The Program

by Stephen White

  3

  Prowler abhorred witnessing violence that he wasn’t personally perpetrating, and he couldn’t tolerate the sight of blood that he wasn’t personally spilling.

  For the two hours and fifteen minutes that he waited impatiently for Krist to call him again, Prowler fought off images of what the man was actually doing to dispose of the woman’s body down in Florida. In his mind, Prowler kept seeing big curved blades, like machetes, and neat little saws that were intended for pruning hardwood trees. He fought off mental images of the dead woman and intrusive thoughts of his neighborhood butcher quartering a chicken. He kept recalling cinematic versions of the behavior of hungry alligators.

  Prowler tried to divert his attention from the carnage by surfing the web while he sipped from a little bottle of Coca-Cola in an effort to try to settle his stomach.

  KRIST FINALLY CALLED again midafternoon.

  Prowler started speaking before the man had a chance to begin expounding on the details of his final errand in the Everglades. “You’re going to Boulder, Colorado. If you leave right away you can still get a flight out to Chicago or Atlanta and make a connection from there. I have the schedule in front of me. Do you want me to pick a flight?”

  “I thought you said she split from Colorado last night.”

  “Turns out that’s exactly what she wants everybody to think.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You’re traveling on my dime. Of course I’m sure. I’ve e-mailed you all the information about your new cousin. You need to know that she has a kid with her, a nine-year-old girl.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. The kid’s not important to me. She’s collateral. Whatever happens, happens.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “By the way, I forgot to tell you, I think the woman has someone helping her. The guy could be connected.”

  “What do you mean ‘connected’?”

  “Mafia connected. Barbara’s dead. I got a call from the guy who’s responsible. He sounded to me like he could be a wiseguy. All accent and attitude. A tough guy. Lots of threats.”

  “You shitting me? How did he find you?”

  “She must have given me up.”

  “Doesn’t sound like her. Was she tortured?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Still doesn’t fit. I’m working on the angles. But be careful when you get there. This guy could be a wild card. As you know, I don’t like to gamble.”

  “I don’t like it either, Prowler. The fee on this is going to be double. If it turns out that I have to do this wiseguy, too, then it’s triple.”

  Prowler sighed and said, “I don’t care.” But he was beginning to think that it might be easier just to forgo his agency fee, whack his client instead, and forget the rest of the job. “I’ve already sent the file your way. You’ll get fresh leads as I develop them. Check in when you arrive in Boulder.”

  Prowler settled his fingers on his mouse and clicked three times to set up the task he wanted the computer to perform, then he clicked once more to begin it.

  The high-fidelity speakers on each side of the room came to life with Carl Luppo’s voice.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Mr. Prowler. I know who Barbara was. I know what she did for a living. I know who she was after out here. I know your name and I know where you do your business.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?”

  “What do you want?”

  “It’s what I don’t want that should concern you. I don’t want my friend bothered again. I don’t want the pleasure of meeting Barbara Barbara Turner’s replacement. I don’t want any more of your people around here. If I do, the result will be the same. Then I’ll come looking for you because you’ve been uncooperative. Is that understood?”

  Prowler fingered the buttons on the mouse and clicked twice more, playing the digital recording again. Each time he listened, he was more and more certain about his conclusion.

  Although usually not one to talk to himself, Prowler said, “This man with her may be cruel, but he’s not so clever. He calls me the morning after the murder and tells me that the two of them are still in Boulder. Which means that once again I have my haystack. All I have to do is find a couple of needles.”

  He paged Marvin in Washington, D.C., and asked for an update from the U.S. Marshals Office. “You talk to your guy again?”

  “Just hung up with him.”

  “And?”

  “He’s tapped in to the max. They’re throwing internal security to the wind. He’s seeing all the e-mail that’s flying around. They’ve lost her. Can’t get a lead from anybody. They’ve got their people out everywhere. They’ve talked to the cabbie who picked her up at her place last night, her boss at work, her neighbors, her daughter’s teacher, her shrink, her babysitter, her—”

  “Her shrink? She’s seeing a shrink?”

  “Yeah. That’s what my guy says.”

  “Name?”

  “Just a sec. Guy’s name is … Alan Gregory. Dr. Alan Gregory. Alan with one l, you know A-l-a-n?”

  “He’s in Boulder?”

  “I guess. I didn’t ask. I can confirm that if you want.”

  “Don’t bother. Is Dr. Gregory a fed?”

  “No. Apparently he’s private.”

  “I need more data. Anything you get. Don’t wait for me to call. I want updates as soon as you have them.”

  Prowler ended the call without saying good-bye and, using the web, began compiling information about Dr. Alan Gregory of Boulder, Colorado. Ten minutes later he e-mailed the data—a rather complete dossier of professional and personal information—to Krist as an attachment to a simple message that read, “I think this should help you out.”

  Then Prowler paged his client and waited less than a minute for his return telephone call.

  “Here’s the status. The marshals don’t know where she is. But we do. We found her. She’s still in Boulder. I have my most senior man on the way.”

  “Do you know where in Boulder she’s hiding?”

  “Not yet. But… we think her shrink might tell us.”

