Hoo-ha!  I'm first!  *grin*

***

OUTFOXED
by Jill Morrison

morrisjm@sbu.edu
Jan. 6, 1997
FoxHunt Series, #1

    The original title ("I Have the Touch," inspired by the Peter
Gabriel song) for this one was scrapped when I reworked the entire
scenario ... it no longer applied.  I still like the idea and the
song ... I'll probably use it in a sequel or something.  ;-)

    Keely Fox is simply and solely my creation.  Her appearance
(obviously) marks the divergence of my fanfic universe from the
series continuity.  If anyone else would like to use her, please ask.
 Mark Carey, the Shannons, the Pierce School, and all the other
denizens of Addington are also figments of my mad imagination.

    Any comments are very welcome.  Hope you enjoy it!

***
"Outfoxed"
Part 1

***
**
*
There are Pretenders among us.

Genuises with the ability to become anyone they want to be.

In 1963, a corporation known as the Centre isolated a young Pretender
named Jarod and exploited his genius for their research.

Then one day, their Pretender ran away ...

*
**
***

Addington, Mass.
April 1, 1997

    The piano sang like an angel.
    Its music echoed in the auditorium that had, after all, been
built to showcase this sort of display. But never, ever, had it been
quite so privileged as to resonate with the quality of music it now
contained.
    It soared.  It rang.  It reached deep into the human soul and
drew out the best that any person would have to offer.
    It was, in a word, magnificent.
    The panel of five who sat, open-mouthed, in the front seats would
probably remember this moment for the rest of their lives.
    As the last notes died away, one man gathered his courage and
stood.  The tall man seated at the piano half-turned, hands folded in
front of him.
    The listener swallowed.
    "I'm sorry ... what did you say that piece was, again?  And it
was composed by whom?  Beethoven?  Brahms?"
    The man nodded, unsurprised.  "It's an original piece.  Unnamed."
    "Orig ..."  The other man's eyes were glazed.  He turned to his
colleagues, and the whispered conference took only the briefest of
moments.
    "We would be honored, Mr. Stein, if you would accept our offer to
become an instructor at the Pierce School of Music."
    A light flashed deep in the man's brown eyes, and he smiled, just
a little.
    "Please.  Call me Jarod."

