She shrugged. "Then there's no point in postponing the inevitable, right? I might as well get it over with. Just hang out here. If you see me getting arrested or something, take off." She turned and hurried across the street without waiting for Mary to reply.
Hopefully Mary would follow her advice. Gaia figured she would. After all, Mary had something working in her favor that Gaia didn't. Fear.
Gaia's eyes narrowed as she entered the park. The glare of the winter sunshine made it difficult to see, but from what she could tell ... no, there definitely wasn't any sort of chalk drawing on the ground. A good sign. Of course, Skizz could have died at the hospital--
"Can I help you, miss?" one of the cops asked as she approached.
She smiled at him innocently. "I was just wondering what was going on."
"Nothing," the other cop replied shortly. "Just move along."
"Did ... uh, did somebody die?" she asked, staring
down at the marked-off area. Several large, rust-colored stains glistened on the pavement.
"Somebody was assaulted," the first cop said. His voice hardened. "Now, please move along. This is a crime scene."
Gaia nodded, then turned away. So Skizz might still be alive. Assault wasn't murder. She glanced surreptitiously back at MacDougal Street. Mary was still standing on the corner, staring at her. Gaia had started walking back toward the park exit when she heard a couple of footsteps behind her.
"Excuse me? Miss?"
The guy with the trench coat and camera was catching up with her. Now that he was closer, she could see that he didn't look like a typical cop. Hardly. He looked more like he belonged at some kind of pretentious gallery opening in SoHo. He was wearing a four-button suit under his coat, and he had a goatee. His black hair was slicked back with gunk.
"Yeah?" she asked.
He leaned close to her and gently took her elbow, steering her farther away from the crime scene. "My name's Jared Smith," he murmured. "I'm a reporter for The Daily News. Is it all right if I ask you a couple of questions?"
Gaia hesitated. She glanced back at Mary. Even from this distance Gaia could tell that Mary was getting more anxious by the second. She kept bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. But this guy
might know something about what happened--something that the cops weren't willing to share.
"I guess so," she mumbled. "What do you want to know?"
"Do you hang out here a lot? In the park, I mean?"
She took a step back, trying not to gag. His cologne reeked. "Um, sometimes," she answered. "Why?"
"Have you ever been offered drugs here?" he asked. He pulled a little notebook out of his trench coat pocket.
"No." Gaia scowled. "What's this about, anyway?"
"The cops think the assault might have been the result of a turf war in the drug trade," he said. He fished for a pencil, then gave her a quick, disdainful once-over. "I was just wondering if you knew anything about that."
Whoever this Jared Smith was, he sure as hell didn't have any manners. Just because she wasn't dressed as if she'd walked straight out of an Armani ad, he automatically assumed that she was a junkie. But at least she knew now that she wasn't a suspect. She supposed it made sense. Who would ever suspect a junkie of kicking a big fat drug dealer's ass?
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He shrugged, jotting something down in his notebook.
"Is the victim alive?"
"Barely," he answered. "But he'll make it. He's at St. Vincent's. Apparently the cops have been looking for him. He's being arraigned today on three counts of
possession with intent to sell, resisting arrest, and assault with a deadly. As soon as he's able, he's gonna be moved to the infirmary at Rikers Island. Why do you want to know? Was he your supplier?"
Gaia ignored the question. She resisted the temptation to punch him in the face. This smug bastard needed some major work on his people skills. Not that she was one to talk, of course. But she was glad to end this little interview. Skizz had survived-- and it looked like he'd be getting locked away for a very long time. Mary's worries were over. And so were Gaia's. She felt like a tremendous weight had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. She wasn't a killer. She might be a lot of other things ... but she still wasn't that. She whirled and strode away from him.
"Hey!" he called after her. "I'm asking you a question!"
"He wasn't my supplier," she answered, without even bothering to look over her shoulder. She picked up her pace in case he tried to follow her.
"Can I get your name? In case I want to quote ..."
The sound of his annoying voice was lost in her footsteps as she darted back across MacDougal Street to Mary.
"What's going on?" Mary whispered, peering behind Gaia at the park. "What did that guy want? Is he a detective--"
"There's nothing to worry about," Gaia interrupted gently. She grabbed Mary's arm and whisked her around the corner toward Sixth Avenue. "That guy
was just some sleazebag reporter. But he told me that Skizz is on his way to jail. The cops think a rival dealer did it."
Mary blinked several times. She looked at Gaia, then stared down at her feet as they walked side by side. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah. He's wanted for, like, eight felonies or something."
"But ... what if he tells the cops who kicked his ass?" Mary asked. She shook her head. "I mean, he can describe the way you look, you know?"
Gaia laughed. Funny. She hadn't even thought of that. But it didn't concern her very much--and not only because she was fearless. She doubted very much that Skizz would rat her out to the cops. He was probably scared shitless of her. And the cops probably wouldn't believe him, anyway. The idea of a seventeen-year-old girl's nearly killing an armed drug dealer was just too preposterous. At least, that was the way it had always worked in the past.
"I guess we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it," Gaia said, patting Mary's shoulder. "But for now, I'd say things are cool."
