The Separatists Page 13

  Erica begged off flying out with Gloria, saying she wanted to spend a few more hours with Jenny, and then booked this flight without telling anyone.

  She made good use of those hours with Jenny; they paid a quick visit to the exotic insect exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, just the two of them, and it went well. Didn’t it? Jenny was full of questions about secessionists and the Bellamys and North Dakota, proud of the success of Spotlight, but still . . . somehow it felt to Erica as if they were playing a game of mother/daughter, each sticking to her role for fear that if they broke character the whole show would fall apart, degenerate into sarcasm, passive aggression, and mutual resentment—the truth is the Beth video still rankles. But they made it through the museum and then Erica delivered Jenny back to the apartment—where Greg is going to entertain her for the rest of the weekend—and took off for the airport, hoping her relief wasn’t too obvious.

  The plane lands at Winnipeg airport, and Erica—passport (and celebrity) in hand—quickly goes through customs. She steps outside and gets a cab to the Edgecomb Hotel. As they drive through the city toward downtown, Erica is impressed by how clean and orderly it is; even the pedestrians seem well behaved, with little of the nudging and rushing and weaving so common on the sidewalks of New York. They reach downtown and then move into a run-down old neighborhood in its shadows. So many cities seem to have these Skid Rows next to their downtowns, once-thriving neighborhoods left to fester as the cities expanded outward. They pass bars, check-cashing convenience stores, drunks, druggies, derelicts, the down-and-out. The driver stops in front of a circa-1920s hotel that has clearly seen better days.

  “Can you wait for me here? It shouldn’t be long. Then I’m heading right back to the airport.” The driver nods and Erica gets out.

  The lobby of the Edgecomb Hotel is high-ceilinged and expansive, with rococo detailing and cool architectural details, all of it covered in a thick layer of dust, dirt, and defeat. A sputtering television hangs on the wall, and the sagging chairs and sofas are home to about a half dozen empty-eyed men and women who look like extras in some low-budget zombie movie. Were these sad souls really once innocent children?

  Erica approaches the front desk, which is manned by a thin, sallow, middle-aged man who is methodically clipping his fingernails. He glances at her with feral eyes and then goes back to his chore.

  “Hi,” Erica says.

  He purses his lips expectantly.

  “I’m looking for information about George Lundy.”

  “George Lundy is dead.”

  “I know. Can you tell me anything about him?”

  The man focuses on Erica for the first time. There’s no sign of recognition. “. . . I might be able to tell you a thing or two.” His lips purse again.

  In her travels Erica has learned to come prepared. She takes out her wallet, removes a fifty-dollar bill, and slides it across the counter. The man puts the flat of his hand on the bill and slides it over to his side, and then, in a strangely agile move, right into his pants pocket.

  “Lundy lived here for about six months. Kept to himself. Most do.” He nods toward the dazed denizens.

  “Did he ever have any company? Did you ever see him with anyone?”

  “Can’t say as I did. I will say he got agitated his last week here, before he was . . . shot in the back of the head, wasn’t it?”

  Erica nods.

  “Way down in Bismarck. That’s kinda weird, isn’t it? I mean, we’re not exactly sister cities.”

  “How was he agitated?”

  “Just kinda jumpy and nervous, going in and out a lot.”

  “Can I see his room?”

  “That’s strictly against hotel policy.”

  Erica slides another fifty across the counter. The man scratches behind his ear, looks around the lobby, then turns and takes down a key. “Room 411. Don’t dawdle.”

  As the elevator—with its tarnished gold filigree—rumbles upward, Erica thinks of her mother, ensconced in the cookie-cutter townhouse development with its community center and immaculate landscaping. If Erica hadn’t been a success, would Susan have ended up in a dead-end hotel like this one? And what about Erica herself? Where would she be if she hadn’t gotten sober and pulled her life together? The world is full of Edgecomb Hotels, the last stop on the loser train.

  The fourth-floor hallway is the color of tobacco spit, dimly lit, and smells like some mix of cigarettes and urine and canned spaghetti. Erica passes an open doorway and looks in—an ancient man in his underwear is sitting on the edge of his bed. He leers at Erica and then cackles toothlessly.

