The Candidate (4 page)

ERICA COMES TO A MOMENT later. She's lying on the ground, an intense pain shooting through her right shoulder, which took the brunt of her fall. But otherwise she's in one piece. Screams and cries for help fill the air. Erica looks over to where the Buchanans stood, now a scene of horror and carnage. Bodies and body parts lie bloodied and mangled. She stumbles to her feet, afraid she's going to vomit; she suddenly feels cold, frigid, and realizes she's going into shock. But people need help; they're crying and screaming. Erica sees a teenage girl lying on the pavement—all that's left of her right leg below the knee is the jagged tip of her shinbone. The girl is frozen, looking down at the place where her leg was thirty seconds ago. Erica races over to her as the wail of ambulances is heard in the distance. The girl is wearing a belt, and Erica swiftly takes it off and wraps it tightly just above the girl's right knee. Then she lifts the thigh, angling the leg up, and the blood flow diminishes. Two EMTs arrive and take over.

As the first responders flood the scene, Erica realizes she's just in the way. She stands up, and that's when she notices the twisted, lifeless bodies of Fred and Judy Buchanan. A terrible sadness washes over her, grief for the loss of these two sincere people who clearly loved their
country and each other. Then fear takes over. If she'd been standing ten feet closer to them, her own body would look like that right now. Her hands start to shake.

She goes back over to her pod—who were just far enough away from the blast to escape injury—and picks up her mic, sucking air, willing herself to stop shaking and do her job. “This is Erica Sparks reporting from the campus of Case Western Reserve University, and a bomb has just exploded near the entrance to the Veale Center, where the final Democratic primary debate was scheduled to start within the hour. Both Fred Buchanan and his wife, Judy, have been killed. As you can see, the scene here is one of carnage and chaos. First responders have arrived in force, and the injured are being taken to local hospitals. We have no count of the casualties and fatalities yet, but I would estimate them in the dozens. This is simply horrific.”

Erica sees a campus security guard standing nearby, his uniform covered in blood. She goes over to him, her pod following, taping.

“Did you see anything suspicious before the bomb exploded?”

The man is fighting back tears. “I was over there on the Ortiz side. When Buchanan was shaking hands, I thought I saw a teenager, or maybe he was a young man, pushing forward to get close to him. Next thing I knew the bomb went off. Oh, this is terrible, just terrible.” The man turns away from the camera, unable to continue.

“Once again: a bomb exploded less than five minutes ago here at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland.”

A man and a woman, both in dark suits, approach Erica. They flash FBI badges and signal for her to stop taping.

“This is Erica Sparks reporting. I'll bring you any updates as they happen. Now back to GNN headquarters in New York.”

Manny turns off the camera. The female FBI agent says, “We'll need that footage.” Manny looks to Erica and Lesli, who both nod assent.

“Let us know if there's anything else we can do,” Erica says as the agents take the camera and walk away. “Get the backup camera, Manny.”

Erica grabs her bag, takes out her cell, and turns it on. There have been three calls from Jenny in the last five minutes. She ducks inside the Veale Center and calls back.

“Mommy, Mommy, I saw it on TV, are you all right?” Jenny is sobbing.

“Yes, I'm fine, honey. I'm
fine
. It's a horrible thing that's happened but I'm fine.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I'll be spending the night out here. I have a job to do. This is a very important story.”

“I don't
care
. I don't want you to have that job anymore. It's too scary.”

“No one said it was an easy job, Jenny, but it's an important one.” Erica takes a deep breath—just talking to Jenny is grounding her. She's still a mom. “Can you please ask Yelena to stay over tonight?”

There's a pause and then Jenny says, “Yes.”

Law enforcement is swarming around the arena, and Sara Kenyon and other newscasters are delivering live on-the-scene coverage. GNN isn't. That's unacceptable.

“I better get going, honey.” Out the glass doors, Lesli is gesturing to let Erica know they're ready to go. Erica walks back outside. All of the dead and injured have been removed, but their blood remains, staining the concrete like a demonic Rorschach test. Evil. There's so much evil in the world.

