The Candidate (29 page)

THE MASSEUSE IS BRILLIANT, HER magic hands bringing Celeste that most elusive of feelings—relaxation. Lily is just a couple of feet away, on a second table, with her own set of magic hands. They're in Lily's suite at the Liberty, just down the hall from Mike and Celeste's. Celeste booked the massages as a little surprise for Lily, a little
je ne sais quoi
that will leave them refreshed and radiant, ready to glide through the night ahead, the big beautiful night. Nothing is more flattering than a wholesome glow on a wholesome girl. And who could be more wholesome than little Celeste Pierce and her BFF Lily Lau? Celeste smiles at the thought and for a giddy moment she's a bright beautiful young debutante again—San Francisco's
It
Girl.
Well, Mummy, I think your little girl has done pretty well.

They're both on their stomachs, and Celeste turns her head and gives Lily a warm smile. Lily returns it. And then Lily's private cell—which lies at the ready beside her—makes a funny noise Celeste has never heard before. Lily's eyes widen and she checks the screen. Then she bolts upright, shocking the masseuse, who takes a step backward.

“You can go, ladies. Pick up the tables later,” Lily says. She stands up and slips into a robe.

“Lily, what is it?”

The masseuses beat a hasty retreat. Lily is in a far corner of the room, huddled over, talking in a fevered whisper.

“Lily, what is it, what's wrong?” Celeste cries, rushing over to her.

“Find her, get her,
kill
her
,”
Lily hisses into the phone. Then she turns the phone to Celeste, who sees the empty bed where Erica lay.

“She escaped?”

Lily nods. Celeste feels all that wholesome blood drain from her face. Then her teeth start to chatter. “What are we going to do?”

“Nothing. This is being handled at the highest level. Erica Sparks won't live to see the sun set.”

ERICA IS IN THE BEDROOM of her suite at the Huntington. Megyn Kelly couldn't have been more gracious. She readily agreed to let Erica reclaim her post as moderator of the debate. She did insist on having an exclusive on Erica's first post-debate, post-rescue interview—she didn't get to be Megyn Kelly by accident.

Erica took a shower and now, in a hotel robe, she's sitting on the edge of the bed. She dials.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dirk, it's Erica.”

“I'm glad you're still with us.”

“Thank you. Listen, your house is bugged.”

“What?”

“I know. I'm very sorry. Call Gary Goldstein at Firewall Protective Services in New York. Tell him I'll pay whatever it costs for them to come up and sweep it. Now, may I talk to Jenny?”

“She's been in very rough shape.”

“I know.”

“She's been through the wringer with this. We all have. Hang on.”

“Mom . . . ?”

“Hi, baby, I love you.”

Then Jenny starts to cry quiet, exhausted tears. And Erica starts to cry quiet, exhausted tears. And they both let the tears flow and under the tears is a river of love.

“Can I come and see you? Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“We have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes, we do.”

“See you then, sweet baby.”

“Times a-wasting,” Greg calls.

Erica jumps into jeans and an oxford and goes out into the living room. Greg and Moira are grave and tense.

“We're going to leave through the hotel basement. We've got a jet standing by at SFO. It'll get us to Seattle in two hours,” Greg says. “The debate commission and NBC want to go public with you taking over. They think it will lead to a ratings bonanza.”

“Ask them to hold off for a couple of hours,” Erica says. “The longer we can keep this quiet, the better.”

“When it breaks it's going to break big.”

“I put together a little prep for you,” Moy says, handing Erica a folder. “It covers breaking stories, the latest poll numbers, some suggested questions.” Then she picks up a light-green suit. “I've been texting pics with Nancy Huffman. She thinks you should go with this suit. And how about these emerald clip-ons? I've got hair and makeup people meeting us at the airport.”

Erica nods. “Let's hit the road. We've got work to do.”

CELESTE AND LILY ARE IN Mike's suite at the Liberty, along with his closest advisors and some select members of the media, including a producer, reporter, and pod from CBS that is recording the historic night. There are several television sets on; it's wall-to-wall coverage of the debate, most of it live from Meany Hall at the University of Washington. Mike is relaxed, bantering with a couple of reporters. Celeste and Lily are pacing around on a razor's edge.

