The Program tr-2

by Gregg Hurwitz

  "The girl," Tannino said. "What about the girl?"

  "We're meeting with her parents in the A.M."

  Winston's mouth was watering from remembered sambuca. "What'd you dig up on Betters?"

  Tim debriefed them. He recalled every detail he could, not shying away from the times he'd started to go under during Program drills. Thomas seemed to have softened by the time Tim finished recounting his humiliations; indignity endured for the cause could dull even the sharpest of resentments.

  Leaning against the big-screen TV, Bear hummed with energy. "Get us a search warrant, and let's go tune the mutts up."

  The AUSA, an unreluctant bearer of bad news, announced with a defensive edge, "I need a better supporting affidavit." Winston held up his hand, fending off an all-sides protest. "You're asking me to process a search warrant that's going to cause a major escalation in a volatile situation. This is a cult on remote terrain with armed members. It'll take a regiment to serve a warrant – we can't exactly send two deputies up there to ring the doorbell and have a look-see."

  Tannino pressed his thumb and index finger to his eyes, letting them slide with the skin of the lids. Not a good sign.

  Winston said, "You'll recall, Rackley, that the FBI already went this route and wound up with nothing but a mouthful of lawsuits they're still choking on."

  "A girl was murdered. I'm an eyewitness declarant."

  "You actually saw her get shot?"

  "I heard a gunshot."

  "In a lightning storm."

  "The dogs came out of the trees with glistening muzzles."

  Winston folded his hands across his knee. "So they were healthy dogs."

  "Three people went into the woods. Two came out."

  "We find the defendants guilty, Your Honor."

  Annoyed, Tim turned his attention to the marshal. "We need to get up there with cadaver dogs."

  "After the rains, in wild terrain, we'd need a lot of time." Tannino's voice was softer than Winston's, more regretful. "We can't just march in and set up camp for a few days. Not without a solid foothold."

  "Look, Rackley," Winston said. "Of course we all know that the girl was probably killed. But that doesn't matter. What matters is sufficient grounds or concrete evidence to justify what would be tantamount to a federal raid. You haven't established probable cause. We need grounds."

  "Leah told me that Nancy was repeatedly sexually coerced."

  "Hearsay."

  Bear said, "How about the Dead Link files? Everyone who's left The Program either committed suicide, disappeared, or wound up in the loony bin."

  "It's systematic," Tim added. "No one who can expose The Program gets out intact. TD won't risk it. Not at this stage."

  "Again, nothing to take to the bank," Winston said. "You can look into those names further -"

  "I did," Bear chimed in. "Except for Reggie Rondell and" – he flipped open his notepad – "Wayne Topping, who Freed's still working on, we verified TD's intel. It's correct on all the other Dead Links."

  "Keeping folders on expunged members is not a crime. And it's not news that these people are missing. They've been missing ever since they joined this cult. If we could legitimately determine the nature of the Dead Link computer files, perhaps we could make a case, but just name and status on a sheet of paper? Uh-uh."

  "Can we get him on assault?" Tim said. "The Growth Room is a ritualized form of torture. As is severe sleep deprivation."

  "You're asking for a full ART deployment because someone got pinched and skipped a nap?"

  "Don't be dismissive. There are valid grounds for assault charges here."

  "On whose behalf? To have the victims themselves be hostile witnesses? Well, just read Helter Skelter for what a breeze that'll be."

  "Bugliosi got convictions for Manson and his cohorts."

  "After a nine-and-a-half-month trial that cost nine-point-one million dollars – in 1971 dollars. And here we've got no dead Sharon Tate with whom to incite the masses."

  "Betters, unlike Manson, has broad appeal. He'll be operating in six states by the end of next month."

  "And by all legally visible indications, he'll be doing it lawfully." Winston leaned back on the sofa, letting his hands rest on his knees. "We can't use anything you uncovered in the modular office. Betters has a reasonable expectation of privacy in that space."