Erica flashes back to the Staten Island ferry crash that launched her career. Is it possible this horrific act was also orchestrated by unseen forces who want Erica to be on the scene? No, that's ridiculous. No one except a few people at the network knew where she would be positioned. And she can trust everyone at GNN. Can't she? She's being paranoid. Isn't she?

Erica takes the mic from Derek, and as she opens her mouth to begin reporting, she wonders if it's all really worth it.

THE NEXT MORNING ERICA IS sitting at her desk in New York. She was on the air for another four hours anchoring GNN's coverage of the bombing, and then she crashed for a few hours at an airport hotel. The network's plane flew her back to New York and she came straight to the office, where she showered in her private bathroom and changed into a clean dress.

Fifteen people died in the bomb attack, forty-two were injured, eight are in critical condition, and the country is reeling. Cell phone and network footage clearly show a young man—first described to Erica by the campus security guard—pushing his way forward in the crowd in the moments before the explosion. He was wearing sunglasses, had a ski cap pulled low on his forehead, and was carrying a backpack. Some anchors at other networks—eager to get ahead of the story—are already speculating that he's an Islamic terrorist. Erica refuses to engage in that kind of inflammatory reporting. It's irresponsible, demagogic, and just plain lousy journalism. She'll wait until identification can be made and the facts uncovered. She's told Eileen McDermott that she wants to stay off the air until there's a break in the story.

Something from last night has lodged at the back of Erica's mind,
but she can't remember exactly what it is. It happened before the bomb blast, and with the ensuing panic and pandemonium she can't bring it up. It's like an itch she can't scratch, and it's driving her a little nuts. But she pushes her frustration away—if it's gone, it's gone.

Her phone rings.

“Great job last night, Erica,” says Mort Silver. “We topped the ratings.”

Erica understands that the news is a business, but the obsession with ratings at a time like this, when the nation has lost an admired public servant and been traumatized by an act of terrorism, makes her uneasy.

“I'm glad to hear it, Mort.”

“Let's stay on top,” he says, and there's an edge in his voice, subtle but unmistakable.

Erica isn't ashamed of being ambitious, but she never wants it to cross the line into ruthless. Since she helped nail Hastings and his cohorts, she's enjoyed a unique status among American journalists. She even got a call from the president, asking her to become chief of the Broadcasting Board of Governors, the state department agency charged with delivering accurate news to strategic audiences overseas and serving as an example of a free and professional press. It's an important job, but she turned him down because it would have demanded too much of her time. But just to be asked was evidence of her stature. And she's definitely earned that most coveted of American titles—she's a
celebrity
! A fact she does her very best to ignore. Erica refuses almost all requests for interviews; she shuns parties, benefits, and photo ops. Over the last eight months, since Hastings was sentenced, she has waited for the hoopla and buzz to subside. She wants to be
less
famous, wants to return to her roots as a journalist who is in it for the long haul. And if she loses the ratings battle to FOX or CNN now and then, so be it.

With her vast office—complete with kitchen, bath, and closet/dressing room—and staff of writers, directors, producers, and researchers, Erica is in a position of enormous power. She wields it gently. She
hates diva behavior—everyone at
The Erica Sparks Effect
is treated with respect and integrity. No games, no backbiting, no bull.

Erica spoke to Jenny a little earlier. Yelena stayed overnight and got her off to school. Erica hopes she can make it home for dinner, but everything depends on the Buchanan bombing story. If there are any developments, it could be a very long day. Which would mean Jenny will be alone again for another night. Just when Erica thinks things will quiet down, an important story breaks and Jenny suffers. Erica calls Shirley.

“Can you tell Amanda Rees I'd like to see her in my office?”

“Amanda left the network today.”

“You're kidding. Why?”

“Some videos of her just surfaced. Apparently she worked her way through college via the world's oldest profession, or at least its latest online iteration.”

“Didn't she know how risky that was?”

“You would think so. She disguised herself, black wig, exotic makeup. You know, I've heard girls can make thousands a day on those sites. With all their crippling student loans . . .”

“Who are we to judge? Poor girl—but I bet she lands on her feet. Do we know who leaked the video?”