Suddenly on NBC there's throbbing music and the banner
Breaking News
. Everyone turns to the set.

Lester Holt announces, “We have breaking news on both the Erica Sparks disappearance and tonight's debate. Erica Sparks has been found. I repeat: Erica Sparks has been found. She is alive and apparently well. No details of her whereabouts for the last four days have been disclosed. However, she is currently in Seattle and she, not Megyn Kelly, will be moderating tonight's debate.”

The room falls into a stunned silence. Celeste is sure that her heart has stopped beating. She looks over at Lily. She's staring at the set, as still as a statue. Within moments all the other networks have gotten the news, and suddenly the coverage is wall-to-wall.

The CBS producer is on his headset. “
Go live! Go live! We've got Ortiz right here
.” He listens and then says to the reporter, “You're on!”

“This is Bill Condon reporting live from Mike Ortiz's suite at the Liberty Hotel in Seattle. Mike, what is your reaction to the news that Erica Sparks has been found and will be moderating tonight's debate?”

Mike looks blank. Then he looks over to Celeste. She freezes for a moment and then races over to him, fighting to control her voice. “I think my husband is in a little bit of shock,
good
shock. As we all are. Isn't that right, Mike?” She squeezes his arm and gives him an imploring look.

Mike nods his head and says, “I'm going out there to debate the issues with Lucy Winters.”

Lily is huddling with a campaign aide, who comes over and whispers to the producer, “The man has to prepare. No more live coverage.”

Celeste feels panic rising inside her. She takes Lily's hand—it's so cold—and pulls her into a bedroom and shuts the door.

“
What are we going to do, what are we going to do?
” she pleads, close to tears.

“Will you cool it!” Lily barks. “We're going to proceed as planned. We have no idea what happened with Erica. We're just happy she's safe.”

“We're just happy she's safe,” Celeste mimics in a singsong.

“We have no idea what shape she's in, or even how much she knows about what she went through.”

Celeste's lower lips starts to quiver.

“Will you please pull it together! You're going to be the First Lady of the United States—and you're acting like a sniveling child.”

“Please don't be mean to me, please.”

“
Please don't be mean to me, please.
Where's the
pretty please
?”

“I'm sorry, Lily. I try to be strong for you. I try so hard, but sometimes I get scared. I'm sorry.” Celeste collapses on the edge of the bed and starts to cry.

“You
are
sorry. Now pull yourself together and get in that bathroom and clean yourself up. I have to go over to my suite and pick something
up. The cars are leaving for the arena in ten minutes. I want your game face on. You understand me?”

“Please don't leave me; please don't leave me alone.”

Lily looks down at Celeste in disgust. Then she slaps her across the face.

Lily's slap eases all Celeste's anxiety and fear. Her cheek throbs with a tingly pain. She likes the feeling. Lily's in control. Everything will be fine.

BY THE TIME THEY LAND in Seattle the story has broken and the start of the debate is only an hour away. They've been able to keep Erica's location a secret, so there's no press waiting at the airport. On the flight up, hair and makeup made Erica look presentable while she studied the prep folder.

In the car on the way to the University of Washington with Greg and Moy, Erica ignores her faint dizziness, the weakness in her limbs, her hollow stomach. She's digging deep, calling up everything she's got, and she feels her adrenaline spiking—she's keyed tight, running at a fever pitch, almost jumping out of her skin. The next couple of hours are the most important in her life.

They arrive at the hall with little time to spare. The scene outside is raucous and rowdy, with thousands of partisans holding signs for Ortiz or Winters. The scene triggers another flashback to the night of the Ortiz-Buchanan debate. And the bomb going off with a deafening boom and then blackness and then the mangled bodies and the girl with her leg blown off and . . . and . . . Erica tries to push the images—and the fear they ignite—out of her mind.

“Take us to the back entrance,” Greg says.

