Pieces of Her Read online

  Jane felt herself nodding, because that was exactly how she’d felt watching the impromptu concerts the students had put on in Treptow Park. She’d wanted desperately to tell Nick about them, but she had to be careful about Germany because she didn’t want him to feel left out.

  Danberry asked, “You political?”

  She shook her head. She had to play the game.

  They’ll know you’ve never voted.

  She told the agent, “I’ve never even voted.”

  “You do a lot of volunteering, though. Soup kitchens. Homeless shelters. Even that AIDS ward they set up over at UCSF. Not afraid you’ll catch it?”

  Jane watched him smoke his cigarette.

  He said, “Rock Hudson shocked the hell out of me. Never would’ve thought he was one of them.” He stared up at the Golden Gate, asking, “Was your dad playing matchmaker?”

  Don’t answer the question if you don’t understand it.

  Danberry explained, “You went away to Germany for three months. Your boyfriend stayed here catting around with your brother.” He glanced at her, then looked back at the bridge. “Ellis-Anne MacMillan said the break-up with Andrew was very unexpected. But they usually are.”

  Don’t let them surprise you into reacting.

  He asked, “So, the old man flies Mr. Harp to Norway for what? To get you two kids back together?”

  Just give them the facts. Don’t over-explain.

  She told him, “Nick and I were never apart. I was in Berlin for a job. He had to stay here for work.” Jane knew she should stop talking, but she could not. “Father gave him the job at Queller. He probably wanted Nick in Oslo for himself. The panel with Maplecroft was a big deal. Nick’s very charming, very easy to be around. People have always liked him. They’re drawn to him. Father was no exception. He wanted to help Nick up the ladder.”

  “Guys like that always fall up.”

  Jane chewed the tip of her tongue. She had to look away so that he did not catch the anger in her eyes. She had never been able to abide anyone running down Nick. He’d suffered so much as a child. People like Danberry would never understand that.

  “He’s got charisma, right?” Danberry put out the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe and tossed the butt into the ashtray. “The pretty face. The quick wit. The cool clothes. But it’s more than that, right? He’s got that thing some guys have. Makes you want to listen to them. Follow them.”

  The wind picked up, rustling the edges of the Chronicle. Jane folded the paper closed. She saw the garish headline: $1,000,000 RANSOM OR PROF DIES!

  A ridiculous headline for a ridiculous manifesto. Nick had made them all sound unhinged.

  Danberry said, “‘Death to the fascist insect that preys on the life of the people.’”

  Jane didn’t recognize the line from the ransom note. She pretended to skim the paper.

  Danberry said, “It’s not in there. I was talking about the Patty Hearst kidnapping. That’s how the Symbionese Liberation Army signed all of their screeds—‘Death to the fascist insect that preys on the life of the people.’” He studied her face. “Your family has another house near the Hearsts, right? Up in Hillsborough?”

  “I was a kid when it happened.”

  His laugh said that he thought she still was a kid. “Carter couldn’t free the hostages, but he got Patty Hearst out of lockup.”

  “I told you I don’t follow politics.”

  “Not even in college?” He said, “My old man told me everybody’s a socialist until they start paying taxes.”

  She mirrored his smile again.

  “Do you know where the word ‘symbionese’ comes from?”

  Jane waited.

  “The SLA’s leader, Donald DeFreeze—the jackass didn’t know the word ‘symbiotic,’ so he made up the word ‘symbionese.’” Danberry leaned back in the chair, crossed his ankle over his knee. “The newspapers called them terrorists, and they committed acts of terror, but all terror cells are basically cults, and all cults usually have one guy at the center who’s driving the bus. Your Manson or your Jim Jones or your Reverend Moon.”

  They’ll seem almost nonchalant the closer they get to the point.

