And Princely Carter? He was a veteran, an MP for God’s sake. Why was that information important? Because of the medals Princely earned as a marksman.
On the pistol range.
The whole thing smelled. Lord, it smelled.
But it didn’t stink enough to save Khalid. The surprising truth about reversing a sentence of capital punishment is that it requires more evidence than getting the conviction in the first place.
I HADN’T SEEN Carl since the night the ambulance took him away from Dr. Gregory’s house. For weeks his last words rang in my ears. The words weren’t even intended for me. As he was wheeled into the back of the ambulance, he’d yelled to Lauren. He’d said, “Take care my dog.”
Not to me. To Lauren.
Take care my dog.
THE WHALES HAD stopped ambushing me.
It took a few days for me to notice that I was no longer being constantly buffeted by the impact of beasts surfacing suddenly in my proximity. The memories, the gentle ones and the sad ones, the ones that made me smile and the ones that made me cry, now swam with me most of the time. Right out in the open. When I bothered to scan the horizon of my life, I could see them clearly in front of me or watch them out of the corner of my eye as they flanked me. They were always there. I could feel them.
That’s what was different. I could feel them.
The feelings were there to remind me of the people I had loved. There to remind me of the people who had loved me. There to remind me of the losses I had suffered and to remind me of the losses I had dodged.
I treasured them all. Welcomed them all.
I somehow discovered the capacity to cherish the time I’d had with Robert rather than using all my energy ruing the circumstances that had caused me to lose him. I allowed myself the freedom to admit how he’d confined me with his love, and also to acknowledge the ways he had saved me with it.
I accepted the role my timidity had played in the death of Khalid Granger. And I vowed not to raise a timid child.
Given who my child already was, it was the easiest vow I’d ever taken.
2
Ron Kriciak visited me on what would have been Khalid’s birthday. Ron didn’t call first; he just showed up at the door of the screened-in porch of the little cottage on Kinnikinic. Amy was playing with a girl she had met down the street.
“May I come in?” he asked.
I stepped back and left room for him to enter.
“May I sit?”
“Of course,” I said.
He moved a few steps to the sofa. “You and …” He snapped his fingers, searching for a name.
“Amy. My daughter’s real name is Amy.”
“You’re well?”
“We’re well,” I said. “Considering.”
“Yeah, considering.”
“What about you, Ron?”
“I’m uh … I don’t know. I’m different since that night. Different. Have to admit.” Ron had shown up about thirty minutes after Dr. Gregory crashed his neighbor’s car into the house. About twenty-nine minutes after Dr. Gregory shot Jack Tarpin to death. Ron and I hadn’t talked much that night. His hands had been full as he was counting dead bodies and bullet holes, trying to piece together precisely what had transpired. I also suspected he was busy fighting ambivalence about whether to fulfill his sworn duty to protect Carl and me or just go ahead and kill us himself.
“I think we all are,” I said. I could tell I was making him more uncomfortable than he already was. That was okay.
He cleared his throat. “This is an unofficial visit.”
“Yes, Ron, I know. We don’t have any official business any longer.” I tilted my head across the room. “I got the paper.” The paper was pressed behind glass in a cheap frame I’d bought at Walgreen’s. It was hanging above the sofa like a diploma from a mail-order university.
He crossed his right leg over his left knee and tugged at the sock above his hiking boot. “I want to apologize for letting you down. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t take the risk from inside the program seriously enough. I’m sorry. I should have suspected someone might…” His voice trailed off. “What happened that night at your house, that never should have happened.”
I felt the reverberation of his apology all the way to my toes, as though Ron had struck my skeleton with a tuning fork. He was talking about the man who had been under my bed. The man who’d bound me with duct tape.
I nodded and asked something I’d been eager to know. “Tell me something. Was he there to hurt us? Amy and me?”
He shook his head. “No. He says no. He just wanted to spook you. Scare you out of the program. Convince you that we couldn’t protect you.”
