Killer

by Francine Pascal

  2. Sam

  1. Myself

  a huge mistake

  But there were moments—in bed—when Loki had let his guard down.

  PEARL WAS A VERY LUCKY WOMAN.

  Loki knew she probably didn’t even realize how lucky. But that was quite all right. She was brave; he had to credit her for that. Few others would have come directly to him after failing him twice. But even that couldn’t sour his mood. Pearl had already repeated the story of how Gaia had unexpectedly showed up at the restaurant, but Loki made her tell it again. The tale sang in hisearslike a symphony.

  Lucky

  “The girl is an absolute genius!” Loki cried, clapping and beaming like a proud father. She was definitely Katia’s child. And his . . . through the unfortunate vehicle of Tom, of course. But he and Tom were made of the same genetic material. The exact same stock. Gaia was his. She was a Moore, first and foremost.

  Finally he sighed. He leaned back in the white sofa of his sparsely furnished Upper West Side apartment and glanced up at Pearl. The woman refused to sit. She looked very calm, very collected ...except for one telltale sign: a tiny muscle in her jaw that kept twitching. She was afraid. And he drank in her fear. It was like an oasis in the desert. It sustained him. All powerful people should fear him.

  “Let’s get down to business,” he said.

  Pearl nodded wordlessly.

  “As I understand it, Ella’s still breathing,” Loki stated. His gaze flashed to the window, to the Manhattan skyline, glittering in the twilight of the setting sun. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “Yes,” Loki repeated, imitating her meek voice. “You sound like a mouse, not a murderer. If you were in my position, what would you do?”

  Pearl shrugged. The muscle twitched again.

  Before she could answer, Loki reached inside his jacket and pulled out a custom-made nine-millimeter pistol. The silencer glinted in the fading sunlight. “I was thinking of putting a bullet through your skull.”

  “I realize I didn’t deliver my part of the agreement,” she stated stiffly, her poise crumbling, “but I’m sure you understand that there were extenuating circumstances—”

  “I’m not an understanding man, Pearl,” he interrupted. The safety latch released with a satisfying click.

  She took a few steps back, her gaze riveted to the shiny metal in his hand. “Everything was going according to our plan,” she insisted. “If Gaia hadn’t shown up . . .”

  He paused. “Are you blaming my niece for your mistake?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Loki raised the gun and aimed the barrel directly at Pearl’s forehead. Pity she would make a mess on his nice hardwood floors. That was something even she could appreciate. “You’re sweating, Pearl. It’s not very ladylike—”

  “Give me another chance!” Pearl cried. “No one is closer to Ella than me right now. I have an idea that absolutely cannot fail.”

  Loki hesitated . . . then lowered his arm by his side. Well. Hiring another assassin would be an inconvenience. Aswould cleaning thisplace up after he killed her. So he’d wait—then kill her after the job was done. Yes. She was lucky enough to have caught him in a good mood. She probably didn’t even know how lucky.

  “Let’s hear it,” he said.

  A Way Out

  ELLA BLEW THROUGH THE PERRY

  Street brownstone with a force that rattled every hinge and musty floorboard. But in spite of her flailing limbs and pounding feet, in spite of her wild fantasies of smashing Gaia’s smarmy little face with an ax, a part of her mind was surprisingly calm. It was the part that pictured Loki’s cold, arrogant eyes. The time had come to make him pay—to make them all pay. Loki. Gaia. Sam.

  But now there would be hell to pay. For all of them.

  “You don’t control my life anymore,” Ella whispered. Her words drifted off the walls of George’s office, off the glass doors of his antique bookcases. Loki thought he’d molded her into some sort of puppet that couldn’t think for herself. One of hisminions. And maybe he had, in the past. Which was all well and good. That’s precisely what she wanted him to believe about the present.

  He was powerful, and he’d controlled her. Yes . . . she had to admit that to herself. She remembered thinking only very recently that she craved him the way an addict craved a drug. She was powerless to resist. But not anymore.

