ERICA IS AT HOME IN her living room, watching it all unfold. She’s on the sofa, Greg is in an armchair across the room. It’s so shocking and disturbing. It’s only five days after the election, and already violence has reared its twisted head. Erica wishes Greg were sitting beside her. But she’s not about to invite him.
Erica watches as Mary Bellamy waits until an expectant hush falls over the crowd and then she begins, “Tonight I lost a dear and trusted friend, General Floyd Morrow. But we all lost something greater: a man of extraordinary gifts who was committed to building a strong Homeland and a better world. Floyd was murdered in a savage and unprovoked attack. An attack that was intended to frighten and intimidate us. An act of terrorism. Whoever is responsible will be brought to justice. I have instructed Detective Peter Hoaglund, whom I have appointed director of the Homeland Bureau of Investigation, to stop at nothing to uncover the perpetrators. For, make no mistake, this was an attack on the Homeland. And on our supporters in other states. We are a nonviolent movement, but never doubt our resolve: we will not sit back and allow ourselves to be attacked without retribution.”
Mary pauses, looks down, fights to control her emotions. Then she looks out over the crowd. “But tonight is a night to remember a great man, a friend to all of us, a visionary, a leader, a man I loved for his passion, his friendship, and his idealism, a man who never failed to inspire all who knew him. A Homelander. Good-bye, Floyd, may flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
And then, from somewhere in the crowd, it starts softly, the singing of “Amazing Grace.” At first it’s just one voice, and then a dozen and then a hundred and then thousands, thousands of mournful voices singing in the candlelight, a beacon in the darkness of the endless Plains night:
Amazing grace!
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost,
But now am found;
Was blind, but now I see.
“She’s very compelling,” Greg says. “She understands the visceral power of an emotional moment. She’s bonding with her followers on a profound level. The woman is a brilliant performer, a brilliant politician.”
“She is, isn’t she? She frightens me. I don’t believe it, I don’t buy it. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many dead bodies. How do we know that car bomb wasn’t planted by Mary’s allies? That James Jarrett is her lead fixer. And putting Peter Hoaglund in charge of the investigation, when he’s pledged his fealty to the Homeland? If that’s not a fox and a chicken coop, what is?”
“What exactly do you think her goal is?”
“Power. It’s always power. Or money. Or sex. She’s got money. She’s got Neal Clark. This is a woman who wants to play on the world stage. I will say I think she actually believes in what she’s fighting for, this idea of splitting up the country into groupings of like-minded states. So in that sense she’s at least sincere. But I’ve seen it in her eyes, the same thing I saw in Nylan Hastings and Lily Lau. The heart of darkness. If she goes through with establishing a viable Homeland, she’ll force President Winters to step in militarily, and the death toll could number in the tens of thousands. And it would wrench the country apart politically, culturally, morally.”
“But if she forms a viable country and we invade it, that will make us occupiers. Guerilla groups, clandestine militias will spring up. And they’ll be able to cast themselves as freedom fighters,” Greg says.
“There are so many layers to this story, and so many possible outcomes.”
Erica realizes, with a small start, how much she values Greg’s thoughts, his insights. Discussions like this one used to be the norm for their marriage. She misses them, a casualty of their recent distance. This is a man she loves and treasures on so many levels. Still . . . she can’t ignore the riffs, the envy, the flirtations with other women.
And now Detective Peter Hoaglund is on-screen, being interviewed by GNN stringer Alicia Walden. Erica curses herself for flying back to New York this morning. She should be on the ground out there.
“I’m here with Detective Peter Hoaglund of the Bismarck Police Department. Can you tell us your thoughts on this bombing?”
“Actually, Alicia, I’m director of the Homeland Bureau of Investigation.”
“Of course.”
“This crime was a heinous act of cowardice and terrorism. The Homeland has been attacked. We will use all of our resources to track down the person or persons responsible,” Hoaglund says.
“Do you have any leads, clues, or suspicions at this point?”
“We know that the general arrived at the Bellamy house at approximately seven thirty this evening. He left shortly after nine. Someone planted this car bomb during that interval. We have already begun canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone observed suspicious activity. Now I have to get back to work.”
Erica mutes the television. “I need to get back out there.”
“Erica, you can’t solve every crime. And—PS—the home fires need a little stoking.”
She doesn’t like the tone of his voice. And how many glasses of wine has he had? Greg gets up, crosses to the wet bar, and refills his glass. “And there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Is it Leslie Wilson’s recent separation?”
“What? No.”
“I know that she and Stan have both starting seeing other people.”
“Of course you know it, she stated it in the Sunday Times. There are no secrets here.”
“There aren’t? I don’t know what you do when I’m out of town.”
“That covers a lot of territory. You’re gone more than you’re here.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Jenny.”
“Well, I can certainly see her point.”
“Well, I’m not sure I can see the point of this anymore,” Erica says, standing up and gesturing around the room, the apartment, encompassing their marriage.