  “She’s seeing a shrink?”

  “We have reliable information she’s been seeing a Dr. Gregory. Dr. Alan Gregory.”

  “Let me know what he says as soon as you talk to him.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “My friend has transferred the rest of the money, Prowler. I’m not worried. If I were you, I’d be worried. He doesn’t like to be disappointed.”

  4

  After my therapist left the house with my daughter and both dogs in tow, Carl asked Lauren if he could shoot some pool while she and I talked. I thought I felt her hesitate before she told him to go ahead. She looked at the pool table the same way Robert used to eye his sixty-four Porsche when someone asked if they could take it for a spin.

  Me? I was grateful that Carl wasn’t going to try to intrude into my meeting with Lauren.

  As Carl went about the business of retrieving the balls from the pockets and setting up a fresh rack of balls on the table, Lauren took my hand and led me from the sofa outside to a narrow deck that fronted the living room. The deck hung over a sea of grasses that bordered the highest reaches of the Boulder Valley and offered a view of a thousand mountains and a lifetime of sky. “It’s why we live up here,” she said. “Every night at sundown I get a reminder of why we live up here.”

  “It’s… gorgeous,” I said, before quickly adding, “I’m feeling so sorry that we came. I didn’t know you were so … pregnant.”

  She laughed and placed her hands on her womb. “You think so? Maybe just a little bit,” she said.

  “When are you due?”

  “Not until late September, if you can believe it. Which means I’m going to get even bigger. And don’t apologize for coming to see me. I’d like to try to help you. I really would.”

  “You don’t know what I’m going to ask of you.”

  She appeared unconcerned. “I
assume you want some advice.”

  I shook my head. “I wish it were that simple. It’s not. I need some help—some real help—to try to save someone’s life.”

  She smiled a little. “And you think you need a lawyer for this? Maybe I could put you in touch with a cop.”

  I shook my head. “It’s about a man I helped put on death row. He doesn’t belong there.” I let those provocative words hang in the air, hoping for a reaction, but she was almost as good at screening her feelings as was her husband.

  All Lauren said was, “Yes?”

  “Do you know about my situation? Why I’m in Colorado?”

  “That you’re in hiding? There have been rumors around our office—I’m guessing you know that I’m an assistant DA with Boulder County—that you were placed in the Witness Protection Program after your husband was murdered.”

  “Actually I didn’t go into the program until after there was an attempt to kidnap my daughter. But, yes, I’m in the Witness Security Program. Or I was.” I sighed. “Listen Lauren, before I go any further, I would like your assurance that this is a consultation between attorney and client. Quite simply, I need the protection of your privilege. If you don’t agree to help me after you hear what I have to say, I will understand completely and our relationship will end here tonight. But either way, I need to know that what I’m about to tell you is protected communication.”

  She touched her lips with the fingers of one hand. “Okay,” she said. “For this moment at least, I’m your lawyer.”

  “I don’t even know if your husband knows this, but as of yesterday I’m on the run from the Marshals Office, from WITSEC. That’s the Witness Protection Program. My participation in the program has been controversial from the start, and some things have happened that have convinced me that the marshals can’t guarantee that Landon and I will be safe from, I don’t know what else to call it—retribution from within that organization.”

  “I know about your history as a critic of the Witness Protection Program. I always considered your position to be a valorous one.”

  “Thanks, I guess. I’ve come to believe that the line that’s strung between valor and stupidity is incredibly easy to trip over. Because of the national attention my criticism of WITSEC received, some of the marshals hold me responsible for budget cuts, job losses, demotions—you name it. There’re a lot of people in the organization who don’t feel that Landon and I deserve their protection. Because of our notoriety, when we entered the program we were placed in a special category of protected people whose identities and whereabouts are supposed to be shielded from all but a few people within the United States Marshals Office.”

  “Okay. I’m with you.”

  “Last night, just about this time actually, someone—there’s a reasonable possibility it was a marshal—broke into our home. I think he was just trying to give us a message that we weren’t really safe in WITSEC. Well, I’m not stupid, I heard the message. We ran. We left the place where we were living and went into hiding from everyone who’s after us, including the Witness Protection Program.” I pointed over my shoulder at Carl who was lining up a long shot. “My friend’s been helping us.”

  “Carl?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. I could tell she had a few questions about Carl Luppo that she was wise enough not to ask. She said, “And now you’re in my home. What is it you want from me?”

  I began, “There’s a man named Khalid Granger who is about to be executed by the State of Florida. I’ve come to believe that there’s a reasonable likelihood that he’s not guilty of the crimes for which he’s been sentenced. I want you to help me try to stop that execution.”

  I’d already made a decision not to presuppose what Lauren Crowder’s bias about capital punishment might be. I’d considered, and ruled out, the option of questioning her about her political views before I asked her for help. I hoped it didn’t matter what she believed about the death penalty; I wanted someone who would help me do the right thing. Period.

  “How would I do that?”

  “I think the lead detective on the case, a man named Mickey Redondo, is dirty. I believe, as do the other two prosecutors who worked on the case, that Mickey set Khalid up. Why? I don’t know. How? We have some ideas.”

