The Network

by L. C. Shaw

  “You’ve taken measures to ensure she won’t abandon them in the middle of the season?”

  “Yes, sir. Her contract is solid. She’d have to pay back all the money. But if for any reason she breaks it and leaves, we can use that to our advantage, show how this has devastated their marriage. By the time we reveal the entire story—that the mother died in childbirth and Monica is a latecomer to their care—it won’t matter. Everyone will be invested in the story by then.”

  “Good.” Crosby hung up.

  He rose and grabbed his cashmere blazer from the credenza, slipping it on as he walked out the door. “Call my driver and tell him I’m ready,” he told his secretary without breaking stride, and he inserted the key into his private elevator.

  “Yes, sir. Before you go . . .”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  She tilted her head. “Would you like me to have dinner sent over for you and Mrs. Wheeler tonight?”

  He didn’t miss the look of sympathy on her face. After twelve years, they both knew no more about each other than they did on day one. She had never asked him what was wrong with his wife, knew only that she was confined to a wheelchair and under the daily care of nurses. She had tried to probe once, but he had cut her off. His personal life was none of her business. He’d made it very clear that any questions on that front were off limits and told her if she valued her job, she’d rein in her curiosity. She’d been a perfect assistant ever since, handling everything at the network with efficiency and professionalism.

  “No, Millicent. I’ll cook it myself this evening,” he said briskly and entered the elevator.

  Chapter Twenty

  THE INSTITUTE, AUGUST 1975

  I AM BEING HELD PRISONER IN A BEAUTIFUL ROOM HIGH IN the castle, like a princess in a fairy tale, alone and forgotten. Maroon velvet drapes with thick, gold sashes adorn the floor-to-ceiling windows. Murals of kings and their ladies watch me from the walls. My wooden bed looks as though it was hand carved. The beauty in its detail would bring me joy if I were here under different circumstances.

  Crosse has left me alone for three weeks. The only contact I have is the cursory greeting from those who bring me my meals and take me to the gym for my exercise, and from the doctor, whom I assume will be monitoring my pregnancy. I have missed a period. Still too early for a medical test confirming that I am pregnant, but I know. My body feels different.

  He comes into my room, and the very air changes. I can barely breathe. He gives me one of his cold smiles and sits in one of the velvet-cushioned chairs next to the ornate, wooden table.

  “You seem calmer, Maya. Are you beginning to settle in?”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “What indeed? To set your expectations, I will tell you what lies ahead. You will stay here during the entirety of your pregnancy. If you do as you are told, you will earn some freedoms. You will receive a menu and may choose your meals. And you may use my library—when escorted, of course. When you have delivered my child, you will be set free.”

  Does he really think I’m naive enough to believe he’ll let me go? “And if I don’t cooperate?”

  He frowns. “If you don’t cooperate, you will find yourself very uncomfortable indeed. Needless to say, you will enjoy none of the aforementioned privileges, and you will be moved to a padded room where you will be restrained in order to keep the child safe.”

  “I’ll cooperate,” I lie.

  “Wise choice, Maya. I will return soon. I think you will be most interested to learn what awaits the child.”

  “Help me, God,” I find myself saying aloud once he leaves, even though I have long ago given up any belief in a supreme being. I wish I still retained a kernel of that faith. But then again, I reason, what good would faith do me now, and why, if there was a God, would he allow me to be imprisoned here? No. The only one I can count on is myself.

  * * *

  I was taken to see the doctor five days ago. I didn’t bother to engage him. He drew my blood and gave me a pelvic exam. I hope against hope that the test will be negative.

  I hear Crosse’s footsteps now, and I steel myself. The door opens, and he enters. His eyes find mine, and I am unable to look away. His gaze holds mine hostage—I am immobilized. It sears me, that look, and I want to scream, to tell him to let go, but no words come. I muster all my strength and squeeze my eyes shut, wishing with everything that I have that this has all been a bad dream.

  His laughter causes my eyes to fly open.

  “Maya, Maya. A bit childish, don’t you think?”

  He smiles that perfect smile, and I marvel again at the beauty of his features. How can someone so beautiful be so ugly?

  “Please let me go. You don’t need to do this.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t let you go. You are carrying precious cargo.”

  So it’s been confirmed, then.

  The violation is overwhelming, and I break out into a cold sweat. I don’t want his child inside of me. “There must have been any number of women who would have been willing to give you a child. Why me?”

  He sits down on the leather chair across from where I sit.

  “I chose you for a specific reason. Your family has something I want.”

  “What do you know of my family?” My heart skips a beat.

  “Much.”

  His smug manner infuriates me. I want to reach out and scratch his face until it bleeds. I must know. Has he been following me? My parents and my sister? Are they safe?

  “My family has nothing to do with this. What is your interest in them?” I demand.

  A frown mars his face, and his voice is stern. “I’m the one who will ask the questions. Have your parents ever mentioned any valuable treasures or relics they brought with them from Greece?”

  My mind races. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He leans back and pours himself a glass of water from the glass pitcher on the tray on the table. Taking a long sip, he stares at me the entire time, then sets the goblet back down. I have to tear my gaze away from his again.

