The Color of Hell

TITLE: The Color of Hell

AUTHOR: D.W.Chong

FANDOM: The Pretender

File Size Total: apx. 593K in 4 parts or 168 text pages in normal prose format.

RATING: for series: there are two: version PG-13 and version NC-17 for m/m sex, mature themes; major squick warnings for sexual practices in parts three and four.

CLASSIFICATION: Pretend MPTS (More Plot Than Sex)

PAIRING: J/OMC

SUMMARY: Jarod runs a pretends as a gay cop and discovers the meaning of true love, but things go wrong when Jarod’s attention is diverted from the pretend by his enchanting companion.

STORY NOTES: This story immediately follows the third season episode Once In Blue Moon, which has itself been moved from it’s air date of 10-31-98 to the actual Blue Moon of 1-31-99 (there were no actual Blue Moons in 1997-1998). In order to accommodate this shift, I have moved the episode Mr. Lee to a time prior to *this* Blue Moon’s time period, and the episode Assassin follows immediately after the conclusion of this story, even though these episodes were originally concurrently aired on Feb 6^th 1999. This story follows series events up until the third season ender, at which point, even though it takes place when it does, it goes AU from the series. In this reality Todd Baxter exists (but he did not fake his death later, he was actually murdered), Jarod escaped alone, and Catherine Parker did indeed die in the elevator in 1973 and did not bear a child named Ethan.

Also, in this reality Jarod made his escape —alone— on February 2^nd, 1996. I chose this date because of the many mentions in the series of “six weeks” he spent doing this or that and mention of his climbing Mt. Everest in Ranger Jarod. I assigned him to the only expedition he could possibly have joined, the IMAX’s filming crew of March-May 1996.

FORMAT NOTES: in this story << >> indicates dialog which is being spoken in a language other than English. // // indicates internal thoughts. * * indicates italics. (Where and when I catch them) Nobody betaed this but me, so all mistakes can be laid at mine own door.

DISCLAIMER: The Pretender and its characters do not belong to me, ‘cause you can be sure I’d have taken much better care of them! Nor do I intend to infringe on the copyrights of whoever does own them nor to profit from the posting of this story. If you don’t recognize ‘em, they’re mine.

ARCHIVING: Ask first.

FEEDBACK: can be send to D. W. Chong at chong@sisp.net

THE COLOR OF HELL

a Pretender novel

D.W. Chong

CHAPTER ONE

Newark, New Jersey

Tuesday, February, 2^nd, 1999

3:07 a.m.

White was the color of Limbo.

White couch, white walls, white chairs, and the wall‑to‑wall, milky‑auraed, fluorescent glow of ceiling panels with no ‘off ‘ switch.

In dreams it was less a memory than an alien landscape: sterile, monotonous, inescapable; a waiting room without doors.

Grey was the color of Hell.

A lifetime captured on three hundred ninety‑six, three inch super high density compact disks. Black and white images of lost moments, ingrained memories, and familiar terrors that played across his mind's eye in a never-ending loop.

His legs kicked feebly, hobbled by the paralysis of REM sleep. His cheeks slapped against his pillow in subconscious denial.

Black was the color of justice.

Jarod had spent most of his life terrified of the dark. As a child, darkness equalled punishment. During his first fourteen years in The Centre, the only time he had not been bathed in artificial light was when he misbehaved. Then, two Sweepers —members of The Centre's private security force, who were always posted somewhere along the corridor— would come to whatever room he was in, grab him by the arms, carry him out and shove him into a concrete cell where he remained for days at a time.

His skin knew this mini‑prison far more intimately than his eyes, for he had only ever seen it in the brief seconds the door was open. Once shut, the only breach in the utter blackness was the baleful red pinprick of the night‑vision surveillance camera's indicator light in the northeast corner of the twelve foot high ceiling.

Inside that four by four foot room the world was reduced to six cold walls, a thin trickle of running water, and his body's complaints.

His hands recalled the rough texture of the walls, the raw end of an iron water pipe to the right of the door, nearly flush with the wall and four feet above a three inch wide waste pipe that marked the nadir of the slightly sloped floor.

Thirst drove him to lick water off the wall, but he could not slake his hunger, or fend off the cold that seeped into his bones, or even, eventually, stretch himself out fully to sleep.

Even a few hours in the closet made him remorseful, but his pleas of repentance fell on deaf ears.

Punishment was never stinted in The Centre, if anything, the monitoring here was more intrusive, in here he couldn't even relieve his bowels in private.

Jarod's anguish finally pierced the veil of dreams and his eyes snapped open as his heaving chest spasmed out the last of a string of protests. "...no!"

He stilled.

Took stock.

He was alone. In bed. In the dark.

//Too dark for colors,// he thought.

He shivered in the gloom as his brain registered the night‑shrouded, weighty opaqueness of the plaster ceiling overhead.

//Too dark.//

He was not in That Place.

Jarod sagged back into the mattress with palpable relief.

Black was the color of freedom.

Once, being locked in that concrete cell was more torturous than the most harrowing simulations he had ever run. (Had that continued to be the case, the darkness might not have lost its power to terrify him.)

Once, being in a darkened room made him jumpy, unable to sleep. Now, far from panicking him, the inky void soothed his nerves like a subliminal lullaby.

He replayed the exact moment he had befriended the once terrifying void: it was March 30th, 1996, his first night in the Everest Base Camp. He had gone outside to use the latrine. The

night sky had been so clear, the atmosphere so thin, the stars had no twinkle, but shone like an army of searchlights. It had frozen him in place. The vista of fiercely bright pinhole lights shining through the velvety black of darkest night robbed him of his breath without any help from the high altitude. He had dropped to his knees and wept.

Despite three intense years Outside, that moment remained the most profound experience of his life. Nor had the sheer thrill of being immersed in the world's lushness, variety, and chaotic

energy abated. If anything, the sensations had intensified, as if he would never —could never— get enough of its novelties, its rawness, its starry, starry nights.

When Jarod returned to civilization, he discovered that he no longer panicked when he entered a darkened room, no longer needed the lights to burn from the time he entered a lair until

the last moment of his final exit. The thirty‑three year tyranny of artificial light had ended.

Now he was content to live in harmony with the natural circadian tides of light and dark, only resorting to artificial illumination when the ambient light from the nearest window was

insufficient to perform some needed task.

It made collecting himself after one of his chronic nightmares so much easier.

Assured that he was still at liberty, a moment's contemplation supplied Jarod with his current location: Newark, New Jersey. Not as far from Snow Hill, Maryland as he had planned to be —was it only two days ago? But he was nothing if not adaptable.

He breathed deeply, allowing his heart and respirations to slow to normal, and lifted his eyes to the clock on the opposite wall: 3:07 a.m. Barely two hours since he'd fallen asleep.

He felt vaguely irritated at his psyche for waking him up so soon, even though he'd known when he'd laid down that he was too wound up from his final face‑to‑face encounter with Douglas Willard —and his all too narrow escape from his personal huntress, Miss Parker— to rest easily or long. Still, he'd hoped to put a bigger dent in his sleep debt than a measly hundred twenty‑four

minutes.

Knowing that further attempts to court sleep would only be time stolen from more productive pursuits, Jarod tossed back the covers and swung his black sweatpant clad legs over the edge of the bed. His hands ran down his face with a well‑practiced motion, wiping the vestiges of terror from face to palms to sweat‑drenched black T‑shirt.

Luckily, he was refreshed enough to skate through the next fifteen hours drouse‑free —though he'd need eight solid hours of nightmare-less down time to recover from his non-stop pursuit of Carl Schumann and his puppet‑master, Douglas Willard, before he could once more perform at peak efficiency.

While at The Centre, Sydney, Jarod's project coordinator, mentor, and surrogate father, had forced him to take sleep breaks every twenty hours ‑‑when it didn't interfere with a SIM, that

is‑‑ because Jarod preferred to push himself till he collapsed from exhaustion to placidly surrendering to Morpheus.

Now that he was responsible for his own well‑being, Jarod found himself adhering to this long‑enforced sleep schedule far more diligently than when he'd been in Sydney's charge.

But if the last three days proved he was nowhere near as strict with himself as Sydney had been, it could, in no way, compare to the seven consecutive days he'd somehow survived on sheer force of will in the first frantic weeks following his escape.

He was more than happy to let that record stand, never mind that he'd come within twenty hours of matching it on more than one occasion. The life or death emergencies that had become a staple of his new existence had made him conservative, and he took every opportunity to stockpile a healthy cushion of mental and physical reserves that he could abuse himself when necessary.

Jarod did not bother to change out of his sweat drenched clothes, nor, despite the numbing cold of the bare floor, did he put on either socks or shoes before ducking his six foot two inch frame under the pull‑up bar he had installed across the bedroom's access way and padding into the cabinet‑demarked kitchen.

He flicked on the naked overhead bulb and mentally ticked off the items on the kitchen table as though the probability of their being precisely as he had left them was negligible: empty

dome‑lidded glass cake plate; plastic bowl full of pink frosting; two jars of seedless raspberry jam; a sizable hill of strawberry Pez packs, (they didn't make raspberry); a box of birthday candles; a book of matches; a narrow spatula; a laptop computer, and a cellular phone.

Jarod unplugged the laptop from the phone outlet and moved it to the far side of the table to make room for the three rounds of slightly browned raspberry chip cake he fetched from the

refrigerator.

He had only rented the furnished loft yesterday afternoon, and had spent the rest of the day getting the utilities turned on, buying provisions, baking, and using the laptop to erase all trace of his 'Jarod Ressler' identity from the Department of Justice's data base.

He took a seat before his array of goodies and, drawing his bare feet up into the baggie ends of his sweatpants, lifted the glass dome off the empty cake plate and set it aside, ignoring the shiver in his hand that caused the lid to tinkle against the tabletop. The cold air quickly made his dampened T‑shirt clammy but, now that he was focused on his latest project, his own comfort was the least of his concerns.

Daubing a glob of frosting onto the cake plate as an anchor, Jarod centered a cake round onto it. A mortaring layer of raspberry jam followed, then a second and a third tier, and his cake was built.

He smoothed pink raspberry frosting over the raspberry‑chip cake, next, stuck three candles, in a triangular formation, on the cake top and, with a patience born of decades of meticulous precision work, began to unwrap the Pez and circle the individual pink candies, end up, into the frosting surrounding the candles.

Ninety minutes later, Jarod inserted the last piece of candy into the cake's side, sat back, and admired his handiwork. The cake was now an alluringly exact, if incised and draped, pink on

pink, two dimensional representation of the interference wave patterns generated by three equi‑distant non‑resonant frequencies.

His nagging authoritarian superego berated him for the pleasurable flush of accomplishment he felt for what was, ultimately, a colossal waste of time.

//You may as well have stayed in bed,// the stentorian tones inside his head sneered.

//And missed all this fun?// Jarod grinned, mentally jibing himself for his twinge of guilt. He enjoyed tweaking the Project Coordinator Within almost as much as he did Miss Parker.

Since his escape from The Centre he had embraced the concept of 'fun' whole‑heartedly. It was fun to celebrate the anniversary of his emergence into the outside world by baking his very first scratch‑made birthday cake. But 'random' did not exist in his lexicon. Tossing the candies on scatter‑shot would have only frustrated his pattern‑needy, inner perfectionist to distraction.

Over the course of three years, he had learned to balance his hunger for sheer fun with his compulsive‑obsessive need to produce, analyze, winnow, and discern patterns in anything and

everything he perceived or performed.

If he was constitutionally incapable of doing a thing haphazardly, even something as trivial as decorating a cake only he would see, then he would accomodate both urges and revel in his ability to mentally visualize and physically plot a complex waveform by painstakingly poking candy into a bed of frosting for ninety minutes. It made each moment as delicious as the pink raspberry butter cream frosting he had licked off the spreader.

That it had been The Centre's own relentless 'profit before all' regimentation that had both nurtured his natural patterning tendencies into a full‑blown obsession, and instilled in him the

mental discipline required to wring 'fun' out of the kinds of absurdly superfluous, time‑consuming, and wholly unprofitable activities with which he now regularly indulged himself, was a delicious irony in itself.

He went to the refrigerator, grabbed a glass tumbler with a spoon already in it, a gallon of milk, and a jar of chocolate flavored Ovaltine and set them on the table. He scooped an obscene

amount of powder into the tumbler, filled it with milk, stirred, sucked the spoon clean, then lit a match and touched its flame to the candle wicks with one hand, while he activated his cell phone

with the other. Blowing out the match, he waited, phone to ear, for his speed‑dialled party to pick up.

"Sydney, here," a distinctly foreign and refined voice said ‑‑somewhat wearily, Jarod thought, after the fifth ring.

"Happy birthday to me," Jarod decrecendoed into the phone, and promptly blew out the candles.

There was a lingering silence from the other end of the line as the rudely awakened former mentor/controller recovered from his surprise at being contacted a mere twenty hours after Jarod's previous call, (usually indicative of a state of distress and/or confusion on the subject's part), then took a moment to consider Jarod's...'message'. The thought that his caller had finally lost his last grasp on reality briefly crossed his mind, but then he reminded himself with whom he was dealing, and he decided to give Jarod the benefit of explaining himself.

"It isn't your birthday, Jarod," he said, with a measured, practiced tone that conveyed a professional detachment that did not extend to his heart.

Jarod cut a wedge of the three layer cake out with the frosting knife, ran his tongue across the top line of seedless raspberry jam filling, then nibbled off the narrow end of the wedge, crunching happily on the Pez‑studded frosting. He swallowed.

"Umm! I know that, now, but, by the time I discovered my real birth date I'd already adopted this one. Anyway, it's so much more appropriate, don't you think?"

Sydney stifled a sigh at this latest in a series of cryptic comments, and glanced again at his nightstand clock: 4:46 a.m. He did not bother to ask why Jarod was calling at such an ungodly hour. He'd never known Jarod to get a full night's sleep in the thirty‑six years he'd known him.

In fact, Jarod was clinically narcophobic, and it was no great stretch of the imagination to understand why. If Sydney had had nightmares with the frequency Jarod had all his life, he

wouldn't find the prospect of eight hours repose very inviting, either.

"What's important is that you feel it's appropriate, Jarod. In the final analysis, that's all that matters," Sydney said in neutral psychiatrist‑ese as he pinched the bridge of his nose and

tried to fathom the significance of the date. He knew intuitively there had to be one. Jarod never called without a reason, but he seemed to be taking his time in getting to the point this morning.

Detecting Sydney's incomprehension, Jarod elucidated: "It's February 2nd, 1999, Sydney. I'm three years old today."

Sydney gasped at his obtuseness, but immediately forgave himself for his lapse, his mind had been occupied with the other matter, only just concluded. "Of course!" He could not help a slight smile. "Yes, Jarod, the date is entirely appropriate," he agreed.

"I haven't cracked up yet, Sydney," Jarod said, not needing to clarify his implication that, if he could survive this latest batch of ordeals with his humanity and psyche intact, he could

survive anything.

Sydney could not tell if Jarod's tone was admonishing or defensive, but, either way, he did not think it would be prudent to argue the point, for, clinically speaking, while Jarod had

managed to recover in his own, inimitable and astoundingly accelerated fashion ‑‑without any help from Sydney, he had, in fact, suffered the equivalent of two nervous breakdowns in the last year alone. There was no guarantee that he would recover as swiftly from any subsequent episodes ‑‑and every indication that he would eventually succumb to another one.

"That's a matter for debate, although I will concede that you're handling your exposure to the world far more competently than I had thought possible." Sydney could almost hear the other

man's chest swell with pride.

"Unfortunately, the longer you remain at large, the greater the likelihood that something will go seriously awry. It's a simple matter of probabilities. And even you must admit, the effects would be quite devastating to someone with your...psycho‑neurologic patterning."

Sydney sensed Jarod shutting down emotionally in the silence that followed this pronouncement, but, as he hadn't intended to undermine Jarod's fragile self‑esteem, he quickly added: "In the words of that Han Solo fellow you're so fond of: 'Don't get cocky, kid.'"

Jarod's smile brightened instantly. Sydney was not trying to make him feel bad, nor regretting his decision to pass up an opportunity to haul Jarod back to the prison in which he had so long resided, he was merely expressing his concern. "You be careful, too, Sydney." Neither of their lives were free from danger, these days.

"I shall endeavor to be so. And Happy Birthday, Jarod. Now that I know you have designated this as your day, I shall circle it on my calendar."

"Thanks, Sydney."

And then he simply hung up.

Sydney sighed again. Despite Jarod's brilliance, he had never mastered the simple art of phone etiquette. Not that he'd had adequate practioners on which to model his behavior. At The

Centre 'etiquette' was a euphemism for unarmed combat, and phones were just a polite way of yelling at people in the next room. One did not say 'good‑bye' when one finished speaking to people in the next room. One simply stopped talking and got back to whatever it was one had been doing beforehand.

So it was with Jarod, who was, at that very moment, washing down the last of his slice of cake with the tumblerful of malted chocolate milk.

Jarod had planned today's agenda before retiring: 1) get up; 2) do warm‑up exercises; 3) commence research on Officer Marchetti; 4) buy papers; 5) finish exercising; 6) shower and

dress; 7) decorate cake; 8) call Sydney; 9) eat cake; 10) establish pretend identity.

Waking up two hours ahead of schedule had forced him to adjust his timetable. The fact that this made his planned call to Sydney so much more intrusive did not give him an instant's pause. The only immutable item on his to‑do list was Officer Marchetti.

Jarod covered the remains of the cake with the domed lid, carried his tumbler over to the sink, rinsed it out, and, leaving it up‑turned in the sink to dry, washed and dried his frosting and

crumb‑bestrewn hands.

He then returned to the bedroom to don a pair of thick crew socks and his running shoes, went back to the loft's common room for fifteen minutes of stretching and warm‑up exercises, and jogged over to his valet cum work desk to pocket his wallet and keys, and pull on his watch.

He patted the aluminum Halliburton briefcase like someone else might the head of a faithful dog, debating where to stash it, for he never left it sitting in plain sight unless he was there to watchdog it.

He decided to duct tape it to the back of the toilet tank. //Cool stuff, duct tape//, he thought. He lifted the Halliburton from the huggermugger of desk lamp, Powerbook, four framed pictures, Mr. Potatohead, twenty‑six Mr. Potatohead accessory bits, a metallic blue slinky, a plastic tub of Clay‑dough, and nine loaded Pez dispensers and carried it to the bathroom. Then he lifted off the toilet tank lid and checked the space behind it for fit. The case just did slide behind the tank.

He retreived a roll of duct tape from the under basin cabinet, tore off two strips of tape long enough to more than circle the briefcase completely, slid the case down the length of the tank, then pressed the two tape leads onto the back of the tank, hanging the case up like a sling.

Another strip of tape crossed over the two leads to secure them, then he replaced the lid and eyed the results. The case was undetectable from either the door, or a cursory glance at the

tank.

Jarod's front door was one of three accessways set into the cubular 'hallway.' He ran in place while the elevator dropped him from the top to the ground floor, then jogged along the common foyer with its bank of mail boxes, to the concrete walkway beyond the double front doors that was bisected by a black, wrought iron security gate recessed some four feet from the public sidewalk.

Jarod exited, made sure the gate latched, then jogged north seven blocks to Marchetti's place, then ran up one side of Washington Street and down the other till Marchetti, also dressed in sweats, emerged from his own gated apartment building.

Jarod checked his watch: 5:41, then tailed Marchetti through Washington Park to Broad Street, through Military Park, back to Broad, to Franklin Street, and the headquarters of Newark's Police corps. Jarod stayed on the opposite side of the street until Marchetti entered the building, and checked his watch: 6:25, then he retraced his steps to Marchetti's apartment building and did cool‑down stretches beside Marchetti’s security gate until someone left the building who did not make sure the gate closed before they went on their way.

Jarod jumped to catch the gate, slipped inside, and took the elevator up to the top floor.

The layout of Marchetti’s building was similar to his own, with six apartments on each of the first three floors, four apartments on the next two, and two apartments on the top two floors, making it pretty easy to find Marchetti's place.

He picked the lock and let himself in.

The place was as spartan as a military post: not a speck of dust, not so much as a skewed magazine or slightly off‑center picture. The furniture was well‑used, functional but tasteful, some nubby white fabric with walnut wood accents. The component shelving was walnut, the books were leatherbound, the finish dull with use...and...was that a stereo? Jarod located a stash of LPS

in the bottom cabinet.

The Hotpoint refrigerator in the kitchen looked like it had been new sometime circa 1950. There was an original model Mr. Coffee, an electric spice grinder, and a rubber sealed ceramic

coffee container on the counter.

Several varieties of instant breakfast foods packed an overhead kitchen cabinet, while the exotic canned foods in the pantry looked like purchases from some 'dings and dents' discount store. Marchetti liked to eat expensive foods, but he shopped like he couldn't afford retail, with the exception of the gourmet coffee beans.

Jarod went into the bedroom. Marchetti's clothes were well used but in good repair. Jarod guessed that the two 'newest' suits in the closet were one and four years old. There was a pair of

dress shoes, a pair of sandals, an extra pair of black Oxfords for work, and a pair of slippers in the shoe tree, the heels and soles all worn in the same way, but not holey. An old photo album was tucked up on the shelf above the suits, along with old cards and extra linens.

Jarod checked out the bathroom. One toothbrush, one razor. Nothing but standard over‑the‑counter remedies in the medicine cabinet.

Jarod searched for bank papers that would indicate the existence of saftey deposit boxes or off‑shore assets, personal or business correspondence. Besides a handful of credit card bills and letters addressed to 'Occupant', he found nothing of interest.

Jarod toured the apartment again, this time looking for hidden caches and safes. After three years of stashing his Halliburton, he had become expert at detecting hiding places.

Clean.

Somewhat frustrated, Jarod let himself out, relocked the door, and jogged back to Market and Broad and the newstand he had noticed there his first go‑round. Buying a copy of every newspaper there made the newsie, one Mario, by name, quite effusive. Jarod chatted with the man for a few minutes, then jogged back to his loft.

Making a looping circuit of the great room's furniture, he laid the papers on the end of the couch, dumped his wallet, keys, and watch back onto the work table, then headed to the east wall, and the exercise bar spanning the accessway to the only enclosed spaces in the loft: the bathroom and bedroom.

Facing the great room, he grabbed the bar and, holding his legs parallel to the floor, did fifty pull‑ups.

Then, dangling from his arms, he tried his best to touch his forehead with his shins twenty times, (a position he was not actually able to achieve unless he could wrap his arms around his legs and pull himself into place).

Shifting his grip to the other side of the bar, he launched his body into as prone a position as he could with his arms behind him, and tried to lift himself up to touch his back to the bar

twenty times.

He then moved to the nearby wall, got into a handstand, and did fifty push‑ups with his toes lightly braced against the wall.

He did a forward roll into the middle of the floor and finished up with fifteen more minutes of stretching exercises, then ducked into the bathroom. He turned on the bathtub taps and activated the showerhead, then shucked his clothes while the water warmed up. After he was stripped, he checked the temperature with a hand. It was hot. He stepped carefully into the spray and slowly turned, enjoying the nettle-like sting of the droplets pelting his sweat-salted skin, then he grabbed a washcloth and bar of soap lathering the cloth up thickly before he briskly scrubbed his arms and legs. It was like coating himself with liquid satin. He turned his back to the spray and ran the cloth over his chest, moaning softly at the sensuous feel of the foamy cloth. His hand slowed as it circled lower, rounding his breasts strumming the distinct bulges of his abdominal muscles, and delved into the triangle of his crotch. He teased his thatch, playfully using the lather like hair mousse, pulling his pubes into little peaks that curled around his genitals like unbaked meringue before cupping his sac in the creamy nest of hand and cloth. His legs spread as he teased his perineum, and poked sudsy fingers down to tease his hole.

His other hand scraped the suds up from his belly and slathered it over his nipples, smushing and tweaking them till they were hard little nubs, increasing the pleasure/torture of his arousal. The cloth slipped over his hip, lavished both butt cheeks, sawed at his crack, and then he reached the limit of his forbearance and he brought both hands over his weeping shaft, pulling back his foreskin to rub his slit into the nubby, foam slicked cloth.

Funny how something as simple as a piece of cloth could make his hand feel so alien, almost as if it wasn’t his own hand at all, but some unseen lover’s. The thought was both comforting and titillating, and he dropped his bare hand to let his clothed hand milk his cock. Faster. Harder. His head arched back and his face was pricked by a thousand hot needles of water. He shouted, pulsing ejaculate into the cloth, the two creams mingling. And then he pivoted to let the spray douse the cloth, and lather and cum dribbled to the drain in one milky stream while his sex-sensitized penis danced beneath the assault of hot rain.

Jarod hung the cloth up, shut off the taps, and stepped out into the steamy bathroom proper. He’d never enjoyed a shower like that in captivity, he grinned as he bellied up to the basin to shave. He lathered up and scraped the razor over his chin, rinsed, and ran his fingers over his skin to make sure he’d done a thorough job. Satisfied, he scooped up his discarded clothing and exited to dump them onto the foot of the bed, then dug into his closet and dresser for a white Arrow shirt, pair of black slacks, oxfords and dress socks.

So outfitted, he grabbed his black leather jacket and ducked under the exercise bar across the access-way to grab a tumblerful of tap water and his laptop, slinging the jacket over the back of the sofa en route to the kitchen.

He drank one glassful while standing at the sink, then filled the tumbler again and carried it and the laptop out to the coffee table, nudging aside a Thomas Guide for the Newark area, a red notebook, a pair of scissors, and a glue stick so as to situate it a comfortable arm's reach from where he plopped unceremoniously onto the sofa.

He picked the notebook off the coffeetable and leafed to the first page, onto which he had pasted a story from Jan. 31st's Star Ledger. He reread the article.

COP SLAYS TEACHER BEHIND NIGHT CLUB

Thomas Bell, 43, was killed during a shootout with off‑duty

police officer Trent Marchetti at apx. 10 p.m. Sat. night. The

shooting occurred in the alleyway between the West Park Plaza

building and Marbles, a local night club located in the adjoining

complex.

According to Police spokesperson Martin Florence, Officer

Marchetti, who is still on the job pending an investigation of the

shooting by the Department's Bureau of Internal Affairs, was on

his way home from a local bar and grill he frequents after shift,

when he observed Bell selling drugs in the alleyway.

When Marchetti attempted to arrest Bell, Bell pulled out a

gun, and Marchetti opened fire, striking Bell three times in the

chest. Bell died at the hospital during emergency surgery. Seven

plasticine bags of cocaine were found on Bell's person.

SCHOOL SHOCKED BY DEALER TEACHER,

a second article, dated February 1st, read.

Larry Dolinski, a spokesman for Berringer High School,

expressed his shock and dismay at the shooting incident last Sat.

that left Thomas Bell, a tenured History teacher at the school,

dead. "Mr. Bell would be the last person on this campus anyone

would ever suspect of selling drugs."

Dolinski went on to assure concerned parents that the school

board was funding an investigation into Bell's conduct on campus,

but was quick to defend the popular teacher, who had been at the

school for fifteen years.

"Mr. Bell was a consumate professional, caring, and

concerned about all of Berringer High's students. He was active in

the school's anti‑drug programs, and had volunteered his services at

Newark's Westside Teen Rehabilitation Center for years. He

often said his greatest pleasure was to see a love of learning

ignite in a student's face. He shall be sorely missed.

A picture of Bell and Marchetti had accompanied the story, and it had been that which had captured Jarod's attention during his train ride to New York. Jarod knew, from the thousands of picture drills he had performed with Sydney, that Bell was no drug dealer, that Marchetti was hiding something, and that both men were homosexuals, or rather, in Bell's case, bisexual, since he did have a wife and three children. It had been the three children that had clinched it.

Jarod had taken the next available train back to Newark.

Jarod's eyes drifted out of focus as he ran a mental simulation of the shooting through his head.

It was not Marchetti who had surprised Bell in the middle of a drug buy, but Bell who had surprised Marchetti ‑‑with fatal consequences.

Bell had been in the club and had left the back way, partly because he didn't want to be seen going out the front door of the club, partly because it was a shortcut to the Plaza's parking

garage from whence his car had been impounded Monday morning.

Whatever the reason, Bell had stumbled upon Marchetti at the precise moment when there was no disguising his actions. Even then, things might have turned out differently had Bell and Marchetti not known each other from former encounters in their insular social sphere.

Unfortunately, even though Marchetti was not in uniform, Bell knew he was a cop, and Marchetti, in turn, knew Bell well enough to know how militantly anti‑drug he was.

Desperate to keep his secrets safe, Marchetti had murdered his friend/acquaintance, then, in order to cover up the crime, he had dressed the crime scene with a throw‑away piece and a small portion of the drugs in his possession, so it would look like a justifiable homicide, salvaging his own reputation by savaging Bell's.

Jarod's eyes lost their far‑away glaze. He tossed the red notebook down, took a sip of water, then lifted off the first of the morning's cache of newspapers to skim through the headlines, in search of further information on the Bell case.

SECRET LIFE OF TEACHER EXPOSED, read the Times of Trenton.

SLAIN TEACHER GAY, said the Star Ledger.

The stories themselves were remarkably similar, hinging on the fact that reporters going

into the club for background information had discovered it served a gay clientele. During police canvassing, both the Marbles's bartender and 'host' had identified a picture of Bell as 'a regular'.

If the tone of the articles could be used as a gauge, cementing Bell's ties to the gay world had thickened the tar coating Bell's reputation.

Jarod picked up the scissors, clipped all the pertinent articles out of the day's newspapers, and pasted them into his SIM journal. That done, Jarod took himself, his glass of water, and the laptop, (which he plugged into the convenient desk‑side phone jack), to his desk to flesh out his bare bones profile on Marchetti, as he hadn't been able to do much more amid the chaos of moving in yesterday than unearth Marchetti's home address.

After a few hours of work, Jarod discovered that Marchetti had lived in his apartment for twenty years, and had been with the New Jersey Police Department for eighteen. The first eleven of those years he had worked Patrol Division. He had then worked three years in the Youth Aid Unit before transferring back to Patrol Division.

During his first stint on Patrol, he'd maintained an unremarkable, but balanced arrest profile. He rarely discharged his weapon, was not in the habit of using excessive force, treated

all ethnic groups equally, for good or ill, and had never killed anyone before this incident, which would be the tentpole of his defense at his up‑coming Internal Affairs hearing. For a department fighting a history of brutality and corruption, Marchetti was a choir boy.

But, in the last four years, his total arrests had not only dropped from his former average, they had skewed from an equal percentage of drug and theft busts, (the types of offenses which made up eighty percent of the reported crimes in Newark), to almost no drug arrests at all, and the unlucky perpetrators had all been of non‑Italian extraction.

The Department, anxious to make a ruling on the shooting, and doubly anxious that that ruling prove favorable to the Department, was disposed to view Marchetti's career as a whole, which would all but guarantee the shooting's being ruled a justifiable homicide. The seeming contradiction of a man known for his anti‑drug stance caught dealing drugs would be explained as a clever ploy to disguise his shady dealings, which would make mock of all that the man had stood for his whole life. One more reason why Jarod's talents would be needed to reveal the truth.

Jarod hacked into Marchetti's bank records. He had the usual raft of credit cards, all carrying a higher than average amount of debt, but nothing that couldn't be handled on Marchetti's regular salary, and there were no records of him ever renting a safety deposit box in Newark or anywhere else within a three hundred mile radius. Unless, of course, he was using an alias, something Jarod wasn't going to be able to find out on‑line.

In fact, the only way Jarod could find out such information, since a search of the apartment had yielded no clues, was to compare a sample of Marchetti's handwriting with all of the thousands of signature cards on file at each bank, a task that was clearly beyond his purview. If Marchetti had any hidden assets, he was going to have to betray their existence to Jarod some other way. Of course, that meant Jarod would have to get close enough to Marchetti ‑‑physically and emotionally‑‑ for him to do so.

The best way to do that was to become a cop, so he thought up a back story, a way to get himself assigned to the currently desk‑bound Marchetti that would also get that officer back on the street where he could incriminate himself, and hacked into the Newark Police's personnel databank to make the necessary adjustments to the files. He then faxed himself a confirmation of

employment, duty orders, a W‑4, and set up the necessary required tests for his latest incarnation as an officer of the law.

He listed San Diego, California, as his 'prior residence', because that is where he had been when he'd learned that seventeen year old Sarah Rickman had been abducted in Snow Hill, Maryland. Jarod had abandoned his planned pretend at once, because the Blue Moon had only been days away. He'd had every intention of returning to San Diego once the would‑be killer was apprehended, until he learned that Miss Parker had discovered his San Diegan lair. He had cursed her efficiency, knowing that it would be some time before he could resume that particular pretend.

//Robert Burns was right,// Jarod thought. On the other hand, Miss Parker's unplanned West Coast intrusion would allow him to concentrate wholly on this new pretend. Not a bad outcome. Jarod turned his thoughts to his new persona.

'Jarod Reed' was enough of a 'rookie' to policework that assigning Marchetti as his Field Training Officer wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Jarod's very real and too fresh bulletholes were

explained away as the work related injury which had caused 'Reed' to leave San Diego.

After double‑checking that his name was on the firing range's small arms qualifications test roster, he made an on‑line search for the nearest uniform shop and used car dealership, then

called for a taxi. He loaded his pockets with wallet, keys, Pez, and fax, strapped on his watch, pulled on his jacket, and took the elevator down to the ground floor, where he waited, just inside

the security gate, for the taxi to arrive.

The first thing Jarod did was obtain a car. And, since his newest persona was a man of modest means, he financed, rather than bought, a black, '95 Honda Accord with all the amenities.

He then drove to the uniform shop with his confirmation of employment form in hand, (in some cities they wouldn't sell police uniforms to just anybody off the street), and outfitted himself with everything from hat to holster belt, new shoes to the proper patches for a uniformed patrolman, and, not least, a handy, pocket‑sized code book.

He returned to his loft, sewed the patches onto his three uniform shirts then ironed them and the pants that matched them, pairing them on wire hangers hooked over the bathroom door. Then he flopped onto the bed to memorize the code book. Try as he might, Jarod couldn't keep his thoughts off Marchetti.

Marchetti had not indulged himself with any obviously new or expensive belongings in the last four years. Nor did he act as if he were sitting on a secret horde of cash. In fact, he walked like a man who was being pressed into the ground by heavy, if not quite intolerable burdens, and dragged sadness about him like an invisible anchor.

If guilt was dragging Marchetti down, Jarod speculated, then perhaps, if he waited long enough, Marchetti's own conscience would do his work for him.

Jarod rejected the idea immediately. However badly Marchetti felt, Bell's death had become just one more straw to balance on his back, just one more burden to hide among the others.

//But what is the straw that will break this camel's back?// he wondered.

INTERLUDE ONE

Blue Cove, Delaware

Tuesday, February 2^nd

9:00 a.m.

Miss Parker settled herself behind her desk and checked her mail and messages, idly wondering if there would be a care package from Jarod among them.

Anticipation, expectation, desire and disappointment had become staples of her morning ritual, and she didn't know which aggravated her more: the thought of Jarod smirking at her so infuriatingly as he parcelled out the information she craved in dribs and drabs, or her own gut‑wrenching gratitude as she devoured each morsel.

It was so damned irritating.

She sighed. No gifts from Jarod today. Not that she had really expected one. Profusiveness was not his hallmark, and he had sent Annie's locket —the final puzzle piece of the Snow Hill affair— to Syd only yesterday. She was still irked at Mr. Raines and Sydney about that fiasco. They had both known where Jarod was, could have sent in a Sweeper team to pick him up at any time but, instead, they had used their rank and influence to force her and Broots into a pointless trip to Florida. By the time her trusty computer‑nerd had figured the deceit out, Jarod had eluded them one more time.

A gelid spasm shivered up her spine and the muscles in her face set as firmly as concrete, unimpressed by Jarod's success in capturing Carl Schumann, or in recapturing the fugitive, Douglas Willard, who was the true mastermind behind Sarah Rickman's abduction, and one of Jarod's old bogeymen.

Jarod had no business chasing serial killers. Not even wannabes like Carl Schumann. Miss Parker knew that better than anyone alive. Far better than Sydney or Mr. Raines, for damn sure, else they'd have used Jarod's Willard fixation to capture him, instead of indulging him in his little law and order fantasy. She cursed them soundly, then, having no venom left for them, cursed Jarod for the pang of fear the pretend had spawned within her.

//Arrogant bastard! How dare you SIM a serial killer in an uncontrolled environment, without safeguards or safe words or monitoring of any kind. What were you thinking?//

//Was he thinking?// Of course he was. Thinking he was invincible, untouchable, and incorruptible. //As if! He's supposed to be so damned smart.// Was it machismo or hubris, competitiveness or guilt that drove Jarod to such reckless behavior? No matter. The very fact that he had even contemplated such a pretend proved it was way past time for him to be locked back up in his cage.

//Why can't he just concentrate on finding my mother's killer and leave the capture of twisted specimens like Carl Schumann to men whose personalities aren't the human equivalent of Silly Putty?// Miss Parker thought with a scowl.

Not that she was all that happy about Jarod's Holy Quest for Truth, Justice, and the quid pro quo, quite the opposite. The fact that she spent as much time digging up the answers to his puzzles as she did actually pursuing him was entirely beside the point.

//Why is my knowing the Truth about Mother's life and death so important to Jarod, anyway?// There was no changing the past, afterall. The damage was done. So why bother? //It's probably just a sneaky ploy to throw me off his scent.// He was sure trying his damnedest to turn her against Daddy, but that, at least, hadn't worked. //So far.//

//Bite your tongue!// she immediately chastized herself. //I'm a loyal Centre employee.// She was where she was supposed to be, doing what she was supposed to do or, she had been until Frankenboy had pulled a Houdini on them and The Powers That Be had pulled her off the corporate fast track to go chase his genius ass around the flagpole.

They had justified it at the time by telling her she was the best person for the job, but here it was, three years down the road, and the bastard was still free, and cocky enough to juggle the lives of innocents with the ultimate fates of two serial killers and his own sanity.

The buzz of the intercom interrupted her internal screed. She slapped the button that shut the unit up and connected her to whoever wanted her attention. "What?" she asked sharply.

"Good morning, Angel," her father's remote if affable voice, slightly distorted by the intercom's speakers, greeted her, seemingly oblivious to her hostile tones. "I'm calling a meeting

on the Jarod situation. Grab your stats and your team members and meet me in the boardroom in ten minutes."

"Of course, Daddy," she said, straining the words through her teeth so the abject panic behind them wouldn't bleed into her voice. Whatever else she might fault her father for, his 'guilt

radar' was batting a thousand.

She gulped in oxygen, wishing, for just an instant, that it was laced with nicotine, but she had quit and she was not going to backslide for something as trivial as an emergency meeting with her father —and god knows how many other Centre board members— about HER inability to catch HIM. They were not going to hang her out to dry for this cluster foul‑up. Oh, no. This time it was Sydney and Raines who had better wear their macks.

She grabbed the phone and dialed Broots's extension.

"Uh, hi, Broots here," the cyber‑nerd member of her tactical team greeted with cautious cheer.

"Print out a report of all our latest leads on Jarod and be ready to present them to the board in five minutes," she ordered without preamble. "Is Syd in?"

"Uh, um, no, he's downstairs," Broots stammered.

She hung up without acknowledging Broots directly and sucked at the air greedily, needing the bracing tonic of negative ions to steady her legs as she rose from her desk, grabbed up files left and right, and headed at top speed down to SL‑19, where Sydney's 'Project' office was located, (as opposed to the more elaborate corporate office he kept on SL‑5), the better to collate the data coughed up by the rest of his human labrats.

She didn't bother to knock, but leaned through the clear glass office door. "We're wanted to discuss 'the Jarod situation'," she said, echoing her father's words, but adding the bitterness herself. "Grab whatever it is you need and come along.”

Sydney closed the file he had been perusing, and, with an unconcern bordering on natural arrogance, went straight to her side, needing only himself to justify his existence to the board, the Triumvirate, or God himself.

Miss Parker marveled at his confidence, but then, Sydney had been released from Renewal Wing with sins forgiven, and wits and intrigues intact, a feat few could claim. Having 'Jarod' on his resume had been oil enough to calm the Pacific ocean —so far. She wondered if it would save him this time.

She retreated to the elevators, Sydney in tow, and hit the button for SL‑5, where she knew Broots would be busy diddling his computer in hopes of turning a hot lead on Wonder Boy before she could arrive and shred his dignity for disappointing her once again.

Parker grimaced, fighting yet another urge for a cigarette. "Oh, God. Why do we have to do this today?" she asked aloud, clearly not talking to nor expecting an answer from Sydney. In his own circuitous fashion, Sydney provided her with one, anyway.

"Jarod called me this morning," he confided. "Seems today marks the third anniversary of his escape."

"Oh, crap!" Parker cursed. That HAD to be the reason they were having a board meeting today, instead of a simple debriefing yesterday. "It's Nuclear Winter and I just saw my shadow," she sighed, with the sudden and utmost certainty that this meeting was not as impromptu as her father had led her to believe. It was bad enough facing the board when she thought the events at Snow Hill were to blame, but if they were going to dredge up her complete litany of failures, she'd rather face a T‑board. At least then she'd have some hope of release— albeit a final one.

They collected Broots from his cubbyhole and made it to the upstairs boardroom with fifteen seconds to spare.

Mr. Lyle, her erstwhile nemesis and newly unearthed twin brother, (the unwanted proof of which she could also 'thank' Jarod for uncovering), was already lounging in one of the five black leather chairs lined up along the far side of the walnut and leather topped table, sharing an amusing bon mot with his former lover, current Cleaner, and future Step Mother, Brigitte, while Miss Arbuckle, from accounting, sat at the other end of that same row of seats, primly counting and recounting the stack of slim black vinyl binders before her as if that would somehow shield her from the duo's playful antics.

As if Miss Parker needed further confirmation that today's agenda had been set well in advance of her notification, The Centre's Director walked in behind her. Miss Parker felt a sliver

of ice pulse up her spine as the Negress took her seat at the head of the table with a stern look at the giggling pair, (who were savvy enough to sober up and settle into their seats properly). Nobody called Miss Makeda to a meeting at the last minute.

Mr. Raines shuffled in, next, wheezing his way to the seat beside Sydney, (for which Broots was eternally grateful), his ever‑present, squeaky‑wheeled oxygen tank and his most faithful Sweeper, Willy, trailing in his wake. Willy took up a post behind his employer, and against the inner wall, out of range of the double doors, spread his feet and clasped his hands behind him in a classic 'parade rest' stance, and made like a mannequin.

Mr. Parker was the last to arrive, ambling to the seat opposite the Director as if tanning himself in Miss Makeda's fiery gleam of silent disaproval. His own gaze swept over his two children —who were, for once, not squabbling with each other— and the lollipop sucking vixen who had had more opportunities to kill him with sex than she ever managed with a bomb, with vague satisfaction. The forces of Parker had been marshalled. The fact that they had aligned themselves on opposite sides of the table, the better to hurl knife‑like glares at each other, didn't perturb him in the least.

Miss Parker couldn't speak for her collegues, but she felt distinctly ill at ease sitting with her back to the frost etched double glass and brass doors —and Willie, however well he blended with the dark paneling— while Mr. Lyle and Brigitte kept their backs to the much more secure, windowless outer wall. It made her shoulderblades itch with menace, and having Lyle's smug little smile and Brigitte's candy‑coated smirk pointed in her direction didn't help matters.

Mr. Parker cleared his throat as if signalling her to pay attention and she shifted in her seat to give him her undivided attention.

"Today marks the third anniversary of Jarod's escape," Mr. Parker commenced. "A good enough reason to review and revise our efforts to recapture him."

Miss Parker flipped open the top folder in her stack. "We were able to trace Jarod's flight from Maryland to Central station, New York, but the trail ends there. From what information we can gather, he doubled‑back on the next train out, and hasn't been seen since. Clean up teams in Florida and California report no signs of him in either state. Whatever Pretend he was readying

before news of Sarah Rickman's abduction hit the airwaves has apparently been abandoned."

"In other words: we've lost him till he shows his hand, again," Lyle snorted. "We could have had him! He could be sitting in his room in SL‑24 right now, but, no! You two had to turn coat and collude with him. And for what? A pile of dry bones and a silver locket."

"That 'pile of dry bones' was my little girl!" Mr. Raines gasped with righteous indignation, misting a bit at the eyes.

"Yeah, and she's just as dead now as she was twenty‑five years ago," Lyle continued without an ounce of sympathy. "We squandered an opportunity to nab Jarod. Three years worth of lost revenues. Money on the hoof. Poof!

"From where I'm sitting, Peter needs to have a serious consult with Paul about the penalties for consorting with the enemy. Bad enough we have to keep a weather eye on Dr. Verne, here, without adding you —of all people— to the traitorous mix," Lyle clucked disapprovingly. "How many more of The Centre's personnel are going to offer Jarod aid and comfort before this long, strange odyssey is through?"

Broots gulped —silently— and got very interested in the oily finger trails he was smearing over the tabletop in front of him.

"Next time you get a lead on Jarod, Sis, save the company some money and just requisition the Bobsey Twins's phone luds. That way you'll know if you're heading for the right ballpark before you buy your ticket."

"Now, now, Lyle, the Snow Hill incident was a special case,"Mr. Parker said, turning an insincere 'Santa Claus' smile towards the two conspirators. "One that won't be repeated. Will it,

gentlemen?"

Mr. Raines scowled, not enjoying the dressing down, but not daring to defy Mr. Parker when a T‑board could be in the offing. He knew shaky ground when he stepped on it. "My feelings about Jarod are well known," he wheezed through tortured lungs, nose sucking at the air hissing through his plastic cannula. "Under any other circumstances the fact that I'd aided and abetted his cause even unintentionally would grate on my nerves. But, as you say, this case was special." He paused to collect himself once again, his lower lip quivering with the effort to not burst out in tears. "I can only suggest that, if The Centre wants to eliminate Jarod's hold on me and my loyalties, that the Willard and Schumman problem be dealt with in a more...'permanent' fashion."

"I hope that wasn't an attempt on your part to manipulate The Centre's operations into fulfilling your personal agenda, Mr. Raines," the Director hissed. "You're already guilty of deliberate dereliction of Centre policy to further your own aims, the misappropriation of Centre funds, and the willful obstruction of an on‑going priority operation. Only your past loyalty and

continuing value to The Centre has mitigated these transgressions. But, let me assure you, one more such offense will earn you an immediate, and unappealable, stint in SL‑14. The Centre has

already financed fifty‑four legitimate, if ultimately fruitless, excursions in pursuit of Jarod. It will not be made mock of by squandering precious resources on a wild goose chase."

"Which is why we'll be docking each of you gentlemen for the full cost of this little boondoggle," Mr. Parker added with a sharkish smile.

Mr. Raines made a noise that might be construed as a whimper of shock —or a particularly needy breath, depending on how charitable one was feeling.

Sydney only shrugged. "The investment was small compared to the return," he asserted. "For let us not forget that the end result of our 'collaboration' with Jarod was a life saved."

"No. Not a life saved, a Jarod redeemed," Miss Parker retorted. "Washed clean, in his own eyes, of one more stain on his soul. That he saved a life in the process is entirely incidental."

"On the contrary, Miss Parker, saving Sarah Rickman's life and apprehending her abductor was of paramount importance to all three of us," Sydney insisted. "And, I might add, quite selfless on Mr. Raines's part, since he could not know beforehand that abetting Jarod in this instance would yield any personal benefit."

Parker rolled her eyes, wanting but not quite daring to ask: 'Yeah? And what's your excuse?' "Whatever. It still adds up to the same result: Jarod's going to become even more insufferable and conceited than he already is."

"I agree. In fact, I posit that that's the way we shall ultimately catch him. Such confidence is unrealistic, even for someone of Jarod's capabilities. At some point in the future he is going to fail —rather spectacularly, I should think. When he does, he's going to want to crawl into a safe hole and lick his wounds, and there is no safer haven for Jarod than the familiar confines of his Centre lair."

Lyle snorted. "Right. I seem to recall a certain psychiatrist claiming that Jarod couldn't survive for long in the outside world, too. Well, Doc, it's been three years and he doesn't seem to be suffering unduly by my estimation."

"Then I dare say you haven't been paying attention," Sydney snapped. "Jarod has had several emotional crises to date —the worst of them triggered by the supposed 'death' of his brother, Kyle. He's managed to cope so far, but Jarod's psyche, while almost impossibly complex, is indescribably fragile. You would do well to understand that any actions we take against him may result in irreparable damage to that psyche."

"What I understand, Dr. Verne, is that so long as Jarod's free he's a danger to The Centre," Lyle retorted. "Which is more than you seem prepared to admit. Even for an asset as valuable as Jarod, there has to be a point of diminishing returns."

"Precisely," the Director said. "And as of today, that point has been reached.

"Miss Arbuckle, the stats," the Director prompted.

"Yes, Ma'am." Miss Arbuckle parcelled out eight of her nine binders, opening the last one herself. "On page one you'll see a per trip accounting for standard expenses incurred on each of the sixty‑three trips on log, and, at the bottom of the column, the total. These are, of course, basic costs, including av gas, hangar fees, pilot fees, meals, lodging, car rental, etc. which are itemized on page two. Extraordinary costs like hospitalizations, clothing allowances, real property owner compensation, etc., are itemized on page three.

"Basic per trip average cost is $18,327, which totals to date $449,327.

"If you'll turn to page three, you'll see that damages to Centre property alone is in excess of two million dollars. Hospitalization and on‑going medical expenses and retraining for on‑the‑job injuries, worker compensation, recruitment, training, and replacement personnel salaries is over half a million, damages to other real property, such as Mr. Lyle's car, amount to another two point five million. Total to date: $58,598,062.00.

“Page four lists loss of revenue incurred and monies stolen by Jarod to date. Projections at this juncture are in excess of two hundred million dollars." Miss Arbuckle closed her binder and looked owlishly at their fearless leader.

"In short, we are hemoraging red ink," Mr. Parker concluded.

The Director nodded. "In light of our losses, and our field agents's continued failure to apprehend Jarod, sterner measures must be taken. Jarod must be dealt with, and the sooner the

better."

"I disagree," Sydney said, daring to contradict her. "I am as anxious as anyone to return Jarod to The Centre, but my analysis of the situation has not changed. If anything, we should maintain the status quo. At the moment, because of our assistance on his last Pretend, Jarod is more charitably disposed towards us than at any time since his escape. We have proven that we are not the ogres he paints us to be; that we do indeed care about humanity's general health and welfare; and that, when we give him our word, we can be trusted.

"If we can maintain or build upon this perception, he will be all the more likely to turn to us of his own free will. Despite his ability to win people's trust, because of the isolation and nomadicism we force upon him with our very pursuit, he has had no opportunity to trust others in return, let alone forge the deep emotional ties that would allow him to decompress from stressful

situations. Thus, when he suffers his inevitable emotional crisis he will have no one but me to turn to for help."

Lyle snorted. "I don't know which of you is the more naive, Doctor, you or your protégé. Once a mandate has been handed down by the Triumverate, there is no arguing your way out or around it. They have decided that they can no longer allow Jarod to bleed The Centre dry. Eventual breakdown or no, he's run out of time."

Sydney drew himself up. “If you believe nothing else I say here today, believe this: the losses The Centre has sustained so far are incidental, and will remain so so long as Jarod believes we can supply him with information that will lead him to his family.

"The lesser the threat we represent to him, the stronger his impulse to preserve the least scrap of information we possess. If The Centre becomes too much of a threat to him, he will cease his other pursuits and devote himself to The Centre's destruction. So long as Jarod believes we are valuable, so long as we do not present too much of a danger to him or his pretends, so long does The Centre survive."

"Hah!" Lyle scoffed. "You give him far too much credit, Doctor. He's only one man against an international corporation with military and governmental ties to the most powerful and

dangerous nations on earth."

Sydney sighed as the Director beamed at Lyle's assessment of the situation. "If The Centre is so powerful, and Jarod is so helpless, why haven't we captured him?"

"The Triumverate's question, as well," Miss Makeda nodded. "And their answer is that the hunt has not been conducted aggressively enough. The Snow Hill incident is indicative of the

obstacles to be overcome. We are no longer willing to sustain these kinds of losses. Therefore, it is the determination of the Triumvirate that our Seeker teams develop new strategies to capture Jarod and better means of neutralizing the collateral damage. And we suggest you generate and impliment them ASAP."

Miss Parker looked at the raft of files she had brought, realizing there was nothing in them that would interest anyone now that Makeda had delivered her ultimatum. She set her lips into a thin, determined line. If Sydney could talk back to the Director, she sure as Hell could. "I already know what we should be doing."

The other's —including the Director— froze for a nano‑second then swiveled their collective gazes onto her.

CHAPTER TWO

Newark, New Jersey

Wednesday, February 3^rd

6:30 a.m.

Jarod, dressed in civilian garb as he wouldn't become an official member of the force until he was sworn in, looked up the address of the police shooting range, and went down to his car. He made the range by the time it opened, at one p.m.

There were three officers at the firing range. The Quartermaster issued Jarod a pump action shotgun, a box of birdshot shells, a 9mm. automatic pistol, three ammo clips, a box of 9mm. bullets, a pair of clear plastic firing glasses, headset type ear protectors, belt holster, and chamois. The Range Officer, stop watch in hand, had Jarod field strip the weapons, reassemble,

and test fire them. The third man, the Range Master, remained remote and out of sight in the comfort of the glassed in control booth, above and behind them, where he could tally the shots with a pair of binoculars.

There were seven firing booths, consisting of eight, eight foot high flanking wood partitions, connected by a four inch wide belly board. Each booth had flanking waist high, eight inch wide wooden ledges projecting from the partition walls.

Jarod noticed he was the only shooter on the line at the moment, which meant that the Range Officer had nothing better to do than note Jarod's every move. //Nothing new about that,// Jarod thought wryly as he laid out his equipment on the side boards.

"Officer Reed," the defacto proctor, an A. Harrison, according to his name badge, said with practiced neutrality. "On my mark, you'll have fifteen seconds to load, fire your clip with

your strong arm, eject the spent clip, reload and fire one shot. When you're set."

"Yes, sir." Jarod put his glasses and ear protectors back on, lined up his gun and ammo clips, set his box of shells out of the way, and took a stance with feet pointing towards the target,

fifty yards down range, hips swiveled towards the right ledge. "Set."

Harrison nodded and consulted his stop watch, waiting for Jarod to drop his guard, tense with anticipation, or jump the gun. Jarod did not accomodate him. Harrison rewarded Jarod with a terse smile. "Go!"

Jarod snatched up his pistol with his right hand and a clip of ammo with his left, swiveled his hips back towards the target, dumped the clip in the weapon to the floor with a flick of his thumb, and slapped the fresh clip home. Then, taking a Weaver stance, with left hand steadying the right wrist, elbows and knees slightly bent, he fired eight rounds smoothly into the target. He

straightened his knees as he ejected the spent clip and swivelled his hips towards the right ledge just long enough to grab the second spare clip, slap it home, and pull the slide before he took aim and fired his last shot.

"And...time! Good work," Harrison said.

"That was good for ninety. Sargeant York has come to town. Check out that spread!" the filtered voice of the Range Master urged over the P.A. system.

"Got it, Lennie," Harrison acknowledged, and hit the button on the partition wall above the right ledge to bring the target up from the back of the range to his waiting hands. "Oh, Momma!"

Jarod had put all nine rounds into a rounded square no more than 14 millimeters across, dead center in the target's 'sweet spot', a two and a half inch diameter circle over the outline body's 'heart'.

"That's damn fine shooting, son," Harrison congratulated as he clipped a new target to the holder. "Reload your clips and we'll go again, weak hand."

Jarod nodded, retreived his dumped clips from the floor, cleaned and loaded them, then laid them and the gun down, just so, on the left ledge. "Set."

"Go!"

Jarod repeated the exercise, but firing with his left hand.

"Time!" Harrison shouted.

“Our boy scores another ninety," Lennie reported, getting excited despite himself. "But, Arnie, baby, you've got to overlay those targets."

Arnie pulled the target in. It looked a lot like the last target. Harrison aligned the corners of the two targets together and compared the spread. A shiver ran up his spine. They were

exactly alike, down to the corners of the shot out rounded square. There wasn't a millimeter's difference between the two. He keyed the com unit. "Lennie, they line up like a fucking Xerox."

"Hah! I knew it! We got special forces material here!"

"Oh, hey, Officer Reed, wanna try for that pattern again?"

"Sure," Jarod said obligingly. He set down his pistol, collected his dropped clips, reloaded them, and very precisely placed them on the right ledge. "Set."

If duplicating the spread was enough to make Harrison and Lennie coo, triplicating it made Harrison run out to show the third member of their little posse, who locked up the armory to come in and watch.

The body sillhouette target was replaced with a standard bull’s-eye target. "OK, Officer Reed. Precision fire. Holster draw. One handed hold only. Strong hand. You have ten seconds to fire five shots, eject your clip, load a new clip and fire five more shots. On my mark, when you're set.

Jarod nodded, set his pistol into his holster and tucked his spare clips into the ammo pouch in back of the holster. He fired first strong hand, then weak hand. Made a perfect hundred

points both times, landing every shot inside the time limit, as well as within the 'x ring' inside the bullseye.

"Hot damn! The spreads match again. Just how precisely can you lay down your fire, son?" Arnie asked.

Jarod shrugged. "Not any more precisely than I did just now within the allowed time constraints," he said.

"What if you took your time?" the Quartermaster asked.

"I could probably be a bit more precise. Would you care for a demonstration?" Jarod offered.

The three men nodded vigorously. Harrison set up a new target.

Jarod took a moment to settle himself, relaxing by rolling his head on his shoulders and shaking out his arms.

The three observers stood behind the firing line as Jarod placed eight slugs in a hole dead center of the 'x ring' in forty seconds with his strong hand, and did the same in sixty‑three seconds with his weak hand.

Then, Jarod shot five '10:19's in a column down the left side, and five 'V.R.'s down the right side of three individual targets set side by side, at 100 yards, then demonstrated his ability to bounce shot off the pavement into a 'fleeing' suspect, as well as to hit a stationary target with the shotgun.

With their souvenir targets in hand, all three of the men tried to get Jarod to transfer into Tactical.

Jarod politely declined. He was happy in Patrol Division, thanks all the same, although he did understand why they felt it necessary to inform Tactical's commander about his sharpshooting abilities, regardless. Between the Tactical and Patrol Division commanders, they were hoping Jarod could be persuaded to change his mind. Trumpeting his scores to all and sundry in the meantime would be a pure pleasure. They shook his hand and offered to buy him a drink when they got off duty. Jarod smiled, but declined again, citing the pressures of on‑the‑job‑training. They insisted on issuing a rain check.

Assured that he would pass his small arms qualifications, (not that he'd had any doubt, as he'd aced them every time he'd taken them), Jarod returned to his loft with a self‑congratulatory

pint of strawberry ice cream, which he promptly devoured.

