The Separatists Page 17

  She looks around the place; it’s filled with families pretending to be happy, just like hers is. People are looking at her and whispering. Right now she hates being famous, she wishes she were a print reporter who could go anywhere unnoticed. She needs to get back out to North Dakota pronto. But the thought of that vast bleak state, ravaged by oil wells and fracking and instant trailer towns, fills her with dread. Sitting with her mother and daughter, not sure what to say to either one of them, she feels trapped between a rock and a hard heart. Erica takes a deep breath and rubs her temples. The only way out is to keep searching for the truth. What was that Shakespeare quote Archie Hallowell used to admonish her with: Screw your courage to the sticking place and you’ll not fail.

  “You seem really distracted, Mom,” Jenny says.

  “The secessionist story is turning out to be much bigger than I expected.”

  “The se-what-onist story?” Susan asks. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow politics and all that.”

  Jenny shoots Erica an incredulous look.

  “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to keep the focus on my recovery, you know.”

  There’s something touching about her honesty and her terrible insecurity. “There’s a political movement in North Dakota that wants the state to break away from the union,” Erica explains.

  “Oh, of course, I heard about your new show—Spotlight, right? I wanted to see it, but I had a meeting that night. First things first. Do you mean break away like in the Civil War?”

  “On a smaller scale, but yes.”

  “Well, what do you know.”

  Looking across at her mother and daughter, Erica feels at a loss. They should bring her solace, but they only bring confusion. Now that Susan is making a sincere effort to get clean, to pull her life together, shouldn’t she be supportive?

  As if reading her mind, Susan reaches across the table and takes Erica’s hand. “I owe your mother some serious amends, Jenny. I was not a good mother to her.” Susan’s eyes well. Her hand is shaking. “In fact, I was a dirty, lousy, rotten mother and I know it.”

  Erica feels her throat tighten. She wasn’t expecting this. And she can’t cry, not here, not in public, not with Jenny watching.

  “You did your best,” she manages.

  “Well, my best was downright crummy. All I can do, sweetheart, is say I’m sorry. And try and be some kind of . . . well, I guess friend is the best word, to you from here on out.”

  Could it be possible? Could the three of them form some kind of chain, a chain of . . . love? Erica knows she’s the middle link—between her uneducated, addict mother and her privileged, well-spoken daughter. It’s up to her to hold them all together. And that will take an emotional fortitude and flexibility she’s not sure she possesses. It will also take a lot of forgiveness. And that will be the hardest thing of all.

  Erica’s phone rings. It’s Shirley. “Erica, your driver’s been waiting outside for half an hour. Your flight leaves in forty minutes. You’ve got to get out to the airport.”

  Erica hangs up, feeling a surge of relief. “I’ve got to run or I’ll miss my flight.”

  “You better hurry, Mom.”

  Erica stands and grabs her bag.

  “I’ll make sure this precious little girl gets home safely,” Susan says.

  Erica stops and looks down at her mother and her daughter, sitting side by side in the booth. She feels a welling of emotion that threatens to overwhelm her. “I’m happy we all got to be together.”

  And even happier that I’m leaving.

  CHAPTER 50

  IN THE CAR ON THE way to Logan, Erica calls Boston Police Detective Pat Halley, an old contact from her days as a Boston anchor.

  “Sparks, as I live and breathe, to what do I owe?”

  “A kidnapping.”

  “Who was ’napped?”

  “Me.”

  “O-kay . . .?”

  “This morning at Logan, at approximately ten thirty, on the arrival sidewalk outside of Jet Blue.”

  “But you’re in one piece?”

  “I am. Would it be possible to get the surveillance video of the area? There was a man posing as my driver. There was a second guy in the trunk of the car, but he obviously won’t be on the video.”

  “So two thugs picked you up and then what?”

  “We went for a little drive out to some woods in Belmont. They were delivering a message. I’d like to find out who it was from.”

  “Erica, we may need to file a report on this.”

