The Network

by L. C. Shaw

  She didn’t know how fast she drove, but before she knew it, she was in front of his apartment building. As a man walked out of the building, she grabbed the door before it could shut and ran up the stairs. She pounded on the door, her face hot, her heart hammering. The door opened and a creature with flame-red hair and icy-blue eyes stood there, coolly appraising her.

  “Can I help you?” Her voice was husky.

  “Where’s Jack?”

  She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “And who are you?”

  Taylor pushed her way into the apartment. “I’m his girlfriend. Jack!” she yelled.

  The woman’s manner was infuriatingly calm. “He can’t hear you, Taylor.” She drew her name out, mocking her. “My husband is in the shower.”

  Taylor spun around and glared at her. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, and the room began to spin. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself while the woman continued to stare at her.

  “I think you’d better leave.”

  Taylor ran past her without another word, got in her car, and gunned it. She cried the whole way back to BU.

  The rest of the semester was torture. Visions of Jack with Dakota taunted Taylor every waking hour. She imagined them in bed. Her hands everywhere Taylor’s should be. His lips on her mouth; their bodies intertwined. It was unbearable. The worst betrayal of all was that he hadn’t even told her himself, just discarded her like a broken toy, unwanted and forgotten. It was beyond her comprehension. She tried to throw herself into her studies, but concentration eluded her, and she failed all her courses. When she returned home for summer break, her father was furious. The confrontation took her by surprise. She had never seen him so angry.

  He stood in the marble foyer, waiting for her to come inside. In his hands was a letter.

  “What were you thinking? Did you even attend one class? Do you realize you’ve put your entire future in jeopardy?”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the vein throbbing in his forehead. Mumbling a quiet, “I’m sorry,” she tried to walk past him.

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her. “Not so fast, young lady. I’m not finished. Come in to my study. We are going to talk about this.”

  She walked behind him, with her head down, and slunk into the chair across from his desk.

  “Taylor, look at me.”

  She lifted her head.

  “One more semester! One more and you let yourself go from dean’s list to this.” His voice rose with each word. He threw the paper on the desk.

  “I tried, Dad. I did the best I could. All I did was study.”

  “Thirty thousand dollars! I may as well have thrown it in the trash.”

  Taylor’s eyes filled, and she turned her head.

  His tone softened. “Taylor, listen to me. I’m sorry you’re hurt, and I wish I could make it all better.” His brows knit together in a scowl and he stood up. “Frankly, I’d like to kill him!” He slammed a fist onto the desk, and Taylor jumped. He walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, lifting her chin with his other hand so she would meet his eyes. His finger traced the hollow of her cheek.

  “You’ve lost so much weight. My dear, you have to move on. Jack has his own life and you need to make yours, too. I’ve spoken to the dean and he’s willing to call these incompletes and let you come back next semester.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Stop. You will go back and by the fall you’ll be ready.”

  “What if I can’t do it?” She felt like she’d never be herself again.

  He pursed his lips. “You will.” He looked up at a noise at the door, and Evelyn came in holding a brochure.

  “Here.” She pushed it into Taylor’s hand. “Your father and I were thinking that a nice trip to Europe would do you a world of good. You can go to Italy, Spain, and then spend a month in Greece, on your mother’s island.”

  At the mention of her mother, a fresh wave of grief enveloped her.

  She handed the brochure back to Evelyn. “Thanks, but I don’t think a trip to Europe is what I need right now.”

  The next day Taylor paid a visit to her old parish priest, Father Ted. She hadn’t seen him since her mother’s funeral, but he greeted her warmly, as if no time had passed.

  “So wonderful to see you, Theophaneli.” She hadn’t been called her given name since her mother died. Her mother had been the only one who’d refused to use her nickname, Taylor.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat as they hugged. He motioned for her to sit on the love seat in his office, and he took a seat facing her.

  “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here after all this time.” Suddenly, she felt awkward and second-guessed her decision to come.

