Twins (2 page)

“Yeah, but where?” Gaia persisted. This was no time for cryptic answers. He should know that.

His smile grew larger and more relaxed. “Don't worry,” he assured her. He eased up on the gas as they approached Houston Street, pulling off the highway to an abandoned lot. The car lurched to an abrupt halt. He turned to face her. “We're home free, sweetheart. Free of all of it now. Come here.”

He inched closer, opening his arms to her and offering an embrace.

For no reason that Gaia could understand, the gesture made her skin crawl. She stared into his eyes. He
was
her father; she was certain of it. So what was the problem? Had their distance done this much damage? Was her ability to trust him so bruised and battered that the thought of a simple hug had actually come to disgust her? A hug from her dad used to be one of the only three things that could actually cheer her up—the other two being a hug from her mom and chocolate cheesecake. But here was blatant and
disheartening proof that her childhood was over. The outstretched arms made her stiff and numb and uneasy.

Still, she knew that she had to respond in kind. They had to start rebuilding their mess of a relationship.

Gaia allowed him to take her in his arms. But a nebulous black thought began to stir in some very remote region of her brain—a thought that was unformed but deeply foreboding. She felt his chin nestled in her neck. His arms were oddly serpentine, sliding across her back and locking her against him. Every part of her wanted to break free from his embrace. The repulsion was palpable. It was almost as if there were a faint inaudible voice buried in her head, trying to dig its way out, trying to tell her something. Her subconscious was sending her images—speaking to her in visual code. She saw herself at four years old, flailing helplessly at the bottom of that sun-drenched, light blue swimming pool. She saw herself as a kindergartner, making a beeline for the turbulent ocean, completely ignoring the huge sign that warned of shark-infested waters.

Finally her inner voice clawed its way to the surface.

You're not certain at all,
it whispered.
You've made a mistake.

Gaia quickly moved to extricate herself—but felt a sharp stinging prick to her arm. “Ow,” she hissed. She
slapped the spot reflexively. But there was no mosquito or horsefly. As she leaned back, she caught a glimpse of something clasped between his thumb and forefinger: a long syringe. Her gaze darted to his eyes. One glance confirmed what her subconscious had been trying to tell her all this time. Thoseweren't her father's eyes. And it wasn't her father's embrace that had repulsed her.

Loki had set a trap. And Gaia had—fearlessly—jumped right in.

“I'm so sorry, Gaia,” he said. “I truly am. I hate having to deceive you.” He placed a cap over the syringe and tucked it back in the pocket of his overcoat.

Gaia shook her head. She could only hear him out of her right ear. The left ear was clogged with static. A second later the right ear started closing up as well. Her uncle was beginning to look two-dimensional, as if he were blending into the black background of the car's interior.

“Stop the car,” Gaia shouted.

Only … she wasn't shouting. She wanted to be shouting, but her body was no longer capable of responding to her demands. “Stop the car,” she repeated. The words were no more than a whisper. Her lips had gone numb, as had the rest of her face.

“It's just a sedative,” Loki said gently, leaning toward her again. “I'm so sorry, Gaia, but I had no choice. I
know how little you trust me now, and I had to get you away from Tom somehow. Just rest now, sweetheart. When you wake up, you'll be safe, and I'll explain everything.”

“Stop …,” Gaia began again, but she was unable to complete the sentence. She focused every ounce of energy on her eyelids. She had to keep them open, no matter how heavy they might feel. She was a fighter. She wouldn't lose consciousness. She couldn't. Her body fell helplessly back against the seat.

Stay awake, Gaia!
she screamed silently.
Fight it.
This sensation was similar to the blackouts that always followed her fights. It was more aggressive. Insistent. Her iron will crumbled even as she pleaded with her body to attack, to pounce … to hurl her uncle's body through the window. But she could hardly make herself blink.

“I know you don't believe me,” he said. He ran a hand gently down her paralyzed cheek. “I swear this is all for your own good. This is all because I love you. I'll prove it to you, Gaia. Just have patience.”

