lyle8

The pictures were black and white glossies, and they were all close shots. They looked like they�d been taken by a pro.
Suddenly, her heart throbbed in her ears, and her hands began to tremble violently. She felt a touch of vertigo. No�
He was older than she remembered. Like her, he was going gray. Like her, he bore the lines and scars associated with the wear and tear of fourteen years�actually, thirteen, since she�d last seen him. His eyes seemed dimmer, but maybe that was just the photography. In some of the photographs, he wore stylish, oval-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses.
In some shots, he pointed, his face harsh as he directed a dead-eyed, stoic-faced child. In others he stood laughing, suave, with a group of black men. He dressed the same. He looked, essentially, the same.
It was the man who had been introduced to her as Mr. Lyle. Her brother. The father of her nephew, the man who�d screwed Kara and dumped her like she was nothing, had left her pregnant and alone with the ashes of a too-young marriage to someone who wasn�t Lyle. Assassin. Murderer. The Triumvirate�s whipping boy.
The man Parker had shot to death on the Centre�s roof one year after she�d been made director. She�d done a public service, and yet, she�d still borne that guilt every day for thirteen years. She�d cried for the tainting of her soul and the grief of her father at his funeral. She�d accepted that evil as part of herself, and gotten over it, and had also sworn that she would never kill anyone again. She carried a gun because it was an excellent threat, but since that day with Lyle, she�d never even pulled off a shot except on the range, and then every one jolted her body with emotion.
�Jarod, no,� she whispered, the words choking in her throat. �I killed this man. I shot his face off.�
�Did you see him die?� Jarod didn�t turn to look at her. �Miss Parker?�
�I�It was the roof. He fell from the roof. But I saw the body.�
�You saw a blond man of medium build��
��with no face. Holy hell, Jarod.� She was trembling so violently that she was afraid she might pass out. Lyle had been a serial killer. He preyed on Oriental women. He was supposed to be a ghost. He was supposed to torture her for the rest of her life in dreams and never touch anyone else ever again. And they had given him children. It took her a long moment to understand all the implications.
Her first thought was that she was going to have to get Nate out of Cincinnati.
Her second�what was Lyle doing with those kids?
Jarod answered her as if she�d spoken the words. �He�s turning them into his own, private army.� He stared. His expression was painful to look at. Their pleasant meal seemed worlds away. His eyes were drowning in despair, and he stared at her like she could draw him out. He didn�t just need her to go to Africa to get the kids and stop Lyle, she realized. He needed someone to pull him out of the hole when he needed it. Someone to lean on. She wondered if his simulations had somehow taken a part in this.
Jarod had taken these shots himself, she remembered.
If I�d taken these pictures, I�d want to live out the rest of my life in a cozy, quiet place in BFE, Canada, too. She didn�t want to go. She didn�t know if she was up to going. This kind of business, which she�d thought was done with when she cleaned out the Centre years and years ago, was the sort of thing quiet middle-aged women, even tough and healthy ones, didn�t do.
But it all came down to who had the guts, and she had them. She knew she did. She would have to go back to the Centre and explain things to Broots, get him started on the hacking end, ensure that everything was in order if she didn�t return. She would have to find some way to get her hands on a bigger gun. She would have to put Sydney and his family, and Kara, and Nathan, and Debbie, and her father, out of Lyle�s reach, and do the same for Jarod�s family if he couldn�t do it himself.
�Parker,� Jarod croaked, �will you come with me?�
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, though more flowed to replace them. She tried to wink. She�d be on risky emotional ground for the next few days. When she spoke, however, her voice was strong. �Lock and load, Jarod. Let�s go to Africa.�
He struggled to smile, his curiosity betraying his desperation. �What the hell does that mean?�
She very nearly laughed.
When she glanced back at the images her brother�s face, though, her confidence waned. It stung to think that this might be the last, best memory of her life. She closed the folder almost reverently. If this was going to be the last week or month of her life, then she was going to take the longest, most luxurious hot shower she possibly could. And then she was going to take two Tylenol P.M.�s from her duffel, come back here, and look at these pictures until she could see them without wanting to vomit, or until she fell asleep.
Whichever came first.