Chapter 13 – Epilogue

Six Months Later – Friday morning

Lotulo Adin had never been known for being either a patient or diplomatic man. His meteoric rise within the Triumvirate hierarchy had begun with the brutal assassination of Bofi "Big" Mutumbo and merely accelerated with the mysterious circumstances of Alemi Adama and his death during the push to acquire a mysterious set of "scrolls" that supposedly was the source of power at the Centre. His reputation in the field both before and since his appointment was as merciless strongman, equally talented at the art of intimidation and – if the situation warranted it – physical violence. In a consortium that was founded on violence and intimidation as a path to power and profit, it was only logical that he would eventually find a place on the Council of Three that made all of the executive decisions.

And yet, Lotulo Adin HAD managed to be a patient man. The prize he was playing for – absolute control of the Centre from behind the scenes – was worth it.

It had been a long six months, being stuck here in the temperate climes of the United States – and an even harder six months for one accustomed to the Congolese climes to weather the slow chill that came as autumn claimed the northern hemisphere. The cooler the weather had grown lately, the deeper his frustration and discomfort. In a move once heralded by his two cronies on the Council, the death of William Raines had opened the door to potentially taking a much more authoritative leadership role in the Centre as it moved into the future. But then, disaster had struck: the expected – indeed long-awaited – heir designate to the seat of power, the one person the Triumvirate KNEW it could control easily, had been murdered in New York. This, of course, left as the last living soul with Parker blood qualified to take the Chairmanship the one Parker that nobody in the Triumvirate had wanted to deal with, either officially or otherwise – the one Parker it had never been allowed to train, mold or bend to its will.

But according to the agreement signed when the first offer of financial support had been made, the Chairman's seat at the Centre was always to be one of Parker blood – and so the Triumvirate had had no choice but to support Miss Parker's elevation to the position of supreme authority. And she, in turn, had wasted no time in proving the universal reservations the Triumvirate had held about her as valid. She'd immediately capitulated to the American legal process and put the Centre through a complete reorganization that included a review and shut-down of nearly every last project the Triumvirate had been sponsoring or paying for – all in the name of, as the Americans said, "going legit." With a Federal Adjutant looking over her shoulder and reviewing her every move – and in the process ignoring HIS council – the Triumvirate had been rendered helpless to stop her from essentially making their position within the Centre a moot issue.

But then the lawsuits had started looming on all sides – all arising from the select release to the media of information that had been seized during a raid on the Centre Delaware headquarters – lawsuits that, if they'd all been prosecuted, would have quickly bankrupted the American corporation. The legal profession in Delaware had responded by lining up to try to win clients from the maimed and damaged human effluent that had eventually spewed forth from the underground maze of laboratories and living quarters. Miss Parker's answer had been, with the Federal Adjutant's assistance, to set aside a huge amount of money to take care of any judgments won against the Centre. In the midst of the confusion, the Triumvirate had seized the opportunity to put as much financial pressure on the beleaguered Chairwoman as was possible to attempt to force her into concessions she would have otherwise refused.

The latest and most clever of these maneuvers had been to call in over four hundred million US dollars' worth of debt owed to the Triumvirate – debt that was, in actuality, in great part the investment the Triumvirate had made decades earlier in order to become silent partners. It had been agreed among the Three that the Centre didn't have enough liquid assets to satisfy those debts – and that this fact alone would force Miss Parker into finally making executive decisions that would further the Triumvirate's voice in Centre affairs for the next century at least. A Parker might sit in the Chairman's seat, but it would be a Parker completely dominated by Triumvirate directives.

That had been three days ago.

It had been a surprise, then, when Miss Parker had had her new secretary – a Chinese woman left over after Mr. Lyle's untimely demise – contact his charge d'affairs less than twenty-four hours ago and set up an appointment for an early morning hour that Mr. Adin considered nearly obscene. The sun wasn't even high enough in the sky to begin to shed warmth on the chilled landscape below. Only those business executives still struggling to make their first hundred million would even dream of being at the office at that hour!

The hallway that led between the express elevator to the Chairman's office – the one and only office on the top level of the Centre Tower – was lined on the eastern wall by picture windows that looked down on the expansive estate that stretched all the way to the shoreline. In the summer, the sight had been a pleasant one – but now the autumn chill had begun to dampen the green of the grass, and many of the deciduous trees were growing alarmingly empty of leaves.

Outside the etched glass doors stood two huge, muscular and stony-faced security men. Adin had quietly checked, but had discovered quickly after the elevation of Miss Parker to her position that many of the more trusted "sweepers", as the security here was called, had been summarily fired. In their stead came a virtual army of equally tough but otherwise incorruptible security men loyal strictly to the Centre and to Miss Parker personally – and the appointment of a small wisp of a man who had taken over the office of Surveillance and Internal Security and ran it with terrible efficiency from behind the blind of a computer monitor. No Triumvirate security team, either covert or out in the open, had been permitted inside the Centre since Miss Parker had taken control – and no diatribe or wheedle had changed that policy. Centre security was untouchable – the computer system hack-proof from even the best-paid of the Triumvirate experts' efforts – and there was not even a glimmer of the "good old boy" system within the sweeper corps that had been the wedge used to insinuate many Triumvirate operatives within the Centre team.

"She'll see you now, sir," JeiLing announced with practiced efficiency, and then nodded to the sweepers to pull the doors open for the African. Then, with deliberate casualness, she returned her attention to her computer screen – obviously dismissing the African from her attention. It was the kind of snub only a menial could give – and Adin bristled, but said nothing.

Instead he stalked with an icy, regal grace past the guards and through the doors – and right up to in front of the amazingly Spartan desk that was truly only a sheet of Plexiglas on metal supports. The clear surface was nearly empty – only a white telephone/intercom unit; a silver flat panel monitor, keyboard and mouse arrangement; and a few neatly stacked clear plastic file boxes populated the desk. Behind this ethereal and insubstantial throne sat the Ice Queen of the Centre herself – her slender fingers tapping an impatient tattoo on the clear surface of her desk next to a thin sheath of white paper resting in a opened manila folder in front of her. Adin didn't smile or greet her in any way. "You wished to see me?" he asked in a haughty and cold manner.

"I did," she replied in an equally cold and haughty manner, finally raising her storm-cloud grey eyes to meet his gaze. "You will want to sit down."

"I think I'll remain standing," Adin countered with a prideful sniff.

The dark head nodded slowly. "As you wish." Her forefinger tapped the page in front of her, then turned the folder and document around so that it faced her guest. "Am I right in saying that this amount is everything that the Triumvirate feels the Centre owes it? Is this what it would take for the Centre to pay off your organization once and for all?"

