Terror (10 page)

Oliver crossed his arms. “I hope you're being honest with me.”

“Why wouldn't I be honest?” Jake took a step toward Oliver. “I mean, why are you telling
me
this, anyway? If your niece is in danger, shouldn't you go talk to her yourself?”

“I tried,” Oliver said. “I ran into Gaia on the street in the Village.”

She never told me that.
“You seem to have a lot of these random run-ins,” Jake said. “So what did you say to her?”

“I just told her she should watch her back. She ran away from me. She didn't tell you?”

“I don't remember. She may have mentioned it.”

“That's not important. Listen. I come to you as a concerned uncle who wishes to make right for a lot of wrongdoing.” Oliver tilted his head slightly. “Am I right in thinking that you care for Gaia?”

“I do,” Jake said, a little fazed by Oliver's sudden candor. “Quite a bit.”

‘Okay, then. All I ask of you is to watch over her. Stay near her, even if it means you're starting to annoy her. I am in no way exaggerating when I say that
Gaia is not safe.
That's all you need to know. She should stay inside as much as possible. She should ride in cabs, with a cell phone, and be wary of the drivers. If she walks, it should only be when she's accompanied by people like you.”

“Really?” Jake asked. “It's that serious of a threat?”

“If my suspicions prove correct, then there is an entire complex of street soldiers set up strictly to track Gaia's movements. Their ultimate goal, I'm beginning to think, will be to eliminate her.”

“Murder
Gaia?” Jake asked. “But why?”

“Well, not immediately. Their first goal, I think, is to get some crucial information from her. But once they've got it, then at some point I think they'll have no choice but to either eliminate her or put her in some sort of holding cell… permanently.”

“Jesus,” Jake said. The image of Gaia's body being riddled with bullets flashed through his head. He swallowed hard and blinked a few times, subliminally hoping this might perish the thought.

“Exactly,” Oliver said. “Good to see I'm getting through to you. Now, I need you to deliver this message as soon as possible because I don't have Gaia's
number and she won't listen to me. So you will have to be the bearer of bad tidings, okay?”

Jake started nodding. Oliver was dead serious. There was no denying him. It couldn't hurt to relay a warning. “Okay,” Jake said. “I'll do it.”

“Thanks.” Oliver patted Jake on the shoulder in a guy-to-guy way. “Oh, and also, tell her to watch her mail, because I sent her a letter detailing the threat, which I'm worried she may not open out of… you know—”

“Spite?” Jake said.

“Yes. So just tell her to open my mail. Tell her the letter is perfectly harmless, just ink and paper. And an important message. That's all.”

“Will do,” Jake said, not sure whether he was lying or not. “Thanks.”

“See you later,” Oliver said. “I'm not feeling so safe on the streets myself these days.”

“I hear you,” Jake said. “See ya later, Oliver.”

Jake stood there on the street corner, running his hands through his hair. Gaia was a target. Which meant that he, by the transitive property, was also a target. Could this explain her recent timidity and non-Gaia-ness? Did she know the streets of Manhattan were filled with predators? Why hadn't she told him about her run-in with Oliver? Less than twelve hours into him being Gaia's boyfriend, and already the stakes had been raised sky-high. He had to find her.

GAIA AND LIZ RODKE WALKED DOWN Fourteenth Street, not talking, just sort of watching the mobile museum of human interaction. An old wrinkled man sitting on a milk carton, talking to himself. A young African man standing in his storefront filled with a hundred types of luggage, beckoning, “Check it out!” A couple of buff, smartly dressed gay guys laughing at something.

But the truth was, this people watching, while highly amusing, was just a way of avoiding the task at hand. If she spoke, Gaia knew that somehow the conversation would turn toward that dreaded thing: the dress. The thing Liz Rodke insisted that Gaia buy for the social event of the century.

Gaia had a moment of disconnect
—Why the hell am I doing this?—
but it didn't take hold. She found that she couldn't fight the logic of it. She wanted to go to Liz's dad's party. Or at least she knew she should want to. And if she was going to go, she needed a dress. That meant, since Gaia's wardrobe included all of two dresses, both gifts and neither of which she planned to wear in the upcoming millennium, that she would have to buy a new one. Period. How Gaia would find a dress she liked for the first time since her prepubescent years, at some chic
boutique, was not something she could afford to consider right now.

