The Program (20 page)

"This won't be a roomful of easily cowed kids -- it's a huge cult seminar. If the girl's there, you can't just flash badge and walk her out anymore. You've got adults, hotel staff, a shitload of cult higher-ups. If you make a scene, someone is bound to inquire, and you've got dick to back up an arrest." Bear sighed weightily. "You can't risk that."

Keeping his eyes on Reggie's halting progress up the sidewalk, Tim gave a little nod.

Bear, no enthusiast of pregnant pauses, glanced over at him again. "You're getting sucked in one step at a time. You didn't sign on for this."

"I'm just getting the girl out. No more, no less."

Bear adjusted his grip on the wheel, his face skeptical. "It has occurred to you that you're walking the same path they use to indoctrinate people."

"Yes. Did you check out the rental info for the space at the Radisson?"

"The International Ballroom was booked -- no cheap affair, cost around seven grand. The check came in from TDB Corp, sources to an offshore bank account. I guess TDB holds one of these jobbies about every month. Up until now they've always used the smaller conference rooms."

"So there's either more money or more participants."

"Or both."

"Can we case it?"

"The events director says the clients have a crew there already, prepping the ballroom. I wouldn't risk going by, could get eyefucked. You'll have to run it dry."

"Get what you can on TDB Corp, would you? I want a U.S. address."

"If we're tracking finances on that level, you know we're gonna have to call in Thomas and Freed."

Freed came from money -- his parents owned a national furniture chain. He'd been groomed to take over the business but opted out at the last minute, electing to join the Service. He was the only guy on the warrant squad who drove a Porsche that he'd actually paid for, not borrowed from Asset Seizure. His persistence and quiet temperament made him a brilliant cross-agency synergist. One Christmas Eve he'd tracked down the vacationing secretary of the treasury on a Fijian Sportfisher for a telephonic consult on an international money-laundering scheme, a tale that had long calcified into Service lore. His abilities running down a money trail were unparalleled, and Thomas -- his operating partner for five years -- had evolved into an excellent collaborator. Charles Bronson comments aside, they were the right guys for the job.

Up ahead Reggie stuffed the ever-present brown paper bag into his coat pocket and ducked into a Blockbuster.

Bear pulled over and idled at the curb. "You wanna go talk to him?"

"No, he'll be more comfortable on his own turf. If he's getting a video, he's heading back home."

They sat in silence for a while, Tim flipping through his notepad and reflecting on the meeting at the apartment. Shanna had been glowing with anticipation on their walk out last night; he'd directed a few cryptic remarks her way discouraging her attendance, but she'd smiled, nonplussed, and chided him for being negative.

He reminded himself that she was a sentient adult who was capable of decision making. Spinning his wheels trying to tow her out would get him nowhere -- she was one of maybe hundreds of recruits he'd come across. Why not rescue every participant he encountered? Or even Julie and Lorraine for that matter?

So what made Leah different? Merely the fact that he'd been tasked with her recovery?

"...the small-people couple who stayed next door to me and Elise in Vegas said they'd met twenty years ago at a U2 concert," Bear was saying.

The small-people convention had really stayed with him.

"You believe that shit? People say they met at a concert twenty years ago, I'm thinking Bob Seger. We're getting old, Rack. Getting old."

Tim looked up from his notepad, glancing at the dash. Twenty minutes had passed. "What the hell is keeping him?"

"Maybe he slipped out the back."

"I'll go take a look."

"I'd offer to help," Bear said, "but I'm one of his triggers."

Tim found Reggie sitting on the floor in the middle of the Action aisle, videos scattered on the floor around him. Mumbling to himself, he appraised the cases like oversize cards in a game of solitaire. A passing father steered his two sons clear. The manager drifted in the vicinity, taking a gander from Special Interest and considering an intervention.

Reggie didn't seem surprised to see Tim. "There's Rocky III and Rocky IV. I like them both, but I can't decide. I've seen Rocky III more. And then there's classic Willis, you know, the Die Hards, The Last Boy Scout." He pressed his palm to his forehead and massaged it, swirling out a tuft of hair.