He spent the rest of the afternoon running SIMs through his head, trying to devise the perfect plan to catch Marchetti out, finally concluding that the best way would be to emulate him as closely as possible...which meant acting gay.

//But how far am I willing to go to convince him?// Jarod wondered. He thought back to the time he'd decided to research gigolos. His sexual experience was so limited, he had needed to

find out if he could perform on demand with someone to whom he had no attraction of any kind.

He couldn't, as it turned out, which had presented him with some interesting problems when he had run the pretend anyway. Thankfully, he had been able to distract his clients from their expectations of physical intimacy with a good cuddle, a massage, and a sympathetic ear. That he could provide on demand.

Thoughts of Nia, his first —and only— very much wanted and appreciated lover, intruded. He had thoroughly enjoyed having sex with Nia. As if on cue, his body flushed with remembered pleasure. He concentrated to contain the warm glow before he lost control of himself and was forced to take more active measures to quell it.

//Time enough for that sort of distraction later. Right now I need to think. Clearly. About something other than Nia. Or, better yet, someone other than Nia.// He smiled as he replaced visions of Nia with those of Marchetti and Thomas Bell and, as it had done for most of his life, his curiosity got the better of him.

//I really do need to explore this,// he told himself. If he couldn't convincingly pass himself off as gay, he would have to rethink his pretend. Luckily, curiosity notwithstanding, his

sexual facility —or lack thereof— would not be an issue here, for he wouldn't need to actually bed someone to get into their heads.

So resolved, Jarod went shopping, picking out a black silk shirt and grey wool slacks that he hoped would advertise his presence without screaming for unwanted attentions. When darkness fell, he showered and shaved once again, dressed, topped the ensemble with his black leather jacket, and willed his fate to loving caprice.

Although the club, which was located on the ground floor of an eleven story office complex, was only four blocks from Jarod's loft, and he could have easily walked the distance, he didn't want anyone to know he lived in the neighborhood, yet, so he drove over and parked in the building's own sub‑level garage at the stroke of nine.

He took the stairs up to the courtyard style foyer, and crossed the cobbled path lined with twinkle‑lighted trees to the club's entrance, a black glass door flanked by two eight foot squares of smokey black glass through which colored lights in geometric shapes flashed in a panoply of kinetic compositions. A purple neon sign flashed the word 'Marbles' at him once before he ducked inside.

The swivel‑catched opening to the five foot square, roped off waiting area Jarod entered was guarded by an androgeous twenty‑something wearing a black bow tie over a white, starched

collar insert, detatched white linen French cuffs, and a pair of black trousers so tight Jarod would not have been surprised to discover they had been applied with an air brush.

Jarod tried not to see the man before him as a fellow human being, but as a piece of meat on display in a very exclusive butcher shop. He let his eyes wander from the host's face to the impressive bulge at his crotch, down to his brightly polished shoes and back up again.

He found the man not to his taste, immediately wondered what he would find to his taste, and his eyes grew distant, as if seeking another item on the menu.

The host assessed Jarod's classically handsome mix of smoky sex, boyish innocence, and strongly muscled frame quite favorably but, recognizing Jarod's look of dismissal, he sighed philosophically. He hadn't been hired to flirt with the customers, afterall. He was a host, not a whore.

Professionalism restored, he smiled perfunctorily. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Marbles. Entry is ten dollars which covers your first two drinks. If I may take your order, I will see that your drinks are sent to your table," he said with a voice as smooth as the nap on the velvet rope.

Jarod looked around. The walls, (black mirror tiles), doubled the glare of the pink, purple, and green neon tubes that streaked around the rim of the ceiling, dipping down at unexpected intervals to light the occasional table nook, and outlined the smoked‑glass control booth that flared out slightly from the far wall and notched the ceiling, allowing the DJ to see all but not to be seen.

Music pulsed through the speakers bolted to the ceiling above the dance floor, while randomly generated polygonal light displays pulsed through the corralled black glass ceiling and

matching dance floor like bog sprites.

Tables barely large enough to hold two glasses and a candle demarked the dance area and graduated in size to the partitioned booths against the south and north walls thats plump, throne‑like banquettes could easily accomodate twelve, while the bar at the back of the room was a semi‑circular oasis of garish neon light ringed by fifteen bar stools topped with black leather.

Though the room wasn't crowded, (only two of the banquettes were occupied, their men bunched together, straining to carry on a conversation over the pounding music), it seemed full because of the knot of men congregated around the dance floor, jerking to the beat of the music, writhing alone, in pairs, or in semi‑attached parties of up to...ten, Jarod counted.

There were men anchored to the tiny tables like limpets, fondling their partner's hands, arms, chests, or faces as they kissed, their knees, sandwiched into their partner's groins, pumping rhythmically, stirring up the scent of sex that the lone men lounging all around them inhaled like poppers, eyeing each new prospect; looking for a signal.

"Umm, I think I'll just go to the bar, thanks," Jarod said. He pulled out a ten from his wallet and handed it over. The host took the bill primly, swiveled on his hips to lay the bill over a

slot in the podium‑like box to his right, and shoved the bill home with a specially made plunger. Then he picked out two tokens from a bin near the top of the podium‑like box, and held them out to Jarod. "Here you are, sir. Enjoy your stay." Still smiling, he thumbed the catch and lifted the velvet rope which barred Jarod's entrance.

Jarod cupped his palm to accept the tokens, nickel‑sized rounds of smokey plastic with gold stamped lettering reading: Marbles, good for one drink. He answered the host's smile with one of his own and stepped smoothly into the club proper. As he wended his way through the maze of tables between him and his goal: an empty bar stool, he tried to not field the glances that came his way. He just wanted to observe, for now. To watch how the others behaved, so he could emulate them.

"V‑8 on the rocks with a bottle of tabasco on the side, please," Jarod instructed the bartender, who, like the waiters that wended their way through the smoky tangle of tables, was dressed —or undressed— like the host. His odd request merited a raised eyebrow, but his drink was set before him in quick order, nonetheless.

Jarod paid the man with one of his tokens, then concentrated on 'fixing' his drink. He tipped the tabasco bottle over the glass of V‑8 and shook it, allowing a full tablespoon of hot sauce to dribble into the juice, stirred the concoction with his celery stalk garnish and sampled it. "Mmm," he hummed approvingly and, sipping contentedly, swiveled around on the stool to watch the dancers.

Although he was familiar with formal dancing from his gigolo days, he had not had much exposure to Terpsichore's 'freer forms' and he watched intently, absorbing the movements like a sponge. The DJ announced a new song, 'Name', by the goo‑goo dolls, a soft, dreamy ballad which brought the dancers into each other's arms for a close clinch.

Jarod began to nod in time to the music, as he watched the paired off dancers, thinking that there was not much difference in the way they held each other than the heterosexual couples he was used to seeing. That pair had just met, those two were old friends, that couple was passionately in love.

Behind him, Tang, one of the more intrigued patrons, watched Jarod like a falcon deciding which pigeon in the flock to stoop on. //New to da scene,// Tang thought. //Tourist or player —or reporter?// he added as an afterthought. The man was handsome enough to be a TV newscaster. //Bet he has a soothing voice,// he grinned. However photogenic he was, though, he had come sans film crew, and he certainly seemed to be trying to immerse himself into the scene.

Tang scanned the room to check for competition. No one seemed about to make a move. Considering what a zoo the place had been since Tommy’s death, Tang wasn’t surprised. More than one new pretty had turned out to be a media shark in rent boy clothing.

This particular delicacy had been pretty adroit at not fielding inviting glances, while, at the same time, broadcasting a peculiar mix of nightclub naivete and undefinable need that convinced Tang he would not leave the club alone. And, if that was the case, Tang could think of no better person the man could leave with than himself. He stood, sidled over to the prospect’s side, and murmured in his ear: "I give it a seventy‑eight: good for slow dancing."

"Hm?" Jarod, his curiosity roused by both the indecipherable comment and the improbably mixed‑up accent which made it, swung around. A smiling Oriental stared back at him. Deceptively slim, and, not unexpectedly, a good half foot shorter than Jarod, but looking of an age, he had corporate cut, jet black hair, piercingly black, up‑angled, heavily lidded eyes, and full lips pursed into a half‑amused, half‑hungry grin.

"Da music," the Oriental clarified. "I give it seventy‑eight out of a possible one hundred points fo' dancability an' a good beat."

"Oh." Jarod cocked his ear back to the song, as the lyric informed him that 'scars are souvenirs you never lose'. "...I agree."

The grin and the eyes widened and the man waved his hand in front of his face. "Whoo! Whatta you drinkin'?"

"V‑8 with tabasco sauce. It's very good."

"Aw, I'm shoo, but I t'ink you've got dat backwards, don' you?" the man teased. "Dat's definitely tabasco wit' a dash of V‑8." He waved the bartender over. "V‑8, please," he said and, easing onto the stool beside Jarod, he held out his hand. "Da name's Tang ‑‑no jokes, please‑‑ Tang Yu."

"Jarod Reed," Jarod responded, "and I'd never dream of it." They shook hands. The bartender returned with Tang's drink. "Allow me," Jarod offered, laying down his last token.

Tang smiled, as if he was amused. "Well, t'anks, but, I did have my own." He flipped up two fingers to show Jarod the token caught between them, then, like a magician, kept Jarod's eyes riveted on his hand as he shoved the token somewhat suggestively down his pants pocket towards the bulge of his package.

"Uhm," Jarod stammered, bringing his eyes back up from Tang's groin, "my mistake. I assumed that, since only dancers and waiters were standing when I came in, and you approached from behind me, where there is now an unoccupied table with two empty glasses on it, you had already used your tokens."

"Whoa! Very observant, my deah. And very gracious."

"You're a regular," Jarod said, making another assumption.

"Dat's two. I don' suppose you'd care to guess what I was drinkin'?" Tang grinned, parting his lips invitingly.

Jarod leaned forward and caught a whiff of ginger on Tang's breath, but no alcohol. "Ginger ale?" he ventured.

"Ginger beer, actually. It's stronger. Close enough fo' government work, d'ough. As a reward, I shall let you do da honors," Tang said, handing the tabasco bottle to Jarod.

"Are you sure?" Jarod asked.

"By all means. Hit me wit' yo' best shot."

Jarod let the tabasco pour. "I think that's about right."

Tang stirred and took a sip. "Uhm! I like a man who likes it hot. You, uh, don' sound like yo're from around heah," he said as he, too, swiveled around to watch the dancers.

"Neither do you," Jarod said.

"Newark via Brooklyn by way of Singapore. An' you?"

"Just about every place via Delaware."

The song ended and the polygons lit up, giving the exhausted or otherwise distracted just enough light to make their way off the floor and the newly adventurous to find their way on, while the unsated waited impatiently for the next song to cue up, which, according to the DJ, would be 'Believe' by Cher.

"Ah!" Tang approved, hopping off his stool. "I give it a ninety‑eight, eminently dancable." He held out a hand to Jarod. "Up fo' a turn 'round da floor?"

Jarod considered the proposition, then nodded. "I think I'd like that." He took Tang's proferred hand, allowing the Oriental to lead him to a place on the dance floor. Tang dropped Jarod's hand and struck a pose, and Jarod, with a quick glance at the other dancers, mirrored Tang's stance.

The vari‑colored polygons winked out for two seconds, then flashed back to randomly activated life as the infectiously driving opening beat gushed from the speakers. The dancers began gyrating, not touching their partners at all. Taking his cue from them, Jarod approximated Tang's movements. Strobing lights flashing above and below him simultaneously reflected off the mirrored wall tiles and dancers alike, which quickly disoriented and oddly engrossed him.

Once he grasped Tang's intent, Jarod began dancing with willful abandon, like a jazzman riffing off the melody, freed of all restraint and self‑censorship, immersed in the amorphous, kinetic roil of light and shadow, sound and reaction, wholly engaged in the elaborate courtship dance of approach and withdrawal, flirt and circle.

When the song ended and the lights blazed on, Jarod froze, transfixed like a fly in amber. Then the moment shattered and he came back to life, laughing like a delighted child. "That was

fun!" he bubbled, grinning from ear to ear.

It was such a straight‑forward declaration, untainted by pleas, demands, preferences, or expectations, it took Tang by surprise. His eyes narrowed for an instant, as if he could not quite believe the instincts which told him Jarod had never done this before, yet, at the same time, unable to stop his broad, answering smile. //Time fo’ da acid test,// Tang decided, and, putting his hands behind his back where Jarod couldn't see them, he signalled to the D.J. "I'm glad you enjoyed yo'self."

"I did. I've never danced that way before. It was quite...liberating."

"'My Singing Bird' by Gerry Rafferty", the DJ announced.

Tang's smile turned sly. "Dat's my song!" he said, holding out his hands in a more formal dance posture. "I must absolutely have dis dance."

Jarod stepped obligingly into Tang's arms, taking the following position without hesitation, and Tang, with unexpected authority, swung him around to the slow ballad.

"Sing your song to me, my singing bird.

Let your voice ring loud and clear, so you'll be heard.

While you're here tonight we'll be as one,

For tomorrow you will seek the sun...."

Tang tightened his grip about Jarod's waist, bent his right arm till their combined fists were sandwiched between their shoulders, and, interested in how Jarod would respond, nestled his head against Jarod's chest and closed his eyes.

Jarod, in response, slid the hand he had put on Tang's shoulder down Tang's back, tightening their clinch, but, at the same time, he looked down at Tang with a mix of confusion and longing and did what he did best: he analyzed his feelings.

He felt hyper‑aware yet awkward being so close to another male; the tingle he felt whenever he touched another human being was very much in evidence; but while he could detect no sexual attraction to Tang on his part, he realized that he very much wanted to prolong the contact between them, and since he understood that the man holding him considered him sexually desirable, he had to wonder at the implications, which only aggravated his sense of hesitation and the ache of not knowing what to do, or how far to go.

He remembered Sydney standing behind him, teaching him how to tie a tie, the feeling of closeness, the scent of Sydney's aftershave, his hopeful yearning for Sydney's touch.

He remembered Nia, and how her very presence made his heart beat faster and his head swim, and how the scent of womanly musk and sweat after they'd made love made him want to wrap his arms around her and never let go.

He remembered Dharma Sims and her battered women's encounter group; how Dharma had seen into his tortured soul and comforted him into the first peaceful sleep he'd had since he’d first delved into the DSAs; how she had boarded him at her women's shelter —making him the only male over the age of eighteen to have ever stepped across the threshold— bringing all the residents into the common room upon his arrival for a group hug which had left him weeping for hours with gratitude and the shared sensations of relief and pain, joy and insecurity.

He remembered comforting Miss Parker, and Mary, and Nickie, and Patrick, and all the others down through the years, children, adults, male, and female. How he had wanted to make them feel safe and protected. How he had always wished someone could do the same for him.

He remembered folding himself up on his haunches and rocking for hours on end just for the sensation of comfort he derived, how it evoked half‑remembered dreams of being held in his mother's arms; how he had longed for Sydney to wrap his arms around him.

Sydney had never been lavish with his praise. Usually, all he said was: "Good work, Jarod." Occasionally, he'd add a pat on the shoulder. Rare were the times Sydney would laugh out loud with sheer triumph and give him a congratulatory hug. But, unlike poor Miss Parker, who could never do enough to please her father, Sydney had always praised Jarod's successes, no matter how minor, and his praise was always sincere.

It was positive reinforcement at its most basic, of course, Jarod understood that, and it had worked wonderfully well, for it had become a point of pride for Jarod to always complete his SIMs. Just the sort of productive attitude The Centre approved of.

But Jarod had not always succeeded, at least, not always on the first try. He remembered every instance —as a child and as an adult— something had gone wrong during a pretend and he had yelled for 'refuge'; every time Sydney had felt he had gone too deeply into a SIM, so far into the sensation of the recreation that he could no longer communicate the events as they happened,

(which was both unproductive and dangerous because Jarod might get 'stuck' in the pretend), and ordered Jarod to 'disengage'. The word triggered a conditioned response in Jarod which brought him out of the pretend, and the reward for responding as trained, (at least so far as Jarod was concerned), was to have Sydney hold him until he stopped crying.

In a way, Jarod wished he had lost control more often for, while he had repressed the details of so many of those SIMs, he had never forgotten an instant of those all too rare expressions of genuine concern and solace. It was the same feeling he felt in this man's arms, only without the danger.

Or, maybe, it was danger of another kind.

With the utter certainty of his pretender skills, Jarod knew there was something wrong with the way Tang was holding him. He felt a momentary clench of panic as he remembered Kristie Kincaide. She had aroused his admiration first, then his sympathy, his protective instincts and, lastly, his body in such a natural progression he had barely been able to resist becoming physically intimate with her. It was only his over‑active sense of shame at taking advantage of her in what he had assumed to be her time of grief that had allowed him to rein in his libido.

Unfortunately, her professions of love had turned out to be the insincere machinations of a black widow in search of a patsy. To this day he could not believe how easily he had fallen into her web, how close he had come to paying for his folly with his life.

Because of Kristie, because he had —so easily— been fooled once, he would never again be so free with his trust, so blinded by a growing physical attraction to someone that he could banish all doubts about them or trust his own judgement of them without having second thoughts. Jarod had no intention of being hurt as Kristie had hurt him, ever again.

Tang had singled him out from all the other men in the club, yet his seductions, however sly, were strained, seemingly half‑hearted, as if he were reacting more mechanically than sincerely, causing Jarod to doubt Tang's motives.

Without hesitation, Jarod simmed Tang, and was strangely relieved to intuit that Tang had almost identical concerns: he was attracted to Jarod, but he sensed that something wasn't quite right. He wasn't sure Jarod was gay, and he was disciplined enough not to invest much emotion in the nascent relationship before he could ascertain Jarod's intentions and whether those intentions meshed with his own needs.

Considering the amount of media attention the club and its patrons had been subjected to over the past few days, (and his own wariness), Jarod found Tang's caution amusingly appropriate, and he relaxed, stifling an ironic chuckle.

Tang, for his part, spent the dance trying to read Jarod through his movements, and ended up torn between amused sympathy and alarm as the man in his arms continued to freeze and thaw, yearn and reject by dizzying turns. It made Tang wonder why Jarod was really there, if he was really gay. Desperation imbued him, whatever the cause. He wasn’t convinced Jarod even liked him, but he knew with absolute certainty Jarod didn’t want to turn loose of him. //Any warm body in a storm, eh my deah?// What could make such a desirable, obviously self-possessed man so needy for companionship he would be so indiscriminate? //If I blow you, will you follow me anywhere?//

The song ended, and, once again, Jarod froze, this time in Tang’s arms, wondering what Tang would do next.

Tang lifted his head up, and, as if by design, grazed Jarod's lower lip with a teasing brush of hair. He looked into Jarod's doe brown eyes, almost drowning in the yearning blazing from their depths, brought his hand to the nape of Jarod's neck and pulled Jarod down to his waiting lips.

Jarod, surprised, jerked back as if to escape the contact, aborted the movement almost instantly and, closing his eyes instead, leaned towards his shorter partner and opened himself to

Tang's probing tongue. After a moment's hesitation, Jarod sent his own tongue exploring and, suddenly, he felt his body respond.

Tang immediately pulled away and canted his head, regarding Jarod with black, hooded eyes. "You've neva done dat befo', either, have you?"

Jarod hung his head. "No," he admitted. "But I liked it."

Tang shook his head and laughed bumping his groin against Jarod's. "Believe me, deah, I could tell. Have you had dinner?"

"No. You?"

"I could eat," Tang smiled, looking Jarod up and down suggestively.

"Uhmm...I'm pretty easy," Jarod replied carefully. "Any suggestions?"

"Of cou'se: Chinese." He grinned impishly, then added: "my folks own a dim sum restaurant not fah from heah, on Broad."

"'Delight of the heart'?" Jarod queried, unenlightened by his own translation. "I don't believe I've ever eaten dim sum."

"You really have led a sheltered life!"

"You have no idea."

Tang pivoted till he was abreast of Jarod, lowered his arm from Jarod's waist to his hip, then, with a deft bump and squeeze, spun him towards the exit. "Come on den, it's time you got a propa edjication. How are you set fo' transpo?"

"My car's in the garage," Jarod said, crossing his own arm over Tang's to grip Tang's hip in turn.

Tang smiled approval. "Excellent. Le's go."

It was a short trip to the Song Hai restaurant, a two story blond building with tacky gold‑painted plaster dragons chasing plaster phoenix counterparts around the walls. Exquisite

embroidered silk scroll panels five feet long and two across, framed in glass, separated each pair of plaster animals from the next, and plastic versions of Chinese lanterns hung from their cords over each table.

Waitresses in pink uniforms with frilly white aprons patrolled the aisles with satin finished steel food carts in a regimented route from the kitchen, to each of the occupied tables, and back again, depositing or retreiving plates of food and scribbling onto the food ticket placed on the aisle‑end of each couple's table.

The place was virtually deserted, there being no more than nine couples among the ranks of tables whose maximum occupancy was a health and fire department approved two hundred twenty customers, or so the plaque on the wall behind the cashier declared, (along with a sign that showed the restaurant's hours).

Tang greeted the woman cashier, whose counter separated the waiting room from the dining room, in Hakka, and she responded in kind.

Jarod, thanks to The Centre's substantial diversity of Asian clientele, followed the conversation idly.

"<<Hey, Mei, where's Ma?>>" Tang asked.

"<<Where do you think, suet for brains?>>"

"<<It's too close to closing time for her to be in the kitchen cooking,>>" Tang declared.

"<<Special order,>>" the woman replied. "<<Father wants to know if you have to take all of tomorrow off?>>"

"<<What? He book a party while I was out?>>"

"<<Not on my shift.>>"

Tang grunted unhappily. He would have preferred to find out why he had to alter his plans from Mei.

"<<So, who's this? Your newest project, or your latest boyfriend?>>" the woman asked.

Tang eyed Jarod. "<<Haven't decided yet.>>" Jarod," he introduced in English, "I'd like you ta meet my numba two sista, Mei. Mei‑Mei, say 'hullo' ta Jarod."

Mei nodded. "Hullo, Jarod," she greeted in English, then switched back to Hakka for an aside. "<<Waste of good beefcake, if you ask me.>> So, you want upstairs, or down?"

"Anybody upstairs?"

Mei shook her head. "Nah, da place is dead."

Tang shrugged. "Eh, why make da help work harder dis close to closing? Come on, Jarod; t'anks to my connections, I can guarantee you a seat at da worst table in da house." He made a bee‑line for the table nearest the kitchen's double doors and waved Jarod into a seat. "Make yo'self at home. I've, uh, got ta check in wit' da folks."

Tang intercepted one of the food servers. "Hey, Liew, dis is my friend, Jarod. Give him whatevva he wants and treat him well, OK?"

"Sure thing, Tang." She smiled at Jarod as Tang went into the kitchen. "So, Honey, what'll it be?"

Jarod looked at the items on her cart. They consisted of a gang of saucer‑sized plates each holding four pieces of sheet noodle‑wrapped food of various shapes and contents. "Uhmm, one of everything, please."

Liew laughed. "That's what I like to hear at the end of the day." She wrote something on a food ticket in red and set it face up at the table's edge. She then started unlading her tray. "These

are lobster dumplings. These are crab dumplings. These are shrimp dumplings. These are pork dumplings. These are vegetable dumplings. These are fish cakes. These are bean curd cakes. Enjoy."

"Thank you."

"Something to drink?"

"Hot tea would be nice."

Liew nodded. She waved over the next waitress and pointed to the ticket.

"Hai la!" the new waitress exclaimed. "I hope you have a good appetite," she grinned and started laying more plates onto the table.

Jarod's eyebrows rose as three kinds of steamed greens, four kinds of spring and egg rolls, and bread‑like steamed buns filled with barbequed pork or shrimp or mung beans or shredded pork, sausage, napa, and hard boiled eggs joined the others. "Oh, dear."

The next cart dropped off little bundles of curried chicken, beef, and fish, boiled and chili‑fried chicken's feet, barbecued pork, roast duck, salt baked shrimp, roast squab, velvet chicken, roast suckling pig, steamed fish with black bean sauce, jellied sea cucumber, abalone in five mushroom sauce, sea urchins in their own shells, octapus tentacles in oyster sauce, and baby squid in its own ink.

The next waitress to arrive shoved an adjoining table against Jarod's so she had room to deposit her offerings: noodles. Rice noodles, mung bean noodles, egg noodles, wheat noodles, yam noodles; hot noodles, cold noodles, thick noodles, hair‑thin noodles, noodles in flat round torilla shapes imbedded with chopped green onions that were rolled up and cut with scissors into strips; soft noodles, fried noodles, noodles plain, sauced, nested, and in a soup base; as well as fried and steamed rice.

"I think I should stop, now," Jarod said, waving the lady with a soup cart on by.

"You mean, you don't want dessert?" the waitress manning the noodle cart asked innocently as she laid down her last dish.

"Dessert?" Jarod closed his eyes, cursing himself for his weakness. "I'd love dessert."

The waitress grinned and waved the next cart over.

There were four jiggler‑like slabs of steamed sweetrice, something that looked like a three inch cubed Rice Krispies treat, a bowl of milky white almond jello garnished with fruit cocktail, sweet peanut butter soup, sweet red bean soup, fried balls of glutinous rice stuffed with sweetened yellow mung bean paste and coated with sesame seeds, steamed balls of glutinous rice coated with rice flour and stuffed with sesame paste or red bean paste or shredded coconut and whole sesame seeds, lemon and egg custard tarts, jellied coconut cubes, multi‑colored, seven layered, mung bean jelly squares, sweet buns filled with candied egg yolks, lychee nuts in sauce, fried plantains in honey syrup, almond buns, bean curd in sweetened ginger sauce, date buns, lotus paste cakes, sesame cream, honey‑sesame crisps, sticky rice stuffed with banana wrapped in banana leaves, and what looked like donut‑holes doused with sweet syrup.

Jarod dutifully sampled the deliveries with deliberate speed, reshuffling the plates into camps of like, (on their table), and dislike, (exiled to the second table). The octopus, squid, sea urchin, and chicken's feet he left untouched in no man's land.

Tang emerged from the kitchen and gasped. "Good God! Dere's enough food heah ta feed da Red Army! Wha' did you do, o'da one of everyt'ing?"

"Um, yes, as a matter of fact. I didn't realize there was so great of a selection," Jarod apologized. He looked at the food packed table before him, as compared to the relatively few items on the second table. "Most of it's quite good."

Tang laughed. "Well, looks like you won't hafta worry about what yo're goin' ta eat fo' da next couple o' weeks, anyway. Le's see if we can't make a dent in it, eh?"

Tang scanned the dishes lading the two tables, noting that Jarod had eaten his share, (and then some in the case of the sweets), of the greens, the noodles, and the buns, but had only taken one of four pieces of the dumplings and meats, and had not always finished those. "Someone has a maj'a sweet toot' goin' on heah. Don' you like meat?"

"Well, I was raised vegetarian. If I don't regulate my meat intake I suffer the consequences."

"Aha," Tang nodded. "And I'll bet dey didn' allow you ta eat sweets, am I right?"

Jarod blushed. "That obvious?"

"To da discerning eye, I suppose," Tang smiled, happy to have explained the mystery behind Jarod's food preferences, if nothing else. //Too bad da rest of you ain’t as easy ta read.// Content to allow Jarod the foods he liked best, he laded his own plate from the items on the second table before pulling up a chair across from Jarod. "Go ahead, help yo'self. It's not like I don't get to eat any of dis stuff any time I want, you know?" Jarod smiled happily, and expertly attacked the plates before him with his chopsticks. "Where'd you learn to use chop sticks?"

"Nepal," Jarod said. "I was trekking the road between Kathmandu and Lukla, to acclimatize myself, and I found this restaurant that was owned by a Chinese couple catering to the tourist trade. They had specialty dishes in Nepali, Indian, Pakistani, Tibetan, Mongolian, Chinese ‑‑and even American cuisines.... I ate my way through their menu, too," Jarod grinned.

"Did you know the Tibetans put butter and salt in their tea?"

"Ah, yeah. I take it you were dere to climb Everest?"

Jarod beamed brightly. "Yes. I summited, too. I was a bit worried, because I was on the verge of equalizing my resting and exertion states, so, even though it was the second‑most beautiful sight I'd ever seen, I didn't stay long, not nearly as long as I wanted to, but there'd already been fifteen fatalities that season, and I didn't want to become number sixteen, especially

since I hadn't any extra air bottles, which meant I only had four hours to make it down to the bottle stash, or risk losing a million brain cells every five minutes. I'm very fond of my brain cells, you know.

"Still, it was the most incredible experience of my whole life! Now, when people say they're 'sitting on top of the world', I know exactly how they feel. I'd like to do it again, some day, but...," he shrugged, "it's easier to get flight time in a Tomcat than work as a Sherpa."

Tang coughed trying to stifle a laugh. "You didn't!"

"'I didn't,' what?"

"Try and pass yourself off as a Sherpa? Mr. Six‑foot‑two‑and‑white‑as‑rice."

Jarod grinned. "I not only tried, I succeeded." He gave a mock salute. "Jarod Hillary Tenzing Sherpa, at your service."

"And dey bought dat?"

Jarod shrugged. "It wasn't that difficult, actually. I dyed my skin before I left the States, got some false papers, went to Darjeeling to establish my bona fides, then went on to Kathmandu. I caught up with an expedition in Lukla, asked around to find which of their porters needed money more than climbing experience, paid the man triple wages to let me take his place, and snuck my own climbing supplies into Base Camp along with the expedition's supplies. I had planned to sneak off and try a solo ascent, but the Sirdar Sherpa, Nima Dorjee Tamang, caught me outside in, uh, less than optimal condition and, thinking I was suffering from Acute Mountain Sickness, he dragged me into his tent for an exam. Finding no trace of malaise, Tamang demanded an explanation, so I confessed how desperate I was to summit, even though I was only

classified as a porter. Tamang put me on the official climbing team roster that very night so I could legally summit with the expedition. You'd be surprised how few people can tell a group of

twelve men from a group of thirteen."

"Huh. So, what brings you ta Newark, oh, mighty explorer?"

"Business," Jarod said vaguely. "Are you really going to eat that?" he asked, deftly changing the subject as Tang slid two of the four chillied chicken's feet onto his plate.

//Damn! he’s evasive.// "Shoo! I love 'em! You should try one. Dis is chili, you know. I t'ink you'd like it. Come on. It's not as adventurous as climbing Everest, afterall."

Jarod gave him a look that said he wasn't buying that argument, but, after staring at Tang's smirk for a moment, he relented. There wasn't much to the dish beyond the flavor of the

chili, but considering how he loved chili.... "Um. It is good." Thusly encouraged, he tried the other dishes he had avoided, and promptly wrinkled his nose. "This tastes like pencil erasers. Um...I like the mushrooms in this one, but whatever else is in there tastes nasty, and I don't like this, at all."

"Fair enough. I'll eat dese first, you eat whatever you like, and I'll mop up."

They ate and chatted long past closing time —the advantages of knowing the owner, Tang smirked, till, along about eleven, Tang patted his stomach. "Ohhh.... Dat's it. No mo'." //I could eat till my stomach burst and I wouldn’t learn anyt’ing mo’ from dis guy.// He collected an armful of take‑out boxes from the kitchen and packed up the left‑overs, then heaved a genuinely regretful sigh. "Now comes da hard part," Tang confessed. "Tellin' my fadda I hafta stiff him fo' da check."

"He'd go bankrupt!" Jarod exclaimed, pulling out his wallet. "I have plenty of money, and, since all this is my fault, anyway, I'd feel bad if you didn't allow me to pay for it."

"But I'm da one who invited you ta dinna," Tang protested, not as insulted as he would have been had his finances been more stable.

"You can pay next time," Jarod said casually as he laid five crisp one hundred dollar bills onto the table.

Tang gave Jarod a piercing look. //Yo’re shoo dere’s gonna be a next time? What is up wit’ you?//

Jarod ducked his head to avoid Tang’s gaze.

"You will insist on divin' inta da wrong end of da pool, won't you?"

"You can't learn to swim with only one foot in the water," Jarod rejoined.

//Is dat an invitation? Wish I knew. Dis is one tightly wound Mutha. Punishment from God. Dat’ll teach me to get cocky. Ohhh, what is yo’ game?// "Well, yo're certainly not doin' it 'cause you need da cash," Tang said softly, as he capitulated and took the ticket and bills up to the cash register.

“I can't figga you out, Jarod,” He said when he returned, “but, if yo're willin', I'm willin'." He wrote out his phone number on a card he pulled from his wallet, and handed it over. "Call me anytime, stud. I'll be waitin'.” //To da payee go da spoils.// “Now, le's see about gettin' dis stuff home, huh?”

“Your home?” Jarod ventured.

Tang looked at him. “No. You paid fo’ it, you get to take it home.”

“Not all of it!” Jarod exclaimed, then added a plantive: “Please?”

Tang chuckled. “Not to worry, baby. Take me home and I'll take pity on you and take da stuff you don’ like off yo' hands. I’ll even help you tote it in, otherwise you'll be totin' boxes all night."

Jarod only had to glance at the collection of sacks once to raise his hands in surrender. “Works for me.”

It took them two trips to load the bags of food into the car. "You don't really have to help me lug this stuff to my apartment, you know," Jarod said. “I’d be more than happy to just drop you off at your place with your share.”

"Nah, nah. I insist. How else am I gonna check out yo' apartment? Besides, you nevva know, you could get lucky."

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“So, you intended to pick me up at da club all along, huh?”

“Uhh...well...no,” Jarod stammered.

Tang grinned. “My deah, you just don’ know how lucky you are.”

Jarod looked thoughtful. Perhaps he ought to re-evaluate.

When Jarod pulled into the driveway to punch in the code that would give him access to his sub‑level parking garage, Tang gasped. "Aw, get out! You do not live heah. You can not live heah! I got a loft next doh! I don' believe it! We're freakin' neighbas! How long you lived heah?"

"Three days," Jarod said as he pulled into his space and shut off the engine.

"Oh, my God! Talk about Luck! Dere's no easy way out of dis fo' you now, my deah. If you don' call, I know where you live."

"I'll call. Trust me," Jarod said as he hauled two bags of food over to the elevator and keyed the car to his floor.

Tang, carrying two more bags, stepped inside, put his bags down beside the first two, and pressed the 'open door' button until Jarod could retrieve the last two bags.

Arms full, Jarod instructed Tang to hit the top button then, when the car doors opened, crossed the eight foot long landing to unlock his door, while Tang set the four remaining bags outside the car before manhandling all four into his arms and following Jarod into the kitchen.

Jarod set his bags down on the nearest open counter space, then hurried back out to take the two outer most bags from Tang, and heeled the door shut before following Tang into the kitchen.

Tang set his bags onto the kitchen table beside the cake plate, and started pulling out cartons and lining them up on the counter and table. "OK, here's da plan: favorite eats in da refrigerator, first. Den we pack da freezer, and anyt'ing dat doesn't fit, I'll take home wit' me. Fair enough?"

"Absolutely."

"Start loading, den. Hm. Beautiful cake. Special occasion?"

Jarod smiled as he shoved an armful of cartons into the refrigerator, pleased by the compliment. "My birthday. I made it myself. Would you like a piece? I could wrap it to go?"

"Well, t'anks, I accept. And Happy Birthday. How old are you?"

"Thirty‑ss— uh, forty. Yesterday," Jarod amended, re-calibrating from long‑practised Centre standard time to Real‑time as he pulled the dome off, cut free a generous slice of cake,

and wrapped it in plastic film.

Tang raised his eyebrows at Jarod's unintended slip of the tongue. //What is up wit’ dat?// "Really? No offense, but you don' act fo'ty."

Jarod nodded. "I know. I've led a very sheltered life —until recently, that is."

Tang nodded. That explained a lot, too. "Makin' up fo' lost time, huh?"

Jarod nodded. "Yes."

Despite stuffing both the refrigerator and freezer full of Jarod's 'favorites', there were enough cartons left over for Tang to take a grocery bag's worth of food home.

Tang topped the bag off with the wrapped cake and set it by the front door, then pivoted slowly and deliberately on his heel, taking in the bare windows, the bare minimum of furniture, the pictures and toys —hi‑tech and otherwise— that littered the work desk, the stack of cut‑up newspapers, and the police uniforms hung up on the slightly ajar bathroom door just visible through the arched bedroom access way. //He’s a cop! But he said he hadn’t meant to pick me up...and it’s not like he’s trying to hide it...Take a deep breat’, yo’ ovva reactin’.//

"T'ree days, huh? I love what you haven' done wit' da place. When are you expectin' da rest of yo' stuff? I'll help you unpack."

"Um...well...I don't actually know," Jarod dissembled. "Can I get you something to drink? I have wheat grass, orange juice, V‑8, milk, Dr. Pepper, instant coffee, or kool‑aid —or tap water."

Tang looked askance at Jarod's recitation. //Adroit change of subject —again.// "No tea?"

"Sorry, no."

"Got any ginger root, ginger powder, ginger anyt'ing?"

"Ah..., no."

Tang sighed. "Dr. Pepper, den, t'anks."

"Glass? Ice?"

"If it's chilled, straight outta da container, please."

Jarod nodded and fished two Dr. Pepper bottles out of the refrigerator door while Tang wandered out to the common room, staring through the bare windows to the apartment building next door.

"Dat's my apartment, right across da driveway," Tang said, shaking his head as if the sheer coincidence would stagger him. He settled himself onto the left end of the couch. "I'm surprised I didn't notice you befo' now, what wit' no drapes or anyt'ing to hide dat pretty bod of yo's from view."

Jarod smiled as he brought Tang his drink. The red notebook bristling with newsprint caught Tang's eye and he flipped through the pages, scanning the headlines. Once again his internal alarms went off. //Articles on Tommy and Trent? Are you dat good a liar, Mr. I-don’t-believe-in-luck?// "It was quite a tragedy, eh?" Tang asked as he accepted the opened soda from Jarod.

"Yes. Very much so," Jarod agreed.

"Casual interest or professional?" Tang asked as he patted the sofa cushion beside him in invitation.

"Excuse me?" Jarod said nervously as he sat next to Tang, as requested.

"I, uh, saw yo' uniforms," Tang said, pointing into the bedroom where the white of the bathroom door delineated the silhouette of policeman's blue. "Uniforms do add a certain cachet

to a man, don' you t'ink?"

"Uhm...I hadn't actually thought about it."

"Uh, huh.” //Take da bull by da horns.// “So, what's yo' interest in da case?" Tang asked as he trailed the fingers of his right hand along Jarod's arm, across his shoulder to the nape of his neck, and up into his hair, stoking and tugging on Jarod's locks like a grooming bird.

"Uh..., um...Officer Marchetti, actually. He's my Training Officer —or will be. My first day on the job is Saturday."

Tang’s hand froze in place for a second, then resumed grooming him. "Really? Dat da department's way of keeping him outta trouble?"

"I'm sure it never crossed their minds," Jarod said slyly.

"Well, he oughta make one Hell of an interestin' mentor, anyway," Tang said.

"Are you basing your opinion on extrapolation or personal experience?" Jarod inquired.

//Damn! Is he quick, or well briefed?// "Experience. I know Trent —professionally. I knew bot' of dem. Known 'em fo' years."

Jarod sipped his drink to keep himself from prying any further into Tang's relationship with Marchetti. However much he wanted to ask if the officer's behavior had changed over the last four years, the time wasn't yet right for, despite Tang's attentions, he was more wary now than he had been at the club, still determined to figure Jarod out.

"So, too pure to own a TV?" Tang segued easily, commenting on the glaring lack of a set in the common room by flipping a hand, thats arm was draped casually across Jarod's shoulders, at the blank wall facing them.

"No!" Jarod denied instantly. "I like TV. It's, um...in the bedroom. Is there...something you'd like to watch?" Jarod asked.

“Is dere somet’ing you’d like me to watch?”

“Uh, no, I’m open to suggestions.”

Tang smiled sagely, as if Jarod's answer had imparted some great revelation. He drew Jarod closer, inviting him to snuggle. "Nah. I watch entirely too much of it, dese days."

"Why is that?" Jarod asked as he rooted into a comfortable niche between the shorter man's shoulder and neck.

//If he’s fakin’ dis, I’m retirin’// "Bo'dom. I'm so'ta between jobs, right now."

"I thought you worked at your parent's restaurant?"

"I do. And sista numba one's florist shop, too. It's da Chinese version of Welfare." Tang shrugged. "Pays da bills. Speaking of da florist shop, dis place could use some greenery. If you like, I'll bring ovva some ferns to brighten da place up."

"No, thank you. I'm afraid they wouldn't stay green for very long," Jarod said obliquely, not wanting to admit that he knew he wouldn't be staying long enough to take care of them, and hating the thought of any living thing dying due to neglect.

Tang canted his head as if to say: your loss, but didn't push it. "So, you got a favorite TV show?"

"Um.... The X‑Files, I suppose."

"Ooh, yeah. David Duchovny can frisk me any day." At Jarod's lack of reaction, Tang pursed his lips. "What attracts you to da show?"

"Um...well...I suppose I'm just glad to know there are people in this world more paranoid than I am."

"I'm surprised. Yo're not exactly the most 'trust no one' type I've evva met," Tang said.

"I have my moments," Jarod said bleakly.

Tang rubbed Jarod's cheek with the backs of his curled fingers. "We all do, my deah. We all do," Tang sympathized, and Jarod could tell by his tone that he truly did understand. "Which

is why I'd definitely see about getting some drapes," Tang concluded.

"I like the view," Jarod said, rejecting the notion.

"I like da view, too, deah, but it doesn' do to flash da neighbas —even if one of dem is me. Rememba, oh paranoid one: if you can see out, 'dey' can see in."

"...That's true," Jarod mused, as if he hadn't considered that up till now.

Tang smiled as if he'd made up his mind about something, finished his drink, and set the empty bottle on the coffee table. "Well, my li'l Ground Hog, I've got an early day ahead o' me. Give us a kiss, and I'll get outta yo hair."

Jarod set his own drink down and obediently leaned in to accept Tang's parting smooch. It made shivers run up and down his spine. Apparently, Tang was just as favorably impressed. "Mmm. Night, Sweet Lips." He stood.

Jarod followed suit. "I could walk you home?"

"Nah, I t'ink I'll be safe enough. It's early, yet," Tang declined as he picked up his bag of food. "So, when should I expect yo' call?"

Jarod thought. "Probably tomorrow evening, or, if not, the day after."

"Fair enough. If I don' hear from you, I'll crash yo' pad. See you Friday, if not befo'. Sleep tight." Tang headed for the elevator.

Jarod hovered at his door to watch Tang board the waiting elevator car and Tang, noticing, shifted his food bag to wiggle his right hand 'good‑bye'.

The elevator doors closed, and Jarod pulled himself reluctantly back into his loft and locked the front door, perversely convinced that Tang's exit had sucked all the warmth from his apartment.

Tang had been companionable, witty, and charming, and had radiated such a distinct aura of concern for him, despite his teasing, that Jarod felt as if they had been friends for years. That, //and the man can kiss,// Jarod thought, hugging himself.

He went into the bathroom to retreive his Halliburton. Even though he had an eidetic memory, capable of retaining reams of material at a glance, he liked looking at the Digital Simulation Archive disks.

They were both therapy and reassurance: the medium which had allowed him to restore his gap‑riddled memory, the moving mandala which focused his thoughts and allowed him to narrow the bandwidth of his emerging nightmares, a keepsake of the ever‑faithful, ever‑present friend he had lost and could never replace.

He had stolen the DSA's to prove his claims against The Centre whenever he decided to go to the authorities, but when he had slipped a disk into the machine out of curiousity, he had been astounded to find himself watching an incident he did not remember.

Up until then he had not known that he'd had any gaps in his memory. After that first viewing, he had skimmed all the DSA's searching for lost memories. It was like rediscovering himself. Each disk, despite being edited down to little more than the essential elements of the SIMs he'd performed over the last thirty‑three years, contained a plethora of moments he had totally forgotten.

He had been horrified to discover that Sydney had told him that his parents were dead not once, but twice, years apart, and both times the news was broken as if it had only just occurred, (the cause of death remained the same). He saw himself talk to Sydney about a boy named Timmy, who was walking by the lab; later, that same boy was introduced to him as Angelo. He'd had no idea they were the same boy. (Had he remembered Timmy, he would have assumed Angelo was his twin, as The Centre did a lot of twin research.) He watched himself performing SIMs for Dr. Billy, without a single recollection of ever having met him. The revelations just went on and on.

Jarod began simming the 'lost' incidents in order to reclaim his whole life from The Centre's machinations. It had seemed a reasonable thing to do at the time, yet the consequences haunted him still, for, once his reconstructed memories obtained the mental equivalent of critical mass, his mind had exploded, spewing out nightmares, daymares, flashbacks, hallucinations, and what‑have‑you, like a broken fire hydrant.

It had overwhelmed his consciousness, driven him to the brink of madness, and rendered him unafe to drive, so he had booked passage on the Amtrak from Chicago to Seattle determined

to either return to The Centre a broken man and beg Sydney to make the memories stop, or commit suicide and die free before he inadvertently hurt someone.

Fortunately for him, Fate offered him a third option in the person of Dr. Dharma Sims. He had, by that point, staved off sleep for seven days, but, after hours of relative safety locked in his compartment and lulled by the peaceful motions of the train, sleep had claimed him. The nightmares that ensued had the occupants to either side of him convinced they were aural witnesses to murder. Both had called the conductor.

When the conductor investigated, he found Jarod thrashing about on the floor, eyes resolutely closed despite having fallen out of his berth, and screaming at the top of his lungs. The

conductor had had no luck in rousing Jarod, and as there were no doctors on staff, he had asked one of the complainants, one Dr. Sims, for help. She had quieted Jarod with an injected sedative,

then sat with him until he awoke. Still feeling the effects of the drug, Jarod had disclosed enough information about his situation to arouse her sympathy, (as well as blurting out why he found her

surname amusing).

Dharma had used his drug induced laxity to establish a rapport between them so that, when she offered him shelter and a possible solution to his 'flashback' problem, he accepted.

Under her tutelage, Jarod began the arduous task of disciplining his mind and 'owning' his memories. He learned how to will the memories into black and white so he could distinguish them from real life instantly; discern and acknowledge the messages within the images so that his unconscious mind could relax and relent; and, finally, how to control the images, so they would appear to him in an orderly fashion, without overwhelming his conscious mind.

Now, after his psyche processed a trauma, he would dream about the incident in color once, then —barring any re‑triggering stimuli— not be troubled by that particular trauma again.

Of course, another disturbing memory would immediately take the old one's place, and he would thrash through another black and white horror in his REM time, like a clogged toilet that kept disgorging grey sewage, but at least the flow was manageable, occurring with no more frequency —triggering stimuli like his past week with Douglas Willard notwithstanding— than the more generic nightmares he'd dealt with for thirty‑three years.

Jarod was pretty sure that the foundation of Sydney's belief that he would never adjust to life Outside was built upon Jarod's inability to cope with his resurging memories, his inability to block out environmental or mental stimuli, accept failure, ask for help, or balance his bodily needs with those of his mind. All in all, a pretty bleak profile.

Whether it was perverse pride or a nascent survival instinct, Jarod had not wanted Sydney to know how accurate his profile had been, nor that he had only overcome his personality flaws by sheerest chance and outside intervention, so he never told Sydney about Dharma or the many tricks and wiles she had taught him that had eased his life on the run, (like how to make or buy false ID, something she had become expert on when helping battered women and their children start new lives).

Ironically, it was learning about Dharma's death, upon his return to Seattle from Everest, which had triggered Jarod's first phone call to Sydney. He had been hurting so much he had needed to talk to the one person he could reach who really understood him.

Sydney had mistaken Jarod's oblique references to Dharma as comments about their own relationship, and had assured him the escape had not damaged it 'beyond repair'.

That Sydney's words had actually proven true continued to astound Jarod, but here they were, three years later, still talking, still exchanging information, still helping each other survive. A good deal of their reconcilliation was due to the DSAs, for, with emotional distance, time, and constant review, Jarod was learning to see Sydney in a whole, new light. (Early on in his escape, he was either too distraught or emotionally dependent on Sydney to bring the necessary objectivity to bear.)

Although he had left Dharma after a few weeks, well enough recovered to dare to accomplish his dream of summiting Everest, it had taken him months of dedicated viewing to review the DSAs, skimming over incidents he remembered, concentrating on the events he'd forgotten. By the time he watched the last one, they had become as dear to him as any companion, as important as any treasured photo album.

In fact, Jarod knew the DSA collection so well he could pick out simulations that were somewhat relevant to his current pretends and use them to clarify his thoughts and motives about

the new situation.

He let his fingers walk over the three inch disks's rims till they flipped back to SIM #1075, recorded Sept. 19, 1974. In Real Time, that would have made him fifteen, but he forever associated his years Inside with his Centre Time age which, in this case, was twelve, (that is, it had been his twelfth year incarcerated in The Centre. Due to The Centre's tampering, almost all of his memories of his first four years on the planet— including his true age and date of birth, had been purged from his memory. Keeping track of the passing years was the only way he could date himself.)

Jarod watched himself recreate a lynching —from the perpetrator's point of view, thankfully. He hated doing SIMs in which he 'died' for they always evoked weeks of nightmares and, since Sydney was only on the premises during working hours, (or, at most, an hour or so afterwards, as The Board didn't approve of Sydney's 'coddling' Jarod), Jarod normally had no one to comfort him during the lonely, terrifying hours between nine p.m. and nine a.m., which is why he had begun to stave off sleep with projects of his own devising.

After one too many days of groggy inattention, Sydney had put his foot down and instigated Jarod's four hour sleep schedule which was strictly enforced by a guard with a glass of warm milk dosed with a sedative. The guard made sure Jarod was in bed by curfew or, if he wasn't, put him there. (Jarod had promised Sydney he'd drink the milk in exchange for Sydney's promise that the guard would never use a syringe, because Jarod had an intense dislike of needles.)

Jarod's assignment had been to discover where the lynchers were hiding, for the police had never brought them to justice.

"There, it's done," his younger self said, somewhat pridefully, looking off into space as if he could see the corpse hanging in the tree. "That oughta show 'em, and if it doesn't, well, we'll just do it again...but for now, we want to celebrate." His eyes widened. "We're going into town, to our favorite bar. We aren't afraid at all. We're laughing. We know no one will come looking for us." The fifteen‑year‑old Jarod gaped. "We don't have to hide, we are the police."

"Oh, dear," Sydney said. "Are you sure, Jarod?"

Jarod roused himself out of the SIM and stared at his controller. Something in Sydney's tone made him uneasy. "You know I am, Sydney."

He wouldn't find out until much later about Sydney's years at Dachau with his brother, Jacob. Their only sin was being born twins. Catholic twins, not that it mattered. France was occupied, and Dr. Krieg specialized in twin research. It had been a simple thing to condemn Sydney's parents and older sister to death as agitators to gain control of the boys.

Sydney was, therefore, understandably sensitive about prejudice and compassion. It was through his example that Jarod had learned how to care for and respect all living things, which made simming incidents like the lynching all the harder on Jarod's sensitive psyche.

"Why do people concentrate on the differences between them instead of the similarities?" young Jarod asked.

Sydney sighed. "It has to do with a combination of social and psychological instincts, Jarod. The fear and distrust of that which is unknown; feelings of inadequacy and stress; and tribalism. Society may have expanded into huge multi‑family nations, but the majority of us cannot emotionally encompass a whole nation. Thus, by necessity, we reduce our sympathies to that which we can encompass. For some people, that consists of a very exclusive group of persons who are, or are closely, related to them.

"We erect a set of rules to live by, saying these behaviors and the people who adhere to them make us safe, while these behaviors and the people who exhibit them are a threat to the tribe and our continued existence, so we turn against them.

"Of course, each group has their own mores, their own set of rules, and they don't necessarily overlap. Hense the problems between nations, and their neighbors."

"Will we ever learn better, Sydney?"

"I don't know, Jarod. I certainly hope we will." Sydney smiled at young Jarod and the screen filled with static, signalling the end of the edit.

Jarod hit the 'back' button to repeat the last scene, paying particular attention to Sydney. He had been very angry at Sydney when he'd first broken out, (and for some months prior to that), for he couldn't understand how Sydney could, on the one hand, profess such sincere concern for his fellow man, and yet, on the other, have kept him an unwilling prisoner for thirty‑three years.

Jarod watched the scene again, watching Sydney watching his younger self, and his heart constricted in a sudden flash of understanding. Sydney had swelled with pride. He was so convinced that Jarod's destiny was to solve the world's ills and bridge the gaps between fractious humanity, it brought tears to Jarod's eyes.

Sydney truly believed that the work Jarod was doing was more important than Jarod's personal life, and realizing that made Jarod feel as if his still beating heart had been ripped out of

his chest. Sydney's faith in him was both overwhelming and flattering in the extreme, but it was a faith that could only be fulfilled by the total obliteration of Jarod's hopes, dreams, and humanity.

Jarod got up to retreive his cell phone, hit the speed dial, then flopped back onto the mattress while the Halliburton displayed his precious memories in muted monotones.

"This is Sydney," Sydney said, too alertly to have been asleep, though it was well after midnight.

"Why, Sydney?" Jarod asked, the tears on his face evident in his voice. "Why did everybody matter to you more than me?"

"You know that's not true, Jarod. You are more important to me than my own life."

Jarod knew that Sydney had risked his life on more than one occasion to insure his safety, but safety was not at issue, here, Jarod's freedom was. Sydney's protective instincts may have kicked into over‑drive once Jarod escaped, impelling him to commit murder, mayhem, and sabotage on Jarod's behalf, but the undeniable fact was: Sydney did not believe Jarod belonged Outside. Sydney wanted Jarod caged as much as The Centre did. He just wanted the retreat from the world to be Jarod's idea.

"Let me off the cross, Sydney. I don't want to play humanity's savior anymore."

"Does that mean you're giving up your Pretends?"

"No, Sydney, it means I won't allow you to strip me of my humanity so I can be a tool for the Greater Good ever again. I'm not your puppet, I'm a real boy. I deserve a life like anybody else. Why can't you grasp that?"

"I know I've made mistakes in the past, Jarod, and I'm sorry. But believe me when I say that everything I did, then as now, has been in your ultimate best interests."

"And The Centre's," Jarod said harshly.

"What's happened, Jarod? I thought we had gotten past all this?"

"How do I get past the fact that I don't know where I belong? I have to Pretend to belong, Sydney. I want my tribe! I want my family! I want to belong!" Jarod hung up.

Sydney felt his soul curdle under Jarod's verbal assault. He had lost the right to invoke the greater good in his own defense when The Centre had devolved to a stinking cesspool of self‑interest and greed and he had stubbornly looked the other way, clinging to ever more remote dreams made waking nightmares by the growing list of his precious pretender's achievements.

Results had always been the legal tender of their barter, but Sydney had defaulted Jarod more times than he had even been aware of. Ambition and idealism had clouded his faculties, at

first, then caution, then fear, and, finally, a very real desire to keep Jarod as safe and unspoiled by the growing cankor of their environment as he could.

Not that Jarod cared about his motivations.

His Pretender had spent the day being reminded of his 'otherness'. Keenly missing a family he had never known, he had felt compelled to reach out to the only family he could claim,

however resented and rejected, if for no other reason than to vent his pain and frustration, and the only thing Sydney could do was share his tears.

CHAPTER THREE

Newark, New Jersey

Thursday, February 4^th

5:03 a.m.

Jarod roused the next morning with a bemused sigh, for once blessedly free of terror. Getting a full four hours of restful sleep never failed to surprise him. He reached out and pulled the DSA out of its drive, (it had been playing all night), and put it back in its slot with the rest of the disks, then changed out of the shirt and slacks he had slept in and into his exercise outfit,

discarding his shucked clothes in the bathroom hamper.

He availed himself of the facilities, then padded into the kitchen to make a double strength cup of coffee, for he could never seem to wake his brain up in the absence of a terror‑filled adrenaline rush without a hefty dose of some caffeine‑ladened product.

He gulped the coffee down, did his warm‑up exercises, then hid the Halliburton under his bed so he could plug the case's battery pack into the bedroom wall socket to recharge, loaded his

pockets and strapped on and checked his watch: (5:25).

He jogged to the front door, which he locked before heading to the elevator. He went down four floors, to street level, and jogged out into the pre‑dawn mist to Military Park.

Once on the green, Jarod ran around the park backwards, then used one of the statue pedestals as a stretching bar. While he was relaxing his leg muscles, he spotted Officer Marchetti coming into the park from the northern gate.

Jarod reflexively checked his watch. //Six o'clock. Right on time//. Jarod began to jog in place until Marchetti passed him, then fell in about fifteen yards behind the officer and followed him down to the south gate. At that point, Marchetti exited.

Jarod followed, although not far, for he was not shadowing Marchetti, but heading for the newsstand near Market and Broad. The morning commuters were already on the move, and Newark's 'busiest intersection in the world' was trying hard to live up to its P.R.

Running in place, Jarod collected his usual raft of papers, and while he was fishing out his wallet to pay for them, inquired after the best local eateries.

"Depends on whether yer wantin' breakfast, lunch, or dinner?"

"Ah...," Jarod mused, "Come to think of it, I'm really in the mood for a Continental breakfast."

Mario referred him to La Boulangerie, on Raymond street, Jarod thanked him and, since it was more or less on the way home, jogged up the street to find it. He wasn't disappointed. As the

name implied, it was a French bakery specializing in fresh breads of all kinds, but they also carried a tempting array of equally French pastries, and they served coffee, to boot.

Jarod indulged his sweet tooth and his caffeine jones, then jogged back to his loft, finished his exercises, showered, shaved, and dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, a white t‑shirt, and his brand new pair of department approved black oxfords, as he needed to break them in some before work, Saturday.

Jarod settled onto the couch with a glass of V‑8, and leafed through the Star Ledger, stopping at the obituary notices.

Thomas Nowiki Bell, 43, January 31st, 1:42 a.m. of gunshot wounds. Bell is survived by Cassandra, his wife of seventeen years, his children, Robert, 13; Marc, 11; and Tiffany, 10, his

mother Helena, brothers Victor, Stefan, and Josef, sisters Miriam, Valeria, and Elizabeth, and father Arkady.

A private memorial service for family only will be held at the Rosewood Memorial Chapel Fri. Feb. 5th, at 9 a.m. followed by Grave side services at Mt. Olivet Cemetery, at 11 a.m.

In lieu of flowers the family requests donations be sent in Bell's name to the Westside Teen Rehabilitation Center.

Jarod knew the family had delayed the publication of the time and place they were holding the services in hopes that the media and some not so well‑wishers would be unable to attend the

last minute affair.

Jarod picked up the Thomas Guide and looked up the location of the Mt. Olivet Cemetery. The inconveniently scheduled weekday service was going to be held across town from both Bell's Vailsburg residence and the Rosewood Chapel, closer to Jarod's end of town.

