Liar (8 page)

Without warning the guy suddenly jumped up and spun at the same time, whipping his right leg around in a roundhouse kick—straight for Gaia's head.

But Gaia ducked it easily. She frowned. She couldn't help but feel that even if she
hadn't
ducked, the kick probably wouldn't have connected, anyway. The guy seemed to slow in midair—just barely—and raise his foot a little.

What the hell is going on? Who are you?

Maybe she should ask him. But she doubted he would answer. His face had remained perfectly
inscrutable since he'd first appeared, despite his exertion.

They circled each other again.

Gaia's thoughts raced. Obviously whoever he was, he was highly trained. In fact, his fighting style reminded her of the guy who had killed Mary: controlled, disciplined, but vicious. Maybe
he
was one of Skizz's henchmen, too. It was weird, though. Where did Skizz find these guys? For somebody who had seemingly been such a
loser
—fat and Strung out and pathetic—Skizz had sure as hell known some dangerous and powerful people.

And why wasn't this guy trying to finish her off? Why was he prolonging the combat?

Maybe he's toying with me.

If Gaia were able to feel fear, this would certainly be an opportune time for it to kick in. But instead she just felt the usual: a void, partially filled with an intoxicating excitement. This guy
had
to have been hired by Skizz. Retribution from beyond the grave. There was no other possible explanation. Which meant that Skizz had been much smarter and more powerful than she'd suspected. Even though he was dead, people were still coming after her. But they could have just
shot
her. She couldn't begin to guess what this guy's motives were—this guy who kept circling her endlessly, blocking every punch and kick but not really making an effort to fight back. Maybe
he wanted to torture her. Maybe he wanted to make her suffer instead of killing her.

“Gaia!”

Sam's voice tore through the night.

Christ.
It was about time. Only years of rigorous training prevented her from turning in the direction of Sam's approaching footsteps. Her eyes remained fixed on her opponent. If her focus wavered even for an instant, this guy might just decide to end this little game—and her life in the process. Anything was possible. She couldn't be too careful with him.

But instead the guy just smiled.

She froze in midstep, struck by the sinister contrast between his lips and his eyes. His lips were curved upward, but his eyes remained lifeless. In a way, his expression hadn't changed at all.

“Gaia!” Sam shouted again.

The guy whirled and sprinted away from her, disappearing into the shadows of the park. Within seconds he'd vanished. Silently. Another sure sign of excellent training.

“Hey!” she called. But he was gone. She stood on her tiptoes, straining to see him—but before she knew it, Sam had thrown his arms around her. He squeezed her tightly, choking for breath.

“I ran as fast as I could,” he gasped. “I saw that you were in a fight….”

Gaia wanted to answer him, to tell him that she was all right. But she couldn't. Every ounce of energy drained from her body. It seemed to pool on the frozen pavement at her feet. She started to open her mouth … only her legs gave out from under her. She pitched forward against Sam's body, thankfully blacking out before she even had a chance to be embarrassed.

IT HAD TAKEN EVERY OUNCE OF TOM'S self-control not to leap from his new rental car and intervene on his daughter's behalf. But somehow—even from the very moment Gaia had been attacked—he'd known that intervention wouldn't be necessary. She could hold her own, obviously; he'd trained her very well … but that wasn't the reason.

The reason was because she wasn't in jeopardy. Not seriously, anyway. Her attackers didn't intend to kill her.

The signs were subtle, but it was still clear (from the point of view of a skilled martial artist, anyway)
that those men had been
testing
his daughter. Sizing her up. Examining her range, her limits. Her stamina. Tom himself had been subjected to many similar tests when he'd first joined the agency: seemingly random fights that sprang from nowhere, pushing him but never placing him in mortal danger.

Loki.

The name reverberated through Tom's brain like a funeral knell. He swallowed, half expecting his twin brother to leap out from behind the car right now and pump a bullet into his head. There was no doubt in Tom's mind that Loki had been behind Gaia's bizarre little … encounter. None at all. In fact, it was confirmation of George's suspicions: that Loki wanted Gaia for himself. This fake fight was Loki's way of making sure that Gaia was everything she'd been brought up to be. Oh, yes. It had his foul name written all over it.

