Tim felt a distinct rise in his temperature.
"You neglected her. Where were you that day when she was walking home from school? Seeing to business? Counting your money? Socking away more in the bank account so you and the missus could maintain your lifestyle? What killed her? A psychopath? Or her parents' hideously yuppie self-involvement? You made her a victim, just like yourself, didn't you? If you'd done something differently that day, that week, you could have saved her life. She could still be your daughter. She could be waiting for you at home right now."
Having unearthed Croatian mass graves, having beheld through 8x50 binocs the public stoning of a raped Afghan twelve-year-old, having used both hands and a knee to hold together the shrapnel-shredded skull of a platoonmate, Tim noted with alarm his rising discomfort. The one benefit of his distress was that the surfeit of emotion was easy to channel into his performance. His face burned; sweat ran into his eyes. Though he willed himself to sit, in his mind he leapt from the chair, palmed TD's skull and his beckoning chin, and twisted through the crackling resistance. He bombarded himself with violent fantasies, mostly to fight off the image of Ginny. But the heat, hunger, and fatigue loosened his control, and his daughter's face drifted into focus. The haze of freckles across her nose. Her awkward, second-grade grin. The gap between her front teeth. The wisp of hair he'd freed from the corner of her mouth as she lay cold and inert on the coroner's slab.
He held his eyes on Leah. A tear beaded on his lower lid; a blink pushed it into a downward trickle. Leah matched it. And his next.
"Once she was dead, you thought money would get you past it. Money turned into power. You took action. You decided the rules didn't apply to you. You decided you were above the law. And now you're afraid of your power. So afraid you've gone soft with fear. What did you use your power for that has you so cowed?"
The four murderous weeks of last February came back to Tim in a rush of faces – Jedediah Lane, Buzani Debuffier, Robert, Mitchell, Rayner.
Tim had completely left his body – he saw TD's mouth moving soundlessly, the spread of faces before him, gleeful and vehement.
When he refocused, TD was saying, "The only way to eliminate that fear is to face it again. Are you ready to face it?"
"Yes." Tim's voice held a note of pleading he didn't recognize. "Yes."
"You need to use your power again and use it right."
"How?"
"Someone's family has been prying into our business. There's a danger that threatens us all, living right here among us." TD halted before Tim, eyes picking over him. "We won't risk betrayal. We won't stand for impostors."
The shift to menace, in the midst of Tim's disorientation, froze him in a perfect, breathless moment of panic.
His gaze steady on Tim, TD snapped his fingers and held out his hand, a doctor awaiting a scalpel. Skate crossed to the stage and lifted his shirt, revealing a handgun pressed into the sweaty flesh of his gut.
Tim snapped into absolute clarity. His breathing evened out; his heartbeat pulsed at his temples clear and steady like a metronome.
Skate plucked the weapon free and slapped it into TD's hand. Holding the gun limply before him, TD turned and walked back to Tim, his footsteps clacking in the silent auditorium. A Sig Sauer P245. With its compact frame and big caliber, it was a street-smart relative of the Spec Ops-issue P226 in Tim's gun safe.
Had he really put his life in the hands of a nineteen-year-old? Tim risked a glance at Leah; she looked horrified. He'd worry later about whether she'd sold him out; for now his concern was seizing the gun from TD. Six rounds in the mag, one in the pipe meant he could take TD and both Protectors and still have three bullets left to fend off the mob. If the dogs attacked, he'd shoot upward into their open mouths or offer them a shirt-wrapped forearm to gnash, getting in tight enough to press muzzle to fur so the gun would discharge noxious gases into them along with the lead.
TD reached out. Tim tensed, ready to strike him at the wrist and elbow. He could picture the arm bending, the gun driving up, the muzzle snugging beneath TD's chin for the discharge.
But the barrel was facing away.
Tim slid the proffered weapon from TD's hand.
"Shanna's folks, you see, are pretty influential people. They're sending investigators after her, calling police departments. We can't afford that. And we certainly can't afford to let her leave here knowing all our secrets."
Shanna's mouth hung open, her lower jaw edged forward.