Adin blinked. "Are you contesting…"

"I asked," Miss Parker reiterated in a voice that had grown even colder, "if this is the amount that the Triumvirate believes that it is owed by the Centre – every last dime?"

"We have been funding several projects for over fifty years…" the African began again.

"The proper answer to my question is a simple yes or no," Miss Parker pointed out, her voice deceptively calm. "Is this, or is this not, the total amount of money the Triumvirate is owed by the Centre?"

Adin swallowed. This interview was NOT going anything like the way he'd anticipated. The American court system had already awarded tens of millions of dollars to past victims of Centre abuse or their families – with the promise of yet further awards to come. It had been considered a double-bind to threaten to call in the entire Triumvirate debt – a sure signal to Miss Parker to remember that she was beholden to Africa for her continued ability to simply do business.

"Miss Parker…"

"Yes or no, Mr. Adin," Miss Parker persisted, implacable.

Adin bent slightly so he could see that the paper to which she was pointing was the official notification document that had been sent on official Triumvirate letterhead. It was the document he himself had delivered to the courier. "It is," he admitted finally, raising his head defiantly and backing away to where he'd stood previously.

Again the dark head nodded slowly. "Good," she said in an oddly satisfied voice and reached for the small intercom box at the upper right corner of her desk. "JeiLing, will you bring me the document I left with you, please?

Almost immediately, one of the glass doors opened to admit the Chinese secretary, who gifted the African businessman with an enigmatic smile as she carefully and quietly settled a single paper onto the desk. Miss Parker nodded again and glanced at the door – and the secretary turned about and left the room without another word.

"I am prepared to discharge our debt to you in full," Miss Parker directed, reaching out to her computer terminal and, after reading what was on the paper she'd been given, typing quickly. She waited, typed again, and moved the mouse a few times, then looked up at him again. "My accountant assured me that this account holds the correct amount – but I want you to verify it yourself to make sure." Her grey eyes narrowed slightly as she now turned the flat panel to face him. "I want there to be no question but that once this money is transferred into a Triumvirate account, you and your consortium will consider yourselves paid in full."

"Miss Parker…" Adin tried to start again.

"VERIFY IT, Mr. Adin," she snarled at him, her emotionless façade dropping away. "I would not have it bandied about that the Centre either cannot or does not pay its debts."

Adin found himself forced step closer to the desk once more and stare down at the monitor screen. He had to school himself very carefully not to flinch when he saw that the amount registering as being on deposit in this one account was exactly what he and the others on the Council had decided would be their killer debt amount. Where had she found this money, he could only wonder.

"Well?"

"It is the correct amount, Miss Parker," he ground out reluctantly.

"Then all that is needed is for you to call your people and request an account number and a password into which I can transfer these funds." Miss Parker turned her monitor back, and then sat back in her comfortable black leather chair and regarded him with obvious relief. "The sooner, the better." She gestured at the telephone on her desk – an obvious hint that he was to get the account number and password right then and there. "If you don't mind, you can use my phone here, or your own cell phone – it really doesn't matter to me, as long as you get the information I need to transfer these funds into Triumvirate hands while you're here to see it done."

Adin picked up the receiver and began dialing the international number that would put him in touch with the Triumvirate accounting department, his ebony eyes snapping with anger. He and the Triumvirate as a whole evidently had seriously underestimated the true financial stability of the Centre – either that or William Raines and Charles Parker, each in their turn, had falsely pleaded poverty over the years. The truth of the matter – again – was a moot issue. The fact of the matter was that he was trapped – and the Triumvirate was poised to lose everything that it had worked so hard and so long to attain.

Ten minutes later he was stalking away from that transparent desk that now had proven itself considerably less than ephemeral. Before Miss Parker had let him go, she'd forced him to sign a receipt – a receipt that acknowledged the transfer of four hundred seventy-eight million dollars US as payment in full of all debts owed to the Triumvirate. Once that was done, however, he'd been dismissed as if he were a traveling salesman who'd worn out his welcome – and warned never again to attempt to tamper with Centre policy or officers. To add insult to injury, that slant-eyed slut of a secretary had grinned triumphantly at him as he'd passed by her desk – no doubt she'd known what her employer had been intending.

Still, to get the full four hundred seventy-eight million dollars was no mean feat – a healthy bulk of Triumvirate's total liquid assets at the time had been invested in the Centre - and there were plenty of places for the money to be invested. He'd be on the cell phone the moment his Centre limousine delivered him to the tarmac and the Triumvirate jet poised to whisk him back across the ocean to his home – there were other upstart companies whose lack of aversion to work that pushed the envelope of ethics and morality would make them good candidates for more intensive investigation.

If there was one Centre, there were hundreds who could be easily guided down the same path. Adin didn't even bother glancing at the slightly stark landscape through the huge plate glass windows, but stood patiently waiting for the elevator to take him back to the lobby. The sooner he was on his way, the sooner the Triumvirate could begin to build its next Fortune 500 company.

oOoOo

Miss Parker closed the folder in front of her and rose to walk over to the huge plate glass windows that graced the Chairman's office on the very top floor of the Centre tower. It was a chilly day, and she folded her grey cashmere-garbed arms across her chest as she leaned into the little bit of steel and concrete next to the window. The days were getting colder again – and she could feel winter coming on in her shoulder. It would be a new experience, watching the white stuff slowly cover the once green expanse of lawn and trees that graced the Centre grounds from the lofty vantage point that she'd always known would be hers in the end.

Sydney still wasn't convinced that her taking her rightful place as the Chairman – Chairwoman, she continually reminded both him and her stockholders – had been a good idea. But then, Sydney was still being over-protective of her – no less so now that he was back at work than he had been for weeks from his home, and for weeks before that from his hospital bed in a newly restructured and staffed Medical Floor that had once been euphemistically dubbed the "Renewal Wing." Like a hawk he continually watched her face for signs of too much job-related stress; and partially to placate him, she'd taken to leaving the office promptly at five in the evening and leaving all Centre-related business behind at the office until her return the next workday. Now it was as much a habit as taking her work home with her had been for years before this – and a much more livable habit at that. One of these days, she'd have to thank him – for that and for so much more.

She could not forget that it had been Sydney who'd launched himself across her bed and taken the bullet that had been meant for her – nearly dying himself as the result. The revamping of the Medical Floor had been an initial priority the moment the Chairwomanship had been officially hers – to get the man back closer to home where she could watch over and care for HIM once the tricky surgeries to repair his extensive injuries had been concluded in New York. Now that he'd finally been given a clean bill of health – although with orders to keep to a restricted work schedule because of the permanent damage the bullet had inflicted on both his diaphragm and heart – a good part of her anxiety on his behalf had eased. In the last week, since he'd actually started coming back in to work in his Psychogenics laboratory again, she'd found herself almost grateful for the way his grumbling and worrying at her over the chaos and stress of being the Chairman – Chairwoman! – was frustrating her again. At least in that way, part of her world was back to the way it was supposed to be.

