The Program (38 page)

The final two cabinets accommodated the most disturbing materials, dossiers on every Pro and initiate. Glancing through them recalled the eeriness Tim had felt perusing his own file in the midst of last year's mess.

The meticulous logging was mind-boggling. Sleep schedules. Weekly Gro-Par reports -- Winona complained twice yesterday of missing her twins. Self-report forms -- Name your complaints about The Program you least want to say out loud. Medical reports from the ranch physician, one Dr. Henderson, who seemed to double as a shrink -- Chad complained of perianal itching; he believes it's stress-related. He's not yet fully sublimated into GrowthWork; he recalled weight-lifting fondly. A peek inside Dr. Henderson's file revealed him to be a podiatrist who'd had his license revoked for selling OxyContin, a juicy nugget rooted out by an outside PI, one Phil McCanley. TD had created a time-tested system for psychological leverage -- trickle-down snitchonomics.

Tim found Leah's file and spent more time on it than was judicious. Primary trauma -- father's death. Primary phobia -- cancer. Primary victimization -- enabling others in their victimhood. Point of leverage: stepdad. Below this the wrongdoings Will had ostensibly perpetrated upon Leah -- the precise list she had regurgitated to Tim last night. Having scrutinized similar lists in countless other files helped put Will's allegedly abusive parenting in perspective. Dr. Henderson had much to report on Leah's rash. A pink bow fastened a bundle of love letters Leah had written to her new self. A note jotted on TD's letterhead made Tim's stomach churn: Latent feelings of unwantedness and minor instances of neglect serve as tenable areas of exploration. Guide Leah to recall physical and sexual abuse.

Tom Altman's file held exhaustive financial information regarding his phony portfolio. Not surprisingly, murdered daughter was Tom's key point of leverage; Tim felt another wave of shame at having exploited the trauma so cheaply. The file was updated to include TD's suspicion, then confirmation, of the murder-for-hire, as well as the fictional hit man's blunder. Tom's bout of impotence had already appeared, as well as his extensive dish-wiping miscues from yesterday's lunch. His divorce was noted as well. All in all, the file declared him an exceptional candidate.

A gray file in the back of the drawer caught his attention. The tab read Dead Link, and as Tim flipped through it, he realized it was different from the others he'd seen. No photo, just a name -- Wayne Topping -- a computer folder designation -- c:/TD/docs/deadlink4/ -- and a status entry -- Missing. Tim went back through the other drawers and came upon several more Dead Link files hidden among the others. Each seemed to correspond to a person who'd left or been removed from The Program. Ernie Tramine's status at the Neuropsychiatric Institute was noted. A girl had killed herself at the Le Brea Tar Pits -- Tim recalled the newspaper story from several weeks ago -- and more suicides were reported, neatly closing out three more files. According to his folder, Reggie Rondell was checked into a psychiatric ward in Santa Barbara. Another girl's status was listed as Active.

Before Tim had time to contemplate the chilling ramifications of the Dead Link files, a faint shout froze him up. Replacing the papers neatly in the file, he eased the drawer closed. A twist of the bobby pin, which he'd left protruding from the lock, sealed the cabinet. Sensing the ground vibration of someone approaching, he scampered to the skylight and pulled himself to the roof. Lying flat, he secured the pane. Another yell, distorted in the wind but nearer, reached him.

He peeked over the mod's edge in time to see the twin black streaks of the Dobermans beelining into the clearing.

Lorraine's head bobbed industriously in TD's lap. His arms, spread wide, clutched a silk pillow on either side. A fat, three-wick candle cast a tranquilizing glow. He regarded the pistoning seal of her mouth for a moment before turning his attention back to a spot on the duvet cover, which he worked at futilely with a thumbnail.

Jessye Norman wailed to a close, the CD rasping quietly as it spun down.

A fierce snarling outside shattered the room's calm. He was on his feet, silk robe settling over him like a cape, his momentum knocking Lorraine off the bed. He shoved through the doors and out onto the freezing porch, standing barefoot with a jagged triangle of chest revealed.

