The Program

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “I don’t really want to go back,” Tim said. “I have much more to learn here.” A church murmuring of amen equivalents. “I’m in a reflective space right now, and I feel rebuilt. I don’t want to be around people who might not be receptive.”

  TD’s face tightened—the first sign of discomfort Tim had witnessed in him. “Your Gro-Par should go with you.”

  Tom Altman waved off the suggestion. “No, I don’t want to take Leah away from—”

  TD’s eyes bored through Tim. “It’ll be much better for you if she goes.”

  “Well, I guess if you feel that strongly...”

  A paternal smile quickly smoothed TD’s face. “I think it’s best.”

  A burst of cold air heralded Wendy’s entrance. Bent arthritically at the waist, she clutched her windbreaker closed at the throat. The door swung shut behind her.

  Already a cluster of Pros was moving to encircle her, bearing blankets and steaming cups of coffee that had appeared as magically as the corridor of soft-glowing light leading inward from the door. They bundled her up, whispering greetings, bearing her lovingly back into the fold.

  Leah bounced as the van pulled out from its slot behind the Growth Hall. Tim rode shotgun, his overnight bag and reclaimed shoe box of goods at his feet. His thoughts turned to the briefing he’d owe Tannino, how he’d present the case to come back for TD.

  Randall drove by the treatment wing, humming to himself—the “Ode to Joy.” The Pros were out about Cottage Circle, attending to their tasks and activities robotically.

  Not a single gray face rose to note the van as it glided past.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Entering from the garage, Tim found Dray at the kitchen table, playing solitaire, silhouetted against the drawn blinds like a fortune-teller who knew something about dumbbells. The last time he’d seen her playing cards was when he’d gotten home from a post-WTC deployment to Uzbekistan that had gone overtime; now, as then, she’d looked pale and exhausted, worn down by concern. He paused silently in the doorway and stopped, forearm across the jamb, just watching. She looked up and started, sending three clubs and a spade airborne, and then she was up and in his arms.

  She nuzzled her forehead into his neck, tight-squeezing his waist. Then, as was their ritual, she felt his arms, his chest, his back, searching out injuries. She pulled off his fake glasses and tossed them disdainfully on the table, then ran her hand over his goatee. “Can you shave this?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  The smile lines around her eyes faded. “You’re going back?”

  “Maybe. If we can’t flip Leah, I have to accompany her back Saturday so I don’t blow her cover.”

  Dray bit her lip. He rested his palm on her stomach, which bulged ever so slightly below the toned muscle. She read his eyes, flattened her hands over his.

  He felt her tense up.

  Pulling back, he followed her stare over his shoulder. Leah stood in the doorway. With a sleeve-covered hand, she brushed her shaggy hair out of her eyes. “Sorry. I know you said to wait, but the dark and the quiet... I guess I’m not used to being alone.”

  Seeing Leah in this context, Tim was struck by how gaunt she was. She pulled off her sweater, her undershirt’s V neck dipping to reveal the rash on her chest and the overpronounced strokes of her clavicles. The artificial light lent her arms’ bruises and the smudges beneath her eyes a sea-weedy tint.

  Leah extended a gangly arm. “Hi. I’m Leah.”

  Taking her hand, Dray looked at Tim, and Tim tilted his chin in a faint nod.

  “Andrea Altman,” she said.

  “I need to... uh, call the ranch and leave a voice mail. Every three hours.”

  Tim had been given the same phone number; if he needed to speak with TD, he was to call and leave a voice mail requesting a phone appointment. He’d receive a return call within three hours from one of the Pros, giving him the time at which he should call back.

  Tim drew his cell phone from his pocket. “Use this. Don’t place any landline calls from here, okay?”

  “Okay.” She started to dial, but her legs gave out.

  Tim caught her, and Dray pulled over a chair. Leah bent her head into her hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” She took a few deep breaths.

  Dray filled a pot with water and put it on the stove. “Let’s get some food into you.”

  “I don’t want to be any more trouble.”

  Dray flashed her patented no-nonsense stare—eyebrows up, forehead wrinkled. “I wasn’t asking.”

