The Separatists Page 19

  “It was good. I did the reservoir twice.”

  “I’ve just been working. We switched the next Spotlight to the Bellamys.”

  “Probably smart. It’s a hot subject.”

  They’re both being polite, tiptoeing through the minefield, there in the gleaming kitchen that cost Erica north of 150K, a picture-perfect front for a messy life. The tension is thick and Erica just wishes he would go away. She wants to be alone.

  “How about some pasta for dinner? There’s that new Italian place on Amsterdam,” she says halfheartedly.

  “I’ve got to go down to the office later, get some work done, pick up some papers. I’ll grab a sandwich there.”

  So he’s going to disappear. Fine. His office is the perfect place for an assignation.

  “I’m heading out to Cincinnati in the morning,” he says.

  “Oh, I forgot.” That was a stupid thing to say.

  Greg shoots her a glaring look. “Hardly surprising.”

  “How long will you be out there?”

  “Two nights.”

  “Interesting gig?”

  “The station wants to rebrand.”

  “How’s the job hunt going?”

  “Really, Erica, don’t you think I would tell you if anything was happening there?”

  “When I don’t ask you accuse me of not being interested, when I do you bite my head off.”

  “Because I feel like you’re just asking out of a sense of duty. You don’t really care. Your success is turning you into a narcissist. You live your life in color, the rest of us are in black and white.”

  “You want me to apologize for my success?”

  His brow furrows as he tries to find an answer. “Whatever. At this point I don’t really care!” He storms out of the kitchen and Erica hears the door to the guest room slam shut. He’ll take his shower in there. Good! He’s living in the lap of luxury thanks to her. He should remember that when he’s complaining about her success. Erica breaks off a third piece of chocolate—she’s way over her limit—and sits down at the kitchen table.

  Beware of answered prayers.

  Sitting there, gulping coffee and chomping chocolate, she realizes she doesn’t really feel at home in her own home. She shares it with a man she may be falling out of love with. Who may be having an affair with Leslie Burke Wilson. But she just can’t face sorting out her marriage right now. Her relationship with Jenny is shaky, she’s working harder than she ever has, Spotlight is still finding its sea legs, she’s concerned, even frightened, for her own safety, she’s investigating a string of murders and her own kidnapping. Now is not the time to take on what could be either a salvage or dismantling job. It would be the straw that broke the camel’s heart. Sometimes you have to take the path of least resistance. Erica stands up and throws the rest of the ridiculous chocolate bar down the disposal, making a decision: she doesn’t want to know if Greg is having an affair. She feels an immediate wave of relief.

  There’s another elephant in the room, of course, but it’s one that Erica has a lot of practice managing, and that’s loneliness. That aching sense of solitude and longing. No matter how busy she is, there are moments in every day when she feels it, that yearning for companionship, for a mate, for Greg, for their relationship to be what it once was. Will it ever be again?

  The Sunday Times is sitting on the table, and she sits down and idly opens the Style section. Just her luck: the Day in the Life feature is about Leslie Burke Wilson. She’s everywhere, isn’t she? Erica reads about Leslie’s Sunday-morning ritual of going out to a “divine bagel place” in the morning, her afternoon swim, her obsessive/compulsive work habits, her new book on Michelle Obama, which she has just finished, and her next one, on American secession movements. In the last paragraph she reveals that she and her husband, ad man nonpareil Stan Wilson, are separating. It’s amicable and they’ve both starting “seeing other people.”

  Erica feels dizzy for a moment, almost as if she might faint. But her decision serves her well: she doesn’t want to know what is or isn’t happening between Greg and Leslie. A wall goes up, and the slings and arrows bounce right off it. She stands up and heads back to her desk to get to work. As she strides down the hallway, she hears echoes of her mother’s singing:

  Glor-ia

  I think I got your number . . .

