The Candidate (27 page)

CELESTE AND LILY ARE WATCHING Erica. They're on the Ortiz campaign plane flying to the great city of Whocares. They're sitting at the desk in the conference room watching the live feed from what they call The Spa—
ha-ha!
—and Erica seems to be in the throes of an epic panic attack. Poor thing! Of course it's hard to tell exactly, she's so tightly bound to the bed, but she's trying to writhe and the expression on her face—what you can see of her face under the tape and bandages—looks awfully anxious. Terrified, really.

“Maybe she's doing her Tae Kwon Do,” Celeste suggests.

The girls laugh. Their secret, giddy laugh. Why is it
so
much fun to watch Erica? What does it say about Celeste? She must ask Oprah next time she sees her. The thought of asking Oprah makes Celeste laugh again.

And the election is approaching like a steamroller and nothing can stop them now. They neutralized the only obstacle. Not only neutralized her—
claimed
her. She belongs to them now. And when they're finished with her, she'll always belong to them. Just like Mike does.

Of course, who has nine months and nine days these days? The world is operating much too fast for that. And so Lily, brilliant Lily,
working with a Chinese neurologist at Eagle's Nest, has come up with a breakthrough that cuts the time down to nine days. Nine days to gain control of a mind. And a heart. Only six more days to go, and Erica will be theirs.

Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Fear. Indoctrination. Love.

Just add electroshock, that's all. Celeste smiles—it sounds like a commercial for a cleaning product.
Just add PineSol, that's all.

Electroshock really
is
like a cleaning product. It sanitizes the brain, declutters, sweeps up all that messy, unnecessary information, dissolves all those useless memories, melts away all that emotional baggage. After a few sessions Erica Sparks will have a virgin mind, a blank blackboard onto which Lily can imprint . . .
Lily
. It's like teaching a child, really. No great mystery. Just repetition, reinforcement,
learning
. Erica will understand who her friends are, whom she can trust, whom she loves and who loves her
.
Because that's the beautiful part. When Lily and Celeste control someone, they love that person. Look at Mike. When they're finished with her, Erica will feel safe. She'll be ready to go back out into the world. Parts of her memory will come back. She'll work again. Will she be the old Erica? Of course not, thank God. She'll be the new Erica. The new, improved Erica Sparks. Just like the new, improved Tide! Celeste laughs again.

Lily is still focused on watching Erica. Celeste knows it excites Lily to see Erica—who really is quite beautiful, whose body really is quite lovely—tied and trussed and helpless.

And it excites Celeste to see Lily excited.

What a wonderful world.

“What's she up to now?” Celeste asks casually.

Lily answers in a charged whisper, “I think she's screaming.”

“For ice cream?”

They look at each other and break into peals of laughter.
Such fun!

And then Mike walks into the conference room. He frowns a little to see them laughing. Sometimes he feels left out. Even gets a little jealous. Poor thing. He's like a child that way. “What's so funny?” he asks.

“Oh, we're just looking at Kristen Wiig videos from old
SNL
s,” Celeste says, getting up and going to Mike, kissing him on the cheek. “How was your nap?”

“Good. I'm ready for the next stop.”

Celeste and Lily exchange a glance, and Lily says, “Your crowds have been huge. The latest polls show you holding your lead at about six points. Only one more debate to get through. We're getting close. We just have to maintain.”

“American loves you, honey.”

Mike smiles, that big boyish smile. “And you love me,” he says with that touching glint of insecurity in his eyes.

“Of course I love you, darling. Always and forever. And so does Lily.”

“Listen, Mike, I have to go back to California for a couple of days,” Lily says.

“Oh, I thought you were going to be with us all week,” Mike says, disappointed.

“I wish I could. But there are a couple of big new donors—Johnny-come-latelies, but never mind—who I want to reel in.”

“That's exciting,” Mike says.

“Oh, it should be electrifying,” Lily says. Then she looks at Celeste. Their eyes dance with glee.

SHE WAS WRONG. THIS ISN'T a nightmare. It's hell. She's in hell. She died and was sent to hell for being a bad mommy. A terrible mommy who put Jenny in danger. More than once. In danger of being killed. Killed dead. Erica's not in danger anymore because she
is
dead. That's one good thing. So there are good things in hell. If she's going to be here forever, which it looks like she is, she might as well look for the silver lining. With Erica dead, Jenny isn't in danger anymore. That's wonderful news. Can you have wonderful news in hell?
Wonderful news in hell
. Sounds like a song title. An Elton John song.

I know. I'll write it. In my head. I can hear the beat—a little jangly in that Elton John way and very up-up-up.

Erica smiles.
She
feels up. Yes, she does. This is okay. Where she is. Now that she knows Jenny is safe.

