by Brad Parks
PRAISE FOR INTERFERENCE
“Readers will fully engage with the well-drawn characters as Parks convincingly reveals the science that buttresses the suspenseful plot. Michael Crichton fans won’t want to miss this one.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Parks’ suspenseful novel will beguile, entrance, and fool the sharpest readers.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“To be pleasurably bamboozled, try this nifty scientific thriller by a onetime Washington Post reporter who writes prizewinning novels over breakfast at a Virginia Hardee’s.”
—Washington Post
“A cutting-edge stunner (that) reminded me of Michael Crichton in all the right ways . . . A book that checked all the technological boxes, while telling a great story.”
—Providence Journal
“A smart, innovative thriller that evokes the best of Michael Crichton and Blake Crouch. Parks proposes the seemingly improbable, makes it plausible, and then weaves in twists and turns, taking the reader on a mind-bending ride.”
—Robert Dugoni, New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Amazon bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite series
“Interference brings all the right ingredients to a novel! Brad Parks has created a story with a fascinating plotline and great characters—an up-all-night page-turner. I loved it!”
—Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author
“Utterly absorbing, relentlessly paced, and cunningly assembled. Brad Parks is the sort of master craftsman who makes everything look easy. I hate him a little bit.”
—Marcus Sakey, Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Afterlife
OTHER TITLES BY BRAD PARKS
Stand-Alone Novels
Say Nothing
Closer Than You Know
The Last Act
Interference
The Carter Ross Series
Faces of the Gone
Eyes of the Innocent
The Girl Next Door
The Good Cop
The Player
The Fraud
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by MAC Enterprises Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542024952 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542024951 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542022606 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542022606 (paperback)
Cover design by Anna Laytham
First Edition
To Patricia S. Olson, the first author in my life and still one of my favorite people
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 NATE
CHAPTER 2 JENNY
CHAPTER 3 NATE
CHAPTER 4 JENNY
CHAPTER 5 NATE
CHAPTER 6 JENNY
CHAPTER 7 NATE
CHAPTER 8 NATE
CHAPTER 9 JENNY
CHAPTER 10 NATE
CHAPTER 11 JENNY
CHAPTER 12 NATE
CHAPTER 13 JENNY
CHAPTER 14 NATE
CHAPTER 15 JENNY
CHAPTER 16 NATE
CHAPTER 17 JENNY
CHAPTER 18 NATE
CHAPTER 19 NATE
CHAPTER 20 JENNY
CHAPTER 21 NATE
CHAPTER 22 NATE
CHAPTER 23 JENNY
CHAPTER 24 NATE
CHAPTER 25 NATE
CHAPTER 26 JENNY
CHAPTER 27 NATE
CHAPTER 28 NATE
CHAPTER 29 JENNY
CHAPTER 30 NATE
CHAPTER 31 JENNY
CHAPTER 32 NATE
CHAPTER 33 JENNY
CHAPTER 34 NATE
CHAPTER 35 NATE
CHAPTER 36 JENNY
CHAPTER 37 NATE
CHAPTER 38 JENNY
CHAPTER 39 NATE
CHAPTER 40 JENNY
CHAPTER 41 NATE
CHAPTER 42 JENNY
CHAPTER 43 NATE
CHAPTER 44 JENNY
CHAPTER 45 NATE
CHAPTER 46 JENNY
CHAPTER 47 NATE
CHAPTER 48 JENNY
CHAPTER 49 NATE
CHAPTER 50 JENNY
EPILOGUE NATE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
NATE
When I came to, breaching that little-understood divide between the murky depths of insentience and the bright conscious world, the first thing I became aware of was my tongue.
It was exploring the inner recesses of my gums, probing the soft tissue for damage, doing a census of my teeth, all in a kind of doped man’s reflex.
What it found was a mouth that, while otherwise intact, had been flooded with an anesthetic funk—the faintly metallic aftertaste of whatever had been used to sedate me.
The next sensation to penetrate my still-fogged brain came via my nose. It reported a sharp, astringent smell. Like industrial-grade soap. It was coming from my right hand, which was slightly damp.
I flexed my fingers—all ten of them, still there—and wiggled my toes, also operational.
This strange softness surrounded me. A pillow-top mattress. And sheets. Really nice sheets. Either satin, or cotton with a seriously high thread count.
As the rest of my faculties slowly returned, I replayed what little I knew about my current circumstances. I had been puttering around the house, retightening the child locks on some cabinets, about to get started on fixing a leaky faucet, when a man I had never seen before appeared on our back porch and knocked on the door.
Solicitors, proselytizers, and other strangers usually came to the front. But he seemed harmless enough. Average in height, just past middling in age, unexceptional in dress, almost as if he was cultivating his blandness.
