The Shadow Fox Chronicles - Prologue

They say they found his body lying face down on the carpet, a spilled glass of Johnnie Walker Blue beside him and a cigar burned to cinders in an ashtray on his desk. The coroner report said he had been like that for two hours before his wife, Denise, checked on him while intending to retire for the night. Pictures of both the deceased CEO and his widow accompanied the stories in the papers, forming the backdrop of my thoughts as my professor Dr. George Vasquez paced the floor in front of his Current Affairs class.

He glanced at me for a moment before shifting his attention away.

“The press coverage of Henry Devlin’s death,” he continued, “Along with the ascension of his wife as the new head of Devlin Biosystems remains one of the most heavily covered stories of the 21st Century. That might not be saying a lot, only one decade in, but considering we’ve re-elected the nation’s first Black president, that’s nothing to sneeze at, either. What about the story do you think held the public’s interest so much?”

The blonde girl seated two rows down from me and five chairs over lifted her hand. Our professor glanced immediately in the direction of the movement and nodded toward her, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they slid down. “Denise Devlin became the first female CEO of a major Fortune 500 company with his death,” she said, smiling politely.

“That’s certainly one of the reasons. A large one, especially in the financial sector of the country. Stock prices for Devlin Biosystems fluctuated wildly for the first few weeks after Henry Devlin’s death, and the change of power has been cited as a contributing factor.” He flashed a grin with enough teeth to it to make me wonder if he was flirting with the girl or advertising for his dentist. I shifted in my seat and sure enough, his gaze flicked to me next. “Mr. Lane, what are your thoughts?”

I glanced around and slid more upright upon being acknowledged. Clearing my throat, I recalled the last time I had addressed a class full of my peers, and attempted not to be self-conscious of the accent my voice still bore. “My thoughts, sir?” I asked, stalling for a moment and using the breath that followed to gather myself. My mind raced for something eloquent in a sea of useless facts. I saw a man eating oriental carpet while seeping bodily fluids out onto the fabric, the victim of a cardiac arrest.

The most powerful man in American biotechnology – a baron of the medical and pharmaceutical world – reduced to a corpse.

“He’d named Denise Devlin as his successor in his will only three weeks prior to his death,” I settled on.

The answer seemed to please my professor. He nodded enthusiastically. “Brilliant,” he said. “A large reason behind the feeding frenzy as well. Speculation ran a huge gamut as to why Henry would name his wife and then drop dead under mysterious circumstances in such a short period of time.”

“No offense,” I interjected, “But there’s not much mystery behind a massive coronary.”

The other students – including blonde girl – chuckled at my retort. Even Dr. Vasquez smirked before commanding the focus of the class again. “No, you’re right, but if you’ll recall, there were a lot of questions surrounding the timing just the same. Not that I advocate the amount of speculation that took place, because it affected the day-to-day life of a widowed woman –”

Lights flashed from television and digital cameras as she walked past them. I saw Denise Devlin with her chin tilted upward in enough of an angle to communicate to every last reporter that they could kiss her ass.

“– But it also highlights what we’ve talked about in this class with regard to sensationalism in the media. We live in an era where the distribution of information is tightly interwoven with the need to make a profit.” He lifted both hands and intertwined his fingers to represent this, the unholiest of marriages. “And because of it, news outlets latch onto what will draw in higher profit margins from advertising. When the man who had been thought to be Devlin’s heir apparent – Gregory Toomes – stepped forward to challenge Devlin’s will, he used this shred of doubt as a fulcrum for his own case.”

“Executing the terms of his will and stabilizing the board of directors took a while,” another student interjected, an African American gal who sat directly in front of her blonde contemporary.

Dr. Vasquez nodded. “It did. His will was tied up in court and many have said, if not for the Devlin money fueling her legal team, it might have been a tighter battle for Denise Devlin. In the end, the shareholders did embrace Henry’s dying wishes, but who knows what might have been going through his mind in those final weeks? Nobody came out and accused Denise Devlin of foul play, but we know it crossed the minds of several people involved in the story.”

“Misogynists,” I murmured, glancing from the laptop open in front of me toward our professor.

He offered me a half-shrug. “That could have very well been the case, Mr. Lane.”

