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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
"How are those numbers coming?" Jarod asked.
"They aren't," Parker answered. "Broots can crunch numbers with the best of you geniuses; he wouldn't make this magnitude of an error. The Centre might buy it, but the Triumvirate won't."
Jarod nodded brusquely, and asked softly, "What do you suggest?"
"I don't. You're the genius, Mr. Bombsquad," she said tartly, studying the white board Jarod had rolled into the library hours earlier. "A loose wire, faulty detonator, idiotic rodent?" Glimpsing Jarod's frown of perturbation, Parker irritably asked, "What?"
"Uh," Jarod stammered, imagining aforementioned rodent's untimely and electrifying death. "A faulty detonator," he repeated. "Hmm. It works. Initial blast, implosion instead of explosion, RDX slices this," Jarod said, indicating a tiny circle on the blue prints, "steel beam. Gravity does the rest, and the north wall simply falls."
"And puts Bobby's private crimes on public display," Parker said.
"Yes," Jarod agreed. "The second detonator malfunctions, leaving the majority of the building intact. Beneath the north wall, human remains will be discovered, and, later, positively identified as Broots'. This will raise the question of whether or not Broots intentionally detonated the blast while still inside. You're displeased," Jarod said when Parker averted her eyes.
"Damn right I'm displeased," Parker groused. "Broots is taking prescribed antidrepressants. He's talked about suicide."
"I'm aware of that, and I'm sorry."
"But?" Parker asked.
"There isn't a but," Jarod answered softly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that Broots is suffering. I'm sorry that he's talked about suicide. I have a lot of respect for him. He endured his ex-wife's addiction and being a single parent with grace, has always been a wonderful father, and he's watched your back over the years."
"Not to mention he risked his ass helping you with Damon."
"Yes, he did, and I'm not surprised that you knew about that all along," Jarod said with a stern look, and observed Parker grimace as if in physical pain and avert her eyes.
"I'm sorry," Jarod murmured. "Look, I don't like this narrative either. There isn't a better alternative, and we have to be careful not to strain plausibility," he explained. "I'm afraid that means no idiotic rodents. This is the way we save Broots."
"The Director is going to love it," Parker said with a snort of disgust. "You do realize that the Centre is going to install a mole to be present for the fake autopsy, don't you?"
"I do," confirmed Jarod.
"Just how the hell are you going to pull that one off?"
"Carefully," Jarod answered vaguely. "First things first. I need to transfer all of this raw data to the computer, construct a 3D model, and-"
"We have only one chance to do this," Parker interrupted dryly, "so please don't tell me we're going to rely solely on the results of some computer simulation. I need you to be sure about this."
"I am. As a matter of fact, I could do this in a clean, single-take wearing a blindfold, but don't you worry," Jarod assured Parker softly, "you'll get your full RDX dress rehearsal prior to curtain time; it's going to be a blast."
"I guess we'll see," Parker said.
"Yes, we will," Jarod agreed, studying his watch.
"Got a date, Jarod?"
"Date?"
"That's the fifth time you've looked at your wrist."
"I'm expecting a delivery soon."
"Mm, and not even you are capable of being in two places at once."
"No, unfortunately, I haven't quite worked that one out just yet."
"Do you need backup?"
"It's important that I meet them alone, and that I'm punctual."
"I'll input the data," Parker suggested. "Go."
"All right," Jarod said. "Uh," he added gravely, slowing his pace marginally, "listen, if my contact sees you-"
"Our plan blows up in my face," Parker interrupted lightly, "instead of blowing up Lyle's man-cave of horrors. Right?"
"Something like that," Jarod answered softly.
"I'll be here," Parker assured Jarod.
Jarod, displeased with his thinly-veiled ultimatum, nodded affirmation, and closed the door. He hesitated for a moment, contemplated locking Parker inside, and grudgingly reconsidered.
His contact was demanding, and nearly as impatient as Parker, and awaited his arrival at the bottom of a hidden staircase. Jarod observed the figure rise from a crouching position, and extend both arms. He murmured an apology but it was lost in the gnarl of frustration.
