Naked (8 page)

I mean, sure, there are those days when she brings new meaning to the word
bitchy,
but I'm used to that. I know what that looks like. But that has nothing to do with what was going on this morning.


I've played the whole thing over so many times, and I still cannot figure out what I said to piss her off. I wasn't talking about Heather—that always pisses her off. I wasn't joking about her wardrobe—that's a great way to get her all riled up. Was it about what happened in the park? She hates it when I try to be the hero. But I don't think so. She was grateful for that day. I know she was.


Unless it did have something to do with the crutches. They
were really the only thing that made this morning different from any other morning. Maybe she was just pissed to find out I was taller than she was—which, I must admit, I found quite enjoyable. But that couldn't possibly be what was making her so distant.


And that last moment we had before Heather showed up? It felt like someone had just plugged me into an electrical socket. What the hell was that about?


I mean, I'm not stupid, I know what that was about for
me.
I'm not a five-year-old. I know what it feels like when two people have that. . .


No. Bullshit. All this hobbling is just screwing with my brain. We didn't have that kind of moment. I mean, maybe
I
did, but she was way too busy hating my guts to be having that kind of moment.


Why am I even bothering to try and figure her out now, anyway? Heather just ditched me. She just
brought up a shitload of memories that I'd much rather forget.


So maybe that's it. Maybe it's just because I don't want to think about Heather at all.


That merciless feeling was growing inside her again—the same feeling she'd had the night before, the impulse to use more force than necessary.

I REMEMBER ALL YOUR SPEECHES

That Prefight Fizz

But I forgot all the words

Stuck to each other like hostless leeches

Don't you think our life was a bit absurd. . . .

CBGB was by far the best place to hear Fearless play: sweaty, dark, hot, and deafeningly loud.
Every beat of the bass drum was a kick into Gaia's rib age.
This was exactly what she needed: Fearless pounding out brilliant songs to a massive crowd of freaks in a wild frenzy.

Brendan disappeared into the mob of dancers, but Paul and Gaia stuck together, stomping incessantly, feeding off every aggressive shoulder bump from the skate rats and twirling alterna-chicks. Why couldn't her daily life be more like this?
Chaos without consequences.
People who understood what was going on in her brain, as the lead singer and song-writer of Fearless always seemed to. And most important, no talking required. Paul and Gaia couldn't have heard each other if they tried. She signaled that she needed a bathroom break, and he made the universal sign for getting them something to drink by lifting an imaginary glass to his lips.

It took Gaia a moment to find her bearings, but she
managed to shove her way back from the stage and into the dark corridor that led to the bathrooms. She drew in a deep breath and caught the understanding smile of the last guy in the bathroom line—a smile that seemed to say, “Tough to breathe out there, isn't it?”

Her eyes narrowed.

That smile. In the shadowy red light it looked kind of familiar....

Oh, shit.
The smile belonged to Mick Butler: an asshole skinhead who used to hang around the park. Gaia hadn't seen him in months and hoped never to see him again. But no matter where she went, it seemed she was destined to run into the Village riffraff.

Mick lurched forward, revealing a friend in the shadows behind him. It was a fellow primate:
a mountain of pale flab covered with pierces and tattoos.


“Hot damn, is that Gaia?” Mick shouted. He breathed the repellent stench of discount cigarettes and Jagermeister in her face. She did her best not to throw up in his. “Where the hell have
you
been?”

Gaia smiled humorlessly. “Avoiding you, Mick. Avoiding you.”

“Ooh, same attitude.” Mick laughed, putting out his cigarette on the floor and stepping closer. “But you look better. I could even say you look
hot.
You know what? I'd be totally willing to do you tonight. Is Mary here, too? My buddy could do her.”

