Twisted (13 page)

After a few moments of indecision he turned to go back to his dorm. This was probably the only chance he was going to get to shower, eat something, maybe even grab a quick catnap. He would be
back on duty
soon enough.

Sam strolled across Washington Square North and headed uptown. The plan he and Ed had worked out was a simple one—until the Gentleman was caught, killed, or had moved on to another state, they would keep Gaia under close observation.
Close observation defined as spying on her night and day.

There were two upsides to this plan. First, it would keep Sam occupied, thus keeping his mind off the obsessive kidnapping questions. Second, the plan involved
seeing Gaia
. A lot.

For today both Sam and Ed would both be on duty. If Gaia appeared, they would stay close. If Gaia got in trouble, they would help her. If they made it through the first day, they would switch over to
working in shifts. Ed would watch Gaia during the school day; Sam would take over in the afternoons. It seemed like a simple plan.

Sam only hoped the killer was caught before Sam
died from exhaustion.

A group of skateboarders went past, headed for the park, followed closely by a knot of laughing kids. The police had kept Washington Square locked up for most of the morning, but now that the barriers were down, the usual park population was rushing in to fill the void.

Sam cast a sideways glance as a barrel-chested man in a Greek fisherman's hat strolled past, a newspaper tucked under his arm. The man didn't seem familiar.
He definitely wasn't a regular.
Maybe he was the killer.

Another man went past. This one had a narrow, hatchet-shaped face and wild, bushy eyebrows. Killer material for sure.

There was a middle-aged Asian woman wearing a long, dark coat—an awfully heavy coat for a day that was pretty warm.
She could have hidden anything under that coat.
After all, even if the press called the killer the Gentleman, there had been no witnesses to the killings. Who was to say this Gentleman wasn't a Gentlewoman?

Sam was looking at another man when he realized how crazy this was. Of course these pedestrians didn't
look familiar. Fifty thousand people must walk down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square on any day of the week. Maybe more like a hundred thousand. Sam couldn't possibly recognize them all.

It was time for Sam Moon to stop playing Sam Spade. A blast of sugar laced with caffeine, some sack time, and an icy shower were all required.
Any order would do.

He managed to make it back to his dorm without spotting any more serial killer wanna-bes on the streets. But that didn't mean there wasn't still one out there. Maybe Sam could just have the caffeine and the shower. The nap would take too long. He couldn't leave Gaia out there alone while he snoozed.
So no nap.

That decision made, Sam actually felt a tiny bit better. He walked through the common room and was about to open the door to his bedroom when he heard another door open.

“Hey, Sam,” said a voice at his elbow.
“Think fast.”

Someone who had gone through high school playing basketball would have had an instant response to those words. Sam played chess. He turned around just in time to take a cardboard box between the eyes.

“Ouch,” he said as the small package bounced off his forehead and thumped to the floor.

“You got bad hands, Moon.” Sam's suite mate,
Mike Suarez, leaned back against his door frame, grinning.

Sam reached for the package. “My hands are okay; it's my head that's slow.” He picked up the box and turned it over in his hands. “What's this?”

“Delivery guy brought it for you this morning,” Mike replied. “That's all I know.” He shrugged and winked. “You better work on those hands.”

“Right.” Sam returned the smile, although he felt more like smacking Mike's head right back.

Sam turned to the door and pushed it open, reminding himself for the umpteenth time that he really had to get that lock fixed. As soon as he was inside, he looked at the package again, wondering who might have sent it. It was a small box, little bigger than a stack of index cards, and the label had no return address.

There was only one way to find out. He grabbed the paper at the edge of the box and started to tug.

“Sam?”

This time the voice came from inside his room. Sam looked up in surprise and saw
Heather sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Heather! Jesus, you scared me.”

Heather smiled at him. “We didn't have the best night last night,” she said. “I thought I would try to make it up to you.”

Sam opened his mouth to say something else, but
the subject
slipped away
before it could get to his tongue. Heather's long, rich brown hair had been set loose to spill around her shoulders. She was wearing a short, black skirt that ended well above her knees and a white shirt. A big white shirt.

“That's my shirt,” he said.

Heather nodded. “I borrowed it.” Her lips pursed into a pout. “I'm sorry. You want me to take it off?”

“No, I—”

The pout on Heather's lips was replaced by a sly smile. “I was hoping you would say yes.” She raised her fingers to the top button and
Slowly Slipped it open.
Then she moved down to the next. “I think we should try again, Sam,” she said. “The last time didn't end so well, did it?”

Her tone was inviting, but her eyes conveyed a whole other message. She was giving him a chance to make it up to her. Make up for chasing after Gaia and leaving her naked. Alone. Unsatisfied.
One chance.

There was no way Sam was stupid enough to disappoint her. He didn't want to.

He quickly shoved the little package into his coat pocket next to the yellow plastic radio and closed the door.

Apparently there would be no nap, no shower, and no caffeine.

“Soon I'll be through the main course.” He looked at Loki over his shoulder. “I think I'll take up brunettes for dessert.”

“YOU MIGHT AS WELL COME OUT,”
Loki said calmly. “I know that you're following me.”

The boy stepped out from the trees and stood in the dry grass at the edge of the sidewalk. “Well, if it isn't my dear uncle Loki,” he said in a cheerful tone. “Whatever brings you here?”

Loki kept his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers around the comforting bulk of his
9-mm pistol.
“You couldn't resist, could you?” he said. “You had to come and watch.”

The boy shrugged. “I admit, there is a certain pleasure in watching all the little bugs scurry around.” He waved his hands extravagantly. “The police run here. The FBI runs there. And you run in between.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“Oh, very,” the boy said. “But that's not why I'm here.”