And now the Triumvirate was out of her hair permanently – or at least as permanently as humanly possible at this stage of the game. And once more she was indebted to Jarod and his genius – this time for playing the stock market with Centre funds, with permission for a change. The combined balances of two of Raines' largest hidden savings accounts had more than tripled in a week – and tripled that again less than two weeks later. Two months of steady investment advice from Jarod on those accounts alone had yielded more than enough money to pay off the Triumvirate, with money to spare that would be much needed in the weeks and months ahead as she tried to piece together a legitimate research and development firm sitting on the cutting edge of several scientific fields. Overall, the Centre was once again financially stable – and in a position to shrug off its African yoke and still have adequate working capital and locked in investments to keep the operation running smoothly.

The next out of her hair would be the Federal Adjutant who had been supervising the reorganization of the Centre – and seeing to it that all of the excesses and outright illegalities perpetrated by the previous executives not only were a thing of the past but adequately dealt with. Nathan Cardenas had been gracious and understanding as she'd followed his lead in wending her way through all of the judicial and logistical mazes that had presented themselves, but it would be a relief to no longer have her every action be under a Federal microscope. She'd met or exceeded every condition he'd set for her – and he hadn't been into her office lately with a new round of directives from the judge – so with luck, his time here was drawing to a close as well. He'd accepted the story that Jarod was a friend with ties to Wall Street and approved the investment of Centre funds in the stock market after making sure Jarod was in no way committing insider trading fraud.

Jarod – there was another piece of her world that had nearly returned to its rightful place. He was Dr. Russell to her staff and anybody employed at the Centre, with the obvious exception of herself, Sydney and Broots. Her very first act as Chairwoman had been to officially close the file on the Pretender Project, followed by considerable covert effort to let it be known in all of the shadowy places that there was no longer a cash reward being offered for news as to the location of either Jarod or any of his family members. As her third priority as Chairwoman, after revamping the Renewal Wing for Sydney, she'd set up a trust fund specifically for the Russell family, spurred by the knowledge that both Ethan and Gemini considered themselves a part of that family now – so that there would never be a shortage of money for schooling or any other need they might have.

Jarod's answer to that move had been to quietly offer his SIMming expertise in predicting stock market fluctuations – and in doing so preventing the Centre from bankruptcy when the first of the settlement amounts had been handed down by the courts. Each of the once-hidden bank accounts owned by William Raines and Lyle Parker had been summarily emptied into the Centre General investment coffer – with the exception of the two set aside for emergency funding, which had come in handy when the Triumvirate had delivered what it had believed would have been the knock-out punch. When the returns on the funds entrusted to him had begun to trickle and then flow more and more steadily into the Centre, she had sent the former Pretender a Centre paycheck for his time and trouble – only to receive a phone call at two in the morning three days later by way of thanking her. Her need for coffee the next morning had also been an almost comfortable return to a well-known and familiar routine.

It was on Jarod's recommendation that Broots had been promoted to her old job – and the nervous little man had then proven both the Pretender's recommendation and his own worth by closing loopholes in Centre Security that both the Pretender and the Triumvirate had managed to take advantage of for years. Jarod had finally shown him how he'd been able to continually hack the Centre mainframe, and Broots had been able to close those trapdoors so that the next time Jarod called, he reported that he'd been unable to get in at all. It had been Broots' idea, however, to fire nearly the entire sweeper corps and start over – and it had been his idea to spend money to persuade the Pentagon to inform the Centre of the names of able-bodied servicemen being discharged so as to be able to offer them incentives for joining the Centre team.

Only a very few of the original sweepers were left – her own being one of them. She could remember Sam mentioning once a few years ago that Vic was about as trustworthy as anyone in the Centre – and that Ken and two or three others were unsatisfied with the manner in which Raines continually demanded they act. Sam's word had been all she had needed to retain those few while firing nearly a hundred others.

How she missed her taciturn and absolutely loyal sweeper! It was Sam's example that she held forth as the ideal to which the new sweeper corps should aspire. And remembering his one grouse to her a long, long time ago, she made sure the sweepers were more than amply compensated for the high standards of talent and behavior demanded of them. Still, she couldn't help wishing, on those occasions when her only feeling of security came from the big man walking behind her, that it were Sam back there. His sudden death had been one blow during that chaotic time from which it had taken a long time to recover. As secure as she was otherwise – both in her position and with her personnel – she would never feel completely safe again without him. At least, not for a while yet.

"Miss Parker, General Stevens is here for his nine-thirty appointment," came JeiLing's came voice over the intercom.

Miss Parker sighed and walked slowly back to her desk – the one she'd brought with her into this office and insisted on using in the place of that massively carved monstrosity that had belonged to her… to Charles Parker and those who had come both before and after him. Unlike him and those like him, she didn't need to hide behind imposition and ostentation – if she were going to be intimidating, it was going to be for her actions in the open, not that which happened behind closed doors or in the safety of shadows. The transparency of the Plexiglas spoke to that.

It occurred to her – and not for the first time – that Raines had been right all those years before, when he'd set forth the rules to the final phase of the game. The winner would be the one who survived. Well, she'd survived all of them – Raines, Lyle, her father – and she'd won the right to rule the empire they'd left to her. This was a new Centre now, however – and not the Hell she had inherited – her desk was but the most intimate and oblique of indications of the changes that had already happened and would continue to happen in the weeks and months ahead.

"Send the General in," she replied, pushing the button with a forefinger as she settled back into her chair. It might be Friday, but she still had a full day's work ahead of her. And with the Triumvirate finally out of the way, she could stop worrying about the past and begin the task of creating the kind of Centre that she could be proud of.

oOoOo

Friday afternoon

The guard nodded at Jarod as he waited for the door to the visiting cubicle to be unlocked. "Doctor Russell," Preston Harding nodded as he pushed the button on his panel to release the latch and open the door for the psychiatrist who had been a weekly visitor for nearly five months now. On the other side of the cubicle, another door opened at the same time so that Patient number 58297 could be escorted in as well. 58297 was a comparatively docile inmate of the Snelling Institute for the Criminally Insane. From the number of times he'd seen the man over the past few months, Harding had a very difficult time equating the gentle demeanor of the patient with his alleged crimes – two murders, one attempted murder and one assault with a deadly weapon. Yet he'd been there long enough to know that appearances could be deceiving – especially when dealing with the mentally unstable.

