A/N - Thanks to everyone who is still reading this story.

Disclaimer in part 1

Guilty
by imagine

Part 27/?

She had no intention of breaking the solitude he had so consciously sought out. Silently, she lowered herself onto the bench that was pushed against the house and stared silently at the man's back. Illuminated by nothing but the moon and the falling snow, he was hunched over, his elbows resting on the edge of the railing. His attention seemed trained on the yard that was quickly being blanketed with a fresh layer of white but there was no doubt in her mind that he knew she was there.

Smiling to herself, she admired the rippling of the muscles in his legs and buttocks as he straightened. His weight shifted from one leg to the other and, slowly, his arms spread to his side. Using his bare hands to grip the wooden handrail, Jarod rose to his full height. Even from where she sat, though, she could see the falling temperature had begun to take its toll on the exposed skin of his hands but, before she could comment, he curled them into fists and hid them in the depths of his jacket pockets.

"You don't need to sit here, with me," he said softly. "I'm all right."

She smiled to herself and pulled her coat tighter. "Who said I was out here because of you? Maybe I like watching the snow fall, too."

Turning half way, he looked at her, then shook his head and redirected his gaze back to the yard. "You don't do cold well, Parker. Go inside. There are blankets, a fire, warm drinks . . ."

"And your family," she finished.

"Yes," he nodded, turning back toward the yard, "And my family."

She frowned, unsure of how to categorize the tone of his voice. It wasn't sad, nor was it annoyance, but somewhere in between. "It's been a long day, Jarod. Come inside."

"Go ahead, without me. I'll be along in a little while," he replied quietly.

"You've been out here for over an hour."

Jarod bowed his head thoughtfully, but did not face her or make a comment.

Rising from the bench, Miss Parker wrapped her arms around her mid-section and moved to his side. With only the outsides of their arms touching, she whispered, "Talk to me."

Shaking his head, he took a deep breath. "There is nothing to talk about."

"Of course there is. You have been waiting your whole life for the moment when your entire family would be gathered in one place. Why are you out here, by yourself?"

Flexing the muscles in his back, he pushed at the inside of his jacket pockets, bringing the wool coat closer to his body.

"Do you realize that, a little over a week ago, I was standing on a porch very similar to this one with her?" he asked, his eyes still trained on the falling snow. "I was so frightened of disappointing her and of not being the son she wanted me to be that I was willing to do almost anything to please her."

"So, this is about you mother," she muttered bitterly. "I should have known."

Continuing as if he had not heard her comment, Jarod said, "She wanted me to leave without her. She told me that it wasn't safe for us to be together. Maybe I was being selfish. Maybe I was being arrogant but leaving her was the one thing I could not do, regardless of her wishes."

"You wanted your family to be together," she reminded him. "No one could fault you for that."

Though he did not face her, he smiled sadly. "So many things would have been different, if I had just done what she wanted."

"Different isn't always better."

Nodding, Jarod took a deep breath and straightened his stance. She waited for a response, watching him stare blindly at the trees in the distance for almost a full minute before slipping her hand into the pocket of his jacket and gently laying her hand over his fist.

"If you had left without her, your family would not be whole."

"My family is far from whole, Parker," he murmured. His pocketed fingers opened and gently slid between hers. "We are together, thanks to you, but we are still strangers. Right now, the only bond we share is our hatred and fear of the Centre."

"It's a start."

"This is not how I imagined it would be," he admitted. "Our conversations are strained, unless they are about the Centre, and our smiles are too hesitant – too unsure. For as long as I can remember, I believed that, somehow, my family had a connection that the Centre could not break. It may have been a childish dream, but I wanted my family reunion to be perfect. I wanted our reunion to mean that everything was all right and we were safe."

"That's why you were so angry, and hurtful, when you found out I contacted your father."

There was no question but Jarod nodded slightly.

"Nothing is perfect, Jarod, but everything will be all right. You, of all people, should know that nothing worthwhile comes easy. It takes time." Despite the nod, sheepish smile and the search of her face, she felt Jarod's hand shift in hers. Afraid he would pull away, she increased her grip. "And I have seen you with your parents, Jarod. You do have a strong connection."

"It is not as strong as it appears. The only reason my mother got in my car that day was because she had no choice. I refused to leave without her."

