The Separatists

by Lis Wiehl

  Erica crosses her legs and brushes at her skirt. The air is so heavy in the house. The fly is still buzzing frantically. “Do you have any idea why she would kill herself?”

  Jarrett looks down, rubs the back of his neck. “Gloria put a lot of pressure on herself. All her life. I found that touching—her determination, her discipline, her sincerity. But she didn’t have an outlet, even a hobby, really, to help her relax. I encouraged her to take up the piano or yoga or photography, but all she cared about was work. The anxiety just built and built. I think this time she just snapped.”

  Sounds plausible. And Erica doesn’t believe a word of it. “I got the impression she thrived on the work. I think it was something else that drove her to jump off that bridge.” They lock eyes for a moment. “You know she was in love with you. And claimed you were engaged. She called you her fiancé.”

  Jarrett can’t contain a small narcissistic smirk. “I’m afraid that was a fabrication of her imagination. But we did have fun together.”

  “So she did have an outlet?” Erica sees that icy look again.

  “Well, after she moved to New York, we obviously saw much less of each other.”

  “But you did get together at times?”

  “Now and then.”

  “In New York?”

  A look of annoyance flashes across his face. “Is the where really important? The woman is dead.”

  Now the fly is knocking itself against the window, buzzing and knocking. Erica wants to press her advantage. “Can you tell me about your role in the Homeland movement?”

  “I thought you were here to express your condolences.”

  “Let’s just say I’m multitasking.”

  “As I said, I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Neither do I.” Erica pauses before saying drily, “I have to get back to Bismarck and file a report.” The room seems to be getting warmer and the trapped fly more desperate, buzzing and knocking, buzzing and knocking.

  Jarrett smiles at her, that tight, chilling smile, and stands up. He casually picks up a magazine off an end table, takes two steps—then suddenly smacks it against the window. Silence. All that’s left of the fly is a mushy blotch about the size of a thumbnail.

  “I’m second-in-command of Homeland’s self-defense.”

  “Did Gloria know that? All she ever told me is that you worked at the Pentagon in military intelligence.”

  “I’d rather talk about the future.”

  “Do you know someone named Pete Nichols?”

  Erica’s curveball has the desired effect—Jarrett blinks but instantly recovers. “No. Should I?”

  “We have evidence that Gloria used him to arrange a kidnapping.”

  “Whose kidnapping?”

  “Mine.”

  “I’m sorry about that. But you look like you’re in one piece.”

  “I’m pretty resilient. But it was no fun.”

  “Arranging a kidnapping doesn’t sound like Gloria.”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Hopefully, the truth.”

  “Then we’re both on the same page.”

  “Are we? I think someone put Gloria up to it.”

  Jarrett sits back down, leans back in his chair, and says, “And you think that someone is . . .?”

  “Someone close to her.”

  “Look, Erica, Gloria is gone. What’s happening here is greater than any one person.”

  “You’ve moved on very quickly.”

  “I have a lot of responsibility.”

  “How did you get involved with Homeland?”

  “Through the Bellamys. Their foundation financed my graduate work at Penn. I’ve known them for twenty years. So I’ve had two losses in the last few weeks.”

  “What will you do if President Winters orders military action against the Homeland?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to come to that. We’re reasonable people. So is the president.”

  “You call withdrawing from the union a reasonable action?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Because six people connected to the Bellamys have been murdered. No one has been arrested for the crimes.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But it has nothing to do with me.”

  This guy is hard to rattle. Erica notices a book in Cyrillic on the coffee table. “You speak Russian?”

  “I’m trying to keep it up. I learned it at West Point. Then I was a military attaché at the American embassy in Moscow for two years.”

  This is new information to Erica. “What was that like?”

  “You can read all about it in my memoir.”

  “So you don’t use the Russian much these days?”

  “Now and then.”

  “Oh. When?”

  Jarrett stands up. “Listen, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

  “Would you consent to an interview for Spotlight?”

  “Yes, of course. We have nothing to hide.”

  “Everyone has something to hide.”

  CHAPTER 72

  IT’S ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER and Erica has just crossed Devil’s Lake and driven past the Spirit Lake Casino. She’s piecing together what she just learned. The whole place is so disturbing—it’s really happening, this insurrection. And James Jarrett is a merciless man. But she still has no proof that he’s connected to the murders, or that he put Gloria up to the kidnapping.

  What Erica is struck by again and again is the calm confidence of Mary and her inner circle. They’re basically giving the middle finger to the greatest power the world has ever known. If she wanted to, President Winters could annihilate them the way Jarrett did that fly on the window. Of course, it’s far more complicated than that, both politically and logistically, but still it’s David versus a thousand Goliaths. Do they have a magic slingshot? Or some kind of secret weapon?

  It’s a missile. A missile capable of carrying a nuclear warhead.

  Her phone rings. It’s an LA number she doesn’t recognize.

  “This is Erica.”

  “Hello, Erica, this is Momar Neezan from the LAPD. I got a call from Moira Connelly.”

  “Of course, thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Did Moy explain what I need?”

  “She did. And I would be delighted to try and help. Can you send me the message?”