"Tom, prove that your devotion to The Program is absolute." He grasped Shanna by both shoulders and gazed down at her paternally. "Let's see if you can do a job yourself instead of paying someone else to do it for you."
A hush settled over the crowd.
The kettledrum started up, slowly matched by stomping feet.
TD wouldn't commit so flagrant a crime after all his subtle machinations to avoid illegality. Tim gauged the weapon in his hand. It felt light, as if the magazine were empty, though he wouldn't bet Shanna's life on it.
Shanna was wheezing. She fell off her chair onto her knees.
Tim debated running a press-check, pulling back the slide to expose the bullet, but it required both hands and would surely give away his facility with weapons. He cast his mind back to sticky-eyed gunplay near Jelalabad, where his platoon had forged through a wind-induced brownout into dark tunnels. They'd learned to check if their Sigs were fire-ready by fingering the extractor. The sliver-wide leaf spring, which pulled spent cartridges out of the barrel, protruded ever so slightly when there was a round in the chamber. Walking over to Shanna, Tim moved his trigger finger up and ran it along the chamber portion of the barrel, past the ejection port. The extractor sat flush.
Shanna cowered before him, pale-faced.
The room rocked and thumped and hummed.
Burning with delight, TD awaited Tom Altman's next move. Tim raised the gun, aimed directly at TD's forehead, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a faint click.
A shocked silence.
Tim blew imaginary smoke from the barrel and tossed the gun. It clattered on the stage. Tom Altman's exercise complete.
TD watched him, frozen in a moment of amazed respect. He began to clap, and the Pros erupted in applause.
Shanna collapsed on the floor.
"Brilliant," TD murmured, his voice barely audible over the roar of the audience. "Fucking brilliant."
The Pros stormed the stage, swept Tim up, and jumped with him. The scene resembled the cascading-confetti finale of a political convention. A path parted before TD. He snatched Tim into an embrace, his whisper cutting through the ruckus. "You're ready now, Tom. No more games."
As the celebration lingered, Tim and Leah headed out the Growth Hall's rear exit.
"The gun," she said. "How did you know?"
"I knew."
They passed behind the cafeteria, and Leah again instinctively turned away from her reflection in the walk-in freezer. Tim caught her, turning her toward the side of the freezer. She froze, her head tilted to the ground. He kept his hands on her shoulders, gentle but firm.
For nearly a full minute, they stayed perfectly still, Tim waiting patiently, Leah stubbornly avoiding her reflection.
Finally she lifted her eyes. Tentatively she raised her trembling fingertips, pressed them into her cheek. Tim stepped back, leaving her alone with her mirrored image.
She smiled. She fussed with her hair. She made a snarly face at herself.
A one-note gasp of a laugh seemed to catch her by surprise, a cautious peal of delight.
Honing his clockwise wiping technique, Tim worked beside Leah. Lorraine and Shanna were elbow deep in suds. Chad stacked the plates.
Stanley John burst through the swinging doors and said, "Chad, the Teacher wants to see you. Now."
Chad stopped, plates clutched between his hands. He set them down on the counter and walked from the room.
"What's going on?" Shanna asked.
"Wendy's not getting with
The Program," Stanley John said. "TD wants to switch him out, put Janie on her."
Lorraine dried her hands, then cupped Shanna's cheeks. "I never have to worry about you being Off Program. You're the perfect Gro-Par."
Shanna blushed and covered her grin with a soapy hand.
"If you stay on track, you might even get asked to be one of TD's Lilies."
Shanna's grin faded. She bit her cheek and glanced away.
"Speaking of Lilies," Stanley John said quietly to Lorraine, "you'll never guess who showed up in the middle of the night. Nancy Kramer."
Leah stiffened.
Tim recognized the name from TD's file cabinets – the Active Link. She'd been successfully converted to a Dead Link last night.
Shanna and Lorraine stacked the final wet dishes before Tim and Leah and then left. Stanley John followed them out, drawing close to Lorraine, his voice barely audible. "Guess she passed the Darwin test at the tar pits."
Tim and Leah dried in silence for a while, Leah fighting back tears. "You don't have to gloat."