  CHAPTER 60

  GENERAL FLOYD MORROW KNOWS CAMP Grafton well, he’s visited scores of times, but his new second-in-command, Corporal James Jarrett, doesn’t, so he’s giving him the complete tour. It’s not an enormous army base, and because it’s home to the North Dakota National Reserve there are long stretches when it’s quiet. But it’s strategic. Oh, is it strategic.

  It’s Monday morning, just two weeks before the recall election. The camp is pretty empty—there are no active training sessions in progress. It’s a hot day on the North Dakota plains, but the base sits on a peninsula that dips into Devil’s Lake, and the water has a cooling effect. Not that Floyd is fond of cool. He prefers heat, passion, drive, action.

  “Those are the barracks. Empty today. But they’ll be filling up soon, won’t they?” He smiles at James, that angry smile that looks more like a grimace.

  “Yes, sir, they will.”

  The two men drive in an open cart past a shooting range, an obstacle course, a lagoon, mock-ups of houses and small factories, classroom buildings, bunkers, tunnels. Everything that’s needed to train men and woman in how to kill their fellow human beings. The general loves war. It excites him. And soon he’ll be, well, if not at war exactly, then on high alert. Training recruits, young men and women who will be willing to lay down their lives for the Homeland.

  “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” he says.

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “And it’s ours,” Floyd says with another one of his feral smiles.

  James smiles back, but his is a movie-star smile. The smile of a man who is going places. Floyd likes Corporal Jarrett. He’s a good man. A good African-American man. A credit to his race. A credit to his country. They’ve been working together closely for the past year. When Floyd was finally transferred out here, he made sure Jarrett got assigned his second-in-command. The two men first met on a shooting range outside DC. They were both in uniform and Jarrett was so polite, coming up and introducing himself to his superior. Turned out they both worked at the Pentagon and were both students of war. They went out for drinks. They clicked. They both hinted around their political persuasions that night, showing soldierly discretion. But they exchanged e-mails and agreed to meet out at the range again. This time it was drinks and dinner afterward.

  Over the coming weeks and months they opened up. Shared their concerns about how the autocratic federal government was usurping states’ rights, attacking Americans’ basic freedoms, taxing them into penury. About how wrong it was, and how angry it made them. And how they wanted to change it. And how Sturges and Mary Bellamy were the country’s best hope for igniting that change.

  Floyd drives the cart over to a gate with a soldier standing sentry in front of it. The soldier salutes, and Floyd and James return it. The gate is sided by fencing topped with barbed wire. Beyond the gate, standing in a row, are four vast hangar-like structures.

  “That’s where the munitions are kept. Tanks, machine guns, armored vehicles, rocket launchers, ammo. That’s it, baby, enough gunpowder to blow half this state to smithereens.” Floyd’s eyes are giving off some firepower themselves, and his voice is charged with an excitement that sounds a lot like lust. “And see those?” he says, pointing past the hangars to a series of large concrete pads. “Those are our aces in the hole. Properly outfitted, those babies can take out Manhattan.” He stares at the pad as if mesmerized, reverent, then lets out a strange moaning yelp of a “Yeaaah,” guns the cart, and speeds them back to their residences.

  CHAPTER 61

  WHILE FLOYD, WHO IS DIVORCED with three grown children, has a substantial house to himself, James has a far more modes
t but still perfectly comfortable ranch house. He heads inside and finishes unpacking. Then he goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of a Zinfandel that he read about in Wine Spectator. He takes a nice sip and lets it sit in his mouth a moment before swallowing. It’s quite interesting, he thinks, even evocative, the balance of oaky and floral, the lingering afternote. Superior, no doubt. Not cheap at forty dollars a bottle, but not exorbitant. And worth it. The better things in life are always worth it. Mary Bellamy taught him that.

