The Program

by Stephen White

  Landon pulled the jersey on without protest. I was shocked at her generous cooperation. And I was grateful. I assumed that Anvil was responsible for her benevolent mood.

  “I don’t see a tail. Certainly don’t see that big white thing that Ron’s been driving lately,” Carl said. “So what’s our destination? Canada or Mexico? I’ll probably need to get gas.”

  His humor was so dry that I almost missed it. I pointed straight out the windshield, up the steep slope that Sixth Street makes as it climbs south toward the Flatirons. “We’re going right up there, Carl. I rented a cottage at Chautauqua. There’s a whole bunch of little cabins that the festival built back at the beginning of the century. I paid my new landlady with cash and gave a fake name. She’s a sweet little thing in her eighties who thinks I’m hiding from an abusive husband. So that’s where we’re going. At least for a while.”

  I watched him raise his eyebrows a little, whether in response to the thoroughness of my preparations or in response to the trust I’d just placed in him, I wasn’t certain. He changed his position on his seat, stretched his thick neck, and fiddled with the vent on the driver’s side of the dashboard even though neither the heat nor the air-conditioning was turned on.

  He said, “You’re running in place then?”

  “That’s the plan for now. Until I know who I’m up against. I’ve been preparing for this from the moment I arrived in Boulder. I assume that the marshals are going to think I’m going someplace else.”

  “That’s why you were so worried that Ron followed you to that restaurant up there the other day? Am I right? You were afraid he saw you go to your little rented cottage? That’s where you went after you had lunch that day?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What can I do?”

  I handed him a sheet of paper with the address of the cottage and a penciled map of the confusing little lanes of Chautauqua. Our cottage was on Kinnikinic near Lupine. It backed onto the sprawling open space that led up to the Flatirons. “Drop us at the front door of the Chautauqua Dining Hall now like you’re leaving us off for dinner and then drive right back out and kill a little time. Sometime in the next fifteen minutes or so come back and leave our things on the porch of the cottage. The porch is screened in but the door is always open. Be as inconspicuous as you can be. Don’t linger there. Don’t knock. There’s a back door Landon and I are going to use to get in. We’ll enter from the hiking trail.”

  “Food?”

  “Already stocked.”

  “Money?”

  “I have plenty.”

  “Really? I can get you some.”

  “Really, I have a lot. Thousands.”

  “That’s serious. And after tonight?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He nodded. “How do I get in touch?”

  I reached into my purse and grabbed a pen and another scrap of paper. “Here’s the number at the cottage—don’t worry, it’s in the owner’s name, not mine. If you need to reach me, call me twice a minute apart and let the phone ring once each time, then hang up. That will be the signal. We’ll meet at Dushanbe—you know, the teahouse—exactly one hour later.”

  “You’ll do the same with me?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached across the front seat and touched my hand. “The other thing I said I’d do? I’m still waiting to hear about the guy who whacked your husband. You know, his current intentions.”

  I forced a smile. “Thanks,” I said. I thought I knew Ernesto Castro’s current intentions.

  Carl checked his mirrors and began to pull away from the curb. He asked Landon if her seat belt was clicked. I wouldn’t have guessed that hit men were the kind of people who checked their mirrors and insisted that children fasten their seat belts before they pulled away from the curb. Two minutes later we were gliding to a stop in front of the Chautauqua Dining Hall. I got out of the car and encouraged Landon to let go of the dog. She gave Anvil a last hug and kiss, and then one or two more.

  Carl said, “Bye, Peyton. You take care.”

  “You too, Carl. Thanks for the help. And Carl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Great dog.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled at me.

  Landon said, “Yeah, Uncle Carl. Anvil’s a great dog.”

  Carl said, “You know, maybe it was just an asshole who broke into your house. Maybe it was nothing.”

  I leaned into the car. “I wish that were true. But I think somebody was trying to send me a message, Carl. It’s my job to hear it.”

  And with that, we were off on our adventure. I reached into my purse for two lollipops.

  I only had one.

  I gave it to Landon.

  She would have preferred a Twix, but I didn’t have any of those.

  2

  Barb was munching on what she’d promised herself was her absolute last slice of pizza when the phone rang. She paused Will Smith on her DVD and said, “Hello.” She expected some news from the front desk. She didn’t expect a voice call from Atlanta.

  “It’s Prowler.”

  Barb sat up straighter. She moved the laptop from her thighs to an empty spot on the mattress on her right.

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Time?”

  “Before she’s home from work. Midday would be ideal.”

  “Same as we originally discussed?”

  “Make it look just like what we know about New Orleans. Your equipment is ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t bother to confirm. I’ll get my confirmation on the news. Your departure plan?”

  “I’ll return my rental car to DIA. Take a bus to Colorado Springs. I’ll fly from there to Columbus. From Columbus I drive home.”

  A loud pounding on the door interrupted their conversation.

  “Somebody’s here. Probably housekeeping. Anything else?”

  “Have a good trip.”

