Trust (16 page)

THE MOMENT TOM SAW ELLA DIP her hand in her purse, he broke into a sprint — nearly barreling over several people in the park. Gaia was so close to her now. His legs pumped furiously. The two of them were still so far away.
Damn
. Why was Gaia following her?

He should have somehow gotten word to her that Ella had tried to kill her, that Ella was responsible for the falling chimney . . . that Ella was far more twisted than Gaia could ever suspect. Adrenaline coursed his system. He reached into his coat pocket and gripped his pistol. All his senses were alert, on hyperdrive. Every instinct told him something bad was about to happen right here, right now. The only question was whether he would be able to affect the outcome at all.

He was about twenty yards away. The sun was setting fast, and already the shadows beneath the trees were deeper, longer, darker. He peered ahead, trying to see through the undergrowth as Gaia crossed the street.

God, no.

It was at that moment that Ella suddenly stopped, pivoted, and turned on Gaia.

EVEN BEFORE GAIA SAW THE GUN in Ella's hand, she sensed danger. The moment Ella had pivoted, in fact, Gaia made a split decision to dive to the left, rolling across the street beside the wheels of a parked van.

Thwip!

The dull pop of a silencer was as recognizable to her as the sound of her name. In a way, it was like hearing an old song from the distant past. The last time she'd seen or heard a silencer was back in the Berkshires, when her father had showed her how to use one —

Thwip! Thwip!

Gaia felt a whizzing at her ear — and one of the tires began to deflate. There was no time to think. Relying on her years of honed training, Gaia went into survival mode. She jumped up and ducked behind the van, then crouched on the sidewalk. It was finally happening. Ella had finally lost her mind. But Gaia would worry about Ella's motives later. Right now, she had to disarm her.

An air of detached calmness settled over Gaia. She was perfectly focused on the moment — on the here and now. Peering under the body of the van, she saw Ella's boots, tiptoeing slowly. Gaia knew she couldn't hide forever; it was a game of cat and mouse that would inevitably end in her death. She needed a plan. Her eyes quickly scanned the sidewalk. They zeroed in on a rock. Gaia snatched it up and quickly threw it to her left.

The instant it hit the ground, Ella broke into a run — straight toward the sound — as did Gaia. Her plan was simple: to barrel straight into Ella before she had a chance to aim again. She could hear Ella's boots clicking on the ground as they both rounded the van, closer and closer to each other. One more second —

Smack!

Gaia collided with Ella, skull to skull, and they both went staggering. But surprisingly, Ella quickly regained her balance. Time slowed, expanding with infinite, crystalline detail. Gaia saw the fine lines etched at the sides of Ella's eyes as the woman focused on Gaia's body. She saw the pale blue veins like cool shadows on Ella's hand as she steadied the pistol for another shot. There was little chance she would miss.

Gaia coiled and sprang. Again they collided — but this time they both went tumbling to the pavement. People were staring at them now. A scream tore through the air. Obviously somebody had seen the gun. Good. That might buy Gaia a way out of this. She rolled over and shot Ella a quick glance. The woman was sprawled on the ground, flailing wildly. In her eyes Gaia saw nothing but raw rage. Ella wouldn't stop. That meant Gaia had to act. She slithered across the pavement and seized Ella's slim throat in both hands.

Ella's green eyes bulged in shock.

Gritting her teeth, Gaia pressed her thumbs into the carotid artery. This way Ella would lose consciousness in a minute. Of course, a minute was a long time when you're fighting for your life. Because Ella was struggling now, wiggling, arching her back, trying to push Gaia off. Fortunately this was one of those few times when Gaia's freakish size came in handy. She pinned Ella beneath her and continued to squeeze.

It seemed clear that there could be only one survivor.

An image of Uncle Oliver flashed into her brain, and she wondered if she would be able to hide this deed from him. But that was a consequence that couldn't stop her. Ella started to gag, her face turning purple. A faint muscle tremor signified that her muscles were starving for oxygen. But Gaia refused to let go or loosen her grip.

Without warning, Ella's gun flashed up in a blur. Gaia's left temple burst into pain. Ella had struck her with the butt of the pistol. Momentarily stunned by the blow, Gaia suddenly found their positions reversed. Ella was now straddling
her
. The woman's face was a grotesque mask of hatred and fury. Gaia stared back at her — knowing that in the next second her life would end in a vivid star burst of blood, brains, and bone.