  “DeFreeze was a black fella, an escaped con doing five-to-life for rolling a hooker, and like a lot of cons, he had a lot of charisma, and the kids who followed him—all of them white, middle class, most of them in college—well, they weren’t stupid. They were worse. They were true believers. They felt sorry for him because he was this poor black guy in prison and they were spoiled white kids with everything, and they really believed all the shit that came out of his mouth about fascist insects and everybody living together all Kumbaya. Like I said, he had that thing. Charisma.”

  Pay attention to the words they repeat because that’s the point of the story.

  Danberry said, “He had everybody in his circle convinced he was smarter than he actually was. More clever than he was. Fact is, he was just another con man running another cult so he could bed the pretty girls and play God with all the boys. He knew when people were pulling away. He knew how to bring them back on side.” Danberry looked at the bridge. His shoulders were relaxed. “They were like yo-yos he could snap back with a flick of his wrist.”

  Make eye contact. Don’t look nervous.

  “So, anyway.” Danberry clasped his hands together and rested them on his stomach. “What happened was, most of the kids following him ended up shot in the head or burned to death. And I have to tell you, that’s not uncommon. These anarchist groups think they’re doing the right thing, right up until they end up in prison or flat on their backs in the morgue.”

  Jane wiped her eyes. She could see everything he was doing, but felt helpless to stop him.

  What would Nick do? How would he throw it back in Danberry’s face?

  “Miss Queller,” Danberry said, then, “Jinx.” He leaned forward, his knees almost touching her leg.

  They’ll get in your space to try to intimidate you.

  He said, “Look, I’m on your side here. But your boyfriend—”

  “Have you ever seen someone shot in the head?” The stunned look on his face told Jane she’d found the right mark. Like Nick, she let herself draw power from his mistake. “You were so cavalier when you said those kids ended up getting shot in the head. I’m just wondering if you know what that looks like.”

  “I didn’t—” He reeled back. “What I meant—”

  “There’s a hole, a black hole no larger than the size of a dime, right here”—she pointed to her own temple where Martin Queller was shot—“and on the opposite side, where the bullet exits, you see this bloody pulp, and you realize that everything that makes up that person, everything that makes them so who they are, is splattered onto the floor. Something a janitor will mop up and toss down the drain. Gone. Forever.”

  “I—” His mouth opened and closed. “I’m sorry, Miss Queller. I didn’t—”

  Jane stood. She went back into the house and slammed the door behind her. She used her hand to wipe her nose as she walked down the hallway. She couldn’t keep up this façade much longer. She had to get out of here. To find Nick. To tell him what was going on.

  Her purse was on the sideboard. Jane rummaged for her keys, and then she realized that Nick had taken them.

  Where had he gone?

  “Jinx?” Jasper was still in the parlor. He was sitting on the couch beside Andrew. They both had drinks in their hands. Even Agent Barlow, standing by the fireplace, had a glass of whisky.

  “What is it?” Jasper stood up when she entered the room.

  “Are you okay?” Andrew was standing, too. They both looked alarmed, almost angry. Neither one of them had ever been able to abide seeing her upset.

  “I’m all right,” she patted her hands in the air to calm them. “Please, could I just have someone’s keys?”

  “Take mine.” Jasper gave Andrew his keys. “Andy, you drive her. She’s in no condition.”

  Jane tried,
“I’m not—”

  “Where do you want to go?” Andrew was already heading to the closet for their jackets.

  Jasper had his hand in his pocket. “Do you need some money?”

  “No.” Jane didn’t have the strength to fight both of her brothers. “I need to find—” She was aware that Barlow was listening. “Air. I need some air.”

  Barlow asked, “Not enough of it in the backyard?”

  Jane turned away from him. She did not wait for Andrew. She grabbed her purse off the table. She walked out the front door, down the front steps. Jasper’s Porsche was parked beside the garage.

  “I’ve got it.” Andrew had jogged to catch up with her. He reached down to open the door.

  “Andy—” Jane grabbed his arm. Her knees felt weak. She could barely stand.

  “It’s okay,” he said, trying to help her into the car. “Just play it cool.”

  “No,” she said. “You don’t understand. They know.”