Jarod added the obituary to his red notebook, then went over to his desk and activated his laptop. He sneaked his way onto the police network and ran through Officer Don DeLuca's case files, to see if he could discover the disposition of Marchetti's case. DeLuca had filed his report on the incident yesterday, it would be reviewed and approved by his superiors today, and would probably be announced to the papers soon after. //Well, no surprises there.//

Jarod went through DeLuca's background, next, for he had to know that the man was clean, and would accept and act upon the evidence Jarod planned to provide him even though it came from an outside, anonymous source.

Satisfied, Jarod shifted the emphasis of his search from IAB to the known criminals database, pulling up the profiles of all the local drug lords and their known associates. As one might suspect from Marchetti's recent arrest record, the man who ran drugs in this area of the city was an ethnic Italian named Vinnie Panecco.

Jarod dumped the other records back into their virtual bin and took a quick scan through the files of the known members of Panecco's gang, concentrating on faces. He wanted to know them on sight.

A cross‑check of arrest record patterns for all of Newark showed that either the whole department had gone bad, or Panecco had gone legit, or Panecco had a little bird in house that alerted him to any planned busts. Jarod put his money on the third option. It was possible that Marchetti was passing along the information, since he worked out of the main police headquarters for all of Newark, as did the detective division, but, from Jarod's past experience, he knew that detectives and patrolmen weren't exactly chummy, and since Marchetti wasn't vice, the odds were Panecco had other sources inside the department. All things considered, a far more likely scenario.

Existing court cases against Panecco's thugs were faring no better than the percentage of raw arrests, as evidence in the few key cases that were pending against them had an alarming tendency to disappear altogether, or to turn up only after the case was dismissed.

One interesting fillip of information: no witnesses to Panecco linked crimes had ever been intimidated, injured, or killed ‑‑pre‑trial, in any case. The stats were a little less revealing for survival after the fact.

Jarod dug out all of Marchetti's paper work, correlating the dates and times of his movements with known movements of Panecco's men and foul‑ups in or out of headquarters. A distinct pattern of escalating involvement emerged.

Panecco had started Marchetti small: looking the other way when he came across Panecco's dealers at work, mis‑labeling, mis‑handling, or losing evidence, harassing competitors, leaking information about informants, transporting drugs, and, finally, murder.

But Jarod still didn't know why, after all these years of towing the line, of fighting the good fight, of struggling to maintain his objectivity in the dirty streets of Newark Marchetti had finally turned. What did Panecco have on Marchetti? Jarod couldn't fathom it. There had been no clues as to Marchetti's motivations in his apartment. No incidents on the job that might have precipitated his fall from grace. No indication that this might be a secret undercover operation gone sour.

Jarod sighed. He needed more to go on, but he wasn't going to find it here. He switched gears, turning his investigative skills to Bell and his family.

Both Thomas and Cassandra Bell worked, he as a teacher, she as a nurse. They lived comfortably in a four bedroom house with a mortgage that would take three quarters of the widow's lone paycheck and keep her working into her seventies. Thomas's life insurance, which they had taken out when Robert had been born and increased twice over the years, would be consumed by medical bills for the operation that tried to save his life, and the funeral and burial costs. There was no money to spare trying to clear Thomas's name. Their modest savings wouldn't put the eldest boy through college, let alone the other children, and the children's own college fund savings would no doubt be cashed out or lapse now that there was only the one inadequate pay check to maintain them.

Jarod shook his head. Thomas Bell had had a great love of learning, and he had wanted all of his kids to go to college —including the ones he taught at school. Jarod knew that many

people worked their way through college —Thomas himself had, which is precisely why Thomas did not want his own children to do the same. He had wanted them to be free to enjoy their collegiate life, which, from what Jarod had seen in movies and on TV about institutions of higher learning, included a good deal of partying. You can't party and study and work, and keep your grades up, too.

Jarod turned his seeking fingers to uncovering the whereabout of the nearest bank. Once found, he opened his on‑line banking program and shifted a hundred fifty thousand dollars from one of his Swiss accounts into the Hudson City Saving Bank on East Park Street, which was separated from Marbles, on West Park Street, by Military Park.

Jarod made note of the confirmation and account codes, then shut off his laptop. He tied the laces of his running shoes together, slung them over his shoulder, and made a walking tour of

the neighborhood. He bought three kinds of tea in two different stores; bought a box of pastries from La Boulangerie; wandered through the parking lot of Rutger's University; strolled through

the residential area where Marchetti lived; watched the sun go down in Military Park; snuck by the crime scene to see if anyone was dealing there, now; confirmed the location of the bank and

made a note of which one way streets were running in which direction so he could drive there tomorrow without delay.

He went back to the newsstand to offer Mario a pastry; changed from his Oxfords to his running shoes; stopped in the Song Hai restaurant to see if Tang was working there, (he wasn't), got the location of the florist shop and walked over only to find it had closed before he got there.

He wandered up to the Art Center; ate a pastry under the lighted trees; took a ride on one of the purple and orange Loop buses just for fun; watched the rent boys as they emerged from their daytime dens like rabbits out to graze in the moonlight, cruising Ferry Street for a John; stopped for a beer at Murphey's Tavern, the only other gay establishment in all of Newark; went

back up to Marble's to check out the drug traffic, which was beginning to pick up as night settled over the city; I.D'd the regular dealer; popped inside the club to see if Tang was there, (he wasn't); went home, heated up left‑over Chinese food, and stared across the loft to the bank of windows lining the far wall. Tang's loft was dark. He turned back to his meal.

//I'm missing something. Something vital,// he thought. But, try as he might, he just couldn't think of what. He changed into a black T‑shirt and jeans, put on his black leather coat, got out a digital camera from his duffle bag, went back to Military Park and found a place to lurk in the bushes across from the drive between the two Park Plaza buildings, and stayed there the rest of the night taking snap‑shots of every customer the dealer had.

INTERLUDE TWO

Blue Cove, Delaware

Thursday, February 4^th

5:35 p.m.

Broots paused outside the door of Miss Parker's office to take a deep, cleansing breath before knocking softly —almost imperceptibly— on the frosted glass, then waited for an invite in. There wasn't one. Broots studied his toes for a moment, shuffled his papers, took another steadying breath, and knocked again, a little louder this time, then, when a sufficient wait also elicited no response, he rolled his head on his neck, gripped the brass handle, and pushed his way in.

"What is it?" Miss Parker barked.

Broots started and froze in his tracks —just for a nano-second— eyes darting towards her as if drawn by magnets. He could tell by the way she was rubbing her desktop that she wished it was a nicotine patch. A nicotine blanket.

//Must have been a long day,// he thought, but then, considering how the week had started, she pretty much had to have captured Jarod to salvage it. He thrust his chest out. He just might be able to bring a little sunshine into her life. "Uh, well, I have an idea on how we can curtail Centre losses, and m‑m‑maybe pinpoint Jarod's location at the same time."

Miss Parker looked as happy as a tiger with a lamb in its teeth. She leaned forward intimidatingly. "My, my, and it only took you two days. Let's hear it."

"Uhhh, OK." Broots eased his way backwards into the chair in front of Miss Parker's desk without waiting for an invitation that he knew wouldn't come, which she might consider bold, but it was that or fall down when his knees gave out. He took a breath.

"Um, first off, we know Jarod has to get around somehow, so we've fed all the public transportation hubs and travel agencies's passenger manifest databases a virus that will flag our mainframe whenever someone named 'Jarod' buys a ticket or rents a car, b‑but he sometimes —infrequently— buys a vehicle, as well. So I've just infected all the DMVs nation‑wide to flag any licence registered to anyone named 'Jarod,' as well. Uh, of course, we'd have to run secondary scans to see whether the description matched Jarod's description or not, but, um, it's a start.

"Oh, and, uh, I've come up with some ideas for stuff we'll, um, need board approval for, too." He paused, breathing hard, and his eyes started to roll around the room as if he was just realizing he was in Miss Parker's office, alone, with her. Together. His eyes glazed over.

"Well? Spit it out, Broots!"

"Huh? Oh, ye‑yes, well, uh, we know Jarod sometimes uses pilfered or fake Centre credit cards to make purchases. Of course, we, uh, could add a holographic picture ID to the cards and

institute a one card one user policy to, um, make stolen cards unusable and less forgable. But, uhm, if we embed a GPS strip into the cards so that every time one's used it forwards the card's location to our main frames and cross‑check that location with the current whereabouts of the card's legitimate user —which we can ascertain by embedding a responder strip into our Centre ID’s— then, um, if the locations don't match, or we can't find that name on the database, we'll know the transaction is fraudulent and the user is most likely Jarod —since he's responsible for ninety percent of The Centre's annual credit card losses— " his breath chuffed at this, as if acknowledging a frat prank of the highest water, "and, uh, we'll have a starting point to launch a search."

Miss Parker's eyes narrowed, as if zeroing in on her target, but she said nothing. She didn't have to.

Broots wilted under her glare. His papers shook as if they were being defibrillated. "S‑s‑similarly, since all, um, c‑card purchases have to be cleared no matter the amount ch‑charged, if we get a call in from a c‑card without also receiving a, uh, GPS signal, we'll know the card is b‑bogus, and the user is most likely J‑Jarod, so, um, if we automatically trace every call back to its s‑source, we'll pinpoint a location to start a, uh, search if it does turn out to be f‑fake without any lag time to make him suspicious —and, uh, we can deny or accept the charges as we p‑please."

"What about when he makes purchases off the Internet?" Miss Parker asked smiling with satisfaction at the effect a simple glare was having on her underling. She took pity on him and turned it off.

He sighed with relief. "Oh, well, it's a bit trickier to trace Internet transactions. You know Jarod: he never takes a straight road when a labyrinth will do." He grinned.

"In other words, we can't touch him," she said grimly.

"Uhhh...nnuh —I'm working on it," Broots added, reintimidated.

"Work harder. Is that it?"

Broots cleared his throat. "Huh‑hm! Uhhh, no, actually. Um, a‑all the Centre's facilities now use the same daily access codes for their computers. If each individual facility had its own set

of codes, based on their own distinct random generators, and kept their revenues in their own accounts, instead of transferring them to a general fund, Jarod wouldn't be able to steal as much from The Centre's accounts at any one time, and, uh, he'd have to hack each of those lesser accounts separately."

"Sounds good," Parker approved. "Generate some codes and work out the implementation costs for a board presentation."

"Ohhoohh!" Broots's distress wrang the syllable to tortured heights. "Uh, well, gee, M‑Miss Parker, I‑I'd rather you ran it by your f‑father, first 'cause, uh, even though I thought your idea to keep Jarod from pilfering our accounts electronically was really, really swell,...the Director and your, um, father didn't seem, a‑all that enthusiastic, and, uh, I'd rather not waste my time working on a project they won't authorize." He cringed in anticipation of a verbal onslaught.

"I see," she said coolly. "I suppose you'll want me to present your ideas to the board, next?"

Broots unhunched, as if not believing his luck. "Uhhh, well, uh, if it wouldn't be too much bother, Miss Parker..., actually —yeah!"

Miss Parker's icy smile turned tepidly gleeful. "Fine. While I'm busy bearding lions in their dens tomorrow, you can make yourself useful by finding out what ideas, if any, my dear brother and The Troll have come up with on the subject."

Broots jumped out of his seat. Visions of alternately snapping a jaunty salute or throwing himself at her feet and kissing the toes of her polished leather pumps in gratitude flashed over his mind's eye, causing his suggestible body to do a barely discernible, if slightly spastic, hula of warring impulses. In the end, he held his papers before him like a privacy shield and stout‑heartedly acknowledged her command, "Yes, ma'am," then scurried for cover like a roach when the lights turned on.

Tomorrow was going to be a very, very, bad day.

CHAPTER FOUR

Newark, New Jersey

Friday, February 5^th

5:45 a.m.

Jarod returned to his loft just before daybreak. He quick-stepped to his work desk, set the digital camera down, then, rubbing his arms briskly through his leather coat sleeves, hurried into the bathroom to run a hot bath. //Note to self,// he mockingly thought as he speedily stripped, //next time you do a stakeout in Newark in February: dress warmly!// A leather duster, however chic and adequate cover when constantly moving, was no substitute for a down parka when you were hunkered behind some box hedges in the middle of the night spying on people you had no wish to be spied by in return.

Jarod stepped into the tub and hopped from foot to foot, rubbing the tops of his feet against his calves in turn while he adjusted to the heat. Then, with his legs glowing a rosy red from the shins down, he eased himself down until he was sitting, then reclining chin deep in hot water. He uttered a shivery moan as the warmth penetrated to his core.

The last fifteen minutes had been the worst, his increasing awareness of his own misery such a distraction he could barely keep himself focused. Luckily, the approaching dawn had released him from his own obsessive need to —possibly— photograph Marchetti in a compromising situation. //It was too soon for Marchetti to have exposed himself, anyway,// he consoled himself. //My butt feels like there’s a block of ice imbedded in it,// was his next random thought.

He raised himself, feet braced on the floor of the tub, shoulders against the tub’s back, and rubbed both buttocks, hoping the friction would speed the thawing that the hot water had begun, then settled back down when his chest cooled, and spread his legs to check out his more vital equipment. His cock had felt like an otterpop and he swore his testicles had been rattling in their sac like frozen dice in a cold cup. He’d been half afraid the walk home would break something off, and only his experiences in Everest convinced him that it was much too warm for such a calamity to occur.

//Ohh...yeah...much better.// Soft and pliable and feeling good.

He had been surprised at how many of Marbles’ patrons were casual drug users. He had never considered the problem before, but he was thankful Tang, at least, did not appear to indulge in the habit. Another thing he’d noticed was how the patrons had left in large groups, though they almost always arrived alone, and left early, emptying the club hours before its normal closing time. Both, he knew, were protective behaviors brought about by the club’s sudden notoriety, their vulnerability, and the inordinate number of toughs willing to prove their manhood and intolerance by cruising by tossing garbage, epithets, and threats of violence in equal profusion.

Jarod recalled Tang’s assurances that it was ‘early yet;’ safe enough to dare to cross a driveway with a bag of leftovers without an escort. His heart panged in sympathy. Tang had been hurt before. He knew it. And he vowed, no matter how Tang protested, he would walk his friend home next time. //Next time.//

The thought startled him. Or, rather, the reaction of his penis at the very thought startled him. If the idea of spending time with Tang aroused him this much, what would he be like in Tang’s company? He flashed back to hiking in the woods with a hard-on in Nia’s company, and groaned in anticipated agony. //I’d die of embarrassment.// He didn’t even know if Tang would let the relationship evolve. He could imagine Tang’s smirking at him, making a remark about blue balls. On the other hand...//he might make a pass at me...touch me.//

Jarod grabbed a washcloth, lathered it up, wrapped it around his needy erection, and stroked. //Oh, God!// He leaned back and closed his eyes, tasting Tang’s kisses, imagining it was Tang’s hand stroking him to completion. //Oh, yes!....Oh, Tang!// He wet another washcloth and fondled his balls, pinched his nipples, rubbing himself from throat to inner thighs. “Oh, yeah.... So good...,” he murmured, as if to encourage his lover. He felt his balls draw up and pistoned his cloth disguised hand along his hard shaft till he thought he would weep if he didn’t tip over the threshold of arousal to release. “Come on...come on...Yes! Tang!” He yelled.

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as he pelted the waves with milky projectiles that dissolved like clouds in the soapy water. Jarod groaned and lay back, spent. He could stand a nap. But, no. Not now. He had things to do, places to be, bad guys to catch. //Shake it off,// he thought without acknowledging the double entendre. He opened his eyes, sat up, and began to scrub himself purposefully, till he was fully alert, then he pulled the plug and towelled dry.

//Time, what’s the time?// He wondered as he pulled on a pair of fresh sweats and strode to the work desk and his wristwatch thereon. 6:26. //Good.// He had time. He sat down, fired up his laptop, plugged in the camera, and downloaded his pictures. By the time he was through it was 7:03. He commenced his morning exercise routine, jogged out to collect his morning's stash of newspapers, dumped them on the sofa, and finished up his exercises with a fifty‑seven move Tai Ch'i routine performed at slow, medium, and martial speeds, then did fifteen minutes of stretching and cooling, took a quick, perfunctory shower, shaved, and checked the time again: 8:25.

He assembled and donned all the components of an appropriately funereal outfit, went out to his work table to tuck in all his essentials —including a Yoda Pez— and strap on his watch, then processed a glass of wheat grass to sip with his morning reads. At 9:10, having found nothing notebook‑worthy, he laid the papers down, drained his glass, and headed down to the sub‑level parking garage.

He took a circuitous route to the bank, stopping first at La Boulangerie for a cup of freshly brewed coffee and a couple of their wonderful puff pastries layered with bavarian cream,

slathered in whipped cream, and drizzled with raspberry syrup.

At the bank, once he convinced the lady at the New Accounts desk that, despite his having an account on their computer he did not have a passbook, got a passbook, and promptly portioned out the bulk of his money into four separate accounts requiring four more passbooks. He put those bankbooks into an envelope he stuffed into his coat's breast pocket, drew out enough cash to replenish what he'd used on the Pretend to date, and finally headed out to the Mt. Olivet Cemetery for Thomas Bell's interment, arriving at exactly 11:00.

As might have been expected in light of their recent discovery, and despite the family's attempts to avoid them, a corps of media had shown up, and, although there were less than half the numbers required to constitute a full feeding frenzy, they were sufficient to keep Jarod a healthy distance away from the sizable phalanx of mourners —and any cameras, video or otherwise, that were pointed in their direction.

All he needed was The Centre to get an eyeful of him in the background of some news photo and shut down his pretend before he had a chance to put it into play. Leaving immediately would have been the smart thing to do, but even though the last thing he wanted was a repeat of San Diego, prudence could not best his curiosity.

Jarod had never had the opportunity to attend a funeral, not even that of his brother, Kyle, who had died in his arms only last year, and whose body he had helicoptered to the hospital so his

heart could be harvested to save young J.R. Miller, (Kyle's other usable organs had been rushed to venues all across the country to aid seven other anonymous donees). The Centre, in the form of Miss Parker, had robbed him of the opportunity to stay any longer than that, so Jarod stayed now, content to be a distant spectator, rather than an actual participant.

The minister's drone, competing with the whine of planes flying into Newark International Airport, drifted into his ears, seductive, but stripped of meaning, and Jarod found himself simming the spectors of another funeral, twenty‑nine years gone.

Jarod had been 'seven' by his own reckoning.

Two days earlier he and Sydney had not quite witnessed the death of Catherine Parker, one of The Centre's Pretender Project overseers. Not quite, for the actual shooting had occurred out of their line of sight.

Sydney had just helped Jarod out of his latest simulation apparatus, a clear plastic spherical pod, suspended in mid‑air. Mrs. Parker was in the corridor, watching him through the big glass window panes that flanked the door to the lab. She was holding a gift‑wrapped present in her arms. She smiled at Jarod warmly, encouragingly, as if she could tell he had done a good job and wanted to congratulate him.

A group of men in business suits and a boy in a striped T‑shirt and jeans, who looked several years younger than Jarod, approached her. At least six of the men were 'Sweepers.' Jarod would later identify the man they were guarding as 'Fenigor'. He did not recognize the other men. The nearest pair of Sweepers grabbed Mrs. Parker by the arms and began hauling her down the corridor. Mrs. Parker screamed and dropped her package.

"They're hurting her!" Jarod yelled. He started to run out of the SIM Lab to help her, but Sydney, recognizing the deadly nature of the scenario playing out before them, snared Jarod with his arms and wrestled the boy to a standstill, ordering him to stay put.

Jarod continued to struggle, refusing to acknowledge that he could do nothing to help. Mrs. Parker was nice. He didn't want her to be hurt.

When the men reached the over‑wide intersection where the bank of elevators was located, a man in a dark suit, whom Jarod could only see from the rear, entered from the cross corridor, holding a gun.

Mrs. Parker screamed again, broke free of her captors, and ran out of Jarod's line of sight, into an open elevator car. Jarod knew this because he heard one of the men in charge of her capture yell: "Get her off the elevator!"

Chaos ensued as a pair of Sweepers chased after Mrs. Parker, while another pair menaced the man with the gun.

Genesis Parker, Mrs. Parker's nine‑year‑old daughter, chose that moment to come darting up the corridor towards the melee, catching Jarod's eye. He had been introduced to, and instantly

befriended her, during a SIM they'd both participated in six months ago.

It was then that the first shot was fired.

Jarod's heart leapt into his mouth.

Another man yelled: "Get the kid out of here!"

Jarod had thought, at first, that the man was talking about the boy, who was standing mutely still in the midst of the chaos, a calm eye in a frenetic storm of activity, but the Sweepers

rushed by him, heading towards Genesis.

Three more shots were fired in rapid succession.

Genesis managed to elude the Sweepers and breached the cross corridor, spotting her mother's bloody body lying slumped on the floor of the elevator. "Mommy! No!"

"No!" one of the men yelled. "Keep her back!"

Two Sweepers snatched Genesis by her arms as she froze in horror and dragged her, screaming at the top of her lungs, away from the gunman, the shots, and her mother, who lay dying in the south elevator. They paused as they came abreast of the laboratory door and, clearly not wanting to miss out on the action, shoved their charge inside.

Jarod's eyes latched onto Genesis in the corridor. He watched in utter fascination as she futilely fought her Brobdingnagian rescuers with all the strength she could muster. She'd had the will of a Tigress, even then, and her tears were like claws, rending Jarod's soul. Her screams reverberated in Jarod's mind, articulating, at last, the silent anguish he had felt ever since Sydney had told him of his own parents’ deaths.

Sydney immediately shifted his hold on Jarod and gathered Genesis to him with his left arm, while holding Jarod in his right.

In witnessing her anguish, Jarod couldn't help but think how remote and bloodless his own loss seemed compared to Miss Parker's, but he knew it was because she and her mother had been

virtually inseparable, while he could barely conjure up an image of his mother, and could evoke his father only through the origami swans he had taught Jarod to make. It almost made him ashamed to call the ache in his heart 'grief'.

The two Sweepers, having dispensed their duty to Miss Parker, went back up the corridor, grabbed the boy, and shoved him into the SIM Lab out of harm's way, as well.

"Hurt! Pain! Sad!" the boy screamed as he dropped to the floor in a sobbing heap.

Jarod felt Sydney's arm tighten around him as his mentor found himself one arm short and in a temporary quandry as to how he would keep all three children safely inside and comforted. Then inspiration hit. He thrust the two children in his arms together. "Jarod, take care of Miss Parker," he ordered, and turned them loose so he could assist the other boy.

Jarod wrapped his arms around the still weeping Genesis. In seconds she was clinging to him with all the desperation of the truly damned.

Sydney took the sobbing boy into his lap and stroked him soothingly, like one might to becalm a pet.

Jarod copied Sydney's movements on Genesis faithfully. Both their charges quieted apace. "Who is he, Sydney? Will he be all right?" Jarod asked.

Sydney gave Jarod a sharp, unreadable stare, then, as if unable to hold his subject's earnest gaze, looked back at the boy curled up contentedly in his arms, almost napping. "His name is— Angelo. He's...one of Dr. Billy's children. Angelo is very special. He picks up emotions from others. The emotions outside were quite intense, but I think, now that he's in here with us, he'll be just fine."

A mop‑up crew of 'Cleaners' had arrived then, to begin the tedious business of altering reality. They took charge of both Genesis and Angelo, leaving Sydney free to take Jarod back up to his room, with the parting knowledge that he was going to see to Miss Parker directly.

Jarod had nodded acquiescence. He had wanted to make sure Miss Parker was all right, himself. At least, if Sydney did it, Jarod stood an even chance of learning her condition.

That had been two days ago. Two days with no word from anyone, not even Sydney. Jarod's shock had worn off and boredom had set in, a boredom tempered with vague anxiety and bad dreams. He longed to lose himself in the normality of his next SIM.

But, when Sydney did finally appear, it was to inform Jarod that he would be spending yet another day alone, (doing preparatory work on his next SIM), while Sydney attended something

called 'a funeral'.

This, in and of itself, had upset Jarod considerably. Whenever Sydney could not coax or cajol Jarod out of balking on a SIM, the Sweepers standing outside would drag him across the hall and lock him into a bare, dark cell. Someone would open the door eventually, and ask him if he was ready to do the SIM. Woebetide him if he said 'yes' and didn't mean it. Lying was a strapping offense. And was worth another two days in the 'closet', minimum. You'd better believe he was on his knees begging for the privilege to perform whatever simulation they wanted him to by then. Anything to escape another interminable minute bored, hungry, and alone in the dark. And they wouldn't feed him until the SIM was completed, either.

Now, Sydney himself was delaying a SIM —and no punishment was to be meted out to him whatsoever. In fact, since Mr. Parker, The Centre's Blue Cove Facility Chairman, was going to attend this 'funeral' thing, Jarod supposed Sydney would be rewarded for his laxity. It hardly seemed fair.

Jarod, trying to imagine what this 'funeral' would entail, had asked Sydney to explain, but beyond a few vague generalizations about 'death rites' and 'coping rituals', Sydney's explanation had been sorely lacking in both practical and emotional details.

What was worse, however, was Sydney's choosing that particular moment to emphatically forbid Jarod to mention 'the incident', (as The Centre's self‑described 'suicide' was forever after referred), to anyone, ever again.

Jarod still remembered the grip of Sydney's hands on his upper arms as Sydney shook him to underscore his warning. It was the first —the only— time Jarod had ever been afraid of Sydney.

Jarod had wanted desperately to talk out his anxieties with his mentor, for Sydney was Jarod's sole loco parentis in this labyrinthian den of skullduggery. They both knew 'the incident'

was no suicide, but Jarod wanted to know why it was so important for them to pretend it had been.

With Sydney's stern proscription pressed convincingly into his flesh, however, Jarod allowed his fear of abandonment, and the 'closet', and the even more vague but absolutely sinister threat of being reassigned to 'Dr. Billy,' to tamp his questions back down his throat.

He had no intention of ending up like Angelo, and, even though Sydney had not threatened him with such outright, Jarod had learned early on what happened to children The Centre deemed bad, damaged, or inadequate to their assigned tasks. Jarod knew his every blink was monitored twenty‑four hours of every day, and he was certain from Sydney's demeanor that committing so major an infraction of the rules as talking about 'the incident' would be severely dealt with.

But, while terror had sealed Jarod's lips, it had not hardened his heart. For if not quite witnessing Mrs. Parker's death had frightened him, it had devastated Catherine's daughter.

Jarod had chaffed for four long, painful years, yearning but never quite daring to confess all to Miss Parker, as her escalating sense of betrayal and rejection, abandonment and unworthiness began to weigh down her once‑buoyant spirit, miring her in a depression from which she had never fully recovered.

The helplessness and despair he suffered while silently witnessing Miss Parker's transformation, all the while knowing that telling her what he knew about 'the incident' could have

restored her faith in her mother and shored up her spirit, thus saving the generous and genuine little girl he loved, had filled Jarod with a rage so complete its fires inflamed his soul to this day.

If Jarod now viewed that day as the first of many that had fissured his and Sydney's relationship to the point that he could finally conquer the primal anchors of insecurity, purposelessness, and fear, (both for his own well‑being and of the unknown), that had so long tied him to That Place, he also saw it as another in a series of steps towards Miss Parker, the first child victim for whom his soul had burned with righteous fervor. (He would only come to understand the personal ramifications

of Catherine Parker's death after his own escape.)

Like Miss Parker, Jarod had learned to mask the symptoms of his discontent well. But he had never forgiven himself for his years of abject cowardice, and had spent many a subsequent night firing enraged salvos of self loathing at his spineless conscience.

It amazed Jarod how deeply those five days in April had been etched into their souls, shaping their nacent personalities like a chain‑saw roughing out a block of ice. Compacted within that span of days lay all the secrets, horrors, and lost opportunities of their lives, the regrets of estranged love, and the last shreds of their innocence.

His keenly honed sense of empathy throbbed with sympathetic pain for Bell's three children, who now had their own traumatic death and harrowing aftermath to accompany them down the span of their lives.

//At least//, he told himself, //they'll have each other for comfort. If they want each other's comfort, that is.// He could only hope it worked that way in a world where The Centre did not hold sway.

A chance to commiserate was more than he and Miss Parker had had, for, when he had seen her again, he had offered her no more than one awkward expression of sympathy for her loss, while she, having not yet been similarly warned about mentioning the subject, had done so only once, when the two of them, with Angelo's help, had discovered Faith, a girl about their age, who had come into The Centre to receive experimental drug therapy for Leukemia.

At the time, Miss Parker was still waiting for her father to explain what had happened to her mother. Jarod had known, of course, but had said nothing. It wasn't until Jarod discovered

that Mr. Parker had told his daughter that her mother had committed suicide because, unlike his 'Angel', she was too weak to survive in the tough, corporate environs of The Centre, that Jarod

understood the 'ends' of 'the incident' pretend: to manipulate and control Genesis —an end that would not have succeeded had Genesis ever learned the truth about her mother's demise.

Jarod had not realized how well that pretend had worked until fourteen years later, after their estrangement was complete, when he had seen her stalking corridor 15, where the room he had inhabited for sixteen years lay fallow since his 'upgrade' to roomier quarters on Sub Level 24.

He wouldn't have even known it was her, if some terrorized minion hadn't coughed out 'Miss Parker' in shocked surprise before ducking out of sight. Jarod had simmed her then and there, but his intent stare caught her attention.

"What are you looking at?" 'She Whose First Name Was Forever Unspoken' asked, her voice dripping venom.

"...That's what I was attempting to determine," he retorted, realizing that she hadn't recognized him, either.

She had bristled and stalked off.

He had staggered back to his lair for a good cry. The aura of sadness about her was suffocating. She had survived by masking her pain with booze and cigarettes, reckless sex and tough talk. She had sealed herself so completely in emotional armor that she rolled down the river of denial like a glass‑glazed stone: totally submerged, emotionally isolated, and dispossessed of her smile, her tears, and any trace of human warmth.

Had Jarod not possessed such strong pretender powers he would never have persisted in calling Miss Parker his friend, but the sweet, loving girl she had once been was still lurking about

the dark recesses of her soul waiting for a savior, an exit, a guiding light to help her re‑emerge.

Once he escaped The Centre, Jarod tried to kindle that light, build that exit, be that savior. Anything to undo the damage Mr. Parker's lies and Jarod's own culpable silence had wrought.

She wasn't making it easy on him, though, for the Powers That Be had assigned her the unenviable task of recapturing him and there were times —especially early on, before she had begun to accept the hints and clues he strewed in her path about their shared history‑‑ when her dedication to that end bordered on the fanatical. A dedication, he had discovered, ironically fueled by her determination to gain her freedom from The Centre in her own way, on her own terms.

Jarod's mind swam back to the present when Cassie, as Thomas's widow was more familiarly known, stood to place a red rose on the casket lid while the newshounds clicked and videoed the moment for posterity.

Jarod graced the journalists with a bleak smile and backed to the curb. "Maybe next time, Miss Parker," he whispered.

Determined, despite the media, to talk to Bell's widow, Jarod switched tactics, and, revving his car, headed for the Bells's Vailsburg residence.

He cased the place from the safety of his car before parking a block over. He snuck to the back fence of eight foot whitewashed cedar plank, climbed into the narrow, back yard which consisted of a strip of concrete no wider than four feet flanked by two foot wide flowerbeds, and skulked to the nearest window. He looked around, making sure there were no prying eyes about, then jimmied the lock and climbed inside.

Once in, he relocked the window and went upstairs to find a place to hide. He chose the master bedroom closet, and folded himself onto the floor beneath Thomas's suit coats.

He didn't like being in small, enclosed dark spaces, as a general rule, (they reminded him too much of the 'closet'), but he didn't have many options. It was hide in the tub in the master bath, which adjoined the bedroom, and hope Cassie didn't decide to take a shower after coming home; or the walk‑in, where he at least stood a chance of remaining undetected so long as he stayed out of Cassie's side of the closet; or settle for someplace even smaller and less inviting, like under the bed.

Despite his discomfort, he hadn't had any trouble controlling his claustrophobia in the past, but, did he, he thought wryly, he could always SIM Anne Frank.

He shut the sliding doors and stretched out in the familiar darkness, letting his legs rest, for the moment, amongst Cassie's white work shoes, which were sensibly placed beneath a full week's supply of nurse's uniforms, and waited for the reception to get underway so he could emerge and wander downstairs to mingle.

It took longer than he had anticipated before he heard the din of voices that signalled his release, three hours, in fact. By that time, he needed a few minutes in the bathroom to unkink and

'freshen up'.

The living room was softly abuzz with the news that neither Bell's father nor his older brother, Victor, had attended either the church memorial or the graveside service, and, as they had

never stepped foot in his house while Thomas was alive, were not expected to make an appearance.

"Those 'real deal' louts should make an exception at this late date?" Aunt Sophie opined when Jarod introduced himself as a friend of Thomas's.

For the price of a rum punch, Sophie provided Jarod with a running commentary about the guests meandering toward the buffet table, via an informal reception line which consisted of Cassie, 'Bobby', Marc, 'Tif', Helena, and 'Sam'nEddie', (two men whose names were strung together like ingredients waiting to lade a bagel and whose relationship to the family no one clarified). Through Sophie's discourse, Jarod was able to piece together the fact that Bell's real last name had been Belasco.

Bell had changed his name when he had 'come out of the closet' prior to leaving home to attend college. Apparently, his confession had torn the family apart. Bell's parents had divorced, his father had disowned him, and his brothers and sisters had stopped talking to him...until he showed up on his mother's doorstep, ten years later, married to Cassie.

"Lena told herself it had just been a phase, and that was that. Long as she got grandkids, all was right with the world, but the rest of us —well, hey, look around, I don't need to paint you

a picture, eh?" Sophie asided, nudging Jarod with an elbow.

"Yeah, we did ol' Thomas proud, huh? 'Cept for Vic and Arkady, those crumb‑bums. Lizzie knew to stick up for her big brother. That's her right over there, bless her heart. It's just too bad it took this drug thing to make her see Tommy was a good man, despite everything. Why, the day after he died she came to the house and told Cassie: 'Tommy had his flaws, but he was no damn drug dealer,' and she dared any damn reporter to say so to her face. She'd give them what for, Lizzie would."

"Jarod, is dat you?" a familiar voice called over the din.

Jarod froze like a deer caught in the headlights. The only person he would have wanted to see less, at this juncture, was Miss Parker, but there was nothing for it —and nowhere to hide. He looked at his feet before peering up at Tang through his downcast lashes. "Hello, Tang. Have you met Aunt Sophie?"

"I don' believe so. Hello, Aunt Sophie, my name's Tang Yu. I used to supervise Tom when he volunteered at the Rehab Center."

Sophie lit up. "Oh, Tang, yeah. Thomas used to talk about you alla time."

"Da phrase: 'slave driver' didn't come up too often, I hope?"

Sophie laughed and patted Tang's arm. "Eh, once or twice." They laughed. "It's good of you to come. How ya been?"

"Can't complain. So, Jarod, paid yo' respects to Cassie, yet?" Tang asked.

Jarod shook his head. "I was hoping to wait until the crowd thinned a bit."

"Don'," Tang advised. "Dere's a whole second wave onna way in. Come on, I'll introduce you."

Jarod thanked Sophie for her input and moved into the reception line with Tang, noting that, while Bell's homosexuality seemed to be a taboo but understood subject, very few could make it to the end of the line without expressing their outrage at his so‑called drug connection, pointedly declaring to all and sundry that 'Tom would never, ever,' 'not in a million years,' 'even in his worst nightmare' deal drugs. 'He thought too much of his students to ever do something so heinous.' 'Hadn't he always said that drugs were ruining the lives of too many children already?' ‘Tommy would die before he trucked with such filth.'

It was their very vociferousness which confirmed Jarod's SIM, for if Bell's friends could defend him in the face of damning evidence to the contrary —and even his sister, who had been

estranged from him for the better part of two decades, had taken his side when the news broke— Marchetti would have known that Bell would have brought him down, even if he had to expose his, (not so), secret sexual preferences to the world at large to do so, and neither words nor bribes would have dissuaded him.

"You didn't tell me you worked with Thomas," Jarod said.

"I didn' wanna hurt yo' feelings, wall o' blue an' all dat. But you keep su'prisin' me, Jarod," Tang whispered, "What's yo' game?"

"I just need to speak with Mrs. Bell.... Although, I was hoping to get her alone...—to offer my condolences." He looked pained. Tang's presence might compromise his intended largesse.

"What? You can't offer yo' condolences in heah with da rest of us?" Tang read his answer in Jarod's eyes. "Dose must be some big condolences, my friend. Tell you what, I'll help you out."

They inched their way up the line, listening to the comments of the people ahead of them.

Over and over, Cassie reiterated four things: 1) Thomas had been a dedicated teacher who lived for his work, 2) he loved, and would do anything to protect all children, especially his own; 3) he would never, ever promote the use, let alone sell, drugs to anyone, least of all children; and 4) Thomas was opposed to the very idea of guns on principal, and the notion that he would own a

gun legally, let alone illegally, and actually use it against another person, when he had spent his entire career admonishing his students against that very thing, was absurd.

When Tang reached Cassie, he gave her a buss on the cheek. "Hey, dere, you. How you holdin' up?"

"As well as can be, I guess," Cassie smiled, pumping Tang's hands in hers as if it were some secret game between them. "I'm glad to see you back on your feet. Pity about your job, though. I know you loved those kids more than life itself."

"Yeah, well, dat was sorta da issue, wasn' it?"

"But to have them turn on you, like that. It was so unfair."

"So's dis. Least I'm still standin'. Listen, deah, dis is my friend, Jarod Reed. Jarod, Cassie Bell. Jarod needs some 'quiet' time wit' you, Cassie," he said drawing his pinched thumb and forefinger across his lips. "We wouldn't ask, now, but for Jarod it's now or nevva, and fo' you, nevva is no good, capisce?"

Cassie looked uneasy, concerned, thoughtful, then resigned. "I guess it's only fair. Come on." Claiming a need for a momentary respite, Cassie excused herself from the reception line and led the men upstairs, pulling Jarod into her bedroom, while Tang stationed himself outside the door, to make sure they weren't interrupted.

Jarod looked around awkwardly, unsure, with Tang so near, of what he could safely say in the thin‑walled enclosure. Finally deciding he couldn't alter his planned story enough to satisfy both Tang and Cassie, he drew her as far away from the door as he could and spoke softly. "Look, Mrs. Bell—"

"—Oh, for God's sakes, call me Cassie," she insisted.

"Um, 'Cassie', I don't quite know how to say this— "

"—What? That you and Thomas were lovers?" Jarod looked surprised, but Cassie smirked. "I swear, Jarod, half the men downstairs had him."

"I —I didn't realize— "

"—That I knew?"

"Well, yes, frankly."

Cassie smiled. "Thomas and I didn't keep secrets from each other. Not that his coming outta the closet didn't take me by surprise. Hell, I thought I was gonna die. I mean, we grew up

together, you know? I'd been in love with him forever —well, all through High School, at any rate. Then— hoo! I don't know why, but I stuck by him. We went to college together, you know? Oh! What a Romeo, he was! His eyes were full of stars, but his dreams were going up in flames left and right. You wanna guess how many openly gay teachers there are in this county?" She shook her head.

"So I told him: Go back into the closet, marry me, and all your dreams will come true. And he did, bless his heart. What else could he do? He wanted children. He wanted to teach children. And he wanted to screw men.

"Not that I'm complaining, mind. I made that bed. I was the one that set the terms. I was the one that thought the love of a good woman would change him. I mean, the church always said

homosexuality was a willful sin, and if they had chosen to be that way, they could unchoose it. Cheesh! We were so naive, back then," she said wistfully.

"Anyways, I got three beautiful children out of it, and Thomas was such a good father, such a thoughtful man. He never forgot a birthday or an anniversary.... I just wish he saw in me what he saw in you. After I became pregnant with Tif...well, let's just say I don't know how he stood it that long.

"He told me it was OK with him if I saw other men, but I couldn't do that to him, or the kids. So I just gave up sex," she looked at Jarod in wonder, surprised at her own candor. "You know, Jarod, you're very easy to talk to. Very sympathetic. I can see why you and Thomas became friends."

Jarod smiled softly. "I've been told my sympathetic ears are my best assets."

Cassie grinned and swatted his behind. "Oh, yeah, but they sure aren't your only assets, Sweetie. Thomas always did have great taste in lovers."

"Well, he certainly showed great taste when he married you," Jarod said sincerely.

Cassie teared up and Jarod gave her a consoling hug. "It'll be OK, I promise. In the meantime, well, I'm not hurting for cash. I would be honored if you would allow me to help out. I mean, I know Thomas wanted the children to go to college, which would have been hard enough to manage with both your incomes. But, now that he's gone....well...." Jarod pulled out the envelope from his breast pocket and tried to give it to her.

"No," Cassie said, refusing to touch it. "We'll be fine."

"I know. I— I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't provide for your children yourself. I know you can. This is— I meant for it to be a heartfelt gift, not an insult. It's just that I know the children were Thomas's first priority and he always said his time in college was the best and, I...I know he wanted his kids to enjoy their college years, too...so, if you could, accept this gift for their sakes, please?"

Cassie took the envelope. Her hands trembled as she opened it, uncertain of what to expect. She pulled out the four bank books and opened them one by one. Jarod had given each of the children thirty thousand dollars, in trust, and Cassie a regular passbook in the amount of fifty‑seven thousand dollars.

Cassie gave a disbelieving whimper and sank onto the bed. "Oh, my God! I can't accept this!" She thrust the books back at Jarod, her eyes shocked wide, but he held up a declining hand.

"Cassie, believe me, I'm never going to miss it," Jarod assured her, which was the absolute truth, for Jarod had found a way to make The Centre finance his pretends since his escape, and continued to steal, mis‑direct, donate, and 'lose' hundreds of millions of their dollars just to irk them.

As he had once told Sydney when he had negotiated the return of forty‑nine and a half million dollars in exchange for information on his family: 'The Centre owes me.' A few million dollars in lost revenue was little enough to pay for thirty‑three years of slave labor, not to mention kidnapping, murder, and a lifetime's supply of nightmares.

"But this!" She picked out the bankbook with her name on it. "You said money for the kids's education! This is— !"

"—To pay off the mortgage," he interrupted. "That way, you can divert those monies to keeping up the college funds you've already established and purchase more food —I've heard teenagers eat like locusts," he said with his own patented brand of naive ingenuousness.

Cassie laughed, on the border of hysteria, but sobered. "After we were married, I made Tommy promise that he would never have a steady man, 'cause I needed to know that our marriage —that I— mattered to him. Not that I'd have known any better, I told Tommy he hadda keep his other life, his lovers, away from the kids...from me. But now...here you are...and you're gorgeous, and you're rich, and you're generous, and I feel so bad." She started to cry, again.

Jarod scooted onto the bed beside her so he could offer her his shoulder. "Shh..., it's understandable. Very few people want to befriend the 'other woman' —especially when it's a man," he joked as she folded into his embrace, "But I have to tell you: I've wished that someone would love me as much as Thomas loved you all my life. No one ever came close to taking your place in Thomas's affections," Jarod promised. "You were the mother of his children, the protector of his dreams, and his best friend. Believe me, it's hard to compete with that."

Cassie's tears flooded out with gratitude and relief and pure sorrow, no longer dammed up by uncertainty and self‑doubt.

Jarod welcomed Cassie's grief, because, by tapping it, he was helping her come to terms with her loss. An unbiddened smile beamed from his lips, expressing the profound happiness he felt holding another human being in his arms and being of comfort.

Because of his words —the words of a stranger— Cassie had found the strength that lay beneath her doubts and uncertainties.

There had been no wise stranger to help Miss Parker work through her grief, though Jarod had tried. It had been Jarod Miss Parker turned to after Faith died. He had hoped that the tears she shed for Faith would help ease the pain she bore for the death of her mother, but it hadn't worked out that way. Instead, it drove the splinter of that first death deeper into her tender soul. Too many losses too close together.

Miss Parker had been sent to a boarding school when she was fifteen, and had not returned to The Centre until after she graduated college. Jarod wondered if anyone could have persuaded her to forget about The Centre and just get on with her life, but that led him to wonder what would have become of him if she had.

Kenny's murder had given him the courage to leave, but it had been the agony and rage of years of subservient suffering coupled with the image of Miss Parker's waif‑turned‑Ice‑Princess that had shown Jarod his purpose in the Outside world. Without that goad, Kyle's murder might have crushed his spirit beyond salvaging.

"I don't understand, Jarod, if you weren't that close to Tommy, why are you giving us all o' this money?" Cassie sniffled as she pulled away to avail herself of a tissue.

"It's as much for me, and my own personal demons, as for Thomas and your kids," Jarod said honestly. "You see,...I was stolen from my family when I was very young and raised in a place where, every day, I was reminded of how much it hurts to grow up without a father —a family— ...anybody who loves you....

"I needed to try and take a little of your children's pain —my pain, away. I know it's crass, but money is the only thing I can offer you, all I have to give. Won't you please accept it?" Cassie stared into his eyes, at the pain so evident in them, and she silently clutched the bankbooks to her bosom. He sighed gratefully, pain easing. "Thank you.

"You have a wonderful, beautiful family, Cassie, and you need each other now more than ever. I know you want to shield the children from all this controversy, but what they need is for you to respect them enough to tell them the truth, and I want you to promise that you will.

"I think Robert knows already, or, if not, he suspects. Don't risk losing their trust by lying about Tom's being gay, they'll just assume you're lying about the drugs, too —and anything else important that you try to tell them, like the fact that having a gay father doesn't mean they'll be gay, too, or that, even if they are gay, you'll love them just the same.

"They may not like the truth, especially at first, but they'll get over being angry. They won't get over being lied to. Love can't fix everything, but it can get you through some rough nights, and you're all going to need as much of it as you can give each other before this is over. So, is that a promise?"

She nodded. Jarod took her hands and drew her up. "Why don't you go freshen up. I'll let myself out."

Jarod waited until Cassie shut the door to the master bathroom, then stepped to the back window and peered outside. With his mountaineering skills, it would be an easy climb to the ground. He undid the window's latch.

"The door's that way," Cassie said, startling Jarod, who popped the window open with a reflexive jerk. He cursed himself for not noticing that she'd come back out of the bathroom but then, most women needed more than five seconds to pull themselves together.

"Ahhm...," he straightened his back, but, at the same time, lowered his head, canting his chin in her direction. Deciding to take his own advice, he told her the truth: "I'm sneaking out to avoid the reporters. I can't afford to be seen ‑‑to have my picture taken. If someone were to broadcast or print it and the wrong people saw it I'd face...unpleasant repercussions."

Cassie seemed puzzled, grasping for an explanation, then her eyes widened. "You're not out," she said simply.

Jarod nodded, lending validity to Cassie's version of the truth.

Cassie, in a near imitation of Tang, earlier, pinched her index finger and thumb together in front of her mouth and twisted her hand down. "I won't tell a soul," she promised.

"Thank you. I appreciate it more than you can know," Jarod said. "But, if you would, please tell Tang I'll be home if he wants to stop by."

"Sure thing, Honey." Cassie waited until Jarod slipped out, then relocked the window.

Jarod climbed down to the pavement, then hopped the back fence. He had enjoyed his time with Cassie, and he hoped he had eased her pain and provided enough guidance for her to survive the media onslaught until he could clear her husband's name, because he doubted that he'd have time to see her again.

Jarod was equally certain the same could not be said for Tang. In fact, he doubted that he'd have to wait very long before Tang paid him a visit. He simmed probable scenarios in his head, but he lacked a crucial bit of information, namely: how much Cassie would tell Tang in the interim. She had made it plain that she wanted no part of her husband's lovers, but she seemed quite friendly towards Tang; on the one hand, her family was there with her, on the other, Tang seemed quite protective of her, and he knew how comforting Tang could be. Jarod could draw no

conclusions. In the end, the only scenario element that remained constant was his apologizing for sneaking out the way he had.

It was only after he had worked out several ways to diffuse his worst case scenarios, and how best to deploy them, that Jarod realized just how important salvaging his budding relationship with the Oriental was to him.

Tang had become a valued friend in the course of one evening. A friend he did not yet want to sacrifice to the expedience of his self‑appointed crusade.

CHAPTER FIVE

Newark, New Jersey

Friday, February 5^th

3:27 p.m.

Jarod was curled up on the couch, knees to chest, sipping Dr. Pepper out of the bottle when a knock at the front door heralded Tang's arrival.

Jarod opened the door with a certain amount of dread anticipation. "Hi, Tang," he greeted softly, "I've been expecting you." He stepped aside to allow his guest entry.

Tang noticed Jarod's passively defensive posture: slightly hunched, as if he expected a blow, gaze abashedly fixed to the floor, so as not to anger Tang with a challenging look.

"I bought some tea: Ceylon, Green, and Chai Spice. The kettle's hot, if you want some?" Jarod asked, making a subtle peace offering to the Oriental.

Tang pursed his lips as he gave Jarod and the loft a reappraising once over. "Got any of dat cake left?" Jarod nodded. "Den I'd rather have a slice of dat wit' milk, please."

Jarod smiled. "Coming right up." He shut the door and led Tang into the kitchen/dinette area of the loft. Opening up a cabinet, he grabbed the bowl and saucer from the one place setting

he owned, one of the set of four glass tumblers, a fork, and, lastly, his own tumbler with its ready spoon and the milk jug out of the refrigerator. "Sorry about ditching you like that," he apologized as he passed a filled tumbler, the ladened saucer, and the fork to Tang.

Tang smiled. "Cassie told me you were camera shy. I guess dat means dat really was you skulking about at da cemetery, huh?"

"Uhm, yes, it was."

"I t'ought I was hallucinatin' dere, fo' awhile. So, you gonna tell me what's goin' on?" Jarod ducked his eyes to his own slice of cake and gave a particularly unforthcoming shrug of his

shoulders, but Tang persisted. "You know you owe me."

Jarod sighed. "There's nothing about your relationship with Officer Marchetti you haven't told me, is there?"

"You mean: would anyt'ing you said to me get back to him? No. He was nevva dat chummy and, even if he was, Thomas was a better friend dan dat. He didn' deserve ta die, and he shoo as Hell doesn' deserve da rap dey're tryin' to pin on him."

Jarod nodded, satisfied that Tang would not compromise his Pretend. "...Marchetti murdered Bell and covered it up by planting the gun and drugs on him after the fact."

Tang hissed. "An' you would know dis how?"

"...It's what I do." At Tang's scowl, Jarod elucidated. "I dig up the truth, collect the evidence, and help Justice take its course."

"Help Justice how, exactly?" Tang asked.

"Well, in this particular case, it means I turn over whatever evidence I uncover to Lt. DeLuca— "

Tang's eyebrows rose. "—DeLuca? From da rat squad? How long's I.A.B. been on Trent's case?"

"...Long enough to discover that he turned four years ago," Jarod said carefully, hoping that Tang's knowing Marchetti would yield information he could glean no other way.

"Four years? Damn! Dis is mo' serious dan I t'ought. Have you figured out why he went bad, yet?"

Jarod shook his head. "No."

"Well, have you figgaed out why he killed Thomas?"

"Yes." Jarod launched into a capsule account of Bell and Marchetti's last, fatal meeting.

"...Thomas knew Marchetti from da Center, Jarod. Marchetti was our police liason fo' two years while he was in da Youth Aid Unit. Dat makes yo' connection between dem, no muss, no fuss. No trying to prove something you ain't got evidence fo', am I right?"

"...I haven't been able to uncover any indication that Marchetti is currently in a relationship," Jarod said with sudden keenness, "but I'm certain he's gay."

"But can you prove it?" Jarod shook his head. "Den, if I were you, I'd settle fo' da connection I'd already established, and go from dere."

Jarod shook his head again. "Marchetti's lifestyle may have a direct bearing on his motivations.... You disappoint me, Tang. I thought proving Thomas's innocence was important to you."

Tang hissed and rubbed his forehead. "...Trent does have a Significant Other. Word is he contracted full‑blown AIDS six years ago. Dey pretty much dropped off the social scene after dat. Hard times, you know? I lost track of him when he transferred into Patrol Division...four years ago. I gotta figga his S.O's still alive, d'ough, or Trent would have gone back on da market."

Jarod scowled. If Trent did have a lover, he was being discreet to the point of monkhood. There wasn't so much as a mis‑matched hair in the man's apartment, no personal items, such as an

extra toothbrush or extra razor, and no indication in his business affairs that he was lavishing money on anyone for any reason. "And you would know this how?" Jarod smiled, returning the question Tang had asked him earlier.

"Ours is a very...'select' fraternity. 'Specially in dis neck o' da woods. As I'm shoo you'll discover. Dey may be gone, but dey aren't forgotten: da gossip nevva quits."

"And do the gossipers mention names?"

"No, and I don't know him, but he's lived in da same apartment complex as Trent fo' da last eleven years," Tang said.

Jarod smiled grimly. That one piece of information could be the key to the whole affair. "Thank you, Tang. That's very helpful."

Tang nodded somewhat grimly. He finished his cake and pushed the saucer away. "So, how long you been on da job?"

"Just a few days."

"Not dis job, deah, da whole Justice kick. How many bad guys have you put away in yo' career?"

"Fifty‑six, so far," Jarod smiled, his satisfaction evident.

"Hmpt." Tang sipped at his milk. "So, I take it you're in no danger of committin' suicide?"

"No!" Jarod emphatically denied. "Where would you get an idea like that?"

"Let's just say dat a uniform who drops five hundred dollars on dinna wit' a stranger wit'out battin' an eye, who den gives the widow of a man he's nevva met a hundred fo'ty seven t'ousand dollars when he's livin' in a barely furnished apartment drivin' a used car could suggest a deliberate divestment of worldly goods in anticipation of imminent demise."

"...I suppose it could be interpreted that way," Jarod allowed. "What changed your mind?"

"Yo' very obvious satisfaction at doin' yo' job. People who are dat pleased wit' themselves aren't candidates fo' suicide," Tang explained. "Still doesn't explain the cash, d'ough."

"...I'm independently wealthy," Jarod admitted. "I don't need to work, I just— ...like putting away bad guys."

Tang chuckled. "Damn! I've had dinna wit' Bruce Wayne."

Jarod laughed. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose —he drives a much nicer car, though.

"You...didn't tell Cassie I didn't know Thomas, did you?"

Tang snorted. "I don't t'ink it would matta afta dat sob story you laid on her. Anyway, long as da money's legit, I got no beef wit' sugaring da bait, my friend."

Jarod sighed with relief. "Thank you for that.... You know, I was hoping your relationship with Thomas was such that Cassie wouldn't confide in you."

"My relationship wit' Thomas was strictly professional, and it's precisely because it was, dat da house rules didn' apply," Tang grinned, understanding Jarod's reference immediately. "And,

on accountta I was his boss, I got invited ovva to da house on a semi‑regular basis. Cassie trusts me."

Jarod sighed. That wasn't hard to believe, he trusted Tang, too, as much as he'd trusted anyone in his entire life. There was an indefinable aura of caring about the Oriental that he —and

many others, no doubt— found irresistibly attractive.

"Since we're being honest, heah: what brought you to Marbles?" Tang asked.

"...Research," Jarod admitted. "In order to get the evidence I need, Marchetti has to trust me. I was hoping that would be easier to do if— ...." he broke off, suddenly embarrassed.

"...If you pretended you were gay?" Tang finished.

Jarod flinched at the word 'pretended'. If he had been running a SIM with Sydney he'd have yelled: 'refuge'. He was into this aspect of the Pretend so deeply he could no longer tell his

true emotions from what was simulated, what he needed to feel from what he actually desired.

Tang noticed the flinch —not coming when he'd said the loaded term, 'gay', but at 'pretended'. He had discovered the core issue of Jarod's perplexing behavior. Suddenly, he was impelled to ask this entirely too accomodating man what he had been wondering since Wednesday. "Are you gay?"

Jarod met Tang's eyes with a gaze as bleak as a Gobi Winter. "...I don't know."

Tang snorted. "It's not a hard question. Either you prefer males, or you prefer females —or you swing bot' ways."

Jarod felt his eyes well with tears. "I don't know."

Tang's stare turned hard. "You ain't shittin' me, are you?"

Jarod shook his head.

"I gotta tell you, Jarod, dis ain't no'mal. Most people yo' age know what they are, one way or da other. Heck, I've known since I was twelve." Tang watched Jarod squirm. Jarod was very aware that he wasn't normal. It was a phrase he had obviously heard more than once in his lifetime. A phrase he just as obviously hated. "You evva have intercourse with a woman?"

"Yes. Once."

"Once?! In fo'ty years you've only had sex once?"

Jarod seemed to wilt. "...I guess that depends on how you define it. I've only had one lover: Nia. But we...enjoyed each other's company for three days," Jarod elucidated, smiling fondly.

"I take it from yo' expression you enjoyed yourself?"

"Very much so."

Tang thought for a moment. He knew Jarod had never had sex with a man, but if he'd only had sex with a woman once, then.... "You got confused when you were arroused when I kissed you?"

"Yes."

Tang grinned unexpectedly. "I didn' know I was dat good." He slapped Jarod's arm. "Don' worry about it, Sport. Da body don't know from male or female. Lips is lips. Stimulus is stimulus."

"...This isn't the first time I've been attracted to a male," Jarod confessed somewhat miserably.

"Oh?" Tang pursed his lips, and that 'analytical' look Jarod had come to recognize glowed in his eyes. Jarod dropped his own gaze back to his unfinished cake, as if continuing to meet Tang's piercing stare would burn a hole through his retinas. "Lemme guess: you were in yo' teens?"

"Yes."

"Well, da good news is, whether you acted on it or not, dat's no'mal. Doesn' mean a t'ing. Listen, Jarod, Cassie told me what you said, 'bout growin' up in an institution? If dat's true, you gotta know dat in dat kind of environment, when —correct me if I'm wrong— da only thing available is males, a certain amount of...'sexual attraction' is inevitable. Nature of da beast. Curiosity is not proof of sexual preference, d'ough.

"In fact, I know what's adding to yo' confusion, 'cause I know what it is dat makes me so attractive to you. It's somethin' you crave." Tang stood up, sidled behind Jarod, enfolded him in his arms, and began to rock him from side to side. "It's a good hug, deah. Somethin' I'm guessin' you didn't get a whole lot of as a child, am I right?"

Jarod nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. He wanted to melt into the pure and inviting aura of security and nearness that Tang's strong arms evoked, and his own hands came up, gripping Tang's wrists, as if to clutch Tang's embrace to him like a coat on a chilly day. "I feel so good when you hold me. So safe. I haven't felt safe in a long time...I wish I could feel this way

forever."

"Dere, dere, Little Bird. I've gotcha, now." Tang said soothingly, as he continued to rock Jarod in his arms.