"You did not force her into the car, Jarod. There is always a choice and your mother made the one she thought was the best."

"No. She was appeasing me as if I were a small child who was insisting on crawling into bed with her."

Miss Parker frowned. "I don't understand."

"Children who fall asleep in their parents bed seldom wake up in the same place. During the night, they are carried into their own bedroom."

"So?"

"So, in the morning, instead of waking up where they fell asleep – between the two people they feel safest with in the world – they find themselves in their own rooms, alone.," he explained, sadly. "My point is that, even if we had not been separated by the accident, at some point, I would have awoke and discovered my mother was gone. She did it to Emily. She would have done it to me, eventually, as well."

Reaching up with her free hand, she stroked the side of his face, gently pulling his lips to hers. The kiss was brief but tender and, when it was complete, Jarod released a soft sigh.

"You are not alone," she whispered. "You have a house filled with people who care about you."

"I know."

"But it's not enough, is it?" she sighed, stepping back. "You need her approval, don't you?"

"She's my mother."

"You met her, for the first time in over thirty years, a week ago. Why are you letting her do this to you? Why are you so willing to take the blame because she is –a- too stupid to allow herself to trust you, and – b – too heartless to keep it to herself?"

"She is not a heartless woman," he snapped, his eyes flashing as glared at her. "I am glad she, at least, felt at ease enough with me to be truthful. Trust has to be earned, Parker. Who should I blame because I haven't been able to do that? Her?"

"Damn straight you should blame her," she hissed. "She should be the one asking for your trust, not the other way around. You just told me that, even if the accident hadn't occurred, she would have ditched you at the first opportunity! Why do you insist on defending her? You almost died because . . ."

"Stop it, Parker," he spat, turning his gaze back on the yard. "I won't have this argument again. My mother did what she thought was best, she did not mean to hurt me."

"She didn't hurt you, Jarod. When your mother left you on that shore, you were already hurt. She is your mother – she should have stayed with you. She should have . . ."

"You are in no position to lecture me on healthy parental relationships."

His sharp tone startled her. Biting back her equally barbed response, Miss Parker sighed and shook her head. He was as upset, confused and defensive about his relationship with his mother as she had always been about hers with her father. She had known that when she came out to talk to him. She had promised herself that she would not taunt or provoke an argument, the way he had done so many times with her. Glancing at the door leading to the house, she took a deep breath and moved behind him.

"Look, for what it's worth," she said softly, "I am glad you refused to leave your mother behind."

Slowly, the Pretender turned to face her, but said nothing.

"Don't look so surprised. I may not care for her, but you do, and that is what matters. Leaving her behind would have torn you apart."

As she spoke, he smiled sadly.

"Besides, if you had, you would never have had that accident."

His eyes narrowed as he stared at her suspiciously. "You sound as if you are happy that I was forced over a bridge into a freezing river."

She shrugged. "I guess I am."

"I see," he drawled. "So, in your book, the fact that I almost died was a good thing."

"No, but if you hadn't, I wouldn't have found you."

"What about Emma and Mike?" he continued, talking over her interruption. "I thought you liked them. Because they tried to help me, they are now on the run from the Centre. Is that . . .?"

Her smile made his words falter, but it was her hand on his chest that caused the Pretender to fall silent. She saw the confusion in his face before he asked, "What did you say?"

"If you hadn't had the accident, Jarod, you and I would not be standing here, together, right now," she told him. Her eyes searched his face then dropped to his hand as it covered the one she'd placed above his heart. "Nothing would have changed between us. I like the progress we've made in our relationship, Jarod."

His face brightened for a moment before suspicion began to fade the gleam in his eyes. "Did you just say you love me?"

Though she didn't break eye contact with the man, Miss Parker tilted her head to the side and narrowed her gaze "Is that really what you heard?"

He smiled and shrugged.

"I said that I like that we're getting closer. I never said that I love you."

"But you do." Moving into her, Jarod pressed his lips to hers. If she was surprised by the move, Miss Parker covered it well, letting him sandwich her between the cold wooden post that supported the roof of the porch and the warmth of his body.

