The Program tr-2

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "Thirtyish, earnest, wannabe hip, just came into some money."

  Pete tapped a finger against his chin appraisingly. "Colin Farrell in Phone Booth meets Tobey Maguire in Spider-Man."

  "Who are you working for?" Dray, occasional Us reader, had her interest piqued.

  "That's not important." Pete's body suddenly transformed, limbs and joints angling to refashion Luminar's persona. "What is important" – a bored hand drifted out, finger swirling to spotlight Tim's sweats, T-shirt, year-old Nikes – "is that we get sister over here looking presentable."

  Tim left the blue contacts at home and wore a baseball cap to hide his blond highlights and tweezed-back hairline, but his father's eyes zeroed in on the scruffy goatee right away. Pete had claimed that the facial hair would close off Tim's mouth and fill out his chin, and he'd shaped Tim's brows to alter the appearance of his eyes and forehead.

  Tim's father rested his laced hands on the table, napkin in his lap, glass of water untouched, his stillness a mute criticism of Tim's three-minute tardiness.

  Bracing himself for a put-down, Tim slid into the booth, nearly striking his head on a copper colander dangling from a ceiling hook. A clutter of wall – mounted black – and – whites showed hearty Italians sampling from tasting spoons, steering gondolas, whistling at girls. Franchise decor – Buca di Beppo by way of Pasadena. Tim's father had chosen the location, Tim assumed, to make convenient the retrieval of the drafting table from his nearby house.

  They engaged in small talk until the entrees arrived, at which point his father steepled his fingertips over his steaming plate of linguini. "I'll tell you, Timmy. That community service is really wearing on me."

  "I can imagine."

  "You spoke to Carl. My P.O. That's how you located me, right?"

  "That's right."

  "How did you find him to be?"

  Tim experienced the all – too – familiar sensation of getting lost in the labyrinth of one of his father's not-quite-hidden agendas. He answered warily. "Fine."

  "He always liked you, didn't he?"

  "I suppose so."

  His father neatly cut up his chicken breast, drawing out the silence. "I thought maybe you could put in a word. You and he have some contacts higher up. I'd bet a few well-placed calls could get my hours reduced."

  Tim pushed around his rigatoni with his fork; he'd yet to take a bite. "I don't think so."

  "I see." His father took a sip of water, using his napkin to pick up the sweating glass. "You know, about that desk, I was thinking of holding on to it."

  "Right."

  "Memories of your mother." His father was studying him, his lips faintly curved to indicate the slightest touch of satisfaction.

  Tim started to speak but caught himself. He shoved his rigatoni around some more until he could no longer contain the question. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Of course, Timmy."

  "Clearly you take some enjoyment in" – he gestured with his fork – "this thing we do. Like it's reprisal for something."

  "That's not a question, Timmy."

  "What did I do wrong to you? As a son?"

  His father speared a cube of chicken breast and chewed it thoughtfully. "You acted superior. All the time. Like my brother. You and the VIP, birds of a feather. It was there, built into your personality" – his mouth twitched with remembered abhorrence, a rare show of emotion – "as soon as you could move or walk or speak. This indomitable superiority."

  An affliction ancient to Tim arose from its buried confines. It enveloped him, tingling across his face, dampening his flesh, constricting his lungs.

  "I endured enough of it for one lifetime at the hands of the VIP. I never thought I deserved to encounter it in my only offspring."

  Tim's throat felt dry – the words stuck on the way out. "You weren't much of a father to me."

  His father studied him intently. "You weren't much of a son to have."

  Tim sat in silence as his father cut and chewed. When the waiter passed their table for the third time, Tim's father raised a single finger to him, then gestured for the bill. He crossed his utensils neatly on his bare plate and wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

  When the check arrived, he pulled his fake eyeglasses from his pocket, set them low on his nose, and perused it. Removing the glasses and placing them beside his bunched napkin, he tapped his jacket pockets, then those of his pants.

  Tim waited, knowing the routine.

  "It seems I've left my wallet in the car. Would you mind?"