TOM CROUCHED ON THE SIDEWALK and withdrew his gun. Ella's back was perfectly within his sights. There was only one thing left to do. Kill her before she killed his daughter.

I'LL PROBABLY GO TO JAIL FOR THIS,
Ella thought, pressing the butt of the silencer against Gaia's forehead. People had seen them now. There were witnesses. But jail would be worth it in a way —

A searing pain hammered her back.

It was as if somebody had smacked her with a rod of molten iron. She slumped forward.

Unfortunately that was all Gaia needed to escape.

FOR SOME REASON, ELLA'S CONCENTRATION wavered. Gaia lashed out with her legs and flipped the woman off her, then jumped to her feet. For a few dizzying seconds she stood there, staring down at Ella's crumpled form.

Gaia didn't understand it. How had she managed to escape? Why hadn't Ella pulled the trigger? What had stopped her? Certainly not her conscience . . .

But that was when Gaia saw the thin trickle of blood coming from Ella's fur coat, pooling in rivulets on the pavement.

Somebody shot her.

“Jesus,” Ella groaned. “I think I've been shot.”

Gaia's eyes flashed around the street. The few onlookers were scurrying in every direction. All but one, in fact . . . a dark figure crouched on the opposite curb and silhouetted against the reddish sun. The figure was holding a gun.

“Uncle Oliver,” she whispered.

Yes. Her heart overflowed with warmth. It
was
him. His eyes bored into her own with an icy gaze.

But then Gaia's smile faltered. Something . . . something wasn't quite right. Even from this distance, even in the glare and shock and madness, she knew that those weren't the same pair of eyes into which she had gazed Monday night at dinner.

“Gaia,” he called.

The voice wasn't the same, either. She stiffened. It was rougher — a voice out of the past, a voice thick with terrible memories —

“Gaia!”

It was her father.

She took a step back. Time came to a complete standstill.

“I love you,” he called. “I —”

A sudden movement caught her gaze. Ella was scrambling for her gun. Gaia kicked Ella's wrist as hard as she could. Snap. The gun flew off onto the cobbled sidewalk and skidded into a sewer hole. Gaia glanced up again.

The figure was gone.

Gaia blinked several times. Maybe she'd just hallucinated the entire sequence of events. But
somebody
had shot Ella. Of that there was no doubt. Which meant that Gaia had to get out of here. She knew that any moment her strength would fade, her adrenaline would drain, and she would collapse. She had to get somewhere safe first.

“WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?” Loki asked, staring out the window of his apartment at the rapidly darkening Manhattan skyline.

“A minor setback,” Pearl replied from the couch. “Nothing that can't be fixed this evening.”

“Please be more specific,” Loki said evenly. “Given your fee, I think I'm entitled to the details.”

Pearl sighed, and her tone became more businesslike. “She didn't drink all the poison — just a bare bit of it. At the last minute she remembered that she had to see her husband off, and she jumped up before she finished her glass.”

Loki turned to her. “Does she suspect anything?”

“No.” Pearl shook her head and smiled. “I'm sure she woke up feeling awful today, but she drank a lot of wine last night. No doubt she'll blame that. I arranged a backup meeting for tonight, at nine. So she'll be dead by nine-thirty or so.”

“Good,” said Loki. “I know I can count on you.”

Pearl shrugged. “That's why they pay me the big bucks,” she said.

For
the first time in a very long while, the future is not a bleak landscape — a harsh, barren desert defined by misery and loneliness. No. For the first time in a very long while, I have hope.

It's an emotion I haven't experienced since I was your age, my sweet.

But now, I will claim what should always have been rightfully mine. You will belong to me, Gaia, from this moment forward and forever. And the future holds wonders you can't possibly begin to imagine.

If you could glimpse what lies ahead, you might finally understand the depths of my feelings. Of course, if I told you that would someday change the course of human affairs, the course of politics permanently, irrevocably you might not believe me. Skepticism runs deep in our blood. Which is as it should be. Doubt is healthy. Particularly when it comes to the unimaginable.

Trust me, Gaia, all doubts will be laid to rest. But that is for another time . . . another place. Far from here.