  10

  They were too afraid to speak openly in the car. Jasper was not a part of this, but only they knew that. The FBI or CIA or NSA or whoever could have planted bugs in any of the crevices inside the Porsche. Even the car phone could be tapped.

  Before Oslo, before every branch of law enforcement had swept down on the Presidio Heights house, before Agent Danberry had cornered Jane in the backyard, it had felt ridiculously paranoid when Nick had told them to assume that every familiar place was monitored, that someone was always going to be listening. To speak openly, they were supposed to find a park or a random café. They had to sneak down alleys and walk through buildings and say the passwords and know the interrogation techniques and practice self-defense and drill themselves over and over again so that they had their stories right.

  The stories had been too right.

  Jane could see that now. As she replayed all the conversations with all the agents over the last five days, she could see how their interrogators had registered certain phrases, certain gestures, in their notepads, to compare later.

  I pretended to recognize the woman whom I thought was Dr. Maplecroft.

  Only one of us had darker intentions.

  I wanted to speak to an American after being in Germany for so long.

  “Pull over,” Jane told Andrew, fear twisting her stomach into knots. She pushed open the door before the car fully stopped. Her boots skipped across the pavement. They were inside the city proper. There was no grass, just concrete. Jane had no choice but to vomit on the sidewalk.

  I met Laura Juneau at the KLM lounge at Schiphol.

  I could tell she was an American by the way she was dressed.

  Jane retched so hard that she was on her knees. Her stomach clenched out dark bile. She hadn’t been able to eat more than toast and eggs since the murder. The tea that Nick had given her this morning tasted like bark as it burned its way up her throat.

  Nick. She had to find Nick so he could explain how they were all going to be fine.

  “Jinx.” Andrew’s hand was on her shoulder. He was kneeling beside her.

  Jane sat back on her heels. She wiped her mouth. There was a tremble in her fingers that she could not get rid of. It was as if the bones were vibrating beneath her skin.

  Theyknowtheyknowtheyknow . . .

  Andrew asked, “Are you okay?”

  Her laugh had an edge of uncontrollability.

  “Jane—”

  “None of us is okay.” Saying the words inserted some sanity into this madness. “It’s all closing in on us. They talked to Ellis-Ann.”

  “I kept her out of this. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “They know everything.” How could he not see this? “My God, Andy. They think we’re in a cult.”

  He laughed. “Like the People’s Temple? The Manson Family?”

  Jane wasn’t laughing. “What are we going to do?”

  “Stick to the plan,” he said, his voice low. “That’s what it’s there for. When in doubt, just let the plan lead the way.”

  “The plan,” Jane repeated, but not with his reverence.

  The stupid fucking plan. So carefully plotted, so relentlessly discussed and strategized.

  So wrong.

  “Come on,” Andrew said. “We’ll find a café and—”

  “No.” Jane had to find Nick. He could solve this for them. Or maybe he already had. Just the thought of Nick taking control immediately soothed some of her jagged nerves. Maybe what had happened with Danberry and Barlow was part of a larger, secret plan. Nick did that sometimes—made them all think they were about to walk into the path of an oncoming train, only to reveal at the last minute that he was the cunning conductor braking at the last possible moment to keep them out of harm’s way. He tested them like this all of the time. Even in Berlin, Nick had asked Jane to do things, to put herself in danger, just to make sure she would obey.

  He had so much trouble trusting people. Everyone in his family had turned their backs on him. He had been forced to live on the streets. He had managed to pull himself up entirely on his own. Time and again, he had trusted people who had hurt him. It was no wonder that Jane had to repeatedly prove herself.

  They were like yo-yos he could snap back with a flick of his wrist.

  “Jane,” Andrew said.

  She felt Danberry’s words echoing in her head. Was she like a yo-yo? Was Nick a con man? A cult leader? How different was he from Jim Jones? The People’s Temple had started out doing wonderful things. Feeding the homeless. Taking care of the elderly. Working to eradicate racism. And then a decade later, over nine hundred people, many of them children, were killed by cyanide-laced Kool-Aid.