Their tongues met briefly before he slid his mouth to her neck. Her fingers deftly unhooked the buttons of his jacket and, when his hands dropped to the zipper of her jeans, she pulled at his shirt and slipped her arms between the fabric and his skin. A few heart beats later, Jarod was pulling urgently at the heavy denim that blocked his access to her, his mouth and teeth continuing to explore the muscles beneath her jaw.

"Jarod, you . . ."

Startled by the voice, Miss Parker's fingernails pressed into Jarod's flesh and his hands pressed against her buttocks, pulling her closer to him. They became still, but neither made a sound.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I . . ."

Her hands flattened against his skin and Jarod took a deep breath. Slowly, without moving away from the woman, he looked over his shoulder at the younger man.

Still gripping the handle of the door, Drew's gaze immediately shifted from the couple to a spot on the doorjamb. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Jarod frowned as his brother's tone faded from embarrassment to amusement but, before he could react, Miss Parker buried her head in his shoulder. Her hands slipped below his waist, her fingers spreading across the bulge in his pants as her lips and tongue began to taunt a section of exposed skin just below his neck.

Swallowing hard, Jarod found he could only manage a hoarse version of his own voice as he asked, "What is it, Drew? What do you want?"

"I thought you should know that the others are . . . discussing . . . our situation." Then, quickly turning away, he stepped into the house. A split second before the door closed behind him, he added with a grin, "As soon as you are able, please come inside."

Lyle said nothing as he moved angrily through the house. Tossing his coat over the back of the sofa, he continued to the freestanding bar and, after perusing the selection of liquor, reached for the bottle of vodka.

"One of you had better start talking," he warned, pouring the clear liquid into a small glass. His hand hovered a moment over the ice bucket before changing his mind and turning to face the men, tightly holding the drink. "What the hell is going on? How is it that the police had possession of Jarod's DSA's?"

Alex shifted his gaze from Lyle to Mr. Cox and smiled. "They aren't the DSA's."

Lyle hesitated, considering the other man's words. "If the case I saw going into that house did not contain the DSA's Jarod stole when he escaped, then what was in it?"

"The scrolls," Mr. Cox replied simply. Moving to the bar, he ignored Lyle's silent demand for more information and poured himself a Scotch.

"The scrolls," Lyle repeated. "That's impossible. I was on the plane when my father . . ."

"Your father did not have the scrolls when he jumped," the man interrupted. Then, pausing long enough to take a sip from his glass, he added, "We believe that your father killed himself for forgeries created by Jarod's mother."

"Are they coming?"

Drew glanced at his mother then shifted his gaze anxiously toward the porch. Sliding his hand from the door, he brought his hand to his mouth and forced a cough, hoping to hide the grin on his face as he moved into the room. "They are . . . um, in the middle of something. They'll be here in a few minutes."

"This is ridiculous," she hissed. Standing she moved toward the door. "Jarod has been out there too long. It's cold. He needs . . ."

"Mom, wait." Stepping in front of the woman, he placed his hands on her arms and shook his head. "Leave them alone. Jarod is fine. He and Miss Parker will be inside in a few minutes. I promise."

Rising from his place on the sofa, the Major moved to his wife's side, but his attention was trained on his younger son. Out of the corner of his eye, the younger man saw his father's approach and, though he did not meet the older man's gaze, or step away from the door, he slowly released the woman.

"Margaret, come sit down," he said, gently sliding his arm around her shoulders. "You heard Drew, Jarod and Miss Parker will be inside in a few minutes. In the meantime, I think it's best if we continue our discussion."

Tensing in his arms, the woman shook her head, but let him guide her to the sofa. "There is nothing to discuss, Charles. Not as long as they are here."

Her gaze slid from Sydney to Broots to Emily and Mike. Though they shifted uncomfortably at her tone, the four adults did not turn away from the woman's accusing stare. Instead, Mike crossed his arms defiantly over his chest, while Sydney shook his head at the woman, in disappointment. Emma and Broots glanced at each other, then at the others before each adopting a defiant stance of their own.

"Mom, I don't know why you are being so insistent about this," Emily interjected. "We are all in the same situation. We . . ."

"We are not in the same situation," she snapped.

"But, we are," Emily insisted. "We are all on the run from the Centre. There is a better chance of all of us getting out of this, safely, if we work together."

"My only concern is the safety of our family."