Jarod seated himself at the bench with the thick and bulletproof glass running across it and allowing him to see the man he'd come to visit without being in any danger from him. He watched with carefully attention as Hank was let into the other side of the cubby and sat down opposite him – looking for signs of recent mistreatment or upset. Thankfully, the past few months since Hank had been transferred from Bellevue to this institution had been relatively peaceful ones – although not without their rough edges. The Snelling Institute was a cutting edge psychiatric facility, but still the halls could echo with insane howlings, or the inmate cafeteria explode with violence over the most trivial of insults.

It hurt to see his friend like this – mostly sane, but locked away with people whose crimes were linked to minds that had been seriously bent and twisted. Hank's mind was amazingly clear now – most of the time. Getting him transferred here had been the best that the high-cost lawyers had been able to win, in light of the serious and cold-blooded nature of the killings in question. Getting him out of here would take a miracle, however – something Jarod didn't dare believe in anymore.

It was during those brief moments when Hank would see a tall, slender brunette woman with long and flowing hair in another cubicle – or when certain turns of phrases would be mentioned in casual conversation – that the depths of the tampering with his mind would become all too apparent. In those moments, all emotion would flee – and Jarod would suddenly get the impression of staring a shark in the eye. In those moments, the cold-blooded killer would resurface – and for the rest of the visit, Hank would be as unapproachable and unresponsive had he had been during his first three months of treatment here.

"Hello, Hank," Jarod greeted his friend with a wide smile. "How are they treating you lately?"

"Hi, Jarod. Things have been quiet." Hank leaned back in his chair, the phone tucked comfortably against his shoulder. "So what's the topic for the day?"

It was a standard exchange – Doctor Rickman had been as good as his word at getting Jarod appointed as the person responsible for deprogramming Hank. He'd spent the better part of two weeks – whenever not directly involved in writing the research paper that would spell the end of his residency and qualify him for certification as a psychiatrist in his own right - studying the information on the CD that Broots had rescued from the Centre mainframe. The same information that had managed to avert a double murder charge with the potential of the death penalty had eventually unlocked the secrets of what was done and in what order.

Jarod had consulted professionally with Rickman after the latter was appointed by the state to monitor Hank's condition during his confinement. After a long discussion, Jarod had been privately contracted by Rickman to help design the chemical cocktail to be carefully administered over time to counteract the powerful drugs that Cox had poured so liberally into Hank's system. Jarod had then slipped into a private counseling arrangement, again monitored by Rickman, to handle the reverse brainwashing. His efforts had undone a good deal of the damage – not all of it, but enough that Hank was once more generally aware of who he was, where he was, why he was there – and now nearly ready to begin dealing with the stress of being an unwilling victim himself.

Two hours later, Jarod watched his tired friend rise slowly from his seat and into the watchful custody of his escort. He reached into his pocket and switched off the recorder that had recorded the entire session into electronic memory – a transcribed tape of which would be turned over to the state psychiatrist – and leaned back in his chair to relax a bit and absorb some of what had transpired.

Slowly but surely, Hank's memory of incidents just before his kidnapping – as well as bits and pieces of what had happened during his time locked away in the bowels of the Centre – were beginning to make sense. Certainly he'd remembered enough today that his testimony, combined with the evidence seized in the FBI raid, could result in a warrant against Dr. Nathaniel Cox – had Cox not already been summarily put on a plane and shipped back to South Africa to face murder charges there months earlier. Cox's trial had already taken place, and Cox was awaiting his appointment with the executioner there in a Johannesburg prison cell.

What was more, the process Jarod had helped design had found a yet another use - to rehabilitate those other men who had been found locked away in the Centre – as well as another man who had exhibited so many of the same mannerisms that Hank had. It could only be assumed, but Jarod was certain that this other man – a former military man held in Sing-Sing for the murder of Lyle Parker – had fallen victim to the same Hydra Process. The results had been nearly identical to those he'd achieved with Hank – with the same periods of unresponsiveness and uncommunicativeness at visual images of dark-haired men or those same verbal phrases that Hank reacted to.

In the interview just finished, Hank had leaned forward to look at the photograph Jarod had offered of the man – and then he'd looked up at his friend with a touch of the old ache and confusion in his eyes. "That's Booger," he had announced with a slight tremor in his voice, "my friend from the shelter. I saw them pulling him into the back of the van, and I tried to stop them…" He had dropped his head into his hands. "That's when they came for me."

Jarod had fished into his pockets, pulled out eight more photographs and laid them on the table in front of him. "Can you tell me if any of these were the guys who came for you and Booger?"

It had been a calculated move – to date, nobody had asked Hank to identify his assailants, since his description of the men who had taken him had, until then, been far too vague to work with. But today Hank's memory had been crystal clear – for a while.

The orange-garbed inmate had looked at the photographs – Lyle Parker's and Willy Grant's among them – and nodded. "Yeah. That's them," he replied, tapping the two Jarod had imbedded in the group of pictures of other convicts pulled from the Internet. He had looked back up at Jarod. "Have they caught them yet?"

Jarod had shrugged as he pocketed all three photos. "Booger had been trained like you were," he had reported in a soft voice. "He killed the dark-haired man. The other one they did catch – at the same place where they were holding several other men we suspect were going to be programmed as you were. That one will be in jail for a very long time."

"He was the mentor, that one," Hank had tapped the picture of Willy again and announced in that flat voice he got when his thoughts ventured too close to the conditioning he and Jarod were working so hard to undo. "It was – is – his voice in my head."

Jarod had blinked. "Mentor?"

Hank nodded slowly. "He taught me how to handle the gun – showed me what to shoot at…" His head drooped again, and he rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "Whatever happened to… her… the woman…"

"She's fine," Jarod had reported gently. This was ground that apparently needed to be covered over and over again – as if hearing it over and over again was a comfort.

"But I killed two other people, didn't I?" This, however, had been new – Hank's awareness of his crimes had been peripheral at best until now.

"Yes." Jarod had answered even more softly, watching Hank's face closely.

"I sometimes see it in my mind," Hank had leaned his chin into his hand tiredly. "That boy – and that big man in the hospital. I can't even remember why I shot them." Without moving, he had aimed a questioning gaze at his friend. "Do you know?"

"Some of it," Jarod had answered honestly. "The woman was up for the same promotion as the man who directed your final programming – and you were the one chosen to eliminate her."

"This was over a JOB?" Hank's jaw had dropped, and his eyes filled with horror and disgust.

The interview had ground to halt soon after as Hank's memory deliberately closed back down over the entire affair. Still, that brief moment of clarity gave an indication that eventually Hank would be fully aware of what had happened, why, and the ramifications of his actions during that time. At that point, Jarod would be more than glad to revert to being just a friend and handing off management of the case to Rickman.

Jarod pulled his sports jacket back on and nodded to the guard on the other side of the cubicle to open the door. It was a relatively short walk from the visiting area to the front door of the institute – and another short walk from there to the parking lot. And yet, it was chilly enough that the sports coat would feel good in the open air. Winter was coming – his father would claim that he could "smell it", no doubt. Jarod had learned not to question his father's occasional idiosyncracies – when Major Charles said he could "smell" something, he had been right far more often than mistaken.