***
April 4, 1997

    " ... the acoustics in all the rooms are, of course, impeccable.
And the equipment is state-of-the art ... it's all new this year."
Mark Carey, the head instructor of voice at Pierce, was quite
enjoying his chance to play tour-guide.  "We even had to raise
tuition quite a bit because of it."
    "I see ... well, it *will* keep out those without the utmost
dedication," his audience of one commented, "as well as those who
don't have the amount of funds available to gain entrance."
    The sarcastic involved in the statement went right over Carey's
head, and he laughed.
    "Ah, yes ... well, none but the best for Pierce!"
    "Of course."  A sardonic smile twisted Jarod's mouth, and he
glanced away.
    Carey, a tall, scrawny man with a mop of graying red hair, had
the mannerisms and the easy assumption of privilege that came with
being born into money and the best it had to offer ... as well as the
casual contempt for those outside it.
    It never crossed his mind that the piano virtuoso besides him
might not share both birth and assumptions.
    "We do look for those of good family ... it's nothing to do
ashamed of."  Carey was warming to his topic.  "It keeps a good deal
of trouble from the school ... no scholarship hoodlums here!  And
they're better prepared to accept what we teach."
    He paused besides a window, a scowl warping his mobile face.  "Of
course, what *most* of us try to teach here ..."
    Jarod glanced inside.  There were only four people in the high-
ceilinged room, three adolescents and a tall, young-looking woman
with long brown hair captured in a single braid hanging nearly to her
waist.  He couldn't see her face.
    A voice class.  The students were apparently singing - the room
was sound-proofed - and there were no instruments present.  He
glanced at Carey.
    The man was still scowling.  "Miss Brooks persists in using
*popular* music to teach voice.  She says that the students relate
better to it when they're first starting out.  Garbage!  In my
opinion, that only makes it harder when they finally must conform to
school standards. I have spoken to the woman about it several times,
and still ... !"
    Pushing past Jarod, he rapped severely on the door.  The woman
within spun around sharply, then turned and spoke to the students,
who melted out a door in the rear of the room.
    She opened the door.  "Mr. Carey ...?"
    She had a low, musical voice, cool in its disdain for the man,
and vivid blue eyes swept over him as if dismissing him ... pure
arrogance for a young teacher addressing her superior.
       Carey stepped inside, motioning Jarod to follow him.  "Miss
Brooks.  Teaching Madonna again?"
    "No."  She shut the door behind him, then walked over and leaned
casually against a music stand.  "The Beatles."
    The last was uttered quite under her breath, and Carey totally
missed it.  Jarod glanced at her, amused to see the twinkle in
sapphire eyes.
    "Ahem!"  Carey cleared his throat.  "Katerina Brooks, this is
Jarod Stein, a new musician in residence who will be instructing the
piano this month.  And he, undoubtedly, will *not* be using 'rock n'
rock' to teach his prodigies!"
    Brooks ignored him, leaning over to shake Jarod's hand with a
firm and steady grip.
    "Piano?  I recommend Bob Seger or Genesis,"  she whispered.
    "Thanks," he muttered back.
    Her eyes glittered again, and a grin flashed and disappeared as
she looked back at the oblivious Carey.  "Is that all, Mark, or did
you come to lecture me in the newest advances in 'new-age' voice
methods?"
    The rusted-red head jerked back towards her, and he frowned.  "If
you would take advantage of some of those methods, Miss Brooks,
perhaps you'd be the better for it.  Mr. Stein ..."  He stalked back
towards the door.  Brooks shrugged.
    "He thinks the all woman should be sopranos," she said to Jarod.
"And I think he's personally offended that the school accepted me.
Tough .. .  I refuse to touch any of his vile potions."
    He wanted to stay and ask her what she meant by that, but Stein
was imperiously beckoning him from the hallway.  He smiled, unwilling
as yet to jeopardize his status by speaking to her longer, and
followed.
    "Pleased to meet you, Jarod,"  she called after him.  "Stop in
sometime!"

***

    The hotel room wasn't the finest, but it suited his purposes.
His colleagues at Pierce would undoubtedly have been horrified.
    A judicious stop at the local mall had provided him with two CDs
... Genesis and Bob Seger's Greatest Hits ... as well as a CD player.
 He'd been relieved to discover that his supposition about Katerina
Brooks' comment had been correct, since he'd had no idea at who
Genesis or Bob Seger were.
    Back in the room, he slid the Seger one into the player and sat
down cross-legged on the bed, opening his notebook.
    Newspaper clippings.  Most numerously from the Addington Sun, but
also from newspapers with wider markets, and the national USA Today.
    "Songbird Silenced," the top one proclaimed in bleak black and
white.  He picked it up, studying the photograph.
    A young girl, pale-haired, standing alone on top of a stage,
mouth opened in song.  The audience was visible beyond her, a sea of
humanity gathered for one reason: to listen to her sing.
    He looked at the article.
    "Janelle Shannon, 8, of Addington, Mass., was released from
Addington General Hospital this morning.  Shannon, who won national
acclaim with her beautiful voice and success in national competition,
and who was the youngest person ever to sing the national anthem at a
World Series game, was hospitalized last month with damage to her
larynx.
    "Although Dr. Adam Hart, Miss Shannon's physician and national
specialist in throat medicine, believes that she will eventually
regain some of her power of speech, it is unlikely that she will ever
sing again.  Miss Shannon attended Addington's prestigious Pierce
School of Music ..."
    The story went on to quote Carey and various other Pierce
instructors of voice ... although not Katerina Brooks ... all of whom
professed horror at the child's misfortune.
    He skimmed to the end, when it was stated that the damage to
Janelle Shannon's voice was presumed to have been caused by acute
laryngitis, a rare case of the illness which actually caused
permanent damage, aggravated by Shannon's frequent overuse of her
voice.  Carey, in particular, was very vocal in his quotes that
Shannon had never told him of any discomfort, or shown any.
    Jarod took a swig of his Dr. Pepper and put the notebook down,
standing up.  He picked up a cassette tape and walked over to the CD
player, halting the CD and inserting the tape into the cassette tape.
    Play.
    A young voice filled the room, the voice of an angel.  Singing
the national anthem, soaring over the roar of the crowd to hang,
perfect, in the air like a precious gem.
    A voice that wouldn't be singing again.
    He listened until the song finished, then rewound it and took it
out, popping the Seger CD back in.
    Katerina Brooks had been right.

