The Network

by L. C. Shaw

  Brody had never told his wife about his time at the Institute or anything about his dealings with Crosse. The way she ran her mouth, it would have been suicide. From what he could tell from the interview, Phillips had taken the same approach with his own wife. As the interview concluded, he relaxed. There was nothing for him to worry about. He looked at Coralee, her eyes huge with amazement and black cookie crumbs around the corner of her mouth. He winked at her and said, “Truth is stranger than fiction, darlin’. Stranger than fiction.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  HER SON WAS PERFECT. EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM ENCHANTED Taylor. Their eyes locked as he suckled, and she was filled with a rapture so exquisite, she thought her heart would burst. It was as though the pain that all the losses in her life had caused was slowly being healed by this beautiful little boy she’d named Evan, after her mother, Eva. When he had had his fill, she laid him on her shoulder and rocked him, their hearts beating in concert. He was soon asleep and she stayed that way a long time, savoring his closeness and the peacefulness. Reluctantly, she stood and put him in his crib. Beau remained on the floor beside him like a sentinel, ever watchful and protective. He had been like that from the moment she’d brought the baby home.

  She tiptoed out of the room, and into the kitchen, where Jack was going through emails. After the Printz show had aired, the station had been inundated with mail and email from people claiming to have been brainwashed by the Institute. She, Jeremy, and Jack had read each and every one, and none seemed legitimate. As journalists, they knew these kinds of stories brought out the cranks in droves. But they couldn’t dismiss the possibility that now that Damon was dead, some of his graduates might come forward. They’d put up a website specifically for people with information about the Institute. So far, nothing concrete had come through, but they weren’t giving up.

  In the meantime, they were working with Jonas and Evelyn to try to find the churches and orphanages that had delivered children to the Institute. It was slow work, as so many years had passed, but they’d just gotten a call from Jeremy that he’d located a nun who remembered Crosse taking some of the children under her care. This was the first break they’d gotten so far. They were also looking into the backgrounds of the individuals on the list of names Jeremy had found.

  Jack looked up as Taylor walked in.

  “Is Evan sleeping?”

  She smiled. “Like a baby. Any luck?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Pushing his hair back from his forehead, she leaned down and kissed him. “You’ve been at it for hours. Time for a break.”

  He yawned and nodded in agreement. “You hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “How ’bout I order some pizza and we watch a movie?”

  “Perfect.”

  “What kind of thing are you in the mood for?”

  She gave him a long look. “Anything that doesn’t involve Nazis, conspiracies, or car chases.”

  “In other words, a chick flick?”

  “Just for that, I get to pick.” She walked into the family room and pulled out a DVD from the cabinet. “Here you go.” She handed it to him.

  He groaned. “Gone with the Wind?”

  “That’s right. And no falling asleep till the bitter end.”

  “Fine, but I’m getting anchovies on the pizza.” He picked up the phone and ordered.

  “Hey, what did you decide about the job?” Jack asked after he hung up.

  Karen Printz had called Taylor last week. Printz had recently taken on a new job as the prime host of a weekly news show on the UBC network and wanted Taylor to join her team as a producer.

  “I told her I didn’t want to come back full-time. I don’t want to take so much time away from the baby, and I can’t get back into that crazy rat race.”

  “And?”

  He could read her so well. She smiled. “And she countered with an offer to let me produce one show a month. I was going to talk to you about it tonight, see what you thought.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I want to do it. One show a month is manageable, and I love working with her. It would be good to get back into it. It will still leave me time to help you and Jeremy with our research, and it will keep me connected, so that when we’re ready to go public, we’ll have more allies.”

  He was nodding. “I totally agree.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s go see how Miss Scarlett’s getting along.”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  CROSBY WHEELER PERUSED THE CONTRACT BETWEEN Taylor Phillips and UBC while he reached under the desk and stroked Peritas’s soft fur. It was all in place now. He opened the file drawer and placed the contract in the folder he had prepared weeks earlier.

