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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
The human body is an absolute marvel of biological engineering; its control center, however, a more superior entity, had always profoundly fascinated Sydney.
The mind, Sydney had repeated on innumerable occasions, was capable of almost anything to protect its host. The body wasn't quite as vigorous, impregnable; Sydney's certainly wasn't. The psychiatrist was dehydrated, defenseless, non-ambulatory, entirely incapable of rising, exiting his captor's pitiable domicile.
Sydney's mind suffered no such encumbrances. Decades earlier, he'd discovered and seized upon the mind's resourcefulness, and had successfully escaped the confines of his body and the hellish death camps. Sydney fled to the safety of his mother's arms while his small body, imprisoned and imperiled, endured pain, and while his mother and father both lay dead in mass graves.
Determined to die anywhere else, Sydney, once again, stepped outside of himself and into his childhood home.
Fresh bread filled Sydney's nostrils, replacing the putrid stench of feces and decaying flesh. His mother embraced him, his father and brother laughed exuberantly. Sydney remained only conscious enough of his body to know it was hundreds of miles away, and that it was dying.
The monotonous voice threatened to breach Sydney's delicate refuge.
"All other treatments have proved futile," Sydney's captor announced somberly, fondling a rusted, antiquated instrument that certainly would have filled Sydney with terror had he been cognizant. "You," the man continued didactically, addressing Sydney's inert body, "are an out of control, raging psychopath, Doctor Jacob Mikhail. This procedure, commonly referred to today as psychosurgery, involves cautious, precise techniques, and will, I believe, provide restoration; however, I prefer the hell for leather, negligent techniques used, Doctor, when the procedure was used on me, when it was called, simply, transorbital lobotomy.
How rather strange that you believed damaging my brain, reducing me to a mere inutile house plant, something deposited near a window and watered daily, would alleviate my emotional anguish.
Evidently, Doctor Jacob, you're more insane than I ever was. Perhaps this procedure will accomplish for you what you believed it would for me. Oddly, you failed in your endeavors, evidently, and you haven't issued an apology or acknowledged your failure. Your continued silence indicates you're not remorseful.
I won't be either. Before I begin be advised that if you're compelled, at any moment, to shriek it's not necessary to restrain yourself.
No one will hear you.
No one will save you from this."
Sydney's captor wasn't wrong.
Jarod wasn't going to kick the door down in the fabled and widely celebrated eleventh hour and interrupt Sydney's abductor precisely one second before Sydney's brain was penetrated.
Nor would Parker be blasting the door off its hinges in an exhausted, and, oftentimes, implausible nick-of-time crusade, and shooting the rusty instrument from the man's hand just before its sharp point disappeared beneath Sydney's eyelid.
There was no doubt, however, that Parker longed to shoot at Sydney's abductor, and, in fact, fully intended to do exactly that, and kill him, when Sydney was home again, and safe, because Sydney, like Broots, was one of her people.
Parker believed Broots and Sydney both were irritating and overbearing, and often tiresome; they exchanged ridiculous dad jokes, they laughed at ridiculous dad jokes, and drove her absolutely mad, particularly when they got themselves abducted I mean-- Jesus! Is Sydney trying to drive me completely fucking batshit crazy? but they were, indeed, her people, and no one fucked with Parker's people.
Plotting revenge soothed and centered her.
Parker considered anger, too, a balm, a mechanism for survival, resolution, restoration of control. Anger was straightforward and unchanging in its nature, and provided her a clear path with established protocols, from the initial stirrings that accompanied witnessing a wrong, or, being wronged, to discharging her weapon and corpse disposal.
Fear is an entirely different beast, a boundless aperture; she was vigilant, careful not to tumble. She feared losing herself in fear, feared the inability to find her way back from the abyss.
She tightened her grasp on anger, clung with the desperation typically exhibited by someone who'd had already slipped over the precipice. When the mobile vibrated in her damp palm she answered too eagerly in a voice that sounded entirely foreign to its owner, and excruciatingly familiar to the caller.
"Broots," Parker murmured into her mobile, the despondent monotony indicating a complete absence of optimism, "tell me you've found him." The answering silence was unbearable, presaged disaster. Impatiently, Parker added in a voice both tense and tenuous, "Broots, say something."
"We'll find Sydney," Jarod vowed softly, tendering a promise he wasn't certain he could honor, and particularly when he considered all that he had, and had not, discovered in the previous four hours.
Parker immediately recognized the caller, the intimation of remorse and concern, the intimacy, an intimacy and tenderness in Jarod's voice that, unbeknownst to Parker, was, and had always been, reserved exclusively for her- even if meted out in small doses.
Jarod heard Parker's breath of disappointment and tried not to take it personally. "Are you alone?"
"For all intents and purposes," Parker answered quietly. "The painkillers finally caught up with Lyle."
"How is Nicholas holding up," Jarod asked, solicitously. "Did you get him all settled in at Sydney's?"
"How the hell did you know that?"
"I guessed," answered Jarod, humbly. "You and Sydney are close," he explained. "In fact, I have it on awfully good authority that Sydney considers you his daughter. It's entirely conceivable that a father would give his daughter the key to his home, and that you'd offer the key to Nicholas, because you knew he'd want to stay there, and because you love Sydney. I," Jarod added contritely, "I was wrong, afraid, angry, impulsive, and I'm sorry for-"
"I don't care," Parker interrupted wearily. "I just want to find Sydney."
"That's why I called. I have an update regarding the blood you retrieved, and Raines' disappearance, and I thought we could arrange a meeting, perhaps tomorrow morning or-"
"If you have information about Sydney," interrupted Parker, fiercely, "I want to hear it now."
