The frantic cries reached Jarod just as the lift delivered Parker to the top of the slope, one of the steepest in Austria.

He enjoyed watching her descent, the distance between them shrink, the unequivocal completeness of life imitating life, patterns in perfect repetition. She always returned to him, and he had no doubt that she always would; he, nevertheless, wasn't eager to avert his eyes, was, in fact, never inclined to look away from the love of his life. The evident relationship between the two wasn't lost on him: she couldn't possibly stray from him if his eyes never strayed from her.

"Ich brauche einen arzt!"

No.
The doctor is out.

Jarod had no intention of dividing his attention, or of ever again publicly performing the role of doctor. He could not.

I will not. People, Jarod reasoned, die. He had absolutely no desire to intervene with the lives and deaths of strangers, was hyper-focused only on his own destiny, and Parker's.

"Das baby," shrieked the hysterical woman. "Das baby, das baby, er atmet nicht!"

"Fuck me," Jarod murmured, stiffening. He thought suddenly and briefly of Zachary; with the same suddenness fury replaced grief. Jarod loathed parents for dragging children to adult establishments. A mountain is no place for a baby.

He actively avoided all things Disney and family fun, specifically to avoid children, but they invaded even these sacred, exclusive adult spaces in which children had been, for decades, strictly and unapologetically forbidden.

The optimism he'd meticulously cultivated over the years began to wither as the distance closed between himself and Parker. If any event could possibly resurrect a traumatic memory it was a dying child. And if there's blood, Jarod mused silently, recollecting a recurring theme and obstacle that he'd encountered over the years.

Bloody snow. Pink snow. Crimson snow.

Progress had, for several years, begun, and abruptly ended, with some variation of blood and snow.

Hypnosis and various other therapies, including psilocybin therapy, and an assortment of psychedelic experimentation had stalled each time she recalled blood in the snow. It had been a barred door that her mind was determined not to unlock, open, walk through.

Jarod had pried that door open, and pushed Parker into the adjoining darkness to explore hell's labyrinthine corridors; somehow, she'd doubled back, created her own detours, sought solace, found a safe place, and almost hadn't emerged again.

Jesus.

The unfolding chaos may have just as well been orchestrated specifically to destroy his happiness. The notion that his marriage and his wife's mental health was being threatened because some fucking brat's imbecilic parents took a wrong turn on their way to a theme park certainly didn't inspire any news-worthy heroics; hell, Jarod became even less inclined to save the child's life.

With renewed rage, Jarod briskly walked away from the unfolding drama. His only priority was intercepting Parker, and ushering her back to their presidential suite. Within the hour, he intended to be on his private jet with her, and en route to a warmer—and more exclusive—clime.

Most every reasonably sane individual found the news of a dead child jarring, and she would as well, and would process the news similarly.

There was potential prolonged exposure to the traumatic events to consider as well. It wasn't entirely unheard of for resorts to be locked-down, patrons to be detained. The child, a baby, certainly hadn't been skiing. It could be diseased, Jarod thought, becoming infuriated at the thought of a pandemic-proportion response, of Parker becoming ill after all that he'd done to ensure her health.

The police would arrive with questions, regardless, as well as the media, and everyone had a camera in their pocket now, everyone had a blog, or podcast or youtube channel. Someone could be live streaming right now, he thought, seeking out mobiles and cameras. If cause of death was suspicious, if the child had been abducted, if chain of events weren't absolutely clear the police would interrogate everyone, show patrons photographs.

She doesn't need to see images of a dying child, thought Jarod gravely. Not another one. Sirens shrilled and chirped in the distance, heralding the arrival of medics. A helicopter, no doubt prepared to transport the child to a trauma center, hovered somewhere overhead.

"What a shit storm this is," Jarod snarled through clenched teeth and angrily removed his sunglasses.

"It doesn't have to be, Jarod," Sydney said, stepping directly into Jarod's path. "You look different," he added quietly. "But you sound the same- although," added Sydney thoughtfully, studying Jarod's face, and quite incapable of concealing his astonishment. Broots had assured him that Jarod was heavily disguised, that his hair was straw colored and his eyes blue, but Sydney's doubts had never wavered. "I wasn't certain it was you, in fact, until you spoke just now."

Jarod drew to a halt, shook his head.

"That expression looks familiar as well. Are those tinted eye contacts? No, don't try to run," Sydney advised, anticipating Jarod's movements. "Broots has a rifle trained on Miss Parker. Rather than allow you to take her out his sight again, he's determined to have the gunman shoot her, and he's rather confident that she'll thank him for the scars later if it should come to that. I'm inclined to agree with him."

 Jarod eagerly sought the Broots and the rifle, and pleaded angrily, "Tell him to put the rifle down."

"He won't, Jarod. That's not just concern for yourself that I hear in your voice and see in your eyes. You love Parker then," Sydney deduced. "In your own way."

"My own way," Jarod repeated hotly, seething with rage that Sydney—master, mentor, mommy, monster—of all people would once again cast judgement on him, and his relationship with Parker.

