by Lis Wiehl
Winters hates that kind of corporate behavior. You can make billions in profit and have plenty of money left over to treat your employees fairly. It’s a moral issue, and it goes right to the heart of the president’s philosophy. She also knows that Bellamy’s late husband, Sturges, was a closeted homosexual who, despite having passed his last physical with flying colors, died of a sudden heart attack and was cremated before an autopsy could be performed. And that Bellamy is currently romantically involved with Neal Clark, the Canadian billionaire who just signed an agreement with the Homeland to build a pipeline that will guarantee the breakaway state billions of dollars in revenue. Oh, she’s smart, Bellamy is. But Lucy Winters is not going to let her play this president for a fool.
She goes to the window and looks out at the White House South Lawn, the Ellipse, and the Washington Monument beyond. It’s a stunning view, a reminder of our nation’s greatness. Democracy is messy and hard, just look around the world, but somehow we’ve made it work. Because men and women of goodwill, no matter what their differences, came together, compromised, and took actions that kept us united and moved us forward, kept the arc of history bending toward justice.
But there are times when compromise is weakness. And this may be one of those times. If the president’s suspicions are correct, she’s dealing with a psychopath. Which means all bets are off.
Lucy Winters hugs her robe around her, closes her eyes, and looks deep into her soul. She loves her husband and her children more than life itself, but she loves her country just as much. And she’s not going to let it be torn asunder by a madwoman.
She picks up her phone, calls Paul Adams and General Maria Sanchez, and orders them both to report to the White House immediately.
CHAPTER 77
ERICA ARRIVES AT GNN ON Monday morning. She called the FBI last night and was assigned a contact, but they also informed her that they have no jurisdiction in Canada and can’t pursue a case there. It would violate a treaty between the two nations. As she walks into her office, Erica calls Mort Silver even before she sits down.
“Mort, I want to move The Erica Sparks Effect out to North Dakota for the week.”
“Erica, it’s Monday morning. There just isn’t enough time. The logistics.”
“This story is about to get bigger. Much bigger. We want to be out there. Trust me.”
“We’ve got our stringers. Alicia Walden is doing a terrific job. And just what do you mean by much bigger?”
“Confrontational.”
“You privy to some classified information?”
“You might say that.”
“What is it?”
“You’re going to have to trust me.” Time to put the screws on. “Mort, either we move the show out there or we find a substitute host for me for the week. Because I’m going to Bismarck. Your call.”
“You’re threatening me.”
“I’m being the best journalist I know how to be.”
Mort exhales with a sigh of surrender. “Do you know how much this is going to cost?”
“A lot less than it would cost if we got scooped.”
“Good point.”
Erica hangs up and calls Eileen McDermott. “You’re going to hate me, but we’re heading back to Bismarck for the week.”
There’s a pause. “I can tell from your tone of voice that resistance is futile. I’ll pull it together. We’ll just use the same set we used last week. Let me get to work.”
Erica’s next call is to Neal Clark.
“Erica! Terrific job last week. And on Spotlight. You’re our favorite journalist.”
Hooray. “Listen, I want to do a little piece on you and your relationship to the Homeland.”
“All I’ve done is be a smart businessman.”
“By providing the Homeland with a ready outlet for their oil, you’re helping to bankroll them.” Erica pauses before getting a little closer to the bone. “And I want to examine your relationship to Mary Bellamy.”
Clark coughs uncomfortably. He’s not naïve enough to deny what’s an open secret. “Can I be honest with you, Erica?”
“That’s all I ever want.”
“Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“We have to be discreet. At least for now. You may not know this, but Mary’s marriage was more of a partnership than a love affair. Sturges Bellamy was gay. Once a little more time has passed since his death, we’ll go public with our relationship.”
He’s a clever fellow. His admission is disarming. But Erica’s got more than one arrow in her quiver. “When we discuss your relationship with Bellamy, we’ll stick to the business side.”
“I really prefer to stay out of the limelight as much as possible.”
“I’m going to do my piece, with or without your cooperation. If I do it without, it will change the angle I approach it from. I will, of course, have to inform viewers of your refusal to appear on camera.”
The vibe between them grows tense. “Hardball, eh?”
“Call it what you will.”
“I call it a threat, and I don’t like being threatened. What do you want?”
“I want a filmed interview.”
“You’re not our favored journalist anymore.”
“My loss.”
“Call my secretary, she’ll tell you my availability.”
“You’re a privately held company. I’d like to see as much information as possible on your holdings.”
“I’m under no obligation to provide that.”
“Either you provide it or I go out and find it. And if it’s the latter, well, once again, viewers will be informed of your resistance. When you and Mary do go public, that could cause you both some serious problems.”
“You’re a bulldog.”
“I’m a journalist.”
Erica hangs up and gets ready for her trip. She has a clothes closet at work, kept filled and up-to-date by her great pal Nancy Huffman, GNN’s former wardrobe supervisor, who struck out on her own as a designer thanks to exposure Erica gave her. She now works for Erica on a freelance basis, and it’s some of the best money Erica spends. She grabs a few outfits and tosses them into her carry-on.
