by L. C. Shaw
Dedication
FOR RICK
Thank you for always believing.
Epigraph
There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.
PROVERBS 14:12
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Acknowledgments
Read on for a Sneak Peek
Chapter One
About the Author
More Advance Praise for The Network
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
JACK LOGAN HAD DITCHED HIS CATHOLIC UPBRINGING but kept the guilt. He hadn’t planned on blowing his entire afternoon listening to the woman he was interviewing talk about her dead daughter, but he didn’t have the heart to tell the grieving mother that he already had enough for the story. So instead, he bought her lunch and dinner, listening as she painted a picture of the girl she had loved and had failed to save. Now he was behind schedule and would have to work all night. Man, he hated the pieces involving kids. The parents got to him every time, and his attempts at comforting them were as effective as a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.
It was after eight by the time he got to his East Village apartment. He sprinted up the three flights of stairs and heard his landline ringing as he approached the door. Jamming the key in the lock, he pushed the door open, rushed over, and snatched the phone, upsetting a bottle of Bass Ale and spilling the dregs on the table. He grabbed a towel to sop it up before it dripped onto the hardwood floor.
“Great.” He clicked the green button. “Yes?”
“Could you sound any more annoyed?” It was his editor.
“Sorry, Max. What’s up?” Jack sank into his worn leather sofa and ran a hand through his hair.
“Tried your cell. Went right to voice mail.”
“I was interviewing one of the mothers.”
The sound of papers rustling came from the other end of the line. “You already did your piece on the decision. What’s the angle on the follow-up?”
“The fallout from the decision to let the show go on.”
A sharp intake of breath. “You’re not saying the Supreme Court should have censored it?”
“No, no. Of course not. But the voices of the bereaved deserve to be heard.” He wasn’t much of a television watcher, but when the class action suit against the network behind Teenage Wasted had reached the Supreme Court, he’d tuned in. At first it looked just like the setup of any of the other reality shows jamming the airwaves—an eclectic group of teenagers allowing the cameras behind the scenes into their world. Within the first five minutes of the show, though, Jack had sat open-mouthed while a young man retrieved paraphernalia from under his bed, pulled up a porn site on his computer, and began doing what your average adolescent boy did behind closed doors. It was filmed so that there wasn’t any actual nudity, but it was obvious what he was doing. It wasn’t until the young man put the noose around his neck that Jack’s shock turned to horror. So that was what erotic asphyxiation looked like up close and personal.
The internet went nuts the following day and homemade videos of other kids demonstrating their own secret hobbies began to appear all over video sites. When kids started turning up dead, it really hit the fan. A class action suit was filed against Omega Entertainment Inc., the entertainment giant responsible for the new show, by the grieving families whose children had been inspired by Teenage Wasted to engage in dangerous experiments that had cost them their lives. The Supreme Court decision had been handed down a few weeks ago, to the great shock of the plaintiffs, and the show went on—more popular than ever. Omega had won the case under freedom of speech protection, which Jack couldn’t argue with, but he was disgusted by how the company executives were perverting the First Amendment for their own profit. He was happy to do his part to help tarnish Omega’s reputation.
“All right, email it when you’re finished. You still coming tonight?” Max asked.
Jack grimaced. Sally Goldman’s retirement party. He had forgotten.
“Wish I could, but I’m too jammed up with this.” Sally was a great gal. He was sorry he’d have to miss it. He’d send her some flowers tomorrow.
He’d better get to it. He opened his laptop and began to organize his notes. He was starving; he’d barely touched his dinner earlier. He picked up the phone to call Joe’s and order a pizza and was surprised to hear a knock at his door. He made no move to answer it. The knocking continued, louder now. Who the hell would just show up uninvited? Once again, he regretted moving into an apartment with no doorman—someone must have held the main door open downstairs. He slammed the phone down, jumped up, and strode to the door, ready to tell whoever it was to beat it. The words died on his lips when he opened it. Probably best not to piss off a US senator. Without waiting for an invitation, Senator Malcolm Phillips walked right in.
From the first time he’d met Phillips, something about him struck Jack as off. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly: the guy’s manners were impeccable, his background impressive. Phillips was perfect. A little too perfect. Everything about him was so well-rehearsed that Jack could almost believe an invisible teleprompte
r fed him his lines. What surprised Jack most was how Phillips’s wife, Taylor, failed to see he was all wrong for her. Of course, he kept this to himself. His opinion didn’t mean anything to Taylor anymore.