Then her phone rings. It’s a Los Angeles number, and she recognizes it as being Momar Neezan, the forensic audiologist out in Los Angeles. Erica forwarded him Gloria’s last message yesterday.
“Momar, have you had any luck?”
“This tape is very difficult to decipher. The background noises are almost impossible to segregate out because they come from multiple sources. Deafening fireworks exploded at the exact moment that the car horn, which was only feet from Washburn, sounded. Then there is the rumbling of the traffic on the bridge and the screams and shouts of the celebrants leaning out of car windows.”
“Is it hopeless?”
“No. Not at all. I’ve made some progress. And I’m going to keep working. But let me play you what we have so far.” He turns on the recording. Gloria’s voice has been slowed down, and it sounds elongated, as if she was on a drug of some kind:
“I’m sorry, Erica, for being a bad girl. I did hire that man in Boston to kidnap you. I have to tell you something else though, they’re bad people, worse than me even, and they’re working with a Russian scientist up in Canada and”—then the fireworks explode and Gloria’s last words are inaudible and then the phone hits the ground and goes blank.
Erica tries to digest what she’s just heard. A Russian scientist? In Canada? But what were Gloria’s final words? She clenches her jaw in frustration. “We need the end, Momar.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll keep working. I thought this much might be helpful.”
“It is, and I’m very grateful. But something big is going down, and I think it’s on that tape. We need that information.”
Erica hangs up, and Greg crosses to her. “Erica, what is it? You suddenly turned as white as a sheet.”
She moves away from him and collapses on the couch.
“Erica, please, tell me.” His face is full of concern. And she needs him right now. Leslie Wilson or no Leslie Wilson.
“Gloria said that Mary Bellamy is working with a Russian scientist up in Canada.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I would guess they’re probably working with the scientist to develop a weapon of war. It could be chemical weapons. Poisoning agents to use on a civilian population, maybe in the water supply. A nuclear warhead. Take your pick.”
“No . . . ,” Greg says.
Greg goes and sits next to her, takes a hand in his. Erica says, “Don’t tell Leslie, don’t tell anyone. First of all, we need corroboration, we need Gloria’s last words. Second, if it is true, the more people who know, the more likely it is that Bellamy will find out. And the more danger I’ll be in.”
“Of course. But what’s our next step?”
Our next step, Greg, really? His support feels a day late and a dollar short.
Erica is at a loss. She needs to think, to calm down and think. She gets up and strides into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water and downs it in one gulp. Greg follows her. “If it’s in Canada, Neal Clark is the key here, I’m sure of it.”
“Shouldn’t you call the police, the FBI, the Canadian authorities?” Greg says.
“I’ll call the FBI tonight. Canada doesn’t have a federal police force, things are left to the provinces. And I think Neal Clark pretty much owns Manitoba. Plus, all we have are Gloria’s words. Not a shred of evidence. I have to get back out there. I have to find the truth.”
Greg looks glum and left out.
“What did you want to talk about?” Erica asks.
Greg hesitates, as if he’s about to jump into the deep end. Then he says, “I’ve been offered a job running the news department at KHOU in Houston.”
Erica is surprised, shocked even. He never told her he’d applied. “Okay. And . . . um, are you inclined to take it?”
“It’s the country’s fifth biggest market. The station has a healthy news budget. I’d be running the whole show.”
“In Houston.”
“True, but it would be a springboard to get me back to New York.”
“I’m sure they want you to sign a contract.”
“Two years.”
“That seems like a long time right now. And why did you have to hit me with this tonight, after what just happened in Bismarck, what I just learned about Gloria? You know how invested I am in this story. A woman’s throat was slit because she was going to tell me something.”
“Oh sorry, I’m not allowed to have a life because there’s breaking news?” He paces before saying, “Listen, Erica, we both know this isn’t working. I feel like I’m coming home to a meat locker. A little separation might do us good.”
Erica feels a splitting headache coming on. She closes her eyes and breathes. And then a terrible sadness washes over. She loved Greg, she loves him, he was her everything just two years ago. And now this. It’s hurt. Pure hurt. Tears well behind her eyes. But tears aren’t fair. To Greg or to herself.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Greg says. He crosses the kitchen and cups her head in his hands. They look at each other. Is it still there? The love? Part of her yearns to fall into his arms, to let go . . . Can she let go? Can she ever let go? She’s wound up so tight, bound by the pain of her past, her childhood, her mistakes, her fall, her mothering. In the end, she has only herself. That’s all she’s ever had. Loneliness opens up in front of her like an abyss. She breaks away from Greg, goes to the sink, and washes a mug and two small plates. She can’t turn and look at him, she’s afraid if she does she’ll dissolve into a puddle of tears.
“I . . . ah, I think I’ll take a little walk,” he says.
“Okay,” Erica manages, drying the plates and mug even though they’re already dry.
“I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight. And I’m inclined to take the job in Houston.”
Greg walks out of the kitchen, and Erica waits to hear the front door close. Then she looks longingly at the wine rack. She’d like to open a nice red and drink it straight from the bottle, just guzzle down the whole thing. For starters.