  Bending over beside George’s desk, she reached into the unused fireplace, her frantic hand feeling along the inside of the chimney. Shit . . . she was actually shaking. She was nervous. But this was a momentous occasion. Finally her fingers touched the familiar inner ledge and grazed a small iron box.

  Her heart caught in her throat. It was still there.

  My way out.

  Shaking, she placed the soot-covered box on the floor, then gingerly opened the top. A smile spread across her face. The contents were still in perfect condition. Inside were handwritten copies of the passwords to a few of Loki’s numerous bank accounts, stashed in strategic locations around the globe. But some of the accounts, if transferred properly, could be accessed in this very city . . . from a foreign bank, maybe—like the Bank of Switzerland in Midtown or the Bank of Tunisia in Gramercy Park. It was all a matter of being clever.

  Loki had been excruciatingly protective of his money. But there were moments—in bed—when Loki had let his guard down. No doubt these weren’t his biggest stashes. He was too smart to reveal everything to her.

  Still, Ella had found all sorts of subtle ways of finding out what she needed to know.

  Of course, she never believed that a day would come when she’d actually use these passwords. She liked to think of them only as insurance. Something she would turn to when disaster struck. In fact, Loki had given her the information as protection in case he was killed.

  It was kind of ironic, wasn’t it?

  No, it was something far more meaningful than ironic. It was life threatening.

  A violent shudder seized her entire body. She swallowed. Her fingers were moist as she removed the papers. This was undeniably scary. Crossing Loki in this way would ensure that she became a marked woman. But she didn’t care. If she stayed here—trapped in this house, in this life—well, then she would die, too.

  Thrusting fear aside, Ella sat down at George’s desk. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, logging on to the Internet and accessing the offshore accounts. Furiously she pounded out Loki’s account information . . . followed by her own—moving quickly for fear of losing the sliver of courage that rage had granted her.

  Loki would know immediately it was her. But then again, she wanted him to know.

  Amount to transfer: $300,000.

  Ella gazed at the screen. Her soot-covered finger hovered over the enter key. It trembled like a leaf in the wind. All that remained was a press of a single button. Then the theft would be complete. This could be a huge mistake. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, forcing herself to remember the smitten look on Sam’s face when Gaia walked into the restaurant. If she didn’t go through with this, she’d never be free. Of anyone.

  Ella hit the key.

  THERE WAS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT. UNCLE Oliver’s cell phone number was definitely not working. Gaia slammed down the pay phone receiver for the tenth time and retrieved her change as it clanged into the coin return. So much for his promises to take her away from this hell-hole. For now, it looked like she was stuck here. She grabbed the box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and took a seat at a table near the window, watching the traffic on Eighth Street pass by.

  Nervous Breakdown

  The sidewalk was packed with the usual rush of college girls—carrying heavy shopping bags, laughing, talking about spring break, or finals, or whatever the hell it was that college girls talked about when they were together. There were clusters of boys hanging out together, too. Some smiled at the girls. Some did more. Some whistled, even. How cheesy was that? But the girls flirted back. To Gaia, watching the mating ritua
lsof college kidswaslike watching a documentary about orangutans on The Discovery Channel. It was equally as foreign and mysterious—but primitive and ridiculous, too.

  Did anyone ever end up in a real relationship? And when it was finally over, did the broken-hearted women of the world drown their sorrows in a warm box of Original Glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts?

  If not, they should. Gaia bit into the first doughnut slowly, savoring its sweet perfection. She didn’t have a father, a home, or even Sam, but she always had Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Doughnuts were a lot more reliable than people. As far as she could tell, in fact, people were shit. Well, except for the ones she invented in her head. Like the fake Sam Moon.

  Yup. The Sam Moon she had fabricated in her mind was perfect. He was smart and rational. He lived by his own code. He wasn’t impressed by flash or money. (Well, barring the regrettable exception of Heather Gannis, of course. But the fake Sam never even really liked Heather, right?) He had a brain for chess. He was loyal. Trustworthy. Nice to everybody, even to Gaia, when everyone else wrote her off . . .

  Most of all, the Sam that Gaia had dreamed up was honest.