  Why?

  “Jane, come on,” Andrew said. “The pigs don’t know anything. Not for certain.”

  Jane shook her head, trying to banish the dark thoughts. Nick had said that the police would try to separate them, that their psyches would be poked and prodded in the hope that they would eventually turn on each other.

  If nobody speaks, then no one will know.

  Did Nick really believe the crazy-sounding things that came out of his mouth, or was this how he pulled Jane back in? She had spent six years of her life chasing after him, pleasing him, loving him, fighting with him, breaking up with him. She always went back. No matter what, she always found her way back.

  Snap.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  Jane let Andrew help her up. “Take me to Nick’s apartment.”

  “He won’t be there.”

  “We’ll wait for him.” Jane got back into the car. She searched her purse for some tissue. Her mouth felt like it was rotting from the inside. Maybe it was. Maybe everything was rotting, even the child they had made.

  She anticipated Nick’s wry reaction—problem solved.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Andrew turned the key. The Porsche fishtailed as he pulled away from the curb. “We just need to drive a bit. Maybe we’ll swing by Nick’s?”

  Jane was confused by his avuncular tone, but then she realized that Andrew was talking for the bug that might be in the car.

  She told him, “Danberry compared Nick to Donald DeFreeze.”

  “Field Marshal Cinque?” Andrew gave her a careful look. He instantly got the portent of Danberry’s observation. “Does that make you Patricia Hearst?”

  She said it again, “They think we’re in a cult.”

  “Do Hare Krishnas drive Porsches?” Andrew didn’t realize that she wanted a real answer. He was still speaking for the benefit of a phantom listener. “Come on, Jinx. This is crazy. The pigs don’t like Nick, which is understandable. He’s being an asshole for no reason. Once they figure out he’s playing them, they’ll move on to investigating the real bad guys.”

  Jane wondered if Andrew had accidentally hit on the truth. Why did Nick have to constantly play games? They were supposed to be taking this seriously—and since Oslo, everything had become deadly serious. What they were about to do in San Francisco, Chica
go, and New York would bring the full weight of the federal government down on them. Nick couldn’t keep flying so close to the sun. They would all end up plummeting into prison cells.

  “It’s nothing,” Andrew said. “We’re not a cult, Jinx. Nick has been my best friend for seven years. He’s been your boyfriend for six. Those agents are focused on him because they have to focus on someone. There always has to be a boogeyman with those people. Even David Berkowitz blamed his neighbor’s dog.”

  Jane felt no relief from his cavalier words. “What if they don’t move on?”

  “They’ll have to. Our father was murdered in front of our eyes.”

  Jane winced.

  “The FBI won’t fail us. Jasper won’t let that happen. They’ll catch whoever did this.”

  She shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  That was exactly what she was worried about.

  The car banked around a steep curve.

  Jane put her hand to her throat. The sickness threatened to return. She looked out the window and watched the houses blur by. She thought about Nick because that was the only thing that kept her from breaking down. Jane had to stop questioning him, even if only in her mind. The one thing Nick could not abide was disloyalty. That was the reason for his tests while she was in Berlin—sending Jane to a biker bar near the Bornholmer checkpoint, airmailing her a dime-bag of cocaine to sell to a university student, sending her into the police station to report a stolen bike that had never existed.

  Nick had told her at the time that he was helping Jane practice, honing her ability to adapt to dangerous situations. That she could’ve been raped in the bar, arrested for the coke or charged with making a false police report had never occurred to him.

  Or maybe it had.

  Jane took a deep breath as Andrew steered into another curve. She held onto the strap. She watched him weave in and out of traffic with barely a glance over his shoulder.

  Evasive maneuvers.

  They had driven repeatedly to San Luis Obispo and back, three or four cars at a time, working on their driving skills. Nick, predictably, had been the best of all of them, but Andrew was a close second. They were both naturally competitive. They both shared a dangerous disregard for life that allowed them to speed and swerve with moral impunity.