The Separatists Page 12

  “Cathy?”

  She turns from the window, but she can’t look Erica in the eye. She starts to walk around the room straightening things that are already straight. “That’s why it’s so neat in here. I’m trying to sort of stage the place. There’s going to be an open house. Frank has a job lined up down in Jacksonville. You can buy a pretty decent house down there for 150,000. And no snow. Imagine that?”

  When she finally turns to Erica, her eyes are full of fear and her words come in a rush. “Why did they have to slit her throat like that? I had to go down and identify her body. They tried to cover up her neck, but I could see it. She looked like a carved-up animal. She was a good mom. She always told me I was smart and pretty and could do anything and now . . .” She takes a throw off the back of the sofa and wraps it around herself. Then she walks back to the window.

  “Cathy, what did your mother find out that made them kill her?”

  Cathy whirls around. “I don’t know! I swear I don’t know! She didn’t tell me!” Cathy looks shocked by her own outburst. Her shoulders slump and she sits on the sofa, legs curled under her, and pulls the throw tight around her. When she speaks her voice is soft and flat. “All she told me was that it was big. Real big.”

  CHAPTER 33

  STURGES AND MARY BELLAMY ARE at their ranch, riding horses against the backdrop of low hills, grazing cattle, and an endless blue sky.

  “You know, Mary, this land is in our blood,” Sturges says. He looks so handsome, burnished, the afternoon sun striking the planes and angles of his weathered face, his thick gray hair picking up glints of light.

  “It certainly is, Sturges. My great-grandfather settled here in 1894. Built a farmhouse. Bred cattle. Raised a family.”

  “CUT!” the director—Corey James, long-haired, lanky, flew in from LA, only the best—calls from the open truck that is about twenty feet in front of the Bellamys, filming them as they ride. “Interference.” He points up to the sky, where a low-flying prop plane can be seen and heard. Everyone freezes until the plane passes. “All right, from the top.” The horses resume their saunter.

  “You know, Mary, this land is in our blood.”

  “It certainly is, Sturges. My great-grandfather settled here in 1894. Built a farmhouse. Bred cattle. Raised a family. He was all about hard work and integrity and your word being your bond. Those same values are what guide me today. But they’re under attack from outsiders. From Washington politicians who want to control our lives and our pocketbooks.” Mary—a potent mix of soft, sincere, and passionate—looks right into the camera. “If you elect me governor on August 1st, I promise you we will take back our homeland. Once and for all.”

  “CUT! Terrific! It’s a wrap.”

  A sound tech takes off Sturges’s and Mary’s microphones. Instead of dismounting, they turn their horses toward the horizon and nudge them into a trot, leaving the film crew behind.

  “This is what it’s all about, Sturges—a horse, the land, you and me,” Mary says in what she thinks of as her “Sturges voice”—loving, nurturing, convincing. She could have been an actress. Of course, it only works because Sturges plays his role so well.

  “There is nothing more perfect than freedom. I’m so proud of you, darling.”

  “I would be nothing without you,” Mary says.

  Actually, it’s her dad, the one and only Morris Adamsson, who gets that credit. He was the strongest person Mary has ever known, a pillar of rectitude, one of the most respected and wealthiest men in the state. Mary’s mom, Ingrid, died when she was three, plunging her father into an abyss of grief. But he never gave in to his sorrow, he bore it with such grace. He got up every morning and did what he had to do. He poured all of his love into his only child. But it wasn’t a soft, spoiling love, it was a toughening-up love. Because life is unpredictable and harsh and heartbreaking. He knew that. And he wanted Mary to be prepared.

  Once every month or so—starting when she was just a little girl—he’d take her to the slaughterhouse on their ranch. They’d stand on a small platform, and he’d pick her up and they would watch as the cattle, the terrified cattle, were herded through a shoot. Mary can still hear the cries and moans and braying of the doomed beasts as they were prodded along—they knew what was coming. Then they were jolted in the head with a stun gun, a jolt that rendered them insensate. Theoretically. It worked some of the time. Other times it didn’t.