“Here we are.” Liz made flamboyant hand gestures like Vanna White showing off a prize. “Welcome to Jeffrey New York.”

Gaia looked at the place. It had white trim around huge rectangular windows. Two headless white dummies, both of which were skinnier and shapelier than any real female had a right to be, occupied the window display. They were both draped in outfits that, though clearly fashionable, could be better described as flat-out expensive. What was it? Something about the quality of the fabric? She had no idea. Anyway, it was enough to make two decapitated female things look hot, so something was right. Gaia had naively hoped that since this place was on Fourteenth Street and not down in Nolita, it might be somewhat fabulous-deprived. No dice.

“My God, Gaia, don't look so depressed. It's a boutique, not Sing Sing.” Liz put her hand on Gaia's shoulder. “Come on. Let's get this over with. I'll have you out of this place in no time.”

Gaia smiled. “Why do I doubt that?”

They opened the door and were hit by a rush of cool air. Gaia looked left and right, wide-eyed, like a savage seeing civilization for the first time. The place was filled with shoes—glimmering shoes, with needlessly high heels
and tiny straps of leather holding them together. Music throbbed, some sort of persistent electronica beat, providing a sound track, subliminally urging shoppers to pick up, try on, and pull out the plastic. Gaia heard a saleswoman speaking French with a customer.
Vouz les sois ze vouz très expensivé,
Gaia thought, making up fake French in her head. The diamond on another elderly woman's ring finger was so obscenely big that Gaia had to turn away to keep from sustaining permanent eye damage. This place was like a parallel universe.

“Check these out,” Liz said, walking toward a wall of shoes. “I try not to be a brand-name snob, but Manolo Blahniks are just too hot.” She held up a delicate sandal with a little heel and a strap of smooth black leather, with a tiny zipper up the middle. “Do you need shoes?”

“Let's not get too ambitious here,” Gaia said. “How much are those things, anyway?”

“Let's see…. Looks like four hundred and twelve, on sale. What a steal, huh?”

“See, I think four hundred is perfectly reasonable,” Gaia said, smiling. “It's that last twelve I can't handle.”

Liz laughed. “I know, right? Maybe we should just check out the dresses. Sometimes this place has decent sales.”

They walked to the back of the store, where clothes hung in rows and on dummies, lay folded on tables,
and dangled from the ceiling on fishing wire. It was a virtual forest of sewn fabric, each design carefully over-thought by a group of overpaid, chain-smoking, most likely coke-snorting fashion designers. For many New York women—hell, most of them—this would be a paradise. Not for Gaia. She would rather be back in her microscopic room, cutting her toenails or something.

Liz went straight toward the sales racks, guided by a true shopper's sixth sense. She surveyed one of the racks for a moment, then started flipping hangers with little wrist flicks. She pulled out a dress, an elegant chocolate brown number that wouldn't cover much skin. Liz held it in front of Gaia, imagining how it would look. She shook her head with disapproval.

“I hate to say it,” Liz said. “But I think that if you want to make this as quick and painless as possible, then we might as well go with old faithful.”

“What's that?” Gaia said.

“The black dress.”

Gaia nodded involuntarily. She had been too dazed by the surreal vibe of this place to actually shop. It seemed like the team of sales waifs, each one wearing a thousand-dollar outfit and a vaguely bored expression, had gotten so used to the music playing that they walked and moved in time to its beat. Gaia ran her hand through her hair. “Sure. Whatever works.”

One of the sales waifs approached them. She was, in Gaia's estimation, as stunning as a young woman could be. She had skin the color of coffee ice cream, short-cropped curly hair, a figure that was the perfect combination of sleek and curvy, and deep, dancing brown eyes. In spite of Gaia's most ingrained instincts she found herself instantly liking this complete stranger. The woman just had so much beauty.

“Hello,” the woman said in a vibrant accent that rang of the Caribbean. “Can I help you two with something?”

“Actually, yes,” Liz said. “We were looking for a black cocktail dress. Something elegant and classy, but also kind of stylish and fresh.”

