The Newsmakers (34 page)

“Of course,” Erica says.
It's called hitting a brick wall you built.

“I'm a bulldog, Erica, and I'm not letting go until justice is served.”

“Keep me posted.”

“I'll let you know the minute we learn anything new.” He takes out his card and hands it to her. “Call me anytime night or day. I'm at your service,” Spellman says with a smile that stops at his upper lip. “Let me get back to work.” He nods to Nylan and Wilmot and leaves.

“I hope this addresses your concerns,” Nylan says.

“As for your court records,” Wilmot adds, “I can guarantee you they will never see the light of day.”

Nylan and Wilmot are staring at her, smiling, expectant.

Think. Think fast. You're cornered. You need room. You need time.

“It does address my concerns. Spellman seems highly competent.” She sits up in the chair and slaps the arms. “So! I am officially dedicating all my time and energy to
The Erica Sparks Effect
. Let's make great television together!”

Erica stands up and thrusts out her hand. Nylan ignores it, opens his arms, and hugs her. She shudders but covers it up with a half-hearted hug back.

Nylan nods at Wilmot, who opens a cabinet to reveal a large television. He clicks a remote, and footage from Jenny's birthday party fills the screen. There's Claire: “On behalf of everyone at GNN, I want to welcome Jenny to our family.” Wilmot pauses the footage—Jenny's sweet, tentative face fills the screen.

Erica's stomach turns over.

“What a wonderful future the GNN family has together,” Nylan says.

Erica knows a thing or two about families—but she forces out a bright “Indeed.”

CHAPTER 79

ERICA HEADS DOWN THE HALLWAY
to rehearsal—she's rattled and enraged. Does Nylan really think she would sell her soul for five million dollars? And bringing up Laura Gordon—“
She reminds me of you, although she's very confident
.” And that little trick with the Jenny footage was despicable, sick. Her daughter is her life. They touched the third rail, and Erica is going to bring them down or die trying. But how? Both Samuels and Takahashi have told her there isn't enough evidence to bring charges.

Right now she has to keep her head down and think. And she has to get through this rehearsal.

In her dressing room Erica changes into a color-block dress Nancy picked out, and then Rosario and Andi do her makeup and hair. Both of the women are subdued, tentative, even fearful.

“I heard Nancy was escorted out yesterday,” Erica says.

Rosario lowers her voice. “Like a criminal.”

“But why?” Erica asks.

Rosario looks down.

“Is it because she was friends with me?”

Rosario's somber silence is her answer.

Rosario and Andi leave and Erica is alone. She looks at herself in the mirror. Who's the real Erica behind the pretty makeup and perfect hair? The battered little girl who huddled in her room night after night, afraid to venture to the bathroom for fear it would trigger one of her mother's fits? Or the teenager who studied until her eyes burned and became the first ever graduate of her high school to make it to the Ivy League? Or the mother desperate to do right by her daughter, to make amends, to protect her and nurture her? Or a woman trapped in a situation that has spun out of control and threatens her life?

There's a knock. “Erica, it's Greg.”

“Come in.”

“How did it go with Nylan?”

Erica has an urge to pour out her fear and anger and vulnerability, but some instinct pulls her back. Is he one of
them
? “We reached an agreement.”

“About?”

“I'm trying to stay focused here, Greg.”

A look of hurt flashes across his face, but he recovers quickly and says, “I've got an ear anytime you want to bend it.”

The floor manager comes in and tells Erica they're ready for her. She takes her place behind her desk. The crew—lighting, camera, sound—all run checks, and Erica responds to their requests to stand, look at cameras one, two, or three, move to the seating area. She struggles to stay engaged, but she feels disassociated from the scene, as if she's watching her own stunt double go through the motions.

Soon they're ready to run a mock show. Interns have been recruited to stand in for guests. Ali Cheung calls for quiet on the set and then, “5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Go!”

Erica looks into camera one and reads from the teleprompter, “Welcome to
The Erica Sparks Effect
—where the truth rules. I'm Erica Sparks, and today's top story is . . .”

