The Separatists Read online

  “It is, isn’t it?” Sturges sits on the edge of the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink? Or a snack?”

  “No thanks, I’m not hungry.” Derek steps closer to Sturges. “Are you hungry?”

  “Um, yes, yes . . . I, I . . . ah, I am hungry.”

  Two minutes later he hears a muffled click and looks up to see that Derek is filming him.

  CHAPTER 54

  IT’S SATURDAY AROUND NOON. ERICA grabbed an early flight to Boston, then she cabbed over to Charlestown. At first glance the Gem Spa looks interchangeable with a thousand other small convenience stores in Boston—surviving on sugary sodas and lottery tickets and cigarettes. But then you notice that the shelves are barely stocked and that the refrigerator case is home to some sad-looking potato salad and coleslaw and a couple of blocks of meat and cheese—they’ll make you a sandwich if you ask nicely. The place smells like stale coffee, fresh cigarettes, and timeless venality. They’re clearly selling a lot more than sugar, smoke, and scratch-off dreams.

  A young kid is behind the counter, he’s wicked skinny and jumpy, with greasy hair and eyes that are permanently averted.

  “I’m looking for Pete Nichols.”

  The kid narrows his eyes in semirecognition. He doesn’t look like a news junkie. “I don’t know no Pete Nichols.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “You telling me what I do and don’t know, lady?”

  “Yes.”

  The kid sort of leaps back, like a jittery cricket. He looks down and grimaces. “You on TV?”

  “Erica Sparks.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard of you.”

  From the back of the store Erica hears whistling and then a good-looking guy in his thirties, muscular but going to seed, with a gut and dark circles under his eyes, appears. “Erica!” He comes over, and before she can step back he enfolds her in a hug. He smells like sweat with a metallic, chemical afternote. “I thought we might see ya.”

  Erica breaks away. “Have you seen Desmond Riley?”

  “Whoa. Where you rushing to, the grave? Relax a minute, enjoy some hospitality. How about a nice piece of jerky and a slushie? Sean, get the lady a snack.”

  Sean grabs a couple of candy bars, a can of Mountain Dew, and a vacuum-packed rope of mozzarella. He presents them to Erica. She puts the candy and cheese down on the counter, cracks the soda, and takes a sip. Pete whistles during this dance.

  “I’m looking for Desmond Riley.”

  “Oh, Desmond’s in the back. He’s looking forward to seeing you again . . . Kidding!” Then he laughs and then Sean laughs in support, like one of those sidekicks on the late-night talk shows.

  Erica is losing her patience with this jokester. “Where is he?”

  Nichols makes a great show of taking out a vape pipe and taking a long pull. He exhales the “smoke,” and Erica realizes where his metallic smell comes from—those vape fumes smell like an aluminum factory on the outskirts of Bogota. Then he takes out his phone and scrolls through with exaggerated nonchalance, whistling away. He finds what he’s looking for and turns the phone to Erica. “Recognize your pal?”

  And there’s Desmond Riley sitting on a beach, sipping a bright blue cocktail and grinning at the camera.

  “I hope he’s not overdoing it. You Irish burn so easily,” Erica says.

  “Do we?”

  “You push your luck and then it runs out.”

  “I think you might have us confused with nosy reporters.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Puerto Vallarta. Cheap hotels, cheap drinks, cheap women. It’s like Vegas—what happens there, stays there. Unless it’s the clap.” He laughs, and Sean does his sidekick bit.

  “Was he working for you?”

  “I’m not going to answer that question.”

  “You just did. And who were you working for? Who paid to have me kidnapped?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He takes another vape and smiles. “I just run my little store here, mind my own business.”

  “Someone is minding mine, and I don’t like it.”

  “Nowadays we’re all being watched.”

  “Just know this—I’m watching you.”

  As Erica turns and walks out of the Gem Spa, Nichols gives her a sly, almost conspiratorial look and whistles her on her way.

