Rebel Page 4

  He wondered if Gaia could remember how much Katia had loved her. How she lit up whenever her daughter walked into a room. He wondered if Gaia blamed him for her death--something he'd wondered a million times before. Surely she at least blamed him for disappearing from her life. How could she ever understand he had done it for her safety?

  Tom shivered. The hotel room was cold. Outside, a blizzard was raging. It was probably twenty degrees below Fahrenheit out there. But he knew the room wouldn't get any warmer than this. The radiator was turned up as high as it would go, clanking and hissing noisily in the corner. When he'd turned it on, he'd sent cockroaches scurrying.

  God, he hated the solitude. He was half tempted to fly to New York immediately, to rush to the Nivens' house and sweep Gaia in his arms--just to have the chance to gaze upon her face ... but that was impossible. Even watching from afar placed her in jeopardy--

  The cell phone at his feet rang. His jaw tightened. Even on Christmas Eve they wouldn't leave him alone. Of course not. He had a job to do. He snatched at the

  phone, struggling to shake Gaia from his mind.

  "Yes?" he croaked.

  "Package arriving at eleven hundred, sir," a clipped female voice stated.

  "Understood," he replied.

  "Sir, it's imperative that we intercept--"

  "Understood," Tom repeated again, and disconnected the line.

  He forced himself from the mattress. His limbs creaked as he stood in the cold room. He felt a quick flash of anger but thrust it aside. After all his years of service his colleagues and underlings still felt the need to remind him of how "imperative" it was that he perform his duties. He'd personally thwarted over two dozen assassination attempts, bombings, and coups. Yet they always spoke to him as if this were his first mission.

  He knew that they were only doing their job, of course. And he knew better than to let his mood affect his work. This was a particularly sensitive matter. The "package" contained plutonium--several million dollars' worth. It was being smuggled from nuclear bases outside Moscow to Afghanistan, then places unknown. If it were to fall into the wrong hands ...

  He knew all of this. He knew that if he failed, there was a chance he could endanger millions of lives. Still, it was amazing how the threat of nuclear terrorism

  could seem so unimportant in the face of the fact that he couldn't hug his own daughter on Christmas.

  IT WAS NEARLY ONE O'CLOCK BY THE TIME Gaia tiptoed up to the brownstone on Perry Street.

  The Armed Truce

  She prayed that Ella and George were asleep. She had a feeling they weren't. Or at least Ella wasn't. The living-room light was on. It was strange: The emotion Gaia felt as she turned the key in the front door was probably the closest she would ever come to fear. She wasn't scared, of course. But she felt an undeniable reluctance. It was the reluctance of having to occupy the same general space as Ella--and in the worst-case scenario, actually engage in dialogue with her.

  As quietly as she could, she pushed open the door.

  "Where the hell have you been?"

  Gaia bowed her head. The reluctance was justified.

  "Look, Ella--"

  "You can't go on treating us this way."

  Please. Gaia closed the door. Ella was standing in the middle of the narrow hall. Arms folded across her chest. Nostrils flaring. Wearing that absurd leather miniskirt. Maybe she needed another reminder of how not to deal with Gaia. The last time they had gotten into a screaming argument, Gaia had punched her. It had been a reflex; Ella had said something so cruel and horrible that it couldn't be forgiven ... but at least after that, she had contented herself with being a normal, run-of-the-mill bitch. The blow had frightened her. Maybe it was time for another whack. Gaia had vowed never to punch her ever again--but hey, people broke promises all the time.

  "Answer me!" Ella barked.

  "What's the question?" Gaia asked.

  Ella's green eyes narrowed into slits. "Do you really think you can keep on waltzing in and out of here any time of day or night? Do you have any idea what the consequences will be?"

  Here we go again, Gaia thought. She slipped out of her coat and hung it in the front hall closet. Ella did need another reminder. The Evil Twin was back.

  Sometime in the past couple of months Ella had been afflicted with an acute case of multiple-personality disorder. Sometimes she was the surrogate mom. Sometimes she was the doting wife, who pretended to hang on George's every word. (That personality was particularly nauseating.) But other times, like now, she

  was the Evil Twin. The Wicked Witch of the West Village. A psychopath. Someone out of control.