Going no farther than the apartment foyer, Phillips started speaking in an uncharacteristically nervous rush. “I won’t waste time with pleasantries. I need your help.” His voice shook, and his face was ashen.
“What is it?”
“I scuttled the vote. It was supposed to be a good thing. But he snuck something else in the rider. He has to be stopped.”
Jack had no idea what Phillips was talking about. “Whoa, slow down. Who has to be stopped?”
He ignored Jack’s question and handed him an envelope instead. “Take this. You’ll need it to convince Taylor. I didn’t believe it. He told me he would do it. I didn’t believe him but . . . they’ll kill me.”
This was insane. He hardly knew Phillips, yet here he was in Jack’s apartment rambling like a crazy person.
“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Can you slow down and start from the beginning?” Jack asked, trying to sound calm.
“No time. You’re the only one I trust. You’ve got to find Jeremy. Get Taylor to him. They won’t hurt her now, but later . . . I was so stupid . . .”
Phillips had moved into the living room, where he was pacing, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“Who’s Jeremy? You’re not making any sense,” Jack said.
“Go to Taylor and show it to her.” He pointed to the envelope. “It’s all in there. Get Taylor and take her to the cabin.”
How did he know about the cabin? Jack wondered, but he had a more pressing issue.
“I’m the last person Taylor wants to see. She’s not going to go anywhere with me.”
Phillips moved closer to Jack and grabbed his arm.
“They own me. And Brody Hamilton, too. You’ll see when they kill me. Then you’ll know.”
“When who kills you?”
Phillips let go of his grip and backed away.
“Promise me you’ll get her to Jeremy.” He handed Jack a remote control. “This will get you into our garage. I’ve taped our address to the bottom.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Remember, Jack, no matter what it looks like, I’m not suicidal or prone to accidents.” Suddenly, the senator ran past him and was out the door before a flabbergasted Jack could respond.
Jack shut the door, began to walk away, then turned back and engaged the extra deadbolt. His eyes narrowed as he looked around, half expecting a phantom to appear.
What was Phillips talking about? Did someone really want him dead—someone powerful enough to own two senators? His head began to pound, and he leaned forward to massage his temples. What had Phillips done? Maybe he’d gone nuts, or this was early-onset dementia. Jack could only hope.
He would do some digging. Try to make sense of what had just landed in his lap. He threw the envelope on the coffee table, opened his laptop, and set a Google alert for “Malcolm Phillips.” Then he looked at the envelope Phillips had pushed into his hand, marked with Taylor’s name. The hell with it, he thought, as his thumb slid under the lip and he tore it open.
Chapter Two
MALCOLM PHILLIPS WAS 110 FEET UNDERWATER. HE checked the metrics on his dive computer—five more minutes before he was in danger of getting the bends. He had spent too much time in one room of the wreck and now would have to forgo exploring the rest of it. Scuba diving was the only time he truly relaxed, and wreck diving was his favorite. He loved the history and mystery associated with these old Japanese ships.
It was the first time since he’d scuttled the vote that he hadn’t felt the target on his back. After he had landed in Guam, he had called an old friend and borrowed his private plane to get here. Part of the appeal of this remote Micronesian island was his ability to blend in with the other tourists—nobody knew who he was or paid him any extra attention. He wanted to be as far away from Taylor as possible to be sure she wasn’t caught in the cross fire. Who would have thought that he would be willing to make such a sacrifice? Before he met Taylor, he had never done a single thing out of concern for another person. As some would say, miracles never cease.
Satisfied that he could count on Jack to look after Taylor, Malcolm intended on making the most of whatever time he had left. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d be able to elude his enemies for long, but in the time he had left, he was going to do what he loved most. He rented the equipment from a dive shop he knew well and checked it over carefully before heading to the dive boat. He’d been here more times than he could count, and the divemaster knew him well enough that Malcolm convinced him to make an exception and take him out alone. He needed to think, and he never thought better than when he was gliding along a coral reef.
The water caressed his skin, and he surveyed the visual feast surrounding him. Angelfish painted in vibrant blues and yellows floated by, oblivious to their glory. The soft whooshing of his regulator filled his ears, and the lack of conversation added to his pleasure. Closing his eyes, he relished the feeling of floating through the ocean. He checked his dive computer and saw it was time to go up. He began ascending, making a concentrated effort to exhale as he rose, but was surprised when he heard a warning tone from the device. Beep . . . beep . . . beep. What was wrong? He looked at his wrist—the ascent warning. He was going up too fast. Swimming back toward the wreck, he grabbed the rope dangling from the boat above. Now he would need to hang for at least ten minutes. He continued checking his gauge while he held on to the rope, then began a slow ascent when it indicated he was clear to go up. At last, he broke the surface and felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face. After climbing aboard the boat, he slipped the heavy tanks off his back and discarded his wet suit. He was looking forward to a well-earned lunch.
