Tears (15 page)

He slowed to a stop in front of her, his expression concealed by his bangs and by the darkness of early evening. He gazed at some invisible spot on the ground between them. “You wanted to talk. But I don't have much time. I—”

“Cut the bull, would you?”

Ed glanced up with his newly acquired classic sphinx stare.
A stare that suggested everything but gave away nothing.


Gaia sighed. “I have a question for you, Ed. It might sound familiar. The question is this: Where is Ed Fargo, and what have you done with him?”

A flicker of something like humor crossed Ed's face but was instantly replaced with pain. Then he shook his head, slipping once more into a mask of nothingness. “I'm just under a lot of stress,” he said. The words were empty, hackneyed, without meaning. “I'm—”

“Bullshit,” Gaia spat. “You're just under a lot of bullshit right now. That's why you can't talk, right? Give it up, Ed!”
Her voice rose, ricocheting angrily off the metal jungle gyms and swings. “Either you talk or I'm out of here—”

“Gaia!”

Gaia wheeled around to see Sam. And for the first time in what seemed like days, he was actually smiling. Instantly her face lit up. She hadn't expected to see him before dinner. Of course, now wasn't a good time....

Uh-oh.
She frowned. Something was wrong.
As he drew closer, she could see that his smile was strained.
Contrite. Almost ashamed.

“Gaia.” He stood before her, his eyes everywhere but on her—on Ed, on the chess tables, on the moon rising in the purple sky. “I can't come tonight. To dinner.”

Can't. Come.

The words fell heavy on her ears. But surprisingly, she felt absolutely nothing. Only as if her whole body had suddenly hollowed out and inverted, left empty.

“I'm sorry,” Sam added. “This is beyond my control. I can't get out of—”

“Save it,” Gaia shot back. Her mind twisted around Sam's words.
Can't.
People always used
can't
when in fact they meant
won't.
A few seconds passed. Sam opened his mouth again, but Gaia cut him off him by turning her back. Enough. No more pain.
She had her quirks, but masochism wasn't one of them.
Besides, any speech from Sam would be pointless because with Sam, words carried no weight. He'd just take them back later.

Sam's hand went to her shoulder. She didn't try to knock it off, but she didn't react, either. She simply stared at Ed—who looked very much like he wished he were somewhere else. She could relate.

And then Sam was gone.

Gaia refused to flinch at the sound of Sam's dying footsteps. It was better to act like nothing had happened. Better to act like Sam hadn't broken yet another promise. That he hadn't let her down tonight of all nights. Yes. . . it was better to replace one disappointment with another—one she could no longer avoid: Ed. He sat still and silent as a mummy.

Gaia sighed. “This mystery-man thing is wearing thin,” she said in a dry, flinty voice she barely recognized as her own. “Now, are you also going to continue to be an asshole, or is someone around here going to cut me a break and start talking instead of lying?”

THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE
.
The truth shall also make your life way more complicated than it is already, and you shall suffer as a result.

Out-of-Body

But lying was hardly an easy way out. And it definitely wasn't pain-free.

Ed clenched his jaw as Gaia glared at him. She was way beyond pissed. And she had a right to be. And Ed would basically do everything short of selling his soul to Satan to tell her. To come clean about everything.

Of course, in a way he had sold his soul. For $26 million.

“Well?” Gaia prompted. “Do you have anything to say, or am I just wasting my time?”

I think I can walk, Gaia. I've been cutting class to work on my rehab. I've been lying because Heather is making me. She wants my money
—

“I've been keeping secrets from you,” Ed began slowly. “But for a good reason.”

Gaia arched an eyebrow and waited. Even angry, even in the terrible light of the Washington Square park lamps, Gaia looked beautiful—her skin like ivory, her body so strong and sexy. Ed felt the thud of his own conflicted heart, pounding relentlessly.
In three seconds he could change that hostile look of hers into total delight. He could transform Gaia from adversary back into best friend.
And in those same three seconds he could betray Heather. Not to mention the small fact of unhatched chickens. What if he
couldn't
walk? What if verbalizing his tenuous hopes jinxed the whole thing?

