by Lis Wiehl
She begins to move closer, slowly, deliberately, looking down before each step, landing as silently as she can. Now she’s just below the guesthouses, ready to make the final climb. She searches for any sign of activity. It’s a still, blue day, and all she can hear is the wind rustling the leaves and an occasional birdcall. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Then she feels a mosquito bite her neck. She reaches up and slaps it, but there’s no bug. Then everything goes black.
CHAPTER 65
CELESTE IS IN SOME DREARY backstage holding room at a Mike Ortiz rally in Des Moines. At least she thinks it’s Des Moines. They all blur together, these rallies in dead-end cities Celeste wouldn’t be caught alive in at any other time. She can hear the muffled screams and cries from the masses in response to Mike’s rising cadences. Women, of course, go crazy for her husband, in his shirtsleeves, his muscles straining against his shirt.
Scream all you want, ladies, he’s mine. Not that I really want him. Well, occasionally. Just to keep him happy and in line. Oh, all right, I enjoy it too, but the most exciting part for me is the head game. The fact that I control him. He’s in my power. He worships me. And my body. But he’ll never be numero uno. That spot was taken twenty-five years ago.
Celeste is bored. She looks around at the minions—the sweaty aides and pollsters and volunteers and speechwriters and strategists. The whole apparatus. She wishes she could just apply the accelerator to Father Time and speed up the next two weeks. Yes, it’s just two weeks until election day. Until she and Lily accomplish the seemingly impossible. Celeste shivers at the thought. At how brilliantly they’ve engineered the whole thing and dealt with every obstacle. They’re one of history’s great teams. Why, they make Franklin and Eleanor and Ron and Nancy look like minor leaguers. Books will be written about them, movies made, statues built, schools named.
There’s only one possible speed bump and that’s the last debate, which is in three days. But it will be fine. Celeste and her tight team have tutored and nurtured their star pupil until he glows with confidence and sincerity, with thoughtful answers to a hundred possible questions at his fingertips.
There are several television sets on in the room. One of them is turned to GNN, and suddenly there’s that urgent pulsing sound and a headline scrolls across the bottom of the screen Update: The Disappearance of Erica Sparks. Celeste moves closer to the set.
Anchor Patricia Lorenzo is saying, “It’s now been two days since journalist and GNN host Erica Sparks’s car went off a cliff on Highway 1 just north of San Francisco.” Footage plays of Erica’s rental car, smashed on the wave-lashed rocks below a sheer cliff.
“The search for her body continues in the frigid waters of the Pacific.” Footage of scuba divers in the surf.
“Investigators have said it’s likely that Sparks was ejected from her car on impact and that her body was carried out to sea by the strong currents in the area. Her fiancé, television producer Greg Underwood, arrived from Australia the day after the accident to supervise the search. He is also looking for answers to the mystery of what Sparks was doing in Marin County that day. He has been joined by Sparks’s oldest friend, Moira Connelly, a newscaster on KTLA in Los Angeles. They have set up a command center in the Huntington Hotel in San Francisco, where Erica was staying on the day she disappeared.”
Footage of an earlier interview with Greg appears on-screen, with Moira standing beside him. They both look haggard, stunned, and sad. Greg says, “This makes no sense to me. Why haven’t we found Erica’s body? And why was she on Highway 1? It’s the slowest route back to San Francisco, and Erica was a woman in a hurry. Why didn’t she inform anyone of her plans for that day? This is completely unlike her. And frankly, I’m not sure she was in that car when it went over the cliff.” Footage of the car being hoisted up the cliff face is shown.
Lorenzo continues, “Adding to the mystery of Sparks’s disappearance is the fact that her computer, which she left in her hotel room that day, was completely scrubbed. The computer has been analyzed by experts from the FBI, and they have confirmed that there is nothing on it. Everything was erased.”
Shots appear of a distraught Jenny being escorted out of school. “Sparks’s eleven-year-old daughter, Jenny, is with her father in Framingham, Massachusetts. Dirk Sparks has asked the country to please respect his family’s privacy.
