“Yeah, well, we took down the Chicago Mercantile before it was all over.” She caught Andy’s blank look. “That’s where commodities are exchanged. Derivatives. You’ve heard of those? And Nick was on his way into Manhattan when they caught him trying to blow up the Stock Exchange. It would’ve been glorious.”
Andy had watched along with everyone else planes hitting buildings and trucks mowing down pedestrians and all of the horrors in between. She knew that attacks like that were not glorious, just as she knew that no matter what these crazy groups tried to take down, it always got rebuilt—taller, stronger, better.
She asked Paula, “So why am I here? What do you want from my mom?”
“Took you long enough to get to that question,” Paula said. “Jane has some papers your uncle Jasper signed.”
Uncle Jasper.
Andy couldn’t get used to having a family, though she wasn’t sure the Quellers were a family that she wanted.
Paula said, “Nick’s been up for parole six times in the last twelve years.” She wadded up the potato chip bag and threw it toward the trash can. “Every single fucking time, Jasper Fucking Queller climbs up on his podium wearing his stupid Air Force insignia and American flag pin and starts whining about how Nick killed his father and infected his brother and made him lose his sister and wah-wah-wah.”
“Infected his brother?”
“Nick had nothing to do with that. Your uncle was a fag. He died of AIDS.”
Andy physically reeled from the invective.
Paula snorted. “Your generation and its fucking political correctness.”
“Your generation and its fucking homophobia.”
Paula snorted again. “Christ, if I’d known all it took to make your balls drop was to shoot you, I would’ve done you the favor back in Austin.”
Andy closed her eyes for a second. She hated this brutal back and forth. “What’s in the papers? Why are they so important?”
“Fraud.” Paula raised her eyebrows, waiting for Andy to react. “Queller Healthcare was kicking patients out on the street, but still billing the state for their care.”
Andy waited for more, but apparently, that was it. She asked, “And . . .?”
“What do you mean, and . . .?”
“I could go online right now and find dozens of videos showing poor people being kicked out of hospitals.” Andy shrugged. “The hospitals just apologize and pay a fine. Sometimes they don’t even do that. Nobody loses their job, except maybe the security guard who was following orders.”
Paula was clearly thrown by her nonchalance. “It’s still a crime.”
“Okay.”
“Do you ever watch the news or read a paper? Jasper Queller wants to be president.”
Andy wasn’t so sure that a fraud conviction would stop him. Paula was still fighting by 1980s rules, before spin doctors and crisis management teams had become part of the vernacular. All Jasper would have to do was go on an apology tour, cry a little, and he’d be more popular than before it all started.
Paula crossed her arms. She had a smug look on her face. “Trust me, Jasper will crumble at the first whiff of scandal. All he cares about is the Queller family reputation. We’ll work him like a marionette.”
Andy had to be missing something. She tried to work it out. “You saw my mom on TV. You hired a guy to torture her for the location of these documents, and now you’re holding me ransom for them because you’re going to blackmail Jasper into being silent so Clayton—Nick—will be paroled?”
“It’s not rocket science, kid.”
It wasn’t even model rocket science.
How had her mother fallen in with these idiots?
Paula said, “I’ve got everything ready for Nick when he gets out. We’ll get some art for the walls, find the right furniture. Nick has such a great eye. I wouldn’t presume to choose those things without him.”
Andy remembered the institutional blandness inside of Paula’s house. Twenty years in prison, at least a decade on the outside, and she was still waiting for Clayton Morrow to tell her what to do.
She asked, “Did Nick put you up to this?” She remembered something Paula had said. “That’s why you haven’t killed me, right? Because I’m his daughter.”
She grinned. “I guess you’re not as stupid as you look.”
Andy heard a cell phone vibrating.
Paula searched the bags and found the broken burner phone. She winked at Andy before answering. “What is it, Dumb Bitch?” Her eyebrows went up. “Porter Motel. I know you’re familiar. Room 310.”
