The Separatists

by Lis Wiehl

  “I’m not an addict, Mom.”

  “It can start small, with a little pot.”

  “Yeah yeah yeah.”

  Erica decides not to go any further down that path right now. “Just keep it in mind.” She takes one of Jenny’s hands in her own. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking . . . about us.”

  Jenny looks down, but Erica can see that she’s listening carefully.

  “I’ve put an awful lot of pressure on myself to be a good mom. So much pressure that it makes me insecure and bumbling, and then I do or say the wrong thing and make matters worse. Then I hate myself. You know I had a rotten, worse than rotten—I had a sick relationship with Susan, and I start to think there’s this legacy in our family of terrible mothers . . . And, well, you know, Jenny, I just go down some very dark holes. It’s painful. I love being your mom, and I love you more than I can say, but I think we both have to accept that I’m never going to be the mom you may want. Or even the mom that I may want to be. I have a lot of ambition and drive, my work is just terribly important to me, and I think the work itself is important. The truth is important. Justice and fairness are important.”

  “But see, Mom, that bothers me. You want to save the world, but you don’t have time for your own kid.”

  “I don’t have as much time as I wish. That’s true. The fact is we’re never going to have the kind of relationship a stay-at-home mom or a work-close-to-home mom and daughter have. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes! We have a worse relationship.”

  “Does it have to be worse, or can it just be different?” Erica stands up and takes a few steps and then turns around. “Oh, honey, I’m asking you to accept me for who I am. Because part of who I am is a woman who loves you with all her heart and wants to be the best friend you’ll ever have, who will stand with you and behind you as you grow into the amazing woman you’re going to be.”

  Erica pauses and takes a deep breath.

  “And part of me gets annoyed sometimes at the demands of being a mom, the emotional demands, the practical demands, who gets consumed by her work, who thrives on adrenaline and even danger, who is bored by domesticity. Who is neurotic and haunted and guilty. If you put it all together you have me. The one and only mom you’ll ever have.” Erica sits back down and takes Jenny’s hand in her own again. “And you know what I think?”

  Jenny shakes her head.

  “I think we’re pretty darn lucky to have each other. I think that we have a lot in common, that you’re unmistakably my daughter, and that fills me with so much pride sometimes I think my heart is going to burst right out of my chest.” She brings Jenny’s hand to her face and kisses it, holds it against her cheek for a moment. “Know something else?”

  “. . . What?”

  “I think there are a lot of moms and daughters out there who wish they could have what we have. Our connection, our commitment to each other, even at the low points. Our love. But we are kind of flying blind, there’s no rulebook for moms and daughters like us. We’re just two Sparks girls trying to do the best we can. And I think that’s a pretty darn wonderful thing.”

  Jenny looks away and grits her teeth to try and stop it, but she can’t—a single tear runs down her left cheek.

  CHAPTER 80

  ERICA IS WATCHING THE FOOTAGE on her laptop in a mixture of disbelief, horror, and journalistic excitement. The attempted abduction of Mary Bellamy by Navy Seals has the whole nation riveted. It all went so terribly wrong so quickly. Sixteen men and women are dead: four of Mary’s bodyguards, eight Seals on the ground, four more in the helicopter.

  Erica is on the private jet that’s winging her back to Bismarck; right now they’re over Illinois and she can barely contain her impatience. She owns this story, and if she doesn’t get on the air soon, the fickle viewers will move to another network. Yes, their stringer is more than competent, but when something this big hits, viewers like to be guided through it by a familiar face. Broadcasting from New York is nowhere near as compelling as reporting from the place where the mission-gone-terribly-wrong actually happened.

  The plane lands, and Eileen is waiting for her on the tarmac. As they drive straight to the studio, she fills Erica in on the latest developments. “Dan Lundgren, Bellamy’s chief of staff, is out of surgery, in serious but stable condition. Bellamy is at home with her closest advisors, including Neal Clark and James Jarrett. She’s expected to make a statement soon, and maybe take some questions.”

  “Is the Homeland a safe place for journalists? Could Bellamy issue a decree and have us all arrested?”

  “As of now, we’ve gotten assurances that we’re safe and welcome. After all, Bellamy has proven herself a master at manipulating the press. She needs us as much we need her.”

  “Of course all that could change on a dime,” Erica says.

  “What everyone is really waiting for is some kind of statement from the president. This is obviously an enormous blow to her administration.”

  “Success has a thousand parents, failure is an orphan. But I think she’s got to own this or her credibility will take a big hit.”

  They arrive at the studio. Erica changes into a fresh outfit, grabs the copy that her head writer just handed her, and gets her game face on. Three minutes later she gets the go signal and the anchor in New York throws it to her.

  “This is Erica Sparks, coming to you from Bismarck, North Dakota. Late this morning a mission to abduct Mary Bellamy, the newly elected governor—or premier, as she prefers to be called—of what she has renamed the Homeland of North Dakota, failed spectacularly.”

  In her earpiece Erica hears Eileen’s taut voice: “The president is about to make a statement.”

  “I’ve just received word that the president will be making a statement from the White House about today’s mission. She’s expected in the pressroom within minutes. Let’s go to the White House.”