  “Pat, I would really appreciate it if that didn’t happen.”

  There’s a pause and then, “This call never happened. Although I just gotta say, I’ve been following your career and I’m proud of you. You were a good reporter and you made it, you made it to the top.”

  As her car pulls up in front of Jet Blue, Erica thinks, Making it to the top was the easy part. It’s staying there that’s the killer.

  CHAPTER 51

  MARY BELLAMY IS ALONE IN her library, watching The Erica Sparks Effect. Erica is speaking to the camera: “The Take Back Our Homeland movement, and its offshoots and copycats, continue to gather steam, not just in North Dakota, but nationwide. In what political operatives are calling ‘brilliant political theater,’ the leader of the movement, Mary Bellamy, has organized what she is calling ‘twenty-first-century wagon trains filled with new American pioneers.’ Here we can see one of these wagon trains in Oregon and another in Arkansas.”

  The screen fills with footage of a stream of cars, campers, SUVs, and RVs moving in a line down an Oregon thruway. Banners hang from the sides of many of the vehicles proclaiming We’re Heading Home and New American Pioneers. Then Arkansas pioneers are shown.

  Cut back to Erica at her desk: “Bellamy claims that caravans are arriving from all fifty states and that the movement is three-quarters of the way toward meeting its goal of thirty thousand new North Dakota residents and voters. With the election just weeks away, the fervor is only growing, though the latest polls show Governor Snyder holding on to his narrow lead. The Bellamy camp blames the numbers on the millions of dollars in television and online attack ads with which her opponents are blanketing the state. The White House continues to refuse to comment on the developments. Administration insiders say that President Winters is convinced that even in the unlikely event that the movement does prevail in the election, Mary Bellamy is a reasonable woman who will moderate her positions and goals. These sources point out that the Bellamys are among the state’s wealthiest residents and that any radical action could jeopardize their extensive holdings. However, those who know Mary Bellamy best and have dealt with her over the years are cautioning that she is a woman of her word and that her commitment to her cause is unshakeable. Off the record, the White House is convinced Bellamy is going to lose. The answers to these provocative questions will become apparent in the coming weeks and months. But first she has to win the recall election. When we come back, the latest developments in the historic drought gripping the Northwest.”

  Mary Bellamy clicks off the television. That was a troubling update, and slanted. How many times did she have to mention the polls? Mary’s speeches have been drawing large crowds. The pioneers are getting registered. That Erica Sparks is starting to annoy her. Sturges is down at headquarters. They missed their nightly dinner-and-TV ritual. It’s one of the things that holds their marriage together. It’s certainly not passion. Never has been, really, has it?

  Mary has a sudden itch on her left leg, and why wasn’t the fireplace cleaned of its ashes? She goes to the bar and pours herself two fingers of Scotch. She takes a sip, well, a swallow, well, a gulp. Its burning warmth floods her chest. This is all unacceptable, these poll numbers, the mere thought that she might lose. She won’t lose, she can’t lose. Out. Of. The. Question.

  Mary pulls the library’s pocket doors closed. Sarah, their cook, and Julie, the second maid, are still in the house. She sits down, takes out her special phone, and dials.

&n
bsp; “My darling, I was just about to call you,” he says in that virile voice of his. The one that’s thrilled her since they met at that energy conference in Winnipeg almost a decade ago. Their rapport was instant. Two kindred spirits who share ambition and smarts and courage. And disdain for big government.

  “Neal.”

  He can hear her anxiety. “Your wagon train idea is creating so much momentum and excitement, and it’s dominating coverage. It’s pure genius.”

  It’s a kind thing to say, but she hates sugarcoating. “You’ve seen the polls.”

  There’s a pause, filled with gravity. “I have.”

  “They’re troubling.”

  There’s another pause and the mood changes between them. When they speak their voices are low and charged. “But we planned for this contingency, didn’t we?”

  “We did,” Mary says.

  “I think now is the time to put the plan into action.”

