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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
The sidewalks were crowded for a Wednesday evening, and too-bright and raucous, particularly when compared to the dreadful silence and dull fluorescent lighting inside the critical care waiting room.
Occasional sobs and anxiety-driven small-talk echoed in the dull room that somehow looked cozy with its worn furniture and artificial plants.
Even if for only a mere coffee quest, Jarod was grateful to be outdoors again, to see faces that weren't frightened or tear-streaked, or filled with unwarranted guilt— regardless of how deeply he loved its conflicted, remorse-riddled owner. Parker had little to say to anyone, and was rather adamant about not leaving the hospital until Sydney was allowed to do so.
The same guilt that had compelled her to wait, alone, and reluctantly join Sydney's family on the fifth floor was the same guilt that demanded she spend several nights on a lumpy sofa in a modest waiting room that she shared with sometimes-hysterical strangers.
She couldn't stop punishing herself.
Jarod similarly reproved himself. Of all the words he'd ever spoken to Parker it was those spoken in anger, while terrified for Sydney, words he hadn't meant, that had most profoundly impacted her. Jarod had explained, numerous times, that he had never suspected her of being involved in Sydney's disappearance, and had apologized. Parker had succinctly acknowledged Jarod's explanations and apology, and hastily excused herself.
Parker had briefly looked in Jarod's general direction when Sydney's neurologist joined them to discuss suspicions of mobility deficits, possible cognitive impairment, short term memory loss.
"Mobility deficits? What are you," Parker stammered, grasping Michele's waist and hand, and helping her sit. "Are you saying that Sydney can't walk?"
"He's experiencing difficulties," the doctor replied somberly, ignoring Michele's quiet sobs, her tremulous, I have to call Nicholas-- and pray. We must pray. "However, his mobility should improve significantly with physical therapy. We're running some more tests right now, and-"
"Should," Parker repeatedly dubiously. "That means his condition might not improve."
The doctor drew a breath, and explained slowly, "I like to tell my patients and their families that a positive attitude is vital, and goes a long way in these situations. You need to remain positive. And perhaps pray."
"Why? Do you suck that much at your job?" Parker had said, tartly, assisting a distraught Michele in standing, and addressing Jarod as if he were an accomplice, "Deal with this, mm? I'll be in the chapel with Michele," she'd continued with a blistering glare at the doctor, "searching for my positive attitude."
Parker's mislaid positivity, unsurprisingly, hadn't been recovered in the hospital chapel, and not even Broots had been safe from her ire when he'd arrived bearing lunch in two large paper take-away totes. His cheerful, "Hiya, kiddo," had been greeted with a glare, and for a brief moment Jarod thought he would retreat, like any rational mammal would. Instead, Broots had snorted disparagingly, and, embracing Parker, cooed, "You don't mean it. Please, take at least one second to celebrate the fact that Sydney is alive," Broots chided, releasing her. "Sydney's alive. Now put that face away before Deb walks in and sees it."
Jarod had feigned interest in a National Geographic article, surreptitiously observed the various exchanges, attempted to label the various relationships, comprehend dynamics.
Parker was some strange amalgamation of aunt, sister, friend, and mother to Debbie. Improbably, she allowed Michele to coddle her; the degree of forbearance she exhibited was indicative of the longing for parental affection, a measure of the loss she'd suffered, the crippling ache for a mother's love— even if it was someone else's mother. Parker had recognized that same longing in Debbie; they were two little girls bonded by pain.
Jarod bore the weight of his regrets, of every miscalculation, misspoken word, the hundreds of people he'd indirectly murdered, however, when he saw Parker and Debbie together and recalled his careful meddling, the meticulously sewn chaos that had sent Broots to Miami on the exact days that Sydney couldn't possibly ask for personal time—all of which resulted in Parker being designated guardian of Debbie for several days—he knew, without a doubt, that he'd made the correct decision. My finest work.
He'd assumed that the three of them would become a family, that Parker and Broots would co-parent Debbie, and they had, but not quite the way Jarod had imagined, and he was selfishly relieved. He'd fallen in love with Parker, and certainly didn't want to begrudge Broots.
Fortunately, Broots had married a woman name Gianna, and the pair were still basking in happily-ever-after warmth. Nicholas and his girlfriend, Willow, were similarly euphoric.
Both men were quite comfortable in their brotherly roles, and, when the Centre wasn't watching, they were permitted to embrace Parker, drape their coats over her shoulders, and call her kiddo, and walk away with all of their limbs still attached-- to the astonishment of absolutely no one, because the version of Parker who dismembered people for caring about her existed only in her mind.
