The Separatists Page 9

  The van arrives with the crew and takes them to the Bellamys’ large, old brick Edwardian that sits atop a hill in Bismarck’s wealthy River Road neighborhood. It’s a stately house that harkens back to North Dakota’s early days, when hardy pioneers made farming and mining and mercantile fortunes and wanted to show them off. As they pull up in front, both Sturges and Mary Bellamy come out to greet them. Mary’s hair is expertly done and she has on some understated makeup.

  “Welcome back to the Homeland,” Mary says—her welcoming smile and soft voice can’t quite disguise the cold cunning that flashes in her eyes. She’s definitely keyed tight, a woman with a secret she’s about to reveal.

  The Bellamys show Erica, Gloria, and the crew into the house. It looks like a museum of North Dakota history, with oil paintings, sculptures, photographs, and glass-fronted cabinets filled with artifacts, all bearing testimony to the stark beauty of the Plains, and to the courage and culture of both the Native Americans and the settlers who displaced them. They move into a sunroom, and the crew begins setting up for the shoot.

  “I’ll sit in this chair. Sturges, you sit next to me; Erica, you’re across from us, of course. Can we get someone to stand in for me so I can check the lighting?” Mary says.

  The woman has no problem taking charge, and Erica shoots a look at Gloria—without speaking, they agree to let Mary do her thing. The more comfortable she feels, the better the interview will be.

  When everyone is ready, they start.

  “I’m here in Bismarck, North Dakota, with Mary and Sturges Bellamy, leaders of the state’s Take Back Our Homeland movement, which has initiated a recall election against sitting governor Bert Synder,” Erica says to the camera before turning to the Bellamys. “What do you say to critics who feel that sovereign citizen movements such as yours use the threat of violence to achieve their ends?”

  “I say come to the Homeland and meet us and our followers,” Mary says. “We renounce any sort of violence. We are working through the political process. As you said, we have initiated a recall effort against Governor Snyder, who is little more than a puppet for big-money interests and the federal government in Washington. It’s time to take back what is rightfully ours.”

  “And you’re running to replace him?”

  “I am, yes,” Mary says simply with a head tilt and a smile.

  “I understand your opponents are about to go up with ads that call you irresponsible, even radical.”

  “Do I look radical to you? Honestly, I wish they would stick to the core issue here, which is freedom. But if they want to play hardball, well, I’m not going to let them besmirch my good name without fighting back.”

  “My wife is a formidable woman, Erica. When she sets her mind to something, it gets done.”

  “There are enormous risks inherent in what you are attempting to do. Do you really believe there are enough North Dakotans willing to take those risks for you to win the election?”

  “I certainly hope so. But we aren’t doing it alone. We have supporters all across the nation.”

  “I suppose they can send contributions, but your campaign is well financed already.”

  “Oh, they can do a lot more than make a contribution. And this is more than a campaign, Erica. It’s a movement.” Mary takes a pause and leans forward in her chair; her voice stays soft but grows fervent.

  Here comes the money shot, Erica thinks.

  “And we are inviting our supporters to come and settle here. And vote. We have jobs that go begging. We have open spaces, inexpensive housing, great natural beauty.” Mary looks directly into the camera. “So I put out a call to all Americans who support our goals: Be a twenty-first-century pioneer. Come to the Homeland, make it your own, and join us as we make history.”

  Erica is stunned. Standing to the side of the cameraman, Gloria nods and pumps a fist—this is great, news-making television. Erica feels a surge of adrenaline.

  “Let me make sure I heard you correctly: You’re asking people to move to North Dakota for the express purpose of bolstering your recall drive?”

  “We’re inviting them to come for the express purpose of strengthening the Homeland movement and setting an example for the rest of the country.”

  “And you’ll help them settle?”

  “Yes. We’ve hired a staff of social workers, employment specialists, and relocation experts. We’re setting up hundreds of temporary trailer homes. We’re opening a processing center in a warehouse here in Bismarck. We take care of our own.”