  He had been in the studio audience the night her interview was recorded, had been sitting in the very wheelchair that his beloved mentor had graced. His arms hung limply at his sides, his right hand curved like a claw, useless and slack against his stomach. He’d watched through thick glasses as everyone averted their eyes, avoiding looking directly at him. A “nurse” sat next to him, glancing over at him occasionally to make sure he wasn’t in need of anything. He suppressed a smile, congratulating himself on his disguise. He may as well have been invisible.

  Predictable—the shallowness of human beings. As if by acknowledging him, they might embarrass him or themselves. Better to pretend he didn’t exist than to confront the fact that he was a cripple while they walked around able-bodied. Never mind. It all worked in his favor. He had to remind himself not to move. Most likely no one would notice, but one could never be too sure. Crosby Wheeler was used to personas. After all, no one had yet figured out that he was the same elusive gentleman otherwise known as Damon Crosse.

  It had been risky but he was used to risk. He had to use the precise dose. The good thing about tetrodotoxin was that if one recovered from the poison, it had no lasting effects. The bad thing about it was that it was highly lethal, and any miscalculation would result in a quick death. Its ability to mimic death to the degree that it fooled even EMS personnel made it the right choice. It was referred to in some circles as the “zombie drug”—those who were dead suddenly and inexplicably resurrected. The concept had a certain poetic irony. Of course, he didn’t wait days to wake up on his own. He needed only to fool the people transporting him to the morgue. The medical examiner had received a text alerting him to Damon’s imminent arrival. The ME administered the necessary antidote as soon as his body was brought in. His body was soon replaced by that of a nameless unfortunate, then sent on for cremation after the autopsy had been completed.

  And the coins were now safely in his possession. Peritas had been the ideal courier. It hadn’t been difficult to get them down his throat—they were small enough. A quick text to his connection at the dog shelter assured that they would be retrieved at the other end. Now he had twenty—only ten away from the full set and then he really would be invincible. With everyone thinking he was dead, it would be that much easier to track them down.

  He had watched Taylor, curious as to what she would reveal. She was quite good-looking, he had thought, appraising her as he would a piece of art or fine furniture, but he felt nothing for her. She’d made Malcolm out to be a hero. And why not? It would only reflect badly on her and her child if the truth came out. She was smart to protect herself. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Pity he hadn’t raised her. Her portrayal of Friedrich and the Institute had infuriated him, though. She had reduced him to a stereotype, had said nothing of his brilliance, his dedication to science and progress. But what did he expect? She was a victim of her own mediocre upbringing. But his grandson would be different.

  He would wait and watch, see what his interests were, what his passions became. When the time was right, he would use those interests to bring his grandson to him. It was what he did best. Let them have their false sense of security and believe that his threat had died with him. He could w
ait as long as he had to. After all, he was a patient man.

  As for his fortune, it was safe. He kept most of his money in Wheeler’s name. And no one knew that Catherine Knight was only a figurehead for his own vast media empire—he had owned it all from the beginning. Omega Entertainment was the only outlet he ran publicly, under his Crosby persona. How he would love to tell Taylor that when she accepted the job with UBC, she had become his employee. Oh well, she would find it out eventually.

  Damon Crosse had left no will, so the Institute would go to Jeremy, as would Alpha Pharmaceuticals, which, he supposed, would continue to finance the Institute if Jeremy so desired. He hated walking away from Alpha, but he could woo his key scientists away in a few years when he opened a new lab. As for his political connections, they were all through Wheeler anyway. His work would continue. It was a shame that he had to walk away from the Institute, but it had already succeeded in its mission and nothing would stop what he had started all those years ago when Friedrich and he founded it.

  He pressed a button and remotely engaged the lock on his office door. Pulling out his smartphone, he tapped an icon to access the camera he’d had the real estate agent install in the nursery. Damon watched as Taylor rocked her child. He was a beautiful boy, with curly, black hair and smooth, ivory cheeks. His eyes were closed and he sucked his thumb while his mother sang a soft lullaby.

  “Sleep soundly, young master. One day, you will hold the world in your hands. Until then, sweet dreams.”