Jarod was, nevertheless, bewildered; his conflicting emotions were in regards to the version of Sydney who withheld information from him. He felt marginally betrayed, wounded, by his former captor, and by Michele and Nicholas. He had confided in them, spent weekends in their home. Jarod had introduced Nicholas to Willow, and, fifteen months earlier, had helped the pair unload the moving truck when they purchased their modest fixer-upper in the country. He was given a key and open invitation to the house, the property, the thriving lake where father and son and other son often fished. "You said we should do this someday," Sydney had reminded Jarod one morning when they were alone in the dinghy, "just you and I."
Jarod couldn't have predicted then that he and Sydney would some day fish in a lake owned by Nicholas, or that Parker would also join Sydney on the lake.
He imagined Parker sitting silently at Sydney's side, casting a line, and lounging on the front porch swing, one of the several pieces of furniture he'd given Nicholas and Willow as house warming gifts.
He imagined Parker gazing at the stars reflected on the lake's surface, and in Sydney's library curled up in a chair with a book and a mug of coffee, in Michele's kitchen preparing meals and laughing softly at psychiatry jokes, safe in the assurance, in Michelle's soothing assurances, that he always celebrated the holidays with his mother, father, and sister-- and with Ethan, too, on alternate holidays.
Jarod couldn't help but to imagine arriving unannounced, and Parker's surprise, as well as his own. An assortment of scenarios paraded, unbidden, through his mind.
Nothing regarding the situation concerned him quite like the secrecy. Did she ask them not to tell me? Why? What the hell was she afraid of? That I'd issue an ultimatum? Force them to choose? Does Ethan know about this?
Oddly, Jarod had not thought at all of Parker's biological twin sibling during those indolent hours spent pondering the chosen family that he and Parker shared, and Sydney's betrayal, and the headaches that must have accompanied the measured, tedious scheduling and subterfuge and how were they able to thoroughly remove every trace of her scent from their homes so I wouldn't know she'd been there? Did I unwittingly alternate Hanukkahs and Rosh Hashanahs with her? Were there close encounters? Near misses? What now?
Jarod recited his order and joined the queue of customers, all swiping at their mobile devices. He was reminded then to turn on his mobile phone, return any missed calls from his parents, Emily, or Ethan. He glimpsed the fifteen voice messages, eight dozen missed calls, and sixteen new text messages, and knew the overkill was a strong indicator that something had gone wrong.
The barista called his name while he read the most recent message from his former colleague in Virginia: I can only assume by your uncharacteristic lack of communication that Ray suffered a grave medical emergency, and was transported to a hospital in your area for treatment. If you'll kindly text me his location, I'll assess him while he convalesces, and, if at all possible, coordinate with medical professionals there to expedite any mental health treatment deemed necessary.
"Your coffees, Sir?" The barista repeated politely.
"Right," Jarod said, gingerly collecting the take-away box, "Sorry."
"Have a terrific evening."
"Yeah, you too," Jarod said numbly, and walked the shortest route back to the waiting room.
He thought of Lyle while handily negotiating the throng of shoppers, recalled how quickly he'd leapt to Sydney's defense, attempted to silence suspicion, conclusions. Lyle had embodied the role of advocate and voice of reason, and had even invited Jarod to suspect him of involvement in Sydney's disappearance. Not that I've ever needed an invitation, but why?
"Please pass these out," Jarod said to Broots, only fractionally slowing his feet.
"Sure. Ah- my triple shot caramel frap. Thank you," Broots said, smiling gratefully. He lost some of his buoyancy, however, when he observed Parker look up from a book and glimpse Jarod approaching her. She'd seen something in Jarod's face that he hadn't, had detected it from across the room, in fact, and quickly rose.
Broots averted his eyes, stared listlessly at his cup. He believed it was truly tragic that two people who were capable of so flawlessly and wordlessly communicating, with just a single glance, had spent a solid ten years not speaking at all.
"What is it," Parker asked Jarod brusquely.
"I need you to call the transport team and verify that Lyle made the appropriate arrangements-"
"Got it," Parker interrupted. "Do you have a-"
Jarod nodded, offered Parker his mobile. She dialed quickly, made inquiries, listened intently.
"The transportation clerk confirmed that Ray was admitted to the New Hope Wellness Clinic in Virginia Saturday morning at precisely ten twenty-five," Parker informed Jarod hastily, dialing another number. "Lyle filed the authorization forms himself, and ordered Terrence and the entire transportation crew to take the weekend-- hold on," Parker said to Jarod and spoke several moments to the Centre's Transportation department supervisor before becoming quiet and shaking her head. Jarod frowned when she expelled a tremulous, "fuck" and met his gaze.