“Why?”
“You know the WITSEC heads that rolled after the stink you made in New Orleans? All the guys who were canned after your report to Congress? One of them was one of his friends. Our guy—the marshal—who busted into your house says he was just getting even.”
I nodded. I’d suspected as much. Finally I said, “Thank you for the apology, Ron.”
“I meant it,” he said.
I looked back up, and before I’d even considered the question, I asked, “Carl Luppo?” I was aware that I was trying to sound less eager than I was. “Do you hear from him at all? He’s feeling better, I hope.”
Ron answered as though he’d been waiting for me to ask. “Yeah, he’s feeling better. He’s recovered from his wound. That’s what I hear, anyway. You can probably guess he’s not one of my witnesses anymore.” Ron paused. “You risked a lot for him.”
“Did I?”
I suspected that Ron was referring to the deal I struck with WITSEC after the near-catastrophe at Dr. Gregory’s house. The deal was that I would ask for the paper from WITSEC and leave the program voluntarily if, and only if, WITSEC didn’t punish Carl Luppo for having been in contact with me. My leverage? If WITSEC didn’t take my offer, I planned to go public with the fact that one of their own marshals had assaulted me in my home while I was under government protection.
WITSEC took the deal.
“Leaving the program? I’m still not convinced it was the best choice you could make. You could both still be in danger. Both you and, um—”
“Amy.”
“Yeah, Amy. Anyway, I’m curious why you would do that for him. For someone like Carl.”
Do what? Risk my life for him? I can’t imagine why.
“I hardly knew Carl Luppo,” I said.
“Yeah,” Ron replied. “That’s the story I keep hearing.”
THE PHONE RANG an hour or so after Ron left the cottage. It only rang once. I’d been outside on the porch and the line was dead by the time I got inside to answer. A minute later it rang a second time. I was ready.
“Hello,” I said.
“So it’s me,” he said. “How you doin’?”
“Hi Carl,” I said, trying not to squeal in delight. “It’s so good to hear from you. How’s your leg? Is it healing okay?”
“Almost as good as new except it looks like it got shot up. My first bullet hole comes after I’m retired. Who would have guessed? Your little girl, she’s good?”
“She’ll be fine, Carl, thanks to you.”
“Me? I don’t know about that. We all did some things that night. You, me, her, the doctor, everybody.”
“I said, ‘Thank you,’ Carl. Be gracious, okay?”
“Okay, then, you’re welcome. Hey, I got some news you might want to hear. Apologize for it taking so long, but with everything that’s been going on … ah, you know. Anyway, I finally found out about that old grudge you were worried about. Well, it melted after all. Just as I’d suspected—it turns out it was carved of ice, not stone. I talked to some people who talked to some people, you know what I mean? These people, they applied a little heat to the man in question, and the grudge he had against you, it… it melted. Let’s just say it melted.”
I exhaled as though I’d been punched in the gut. “Ernesto—”
“Yeah, yea
h. We don’t have to use names. You know who I’m talking about. It’s over with him. The old grudge? It’s over. He has other things to worry about. New things. More immediate things that might affect his day-to-day comfort and his sense of long-term security, you know? You and your girl, though? You’re safe.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. You can take it to the bank.”
“Thank you, Carl. God, thank you. It’s hard to believe. I feared he’d never go away.” I could hear Carl breathing. I imagined the smoothness of his skin and the scent of him in his car. The lemon and the vanilla. “What about you? Are you safe, Carl?”
“Me? Sure. Where I’m living now ain’t Boulder, but it’s all right. I’m finding my way. Opening up to people a little more; that’s something I learned in Colorado. May I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“You ever talk to Dr. Gregory? How’s my dog?”
LAUREN HAD HER baby four weeks early. Despite the premature arrival both mother and child were doing fine. The baby was a beautiful girl that she and her husband named Grace.
