by Lis Wiehl
CHAPTER 82
NIGHT FALLS AND ERICA PUSHES eighty as she heads back to the city. When she reaches New Haven, she calls Desmond Connor on her prepaid.
“Hey there, Erica.” Then he calls out, “Hey, people, Erica Sparks is calling me! This calls for another round. On me.” There are cheers.
“Listen, Desmond, could I stop by and talk to you? In about an hour. It’s about your mother. Her death.”
“Hey, well, whatever, sure. I’m at Mulligan’s.”
Erica hangs up just as the radio reports that the National Weather Service has upgraded Carl to a Category 5 hurricane.
Using her GPS, Erica makes it to Woodlawn and drives slowly down Katonah Avenue, scanning the streets. She parks and ducks into Mulligan’s. It’s a classic Irish pub—lots of dark wood and loquacious drunks. Desmond is sitting at the bar holding forth. His eyes are at half-lid and his head has a gentle nod—it’s clear he’s mixing his medicines.
“Desmond,” Erica says. “Can we talk at a table?”
“Yeah, sure, why not? Hey, you look all keyed up. You want a little something to chill with?”
“Thanks for the thought.” They move to a corner table. “Do you know Ed Spellman?”
“Everyone in Woodlawn knows Eddie Spellman. Mr. High and Mighty.”
“Did he do business with your mother?”
Desmond nods. “Oh yeah, those two got into some shady tricks, man. I mean I’m not exactly Mr. Clean, but I never did the kinda sick stuff they did.”
“Like what?”
“Like offing people.”
“Seriously?”
“You wave enough money in my mother’s face, she woulda offed me.”
“I don’t think your mother was the victim of a hit-and-run. I think she was murdered.”
“Whoa. That’s some heavy thinking.”
“I think Ed Spellman had your mother killed. They were involved in a very serious crime. He wanted her out of the picture. I need you to talk to a detective.”
“I’m allergic to law enforcement. No can do.”
“Desmond, I’m talking about the people who murdered your mother.”
He smiles to himself. “When you find them, let me know where to send the thank-you note.”
Erica walks out of the bar and looks around—is that someone running, running away, someone dressed in black, several blocks down? It’s hard to tell at night and then the figure is swallowed up by the dark. She has to get out of here, off this dark street, she has to escape.
As she drives downtown, she keeps checking the rearview—wondering if she’s being followed. And then she wonders if she’ll ever be able to escape.
CHAPTER 83
IT’S CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT WHEN Erica gets home, and as soon as she walks in the door, she turns on the television—it’s wall-to-wall coverage of Carl. A Doppler radar image of the hurricane fills the screen—the storm is vast and projected to make landfall within twenty-four hours. The governor has ordered an evacuation of all oceanfront residences in Broward, Palm Beach, and Dade Counties. There are massive traffic jams as people flee north, out of the storm’s path. Erica switches off the television and looks out the window. A different guy on a bicycle is across the street, looking up at her windows. She goes into her bedroom and starts packing. Her prepaid rings.
“Erica, things are breaking open,” Mark says. “I’m inside the computer that hacked into the ferry’s navigational system. It belongs to Dave Mullen.”
Erica feels light-headed, sits on the bed, stunned into silence for a moment. “Are you positive?”
“Yes. But I haven’t cracked the master password. When I do, the computer will think I’m him and I can search its history, e-mail, files, and current activity.”
Erica feels a fourth wind coming on and can barely control her rising excitement. “We’ll be in the brain of the beast?”
“Yes. And most important we’ll be able to find out who ordered the hacking.”
“Listen, I’m heading down to Miami to cover Carl. Stay in close touch.”
“There’s a lot of activity on this computer. I think they’re working on some new scheme.”
“That’s a terrifying thought.” Erica hangs up and immediately calls Detective Samuels. She brings him up to date and then says, “You have to station a twenty-four-hour guard outside Mark’s room.”
