Trust (4 page)

IN THE THIRTY SECONDS THAT IT took Heather to reach Ed's door from the time she buzzed his apartment, Ed figured his pulse had probably tripled. He didn't understand it. There was absolutely no reason to be nervous. None at all. Heather was here to watch a movie. Period. And she wasn't here to “watch a movie” (nudge, nudge; wink, wink) — the way they used to as a couple . . . which basically meant turning on the TV and ignoring what was on the screen for a few hours.

There was a very good chance that their kiss last Sunday was a onetime thing. There was a very good chance that it would never happen again. Which was fine with Ed. Really. Because he and Heather were friends first and foremost. So if Heather told him that there was no future between them, he'd be totally cool with it —

Stop lying to yourself, asshole
.

“Ed?” Heather called, knocking again. She laughed. “Are you gonna let me in or what?”

“Coming, coming,” he answered, trying in vain to shut up that annoying voice in his head. He unlatched the door and yanked it open, then wheeled himself back a few feet to give Heather some room.

“What's up, Shred?” she said with a big smile. “You know, it's not polite to keep a lady waiting.”

Almost instantly Ed began to relax. When Heather was alone with him, she could always be counted on for a quick joke to ease the tension between them. He returned her smile, feeling a deep wave of affection for her. It wasn't just because she'd used his old skateboarding nickname, either. It was the whole way she
carried
herself, the way she was deliberately casual. Plus she wasn't all decked out like she usually was during the school week. Usually Heather strutted around looking like an MTV VJ. After all, she had an image to maintain. But by dressing down, it was almost as if she were silently acknowledging the fact that she never had to put on any kind of act with Ed.

In fact, the longer he gazed at her, the more she resembled the Heather Ed used to know — her hair was down, loose, free. She wore a zippered, hooded sweatshirt. Soft, faded jeans clung to her slim hips. Battered black loafers and green argyle socks completed her outfit.

Ed swallowed. The wave of affection began to turn to something else. Something a little more lustful.

Down, boy
, he told himself.

But Heather didn't seem to notice the change in his eyes. She stepped inside and glanced around the apartment. Suddenly it occurred to him that she hadn't been here in more than two years — since a few weeks after his accident. A queasy sensation gripped his insides. Actually, the very last time she'd set foot in this apartment, she had come to break up with him.

So much for staying relaxed.

“It's nice to see that nothing's changed,” she murmured, as if to herself. She looked down at him. “Where are your folks?”

Ed shrugged, striving to appear calm and cool. “Out until tomorrow. They went upstate to some bed-and-breakfast to spend the night.” He shot her a rueful grin. “I guess they wanted to chill for a while after Victoria's engagement party fiasco.”

Heather laughed. “Oh . . . that party wasn't a complete disaster,” she said softly.

Their eyes locked for a moment. Ed's heartbeat quickened again. What had Heather meant by that enigmatic little remark? She wasn't being literal; that was for sure. The party
was
a disaster. Objectively. After all, Victoria had gotten wasted and humiliated herself, Ed's parents had clearly been miserable, and Blane's friends (Ed
still
couldn't believe that his sister was really marrying a guy named Blane) had trashed the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in a drunken stupor. So Heather must be referring to something else: that being, of course, the little make-out session that she'd had with Ed in the storage room, hiding from the rest of the guests . . .

Heather's dark, perfectly arched eyebrows rose. “So we're alone, huh?” she asked in the same easygoing tone.

“Yeah,” Ed said. His face was hot. He knew he was probably blushing. Great. Way to impress the ladies. He turned away from her and headed toward the living room. “You want something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“So what do you want to watch?” he asked, parking himself beside the living-room couch. “Jackie Chan?” He stared at the blank TV screen, unable to keep from fidgeting. “Or maybe Jean-Claude Van Damme? I don't know if you remember, but the Fargo house is famous for action flicks.” He listened to himself jabber away like an idiot, wondering when the hell he would be able to stop. “Or we could just channel surf —”

“Ed?”

He felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked up. She sat on the couch beside him, looking hesitant, innocent, vulnerable. Ed's heart clenched.