The Pretender frowned – there was a man leaning against the side of his sports car. Not really in the mood to put up with a family member of an inmate who wanted a fresh professional opinion, he straightened his back and strode purposefully forward – only to have his steps falter as he finally drew close enough to recognize the face of the man waiting for him.

"Detective Jarod Holmes," Captain DiAngelo pushed himself away from the little green car and into an upright stance. "Or should I say, Doctor Jarod Russell. Fancy meeting you here."

Jarod could feel his heart fall through the bottom of his stomach. "Captain DiAngelo…" he responded, unable to think of anything else to say.

"You're a hard man to track," DiAngelo stated with something sounding remarkably like admiration. "I have to hand it to you – you didn't make this easy at all." He stood back and gestured at Jarod to unlock the car. "Go ahead – get in. I'm coming with you. You and I have a few things to discuss that would be better handled in private than out here in the open, don't you think?"

oOoOo

DiAngelo carried his beer and that of his companion to a table at the very back of the bar he and Jarod had walked into and settled into the comfortable leather-lined booth with a sigh. He pushed the second bottle across the table as Jarod warily slipped into the booth across from him and then took a long draught directly from the bottle he'd retained for himself.

"You left me quite a dilemma to work through, Doctor Russell," DiAngelo said after plunking his bottle down on the table noisily. "Or is Doctor Russell just another name you're using for a few days and then moving on?"

Jarod debated stonewalling the man, then relented. DiAngelo had proven himself as dogged and patient a detective as any of the best – it would only be a matter of time before the man found out the truth for himself. "It's my real name," Jarod admitted, turning the beer bottle on the table in front of him with dexterous fingers. "And I'm sorry about…"

"Impersonating an officer is a felony, you know…"

"I know." Jarod let his gaze sink into that of his former police captain. "But there was no other way to…"

DiAngelo held up a hand. "I figured that one out a long time ago. A crime had been committed, and nobody was paying attention. What's more, the police department as a whole benefited from your efforts in the long run – thus my dilemma." He lifted his bottle and took another long swig. "I had to choose between letting you go, knowing you guilty of a felony, and hauling your ass in, knowing it would destroy most of the credibility and goodwill you'd created for us."

Jarod felt a chill run down his spine. "I take it you've come to your decision?" Nervously he lifted the beer to his lips and took a sip, not even tasting the liquid before he swallowed it.

"A decision? No…" DiAngelo carefully set his beer down on the table and leaned forward. "Not yet, anyway. What I've done is run you to ground so that you can tell me what the hell was going on – all of it. I'm certain the newspapers only printed a small portion of it in the end."

"A crime had been committed…" Jarod began lamely, astonished.

"Forget that," DiAngelo growled. "There was more to the story than just a few missing homeless, and you know it. What I want from you is the truth – from the beginning to the end – and THEN I'll make a decision as to what to do about you."

Jarod's face gained a soft wistfulness. "I doubt you'd believe me if I told you the WHOLE truth," he said with a touch of sadness. "The truth of the matter would play better as the plot for a fantasy television series than an explanation."

DiAngelo picked his beer up again and leaned back against the hard wood of the tall bench back that divided one booth from the next. "Let me be the judge of that," he answered tersely, sipped at his beer, and prepared to listen.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Jarod sighed. "Why ask for a confession? Why not just haul me in?"

"I told you," DiAngelo explained with exaggerated patience, "if I were to haul you in, I'd destroy most if not all of the public relations goodwill and police department credibility that came as the result of closing a case like this – where the victims were the "little guy." Frankly, if I'm going to undo all the good you accomplished for us, I want to have a damned good reason for it."

"In that case, why not just let me go – file the reasons for my actions under M for Mystery and be done with it?"

DiAngelo's eyes narrowed. "Because you DID commit a crime, and because I've found you. By rights, I should haul your ass in – but something tells me that there may be mitigating circumstances. I want to hear them. I told you – you've posed a pretty dilemma for me for the last few months. I deserve to know the whole story, rather than just the bits and pieces you saw fit to feed us to get what you wanted."

"There's a whole lot of backstory you'll need to know first," Jarod hedged. Did he dare tell this police captain his story – his whole story – in order to keep himself out of deeper trouble? "The foundations of this situation were laid decades ago…"

"Hit the highlights and then get to the point," DiAngelo grumbled and took another hit of his beer. "And quit stalling."

Jarod sighed again audibly. "All right – remember, you asked for this… When I was about five years old, I was stolen from my parents by a corporation known as the Centre. You see, I have a genetic predisposition…"

oOoOo

JeiLing looked up from her work and smiled as she watched the old psychiatrist and the wide-eyed little boy walk slowly hand in hand toward her desk. "Is she busy?" Sydney asked, keeping his voice neutral so as not to unduly startle or upset the child.

"Let me check", the secretary replied in much the same tone, having learned from numerous experiences recently that little Tommy Parker could tolerate very little tension or upset in his world. And his explosions of emotion and violence upset his big sister – her boss – and so were things to be avoided at all costs.

Heir-apparent to the Parker Legacy, Tommy had nevertheless been subjected by William Raines to an upbringing in almost total isolation from human contact. In an experiment almost obscenely close to what those in psychological and psychiatric circles considered the "Forbidden Experiment," the boy had deliberately been raised with only minimal human interaction in order to supposedly measure the socialization potential of the untrained human animal. The unfortunate result, however, had been that little Tommy had come out of his underground prison nursery almost incapable of controlling his emotions or communicating effectively.

It had been Sydney's sharp eyes while culling through Raines' personal journal that had uncovered the fate of the hapless infant – and his big sister had immediately called for her last living relative to be released from his cement-block prison nursery. When the sad consequences of five years of isolation quickly started to become painfully and embarrassingly clear, it had been Sydney again to whom Miss Parker had finally turned in desperation.

Only calm and tranquility could keep the child at least behaving moderately well – and only a continued controlled environment would slowly help the boy find a place in society. At first, it was decided that such peace and quiet would be best accomplished at Sydney's townhouse during his recuperation period. Assisted by the nurse assigned to help the old psychiatrist, Sydney had helped Tommy begin his slow assimilation into what it meant to be part of a family unit. And now that Sydney was able to handle coming back into work for a limited amount of hours each day, he had volunteered to spend a good deal of his time in the Sim Lab working with the boy on a more concentrated basis.

Tommy was beginning to respond to the consistent love and behavioral boundaries set him by Sydney and his big sister, becoming slightly more responsive and interested in the world around him – although the wonder and curiosity that should have been his was still achingly absent. Sydney was beginning to despair of the boy ever completely recovering to the point that he'd act and interact like the intelligent child he was, although he did see the possibility that Tommy would at least be able to live a full and enjoyable, although supervised, life.