“You think his life is in danger?”
“I think all our lives are in danger.”
CHAPTER 84
IT’S JUST AFTER NINE A.M., and Erica, Greg, Derek, and Manny are in a small jet approaching Miami International Airport. All commercial flights have been canceled, and Erica asked Greg to charter a plane—there’s no way she was going to fly on one of Nylan’s jets.
They’re gripping the arms of their seats as the plane is buffeted, tossed around by winds that seem to be increasing by the second.
“You okay?” Greg asks.
Erica nods, although she’s far from okay. She was on the phone with Mark off and on all night, getting updates and offering him moral support. He’s so close to hacking his way into the very heart of Nylan’s secret world.
They hit a wind shear and the plane is knocked upward, they all gasp as their laptops and phones go flying. Erica grips Greg’s hand—a charge passes between their bodies. Her feelings for him are so strong they scare her; she’s afraid to give into them, afraid they might cloud her judgment.
But she’s getting ahead of herself. In spite of everything, she has to keep pushing forward, functioning. She’s covering a storm that threatens the lives of millions of people and animals, untold trillions of dollars in property damage, and devastation to the fragile South Florida ecosystem.
The pilot’s voice comes on the speaker. “Hang on, folks, we’re coming in.”
The plane approaches the runway on a diagonal, its tail blown off center, then comes a series of jerks and bumps before the wheels touch down with a thud, followed by a bone-rattling shudder.
Erica walks down the flight steps into the humid, turbulent Florida air. The airport is eerily deserted—there are no takeoffs or landings, no support vehicles buzzing around. A broadcast van—provided by GNN’s local affiliate—is waiting for them across the tarmac. An associate producer hands them the keys. Greg gets behind the wheel, Erica sits up front next to him.
They head for their hotel, the Biltmore in Coral Gables, a few miles south of the airport. The roads are a hazard course, with trash cans and debris tossing around like tumbleweeds and palms groaning in the gusts. The few people they see are racing to hammer plywood over windows. One woman is running down the street, leash in hand, frantically calling for her dog.
Suddenly the Biltmore looms up from its low-slung residential neighborhood. It’s a pink Spanish-style palace that was built in the 1920s.
They park and duck inside. Like the airport, the lobby is almost deserted, and what staff there is seems spooked.
The network has set up a command center in one of the hotel’s mezzanine function rooms. Erica and her crew check in and are handed long rubber coats and hats and knee-high boots.
“I’m going to head up to my room and change,” Erica tells Greg.
“I want to file a report from Miami Beach. We’ll leave as soon as you come back down.”
Erica goes up to her room and changes into jeans and a sweatshirt, then puts on her storm gear and checks herself in the mirror—makeup and a brush are futile; within seconds of being out there, she’s going to look like a dripping doll.
Erica, Greg, Manny, and Derek set off for
Miami Beach. The sky is dark and low and ominous, glowing slightly in the reflected lights of the megalopolis. They get on Route 1 north—it’s crowded with fleeing cars, their occupants anxious, exhausted; there’s a sense of barely controlled panic, in backseats mothers cradle children, frightened faces peer eastward, toward the Atlantic and the destruction it holds.
They reach the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. Around them the sea is heaving—as they reach the low end of the causeway, seawater sprays up and splashes their windshield, momentarily reducing visibility to nil.
Erica texts Mark: ANY PROGRESS? He texts back: HANG TIGHT.
“If this gets much worse, we’re going to turn back,” Greg says.
They enter Miami Beach and head across Fifth Street and reach the iconic stretch of Ocean Drive that’s lined with Art Deco hotels. Greg parks the van and they pile out. Across the street is Lummus Park and then the ocean—the cresting, crashing surf rising higher and higher. The façades of the hotels are swarming with workmen battening down the doors and windows and hauling outdoor furniture and plants inside. The wind is howling and now the heavy rain starts, blown horizontal, stinging Erica’s cheeks and eyes.
