DISCLAIMER:

See above.

* * *

A Handshake Deal
by mariatex@worldnet.att.net

 Miss Parker's first thought, when the car engine started to misfire, was 
that he'd done it to her again.  That knee-jerk conclusion was 
understandable.  The events of the last year had conditioned her to 
regard any misfortune as the product of Jarod's manipulation.  Parker 
had come to feel like a rat in a very special kind of maze, one in which 
the sides could be adjusted by a looming lab technician so that every 
path she took, even those which initially appeared to be very 
promising, eventually led to the deadest of dead ends.  It was, she 
knew, a fitting revenge on her as a representative of the Centre.  After 
having spent many years inside a similar maze, the ex-lab rat must 
have enjoyed turning the tables on one of his former captors. 

Someone who didn't know Jarod might have concluded that this 
paranoiac mindset was delusional, that the stress of the chase had 
caused Parker to greatly overestimate her quarry's abilities.

For one thing, the evidence would seem to suggest that all her unlucky 
circumstances had been purely accidental; Jarod had never left his 
fingerprints at those crime scenes.  For another, he'd seldom been 
around to witness the results of his alleged handiwork.  Therefore it 
was unlikely he had derived all that much evil pleasure from them.  
But anyone familiar with Jarod would have found Parker's suspicions 
completely justified.  He was fully capable of crafting a complicated, 
interlocking series of events which in the end looked exactly like 
random happenstance.  And it wasn't necessary for him to be 
physically present in order to enjoy the aftermath.  Jarod could sit in a 
sleazy motel room a thousand miles away and savor the spectacle of 
Parker banging her head against one of his carefully engineered blank 
walls exactly as if it were happening right in front of him.  No, she was 
quite right to believe that every piece of bad luck she'd suffered since 
setting off on Jarod's trail had had an author--and an audience.

Parker quickly reminded herself that Jarod was not currently free to 
bedevil her.  He had been captured, and so there would be no more 
blank walls, no more practical jokes, no more taunting messages or 
deliberately induced cases of the flu.  This particular misfortune at least 
could not be attributed to her nemesis, but instead had to be a simple 
mechanical malfunction. 

Despite her best efforts, there remained a lingering doubt in her mind 
about this reassuring hypothesis.  But it finally dissipated when Parker 
spotted a place up ahead where she could stash the ailing BMW.  All 
she had to do to slip the car into one of the empty slots in front of a 
rather shabby bar-and-grill and then use the cel phone to call Mr 
Rescue.  If Jarod had been responsible for the engine cutting out, Parker 
would have found herself stranded in the middle of nowhere with a 
scrambled cellular.  Any breakdown which did not involve her having 
to walk five miles down a deserted road in four-inch heels could not 
have been crafted by the master of the dead end.    

The Beamer died right as she eased it into a parking space.  Parker 
pulled the phone out of her purse and pushed the button to activate it.  
Nothing.  That was strange, she thought, the battery had been charged 
only the night before...  Parker began a frantic attempt to stave off an 
intensely dispiriting realization, to convince herself--against all odds--
that the failure of the cel phone was merely a bad-timing coincidence.  
But then she detected movement at the very top of her vision.  
Someone had exited the bar, and was standing on top of the small 
flight of steps which led to the entrance.  When Parker looked up, she 
saw a very familiar figure, wearing a very familiar expression.  Jarod, 
smirking.  

It *was* him after all.  The comforting belief that she'd escaped the 
maze had been another illusion engineered by the former lab rat.  Jarod 
had simply adjusted the walls one more time.  

Parker struggled for control.  She'd long ago accepted the fact that she 
could never win outright the battle of wills between herself and Jarod.  
But Parker had tried desperately to arrange it so that her inevitable 
defeat would not be too degrading.  Regrettably, she was up against a 
much more clever arranger.  To everyone else, Miss Parker was a 
formidable personality, a controlled, controlling ice queen who caused 
stress but never felt it herself.  To Jarod, she was just another chump 
who could be effortlessly outthought, outsmarted, outmaneuvered, 
and he was apparently bent on proving that by vanquishing her 
unconditionally 

Parker rolled down the window as Jarod walked over.  She was 
temporarily distracted from those very bleak musings by the sight of 
him.  It occurred to her--not for the first time--that Jarod's genius was 
remarkably broad-based.  It allowed him to fly a helicopter, speak a 
dozen languages and pick out exactly the right clothes.  The black 
leather jacket, heather-gray three-button polo and black jeans perfectly 
complimented his height, build and coloring.  "Hiya, Junior," Jarod 
said after reaching the car.