  When the shower ran in the little bathroom across the hall from Ginny’s room, the pipes in the adjacent master wall hummed. Sitting on the bed, giving Dray the CliffsNotes rundown of the retreat, Tim realized that those pipes had been silent for the last year.

  After waiting until Leah disposed of a full plate of pasta and two chicken-patty sandwiches, Dray had dragged the air mattress from the garage rafters and inflated it in Ginny’s room. Unlike most tough women, she had patience for fragility, though now that she wasn’t in Leah’s pitiable presence, her magnanimity was wearing thin.

  “I need your help,” Tim said.

  “We’re not running an orphanage here.”

  “She got sucked into something over her head. She just needs a little space to—”

  “She made those choices. She did. Like kids choose to shoot up or knock off 7-Elevens. We don’t provide turndown service for them.” Her sigh puffed up her bangs. “And now she knows where we live. And she’s planning to return to the enemy camp.”

  “I’m hoping we can talk her out of it.”

  “That’s another thing. After you risked your life, she’s down here to... what? Test the waters?”

  “We’ll do the intervention first thing tomorrow morning. Let’s hope she goes home with her parents from there.”

  “And if she doesn’t, then you escort her back to the ranch? That’s crazy-making.”

  “It’s how the law works. We can’t just hold her against her will— you’re the one who was so adamant about that earlier. Why do you have a problem with her now?”

  “She did try to fuck you.”

  “She was under the impression that I was single.”

  “Oh,” Dray said. “Well, then.”

  The pipes ceased their murmuring, and Dray left to make up the bed.

  Tim called Bear and debriefed him quickly so he could start in on the Dead Link leads. Then he removed his badge and .357 from the gun safe. He clipped the holster at his right hip, then sat on the bed, holding the five-point star in his lap, running his thumb across the silver-plated brass. TD’s words worked on him still, even through the second skin of his assumed identity. Tim had been arrogant. He had assumed power that should not have been his. He had killed the wrong people, not those responsible for his daughter’s murder.

  Though it was barely after ten, Leah fell out in minutes, snuggled blissfully beneath an abundance of winter blankets in Ginny’s otherwise bare room. Zipping up his jacket, Tim paused in the doorway, peering in. A chocolate bar lay half eaten on the floor within arm’s reach of the pillow. To ward off loneliness, Leah had asked for a radio; from Tim’s paint-splattered boom box, James Taylor wearily bemoaned flying machines in pieces on the ground.

  In Tim’s boxers and a stretched T-shirt, Dray padded up the hall from the kitchen, turning off the lights along the way. The shushing of her footsteps ceased.

  Breathing quietly side by side in the darkness, they watched Leah’s sleeping form.

  Not at your house. It’s important we meet on neutral ground.” The finality in Tim’s voice elicited a glance from Bear in the driver’s seat.

  The Dodge wasn’t the most soundproof of vehicles; Tim had to stick a finger in his ear so he could hear Emma’s faint response on the cell phone. “How about at my brother Michael’s, then? He lives in Westwood.”

  “She’s allergic to cats,” Tim said.

  “So?”

  “Uncle Mike has cats.”

  If the
bemused noise escaping Bear’s throat was any indication, Emma’s silence connoted shock. “I suppose he does,” she finally managed.

  A rustle as the phone was handed off, then Will’s gruff voice cut in. “What’s this? Where are we meeting?”

  “I’m working on that. Keep your schedule clear in the morning.”

  Tim heard Emma murmuring in the background, then Will said, “Not too early. We want to be our best for this. The baby’s given us quite a week.”

  “Leah’s had quite a week, too.” Tim snapped his phone shut.

  The Dodge rocked as they pulled into the motel parking lot, the vacancy sign crackling like a bug zapper overhead. Bear angled into a space. “You want me to wait here, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry.” Tim got out and headed for the brightly lit front office.

  Reggie’s head snapped up at the chiming bells. “Oh, c’mon, what now?”

  “I got her out. But only for two days.”

  “Man, you are incorrigible.”