When he reached the outdoor restaurant, a young man showed him to a table overlooking the sea. He inhaled deeply. Salt and diesel combined to make a surprisingly pleasant aroma. He ordered a Hammerhead Amber, one of nearby Yap Island’s newest microbrews, and made notes in his diving log. His waiter returned with the beer and smiled at him.
“We have nice fresh fish, mister. You want same as yesterday?”
Malcolm nodded. “Let the chef know it’s for me. He knows how I need things prepared.”
“Yes, sir.” He bobbed his head and left.
The tuna was delicious, and he devoured it. Leaning back with a satisfied sigh, he debated whether to order another beer. Deciding a nap would be even better, he paid the bill and walked the quarter mile to the small hut he was staying in. On the way, his throat started to feel funny. He tapped his pants pocket to see if it was there. Deep breath, don’t worry. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. When he reached the hut, he had to steady himself against the door as the scratchiness in his throat intensified, and he became dizzy. The realization that he was definitely having an allergic reaction hit him, and he pulled the EpiPen from his pocket. He snapped open the case, removed the safety, and plunged the pen into his right thigh. Relax. It’ll kick in soon.
But it didn’t. The tightening around his neck increased, and he managed to croak out a dry, wheezing cough. Staggering to the dresser, he felt around for another Epi and stabbed it into his other leg. The face looking back at him in the mirror wasn’t his, the swelling so exaggerated it rendered him unrecognizable. This couldn’t be happening. Not yet. Dread filled him. Someone had tampered with the food—and his medicine. His shellfish allergy was in his medical file. Grasping the dresser, he pulled the hotel phone toward him as he fell to the ground. When he lifted the receiver to his ear, there was only silence.
Chapter Three
JACK HAD REALLY THOUGHT PHILLIPS WAS OFF HIS nut—on drugs, anything but serious. Especially after he’d read the letter Phillips had left for Taylor, which sounded like the ravings of a lunatic imagining conspiracies everywhere. But when he got the Google alert that morning, he real
ized with a sinking feeling that Phillips had been telling the truth.
Dead. Phillips had been standing in this apartment less than a week ago. A chill ran through him as he grasped the full implications of this news. Phillips had made a powerful enemy, and if Jack decided to get involved, he would be turning himself into a target.
After Malcolm’s visit, he’d done some quick research on the bill Phillips had been ranting about. It was the last vote Phillips had cast, and he’d voted no. It seemed fairly innocuous, just broadening the range of vaccines that received federal funding to help those who couldn’t afford them. Sure, maybe people felt strongly about covering the cost of the vaccine, but to kill over it? He really hadn’t known what to make of Phillips’s visit other than to think that he was going through some sort of mental breakdown. But as soon as he got the alert, he knew he had to get to Taylor right away. It was too coincidental. Phillips was dead—reportedly, from some kind of accident while on a diving trip. He remembered Phillips’s last words to him with a shiver.
Throwing a few things into a duffel, Jack then opened his safe and took out his SIG, making sure to pack extra ammo. He went to the hall closet and grabbed his go bag. This would take care of Taylor and him for a couple of weeks. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get Taylor to leave with him. He had a few hours to think about it on the drive from the city to her house in McLean, Virginia. He was relieved as he pulled his ’66 Mustang out of a nearby garage that his car was too old to have GPS.
* * *
The winter sun was setting when he pulled up to the property. The massive black iron gates were locked, as he’d expected, and he had to get out of the car to swipe the card reader to open them. He had never been to the house Taylor shared with Phillips, and as he came up the long driveway to the enormous, French colonial–style manor, his eyes widened. There were five exterior stone arches, illuminated from above by large, round light fixtures. A second-story balcony ran across the entire front of the house. This place cost serious money—clearly, Phillips’s Senate salary wasn’t covering the mortgage and upkeep on it. He remembered reading about it a while ago in Town & Country one night when he’d had a few too many and started googling Taylor. It had its own basketball court, indoor pool, and home theater. It suited Phillips perfectly, but Taylor? Maybe she had changed over the years, from that little girl he’d grown up with who’d hated ostentation to a senator’s wife overseeing a grand estate.