***

Part 2

April 5, 1997

    His "classes" were to be one-on-one only ... Pierce's "best of 
the best," the prodigies that Carey had referred to.  He only had one 
on Tuesday  morning, and loitered at the piano while he was waiting 
for the student, playing tunes he'd picked up from the CDs and 
glancing frequently out the window to make sure Carey wasn't in the 
immediate vicinity.
    The door opened, and he stopped, notes still hanging in the air.
    The woman in the doorway was young, but seemed rather old to be a 
Pierce student ... about Brooks' age, although *she* admittedly 
seemed to be young to be teaching here.
    However, the boy she ushered in the door after her seemed far too 
*young*.
    Five, he thought.  Maybe six.  
    The woman smiled at him a little self-consciously.  "This is 
Christopher.  I'm sorry, he wouldn't come in without me ... I need to 
go, I'm late!"  She fled.  Undoubtedly, Pierce frowned upon parents 
remaining with their children.  Even one as young as this.
    Christopher frowned after her, then turned and frowned at Jarod.
    Man and boy stared at each other.
    The child was blond, a few pale wispy hairs drifting up in a 
fierce effort to escape their severely slicked-back brethren.  He 
wore a suit that was almost comical in miniature, the small tie 
thinner than the normal piece of rope.  
    A stuffed animal was tucked securely under one arm.  A bear of a 
decidedly odd yellow, scruffy in contrast with the rest of the 
immaculate outfit.
    Jarod crouched so not to tower over him, and pointed to the bear.
    "What's his name?"
    The boy looked at him in surprise, then looked down at the bear.
    "Pooh.  Haven't you ever heard of Pooh?"
    Jarod shook his head soberly.  Blond brows furrowed, and the 
child pulled the bear out from under his arm.
    "Winnie-the-Pooh.  Momm ... mother reads me stories about him 
sometimes."  Small features were sheepish.  "I'm not supposed to 
bring him."
    Pierce, it seemed, frowned on a lot of things.  Yet another score 
against them, from Jarod's point of view.
    He stood, reached out a hand.  "Tell me some of them."
    Comfortable now, Christopher tucked his hand inside his teacher's 
and walked over to the piano with him.  Try as he might, though, 
Jarod could *not* decipher the stories.
    " ... an' Tigger bounces, and knocks Rabbit over, and Eyeore 
always loses his tail, and Pooh always eats too much honey ..."
    Christopher propped the bear up on the piano with a loving hug, 
and arranged himself on the bench.
    "What do you want me to start with?"
    "Anything you want."
    The child looked uncertain, then began to play a slightly little 
melody, simple, but catchy.
    "What's that?"
    Christopher grinned up at him.  "I wrote it myself!"
    Jarod smiled back, and sat down on the bench next to him.  
"Christopher, I think we've got a lot in common ..."

