Freak (4 page)

Gaia took a deep breath. It was better than nothing. “Okay, fine,” she said. “Tell Tatiana that if she talks you'll let Natasha go and tell Natasha that if she talks you'll let Tatiana go.”

“Interesting,” Rosenberg said, nodding. “Offer the other prisoner's freedom, not her own.”

“Trust me,” Gaia said, feeling fairly satisfied with herself. “That's the only way to get to those two.”

You
know you're in trouble when leaving messages becomes as addictive as playing video games. You're sitting in your room, and you know you shouldn't start, say, Super Collapse up again. Your eyes are dry and your fingers are twitching and you're definitely feeling the early onset of carpal tunnel syndrome, but you can't help yourself. You keep thinking,
This is it. This is the time I'm going to get to the next level or beat my high score.
And so you click it open again, and you play, and you almost never beat that high score because now it's two
A.M
. and you're dehydrated and dizzy and you no longer know what the point of the game is anyway.

But the whole leaving messages thing is even worse. Because if you play that video game until two o'clock in the morning, the only one that's going to know about it is you. And even though you have a headache the next morning and you
can see the little Collapse boxes stacking up in your head when you close your eyes, your shame is all your own. There are no witnesses. And you can live with your own shame. You can delete the damn game from your hard drive and move on.

But the messages are a different story because every time you pick up the phone and dial, you know somewhere in the back of your mind that someone else is going to hear whatever rambling idiocy you're about to spew. You know they're going to hear all two, three, five, ten messages and you know that no matter what you say, all that's going to register is.
“Hi, I'm a psycho and I can't control myself.”
And yet you think you can fix it. You think you can say just the right thing to make all those other messages disappear.

You're delusional. And this time, you have witnesses.

Seeing Oliver, she was glad she'd come. Her uncle looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel.

Donut Therapy

“YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE,” OLIVER
said the second he opened the door for Gaia on Saturday morning. His face was covered with patchy stubble and he looked as if he hadn't slept for more than five minutes the night before. His tired eyes were full of bitterness and sorrow.

“What's wrong?” Gaia asked, clutching her bag full of donuts and coffee.

Oliver didn't answer. He turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door only slightly ajar. To follow or not to follow, that was the question.

Gaia used the toe of her Doc Marten to push the door open and stepped out of the sunlight and into the dark depths of the brownstone. Oliver had kept the curtains drawn the whole time they were hiding out here, searching for clues on the whereabouts of her father, and it seemed her uncle hadn't let the sun in once since then. Didn't he know they were out of danger? Or had he just gotten used to the darkness?

“Gaia, I don't want to get you into trouble with your father,” Oliver said wearily, lowering himself into a creaking chair at the one small, chipped table that stood against the far wall. There was a legal pad in front of him with a long list down the right side. Oliver capped the pen he'd obviously been using and pushed both things aside.

“If he knew you were here he would not be happy,” he added.

Pretty depressing.
It looks like my donut therapy idea was long overdue,
Gaia thought. She'd woken up that morning and realized that Oliver might be hurting for company since Jake had left. She'd been up and out the door before her father had even stirred from his bedroom and now, seeing Oliver, she was glad she'd come. Her uncle looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel.

“Tell me something I don't know,” Gaia said with a smirk. “In case you hadn't noticed, I tend not to listen to authority.”

Oliver smirked and nodded slowly as if he were sharing a private joke with himself.

Gaia placed the large waxed paper bag down on the table and started to unload the goods—a box of six fresh donuts and two huge cups of steaming coffee. She sat down across from Oliver and pulled her coffee over to her, popped the tab back, and inhaled the comforting scent. Oliver slid his own cup over the table and wrapped both hands around it. She noticed that his skin was dry to the point of cracking and that his fingers looked very pale.

Gaia swallowed hard and tried not to stare. After the mission in Russia she'd hoped that Oliver would start to come out of his shell a bit—start coming out of the brownstone every once in a while—but clearly
he didn't feel he was ready for that yet. He was slowly turning into a hermit.

