The Candidate (28 page)

HER UNIVERSE IS TINY, NARROW, and weightless. It's moving up and down. Up and down. That's all that exists. All that matters. Up and down. Up and down. Ever since Lily left. And that was days ago. Wasn't it? Or was it hours ago? Or minutes ago? Up and down. Up and down.

And with each blink she's brought closer to Jenny. And so she blinks for hours and hours and more hours. And yes, the bandage is moving, it's moving up. She can feel it. Because that's all she can feel. All she cares about. All that exists.

She's tired and scared, but there's no room for fear or fatigue. Only fight.
Fight!
Up and down. Up and down.

There is no thought. No emotion. No lists of old teachers or old boyfriends or books read or jobs held. There is just this. Up and down. Up and down.

And then there was light!

Faint, so faint . . . fainter than faint . . . just a trace . . . just a shadow of a trace . . .

Faster. Up and down. Up and down. Fight. Fight.

And now it's hours and hours and then . . . There's more light . . . Now the trace is a glimmer . . . and now the glimmer is a sliver . . .

A sliver of the room.

And the world is revealed in a tiny horizontal sliver at the bottom of her eye bandage. And the room is brightly lit, like a laboratory. And through the sliver Erica can see down her body, her trussed-up body, to the foot of the bed and the blank wall beyond. And she inhales sharply. Inhaling strength.

They're watching you! They're always watching you!

And then gently, so gently, imperceptibly, she begins to clench and unclench her muscles. She starts with her feet, then up to her calves, her thighs, her butt, her stomach, her chest, her arms. Clench and unclench, from feet to chest, then chest to feet, up and down, down and up, feel the blood flow, the strength flow. And now make a tiny rolling motion, side to side, so slight,
invisible
. And then she twists, tiny undetectable twists. She keeps clenching and rolling and twisting.

Fight!

And then the molecules in the room rearrange themselves.
Go still.
Now she feels a slight tug on her arm. They must be changing her IV. Good. She needs the strength. But suddenly she feels so weak. And sleepy . . . so sleepy.

No! Stay awake!

But she can't stay awake . . . she's overpowered . . . pulled down . . . down . . . and sleep comes. A dreamless sleep. A sleep as deep as death.

ERICA WAKES UP IN A cold sweat, gripped by a wildfire of fear. A fear so deep it's burrowed into her bones. For Jenny. And for herself.

And then the molecules rearrange themselves again. There's someone in the room. And through the sliver of an opening at the bottom of her eye bandage she sees a machine wheeled down to the foot of the bed. Then the person leaves. The machine is medium-size, atop a pole. It looks cold and sinister. An instrument? To perform a procedure? On Erica's body? Then she sees the two electrodes attached to the machine—wires with circular patches at the end of them. And on top of the machine there's a plastic mouth guard.

Oh, it's an electroshock machine, Erica realizes with odd detachment. How shocking! And then it hits her—
they're going to use it on her
. And under her bandages a thousand fear rats bloom and race up and down her flesh and she recoils involuntarily, and her restraints give just a little bit, but she doesn't notice because she's gripped by obliterating terror.

They're going to fry my brain. Fry my brain. Fry my brain. And then, when it's fried and shriveled, they're going to fill it with lies. Sick lies. And sick love.

Just like they did with Mike Ortiz.

Time is running out. She runs through what she knows. She's in a room—she can see a sliver of it out the bottom of her eye bandage. It's empty now. She's been here for days, probably three or four. She's been isolated and immobilized, subjected to sensory deprivation. And fear.

Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Fear. Indoctrination. Love.

She's still in the fear stage, but she's nearing indoctrination. It all makes sense. They'll erase her brain with electroshock and then imprint it with their agenda. She'll become a puppet in service of their plan to control of the government under President Mike Ortiz. She'll be their ally, with her huge platform on GNN. A mouthpiece for their agenda.

Erica begins her regimen of imperceptible clenching and rolling and she quickly realizes something. Her bonds have loosened, just a bit, just a little bit. The weight she's lost on the IV diet is helping.

And then the molecules rearrange themselves again. And now her left ear is uncovered and the plug is removed and Lily's mouth is so close to her ear she can feel her hot breath. It makes Erica's skin crawl. She wishes she could plunge a knife into her back.

“Did you miss me? Because I missed you. I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?” She runs her cool, smooth palm over Erica's forehead. “Oh, Erica, try not to frown so much. You'll grow wrinkles. Okay, I'll give you the good news first. Tomorrow is a big day. It's the last debate. The one
you
were going to moderate. You blew that chance. Big mistake. Oh well. And the day after
that
, you start your treatments. The ones that are going to be so helpful. That will make you feel so much better.”