In my heart, I felt that Lauren and I were destined for a rare friendship. Given the circumstances that had thrown us together, we had mutually agreed to start the relationship slowly, but the pull between us had the force of gravity. We talked almost daily. I relished the tug, and I began to feel that the friendship cavity that had been created by Andrea’s death was sure to fill. The recess was disappearing smoothly, the contours diminishing gradually, the way footsteps disappear in the sand.
After Dr. Gregory crashed the car into the house that night I’d helped Lauren over the deck railing and I’d used strength I didn’t really have to lower her from the deck so that she only had to fall a few feet to the ground. When we finally got down, we discovered that her daughter seemed to be fine. And so did mine.
LAUREN’S HUSBAND, ALAN, was no longer my therapist. After that night at his house, we both knew he could never be. I worried sometimes what it was like for him after he’d killed Jack Tarpin. He never told me, of course. That wouldn’t be his way.
But I guessed it was hard for him. I’d come to believe that at some level it was hard for Carl, too.
The killing, I mean.
Dr. Gregory suggested a couple of other people in town for me to see for continuing treatment. I was seeing one of them. A woman.
With the whales no longer waiting in ambush, though, I wasn’t sure I would choose to be in psychotherapy much longer.
acknowledgments
This book could not have been written without the assistance of some people I am not free to name. Given their circumstances, it isn’t prudent for me even to list their initials. But they know who they are. I thank them for their generosity and their candor. Although this book is in no way their story, they taught me things that I had absolutely no other way to learn.
Support takes many forms. The kind that is most intrinsic to me is the encouragement and direction that I receive from family and friends. Thanks to Harry MacLean, Elyse Morgan, and Tom Schantz for their early critiques. Enduring thanks to Patricia and Jeffrey Limerick, for the first step up, and to Stan Galansky, for his medical wisdom and wonderful tales of urological mayhem. And, as always, special gratitude is due to Rose Kauffman, Alexander White, and Sara Kellas.
Dave Curtiss and Vicki Switzer made a generous contribution to charity in order to attain the dubious distinction of having their names used as characters in this book. I thank them for their public spirit and their blind courage.
The act of publishing a manuscript has a single goal—making the finished book as strong as it can be. With this book I had wonderful help in achieving that goal from Lynn Nesbit, Steve Rubin, Shawn Coyne, Kate Miciak, Nita Taublib, and Irwyn Applebaum. I’m indebted to them for their contributions.
about the author
STEPHEN WHITE is a clinical psychologist and New York Times bestselling author of Cold Case, Manner of Death, Critical Conditions, Remote Control, Harm’s Way, Higher Authority, Private Practices, and Privileged Information. He lives in Denver, Colorado, with his wife and son.
If you enjoyed Stephen White’s
The Program, you won’t want to miss his
next electrifying novel of psychological
suspense, Warning Signs.
Look for Warning Signs in hardcover
from Delacorte in March 2002 at your
favorite bookseller’s.
Turn the page for an exciting preview.
Warning Signs
BY STEPHEN WHITE
one
Hands nipple high, palms up toward the night sky, Bruce Collamore started talking before the cops were even out of their car.
“I almost didn’t call you guys. I was thinking that it was all too much like the O.J. thing. Don’t you think? I mean, my dog didn’t bark like that dog did, but I was walking my dog when I heard the scream. That’s pretty close to the O.J. situation, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s why I almost didn’t call. I’m still not sure I should have called. I haven’t heard anything since that first scream. Right now, I think maybe it was nothing. That’s what I’m beginning to think.”
Two Boulder cops had responded to the 911. A coed team. Both were young, handsome and strong.
The woman was a five-year vet on the Boulder Police force named Kerry VanHorn. She was a devout Christian who kept her religion to herself; she’d once even confided to a girlfriend that she thought proselytizing should be a capital offense. She had dirty blond hair and a friendly Scandinavian face that put people at ease even when she didn’t want to put them at ease. Over the years she’d discovered that if she squinted like she was looking into the sun people took her more seriously.