When I opened the door, he flashed me an apologetic smile, like he was sorry to bother me—one nice guy to another.
Then he shot me in the neck with a tranquilizer dart.
Whatever drug it carried hit hard and fast. As I fell to my knees, two more men, dressed in black tactical gear, came toward me through our back gate.
My scream never made it past my throat. And I remember recognizing there was no way, in my rapidly diminishing state, I could stop these men from doing whatever they wanted with me.
But what really alarmed me—more than having been randomly assaulted, more than my burgeoning loss of awareness—was that I had seen their faces.
Having once been a lawyer, I was at least mildly familiar with the felonious mindset. Criminals only allowed their faces to be seen when they knew they weren’t going to be leaving behind any witnesses.
So this was it.
They were going to kill me.
What I didn’t know—what I couldn’t even begin to guess—was why.
If called on to testify about my existence in a court of law, I would raise my right hand and swear to Almighty God that I, Nate Lovejoy, was basically nobody: an ordinary stay-at-home dad whose existence was of little consequence to anyone but my wife, Jenny, and our two preschool-age daughters.
As a full-time caregiver, I spent my days changing diapers, cleaning messes, enforcing nap time, and chasin
g a pair of rambunctious little girls from room to room of our Richmond, Virginia, town house. It was thankless, monotonous, joyful work.
But, more to the point, it was completely innocuous.
I was innocuous.
To the best of my knowledge, I was not harboring any valuable secrets. I didn’t do drugs, gamble, or frequent houses of ill repute. I had not crossed any international crime syndicates, witnessed any illicit activities, or participated in any unlawful ventures that might have brought me to the attention of dangerous people.
It seemed unlikely their motivation was ransom. Jenny was a partner at Richmond’s largest law firm, so we were comfortable, but not especially wealthy; and neither of our families had money either.
The kidnappers also weren’t interested in my kids. I had dropped off three-year-old Parker and eighteen-month-old Cate with my in-laws for the day so I could accomplish the aforementioned home-maintenance projects. These men had come for me during one of the rare times when I was alone.
So what, exactly, was this about?
I opened my eyes.
And everything got weirder.
It was like waking up in a museum. I was lying in a four-poster bed that, in and of itself, could have been the crowning life achievement of a virtuoso craftsperson.
But that was just the beginning. Elaborate hand-carved moldings ringed the ceiling. Magnificent wainscoting covered the lower portions of the walls. Queen Anne–style furniture—each piece an antique more priceless than the last—filled the floor.
Then I got to the room’s real showpiece, hanging above the unlit fireplace in front of me. It was a Rembrandt. An honest-to-goodness, no-doubt-about-it Rembrandt.
To its left was a Vermeer. The works of other Dutch masters covered much of the remaining wall space. I was surrounded by art whose value was easily in the tens of millions.
Where was I? What was this place? And why hadn’t I been handcuffed or restrained in some way when I had so clearly been brought here against my will?
I sat up in bed, propping myself on my elbows. To my left were two windows on either side of a door that led outside—perhaps to a balcony, except I couldn’t say for sure. All three portals were sealed with this semiopaque vinyl covering that allowed light in but didn’t let me see out.
All I could say for sure was that it was quiet outside. There were no sounds to indicate this was an urban area.
The quality of the sunlight coming through the shades suggested it was around lunchtime, which made sense because it had been midmorning when I was taken. I just hoped it was still Monday.
Any further observation was cut short by a whirring noise to my right. A mechanical lock was releasing itself. The main door to the bedroom opened, and a man in black tactical gear came in behind it.
It was one of the men who’d abducted me. He was shorter than me—I’m six foot four, so most people are—but stockier, laden with gym muscles.
I immediately scrambled off the bed to the other side, bracing myself to fight or run or be murdered.
“Dude, you’re cool, relax,” he said, holding up his empty hands. “I was just coming to see if you wanted anything to eat. The chef here is amazing. He can do pretty much anything.”
The chef.
Because of course a household like this had a chef.
Meaning Muscles here was . . . a waiter or something?
“I’m not hungry,” I said warily.
“You sure? He could grill a rib eye for you in, like, no time. And I guarantee it’ll be one of the ten best steaks you’ve ever had. Or he makes these duck-fat brussels sprouts. Amazing.”
“No thanks.”
“What about a drink? We’ve got fresh organic juices that are flown in from, like, Bolivia. Or maybe something a little stronger? Some wine? A cocktail? If you’re a beer guy, we’ve got a dynamite local IPA.”
I was a beer guy. But I didn’t want to fuzzy my mind just as it was becoming unfuzzied.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
The guy shrugged. “Okay. Rogers will be up in a second.”
“Who’s Rogers?” I asked.
But the man just turned and left.
