Missing (8 page)

Any time Gaia learned of something that had given her mother pleasure or had great meaning for her, she embraced it instantly, hoping to make it her own. Even if Gaia couldn't bring back her mother's life, she could at least bring back her ideas and emotions. And approaching this glorious building from a side street, with Tom guiding her gaze,
her mother felt more present than she ever had in the last five years.
The crisp Paris night and dark indigo sky only added to her intoxication—as did the warm street lanterns reflecting in rows of glowing gold on the river.

“What else did Mom like?” Gaia found herself asking. “I mean, aside from impressionist paintings?”

Her father smiled. “You don't remember?”

Gaia shrugged. “I remember some things,” she answered, flashing back to the smell of stuffed cabbage and stroganoff wafting through the house as her mother hummed a Russian folk song. “But tell me more.”

“She loved . . . the second movement—”

“Of the Sibelius violin concerto; I remember
that
.” Gaia snorted good-naturedly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“She loved to watch you do gymnastics,” he murmured. “She loved the—”

He was cut short by a piercing cry for help.

The shrill sound sliced through the night. Gaia's smile instantly faded.
She felt a burst of adrenaline— that old familiar sensation she hadn't felt since she'd left New York ...the one that came instead of fear.
Tom stepped in front of her, but Gaia ducked under his arms.

Up ahead in a lone shaft of light was an elderly woman on her knees, having a violent tug-of-war for her purse. A tall lanky man in a black overcoat was yanking at the handbag, but Gaia's eyes flashed to another man who was coming up from behind them. As his hand came from the pocket of his coat Gaia saw the brief glint of black shiny metal.

“Gaia,” Tom whispered urgently. “Careful. It could be a trap. Oliver's minions are everywhere....”

But she was already breaking free and bursting into a full-throttle run. If it was a trap, she'd deal with it.

“Laissez-la tranquille!”
she screamed, demanding that the two muggers leave the old woman alone.

They both turned.

And that was all the extra time she needed.

Gaia's feet left the ground. She plowed the gun toter to the ground with a full flying tackle, then used her momentum to continue rolling in a graceful somersault. The gun clattered to the pavement. She snatched it up. At that moment the other one—a tall, bohemian-looking type with long black greased-up hair, a hideously skinny face, and a black goatee— lunged for her.

Unfortunately, he also had a knife.

No, not a knife. That thing could qualify as a machete.

But Gaia relaxed. With one effortless smooth motion she reached in for his wrist and stepped out of his way—cracking his arm over her bent knee with her right hand and simultaneously pistol whipping the back of his head with the left.

“Aiiee!”
he cried. (Screams of pain were the same in any language.)

As he fell, Gaia deftly swiped the machete from his grasp with her free hand. He collapsed on top of his
accomplice. Before either one of the poor bastards could look up from the ground, Gaia was already standing over them, the gun in her left hand, the machete in her right—gun aimed at the gun toter's head, machete an inch from the knife wielder's neck.

Both of them were whimpering. Gaia had to smile. The sound of fear.
She'd never made it herself, but she recognized it well enough.
Especially coming from cowards who would attack a helpless old woman.

“Partez maintenant,”
she ordered, lifting the weapons away.

Translation:
Leave now.

She liked to keep things simple.

 

TOM FIGURED IT TOOK GAIA NO MORE
than four seconds to subdue both men. Both
armed
men. Once again—in spite of fear and apprehension—his heart swelled with fatherly pride. Quite simply, watching Gaia's grace and nobility in action gave him a thrill. And he was now almost ninety-nine percent certain that these men had nothing to do with Loki . . . particularly as they scampered off into the Parisian night. No, they
were just a couple of unlucky muggers who'd happened to meet the wrong girl.

Gaia emptied the bullets from the gun. Tom rushed to the old woman to help her to her feet. But once she was standing, she broke from his arms and fell into Gaia's, tears streaming down her sagging weathered face.

“Merci,”
she cried at least twenty times in a row, embracing her young heroine.
“Vous êtes un ange. Un ange!”

You are an angel,
she was saying.
An angel!

