The Separatists Read online

  Trying to disguise her shock, Erica stands up and accepts Leslie’s air kiss. What is she doing here?

  “I couldn’t stay away, I’m obsessed with this story. I think it’s the current American narrative. The natives are way beyond restless, they’re in the midst of a full-blown mutiny. If Bellamy does win this, and it looks like she will, what does the president do in response? How far is Bellamy going to go? Is this a bluff, designed to position herself for a run for the White House? Could she actually set a precedent for some sort of semiautonomous state? One that other states could follow? There are models of that elsewhere in the world. The questions just keep coming, each more intriguing than the last.”

  Erica feels like a tornado just blew in. It’s highly unusual, even unprofessional, for Wilson to show up like this, out of the blue, without being invited. Even though Erica resents this little power play—and the woman who may be trying to seduce her husband—she’d be a fool not to exploit Leslie’s star power and intellectual heft.

  “Would you join my panel tonight? We’re going to be reporting the returns live from outside the statehouse, where Bellamy is going to be addressing her supporters.”

  “I’d be honored,” Leslie says. Mission accomplished. Book contract in hand, she clearly wants to establish herself as the authority on secession.

  There’s an awkward pause. Then Leslie sits opposite Erica, reaches across the desk, and takes her hand. “It’s so good to see you. How are you?” She looks at Erica with some mix of interest and pity and condescension.

  “I’m mostly very busy,” Erica says, shuffling some papers.

  “And what would we do if we weren’t?”

  “I’ve got a live update in a couple of minutes.”

  “Of course. I’m going to go out and explore, I want to inhale this zeitgeist. Something momentous is happening.” But she doesn’t get up, she grows pensive. Then she leans in to Erica and lowers her voice. “Did you by any chance see the piece on me in the Sunday Times Styles section?”

  “I did.”

  “So you know that Stan and I have separated.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s difficult. And complicated. And sad. But in the final analysis, I view the end of our marriage as an opportunity.”

  An opportunity to sleep with my husband?

  “I really have to get my game face on for this update,” Erica says.

  “Would you like to do a quick interview with me as part of it? Sort of a teaser for tonight’s show?”

  That’s a good idea, actually. “No, I think we should save you for the main event,” Erica says, turning toward the camera.

  CHAPTER 66

  IT’S THAT NIGHT, ABOUT AN hour after the polls have closed, and Gloria is in Spotlight’s makeshift office on the third floor of the downtown Bismarck office building. Outside, the whole city, the whole state, seems to be celebrating Mary Bellamy’s historic landslide win in the gubernatorial recall—her vote total is over 75 percent, soon she’ll speak to the huge crowd that has gathered at the statehouse. Cars are honking, boisterous bands of partisans are roaming the streets, the booms and dazzle of exploding fireworks fill the air and light the sky.

  Yet it’s strangely quiet in the office. Gloria is alone, having sent her crew and two producers out to cover the scene at the statehouse. There are three televisions, all showing GNN, and Gloria watches Erica in triplicate, reporting from a rudimentary set on the statehouse grounds, with Leslie Burke Wilson and Bob Woodward beside her. Gloria has the sound turned off. She needs the quiet. She needs to think. No, she needs to feel. She’s been doing too much thinking, overthinking. What she really needs is to be in James Jarrett’s arms, the only place where she feels safe.

  Erica has found out somehow. She’s sure of it. Why else would she have cornered Gloria in the elevator like that? Did Gloria mess up on one of the protocols? She tries to follow James’s directives to the letter. How much does Erica know? Lovely Erica, who gave Gloria the biggest break of her career, who has been nothing but supportive and generous and considerate. And now Gloria has betrayed her. But that’s all right. Because James told her to. He guided her every step of the way. And he’ll make everything better. He’ll make it right again. Like it was before. He’s only 175 miles away, at Camp Grafton. She could get in her rental car and be there in three hours. She could be in his arms in three hours. In his arms.

  She takes out her only-James phone and dials.

  “Yes,” he answers in that rich baritone, and her whole body quivers with desire.

