The Program tr-2

by Gregg Hurwitz

  She sank to the floor and pulled her knees to her chest. Soon she was rocking, her back hitting against one of the padded walls. The caged bulb overhead threw a bluish light through the tiny cell, reflected in the small square of glass set high in the door. She was exhausted. Her arms throbbed. Her rash raged. Her head pounded.

  The light clicked off. A few moments of silence. Leah's eyes darted about, her body braced. Static burst through hidden speakers at incredible volume, causing her to jerk back against the wall, hands pressed over her ears. It ended just as abruptly. The lightbulb turned back on. Hesitantly, she removed her hands from her ears, her heartbeat hammering, her eyes trained on the lightbulb.

  She started to weep, her cries hoarse and desperate. Curled in the corner, she sobbed. Finally she closed her eyes, succumbing to exhaustion. After ten minutes darkness fell across her body. When the inevitable burst of static came, she screamed, scrambling around the padded room like a trapped rat.

  At last it ceased. The pain in her head grew so intense it blurred her vision. She drifted in and out of sleep, snapping to and staring to make sure the lightbulb remained on. It clicked off at irregular intervals that made anticipation impossible. Eventually she started screaming in the dark even before the noise came. The deafening static lasted sometimes three seconds, sometimes five minutes.

  She swore she couldn't make it. She was terribly thirsty and had to pee, but if she urinated in here, Stanley John would extend her lesson.

  She lay on her side, hair across her eyes, a tinny ring vibrating in both ears. The room went dark, but she couldn't muster the strength to raise her hands to her ears.

  Instead of the next surge of static, the door creaked open. TD appeared, backlit, a glorious vision. He crouched over her. Her lips barely moved.

  "Please don't leave me in here anymore."

  He gathered her up in his arms. "Have you united with your criticism?"

  "Yes. God, yes. I'm so sorry."

  He stroked her hair. "Sorry? To me? To yourself? You know why TD does this, don't you? Because I care so much about your growth. Being upset with me would be like getting angry at a surgeon for excising a cancerous growth. A good surgeon wouldn't stop if you cried out in pain. He'd keep going, no matter how much it pained him. He'd cure you."

  Her head lolled in his lap. His petting hands felt divine.

  "I know," she said. "I know you did the right thing. Thank you."

  "You have to build up your psychological immune system. The Growth Room is sort of like a vaccination. You're a smart, smart girl. You know how vaccines work."

  "Yes."

  "My first memory is of when I was a baby in a high chair. My mother was stuffing my face with strained peas, and I threw up. She fed my vomit back to me with a spoon."

  Leah's headache had subsided, but her voice was still weak. "God, that's awful."

  "She left me at the side of a desolate highway in the snow. A trucker found me two days later. I was almost dead. Even when I recovered, I used to be cold all the time. Then I started going out in the snow without a jacket. I built up my immunity, just like you are now. Have you ever seen me wear a jacket?"

  "No, never."

  "That's right." He paused thoughtfully. "Your parents have made several attempts to kidnap you, to bring you back under their control."

  "…never…"

  "I don't pray, Leah, but if I did, I'd pray you never make the mistake of forsaking the protection of The Program."

  "I won't."

  She let her eyelids droop. He caressed her face a bit more. "I know it's terribly hard for you to endure a lesson like this. It must remind you of when your stepdad used to abuse you."

  "I don't remember him abusing me."

  He rocked her gently, his eyes far away. "You will."

  Chapter twelve

  Fully tacked up with vests and ballistic helmets, Denley and Palton fell on Guerrera, the youngest Arrest Response Team member, pounding him with expandable batons. Guerrera, his gestures slowed by the puffy red-foam body suit, skipped back, keeping to his feet, and flipped them off Italian style, one padded hand flicking out from under his chin.

  The ethnic gesticulation was no doubt for Tannino's sake. The marshal had pawned off a visiting Justice Rehnquist on his chief deputy so he could sneak some time with his beloved ART squad in the mat room in Roybal's basement. Brian Miller, the supervisory deputy, stood to the side, his drills co-opted by the marshal not for the first time.

  "You useless knuckleheads," Tannino said. "Two of you can't put him on his ass?"