  Tim may have nodded, he may not have. His father rose, administered a curt nod, and departed. Tim sat staring at his twinning reflections in the lenses of his father's forgotten prop.

  Chapter seventeen

  A stack of hundreds money-clipped around a farrago of false identifications in the back pocket of his dark brown Versace corduroys, Tim eased up to the curb in a school bus-yellow Hummer H2. He left his wedding band in the glove box beside his. 357 – he couldn't risk revealing a gun beneath his loose-fitting Cuban day shirt. The pale line around his finger worked nicely for pitiable Tom Altman, who, despite a hairline that climbed high at the part, was striving fretfully to reclaim his youth in the aftermath of an unsolicited divorce.

  It was a long step down before his light tan ostrich Lucchese roper hit pavement, and then he was strolling to the Encino apartment complex, a colossal stretch of building that took up the entire block. The outfit he wore, chosen by an embarrassingly animated Luminar from a variety of posh boutiques on Sunset, cost more than Tim's entire so-called wardrobe.

  His genuine discomfort in the clothes, which were slightly too young and laboriously hip, contributed to the aura of susceptibility he was hoping to convey. His father's faux glasses topped off the ensemble, lending his face a nerd-banker's cast.

  Winding through the endless halls, he came upon Shanna outside the apartment. When she saw him, she reached quickly for the doorbell, clearly self-conscious that he'd caught her standing by the door working up her nerve.

  "This place is a maze. It's good to see a familiar face." She angled her head, taking him in. "You look good. New haircut?"

  Before he could respond, Julie pulled the door open, her grin accompanied by a waft of scented candles. In the modest living room behind her, Lorraine and about ten others lounged on pillows and cushions on the floor.

  No Leah.

  Julie spoke in a hushed voice that connoted they'd interrupted something of great importance. "Tom, Shanna, glad you could make it."

  Shanna picked up her whisper. "Hey, Julie."

  Julie clutched their hands and tugged them inside, nodding at the stack of shoes on the square of tile that passed for the entranceway. Tim wordlessly removed his boots, Shanna her sandals.

  "Excuse me," Julie said, her voice still lowered respectfully. "I'd like to introduce you all to some new friends. Tom is a very successful businessman" – a low hum of impressed voices – "and Shanna's a very cool girl we met."

  The others, all in their late teens and early twenties, rose to greet them. Handshakes were coupled with lots of friendly touching -elbow grasps, rubs on the back by the girls, shoulder squeezes by the guys. They smiled continuously, enigmatically, as if sharing a secret.

  Tim felt a keen disappointment that Leah wasn't there. A small group of kids this age was easy to control – he could've flashed tin, thrown around some copspeak, and hustled her out the door before anyone knew what was going on.

  A sleek black-ash table against the wall housed a few of the myriad candles and trays of cookies and drinks. No chairs or couches – just a lot of blank carpet and colorful throw pillows. Tim noted the sole bathroom off a short hall that terminated in a closed door.

  Everyone milled around, snacking and focusing on the newcomers.

  "So, Tom, we'd love to know more about you."

  "Shanna, are you from here?"

  "You remind me of my older brother."

  "Great new goatee. You wear change
well."

  "You have the exact eyes of this childhood friend who I loved."

  When Tim or Shanna spoke, an awed hush filled the room. Lots of eye contact, sympathetic coos, encouraging exclamations. Tim couldn't readily distinguish between the other members – their intonations and facial expressions were remarkably similar. Though the responses were creepy and transparently manipulative, he had to confess there was also something pleasurable in being the center of such concerted attention. He felt buoyant and happy; his head hummed with a caffeine high.

  His buzz was undercut by the sudden awareness that not only was he standing barefoot and mimicking the soft tones of those around him, but he was wearing a matching smile. He pictured Leah drifting into a room such as this, dissolving into the warmth and acceptance.

  He excused himself to go to the bathroom, finding two crisp hand towels and three seashell soaps, all unused. On his way back, he peeked behind the closed door. A completely bare bedroom, as he'd suspected. Just a vacuumed square of carpet.