  There was only one reason for the switches, Gaia figured. The woman had a hidden agenda. She was obviously a schemer--and occasionally all the deception took its toll. Maybe she was stealing George's money. It would make sense. There was no way Ella could support herself without him. She was supposed to be this up-and-coming photographer, but Gaia hadn't seen one picture she had taken--other than the lame ones in this house. And they certainly weren't of publishable quality. Yes, maybe she was embezzling from George, siphoning his funds into various offshore bank accounts--and then poof!--she'd disappear.

  Maybe she would even do it sometime soon. George would be a lot better off. Gaia could always hope.

  "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Ella demanded.

  "Like what?"

  "Like why you're wandering the streets two days before Christmas?"

  "I didn't realize Christmas Eve Eve was such a big deal in the Niven household," Gaia replied evenly.

  Ella's face darkened. "Well, maybe if you actually spent some time here, things would be different," she snapped.

  "I spend lots of time here," Gaia muttered. "I probably spend more time here than you do. You're the one who's never around."

  "That--that ... that's completely untrue," Ella sputtered.

  Gaia suppressed a smile. For once, Ella didn't have a comeback. Of course not. She knew that Gaia was absolutely right.

  "You are so goddamn selfish," Ella whispered. "George worries about you so much, and all you do is torture him with your--"

  "You know, it's funny, Ella," Gaia interrupted. "You're always yelling at me about how I torture George. But he and I get along fine. When he's actually here."

  Ella shook her head. She looked like she could spontaneously combust.

  "Besides," Gaia added calmly, "I'm not the one torturing him. You are."

  "Excuse me?" Ella barked.

  "You're hiding something from him," Gaia stated.

  Ella's eyes turned to ice. Neither of them moved. It was as if they were on-screen, playing roles in a film that had been paused in the middle of a scene.

  Gaia met her gaze unflinchingly.

  "You're obviously up to something," she said. "And it's something you don't want George or me to know about. This act you play around the house isn't the real you. I don't know what is."

  Ella blinked.

  The mere batting of eyelashes could betray so much. In that instant Gaia knew that her suspicions were right: Ella was a fraud. Something in her face had changed--very subtly and only for the briefest moment. It was as if a mask had slipped. And the expression underneath registered an emotion Gaia had never seen in Ella before. Fear. The fear of being exposed.

  "You have no idea what you're talking about," Ella whispered. But the words were flat, unconvincing.

  "Look, I don't know what kind of scam you're running," Gaia grumbled. "And to be honest, I really don't care. I just want to be able to cohabitate in peace, all right? We owe George that much at the very least. Even you can appreciate that."

  In a flash the mask was back in place. Ella took two quick steps forward. "I will not be accused of this ... this crap in my own house!" she snarled.

  Oooh. Scary. If only Ella knew that she intimidated Gaia about as much as a newborn puppy, they could avoid these cheesy showdowns.

  Gaia took two steps forward as w
ell. Their faces were now only inches apart.

  "Then let's do something about it," Gaia murmured.

  Ella blinked again. "What are you talking about?"

  "I propose a bargain," Gaia said. "In keeping with the Christmas spirit. An armed truce. Like what the opposing armies did in World War I."

  "Like who did?"

  Sometimes Gaia had a hard time remembering that age and ignorance were not mutually exclusive. Ella probably didn't know jack shit about World War I. She didn't seem to know anything about history, or literature, or politics--or anything that mattered, really. The sum total of her worldly knowledge was limited to the careers of Mariah Carey and Celine Dion.

  "It was Christmas Day in 1916, in France," Gaia explained impatiently. "The Allies and Germans came out of the trenches and played soccer with each other. They acted like friends. Then the next day they went back to their trenches and started killing each other again."

  Ella snorted. "You're not making any sense, Gaia."

  The woman's thickness was astounding. "Fine." Gaia moaned. "Then let me spell it out for you. On Christmas let's just put all this BS behind us. Let's act civil. I won't tell George you're playing him for a chump, and you won't tell me how to live my life. For twenty-four hours we'll act like a normal family." She flashed a big, fake smile. "Deal?"