Unexpectedly, Angelo had turned up and thrown himself into assisting the old psychiatrist in the Sim Lab once Sydney had returned to work with Tommy in tow – and was ultimately benefiting from the treatments himself as well. Angelo's ability to communicate clearly had taken a few very small steps forward – and he seemed to be much more content of late. Sydney suspected the improvement had come about because Angelo's unique talents were no longer being called upon for activities the empath knew instinctively were wrong – but until the odd young man could communicate better, that would have to remain an educated guess.

"Miss Parker, Doctor Sydney and your brother are here to see you," JeiLing announced in a gentle tone, smiling down at the little boy when his eyes leapt to her face at the sound of her voice. Little Mr. Parker was a sweet-faced child – it was hard to imaging that anybody would have ever wanted to keep him locked away from everyone somewhere down in the sublevels.

Tommy's hand in Sydney's tightened slightly, and Sydney looked down at him. "That's JeiLing, Tommy," the musically accented voice spoke reassuringly. "You know her, don't you?"

Eyes a storm-cloud grey so very much like his big sister's remained glued to the secretary's face, but the little boy began to nod slowly. Still, the child leaned against Sydney's leg just a little harder, as if taking comfort in the familiarity of his guardian's presence.

Sydney glanced an apology to JeiLing, who raised her eyes and gifted the old man with a smile as well. "At least he isn't crying this time, Doctor Sydney," she commented approvingly. "He's come a long way."

"There he is," Miss Parker stated, pulling the glass door of her office open and crouching down with arms spread. "There's my little man." Tommy released Sydney's hand and ran awkwardly to his sister, burying his face in the collar of her soft cashmere sweater as he was enfolded close. "Such a nice hug!" she whispered to him, feeling him snuggle just a bit closer in response. She rose with him in her arms, his legs naturally finding a purchase on her hips and his arms wrapped tightly around her neck. "Come on in, Sydney," she added for the older man's benefit, "I've just about had enough paperwork for the day – I'm ready to spend a nice, quiet weekend at home with my two favorite men."

Sydney stepped close and opened the door so that Miss Parker could go back into the office, turning to nod his thanks to the still smiling secretary just before the doors closed behind him. "You seem in a good mood," he commented quietly and followed her across the plush carpet to one of the chairs that sat in front of that glass and metal desk.

Miss Parker seated herself in her comfortable chair and pulled a plain piece of paper and a crayon close so that Tommy could entertain himself if he chose to, then let herself sigh lightly. "Another milestone passed today Syd – we'll never have to worry about the Africans again."

"The Triumvirate?" Sydney's voice was slightly sharper with surprise, and Tommy flinched in his sister's lap at the sound.

"We just surprised Sydney, didn't we Little Man," Miss Parker crooned at the boy and kissed his cheek gently until he settled down again, then raised her head to look at the psychiatrist with a smile of triumph. "Paid them in full and told them to get lost," she continued smugly. "I don't think Mr. Adin was expecting that – and it felt good to see the disappointment."

"If they're removed as a player, then all you have to worry about it…"

"The Federal Adjutant," she filled in the rest of his sentence for him. "And from what he told me today, that may be coming to an end soon as well."

Sydney leaned back in his chair and gazed at her fondly. "I always thought it was going to take a miracle to turn the Centre around – and here and you've just about done that in a little over five months. Your mother would be proud of you, Parker."

"Maybe." Miss Parker kissed the top of the head of the child in her lap absently. "I'm glad that the actions I took just before we both got hurt ended up being unnecessary. I don't think she'd have been so proud of me for having lied and forged my way to the top of the heap, do you?"

Sydney's chestnut eyes narrowed slightly. "Feeling philosophical as well as satisfied, Parker? That's an odd combination for you."

"Perhaps. Then again, maybe I should let myself BE philosophical more often."

The old man smiled. "You've been talking to Jarod again, haven't you?"

She shook her head. "Not recently – not since he gave me that last set of investment tips." She let her eyes rest on her old friend, her expression wary and vulnerable. "I was kind of hoping that once all the pressure was off him and his family, he'd stop being a stranger – especially after everything else that has happened…"

Sydney sat forward a little. "Are you telling me you WANT him as a friend again, Parker? After all these years of calling him a Lab Rat?"

Miss Parker opened her mouth to answer, only to have her attention drawn away when a small hand cupped her cheek and pointed down to the paper in front of her. "Very good, Tommy," she complimented the chaotic jumble of lines that covered the paper now. "You may have a future as an artist, did you know that?" She kissed his head again and then looked back at Sydney. "I haven't called him that for months now – not since you found Tommy and I wondered about how HE'D feel if someone called him Lab Rat."

"Maybe the time has come for you to call Jarod, rather than waiting for the contact to be from the other side," Sydney suggested gently, knowing he was stepping into dangerous territory. He'd always tried to steer clear of the relationship between his protégé and the Chairman's daughter. He'd neither helped nor hindered it in decades past when both were children, and he'd deliberately steered clear of it in the months since Jarod and the rest of the Russell's had been taken from the Centre radar permanently. His own relationship with the former Pretender had continued to be strained by echoes of past recriminations from Jarod and a lingering sense of intense personal guilt – and he knew that his advice was just as sound coming to him as coming from him.

Miss Parker didn't answer, but rather looked down at her wristwatch. "It's five o'clock on a Friday," she whispered in her little brother's ear. "What do you want for supper tonight – pizza?" Wide grey eyes flashed immediately to her face as Tommy nodded in what was, for him, excited animation. She looked back at Sydney. "You're joining us, aren't you?"

"I promised Angelo a trip to someplace nice to eat," Sydney shook his head gently. "I want to see how well he can manage outside the Centre, in a less controlled environment. I was thinking…"

Miss Parker's gaze rested on her old friend for a long moment. "So we buy two pizzas. I take it Angelo's had one before?"

Sydney's brows rose. "Are you sure, Miss Parker? This will be the first time out for Angelo, and..."

Miss Parker's response was to raise one brow expressively. "I'm not in the habit of making invitations frivolously, Syd. I know Tommy enjoys having Angelo around – and Angelo could use an outing from these walls." She looked around her. "God knows I don't know how he managed to stay sane, living in Hell for the last thirty some years." Then her eyes landed on her old friend again. "Besides, it's my turn to spring for supper – isn't it?"

