Missing (5 page)

She crouched down to the floor and hugged him.

She hugged him with everything that was in her— every ounce of strength, every kind of emotion, every wasted particle of rage. And they sat on the rugged industrial airplane carpeting and cried.

“Thank you,” he whispered through his tears, his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

“It's okay, Dad,” she heard herself whisper.

She understood now. Nobody was that good of an actor. Certainly not her uncle. Certainly not Ella. Her father had suffered as much as she had; in some ways, he'd suffered more. She'd heard it. Living on gut instinct for so long, surviving for survival's sake, she'd developed a keen sense for dishonesty. Her brain was better than a lie detector. Sometimes it failed her, of course. But she knew it wasn't now. She knew it.

“It's okay,” she repeated—not even caring for the moment how cheesy it sounded, not caring that she'd suddenly fallen right smack in the middle of one of those “Reunited” episodes of
Sally Jessy Raphael
or
Oprah.
It didn't matter if this moment was cheesier than the entire state of Wisconsin.

Because Gaia was happy. She was truly happy—

Yet one thought was lingering there.

“Wait a minute,” she said, breaking their embrace. “If you picked me up at the airport . . . then where's Oliver?”

Tom paused for a moment. He seemed to be looking for the most appropriate answer. Finally he gave Gaia his reply.

“He was supposed to catch a plane, too. But I think he might miss it.”

 

THERE WAS NO EXPRESSION ON LOKI'S
face. Not a hint of the rage. Not a hint of the humiliation that was burning up the lining of his stomach. He wouldn't give his captors the satisfaction. With all his will, he ignored the metal handcuffs that sliced through his wrists, that cut off his circulation. He ignored the shackles on his ankles—the ones that had forced him to walk in that emasculating shuffle from the terminal to an unmarked black minivan . . . escorted by those plebeian FBI agents with their fifty-dollar suits and their ridiculous aviator sunglasses.

A nuisance,
he told himself.
Nothing but a pitiful
little nuisance. They must be so proud of themselves right now. How very pathetic.

Indeed, the eight federal agents that now surrounded him inside the van—three in the seat in back of him, three in front of him, and one on either side— all seemed quite pleased with themselves.
They all had the same smug little half smile on their faces.
Surely they were each reliving what had just become the crowning achievement of their careers in law enforcement: the moment they'd ambushed Loki in a giant circle at gate 17B, wielding a plethora of automatic weapons, commanding him to place his arms behind his back—then wrestling him to the ground as they read him his rights, with the most egregiously unnecessary use of force.

Ah, yes.
The surprise capture of the deadly and infamous Loki.

Obviously he had made a small miscalculation at some point. Someone leaked his plans for the flight with Gaia to the Bureau, or perhaps to the Agency. He made a mental note to himself to find that person and kill him or her in as painful a manner as possible.

“You comfortable, Loki?” the agent to his left asked.

The other agents laughed.

Loki dug his fingernails deep into his palms and bit down on his tongue. He would memorize their names. Forty-eight hours from now, by which time he
was sure to be free, he could kill them, too. They were such fools to think they had any kind of power over him. Such shortsighted fools.

“Hey, Loki,” one of the men behind him whispered, “can I just make a suggestion? Next time you
don't
wanna get caught, you might wanna steer clear of big public places like airports, Central Park, and— oh, yeah—New York City.”

Loki knew he could easily kill at least four of them right at that moment. But this was neither the time nor the place. Taking action would only lead to further nuisance. Instead he kept that same vacant glaze over his face as they sped down the Belt Parkway toward his incarceration.

Patience,
he told himself.
All in due time.

 

I'll
happily watch all these bastards rot in hell for this— believing that their adolescent fraternity-house minds could possibly outwit me. They are lackeys, peons. Obviously there was something else at work. I'm quite sure my brother played some role in this fiasco. Oh, yes. Quite sure. I imagine he's probably made contact with Gaia by now. I imagine he's already started filling her head with puerile lies.

That self-righteous fool stole Katia from me. If he thinks that I'm going to be held captive while he tries to steal Gaia from me as well—the daughter who should have been mine, the daughter who
is
mine . . . well, then he's an even greater fool than I thought.

If Tom wants to challenge me, fine. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure than to set the past straight and erase him from existence as I'd originally intended.

No one can keep me from Gaia.
No one.

Unfortunately, I realize now that I let my feelings for her cloud my judgment. Of course I should have taken the private jet, but I wanted so much for Gaia to feel at ease with me. I wanted her to feel that we were simply an uncle and his niece off to Europe.

I miscalculated. It was too much public exposure. Too great a risk.

If only we could eliminate the heart from the human experience. Imagine how smoothly all things would run. And if my plans are to be successful, I must harden my heart from now on. I must check and double-check that it plays no part in my actions from this point on. I must listen only to logic.

What he felt most, lying there shirtless and dripping and staring at the ceiling, could only be described as a serious jolt of . . . well, manliness.

 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK—

“Open up,” Detective Bernard called from behind the door. “We know you're in there.”

Sam wrapped the covers over his head. He couldn't believe this. They were already back—a mere two hours after that first rude awakening. Didn't they have any
other
crimes to solve?

“Mr. Moon!” the other one shouted,
suddenly dropping any modicum of civility.
“Open this goddamn door!”

The shouting was no good. The last thing Sam needed was screaming cops echoing through his hall in the middle of the evening. It wouldn't be long before he had a mass audience of gossip-starved hung-over sophomores piling into his suite. Besides, he was a little old to be hiding under the covers. He ripped the sheets away once again and stumbled to the door as quickly as possible, before there was time for another high-decibel threat. He flipped the lock on the door and whipped it open.