"Don't call me that," she corrected him automatically.  Then, trying 
hard to sound casual, she said, "You didn't waste much time, did you?"    

Jarod was gazing off down the road.  "No.  I thought it best to keep my 
stay to a minimum."

"What did you do to my car?" Parker asked, still attempting to 
underplay her responses, to sound irritated rather than devastated.  

Now he focused on her.  "Just a precaution," he said.  "Pop the hood."

Parker hesitated, instinctively loath to follow his orders.  But as usual 
Jarod had boxed her in completely; she had no choice but to comply, to 
participate in her own humiliation.  Pulling on the toggle below the 
dashboard, she freed the latch.  Jarod immediately opened the hood, 
propped it up and went to work on the engine.  

After a minute or so, Parker got out of the car.  Leaning against the 
driver-side door, she lit a cigarette and prepared to wait him out.  Jarod 
glanced up briefly from the car engine at the sound of the lighter but 
made no comment.

Parker was on her second cigarette when she noticed a stranger 
approaching.  The shortish Asian teenager headed their way appeared 
fairly menacing; the outfit he was wearing--baggy black pants and a 
black windbreaker embroidered with a complicated Oriental symbol--
could have easily been a gang uniform.  Her frustration temporarily 
forgotten, she called out nervously, "Jarod?"

"He's a friend of mine," he answered without raising his head from 
the engine.

Parker stifled the impulse to inquire, "How did you know what I was 
going to ask?"  She didn't really need an answer to that question--she 
was well aware of how Jarod knew.  The same way he knew 
everything: by utilizing a brain which was relentlessly logical, eerily 
intuitive and capable of processing information with Pentium-plus 
speed and power.  So she merely requested clarification.  "A friend?"   

"Yes.  I'm giving him French lessons."

"*French* lessons?"

"He's in love with a Vietnamese girl," Jarod said.

He called out in some Oriental language, and the kid broke into a jog.  
As he passed by Parker on the way to Jarod's side, he gave her a 
searching look and addressed a comment in the same language to his 
teacher.  They both laughed merrily.  Then, very politely, as if the two 
of them hadn't just made fun of her, Jarod introduced his friend.  
"Shen-Ling, this is Michael Parker."

"*Miss* Parker," she corrected him.   

To her extreme dismay, the young man was evincing a junior-grade 
version of the smirk.  But it didn't last long; he had to pay strict 
attention when Jarod issued what sounded like a series of complicated 
instructions, this time in French.  "OK," the kid said when he was 
finished.  Jarod waited very expectantly for a different answer.  
"D'accord," Shen-Ling had to say.  

Turning to Parker, Jarod said, "The keys, please."

She decided to take a stand.  Parker would no longer meekly cooperate 
while Jarod made a fool out of her.  "I'm not giving you my keys," she 
announced.  "I'm not letting you take my car."  Parker reached into her 
purse, pulled out her keys and dangled them.  "Not until you tell me 
what's going on, Jarod."

He shrugged, and taking an identical set out of his pocket, tossed it to 
Shen-Ling.  The kid immediately slid into the driver's seat of the 
Beamer, started it up and, with an infuriating wave at Parker, drove 
off.

She felt a stabbing pain in her abdomen.  

"How's the ulcer?" Jarod asked.  Parker had been watching the car, but 
now she turned to glare at him.  "I meant to ask before," he said mildly.

Parker didn't answer; Jarod knew how the ulcer was.

"They're doing some interesting things with ulcer therapy these days.  
Would you like me to prescribe something?"  He sounded perfectly 
sincere: a medical professional dedicated to the relief of suffering.  But 
Jarod's concerned expression was undercut by a self-confident, self-
amused gleam in his eyes--he was enjoying this.  

Parker tried to think of a flippant gesture, a cutting remark which 
might dim that maddening half-smile.  She gave up after realizing 
that, even if she did spend the next hour devising some foolproof plan 
to thwart Jarod, it would be no use putting it in action.  Because he 
could tell her right now what that plan would be--and what steps he 
had taken to counter it. 

"Come on inside," Jarod said at the very second she came to that 
conclusion. 