Oh no, another itch!
Itches are the worst. This one is on her scalp. It's excruciating
. A scratch, a scratch, my kingdom for a scratch.

And the itch makes the curtain part and the illusion fall away and Erica knows with crushing certainty that she isn't in a nightmare and she isn't in hell, she's in some terrible place where evil people have total
control over her. And she feels so cold. As cold as death. And she's so afraid. She's never been so afraid.

And then the molecules in the room rearrange themselves. Erica can feel the molecules. When you're trapped in blackness, you feel every minute little change; it washes over you. Someone is near her. Very near. She tenses.

And then one of the bandages around her head is loosed, just a little, over her left ear. And then something is taken out of her ear and she can hear. Just the drip of her IV, but it sounds like clanging cymbals—
drip/clang drip/clang drip/clang.

“Erica . . . ?”

It's a sweet, soft voice. She recognizes it. From a long time ago. When she was a real person.

“It's me, Erica, your friend . . .” A cool hand strokes her forehead. “. . . your friend Lily. I want you to hear something. Something beautiful . . . something that's happening right now . . .”

There's a pause, and then Erica hears Jenny's voice: “I don't want to do my stupid homework. My mother is missing and you want me to write some dumb book report! I didn't even really read the stupid book! I hate you, Dad;
you're
stupid. You can go to hell!” Now she's crying. “Leave me alone!” Now a door slams. And all Erica can hear is whimpering. Her baby whimpering. Then she can make out faintly, so faintly . . . , “Mommy, Mommy . . .”

“Oh, Erica, I'm sorry . . . That wasn't beautiful. It was
sad
, wasn't it? It was sad
and
beautiful. Your little girl misses you. I hope she gets to see you someday. Maybe she will. Maybe she won't . . .”

Erica feels that cold, smooth hand on her neck.

“You have such a pretty neck, Erica.” Then the hand squeezes her neck. It tightens its grip . . . again . . . then again . . . and Erica can feel her windpipe narrowing and she can't breathe . . .

And now Erica is trying to fight, to thrash; she's never tried so hard and she feels a tiny bit of give on her restraints . . . just a tiny bit . . .

STOP THRASHING! Pretend to thrash. So nothing moves. And stop
blinking because with every blink the blindfold moves a tiny minuscule little bit. Just wait. Try and wait . . .

And Erica tries to wait, but then she starts shivering, shivering uncontrollably.

“Oh, Erica, you're afraid . . . You're afraid you might die. You might. Or Jenny might. That would be so sad. Of course, it happens to everyone. Death. It's just a matter of how and when . . .”

And now Erica feels a blade on her neck, a sharp, cold blade, and it traces its way from one ear to the other. “
Oh!
. . . I'm sorry. I drew a little blood . . .” And now a finger traces the blade's path. “. . . Mmm, even your blood tastes pretty . . . Pretty lady, pretty blood. I have to go now, Erica. But don't worry. I'll be back. I'm going to help you. I'm going to give you something that will make you feel better. It won't hurt. I promise. And when it's over you'll be a brand-new Erica. A
better
Erica.” And now she's so close that her lips graze Erica's ear. “You probably wonder what I want, don't you . . . ? I want
you
.”

CELESTE HAS JOINED LILY AT Eagle's Nest, just for an afternoon. It's so good to get away, away from it all, and to be up here with Lily, even if only for a few snatched hours. They're sitting at a large table in the guesthouse that Lily uses as an on-site campaign war room.

Celeste's mind wanders for a moment, wanders down two stories below them, down to the bunker, where Erica Sparks awaits the final phases of her transformation. The one that will turn her from a threat into an ally. When she's ready, they'll drive her up to Mt. Tamalpais and lead her deep into the woods. She'll stumble out of the forest, dehydrated, disoriented, hungry—she'd gone on a hike and gotten lost, slept on the mountain. As for her car, it must have been stolen. She'll believe every word of the story. Because that's the way her mind will work. Then, after the election Erica—with her clout and gravitas and popularity—will become a leading mouthpiece of the New Order.

Celeste looks over to the built-in bookcases that line one wall. No one would ever suspect that behind one panel lies an elevator. An elevator that can transport you down to . . . heaven.

Rising power.

“A new poll from Georgia shows us pulling ahead,” Lily says, poring over real-time data on her laptop.

“No Democrat has won Georgia since Clinton in 1992,” Celeste says.

Lily picks up a phone. “Frank, flood Georgia with television and social media advertising. Buy everything available. Pull as much staff and as many volunteers as possible from Alabama, which is a lost cause, and get them into Georgia. We're going to win it.”

After Lily hangs up, there's a moment of silence. The two women look at each other. What they set in motion twelve years ago—when they searched the political landscape for the perfect vehicle for their ascent and found Mike Ortiz—is about to come to full fruition.

