Tears

by Francine Pascal

  “No problem,” Josh said. Then he shook his head and sighed to himself. “Man, I create the perfect alibi for you, and this is what I get in return. ‘Don’t call me Sammy.’ Way to be a pal, Sammy—sorry—Sam.”

  Guilt and self-loathing squirmed unpleasantly in Sam’s gut. He should have kept his mouth shut. Josh could call him whatever he wanted. Josh had saved him from a life in prison, regardless of the fact that his methods were questionable. Anyway, it wasn’t Josh’s fault that he was starring in Sam’s nightmares. Nor was it Josh’s fault that someone was trying to drive Sam to the brink of insanity with harassing telephone calls. Sam straightened and took a deep breath. He needed to adjust his attitude if he was going to stay sane.

  “I’m sorry,” he announced. “You’re right. I’m free and clear, and I need to start enjoying it.” Maybe all this other stuff was in Sam’s head. A couple of bad dreams and some asshole prank caller. “And I owe it to you, Josh. I owe you big time.”

  For a moment Josh stared at him again. Then he flashed that inscrutable smile. “Do you mean that?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Sam replied.

  “Good.” With a satisfied nod Josh reached down to his messenger bag on the floor, then pulled out a brown paper-wrapped package. “Because now that you mention it, there is something you could do for me.”

  Sam hesitated, his eyes narrowing. That was a little convenient, wasn’t it? Had Josh been waiting this whole time for an opportune moment to ask for a favor? But then Sam shook his head. Even if Josh had been simply fishing for a favor, he had earned the right to do whatever he wanted.

  “You’ve got it,” Sam said.

  Josh pushed the package over to Sam’s side of the table.

  “I need you to take this package to this address after we’re done here,” Josh stated. His tone became oddly businesslike. “It’s in TriBeCa. The place will look abandoned. It’s kind of an old warehouse, but don’t worry. Follow the instructions, and someone will be there for the pickup.” With that, Josh went right back to his meal.

  Again Sam hesitated, waiting for a further explanation. None came. He stared at the package. An address on White Street. No name on it.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Josh replied, munching away on his burger.

  Sam’s head jerked up at the sudden sharpness in Josh’s voice. He had no idea how to respond. He just sat there, baffled. What was going on here? A bizarrely succinct list of instructions, a brown paper package, an abandoned warehouse. . . none of it exactly filled him with a sense of well-being. A slew of unfortunate scenarios ran through his head. He tried to ignore all of them. Only a few seconds ago he’d decided to stop being so paranoid. But there was no way he was going to deliver that package. He didn’t know what was in it, and he didn’t really care. He considered all his options and decided to go with the simplest choice.

  “I can’t,” Sam said finally, searching Josh’s eyes for a reaction. As per usual, there was no visible change. “I’ve got an organic chem seminar all day.”

  “You can skip the seminar,” Josh said, finishing off his burger. It wasn’t as if he was making a suggestion; it was as if he was issuing a command.

  Sam frowned. “No, I can’t.”

  “Well, that doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Josh asked with a laugh.

  “Fair?”

  “You say you’ll do me this favor.” His smile instantly vanished. “I ask you to do it. And then you take it back. That makes you a hypocrite, Sam.”

  Sam’s eyes bulged. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But I—”

  “You know what an Indian giver is, Sam?” Josh interrupted.

  “A . . . what?” Sam shook his head. His jaw hung slack. He hadn’t heard that term in ten years. Not only was it offensive, it was childish. Coming from Josh. . .

  “When someone gives you something and then takes it back?” Josh pressed.

  “Yeah, I know what it means,” Sam muttered slowly.

  Josh raised his eyebrows. “You offered a favor, and then you took it back. That would be like me giving you that alibi and then taking it back.”

  Sam flinched. “I—I—”

  “No, really,” Josh interrupted again. “I mean, how would you like it if I did that? You wouldn’t like that, would you? If I went back to the cops and told them your alibi was a fake? I mean, that wouldn’t be very nice, would it? That would make me an Indian giver. That would put you in shit twice as deep! How much would that suck?” Josh shook his head with another hollow laugh.