Tim made a reassuring gesture in the manager's direction. Administering a dissatisfied scowl, the man retreated to the front register.

"Which one should I pick?"

"I don't know."

Reggie's hand hovered tremulously over The Last Boy Scout. He looked to Tim for a reaction. "You can't just tell me?"

"That one's fine."

Reggie went limp with relief. "Really? You think so?"

"Yes." Tim crouched parentally, helping clean up.

Outside, Tim offered Reggie a ride, but Reggie took one look at Bear and said he'd rather walk. Tim went with him, Bear rolling his eyes and shadowing in the truck like an inexpert kidnapper.

Reggie had been studying the video case, smoothing his hands over it as if it held great sentimental value. "I don't want to talk to you anymore."

"I'm going to a colloquium tomorrow morning. At the Radisson."

Reggie dropped the video, eyelids disappearing under his brow. "Don't do it." He snatched up the video and scurried down an alley, glancing around fearfully. Tim followed. Reggie slid up onto a Dumpster lid. He spoke with a whispered urgency. "He'll hook you. That's what he does. There have been others like you, always think you can handle it."

Tim wondered if Danny Katanga, PI, had liked what he'd found enough to join up.

"I seen the Teacher turn around angry family members, journalists, pastors, shrinks -- man, does he hate shrinks -- even cops." Streaks of sweat ran down Reggie's forehead. In his agitation he didn't seem to mind referring to the leader by title. "It's a black hole. It's --"

"Reggie. Calm down. He's not God."

A burst of laughter doubled Reggie over, ending in a hacking spell. "Clearly you haven't heard the hagiography."

"The what?"

"As a young boy, he had grand mal seizures. During one -- when he was six or eight, depending on which version he's telling -- he forced himself to stay conscious and gained untainted access to his Inner Source. After that he was a force of nature. He hypnotized other boys at school just by looking at them, left them to wander campus like zombies. Batteries discharge themselves in his hands. He touches books to his forehead and they're read. Lights flicker when he passes them." Reggie snorted up some phlegm and spit. "Don't tell me he's not God. He is whatever he thinks he is."

A few raindrops flecked their cheeks, then dissolved into a wet breeze. Tim thought of Ernie Tramine's atrophied face and wondered how far gone Reggie's memory was.

Despite his puffy coat, Reggie was shivering uncontrollably. "He'll eat you alive."

"Tell me what to watch for."

A high, agitated whine. "I can't, man. If he fucking finds out..."

Tim held up his hands. "I just want to know what I'm gonna run into."

"Fuck knows. He's always improving, always evolving. He had a new set of tricks every time we ran another Orae."

"Like what?"

"I don't know!" Reggie's eyes darted back and forth as the echo of his voice bounced around brick and metal. It was a narrow alley, the tall buildings seeming to converge overhead. "I been out fifteen months. I've got no idea what kind of shit he'll throw at you now."

"How many recruits will be there?"

"Thirty, forty. The goal is just to hook three or four."

"Three or four what?"

Reggie looked away in disgust, his breath misting. A leaky gutter lent the asphalt a glossy sheen. "Did they love-bomb you? In your Prelim. The meeting. Did they love-bomb you? Touch you, hang on every word, tell you how fantastic you are?"

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

Tim shrugged.

"Don't lie to me. Don't you fucking lie to me. Did you like it?"

"Yes, a part of me did."

"You'd better be goddamn honest with yourself when you're in there."

"Okay, that's one tip. You have more?" Tim took a deep breath and held it before exhaling. "Reggie. I've got to go do this thing in four hours. Help me out, man."

Reggie looked down. The laces of his left shoe had come untied, the tips tracing circles in the darkness. He mumbled to himself, holding up both sides of an internal argument. His lips stilled, then he said quietly, "Don't drink the punch. Watch the time. Pinch yourself." When he looked up, his eyes held a sharp focus. "Don't do it to her."