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: 411
Time: 5:03 P.M.
Hey, G$--
Very psyched you came by. I have to say, I'm a little curious about what you said. What did you mean by "things are a little weird"? Can you be more specific? I know you don't like answering these kinds of questions, but a little info would put my mind at ease. Also, what are you doing tomorrow night? I need to escape my family. Thanking you in advance--
Ed
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: No worries, no plans
Time: 6:00 P.M.
Hey, Ed--
Forget about what I said. Things aren't going to get weird. As for tomorrow night, I have no plans. Mary and I were talking about watching TV at her house and stuffing our faces with ice cream. Yes, I know it's lame. But if you feel like being lame, too, consider this an invitation. We're going to get together around nine.
G$
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: Being lame
Time: 7:08 P.M.
Hey, G$--
Count me in. I'll be there.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: [no subject]
Time: 10:01 P.M.
Hi. I'm just writing to tell you that I think you're the biggest jerk I ever met and I can't believe you're back with Heather and I hate you and I never want to talk to you again. And everything I just wrote is a lie. I miss you. I want to call you, but I can't. I can't even bring myself to say your name out loud. I don't know why. I'm not scared of you. I don't get scared, in case you didn't know. I just feel confused. So is this what fear feels like? Can you tell me?
<
to gaia
He'd envisioned making out with Gaia countless times, in thousands of different scenarios--but never once had he imagined this.
> TOM MOORE'S LEGS WERE PRACTICALLY NUMB.
Homecoming
They always went numb in airplanes, even in first-class seats. But his mind wasn't on his own discomfort. His fingers furiously flew across his laptop, searching the agency's databases for Loki's known associates. He'd been awake for almost thirty-six straight hours--and airborne for about half that time--but there was no chance he could sleep. Not until he figured out who had contacted him.
Search: Loki--U.S. Militia Groups.
No match found.
He shook his head. Nothing. Only when he searched for Loki's contacts outside the United States did he come up with any matches: the usual list of terrorists and arms dealers--shadowy characters from groups like Hammas and Shining Path. But the man who had called didn't have the slightest trace of an accent.
So who was he?
Tom rubbed his bloodshot eyes and leaned back in his chair, staring out the round window at a wall of blackness. The plane was somewhere over the Atlantic now. It would probably be touching down at JFK within the hour. He had to think. Who would Loki employ that could possibly have access to Gaia? One of her friends? Tom thought he knew them: There was that boy Sam
and the kid in the wheelchair ... and that was pretty much it. For the most part Gaia kept to herself. And there was no way either of them could be working for Loki. So was it somebody whom Gaia had met recently?
He hunched back over the screen and typed for what must have been the hundredth time:
Search: Loki--recent communications
The computer hummed for a split second.
2 matches found.
ELJ (identity unknown)
BFF (identity unknown)
He kept coming up with the same two sets of initials over and over again. And he had no idea who either "ELJ" or "BFF" could possibly be. Neither did the agency, apparently. It was a miracle they had found out that much. Loki was meticulous in covering his tracks.
Tom's eyes wandered to the window again. There was a possibility, of course, that he hadn't allowed himself to consider.
It was a very obvious possibility. A probability, in fact--which was that the call was a trap. Loki might have even made the call himself, masking the timbre of his voice with an electronic device. Loki might well have wanted to lure Tom out of Russia in order to dispose of him once and for all, so that there would be nothing standing between Loki and his twin brother's daughter....
Tom slammed the laptop shut. Speculation was a
waste of time. He'd know the answers to all these questions soon enough.
Loki might answer them himself.
"ELLA, HONEY?" GEORGE CALLED FROM THE living room. "Don't you want some wine? I'm just about to crack open another bottle."
A Toast
Better make that two, Ella thought, groaning silently. She sat at the kitchen table, feeling very much as if her life were draining from her body. What the hell was she even doing here? It was two nights before New Year's Eve, for God's sake. The best time of year for parties. The big end-of-the-year blitz. Almost everyone they knew was out on the town. Yet George had insisted on staying at home every single night since Christmas. Socializing with other people was the only remotely tolerable aspect of their sham marriage--but they didn't even have any plans for New Year's Eve itself. Did the old man really believe she wanted to be alone with him? Was he really that blind?
Yes. He was. She found herself smiling in spite of her anger. He was that blind because she was such an excellent actress.
"El-la!" he called in a singsong voice.
"Coming!" she answered with false brightness.
He was so goddamned cheerful. She thought of the thirty-eight-caliber pistol hidden behind her night table. It would be so easy to run upstairs and grab it. So easy to twist on the silencer. So easy to shut him up for good. On these nights-- the painful, romantic nights, the nights when she had to play the role of a loving wife ... well, she couldn't take them much longer. The years were beginning to take their toll. No payoff could be worth this agony.
She swallowed. No. The payoff would be worth it. She would make sure of it. And it would far exceed anything that Loki had envisioned for her. Oh, yes. In fact, her reward would include Loki himself.
Ella took a deep breath and plastered a smile on her face, then pushed herself from the table and strode into the living room.