She and her team are going to have to throw together tonight’s broadcast on the fly. She’ll lead, of course, with General Morrow’s assassination and its aftermath. There’s also a major drought in Argentina and Chile, flooding in London, and an unrelenting heat wave in Chicago that has already killed dozens of seniors. The planet is coming apart at the seams, and it fills Erica with a pervasive anxiety that flares and wanes and flares and wanes in a never-ending cycle.
She heads down to hair and makeup. Eileen will arrange for local freelancers in Bismarck, but might as well get today’s over with now. A good application and comb-out will last all day, and Rosario and Andi are the best.
As she’s striding down the hall her phone rings. It’s Dirk. Erica feels her anxiety spike. She stops in her tracks.
“Hi, Dirk.”
“I have some upsetting news, Erica.”
“What?”
“Jenny’s been caught with pot.”
“Caught? By whom?”
“By the police. At the mall.”
“Was she arrested?”
“Yes. As a juvenile, of course.”
“They’re not holding her, are they?”
“I posted bail.”
“I’ll hire her the best lawyer in the state. I suspected she was smoking. I didn’t want to blow it out of proportion, though. Every kid today tries pot.”
Yeah, Erica, but every kid doesn’t have both a mother and a grandmother who are addicts.
“It’s not that simple, unfortunately.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jenny wasn’t just smoking pot. She was selling it.”
Erica closes her eyes and leans against the wall.
Someone, please tell me this is a nightmare and I’m going to wake up.
“Where is she n
ow?” Erica asks, heading back to her office.
“She’s at home. I’ve grounded her for the rest of the summer.”
“Isn’t that a little harsh?”
“In the last couple of months she’s pulled that stunt with the YouTube video, she’s been involved in a major bullying battle, and now she’s dealing pot. I’m worried about her.”
“Listen, the Homeland story is about to blow up big-time, and I have to head out to Bismarck today.”
There’s a long pause. “Figures. Why don’t I call your assistant and see when we can schedule a call?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Yes, it is. You’ve abrogated your duties as a mother.”
Erica is hit by a tsunami of guilt. Then comes anger. And sadness. And hopelessness. Then she hangs up with Dirk and calls Sentient Jet and books a private plane to Boston, leaving as soon as she can get out to the airport.
CHAPTER 78
IT’S MONDAY MIDMORNING AND MARY Bellamy is in her office at the state capitol, surrounded by a half dozen of her closest aides. There’s an enormous amount to be done, tasks both large and small, including issuing decrees and orders, hiring staff, getting the Homeland website up, changing signage, meeting with legislators—some of whom are recalcitrant about switching their loyalty to the Homeland—and dealing with scores of media requests from the United States and the world. There have been reports of North Dakotans unhappy with her ascension moving away. Good riddance. Having them gone will only solidify her power. The people around her are all veterans of her recall campaign. Dan Lundgren is her chief of staff—he’s young, smart, and she trusts him implicitly. James Jarrett is back at Camp Grafton, overseeing the training of recruits. He has supplied Mary with a half dozen plainclothes bodyguards, the best of the best, all former marines who have volunteered to serve the Homeland as her protectors.
“Are we ready to go out and meet the citizens of the Homeland?” Mary asks. Everyone eagerly nods their assent. Her first stop today is going to be an elementary school. She’s ordered new materials for all the schools that remove any mention of North Dakota as one of the United States of America and detail the birth and growth of the Homeland. And of course she banned the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance or the singing of any so-called patriotic songs. She’ll commission a Homeland anthem soon. She’s going to use today’s school visit as the venue to announce a competition to design the Homeland’s flag, open to every resident of the nascent nation.
As they leave her office and walk down the halls, the state employees they pass almost genuflect to their leader. She waves and smiles. It’s all going so well. The general’s assassination has generated a deluge of outrage, just as she knew it would. Homeland movements in other states are reporting a big surge in membership. And at the center of it all is . . . Mary. She’s really on her way to becoming a deity, isn’t she? To see the adoration on the faces of the masses is so affirming. They quite literally worship her. And they should. She’s a goddess. Destined to build and lead an empire.
Mary and her entourage walk out of the capitol building and down the front steps. It’s a lovely sunny day, what looks like a media helicopter hovers above the scene, and clutches of tourists and pioneers wave and shout at the sight of her, their faces exploding with excitement. She greets a group of about a dozen people, who squeal and jump up and down and turn bright red. And she’s so gracious in response. Although she loathes it when they touch her. How dare they? Perhaps she’ll issue a decree: anyone touching the premier will have their hands chopped off. Mary smiles at the thought, and the silly shriekers think she’s smiling at them. More of her squealing subjects race over. Phones are held up, filming the scene—they’ll brag about this moment for the rest of their lives. Mary points to her watch and gives a charming shrug. She and her entourage move toward the row of cars that will transport them to the school.
