Tears (5 page)

Or so she thought.

Dizziness began to claw at her brain. She grabbed the banister for support.

Without warning, the man grabbed the gun and his bag and vanished into the lobby. He left the mysterious black wire behind. Gaia simply watched him go. Battle fatigue was beginning to kick in: that inevitable physical aftermath.
Aside from fearlessness, it was the only part of Gaia's singular physical chemistry that she did not understand.
Why did she always pass out after a fight, as if her nearly superhuman abilities were on some kind of timer? But she knew she wouldn't answer that question now. She summoned up the strength to grab the wire from the floor, then made her way back to Sam's door. Purple dots swam before her eyes as she scooped up Sam's rose and pounded on his door.

“Sam?” she called, gasping for breath. She tried to examine the black wire. Her face twisted in a grimace. There was a tiny silver microphone at one end. So, from what she could tell, it was a cutting-edge piece of surveillance equipment. Definitely expensive. Something her father might have. But why the hell would somebody try to install that in Sam's suite?

Gaia pounded on the door once more.

“Sam?” she hollered. The hall began to spin around her. The rose slipped from her fingers, and then she slipped after it into a well of blackness.

What
an extraordinary gift it is for me to experience the ordinary.


TOM

For years I've had to live a life that any ordinary, sane person would call madness. Terrorists. Aliases. Living in hiding. I've seen every kind of horror and injustice. I've seen the worst kind of depravity inflicted on innocent victims. I wonder sometimes how I've managed to keep my own sanity through all these years. I watched my brother surrender to some kind of madness.


A madness that took my Katia from me. A madness that still threatens every moment to take Gaia from me as well.


I wonder what my sick brother is thinking at this very moment, surrounded by gray prison walls. I know he is seething. I know he must be drowning in his own spite—his own desperate need for vengeance. And knowing that fills me with sadness. Not just for him, but because I know these beautifully ordinary days with
Gaia can only last so long. So I am savoring every moment.


Tonight I made a leg of lamb for dinner while my daughter set the table and complained about her boyfriend. At dinner I listened to her grumbling about his missing an after-school date. And then after dinner I did the dishes as she read the newspaper. I demanded that she do her homework beforehand, and she argued— rightly—that she didn't need to study for her French test. But I argued back just the same. Though my daughter is a gifted linguist, I thought for once I would try to just be a dad, like a million other dads at that moment all around the city.


To anyone else, this would be just another ordinary evening. But to me it was anything but. To me it was unforgettable.


I pray that days like these won't end. I wish every new day could be as perfectly banal.


But I know my twin brother.


It
is hard for me to fathom my reversal of fortune. So close to having Gaia. My Gaia. The daughter that should have been mine. But now, according to the latest missive received from J, my precious girl is living with Tom. It makes my flesh crawl.


I must be patient. I envision her angelic face, so reminiscent of Katia's—yet also a face that carries my strength, my will.


My DNA.


Yes, every time I see my own image in her, I am blessed. It is like reading a tiny love letter from Katia to me, every time.


Except that now she is looking at Tom. Living with Tom. Letting him guide her, take her farther and farther away from me.


I am the only man who truly loves her, who truly understands what she was born to be.


I must be patient.


It is only a matter of time before I will be out of this prison, away from the uncouth
company of petty killers and common thugs, from this vulgar zoo of lowest-common-denominator behavior. I must constantly remind myself that there is humor to be found in the situation. After all, this is the Manhattan federal jail—the facility where the world's most dangerous men are routinely held captive. The World Trade Center bombers were quarantined here. And yet the security is so extraordinarily lax.


Of course, for most prisoners the security must seem quite threatening indeed. Armed guards in every corridor and at every exit at all times. Infrared cameras, ten-inch-thick steel doors. But for me these factors merely represent an occasional hindrance. My body is trapped, but my thoughts are free to roam. As are my commands. Visitors can still get inside the front door, and that is all I need. The sad fact of the matter is that the line between criminal and guard is an
imaginary one at best—easily blurred or erased with a bribe.


To say that all criminals are the same is to stereotype in the most base and ignorant fashion. There is no one here like me. How I loathe these plebeian crooks! Their aspirations in life are so ultimately unimportant. They constitute no noble ambition or pure design. For the most part they are driven by greed: for money, for power, for sex. They can't see past it.


My patience is wearing thin.


But the world will change. I know it. I must concentrate my energies on the moment when I shall be free to reclaim what is mine. What should have been mine all along. Like Katia herself.


Katia. Her death was a mistake. My only regret. Her lovely eyes stare back at me in my dreams, dead and vacant. Blood in her magnificent hair. She haunts me, my one regret, the sweetest of loves
.

But one regret focuses a man's will. Deepens his convictions. Forces him to confront himself. Spurs him on to attain his goals and master his own hubris. This introspection is a test of courage. To regret is to acknowledge one's humanity and weakness. That is the first step toward strength. Yes, one regret is of utmost importance. But two regrets would merely amount to failure. And I do not intend to fail. I shall escape this meaningless purgatory of prison. My brother will pay for putting me here. And Gaia will soon be mine
.

This time forever.


it was whatever came in a close second to fear: some nerve-splaying, bone-charging kind of anticipation that felt crazy and sane all at the same time.

“SO I'M, LIKE, THINKING THIS
place will give me the killer haircut of my life.” Megan Stein moaned as Heather and her friends stepped into the lunch line. “But I go home looking like a hair commercial, and I wake up looking like a blond Ronald McDonald.” Megan glanced behind her, her eyes wide in a very obvious plea for a pat on the back.

Potential Pouffing-Out Factor

“You
so
do
not
look like a blond Ronald McDonald,” Tina Lynch soothed, right on cue. “You so do not.”