The way he held the door to the bar open, Parker had to walk under his 
arm.  As she did, Jarod leaned into her slightly.  It was, she knew, a 
deliberate move.  He was forcing her to acknowledge his size and  
strength.  She smelled the musky scent of leather, a sweetly astringent 
after-shave and something that was simply...male.  Parker was on the 
receiving end of a very specific message: things are different now, 
Junior.  I'm no longer the boy in the bubble--the neuter, naive little 
science experiment who lived on Corridor 15.  I'm not only smarter 
than you, I'm bigger and stronger too. 

Parker felt a thrill of intimidation--for the first time, Jarod's superiority 
became real to her in a visceral, physical way.  She had always known 
that he could accomplish the impossible; she'd seen him solve 
quadratic equations in his head and reveal the exact thought processes 
of a person he knew only from a brief videotape.  But Parker had never 
been truly awed by those feats, had never taken them as evidence of 
her own inferiority.  Because she'd always believed that what made 
Jarod unique made him weak too.  Parker could do at least one thing 
he could never do--live outside the Centre.  

From the moment Jarod arrived at Blue Cove, Sydney had stressed that 
he would have been unable to make it on the outside much longer.  
They had done Jarod a favor by isolating him.  He *needed* isolation.  
At the Centre, a pretender's interactions could be carefully monitored; 
his great sensitivity managed, controlled.  If Jarod was ever exposed to 
the thoughts and feelings of other people on an unregulated basis, his 
very identity would be at risk.  Emotionally swamped, he might find it 
difficult to distinguish between his own feelings and those of the 
people around him.  It was not inconceivable that he could suffer some 
kind of irreparable psychotic break under those conditions. 

There came a time, however, when Sydney was no longer able to argue 
that point convincingly.  Eager to cash in on his investment, Mr Parker 
had overridden the psychiatrist's objections and scheduled a series of 
on-site demonstrations for potential clients when Jarod was only nine.  
It quickly became clear that the pretender-in-training could maintain 
his sense of self in a crowd of strangers.  Sydney was obliged to switch 
tactics.  His new strategy was to persuade Jarod that he would be in 
physical danger on the outside.  "People don't like difference," Sydney 
told him.  "And you are very, very different.

At the Centre, we appreciate your abilities--we put them to good use.  
Out there, those same talents would be considered very threatening.  
People wouldn't want to know that living among them was someone 
who could insinuate himself into their lives, into their minds.  If it 
ever became public knowledge that you were capable of doing such 
things, you might find yourself locked up for life.  And it would be in a 
real prison, not a place like the Centre.  You have friends here, Jarod.  
We protect you--we take care of you.  We know you're like the white 
leopard.  Valuable but vulnerable." 

Sydney told Mr Parker that Jarod had learned that lesson as well as he 
learned every other lesson he'd ever been taught.  They didn't have to 
worry about him escaping.  Even if Jarod did go over the wall, he said 
with a smile, a sweeper team would find him curled up in a ball within 
a quarter-mile of the building.

So Jarod remained at the Centre.  But if isolation preserved his mental 
and physical health, it also had the effect of stunting his emotional 
growth.  Parker first noted this phenomenon when they were both 
adolescents.  At one time, she had envied Jarod's exemption from all 
the grueling rites of passage which preoccupied her during those years.  
She eventually recognized, however, that there was a downside to his 
never having endured a single teenage trial-by-fire.  He never 
experienced the strengthening, deepening transformation which came 
from having successfully negotiated them.  Jarod remained a man-
child, brilliant but immature.  Parker saw very little of him during her 
college years but, after having signed on with Corporate, she 
occasionally visited the lab at Blue Cove.  When she did, it seemed to 
Parker that Jarod might actually be regressing.  Still supremely 
confident when working out some puzzle which had stumped 
everyone else, he was otherwise more hesitant, more reticent, less sure 
of himself.  Jarod had apparently internalized Sydney's warning that he 
could live only within a limited environment to mean that he himself 
was essentially limited.  