  The unpleasant feeling in Sam’s gut seemed to expand, like a balloon. This conversation suddenly felt very surreal. He couldn’t tell if Josh was joking or not. But what he was saying was absolutely true. At least before the fake alibi, Sam was truly innocent, whether people believed him or not. But once Josh got Sam to sign that forged sign-in sheet, Sam had officially become a criminal—guilty of fraud and perjury. And if Josh ever told the cops about it, Sam would then look guilty of the murder. Why would someone lie to cover a crime they didn’t commit?

  “Relax, man,” Josh assured him. “I’m just making a point here, that’s all. Don’t freak out on me.” He turned to the waitress at the counter. “Can we get a check here?”

  Sam started shaking his head, his heart racing. “Wait,” he said softly as the waitress slapped the check on their table. “I’m just not. . . are you saying. . . I mean, what—what are you saying here?”

  “Relax,” Josh repeated, smiling again and looking Sam in the eye. “If you do this favor for me. . . then I’m not saying anything, right? So just do it, and everything will be fine.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take a premed at NYU to figure that one out, Sammy.”

  Sam couldn’t speak. He was speechless as he stared at Josh’s smiling face. Speechless and more than a little scared. There was no use fighting paranoia anymore because now Sam knew that he had every reason to be paranoid. The fragile house of cards he’d built to protect himself was beginning to crumble. The voice on the phone echoed through his head. Your worst nightmares will come true....

  Josh dropped a twenty down on the table and slid the package into Sam’s lap. “Thanks for the favor, dude,” he said casually. He pulled on his coat and headed toward the door. “I might need a couple more deliveries after this one. But just remember, we’re in this together, Sammy—oh, shit, sorry—Sam.” He paused and frowned. “Actually, you know what? I think I’m just going to call you Sammy. I like the sound of it better.”

  And then he was gone.

  “OH, CEENDY.” ZOLOV SIGHED, TAP- ping the head of his red Mighty Morphin Power Ranger on the table next to him. He stared at the chessboard.

  Whacked-Out Impulse

  Gaia had to smile. Zolov had never called her anything other than Cindy—even after all these months, even after she’d saved his life. But then, she supposed it was hard to break any ninety-year-old man of his habits, particularly one who didn’t speak English very well.

  “Even he is shocked,” Zolov went on, pointing to his cherished action figure with an ancient, gnarled hand. “You leave yourself wide open for the bishop. Thees ees a move of a complete amateur. You are better than this, Ceendy.”

  What? Dumbfounded, Gaia’s eyes mapped the board in one quick, mathematically precise second. Her smile turned to a smirk. Zolov was right. She couldn’t believe she’d opened herself up for checkmate so early on in a game. It was a rookie mistake.

  “Jesus.” Shaking her head, Gaia slapped down a twenty-dollar bill. “I nailed myself.”

  Zolov swiftly pocketed the cash. No mercy at their table.

  “It is love,” he joked, his tiny, raisin-black eyes twinkling. From him, the word love sounded more like loaf. “You can’t play anymore. No more fire. All thoughts on boyfriend.”

  Gaia rolled her eyes, but she blushed slightly, too. Once again Zolov was dead-on. Her chess game had suffered immeasurably ever since she and Sam had gotten together. You c
ouldn’t think about your boyfriend and play with a grand master.

  “Where is Sam?” Zolov asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the park. “You have date, no?”

  Gaia nodded absently. Sam had agreed to meet her for chess in the park. He was now officially a half hour late. They had barely started dating, and he was already standing her up? Part of her felt obliged to be severely pissed. But the other part was doing her damnedest not to take it personally. Sam hadn’t been himself this morning. Had he run into some kind of problem? Had that exam taken longer than expected? Maybe Mike’s death wasn’t the only thing upsetting Sam. He’d said he had a lot of studying. Maybe he was just working in his room and he’d lost track of time....

  She nodded to herself. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.

  And at that moment, for some reason, a completely inane thought popped into her head.