Tom couldn't prove this, of course. But in his profession, proof was almost always impossible to find. He'd always relied on instinct. And instinct had never let him down. Not once. Now Gaia was slumped in the arms of that boy, the one he'd almost killed earlier today….

Sam Moon.

Right.
That
was his name. Of course. God, it
frightened
him the degree to which his emotions shredded his mental capabilities whenever his daughter was
involved. He certainly should have made the connection earlier. It was the boy who'd been slashed trying to help Gaia once in the park. The boy who had been kidnapped in order to teach Gaia a lesson. Tom had always assumed he could be trusted. Yes, in fact, Tom had left a package for Sam Moon a couple of months ago—and it had ultimately saved his daughter's life.

Or so Tom had believed.

But maybe Gaia's life had never been in danger at all. And maybe the whole kidnapping act had been a clever ruse. Wouldn't that be just like Loki? To arrange a sequence of events over a long period that would virtually
prove
Sam's loyalty to Gaia? To plant someone so convincing that even
Tom
would believe his innocence? Yes. Loki was ingeniously deceptive. Besides, all Tom needed to do was look at this fight. Sam Moon conveniently disappeared just before the fight started, then reappeared at its conclusion.

Nice coincidence, wasn't it?

Tom slumped back in the driver's seat. Okay. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. But he reviewed what he knew for certain. He
knew
that Loki had planted somebody near Gaia—somebody with easy access to her. Somebody whom Gaia trusted. Possibly somebody her age, even. A close friend. A boyfriend.
This
boy.

Tom couldn't prove his theory, of course. But then, he seldom could.

To:
L

From:
BFF

Date:
January 12

File:
780808

Subject:
ELJ

Location:
WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN

Update:
Gaia Moore approached and engaged, per instruction. Performed within acceptable parameters. ELJ did not interfere. Nor was ELJ in vicinity. Subsequent surveillance failed to pin-point subject's location. Cell phone trace indicates one outgoing phone call to NYU dorm. Advise.

To:
BFF

From:
L

Date:
January 12

File:
780808

Subject:
ELJ

Directives:
Continue to monitor cell phone use. Await further instruction.

Well,
I finally got my answer. Dinner with Sam definitely wasn't a date. If it was, I probably would have
had
dinner. I wouldn't have regained consciousness on the stoop of the Nivens' house, cold and alone, after some crazy fight that didn't make sense.

But that's my life. One senseless event after another.

For all I know, Sam wasn't even the one that carried me home. For all I know, it could have been one of the guys who attacked me in the first place. Or maybe Ella. Yeah, right. Now
that's
funny. Ella comes strolling down Waverly Place, adjusting her hair and smoothing her pleats-and then, oh, no! Horror of horrors! She sees me in a heap on the ground.

If Ella saw that, she'd probably crack open a bottle of champagne.

Whatever.

I just wish Sam would call.

I've tried calling him, but there's no answer. He should have at least pinned a note to my jacket.
Dear Gaia. Sorry to bolt.

Tonight is one of those nights when I really hate being such a freak. My lame-ass condition (or whatever you want to call it) knocked me out for ten minutes after that fight. I should have known it was going to happen, too. The harder I fight, the more energy gets sapped. It's like the act of fighting is a giant leech that sucks away at my body and leaves me empty. I should have just run. No … I should have just followed Sam back to his dorm when he split to find his wallet.

But that's my life, too. A bunch of should-haves that add up to nothing.

Again he heard nothing. Not even a breath. But that silence betrayed a terror far greater than any words could express.

HEATHER JERKED AWAKE AT THE sound of snoring.
Loud
snoring. Like an old man's. She sat up straight and rubbed her bleary eyes, struggling to orient herself. For a moment she had no idea where she was. On a vinyl couch, in a brightly lit hall …
hospital.
Right. Her stomach twisted. She blinked a few times. The glare of the linoleum was way too intense. She glanced at her mother, Still curled in the same fetal position beside her, sleeping soundly.