  CHAPTER 55

  IT’S PAST TEN AT NIGHT, Saturday night, the staff is gone, the house is quiet, and Mary is waiting in the library for Sturges to get back from his trip to Fargo. He called and said he was running a little late and she should go to bed, but she wants to stay up and see him. She filled a glass with whiskey so he could have a drink after his long drive—she wiped it down so there’d be a clean palette for his fingerprints. She’s gotten some troubling news—the latest round of internal polling isn’t looking good. Voters have mixed feelings about Mary. They see her as a strong leader but also as somewhat outside the mainstream. Her opponents have succeeded in painting her as a risky choice, someone who could lead the state off a cliff. The race is still winnable, the earlier influx of pioneers is keeping it close, but . . . well, she’ll explain it all to Sturges. He’ll understand.

  And now she hears the front door open, quietly, as if someone is trying to sneak into the house. Then she sees Sturges crossing the entrance hall, again quietly, with measured steps.

  “Darling,” she calls.

  He whirls in shock, then walks slowly into library. “I thought you would be in bed.”

  “No. I decided to stay up. You look pale, darling. Is everything all right?”

  “. . . Oh yes, fine. Just a little tired, it’s a lot of driving.”

  “It is a lot of driving. And we’re not kids anymore. Remember when we were kids? Our honeymoon in Bermuda?”

  “We must get back there,” Sturges says sadly. He’s sweating now, on his brow, and the house isn’t warm. And his whole body looks so tense. And the house is so quiet.

  “How did the phone banking go?”

  “Well, it went well. The volunteers are terrific. Just super.” His enthusiasm seems so forced and desultory, and he looks so distracted, so worried, spooked.

  Mary says nothing, but pats at her hair. “Have a seat, darling. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  Sturges’s eyes open wide and he inhales sharply. To cover his anxiety he looks down and rubs his hands together. Then he sits down, unable to look her in the eye. “What’s that, dear?”

  “I poured you a drink.”

  He reaches for it and takes a sip.

  “It’s the latest polling,” Mary says, and Sturges sighs and his body relaxes.

  “It could be better,” he says.

  “It will be better. I believe we have momentum.”

  “Oh, so do I. We have momentum.” He keeps looking down at his hands.

  Outside, the prairie wind gusts and the house creaks in response. Through the doorway, the darkened entrance hall is visible, full of shadows and the kind of heavy wood furniture no one wants anymore, and heavy maroon velvet drapes and matching upholstery. It’s like a mortuary from the 1940s. And then the wind stops, and quiet settles back over the house like a shroud.

  “The thing is, there’s something that could stop our momentum. In fact, it would basically ensure that we would lose.”

  “What’s that?” Sturges asks, finally looking at her. But he can’t hold her gaze.

  “It’s this.” Mary picks up her phone and taps it. Then she turns the screen to Sturges. There he is. In his motel room in Fargo. With Derek. He looks for a second and then turns away. Mary keeps playing it. She keeps playing it.

  White-hot shame pours over him like molten lava and now he’s suffocating in his shame, his whole body covered with prickly heat and panic and dread and . . . sadness. A terrible sadness.

  Mary finally puts down the phone. She sits there looking at him. The man who married her under false pretenses. Well, it’s time to pay the piper. Just like Mary paid Wendell to
hack into Sturges’s computer and learn of his liaison with Derek. Who was only too willing—for 5K in cash—to do her bidding.

  There’s a long pause filled with quiet and the final acknowledgement of what they’ve both known for many years. And then, when they speak, it’s in low, intimate tones.

  “Our opponents have gotten hold of this. They’re threatening to release it,” Mary lies. Sturges winces. She loves the power of her lie.

  “I’m sorry,” Sturges says finally, simple and heartfelt. He struggles to keep from crying. That’s pretty pathetic.

  “If this comes out, my chances of winning the election will be zero.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats. Like a broken record.

  “There’s only one way to salvage this situation,” Mary says. “To salvage our dream.”

  “I’ll hold a press conference and come clean and ask for forgiveness,” he says, his voice high as he fights to control his desperation and fear.

  “Do you really think that would help? Do you really think the voters of this state want to have a First Man who’s . . . homosexual?” She watches as he struggles to retain his composure. Her voice remains calm, composed. “Well, do you? Answer me!”

