by Lis Wiehl
She tosses down the cards and stands up, looks out the window—the rain is over, the streets are crowded again, but now the city looks hard-edged, unrelenting, overwhelming. Who knows who is out there, and what their motives are? She draws the curtains as a wave of fear sweeps over her. She begins to pace with one thought in her mind: a drink.
CHAPTER 28
ERICA ARRIVES AT STARBUCKS AT five forty-five. In a nod to her new reality, she’s wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. They work—she gets some second glances, but with her blonde hair hidden and her unmade-up face obscured, people can’t quite place her. She orders the latest frappa-whatever and sits on a stool at the back. Even at this hour the place is jammed with early risers, a mix of groggy construction workers and bushy-tailed young A-types determined to get to the office an hour before everyone else. Since she got about an hour’s sleep, she feels more kinship with the groggy crowd—but as she sips the coffee and inhales the city’s energy, her adrenaline starts to kick in.
Of course she didn’t have a drink last night—but she did have a moment where she just wanted out. A low-level fear has lodged itself at the corners of her consciousness. This ferry story feels radioactive, carrying risks not only to her work but to her life. Is she in real danger? She pushes the thought out of her mind. She wants to use her time developing her own show, building a platform for the long career. But walking away from the story is out of the question. So she spent a restless night fighting for sleep as various scenarios—none of them pretty—galloped through her head.
But now she’s up, alert and ready for whatever news Mark brings. She’s certainly impressed with him—he’s smart, fearless, thoughtful, and amazing at what he does. One of the good guys. And at GNN, she needs every good guy she can find.
It’s six and he hasn’t shown up. She watches the baristas—they turn fulfilling coffee orders into a ballet. Then her mind flits back to the kiss with Greg, her hand on his cheek, the light stubble, the taste of his tongue, his arm around her waist, their bodies pressed together in the doorway, the city disappearing around them. She wants another kiss . . . and then another.
Now it’s 6:22 and there’s still no sign of Mark. She fingers the prepaid cell phone she bought at the twenty-four-hour Duane Reade on Fifty-Seventh Street. Should she call Mark’s? She does. It rings and rings, no answer, no voice mail. She hangs up. What could Mark’s news be? He said it was important. A thought that has festered at the edge of her mind—half formed and willfully ignored—pushes its way to the fore.
It was an incredible coincidence that she happened to be reporting from Battery Park when the ferry crashed. Fine. Coincidences happen. But then for her to be interviewing Kay Barrish at the moment she had a heart attack. Does lightning strike the same person twice? Can fate be that random?
It’s 6:34. Where is Mark?
Suddenly the coffee shop seems chaotic—it’s so noisy a gun could go off and you wouldn’t hear it. And everyone is so impatient, so intense; there’s a woman with greasy hair carrying six bulging plastic bags, mumbling to herself. A wave of paranoia floods Erica. She looks around her. Why is that man staring at her? And so intently. Then he smiles—the excited smile of a fan. Erica manages to smile back, but now other people are looking at her. She feels exposed, vulnerable. She’s famous now; she has to be careful. People want a piece of her. There are a lot of crazies out there.
It’s 6:42. No Mark. She grabs her bag and flees.
CHAPTER 29
ERICA FEELS SOMEWHAT BETTER IN her office, grounded by the work at hand, with Greg just down the hall. She fights the urge to go down to the third floor and see if Mark is there. He was adamant about no contact at the office. Erica opens the file on her show—there’s a development meeting at nine—and starts to write down ideas. When her mind is engaged, everything else falls away, her synapses click, her motor hums. She jots down thoughts on the set—she envisions a news desk, which will be her home base, and then a comfortable seating area for the more human-interest and lighthearted segments. She also wants to get out of the studio regularly, doing segments and interviews that take her around the region, the nation, even the globe.
There’s a knock on her open door, and Greg steps into the office. Erica wants to get up and run into his arms. Instead they exchange a conspiratorial smile. They agreed that displays of affection are off-limits at work. Which only makes it more exciting. Their secret.
“Good morning, Sparks.”
“Ditto, Underwood.”
“There’s breaking news. Our sources at the Pentagon tell us the president has unleashed an airstrike on ISIL’s suspected technology center outside Alleppo, Syria.”
“He’s not wasting any time. Does this mean our development meeting is canceled?”
“No, just delayed. I want to put you on the air to discuss this development. As for your show, Nylan called me this morning. He wants it on the air ASAP. He’s going to build you your own studio, green room, dressing room, hair and makeup station, the works. He wants to start running teaser promos in two weeks.”
Erica stands up. “All very exciting. But let me go get presentable.”
“You look exceptionally presentable to me.”
“Shhh—loose lips.”
“You had to mention lips.”
Erica sits down in the makeup chair, and Andi gets to work on her hair. A somber Rosario asks, “Did you hear about Mark Benton?”
“The IT guy?”
“Yes. He was mugged this morning on the way to work.”
Erica’s heart starts to race. “Oh no. That’s terrible news. Is he all right?”