  There’s a strip of police tape over the doorway to room 411. Erica unlocks the door, ducks under the tape, and shuts the door behind her. The room is surprisingly clean, and the only personal touch is a Star Wars poster taped to the wall, which Erica finds poignant somehow. The place has obviously been searched by the police—the dresser drawers are open, their contents jumbled, the bedsheets are a tangle on the floor. Erica makes her way through the room and small bath, examining every nook and cranny, looking under the sink, in the toilet tank, behind the radiator, removing the dresser drawers, going through the pockets of the three sad jackets that hang in the wardrobe. Nothing. Anywhere.

  Frustrated, she heads back down the hallway. As she hastens past the open door, the ancient man barks, “I seen ’em.” Something in his tone, the certainty, makes Erica stop. She turns, walks back, and looks into the room. The man smiles with lascivious satisfaction.

  “Who did you see?”

  “Come in, honey, I don’t bite.”

  Erica takes a half step into the room; it smells like baby powder and Vaseline.

  “Yeah, I seen ’em.”

  “Who?”

  “Lundy and Freddy.”

  “Who’s Freddy?”

  “I warned him to stay away from that Freddy McDougal. But nobody listens to Elmer anymore.”

  “Who’s Freddy McDougal?”

  “He waves a couple of Gs in some sad sack’s face and the guy does some dumb crap and winds up with a hole in the back of his head.”

  “Where can I find this Freddy?”

  “Eager, eh? Like a filly at the gate. A real pretty filly.”

  “Listen, I don’t have much time. I need to find Freddy.”

  There’s a buzz, and Elmer picks up his cell phone and reads the text message. He smiles to himself, then turns his attention back to Erica. “Freddy’s got a luncheonette on the next block. Not that he cares if he ever sells another BLT. Don’t tell him I sent ya.” He looks at his phone again. “Listen, I got a hooker coming up in twenty minutes. Unless you want to make a few extra bucks.” Then he cackles.

  As Erica heads down the hall, Elmer shouts after her, “Watch your step, sweetie.”

  CHAPTER 37

  FARLEY’S LUNCHEONETTE IS A THROWBACK, with a U-shaped Formica counter, leatherette stools, and a row of booths along one wall. There’s also a large framed photograph of the premier of Manitoba, Pearce Johnson. The place is pretty crowded, and the clientele looks a step or two up from the Edgecomb. Erica sits at the counter. She asked the cab driver to wait a little longer, but she has to make her flight and time is tight.

  A waitress who looks alarmingly like Elmer’s twin sister comes over.

  “What can I get ya, eh?”

  “Just a cup of coffee. I’m looking for Freddy McDougal.”

  The waitress cocks her head toward a booth in the back. Freddy is middle-aged, looks like he’s in good shape, wearing a sports coat, respectable. He’s leaning across the table, deep in conversation with a man in a nice suit.

  Erica walks over. “Hi, Freddy.”

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not polite to interrupt?”

  “She didn’t, actually. But I’m pressed for time. Could I possibly have a couple of minutes of yours?”

  “I know you.”

  “I guess I know you too.”

  Freddy shoots his boothmate a gl
ance and the man gets up, saying, “We can finish this later.” He casts an appraising glance at Erica, as if he’s imprinting her on his mind, and walks away.

  “Have a seat, Erica Sparks. What’s on your mind?”

  Erica scoots into the booth. “George Lundy’s murder.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  “Never met the guy.”

  “You were seen with him in the Edgecomb Hotel.”

  “I own the Edgecomb Hotel. I’m in and out all the time. I also own this place and a decent chunk of this whole neighborhood.” He smiles. “There’s a lot of money in poverty.”

  “So you never had any dealings with George Lundy?”

  “I collect rent from people like Lundy, I don’t socialize with them.”

  “And you have no idea who sent him down to Bismarck to murder Joan Marcus?”