***

    By the time Christopher's mother came back to claim him, full of 
apologies over the presence of Pooh, the two were fast friends.  
Chris (he preferred that to Christopher, he confided to Jarod) taught 
his teacher his tune, and Jarod taught him the elaborate air he'd 
played for the panel.  Chris told Jarod more Pooh stories, and Jarod 
resolved to look them up.  All in all, a good morning.
    He decided to walk down the hall and visit Katerina Brooks.  And 
while he did so, he thought about Chris.
    The boy, while a musical prodigy of no little talent, would never 
be a "Pretender" ... which, as far as he could tell, was defined by 
being a prodigy in any number of areas.  Knowledge hard-won from 
Sydney over the years suggested that a photographic memory was a 
must, as well as a unnatural empathy.
    Nothing said that Centre training was a requirement.  Pretenders, 
then, were born ... not made.
    Which raised a very interesting question.  Were there more of his 
kind out there?  Free?
    The thought of little Christopher Benjamin locked away in the 
Centre made him shudder.
    Brooks had a class ... the same three teens who'd been there 
yesterday.  When he rapped on the door, however, she turned, smiled 
and motioned him to come in.
    As he closed the door behind him, she raised a finger to her lips 
to indicate silence, waved to a chair, and turned back to the class. 
Jarod quietly obeyed.
    " ... Dave, come on!  I *know* you've got a better sense of beat 
than that!"
    The boy ... whose dreadlocked hair made Jarod wonder if this was 
who Carey meant when he referred to scholarship hoodlums ... 
shrugged.  Brooks put hands on hips and glared good-naturedly.
    "You rap, don't you?"
    The boy glanced at Jarod.  The woman noticed and waved a hand.  
"He's all right.  Don't you?"
    A grudging nod.
    "Well.  That takes more rhythm than most other kinds of music, 
which I imagine you know.  This is the beat for that song ..."  She 
paused, then began to clap her hands in a precise pattern.  "There.  
Now, rap to that."
    Hesitation.
    Taunting:  "Why, can't you do it?"
    Thus challenged, he began to make up words on the spot.  Jarod, 
impressed, picked up the beat with Brooks, earning a smile and a 
flicker of blue eyes.
    The class, however, ran long, and he had to leave without 
speaking with her, or miss his next class.  He waved and pointed to 
his watch, then let himself out.
    Unfortunately, Mark Carey was in the hall.
    "Jarod!"  The man cast an unpleasant glance at the door.  "What 
were you doing in there?"
    "I just had a question for Miss Brooks," he lied.  "There wasn't 
anyone else around."
    "Oh.  Well, you won't want to associate with her very much.  She 
has a reputation.  Unpleasant, *ungrateful* bitch," he muttered, 
leaving Jarod to wonder.  "But never mind that.  How's your singing 
voice, Jarod?"
    "Just passable.  I focused on instrumental music."  Piano ... and 
flute, and violin, and harp ...
    The man perked up.  "Ah!  There's a scientific pursuit of mine 
... a new area of science, the use of herbal medicines and such, that 
pertains to the voice ..."
    The "vile potions" that Katerina Brooks had referred to.  Hmm.  
    " ... can vastly improve the voice, optimizing performance 
quality and reach.  And it's all natural.  The so-called 'three 
tenors' all use these methods, I'm told," he said approvingly.  
    Jarod made a non-committal sound.
    "Would you be interested?  I could whip you something up quite 
easily ..."
    "Perhaps."  He paused.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Carey ..."
    "Mark."
    "Mark.  I'm going to miss my next pupil, I didn't realize how 
late it was.  I'll talk to you later, okay?"
    The man waved at him as he took off down the hall.  "Let me know, 
okay?"
    
