The Newsmakers (35 page)

The car is quiet for a long moment and then Dirk says, “We'll keep a close eye on Jenny.”

“Thank you. I'd like to see her now.”

They get out of the car and head into the house. It's neat and clean and Erica feels a terrible stab of envy and longing. Linda comes out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She's a handsome
woman, fit and freckled, and Erica wants to hate her, but she can't, she can only feel a begrudging gratitude—and a sense of urgency.

“Thank you for everything you do for Jenny,” Erica says. “She may be in danger. Dirk will fill you in.”

Linda's face darkens.

Dirk calls upstairs, “Jenny, there's someone here to see you.”

“Who is it, Daddy?” Jenny appears at the top of the stairs, looking heartbreakingly beautiful. “Mommy!” She flies down the stairs, and Erica sweeps her up and twirls her around, and they're both laughing —or is Erica crying?—and she never wants to let her go.

“What are you doing here, Mom?”

Erica kneels so they're eye to eye. “I came to see you.”

“I'm doing my homework.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt.”

“You're more important than homework.”

Erica brushes Jenny's hair off her face. “Am I?”

“Of course. You're my mother.”

“Why don't we take a little walk?”

“Just around the block,” Dirk says. “Dinner is almost ready.”

As Erica and Jenny head down the front walk, Erica scans in both directions, looking for anything unusual, strange cars, strange people. There's a gray sedan parked up the street, on the other side, with a man sitting in the driver's seat; he has an open newspaper in his hands but he's looking over the top of it, to Jenny's house. “Wait here one second, sweetheart.” Erica crosses to the car and says, “You are?”

“Kevin Nealy. From Sentinel.” He opens his wallet and shows Erica his license.

“I'm counting on you to protect my daughter.” Erica crosses back to Jenny.

“Who is that man, Mom?”

“He's a nice man. He's looking out for you. I want you to be very careful for the next couple of weeks. Don't let any stranger get near you.”

“Why?”

“Because your mother says so. Will you
promise
me?”

Jenny nods, and Erica takes her hand and they start to walk. Erica wants to remember every detail—the feel of Jenny's hand in her own, the sound of her voice as she talks about friends and school, the evening sky—but she has a hard time focusing, she can't stop looking around, checking every car that drives by, every person they see.

“Are you okay, Mom? You seem so nervous.”

“I'm fine, honey. Remember your promise.”

“Are you going to Florida to cover the hurricane?”

“Yes, I am, tomorrow morning.”

“No wonder you're nervous.”

They're back in front of Dirk's house. Erica kneels down and puts her hands on Jenny's shoulders. Her throat tightens as she says, “Jenny, I want you to know that I love you, I love you more than anything in the world. Will you always remember that, always and forever?” Jenny nods, and Erica brushes her hair from her face, cups her chin, kisses her cheek, inhales her sweet smell. “Now go have dinner and then finish that homework.”

Erica watches as her beautiful baby girl walks up to the front door. When she gets there, she turns and says, “Be careful, Mommy.”

Erica waves, then blinks—a tiny insect must have flown into her eye. Why else would tears be flowing?

CHAPTER 82

NIGHT FALLS AND ERICA PUSHES
eighty as she heads back to the city. When she reaches New Haven, she calls Desmond Connor on her prepaid.

“Hey there, Erica.” Then he calls out, “Hey, people, Erica Sparks is calling me! This calls for another round. On me.” There are cheers.

“Listen, Desmond, could I stop by and talk to you? In about an hour. It's about your mother. Her death.”

“Hey, well, whatever, sure. I'm at Mulligan's.”

Erica hangs up just as the radio reports that the National Weather Service has upgraded Carl to a Category 5 hurricane.

Using her GPS, Erica makes it to Woodlawn and drives slowly down Katonah Avenue, scanning the streets. She parks and ducks into Mulligan's. It's a classic Irish pub—lots of dark wood and loquacious drunks. Desmond is sitting at the bar holding forth. His eyes are at half-lid and his head has a gentle nod—it's clear he's mixing his medicines.

