by Lis Wiehl
“In three hundred feet, turn right,” Siri intones.
Erica sees the exit ahead. It’s level, with a grass strip between 74 and the exit lane. She drives past the exit—the sedan almost on top of her—and then she jerks the wheel to the right and peels over the grass to the exit road. The sedan tries to follow, but it’s going too fast and cuts too hard and it goes up on its right wheels, then flips over and rolls three times before coming to a smoldering stop. Whoever was in there is no more.
At the end of the off-ramp Erica turns right onto Route 17 and continues for five minutes until Siri says, “In one mile, turn left onto Prairie Health access road.”
Then Erica sees a roadblock up ahead, manned by about half a dozen armed and uniformed guards. They notice her and go on high alert. Two guards rush toward a squad car. Erica pulls a screeching U-turn and speeds away, her eyes darting from the road to the satellite map. There’s what looks like an old logging road up ahead. She swipes to enlarge it—it looks like it loops around close to the clearing behind the Prairie Health lab. Behind her she hears a siren. She guns it, reaches the dirt track, and turns onto it.
When she’s about a hundred yards up the road, she turns her car so that it’s blocking the road. She leaps out and starts to run through the woods toward the clearing and the lab.
CHAPTER 92
“THIS IS PRESIDENT WINTERS.”
Mary Bellamy is in her office. Alone. She wanted to do this mano a mano. She’s standing in front of an ornate mirror—she’s never looked more alive, flushed and fiery.
“This is Mary Bellamy.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to establish communications.”
“Consider them established. Now what do you want?”
“What do you think I want?”
“I’m not here to play twenty questions.”
There’s such an edge in the president’s voice. She really should try and calm down—it’s not good for her blood pressure, the poor dear. She’s in over her head. Mary pats at her hair and turns to the left, admiring her best angle.
“First I want you to call off your dogs. The fighter jets.”
“What’s second?”
“I want you to recognize the Homeland.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I think you might want to reconsider.” Mary reaches into her purse and takes out her lipstick. She uncaps it and applies a fresh coat, leaning in toward the mirror. Done.
“I don’t negotiate with criminals.”
“That’s an awfully strong word for a duly elected official.”
“Elected, yes. Anointed, no.”
“You see, Lucy—you don’t mind if I call you Lucy, do you? I love Lucy.” Mary titters at her witticism. Winters is such a stick-in-the-mud, Mary can practically smell her disapproval through the phone line. Tsk-tsk. “The thing is, dear, I have four missiles equipped with nuclear warheads that will fire at my command. One is aimed at Seattle, one at Chicago, one at New York, and one at Washington—that would be the one that would vaporize you. Poof!”
There’s a pause and then, “I don’t believe you.”
But Mary can hear the uncertainty in her voice, and she flushes with triumph. But enough of these silly games. “So call my bluff. Either release a statement within a half hour stating that we have started negotiations on sovereignty for the Homeland or I’ll nuke Seattle. Such a dreary, gray city, it could use a little pop and fizz.” Mary laughs discreetly. She’s on a roll.
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“Ta-ta then. The countdown begins.” Mary hangs up and calls Anton. “Half hour till blastoff.”
CHAPTER 93
ERICA RACES THROUGH THE WOODS, sucking air, her heart pounding, temples throbbing, all fear and sweat. Praying her sense of direction is true, she cuts through the underbrush on a diagonal. Then suddenly, there in front of her, through the trees, she sees the grassy expanse. At this distance the launch portals are more obvious, the ghostly outlines of the doors visible through the grass. Past them, in the distance, she can see the back of the lab building. There’s a guard posted at the rear door.
And then, with a loud grinding sound, the door on one of the pads slowly pulls apart. There’s a gaping hole in the ground and then a missile slowly rises out of the earth, pointing west. It’s black, terrifying, the size of a small submarine. Erica flashes on images of Hiroshima, the explosion, the mushroom cloud, the aftermath, when the living envied the dead . . .
Erica pulls out her pistol and races toward the lab.
CHAPTER 94
ANTON VERSHININ, IN HIS OFFICE at the lab, hangs up with Mary Bellamy and takes a moment to savor the exquisite feeling of power that’s coursing through his veins. They’re going to do it. With a bomb that’s five times more powerful than the one dropped on Hiroshima, that will turn Seattle into a crater and vaporize its spoiled latte-slurping millennials. A bomb he built. Putin will curse the day he disrespected Anton Vershinin.
But as thrilling as the sensation is, he has no time to savor it. He gets up, walks out into the corridor, and heads to the stairs that will take him down into the bowels of the building, to the control room, where the buttons are. The little red buttons that will unleash a new chapter in human history.
CHAPTER 95
ERICA COMES OUT OF THE woods just fifty feet from the back entrance of the lab. The guard sees her.
“Who are you?!” he demands, raising his rifle. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
“Don’t shoot! I’m with Vershinin!”
The guard’s forehead knits in confusion.
Erica reaches him. “Let me show you my ID.” Erica turns as if she’s reaching for her pocket and then swings back lightning fast and kicks the guard in the stomach with every ounce of her strength. An explosive grunt comes out of him and he goes down. She brings the handle of her pistol down on his skull, hard, knocking him out.