Drew stepped beside his sister, his eyes darting to where Debbie was standing beside her father. Though he barely knew the girl, he could see her hands balling into fists and knew her anger was rising. There was no doubt that the girl's emotion was being fueled by his mother's hurtful words and, for some reason, despite his desire for acceptance from Margaret; he felt a sudden protectiveness toward Debbie.

"Mom, Emily is right. If you are really concerned about the safely of our family, then you have to be concerned about the safety of those who have helped us get to this point."

"No, I don't," she countered, her harsh gaze falling on Sydney. "They kept me from Jarod. They killed Kyle. They . . ."

"They created me."

Shocked by the young man's soft interruption, Margaret slid her focus to Drew. Moving in front of him, she slipped her arms around the almost six foot man and brought him as close as he would allow.

"You are one of the few good things that came out of all of this," she whispered. "Do not ever believe otherwise."

"If that's the case," he countered, gently pulling back so he could see her face, "then why are you trying to punish the people I trust? Why are you dismissing my feelings, as well as Jarod and Emily's, so easily?"

"I'm not dismissing your feelings," she countered, her eyes widening. "But I am trying to protect you. You have to trust me, Drew, I know what these people are capable of."

"Mom, we know what they are capable of, too. Jarod could have easily disappeared from the lives of Sydney, Broots and Miss Parker the moment he escaped from the Centre, but he has purposely kept them in his life. Because of them, he and Dad were able to rescue me. They are the reason we are together."

"So I should excuse them for the pain they caused you and Jarod and Kyle over the years because they suddenly grew consciences?" She shook her head. "I can't do that."

Stepping completely out of her hold, Drew looked at her sadly. Tears suddenly filled his eyes. "Then you are not the woman I thought you would be. You are not the woman Emily and Dad described to me, so many times."

"No," she sighed, tensing at the softness of his voice. "I'm not. The woman they remember died many years ago. The Centre killed her."

"You're wrong," Jarod said, stepping into the room. "The Centre did not kill her. You have been hiding her, trying to protect her for so long, you are having difficulty trusting that she can handle this situation."

Pivoting away from Drew, she watched Jarod approach, but said nothing.

"You can let her out now," he whispered, softly folding his arms around the woman. "Let us keep her safe. Please. Trust us."

"How can that be?" he dared. Crossing to the fireplace, he turned to glare at the two men. "I told you, I was on the plane. The Africans authenticated those scrolls. They . . ."

"They were wrong," Alex said from the sofa. Not bothering to mask the annoyance in his voice, he added, "I read the report that was found at the crash. The tests they did proved that the paper was from the same century, but did not authenticate the ink that was used or the writing style."

"Hell, we were on an airplane, not in a science lab," Lyle shot back. "Did you really expect them to do a detailed analysis?"

"Maybe not, but we have been tracking Margaret's movements for years," Cox interjected, bringing the younger man's attention on him. "We've found a pattern."

"What kind of pattern?"

"She has been within miles of Jarod on several occasions, but never even attempted to make contact," he answered. Then, before Lyle could interrupt, he added, "And, her moves have always put her very close to Centre facilities at times when break-ins were reported."

Lyle scoffed and took a long swallow of his drink. "Is that what you're basing this assumption on? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Jarod has also infiltrated Centre facilities. It's a family trait."

"Yes, but we have always been able to ascertain Jarod's reasoning," Cox continued. "Margaret's actions have, until now, never been explained."

"If you want an explanation, I will be happy to give you one," the man countered. "She was looking for her family."

"Margaret never accessed any of the files associated with her family," Alex explained. "It took me several days but, after analyzing the data she did access, I can tell you that she was researching the scrolls and their journey from Carthis to Africa to America."

Lyle's brows furrowed for a moment as the other man's words started to make sense. "The scrolls were found on Carthis."

"Only because she put them there."

He glanced at Cox, who nodded his agreement. "Mr. Lyle, according to the data she accessed, the scrolls were removed from Carthis shortly after the Centre was established. Margaret knew this because she had already found the originals."

"Then why wouldn't simply replace them with forgeries? Why transport them to Carthis?"

"Margaret knew that only the Triumvirate was aware that the scrolls had been moved," Alex responded. "Putting the forgeries in the original hiding place of the genuine article was her way thumbing her nose at them. Let me ask you, how many scrolls did your father have when he made his jump?"

