The Past


Dover hit close to home, and Miss Parker watched CNN and didn’t go to work and didn’t answer the phone and locked her door carefully. Monique Pafer was an insurance broker who lived by herself and was known to be a loner, and the similarities were so striking between them that Miss Parker was afraid. She was even more afraid when Jarod woke her one night by putting his hand over her mouth.

“Shh,” he whispered, and she stilled, her heart slamming in her chest, and he took his hand away, “It’s just me.”

He lay down beside her and she wriggled close to him, needing the comfort. She could sense the danger just beyond her field of vision, had felt it building like a storm for months. Why this case, Jarod? Why this one, and why did you need to see me even as you found their bodies? Why bring me into your world?

Because you like fire. Bring me close, see if I catch.

“I want… I want to you to go away,” Jarod murmured against her hair, kissing her brow, “It’s not safe. I… can’t explain it. But… but I need you to go away, until I have this wrapped up.”

She didn’t argue. Neither of them were going to say it, but on an instinctive level she understood why. Understood in the way that if she could just press a little closer, she might be able to read his mind. It had been like that all their lives. She was all his cynicism and aggression and disillusionment, and he was all her delight and naivety and innocence. If they lived in the same body, they would have made a whole person.

“I’ll arrange everything. I’ll contact you when it’s safe… you can meet me. I want you to be safe,” he said, and she nodded.

They made love in silence and it was slow and drawn out and sexual without being sensual. His mouth was soft, his hands so tender. When he moved in her body she felt God somewhere near them, like she had when they were children. Felt the connection of energy that she’d only ever felt with him. They had hot salty tears for each other, and she lay curled in his embrace all night long, and neither of them slept a wink.

The email came barely two days later – an address in New York and his name at the bottom. Parker told no one where she was going, just packed a bag. To compose herself, she dressed with care, going through familiar routines of makeup and hair and smiled wanly at her reflection. For a moment, she thought she saw an echo of Jarod there in the mirror, tired and haggard, a broken man. But it was just a trick of the light.

They would be safe in New York. She would tell him about the baby. Her knowledge was one day old.

It was a dingy apartment on the West Side, with little furniture even by Jarod’s standards. She supposed it was a halfway house for them, a place to meet before moving on. The only thing to sit on was the bed, and she stared at the wall, waiting for him to arrive. Don’t get held up, Jarod, don’t make excuses. Come for me. I need you to forget those women. I need you to be here for me and our child. She lay down, as the afternoon stretched into evening, and let fantasies of the future lull her into sleep.

It was dark when the noise woke her, and then a light flared directly above her, and she saw his face and everything fell into place. He seemed so sad, but the syringe was already poised above her heart. Jarod will come and it will be okay. He would save her. From him.

“It’s you,” she said.

The needle pierced her chest. Where are you Jarod?

“You don’t have to hurt anymore,” he said.

She wanted to tell him that she needed to live, she needed to live for the baby, but the plunger was going down and the sharpest pain was blooming in her chest. Jarod, Jarod, please, I need you. It spread to her left arm and her breath caught and her body jerked and all the while she stared into those sad, dark eyes. But this was really the end, this was death, and the world was leaving her, the darkness was coming. And she could not feel Jarod, he wasn’t coming, she could not feel the energy, he really wasn’t, she could not feel God.

She could not feel anything.


The Future


The boy’s name was Jeremy. Like Jarod, kind of like Gemini, a tribute to the genes that built him. Jarod wondered over the theories of sociopaths; environment versus genetics, were killers bred or were killers made? Was the capacity for murder in my blood all along? Or had Raines created the most tragic creature of all – the one who was almost normal?

Did I kill her through you? Or did you kill her for me?

The boy was not even a man, but he came into the room with an easy lope, and Jarod wasn’t really surprised, when it came down to it. Of course. It was you all along. I should have known. I should have understood.

“I wanted you to see,” he said, and Jarod nodded, but did not get out of his chair. Jeremy looked at the gun. “I know you won’t shoot me. I know you can’t kill me, you love your family.”

I love my family; I loved my little family of me and her and the baby. My little room of happy corpses. The American fucking dream.

“You’re my blood. You’re my DNA,” he told the clone, “You’re not my fucking family.”