  “Your parents grew up on the island of Patmos, and they left right after World War II.”

  How does he know this?

  He continues. “Patmos is the island where Saint John lived for many years.”

  “So?” I say in a voice more rebellious than I feel.

  “There were a great many religious relics hidden there. The Germans found most of them, but not all.” He stands and turns his back to me, as if he’s weighing whether to continue.

  “That is all I will say for now,” he finally says. “Think, Maya. Think about your family stories. What has been handed down. Try to remember so that I don’t have to pay a visit to your parents and ask them.” He lets the words sink in, then adds, “That would be unfortunate for them.”

  He has to leave my parents out of it. I have no idea what he’s asking for, but I try to get more information.

  “Then tell me, if you are to be the father of my child. You know about my family. What about yours? Where is your family? Your parents?”

  He seems to consider my question, looking off into the distance. He turns and takes a seat again.

  “Do you want to know about my family? Do you suppose I have a loving family like yours? What do you know about need? About cruelty? My father lived to be cruel. Should I tell you one of my childhood memories?”

  He doesn’t wait for my answer.

  “I bet you had a birthday party every year, yes?”

  I nod.

  “Of course you did. Well, I never did. Except when I turned eight. He brought home a dog. A beautiful, fluffy white dog. I was too young to know it was a trick. I took care of that dog—fed it, walked it, cleaned up after it, made sure it was no trouble at all because I knew what he did to anything that caused him trouble. I came home late that day, because my teacher had wanted to see me after class. My father was waiting for me. Had the dog on the leash and was sneering at me and I knew it meant
big trouble.

  “‘You’re late, boy,’ he said. ‘The dog wet in the house.’

  “I knew he was lying.

  “‘You know what that means, dontcha?’

  “I ran for the leash, tried to wrest it from his hands, and he laughed. ‘You scrawny punk. You think you can take this from me?’ He kicked me hard. Then he started kicking the dog.

  “My screams filled the air, and the more I screamed, the more he laughed. I covered my ears to drown out the sound of my dog’s cries. After an eternity, all was quiet again. I didn’t want to look. But he made me.

  “‘Clean up this mess, boy. Poor dog would still be alive if you hadn’t been late.’”

  My blood runs cold as my imagination paints the horrific picture. I want to say something, but no words will come.

  He arches an eyebrow, leans back in his chair, picks a nonexistent piece of lint from his shirt, and looks at me. “No words of wisdom for me?”

  I feel sorry for him despite myself. I look at him, searching for any trace of that eight-year-old boy. Sitting in front of me is a man who appears to be devoid of any vulnerability.

  “That’s so terrible. I’m—”

  “Don’t waste your pity on me, I have no need or desire of it. I tell you this so that you may understand my strength, what I have been through to become who I am today. My father paid for his abuse. After my worthless mother died choking on her own vomit, it was just him and me. But I was bigger by then. He couldn’t hit me anymore. I towered over him. He could still make my life miserable, but not for long. Everything changed when I went to work for the only man in town worth his salt. He taught me everything that I needed to know, took me in and treated me like I was his son.”

  “Who was he?” I ask.

  “You will meet him soon enough. He’s the one who started the Institute. Would you like to see some of the work that’s being done here? Work you would have been a part of if you didn’t have a greater purpose?”

  I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not, but anything is better than sitting in this room with nothing to do but think.

  I nod.

  “Come, then.” He stands and beckons for me to follow. Before he opens the door, he stops and turns around.

  “Don’t think of trying anything stupid. Talk to no one. Just follow me.”

  I nod.

  No one is in the hallway, and I follow him down the empty corridor until we reach a small elevator. He inserts a key, and the door opens. He waits for me to enter and then joins me in the small space, his breath so close that I want to hold mine to avoid breathing any air he has exhaled. Then I remember he has already contaminated me, and my stomach turns.

  The elevator doors open, and I follow him again, into a room with a large window looking into a classroom. I realize it is a two-way mirror from which we can watch those in the other room undetected. He sits down without a word, and I take the empty chair next to him.

  The children are sitting in rows, both feet on the floor, hands folded, and eyes on the teacher at the front of the room. They are elementary school aged, in maybe third or fourth grade. Their teacher is scowling at a student standing in front of her and holds the bunched-up fabric of his shirt in her hand. I want to go through the glass and pull him away from her. He looks terrified, and his small hands are bunched into fists.

  “Can anyone tell me what Matthew has done wrong?” the teacher asks.

  No one raises a hand.

  She lets go of his shirt, then pushes him, and he falls to the floor. “He gave his answers to someone. That’s what. Why is that wrong?”

  A little girl holds up her hand. “Because it’s cheating?” It comes out as a squeak.

  The teacher walks over and puts her face inches from the child’s. She mimics her. “Because it’s cheating?” She yanks hard on the girl’s pigtail. She straightens, then raises her voice. “No! Not because it’s cheating. Anyone else?”

  A few hands shoot up.

  She points. “Malcolm, how about you?”

  “Because he got caught?”

