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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Harrison, Arkansas, United States
Beneath a cerulean sky filled with cirrocumulus clouds, Lyle stepped from the jouncing sedan and quietly informed the driver, "You're murdering the god damned transmission, Joe. Two words: Parking. Brake."
Christ, the imbecile drives like my sister.
Straightening, he pivoted away from the lowered window, and, squinting beneath the midday sun, ordered neutrally, "Inside, Sam. Move. I'll search the loading dock."
Before departing the sidewalk, forsaking the beaten path and forging his own, Lyle searched the empty parking lot for police cars and passersby.
He scrutinized a mail truck pulling away, empty aside from the woman behind the wheel and dozens of packages. In full view of a bustling town, he rounded the structure's corner and threw himself at the chain link fence, losing his footing twice.
"Whoa," exclaimed Lyle when two strong hands plucked him from the barrier. "What the," stammered Lyle, becoming exponentially more infuriated when he was interrupted by condescending baritone.
"Can't you read? No trespassing."
"Jarod?"
"Lyle," returned Jarod, mimicking Lyle's astonishment, mocking him cruelly.
Brutally and entirely unchoreographed, Jarod spun Lyle into the wall, briefly losing his balance during the clumsy pirouette. Fluidly, hastily, the pretender seized Lyle's neck in one strong hand and drew a Glock from a holster.
Delirious with rage and frightened for Sydney, Jarod tucked the barrel beneath Lyle's chin, jerked upwards, gaining Lyle's undivided attention.
"What," purred Lyle. "No foreplay? How uncouth, Jarod."
"Where is Sydney?"
Lyle laughed dryly, said, "Gonna kill me, Jarod?"
Jarod's jaw clenched, his trigger finger twitched. He dragged the gun's barrel painfully over Lyle's chin, pressed it firmly against compressed lips, and, quite unable to resist the temptation and eager to dispense with Centre charades, thrust it forward, into Lyle's mouth, disregarding teeth, halting only when Parker's brother expelled a dry retching cough, nevertheless answering the question:
Lyle was certain Jarod would kill him.
"Did you have anything to do with his disappearance? Do you know where he is? Blink twice if the answer to either of those questions is yes."
Lyle's sodden eyes remained opened, intent.
"Don't make me kill you, Lyle," Jarod cautioned, his voice tremulous with rage, his face twisted in an anguished grimace.
Jarod pushed the Glock a fraction farther and grunted his consternation when Lyle closed his eyes and attempted to contort his neck, more comfortably accommodate the invasion.
"Don't lie to me," Jarod shouted, unconsciously squeezing Lyle's neck and observing—in fascination—blue eyes widen in terror. A rictus of perverse delight that would haunt Lyle until his death distorted Jarod's face when Lyle began convulsing. Cries that sounded strangely unlike anything approximating human emanated from Lyle's throat.
Oh, God. He's not lying.
Veins protruded from arms that shuddered violently with equal measures of exertion and restraint. Jarod feared himself more in that moment than he'd ever feared Raines.
Jarod snarled an obscenity, jerked the gun from Lyle's throat, and relinquished his grasp. Vanished.