“Desmond,” Erica says. “Can we talk at a table?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? Hey, you look all keyed up. You want a little something to chill with?”

“Thanks for the thought.” They move to a corner table. “Do you know Ed Spellman?”

“Everyone in Woodlawn knows Eddie Spellman. Mr. High and Mighty.”

“Did he do business with your mother?”

Desmond nods. “Oh yeah, those two got into some shady tricks, man. I mean I'm not exactly Mr. Clean, but I never did the kinda sick stuff they did.”

“Like what?”

“Like
offing
people.”

“Seriously?”

“You wave enough money in my mother's face, she woulda offed
me.
”

“I don't think your mother was the victim of a hit-and-run. I think she was murdered.”

“Whoa. That's some heavy thinking.”

“I think Ed Spellman had your mother killed. They were involved in a very serious crime. He wanted her out of the picture. I need you to talk to a detective.”

“I'm allergic to law enforcement. No can do.”

“Desmond, I'm talking about the people who murdered your mother.”

He smiles to himself. “When you find them, let me know where to send the thank-you note.”

Erica walks out of the bar and looks around—is that someone running, running away, someone dressed in black, several blocks down? It's hard to tell at night and then the figure is swallowed up by the dark. She has to get out of here, off this dark street, she has to escape.

As she drives downtown, she keeps checking the rearview—wondering if she's being followed. And then she wonders if she'll ever be able to escape.

CHAPTER 83

IT
'
S CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT WHEN
Erica gets home, and as soon as she walks in the door, she turns on the television—it's wall-to-wall coverage of Carl. A Doppler radar image of the hurricane fills the screen—the storm is vast and projected to make landfall within twenty-four hours. The governor has ordered an evacuation of all oceanfront residences in Broward, Palm Beach, and Dade Counties. There are massive traffic jams as people flee north, out of the storm's path. Erica switches off the television and looks out the window. A different guy on a bicycle is across the street, looking up at her windows. She goes into her bedroom and starts packing. Her prepaid rings.

“Erica, things are breaking open,” Mark says. “I'm inside the computer that hacked into the ferry's navigational system. It belongs to Dave Mullen.”

Erica feels light-headed, sits on the bed, stunned into silence for a moment. “Are you positive?”

“Yes. But I haven't cracked the master password. When I do, the computer will think I'm him and I can search its history, e-mail, files, and current activity.”

Erica feels a fourth wind coming on and can barely control her rising excitement. “We'll be in the brain of the beast?”

“Yes. And most important we'll be able to find out who ordered the hacking.”

“Listen, I'm heading down to Miami to cover Carl. Stay in close touch.”

“There's a lot of activity on this computer. I think they're working on some new scheme.”

“That's a terrifying thought.” Erica hangs up and immediately calls Detective Samuels. She brings him up to date and then says, “You
have
to station a twenty-four-hour guard outside Mark's room.”

“You think his life is in danger?”

“I think
all
our lives are in danger.”

CHAPTER 84

IT
'
S JUST AFTER NINE A.M.
, and Erica, Greg, Derek, and Manny are in a small jet approaching Miami International Airport. All commercial flights have been canceled, and Erica asked Greg to charter a plane—there's no way she was going to fly on one of Nylan's jets.

They're gripping the arms of their seats as the plane is buffeted, tossed around by winds that seem to be increasing by the second.

“You okay?” Greg asks.

Erica nods, although she's far from okay. She was on the phone with Mark off and on all night, getting updates and offering him moral support. He's so close to hacking his way into the very heart of Nylan's secret world.

They hit a wind shear and the plane is knocked upward, they all gasp as their laptops and phones go flying. Erica grips Greg's hand—a charge passes between their bodies. Her feelings for him are so strong they scare her; she's afraid to give into them, afraid they might cloud her judgment.

But she's getting ahead of herself. In spite of everything, she has to keep pushing forward, functioning. She's covering a storm that threatens the lives of millions of people and animals, untold trillions
of dollars in property damage, and devastation to the fragile South Florida ecosystem.