The light dimmed. He was rapidly disappearing—his face now little more than a silhouette. Gaia's eyelids fluttered. It had a nauseating strobe effect on what was left of her vision.

Stay awake,
she screamed at herself again.
Stay …
But before she could complete the thought, her consciousness faded completely.

WAITING FOR GAIA HAD BEGUN TO
make Ed Fargo feel like he'd been beamed into one of those insaneasylum movies.
Ed, Interrupted.
So he'd forced himself out on another night walk. But of course, that only made him feel worse. Given that Gaia could be beaten up and lying in any alley or gutter, it didn't really help to take a leisurely tour of alleys and gutters—which, at three in the morning, pretty much stood out as the defining features of downtown New York City.

About eight blocks into the walk, Ed suddenly realized that he was being an idiot. What the hell was he doing eight blocks from home? Gaia might be collapsing at his door at this very second—just as she had the night before. And here he was out, for an evening stroll. He quickly reversed himself and started crutching back toward his building as fast possible, nearly pole vaulting across the sidewalk… looking very much like just another loony out on the streets in the middle of the night.

He never should have let her go after Sam by herself. That had been his first mistake. (Well, not really—it had actually been about his thousandth mistake in the past forty-eight hours.) But true to Amazonian form, Gaia had insisted that she handle everything on
her own. Since then he'd been doing everything in his power to maintain a sense of humor and stave off panic, but he couldn't. Not anymore. Sleep deprivation alone was tearing him to shreds.

She'd left him more than eight hours ago. He hadn't heard one word from her since. He'd run through stacks and stacks of maybes in his head. Maybe she never found her uncle or her father and she'd finally forced herself to skip town. Maybe she found Sam and rescued him and they'd run off together for a life of wild romance on some Caribbean island. Maybe the whole Sam kidnapping was a hoax or a practical joke or something and now she and Sam and her father and her uncle were laughing about the whole thing over a couple of cold ones….

Each maybe had to be more ludicrous than the last. It had to be crazy enough to keep Ed's mind occupied; otherwise he would have to consider the most obvious maybe. The maybe he'd been dreading and avoiding for the last three hours. The maybe he had to avoid at all costs. Allowing it to enter his mind would be like voluntarily submitting himself to Chinese water torture. He'd just finally confessed to being completely in love with her—and she'd
promised
him that she would be back. They still had a conversation to finish. Ed had to believe that Gaia kept every one of her promises. Of course. He knew she did.

But that thought only served to bring Ed right back to the worst-case scenario.

Given that Gaia kept all her promises, given that only a sadist would let Ed pour his guts out, then leave him hanging without a word … there was no way her disappearance could have been by choice. None at all.

By the time he reached the lobby, Ed was drenched in sweat. He practically fell into the elevator, panting until it opened on his floor. Then he dashed to the apartment. He left the key in the lock as he swung open the door.

“Gaia?” he called out hopefully. “Gaia, are you here?”

Silence.

Ed paused in the middle of his living room. She wasn't here. He had no idea what to do. He should call someone—the cops, Heather, even his parents upstate (wherever the hell they were). But all he could do was stand there in the oppressive and ugly quiet. The apartment had never felt so empty. He'd always loved having the place to himself, but now that Gaia had lived with him for a day, it felt wrong without her. As far as Ed was concerned, it had already become her home, too.

And he was getting the distinct feeling that she wouldn't be coming home.

The most obvious maybe … The thought of it began weighing him down, crushing him toward the floor like excess gravity, causing his shaky legs to ache
and nearly buckle from the pressure. All the wishes and fantasies and complicated scenarios faded away. There was really only one thought that remained.

Just please be alive,
he prayed silently.

He could survive if she didn't love him the way he loved her. He could survive if she ran off with Sam. He could even somehow survive if he never saw her again. Barely—as long as he knew she was all right. But if Gaia hadn't survived, then neither could he. It was as simple as that.

WHITE CEILING. BRIGHT LIGHT.