  Before Ella could respond, Gaia brushed past her and marched up the stairs.

  "There's only one problem," Ella called after her. Her voice was mocking.

  "What's that?" Gaia asked, rolling her eyes.

  "You said an 'armed truce.' But we're not armed. Not unless you're hiding a gun in your room. Which wouldn't surprise me."

  Gaia paused on the top step. Oh, please. A month ago Ella thought she was hiding drugs. Now guns. What next? Uranium?

  "We're armed with our secrets," Gaia said without turning around. "I'd say that's plenty of ammunition, wouldn't you?"

  From: gaia13@alloymail.com

  To: maryubuggin@alloymail.com

  Re: Why Christmas sucks

  Time: 1:34 P.M.

  Mary--

  You would not believe the shit I had to deal with this morning. George bought me a pink cashmere sweater that could barely fit a five-year-old. It was nice, but I'm worried he thinks everyone under forty dresses like his wife. That's George for you. Sweet but clueless. Then Ella screamed at me for (a) not buying George a gift and (b) not being more appreciative. I told her that I didn't celebrate any Christian holidays, as I worshiped the devil. She didn't find it funny. So how was your morning? Merry Christmas, by the way.

  From: maryubuggin@alloymail.com

  To: gaia13@alloymail.com

  Re: Holidays with the ex-coke fiend

  Time: 2:34 P.M.

  Get this, Gaia. The only presents I got were books about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. It was like a comedy skit or something. Drinking: A Love Story, Go Ask Alice, Smack ... My family must have bought out the Addiction & Recovery section of the bookstore. It's enough to make a girl want to freebase. Just kidding. Anyway, ready for some more truth or dare? How does tonight sound? I can't wait to get out of this apartment. Everybody keeps trying to get me to confess all the terrible things I did and to talk about my feelings. I feel like I'm on Oprah.

  From: gaia13@alloymail.com

  To: smoon@alloymail.com

  Re: [no subject]

  Time: 3:01 P.M.

  Hey, Sam. I was just writing to say Merry Christmas. I haven't seen you in a while. By the way, did we kiss on Thanksgiving, or was that just in my head? I didn't

  <>

  From: gaia13@alloymail.com

  To: smoon@alloymail.com

  Re: [no subject]

  Time: 3:03 P.M.

  I love you. I love you. I love you. I

  <>

  From: gaia13@alloymail.com

  To: smoon@alloymail.com

  Re: [no subject]

  Time: 3:05 P.M.

  Hey, Sam. Want to play chess sometime? I think you need a good ass kicking.

  <>

  CHAPTER 4déjà vu

  Never before had she so longed to be someone else, in another place--a million light-years from this living hell.

  SAM MOON WAS NOT A SUPERSTITIOUS KIND of guy. He didn't believe that he would be cursed for all eternity if a black cat crossed his path or that he would be stricken with cancer if he walked under a ladder. He didn't believe in any of that garbage. Life was not about luck. And contrary to Forrest Gump, life was not a box of chocolates, either. Life was a game of chess. Life was about strategy. About seeing the big picture. Fate played no part in it. He'd learned that at a very young age, when he'd first started hustling chess games.

  Lightning Strikes

  So why had he come back to New York?

  Good question. Why had he left his home in Maryland and taken the train all the way back to Manhattan on Christmas night? Because he honestly believed that if Gaia had miraculously appeared in his dorm room on Thanksgiving, there was a chance she might show up on Christmas as well? Was that really the reason?

  Yes. It was pitiful and wrong and self-defeating, but that was reason. He was actually hoping fate would bring him and Gaia together again. In spite of everything. In spite of the fact that she'd stated very clearly that it wasn't going to happen between the two of them.

  So he was actually relying on luck. He was relying on her to change her mind. Him. Mr. Strategy.

  He stood outside the grim dormitory building on West Eleventh Street, gazing up at the rows of darkened windows. He'd told his parents that he had to come back early to make up a physics lab assignment. Which was partially true, in a way. He did have to make up a lab assignment. Just not until after New Year's Day.