A vivid image suddenly flashed through Gaia's mind: that of her snapping Mick's neck and leaving him dead in a contorted heap on the floor.
But she was trying not to go there tonight, to that dark place where she looked for combat.
She was committed to having some nonviolent fun with the Moss brothers. This was family time. So she simply decided she'd wait to go to the bathroom. It wasn't an emergency. She could hold on for another few minutes. So she turned and pushed her way back into the crowd. Paul appeared seconds later from the bar area, holding two plastic cups.

“Here ya go,” he said, thrusting one toward Gaia. “Ice-cold water. I figured that would be better than—” He broke off suddenly, his smile vanishing. His eyes locked on a spot just above Gaia's shoulder.

She whirled around. Mick and the primate were right behind her—only inches away. The stink of their sweat was almost overpowering.

Mick laughed. “Where'd you find this one? You been workin' that college boy circuit?”

Gaia felt a flicker of electricity in her veins:
that prefight fizz.
She shook her head, willing it away, then turned her back on him. “Ignore these two,” she said to Paul. “They're not going to do anything here.”

Much to her surprise, however, a coarse hand seized her arm from behind and spun her back
around, knocking her drink to the floor. “No, I just told you, Gaia,” Mick breathed into her face. “I'm going to do
you.
”

Gaia sighed, very sadly. She didn't want to have to hurt him. She really didn't.
Violence was her shadow, though.
It followed her everywhere, even if—

“Get the hell off her!” Paul shouted, dropping his drink and throwing his body between them. But Mick's heinous friend snagged Paul by the wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, simultaneously flipping open an oversized blade with his free hand and holding it to Paul's face.

“Come on, Gaia,” Mick moaned. “I need you tonight. Why don't you go find Mary and I'll do you both?”

The crowd around them immediately fell away, like a receding tide. That electric current was singing now, pumping through Gaia's blood. And it was accompanied by something else, too. Something relatively new. Yes.
That merciless feeling was growing inside her again—the same feeling she'd had the night before, the impulse to use more force than necessary.
But this time she didn't question it. Not when it came to this neo-Nazi waste of space who'd been stupid enough to let Mary's name fall from his mouth. . . or his partner, who'd made the very poor decision to draw a weapon on Mary's own brother.

Mick wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

That was all she needed. In under a second she dropped into a state of total concentration, pinpointing the weakness of his grip. With a vicious jab she thrust her fist into his solar plexus, then hacked his arm away.

“Oof!” he gasped.

She caught a flash of his shocked, bulging eyes—then proceeded to whirl as he doubled over, lunging toward his repulsive friend. Clearly the friend had no idea how to respond to the attack because he simply gaped at her as she tore the knife from his fingers and freed Paul. Still spinning—and gaining momentum— she slashed down at Mick's crumpled body, slicing his arm.

“Jesus,” Mick whispered. He collapsed to his knees. His hand immediately darted to the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers. He glanced over his shoulder. The fear in his wide eyes was plain. “You. . . you cut me.”

But Gaia wasn't listening. She allowed the knife to slip from her grasp to the floor, well aware that the CBGB crowd was staring at her. Then she leaped into the air,
spinning three hundred sixty degrees and simultaneously lashing out
at Mick's partner's head with a roundhouse kick.

Her foot struck his flaccid cheek with a smack, and his neck snapped back. For a moment he stood at
attention, his glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then he simply pitched forward. He looked like a falling tree. Gaia smiled as he landed right on top of Mick, smothering him. She glanced at Paul.

Paul blinked at her. His face was white. He looked petrified.

“Are you okay?” she asked, panting. The music was beginning to fade.

He shook his head.

She opened her mouth but found she couldn't speak. The dark club danced and spun before her. She felt like she was looking through a curtain that was slowly being drawn shut.

“Look, I might faint, okay?” she managed to gasp. “Just get us a cab.”

Paul's confused expression became fuzzy, and then everything went black.