Maybe if Dad hadn't made him feel like the enemy,
Gaia thought bitterly.
Maybe if he'd felt the least bit of warmth from his brother, he'd be feeling better about life.

“Have you thought about . . . I don't know . . . getting some new furniture? A couple of lamps, maybe?” Gaia asked, looking around the depressing room. She was supposed to go shopping with her father that afternoon and wondered if she could sneak in a couple of purchases for her uncle. The man was going to go Unabomber if he didn't get a little light in this place. Maybe a painting or a poster to brighten things up.

Oliver's brows came together over his nose. “Hadn't really considered it.”

Gaia's heart thumped. “Why not?” she asked. “I mean, you are going to stay here, right?” The last thing she wanted was for Oliver to skip town. Not now. Not before he made up with her father. She knew it was optimistic and probably very stupid of her, but she had this picture somewhere in the back of her mind—a picture of her and what was left of her family sitting down to dinner together, laughing and talking and just . . . being normal.

“I don't know, Gaia,” Oliver said, his features softening a bit. “I think it might be better if I just . . . if I just disappeared.”

“Why? Because that's what my father wants?” Gaia
asked, reddening. Oliver looked as if he'd been slapped. “I mean, because that's what you
think
my father wants?” she added. “He's just being him. He's just being . . . careful. He's going to come around eventually.”

Oliver took a deep breath and leaned back. “I hope you're right,” Oliver said. He placed his coffee cup down and slid the legal pad over so that it was resting in front of him again. He squinted down at the page, concentrating.

“What is that?” Gaia asked, grabbing a chocolate-covered donut and chomping into it. She used the back of her hand to wipe the crumbs from her mouth and leaned over to see the list as Oliver turned it toward her.

It was a list of names. And Sam Moon's was at the top.

“Okay,” Gaia said, gazing at Oliver. “I still don't know what it is.”

Oliver smiled slightly—sadly. “It's a list of people I need to make amends with,” he explained. “I just started it, but I have a feeling it's going to get much, much longer.”

Gaia looked down at the thirty or so names, her heart constricting. Oliver really was trying. He was trying so hard. And he was living out here by himself in Brooklyn like some kind of criminal banished from society. Why couldn't her father see how much he had changed?

Because he killed your mother. Because he tried to kill you on numerous occasions. Because he's evil,
a little voice in Gaia's head told her.

But he wasn't evil. Not anymore. He was Oliver now, not Loki. And sooner or later her father was going to have to recognize that.

“Do you think Sam would talk to me?” Oliver asked, his eyebrows rising.

That question caught her completely off guard. She choked on her donut. “I don't know,” Gaia replied truthfully. It was going to be a hard sell. Sam had lost several months of his life thanks to Loki. “But I'll see what I can do.”

“That's all I can ask,” Oliver replied, picking the list up again with two hands—almost reverently. When he looked up at Gaia once more, she could tell he was having one of his emotional moments. She concentrated to keep herself from squirming. She hated this part.

“Thank you for coming here, Gaia,” Oliver said softly, his eyes moist around the edges. “It means a lot that you're still here for me.”

“I know,” Gaia said awkwardly. She reached up and pushed the bag of donuts toward him. “Eat something already.”

Oliver smiled and picked up a jelly donut. Together they sat in companionable silence, until every last crumb was polished off.

Decisions

TOM MOORE WALKED THROUGH THE
Pottery Barn on 59th and Lexington, trying not to let his exhaustion and frustration show on his face. Like most men, he'd never been much of a shopper. He didn't have strong opinions about anything. Antique or modern, wood-finish or painted, steel or wrought iron. It was all the same to him. One would think that this blasé attitude would make this whole excursion easier—that he could pretty much just buy whatever he saw and be happy—but his lack of conviction just made him more irritated with himself.

He wanted to make a home with his daughter. And he hated that he didn't care what was in it. All he cared about was that it didn't look like it once belonged to Natasha.