  James has known the Bellamys for almost twenty years, since he was at West Point and won a grant from their foundation to fund his post-grad studies in Foreign Affairs at Penn. They liked to meet the recipients of their largess, and of course James practiced his practiced charm on them. The charm that had taken him from the dead-end streets of Gary, Indiana, to West Point . . . and beyond. Mary Bellamy was quite taken, of course, with his race and his manners—oh, he knows just how to punch that ticket. And Sturges Bellamy, recently deceased, was, well, the vibe from him was slightly unsavory, but again, it wasn’t the first time James had worked that angle. It’s all about leverage, isn’t it? When the Bellamys were in the East, they would take him out for dinner. A bond developed, based on mutual respect and a shared worldview that they discussed in oblique terms, using dog whistle phrases, being oh-so-discreet.

  Mary really mentored him—on wine and food and cheese and clothes and manners, yes, but it went far beyond that. She’s a woman with real standards. She believes in hard work and ethics and the transcendent power of simple human kindness. Not to be confused with weakness. And she believes in a better tomorrow. And power. She believes in power. Mary taught him that in the end, everything—from a simple transaction between two people to a great leader igniting a movement that changes history—comes down to power.

  And James is a man who knows his power and isn’t afraid to own it. A master of seduction. Look at Gloria. Look at General Floyd Morrow, who really is a dangerous man to the movement, a loose cannon who fires before he aims. Mary and Neal Clark don’t play that way. They’re aiming for respect on the world stage. Floyd is a foaming-at-the-mouth type. Floyd’s a disposable commodity. But not yet. Right now they need him. And so James has been cultivating him, flattering him, charming him. The seduction started on that day they “accidently” met at the shooting range.

  The wine warms James and he feels a rush of euphoria.

  Tomorrow belongs to us. All hail the Homeland.

  Sitting on the counter is the welcome basket that Mary sent. She’s so thoughtful. He opens the wedge of Beaufort d’Ete and the box of English water biscuits—Mary taught him that you don’t want fine cheese competing with an assertive cracker—and puts them on a small cutting board. There are also chocolates from Belgium and cornichons from Germany and a small bag of Doritos. That’s been a running joke since they first met—she’s a Doritos gal, he’s a potato chips guy. That Mary.

  James savors the cheese and wine—and the sense of expectation that is surging through his veins. The election is only the first step, of course, but it’s a big one. And it’s happening. He takes his wine and the cutting board, walks into the living room, and sits on the couch. It faces an enormous picture window framing a view of the base, the lake, and the endless plains beyond. The perfect canvas on which to write the future.

  His safe phone rings. The incoming number is blocked.

  “Yes?” he says.

  There’s a snippet of whistling, which is annoying, and then, “I have some information you might be interested in.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, come on, you’re too smart to play dumb. I’m trying to do you a favor here.”

  It’s true, James does know who it is. He came highly recommended. But he wasn’t supposed to know who James was. That’s what middlemen are for.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “That’s part of the information.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not in the business of giving away the goods.”

  James feels his mood curdle. How dare this jerk ruin his Zin and cheese? “How much do you want?”

  “10K.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You people have deep pockets.”

  Whatever this two-bit creep knows could be very valuable. James exhales. “Okay.”

  “Smart man. I just texted you a PayPal account. As soon as the money is in there, my lips will start flapping.”

  James is boxed in. He clicks on the link in the text to the PayPal account and transfers ten grand from an untraceable bank account in the Cayman Islands.

  “Bingo! Got it. Thank you, amigo.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Your emissary got a little sloppy. She called me on her regular cell phone. Oops! Her bad. My tech guy hacked into her phone records. Presto, you appeared. So it wasn’t the first time she got her phones mixed up. Tsk-tsk. Anywho, the Boston cops IDed one of my subcontractors, told Sparks, and bang! she shows up at my little gourmet shop. You do the math.” Then he whistles again.

  James hangs up in disgust. He’s lost all interest in the wine and cheese. He’s not going to waste them in this mood. Things suddenly got a little more complicated. He’s traceable. But he’s also level-headed and smart and methodical. He’ll work it all out. He’s done it before. One step at a time.

  Step one: call Gloria.