Sydney's smile was slow, but it was one of the very rare, wide smiles that seemed to make a room grow warmer. To see Parker trying so hard to put together a semblance of family for her little brother was encouraging – giving him hope that at long last she'd shake off the influence of her father's harsh upbringing and regain the grace and gentility that had been her mother's. "I'll go back to the Sim Lab and get him ready for his trip then. He can stay the night with me, and I can bring him back in the morning – that will make it more memorable for him, and give me a chance to extend the experience beyond…"

"Oh, stop being a shrink, Freud. Just pack him up and have him at my house by seven, ok? I'll try to arrange for delivery at about that time or a little after." Miss Parker carefully dislodged her little brother and put him on his feet next to her. "Go get your jacket, Tommy – you don't want to get cold."

Both Parker and Sydney watched as the little boy ambled over to where his jacket had been folded and placed on top of the small toy box that inhabited a corner of the Chairwoman's office, hidden from only the sharpest of eyes by a couch. Tommy paused as his gaze caught on something outside the huge picture windows, but his hands went slowly through the motions of donning the jacket anyway. Parker looked back up at her old friend. "He is getting better, isn't he, Sydney?"

"He didn't whimper or cry when JeiLing talked to him earlier," Sydney enumerated softly, "and he seems to be staying on task despite being a little distracted. I'd say that his progress has continued at a decent rate. We'll see what happens in the next month or two – after more detailed testing and intensive therapy."

The two adults rose as the child finally let go of whatever it was that had held his attention outside and ambled back to his sister. "Have I said thank you lately for everything you've done – for me, for Tommy?" Miss Parker asked in a very soft voice as her hand landed gently on the child's shoulder.

Sydney's silver brows soared up his forehead in surprise. "What's brought this on?" he asked in amazement.

Miss Parker bent to retrieve her purse from where it had landed that morning – on the floor near the back right leg of her desk – and then steered Tommy toward the door and Sydney. "I just think that it's about time that you began hearing it more often," she answered thoughtfully. "You've done a lot that I should be grateful for – and I'm not just talking about Tommy here." The grey eyes misted over as she saw in her mind's eye his fall across her legs in New York City. "I don't think I've ever adequately told you…"

"Stop Parker." Sydney shook his head gently. "You don't need to say anything. What I've done, I've done because I wanted to – and because I cared, even though I wasn't supposed to." He smiled at her again – once more that wide and warm smile. "It has been my honor – and privilege."

She shook her head as well, contradicting him effectively. "It does too need saying, Sydney – and I haven't."

"Then wait until we can talk privately," the old psychiatrist said with a glance down at the little boy. "And then you can also tell me what brought this all on – because you don't normally indulge yourself in recriminations…"

"It isn't recriminations," she shook her head again. "I was just thinking a while back about everything that's happened – and…"

"Parker…" He leaned forward and deposited a very small kiss on her cheek – a gesture almost as out of place in their relationship as her fumbling expression of gratitude. "Let's get supper going, shall we? Tommy's probably hungry – and I know that my stomach has been growling for the last hour too."

Tommy slipped in between the two people who were the most important figures in his life, taking Miss Parker's hand in his left and Sydney's in his right. "Hom…" he said in his oddly flat voice, tugging on both hands at once. "Ea…"

Miss Parker looked down at Tommy and smiled at him. "How about we go down to Sydney's office and wait while he gets Angelo ready to come with us? What do you think?"

"'Gelo?" Tommy looked up at Sydney expectantly.

"Let's go see if he'd like that," Sydney answered. And together, the three of them walked out of the Tower office.

oOoOo

Jarod took a deep breath as the lights of the city began to drop away in his rear view mirror. He still couldn't quite believe that he was free – that DiAngelo had actually heard something in the fantastic story he'd told that tipped the scales in favor of just letting the Pretender walk away from a charge of impersonating an officer - but here he was, on the turnpike headed south.

But… going where?

A destination had been the last thing in his mind when he'd dropped DiAngelo off back in the parking lot of the Snelling Institute, where the police captain had left his personal vehicle. He'd headed to the nearest turnpike entrance and hit the speed control, letting the automatic part of his mind handle the steering while his emotional state was unsteady. An hour had passed, however, and the lights of New York City and vicinity were just a warm glow on the horizon behind him.

Where to now?

Jarod tossed the possibilities around in his head. His parents had left him a standing invitation to come down and weekend with them whenever he wanted – an invitation reissued when JD had moved out of the homestead and into Boston to attend college. They knew all about Hank and what had happened – the entire family had stayed up one night listening and asking questions and probing until everyone understood everything. He wouldn't have to explain much – just mention the name DiAngelo – and his mother would no doubt find an excuse to make him a huge mug of hot chocolate to go with her willing shoulder, attentive ear and ever-constant sympathy.

For the first time in a long time – since he'd moved to New York City and put a little distance between himself and his parents – that didn't sound so bad. His mother had tried many times during that first year of reunion to "mother" him the way she envisioned he needed it, and while her sympathy was always welcome and the hot chocolate delicious, the fierce protectiveness she'd displayed when responding to whatever situation had upset him had been almost an irritant. Tonight, however, it would feel good to hear her rail at DiAngelo, the Centre, and everyone else who had conspired to make his life so difficult.

A little more content, he settled back in his seat and turned on the radio – finding an oldies station that played the kinds of songs that he and Zoë had listened to on their many "road trips" before her cancer had rendered her bedridden. Those were nice memories too, he decided. Maybe he'd call Grandma – Zoë's grandmother, with whom she'd lived out those last few, terrible, weeks – and visit her too. She was pretty good with the level-headed advice and solid comforting too – and Mom had never begrudged him his visits to her.

Of course, he could always call Sydney – but had, up until lately, managed to find a good reason not to. The old psychiatrist had his hands full now with Miss Parker's little brother – and Miss Parker, if he knew his huntress at all. Sydney's health was much more fragile now than it had ever been before too – his heart weakened by the scar tissue left from the bullet he'd taken – and upset was the last thing he needed. And Jarod knew that if he ever REALLY decided to re-establish contact with his old mentor and father-figure, there were a number of issues that would need settling between them that promised upset galore for both of them.

Jarod ran his right hand through his short-cropped hair. Maybe it was time for that too. Sydney wasn't getting any younger – and if by any chance the old man were to die before the two of them ever took the time to settle things between them…

No.

He had two weeks vacation coming in about a month. Somewhere in that time, he could make room for a trip to Blue Cove. He'd have to clear it with Parker first, though – let her know that he'd make sure Sydney didn't get too rattled or upset, if he could help it. Then again, he had plenty of issues to close with her too. Yes, maybe now that the shadow of prosecution for his last Pretend in the NYPD had finally been dispelled, it was time to dispel a whole lot of other shadows that had been lurking for years.

