by Lis Wiehl
“Well, I did want to have this small gathering, just the four of us, the first four. The Founding Fathers, if you will. It’s so important to celebrate achievement.”
Claire comes in with the cookies in an adorable little bag from Fortnum & Mason. Neal knows how much she loves the bags, and he has them sent to her by the dozen.
The general has mercifully finished his sandwich. He’s staying at the Staybridge. Where that Marcus woman was murdered. James is staying at the house. There are house dogs and there are motel dogs. That’s simply the way things are.
“Here you go, good sir, for your midnight snack,” Mary says, pressing the little bag on the general.
“I appreciate that.”
“We appreciate you.”
“Guess we all better get our sleep,” the general says. “Like you said, we’re just beginning.”
Actually, some of us are just ending.
The men shake hands. Then the three of them stand there looking at the general. It grows a tad awkward. Then Mary lightly touches his arm and leads him through the entry hall to the front door. His car is parked down on the curb across the street. He walks down the brick path, then turns and waves at Mary one last time. She waves back, calling, “Drive safely.”
Then she turns around, goes back inside, and closes the door behind her. The three of them walk into the dining room, which is farther from the street. They’re only there a moment before there’s a flash of light and a deafening boom. Windows shatter in the library and parlor opposite.
“What was that?!” Mary cries, rushing to the front door. James and Neal follow, Mary opens the door, and they see the tangled remains of the general’s car, engulfed in flames. Mary can just make out his body, or what’s left of it. It’s sort of writhing and twisting. Is he still alive, or are those movements involuntary? Whichever, they’re thrilling to watch.
CHAPTER 74
JAMES HAS HIS PHONE OUT and calls 911. “Yes, there’s been a car explosion in front of Mary Bellamy’s residence. One fatality.”
Mary leaves the front door open, and the three of them head into the library. The floor is littered with shattered glass.
“This is outrageous. The Winters administration will stop at nothing to undermine us. Assassinating the head of our military. I have no doubt this is the work of the CIA. James, call Steve Wright, our head of communications. I want a statement ready within a half hour. Ask him to bring it over personally. Also, call Judy Born, my legal counsel. I want her here too. And Terri Bertolo, our social media director. Get her on the phone immediately. And Detective Peter Hoaglund. Neal, can you go into the kitchen and ask Claire to put out sandwiches and an urn of coffee in the dining room? Press will be here within minutes. And have her call Morgan, my handyman. I want these rooms cleaned up and the windows boarded. No wait, scratch that. Leave everything as it is. It’s a strong visual. Tell Steve and Judy I’ll read the statement from the front steps as soon as the press is here in force. This will not stand.”
Neal and James watch Mary with raw admiration. They’ve both seen her go into overdrive before and it never fails to awe them. Mary catches their looks and thinks, No wonder they’re both in love with me.
James gets Terri Bertolo on the phone and hands it to Mary, who moves into an alcove and lowers her voice.
“Terri, General Floyd Morrow has just been assassinated by federal agents. I want to blanket social media. Ask our supporters to join a vigil outside my house now. Tell them to bring candles, that we want to mourn the general. Use this wording: Illuminate his commitment to our cause and light the way to a better tomorrow. After everything is posted, get over here and join the crowd out front. When I’m done with my statement—your cue is ‘sing thee to thy rest’—start to sing ‘Amazing Grace.’”
The next half hour is a whirlwind of emergency vehicles, phone calls, preparations, quick rewrites, press, camera crews. Mary is finally happy with the statement. There’s a thicket of press outside and a growing crowd of Homelanders, swelling by the second, filling the street, and still they’re arriving, pouring in. Mary peeks out the window: it’s so moving and thrilling, the somber faces, many tear-streaked, lit by candlelight. The television crews are filming it all, it’s being broadcast live all over the nation, the world. Mary is swept by a wave of exhilaration—Kristallnacht has nothing on me.