Parker had to hand it to him--it had taken a great deal of courage for 
Jarod to leave the Centre.  Those first few moments out in the open 
were undoubtedly terrifying.  She wondered how long it had taken 
him to figure out that he had nothing to fear.  Not very long--it never 
took Jarod long to figure out anything.  It had taken the Centre much 
longer to understand what they were up against in trying to bring him 
back.  Once the unthinkable had happened--Jarod had made a 
successful escape and a check of  the immediate environs had *not* 
turned up a pretender in the fetal position--Sydney postulated that 
Jarod would go immediately into hiding, that he would take infinite 
pains to disguise who he was, what he could do.  But Jarod was smarter 
than that.  He hid in plain sight.  Parker remembered how surprised 
she and Sydney had been when they held that first debriefing at Queen 
of Angels hospital.  It was incredible to them that Jarod would have so 
often told the truth about himself, revealing to two of his co-workers, 
for example, that he'd performed a complicated tracheotomy procedure 
after only reading about it in a book.  When they'd laughed at that 
outlandish statement, Jarod had probably felt home free.  His 
childhood dream--that he could go anywhere, do anything--had finally 
come true.

Jarod must have smiled when he realized that.  And over time that 
smile had become something of a permanent expression.  Contrary to 
Sydney's pessimistic expectations, Jarod was thriving in the real world.  
The fact that the scenarios which spun effortlessly from his one-of-a-
kind imagination would play out like clockwork every time gave him 
an unprecedented advantage.  The Centre's white leopard turned out 
to be king of the jungle.  

 Parker picked up an ashtray from one of the tables she and Jarod 
passed on their way to the back of the bar.  She had a feeling that he 
would be sitting in the non-smoking section.  But as usual Jarod was 
ahead of the game.  Cluttered on one side of the booth to which he led 
her was a red notebook, three newspapers, a pamphlet which looked to 
be written in Arabic and a half-empty glass of some soft drink.  On the 
other side was a huge ashtray. 

 Parker was left to stand there with the much smaller tray in her hand.  
Giving her a gentle, understated version of his habitual smirk, Jarod 
took it from her and passed it to the waitress who materialized as they 
took their seats.

In Spanish, she queried him about a Dr Pepper refill.  "Si."  That made 
three languages--four if you count English, five if you count the 
pamphlet.  This display of multilingual ability was no more accidental 
than her car breaking down, the phone fritzing out, Jarod bumping 
into her.  It was all being done for her benefit.  You might as well give 
up, Junior; you can't beat me.  You can't beat a pretender.   

"What would you like, Mikey?" he asked.

"Don't call me that," she repeated.  "And I speak Spanish, you know.  
You don't have to interpret."

Jarod didn't change expression, but somehow the smile grew wider.

"Knock yourself out," he said.

Parker ordered a Black Jack Daniels, and the waitress hurried away.  
Then,  staring straight at Jarod, she lit up a cigarette and took a long, 
lingering drag.

No reaction.  That gesture was just another development which Jarod 
had envisioned while simulating this episode.  She gave up trying to 
unnerve him--unnerving people was clearly *his* specialty--and 
instead broached the subject uppermost in her mind.  "You know, 
Jarod, this all happened so fast.  I'm beginning to wonder if you lived 
up to the terms of our deal."

He was quick to set Parker right.  "I did everything exactly the way we 
planned it.  I let you bring me back in handcuffs.  I stayed long enough 
to tell your father that you had completely outfoxed me, that the trap 
you  had set worked like a charm.  And then I escaped.  Oh, and I made 
sure there was no way you could be connected to my escape."

Parker nodded, satisfied, as the waitress returned with their drinks.  
Jarod waited until she had inhaled about a third of her Scotch.  "Now 
it's time for you to live up to *your* half of the deal."  

Parker lit another cigarette.  "You asked for too much."  

"You agreed to what I asked for."

"I was under duress."

Jarod laughed.  "And I wasn't?  In case you don't remember, I was the 
one on the run.  I was the one who had you, Sydney and a pack of 
sweepers on my trail for over a year."

"We never even came close."  

"You came close."

Parker could felt the agreeable heat of the Scotch spreading through her 
midsection.  "We came as close as you *wanted* us to come, Jarod.  
You make it sound as if we were harassing you--we were *amusing* 
you, and you know it."  She took another long swallow.   

"I don't know if I'd go that far."  But the smirk confirmed Parker's 
words. 

Angry now, she slammed down the drink.  "*I* was the one being 
harassed.  *I* was the one being tortured."

Jarod started to respond, but Parker wouldn't let him.  "You 
humiliated me again and again.  You made me look stupid in front of 
Sydney, Broots, Sam..."  She paused long enough to finish off her 
drink.  "...Daddy." 

"You knew what it was like for me at the Centre, Mikey.  But you kept 
trying to drag me back."