  Bring him a rose.

  Gaia had no clue where this thought had come from. She couldn’t see any roses; all she saw were the lifeless trees and frostbitten grass of the park. And since when did standing up a girlfriend earn a guy a gift? Actually, the real question was this: Since when did Gaia think of bringing anyone a rose? What was this, 1955? Pretty soon she’d be bouncing around in poodle skirts and asking Sam to the sock hop.

  She remembered what Ed had asked her, not too long ago, when their relationship had been at an all-time low: “Who are you, and what have you done with Gaia Moore?”

  Recently, it seemed, she had no idea. The old Gaia Moore was nothing more than a memory at times.

  “You go to Sam now, Ceendy,” Zolov said, as if reading her thoughts.

  She nodded, distracted, then flashed him a quick smile and waved as she hurried out of the park. She headed straight for the Korean deli on the corner of Sam’s block. Maybe this was a completely whacked-out impulse, but she would run with it. Why not? Sam would appreciate its unexpectedness. It might even help to crack his shell, to get him to confide in her. Besides, a single rose only cost two bucks. She paid for it quickly and ran the rest of the way to Sam’s dorm. With a perfunctory wave at the bloated security guard (he and Gaia were all but on a first-name basis at this point), she dashed up the stairwell. It was odd, but she was worried if she slowed down, she might begin to have doubts—and then she wouldn’t give him the rose at all.

  Having a boyfriend is turning my brain to mush, she thought as she entered the hallway, the rose dangling by her side. It was true. She was becoming one of those shiny, happy people she so resented because she could never figure them out. People like Heather and the FOHs (Friends of Heather), Megan and all the rest of them—

  She froze. Thoughts of love and roses instantly vanished from her mind. A man dressed completely in black was kneeling by the door next to Sam’s dorm room—picking the lock with the air of an experienced professional. Adrenaline shot through Gaia’s veins. Somebody was trying to break into Sam’s suite. My boyfriend’s suite. Over her dead body. A smile crept across her face. Not only had she brought Sam a rose, she now had the opportunity to defend his honor. Luck came in strange, unforeseen ways.

  “Hey!” she shouted, building up speed.

  The black-clad figure reacted like a fleeting apparition. Instead of rising to challenge her, he simply dropped the lock pick in a black leather bag, then snatched it up and moved swiftly toward the stairs on the opposite side of the hall. He didn’t bother to look behind him.

  “Hey!” Gaia hollered again.

  He broke into a run. A second later he crashed through the stairwell door and disappeared from sight. Gaia scowled. Now she was mad. Energy crackled like electricity in her body. No way was she going to let this scumbag get away. She threw Sam’s rose to the ground and pumped her legs like a race-horse, exploding through the door before it had even closed behind the guy, then jumping the first flight of steps in one leap—

  Thwip. Thwip.

  Gaia knew the sound instinctively: gunfire. She reacted before she even knew what she was doing, ducking behind the banister. The man in black had pulled out a nine millimeter with a silencer and fired off two quick shots. Two crackling holes blew open in the cinder block wall directly behind her.

  Her adrenaline was at a fever pitch. It was a good thing she could feel no fear. She didn’t exactly have the advantage in this situation. A gun had been completely unexpected. But rage clouded her judgment. She could have let the guy go as he galloped down the stairs, but instead she vaulted over the banister like a gymnast. In a swift maneuver she slid down the next floor’s banister, building up an enormous amount of momentum.

  The man was right in front of her now. She targeted his head—sliding off the metal and snapping out her leg for a perfectly placed side kick.

  “Hai!”

  His mouth dropped open a fraction of a second before the toe struck—and his head slammed into the wall. An instant later he and everything he had with him went tumbling down the last of the stairs. A small black wire fell from his bag as he hit the bottom landing. Gaia sucked in her breath as she landed, throwing her arms wide to gain her balance.

  There was a moment of quiet. Gaia peered at the untidy black heap below her. The man was unconscious.

  Or so she thought.

  Dizziness began to claw at her brain. She grabbed the banister for support.