“No, it was sent anonymously to Mort Silver yesterday. Amanda may have an enemy out there.”

“Has it gone viral?”

“It's gaining traction, but we're hoping her swift departure will nip it in the bud.”

“Let's hope. I can't afford that kind of publicity. Meanwhile, I'm back to the drawing board on the personal assistant.”

Erica hangs up and feels a sudden stab of loneliness. She misses Greg. His light touch with Jenny, his concern, his pragmatism . . . his kisses. He's left her several messages since last night and she's called back, but they keep missing each other.

Erica pulls up Skype and calls him. He answers immediately, and
his handsome face fills her screen. It's eleven thirty p.m. in Sydney and he looks exhausted, but in that tousled, stubbly way that Erica finds irresistible. She feels a surge of tenderness and want.

“How are you?” he asks.

“It was rough but I'm okay. I think being knocked out for those few moments was a real blessing. I missed seeing people blown apart. The poor Buchanans.”

Part of her wants to cry, wishes Greg was with her so he could wrap his arms around her shoulders and she could rest her head on his chest and weep. For the Buchanans, for that little baby Judy Buchanan was holding up, for the girl who lost her leg, for the world and all its lost innocence.

“The coverage over here has been wall-to-wall. Do you have any sense of who might be behind it?”

“I honestly don't, and I'm not going to speculate.”

“How's Jenny?”

“Moody. Feeling neglected.” There's a pause. “How are you?”

Greg lowers his voice. “I'm lonely, Erica.”

She reaches up and instinctively touches the screen, as if she could reach across time and space and touch Greg. “I'm lonely too.”

“Didn't you and Jenny promise to come down and meet some kangaroos?”

“We did. We will.” But Erica knows a trip halfway around the world would be a bad idea right now. It would risk disrupting Jenny's shaky adjustment to living in New York. And the bombing has upended the presidential campaign, which won't be over until the votes are counted on November 4, just over six months away. Erica needs to stay at home, on top of the story, ready to hop on a plane at a moment's notice. “But now is probably not the best time, with Jenny still settling in and the campaign heating up. Any chance you can come stateside for a visit?”

Greg runs a hand through his hair. “If only. But I'm working twenty-hour days and will be for at least the next couple of months.”

There's a pause. “I understand,” Erica says.

“Are you sure you're okay, Erica? Maybe you should take the day off.”

And do what? Go home and be lonely in the huge empty apartment?
“This is a fast-breaking story. The FBI, the CIA, Department of Justice, they're all trying to identify the bomber. I want to be ready when they do.”

“I guess we're both married to our work.”

There's another pause, and Erica isn't sure how to fill it. When they first met, the words just poured out; they had such an easy rapport. Skype is fine as far as it goes, but it's a poor substitute for the chemistry that sparks when they're face-to-face. Erica knows how hard Greg is working, but he's sometimes hard to reach for several days at a time . . . Australia is full of bright, beautiful women . . . They've been apart for almost three months . . . Men are men.

Erica, stop it! You don't jump to conclusions as a journalist, do you?

“I'm going to go now, Greg.”

“Stay in close contact.”

The call leaves Erica feeling even more distant from him.

She again tries to recall what it was that stuck in her mind from last night, before the explosion. It was something to do with her interaction with Mike Ortiz. But what? She needs to move. She stands up, walks into her sleek galley kitchen, and turns on the teakettle. A small plate is on the counter, covered in tinfoil. Erica removes the foil, and there sit a half dozen homemade muffins and a small folded note.

Erica unfolds the note and reads:

Erica—

I'm so sorry you had to go through that. Your actions were inspiring. Please let me know if there's anything I can do to make your life easier.

All best—Becky Sullivan

Becky Sullivan is another one of the interns. She's competent enough, but insecure and self-effacing, she doesn't make much of an
impression. But what a lovely gesture, above and beyond. Maybe she rushed to judgment on Becky. Throwing carbs to the wind, Erica tears off a piece of muffin and takes a bite—it's corn blueberry, not too sweet, just delicious.