“He got beaten up pretty bad. He’s in Beth Israel Hospital in a coma.” Rosario picks up the spray gun. “Are you all right, Erica?”
“Me? Oh yes, I’m just sorry to hear this news.”
“Do you know him?”
“We’ve met a couple of times. He seemed very nice.”
“And a real genius with computers,” Andi says. “My laptop crashed once and all my files got erased. I was in a crazy panic, I went down to IT, he fixed it for me in ten minutes.”
“I hope he’s going to be okay,” Erica says.
The women work their magic. But by the time Rosario is done, she has to blot and repowder Erica’s sweat-dappled hairline.
CHAPTER 30
IT’S SEVEN P.M. AND ERICA is in her office, done for the day. Willpower got her through it—she put blinders on and forged forward. She’s been on the air six times to update the ISIL bombing story. The Pentagon released photos of the suspected ISIL technology nerve center before and after the American air strikes. It is obliterated. But Erica is quickly learning to question every claim.
When she was a local reporter up in New England, these big national and international stories were out of her purview. No longer. She feels a very real responsibility to her viewers—and to the nation and even to the world—to be skeptical. Like Ronald Reagan said: trust but verify. Sometimes government agencies make mistakes. And sometimes they willfully lie, usually to cover up those mistakes. Or for rank political reasons. Now she has the power to uncover the truth, a power the average citizen can only imagine, and she isn’t going to be hesitant about using it. And so in every appearance today she stressed the word suspected when describing the ISIL technology center. And she reiterated the fact that while ISIL has claimed responsibility for hacking the Staten Island ferry’s navigational system, no proof has been offered or discovered.
The development meeting on her show went well. Erica, Greg, Lesli, and several other associate producers were present. They went over writers’ résumés, decided on a 60/40 ratio of hard news to human interest and celebrity stories, and hired a designer, a br
illiant young Italian woman who will be responsible not only for the set, but for the logo and all graphics—Erica wants a unified look, fresh and distinctive. The word brand, like teamwork, is so overused that it’s almost lost its meaning, but the fact is that’s what she’s creating. It’s a crowded marketplace and she wants to stand out.
Of course without meaningful reporting it will all be for naught—and delivering that is up to her. Then there’s the fact—which in her less modest moments she admits to herself—that she’s demonstrated star power. She wants to put it all together in one seamless package: tough, honest reporting, informative and entertaining stories, a great crisp look, and at the center of it all—Erica Sparks.
Erica straightens her desk. She’s eager to get down to Beth Israel to visit Mark. Just as she’s about to stand up, Greg appears in her doorway.
“It was a good meeting,” he says.
“What do you think of The Erica Sparks Effect as a name for the show?”
“I like it. It’s got energy and it promises results.” Greg puts his hands in his pockets, frowns. “Did you hear about Mark Benton down in IT?”
“I did, yes. Very upsetting.”
“Did you know him?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times, I asked his opinion on the cause of the ferry crash. He was helpful.” Erica has an urge to open up to Greg, to tell him everything that Mark has discovered and about their scheduled meeting at Starbucks. Then she hears Mark’s voice: Don’t tell anyone at GNN. Anyone.
“He’s one of the best. Hopefully he’ll be okay,” Greg says. He gestures toward a chair. Erica nods. Greg sits, leans forward, lowers his voice. “You seem a little preoccupied. How are things going with Jenny?”
Erica feels a moment of relief—he may have picked up on her being distracted, but he guessed the wrong cause. “Things are okay. The divorce was difficult for her. She has some anger towards me.”
“Divorce does that.”
“This is an important time in her life. I think it was the right decision not to bring her to New York with me, I’m just so busy, but I do doubt myself.” Erica feels that tug of guilt for neglecting to mention that bringing Jenny to New York was never an option. Thankfully the details of why it wasn’t are buried in those sealed court records. “I want her to know that I’m here for her, even if we’re not living together.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
Erica’s face lights up with a huge smile. “Oh, she’s wonderful, Greg, curious and funny and sweet—when she’s not being awful to her mom.” They laugh. “But she’s growing up. She’s not a little girl anymore. In fact, her birthday’s coming up in two weeks and her addled mother has no idea what to get her.”
“She’s turning . . .?”
“Nine. I’d like to take the day off and go up to Massachusetts and see her. Is that going to be possible?”
“Of course. You’re still officially a field reporter. I’ll find someone to cover for you. Of course if the ISIL story takes some dramatic turn . . .”
“Kids don’t really understand dramatic turns. It would mean a lot to Jenny if I showed up. And to me.”
Greg is quiet for a moment, then he rubs his palms together in a gesture she has come to recognize—his wheels are turning. “Say listen, just off the top of my head—why not bring Jenny down here? We can have a small party for her in the studio.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She’s a little shy with new people. It might be too much attention.”
“We could make it very low-key. She’ll get to see where Mom works, what she does, how admired and popular she is.”
