"Listen, I appreciate what you've tried to do for me here, but these are my decisions. And they may not look perfect from the outside – or even the inside – but they're all I have. I think I'm ready to go back to the ranch. It may be dangerous for some people, but it's the only place I belong anymore."
"Give it one more shot, Ginny." He caught himself a second too late, his face burning.
"Who's…?" A strangled little noise of recognition terminated Leah's question. When he could finally look her in the eye, she returned his gaze evenly. "Look, I know you're worried about me, but you're trying to save your daughter here. And you can't. Where does that put you? Or me?"
It took him a moment to answer. "You're right. I'll try to stop."
She rubbed at her rash through her sweatshirt.
"I'd like to have another meeting tomorrow," he said. "With Dr. Bederman and Reggie."
"How about Will and my mom?"
"Your mom went to Long Beach -"
"Of course. With the baby."
"I'm sorry."
"And what about Will?"
Tim flared his hands to show he didn't know. Leah looked crestfallen. "What's the point of doing this, then? I certainly don't want to. Who cares?"
"I do."
"Great. After nineteen years of life, that's what I've got left outside The Program." She looked away. "No offense."
He pulled the first photo out from under his jacket – Will grinning beside her in the limo, the award raised over his head. The etching on the brass plate clearly read PRODUCER OF THE YEAR.
"Will didn't leave you behind at the Beverly Hills Hotel that night."
Her eyes darted over the picture. "That must have been taken on the way there."
"The award's right in his hands, Leah." He drew out the second photo – buoy-ensconced Leah setting sail for romance. "Will also didn't make you miss your prom."
Her voice took on a hint of desperation. "The pictures must be fakes."
He set the photos down beside her. She stared at them, disbelieving. Her shoulders sagged, and her body seemed to go limp. With shame, Tim realized that some petty part of him shared her disappointment. He'd unwittingly staked himself on the notion of Will as the evil father, on a fantasy bond between himself and Leah, orphans of neglect. He'd done on his own what TD had prompted Leah to do – indulged his own childhood pains, licked his wounds, carved out a part of his identity around his victimization. The underpinnings to TD's gibberish revealed their precious-metal gleam: The truth is fluid; reality is interpretation; belief drives perception.
Watching Leah collapse onto the mattress, Tim felt world-weary and old; he'd long learned that exhaustion is the price of dispensing with simplistic answers. Relinquishing clarity didn't feel noble; it felt like a surrender to disillusionment.
"It's not possible." Leah averted her gaze from the photos. She was drowning. "I remember…I swear I remember…"
"I'm not denying Will screwed up sometimes," Tim said, "but you can't lay everything at his feet." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was gentler, more humble. "Trust me – you don't want to spend your adult life harping on the things he did wrong."
She found a foothold in anger. "So you're on his side."
"There are no sides, Leah."
"It's my memory." She dug her hands into her hair, making it stick out between her fingers in brown tufts. "It's what's in my head. It can't be wrong. It can't. Will never cared. He never wanted me around."
"What about all the letters he's sent you?"
A blank stare. "What letters?"
"He's sent you a letter every week for the last three months."
She blinked at him, nonplussed.
"I saw copies."
"I never got any letters," she said quietly.
"Don't you think it's a bit odd?" Tim bolted off the mattress, startling Leah. "You never got any?"
"We don't need distractions from our work in The Program. TD and the Protectors deal with our mail for us." She took in his expression.
" 'Deal' with it? What mail do you get?" He was already walking backward toward the door, pulling on his jacket, digging the cell phone from his pocket.
Three faint lines appeared in her forehead. "None."
Chapter thirty-eight
For a rail-thin postal inspector, Owen B. Rutherford was surprisingly intimidating. He wore a perpetual half scowl, half squint, as if braced for an imminent fight. The federal-issue Beretta 92D strapped to his hip provided backup for a stubborn jaw and determined eyes. Comb marks had fossilized in his fine, dark brown hair, which he kept in a knife-edge left part. His skin, pasty and speckled with moles, was flushed to an inhuman shade of magenta in twinning ovals on his cheekbones. His irritation at being roused from bed had dissipated immediately when he'd been apprised of the situation.