  “Hello, darling.”

  “Who is this?” he demands.

  Gloria tries for a casual laugh but it comes out as a strangled cry. “Don’t be silly, James, it’s me.”

  “I have no idea who this is.”

  “James, it’s me, Gloria.”

  “Oh. You.”

  He’s acting so odd, so distant, so cold. Well, he has to be discreet. Being in the army and all. There could be someone in the room with him. That’s it. Someone is in the room with him. He has to be discreet.

  “You’re not alone, are you, darling?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am alone.”

  “Oh. I just thought . . .”

  “You just thought what?”

  “Never mind. I’m only 175 miles away, James. I could be there in three hours.”

  “Why would you come here?”

  “So that we could be together, you and me, just the two of us, together, the way it’s always been . . . Please, my darling.”

  “Stop calling me your darling.”

  Gloria lets out another anguished cry and she feels a terrible weight on her chest—is she having a heart attack?—and she can’t breathe, she feels lightheaded, is she going to faint?

  “But, James, you are my darling . . .”

  “You mean nothing to me. Less than nothing.”

  And Gloria starts sobbing. This can’t be real, this can’t be happening, the world is collapsing. “What happened, what did I do, what happened, I don’t understand, I love you, I love you so much—”

  “Pull yourself together. This is embarrassing. You’re pathetic.”

  Tears are pouring down Gloria’s face, which is all contorted, spittle bubbles at the corners of her mouth. “What did I do? Please tell me what I did.”

  “You messed up. You used the wrong phone. I got traced.”

  “OH NO! I’m so sorry, my sweetheart, I’m so sorry . . .”

  “You’re dead to me.”

  And then he hangs up.

  Gloria sits there going into shock, she can’t move, and then suddenly she’s freezing and she starts to shake, her whole body starts to shake, like a tender leaf in a hurricane, and the world stops and she sits there both still and shaking . . .

  And then—is it a minute later or an hour?—she stands up, walks over to the back staircase, down three flights and out through a fire door, out into the night. And all around her, people are screaming and honking and waving flags, and fireworks fill the night sky and she walks past the plate-glass windows and there’s that woman, what’s her name?—Erica—on a bank of television sets, in another world, a parallel universe, and she keeps walking, through the screaming and honking and flags and fireworks, and she’s dead to James, she’s dead, and up ahead there’s a bridge over that big river, the Missouri River—see, she remembered, she’s a good girl, a straight-A girl—a steel truss bridge, a workhorse bridge. She’s a workhorse, isn’t she? She’s worked so hard, since kindergarten, hand up, straight As, homework done, good girl, Best Little Girl. But she messed up. Too bad. So sad.

  But she can make it right, can’t she, by being a good girl, she’s still a good girl, even if she’s dead to James she can be a good girl and she takes out her phone and calls Erica and her voicemail picks up and Gloria says, “I’m sorry, Erica, for being a bad girl. I did hire that man in Boston to kidnap you. I have to tell you something else though, they’re bad people, worse than me even, and
they’re”—and a car peels by and the driver is leaning on the horn and Gloria can’t hear herself speak and then she drops the phone because it doesn’t matter anyway, nothing matters anyway . . .

  And now she’s on the bridge and cars are streaming by, people leaning out windows, screaming and waving flags and honking and the whole night is alive, it’s so alive, and she’s dead to James, she’s dead to James . . . And she stops and leans over the railing and looks down at the river below and it’s swirly, such pretty swirls, and suddenly a burst of fireworks lights the sky and makes the pretty swirls glow, the pretty glowing swirls, they’re welcoming her, inviting her, and she climbs over the railing and stands there for a beautiful suspended moment and then she lets go and leaps, down, down . . . down into the bright pretty swirls . . .

  CHAPTER 67

  “I’M HERE ON THE STATEHOUSE grounds, and as you can see and hear, tens of thousands of North Dakotans are packed into the plaza, celebrating Mary Bellamy’s landslide recall of Governor Bert Snyder and awaiting her victory speech. Bellamy aides have told us she has received a concession call from Snyder and will be appearing shortly. I’m joined by Leslie Burke Wilson and Bob Woodward. What do the two of you make of all this?”