Jarod closed his eyes and pressed his head into Tang's chest. After awhile, he began to sing: 'Kri kraw toad's foot, geese walk barefoot, geese walk barefoot, kri kraw toad's foot."

He sang it again, then hummed it, then fell silent.

"What was dat?" Tang asked after a decent interval, so as not to interrupt, still rocking Jarod steadily.

"Something my mother used to sing to me when she held me.... That and a memory of her hanging laundry are all I remember of her. I'd even forgotten what she looked like, till I was able to find those pictures on my work desk. I've been searching for my parents ever since I— since I was able to look for them," he finished somewhat lamely.

"Whenever you can scrape up a few free hours between nailin' bad guys, you mean?"

"Yes. And speaking of which, I guess I'll have to find another way to approach Marchetti."

"Why? Pretending to be gay sounds like a good strategy to me."

"It didn't convince you," Jarod retorted.

"I'm not Marchetti," Tang grinned. "He won't look at you and see da confusion and emotional starvation I do. You turn dose puppy dog eyes of yo's on him, and all he'll see is a needy guy who's looking to him for solace. He's gay, so he'll see gay."

"Now I really am confused. Were you sexually attracted to me in the club?"

"Absolutely!" Tang confirmed. "You're a good looking guy. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well..., I —I sensed that you were approaching me out of some...protective instinct," Jarod said, "because you weren't sure I was gay."

"Very good. Now, who was I protecting?"

"...Well, I assumed you, or maybe your friends at the club, possibly to keep them from getting hurt by some curious reporter nosing around for leads."

Tang shook his head. "I was protectin' you, deah."

"Me?" Jarod's eyes glazed over as he simmed their meeting at Marbles. "I see.... You were testing me to see how I'd react, what I'd do, how far I'd go.... You thought you could push me into backing down or leaving. When I didn't, you knew I'd do anything you wanted me to...but you couldn't figure out why."

Jarod remembered Tang's remark when he'd paid the dinner bill. ['Well, you’re certainly not doin' it 'cause you need da cash.'] "At first, you thought it was curiosity...then you suspected I was prostituting myself for drugs or money —you couldn't tell which, but you were afraid that, if we stayed at the club, someone more 'accommodating' would entice me away, so you took me to your parent's restaurant to gain control of the situation —of me. That's why your sister asked if I was your next project. You do this sort of thing all the time."

Jarod remembered that Tang had introduced himself to Sophie as Thomas Bell's supervisor at the Westside Teen Rehabilitation Center, but that during his first visit to Jarod's apartment Tang had said he was 'between jobs'. Cassie and Tang's exchange came into Jarod's mind next: ['I'm glad to see you back on your feet. Pity about your job, though. I know you loved those kids more than life itself.' 'Yeah, well, dat was sorta da issue, wasn' it?' 'But to have them turn on you, like that. It was so unfair.' 'So's dis. Least I'm still standin'.']

"You worked at the Westside Teen Rehabilitation Center until some of the children attacked you...you were badly injured and lost your job...but you still rescue kids in trouble.... It's like a knee‑jerk reflex, you can't help yourself. That upsets your father, because he's afraid you'll get killed, next time, but you won't quit, even though it takes money you don't have to help your

'projects' out."

"Damn, you’re good! I don' think dey pay you enough. But how in Hell did you know what my sista said ta me? I haven't met five white people who speak Hakka inna t'irty years I've lived heah."

Jarod shrugged. "Before I got on this 'Justice kick' of mine, I did 'consultant work' for a company that did a lot of business in Singapore and Hong Kong. That's how I made my fortune. The company thought it was better for business if I could speak to the customers directly. I speak Hakka, Hokkien, Mandarin, and Cantonese."

Tang thought a moment. "And Nepali, Tibetan, and Sherpa, no doubt. Anyt'ing else?"

Jarod nodded. "Russian, French, German, Spanish, Flemish, Italian, Romanian, Greek, Latin, Serbo‑Croatian, Portugese, Farsi, Arabic, Hebrew, Afrikaans, Swahili, Ovimbundu, Japanese, and American Sign."

"You are a man of many talents."

"You'd be surprised," Jarod grinned. "What I don't understand is why your opinion of me deteriorated so quickly?"

"It didn't, in point of fact. At first, all I saw was a very cute, available guy who didn't quite fit da scene —we get a lot of curious guys at Marbles, men on dares, you know? Usually, one good come on is enough to send dem screaming for da doh.... But when I looked in yo' eyes, I knew it was no lark. Afta da way you latched onta me when we danced, I knew you were so desperate to be wit' somebody —anybody— just so you wouldn't be alone, you might not be able to say 'no' to somethin' you might regret doin' when you woke up da next mornin'. I figgaed you oughta be wit' somebody who could give you da companionship you needed wit'out askin' fo' anything you couldn't handle in return."

Jarod tilted his head up to make eye contact with Tang. "You're quite good at reading people, yourself. I didn't even realize how lonely I was until after you'd left and I found myself doing the home movie version of sleeping with the television on," Jarod confessed.

"It's an instinctual t'ing," Tang explained. "Mei‑Mei calls it: 'waif radar'. My advice: after dis case is closed, lay off da undercover work fo' awhile. Take a vacation. Maybe go lookin' fo'

dose parents of yo's." He kissed Jarod's forehead and returned to his chair. "Dere. Dat oughta keep you. Refills are free, by da way."

Jarod smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. Now, my lonely friend, I know you gotta go to work tomorrow, but I do owe you dinna."

"You certainly don't need to buy me any food. I have plenty —and you're more than welcome to share."

"I figgaed as much, so I t'ought I would pay for some music, instead. How do you feel about an evening of jazz?"

"I love jazz," Jarod burbled. "It's very mathematically complex, —unlike most popular music. I once reconstructed the formula Mozart used to compose The Magic Flute. It's denser, and more complex than popular music, structurally speaking, but it's just as rigid, like a train fastened to a track.

"Jazz, by comparison, is like —hang gliding. The only rigidity is in the equipment —the instruments used. The music itself is like riding thermals. There's a fluidity of form, a complexity of thematic variations, an interweaving of complementary phrasing that's just not found in any other formal style of music. It's like the river in that Chinese aphorism: a combo can play the same piece over and over, but you'll never hear the same phrasing twice —it's fantastic!"

Tang laughed. "I was beginnning to wonda if I should bring you a boutonniere or a calculator. I'm glad you approve. So. I'll come ovva at six‑t'irty for dinna den we'll head out to da club. I got reservations fo' eight‑t'irty. We'll use my car. T'anks fo' da snack. I'll let myself out —and I'll use da doh," Tang said mischievously.

Jarod smiled ruefully as he escorted Tang out and waved him a temporary adieu, then he settled at his desk and fired up his laptop.

He already knew the company Trent Marchetti sent his rent checks to, so it was an easy hack into the records on file for Marchetti's building. Their on‑line records only went back five years, though.

Jarod copied the listed rent checks, eliminating the ones sent by females, or persons with two names on the account. He then called up a current list of renters, eliminating any names from

the old list who weren't still in the building. He followed the remaining names to their respective bank records, which he checked for huge out‑lays of cash.

If Trent's S.O. was still alive after six years with full‑blown AIDS, odds are he was spending a lot of money on medication.

There were five men in Trent's building with enormous monthly cash fluxes. Jarod hacked into the DMV, next, to check out their vital statistics. He eliminated two men due to age, (the infirmities of the old were not solaced cheaply, either).

Jarod then checked the location of the remaining two apartments. One was on the same floor as Trent's, which would certainly answer a lot of questions. Jarod decided this 'Peter Caravelli' was his best bet, and set a program to ferret out everything he could find on the man.

He let the machine run its search for an hour, while he ran down to the dry cleaners, so he'd have his silk shirt and wool slacks for the night's festivities, then he found a second hand

store where he could buy another place setting, and returned to the loft laundry and dishes in hand, and checked the computer's findings.

Pharmacy records showed that Caravelli had been on a regimen of drugs costing a little over twenty thousand dollars per annum. Peter's medical insurance and savings had been depleted within the first year trying to keep up with the costs. Marchetti's own savings soon followed, afterwhich they maxed out their credit cards. Peter had lost his job and filed for bankruptcy soon after.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened next: Having exhausted his legal remedies, Marchetti had turned to illegal ones, allying himself with Vinnie Panecco, a man with infinitely deep pockets and good reason to hook up with a cop with Marchetti's pristine work history. All to keep Peter Caravelli alive, housed, and supplied with the drugs he needed to survive.

For some reason, Jarod thought of Sydney. The whole situation made him sick. He was used to dealing with black‑hearted villains, not desperate men whose principal crime was being too poor to afford treatment for a loved one with a devastating and obscenely expensive illness.

On the other hand, Jarod felt obligated to expose Marchetti for the sake of Thomas Bell's family. Marchetti may have killed Bell in a panic, but he had framed him quite deliberately.

On yet another hand, Jarod thought that if there was a true villain in this piece, it was society itself. The final arbiter of which ailment should be treated and for how long, of who lived and who died should not be dictated by dollar signs.

Jarod retreated to the couch, tucked himself into an upright fetal position, arms wrapped around his his shins, cheek resting on his knees, then closed his eyes and rocked, imagining himself in Tang's embrace until the alarm on his watch went off, telling him it was time to dress for dinner.

Tang knocked precisely at six‑thirty. Jarod had already reheated their food, and they were headed out to the Shanghai Jazz club by seven‑forty.

They arrived in good time, had a drink at the bar, then were seated at their table exactly at eight‑thirty. Since some sort of meal was mandatory, Tang ordered three different desserts, let

Jarod sample all three and eat two —to Jarod's utter delight— then they settled in to enjoy the music.

The regular set finished at eleven p.m., but Jarod was enjoying himself so much that, once he ascertained that Tang wasn't due in to work until eleven a.m. the next morning, he insisted they shift themselves to the bar to catch the late set, and Tang could not drag him away until it concluded at one a.m.

Tang was half asleep, by then, so Jarod, who would have been wide awake in ordinary circumstances but was positively ecstatic after a night of good music and indulgent desserts in stimulating company, drove them home.

He exited the I‑78 Express at Hillside Ave. and made a right onto Clinton Ave. A few blocks before Clinton merged into Lincoln Park, one of the tires blew. Jarod pulled the car to the curb next to a streetlamp, then, judging it safe to change the tire on the road in the negligible, late night traffic, he let Tang doze in the passenger seat while he exited the car to get out the spare

and jack. He'd just popped the trunk lid when a fusillade erupted from seemingly nowhere, punctuated by a man's scream.

Tang jerked awake to find the driver's seat empty and the car stopped on the street. Not knowing why or how they had come to be there, he panicked. "Jarod?!" he cried. "Jarod!"

"It's all right, Tang. I'm right here," Jarod replied, ducking his head down to the passenger's side window so Tang could see him. "We had a flat. I was about to change it when—"

More reports, like a string of firecrackers, interrupted him. Jarod stood, once more searching for the source of the gunfire. Traffic continued to flow sedately past them, the sounds of their own car engines masking the deadly, not‑too‑distant noise.

Jarod couldn't see anybody or anything, not even muzzle flashes in the streetlamp lit tableau. Then he spotted the red glow of the revolving lights of a police car reflecting off the walls of a building half a block up the cross street.

"Fix the tire!" Jarod told Tang as he started up the street. "We may need to get out of here in a hurry."

"What? Where do you t'ink you’re goin'? You’re not even armed!" Tang yelled.

"I may be able to help!" Jarod broke into a sprint. He quickly darted across the street and eased close to the cover of the eastern storefronts. Reaching the alleyway where the police crawler was located, he squatted and poked his head around the corner.

A policeman was writhing on the ground, halfway up the alley, trying, if his groping arms were any indication, to right himself so he could stay within the cover offered by the opened driver's door of his white crawler. His service pistol was in one hand, and his shoulder mike in the other. "Dispatch...dispatch!?" the officer pleaded. There was no response, just static. He threw the mike onto the ground with a disgusted curse. "Damnit! Ooh!" He doubled over in pain.

A half dozen shots whizzed into the street behind the cop. Jarod pin‑pointed each of the sources: the two corner, third story windows of the buildings flanking the far end of the alley, and

the left and right sides of Springfield Ave. that intersected the alley. With that kind of coverage, the cop was a sitting duck.

Jarod looked around. There were two metal garbage cans sitting in the alley about five feet from Jarod's position, and a dipsy‑dumpster about three feet into the alley —on the other side

of the alleyway.

Jarod didn't think the garbage cans would be sufficient cover, but if he left them in place they would impede any attempt to maneuver the dipsy‑dumpster close enough to the police car to

afford him any cover during a rescue attempt.

Slugs pinged into the hood of the police car. Steam began to rise from the punctured radiator. More slugs hit the pavement and ricocheted toward the mouth of the alley, sparking like kamikaze fireflies towards Jarod.

Jarod ducked back behind the building, out of harm's way.

The officer grunted in pain as he took another hit.

Jarod took a breath, then, still crouched, he ran up to the two garbage cans, hefted them and, using them like shields, continued over to the dipsy‑dumpster. He crouched below its metal walls, threw back its double lids, tossed the metal gabage cans into the opening, one to a side, then, keeping his head down, he wheeled the dumpster to the other side of the street and pushed it

broadside up the alley towards the downed officer.

"Hold on! I'll extract you!" he yelled, using military jargon so the officer would know he was both on his side and competent enough to make good on his promise.

Shots pocked the dumpster, a few rounds even pierced the front wall of sheet metal and clanged noisily against the inserted garbage cans and the dumpster's back wall, but Jarod was not

deterred. He pushed the dumpster up the alley till the officer's own sprawled form prevented him from advancing any further, then he stepped out, grabbed the officer, and dragged him towards the shelter of the trash receptacle.

A bullet grazed Jarod's left thigh. Jarod cried out in pain but managed to fall to the right, shoving the officer safely behind the dumpster as he fell.

Jarod hit the ground knees first and just barely avoided squashing the officer under him. He sat up as quickly as he could recover his balance, and drew the officer's legs into the shelter of the dumpster.

"May I?" Jarod asked, indicating the officer's automatic, which the man had managed to hold on to.

"Be my guest," the officer panted, turning loose of the weapon. "But I've only got three rounds left."

"Then I'll have to make them count, won't I?" Jarod smiled. He laid on the ground and wormed up to the very edge of the left side of the dumpster, aimed the gun towards the right side of the intersection, and waited for the next fusillade. Finding his targets from their muzzle‑flashes, he fired one round to the right, swivelled his gun immediately to the left and fired another. The two greatest threats to their escape dropped like litter to the pavement.

Jarod inched his way back to the policeman again. "Where are you hit?...Officer?...Damn!" The man had passed out and there was no way Jarod could evaluate his condition in the dark alley.

Jarod pressed his fingers against the man's carotid artery, feeling for a pulse. He found one. Thready and weak. Skin clammy and cold. Shock. Loss of blood. Who knows what else.

Jarod popped upright, took a last, wild‑assed shot into the left‑most third‑story window, ducked back down, holstered the gun and mike, hoisted the policeman across his shoulders, and,

remaining stooped, grabbed the rim of the dumpster opening and pulled it backwards with him as he retreated up the alley.

Shots from two rifles followed him. Jarod felt the sting of a near‑miss tip the fingers of his left hand with fire. When he reached the end of the alley, he slid into the protection of the corner building. Safe. Securing his hold on the officer, he trotted back across the street to Tang's car. Tang had fixed the flat and climbed into the driver's seat, idling the car, ready to pull out.

Jarod laid the officer gently onto the back seat, climbed in after him, and immediately stripped off his silk shirt, the front of which was pretty well trashed after crawling around in the filthy alley. "Head for the nearest emergency room, stat!" Jarod ordered, falling into hospital slang unconsciously. "And turn on the overhead light, will you? I need to see what I'm doing back here."

Tang turned the cabin light on immediately and looked over his shoulder at their new passenger. "How badly is he hurt?"

"Pretty badly," Jarod said shortly.

"Den may I suggest we go da extra t'ird of a mile and take him to da Trauma Center?"

"Do it!" Jarod immediately agreed.

Tang made a quick one eighty while Jarod gave the wounded officer, whose name, according to his nametag, was Hambly, a cursory exam. He had been shot in the right thigh, the left shin, the right biceps, the right chest, and lower right abdomen, but Jarod could discern no arterial involvement in any of the wounds.

Jarod ripped the back of his shirt into strips which he used to staunch and tie off Hambly's many wounds, too busy to notice when they whizzed by the two men he'd killed.

Tang squealed up to the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital's Trauma Center entrance four minutes later, threw the car into park and ran inside to retrieve a couple orderlies, a

nurse, and a gurney while Jarod stayed in the car with Hambly.

As the hospital personnel wheeled Hambly inside, Jarod sank onto the back seat cushion and motioned Tang, who was hovering by the car's open back door, over. "Let's go home," he said.

"Dey'll want you to answer some questions —I couldn't tell dem much."

Jarod shook his head. "I can't afford to do that right now. Please: take me home?"

Tang frowned, but he shut the back door, got behind the wheel, shut off the overhead lights, and drove. Four minutes later —albeit at a considerably more sedate pace— he pulled into the driveway of his own building's garage.

"No! My place, please. I really don't feel like walking that far."

Tang frowned. "Whataya mean: 'dat far'?" He shifted into park so he could turn around, turned on the over‑head lights once more, and gave Jarod a suspicious once‑over. He noticed that one of the liberated sleeves of the shredded shirt was tied around Jarod's left thigh. "Shit! Why da Hell didn't you say somet'ing! I'm takin' you back to da hospital."

"No! If I go to the hospital they'll file a shooting report, then I'll have to file an incident report, and I'll wind up sidelined until I.A.B. makes a ruling. It's just a graze. Getting Marchetti is more important."

"Marchetti ain't goin' nowhere."

Jarod closed his eyes and sighed, racking his brain for an excuse that would persuade Tang to let him be. He couldn't tell Tang that the real reason he couldn't go to the hospital is because his fake credentials might not hold up under I.A.B.'s scrutiny, and any inquiry into his identity would draw Miss Parker to the scene like a shark to chum.

"...If I go to the hospital, there's a chance the media will get pictures. I can't afford to be seen by anybody who could blow my cover. My anonymity is my protection. I can't work without it."

Tang shook his head. "I don't care about yo' job, man. I am not putting yo' life in danger just so you can get yo' kicks."

"Please, Tang. Think of Cassie and the children. The sooner this is cleared up, the sooner they get their lives back."

Tang sighed. "Show me da wound. I'll make up my mind den."

Jarod nodded and undid the tie, showing Tang the wound without hesitation. It was indeed a superficial graze, about the length of Jarod's middle finger and not deep enough to warrant stitches, just as Jarod had said. The bleeding had even stopped. Jarod's eyes pleaded for complicity.

Tang growled. "OK! But I'm supervising yo' first aid efforts, Boy Scout." He pulled out of his driveway and into Jarod's. Jarod gave him the gate code, and Tang parked the car illegally, athwart the elevator doors.

He helped Jarod to his loft and watched Jarod irrigate, cleanse, salve, and bandage his wound. Then he made Jarod change into his sweats and climb into bed while he made a cup of warm Ovaltine and brought it, and an improvised ice pack, in to him.

"Satisfied?" Jarod asked, as he clamped the self‑sealing plastic bag of ice over his bandage and sipped the soothing liquid.

"No." Tang admitted. "I'm going to move my car, den I'm coming back heah and stay da night and I don' want to heah any arguments about it."

Jarod grinned. "No arguments. I know you don't want to leave the door unlocked, and you don't want me walking to the door to lock it myself, but if you take my key and lock the door for me, you'd have to come back in about three hours to let me out, which makes staying here your best option. You're welcome to share the bed, by the way," he invited.

Tang grinned back. "You are good. I'll be back in a tick."

CHAPTER SIX

Newark, New Jersey

Saturday, February 6^th

2:15 a.m.

When Tang returned, toting a pair of silk pajamas and his favorite pillow, Jarod was already asleep, curled onto his left side, the better to keep the ice pack in place. He had drunk his

Ovaltine and set the empty mug onto the floor, for he didn't have a night stand and he knew Tang would chastise him if he got out of bed to take the mug back to the kitchen.

Tang tiptoed up to the head of the bed and bent to retrieve the mug, taking it into the kitchen, where he left it soaking. Then he changed into his pajamas and crawled carefully into bed,

so as not to disturb his companion.

Before Tang could drop off to sleep, Jarod began to whimper. "...No. Don't lock me in...I'll be good.... Open the door! Sydney! Please! Let me out.... Don't leave me here...don't leave

me...don't leave...don't!"

Tang scooted beside Jarod, pressing his chest against Jarod's back, and propped himself up on an elbow to peer over Jarod's shoulder, at Jarod's face. Jarod pulled up into a fetal position as stray tears coursed down his face. Tang stroked Jarod's arm and put his mouth to Jarod's ear. "Shh. It's OK, Jarod, I'm heah. You’re not alone. Do you hear me, Jarod? You’re not alone." He caressed Jarod's face with the backs of his fingers, wiping the tears away, and smoothed his hair. "Shh, now. I've got you. I'm heah. Rest easy." He wrapped his right arm around Jarod's waist and crooned the song Jarod had sung earlier. His mama's song.

Jarod rolled his face into Tang's chest with a small, contented moan, and calmed down. Tang continued to hold Jarod, silently, but frowned in thought.

After Jarod had crawled out the window, Cassie had pulled Tang into her bedroom and showed him the bankbooks. She had asked for Tang's opinion on Jarod's advice, and, when Tang had agreed with Jarod, she told him about the raw pain in Jarod's eyes when he'd pleaded with her to accept his offering and the unadulterated pleasure in them when she'd accepted.

He had suffered so much, she'd told him. Stolen from his family, raised in a loveless institution, turned out into a world that reviled gays yet so desperately craving acceptance and love. So pretty, and yet so painfully alone. She had cried for him, had actually begged Tang to look out for him. Tang knew then that Cassie could have no more spurned Jarod's offering than she could have kicked a stray dog.

"Don' worry 'bout Jarod, deah, I'm way ahead of you on dat score," Tang had reassured her.

Tang knew how intensely Jarod's emotions shone from his eyes, he had been seared by that desperate gaze himself, but he was still half‑convinced that Cassie's interpretation of Jarod's

words had been exaggerated by her grief and his soft soap. From what Tang had just heard, he owed Cassie an apology, for Jarod's 'sheltered life' was looking more like an abused one.

His bedmate quiescent, for the moment, Tang took the opportunity to adjust his pillow, then, wrapping his arm back around Jarod's waist, he settled in for what remained of the night. He felt as if he'd just shut his eyes, (a glance at the room's wall clock proved it had actually been three hours), when Jarod's thrashing woke him up.

"No...leave him alone...Kenny! Stop it! Here. Here it is. Take it! Just...don't hurt him.... No! NO!" Jarod jerked awake, throwing himself out of Tang's embrace and practically out of bed as well. He sagged, sobbing, chin sinking to chest, and rubbed the terror away as he let his feet drop to the floor. He breathed heavily a few times, then deliberately held his breath to slow his respirations to normal and stifle his tears. It was only then that he remembered Tang.

His head whipped back to look at the Oriental who was staring at him with that cool, analytical gaze of his. Tang could tell from the way Jarod seemed to deflate that he wished Tang

hadn't witnessed his little scene.

"Nin how mah, Siau Niao?" How are you, Little Bird?

Jarod smiled sheepishly. "Waw how." I'm fine. "Sorry about the theatrics. I guess I should have warned you that sleeping with me is not exactly conducive to a good night's rest."

"Um‑hm," Tang nodded. "How often do you have flashbacks, Little Bird?"

Jarod rubbed his forehead. He knew he talked in his sleep. Leave it to Tang to distinguish a flashback from some randomly generated nightmare by anaylzing Jarod's own words. "...four or five nights a week," he confessed. "But this wasn't a flashback. Not exactly."

"Oh?"

"My flashbacks are always black and white. Part of this was in color. Everything was happening the same way, only Damon was Marchetti —I mean, I thought it was Damon —it was Damon in real life but, in my dream I was seeing Marchetti. In color."

Who's Damon?"

Jarod glanced at the clock, hoping for a reprieve, but it was only 5:18. He sighed. "Damon was one of my supervisors, when I was a consultant? He— turned out to be a —a terrorist. He killed a friend of mine to get information from me. Dangerous information.... I —um, left my job three weeks later. A couple years later, Damon used the information I gave him to kill a lot of people.... But he got careless. I was able to track him down and kill him.

"Everyone told me it was a righteous shoot. He was a murderer, he had a hostage and an armed biological weapon: Small pox piggy‑backed with Ebola —the small pox virus slows down the incubation period but increases the contagion period, so more people can be infected before it's discovered and contained....

"Broots —my partner on the case— had managed to figure out where Damon was going to pick up the virus bomb and I was there, waiting —I thought ready...but I couldn't pull the trigger. Damon not only got away with the virus, he shot me in the process. It was just pure, dumb luck I wasn't seriously hurt...and that made me wonder: what if I had died? No one else would have been able to figure out his next target. Hundreds more people would have died because I couldn't pull the trigger. And the odd thing is: I didn't pull the trigger because, more than anything in the world at that moment, I wanted him dead. Crazy right?

"I should have shot Damon before he could get the virus but I let him get away because I knew in my heart that if I shot him then and there —no matter how anybody else justified it— I'd

know it was murder, pure and simple, and I wouldn't have been any better than Damon. At least, that's how I saw it then. Now, I think it would have been far better to have murdered one man than needlessly endangered the lives of hundreds.

"I've only wanted to kill four people in my entire life, and I've had all four at my mercy, but I— I let one of them live because I— I heard my mother's voice, in my mind, saying how proud she was of me, and it shamed me so much I just —I just stopped.... The second walked because I refused to become like him, because it would have negated everything I've tried to live by my whole life. The third owes his life to Damon. Because I keep seeing Damon's face in my dreams.

"Damon thought that because I couldn't pull the trigger the first time, I wouldn't pull it at all. But I surprised him. I watched the life drain right out of him. That glazed disanimation. He was horrified. He— he was the first person I ever killed deliberately. Very deliberately. I mean, I killed two people last night, but it was purely self‑defense, and in defense of another, you know? Lyle may have killed my brother, but he was at my mercy...and all I could think was: 'now I'll have two pairs of dead eyes haunting me at night', and I just couldn't deal with it, so I walked away. I didn't even arrest him."

Tang shook his head. "You were right not to kill Damon da first time, Siau Niao. Callous as it may seem, da only life dat's important to yo' psyche, is yo' own —and it protected you da only way it knew how. Da past is a dream, and da future doesn't exist. Right dere, in da moment, you couldn't murder a man in cold blood. Dat's not a bad t'ing to be able to say about yo'self, you know? So, t'ink about dis: If you’re suffering dis much for not pulling da trigger, just imagine how much worse you'd feel if you had pulled it. I don't t'ink you could have lived wit' da guilt."

Jarod's eyes widened and he took a sharp breath. Suddenly, he knew exactly how he was going to nail Marchetti. Jarod smiled grimly. //Gotcha!// He just needed to tweak his personnel file a bit.

He bolted for the work desk, and the laptop thereon, and almost fell when his injured thigh brought him up short. Jarod yelped, surprised by the unexpected pain.

Tang watched Jarod's face transform from guilt‑wracked self‑tormentor to pure, unalterated predator in the space of a second and a chill ran up his spine. "Glad to have helped resolve yo' little problem, deah," he said wryly. "Whoa! Careful!"

Jarod kneaded his stiffened thigh and tore off the dressing. There was a sizable bruise caused by the trauma of the bullet's passage over his flesh. "You did help," Jarod said as he limped to the work desk, "more than you know."

In deference to Tang, Jarod grabbed the laptop and returned to bed, plugging in the modem to the empty phone jack at the head of the bed, beside the power plug. He crooked his good leg in a half lotus while letting the sore leg dangle off the bed and balanced the computer on his half‑lap, back of the screen to Tang. His fingers flew across the keys as he hacked his way into the Police database, where his personnel file had already been set up.

"You helped me figure out why Marchetti ended up in my dream," Jarod said as he amended his personnel records, changing his discharge date, adding known relatives and the lethal shooting of a suspect holding a hostage. "Marchetti's never killed before, either. His shooting is going to be ruled a justifiable homicide, too. But his victim was completely innocent, killed to cover up his own crime. Up till now he's been able to deal with the guilt —but being declared innocent is not going to sit well with his already troubled conscience. Especially after I'm done pricking it." Jarod added a fillip about the police advisor —read 'shrink'— suggesting a sabatical, then exited the site.

Tang shook his head. "I do so love a man who loves his work."

Jarod closed his laptop, grinned, returned the laptop to the work desk, flexed his injured leg through its range of motion experimentally, and winced as his scab cracked and oozed fluid.

Determining that it wasn't that bad, he hobbled into the common room to begin his stretching exercises anyway.

Still under the covers, Tang turned himself around on the bed —an easily accomplished feat since Jarod had already thrashed the covers loose, and peeked through the doorway to follow Jarod's progress as he forced his injured muscle through his normal warm‑up routine of extensions and contractions.

Jarod tried jogging around the room, next, but pulled up lame, and rubbed his thigh strenuously. He was not going to be running anywhere today, that was for sure. He mentally adjusted his morning schedule. Instead of jogging down for his morning papers, he was going to have to drive down, which meant he wasn't going to be reading them until after his shift was over.

Jarod sighed, but limped to his exercise bar for his standard work out.

Tang whistled in appreciation. "Oh, dis manly display of pure power was wort' losing sleep over, deah," Tang teased.

Jarod blushed clear to his toes. He moved back into the common room to finish up his push‑ups and cool‑down stretches, then checked his watch. Time enough for a hot soak to relax his traumatized thigh muscle, which would hopefully loosen it up enough to reduce his compensatory movements to imperceptible levels.

Having grown up in a scientific fishbowl where he was ogled, poked, prodded, and sampled monthly, Jarod stripped off his sweats with the merest twinge of self‑consciousness over Tang's admiring presence. Tossing the sweats onto the bed next to Tang, he limped to the bathtub.

Tang —momentarily caught off‑guard by Jarod's unexpected immodesty— was not so flustered he did not take full advantage of the view. Jarod was exquisitely built, his muscles well-defined, exuding power and well-developed litheness. His tan was light but uniform, and the lack of tan lines made Tang’s cock twitch. It was sheer torture watching Jarod walk to the bathroom as his leg and ass muscles bunched and flexed at virtual eye-level.

Tang stifled a wanton moan, refusing to let his surging lust over-come his resolve to keep the relationship platonically therapeutic. //T’ink of somet’ing else!// he entreated himself. Thankfully, his eyes snagged on Jarod’s scars. There was one over each shoulder blade, the right one a neat, professionally stitched crescent, the left a jagged, dimpled tear crudely tacked together and never checked by a doctor, and an extensive reddish brown burn stretched from his hair line on the nape of his neck to where a shirt collar would start. There was also an exit wound in his right side, in the region of the small intestines, the smaller entry scar would, of course, be in the front. Finally, as Jarod turned to close the bathroom door, the play of lights across what should have been normal skin gleamed with the unmistakably silky abrasion marks made by cuffed restraints at wrists and ankles.

//I’ll bet da physical scars aren’t da half of it,// Tang thought. For where there was wounded flesh, there was undoubtedly wounded psyche.

Unfortunately, children starved for geniune intimacy and love were standard issue in most orphanages, and since even the best of them housed their children in wards where there wasn't even an expectation of privacy, Jarod's lack of modesty wasn't surprising. But stripping someone of any genuine awareness of their own sexual identity took a concerted effort over a considerable period of time.

Tang wondered why anyone would bother, and if Jarod's sexual identity was the only one the institution had tampered with. Tang figured that the loft was Jarod's cover residence, but if this was all the effort Jarod could muster to decorate it, Tang held out little hope that Jarod's real home was any richer an environment. His work desk was the closest thing to home in the place. That one piece of furniture held his memories, his toys, and his tools. A whole life on a desktop.

Jarod's guardians had certainly made sure that no amount of success in life would ever succor his tormented soul. Howevermuch he yearned for it, Jarod was and would always be incapable of leading —of being contented by or contented with— a normal life.

Not unlike the fictional comicbook hero Tang had compared him to, Jarod was compelled by the sins of his past to catch a never‑ending string of bad guys in order to assuage his guilty conscience. Despite his wealth —which he was incapable of enjoying— this Little Bird would never lead an easy life.

Jarod came out of the bathroom, rubbing himself briskly with a towel, and dressed in 'civvies'.

"I'll leave you the key, if you want, so you can catch up on your sleep and lock up when you leave, or I can walk you back to your place so you can sleep in your own bed, or we could go out for breakfast?" Jarod offered.

Tang hummed. "I don' go fo' American breakfasts, as a general rule."

"Me, either," Jarod confessed. "I much prefer the Continental ones."

Tang snorted. "Why does dis not surprise me?"

Jarod beamed at Tang impishly.

Tang rolled out of bed, and snatched his pillow and street clothes. "I t'ink I'll just go home and vegetate, t'anks all da same."

Jarod nodded, unhooked his uniform from the bathroom door, and slang it over his shoulder, ready to go. Tang wiggled his feet into his shoes and walked to the front door, not bothering to get dressed.

Jarod walked Tang to the security entrance of Tang's building, and Tang held up a hand. "I'll be OK from heah. Go get yo' sugar rush befo' it's too late."

Jarod leaned down to steal a kiss, but Tang turned his head, so Jarod's peck landed on Tang's cheek, instead. Jarod frowned as Tang retreated behind the safety of the wrought iron gate a little too quickly, then headed back to his garage to get his car. Why hadn't Tang kissed him good‑bye? He carefully reviewed their time together and realized that Tang had not kissed him sexually since the first night. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that Tang had decided Jarod was going to be his next project, not his next boyfriend.

Jarod was surprised at how much that knowledge hurt.

Jarod stopped at La Boulangerie for a pastry and coffee breakfast, then stopped curbside at Mario's to pick up his stack of newspapers —noting in passing that Hambly's shooting had made the front page. It was a short long drive to 22 Franklin Street from Broad and Market. Short, because the police headquarters was only a half mile away as the crow flies. Long because, between the one‑way streets and the traffic, it took Jarod longer to drive it than he could have walked.

//No wonder Marchetti jogs to work//, Jarod thought.

Jarod found a parking place and checked in with Captain Dixon, who tried to interest him, on the basis of his small arms qualifying scores —to which all three witnesses had made a point of adding a special notation to his certificate— to transfer to the Tactical Patrol Bureau —which Jarod once again declined.

Dixon didn't press. He swore Jarod in, handed him his badge and service pistol, had him sign his employment forms and pistol voucher, then handed Jarod a strip of masking tape with Jarod's name on it, along with directions to the locker room, then dismissed him so he could change in a timely fashion.

By the time Jarod arrived, most of the other men had changed and were heading out, either for home or the briefing room.

Jarod found an empty locker on Marchetti's aisle and claimed it with the strip of tape. He changed quickly, listening to the last bits of conversation drifting out the door. Most of the talk

centered on Officer Hambly, and how that faggot mud‑pusher had gotten his chestnuts pulled out of a near‑fatal fire by some gung‑ho civilians.

Jarod glanced at Marchetti, expecting him, of all people, to stand up for Hambly, but Marchetti's only reaction was a scowl. Jarod frowned as another piece of the puzzle slid into place: Marchetti wasn't 'out', either.

By the time Jarod made it to the briefing room, Sergeant Petrocelli had read the latest bulletins and had started assigning patrol areas and cars to his officers. The last item on the agenda was Jarod's introduction, and Marchetti's assignment as his Field Training Officer.

Jarod, standing near the door, nodded at his fellow officers, wearing his brightest, most earnest and naive smile. Marchetti groaned audibly. A few muted snickers sang out of the squad room like crickets on a summer's night.

Petrocelli glared at the men. "I said: 'say 'hello' to Officer Reed'." A few of the more gracious souls obligingly 'hello'ed. "Officer Reed is just five months out of San Diego's P.D., be aware of this and pay particular attention when he's on the squawk, as, in the heat of action, he might get our codes mixed up with theirs. So, if he says something wacky, confirm in plain English, OK? Let's get to it."

The men stood and milled for the exit.

"Well, at least you're back on the street," someone consoled the up‑till‑now deskbound Marchetti.

"Yeah. Me and Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm," Marchetti groused.

Jarod, arms folded and a tolerant smile, more suited to an indulgent mother than a patrolman, on his face, blithely ignored that and all other remarks aimed his way as he waited for

Marchetti to lead on.

Men in adrenaline‑charged jobs always displayed this sort of rough and tumble humor.

Jarod found it crude, insensitive, and hurtful, although he was, of course, able to emulate it at will. Unfortunately, despite understanding that it was just another competition: who could dish the most out and who could brush the most off, Jarod's sensitive psyche could not inure itself against the barbs, (desensitization being the desired result of such teasing). The problem being that the 'skin thickening' effect these men sought was precisely the effect Jarod had to avoid at any cost, lest it interfere with his ability to Pretend.

"Oh!" Petrocelli added, barely suppressing a smirk. "One more item: we've got us a new gun qualifying score: a perfect 580. I understand that, just to prove it wasn't a fluke, our new marksman obliged the scoring staff by triplicating his shot pattern in each of the three different target types and got spreads so precise they included a picture." He leaned over and attached the Polaroid to the bulletin board with a red push pin. "Congratulations, Officer Reed. You may be equalled, but you'll never be bested."

"Shit!" was the general dismayed reaction as Petrocelli's remark sank in. "Oh, Christ!" the men exclaimed as they leaned in to check out the picture and read the included remarks.

Jarod nodded his thanks to Petrocelli and fell in two steps behind Marchetti, like a dutiful Japanese wife, following him out to the garage without a word.

Marchetti took the 'shotgun' position. Jarod took the wheel.

"So, what brings you to the Garden State?" Marchetti asked as Jarod eased the cruiser out onto the street, heading unerringly for the one square mile of Newark that was their patrol area.

Jarod smiled. "I got tired of having the ocean on the wrong side. I grew up in Delaware."

"So, why aren't you back in Delaware?" Marchetti asked.

Jarod shrugged. "Didn't wanna be within arguing distance of my folks...hassles with them are what drove me out of the First State in the first place."

"So, why didn't you sign up with Tactical? Scores like yours...man they must have been drooling down your collar."

Jarod let his smile strain painfully. "I joined the police department to 'protect and serve', not assassinate people," he said, his voice deep and rough.

"Hey, you can't handle taking down bad guys, maybe you oughta look for another line of work."

"My Dad was on the job twenty‑five years, never killed a soul," Jarod returned. "That's the service record I wanted. If I never dust another perp, it'll be too soon for me. I don't know about you, but I've got enough dead eyes haunting my dreams at night."

"What's that suppose to mean? You think I got problems with my shoot? I don't got problems, OK?"

"In the words of Shakespeare: 'I think you doth protest too much.'"

"Yeah, and I think you oughta keep your yap shut."

"Whatever."

That was the end of polite conversation till Marchetti called a lunch break two suspicious vehicles, three civil disturbances, and three detain‑suspect calls later.

Marchetti directed Jarod to a non‑franchise Mom and Pop type fast food place on Ferry Street, just outside their patrol zone, owned by a long‑time local Portuguese family.

Marchetti took a seat at one of the umbrellaed outdoor tables, while Jarod placed their order. He sat across from Marchetti, and doled out their eats. Three bites into their sandwiches, an old gay couple strolled up to the order window, hand in hand.

Marchetti's hands clenched, spurting the contents of his bun over the table. "Damn pervs! Why don't they keep it behind locked doors where it belongs."

Jarod arched an eyebrow at Marchetti, surprised by his vehement tone, and studied the old couple. "I dunno. The longest relationship I ever had was three days. They've grown old together —and they've still got enough fire for each other to hold hands...I kind of envy them. Haven't you ever wanted a relationship to last forever?"

Marchetti gave Jarod a look that could melt steel, threw down his bun and stalked to the crawler. "Come on, Becky, break time's over."

Jarod smiled slyly, cast one last, genuinely longing look at the two old men, and followed Marchetti to the car. He didn't even mind leaving his lunch behind.

Marchetti was called into Dixon's office the second they rolled in at the end of their shift, leaving Jarod to fill out the reports on his own. Afterwards, Jarod signed himself out, changed but did not shower at the station, then drove to the newsstand, happy to leave the charged atmosphere of the station house behind. He bought the evening editions from Mario, and headed home.

Unfortunately, he didn't find the emptiness of his loft an improvement. He thought again of the old gay couple, and Nia, and Miss Parker and The Centre, and Tang, and glanced out his window towards Tang's place. The lights were not on.

Jarod left the loft with a curt sigh, heading for a locksmith where he could get an extra set of house keys made. He then made a stop at an old fashioned drug store, complete with a working soda fountain off the pharmacy.

Not willing to sate his hunger, despite the now‑constant gnawing in his stomach, Jarod studiously ignored the call of the soda fountain, focusing his mind on finding what he really needed. Once he returned home, he rewarded himself with a Dr. Pepper float, which he took out to the coffeetable to sip and spoon while he read his newspapers.

COP WOUNDED IN SHOOTOUT

Officer Stuart Hambly, 34, was shot five times in the line of duty Sat. Feb. 5th, at apx. 1:30 a.m. while confronting four suspects in an alley on Spruce St. between Springfield and Lincoln Park.

Hambly was taken to University Trauma Center by two unnamed civilians, where he was listed in grave condition with multiple gunshot wounds to the legs, right arm, abdomen and chest.

Two suspects were found dead at the scene, the result of gunshot wounds, their identities have not been released pending notification of next of kin.

A spokesman for the Department said that Hambly, a five year veteran of the force, had been decorated for bravery before, which might explain why he did not choose to call for backup.

COP CLEARED OF WRONG‑DOING

The shooting of local teacher Thomas Bell by Officer Trent Marchetti was ruled a justifiable homicide, Lt. Don DeLuca, a spokesman for the police department, announced today. Marchetti, who was removed from field duty pending the out‑come of the board will return to active duty.

SLAIN TEACHER'S CONDUCT AT SCHOOL GETS 'A' GRADE

Larry Dolinski, a spokesman for Berringer High School, announced the findings of an inquiry into the conduct of deceased History teacher, Thomas Bell. Bell, a known homosexual who was killed in a shoot out with off‑duty police Officer Trent Marchetti, was suspected of drug dealing on campus.

"There was no evidence of improper behavior of any kind," Dolinski reported. "Mr. Bell's conduct was exemplary. While many hysterical people were pointing accusing fingers at him, ready to besmirch his reputation posthumously, a calm, rational investigation of his comportment on campus has confirmed our faith

in him, and in our system of checks and balances.

Jarod cut out the articles, including the one about Hambly, which, because it wasn't directly related to his Pretend, he just slipped between the pages, pasting the rest into his notebook, then sighed.

Once more, as if willing his presence, he looked out his window towards Tang's loft. The lights were on. Jarod smiled.

He went to his work desk, where he had emptied the pockets of his soiled clothes before taking them to the cleaners, and picked up the card Tang had given him their first night out. He glanced at it, memorizing the number, and went into the bedroom to retrieve his cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Tang, it's Jarod. Listen, if you're not busy, I'd appreciate it if you'd come over. I'm, uh..., well, I could use a refill."

"Hard first day, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Have you eaten?"

"No, not yet. In the mood for noodles? There are plenty left."

"Shoo. I don't suppose you'd mind if I bring dessert?"

"Not at all!"

"OK. See you in a few," Tang promised, and he was as good as his word. He had a steel salad bowl in hand, big enough to hold salad for six, covered with plastic film. "Dis should go inna fridge," he said, when Jarod met him at the door.

Jarod nodded, and took the bowl into the kitchen. "Mmm, almond Jell-o!" he said, peeking. "I'm glad you made a lot. It's very good."

"I'm glad you approve," Tang smiled, and held his arms open.

"Come 'ere, you."

Jarod stepped into Tang's embrace with a contented sigh and let Tang swing him back and forth. "I missed you," Jarod confessed. "I saw this old gay couple at a fast food place, today, and I couldn't stop thinking about you the rest of my shift."

Tang's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"Oh," Jarod confirmed. "...I miss your kisses," he said, angling his head around to steal a smooch.

Tang broke their clinch immediately.

Jarod let Tang step away, even though the obvious rejection made tears spring into his eyes. His right hand gripped his waist, his left hand clenched his right shoulder, and he leaned his cheek against his forearm and rocked himself, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. They caught in his throat, making his voice rough and wet. "Don't leave, Tang, please! Don't leave me alone!"

Tang's heart broke, hearing an echo of the abused little boy in Jarod's plea, and took the taller man into his arms again. "Oh, Jarod.... Dis is what you need, deah, not sex."

"No, Tang, I need to feel loved but I need the physical release, too. I'm not a child. I'm not confused, conflicted, or too desperate to think straight.... And I'm not normal."

Tang hissed disapprovingly at Jarod's self‑deprecation.

Jarod opened his eyes and pressed his fingers to Tang's lips. "Hear me out.... The people who raised me tried very hard to destroy any sense of self I had...and they did a very good job. I

don't know who I am or what I am.

"Yes, I crave physical contact. Anybody's contact. Yes, I've been starved for affection. And yes, I am lonely. I'm so very, very alone, and so very tired of being alone I have to hug myself to keep from screaming. And, yes, I know that's usually a big clarion to you to keep your hands off..., but I'm forty years old, and I'm in a very dangerous profession, and I may never have another chance to find out the truth about myself.

"Please, Tang.... I know I haven't the right to ask, because, odds are, once this 'case' is closed, you'll never see me again. But —I don't want to be your latest project...I want to be your lover. This is the only time we'll ever have together —and I do want to be with you. I want to spend all my free time with you. When I'm not with you, my heart aches.

"I know you think my wanting this is a mistake. I know you feel like you'd be taking advantage of me. But I don't respond physically to someone unless I'm attracted to them. I know. I've tried...very hard. You make me feel protected. I trust you...and I want you...and I need to know.... Whatever the cost, I need you to please, please make an exception."

Jarod stared into Tang's eyes for a long minute, then let his hand fall. There was nothing else he could say.

Tang let Jarod go. "...Let's eat."

Jarod hung his head, but slipped into his chair without a word.

They ate in silence.

Jarod kept his eyes focused on his plate, and off Tang, not wanting to pressure the Oriental with imploring looks or see the moment of decision in Tang's eyes, unaware that his posture: hunched and submissive, hopeful, yet nervous, coupled with his lack of appetite, was sending the astute Oriental enough signals to make him twitch with guilt.

Tang watched Jarod toy with his food and mulled over Jarod's need for a relationship.

Everyone needed to feel connected to another human being at some point in their life, whether it was to family, friends, mentors, or lovers.

Jarod's circumstances, upbringing, and occupation had denied him that social safety net most of his life, but the depravation had finally driven him to the emotional brink: he either submitted to the intimacy he craved, or succumbed to the stresses of life.

Being both new to the city, and embarked on an undercover assignment that could be jeopardized by a heterosexual relationship, Tang could not blame Jarod for latching onto the first man who made overtures to him. It was a simple matter of survival, but Tang had to wonder what else —besides his admitted curiosity, attraction, and loneliness— had motivated Jarod's decision.

Jarod had already established a far deeper bond with Tang than the acquaintanceships he normally permitted himself 'on the job', having essentially blown his operation and his own cover in pursuit of Tang's attentions. Yet, at the same time, Jarod had also told Tang that he was not looking for a permanent relationship; that, whatever the emotional cost, Tang was just a convenient means for Jarod to stave off an impending nervous breakdown, to ground himself emotionally, ease the loneliness that dogged his existence, and replenish his emotional reserves.

It seemed contradictory, and Tang had to wonder if Jarod was entirely conscious of the clash between his harsh, dismissive words and his submissive, yearning deeds.

The simple truth of the matter was: Tang made Jarod feel safe, and, right now, for once in his life, Jarod needed to feel protected, cosseted, and coddled. He needed to bond with another human being, needed to immerse himself in the kind of nurturing love that could fortify his soul against the isolation and mis‑trust that typified his everyday existence.

It didn't matter one whit that becoming intimate with Tang would effectively ostracize him from the rest of society. Jarod had never been programmed with society's hate, mistrust, fear, or

revulsion of gays, and, for so many different reasons, he was already an outsider. It was, in fact, that very alienation from society which had precipitated his emotional crisis in the first place.

Though normalcy was something he aspired to, Jarod had never felt normal, had never —would never— live a normal life, and he knew it. The fact that Jarod's natural sexual tendencies had been deliberately stripped from him so effectively he was only now, at forty years of age, beginning to feel the need to reconstruct his mutilated self‑image, was testament to that.

Even the strongest people have a breaking point, and Jarod had clearly reached his. Yet, even as he grasped at Tang like a last straw, he left his fate in Tang's hands. Not out of consideration for Tang's feelings, but because he was used to others making his life decisions. He had been bred to submit. To please, not to demand. To question, but ultimately acquiesce.

And Tang knew Jarod would accept any decision he made, no matter the personal cost; despite being desperate enough to beg for Tang's favors. As Cassie had said: so needy, so desperate for love and affection, so pretty and so painfully alone.

Tang watched Jarod savoring his dessert as if the taste of it were the only thing standing between him and oblivion and he felt his reservations crumble.

"Oh, damn!" Tang exclaimed. "I'm gonna regret dis inna morning...." he sighed. "Yes. Yes, Jarod. Yes."

Jarod lit up like a ward full of orphans finding out they'd just been adopted in time for Christmas. He dug into his pants pocket, brought up and slid the keys he'd had made, which he'd hung on a 'Love' keyring, at arm's length along the table. "Then you'll need these."

Tang shook his head at Jarod's impishly confident grin and growled, "Ohhh, you." He got up, pocketed the keys, circled his arms around Jarod's neck, and kissed him soundly. "What other

preparations did you make fo' dis evening, deah?"

"Besides a box of condoms and three different kinds of lubricant, none," Jarod grinned.

"T'ree different kinds?"

"Well, I didn't know which to get, oil soluble or water soluble, and the strawberry‑kiwi flavor sounded fun."

"Z'at so? Hmpt! Come on, Little Bird. Time ta teach you how ta sing."

Dessert was abandoned as their 'discussion' moved into the bedroom.

INTERLUDE THREE

Blue Cove, Delaware

Saturday, February 6^th

11:02 am

Lyle and Brigitte sat in Lyle's office, brainstorming. Brigitte was posing prettily in the chair in front of Lyle's desk, provocatively changing positions every five minutes, just to keep him off balance. She liked him best when he was distracted. He was so much fun to toy with. Too bad she had set her jib on another ship. Or, considering Lyle's reputation for disposing of his lovers, just as well. Lyle and she were nearly equal in power, now, and she fully intended to keep it that way...if she couldn’t figure out a way to finagle even more clout from her up-coming nuptials to Old Man Parker and actually surpass him. She leered at the thought of Lyle at her beck and call. Oh, yes, that would be delicious.

Lyle sat uncomfortably behind the shield of his desk, fiddling almost desperately with the push pins in his desk caddy, hoping that the occasional jab into his fingertips would keep his mind on business and off his one‑time lover. He had often wondered why she had spurned his advances since his return to The Centre fold a few short months ago. His ‘father’s’ announcement of their engagement had solved that little puzzle. Not that she flirted with him any less. She just refused to let him claim the booty. In fact, she was giving him a very feline look right now. He checked himself for feathers. Oh, if but that not‑so‑early worm was not trying so very desperately to wriggle out of its burrow.

//Oh, God, she's hot!// And such a tease! He knew she had to have some wicked scheme up her hemline. She always did. //Oh, to think that all this used to be mine.// Before the attempted murder, exile, and disgrace, that is. //Trust Brigitte to hold a grudge about circumstances far beyond my control,// he groused to himself.

He hadn't foreseen either his fall from grace or his triumphant return to The Centre —sins washed away courtesy of Mr. Parker, his newly discovered, son besotted, father. Brigitte was sure making Lyle suffer for his short‑sightedness, too.

He stifled a moan of arousal, and then, right on the heels of his lust‑filled pining for his dangerous, former playmate came the idle counterpoint: //She's still not as hot as Genna.//

He mentally kicked himself for the incestuous ardor that over‑laid his inflamed libido with the image of his own dear sister, and deliberately impaled his index finger on a pin to distract himself.

Wasn't it every hot blooded male's duty to mentally undress their comely female co‑workers and occasionally fantasize about them?

Was it his fault that, months after their first meeting, (months, in fact after she had 'murdered' him on orders from dear old dad, months in which he had lain awake nights devising torturous sexual revenge fantasies just for her), that they had turned out to be related? Twins, in fact. //Oh, the irony.//

He just couldn't stop thinking about Miss Parker in a sexual context. He had tried. Lord knows, he had tried. He would continue to try. If at first you don't succeed.... He might be an unrepentant psycho killer, but he was a moral unrepentant psycho killer, by God! He just wished he had more to show for his efforts.

He flicked the pin out of his flesh with a thumb // —my only thumb,// he reminded himself mournfully as his stump ached its reproval— and watched the bead of blood that oozed out of the prick // —oh! unfortunate choice of terms, that.//

He hated being in his office on Saturdays. It implied that he hadn't been able to handle his affairs // —will you stop this Freudian self‑torture, already!// he chastised himself sternly— in the weekly allotted time span —which wasn't the case at all— (unless scheming of ways to ingratiate himself to the Powers That Be by capturing Jarod before his sister could counted as unfinished work). //Chase Jarod. Lose Jarod. Chase Jarod. Lose Jarod.// He'd had better luck as free agent. He'd actually managed to catch the elusive genius, instead of being humiliated by him. Lyle repressed the memories of their last face to face with a vow that things would be different the next go 'round. Too bad Jarod never fell for the same trick twice. It would have made life so much easier. He sighed.

"'Life gets teedjious, don't it?'" he said out loud, quoting someone he could no longer remember from some vaguely imprinted radio or television program of his youth.

Brigitte, having been raised in England, (whether she was authentically British or not), and probably too young, too boot, did not understand the reference and looked at him oddly. Mr. Lyle

was usually quite precise in his speech, being somewhat self‑conscious about having grown up in Hicksville, U.S.A.

They were, of course, an impossibly perfect pairing. Both scheming, manipulative, ruthless, stone cold killers who would have made an impressive life match if they could have only

quenched their natural distrust for anyone who wasn't them.

Too bad Jarod had proved so elusive, so immune to their machinations. Jarod was the ultimate feather for any Centre minion's cap. She had come close to catching him twice, now. She

was tired of missing. "I heard that your sister asked to meet with the board, Monday."

"I heard the same thing," Lyle said, just a trace of worry in his slight, butter‑smooth drawl.

Brigitte smiled and licked her lolly. "I heard Broots was the one who actually came up with...whatever it is they came up with."

"Must be some new search algorithm, then," Lyle decided.

"No doubt," Brigitte agreed. "It might be a good idea for us to avail ourselves of his fertile brain, too, lovey."

"Us? Use Broots?!" Lyle choked. "He's a hundred percent loyal to my sister, Gitte! What are you thinking? He'd blab the details to her at the first opportunity. Besides, being her creature, the credit would fall entirely to her."

"Well,...we could try to coax a program out of one of the other computer nerds on hand...although...Broots is the only tech geek with Jarod on his resume. And, as you'll recall, the entire Tech Department working in tandem still took two hours longer to come up with a location on Damon than that lone geek did under a Schedule 7."

"Well, of course, he did, my dear: the lone geek was better motivated. Impending doom is quite the brain stimulant. And anyway, haven't you ever heard that: 'slow but steady wins the race?'" Lyle asked.

"Oh, but the 'slow' aren't as fun to motivate as Brootsie," Brigitte pouted. "And anyway, if my weekend has to be ruined on Jarod's account, I don't see why his shouldn't be, too. Besides, if 'Daddy' knows it's our plan, we're sure to reap the benefits for successfully locating Jarod, whether we're the ones who actually bring him in or not. And...if, perchance, Jarod should escape our traps...well, we'll have Miss P to blame for it, hm?"

Lyle chuckled evilly. //Now that's turning lemons to lemonade.// One had to admire the treacherous bitch: she had a scheme for all seasons. And it was fun to fluster Broots to the point of pissing his pants. He turned such a lovely shade of red when he stuttered. "There is that," he said admiring the way Brigitte's skirt didn't quite cover her crotch. "All right, I give. So, do we do this over the phone, or in person?"

"Oh, face to face, lovey. It's ever so much more...arousing that way."

Lyle grinned. He did so love the way Brigitte's mind worked. He brought up the keys to his brand new Ferarri and swung them 'round the tip of his finger. "Let's go ruin what's left of our

dear Hacker's disgustingly saccharine day out with daughter, then, shall we? I'll drive."

She cooed at him, happily basking in the warm, conspiratorial glow of their latest escapade. "Ooh, let's."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Newark, New Jersey

Sunday, February 7^th

4:47 a.m.

Jarod woke gently, his face buried in Tang's chest, his body cinched in Tang's arms, and hummed contentedly. Then, feeling the tumescent presence of his own erection, he smiled broadly and lightly stroked his lover's side, reveling in the hard, firm feel of Tang's muscles. He let his hand linger on Tang's hip, then dipped it down to cup Tang's buttocks.

Tang's eyes popped open. "Umph! Good morning, Siau Niao, you look like da cat dat ate da canary."

"Well..., I don't recall any feathers, but it was something yellow," Jarod grinned, nipping Tang's shoulder playfully.

"Ooh. I deserved dat. No regrets, I take it."

"Quite the contrary. I enjoyed myself immensely."

Tang glanced at the clock, and groaned. Only four hours had passed since they'd collapsed in each other's arms, exhausted by their passion. "Ohhh...I enjoyed you immensely, too, deah," he

moaned as he snuggled back into his pillow and resolutely closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than another four hours sleep.

"I know you did," Jarod said with a smug little smile. "More than you thought possible with a 'newbie' who just lost his last cherry."

Tang's eyes opened again, suddenly more interested in Jarod and what he had to say than in catching another forty winks. "Is dat so?" Tang challenged.

"Um‑hmmm." Jarod looked into Tang's eyes. "In fact...," his own eyes glazed for a moment, "...you think I was phenomenal. You found me a quick study, excitingly receptive and responsive, with the stamina and fine motor control of a world class athlete, topped by an incredible intuition that, almost without exception, enabled me to equal or best anything —and anyone— you've ever had."

Tang rose up onto one forearm and stared down at Jarod, who smiled confidently back with a gleam of devilment in his eyes and a look of incredible smugness on his face. "How do you do dat?"

Jarod's features muted, as if a veil had dropped over them. Talking about his abilities clearly made him uneasy. He shrugged. "It's what I do." He mustered a more sincere, happier smile. "I'm glad I pleased you."

Tang watched the play of emotions carouselling across Jarod's face with silent amazement. "You were magnificent. I just wish my old body could muster as much enthusiasm as yo's obviously has afta four hours sleep."