She struggles through the copy, sweating profusely, feeling as if she could slip into gibberish at any second. “The National Weather Service
has upgraded Tropical Storm Carl to a Category 3 hurricane. As it barrels toward South Florida, the storm continues to gain strength. If this continues, the weather service is predicting it could be as devastating as Katrina or Sandy.”

She interviews an intern standing in for the head of the National Weather Service. Then she goes to the first commercial break.

Erica stands up and takes a step away from her desk—she feels a slight rush of air behind her, followed by screams and a thundering, floor-shaking crash. She instinctively drops to the ground and covers her head. She looks over—a heavy strip light fell off an overhead beam and landed right where she was sitting three seconds ago, smashing her desk in half. If she had been sitting there, it would have crushed her skull like a ripe melon.

Everyone freezes for a moment, then Greg rushes over to her, kneels beside her, puts a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Erica lies there on the floor; she can feel herself going into shock, the blood is draining from her limbs, racing to her heart, she feels icy-cold and struggles for breath, she opens her mouth but can't find her voice. Now the crew has encircled her and they're all staring. Why won't they leave her alone?
Leave me alone!

“Are you all right?” Greg repeats, and she manages to nod. Greg turns to the crew. “All right, everyone, this was a terrible accident, but thank God no one was hurt. I'm canceling the rest of the rehearsal. I want every light up there triple-checked.”

The crew slowly disperses and Greg helps Erica to her feet. She takes an unsteady step, then another. “I'm okay,” she says, hoping the words don't sound as hollow as they feel.

CHAPTER 80

ERICA WANTS OUT OF THE
building; it's not a safe place. She'll head home and try to gather herself, to figure out what to do next. As she walks out into the plaza, she notices a young man on a bike standing nearby; he has a short beard and is wearing a helmet and dark glasses, obscuring his face. When he sees Erica, he mouths something—he's talking on an earphone. As she turns north up Sixth Avenue, he gets on the bike, moves into the bike lane, and heads north too. Erica slows down, he slows down. Erica speeds up, he speeds up. She starts to shake, fighting to control her fear, she stops, pretends to look for something in her bag—her hands are trembling—then she quickly looks over: he's pedaling slowly, watching her, making no pretense. Even though she's in public, on a busy avenue, Erica feels cornered, her throat tightens, adrenaline surges through her—it's fight or flight.

Oh look, there's that nice liquor store, its window filled with beckoning bottles—there's a bottle of Belvedere! Lovely Belvedere! Her friend.
Flight.
It's all too much for her, her crazy, scary life, a snowball that's turned into an avalanche—but she's minutes away from relief, comfort, oblivion. She heads toward the liquor store. And then a young girl steps off the curb without looking, is heading right into
the crosstown traffic. “Mollie!” her mother screams, racing to catch her, grabbing her hand at the last second, swooping her up in her arms, holding on to her for dear life, loving her, holding her, protecting her from the world and its dangers. That's what mothers do.

Erica turns away from the liquor store and heads back uptown. She turns west on Fifty-Seventh Street, and the man on the bike does the same. She picks up her pace and reaches her building. Up in her apartment, she crosses to the window and looks down. There he is on the sidewalk across the street, looking up at her.

Erica paces. The falling light was no accident. But if Nylan had wanted to kill her, the light would have dropped three seconds earlier. It was a scare tactic. Just like showing that footage of Jenny.
Jenny.
They wouldn't harm her daughter, would they?

Wake up, Erica, of course they would. They'd kill her without blinking.

Erica races to her computer and frantically researches private security firms in the Boston area—she finds one, Sentinel, that's been around for over a hundred years. She calls and speaks to the president. Then she finds the nearest car rental agency—it's a Dollar down on Fifty-Second Street—and calls. “This is Erica Sparks. I need a car, any car, as soon as possible. I'm at 457 West Fifty-Seventh Street. I need you to drive the car into the parking garage. I'll meet you down there. How soon can you be here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Erica washes off her makeup and changes into jeans, a blouse, and running shoes. She goes to the bedroom window—the man is still down there, still watching her. Around him the crowds stream by, going about their business as if this were just another day, an ordinary day. She goes into the living room and turns on the lights and the television. Then she puts on sunglasses and a baseball cap and heads down to the garage.