“Heather, what do you think?” Megan whined, her hand flying up again to smooth down (and show off) her newly and expensively coifed hair. “I am
so
completely dying over this cut!”

What a tragedy,
Heather thought, keeping her sarcasm silent. She knew the deal. Oh, yes. Now she had to compliment Megan. She had to tell Megan that not only did she
not
resemble the blond Ronald McDonald, not even faintly; moreover, she looked incredible. Like a supermodel. The sad thing was, the old Heather would have no problem with this.
This ritual of fishing for compliments, this routine of affirmation, was so tightly woven into the fabric of their lives that none of
them even noticed it anymore.
Every single one of her friends, especially Megan, always turned to her, Heather, for a pat on the back.

But Heather had bigger things to worry about than the potential pouffing-out factor of Megan's new hairdo. She could only mumble the faintest grunt of a wishy-washy “you-look-great” before picking out a chicken sandwich. She bit her lip, momentarily tasting her Kiehl's peppermint lip balm. Which, come to think of it, was yet another thing she'd have to ration. Because she could no longer afford even that most minor of luxuries.

“I look so fat with this cut.” Megan groaned, apparently not picking up on Heather's lack of enthusiasm—or maybe trying desperately to get Heather to commiserate. “Can someone please tell me why this cafeteria insists on supplying us with only the most fattening foods?”

“So disgusting,” Tina agreed, averting her eyes from a dish of mashed potatoes. “I mean, look at all that starch! Clearly they cater only to the Amazonians of this world, like Gaia Moore. Or else to the bulimics.”

All the girls sniggered together.

Except Heather. She was horrified. The pit of her stomach hardened.
Jokes about bulimics weren't exactly a laugh a minute right now.
Not since her sister, Phoebe, had been hospitalized for
full-fledged anorexia and was evidently not getting any better—even though Heather's unemployed father had bankrupted the Gannis family on the most expensive care Manhattan could offer. Heather turned to her friends, hurt clouding her eyes. And then she remembered why they were being so insensitive. They had no idea about Phoebe. Or her parents' bankruptcy. Or anything else that mattered to her.

Only Ed knew. And only Ed cared.

Scanning over the top of Megan's perfectly shagged new head, Heather searched the cafeteria for Ed. Yes, they were going through a rough patch, but Heather needed to be with him right now. She needed to feel like she actually existed as a human being, not just a style barometer.
At least fighting reminds you that you're human,
she thought wistfully, recalling the recent misunderstandings and tensions. But maybe this time, at lunch, she and Ed could just talk, be together. They could just eat the god-damned starchy mashed potatoes—

That was when she spotted him. At the far corner table. With Gaia.

Instantly Heather's heart squeezed. Her blood felt like it was turning to ice. What the hell was Gaia even
doing
here, anyway? Wasn't she supposed to be off in Europe or something? Maybe Ed's weirdness didn't have to do with their little bargain. Ed had blown her off yesterday on the phone; he'd stiffed her earlier today. Maybe this was about Gaia.

Every time Gaia Moore turned up in Heather's world, she ruined everything. With her Greek goddess name and looks, she caused trouble everywhere she went.
They should have named her Nemesis,
Heather thought miserably, following Tina, Megan, and the others to a table.
That's Greek, isn't it?
A hollow laugh escaped her lips. The knot in her stomach disentangled and then re-formed, harder than before. Heather felt like she'd swallowed a crystal. Or a splinter of glass. Unconsciously her eyes wandered back to Ed and Gaia.

There's no way Ed would tell Gaia about what he agreed to do for me, is there?

No. Of course not.
Ed loved her. And she loved him.
She had no doubts about that. They trusted each other. But still, deep down, she knew she was compromising that love and trust by asking him to hang on to his settlement—to discourage anyone from thinking he would walk again so as to help Heather's family financially.

She was barely conscious of slumping down between Megan and Tina. At least they were being polite to her. That was something. Recently they'd treated her like dirt. They'd drop her in a second if they knew she was broke, too. God, it was an awful mixture, love and money. Heather didn't have a choice not to take this path. She had to help her family. Even if it meant risking her relationship with Ed.

Because if she didn't help them, who would?

“OH, GOD, GAIA,” SAM MURMURED,
wrapping Gaia tightly in his arms. “I'm so sorry. I'm so,so sorry....”

Soap Opera Cliché

Gaia found herself surrendering to his embrace. It was so strange: She was fearless, powerful, strong, a fighter. But in Sam's presence she was powerless to resist a simple hug. She'd walked into this dorm room with every intention of scolding him for their missed date. She had planned to let him have it—to tell him about her whole encounter with the burglar, about waking up alone in his hall and staggering home, about buying the rose and throwing it away... but the moment Sam had seen her, he'd apologized profusely and then begun to kiss the nape of her neck.

And in seconds, somehow every ounce of anger and annoyance had slipped from her mind.

She still wasn't used to this. The feeling that she'd just swallowed a ten-pound bag of Pop Rocks or turned into one five-foot, ten-inch-tall circuit board. Her body transformed into a map of electrical nerve centers that fired off whenever Sam's mouth grazed hers, whenever his fingers touched her skin.
Her reaction was so completely predictable: Sam came near, she went haywire.
Every time. But its predictability didn't make it any less thrilling.

Before she knew it, they were collapsing onto Sam's bed, and Sam's arms were wrapping around her upper body. She kissed his neck, feeling the pulse beat against her lips.

“You are so beautiful,” Sam murmured. His hand slid gently from her shoulders, caressing the exposed small of her back just below her T-shirt. Gaia's heart hammered. And as he brought his mouth to hers for a slow, deep kiss, she trembled.
Nothing could be more perfect than this moment.
Sam's kiss grew urgent, his palm tightening around Gaia's right hand, pressing it flat and smooth against the sheets on his bed.