Liar (10 page)

“Brrr,” she muttered out loud.

It was another wintry day—clear and brisk. She quickly bundled up and headed toward the park, pulling her cap over her unkempt hair. But in spite of the freezing weather Gaia felt a strange optimism. A sense of control. She was finally going to get some answers. Besides, it was easy to feel in control when the streets were so quiet and deserted. Nothing unexpected could happen. Sam would be in his room, asleep. Just like everyone else.

She turned onto West Fourth Street and picked up her pace, jogging to keep warm. It was amazing
how peaceful the park looked early on a Saturday morning. The trees and benches were bathed in the soft, golden glow of the dawn. And there were no freaks, no druggies … not even any homeless people. Only health nuts, in fact—people who were running or practicing t'ai chi. It was too cold for anyone else.

Gaia couldn't help but smirk. During these fleeting moments Washington Square Park could almost pass for a quaint little New England village square.
Almost.
In a way, the park was like a person: It wore many different faces, depending on the time of day.

As she crossed the street, she saw that a vendor was pushing his cart toward the northeast entrance—no doubt to intercept joggers coming to and from the NYU dorms. A couple of overweight, balding professor types were already close on his heels. Maybe she would stop for a quick doughnut on her way to Sam's. Yeah. She needed a sugar fix. She broke into a jog as she neared the chess tables. Sam wouldn't be getting up anytime before nine on a Saturday, anyhow.

“Gaia.”

The word was barely a whisper.

She wasn't even sure if she'd heard it. Her pace slowed.

“Gaia.”

There it was again. She frowned and glanced
behind her. She couldn't even tell where the voice had come from.

“Over here.”

She turned toward the chess tables….

At that moment her legs turned to jelly.

A man was sitting at one of the tables. A man with golden hair and piercing eyes, heavily bundled in black. A man who had seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

Her father.

He smiled at her.

No, no, no.

She staggered backward, breathless—as if she'd been struck in the face. This was impossible. A dream. Only seconds ago, that stone bench had been empty. She shook her head and blinked. In a moment she would wake up in the Nivens' house. Of course she would. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them.

But the vision remained.

It
was
a vision, wasn't it? Another hallucination, like that crazy flash she'd had when the car had hit her yesterday …

“It's okay, Gaia,” he called, beckoning to her. “I know what you're thinking.”

You know what I'm …
okay. Definitely a dream. Verging on a nightmare. a spasm of heat shot through her. Her mind emptied—as if every thought and emotion were merely dust motes in a
tubful of dirty bathwater, now rapidly swirling down a drain.

“I'm not your father,” he said.

“Oh my God,” she found herself whispering.

This
wasn't
a vision. No. It was her uncle. The same uncle she'd seen for that fleeting instant in the park that night so many months ago. The one who'd saved her life. Some of the tension began to melt away. Disjointed memories flashed through her head: her lying on the ground, staring up at his face … that old song from the seventies: “Rescue Me” … dancing with her mother and father as a little child….

“Please, Gaia,” he implored. “Come sit. I don't have much time.”

Her feet began to shuffle toward him. She felt like she was
outside
herself. Completely detached. No longer in control. Somebody else was pulling the strings. Her uncle, perhaps. But certainly not
her.
Not Gaia Moore. Not the girl who had left the Nivens' brownstone only minutes ago to confront Sam Moon …

“That's it,” her uncle murmured as she eased herself down on the bench across from him. “Yes. Just relax. It's so good to see you.”

Gaia opened her mouth, but she couldn't speak. Maybe it was best just not to try. She stared at her uncle, drinking in every feature of his face: his piercing blue eyes, his rugged skin, the broad lips that were
so much like her own. But for the first time she noticed subtle differences between him and her father. Her uncle's jaw was more square than her father's, more angular. It exuded greater strength, somehow. And power.

He smiled. “It's fitting that we're facing each other across a chessboard, don't you think? We both love the game.”

How am I supposed to answer that?
Gaia wondered.
How is it you know so much about me? I didn't even know you existed until this year. All I can think of when I look at you is my own father….

“It's fitting for another reason, too,” he said gravely. “We live in a dangerous world. And time is short.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card, then slid it across the smooth checkerboard surface. He tapped it with a gloved finger. “This is my contact information. Use it anytime you feel the need.”

Gaia glanced down at the card. Time slowed to a crawl. The universe shrank to this chess table, to this moment, to
them.
Part of her had been longing for such a meeting ever since her father had vanished. A member of her family was reaching out to her. A
real
member—someone who shared her blood … someone who could understand her in a way nobody else could. But her hands remained at her sides. She couldn't bring herself to take the card. Why? Because if
she allowed herself the possibility of getting close to him, she might lose him? The way she lost everyone else?

“I know you've suffered,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But know this, Gaia: I'm here for you. Remember when I saw you here the first time? I promised I wouldn't be far. I promised I'd come back for you. And here I am. I never break my promises, Gaia. Never.”

I guess that's another difference between you and Dad,
Gaia thought bitterly. She felt the wetness on her cheeks even before she realized she was crying. She sniffed and wiped her face with her coat sleeve, clenching her jaw. This was great. Way to make an impression. Now her uncle probably thought she was a blubbering little baby.

“I'll talk to you again soon, Gaia,” he whispered. He reached over and patted her shoulder, then abruptly stood and hurried from the table.

“Wait!” Gaia called.

He paused and glanced over his shoulder.

“What—what's your
name?”
she stammered.

A smile crossed his face. “Oliver,” he answered.

And with that, he turned—not walking, not running … but seemingly
gliding,
moving with an effortless economy of motion that astounded her. He vanished around the corner of Waverly Place in seconds.

Gaia exhaled deeply.