  “Exactly. Good job.” She hands Malcolm a candy bar.

  “Only stupid, careless children get caught. Sometimes in life, cheating is necessary. But if you’re going to break the rules, you make sure to cover your tracks.” She walks back over to Matthew. “Get up. Go back to your seat and don’t ever let me catch you again.” She turns to the class. “What is the cardinal rule?”

  “Don’t get caught,” they answer in unison.

  “Very good. Now it’s time for musical chairs. No lunch for the loser.”

  “What is this? Why is she so horrible to the children?” Outrage has turned my voice shrill, and my face is hot.

  He sneers at me. “What you see as horrible, I see as necessary. These children don’t need coddling. They are going to be extraordinary leaders one day. They need to learn life’s lessons early.”

  “What lessons? That adults have the right to abuse children? That lying and cheating is good? I would have never agreed to be a part of any of this.”

  He shakes his head. “This wasn’t part of your training. I show you this to give you a complete picture of the empire my child will one day inherit. These children are lucky. Where else would a group of orphans have the opportunity to be educated by the brilliant minds here at the Institute? And what other orphans are being molded into adults who will have impeccable pedigrees and being groomed for positions of untold wealth and power? But first they need discipline and direction.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  He laughs. “They are brought to me. They are throwaways, disposed of by irresponsible garbage not fit to be called parents. Without us, they would be nothing. One day, these children will be judges, politicians, business magnates.”

  I see where he is going with this. “And you will pull their puppet strings.”

  “The others coming through here, others like you, we recruit from the top universities. They are all vetted and solidly indoctrinated before they reach this advanced phase of the program. But there is something to be said for getting them while they’re young.”

  He stands. “Just think how much more my own flesh and blood will be capable of.”

  I cannot speak. Images flood my mind of my child being raised in this hellhole, and I gasp for breath and double over. The prospect is unbearable. I must find a way to escape. Surely even death is preferable to the fate that awaits my child.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  TAYLOR STOOD UP, STEADYING HERSELF BY HOLDING ON TO the sink. Perspiration dotted her forehead. The spotting seemed to have stopped for now, but she was terrified it was a precursor to another miscarriage.

  “How can I help?” Jack asked.

  “I need to lie down. I think it stopped. For now.”

  He reached out a hand to help her and they went to the bedroom. “Good. Lie on your left side. Hopefully you’re only spotting. We’re going to have to lie low for a few days. You should stay off your feet.”

  She stared at him. “Since when did you go to medical school?”

  He looked at the floor. “Dakota started spotting in her third month, but it passed.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll let you get some rest. I’ll be in the next room. Yell if you need anything.”

  She closed her eyes. Hearing Dakota’s name made it all come rushing back. She recalled the day she found out that Jack had betrayed her. Evelyn had been waiting for her at the house when she got home for school break. She’d given Taylor a long hug.

  “How was the traffic?” Evelyn asked.

  “Easy drive. No problem. Dad home?”

  “Not yet. Let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll make some tea.”

  She patted Taylor on the shoulder when they got to the kitchen. “Taylor, sit down. I have something to tell you.”

  “What’s wrong? Is Dad okay?”

  “Yes, it’s something else. Sit.” She took a deep breath.

  Taylor pulled out the chair and sat dow
n—and waited.

  “It’s about Jack,” Evelyn finally said.

  “What about him?” Taylor asked in a shaking voice.

  “There’s no easy way to say it. He got married.”

  Taylor shot up from her seat. “What? What are you talking about? What do you mean he got married?” She could barely speak. “I’m going to see him this weekend.”

  Evelyn answered calmly. “I know it’s a terrible shock. His mother is very upset as well. She got the call last night. He met a woman named Dakota Drake last month apparently. They ran off to Las Vegas and eloped. I’m so sorry, Taylor.” She reached out to embrace her, but Taylor pulled away. She didn’t want comfort from her. Evelyn had been a good friend to her mother before she died, and Taylor had always liked her. But when her father married her less than a year after her mother had died, Taylor began to wonder if Evelyn had ever really been her mother’s friend.

  She ran past Evelyn and into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Sinking to her knees, she vomited into the toilet bowl. Sweat broke out on her face, and falling back against the wall, she hugged herself and wailed. Maybe Evelyn was lying. Even as she thought it, she knew it was wishful thinking. Evelyn loved Jack, she was happy for them. Jack, oh Jack, what did you do?

  Eventually, she found the strength to stand up, and when she did, she ran from the house and got into her car, with no idea of where she was going; she needed to move. In a haze, she drove down Connecticut Avenue, her thoughts racing as she tried to make sense of what she’d heard. This wasn’t just some random boyfriend—this was Jack. He knew everything about her and loved her, anyway—or so she had thought. They had nursed each other through all life’s bumps, knew all the family skeletons, commiserated over every challenge, every rejection, every hardship. Over the past month he’d been busy on a story—or so he’d told her when she had complained that she could never reach him on the phone. Now she realized he had been avoiding her. How could he do this to her? And who was the woman? His wife! It was impossible. She would go to New York and confront him. He owed her an explanation at least.