The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  “And?” Erica asks.

  “One spring day I went out to lunch in Central Park. The whole park was blooming around me—and I was wilting. I couldn’t face another real estate contract. Sitting there eating my tuna fish sandwich, I had the mother of all aha! moments. And I never went back to the office. Best decision I’ve ever made.”

  As much as Erica loves her work, she knows the feeling—there are days when she’d just like to walk away from GNN and reinvent herself. Pack Jenny and a few things in a car, drive out to Colorado or New Mexico, and get a teaching degree. In the time it takes to have the thought, Erica realizes how ridiculous it is. In spite of the overwhelming stress at times, she adores her work.

  “And then you founded your own company?”

  “I did. Making absurdly enormous objects. Japan is my biggest market.”

  Their omelets arrive. Erica ordered spinach and asiago, and it’s sublime; the subtle flavor of the olive oil gives it a savory and surprising finish. Josh digs into his food with unrestrained pleasure, looking like a little kid.

  “Are you working on any particularly exciting stories now?” he asks.

  Erica is tempted to tell him about Mike and Celeste Ortiz, but holds her tongue. She’s going to consult with Martin Vander on Monday, and she’ll have a better sense of things after that meeting.

  “The Buchanan bombing case, of course, is front and center. It’s intriguing. Tim Markum is almost a nonperson. He’s left virtually no fingerprints, physical or psychic. I have a hard time believing that he acted alone.”

  “I know. I’m following it closely. It’s fascinating—and deeply creepy. We all know evil exists, that it’s around us at all times, but on some level I find murder and terrorism incomprehensible. Getting inside the mind of the killer and thinking about committing a crime, yes. But actually carrying it out . . . I just can’t imagine it.”

  “That’s how most sane people feel,” Erica says.

  “I know some of your story, of course,” he says. “You’ve witnessed a couple of serious traumas. How do you bounce back from something like that?” Josh’s face is filled with concern and curiosity. He’s gone from little kid to empathetic man, and Erica feels her attraction to him deepen.

  “You know, I’m a professional. It’s what I signed up for. Of course it’s tough to see death, especially gruesome deaths . . .” She struggles to find the right words. She lowers her voice and leans into the table. “It’s hard, Josh. Sometimes when I’m struggling to fall asleep at two a.m., I hear their screams and see their faces. They’re mothers and fathers and daughters and sons and friends and lovers . . .”

  Josh reaches out and squeezes her hand. His hand is slightly rough, and strong.

  “When I knew we would be meeting today, I Googled you,” Josh says. “I read about your background, about your childhood up in Maine, your mother’s arrests, your struggle. That was really rough stuff, Erica. I think you should be very proud of yourself.” He lowers his voice. “Bon courage, young lady.”

  His words touch her deeply. “Thank you,” she says, looking into his gray-green eyes.

  “Dad, can we go to Serendipity for sundaes?” Lisa asks from the girls’ end of the table. The mood is broken, and suddenly Erica is back in a lively Manhattan coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon.

  “Yes, we can go there, Lisa, but it’s such a gorgeous day, how about we all walk over to Central Park, get ice cream pops, and then check out the zoo?”

  Jenny looks expectantly at Erica, who says, “Sounds good to me.”

  As they walk across the East Side to Fifth Avenue, Josh eagerly points out architectural and cultural highlights. When they reach the park entrance, the girls run ahead of them. Josh turns to Erica—parent to parent—and they both break into big childish grins.

  That’s when Erica remembers that she’s still engaged to Greg.

  CHAPTER 14

  BECKY SULLIVAN WALKS INTO HER soulless Second Avenue studio sublet in a circa 1960s white brick building—the bricks look like they haven’t been washed since. It’s one small room that barely fits a queen bed, and its window looks out at the back of another building, so close she could almost touch it. Still, it’s home for now. A place where she can be herself.

