The Candidate (10 page)

THERE'S A SUSPENDED MOMENT OF shock and silence in the Levin Courthouse. It's an eerie, skin-crawl silence. Many bystanders look away from the horror, but others stand riveted, unable to avert their eyes. The federal marshals are frozen, trying to figure out what to do. But there's really nothing
to
do. The bodies speak for themselves—the danger is over.

Eileen has GNN cut away to the newsroom in New York. Erica collapses on a nearby bench and her first thought is,
Thank God Jenny is in school and not at home watching.
She wills herself to take deep, calming breaths. Handling this kind of trauma doesn't get easier, but she has learned some tricks for managing her own response.

Then her reporter's mind kicks in. With Markum's death, it's going to be next to impossible to find out the truth about his motives, his actions in the weeks and months before the bombing, and whether or not he acted alone. As with Lee Harvey Oswald, the ultimate source has been shut down. The whole story may never be known. And what about the bogus reporter who killed Markum and then himself? Who is he? Who put him up to it? What are their motives? How did he get his fake credentials and then through security—with a gun no less?
The unanswered questions start careening around in Erica's head like runaway bumper cars.

Eileen comes over and sits next to Erica. She's ashen, trembling slightly, her tough-gal producer veneer peeled back to reveal a deeply shaken woman.

“Are you okay, Eileen?”

“I honestly don't know, Erica. I didn't sign up for this.”

Erica wants to tell her that as a journalist, she did in fact sign up for this. It's their job to walk into war zones, to report on horrific events, to delve deep into the heart of darkness. But she holds her tongue, because she knows Eileen will figure all that out on her own.

“The shock will wear off,” Erica says, giving Eileen's hand a squeeze. “In the meantime, we have to get back on the air.”

ERICA ARRIVES HOME THAT EVENING, walking in the front door to the smell of sautéing garlic and herbs. Then suddenly, from the end of the hall, Jenny is rushing toward her, a look of love and concern on her face. She races into Erica's arms and squeezes her tight. Jenny smells fresh and clean and innocent. Her baby girl.

“Oh, Mom, Mom, I'm so glad you're all right.”

“I'm fine,” Erica says, hoping she sounds more convincing than she feels. Still, it's so good to be home, to walk into a house where food is cooking and soft jazz is playing.

Jenny takes Erica's hand and leads her into the apartment. “Becky and I are making chicken Provençal-ish with asparagus and wild rice.”

“That sounds
so
good.”

They reach the kitchen and there's Becky at the stove, wearing an apron, looking very much at home. Erica feels a stab of jealousy—the easy rapport between Becky and Jenny is what she hoped for, but now that she has it, she doesn't want them to get
too
close.

Becky turns and looks at Erica with urgent empathy. “We thought it would be nice for you to come back to a home-cooked dinner.” She
has a glass of white wine on the counter and indicates it. “Would you like a glass?”

That's a little bit strange—Becky must know Erica's history; it's public record, for goodness' sake. Erica shakes her head. And Becky seems a little too at home. It's almost as if this is her house, and Erica is the guest.

“We're just about ready here.”

“I'll help you plate,” Jenny says.

They all sit at the dining room table, which is candlelit and set with linen napkins.

“This is delicious,” Erica says, savoring a bite of the melt-in-your-mouth chicken.

“We invented it,” Jenny says proudly. “Becky never uses recipes. She says that's copying, not cooking.”

“Does she . . . ? I mean, do you?”

Becky nods with a sheepish smile. “Growing up we never had cookbooks. My mom hated to cook, so I just started to make things up.”

Jenny grows serious. “I was so worried about you, Mom. I wish you had a job that wasn't dangerous.”

“You know I love what I do, honey.”

“I get so scared sometimes. I had a bad feeling about this trip. I woke up in the middle of the night sure that something terrible was going to happen. And it did.”

“Yes, it did. But not to me. I'm still here.”

“I couldn't get back to sleep.”

“You did eventually, didn't you?”

“Only later, when Becky came in.”

“What do you mean—when Becky came in?”

“She came to sleep in my room.”

“In your
bed
?”

Jenny nods.

Erica puts down her fork. It's a queen bed and she's sure it was all completely innocent—right?—but it's just so . . . intimate. Erica
herself hasn't slept with Jenny in years. She looks at Becky, who is busy eating—maybe a little too busy eating.