  "Come on, Win," Tannino said. "We all know how the game is played. I told Rackley myself he should -"

  "I don't want to know that." Winston feigned being dazed, tapping his ears. "I seem to be having some problems with my hearing."

  Tim said, "You can't make a case off anything I brought you?"

  "It's fine investigative work, but if we ever threw it into the ring, it would do nothing but elicit a volley of suppression motions. Any search warrant would be quashed, the evidence thrown out as fruit of a poisonous tree." Winston smiled wearily and said, only half jokingly, "Our old nemesis, the Fourth Amendment."

  Tim felt his confidence sapping. He was grateful to Freed for stepping in.

  "We have evidence of Betters fraudulently acquiring tens of millions of dollars."

  "What fraud? From what I've heard, Betters uses no scheme or device. They sign over their assets because he asks them to. That's their right."

  "You could argue diminished capacity."

  "Being a brainwashed idiot doesn't fall under any legal definition of diminished capacity. And even if it did – again, who's pressing charges? Certainly none of Betters's myrmidons. It's Stockholm syndrome times sixty up there. Plus, where's the federal hook? So far we're talking state charges, and believe me, an overburdened DA isn't gonna want to take it up the line any more than I do."

  "Stockpiling weapons?" Thomas asked.

  "Rackley found no claymores, no grenades, nothing illegal. Betters can amass handguns galore as long as they're not clearly linked to criminal intent."

  "I'm sure they're all registered," Thomas muttered.

  "We can't take a chance of that magnitude on the hope they aren't."

  Tim's mouth tasted bitter. "So you wouldn't grant me a surveillance warrant to gather evidence, and now you won't move forward because I don't have enough evidence."

  "Well, yeah." Winston was silent, as if this tautology were a self-evident truth. "There are laws, Rackley. They're not perfect, but they're what we have. And if the marshal and the U.S. Attorney are gonna bend them on a case, you're not exactly the deputy -" He caught himself. "Look, you did a fine job here. I'm equally frustrated that we can't do more. And I know I'm the bad guy, getting called in here to say what's gonna fly and what isn't, but we're dealing with a lot of scrutiny these days. Constitutional protections have eroded substantially under Ashcroft and the Patriot Act, and I'm not gonna be the poster boy for the backlash. We're all on the same team – we need to protect the DOJ and the Service. One misstep on a thing like this is all it takes. We'll have international press coverage, TD's zealots foaming at the mouth, civil libertarians invoking the holy trinity of goatfucks – Ruby Ridge, Wounded Knee, Waco."

  Tim looked at Bear, who had the benefit of a night-school J.D. under his belt. He cursed softly and swiped a palm across his thick neck – not the clarity Tim was looking for.

  "Listen," Tannino said. "Terrance Betters is a thorn in the side of the federal government. The IRS has a crush on him, DOD wants his number, FBI, too. I'd love nothing more than to light his ass up, but I can't risk going in there and coming out with my dick in my hands."

  "When guys are as clever as Betters, sometimes the resources it takes to nail them aren't worth it." Winston rose and pointedly dusted his hat with two swift slaps. "My advice: Keep the girl out and forget it. Don't hand Betters a cause for action – hand him plenty of rope and then wait." He nodded at Tannino. "Please thank your wife for the libations." He considerately closed the doors shut behind him.

  A foul mood lingered in the room.

  "I'm sorry, son." The grooves around Tannino's mouth and eyes were de
eply pronounced; playing the bureaucrat never failed to age him. "I think this one's run its course."

  Tim nodded once and rose.

  "Rackley. I need the…"

  "Right." Tim withdrew his marshal's star, mounted on its leather tag. "I appreciate the work."

  Freed studied the carpet; even Thomas coughed uncomfortably.

  Tim handed the badge to Tannino, who unhappily took it. Tim unholstered his. 357, set it on the desk, shook hands all around, and left.

  Dray sat propped up on the mattress, Leah asleep beside her, one arm thrown across Dray's stomach. A bloodied washcloth lay balled on the floor beside a microcassette recorder.