She makes herself a mug of green tea and takes it and the rest of her muffin back to her desk. But instead of sitting, she walks into her outer office, where Shirley Stamos sits behind her desk. Shirley, who is around forty, is plump, has short gray hair and a round face, and wears a turtleneck every day. She's one of those women who looks and acts as if she skipped adolescence and went straight from studious sixth grader to efficient adult.

“What do you think of Becky Sullivan?” Erica asks her.

There's a pause and then Shirley says, “She has a lot of potential.”

“Maybe not ready for prime time?”

“You never know, she might rise to the occasion.”

“Could you send me her resume?”

By the time Erica gets back to her desk, Becky's resume is in her in-box. She's from Norton, Ohio, a town outside Akron, and she went to the University of Ohio on a full scholarship. Then something leaps out at Erica—Becky worked at Burger King during high school. Just like Erica did. This is a young woman who has had to earn every step up the ladder. Erica calls her extension.

“This is Becky Sullivan, is this . . . ?”

“Yes, Becky, it's Erica Sparks.”

“Oh . . .”

“Could I see you for a minute?”

Becky Sullivan appears in her office doorway moments later. She's a reasonably attractive young redhead in her early twenties—chubby, freckle-splashed—who would be a lot more attractive if she stood up straight and looked Erica in the eye.

“About those muffins . . . ,” Erica begins.

“I'm sorry, was that inappropriate? I was just so upset and felt so terrible for you. I remember when you went through that Staten Island
ferry crash, and now this. I just wanted to do
something
to help, or just even show how much everyone here cares about you, but I know I shouldn't have come into your office and kitchen without asking. I'm sorry.”

“Whoa, Becky. Slow down. Please, come in; have a seat.”

Becky makes her way to a chair, grimacing at one point.

“I just wanted to thank you. The muffins were a thoughtful gesture. And guess what? They
do
make me feel better.”

A tiny smile of satisfaction flits across Becky's face, so quickly that Erica almost misses it. Then she reverts to flustered. “I can't believe Erica Sparks likes
my
muffins.”

“Do you want to be a journalist, Becky?”

“That was my childhood dream—or should I say delusion?—but I think maybe I'm more suited to being behind the scenes. I like to make things happen and to take care of people. I'd love to try producing. Not now, of course, I'm nowhere near ready—
duh
—but I mean later, when I've had some experience. I'm just trying to soak up everything. You know how grateful I am to be here.”

Yes, she's obsequious, but there's something interesting about Becky Sullivan. She's empathetic, bright, enthusiastic, but there's also a depth and even mystery that flashes in her eyes. Erica senses she could be a lot of fun once she relaxes. Might be a good match for Jenny.

“Well, you're doing a good job, and I appreciate it.”

Becky exhales and actually smiles. “I meant what I said about doing anything I can to help make your life easier. You can call on me, twenty-four hours a day.”

Erica considers a moment. Clearly Becky Sullivan is a mixed bag. But Erica sees her younger self in the girl and would like to help her. “As a matter of fact, Becky, I'm considering hiring a personal assistant, someone who could help me at work and at home with my daughter. It's going to be a very glamorous gig. Especially if you like picking up dry cleaning.”

Becky lets out a little gasp of disbelief. “I would
love
to be considered for the job. I know I'm gushy, but I have so much . . .
respect
for you . . .” She finally looks Erica in the eye and says, with a hint of confidence, “. . . Erica.”

Erica is hesitant. Does she detect a note of instability in Becky? Or is the young woman just understandably nervous? “I'd like you to meet Jenny before I commit to anything.”

“Of course.”

Erica looks down at the yellow legal pad that holds her to-do list. It must have a dozen items on it, at least half of them relating to Jenny and the household. She tears off the page and hands it to Becky. “In the meantime, how would you feel about tackling this list?”

“Delighted.”

With Becky gone, Erica takes out her well-worn playing cards and deals herself a hand of solitaire. The cards always relax and center her, freeing her to think. As she plays the hand, her mind goes back to her short interview with Mike and Celeste Ortiz last night, just before the bombing. Something was disconcerting about it, but what was it; what
was
it?