ERICA LISTENS TO THE PRESIDENT’S statement as she races across the state on I-94. She thinks it strikes the perfect balance of tough and measured. She’s glad that someone of Winters’s caliber is in the Oval Office. Still, she feels her anxiety skyrocketing. Things are intensifying quickly. A standoff seems to be inevitable, especially considering Bellamy’s defiant arming of the first thousand recruits for the Homeland army. How far could it go? Does Bellamy really think she could take on the American military?
Then she replays Gloria’s final message on her cell phone, spoken in the last minutes of her life: I have to tell you something else though, they’re bad people, worse than me even, and they’re . . . and then that deafening honk, completely obscuring her final words.
Erica says, “Call Moy,” into her phone. The number rings.
“Erica, wow, what is happening out there?”
“A lot.”
“Are you safe?”
“No, but I wouldn’t be safe anywhere. Listen, I got a last-minute phone call from my producer, Gloria Washburn, before she jumped off the bridge. But her final words are unintelligible because a car was honking right next to her. Do you know a forensic audiologist?”
“LAPD has one, Momar Neezan. I’ve interviewed him. Smart guy, they say he’s the best. I’ll call him right now.”
“Thanks, Moy.”
“Stay scared, old friend.”
Erica hangs up and puts a little more pressure on the accelerator. The landscape around her is so flat and featureless, endless grassland and tiny towns visible from the highway, just small, random collections of buildings. Who lives in them? Why would anyone? There’s something unsettling and frightening about the vastness of it all. It’s so lonely. No one would hear you scream. No wonder people huff meth or eat ten thousand calories a day or get hooked on Oxy. There’s more than one way to die.
Erica is troubled by the fact that Canadian billionaire Neal Clark was at Bellamy’s press conference. He’s from Winnipeg, which raises her suspicions. That pipeline alliance has clearly been in the works for some time. Announcing it on her first day was a stroke of brilliance on Bellamy’s part, serving notice that she can handle the former state’s economy, that she can bypass adjoining states and go directly to Canada, and that she has a ready market for the Homeland’s oil and gas that will only increase its prosperity and stability.
At Jamestown she heads north on 281, past Pingree and Edmunds and Carrington, all of it spooky, flat, and deadening. She feels as if she’s driving into uncharted territory, another world. She read somewhere that North Dakota is the least visited state in the nation. She understands why.
It’s staggering to think that the Bellamys actually pulled it off. Secret planning had to have been going on for years. It’s all blatantly illegal. Was that why there were so many murders, to keep things under wraps? Well, the wrapping has been torn off and the prize revealed. It’s power. And lucre. North Dakota is sitting on gas and oil worth the ransom of a thousand kings. It doesn’t need federal largess. As for the murders, clearly they’re all links leading up the food chain, just as they were with Nylan Hastings and Lily Lau. Right now, she’s at Gloria Washburn and Freddy McDougal—and she has to peel the next layer of the onion.
Erica drives into the enormous Spirit Lake Native American Reservation, which stretches right up to the southern boundary of Devil’s Lake, the largest lake in the state. She turns right on Route 57 and speeds past small clusters of mobile homes, blank and desolate, with dead cars and plastic toys strewn around—you can almost smell the despair. She passes Spirit Lake Casino, a depressing dollop of gaudy awful in the midst of the monotony. She crosses the lake and there, to the west, is Camp Grafton. The traffic starts to pick up, and many of the cars have bumper stickers reading Bellamy 4ME or Heading Homeland.
Erica gets off the road and joins the traffic heading to the base entrance. There’s a gate and a guardhouse. A soldier is checking identification. Erica waits in line, noticing how young many of the pioneer families are. I guess it’s easier to pack up your life and move when you’re young. She reaches the front of the line. The soldier is also young and sturdy, wearing a dark blue uniform with Homeland of North Dakota embroidered on the chest. They even had the uniforms ready. The soldier narrows his eyes in recognition.
“I’m here to see Corporal James Jarrett.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes,” Erica lies.
“I’ll need to see some identification.” Erica hands him her driver’s license. “Okay. I know you. Don’t like you, but I know you.”
Erica holds her tongue as he goes into the guardhouse and picks up the phone, returning a few moments later. “Go down and take your first left, the corporal’s house is the third one on the right. Don’t go wandering around.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Guess so.”
“Are you a native or a pioneer?”
“I’m a pioneer. Been here two months. From Iowa.”
“What drew you?”
“Hatred of the federal government.”
“And you believe in the Homeland?”
His face sets and darkens. “I would die for the Homeland.”
The base is a beehive—killer bees—of activity as it welcomes the first pioneers who are making it their temporary home and recruits who are going to undergo combat training. Supply trucks are making deliveries, cleaning crews are power-washing barracks, volunteers are carrying tall piles of sheets and blankets, grounds crews are trimming shrubs and repairing walkways.
Erica doesn’t see a soul taking a break, having a smoke, chatting with a coworker—the focus and energy are palpable. When people’s eyes do meet, they exchange big bright-eyed smiles that speak of unquestioning, cult-like devotion. This place is a lynchpin of the nascent Homeland, and it feels ominous and eerie, like an episode of The Twilight Zone. Soon thousands of young men and women will be subjected to rigorous training, to marches and gunfire and barked orders and lessons in the art of killing.
Erica feels her blood pressure spike, a fear rat scurries across her shoulders and she has an urge to turn around, to drive out of here, back to Bismarck, to get on a plane home, to let someone else cover this story. Save yourself. Instead, she takes a deep breath and pulls to a stop in front of James Jarrett’s ranch house.