"There you are," George murmured. He was leaning back on the sofa, struggling with a corkscrew and a glistening green bottle. At least she lived luxuriously. In a purely materialistic sense, she had everything she needed. For the time being, anyway. That bottle of chardonnay probably cost seventy bucks. Two crystal glasses sat on the mahogany coffee table. Those weren't cheap, either. Wedding presents. How ironic. The logs burning in the fireplace cast the room in a soft glow; few brownstones in New York had real
working fireplaces. Her life was good. She should just enjoy it while it lasted.
Pop!
"There we go," George whispered. He laid the corkscrew on the table, then filled her glass with the golden liquid.
"Thank you," Ella murmured seductively. She raised her glass as George filled his own. "Cheers."
He put down the bottle and lifted his glass. "Cheers." He leaned forward, then hesitated. "Wait. I want to ask you a question. Do you have any New Year's resolutions?"
She smirked. "It's not even New Year's Eve."
"I know, but I guess I've been thinking a lot these days about the changes I'd like to make. So?" His smile widened. "What's it going to be?"
"Well ..." She edged closer to him. "The only change I'd like to make is to spend more time with my loving and very sexy husband," she whispered. He blushed slightly, as she knew he would. It was so easy to control him. "How about you?"
His face grew serious for a moment. "I want to make sure that Gaia is happy. I want to include her more. To really make her feel like part of the family."
Ella nodded. How sweet. And pathetic. And infuriating. It was almost too much. The mere mention of Gaia's name made her insides twist. But her smile didn't falter. She tilted her glass. "A toast. To Gaia."
"To Gaia," George echoed, tapping her glass with his own.
Yes, Ella thought. May she rot in hell.
THE WEEK BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND New Year's Eve was Sam's least favorite time of the year--at least when he was in New York. True, he'd been here only once in the past: last year. But he already knew the score. Inevitably the entire week meant going from one lame party to the next, night after night, always trying to track down an elusive great time that never materialized--and winding up each time on the street at 3 A.M., freezing, disappointed, and trying to hail a cab back home.
The Score
Clearly tonight would be no exception.
For starters, he didn't even know where he was. Well, he knew he was at some filthy, cramped apartment in the East Village--but he had no idea who lived here. Kelly? Christie? Something like that. Whoever she was, she loved red lights and deafening industrial rock and was a friend of a friend of Heather's sister Phoebe ... and she'd offered some kind of incomprehensible greeting when he and
Heather and Phoebe walked through the door. "Welcome, warriors." At least that was what he thought she'd said. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. And then she'd disappeared.
So now he found himself drinking a warm beer and wondering where his girlfriend and her sister went. What a blast. Whoopee. He tried to maneuver his way from the tiny living room to the hall by the closet-sized kitchen--but just ended up getting mushed against a wall by a group of heavily pierced strangers. They were all dressed in black. The wall vibrated in time to the music. He scowled and slurped down his beer. Best just to get drunk. At least he'd be able to forget--
"Sam! There you are!"
Phoebe was jumping up and down by the kitchen doorway, trying to make eye contact with him. She waved her hands over the heads of the mob.
"Come here!" she called.
Y
eah, right. She was only about ten feet away, but he'd need a battering ram to reach her. He shrugged and tried to smile.
"Hold on a sec," Phoebe shouted. "We're coming out...." Her voice was lost in the din as she ducked back into the kitchen.
Good luck, he thought. He drained the rest of the beer in one long gulp. Blech. He made a face and wiped his mouth with his sleeve--but a pleasant, warm
numbness began to spread from his stomach throughout his body. Hopefully if Heather and Phoebe did make it out of the kitchen, they'd bring him another drink. It was strange. Usually he wasn't a huge fan of booze. It just made his head swim. It probably made him act a lot more obnoxious, too. A lot of kids in his dorm drank all the time, and if they were any indication of how people acted when they were drunk--
He stiffened. His eyes zeroed in on a tall girl coming out of the kitchen.
Her back was turned to him, but from here it definitely looked like Gaia.
Yes. That hair. That long, blond tangle. Nobody had hair like that. He stood on his tiptoes. His heart began to race. What was she doing here? What ...
The girl glanced over her shoulder.
Shit. Excitement fizzled out of him like air hissing from a deflating flat tire. Apparently somebody else did have hair like that. Somebody a lot less attractive .
He shook his head. Of course Gaia wouldn't come to the same party. And even if she had, he would have nothing to say to her. He suddenly found he was extremely pissed off. At everyone. At Heather and Phoebe for bringing him here. At the people in this room. But most of all at Gaia--for dropping off the face of the earth, for finding a new boyfriend, and for dominating his thoughts about ninety-five percent of the time when he should be in love with someone else....
"Whoa!" Heather's familiar shriek tore through the crowd. He couldn't see her, but she was obviously close by. He shook his head again, overcome with guilt. What the hell was his problem? He was in love with her. Heather was beautiful. Heather was smart. Heather had a cool sister who was also beautiful. She was everything a guy could want--
"Excuse me! Sorry!"
A second later Heather burst from between two spaced-out-looking grunge types and nearly fell against Sam. She clutched a plastic cup of beer in each hand. A couple of drops splashed on Sam's flannel shirt.
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