Liar (5 page)

But that would all happen in good time. Patience, as he well knew, was the key to success.

Not coincidentally, patience was another trait that Ella lacked.

He glanced across the sparsely furnished apartment at the door buzzer. As if submitting to his will, it emitted a harsh ring. He strode across the bare wood floor and pressed the talk button.

“Yes?”

“She's here,” a gruff voice replied.

“Send her up.”

Loki waited by the front door. He didn't want her coming any farther than the foyer. She wouldn't play her foolish games with him tonight. She wouldn't tempt him into bed. She would pay for her lateness.

Seconds later there was a knock on the door. Loki leaned forward and opened it.

“I'm so sorry,” Ella began. She looked uncharacteristically sloppy: Her red hair was tousled and damp, and her expensive faux fur coat was rumpled. At the very least, Ella could always be counted on for a pristine appearance. But now it looked like she was failing in
this
department as well. “I couldn't get out of the house any earlier. Gaia would start to wonder if I just took off after she was nearly killed—”

“Gaia has no idea you witnessed the accident,” Loki interrupted. “She wouldn't notice anything.”

Ella stared back at him, her mouth open, her lips trembling. Loki resisted the urge to slap her hard across the face.

“Did you tell her that you saw what happened?” Loki demanded.

She shook her head.

“And what
did
happen, exactly? Do we know who was driving the car? Do we know why Sam Moon happened to be standing in the middle of the street outside your house? Do we know why Gaia was …
nearly … killed?”
He brought his face within inches of Ella's own. “Can you answer any of these questions?”

“I—I—,” she stuttered.

The terror was there, plain for him to see in her wide eyes. Good. Maybe terror would help get her back on track during the last few weeks of her … assignment.

“Well, don't worry,” he said, abruptly lightening his tone. He withdrew his head and began pacing around the apartment. “I can answer these questions for myself. But it's a pity you've left me with no choice.”

Ella took a step forward. “But I didn't—”

“Silence!” Loki barked. He whirled and thrust an accusing finger at her. “What am I
paying
you for?”

She didn't answer. She simply bowed her head.

“Now go home,” Loki commanded. “Don't let Gaia out of your sight.”

“I was hoping …” She let the sentence hang and lifted her eyes. This time there was fear—but something else as well. The old, familiar spark of seduction. But it was almost
pleading.
And therefore that much more pitiful.

“Go home to your husband,” Loki spat.

Ella swallowed. “How can you do this to me?” she murmured.

Loki looked her directly in the eye. “Don't make me repeat myself,” he stated, very calmly.

Without another word Ella turned and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

Loki allowed himself a little smile. Maybe he'd get some professionalism now. Yes. Sexual frustration, anger, and fear were all excellent motivators. He'd give Ella one more chance. One last shot at redemption.

Tonight.

From:
[email protected]

To: [email protected]

Time:
6:45
P.M.

Re:
Please don't hate me

Hey, Ed—

I've been trying to call your house for the last hour, but nobody's home. I know you're not at the video store, either, because I called there, too … anyway, you probably think I'm the biggest loser on the planet, but there's a very good reason I didn't come to meet you. I got hit by a car. Seriously. You'll know I'm telling the truth when you see my face at school on Monday. It kind of put me in a daze for a while. Call or write back as soon as you get this, okay?

—G$

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Time:
6:47
P.M.

Re:
Sorry for the freak-out

Hi, Sam,

So I just wanted to let you know that I'm really sorry I bolted today on the street. I just didn't want to deal with any ambulances or hospitals or anything like that. Hospitals kind of give me the creeps. I've got a lot of bad memories associated with them. Anyway, I'm okay, in case you were wondering. I just wanted to know if you're okay, too. By the way, what were you doing on Perry Street? I'll understand if you don't want to answer.

—Gaia

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Time:
7:05
P.M.

Re:
Glad you wrote

Gaia,

Thanks for letting me know you're okay. I'm okay, too. But there's something I want to talk to you about. Can we have dinner tonight? I need to see you. I'll explain everything then. Corner of Waverly and University at nine o'clock.

—Sam

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Time:
7:06
P.M.

Re:
I'll be there

See you then.

—Gaia

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She wouldn't think about death. Not tonight

She would banish death from existence.

ONE OF THE BENEFITS OF WORKING with his old friend George was that Tom never had to explain himself if a mission or meeting went awry. George implicitly understood that Tom never had to justify his actions. To
anyone.

The agency wasn't as understanding.

It didn't matter, though. Explaining himself was of no concern to Tom now. This wasn't agency business. This was a family matter. The agency couldn't be involved. At this very moment, in fact, his superiors were probably reeling over why he hadn't issued a status report in the last few weeks, why he had simply abandoned his job in Russia and flown to New York. There was a very good chance he would be reprimanded. Or demoted. Or simply neutralized. Three decades of sacrifice and patriotism meant nothing if the agency considered you to be a potential liability. Nothing at all.

I may very well be a marked man.

Then again, he'd been a marked man for as long as he'd been an agent. Every terrorist group from Belfast to Hong Kong had an open contract out on his life. But that came with the territory.

Tom shook thoughts of mortality aside and scanned the deserted alley. The air was bitter cold—the
kind of cold that numbed extremities and bit at exposed flesh. But he was used to it. The weather reminded him of Russia, in fact. Of Moscow.

Of Katia

Sweet Katia.

Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed the foulness and shook his head. If Katia knew that Loki was hunting their daughter, that Loki wanted to take Gaia away from them, to bring her into his monstrous existence … horror wouldn't even begin to describe Katia's emotions. No. Tom had to be strong. He
had
to prevail. For Katia's sake.

