The Program (16 page)

Crunching ice, Will seemed to wrestle with his appetite for revenge. Finally he said, "Just get her home so we can take things from there."

Tim thought of Rooch Banner, Will's impatient rustling, the well-scrubbed tile of the kitchen. Not the warmest home to return to.

"Kidnapping our own daughter," Emma said tearily. "What has this come to?"

"I'm not kidnapping her," Tim said. "I'm taking her into custody. Think of it as a covert arrest."

Dray's head cocked. "On what grounds?"

"Grand theft auto."

"Pretty thin for a federal arrest. Plus, then what? You gonna charge her? Out of the cult and into jail? Sounds like a brainchild hatched in our fine federal bureaucracy, all right."

"We don't have to charge her, Dray."

"So just arrest her on trumped-up charges and violate her rights."

Tim took a deep breath, letting the mood in the room settle. "I'm hoping to come across something stronger. Evidence of Leah's being in imminent danger" -- at this, Emma emitted a choked little sob -- "or a 5150, danger to self."

"You can't make that determination," Dray said. "What, are you gonna smuggle in a psychiatric-evaluation team under your trench coat?"

Emma studied her through bleary red eyes. "How about abuse charges?"

"Adult abuse isn't illegal."

"What do you mean?"

"There's no adult-abuse statute. If there was, we'd have to run out and arrest anyone who's ever tried S&M. Whatever Leah's doing, it sounds like it's consensual. We've got assault and battery, but those require a victim pressing charges, which doesn't sound likely in this case." Dray shot Tim a glance. "This isn't news to you -- you know how shitty conviction rates are when battered women back down."

Will smacked his palm on his knee. "So what do you propose? We just leave her in this cult?"

"Yes. I understand you're frustrated that you can't persuade her to leave, but she's an adult. Just because you have money doesn't give you the right to use other means to remove her." Dray moved her focus to her husband. "Come on, Tim. Let's call it like it is. I shouldn't have to remind you all that nothing illegal has taken place here." She gestured at Will with her glass. "There's a reason you're not sending Roach --"

"Rooch."

"-- to do your bidding. There's a reason Tannino's using a freelancer for the job, and there's a reason he's using my husband." She softened her voice. "You're making some moves to get your daughter safe. Christ, with what we've been through, I can certainly relate. I'm not a saint, I'm not a priss, and I'm not a DA. I'm just recommending we all stay very aware of the game we're playing here. If my husband extracts your daughter, his ass is the one on the line when the spin doctors scrub in."

"That's not going to happen. Whatever you do, you won't have any legal problems. That I can assure you."

Dray was on her feet. "With all due respect, Mr. Henning, you can't make that promise." She set her half-full glass on the bar and left the room.

Will chuckled. "No shrinking violet, that one."

"No, sir."

"So how about the P.O. box? You make any progress with the inspector?"

"Let's just say he gave new meaning to the term 'going postal.' "

Will's hearty laugh filled the room.

"I'd like to implement some small, sustainable disguise elements, on the off chance someone in the cult recognizes me from the news footage last year," Tim said. "We usually pull a professional from the movie studios, but with the time frame --"

Will brightened. "I'll have the hottest new makeup-and-hair guy in town at your house first thing tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock okay?" He killed his vodka, plunked the glass on a side table. "When all this is through, I'll get you some Lakers tickets. On the floor. Right by Jack." He waited for Tim to stand. "Rooch will see you out."

Rooch had materialized above the steps, one hand clasping the other at the wrist. Tim paused on his way out, then turned back to Will. "Give me your watch."

"Nice line reading. I'll call you when we start casting."

"The Service issues replicas. The guys I'm swimming with might know the difference."

Though Emma made a displeased face, Will slid the Cartier off his wrist and tossed it to Tim. "That's a thirty-thousand-dollar watch. Keep your eye on it."

"I'll be sure to."

Rooch didn't speak to Tim on the long walk out.

