by Lis Wiehl
The building is an engineering marvel. It’s one story above ground and four stories below. Anton, as always, insists that Neal don a hazmat suit. He’s so meticulous. As they ride down in the elevator, Anton is keyed up, his gray eyes alight with scientific fervor.
The main lab, four stories down, never fails to awe Neal. It’s a mass of pipes and tanks and vats and compressors and refrigeration rooms, with a low, soothing hum that belies the power of what is being created. Anton excitedly details their progress. Neal listens and nods and pretends to understand. The science is gibberish to him, but he knows enough to stroke his resident genius.
After the tour they go into Anton’s office and take off their hazmat suits.
“I know what you are going to ask me, Neal: When will we be ready?”
“We’re under the gun here.”
“I understand this fact.”
“And?”
“Soon.”
“Soon is too indefinite,” Neal presses.
Anton looks down at his hands. He’s a lean, almost gaunt, man, in his forties with close-cropped gray hair, and—as his psychological profile detailed—he’s an obsessive compulsive with no hobbies or interests outside his work. Anorexic, asexual, and amoral. Perfect for the job. When he looks up, his eyes are electric with excitement. “Very soon.” He smiles, a dry smile of imminent accomplishment. “Unfortunately I cannot give you a minute or an hour, but I will give you a day: July 15th.”
That’s two weeks before the recall election. Perfect timing.
The men shake hands. “You’re a genius, Anton.”
Anton looks down in a failed attempt at modesty.
On the ride back to Winnipeg, Neal feels like he could raise the handlebars of the Harley and lift off into the ether, ecstatic.
CHAPTER 29
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, AFTER HER last show of the week, and Erica is walking home, heading uptown on Sixth Avenue. She’s wearing khaki slacks, a blue oxford, and a straw hat pulled low. She gets some looks, but no one stops her or rushes up for an autograph. She loves how blasé New York is to celebrity. When she’s out in the hinterlands she sometimes feels like a freak, or a specimen—Celebritorus americana—or even public property, available to any crazed fan who wants to shove his face in hers, gushing like a goose on meth. No, she’ll take Manhattan, the Bronx, and (one-of-these-days-she’ll-get-to) Staten Island too. It’s a warm night, close and humid, almost oppressive; there’s an air-quality warning, the new normal, but still Erica treasures the sense of freedom, the chance to people-watch. And what a cool melting pot this town is! No wonder New York is the center of the known universe—it embraces all God’s children. And diversity equals strength.
Erica is hoping the walk will calm her restless mind and taut nerves. Her plate is full, but she’ll deal with things as best she can with—she hopes—smarts and grace and hard work. All well and good, but not quite enough to tame her disquiet, her fears—for her marriage, her relationship with Jenny, and her own life. Joan Marcus’s throat was slit from ear to ear like a pig at slaughter. Someone really didn’t want her talking to Erica. But who? Why?
“We think you’re wonderful,” come the words, delivered with a lovely Indian lilt.
Erica looks over and sees a family—mother and father and three teenage children. They’re all smiling, beaming goodwill at her.
“I know we’re being tragic tourists, but we watch you every night back home in Sacramento,” the mother says. “Thank you for fighting for the truth.”
“You inspire me,” the daughter says.
The air between Erica and the family is filled with simple kindness and humanity—and she feels her eyes welling, her throat tighten.
“You inspire me,” Erica says.
The family moves on, and Erica tries to hold on to the gift they’ve given her. She takes out her phone and calls Jenny.
“Mom,” is the first surly word.
“How are you, baby?”
“I have asked you not to call me baby.”
“How are you, Jenny?”
“Oh, I’m just great, Mom, just great. You cost me my best friend, who dropped me like I had Zika, and now she’s leading a cyber campaign to make me the most unpopular girl in the school. Yeah, I’m just great.”
“That snake, that creepy little snake. What is she doing?”