"What do you mean, 'old'? You're two years younger than I am."

"It's not da age dat counts, deah, it's da mileage. And much as I'd like ta flatter myself, I know I did not put dat Cheshire grin on yo' face. What, pray tell, could possibly make you dat

happy dis early in da morning?"

"...I've got an erection," Jarod confessed with a blush. "They tend to make me happy."

Tang's eyebrows furled together in confusion. "...Is dat an invitation? 'Cause I'd be happy to take care of it fo' you."

"It wasn't an invitation, but, since you offered, I think I'd like it to be," Jarod said, considerately reorienting his hand a hundred and eighty degrees to fondle Tang's limp member.

Tang moved his own hand down to stroke Jarod's penis, still puzzled at Jarod's glee about such a commonplace physiological reaction. Then he remembered Jarod's confession about having

flashbacks 'four or five' nights a week. His brows rose. "Da nightmares," he murmured. "You’re not used to morning wood, are you?"

"I've heard that expression," Jarod said as if he were only now connecting the phrase to its meaning. "And, no, I'm not." He laughed. "In fact, the first time it happened— " Jarod frowned, halting his narrative —and his attentions to Tang— mid‑sentence. " —well...it wasn't actually the first time, but...*sigh* it's too complicated to explain."

The 'episode' that he remembered as being the 'first', was, in fact, the sixth. It was just the first time he remembered having a morning erection. He only knew it was the sixth time, now, because he had observed each of the previous times he'd had one as he scanned the DSAs. Moreover, he could tell from his reactions to them that neither he nor The Centre had suppressed

his memory of the prior incidents, which meant he had lost his memory of them during the massive memory wipes he had suffered —both deliberately and collaterally— in the three weeks he'd run the Death SIMs. He would never understand why The Centre had authorized those SIMs.

He shook his head and resumed massaging his lover. "Suffice to say I'd fallen asleep amid a heap of refuse in an alley, and woke up with this...'pressure' in my pants and I didn't have the first clue as to what caused it —I thought, for a minute, that I'd been bitten by one or another of the vermin sharing my accommodations, but I was too scared to unzip my pants to check for marks for fear it would keep swelling and I'd be unable to refasten my pants. The last thing I wanted was to 'expose' myself to all the world, so I just lay there, petrified, until it, uh, 'resolved' itself."

Tang snorted. "What was an indepentantly wealthy fellow like you doing sleeping in an alley in a pile of garbage?"

Jarod shrugged. "Hiding from the 'bad guys'."

Tang frowned. "You haven't been fighting bad guys dat long. When was dis?"

"...Three years ago, yesterday," Jarod admitted.

"Jesus Christ! And you don't remember having any morning erections before den? Have you been checked by a Doctor?" Jarod flinched like a turtle ducking into its shell, and Tang, realizing his mistake, tried to reassure him. "Sorry. It's just dat— " Tang interrupted himself. Telling Jarod that he wasn't normal was not going to help. " —I'm concerned, deah. Yo' pain is my pain, now, you know? Besides, we won't be able to keep enjoying nights like da last one if you don' stay healthy."

Jarod's smile bloomed over his face again, salving his wounded eyes. "I'm fine, Ma Gai, really. I uh, had a previous, uh, head injury that wiped out random portions of my memory and was, uhm...on medication that, uh...sort of eliminated, uh, those types of reactions...." Jarod reddened.

Tang's own face had reddened seconds earlier, if for entirely different reasons. Jarod had called him 'Ma Gai': 'Mother Chicken'. //But, den again, who better to look afta a Little Bird?// He smiled. "I get da picture," Tang said, his voice husky with embarrassment.

"But I'm all better, now," Jarod smiled. "No more meds."

When the 'inflamation' kept recurring over the course of the next few weeks, Jarod had finally confided his condition to Dharma who had explained the phenomenon to him.

Between them, they had come to the uncomfortable but inescapable conclusion that The Centre had had him chemically 'neutered' to keep him 'undistracted' and focused on his work, but

they had also required monthly 'specimens' from him, which necessitated a period off the medication so he could attain an erection. The occasional mis‑judgement of timing is what accounted for the five previous morning erections, which had always occurred just prior to his monthly physicals.

Since his escape he had been drug‑free, so, once it had been flushed from his system, only his nightmares interfered with his body's attempts to reassert its natural rhythms. The fact that insomnia and night terrors disrupted his nighttime emmission cycle more times than not was an entirely distinct issue.

In fact, that particular February 5th had been doubly memorable because, having nothing better to do, and feeling relatively safe, Jarod had been so exhausted he'd slept for eighteen straight hours —his personal best. He often wondered what his sleep patterns would have been like if he hadn't started watching the DSAs.

"I knew a guy who, uh, had dat same problem in his junior year of college.... He went from a low C to a high A average," Tang commented, his breath quickening as his organ began to

respond to Jarod's ministrations.

Jarod laughed. "It had the same effect on me —only in reverse, of course,...which, I must admit, has made closing cases um, forgive me— harder —if a bit more... 'memorable.'"

"Hmmm...you really do love yo' work."

"Um‑hm. And I really love you, Ma Gai," Jarod said just before their brains temporarily shut down and they concentrated wholly on the sensations filling their bodies.

"Oooh...," Tang sighed after they recovered enough to breathe normally and enclosed each other in a mutual embrace. He thought back to what Jarod had said last night. ['The people who

raised me tried very hard to destroy any sense of self I had...and they did a very good job.']

"I understand why you went into undercover work: it supplies you wit' a well‑constructed false identity you can slip on...and you take one assignment right after another because you’re afraid dat if you stop fo' too long...if you don't have somebody else to be...you won't be anybody, but how did you get by da other t'irty‑seven years you've been on da planet?"

"...Same way," Jarod shrugged. "I've been living other lives for as long as I can remember. I've assumed around three thousand personas to date."

"My, god, Jarod! How could you stand to live dat way?"

"...I tried being myself a few times, but...there had been so many other people in my head by then I couldn't figure out who the real 'me' was, and I couldn't maintain the persona so...I just

gave up and kept slipping in and out of new personas," Jarod explained.

Tang shook his head. While he’d love to indulge himself by going back to sleep, he recognized an opportunity to glean information from his, up till now, far from compliant partner, and he was determined to stave off his own muzziness until this particular font of personal wisdom went dry. "Just how do you go about slipping on another persona, exactly?"

"I collect all the facts I can...then...I just...become whomever I'm being at the moment and...act like they would in the same circumstances."

"...So...dat would explain why you were certain Marchetti was gay, but didn't know he was in a relationship: you knew enough to slip into his skin, but none of da facts you'd uncovered

indicated da existence of a lover."

"That's correct."

"You've slipped inta my skin, too, da other night when you told me all about what I was doing and why, and just now, when you told me what I t’ought of your love‑making?"

"Yes."

"Is dat somet’ing you do consciously or not?"

"Oh, yes. It's very deliberate."

"Can you use dis insight on yo'self?"

"No. I'm too emotionally involved to have any perspective."

"Hmm.... Can you tell if what you’re feelin' is genuine or somethin' you picked up from somebody else?"

"...Not always."

"So...even d'ough you enjoyed yo'self last night, you don't know whether you enjoyed it because da persona you’re in now is gay, or because your core self enjoyed it, am I right?"

Jarod averted his eyes. "...Yes."

"...Do me a favor, deah? Tell me what it's like to make love to a woman."

Jarod looked askance at Tang, confused to his depths. "Why?"

"...Because I've nevva made love to a woman," Tang said, not lying, but not telling the truth, either. "I'm curious."

Jarod turned Tang loose and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "...You know Nia is the only woman I've made love to."

Tang watched Jarod carefully. "Den tell me about Nia."

Jarod did not want to disclose his feelings for Nia, but he never considered denying Tang's request. Detailing just this sort of information was too ingrained in him for the notion of privacy

to even enter his head.

"...I bumped into her —literally— at this little cafe in the heart of Oregon's logging region. I don't know why, but the instant I set eyes on her I felt strangely woozy. She's a tiny woman, but tough and she radiates this air of competance and wariness —it actually reminded me of Miss Parker. She’s a childhood friend who grew up to become my main pursuer. Most of the time their eyes are hooded, armored. Nia made a rude remark about my clumsiness —which was so Parker I almost laughed!— and stomped out. I didn't think I'd ever see her again...and the prospect didn't really bother me, I mean, one Parker in my life was sufficient, you know? But a news bulletin came on. Some camper was lost and the authorities needed volunteers to mount a search.

"Well, I had nothing better to do, so I volunteered, and..., as it turned out, so did Nia. By chance, we were teamed up. We spent the next three days together. The longer I was near her, the

stranger I felt, till I was practically incapaciated: barely able to concentrate. My heart was palpitating almost continuously. I couldn't catch my breath. I had trouble putting one foot in front

of the other —for more reasons than one! Her scent was making me crazy. It was sweet. A mix of sweat and almond soap.

"I didn't understand what was happening to me because I'd never felt quite that way before —not even with Parker, and Sydney was no help, either. He told me it was chemical.

"Before the day was out, I had an accident and Nia not only saved my life, she took me back to her place and patched me up. That night she had a nightmare. I woke her up and comforted her, but, as I did, I could see whip scars striping her back. I simmed her... felt the wounds being inflicted on her eight‑year‑old body and I felt such rage...all I wanted to do was protect her.

"The next night we camped out in an abandoned shack. It was cold —a storm had caught us by surprise— and we hadn't brought sufficient supplies —it was like the oldest ploy in the book: we were going to have to share the blankets.

"By that time, I knew she wanted me as much as I wanted her, but there was this gulf between us of secrets and shame. We were both longing for contact. We knew we were simpatico, but we didn't know how to bridge that final gap.

"Finally, desperately, I told her about my past, then she told me about hers, and we held onto each other, comforting each other like a couple of wounded birds who needed someone else to show us how to trust our own wings. That's why, when I think of Nia...I think of gentleness and empowerment and trust and acceptance —both hers and mine.

"I can still feel the softness of her, her breath sweet with chocolate as she pressed her lips to mine for the very first time...so pliant and warm. Her eyes aren't hooded now, they're inviting and vulnerable. Her skin is smooth and buttery beneath my hands. Just the feel of her sets my groin on fire....

"But I'd never had intercourse before, and I felt like an idiot. Men my age are supposed to be experienced in these matters, supposed to take charge, but I didn't know how. I mean, I knew the mechanics of sex, but I didn't know how to...initiate it or prepare either of us for the act. But, because of my confession, she understood my dilemma. She laid her hands on mine, showed me

what she liked, told me what she didn't like, encouraged my explorations.

"Once I laid her bare, I wanted to see and hold and smell and taste every inch of her. Her moans made me ache. The feel of her hand on my penis almost made me come. But when she guided me into her —oh, God! I felt Divine. Whole. Joined to the universe with a bridge of my own flesh. It was so...'intimate', so primal, I felt like the first man and like all men, finding our true home. It was pure ecstasy. It was completeness the likes of which I'd never known.

"She became my world, moving beneath me, supporting me, containing me, stimulating me, encouraging me. Oh! the slick heat of her surrounding me! I pumped her intoxicating musk into the air with every stroke. My need for release was like a living thing blanking my rational mind. I felt an urgency, a tension in my groin the likes of which I'd never known before. Masturbation paled to the friction, the suction...the feel of her smooth, wet muscles contracting around my throbbing flesh.

"When I climaxed, it was like my penis exploded. Nicking an artery while your heart is pumping two hundred forty beats a minute couldn't match the gush of fluid that shot out of me. I felt as if my groin had been squeezed out of my body whole and entire, dragging a line that ran from my prostate to my balls to my guts to my brains —every vital organ I possessed was yanked

out of me with the force of that ejaculation. I felt like a gutted fish, bloodless and numb, and I fell over like I was dead.

"Then she wrapped me in her arms...and I felt as if I were cradling the most precious substance on the face of the earth, and I wanted more than anything to spare her the hurt and pain of the world, the pain I knew she'd suffer when I left her. I wanted to always be there for her, to never let her go..., yet I knew it would never be, and I wept.

"I knew what it had cost her to lower her armor after so many years, and I felt very honored that she had allowed me to invade her, to touch her scars, to kiss her breasts, to taste her soul, to lie in her arms. But I repaid her with tears....

"I think that's the only thing the two of you have in common," Jarod concluded.

"How's dat?" Tang questioned.

"You both allowed your concern for my welfare to overcome your instincts for self‑preservation. I know the pain of losing a loved one, and I would never inflict that on anyone willingly. But, however much I want to stay in your arms, however much I wanted to stay in hers, it's just not possible, so I apologize in advance for leaving you," Jarod said. "Please know that I'll never be ashamed of loving you or being loved by you. In fact, I'll be forever grateful to you."

"...I know you will, Little Bird. Dat's why I'm heah, in bed wit' you instead of fifty miles down da road runnin' as fast as I can. But you were right. You really did need to know. 'Cause you are da sweetest, most messed up person I've evva known.

"Now...," he grinned slyly, "tell me more about what it was like to make love to me."

Jarod smiled broadly. "When you approached me in the club, I really wasn't looking for a relationship. I found you pleasant enough, but I didn't feel the sudden attraction to you I felt with

Nia. That changed the instant you took me into your arms.

"I'm like a cat who's slept with one eye open his whole life. But when your arms closed around me, far from feeling threatened or uncomfortable, I felt myself relax totally— which I admit scared me to death! But, once I realized you weren't going to hurt me, I allowed my desire to grip me and, for the first time in my life released all the wariness, tension, and fear in my body. When I'm in your arms —whenever I'm in your arms— I feel protected and sheltered and comforted, stripped of any need to prove myself, or to act brave.

"It's the most wonderful feeling of refuge: of safety and nurturing. I feel as if I can suckle trust and acceptance and caring right out of your body. And when you kissed me.... I have never felt as thoroughly kissed by anyone in my life —not that I've had all that much experience— but the taste of you lingered for days, making my whole body ache for your attentions.... I haven't stopped thinking about you since.

"When you said 'yes' to me last night, I felt a thrill of gratitude surge right into my groin. But I found myself strangely shy, uncertain, and yearning, all at once. I undressed you as if you were a mirage that would evaporate with an unwary sigh. But when you stood revealed to me, all angles and hard muscle, no softness at all, it made me want to squeeze you with every ounce of strength I possessed just to feel the solidity of you...strong as whipcord: flexible and pliant, tough and wiry.

"Then your penis bobbed at me as if to invite my touch, and I felt compelled to grab it. It was the oddest sensation. So familiar, yet with none of the physical cues I have when I touch myself.

"Then you kissed me and your tongue was so insistent, so probing, so rhythmic, I wanted you to never stop, but you pulled away, travelling down my body leaving a trail of kisses, finally

kneeling in front of the penis you brought to life.

"When you rolled the condom over me, I thought I would explode from just your touch, but then you kissed my glans, teasing me with your lips, then engulfed me. Your lips were like velvet ropes around me, your tongue like a goad, prospecting for white gold. Your mouth was warm, sucking me in like an intelligent cunt, and I felt my knees buckle as you siphoned up every ounce of erectness in my entire skeleton.

"I fell onto the bed boneless yet, by some miracle, still painfully swollen. I expected you to finish me off, but you lay beside me, exposing yourself to me, telling me how to minimize the discomfort and pain so that, when I pushed into you, I felt fierce with confidence and vitality.

"You were incredibly hot and tight. Even sheathed in latex I felt your heat, and the friction and the slickness of the lube reminded me of being in Nia, but without limits —because of her injuries I couldn't push myself all the way into her without hurting her, so I had to be very careful— but I knew I could thrust into your depths without fear, without holding anything back. Just the prospect excited me. I took you with all the savagery in my being, slapping my balls against your buttocks. It was almost feral, the wildness I felt inside of me. Pulling out, pushing in, faster and harder until I came and collapsed on you, slicked with the sweat of both our bodies, and I kissed you, hoping I could stay inside you all night.

"But you rolled me onto my back and pulled free of me and positioned my legs and put a condom on your own penis and I trembled with hesitation and fear and anticipation because I knew what you were going to do, but I didn't know how I'd react. Your finger entered me and I felt my muscles contract in protest. Things go out this channel, they don't come in. It filled me with panic, yet you moved in me with a confidence that finally communicated itself to my reluctant flesh and I relaxed, so you added another finger, and a third, and then I knew I was ready for you, and so did you.

"You pushed into me, but stopped immediately as I contracted against my conscious will. But you waited, so stilly, until I relaxed, then pushed again, till my body rebelled again, then finally, you eased all the way into me, and the pain faded, and I felt strangely proud for having endured it. Then you started to pull back, and I found myself hoping you wouldn't pull all the way out and leave me empty and aching, and I felt as close to understanding a woman as I think I ever shall.

"To be penetrated. To understand that empty ache to be filled, as she ached to be filled. To hold that ache deep inside me. I felt the crown of your penis rub my sphincter, then you pushed into me again, and the most amazing sensation shivered through my body. Oh, God! it felt so good! Then the rhythm began, and I surrendered my body to you completely, only objecting when you took my penis in hand, because I didn't want any other sensation to dilute the intensity of that feeling.

"And then you came and collapsed on my chest and I held you tightly to me and kissed you. I was elated to have provided you with the means of your release, and I felt fortunate to have a body that could experience both sexual giving and sexual taking, because I know I'm better for it.

"A man who only allows himself to pierce and penetrate only understands the power of possessing. If he always feels dominant, never submissive, always forces onto, never accepts into, it fosters a kind of arrogance within him, an assumption of superiority where there should be none, for if you consider sex to be some kind of contest where the penetrator wins and the penetrated loses, where the giver is superior and the taker is inferior, you destroy the very equality inherent in an act that, at its ideal, is two bodies sharing their love in equal measure.

“Not only do these men degrade their female partners by their attitude, they also denigrate any man willing to experience what all women must. It’s a superiority and disdain that destroys any hope of true equality between any two partners, no matter who they are.

“But if a freely reciprocal act is truly equal, then I know I can never possess you, for we have possessed each other in equal measure, both giver and given, and knowing that makes me feel free and unfettered. Loved, but not possessed; sharer, not owner." Jarod smiled at Tang, but it was not the smug, knowing smile of the Pretender who could intuit Tang's feelings, it was the hopeful, anxious little boy looking for approbation.

Tang smiled back. "Tell me, Jarod, what's the one t'ing you enjoyed most about making love to Nia and me?"

"Cuddling," Jarod said without hesitation, taking Tang into his arms. "I love holding you against me, feeling your bodies, skin to skin, against mine. The nearness of you. Close enough for

our heartbeats to pulse against each other's flesh, to feel the hot mist of your breath turn cold against my skin. Close enough to taste the heated scent that rises off your bodies when I inhale.

"And the taste of you. It makes you so much more real to me. Her skin was sweet despite the salt, her musk was like mild, musty hay, and her juices were salty and subtle. You taste of soy sauce and exotic spices, and you're strong and pungent and sharp when I lap you up.... Why? Does it mean something?"

"I t'ink so.... Mind you, I can't be a hundred percent shoo, but I don't think you’re gay, Jarod. Not yo’ core self, anyway. You are incredibly intuitive and amazingly aware of yo' body and emotions, and you would probably not balk at another liason with a man some time down da road,...but you're basically het."

"Not bi?" Jarod questioned.

Tang shook his head. "Whether you choose to believe it or not, you turned to me in desperation. You would turn to another man fo' da same reason. But loneliness and circumstance is not sexual preference any more dan curiosity or daring. You have a desperate need to feel loved. Dat is da driving emotional motivation behind yo' relationships. But yo' body reacts naturally to women. Nia, Kristie, how other many others dere are.... You will settle fo’ a man, because we can give you a sense of protection you don't or can't feel wit' a woman. But fo’ pure sexual attraction, yo' body is strictly 'het'."

Tang noticed the look of distress in Jarod's eyes and he reassured him with a kiss. "Dat doesn't mean I'm going to kick you out of my bed, Little Bird. Right now, I'm what you crave. As long as you’re in dis persona, you'll love me with all yo' heart. I know dat. But you gotta know dis assignment ain't gonna last fo'evva, and when it ends...I t'ink yo' preferences are gonna shift along

wit' yo' personality."

"...But...you're not a hundred percent sure?"

"No. And neither are you. Yo' problem is not dat you have no personality, Jarod, but dat you don't trust the person dat you are. It wasn't yo' core self, yo' ego, dat was lost or damaged, it

was yo' sense of self, yo' awareness of who you are, yo' confidence and belief in dat self.

"We all of us pick up mannerisms and catch‑phrases from da people we associate wit'. In yo' case, you've carried it to an extreme. I don't know if it's because of habit or some inner need,

but it's still just an embroidery of quirks layered over your core self. You've just nevva been able to develop enough trust in yo'self to discover dat. You may not know who you are or what you are, but you definitely are something. Da problem is in finding and accepting whatever dat something is...

"It makes me glad dat you talked me inta being yo' lover, 'cause I gotta tell ya: I ain't got clue one as to how to fix you, and I hate to fail."

"I don't need you to fix me, Ma Gai. I just need you to hold me, and love me for as long as we have; and let me love and hold you back. Maybe someday I'll figure out who I am," kiss, "but...," buss, "...right now...," peck, "...I need to get ready for work," he said, swiftly changing mental gears.

"You’re an evil tease," Tang decided, covering his head with the blanket.

"But I'm your evil tease," Jarod grinned as he climbed out of bed and grabbed his sweats.

"Oh, don't get dressed on my account," Tang said as his head popped out from the covers at the opposite end of the bed. "Remember why de call dem 'gymnasiums'."

Jarod grinned, but donned the sweats anyway. "My leg is feeling much better today, but I can't go out for my morning run in the nude; and I'm not going to take the chance of cooling down after my warm up just to give you a little thrill."

"You underestimate the magnitude of yo' appeal," Tang amended, but he climbed out of bed after Jarod, knowing he wasn't going to change Jarod's mind. "Just fo' dat, I'm making you a

Chinese American breakfast: congee."

"There's nothing American about rice porridge," Jarod said.

"Dere is da way I make it," Tang said.

"I don't know if my stomach can take the change of pace."

"Mo' like da change of pas‑try," Tang jibed. "An I'm not givin' you a choice, deah: Congee."

"Congee," Jarod conceded as he commenced his warm‑up.

Jarod jogged to work after eating a healthy‑sized bowl of steamed white rice mixed with a can of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup with only a fourth of a can of water to moisten it, plus a good dose of soy sauce, hot sauce, black pepper, diced green onions, and garlic 'for interest', topped off by a hot cup of instant honied ginger drink with milk.

Tang claimed that the foods that defined American cuisine were Ketchup, Hershey's chocolate bars, hamburgers, hot dogs, and Campbell's soup. And he cited someone named 'Andy Warhol' as proof. Jarod decided to investigate this 'Warhol' character later.

Thoughts of Tang kept him preoccupied while he ran to work, so he found himself oddly unprepared for the crowd in the locker room when he arrived. He'd pretty much had the place to himself, yesterday, and hadn't given a thought as to how he was going to shower and change without revealing his thigh wound, which was, although healing nicely, still unmistakably a recent gunshot wound.

Jarod decided once again to forgo the shower, and angled his injured leg towards his opened locker, hoping to slip out of his sweat pants and into his uniform pants without anyone being the wiser.

He hadn't counted on Marchetti's curiosity.

He had pulled off his sweatshirt, hung it up, and grabbed one of the three uniform shirts stowed neatly on wire hangers in his locker, when Marchetti turned and poked Jarod's bare skin,

where the bullet wound Damon had inflicted last November puckered his side.

"Hey, what's this, Becky?" Marchetti asked.

Jarod flinched into the opening of his locker. "It's called a scar, Marchetti. I wouldn't have thought it was all that hard to deduce. Guess that explains why you haven't made detective, yet,"

he answered as sarcastically as he could, and the other men on their aisle chuckled appreciatively.

Marchetti scowled, grabbed Jarod's shoulder, and shoved him into his locker door, exposing Jarod's back and the exit wound there, to his prying eyes. "Looks like a clean‑through."

Jarod grimaced as all eyes along the aisle turned to look at him —or, more accurately, his scars. He shrugged out of Marchetti's grasp. "So? What of it?"

"So, nobody told me you'd been christened."

"You're my FTO, not my confessor," Jarod said shortly, as he quickly pulled on his shirt, then hung his head, waiting a moment before necessity forced him to tug off his pants. Unfortunately, Marchetti noticed his hesitation, and the way he kept his left side shielded from view. Marchetti gripped Jarod's arm and pulled him off balance, till he teetered over the low bench seat that ran the length of the aisle, separating the lockers.

Marchetti made a quick visual inspection of his new partner's left leg. His eyes lit on the bruise and the long scab scoring the middle of the purpled flesh, put two and two together, and came up with an unreported bullet wound. "Oh, shit!" He shoved Jarod back into the shelter of his locker so no one else would see it.

Petroccelli chose that moment to walk by. "Problems, boys and girls?" he asked as he tightened his tie.

"No!" Jarod and Marchetti denied immediately, in unison.

"Becky was just showing off his scars, Sarge," Brocklin, snickered. "I guess it got Marchetti so breathless he hadda check out Becky's ass."

"I think he was checking out his mileage," Saberhagen jibed.

"Yeah, and well he should," Doan said. "Marchetti's been on the job, what, eighteen years, now? Hasn't got a hole in him God didn't install with the original equipment. Becky's been on the

job four months and he's got a two fer. 'Fi were Marchetti, I'd worry 'bout sharin' that target painted on Becky's ass."

Petroccelli sauntered over to give Jarod's clean‑through a look‑see. "Nice Christmas present, there, Reed."

Jarod nodded, understanding what the man meant immediately. He had survived. "I didn't exactly appreciate that at the time, sir, but I sure do now," Jarod said sincerely.

Petroccelli nodded and continued out the door to the squad room. "Hurry it on up, Ladies, time ta hit the streets."

There was a chorus of affirmatives, and several of the officers put on a burst of speed to keep up with their commander, Saberhagen, Dole, and Brocklin among them.

Jarod sighed with some relief as that left only three pair of prying eyes in the aisle, (he and Marchetti, both in the know, no longer counted). He was somewhat surprised Marchetti hadn't ratted him out, and was prepared to thank him once they were safely out of the squad room and ensconsed in their private patrol car, but Marchetti got the jump on him.

"OK, sport, where'd you pick up the graze?" he asked the minute their car pulled out of the garage.

"Right place, wrong time," Jarod shrugged simply.

"Yeah? If it was so right, how come you never filed any paper on it?"

"Wasn't obligated to. I wasn't on the job at the time."

"Oh? And the local hospitals just did you a little favor and neglected to report the incident, huh?"

"Didn't go to a hospital. Wasn't worth the hassle."

"Wasn't worth a go‑round with IAB, you mean. Geez! You're a piece of work, you know that, Reed? What if I'd needed you for a foot pursuit, yesterday?"

"I'd have handled it."

"Like Hell you would have."

"I would have managed," Jarod insisted.

"How: mind over matter?" Marchetti scoffed.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Jarod admitted.

"You're delusional."

Jarod stopped the car suddenly and swung his anger‑fired eyes on Marchetti. "One thing you never have to worry about is my ability to get the job done, Marchetti."

Marchetti's eyes narrowed, hearing an underlying threat in Jarod's words. "Until you prove it, you're all mouth, Buddy," he retorted.

Jarod gave Marchetti a last look, then brought his eyes back to the road and stepped on the accelerator.

When they entered their designated patrol area, Marchetti frowned at him. "Call it in, Boy Scout."

Jarod put his hand up to his shoulder where his personal radio unit's mike was stowed and turned his head slightly so he wouldn't have to take the mike out of its holder. "Dispatch, this is car 45, we're 10‑41 at Jefferson and Delancy. Over."

"10‑4, car 45. Have a good one. Dispatch Out."

Jarod drove in silence, thinking that today was not going to go any differently than yesterday, and his jaw clenched at the thought.

"Hey, heads up, Becky. Get us up behind that red Chevy Malibu one car up," Marchetti instructed, and Jarod obliged, bringing the crawler up beside the car so Marchetti could read the license plate and check the clipboard in his hand for matches. Marchetti squeezed his own shoulder unit. "Dispatch, this is car 45. We've got a 10‑37 '97 red Chevy Malibu NJ license plates 2, 6, 4, Delta Tango November. It's not on our want list, but it shimmied when it turned the corner and spotted us. Please advise, over."

"Car 45, RO is Miss Trudy Muldaur, 2234 Thompson Ave., Madison, NJ. No wants no warrants. Over."

"10‑4, Dispatch. 10‑12." Can you see in the cab? That doesn't look like a Miss to me."

"Me, either," Jarod confirmed.

"OK. Dispatch, we're pulling them over. Car 45 Out." Marchetti released the mike and flipped the dashboard switch that activated the lights and sirens up, then down, twice. The Malibu made a break for it.

Jarod punched the gas pedal and activated his mike as Marchetti flipped the flashers and sirens on again and left them on. "Dispatch, this is car 45 we're 10‑80 of that Chevy Malibu, heading south on Jefferson just past South St. Over."

"Car 45, 10‑4. All cars, car 45 is 10‑80 of a red '97 Chevy Malibu heading south on Jefferson, just past South St. All cars in the vicinity, respond."

They got two more blocks down the road when the Malibu crossed the intersection on a red light. At first, Jarod thought it might make the crossing unscathed, then a green Dodge Omni

clipped the Malibu's rear. It spun, slamming its nose into the Omni's driver's side door.

Jarod spun the steering wheel to the left and slammed on the brakes to avoid joining the collision. The patrol car skidded sideways, stopping inches from the Dodge's passenger side.

Jarod eased the car forward to give Marchetti room to open his door and decar, then they both jumped out, guns drawn. Marchetti ran around the rear of the Omni while Jarod ran around

the front, both headed for the Malibu. The Malibu's driver, a teenaged male caucasian, was slumped over the wheel.

Marchetti, unable to reach the driver's door, opened the passenger door and leaned across the passenger seat to check the boy out, and cuff him to the steering wheel. "He's alive, but he's

out like a light," he told Jarod as he reemerged from the car's interior.

Jarod nodded and stood up from where he had draped himself across the Omni's hood, in order to cover Marchetti's back. He holstered his weapon and, letting Marchetti handle traffic, sidled to the passenger window of the Dodge. "Are you folks all right?"

Two shaken faces looked at him, a male and a female Negro. The female grimaced and screamed wordlessly. "My wife's havin' a baby!" the father‑to‑be yelled.

Jarod smiled. "Don't worry. I've delivered five babies. I'll get my gear and be right back." Jarod trotted to the driver's side of the crawler for the keys so he could get into the trunk. "Dispatch, this is car 45 requesting a 10‑52 for a 10‑50 at Parkhurst and Jefferson, driver of red Malibu and at least one passenger of the involved vehicle —she's having a baby. Will 10‑46 until help arrives. Over."

"10‑4, car 45. Do you need emergency procedure instructions? Over?"

"No thanks, Dispatch. I could write the manual," Jarod grinned. "Car 45 out."

Jarod grabbed the first aid kit from out of the crawler's trunk, ambled around to the suspect's car, uncuffed him, put on a pair of laytex gloves, and gave him a quick once‑over.

The teen looked as dazed as Jarod felt, but he ascertained that the boy was not suffering from any internal abdominal bleeding. The boy's eyes were already beginning to purple, though, a sure sign of concussion without irregular pupil dialation, and he would no doubt have whip‑lash and a contused left arm and leg where the limbs had slammed against the side of the car on impact.

Jarod wrapped a cervical collar around the boy's neck and sighed. It could have been a whole lot worse. He recuffed the boy to the steering wheel, stripped off his gloves, then went back to the trunk of the patrol car to grab a blanket before he opened the back passenger side door of the Omni and crawled over to check the husband for sustained injuries.

Jarod retreated, opened the front passenger door, changed gloves again, gave the mother‑to‑be a quick check for injuries, then shifted her so she was facing him, her feet propped on the end of the seat cushions and her back firmly braced against her husband's body.

Jarod put the blanket over her, kneeled down in front of her, and patted her knee. "OK, mom, let's take a look." He peered under the blanet and between her legs, and palpitated her abdomen. "You're fully dialated and breach," he said.

"I knew somethin' wasn't right," the woman panted in reply.

"Don't worry. It's not too late to turn him around. I just need you to breathe in steadily and try as hard as you can not to push. Can you do that for me...?" Jarod asked soothingly, prompting her for a name, as he put on a new pair of latex gloves.

"Julia. I'll try."

"Good, Julia. My name's Jarod. What's your husband's name?"

"Marshall."

"Marshall, I'd like you to hold Julia's hands. Just wrap your arms around her and grab hold.... Good. Julia, I need you to breathe deeply, now, in..., and out..., and in —here we go!"

Jarod pushed his hand into the birth canal, located the baby's butt, then its legs and shoved them up. Julia whooped and thrashed as her abdominal muscles rebelled, trying to expulse the foreign body, as he knew they would; it was pure reflex.

"Don't push, don't push! Breathe in. More. That's good." Jarod's other hand pressed against Julia's stomach, trying to direct the baby's movement. He withdrew his other hand. "OK. Take a break. Cleansing breaths." He stripped off his gloves and massaged Julia's feet for the next four minutes, rubbing the reflexology points that would relax her muscles. Then he put on a new pair of gloves.

"OK, one more time. Deep breath. In...out...in...out...in —don't push!" Jarod maneuvered his hand inside Julia and, once again, combining outside, downward pushes with inside, upward

shoves, shifted the baby. He pulled his hand out. "OK! We're good to go. Save your strength." Jarod stripped off his soiled glove as they waited for the next contraction. Julia wailed when it hit.

"Push with it, Julia, push! Keep it up! OK. Relax. Deep breaths." Jarod massaged Julia's stomach with his now ungloved hand. "That's good. Your contractions are very deep. Probably because of my, um, intrusion. I think, now that the baby is turned, this birth is going to go fast," he informed her. The next contraction hit a minute later.

"Bear down. Come on, Julia. Breathe with it. That's good. The head's crowning. OK." Jarod massaged Julia's stomach. "You're doing good, Julia. Wait for it.... Here we go. Push! Push! Oh.... Head's out, Julia. Breathe! One more contraction and we ought to be there." He massaged her as they waited.

"You have another child at home, don't you?"

"Yes. Lexi. She's three. She was so unhappy about not being allowed to come to the hospital to greet her new baby sister or brother."

"Sounds like she'll take real good care of him. Oh! Push, Julia! I see a shoulder. Push...OK! Here comes the other shoulder. That's it!" Jarod grabbed the baby's shoulders and pulled. "He's out!" Jarod laid the baby on his mother's stomach. "There you go, momma. Say 'hello' to your brand new baby boy."

"What's the time, Marshall?" Jarod asked as he stripped off his remaining glove.

"8:02," Marshall said, checking his watch.

Jarod looked for a cloth to clean the baby, and spotted the overnight case. "Is there anything in here I could use to clean and wrap the baby in?" he asked.

"Uhh...you can wrap him up in my nightgown," Julia said. "It's soft. And, there's a pair of panties you can use to clean him up."

"They're going to be ruined," Jarod said doubtfully as he held up the brand new, downy soft gown and underwear.

Julia smiled. "Like I care."

Jarod smiled back, toweled the baby off with the cotton panties, making sure to clear his mouth of fluid and traces of sac, then wrapped him up in the nightgown, and handed him back to his mother just as Marchetti waved the first ambulance onto the scene. They glanced over at Jarod and the Hansens then deployed a collapsible gurney and gear box and headed for the driver of the second car.

"Uh, aren't you going to cut the cord?" Marshall asked nervously.

"No. I prefer to wait until the blood stops flowing, so I'll let the paramedics do that," Jarod said as he stood up. "Uh, you can, uh, keep the blanket as a souvenier, OK?"

"Jarod. That's an unusual name. How do you spell that?" Julia asked.

"Uh, J, A, R, O, D, Ma'am," Jarod said.

"Jarod. Jarod Marshall Hansen. What do you think, honey?"

"I like it," Marshall grinned. "I like it fine." He held out his hand. "Thanks, Jarod. Good piece of driving, by the way. I thought you were going to ram us, for sure."

Jarod blushed, overwhelmed at the prospect of being a namesake, and shook Marshall's hand. "Thank you. I'm glad I got to put those defensive driving classes to such a positive use. Uhh, I better get back to work, now. Um...take care." He backed away, shutting the car door to keep out the draft, and, still grinning somewhat dazedly, looked around for Marchetti, finding him in the middle of the intersection playing traffic cop when he turned towards the sound of yet another approaching siren.

Jarod backed around the side of his patrol car to let these new paramedics in to check the Hansens, and, since he was in the neighborhood: “How’s he doing?” he inquired of the men working on the teen driver.

“He’ll be fine,” one of them assured him as they lifted him into the ambulance. “You better clean yourself up before that stuff dries on you.”

Jarod looked down at his shirtfront finally noticing that it was spotted with blood and amniotic fluid which, away from Mrs. Hansen, was noticeably fragrant with her musk. He really wanted to change, but the decision as to whether they returned to the station or not wasn't up to him, and he wouldn't put it past Marchetti to keep him on patrol like this as some kind of punishment. He returned to the trunk of his prowler to daub off what fluids he could and sighed. //Que sera sera.// With a final wave to the Hansen's, who were being lifted into the waiting ambulance, he grabbed his mike.

"Dispatch, this is car 45. Ambulances away. Request traffic control and two tow‑trucks at Parkhurst and Jefferson. Over."

"Car 45, requested back‑up ETA your 20 in five minutes. Over."

"10‑4, Dispatch. Car 45 out.” He relayed the news to Marchetti, then helped direct traffic.

It took fifteen minutes after the tow truck's arrival for them to clear the scene, but before Jarod could even ask Marchetti for a return to station, he spotted a man exiting a nearby liquor store two doors up from the scene of the accident stuffing what Jarod took to be a pistol into his jacket pocket. "Damn! I think the man in the navy windbreaker heading south on the east side of

Jefferson just robbed that liquor store at gunpoint. I think I saw him put a pistol into his pocket."

"You think?" Marchetti sneered.

"It was too quick to be absolutely sure," Jarod said, not understanding Marchetti's sarcasm.

Marchetti he swiveled his head to look the man over. "Well, what are you waitin' for? Turn this boat around, Becky."

Jarod hit the sirens, pulled a one eighty, and grabbed his mike. "Dispatch, this is car 45, we have a suspected 10‑32 walking south on Jefferson, just crossing Parkhurst, possibly leaving the scene of a robbery. Suspect is a male negro 6'2" 230 pounds, wearing black jeans and a navy windbreaker. Will attempt to 10‑26 and question. Over."

"10‑4, car 45. Dispatch out."

"He must have thought the accident would provide a good distraction," Jarod said, as the suspect ran through the traffic, backed up along Jefferson St. because of the accident, to Thomas

St.

Jarod wove the patrol car through the gaps between cars like smoke through a hairbrush. They spotted the suspect ducking into the nearest alley, and Jarod pulled the crawler to the curb to let Marchetti out. "Tac two!" Marchetti yelled as he ran after the suspect.

Jarod switched the radio unit in his utility belt to a band one click off the dispatcher's and, intent on intersecting the perp's path, punched the gas and headed for the next alley up. Overlaying a mental schematic across the images of the actual buildings, Jarod tried to second guess the suspect's intentions while he listened to Marchetti's reports on his foot pursuit, filtered through the speaker of his own unit's mike.

"Suspect is heading west.... He's ducked into a cross street, heading north.... I'm reaching the cross street now. Damn! Lost him!"

Jarod turned north at the next street, pulling across the mouth of the aforementioned cross street. "The cross street looks clear," he reported, and tried to deduce the perp's whereabouts.

There were seven possiblities: he had turned west and hidden in the cross street; he had turned east and hidden in the cross street; he had turned west and taken the southern leg of the only alley between the cross street and Jarod's position; he had turned east then south into the nearest alley; he had turned west and taken the northern leg of the aforementioned alley; he had turned east and done the same.

"Come into the cross street and turn west," Jarod instructed as he headed the car up to the next cross street and turned into it. "Continue to the next alleyway and head north."

"Why? He could be anywhere by now, Hot‑shot."

"Indulge me, Marchetti," Jarod demanded as he pulled the crawler across the alleyway, looked north, then south, and declared. "He's somewhere in this alley, between my position and

yours," he said as Marchetti appeared at the far end of the alleyway.

"Come ahead, Marchetti," he told his partner as he exited the car, "I'll cover you." Jarod took a stance in the middle of the alley, legs spread and planted, gun drawn, barrel angled down

towards the pavement.

"How the hell do you know he didn't go east in the cross street, Becky?" Marchetti groused as he eased up to the alleyway.

"He was heading for the railroad."

"Now, how could you possibly know that?" Marchetti asked as he eyed the piles of garbage and sunken doorways between him and Jarod. Each pile of refuse and shadow was a potential hiding place.

"He was heading west on Thomas, and he kept to the western side of the street while he was going north, didn't he?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"I figured it out."

"So, how do you know he didn't get by you before you got here, Sherlock?"

"He wasn't running fast enough. Calculating his top rate of speed from his run on Thomas, and using your report as the time he entered the alleyway, he would have to have run at top speed to pass me in the amount of time I took to reach my position, but he would not have had time to hide, which means I would have seen or heard him take cover. Since I did neither, he wasn't travelling at top speed, therefore he is hiding somewhere between my position and yours," Jarod reiterated.

"Says you," Marchetti challenged as he glanced down the alley at Jarod.

"Just start searching."

Marchetti eyed the piles of garbage distastefully. "Why don't you start searching while I cover you?"

"Because I'm a better shot than you are," Jarod said calmly, using a tone that brooked no argument. "Now, for the last time: start searching."

"Ooh, I just love it when you act butch, Becky. Makes my little heart go pitter pat," Marchetti muttered sarcastically, his voice betraying his anxiety, even so. He kicked carefully at the refuse piled in the alley to his right, crossed to the other side of the alley and kicked some more; right, left, forward; right, left, forward. His eyes restlessly scanned the wall for hiding places. Movement in the garbage made his nerves keen.

"Police!" Marchetti yelled aiming his weapon at a vital area of what he hoped would prove to be the source of the movement. "Stand up and keep your hands where I can see them."

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" The pile of garbage shifted and a man emerged, brown and pink hands encased in beige, fingerless gloves, arms sheathed with a well‑used brown top coat, eyes round with fear as he stared into the barrel of Marchetti's nine millimeter.

"It's not him," Jarod said, and he started scanning the alleyway once more.

"I can see that," Marchetti grumbled, nerves easing with an indignant sigh. "You see or hear anyone come into the alley, pops?" he asked the bum.

"Naw. Not a thing."

"OK, then. Move along." Marchetti waved, indicating the direction he wanted the bum to go.

The bum shuffled in place uncomfortably.

"G'wan. Beat it."

Something about the old man's reluctance clanged a warning in Jarod's head. He searched the garbage behind the man, who was stepping reluctantly from his hidey hole.

"You in the cardboard box! Come out with your hands in plain sight!" Jarod yelled, bringing his weapon to bear on the pile of garbage directly behind where the bum had first emerged.

Marchetti snapped a look at Jarod, to see where he was aiming, followed the line of sight back, and aimed his own gun at the collection of stacked and wadded up newspapers, rags, and

cardboard boxes that made up the bum's residence.

A pile of newspapers suddenly took flight, aimed at Marchetti's chest. Marchetti leaped back to avoid the papers, but they caught him in the left shoulder and half‑spun him towards the

middle of the alley. He stumbled, cast the scattering papers down, regained his balance, and pivoted back to the suspect.

Jarod caught sight of a navy clad arm as the papers were hurled at Marchetti and fired, sending a slug through the man's arm that riccocheted off the brick building behind them and

slapped into the bum's calf, sending him skreeching to his knees.

The Suspect's cries were louder, longer, and more heartfelt, for the slug had not only broken a bone or two as it passed through him, it had caused him to fall face forwards onto the

pavement, and he had reflexively tried to break his fall by throwing his arms out before him. Landing had very nearly compounded the fracture of his arm. He rolled onto his back and

threw his hands into the air.

"I ain't armed! I ain't armed!"

Marchetti wasted no time in cuffing the suspect, despite his injury, though he did cuff the arms in front, so as not to aggravate the injury.

Jarod switched back to tack one to update dispatch on their situation, then retreived the first aid kit from the trunk and trotted down the alley to the aid of the bum, whose injury looked

to be superficial, if painfully unexpected.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, sir," Jarod told the man as he bandaged the wound, then turned his attentions to the suspect's fractured arm. "Are we going to transport?" he asked Marchetti.

"Yeah," Marchetti said. "Mind these two, will you?" he said as he kicked through the bum's cardboard paradise, and nosed about the surrounding refuse. "No gun, no money."

"Think we should pass him by the liquor store clerk for an I.D. before we go to the hospital?" Jarod asked as he immobilized the injured arm.

Marchetti nodded. "We better. And you better hope he did more than by a pack of sen‑sen, or IAB is gonna have your ass for lunch. Head 'em on out."

Jarod helped the bum to the crawler, while Marchetti escorted their prisoner. The two wounded men would have to share accommodations in the back seat. Jarod's nose twitched at the aroma of bum which clung to him like smoke, and drove them back to the liquor store. They checked the premises, finding one upset, but unharmed and relieved proprietor, who had already called the robbery in. They took his report, led him out to the car to ID their prisoner, then transported their passengers to University hospital, where they were ushered to adjoining bays in the ER.

"Hey, Joe, I've orders for your —Jarod! Oh my God! Is that your blood? Are you hurt?"

Jarod looked up, a look of unexpected terror on his face. "Cassie. No. I'm fine." He gulped, threw a glance at Marchetti, who seemed momentarily oblivious, then strode over to Cassie, grabbed her by the elbow and quickly propelled her into a quiet corner of the treatment area. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered.

She barked out a laugh. "I work here, Jarod."

"I —I mean, you shouldn't be right here, now, it's a bad time —you should come back later, after my —when we're...." He couldn't say it. She stared at him with patent confusion. "Could you take me to see Officer Hambly, please?" he blurted instead.

Cassie gaped at this unexpected tangent.

"Hey, Becky, smooze your girlfriend on your own nickel, OK?" Marchetti said rudely.

Jarod sighed heartfeltly, gaze dropping to the floor, the pain in his eyes as acute as any wound she had ever seen.

Cassie frowned and locked eyes with the source of Jarod's embarrassment. It was only then that she recognized her husband's killer. She stiffened. "Oh, God!" She stumbled back in a

not‑quite‑faint and Jarod, with a clench of his jaw, steered her out into the corridor beyond the ER doors.

"Let's go find Officer Hambly, shall we?" he insisted.

"He's, uh, in the CCU. This way."

Jarod left Marchetti babysitting their two charges and escorted Cassie to the Critical Care Unit. The nurse on duty nodded at them, apparently satisfied that the two had legitimate reasons for disturbing her patient.

Jarod lifted the chart hanging at the end of the bed and read it. Hambly was not out of the woods by any means. His condition was not even stable, but it was, at least, not grave.

"Does Tang know about you being a cop? About —him— being...your partner?"

"Yes. I told him after the reception at your place."

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you and —and that man been partners?" Cassie asked.

"Um...two days."

"Oh, God! How— how is it? Working with —him?"

"...It's difficult, Cassie," he confessed. "More difficult than I thought it would be. In fact, I don't think I could stand it if it wasn't for Tang —Oh!....I mean— "

Cassie smiled. " —It's OK, Jarod. Tang told me he was, um, taking care of you."

"...You...don't mind?"

"Why should I mind, Jarod? For God's sake! Tommy's dead! In fact, I almost envy you. Tang is a good man."

"Yes, he is. I'm —I feel very fortunate to have found him."

"Hey...I know you," the sleepy, bandage muffled figure in the bed murmured. The two spun guiltily to look at Officer Hambly, feeling like inconsiderate interlopers.

"Sorry. We didn't mean to wake you," Jarod apologized.

"Hey, I'm glad you did," Hambly said. "The docs told me you ran off after bringing me in. Didn't make sense, till now. Thanks for saving my ass...Jarod, was it?"

"Yes. Jarod Reed. I was happy to help."

Hambly stared at him. "How long you been on the job?"

"Um," Jarod looked uneasily at Cassie and decided, given her friendship with Tang, that the story he had given Tang would be the best one to 'divulge' in this instance. "Three years."

"Jesus. And don't know the score, yet? Well," he amended, "you knew enough to duck and run. But coming to see me wasn't the brightest idea you ever had. You can't let your guard down for a minute, Jarod. Those macho assholes find out you saved my bacon —or about your boyfriend— they'll be ignoring your calls for back‑up, too."

Jarod hissed. He'd thought the lack of back‑up was due to the radio's being disabled. The truth was far uglier. He had a sudden revelatory flash about Marchetti's on‑the‑job attitude.

As if cued, Marchetti cursed at him from beyond Hambly's cubicle door. "Oh, shit!"

Jarod flinched from the sound, wishing fervently that he could go back in time and live today over. He was making entirely too many mistakes.

"You were the civilian who pulled Hambly out of that fire fight?" Marchetti growled.

"What of it?" Jarod challenged.

"Get out here this instant," Marchetti barked. "And don't you dare go back in there —ever," he warned.

"Better listen to him, Jarod," Hambly said, unoffended.

Leaving Cassie in place with a warning glance, Jarod hung his head and obediantly exited, coming to heel at Marchetti's side.

Cassie pretended to fuss with the equipment as the two cops retreated down the hall.

"Was that Trent Marchetti?" Hambly asked.

"Yes," Cassie said.

Hambly sighed. "That's OK, then." And with that cryptic —to Cassie— pronouncement, he fell back to sleep.

Cassie bit her lip. Time to give Tang a call.

Back at the station at shift's end, Jarod changed gratefully into his civvies, but didn't bother hanging up his uniform. It needed cleaning before it would be fit to wear. He took care of it on the way home, dropping it off at a neighborhood laundry.

The rest of their day had gone about as quietly as the morning, and, by quitting time, his shirt front looked —and smelled— like a botched science project. Jarod was bone tired. It did not help that he had exceeded his minimum macho quota of nicknames. While both 'Sherlock' and 'Boy Scout' were better than 'Becky', he had to wonder about the efficacy of demeaning peers as

a method of establishing a hierarchical 'pecking order'.

And, in what seemed to be punishment from the Gods, the delectable fragrance of garlic bread and spaghetti sauce wafted into his nostrils the moment the elevator door opened onto his

floor, reminding him that, on top of everything else, he had not stopped to eat tonight. //And your options are: fix your own supper; go back downstairs and trek to the nearest diner, or go hungry....*sniff*...or order take out...Pizza.... Take out it is.//

Deciding that he was too tired to take a bath before he ate, as he'd only want to go to bed and sleep afterwards, and wouldn't appreciate an interruption at that point, Jarod unlocked the door to his loft and pivoted inside with a sigh, leaning his forehead against the solid wood of the relocked door as if it would infuse him with the strength to get to the sofa and the phone directory.

Unexpectedly, the aroma of garlic bread and spicy tomato sauce strengthened rather than diminished, prompting him to turn around. His breath caught in his throat. In his absence, the bank of windows spanning the length of the common room had been covered with sky blue drapes and a curvy, white valance that looked like a series of puffy clouds skating over the artificial sky. Potted plants in waist high, brass planters spread their grass‑like leaf‑blades in a cascade of green from every corner of the room, making the loft look...homey, despite the paucity of furnishings. The clatter of cooking made him smile.

With newfound strength, Jarod bounded into the kitchen, a big, goofy grin plastered to his face. "Tang! You made spaghetti and garlic bread. I love spaghetti. It's fun to eat. What else am I smelling?"

Tang laughed. "What? No: 'Hi, honey, I'm home'?"

Jarod's grin softened coyly. He stepped behind Tang and hugged him, then nuzzled Tang's left ear. "Hi, honey, I'm home," he whispered. "Love what you've done to the place, but I insist on

repaying you; we both know I'm more than capable of footing the bill. You shouldn't have expended your limited resources on me."

"I didn't buy a t'ing, deah. Da plants are on loan from my sista's florist shop, and da drapes are cast‑offs: Mei‑mei decided she wanted to go terracotta. I knew you'd love da treatment, so I

brought it over after I helped her put up her new drapes. Oh, and Mr. Agent Orange Thumb? No touching da plants, OK?"

Jarod giggled and held out a hand in the Boy Scout salute. "I promise." He picked Tang up and twirled him around. "I love you."

"Bet you say dat to all da lovers dat decorate your apartment."

"Hmm, but you're the only lover who's decorated my apartment."

"See? Told you. Now, put me down before da noodles mush up, and go set da table."

"Yes, sir."

Jarod allowed Tang to serve the dinner in courses, despite his impatience to get to the spaghetti, which more closely approximated a play activity than a food, to his way of thinking. He ate his salad and a portion of pickled vegetables and stuffed broiled mushrooms for the antipasto course, and was rewarded with a heaping plate of spaghetti and meatballs, the noodles of which

he slurped and sucked into his mouth with all the enthusiasm of your average eight‑year‑old.

"Mmm, yeah, work that suction, Siau Niao. Ma Gai is gonna put it to good use, tonight," Tang purred, and laughed as Jarod froze, a noodle wiggling from between his pursed lips like a worm on a fish hook, to oggle him with surprised puppy dog eyes.

By some miracle, Jarod managed to finish his spaghetti without decorating himself or any portion of the apartment with his wanton slurping. "Ah, so much talent," Tang praised. "Next course: white lasagna wit' zucchini —no meat."

"I've never had white lasagna. I didn't even know they made lasagna without meat." He took a bite of the generous square Tang ladled into his plate. "Hmm...this is good. Where did you learn to cook Italian food?"

"College roommate."

"You went away to college?" Jarod asked.

"Um, hum. I needed to get away."

"From what?"

"Da situation at home. My parents...well...let's just say dey were adjusting to da fact dat I wasn't going to continue da family line."

"...Thomas had trouble when he told his family about his sexual orientation, too."

"Yeah. Most of us do. Especially when we're da only sons. Parents always have dese expectations about sons.... It's hard on dem when da dream dies. I'm very fortunate, you know. Dere are more parents out dere who disown dere kids dan accept dem."

"...Do you think it would matter to my family...if I was homosexual?"

"No. Dey might be disappointed, but I'd bet da farm your parents have waited too long to know you to care about your sexual preferences. Their expectations are all about knowing you, not your progeny."

"I guess it's true, then."

"What?" Tang asked.

"Familiarity does breed contempt."

Tang snorted.

Dessert was zuppa inglesa, five layers of yellow cake mortared together with succeeding layers of rum custard, cherry jam, strawberry jam, and vanilla custard, covered with whipped

cream and coated with slivered almonds.

"Mmm! This is wonderful!" Jarod exclaimed. "Did you make it?" he asked as he quickly gobbled his slice down.

"No way!" Tang denied. "Dis, I bought."

"Mmm...." Jarod studied the cake like a geologist analyzing a core sample. "I bet I could make one...," he said, gears practically whirring in his head. "I once worked in a restaurant that specialized in French cuisine." He smiled. "I also worked as a short order cook, and operated a luncheon truck. My customers liked to call it a 'roach coach' but I was very careful to keep insects of any kind out of my truck. I even got an 'A' rating from the health inspector." He grinned in remembrance. "He jokingly rated my menu a 'C', however, for 'endangering arteries everywhere'. He especially objected to the way I garnished everything with Insta‑Cheez. He claimed the stuff was a health hazard."

"You operated a roach coach?" Tang said. "For what? Six weeks while you conducted surveillance on some bad guy?"

"Yes! How did you know?"

Tang laughed. "Just a guess. What kind of bad guys were you trolling for at da French restaurant?"

Jarod blushed. "None. I just wanted to learn how to make puff pastry. The French make wonderful desserts."

Tang laughed again, picturing Jarod studiously committing the secrets of the haute patisserie to memory. He watched Jarod swallow the last bite of cake with a satisfaction exclusive to appreciated chefs. "Now, my deah, how about we expand your sexual horizons a tad and go take a bath, hm?"

"How is a bath going to expand my sexual horizons?" Jarod asked, with the innocence of the totally clueless.

"One bath tub, two men...mmm...you tell me."

Tang was reduced to giggles once more as Jarod whined piteously, seriously weighing the merits of Tang's offer against the temptations of a second slice of cake. After due consideration, Tang in the flesh won out, and they retired to the bathroom.

"My bathing philosphy is kinda Japanese, I t'ink, in dat I hate soaking in dirty water, so I scrub clean, first, den soak," Tang explained as they disrobed. "So, first step, we get wet." He turned on the shower, letting the water run over his hand until it reached the proper temperature, then he stepped in, pivoted slowly to get himself wet all over, moved to the back of the tub, and

motioned Jarod in.

Jarod stepped between Tang and the massaging showerhead, and pivoted like Tang, to wet himself down.

"OK, water off," Tang said as he grabbed the soap and a Japanese scrubbing cloth made purposefully rough to the touch. He soaped Jarod down, then, starting from the neck and working

down methodically, he rubbed him with the lathered cloth, cleaning and stimulating Jarod's skin at the same time. He let Jarod soap and scrub him, then they shaved each other's beards and shampooed each other's hair.

"We don't have da proper attachment, heah, but da showerhead is on a hose, so we can improvise," Tang said as he took advantage of the movable massage wand to rinse his hair from the far side of the tub. "Turn around and spread your legs for me, deah."

Tang soaped up his fingers and carefully inserted them into Jarod's rectum, his intent to clean, not stimulate, although, from the twitch of Jarod's cock, he had obviously done both.

Then Tang unscrewed the showerhead and ran the hose a good eight inches up and down Jarod's rectum, keeping his fingers spread inside as well, to keep the anus open so the water wouldn't collect inside him. Once Tang was satisfied, he handed the hose to Jarod and turned around so Jarod could reciprocate. Tang rinsed the tub of residue, then let it fill with clean, barely tolerable hot water, and sat with his back to the end of the tub. He spread his legs and invited Jarod to sit between them.

Jarod's knees bent almost to his chest to accomodate the shortened space, and Tang hummed. "Maybe I should have gone in front," he said as he massaged Jarod's shoulder and neck muscles, then poured handfuls of water over Jarod's back to loosen him up.

"Hmm...no, I like you right where you are," Jarod said, and, once the knots were worked out of him, he laid back, at Tang's invitation, onto Tang's chest and let the heated water soothe him while Tang massaged Jarod's arms, then let his hands drift over Jarod's torso to tease his nipples and navel and play with his chest hair.

"If you're trying to lull me to sleep, you're going about it the wrong way," Jarod murmured in his ear drowsily.

"Oh?" Tang asked, his hands not stopping.

"Uht‑hm. The soporific effect of the hot water and massage is being countered by all your teasing and the increasing hardness of your penis against my back."