  He raised his eyebrows and stroked his beard. “Why are you here?”

  “Because everything’s a mess, and I don’t know what to do.” She began to cry.

  “It’s okay, pethi mou, let it out,” he said, handing her a box of tissues.

  “It’s the only place I could think to come.” Her lip trembled. “I miss her so much, Father.”

  “She would be happy that you came here. She would tell you to turn to God.”

  She felt the bite of anger rising in her. “Where was God when she was being murdered?”

  “Theophaneli, these are questions we wrestle with on this side of heaven. I don’t know why she had to suffer that way, but God did not abandon her. He was with her. We aren’t puppets. He gave us free will and that is a double-edged sword that the human race has been contending with since the fall of Adam and Eve.”

  She was only half listening. She had heard it all before. Man’s fall. God’s grace. Good and evil coexisting in this hell we call earth. She didn’t like who she became when she contemplated such things, hated the cynicism that wound its way up from her core until she was thinking and saying things that sounded like someone else. She preferred to keep a lid on those feelings. So what was she doing here? She sighed. She was trying to get close to her mother the only way she knew how. Her mother had loved this church, spent countless Sundays worshipping here, and nights and weekends on committees to raise money for the various charities it supported. She had even gotten the priest involved in the shelter her own mother, Taylor’s grandmother, had started a few blocks away. Agape House was a shelter for women and children that were victims of domestic abuse, and many of the church members volunteered there.

  “Father, I was wondering if the foundation my mother started to support SOS Children’s Village has already taken its annual trip to Greece.”

  The priest shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She knew what she had to do. “I want to go, too. Is there room?”

  He smiled.

  “Of course, pethi mou. We would love to have you.”

  Taylor felt movement as Beau nudged her, and she sat up, taking a few long, deep breaths. She would not lose this baby. No matter what Malcolm had done or what was waiting for them when they found Jeremy, she would protect this child.

  Beau whined softly and rested his head on Taylor’s stomach. She stroked his silky head. He looked up at her adoringly, his luminous brown eyes on her. He was her golden child, and she loved him without reservation. If only he were enough. Beau stretched out on the hardwood floor next to the bed to take up his watch over her and her unborn child. She closed her eyes and waited for the blessed escape of sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE INSTITUTE, SEPTEMBER 1975

  I HAVE LEARNED MORE ABOUT CROSSE’S UPBRINGING, OF THE mother who did nothing to protect him from a father who delighted in tormenting and abusing him. Things changed when he turned fourteen.

  He sits expressionless and tells his story. “My father couldn’t keep a steady job. He worked odd jobs for the other families until they fired him for showing up drunk and belligerent. So he found a job for me, told me it was time I pulled my own weight. There was a man everyone knew only as ‘the cripple in the big house.’ He had plenty of live-in help,
but he was looking for a companion, someone young to play chess with, to entertain him. The rest of the boys in the town were cretins, too busy drinking beer and driving around in their ridiculous jacked-up pickup trucks. Even though I was worthless in my father’s eyes, he couldn’t deny my intelligence. It was his one source of pride. He offered me up to the man as a sacrificial lamb. It was a Saturday.

  “My father said, ‘Come here, boy. I got you some work.’

  “‘Where?’

  “‘Workin’ for the cripple up on the hill.’

  “‘I hear he’s a pervert.’

  “My father lifted his shirt and scratched his skinny belly.

  “Then he said, ‘So what if he is? What’s he gonna do, chase you? He’s in a chair for crying out loud. So if he wants to cop a little feel, let him. What’s the difference? You sure as hell ain’t getting any action from the girls, ugly as you are.’

  “I told him, ‘I won’t do it.’

  “He took a long pull from his cigarette. The next thing I knew, the hot end was on my cheek. I jumped and put my hand up to my stinging flesh. That’s when I made up my mind. I would figure out a way to get rid of him forever.”