  He returned to the group and mingled. When he tried to press Julie on specifics about the group, she smiled indulgently. "But we want to hear more about you."

  Finally Lorraine interrupted the festivities, dinging a Cross pen against her water glass. She perched on her cushion with her flexible legs interwoven, a pose the others tried to mimic. When she faced Tim and Shanna, her entire bearing had changed. Her posture was tense, her facial muscles rigid, and her eyes had gone glassy, as if she were staring through them. Her speech was robotic, regurgitated, the intensity and volume lending a cadence different from her own.

  "No matter how successful we are, we all have things in our lives that we're not happy with. Do you have things you're not happy with? Tom? Shanna?"

  They nodded.

  "Have you taken steps to change those things you're not happy with?"

  "I guess not really." Shanna studied the floor, embarrassed. "I mean, I try things now and then, but none of them have really worked."

  "Well, then you're giving those things the power to control your life. There's a colloquium that Julie and I have gone to that's given us some incredible insights. We'd really like your opinion on it."

  Shanna fussed with a hangnail, her face uncomfortable.

  "Do you want your insecurities to have power over you forever?"

  Shanna kept her eyes lowered. "No."

  "Well, by not going to this colloquium, you're doing just that."

  Tim thought that a smart guy like Tom Altman might have a few objections at this point. "Is this colloquium the only way to avoid that?"

  "Not at all. We just like you and want to share this with you. We're presenting a solution that could change your life and bring you a ton of fulfillment." She dealt with Tom's question but got right back to the script.

  Julie picked up. "We figured you might appreciate a new option."

  "I don't know. It just sounds a little like…I don't know" – Tom Altman paused, fearful of alienating his new companions – "like you're recruiting us or something."

  Flutters of laughter from around the circle. Not a hint of defensiveness.

  "Like into a brainwashing cult?" Julie smiled.

  "Well, I've heard those groups get people to go to seminars and stuff."

  "And so do universities," Lorraine said. "That doesn't make them cults. And besides, if you look at it that way, everything's a cult. We all breathe air, so anyone who breathes air is in the air-breathing cult."

  Tom Altman, wanting to be convinced, let the point go.

  "This colloquium rocks. I'm telling you, it changed my life, gave me direction. You strike me as pretty worldly. We wouldn't waste your time – or ours – inviting you to something lame. You came here today, so obviously you're open to new ideas."

  "I guess I am," Tom Altman admitted.

  "So which colloquium do you want to go to? Tomorrow's or next week's?"

  From the back – "I want to go tomorrow!"

  The others scrambled to sign up for the next day.

  Julie cast an eye at the clipboard. "Tomorrow's almost full."

  Shanna nibbled on her nails. "I'll do it," she said in a rush. "I can cut classes."

  "Tom? How 'bout you?" The clipboard was handed around the circle, landing in his lap. Thirteen sets of eyes fixed on him.

  A glance at the clipboard revealed only one listed option. The proceedings began at five tomorrow morning, leaving recruits virtually no time to rethink their decisions and back out. His frustration rose – he still hadn't confirmed that this was Leah's cult, and he didn't have time to waste in an unrelated colloquium. "Can you tell me a little more about it?"

  "It's amazing." Julie had an irksome habit of clasping her hands to her chest when she spoke.

  "Who's gonna run the colloquium?" He received a round of confused looks. "Usually there's one person who steers the ship. An instructor or something."

  "Well, we all participate together. What's really important is the experience you're gonna have. It's about you and your growth."

  Too self-conscious to make eye contact, Tom Altman gazed down at the sign-up sheet. A single remaining blank line awaited his name. In less than an hour, someone with moderate Internet sophistication could uncover Tom Altman's $90 million portfolio, his hydrofoil in the Marina, his Lear at the Burbank airport, his recently sold Bel Air mansion, liquidated during the divorce.

  "I'm just anxious about what happens if I go and run into problems. I mean, something someone ordinary can't solve."