Three urgent raps at the door prompted Parker to hastily rise, and amend, "I'll call you back."
"Broots," Parker called, reaching for the door and pulling it open, "did you-" She fell silent, averted her eyes from Jarod's sympathetic expression, and, simultaneously, reached instinctively for the nine millimeter at her waist- a symbolic measure considering Parker had left her weapon on the console table. Jarod was, nevertheless, stung.
Wordlessly, Parker pushed the door completely open and swiveled on four inch pumps.
"Does that mean I can come in?" Jarod asked.
"You're asking?" Parker indignantly counterquestioned. "My God," she hissed, scooping a bottle of scotch from the drinks tray and pouring herself two fingers. "I wasn't even aware you knew how to knock."
"I suppose," Jarod said softly, entering Parker's home and quietly closing the door, "that I'm evolving."
"Why are you here?"
"You indicated you didn't want to wait until morning. If I was mistaken I'll go. Were you," Jarod asked, guardedly, surveying the room, "busy?"
"I'm expecting a call from Broots."
"Regarding the blood and latents?"
"Sydney could be dying so if you could fast-forward to the summation, Jarod, I'd appreciate it."
"The blood is Sydney's, just as you suspected. Unfortunately, none of the latent prints were useful and none of the samples collected in adjacent homes were helpful."
"Wow," Parker exclaimed bitterly, lifting the tumbler to her lips and quickly swallowing its contents, "you could have saved us both some time by simply telling me that we are fucked when you called."
Parker returned the empty glass with a sharp thud, punctuating her sullen analysis, and startling Jarod.
After some swift contemplation, The Pretender said, "You broke into neighboring homes and sprayed luminol?"
"I've never trusted anyone that intentionally impales their lawns with pink flamingos. And have you seen their mailboxes," Parker added disdainfully. "Sweaters on mailboxes, Jarod. You can't tell me that isn't insane." And Jarod couldn't, really, if he was being honest. "They are hiding something. All of them. I can feel it," Parker hissed, curling fingers into fists, and Jarod knew then that Broots hadn't been exaggerating.
Broots had stammered lamentations and issued bizarre threats to Jarod in a rather endearing demonstration of solidarity with Parker. At the conclusion of Broots' frenzied upbraiding Jarod had only an abstract understanding of the relationship between his huntress and an alleged rabbit hole, and enormous concern regarding Broots' caffeine intake.
Jarod easily agreed with Broots that Parker's behavior was, indeed, irrational, and had, in fact, been for a number of decades; it was no recent development. Jarod was thoroughly puzzled, and suspected that Broots' memories had been expunged down in the Centre's renewal wing.
"Do you mind if I sit?" Jarod asked.
"When did you decide to care if I mind? You break in, threaten-" Parker fell silent with alarming abruptness. The rage dissolved with the same suddenness it had erupted from her. "Jarod," she whispered tremulously, "what are we going to do?"
"There's nothing else you can do right now," Jarod answer softly, "except rest."
"Rest," Parker repeated in evident disgust. "Sydney is possibly dying, and boy wonder's solution is to rest. Are you stupid?"
"Occasionally, yes," Jarod answered, calmly, and seated himself in the nearest chair. "Look, I know you're frightened, but-"
"You," Parker shouted in renewed rage, thrusting a finger in Jarod's direction, "don't know anything."
"I know Raines is gone, and I don't believe he's coming back, and I'm afraid that whatever happened to him is going to happen to Sydney."
"You arrived at that conclusion-- how?"
"Raines' protracted absence pinged the radar. He's made no withdrawals or deposits, hasn't paid his bills in months. Broots' random acts theory held when only Sydney was missing, but now I believe it's time to consider-"
"Someone from the Centre is involved," Parker interrupted impatiently, completing Jarod's sentence. She dropped her arms at her sides, returned to the sofa. "What now?"
"The police have a few leads, and Broots tells me that Lyle's file wasn't the only one hidden in Sydney's office. I'm going to work that angle, dive deeper into Raines' files and the Centre's mainframe, give you and your team some time to recharge."
Parker's lips parted in incredulity. "We don't need a recharge, Jarod," Parker asserted. "Collaborate with Broots."
"Broots briefed me an hour ago while I was towing his car from the ditch that he crashed into when he fell asleep behind the wheel."
Parker paled, stammered hesitantly, "Is-- Broots all right?"
"Shaken up. This time," Jarod added sternly. "I assessed him, drove him home. Broots was lucky. Next time he might not be."
"There won't be a next time," Parker vowed, "I guarantee it."
"Good luck with that," Jarod said, dully. "Broots agreed to rest only after I threatened him with intravenous sedation. I'll let you in on a little secret," he continued with a conspiratorial smile, "Broots is more afraid for Sydney's safety than he is of you. We're all afraid for Sydney," Jarod added with some delicacy, taking care not to resurrect Parker's rage.
"You're inviting trouble by hacking into the Centre," Parker argued belatedly. "I can access all of Raines' physical and network files, and the mainframe. "I'm inside the Centre."
"A breach from inside the Centre would raise suspicion, potentially endanger you and Broots," Jarod explained gently. "A breach from other corners, from me, would be another day at the Centre."
"I am not going to do nothing, Jarod," Parker snarled.
"No, of course not, and you won't be doing nothing," Jarod assured Parker, entreating rather than demanding. "You'll be waiting for either me or Sydney to contact you.
Sydney is going to need your A game," he added gently, and observed Parker's gesture of acknowledgement. Jarod answered Parker's tacit agreement with a satisfied nod and rose.
"If you discover anything," Parker said, promptly, "call me."
"I will," Jarod vowed, opening the door. Tapping the wood with a fingertip, he advised emphatically prior to closing the door behind him: "Lock this."