"All right, deah." His hands, still wrapped around Jarod's waist, stilled. "Relax." And they did nothing but soak until the water began to cool, at which point Tang let his hands head for points south. "You are now offically putty in my hands." Jarod stiffened with surprise, splashing water over the rim of the tub as Tang's hands attached themselves to his penis.

"I assure you that, while you are kneading it quite nicely, what you have between your hands is nothing akin to putty."

"Hmm...yeah...now dat you mention it, it's rising and doubling in volume so nicely it must be yeast dough. I t'ink it's going to be very tasty when I'm done with it, too. Whattda you t'ink?"

"I think it's time to get out of the tub."

As they dried each other off, Tang grabbed Jarod's penis and held it against his own. "Hey, Jarod, anybody ever show you how to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together?" He began a little mutual masturbation.

Jarod groaned as Tang's fingers forced the heads of their penises to rub against each other. When Tang let go with a laugh, Jarod sank to his knees, took Tang's penis in hand and licked and sucked it, finally swallowing it to the root, which was three inches more than he'd managed to take into his mouth the night before.

"Oh, God! Siau Niao, you're not supposed to do dat wit'out a condom."

"But the real you tastes better than latex. Besides, I've already swallowed your precum, so it's a little too late to be safe. And, anyway, you're much too conscientious to even have had protected sex with me if you weren't clean, and I know I'm clean.

"Dat's presumptuous. Do you know how many STDs— Oh, shit! Yes! No! Stop! Listen, my deah, I have plans for you, and, pleasant as dis is, it's not on tonight's agenda." Tang breathed

deeply to regain control over his aching erection.

"Then maybe you should put it on the agenda, Ma Gai. I want to taste and feel and do everything there is to do with you," Jarod protested. "I want it all."

"We can only do so much in one night, Siau Niao."

"All the more reason to do everything we can. Afterall, we don't know how many more nights we'll have."

Tang frowned, thinking Jarod's words over while he brushed his teeth. After a moment, Jarod followed suit, then they clambered onto the bed. Tang straddled Jarod and began to kiss his mouth.

"Hmm, is it warmer in here than when we went into the bathroom, or is it just me?" Jarod asked as Tang sucked his chin, his throat, and the nearest earlobe.

"It's warmer. See, dere's dis device called a radiator. If you turn dem up da room tends to heat up proportionately."

"I know how a radiator works," Jarod said.

"Oh, yeah? So why was it practically freezing in heah?"

"Sixty degrees is hardly freezing," Jarod countered.

"Sixty degrees may be ideal for a bottle of wine, deah, but I prefer my rocks to clench because I'm going to cum, not because my sperm are so close to death dey need to reascend into my body to de‑ice."

"You say you're in need of de‑icing?" Jarod rolled Tang's back onto the mattress, eased down till his head was level with Tang's crotch, then sucked Tang's testicles into his mouth and rolled them over his tongue for a few minutes while he teased Tang's penis with his hand. "Have your sperm thawed out, yet?" he asked when he'd pushed the sac out of his mouth with his tongue.

"Oh, God, yes! Get up heah. Straddle my legs." Tang reached under his pillow for the stash of flavored lube and a condom and readied Jarod's rectum with his fingers while Jarod kept Tang's penis erect with an attentive hand. Tang picked up the condom, and Jarod's hand closed over his wrist. "Leave it."

"...I t'ink it's only fair to warn you dat being penetrated wit'out protection causes da greatest susceptibility to AIDS."

"I think we covered the objections earlier. I want to feel you. I want to feel your cum in me."

Tang dropped the condom. He lubed his penis and gripped it tightly, got Jarod up and into position, poised his glans at Jarod's hole, and had Jarod ease himself onto his hard shaft. They rocked in counter time to increase the movement in Jarod's rectum, and Tang, making use of the left‑over lube on his fingers, matched his thrusts into Jarod with strokes of Jarod's penis, angling

Jarod's hips so his every thrust hit Jarod's prostate. Jarod began to moan, his volume and frequency increasing till he was screaming as his sperm spurted over Tang's hand, belly, and chest. His inner spasms took Tang over the edge.

Jarod lay on Tang's chest, Tang's penis still inside him, until he regained his strength, then Tang clenched him with his arms and rolled him onto his back. He pulled out of Jarod and scooted down till his head was between Jarod's legs, then bent Jarod's legs and spread his feet so he could lick Jarod's balls, then fondle them with his hand while his mouth inched down to the patch of skin between Jarod's anus and scrotum.

"OK, my deah, you want to do everyt'ing, we'll do it. Afterall, I'm Chinese: we'll eat anything. Just don' complain to me if it grosses you out, OK?" Tang's hand moved up to stroke Jarod's penis once more, while he dipped the tip of his tongue into the cleft of Jarod's buttocks. He circled his tongue tip around Jarod's anus, then plunged it in as far as it could go. Tang tongued and sucked for all he was worth.

Jarod fought to keep himself on the mattress. His legs and spine both wanted to launch him into space, and it took every ounce of self‑control he possessed and both hands clenched in the sheets to supress the dangerous twitches. Every so often, he lost the battle of wills, and bucked away, only to have Tang press his hips down with his left hand and reclaim him.

When Jarod's penis was hard and weeping from being brought to the edge of orgasm and held off three times, Tang lubed it up and stuck his butt into the air enticingly. Jarod attacked him like a rutting rhinocerous and came so hard he needed a good fifteen minutes to recover his senses, during which time Tang did a quick tissue cleaning of them and their environs.

"Ohhh.... For being so bad, you do it so good." Jarod said as he scooted down to take a position between Tang's legs.

"T'anks. It's been awhile. Six years, in fact, since my last grand passion ended. I won't do it wit' just anybody, you know. Too risky."

"Hmmm...," Jarod said mensuratively as he assessed the musky, earth and soap taste of Tang's rectum. "What attracted you to— what is this called?"

"'Felching'...sucking out yo' own sperm," Tang said. "And...I guess I did it because it was done to me and I liked it."

"Hmm." Jarod added the flavored lube and tasted Tang again, but hated the mix of flavors, so he scooted up to suck Tang's cock once more, inserted three of his fingers into Tang's lubed rectum and stroked Tang's prostate in concert with his mouth's pistoning action. "I think I like this better. How about you?"

"Oh, yeah!" Tang gasped. "Jarod!" Tang arched off the bed with an ecstatic cry. "Oh! Oh, God!"

Jarod scooted back up to kiss Tang's mouth, passing Tang's sperm back to him. Tang lapped his own essence up hungrily, thoroughly reclaiming any trace of himself in Jarod's mouth.

"Can't wait for my next lesson," Jarod smiled as they cuddled together. By eleven p.m. they had fallen asleep in each other's arms.

Jarod awoke five hours later, enjoying the feel of their entangled legs, the heat of their bodies pressed skin to skin, the security of their mutual embrace. He hadn't dreamt at all, and he'd gotten more than four hours sleep for the first time since he'd slept with Nia. He hadn't thought such total relaxation was even possible. //Ah..., sex as an antidote to insomnia...now that's

a prescription I'd like to fill nightly.//

He hummed contentedly and pushed a lock of hair off Tang's face with a finger. Tang, still asleep, responded by snuggling his nose into the triangle formed by the pillow and Jarod's neck and collarbone.

Jarod bit his lip to keep from twitching as Tang's breath tickled his skin and thought about his pretend, which wasn't progressing as planned, much to his disgust, mostly at himself.

"Penny fo' yo' t'oughts," Tang murmured sleepily.

"It's early, yet. You should go back to sleep," Jarod demurred.

"Can't. You’re t'inkin' too loudly."

Jarod chuckled.

"What's wrong, deah?"

"Hmm...I made a tactical error with Marchetti. Far from being sympathetic to other gays, he's hostile, hateful. I'd thought it was like protective coloration, but I was wrong. I also failed to foresee my inability to conform my own behavior to the paradigm I set up."

Tang pulled out of Jarod's arms to look at him. "What? Jarod, do you realize what yo' saying? Yo' telling me dat you weren't able to subordinate yo' core self to yo' current persona!

Has dis evva happened befo'?"

"...Not to my knowledge," Jarod said, looking intrigued as the implications registered on his brain. "It's maddening."

Tang slapped him on the shoulder. "Nah. It's a good t'ing."

Jarod snorted. "Personally, maybe, but professionally it's damned inconvenient."

"You’re just discovering a little grit in da clay."

"Hm?"

Tang grinned. "Da basic conflict in yo' character has been yo' longing to be wholly yo'self, and yo' compulsion to be somebody else. We all start out as clay, able to be molded into any shape, but most of us are fired into rigidity by da time we're seven years old. Yo' keepers made shoo you stayed clay. Dey taught you to t'ink dat what's important is da shape you take, when what's truly important is da substance —da clay— dat makes up yo' essential self.

"Da finest clay is loaded with grit. D'ose hard little bits of firmness make up yo' essential self. Yo' Life's challenge is to maintain da balance between da clay and da grit, to understand dat

you need to honor da grit to maintain yo' core personality, but retain enough elasticity to express yo' true nature, which is to be molded, to change shape. Because yo' grit will not allow you to bend in certain directions, you’re gonna hafta recognize when you can't change past a certain point. You've reached dat point with Marchetti. So, now dat you know dat, tell me what's up wit' you and Marchetti?"

"...I thought that if I could emulate him, he'd see me as a younger version of himself and take me under his wing, but I can barely tolerate being in the same squad car with him and I can't

espouse his beliefs, not even to pretend. We don't agree on anything —except for staying in the closet insofar as the job is concerned —if the other cops knew we were gay they wouldn't back us up."

"But you’re only pretending ta be gay."

Jarod grinned. "Maybe. But I'm doing such a good enough job of it I could be arrested in several states, and considering immersion into the 'lifestyle' wasn't required, that tends to render any protestations of innocence on my part moot.

"I know for a fact Marchetti didn't defend Hambly in the locker room for fear he'd come under scrutiny himself, and I'm equally certain that any public show of affection between gays —even as innocent a thing as holding hands— genuinely infuriates him. Yet, at the same time, he's risked his career, his reputation, his pension, and his freedom to obtain the drugs that keep his S.O. alive."

"Dat's sad. Worse, I can't say I wouldn't have done da same t'ing if I was in his place."

"Me, either. But I still can't stand him," Jarod confessed.

"He must really rub you da wrong way. What does he t'ink of you?"

"Not much. So far he's called me 'Becky' for 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,' 'Boy Scout,' and 'Sherlock Holmes.' It's really annoying."

"But accurate," Tang said, and Jarod looked wounded. "Don' get me wrong, deah, I t'ink yo' attitude is refreshing, but how many people wit' big bank accounts are out on da street risking their lives, eh? Dat's da Boy Scout in you. Da fact dat you try to do da right t'ing, and expect everybody else to do it, too, is da Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm in you, and yo' incredible ability to read people and situations is Sherlock Holmes all ovva. Add yo' incredible good looks and physical prowess to da mix, and you make quite an intimidating package. Gay or not, Marchetti is a male in a macho profession, who, bolt outta da blue, got saddled wit' a partner who makes da whole unit look skanky wit'out half trying."

"In other words: I threaten his masculinity?" Jarod said.

"Yeah. You’re a real ego bruiser. Problem is: you’re acting more like a juvenille male who has yet to prove himself dan da rightful Alpha male. Dat confuses dem. You could mess up on purpose and knock yo'self down a peg or two, but unless you can engineer it so Marchetti saves you and can reassert his dominance ovva you, dere's not a whole lot you can do about it."

Jarod shook his head. "He wouldn't come to my rescue. He's not the type."

"Yeah, dat's pretty much how I see it, too. So, what else can you do to prove he's guilty?"

"...The easiest thing to do would be to match the drugs found on Bell to drugs being sold on the street."

"How are you going to do dat?"

"By comparing the chemical composition of the drugs found on Bell with drugs confiscated in the area later. Each batch is chemically unique, so it shouldn't be difficult to establish. I will have to make sure that I have witnesses to the testing, though, so the chain of evidence isn't compromised."

"Dat wouldn't clear Thomas's name all by itself, d'ough, would it?"

"No, but if I could find the dealer Marchetti was supplying that night and use him as a material witness, it would.”

“Hmm...well, I don’ t’ink dat should be too hard. Dey protect their sales territories like junk yard dogs. If he ain’t workin’ his area, den someone he knows and trusts is. I know all da regulars at Marbles, I’ll go ask some discreet questions. Get a name and description. Maybe now dat da ‘official’ investigation is ovva, he’ll come out from hiding and we can nab him outside of Marbles.”

“It’s a distinct possibility. So, while you’re making discreet inquiries, try and secure the names and addresses of a few witnesses who would be willing to testify that that particular drug dealer was working behind Marbles that night, if you could. That would strengthen our leverage against him, possibly induce him to testify against Marchetti in return for a reduced sentence or immunity from prosecution.... You know, I don’t understand why this avenue of investigation wasn’t pursued by IAB more vigorously in the first place.”

“I can tell you why, deah: dey didn’t want to look at da case too closely, fo’ fear Marchetti’s story would fall apart and make da department look bad —again; and since dey tend to look da other way when gays are victimized in dis town, we don’t tend to cooperate wit’ them. What surprises me is why dey decided to spring fo’ an undercover investigation. It ain’t like dem.”

Jarod shrugged. “I can’t speak for the department, Tang, I can only build the case, and hope that I’ve made the evidence so overwhelming they can’t ignore it. But I’m glad you volunteered to help, because I could really use it. You see, if I handle the drugs alone there would be too many opportunities to claim that the evidence had been tampered with, which means I need an impartial witness who can observe and record the fact that everything is above board. And, as you pointed out, my being on the case is unusual enough. The department is not likely to OK any more man hours to the investigation. Do you think your family could spare you?"

"Shoo. But Pops ain't gonna be happy about it."

"If it's going to be a hardship on them, I'll hire some temporary workers to take your place. It shouldn't be too difficult to find experienced restaurant workers, but people I can trust are in short supply. I'll need some equipment, and I'll have to modify some gear, as well. I'll give you a list of things we'll need and the money to purchase them. In fact, since you're working for me, now, I really ought to pay you a salary. Can't have you losing your apartment for lack of rent just because you're helping me out."

"How long you figga' dis is gonna take?"

"There's really no telling, but no more than two weeks, I should think."

"Well, OK. Just call me da Boy Wonder," Tang grinned.

INTERLUDE FOUR

Blue Cove, Delaware

Monday, February, 8^th

1:00 p.m.

Broots paced the corridor outside Miss Parker's office, anxious to fill her in on his weekend with Debbie and her friends, which had been interrupted, for one excruciating hour, by Mr. Lyle and Brigitte. Truth to tell, he'd felt lucky to get off that easy.

Once the pair was convinced there was nothing more they could do to intimidate him, and continuing to linger only induced an acute case of ennui, they left him to his own devices.

They had barely cleared the driveway before Broots had dropped everything and gone back to his backyard softball game, (which made him a hero in Debbie's eyes), and topped his bold

statement by grilling hot dogs and hamburgers while the girls built their own sundaes for the after game 'tea party,' which put him in contention for Best Dad of the Year.

Of course, he knew in his heart he had only dared put off Mr. Lyle's job because it would take very little work to expand the parameters of his current 'hound' program to include newspaper morgues and hospital databases, but he basked in Debbie's approval as if he had singlehandedly saved a family of four from a towering inferno.

Not being stupid, he gave Mr. Lyle and Brigitte the impression that he'd slaved all weekend to write the program when, in fact, what little he hadn't done the hour they'd spent in his

company, he'd whipped out between the morning alarm and kissing Debbie off to school. It was up and running by the 10:15 coffee break.

Miss Parker, meanwhile, had spent all morning with the Board running Broots's ideas for tightening security by them, which was one more reason he was waiting patiently in her anteroom: to hear the outcome of 'her' proposals.

Miss Parker strode up the corridor and allowed a slight smile to grace her lips as she caught sight of her computer geek ally. "And how was your weekend, Broots?" she asked, almost

glowing with good will.

Broots's eyes widened. //Wow. Things must have gone well upstairs,// he thought. "Uhh..., that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Miss Parker," he said as he followed her into her office

and took a seat. "Your brother and his favorite Cleaner came to my house Saturday wanting my help with a little project of their own."

Miss Parker's good mood vanished like a mirage. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Uh, I've got it running, now. It's looking for any reference to any Jarod in any newspaper or hospital database in North America. And I, uh, expanded the search to include photo recognition in newspaper, TV articles, and any transportation hub surveillance feeds we can hack into, in case he gets his picture taken again, though that's strictly on your orders, at least, that's how my report reads."

Miss Parker's smile returned, but it held all the warmth of a crocodile's stare. "Is that so? Well.... Thank you, Broots. I hope something comes of it besides millions of wasted computer hours."

"Uh— I could alter my report to make the photo recognition program Mr. Lyle's idea?" Broots offered.

Miss Parker thought about it a moment, then shook her head. "No, I haven't come up with anything useful, may as well take credit for something, no matter how wasteful. What do I care how many kilowatts we waste searching electronic haystacks for Jarod? Let 'em buy a warehouseful of number crunchers to handle the stream of useless data, for all of me."

"Oh...OK. Long as you're OK with it."

"Yeah. You're the man of the hour, Broots. The board liked most of your security ideas. They'll be implimenting the individual branch codes idea as of tomorrow morning. They're alerting their tech staffs as we speak. That means overtime for every tech crew in the company. They liked the GPS ID and credit card idea, too. They’re crunching cost versus savings right now. But they weren't at all happy about the 'no pooling resources' idea." She shrugged. "Two out of three ain't bad. If they want to take chances earning the higher interest a billion dollar nest egg insures while Jarod is out there making unauthorized withdrawals, that's their perogative, right?"

"Uhh..., I guess."

"Lyle and The Troll didn't spoil your weekend with Debbie, did they?"

"Ahh...not really. It did delay the ball game an hour, but Debbie convinced her friends to hang out and listen to records till they left, then we went back to the game like nothing happened." He grinned, happy that he had made Debbie happy despite all.

"Good."

Broots let his smile linger. He couldn't have felt better about the situation if Miss Parker had pinned a medal to his chest and kissed his cheeks. Of course, he'd never have confessed to sloughing off work on a project of hers, but why bust his own hump? For once, everybody was happy.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Newark, New Jersey

Wednesday, 9th

1:15 a.m.

Tang spent the rest of Monday buying the goods on Jarod's list. It was fascinating and fun throwing around vast amounts of money all day long. Plopping down twenty thousand dollars for a gas chromatograph, forty thousand for two panel vans, and who knows how much more for a case of one time only read/write compact disks, two six CD carousel players, and two computers with r/w CD burners, two digital cameras, a tripod and steadi‑cam shoulder mount, a welding torch and accouterments, mirrors, pipes, wire mesh, acoustic baffling, a roll of chain, eight pair of handcuffs, a dozen two inch diameter eye bolts, a lock and hasp, four eighteen inch satellite dishes, sportsbag, test tubes, chemicals, foam casings, and a 50 room boarded up hotel in the Ironbound district. Tang had no idea how some of this stuff was going to be used, but it was fun speculating.

Monday and Tuesday night Jarod modified the equipment to suit his needs, pulling two all‑nighters to get the work done, while Tang spent his nights at Marbles, chatting up the regulars, and managing to secure the aid of five patrons who wanted to help clear Tommy’s name and could place the pusher, one Gianni Scarpelli, at the scene of the crime.

Wednesday night, Tang and Jarod packed the vans and drove them to the Plaza's parking structure, making sure the surveillance van had an excellent view of the alley between Marbles' backdoor and the garage. When the neighborhood dealer showed up, Tang was able to I.D. Gianni from descriptions gleaned from his contacts. Jarod started the first digital camera.

Jarod had modified both cameras so they would wirelessly transfer their images directly to their paired computer's CD drive, and had modified the CD drive with the six CD cassette carousel so that it would burn a disk and automatically switch to the next disk in the carousel, losing maybe five seconds worth of action between changes. He had modified the CD drives so that each CD held an hours's worth of sound and video, and a date and time stamp was recorded continually with the image transferred from the camera.

There was a periscope set in the roof of the surveillance van and the digital camera was attached to the bottom scope, so it could see anything that was happening anywhere around it with the exception of what was underneath the van.

They waited for a customer to come into the garage, then, leaving the first camera running, Tang shouldered the second camera and followed Jarod out to record his apprehending the buyer and confiscating and bagging his drugs. Jarod, keeping his hands on camera, handed Tang the drugs, which he held in front of the camera lens till Jarod handcuffed the buyer into the back of the second van, which he had transformed into a little sound‑proofed paddy wagon. Then they returned to the surveillance van, where Jarod had his test tubes, chemicals, and gas chromatograph set up, and proceeded to obtain a readout on the drugs he had just confiscated.

Once that was done, Jarod sealed the drugs and chromatogram into an evidence bag he then numbered with indelible ink and locked into a strongbox to which Tang kept the key. Finally, Jarod picked up Gianni but, before they added him to the men inside the paddy wagon, they let him know that they had witnesses who could place him at the scene of the murder, and that they had him on nine counts of selling drugs and possession with intent to deal that night. He was then told that, if he played his cards right, he could walk from it all, and all he’d have to do is tell a Grand Jury who really had the drugs the night of the murder. With that thought to occupy him, they secured him in the paddy van.

Jarod then drove Tang to the police garage, and, with Tang shouldering the portable digital camera and Jarod carrying a sports bag filled with the drug testing paraphernalia and strong box, they made their way to the evidence locker. They overcame the two policemen inside with sleep gas, then, with camera's rolling, Jarod set up his equipment, found the drugs taken from Bell the night he died, and tested one of the seven bags. He then compared the results to those of the other bags and put the results into yet another evidence bag, which he tagged and added to the strongbox, finally handing back the key to Tang.

Jarod replaced his equipment into the sportsbag, and the duo retreated to the plaza’s garage. Once there, Jarod collected all the disks they had used that night and put them into the strongbox with the evidence bags. Then he took the strong box with him to the other van and drove back to the police station, to book the nine buyers for drug possession.

Tang, in the meantime, drove the surveillance van to DeLuca's home to hand deliver the strongbox's key, with instructions to meet Jarod in DeLuca’s office. Tang then went home to bed, while Jarod walked Gianni Scarpelli and the strongbox up to Lt. DeLuca's office, where he waited for the man to appear. He explained the situation, handed him the strongbox, and urged him to put Gianni into protective custody so he couldn’t get himself bailed out or, at the very least lose his paperwork until the D.A could evaluate the evidence he’d collected, then went back down to the patrolman's locker room to change for the next shift.

Unfortunately for Jarod, one of the pinched customers decided to use his one phone call to contact Vinnie Panecco himself. Panecco sent his lawyer down to make the man’s bail, then called Marchetti. All parties then assembled for an impromptu meeting At Panecco’s, where the junkie, in exchange for a big score, told his tale of woe about the two men who had apprehended him and Gianni Scarpelli. He gave them a good enough description of Jarod for Marchetti to I.D. him, but not enough for Marchetti to I.D. Tang as the Oriental filming the whole thing.

Promising Panecco he'd look into the matter, Marchetti wandered down to police headquarters in a daze, wondering what was going on with his new partner.

Once inside, Marchetti set out his gossip antenna. It took him most of the morning, but the grapevine finally came through with scuttlebutt about the strongbox and ‘material witness’ that had appeared in Lt. DeLuca's office that morning —not to mention the nine junkies his off-duty partner had brought in that morning.

It was at that moment Marchetti knew that he was the target of the night’s fishing expedition, and that he was well and truly screwed. He thought long and hard about what to do, and a terrible calm settled over him. He made a mental note to pick up his newest throw‑away piece, gave his lover a call from the public phone in the lobby, then called Panecco and filled him in on what had happened, and what he needed. #

Marchetti was unusually quiet that morning, and although his eyes were aimed out the passenger window as per usual, he wasn't seeing anything happening out on the street.

Jarod was concerned, despite himself. "What's up, Marchetti? Your body's in the car, but your mind's a million miles away."

"Wha'd'you care?" Marchetti muttered.

Jarod frowned. "Hey, you can snarl better than that. You feeling OK? You want to 10‑19 and take a sick day?"

"No," Marchetti growled with a little more fire.

"Better," Jarod smiled. "Maybe I should just annoy you till you turn red. You look a little peaked."

"Fuck you, Reed!"

Jarod smirked. “Get in line."

Marchetti frowned, then he leaned over and smelled Jarod's shirt sleeve and breath. He rocked back as if shocked. "Shit! I knew there was something familiar about the way you smelled.

You're fucking Tang Yu!" //God! It all makes sense, now. Tang had to be the Oriental with the camera. God! they got the balls!// It was only then that he placed the nurse. //Jesus H. Christ! Tommy's widow!// His head slumped over his chest. He would have felt better if the tears he'd been fighting since the murder finally erupted, but he once more found himself in a preternatural, tearless calm.

"Pretty good sense memory after four years, Marchetti. I'm impressed," Jarod admitted.

"Yeah, well, it's kinda hard to forget a combo like Russian Leather and honey‑ginger tea with milk. How is Tang, these days?"

"Healed, skittish, and under‑employed."

"Yeah.... He was good with those kids. I dunno. There was somethin' about him put people right at ease. Then they found out he was gay —and they turned on him like a pack of mad dogs. I was around to pick up the pieces. Lemme tell you: it was not pretty. You wanna know the worst part? The bums were out of juvie before Tang was out of Rehab."

"Kind of makes you lose faith in the American system of justice, doesn't it?" Jarod said pointedly.

"Hey, wha'd'ya want, the broad's blind," Marchetti snorted.

Marchetti seemed to perk up after that, and they actually made two collars.

After dropping the suspects off at booking, Marchetti took the wheel, and drove to a little restaurant near the Passaic River, several miles outside their patrol area.

"Living dangerously?" Jarod asked, knowing they were supposed to eat inside their bailiwick.

"I'm in the mood," Marchetti said. "Gonna take a long lunch, too. Gonna make you pay for it, three. Siddown. I gotta take a leak."

Marchetti went into the restroom, came out a minute later, snuck out to the pay phones and made a call to Panecco, then returned to their banquette and sighed. "This is a nice place. The

coffee is the best in town, too."

Jarod smiled. Marchetti loved his coffee. He ordered a chef's salad and lemon meringue pie, strawberry malt and coffee.

Marchetti ordered the prime rib with garlic mashed potatoes, french onion soup, orange cappuccino and triple chocolate cake. "And I want the cake now, please."

They made it halfway through their lunch before nearby gunfire interrupted them.

Marchetti jumped up from the table. "Sounds close by. I'm gonna check it out. You pay the bill. Meet you back at the car."

Marchetti, not waiting for an affirmative, darted out the door, leaving Jarod to grin and dig into his pocket for his wallet. Marchetti had said he'd make Jarod pay for lunch. Jarod threw the bills onto the table with the remains of their half‑eaten meal and trotted outside.

Marchetti was approaching the car from the river side of the street, talking into his shoulder mike. "...will investigate and advise, over."

"10‑4, Car 45, Dispatch out."

"Come on, Jarod, let's check it out. It's that boathouse across the street. 519." He pointed to one of several dozen wooden buildings that looked big enough to house a good sized cabin cruiser. "TAC two." He watched to make sure Jarod switched to the second channel, then started towards the boat house.

Jarod looked around. There was a lot of empty ground between them and the boat house, and no way to go around it, since the neighboring structures were about two inches apart, which left them with only one approach: the front door, which was big enough to accommodate a double tired pick‑up truck.

There were no cars in front of any of the boat houses, and only the sound of one speedboat motor, falling to nothing as it moved away from them. Other ships were on the river, of course, but they were much too large to be housed in the boat shelters.

Marchetti trotted to the front door of the boat house and checked the latch. It was open. He grabbed the door handle with one hand and motioned with the other: 'Me open door, you in, on three. OK?'

Jarod set himself, gun at the ready, and nodded.

Marchetti held up a finger. Two. Three. He pulled the door open and Jarod rushed inside. There was a concrete slide, where a car could back a boat trailer into the water to launch a craft,

and two wooden walkways on either side of the watery berth for convenience's sake. Gear was tacked onto the walls and shoved in shelves and littered the floor in orderly piles. There was no

boat, and the sea door was open. There was no place to hide. Nobody —and no bodies— in sight.

Marchetti undid the strap that had held his throw‑away piece to his ankle, threw the strap into the water, stepped inside, and shut the door. The only remaining light were the sunbeams angling in through the open sea door. Marchetti aimed his throw‑away gun at Jarod. "Onto the boardwalk, Jarod."

Jarod swallowed. He too, had his gun out, but it wasn't aimed at Marchetti. Yet. "If this is another of your macho games, Marchetti, I'm not laughing."

"No yucks, Boy Scout. One of the little junkies you rousted last night ID'd you to Panecco. Imagine my surprise."

Jarod cursed himself under his breath and started working out all the possible scenarios to his situation. "So, Panecco called you in to take care of the problem?"

"Yeah."

Jarod shook his head. He had to stall. "This doesn't have to end in bloodshed."

"Sure it does, Becky," Marchetti said as he headed for the sea door.

"I know you're doing Panecco's dirty work for noble reasons, Marchetti, but this is going too far, even for Peter's sake," Jarod said as he walked carefully backwards along the right boardwalk so Marchetti couldn't maneuver to where the sun was in Jarod's eyes.

"You don't know squat!" Marchetti yelled." Free hand where I can see it!" Marchetti threatened.

Jarod raised the hand not holding his gun away from the belt pouch where the controls for his mike were stashed. Marchetti had caught him before he had time to switch back to channel one.

"One innocent man dead, and going for another? What would Peter think if he knew?" Jarod asked, picking up the conversational thread. "I'm willing to pay all of Peter's bills for the rest of his life if you'll just turn yourself in and admit that it was you who had the drugs, not Thomas."

Marchetti snorted. "Just like that?"

"I'm rich," Jarod said. "I could set up a trust fund for Peter. He'd live comfortably, never having to worry about paying for medicine, food, or rent, ever again."

"Why?"

"For Tommy's kids. All of them. You've already killed their father, their mentor, and their teacher. You don't have to taint his memory and everything he stood for, too."

"Huh! So all I have to do is turn myself over to you, face disgrace, be abused and murdered in prison, and never see my dying lover again, all so the little kiddies's can believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth fairy, and Tom Bell, huh? No fuckin' way, Boy Scout. I'm not goin' to jail. Not for you, not for Tommy, not for his kids, not for nobody, you hear me? The only thing that's happenin' here today is: you're killing me, or I'm killing you, then Tang, then Cassie— "

" —Cassie doesn't know anything. You don't need to kill her. You've already killed Tom, don't shed more innocent blood, make her children orphans, for no reason."

"What? Not pleading for your lover's life?"

"Would it help?"

"No. I figured your 'Oriental cameraman' had to be Tang."

Jarod scowled. "I don't want to die, Marchetti. I love Tang, and I don't want him to die. But I also don't want you to die, not when your only crime was to love someone too much."

"There's no other way. Do you know what they do to cops in prison?"

"You won't do a minute of prison time if you turn state's evidence against Panecco."

"Hah! I know this is hard for you to understand, Boy Scout, but Panecco was the only guy who helped me when I needed it. I'm not turning on him. So we're back to option one: me or you.

"See, I got it all worked out! I kill you, make out like it was in the line of duty, then Tang has an unfortunately lethal rematch with that gang of kids that put the hurt on him, the evidence you turned over to DeLuca takes a walk, Gianni Scarpelli gets instant amnesia, and all my problems go away: Life goes on per usual.

"Or...you kill me. I'm still home free 'cause we're over the water, this is an untraceable piece, and I'm soaped up: they'll find no powder residue on me. What they will find is a rogue cop with a grudge to settle and no proof of wrong‑doing on my part; you end up trying to justify a homicide, I’ll get a departmental burial, and Peter will get my pension and death benefits. It's a win‑win situation far as I can see, boy. The only way I lose is if we both live." He dropped his gun hand to his side.

"This is as 'fair' as it's gonna get, Boy Scout. Draw."

They fired at the same time.

Jarod yelped as much in pain as surprise that he hadn't been hit in a vital area. He dropped to the boardwalk as his left leg went out from under him, a slug in the thigh. He heard a splash as Marchetti's body hit the water. Already at the far end of the walkway, Marchetti splashed out into the open river, tossed his gun further out into the channel, and sank. He didn't surface.

//Oh, God!// Jarod thought. How had everything gone so wrong?

Jarod holstered his weapon and ripped open his pant leg, using a liberated strip of cloth to bind his thigh wound and limped to the door.

He pulled himself up, sweat popping out on his brow. He was shaking with shock. Cold. Clammy. Dizzy.

Jarod heaved the door aside and, clutching his thigh, staggered back towards the cruiser that looked a million miles away. But he kept tottering towards it, and after what seemed like hours, laid his palm against the hood, using it as a crutch. He got in and drove home.

Marchetti had been right about one thing: Jarod would never be able to prove that he'd killed Marchetti in self defense. Once his bona fides were revealed as fakes, nothing he said would be credible. The best thing —the only thing— he could do, was disappear. Even before he took the time to better tend his wound, he had to collect his essentials and find a bolthole.

He parked the patrol car in the parking slot closest to the elevator, and, with his body protesting every step, made it to his loft.

He knew something was wrong the second he opened the door. He slipped inside and leaned against the doorframe while he scanned the room and listened. Slowly, he eased farther inside.

The loft was a mess. The new drapes were ripped, spray painted epithets marred the walls, cabinets, and refrigerator door: QUEER, FAG, COCKSUCKER, HOMO, PERVERT, FAIRY. The contents of the pantry and refrigerator soaked the kitchen floor. There were noodles draped over the tipped‑over sofa. The sofa cushions were ripped and foam chunks and feathers littered the floor.

//Feathers?// ...Oh. His bed pillows. The sound of laughter and glass breaking came from his bedroom and his breath caught in his throat. //Oh, God! The gang sent to kill Tang!// Was his lover already dead? Jarod looked around but saw no evidence that Tang had been at home. //Thank God for small favors.//

Jarod drew his gun, hoping he could take the gang on. He wasn't in the best shape to take on multiple perpetrators. If the intruders got the upper hand, God only knows what they'd do to him before he finally died.

Jarod limped towards the bed and bathroom accessway, his mind still cataloguing the damages. His work desk was kindling. His Mr. Potatohead slivered shards of plastic, his laptop computer was torn in two, the plastic display screen crackled around what looked like a broom handle‑sized hole. He didn't see his family photos or their frames, but broken glass crunched under his soles.

The smell of urine and feces assaulted his nose as he neared the open archway. His clothing, scattered about the floor, had been defiled, ripped, pissed on. His mattress was adorned with three distinct piles of shit and there were three late teen/early twenty‑somethings semi‑visible: one was spray painting the wall behind the head board with the word: MUDPUSHER; one was playing an inadvertent game of peek‑a‑boo with him as he rummaged through Jarod's closet, emerging only long enough to rip something up; the third lad was leaning on a baseball bat like a dandy on a cane admiring the ruin of plastic and glass that had been Jarod's TV.

//That's the one to watch,// Jarod thought, as he eased through the doorframe.

"Hey, guys! Look what I found in the bathroom!" A fourth, carrot‑topped thug announced happily as he strutted into view holding the Halliburton. "Think it's drugs?" He came face to face

with Jarod. "Oh, shit!"

Jarod's blood chilled. //The DSA's!// He brought his gun up. "Drop it!"

Carrot Top dropped it. Luckily, the briefcase was locked.

The thug with the spray paint can whipped around, throwing the can at Jarod's head. Jarod hunched, and just avoided a clip on the ear. Baseball boy threw his bat at Jarod and took a header out the window, hitting the safety of the fire escape landing beyond.

Jarod reflexively swatted the bat aside with his closer gun hand. Spray paint boy took advantage of the distraction to pull a gun from his waistband and fire.

The slug tore into Jarod's stomach. Jarod fell sideways, into the corner between the access way and bathroom door and dropped to the floor, his legs no longer able to bear his weight. On his way down, he shot the young man through the heart. The body crumpled, its face mashing into one of the piles of shit.

Closet boy threw Jarod's rifled dufflebag at him, to similarly divert him, and followed bat boy out the window.

Carrot Top screamed: "Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!" But reached behind him.

Jarod, aware that he was losing an internal battle to stay conscious, felt a moment's panic grip his heart and squeezed the trigger without preamble. The boy hit the floor at Jarod's feet. Jarod's cell phone clattered to the tile, spilling out of death‑loosed hands. He hadn't been going for a gun, afterall.

Jarod tried to rise, lurched up, fell backwards, struck the wall behind him, and sank to the floor where he panted, feeling sick and sick at heart. He'd shot the boy for no good reason. Because he'd been scared.

"I just wanted to help," he told the dead bodies.

Now, in addition to Thomas Bell, there were three more dead. Well, five, if you counted Hambly's two assailants. Nothing on this pretend had gone right, from the beginning. Maybe he should just shoot himself and end this farce.

He thought about it, but, by the time he'd made up his mind, he'd blacked out.

Tang was whistling tunelessly as he got off the elevator. He stopped, alarmed, when he saw the open door. Carefully, he inched his way to the frame and peeked inside. The ruin made him sick at heart. It was all too familiar, a sick deja vu. How had they known? How had they gotten in? How much of the place had they trashed? He listened hard, not wanting to get caught by them, if they were still around. Jarod wasn't due home for another couple hours and discretion, in this case, was definitely the better part of valor.

The apartment was as quiet as a tomb, however, so Tang dared to creep further in. And further in. He looked right. Looked left. And spotted the bodies. The one boy, obviously dead, the police blue pant leg and black Oxford shoe. "Oh, God, no! Siau Niao!" He ran to Jarod's side. Saw a left leg bare to the thigh. Blood. He sank to his knees, careful to avoid the blood slicking the floor around Jarod's body, checking for a pulse, for signs of life.

"Jarod?"

Jarod's eyelids fluttered open. "Ma gai!" He grunted at Tang's probes, in obvious pain.

"Shit! I'll call 911."

Jarod snagged his wrist before he could get away. "No!"

"Yes, damnit! You've been shot, deah. Twice! Bad!"

"Marchetti...set me up. No proof.... He's dead, Tang. I killed him. But he used a throwaway piece. Over the river... current's too strong. No way to prove he fired first. I'd be jailed. They'd find me for sure. Can't go back. Came home to get my stuff...run...found the boys...."

"'Boys'?" Tang repeated the word, emphasizing the plural. He looked around the room then, and saw the other body.

"...Four of them. For you. Marchetti's doing. Cassie may be in danger, too. Not sure. Have to get out of here. Need my stuff. Here...my dufflebag. Pack my pictures, notebooks, this briefcase, and cell phone, the laptop...so I can recover the hard drive...all my I.D. badges.... Let me move the surgical kit to an outside pocket...we'll need it."

"Need it? You need to get to a hospital."

"No. I can fix myself up. With your help. I've operated on myself before with a little assist.... We'll do fine. Ah...the prescription pad, we'll need it, too." He moved the surgical kit and prescription pad to the end pocket of his sports duffle. "There. I'll need some absorbable sutures, a couple of mirrors, a retractor, suction kit, sponges, IV stand, stomach pump..., about six units of O negative blood and normal saline, a unit of sodium bicarbonate and Ringer's 5 percent, and I'll be set."

"I can't get dat stuff."

"You can with a prescription. You'll have to go to New York or Philadelphia to fill them, though. I'm not licensed to practice medicine in New Jersey. Sorry."

"You’re a real doctor?"

"Mm hmm...I've performed apendectomies in Alaska, tracheotomies in New York, skin grafts in California...I pioneered a technique for removing astral brain tumors that's named after me...well, one of me, anyway."

"You are one talented guy."

"Yeah. That's me: bona fide human clay‑dough.... I need to change clothes, wash so I don't leave a blood trail. I'll get into the tub, find me something to wear, then police the area, thoroughly. I can't leave anything irreplaceable —or traceable— behind."

Tang sighed, wondering how he got himself talked into this, but did as bade.

Jarod, leaving his automatic pistol on the floor, tore off his shirt and crawled into the bathroom. He laid himself over the rim of the tub, turned on the taps, and let the water from the

shower rinse over him while he toed off his shoes and socks and undid his trousers. Then, pushing both trousers and underwear off his hips, he flopped into the tub, legs dangling outside.

Jarod kicked to divest himself of the last of his clothing, then stuffed a washcloth into his entry wound, and waited semi‑consciously for Tang to come in and shut the water off.

Tang swung Jarod's legs into the tub, then helped Jarod sit up. Following Jarod's lead, he used a pair of washcloths to block the entry and exit wounds in Jarod’s thigh, then held them and the washcloth at his gut in place with an ace bandage from the first aid kit in a basin cabinet drawer.

Tang then helped Jarod to the toilet, where he sat weaving without complaint as Tang dressed him in a pair of torn jeans, a black T‑shirt, and his running shoes, which had been kicked under the bed.

Tang helped Jarod out to the kitchen, next, where, at Jarod's suggestion, he used a damp tee‑towel to clean the soles of their shoes.

Tang had already toured the bedroom, stuffing the cell phone and Halliburton briefcase into the duffle bag. Now he swept through the common room picking up pictures, name badges and the bottom part of the laptop and stuffing them into the bag as well, while Jarod tried to concentrate long enough to write out the prescriptions he needed.

Finally satisfied that he had cleared the place of everything vital, Tang slung the dufflebag over his shoulder, stuffed the prescription pad into his pants pocket, helped Jarod to his feet and, holding onto Jarod's left arm, which he slang across his shoulders, and Jarod's waist, he maneuvered them out the door, and into the elevator.

"Come on, deah, stay wit' me. I'll take you to my place."

"No! You can't go home, Tang. There could be another gang of thugs lying in wait for you there.... No way of knowing.... Need a safe house."

“Da hotel you bought— ” Tang started to suggest.

“No. The utilities haven’t been connected, yet,” Jarod rejected. “I’ll need electricity, water, heat.”

“OK. First t’ings first. We need to get outta heah. We can do it one of two ways: either you wait heah while I bring my car ovva, or we chance being seen walking ovva to my garage, 'cause we aren't goin' anywhere wit'out a car, and yo's is too hot."

"Walking's faster."

"OK." Tang eased Jarod across the driveway, over to his building's underground garage and his own car. He laid Jarod out on the back seat and put the duffle on the front passenger seat.

"Now: where to?" he asked as he started the car up.

"No idea.... Better warn Cassie."

Tang nodded and rummaged through the duffle until he found the cell phone. He dialed the operator and got Cassie's home and work number, tried her home first, without luck, then called the hospital. Only when he'd finished dialling did he pull the car out of the garage.

"Cassie, it's Tang. Marchetti made a move on Jarod and me, and he t'inks you may be in danger, too. You've got to get yo' kids and go someplace safe fo' awhile."

"What? What are you talking about? What's going on?" Cassie asked, not believing her ears.

"Marchetti got into a shootout wit' Jarod and he sent a gang of thugs to Jarod's place, where I've been stayin', to take me out. Jarod's been shot, but we can't go to da hospital because he can't prove anyt'ing and he figures he'll go down fo’ da shooting and two of da gang are still on da loose, and dere could be more of dem, so dere's no telling who dey’re afta, or how safe it would be fo’ us to go home.

"Jarod t'inks you may be in danger, too. Just in case, you've got to get yo' kids and go someplace other than yo' own house for a few days. Now. And don't go into da parking lot alone,

either, dere could be somebody waiting fo' you dere. I know Jarod's not shoo, but better safe dan sorry, am I right?"

"Jarod's been shot?"

"Yes! He's lost a lot of blood— "

" —Where are you?" she interrupted.

"In my car, wit' Jarod, just drivin' around."

"He needs to see a Doctor, Tang."

"Yeah, I know. But what are we gonna do, huh? He doesn't wanna go to a hospital —and he's still conscious."

"Swell! Meet me at Sam and Eddie’s."

“You know where dey live?"

"Yes,” she said a bit snippily.

“Should you be volunteering their participation?”

“I figure they owe me. Now get over there. I'll see you as soon as I can."

"OK. I’ll call and give dem da heads up. Please be careful, Cassie. Dese guys...dey're really dangerous."

Cassie snuck into the supply room and snuck an I.V. kit and two units of O negative blood out of the freezer, then went to her locker and dumped her mid-day meal in the trash so she could stuff the medical supplies into her insulated lunch box. Then she called her supervisor and took off work, claiming a family emergency, finally, she picked up her kids at their respective schools and drove them to her mothers’. By the time Cassie got to Sam and Eddie's, Tang had called his parents at the restaurant to let them know what was going on, and departed, wad of prescriptions and Centre credit card in hand, to make the supply run to New York.

"How's he doin', Sam?" Cassie asked, as Eddie took off to buy their ‘guests’ some necessary clothes and toiletries, as none of them had had time to pack.

"He's alive. More than that, I couldn't say," Sam said as he escorted her back to the master bath. They had stashed Jarod in the tub, a Roman‑style, double wide, tiled step‑up with whirlpool jets, stripped him, and laid him crosswise to elevate his legs on the broad tiled shelf on the far side of the tub.

"OK. Lemme in." Cassie climbed into the tub and checked Jarod over. She pulled the bags of blood out of her lunch box and eyed the showerhead. A moment's work, and she had one unit of blood hung and in Jarod's arm.

"Tell me again why we can't just call 911?" Sam asked.

"Because he shot Marchetti, the cop that killed Tommy, only he can’t prove it was self-defense and you know what'll happen to him if he goes to jail, and there are some young punks doin’ a wilding and we don’t know who they’re after, so it ain't safe at Tang’s or my place. Where is Tang, anyway?"

Sam told her.

Cassie sat on the steps leading to the tub, so she could be near Jarod, in case he took a turn for the worse. He started babbling, as if the loss of blood had loosened his tongue.

"Won't go back. Won't go. Won't lose the sun...stars.... Should have done more homework...messed up. So many dead."

In his odd lucid moments, Jarod also made it clear that any number of people —cops included— would want to ask Cassie questions about her involvement in the Marchetti affair, and that not all of them —cops included— could be trusted.

Considering everything else that had gone wrong, Jarod was convinced Cassie would be hauled off for aiding and abetting, if not plain conspiracy to murder an officer of the law, with little or no provocation —if Panecco didn’t take it into his head to nab them first. Which, of course, applied to Sam and Eddie, as well, though Jarod was a little too delirious to register the presence of his host.

Because it was near rush hour, it took Tang three hours to drive the twelve miles to the first New York hospital supply house and drug store he could find, buy the supplies, and drive back, but they accepted his script without a qualm.

That knowledge helped Tang convince Cassie to do as Jarod wanted, as they hung a third unit of blood and the sodium bicarbonate, hoping that he'd stabilize enough to do the operation.

As it turned out, since Cassie was an R.N., familiar with the basics of operating procedure, Jarod chose to supervize rather than operate on himself in his state.

Cassie administered the local, and, with Tang's able assistance, pumped Jarod's stomach —recovering the slug in the sludge— resected the wound ravaged tissue so they’d have a clean suture line, irrigated and flushed the abdominal cavity with saline, checked the rest of the stomach and surrounding organs for damage —there was none— and sutured the entry cum operating incision in both stomach and the overlaying musculature, while Jarod, numbed by a local, rather than general anesthesia, periodically checked their work with a mirror and told them what to do next.

By the time they were done, five hours later, the two bodies in Jarod's loft had been found and a city‑wide search was underway for Jarod Reed and Trent Marchetti.

Eddie returned home with his much appreciated purchases, including a set of rubber sheets so they could transfer Jarod to the master bed, and take out dinner. Cassie ate hers in the bedroom with Jarod, who was sleeping, if not quite soundly. It was nearly eleven o'clock before Cassie was satisfied that Jarod’s fever was going down. She withdrew to her appointed guest room, (Sam and Eddie had three), then, took a hot bath and donned the nightgown Eddie had provided, and leaving her uniform in the hamper.

Tang, over dinner, filled Sam and Eddie in on what details he thought were germane, including his own participation in the sting that had led to the shoot-out, then, when it was clear Cassie was ensconced for the night, the three men went upstairs to their respective guest rooms and resolved, in the best tradition of Scarlet O’Hara, to worry about it tomorrow.

INTERLUDE FIVE

Blue Cove, Delaware

Wednesday, February 10^th

9:02 p.m.

The chime alarm on Broots's modified hound program sounded at precisely 9:02 p.m., Wednesday night. By the time Broots was alerted and arrived back at Blue Cove facility to verify the find, it was 9:35. Broots called Miss Parker at 9:37, and Mr. Lyle —since it was Lyle's program that had set the first alarm off— at 9:43. By 10:15, both siblings were at his tech station

demanding to see the results with their own eyes.

"What have you got?" the siblings barked in unison, making Broots a believer in genetic heredity.

"Uh, w‑well," Broots stuttered, less composed when in Mr. Lyle's company than normal, "w‑while you were on your w‑way in, we uh, got two more hits, that makes five total. First: a birth certificate filed in Essex County, New Jersey for a Jarod Marshall Hanson. Second, a follow‑up newspaper story from the New Jersey Star Ledger about how a local cop named Jarod Reed helped to deliver the aforementioned baby after its parents's car was involved in a traffic accident during a police pursuit.

"Around five p.m. one of our credit cards was used to buy medical supplies in New York City. Then my first hound program came up with an APB on patrolmen Trent Marchetti and Jarod Reed wanted for questioning about the two bodies found in Reed's apartment....Finally, the photo recognition program found this clip on Newark's local TV news." Broots ran the video of the on‑

going search for Jarod Reed, and they flashed a picture of Jarod's face on the screen."

"After that, I hacked into the Newark, New Jersey police database and came up with this address." He handed them a slip of paper.

"APB's, medical supplies, birthing babies? What the Hell is going on?!" Miss Parker exclaimed.

"I don't know," Broots said. “But,” //from past experience,// "...I'd say he's been hurt. And if he thinks he needs six units of blood to fix what ails him, I'd say he's been hurt bad."

Miss Parker chewed her lip. "Newark's practically next door. What do you think, Lyle? Fire up the jet or drive?"

"Let's drive. If they're on the lookout for him, they'll be watching the airports. It would be easier to sneak him out in the limo."

"Broots, call Sydney, we'll pick him up on the way out."

Sydney met the limo at the curb to his house. He climbed into the back and automatically took the bench seat across from the twins, a doctor's black bag in hand despite his not being an M.D. He fielded the twins's raised eyebrows with a simple: "Broots told me that the possibility of Jarod's being hurt was high, and that, if I had any first aid supplies, I should bring them, just in case." He did not add that neither he nor Broots thought the twins would have the forethought to insure that first aid materials were on board. "What do we know for sure?"

Miss Parker invited Sydney over to their side of the car, so they could cue up the video tape of the TV news article Broots had provided with his usual show of efficiency.

"The Newark Police Department is asking the public's help in locating two of their officers. Trent Marchetti, recently cleared in the shooting death of Thomas Bell, and his rookie partner, Jarod Reed, disappeared today after calling in a report of shots fired at a boathouse on the Passaic River this afternoon.

"The pair left Florrie's Steakhouse to investigate a volley of gunfire and were not heard from again. Later, complaints from residents of Officer Reed's apartment complex about an illegally parked patrol car led to the discovery of two bodies in Officer's Reed's apartment. The men, whose identities are being withheld pending notification of next of kin, were apparently ransacking Reed's apartment when they were shot and killed.

"A preliminary investigation has established that Officer Reed was wounded twice, and speculation is that this is affecting his ability to think clearly, as he has yet to report in to headquarters or go to a hospital.

"If you have seen either of these men, do not approach, but call the Newark Police at— "

Miss Parker shut the video off and handed Sydney a manila folder with the rest of Broots' findings.

It was after midnight when The Centre company limo purred to the curb of Jarod's apartment building. By that time, the police forensics experts had been through the place with a fine tooth comb.

Miss Parker, Mr. Lyle, and Sydney decarred, discovered the security gate —which Mr. Lyle made short work of— and made their way upstairs to Jarod's loft. Yellow and black police tape barred the door —not that they paid it a second's notice. Mr. Lyle employed his burgling skills once more and pushed the door open.

Daring, at this time of night, to turn on the lights, the trio stepped carefully through the mess that greeted them, noting the homophobic graffiti.

"Oh, God!" Miss Parker groaned.

"What's the matter, Parker?" Sydney asked.

"Well, look at this graffiti, Syd: 'Pervert, Homo, Cock sucker, Fairy,'... you realize what this means?"

"No," Sydney said, playing dumb. "Please enlighten me."

"It means Ratboy's pretending to be gay," she said distastefully.

"Hm..., we don't know that, at all," Sydney said with a secret smile after some consideration. "All we know is that whoever wrote these epithets either thinks Jarod was gay, or

believes that identifying him as such is the ultimate insult."

"Hey, Sis, Doc, come look at this," Lyle invited, stepping back from the accessway leading into the bedroom. "Looks like Jarod caught them in the bedroom."

Miss Parker and Sydney stepped to the doorway and peeked inside. The position of one body, designated by little folded and marked cards set where the head, feet, hands, hips, and knees had been, was made even more manifest by the pool of spilled blood inside the card's boundaries. More blood seeped out from the dark corner, into the light spilled onto the scene from the access-way. It hit their eyes like a slam to the face, making Parker back up, involuntarily, unwilling to ruin yet another pair of Ferragamo’s in pursuit of Jarod.

Sydney, not so easily unnerved by the sight of blood, and unconcerned about his footwear, stepped into the bedroom, reached for the wall switch, turned on the lights, and thoughtfully assessed the considerable puddle of blood pooled in the heretofore dark corner. "I hope this isn’t Jarod’s, “ he breathed.

"What?" the twins asked.

Sydney looked around the room, found the other body's placards on the bed, and swung back to look at the blood at his feet. He reached into his pocket for a couple of vials and what looked, to the uninitiated, like a long handled, steel, coke spoon. He squatted, opened the vials, and, scraping the spoon's tiny bowl across the floorboards, scooped a quantity of blood into each vial and stirred. The liquid in one vial turned blue. The other turned pink. "This is definitely Jarod's blood," he said. "It's the proper blood type and it contains the anomaly his blood carries. From the looks of this stain, he's lost a dangerous amount of blood."

"So, Broots was right. He was badly hurt. Which means the blood he bought was for himself," Lyle concluded. "Could he get far?"

"I would say Broots was very right," Sydney agreed. "And that depends on what you mean by 'get far.' Jarod couldn't have gotten out of this apartment by himself. In fact, I'd hazard to guess that he's lost too much blood to doctor the wounds himself. I'd go so far as to say there's a fifty‑fifty chance that, even if he sought medical help, he wouldn't survive."

"So he wouldn't have been in any shape to be transported very far?" Lyle asked by way of confirmation.

"...If it were anyone else, I'd say: 'no', but you can never be sure with Jarod. He's so confident of his ability to withstand anything and overcome all, and he's so pursuasive, he may have convinced his helper that he's capable of travelling. He'd have to lay flat, though. At least until he's had a transfusion. He'd pass out, otherwise. He's likely to go into shock despite their best efforts. My best guess is that he's holed up somewhere nearby that won't ask questions. That means our best chance of finding him is searching the residences of whoever he's befriended this pretend."

"What about the credit card purchase in New York?" Miss Parker asked. "Is it likely that they —whoever they are— have Jarod holed up somewhere in New York?"

"It's possible," Sydney said. "Did Broots get a description of whoever used the card?"

"Not that I noticed," Miss Parker said. "I'll call him and find out."

A short call proved that Broots hadn't, and had no way of getting one until the establishment reopened the next morning.

"We can't very well pound doors to 'interview' people at this hour, either," Sydney concluded. "I think we should table this search till morning."

"I hope Broots booked us a nice hotel," Miss Parker said, by way of agreement.

Mr. Lyle smirked at the pair as they retreated to the front door. He took out his cell phone and called Mr. Parker, alerting him to the need for a little political grease to ease their way into the police investigation tomorrow morning.

Sydney took a last look around while Lyle made his call. "Did you notice: there are no personal effects in evidence. No red notebooks, no newspaper clippings, no pictures, no DSAs. Nothing irreplaceable has been left behind. Jarod was definitely in control of his departure, and he's not done with his pretend. He'd have left a notebook for us, were he."

"Good! That means we have twice the reason to interview whoever knows his 'Jarod Reed' character," Miss Parker said.

"Yes, and since Jarod's condition should be quite precarious at best, it shouldn't be too difficult to persuade his care‑giver to turn him over to someone who can afford him the best medical care possible."

Mr. Lyle giggled. "No, I don't imagine it would be," he agreed. 'Persuasion' was his middle name. His was hardly the 'Gentle' sort, however.

The last to exit, Lyle shut out the lights and refastened the police tape across the door.

CHAPTER NINE

Newark, New Jersey

Thursday, February 11th

8:00 a.m.

Tang and the others awoke around eight the next morning. Jarod was still asleep. Cassie took his temperature and other vitals and checked his dressings as soon as she was dressed, then the four non-pretenders gathered in the kitchen for breakfast, and tried to sort out the tumult of yesterday, not that Tang could do much more than reiterate what they already knew: Marchetti was dead, Jarod had shot him and had been shot in return. Marchetti had threatened to kill Cassie and him, forcing Jarod to shoot Marchetti, but not before Marchetti had told Jarod that he had hired the young toughs who had beat Tang up at the Crisis Center two years ago to finish the job on him, which is why Jarod had gone straight home after the incident and discovered the boys in mid-trashing. He’d killed two and got shot yet again. Two of the gang had escaped. There might be other thugs on the loose, and the man Marchetti was working for, Vinnie Panecco, may or may not be involved and interested in keeping the ‘contract’ on them ‘open.’

They all decided to stay put and take a ‘wait and see’ approach.

Cassie called herself and her kids in sick then both she and Tang updated their families on their situation, such as it was, which both worried and pleased Cassie’s kids when they talked to her, because of the novelty of missing school when they were weren’t sick. When she then informed them that their Grandmother was authorized to call the schools and get their homework for the day, and that they were to stay inside the house for their own safety, the fun aspect palled considerably.

At 2:20, the four adults were lazing off the remains of a late lunch, to match their late breakfast, when Jarod's panicked screams drove them upstairs at a gallop.

"Noo! No! I won't stay! Let me out! Let me go! I don't want to be here! You can't keep me here! I’ll get out again. Got to get out! Want sun and stars and wind! Got to go, go, go...."

Tang was the first one through the bedroom door. He spotted Jarod half on and half off the bed, pawing the floor as if he were trying to escape on all fours, as walking was too complicated a task for his as yet limited resources.

Tang ran over, hoisted his confused lover back onto the mattress, then held Jarod's heaving shoulders to the bed. "Hey, hey, hey, Siau Niao. Calm down. You're OK. It's a nice place, a warm place. It's a little cold ta be outside, right now, deah. Relax, you're gonna be fine."