***

    That afternoon, he paid a visit to Janelle Shannon.
    It was a beautiful house in a lovely neighborhood, probably the 
epitome of what Mark Carey considered the "best."  John Shannon, a 
tall, thin man with silver-shot black hair and a tired face, answered 
the door.  Jarod explained that he was an instructor (he didn't 
bother to say that it was in piano) at Pierce, and that he'd heard 
about his daughter's ailment.
    The man's face cleared a little.  "Oh.  That's ... kind ... of 
you."  He lead Jarod into the living room, sending a maid to bring 
his daughter.  
    "She misses it so much, she's glad to see anyone with anything to 
do with Pierce."  His face twisted bitterly.  "And beside you ... and 
Miss Brooks ... no one, *no one* has stopped by.  Not even ..."
    "Miss Brooks?  Katerina Brooks?"
    "Yes."  The man smiled a little.  "A wonderful woman.  And like 
you, someone who didn't even start at Pierce until *after* Janelle 
left.  Came all the way from New York, I believe she said."
    That had been a little under a year ago.  Katerina Brooks was 
very new to Pierce to be breaking tradition like she was.
    "Even Mark Carey, Janelle's mentor, her special tutor ... he 
didn't even bother to call once he learned that she'd definitely lost 
her voice ..."   
    Jarod looked up sharply ... but then Janelle stepped into the 
room, a smile lighting her face.  
    It was obvious that the maid had told her who the visitor was.  
She walked up to him with a luminous smile, looking up and into his 
eyes.  Jarod smiled at her.
    She looked inquiringly at her father, hands flashing in American 
sign language.
    He started to haltingly translate, but Jarod stopped him.  "I 
understand it."  He looked back at her.  "I'm very new to Pierce," he 
told her, signing at the same time.  "And Miss Brooks told me that 
you like company, and that maybe you could tell ..." he nodded to her 
hands, " ... me some stories about Pierce."  A smile.  "Funny ones."
    She grinned back at him.  Hands moved.
    Miss Brooks takes me to get ice cream.  She's wonderful!
    "Yes," he said softly.  "She is."

***
    
    After a lengthy conversation about the legends and anecdotes of 
Pierce, Janelle hugged him spontaneously and waved, explaining that 
she had a dance lesson.  Life went on.  Jarod smiled.
    "You said that Carey was her tutor ...?"
    "Yes,"  Shannon sighed.  "That son of a ..."  He glanced at Jarod.
    "I don't care for him either."
    "He pushed her so hard, made her practice so much, she didn't 
even have enough time to be a normal kid ..."  He sighed again, 
running a hand through his hair.  "Such a tragedy, that it took this 
..."
    Jarod thought of prodigies, and nodded.
    "It was my fault.  I went along with it. But Ruth ..."  He picked 
up a photograph from the mantel, his voice quiet and stilted.  "My 
wife.  She died four years ago.  Cancer."
    She was beautiful.  It was easy to see where Janelle came by her 
grace, as well as her blond hair.
    "She always wanted to sing professionally as a child, and never 
got the chance. She made me promise that Jan would have it ... I only 
tried to do my best."  He shook his head.  "And Pierce was the best, 
even though it was tough.  That bastard Carey, always nattering on 
about Jan improving her voice, even though she had the voice of an 
angel to begin with ..."
    He reassured the man as best he could ... the man was utterly 
dejected by the belief that he had failed his daughter and dead wife 
both ... and took his leave with a little bit more to think about.