Gaia tried to smile—but it was clear that she was terribly uncomfortable. Tom understood the reaction. She preferred to do good deeds anonymously—never for the gratitude, never for the thanks.

The old woman then turned to Tom and asked him if the “angel” was his daughter. Tom nodded. She kissed Gaia on both cheeks. But Tom noticed that Gaia wasn't only uncomfortable; something was wrong with her. Her eyelids were fluttering. In the pale light of the streetlamp her skin was deathly pale.

“Gaia?” he asked, stepping toward her.

She didn't answer. Instead her eyes rolled back in her head, and she pitched backward. The old woman let out a whimper of shock as Tom dashed forward and scooped her into his arms. He suddenly remembered his very first day of orientation as an agent, when all the trainees had been forced to do those childish “trust
falls.” Only now they didn't seem so childish—

“Is she all right?” the woman asked in French, aghast.

Tom scrutinized his daughter's face, holding his breath.

Gaia nodded and smiled, very faintly. “Sorry,” she said with a moan. “I'll be all right in a second. Can you just hold me?”

Tom squeezed her limp body close. If she said she would be fine, then he knew that she would. She was a survivor.

“Don't worry, I've got you,” he whispered. His throat clenched. “I've got you, and I'll never let you go.”

 

“YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND,” SAM
insisted, shivering in the cold Washington Square Park wind. “I can't stop thinking about her. All day. Every day. It's insane.”

“Well, I don't blame you, dude,” Josh replied as he took Sam's bishop with his knight. “She sounds unbelievable. Check.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

He had to laugh. He couldn't believe he'd missed it.
He surveyed the stone chessboard.
Not only was Josh the guy who'd saved his ass single-handedly, he was also a damn good chess player.
But at least the game wasn't totally lost. Sam's other bishop was in position to take Josh's knight. Still, his initial game plan had been ruined.

“Hees head is een the stahrs,” came Zolov's thick Russian accent from the next chess table.

Sam smirked. Chess in Washington Square Park wouldn't be the same if Zolov wasn't razzing the other players or hustling chumps, his haggard, bumlike aesthetic masking the skills of a grand master. And his trusty little red Mighty Morphin Power Ranger (which sat on his table in perpetuity) didn't hurt his hustle, either. If necessary, he could always discuss potential moves with his action figure for insane effect. Of course, seeing as he was playing Mr. Haq—another regular—there was no need for any act. Zolov could just beat him, the way he usually did.

“Come on, Zolov,” Sam said. “My head's not in the stars. I'm totally focused here. You know I don't mess around in a game.”

“Focus?” Zolov scoffed. “How you focus when in your mind, eet just keep going
‘Ceendy, Ceendy, Ceendy
'—heh heh heh....” Zolov let out a phlegmatic cough. Even Mr. Haq dropped his concentration to laugh in Sam's face.

“Yeah, maybe you're right,” Sam admitted.

“Cindy? Who's Cindy?” Josh asked, grinning. “I thought her name was Gaia.”

“I'll explain later,” Sam mumbled. He and Gaia had long since given up on convincing Zolov that Cindy wasn't Gaia's name. That was just what he believed.
The amazing thing was, he had also believed that Sam and Gaia were meant to be together, even before Sam and Gaia believed it.
He kept telling Sam in one way or another. Then again, Sam had barely noticed; he'd been too wrapped up in Ella's insanity and Mike's murder.

If only Gaia's feelings had been as obvious to Sam back then, they wouldn't have needed to waste so much time putting themselves and each other through hell. But it had been so hard for Sam to be honest because he had still been with Heather. And Gaia . . . well ...

She wasn't really one to express her feelings openly. It always seemed her life was too complicated, too filled with mysterious dark secrets. She was so hard to read....

“Man, I miss her so much,” Sam muttered to himself, shaking his head.

“Dude, you've got it bad,” Josh said—but his tone was sympathetic.

“Look at heem,” Zolov remarked, making Josh and Mr. Haq his audience. “He ees like loveseeck small poodle dog.”

Josh laughed. So did Mr. Haq. Even Sam had to smile.