She takes a minute to pop into the powder room. She looks in the mirror and smiles at herself—with all these people here, the general’s Oreos would have come in handy. Oh, Mary, you are naughty. Her hair was done yesterday, so she musses it a little, going for the distraught-but-coping look, sort of Maggie Thatcher after that hotel bombing. Then she pinches the web between her right thumb and first finger, digging in her nails so hard that her eyes water. All set.
Statement in hand, she steps out onto the house’s front porch as cries of “We love you, Mary! We love you!” come from the crowd.
CHAPTER 75
ERICA IS AT HOME IN her living room, watching it all unfold. She’s on the sofa, Greg is in an armchair across the room. It’s so shocking and disturbing. It’s only five days after the election, and already violence has reared its twisted head. Erica wishes Greg were sitting beside her. But she’s not about to invite him.
Erica watches as Mary Bellamy waits until an expectant hush falls over the crowd and then she begins, “Tonight I lost a dear and trusted friend, General Floyd Morrow. But we all lost something greater: a man of extraordinary gifts who was committed to building a strong Homeland and a better world. Floyd was murdered in a savage and unprovoked attack. An attack that was intended to frighten and intimidate us. An act of terrorism. Whoever is responsible will be brought to justice. I have instructed Detective Peter Hoaglund, whom I have appointed director of the Homeland Bureau of Investigation, to stop at nothing to uncover the perpetrators. For, make no mistake, this was an attack on the Homeland. And on our supporters in other states. We are a nonviolent movement, but never doubt our resolve: we will not sit back and allow ourselves to be attacked without retribution.”
Mary pauses, looks down, fights to control her emotions. Then she looks out over the crowd. “But tonight is a night to remember a great man, a friend to all of us, a visionary, a leader, a man I loved for his passion, his friendship, and his idealism, a man who never failed to inspire all who knew him. A Homelander. Good-bye, Floyd, may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
And then, from somewhere in the crowd, it starts softly, the singing of “Amazing Grace.” At first it’s just one voice, and then a dozen and then a hundred and then thousands, thousands of mournful voices singing in the candlelight, a beacon in the darkness of the endless Plains night:
Amazing grace!
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost,
But now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.
“She’s very compelling,” Greg says. “She understands the visceral power of an emotional moment. She’s bonding with her followers on a profound level. The woman is a brilliant performer, a brilliant politician.”
“She is, isn’t she? She frightens me. I don’t believe it, I don’t buy it. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many dead bodies. How do we know that car bomb wasn’t planted by Mary’s allies? That James Jarrett is her lead fixer. And putting Peter Hoaglund in charge of the investigation, when he’s pledged his fealty to the Homeland? If that’s not a fox and a chicken coop, what is?”
“What exactly do you think her goal is?”
“Power. It’s always power. Or money. Or sex. She’s got money. She’s got Neal Clark. This is a woman who wants to play on the world stage. I will say I think she actually believes in what she’s fighting for, this idea of splitting up the country into groupings of like-minded states. So in that sense she’s at least sincere. But I’ve seen it in her eyes, the same thing I saw in Nylan Hastings and Lily Lau. The heart of darkness. If she goes through with
establishing a viable Homeland, she’ll force President Winters to step in militarily, and the death toll could number in the tens of thousands. And it would wrench the country apart politically, culturally, morally.”
“But if she forms a viable country and we invade it, that will make us occupiers. Guerilla groups, clandestine militias will spring up. And they’ll be able to cast themselves as freedom fighters,” Greg says.
“There are so many layers to this story, and so many possible outcomes.”
Erica realizes, with a small start, how much she values Greg’s thoughts, his insights. Discussions like this one used to be the norm for their marriage. She misses them, a casualty of their recent distance. This is a man she loves and treasures on so many levels. Still . . . she can’t ignore the riffs, the envy, the flirtations with other women.