  “I can see how you got where you are, Erica, but no, I have no idea.” His eyes are clear and his matter-of-fact manner doesn’t suggest guilt. Still, there’s something about him . . . He’s too relaxed by half. “Listen, you’re not the only one who’s busy. I’m meeting with a prospective retail tenant. This area is coming up, and I’m going to ride it all the way home.” He stands and buttons his sports coat. “It was a pleasure meeting you, my wife is going to be thrilled.” Then he walks out of Farley’s.

  The waitress comes over and puts a cup of coffee in front of Erica. Then she puts a menu and pen on the table. “Could we get your autograph?”

  Erica looks around and sees that pretty much everyone in the place is staring at her. She throws a five on the table and splits.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE CAR TAKES ERICA FROM the Bismarck airport to an industrial park north of town. It’s late afternoon and the place is jumping. There are hundreds of cars parked in the lot, more are driving in, and there are at least a half dozen broadcast trucks. The car pulls up to a vast hangar-like building and Erica gets out.

  She heads inside—the cavernous space is filled with hundreds of people, upbeat music is blaring, there are banners and balloons and signs, a festive fervent mood that borders on zealous, that carries a tinge of the cultish, the mob, as if this energy could go either way, tinder waiting for the match. Erica scans the space for Gloria and her crew. She spots them and races over. Gloria has a look of concern on her face, which turns to relief when she sees Erica.

  “Thank goodness you’re here. I was worried. Didn’t you get my messages and texts?”

  “I was busy, I ignored everything. But I’m here on time.”

  Gloria looks at her watch. “Barely. I was so worried I called the airlines. You weren’t on any of the flights to Bismarck. Texting me back would have taken two minutes. There is such a thing as professional courtesy.”

  Gloria isn’t afraid to stand up to Erica, and she loves that. It makes her trust and respect the woman even more. Still, she ignores her questions and grabs her mic. “Let’s go . . . This is Erica Sparks reporting live from an industrial park on the outskirts of Bismarck, North Dakota, where Mary Bellamy has established headquarters for her Homeland Pioneers campaign. As you can see around me, this vast space is serving as a welcoming, processing voter registration and housing and job center for ‘pioneers’ from across the country who have responded to Bellamy’s call to move to North Dakota to strengthen her chances of winning the governorship in the recall election on August 1st. The mood is festive, even raucous, and very determined. Let’s meet some of the newcomers.”

  Erica moves to one of the dozens of stations lining the perimeter of the facility; each is identified by a large sign—Housing, Voter Registration, Jobs, Medical, Gun Registry—and each has a line snaking in front of it. Volunteers are moving up and down the lines, handing out water and soda, coffee and doughnuts. There’s an enormous banner hanging down from the rafters that reads Welcome to the Homeland. Erica approaches the end of the line waiting in front of a housing station. A young couple, the mom carrying a baby, is patiently waiting to register. They’re clean-cut and nicely dressed, poster people for Bellamy’s movement.

  “Hi, what are your names and where are you from?”

  “I’m Phil Davis.”

  “I’m Lonnie Davis, and we’re from Seattle.”

  “And what brought you here to North Dakota?” Erica asks.

  “We think the federal government is too big and intrusive. We believe states should run themselves,” Phil Davis says.

  “The Bellamy campaign is asking every pioneer to register to vote and to pledge to support her in the upcoming election. Are you willing to do that?”

  “Absolutely. We love her,” Lonnie Davis says.

  “And you’re hoping that you can get help finding a place to live?”

  “The campaign has promised us housing, even if it’s temporary. I hear they’ve brought in trailers like FEMA did after Katrina. We’re fine in a trailer, we just want to be part of this.”

  “Thank you,” Erica says, moving away from the Davises and over to a voter registration station, where Wendell Brodsky is keeping a watchful eye on things. “Now, let me see if I can grab a few words with Wendell Brodsky, who is the strategic and statistical brain behind this campaign . . . Do you have a minute, Wendell?”

  “Of course, Erica.”

  “Can you break this all down by the numbers for our viewers?”

