractors every few months. Considering the inferred duration," continued Broots with a series of conversational gestures, "he wouldn't have been granted the authorization to uh avail himself of your intelligence, and certainly not without Sydney hovering."
 
"He couldn't afford to risk it," Jarod said and scooped the bottle of scotch off the table.
 
"And when you take into account the abstract nature of Raines' endeavors, your expertise wouldn't have been all that advantageous."
 
"Meaning he sought the expertise of others? Perhaps singled out empaths?"
 
"And telepaths, psychokinetics—that sorta thing," Broots answered with a thinly-veiled scowl that did not go unnoticed by Jarod. Young children probably, mused Jarod, as he spilled a great deal of scotch into a tumbler, children who were gifted, children similar to Angelo. "Raines pulled up stakes," Broots added thickly, "and relocated the entire outfit to some sort of encampment on a private island off the coast of Costa Rica."
 
"Business as usual with a twist," Jarod remarked bitterly and swirled the liquid in his glass. "You said concerns were raised about Whitman," he said, rotating the glass in his hands- aware all the while of how much pressure it would withstand before it shattered in his grasp. With a measure of dread in his voice, he asked hesitantly, "What happened?"
 
"There's reason to believe he abused his position."
 
"Abused his position in what way precisely?"
 
Broots cleared his throat, lifted the untouched tumbler from the desk and poured himself two fingers. "Look, we're talking about the Centre, Jarod. The asshole wasn't all that discriminating."
 
"That's not an answer," Jarod argued.
 
"In every way," Broots snarled. "Like I said," he continued with renewed aplomb, "he belongs in prison. I cross-referenced names, dates, followed the sparse traces of money and blood, and discovered the coordinates of an isolated Centre adjunct wherein DNA was acquired and stored long term. Six months of searching, Jarod, and that," Broots said with a small wave of hand to indicate the envelope, "is the only photograph that exists of the guy. Someone went to a lot of trouble to bury the truth, Jarod. Bury it deep."
 
"Are you going to tell me who was wielding the shovel?"
 
Broots leaned forward, said in a soft, grave voice: "Mr. Parker halted the last three investigations and on those same exact dates, hefty deposits were made to his offshore accounts. He finally sealed the files permanently to the tune of twenty million dollars. Jarod, he personally walked the diskettes down to the incinerator in Disposal. He was interrupted before he could burn them- he stuffed the box into a closet, returned nearly an hour later to find that the box had vanished."
 
Jarod ambled to the chair and sat. "I see," he said, and he truly believed he did. "I know better than anyone how defiant and precocious she was. She shadowed her father, would have followed him to hell to prove she could gain access to the place, but that doesn't mean she took those files, or even saw him, or Whitman," Jarod concluded and regarded Broots neutrally as he advanced and casually topped off both glasses.
 
Jarod found the silence troubling, assertive, oppressive; he spoke to fill it. "Believe me," he said hastily, "I would have been her first stop. She would have persuaded me to smuggle a computer into the vents so she could see what was on those disks."
 
"Perhaps."
 
Jarod eyes narrowed. "What are you suggesting?"
 
"I think it's worth a closer look, Jarod."
 
"At her," inquired Jarod incredulously. "Broots, it's been decades. People repress, dissociate."
 
"I feel that a conversation is warranted," argued Broots.
 
"And what does Sydney have to say about that?"
 
"Absolutely nothing," answered Broots flatly. "Confidentiality," he added by way of explanation. "I thought maybe you could speak to him, convince him to do the right thing."
 
"The right thing for you," inquired Jarod irritably, "or the right thing for her?"
 
Broots clamped his mouth closed, compressed his lips; the expression that crossed his face flitted away before Jarod could identify it.
 
"I assume Sydney's never heard of Lazarus," Jarod said.
 
"You assume correctly."
 
"It's doubtful he was ever in the extortion loop- it's what sets him apart from the Centre witch doctors."
 
"Mhm," Broots managed with a mouthful of scotch, and added with a finger extended, "extortion isn't the only thing that sets him apart."
 
"Murder?"
 