Erica tries the door. Locked. She stands back and blasts it open with her gun.
She’s in a long corridor. Up ahead, just disappearing into a doorway, she sees the back of a man, he looks older, has white hair. Erica races down to the doorway and pushes it open. She’s in a stairwell. She sees the man rushing down the stairs a flight below. He turns and sees her. His face fills with alarm.
“Stop!” Erica cries.
He picks up his pace, racing down the stairs to a door and exiting.
Erica takes the steps two at a time, flying down. She reaches the door, pushes it open, and sees the man dart into a room across the hallway. He slams the door behind him and she can hear the lock turn but she throws her body against the door an instant before the lock clicks, and the door flies open. The man has been knocked to the floor but he turns and scrambles in the direction of a console covered with buttons with tiny lights beside them. One of the lights is red.
The man clambers to his feet and reaches out, his finger is six inches from the button. Erica throws herself across the room and slams into him. He cries out in pain, they both fall to the floor, and he folds himself into a small mass, sucking air and moaning.
Erica holds her gun to his temple. Then she thinks of Greg. And Jenny. Then she takes out her phone.
CHAPTER 96
MARY IS IN HER OFFICE at the Province House with Neal. They’re waiting for the call, the one from Anton telling them the missile has been launched.
Mary is a little bit anxious, just a little, nothing she can’t handle. She can handle anything. Neal is putting up a good show, but his eyes are darting and his collar is damp.
Then there’s a boom!—a sudden loud boom that seems to shake the building.
“What was that?!” Neal asks.
Mary goes to the window and looks up. The sky is filled with fighter jets, a dozen of them.
Then her phone rings—it’s Anton!—and she grabs it.
“Anton!”
“No, Mary, it’s me, Erica Sparks. I just wanted to say hi. Oh yes,
and to tell you that I’m here with Anton and that the launch has been aborted.”
“You’re lying!”
“Anton, say hi to Mary.”
Anton comes on, he sounds like a broken man. “I am sorry, Mary, but I am going to tell everything.”
“You are not! You cannot! You sniveling, pathetic little coward!”
Mary goes back to the window. A half dozen Black Hawk helicopters have landed on the Province House grounds, and troops are leaping off them and running toward the building. Up in the sky another squadron of fighter jets flies low, setting off more booms that shake the city.
“I think it’s over for us,” Neal says.
Mary whips around. “Et tu, Neal? After everything we did, all our work, you’re ready to surrender? To betray me? You’re a worm, a yellow-bellied traitor to the Homeland, you deserve to die.” Mary runs over to the office door and locks it. Then she runs over to her desk and pulls a gun from a drawer. She starts to rush around the room like a caged animal, in a frenzy. Footfalls, running footfalls, echo in from the hallways.
“Open this door!” a man’s voice shouts.
“Never!” Mary screams. “The Homeland will triumph! The Homeland forever!”
And now there’s loud thumping against the door, they’re using a battering ram. There’s a splintering sound.
And then a strange and beautiful calm comes over Mary. Because she has courage. True grit. Right until the end. She is a god among men, a deity everlasting. Who needs this mortal coil?
As the door crashes open and the troops pour in, Mary smiles at them. A lovely, warm smile. A welcoming smile. Then she pats her hair, puts the gun in her mouth, and blows her brains out.
EPILOGUE
ERICA STANDS ON THE PORCH looking out at the lovely sloping lawn, sloping down to the wide lovely Hudson on this balmy late-summer afternoon—September is the sweetest month. The lawn is full of people—laughing, chatting, eating, drinking. Erica’s having a party in Moy’s honor. Moy has just gotten engaged to television writer Jordan Monk and is visiting family in the East, showing off her fiancé. And no wonder, he’s adorable and funny and smart, and Erica is swept up in her friend’s happiness. In fact, some of it seems to be rubbing off on her.
Erica rented this beautiful old farmhouse on the river for the month. It’s large and rambling and has a pool and sweeping views. She loves the Hudson Valley, filled with beauty and history and culture and fascinating people. Maybe she’ll buy a place up here. Thanks to all the news she generated with the Homeland story, The Erica Sparks Effect is firmly on top in the ratings, and Spotlight has turned into a hit—and her stature and income have risen accordingly.
Down on the lawn, Greg is in some deep powwow with the good-looking young architect whom Leslie Burke Wilson brought along as her date. Greg looks so handsome and vital in cargo shorts and a blue oxford. Erica did something she long thought would be a bad idea: she hired Greg to executive produce Spotlight. She did it because (a) he’s talented, and (b) she wanted to save her marriage. He was offered that two-year contract at a large Houston station, but they both knew the marriage wouldn’t survive the separation. Because Spotlight demands less of her time than her nightly show, the arrangement is working out well. And Greg is thriving again, her equal, ally, and sounding board. And their marriage has never felt more solid. The old adage of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger is proving true.