  “Of course. I’ll do it as soon as we hang up.”

  “I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

  Erica is about to forward the message to Neezan when she hears a funny sound, a rustling, rattling sound. It’s not loud but it’s unmistakable. Is it coming from the engine? The dashboard? No, it sounds like it’s coming from under the passenger seat. She looks over and sees a large snake slither out from beneath the seat, with a rattle at its tail.

  Erica screams but there’s no one to hear her. Then another snake slithers out, then a third, then a fourth, and now they’re a slithering rattling mass and one hisses at her and raises its body, poised to strike. Erica jerks the car off to the side of the road and leaps out, racing away from the car, hyperventilating, her heart thwacking in her chest, her body trembling, sweat breaking out all over her. She doubles over and retches but nothing comes out. She wants to cry, but what good would that do? She stands there sucking air as her blood pressure slowly returns to some semblance of normal. But why are her hands still shaking and why is sweat still pouring down her back?

  She slowly walks around the driver’s side of the car, keeping a safe distance. The door is open and now she can see at least a dozen snakes, slithering and rattling over the seats, the console, the dashboard, her bag. Her phone is in the bag. Her phone with Gloria’s last message on it. The car is still running, but she’s afraid to reach in and turn it off or grab her bag.

  Then a pickup truck pulls off the road behind her. Her fear ratchets up. She remembers the man in the pickup truck in Marin County, he picked her up as she was fleeing Lily Lau’s compound, she was
running for her life and he pulled over, pretended to be her friend, told her he would take her to safety and she got in his truck, but then he turned it around, he was a minion of evil and he was going to take her back to Lau’s lair. But he had a gun and Erica grabbed it and blew his brains out. But she doesn’t have a gun now. She doesn’t even have the mace she keeps in her bag.

  A lean, almost gaunt Native American man of about sixty gets out of the pickup and approaches her. “You all right here?”

  Erica doesn’t trust him. What if he’s one of them. Them? She doesn’t even know who they are. She won’t get into his truck, that’s for sure. She looks at him. His face is deeply lined, his deep-set eyes look weary but concerned.

  “You look pretty shook up,” he says.

  Erica points to her open driver’s door. The man walks over and looks in. “Oh wow, you got something there. They look angry. Those are prairie rattlers, they’re not from around here. They only live in the western side of the state. Are you coming from there?”

  “No, I was just up at Camp Grafton.”

  “Oh man, lot going on up there. But no rattlers, that’s for sure. How in hell did those things get in your car?”

  How did they? Jarrett said he was expecting her. Erica feels dizzy and the sun is so bright and she can’t really handle it all anymore, it’s too much, it’s just too much. She wants out. O-U-T out. But there’s something she wants more than out—and that’s the truth.

  “Somebody must have put them there while I was up at Camp Grafton.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t trust those people for a minute. Didn’t vote for them either. But listen, I can get rid of them for you.”

  “Please.”

  He goes back to his pickup and puts on a leather barn jacket, which he buttons to the neck, then turns up the collar. He walks back, pulling on cowhide work gloves.

  “Okay now, stand back.” He kicks the driver’s door shut and comes around the other side of the car. He quickly opens the passenger door, reaches in, grabs a snake, and flings it backward. The snake flies through the air about thirty feet and lands in scruffy prairie grass and slithers away. He repeats this lightning move again and again and again. Then he squats down and peers under the seats. “I think we got ’em all.” Then he stands up. “Well, that was intense.”

  “Can you check the trunk?”

  The man reaches in and pops the trunk, then goes and takes a look. “Empty,” he says.

  Erica walks close to the car and looks inside. No sign of any snakes, but somehow the car, with its motor running, her bag knocked over, looks dangerous to her, like a crime scene just before the crime is committed. Can she really get back in there and drive all the way to Bismarck? Does she have a choice?

  “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Hey, we’re all in this together.”

  As Erica drives away, she laughs bitterly at his sentiment. Then she feels a stab of panicked nostalgia for the young woman who once believed it.

  CHAPTER 73

  IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT, AND MARY, Neal, General Morrow, and James Jarrett are sitting in the library at the Bellamy house enjoying a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, oysters from Prince Edward Island, paté from Perigord, and caviar from the Caspian Sea. Just a little celebratory snack. They’ve certainly earned it. There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace and the air-conditioning is on.

  “We also have Triscuits and peanut butter if anyone would prefer that,” Mary says, and they all laugh, although Morrow looks a little wistful. He’s such a rube, really. He wouldn’t know paté from lard.

  Mary is savoring this moment, both for what has been accomplished and for what is to come, soon, tonight. Something terribly exciting. Something that will advance the Homeland. She raises her glass. “To the three of you, the best team that anyone could have. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  What heart? Mary thinks, smiling to herself. They all toast and sip.

  “Now is when we redouble our efforts, parley and leverage this success to bring more states into the Homeland. I spoke to our state directors today in Montana, South Dakota, Idaho, and Wyoming, and they’re all deluged with pioneers. We are their example and inspiration. And we are just beginning.”

  “You better believe we’re just beginning!” the general exclaims. He’s so florid and emotional.