She was the first out of the squad car and the first to speak to the man who apparently remembered way too much about the O.J. case. She tucked her long flashlight under her arm and grabbed a pen before she squinted up at him—the guy was at least six-five—and said, “Your name, sir?”
“Collamore, Bruce Collamore.” He was wearing a ragged Middlebury College sweatshirt and an accommodating smile.
“This your house?” She gestured toward the home closest to where they were standing. Jay Street was high on the western edge of Boulder, in territory that the foothills of the Rockies seemed to have yielded only reluctantly to housing. If there was a boundary between urban and rural on the west edge of town, Jay was definitely on the side of the line that was more mountain than burg. The trees and grasses were wild and haphazard and the curbs cut into the sides of the roadway fooled no one—this was one part of Boulder where the Rockies still reigned.
“This? My house? No. God, no.”
“You live on this street, sir?”
“Here? No, I live a couple blocks over on Pleasant. I was was out walking Misty. This is Misty.” He reached down and tousled his dog’s ears. The yellow Lab dipped her head and wagged her tail. Bruce Collamore and his dog both seemed eager to please.
“So … you were out walking your dog and you heard a …” While she waited for him to fill in the blank, she briefly lost her focus as she entertained an unbidden association to a crush she’d had on a junior high school teacher she thought had been cute.
Collamore brought her back to the moment as though he were someone who was accustomed to being in conversations where the other party’s attention was wandering. He said, “A scream, I heard a scream. A loud one. Long, too. I mean, I haven’t heard that many screams in my life but it, you know, seemed longer than … well, a normal scream. If there is such a thing? Geez, ‘a normal scream.’ Did I really say that? What’s wrong with me? Anyway, I think it came from that house. I’m pretty sure it did. That one. There.” Collamore pointed at the gray-and-white two-story house directly across from where they stood on the edge of the road. “I had my cell phone with me so I thought I’d go ahead and call 911. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do. I don’t know. I’m a little nervous. You can probably tell I’m nervou
s.”
She could tell. And she wasn’t sure that he was nervous only because she was a cop. That suspicion made her a little nervous, too.
His left hand was balled around the dog’s leash so she couldn’t see if Collamore was married. When she looked back up at him she squinted, just in case he was thinking what she was worried he was thinking. “What time was that, sir? That you heard the scream?”
“Nine fifty-one.”
She wrote down the nine before she looked up from her notepad and lifted an eyebrow. The expression of incredulity interfered with her squint.
“I checked my watch when I heard the scream. You know, the O.J. thing? I thought somebody might want to know what time it happened. It really was that kind of scream—a somebody’s-killing-me scream. So I checked my watch when I heard it.” He exhaled loudly and ran his fingers through his hair. “God, this is embarrassing. I shouldn’t have called, should I?”
She tried to make a neutral face, but wasn’t sure she’d succeeded. She said, “No need to be embarrassed. We appreciate help from citizens. Can’t do our jobs without it.” But she was thinking that in most cities civilians ran and hid after they called 911. In Boulder they stick around on the sidewalk with their cell phones and their yellow Labradors named Misty. And maybe they keep contemporaneous records of their movements on their Palm Pilots. For all she knew this whole situation was already being tracked live on the Net.
Boulder.
Now she looked at the house he’d identified. The dwelling was an oasis of orderliness at the end of the block, the only home that looked like it could be plopped down comfortably in one of Boulder’s more sedate neighborhoods. The owners of the surrounding houses—all of which were shabby in the way old cashmere is shabby—were either celebrating their good fortune at having modest homes in such a spectacular location or they were waiting for land values to escalate even more obscenely before they sold their fixer-upper to somebody who’d scrape the lot clear and start all over. She said, “You know who lives in this house, Bruce? May I call you Bruce?”
The Program Page 37