And now Detective Peter Hoaglund is on-screen, being interviewed by GNN stringer Alicia Walden. Erica curses herself for flying back to New York this morning. She should be on the ground out there.
“I’m here with Detective Peter Hoaglund of the Bismarck Police Department. Can you tell us your thoughts on this bombing?”
“Actually, Alicia, I’m director of the Homeland Bureau of Investigation.”
“Of course.”
“This crime was a heinous act of cowardice and terrorism. The Homeland has been attacked. We will use all of our resources to track down the person or persons responsible,” Hoaglund says.
“Do you have any leads, clues, or suspicions at this point?”
“We know that the general arrived at the Bellamy house at approximately seven thirty this evening. He left shortly after nine. Someone planted this car bomb during that interval. We have already begun canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone observed suspicious activity. Now I have to get back to work.”
Erica mutes the television. “I need to get back out there.”
“Erica, you can’t solve every crime. And—PS—the home fires need a little stoking.”
She doesn’t like the tone of his voice. And how many glasses of wine has he had? Greg gets up, crosses to the wet bar, and refills his glass. “And there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Is it Leslie Wilson’s recent separation?”
“What? No.”
“I know that she and Stan have both starting seeing other people.”
“Of course you know it, she stated it in the Sunday Times. There are no secrets here.”
“There aren’t? I don’t know what you do when I’m out of town.”
“That covers a lot of territory. You’re gone more than you’re here.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Jenny.”
“Well, I can certainly see her point.”
“Well, I’m not sure I can see the point of this anymore,” Erica says, standing up and gesturing around the room, the apartment, encompassing their marriage.
Then her phone rings. It’s a Los Angeles number, and she recognizes it as being Momar Neezan, the forensic audiologist out in Los Angeles. Erica forwarded him Gloria’s last message yesterday.
“Momar, have you had any luck?”
“This tape is very difficult to decipher. The background noises are almost impossible to segregate out because they come from multiple sources. Deafening fireworks exploded at the exact moment that the car horn, which was only feet from Washburn, sounded. Then there is the rumbling of the traffic on the bridge and the screams and shouts of the celebrants leaning out of car windows.”
“Is it hopeless?”
“No. Not at all. I’ve made some progress. And I’m going to keep working. But let me play you what we have so far.” He turns on the recording. Gloria’s voice has been slowed down, and it sounds elongated, as if she was on a drug of some kind:
“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 working with a Russian scientist up in Canada and”—then the fireworks explode and Gloria’s last words are inaudible and then the phone hits the ground and goes blank.
Erica tries to digest what she’s just heard. A Russian scientist? In Canada? But what were Gloria’s final words? She clenches her jaw in frustration. “We need the end, Momar.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll keep working. I thought this much might be helpful.”
“It is, and I’m very grateful. But something big is going down, and I think it’s on that tape. We need that information.”
Erica hangs up, and Greg crosses to her. “Erica, what is it? You suddenly turned as white as a sheet.”
She moves away from him and collapses on the couch.
“Erica, please, tell me.” His face is full of concern. And she needs him right now. Leslie Wilson or no Leslie Wilson.
“Gloria said that Mary Bellamy is working with a Russian scientist up in Canada.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I would guess they’re probably working with the scientist to develop a weapon of war. It could be chemical weapons. Poisoning agents to use on a civilian population, maybe in the water supply. A nuclear warhead. Take your pick.”
“No . . . ,” Greg says.
Greg goes and sits next to her, takes a hand in his. Erica says, “Don’t tell Leslie, don’t tell anyone. First of all, we need corroboration, we need Gloria’s last words. Second, if it is true, the more people who know, the more likely it is that Bellamy will find out. And the more danger I’ll be in.”
“Of course. But what’s our next step?”
Our next step, Greg, really? His support feels a day late and a dollar short.
Erica is at a loss. She needs to think, to calm down and think. She gets up and strides into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water and downs it in one gulp. Greg follows her. “If it’s in Canada, Neal Clark is the key here, I’m sure of it.”