Tim and Winston Smith sat on either side of him. Tannino looked on from behind his imperious desk, waiting for Rutherford's livid silence to give way to words. Bear had taken up his usual post, leaning against the wall by the door, blending into the wainscoting.
"What we have then" – Rutherford spoke quietly, restraining his rage – "is willful, systematic obstruction of the mails. What you're telling me is that at least sixty-eight individuals forward their mail to a P.O. box and this man has it picked up and somehow disposed of, day after day, week after week?"
"Yes. None of it gets through." Tim realized he was employing the mollifying voice he usually reserved for interviewing family members of victims.
Rutherford fanned his flushed face with his open notepad.
Tannino spread his hands, then folded them. "What's that give us?"
"What's that give you?" Rutherford shot a glance at Winston, who nodded him on severely. "Most obviously a Title 18, Section 1708 -theft or receipt of stolen mail matter, generally. But between theft, obstruction, and destruction, we could have over two hundred federal, criminal, and civil statutes."
Bear chuckled, a low rumble. "There's your probable cause."
"We still have the hostile-witness problem," Winston said.
Rutherford's tone was sharp, annoyed. "What hostile-witness problem?"
"They're cult members. Maybe they don't mind not getting their mail. Maybe they'll say they gave Betters permission to destroy it or whatever he does."
Rutherford regarded Winston like something he'd picked out of his teeth. "This is not a crime committed against the addressees, Mr. Smith. Do you know what a thirty-seven-cent stamp buys you?"
A wrinkled V appeared between Winston's eyebrows. "I, uh…"
Not only was Tim glad to be out of the line of fire, but seeing Winston Smith off his game was not without its own satisfaction.
"Not just delivery service. Oh, no. The thirty-seven cents buys you a fiduciary relationship with the United States Postal Service. We are custodians of private property. Namely: the mail. That private property belongs to the sender until it comes into the hands of the intended recipient. These jelly-spined bliss ninnies can't grant the right for their leader to destroy incoming mail before it comes into their actual possession – it isn't their mail to relinquish. First-class mail must be delivered, forwarded, returned to sender, or sent to the mail-recovery center." Rutherford ticked off the points on his fingers. "Any other act is a violation of the rights of the sender. A violation further of the sanctity of the mail and – make no mistake – it is as such a felony in its own right."
"What does Betters do with the mail?" Tannino asked.
Tim said, "Let's get a warrant and find out."
"We trust this kid?" Winston asked. "Maybe she's teeing us up for Betters."
"I trust her."
"It's a big ranch," Tannino said. "I don't want to play Hans Blix."
"Then send me back in," Tim said. "I'll come back with on-the-ground intel. We have the Arrest Response Team serve the warrant, I'll steer them to evidence like a guided missile" – a nod to Winston – "ensure you can make a case even if the Dead Links
don't yield."
Tannino frowned thoughtfully but didn't respond. Winston rose and whispered in Tannino's ear like a defense attorney. He returned to his place on the couch and repositioned his hat on his knee.
Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)
"Hey," Tannino said in a self-mocking monotone. "I just had a great idea. Maybe we could send out a mailing to various cult members from my office – phony flyers for a seized-car auction or something – documented and sent first class."
"I think that's a fine notion," Winston said.
Bear grinned at Tannino. "Feel like being a complainant?"
"He violates that mail, the federal government is the complainant," Winston said. "Then we'll see about indicting him under RICO, getting him more time on the charges."
Rutherford referred to his oversize digital watch. "Tomorrow's Friday. If you get the flyers to me by nine A.M., I can arrange same-day delivery."
"That works out fine," Tim said. "Betters is expecting me back Saturday."