  Guerrera slapped his chest, looking like an ornery Michelin Man. "You gringos can't step to papi chulo."

  "Fuck you and the raft you floated in on," Denley said in his thick Brooklyn accent.

  Guerrera busted a few "Vida Loca" dance moves in the red-man suit, eliciting whistles and jeers.

  From the door Tim watched the proceedings. In his jeans and collared shirt, he felt like a parent at a high-school dance. He'd been an ART member for three years; his operational skills, honed in the Army Rangers, had won him quick admittance to the squad. His subsequent actions had won him quick ejection.

  Shaking his head, Tannino returned to his conversation with Tim. "You sure you need all this shit?"

  "It's the best angle so far."

  "Well, a vehicle's not too much of a hassle – I'll get you a list from Asset Seizure, and you can go to the warehouse and pick something that suits your needs."

  In the far corner, Maybeck – who, like Denley and Palton, was decked out in gear to simulate street conditions – fired a laser gun at a fleeing suspect projected onto a movie screen. The unit made a woeful bleeping noise, and UNJUSTIFIED SHOOTING scrolled across the screen in red letters.

  Maybeck lowered the gun. "Whoops."

  Aside from Bear and Guerrera, who'd offered Tim a wink from the depths of his suit, Tim's former colleagues continued to show him a studied – however warranted – indifference.

  "I'll also need you to build me an ID. The basics – credit card, driver's license, Social Security card. Name of Tom Altman, common spelling."

  Tannino grimaced – Tim had used the name previously when eluding the marshals last year. "How about cash?"

  "Ten grand."

  "Don't push your luck. I can get you five. Does the money have to walk?"

  "Probably."

  Tannino pressed his lips together, thinking. "Okay. It comes out of Henning, but we still gotta keep the books tidy. We'll hit up the Asset Forfeiture Fund – I'll push it through the undercover-review board at the DOJ."

  "I need it by tomorrow."

  "They're a panel of attorneys, Rackley. It takes them twenty-four hours just to choose chairs around the conference table." He noted the resolve in Tim's eyes. "I'll get it done. But no more hoops. Just find the girl."

  Palton came at Guerrera again, and Tannino shouted, "Goddamnit, Frankie, approach with your weak side so your weapon's not exposed. Look, look. Here." Tannino stepped forward, placing his left hand on Guerrera's shoulder. He hooked his foot behind Guerrera's heel and leaned in, letting his elbow rise to clip Guerrera in the throat. Guerrera flipped off his feet, striking the mat hard with his shoulder blades.

  "Get me Johnny Cochran on line two," Guerrera moaned.

  Tannino helped him up, slapped him on the back, and returned to Tim. "Good stuff, Rackley. The lead."

  "It might not be the right group."

  "And we might all die tomorrow if Salami bin Laden's henchmen un-cork smallpox on us. I said good stuff, Rackley. Say thank you and go have a bourbon." Tannino threw up his hands. "Goddamnit, Denley, is it a takedown or a pirouette? Put some fucking balls into it!"

  Tim watched them run drills a few moments longer before he retreated, the thuds of bodies pounding on neoprene following him down the corridor.

  Chapter thirteen

  The dashboard of the Acura rattled when Tim hit eighty dropping into Simi Valley, heading for the Moorpark Station. An eighteen
-wheeler dominated the parking lot. A white trailer with no markings, the mobile range drove from station to station, permitting sheriff's deputies to log required shooting time and complete their trimester qualifications.

  Dray sat on the hood of her patrol car, a cluster of colleagues gathered around her. The sole woman at her station, Dray was the object of several unspoken crushes, the strongest of which was nursed by Mac, her sometime partner. As Tim approached, Fowler and Gutierez, with whom Tim had an uneven history, firmed up their postures – arms crossing, stances widening. For all the bluster, they returned Tim's nod.

  "Hey, Rack." Mac flashed his handsome smile and extended a hand, which Tim shook. "Your gal here just qualified sharpshooter."

  "Congrats." Tim raised a fist to Dray and she matched it, pressing her knuckles against his. "What'd you shoot?"

  "Two-seventy."

  "Best of the day," Mac added.

  Gutierez smirked. "Mac squeaked by qual with a two-ten."

