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bantha_fodderWith the Lights Left On, by Pen
The Pretender, Miss Parker, PG.
Chinese New Year #6
**
The package arrives three weeks before Christmas, and the clues mean absolutely jack shit to any of them. She's ready to pull the remaining hairs out of Broots' head by the time she gives in and lets him leave, five minutes after ten on Christmas Eve, to catch a plane with Debbie to somewhere not as fucking cold as Delaware. Though Jakob's gone, Sydney still disappears, and she stops thinking about Jarod's game and thinks about him alone, instead, and goes home. Her head pounds.
It's five weeks later and she's half-asleep in the darkness of her house when she puts it all together. There's no bath and there's no eureka but it's there, and her brother's at some pointless conference in Europe so she takes it as a sign and simply goes.
The trail will surely be cold by now anyway, she thinks. Best not to waste dear Lyle's time. He'll thank her later.
On the plane to Los Angeles she taps her fingers on the arm rest and looks out the window; as the plane touches down on the tarmac, she fiddles with her phone and decides not to turn it on.
She takes her time, walks through China Town like she knows where she’s going. She stops to buy Debbie a present, a red lantern to end the new year celebrations, and has dinner in a tiny restaurant off a dirty alley, guided by Jarod’s cryptic notes and the feeling that she’s been this way before.
He slides onto the bench opposite her, and she blinks.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he says.
“Have you been here all this time?” she asks him. A waitress brings Miss Parker’s laksa and a plate of thick noodles and crispy-skinned duck for Jarod.
“Waiting for you,” he says, as he digs in. He offers a piece of duck, clasped between his chopsticks. “Try it, it’s good.”
“I’ll pass.”
They eat in silence as she thinks of and rejects all the things she wants to say. “How do you know I’m alone?” she finally settles on. He looks at her.
“You always are,” he says, and when she meets his eyes he doesn’t look away.
“Come with me,” he says, and her stomach lurches.
On the street, the drumbeat starts.
She reaches for her gun, the one she left in her suitcase in her hotel room as she shakes her head. “You’re coming with me,” she says instead, like perhaps she means the words, and he frowns at her.
“I miss you,” he says, and his breath on her cheek is warm before he dashes out the door.
She chases him through the crowds, dodging old men and tiny children speaking half a dozen dialects, her heels clacking on the pavement.
This, at least, is familiar.
She doesn’t yell his name as she chases him; the drumbeat and the murmur make speaking pointless.
The beat is not irregular, but it pounds under her skin and is distinct enough that it distracts her as she runs.
Colours flash, and she wishes he hadn’t run, hadn’t tempted her, hadn’t insisted on pushing her, and she thinks she sees her brother and she hopes like fuck she’s wrong.
The sound of drums drowns out the gunshot, but she screams anyway.
END
I originally tried writing about this one here two years ago; I like it better now, but I admit that I liked it then, too.
The Pretender, Miss Parker, PG.
Chinese New Year #6
**
The package arrives three weeks before Christmas, and the clues mean absolutely jack shit to any of them. She's ready to pull the remaining hairs out of Broots' head by the time she gives in and lets him leave, five minutes after ten on Christmas Eve, to catch a plane with Debbie to somewhere not as fucking cold as Delaware. Though Jakob's gone, Sydney still disappears, and she stops thinking about Jarod's game and thinks about him alone, instead, and goes home. Her head pounds.
It's five weeks later and she's half-asleep in the darkness of her house when she puts it all together. There's no bath and there's no eureka but it's there, and her brother's at some pointless conference in Europe so she takes it as a sign and simply goes.
The trail will surely be cold by now anyway, she thinks. Best not to waste dear Lyle's time. He'll thank her later.
On the plane to Los Angeles she taps her fingers on the arm rest and looks out the window; as the plane touches down on the tarmac, she fiddles with her phone and decides not to turn it on.
She takes her time, walks through China Town like she knows where she’s going. She stops to buy Debbie a present, a red lantern to end the new year celebrations, and has dinner in a tiny restaurant off a dirty alley, guided by Jarod’s cryptic notes and the feeling that she’s been this way before.
He slides onto the bench opposite her, and she blinks.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he says.
“Have you been here all this time?” she asks him. A waitress brings Miss Parker’s laksa and a plate of thick noodles and crispy-skinned duck for Jarod.
“Waiting for you,” he says, as he digs in. He offers a piece of duck, clasped between his chopsticks. “Try it, it’s good.”
“I’ll pass.”
They eat in silence as she thinks of and rejects all the things she wants to say. “How do you know I’m alone?” she finally settles on. He looks at her.
“You always are,” he says, and when she meets his eyes he doesn’t look away.
“Come with me,” he says, and her stomach lurches.
On the street, the drumbeat starts.
She reaches for her gun, the one she left in her suitcase in her hotel room as she shakes her head. “You’re coming with me,” she says instead, like perhaps she means the words, and he frowns at her.
“I miss you,” he says, and his breath on her cheek is warm before he dashes out the door.
She chases him through the crowds, dodging old men and tiny children speaking half a dozen dialects, her heels clacking on the pavement.
This, at least, is familiar.
She doesn’t yell his name as she chases him; the drumbeat and the murmur make speaking pointless.
The beat is not irregular, but it pounds under her skin and is distinct enough that it distracts her as she runs.
Colours flash, and she wishes he hadn’t run, hadn’t tempted her, hadn’t insisted on pushing her, and she thinks she sees her brother and she hopes like fuck she’s wrong.
The sound of drums drowns out the gunshot, but she screams anyway.
END
I originally tried writing about this one here two years ago; I like it better now, but I admit that I liked it then, too.