  “This sounds like a very expensive endeavor. Where is the funding coming from?”

  “From my husband and me. Nobody owns us. Not Washington, and not the special interests.” She turns to the camera again. “We need you, we want you, we love you. Please . . . pack up your family and come to the Homeland. Come home.”

  They finish up the interview—it’s all an anticlimax after Mary’s stunning invitation—and the Bellamys walk them out to the van and wave as they drive away. Their camera-savvy charisma and bold call to arms have blown Erica away. She has landed a big fat scoop. But she senses there is more here than meets the eye—there’s something eerie about the Bellamys; they seem like wax figures come to life. In spite of their repeated embrace of nonviolence, they seem unyielding, and under all the soft smiles is ruthless resolve. Watching this election play out is going to be riveting. And make fantastic television. But there’s a catch.

  “There’s no way we can contain this story,” she says to Gloria. “Now that the recall election has been scheduled, Bismarck will be crawling with reporters.”

  “Mary has promised us she won’t reveal the invitation to move here until Spotlight airs. It’s in their interest to build anticipation.”

  “True, but with reporters nosing around we could easily get scooped.”

  Gloria is silent for a moment and then says, “Why don’t we throw together a promo clip for Spotlight, a teaser that promises a bombshell. We can get it up on the network today. That’ll keep us in control of the story.”

  “Good! Send the footage to our editor in New York as soon as you get it from the cameraman. Ask him to tighten it and get it back to us within an hour.”

  “We’re cooking,” Gloria says.

  “This should really drive the ratings for the premiere. Listen, do you get the sense that the Bellamys are holding something back?”

  Gloria looks down and then out the window before saying, “My research hasn’t turned up anything.”

  “It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but I’ve seen overweening ambition before. It’s there. In Mary Bellamy’s eyes.” Erica’s phone rings. “My husband . . . Hi there.”

  “How’s it going out there?” Greg asks.

  “Really well. How are things there?”

  “Good. Leslie Wilson called. Stan is down with the flu, she wants me to escort her to some party.”

  “Some party?”

  “It’s a publication party for a biography of Mike Nichols.”

  “Where is it?”

  “At Peggy Noonan’s. She’s an old pal of Diane Sawyer, Nichols’s widow.”

  Erica feels a stab of jealousy, both toward Leslie and about missing a party that will be filled with fascinating people. She exhales. “Well, have a good time.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Leslie is pretty good company.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” Greg says, and then he laughs.

  Erica doesn’t get the joke.

  CHAPTER 21

  IT’S NINE THAT NIGHT AND Erica is in her soulless hotel room at the Staybridge, feeling lonely. She just did a half hour of vigorous Tae Kwon Do and it didn’t help. She started the practice while at Yale, almost on a whim, and it has turned out to be a lifesaver. The concentration, discipline, and physical prowess she gained make her feel powerful—both physically and emotionally better able to defend herself. She moves to the window and looks out at the scenic parking lot, a distant mall, and a black horizon. G
reg is at that party right now, no doubt charming some . . . other woman. Leslie Burke Wilson maybe. Erica remembers the way Leslie laid her hand on his shoulder at their dinner; yes, it was casual on the surface, but there was something proprietary, even challenging, about it.

  Oh, Erica, cool it. That part of your marriage is solid. Grown-ups flirt. It’s all in fun. Don’t be a square.

  Erica turns from the window, sits at the desk, and opens her laptop. The day was productive, but she has an itch about the Bellamys, a sense that there’s another secret, one they’re holding close to the vest. She searches Mary Bellamy. Scores of articles come up, but most of what she gleans she already knows, thanks to Gloria. But Erica keeps reading, even the articles in obscure North Dakota newspapers and websites. Her eyes are starting to ache, she’s exhausted, but she keeps pushing on. Then exhaustion overtakes her and she walks over to the bed and flops down. Just as she’s escaping into the arms of Morpheus, the hotel phone rings.

  “Is this Erica Sparks?” a woman’s voice asks in an urgent whisper.