“All that is known for sure is that Erica Sparks left her hotel at approximately ten thirty on the morning of October 26 and got into a rented gray Honda Accord. According to the odometer and the records from Hertz, she drove 104 miles that day, meaning that she did not simply drive north to the vicinity of where the car went off the cliff, which is about fifteen miles from San Francisco. The accident occurred at approximately 2:40 that afternoon, just past a very sharp turn, with no witnesses.” Footage of the vertiginous stretch of road is shown.
Patricia Lorenzo pauses for a moment and her face fills with emotion. “On a personal note, all of us here at GNN are deeply shaken by Erica’s disappearance. She was part of our family. Our thoughts go out to Greg and Jenny. Erica had millions of fans, and we have been inundated with messages of love and support. We will, of course, keep you updated on any developments in the story.”
Celeste walks away from the television set. Out in the arena, the screaming crescendos as her husband reaches the climax of his speech. Erica made a fatal mistake—Well, not fatal, Celeste thinks with a smile. Not yet anyway. She made a major mistake in messing with Lily Lau. What happened to her is her own fault. They were so good to her, feeding her scoops and green-lighting her as debate moderator. And in return she was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Foolish girl. Life is so much easier if you just go along to get along.
But Erica will change. Of course she will. The change has already started. When Lily is finished with her, Erica will be one of them. She’ll be much happier. She’s such a complex woman. Too complex for her own good. Soon she won’t have all those awful conflicts that bedevil her. She’ll be free.
CHAPTER 66
MRS. MORRIS WAS ERICA’S KINDERGARTEN teacher. She was about thirty-five, tall, at least five feet nine, with shoulder-length auburn hair. She wore running shoes every day. She had an unconscious habit of scratching her chin with her index finger when she was thinking about a question from one of the kids in class. The other kids gave her little presents at Christmas. Erica didn’t have any money for a present, but she did make her a card out of red construction paper and she cut out letters from old magazines that spelled out Mary Christman! Mrs. Morris said, “This is my favorite card, Erica!” That made Erica so happy and proud.
Mrs. Brullette was her first-grade teacher. She was older, chubby, probably in her forties, and she had short dark hair that she held off her face with a barrette. She was strict and she sighed a lot. One day Erica raised her hand—
Oh no, an itch!
On the bottom of her left foot. A fierce itch. Erica tries to squirm. But she can’t. She can’t move her feet. Or her legs or her torso or her arms or her head. She can’t see. She can’t hear.
But she can feel. Something is in her arm. It must be an IV. And she’s catheterized. And she can feel the air coming in through her nostrils.
But she can feel more than that. She can feel like she’s going insane. But she won’t go insane. Because that’s what they want.
This is the tenth time she’s worked her way through all of her teachers from kindergarten through Yale. She’s also gone through every job she ever had. And every man she ever went out on a date with. And any place she has ever lived. And every birthday present she ever gave Jenny.
Jenny! Where is Jenny? Is she safe? Her mommy is gone. They took her mommy. Oh, Jenny, oh baby, my baby, please stay strong, stay strong for Mommy. And Mommy will stay strong for you. My life. My child.
Erica struggles to move, to move anything, she marshals everything she’s got and desperately tries to move—but it’s useless and she knows it . . . She’s struggled a thousand times
before over the last . . . the last . . . what . . . She has no idea how long she’s been here. Like this. The last thing she remembers is the quiet in the woods, the eerie quiet and then the mosquito that wasn’t a mosquito. It’s been days, she knows that much. What time is it? Noon? Midnight? She feels as if she’s hurtling through time and space, through infinite blackness, untethered and alone.
If only she could scream, she’d feel so much better if she could scream. Just scream and scream and scream. But she can’t. Her mouth is taped shut. Tight.
And suddenly Erica wants to cry because all she wants to do is scream and she can’t. And Jenny has no mother. Tears well up and seep out from her eyes, but she can’t move her eyelids, which are covered with something thick and suffocating.
She’s suffocating. Suffocating. She’s dead and she’s in hell. No, she’s in a nightmare. They drugged her and put her into a nightmare. It’s all real. It’s a real nightmare. And she’s in it. Forever.