“Let's not watch TV,” she said softly. “I really just want to talk. I mean, if I wanted to watch TV, I could have gone over to Megan's house or something, right?”

Numbly Ed nodded. He couldn't speak — not that he particularly wanted to. What was that old saying?
Better to keep your mouth shut and let somebody think you're an idiot than to open your mouth and remove all doubt
.

Without warning, Heather abruptly stood. She kicked off her loafers, then passed through the living-room door and padded softly down the hall to his room — the first door on the left.

There was nothing to do but follow her. Feeling his heart pounding almost audibly, Ed pushed himself toward his ex-girlfriend. Blood rushed to every part of his body. There was something so surreal about the moment — as if he were acting out the choreography of a well-rehearsed, recurring dream. Here he was, alone in his apartment with Heather, like so many times before. . . .

She stopped a few feet inside his door. Her eyes flicked over the new elements of the room. Ed bit his lip. It had changed a lot since she'd last seen it. Instead of the former clutter (skateboards, clothing, sneakers), everything was spare, tidy, industrial. There was nothing on the floor to catch his wheels. His new desk was wide and had no chair since he just wheeled up to it. And his bed now had folded rails on each side. Over it was a hospital-type pulley system that he used to get himself onto the mattress.

Heather glanced up at the contraption, then turned and smirked over her shoulder.

Ed waited, his face a blank mask.

“Kinky,” she murmured.

He exhaled, then found himself laughing. The girl was incredible. Truly incredible. Only Heather Gannis could pull off a line like that — sexy and offensive and teasing and intimate all at the same time.

Heather perched on the side of his bed. She looked so beautiful, so sexy . . . but once more, unsure of herself. The contrast made her infinitely more desirable. He could feel himself tumbling . . . falling down into a place where he wasn't sure he wanted to go. Unconsciously his hands tightened on his wheels.

“Ed,” she whispered, looking into his eyes.

He nodded. “Yeah?” His voice was thick, clogged with emotion.

“I miss you,” she blurted out. She lowered her head, staring down at her socks, hiding behind a curtain of hair.

“Oh,” he said. Nice. Another brilliant response. He was Casanova on wheels. He blushed for what must have been the eighth time in the last twenty seconds.

“I can't get what happened at the hotel out of my head,” she continued. “It's just, like, I don't know. Stuck there. And the weird thing about it is that . . . I don't know — it makes me happy. I think about it all the time. You know?” She drew in a sharp, quivering breath.

Ed gaped at her. His mind reeled. He couldn't believe it. It was as if he'd scripted those very lines for her. She was answering all his prayers, and she didn't even know it. Was it possible? Did she really want to go out with him again? Date him? Was she saying that she wanted to —

“Listen,” Heather croaked.

His voice came out husky. “Yeah?”

“Could you do me a favor?” She looked up at him again and brushed her long, shiny brown hair over her shoulder. “I know this is going to sound really lame, like a teen movie or something, but could you please kiss me?”

Too bad he couldn't laugh at her joke. Because now his heart felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest. Given his luck, it probably would. He'd probably drop dead of a heart attack in the next ten seconds. At least it had been pitch black in the storage room of the hotel. At least he hadn't been able to
see
her. And she'd made the first move. But now it was up to him.

Ed wasn't even aware that his wheelchair was rolling slowly toward her. Heather's face just seemed to drift closer and closer until it filled his entire field of vision. She hesitated a moment, looking at him — as if giving him time to reject her, to push her away. But he couldn't. A fleeting thought of Gaia passed through his mind. It vanished the instant he smelled Heather's delicate perfume.
This isn't good
, that incessant, internal voice cried.
She's hurt you before. She ruined your life for over two years. . . .
But the words were lost in the swirl of desire and hope that rose up inside him.

He felt her breath, soft as a flower petal, on his cheek. His eyes closed.

This was the second time he had kissed Heather in the last week. It had been so long since he had felt desirable and attractive and . . . well, like an actual
guy
. Like a guy who was capable of having a girlfriend. It took only a second for him to surrender, and then her hands were gliding up his arms — and Ed almost felt himself again, almost whole.