  Acknowledgments

  BEHIND EVERY ENDEAVOR IS A GROUP OF SUPPORTERS WITHOUT which the journey would be much more difficult and lonely. I have been blessed with an abundance of encouragement and help from dear family, friends, and subject matter experts generous and willing to share their knowledge and resources.

  Thank you to my fabulous agent, Bernadette Baker-Baughman, for finding the perfect home for the Jack Logan series and for her continual support and encouragement. The journey is so much more enjoyable with you by my side.

  To my brilliant editor, Emily Griffin, deepest gratitude for your expert guidance and tireless efforts in reshaping and refining the manuscript into a finished book. I’m continually amazed by your keen insight and talent.

  The feedback from beta readers was a key component in improving the story. Thank you for reading and often rereading the manuscript with enthusiasm and providing valuable feedback: my husband, Rick Openshaw; my sister, Valerie Constantine; my sisters-in-law, Lynn Constantine and Honey Constantine; my nephew, Christopher Ackers; my in-laws, Dorothy and Dick Openshaw; my dear friends: Eileen Arndt, Tricia Farnsworth, Lia Gordon, Deb Nygard, Michele and John Perkins, Kim Torre-Tasso, Rivers Teske, Rich Schneider, and Diane Vara. Thanks to Tracey Robinson and Valerie Constantine for invaluable proofreading assistance. Special thanks to Marie Diven for being my first reader and editor. To my good friends and authors Anthony Franze and Sandra Brannan, thank you for reading, encouraging, and providing me with endorsements for the book.

  I continue to be humbled by the generosity of experts in their fields who were willing to take the time to answer my questions. Thank you: Anthony Franze for your legal expertise, Chris Munger for FBI authenticity, Lori Cretella, MD, and Fady Sharara, MD, for medical advice, Lynn Drasin for television production information, Stanley Constantine for technical advice on escape hatches and hot-wiring cars, Lieutenant John Thomas for information on Hillsborough County Jail, and Tony Burke and Slavomír Čéplö for information on the history of the thirty silver pieces used to betray Christ, and Tony in particular for advice on elaborating on what could have happened to them. Any errors are solely my own.

  To the master of the thriller, David Morrell, heartfelt thanks for taking the time to work with me on perfecting the synopsis and for your encouragement and advice along the way.

  My deepest appreciation to Jaime Levine, my first editor, who, in addition to the extensive time she spent editing, sat with me at my kitchen table for fifteen hours straight refining story lines and plot issues. Thank you for helping me to find the story within the story and for making it shine. I will always be grateful for your wholehearted partnership.

  To Nick and Theo, you inspire me to want to make the world a better place.

  And finally, I would be remiss not to acknowledge the inspiration, empowerment, and grace from the divine Author without whom none of it would have been possible.

  READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT

  L. C. SHAW’S

  UPCOMING BOOK,

  COMING FALL 2020

  FROM HARPERCOLLINS PUBLISHERS

  Chapter One

  THE DARKNESS WAS THERE BEFORE MAGGIE RUSSELL WAS aware of it—the gentle May breeze whispering evil in her ear. When she arrived at the field, she was still in a good mood, eager to cheer on her son and his team during the last Little League game of the season. She took a seat next to a friend at the top of the bleachers where she had a good view of the entire field. It was cool for a spring day in Baltimore, and she slipped her arms into her pink cardigan and pulled it tightly around her. Maggie generally thought of baseball as boring, but she got a kick out of watching her nine-year-old son, Lucas, his face scrunched up in concentration, as he tried to make the bat connect with the ball, and she faithfully attended all his games. But today he hadn’t been played yet, and her mind started to drift to the long list of things she still needed to accomplish over the weekend. There was the Sunday school lesson to prepare, dry cleaning to pick up, and a meal she’d promised to make for her neighbor who was down with the flu. And she still had to finish her notes from her nursing rounds last night. At least she’d managed to get her roast in the oven so dinner would be ready when they got home from the game. Her husband liked for the three of them to have dinner together every night. She turned to her friend Agatha, whose son Phillip was pitching, watching as she carefully quartered apples and oranges on a cutting board resting on her legs.

