Disclaimer in part 1

Shelter

by imagine

If there was one thing she'd learned over the years, it was to pack light. Without the company and influence of a family, she had no real home, and, therefore, no connection to anything materialistic or trivial, so, her belongings were simple and few. Everything she carried with her had a purpose, whether it was to help defend her from physical or emotional threats, assist in the keeping her family safe, or remind her of better days.

With a flip of her wrist, the trunk of the car sprung open and Margaret wedged the soft-sided bag securely between the back seat and spare tire. Almost everything she owned was necessary to her survival, and, as she reached for the small, metal box that sat at her feet, she told herself it was the one possession she could not risk losing. Ironically, it was also the one that terrified and intrigued her the most.

Lifting it to the edge of the car, she let her fingers slide thoughtfully across the lid. For almost a year, the carefully constructed strong box had been proven itself to be an impenetrable tomb, helping her protect its contents from a variety of elements including fire, water and nosy neighbors. It was imperative that she keep the parchments encased and unread; but, despite her vow to do so, she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep her word.

Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, Margaret retrieved a small key and, once again, considered breaking the promise she'd made to Catherine Parker more than thirty years before.

Blinking at the memory of that meeting and that Catherine had died less than six months later, Margaret swallowed hard. Though she never expected to know for sure, she suspected Catherine had known she would not be alive when the scrolls were recovered, and over the years, the idea, no matter how fleeting, had always made her sad.

With a shake of her head, and a restless sigh, Margaret slid the key back in her pocket. The strong box would remain locked, and the prophecies would remain unread, for one more day. Lowering it beside the suitcase, she closed it in the trunk and turned away.

She moved through the small door that connected the garage and the house, listening for sounds that didn't belong and keeping her hand loosely wrapped around the butt of the automatic she carried in the waistband of her pants. In recent weeks, for no reason other than intuition dictated it, she had become much more cautious. Even in places she felt safe, she found herself taking extra precautions and, unfortunately, she no longer felt safe in the place that had given her shelter for the last month.

If she were truly honest with herself, she would have to admit to renting the house for sentimental reasons, but she hadn't been truly honest with herself for years. Part of her always lived in blissful denial, looking for things to connect her to her past and trying desperately to convince her that the life she had once known still existed. It was that tiny, suppressed piece of her personality that insisted she rent the house, not because of its security or seclusion, but because of its resemblance to the home she had shared with Charles and Jarod in Charlevoix.

At first, the memories that emerged had been surprisingly comforting. Reminded of the life she'd once had, and the promises she'd made, Margaret found the resolve she needed to continue her search for the truth. As the days melted into weeks, however, she became an addict, craving nostalgia more than the hope of the future. When she heard herself repeating a conversation she'd had with Jarod, forty years earlier, to an empty room, she realized how deeply involved she'd become with the past.

It was time to move on.

Satisfied that the house was secure, she crossed the living room to where her laptop was still connected. Glancing at the screen as it downloaded the information she had accessed earlier, she nodded to herself. As soon as the computer completed its task, she would load the last of her things into the car and head somewhere she could analyze her history without the distraction of memories. In the meantime, she needed to stay focused.

While the laptop hummed and clicked, Margaret busied herself by gathering the books and reference materials that were scattered nearby. Pushing three of the four periodicals into the leather briefcase she had purchased years before, she left the fourth open on the desk. Though the book was worn and dog-eared, it was one of her most prized possessions. The pages were almost as thin as tissue paper, and the passages had been printed in such a small script she needed her reading glasses, but it had survived her travels and had reassured her in her darkest hours. Without it, she would be lost.

Folding her arms around her waist, she gripped the weave of her sweater and looked through the small gap in the drapes. She had twenty-four hours, at the most, before the Centre tracked the computer transmission and pinpointed her location. If she was lucky, the light snow that had begun to fall would not disintegrate into sleet and rain, as predicted, until after she was gone.

Turning away from the window, Margaret glanced once more at the computer, then began one final sweep of the house. She could not afford to leave anything behind that might indicate her destination. The last thing she needed was for a Centre team to arrive before she was ready.

Though the bed was made, the linens and quilt had been washed earlier in the day, as were the towels that hung in the attached bath. In addition, she had taken great pains to wash every pot, dish, glass and utensil that hid behind oak cabinets in the kitchen, regardless of whether it had ever been used. Methodically, almost obsessively, she searched every room of the small house, including the drawers, closets and the crawl space that doubled as an attic. By the time she was done, confident that she had left nothing for the Centre to use against her or her family, Margaret heard the computer signal that the download was complete. Timing was everything.