  Too bad he didn’t exist.

  The Sam Moon that existed in reality had the same complicated hazel eyes and face—and the same head for chess—but that was where the similarities ended. The real Sam wascalculating and manipulative. Weak. Spineless. Ruled by hisgroin. He was self-serving and callous. In short, he was a big, fat card-carrying member of Liars Anonymous.

  So if the real Sam was such an asshole, then why did the thought of him still hurt so damn much?

  You haven’t had enough doughnuts yet—that’s why, Gaia reasoned as she stuffed a second doughnut down into the empty void where her heart once was. Getting Sam out of her mind was going to be brutal. But Gaia was prepared. She’d clean out the entire Krispy Kreme inventory if she had to.

  As she nibbled the icing off her third doughnut, a burst of iridescent red hair caught the corner of her eye. The shade was very particular, an amalgam of bad dye jobs ranging from fuchsia to candy apple . . . blended into a color so hideous, it was nearly radioactive.

  Gaia would know that red anywhere. It belonged to Ella.

  Could it be that the psychobitch was laying another trap for Gaia? Probably. Gaia licked her sugared fingers absently as Ella passed the window—not more than four feet away. She didn’t look up, though. She didn’t notice Gaia. But Gaia noticed her—specifically, that Ella looked like crap. The requisite Barney’s shopping bag was there, but everything else was completely skewed. The eyes that were normally made up were now puffed with dark circles. Hair that was normally coiffed looked like it hadn’t been combed in at least thirty minutes.

  Maybe Ella was having a nervous breakdown.

  No. She was setting a trap for Gaia. There was no other logical explanation. It was simply too coincidental that she would walk right past the window where Gaia was eating. But that didn’t matter. If Ella was laying a trap, Gaia figured she better find out what it was.

  At least it would take her mind off Sam.

  SAM WANDERED AIMLESSLY PAST Astor Place, choosing to avoid the crush of lower Broadway by sticking to the wide, desolate sidewalks of Lafayette. Even at rush hour this was one of the few avenues in Manhattan that wasn’t jammed with a steady stream of cabs, buses, and pedestrians. And every few minutes, in between lights, the air was actually quiet enough to allow a person to think.

  One Last Thing to Say

  Not that Sam was capable of thinking. Even if he were in a library—no, better yet, even if he were in one of those isolation tanks where people succumbed to hallucinations because it was so freaking quiet—even then he wouldn’t be able to think. The only thing he could do right was walk. One foot in front of the other. Over and over again. Just like a fish that had to keep moving to breathe. If he stopped for even a second, Sam felt he might die.

  Strange: He used to walk all the time. Back when he was happy. Relatively happy, anyway. How long ago had that been? Four months? Six? Life had once been pretty good. Or at least halfway decent. He had an NYU scholarship, good friends, and a hot girlfriend that made him the envy of all his suite mates. Things were fairly uncomplicated. He knew where he was going and where he was likely to end up. All the pieces of his life had a way of fitting together. Perfectly.

  Like a chess game.

  But then he met Gaia.

  As soon as he caught a glimpse of that tangled blond hair and those brooding blue eyes, Sam felt stirrings of discontentment gnawing at his insides. Something was suddenly missing. He couldn’t put his finger on it, either. No. But nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore. He couldn’t study. He zoned out whenever he was with his friends. Heather started feeling more like a burden than a girlfriend. Everything that had once mattered to him before no longer had any real meaning.

  And why? That was the kicker. He had no idea. No goddamn idea whatsoever. It wasn’t as if he ever spent any long, meaningful periods of time with Gaia. Not like he had with Heather. His infatuation made absolutely no sense.

  But still, he was sure that Gaia had to be in his life. Even though there was clearly no place for her. She was like the extra piece you find in the puzzle box that you don’t know how to use when you’ve put everything else together. So Sam started pushing things aside, fighting to make her fit—any way he could. And his life started falling apart in the process.

  First his grades went down the tubes. Heather broke up with him, but that was to be expected. His friends started hanging out with him less—and then came that whole whacked-out situation with Mike being in the hospital....