***

Part 3

    First, though, he went to the mall.  To the bookstore, more 
precisely.  He found what he was looking for in the children's 
section.
    And then, what he was looking for found him.
    "I'm sorry I couldn't speak with you earlier."
    He started at the voice, half-turning.  Katerina Brooks' blue 
eyes smiled into his.
    "Oh ... yes.  I had a class ... have you read this?"  He held up 
the copy of A.A. Milne's "Winnie-the-Pooh."  "It's very good.  Pooh 
is really rather wise."
    "For a bear of very little brain,"  she agreed.  "You've never 
read it?"
    He hesitated.  "No ...."  
    She didn't question.  "My parents read it to me when I was very 
small  ..."  She pointed to an illustration of Tigger, a small smile 
on her lips.  "My dad always used to call me 'Tigger' ... `cause I 
was so bouncy, he said."
    She was looking over his shoulder, and her breath was tickling 
his ear.  He shrugged a bit uncomfortably, unsure why.  "I wasn't 
allowed to read children's books."  Technical books, encyclopedias, 
medical books, text books, yes ...
    Almost immediately, he regretted saying it.
    She stepped back, looked at him.  "Not even the classics?  No Dr. 
Seuss?  No 'Alice in Wonderland'?  No 'Where the Wild Things Are?'"
    "No."
    She was silent for a long moment, fiddling with a chain around 
her neck.  He noticed the charm on it for the first time:  a small 
silver fox, with blue stones for eyes.  Clever, but what did it have 
to do with ...
    Then:  "Sometimes I think we make children grow up all too fast 
these days.  With no time at all for childish things ..."
    Yes."  His empathetic answer made her blink again.  "I agree."
    Her eyes drifted to the book, then back to his.
    "So do I,"  she said finally.  "So do I.  I grew up faster than 
most, but my parents protected me from the worst.  Sometimes, when 
you're young and ... advanced ... everybody thinks they know what's 
best for you when all you want to do is learn to be *you* ..."
    Blue eyes met brown in a gaze of sudden, profound, empathy.
    She turned away suddenly.  "I have to go ... Jarod, I'll see you 
tomorrow, okay?"
    "Bye ..."  And then she was gone, and he was left staring after 
her.
    Wondering what had happened.

***

    Back at his room later, he was still wondering.
    But there was also something more important to worry about.
    
    He popped the Genesis CD in the player this time, and picked up a 
sheaf of herbal medicine magazines and flyers he'd acquired at the 
mall health food store.
    After a few times through them, he picked up a herbal medicine 
journal he'd found in the book store.  Then, a thick medical book.
    Capsaicin.  A crystalline substance found in the Longum group of 
peppers, such as cayenne and chili, which is the cause of their 
"hotness."   The hottest peppers, those in the C. frutescens species, 
may contain as much as 1 percent capsaicin.
    If the percentage that small was occasionally known to irritate 
the human larynx, what would a solution of nearly pure capsaicin do?
    Mark Carey had a strong ... preference ... for sopranos.  Janelle 
Shannon, his prize pupil, had a perfect young soprano voice. 
    At adolescent, a few years away for Janelle, her larynx would 
mature.  This was when most boys' voices "change" ... it was not 
unknown for female voices to settle almost, usually into a slightly 
deeper range.
    What would he do to see that never happened?
    And why wasn't anything discovered by the doctors who operated on 
Janelle?
    Tomorrow, he decided.  Tomorrow afternoon, he'd pay a visit to 
Addington General.
    The Genesis CD finished, and he put the Seger one in and listened 
to it for a while in the darkness.
    Then he turned it off and called Sydney.
    "It's quite a merry chase you've lead us this time, Jarod,"  the 
older man's voice said calmly.  "A musical score.  How quaint."
    "I thought you'd like it.  Sydney," he said suddenly, "why didn't 
you let me read anything?"
    The man's voice was surprised.  "Much do you mean?  You had 
access to one of the largest libraries in the  ..."
    "No, I mean anything *fun.*  When I was little.  Kid's books.  
Curious George."  A smile twisted his mouth.  "Winnie-the-Pooh."
    "Jarod, your mind was advanced so far beyond that stage, you 
would've been bored by those books!  It was for your own good ..."
    "Everything was, wasn't it, Sydney?  For 'my own good'?"  More 
bitter than he'd been in months now, he hung up.
    *** Sometimes, when you're young and ... advanced ... everybody 
thinks they know what's best for you when all you want to do is learn 
to be *you* ...***
    How did she know?