  “I believe we may be witnessing a transformative moment in American history,” Leslie says. “The populist fervor that has been growing for the past two decades seems to be coming to a head here tonight. It may be, in fact, that our union is no longer viable in its present form.”

  “I agree. The peasants have not only stormed the castle, they’ve anointed their queen. Our nation is so polarized that it may be close to ungovernable. Could we split not into North/South but Blue/Red? Would that be such a terrible thing? The questions raised are almost existential for our nation. Of course, much will depend on Mary Bellamy’s actions as governor,” Woodward says.

  “This puts the president in a very difficult situation, doesn’t it? What are her options?” Erica asks.

  “I think she’ll take a wait-and-see attitude at first. Her number one goal has to be national unity. However, North Dakota’s Homeland movement and other secession movements across the country want no part of that. In fact, breaking up the union is their guiding mission,” Woodward says.

  Erica notices Eileen—who is standing beside the cameraman—looking distressed.

  “We’ll be right back after this short break,” she says.

  As GNN goes to a commercial, Erica gets up from the desk and hurries over to Eileen, who tells her, “Eyewitnesses saw a woman matching Gloria Washburn’s description jump off the Liberty Memorial Bridge about a half hour ago.”

  “No!” Erica stands there, numb. “Has a body been found? Is there any confirmation?”

  “Not yet. There’s no answer on her phone. An intern went and checked our offices downtown. She’s not there. There’s a police boat out on the river, and divers are searching for a body.”

  “Keep me posted.” Erica checks her phone and there’s a message from Gloria: “I’m sorry, Erica, for being a bad girl.” She starts to sob. “I did hire that man in Boston to kidnap you. I have to tell you something else though, they’re bad people, worse than me even, and they’re”—and then a blaring car horn drowns out Gloria’s voice. And then the phone goes thunk! And then Erica can hear honking and screaming and fireworks and then the line goes blank. Erica returns to her desk and Eileen gives her the one-minute sign.

  Poor Gloria, poor sad Gloria . . .

  “Erica, are you all right?” Leslie Wilson asks.

  Erica’s first impulse is to tell Leslie the news, but she checks herself. “I’ll be okay.”

  Pandemonium erupts around them as Mary Bellamy ascends the platform in front of the statehouse. Eileen signals Erica as GNN cuts from a commercial to live. “Mary Bellamy is taking the stage to make her victory speech,” Erica says, giving wordless thanks for Bellamy’s timing, which gives her a chance to gather herself.

  Erica looks out over the sea of screaming, chanting humanity and thinks of Gloria’s last moments, her despair, the fragility of life, the sadness, the loss of innocence. And then the evil, the threats, the danger. Jenny. Me.

  Someone drove Gloria to suicide, probably whoever put her up to the kidnapping. And what was she about to tell Erica when the horn drowned her out?

  Mary Bellamy silences the vast crowd, their faces filled with hope and reverence and resolve and revenge. She smiles softly and then says, “When we woke up this morning, North Dakota was one of fifty. When we wake up tomorrow morning, we will be the one and only Homeland!” The response is deafening, and Mary lets it play out before raising her arms and hushing her followers. “It’s been a long, hard-fought campaign, and I want to thank each and every one of you for your support. We have a lot of work ahead of us. We are going to set a new standard for freedom, self-reliance, and strength. Tomorrow we hit the ground running. Thank you all, good night and God bless you—and God bless the Homeland.”

  Erica throws leading questions to Leslie and Woodward and lets them pontificate with their trademark erudition. Her own mind is elsewhere—obsessing on Gloria Washburn’s final words.

  CHAPTER 68

  IT’S THE NEXT MORNING AND Erica—after having done a half hour of Tae Kwon Do—is having coffee in her room, pacing and trying to figure out what her next steps are. Gloria’s body was recovered from the Missouri River, not far downstream from where she jumped in. Her family is making arrangements to have the body shipped back East after the coroner performs an autopsy.