The dogs had fallen on someone. They snarled and shoved back with their legs, heads shaking to tear flesh.

The shed door flew open, and Randall emerged just as Skate burst from the trail into the clearing, whistling around his fingers. The Dobermans dropped their prey, trotted to Skate's side, and sat whimpering lustfully, tongues working their wet muzzles. Bawling, the figure found her feet.

Nancy wore the same denim dress she'd had on when she'd been taken away, but it was tattered -- torn at the collar, streaked with grime, missing half its buttons. She'd withstood the dogs' brief assault -- aside from a missing shoe and a nasty bite on her right calf, she was surprisingly intact. Her hair, sweat-pasted and knotted, stuck out at all angles, the light roots prominent. Snot smeared her upper lip. She stooped in the thickening rain, favoring her right leg. "Please, TD," she said. "Please take me back. They left me. They dumped me by the tar pits."

TD's face held utter delight. "You got here yourself? How?"

The sole of her remaining shoe was almost entirely worn away. "Hiked. Walked. Hitched."

His eyes went to her muddy knees. "Crawled."

"That, too."

A pleased smile touched his lips. He nodded at the dogs. "Glad to see you got a warm welcome from Sturm und Drang."

A tiny voice called from behind him. "TD?"

He didn't turn his head. "Get back inside."

Lorraine scurried off.

"Please take me back," Nancy said.

TD's lips curved into a grin. "No. Never."

She cringed. "I can help. I'm indispensable." Blood ran down her ankle, leached up by a ragged sock. Her appearance spoke of endless miles, wrong turns, the groping hands of truckers. She braced herself and took a last-ditch shot. "I know everything about The Program. You'd rather have me here than somewhere else."

Skate's mouth parted at the poorly veiled threat. The dogs revved at his side, the mingled scents of blood and fear driving them wild. TD broke the standoff with laughter. In a moment Nancy joined him with a relieved smile, nervous eyes darting.

The aftermath of amusement lingering on his face, TD turned back to the door. "Get her out of here. Correctly this time."

From his flattened perch on the mod's roof, Tim watched the scene unfolding in the clearing about thirty yards away. Renewed gusts of rain rattled the leaves on the oak overhead. A lightning flash strobe-lit the woods.

Randall disappeared back into his shed and emerged clutching a shovel and a flashlight. Skate snapped his dogs into a sit-stay and headed for the trees, prodding the shell-shocked woman before him. She tripped, and Randall hauled her up and pushed the shovel into her hands. His mouth moved, and then Tim heard the faint sound of Skate's chuckle.

There is a starkness to watching someone about to be killed. Ruthless executioners -- whether common murderers or soldiers -- comprehend the deadness of their victims even before they're dispatched. They handle them like ambulatory meat. And most victims seem to grasp their deadness as well. They can walk on their own, draw breath, even clutch the shovel that's to dig their grave, and though a glazed cognizance may take hold around the eyes, they can't catch up to their fate, can't seem to bend their minds around the fact that the thought they're endeavoring to think is going to be their last. Most unsettling is the inescapable fact that there's no romance in death, no grand horror even, just the final footsteps, a muffled pop, a body wilting to the ground. Despite his time spent dug into trenches and kicking down slum doors, Tim had never quite adjusted to it. Not that he wanted to.

He slid off the roof and jogged through the clearing toward the woods, mind racing to generate a plausible plan of attack. The Dobermans snapped and yowled but stayed put in their sit-stay as Tim had gambled they would. Despite their racket, there was no movement at TD's cottage.

Saliva flew from the dogs' jaws, great foamy drops that mingled with the downpour. Tim disappeared into the woods, skidding down a bank of mud and almost tumbling over. The air was thick with rain and wet-bark scent. Tim pressed on in the direction of Nancy's death march, shouldering through brush, his breath clouding humidly about his head.

A gunshot.

The storm swallowed the reverberation. Turning a desperate 360, Tim saw only trunks and leaves, no hint of light or human movement.

