Pieces of Her

  Andrew said, “I had all of these things I wanted to say to him.”

  Jane yet again found herself helpless to stop her tears.

  “I wanted him to be proud of me. Not now, I knew it couldn’t be now, but one day.” Andrew turned to face her. He had always been lean, but now, in his grief, his cheeks were so hollow she could see the shape of the bones underneath. “Do you think that would’ve ever happened? That Father would’ve been proud of me, eventually?”

  Jane knew the truth, but she answered, “Yes.”

  He looked back into the street. He told her, “There’s Paula.”

  Jane felt the fine hairs on her arms and neck stand on end.

  Paula Evans, dressed in her usual combat boots, dirty shift and fingerless gloves, fit in perfectly with the scenery. Her curly hair was frizzed wild. Her lips were bright red. For reasons unknown, she’d blackened under her eyes with a charcoal pencil. She saw the Porsche and flipped them off with both hands. Instead of heading toward the car, she stomped toward the warehouse.

  Jane told Andrew, “She scares me. There’s something wrong with her.”

  “Nick trusts her. She would do anything he asked.”

  “That’s what scares me.” Jane shuddered as she watched Paula disappear into the warehouse. If Nick was playing Russian roulette with their futures, Paula was the single bullet in the gun.

  Jane got out of the car. The air had a greasy stench that reminded her of East Berlin. She left the metal box on the seat so she could slide on her jacket. She found her leather gloves and her scarf in her purse.

  Andrew tucked the box under his arm as he locked the car. He told Jane, “Stay close.”

  They walked into the warehouse, but only to get through to the back. Jane hadn’t been here for three months, but she knew the route by heart. They all did, because Nick had made them study diagrams, run up and down alleys, dart into backyards and even slide behind sewer grates.

  Which had felt unhinged until now.

  Paranoia seized Jane as she made her way down the familiar path. An alley took them through to the next street over. They blended in here, despite their expensive clothes. Thrift stores and dilapidated apartments were filled with students from nearby San Francisco State. Wadded-up newspapers had been shoved into broken windows. Trash cans overflowed with debris. Jane could smell the sickly-sweet odor of a thousand joints being lit to welcome the new morning.

  The safe house was on 17th and Valencia, a block from Mission. At some point, it had been a single-family Victorian, but now it was chopped up into five one-bedroom apartments that appeared to be inhabited by a drug dealer, a group of strippers and a young couple with AIDS who had lost everything but each other. As with a lot of structures in this area, the house had been condemned. As with a lot of structures in the area, the inhabitants did not care.

  They both climbed the wobbly front steps to the front door. For the hundredth time, Andrew glanced over his shoulder before going in. The front hall was narrow enough that he had to turn his shoulders sideways to walk through to the open kitchen door. The backyard contained an old shed-like structure that had been converted into living space. An orange extension cord that draped from the house to the shed served as electrical service. There was no plumbing. The top floor balanced precariously on what was originally meant to be a storage area. Music throbbed against the closed windows. Pink Floyd’s screechy “Bring the Boys Back Home.”

  Andrew looked up at the second floor, then looked back over his shoulder yet again. He knocked twice on the door. He paused. He knocked one last time and the door flew open.

  “Idiots!” Paula grabbed Andrew by his shirt and yanked him inside. “What the fuck were you thinking? We all said dye packs. Who put that fucking gun in the bag?”

  Andrew straightened his shirt. The metal box had fallen to the floor. He tried, “Paula, we—”

  The air went cold.

  Paula said, “What did you call me?”

  Andrew didn’t respond for a moment. In the silence, all Jane could hear was the record playing upstairs. She dropped her purse on the floor in case she had to help her brother. Paula’s fists were clenched. Nick had told them only to use their code names, and as with everything else that came out of his mouth, Paula had taken his order as gospel.

  “Sorry,” Andrew said. “I meant Penny. As in, Penny, we can talk about this later?”

  Paula did not back down. “Are you in charge now?”