“Let’s shoot you in the park with the hotels behind you!” Greg yells.
Manny and Derek swing into action, and within minutes the camera and sound are ready. Greg is on his headphones to New York. “Go!” he screams.
“This is Erica Sparks reporting live from Miami Beach, where Hurricane Carl has turned the region into something resembling a war zone. The storm’s frontal system has just begun to lash the coast. The National Weather Service is reporting that wind speeds inside the hurricane have reached two hundred miles an hour, the highest ever recorded. That blunt force is expected to make landfall tonight. Millions of Floridians have taken to the roads and are fleeing north and west.” A beach chair sails by in front of Erica, narrowly missing her. “As you can see, it’s dangerous to be outside in these conditions. The Federal Emergency Management Authority is advising those who are unable to evacuate to seek shelter in an interior, windowless room. Tonight’s storm surge may swamp the entire island of Miami Beach and inundate the Florida coastline as far north as Daytona Beach. The hurricane’s size, scope, and ferocity are unprecedented.”
A wind gust almost knocks Erica over. Greg gives her the signal to wrap it up. “This is Erica Sparks reporting live from Miami Beach in South Florida, which is under siege from Hurricane Carl. Stay tuned to GNN for the latest developments.”
Erica, Greg, and the crew—all soaked to the skin—race to the van and head back to Coral Gables. Route 1 is virtually traffic-free heading south, and they reach the hotel in twenty minutes.
Everyone in the command center is gathered around the console—a grave President Garner is speaking to the nation. “To coordinate the federal response, I’m sending Vice President Dalton down to South Florida. She will be accompanied by Marshall Wolman, the head of FEMA; as well as the secretaries of Health and Human Services, Defense, and Housing and Urban Development. FEMA has established a hurricane command center at Homestead Air Force Base, ten miles south of Miami.”
Erica looks around for Greg. There he is, in a corner of the room, on the phone. He hangs up and pulls Erica aside. “I just got off the phone with Dalton’s chief of staff. Air Force Two is scheduled to land at three thirty this afternoon. The vice president has granted you five minutes of time after her arrival.”
“How did you make that happen?”
“They wanted to give one interview, and Nylan pulled some strings.”
“Nylan pulled some strings.”
“Will the interview be at Homestead?”
“No, Nylan convinced them to do it at the airport. It’s a great visual.”
“Isn’t getting the vice president to command central more important than a television visual?”
“It’s just five minutes, Erica.”
In the news business “just five minutes” never is. But she can’t deny it will be a powerful visual to cover the landing of Air Force Two and then have an almost immediate interview with Dalton. Still, Erica feels a sharp stab of foreboding.
She pushes aside her doubts. Her interview with the vice president will be televised globally, so she has to be at her best.
“We’ve got a couple of hours. Why don’t you go lie down?” Greg says, as if he’s reading her mind.
As she heads upstairs, her phone rings. It’s Moira.
“I saw your report from Miami Beach. Good job,” she says.
“We’re close to nailing Nylan, Moira, and he knows it.”
“Are you safe? Is there anything I can do?”
“If anything happens to me, contact Mark Benton. And be a friend to Jenny, help her remember her mom.”
“Oh, Erica.”
“Please, Moira.”
“Don’t be a dead hero. Listen, Greg called me. He told me you slipped.”
“It was just one night, Moy.”
“One night leads to a thousand. I’m concerned. And so is Greg.”
“Do you think it’s changed his feelings toward me?” Erica asks.
“Yes. It’s strengthened them. Isn’t it obvious? Erica, he’s in love with you.”
Erica stops in the corridor and leans against the wall. She can trust him. He called Moira. He does care. It’s what she’s been hoping for, dreaming of, but it seems overwhelming now, here, in the middle of a hurricane, on the cusp of nailing Nylan, with her life in danger; she’s so overloaded, running on fumes, and now this. Oh, Greg.