“I'm listening.” Gaia folded her arms.

“I've been holding out on you because I'm afraid if I tell you what's happening, you'll judge somebody too harshly,” Ed whispered, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “And the person you might judge is someone I've sworn to protect.”

Gaia stared back at him. Her face softened. “Don't you trust me?”

Ed nodded. “What if I promise to keep both my judgment and your secret to myself?” Gaia offered. “Could you tell me then?”

“I. . .” Ed swallowed. She would keep his secret; he wasn't worried about that. But Ed didn't have as much faith in her inability to suspend judgment. Especially when it came to Heather Gannis. But maybe it was time to stop protecting other people and start worrying about himself. If it meant giving up on his friendship with Gaia, then maybe the price on Heather's love was just too high.
Twenty-six million dollars he could sacrifice.
But not Gaia.

“G, I really want to tell you what's happening,” Ed choked out. He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes sparkling at the thought of sharing his news with the one person who could truly share in his joy. But instantly that thought was replaced by Heather's face—and Ed found himself totally deflated. He paused, wiped a hand across his dry mouth. “I want to tell. So badly. You don't understand what this has been doing to me—”

The shrill screech of brakes pierced the air. A black van had pulled up next to the curb. Ed scowled at it. Just his luck.
One of the most crucial moments of his life had been interrupted by that particular breed of insane drivers that seemed to exist only in New York.


A sliding door opened.

Two men in black ski masks jumped out.

What the. . . ?
Ed's stomach lurched. His knuckles turned bone white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. The men were running through to the children's playground, straight toward him. But they were staring at Gaia.

His head snapped up at her.

“Sit tight,” Gaia muttered, shooting Ed a quick half smile at her weak joke.

Ed's throat closed. He thought about trying to roll away, but he couldn't move. And he wouldn't abandon Gaia. Never. The men closed in on them. He was in shock. Should he shout for help? There was no one nearby. Too cold and wet for kids and mothers in the playground.
Lucky for them,
Ed thought grimly.

“You're coming with us,” the man on the left spat at Gaia.

They approached her from either side.

“Play nice and you won't get hurt,” the second thug added, flapping his coat to reveal a gun nestled in the waistband of his pants.

“Yeah, okay,” Gaia mumbled. She bowed her head.

Ed gaped at her. His shock overcame his fear. Gaia going gently? Where was the kung fu, the karate, the ass kicking? Ever since Ed had known Gaia, bad guys with guns had trailed after her like a pack of dogs.
And most of the time she'd left them lying on the street in bloody heaps.
Maybe this was a trick. Ed chewed his dry lip. Yeah, it must be—

“Just let me walk on my own, okay?” Gaia muttered. The two men took her arms, one each side. “Move,” they ordered simultaneously.

Okay. Ed's pulse raced. Okay...maybe this wasn't a trick. Maybe Gaia was really surrendering. Maybe she'd disappear into that black van and he'd never see her again. Terrified, he strained forward in his chair. He had to do something, but what? Gaia's blond hair fell in a curtain, blocking her face from view. She took a few steps toward the van. Then abruptly she stopped and lashed out with a kick, tripping up the thug on her right.

“Yes!” Ed screamed, elated.

As the guy fumbled for his gun and fought to regain his balance, Gaia shook free of the other one, simultaneously burying her elbow in his solar plexus. He grunted and doubled over.
Damn!
Ed blinked at the speed of Gaia's movements. Whirling, she delivered a roundhouse kick to the first guy, planting her foot into his skull with an audible crack. He fell forward,
his chin eating tar, the gun skating across the gravel walkway and knocking against a bench. He was out cold. But the other guy had already recovered.

“Behind you!” Ed shouted.