  GNN cuts away to the White House pressroom. It’s jammed with reporters and edgy with anticipation. The president appears, looking grim, and strides over to the podium. She has a briefing book with her; she opens it and reads:

  “This morning at approximately 11:10 central time, a mission that I ordered to abduct Mary Bellamy, the newly elected governor of North Dakota, failed. I took this action because Mary Bellamy has taken illegal actions in unilaterally declaring North Dakota a sovereign governing entity not subject to the laws of the United States. By undermining the very foundation of our democracy, Bellamy has put personal gain and aggrandizement over the good of the country. She represents a threat to our nation and to every American citizen. I could not let her actions go unchallenged. Twelve brave Navy Seals died today. Our sympathies go out to their families. I would like to put Bellamy and her cohorts in the so-called ‘Homeland movement’ on notice that they are in our sights and that we will not rest until the threat they pose has been neutralized. Thank you.”

  The assembled reporters immediately start shouting questions. Press Secretary Josh Holden steps up to the podium as the president steps down. “The president will not be taking any questions.”

  GNN cuts back to Erica. “There you have it, the president’s short and succinct statement regarding today’s aborted attempt by the federal government to take Mary Bellamy into custody. The action had more than one goal. The Winters administration is eager to serve notice to the growing secession movements in other states that the federal government will not tolerate their actions. Will it succeed? Or will it backfire? So far, the condemnation from secessionists around the country has been swift and ferocious. The mood here in Bismarck and across the region can be likened to a tinderbox.”

  CHAPTER 81

  MARY BELLAMY TURNS OFF THE television in disgust. “Who does Winters think she is? Who does she think she’s dealing with? She’ll find out soon enough.”

  She’s in her library with Neal Clark and James Jarrett, who drove in from Camp Grafton as soon as he heard of this morning’s ambush. The front hall, the parlor o
pposite, and the dining room are all wall-to-wall with flower arrangements from supporters in all forty-nine states, a dozen nations, and the Homeland, of course.

  I’m so loved.

  It’s been an eventful day for Mary. She refused a trip to the hospital after the incident. She was in one piece, fine, thank you. Yes, she was in mild shock, but twenty minutes to regroup in her office was all she needed. Her doctor showed up and suggested a sedative, which she also refused. She did agree to take the rest of the day off. But the last thing she’s going to do is cower. It’s important for her subjects to see how indomitable she is. When she arrived home, covered in blood, she took a hot shower. Then her massage therapist arrived. That helped. Then Neal and James arrived. And now the president’s pathetic statement.

  Still, Mary can sense that Neal and James are nervous. They’re both having a hard time sitting still; she senses uncertainty and fear. They’re reaching a critical juncture in their mission, now is not the time to go weak-kneed. She simply won’t stand for it.

  “Are we still on track for Thursday?” she asks James.

  “We are.”

  “All right. I want to make a short statement. I think the statehouse steps are the most appropriate place. Tell maintenance not to wash off the bloodstains. Then I’ll visit Dan Lundgren at the hospital this evening. Alert Steve Wright, Judy Born, and Terri Bertolo. Get it out all over social and traditional media. We want massive coverage of my statement and my arrival at the hospital. We’ll let a pool photographer into Dan’s room with me.”

  “Should we clear that with him, or with his doctor?” Neal asks.

  “No,” Mary says simply. “Then I want to go visit the widow and children of one of my bodyguards. Have Steve look into which family is the most sympathetic. We want young kids and a distraught wife.”

  “I have that interview with Erica Sparks tomorrow morning,” Neal says.

  “She’s too curious,” James says. “I tried to take her out, but ended up with a near miss.”

  “By the end of the week she’ll be irrelevant,” Mary says. She feels just about back to 100 percent. Isn’t that amazing? Mere hours after cheating death, she’s running on all cylinders. The adrenaline is pumping. The world is waiting. Her mission is transcendent. She is going to end the United States as we know it. And build something far greater. Where the individual is paramount and sacrosanct. Where the cream will rise to the top. She makes a mental note to research sculptors. She wants to commission a statue of herself for the statehouse grounds. Nothing ostentatious, of course.

  As she sits at the library desk and starts to make notes on her statement about the morning’s failed ambush, she smiles and thinks, Thank you, President Winters.

  CHAPTER 82

  IT’S AN HOUR LATER AND Mary Bellamy—in a black dress—is on the steps of the state capitol, focused and forceful. In front of her is a vast crowd of supporters and media. The mood is somber, with an undercurrent of barely contained blood lust. These people want revenge.

  “This morning, agents of the United States federal government undertook an illegal operation on Homeland soil. This reckless and failed endeavor resulted in the death of four Homelanders and twelve federal agents. In addition, my chief of staff, Dan Lundgren, sustained serious injuries. We are a nonviolent movement; however, we cannot and will not allow ourselves to be attacked without retribution. Our resolve has never been stronger. I am conferring with my closest aides, including James Jarrett, the head of Homeland Security, to determine the appropriate response. Thank you all for your kind wishes. God bless you, and may God bless the Homeland.”