"I'm sure you can't understand or recognize genuine love, Sydney," Jarod snarled. "Your idea of love, after all, involves a safe word; one isn't necessary in my marriage. Our marriage is a refuge."

"Jarod," Sydney chided softly. "She's not your wife. She's your prisoner. Just like your were mine, and the Centre's."

"That's a lie. She's never been my prisoner."

"Then let's tell her the truth in its entirety, and ask her which she is, and what she wants to do about it."

"You're not going to talk to her. She doesn't trust you. She'll only--" Jarod's voice dissolved to sudden silence.

"Trust you?" Sydney supplied. "You've adopted Raines' practices then, instead of mine. You knew she'd respond the same way Ethan responded."

"Not the same way," Jarod corrected. "She's been entirely stable for nearly two decades, and I did this, did everything, for her."

"You did it to her, and you did it for yourself, Jarod."

"I did it for her. Her heart couldn't stop loving me, but her mind-"

"Jarod," interrupted Sydney incredulously, "Miss Parker couldn't accept that you hurt her, and she struggled with being a victim, like most victims do, likely because of the stigma attached to being a victim. Unlike most victims, however, she'd undergone decades of psychological and physical training that, she believed, should have enabled her to defend herself against you. The unwarranted shame, coupled with-"

"Shut up, Sydney," Jarod shouted, looking over the man's shoulder, and again seeking a rifle. He pushed a trembling hand over his face and through his hair. "I'm not going to let any of you interfere with our happiness."

"The police are here, Jarod, and they've been apprised of your crimes, and they've invited Interpol to assist. Let me help you."

"No, I," Jarod began, and fell promptly silent. His eyes widened when, several meters away, a man skidded to a halt in the center of the piste. Two more flanked him, and effectively blocked Parker's path. "A trap?" Jarod shouted, dropping his sunglasses into the snow, and shoving Sydney to the ground.

More sirens shrieked, and Jarod ignored them. His eyes were on Parker when she carved a tight arc, and glided down another brutal turn. She glimpsed the men, jerked to full alertness, and sharply spun her skis ninety degrees. She came to an abrupt stop, neatly, and just barely, avoiding a collision.

Jarod noted her hesitation, the temptation to steer her skis in the opposite direction, launch into off-piste terrain, or perhaps speed directly into the men; it was entirely possible that she equated them to bowling pins in that moment, mere barriers to knock out of her way.

The men approached at once, none politely waiting their turns. They appeared to be acutely aware that a fourth or fifth man might be required to subdue her. Broots had cautioned them, evidently.

"Let go of me," Parker demanded, struggling to free her boots of their bindings with her poles while simultaneously wresting herself from the offending hands. Jarod witnessed the precise moment that Parker decided instead to stomp out of her bindings, skis be damned. There were far better uses for the poles; their tips were sharp, after all; they were custom crafted weapons of opportunity.

"No," Jarod shouted in horror, "No, it's okay, don't-" Don't compose a man-kebab, Baby. Please. Not in public, at least, for chrissakes, and with the police and fire brigade a mere gondola ride away. And not in the snow, the no doubt soon-to-be-bloody snow.

Jarod felt as silly as he sounded. His wife was a breath away from skewering a man. If anything at all were even remotely okay he wouldn't be calling her off, talking her down, and terms such as man-kebab wouldn't be a part of his exhaustive vocabulary.

Parker thrust the pole forward once more, and grunted her disappointment when her assailant danced to the side, barely escaping the tip, and a possible punctured liver. He fell to his knees instead, and struggled to get back on his feet. The second assailant, attacking her from behind, was still struggling to draw Parker into his arms while a third, larger man charged courageously her. "Plan B," the second attacker shouted at the first, and explained to Parker, "You're safe now, Ma'am."

"You aren't," Parker snarled, briefly relaxing to allow assailant number two, behind her, to tighten his hold on her. His mistake. She rocked backwards with a cry of exertion, and propelled both feet upwards, and her head backwards; the heels of her boots connected solidly with the third man's chin, and the back of her helmet struck the second assailant's nose. The first assailant returned a second too late, and was obviously poised to inject her with their Plan B.

Parker threw a punch, striking the man's left eye, and advanced on him to mete out additional abuse. 

"There isn't time," Jarod cried, seizing the attacker and executing a sleeper hold. "Are you hurt?" He asked Parker, tightening his grip.

"No," Parker said softly, prying the syringe from the attacker's hand, and removing her goggles and helmet. She lowered her balaclava fractionally, and asked indignantly, "Who the hell are they?"

"Terrorists," Jarod answered smoothly. "We have to stay low and quiet," he cautioned, releasing the unconscious attacker, who in turn, dropped face-down onto the icy piste with a thud that Parker found rather gratifying. "They want hostages— either to kill or for leverage, and as dangerous as it is up here, it's even worse down there. The police are trying to evacuate everyone, but they're outnumbered, and afraid, and innocent people have already been wounded in the crossfire, so hang on to that just in case," he added, dropping his gaze to the syringe, "and I'll get their coats."