  Next they were strung up, their feet were cut off, and their throats slit. They bled out. Except the ones who weren’t stunned were still alive when their feet were cut off and their throats slit. And they cried and screamed until they bled out. Her dad was animated by it all; he would breathe heavily and get red in the face, excited by the deaths and the suffering and the cries. Maybe it was his rage toward a world that took away the woman he loved.

  At first Mary hated to watch; she cried the first few times and turned her head away—but Daddy didn’t like that. Not one bit. He took her chin in his big hand and turned her face toward the dying animals. He told her to be strong, now and forever. That she was his daughter and that meant something. He told her that the cattle made lots of money for him, and for her. And that money was power. He told her if she watched the cattle die, she would be ready for life, ready to do big, important things.

  And so Mary trained herself to look, to watch as the animals’ throats were slit. To hear their cries and moans not as agonized last throes but as the sound of money being made, power being acquired. Before too long Mary loved their ritual visits to the slaughterhouse.

  Afterward they’d go into town for ice cream sundaes.

  “We’re quite a team, aren’t we?” Sturges says.

  “We are indeed,” Mary says, smiling to herself. She slows her horse to a walk and Sturges follows suit. The tone in her voice changes subtly as she says, “Isn’t that Erica Sparks a lovely young woman?”

  “Isn’t she?”

  “So bright. I admire her. Coming from that terrible background. She’s completely self-made.” Mary never takes her privilege for granted. Work is the great leveler. And Erica, like Mary, is a workhorse. “You know, she’s one of those people I just instinctively want to help. And she’s already proven very valuable to our cause. When Spotlight airs, we’re going to be the talk of the nation.”

  They walk in silence for a minute before Sturges says, “She’s very curious, isn’t she? Like a bloodhound.”

  “Yes. How else do you explain her flying out here last weekend? Meeting with that Marcus woman’s daughter. She’ll probably want to look into that drifter who was murdered, what was his name again?”

  “George Lundy.”

  “Yes. It’s an open-and-shut case. You heard Detective Hoaglund’s statement. Lundy and Marcus were involved in some sort of shady deal that went bad. I honestly don’t know why Erica would waste her time.” Mary frowns. “Although I suppose it’s that kind of doggedness that got her where she is today. But still . . .”

  “She might have called us. Just to say hello,” Sturges says.

  “One would hope.” Mary stops her horse and looks over at her husband. “We have to keep a close eye on her, don’t we, darling?”

  CHAPTER 34

  IT’S EIGHT THIRTY THURSDAY NIGHT and the premiere of Spotlight starts in a half hour. GNN is hosting a viewing party at the Paris movie theater on West Fifty-Eighth Street just off Fifth Avenue. The lobby is jammed with the city’s media elite, half of them wishing Erica every success, the other half wishing her every failure. Erica is making her way through the throng, smiling and greeting people, trying to project confidence and warmth—in fact, she’s paddling like mad below the surface, tense, uneasy with all the attention, knowing how much is at stake, and repeatedly tugged back to events in North Dakota. What could Joan Marcus have seen when she was working at Oil Field Solutions, a company co-owned by the Bellamys and a Canadian billionaire? Whatever it was, it cost her her life.

  She wishes Greg were by her side, but he’s ac
ross the lobby, networking with a vengeance. He’s made a tentative decision to look for producing work, and she knows how important contacts are . . . but still, tonight of all nights, couldn’t he keep the focus on her?

  And then Leslie Wilson sidles up to her, snaking her arm under Erica’s in a besties gesture that’s clearly meant for public consumption. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  “It is.” Erica is grateful to Leslie. The shoot at her house went so well; she was articulate and penetrating in her thoughts about the secession movements, and her footage elevates Spotlight in a way few other contributors could. In fact, a fair amount of the buzz around the show—online, in print, and on TV—has been generated by Leslie’s participation. Still, it’s Erica’s show, her baby. If it flops, she’ll be tainted and will probably never be given another chance at an in-depth investigative program. Leslie, on the other hand, will simply get back to her work and move on with her life.