A piercing whistle split the air, a two-note blast. When Tim heard the dogs galloping through the clearing, he realized that the sound was Skate's release command. He scrambled down a slope, ducking behind a brace of rock. Snarling, the dogs approached. Claws scrabbled on rock, then two black streaks flew overhead, hit ground, sprinted toward their master.

Tim bent over, sucking air. A few seconds passed. A few more.

Then, carried to him from all sides in the trick wind, came a heightened roar, the teeth-sunk growl of dogs on flesh.

Tim watched the rain pool around his shoes.

After a moment he pulled the trash bags from his pocket and slipped them over his feet. He headed after the dogs, switching direction after a few minutes. He searched the terrain, always navigating with crisp 90-degree turns to keep his bearings. The sound of voices drew near. Randall and Skate passed about twenty yards away, the dogs scampering ahead, muzzles dark and sopped. Randall clutched a mud-caked shovel.

When they crested a hump of granite and dropped out of sight, one of the dogs howled, probably picking up Tim's scent back by the rock. Then, over a growl of thunder, he heard Skate laughing, "Go git it."

Listening for the dogs, Tim moved in expanding circles, trying to locate the grave. The windswept ground was blanketed with leaves and fallen branches. It was useless. After about a half hour, he headed back, reminding himself he had only to get through tomorrow and the retreat was over.

Now he had plenty to bring back to Tannino.

He avoided the part of the woods he'd entered, emerging on the far side of TD's cottage. When the wind shifted, he could hear the dogs snorting along his old trail deep in the woods.

TD's cottage was dark, but the shed glowed with stove light.

Tim made his way cautiously up the trail, through Cottage Circle. He arrived back outside his room. Ducking, he reached up and tugged at the window.

It had been locked.

Thighs burning, he eased himself up to peer over the sill. Leah's pale face, inches from the pane, caused him to jerk back. The muscles of her jaw were corded with tension. He gestured for her to open the window, but she met him with a glare.

Her expression changed when she glanced behind him. As she yanked open the pane and helped him inside, he glanced over his shoulder. A far-off flashlight bounced up the trail from the clearing. He was careful to keep the muddy trash bags off the bedspread. He tugged them inside out as he removed them, then pulled off his shoes.

They sat quietly by the window. Skate and the dogs materialized from the rain, shadowy apparitions. The dogs were hyped up, their stick legs blurring, snouts swiveling. Their heads dipped to the ground, vacuuming scent, but then something caught their attention ahead. They burst past the cottage, barking, Skate jogging after them.

Tim and Leah exhaled simultaneously. She backhanded his shoulder. "What the hell are you thinking? Do you have any idea what he'll do to us?"

"Skate and Randall killed a girl. In the woods."

"What? Does TD know?"

"He told them to."

"You saw them murder a girl?"

"I didn't actually see it." His wet socks ice-crackled as he crept to the door. "I have to wash off these shoes in the bathroom."

They worked their way slowly over the creaking floor, slipped into the bathroom, and huddled in a toilet stall. Tearing the plastic bags into pieces and tossing them in the toilet, Tim explained to her what he'd seen.

"I'm sure there's an explanation. You didn't find a grave." Though they were whispering, her voice was high-pitched, desperate, and he had to hush her.

"She was just another loose end tied up. TD keeps track of everyone in The Program and everyone who's left The Program."

"He doesn't care about people who leave."

"I saw the files he keeps on them. Listen to me carefully, Leah: Nobody gets out of The Program. Not without winding up dead, missing, or in a nuthouse."

"No way."

"That's what the Protectors do, Leah. That's what they're here for. They're dangerous men."

Her face tensed with uncertainty, but then she dropped her eyes. "Of course they're dangerous -- they're like cops." She put a particular emphasis on that last word.

Tim looked at her skeptically.

Another flicker of emotion crossed her face. Still, she wouldn't raise her eyes from the patches of plastic floating in the toilet. Then the affect vanished. She regarded him with perfect calm. "Why should I even talk to you? You're trying to persecute the Teacher."

"I'm here to protect you and to try to stop him from doing this to others."