JAMES HAS HIS PHONE OUT and calls 911. “Yes, there’s been a car explosion in front of Mary Bellamy’s residence. One fatality.”
Mary leaves the front door open, and the three of them head into the library. The floor is littered with shattered glass.
“This is outrageous. The Winters administration will stop at nothing to undermine us. Assassinating the head of our military. I have no doubt this is the work of the CIA. James, call Steve Wright, our head of communications. I want a statement ready within a half hour. Ask him to bring it over personally. Also, call Judy Born, my legal counsel. I want her here too. And Terri Bertolo, our social media director. Get her on the phone immediately. And Detective Peter Hoaglund. Neal, can you go into the kitchen and ask Claire to put out sandwiches and an urn of coffee in the dining room? Press will be here within minutes. And have her call Morgan, my handyman. I want these rooms cleaned up and the windows boarded. No wait, scratch that. Leave everything as it is. It’s a strong visual. Tell Steve and Judy I’ll read the statement from the front steps as soon as the press is here in force. This will not stand.”
Neal and James watch Mary with raw admiration. They’ve both seen her go into overdrive before and it never fails to awe them. Mary catches their looks and thinks, No wonder they’re both in love with me.
James gets Terri Bertolo on the phone and hands it to Mary, who moves into an alcove and lowers her voice.
“Terri, General Floyd Morrow has just been assassinated by federal agents. I want to blanket social media. Ask our supporters to join a vigil outside my house now. Tell them to bring candles, that we want to mourn the general. Use this wording: Illuminate his commitment to our cause and light the way to a better tomorrow. After everything is posted, get over here and join the crowd out front. When I’m done with my statement—your cue is ‘sing thee to thy rest’—start to sing ‘Amazing Grace.’”
The next half hour is a whirlwind of emergency vehicles, phone calls, preparations, quick rewrites, press, camera crews. Mary is finally happy with the statement. There’s a thicket of press outside and a growing crowd of Homelanders, swelling by the second, filling the street, and still they’re arriving, pouring in. Mary peeks out the window: it’s so moving and thrilling, the somber faces, many tear-streaked, lit by candlelight. The television crews are filming it all, it’s being broadcast live all over the nation, the world. Mary is swept by a wave of exhilaration—Kristallnacht has nothing on me.
She takes a minute to pop into the powder room. She looks in the mirror and smiles at herself—with all these people here, the general’s Oreos would have come in handy. Oh, Mary, you are naughty. Her hair was done yesterday, so she musses it a little, going for the distraught-but-coping look, sort of Maggie Thatcher after that hotel bombing. Then she pinches the web between her right thumb and first finger, digging in her nails so hard that her eyes water. All set.
Statement in hand, she steps out onto the house’s front porch as cries of “We love you, Mary! We love you!” come from the crowd.