  Erica spots Gloria and waves her over. “Big night,” Gloria says.

  “It wouldn’t have happened without you.”

  “I’m hardly the irreplaceable one, Erica.”

  “I was hoping your beau would make it.”

  “That makes three of us. But the Pentagon never sleeps,” Gloria says, momentarily looking a little bit lost and forlorn. You don’t need to be a couples counselor to figure out that it’s a fraught relationship. And that her mysterious fiancé holds most (all?) of the cards.

  The lights flash, and the audience makes its way into the theater. Erica is going to watch the screening from the back of the room—fewer people will see her wincing at tiny details that could have maybe been improved. As she watches the audience file in, she gets a text from Jenny.

  Good luck tonight, Mom. I’m watching and wicked proud

  Thank you, dear heart

  I don’t want to secede from you;)

  A thousand xxxoo’s

  Erica’s throat tightens, her eyes well. It’s the most pleasant exchange she’s had with Jenny since that awful weekend. Maybe we should only text, she thinks with a rueful smile.

  Greg finally appears and puts an arm around Erica. It sits there self-consciously. Erica takes a half step away and Greg retracts his arm.

  “Peggy Malkin, CNN’s head of production, wants me to come in for a meeting next week,” Greg says.

  “That’s wonderful, honey,” Erica says.

  On her way into the theater, Leslie dashes over and gives Erica’s hand a quick squeeze. “Bon courage.” Then she looks at Greg, smiles, and purrs, “And you.” Then she’s gone, leaving a whiff of bergamot behind.

  Just as Erica is about to say something about Leslie, the lights dim in the theater and her cell vibrates. It’s a North Dakota number. Erica moves to a corner of the lobby and answers.

  “Erica, it’s Peter Hoaglund in Bismarck.”

  “Not the best time. What’s up?”

  “You said you wanted to be kept in the loop, so I thought you’d want to know that Cathy and Dennis Allen were killed today when their propane tank exploded.”

  Erica feels the blood drain from her head and an icy shiver races down her spine.

  “Are you there? Erica? Ms. Sparks?”

  “Yes. Does it seem suspicious in any way?”

  “Well, um, considering . . . You know, propane tanks don’t just spontaneously combust.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” Erica hangs up and stands there, stock-still.

  Greg waves to her from across the lobby as ushers close the doors to the auditorium. “Erica, come on, it’s starting.”

  But his voice seems to come from far away and Erica doesn’t move.

  CHAPTER 35

  ERICA STANDS IN THE AISLE at the back of the theater as the first episode of Spotlight plays on-screen, trying to contain her restless anxiety. Not about the show, which is playing well, but about the deaths of Cathy and Dennis Allen. She quickly checked out the Bismarck Tribune’s site on her iPhone and saw pictures of the propane explosion—their house was leveled, nothing was left but a slab piled with detritus. Somewhere under it lie their mangled, lifeless bodies. She was with Cathy less than a week ago, sitting in her living room. And now she’s dead. Cathy was giving Erica important information about her mother’s murder. Someone didn’t like that. Erica feels a bead of sweat roll down from her left armpit. She shivers and ducks out into the lobby, gulping air. She takes out her phone and calls Mark Benton out in Portland.

  “Hey, Erica, your show starts in two hours out here. I’m recording it. Congrats.”

  “Thanks, Mark. Listen, if I sent you a picture I took with my iPhone of a photograph, or part of a photograph, could you enlarge it?”

  “Sure. I can’t make any promises on clarity and definition, but I’ll do my best.”

  Something about talking to Mark always grounds Erica. He’s been such a stalwart friend. And the fact that he’s out in crunchy, laid-back Portland, working and windsurfing, and not here in New York desperately trying to reach the top of the greasy pole, is comforting, a reminder that there is more to life than a career.

  Yes, Erica, like a child and a husband.