The driver nods and finds his way to the rear of the building. She, Greg, and Moy make their way to a holding room. There's a television tuned to GNN, and Patricia Lorenzo is reporting from New York over live shots of the audience in the hall.

“As you can see, Meany Hall at the University of Washington is filled to capacity.” The camera zooms in on Lucy Winters's family—her husband and three teenagers. “Here we see Jeff Winters and the three Winters children. Just two rows in front of them is Celeste Ortiz, sitting with Alberto and Miranda Ortiz, the candidate's parents.” The camera pans to Celeste, with Alberto and Miranda on one side of her and Lily Lau on the other. “We can see in their faces the tension and nerves that everyone is experiencing, as we are just minutes away from the start of the final debate of the campaign. With Ortiz leading in the polls, there is general agreement that Lucy Winters needs a breakthrough performance tonight to shake up the race.”

The camera pans to the stage, where there are two podiums for the candidates and a desk facing them downstage, where Erica will sit.

Erica is half watching the screen, half going over her notes one last time. Now that they're actually in the hall, minutes away from starting, she's finding it hard to concentrate, to formulate her questions. She's so exhausted, in some realm beyond exhaustion; she's afraid she might collapse or faint or be unable to get out a coherent sentence. She feels sweat break out under her arms and on her brow.

An associate producer pokes her head in the room. “You're on.”

Greg and Moy give her smiles of encouragement as Erica stands up—did she wobble slightly?—picks up her notes, and walks toward the stage. It feels like a mile-long trek, and in the distance she can see the bright lights and hear the tense murmurs of the crowd. And now the announcer says, “Host of GNN's
The Erica Sparks Effect
, debate moderator Erica Sparks.” And she walks onstage and there is applause and Erica tries to smile, but her facial muscles feel like they aren't working right and then she sees Celeste Ortiz and Lily Lau sitting side by side, taut smiles on their faces, and a wave of fear floods over her and she wants to
turn and run away, run away from all this forever and be free. Can she ever be free? Will she ever be free?

And Erica looks away from the two women and wills herself to
focus
, to be a pro. She sits behind the desk and makes a show of checking her notes, but when she looks down at them the letters look jumbled and random, the words don't make any sense.

And now the announcer is saying, “Please welcome Minnesota senator Lucy Winters and California senator Mike Ortiz.” As they walk onstage the audience applauds and shouts, each side's partisans trying to outdo the other's.

Mike Ortiz's smile is somewhat muted, but he looks relaxed and confident and toned; his suit hugs his muscular body. At the same time he is clearly trying to project some of the gravitas that Americans want in their president. Lucy Winters is no slouch in the charm department herself; attractive and fit and outdoorsy, she smiles a warm smile that complements her natural dignity and purpose.

Erica and the candidates exchange nods. Ortiz seems guileless, and for a moment she wonders if the last four days were all a dream, a nightmare, and now she's awake. And the whole world is watching. Can she pull this off?

“Good evening to you both,” Erica says. “You each have three minutes for your opening statements.” After both candidates have recited their boilerplate spiels, she says, “I'd like to start by asking you both the same question: Who has been the most influential person in your life? Senator Winters?”

“My mother. Growing up on a farm I saw that she not only pitched in with all the chores, she also ran the household budget, cooked, cleaned, took care of her three children, was active in our church, and volunteered at the library and food pantry. When we lost the farm, my dad went into a depression. My mom went back to college, earned a teaching degree, got a job, and held our family together. My whole life has been dedicated to honoring her legacy.”

“Senator Ortiz?”

“I would have to say my wife, Celeste.” He smiles at Celeste. “She has taught me that we all have a responsibility to the common good. She's the smartest woman I've ever met—my best friend and my confidante. Her heart and her wisdom guide every decision I make.”

Boy, both those answers feel canned. In spite of their smiles, the candidates are nervous. Time to make one of them
a lot
more nervous.

“This is a question for Senator Ortiz. You've written and spoken a great deal about your time as a hostage in Iraq. In an effort to get you to divulge military intelligence, you claim you were subjected to torture by Al-Qaeda operatives.”