Andy watched her close the phone. “She’s on her way?”
“She’s here. Guess she used some of those Queller billions to charter a flight.” Paula stood up. She adjusted the gun in her waistband. “We’re in Valparaiso, Indiana. I figured you’d want to see where you were born.”
Andy had already chewed her tongue raw. She started on her cheek.
“Dumb Bitch was too good to be thrown into the general prison population. Edwin wrangled her a stay in the Porter County jail. She was in solitary the whole time, but so fucking what? Beats worrying some bitch is gonna shiv you in the back because you said her ass was big.”
Andy’s brain couldn’t handle all the information at once. She said, “What about—”
Paula took off her scarf and shoved it deep into Andy’s mouth.
“Sorry, kid, but I can’t be distracted by your bullshit.” She got on her knees and released the handcuff from the base of the table. “Put your right arm underneath.”
Andy stretched both arms toward the base, and Paula ratcheted down the cuffs.
“Uhn,” Andy tried. The scarf was shoved too far down her throat. She tried to work it out with her tongue.
“If your mom does what she’s supposed to do, you’ll be fine.” Paula took a spool of clothesline out of the bag. She bound Andy’s ankles to the chair leg. “Just in case you get any ideas.”
Andy started to cough. The more she struggled to push out the scarf, the deeper it went.
“You know your dead uncle tried to hang himself with this stuff once?” She reached into the plastic bag again. She found a pair of scissors. She used her teeth to break them out of the packaging. “No, I guess you don’t know. Left a scar on his neck, here—” she used the tip of the scissors to point to her neck, just below a smattering of dark moles.
Andy hoped she had skin cancer.
“Jasper saved him that time.” Paula cut the end of the clothesline. “Andy was always needing saving. Weird that your mom calls you by his name.”
Laura didn’t like to call Andy by her dead brother’s name. She winced every time she used anything other than Andrea.
Paula checked the handcuffs again, then the knots, to make sure they were secure. “All right. I’m gonna pee.” She stuck the scissors into her back pocket. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Andy waited until the bathroom door shut, then she looked for something stupid to do. The burner phone was still on the table. Her hands were out of the question, but maybe she could use her head. She tried to inch the chair forward but the burning was so intense that vomit spilled up her throat.
The scarf pushed it back down.
Fuck.
Andy let her eyes scan the room from floor to ceiling. Ice bucket and plastic cups on the desk under the TV. Water bottles. Trash can. Andy wrapped her fingers around the base of the table. She tested the weight as much as she could. Too heavy. And also, she had a bullet inside her body. Even if she managed to bite back the pain and lift the table, she would fall flat on her face because her ankles were tied to the chair.
The toilet flushed. The sink faucet ran. Paula came out with a towel in her hands. She tossed it onto the desk. Instead of addressing Andy, she sat down on the edge of the bed and watched television.
Andy let her forehead rest on the table. She closed her eyes. She felt a groan vibrate inside of her throat. It was too much. All of it was just too damn much.
>
Mike was a US marshal.
Her mother was in the witness protection program.
Her birth father was a murderous cult leader.
Edwin Van Wees was dead.
Clara Bellamy—
Andy could still clearly hear the smack that had cut off Clara’s scream.
The click-click-click-click of the revolver’s cylinder.
The ballerina and the lawyer had taken care of Andy for the first two years of her life, and she had not remembered one detail about them.
There was a sound in the hallway.
Andy’s heart jumped. She raised her head.
Two knocks rattled the door, then there was a pause, then another knock.
Paula snorted. “Your mom thinks she’s being sneaky getting here sooner than she said.” She turned off the TV. She pressed her finger to her lips as if Andy was capable of anything but silence.
The revolver was in Paula’s hand by the time she opened the door.
Mom.
Andy started to cry. She couldn’t help it. The relief was so overwhelming that she felt like her heart was going to explode.
Their eyes met.
