Liar (12 page)

She stepped into the living room.

The curtains were drawn. The room was completely dark, in feet—except for the light of a roaring fire. George was slumped on the leather couch, staring at the fireplace. His face was twisted in a sour grimace, his craggy features grotesque in the flickering orange light. A nearly empty bottle of chardonnay sat on the mahogany coffee table. An empty glass sat beside it. Ella swallowed. George never drank this early in the day.

“What's wrong?” she murmured.

He shook his head. “That's not the question,” he said, his gaze fixed on the fire. “The question is, what's
right?”

Ella's heart was thumping so loudly and painfully now that she worried he might hear it over the crackling flames. “What do you mean?”

“Just look at us, Ella,” he stated. “I mean, really
look
at us. When was the last time we talked? When was the last time we even said
hello?”

“I … It's just—I've been busy,” she stammered. Her eyes flitted down to her watch. Time was slipping away. It would take her twenty minutes to get uptown—even if there was no traffic. She continued to speak, but her brain was on autopilot. “The beginning of the year is always the time when galleries look for new artists, so it's important that I show my work to as many people as possible—”

“What time did you get in last night?” he demanded, suddenly facing her.

She blinked. “I … uh … well, it was late.” She smiled apologetically. “I went to a party in SoHo and lost track of the time.”

He remained silent for a moment. His lips pressed into a tight line. His eyes were cold. “And who was at this party?” he finally whispered.

“Just, um, a couple of friends,” she said. Her voice started to quaver. She couldn't help it. In spite of all her years of rigorous training, she could feel herself panicking. The helplessness was acute. At any moment her disguise might slip. She was certain of it. He'd never looked at her this way before … with such
venom.
At any moment he might be able to see her for who she really was.

“A boyfriend?” he growled.

Ella gaped at him. Was
that
what this was about? Did he think she was having an affair? She almost felt like laughing. All at once the fear fluttered away, and the perfectly crafted wall went up again. An affair! Ha! What a
relief.
Handling this would be no problem at all. This
was
nothing.
And as she'd learned from Loki himself, suspicious accusations were best countered with anger.

“You think I have a boyfriend?'” she snapped indignantly.

His face fell. “I … I don't know
what
to think,” he muttered.

“George, has it ever occurred to you that I'm trying to get a career off the ground?” she asked. Confidence surged through her.
This
was the reward for serving Loki—to control this spineless pawn. The words flowed as if she were reading them from a page. “I don't accuse
you
of seeing a mistress when you disappear on your missions for weeks at a time. Marriage is about trust, George. It works both ways.”

He turned back to the fire. “I know,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “And I
do
trust you. I just want things to be … to be the way they were.”

For the briefest instant Ella almost felt sorry for him. After all, he'd been living a lie—a lie that was tearing him apart, no less—and he didn't even know it.

Saddest of all, the lie would ultimately kill him. Quite soon, in fact.

But that was the price he knew he could pay when he chose his profession. One could never be too cautious. Even with those you loved. Even with those whom you believed loved you in return.

“Things will get better, George,” she finally whispered. “I promise.”

She bit her lip, then turned and hurried from the
room. It was best to leave the argument at that. There was no point in torturing George unnecessarily.

Even Ella could appreciate the difference between betrayal and sadism.

I'M NOT GOING TO PUT THIS OFF any longer.

Sam shook his head, marching determinedly down Perry Street toward the Nivens' brownstone. Enough was enough. He was going to tell Gaia the truth. Now. Face-to-face. He didn't even care if Ella was home. He'd spill it all in front of her. What could she do? Deny it?

Maybe her husband would be home, too. Fine. The more the merrier. After all, George Niven had a right to know what his wife was up to as well. Everybody did. The guilt was tearing Sam apart. It was simply too much to bear. What was that story by Edgar Allan Poe?
The Tell-tale Heart.
Right. It was about the heart of a murder victim that continued to beat after he'd been buried under some floorboards, driving his murderer to madness … until the murderer finally had to confess to his crime.

Only
this
time the tell-tale heart was beating inside Sam Moon—because Sam Moon was killing himself.

He paused in front of the stoop, taking a moment to collect himself.

The door creaked open.

Uh-oh.
He winced.

It had to be Ella. Wearing that ridiculous coat She didn't even seem to notice him. She trotted quickly down the steps, her head down. He stood there, frozen in place—an animal caught in headlights. She barreled right into him. He staggered backward, nearly felling on his back.

“Excuse
me,” she snapped. “Watch …” Her face suddenly brightened. She smiled. “Sam? I'm sorry. I didn't expect to see
you?”

He brushed himself off and stood up straight. It took a continuous effort of will not to leap forward and smash her in the face with his fist.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“What do you
think,”
he hissed. “I m looking for Gaia.”

Ella frowned. “Oh. She's not here. But don't worry.” Her smile reappeared. “Our secret is safe with us. Gaia doesn't know a thing.”

“I don't believe you,” he said in a hollow voice.

Ella laughed, then shook her head and began walking briskly toward West Fourth Street. “Suit yourself. Go ahead and check. She's not there.”

Sam's eyes flashed to the door, then back to Ella's
retreating form. “I meant what I said,” he called after her. “If you tell her anything …”

“I know, I know,” she answered, sounding bored. She didn't even bother to look over her shoulder. “You'll kill me.”

Anger engulfed him like a flash flood … then strangely, it vanished—leaving only numbness in its place. He watched blankly as Ella hailed a cab and sped off into the afternoon. There was nothing he could do, was there? This woman, this
lunatic,
was now part of his life. Forever. She was stronger than he was. Smarter. She had the upper hand. Even if he told Gaia the truth, what would that accomplish? He'd simply lose her for good. He'd destroy whatever slim chance they might have of ever being together.