  Carl Luppo paused after pounding on the door of the motel cabin. He’d heard her talking. He knew she was in there.

  CARL LUPPO DIDN’T like road work. He never had. Thought he probably never would. And this felt like road work. He was in a town he didn’t know too well. He was visiting a strange motel. And he was calling on a woman he didn’t know at all.

  This definitely qualified as road work.

  He allowed himself a moment of self-doubt before he pounded for the second time on the heavy wooden door of the cabin at the Foot of the Mountain Motel. The effort reverberated up his arm to the shoulder that he had bruised an hour or so earlier in his ill-fated attempt to bust down Peyton’s front door. No way he was putting that shoulder into this monster door.

  No way.

  Through the closed door a voice, almost feminine, almost without accent, said, “What do you want?”

  “I’m Phil—I’m from Blackjack. We delivered you a pizza before. Turns out there’s like a problem.”

  Carl saw the woman’s eye shadow the peephole in the middle of the door. He stood his ground but made certain that she couldn’t see his hands. The gloves he was wearing might make her suspicious.

  She said, “You’re not the kid who delivered my pizza.”

  “Exactly. That’s the problem. I’m his manager. He’s disappeared. We can’t find him. We need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. I can’t help you.”

  Carl shrugged, just in case she was watching. “I don’t find him on my own, I’m going to have to call the police.”

  After a delay of about ten seconds, the door opened maybe a foot. Carl smiled. Until then he hadn’t seen the woman out of her car. She was a small person, maybe a little thick in the hips. He liked his advantage sizewise.

  Weaponswise? The jury was still out. But Carl suspected that the advantage wasn’t his.

  She smiled right back at him. Her eyes said she didn’t really mean it. Carl noted that.

  With barely disguised attitude, she said, “What can I do for y
ou? He was here—what?—over an hour ago. He delivered my pizza. Mushroom and Canadian bacon.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the box behind her on the bed. “Then he left.”

  Carl was analyzing the situation while he listened to her speak. He’d already seen both her hands. They were empty. The part of the room he could see was neat except for the pizza box and a couple cans of soda on the floor by the bed.

  He’d already decided that he thought maybe they should talk.

  He took a half-step into the doorway, making certain his heavy shoe would block the arc of the door before it could find his face.

  Her eyes flicked up to Carl’s eyes, the long muscles in her legs and arms tensed, and she spun on the ball of her right foot, turned rapidly to her right, and lunged behind the open door.

  Carl was impressed by the woman’s quickness, but he had anticipated the move she made behind the door, and he had her facedown on the floor and was on top of her in five seconds. He kicked the door closed behind him while he put some serious pressure on the back of her neck with his forearm. He knew it probably felt to her like her spine was about to snap like a pretzel stick.

  He felt like a gorilla again.

  It had been a while but, he thought, it was just like riding a bike.

  From his vantage on top of her he could see a camera. Even though it was on top of a chest of drawers across the room, he could tell it wasn’t the familiar shape of his old 35mm Canon.

  He said, “You been taking pictures?”

  He released just enough pressure so she could talk. “I’m a tourist for Christ’s sake—tourists take pictures,” she said.

  Carl ignored her protests. It was apparent that she wasn’t frightened enough yet. That happened sometimes. Especially with pros. Not as often as you might think, though. Carl said, “That’s one of those new digital cameras? You use it with that computer? It develops them electronically? Is that how it works?”

  “Something … ahhhhgh … like that.” She rasped, “Yes, yes, it’s a digital camera. You can have it, the computer, too. Oh my god! You can have anything you want.”

  Carl slowly increased the pressure on her neck. “I’m glad to hear you say that. ’Cause it turns out I do want something. Not your camera though. I think what I want is some information.”

  Desperation and relief in her voice, she said, “Anything.”

  “Who you workin’ for?”

  He felt her muscles slacken, and then she farted loudly. Carl smiled to himself. Aside from having to tolerate the smell, he thought, it was better than a fuckin’ lie-detector test.

  He gave her five seconds or so to decide to respond to his question before he renewed the pressure on her spine. He was out of practice and hoped he didn’t cross the line unintentionally. His experience had taught him that the bones tended to snap loudly when he crossed the line.

  Just like a saltine—no warning.

  After a moment the woman kicked the floor two or three times with the toes of both feet, alternating her legs, like a baby throwing a tantrum. Considering that it might be a message from her indicating a tendency toward future cooperation, Carl lightened up a little with his forearm.

  She coughed and made choking noises.

  Carl said, “I really can’t understand a thing you’re saying.”

  “I’m a fifth-grade teacher,” she said, her voice as raspy as a man dying in the Mojave.

  “Yeah, and I’m a priest who works with lepers.” He paused. “’Cept I’m not as patient or as generous as Father Damien, you know what I mean? That’s a .22 pistol on the table behind the door. What’s a teacher need with one of those?”

  She panted. Grunted. But she didn’t answer. Carl didn’t care. He knew the .22 was a rotten gun for a teacher to carry for protection. But it was a great gun for an assassin planning some close-up work.