I caught a glance from blonde girl and shied away from it, focusing back on the computer screen as though it was a lifeline. The professor continued droning on in the background, eventually settling on our assignment – which was to summarize the media frenzy surrounding Denise Devlin’s rise to power. I packed up my laptop and slid out of my chair, head lowered the entire trek from seat to door and even a few paces past it. Backpack slung over one shoulder and hands buried in my pockets, I wore the posture of a foreigner even if my hometown had only been seven hours away. The distance between Fayetteville, West Virginia and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania bore the weight of more than just miles.

And so, I buried myself in classwork, much as I always did back then. In my second year at Temple University, staying in an apartment I didn’t even pay for after being given charity by a complete stranger in my freshman year. I left home wanting to make something more of myself and that had become my raison d’être, a determination I fully embraced while eating cereal and paging through articles on the Devlin Biosystems website. In a lot of ways, the brazen CEO reminded me of my mother, who had raised four children without any help and refused to be cowed by peer pressure. My mind flashed once again to the news reports of Henry Devlin’s death and again, I entered the scene.

Only this time, I added Denise Devlin to it.

I saw the doors to his study part, a woman standing on the other side who was no ordinary lady. Whatever reasons Denise Devlin had married Henry, they hadn’t included children and countless interviews with the Devlin first lady had prodded her to cite the reasons why. “Devlin Biosystems is our child,” she had said, “And our legacy to this world.” By that alone, it became clear to me why Henry named her to be his successor, instead of the man who had ascended to the Vice Presidency. It wouldn’t be his child. It wouldn’t be his legacy.

Scrolling down the list of Google search results, I clicked on a video and started to watch.

The thin woman on the screen looked to be in her mid-40s, her stature regal as she stood behind a podium, clad in an outfit that might have been plucked from Jackie Onassis’s closet. Filmed five years before her ascent, the video showed Denise explaining the Devlin framework, replete with all of their long term plans for the company. Inside her intense, brown eyes, I saw a visionary while she calmly explained what they hoped to accomplish at Devlin. Longer life. Better quality of living. And at the time of the interview, they had been awarded a contract from the Department of Defense to send better medical equipment to the front lines, something those both for and against the ‘War on Terror’ could stand behind.

She was the woman I visualized coming upon the corpse of her husband.

Something about the way she looked down at him would have registered heartbreak. The Devlins might not have been the model couple, but they wore the badge of a joint entity in all of their public showings. The initial pangs of shock aside, I saw her rushing beside him and crouching down, feeling for his pulse and calling 911. She had undergone criticism for her cold candidness over the phone and when the police had arrived, she was sipping a drink and sitting in their living room, playing with a strand of pearls around her neck. “I only wish Henry could have lived to see his dream become a reality,” she had said when speaking at his funeral.

Bypassing that particular video, I instead clicked onto Wikipedia and read the entry which had been penned for her.

The door opened and closed, pulling me from my research. I looked up, eyes darting in the direction of the entryway with the other occupant of the apartment not yet visible. Still, I could tell from the jingle of the keys and the measured pace of the owner’s stride that my roommate had arrived at home. “Andy?” he called out, slightly startled when he walked around the corner and found me camped on the couch. A small, pleased expression surfaced on his face. “It’s way too quiet in here,” he said. “You should turn the TV on or something.”

I waved that thought away with a dismissive flick of my hand. “Meh. It only distracts me,” I said. Taking in the sight of Scott Reilly still bore a level of intimidation to it at that time. He had been raised in one of the most affluent families in Philadelphia, bred as the last of three sons to carry on the family legacy and he chose to invest his time with a charity case like me. A few inches taller than me, and perpetually dressed in clothing that cost as much as most people’s car payment, the only thing that set him apart from most of the preppy kids I’d ever known was the auburn color to his hair and the kind demeanor in his eyes. He might have suffered from rich kid-itis, as I liked to call it, but you could never accuse Scott of not having a soul.

Or one hell of a body, if I had to be honest.

“Would it bother you if I turned it on then?” he asked.

I shrugged and attempted to look unaffected, breaking my focus away from evaluating the person who was rapidly becoming my best friend. “I can always put in my earbuds if it becomes a problem,” I said.