  Mary thinks of the scene in Hamlet where the Danish prince instructs the actors: In the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Morrow has too much unbridled id. It’s unbecoming. And dangerous. He’s a loose cannon, really. Oh well, he won’t be for much longer. He was so instrumental in securing Camp Grafton. But sadly, he’s outlived his usefulness.

  The general takes a bite of caviar and squelches up his face. The poor man looks like he might gag. Shouldn’t his last meal be a little more to his liking? Mary reaches out her foot and presses a buzzer on the floor. Within a heartbeat Claire, a day maid doing night duty (at time and a half, you must pay help fair wages) appears.

  “Claire, could you bring in the Triscuits and peanut butter? And see if there’s any luncheon meat to be found, and some sort of cheese, in a hunk, and rolls.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Bellamy.”

  “Oh, do you like mustard and mayo, General?”

  The general nods eagerly.

  “So we’ll add those to the order, Claire.”

  The general smiles in relief as Claire disappears. Mary really is so terribly kind and thoughtful. And a marvelous host, so attuned to her guests’ wishes.

  “I might have a little sandwich myself,” Neal says, smiling at the general. What a thoughtful gesture! Now the general won’t be self-conscious eating his bologna and Swiss.

  Mary reaches over and squeezes Neal’s hand. They’re being discreet because the general doesn’t know the full . . . extent of their relationship. James does. James knows everything. James is brilliant and beautiful, and Mary’s been half in love with him since the day they met at West Point twenty years ago. And how richly he’s rewarded her faith in him.

  The mood in the library is effervescent, laced with heady triumph, a cocoon of charged anticipation. Claire returns with the sandwich fixings on a tray and places it on a table next to the general, who digs right in. Watching him eat sets Mary’s teeth on edge. He’s crass. She’s so glad that she’s arranged his murder. The way she did. Talk about two birds. It’s genius, plain and simple. She is a genius, isn’t she? Really, one of the most extraordinary women in history. A beacon to feminists all over the world. See, ladies, men aren’t the only ones who can kill.

  Mary is so much more formidable than that lightweight Lucy Winters, that phony, folksy farmer’s daughter who’s playing way above her pay grade. Mary really can’t stand the sight of her; with her earnest voice and that helmet haircut, she looks like an assistant principal at an elementary school. Well, she better not mess with Mary if she knows what’s good for her.

  “James, I think we should call Anton,” Mary says. “To firm up plans. Just in case.”

  James is so good with Anton. He found him. In Moscow. He charmed him. He reeled him in—of course, five of Mary’s many millions sealed the deal. And now he’s doing such extraordinary work for the Homeland.

  “Will do.” James takes out a phone and dials. He immediately starts speaking in Russian. Such an odd language. It sounds like gibberish. Mary expects Putin to recognize the Homeland, and sooner rather than later, if only to embarrass the United States. The quaint, outdated, obsolete United States. It was a silly concept to begin with. To think that such a vast land with such disparate populations could possibly function as a unified whole. The Civil War proved that it couldn’t, of course. Although it did buy it another one hundred and fifty years. Then the Homeland was born. And nothing will ever be the same again.

  Sitting in the library in front of the roaring fire, Mary isn’t sure if she’s ever known a moment of s
uch complete contentment. It’s the trifecta—celebrating a victory, planning her next move, and having an imminent murder to look forward to. She feels a little shiver of bliss race up her spine. She watches as the general stuffs—literally—the sandwich into his mouth. His cheeks bulge like a chipmunk’s. A soon-to-be-dead chipmunk. Perhaps she should send Claire out for some Little Debbie cakes for a grand finale to his last meal. She can’t suppress a little titter at the thought.

  “Anton says he just needs two to three more days,” James says. “He and his people have been working twenty hours straight to get it done.”

  “Tell him how deeply grateful we are,” Mary says, beaming at Neal and the general.

  James hangs up. “So, we should be ready for launch by Thursday. If need be.”

  “It’s so important not to be making claims one can’t back up. And we won’t be,” Mary says, shooting James and Neal a conspiratorial glance. “All systems are go across the board.”

  “Across the board,” James says.

  Now the three of them are quiet as the general chomps away. He’s making mouth noises. He deserves to die for that alone. Neal gets up and tosses another log on the fire. Mary loves how quickly he’s becoming the man of the house. Of course, they can’t go public with their relationship just yet. Why, Sturges’s ashes are probably still warm. But they can certainly go private with it. Later tonight. Oh, she’ll be in a wild mood.

  Mary steps on the foot buzzer and Claire reappears.

  “Do we have any cookies or candy in the kitchen?”

  “There are those marzipan elves.”

  “I don’t expect the general is a big marzipan fan. Are you, General?”

  He shakes his stuffed face.

  “There’s a box of Oreos,” Claire says.

  “Can you put a dozen in a bag, nicely folded, for the general to enjoy on his drive back to his motel?”

  Claire nods and leaves. What a thoughtful gesture. The general will be sent packing filled with cookie-fueled anticipation.

  Oh, Mary, you think of everything.

  “I’m afraid I’m fading,” Mary says.

  “I’m amazed you’ve held up this long,” Neal says.