  “Who’s this?” Erica asks, sitting up, instantly alert.

  “My name is Joan Marcus. I have to talk to you.” She sounds on the verge of tears. “I’m down in the lobby. Can I come up? I’m scared.”

  Erica feels a wave of foreboding. The woman sounds unhinged. “I’ll come down.”

  “Hurry.”

  Erica exits the elevator into the lobby and scans the space. It’s generic, depressing, and almost empty, an expanse of garish carpeting and wood-veneer trim; an instrumental cover of “Yesterday” oozes from ceiling speakers. No wonder America’s suicide rates are soaring. There’s a smattering of people in the bar/restaurant, mostly exhausted-looking businessmen in ill-fitting suits. But no sign of this Joan Marcus. The woman sounded desperate, and Erica’s anxiety is spiking, she can feel her heart thumping in her chest. She rushes outside. No one. Just that endless parking lot dotted by lonely streetlights—one of them is flickering and making a low hissing sound that seems to be mocking Erica’s rising sense of dread.

  And then, from the far end of the parking lot, a car, a dark sedan, speeds away, gunning its motor. It’s too far away for Erica to make out the model.

  She races back into the lobby and up to the front desk. A blond clerk wearing too much makeup looks up from Overstock.com and smiles.

  “Have you seen a woman?”

  “Gosh, Miss Sparks, I’d need a little more detail than that.”

  “Her name is Joan Marcus. I was supposed to meet her here.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone. Did you check the restaurant and lounge?”

  Erica nods.

  “What about the ladies’ room?”

  Erica heads across the lobby, down a short hallway, and into the ladies’ room.

  There’s a middle-aged woman on the floor, slumped against the wall, her legs splayed out in front of her. Her throat is slit and she’s sitting in a thick pool of blood, her head back, her tongue hanging out, her eyes rolled up so only the whites are showing. The tiles around her are streaked with blood, as if she made a final desperate attempt to stand up.

  Erica feels bitter bile at the back of her throat and fights the urge to heave. She kneels down and checks the woman’s pulse. Flatline. She looks at the woman’s face—it’s bloated and blotchy—a drinker. Erica stands and gulps air. That’s when she notices an 8 x 10 manila envelope on the floor near the body. She wants to pick it up, look inside, but that would be tampering with a crime scene, it could compromise evidence. She scans the bright sterile room and sees a small triangular piece of paper on the floor, no bigger than a Post-it, really. That couldn’t possibly be relevant, could it? Is it a gum wrapper? She picks it up—it’s a fragment of a photograph. She replaces it on the floor; it too could be evidence. She takes out her phone and takes a picture of the scrap of paper. Then she takes several of the corpse.

  CHAPTER 22

  ERICA AND GLORIA ARE SITTING in a corner of the lobby, across a low table from Bismarck detective Peter Hoaglund. He’s in his thirties, tall and balding and earnest. In contrast to the big-city detectives Erica is used to dealing with, he looks as wholesome as Andy of Mayberry. But there’s something knowing in his eyes that makes Erica think he’s at least peeked into the heart of darkness.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” Hoaglund asks.

  “Not that I can think of,” Erica says. “What can you tell me about Joan Marcus?”

  “She’s from Jamestown, about a hundred miles east of here. Fifty-six years old. Divorced and currently unemployed. Two emergency room admissions for acute alcohol poisoning in the last six months. Which coincide with her leaving her job at Oil Field Solutions.”

  Something in Erica’s earlier research comes back to her. “Isn’t Oil Field Solutions owned by the Bellamys?”

  Hoaglund hesitates before answering. “They own it with a Canadian businessman named Neal Clark. He has several joint ventures with the Bellamys.”

  “Did she leave Oil Field Solutions or was she fired?”

  “She quit.”

  Erica and Gloria exchange a glance but keep their mouths shut. A gurney carrying Joan Marcus’s body is wheeled across the lobby. Several local television crews are reporting live from the scene.

  “Erica, we’ve got to file a report,” Gloria says. “The crew is waiting.”