"Tang? Oh, Tang...they got you, too? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Tang raked Jarod's hair into place with his fingers. "Shh.... Nobody got us, Little Bird. We're wit’ friends. We're safe. Lay back, now. Shh, shh, shh. Calm down. Come on, deah: relax for Ma Gai. We don' want you to bust yo' stitches, OK? Let Cassie check dem, hmm?"

"Cassie? Cassie's here, too?"

"Dat's right. Everybody's safe and sound. OK, bandages off....” Tang raised his eyebrows at Cassie, who smiled and nodded once she’d determined no harm had been done and proceeded to rewrap the site. “Dat's good.... All done. Lay down, now, and let's cover you up.... Dere you are. It's all right, deah. Quiet, now. It's OK."

Jarod stared up at the milky white lighting panels in the bedroom's ceiling and started to cry as he rocked in Tang's arms. "No. It's not OK. It's not OK. Wanna be outside."

"Yo' too sick to go outside, deah," Tang said, petting his head soothingly.

"How about we open the curtains, instead, Jarod? Would you like that?" Cassie asked.

Jarod shook his head and turned his face into Tang's chest. "Can't. Not real. No windows. Just white light. Milky white light forever and ever. No sun. No night."

"Of course dey're real windows, deah. Shh, now," Tang said, as Jarod continued rocking. "Cassie, go ahead and open the curtains, den turn off da lights, please."

"Sure, Tang," Cassie moved from the side of the bed and drew the curtains back. Then retreated to the doorway to shut off the overhead lights.

"Dere you are, deah," Tang said, moving so the light coming in from the window could hit Jarod's clenched eyelids.

Jarod stilled. His tear‑filled eyes opened and blinked in the sunshine. He reached his arm out slowly, as if in a trance, and let the light play over it as if the sunbeams were ribbons he could twine around his fingers. "Is it real?" He studied the square of glass and the cityscape beyond it, and breathed deeply, calming instantly. "It is real.... I— I like the view."

Tang smiled and crawled over Jarod's legs so he could spoon up behind him. "Dat's right, deah. It's a real window wit' dat lovely view you like so well. Is dat close enough to da out of doahs fo' you?"

"Yes...," Jarod breathed. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened again with a start. "We're not in Delaware, are we?"

"No. We're at Sam and Eddie's house in East Orange, New Jersey."

"SamN'Eddie,...from Tommy's funeral," Jarod said drowsily.

"Dat's right, deah. Look, our hosts are in da doahway. Dat's Sam, on Cassie's left, and Eddie on Cassie's right."

"Hmm.... Sam is Tommy's third cousin. They've been a couple since High School," Jarod said, revealing that he had done his homework on the pair, if only to satisfy his own curiosity.

"Dat's right," Tang nodded.

"They own Marbles. They let you in for free to troll for projects. Like a community service."

"Right again," Tang smiled.

"Cassie doesn’t like them ‘cause they let Tommy in free, too. Hmm.... Just one, big, happy family.... She thought Tommy wouldn’t have run around so much if he’d had to watch his money more, but it’s not true, Cassie. Tommy was safer at Marbles than he would have been trolling the streets, which is what he would have been doing if he hadn’t been able to go to the club. Sam was just trying to keep Thomas as safe as a habitual cruiser could be. He always needed new partners.... Rules of the game.... Tommy would never have hurt you by breaking the rules," Jarod murmured.

Cassie clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in her sobs and fled the room.

Jarod, for once, did not seem to notice. "Turn me over, Ma Gai, I want to hold you."

"I don' t'ink dat would be such a good idea. Remember yo' stitches. Yo' stomach must be pretty sore."

"Mm OK," Jarod said.

"All da same." Tang got up, waved for the guys to come help, and they grabbed the bed sheet. "Heah, how about we pull da sheet —hang on— dere, now yo're on da other side of da bed, and I'll come around...and lay down facing you. How's dat?"

Jarod tucked Tang's head beneath his chin, gripped Tang's waist, and smiled. "That's fine."

"Dat's good. Why don' you get some rest now, hmm?”

Jarod nodded. "OK." He fell obediently to sleep.

“Man, this guy must have been a Tommy state secret. Five minutes ago I’d have sworn Tommy told me about all his conquests, but he couldn’t know the stuff he does without knowing Tommy,” Sam said.

“Oh, my, deahs, believe me when I say: dere’s nobody who knows Tommy betta dan Jarod,” Tang allowed.

“You know,” Eddie confided, “I was a little ticked at Cassie for involving us in this mess without worry one about how it might muck us up personally and professionally, but, bless her pointy little head, something good might have come of it. Maybe hearing how it was from a third party..., well, maybe things will iron themselves out.”

“Dat would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Tang smiled as their hosts exited the room and shut the door, leaving the lovers alone together.

Tang was dozing when Jarod woke up, content to nuzzle his partner and revel in the moment. Finally, he acknowledged to himself that Tang was as dear to him as anyone he had ever known in his entire life. But then a pang of guilt stabbed Jarod's heart and his eyes welled with tears. //He is as precious to me as Kyle ever was, yet I haven't trusted him enough to tell him who I really am.//

He had at least been honest with Nia, telling her the truth before they became intimate, allowing her to have an opportunity to reject him before she lost her heart to him, before he put her life in danger.

The Centre routinely investigated and surveilled the people with whom Jarod came into contact, even going so far as to detain a few of them for interrogation. So far, no one they'd detained had known enough to warrant either keeping or killing them. (For reasons that were still unclear to him, but which he suspected had to do with the nature of Miss Parker's report, The Centre had neither interrogated nor detained Nia.)

Jarod lived in fear of what The Centre would do to anyone who knew the truth about them, or to realize that they could control him by holding any of his new‑found friends and loved ones hostage against his good behavior.

That was the primary reason Jarod avoided revisiting the people he'd befriended, although he had kept in touch with several of them via sporadic e‑mail, phone calls, and letters. It would have been better for them if he hadn't kept drawing The Centre's attention to them, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He needed those little bits of news and gossip, their words of friendship

and concern, to keep going.

If he was perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that he was being selfish, but he craved the illusion of normalcy, of a sense of family and belonging with these near strangers because they weren't a part of his life at The Centre, because they proved, in some small but significant way, that he could live without The Centre, could live Outside despite Sydney's dire

predictions.

It hadn't taken him long to discover that every person he spoke to was potentially at risk, whether they realized it or not. Telling Tang 'the whole truth' would make the Oriental that much more of a threat to The Centre. It would also make Tang aware of just how much he had sacrificed by becoming intimate with Jarod.

Jarod knew that his lies could destroy his fragile relationship with Tang, but so could telling the truth. He didn't want Tang to hate him, to regret loving him, but he didn't want Tang to remain ignorant of his impending and utter loss of privacy and the possible dangers that entailed.

Jarod couldn't decide which was worse: that he had knowingly allowed Tang to put himself at risk because of his need for intimacy, that it was too late to do anything about it, or that

Tang might leave him when he found out how Jarod had quite deliberately compromised him.

Jarod's conscience stabbed his heart with searing shame. //I hadn't the right to do this to him.// It was as much and as great a betrayal of their love as anything Sydney had ever done to him. Jarod didn't even have the excuse of needing to maintain his scientific distance from his subject. It was pure selfishness. //How can I claim to love him, and disregard his rights and feelings at the same time? I'm no better than The Centre.//

Jarod began to cry again. He didn't deserve this man, his love, his regard, but it was too late to rectify the situation: the harm was done. Tang had said he was desperate for affection, and here was the proof: he had lied to Tang, taken away his right to choose his own fate, robbed him of his privacy, put his life in jeopardy. And all without a second thought.

//You're a bad person. You don't deserve him. You should be ashamed of yourself.// Unfortunately, self‑recriminations couldn't help him decide whether maintaining the fiction, now that it had been told, would be better for Tang in the long run or not. //Oh, God! What am I going to do?//

Tang gasped. "Jarod. Jarod! Let up! You're hurting me!"

Jarod stopped squeezing Tang with a start. "Sorry. I— I didn't realize what I was doing."

"So I gathered." Tang wiped Jarod's tear‑streaked face and arched an eyebrow, wondering what new crisis was brewing in Jarod's head. "What's da matta, Siau Niao?.... Come on, deah, talk to me. I can't help you if you don' tell me what's wrong. Is it Marchetti? Da vandals?"

"Yes. No. All of it, and more." Jarod rolled onto his back, out of Tang's arms. "I don't want you to hate me. I don't want to lose you. I don't know if I should risk telling you," Jarod moaned.

Tang bent his elbow and propped his head with onto his left palm so he could see Jarod's face, and rubbed Jarod's right arm with his free hand, briskly. "I will nevva hate you, love. Now tell me what's wrong.... Jarod?"

Tang sighed. His Little Bird had fallen asleep. To be expected for someone who’d just undergone multiple traumas, including major ‘meatball’ surgery, but Tang forgave himself for thinking Jarod’s timing stank, nonetheless. “Dat’s OK, deah. You rest, now. We’ll get da whole story soon enough,” Tang whispered in Jarod’s ear as he patted Jarod’s hand. Then he got up and tip-toed out to join the others in front of the TV, watching for breaking news on their story.

Tang eased carefully back into bed with his lover, and settled himself down for a nap before dinner. He’d just about drifted off when Cassie came in to take vitals and hang a new I.V., which meant waking Jarod up.

“It would be best for all concerned if I got out of town as soon as possible,” Jarod said.

“Well, you’re the doctor, but I’d wait a couple more days for stuff to knit together if I were you,” Cassie said.

“In dis instance, I’ll take her word ovva yo’s, any day,” Tang said. “How long do you figga it’ll be before he’s ready to travel?” Tang asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t consider him travel-worthy until he can eat solids, has a bowel movement, and can get up to use the bathroom without tearing his stitches. OK. You’re all set here,” Cassie said, with a smile. “Why don’t you take a nap, hm? The more you rest, the faster you’ll heal,” she encouraged before exiting. Tang was happy to follow orders. He snuggled back into the bed and closed his eyes.

Jarod stared at his bed companion for a minute or two.

“Tang?”

“What?” Tang answered without opening his eyes.

"I...haven't been entirely honest with you,” Jarod said.

“About what?” Tang asked Then, when no answer was immediately forthcoming, he suppressed a sigh, opened his eyes, and looked at Jarod. “I’m listening, deah.”

Jarod gazed into Tang's eyes and scraped his bottom lip with his teeth. “I don't want to deceive you anymore, Tang, but the truth —I don’t even know if it really matters; I mean, it's already too late. My fault. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you. But I needed you —or—... somebody...." He stared down at his fingers, twining around each other in nervous knots, unable to face the Oriental.

"You were right, you know: I was so lonely I'd have gone home with anybody that night, but I went with you, and you are good and kind and I love you and I want you to love me, but you can't love me because you don't know me —oh, not the ‘real’ me, you know I don't even know the real me. It's what I am that matters, in this case, not who," Jarod babbled.

"And I owe you the whole truth, because your life as you know it is over, but I’m not a hundred percent sure if I should tell it to you, because knowing the truth is dangerous, and I don’t want to put you at greater risk, but —I don’t know what to do, Tang. Please, tell me what to do.”

“Wait a minute, deah. How dangerous?”

“Lethally.”

“Worse dan hiding from bad guys in someone else’s home?”

Jarod nodded.

Tang gulped. “Worse as in I might get killed, or worse as in everybody I know might be killed?”

“Well, if I tell just you and you don’t tell anybody else, eventually it might just be you, but everybody else would undoubtedly be inconvenienced for the duration.”

“‘Inconvenienced’ how?”

“Held incognito and interrogated.”

“...I see. Dat’s pretty serious.”

“I know. That's why I'm upset, because I think you deserve to know everything, but...I don’t know if knowing my truth is worth risking your life."

Tang frowned. Of all the things he'd been prepared to hear, that had not been among them. He petted Jarod soothingly while he thought things through, murmuring reassuringly. Finally, he said: "If my not knowing is hurting you dis much...den I t'ink maybe you should tell me. I...really would like to know, 'cause yo're not like anybody else I've evva met, and I wanna know why."

Jarod sighed as the weight of decision slid off his shoulders and he nodded, rolling back onto his right side so he could nuzzle Tang. "...You know how I said I was stolen from my parents, and raised in an institution, and got my fortune doing consultant work?"

"...Yeah?"

"Well,...what I didn't tell you is: the institution and the business were one and the same, a place called ‘The Centre.’ They stole me from my family, and held me against my will for thirty‑three years. I only escaped three years ago."

Tang's breath hissed from between his teeth like venting steam. "And Damon?"

"Exactly who I said he was: a Centre employee who became an international terrorist."

"...And da money?"

"...Mine...sort of... When I ran away, after Kenny was murdered, I only had the clothes on my back and the DSA reader and disks —what I referred to as my 'home movies'— that I'd stolen from— my keeper. Well, the need for money became apparent almost immediately. So I stole some —from The Centre, that is. I calculated that I had generated over 260 million dollars in revenues for them over my 'tenure' there and I figured they owed me at least ten percent of that after what they did to me, so I stole it, electronically. They got most of it back when they froze my Alaskan bank account, but I brushed up on international and corporate finance and I stole most of it again —and put it in accounts they haven’t been able to find and can't legally access without a court order and some sort of proof linking me either to the computer theft or other embezzlement of their funds— which, since I used legitimate company banking codes and have never been a legal employee of theirs, they can't do."

"Whoa! Back up. One t'ing at a time. Why did dey take you in da first place?”

Jarod sighed. "My parents couldn't have children naturally, but they wanted them desperately, so they eventually became clients of the Nu‑Genesis clinic in Atlanta, Georgia. It’s a fertility clinic now but, at the time of my birth, it was an adoption agency and fertility clinic, both. I wasn't able to discover whether I was created through fertility enhancement treatments using a surrogate, or DNA slicing, but I know the woman I consider to be my mother didn't actually give birth to me.

"I also know that my parents had another child through the clinic —a boy, Kyle, who was genetically related to me, and whom my mother did bear. She was inseminated with him when they came to the clinic to pick me up, so we had to stay in some near‑by cabins until her condition was stable. Kyle was rather sickly, though, so he wasn't at home a lot. In fact, when we went back home to Wisconsin, after our mandatory battery of tests when Kyle was three and I was four, we left Kyle at the clinic, because of some illness he had,” Jarod said, voice slowing to a drawl.

"The clinic claimed the tests were to record our development, but, in reality, they were conducting the tests to find children with special abilities: geniuses with a high empathic ability, for their parent corporation, The Centre.

"About a week after my parents and I got back to Wisconsin, I was kidnapped from my bedroom in the middle of the night and taken to The Centre's facility in Blue Cove, Delaware. Kyle was kidnapped two years later. That's when my parents figured out that it was their connection to the clinic that was the common factor, and they went underground.” He yawned. “Ironically, while they were on the run, my mother became pregnant, quite naturally, with my sister Emily.

"I had no way of knowing that at the time, of course. In fact, my handlers had taken great pains to make sure I didn't remember my life outside The Centre at all....” He nodded off.

Tang sighed. He had a feeling this tale was going to take a long time in the telling. Cassie came and called him for dinner, then, so Tang left Jarod sleeping. He returned to the bedroom as soon as dinner was over, in case Jarod had awakened in his absence, but, if he had, he showed no signs of it, so Tang decided to take a nap himself.

Four hours later, Tang groaned awake. Being roused by his nightmare plagued, insomniac partner was becoming routine.

“No..., don’t leave me....don’t hate me. Please...Tang....please!”

Tang woke his moaning bed mate. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s all right. I’m heah. Jarod? Are you wit’ me?”

“Uh..., yeah.”

“Bad dream?”

“Yes.... I dreamed I told you everything —and you left me.”

“Mmm...,” Tang yawned and rubbed his face. “Dat’s just yo’ fear talkin’. I told you I would nevva hate you. So, you said dey made you fo’get da outside world and...?” he prompted wanting Jarod to get it out of his system so he’d have half a chance at catching forty uninterrupted winks.

“I don't know what they did to me to make me forget,” Jarod obligingly continued. “Maybe drugs —I'm terrified of needles. Possibly electro‑shock —that's Dr. Raines's specialty but, whatever they used, after they were done with me I'd forgotten almost everything: my name, my birthday, where I lived, even that I had a younger brother....

"But while I'd forgotten almost everything about my parents, I hadn't forgotten that I had parents. I kept asking to go home, to see them. When I was six —ten— years old, they told me my parents were coming to visit me...then they told me their plane had crashed and they had both been killed. I believed them, and, thinking I had no where else to go, I lost any incentive to leave.

"They kept me in virtual isolation for the first sixteen years I was there, but under constant surveillance. The only person I had repeated and prolonged authorized contact with was Sydney, my project coordinator. My Sweepers —the guards, that is, were forbidden to engage in unnecessary conversations with me. They just followed me around, kept me in line...kept me on

schedule.

"I saw Dr. Raines occasionally, as well, but I mostly forgot him —I had huge gaps in my memory when I escaped, events I was only able to reconstruct using the DSAs— the digital surveillance records they kept of me....” Jarod nodded, yawned, and dropped enviably off to sleep.

Tang groaned. He went to the bathroom, then wandered into the kitchen for a glass of warm milk before heading back to bed to salvage what he could of the remainder of the night.

Cassie woke them both a few hours later when she came in to change the IV and check Jarod’s bandages and vitals. “I’ll call you when breakfast is ready, Tang.”

“Don’t bother, deah. I’ll just crawl out for a bite when I can face da day.”

Cassie grinned and exited, shutting the door after her.

Once they had resettled, Jarod took up his tale again.

"I lived in a cultural vacuum: no radio, no TV, no movies, no holidays, no birthdays, no visitors. I wasn't allowed outside. The only rooms I saw were my own, the lab where I performed my SIMs, the room where they punished me if I was bad, the exercise room, the doctor's lab where I had monthly check‑ups, and the corridors and elevators that connected them.

"The only books I read were to prepare me for a SIM. Every game I played was a test to improve or quantify my abilities. Every 'toy' I had was a prop for some project. Every minute of

every day was accounted for and structured around my SIMs: five hours every other day for exercise; an hour and a half a day for meals; four hours a day to sleep; five hours a day for lessons. They even told me when to shit...."

"But why would dey want to destroy yo' sense of self?"

"To enhance my ability to pretend. That's what they call what I do in a SIM: 'pretending'. Without a sense of self I'm able to become anyone, do anything. I wasn’t the only Pretender in their employ, but I know I was the best they ever had, and they made sure the distractions were kept to a minimum in order to keep me at the top of my form.

"They felt a libido would destroy my concentration —so they drugged it into non‑existence. Only their obsessive need to monitor my bodily functions —to take samples— and human error, interfered with their plan to keep me a sexual neuter.

"I ate the same food for the same meal for thirty‑three years. My clothing was cotton, and so standardized they could have been uniforms. My room was kept as Spartan as they could make it: four white walls, white floor, milky white lighting panels over the whole ceiling. No windows, no decorations, no temperature fluctuations. One cot, one desk, one chair, one sink, one toilet,

one shower, one door, four cameras. Twelve feet cubed. Sixteen years.

"After five years in virtual solitary, I saw a boy about my age being escorted down the hall outside my SIM lab.... I'd known there were other children in The Centre, of course, I could hear

them in their rooms, but I'd never seen them. I wanted a friend so badly, I rationalized an excuse to not do my SIM until they introduced us. They put him into the room next to mine and we were

able to rig up a means to communicate with each other when we were ‘alone’ at night.... After we met, they had us do a few SIMs together.... One of the SIMS was an experiment on how anticipating pain can break one's will.... Only they used real acid.... They made me burn my only friend with acid!" Jarod began to sob, and Tang cradled him in his arms and cooed to him until he calmed down.

"When they discovered that Kyle and I were communicating with each other, they moved him. Two years later, they told me they had let him go, but, in reality, Dr. Raines had taken him to his Chamber of Horrors on SL‑27.... They had told him I was dead.... Ten years later, he started a fire on his floor to cover his escape. But they'd twisted him so badly psychologically he ended up in prison for assault, battery, and kidnapping.

"It wasn't until my own escape, twenty‑one years later, while I was looking for my parents, that I found out Kyle and I were brothers. Somehow, that made it all so much worse.

"...A year after I got out, Kyle broke out of prison and I found him.... But the FBI was after him, so he faked his death so no one would catch me through him. He kept an eye on me, though. Six months ago, Lyle, one of The Centre's two‑legged pit bulls, captured me. Kyle freed me, then stepped in front of a bullet meant for me. He died in my arms.

"Two years after I met Kyle in The Centre, I met my first female —well, sort of: we were separated by a pane of glass, but we could talk to each other. I think I fell in love with her at first sight. A few days later, I met her mother, Catherine Parker. She was one of the project over‑seers. Catherine brought me my first present —nothing contraband: just a tablet of drawing paper, but it was the first time I had something to play with that wasn't connected to a SIM.... After that, I use to dream that Catherine Parker had adopted me and taken me out of The Centre. Six months later, Mrs. Parker was murdered in the elevator just off my SIM lab.

"It wasn't too long after that that Angelo, one of Raines's other child projects, and I figured out a way to circumvent the security cameras. We started skulking around The Centre like

little rats —sometimes with Miss Parker in cahoots. I think that was the happiest I ever was in the Centre. Four years later...I got too deeply into a SIM and I took Miss Parker hostage and very nearly hurt her. Her father sent her away to boarding school the next day, and I didn’t seen her until she’d graduated from college and come to work at The Centre herself,” Jarod yawned and once again dropped off.

Tang let Jarod sleep, and went out to the kitchen, discovering the other three at the stove taste testing each other’s recipes for spaghetti sauce.

“Tang! Hey! It wakes!” Eddie greeted with a smile.

The other two turned around to welcome the Oriental. “You’re a little late for breakfast, guy, but lunch is almost ready,” Sam grinned.

“How’s Jarod?” Cassie asked.

“Sleeping off and on, and you dare not call it a spaghetti sauce competition wit’out a contribution from me,” Tang said, and promptly whipped up a saucepanful of the stuff that had enthralled Jarod.

Since Tang’s was the last dish made, they were soon gathered around the dining room table ‘taste-testing’ the sauces with a variety of pastas, and enjoying the accompanying tossed green salad, garlic bread, and a good red wine. After crowning Tang King Saucemaker, they adjourned to the living room with coffee and dishes of gelato.

“Hey, Cassie, you rememba how Jarod told you he was kidnapped as a child, and nevva got back to his real folks, but was raised in an orphanage?” Tang asked as he set his empty bowl down.

“Yeah?”

“Well, he’s been fillin’ in da details. Seems dat, three years ago, he found da guys that kidnapped him, but he only had his word as a four-year-old foundling against guys wit’ million dollar lawyers, so he couldn’t bring dem to justice. Problem is, now dat dey know he’s gunnin’ fo’ dem, dey’ve put a bounty out on him, so now dat Jarod’s picture’s hit da air, dey’ll be circlin’ Newark like sharks on a blood trail.”

“You mean besides the cops,” Sam began.

“And Vinnie Panecco!” Eddie wailed.

“And the gang that trashed his place,” Cassie added.

“We’ve got to worry about a bunch of murderous kidnappers?” Sam finished.

“Uh, yeah. And dey definitely make everybody —including Panecco— look like pikers.”

“Oh, don’t tell me: they’re from Delaware,” Cassie said.

“Uhh...dat would be a good bet, deah. And, well, you heard him: he’d rather be dead dan let dese guys catch him again. So we hafta sneak him out of Newark as soon as possible and stash him someplace dese people can’t find him until he gets back on his feet. It’s a shoo bet you guys are compromised, ‘cause you’re related to Tommy, so it’s only a matta of time before somebody comes sniffing ‘round yo’ doah. Dat means we can’t stay heah too long, and we can’t stay wit’ any other relatives or known associates we have. We basically can’t have any ties to da place we hide him, yet we hafta be reasonably shoo it’s safe, and we can’t leave a paper trail. Of course, cash, once we get ahold of it is no problem, ‘cause Jarod is rich as Croesus. But stayin’ one step ahead of da bad guys till he’s mended is somet’ing else. Plus, in order fo’ Cassie and me to get our lives back, we have to convince Panecco we’re not gunnin’ fo’ him, dat our interest in his business began and ended with Marchetti; otherwise, we may as well relocate wit’ Jarod, ‘cause dis town won’t be safe fo’ any of us.”

“Lord knows we wouldn’t be able to stay in business,” Sam moaned in agreement.

“So, any suggestions?” Tang asked.

Cassie flapped her hands. “Aunt Sophie has an RV. I know I could talk her into loanin’ it to you.”

“Us? You’ve got to hide, too, deah,” Tang pointed out.

Cassie shrugged. “I miss my kids, Tang, and I couldn’t bear to disrupt their lives even more. It would be too much for them to bear after Tommy’s death and all. Besides, if Panecco was going to bother me, I think he’d have made a move on my mother’s place before now. Jarod’s the one in real danger, what with the cops and six kinds of bad apple looking for him.”

“Looking. Yes. Sounds to me like Jarod needs a make-over,” Sam said.

“Yeah!” Eddie enthused, warming up to the idea immediately. ”Once SamN’Eddie get done with Jarod, even you won’t recognize him,” Eddie assured.

Tang scrunched up his face. “I really don’ t’ink he’s da Voguing sort.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t do anything that drastic, honey,” Sam assured him. “We’d never get away with feminizing all that bone structure and manly physique.”

“Heah, heah!” Tang agreed.

“Yes, well, there’s more than one way to fleece a wolf.. “Oo! This is going to be so much fun!” Eddie squealed so adorably neither Sam nor Tang could help but laugh.

The doorbell rang. They quieted. Looked at each other. There was no way whoever was outside could see them, but they ducked below their respective sofa backs anyway. Jarod’s room was dark, despite the open curtains, and, once they had moved into the ‘playpen,’ an almost solid square of puffy, beige velveteen sectional furniture consisting of three corner units, one sofa, one chair, two loveseats, a corralling bookcase/coffeetable and six central ottomans which fit together like train cars, passive lighting was all that was required, so the kitchen and dining room lights had been extinguished.

“I don’t suppose dere’s anyway we can see who’s calling, wit’out revealing ourselves?” Tang whispered.

Sam and Eddie shook their heads in unison.

“You expectin’ anybody?” Tang whispered.

They shook their heads again.

“Den I vote we sit tight.” Tang raised his hand almost level with his face. The others exchanged glances, then raised their hands likewise.

The unannounced caller knocked again. Then a third time. The caller stepped off the porch, and they breathed a sigh of relief, only to hold it once more as the fellow made a circuit of the house, peering in through every available window, and even rattling the garbage cans. After a nerve-wrenching minute of scrutiny, the caller’s footsteps receded. They waited until they heard a car start up and pull away before sitting up.

“I’ll go call Aunt Sophie,” Cassie volunteered when they’d calmed down.

Sam exchanged looks with Eddie, who tipped his head down to one shrugged shoulder. “Yeah. There’s a phone call we can make, too. What do you think: garbage or linens?”

“Oh, definitely linens,” Eddie said. “They are so much more refined.”

Sam nodded. “We’ll explain to our laundry guy that Jarod was one of Tommy’s lovers and that he’s satisfied with bagging Marchetti and he’s leaving town to make it clear he’s got no ax to grind with Panecco, and to please to call off the gang and any threat to Cassie or you. Then we just have to wait to hear back.”

“It’s the best we can do,” Eddie said.

Tang nodded. “OK. I’d better get back before he wakes up and finds me gone.”

Tang went to the bathroom, then crawled back into bed with Jarod, who was waiting for him in a semi-doze.

“Hey, Tang.”

“Hey, yo’self. You wanna talk or sleep?”

“Talk.”

“OK. Wait till I get settled.”

Jarod waited till Tang was comfortable, then took up his tale where he’d left off yet again.

"After my last near-tragic escapade with Miss Parker, I was moved to a new room, on a different sub‑level of the building. Compared to my old room, it was a palace: very much like my loft, split level...with a private bathroom. And I had wandering privileges: four whole floors to explore and all the people in them to talk to —more people than I'd ever seen in my life! Doctors, nurses, clerks, janitors —everyone but the Sweepers talked to me.

"Of course, security was tighter. I wasn't able to sneak off like before. But I wasn't really alone anymore, either. If I got lonely or scared for some reason, I could step outside and talk to somebody, even at night —that's when the cleaning crew came in. That's how I met Kenny. He was a janitor there. He was slightly retarded, gentle, trusting, sympathetic...a true friend. He was

the only person —besides Miss Parker— who would ever tell me about the Outside.

"I suppose I'd be in The Centre today —vaguely discontented but resigned— if it hadn't been for the Death SIMs and Damon. Sydney was overseas at a psychology symposium— the powers that be made certain of that— I presume so he'd be unaware of and unable to stop the tests. At least, he seemed shocked when he found out about them. Neither of us can figure out why The Tower authorized them in the first place, but they had to have. Not even Lyle and Raines would be arrogant enough to put me at risk without the full sanction of The Tower. I was their best Pretender. A cash cow. My solve rate was ninety‑nine percent with one hundred percent accuracy. If I was such a valuable resource, why would they risk killing me?

"Anyway, for whatever reason, for the last three weeks of October '95, I became Lyle and Raines's lab rat. The first two weeks they dragged me kicking and screaming from my room, strapped me to a Gurney and took me down to SL‑27 where they injected me with their experimental resuscitation formula, shoved me into a cryogenic tube...and froze me to death. To death! Then they thawed me out and electro‑shocked my heart till it started beating again. Then they tested my brain functions...then they'd start the whole process over again. Six times a day. Each time leaving me dead a little bit longer. The final session I was dead an hour and a half.

"They spent the last week covering their tracks by injecting me with some drug that erased my memory of the entire three week period, but it wasn't too selective and a lot of other memories disappeared with them. Not that I figured that out before my escape. Consciously, anyway. Subconsciously...my whole world view altered.

I realize now that the urgent restlessness and free‑floating anxiety I felt during that time was a manifestation of the insecurity, vulnerability, sense of betrayal and fear I felt over the Death SIMS. Life in a cage when you feel treasured is one thing. But knowing that you're expendable...chattel...that they could and would kill you at any second without qualm....

"It didn't help that the nature of my assignments...shifted. I normally ran SIMS —simulations, that is— of past or projected events in order to determine flaws or failure points, or plot out the best course of action, recreations of past history that gained insight into the decision making process, tracked down the causes of malfunctions, established algorithms for emergency rescue operations.

"I discovered ways to rescue kidnap victims; I profiled serial killers and determined the best means to capture them; strengthened buildings against earthquakes; detected structural flaws in various types of vehicles; uncovered the motives and mistakes that lead to political and environmental disasters and, when they didn't have actual projects for me, I was encouraged to spend my free time inventing useful things —anything I could think up.

"The last three years I was there, I was cobbling together or designing weapons of mass destruction; determining the most effective landmine spreads; engineering advances in stealth technology; strategizing commando raids, organizing mole hunts, making satellite surveillance enhancements, developing indiscernible methods of triggering geologic events like landslides and earthquakes; reconstructing biological and chemical weapons, working out the means to commit economic sabotage against first, second, and third world countries —military aps, all. Very deadly, very profitable, and most of them beyond the scope, or in direct violation of the Geneva accords.

"It upset me, because I had always been told that my SIMS were used to help people. After the Death SIMS it became apparent that 'helping people' was a relative term. I began to question everything Sydney told me, to evaluate everything they wanted me to do, to refuse what I considered to be the most reprehensible SIMs outright.

“The powers that be decided Sydney was losing control of me, so, before Sydney left for the Christmas holidays, they had him introduce me to Damon, saying The Tower wanted us to work on a special project together.

"We seemed to work well together, so they made Damon my immediate supervisor instead of Sydney, hoping that he would continue to be more...persuasive. And he was, for a time, wheedling me into finishing some of the SIMs I had refused to do for Sydney. But, no matter what he tried, he couldn't get me to do the Ebola SIM.

"Finally, Damon told me that if I would just finish that one SIM, The Centre would set me free. I wanted to believe him, so, despite my trepidations, I did the work...but, once it was completed, I didn't trust The Centre to not use it for nefarious purposes, so I destroyed all the viable virus and hid the data disk.

"Damon waited until I was alone with Kenny, then he and two Sweepers came in to change my mind. One of the Sweepers shot Kenny in the leg. Damon said the Sweeper would kill Kenny, then me then Damon if I didn't agree to finish the SIM in one minute. I had the data disk on me, so I gave it to Damon at once...only Damon pulled out a gun of his own and shot Kenny in the head. Then he told me that The Centre owned me and there was nothing I could do about it ‑‑and not to make it so difficult next time!

"As he said it, as Kenny lay there bleeding out his life on the bare concrete floor, something inside me snapped. I knew I had to get out of there or die trying because, if I didn't, I'd die a broken, old man, locked away from the world, my whole life an abomination as they coerced me into doing worse and worse SIMs. I had too much blood on my hands as it was, I wasn't about to let it become a never-ending stream.

"It took three weeks of planning, but I escaped.

"It was the scariest night of my whole life. So scary, I didn't dare sleep the first three days I was out —I would have been caught that first night, anyway, if a total stranger hadn't stopped in the middle of the night to give me a lift.

"His name was Todd Baxter. I didn't ride with him long, just far enough to get out of sight of the Sweepers, because I hadn't been able to retrieve my DSAs before being over‑run so I had to go back to get them, but the Sweepers didn't know that. They thought I'd stayed in the car with Todd —easy ride, you know? So they picked up his trail and followed him all the way to Washington, D.C. By the time they discovered their mistake, I had had enough time to grab my DSAs and hike to Newark, Delaware.

"I walked into the nearest library and used their Internet connection to hack into The Centre's accounts and 'wire' a local bank a hundred thousand dollars in my name. I didn't have time to cover my electronic tracks, though, and I knew my pilfering would tip The Centre to my location, so I withdrew $5000 from my new account and took the first train out of town, which turned out to be to New York. Once there, I bought a map and searched the yellow pages for the nearest limousine company I could find for the next stage of my journey.

"Trouble was, I arrived after hours. I didn't want to risk being seen wandering the neighborhood, so...I hid in the infamous alley behind the limo company. With nothing to do but wait for daylight, I fell asleep. I didn't wake up for eighteen hours! It's the most sleep I ever had in one stretch in my life! And, when I did wake, I had that very memorable morning erection.

"Well, I had to wait a whole other night for the limo company to open again, but I decided one night in the garbage was enough. I went trekking, bought myself some new clothes, rented a

room, got cleaned up and slept in. The next day I hired a limo to take me to Detroit, where I transferred my ill gotten gains, made another substantial withdrawal, got a driver's license, bought a second hand car, and drove to Cincinnati —where The Centre had told me my parents were buried.

"It wasn't the smartest move I've ever made —Miss Parker's Sweeper team almost recaptured me there. But I was able to lay some flowers on their graves, say a few heartfelt words. After that...I started to fall apart.”

Tang, who had noticed Jarod blinking to stay alert, interrupted at that point to take a bathroom break and grab a soda from the fridge, telling Jarod to close his eyes in the interim. By the time Tang got back, Jarod had drifted off to sleep. Tang had suspected he might. He sat on the edge of the bed and sipped his soda.

Jarod opened his eyes fifteen minutes later with a questioning arc of his eyebrows. Tang grinned at him, tipped back his head to finish off his soda, then leaned over to kiss Jarod’s nose, and scooted up the bed until his back hit the headboard. “OK, deah, I’m all ears.”

"I had never seen the surveillance footage of me, and, since I didn't have anything else to do in the limo, I checked out one of the DSAs. Much to my surprise, it showed me doing a SIM I had totally forgotten. Up till then, I hadn't known how...'spotty' my memory was. I was like a man on drugs, after that: I couldn't get enough of them. Problem was, some of those memories had been repressed by my own psyche, not by Raine’s drugs and, by seeing the incidents again, I unwittingly opened a Pandora's box of traumatic memories. It triggered flashbacks, nightmares, daymares, hallucinations. I totally lost control of my mind and it scared me. Shook my confidence —what little I had at the time, that is.

"One of Sydney’s mantras was that I was too fragile, mentally, to survive in the real world Now, with my own mind turning against me, I totally believed him! My nightmares were so frequent and terrifying I started avoiding sleep, which caused psychotic paranoia and delusions. I barely made it to Chicago alive. Recognizing that I was a danger to myself and others, but not yet willing to give up and return to The Centre, I took a train to Seattle to give myself time to assess, evaluate, and decide my next move.

"After seven days without sleep, and relieved of the need to remain awake and focused, I was quickly lulled to sleep. Soon afterwards, my very vocal nightmares earned me an introduction to Dr. Dharma Sims, hypnotherapist, psychiatrist, and women's shelter owner. She took me under her wing, let me stay at her shelter, taught me how to cope with my nightmares and life on the run, as if I was any other battered woman who needed to start a new life.

"Todd's kindness and trust had inadvertently saved my life, but Dharma saved me deliberately. I think of Todd as a friend, but Dharma was my liberator. When I found out she'd been killed —by a disgruntled husband angry about her helping his ex escape him— I felt so alone, so helpless, so...needy, I called Sydney —thank God it was after I'd climbed Everest, or he'd have talked me into returning to The Centre in fifteen minutes!"

"Hmm, Everest again. It seems to be very significant to you."

Jarod nodded. "Everest was Dharma's idea of a graduation exercise. I'd told her I'd always wanted to summit —which was borderline delusional, at that point, since I was teetering on the brink of madness when I met her.... She took it to heart, though. And she made it my first ‘Just For Me’ goal, because we both knew that if I could keep myself together mentally and physically long enough to climb Everest, I'd have the confidence and strength to do anything. Summitting was —and is— the proudest day of my life. I couldn't wait to get back to Seattle to tell Dharma I'd succeeded.... I was a week too late.” Jarod’s eyes dewed up. He wiped the incipient tears away.

"Soon after my talk with Sydney, I received an e‑mail from an anonymous source inside The Centre who claimed the Russells weren't my parents. I thought, at first, it was some kind of trap, but I remembered that Dharma had said something similar: "What makes you think anything they ever told you was the truth?" Since I was headed to Albany, NY, I stopped off in Cincinnati, exhumed the Russells' bodies, and had them DNA tested.

"Then, once I got to Albany, NY, I had myself DNA tested...and found out they really weren't my parents. I was shocked. I'd mourned my parents for thirty years.... Now, they were possibly alive, out in the world, and I didn't have a clue as to who they were, or how I'd go about finding them. I knew I had to try, but even with my inside source digging out information at The Centre, the more I looked...the more complicated and convoluted things became.

"Worse, I found out that Catherine Parker, who had helped ten other children escape the Centre, had been killed trying to rescue me and Angelo.... God! that hurt so bad. But the worse part was, once I began my investigations, every other child she'd helped escape was suddenly killed. Moreover, I found out that The Centre had hounded my family —my parents and sister Emily— for thirty years. They've changed their names and locations so many times it's hard to find the threads.... But I now know they never stopped looking for me, and I'll never stop looking for them.

"Anyway, one of The Centre's clients had paid for a stock manipulation SIM that I'd worked on for four months, and I knew what day they'd field test my theory, so I slipped into the Stock Exchange and manipulated control of the scam away from The Centre's operatives. The scheme made five million dollars, all but $500,000 of which I returned in exchange for information on my family. And while some might consider that theft, I prefer to think of it as a well‑earned commission.

"I really didn't know how long I could evade the Sweepers, and that made me desperate to do the things I'd always dreamed of doing: to fly a plane, go river rafting, skydiving, race cars, so

I took that money and went around the world seeing everything I'd ever dreamed of seeing: the pyramids, the tower of London, the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon, Taj Mahal, Trevi fountain, Sistine Chapel, the Parthenon, the Amazon, the Zimbabwe ruins, Machu Pichu, the Yangtse, the Forbidden City, the Gobi desert. It was glorious.

"Everywhere I went I found a new smell, a new taste, a new sight, a new sensation. Heat. Cold. Fog. Wind. Snow. Ice. Oceans. Mountains. Clouds. I even love smog. Smoke. Forrest fires. Flames. You take it all for granted. I had pretended these things my whole life and never experienced any of them. Sailing. Flying. Driving. Chaos. Music. Noise. Traffic. Crowds. People everywhere. Animals of all kinds. Then there were the surprises: Ice cream. Oreos. Pez. Hot sauce. Silk. Velour. Cashmere. Leather. Toys. Games. Dancing. Thanks to Dharma, the world is the best present I ever opened!

"After my trip around the world, I knew that I could either disappear forever, or risk recapture by trying to atone for all the evil I'd committed through my work for The Centre. It's not exaggerating to say I've killed thousands. It crushed me to think how they had lied to me all those years. That I had thought I was helping people, when I was destroying them, instead. There's so much innocent blood on my hands....

"Todd believed that if he tried hard enough, he could change the world, and I liked his optimism. I even knew what I wanted to do, I just had to figure out how to go about it. So I took the opportunity to sit down and think it through, and I worked out an M.O.: whatever city I went to in my pursuit of my family, I'd read the local papers and see what caught my eye. You say you have 'waif radar', well, I sense injustice. Rightable wrongs. I don't know why I pick one case over the thousands of potential cases I see every day. I just have an instinct for knowing when I can make a difference —well,” Jarod amended with a sigh, “usually. This time....” he shook his head and sighed.

"Anyway, I started wandering across the country looking for my family and righting wrongs along the way, while Miss Parker and her Centre minions tried to capture me and drag me back to Hell.

"The thing is... The Centre has placed most of the people I've met during my adventures under constant surveillance, in hopes that I'll recontact them, let slip my whereabouts, let down

my guard. A few of these acquaintances have been threatened, kidnapped, interrogated, and held incommunicado for weeks....

"Please forgive me for not telling you the truth sooner, and please forgive me for telling you at all, because now that you know the truth, your life is in even greater danger. You will, in

all likelihood, never live another day free of surveillance, whether you can detect that surveillance or not. Phone taps, audio/visual bugs in your house, at work, mail intercepted, computer drives infiltrated, you'll be followed everywhere. Knowing me, befriending me, carries a heavy price."

"How many people have you met ovva da last three years?"

"Thousands."

"And The Centre has the resources to monitor all dose people?"

"Initially, yes. They evaluate each person as to likelihood of recontact, to determine how closely they should be watched. Not many warrant close monitoring."

"Just da one's you befriend."

"Yes."

"How many people have you told all dis to?"

"Four. There's you, Dharma, and Nia, although I told Nia before we made love. I would have told Kristie, but before I could —fortunately for me and my continued freedom— I found out she was only using me. The only other person I told is Mr. Hollis, because of his conspiracy circle contacts. At the time, I thought it would help expose The Centre. That was before I figured out that the governments where The Centre operates already know what they do, because a lot of the work The Centre does is for those governments, some in exchange for a guarantee of immunity to prosecution."

"Jarod, if befriending you is da only criterion Da Centre uses to put someone under surveillance, and telling people about Da Centre endangers their lives, den not telling people is da best policy.

"Because of who I am —what I am, knowing about dat surveillance is important enough to me dat I don't mind risking my life to know about it, and for dat reason, I t'ank you fo' being honest wit' me, and fo' givin' me da opportunity to make dat choice fo' myself. But if I were someone else, someone 'normal' fo' lack of a better term, like, say, Cassie, I wouldn't be so grateful.

"People's lives are gonna change irrevocably whether you tell dem anyt'ing or not. Don't make dis any mo' of a no‑win situation dan it already is: stop beating yo'self up fo' keeping dese secrets. Stop blaming yo'self fo' da evil dese people do. And fo' God's sake, stop t'inking dat you can only be truly loved if da person you love knows everyt'ing about you. You don' know everyt'ing about me, and yet you love me. Don't you t'ink I have secrets? Everybody does. Yo's are no worse dan anybody else's. Trust me.

"You have a big brain, my friend. Start using it to decide who, among all da people you are goin' ta meet from heah on out, has an absolute need to know yo' deep, dark secret.

"I needed to know. Nia, from what you've told me, needed to know. But not every friend or lover will —even if you love dem so much you can't stand to leave dem. What matters is what their knowing will mean to dem, to their lives. You can't put dem in dis kind of danger fo' your sake, only fo' theirs.

"Fo' one t'ing, you'd be shouldering more guilt dan Atlas. Don't go borrowing trouble. Guilt you don't need. Accept da fact dat, despite yo' talents, you are only human, and humans need to love and be loved. It's as necessary as food and oxygen. Enjoying love does not require any mo’ honesty from you dan eating and breathing. Understand?"

"...I think so."

Tang leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Well, mull it ovva, Little Bird. T'ink about what you put yo'self t'rough, heah. You were so wrapped up in your tears and recriminations you couldn't

t'ink straight. If you had just calmed down and t'ought it t'rough, you'd have figgered out dat I needed ta know about da surveillance, am I right?"

Jarod thought how Tang's sexual orientation and past assault, and Nia's history of abduction and torture made it necessary —psychologically— for the two of them to know about their surveillance and the possible threat of involuntary detention. He nodded. "Yes. I understand."

"Good. I t'ink you owe me some sugah —dat's a kiss, deah," Tang explained at Jarod's blank look.

Jarod grinned. "Just a kiss?"

"Long as yo're wearing dose stitches? I t'ink so."

"Well, OK, but, seeing as how you made me feel so much better, I think turnabout is definitely fair play. And my hands and mouth are in perfect working order."

"Dat's my boy," Tang smiled as he lowered himself to claim Jarod's waiting lips.

Jarod undid Tang’s pants and slipped his hands behind the waistband of his underwear, one hand delving to cup Tang’s balls, the other teasing the head of Tang’s penis with a thumbpad, while he sucked on Tang’s tongue as if he could make it cum.

“Hmm!” Tang scraped along the bed to dislodge both pants and underwear and Jarod licked at the body parts sliding by his mouth. He ceased his ministrations to Tang’s genitals long enough to unbutton Tang’s shirt and give himself access to the tender buds on his chest, then raked his fingers through Tang’s pubes and playfully tapped Tang’s hard shaft. He raised a hand to slick a pair of fingers with saliva, then rubbed them along Tang’s crack. Another slurpful was drawn around Tang’s hole till it spasmed with need. Then he laved a third coat of slick onto the digits and bored them into Tang’s hot channel, rooting for his prostate.

Tang yelped as Jarod stroked the gland, pumping his hips in pleasure, and he leaned over to clamp his teeth gently over Jarod’s earlobe and suckle it like a tit while his hand teased the real things, one then the other, then back again.

Jarod used his palm to give Tang’s glans a swipe then gripped his shaft and twirled his hand around it. Grip. Twirl. Swipe. Grip. Twirl. Swipe. He toyed with Tang’s balls as if they were worry beads, then went back to teasing his cock: grip, twirl, swipe. Grip, twirl, swipe.

Jarod’s earlobe slipped free from Tang’s mouth with a wet slurp as Tang’s head arched back to yell his orgasm.“Oh! I’m close! I’m gonna cum! Oh, God! Oh! Ahh!”

Jarod quickly covered Tang’s slit with his hand, catching the ejaculate in his palm then, when Tang fell limply onto the mattress, he offered it to Tang, who licked his palm clean then kissed it and clasped it to his chest.

“Ohhh...! I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone, Little Bird.”

Jarod nestled into Tang’s arms. “I’m going to miss you, too, Love,” Jarod said. But, for once, Tang had drifted off before him.

INTERLUDE

Newark, New Jersey

Friday, February 12^th

7 p.m.

It hadn’t been a good two days. It hadn’t been a productive two days. It had been two days saddled with red tape and hobbled by 4^th amendment niceties the Parker twins would have gladly blasted out of their personal skies with a stinger missile had they the power to subvert the constitutional government and lead the investigation as they deemed fit.

Unfortunately —from their perspective, at least— not even The Centre, with all its government contacts, could so blatantly run rampant over Lady Liberty, nor could coercion speed up an autopsy, or find witnesses willing to talk to them about the weather, let alone what they had seen.

It made Miss Parker want to puke. “So close, and yet so far,” she murmured.

“Tell me about it,” Mr. Lyle agreed.

They had presented themselves to the investigating officers early Thursday morning, and had carefully pored over all the data on tap.

They had interviewed the incarcerated junkies and Gianni Scarpelli and Lt. DeLuca, who, at the behest of his superiors, had come forward to volunteer information on his dealings with Jarod the day of his disappearance, which had supplied them with the name of the person Jarod had hoped to bring to justice, as well as the name of the person Jarod had hoped to vindicate.

They had read the notes of the officers investigating the disappearance of Jarod Reed and Trent Marchetti, who had interviewed the waitresses at the restaurant they had eaten in, and retraced the officer’s own steps to the boathouse, where a forensics team had found bullet holes and blood spatters matching both officers’s blood on opposite sides of the building. The Port Authority had been called in, at that point, and a search for floaters on the Passaic River had been instigated. Marchetti’s body had been located a few hours afterwards and taken to the morgue. Unfortunately, no amount of Centre influence or pressure could speed up the autopsy, so they had to wait for the results like everybody else.

After being informed of Marchetti’s demise, a department clerk had called the emergency contactee listed in his personnel file. It turned out to be a lawyer, who led investigators to Marchetti’s sole heir and beneficiary, one Peter Caravelli. Subsequent questioning of the housebound Caravelli had resulted in the surprise discovery that Marchetti had been gay.

They read the notes of the officers sent to investigate the illegally parked patrol car in the sub-level garage of Jarod’s apartment building and canvass Jarod’s immediate neighbors and neighborhood residents in general, from which they gleaned a list of Jarod’s known associates.

It was a short list, as per usual, and they sent it to Broots, while he, in return, provided them with the description of the man who had purchased the medical supplies with Jarod’s credit card, a description that just happened to match descriptions of the cameraman involved in Jarod’s arrests Wednesday morning. By sheer co-incidence, a similar victim description was discovered in the jackets of the dead thugs found at Jarod’s apartment, only this description came with a name and address.

Neither Mr. Lyle nor Miss Parker thought it was a coincidence that the named Tang Yu lived next door to Jarod. They had gone to Tang’s place at once. No one had been home, but the place had been trashed every bit as thoroughly as Jarod’s. The officers with them called in a forensics team at once, and added Tang Yu’s description to those of the missing officers, while Miss Parker forwarded Tang’s name to Broots.

Minutes later, Broots e-mailed back a much larger list comprising all the known relatives, associates, and intimates of the people on the original list, including those of Tang Yu, who lived within in a hundred mile radius of Newark. It was an unwieldy three thousand odd names long.

They cross-checked the list for names in common, (there were a handful), prioritized the rest, sorted them according to locale, and divvied them up between the three of them.

They spent all of Thursday interviewing people who fell into three categories: clueless, hostile, or clueless and hostile. It didn’t help that the most prominent common name on the list: Mrs. Bell, had apparently fallen off the face of the earth and taken the second and third most prominent names with her.

“I don’t know who had the tighter lips: the gays or the Chinese,” Miss Parker opined as she clinked the ice in her highball to speed the cooling process.

“It’s frustrating to think that Jarod’s not only incapacitated but probably somewhere within the city limits, yet we can’t produce one solid lead on his whereabouts,” Lyle agreed as he settled onto the sofa with his own cocktail.

The door to their hotel suite opened to admit Sydney, and the pair looked slightly hopeful. The old man might be a pain in the butt, especially where Jarod was concerned, but people responded to his kindly doctor persona more forthrightly than they did to either of the more demanding twins.

“Well?” Miss Parker asked.

“Did you find out anything useful?” Lyle asked in turn.

“Something interesting, if not immediately informative: According to school records, Mrs. Bell’s three children haven’t attended classes since Wednesday.”

“That could be because of the media attention over their father’s death,” Miss Parker said.

“Possibly. But, according to her co-workers, Mrs. Bell left work the day Jarod disappeared citing a family emergency, and she hasn’t been back since. She’s a registered emergency room nurse, by the way.”

The twins perked up.

“I figured that if anyone would know where Mrs. Bell was, it would be her mother, a Mrs. Carl Pulaski, who resides in Elizabeth, just on the other side of Newark’s city limits. I called on her. The children were not in plain sight, but were obviously in residence, but I saw no sign of Mrs. Bell. Nor, unfortunately, was her mother inclined to talk to me. In fact, she threatened to call the police on me, then, when I told her I was with the police, she asked to see a warrant, and when I allowed as I didn’t have one, she threatened to call her lawyer and have him throw me off the property. Needless to say, I left quietly.”

“Tell me you checked the garbage,” Miss Parker said.

“No opportunity, Mrs. Pulaski was watching me like a hawk,” Sydney apologized.

Lyle growled. “No loss, Jarod isn’t likely to be there.”

“Maybe,” Miss Parker growled, “But we’d know for certain if Sydney had been able to check the garbage for bloody dressings and used medical supplies.”

“If Jarod had been there, then Mrs. Bell, as his attending nurse, would have been there, and if she had been, you’d definitely have known it, because she would have come out to defend her brood. No..., he’s stashed elsewhere. Where’s the list of common names? Tomorrow, we’ll run down the lot of them, starting with these two. If they aren’t home tomorrow, I’ll have Broots run a list of their associates,” Lyle concluded.

“Shouldn’t we just start calling them tonight, it’s early, yet?” Miss Parker suggested.

“And possibly alert them that we’re coming? Give Jarod time to run? I’d rather not,” Lyle said. “Bad enough there’s only the three of us to canvas the lot of them. They dot the map like flies on a carcass.”

“There’s no guarantee Mrs. Pulaski hasn’t called her daughter and warned Jarod off, already,” Miss Parker said.

“Unless he’s too sick to move. He was badly injured,” Sydney reminded them.

“He’s never let an injury slow him down before,” Miss Parker said. “If anything, he’s a little too confident in his abilities to let himself heal completely.”

“Meaning what? You think he’s already skipped town?” Lyle asked.

“....I’m not sure,” Miss Parker said, and thought about Broots. Broots would never abandon Debbie. He’d tried to contact her when he was Schedule 7. If Mrs. Bell were as good a mother, she would do no less. “One thing for sure: if Mrs. Bell is any kind of mother, she’ll stay in touch with her kids. We should have Broots pull Mrs. Pulaski’s phone records.”

“That would only give us the names of the people the mother called,” Lyle said.

“Then let’s have Broots hack into the phone company’s billing files and run a search for people who have called the mother’s number from Wednesday on,” Miss Parker suggested.

“Perfect. If Broots then compares those names to the names on this list, it should narrow the search down considerably,” Lyle agreed, as Miss Parker engaged her cell phone.

“Looks like it’s going to be a long night for Broots,” Sydney said.

“We all have to sacrifice for the cause,” Lyle smirked as he put his feet onto the coffeetable and turned on the TV. “Call room service and have them send up a brace of medallions of beef, will you, Doctor? Rare, with a baked potato and tossed green salad with honey mustard dressing. Oh, and a nice big slice of hot apple pie ala mode.”

Sydney, who was standing by the room’s phone, complied, added his own order, and, when Miss Parker concluded her instructions to Broots, hers, as well. He would bet the farm Broots wasn’t having as nice a dinner delivered to him. The poor tech would be lucky if he got a bag of Funyuns and a Sprite from the vending machines to tide him the night.

Of course, after three years of chasing Jarod he ought to be used to it.

CHAPTER TEN

Newark, New Jersey

Friday, February 12^th

9 p.m.

Aunt Sophie parked in front of their house at nine o’clock sharp, and Sam and Eddie thanked her personally, (and profusely), as it was their ‘vacation’ Cassie had used as an excuse to borrow it. They let the old lady give them the fifty cent tour, so they’d know where everything was and how to operate it, then they drove Sophie home and hit the mall and the nearest supermarket in order to stock the pantry, buy ‘make-over’ clothes, and purchase all the items Tang and Jarod considered ‘essential’ for life on the lam, including a new laptop computer, printer, and digital camera, all courtesy of Marbles’ business account, which rendered the transactions untraceable to Tang or Jarod. Finally, they gassed up, so they’d be ready for a quick get-away the next morning, and headed for home.

Cassie’s criteria for Jarod’s travel-worthiness had been the ability to tolerate a liquid diet and to go to the bathroom without tearing his stitches, both of which he had managed to accomplish some hours after graduating from the last available IV to a can of Ensure.

After that Herculean effort, however, Jarod had surrendered to exhaustion and gone back to sleep. Tang remained awake and passed the time chatting with Cassie. Upon Sam and Eddie’s return, Tang awoke Jarod with a kiss worthy of any sleeping princess, and promptly escorted him into the master bathroom so Sam and Eddie could bleach his eyebrows and hair blonde, then mousse his do into soft spikes. Then he tried out a pair of colored contacts that made his eyes blue. Finally, with the aid of the newly purchased ‘make-overs’, and much to the amusement of Cassie and Tang, he was out-fitted with a ‘pregnancy pad’ which disguised his bandages by giving him a little pot belly, thermal underwear, a loud red and white color block shirt with contrasting red and white hearts stamped all over it, hot pink polyester slacks, red socks, white bucks, and a red stadium jacket.

The duo also gave Tang a latex ‘eye job,’ a pair of green contacts, and a slathering of bronzing cream to cover-up his sallow complexion, and topped it with a white shirt with one huge red heart on its front and back, white pants dotted with tiny red hearts, red socks, and white shoes.

The rest of the wardrobe they’d bought for the pair was as ghastly and abysmal in theme if not scheme, with bees and flowers; hula dancers and Tikis; teddy bears and kittens; gold fish and ‘Jaws;’ and sunny-side-up eggs and cheese wedge motifs.

All of which offended Jarod’s sense of fashion to the point of protest. “I am not wearing this stuff! It’s the most God-awful clothing I’ve ever seen —and I’ve been on every continent on this earth except Antarctica.”

Sam and Eddie looked at each other and smirked. “But, darling, that’s the point,” Eddie purred. “While you’re wearing these, no one’s going to be looking at your face.”

Sam nodded agreement. “They’re perfect! Just think of it as deflective camouflage.”

Jarod’s face sagged. When they put it that way...much as it pained him, they were absolutely right. He sighed. “I look like Broots’ older brother.”

Tang was the only one who laughed, but then, he was the only one who (semi) knew who Broots was. “And I look like Danny DeVito standing next to Arnold Schwartzenegger in ‘Twins.’“ The others got that joke, and they all had a good laugh.

“These two outfits are for Sunday, but we wanted to see you in them,” Eddie confessed, “The rest are paired up, too —don’t disappoint us by mixing them up, now, boys. Hm?”

Securing their promises to wear their outfits as matched, the two decided which of the other ‘sets’ of clothes looked the least offensive to them. They decided on the eggs and cheese outfits, the egg shirt paired with matching yellow pants and socks, the cheddar cheese shirt with orange pants and socks. The rest of the outfits were promptly hangered and sheathed in plastic, ready for travelling.

The frivolity of the moment over, they moved the party downstairs, putting Jarod and Tang to bed in the ‘play-pen,’ to lessen the trauma of moving out to the RV the next morning.