"What did Transport say?" Jarod prompted, gently.
"That Lyle sent everyone home- sweepers, cleaners, maintenance, custodial, technical, and took a van. Damn it," Parker whispered, redialing. "Voice mail.
"Lyle's in a Centre transport van?" Jarod asked, eagerly.
Parker nodded, and, without hesitation, thoroughly extinguished his optimism, "Terrence tried to track the van, but-- God," Parker added, exasperated, pushing a hand through her hair and redialing, "he said the GPS malfunctioned."
"Well that's awfully convenient," Jarod remarked blandly.
"Yeah, Smartass," Parker stammered brusquely. "Lyle trashed it and disappeared--- with Ray, but why? Why would he involve himself in any of this? He doesn't know Ray or-"
The Pretender grimaced, and averted his eyes, silencing Parker, briefly.
"Does he?" Parker demanded.
"I must have overlooked something."
"What do you mean?" Parker asked.
Jarod shook his head absently, pivoted.
"Wait," Parker shouted, extending a forestalling hand, as if intending to physically stop him. He drew to a halt, observed as she dropped her hands at her sides. Infuriated, and, with an expression of mortification, she asked, "What are you doing?"
Jarod believed the question was directed as much at herself—if not more so—as at him. He answered, nonetheless.
"I'm going to find Lyle. Okay?"
"No, it's not okay. He's my brother," Parker asserted when Jarod turned once more. "Jarod, what the hell aren't you telling me?"
"I don't know-- yet, and there isn't time to explain right now," Jarod exclaimed, hastily walking toward the nearest exit.
"Then you'll explain in the van," Parker insisted, jogging to catch up with him.
In the van, however, Jarod was hesitant, distracted by traffic.
"You think Lyle knows Ray," Parker prompted, again.
"I think it's possible, and I think Sydney knew. It's why Sydney concealed files and DSAs."
"No- no. I hate to agree with Lyle, but-"
"Then don't," Jarod advised. "I know he was eager to find Sydney, that he urged me not to jump to conclusions, and I truly believe he wanted to find Sydney alive."
"But?"
"He knew when we found Sydney we'd find Ray, too, and finding Ray was his primary motivation."
"My God, Jarod, you don't actually believe that Sydney knew about Project Oblivion and did nothing to stop his brother and Raines."
"I don't know."
"You don't know? Jarod, this is Sydney we're talking about."
"Yes, I'm aware, and, unfortunately, Sydney worked for the Centre, and sometimes that means-- well, I really don't think you need me to tell you what it means."
"Let me guess: you think Lyle was involved, too?" Parker asked.
"I don't know. I found only a fraction of the truth, because I wasn't searching for Lyle at the time, and because his dossier contained the details of only a fraction of his life."
Parker nodded, thoughtfully, and softly confided, "Sometimes I forget that he wasn't always Lyle."
"No," Jarod agreed, "he wasn't. I think it's time we both became better acquainted with Bobby Bowman, don't you?"
"We should be searching for him, not sifting through his past."
"You said teams are searching for him in rotating shifts, and still haven't found him. Did they search the Bowman home?"
"The entire property," Parker answered, "the farmhouse, all of Lyle's properties."
"You and Ray spoke for several moments, and you cuffed him. Did he say anything to you-"
"No, not about Lyle," Parker interrupted.
"Did he talk about his childhood, parents, a home?"
"The standard Centre fuckery. He was relieved that I cuffed him," Parker added hastily, and, glimpsing an exit sign, asked, "Jarod, where are you going?"
"Hmm, you're probably gonna wish you'd asked that question prior to jumping in the van with me," Jarod answered softly, and with a deep frown, said, "You said Ray was relieved. Why was he relieved? Why did he discard the gun?"
"He said he committed crimes, has a---an astonishing criminal history were his exact words."
"Did he provide details?"
"No," Parker answered resolutely and then amended, "Only that he's never harmed a woman. Why are you going to the loft?"
"Because it's a safe house, and the only other way I can do this is by strolling through the Centre lobby with full access- which would be quicker, but, unfortunately, I'm a Centre fugitive."
"Miss Bisset can give you everything you need."
"That's generous, Miss Parker. I'll call her from the safe house, ya know, where you won't be caught fraternizing with a Centre fugitive slash your arch nemesis, the pretender you are supposed to find and return to the Centre. Or are you eager to be my Centre cell mate?"