  “I took your advice. I’m leaving it up to her whether she wants to go back.”

  “Good for you. Thanks for dropping by.”

  “I need somewhere to hold an intervention in the morning.”

  It took a moment for realization to dawn, and then Reggie leaned back. “No way. I want no part of this. I’ve done what I can for you.”

  “You’re not doing this for me,” Tim said. “I’ve got a girl contemplating leaving The Program, leaving TD.” Reggie shriveled at the names. “Well, here’s your chance.”

  “My chance?”

  “To stand up. To help someone else walk out. You said you’re stuck because you never got to choose. Well, now you get to choose.”

  Reggie coughed out something unintelligible. “Good manipulation. You learned well from TD.” He returned Tim’s stare. “There are hundreds of seedy motels around here. Pick one of them.”

  “I don’t want one of them.”

  “What if they find out I helped?”

  “They think you’re still in the bin up in SB. If they even knew you were here, you wouldn’t be here. As you said, you’re the sole survivor. They won’t get it wrong forever. We have to crack The Program open. I need your help to do it. This is the first step.”

  Reggie bit his bottom lip so it bunched out as if he were dipping tobacco. He bobbed his head, mulling it over. “So you want a room.”

  “And I’d like you to be there. To help talk to her.”

  Reggie laughed sharply. “Yeah, right. Like her parents will let me anywhere near her.”

  “Her parents aren’t running this. The girl needs you.”

  Hopefulness brightened Reggie’s face, then vanished, replaced by his accustomed affect, that of someone treading water with sapping strength. His forehead knitted. “I don’t have... I don’t have anything to offer.”

  “You’re gonna use that for the rest of your life?”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. “Sorry.” He shook his head. “I’ve faced my demons already.”

  “Yeah? And who won that staredown?”

  Reggie squirmed under Tim’s look and finally broke eye contact. His pale arms rose and fell limply to his sides, a gesture of defeat. “I’m a coward, don’t you know?”

  Only the perpetual gurgle of the new fish tank broke the silence.

  “So that’s the bottom line?” Tim said. “All the bullshit you told me about never getting to decide for yourself—just an excuse you mutter to let yourself off the hook?”

  Reggie bobbed his head, blinking hard. “Maybe so.”

  The bells jangled loudly as Tim exited. He climbed into Bear’s rig. Bear read his expression, surmised he wasn’t in a sharing mood, and reversed out of the space. He tugged the gearshift down and hit the gas. The seat belt locked suddenly across Tim’s chest.

  Reggie stood feet from the front grille, hands thrust into his pockets. Tim shouldered open the door and set one foot down on asphalt, regarding him over the outbent hinge of the panel. Wisps of steam seeped from the rattling hood.

  Reggie withdrew one hand, something gleaming in his fist. He tossed it at Tim who caught it single-handed. A key. Room 3.

  Tim glanced back up, but already the office door was swinging closed, muffling the complaint of the bells.

  A discordant banging, like the clap of a loose screen door, snapped Dray awake. She rolled onto her stomach, hand digging through her kicked-off uniform on the floor and emerging with her gun. Since Ginny’s death, she left the Beretta lying around rather than committing it to the gun safe at night, a foolish compensatory extravagance.

  Grabbing the cordless, she shuffle-stepped across the room and let her muzzle lead her pivot around the jamb. The radio in Leah’s room was audible from the hall, playing something undulating and beatific. Dray peered around the corner. Sitting Indian style on the mattress, Leah rocked forward, beating her forehead against the wall and whimpering.

  The song, an amalgam of electric keyboard, Illiean pipes, and plaintive exhortations to sail away, seemed the perfect score to the disturbing scene.

  Dray called out to Leah three times, drew no response, and tugged her back from the wall. Blood matted her bangs, streaked the bridge of her nose. Leah shrieked and jerked away, hurling herself back at the wall.

  Dray fought her down, pinning her with a knee across the chest, and fumbled the phone to her ear. She reached to turn off the boom box with her foot, but it was too far a stretch. Tim picked up on the first ring.

  “She’s in some kind of trance, banging her head, and she won’t stop—”

  “I can barely hear you.”