“What isn’t she doing? Facebook, Snapchat, Twitter, Instagram. I’m the spoiled little wannabe who relies on her famous mother to have friends. I’m ugly and stupid and have crummy hair and thanks, Mom, thanks a lot!”
“Now you listen to me, Jenny, that Beth London is a nasty kid. I’m going to contact the school and her parents and put a quick end to this.”
“Dad already did.”
“Has it stopped?”
“Too soon to tell.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because you were out in I-don’t-know-where being famous and rich and saving the world. I knew you wouldn’t have time for me.”
Erica feels her stomach hollow out, and now the city that moments ago brought her a measure of solace seems to be mocking her. In that familiar voice she recognizes, a voice that makes her nauseous with dread and sadness. She hears:
Ha-ha, got too big for your britches, didn’t ya, Little Miss Perfect. Well, you got all that fame and money and fancy clothes and blah-blah-blah, but your own daughter hates ya, ha-ha-ha.
Erica picks up her pace, she needs to get away, away from the voice . . .
“Oh, Jenny, please don’t hate me, please . . .”
“I have to go. Game of Thrones is on. Good-bye.”
And now Erica breaks into a run, running past startled pedestrians, not caring about their stares, running away from her pain, running away from her past, knowing even as she does how futile it is, but still she runs, sucking air, fast faster, away away from it all . . .
But, Erica . . . where are you running to?
CHAPTER 30
IT’S MIDDAY ON SATURDAY. ERICA surveys her room at the enchanting Bismarck Holiday Inn—the decorator must be color-blind, how else to explain the pairing of mauve and chartreuse. But the thought of spending the night at the Staybridge made her shudder. And hideous room or not, the truth is she’s glad to be out of New York, away from Greg, even if it’s only for one night. Their home life has been reduced to desultory dinners filled with polite chitchat. She has so much she wants to talk about, but any mention of Spotlight triggers a chilly response. And when it comes to Jenny’s behavior, he shrugs everything off with the all-purpose “it’s adolescent acting out.” For her part, she resents his flirtation—or whatever it is—with Leslie. It seems like midlife male acting out. And if he’s so eager to get back into the producing end of the news business, well, GNN isn’t the only network out there.
Speaking of Leslie, that’s a call Erica’s been putting off, but time is getting tight. She sits on the edge of the bed and dials.
“Erica, how are you? We missed you terribly at Peggy Noonan’s.”
“I’m back out in North Dakota.”
“Yes,” Leslie says in a way that lets Erica know she already knew that. “Productive?”
“We got terrific footage of the Bellamys. Gloria sent you a rough cut of the whole show. There should be enough fodder there for you to formulate your thoughts and opinions.”
“I’ll look at it post haste.”
It’s been in her mailbox for almost twenty-four hours, and now she’ll look at it post haste? Two weeks ago, Leslie was an eager little camper, offering Erica and Spotlight all sorts of help. Now she’s turned into a cool customer.
“Can we film you on Tuesday?”
“Yes. Can you come down here?”
“I was thinking the studio might work better. Your apartment is so spectacular it may distract from your words.”
There’s a pause and then, “I actually think it gives me more authority. You know I hate the stereotype of the fusty academic. Probably because underneat
h these absurdly expensive clothes and my weekly massage, I am dull and fusty.”
Erica knows when she’s been disarmed. “Your apartment will be fine.”
“Greg was an absolute gentleman at the party. He charmed one and all.”
“Thank you for getting him out of the house.”
There’s a laden pause and then Leslie says drily, “It is fascinating. This whole secession business. The wanting to break away, to start anew, to declare independence.”
“Sometimes people don’t realize how good they have it.”
“Yes, and sometimes they do. But they’re bored with the status quo.”
“There are risks involved in reckless action.”
“This nation was built by risk-takers,” Leslie says with the authority of a Pulitzer-winning historian.
“I think we’ve survived because the Founding Fathers minimized the risk that we’d split apart.”
Leslie makes a funny little sound of surprise at being challenged before saying, with finality, “And then the Civil War happened.” There’s a tense pause before she adds, “So, I’ll dive into the rough cut and send you some suggested questions.”