Then a beautiful thought breaks through: Jenny’s not in the nightmare. Jenny is free. Jenny is laughing and happy. She’s on green grass and the sun is shining. Oh, look how pretty she is. Erica can handle the nightmare—sure she can—as long as Jenny stays on the green grass in the sunshine.
And then, with a sharp inhale through her nostrils, Erica knows that it isn’t working. All the cataloging of teachers and boyfriends and jobs isn’t working anymore. She is going crazy. Is she crazy already?
And the tears keep seeping out of her eyes. And she tries to blink, to blink them away. And she can’t. But she keeps trying. Because the tears remind her that she’s in a nightmare and she wants to forget it. As she keeps trying to blink, to blink away the tears, she asks herself where she left off. Then she remembers. Second grade. Yes, second grade. Mrs. Nealy. She was older, in her fifties, and she smelled like the cigarettes she pretended she didn’t smoke, and Erica’s tears keep coming and she keeps trying to blink and . . .
She blinks!
Not a full-fledged blink, not even close, but her eyelids opened a little, they opened and tears escaped. And it feels like she just won the US Open or an Olympic gold medal or leapt a tall building in a single bound.
CHAPTER 67
CELESTE AND LILY ARE WATCHING Erica. They’re on the Ortiz campaign plane flying to the great city of Whocares. They’re sitting at the desk in the conference room watching the live feed from what they call The Spa—ha-ha!—and Erica seems to be in the throes of an epic panic attack. Poor thing! Of course it’s hard to tell exactly, she’s so tightly bound to the bed, but she’s trying to writhe and the expression on her face—what you can see of her face under the tape and bandages—looks awfully anxious. Terrified, really.
“Maybe she’s doing her Tae Kwon Do,” Celeste suggests.
The girls laugh. Their secret, giddy laugh. Why is it so much fun to watch Erica? What does it say about Celeste? She must ask Oprah next time she sees her. The thought of asking Oprah makes Celeste laugh again.
And the election is approaching like a steamroller and nothing can stop them now. They neutralized the only obstacle. Not only neutralized her—claimed her. She belongs to them now. And when they’re finished with her, she’ll always belong to them. Just like Mike does.
Of course, who has nine months and nine days these days? The world is operating much too fast for that. And so Lily, brilliant Lily, working with a Chinese neurologist at Eagle’s Nest, has come up with a breakthrough that cuts the time down to nine days. Nine days to gain control of a mind. And a heart. Only six more days to go, and Erica will be theirs.
Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Fear. Indoctrination. Love.
Just add electroshock, that’s all. Celeste smiles—it sounds like a commercial for a cleaning product. Just add PineSol, that’s all.
Electroshock really is like a cleaning product. It sanitizes the brain, declutters, sweeps up all that messy, unnecessary information, dissolves all those useless memories, melts away all that emotional baggage. After a few sessions Erica Sparks will have a virgin mind, a blank blackboard onto which Lily can imprint . . . Lily. It’s like teaching a child, really. No great mystery. Just repetition, reinforcement, learning. Erica will understand who her friends are, whom she can trust, whom she loves and who loves her. Because that’s the beautiful part. When Lily and Celeste control someone, they love that person. Look at Mike. When they’re finished with her, Erica will feel safe. She’ll be ready to go back out into the world. Parts of her memory will come back. She’ll work again. Will she be the old Erica? Of course not, thank God. She’ll be the new Erica. The new, improved Erica Sparks. Just like the new, improved Tide! Celeste laughs again.
Lily is still focused on watching Erica. Celeste knows it excites Lily to see Erica—who really is quite beautiful, whose body really is quite lovely—tied and trussed and helpless.
And it excites Celeste to see Lily excited.
What a wonderful world.
“What’s she up to now?” Celeste asks casually.
Lily answers in a charged whisper, “I think she’s screaming.”
“For ice cream?”
They look at each other and break into peals of laughter. Such fun!