Lyle glanced from Alex to Cox, and then back again, before answering slowly, "Three."

"According to my research," the pretender replied, "there are four scrolls. Margaret is either still looking for the last one, or she has all four in her possession and has been waiting until her family was reunited to destroy them."

Lyle retrieved his glass from the mantle and moved back to the bar. He felt the eyes of the other men on him as he poured himself another drink and took a long swallow. When he faced them, he said, "If the scrolls are truly in her possession, she has all the answers. She knows why Jarod and Kyle were taken. She knows why my mother was murdered. She has the cornerstone of the Centre in the palm of her hand."

"And, if we can get them from her," Cox smiled, "so will we."

Margaret slowly drew away from Jarod and faced Mike. Her expression had softened considerably since the Pretender's arrival, but her eyes still held accusation and distrust.

"My son told me you wrote an article that would have exposed the truth about the Centre," she told the reporter. "Is that true?"

Mike glanced over the woman's shoulder, at Jarod before nodding. "Yes, but I killed the story. It was never published."

"Why? Were you threatened?"

"Yes, but that was not the reason I killed the story."

She glanced at Emma. "Was your wife threatened?"

"Yes, but I felt I could keep her safe."

"Then, why kill the story? If you really had the kind of information you claim, you could have brought the Centre to its knees."

He sighed and, ignoring the stares of the others in the room, he answered simply, "I started receiving pictures of children I didn't know. They came via email, via the US Postal service, via special messenger, but I was never able to trace them to their point of origin."

She hesitated and, though Mike's gaze was on her face, he saw her posture slump slightly.

"Each of the photos I received was accompanied with a threat against that child and their family. When I traced the photos, I discovered that each of them matched an aged picture of a missing child. Many were taken several years after the child's abductions, indicating many were now adults."

"Did you notify the authorities?"

"No," he said, sadly. "I had nothing to tell them except that I received the photos. The families had all disappeared. The . . ."

"You went searching for these children?" she dared. "You researched them?"

He nodded and took a deep breath, still refusing to break the eye contact the woman had initiated. "I know how and when each of them disappeared. I know who their families were, where they lived, and how most were affected by the kidnappings. I had no proof that these children were still alive, but I was not willing to take the chance that they would be harmed because of me. I killed the story because I could not think of any other way to protect them."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because everything I ever received is stored on a flash drive. I showed it to Jarod, earlier." He swallowed and glanced at Drew and Jarod before bringing his eyes back to the woman. "Several of the photos are of your sons."

Jarod watched as Margaret moved to the table where Mike's laptop and backpack were piled. She took a deep breath, her hand sliding over the top of the nylon case and, without looking at the reporter, said, "I want to see them."

"Mom, it's late," Jarod murmured, stepping behind her. "You don't need to do this. I saw the photos. They are of me and Kyle, over the years."

"No, Jarod," she replied, looking up at him. "I need to do this. I need to see them."

"So do I," the Major stated firmly, moving to the woman's side.

"Please," he whispered, looking at his father, "don't do this."

"Why? What are in these photos that you don't want us to see, Son?"

"You don't understand. The photos aren't happy, school pictures." His eyes darted from the Major to Sydney, as the psychiatrist moved to his side. "Someone froze frames of DSA footage of me and Kyle during simulations, physical examinations, sitting alone. They sent Mike images to frighten him into compliance. I don't want my parents to see . . ."

A soft hand slid across his back and Jarod turned to find Miss Parker standing behind him. Her eyes were moist as she gently took his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips. "It will be all right, Jarod. Your parents need to know. They need to know what you went through, as much as you need to bury it."

"Parker . . ."

"Jarod, whatever they have been imagining all these years is probably worse than what actually happened," she continued, her voice breaking mid-sentence.

"What if it isn't? What if . . ."

"Trust them," she whispered. "Nothing on that computer is going to change the way they feel about you."

"She's right, Baby," Margaret murmured, stepping to her son's side. "We will always love you. I need to know what happened to you, while we were apart. Please."

Tears were now freely flowing down the Pretender's cheek. "But these pictures are only a small fraction of my life at the Centre."

"Jarod, maybe you should show them the DSA's," Sydney offered. "Maybe it is time your parents saw everything."

TBC

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