TOM MOORE WAS NEARLY DONE. Good thing, too. It was damn cold on the roof of the Nivens' brownstone. Even though his fingers were protected by specially crafted thermal gloves, they were losing feeling. He shivered. A frigid wind had been blowing steadily for the past hour. His face and neck burned. But he had only two more connections to make. Then everything would be in place.

Deftly Tom pulled out his wire strippers and stripped the plastic coating off an inch of clear fiber-optic wire.

Perfect
.

George didn't know about this receiver and transmitter. And he never would — at least not until Tom had proved his theory about George's so-called wife.

Ella was an agent.

For what or whom, Tom had no idea. But he would find out. And it was crucial that George be kept in the dark while Tom went about his work. There was no way George would agree to Ella's surveillance. There was no way George would ever suspect his darling, beautiful, urbane wife of something rotten. Love was blind. Or rather, love
made
you blind. Besides, so far all that Tom had on Ella were bits and pieces of circumstantial evidence: scraps of one-sided phone conversations, her mysterious trips to an apartment building on the Upper West Side — nothing concrete, no direct
proof
. But this new sound system would help with that. It was exquisitely powerful. It could pick up almost any noises within the brownstone, down to a whisper.

Once the wires were connected, Tom tapped them through the battery pack, then fixed the pack to the side of a crumbling black chimney — one of two at the front of the building. Then he pressed the wires down into the roof 's tar and covered them with a malleable plastic sheath. Only a very close inspection (doubtful in this kind of weather, anyway) would reveal that these weren't cable TV connections.

Methodically Tom double-checked his work so far. He knew very well just how many operations had been ruined because someone had been too careless or arrogant to doubt their own skills. Self-doubt was what kept him alive. He measured the electrical flow with his voltmeter, then quickly gathered his tools. Strange, he reflected, that his daughter's room was only a few feet beneath him. He was doing all this for her — and she didn't even know it.

He felt a twinge of fear. He knew she wasn't home. At least when she was near George, she was safe. But Tom had seen his daughter leave only minutes ago, heading out into the city, to places unknown.

His jaw tightened. He wouldn't think about the danger his daughter faced. He wouldn't think about the fact that his best friend's wife might somehow be mixed up with Loki, his twisted twin brother — the very man who put Gaia's life at stake. Tom had a job to finish.

Slipping a minuscule earpiece into place, he listened carefully.

What the —

Almost instantly he was startled by the sound of some kind of animal in pain. He flinched. A few seconds later he heard it again . . . a groan that sent chills down his spine. What was going on in there? Frowning, Tom quickly spun dials, adjusting the quality and timbre. The sound of a woman humming under her breath floated into his ear. Suddenly the noises all snapped into focus, and Tom couldn't help but smile.

The sound he'd heard was George's snoring.

But then his smile faded. What was George doing asleep at seven forty-five on a Friday night? Of course, Tom well knew that agents often kept bizarre schedules, stealing catnaps whenever they could if they were forced to work around the clock. Very likely, George was just tired. Tom listened carefully and heard footsteps, receding slightly as they passed from one zone to another. Ella was heading downstairs.

She was probably going out.

Without hesitating, Tom pushed the earpiece more firmly into place and covered it with his dark knit cap. His eagle-sharp eyes raked the area for any telltale bits of wire sheathing or trash he'd left behind. Nothing. He was known for his clean work.

Below him, he heard a heavy door swing open — through his earpiece and also from down in the street. Noiselessly Tom crossed to the side of the building, slipped fine leather climbing gloves over the thin plastic ones he'd been wearing, and started to shimmy down the back of the brownstone.

His quarry was on the move. And he was going to follow her.

To:
L
From:
BFF
Date:
January 19
File:
780808
Subject:
ELJ
Last seen:
Perry Street residence, 7:47 P.M.

Update:
Subject observed leaving house and hailing a taxi. Tail in place. Subject was not with husband. Advise.

To:
BFF
From:
L
Date:
January 19
File:
780808
Subject:
ELJ

Directives:
Continue to monitor activities. Update as soon as she contacts/meets anyone.