“There was new polling released today—Lucy Winters is gaining on Ortiz,” Becky says abruptly.

“I like her,” Jenny says.

“So do I,” Erica says distractedly.

“Oh, I forgot the rolls,” Becky says, getting up and going through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Erica leans into Jenny and asks in a whisper, “Did Becky get under the covers with you last night?”

“
Nooo
. Silly. She had her clothes on, and she slept above the covers.”

Erica exhales with a sigh. “Would you like me to sleep with you tonight?”

“I don't worry when you're home.”

Becky returns with a basket full of warm rolls. Erica's phone rings.

“This is Greg calling from Sydney. I'm going to take it. Be right back.” As Erica walks into her bedroom, she can't shake a creepy feeling about Becky climbing onto Jenny's bed.

“Hi, Greg,” Erica says, closing the bedroom door behind her. The darkened room is bathed in a noirish glow from the city lights outside.

“Are you okay?”

“I'm okay, yeah. How are you?”

“Worried about you. You've had a traumatic day.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Any updates?”

“The shooter's been identified. His name is Peter Tuttle. Twenty-six years old. His press credentials were forged. They think the gun was planted in the courthouse yesterday. They found adhesive-tape residue under one of the benches.”

“Sounds like they're moving fast on this one. But I think you should put it on the shelf for a couple of days. Witnessing something like that takes a real toll. Try and pull back a little.”

“I'm trying.” Erica sits on the edge of her bed and wonders if now is
the time to bring up Laurel Masson. She notices that her bedside clock is running fast. She picks it up and adjusts it.

“Are you back in New York?”

“I am. Having dinner with Jenny and my personal assistant, who is turning into Jenny's best friend.”

“You don't sound like yourself, Erica.”

Erica can feel an enormous wave, a tsunami of emotional exhaustion heading her way. Today in Detroit she was hoping to come closer to the truth and she ended up further away, covered with bits of bone and brain. She's in no mood to dissemble or play cute. She stands up and starts to pace, steeling herself as she says, “I saw that tweet of you and Laurel Masson.”

There's a long pause. Too long. Finally Greg says, “She's doing a terrific job.”

“Assuaging your loneliness?”

“That's unfair, Erica.”

“I'd say seeing another woman is unfair.”

“Boy, one tweet and you're off to the races.”

“One picture is worth a thousand lies.”

There's another pause, and Greg lowers his voice. “We need to talk.”

“I thought we were.” And then, in the pause that follows, Erica knows: Greg
is
having an affair with Laurel Masson. She feels a stab of hurt and betrayal, and then a terrible cosmic sadness washes over her. “I'm going to go now, Greg.”

“Okay, Erica.”

“Good-bye.”

Erica sits in a chair she never sits in. She had thought Greg was the one, her one and only, for always and forever. A bitter little laugh, a snort really, comes out of her.
Ain't life grand?
And then, in spite of herself, she pictures Greg's green eyes, his lopsided smile, his arms around her. Her career wouldn't be where it is today without his savvy and unwavering support. She arrived at GNN a rookie from a small station in New Hampshire, rebuilding her life after it shattered like glass—a
glass full of vodka at ten in the morning. Greg took her by the hand, fought for her, gave her brilliant advice, protected her. Loved her. Did he love her? Does he love her? Is he lost to her? Loss. And love. Love and loss. Are they inseparable? Erica looks around her. The beautiful room is empty.

And now?

Now she knows she'll never be able to trust Greg again. She went through this with Dirk, her first husband, Jenny's father. His Internet date that turned into an affair with that perfectly nice, deadly dull office manager. Her smell on him. His transparent lies.
Never again
. Erica feels anger rising up in her and she welcomes it, wants to embrace it, step into it like a coat of armor—Greg, that creep, that sleazy little Lothario who can't keep it in his pants.

But as she stokes her rage, it's extinguished by something greater. Pain, hurt, loss. It grips her body like a vise, squeezing out anger and reason. The truth is she's still in love with Greg Underwood. She still wants him. And he's in the arms of another woman.

Erica walks over to the bed and throws herself back on the pillows as her eyes fill with tears.

She lies there for a long time. She can hear muffled sounds out in the apartment, but it all seems a million miles away.

Then there's a tentative knock and a soft, “Mom? Are you all right?”

Erica struggles to pull herself together, to make her voice sound normal. “Yes, honey, I just have a little headache. Did Becky go home?”