Suddenly eight Navy Seals emerge from around the side of the building and race toward Mary and her aides. In the sky the helicopter swoops down toward the lawn, ready to land. “RAISE YOUR HANDS AND STAND STILL!” one of the Seals screams.
Mary’s bodyguards whip out their automatic weapons and start shooting. The firepower is returned. One of Mary’s bodyguards throws her down to the ground and covers her body with his own. He’s shot in the back and grunts in defeat and then he’s shot in the head and now his blood, carrying bits of bone and hair, is pouring over Mary’s face and scalp. She lies motionless until the shooting stops. Then she turns to see that all eight Seals are lying on the ground, dead. Two of her bodyguards are still standing. Dan Lundgren is lying nearby, clutching his stomach and moaning. The helicopter is about to land, and Mary’s remaining bodyguards turn their fire on it, riddling it with bullets. The helicopter reverses and ascends about fifty feet, then lurches to the side and crashes back to earth, bursting into flames.
Mary struggles to get out from under the dead body. As she crawls away—and just before she goes into shock—she thinks, Thank God it was all caught on camera.
CHAPTER 79
ERICA IS IN THE CAR that’s taking her out to Dedham to see Jenny. She’s booked the jet to take her from Boston to Bismarck after the visit, giving her approximately two hours. Is that enough time to repair a mother/daughter relationship that seems rent at the seams?
As Erica looks out at the familiar New England landscape she feels a surge of nostalgia. This is where she got her start. This is where she became a star. Married a nice man. Had a beautiful daughter.
Beware of answered prayers.
This is where she started drinking at 9:00 a.m., this is where her marriage fell apart, this is where she appeared on air intoxicated, this is where she kidnapped and terrified her own daughter, driving her to a seedy motel and leaving her alone while she went on an “ice cream run” to the nearest liquor store.
Erica can feel her anxiety level spike as they approach Dirk and Linda’s house. And, yes, Jenny’s, it’s Jenny’s house, it’s where she lives. Not in New York with her mother. That’s where she used to live.
Beware of answered prayers.
She makes a pact with herself: today she will be absolutely honest with her daughter. Honesty is her North Star in her work—she must bring it to this table as well. She and Jenny have to understand and accept each other. It’s the only way forward.
The car pulls up in front of the modest house—and Erica feels a stab of envy. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a small house and have small concerns and small pleasures?
So much for your pledge of honesty, Erica. You’d be bored out of your skull in twenty-four hours and you know it.
“I won’t be too long,” Erica tells her driver as she gets out.
Erica notices the car from Sentinel Security across the street. The detective is on his cell, but he duly notes Erica’s arrival. It’s reassuring. At least she can protect Jenny from some threats.
Dirk comes out of the house to greet her. He’s a nice man, a good man, but it’s hard to believe they were once married. They met so young, he was kind and smart and respectable and attractive, he represented what she longed for and had never had—a stable home life. They’re different people today, and their only commonality is their daughter. For better or worse, Erica is having a big life, bigger than she could have ever imagined. And that’s one genie you can never put back in the bottle.
“Thanks for coming,” Dirk says.
“Of course. How’s she doing?”
“She’s very moody. I can’t get her to say two words, and she rarely comes out of her room.”
“Okay,” Erica says as they step into the house. The staircase is right there, and Erica steels herself and climbs it. Jenny’s door has a sign on it that reads Entry by Permission Only. Erica knocks. “Hi, honey, it’s your mom. May I come in?”
“I’m busy,” comes the heartbreaking answer from behind the door.
“Well, I’ll just wait out here until your schedule frees up.” Erica sits on the floor a
nd leans against the wall. In the quiet she can feel the awareness, the connection between them, it’s an invisible vein carrying . . . disappointment and anger and mistrust and hope and . . . love. “So . . . may I ask what you’re busy with?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Just mom curiosity, no big whoop.”
There’s a pause and then, “I’m reading one of the books on the summer reading list.”
“Cool. What is it?”
“Their Eyes Were Watching God.”
“I love that book.”
“You read it?”
“Yes. When I was just about your age. I found it at the library and devoured it. What do you think of it?”
“It makes me sad. And happy. I love it.” There’s a pause and then, “Okay, you can come in now.”
Erica stands up and opens the door. Jenny is on her bed, propped up on pillows. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and she looks older somehow. And she’s so pretty, she’s going to be a beautiful young woman in no time at all. Her little girl has rounded a corner and is heading into a whole new phase of her life. How desperately Erica wants to be part of it.
Erica sits on the side of the bed. She and Jenny look at each other for a tentative moment and then Erica gives Jenny a kiss and a hug. Jenny hesitates and then returns the hug. Erica cups Jenny’s face in her hands. “You look very pretty.”
“I wonder where I got that?”
“Don’t say I never came through for you. So . . . how are you feeling about . . . ?”
“Being arrested?”
Erica nods.
“I feel rotten about it. I’m sorry to put you and Dad through this.”
“Can I tell you what worries me the most about it? What scares me the most?”
It’s Jenny’s turn to nod.
“I’m an addict. Susan is an addict. The gene is in the family.”