Broots nodded. "The remains of one victim has been exhumed. A child. Female. No evidence," he said, his voice choppy, brittle with anger. He looked at Jarod expectantly. "Sydney isn't being particularly helpful."
 
"The two of you are working at rather obvious cross-purposes. If he's not being accommodating, he has his reasons; I'm inclined to agree with him."
 
"Our goals are the same," interrupted Broots.
 
"Not quite," rebutted Jarod with a tight smile. "Your goal is to put a man in prison."
 
"That's part of it, yes, and I will put him in prison if she does identify him. I will get a confession and Whitman will be dealt with. He won't have an opportunity to hurt another child."
 
"You're awfully confident of that," said Jarod, cynically. "How can you be sure you will get a confession?"
 
"I won't be all that discriminating either," Broots said, ominously. "Any other questions?"
 
"Put a tail on him. Surveill him."
 
"That's a question?"
 
"Yes," answered Jarod. "Please."
 
"You're stalling."
 
"Timing," Jarod explained succinctly. "I get the feeling things are piling up. Give her a few months," he said, and even as the words were spoken, he knew he'd stall Broots at the end of those few months, do anything, in fact, to spare her additional anguish, to spare her the pain of hearing about more of father's misdeeds, of hearing even a reference to the man.
And Jarod knew that Broots would always heed his advice because Broots knew Parker's father was a monster, the worst kind of monster. Broots had read her file, had submitted the requisition for a psychiatrist. Broots possessed the good sense to seek the advice of a psychiatrist rather than confront Parker himself.
 
"In the meantime," continued Jarod, "I'd be happy to take a look at any data you're able to recover. And I know you're not asking my advice, but if you were, I'd advise you to narrow the focus of the investigation to the one person who you know, for certain, can identify Whitman before and after he was shot in the face: the gunman."
 
"Yeah, I'm working on that one," Broots said with a frothy smile, and the same odd expression. Unease.

It ignited Jarod's unease. He'd been half listening, unfocused. He was in no mood for riddles. If only Angelo were here, he mused.
 
Angelo.
Empaths.
Telepaths.
And—
 
Jarod rummaged his irrepressibly analytical mind, contemplated all that Broots had said.
 
And hadn't.
 
He shook his head, attempted to dismiss the truth and found it impossible to do so.
 
"She can take all the time she needs," Broots warmly ceded, and rose abruptly. "Send everyone my love."
 
"Broots," Jarod called.
 
"Yeah?"
 
"Lazarus," said Jarod.
 
Broots observed as Jarod's frown deepened, and morphed into something else, something dangerous.
 
"Telepathy, Psychokinesis—phenomena subsumed under the umbrella of Pseudoscience? Parapsychology? Physiognomy?"
 
"It seems that way. Raines and his life-long love affair with the esoteric. Go figure, huh." Broots pivoted, reached for the door.
 
"Extrasensory perception," Jarod added.
 
Broots toyed with the doorknob. "I think it's safe to assume—"
 
"A sixth sense," interrupted Jarod, thickly. "Inner sense?"
 
Broots tensed. His lips compressed.
 
Silent confirmation.
 
Comprehension unfolded across Jarod's face. His jaw clenched. A muscle in his face twitched. He shook his head, recoiled from the truth, from his own denial, his unwillingness to comprehend the truth.

He ejected himself from the chair, turned his back to Broots.
 
"Whatever it is you think you know, Jarod, forget it. Jarod?"

Jarod pushed his hands rapidly through his hair and over his face a number of times and slipped away inside himself to some unreachable place.
 
Broots, meanwhile, relapsed onto the desk, waited in silence.
 
He started several moments later when Jarod addressed the wall through clenched jaw, "I thought it was her father. I thought-"
 
"What?"
 
"Nothing," Jarod hissed. "She shot Whitman, didn't she?"
 
"I can't confirm that."
 
"You already have. The look on your face when I advised you to narrow the focus- I- I should have realized sooner. Admittedly my mind was somewhere else." Sometime else. Later. And with someone else.
 
"You're here to question the only person who can identify him." Jarod lowered his face into his hands. "She believes he's dead. All these years," Jarod said softly, "she's believed it."
 