“I’ll be happy to take a look at them. But when I do an interview, the questions are always mine,” Erica says in a tone that lets Leslie know it’s the final word.
There’s a reproachful pause and then Leslie says, “You’re a curious creature, Erica Sparks.”
And then she laughs—that knowing, ironic, and entirely mirthless laugh.
Erica hangs up feeling naïve, confused, and bested. Is her marriage really shaky? And so soon? She knows one thing: if Greg does stray, she’s not going to be one of those look-the-other-way wives. No way no how. She’s going to change the locks.
Erica feels resolve flowing through her veins like an elixir. And it works. For a moment or two.
Because somewhere, deep under her denial, Erica knows that Greg cheating on her would shatter her world.
CHAPTER 31
ERICA STANDS UP, PUSHING LESLIE and Greg out of her mind. She has work to do. She turns on the local news as she changes out of her travel clothes, getting ready for her meeting this afternoon with Joan Marcus’s daughter, the woman she saw sobbing in the lobby of the Staybridge. A somber male newscaster is on:
“In our top story, there have been no leads in Thursday’s gangland-style execution of drifter George Lundy. Lundy was shot in the back of the head as he slept in his room at the Expressway Motel in east Bismarck. Police have no explanation as for why Lundy, whose last known address was a boardinghouse in Winnipeg, Manitoba, was in Bismarck. They are looking for any possible link between his murder and last Saturday’s brutal murder of Jamestown resident Joan Marcus in the ladies’ room at the Staybridge Hotel. The two crimes have turned Bismarck into a town on edge.”
An old mug shot of Lundy appears on-screen—he looks skinny and angry and scared. “Local resident Janice Marks, who lives across the street from the Expressway Motel, spoke with WKRX earlier today.”
An obese young woman in a housedress appears on-screen. “We’re all just terrified. This is Bismarck, for heaven’s sakes. We don’t even lock our doors. Well, we do now. What’s going on around here? That poor woman with her throat cut open? I don’t let my kids leave the block when they’re out playing.”
Erica mutes the set and calls Detective Peter Hoaglund.
“Hello, Ms. Sparks,” he answers in his laid-back way, which is starting to get on Erica’s nerves. In her experience it takes energy and engagement to solve a murder.
“Please, call me Erica. Why didn’t you tell me about George Lundy’s murder?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“A phone call takes thirty seconds. Have you found any new evidence?”
“Not a thing.” Peter Hoaglund is not a man with much imagination or curiosity. Or if he is, he’s willfully not exercising them. Which is a troubling thought. “And no one has claimed Lundy’s body.”
“That’s kind of sad,” Erica says.
“I’m not shedding any tears. George Lundy has a rap sheet a mile long, including aggravated assault and attempted murder.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
“A black 1998 Honda Civic.”
“Four door?”
“Yep.”
“That could definitely have been the car I saw racing out of the Staybridge parking lot. Keep me posted.”
Erica hangs up, puts on her jacket, and unmutes the TV in time to hear another Bismarck resident say, “I think there’s a psychopath on the loose. Anyone could be his next victim. My little girl woke up screaming last night.”
Erica clicks off the set and heads out the door, thinking, There may be a lot more screaming before this story is over.
CHAPTER 32
ERICA DRIVES NORTH OUT OF Bismarck on Route 32 for six miles before turning into a small subdivision of prefab homes. She’s expecting neglect spiced with squalor but instead finds a tidy little neighborhood with flower boxes, garden gnomes, and ornate mailboxes. Apparently when your economy is as hot as North Dakota’s, some of it trickles all the way down to the prefab crowd. That sure didn’t happen in Maine.
Erica parks in front of #45, gets out, and knocks on the door. A young woman she recognizes as Marcus’s daughter opens it. She’s wearing a loose dress that looks like it just came out of the wash. She doesn’t seem particularly comfortable in it. She doesn’t seem comfortable, period. She seems dazed and scared.