"Finally," Emily groused.
"I know," Jarod said apologetically, embracing his sister. "I'm sorry."
"Doubtful," Emily said, dismissively. "Anyway, I met with the plug and procured blasting caps, et cetera, et cetera, everything to meet your blow-some-shit-to-hell-and-back needs. Oh, and one word, Jarod," Emily admonished hotly, "Sedatives."
"Emily," Jarod said sternly.
"What? Oh, no, you're not seriously simping for the queen of the karens, are you, bro?"
"I don't know anyone named Karen," Jarod rebutted with some incredulity, "or what simping means. What about her car?"
"Dad took care of it. Her stuff's in the kitchen."
"You inventoried it?"
"Of course," Emily answered. "No id, weapons, phones, tracking, or recording devices. No change of clothes, which means she's not nearly as high maintenance as I'd pegged her to be, and that she wasn't anticipating a sleepover with you, half a mil in a brief case, four liters of neatly labeled blood collected over the past three years, a dime bag of fingernail clippings, a gallon size ziplock filled with what I'm pretty sure are skin scrapings, and what I hope is chest hair, and not pubes, because ew gross.
But I can't tell you where any of the DNA is supposed to be spilled if I don't have accurate data, and it has to be accurate, Jarod. The assholes are going to enlist a dozen crime scene analysts, and their interpretations have to be consistent with the tale you want to tell. We have no margin for error."
"Everything's going to be fine, Emily. You'll have the data by morning."
"Remind me why we're doing this, Jarod? Why aren't we, at least, blowing up the place while the son of a bitch is still inside of it?"
"Look, I know you're afraid of him, and you have every reason to be, but you don't want to become him. You're better than him."
"I know I am," Emily purred, "and that won't change if I kill him. He doesn't deserve to walk this earth with the rest of us."
"You sound just like her," Jarod informed his sister softly.
"No, I don't," Emily said with a gasp of disbelief.
"Yes, you do. She said he should be put down," Jarod explained.
"She's right," Emily shouted, and stammered hastily, "For once."
"You both make valid arguments," Jarod said. "He's a trafficker, and he's going to be suspected of perpetrating hate crimes. The FBI is going to be dropping by to work with locals on this one. He'll be incarcerated. He might even be convicted here, and, later, when DNA evidence mysteriously appears, extradited back to a death penalty state where he'll stand trial for crimes he perpetrated there when he was a teenager."
"And if you're wrong?"
"I'll handle it."
"I don't like it," Emily murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't like any of this."
"Hey," Jarod whispered, extending both hands to gently squeeze her shoulders. He abruptly dropped his arms at his sides and frowned when Emily jerked away. "I'm sorry," Jarod said, "I didn't mean-"
"I know that," Emily shrieked. "I know, but I need to put some time and space between a conversation about him and physical contact. Okay?"
"Clearly, it isn't okay," Jarod answered gently. "Are you having nightmares again?"
"What do the hell do you think? Hmm?"
"I think it was a mistake to involve you in this."
"I became involved the day I discovered that my brothers were abducted. If that bastard's going down I want to be a part of it. I need this," Emily argued. "This was the deal, Jarod. If you try to renege and bench me now I'll leave here and take him out."
"Emily," Jarod exclaimed breathlessly.
"Besides, you need me. We barely have enough hands on deck. Speaking of, do we have someone inside the OCME?"
"We do," Jarod assured Emily, "Everyone's in position. But I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you took the plane and-"
"No, Jarod, I'm not going home to pace the floor and worry myself sick to make you comfortable," Emily screamed. "Just thinking about doing that is ramping up my anxiety. It's cool, 'kay, bro? And it looks like you've got this," she said, rocking onto the tips of her toes and tussling his hair. "She hasn't bitten yet. But text me if you get in trouble. "
"When have I ever gotten into trouble?" Jarod asked with a wink.