Dray was sitting in the passenger seat. She winked at him when he got in. "I don't know about these freelance gigs, Timothy. Your track record is for shit."

Tim pulled out and drove a few blocks. "You're right. What you said in there."

They passed out of the community under a wood arch proclaiming ADIOS AMIGOS.

"Their home should be beautiful, but it just feels cold and antiseptic. They want the dog on the couch, off the couch, in the room, out of the room -- imagine how'd they'd be as parents." Dray let her breath out sharply through her teeth. "Emma's anxiety runs that house. It runs Will, too. Families portion out emotion -- I'd say her whining wouldn't leave much room for a daughter to have normal growing-up difficulties. That would undermine Mother's martyrdom." Dray spoke bitterly -- her own mother had enjoyed a familial monopoly on suffering.

"I'd guess Leah was an inconvenience to them."

"I'd bet her job was to be quiet, easy, and invisible. And I'd bet she didn't easily fit the bill."

The traffic had lightened significantly. As they drove north, Tim reflected on his visit with his father. He'd learned at a young age that opening up had its costs -- it left too much of himself to protect. And so he'd learned to seek sustenance elsewhere, to generate it from within, to remain tightly and serenely wound into himself.

This strategy had aided him when he enlisted and was called upon to kill other men.

"These aren't people to be downstream from," Dray said. "They have as much concern for you as they did for the late Danny Katanga. All they want is someone to bring in their daughter. Keep their house looking tidy. If that goes wrong, they'll be looking for someone to blame."

"But my reputation leaves me beyond reproach."

She laughed. "You're doing your Wile E. Coyote creep off the cliff right now. All I'm saying is, make sure you pack a parachute."

Chapter
fifteen

In the back of the Growth Hall, Stanley John was beating the kettledrum, which sent a low, anesthetizing vibration through Leah's bones. It made her job -- unstacking folding chairs -- easier. She moved through her work rhythmically, like a dancer. The backs of her arms were purpling with the bruises.

Lorraine and Winona scrambled around on all fours buffing the lacquered wood. A converted gymnasium from the adolescent facility, the Growth Hall featured a high-tech lighting system, basketball court lines, and a stage. Rewarded for his progress on the Web site, Chris wielded a measuring tape to calculate the space between seating.

TD paced the growing aisles, his usual preshow warm-up, his eyes riveted on the checklist in front of him. He barked his shin on an out-of-line folding chair.

Stanley John stopped beating the drum. The tape recoiled back into the metal square in Chris's puffy hand. The gym fell silent.

TD glanced down at the wayward chair and then at Chris, who did not rise from his knees.

Dots of sweat rose on Chris's forehead. "I'm sorry. I take ownership of my incompetence --"

TD spoke with a calm, honey-coated intensity. "Maybe you can't step up to this task. Maybe measuring the distance between two chairs is too much for you."

"I'm sorry. I'm just a little distracted. I was up all night fussing with the hyperlinks --"

"Well, that's a ready batch of answers. Looks like we've backslid into excuse making. What's our friend Chris need to do, folks?"

"Negate victimhood."

TD brushed Chris's hair out of his eyes. "I think we need to reset your preferences for humility. You can start by unclogging the methane bleeders at the septic tank tomorrow."

Chris's eyes clenched shut. "Thank you, Teacher."

"Where's your wife?"

"Over here, TD," Janie called out with a smile. Her dark, stiff jeans, tight around her firm behind, struck a contrast with her baggy pink sweater. She finished dumping another five-pound bag of sugar into the vat of punch while another helper stirred away.

"Come."

Janie walked over and stood obediently before him, arms at her sides.

"Does your husband default to victimhood, Janie?"

She looked from TD to Chris, then back to TD. "He has lapsed Off Program a little lately."