"Do what?"

"Kidnap her."

"I'm not really --"

"It was during a guided meditation at the Teacher's house. I'd been deteriorating pretty good for a couple of weeks. I blacked out. I couldn't stand up. My arms and legs were shaking. I couldn't get them to stop. I was lying on the floor in my own...my own piss." Reggie faced Tim unflinchingly, steeling himself like an AA member who'd toiled long enough to accept harsh facts. "My Gro-Par brought the Teacher over. I remember looking up at them. I couldn't talk, even. My Gro-Par said, 'Maybe we should get him to a doctor.' And the Teacher said, 'No, that'll just injure him more psychologically. He'll be better off on his own.' Two Pros came over, and they carried me out of the house. They set me down on the curb and went back inside."

He eyed the thin river of slate sky. "It was like falling deep in love, giving every ounce of trust I had only to find..." His hand rose, fluttering, then fell to his lap. "After working and slaving and signing over two and a half million dollars, I was abandoned the second I became inconvenient. I never get to decide for myself. I never get to walk out." His posture firmed, his head rising, his shoulders pulling back. For a moment he looked like a different person. Then he wilted, and he was Reggie again. "I never get to have that. Never. And now you're making sure this girl doesn't get to have it either. She's a ship in a bottle, man, and you're gonna throw the whole fucking thing against the wall so you can play with the pieces."

He rocked gently, heels striking metal. His sudden alertness vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His lips moved soundlessly.

Tim waited a few moments, but Reggie's eyes stayed unfocused and lifeless. Tim took a few backward steps, then turned, heading to the block of light at the alley's mouth, the Dumpster resounding like a kettledrum under the slow beat of Reggie's shoes.

Chapter
nineteen

When she finished this time, TD stroked her hair. "There, now, that was really great progress."

She slid off the bed onto the blanket and sheets laid out on the floor; the Teacher needed room in bed to sleep undisturbed. TD rolled to his side, and within seconds his breathing slowed. Leah lay awake as she had the night before, one hand clutching the butter-smooth sheets. Not wanting to disturb TD, she didn't move, even though her right arm was falling asleep. Split by the slatted blinds, the moon crept molasses slow up the blanket covering her.

She certainly had it better than Nancy, who had not reappeared from Skate's shed. All day Skate had patrolled the perimeter and shadowed TD with a satiated grin, disappearing at intervals. On the ranch, sex was a rationed privilege.

Leah was surprised to catch herself questioning the benefits of this aspect of TD's tutelage. She thought about her perverse need to be negative during a wonderful opportunity like this. Staying On Program, listening to the Teacher -- that was how people grew.

A dying candle persisted on the nightstand beside her, next to a telephone with its cord removed -- TD called for the phone cord rarely and only for essential Program business. Tacked to the wall above the nightstand was TD's phone sheet, the schedule of hours at which he had set incoming calls. Callers, knowing they had a window of maybe five minutes to reach him, developed a discipline.

Her thoughts seemed a Christmas-light tangle, impossibly snared, granting flashes of lucidity at random yet somehow connected intervals. Nestled in the warm swirl of sheets, she reminded herself that she was privileged to be able to learn about her insecurities with the Teacher. She ran through Program precepts until they became thoughtless blurs. After an excruciating block of time, she heard the outside door creak open. The faint tap of a footstep. And then another.

Leah lay frozen.

A startled scream -- Lorraine. TD bolted upright and rushed to the door, tugging his pants on, Leah trailing meekly for fear of being left behind in darkness.

TD hit the switch as Nancy shrugged off Lorraine's two-arm tackle. The misaligned buttons of Nancy's dress created mouths in the denim through which skin and bra peeked. The hem was ripped, the fabric marred by muddy groping. Her bed-swirled hair stuck out in all directions. Nancy began sobbing, her words barely comprehensible. "Teacher, please, lemme back with you. Lemme be your Lily. Pleeease."