  Erica feels a wave of guilt and knows that she could never be happy in Portland, winsome and windsurfing, she needs the adrenaline rush of the news business, the sense that her work matters.

  “Can I send it along now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “Hold on.” Erica messages the picture to Mark.

  “It’s dark, Erica.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll try and lighten it up. Still . . .”

  “It could be important, just do your best.” Erica realizes she’s once again pulling Mark into a case in which she is directly involved and that has already produced four corpses. “And please don’t let anyone see it or know what you’re doing. Okay?”

  “Gotcha.”

  Erica slips back into the theater. It’s near the end of the show and on-screen she’s interviewing the Bellamys. The audience is pin-drop silent, with many people leaning forward in their seats.

  Mary Bellamy is speaking: “People are just plain fed up. And not just in North Dakota. We have supporters all across the nation.” She leans forward and her voice grows fervent. “And we are inviting them to move here to help us. We have jobs that go begging, we have open spaces, inexpensive housing, great natural beauty. So I put out a call to all Americans who support our goals: Be a twenty-first-century pioneer. Come to North Dakota, make it your homeland, and join us as we make history.”

  The audience gasps as one. Then people turn and start whispering to each other, a great surge of energy ripples through the theater, phones come out.

  On-screen Erica is closing out the episode, saying, “Although it’s only one of many, the North Dakota secession movement is certainly the most serious and advanced in the nation. Where will it lead? At this point, that question is impossible to answer. Polls have consistently shown Mary Bellamy trailing Governor Snyder. Will Bellamy’s call for ‘twenty-first-century pioneers’ to move to North Dakota affect the outcome? The White House has refused to comment on the situation, but sources inside the administration say they are watching developments closely. Behind the scenes, both parties are working to defeat Bellamy, whom they view as a threat to national unity. We will, of course, be following the story closely and will bring you any updates as soon as we have them. Thank you for watching Spotlight. We’ll see you next month.”

  As the lights go up, the audience seems to rise as one and pour up the aisle: the cat is out of the bag and everyone has joined the chase. Erica is quickly surrounded by colleagues and admirers. Mort Silver muscles his way close and says, “Brilliant, Sparks, brilliant. You created news here. And I just got a text: ratings are high, very high.”

  Erica finds the crush oppressive and feels a surge of claustrophobia; she looks around for Greg. There he is, walking up the aisle with Leslie Wilson, who has a hand on his arm as she leans in to tell him
something.

  Erica breaks through the throng and intercepts them.

  “Masterful,” Leslie says simply.

  “A lot of credit goes to you,” Erica says.

  “We’re a team. Listen, why don’t we all go out for a late supper?”

  “I’ve got to get home. I’ve got my show tomorrow and I’m flying out to Bismarck on Saturday.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Greg says.

  “I just decided.” Erica’s instincts tell her to play it close to the vest, even with Greg. “Every network is going to have people out there, some are probably on their way to the airport as we speak. We broke this story, and I want to own it.” She also wants to investigate the string of murders, albeit it far more quietly.

  “Isn’t Jenny coming down this weekend?” Greg asks.

  Erica clenches her teeth in chagrin—she had completely forgotten.

  CHAPTER 36

  IT’S SATURDAY MORNING AND ERICA looks out the airplane window at the endless plains below. It’s as if someone took the crumpled eastern landscape and stretched it tight across the globe, expanding it seemingly forever. It all looks so lonely to Erica, all that empty space, desolate and frightening, and she turns away from the window to her computer, where she is reading anything she can find on the murder of George Lundy, the drifter who may have killed Joan Marcus.

  When she next looks back out the window she sees the suburbs and then the skyscrapers of Winnipeg, rising from the plains like a vertical mirage. She’s meeting Gloria and her crew in Bismarck this afternoon. While she’s not completely sure she wants the second Spotlight to be devoted to the Homeland movement, she wants to shoot footage just in case. And she’s also going to be filing live reports. Eileen is down with a killer flu, and Gloria generously offered to oversee the live feeds too. Her work ethic is earning her a lot of chits very quickly.