  Becky spent the morning at Erica Sparks’s apartment, organizing her books alphabetically. Erica dressed incognito and then went off on some mysterious mission. Becky tried, discreetly of course, to pry some details out of her, but none were forthcoming. It’s not that she’s nosy, in general that is; it’s just because it is Erica.

  Their relationship is going so well. It’s meaningful, isn’t it? On both sides. Just as Becky hoped it would be. She felt terrible about sending that video of Amanda Rees to Mort Silver. She bought a phone with cash, used it once to send the video, and then threw it down a storm drain. She couldn’t let Erica hire an assistant with that sort of sordid background. Really, exposing Amanda was a selfless act.

  Becky locks the door behind her, crosses to her bed, kneels down, and pulls a small suitcase out from under it. It’s a vintage suitcase she found at a thrift shop. She runs her hands over it gently, her anticipation growing. Then she snaps it open and lifts the lid. Inside sits Erica’s red scarf, neatly folded. Becky brings the scarf to her face and inhales the faint trace of Erica’s perfume—Chanel No 5 (Erica has so much class)—and imagines the scarf draped around Erica’s long shapely neck. Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out a bar of soap wrapped in tissue paper. She carefully unwraps it. It’s Erica’s shower soap, half worn down, translucent, unscented. She replaced it with a new bar, of course, from under the sink. Erica probably won’t notice. And if she does, she’ll think Yelena did it.

  Becky imagines Erica in the shower, lathering up her body. She gently strokes the soap. Then she places it in the suitcase, on its bed of tissue, next to the scarf. That’s when she notices a long gleaming strand of Erica’s hair on the scarf. She reaches down with her thumb and middle finger and delicately grasps the single blond strand. She lifts it up in front of her, where it catches the light and glistens like a dream come true.

  Then her phone rings, and her reverie is broken. She picks up her phone with her free hand—it reads Unknown. Should she answer it? She has to—she told Erica she would be on call 24/7.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, Becky.” It’s a woman’s voice. Is there the faint trace of an accent of some kind?

  “Who is this?”

  The woman laughs, a low laugh, a flippant, mocking laugh. Then she says, “It’s natural, you know.”

  “Who is this? And what’s natural?”

  “Why, Erica’s hair color, of course.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ERICA DECIDES TO TAKE THE subway up to Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital in northern Manhattan. Fame can be a bubble of chauffeurs and first-class flights, and she cherishes opportunities to break out and get a dose of a grittier reality. With no makeup on, and wearing a baseball cap and large sunglasses, she attracts just a few second glances as the 2 train barrels through the black tunnels drilled deep into the city’s bedrock.

  She gets off in Washington Heights, a vibrant Dominican neighborhood—Latin music blaring from stores and car radios, outdoor displays of exotic produce, dress stores selling neon-hued satin dresses, families laughing and arguing, old men and women sitting in folding chairs watching the passing parade. Erica inhales the sheer pulsing humanity of it all. As immigrants have done since our nation’s founding, these people have come to America and made it their own, creating a cultural fusion that lifts her spirit and her heart.

  Erica walks west to the vast campus of Columbia-Presbyterian, one of the country’s leading research hospitals. It’s a throbbing, thriving urban hospital, and the hallways are filled with doctors, nurses, patients, and support staff, all of them looking fully engaged in their work. She follows a labyrinthian corridor and finds Dr. Martin Vander’s office. Vander is considered one of the country’s leading neurologists and h
as written several popular books about exotic neurological disorders. The door to his office is open, and the doctor is sitting at his desk.

  “Knock, knock,” Erica says.

  “Come in, come in,” Martin Vander says, standing. He’s a tall, lean man in his sixties with a slight Dutch accent.

  “Thanks so much for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Your call intrigued me.” Vander shuts his office door. “Please, sit.”

  Erica does.

  “So, tell me a little bit more about your concerns.”

  “This is all confidential?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Erica tells the doctor about Mike Ortiz’s inappropriate responses, including the incident with the run-over dog.

  “You know, some people just don’t like dogs very much,” Vander says with a gentle smile.

