The Newsmakers Read online

  Barrish makes a choking sound and clutches her chest. For a moment she seems suspended, a look of shock in her eyes. Then she collapses to the floor.

  Erica freezes for an instant. The room is silent. What’s happening?

  Then she’s on the floor beside Kay. She puts her hands over the other woman’s heart and pushes down again and again, then she tilts Barrish’s head back, chin up, pinches her nostrils, clamps her mouth over Kay’s and forces one breath, two breaths, three breaths—life!—into her lungs. There’s no response. Now Audra Ruiz is on the other side of Barrish’s body doing the chest compressions as Erica continues the rescue breaths, and now Kay’s husband is there, too, one of Kay’s hands in his own, saying, “Stay with us, my love, stay with us!” There’s controlled panic in the room as Lesli calls 911 and Greg yells, “Cut away!” into his headset.

  EMTs arrive in less than five minutes and take over. They insert a breathing tube into Barrish’s windpipe and attach defibrillator electrodes above and below her heart and then deliver a jolt of electricity; her upper body jerks but her heart doesn’t start beating. The seconds tick by. They jolt her again. Still nothing. The seconds turn to minutes. They load her onto a stretcher—Bert Winters by her side, still holding her hand—and carry her away to the hospital.

  Silent shock settles over the room. To go in a seeming instant from all of that energy and life force to . . . nothing. It’s over. Kay Barrish is gone.

  Erica’s mind is blank, like a whiteboard, a flat line, then disassociation, as if she’s hurtling away from this scene, away, away into another world, a better world. Her legs feel weak and she grabs the back of a chair. She feels an arm around her shoulders.

  “Are you okay?” Greg asks.

  Then she remembers: she’s a reporter, and the most powerful woman in America has just died in her arms. She has a job to do. “The hospital, Greg, I have to get to the hospital and file a report!”

  “No, Erica, an anchor from our local affiliate is already on the way there.”

  “Greg, no, I want to go, I have to go!” She moves toward the front door, frantic.

  Greg grips her by the shoulders and looks into her eyes. “Erica, you’re in shock. You’re in no condition to report on anything.”

  She looks at him and somehow he gets through. And she knows he’s right.

  As she died, Kay Barrish looked into Erica’s eyes—with eyes that were filled with disbelief and terror. Erica knows she will never forget that look. And she wants to cry—for Kay, for herself, for the country, she wants to just weep and weep.

  But Erica doesn’t cry. No. Uh-uh. Growing up, tears only earned her more scorn from her folks—“Crybaby, crybaby!” Instead she takes the deepest breath of her life, holds it a moment, and then slowly exhales. The room comes into focus around her. People are crying, walking around in a daze, on their phones. Outside she can hear the arrival of news trucks and police cars.

  “There’s a lot of press outside,” Greg says. “Do you feel up to making a brief statement? If not, I can do it.”

  “I’ll do it,” Erica says, suddenly thankful for the task and the purpose it brings.

  Five minutes later she stands at the bottom of the driveway in front of a battalion of reporters and microphones, lights and cameras, a growing crowd of stunned onlookers—there are helicopters whirling overhead, their spotlights sweeping over the scene. Questions are shouted at Erica and she ignores them, saying in a steady voice: “At 8:04 tonight, while I was interviewing her, former governor Kay Barrish suffered what appeared to be cardiac arrest. Her chief of staff, Audra Ruiz, and I attempted CPR but were unable to revive her. At 8:09 emergency personnel from St. John’s Hospital arrived and took over the efforts. Governor Barrish remained unresponsive. At approximately twenty past eight her body was taken to the hospital. That’s all I have to say.” Erica turns from the cameras. And then, without thinking, she turns back and begins to speak again, this time slowly, in a more intimate tone. “I only spent two days with Kay Barrish, but that was more than enough time for me to know that she was a remarkable woman, a smart and kind woman who cared deeply about our country, about all of us. I’ve lost a friend. What our nation has lost is incalculable.”

  Greg takes her arm and gently leads her to a waiting car. She gets in. The driver, an older black man, turns and gives her a sad smile, his eyes red-rimmed. “Are you comfortable?” he asks.

  Erica nods. As the car moves slowly down the street and the mayhem recedes, she leans back and rests her head against the soft leather. A sudden wave of exhaustion, deeper than bone, overtakes her, and she closes her eyes. She just wants to sleep, to sleep forever.

  CHAPTER 21

  ERICA WAKES UP ADRIFT IN a vast bed—a sea of pillows and duvets and sheets so smooth they must be silk. She arrived at the hotel last night to find she’d been moved to a suite. She gets up, slips into a plush robe, and walks into the enormous living room. There’s a bouquet the size of Delaware on the coffee table—the card reads: With sympathy and admiration—Nylan. Beside the flowers are a tray of tiny chocolates, a basket of fruit, a bottle of Dom Pérignon—everywhere she looks there are creamy fabrics, plush furniture, plump pillows, thick carpets. And the California sun shining in the window makes it all sparkle and shine and glow.