With a smile, Margaret headed into the living room, coming to an abrupt halt as her eyes caught a figure outside pass the drapes. For a brief, panicked moment, she considered grabbing the computer and running toward the garage; but a light rap at the door made her rethink the idea.

She glanced at the clock on the desk. It was only two o'clock. Even if the Centre had managed to locate her so soon, they would not bother to knock. When her mysterious visitor tapped lightly on the window, Margaret hesitantly crossed toward the sound. With her right hand securely wrapped around the still holstered automatic, she reached for the door and slowly pulled it open.

*********

For more years than she cared to remember, her dreams had been guiltily built on variations of this moment. Though the setting changed with each one, they all began with his bright, inquisitive eyes shining at her, smiling like a child on Christmas morning and somehow managing to warm her from the inside out. Sooner than she was ready, though, the visions darkened into horrific nightmares that culminated with him being brutally ripped from her arms. Shaken, she would wake abruptly, her throat raw from screams, her body shivering uncontrollably and her ears ringing with the echoes of his voice calling out for her.

In time, she managed to train herself to wake while the dream was at its most comforting, before the images soured. It was those visions, the ones of him approaching her with outstretched arms; the ones of him contentedly and securely wrapped in her embrace, and the ones that held a promise of something wonderful to come that she allowed herself to recall. They were the reason she breathed, the reason she got up in the morning and, yet, despite her countless prayers, begging for them to become reality, she found herself paralyzed by the fact that he was standing in front of her.

The thought that she might be imagining him, or, worse, that she was not, was so overwhelming that all Margaret could manage to do was stare at the man. His hair was damp from the snow, making it darker than she remembered, but the curls that framed the edges of his face did so in the same way they had when he was three. When a breeze from the East snuck up on him from behind, he nervously ran his fingers through the locks, combing and patting them in place as he shuffled from one foot to the other. His gaze darted anxiously over his shoulder then, over hers, before finally finding the courage to rest on her face, searching for recognition.

"Mom?" he whispered, uncertainly.

She had no idea how he had managed it, or what mistake she had made that led him to her, but the fact remained that he was here and she had no idea how to react. She gripped the door tighter, using it for support as her legs began to shake.

"Mom, it's me," his voice cracked, "It's Jarod."

His low, almost timid voice was enough to bring her to her senses. She reached for him, softly sliding her arms around his neck, and felt the tension drain from his body. His arms hesitantly circled her waist and, though she didn't know whether it was the frigid temperatures or his overtaxed emotions that were to blame, she felt him shiver and, instinctively, tried to comfort him. Running her hands across his shoulders and down his back, she kissed his cheek lightly as he buried his face in her hair. His breath pulsed against her neck in soft, shallow intervals and, closing her eyes, Margaret whispered his name, then squeezed him tighter when he nodded against her.

For months, after witnessing the helicopter rising from Carthis, she had believed the Centre, once again, held her son prisoner. When reports of a Good Samaritan, known only as Jarod, began reappearing in publications across the country, her heart hesitantly began to believe he was free. Now, while she held him and felt his warmth radiating through her, Margaret found herself reveling in the increasing certainty that her son was safely tucked in her arms.

"I've been searching for so long," he murmured.

"I know, Baby. I know."

*********

It wasn't until an icy wind sheared her face, sending a startling chill through her body, that Margaret was reminded of the danger that still lurked. Her eyes snapped open, instinctively scanning the snow ladened trees and road behind him. A salt stained Jeep, presumably his, was parked on the frozen driveway and, though it was the only vehicle in sight, her gut constricted in fear. When she tensed, she felt Jarod, unsure of what had spooked her, instinctively do the same.

Offering no explanation, Margaret backed out of her son's embrace, pulling him from the open doorway. He reacted quickly to her silent demand, pausing only long enough to retrieve a leather bag and metal briefcase from the porch. Before their eyes could meet, though, Margaret turned away, more concerned with possible threats than with questions he might have.

Her hands were shaking as she engaged the locks and, by the time Margaret finally faced her son, her heart was pounding so violently that she wondered if he could see her body being jarred by the heavy rhythm.

"You shouldn't be here," she told him, sharper than she intended. Her voice was shaking and she was pacing anxiously in front of the door. "If they . ."

"I was very careful," he promised, using a tone reserved for a child searching for approval, "I changed planes, names and my appearance, three times since leaving San Diego. I promise, I know when the Centre is following me, and they weren't. You're safe."

His words, meant to comfort her, were like a jolt of electricity surging through her veins and Margaret's eyes widened in shock. Coming to a complete stop, she stared at him. He was worried about her and suddenly Margaret felt ashamed. It was her job to protect him, not the other way around.