  “Penny,” Jane said. “Stop this.”

  Paula reeled on her. “Don’t you—”

  Quarter cleared his throat.

  Jane startled at the noise. She hadn’t seen him when they’d walked in. He was sitting at the table. A red apple was in his hand. He lifted his chin toward Jane, then Andrew, by way of solidarity. He told Paula, “What’s done is done.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Paula’s hands went to her hips. “This is murder, you fucking idiots. Do you know that? We’re all part of a conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “In Norway,” Quarter said. “Even if they manage to extradite us, we’ll get seven years, tops.”

  Paula snorted in disgust. “You think the United States government is going to let us stand trial in a foreign country? It was you, wasn’t it?” Paula was pointing her finger at Jane. “You put the gun in the bag, you dumb bitch.”

  Jane refused to be bullied by this festering asshole. “Are you pissed at me because Nick didn’t tell you about the gun or because Nick is fucking me instead of you?”

  Quarter chuckled.

  Andrew sighed as he leaned down to pick up the metal box. Then he froze.

  They all froze.

  Someone was outside. Jane heard feet stamping. She held her breath as she waited for the secret knock—twice, then a pause, then another knock.

  Nick?

  Jane felt her heart leap at the possibility, but still, she was racked with anxiety until she opened the door and saw the smile on his face.

  “Hello, gang.” Nick gave Jane a kiss on the cheek. His mouth was at her ear. He whispered, “Switzerland.”

  Jane felt a rush of love for him.

  Switzerland.

  Their dreamed-about little flat in Basel, surrounded by students in a country that had no formal extradition treaty with the United States. Nick had talked about Switzerland that same Christmas night that he had revealed the plan. Jane had been shocked that he’d been able to focus so acutely not just on the mayhem they would cause, but on how they would extricate themselves from the fallout.

  My darling, he had whispered in her ear. Don’t you know I’ve thought of everything?

  “Now.” Nick clapped together his hands. He addressed the group. “All right, troops? How are we doing?”

  Quarter pointed to Paula. “This one was freaking out.”

  “I was not,” Paula insisted. “Nick, what happened in Norway was—”

  “Exceptional!” He grabbed her by the arms, his excitement flowing through the room like a ray of light. “It was tremendous! Absolutely the single most important thing that has happened to an American in this century!”

  Paula blinked, and Jane could see her mind instantly shift to Nick’s way of thinking.

  Nick clearly noted the change, too. He said, “Oh, Penny, if only you had been there to witness the act. The room was shocked. Laura pulled the revolver right as Martin was waxing poetic about the costs of floor cleaner. Then”—he made a gun of his fingers and thumb—“Pow. A gunshot heard around the world. Because of us.” He winked at Jane, then expanded his arms to include the group. “My God, troops. What we’ve done, what we are about to do, is nothing short of heroic.”

  “He’s right.” As usual, Andrew rushed in to back him up. “Laura had a choice. We all had a choice. She decided to do what she did. We decided to do what we’re doing. Right?”

  “Right,” Paula said, eager to be the first to agree. “We all knew what we were getting into.”

  Nick looked at Jane,
waited for her to nod.

  Quarter grunted, but his loyalty was never in question. He asked Nick, “What’s going on with the pigs?”

  Jane tried, “Agent Danberry—”

  “It’s not just the pigs,” Nick interrupted. “It’s every federal agency in the country. And Interpol.” He seemed delighted by the last part. “It’s what we wanted, gang. The eyes of the world are upon us. What we’re doing now—in New York, Chicago, Stanford, what’s already happened in Oslo—we’re going to change the world.”

  “That’s right,” Paula said, a congregant calling back to the preacher.

  “Do you know how rare it is to make change?” Nick’s eyes were still glowing with purpose. It was infectious. They were all leaning toward him, a physical manifestation of hanging on his every word.