And then Mike walks into the conference room. He frowns a little to see them laughing. Sometimes he feels left out. Even gets a little jealous. Poor thing. He’s like a child that way. “What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Oh, we’re just looking at Kristen Wiig videos from old SNLs,” Celeste says, getting up and going to Mike, kissing him on the cheek. “How was your nap?”
“Good. I’m ready for the next stop.”
Celeste and Lily exchange a glance, and Lily says, “Your crowds have been huge. The latest polls show you holding your lead at about six points. Only one more debate to get through. We’re getting close. We just have to maintain.”
“American loves you, honey.”
Mike smiles, that big boyish smile. “And you love me,” he says with that touching glint of insecurity in his eyes.
“Of course I love you, darling. Always and forever. And so does Lily.”
“Listen, Mike, I have to go back to California for a couple of days,” Lily says.
“Oh, I thought you were going to be with us all week,” Mike says, disappointed.
“I wish I could. But there are a couple of big new donors—Johnny-come-latelies, but never mind—who I want to reel in.”
“That’s exciting,” Mike says.
“Oh, it should be electrifying,” Lily says. Then she looks at Celeste. Their eyes dance with glee.
CHAPTER 68
SHE WAS WRONG. THIS ISN’T a nightmare. It’s hell. She’s in hell. She died and was sent to hell for being a bad mommy. A terrible mommy who put Jenny in danger. More than once. In danger of being killed. Killed dead. Erica’s not in danger anymore because she is dead. That’s one good thing. So there are good things in hell. If she’s going to be here forever, which it looks like she is, she might as well look for the silver lining. With Erica dead, Jenny isn’t in danger anymore. That’s wonderful news. Can you have wonderful news in hell? Wonderful news in hell. Sounds like a song title. An Elton John song.
I know. I’ll write it. In my head. I can hear the beat—a little jangly in that Elton John way and very up-up-up.
Erica smiles. She feels up. Yes, she does. This is okay. Where she is. Now that she knows Jenny is safe.
Oh no, another itch! Itches are the worst. This one is on her scalp. It’s excruciating. A scratch, a scratch, my kingdom for a scratch.
And the itch makes the curtain part and the illusion fall away and Erica knows with crushing certainty that she isn’t in a nightmare and she isn’t in hell, she’s in some terrible place where evil people have total control over her. And she feels so cold. As cold as death. And she’s so afraid. She’s never been so afraid.
And then the molecules in the room rearrange themselves. Erica can feel the molecules. When you’re trapped in blackness, you feel every m
inute little change; it washes over you. Someone is near her. Very near. She tenses.
And then one of the bandages around her head is loosed, just a little, over her left ear. And then something is taken out of her ear and she can hear. Just the drip of her IV, but it sounds like clanging cymbals—drip/clang drip/clang drip/clang.
“Erica . . . ?”
It’s a sweet, soft voice. She recognizes it. From a long time ago. When she was a real person.
“It’s me, Erica, your friend . . .” A cool hand strokes her forehead. “. . . your friend Lily. I want you to hear something. Something beautiful . . . something that’s happening right now . . .”
There’s a pause, and then Erica hears Jenny’s voice: “I don’t want to do my stupid homework. My mother is missing and you want me to write some dumb book report! I didn’t even really read the stupid book! I hate you, Dad; you’re stupid. You can go to hell!” Now she’s crying. “Leave me alone!” Now a door slams. And all Erica can hear is whimpering. Her baby whimpering. Then she can make out faintly, so faintly . . . , “Mommy, Mommy . . .”
“Oh, Erica, I’m sorry . . . That wasn’t beautiful. It was sad, wasn’t it? It was sad and beautiful. Your little girl misses you. I hope she gets to see you someday. Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t . . .”
Erica feels that cold, smooth hand on her neck.
“You have such a pretty neck, Erica.” Then the hand squeezes her neck. It tightens its grip . . . again . . . then again . . . and Erica can feel her windpipe narrowing and she can’t breathe . . .
And now Erica is trying to fight, to thrash; she’s never tried so hard and she feels a tiny bit of give on her restraints . . . just a tiny bit . . .