  When Dray saw Tim in the doorway, she eased out gingerly from beneath Leah's arm. Sweat glazing her face, Leah groaned and nestled into the stack of sheets.

  "Why don't you pull the covers off her?" Tim whispered.

  "She likes being hot." Dray clicked the "rewind" button on the tape recorder. "You get the meeting set?"

  "Nine o'clock at Reggie's motel. What's that?"

  "I convinced Leah to record her seven A.M. check-in message to TD so she could sleep in. I'll be up – I'll just call the number for her and play it." When they stepped into the hall, she took note of his expression. "What's wrong?"

  He gestured for her to follow him into the bathroom. As he took a steaming shower, she sat on the toilet so he could finish filling her in. She didn't say much; there wasn't much to say.

  He dried off, brushed his teeth, and got into bed. Beside him, Dray had her nose buried in a book, her prerequisite to sleeping. Continuing to read, she reached over and took his hand. He stared at the gun safe, the ceiling, the dark leaves tapping softly at the window.

  Without lifting her eyes from the paperback, Dray said, "She is rather willowy."

  Chapter thirty-six

  Walking down the hall, Tim could hear the murmur of Dray's voice. Morning light suffused the kitchen, a pale stillness that bleached the polished counters.

  Leah's mouth hovered over a bowl of Lucky Charms, her pistoning arm providing elevator service for yellow moons and blue diamonds. Despite nearly twelve hours of unrestricted access to the kitchen, still she ate like a war orphan. Between her and Dray, Tim was beginning to feel anorexic.

  Leah wore Dray's favorite academy sweatshirt; when she caught the milk dribbling down her chin with a swipe of the sleeve, Dray didn't even object. Leah's skin was a healthy, well-scrubbed pink, her hair shiny and nicely combed, bangs covering the abrasions at the hairline.

  "Morning," Leah and Dray said simultaneously.

  Tim forced a smile. An emptiness had replaced his stomach since he'd surrendered his badge last night. "Ready?"

  Leah released a shuddering sigh.

  Dray popped her vitamins, then tapped a few extras from the jar and pushed them across the table at Leah. "Grab some juice and take these."

  Leah got up and perused the inside of the refrigerator. "Orange juice or apple?"

  "Whatever you want."

  Leah stared at Tim as if he'd spoken another language. Tim stared back. Leah glanced inside the refrigerator, then at Tim and Dray – a momentary crisis. "Just tell me."

  "Go on and choose for yourself, Leah."

  Leah reached tentatively for one carton, then the other. She shook her head, and tears streaked down her cheeks.

  Dray got up, pulled out the OJ, and poured her a glass.

  If we attack the cult directly, she'll either shut off or drown us in dogma," Bederman said. "Focusing on the cult's controlling aspects will get us further. But she's got to make the connections herself."

  Tim sat beside him on the sagging twin bed they'd pushed against the wall to make room for a ring of chairs. Reggie had moved the plastic wastebasket so he could settle on the floor with his back to the corner and the brown paper bag in his lap. After a cursory examination of the motel room's furnishings, Emma had elected to stand, remaining cautiously erect in the center of the thinning carpet. When she'd met Reggie, she'd taken his hand with a thumb and two fingers, as if grasping a soiled diaper.

  Will faced the gauzy window curtains, his hands clasped behind him. Outside, a garbage truck impaled a Dumpster and hoisted it overhead, curling like a great clanking scorpion. The Dumpster discharged its contents and began its noisy descent.

  "Perhaps you could turn around?" Bederman said.

  Will pivoted, thumbs bent over the rim of his plastic cup. On the sill rested two empty minibar Absoluts, caps discarded among the dead flies. Though he'd forgone a tie, he looked ridiculously formal in a suit.

  Through wire-frame spectacles, Bederman regarded him evenly. "We've got to help her envision a happy future outside the cult."