  “So let’s start with an easier question. What’s your name?”

  “Barbara, Barbara Turner.”

  “You been taking pictures of a friend of mine, Barbara Barbara Turner. Notice that wasn’t a question. But this is: Why don’t you tell me why you been taking pictures of my friend?” He put a few more foot-pounds of pressure on her neck. “I should probably tell you—one more lie and you’re dead.”

  She spit out a single word. “Assignment.”

  Carl sighed. He was getting into the rhythm of this. So was she. He shrugged, though from Barbara’s position she couldn’t witness it. “Not a lie exactly. But not terribly forthcoming either. Did I mention I have a knife in my pocket? Let’s say you cut the crap or I’ll cut your hamstrings. Horizontally, not vertically. One at a time. How’s that?”

  She farted again.

  Carl was growing confident that this woman wasn’t accustomed to in-her-face violence. If their roles were reversed he knew he wouldn’t be giving an inch. He’d be taunting her, busting her chops, daring her to kill him. He knew he’d go out with attitude.

  He said, “Good. I’m thinkin’ maybe we understand each other. Who gave you this assignment?”

  “Prowler.”

  “Prowler? Huh? Who the fuck is Prowler? What is that? Is that a first name or a last name?”

  “Don’t know. It’s all I have. He’s a guy in Georgia.”

  “Georgia? Where?”

  “It’s in the South.”

  He had to restrain himself from pounding her in the face. “I know where fucking Georgia is. I’m asking where in Georgia.”

  “Near Atlanta. That’s all I know. He runs this agency I … work for sometimes. I’ve never met him.”

  “Why?”

  “Why haven’t I met him? He likes it that way. So do I.”

  “Not why haven’t you met him, why did he send you to take pictures of my friend? That’s a normal thing for fifth-grade teachers to do on vacation? I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “I don’t know. He never tells me why. I don’t ask. A client… made a request, I guess.”

  “You guess? So what kind of agency is this you work for?”

  “We do investigations.”

  “Investigations?” Carl’s voice aptly conveyed his skepticism.

  “We find people. Information.”

  “Yeah right. So how do you reach Prowler with this information?”

  “Phone. E-mail.”

  “Does he already have the pictures you took? You sent them to him over the computer? On the Internet, like?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to give me Prowler’s number?”

  She spit out the number and the e-mail address, and Carl had her repeat them twice more while he committed them to memory. Memory calisthenics was something he had practiced while he was in the penitentiary after he’d read some of John Lucas’s memory books.

  “You’re doing much better. Let’s not lose any momentum here. So I’m wondering something else. You have a partner? Somebody you’re working with on this assignment from this guy in Georgia called Prowler?”

  “No, no, no. I always work alone.”

  “No guy with black lace-up shoes?”

  “What? No, no. I promise. It’s just me. I work alone.”

  Carl weighed her response for honesty. “So there’s nobody you sent to visit my friend tonight?”

  Fear swelling in her voice, she said, “I swear.”

  He thought she was telling the truth. But her answer worried him. If the guy who threw mattresses and tied up Peyton wasn’t with Barbara Barbara Turner, who was he with? Was it really a marshal?

  Something else was worrying Carl. He was straddling a line that he’d never expected to straddle again in his life. He was going to have to decide whether this woman lived or whether she died. Either way, he knew that Barbara Barbara Turner wasn’t going to complete the hit on Peyton. If Carl allowed this woman to live she’d get out of town as fast as she could. But Prowler would interpret the leniency as a sign of weakness on Carl’s part. Carl knew that his appearing weak wouldn’t be helpful to Peyton�
�s longtime survival.

  And appearing weak wasn’t exactly part of Carl’s persona.

  “What else can you tell me? I’m looking for something that might increase my compassion, maybe.”

  Barbara Turner was silent. Carl guessed at the pathway that her thinking was taking. Should she be a hero and suffer like hell? Or should she give it up and suffer only a little bit?

  Carl allowed her almost half a minute, then said, “Well?”

  “Prowler once said she had to be done at the same time as two others. I don’t know anything more about it, but obviously there’re others involved.”

  “But you don’t have anything to do with the others?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he said ‘the same time’? Prowler said that?”

  “Yes.”

  Carl considered his next question carefully. “So you were going to kill her? My friend?”

  They both felt the hesitation. They were both aware that the other one felt the hesitation.

  “Yes,” she blurted. “Yes. Yes. Yes. I was.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Barb knew she was dead before her neck snapped.

  3

  It was late, after eleven o’clock, when Alan Gregory flicked off the lights and climbed into bed beside Lauren. He kissed her on the lips and then he kissed her about five times on her taut belly. He said, “Good night, both of you. I love you.”

  Lauren rolled from her back to her side so she was facing him. She said, “Did you decide to call Sam about that… patient?”

  The room was too dark and his eyes hadn’t adjusted. He couldn’t see any definition in her eyes. “What?”

  “You were thinking of calling Sam Purdy to send a patrol car by that patient’s house? Did you end up calling him?”