  Mac's looks were not matched by his skills.

  One of the trainees piped up. "I heard you're a helluva shot."

  Tim said, "I can blow up a guy's head with a remote control, too."

  Nervous laughter.

  Gutierez showed off his target, poking his fingers through. "Why don't you give it a go now?"

  "Okay. Whose head?"

  "Come on, Rack," Fowler said. "We've heard so much grapevine about you, but we've never seen shit." His tone was joking but his smile tight.

  Mac gestured grandly at the trailer. "We brought the range to you."

  Dray pulled out her shooting card and pointed it at Tim. "You haven't broken in the new gun. Why don't you go shut these boys up?"

  Tim generally avoided pissing contests, but the memory of watching from the sidelines while the ART squad dirt-dived their skills still stung enough for him to want to display prowess. There were likely more advanced ways for him to affirm his manhood than by flaunting his proficiencies on a mobile range in Moorpark, but none so user-friendly.

  He snapped up Dray's card and headed for the trailer, the deputies crowding behind him, whooping and clapping.

  The back door banged against the range operator's minuscule desk. The burly deputy nodded at Tim and punched out thirty rounds of ammo on Dray's card.

  "Thirty-eight special," Tim said.

  The operator tapped the rounds down on the desk like a brick of casino chips. The three narrow lanes, standard point-and-shoots, didn't quite stretch twenty-five yards, so deputies worked off smaller targets. Foam padding eliminated the ricochet factor but added to the suffocating feel of firing in a tight space. The bullets had to be range-issue, straight from the factory; given the tight quarters, no one wanted to risk some yahoo's toting in unreliable reloads.

  Ignoring the chatter behind him, Tim rolled the foam earplugs between his palms, slid them in as they started to expand, and pulled on eye protection. He winked at his wife, who stood propped against the door with crossed arms and an amused smile. The target downrange, now turned sideways so it presented like a paper sliver, featured the archetypal floating silhouette, Johnny Critical Mass. Ever since 9/11, the establishment had sought to better acquaint its shooters with lethality – targets had become increasingly animated, sprouting faces and expressions, the bull's-eye going the way of the billy club.

  The overhead fan worked hard to clear the smell of cordite.

  Since Tim used a revolver, he prepped four speedloaders. Eschewing the convenient countertop at the mouth of the booth, he dropped the speedloaders into the leather pouch at his belt, where he'd need to find them in a real shoot-out.

  The rules required he'd have to get off at least three rounds every six seconds. Most shooters fired autos, since the magazines held fifteen rounds – they needed only one reload per test. Tim would require four.

  He held the. 357 waist high and pointed to the right, both hands positioned on the stock, awaiting the swivel of the target. The interior dimmed until everything was dark but the floating silhouette, which remained semi-illuminated – low-light conditions to simulate night, when most shootings take place.

  The target spun to face him. He'd sighted on the fist-size ring at the heart before it even finished its pivot, squeezing off six rounds. Thumbing forward the left-side lever, he released the well-lubed wheel, the spent casings sliding out as his fingers found a full speedloader in the pouch. Now he was in a tunnel – nothing existed except the weight of steel in his hands and the beckoning ten-ring. The gun barked six more times, and he tipped and reloaded, tipped and reloaded, casings raining at his feet, cordite spooling up from his booth in tendrils.

  After firing off his thirtieth shot, he emerged as if from a daze, the overheads coming on, the target whistling uprange. A quarter-size hole penetrated the middle of the ten-ring, a few tattered chads dangling from the near-perfect O. A hushed murmur came up from the row of deputies at the wall.

  Tim pulled off his glasses, thanked the range operator, and headed out with Dray into the blinding light of the afternoon.

  They reached his car, Dray still squinting. "Show-off." She lowered the volume on her portable radio. "I have to get back out. What's the latest?"

  She listened impassively to his account of the morning, then said, "And you lost your wedding ring?"

  "Right." He retrieved it from his back pocket and slid it on.

  She gave him a humorous scowl. "I'd better not find out you spent the morning cruising gay bars."

  "The ones I go to, the wedding ring's a real draw."