Her body quivered. Tears still flowed freely down her cheeks. Her eyes fell back to the card. A single ten-digit phone number was printed there, with no other information. That was it. This flimsy little thing was the only evidence that she'd even
seen
her uncle—that the mysterious encounter had even taken place. She shook her head and forced herself to take it.

Oliver. Oliver Moore, she supposed.

Why had he chosen to contact her in this way, by sneaking up on her on a Saturday morning in the park? Why hadn't he just called the Nivens? There must be a good reason … or
was
there?
“We live in a dangerous world”
he'd said,
“and time is short.”
The words were so vague. Almost
trite.
Yeah … now that she thought about it, they sounded like the kind of thing somebody would say in a grade-D action flick. He was obviously a smart guy, but he chose to speak to her in clichés. It wasn't exactly intimate family conversation. She couldn't help but get a little pissed. Was he trying to hint that
she
was in danger? And if so, why didn't he just come out and say it?

One thing was for certain. She needed to be alone, to
think.
She was in no condition to talk to Sam Moon. No way. Taking a deep breath, she jumped up and ran from the park as fast as her legs would carry her.

I'VE JUMPED THIS STAIRCASE A thousand times. Get up some speed, hop up onto the railing—then whoosh … it's all gravy. This is gonna be a breeze.

But Heather's scared.

Heather's always scared. I can see her down there, way at the bottom. She looks so small. She's yelling something to me. But I can't hear what it is. It doesn't matter, though. I gotta do this.

The skateboard feels good under my feet. I glance back down the staircase. It's much longer than it was before. And Heather isn't alone down there. No, Phoebe is with her, too. And so is
my
sister. And Gaia. They're all screaming at me.

“Don't do it, Ed! Don't do it. Ed! Ed!”

But it's too late. I'm already on my way
—

Ed flinched. His eyelids popped open. He was gasping for breath.

Heather was standing over him, gently shaking his shoulder.

“Ed?” she whispered. “Ed? Are you okay?”

“Uh …” He blinked. His voice sounded like a frog's. He shook his head.
Jesus.
Gradually his breathing
slowed. His surroundings began to take shape around him. He wasn't standing at the top of a forty-story staircase. No. He was
sitting.
In his wheelchair. In the hallway outside the emergency room of St. Vincent's Hospital.

Heather crouched beside him so their eyes were at the same level. Her face was creased with concern. “I think you were having a nightmare,” she said.

“I guess,” he croaked.

The dark fog of the dream lifted, melting away into the nothingness. Ed's shoulders slumped. He wouldn't have called it a nightmare. No. Because no matter how bad his dreams got—even if he was being chased by an ax-wielding maniac through a shark-filled swamp—he was always
upright.
He could run. He could walk. He could freaking
dance
if he wanted to. The wheel-chair had no place in the enchanted world of Ed Fargo's subconscious. So, no, he didn't have nightmares. Only dreams—dreams that were like warm embraces, slipping away in an instant when he came back to the real world and leaving him in solitude.

“You're sure you're all right?” Heather asked.

He nodded quickly, forcing himself to smile. He refused to let his usual morning grouchiness intrude here. He was the last person Heather should be worrying about. “Any word on Phoebe?” he asked.

“Yeah, actually, the doctor says she's really improving,”
Heather said with false cheerfulness. She stood up straight. “They upgraded her condition from critical to stable. Soon they're gonna move her out of intensive care and into a different wing.” Her voice sounded strained, high-pitched. “The biggest problem was the dehydration, so they've been flooding her body with fluids….” She trailed off.

“Can we go in and see her?” Ed asked.

Heather shook her head. “Not until later.”

“Oh. Okay.” He chewed his lip and glanced at the vinyl couch. “Where's your mom?”

“She went home.” Heather managed a shaky grin and shrugged. She had obviously been crying. Recently. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she'd scrubbed all the makeup off her face. Her skin looked dry, colorless. “Which I take as a good sign. She wouldn't have left if she was really worried. So things are looking up.”

Nice try, Heather,
Ed thought sadly. Maybe if she said those words out loud, she would Start to believe them herself. She deserved to believe them. Any comfort was enough.

Heather drew in a sharp breath. “Look, Ed … I want to tell you, I really think it's amazing what you're doing.”

“What?” he asked nonchalantly. “Sleeping in a wheelchair? It's nothing. I do it all the time.”

“No …
you
know…. Oh, Jesus.” She shook her
head and laughed. “Why do you always make a joke out of everything?”

He shrugged. “Hey, I make people laugh, don't I?”

“Yeah.” She looked down at him, her face softening. “Yeah, you do.”

Ed stared up at her.

She held his gaze. Neither of them moved. Neither of them even blinked. He swallowed. It had been so long since he'd looked into her eyes like this—just
looked,
without saying anything … without
having
to say anything. But he knew the moment couldn't last forever. And the longer he prolonged it, the more he would torture himself with memories of the past.
Their
past. He turned away toward the candy machine.

“You know, I'm kind of hungry,” he remarked. “A rousing breakfast of potato chips and chocolate sounds like just the thing.”

He released the brakes on his chair, but Heather planted herself firmly in front of him, blocking his path.

“No way,” she said with a smirk.

Ed cocked his eyebrow. “No way
what?”

“No way am I going to let you eat potato chips and chocolate for breakfast”

“Oh, no?” He had to laugh. “Why? Are you concerned about my health? Let me tell you, Heather—potato chips get a really bad rap. They actually contain
three of the major food groups. The grease group, the salt group, and the fat group—”

“I don't give a shit about your health, Ed,” Heather interrupted, grinning tiredly. “I just want to take you out for breakfast. Okay?”

He sighed. “You don't have to do that.”

“I know I don't,” she stated. “But I'm going to do it, anyway.”

Ed smiled. “Now, that's the Heather Gannis I know and love. The one who won't take no for an answer.”