Erica retreats to her room. Outside, the wind is a muffled howl. She throws off her rain gear and collapses on the bed, praying for rest if not sleep. She tries deep breathing but her heart is pounding too fast. She gets up and runs a hot bath and gets in. The water feels creepy against her skin. She gets out and dries herself.
Her prepaid rings.
“Erica, it’s Mark. I got deeper into Mullen’s computer.”
“And?”
“I got into some encrypted e-mails. Mullen hacked the ferry on orders from Nylan.”
“No . . .”
“There’s more, and it’s very worrisome. A new project has been started in the last twenty-four hours. It’s being thrown together in a hurry, the initial security has been easier to breach.”
“Do you have any idea what it is?”
“I’m getting close, but Mullen has just set up a series of last-minute firewalls. He’s on to me.”
Erica has no doubt Nylan will order Mark killed if he knows he’s inside Mullen’s computer. “I’m going to call George Samuels. Hang tight.”
Erica picks up the hotel phone and calls Samuels’s cell. “George, it’s Erica Sparks. Call me back on a landline at this number, it’s urgent.” She paces the room—she’s already put Mark’s life in danger once. The hotel phone rings.
“What’s up, Erica?”
“Mark is deeper inside Mullen’s computer and he’s discovered a new project. We need to put a second cop outside his room. And I think we should alert the FBI. Do you have a contact there?”
“Yes. I’ll call him right now.”
“Stay in touch.”
Erica gets suited up in her rain gear and heads down to the network’s nerve center. In the elevator her phone rings. It’s Nylan.
CHAPTER 85
HIS SAFE ROOM DOESN’T FEEL safe. He should have had stainless steel walls put in. They could get in, his enemies. They’re everywhere. Nylan snorts another line of coke. That’s better. It was just a paranoia burst. It’s over. Another snort. He’s saf
e. He’s in control. Things are fine. They’re fine! If only he didn’t have to deal with sycophants, these weak, pathetic wannabes.
The room is littered with pizza boxes that hold congealing slices, soda cans, beer bottles; there are cigarettes and overflowing ashtrays and an empty gin bottle and half-smoked joints, and it’s all so messy and disgusting.
Spellman’s over in the corner on the phone, frantic, frantic fool. Everything’s fine. Except for Spellman’s mess. He better pull it out of the bag. He better. He has to.
Nylan crosses to him. “Is he there? Is he ready? Is it happening?”
“I’m trying to find out!”
Nylan can smell himself, he’s disgusting too, the sweat has congealed on his body like the cheap oil on the pizza. His T-shirt is dark with sweat, so dark it looks like blood.
Mullen is over in another corner on his laptop, freaking out. Another loser. The Great Hacker got hacked himself. That’s when it all started to unravel. It’s not unraveling. Snort! There. Better.
“He’s in! He got into my encrypted files! Ahhhh!” Mullen leaps up, paces around, takes another toot. Man, has he lost his cool. He’s lost in Loserville. He stinks too, he smells like old, wet boot leather, rank.
“I thought you were the best in the world, Mullen. You told me you were the best in the world, and that joker Benton in IT got into your encrypted files!”
Mullen’s eyes bulge out, he looks like a freak, a strung-out freak. Pathetic.
Nylan goes over to the table and huffs up a line. He’s fine. He’ll get everything under control. He’s done it before, he can do it again. It’s all going to go down just as he planned. Just waiting for confirmation from Spellman. Then he has to make sure Erica is there. It’ll be the most spectacular news story ever. In history. As big as Lincoln’s assassination, as big as Dealey Plaza. He makes the news; he creates history. There’s never been anyone like him.
There’s that stupid dog, Wilmot, slumped, crumpled on the floor in the corner holding a bottle of whiskey, his body shaking. Is he sobbing? That’s sickening. Boy, true colors, huh, Fred, fold in the clutch, pathetic, blubbering slob.