And this boy who wore his face, Jeremy, this child he had rescued, was a monster. A monster with purpose and needles and the mask of death, a monster who thought murder was a mercy. A monster like him.

“How could you?” Jarod asked, his voice cracking, “How could you do this? What makes you so different from me?”

“But we’re not so different,” Jeremy said, and Jarod looked, and he was right.

The boy looked like Jarod, walked tall like Jarod, thought and moved and spoke like Jarod, and they could have played silly twin games if they’d just been the same age. If Jarod wasn’t in a murderous rage.

Parker, I’m sorry, I should have known.

“The Centre… took her happiness,” Jeremy said, and Jarod wanted to hit him for saying that in her house, in her lounge room, in his darkness. The boy came closer, “She was hurt so long ago, Jarod, and she was living in pain. I helped. I had to, because you wouldn’t.”

My lover. My child.

“She was pregnant,” Jarod said quietly, and the boy faltered.

Happy corpses.

“Another life to be ruined by the Centre,” he said after a moment.

Jarod shot him in the knee.

Jeremy toppled, slumped to the ground, staring at his shattered and bloody leg, and then at Jarod. Jarod stood slowly, went to stand over him. My family doesn’t matter anymore. My life doesn’t matter anymore. All this is ashes, because I didn’t want to know. Because I didn’t want to see.

Only one person could almost be me.

“You’re wrong,” Jarod said, and shot him in the gut. The boy fell back to the floor, clutching his belly, which swelled with blood. His eyes were wide, but Jarod had no mercy. “You’re wrong, and you killed her, and we were so close to being happy,” he said, and tears fell down his cheeks, stone cold tears and he shook his head, whispering, “How could you? What made you so different? You got *out*. What made your life so different from mine?”

Jeremy’s face was pale. He coughed, and blood trickled out of his mouth. It was on his teeth, and Jarod hoped he felt it rising up, hoped he felt death coming for him. The boy shook his head, and his eyes were hollow, empty. “I never had her,” he said, slurring through blood and pain, and Jarod heard bitterness and wonder in the child, and understood. Jeremy nodded. “I never had her. I never had love.”

My lover. My child. My world.

“You’re going to die alone,” Jarod said.

He shot him in the throat. Jarod knelt down beside Jeremy, who struggled weakly as his blood pulsed out of him. “Shhh,” he said, to ease the way, and pulled the boy’s hands away from his neck, letting the blood flow.

It bubbled like a fountain at his throat, the strength of his heart pushing it up, out, letting it rain down. Rain down on me. All my love is gone, washed away by you. The boy’s struggles became frantic, and Jarod saw the fear, saw the pain, and nodded, thought it was fair. Shhh, for the one who is almost me, shhh. It’s almost over, Parker. It’s almost over. I was too late and I’m sorry, but the end is here. The end is here.

Jeremy died, and Jarod left him on the floor. He wiped his hands on his pants, but the blood wouldn’t come off. He put his gun in his waistband, and went upstairs to stand in the bedroom door, taking out his phone, staring at the bed. I’m sorry. The end is here. You can find peace now.

He dialled, waited until there was an answer. “You can come and get me now,” he said, “I won’t fight anymore. It’s over.”

It’s over.


The End of Time


Lyle found the body of the clone in the lounge, fresh. He found the pile of files – seven women – on the sofa. He looked at the crime scene photos, and then at the body on the floor. Who would have thought the little fucker was capable? It made sense, in a twisted kind of way. And he wasn’t surprised by Jarod’s revenge.

He climbed the stairs, his gun at the ready, unsure of what he’d find. It wasn’t everyday that Jarod called Lyle, but he supposed this was a special occasion. At the landing he paused, and crept up to the open bedroom door. When he saw the tableau inside, he lowered his gun, and sighed.

Jarod lay on the bed, Parker’s naked corpse in his arms. The tear tracks on his cheeks were still fresh. The blood running out of his mouth not quite congealed. His gun had fallen between her breasts, his hand still wrapped around the trigger. He held her to him with his free hand, smearing blood on her bluish skin. The back of his skull was a messy pulp; the Pretender had shot himself through the head.

Lyle stood and stared at them for a long time, deeply affected.

“What a fucking waste,” he said finally, and turned away.



The End