“That's correct. I was.”

“What sort of torture?”

“They tried to break my spirit—but they only strengthened it.”

“How? What were the
specific
means of torture?”

Ortiz looks at Celeste and Lily, who have looks of concern and empathy plastered on their faces.

“It's all in my book.”

“Yes, your recounting is in your book. Not every voter has read the book. You're asking the American people to elect you their president. One of the lynchpins of your campaign has been your time as a hostage. As you know, many soldiers return from war emotionally and psychologically damaged. I think the nation deserves an exploration of your experience.” A murmur ripples through the audience, along with some muffled boos from Ortiz supporters. “So, can you tell us some specifics about the torture you were subjected to?”

Ortiz shoots another glance at Celeste. Is there a beseeching edge to it? Celeste nods in encouragement, an almost imperceptible nod.

“Well, I was restrained. Tied up. Blindfolded. My mouth was taped shut. My ears were plugged up. I was whipped and choked and told I was going to be killed if I didn't cooperate.”

“Told by
whom?
”

“Whom?”

“Yes, who told you this?”

Another murmur courses through the audience. Celeste and Lily Lau are having a hard time maintaining their poker faces.

“The Al-Qaeda operatives.”

“How many were there?”

“How many?”

“Yes. How many Al-Qaeda operatives took part in the torture?”

“Two. Three. I was blindfolded.”

“Was it the same two or three people every time?”

“Ah . . . yes. I think so.”

“You
think
so?”

“I just said I was blindfolded.”

“You couldn't recognize their voices?”

“They were the same. I think. Mostly the same. I was under a lot of duress. Hungry and dirty and scared and sick.”

“And what did they say to you besides the threats?”

“Beside the threats? Um . . . um . . . they told me propaganda and stuff.”

“Propaganda and
stuff
? What kind of
stuff
?”

“Um, things like America was bad and they were good and I had to obey them. Stuff like that.” Sweat breaks out on Ortiz's brow. The boos have stopped and the audience sits rapt.

“Anything else?”

“Else?” Ortiz tries to smile—which is totally inappropriate—but his mouth twitches.

“Yes. Did they tell you anything else?”

“Oh, okay. Okay, okay. They told me I was being groomed to do great things for the world.”

“What kind of great things?”

“That if I followed them I could be a savior.”

“A savior of what, of whom?”

“Of mankind.”

“So first these men tie you up; then they torture you; then they tell you that you're going to be a savior of mankind?”

Mike Ortiz's eyes keep darting to Celeste. She looks frozen. “Yes, yes,” he blurts out, looking totally at sea. Sweat drips down his temples.

“And were these men from Al-Qaeda?”

“Um . . . yes,” he mumbles unconvincingly.

“Did they tell you they were from Al-Qaeda?”

“Tell me?”

“Yes, Senator Ortiz, did the men who tortured you and told you you would be a savior tell you they were from Al-Qaeda?”

The arena has fallen into absolute pin-drop silence.

“Why does it matter?”

“
Why does it matter?
Because you're asking us to elect you president, Senator;
that's
why it matters. Who were they?”

“I don't remember.” Ortiz looks around wildly, as if for a way to escape.

“
You don't remember?
Well, I just spent four days with some of those same men.” There's a gasp from the audience. “Would you like me to refresh your memory about what the men looked like?”

“Leave them alone!”

“Leave who alone?”

And now something close to rage fills Ortiz's face. He clenches his jaw and spits out, “The men! They were my
friends
! They took
care
of me. They
helped
me. They
loved
me!
They still love me!
Just like my wife loves me! And Lily Lau loves me! You don't love me. So stop it!”

There's a gasp of shock and incomprehension from the audience, followed by agitated murmurs.

“Who were the men, Senator? Tell the American people who they were! We have a right to know! They took control of your mind. Who
were
they?”

Mike looks like a trapped rat, his eyes bulging, his jaw grinding.
“Chinese! They were Chinese!”