  Erica takes in the bounty and has one thought: coffee. She picks up the phone, dials room service and orders it—then suddenly she’s ravenous and adds an omelet, bacon, fruit salad, oatmeal, juice, pastries and muffins and marmalade.

  She sits on a sofa that looks like it’s never been sat on before. It’s a little past eight o’clock; she slept for nine hours, the most sleep she’s had in years. She feels so rested—and that feels like the greatest luxury of all. There’s so much to think about, to sort out, to make sense of. But she pushes it all away, wanting to hold on to the sweet, soft nothingness for a minute more.

  The hotel phone rings.

  “This is Erica.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Jenny . . .”

  “I saw you on TV a hundred times. You’re famous.”

  “Am I?”

  “I’m sorry the lady died.”

  “I am too, sweetheart.”

  “You tried to save her.”

  “I just did what anybody would have.”

  “I’m proud of you.”

  Erica feels her throat tighten. “Well, I’m proud of you.”

  “I have to go to school now.”

  “I love you, baby girl.”

  “I have repeatedly asked you not to call me baby.”

  “I’ll try my best, sweet thing.”

  “I’m not a candy bar either, Mom.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re my candy bar, whether you like it or not.”

  Jenny laughs and her laughter is like water, cleansing, life giving, and Erica feels her blood flow and her mind sharpen.

  “Bye, Mom, I miss you.”

  The food arrives and Erica pours herself a cup of coffee and reaches for the remote. She clicks on GNN, then FOX, then CNN, then MSNBC, then ABC and CBS, then the local news and sees . . . herself. The coverage is wall to wall. Beloved Kay Barrish—movie star, governor, philanthropist, perhaps future president—died on live television, and Erica Sparks’s brave, instinctive attempt to save her is riveting footage.

  She clicks off the TV—watching the clip is disturbing and shocking and sad and . . . thrilling. At the start of the interview, before Kay’s collapse, Erica is both a commanding and charming presence, holding her own with one of the most formidable women in the country. Their rapport is obvious. And then the heart attack and Erica’s response. And n
ow, less than twenty-four hours later, she’s a household name.

  It’s a terrible way to achieve her dream. But the undeniable fact is she has achieved it. She knows the old adage to beware of answered prayers. She must consider her next steps carefully. Very carefully. In fact, she feels like she’s already in a minefield with her information about the hacking of the Staten Island ferry—navigating it is going to take some delicate and cunning footwork.

  Erica looks over at the bounteous room service cart and thinks, But right now, it’s time to indulge.

  CHAPTER 22

  JUST AS ERICA IS POLISHING off a morning glory muffin—good thing it’s not frosted or she’d swear it was a cupcake—there’s a knock on her door.

  “Erica, it’s Greg.”

  She lets him in. He looks like he hasn’t slept, his jaw is stubbly, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes sunken. Does he look a little haunted? She reaches up and touches his cheek. Erica realizes how comfortable she feels around him. Their history may be short but it’s dense, and he has proved his friendship and loyalty again and again.

  “Have you been up all night? How about a cup of coffee?” she asks.

  “I think my blood must be three-quarters caffeine right now. How are you?”

  “Dazed.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “Was it a heart attack?”

  “They’re almost certain, but they’ve scheduled an autopsy. You were incredible last night.”

  “If only it hadn’t been under such terrible circumstances.”

  Greg nods, and there’s a moment of silence between them. Punch-drunk, frazzled, fried—he has never looked more attractive to Erica. She has a sudden urge to kiss him. Instead she says, “I should get out of this robe.”

  She goes into the bedroom and slips into jeans and a T-shirt. She gives herself a quick check in the mirror. She stretches her arms over her head, arches her back. Her body feels so relaxed—in a way it hasn’t in a long time. She looks over at that huge welcoming bed and imagines . . . making it, hospital corners and all!

  Tempting as the bed may be, today, the first day of her new life, is not the time to take that kind of emotional and professional risk. She grabs a dark blazer, puts it on, and walks into the living room. She has an agenda, an important agenda. Greg is sitting in a chair, working on his blood-coffee level, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Erica, I’d like to talk seriously for a moment.”

  She sits on the sofa across from him. “Go ahead.”

  “Kay Barrish’s death was sad and traumatic, but it happened. And because it happened, your life is about to change dramatically. Do you think you’re ready for it?”

  “I do. It’s what I want.”

  “That’s what I hoped you would say. There’s really no limit to how high you can go. Our ratings last night were among the best in cable history. GNN’s whole profile has changed. We’re now firmly on the map. Nylan is over the moon, and when I spoke to him this morning, he said it’s time to think about giving you your own show.”

  Erica feels a surge of triumphant euphoria—which she disguises by reaching for her coffee cup and taking a sip. “I don’t want to rush into anything. We’ve all seen what happens when someone is given a show before they’re ready. It’s not pretty.”

  Greg nods. “More immediately, I’ve been fielding calls all morning from shows that want you on—everyone from Good Morning America to E! News to 60 Minutes to Stephen Colbert.”