But Ella would still be there. Ella would
always
be there.

TRAILING HIS DAUGHTER AROUND downtown Manhattan was a useless exercise. Useless, frustrating, and agonizing. As the sun began to set, Tom finally decided to give up. Gaia was safe … at least for today.

Safe and alone.

He'd never seen such isolation. At least not in anyone but himself. Apparently she had no close friends, the Moss girl having been the one exception. Sam Moon was a potential enemy of the most dire kind. There was also that boy in the wheelchair, but even he seemed to have disappeared.

Tom fought back tears as he watched Gaia stroll down Perry Street toward the Nivens' home. It was her face that tore him apart. Her face was a portrait of sadness. She hadn't smiled once all day. She hadn't even looked up from the grimy streets and sidewalks. He'd begun his surveillance at noon—she'd simply walked endlessly over the same territory, fists jammed in pockets, head down in the bitter cold.

That's how my daughter spends her Saturday. Roaming the city streets until night falls. A solitary figure.

He should have expected it, he supposed. Solitude ran in the family. All the Moores were cut off from the rest of humanity. Even his brother.

His breath quickened at the thought of his brother. From what he could deduce, Loki didn't intend to harm Gaia—at least not in the immediate future. On the contrary, if Loki was grooming her to join him, then he'd go out of his way to protect her.

So it was time to shift focus. It was time to concentrate his energies on potential threats: specifically Ella Niven and Sam Moon.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Time:
5:35
P.M.

Re:
Car crashes, etc.

Hey, G$—

Wow. Hit by a car, huh? That's a story you can tell your grandkids. Apology accepted. No, I don't hate you. Don't sweat the missed connection. But write back or give me a call to let me know you're okay, all right? Maybe we can still watch that movie. I'm not doing anything tonight. I was thinking about renting
The Great Gatsby.
That way we don't have to read the book. What do you think?

—Ed

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Time:
7:02
P.M.

Re:
[No subject]

I'd rather read the book.

Things
I Hate About Heather Gannis:

1. She's beautiful, stylish, and sexy—in that really heinous New York City way.
   
2. She's a total bitch.
   
3. No one seems to notice this but me.
   
4. I almost got her killed once, so she makes me feel guilty.
   
5. She and Ed are suddenly best friends.
   
6. She invited Ed to spend the night at her house.
   
7. He accepted.
   
8. I have no idea
   why
   he accepted.
   
9. She seems to go out of her way to make my life hell, and she doesn't even know it.
   
10. And oh, yeah, I almost forgot—she's Sam's girlfriend.
    

It'S
strange how memory works. I can't remember much of the past five years—at least not specific details. All the assignments seem to blur together in an endless stream of plane flights and clandestine meetings, of shadowy figures and aliases and death. Even the cities blend together: Prague, Sãao Paolo, Brazzaville, Tokyo…. The list is as long as it is depressing. I've been to every continent, and I can't tell any of them apart.

But I remember the day Gaia was born with such clarity that it frightens me. Every detail of the hospital waiting room is etched upon my mind: the stack of out-of-date
People
magazines, the threadbare orange carpeting, the buzzing fluorescent lights. I remember the nurses' smiles as I paced back and forth. The other two expectant fathers, sharing their anxiety with me. I remember wanting to hold Katia's hand so badly, I thought I would explode. But Katia's blood pressure had been spiking, putting her at risk, and they didn't want an excitable father in the OR.

And finally they called me in. Finally I was able to stand beside my Katia and gaze into my beautiful daughter's eyes.

I also remember thinking that something changed that day. Because until that day I thought that nobody else's eyes were as beautiful as my wife's. No other pair had that same capacity to captivate.

Not until Gaia came along.

Katia noticed the change, too. “Somebody stole your heart from me,” she would joke during the first few years of Gaia's life.

“That's right,” I would reply. “A beautiful blue-eyed blond.”

Katia would always insist that Gaia's best features were from the Ukrainian side of the family: her strength, her beautiful skin, her intellect. And out of pride I would deny it. I would insist that she inherited her best qualities from me. I was half joking, of course, but part of me was serious. Gaia was so special that I wanted to claim her as my own creation.

I know now that Katia was right. Gaia has more of her mother inside her than she'll ever know.

But I shouldn't dwell on the past, even though my memories are all that allow me to keep going. I often think of the songs Katia used to love—the old classic rock and soul from the sixties and seventies. American music made her laugh out loud. Her eyes would light up. She would dance. It was so joyous, so unlike any music she'd heard back home.

One line from one song in particular stands out.

“I'd trade all of my tomorrows for a single yesterday.”

Their bodies were two asteroids, adrift in space, caught in each other's gravitational pull….

ED'S MISERY EXISTED ON SEVERAL levels.

At its most basic, he was uncomfortable. Physically. The ballroom was way too hot. The tuxedo, which his parents had bought for him for some unknown reason before his accident, didn't fit anymore. His pants were too short. They were chafing him at the waist. They barely cleared his knees. (At least he was prepared for a flood.) The shirt, jacket, and vest were also too small. The collar was like a freaking noose. Nobody seemed to remember that in the time he'd been confined to his wheelchair, his upper body had developed in order to compensate for his not being able to walk. But his parents told him he looked great. He could only imagine what Heather would think. (If she ever showed up. Where the hell
was
she, anyway?) If he twisted too far to the right or left, he might rip right out of his clothes, like the Incredible Hulk.

That could be funny, though. And this party definitely needed some comic relief. If you could call it a party.