  CHAPTER 62

  IN NEW YORK, ERICA IS at her desk at GNN, preparing for tonight’s show. Of course, the recall election will be the lead, but she can’t ignore the heat wave in India. Temperatures have hit 130 degrees, the highest in the nation’s history—people are dying by the thousands, in the streets, in their homes, in hospitals, the old, the young, dehydrating, shriveling up, their bodies going into shock, their hearts giving out. Erica looks out the window. It’s a sunny day—remember fun in the sun? How quaint those days seem. It’s terrifying and ominous. What kind of planet is she leaving Jenny? And all the world’s children?

  “Knock-knock.” Gloria is in her doorway. She smiles brightly. Too brightly.

  Erica feels a stab of nausea. Can she trust this woman? Should she ever have trusted her? “Come in,” Erica says.

  “How was your weekend?” Gloria asks.

  Erica pauses. Gloria has this look of innocent curiosity on her face. Yeah right.

  “It was okay.”

  “Did you do anything special?” Gloria asks, trying to sound casual.

  “Not really, no. Did you?”

  “I’m still exploring New York. I visited the Neue Gallerie. There was a show of Weimar paintings.”

  “I’ve seen some of those. They’re very dark. Depraved.”

  “It was disturbing. I had nightmares. I wish I hadn’t gone.”

  “It’s hard to un-see something, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “But there’s an honesty to it. Nobody is pretending to be someone they aren’t.”

  Gloria

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

  “I know what you mean,” Gloria says, looking uncomfortable.

  “It’s unrepentant decadence, evil even. It can be very seductive.”

  Gloria clears her throat, shifts from one foot to the other. “I wanted to go over the checklist for our trip to Bismarck. We’ll be shooting footage for Spotlight, of course, and want to make sure we don’t interfere with The Erica Sparks Effect.”

  “You really should be having this conversation with Eileen.”

  A look of hurt flashes across Gloria’s face. She suddenly seems much less mature to Erica. “I have spoken to her, of course, but I wanted to see if you had any thoughts or requests. Am I right in assuming we’re going to be focusing solely on the election? You’re not going to be covering Joan Marcus’s murder, are you?”

  Erica leans forward on her desk. She hasn’t invited Gloria to sit. Let her stand. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.”

&nbs
p; “But the Bismarck police haven’t made any progress. There’s nothing there to report or to investigate, is there?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time the police had missed a clue or gone down a dead end.”

  “So you will be spending time on that case?” Erica doesn’t answer, and Gloria looks down and frowns. Sweat appears on her brow. “I’m only asking because I’m trying to shape Spotlight and want to get a sense of time management, et cetera.”

  “I really don’t want to be tied down to a rigid agenda, Gloria. That would rule out any unexpected developments, wouldn’t it? I like to stay flexible. You know, sometimes evil proudly shows its face, like in the Weimar paintings. Sometimes it hides. And in the unlikeliest places.”

  Gloria is rocking back and forth slightly, a repetitive, unconscious movement that almost makes her look like an autistic child.

  “Are you all right, Gloria? You seem . . . concerned.”

  Gloria snaps to, is suddenly 100 percent present. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . . ah, a little tired.”

  “Are you sure everything is all right?”

  “Well, ah, yes and no. I actually got some bad news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My fiancé has been transferred out to Camp Grafton, the army reserve base that, coincidentally, is in North Dakota.”

  Erica leans back in her chair, her mouth open in surprise. There’s a pause as she gathers her thoughts—and her suspicions. “Well, what are the odds of that happening?”

  “I know, right? He’s second-in-command at the base.”

  “What’s his rank?”

  “Corporal.”

  “And I’m not sure you’ve ever told me his name?”

  Gloria hesitates for a moment before saying, “It’s James. James Jarrett. Corporal James Jarrett. I’m very proud of him.”

  “No doubt. Maybe you’ll get to see him this week.”

  “I hope so,” Gloria says, looking a bit lost.

  The kid has it bad for this Corporal Jarrett. Whoever he is. The room grows quiet. Gloria touches her brow, where the sweat is glistening.