Then there's a firm knock on the door. Odd. They haven't summoned any staff. Who could it be?

Lily gets up, crosses to the door, and opens it. A man and a woman in dark suits stand there.

“Lily Lau?” the man asks.

“Who's asking?” Lily answers.

“Kevin Marcus. This is my partner, Carol Norton. FBI.” They both flash their badges.

Celeste notices Lily's whole body tense.

“May we come in?”

Celeste feels her pulse start to race. She and Lily exchange a glance.

“Of course. Welcome,” Lily says with a smile, standing back.

“Could I get you a cup of coffee or tea? Water or a fresh juice?” Celeste asks.

“We're good, thanks,” Agent Norton answers.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Lily asks.

“We'd like to ask you both a few questions,” Agent Marcus says.

“About?” Lily asks.

“The disappearance of Erica Sparks.”

Celeste feels a sudden chill at the back of her neck; goose bumps break out on her arms.
Cool it
.
Follow Lily's lead. Say as little as possible.

“I'm afraid we're not going to be much help,” Lily says. “We've obviously been consumed with the campaign and aren't paying a great deal of attention to the story . . . But please, have a seat. Ask away.”

The four of them sit at the table. Celeste looks at the agents with concern and a touch of bewilderment.

“A security camera in Fairfax recorded Sparks's rental car driving northwest on Francis Drake Boulevard at 11:17 on the morning of her disappearance, October 26,” Marcus says, watching the two women intently.

Celeste wills herself not to react as a bead of sweat rolls down from her left armpit. But her breathing grows shallow.

“An eyewitness saw the car on Nicasio Valley Road shortly thereafter,” Norton says.

Celeste feels slightly dizzy. The world is suddenly so quiet, so quiet and still. All she can hear is her heart thumping in her chest. Can the agents hear it? Both of them are expressionless. Now sweat is running down from both her armpits and she's blinking.
Stop blinking
.

Lily, on the other hand, seems completely blasé. She picks up her phone and scrolls through. “We were in St. Louis on the twenty-sixth. None of my staff has told me that Erica Sparks made an appearance here. And they certainly would have. But you're more than welcome to question them yourselves.”

“She was finishing up pieces on both my husband and his opponent. She was in San Francisco to interview Lily for that story,” Celeste says, forcing her voice to stay steady. “But I don't understand why she would come up here.”

“She interviewed me at the office of Pierce Holdings on October 24. I haven't heard from her since,” Lily says.

“I admired her integrity so much. It's a real loss to journalism,” Celeste says.

“So neither of you has any knowledge or information concerning Sparks's whereabouts on the twenty-sixth?” Marcus asks.

“No,” Lily tosses off.

“None,” Celeste seconds.

There's a long pause. The agents are still eyeballing them. Finally Norton says, “We'd like to search the houses and grounds.”

“Of course,” Lily says. “I'll have my caretaker show you around.”

There's another long pause. The agents just sit there. It feels like a game of chicken.

“I certainly don't mean to be rude, but we are
very
busy,” Lily says.

Marcus and Norton look at Lily. She holds their glance. After what seems like an eternity, they look away and seem to shrink a little.

Lily looks at Celeste, and Celeste's confidence sparks; she decides to press their advantage. “Unless you have any more questions . . . ,” Celeste says. Then she gently caresses her hair with one hand, summoning up the might of her money and privilege and upbringing. She's the next First Lady. These agents are government employees. In effect, they work for her. They're little people, dazzled by her $800 haircut and fame and the chic outfit she put on this morning to please Lily, clothes that cost more than they make in a month.

For the first time the agents look around at the expansive, luxurious room.

“May I ask what precipitated your visit?” Celeste asks.

“We've gotten a number of calls from interested parties who don't believe Sparks died in that car accident on Route 1. They think she was either murdered or is still alive,” Marcus says. “They believe that she was investigating some sort of conspiracy that was responsible for the Buchanan bombing and the subsequent murder-suicide.”

“And who are these interested parties?” Lily asks casually.

“We're not at liberty to answer that question.”

“I still don't understand what this has to do with us,” Celeste says.

“It's our job to explore every possibility,” Norton says.

Lily walks over to the bookcase, to the panel that conceals the elevator, and places one hand on one of the shelves and the other on her hip. “That's completely understandable.”

“I think it would be fitting for my foundation to establish a journalism scholarship in Erica Sparks's memory,” says Celeste.

“She's officially missing, not dead.”

“In her
honor
, then. Please do tell the interested parties of my plan.” Celeste feels a wave of elation—she handled this so well, she can tell Lily is proud of her. She leans forward on the table and smiles a warm, sorrowful smile, saying, “We're all in this together.” Then she adds, “Are you
sure
I can't tempt you with a little lunch?”