  So that’s where he got the small scar. His hand goes to his cheek and he unconsciously rubs it. He is on his feet and has a faraway look in his eyes I haven’t seen before.

  “That is all for today.”

  “Wait,” I whisper.

  He looks at me, and the faraway look fades. In its place is hatred, the fierceness of which terrifies me.

  I force myself to speak despite the pounding of my heart warning me of my folly. “Your father used his power to control you, and you hated him for it. Don’t you see that you’re doing the same thing to me?”

  He stares at me and says nothing for a full minute. Finally, he speaks. “I am disappointed in you. Did you think such a transparent attempt at pop psychology would work? I won’t even dignify that with a response.” He shakes his head.

  “I’m just saying—”

  He puts a hand up to silence me. “You’re trying to analyze me. It won’t work. I have a purpose, and it won’t be thwarted. A shame, really, that your education had to be cut short. You could have been a part of the work here, but at least your contribution will live on. Come, I’ll let you have a look at how the training progresses.”

  We sit in another of his screening rooms. There are ten beds in a row, all with white sheets and wool blankets. Next to each is an IV stand with a liquid-filled bag. My stomach tightens as my mind goes wild imagining what’s in those bags. Dr. Strombill walks in, followed by a number of students from my fellowship group, as well as some students I’ve never seen before. They stand around the perimeter of the room and listen to him as he begins. He holds a stopwatch.

  “Are they a new group?” I ask.

  “They are recent law graduates, here for a special training program.”

  I am about to ask him more when Dr. Strombill speaks.

  “It is all well and good to watch films and have discussions on the merits of euthanasia.” He stops for emphasis. “But it is quite a different thing to experience the agony of disease as well as to make the difficult decision to end a life.”

  My leg twitches, as if it knows before I do that something terrible is about to happen. He begins to speak again. “In a few moments we will begin the experience. Medical students, please take a paper from the bowl on the left.”

  I see the student named Brian dip his hand in and pull out a small piece of paper. I wonder what it says. Dr. Strombill moves to the middle of the room and addresses them.

  “Find the person who goes with the name on your paper. That will be your patient. Lead him or her to a bed and have them lie down.”

  He waits until they have all taken their places.

  “You can now insert the IVs into your patients.”

  Brian raises a tentative hand. “May I ask what is in them?”

  Dr. Strombill’s bushy eyebrows shoot up. “You may indeed. It is diazepam. The students will take the powdered strychnine in those cups.” He points. “The diazepam in the IV will counter the effects of the strychnine, so that we won’t lose our patients. It will not eliminate the pain or convulsions, but it will keep them alive.”

  I gasp. In Brian’s and the other medical students’ faces I see the horror I’m feeling mirrored. It is very likely that they will lose some of the patients. I know what the law students do not—strychnine attacks the nervous system, and most people die of asphyxiation, but only after all their muscles spasm and contract into tight balls. The pain will be horrific. I begin to hate Dr. Strombill now, this man whom I have idolized. I turn to Damon.

  “How can you allow this? It’s inhumane.”

  “Ah, Maya, you are upset.” His voice is soothing, and he puts a hand on my arm. “My dear, sometimes drastic measures are required to pave the way for the greater good. The patients here are the future lawmakers, judges, and politicians. They must experience the agony and pain we subject people to when we refuse to allow a way out of their suffering.”

  I shake my head and pull my arm from him.

  “You’re crazy. You don’t have to inflict pain on someone for them to have empathy. Not everyone is a cold, nonfeeling monster like you.”

  “Quiet. You’re missing it.” He points toward the window.

  Dr. Strombill resumes his instructions. “Doctors, you will administer the drug on my cue.” He holds up a small cup containing the powder to be swallowed and addresses the “patients.” “The onset of pain will be sudden and will continue for the next thirty-six hours, when you will be carefully monitored. There will be no relief for you unless you ask for euthanasia, in which case, you will be given morphine for the pain until the poison is out of your system. If you do not opt for euthanasia, you will be given no pain killer.”