"You led me on a thousand time-wasting wild-goose chases.  You gave 
me the flu."

"You deliberately destroyed evidence that would have helped me find 
my parents."  

"You stuck my feet to the floor in a giant roach motel."

"You *shot* at me."

Parker was silent.  There was no comeback to that statement, and she 
knew it.  Jarod took the opportunity to wrest the conversation back to 
his original point.  "Whatever happened in the past, it doesn't change 
the fact that we had a deal, Junior.  You got what you wanted."

Parker signaled to the waitress for a refill.  Then she said, "No, Jarod, I 
settled for what I could get."

He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, and locked eyes 
with her.  "If you could have had *anything*, Michael, what would 
you have wished for?"

Parker revealed a bitter truth.  "That I never knew you."  She was 
gratified to see a flicker of surprise in Jarod's eyes; he wasn't smiling 
any more.  He looked warily at Parker while the waitress set another 
drink down in front of her and carried off the empty glass.  "Yeah, 
that's right, Jarod," she said, pressing home her advantage, "if I could 
have wished for anything, I would have wished that you and I had 
never met.  That my father had never worked for the Centre.  That my 
mother had lived.  That I could have grown up in some ordinary 
suburban neighborhood.  That I--"

Jarod, recovered from his initial reaction, cut her short.  "In other 
words, Mike, you want exactly what I want.  But let's not forget--your 
childhood was much closer to that ideal than mine was."

Staring down into her drink, Parker said wearily, "Here we go again.  
Jarod's digging up the past.  His childhood was blighted--his life was 
stolen." 

When she looked up, Parker saw that Jarod's expression had changed 
again.  That last comment had clearly provoked him.  She couldn't 
disguise the momentary panic she felt; Parker knew better than anyone 
what Jarod was capable of when angry.  It infuriated her to see him sit 
back satisfied after having glimpsed her fear, and she went back on the 
offensive.  "Do you *really* want to talk about blighted childhoods?" 
Parker asked.

Jarod was unfazed.  "Oh, so you have some complaints on that score?" 

"Put yourself in my shoes," she said.

With those words, Jarod's demeanor became dreamy, trance-like.  His 
eyes grew opaque; although he was still staring in her direction, Parker 
could tell that he was no longer seeing her.  Recognizing the signs, she 
raised her voice.  "Jarod!"  

It took him a moment for him to return to reality.  "I didn't mean that 
literally," Parker said sourly.

"Sorry," he said, shrugging.  "Force of habit."

Parker glared at him.  "I only meant for you to see it from my point of 
view--not to go into your famous pretending act.  You know, I always 
wondered how you could be as empathetic as everyone said you were.  
Because you never had much sympathy for *me*.  I mean, you go on 
and on about your horrible childhood--did you ever stop to think what 
*mine* was like?"

"Yes," Jarod said quietly.

It was Parker's turn to be surprised.  "But that wasn't my fault," he 
quickly added.  

"Wasn't your fault?" she asked incredulously.  "Oh, you mean about 
what happened to my mother?  I'm not talking about that.  I'm talking 
about how you *personally* ruined my life."

Jarod just sat there, waiting.  He was again perfectly calm, completely in 
control.  But it didn't bother Parker that she was operating at even a 
greater disadvantage than usual.  The Scotch might be making her less 
cautious, more vulnerable, but it was also giving her courage.  She 
drained her drink.  "Growing up, I was always compared to the great 
Jarod.  And of course there was no way I could possibly measure up to 
*him*."  Parker was thoughtful for a moment.  "I'll never forget the 
time in the fourth-grade when I got this great report card--all A's.  I was 
so happy, so proud of myself.  Until I showed it to my father.  Do you 
know what he said?"

It was clearly a rhetorical question, but Parker got an answer anyway. 
"Jarod passed the MCAT."

Parker goggled at him.  "You knew."

Jarod shook his head.  "Not at the time--I just worked it out.  If you 
were in fourth grade, then it was right around the time they made me 
take the entrance exam for medical school.  I remember Mike Sr was 
impressed."

Noticing that Parker's glass was already empty, the waitress approached 
the table and inquired with a gesture whether she wanted another 
refill.  Parker nodded.  "And a sarsaparilla for my friend," she growled.  

Confused, the waitress looked at Jarod.  In Spanish, he told her to 
ignore that last request and to bring him a fresh Dr Pepper. 