“Yes. Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Erica quickly sits up and leans against the pillows.

Jenny comes in. Her face is side-lit by the hallway light, and Erica can see that her brow is furrowed, her mouth turned down. Erica manages a little smile, but Jenny's expression doesn't change.

“You know how I said I don't worry about you when you're home?” Jenny says.

“Yes.”

“That's not true.”

IT'S THE NEXT MORNING AND Erica is back in her office at GNN. Eight hours of sleep helped, but she's still feeling shaky and trying to sort out her feelings toward Greg. In the cold light of morning she feels much more in control. And more humiliated. And more angry. The milk has spilt and taken trust with it—and all the apologies and hurt and regret in the world won't restore it. But it's a sea change in her life, and in the way she thinks about her future. In fact, it's close to overwhelming. Thank God for the demands of her job.

The television networks have agreed not to replay footage of the assassination and suicide—it's easy enough to find it online, but the consensus is that it's just too grisly for general viewing. But the tape of Erica reporting before and after the shootings has been shown endlessly, and GNN's ratings and her profile have both skyrocketed. A few more details have emerged about the shooter: Peter Tuttle was a former divinity student from Woodstock, New York, who was working two jobs, struggling to support his wife and two young kids. He flew into Detroit from Albany the night before last. That's all that law enforcement has released so far.

Mike Ortiz has suspended his campaign for three days, and he and Celeste have released a statement decrying the horrific act and calling for a national period of prayer and healing. Their fundraiser at Robert DeNiro's apartment will mark the resumption of the campaign.

Shirley appears in Erica's doorway, holding a bouquet of flowers filled with exotic blooms in neon colors—gaudy and playful.

“These just arrived for you,” she says. “Someone has a wild imagination.”

Erica stands up and takes the bouquet into the kitchen to find a vase. Then she opens the note:

Hope you're in one piece after yesterday. I'm around if you want to talk. Thinking of you and hoping we can have some fun again soon.

Your pal—Josh

Erica arranges the flowers in the vase—they're a welcome reminder that in the midst of all of life's danger and darkness and heartbreak, there is exuberant life. She puts them on her desk and texts Josh: T
HANK YOU
.

He quickly texts back: A
RE YOU OKAY
?

Erica: S
HAKY BUT STEADY
. B
UT CHEERED BY THE BLOOMS
. Y
OUR TIMING IS IMPECCABLE
.

Josh: I
F
THAT
'
S A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL
,
YOU
'
LL HAVE TO GIVE ME SOME TIME TO THINK ABOUT IT
.

Erica: P
ONDER AT LEISURE
.

Josh: O
KAY
, I'
M DONE THINKING ABOUT IT
. D
O YOU WANT TO FIND THE CATERER OR SHOULD
I?

Erica: I'
VE ALREADY GOT A CALL IN TO
D
OMINO
'
S
. U
NLESS YOU PREFER
M
ICKEY
D'
S
.

Josh: I
KNEW YOU WERE TOO CLASSY FOR ME
.

Erica can hardly believe that she is nonsense texting with a man she spent one afternoon with. But it's just what she needs after last night's
call with Greg. To feel desired. To be wooed. To smile. To admire a crazy-quilt bouquet on her desk.

Erica: G
OTTA RUN
. S
OME OF US HAVE REAL JOBS
.

Josh: A
H
-
CHOO
! T
HOSE TWO WORDS ALWAYS TRIGGER MY ALLERGIES
. H
OW ABOUT A LITTLE BOAT RIDE ON
S
ATURDAY
?

Erica: Y
OU HAVE A BOAT
?

Josh: A
REASONABLE FACSIMILE ANYWAY
. W
E
'
LL HEAD UP THE
H
UDSON
. K
IDS TOLERATED
.

Erica: W
E
'
RE THERE
.

Josh: 79
TH
S
TREET MARINA AT
10
AM WORK FOR YOU
?

Erica: B
ARRING THE UNFORESEEN
.

Erica puts down her iPhone and picks up her office line and calls Mort Silver.

“I have three words for you, Erica: Through. The. Roof.”

“That's great, but—”

“No, it's more than great. We're going to raise our advertising rates on your show.”

Erica sees an opening and takes it. “Listen, Mort, I want to do in-depth profiles on the two presidential candidates. Maybe two or even three hours each, shown over consecutive nights. I want to visit their birthplaces, look at their childhoods, schooling, major influences, and mentors, really trace their growth and development. We're making history here with a Latino and a woman competing against each other.”