“Cathy Allen?”
“That’s me. And you’re Erica Sparks. In my doorway.” She laughs nervously. Erica hates it when she intimidates people; it can throw up roadblocks to the truth.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Cathy sticks her head out the door and scans the street. “Come in, sit down.”
The house is neatly furnished, heavy on the plaid furniture, with bookshelves filled with science fiction and fantasy, a lava lamp, magazines and catalogues in perfect symmetry on the coffee table. There’s also a loaf of sweet bread and a pot of coffee on a trivet.
Erica sits in a plaid recliner, Cathy on the sofa. She looks at Erica and smiles wanly.
“How about a cup of coffee? I made a banana bread.”
“Coffee sounds great. And so does a slice of the banana bread.” Erica hates banana bread.
Cathy’s hand shakes slightly as she pours the coffee and cuts the loaf, and she laughs to cover the shaking. “I’m sorry, I don’t like being here alone. My husband’s at the hospital, he’s a nurse. I’m a para, a teacher’s assistant at Guthrie Elementary. You know, it’s funny, you wanting to talk to me. My mom watched your show every night. She said you kicked butt. Do you think they’ll find her killer?”
She hands Erica the coffee and cake. Erica takes a bite. “This is delicious.” It isn’t.
“I add a little cinnamon and yogurt. My mom taught me to jazz up recipes.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me about your mom?”
“You may have heard that she had a drinking problem. Well, I mean, she did, but she didn’t always. She was a wonderful mother when I was little, when I was big too, it’s only been the last year or so that she started drinking like that. I didn’t know what to do, she’d promise to stop but something was wrong in her life and she drank . . .” Cathy’s eyes well with tears and she looks like she’s an inch away from hysteria. She gulps air and says, “I’m sorry, pay me no mind.”
“Cathy, you just lost your mother.” This interview feels so intrusive, Erica has half a mind to cut it short—make that a quarter of a mind. She’s a journalist with a job to do. She can’t solve this murder if she walks away now. “Do you mind if I ask you a couple more questions?”
Cathy shakes her head.
“Was there some incident in her life that coincided with the start of the heavy drinking?”
Cathy blows her nose. “It was her work. Her job. Oh, she was making some serious money. But she paid a price for
those dollars.”
“You mean with Oil Field Solutions?”
Cathy nods. “She wanted to cash in on the boom, like everyone else. They were paying her forty-five dollars an hour. Before that she was working in an insurance agency in Jamestown for fifteen.”
“What exactly was she doing for Oil Field Solutions?”
“She did bookkeeping and operations. She kept track of expenditures, expenses. Capital spending. And shipments. She tracked shipments. Mom was smart and organized. She knew how to put two and two together.”
“What do you think it was about the job that made her drink?”
Cathy stands up and goes to a window and looks out. Then she sits back down. “At first she liked it, although she told me she was seeing some ugly things. And the hours were brutal, they worked her like a mule, twenty hours straight sometimes. They were on three shifts a day, place never stopped. So she was exhausted. Then there was the mess.”
“The mess?”
“Oh yeah. The wastewater was being drained into streams, all these fracking chemicals treated haphazardly, spilling all the time, people were coming down sick, it was nasty.”
“Why didn’t she leave?”
“She earned six figures.”
“Was your mother going to expose the pollution?”
“She talked about it. But decided not to.”
“Then why do you think someone would want to kill her?”
“It wasn’t only the chemicals and stuff. They had her doing bookkeeping and shipment tracking for other companies they owned, and some they didn’t even own. Canadian companies. The Bellamys are tight with some billionaire up there. It’s shady. She saw something she shouldn’t have. It scared her.”
“Do you have any idea what it was?”
Cathy stands up and goes to the window again, scanning the street. “We’re moving to Florida. We’re putting this place on the market this week. It’s gotten all weird up here. There’s too much money coming in too fast. Money makes people do crazy things. We’re getting out.”