Page 124 of Pieces of Her (Andrea Oliver 1)

“Poor Andy. He’s really gone downhill, hasn’t it?” Clara frowned in sympathy. “It’s come as quite a shock. But we’ve both seen it happen so many times before, haven’t we? You can’t be in the arts without knowing dozens of extraordinary men who are infected.”

Infected?

“Jinx?” Nick was standing at the open front door. “Are you coming in? You need to see this. Both of you.”

Clara hastened her step.

Jane could barely find the strength to lift her legs.

Her mouth had gone dry. Her heart was jerking inside of her chest. She struggled to maintain the forward momentum. Up the front walk. The stairs to the porch. To the front door. Into the house.

Infected?

Inside, Jane had to lean against the wall, to lock her knees so that she did not collapse. The numbness was back. Her muscles were liquid.

We’ve both seen it happen so many times before.

Jane had known so many young, vigorous men who had coughed like Andrew was coughing. Who had looked sick the same way that Andrew looked sick. Same pale skin tone. Same heavy droop to his eyelids. A jazz saxophonist, a first chair cellist, a tenor, an opera singer, a dancer, another dancer, and another—

All dead.

“Come, darling.” Nick waved Jane into the room.

They were all gathered around the television. Paula was on the couch beside the man who was probably Tucker. The two others, Spinner and Wyman, a woman and man respectively, sat in folding chairs. Clara sat on the floor because dancers always sat on the floor.

“Andrew’s asleep.” Nick was on his knees, adjusting the volume on the set. “It’s amazing, Jinx. Apparently, they’ve been doing special reports for the last two days.”

Jane saw his mouth move, but it was as if the sound was traveling through water.

Nick sat back on his heels, elated by their notoriety.

Jane watched because everyone else was watching.

Dan Rather was reporting on the events in San Francisco. The camera cut to a reporter standing outside the Victorian house that fronted the shed.

The man said, “According to sources from the FBI, listening devices helped them ascertain that Alexandra Maplecroft had already been murdered by the conspirators. The likely culprit is their leader, Nicholas Harp. Andrew Queller was joined by a second woman who helped them escape through an adjacent building.”

Jane flinched when she saw first Nick’s face, then Andrew’s, flash up. Paula was represented by a shadowy outline with a question mark in the center. Jane closed her eyes. She summoned the photo of Andrew that she had just seen. One year ago, at least. His cheeks were ruddy. A jaunty scarf was tied around his neck. A birthday party, or some kind of celebration? He looked happy, vibrant, alive.

She opened her eyes.

The television reporter said, “The question now is whether Jinx Queller is another hostage or a willing accomplice. Back to you in New York, Dan.”

Dan Rather stacked together his papers on the top of his news desk. “William Argenis Johnson, another conspirator, was shot by snipers while trying to escape. A married father of two who worked as a graduate student at Stanford Uni—”

Nick turned off the volume. He did not look at Jane.

“William Johnson.” She whispered the words aloud because she did not understand.

His name was Leonard Brandt. No children. Never married. He lived alone at 1239 Van Duff Street. He worked as a carpenter over in Marin.

“A fucking question mark?” Paula demanded. “That’s all I rate is a fucking question mark?” She stood up, started to pace. “Meanwhile, poor Jinx Queller gets off scot fucking free. How about I write them a fucking letter and tell them you’re fucking willing and able and ready? Would that make you happy, Dumb Bitch?”

“Penny,” Nick said. “We don’t have time for this. Troops, listen to me. We have to move everything up. This is bigger than even I had hoped for. Where are we with Chicago?”

“The bombs are ready,” Spinner said, as if she was telling them that she’d just put dinner on the table. “All we have to do is plant them in the underground parking garage, then be within fifty feet of the building when we press the button on the remote.”

“Fantastic!” Nick clapped together his hands. He was bouncing on the toes of his feet, amping them all back up again. “It should be the same with the explosives in New York. I’ll rest here a few hours, then start driving. Even without my photo on the news, the FBI will heighten security at the airports. I’m not sure my ID will hold up to that kind of scrutiny.”