"I'm interim Director now," Parker mused, aloud, "and I can do whatever the hell want."
"With tower approval," Jarod interjected.
"And what I want to do," Parker continued, "is send everyone home."
"And how do intend to pull that one off, Madame Interim Director?"
"I don't need Tower approval for drills or security upgrades."
"True," Jarod agreed, "when the Director is absent from the premises for any period of time the second in command is permitted to initiate a variety of security sequences deemed necessary to safeguard the Centre and its interests."
"I'm ordering a Centre-wide security upgrade, effectively immediately, precipitated by recent breaches. Mm," Parker added with a smile, "but primarily because I fucking say so."
Jarod nodded. "I like it. I still need to pick up some tactical gear from the loft, unless you object?"
Parker didn't. It would have been impractical to do so. The safe house, a three story, once-industrial loft housed secure wifi, secure telephone lines—on which Parker could execute an immediate evacuation—in addition to tactical gear. She'd last seen the loft in her rear-view mirror, just after her hasty departure ten years earlier, and had forgotten as much about the place as she remembered. She knew where all of the false walls were, and how to gain access to every possible route to the hidden panic room, and that the massive interior sliding metal door could be stubborn.
She didn't recall the security cameras, however, or the recessed lighting on the front's exterior, and had no memory at all of her suitcase, of leaving it behind, and she was stunned to see it again, see it so strangely out of place at the foot of the stairs, exactly where she'd left it.
The gun Jarod had held to her head days earlier sat atop a long, squat metal table; she observed a globule of water form, bulge, and drop from its barrel, the well-oiled barrel of a meticulously maintained water pistol?
"Love what you've done with the place," she purred, dryly, with a cursory appraisal of the unchanged ground floor. The large drafting table, the curtains, the lamps were the same. The thread-bare floor runner, purchased from a consignment shop, hadn't been replaced.
The dried, brittle stems of wildflowers that she and Jarod had plucked from the earth ten years earlier remained in a tall, thin glass vase whose bottom was now marred with a dry dark green residue, the withered remains of what had once, and all too briefly, been beautiful, and Parker believed it was absolutely nothing if not metaphorical.
She wanted to leave the loft, again, and just as quickly.
"Do you remember where the communications room is?" Jarod asked.
"I'll find it," Parker answered softly.
"I'll meet you back here in ten," Jarod said.
"Yeah," Parker agreed, but the loft felt much too confining, haunted, far more haunted than any Scottish Isle or cemetery. She placed her calls, and hastily exited.
Jarod found her, ten minutes later, in the van, gazing at the passenger side window, seeking solace in silence- an exercise in futility, no doubt, but Jarod believed she deserved an opportunity to try, at least, and that if either of them could ever attain even a single moment of peace it should be her.
He broke the silence when they were only a half mile from the guard gate. "We can't be too careful," he said, studying his mobile's screen. "Angelo installed cameras several years ago," Jarod explained. "You refused to do your job, follow leads. I was worried. Hmm," Jarod hummed. "It's deserted. You activated AI?"
"Of course."
"Including the guard gates?"
"We're wasting time, Jarod."
"I wasted nearly thirty years' worth of time imprisoned there, but, please, tell me more about wasting time."
"Don't worry, Jarod, if I see a human I'll kill it. Drive."
Parker was, typically, a woman of her word, however, she didn't anticipate encountering a human just then, let alone two dozen of them from the local precinct, bearing badges and brandishing guns.
She and Jarod both, in fact, were stunned by the approaching sirens, the appearance of patrol cars outside the Centre gates.
"What the hell?" Parker murmured, pausing her floor-pacing to peer through the windows.
"What?" Jarod called, his eyes never straying from the computer's monitor.
"We've got company. Police," Parker answered curtly. "Have you found anything yet?"
"Yes," Jarod answered softly. "Printing now. It's not good news. Your brother and Ray were sequestered here prior to being placed with foster parents. They've uh-- met, unfortunately. Ray told you he's never harmed a woman. He hasn't. He has, however-"
Parker thrust two forestalling hands in Jarod's direction, and, exasperated, declared, "If Lyle wants me to know he'll tell me himself."
"That's rather charitable of-" Jarod began, but then fell silent and frowned. "Is that--- Lyle's voice?" He asked after a few moments. "A bullhorn?"
Parker shook her head, studied the wall of monitors behind her. "No," she said, "he's patched into the Centre's old intercom system. There," she added, pointing at a screen. "The signal's in the south wing, in the cells."