After sharing a hearty, early bird’s breakfast and a round of farewell hugs, Cassie called a cab. When it arrived, Sam and Tang helped Jarod out to the RV’s passenger seat, (a portable urinal to hand, just in case, as they didn’t want him moving around too much), while Eddie locked the front door. Cassie gave the taxi driver a suitcase containing her new acquisitions and nurse’s uniform, and hugged Jarod good-bye while the driver stowed the suitcase in his trunk and Tang and Sam piled into the RV via the driver’s door.

“I owe you my life, Cassie,” Jarod said. “I can’t even begin to thank you for that.”

“Hell, I’d say a hundred forty-seven thousand dollars was a good start, guy.”

“You didn’t help me because of the money.”

“Didn’t hurt,” Cassie grinned.

Jarod shook his head. “I’m sorry for putting you and the kids in danger.”

“You don’t know for sure that you did.”

“I know what Marchetti threatened.... I never thought we’d spend so much time together, but I’m glad we did. It was nice. Like having a real family. You know, now that I’m leaving —ducking out and running like a common felon!— “

”Shh! If any one of us thought what you were doing was wrong, we’d have turned you in, and you know it, Jarod.”

Jarod’s eyes got suspiciously dewy, but no tears fell. He nodded. “The thing is, there’s no guarantee the department will admit the truth about Tommy, now. But it’s important that the children Tommy taught at school and helped at the Crisis center, as well as you and your kids, have the truth proclaimed loudly and printed in black and white so, if they haven’t issued a statement by the time Tang gets back, Tang will tell the media how we got Scarpelli to admit the truth. Maybe that will arouse enough interest for the truth to out. It won’t be easy on Tang if he has to go public, though, and since I know I won’t be there for him...would you please be there for me? I know he’ll need all the support he can get.”

“Well, of course, I will, Jarod. I even promise to be nicer to SamN’Eddie. If I’ve learned anything since Tommy died, it’s to not exclude people from my life just because I feel uncomfortable or embarrassed about my own circumstances. You’re a good man, Jarod. If I’d been more honest about my relationship with Tommy, there would have been a place for you in our family. I know you’d have been a good role model for the kids. I’m sorry about the circumstances, but I’m glad I was forced into knowing you, and I’m grateful I had an opportunity to repay your kindness, if just a little, ‘cause without you and your efforts on Tommy’s behalf, we’d never have been able to think of him without feeling bitter about how people treated us. It’s still not going to be easy, what with him being gay, and all, but at least we’ll know that the world will know he died trying to do the right thing.” She planted a kiss on Jarod’s cheek, then got into the taxi. They waved good-bye to each other as the taxi pulled out and Eddie got behind the RV’s wheel.

In their disguises and with the other two men as decoys, neither Tang nor Jarod had trouble getting through the police lines. About fifteen miles past the state line, Eddie pulled over so Jarod and Tang could partially ditch their disguises, and Jarod moved to the back of the RV to begin transferring the data from his old hard drive to the new one, so he could forge North Carolina drivers licenses for him and Tang —once, that is, they could stop laughing at the new names they’d chosen and have their sufficiently sober pictures taken and digitally transferred to the licence blanks Jarod had cooked up on his PC.

Tang became Ma Gai Niao while Jarod, realizing that he needed time to heal without the constant threat of being discovered by The Centre’s minions, (and having no intention of needlessly endangering Tang while they were in each other’s company in any case), allowed himself the luxury of total anonymity by becoming the slightly less infamous George Hale. It was then just a matter of hooking the laptop into the mobile phone line so he could hack into N.C.’s D.M.V. database and plant the bogus information. Four hours out of Newark, licenses finished and planted, Jarod took an on-line tour of North Carolina, searching for an en route bank. He gave Eddie directions and, during the drive there, Jarod hacked into their system and electronically transferred funds from one of his off-shore accounts. He then went inside and made a sizeable withdrawal. Eddie’s next stop was an auto dealership, where the newly minted George Hale, minus the contacts, (though he was stuck with the pregnancy pad, hair, and eyebrows for the duration), purchased a luxury mini-van with rear compartment captain’s bed, chemical toilet, and mini refrigerator for cash.

Once Tang and Jarod’s considerable gear was transferred from the RV to the mini van, and they had wiped every possible surface of incriminating fingerprints, Jarod reimbursed Sam and Eddie for all their expenses from Wednesday on, plus a five thousand dollar bonus in case they decided they wanted to take a real vacation, then they bid each other —and Jarod and Tang’s last ties to Newark, New Jersey— adieu.

Tang drove while Jarod slept. A few hours later, Tang pulled into a motor lodge that featured detached cabins in an artfully landscaped ‘wilderness’ environment. They had dinner in the main lodge’s dining room, then cruised around in the van until they found a hospital where they could discreetly dump the garbage bag filled with all the used dressings and medical refuse Jarod had used to date in a hazardous medical waste bin. That duty dispensed, they returned to their cabin. Jarod went straight to bed with his new laptop, which he hooked to the phone lines so he could check out the on-line edition of The Star Ledger, while Tang flopped on the couch to watch some TV.

“No!” Jarod wailed minutes later. “Oh, God, no!”

Tang, not knowing what to expect, jumped up from the couch and ran into the bedroom to find Jarod curled up on the bed gripping his hair with both fists.“Jarod —are you in pain? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Peter!”

“Who?” Tang asked, not recognizing the name.

“Peter Caravelli— Marchetti’s S.O. He’s committed suicide. Oh, God! It’s all my fault! I haven’t done a single thing right this whole pretend! I should never have let myself get so distracted. I should have— ”

“ —Worked yo’self night and day to make everyt’ing right fo’ everybody but you?” Tang finished quietly. He hopped onto the bed beside Jarod and rocked him as he sobbed out his guilt. “How could yo’ losing sleep have prevented Peter’s suicide?”

“He was barely surviving with Marchetti’s help. I was going to call him after —after I killed Marchetti, to let him know that he wouldn’t have to worry about expenses, only, I forgot.... He sent his visiting nurse out to mail a letter and pick up a few things from the store, and when she got back...he was dead. They suspect an over-dose of morphine. He left a suicide note addressed to the Star Ledger, apologizing for driving Marchetti to murder and— and— ” Jarod let his tears overcome him and pointed to the computer he had swept onto the floor in his grief. “If I’d SIMmed the right scenario, I could have figured out a deal Marchetti would have accepted, and Peter would have been all right.”

Tang retrieved the computer with a sigh, scrolled over the article, which included a copy of Peter’s letter to the editor, and clucked. “I know you’re distraught, but, you can’t blame yo’self fo’ dis, deah.”

“Why not? There was no way Peter could survive without Marchetti.”

“Well, we’re agreed on dat, at least, d’ough our reasoning differs.”

Jarod sniffed, seeming to understand an implicit prompt in Tang’s tone. “First Peter had to deal with the shock of Marchetti’s disappearance, then, when they discovered Marchetti’s body, the police came knocking with half the newshounds in Jersey in tow wanting Peter to speculate on whether the killing of Thomas Bell might have been more a case of covering up a liaison gone bad than the drug bust Marchetti claimed it to be and whether his being gay had any bearing on his murder. Then he had to face the fact that his lover murdered an innocent man in order to maintain a shady relationship with a known criminal who was providing the money that kept him alive, then that his lover chose death over dishonor and him, finally, he finds out Marchetti’s death benefits will only keep him alive another two years.”

“So?”

“So?! How can you read this and not feel the man’s pain? ‘I only wish you could have known Trent when being a policeman was his life. He tried his best to be the best. The fact that he could corrupt that which he was so proud of for my sake hurts me more than words can tell. Please don’t blame Trent. He was a good man who loved well, but not wisely. My illness has destroyed everything good in my life. I am so sorry.’”

“I do feel his pain, Siau Niao. Better, I t’ink, dan you can, at da moment. Enough to know dat you could have called Peter from da boat house and it wouldn’t have made an iota’s difference. Lao Tzu said: ‘To love someone deeply gives you strength. Being loved deeply gives you courage.’ Peter lost his strength and his courage in one day. Would da promise of more lonely days to come been any solace to him?”

“...No,” Jarod said, after a moment’s thought.

“No,” Tang agreed. “Da man had been fighting a terminal disease fo’ da last six years. Wit’out Trent, wit’out his strength and courage, he lost his faith and hope. Afta dat, he had not’ing left to fight fo’.”

“But if I’d figured out a way to keep Marchetti alive, Peter would have had something to live for,” Jarod stubbornly protested.

“No, deah. T’ings happened too fast fo’ you to have been able to prevent dis.”

“But things wouldn’t have happened too fast if I’d SIMmed this thing properly in the first place. I’d have been in control, prepared for every contingency, instead of fighting tooth and nail to compensate for my earlier mistakes.”

“What mistakes?”

Jarod looked away. “Getting involved with you.”

“You t’ink I was a mistake, huh?”

Jarod nodded. Tears began to course down his cheeks and he sobbed as if his heart was cracking open. “ All I can do now is to not ever make the same mistake.”

“I know you really t’ink dat, so I’m going to do you a favor: I challenge you to SIM a way to clear Tommy’s name, keep Trent and Peter alive --and still keep yo’self sane. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Jarod shook his head. “It’s too late for Peter and Marchetti.”

“Yeah. Problem is: it was too late four years ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean dat Marchetti’s turning to Panecco in order to save his lover four years ago had already cost him his soul. Add to dat his pride and loyalty and dere’s no way dis could have gone down any other way. Trent would have nevva consented to any deal which involved jail time, and dere’s no way he could have cleared Tommy wit’out implicating Panecco. He convinced himself dat dying would save his reputation and his lover, nevva understanding that his love was da only t’ing keeping Peter alive. Don’t be like Marchetti, Jarod: don’t be too proud to fail. And cut yo’self a break: you didn’t just ‘fo’get’ to call Peter, you were shot and fighting— not to mention running— fo’ yo’ life. Working like da devil to make shoo we got out of Newark alive. I t’ink you had a legitimate excuse to drop dat particular ball. And needing me wasn’t a mistake. You didn’t do anyt’ing wrong.”

“Who else’s fault could it be?”

Tang sighed. Jarod was missing the point. “It’s nobody’s fault. You’re only human, Jarod. Human’s are not perfect. You can’t and you aren’t meant to win dem all. But above and beyond dat: you have to understand dat sometimes, you have to take care of yo’self first, or you won’t have anyt’ing left to give to anybody else later.”

“But I was trained to do this: this is what I do. It’s all I’ve done my whole life. I’ve never —allowed myself to be distracted like this before.”

“Den you were way past due. Or don’t you t’ink you deserve to be loved? Hm? Do you even love yo’self, deah?”

“I.... I don’t know,” Jarod said miserably. “I never thought about it. I...I guess, I’d have to say I don’t. Not really. I was duped, used by evil men to do evil things. All I really think about is atoning for my sins.”

“You t’ink dat atoning will allow you to love yo’self, but I’m telling you you can nevva atone until you love yo’self. And I love you, Siau Niao. I t’ink you’re lovable. I t’ink you deserve to love and be loved. I don’t t’ink needing love is a sin or a weakness. I wish it were a birthright. I wish everyone was loved truly and deeply, but dey aren’t. You weren’t cherished, and you should have been. I know yo’ mother would have cherished you. Because she loved you. You have escaped physically. Time to escape mentally. Stop t’inking of yo’self as some biological machine that needs nothing, and give yo’self some time to be loved. Will you do dat fo’ me, My Love, my Little Wounded Bird?”

Jarod curled into Tang’s arms and sobbed his assent while Tang rained kisses on every available inch of Jarod he could reach without shifting position. He began to rock Jarod, then he sang Jarod’s ‘mama song’ till Jarod stopped crying, finally, still rocking, he sang a Billy Joel song.

“Cold hands, the sad eyes, the Dark Irish silence.

So late, but I’ll wait

Through the long night with you, with you.

The warm tears, the bad dreams. Soft trembling shoulders.

Your fears, but I’m here

Through the long night with you, with you.

Oh, what has it cost you?

I almost lost you a long, long time ago.

Oh, you should have told me,

But you had to bleed to know.

All your past sins are sins past.

You should be sleeping.

It’s all right, sleep tight

Through the long night with me, with me.

No, I didn’t start it,

You’re broken hearted from a long, long time ago.

Oh, the way you hold me is all that I need to know.

And it’s so late, but I’ll wait

Through the long night with you, with you.”

“Feelin’ better, deah?”

Jarod nodded. “Uh-huh. Don’t let me go.”

“I won’t. Can I say somet’ing?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Instead of concentrating on what you did wrong, why don’t we look at what you did right, huh? T’ink of what you did accomplish: Tommy’s name is cleared; his kids will go to college; Cassie is not going to spend da rest of her life hating gays fo’ enjoying a part of her husband she couldn’t have, and I t’ink she finally realizes that Sam helped Tommy out of love for him not spite for her, so dey might heal the schism between dem, give each other one mo’ person to help dem get over Tommy’s death; da kids Tommy taught and counseled will know he wasn’t a hypocrite; da bad guys didn’t catch you; and you’ll have another oppo’tunity to find yo’ parents. All in all, you shouldn’t complain.”

Jarod scoffed, but wiped away his tears before turning the tables on Tang and bowling him over a fierce bear hug and deep, soulful kiss. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Siau Niao.”

“Want to feel you cum in me.”

“You’ll have to let me up, den,” Tang grinned.

Jarod rolled away obediently, eyes following the Oriental as he popped off the bed to rummage in the carry-all he’d brought in with them. He held up a bottle of lube and a condom. “You don’t appear to be prepared to use them,” Jarod commented. “May I help remedy that?”

Tang grinned. “My pleasure.” He straddled Jarod’s chest lowering himself till Jarod could suck him into his mouth. “Oooh! You just get better and better at dis!” Tang groaned as Jarod’s tongue twirled over his glans, poked into his slit, then darted back and forth while he tried to swallow him down. “Oh! Stop! Stop!” Tang pulled out and his penis slapped at his stomach. “You’ve definitely got my attention, deah.”

Tang plopped onto the bed to Jarod’s right and opened the condom packet.

“Let me.” Jarod said eagerly.

Tang’s eyebrows rose. “Practicing again?”

Jarod nodded. Tang handed him the condom, and Jarod popped it into his mouth, then, using his tongue and teeth, rolled the rubber over Tang’s erection, deep throating him in the process.

Tang laughed. “You’re somet’ing else, you know dat? Now, over onto yo’ left side. Move yo’ top leg towards yo’ chest,” Tang instructed as he snuggled onto his side behind Jarod. He lubed them up and pushed inside Jarod’s hot channel. Stilled. “You’re not getting another fever, are you?” Tang asked as he placed his wrist onto Jarod’s forehead.

“I don’t think so, why?”

“You’re so hot.”

“I feel fine. With you in me, I feel better than fine,” Jarod amended.

Tang glanced at the bandages taped over Jarod’s incision/entry site. The dressing was wide enough to cover a good portion of Jarod’s flesh from view, so he couldn’t tell if there was any inflamation. But, at least, there didn’t seem to be any signs of redness beyond the borders of the dressing. Tang decided the heat was just due to Jarod’s emotional state and relaxed. He gripped Jarod’s hip, pushed himself back, then pulled forward.

“Ummm! Yeah!” Jarod encouraged, pushing his butt back to meet Tang’s thrusts.

“Don’t move, deah. Let me do da work, OK?”

Jarod made a whine of disappointment, but he stilled. He knew Tang was only trying to minimize the strain on his wound. Tang immediately picked up both the pace and the impact, angling himself to hit Jarod’s prostate. That made his Little Bird sing. Tang grinned. “Do yo’self.”

Jarod reached obediently down to stroke his penis. “Oh! Oh! Harder! Tang! Tang!” Jarod clamped his sphincter down during Tang’s backstrokes, making Tang yelp.

In no time they were caterwauling like two cats in heat. Tang lost his rhythm, caught up in the frenzy of pre-orgasm. Jarod came first, and his spasms pushed Tang over the brink. Tang roared. Jarod panted from the power of his release, but managed to find the strength to squeeze Tang’s organ dry. Then they both sagged into the mattress.

“Don’t pull out,” Jarod pleaded.

“Da only way I’d have had da strength to pull out is if we’d collapsed in opposite directions. And since dat didn’t happen, to pun the old expression: Yo’ stuck wit’ me.” He promptly fell asleep.

Jarod smiled. He grabbed Tang’s arm and wrapped it around him, then closed his eyes, directing his awareness to Tang’s erection as it shrank inside him and his own inner muscles as they clamped down to hold Tang inside him. The heat of Tang’s exertions sweat slick as the skin pressed against his back, the brand of fire that was his arm, circling his waist. //Feels so good.// Thoroughly possessed and loved. //I belong here...I belong...// He drifted off.

INTERLUDE

Newark, New Jersey

Saturday, February 13^th

12:00 p.m.

The bad news was: they still hadn’t been able to get ahold of Sam and Eddie. The good news was, they had caught up with Mrs. Bell at her mother’s as she was getting the kids ready to go home.

The bad news was Mrs. Bell had smirked at them and told them that she had left work because her husband’s cousin Sam was having a hard time accepting Tommy’s death, and she had stayed with him for a few days.

Mr. Lyle informed her coldly that he had been to Sam’s house, and no one had answered the door. She smiled at that, and told her they must have been out test driving the Aunt Sophie’s RV, as she had talked Sam and Eddie into taking a trip. Who knows when they’d be back? And no, they hadn’t told her where they were going.

They had called Broots immediately and had him hack the license plate of the RV. Then they’d had the police put out an APB on it.

The really bad news was that they didn’t locate the RV until it crossed back into New Jersey Sunday morning. They had helicoptered out to the state line to interrogate the two men, but they were all shrugs and Orphan Annie eyes.

Of course, all three of the extended Bell clansters were lying. But the authorities had nothing to hold them with as long as they continued to deny everything and no forensic evidence proved otherwise.

The only thing The Centre’s people could do is take down the mileage, correlate it with information on Sophie’s last insurance update and the gas receipts found in the RV, and try to guesstimate how far they had gone.

The rest of the bad news was: no other leads turned up, in or out of state. No one matching Jarod’s description had used public transportation or bought a vehicle —that anyone could recall— and no ‘Jarod’s’ had been flagged by Broots’ hound program.

As far as the world, the law, and The Centre were concerned, Jarod had dropped off the face of the earth.

Impasse.

They had been forced to return to Blue Cove empty-handed and without a shred of spoor to follow. They did not even know how badly hurt Jarod was, although the police, for their own reasons, publically concluded, from the discarded uniform and bullet holes therein, amount of blood found in his patrol car and at his apartment, and his apparent failure to secure medical attention from any source, proper or otherwise, so far as they could ascertain, that Jarod, like Marchetti, was dead, and that the body had merely failed to turn up, having, no doubt, gone the way of Jimmy Hoffa. They were still thinking up plausible ways to whitewash the entire affair.

Unfortunately, there was no white-washing reports to The Powers That Be, despite the unflattering conclusion that Jarod had managed to elude them despite being seriously injured.

//Slipped out of our grasp yet again,// Mr. Lyle thought bitterly. //Damn! This is getting old. Another day, another defeat to rub our noses into. I mean, if we can’t even catch him when he’s injured....// He pondered whether other avenues of advancement might not be more fruitful and inwardly sighed. Something to work out another day, another time, when he wasn’t being examined like a bug under a magnifying glass.

He glanced surreptitiously around the board room trying to size up how matters —like his continued existence— seemed to be progressing. He could not read the board members’ dark scowls, however. They could have signified anything from displeasure to indigestion.

“If our pursuit of Jarod forced him to move before he was truly well enough, he may have suffered a relapse. I have alerted Broots to check out any purchases of wound dressings anywhere within three days travel by car from Newark, New Jersey, and two days travel from Raleigh, North Carolina.”

“Why car?” Lyle asked.

“Because,” Sydney said, as if he were addressing a child, “only a private mode of transportation could tailor itself to his special needs. To allow him to rest, when he needs it, find a pharmacy, et cetera.

“Umm...,” Lyle had to concur.

“Why Raleigh?” Miss Parker asked.

Sydney looked at Broots, who popped erect as all eyes turned to him. “Uh....it’s a, uh, on account of its location. We know that the RV’s last known gas stop was north of Raleigh, but it’s possible they went a little south of that before heading back to New Jersey. But, um, they can’t have gotten as far as the southern state line because of the amount of gas in the tank when they re-entered New Jersey. Raleigh is just a, um, convenient calculation point.”

“No one has been able to locate Mr. Yu, either,” Sydney said, and Broots puffed and slouched happily back into his seat as the glare of ‘center stage’ abandoned him in favor of the doctor. “I suspect they are together.”

“‘Nother damned inscrutable Chinese pulling Wonder boy’s bacon out of the frying pan,” Miss Parker grumbled almost unintelligibly.

“Why is that?” Mr. Parker asked.

“Well,” Sydney said. “If his wounds are as severe as indicated, he would need someone along to tend him, to make sure he did not endanger anyone by, say, driving himself past the point of exhaustion.”

“I think we should snatch up Mrs. Bell and those two fruit-flies and squeeze them for info,” Lyle proposed. “We know they were lying to us about helping Jarod.”

“I disagree,” Sydney immediately protested. “Anything they might have known was made obsolete the moment Jarod left them. We know Jarod. As soon as they parted company, he would go to any lengths to break even the most tenuous of connections between them. No. It’s too late. The only thing we can do now it wait for him to contact us or trip one of Mr. Broots’ computer traps. And, if he is as injured as I suspect, it’s just possible that we have seen the last of him.”

Miss Parker looked sharply at the doctor at that.” You don’t think he’ll die, surely?”

“Well, there is always that outside possibility, of course, when dealing with major trauma such as he’s sustained there are no guarantees,” Sydney said. “And he is on the road. Without professional care and vigilance sepsis or a secondary illness —pneumonia, for instance— could set in at any time. But, no, I was thinking more in terms of Jarod’s deciding that he had suffered enough, atoned enough, and just plain disappearing.”

“Oh, he’s not likely to do that, Doctor,” Lyle rejected. “Mr. Goodie Two-shoes, himself? He enjoys rubbing our noses in his messes too much to stop.”

Sydney only shrugged. “Perhaps. Of greater importance, however, is Marchetti’s death. It is clear from forensic evidence that Jarod’s was the gun that killed Marchetti. We also know that Marchetti was the ‘mark’ for this pretend,” Sydney told the attendees. “We must determine if this was an out and out murder, or whether something happened which forced Jarod to shoot Marchetti with the deliberate intention of killing him, because if Jarod committed this act without sufficient provocation, we can only assume it is an escalation of Jarod’s need to atone. If it is an escalation, and if Jarod does return to his pretends, then we must begin to wonder how far he will go in order to exact his own brand of justice upon the guilty.”

“Why would that be of any concern to us?” Lyle asked.

“Because we can never forget that the final target of Jarod’s wrath will be The Centre. And if he has lost his moral compass...there is no limit to what he will do to us in order to exact his revenge.”

Mr. Parker humphed. “What I’d like to know is: how is any of this going to help us capture Jarod?”

“In point of fact,” Sydney said, “The only way we have ever been able to track Jarod is his willingness to taunt us with clues. If he has decided that doing so is exposing himself to possible retaliation is no longer a risk he wishes to take, then we will have no advanced warning when he strikes. Nor will we find him. Simple as that.”

Mr. Parker frowned. “That’s not good.”

“In the meantime, Broots has the computers searching for medical supply buys, car rentals, leases, or purchases by Asians of any extraction, as well as the usual ones for any sightings or usage of the name ‘Jarod’. That’s the best we can do,” Miss Parker said.

“Then let’s all adjourn to our respective offices and brainstorm the problem. There must be some way we can trace Jarod’s movements whether he wants us to or not,” Mr. Parker concluded.

//Hasn’t helped us find Jarod’s parents,// Mr. Raines thought glumly. And The Centre had been chasing them for thirty years. He glanced at Sydney, and they seemed to communicate the same thought as their eyes met.

Sydney shrugged. Sometimes the blind had to lead the blind.

“Dismissed.” Mr. Parker declared. “Mr. Raines, a word, if I may?”

“Yes?” Raines asked as the others made their way to the door.

Mr. Parker looked around. No one seemed to be dawdling. “We need to discuss the timetable of the Genesis Project. If Dr. Verne is correct, it must be ready to move into place when...‘other options’ close.”

“Hmm...I don’t foresee any problems. We’ve been slightly ahead of schedule so far, with all tests posting a hundred percent resolutions. I’ll work out a new schedule of tests for your approval immediately.”

Mr. Parker smiled. “Excellent.” He loved win/win solutions.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Roanoak Rapids Inn

Sunday, February 14^th

2:25 p.m.

They had awakened quite late the next morning still joined, which enabled them to take care of Tang’s morning erection without any trouble at all. After which they had finally parted so they could use the toilet. They returned to bed, facing each other, this time, and cuddled and smooched until occasional stereo stomach grumbles became urgent and sustained, eliciting an outbreak of the giggles that effectively doused their ardor in favor of more practical appetites.

Surrendering to the inevitable, they roused and piled into the bathroom, Tang helping Jarod prepare for a shower with a cut up garbage bag and duct tape. It really was neat stuff.

Afterwards, Tang changed Jarod’s dressing, satisfying himself that there was, in fact, no sign of infection. Jarod slathered on some neosporin to help keep it that way, and Tang re-bandaged him, then they reluctantly dressed in the hideous heart outfits Sam N Eddie had extorted their solemn pledges they would wear today and ventured down the walkway leading from their cabin to the main lodge.

It was only when they entered the dining room and saw all the paper hearts and cherubs festooning that and the attached ballroom that they understood how grandly they had been manipulated. They determined to eat dinner there despite this, and though they were careful to refrain from any Public Displays of Affection, they got more than their share of interruptions fending off the attentions of a stream of Miss Lonely Hearts who treated them like some kind of Valentine’s Day mascots displayed by the management for photo-op purposes, and who, without exception, invited them to the lodge’s Valentine’s dance slated to start at six that night.

They politely declined all offers.

Immediately after dinner, Tang arranged for room service to deliver two bottles of iced Champagne, a basket of fried chicken, an entire quiche Lorraine, a tureen of gaspacho, and assorted cheeses to their cabin, then he dragged Jarod to the nearest mall and purchased a box of chocolates —despite Jarod’s protestations that he didn’t like the too sweet concoctions— two tubs of whipped cream, two jars of Maraschino cherries, three tins of Hershey’s chocolate sauce, a four hour colored fire log, a cart full of candles in all manner and sizes of glass containers, six potpourri warmers, several bouquets worth of hot-house violets, a bottle of edible massage oil, four beach towels, four platters, a large salad bowl, a bag of plastic drop cloths, a fondue set, two hot plates, a bottle of lemon juice, a bottle of strawberry syrup, an assortment of winter apples, pears, and peaches, a box of Zip-loc bags, four boxes of Preparation H, and several romantic CDs. Then he sent Jarod to the van with the purchases so he could peruse a particularly promising lingerie store’s stock of scandalous thong underwear alone.

Purchases tucked under their arms, Tang herded Jarod into their cabin, a gleam in his eye and lust in his heart. At least he understood why Eddie’s parting ‘gift’ to him had been a ditty bag stuffed with sex toys and a smirk about not ‘over-doing it’.

Tang set immediately about setting the mood. The candles were grouped in disparate height clusters accented by a stray violet bloom or three. The bed was draped with a drop cloth, as was the floor in front of the fireplace, and both were covered by the beach towels and topped by violet blooms. The massage oil was divided between two of the ceramic potpourri bowls. The fondue set was assembled and a handful of votive candles were dumped inside the pot to melt.

Tang set one bucket of Champagne in the bedroom and one by the fireplace. Likewise, each place received a hot plate that was covered with a hand towel. Two more potpourri bowls were half-filled with strawberry syrup and set beside the fondue pot. The last two potpourri bowls were half-filled with chocolate syrup.

Tang cut the fruit into wedges and soaked them in the salad bowl in iced lemon water. Then he retrieved the nozzles from the Preparation H boxes and duct taped them to the pierced, bottom corner of a Zip-loc bag. Half the thawed whipped cream went into two of the impromptu ‘icing’ bags. Then he scraped out the wicks and tabs from the melted votive candles, and filled up the potpourri bowls of strawberry and chocolate syrups, stirring to mix the substances well. Then he dumped a tin of chocolate syrup into the fondue bowl with the remainder of the paraffin, stirred it, then divided it up between two more nozzle-tipped Zip-loc bags. These last he set on the hot plate, along with one each of the potpourri bowls. Tang then arranged the platters with the fruit, nozzled bags of whipped cream, the remaining tubs of whipped cream, and an opened jar of maraschino cherries.

Satisfied, Tang took Jarod into the bathroom. The ditty bag held a nozzle and hose that attached to the shower pipe. He connected it, then had Jarod strip. He lathered up Jarod’s groin. “Now, we need to get ready fo’ tonight’s festivities, and dat means shaving and rinsing out all your best bits. Den, after I’ve had my way wit’ you, you can do me. OK?”

Jarod nodded. He let Tang shave his groin and balls and ass and armpits and chest, then insert the nozzle for a thorough inside cleansing. Tang rinsed Jarod off and lovingly patted him dry, then slipped a red ‘yank’ style thong onto him. First he had Jarod step into the circle of cloth and pulled it up to his hips, smoothing the waistband, then he drew the back strap forwards, between Jarod’s ass cheeks, and threaded his cock and balls through the circle of elastic at the end, then he pulled down the front pouch and tucked Jarod’s cock and balls into it. That way, every time Jarod moved, his genitals would get a gentle tug.

Jarod stripped Tang, next, shaved what little body hair there was to shave, (not neglecting to complain that the disparity in hirsuteness had deprived him of some reciprocal satisfaction), rinsed him off and out, sensuously rubbed him dry, and happily helped him don a black pair of the yank-style thongs. Matching silk robes went on over those, then they exited the bathroom and while Tang went around the cabin lighting the candles and the fire place log and dimming the lights, Jarod put on the romantic CDs and opened the Champagne.

They slow-danced around the room, paused to sip some Champagne and feed each other chocolate bon bons and fruit wedges, then they pulled off their robes and danced some more. Then Tang asked Jarod where he’d prefer to get his massage, the bed or the fireplace. Jarod picked the fireplace, so Tang stripped off their thongs and let Jarod settle himself onto the beach towels and violet blooms, then Tang strapped a cock ring onto Jarod so he couldn’t cum and straddled his stomach, but did not put his weight onto Jarod.

Tang dipped three fingers into the heated massage oil and smoothed it over his hands, then began to rifle Jarod’s hair and scalp with the tips of his fingers. He stroked and rubbed every inch of Jarod’s head, then replenished his oil and began to massage Jarod’s face. He rubbed his temples and eye orbits, circled his mouth, trailed a finger down the lines on either side of his nose and mouth, kneaded his cheeks and stroked his jaw, finally feathering his fingers down his throat and over and around his neck.

Then he shifted down, over Jarod’s hips, so he could lick the warm, edible liquid on Jarod’s face, lapping at his eyelids and lips and the skin in front of his ear while he smoothed more of the oil over Jarod’s chest. He used his whole hand here, palming his breasts, kneading his shoulders, arms, hands, and abs, dipping in and out of his navel.

Then he moved farther down and licked at Jarod’s nipples and navel and sucked his fingers while he rubbed Jarod’s cock till it was purple and weeping and Jarod was crying for a release Tang did not allow him, then he teased Jarod’s cock and balls with his teeth and tongue and ran his tongue into the groove between his leg and groin and lapped at the silky skin where pubic hair had been only hours ago while he oiled Jarod’s legs. Finally, he sat below Jarod and sucked on Jarod’s toes and licked his ankles and nipped his calves.

And then he rolled Jarod onto his stomach and started at the top of his head again, nuzzling his neck, running his tongue into the shell of his ears, nipping at his shoulders, waist, butt, inner thighs, and sucking his toes again, then finishing with a kiss on his puckered hole.

“And now, my deah, we are going to find out how creative you can be,” Tang said as he laid down next to Jarod. Make me an edible feast, and dine on me, Little Bird.”

Tang pointed out the pallette Jarod had to work with. Jarod quickly got into the spirit of the occasion. He put a cock ring on Tang, then rayed fruit around Tang’s eyes, mouth, nipples, navel, and penis. Then he put whipped cream into the centers of the rays and topped them with a cherry. Then he drizzled strawberry and chocolate syrup, thickened with the wax so it adhered to Tang’s body when it cooled over all of the exposed flesh, and then he set about eating it all off of his companion without using his hands, ending at the tower of Tang’s erect cock, which was smothered in whipped cream, drizzled with syrup and topped with a cherry that he placed and replaced whenever Tang’s giggles or twitches dislodged it. He unsnapped the cock ring with his teeth, then lapped the erection like an ice cream cone. He sucked cherry and glans into his mouth, rolling the fruit around and around the glans, till the teased cock head was oozing pearls of pre-cum. Then he tucked the cherry into his cheek, deep throated Tang’s cock, and tried to swallow it whole. The constricting, undulating movements of his throat brought Tang to the edge of orgasm. Jarod pulled back so Tang’s cum would spurt into his mouth, not down his throat, and fluttered his tongue over Tang’s slit. Tang tensed, then shot his wad with a cry of pleasure. Jarod savored the taste of salt, then mixed it with the sweetness of cherry as he finally bit into the morsel.

“Hmm.... I have to admit,” Jarod confessed as he swallowed the cherry at long last, “ I wasn’t too thrilled about being shaved, but it sure beats picking hair out of your teeth.”

“You’re such a romantic,”Tang laughed as he offered his tormentor a glass of Champagne.

Jarod downed the glass and grinned. “You must be getting hungry yourself, huh?”

Tang grinned wickedly. “Uh-huh.”

Tang laid a track of whipped cream along Jarod’s body, using it as the cement for a fruit ‘conga’ line that wound in an ‘ess’ curve from Jarod’s forehead, over his right cheek, across his nose, around his left cheek over both lips, down his chin, over his throat, then divided to cover both clavicles, shoulders, breasts, nipples, zig-zagged over his right ribs and abs, (ignoring his bandaged left side), divided again to trail down to both ankles and make a labyrinthian maze of his groin. He built a cairn of cherries in Jarod’s navel, then striped and finger-painted the rest of him with syrup scrollwork, then he inserted the nozzle of the Zip-loc of whipped cream into Jarod’s rectum and filled him like a cream horn, corking his effort with a cherry and sealing it with a daub of chocolate.

Then Tang started eating from the ankles up. Scouring the legs clean before spreading them to reveal the prize in his ass. He freed the cherry with a combination of suction and tongue action, then sucked at Jarod’s hole like a vacuum, producing a satisfying arrangement of squeals, moans, and exclamations as he drew the slightly melted cream into his mouth. Then he began lapping at Jarod’s groin.

Jarod cried with frustration as Tang moved upwards --once again not allowing him to cum, doing his best, even so, to not dislodge the fruit wedges on his lips. “Argh! You’re evil! I let you cum!”

“But I still have plans fo’ you, my deah,” Tang said. He fished in the ice bucket for a suitably sized cube of ice and inserted it into Jarod’s rectum. Jarod squealed. Tang slipped another cube into his mouth, then sucked Jarod’s balls into his mouth, bathing them with melt water. Jarod shrieked. Tang pulled off before his mouth could warm up. “I trust that cooled your ardor?” he said wickedly.

“Just wait. I’ll get my revenge,” Jarod vowed, squirming in place as his balls tried to climb back into his abdominal cavity.

Tang only snickered, replaced the fruit lips, and moved up to the earthquake stricken fruit on Jarod’s torso. After tormenting his lover by licking every inch of exposed skin spotless, he moved up his throat and onto the fruit slices coiling over his face. He lapped each one into his mouth, teasing Jarod’s lips with the projecting end of the slice before sucking it into his mouth and chewing it down. He kissed the last bit of pear off Jarod’s forehead, then claimed Jarod’s mouth with his, passing him the fruit as he did so. Then he sat up and straddled Jarod’s face. “Get me ready, deah.”

Jarod sucked Tang until he was hard, then slid a condom onto his penis.

Tang squirted the chocolate in the Zip-loc bag into Jarod’s rectum. Then he sat cross-legged. “Straddle my lap.”

Jarod raised himself, got into position, then lowered himself onto Tang’s erection.

“Now, wrap your legs around my hips.”

Jarod did so. Then they embraced each other tightly.

“Now, rock.” They kissed, moaning their pleasure into each other’s mouths, sharing their aroused pants, making Jarod frantic as his penis was pressed and rubbed between their bodies. Finally, Tang pulled back, balancing them like a ‘V’ as his hand snaked between them and released Jarod’s cock, then helped brace them. “Now, cum fo’ me, deah. Cum now.”

Tang blew a current of air onto the purpled head of Jarod’s penis and with no more impetus than that Jarod arched his head back, like a coyote baying at the moon, and came with a shout, his pulsing ejaculations so intense his legs coiled around Tang’s hips like an anaconda, mashing them even closer together, forcing Tang even further into his rectum where his internal spasms squeezed Tang’s penis in a pulsing, velvet heat. Tang pumped once, twice, and let his orgasm crescendo over the brink, his penis throbbing in counter-point to Jarod’s constrictions.

When their flagging organs stilled at last, Tang looked at the sex-sated pleasure-dazed face of his lover and chuckled. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Lover.”

Jarod groaned, limp in Tang’s embrace. “I’ve had an epiphany. I now understand why the French refer to orgasm as ‘the Little Death’. I think you just killed me. Happy Valentine’s Day, My Love.”

Tang pecked Jarod’s lips, then leaned forward, laying him onto the beach towels, and spreading his legs so he could extricate himself. Then, holding the condom over his shrinking organ he pulled free and straddled Jarod’s face. “Clean me off, deah.”

Jarod obligingly licked the chocolate coated condom clean. Tang knotted and disposed of the condom, then scooted down between Jarod’s parted legs and sucked at his hole till the flavor of musk over-powered the flavor of chocolate. Then he sucked a hickey onto one ass cheek, moved up to cuddle his semi-conscious lover, and let them sink into sated slumber.

They woke a few hours later, sticky, hungry, and needing to relieve their bladders.

They used the now melted water in the Champagne bucket to unstick their skins from each other, then went into the bathroom for a more formal cleansing and bathroom break.

“I’m beginning to understand the appeal of chocolate,” Jarod said as they emerged from the bathroom to the bedroom, which was still set up for a romantic tryst, although most of the candles had guttered by now, and the Champagne had surely gone flat. “Seems a shame to waste this romantic ambiance. Up for round three?”

Tang raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Five hours of love-making and you’re not satisfied, yet? I’m gonna start calling you ‘Energizer Bunny.’”

“I prefer to think of myself as ‘Eveready.’”

Tang laughed. “Well, whoevva you are, I’m hungry. Help me gather up da foodstuffs befo’ dey spoil and let’s go eat dinner. Fried chicken is fantastic cold.”

“Cold pizza isn’t half bad, either,” Jarod commented as he grabbed the opened, but still cold champagne bottle and followed Tang, who had stacked the fruit platter onto the hot plate, out to the coffeetable in the front room where the rest of their dinner had been patiently awaiting their attentions. Jarod took a piece of chicken from Tang and nibbled on Tang’s fingertips. “You taste good, cold, too.”

“Dinna first, me later. Now, where’s dat remote? Ah. Dere. Look, deah: it’s da X-Files.”

“Oh, good!... Do we have any popcorn?”

Tang punched Jarod’s shoulder. “No, Mr. Bottomless pit. I don’t know how you can eat so much crap and still keep yo’ girlish figure.”

Jarod grinned. “I’ve been told that sex is very aerobic. Besides, unbuttered, air-popped corn has very few calories.”

Tang rolled his eyes. “Go eat yo’ quiche.”

They settled down to watch the program, which unspooled a tale of Consortium family, including Cassandra Spender’s, deaths, the reassignment —yet again— of Mulder and Scully to the X-files, and the apparent murder of Jeffery Spender by his estranged father, Cancerman.

“Pretty gruesome,”Tang said as he shut off the TV. He looked at Jarod, who had not commented. “Penny fo’ yo’ t’oughts.”

Jarod scowled. “Fathers like that...make me think of Miss Parker.... I feel as if I was destined to—...I don’t know. ‘Liberate her’ seems so trite. But she is trapped. As much as I ever was. And I’ve uncovered enough information to know she’s important to her father’s plans, just not in the way she’d like to matter. Not like a person. Like a commodity.... She’s a red file, too. Like me. Like Kyle was.... Disposable but valuable.... I can’t help wondering what their ultimate plan was, before it all changed...if it’s changed enough.... They’re evil, Tang, and their ultimate aims are convoluted by office politics and international intrigues. I wish I knew all their secrets. I wish —I wish I wasn’t the only one I could depend on to stop them.”

“You aren’t healed yet, Siau Niao,” Tang reminded him, aware that Jarod was anxious to get back into the game.

“I’m well enough for marathon sex. I’m well enough to be looking after myself.... I don’t want to lose you, Tang, you know that. I’ve been happier with you than anybody else in my life, including Nia...but...,” he looked at the blanked TV screen, “in a few more days, your safety will be the only reason we’re still together.”

Tang bit his lip. “Den, what are we sitting on our bums out heah, fo’? We’ve got a bed to debauch.”

Jarod stood up at once and offered a hand up to Tang. “Technically, there’s no way we can debauch the bed, as it’s not human, and therefore has no morals to corrupt.”

Tang held Jarod’s hand and led him into the bedroom. “On da contrary, my deah: crime is a sin, and sin is morally corrupt, so if we use da bed to commit a crime, it becomes a party to da crime. So let’s party.”

“I like your logic,” Jarod grinned as he sank onto the bed and wrapped his arms around his partner.

They explored each other’s mouths, counting each ridge, each tooth, tasting the other’s tongue, cheeks, sucking on each other’s lips, sharing each other’s air, so they never had to part until, with a final lap, Tang pulled away and kneed up. “Scoot down a bit,” Tang ordered. “Little bit mo’. Dere.” He turned so his heels were facing the backboard, and straddled Jarod so his groin was directly over Jarod’s mouth. “Now, since you’re underneath you have to be careful not to choke, and remember not to bite down if you get excited. No one wants to lose any body parts, am I right?”

“Absolutely,” Jarod said, and he wrapped his arms around Tang’s butt in order to force him closer. His fingers began playing in Tang’s crack while he lapped at Tang’s penis head and balls, and enjoyed laving the shaved groin and teasing his perenium with the tip of his tongue.

Tang groaned. “Use da lube....now pass it to me.” Tang slicked then wriggled a hand under Jarod’s leg and toyed with Jarod’s hole, using the other hand to hold up Jarod’s as yet flaccid penis for his attentions. It wasn’t long before Tang’s support was unnecessary, and he shifted his grip to fondle Jarod’s balls, rolling them like worry beads in his palm. They sucked each other’s penis’ to the root and set up a synchronized pull and lick, frigging each other’s prostates with fluttering, probing fingers. Arousal made their hips buck, but Jarod could not escape the assault unless he moved his hand under Tang’s hips and held him away, so he opened his throat to accept the invading organ, instead while Tang moaned and sucked and pushed himself away from Jarod’s spasms, pulling Jarod’s penis with fierce suction till it snapped out of his mouth, slapped his stomach, and rebounded into Tang’s waiting mouth.

“Oh, God!” Jarod cried at the sensation this evoked in his tortured flesh.

Tang chuckled, and the vibrations hummed into Jarod’s penis, making him spasm reflexively again. Jarod lost all sense of rhythm and reciprocity, made desperate by the urgency of his impending orgasm and Tang’s tongue, rubbing against Jarod’s glans, pressing, then scraping the sensitive rim over the ridges of his palette. Jarod began shouting as he pitched and Tang suddenly found himself astride a bucking bronco. He held on for dear life and sucked for all he was worth.

Jarod howled as the first pulse of release hit him, and shouted with every spasm that followed. Only when Tang had sucked the last droplet from his flagged penis could he resume his attentions on Tang’s still insistent erection. He rolled to put Tang beneath him, and began proving how closely he’d paid attention to Tang’s technique.

It wasn’t long before Tang was shouting with as much enthusiasm as he had. In the end, Tang was so spent Jarod had to turn him so they could lay in each others’ arms and sleep off their ecstasy.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Patriot Bus Station,

Roanoak, N.C.

Wednesday, February 17^th

2:51 p.m.

Tang dropped Jarod at the Patriot Bus Lines terminal.

He had called Sam yesterday, using the ruse of a developing business venture and his current alias in case there were unwanted listeners on the line, and gotten, in that round-about fashion, the news that Panecco had accepted Marchetti’s loss, and Tang’s disinterest in further revenge, and that the gang and any contracts on Tommy’s avengers had been called off.

Jarod had immediately ‘sold’ the van to Tang, (for a dollar), and, once he had turned over the pink slip, called the nearest bus station for a recital of their scheduled departures. Afterwards, he had gone into the bathroom to re-dye his hair to its natural shade, lay out his more usual, sober clothing and pack the rest with the rest of his essential gear, his very actions declaring to Tang his intent to re-enter his personal war with The Centre ASAP. The skirmishes would continue, the pretends go on, his persona shift to accommodate the next scenario. But not quite yet. Jarod finished his preparations then came over to embrace Tang and kiss him deeply. Not quite yet.

They spent the remainder of the night as they had spent all their free time since Valentine’s Day: in bed making love with the urgency of elapsing time, the savagery of wanting to feel the effects for days past their physical parting.

They shared a final, delicate farewell kiss in the back of the van, then Jarod shouldered his duffle bag and hefted the twine handled paper bag of specialty foodstuffs Tang had given him, and stepped to the curb. If leave-taking was hard on him, who had done it again and again, it was worse for Tang, but they also knew it had to be done. So he did it. And Tang did not stop him.

He stood on the sidewalk staring at Tang until the Oriental could force himself to drive away, then he slouched inside to the counter and bought a ticket for the next scheduled departure.

He had just enough time to mail Tang a letter, in care of the Song Hai restaurant, by Fed Ex one day air, so it would be waiting for Tang when he got home, before his bus was announced, and he had to queue up with his luggage to climb aboard.

It took two days for Tang to drive home, partly because he was in no hurry to get there, partly because he wasn’t ready to face cleaning up his apartment, talking to the cops, going back to waiting tables, or trying to bury the empty ache in his heart for a man who had warned him he wouldn’t stay.

He came home to discover that his friends had pitched in in his absence to clean up his apartment and replace the broken items; that the police had little more than cursory questions to ask once he told them he did not know Jarod Reed’s whereabouts, that he had fled in terror upon discovering his apartment’s destruction, suffering Post Traumatic Stress from resurgent memories of the last time he had been caught by vandals, and had not dared to come home until his friends had persuaded him it was safe; and that Jarod had all along had ulterior motives in buying the run-down hotel, motives which were revealed when Tang opened the Fed Ex pouch and read the enclosed letter, and pocketed the keys and bankbook and deed, therein.

“My Dearest Beloved Ma Gai,

I know that when we met I was near to shattering, and that it is only due to your kindness, caring, and sacrifice that I survived, stronger, and more enriched in soul than I have ever been. There were so many other lives shattered because of Thomas’s death, and so many more besides with their own private hurts who could use your steady encouragement and guidance. The thought of your talents lying fallow in the face of such need is more than I can bear.

So, for me and all the other broken people in Newark, particularly those who are gay, who face discrimination and ostracism on top of all their other woes, I am asking you to use the money herein to refurbish the property I have deeded to you and to fund the establishment of the Thomas Nowiki Bell Memorial Gay Crisis Center. Don’t forget to give yourself a decent salary.

If you wait for the right moment, you can probably hire Officer Hambly away from the police department and onto your staff. He ought to be open to the career change once he accepts his three-quarter disability pension. (Cassie can keep tabs on him and let you know when that happens.) Keeping the staff gay would be a good policy, and I think you’ll find that, beneath his cynical exterior, beats a familiarly virtuous heart, which could use a little of your psychic balm.

Love Always, Your Siao Niau,

Jarod”

The bank account was in the amount of three million dollars.

Tang laughed till he cried.

Miss Parker and Sydney arrived at Tang’s door a day later. Tang looked them up and down before inviting them inside. “You must be Miss Parker and Dr. Verne,” he said by way of opening. “Jarod told me to expect you.”

“He has a habit of doing that,” Miss Parker said dryly. “I expect you have something for us, then?”

“Dis red notebook,” Tang said, as he handed it over.

“Is that all?” Miss Parker asked, one elegant eyebrow arching in challenge as Sydney leafed through the proffered booklet.

“Ummm...an invitation to the opening of The Thomas Nowiki Bell Memorial Gay Crisis Center —I’m going to be da head counselor and chief manager —d’ough I’m afraid dat won’t be fo’ months yet. We have licences to secure, staff to hire, a building to refurbish. However, since we’re financing it all through a generous donation from yo’ company, extending an invitation to da grand opening is da least we can do.” He smiled as Miss Parker almost fell off her high heels at the news. “Funding so many good works fo’ da community at large must be good fo’ da corporate soul, not to mention yo’ karma. I’ve already picked out a plaque of appreciation.”

Sydney chuckled as Miss Parker huffed like a rutting turkey, not quite bold enough to challenge his possession of Centre funds. “How is Jarod?”

Tang heaved a painful sigh. “I can tell you beyond any doubt dat Jarod Reed is no mo’,” Tang said, pointing behind them to a memorial photo of Officer Reed in uniform that was draped in black crepe. “Da Department was kind enough to have his ID photo blown up for me. We’re holding a memorial fo’ him next Saturday. And I hafta tell you, we may not have known each other very long, but I’m gonna miss him somet’ing dreadful. He was da perfect lover. Caring, considerate, nurturing —and a sex God. I frankly t’ink he’s spoiled me fo’ other men.”

“Sex!” Miss Parker barked.

“Yeah. People have sex in relationships wit’out benefit of marriage dese days, you know? Oh! No! Wait! Getting married is what straight couples do,” Tang smirked. “Nevvamind.”

Miss Parker’s face froze in a rictus of distaste. “I knew it! Serial killers weren’t enough for him he had to go and add ‘sexual deviant’ to his list of accomplishments.”

Tang’s smile thinned. “I t’ink you should leave, now.”

“Jarod didn’t happen to indicate where he would be heading next, did he?” Sydney asked as Tang led them back to the front door.

“No.”

“And this is everything he gave to you to give to us?” Miss Parker confirmed.

“Dat’s it,” Tang averred.

“I think the sex must have muddled his brain,” Miss Parker asided as Tang firmly closed the door on them and they headed for the elevator. “He usually dangles something in front of us.”

Sydney smiled. “Sex will tend to do that. I think in this case, however, he is merely at loose ends. Perhaps he is waiting to heal some more before deciding his next course.”

“Not Jarod. Jarod’s only ‘course’ in life is to make mine miserable.”

Sydney snorted and they made their way back to the waiting limo.

“Do you think it would be worth having this guy hauled in for questioning?”

Sydney shook his head. “Other than to annoy him, there’s no point. Mr. Yu alluded as much, too. He said that Jarod Reed was ‘no more,’ then he confirmed that Jarod was alive and well enough to give him custody of the red notebook and not indicate where he was next heading. He is genuinely mourning the loss of his lover, knowing that the Jarod persona who loved him is, to all intents and purposes, dead. It would be a waste of time and resources to interrogate him —and I don’t think either of us needs the scrutiny we’d suffer through the wasting of funds.”

Miss Parker sighed. “So, it’s home again, home again, jiggity jog —and no Jarod in sight. I don’t know which is worse: wondering when and where he’ll turn up again, or having to make another report to my father while he makes goo-goo eyes at The Troll. If I ever get that gooey over love promise me you’ll shoot me, Syd.”

Sydney laughed. “Oh, Miss Parker, ‘tis the season when a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love.”

“Yeah. So what’s Daddy’s excuse?”

“Mid-life crisis?” Sydney ventured.

Miss Parker laughed despite herself. Thoughts of Jarod ‘doing it’ with another man, stilled her, soon enough. “You think it’s out of his system, now?”

“What?”

“Sex. With another man.” She squirmed in her seat. “The very thought! Ugh!”

“I would have to hear from Jarod to know, one way or the other. Mr. Yu seems to think so, though. And he struck me as a very perceptive individual.”

Miss Parker looked at the doctor. “Jealous?”

Sydney frowned. “Of Jarod’s lover?”

She nodded. “That Jarod could confide in someone besides you, maybe ask them for advise, yeah.”

“Ah.” Sydney thought about it for a moment. “Yes. You know, in all my calculations I never allowed for Jarod’s ability to form close emotional bonds with anyone else.”

“So..., what if he stops needing you, someday? Will we lose him forever?”

“...I hope not. I truly hope not.”

They spent the rest of the ride in companionable, contemplative silence.

Jarod’s bus pulled into the station and the driver announced a wait-over. The passengers filed out in an orderly line, the one’s whose destinations had been reached queuing up to collect their luggage, the others, like Jarod, free to wander the park-like landscaping that surrounded the building till the bus was cleaned and re-fueled.

Jarod flexed his shoulder muscles and headed for a picnic bench where he could eat the last of the perishables that had been Tang's parting gift. He peeled the paper off the bottom of a char shu bau, opened his thermos of hot water to add a cup of milk and four ginger and honey packets, then dug into the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone with his free hand and hit the speed dial by feel, chewing as he listened to the number ring.

"This is Sydney."

"Why does society tell us to 'love one another', promote the idea that 'love makes the world go around', that 'God is love', that 'love conquers all' —then try to destroy the very love it trumpets?

"Jarod! Thank God you're alive!" Sydney exclaimed, too relieved to answer Jarod's question without first expressing the concern that had been clenching his guts for the last week. "There was so much blood...and when we didn't hear from you...well, even Miss Parker was beginning to be worried. How are you? Back up to snuff and ready for mischief, I trust?"

"More or less.... Nothing went right on this pretend, Sydney. I misjudged the whole situation. I was forced to turn men loose that I should have held onto, and they alerted my quarry, enabling him to strike at me before I was ready for him. That forced me to play his game in order to save myself which led, inadvertently, to the death of an innocent man. Then, because I panicked when I was shot by one of the vandals in my apartment, I killed another of them unnecessarily. Two more deaths on my hands. Add to that, the two I killed to save Officer Hambly, and that's six lives lost over the course of this pretend with nothing to show for it, really. Panecco is still selling his poison on the street, the force is still homophobic...I had to leave someone I loved... Again.

"If it hadn't been for —friends, I would have died myself...it hurt so bad. I was that desperate to ease the pain. I know I'll carry the emotional scars forever...but I wouldn't change a second of it if it meant I would never have loved Tang.

"Because of him I have had a chance to touch and be touched, to heal, and to soar, to lose myself in someone's eyes, and find myself in their arms.

"If life is a gift, then love is what's inside the wrapping paper. It's not given often, and it's not shared enough. I have been in love with and made love to a man and a woman. Because of that —and what you taught me, I know that love is distinct with every person you give it to or receive it from, and the greatest act of love is recognizing and accepting it no matter what form it takes.

"I will never again squander my opportunities to live or —despite what society deems proper— love.

"So I have to ask: If society believes that love is good, and that true love is best, why doesn't it cherish and approve of all true loves? Love is love, afterall. Love doesn't alter its properties because of who is doing the loving. When two people love each other, truly and deeply, shouldn't we rejoice and celebrate that love, whatever form it takes?"

"It isn't that simple, Jarod. A pedophile would claim that his love is deeper and more genuine than that of the child's parents. The stalker, the wife beater, and sadist would claim that

their love is true. Do you think society should condone such love?"

"Whatever they claim, those aren't examples of true love, Sydney, and you —and society— know it. They aren't pure and selfless loves, love between equals, a consenting love of mutual respect."

"Ninety percent of the people who commit to relationships cannot claim to be in selfless, equal, and respectful relationships, Jarod. There's a fine line between sacrifice and selflessness; compromise and equality; domination and respect. Some marry for money, position, approval, escape, loneliness. Most people just 'settle'."

"All the more reason to respect and acknowledge the miracle of true love when it happens."

"'True love' is irrelevant to society, Jarod. Its primary concern is bolstering its numbers. Growth through future generations is what society really promotes. Homosexuality is a threat to that goal."

"But parental love, brotherly love, volunteerism, and philanthropy aren't loves that bolster procreation, and society encourages them. How can society condemn same sex love because it is not procreational, yet promote other non procreational loves? When it's 'true' it's no less genuine than any other 'acceptable' love. It promotes stability, community, harmony, and tolerance. Society's acceptance of same sex love would only spread the benefits of such love throughout society."

"What do you want me to say, Jarod? Our society —most societies— proscribe certain kinds of love. Incest. Pedophilia. Homosexuality. None of them are universally proscribed. But all of them are proscribed in this society. I neither justify it nor condemn it, it just is. I taught you to deal with reality, not fantasies of should have, could have, ought to have."

"I was told, and I believe, that if I try hard enough, I can change the world. But it's harder than I thought. SIM 1075, Sydney: all strangers are feared no matter where they're from or what they look like, but the ones who look or act differently are feared more.

"Fear can protect us from doing something that could hurt us or others, but it can also cage us when we should be free. Hate is fear made so angry it interferes with our better judgment. Reason can conquer fear, but only love can conquer hate.

"If we continue to allow society to destroy true love out of fear, we condemn ourselves to live in a world where the best part of ourselves is governed by hate. If we want to make the world a better place, we must free love and shackle hate.”

"Possibly. But nothing you or I say is going to change society's conventions. And listening to me defend society is not the reason you called...is it?"

"No..... The entire time I was in The Centre you denied your love for me and spurned my love for you and, in so doing, you inflicted a wound to my heart that will never heal. Because of that, I will never condone what you did to me, but I do, finally, understand why you thought it necessary to distance yourself from me.

“The irony is: by following your fear instead of your heart, you have suffered a far greater loss than I. It’s taken me a long time to see past the hurt, but I can finally say, without reservations: I forgive you, Sydney. You were mis-guided, but you meant well.

"But I will never forgive The Centre. In fact, I hate it more now than was even possible for me while I was incarcerated. And I swear that, once I find my family, I will tear The Centre down brick by brick."

Jarod hung up, stuffed the cell phone back into his vest pocket, and contemplated the meal spread before him. It made him think of Tang, and happier times. He stared at the other passengers strategically dotting the picnic tables eating, like him, reading newspapers, magazines, or paperbacks bought at one of the kiosks inside the station house, and a group of men throwing down money over a round of cards caught his eye.

He settled into the shade and watched the men play while he finished his lunch. Dining al fresco could be very enjoyable. He would have to picnic again, sometime. He raised his Thermos cup/cap and toasted absent friends, drained the cup, packed it away, then wandered over to ask the men what sort of game they were playing. They looked at him as if he had four heads, but one of them said: “Poker,” curtly, and Jarod, satisfied, thanked them and continued inside to use the toilet. He spotted a book on Poker for sale at a kiosk on his way back outside and stopped to buy it. Who knows, it could prove entertaining. He smiled and re-boarded the bus. Next Stop: Washington D.C. #

The End