Jarod had seen the parallels right away.  “Like parents for their children?”   “Yes.  And, sometimes, children for their parents.”   “Would you do that for me?” His young eyes were hungry for reassurance, for the confirmation that some adult, somewhere, cared about him.   Sydney paused a long time before answering.  “God forbid I’d ever have to, Jarod, but yes.  Yes, I think I would.”   Jarod smiled.  “You’ll never have to, Sydney, I promise.”   As if it were in his limited power to promise anything like that.  But for Jarod it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was that Sydney would, if it came right down to it.  He still would today.   Thinking back, that day, when they made the deal, was one of the last days she had really allowed herself to care about Jarod, to think about him, until now.  To see him again, so suddenly, in the brave and daring position of coming back to the Centre under his own volition, had awakened a compassion in her that was disorienting in its intensity.  If she hadn’t been so concerned about her father, and herself—if she had been Catherine Parker—she would have gone to him that day, before the deal, and told him she would go where he said and do as he asked, until she died.  They could take little Jarod, little J2, and go find the white picket fence and the three car garage, and pretend they were all normal and that there was nothing but love between them.   Of course it was foolish and suicidal; the young Miss Parker didn’t do feelings any other way.  The course of sensations she had endured that day left her less than able to make a rational decision and drunk on anger and passion.  She ignored those emotions and acted as bitchy as ever.  Maybe Sydney noticed that things were different, but if he had, he didn’t say anything.   At any rate, it was all torn up and overwhelmed when she was shot, anyway.   Even if she had been the same woman then that she was now, she would have made the same decisions.  Well, she wasn’t sure she’d get shot for her father again.  It hadn’t been so very long, since then, that his mind had begun to fade.  It would have been a cleaner death for him and a less emotional one for her.   And she might have kissed Jarod goodbye before forgetting about him.   She glided the Hummer gently into the parking space next to hers, glad to see the sleek, new red Saturn safe and sound.  She dropped the keys into Jarod’s open hand, then pulled open the door and shuffled into the building, past the security guard—a sweeper named Ashford, who grinned at her and glared at Jarod and the dog, who trailed her.  Ashford wasn’t old enough to remember the days when the Jarod hunt had been a Centre priority.  He would have been twelve, thirteen, when she dispatched with the Jarod matter once and for all, but perhaps Sam had told him about it; he seemed to recognize the Pretender.   Sam.  Another person whose security she’d have to ensure.  Oh, he was nobody important to her and probably wasn’t a target, but her long-time sweeper and bodyguard deserved to be informed that someone was probably interested in killing his boss, and he might not want to be around when it happened.  She planned to transfer an amount of money into the sweeper working budget anyway, and she would ensure that Sam could have full use of that to find a nice hole to crawl into and a big rock to pull over his head.   There.  One down, six to go.  Not counting Jarod and herself.   She was exhausted, and she was bothered with everything.  She made her way across the marble floor, and pressed the T button, for Tower, then punched in her authorization code.  Jarod was fully awake, almost alarmed, drawn up with a pinched look to his face, petting his dog between its shoulder blades, which was something, she’d recently realized, that he did when he was nervous or upset.  She wondered if he was planning to make a run for it.   Involuntarily, she wondered how far he would get if she called out the sweeper teams on him.      Probably about two feet, on a Tower floor.  Maybe further, if he decided to fight or went through the ventilation system.  Not so very long ago, she would have done it.  Regardless of how she felt about him, Jarod was, had been, a valuable asset.  I mean, right now he’s doing simulations anyway, right?   Those were feelings she would have to ignore, too.  The old huntress instinct.  She hadn’t chased Jarod for so long that it had become a habit to think about his capture, had she?   “Here’s my office,” she said brightly, nodding toward the door.  But they passed by it, as good as it would have been to see it again.  The next door down belonged to Broots.  His office was not as large or lush, but it was more homey; you’d think the dad from Leave it to Beaver worked there.   She rapped lightly on the door with her knuckles.  Jarod hung back, the tense expression melting from his face, though his body was still stiff and alert.   “Just a second,” came the voice from behind the door.  She smiled and leaned into the retinal scanner.  ‘Just a second’ for Broots was just an hour, or just twenty-four, depending on how deeply involved with cyberspace he actually was.   There was a quiet click as the door unlocked, and then it slid silently open.  Broots was tapping furiously on his computer—he preferred the keyboard to the voice-command system he’d engineered for her.  He looked tired.   “Don’t tell me you’ve been in here all night.”  She walked in and surveyed his office, staring out at the familiar view of Blue Cove Woods, and crossed her arms over her chest.  There was always tension here, not between herself and Broots—or even herself and Jarod.  It was the Centre.  It was an ambiance.  A vibe.   It was comfortable and it felt like home.  She moved here with the same familiarity that Jarod had moved through his cabin.  After all, wasn’t each place a retreat, a haven, in one way or another?  Terrible things had happened here, but Miss Parker had also grown up here.  For her, it was safe.   For Jarod, she supposed, it was hell all over again.   “Hi, Miss Parker,” Broots sighed.   “You didn’t answer my question.”   “Well, actually, Miss Parker, it wasn’t a question.  More of a statement.”   “Broots.”   “It’s not like I could do the kinds of things you two ordered in a couple of hours.  This takes time, and care, if you don’t want people to find you.  Perhaps if Jarod could help me out…”  Miss Parker turned to look at her longtime friend.  She’d called him idiot and worse before.  Often, he’d been a frustration.  Broots wasn’t the kind of guy that went in guns blazing.  It had made him another person to protect, a hindrance rather than a help when it came to the actual, physical chase.  And he’d never known Jarod, which made it difficult for him to have any powerful feelings to pressure him forward.    Parker had her anger, and those unresolved feelings which alternately confused and frustrated her.  Sydney had his “emotional umbilical,” his “unique relationship,” his father-son bond with the wayward Pretender, not to mention his fears that the real world was far too overwhelming for a man raised in captivity and isolation, even if it was resilient and adaptable Jarod he was talking about.