Your mother doubted me, too, Gaia. She doubted my motives; she doubted my very soul. To this day, I cannot understand it. She loved Tom and who
is
Tom, but my mirror image? Tom and I closer than brothers; we sprung from the same cells, the same material, the same
code
. Whatever belongs to him belongs to me as well. The environment alone has shaped our differences.

That
is
the truth: we have only external stimuli to blame for the rift that tore us apart. The rift that took you from me, Gaia. So in a way, I don't blame Tom. I never did.

But I have learned from all this. Oh, yes. I have learned that external stimuli must be controlled.
Censored
.

You couldn't possibly understand what I'm talking about, Gaia. But you will. And when you do, the two of us will be one.

In
algebra and other heinous forms of advanced math, there's a lot of talk about logic. You know — if A equals B, and B equals C, then A must equal C. Get it? That kind of thing. It's pretty obvious. I mean, you don't have to have a degree in rocket science to make these sorts of basic connections. Even somebody who hates math (like me) can grasp the old A is to B is to C bit.

So it's kind of strange that it took me so long to figure out that my father was the one who shot Ella on the street yesterday.

Okay. I guess I should back up a little. Actually, what I should do is break it down into mathematical terms. You know, show you the
logic
of it.

A) I saw my father

B) He was pointing a gun at Ella.

C) Ella got shot.

So obviously, my father was the one who shot Ella. This should have been very clear to me from the moment it happened. But still, I just couldn't bring myself to believe it. Of course, that's because the idea of my father shooting my foster mother raises a lot of very disturbing questions the kind of questions that are about as far from logic as you can get.

For starters, what was my father even
doing
there? All of a sudden he bursts out of nowhere and saves my life.

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention a key part of this whole equation: Ella was trying to kill me. That actually sounds a lot more shocking than it really is. Legally, she's my foster mother, but legality is about as far as the relationship goes. She's working for somebody (whom, I don't know); she s trained in martial arts (again, this is a total surprise); and, she's very unbalanced. Psychotic, in fact. (Why, I have no idea.) All I know for certain is that she hates my guts and she has from the moment she met me.

Which brings us back to the incident on the street.

Recently, the tension between Ella and me has been a little worse than usual. Maybe that's an understatement. If the previous tension could be represented by say, a single Krispy Kreme donut, the tension now can be represented by a donut the size of Australia. There are a lot of reasons for this, most of which revolve around a certain Sam Moon, and none of which I feel like addressing at the moment.

All I know for certain is that I can no longer live with Ella. Again, it's just a matter of logic. It doesn't make much sense to live with a woman who's trying to kill me, right?

Luckily, I have a way out.

My uncle Oliver is kidnapping me. Of course, kidnapping is also strictly a legal term — like foster mother. I'll be a very willing victim. Because by kidnapping me, he'll be saving my life. Which he's already done on one occasion. It's something he and my father have in common — besides an uncanny resemblance. That's right. Coincidentally, my uncle is another blood relative who happened to explode out of nowhere and save my life. But I guess that would make sense. He and my father are twins. Why wouldn't they choose to behave in the same totally inexplicable way?

There's only one little catch. Before I leave town with my uncle — before I say good-bye to this city for the rest of my life (or at least until I turn eighteen) I have to find my father.

Yes, I realize that this sounds stupid. I realize that it defies logic. My life is in danger. But I don't have a choice. I have to know why my father tracked me down. He has to answer for the past five years. Somebody does, anyway, because I'm sick and tired of being so confused. Anyway, I keep imagining the conversation we'll have when I do confront him.

It runs over and over again in my head, like one of those adventure-fantasy books where you choose your own ending. Mostly, it consists of me firing a lot of questions at him. (No, the gun imagery is not intentional.)

Why did he and Oliver have a falling out?

What happened between him and Oliver and my mother?

Why did he abandon me?

The list goes on, and it takes a lot of different paths, depending on how I imagine the way my father responds. Sometimes I see him falling on his knees, begging for forgiveness. Sometimes I see him turning his back on me. Sometimes he s not there at all.

The last one is the scenario that seems most likely. But this fantasy conversation probably won't even be an issue.

Especially if Ella recovers from her gunshot wound.