  Erica nods. All three of them stand. Hoaglund hands Erica his card.

  “What do you make of the manila envelope and the scrap of a photograph?” Erica asks.

  “The manila envelope was empty. Of course we’ll check it for fingerprints. I’m not sure what scrap of a photograph you’re referring to?”

  “It was on the floor, about two feet to the left of her body. A small triangular piece of a photograph, on glossy paper?”

  Hoaglund looks blank. Erica feels her anxiety spike. “Come on,” she says, heading toward the ladies’ room. The door is open, blocked by police tape. Erica points to a spot on the floor. “Right there, it was on the floor right there.”

  Hoaglund shakes his head. “I was the first one to arrive on the scene, and I didn’t see it. I’ll check the police photographs.”

  For a moment Erica thinks she should take out her phone and show him the pictures she took. Then she thinks again.

  CHAPTER 23

  “ERICA, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Gloria asks as the cameraman runs a light check.

  Erica is shook up. Bad. Walking into that bathroom and seeing the corpse. She’s been up close and personal in other horrific situations—the Staten Island Ferry crash, Kay Barrish’s death, the bombing at Case Western University—but no matter how many times it happens, it throws her into an existential free fall, a sense that she’s hurtling away from the here and now into some other, darker place, falling, falling, into a void that knows no boundaries, no limits.

  “I’ll be okay,” she manages.

  “To be honest, Erica, you look a little spooked,” Gloria says. “Listen, the report can wait fifteen minutes, a half hour, whatever. As of now, this is a local murder—gruesome, yes, but hardly a national story. Why don’t you go up to your room, take a few minutes, maybe take a hot shower, run a brush through your hair? We’ll be here.”

  Erica feels a wave of gratitude toward Gloria, and she is pulled back into the moment, grounded a little bit. And Gloria is right. Joan Marcus’s grisly death wouldn’t even make the national news if Erica wasn’t part of the story. But she is part of it. She feels a terrible wave of foreboding.

  “Maybe I will take ten. I’ll be back ASAP.”

  Up in her room, Erica sits on the edge of her bed, closes her eyes, and takes deep breaths. As it sinks in.

  You’re part of this story, Erica. Joan Marcus came to see you, to tell you something. You own it now. For better or worse. Better or worse . . .

  Erica exhales with a sigh. She wants to talk to Greg, tell him
what happened, hear his reassuring voice. She calls his cell. It rings and rings and rings, a lonely echoing sound. Of course, there’s no answer—he’s at that party, the party with Leslie Burke Wilson and all the fascinating people, the lucky people who live their lives and do their work and enjoy their success and don’t discover women with their throats slit sprawled on bathroom floors.

  And then: “Hey there, Erica.” Greg sounds so up, and in the background she can hear laughter and clinking ice and voices, excited, speedy, intriguing New York voices. And she’s in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a story that just became ugly and personal.

  “Greg . . . I thought you weren’t going to answer . . .”

  “I’m always here for you. I’m talking to Charlie Rose. Want to say hello?”

  “Not right now please.”

  “Listen, Leslie just appeared and she’s giving me the hairy eyeball . . .”

  “You’re committing a social sin,” Leslie states in a voice that sounds loose and liquid. “Who is that?”

  “It’s Erica.”

  “Er-i-ca,” Leslie says into the phone. “Where are you?”

  Erica feels like she’s talking to people on another planet, in a parallel universe. “Bismarck, North Dakota.”

  “Oh, of course. I want a full report,” Leslie says in a suddenly sober voice. “Thank you for loaning me your husband.”

  “Just make sure you return him.”

  “Bergdorf’s allows you to wear a dress once and still return it.”

  “Then think of me as Macy’s. They have a much stricter policy.”

  Leslie laughs and then Greg takes back the phone and asks with concern, “Is everything all right out there?” Erica is about to answer when he says, “Listen, they’re shushing the room. Peggy Noonan is about to say a few words. I’ll call you back a little later. Okay?”