  Leah bucked and screeched.

  “She’s crying out, and the music—”

  “Is that Enya? On the radio. That’s one of her triggers. Turn it off.”

  Dray rolled off Leah and slapped the power button. Leah’s thrashing quieted. Dray snapped her fingers in front of Leah’s closed eyes, a Hollywood technique of dubious efficacy. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Talk to her. Tell her to come to.”

  Dray smoothed Leah’s hair off her face; the abrasions, despite their yield, appeared to be minor. “Leah, wake up now. It’s time to wake up.”

  “Tell her to come to. Use that phrase.”

  When Dray repeated the command, Leah’s eyes fluttered open, showing a lot of white. The pupils slowly pulled down into view. Leah lurched forward violently. An instinctive “ssshh” emerged from Dray’s tensed lips. Leah’s eyes darted around until she seemed to recognize her surroundings, then she released a shuddering sigh and burst into tears.

  “What’s happening?” Tim asked.

  Leah curled into a ball, clasping Dray about her waist, pressing her face into her side. After a moment Dray reached down and stroked her head. “We’re okay now.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Freed’s Porsche dripped oil in Tannino’s driveway, parked beside the marshal’s Bronco and his Sunday car, a classic Olds—champagne with velveteen interior. Further diminishing the repute of vanity plates, Freed’s license read FRNSHME, a tip of the hat to the family biz.

  Freed and Thomas awaited Tim and Bear inside, along with Tannino and Winston Smith, the federal prosecutor, who gripped the brim of his trademark felt hat with both hands like a farmer awaiting a bank loan. They sat ensconced in a devouring sectional sofa while Tannino’s wife and sister bustled clamorously, brandishing espressos and dishes of confetti candy. Various sloe-eyed antecedents peered out from garish frames on the piano.

  Tannino’s wife cupped a hand on Tim’s cheek. “Tim, sweetie, I haven’t seen you since all that...” A wave of her manicured hand finished the sentiment. “Let me bring you some figs. George, I have the perfect thing.” Aside from judges, she was the only one to call Bear by his given name. “Zucchini flowers I made for dinner. You sit.”

  Tim and Bear’s bumbling demurrals went largely ignored.

  Tannino’s niece practic
ally skipped out from her bedroom, all done up and date ready. The men smiled and did their best not to observe her—she was stunning, and Tannino was vigilant. She and Tannino kissed, a quick peck on the mouth that somehow wasn’t creepy.

  “This kid she’s dating”—Tannino pointed at the door through which his niece had just departed—”got picked up for shoplifting—”

  “Marco,” his wife snapped, handing Bear a plate. “He was eleven.” Bear took advantage of her distraction, enfolding a greasy zucchini flower in a napkin and pocketing it.

  Tannino’s sister paused from collecting doily coasters and crossed her arms. “Winston, drink your sambuca.”

  “Thanks, but I’m—”

  At her cocked eyebrow, Winston complied. She kept an eye trained on him until the coffee bean clicked against his grimace.

  To great relief, Tannino announced, “We’re going back to the study.”

  “Marco,” his wife protested, “your guests are hungry.”

  He spread his hands and patted the air, and that was that. Like a troop of Cub Scouts, they trailed him down the dimly lit hall, the walls offering grisly renderings of saints undergoing sundry ordeals. The study doors rolled shut, and they were safe.

  Tannino snapped his fingers. Bear handed him the engorged napkin, and the marshal slid open his window, whistled over one of his retrievers, and shook out the contents.

  The men took a moment to reinflate themselves.

  The marshal steered Tim into a distressed leather sofa and examined him, brown eyes shiny with paternal relief, maybe pride. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  Winston and Freed echoed the sentiment. Thomas nodded.

  Tim removed an unmarked VHS tape from his jacket and tossed it on the couch. “Take a look at this when you get a chance. It’s a video indoctrination. The next phase of The Program lets Betters condition people without even having to be there.”

  “The girl,” Tannino said. “What about the girl?”

  “We’re meeting with her parents in the A.M.”