  Her phone rings, it’s Mort Silver.

  “Great job out there, Erica. I’m sorry about Gloria Washburn.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “We have to start looking for her replacement.”

  “Mort, her body is still warm.”

  “We’re trying to establish the best investigative show on television. The first Spotlight drew tremendous ratings. We need the second to do even better. The show needs an executive producer.”

  On some level Erica knows he’s right. But it’s ghoulish. The world is ghoulish. “I’ll start interviewing candidates on Monday.”

  “You don’t sound like yourself, Erica.”

  “It’s been a grueling couple of days.”

  “This is a grueling business. If it stopped being brutal, we’d be bored.”

  Erica hangs up. Mort’s right. Erica thrives in the pressure cooker. It obliterates—well, assuages anyway—self-doubt, memories, pain, sadness. Even her fear gives her juice. She makes a decision: she was scheduled to fly back to New York today, but she’ll stay out in North Dakota—correction, the Homeland—over the weekend. Her instincts tell her there’s a link between Joan Marcus’s murder, the subsequent murders, and Gloria’s suicide, and somehow . . . somehow . . . the trail may lead to Mary Bellamy. The newly elected governor—or premier, as she has christened herself—has scheduled a news conference for 1:00 p.m. Hopefully it will be revealing.

  A call comes in from Boston police detective Pat Halley.

  “Erica, I wanted to let you know that Pete Nichols was murdered last night. He was shot by a drive-by killer as he walked home from his weekly poker game.”

  Erica can’t shed any tears for the likes of Pete Nichols. “There goes that source and possible witness.”

  “Listen, Erica, you’ve got to be very careful. You’re dealing with people who consider murder just another day on the job.”

  She hangs up and calls Sentinel Security in Boston, a company she’s used before. She reaches its president, Dave Garrison.

  “What can we do for you, Erica?” Dave asks.

  “The same thing you did last time—watch my daughter.”

  “You want 24/7?”

  “I do. Be as unobtrusive as possible, but if comes down to it, let your presence be known.”

  “Gotcha. She’s in good hands.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Next Erica calls Dirk.

  “What’s up, Erica?”


  “Has Jenny seemed . . . herself to you lately?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We spoke yesterday and she seemed . . . a little too happy.”

  “What are you implying?”

  Erica doesn’t want to go down this road, not right now. She has bigger fears to fry. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something ugly. I’m dealing with people who are ruthless. There’s danger. So I’ve hired that same security firm to keep an eye on Jenny.”

  Dirk exhales with a sigh. “So you’ve put our daughter in danger again.”

  “I have absolutely no indication that she’s targeted, I’m doing this as a precaution.” Erica hopes she sounds more convincing than she feels.

  Dirk is a basically decent guy, but there are residual resentments on both sides. He exhales with a sigh. “Okay.”

  Erica hangs up, sits down at her computer, and googles directions from Bismarck to Camp Grafton.

  CHAPTER 69

  PREMIER MARY BELLAMY WALKS INTO the state capitol’s pressroom, followed by a half dozen aides who line up against the wall as she walks to the podium; one is in a military uniform. The room is thick with journalists, charged with anticipation. Erica sits in the third row, her legs crossed, her upper leg bouncing.

  “I’m going to make a short statement and then I’ll take questions,” Mary says. She looks smart and pulled together in an expensive wool suit, her hair done, her lips red. “First, I have written a declaration of independence to President Winters, informing her that the Homeland of North Dakota is now a self-governing entity.” There is a collective gasp from the room. “We are no longer under obligation to obey federal laws or edicts or to pay federal taxes. We are ready and willing to work with the president and the federal authorities to make this transition as seamless and painless as possible. But our status is nonnegotiable.

  “This morning I signed an agreement with Neal Clark, president of Trans-Canada Energy, to jointly build a pipeline that will carry the Homeland’s oil and natural gas to Winnipeg, where it will be processed, stored, and sold to the world.”