What time is it, anyway?
she wondered.

Yawning, she peered at her watch.

Jesus. It was almost four in the morning. She tried to stretch, but her back was stiff and achy.

Another gurgling snore echoed off the cold walls.

Heather's face soured.
Gross.
Why was it that hospital waiting rooms were always filled with the dregs of humanity? She turned toward the sound—

Her eyes bulged. Wait a minute.

Ed
was here.

At first she thought her exhausted mind was playing tricks on her. But no, he was there, all right—parked right by the door to the intensive care ward, his body sprawled in his wheelchair, his head thrown back in deep sleep. He must have followed her, snuck in
here without her knowing. His face was tilted toward the ceiling. His mouth hung wide open. She could see his teeth. Stringy hair hung in front of his closed eyes. A dried stream of drool stained his chin. She froze in her seat, staring at him. His chest rose slowly from under his sweatshirt, and once again a loud snore erupted from his lips. It sounded like a car engine. Heather couldn't help but giggle. He looked
disgusting.
Like he'd just slept on the street for a week. Like a bum.

He squirmed a little, but he didn't wake up.

Heather's eyes moistened.
A bum. A beautiful bum.
A dozen emotions swirled inside her, but she couldn't sort any of them out. She only knew she couldn't stop smiling. Ed was like some kind of magical apparition, here to reassure her and her mother that everything was going to be okay. How long had he even been sitting in this miserable hall? Long enough to pass out, obviously.

She giggled again and wiped her eyes.

Ed twitched at the sound of her laughter. He lifted his head and stared directly at her, but she couldn't even tell if he was awake. His eyes were red slits, ringed by dark circles. His pale face was utterly blank.

“Hey,” Heather murmured.

The faint beginnings of a crooked smile appeared on his lips. His eyelids fluttered, then closed again. “Hey,” he croaked.

“Shhh,” Heather whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

He mumbled something she couldn't understand. It sounded like:
“Ar-oo-ma.”

She laughed. She almost wished she had a video camera. People were so funny when they were half asleep. “Shhh, Ed,” she whispered gently. “We'll talk later.”

“Are you mad?”

That's
what he was asking.
My God.
He'd come all the way down to the hospital in the middle of the night—interrupting his life for the sake of the Gannis family, without even disturbing them to let them know that he was
here …
and he wanted to know if she was mad. Heather's throat caught.

“Why would I be mad?” she choked out. Her voice was so clogged with emotion that it was unrecognizable to herself.

“'Cause I wasn't supposed to …” His voice trailed off. His head slumped to one side. He was out again.

Because you weren't supposed to what?
Heather asked herself.
Care? You're not like that, Ed. You can't help but care. And you're too honest to pretend that you don't. That's what makes you so different from everyone else.

She shook her head and turned away from him. Yet in spite of the fresh batch of tears that were welling in her eyes, she couldn't help but feel a sense of
peace. With Ed here, she knew she'd have the strength to face whatever happened to Phoebe. She wouldn't have to hide anymore.

“YO, MOON! TURN OFF YOUR GODDAMN ringer!”

Sam sat Perfectly still in the middle of his laundry-strewn floor, staring at the phone on his desk. Another shrill ring split the silence.

“Moon!” Fists pounded on the door. “At least take the freaking thing off the hook, won't you?”

Sam winced. Mike Suarez had never sounded so angry before. But then, Sam had never kept him up past four in the morning before, either. This was the seventh time the phone had rung since midnight … and he doubted it would be the last. He hadn't answered any of the calls. He couldn't even bring himself to
move.
Thank God the door was closed. He could only guess what he looked like: wearing a pair of flimsy boxer shorts, hair in disarray, shivering but bathed in sweat. Like a lunatic. Somebody who should be removed from society and tossed in a padded room.