  "Cute." She held up an index finger to Mac, now awaiting her at the squad car. The trainee waved to Tim on his way back into the station. "Prowling a college campus for kids leaving therapy." Dray ran her hand through her hair, pinching a hank at the top so it arced forward in two wedges, brushing her cheeks. "They've got their system down, don't they?"

  "It's a long con, really. They bilk kids out of their minds, then out of their money." Tim shook his head. "First rule of swindling -use people against themselves."

  "Hitting a bit close to home?"

  Tim pulled on his sunglasses and braced himself. "I'm thinking I might talk with him."

  Dray released her hair, letting her arm slap to her side.

  Tim waited. She added nothing to the disheartened gesture. "What?"

  "I didn't say anything."

  "He's got a pro's perspective on it all. Frauds, cons, scams, rackets, schemes."

  "That's for sure." She stared at him through his sunglasses. "He's quicksand, Timothy. Make sure you keep one foot on solid ground."

  Mac's piercing whistle snapped her head around, and she turned to start back to her patrol car.

  The old beige Cadillac Seville parked in the gravel lot told Tim he'd found his mark.

  The shack had every order of car stereos and speakers embedded in its carpeted walls, a-thrum with the bass vibrations of the latest emissary for window-tinted low riders and Sunset club junkies. Spray-paint depictions of stereos dotted the plywood exterior, suspended in white clouds like the loot-filled imaginings of an acoustically minded cartoon burglar. A slight scan of the binocs brought the subject himself into focus, visible near the back door, his clean-pressed slacks and calm, pacifying gestures distinguishing him instantly from the animated, grease-stained mechanic and the flustered consumer.

  He placed a hand on the customer's arm and steered him down into his vehicle, all the while his lips moving slow and steady. He waved as the car pulled out, the driver looking slightly confused but appeased.

  Tim crossed Lincoln Boulevard in a jog and stole up on the shack. He tracked a man in a Nike jumpsuit to the door, then waited outside, hidden from view. The oppressive sound systems had been turned down, so Tim was able to hear the voices within.

  "- six-and-a-half MB Quart component speakers," said the familiar voice. "You want to install it yourself, it'll void warranty, but I could let it go cheaper."

  "How much cheaper?"

  "Ricardo! H
ow much are those new MB Quart separates we just got in?"

  The mechanic's shout from the back was partially drowned out by the whir of his drill. "Five hundred."

  "Four hundred dollars. You heard the gentleman. I can't do any better than that."

  Tim leaned his head back against the cheap plywood, smiling. The man hurriedly paid and scampered out, the steal of the century boxed in cardboard and clasped beneath an arm.

  Tim stepped through the doorway, and the man looked up. "Timmy."

  "Dad."

  "Nice deaf routine."

  His father smiled and tilted his head gracefully. "I like to see people happy. And it does move product." He folded his hands, bringing them to rest at his waistline. "How'd you find me? Let me guess – you talked to my nanny."

  Tim nodded.

  "I'm sure my lowly parole officer couldn't dish the dirt fast enough for the great Tim Rackley. You came to gloat? Celebrate your old man's fifth release from the Crossbars Hotel?"

  "I didn't know you were out. You been on paper a month?"

  "Give or take. I got dinged on a 470 in November, trying to pass forged deeds of trust for these lots up Las Flores. I flipped on a schmuck up the ladder for a reduced sentence – six months custody, half time knocked it to three. I served it concurrent with the three-month parole – board – violation sentence. All in all, not a bad deal, except for my parole clock. It reset like an egg timer. Another three years."

  Tim glanced down. His father was wearing the sleek gray pants he'd had tailored so the right cuff flared; it concealed an electronic monitoring bracelet.

  "You were so close this time."

  "Yes, but these were beautiful forges."

  His father was, as always, dressed and groomed impeccably – not a wrinkle in his slacks, not a stray hair. He outclassed the cheap surroundings as he generally did, a ghetto-bound prince. He'd been born an unplanned child to displeased older parents – his mother forty-eight, his father sixty-one. His mother had died giving birth to him, his father six dour years later. He'd been raised by an abusive older brother who, as far as Tim knew, was still alive – a successful banker somewhere in the Midwest. Tim's father referred to him as "the VIP" so consistently that Tim didn't know his uncle's given name.