  "Oh." Lorraine grinned. "Don't worry. There'll be lots of Neos at your stage."

  Tim leaned over and signed. "I think tomorrow works just fine."

  Chapter eighteen

  It's in a Radisson, Bear. How sinister can something in a Radisson be?"

  "My date with Lenora Delarusso from Metro wound up there. That's how sinister."

  At the wheel of his truck, Bear coasted about a half block behind Reggie Rondell, who was heading east on foot. They'd pulled into the RestWell parking lot just as he'd struck out from the front desk, a little after 11:00 P.M. Boston rested his head on Tim's thigh, the warm drool just starting to work its way through Tim's pants. At Tim's respectful push, Boston aimed a baleful gaze his way, then curled around, redirecting his attentions beneath a flared hind leg.

  "This won't be a roomful of easily cowed kids – it's a huge cult seminar. If the girl's there, you can't just flash badge and walk her out anymore. You've got adults, hotel staff, a shitload of cult higher-ups. If you make a scene, someone is bound to inquire, and you've got dick to back up an arrest." Bear sighed weightily. "You can't risk that."

  Keeping his eyes on Reggie's halting progress up the sidewalk, Tim gave a little nod.

  Bear, no enthusiast of pregnant pauses, glanced over at him again. "You're getting sucked in one step at a time. You didn't sign on for this."

  "I'm just getting the girl out. No more, no less."

  Bear adjusted his grip on the wheel, his face skeptical. "It has occurred to you that you're walking the same path they use to indoctrinate people."

  "Yes. Did you check out the rental info for the space at the Radisson?"

  "The International Ballroom was booked – no cheap affair, cost around seven grand. The check came in from TDB Corp, sources to an offshore bank account. I guess TDB holds one of these jobbies about every month. Up until now they've always used the smaller conference rooms."

  "So there's either more money or more participants."

  "Or both."

  "Can we case it?"

  "The events director says the clients have a crew there already, prepping the ballroom. I wouldn't risk going by, could get eyefucked. You'll have to run it dry."

  "Get what you can on TDB Corp, would you? I want a U.S. address."

  "If we're tracking finances on that level, you know we're gonna have to call in Thomas and Freed."

  Freed came from money – his parents owned a national furniture chain. He'd been groomed
to take over the business but opted out at the last minute, electing to join the Service. He was the only guy on the warrant squad who drove a Porsche that he'd actually paid for, not borrowed from Asset Seizure. His persistence and quiet temperament made him a brilliant cross-agency synergist. One Christmas Eve he'd tracked down the vacationing secretary of the treasury on a Fijian Sportfisher for a telephonic consult on an international money-laundering scheme, a tale that had long calcified into Service lore. His abilities running down a money trail were unparalleled, and Thomas – his operating partner for five years – had evolved into an excellent collaborator. Charles Bronson comments aside, they were the right guys for the job.

  Up ahead Reggie stuffed the ever-present brown paper bag into his coat pocket and ducked into a Blockbuster.

  Bear pulled over and idled at the curb. "You wanna go talk to him?"

  "No, he'll be more comfortable on his own turf. If he's getting a video, he's heading back home."

  They sat in silence for a while, Tim flipping through his notepad and reflecting on the meeting at the apartment. Shanna had been glowing with anticipation on their walk out last night; he'd directed a few cryptic remarks her way discouraging her attendance, but she'd smiled, nonplussed, and chided him for being negative.

  He reminded himself that she was a sentient adult who was capable of decision making. Spinning his wheels trying to tow her out would get him nowhere – she was one of maybe hundreds of recruits he'd come across. Why not rescue every participant he encountered? Or even Julie and Lorraine for that matter?

  So what made Leah different? Merely the fact that he'd been tasked with her recovery?

  "…the small-people couple who stayed next door to me and Elise in Vegas said they'd met twenty years ago at a U2 concert," Bear was saying.

  The small-people convention had really stayed with him.

  "You believe that shit? People say they met at a concert twenty years ago, I'm thinking Bob Seger. We're getting old, Rack. Getting old."