"Where it all began," Jarod whispered.
"Where it began?" Parker asked. "That means he's planning to end it there. Damn it," She stammered, hastily turning.
"We're already too late," Jarod shouted, running to catch up with her. "Lyle knew you'd order an evacuation, that there'd be no one here to intervene, no guards to counter the police presence."
"Shut up," Parker groaned.
"I'm sorry, but it's the truth," Jarod said.
"Not you," She clarified. "Lyle. He needs to shut up. The Centre has retained some of the most brilliant lawyers in the country; he's not doing himself any favors by confessing."
"Or directing police to Ray's body," Jarod added somberly. "He is planning to end it here. What are you going to do? Throw yourself between Lyle and a dozen drawn guns?"
"I sure as hell am not going to sit on my ass while the police murder my brother," Parker vowed, running through the corridor, sharply antithetical, Jarod believed, to her earlier position of kill anything that gets in the way.
The earlier promise was enthusiastically abandoned for a more noble one, a promise she was capable of honoring, and, ultimately, Parker would save a life, regardless of Lyle's fierce opposition to being saved.
"Think about it, Parker," Lyle argued, impassioned. "It can end here, all of it. Jarod," Lyle said in a tight, dull voice, turning his gaze to the Pretender, "I unlocked that door for a reason-- and, now, here you, master of barricades. Let. Them. In."
Jarod simply shrugged, retrieved another chain.
"All of what?" Parker demanded.
"The hell," Lyle answered simply. "The evil. You said yourself I'm a sociopath, spawned under some rock, if I rememer correctly. I need to be put down, like a rabid animal, before I kill everyone I've ever cared about."
"You just admitted that you're capable of caring about people."
Lyle grinned, rebutted gently, "Cujo cared about his humans, too, prior to the incident with the bat. Nevertheless," cooed Lyle.
"You need some help, Lyle," Parker continued with a dismissive gesture.
"Help--- is code for institutionalization, isn't it? Raines wanted to help me by institutionalizing me as well- which is how I met Ray. And Ray is the reason I am what I am. And you already know what my thoughts are in regards to the monstrous prison industrial complex, mass incarceration, corruption, atrocities, abuses. I'd rather die here, right now, than spend the remainder of my life in prison."
"Is that the plan?"
Lyle smiled warmly, answered softly, "Those officers outside are going to take one look at the mess I made of Ray, decide I'm an animal, and open fire on me. I know it. You know it. Get out of the way, Parker, and let them do it. Uh- and take Jarod with you."
"Mom will never forgive me if I let you do this. You and I came into this world together. I'm your older sister."
"You're not really going to pull the older sibling card on me now, are you?"
"No," Parker said, coolly, kneeling at his side. "I was distracting you."
"From what?" Lyle asked with a frown of concern. He was promptly answered by the dull sting of needle. "What the hell," he groused, glaring first at his aching shoulder, and then into Jarod's face. "No," Lyle stammered, frantically, and then, struggling to rise, shouted, "Help."
"Why is he still resisting?" Parker asked, tightening her grasp on her brother's shoulders. "Shouldn't he be asleep already? You said the drug is fast acting."
"I didn't say instant," Jarod said, defensively. "He's more afraid than angry," Jarod observed, and advised Parker, softly, "Hold him tighter. Talk to him," Jarod stammered. "Tell him he's going to be okay. Tell him."
The words rang false, even on Jarod's lips. Nothing was okay. Lyle most certainly wasn't okay, and Parker didn't believe he would be in the immediate future- or that he ever truly had been. He'd carefully orchestrated his death via cop, after all, and had most likely dismembered one of his tormentors; there was nothing okay about that.
"Even if you were never going to be okay," Parker said to Lyle, "Mom wouldn't give up, and neither will I. She wouldn't give up. She'd never give up on you."
Jarod loosened his hold on Lyle, and said in a voice colored with relief, "That's better."
"Is it?" Parker asked Jarod, gazing with sympathy at the tears in her brother's eyes, the genuine agony twisting his face. "He's sobbing."
"Keep talking to him," Jarod said.
Parker quietly spoke the only words that felt appropriate, words that no one else had ever offered Lyle, words his foster father and Ray—the two people who had most severely wounded him—had denied him and neither of them were ever sorry for hurting me anyway.
Parker repeated the words until Lyle fell silent, and still, and, at last, succumbed to sedation- and she meant them.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Chapter End Notes:
Autocorrect is a little itch. *shrugs*