“Yes! Jesus, all right!” he barked. “I thought I answered all your questions!”

The detectives gave him the once-over.

“You wanna put some pants on, son?” Reilly finally asked with a judgmental glare.

Great. Sam had forgotten to throw on his T-shirt this time—leaving him stark naked except for a pair of flimsy boxers.
Now they probably thought he was a pervert, too.
He swiveled around and quickly sifted through the piles of clothes in his tenementsize dorm room, grabbing a wrinkled pair of khakis and a purple NYU sweatshirt.

The detectives wasted no time making themselves at home. They immediately began pawing through Sam's possessions and cracking open drawers in his desk and his dresser. For chrissake—was that
legal?
Didn't he have any rights? And what on earth were they looking for?

“So, do you know of any reason someone would want to kill Suarez?” Reilly asked, flipping through one of Sam's biology notebooks.

“You already asked me that,” Sam grumbled, grabbing the notebook out of his hands.

“
Chill,
homeboy,” Reilly said with a grin.

“You know, we checked with that movie theater, Sam,” Bernard stated as he examined Sam's CD collection. “Did you know there was no foreign movie playing that night? Isn't that weird? Maybe you went to another theater, huh?”

Sam's stomach twisted itself into a knot.
Once again he wanted to slap himself on the head for that stupid movie alibi.
Why hadn't he just said he was at the library or something?

“Maybe I did . . . or I didn't. Maybe. I—I don't know,” he stammered inanely.

“You know what, Sammy?” Bernard snapped, sitting down on the bed. “I'm gettin' sick of playing nice. And I'm gettin' sick and tired of your attitude. I think you're lying. I think you're a liar.”

Sam wondered if the burst of fear had shown through in his eyes. Did they know something about Ella?

“I'm not a liar,” he murmured, making a conscious effort to reveal as little as possible with his facial expression.

“Bullshit,” Bernard snapped. “Everything you're giving me is bullshit!”

“What are you talking about?” Sam cried.

“What—” “What
do
you know, Moon? The guy was right across the hall, for crying out loud. Were you there when it happened or not?”

“I wasn't there!” Sam insisted.

“You really think I'm buying your routine?” Bernard grimaced. “You overprivileged college kids think you're so damn smart. What, you think me and my partner here are too dumb to see what's goin' on? You think it's floatin' right over our doughnut-eatin' heads?”

“Overprivileged?” Sam asked, baffled. Was that what they were so pissed about? Jesus. “You don't know me. You don't know a damn thing about me. I've worked my ass off—”

“Wah,”
Bernard interrupted. “You poor thing. Is that why you did it? Was the pressure too much for you?”

“Did it?” Sam retorted, forgetting his fear and giving in to anger. “Did
what?
”

“Why'd you kill Suarez?” Reilly barked.

Sam's jaw dropped. His vision darkened.
He was no longer conscious of anything but this room, this
moment.
All the blood drained from his face and seemed to pool in his feet. He didn't even know what he was feeling: It was something beyond fear.
My God. They think
—

“Reilly, we seem to have struck a nerve,” Bernard said with a smile.

“I didn't kill Mike,” Sam stated, his voice quavering.

“Well, that's not how we see it right now—”

“I didn't kill
Mike!
” Sam hollered.

“Bingo!”
Reilly sang out, startling Sam and causing both him and Bernard to look over at him by the desk. He was holding something up in his hand triumphantly.

A syringe. One of Sam's syringes for his insulin.

“You like to keep extra syringes hanging around, Sam?” Reilly demanded.

Bernard smiled with deep satisfaction.

Sam didn't get it. He couldn't even comprehend what had happened in the last two minutes. He'd been running scared from the cops, and he hadn't even known how scared he should have been. He knew he was a potential witness, but a potential suspect? How did they come up with that? His mouth felt like he'd just stuffed a bag of cotton down his throat.
His head felt like a giant squid had just rapped its tentacles around it and tried to
squeeze out his brain.
He had to start talking. He had to start talking fast.

“I'm a diabetic,” Sam explained, trying to keep his eyes from revealing that he was in deer-in-headlights mode. “That's for my insulin. I inject myself—”

“So, then, you'd say you're good with needles?” Reilly asked with a smug grin as he pulled a Ziploc bag out of his pocket and dropped the syringe into it.

“Yes, but—”

“That's all we need for an arrest,” Bernard growled. “The syringe was in plain sight.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt. Before Sam could process what was happening, Bernard had grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and squeezed his wrist as if he were planning to break it off.
A sting of pain shot all the way up to Sam's shoulder.
Bernard flipped the right handcuff onto his wrist, instantly cutting off his circulation.

“You have the right to remain silent,” he announced. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law....”

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam demanded. This couldn't really be happening. There was no way this could really be happening—

“You have the right to an attorney,” Bernard went on, snapping the other cuff on Sam's other wrist.

This can't be happening,
Sam kept repeating inside his head.
This can't be happening. It's a nightmare. That's all
—

“If you do not wish—”

Sam's door crashed open, cutting off Bernard in midsentence.

Some guy Sam had never seen before was standing there, dressed in jogging shorts and an NYU sweatshirt. His clothes were drenched in sweat, and his straight jet black hair was hanging over his bright blue eyes. The guy's gaze swept the room, his face twisting in a scowl.

“What's going on here?” he demanded, staring at the cops as if they were insane.

“Stay cool, Tom Cruise,” Bernard said, pushing Sam toward the door, Reilly following. “Your buddy here is just getting arrested.”