  “I’m going to be very selective. As I’ve said, I’m in this for the long haul. I don’t want to be known as a one-trick pony—the blonde who tried to save Barrish. I also don’t want to spread myself too thin, and I don’t want to wear out my welcome before I’ve arrived. I’ll do 60 Minutes. Nix the others.”

  Greg nods. “It carries the most weight.”

  Erica feels it, the subtle shift in power—the network needs her as much as she needs them. It’s a nice feeling. She hopes Kay Barrish would be proud of her. And maybe now Nylan will back off.

  “Now, Greg, there’s something serious I want to discuss with you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “A source I trust explicitly has contacted me regarding the Staten Island ferry crash.”

  Greg leans forward, elbows on knees.

  “This source was able to get into the ferry’s computer system. The system was hacked. The crash was an act of terrorism.”

  “Whoa.” Greg stands up, paces. “Erica, do you know what you’re saying? The NTSB said it was a computer malfunction, an accident. Who is this source?”

  “I can’t reveal that, Greg.”

  “Is it Mark Benton?”

  “I said I’m not saying. But they know their stuff. Well.”

  “Do they know who’s responsible?”

  “They’re working on that.”

  “When did the source contact you?”

  “Night before last.”

  “You should have told me immediately.”

  “We were consumed with Barrish.”

  “Have you told anyone else?”

  “Just you.”

  Greg rubs the back of his neck, exhales. “You know this is a major story?”

  Erica nods.

  “We have to handle it very carefully. This is information that was obtained illegally.”

  “We’re dealing with terrorists here,” Erica says. “People who want to kill us and maim us, destabilize our society, destroy the United States of America. No, this wasn’t on the scale of 9/11, but it was a warning shot about the power of cyberterrorism. I don’t care how my source got this information, we have it and we have a responsibility to act on it. Which probably means sharing it with the National Security Agency.”

  Greg goes still for a second. Then he nods, almost to himself. “You’re right, of course. We’re dealing with evil here, and we have to do everything we can to find them. We have a responsibility to the nation.”

  “To the world. Cyberterrorism makes borders obsolete.”

  Greg runs his fingers through his hair. “We have to think through contacting the NSA. The Feds can be very ham-handed. They’ll demand the name of your source and immediately want to take over. Which may well short-circuit the source’s work on finding the location and identity of the terrorists.”

  “Good point.”

  “How much time does your source need?”

  “I haven’t gotten a timetable. They’re working around the clock.”

  “Let’s give them forty-eight hours before we go to the NSA.” He stops pacing and gives her a sympathetic smile. “Talk about out of the frying pan.”

  “I grew up with Maine winters. I can handle the heat.”

  CHAPTER 23

  ERICA AND GREG ARE IN the car heading to LAX for their flight back to New York. They’ve only been on the freeway for a couple of minutes when the driver exits.

  “Aren’t we going to LAX?” Erica asks.

  Greg smiles. “We have a little surprise for you.”

  Within minutes they’ve pulled into Santa Monica Airport, past the terminal, onto the tarmac, and then up to a large private jet with Universe written on its nose. A steward stands at the foot of the air-stairs. “Nylan sent this for you,” Greg says.

  Wow. How many times has Erica suffered through the indignities of teeming airports, glacial security checks, jammed flights filled with screaming babies, and seatmates with questionable personal hygiene habits. And now this—drive up and you’re on board.

  Erica and G
reg get out.

  “Welcome. The Universe is yours,” the steward says before retrieving their bags from the back of the SUV.

  Erica walks up the steps and into the cabin. And there sits Nylan Hastings. Surrounded by two men and one woman.

  “There she is!” Nylan says, standing, and they all break into applause.

  Erica has never been fond of surprises, and she turns to Greg. “Did you know about this?”

  “I swear I had no idea.”

  “You were breathtaking last night,” Nylan says, smiling at her in a proprietary way.

  “I was just doing my job.”

  “I’d like you to meet Margaret Dempsey, GNN’s lead counsel; George Wilkins, our chief financial officer; and Fred Wilmot, our chief visionary officer.”

  In contrast to Nylan, who is his usual study in faux casual, the others are all dressed in dark suits and perfectly groomed, with erect posture and too-bright smiles—the Stepford execs.

  A second steward appears with six flutes of champagne. Erica accepts one.

  “To our future together,” Nylan toasts.

  Erica pretends to take a sip—the dry, fruity effervescence tickles her nostrils, and she feels a split second of seductive nostalgia. Then she puts the flute down.

  The captain appears. “Welcome to the Universe. I’m Captain Sutter. Our estimated flying time to New York this afternoon is five hours and eleven minutes. We’ve been cleared for takeoff, so I’d ask you to please sit down and fasten your seat belts.”

  He returns to the cockpit and the plane begins to taxi. Erica sits in one of the impossibly comfortable leather seats—which are arranged in a circle around a large coffee table—and gets her first good look around. The plane is decorated like the lobby of a hip luxury hotel, all clean lines and soothing hues punctuated with bold pops of color and arresting art, including a Jeff Koons dog sculpture, which sits between the seating area and the dining table. Past that, Erica gets a peek into the kitchen, where a female chef is hard at work.