"I don't know about this," Tannino said. "Your cover's getting thin. You go back up, you'll have to sign the financial docs. These guys don't sit on their hands – they'll want to start digging into the financials first thing Monday. Even with my hooks in place, no way we can stall them out without them realizing Tom Altman's all smoke and mirrors. They'll make you within forty-eight hours."
"Then give me forty-eight hours."
Chapter thirty-nine
The dusty motel room seemed emptier without the Hennings. Dray sat in with Tim, Reggie, and Bederman. Leah had entered the room sped by anticipation, but the energy seemed to go right out of her when she saw that Will wasn't there. After a while Tim removed the vacant chair, but still she glanced at the door every few minutes. In the absence of her parents, her mood mellowed quickly from defensiveness.
"Go back to the first time you ever heard of The Program," Bederman said. "Did you think you'd dedicate your life to it?"
Leah pressed a sweatshirt-covered hand to her nose, obscuring her eyes. "No."
"What did you think of it?"
"I guess I thought it sounded a little weird. A little…" Leah gave another glance at the door.
"Yes?"
"Controlling, maybe."
"What do you think you would've said if I told you that six months later you'd be living up on a ranch with no telephones?"
"And that I'd lose touch with all my friends and family?" She tugged at a lock of hair. "I probably…wouldn't have believed it."
The soft knocking sent her stiff in her chair. The door creaked open, and Will stepped inside, casual in khakis and an untucked polo, his cheeks dusted with stubble. His eyelids and upper cheeks were heavy from sleeplessness, his hair loosed from its usual neatness. He scratched at the back of his collar, one elbow sticking up in a triangle. "Am I still…uh, welcome?"
Bederman glanced at Leah.
"If you behave yourself," she said.
His shuffle betrayed an uncharacteristic lack of confidence. Pulling over the chair, he eased himself down, leaned forward, and squeezed Leah's forearm once, gently.
"I was just about to ask Leah what convinced her to join," Bederman said.
Leah's neck tensed; Will's presence had put her back on alert. "At the first meeting, I felt this amazing connectedness. I guess that's what I've always secretly wanted – to feel like I belong. Everything's so cynical these days, yet here were all these people together for a common goal. Growth."
Her eyes never left Will. Tim prayed he'd keep his mouth shut; wisely, he did.
With a pinch of the frames, Bederman adjusted his spectacles. "I feel that way sometimes when I lecture."
"Really?"
"Absolutely."
Tim's mind wandered back to the night last February when Franklin Dumone had mysteriously shown up at his door, rainwater dripping across his solemn face, claiming to hold the answer to Tim's anguish over his lost daughter and the legal system that had set her killer free.
Tim rarely spoke about the Commission to anyone besides Dray; he had trouble getting the words out. "I know what it's like to get seduced by a group. It's like they're speaking your most private desires right at the moment you've almost given up on them. I fell in with a group like that after my daughter died, but they were working their own agenda behind my back the whole time."
Leah was rocking herself in her chair. "Sometimes I don't want to do what The Program says…"
Will made a soft noise in his throat. Tears were running down Reggie's face, though he remained perfectly still.
"…but TD says it's for my fulfillment," she continued.
With a cocked wrist, Reggie smeared tears off one cheek. "If it was for our own fulfillment, he wouldn't deprive us of sleep and food to control us. He wouldn't turn us against one another. He wouldn't…" His bitterness evaporated; his breathing turned shallow.
"Wouldn't what?" Leah said.
Reggie fought out the words. "Discard people like trash."
The sudden display of emotion caught even Bederman off guard. Leah alone responded without missing a beat, leaning over and rubbing Reggie's shoulder.
Reggie did not raise his head. "He made me feel like I was so feeble. Like without him I was just some useless piece of shit who didn't deserve to hold down a spot on the planet."
Leah stopped. She scrunched her eyes shut and started murmuring to herself.