"She's dead, Leah. I don't want you to end up with her."
They worked in silence for a while. Leah finally reached TD's plate, sitting by itself on the counter. She produced two brand-new towels, using them like pot holders so her flesh wouldn't come in contact with it. She paused, staring at the blank white plate, tears running down her cheeks.
"Yes," she said. "I'll go with you."
She spit on the plate, polished it, and continued her work.
Chapter thirty-three
Wendy confronted the stack of legal documents before her. "I don't think I'm ready to do this."
She sat beside her husband and Tim on the Growth Hall floor, surrounded by Pros. An orb of light encapsulated the group, a perimeter of darkness hemming them in. Jason Struthers, like Shanna, had already elected to stay on and enjoy Pro status. The devout attention he'd enjoyed since signing on the dotted lines had left him in near rapture.
And then there were three.
The inner core of encircling Pros included all the heavyweights -Lorraine, Winona, Janie, Stanley John, and, of course, TD. A clamp-jawed man in his early thirties, a Program attorney named Sean, sat up front as well, next to a trim, bearded fellow of the same age – the good Dr. Henderson, complete with a yachtsman's physique and John Lennon spectacles. Winona clutched a notary stamp, signature log, and a mini-ink pad for fingerprint confirmation. The voluptuous redhead had parked herself behind Don, touching his hips with the points of her spread knees, stroking his back lazily. She slid a Montblanc up over his shoulder and down the front of his chest.
There was no Enya, no 2001, no kettledrum, just an excruciating silence.
Tim flipped through the carefully prepared documents before him. A general power of attorney. A durable power of attorney. A power of attorney for each of Tom Altman's banks and brokerage firms. Transfer of assets. Deed of gift.
In consideration of goodwill and other good and valuable consideration, receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, I hereby grant and convey the following to TDB Corp…
I, the undersigned, hereby make, constitute, and appoint TDB Corp my true and lawful Attorney for me and in my name, place, and stead and for my use and benefit…
…designate TDB Corp with broad powers to ask, demand, manage, sue for, recover, collect, and receive each and every sum of money, debt, account, legacy, bequest, interest, dividend, annuity, and demand…
There was even a postal form for Tom Altman to forward his mail to The Program's P.O. box, a surefire way to certify that not a single investment statement slipped through the cracks. TD would keep them under his thumb until he'd bilked every cent from every account, leaving them rattling husks like Ernie Tramine and Reggie.
The comprehensiveness of the paperwork was astonishing. In fact, The Program's team knew more about Tom Altman's portfolio than Tim did. He mused on Tannino's masterful ways of building fraudulent paper empires.
Wendy squirmed under the panorama of staring eyes. Beside her, Don broke the standoff, grabbing the pen. Leaning over, he began to sign the forms furiously. The crinkle of turning pages was drowned out by a respectful ripple of applause, a golf clap punctuated by doting exclamations – tentative still, as Don's work was not yet complete.
The redhead squeezed Don excitedly from behind. Wendy watched the well-manicured hands kneading her husband's lateral muscles. Her voice was shaky. "Don? Honey? I think we should talk about this."
Continuing to flip pages, Don kept his head down, focused athletically on the task.
"C'mon, Wen, what's to talk about?" Stanley John said.
"I think…I think we should talk to Josh. He is our CFO."
"Here we care about the future." Sean folded his hands contentedly. "Not the past."
"Why isn't Josh here, too?" Winona said. "When you and your husband chose growth, he chose to lag behind."
Janie said, "You can figure out later if Josh is part of your future. For the time being, why don't you Live in the Now? Let all that other crap go."
TD reclined on elbow-locked arms, taking in everything with a creator's pride.
Don finished, slapped the last form facedown on the floor, and looked up with shiny eyes. "I'm staying on. I'm going forward. I'm not dragging all this with me."
A cry of joy was raised, the rush of euphoria so disorienting that for a moment Tim joined in the thrill. Between hugs and pats, Don signed the notary log Winona presented. Standing still amid the swirls of movement, Wendy looked shaken. Her imploring eyes met Tim's. He forced himself to look away.