TOM WAS BEGINNING TO WONDER
about his own sanity, cooped up in that hotel room with nothing to do but reflect on the horrible nightmare and wait for a message from the informant. There was no clue as to when he might receive word.
Each passing hour only served to feed the paranoia that sprang from his dream. Maybe he was just a sitting duck. Maybe there
was
no informant. The Agency could have been duped. It had happened before. This anxiously awaited communication might merely be a setup devised by Loki to get Tom out of the way.

Miraculous

But no. . . despite his fear, his instincts told him the informant was legitimate. It wasn't that he trusted the Agency. He simply knew how his brother operated. Loki was too proud and confident to resort to red herrings and decoys. He tended to take the direct approach, orchestrating events without concern for consequence and breaking human beings according to his will. He wouldn't see the need for precautionary tactics.

In fact, Tom's greater concern right now was the informant's life span. What were the actual odds that he could get to Tom before Loki got to him? If history could provide any indication, those odds were dismal—

There was a faint rustling at the door.

Reflexively Tom shot up from his seat at the desk and reached for the automatic pistol tucked into his jacket pocket. A small envelope slid under the narrow crack and onto the hotel-room floor. Keeping his pistol drawn, Tom jumped forward and snatched it up. He couldn't help but nod in satisfaction. Whoever this operative was, he was good. Few people could have evaded Loki for this long.

Tom tucked his gun away, then ripped open the envelope. Inside was a note and small silver key bearing the number 214.

Tomorrow 7:21
P.M
.
—
the station Zoologischer Garten on the Hardenbergplatz. Track 8.

Box 214

Without a second glance, Tom placed the note in the hotel ashtray and dropped a lit match over it. He stared as the flames engulfed the paper and turned it to black ash. He could be back with Gaia in forty-eight hours, assuming all went well at the train station tomorrow. Assuming the informant could stay alive that long.

SOMEBODY WAS SPEAKING ARABIC.
Gaia could hear scraps of conversation, but she couldn't see a thing. Her eyelids fluttered, and she found herself staring up at a black surface, dancing with fast-moving light. She was lying on a soft, uneven cushion, and it was rumbling, bouncing.

A Good Liar

Then suddenly a face appeared, looming just over hers.

“Are you all right?” Paul asked.

“I think so,” she replied, clearing her throat. There was a crackle of static. It hit her: she was in a taxi.

“Do you want to sit up?” he asked. His skin was still pale, but Gaia couldn't tell if that was due to fear or due to the light of the passing streetlamps.

Gaia nodded, and with a couple of awkward shifts Paul helped her head off his lap until she was sitting upright. For a moment she stared at the back of the driver's head through the wall of bullet-proof glass that separated the front seat from the back. He was chattering on a CB radio in Arabic; he was asking someone about the best route uptown. . . . Gaia tuned out the harsh, guttural sounds. She glanced over her shoulder. Nobody was chasing them;
there were no sirens, no shouts or rocks being thrown.
They'd made a clean escape.

Paul seemed unsure what to say next.

“Uh. . . where's Brendan?” Gaia asked.

“He went back to his dorm.” His voice was oddly flat and still. “I told him I'd take care of you. We're supposed to leave him a message that you're okay when we get home.”

“I'm fine,” she said. She frowned, shaking her head, trying to orient herself. The nondescript offices of Midtown flew by outside the windows. She must have been in the cab for at least ten minutes already. “What happened back there?”

He laughed shortly. “You don't remember?”

Gaia shrugged. “I remember cutting that guy Mick and letting the knife fall to the floor. Anybody else see that?”

Paul's smile vanished. He shifted in his seat. “Uh. . . if they did, they didn't do anything. They didn't say anything, either.” He paused. “Anyway, I just kind of grabbed you and dragged you out onto the Bowery. Everybody got right out of my way. “

“Thanks,” Gaia muttered, feeling her cheeks flush. “I guess I—” She stopped in midsentence. Something the cabdriver was saying caught her attention. He was no longer asking for directions. No, now he was jabbering about something else—
something involving a little girl's head in a boy's lapin the backseat
and all the favors she was doing him.