His dark eyes dropped, watching as she took his leather bag from him and placed it beside the sofa. When her hand slid into his, hoping to provide him with the reassurance she could not give herself, he looked up. He searched her face with such intense, dark eyes that Margaret had to force herself not to look away.

"How did you find me?"

Jarod smiled shyly. His eyes danced around the room, taking in the simple furnishings, computer equipment, books and photos before settling back on his mother's face.

"After I escaped, I posted your picture on a secure website and asked for help in finding you. Since then, I've been following the leads. I was in San Diego when I got a message that brought me here."

"Jarod, it might have been a trap," she scolded, glancing toward the window, "If the Centre had found your website, they . ."

"It's all right," he promised, "I always take extra precautions and, unless I want them there sooner, the Centre never turns up until days after I'm gone."

"Unless you want them sooner?" she repeated, "What does that mean?"

He hesitated, clearing his voice nervously and glancing at his hands before admitting, "Sometimes, I leave them clues as to where I am."

"You do what? Why?"

"It's complicated, Mom," he answered, "but, I promise, I'm not taking unnecessary risks."

She looked at him skeptically and shook her head. "Maybe someday, you'll explain what you mean by complicated."

"Maybe," he smiled.

"And, while you're at it, you can tell me what you consider an unnecessary risk, too."

His smile faded. "Anything that would put someone in danger. I would never let the Centre hurt . ."

She had meant her words to be teasing, but he had interpreted them literally and Margaret was annoyed with herself for not realizing he would do so. "Jarod, I know you would never hurt anyone. I've read about the things that you've done, since you escaped the Centre. I know about the people you've helped and . ."

Interrupting her, Jarod stood and stepped anxiously toward the window. His hands were pushed deep inside the pockets of his jacket and his eyes were staring blindly at the falling snow. "Not everything I've done has been . . good."

Unsure of what she had said that made him pull away, Margaret moved behind Jarod, meeting his eyes in the reflection of the window. She saw his pain, but before she could ask what was wrong, the man averted his eyes.

"I didn't know," he promised, softly, "I didn't know how they were using the things I thought up."

Suddenly, she understood that he was talking about his time at the Centre. Her brief friendship with Catherine Parker had provided her with some insight as to how her son was being treated and the kinds of things he was being coerced into doing. For her own sanity, though, and, with the hope that she would, someday, be able to rescue him, Margaret had tucked the information into a place in her mind that she seldom visited, unable to deal with the debilitating guilt and depression they produced.

"Jarod, none of what happened was your fault. You were a child. You . ."

He shook his head and moved away, purposely avoiding her touch as she reached for him. Because of the layout of the room, and where she was standing, Jarod found his escape blocked by the desk. As she approached, he glanced at her, then dropped his attention to the open book beside the computer.

"When I broke out," he murmured, "I tried to make up for what I did. I tried to make you proud."

His words startled her. With his head bowed slightly, Jarod fingered the fragile pages of the worn book, refusing to look up even after her hand slid up his back.

"I've been proud of you since the day I found out I was carrying you, Jarod," she whispered, "There is nothing you could do that would change that."

After an awkward silence, she hesitantly slipped her hands around the collar of his jacket and slid it down his arms. She knew she was being selfish, but her heart would not permit her to send him away. Not yet.

"It's almost three in the morning. You must be tired."

"I couldn't sleep now, even if I wanted to. I have so many questions, Mom, and I have so much to tell you ..." he sighed and rubbed his forehead distractedly. Then, shaking his head, Jarod admitted, "I just don't know how or where to begin."

Hugging the leather garment to her chest, she stared up at him for a heartbeat more, before running her hand down the side of his face and resting it on his shoulder. If it wasn't for his day old beard, she might have been able to convince herself he was still the child she held in her dreams.

"You begin by getting into some dry clothes," she told him, patting the front of his damp shirt. "There are fresh towels in the bathroom. While you shower and change, I'll make you something to eat and . ."

"I'm not hungry, I . ."

" .. and then we'll talk," she continued, speaking firmly over his interruption and handing him his bag, "I promise."

Jarod looked from her to the bag and, after taking the item from her, turned dejectedly away. He was at the bathroom door, his hand on the knob and his shoulders slumped forward, when she said, "I want to know everything about you, too, Jarod."

Facing her, Jarod smiled broadly, then disappeared into the smaller room. Immediately, Margaret tightened her hold on jacket that was still in her arms and leaned against the back of the sofa for support. His smile was the same crooked smile she'd seen so many times in her memories, the one he'd had as a child, the one that not only reached his eyes, but also lit up his face.

It was the smile that told her he was truly happy.