The man's arm swooped through the air in a punch. But Gaia was faster. She blocked the move with her left arm at his wrist. She grasped firmly with her right hand, pulled, and, using the guy's own momentum, flipped him over her head.
Ed found himself smiling as the guy's body thumped to the hard ground.
More amazing even than the force of her moves was Gaia's grace and speed. But it wasn't over. The man raised his head—and managed to grasp her foot as she delivered a follow-up kick. With a twist he tackled her. Suddenly they were rolling away from Ed, a tumble of legs and arms, with Gaia trying to counter her opponent's weight with her own strength—

Oh, shit.

Out of the corner of his eye Ed spotted movement. The other guy had stirred and was inching on his stomach across the ground toward. . . no. God, no. Dread seized Ed's insides in a cold grip. This was horribly wrong. He opened his mouth to call out, but his voice had been robbed of speech. Gaia was pinned down; he couldn't even see her face. And the second thug was steadily crawling toward the gun, glinting there in the lamplight.

Ed's eyes closed the gap between the gun and himself.
Not far away. Maybe ten feet.
Far enough.
He wouldn't make it. Not if he dragged his body by the strength of his arms. Not unless he walked. But Ed hadn't moved more than four steps without support.

He couldn't do it now.

Now.
It had to be now. The crawling man still had some ground to cover. Ed couldn't hesitate. He had to make a move. A move he knew his body couldn't manage.

Gaia slammed her head into her opponent's and rolled out and away from him. He lay there beside her, lifeless. Only. . . she was lifeless, too. Not moving. Hardly even
breathing.
Ed's own breath came in rapid-fire gasps
. He closed his eyes, willing every ounce of energy he had into his numb legs. He needed more than an adrenaline rush. He had that already. He needed a miracle.

Gaia.

He pushed himself from the chair. Pain seared his legs—a fiery, intense agony, far worse than any of his sessions with Brian. The air around him seemed to go black. The park spun, blurred in a kaleidoscope of shiny tar and wet leaves and a voice saying something about the cripple. . . .
Am I walking?
It felt more out-of-body than a real, physical experience.
The pain. The pain.
It was all-consuming. He wasn't walking. He was just wishing himself there, his hands snatching at the air, at. . . silver. Ed's hands
closed on the gun as he hit the gravel, crumpling, the cold metal in his clammy fingers a sudden, beautiful hard-edged clarity.

The pain began to recede.

Using his last bit of strength Ed spun his upper body into a sitting position. The world refocused. His hands shook, but he had the gun. He pointed it straight at the crawling man's head. There was no sound. Just wind and Ed's own deep breathing. No movement. The crawling man froze, the whites of his eyes registering fear.

Is this real?

Ed swallowed, jostling for some concrete proof of what seemed like one long surrealistic movie montage. Then he became aware of movement again. . . Gaia had stumbled to her feet, a smear of blood across her cheek, her startled blue eyes staring.

He glanced up at her for a split second, then turned his eyes back to the man on the ground.

“You. . . Ed, you can. . .” Gaia shook her head. She started weaving. Her eyes lolled. And as if in slow motion, she crumpled from the waist. Her knees caved, and she struck the ground. But she emitted one final gasping word before falling unconscious.

“. . . walk?”

“Yes,” Ed murmured.

The secret was out. But so was Gaia.

And with a little luck, she wouldn't remember a thing.

TOM DETECTED THE SOFT PURR OF
the approaching car even before he caught a glimpse of it—a black BMW— reflected in the rear window of a parked van. The headlights were off. Instantly Tom's senses were on high alert, scoping Mercer Street for any available cover. There was none. The dimly lit sidewalk was deserted. Perfect for an assassination. He reached for the nine-millimeter pistol tucked into his inside coat pocket. It was too late to make a break for his apartment building; the entrance was still a good thirty paces from his current position. The BMW would be alongside him in seconds. His eyes darted to the van. He could hide behind it until a pedestrian—

An Act of Noncompliance

“Enigma!”

George.
Tom froze in his tracks. Instinctively he knew this was a stupid move: George's voice could easily be duplicated, and Tom's enemies were all well aware of his code name. Besides, George almost never referred to Tom as “Enigma,” not even when they were working. But there was a note of undeniable urgency in that voice—one that would be difficult to fake. Tom whirled to see George's head emerging from the passenger-side window.