  Sturges shakes his head as tears start to stream down his face. Then his body starts to quiver, almost to convulse.

  Mary reaches for a small vial and opens it. She shakes out a pill and places it on the side table between them. “It will all be over in less than sixty seconds. It will look like a heart attack. I’ll come down in the morning and discover your body. You were down here having a nightcap, weren’t you? Carney Mortuary will come and, as per your wishes, you’ll be cremated. I’ll be a brave widow, stalwart in my grief, never forgetting my responsibility to the people of this state. Who will then elect me as governor.”

  The pill sits there between them as Mary waits serenely and Sturges cries and shakes.

  CHAPTER 56

  STURGES LOOKS OVER AT THE pill, through a scrim of tears, and knows that Mary is right. He deserves to die—for the sin of his cowardice.

  Sitting there, with minutes to live, what comes washing into his mind is that afternoon, his senior year at Groton back East, when he and Bruce Clark, they were such close friends, everyone remarked on it, inseparable since freshman year, Bruce was a lovely boy—smart and funny and kind, who grew up to be a lovely man—he lives in Ojai now, a retired lawyer, with his partner of thirty years, and that afternoon, that fall afternoon after soccer practice when they raced not to the locker room but into the woods behind the playing fields, driven by . . . love. Yes, love. And they fell to the leafy ground and kissed and the world opened up for Sturges and he knew he was where he belonged, on the dappled earth kissing the boy he loved.

  But then they separated for the summer, and in the fall Sturges went to Cornell and Bruce to UCLA, they were so far away, and the pressure from his family, he was the scion, the heir, he carried the Bellamy name. And he carried his shame. And he retreated, buried his nature and his dream, and became someone he wasn’t. That’s what cowards do.

  Oh, Bruce, I will always love you.

  Sturges reaches for the pill and puts it in his mouth as Mary says, in her sweetest voice, “Bite down, darling, bite down.” And he does bite down and then his body goes rigid and he can’t breathe and everything goes black and he falls to the floor and his last thought is of Bruce and he smiles . . .

  CHAPTER 57

  MARY SITS CALMLY WATCHING, IT’S quite riveting actually, to watch someone die just a few feet away from you. It’s brief, just as James assured her it would be. A little too brief, really. She would have enjoyed savoring the moment, the strange gurgling noises he’s making, watching him clutch his throat as his skin turns the color of a high gray sky. She’s a good person, a decent person, a kind person. He deserved it. Besides, in the end it’s not really about Mary or Sturges. It’s about the history they’re writing. They’re creating a more perfect union. Mary smiles—a perfect union. That’s what the world thought she and Sturges had. What delicious irony.

  Now he’s slumped down on the floor, askew, his head and shoulders against the chair, his tongue hanging out, his eyes rolled up. Dead. He’s dead. Bye-bye. Not a pretty picture. But an affecting one.

  Mary picks up her phone, her special phone, and texts Neal their code phrase: Sweet dreams, darling.

  Never sweeter, he texts back.

  Mary smiles again and pats at her hair. Then she gets up and walks out of the library—and into her future.

  CHAPTER 58

  IT’S SUNDAY AFTERNOON, AND ERICA is at home. Greg is out running. She just finished an hour of rigorous Tae Kwon Do and is now at work at her desk, feeling swamped. Gloria and her team were working on Zika for the second Spotlight, but Sturges’s death triggered an outpouring of sympathy for Mary, and the most recent polls show a wave of momentum in her direction. The altered mood has forced her opponents to pull their negative ads for fear of generating a backlash. Erica and Gloria decided—in a series of morning phone calls—to switch back to a follow-up report on the election and its aftermath. Should she win, Mary Bellamy has been promising to take some bold steps during her first days in office, and the whole country is burning to see what they will be. Will she declare some form of autonomy for her state? If so, the ramifications would be historic. With the election just a month away, the suspense and interest are only growing, and Erica is flying out to Bismarck on Wednesday to file an update from on the ground.

