Page 125 of Pieces of Her (Andrea Oliver 1)

Wyman said, “The forger in Toronto—”

“Is expensive. We blew our wad on Maplecroft’s credentials because none of this would’ve mattered without Laura getting into that conference.” Nick rubbed his hands together. Jane could almost see his brain working. This was the part he had always loved, not the planning, but holding them all rapt. “Nebecker and Huston are waiting for me at the safe house in Brooklyn. We’ll drive the van into the city after rush hour, plant the devices, then go back the following morning and set them off.”

Paula asked, “When do you want my team to set up?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Nick watched their faces as realization set in. “Don’t set up, do it. Plant the explosives first thing in the morning before anyone shows up for work, get as far away as you can, then blow the motherfucker down.”

“Fuck yeah!” Paula raised her fist into the air. The others joined in.

“We’re doing this, troops!” Nick shouted to be heard over the din. “We’re going to make them stand up and take notice! We have to tear down the system before we can make it better.”

“Damn right!” Wyman shouted.

“Hell yeah!” Paula was still pacing. She was like an animal ready to break out of her cage. “We’re gonna show those motherfucking pigs!”

Jane looked around the room. They were all wound up the same way, clapping their hands, stomping their feet, whooping as if they were watching a football game.

Tucker said, “Hey! Listen! Just listen!” He’d stood up, hands raised for attention. This was Edwin, Clara’s lover. With his handlebar mustache and wavy hair, he looked more like Friedrich Nietzsche than a lawyer, but Nick trusted him, so they all trusted him.

He said, “Remember, you have a legal right to refuse to answer any and all questions from law enforcement. Ask the pigs, ‘Am I under arrest?’ If they say no, then walk away. If they say yes, shut your mouth—not just to the pigs, but to everybody, especially on the phone. Make sure you have my number memorized. You have a legal right to call your lawyer. Clara and I will be in the city standing by in case I need to go to the jail.”

“Good man, Tuck, but it’s not going to come to that. And fuck taking a rest. I’m leaving now!”

There was another round of whooping and cheering.

Nick was grinning like a fool. He told Clara, “Go wake up Dime. I’ll need someone to help swap out the driving. It’s only twelve hours, but I think—”

“No,” Jane said. But she hadn’t said it. She had shouted it.

The ensuing silence felt like a needle scratching off a record.

Jane had ruined the game. No one was smiling anymore.

“Christ,” Paula said. “Are you going to start whining again?”

Jane ignored her.

Nick was all that mattered. He looked confused, probably because he’d never heard Jane say no before.

“No,” she repeated. “Andrew can’t. You can’t ask him to do anything more. He did his part. Oslo was our part, and it’s over and—” She was crying again, but this was different from the last week of crying. She wasn’t grieving over something that had already happened. She was grieving over something that was going to happen very soon.

Jane saw it so clearly now—every sign she had missed in the months, the days, before. Andrew’s sudden chills. The exhaustion. The weakness. The sores in his mouth that he’d mentioned in passing. The stomach aches. The weird rash on his wrist.

Infection.

“Jinx?” Nick was waiting. They were all waiting.

Jane walked down the hallway. She’d never been in the house before, so she had to open and close several doors before she finally found the bedroom where Andrew was sleeping.

Her brother was lying face-down in bed, fully clothed. He hadn’t bothered to undress or get under the covers or even take off his shoes. Jane put her hand to his back. She waited for the up and down of his breathing before she allowed herself to take in her own breath.

She gently slid off his shoes. Carefully rolled him onto his back.

Andrew groaned, but didn’t wake. His breath was raspy through his chapped lips. His skin was the color of paper. She could see the blue and red of his veins and arteries as easily as if she had been looking at a diagram. She unbuttoned his shirt partway down and saw the deep purple lesions on his skin. Kaposi’s sarcoma. There were probably more lesions in his lungs, his throat, maybe even his brain.

Jane sat down on the bed.

She had lasted no more than six months volunteering at UCSF’s AIDS ward. Watching so many men walk through the doors knowing that they would never walk out had proven to be too overwhelming. Jane had thought that the rattle in their chests as they gasped for their last breaths would be the worst sound that she would ever hear.