  He almost stumbled. Shit. He should really go see Mike. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Facing that reality was too much to handle.

  Why couldn’t he make his life work?

  Sam brushed past Tower Discount, his head bowed toward the sidewalk. The most maddening part of it all was that it could have happened with Gaia. It should have happened. Or maybe it was never supposed to happen at all. Maybe he wasdestined to not spend the rest of his life with Gaia but only to chalk her up asa great learning experience. Maybe a straitlaced guy like him was only supposed to be with an outgoing, predictable sort of girl . . . somebody who went for designer clothes and celebrity gossip.

  Someone like Heather.

  No. He was lying to himself.

  He stopped and leaned against the doorway of a small vintage clothing boutique. His head swam with regret and lost possibilities. It was beyond too late to explain himself and his inexcusable actions or to even apologize. But there was still one last thing he needed to say to Gaia.

  She could go on hating him for the rest of her life if she wanted to, but he had to say it.

  He had to tell Gaia that he loved her. Now.

  Sam sucked in a burst of clear air. Then he turned around and sprinted toward Washington Square Park.

  ritual

  Gaia caught the briefest flash of Ella’s eyes in the darkness. She could see the whites. There was terror there. Ella knew she was about to die.

  GAIA TRAILED SEVERAL YARDS BEHIND Ella, her mane of hair strategically tucked under her black wool cap. The first rule of surveil-lance, as her father had taught her, was to hide one’s most distinguishing feature.

  Post-apocalyptic B Movie

  But tagging Ella wasn’t quite the easy errand Gaia had hoped for—certainly not as easy as the last time. Maybe this wasn’t a trap. Part of the problem was that Ella seemed to have a total indifference to traffic signals. She frequently walked through a rush of speeding cabs and buses, yet somehow managed to avoid impact. She had excellent reflexes. Not that this was a big shocker to Gaia. Behind Ella’smask of complete obliviousness and utter self-absorption lurked a trained martial artist ... a walking weapon. Like Gaia herself.

  Clearly Ella had somewhere important to be. The question was where? Gaia had already followed her through the Village and SoHo, half expecting Ella to stop at any number of posh coffee b
ars or trendy shops geared toward teenage fashion (the stepmonster’s favorite), but none of them so much as turned her head. Weird.

  They continued moving south toward Canal . . . toward Chinatown. This was definitely stretching the boundaries of Ella’s comfort zone. The neighborhood tended to get a little sketchy down here unless one stuck to the busy thoroughfares that were always packed with tourists. Maybe Ella was going to meet someone. Maybe she was going to sit around one of those communal tables at Joe’s Shanghai, slurping a bowl of noodles....

  Ella turned left on Canal Street, then quickly made a right on Pell. Gaia kept after her. The pungent odor of fish, medicinal herbs, and fried noodles permeated the air. No sunlight reached the crowded street; it was too narrow, and the buildings were too close together. The thickly populated sidewalk hid Gaia from view. She got a bit closer as Ella slithered her way past sidewalk booths filled with sunglasses and T-shirts, swinging her Barney’s bag at her side. Even with so many people crammed together on the street, Ella’s steps never once slowed or hesitated. She was definitely on a mission....

  At last Ella ducked into an unremarkable doorway.

  Gaia waited for a moment, counted to ten, then walked past the stoop. She couldn’t help but frown. The name of the store was Mr. Chin’s Trading Post. Its front window was filled with stacks of ancient television sets. Everything was covered in dust. It looked like Mr. Chin hadn’t sold a piece of equipment since before Gaia was born.

  So. Maybe it was a front.

  Sure. Gaia had seen businesses like this before scattered all over the city: small, unkempt store-fronts with dirty windows that displayed prehistoric merchandise. Or sometimes the stores seemed slightly more legitimate, stocking their meager shelves with a few rolls of film, gum, and maybe a soda cooler . . . but there were never any customers. They all looked like scenes out of some postapocalyptic B movie. Obviously there was no way these stores survived on the merchandise. They had to be a cover for illegal back-room operations.