  “Yes, yes . . . ,” she says, almost vaguely, as if they were discussing what to have for dinner tomorrow night. Their minds think alike. She finds that so reassuring. They really don’t need to delve or elaborate, enough has been said, wheels will start turning. “I adore you, Neal.”

  “You do know we’re going to win, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, I do. Of course.”

  “We always win, darling. That’s the kind of people we are.”

  “Well, I’d better get to work.”

  He lowers his voice to a purring growl. “I can’t wait to hold you.”

  Mary switches phones and calls Sturges at headquarters. “How are things going down there?”

  “Everyone is very pumped up!” he says in a pumped-up voice. His plastic enthusiasm is annoying. “We’re going to win this thing!”

  “Yes, we are,” Mary says in a soft voice. “Listen, darling, Julie Hassan, who’s running the phone banks in Fargo, thinks it would be terrific for morale if you could show up tomorrow and spend some time making calls. Nothing inspires the troops like seeing the generals in the fray.”

  There’s a pause, and she can hear his wheels turning, making his own plans, the plans he so often makes when he’s on an out-of-town trip. “Well then, I suppose I should drive out tomorrow. I can stop in at Dakota Salvage and see how the new foreman is working out.”

  “Excellent idea. Of course, evening is the best time to make calls.”

  “Yes, yes, it is. So I may as well stay overnight.”

  “You may as well.”

  They hang up. What a silly man he is, really. Not that she’s bitter. Well, maybe she is bitter. Yes, she is. He married her under false pretenses. And she was madly in love with him, thought he would be her one and only. One and only. How ironic that is. Oh, it was more than once, of course, but not that much more, and for the last decade or so it’s been her none and only. Never mind, silly girl. Neal has made all that so insignificant.

  Still and all, they have been married for thirty years. Mary goes back to the bar and pours herself another two fingers of Scotch. Poor dear Sturges. But he really does have it coming.

  CHAPTER 52

  IN NEW YORK, ERICA HAS just finished her show and is walking home up Sixth Avenue. The July night is dense and sticky, but after the over-air-conditioned studio she welcomes the heat. It doesn’t relax her—it’s humidity, not a miracle worker—but it does feel good against her skin. Her skin. It’s nice to feel something sensual. After all, she and Greg haven’t . . . well, it’s been a while.

  The two of them have been ships in the night. Friendly enough, no overt hostility, just a distance that seems to grow larger with each passing day. It confuses Erica on good days, and fills her with a terrible sadness on bad ones. The lack of resolution, the sense of her marriage being suspended between its early happiness and . . . and what? As she moves through the crowds of tourists, Erica thinks ruefully, Motherhood isn’t the only thing I’m lousy at. Why isn’t there a manual that explains it all: Being a Grown-up for Dummies.

  But it’s not time management that she’s bad at it, it’s heart management. When it comes to Jenny and Greg and even her mother, her emotions cloud her judgment and she says and does the wrong thing, making matters worse. It’s ironic that to the world she seems the very picture of a winner, one of those celebrities who grace the cover of People—she’s been on it three times—and are featured on gossip websites and badgered for beauty and workout tips. Erica feels a wave of loneliness sweep over her. If only her fans could see who she really is: a woman who often feels at sea, like an imposter, a failure at what matters most.

  But what does matter most?

  She passes a large rowdy tavern. The television set over the bar shows a map of North Dakota and then footage of one of the instant trailer towns that the Bellamys have financed to house their pioneers. And suddenly—yes, it happens that quickly—she feels the loneliness evaporate, her concerns about being a good wife and mother fade. She has a mission in life: to find the truth. Right now that means uncovering the labyrinthine machinations that led to Joan Marcus’s savage murder in a hotel ladies’ room. What was that poor woman trying to tell her? And was it somehow connected to the Homeland movement? Something big and nasty is going down in North Dakota. Erica is flying out there on Wednesday to cover the campaign. Her instincts tell her it’s going to get ugly. Make that uglier.

  Her phone rings.

  “This is Erica.”