“Then why are you here?” Loki took a half step back. He tried to judge the odds. His skills with a firearm weren't as polished as they had been ten years before, but he was still quite fast. He could pull his semiautomatic pistol and get off ten rounds
before most men even realized he had moved.
But against this boy . . . Loki thought his chances of surviving were no better than fifty-fifty.

The boy turned and looked back through the
screen of trees at the people passing through the park.

“Actually,” he said, “I was only taking in the menu. Picking out a little something for tonight.” He gestured at a group of girls laughing near the fountain.
“There are so many possibilities here.”

Loki studied the boy as if he were a stranger. It was almost true. A year before, the boy had been just that—a boy. A boy with an unusual predilection. Then he'd been unsure of himself. Awkward. Looking to Loki and others for guidance.

A year could change everything. The man—the thing—that Loki faced had as little relation to that uncertain boy as a kitten did to a tiger. In every way that counted, he was a stranger.

“I didn't think any of that group would be to your taste,” Loki replied, glancing at the gaggle of young women.

“No?”

“I thought you were only after blonds.”

The stranger with a familiar face laughed. “So true” he said. “But that was only the appetizer. Soon I'll be through the main course.” He looked at Loki over his shoulder.
“I think I'll take up brunettes for dessert.”

Loki frowned. He wasn't squeamish. He never had been. One life lost, a hundred lives lost, what did it matter? But there were things he cared about: years of work,
research, effort. Those things should never be wasted.

Against his better judgment he took a step forward. “Come back” he said. He thought about touching the stranger's shoulder but decided against it. “Come home.”

“Home?” The boy made a noise that might have been the start of laughter but quickly turned into something more like a growl. “Home,” he said again. His face twisted into a sudden sneer, and he began to pace back and forth between the trees and the edge of the concrete path, his black coat billowing in the wind. “Couldn't you find a better word than
home?”

“It was your home,” Loki said in his most reassuring tone. “For most of your life you were—”

The boy whirled. His eyes were sharp. “Oh, don't say happy,” he snapped. “It was an experiment. A rat cage.
A prison
. Not a home. And I was never, ever happy in that box.” He raised his arm and pointed an accusing finger at Loki. “That place is the reason I'm here. The reason for everything.”

Loki sighed. It was a sad, tired sound, the sound of an old man who was past his prime and weary of the world.
It was a sound Loki had practiced.

“All right,” he said. “I don't suppose there's anything I can say to make it better now” Hidden in the pocket of his coat, his hand tightened on the grip of the pistol. He began to raise the barrel.

The boy blinked, and as quickly as it had come, his
rage seemed to evaporate. A broad smile returned to his face.

“Don't tell me you're going to shoot me,” he said. “Not after you've come so far to ask your poor prodigal son to come back to the farm.”

For ten seconds they stood in silence. Loki had no idea what the boy was thinking, but his own mind was playing over scenarios as fast as a chess computer trying out moves. In this game there were only two opening moves:
Leave the boy al one or kill him.
Each of those moves had its possibilities and its dangers. Loki made a quick glance around and judged his distance from the other people in the park. There were no police nearby, and the risk of auxiliary damage was low. Now was the time.

“I was wrong to let you out,” said Loki. “You're
undisciplined.
Unready. You have to come back with me.”

“Or you'll kill me,” said the boy.

Loki nodded. “Yes.”

The boy was fast. Incredibly fast. One moment he was ten feet away. The next Loki's hand was hit by a rock-hard blow that sent the automatic pistol spinning away. Before he could react to that first attack, a fist cracked against his chin. He reeled backward, red fog swirling in his brain.

Strong hands caught Loki by the shoulders and spun him around.

“You made me the way I am for a purpose,”
the boy hissed in a low whisper, “but I've got my own objectives now. The first one is to kill your golden child.” The fingers tightened. “And then I'm coming for you.”

The boy released his grip, stepped back, and smiled. It was almost serene. He touched one finger to his forehead in a mock salute, then turned and strolled casually across the park.

Loki watched him go. In a way, he was greatly relieved that he hadn't managed to kill the boy He couldn't be certain if it was the right decision.

But he would know soon enough.

THE BEST THING ABOUT HAVING A
date at Jimmy's was that it had all the ambiance of a shoe box.
Maybe less.

That didn't mean Gaia didn't like it. Ambiance came way, way down on the list of her requirements in a restaurant. Way below sour cream and globs of melty cheese.

Besides, no ambiance equaled no need to dress up. No need to dress up equaled no need to worry about changing clothes. No need to worry about
changing clothes equaled a happy Gaia.

That was the theory.
In the real world she decided to make a change.

What she really needed was something dark. Something nice. Cool. Something sort of
Matrix
-like.
Something that would hide stains.

Fat chance of finding it in her closet. This was depressing. For a split second Gaia thought of the red-haired girl. Mary. The smudged number on the crumpled coffeehouse napkin in the pocket of last night's jeans. Had Mary meant it when she said to call her? Was that what girls did? Call for advice before dates?

Right.
Like that was going to happen.

Gaia went back to the black jeans she had looked at in the morning and decided to give them another try. They fit a little snug—snugger than she would have liked across her bulging butt. Still, they didn't look too bad.

She stared a few minutes longer, then closed her eyes, reached in, and selected a hanger at random. Gaia opened her eyes to peek. A big denim shirt.
Not an inspired choice,
but at least a choice.

She gave her hair a few strokes, pulled it back, and slipped it through her one and only scrunchie. There. She was dressed, and the whole thing had taken less than half an hour. It had to be a new record.

Gaia checked the clock. Plenty of time to cruise by the park, lose a game to Zolov, and still be early for her date.