  “Run out of time?” Maggie asked. Agatha was always late, forgetting appointments, or misplacing things—one of those perpetually out-of-breath people. But she was funny, and her charm made it easy to overlook her scatterbrained tendencies.

  Agatha rolled her eyes. “We were walking out the door when Phillip reminded me it was my turn to bring snacks.” She shrugged. “Oh well, at least this fruit will get eaten. I don’t know why I bother trying to feed my family healthy food. All they want is junk.”

  Maggie didn’t understand why Agatha allowed a child to dictate what she bought at the grocery store. Phillip’s eating habits were appalling. She was getting restless now and glanced at the scoreboard again. Only one more inning to go, and they were still tied up. She caught sight of Lucas sitting on the bench and felt a slow burn begin. The new coach hadn’t played him at all. Her son was looking at the ground, his shoulders slouched, looking as if he might cry, and she began to get angry. Okay, maybe he wasn’t as good as the other kids. But how was he supposed to improve if he didn’t get enough playing time? She and her husband didn’t have the extra money to hire the private coaches like some of these families did, and these kids were only nine years old, for goodness’ sake. Wasn’t this supposed to be a team-building exercise—a bit of fun for kids and a way to get them off their phones? Getting more annoyed by the moment, she turned back to her friend.

  “What’s up with this guy? Isn’t he supposed to play all the kids?”

  Agatha shrugged and gave her a sympathetic look. “I think so, honey. But this game will determine if they go on to the playoffs. Try not to get upset.”

  That was easy for Agatha to say, Phillip was always put in first.

  She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. Almost without being conscious of it, Maggie sprang up and yelled out to the coach, “Everyone’s supposed to get a turn!” The coach ignored her, but she received plenty of dirty looks from the other parents. Agatha put her hand on Maggie’s arm and whispered. “Honey, try to calm down.” Maggie shook free and was about to answer her when a dad sitting in
front of her turned around and shook his head.

  “It’s tied up. If we want to win, we have to play our best.” He looked disgusted as he turned his gaze back to the field.

  Three big fat red words rose from his head. You stupid bitch. She could see his thoughts as clear as day.

  Maggie’s temples began to pound and she suppressed the desire to grab him and tell him to shut up. How dare he use that kind of language with her? Suddenly she had the urge to push him off the bleachers and watch his head crack open on the cement below. She wanted to put her hands around his neck and squeeze until he couldn’t speak and watch the breath drain from him so he could never talk to anyone like that ever again. But instead, she rose from her seat again.

  Agatha tried to get her to sit down. “Maggie, it’s just a game. Sweetie, you’re making a scene.”

  She pushed Agatha hard. “Leave me alone!”

  “Coach! Coach!” she yelled again, louder this time.

  The coach looked up at her and threw his arms up in exasperation.

  “Put Lucas in the game. Now! I didn’t come here to watch him warm a bench.”

  The coach shook his head and whispered something to the umpire who was now walking toward the stands. Maggie wasn’t going to let him ignore her or send his lackey to placate her. She began to march down the bleachers toward the field, then stopped, as both her arms began to itch with an intensity she couldn’t ignore. She glanced down to see a swarm of angry bugs biting her. She tried to push them off her skin but they wouldn’t budge. “Get off me!” she shrieked. A dull roar in her ears began to grow, like the sound of crashing waves getting closer. Heat worked its way up her chest again until she felt like she was on fire. She turned to Agatha, grabbed the knife out of her friend’s hands, and started stabbing at the bugs, though she kept missing and piercing her skin instead. She ran straight down the bleachers, causing everyone to move out of her way. Once she reached the field, she stood in front of the coach, who was looking at her with hatred. It was obvious that he was out to get her and her son and had been from day one. Maggie felt as though she’d been infused with a superstrength as she plunged the knife deep into his chest over and over, and the blood began to pour out of him. That would show him. She felt hands pulling at her but they weren’t strong enough to stop her. When he slid down to the ground, his body lifeless, she suddenly felt cold. What had just happened? The roar was gone and in its place she heard the screams of people around her. Lucas was yelling, trying to get to her as a sea of arms held him back.