“Great.” He cocked a thumb in the direction of his bedroom. “I’m going to take a shower and decompress. Maybe we can order Thai for dinner or something.”

“You mean you want Thai and are offering to get me some.”

“You can pay me back when you’re a hotshot reporter.”

I shook my head, but didn’t argue. Placing aside the bowl of cereal, I sighed and stared at the television in front of me as though now painfully aware of its presence. Both it and my laptop monitor vied for my attention until I finally reached for the remote and scooped it into my hand. Pursing my lips in a frown, I flipped it on and started an idle scan through the channels.

Scott emerged again in a half hour – well into the last act of a movie I had found on HBO. I tossed him the remote and he caught it, twirling it in his hand while reaching in the back pocket of his jeans for where he kept his cell phone. As he placed an order for the usual selections, I added another paragraph to my paper and by the time he hung up, I had become engrossed in it again. I didn’t take another break from it until the delivery man arrived with our food.

“So, how was class today?” he asked, passing me over my container and some silverware before sitting on the couch perpendicular to mine.

I shrugged, popping open the top. “It was okay, I guess. We got into a discussion about the old Devlin fiasco in Current Affairs and then I came home to work on my paper.” A small smile resurfaced on my face. “How’s law school treating you?”

He laughed. “I have a massive paper to finish by tomorrow and I’m stalling.” Scott placed his food on the coffee table in front of us and stared at it as though peering in a reflecting pool for guidance. “I swear, the next year and a half is going to kill me.”

“Yeah, but look at it this way, all you have to do after that is pass the bar exam.” My grin turned cheeky.

“Oh is that all?” he asked, rolling his eyes at me. We exchanged a laugh and I started into eating my food while Scott scanned the channels and finally reached for the laptop he kept beside his couch. His couch. We were starting to become the proverbial old married couple. I shook my head at the thought, tempted to make commentary on that idea, but was preempted by the TV.

The image of Denise Devlin flashed on the screen and at once, I paused, fork halfway between the container and my mouth.

Four years had passed since she had assumed the role of CEO. Nine since the interview where she spoke about the up-and-coming projects her husband Henry had cooking on the burner. A few additional lines had carved well-worn trenches into her face, but she still appeared just as determined as she had nearly a decade ago. A reporter had stopped her on the street, en route from the corporate building in Bethesda, Maryland to her car, posing the question to her about their recent decision to expand their base of operations.

She didn’t even bother to smile for the camera as she addressed the reporter. “We believe that what we have accomplished in the last five years has given us more reason to pursue other enterprises,” she said, a tone to her voice that suggested this should be self-evident. “There are many large hospitals in the area who could benefit from a hands-on training program and universities we’d like to partner with to expand our research and development.”

“Some people fear that Devlin is taking over too large a part of the stock market,” the reporter countered. “What do you have to say to that?”

“I say that means our competitors should be doing more to innovate.”

I raised an eyebrow, my fascination fully drawn in by this point. Placing aside the food, I folded my hands atop my lap.

“What sorts of innovations does Devlin have on the horizon?” the reporter asked. “Can you give us a preview of what’s to come?”

“I can only promise our continued commitment to the health sector. If it means expanding our operations, we will, whether or not our competitors approve of our business practices.” She offered a half-smile, something which registered as a slight curl that faded just as quickly as it appeared. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have work that needs to be done.”

Denise Devlin slipped away from the camera, entering a car waiting for her and disappearing from view as little more than a set of taillights. The voiceover from the reporter indicated that New York and Boston would be the first trial runs of this new enterprise of theirs, leading me to wonder what their long-term goals might be myself. It took until I left work the next day and settled into a table at Starbucks with my computer before I uncovered more.

Their initial focus was in the field of limb regrowth. Working with physical therapists and neuroscientists, they had already helped adapt their prosthesis division, expanding it out to include some of the most advanced and functional artificial limbs, some which directly resembled actual arms and legs. Their business proposal with Harvard and Columbia included research fellowships, seeking to integrate their biology PhD programs with Devlin’s own pursuit: to teach the body how to mend itself. It had only enjoyed very tentative success, managing to regenerate a thin layer of tissue, but it was far more ambitious than of its competitors’ programs.