The pilot's voice comes on the speaker. “Hang on, folks, we're coming in.”

The plane approaches the runway on a diagonal, its tail blown off center, then comes a series of jerks and bumps before the wheels touch down with a thud, followed by a bone-rattling shudder.

Erica walks down the flight steps into the humid, turbulent Florida air. The airport is eerily deserted—there are no takeoffs or landings, no support vehicles buzzing around. A broadcast van—provided by GNN's local affiliate—is waiting for them across the tarmac. An associate producer hands them the keys. Greg gets behind the wheel, Erica sits up front next to him.

They head for their hotel, the Biltmore in Coral Gables, a few miles south of the airport. The roads are a hazard course, with trash cans and debris tossing around like tumbleweeds and palms groaning in the gusts. The few people they see are racing to hammer plywood over windows. One woman is running down the street, leash in hand, frantically calling for her dog.

Suddenly the Biltmore looms up from its low-slung residential neighborhood. It's a pink Spanish-style palace that was built in the 1920s.

They park and duck inside. Like the airport, the lobby is almost deserted, and what staff there is seems spooked.

The network has set up a command center in one of the hotel's mezzanine function rooms. Erica and her crew check in and are handed long rubber coats and hats and knee-high boots.

“I'm going to head up to my room and change,” Erica tells Greg.

“I want to file a report from Miami Beach. We'll leave as soon as you come back down.”

Erica goes up to her room and changes into jeans and a sweatshirt, then puts on her storm gear and checks herself in the mirror—makeup and a brush are futile; within seconds of being out there, she's going to look like a dripping doll.

Erica, Greg, Manny, and Derek set off for Miami Beach. The sky is dark and low and ominous, glowing slightly in the reflected lights of the megalopolis. They get on Route 1 north—it's crowded with fleeing cars, their occupants anxious, exhausted; there's a sense of barely controlled panic, in backseats mothers cradle children, frightened faces peer eastward, toward the Atlantic and the destruction it holds.

They reach the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. Around them the sea is heaving—as they reach the low end of the causeway, seawater sprays up and splashes their windshield, momentarily reducing visibility to nil.

Erica texts Mark: A
NY PROGRESS
? He texts back: H
ANG TIGHT
.

“If this gets much worse, we're going to turn back,” Greg says.

They enter Miami Beach and head across Fifth Street and reach the iconic stretch of Ocean Drive that's lined with Art Deco hotels. Greg parks the van and they pile out. Across the street is Lummus Park and then the ocean—the cresting, crashing surf rising higher and higher. The façades of the hotels are swarming with workmen battening down the doors and windows and hauling outdoor furniture and plants inside. The wind is howling and now the heavy rain starts, blown horizontal, stinging Erica's cheeks and eyes.

“Let's shoot you in the park with the hotels behind you!” Greg yells.

Manny and Derek swing into action, and within minutes the camera and sound are ready. Greg is on his headphones to New York. “Go!” he screams.

“This is Erica Sparks reporting live from Miami Beach, where Hurricane Carl has turned the region into something resembling a war zone. The storm's frontal system has just begun to lash the coast. The National Weather Service is reporting that wind speeds inside the hurricane have reached two hundred miles an hour, the highest ever recorded. That blunt force is expected to make landfall tonight. Millions of Floridians have taken to the roads and are fleeing north
and west.” A beach chair sails by in front of Erica, narrowly missing her. “As you can see, it's dangerous to be outside in these conditions. The Federal Emergency Management Authority is advising those who are unable to evacuate to seek shelter in an interior, windowless room. Tonight's storm surge may swamp the entire island of Miami Beach and inundate the Florida coastline as far north as Daytona Beach. The hurricane's size, scope, and ferocity are unprecedented.”

A wind gust almost knocks Erica over. Greg gives her the signal to wrap it up. “This is Erica Sparks reporting live from Miami Beach in South Florida, which is under siege from Hurricane Carl. Stay tuned to GNN for the latest developments.”