  He should have stayed at home. He'd known that the moment he left, and still he'd come all the way back. His teeth were chattering. A light snow was falling. He was freezing his ass off. There was no way Gaia would come here tonight. As the cliché said: Lightning never struck twice in the same place. He could have been sitting by the fireplace right now, sipping a nice hot mug of cider (his mom made killer cider), playing chess with Dad....

  The old, familiar anger returned.

  He should be home. He shouldn't be thinking about Gaia at all. She was with her boyfriend. Whoever the hell he was. How could she have sent him that e-mail? Because she didn't have the guts to blow him off in person or even over the phone? Yes. She was a coward. A phony. And how could she have been so cold? Couldn't she have said something different? Like: Dear Sam, Thanks very much for the beautiful chessboard you gave me. I'm sorry I have a boyfriend, but I'll cherish it always. Love, Gaia.

  But no. For all he knew, she had thrown his gift in the garbage. It was a special gift, a personal gift, and she didn't care. She didn't care about anything else, either. Like the fact that he'd gotten her to the hospital that Thanksgiving night--the night they kissed. The night he thought they were destined to be together. He'd never experienced a more perfect, magical moment. It was the greatest kiss of his life....

  In his mind, though. Not hers. A not so subtle distinction.

  Clearly she'd been delirious. She probably had no memory of the kiss. No, she probably did remember it--but now was so ashamed and humiliated that she was doing her best to avoid him. She probably cringed every time she thought of it. Kicked herself. Made a sour face.

  But even as images of Gaia's rejection whirled through his mind, he couldn't help but long for her even more. The less she wanted him, the more tantalizing she became.

  He shivered again. He'd catch pneumonia if he stayed out here any longer. So he figured he had two options. Option one: He could go upstairs, sit alone in his squalid little dorm room, and stay up all night, thinking about Gaia. Option two: He could go to Heather's house and forget about Gaia altogether.

  Gritting his teeth, he turned away from the dorm

  and headed in the direction of the subway. He'd cut through the park and get there in no ti
me. Yes. This was the right decision. It was time to finish the process he'd started three weeks ago--the process of making up with Heather. Of recognizing how lucky he was for having such an amazingly beautiful girlfriend. They were finally back on track. They were enjoying each other in a way they hadn't since they first started going out. Besides, the Gannis family would probably love to see him on Christmas night. And Heather would be thrilled. Of course.

  Unfortunately he happened to catch a glimpse of his distorted reflection in the windshield of a parked car. Shit. He wasn't exactly looking his best. Would Heather be happy to see him? His skin was pale. His nose was bright red. His tousled brownish blond hair was matted and covered with snow. And his new wool overcoat made him look like a desperate old pervert. Which in a way, he was--

  Wait a second.

  He heard laughter. Familiar laughter. Coming from the park. He rounded the corner of Eleventh and Fifth, peering through the snowflakes at the Arc de Triomphe. Yes ... somebody was in there, behind the arch, weaving in and out of the leafless trees. Two people, in fact. Girls. Young. NYU students, maybe, like him. He picked up his pace, crossing Tenth Street in a hurry. His eyes narrowed. One had red hair....

  They looked like they were chasing each other.

  Another round of giggles echoed off the buildings. Whoever they were, they were having fun. But what were they doing out here on Christmas night?

  Actually, the better question was: What was he doing out here on Christmas night? Yes. That was the better question. As usual, he was looking for Gaia. But Gaia didn't want his company. No, it was very obvious that she'd found a new scene. A new boyfriend, to be specific. Or an old boyfriend--"from before"--as her e-mail said. Whatever. Either way, she'd moved on. No wonder she hadn't thanked him for his gift. She'd left Sam Moon behind for better things--

  "Sam?"

  He whirled around. His eyes bulged.

  Maybe he would start being superstitious.

  Tonight might just be his lucky night.

  IF HEATHER GANNIS HAD ANY DOUBTS that Sam would be happy to see her, they immediately vanished. His face was lit up like an electronic billboard. Before she knew it, he was sweeping her into an embrace. He practically cut off circulation to the lower half of her body. Well. This was a surprise. She wasn't sure if they had officially made up. All their conversations since Thanksgiving had been so ... uncertain.