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“Yes, sir.” For the first time in his career Tom felt like making an obscene gesture at the telephone. Only
the fact that he was positive a dozen hidden cameras were watching his every move kept him from doing so. These people had no compassion. No core of understanding. Tom had served his country for over thirty years. He was at the top of his field. He was “Enigma,” the world's leading antiterrorist operative. He had sacrificed everything for them. His family. His
life.
His daughter was in danger, and Loki was going to—

“This situation is going to require your full attention. You do understand that?”

Tom's jaw tightened. “Yes, sir.”

“You have been shirking your duties for months now, Tom. Don't let us down again.”

There was a click, and the line went dead. Strangely he felt no fear, even though his life had plainly been threatened. He was beyond fear. He'd accomplish their mission, whatever it was. But his priority was Gaia. Always Gaia.

Sick Bastard

AN IV BAG DRIPPED CLEAR LIQUID
into Mike's veins, and a heart monitor beeped ominously beside the bed. Even from his stance at the door Sam could see that the guy had lost close to ten pounds in the last few days. How could he be out
of the woods?
His skin was the color of ash.
It wasn't until Mike's eyelids fluttered open that Sam was convinced his friend was even alive.

“Hey, Moon,” Mike croaked. His voice was like sandpaper. “What's shakin'?”

Sam tried to smile. “Must have been one hell of a party, Suarez.”

“Yeah.” He grinned ruefully. “I guess I've got the mother of all hangovers to prove it, huh?”

“Right.” For some reason, Sam couldn't bring himself to make eye contact. Of course, maybe that was because he knew that
he
was the one who had put Mike here. Or maybe it was because he secretly hoped that Mike wouldn't remember anything. Maybe it was because Sam prayed that Mike believed he'd tried heroin in a drug- and alcohol-induced frenzy. Because then ...well, then Sam Moon would be off the hook.

He sauntered across the room and sat down in the chair next to Mike's bed, keeping his head down the whole time. “So. Do you, uh, remember anything that happened?”

Mike sniffed. “Nah. I mean, I don't know. Sort of. I was at a party most of the night. I chugged like two quarts of beer.”

Sam nodded. His eyes remained pinned to his folded hands, resting in his lap. There was nothing unusual about that. Mike had been consuming massive amounts of alcohol all semester.
And if his
memory was foggy, chances were good he could have had a blackout.
Chances were good he could have done
anything.

“And then what?”

Several seconds passed before Mike even breathed. “I don't know, man.” His voice quavered. “That's the scary thing. I mean, I don't remember doing the heroin. I've done a lot of messed-up shit in my life, but that stuff is way beyond anything I've even considered trying.”

“But it was in your system,” Sam heard himself say. “So you must have decided to try it. Maybe you just don't remember because of what happened afterward.” A sickening icy sensation tore through his stomach. For Christ's sake . . . who
was
he right now?
What kind of sick bastard would try to manipulate his friend's memory to save his own skin?
To convince somebody that he had almost killed himself?

The kind of sick bastard who wants to hold on to what he's got,
a silent voice answered. It was true. Sam might be a sniveling wimp, but he'd never had more to lose. Gaia was finally his. He couldn't afford to risk—

All at once he realized his knee was jiggling nervously. He clamped his hand around his knee to stop it.

“You all right, man?” Mike asked.

Sam nodded vigorously. Talk about sick: The guy in the bed was asking
him
if
he
was all right. “Yeah . . .
it's just—I don't know. Hospitals make me nervous.”

“Tell me about it.” Mike chuckled, then squirmed in his sheets. “Try talking to
cops
in a hospital. It'll do wonders for low blood pressure—”

“Wait, did you say cops?” Sam interrupted. His head jerked up. His heart immediately snapped into overdrive. “What did they want?”

“Who knows?” Mike's eyelids were drooping. He yawned. “It was some detective guy. Pantis. Mantis. Something like that.”

Sam leaned over Mike's bed, struggling to remain calm. “Are they going to press charges against you? Is that why he was here?”

Mike shook his head. “Nah . . . they just needed to ask me some questions. Kind of a routine thing.” His eyes closed all the way.

Damn it.
Sam wanted to grill Mike some more, but it was useless. The guy was already half asleep. Sam knew he should just get out of here.
Especially if cops were snooping around.
He stood up and clasped Mike's hand for a moment. “Take care, man. We're all pulling for you.”

With what looked like a major effort, Mike opened his eyes again. “Thanks, Sam. You know . . . I, uh—well, cheesy shit isn't my specialty, but you're a great friend. I mean it. The nurses told me you've been calling and coming around every day. That means a lot to me, you know?”

Sam couldn't bear to look at him. He withdrew his hand.
Yeah, I'm a great friend, all right,
he thought, nauseated.
I almost got you killed.
He should have told the police what he knew about Ella right away. But it was too late. And if that detective went digging any further, he might discover that Mike hadn't stuck that needle into his arm. Then there were going to be a lot of questions. Questions Sam didn't want to answer.

GAIA

When
I was five years old, my mother told me about the meaning of Christmas. She told me about Mary and Joseph and the manger and the baby Jesus. I thought being born in a manger sounded like fun, what with the horses and all, but my mom pointed out that it must have been hard on Mary.

 

My favorite part of the story was when the Three Wise Men came. It was amazing to me that they could be guided to one little baby by a single star in the sky.

Of course, I didn't get what myrrh was. I still don't.

Anyway, I guess Mom wanted me to know that Christmas was supposed to be about more than trees and stockings and parents shoving each other in the aisles of Toys “R” Us. It's really funny, too, because my mom was Jewish. But religion wasn't the point. The
story
was the point. And since my Dad wasn't Jewish and since we celebrated Christmas, she knew I
should have some understanding of it. Some
real
understanding. That's the kind of person she was. Smart. Inclusive. Empathetic.