  “It’s not just that. His affect in general seems . . . flat. And he doesn’t seem to pick up on emotional clues. At Fred Buchanan’s funeral he smiled and waved to the crowd.”

  “He’s a politician, Erica. He’s also a man who underwent profound physical, psychological, and emotional trauma. An experience like that changes a person.”

  “Well, maybe my imagination is running away with me. That’s why I came to see you. One of my researchers has put together a tape showing Ortiz before and after his time as a prisoner in Iraq.”

  “I’m eager to see it.”

  Erica takes out her laptop, puts it on Vander’s desk, and pulls up the tape. It follows Ortiz from his early political career through today and includes clips of him at a congressional hearing, at the ribbon cutting for a new public school, being interviewed at the start of his humanitarian mission to Iraq, and again after his escape, and it ends with some footage from Erica’s recent interview.

  Vander watches intently. When the tape is over he sits silently for a moment. Erica can barely contain her expectation.

  “Fascinating. There do seem to be subtle changes in his demeanor after his time as a prisoner. A certain flattening. But as I said, trauma on that scale changes a person. I hardly have enough evidence or information to make any sort of definitive diagnosis, or even to speculate with confidence. I’d have to meet and examine the man personally, put him through some tests.”

  “That’s obviously out of the question. You saw his wife in several of those clips. Did you notice anything strange in their relationship?”

  “She certainly seems to keep him on a tight leash.”

  “I’d call it a harness.”

  “There does seem to be a profound psychic connection between them. Of course, they may just be in love.”

  “My concern is that he seems to be under her control in an unnatural way. You’ve done a lot of writing and research on cults and mind control. Do you see any similarities here?”

  “That’s a big can of worms, and as I said, I just don’t have enough information. It’s true I have studied cult members. You see a similar flattening of affect, although Ortiz’s is much less pronounced. However, with cult members there’s also a lack of personal willpower, a complete surrender of control to the cult leader. I don’t see evidence of that here—Mike Ortiz is a driven man. The changes in him are more nuanced.”

  “Can you tell me a little more about what happens to cult members?”

  “After indoctrination they become less animated. They feel no attachment to their past. Without familiar touchstones, they lose their sense of self and their ability to reason and make decisions for themselves. They become unable to think independently.”

  . . . unable to think independently.

  “Over time, the brain actually becomes rewired. In many cult members we see a physical manifestation of this, a slowing down of movement and motor reflexes. I’m not seeing that in Ortiz. If his intellectual skills are compromised—which is by no means certain—it may be the result of an organic brain injury suffered during his captivity. After all, he was tortured. But even there, he’s functioning at a very high level.”

  “Doctor, Mike Ortiz may well be the next president of the United States.”

  “I understand your concerns. And I think the tape demonstrates that they have some validity. The case intrigues me. I’d like to pursue it. Conduct something of an investigation. Paramount would be an opportunity to observe him up close.”

  “Ortiz will be in New York next week for a fundraiser. Robert DeNiro is hosting it in his apartment in Tribeca. Is there any chance you could attend?”

  “There is a great deal at stake here. And this is a fascinating case. I’ll go to the fundraiser.”

  “You understand how critical confidentiality is.”

  Vander nods solemnly.

  Erica puts away her laptop and stands. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  As she is walking out of the hospital her phone rings, and she sees Eileen McDermott’s name on the caller ID.

  “Erica, I heard from one of our sources in the FBI that they’ve just captured Tim Markum in Detroit. Attempting to cross into Canada. He’s going to be arraigned before a federal judge tomorrow morning. The FBI hasn’t released the news yet because they don’t want this to turn into a circus. But they won’t be able to keep it under wraps for long.”

  “Still, we’re a step ahead of the competition. I’ll head out to LaGuardia right now. Book us a private jet if the network’s plane isn’t available. And grab a couple of outfits from my office closet. See you at the airport.”

  As Erica steps off the curb and hails a cab, she thinks, This is just the kind of break I need to get firmly back on top.