  But Erica is still obsessed with the murders, the missile, her kidnapping, and of course any possible links of all these to the Bellamys. She feels a little like she’s wrestling with an octopus, but it’s called investigative journalism. Her trip to Boston was frustrating. She didn’t learn what she most needed to know, hitting a dead end in the form of an overgrown Charlestown punk with a penchant for whistling.

  Right now she has to prepare for the week ahead. She has her show tomorrow night and she’s running behind on prep. She’s booking a roundtable to discuss the election, including Leslie Burke Wilson, Bob Woodward, and Karl Rove. She’s also going to do an in-depth piece on the Zika virus. As she starts to read material put together by her researchers, Pete Nichols’s mocking whistle keeps intruding. There’s something familiar about the melody. She brushes off the thought—what does it matter what song it was?—and gets back to work. Twenty minutes later the blasted melody comes back. It’s living rent-free in her head, and the only way to evict it is to figure out why it’s so persistent. She whistles it herself a few times.

  Then it hits her! She remembers it from her childhood. The song used to play in that soggy, drafty double-wide—not play, blare, with her mother wailing along. She tried to muffle it, putting a blanket along the bottom of her bedroom door, but the beat, if not the lyrics, pounded through. She hates that song. Now it’s come back to haunt her. The only way to exorcise it is to know what it is. And there’s only one person who could answer that question.

  Erica, after hesitating a moment, picks up the phone and calls her mother.

  “Erica, honey, is that really you? Calling your old mom?”

  “Hi, Susan.”

  “Wasn’t that fun at the Harvard University? I was so proud of my baby girl.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m still clean and dry, honey, ninety-eight days.”

  “I’m proud of you too. Listen, I have a question for you.”

  “You do? Really? I’m tickled. What is it?”

  “There was a song you used to sing when I was little, I’m trying to remember what it is. It went like this—” and Erica whistles it as best she can. When she’s about halfway through, Susan starts to belt out:

  “Glor-ia

  Glor-ia

  I think I got your number

  I think I know the alias you’ve been living under . . .”

  Erica sits there, motionless except for the twitching of her left eyelid.

  CHAPTER 59

  ERIC
A SPENDS THE NEXT TEN minutes pacing around the apartment. Was Pete Nichols whistling “Gloria” as some kind of sick head game? It’s hard, no impossible, to imagine that Gloria could have hired him to arrange her kidnapping. Isn’t it? Isn’t it impossible? Then Erica remembers that day a phone rang in Gloria’s purse while she was holding another phone in her hand, and she looked anxious and refused to answer the ringing one. And her almost obsessive curiosity about Erica’s movements, pressing her with questions about her trip to Winnipeg. And was it more than consideration that drove Gloria to cover for a sick Eileen and come to Bismarck? And she was so distracted and keyed-up that day she got dressed up for her doctor’s appointment. Is it possible that Gloria is spying on her? Why? What could her motive possibly be? Erica tries to push these doubts out of her mind. I mean, “Gloria” was a popular song, it’s just one of those crazy coincidences. But then she sees that sly look Pete Nichols gave her as she was leaving his store and he was whistling away.

  Restless, confused, moving from her office to her bedroom to the living room, Erica doesn’t know whom she can trust anymore. Moy, of course, Mark Benton, and Gr—? Can she trust Greg? She’s been so busy, out of town so often . . . She and Greg are sharing a bed again, if not much affection. She hates dwelling on it, using denial to protect herself from what’s happening between them. It starts so small, doesn’t it, the deterioration of a marriage? A few harsh words exchanged and suddenly you realize all the unspoken hurts and wants and disappointments that have been smoldering, festering below. Like her lingering resentment over the fact that he cheated on her when they were engaged, slept with that Laurel Masson down in Sydney.

  Erica goes into the kitchen, pours herself a cup of coffee, and breaks off a big piece of some organic-chic chocolate bar she was gifted. Just what the world needs, another stupid artisanal chocolate bar.

  The front door opens and Greg appears in the kitchen. He heads right past her to the fridge and pours himself a glass of filtered water.

  “How was your run?”