ERICA IS WAITING. LIKE A leopard. Like a hungry leopard.
He’ll be in soon. Or is it a she? The one who changes her IV. The one who changes her IV will be in soon. And then . . . she doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know where she is. The lay of the land. What it would take to get out. But she knows that she can wriggle her hands and the restraints on her arms have some give. And that she’s going to fight.
It’s clammy in the room. It must be underground. Like the Underground Railroad. She needs to be free. Like the slaves on the Underground Railroad. Freedom is a beautiful thing . . . There are still beautiful things in the world . . .
And then she hears Jenny’s screams and she knows there are no beautiful things in the world. She was just kidding herself . . . The world is a sick, evil place filled with sick, evil people . . .
Stop it, Jenny, please stop it; please stop screaming!
And then she feels it; the molecules in the room rearrange themselves and she knows that he/she is approaching the bed, the IV, and then she feels that slight tug on her IV port and then she gathers every bit of her strength and will, like a mom whose kid is trapped under a car—Jenny!—and her right arm flies up and grabs, grabs at air. Then she finds hair and grabs it—it’s a woman—and yanks, yanks hard, and the woman tumbles forward and her head slams on the bed railing and Erica slams it again and again and again, skull on metal, and now there’s gurgling and the body goes limp and falls to the floor . . .
Erica rips off her blindfold. Ahhhh—the light is so bright! She tears at the restraints on her left arm and gets it free, and she takes the plugs out of her ears and reaches down and frees her torso and legs, working feverishly—there’s the camera in the corner. She has no time, no time . . .
She stands up and stumbles—her legs are weak and all she’s wearing is a blue hospital gown. The nurse is on the floor with blood streaming from her forehead and mouth and ears, and her eyes are rolled up. Erica reaches into the nurse’s pants and finds her keys.
Erica opens the door. She’s in a windowless hallway. A bunker. There’s an elevator. A keyed elevator. She rifles through the keys and finds the right one. She presses the button.
You’re being watched!
Erica presses herself against the wall and the elevator door opens and a man steps off and he has a gun and he brings it up and Erica kicks his hand just as he fires and the gun goes flying and the bullet ricochets off the wall and grazes Erica’s leg and she winces in pain as blood oozes down her leg. Then she crouches and executes a flying kick to his head and his neck snaps back with a grisly sound and he drops to the floor. She gets in the elevator. There are just three buttons—1, 2, and 3. She presses 1 and the elevator rises. As they pass 2, she can hear yells of alarm, shouted orders.
The elevator doors open, revealing a white wall. She pushes it open. It swings back and she steps out into a beautiful, large room. Through the windows she can see the courtyard—she’s in one of the guesthouses at Eagle’s Nest. She keys the elevator so the door stays open, immobilizing the car. She can hear faint shouts from down below.
Get out. Get out!
Erica runs out the front door. There are half a dozen cars parked nearby, and she desperately searches the keys. There’s one for a Honda and she presses the key and an Accord blinks its light and honks and she runs over and jumps in and turns it on and tears off down the long drive—then she remembers the impenetrable metal gate at the end of the drive. She waits until she can see the gate, then she pulls over and leaps out of the car and runs into the woods, toward the road. A shot rings out behind her. She trips and falls, scraping her right forearm; blood oozes out, her bare feet are getting scratched and cut. Pain shoots through her, but who cares.
She hears more shots behind her as she runs and runs, reaching the road. She turns west, toward Nicasio Valley Road, and runs and sucks air and her lungs burn and her gown is bloody and pain shoots through her leg and arm and feet and she runs and runs—please let there be a car—and runs and runs . . .
And then, behind her, she hears an engine and she turns and a blue pickup truck is heading toward her and she stands in the middle of the road and waves her arms and yells, “Stop, please, I need help! Please, stop!”
And the pickup does stop and the driver is a nice-looking young man with a beard and Erica races to the passenger side and leaps in and chokes out the words, “Drive, please drive, quickly; they’re after me. They’re after me!”
And the bearded young man looks at her in concern and says, “Are you all right there, lady? Just who is after you?”
Erica’s whole body is heaving. “Please just drive, please, please. I’ll explain . . .”
“You look a little raggedy, lady. Slow down there, just slow down. Take it easy . . .”
Then the nice young man tilts his head and smiles a small smile and makes a U-turn and Erica realizes that he’s not a nice young man—he’s one of them!