  CHAPTER 16

  ON HER WAY OUT TO LaGuardia, Erica calls Becky.

  “Hello, Erica,” she answers. She doesn’t quite sound like her usual overeager self. She almost sounds a little spooked.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, fine. I was just . . . doing my laundry. Down in the laundry room. I might be a bit winded. I heard the phone from out in the hall and ran to answer it.”

  Funny, it only rang twice.

  “Okay. Listen, I have to fly out of town for a breaking story. Can you spend the night at my apartment?”

  The apartment has a spare bedroom—originally the maid’s room—behind the kitchen. This is the first time Erica has asked her to sleep over, but Becky has earned her trust.

  “Of course. That’s exciting about the breaking news. Where are you flying to?”

  “Detroit.”

  There’s a pause and then Becky asks, “Does this have to do with the Buchanan bombing?”

  Erica wonders how much she should tell Becky—loose lips sink scoops. She probably shouldn’t even have told her where she was going.

  “I should keep that confidential for now.”

  “Of course, I understand. But you’re going to Detroit?”

  “Can you make dinner? If not I can ask Yelena.”

  “No, I can handle dinner for sure.”

  Erica looks out the taxi window and sees a mother herding her three young children across the street. “Becky?”

  “Yes?”

  “How do you think Jenny is doing?”

  “I think she’s doing well, all in all. She does worry about you. The danger you put yourself in.”

  “If she brings it up, can you please reinforce that it’s my job? And that I’m very careful?”

  “Of course. I tell her how important your work is.”

  “Thank you. I shouldn’t be gone more than a day. Call me if anything comes up, anything at all.”

  “I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry.”

  CHAPTER 17

  AS SOON AS SHE HANGS up, Becky reaches for the secure phone, the one that was handed to her on the street by a stranger an hour ago. Just as the lady who called told her it would be: “Go downstairs and walk around the block. A man will hand you a package. Be a good girl. Don’t screw this up, Becky. If you do screw it up, we’ll have to tell Erica that you stole her scarf and her soap
, and what you did with them.”

  Picking up the phone fills Becky with some weird combination of fear and excitement. She would never, ever, ever betray Erica, but she has to be a good girl. Or else they’ll punish her and tell everyone that she’s a bad girl—bad girl, bad girl—and she won’t be able to help Erica take care of Jenny anymore and that’s so important. Erica and Jenny need her.

  The phone is so strange and fancy, as thin and light as a wafer, and it can only dial one number. In a way, it makes Becky feel important. She presses the dial button.

  “Yes?” The woman’s voice is so strong it sends a shiver down Becky’s spine.

  “Erica is flying out to Detroit. I think it’s related to the Buchanan bomber.”

  “You think?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me, but I could tell by the way she wouldn’t tell me that it was, probably. I’m sorry. Was that a bad sentence?”

  “Anything else?”

  “She asked me to take care of Jenny and sleep over tonight.”

  The voice softens into a purr, an icy purr. “Good girl, little Becky girl. You spend the night with Jenny.”

  “I’m a good girl? You won’t tell on me?”

  The voice goes cold again. “Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  After Becky hangs up she sits on the edge of her bed and rocks back and forth . . . back and forth . . . back and forth.

  CHAPTER 18

  EILEEN IS WAITING TO GREET Erica at the network’s jet, which is parked beside the private plane runway at LaGuardia. Eileen is tall and thin, with glasses and dark spiky hair, a little nerdish and gawky, pretty much unable to sit still, a natural-born detail-obsessed producer.

  The plane takes off, and Erica studies her file on Tim Markum. She’s fascinated by his nonlife—the fact that his apartment was bare, that he had no visible means of income, that he paid his bills with money orders. He grew up middle class outside Missoula, Montana. Even then he was the kind of kid who blended in—when his former teachers and classmates were asked what they remember about him, many drew a blank. In fact, his most distinguishing characteristic seems to be his total lack of impact.