“Shouldn’t you call the police, the FBI, the Canadian authorities?” Greg says.
“I’ll call the FBI tonight. Canada doesn’t have a federal police force, things are left to the provinces. And I think Neal Clark pretty much owns Manitoba. Plus, all we have are Gloria’s words. Not a shred of evidence. I have to get back out there. I have to find the truth.”
Greg looks glum and left out.
“What did you want to talk about?” Erica asks.
Greg hesitates, as if he’s about to jump into the deep end. Then he says, “I’ve been offered a job running the news department at KHOU in Houston.”
Erica is surprised, shocked even. He never told her he’d applied. “Okay. And . . . um, are you inclined to take it?”
“It’s the country’s fifth biggest market. The station has a healthy news budget. I’d be running the whole show.”
“In Houston.”
“True, but it would be a springboard to get me back to New York.”
“I’m sure they want you to sign a contract.”
“Two years.”
“That seems like a long time right now. And why did you have to hit me with this tonight, after what just happened in Bismarck, what I just learned about Gloria? You know how invested I am in this story. A woman’s throat was slit because she was going to tell me something.”
“Oh sorry, I’m not allowed to have a life because there’s breaking news?” He paces before saying, “Listen, Erica, we both know this isn’t working. I feel like I’m coming home to a meat locker. A little separation might do us good.”
Erica feels a splitting headache coming on. She closes her eyes and breathes. And then a terrible sadness washes over. She loved Greg, she loves him, he was her everything just two years ago. And now this. It’s hurt. Pure hurt. Tears well behind her eyes. But tears aren’t fair. To Greg or to herself.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Greg says. He crosses the kitchen and cups her head in his hands. They look at each other. Is it still there? The love? Part of her yearns to fall into
his arms, to let go . . . Can she let go? Can she ever let go? She’s wound up so tight, bound by the pain of her past, her childhood, her mistakes, her fall, her mothering. In the end, she has only herself. That’s all she’s ever had. Loneliness opens up in front of her like an abyss. She breaks away from Greg, goes to the sink, and washes a mug and two small plates. She can’t turn and look at him, she’s afraid if she does she’ll dissolve into a puddle of tears.
“I . . . ah, I think I’ll take a little walk,” he says.
“Okay,” Erica manages, drying the plates and mug even though they’re already dry.
“I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight. And I’m inclined to take the job in Houston.”
Greg walks out of the kitchen, and Erica waits to hear the front door close. Then she looks longingly at the wine rack. She’d like to open a nice red and drink it straight from the bottle, just guzzle down the whole thing. For starters.
CHAPTER 76
IT’S 3:12 A.M. AND PRESIDENT Winters is lying in bed wide-awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep is out of the question. Beside her, First Man Ed Winters is sleeping like a baby, and she envies him. Nights like this she envies just about everyone. But she fought to win the job, and no matter how awesome the responsibility, she is going to serve the citizens of this country. She throws back the covers, puts on a robe, and walks into her adjoining office.
After watching coverage of General Morrow’s murder earlier in the night, she called Paul Adams, her national security advisor, and pressed him on whether it was the work of the FBI or CIA. If it was, she would be profoundly disturbed. Actions of that gravity must be cleared with the president, and assassination is never an acceptable means. Adams made some calls and then assured her that no one in the government had anything to do with the bombing.
That begs the question, who was behind the murder? Well, who gained the most? Mary Bellamy, of course. Her so-called Homeland—just saying the word to herself raises Winters’s blood pressure—suddenly has a martyr. How convenient. From the dossier on Bellamy that the FBI prepared for her, the president knows she is a ruthless businesswoman who has had over a dozen complaints filed against her with the National Labor Relations Board. They came from employees at her various companies who alleged discrimination, underpayment of wages, sexual harassment, and dangerous working conditions.