***

April 6, 1997

    The next day, the schedule was the same - he had free time 
between a morning lesson and the afternoon.  He'd had plans ... but 
Carey had been in his office at that time, and was apparently 
disinclined to leave.  So, he went back to his room and played the 
piano, almost defiantly: "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," 
"Chopsticks," and other such beginner's tunes, then Carey's despised 
"popular music."  He was finishing up the end of Bob Seger's "The 
Fire Inside" when he heard the clapping and looked up.
    "Incredible.  Absolutely incredible.  But you do realize that if 
Carey hears you, you're in the dog house with me?"
    Whatever had driven Katerina Brooks off last night had apparently 
been forgotten.  She stood just inside the door, blue eyes laughing.
    He stood, nodding towards the piano.  "Do you play?"
    An expression of pain crossed her face.  "No ...  not as well as 
you, anyway.  I just wanted to say hi ... and I'm sorry about running 
off last night."
    "It's all right."  He hesitated, then walked over to her.  "Is 
something wrong?"
    "No.  Everything's fine.  I just wanted to say ... I was glad to 
meet you, and I think that you're probably the only soul in this 
entire school - aside from the children, of course - who's worth 
anything."
    He was startled by her vehemence.  "Are you leaving?"
    "No."  A sardonic smile settled on her lips.  "Just going down to 
Carey's office for coffee.  He's probably going to chew me out again."
    "Do you want me to go with you?"
    "No!  No ... just ... you're a great guy, Jarod Stein, and if 
you're wise, you'll quit this place and go someplace you're 
appreciated."  To his immense surprise, she suddenly leaned over and 
kissed the hinge of his jaw.
    "Good luck."
    She was out the door before he had a chance to protest, leaving 
him with bewilderment on his face and his hand on his jaw.

***

    Jarod didn't have to be a genius to tell that *something* was 
wrong ... and that was why he was unobtrusively watching Mark Carey's 
closed door .  It just so happened that a supply closet with a handy 
small window of one-way glass was located right across from it.
    Katerina'd been in there about twenty minutes.  There'd been 
nothing going on that he could here ... but then again, Carey'd been 
careful to impress upon him that *all* the rooms were soundproof.
    Movement caught his eye.
    She came out of the office casually enough, glancing around ... 
and then turned, doing something to the doorknob.  The she turned, 
shrugged her shoulders as if brushing off a bothersome fly, and 
walked off. 
    But not without giving one last glance down the hall, towards his 
classroom.
    He wanted to follow her, but didn't ... waiting a moment before 
emerging from the closet and going over to Carey's door.
    Locked.
    He had a paperclip in his closet, and the locks weren't that 
good.  He picked it ... and stepped inside, uncertain of what he 
might find.
    Mark Carey sat on the floor, his back up against the wall.  He 
was clawing at his throat, his eyes bulging, a mere hiss emerging 
from his tortured throat.
    He gaped at Jarod.  The hiss grew louder, and he reached out one 
pleading hand.
    Jarod stepped back, then picked up the coffee mug on Carey's 
desk.  Sniffed it.  Took the tiniest of sips.  
    Capsaicin, indeed.
    But, he thought, a vastly more dilute form than had so badly 
injured Janelle Shannon.
    Carey hissed at him again.  Jarod ignored him, and reached into 
his pocket, pulling out the tape of Shannon singing the national 
anthem.
    And placed it into Carey's tape player, and left him to suffer 
while listening to the voice of an angel.