But for now, it was time to go home.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and with a thumb pushed the button that would dial the number he needed. "Mom," he asked the moment the voice came on the line, "how would you like to make a nice big batch of hot chocolate?"

oOoOo

Miss Parker pulled the afghan from the back of her couch and covered a slumbering Angelo, who'd played with Tommy until the child's bedtime and then simply curled up on the couch to watch the flickering flames in the fireplace. It had been a quiet, relaxing evening – the pizza had been a hit with the empath and the little boy alike – and even Sydney had eaten a full portion for a change.

She worried about her old friend, whose appetite had waned during his convalescence. In the months he'd spent recovering, she'd rediscovered the treasure trove of her mother's old cookbooks and a battered old wooden recipe box – and made good use of the lot of them. She'd made it her job to tempt him into eating what he needed to in order to heal by trying out dish after dish – and Sydney had finally started to lose the gaunt look he'd acquired after six weeks of hospital cuisine.

Still, however, she had to keep an eye on him – and make sure his fridge at home was stocked with enough cheese, butter and other healthy snack, salad and sandwich makings that she could be reasonably sure that he'd get one good meal a day. It felt different to see how the seasons had turned – how in years past, he'd worried at her; and now it was her turn to worry about him. And it was interesting to see how the both of them were acclimating to this change in their relationship – how he had initially bristled at the idea of her interference in a matter as personal as a diet, but had now gotten used to either being a guest in her house or having her making him a meal in his own home.

"Is he asleep?" Sydney asked from behind her.

"Dead to the world," she replied and straightened. "I doubt you'll move him again tonite."

"I'm going to need to get him home, Parker…"

"Let him sleep, Syd. He's comfortable, and he seems to be resting well. You can take the guest room tonite, and take him home with you in the morning, if you want."

The silver brows rose again. "Parker…"

"We need to talk – you were the one who wanted to wait with it until we could speak privately – and now that he's asleep and Tommy's in bed…" She crooked a finger and led the way past the formal dining table into the kitchen. "Sit down – I'll make us some tea."

"I think maybe a drink instead?" Sydney suggested evenly. He smiled at her as she turned in surprise. "Not a big one for either of us – neither of us needs to get drunk in order to bare our souls – but a little whiskey for me and bourbon for you might hit the spot for a change?"

"I haven't had a drink with you since…"

"Longer than I want to remember," he finished for her, steepling his fingers together thoughtfully as she fetched the two short glasses with amber liquid in them. The last time they'd been even close to having a drink together was nearly ten years earlier, when he'd been discovered plastered in an upscale tavern after discovering the Centre's complicity in an accident that had stolen away a student he'd been mentoring. Tonight, however, the circumstances were far more comfortable. He was neither drunk nor raging – and she had managed to set aside her own troubles with the bottle too. He raised the glass she handed him. "To better times at the Centre – and at home."

"Amen." The glasses clinked together gently, and then both took a sip.

"Now," Sydney started, putting his glass down in front of him, "you can tell me what spurred you into that strange mood this afternoon – and no skipping the little details."

Miss Parker held up her glass in front of her, turning it slowly with her fingertips and staring into its depths. "It was after I finished talking with the Triumvirate representative – after I sent him on his way with his tail between his legs," she began slowly. "I got to thinking about how my world was slowly starting to come together again." She raised shy eyes to him, "And how nice it was to have you fussing and worrying at me from the Sim Lab again."

Sydney's lips quirked into a lopsided smile. "If I'd known how much you enjoyed it, I'd have fussed at you from it a great deal more for a lot longer a time."

"Oh hush!" she smiled suddenly at him and shook her head slowly. "No – it's just that between you fussing at me and Jarod calling me at two in the morning…"

"He called you?" The brows rose again. "I thought you said that you hadn't spoken to him since…"

"Oh that." She took another sip. "I made the mistake of sending him a check written on an official Centre account a while ago as reimbursement for his expertise on the stock market." She smiled very quietly in remembrance. "The two-o'clock phone call was to remind me that making him officially associated with the Centre – no matter how obliquely – had repercussions I needed to be aware of. I haven't needed so much coffee in the morning as I did that day for a while now."

Sydney chuckled and sipped at his drink. "Still…"

"It occurred to me, as I was taking in the long view of how things are shaping up now that I hadn't really been as… expressive… as I should have been about how grateful I am for everything you've done for me," she stumbled forward, finding the confession no less awkward now than it had been a few hours earlier.

Sydney's big hand came forward and captured one hand away from her drink glass. "Parker, I meant what I said earlier. You don't have to say anything. Everything you've done in the last few months – all of the arrangements you've made for me, the fussing you've done over ME – have done an excellent job of speaking for you."

"It still needed to be said," she persisted, staring once more into her drink. "If there's one thing I've learned these last few months, it's that things that need saying SHOULD be said while there's a chance to say them." She raised her eyes again. "All it takes is one moment to rob a person of all the other chances – and then we'd be left with regrets."

Sydney was struck with her sincerity. "Very well," he allowed, "then I'll repeat what I told you earlier – that it has been my honor and privilege to be of assistance to you. You…" Now it was his turn to falter over words that suddenly came with great difficulty. "You are very dear to me – and always have been." He could say more – much more – but the time for that depth of revelation was not yet. He blinked hard to dismiss ideas that were only now starting to bubble up at him from the depths of his heart and then smiled shakily at her. "I also meant what I said when I told you I was very proud of you. You've done what I thought couldn't be done."

Miss Parker took a longer sip. "I didn't know that I'd be able to do it either, Sydney – to take the Centre as it was and turn it around. But you know I had to try…"

"You are your mother's daughter," he replied comfortingly.

"Mother wouldn't have tried to forge…"

"That document ended up being moot," Sydney shook his head. "You didn't need it to get where you are now after all. You got the Chairmanship…"

"ChairWOMANship…" she corrected with a smirk.

"…on your own," he smirked back without correcting himself. "You are a Parker – and if you don't mind my saying so, the best of the lot."

Miss Parker sat back in her chair, her drink resting on her chest for a moment. "So you think I should call Jarod?"

The old psychiatrist blinked at the sudden shift in topic, and then nodded. "I think we both should call him," he replied. "IF we want to have him play a part in our lives from now on, that is."

"He tried to tease me that night, you know," she remembered softly, "about my being the one to rule in Hell now."

Sydney chuckled. "Ruling in Hell? I'd never thought of it that way, but I suppose that's about as apt a job description as I've heard for you for a while."

"But it isn't Hell anymore, is it?"

Sydney smiled warmly at her. "No, Parker, it may not be Paradise, but it certainly isn't Hell anymore. And what it will be when all is said and done has yet to be determined. Those who come after you will be the ones to make that judgment."

Miss Parker raised her glass yet paused before taking a sip. "Now who's being philosophical?"

Sydney raised his. "Here's to ruling in Hell, Miss Parker," he answered and tapped his glass musically against hers, "and doing so for a good long time to come."

FIN