And Erica punches him in his right temple so hard that his head bounces off his window—“Ahhhh!”—and he reaches down and picks up a pistol and she punches him again and his head bounces again and he drops the gun on the seat and Erica grabs it and pulls the trigger again and again, shooting him in the torso and chest and head. Then she grabs the steering wheel with her right hand and reaches over his body and pushes open his door and shoves him out of the pickup with her left leg. She hits the brakes, puts the truck in park, and jumps out, kneels beside his dead body, frantically searches his pockets and finds his cell phone.
She jumps back in the pickup and pulls away, hitting sixty miles per hour on the curvy road, checking the rearview, racing, racing, sucking air, dialing . . . desperately dialing . . . Now there’s ringing . . .
“Who is this?” comes Moira’s voice.
“Oh, Moy,” and then Erica starts crying and can’t talk, she can’t talk . . .
“Where are you?! Keep talking, you have to keep talking. We’re with you, we love you! Where are you?!”
And Erica struggles to talk through her sobbing and heaving. “Please call Jenny. Tell her I’m alive and I love her . . .”
“Where are you?!”
“I’m heading to . . . Francis Drake Boulevard . . . in Marin . . .”
“Come on, Greg, she’s in Marin! We’re on the way, Erica. We’re both in San Francisco; we’ll be there in no time. Just keep driving. Just keep talking.”
“Greg? Is Greg with you?”
“Yes, he came back from Australia the day after you disappeared.”
Oh, Greg . . .
Erica can hear sounds of running and then car doors slamming. “Call Jenny. Tell her I love her, tell her to stay strong . . .”
“Greg is calling her right now. We’re on our way; we’re heading toward the Golden Gate Bridge. Keep talking, baby, keep talking and keep breathing . . .”
“I’m afraid, Moy. They’re still after me. They drugged me and kept me tied up in blackness and they were going to use electroshock on me and . . .”
“They? Who is they?”
“Lily Lau.”
“Oh no . . . ,” Moy says. “I’m handing you over to Greg now, baby. We’ll be together soon.”
“Erica . . .”
“Greg . . .”
“I spoke to Dirk; he’s going to tell Jenny.”
“Poor Jenny. I’d call her but I’d just break down . . .”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m on Francis Drake. There’s traffic but I’m still afraid . . .”
Then Erica reaches Fairfax and there are shops and people and it’s a sunny day and she’s back, back in a world where people go about their daily business, where they smile and are kind to one another. They are kind. Aren’t they? Erica sees a teenager duck around a corner. A dark corner. He ducked around a dark corner. She sees dark corners everywhere she looks.
“We’re over the bridge; we’re on the way toward you,” Greg says. ”Moy, I think we should call the police. They can escort—”
“No! Please. Not yet. I . . . I can’t face it all yet . . . I just want to be with you and Moy and to talk to Jenny, please . . .”
“Erica, this story is going to blow wide open. You’ve been missing for four days. A lot of people thought you were dead.”
“Well, I’m not dead. I’m alive!” And just saying the words brings Erica strength. She reaches Ross, bustling with people, and with each passing mile her breathing slows, her shaking diminishes. She looks in the rearview mirror—her hair is clumped and plastered to her head, her skin is pale and blotchy, and there are dark circles under her eyes. But she is alive. And she is going to bring down Lily Lau and the Ortizes.
“I don’t care about the media. I need a little time, I need to talk to Jenny. I just need a couple of hours.”
“All right, Erica, all right, we’ll come back to the hotel and then we’ll call the FBI . . . Moy just found a Starbucks in Greenbrae. It’s in the Bon Air shopping center right off Francis Drake. Meet us in the parking lot.”
“Okay. Listen, what’s happening with the election?”
“Ortiz has kept his lead. Tonight is Lucy Winters’s last chance.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, the final debate is tonight.”
Erica breath catches. “I didn’t realize it was tonight.”
“Yes, in about six hours. In Seattle. Megyn Kelly has replaced you.”
Erica struggles to make sense of this information. And then she sees that sweet baby being held aloft in Judy Buchanan’s arms, gurgling with delight . . .
Oh sweet thing, sweet baby. I was a baby once. An innocent baby.
And Erica feels some life force swelling insider her, some intangible, inexplicable cosmic strength, the strength to make this harsh, crummy world at least a slightly better place.
“Are you there, Erica?”
“Yeah, I’m here, Greg. I’m definitely here.”
“You suddenly sound stronger, Erica.”
“Listen, Greg, book us a private plane to Seattle for this afternoon.”
“What?”
“Just do it. I’m going to hang up now, but one more thing—can you text me Megyn Kelly’s phone number?”