They gave her a silver Accord, which is good, nondescript. She pulls the baseball cap low on her forehead and drives out of the garage. Across the street the man with the bike is texting, then he looks back up at her windows.

Erica gets on the West Side Highway and heads north to the Cross Bronx Expressway and then gets on 95 North toward New Haven. She tries to stay at a reasonable speed, but it's not easy, she's leaning forward over the wheel, willing the miles to disappear. Every time she turns on the radio, she hears another update on Hurricane Carl—wind speeds are still increasing and it's expected to make landfall within thirty-six hours. At New Haven she gets on 91 North to Hartford. Her phone rings.

It's Nylan. Should she answer it? You can't run from your enemy.

“Nylan.”

“Erica.” There's a pause, and it's thick with the unspoken, thick enough to suffocate her. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about that falling light.”

“Accidents happen.”

“They do, don't they.”

“They do.”

“Listen, this hurricane is shaping up as a
major
story. I'd like you to go down and cover it.”

“I thought you wanted me in the studio.”

“I don't want any more wild goose chases. But with a hurricane of this magnitude, our viewers will expect our biggest star on the ground. This could end up bigger than any of us imagine.”

Is this a setup? But she has to maintain her front, she has to stay a pro—and maybe the storm will buy her a little time. “Of course I'll go.”

“Good girl. And Erica?”

“Yes?”

“Say hi to Jenny for me.”

CHAPTER 81

ERICA IS HEADING EAST ON
the Mass Pike. She calls Dirk.

“It's Erica. I'm in Massachusetts. We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“I'd rather tell you in person. Can I stop in? Is Jenny home?”

“Erica, what the hell is this about? You can't see Jenny on this short of notice. And what do
we
need to talk about?”

“Something important.”

There's a sigh, and then, “When will you be here?”

“In about a half hour. Is Linda there?”

“She is.”

“Can you come out and meet me in my car first?”

“If this is some kind of game—”

“It's not a game, Dirk. I'm in a silver Accord.”

Erica arrives in Dedham and drives through the quiet suburban streets—who knows what terrible things go on inside these tidy houses? She reaches Dirk's modest rental. She has an urge to rush into the house and take Jenny in her arms, but she waits. Dirk comes out, walks to the car, and gets in, frowning. He's put on some weight and lost a little more hair. Was she really married to this man—this
stranger sitting a foot away from her—just two years ago? It feels like a hundred lifetimes.

“What's all this about?” he asks.

“Dirk, I'm caught up in something serious, maybe dangerous. It will be over soon—one way or another. In the meantime, I've hired a security company to watch Jenny.”

“Are you telling me you've put my daughter in danger?
Again?
”

Erica thinks she might throw up. Because his words are true. She
has
put Jenny in danger. She never should have started her investigation. She's a fool, thinking she can save the world. How about saving your own daughter first, Erica? You mess up everything you touch—

“You can't ever, ever change where you come from. And deep down, you'll never be better than any of us.”

Erica slumps against the steering wheel, fighting exhaustion, fighting fear, fighting herself. “Yes, I have. I have put her in danger. And I'm very, very sorry that I have. But the only way out of this is forward. The detective will watch over Jenny, mostly from his car, here and at school. You won't even notice him. And you and Linda should keep a close eye on her, too, a very close eye.”

Dirk looks down at his hands, his mouth tight. “I can't believe you brought this on us.”

Erica explodes. “Well, I did. Okay,
I did
. I'm a horrible, terrible mother, I've made nothing but mistakes, I've scarred Jenny forever! Is that what you want to hear?
Is it? Is it? Is it!
” Erica feels the hot tears welling up behind her eyes—she uses every ounce of her energy to will them down. And then her stomach hollows out, and she says in a quiet voice, “I'm just trying my best, Dirk. I'm just trying my very best.”