Shuffling footsteps tore into Tom's stream of consciousness.

He glanced at his watch, then breathed a sigh of relief. George was right on time. He lifted his eyes to see George's shadowy form in the pale glow of a lone streetlamp, hunched over from the cold. Icy breath drifted from George's mouth in quick puffs.

“How are you, Tom?” he murmured as he approached.

Tom managed a smile for his old friend. “I've had better days. How's Gaia?”

George paused, then took a quick peek around the alleyway. Tom had already combed the area several times, but at their age, security precautions were as instinctive as breathing.

“Pretty banged up, but all right,” George finally
answered. “At least from what Ella told me. What happened?”

“I nearly killed my daughter, for starters,” Tom mumbled.

George gaped at him. “It was
you?”

Tom nodded, overcome by a sudden stab of nausea at the memory of Gaia's body flipping over the hood of his car. “Yes,” he muttered. “I nearly hit some boy. A boy I recognized … I think he's a friend of Gaia's. She saved his life and nearly got herself killed in the process.”

“Good God,” George hissed. He shook his head, his brow tightly furrowed. “I had no idea. What were you doing on Perry Street?”

“I couldn't find a parking space,” Tom replied matter-of-factly.

Their eyes met. A sad smile passed between them.

“I forget that the real world intrudes in our work sometimes,” George said wistfully.

Tom shrugged. “So do I.”

George's expression grew serious. “So how should we proceed?”

“You tell me. What's the word on Loki?”

“The same,” George answered, scanning the alley once more. “Like I told you before, preliminary intelligence indicates that he's got somebody close to Gaia. A plant. That's all we know.”

So nothing's changed in two weeks,
Tom thought.
Frustration tore at him; he felt like punching the nearby brick wall. But he didn't blame George. The poor man was doing the best he could under the circumstances. Besides, Loki was far too clever to leave himself vulnerable. It was a miracle that George knew as much as he did.

But then a thought occurred to Tom.

“Could the plant be the boy?” he asked.

George shrugged, sighing. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He stamped his feet and rubbed his gloved hands together, shivering as a gust of wind swept through the burnt-out tenements.

The streetlamp flickered. Bits of garbage and old newspaper rustled across the old cobblestones. There was nothing more to say. Nothing had changed. Tom could only continue to wait as the situation developed … and to watch Gaia as closely as possible. It was time to adjourn this meeting. He should let his friend return to the warmth and comfort of his home. Hopefully Gaia would be there, too. Resting. Recuperating. With Ella to help her.

“How's Ella?” Tom asked.

“She's—” George broke off in midsentence. His entire body seemed to sag into his trench coat. “To be honest, I don't know.”

Tom shot him a confused stare. “What do you mean?”

“I … she—she's been acting odder than usual
recently,” he stammered with uncharacteristic clumsiness. He avoided Tom's gaze. “She comes and goes without telling me and keeps hours I don't understand. I …” His voice faded, as if he'd suddenly run out of air.

Not good,
Tom thought. But he suppressed his alarm. Aside from the fact that George was his most trusted friend, Tom took comfort in the knowledge that George seemed to have such a stable relationship with his beautiful, young photographer wife. Tom had counted on their providing a solid, healthy environment for his daughter, one where she would be nurtured by both a father
and
mother figure.

“It's the stress,” Tom stated after a minute—as much for himself as for George. “The stress of trying to get her career off the ground. Photography's a tough business. Especially in this town. Very competitive.”

George nodded. “Right,” he said, without any conviction.

Tom swallowed, regarding his friend closely. He hadn't noticed before—but George seemed haggard. His skin was very pale. Puffy sacks hung beneath his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Tom murmured.

“It's okay,” George answered. He smiled tiredly. “It'll pass. Every relationship suffers ups and downs.”

Tom nodded. That statement was truer than
George probably even realized. It certainly applied perfectly to his relationship with Gaia. He extended a hand. “If there's anything I can—”

“Don't worry,” George interrupted. His voice caught. “I'll make it work.” His jaw twitched, but he looked Tom in the eye. “For Gaia's sake.”

WHEN HEATHER FIRST STEPPED INTO the cold and antiseptic-smelling intensive care ward, her first reaction was one of rage. Pure rage. Staring down at Phoebe's skeletal frame—the way she was hooked up to all those IVs, lying under the blankets and sickly green hospital robes as if she were already a corpse—Heather wanted to wring Phoebe's neck. To scream. To tear Phoebe's beautiful brown hair from her scalp.

You idiot! How could you let this happen? How could you do this to yourself?

But she didn't. She kept her mouth shut. Because Heather knew if she tried to speak, she would very likely start bawling like an infant.

“I can't believe we didn't see this coming,” her mother whispered at her side.

Heather swallowed and shook her head.
Right,
she thought bitterly. Maybe part of her anger had to do with the guilt that was presently shredding her insides. Heather
had
seen this coming. Only last week she'd found herself gaping in shock at Phoebe's naked body, fresh from the shower—at those protruding eye sockets, at all the bones that jutted sharply from beneath her pallid and anemic flesh. Heather had even gone so far as to comment on how thin her sister looked.
Too
thin. Heather had seen something like this coming and done nothing to stop it.

Now Phoebe's body was so starved, so deprived of nutrients that it simply wouldn't function. It had shut down, like a toy that had run out of batteries.

Of course, toys didn't have souls. They didn't look like concentration camp victims, either. They didn't need life-support systems just to keep their frail hearts beating—

“Maybe you should go home, Heather,” her mother whispered.