The room darted in and out of focus like a television on the fritz. As she crept back into consciousness, Gaia tried to gather as many visual details as possible. But she could still only keep her eyes open for a few seconds at a time. Her head was lolling. It felt like it had been filled with rubber cement and left to dry. The need for sleep was more powerful than any other force on earth. She was sitting somewhere….

Flowered vase. Silver candlestick holders. Medical
tray. Latex gloves.
The random images weren't adding up.
Moroccan rug. Mahogany desk. Scalpels. Syringes. Two microscopes.
Was she in a medical lab or a living room? Or was she still asleep?

She tried to massage her temples. She couldn't move her hands. Once again she forced her eyes to flutter open—and even though the dry, stinging retinas begged to be tucked back under the lids, she fought back. Gradually her vision adjusted to the blinding sunlight from the windows behind her. Her paralyzed hands swam into focus. No … they weren't paralyzed. They were restrained, strapped firmly to the arms of her chair with two buckles. Her feet were restrained, too, ankles bound against the front legs of her chair. She used what little strength she had to try to wrench her wrists free of the restraints, but it was pointless. Her resistance only served to cut off the circulation, turning her flesh different shades of purple and crimson.

She was trapped.

Any remotely normal person would be terrified at this point. Strapped down. Vulnerable to anything and everything that Loki had in mind—grotesque genetic experiments, mutilation, torture. She might as well have been blindfolded, given a cigarette, and placed in front of the firing line. She was, for all intents and purposes, dead. Without fear to occupy her mind, however, all
Gaia could feel was sickeningly angry. And groggy. And most of all, foolish.

She'd gathered such a vast wealth of knowledge in her short life. She could match wits with experts on any number of topics—calculus, chaos theory, Eastern European history, molecular biology … but her instincts? Without fear to inform her decisions, her instincts were still those of a goddamn four-year-old. She could have taken on Josh and those goons. She could have taken them all on. Why the hell had she gotten in that car? Why couldn't she
see
that it was Loki and not her father? Why—

The sound of a turning doorknob put her questions on hold.

Gaia raised her bleary eyes, watching as her uncle stepped quietly into the room, like a concerned father trying not to wake his baby. She wondered for a moment just how deeply deranged he might be. His look of concern was repulsive. But the moment he saw her, his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed. His lips tensed into a livid scowl. He ducked his head back behind the door and spat out some inaudible complaint.

“Now!” he finished. “Get in here now!”

Two faceless thugs—as nondescript and familiar as every other she'd encountered—rushed into the room and dropped to their knees directly in front of her.

“Get them off,” Loki barked. “I never said to use restraints.” He turned to Gaia. “I'm so sorry,” he
murmured gently. His ability to completely change his demeanor from one moment to the next was disturbing, fascinating. But this was hardly the time to indulge in a psychological profile. She had to size up the situation and figure a way out of it.

Her senses were still slightly numb, but she could feel the thugs' thick, calloused fingers digging into her skin as they tugged at her restraints and unbuckled them. Finally the blood flowed freely through her wrists. Strength surged back into her limbs. Yes, she was coming out of it now—all the while taking mental notes for a potential escape. The men untying her were armed with nine-millimeter pistols. Not a surprise.

Gaia turned back toward her uncle and studied his eyes suspiciously. She couldn't help but wonder if Loki hadn't prearranged this little episode with the restraints. It did, after all , seem to serve Loki's two very contradictory purposes perfectly. He could present himself as the caring father figure, insisting that they “free” his niece. That would demonstrate his “compassion.” But without ever openly threatening her, he could also send a very clear message: she was free to run, but there was no point in trying to escape.

She'd begun to feel like a hollow plastic Ping-Pong ball, incessantly bounced, batted, and spicked back and forth between them.

GAIA FELT LIKE THE ROOM WAS
slanting on its axis, her entire perception dipping into a forty-five-degree angle and then snapping back upright like a seesaw. She was ninety-eight percent sure that she was awake, but anything was possible. She needed to sharpen her focus and clear out the cobwebs in her head.