  “Pat Halley up in Boston. Listen, we got the surveillance video from Logan. It shows you walking right into the lion’s den.”

  “And do you know the lion is?”

  “Name is Desmond Riley. He’s a flunky, works for a guy further up the sleaze chain, name of Pete Nichols. Nichols is a tough one, and wily as hell. His fingers are in a hundred mud pies and he always comes out with his hands clean.”

  “Do you know where Riley is?”

  “We know where he isn’t. At home. Or at any of his regular watering holes.”

  “He may have been offed.”

  “Definite possibility. Although Nichols is known for his blood loyalty. He knew there’d be surveillance video of Riley. My guess is Riley is holed up in some isolated cabin in the Maine woods. Or he could be hiding in plain sight, wearing a disguise and walking the streets. Nichols loves to play games, tease us. He’s got that leprechaun gene.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Erica, this isn’t a game.”

  “I was the one who was stuffed into a trunk. Where do I find Nichols?”

  “He works out of Charlestown.”

  “Text me his phone and address.”

  There’s a pause and then a sigh and then, “Will do.”

  Erica quickens her pace, striding uptown, toward the truth.

  CHAPTER 53

  STURGES CHECKS INTO THE HILTON Garden Inn in Fargo at just after eleven. The staff is so cheerful and welcoming. He often feels like Mr. Mary Bellamy, so it’s good for him to get out alone now and then and see that he’s loved too.

  “Well, well, look who’s here, honey.” A tall young man in a cowboy hat crosses the lobby to Sturges, hand out. “I just want to shake your hand, sir. We’re pioneers, arrived in Fargo two weeks ago from Missouri.”

  Darn, Sturges thinks. The only thing he wants is to get upstairs and . . . he stops his thoughts there, before they cloud his judgment.

  “Well, welcome to the Homeland,” Sturges says, clasping the man’s hand.

  “I’m Travis Cotton and this is my wife, Carrie.”

  “Could we get a selfie?” Carrie asks.

  “Of course,” Sturges says, gritting his teeth into a big smile.

  Then he heads upstairs to his fourth-floor room. He told the “event planner” to get a room on the same floor. They’re planning an event all right. As he walks down the hallway he looks at each door he passes and wonders if it’s the one. If he’s in there.

  Sturges reaches his room and swipes his card. Is his hand shaking a little?

  In the roo
m the first thing he does is pull the curtains closed tight. Then he calls Mary, their nightly ritual when they’re apart. “I made it, honey. I’m in my room about to hit the sack.”

  “I just spent two hours working the phones. Boy, the Homeland is full of the nicest people. Now you get a good night’s rest, dear boy.”

  “I love you, dear girl.”

  They hang up. She knows. Of course she knows. She’s known for years.

  Sturges takes out his prepaid and texts:

  I’m here. Room 412

  And then he waits, trying to control his nerves, why does he always get so nervous? He’s not committing a crime, for goodness’ sake. He goes to the minibar and pulls out a nip of whiskey and downs it in one swallow. Then another. He feels the warmth and relaxation spreading through his chest. Everything is going to be fine.

  There’s a knock on his door. He goes and opens it. He’s standing there, Derek Strong (that can’t be his real name). He’s even more handsome and muscular than he looks in his online videos, wearing a suit and tie, just as Sturges stipulated. Good quality too. Well, at 3K plus airfare from LA, he can afford a good suit. And it just looks more professional, in case . . . well, you can’t be too careful.

  “Derek?”

  “Mr. Bellamy.”

  “Come in.”

  Derek steps in, and Sturges sticks his head out into the hallway. No one. He closes the door behind him.

  “So, thank you for coming. Would you like a drink?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I asked you here to discuss your proposal for the victory celebration on election night. We want the best.”

  “Of course you do. And I am the best.”

  “You look it.”

  “Everything will be top of the line.” Derek smiles.

  Sturges can’t believe how handsome this young man is. “Listen, would you like to take off your jacket?”

  “It is a little warm in here.”