"I can't prevent you from speculating."
 
"No more than I can prevent myself from doing it," remarked Jarod crossly.
 
He wasn't merely speculating, however. Jarod recalled her voice months earlier when she alluded to two murders. On the roof, gazing up at the stars, her words had come easily- until the interruption.
 
She hadn't been lulled into complacency by his charms.
 
Jarod hadn't employed his MD-MPH or the doctorate in Psychology to lure her with comforting catch-phrases and a vow of confidentiality. Nor had he exploited his innate skills to beguile (extort or/and intimidate) a confession from her. Parker had made the deliberate decision to step out from behind the false front and share a piece of her life with him.
 
She had revealed no remorse, only a sense of relief. Whatever had transpired had ended. Because she had ended it.
 
Nevertheless, she had never indicated that the murders were justified. And it had never occurred to Jarod to connect Parker's near-confession to his suspicions of abuse or to suspect someone other than Mr. Parker of perpetrating aforementioned abuse. Jarod acknowledged his miscalculations, his misjudgment of her father.
 
There had been a certain appeal to the theory, an irresistible one: how tidy that her father be the only source of every disappointment, every instance of pain. And perhaps comforting, too, in some small way: Mr. Parker was dead. He couldn't hurt her anymore. He couldn't hurt anyone.
 
But Whitman can.
 
"There are no other victims or witnesses?"
 
"Rephrase the question, Jarod."
 
"Is there no one else who can identify Whitman?"
 
"Are you implying that she can identify him," countered Broots. "I never said she could."
 
"Your presence here- here with that photograph implies she can," Jarod insisted hotly.
 
"We can't discuss her. You asked for rules to be put into place. For her. You mentioned a glaringly obvious conflict of interest. You wanted to protect her, allow her to have space, privacy, autonomy, sovereignty- any of this ringing a bell?"
 
"If she's in danger-"
 
"She's not."
 
"Are you certain? Because if she's the only person who can ID him-"
 
"Possibly ID him," corrected Broots sternly. "I have eyes on him."
 
"And you can keep eyes on him until Sydney feels-"
 
"Careful, Jarod," cautioned Broots.
 
"Careful? Broots, she shot the bastard in the face at close range and he is cavorting with Lyle, her brother, and you're—"
 
"The inference-"
 
"Inference," hissed Jarod. 
 
"Inference," Broots repeated. "You've leapt, in a series of hapless bounds, to the worst possible conclusion, and Miss Parker hasn't even seen the photograph yet."
 
Jarod relapsed wearily into the chair.
 
"And that's the only reason I came to you with this, Jarod. I know Syd. I know he'll listen to you."
 
"You want me to return this photo to Sydney, urge him to hold on to it, convince him to show it to her. Do I have that correct?"
 
"He wouldn't even accept the envelope from me. When I tried to leave it on his bureau, he thrust it at me. I got the impression it was going into the fireplace if I left it with him. My only other option here is to approach her myself and uh Sydney knows I won't do that. Hell, I'm not even supposed to be here right now, and not only that but uh if she recognizes Whitman if she uh had any sort of exposure uh-"
 
"I understand," interrupted Jarod. "You care about her."
 
"Of course I do," Broots exclaimed, narrowing his watery eyes at Jarod. "She- she saved my Debbie from Lyle! She's the sister I never had. I owe her! I wouldn't do anything to hurt her. This guy, Jarod, he-"
 
"He should be in prison," Jarod completed the statement.
 
"I hate Lyle for putting me in this position. B-but you know, if she can ID this guy and didn't remember him, uh, well, it might not be such a bad thing that Lyle gave up the name, after all, right? Or maybe I spent too many years with the Centre shrinks. I don't know. But you do," Broots concluded and at last fell mercifully silent.
 
"I'll talk to him," Jarod announced after several minutes.
 
"You will?"
 
"Yes, but I'm going to need something from you."
 
Broots looked askance at Jarod. "I'm not going to like this, am I," murmured Broots dubiously.
 
"No," answered Jarod resolutely, "you're not."

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