Laura shook her head once, but Andy didn’t know why.
Don’t do anything?
This is the end?
Paula jammed the gun in Laura’s face. “Move it. Hurry.”
Laura leaned heavily on an aluminum cane as she walked into the room. Her coat was wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was drawn. She looked frail, like a woman twice her age. She asked Andy, “Are you okay?”
Andy nodded, alarmed by her mother’s fragile appearance. She’d had almost a week to recover from her injuries. Was she sick again? Did she get an infection from the wound in her leg, the knife cut in her hand?
“Where are they?” Paula pressed the muzzle of the gun to the back of Laura’s head. “The files. Where are they?”
Laura kept her gaze locked with Andy’s. It was like a laser beam between them. Andy could remember the same look passing between them when the nurses were wheeling Laura into surgery, off to radiation therapy, into the chemo ward.
This was her mother. This woman, this stranger, had always been Andy’s mother.
“Come on,” Paula said. “Where—”
Laura shrugged her right shoulder, letting the coat slip to the floor. Her left arm was in a sling instead of strapped to her waist. A packet of file folders was tucked inside. The splint from the hospital was gone. She was wearing an Ace bandage that ballooned around her hand. Her swollen fingers curled from the opening like a cat’s tongue.
Paula snatched away the files and opened them on the desk under the TV. The gun stayed trained on Laura while she thumbed through the pages. Paula’s head swiveled back and forth like she was afraid Laura would pounce. “Is this all of them?”
“It’s enough.” Laura still would not look away from Andy.
What was she trying to say?
“Spread your legs.” Paula roughly patted down Laura with her hands, clapping up and down her body. “Take off the sling.”
Laura didn’t move.
“Now,” Paula said, an edge to her voice that Andy had never heard before.
Was Paula afraid? Was the fearless bitch really scared of Laura?
“Take it off,” Paula repeated. Her body was tense. She was shifting her weight back and forth between her feet. “Now, Dumb Bitch.”
Laura sighed as she rested the cane against the bed. She reached up to her neck. She found the Velcro closure and carefully pulled away the sling. She held her wrapped hand away from her body. “I’m not wearing a wire.”
Paula lifted Laura’s shirt, ran her finger around the waistband.
Laura’s eyes found Andy. She shook her head again, just once.
Why?
Paula said, “Sit on the bed.”
“You have what you asked for.” Laura’s voice was calm, almost cold. “Let us go and no one else will get hurt.”
Paula jammed the gun into Laura’s face. “You’re the only one who’s going to get hurt.”
Laura nodded at Andy, as if this was exactly what she had expected. She finally looked at Paula. “I’ll stay. Let her go.”
No! The word got caught in Andy’s throat. She worked furiously to spit out the scarf. No!
“Sit down.” Paula shoved her mother back onto the bed. There was no way for Laura to catch herself with one arm. She fell on her side. Andy watched her mother’s expression contort in pain.
Anger seized Andy like a fever. She started groaning, snorting, making every noise she could manage.
Paula kicked away the aluminum cane. “Your daughter’s going to watch you die.”
Laura said nothing.
“Take this.” Paula tossed the spool of clothesline at Laura.
She caught it with one hand. Her eyes went to Andy. Then she looked back at Paula.
What? Andy wanted to scream. What am I supposed to do?
Laura held up the spool. “Is this supposed to make me feel sad?”
“It’s supposed to tie you up like a pig so I can gut you.”
Gut you?
Andy started pulling at the handcuffs. She pressed her chest into the edge of the table. The pain was almost unbearable, but she had to do something.
“Penny, stop this.” Laura slid toward the edge of the bed. “Nick wouldn’t want—”
“What the fuck do you know about what Nick wants?” Paula gripped the gun with both hands. She was shaking with fury. “You fucking cold bitch.”
“I was his lover for six years. I gave birth to his child.” Laura’s feet went flat to the ground. “Do you think he’d want his daughter to witness her mother’s brutal murder?”