“Dad? What about this bed?” Gaia asked from somewhere nearby.

Tom turned and saw Gaia standing next to a large, heavy, wooden bed with a high headboard. He was struck for the millionth time by how very much she looked like Katia—more and more each day. He smiled slightly, remembering how adorably frustrated his wife used to get whenever she took him out to the shops.

“Just make a decision, Tom!” she would say, clutching two bedsheets in her delicate hands. “Plain white or blue stripes? Have an opinion!”

“I like it,” Tom said, walking over to Gaia and running his hand along the carvings at the top of the headboard. “This is the one.”

Gaia smiled, clearly relieved that he'd finally picked something out. After five stores in all corners of the city, she had to be getting a bit tired. And while Gaia had quickly selected a new bed, desk, and linens at some of the independently owned stores downtown, the only thing Tom had so far was a lamp to replace the one he'd thrown at the wall in a fit of rage the day before. The truth was, the bed didn't inspire any great feelings within Tom, but the memory of Katia had. And he figured he might as well make this trip easier on their daughter like he was never able to for his wife.

Gaia walked over to a wall of shelves that held packages of sheets and pillowcases in brushed, brown silk.

“These look like they're you,” Gaia said. “I mean, as much as sheets can
be
a person.”

Tom smiled. “How so?”

Gaia considered, obviously choosing her words. She never would have admitted it, but Tom knew she was enjoying this shopping spree.

“They're manly man sheets,” she said finally, blushing slightly. “Sophisticated, but—”

Tom reached out and ran his fingers over the smooth, velvety silk. “Sophisticated, but soft and
mushy like your old man?” he joked, as he patted his less than solid stomach.

“Exactly,” Gaia said with a laugh.

“Okay, so I'm a little more doughy than usual. . . . Next time I go to a Siberian prison, I'll have to remember my free weights.” This made Gaia laugh even harder. Tom loved entertaining his daughter in this way.

Tom sat down on the bed and leaned back into the faux fur pillows, watching her as she searched for the right size. He took a deep breath and tried to calm the nerves that seemed to rear up every few minutes.

This was insane. He should be at headquarters right now, grilling Natasha. Deciphering what her cryptic clues about the past were all about. He should be trying to find out everything he could about his brother and the role he'd had in Tom's kidnapping. Instead he was kicking back in a superstore with fake fur bristles tickling the back of his neck.

“So, I went to see Oliver this morning,” Gaia said suddenly, her back to him.

“What?” Tom blurted, bolting up. He felt all the blood rush to his head. “Gaia—”

“Dad, I think you should hear him out,” Gaia said, tossing a set of sheets on the bed next to his bent leg.

“I am
not
going to hear him out and you are not going over there again!” Tom shouted, standing.

He looked at his daughter and his heart sank. She
suddenly seemed about four years old, standing there looking up at him with those wide, confused eyes. Tom glanced around the store and saw that a pair of older women and a younger couple had all frozen in place and were gaping at him. Tom felt his skin prickle with the heat of embarrassment.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly, coming around the bed. He ran his hand over Gaia's shoulder and down her arm, then squeezed her hand. “Gaia, I'm sorry,” he repeated. “I'm just on edge. And when it comes to my brother . . . ”

“I . . . I know,” Gaia said, clearing her throat. “You don't have to explain.” She moved away from him and made a big show of inspecting a set of old-fashioned clocks on a shelf at eye-level. Tom felt his chest empty out the moment she stepped away.

“But I do,” Tom said, standing next to her. “For some reason I just haven't been able to control my emotions since we've been back,” he told her. “But I'm working on it. I
am
sorry, Gaia.”

“I know,” Gaia said again. But this time she turned and looked him in the eye, attempting a smile.

“Listen, I know you care for your uncle, but I want you to trust me on this one,” he told her. “I don't want you seeing him again until we know for sure that he had nothing to do with Natasha and Tatiana's attempts on your life. I don't trust him yet, Gaia. Just . . . humor me.”