TD stood, and everyone quieted, settling back on the floor. Now, magically, only Tim and Wendy remained in the center. Don had been whisked out by the busty redhead, no doubt to collect his due rewards. With a flourish, TD produced the Montblanc and extended it to Wendy. She stared at it a few moments, gulping air, then took it.
The squeak of a sneaker on the floorboards. The rush of wind across the roof. Someone unzipped a jacket in the back.
"I'm sorry," Wendy said. "There are too many people this would affect."
An instant, horrifying transformation of faces. Disapproving head shakes. Heartbroken frowns. Pros could no longer bear to make eye contact with her.
"That's a shame, Wen," Stanley John finally said. "You're getting pretty Off Program. This is about you, not others. But we'll sort it out in Workshop tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" She stared from blank face to blank face. "I've got a full day of meetings tomorrow. I'm already behind from -"
A clamor of protest. "Don't go backward, Wen."
"Tomorrow's the most important day. It's gonna be so much fun."
"This is a critical time for you," Stanley John explained. "You're between two stages, in limbo. You can't regress now. Who from your old life would understand you now? After everything you've accomplished? After everything we've shared? The abortions. Your time with Chad. You've done things, Wendy. We're the only ones who understand you now."
Wendy's predicament seemed to jar Shanna. For the first time since they'd arrived, she resembled the awkward college kid Tim had met outside the college counseling center.
An edge of fear undercut Wendy's evident anger. "This is a three-day retreat. I'm ready to leave."
"You're free to go. But there's no van going back to the city tonight."
"I want to make a phone call."
Dr. Henderson made a tsking noise. "You don't want to bother friends and family now. At this hour? It's a long ride."
Tim thought of the zero-bars cell-phone signal, the severed cords in the bank of phone booths, Wendy's oblivious bantering on the drive up as the landscape flew by unheeded outside the van's blacked-out windows.
"Fuck this." Wendy's voice quivered with fear. She stood and exited abruptly, walking away from the group to the unlit reaches of the auditorium. Shanna looked shaken by Wendy's departure – her first glimpse over the walls of pluralistic ignorance. Allowing any initiate to witness another's hes
itation was, as Tim saw it, TD's first strategic error.
Several Pros were on their feet, but TD waved a hand calmly, and they sat. Tim squinted to make out Skate guarding the door. Wendy hesitated for an instant, but Skate obligingly snapped the dogs into a sit-stay, and she stormed past. A gust of wind announced Wendy's exit, and then the door's creaking return restored the calm.
Good old Tom Altman remained, alone in the glowing center of a ring of expectant faces. From all sides glassy eyes peered at him.
"How do you feel about your time here?" TD said.
"It's been amazing," Tim answered truthfully.
"But you need something else, don't you? What else do you need?"
"Well, The Program opened up all this psychological…material. And I realize now the ways I've chosen weakness, the mistakes I've made. But I don't know how to…"
"Atone?"
"Yes," Tom said softly. "Atone."
"We're helping guide you to that atonement." TD nodded at the paperwork before him. "What allowed you to hire someone else? To order the killing of another man? The wrong man?"
Tim let the epiphany burst across Tom Altman's face. "My money."
"The money that led you to think you could get away with it. The money that let you get away with it. Start fresh, Tom. Rebuild. You've got no wife, no daughter, no house. All you have is yourself."
His voice sounded tiny, lost in the expanse of the silent hall. "And my guilt."
"Of course your guilt. Your guilt is your past. If you want to get rid of it, you'll have to get rid of the one thing that binds you to the past."
Tom Altman wiped his eyes. "My portfolio."
The Pros started to murmur, then call out their support. It seemed the entire world was aimed at him and him alone. A few strokes of his pen could unleash untold elation.
Tim held up his arms. The sound ceased. The rush of power he felt at the crowd's instant reaction provided a tiny window into TD's life.
Tom Altman's voice was choked. "I don't want it. I want to be free from it. Who cares if I default on the deal? I don't want any of it." He leaned forward, pressing the pen to the top sheet of paper.
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