  She held up her hand to slow me down. “Wait a second. Where are these other two prosecutors now? Why can’t they help you out?”

  I started to cry. “I think they were both killed this morning.” I wept as I added, “They were my friends.”

  WE TALKED FOR most of an hour. After around forty-five minutes I heard Dr. Gregory return home with a little boy, Landon, and the two dogs. Over my shoulder I watched as Carl gave Landon a cue stick and began teaching her something about shooting pool. Lauren noticed, too. I don’t think she was accustomed to nine-year-old girls getting lessons on her pristine table.

  The most difficult part of the conversation with Lauren was avoiding the parts about Prowler and Barbara the hit woman and Carl Luppo’s visit to the motel on Arapahoe. I didn’t want to reveal either my identity or my location to the local police, and I didn’t want to say anything that might lead anyone to suspect Carl’s involvement in the murder at the motel. All I told Lauren about the most recent events was that since Dave Curtiss had died and Andrea had disappeared so suspiciously that morning, I feared for my own safety as well. I could tell that she sensed I was being evasive about something. It made us both uncomfortable.

  At one point she interrupted and asked me if her husband knew anything about Dave’s death and Andrea’s disappearance. I told her no, to the best of my knowledge, he did not.

  When I was done with the story, she said, “Can I summarize this, Peyton? The man who originally threatened you, the one you think had your husband killed? You assume that he’s still after you?”

  “Ernesto Castro. Yes. I have to assume he’s still after both of us. Landon and me.”

  “Okay. In addition, you have reason to believe that the Witness Protection Program is no longer able to guarantee your security? That there might even be people inside the program who are eager to compromise your security and leave you at risk from Ernesto Castro?”

  “Yes. My best guess is that I was assaulted by a marshal last night.”

  “And now, you also have come to believe that this detective in Florida, Mickey Redondo, has either killed, or perhaps arranged the murder of two prosecutors in order to protect himself from accusations of impropriety in regard to this old murder case? Correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that leads directly to the conclusion that Mickey Redondo—or someone doing his bidding—is probably out looking for you, too.”

  “That’s my fear, yes.”

  Lauren shifted her weight before she pulled herself to her feet by tugging on the railing of the deck. She looked down at me and smiled. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to pee. I actually can’t believe I made it this long. I haven’t gone this long in two weeks.” She reached for the door, paused, and said, “Peyton? Why do I get the feeling that you were the kind of girl who got herself into trouble by having two dates to the prom?”

  HALF A MINUTE later the door opened again and Dr. Gregory took his wife’s place out on the deck. He was still wearing the same sweatpants and T-shirt that he had been earlier. But his hair was dry. He said, “Your daughter’s great, Peyton. We had a wonderful time next door.”

  “Thank you. She is wonderful. At least most of the time.”

  He said, “Jonas’s mom is a doctor. She got called into the ER, so Landon and Jonas are both here with me. They’re downstairs; they’re having fun together.”

  “Great.”

  “We need to talk, don’t we? You and I?”

  I nodded and fought fresh tears. I did want to talk with him, but I wanted to talk about being terrified for Landon and about losing my friends in Florida and about the incredibly jumbled feelings I was having about Carl Luppo and what he had done for
me. But that’s not what Dr. Gregory meant by his offer. He wanted to talk about my showing up unannounced at his door with Carl Luppo, and he wanted to talk about why I was meeting with his wife.

  I grabbed a DumDum from my pocket, unwrapped it, and asked him if he wanted one. He shook his head. I placed the candy on the middle of my tongue and twirled the stick twice. This one was lemon.

  “There’s an ethical code that governs my work, as there is with yours,” he began. “One of the ethical principles—one of the benchmark ethical principles—of my profession is the prohibition against psychologists having dual relationships with any of their patients. What that means in practice is that I’m not permitted to provide clinical care to anyone with whom I have any other kind of relationship. Any other kind. Does that make sense?”

  The words made sense, but I wasn’t ready to respond to him quite yet, so I shook my head.

  “It means I can’t do psychotherapy with the guy who cuts my hair. I can’t do an evaluation on the son of my best friend. I can’t provide consultation to my banker’s staff.”

  His argument was persuasive. I was standing in the middle of the railroad track and I could see the train coming, so I admitted the obvious. “And you can’t provide help to a woman who’s a client of your wife.”

  He nodded.

  I shifted the location of the lollipop in my mouth, then removed it and tilted the little yellow orb toward him. “Who says I am?”

  “You’re not?”

  “I didn’t say that. I guess I’m trying to find out how you were reaching your conclusion.”

  “Excuse me? You’re denying that you’ve come here tonight to ask my wife for legal help?”

  His voice betrayed some frustration. I considered the break in his demeanor a victory. “I’m not denying anything. I’m not admitting anything. I’m only wondering how you reached your conclusion. All that seems apparent to me is that I came by your home to see your wife. Whether she and I are anything other than casual acquaintances is a matter of conjecture. In a town the size of Boulder, I’m sure you occasionally have professional relationships with people who are casual acquaintances of your wife.” I felt like a lawyer for the first time in months.