I had enough fodder for the paper by this point. The conclusions that I drew from past and present married together in a chord that rang of promise, not of the fear that so many had attempted to paint when she came to power. Whatever had led Henry Devlin to change his will – whatever force of precognition had infected the company’s founder and led him to his eventual grave – the scientific community all sang the praises of Devlin Biosystems and promised some brave new world might be birthed from the ashes of Henry’s death. Only one word of warning seemed to slither its way out from the cinders.

At times, the things that appear to be too good to be true might just be that.

Dr. Vasquez stopped me after class, holding my paper and sitting on the edge of his desk as he studied me for a moment. “I wanted to ask you about the last paragraph,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.

I shrugged and cinched my backpack strap further up my shoulder. “What about it?” I asked.

“You rounded off what could have been one of the best press relations speeches for Devlin Biosystems with a very frightening warning.” Freeing one hand to adjust his eyeglasses, he then used those fingers to thumb through my paper. “And I quote: ‘Devlin seems to be the white knight riding into battle after decades of advancements in the field of medicine have yet to show us something truly unique. We have managed to expand the life expectancy of many terminal conditions, but we have yet to truly cure them all. Denise Devlin seems on a holy crusade to do just that.

“‘But with this comes that ancient warning, that the hero of one story is often the villain of another. How that might come to pass in this case is a cautionary tale waiting to be told, of that time the slayer of one dragon became the creator of another. Only time will be able to tell us just what the consequences of both her ambition, and the ambition of the people who aspire to her dream, might be.’”

The professor shut the thin, bound collection of papers again and handed it to me. I glanced through the transparent cover, seeing an A written in red at the top. “Well, it just seemed logical,” I said, glancing back up at Dr. Vasquez. “There’s no such thing as perfect.”

“No, but I think you’re right. This sort of thing often becomes our generation’s form of Pandora’s Box.” He studied me in silence for a moment, a scrutiny I found a little unnerving until he finally shifted his weight further onto his hip. “You’re a Journalism major, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“It’s a dying art and a competitive field right now, you realize that, right? The fossils are fighting against new blood in a time when more people are switching to computers and away from ink and paper.”

“I’m aware of that.” I punctuated the confession with a shrug. “I’ll take whatever I can get in the field, though. I’ve always wanted to be a journalist and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

“That’s an ambitious goal.” A smile finally surfaced on his face, through the serious expression which had been there only a few moments ago. “Why do you want to become a journalist, Mr. Lane?”

“Well, I’ve watched the news all my life, and I’ve wished I could be on the front lines of a lot of it.” A nervous chuckle followed. “I guess we all hope at some point we’ll be the ones cracking the top story.”

He laughed, but the sound bore no condescension to it. Instead, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a flattering manner, his demeanor quiet and understanding. “I think we all get wrapped up in the thrill of the hunt at some point or another. It’s in our blood.” Standing from the edge of his desk, he turned his back to me and paced around to his chair. “At the same time, you never know what the future holds, Andy… can I call you Andy?” He waited for me to nod before he continued. “Something exciting is bound to happen tomorrow or the next day. Might even be this cautionary tale you’ve already got registering on your radar. Just keep your eyes open for it.”

A small smile curled the corners of my lips. “You think I’ll be able to see it when it happens?”

“If this paper’s any indication, I’d say so.” A nod of acknowledgement passed between us. He mirrored my smile. “Have a good rest of the day. I’ll see you next week in class.”

“Yes, sir.” I spoke the words with a great degree of confidence, much more than I normally possessed in those days when I was still a stranger in a strange land, trying to carve my path in such an imposing city. It was a moment of validation; that sign from the cosmos that I had left home for a good reason and hadn’t deluded myself into thinking I could be the one voice standing out from the crowd of many. I might have started a poor, small-town boy, but I was on the front lines of something. What, I didn’t know.

I don’t think any of us realize the answer to that question until it finds its way to us. If there really are clairvoyants among us, I have yet to meet any or they have yet to show themselves. But when the story of my life landed onto my lap, it took a form I couldn’t have anticipated, even if the players would eventually make all the sense in the world.

After all, they had been surrounding me the entire time.