Erica considers Greg’s idea. After the toxicity of the divorce, she would love for Jenny to see her in action. She even admits to some vanity—she’s successful, something of a hot ticket, and she’d like Jenny to know that. And Jenny might get a kick out of a behind-the-scenes look at television news. Other people bring their kids to work all the time.
“You know what, I think I like the idea. I’ll ask Lesli if she could arrange the party.”
Greg sits back, runs his hand through his hair. “Any chance of dinner?”
Erica looks down at her desk, shuffles a few papers. “There’s nothing I’d like more. But I really want to spend the evening organizing my notes on the meeting.”
“All work and no play makes . . . The Erica Sparks Effect the most exciting show in cable news.”
“Here’s hoping.”
When Greg leaves, she quickly grabs her things and heads down to the elevators. She waits impatiently, her foot tapping. The car comes and she gets on, presses 1. The doors close and the elevator descends for several floors, then lurches, then shudders, then stops. Panic rises in a wave through her body, then the lights go out and she’s plunged into blackness. She’s trapped. Her throat closes. She wills herself to breathe. She freezes and listens—there’s no sound, no commotion, no raised voices, nothing she’d expect to hear if it was a full-building blackout or if there’d been an explosion or an attack. It’s just her. Alone in the dark. What if the elevator drops suddenly, all the way to the basement? She’ll die on impact. She feels her away along the wall to the control panel and gropes for the emergency button, which sticks out from the panel. She presses it. No alarm sounds. Nothing. Just blackness and silence, as silent as death.
Erica can’t control her panic, sweat breaks out all over her body, she screams, “Help!” She gropes her way to the closed doors and, using all her strength, tries to pry them open. They don’t give. “Help me!” Her voice just seems to be swallowed up by the dark. And then, suddenly, the elevator lurches and groans. The lights flicker on, and it begins to descend. Erica sighs in a great gush of relief, her panic ebbs.
When the doors open at the lobby, a suited security agent and an elevator maintenance man are standing there. Erica steps off, dazed and shaken.
“Are you all right?” the maintenance man asks.
“I think so, yes.”
The security agent says nothing, just stands there with a grim expression on his face.
The maintenance man puts an Out of Service pedestal sign in front of the open elevator door, then steps into the cab and turns off the power.
“Why did it happen?” Erica asks.
“We’re going to look into it. Could be mechanical. Or it could be a glitch in the software. These cars are all computerized.”
“Could it have been intentional?”
The maintenance man looks incredulous. “I guess so. But what kind of sicko would want to put someone through that?”
What kind of sicko?
Erica heads out into the welcome air. As she steps to the curb to hail a cab, she looks back at the GNN building and thinks, That is not a safe place.
CHAPTER 31
BETH ISRAEL HOSPITAL IS ON First Avenue and Seventeenth Street. Erica jumps out of the cab, heads into the main entrance, walks up to the front desk, and gets Mark’s room number.
She hesitates before stepping on the elevator. As the car rises, she says the Serenity Prayer several times. It centers her, gives her strength and faith. Which she badly needs right now. She feels as if she’s moving into uncharted territory. When she dreamed of her career, she never imagined she would find herself caught up in a story this big, with national security implications, where people’s lives are at stake. Where she herself may be in danger.
In some core way Erica feels like she’s been in danger her whole life—when a little girl’s parents use her as an emotional and physical punching bag, a foil for their sad, sick lives, can she ever really feel safe? She thought fame and success and money would protect her
, buffer her from pain and fear. Now that hope seems naive. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the telltale beat of her troubled heart.
Erica walks down the wide hallway. She doesn’t like hospitals—all the plastic, all the sickness, all the depressingly cheery colors, all the downcast people coming out of the rooms after visits, all the patients shuffling down the hallways with walkers. She smiles at a passing nurse. Nurses, on the other hand, she loves—they’re on the front line, in the trenches every day, doing the dirty work—the ones she’s known tend to be caring, no-nonsense, and a little eccentric. They’re real people doing real work that really matters. Heroes.
Erica reaches Mark’s private room. The door is open but she can’t see him because the curtain is drawn. She can see a middle-aged couple sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him with deep concern.
She knocks gently on the door. “May I come in?”
The woman nods. Erica walks past the curtain and gets her first look at Mark, and her stomach turns over. His head is wrapped in bandages and his face looks like one big bruise, red and yellow and purple and green, grotesquely swollen, blood caked at the corners of his open mouth, several teeth gone, one eye shut tight, stitches along his temple and cheek. There are tubes everywhere, drips and catheters and bags.
Erica and the couple exchange sad, stricken looks. “Are you Mark’s parents?”
The man nods. “Chuck Benton. This is my wife, Marie.”
“I’m Erica Sparks, a colleague of Mark’s.”
“Mark mentioned you. He likes you,” Marie says. “Thank you for coming.”
The Bentons look like they’re still in shock. There are two suitcases beside them.
“I’m so sorry this happened,” Erica says. “How long have you been here?”
“A couple of hours. We flew in from Cleveland.”