He comes out of the house, and Erica is struck by how handsome he is, how lithe, what incredible presence. No wonder Gloria fell so hard. He walks down to her car as she gets out and extends his hand. “James Jarrett, what a pleasure.”
His smile is heartbreaking, knee-weakening, and too practiced by half. Erica doesn’t trust him. He’s a movie star, no doubt, but it’s a creepy movie. She’s never liked creepy movies. Life at home was chilling enough.
“A lot going on around here,” she says.
James looks out at the base and all the worker bees doing their jobs. “We’re getting ready for big things. I thought Mary did an amazing job today.”
“She was certainly forthright and forceful.” Erica looks him in the eye and sees dry ice.
Jarrett grows grave, and again it feels too polished. “I’ve been expecting you. I’m sorry it’s under such sad circumstances,” he says.
“It’s a loss. For both of us.”
“Please, come in,” he says, leading her into the house. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, water, a glass of wine?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Erica says, looking around. The house is immaculate and ordered. Sunlight is blaring through the picture window, and the living room feels close, even claustrophobic. They stand there silently for a moment. There’s an enormous fly buzzing against the window, trying to escape.
“Please, have a seat. I don’t have a great deal of time, for obvious reasons.” He waits for Erica to sit on the living room couch and then he sits in a chair. There’s another pause, the only sound is the buzzing fly, the desperate flapping of its wings.
“You must be devastated by Gloria’s death,” Erica says. She wants to tread softly, ease her way in.
“Gloria was a wonderful woman. And she worked so hard to get where she was.”
“She was responsible for the success of Spotlight.”
“Terrific show. It was very helpful to Mary and Sturges.”
“Was it?”
“They came across as the reasonable people they are. Were, in his case.”
Clearly this “reasonable people” label is strategic. Breaking away from the republic and forming your own army hardly seems reasonable.
Erica crosses her legs and brushes at her skirt. The air is so heavy in the house. The fly is still buzzing frantically. “Do you have any idea why she would kill herself?”
Jarrett looks down, rubs the back of his neck. “Gloria put a lot of pressure on herself. All her life. I found that touching—her determination, her discipline, her sincerity. But she didn’t have an outlet, even a hobby, really, to help her relax. I encouraged her to take up the piano or yoga or photography, but all she cared about was work. The anxiety just built and built. I think this time she just snapped.”
Sounds plausible. And Erica doesn’t believe a word of it. “I got the impression she thrived on the work. I think it was something else that drove her to jump off that bridge.” They lock eyes for a moment. “You know she was in love with you. And claimed you were engaged. She called you her fiancé.”
Jarrett can’t contain a small narcissistic smirk. “I’m afraid that was a fabrication of her imagination. But we did have fun together.”
“So she did have an outlet?” Erica sees that icy look again.
“Well, after she moved to New York, we obviously saw much less of each other.”
“But you did get together at times?”
“Now and then.”
“In New York?”
A look of annoyance flashes across his face. “Is the where really important? The woman is dead.”
Now the fly is knocking itself against the window, buzzing and knocking. Erica wants to press her advantage. “Can you tell me about your role in the Homeland movement?”
“I thought you were here to express your condolences.”
“Let’s just say I’m multitasking.”
“As I said, I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Neither do I.” Erica pauses before saying drily, “I have to get back to Bismarck and file a report.” The room seems to be getting warmer and the trapped fly more desperate, buzzing and knocking, buzzing and knocking.
Jarrett smiles at her, that tight, chilling smile, and stands up. He casually picks up a magazine off an end table, takes two steps—then suddenly smacks it against the window. Silence. All that’s left of the fly is a mushy blotch about the size of a thumbnail.
“I’m second-in-command of Homeland’s self-defense.”
“Did Gloria know that? All she ever told me is that you worked at the Pentagon in military intelligence.”
“I’d rather talk about the future.”
“Do you know someone named Pete Nichols?”
Erica’s curveball has the desired effect—Jarrett blinks but instantly recovers. “No. Should I?”
“We have evidence that Gloria used him to arrange a kidnapping.”
“Whose kidnapping?”
“Mine.”
“I’m sorry about that. But you look like you’re in one piece.”
“I’m pretty resilient. But it was no fun.”
“Arranging a kidnapping doesn’t sound like Gloria.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Hopefully, the truth.”
“Then we’re both on the same page.”
“Are we? I think someone put Gloria up to it.”
Jarrett sits back down, leans back in his chair, and says, “And you think that someone is . . .?”
“Someone close to her.”
“Look, Erica, Gloria is gone. What’s happening here is greater than any one person.”
“You’ve moved on very quickly.”
“I have a lot of responsibility.”
“How did you get involved with Homeland?”
“Through the Bellamys. Their foundation financed my graduate work at Penn. I’ve known them for twenty years. So I’ve had two losses in the last few weeks.”
“What will you do if President Winters orders military action against the Homeland?”
“I don’t think it’s going to come to that. We’re reasonable people. So is the president.”
“You call withdrawing from the union a reasonable action?”
“Why are you here?”
“Because six people connected to the Bellamys have been murdered. No one has been arrested for the crimes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But it has nothing to do with me.”
This guy is hard to rattle. Erica notices a book in Cyrillic on the coffee table. “You speak Russian?”
“I’m trying to keep it up. I learned it at West Point. Then I was a military attaché at the American embassy in Moscow for two years.”
This is new information to Erica. “What was that like?”
“You can read all about it in my memoir.”
“So you don’t use the Russian much these days?”
“Now and then.”
“Oh. When?”
Jarrett stands up. “Listen, I’ve really got to get back to work.”
“Would you consent to an interview for Spotlight?”
“Yes, of course. We have nothing to hide.”
“Everyone has something to hide.”