  “Well, in the last North Dakota gubernatorial election, voter turnout was just over 300,000. Right now Mary trails Governor Snyder by approximately four points in the polls. We’re hoping to welcome and register between twenty-five and thirty thousand pioneers, whom we believe will provide us with a comfortable margin of victory.”

  “But you have no guarantee they’ll vote for your candidate. The voting booth is private.”

  “I don’t think these people would pick up their lives and move here unless they were passionate about our cause.”

  “Can you tell me how many people in total you’ve processed?”

  “As of fifteen minutes ago, 6,820. That’s in three days, so we’re on track to meet our goals.”

  “Those are very impressive numbers. But in order to vote, someone has to have lived in North Dakota for thirty days. Which means you only have another eight days to register people.”

  “We’re confident we’re going to reach our goal. Pioneers are pouring into the state,” Wendell says.

  Erica spots Mary Bellamy holding a tray of coffee and doughnuts, cheerfully—with just a trace of noblesse oblige—offering them to those waiting in line. Her modest endeavor is undercut by the adoring throng who hover around her. “Thank you, Wendell Brodsky. Now let me see if I can get a few words with Mary Bellamy herself, the leader of the Take Back Our Homeland movement.”

  “Erica,” Mary says in her understated way, “how about a cup of coffee and a doughnut? I’ve got plain, frosted, and chocolate.”

  “Maybe later. What do you make of all this?”

  “Well, I think it’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen. This is democracy in action. Just look at all these lovely families who want to be a part of it. They’re the new pioneers. Together we are making history.”

  “Isn’t there a danger that you’re weakening our nation by dividing people, creating an us-versus-them mentality?”

  “We’re strengthening the Homeland,” Mary says deftly. “This movement is about freedom. The federal government wants to control our lives. We believe North Dakotans know what’s best for North Dakota. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Erica, I’ve got doughnuts to give out.”

  The woman is measured, homespun, self-effacing, but under it all Erica senses that steel, that ruthlessness. It’s the tightness at the corners of her mouth, the eyes that tend to dart, the imperious tilt of the chin. Erica has seen the lust, the thirst, the need for power before. And it never fails to terrify her.

  In the van carrying them back to the Holiday Inn, Gloria asks, “Now are you going to tell me where you wer
e this morning?”

  Erica hesitates for a moment, some instinct telling her to hold back. But this is Gloria, for goodness’ sake. “I made a little detour to Winnipeg.”

  “For?”

  “That was the last known location of George Lundy.”

  “I thought we were here covering the Bellamys and their movement. Not the murders of Marcus and Lundy.”

  “And don’t forget Joan Marcus’s daughter and son-in-law.”

  “That’s classified as an accident, as of now.”

  “Exactly: as of now. The point is I’m not sure that the Bellamy story and the four deaths aren’t related.”

  Gloria leans back in the seat and her eyes get very wide for a moment. But she recovers quickly. “I wish you’d let me know, I would have offered to help.”

  “I appreciate that, but this is all at the embryonic stage. Sometimes stealth is the best choice.”

  “Do you have any evidence that might link the Bellamys or the Homeland movement to the murders?”

  Erica hesitates again. This time she trusts her instincts. “One step at a time, Gloria, one step at a time.”

  CHAPTER 39

  ERICA IS IN HER ROOM at the Holiday Inn, playing solitaire and going over what she learned today. Freddy McDougal seems to be an important piece of the story. But what story, exactly? Is Joan Marcus’s murder really somehow connected to the Bellamys? Was she about to expose environmental crimes committed at Bellamy-owned companies? If so, it surely would have torpedoed Mary Bellamy’s campaign for governor—it’s tough to sell your state as capable of self-regulating and then flood it with cancer-causing chemicals. Or did Marcus uncover something when she was tracking shipments in and out? Is it possible drugs were laundered through the company? That could happen without the Bellamys even knowing.

  But no matter what the malfeasance, are the Bellamys capable of murder? You’re taking a big risk when you kill. They’re working through the system. Would they really put it all in jeopardy to off a bookkeeper? But someone ordered the murder of Marcus, and then Lundy. Which leads her back to McDougal.