The only thing she was reasonably sure of was that no money had disappeared from Centre accounts, so unless Jarod had somehow, covertly, put himself on the payroll…of course, with Broots taking care of computer security, that was almost impossible.   Broots, who’d been feeding Jarod information for years.  She reminded herself to have an independent company come out and investigate computer security, not because she thought her compatriot was selling Centre secrets, but because Jarod was smart enough to pick up on unspoken clues Broots had accidentally left for him.   Then they passed through an oblong opening so closely that Parker instinctively crouched in her seat.  The moss hanging from the opening brushed against the top of the car.  She glanced back and saw a cave, squat and easy-to-miss.  She wondered how many secret exits Jarod had from his hermit cabin.   Was the paranoia residual, from his few short years as a fugitive, or were there still enough people gunning for a runaway Pretender to necessitate these kinds of precautions?  She half-expected gunshots to ring out over the forest, or a squad of security men in ghillie suits to jump from the forest floor and salute as Jarod drove by.   The Hummer bumped and weaved through the forest, finding spaces between trees that were big enough for the car to slither between but so strangely-spaced that no one but Jarod could ever have linked them up in his mind in a long enough pattern to mark a road.  They went up a hill, and she could see the cabin in the distance.  She thought she saw smoke rising from the chimney, even though there was no one there to tend a fire and therefore, no reason for warmth.   And then it was gone, for good, the house and the way to it forgotten as they took the long way through an unnamed forest to the small and well-kempt city of Moose Jaw.   It had been a long time since she’d lived the nomadic life.  Her last long car trip had taken her to Cincinnati, to see the woman she called her sister and her fourteen-year-old nephew who had his father’s eyes and smile.  All the ones before that had led, in one roundabout way or another, to a piece of Jarod’s past.   Jarod reached out and flipped on the radio, turning the band button to ST.   “—elcome to QRK Radio, “The Quark,” the world’s best satellite radio forum for scientific discussion and those classic oldies from the seventies and eighties.  Shortly we’ll be hearing from Nobel Laureate Dr. Jennie Becket, but first, to warm you up for that cold fusion, here’s Hot Chocolate, with one of my favorite oldies, ‘You Sexy Thing.’”   To each his own, thought Miss Parker.  Broots listened to QRK, too.  You could find anything these days if you were looking for sat-dat on the radio.  She rolled down the window and let the cold bite her face, glad for the warmth of her anorak, and upset that she hadn’t remembered to collect a few good books before taking a trip into the Jarod-Cave.   I believe in miracles…   Carson curled up, heaved a resigned sigh, and went to sleep.   Bright maple trees whispered their discontent as the Hummer rumbled through the forest, and leaves drifted gently toward the ground.  After a while, Miss Parker let the thrum of the engine lull her eyes closed.  The first snowflakes of the season drifted from the sky and brushed her eyelashes before melting away.   …where you from, you sexy thing, you sexy thing, you… They were in Maryland, and Miss Parker had a map spread across the steering wheel, trying to figure out the best way to get through the District of Columbia to Delaware.  The digital clock on the dash read 0539, and they were fast approaching their thirty-third hour on the road.  They’d made great time out of Moose Jaw. She’d slept longer than she expected, on the first day, waking only for a late lunch at a burger dive about midpoint in the journey, where they’d switched off.  For dinner, they’d had two Cokes from chilled, real glass bottles—which were the best kind—and Publix chicken salad sandwiches.  The rest of their meals had been on the road, sandwiches and chips fumbled from the two rustling brown supermarket bags which were stuffed in the backseat. Carson had had the leftover chicken salad.  Despite her intentions and her anxiety, she had relished their time on the road.  They’d rolled down the windows and let the wind fly through the car, pushing her hair away from her face.  They wore sunglasses, and made bad jokes, and listened to the oldies Jarod had never heard, and got to know each other a bit again.  There wasn’t as much positioning, as much cynicism. So easy, with the yellow lines and the sunrise leading them, to forget the wounds of the past and the risks of the near future.  So difficult, to remember that he was the most infuriating human being alive and that hadn’t really changed.   Jarod pawned the dog off on Broots, forgoing her phone and making a pay phone call at a gas station.  She had been surprised at the lengths Jarod would go for his pet, but, she guessed, alone in that cabin, far from his newfound family, Carson would start looking like a good pal.  Even Miss Parker shared a few words with the animal, pulling over to let him do his business and murmuring to him while Jarod napped.   It was like talking to yourself, only less crazy, and it made the drive less lonely.  She wondered if she should look into getting a dog.  “What do you think, Car,” she said, rustling the map at him. “Should we take the interstate, or go through the city and see the monuments?”    The dog snorted, then went back to sleep.    “Yeah.  Me, too,” she sighed drowsily.  “Interstate it is.”   Or perhaps a therapist would be a better choice after all.   She folded the map and pulled from the side of the road, back out into the relatively nonexistent traffic.   Few people were stupid enough to be driving this late, and those that were, at least, this close to a big city, were drunk or high on something.  Miss Parker was half-asleep herself, and wondered if she should wake Jarod, or settle for fake French Vanilla coffee at a twenty-four hour gas station somewhere, or just muddle through for the next two hours to Blue Cove.   To home—soon, she’d start seeing familiar landmarks—and bed.  Of course, they wouldn’t be going to the stone-and-wood house which was once the Parker family summer home.  They were going straight to the Centre, where Broots was waiting, where they could order supplies and ensure that there was another private plane waiting discreetly for them in Nairobi, which Jarod would pilot.