Back then, I didn't know how many Christmas Days I would spend alone. I didn't know I should cherish every string of popcorn and piece of tinsel. Ironically, when my mother died, Christmas stopped for me.

But this year was different. This year Sam Moon went out and got me a gift that I'll treasure forever. That makes this the best—the only—Christmas I've had in years. Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. I feel all of that.

So what if it's not December? Nobody knows what day Jesus was
really
born, anyway, right?

In the filtered light from the bridge's lamp, a blade glistened. A tingle shot through her veins.
I wanted this, didn't I?
she realized.

 

NOBU WAS THE KIND OF RESTAURANT
that ended up in every “Best of Manhattan” article and cost more per meal than some families in third-world countries earned per year. But that was fine by Ed.
That was the whole
point,
actually.
Since he and Heather had sat down, Ed had already spotted one of the stars of
Sex and the City
and Donald Trump's ex-wife (Marla or Ivana—he could never keep them straight).

Shameless Desire

Normally Ed would consider coming to a place like this a disgusting and mildly pathetic waste of money. But tonight he didn't care. Tonight was a celebration.

There was actually a possibility.

A
real
possibility. He'd been given a vision of a world where this bulky wheelchair would be a thing of the past, where he could sit across from his beautiful and brilliant bombshell of a girlfriend in a normal seat and lean over and plant his lips—

Okay, he knew he shouldn't get too excited. The chances were good, not great. But still, he could actually allow himself to use Dr. Feldman's favorite four-letter word. He could actually allow himself to . . .
yes, ladies and gentlemen, drumroll, please:
hope.

“So what's this all about, Ed, anyway?” Heather
asked, scanning the menu. She laughed. “I've been wanting to come here for ages. You know, I have to admit, I even told Megan and Ashley that I already
had
eaten at this place.”

Ed laughed, too. It figured. Heather and her friends kept a running tally of who had gone where and who had bought what. The FOHs were beyond snobs.
They managed to make something like choosing a dentist into a status competition.
But Ed didn't care. He savored the moment. In a weird way, that was one of the things he loved about Heather: her shameless desire to be on top of the world. She was totally honest about herself. Besides, he hadn't seen her
this
happy in ... well, in years.

“So what do you want to start with?” Ed asked, hoping she would have a better idea of how to order raw fish than he would. The fact of the matter was that he was in over his head. Sushi? Please. He could imagine how Gaia would react to this meal. She would
freak.
He smiled. If something had less than three hundred grams of fat and didn't come in a paper bag, she wouldn't even touch it—

“What's so funny?”

Ed glanced up from the menu with a start. “Uh . . . n-nothing,” he stammered. “I was just thinking that I have no idea what I'm doing. You're gonna have to order for me.”

Heather burst out laughing.

Whew.
That
was lucky. Nice comeback there, Fargo. Most of it was true, anyway. Ed really didn't know what he was doing. In more ways than one. He glanced anxiously back at his menu. Why the hell was he thinking about Gaia?
Tonight had nothing to with Gaia. He wasn't here for her. He was here for
him.
And for Heather. His grip tightened on the leather-bound menu. No more Gaia. No way. As of now, this evening would be totally Gaia-free. Gaia had no place—

“Let's just ask the waiter to recommend something,” Heather suggested, putting down her menu. “If you want to know the truth, I don't know what I'm doing, either.”

Ed managed a grin. He dropped the menu on the table and took a swig of water.

“So . . . you never answered my question,” Heather murmured seductively, leaning across the table.

“What question?”

“What's this about?”

He drew in a deep breath. He was going to wait, to build up to it—but what the hell. He was never good at keeping secrets. “Well, I went to the doctor today,” he began.

Heather groaned. “Oh, boy. I'm sorry, but can we not talk about doctors? Doctors make me think of medical bills, which make me think of the thousands of dollars my family owes to various institutions. And that makes me think . . .” She didn't finish.

Ed just stared at her.
That
sure wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting. But now he saw the truth: Heather was so caught up in her own problems that she didn't even see the connection between a celebratory dinner at an overpriced restaurant and the word
doctor.
Why
else
would Ed be celebrating?
It sure as hell wasn't because he'd been elected to the National Honor Society.
How could she be so blind? So self-involved? If Ed was talking about doctors, then he was obviously talking about his—

Wait a second.

No. She didn't see. Which meant something . . . something that suddenly made Ed feel almost as good as he'd felt in that doctor's office. Heather didn't automatically assume that
doctor
was to
Ed
as
cure
was to
paralysis.
And that meant she no longer saw the wheelchair. She only saw Ed.
Well, she
did
see the wheelchair—but only in the same way she saw Ed's ridiculous outfit: the dark suit and tie he'd been forced to put on in order to eat at this place. The point was, she mostly saw
him.
The guy. Not the condition. It was a breakthrough. A
huge
breakthrough.

“. . . walk around school the way I always did, but the fact is that I might be homeless next month.”

Ed hadn't even realized she was talking. Instinctively he reached across the table and took her hand. “Heather, you're not going to be homeless,” he said, soothing.

She flashed a brittle smile. “I know. I'm sorry. I'm rambling. But look, can we go by Scores after dinner? I hear those strippers make, like, five hundred bucks a night.”

Ed laughed. “You're going to dance on a greasy pole? I don't think so.”

“Okay, then. I'll be a sex phone operator.”

“I don't know,” Ed mumbled jokingly. “Let's hear your audition. I'll judge whether or not you'll get hired.”