There is one fly in the ointment. Erica has pulled away from Leslie and her glitterati crowd personally—keeping up was just too much work—but Leslie is still a consultant on Spotlight. She and Greg work together fine, but whatever chemistry there once was between them has played out. As to whether they ever slept together, Erica has been pretending, with limited success, that it doesn’t really matter. But it does matter. Which is why she’s afraid to find out.
As for James Jarrett and Neal Clark, they’ve both been charged with treason, conspiracy to commit murder, and a host of lesser crimes. They were denied bail and are languishing in a federal penitentiary. The case against them is ironclad, their trials will start in the spring, and both will spend the rest of their lives behind bars.
Erica watches as Jenny and three friends race across the lawn and leap into the pool. Jenny’s lawyer was able to get the charges against her dropped. The amount of marijuana she sold was tiny, and her age, and the fact that marijuana possession has been decriminalized in Massachusetts all contributed to the judge’s decision. The notes attesting to Jenny’s sterling character from a half dozen famous journalists didn’t hurt either. Procuring those took nothing more than a few phone calls. Yes, Erica lives in a world of privilege now, where doors magically open and favors are granted. And while she feels some guilt at her success and leverage, she will never hesitate to use it to help her daughter.
Their relationship has been flourishing since the day they had the serious talk back in August. Jenny is off to a good start at school, and while she still shows flashes of rebellion and anger, the decibel level is a quarter of what it was. And Erica’s anxiety has decreased proportionally.
The farmhouse is an hour and change north of Manhattan, and most nights Erica makes it back up the river after her show (a feat made easier by the car and driver she negotiated from the network).
Out on the Hudson, the Clearwater sails by. A beautiful old wooden schooner, she was the life/love project of Pete Seeger, his clarion call back in the 1960s to clean up the filthy river. Today swimmers dot the glistening blue expanse. Maybe we can save the planet, Erica thinks in an uncharacteristic burst of optimism. One cut short by a wave of nausea. They’ve been coming with some regularity. She’s about to head inside when Moy comes up on the porch.
“Okay, amigo, best party ever.”
“Jordan is a catch. Now if only the two of you would move east.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Seriously?”
“An offer has been dangled. As to whether I accept or not, that’s a different story.”
“I’ll be your best friend forever.”
The old pals hug and it feels like home. “I’m going to go put on my bathing suit,” Moy says, heading inside.
“Come on in, Mom!” Jenny calls from the pool.
“Your wish is my command,” Erica calls back.
Erica goes inside and is crossing the living room on her way upstairs when Leslie Wilson comes out of the kitchen.
“I had to get that salmon mousse recipe from your caterer. Does that make me a poacher?”
“Only of salmon.” There’s a pause, and the two women look at each other before Erica takes the leap she’s been resisting. “At least, I hope it’s only salmon.”
“Well, Mary Poppins I’m not. I may have tried to poach a certain two-legged mammal . . .”
“And?”
“To quote him, ‘I have filet mignon at home.’ Tired line, but message received.”
Erica can’t contain the big smile that spreads across her face.
“Now let me go find someone to flirt with. I’m bored with the architect already. For better or worse, but not for cornices.” Leslie disappears, leaving a whiff of bergamot in her wake.
Erica heads up to her bathroom, which has a window looking down at the lawn. She takes another moment to savor the success of the party, Jenny splashing in the pool, Greg organizing a game of volleyball. Then she takes out the pregnancy test kit, sits on the toilet, and pees on the wand. She puts it on the side of the sink and stands up, feeling a mix of trepidation and . . . trepidation. Is she really ready to go through it again? Not just the inconvenience and discomfort of the pregnancy, but all the emotional ramifications with Greg and Jenny, and then there’s her career, and her still dubious mothering skills, and when Jenny heads off to college the new baby would be just five years old . . . and . . . and the list never ends.
And then there it is—the plus sign.
Uh-oh.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1.Wha
t is your opinion of American secessionist movements? Should a state be allowed to secede from the union? If so, why? If not, why not?
2.Given the polarized state of American politics, do you worry for our future ability to communicate and compromise? What steps would it take to increase our national unity?
3.In The Separatists Erica suspects her husband Greg of cheating on her, yet she doesn’t confront him for some time, fearful that he’ll confirm her fears. What do think about this? Would you confront your spouse if you suspected him or her of cheating?
4.Erica’s daughter Jenny starts smoking pot. Erica decides not to make a big deal out of it. Do think this is the right way to handle it? How harmful is marijuana? Do you think it is worse, or better, than alcohol?
5.Do you think Erica is a good mother? If so, why? If not, why not? What positive mothering skills does she have? What does she lack?
6.Mary Bellamy will stop at nothing to get what she wants. Have you known women with this level of ambition? Do you think ambitious women are held to a different standard than ambitious men?
7.Erica still struggles with the trauma of her abusive childhood. How do you think she does handling it? Do you think it’s ever possible to reach closure on trauma, or is it more realistic to accept that you will always be scarred, and move forward with this acceptance?
8.Do you think Erica should forgive her mother, or keep her at emotional arms length, or some combination of the two?
9.Erica thinks about Truman Capote’s famous line “Beware of answered prayers.” She certainly pays a high price for her success. Do you think it’s possible to have enormous success without paying some kind of emotional price?