Erica looks through the slit, down at the machine, sitting there, waiting, cold and malevolent.

“So! That's the good news. I almost hate to tell you the bad news. It's about Jenny. And it's very bad. And sad. Poor Jenny. She needs help. She needs a mother. And, if you're good, she'll have one . . .” And now Erica can hear Jenny sobbing, right beside her ear, loud sobbing,
blubbery hysterical sobbing. “I'm glad you can't see what I see, Erica. She's cutting herself. There's blood on her dress and on her bedspread. What a terrible mess.”

And now Erica hears a door fly open and Dirk's voice, “Oh no, Jenny, no, what are you doing? Linda, get the car, we have to get Jenny to the ER! I have you, baby, don't worry. Daddy has you, you'll be all right.”

And Jenny starts to scream, to scream at the top of her lungs, and Erica hears footfalls and screaming and yelled orders and doors slamming. And then there is silence.

And then all that Erica can hear is the sound of her own weeping.

IT'S NOON ON THE NEXT day, the day of the final debate. Megyn Kelly has replaced Erica as moderator. The atmosphere in Mike Ortiz's expansive suite at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel in Seattle is tense. There are dozens of aides and staff on phones and laptops, everyone is poised on the precipice. Ortiz's lead in the polls has been holding, all he has to do is make no mistakes tonight—and then he can coast through the final week until the election. Early voting has started in a number of states, and turnout is high in Democratic precincts and through the roof among Latino voters.

Celeste is in one of the suite's bedrooms. She can't sit still.
Where is Lily? Her flight should be in by now.
She's tried on no fewer than eight different outfits. Some are too swanky. Some too casual. She finally settles on a simple blue sleeveless midthigh dress. She's pacing around the room. She can't relax, not without Lily here.

She's got Mike on the rowing machine in the other bedroom. Don't let him overthink things. They've got him prepared for every possible question. He's worked like a dog. First to get the answers down pat. Then to make it look like they're not down pat, that he has passion and spontaneity. He's memorized personal anecdotes about a dozen people
he's met on the stump. He knows to take a deep breath before answering. To be respectful of Lucy Winters. There's really nothing more they could do to prepare him. He's a well-oiled machine.
But where is Lily?

Hair and makeup will be here later this afternoon. Celeste wants to look her best, but she doesn't want to go full out. Not the time and place. Wait for the first state dinner. She has
big
fashion plans as First Lady. Forget Jackie Kennedy and Michelle Obama. She's going to reset the bar.

Her phone rings—her untraceable, unbugable, only-for-Lily phone—and she almost leaps for it.

“Where are you?”

“We just landed.”

Celeste exhales with a sigh. “Get over here as soon as possible. How did it go?”

“Well. It went well. We have her right where we want her. I just sent you the mobile link to the live feed. See you soon.”

Celeste hangs up and then uses the phone to access their untraceable e-mail account. She clicks the link. And there she is, the high and mighty Erica Sparks, tied up like a stuck pig. Celeste feels a moment of sympathy for her. The moment passes. She's getting exactly what she deserves. Sticking her pretty blond head where it doesn't belong.

Still, watching Erica—is she wriggling ever so slightly? No, that's just the camera—Celeste feels a tinge of unease, of foreboding. As if the whole enterprise is a house of cards that could tumble down at any minute. She starts to pace again. They're in so deep. They're about to stage a bloodless coup. The federal government will in essence be run from Beijing. Every decision will be made at the command of Chen Lau and his superiors. They've built the ultimate Trojan horse, and in eight days he'll be president-elect of the United States.

Celeste feels like she's going to jump out of her skin. Dark thoughts start to bubble up. Lily was so mean to her on the flight, when she was afraid they might have been hacked. And she's been distant lately. Will Lily change once power is hers? Has Lily been manipulating Celeste to
get what she wants? Is brilliant Lily the ultimate user? And is Celeste just one more pawn?

Celeste couldn't stand it if anything changed between them. She loves Lily. She needs her. She wants to make her proud. The future belongs to Lily, to her father, to China. And Celeste wants to be by Lily's side, part of that future.

The door opens—and there she is!

Celeste rushes across the room. “Lily!”

Lily is not a hugger, but she kisses Celeste on the cheek. Celeste feels her anxiety and fear evaporate. They're together. A team. What silly thoughts she had! It's an equal relationship. Has she forgotten that Lily needs
her
?

She does need her. Doesn't she?

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?”