  Nick asked, “Do each of you know how truly, genuinely rare it is that simple people like us are able to make a difference in the lives of—well, it’ll be the lives of millions, won’t it? Millions of people who are sick, others who have no idea that their tax dollars are being used to line the coffers of soulless corporations while real people, everyday people who need help, are left behind.”

  He looked around the room and made eye contact with every single one of them. This was what Nick fed off, knowing that he was inspiring all of them to reach toward greatness.

  He said, “Penny, your work in Chicago is going to shock the world. Schoolchildren will be taught about your integral part in this. They will know that you stood for something. And Quarter, your logistical help—it’s unfathomable that we’d be here without you. Your Stanford plans are the linchpin of this entire operation. And Andrew, our dear Dime. My God, how you handled Laura, how you put together all the pieces. Jane—”

  Paula snorted again.

  “Jane.” Nick rested his hands on Jane’s shoulders. He pressed his lips to her forehead and she felt awash with love. “You, my darling. You give me strength. You make it possible for me to lead our glorious troops toward greatness.”

  Paula said, “We’re gonna get caught.” She no longer seemed furious about the prospect. “You guys know that, right?”

  “So what?” Quarter had taken out his knife. He was peeling the apple. “Are you afraid now? All your big-talk bullshit and now—”

  “I’m not afraid,” Paula said. “I’m in this. I said I was in this, so I’m in it. You can always count on me, Nick.”

  “Good girl.” Nick rubbed Jane’s back. She almost curled into him like a kitten. It was that easy for him. All he had to do was put his hand in the right place, say the right word, and she was firmly back at his side.

  Was Jane a yo-yo?

  Or was she a true believer, because what Nick was saying was right? They had to wake people up. They could not sit idly by while so many people were suffering. Inaction was unconscionable.

  Nick said, “All right, troops. I know the gun in Oslo was a surprise, but can’t you see how fantastic things are for us now? Laura did us a tremendous favor by pulling that trigger and sacrificing her life. Her words resonate far more now than if she’d been shouting them from behind prison bars. She is a martyr—a celebrated martyr. And what we do next, the steps we take, will make people realize that they can’t just run along like sheep anymore. Things will have to change. People will have to change. Governments will have to change. Corporations will have to change. Only we can make that happen. We’re the ones who have to wake up everyone else.”

  They were all beaming at him, his willing acolytes. Even Andrew was glowing under Nick’s praise. Maybe their blind devotion was what allowed Jane’s anxiety to keep seeping back in.

  Things had changed while she was away in Berlin. The energy in the room was more kinetic.

  Almost fatalistic.

  Had Paula cleaned out her apartment, too?

  Had Quarter gotten rid of all of his most prized possessions?

  Andrew had broken things off with Ellis-Ann. He was visibly unwell, yet he kept refusing to go to the doctor.

  Was their blind devotion another form of sickness?

  All of them but Jane had been in one psychiatric facility or another. Nick had purloined their files at Queller, or in the instances of the other members of the cells, found someone who would give them access. He knew about their hopes and fears and breakdowns and suicide attempts and eating disorders and criminal histories and, most importantly, Nick knew how to exploit this information for effect.

  Yo-yos unraveling or rolling back up at Nick’s whim.

  “Let’s do this.” Quarter reached into his pocket. He slapped a quarter on the table beside the peeled apple. He said, “The Stanford Team is ready.”

  Manic depression. Schizoid tendencies. Violent recidivism.

  Paula fell into a chair as she placed a penny on the table. “Chicago’s been ready for a month.”

  Anti-social behavior. Kleptomania. Anorexia nervosa. Akiltism.

  Nick flipped a nickel into the air. He caught it in his hand and dropped it onto the table. “New York is raring to go.”

  Sociopathy. Impulse control disorder. Cocaine addiction.

  Andrew looked at Jane again before reaching into his pocket. He placed a dime with the other change and sat down. “Oslo is complete.”

  Anxiety disorder. Depression. Suicidal ideation. Drug-induced psychosis.