"Only every single time she's anywhere near you," Emily answered crisply, recalling Jarod's capture while attempting to save Parker's life.
Jarod observed his sister's hasty exit, but didn't see her at all. He was thinking not of the tarmac and his recapture, but of Carthis, and almost kissing Parker.
Trouble, indeed, the kind Jarod couldn't quite escape. There simply was no outrunning the speed of memory, and no resistance when we he was transported through time and miles.
He could only stand outside and look in at the memory, never alter events, never choose not to join Parker at the fireplace after all, never change course, disregard Ocee's entrance, and kiss Parker. It was a profoundly unsatisfying journey, and the trip back to present day was always disorienting.
Jarod returned, nevertheless, and drew a deep, fortifying breath prior to entering the library.
"Problem with the delivery?" Parker asked Jarod.
"No, not at all," Jarod answered. "Were you anticipating a problem?"
"I heard shouting," Parker explained, rising.
Jarod fashioned a blank expression and asked with some skepticism, "Did you?"
"How is Emily, by the way?" Parker counter-questioned, pushing an index finger across book spines.
Jarod stiffened, and answered brusquely, "Alive. Free." He studied the computer screen with an expression of approval, and swung his gaze at Parker. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Parker expelled a breath of exasperation, and said, "If I must. Maybe I was too lazy to bring you all in, or maybe I was quiet quitting before everyone else in the world caught on to how they're being fucked by management. I told you I hope you find your mother, and you did. You found them all. You got your happy ending. You win. Does it matter why?"
"It matters," Jarod answered softly. "Uh, but I- I was asking if you wanted to talk about the reason you're pacing the floor right now? Is it Broots, fear that we won't succeed today? Something else, perhaps?"
"I was bored when I finished with the computer."
"Look, I can understand why you're feeling anxious," Jarod said to Parker's back.
"I didn't say anything about feeling anxious."
"You didn't have to," Jarod explained with a modest smile.
"Right," Parker purred bitterly. "You're a Pretender."
"Not with you I'm not," Jarod corrected gently. "Simple logic. You have a valid reason to be anxious. It's possible that they'll appoint you to run the Centre. Or appoint someone worse than Lyle."
"Thanks?" Parker said dully.
"It's important that you prepare yourself for this, for the worst."
"Worse than Lyle," Parker repeated. "I can't imagine," she said, and added blandly, "Mm, and don't want to."
"You don't have to imagine it, and you don't have to run the Centre. You can leave."
"Right," Parker said with a dry laugh. "Because that worked so well last time."
"Look at me. Please. Let me help you."
"No," Parker murmured disinterestedly, shaking her head, "I need to see this all the way through."
"You can do that, and leave, and five hundred thousand dollars will go a long way in buying you a new life."
"A new life for me isn't a part of this plan," Parker argued softly.
"Look, you said you want to pay me for helping you with Broots. This is how you pay me."
"No, Jarod," Parker countered with some incredulity, casually paging through a Kerouac novel. "The five hundred thousand dollars is how I pay you."
"I'll accept the money," Jarod vowed, "if you'll allow me to get you out."
Parker turned her head briefly, and Jarod almost wished she hadn't. Her eyes were filled with an astonishment that bordered terror, and quite possibly contempt. "Jarod," she whispered over her shoulder.
"I want to help you," Jarod pleaded. "That's all I want-"
"Stop," Parker demanded in a voice strained with fatigue. "Broots is the priority here," she continued hotly, turning away once more, "and this has already taken a hell of a lot longer than I wanted it to, and I--- god, can't we just get this over with already?"
Jarod opened his mouth to speak, but faltered.
He both craved and loathed being thrust into the past, recalling some misadventure or other he and Parker had sought in the numerous frigid corners of the Centre. It was all rather Dickensian, he believed; those were, inexplicably, the absolute best and worst of times.
"What the hell are you grinning about," Parker asked, yanking Jarod from reverie.