  One of the law students raises his hand.

  “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but why would anyone not ask for euthanasia if it’s just an experiment and would end the pain sooner?” His southern accent is strong. He smirks and looks around at his fellow students as if he’s just solved the riddle of the enigma.

  Dr. Strombill purses his full lips. “Because, Mr. Hamilton, five percent of the dosage pumps will give you enough morphine to stop your heart entirely.”

  They all stare at him.

  Dr. Strombill sighs. “In other words, you might actually be euthanized. We will see who can live with the pain and who cannot. It is time.”

  Brian hands his patient the cup. The woman’s face is ashen, and she has wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Brian looks down at the floor, avoiding meeting her eyes, but I can see the terror in them. He tears open the alcohol patch and rubs it on her arm. He finds a vein and inserts the catheter.

  Dr. Strombill clicks the stopwatch. The room is silent, and the air is thick with anticipation. The red hand on the stopwatch dances in circles, ticking off the minutes. A cry stabs through the silence. A second scream, then a third, and soon there is nothing but the agonizing sound of human misery. Then the twitching begins. Arms and legs jerk into the air in a grotesque ballet. I want to shut my eyes and cover my ears to drown it out. I sit helpless, watching as the poison progresses, and I cannot tear my eyes away as the men and women in the beds jackknife into contorted poses of agony.

  My face is wet with tears. There is no decency in Damon—his father has killed it. What might he have been in different circumstances? If instead of abusing and torturing the little boy he once was, someone had loved and nurtured him? I think of the baby growing inside me and am filled with an intense agony I have never experienced before. What lies in store for him or her? Will my child become as consumed with evil as Damon? I cannot contemplate the possibility that my child will grow up to be like its father. Dear God, help me. Help my child, I pray silently. Don’t abandon us to this insanity. Does God hear me? Or am I praying into a void?

  “Take me back to my room. I can’t watch anym
ore.” Bile rises in my throat, and I put my hand up to my mouth reflexively.

  He gives me a look of pure disgust. “I’m disappointed in you, Maya. You’re not the scientist I thought.”

  “That’s not science,” I say.

  I shudder to imagine what other experiments are being conducted here. What astounds me is the fact that no one in the room raised an objection. Not one person refused to participate in that horror show he calls science. Surely, I would have been different, would have walked away. Wouldn’t I?

  He is silent as we walk down the hallway to the elevator. I feel as though I’ve aged years in an hour. My heart is heavy, and I find it difficult to take a breath. When we reach my room, he doesn’t follow me in, and I’m relieved to hear the click of the door behind me. I fall onto my bed and close my eyes, but the images haunt me. I can’t erase the picture of those men and women in agony. I clutch a pillow to my chest and let go, my body racked with sobs, until I have no tears left.

  Hours later, I refuse the tray of dinner brought to me—the nausea returns when I take one whiff of the beef stew. I think of our conversation about my parents, and I wonder again what Damon meant when he asked if I knew of any treasure from Greece. I try to remember anything, the stories my mother told of those days on the island, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding. I cannot bear to think of him going near my mama and papa.

  I hear footsteps and brace myself. The door opens, and he walks in, carrying my tray.

  “You have to eat, Maya. The baby needs the nutrition.”

  “How do you expect me to eat when everything you do and say makes me sick?”

  A flash of anger crosses his face. “This is not open for debate.”

  I get up from the bed and face him.

  “I don’t like red meat. I’ve told you that before. You can force me to stay here, but you cannot force me to eat.”

  He arches one eyebrow. “The iron is necessary for you and the baby. Maybe I can’t force you to eat. But I can have you restrained to a bed and hook you up to an IV.”

  I see red. Before I can stop myself, I rush toward him and rake his face with my nails. I feel something wet and am gratified to see it is his blood. His hand goes to his cheek and he looks at his fingers as he pulls it away again. He grabs both of my wrists and holds them tight while I struggle to free myself. I want to hurt him more.