“I should just shoot you,” Paula said. “Do you see my eye? Do you see what you did to me?”
“I’m actually quite proud of that.”
Paula swung the gun into Laura’s face.
Smack.
Andy felt her stomach clench as Laura struggled to stay upright.
Paula raised the gun again.
Andy squeezed her eyes closed, but she heard the horrible crunching sound of metal hitting bone. She was back at the farmhouse. Edwin was dead. Clara had screamed her first scream, then—
Click-click-click-click.
The cylinder spinning in the revolver.
Andy’s eyes opened.
“Fucking bitch.” Paula struck Laura across the face again. The skin had opened. Her mouth was bleeding.
Mom! Andy’s yell came out like a grunt. Mom!
“It’s gonna get worse,” Paula told Andy. “Pace yourself.”
Mom! Andy yelled. She looked at Laura, then looked at the gun, then looked back at Laura.
Think about it!
Why was Paula threatening to gut her? Why hadn’t she shot Clara at the farmhouse? Why wasn’t she shooting Laura and Andy right now?
The clicking back at the farmhouse was the sound of Paula checking to see if all of the cartridges in the revolver were spent.
She didn’t have any bullets left in the gun.
Mom! Andy shook the chair so hard that fresh blood oozed out of her side. The table bumped into her chest. She twisted her wrists, trying to hold up her hands so that Laura could see them.
Look! Andy groaned, straining her vocal cords, begging her mother for attention.
Laura took another blow from the gun. Her head rolled to the side. She was dazed from the beating.
Mom! Andy shook the table harder. Her wrists were raw. She waved her hands, furiously trying to get Laura’s attention.
“Come on, kid,” Paula said. “All you’re gonna do is knock yourself over.”
Andy grunted, shaking her hands in the air so hard that the cuffs cut into her skin.
Look!
With painful slowness, Laura’s eyes finally focused on Andy’s hands.
Four fingers raised on the left. One finger raised on the right.
The same number of fingers Lau
ra had shown Jonah Helsinger at the diner.
It’s why you haven’t pulled the trigger yet. There’s only one bullet left.
While Laura watched, Andy raised the thumb of her left hand.
Six fingers.
Six bullets.
The gun was empty.
Laura sat up on the bed.
Paula was thrown by her sudden recovery from the beating, which was exactly what Laura needed.
She grabbed the gun with her right hand. Her left hand corkscrewed through the air, punching Paula square in the throat.
Everything stopped.
Neither woman moved.
Laura’s fist was pressed to the front of Paula’s neck.
Paula’s hand was wrapped around Laura’s arm.
A clock was ticking somewhere in the room.
Andy heard a gurgling sound.
Laura wrested away her injured hand.
A ribbon of red sagged into the collar of Paula’s shirt. Her throat had been sliced open, the skin gaping in a crescent-shaped wound.
Blood dripped from the razorblade Laura held between her fingers.
I will slice open your fucking throat if you hurt my daughter.
That was why Laura wasn’t wearing the splint. She needed her fingers free so that she could hold onto the blade and punch it into Paula’s neck.
Paula coughed a spray of blood. She was shaking—not from fear this time, but from white hot fury.
Laura leaned in. She whispered something into Paula’s ear.
Rage flickered like a candle in her eyes. Paula coughed again. Her lips trembled. Her fingers. Her eyelids.
Andy pressed her forehead down to the table.
She found herself feeling detached from the carnage. She wasn’t shocked by sudden violence anymore. She finally understood the serenity on her mother’s face when she had killed Jonah Helsinger.
She had seen it all before.
ONE MONTH LATER
I felt a cleaving in my Mind—
As if my Brain had split—
I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—
But could not make them fit.
The thought behind, I strove to join
Unto the thought before—
But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
Like Balls—upon a Floor.
—Emily Dickinson
Pieces of Her Page 41