As soon the waitress left, Parker spoke up.  "Yeah, he was impressed, 
Jarod.  So you can imagine how *un*impressed he was with my little 
report card.  I went back to my bedroom and sobbed."

"He shouldn't have done that," Jarod said.  "It was unfair of him to 
make that comparison.  If you had been isolated like I was, and trained 
like I was..."  His voice trailed off when he saw that Parker was shaking 
her head.

"No good.  I tried that argument myself.  I once told my father that I 
was smart too, that I had a high IQ, that if Sydney had taken *me* 
under his wing, I could do all the unbelievable things that Jarod could 
do.  I bet you don't know what he said to *that*."

Jarod had also deduced how Parker's father would have responded to 
that statement.  But this time he didn't answer.  He understood that 
she needed to tell him.  

"'Oh, no, Michael.  You could *never* do what Jarod can do.  You have 
a high IQ, all right, sweetie, but he's off the charts.'  That's the story of 
my life.  I was off the charts, and you were on."  When Jarod raised one 
eyebrow, Parker knew that she'd gotten it wrong.  "I mean, you were 
on and I was off..."  A moment ago, Jarod had appeared to be affected by 
her unhappy memories; now the smirk was back.  "Oh, you know what 
I mean!" she sputtered.  "God, when I think of the hours I spent crying 
in that bedroom..."  The waitress reappeared with her drink, and Parker 
knocked most if it back.

Jarod's smile had faded.  And there was no trace of amusement in his 
voice when he asked, "So, the bedroom where you did all this crying- 
-what was it like?"

Parker knew where he was going with that question, and refused to 
answer.  Unfortunately for her, Jarod didn't need a response.  "You 
probably had white wicker furniture, didn't you, Mikey?  And a canopy 
bed with pink sheets and lots of stuffed animals."  She also refused to 
acknowledge what they both knew--that his simulation of her 
childhood bedroom was uncannily accurate.  Jarod's voice hardened 
even further.  "The decor in the room where *I* cried was a little less 
homey.  Do you remember the time when your father ordered Sydney 
to plaster the walls with crime-scene photos from the Son of Sam 
killings?  He thought that the total immersion method would help me 
give the New York cops the fast answer they needed.  I had to live with 
those pictures until I came up with the parking-ticket thing."

"OK, OK."  Parker conceded Jarod his point.  "So we were both victims 
of the Centre.  We're *still* victims.  You're an obsessive-compulsive 
do-gooder with a Pez habit, and I drink too much."  The look on Jarod's 
face was much like the expectant expression he had aimed at Shen-Ling 
earlier.  "And smoke too much," Parker was forced to add.

"All the more reason for you to live up to our deal," Jarod said quietly.  
"All the more reason for you to quit."

Parker tried to distract him.  "You know, quitting would be easy 
compared to my *real* problem--my real problem is that I still need Big 
Mike's approval."

"I just *got* Big Mike's approval for you.  Your turn."

"I can't do it.  I've tried to quit before and I can't."

"I hate to bring up my blighted childhood again, but do you know what 
Sidney would have told me if I said that I couldn't do something?  
'Nothing's impossible, Jarod.'"

"Nothing's impossible for *you*.  You have no idea what it's like for 
the rest of us."  

"You're right, I don't have any idea.  But that's exactly what I plan on 
finding out.  What it's like for everyone else.  What childhood's like.  
Adulthood.  At least as much as I can with a sweeper team hounding 
me." 

"It won't be so hard now." 

"No, it's going to be harder.  It was *easy* as long as I had you and 
Sydney chasing me.  I know you both so well--I could *always* 
simulate what your next move would be.  It'll be much more difficult 
for me to keep track of Dr Billy and his boys.  But I made the deal 
anyway.  And I lived up to it."  Now Jarod gave Parker the full-bore 
pretender gaze.  The all-seeing, all-knowing, straight-through-to-the-
back-of-the-skull stare which said, "I know you.  I *am* you." 

Parker tried to ignore that look.  "I don't want to," she said.  "You're 
asking me to give up a whole way of life." 

"I gave up my freedom.  I gave up my freedom so that you could be 
free."

Parker choked in mid-swallow when she heard *that*.  "A little 
melodramatic, wouldn't you say, Jarod?  Especially since you spent all 
of about forty-five minutes in custody."