“Okaaay,” she said. “May I ask which one of you the dress is for?”

“Oh, of course. Sorry. It's for my friend here.” Liz pointed at Gaia.

The woman turned to Gaia and surveyed her for what felt like forever. Gaia was overwhelmed by self-consciousness, like in a dream where she found herself naked in public, only it wasn't a dream. To keep herself from squirming under the woman's gaze, Gaia curtsied, pretending to hold up the pleats of an imaginary skirt.

“You don't even know how sexy you are,” the woman said, laughing.

It hit Gaia in the stomach. In fact, it was one of the most direct compliments she had ever received, with
the possible exception of a few things Ed had said.
Ed.
Gaia felt a pang of guilt for indulging in this little vanity fest when Ed was lying in a hospital bed just a few blocks away. What had become of her?

“Now—and I don't want to get too personal here—but is this for an event of some sort, a graduation party or a date, or is this just for personal use?”

“A party,” Liz said.

“What kind of party?”

“A posh party, where everyone will be dressed to the nines,” Liz said.

The saleswoman thought about this. “Okay. I've got it.” She seemed suddenly electrified, as if the very idea of seeing Gaia in whatever dress she was imagining was reason on its own for joy. “Follow me.”

She strutted past them and negotiated her way through a labyrinth of racked clothing. She seemed to know where she was going. Gaia followed. She found herself oddly curious about what type of outfit this woman thought fit Gaia's personality, from just one once-over and a few details about the party.

“Okay, I've got two dresses in mind for you,” the saleswoman said. “The first one, because I don't know what your personal style is, is a little more conservative.” She grabbed a hanger and held it out for Gaia and Liz to see.

“This is Jil Sander,” she said. “All elegance, no frills.”

It was fine. Just a plain, straight black dinner dress.
It was elegant, Gaia guessed, but noncontroversial to the point of boring. If she was going to drop serious cash for something she would wear once, it might as well have some pizzazz. Gaia looked at Liz and they both shrugged.

“Good,” the saleswoman said. “That's kind of what I hoped. Now, this other dress strikes me as the type of thing you would absolutely
kill
in.” She flicked through some hangers, then looked back at Gaia. “But this one will take more courage.”

Is that a challenge?
Gaia thought.

She pulled the dress out with a dramatic flurry. “Okay, now this is a vintage Veronique Branquinho, a classic cut from the seventies. It's a black stretchy polyester evening gown with a banded waist, a gorgeously gathered Adonis bust, and this pleated front that drapes like a dream.”

“Oh my Lord,” Liz said. “You have to try that on.”

“Sure,” Gaia heard herself saying. The fact that this strange and beautiful woman had picked a dress of such character seemed almost providential. More than that, Gaia was psyched by the prospect of only having to try on one dress. She grabbed it. “Where's the dressing room?”

“Right over here,” the saleswoman said. “By the way, my name is Deirdre.”

“I'm Gaia.”

“Nice to meet you.” Deirdre stopped and held open
the dressing-room door. “May the force be with you,” she said.

“Thanks.” Gaia closed the door and, first thing, checked the price tag.
Three hundred fifty bucks!
She'd known it. But it was really unique, as dresses went. It reminded Gaia of the type of thing her mother might have worn to some cosmopolitan dinner party in the seventies. Had Gaia been the type of girl to get excited about these things, she would probably have been elated right now.

Gaia tore off all her clothes and threw them into little clumps on the floor. Dressing rooms had always made her antsy—confined spaces with mirrors so close that they forced her to notice the smallest details of her body. Gaia took the dress off its hanger and, handling it almost delicately, climbed into it. Reaching behind her, she zipped it up. She took a step back and looked at herself.

“Damn,” she said aloud.

Ashamed as she was to admit it, she actually thought she looked pretty hot. It really did make her look like her mother, or at least like the collected mental images and old sepia-tinged photographs that had become Gaia's idea of her mother. It was uncanny. Gaia turned around and looked at the posterior view. Not bad. The dress clung to her snugly, almost form-fitting her svelte waist and butt but without exposing too much or making her uncomfortable.