  They all turned to Jane. She reached into her jacket pocket, but Nick stopped her.

  “Take this upstairs, would you, darling?” He handed Jane the apple that Quarter had peeled.

  “I can do it,” Paula offered.

  “Can you be quiet?” Nick was not telling her to shut up. He was asking a question.

  Paula sat back down.

  Jane took the apple. The fruit made a wet spot on her leather glove. She felt around on the secret panel until she found the button to push. One of Nick’s clever ideas. They wanted to make it as hard as possible for anyone to find the stairs. Jane pulled back the panel, then used the hook to close it firmly behind her.

  There was a sharp click as the release mechanism went back in place.

  She climbed the stairs slowly, trying to make out what they were saying. The Pink Floyd song blaring from a tinny speaker was doing too good a job. Only Paula’s raised voice could be heard over the soaring instrumental of “Comfortably Numb.”

  “Fuckers,” she kept saying, obviously trying to impress Nick with her rabid devotion. “We’ll show those stupid motherfuckers.”

  Jane could feel an almost animalistic excitement rising through the floorboards as she reached the top of the stairs. There was incense burning inside the locked room. She could smell lavender. Paula had likely brought one of her voodoo talismans to keep the spirits at peace.

  Laura Juneau had kept lavender in her house. This was one of the many stray details that Andrew had managed to relay in his coded letters. Like that Laura enjoyed pottery. That, like Andrew, she was a fairly good painter. That she had just come from the garden outside her house and was on her knees in the living room looking for a vase in the cupboard when Robert Juneau had used his key to unlock the front door.

  A single shot to the head of a five-year-old.

  Two bullets into a sixteen-year-old’s chest.

  Two more bullets into the body of a fourteen-year-old girl.

  One of those bullets lodged into Laura Juneau’s spine.

  The last bullet, the final bullet, had entered Robert Juneau’s skull from beneath his chin.

  Thorazine. Valium. Xanax. Round-the-clock care. Doctors. Nurses. Accountants. Janitors. Mop & Glo.

  “Do you know how much it costs to commit a man full-time?” Martin had demanded of Jane. They were sitting at the breakfast table. The newspaper was spread in front of them, garish headlines capturing the horror of a mass murder: MAN MURDERS FAMILY THEN SELF. Jane was asking her father how this had happened—why Robert Juneau had been kicked out of so many Queller Homes.

  “Almost one hundred thousand dollars a year.” Martin was
stirring his coffee with an antique Liberty & Company silver spoon that had been gifted to a distant Queller. He asked Jane, “Do you know how many trips to Europe that represents? Cars for your brothers? How many road trips and tours and lessons with your precious Pechenikov?”

  Why did you give up performing?

  Because I could no longer play with blood on my hands.

  Jane found the key on a hook and pushed it into the deadbolt lock. On the other side of the door, the record had reached the part where David Gilmour took over the chorus—

  There is no pain, you are receding . . .

  Jane walked into the room. The smell of lavender enveloped her. A glass vase held fresh cut flowers. Incense burned on a metal tray. Jane realized these were not meant to ward off bad spirits, but to cover the odor of shit and piss in the bucket by the window.

  When I was a child, I had a fever . . .

  There were only two windows in the small space, one facing the Victorian in the front, the other facing the house that was on the street behind them. Jane opened both, hoping the cross-breeze would alleviate some of the odor.

  She stood in the middle of the room holding the peeled apple. She let the song play through to the guitar solo. She followed the notes in her head. Visualized her fingers on the strings. She had played guitar for a while, then the violin, cello, mandolin and, just for the sheer joy of it, a steel-stringed fiddle.

  Then Martin had told her that she had to choose between being good at many things or perfect at one.

  Jane lifted the needle from the record.

  She heard them downstairs. First, Andrew’s coughing with its worrisome rattle. Nick’s pithy little asides. Quarter told them all to keep their voices down, but then Paula started another fucking pigs will pay diatribe that drowned them all out.