“Uh-oh,” Josh suddenly muttered, peering over Sam's shoulder.

Sam turned to see what had switched Josh's mood so instantly. It was Brendan, with a couple of girls Sam had never met before. He knew they were juniors, but that was about it. A twitter of nervousness shot through him.
Brendan hadn't looked at him the same since Mike's death.
In fact, Brendan had avoided him.

“Brendan, what's up?' Sam asked, motioning for him to come join them.

Brendan didn't smile in return.

Sam swallowed. He knew exactly what was going on here: Brendan was suspicious. How could he really believe Sam would hurt one of his friends? “Come here,” Sam called.

“No.” Brendan shook his head.

Sam sighed. “Why not?”

“I ...don't want to be seen with you.”

Now Sam was pissed. “Why the hell not?”

Brendan didn't answer. The girls stared at their feet.

“Look, Brendan,” Sam began. “How could you possibly think that I—”

“I know you've been acting like a psycho for weeks,” Brendan interrupted. “And that's what I told them.”

“Told them?” Sam's pulse picked up a beat. “Told who?”

“And I'm transferring to another dorm, Sam,”
Brendan stated, leaving the question unanswered, “so find yourself another roommate.” With that, he and the girls turned and walked away.

Sam's heart was now pounding full throttle. Suddenly he realized how many faces were turned toward him. Suspicious faces, whispering on a bench, or sitting on the grass, or walking by him at that very moment.
Kids were so damn desperate for something juicy to talk about, something to add to their boring lives and infinitely repeated conversations.
The news of Sam's new suspect status must have already spread throughout all of NYU—and probably the rest of the tristate area as well.

“Forget him, Sam,” Josh said, flicking Sam's head with a lighthearted slap. “Any friend who could turn on you so fast is no friend, dude. That kid's an asshole.”

San tried to smile, but his lips felt like sandpaper. This was no good. He couldn't take his eyes off Brendan's retreating form “I really thought he was . . . I don't know. He didn't used to be—”

“Forget it, Sam, come on,” Josh said. “It's your move. Let's play, poodle boy. Tell me more about Gaia.”

Sam turned back to the board. He wanted to keep playing, to talk more about Gaia, to do anything to take his mind off Mike Suarez . . . but he couldn't. Still, at least he had Josh. The guy didn't act at all like an RA. He acted like a friend. Judging from the way everyone had been
looking at Sam lately, Josh was fast turning into the only friend he had. And Josh hardly even
knew
him.

“Thank you, man,” Sam found himself blurting out.

Josh grinned, cocking his eyebrow. “For what?”

“For everything. For hanging out, and for listening to me babble about Gaia, and for not believing the crap those cops were saying about me.”

“You don't have to thank me,” Josh replied with a shrug. “I've seen some messed-up shit and some messed-up people, and I know a good guy when I see one. I'm just chilling, Sam.” He smirked. “Besides, it's my university-bound duty to help the students I advise to cope with their problems—”

“Well, hel-
lo,
Mr. Moon and Tom Cruise!”

Sam whirled to his left. His heart snapped back into overdrive. Detectives Bernard and Reilly were approaching the table, wrapped up in cheap trench coats, smiling as if they'd just won the lottery. Sam didn't get it. They were relentless.
They were everywhere he was—all the time.

“I am so very glad to see you two again,” Bernard called. He turned to his partner. “Look, Reilly, it's just two college chums having a rousing game of chess. Isn't that special? Ah, the life of privilege. What a shame when it all goes to waste.”

“Well, hello, officers!” Josh answered, matching every ounce of Bernard's sarcasm. “Our chess game has been delightful. As has our life of privilege! Thank
you for the ignorant stereotyping. Saaay, how are your doughnuts?”

Sam cringed. Maybe that was just a little too over the top....

“I'll handle this,” Bernard insisted, trying to shut up his partner. “We just stopped by to commend your dormitory security guard for being so kind and cooperative.” Bernard pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and snapped it in front of Sam and Josh's faces. “Once I showed him our
search warrant,
he was nothing but a joy. So I guess we'll be in touch shortly? Have a nice day.”