“Erica, if it bleeds it leads. Your ratings have spiked because of a bombing and a murder-suicide. I don't think viewers will flock to see you traipse around Lucy Winters's elementary school and do a soft-focus interview with the principal, who has already been spewing out her Little Lucy Winters spiel every time she gets within ten feet of a microphone.”

“I don't do soft focus, Mort, and you know it. I happen to think we have a crucial role to play in this election. There's a
lot
at stake. For this country and the world.”

“There's a lot at stake for this network in keeping you number one in your time slot.”

Time to put the screws on. Erica lowers her voice and speaks slowly. “Doing these profiles is
very
important to me, Mort.”

There's a pause. “You're a force to be reckoned with, Sparks. Consider them green-lighted.”

Erica hangs up and allows herself a moment of triumph. She'll have all the resources of the network behind her. “Inside Mike Ortiz” and “Inside Lucy Winters” will be hard-hitting investigative journalism. She'll follow the truth
wherever
it leads her. And she senses it may be down some very dark alleys.

Erica calls down to the Smart Room, the network's research center. It's staffed 24/7 by lawyers, accountants, scientists, and researchers. Throw them a question and they'll find the answer.

“Hi, Erica, this is Judith Wexler. What can we do ya this morning?”

“I need contact info for Robert DeNiro.”

“Coming right up.”

As Erica waits for Judith to call back, she Googles “Al-Qaeda in Iraq
.
” She leans forward, avidly scanning the links—she's a dog with a new bone, ready to get into some serious chewing.

Her research is interrupted when Judith Wexler calls back with the number of DeNiro's office. She hangs up and calls.

“Yes?” a woman's voice answers.

“Hi, this is Erica Sparks.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could attend Mr. DeNiro's fundraiser for Mike Ortiz on Friday?”

“It's a closed event, no media. No pictures. No taping.”

“I understand. I'm doing in-depth pieces on both presidential candidates and would like to attend as background. Just to soak up the atmosphere, see how Ortiz does in situations like this one.”

There's a pause and then, “I'd have to run it by Mr. DeNiro.”

“Of course.”

Erica gives the woman her phone number and hangs up. Then she starts to work on her material for tonight's show. She'll be leading
with the assassination and suicide, of course. Which is tough for her. To relive it so soon will be gut-wrenching, but that's her job. The fact that Tuttle flew in the night before the shooting, that his press credentials were so expertly forged, and that adhesive-tape residue was found under a bench in the courthouse all point to the man's not having acted alone. He and his cohorts, whoever they are, very much wanted to keep Markum from revealing his motives for the bombing. Erica keeps going back to the same questions: Who benefited the most from Buchanan's death? And who also has the means to engineer the crime and its follow-up? The answer never changes. Or becomes any less disturbing.

Erica's phone rings—the incoming number is blocked.

“This is Erica Sparks.”

“Erica, it's Bob . . . Bob DeNiro.”

Erica sits up straight and fights the urge to gush. It's a dead end with celebrities—it puts up a wall. If you come off as a foaming fan, you're immediately unequal.
Plus,
Erica thinks,
I ain't exactly chopped liver.
“Thanks for getting back to me.”

“I understand you want to . . . ah . . . you know, show up on Friday. At my place. On Friday.”

Erica quickly makes her pitch about her piece on Ortiz.

“He's one helluva interesting guy, isn't he?” DeNiro says.

“Fascinating. And I want to get up close and personal. I understand you're limiting the size of the fundraiser.”

DeNiro laughs. “I think it's the price of the ticket that's the limiting factor here, Erica Sparks. Not every Joe Schmo on the street can . . . you know, shell out ten grand to la-di-da it at my pad.”

“As a journalist, of course, I can't pay. But you'll be doing a service for our democracy.”

“A service for our democracy, huh? That kinda language loses me. I do this for the people who are hurting. Here. Now. In my city. In my country.”

“Well then, you should let me do this for them. They have a right
to make an informed choice when they vote. And, to be blunt, you should do it for
me.
It will all be off the record; you have my word on that.”

There's a pause and then, “All right, Erica. Come on down Friday. I'll put your name on the list.”

“I need a plus one.”

“Oh, now she needs a plus one.” He laughs again and then says, like a perfect gentleman, “I look forward to meeting you. And your friend.”