"Yeah, but it was scary to think about going back there--especially the 
idea of going back under restraint.  The thing about the handcuffs really 
bothered me."  Parker muttered something.   "Yeah, I know that was 
your favorite part," Jarod said before continuing.  "I had to have a 
*reason* for doing it--I had to give myself a pep talk like the ones I 
used to get from Sydney right before he'd lock me up in a mockup of 
Apollo 13 or Checkpoint Charlie."  He shook his head.  "You know, it's 
amazing how many times the fate of the Free World was dependent on 
the outcome of my sims.  I needed something almost that drastic to 
motivate me to give up my freedom.  I had to tell myself that I was 
doing it so that you could be free." 

Parker made what was clearly a last-ditch effort to avoid her fate.  
"What if I don't want my freedom?"

Jarod smiled easily.  "You don't have a choice.  We shook on it, 
remember?  You can't welsh on a deal with me, Mikey."  The smile 
was back behind his eyes.  "Not with your blood brother."  

Parker laughed almost against her will.  "If you remember, spit siblings 
was the closest we could come."

"Yeah, we couldn't find a knife in the lab.  I guess Sydney was afraid 
that I might use one to tunnel my way out of the Centre.  But that 
detail doesn't matter.  You can break a promise to anyone else--Sydney, 
Raines, Broots--but not to me."

Jarod waited patiently while Parker finished her drink.  He could tell 
when she made her peace with it.  He spit into his hand and offered it 
to her.  Smiling a little crookedly, she spit into hers and they shook.  
Then Parker took a long drag on her cigarette and ground it out in the 
ashtray.   "OK, Jarod, you win," she said.  "As always, you win.  I'll 
quit."  She tossed him the half-empty pack of cigarettes.  

"No, we both do.  And you're going to quit *now*."  Parker stared at 
Jarod.  "I want the pack in your purse, too," he said.

Parker hesitated for a moment before doing as she was told.  

Jarod added it to the pile of his belongings.  "Let me have your phone," 
he said.  When she passed it over, he unscrewed the aerial and replaced 
it with an identical one he'd pulled from his pocket.  The phone rang 
almost immediately and Jarod handed it to her.  "What?" Parker 
barked.   The answer to that question took some time.  Then, while 
maintaining eye contact with Jarod, she said, "Right in front of your 
eyes?  My, my, my.  Young Frankenstein must be channeling 
Houdini."  She listened for a moment longer, and then said, "I've got 
another call coming in, Syd.   Besides, Jarod is not my problem 
anymore."  Parker pushed a button.  "What?"  She pantomimed 
needing a cigarette.  Jarod shook his head.  "Into thin air, huh?" she 
asked.  Parker was getting a breathless account of Jarod's latest miracle 
while the miracle-worker himself smirked at her.  It was too much.  
Again she abruptly terminated the conversation by saying that she had 
another call.  But this time Parker pushed the power button and let the 
phone drop with a clatter to the table.

Jarod picked it up.  After thumbing the button, he dialed a number and 
spoke in French to the person who answered.  It rang again as soon as 
he hung up.  Parker indicated that he was to switch it off.  Jarod did so 
and gave the phone back.

"Shen-Ling will be here in two minutes," he told her.  Then, without 
any further comment, Jarod began gathering his things together; he 
was getting ready to leave.  It bothered Parker that he would take off 
just like that.  To punish him, she raised what she hoped would be a 
troublesome issue.  "How do you know that I'll keep up my end of the 
bargain, Jarod?  How can you be sure that, the minute your back is 
turned, I won't start up again?" 

He looked more pleased with himself than ever.  "I'll be peeking over 
the transom, Mikey.  Like I said, we're wired.  If you backslide,  I'll 
know about it.  And then the two of us will discuss what it would take 
to keep me from telling Big Mike that you never, ever outsmarted 
Jarod."    

Parker pondered that threat.  "I need a patch," she grumbled.

"Shen-Ling has a two-month supply waiting for you in the car.  Good 
luck."  As he stood up to go, Parker put her hand on his arm.  "How 
did you do it, Jarod?" she asked him.  "How did you escape?  That's 
what all the calls were about.  Nobody can figure it out."

He shrugged.  "It was just a trick."  Jarod tried to leave again.

Parker wouldn't let him go.  "A trick?  How does it work?"

Jarod thought it over.  "I don't know exactly," he said.  "You'd have to 
ask Ernie."

* * *