The cylinder spinning in the revolver?
She looked at the burner phone. The screen had been shattered.
There was nowhere to go. Nothing to do but wait.
Andy reached down to her side. Her shirt was soaked with blood. Her fingers found a tiny hole in the material.
Then the tip of her finger found another hole in her skin.
She had been shot.
August 2, 1986
14
Jane felt the ivory keys of the Steinway Concert Grand soften beneath the tips of her fingers. The stage lights warmed the right side of her body. She allowed herself a furtive glance at the audience, picked out a few of their faces under the lights.
Rhapsodic.
Carnegie had sold out within one day of the tickets going on sale. Over two thousand seats. Jane was the youngest woman ever to take center stage. The hall’s acoustics were remarkable. The reverb poured like honey into her ears, bending and elongating each note. The Steinway gave Jane more than she had dared hope for; the key action was loose enough to bring a nuanced delicacy that bathed the room in an almost ethereal wave of sound. She felt like a wizard pulling off the most wondrous trick. Every keystroke was perfect. The orchestra was perfect. The audience was perfect. She lowered her gaze past the lights, taking in the front row.
Jasper, Annette, Andrew, Martin—
Nick.
He was clapping his hands. Grinning with pride.
Jane missed a note, then another, then she was playing along to the staccato of Nick’s hands like she had not done since Martin first sat her down on the bench and told her to play. The noise sharpened as Nick’s clapping amplified through the hall. Jane had to cover her ears. The music stopped. Nick’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He kept clapping and clapping. Blood began to seep from his hands, down his arms, into his lap. He clapped harder. Louder. Blood splattered onto his white shirt, onto Andrew, her father, the stage.
Jane opened her eyes.
The room was dark. Confusion and fear mixed to bring her heart into her throat. Slowly, Jane’s senses came back to her. She was lying in bed. She pulled away the afghan covering her body. She recognized the blue color.
The farmhouse.
She sat up so fast that she was almost knocked back by a wave of dizziness. She fumbled for the switch on the lamp.
A syringe and vial were on the table.
Morphine.
The syringe was still capped, but the bottle was almost empty.
Panicked, Jane checked her arms, legs, feet for needle marks.
Nothing, but what was she afraid of? That Nick had drugged her? That he had somehow infected her with Andrew’s tainted blood?
Her hand went to her neck. Nick had strangled her. She could still remember those last moments in the bathroom as she desperately gasped for air. Her throat pulsed beneath her fingers. The skin was tender. Jane moved her hand lower. The round swell of her belly filled her palm. Slowly, she inched down farther and checked between her legs for the tell-tale spots of blood. When she pulled back her hand, it was clean. Relief nearly took her breath away.
Nick had not beaten another child out of her body.
This time, at least for this moment, they were safe.
Jane found her socks on the floor, tugged on her boots. She walked over to the large window across from the bed and drew back the curtains. Darkness. Her eyes picked out the silhouette of the van parked in front of the barn, but the other two cars were gone.
She listened to the house.
There were low voices, at least two people talking, on the far side of the house. Chopping sounds. Pots and pans clattering.
Jane leaned over to buckle her boots. She had a moment where she remembered doing the same thing days ago. Before they walked downstairs to speak with agents Barlow and Danberry. Before they had left in Jasper’s Porsche without realizing that they would never go back. Before Nick had made Jane choose between him or her brother.
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.
The door opened.
Jane didn’t know who she expected to see. Certainly not Paula, who barked, “Wait in the living room.”
“Where’s Andrew?”
“He went for a run. Where the fuck do you think?” Paula stalked off, her footsteps like two hammers hitting the floor.
Jane knew she should look for Andrew, but she had to compose herself before she spoke with her brother. The last hours or days of his life should not be filled with recriminations.
She went across the hall to the bathroom. She used the toilet, praying that she did not feel the sharp pain, see the spots of blood.
Jane looked down at the bowl.
Nothing.
The tub drew her attention. She had not fully bathed in almost four days. Her skin felt waxen, but the thought of getting undressed and finding soap and locating towels was too much. She flushed the toilet. Her eyes avoided the mirror as she washed her hands, then her face, with warm water. She looked for a rag and wiped under her arms and between her legs. She felt another wave of relief when she saw there was still no blood.
Were you stupid enough to think I’d let you keep it?
Jane walked into the living room. She looked for a telephone, but there wasn’t one. Calling Jasper was likely pointless, anyway. All of the family phone lines would be tapped. Even if Jasper was inclined to help, his hands would be tied. Jane was completely on her own now.
She had made her choice.
From the sound of it, someone had rolled the TV into the kitchen. She blinked, and time shifted back. Nick was on his knees in front of the set, adjusting the volume, insisting they all watch their crimes being cataloged for the nation. The group had arrayed themselves around him like blades on a fan. Clara on the floor taking in the frenetic energy. Edwin solemn and watchful. Paula beaming at Nick like he was the second coming of Christ. Jane standing there, dazed from the news that Clara had given her.
Even then, Jane had stayed in the room rather than finding Andrew because she still did not want to let Nick down. None of them did. That was the biggest fear they all had—not that they would get caught, or die, or be thrown into prison for the rest of their lives, but that they would disappoint Nick.
She knew that now there would be a reckoning for her defiance. Nick had left her here with Paula for a reason.
Jane rested her hand on the swinging door to the kitchen and listened.
She heard a knife blade striking a cutting board. The murmur of a television program. Her own breathing.
She pushed open the door. The kitchen was small and cramped, the table wedged against the end of the laminate countertop. Still, it had its charms. The metal cabinets were painted a cheery yellow. The appliances were all new.
Andrew was sitting at the table.
Jane felt her heart stir at the sight of him. He was here. He was still alive, though the smile he gave her was weak.
He motioned for Jane to turn down the television. She twisted the knob. Her eyes stayed on his.
Did he know what Nick had done to Jane in the bathroom?
Paula said, “I told you to wait in there.” She threw seasoning into a pot on the stove. “Hey, Dumb Bitch, I said—”
Jane gave her the finger as she sat down with her back to Paula.
Andrew chuckled. The metal box was open in front of him. Folders were spread out on the table. The tiny key was by his elbow. A large envelope was addressed to the Los Angeles Times. He was doing his part for Nick. Even at death’s door, still the loyal trooper.
Jane worked to keep the sorrow out of her expression. Impossibly, he looked even more pale. His eyes could have been lined in red crayon. His lips were starting to turn blue. Every breath was like a saw grinding back and forth across a piece of wet wood. He should be resting comfortably in a hospital, not struggling to stay upright in a hard wooden chair.
She said, “You’re dying.”