TD nodded severely. "On the other hand, in the past few weeks, you've closed on" -- he turned a half circle and raised his voice -- "more Neos than anyone else." His applause was picked up by the others. Still on his knees, Chris clapped along with them. "Not like Sean and Julie, whose numbers have been down." Dark looks from all directed at the laggards. "Chris, give your wife the tape measure. That's it."

Chris raised it to his wife's waiting hands. TD cupped his palm on the ridge of Janie's hip, just above the back pocket of her jeans. Chris's eyes were riveted to TD's gently squeezing fingers.

Janie smiled, basking in TD's glow.

"Others have found it easier to work without a bulky sweater on," TD said.

Her eyes fixed on his, Janie pulled the sweater off over her head, revealing a fitted undershirt through which her nipples showed slightly. TD nodded, pleased, and resumed his pacing. The hall fell back into motion.

Chris rose and sulked in a rear corner, his eyes beady and small above his too-wide cheeks. Leah was relieved TD didn't take note, for something had changed in Chris's eyes, and it was a change he would not have liked.

She pulled the next chair off the stack and handed it to a young graphic-design guru whose name she'd forgotten; he snapped it open and slid it down the assembly line.

TD strolled beatifically through the flurry of activity, his focus never leaving his notes.

"Teacher, do you want the cookies arranged on the trays flat or stacked?"

His eyes stayed on his checklist. "Flat."

Another worker -- "I cut my finger pretty good. Can I get a ride to the ER so I can get it looked at?"

"No. You can visit Dr. Henderson in Cottage Three after the Orae."

"TD, I really want to have sex with my wife. It's been almost three weeks."

"Fine. After the Orae. Missionary. In her cottage. Fifteen minutes."

"Thank you. Thank you."

"My father died. The service --"

"Stop crying."

"I'm sorry. The service is twenty minutes away. Can I have money for a bus ride?"

"Leave the dead to bury the dead."

"Will you let me grow a beard, Teacher?"

"Enough, please. I'm trying to prepare."

All talking ceased, the silence broken only by the quiet rustling of the workers.

Leah snapped a chair open, pinching her thumb in a hinge. She bit her lip so she wouldn't cry out, her eyes watering. The pain pulled her from her working trance, and she stepped outside. To her right alongside the building, three pay-phone handsets nestled in their hooks, severed cords protruding stiffly beneath them.

Down the curved road, lights twinkled in the cottages. To her left beyond a fence and a strip of fire-retarding ice plant, a cliff fell away. In the night the abrupt drop was a void. The cold bit her through the thin cotton of her jersey. She thumbed the fabric. Will had brought her the shirt back from location somewhere, a gift without an occasion.

"Leah? What are you doing out here?" Janie's voice yanked her from her thoughts. "You know better than to skulk around alone. Hurry now, or you'll throw off TD's concentration for the Orae."

Leah mumbled an apology and followed her back inside, where the five-foot stacks of chairs waited.

All sixty-eight Pros, stoked with candy bars and punch, packed the seats, riding out a sugar high together. Everyone held hands, swayed, and babbled excitedly. Randall and Skate emerged from outside, Skate's hands glittering with dog slobber, and took up posts at the base of the stage. The drum started beating again. Leah went under its spell.

The overheads dimmed, the footlights came up, and plaintive trumpet notes announced the Orae's commencement. As the music resolved into the opening motif of 2001: A Space Odyssey, TD burst onto the stage, a Janet Jackson mike floating off his right cheek. The thunderous sforzando chords faded, and then there was just the slow, rumbling beat of the drum and the Teacher's words.

"Out there in the world are the Common-Censors. The human husks. The living dead. They're all stuck in the dead links of their Old Programming. They're like the three little monkeys -- deaf, dumb, and blind." TD's eyes seemed to take in every face. "Now, some people may say I'm kind of crazy. Some people might call me a weirdo. But I like that label." His lips firmed in a wise little smirk. "They say we're a cult." He made spooky fingers in the light, his smile indicating this was of great amusement. A mocking rumble rose from the crowd.