Dray reached for her, but Bederman shook his head. The room's stuffiness grew oppressive. Tim fanned the front of his T-shirt, waiting for Leah to raise her head. It was a long wait. When at last she looked up, red streaks stained her face. Her nails worked her rash through her sweater in fussy, nervous strokes.
"If this is wrong," she said, "if I see this is wrong, then I have to admit everything else was wrong."
"The Program is set up to make you feel that way," Bederman said. "So you see a lack of options. So you feel trapped."
"But I turned my back on everything. I struggled so hard to be a Pro." Blood dotted her sweater beneath her collar where she continued her frantic scratching. "I've given everything up, burned every bridge, cut every tie."
"Not every tie," Will said.
Her frozen stare at first registered only alarm, but then her eyes moistened and her forehead started a downward crinkle into a sob.
Bederman said, "Where do you want to be five years from now, Leah? Ten years?"
Her short hair whipped her cheeks when she shook her head.
Tim started to say something, but Bederman cut him off with a sharp, excited gesture.
"I'd be a Webmaster, I guess. Maybe even a software designer." A wistful smile grew on her face. "I always wanted to live in San Francisco."
"You can still do those things," Bederman said. "All of them."
Her mouth narrowed. "But I'm naked without The Program."
"Honey," Dray said, "it won't feel that way forever."
"If I leave, I won't have anything left to give." She was really crying now. "I'll be broken. Damaged goods. Let's be honest – no one will ever want to date me, be my friend. It's not like they were lining up before, and now I'll be some cult freak."
"Thanks." Wearing a wry smile, Reggie waved to an imaginary audience. "I'll be here all week."
She laughed through her tears. "You know what I'm saying. I mean, Beverly Cantrell's gonna be a fucking pediatrician. What am I?"
Will said, "Beverly Cantrell is a cryogenic Victorian priss who needs her adenoids removed."
Leah wiped her mouth on her sleeve like a little girl. "I always thought you liked Beverly."
"I hide in my office when Janice exhibits her at our house."
"I wish I knew. I would have hidden with you."
"I wish you had."
The sparkle in Leah's eyes dwindled. "What am I supposed to do, Will?"
"Come home, to start."
Leah's face crumpled again. She rose abruptly, pulling off her sweater. "I need some air."
&
nbsp; Tim stood, a little too quickly. "I'll take you for a drive."
"I want to be alone." She charged out so quickly she left the door open behind her, letting in a revitalizing breeze.
"What if she calls the ranch?" Will asked just as Tim said, "What if she heads back?"
Bederman said, "Let her go."
Will ground one hand into the other. "Maybe we should follow her."
"You can't follow her for the rest of her life," Dray said. "You'd do better not to start."
Tim's phone rang, and he flipped it open. "Hello?"
Freed said, "Your last Dead Link's a ghost."
"Wayne Topping?"
"Yeah. Doesn't exist. Nothing came back. Just wanted to let you know."
When Tim hung up, Will was staring at him. "You did say 'Wayne Topping'?"
"The name ring a bell?"
"Yes. That's the alias that Danny Katanga used. Our PI who went missing."
Tim blew out a breath. "TD's got a file on him. The kind of file that means he's probably dead. I'm sorry."
"So am I."
The stagnant heat leaked from the room, the door swaying with the April breeze. The patch of sunlight thrown through the window stretched and turned gold against the worn carpet. Reggie laced his hands and stretched. At the hour mark, Will took to pacing. Only Dray was calm.
Tim had finally come to grips with Leah's being lost when a faint cough announced her presence. She stood like a waif in the doorway.
"I accept it. I accept they used mind control on me."
Will let out a muffled noise of relief.
"But I have to go back. They'll make hell for Tom if he goes up without me."
"How do you know I'm going back up?"
"I saw how excited you got about the mail thing. I'm not an idiot. Trust me, if you go back alone, they'll know something's wrong."
"I'll say your parents kidnapped you."
"They'll suspect you. And they'll find out."
"You can't be reexposed to that environment," Bederman said. "There are too many triggers there. You're fragile."
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