Duck-fat brussels sprouts? What kind of kidnapping was this?
I walked to the door the man had just exited. It had a key-card reader, recessed into the doorframe. I depressed the handle and pulled, but nothing budged.
On the other side of the room, the door that led outside was also locked. The windows had thick muntin that, upon closer inspection, was actually reinforced with steel bars. I wasn’t getting out that way.
The only other door led to a bathroom that had no windows or other apparent means of egress.
Meaning this suite was essentially an incredibly ornate prison cell.
I was still in the bathroom, exploring the last details of a ceiling exhaust fan, wondering if I could unscrew the grate, when I heard, “Hello, hello?”
It was a male voice. I returned to the bedroom to see the man who had shot me with the dart.
He was in his midsixties, with a slight build and side-parted gunmetal-gray hair. He wore khakis and a light-blue polo shirt, neatly tucked. But I already recognized him as that peculiarly creepy version of human being: the person who could look harmless while inflicting great harm.
“Nice to see you up and about, Nate,” he said, like he hadn’t been the one who tranquilized me.
And how did he know my name?
“Why don’t you have a seat?” he said, gesturing toward a gilded, inlaid mahogany table ringed with Louis XVI chairs, any one of which probably cost more than what was currently in my bank account.
“I’ll stand,” I said as he sat. “Who are you?”
“I’m Rogers.”
“Is that a first name or a last name?”
“Last. My first name is Lorton. But everyone calls me Rogers.”
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re in a safe place.”
“Why does my hand smell like soap?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “You really don’t need to worry about anything.”
His tone was neutral, patient, calm—so at odds with the panic tumbling through me.
“If there’s nothing to worry about, can I leave?”
“No,” he said simply.
“So I’m a prisoner.”
“That seems like such a punitive word. I’d like you to think of me as a friend, and of yourself as our guest. My boss is a very hospitable man, and he wants you to enjoy yourself while you’re here. Why don’t you relax and let the drugs wear off a little more and then we can talk. Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“I’ve already been asked that and no. Let’s talk now.”
“Okay, if you’d rather do it that way,” Rogers said. “I’d like to start with an ethical question, if I may.”
“An ethical question.”
“Yes. What if I told you that killing one person would save the lives of five other people. Would you do it, Nate?”
This was the classic trolley problem: you can either let a runaway trolley kill five people; or you can pull a switch, diverting it to a track where it will kill just one person—but making you directly responsible for the death.
It wasn’t a game I felt like playing at the moment. But given that I was trapped in this room with no apparent way out, maybe it was better than the game that would come next if I didn’t cooperate.
“Well, it would depend on who the person was,” I said. “If it was killing one innocent kindergarten teacher to save five convicted murderers? No, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Ah, so for you it’s a question of the perceived value of the human beings involved. Excellent. In that case, you would kill five murderers to save one kindergarten teacher. Do I have that right?”
“I mean, yeah, probably. But again it could depend on the circumstances. What if the murderers were all teenagers who might be rehabilitated or do some good for society someday and th
e kindergarten teacher was old and suffering from a fatal disease?”
“Okay, then let me simplify things. What if killing one person would save the lives of five average people, people who were the same mix of good and bad that we all are? Or ten average people? Or a hundred? Is there some number large enough that you wouldn’t have to factor in the value of the life being sacrificed against the lives being saved?”
“I’m not sure. What does this have to do with anything?”
“It has to do with your framework for moral reasoning, Nate. I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from. Give me a ballpark figure. A thousand? Ten thousand?”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know why you’re asking.”
“So you won’t answer my question?”
“No. Not until you at least tell me a little more about what’s going on.”
Rogers nodded. “Very well. Have a seat, though. I’m getting tired just looking at you standing there.”
“Fine,” I said, pulling out one of the chairs on the other side of the table and planting myself in it.
“That’s better. Now, I guess I should start by telling you about our host. This house belongs to a man named Vanslow DeGange. It’s one of his many houses, actually. Have you ever heard that name before?”
“No.”
“Good. We work hard to make sure that’s the case. Everything I’m about to tell you about Mr. DeGange is confidential. It must be kept secret.”
“And why is that?”
“There are those who wouldn’t approve of our ways,” Rogers said.
“Because what you’re doing is illegal?”
“Illegal, probably. Amoral, absolutely not. That’s a big distinction around here, what’s legally correct versus what’s morally correct. We lean heavily on the latter.”
“And what happens if I tell someone?”
He allowed himself a small smile. “We’re just becoming acquainted with each other, Nate. I don’t want to get into threats.”
“Yet you just implied one.”
“True. Though, to be honest, even if you did try to divulge what I’m about to share, no one would believe you. You would be ignored, dismissed as a lunatic.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”