"A memory," Jarod stammered thickly, "of that morning we broke into one of the Centre's executive suites. You asked that same question then, with almost the same impatience. Can't we just this over with already?"
Bright laughter tumbled from Parker's lips. "Oh, my god, I did," she said, shaking her head. "What the hell were we thinking?"
"If I recall correctly," Jarod answered, "there was very little thinking involved, particularly on your part."
"More like none," Parker corrected, frankly. "Daddy would have killed you if we'd been caught."
"A small price to pay for a second kiss," Jarod informed Parker affably. "You were thirteen, curious to know what all of the fuss was about, and I never could say no to you."
"What? You weren't curious?" Parker challenged thinly.
"Yes, I was, although-uh, I have to confess that the first kiss satisfied a lot of my curiosity," Jarod explained somewhat defensively. "I have an excellent imagination, remember?"
Parker lowered her gaze, and said contritely, "It was careless."
"Careless," Jarod repeated with a soft, flat laugh. "Hardly. You brought light and color into my gray, dull world. I wouldn't have had a childhood at all if I hadn't met you. Did I ever complain?"
"Maybe you should have. Maybe you should now," Parker cautioned.
"No," Jarod said sternly, "I don't believe I will. I knew the risks when we were children. I know the risks now. My family knows the risks, too."
"You could at least take the money."
"I could," Jarod agreed. "But I won't. Not until you're safe in another country. Those are my terms," Jarod added peremptorily.
"Your terms suck," Parker said brusquely, returning the book to the shelf.
"Perhaps," Jarod said. "But my cooking's decent."
"You can't possibly be hungry again," Parker groused indignantly.
"No, but I will be and- uh, are you not acquainted at all with the concept of cooking meals before you get hungry?"
"Do I look like Julia Child to you?"
"Uh, I don't know," Jarod answered quietly. "I don't know who that is, but I do know that you know your way around a knife, and your belongings are already in the kitchen."
Parker turned to face Jarod, and repeated cynically, "My belongings?"
"An assortment of DNA, money. The car, by the way, has been discreetly returned to a parking garage in Blue Cove, and thoroughly wiped down."
"Wiped down?"
Jarod smiled warmly. "Let's just say that even the Centre's highest ranking cleaners would be impressed with the job."
"Mm," hummed Parker lightly, "a genuine above and beyond operation you have here, Jarod."
"Yes, Ma'am," Jarod drawled deeply. "Client satisfaction is of paramount importance to me."
"I'll just bet it is," Parker returned with a throaty laugh. She noticed it then, and a full minute before the truth occurred to Jarod.
The block of space—a solid eight feet of comfortable breathing room—between Parker and Jarod had vanished, had, implausibly, shrank to a mere foot.
Their bodies, free from the shackles of Centre directives and propriety, seemed to have been engaged in their own discourse, and seemed rather confident that they could figure out the entire mess between them if only those pesky brains and the fucking Centre would stop interfering.
More carelessness.
The same kind of carelessness that killed Tommy.
Sobering considerably, Parker took immediate action to rectify the situation. "Lunch," she said casually at the same time that Jarod straightened to his full height, and suggested softly, "Dinner?"
"Dinner," Parker amended with a curt nod, and mutely berated herself, is the correct name of the evening meal.
"Or," Jarod offered amiably, "lunch, if you prefer it."
"I don't," Parker insisted with a quiet laugh. "I don't have a preference."
Jarod nodded and turned to the door. "None at all?" He asked, holding open the door for Parker. "Because we can denounce tradition, call it lunch or even breakfast, and entirely embrace anarchy."
"Speaking of tradition," Parker said, "are you sure you want to trust me with a knife? What would your family say if they knew?"
"Hmm," Jarod murmured thoughtfully, "come to think of it, the knives were kind of expensive."
Parker abruptly stopped walking and stared at him in disbelief. "Expensive," she repeated dully.
"Yes, quite, but it's all right," Jarod assured Parker with a wink, softly addressing her by name, "I won't tell anyone if you won't."