***

    When someone finally found Mark Carey, he'd passed out.  His 
larnyx had been slightly burned by the capsaicin, but nothing that 
would cause any permanent harm ... just that brief taste of immense 
pain.
    He had more to worry about than that, however ... an anonymous 
source had delivered a package to the Addington Sun that afternoon, 
clearly implicating that Carey'd fed Janelle Shannon capsaicin after 
reading an article that implied that it might keep her larnyx from 
developing ... which, in truth, it had.  When questioned, Janelle 
told police that he'd told her it was a simple tonic ... and while 
he'd driven her to the hospital, he'd impressed upon her quite firmly 
that it *wasn't* the tonic that had caused this.
    Hart, the doctor who'd operated upon her, had been heavily bribed 
for his silence ... but when several of his assistants came forward 
with their suspicions, he confessed.  With nothing else to do, so did 
Carey.
    The Shannons would probably receive quite a healthy settlement.
    Carey never admitted it, but the whole school assumed that it was 
Katerina Brooks who'd uncovered his secret and set him up.  Everyone 
know she'd hated him.  And if Jarod Stein disappeared on the same day 
... well, apparently they'd know each other better than anyone knew.
    He didn't expect Miss Parker or Sydney for a few days, at least 
... after all, *he'd* just been finalizing the details of the 
hypothesis Katerina had undoubtedly proven true.
    Katerina Brooks, who didn't exist ... according to the New York 
driver's license database.  For good measure, he got into the rest of 
the states and searched ... no dice.
    She didn't exist.  And she'd disappeared without a trace.  Her 
mailing address in the school records was a PO box, and her phone 
number was a hotel room.
    Jarod was getting a sudden and unpleasant look at what it was 
like from Sydney and Miss Parker's end of the chase.  He didn't much 
like it.
    He was sitting out his next items for those two worthies this 
afternoon before leaving.  The Winnie-the-Pooh books, just for 
amusement.  The CD player and the CDs were being sent to Chris 
Benjamin's address, a gift.  The notebook with the clippings of 
Janelle Shannon ...
    One fluttered out, and he bent to pick it up.
    K. Fox.  The name of the photographer on that picture of Shannon 
that'd made it all over the country was K. Fox.
    A sudden memory flashed before his eyes.  A small silver fox on a 
chain, with sapphire eyes.
    It was a whim.  That was all.  But he couldn't get the computer 
started fast enough.
    New York State.  K*** Fox.
    Katherine Fox.  Kary Fox.  Kevin Fox.
    Keely Fox.  
    The picture smirked back at him.  Blue eyes.  Long light brown 
hair.  Mailing  address was a PO Box in Buffalo, NY.  Residence 
varies.  Occupation ... photographer.
    It was her.  
    No doubt.
    No teacher at all.
    *** Sometimes, when you're young and ... advanced ... everybody 
thinks they know what's best for you when all you want to do is learn 
to be *you* ...***
    Suddenly, all his plans changed.

***

    By the time they arrived in Addington, some of the uproar had 
died down.
    But only some.
    She tossed the stack of recent newspapers down onto the table 
with a snort of annoyance.
    "It has all the earmarks of one of his schemes ... but this 
woman, this 'Brooks' is getting all the credit.  Why?"
    Sydney was looking out the window.  "Perhaps she did it."
    Miss Parker's laugh was short.  "Yeah, right, and maybe Jarod 
will turn himself in tomorrow ..." She stopped.  "You're serious."
    "Yes."
    "But that would mean ..."  She stopped again.  "No.  No!  It 
couldn't be.  Why would he be here, then?"
    "Coincidence, perhaps."  He turned.  "Like finding like.  I can't 
imagine that either of them found the other on purpose."
    "Jarod's the Centre's first escapee."  She sounded certain.  He 
nodded.
    "Then ... oh, no." A bark of harsh laughter.  "Not a *wild* one, 
Sydney."
    "They're not beasts, Miss Parker," he told her mildly.  "I 
believe Jarod came here with the intention of doing exactly what Miss 
Brooks did ... but found something else entirely."
    She picked up the top paper, studying the press file photograph 
of Katerina Brooks, presumably saved from when she'd joined Pierce.
    "So, if we find her ..."
    "We find Jarod, looking for her."

***

The End ... For Now.

The next story will be a continuation, but with a wholly separate 
plot -- the working title is "Goal to Go," and I hope to have it 
finished within the week.   :-)  Hope you liked!

Jill Morrison
morrisjm@sbu.edu

    "Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat: "we're all mad here.  I'm 
mad.  You're mad."
    "How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
    "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."
        - Lewis Carroll, "Alice in Wonderland"