  CHAPTER 83

  IT’S THE NEXT MORNING AND Erica is in the offices of the Bellamy Foundation, about to start her interview with Neal Clark. He’s put aside any testiness he might feel at being pressured into the interview and is subdued but gracious, even charming, as the two of them are lit and sound-checked.

  Save the charm, buddy, I’m looking for some answers.

  Eileen gives her the go. “I’m here with Neal Clark, the Canadian billionaire who raised eyebrows when it was announced that he and the so-called Homeland of North Dakota had signed an agreement to build a pipeline from the Homeland to Winnipeg, Manitoba, for the purpose of transporting oil from the Homeland’s vast reserves to Canada. Can you tell us how this pipeline venture came to be?”

  “Well, Erica, I’ve been a friend and admirer of Mary and Sturges Bellamy for a decade. We share a belief that private enterprise is the engine of economic growth and personal freedom. I support their movement, and this seemed like a natural, mutually beneficial project.”

  “Even though it’s a violation of federal law to build it without going through the permitting process?”

  “The Homeland doesn’t recognize the authority of American laws. And neither do I.”

  “Some people would say that you’re exploiting Mary Bellamy and the Homeland.”

  “Nobody exploits Mary Bellamy.”

  “You seem to know her very well.”

  Neal shoots her an icy glance. “When you do business with someone, you get to see their true character in action.”

  “So in effect you’re acting as a character witness?”

  “I thought we were here to discuss my business endeavors.”

  “Business and personal life often comingle, don’t you find?”

  “That depends entirely on the parties involved.”

  “Do you have any other joint ventures planned with the Homeland?”

  “We’re discussing a couple of possible projects. I can’t say more than that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the talks are preliminary.”

  “Did you know a Winnipeg businessman named Freddy McDougal?”

  Neal flinches slightly but quickly recovers. “I know the name. Never met the man.”

  “He was implicated in the death of Joan Marcus.”

  “Joan Marcus?”

  “The woman who was murdered in the ladies’ room of the Staybridge Hotel.”

  “Terrible crime.”

  “Yes. And still unsolved. Were you aware that Ms. Marcus worked as a bookkeeper for one of your companies, Oil Field Solutions?”

  Sweat breaks out on Neal’s brow. Good. “I had no idea.”

  “Well, she did.”

  “Look, I have thousands of employees.”

  “Yes, but Joan Marcus is the only one who tried to reach me the night she was murdered. She told me she had some important information. I spoke with her just before she was murdered. She sounded frightened. Her daughter believed that she was murdered because she’d seen something troubling at your company.”

  “Look, this is ridiculous, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He uncrosses and recrosses his legs, brushes at his pants leg.

  “Can you access Ms. Marcus’s employment history at Oil Field Solutions?”

  Neal looks like he’s about to storm off the set. Then Erica sees something remarkable. He reaches for his water glass and takes a long, slow sip. He nods his head in a little tic, sits up straight, and says, in a voice as smooth as satin, “I’d be happy to. I’m curious myself as to what poor Ms. Marcus was concerned about. You know, she may simply have been disgruntled. Something interpersonal. These things can escalate. But I’ll look into it and get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “So you yourself weren’t involved in her murder, or in Freddy McDougal’s death?”

  Neal Clark smiles indulgently. “Erica, I started working full-time when I was fourteen. I don’t have a high school diploma. Everything I have, I’ve earned. I love what I do. I’m a happy man, a fortunate man, a blessed man. I pay my people fairly, provide benefits, and engender great loyalty. Now, what was your question again?”

  Erica knows when she’s been outmaneuvered. Besides, his loss of composure early in the interview told her what she most wants to know.

  CHAPTER 84

  AS SOON AT THAT UPPITY little nothing and her crew h
ave packed up and left, Neal calls James and says, “She knows too much.”

  CHAPTER 85

  ERICA HEADS BACK TO THE Holiday Inn. Feeling out of sorts and haunted by a sense of foreboding, she does a vigorous hour of Tae Kwon Do. Just as she’s finishing up, her phone rings.

  “Hello, Erica, it’s Momar Neezan. I’ve been able to segregate Gloria Washburn’s final words on your voicemail. Listen: ‘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, they’re close to developing a nuclear warhead—’” And then the phone hits the ground and goes blank.

  Erica stands there as the blood drains from her head and a searing chill races down her spine. She manages a numb, “Thank you.”

  That’s when there’s a knock on her door.

  CHAPTER 86

  ERICA LOOKS THROUGH THE DOOR’S peephole. James Jarrett is standing there.

  Erica feels her blood pressure spike as she opens the door. Jarrett favors her with his movie-star smile, which at this point just looks creepy to her.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m hoping I can buy you lunch.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Well then, I’m hoping we can have a little chat.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t bite, Erica.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Only if provoked.”

  Erica’s wheels turn, race, spin. “You know, on second thought, I haven’t eaten yet today. I’ll meet you down in the restaurant in five minutes.”

  “Look forward.”

  Erica changes into a simple dress with open pockets. She runs a comb through her hair and puts on some lipstick. Then she slips her phone into one of the pockets and her backup phone into the other, grabs her bag, and heads down to the lobby.