  Without warning, the man grabbed the gun and his bag and vanished into the lobby. He left the mysterious black wire behind. Gaia simply watched him go. Battle fatigue was beginning to kick in: that inevitable physical aftermath. Aside from fearlessness, it was the only part of Gaia’s singular physical chemistry that she did not understand. Why did she always pass out after a fight, as if her nearly superhuman abilities were on some kind of timer? But she knew she wouldn’t answer that question now. She summoned up the strength to grab the wire from the floor, then made her way back to Sam’s door. Purple dots swam before her eyes as she scooped up Sam’s rose and pounded on his door.

  “Sam?” she called, gasping for breath. She tried to examine the black wire. Her face twisted in a grimace. There was a tiny silver microphone at one end. So, from what she could tell, it was a cutting-edge piece of surveillance equipment. Definitely expensive. Something her father might have. But why the hell would somebody try to install that in Sam’s suite?

  Gaia pounded on the door once more.

  “Sam?” she hollered. The hall began to spin around her. The rose slipped from her fingers, and then she slipped after it into a well of blackness.

  What an extraordinary gift it is for me to experience the ordinary.

  TOM

  For years I’ve had to live a life that any ordinary, sane person would call madness. Terrorists. Aliases. Living in hiding. I’ve seen every kind of horror and injustice. I’ve seen the worst kind of depravity inflicted on innocent victims. I wonder sometimes how I’ve managed to keep my own sanity through all these years. I watched my brother surrender to some kind of madness.

  A madness that took my Katia from me. A madness that still threatens every moment to take Gaia from me as well.

  I wonder what my sick brother is thinking at this very moment, surrounded by gray prison walls. I know he is seething. I know he must be drowning in his own spite—his own desperate need for vengeance. And knowing that fills me with sadness. Not just for him, but because I know these beautifully ordinary days with Gaia can only last so long. So I am savoring every moment.

  Tonight I made a leg of lamb for dinner while my daughter set the table and complained about her boyfriend. At dinner I listened to her grumbling about his missing an after-school date. And then after dinner I did the dishes as she read the newspaper. I demanded that she do her homework beforehand, and she argued— rightly—that she didn’t need to study for her French test. But I argued back just the same. Though my daughter is a gifted linguist, I thought for once I would try to just be a dad, like a million other dads at that moment all around the city.

  To anyone else, this
would be just another ordinary evening. But to me it was anything but. To me it was unforgettable.

  I pray that days like these won’t end. I wish every new day could be as perfectly banal.

  But I know my twin brother.

  LOKI

  It is hard for me to fathom my reversal of fortune. So close to having Gaia. My Gaia. The daughter that should have been mine. But now, according to the latest missive received from J, my precious girl is living with Tom. It makes my flesh crawl.

  I must be patient. I envision her angelic face, so reminiscent of Katia’s—yet also a face that carries my strength, my will.

  My DNA.

  Yes, every time I see my own image in her, I am blessed. It is like reading a tiny love letter from Katia to me, every time.

  Except that now she is looking at Tom. Living with Tom. Letting him guide her, take her farther and farther away from me.

  I am the only man who truly loves her, who truly understands what she was born to be.

  I must be patient.

  It is only a matter of time before I will be out of this prison, away from the uncouth company of petty killers and common thugs, from this vulgar zoo of lowest-common-denominator behavior. I must constantly remind myself that there is humor to be found in the situation. After all, this is the Manhattan federal jail—the facility where the world’s most dangerous men are routinely held captive. The World Trade Center bombers were quarantined here. And yet the security is so extraordinarily lax.

  Of course, for most prisoners the security must seem quite threatening indeed. Armed guards in every corridor and at every exit at all times. Infrared cameras, ten-inch-thick steel doors. But for me these factors merely represent an occasional hindrance. My body is trapped, but my thoughts are free to roam. As are my commands. Visitors can still get inside the front door, and that is all I need. The sad fact of the matter is that the line between criminal and guard is an imaginary one at best—easily blurred or erased with a bribe.