  Lank hair down in his eyes, Reggie spread his arms. "Ta-da!"

  "We want to give her as much of a sense of control as possible. Reggie's got the right idea, sitting on the floor so we don't seem threatening."

  "I'd prefer not to sit on the floor," Emma said.

  "Perhaps you could consider a chair." Bederman gestured at Will, who'd moved to lean importantly against the bureau. "And you, too."

  Emma brushed off the seat with her hand and sat at the edge. "I feel like I don't know who she is anymore. If she does come home, it'll be like having a stranger -"

  "You'll need to go to therapy," Bederman said. "All of you."

  Will remained standing. "What is it with this town and shrinks? For people here it's like going to the barber." He drained his cup and dropped it into the wastebasket. "I haven't gone to a shrink in fifty-eight years -"

  "Big surprise, that," Reggie said.

  "- and I certainly don't need to start because my stepdaughter got herself turned around."

  "It was my understanding that Leah is your daughter," Bederman said. "By adoption."

  Tim said, "To salvage your family, is it such a sacrifice to sit in an air-conditioned office for an hour a week and talk about your mother?"

  Emma's face took on a sudden sternness. "Sometimes I think we'd all be better off if we just let her go ahead into whatever life she wanted."

  Will went rigid. "Emma."

  A knock sounded at the door, and then Dray stuck her head in. "Ready?"

  Bederman nodded. Dray held the door open, her attention directed patiently just around the jamb. Maybe a full minute passed. Finally Leah trudged into the room. Dray withdrew silently, closing the door.

  Leah swept her fingers over an ear, hooking back her stray hair, and risked a glance up at her parents. "Hi."

  Emma gasped. Tim wondered what her reaction would have been to seeing Leah before she'd cleaned herself up. Will had gone back to assessing the garbage truck's progress. In Leah's gaze at her stepfather's back, Tim felt the burn of her desired approval.

  "Hi, Will."

  "Turn around and face your daughter," Bederman said.

  Bent slightly at the waist, Will raised a hand to his face and held it there a moment. When he finally turned, his eyes were moist but his expression impenetrable. "Leah."

  They studied each other. It was as if they were alone in the room.

  "I'm Glen, and this is Reggie. We're here with your parents because we want to find out more about you -"

  "Why are my parents here?"

  Emma remained frozen in the chair, her face drawn and bloodless. Will's hands fussed as if desirous of a rocks glass.

  "Well," Bederman finally said, "because they love you and they're concerned about you."

  Leah kept her eyes on Will. "Really?"

  "Yes, really," Will said. "Christ, Leah. This has been awful for us, your mother -"

  "I'm sorry to have made your life difficult."

  "- you running off half-cocked -"

  "Mr. Henning." Bederman's voice had the sharp anger of a disobeyed parent, and as much authority. Amazingly, Will was silenced; he appeared shocked at his own obedience.

  Bederman removed his spectacles and polished them on his shirt, first one lens, then the other. "Would you l
ike to come in and sit down, Leah?" With an open hand, he indicated one of the chairs. She sat, and the others joined her, except Reggie, who stayed in the corner, looking as if he might barf.

  "I love The Program," Leah said. "It's the most important thing that's ever happened to -"

  "That's just what you think now," Will said.

  Bederman silenced him again with a terse gesture and said to Leah, "I understand that. And we want to talk more about that. But at some point we'd also like to hear a few of the things you don't like about The Program."

  Leah's cheeks colored. "There's nothing I don't like."

  A grimace tightened Will's face. "She's brainwashed. Completely -"

  "I am not."

  Bederman directed a stern look Will's way before turning back to Leah. "Nothing on earth is perfect, right?"

  Leah thought this one over for a few moments. "I don't know. I haven't experienced most of what there is on earth."

  "Is The Program perfect? I mean flawless?" Bederman pressed on gently when she didn't answer. "Everything has flaws, right?"

  Leah shifted her jaw to one side, then back. "So I'm told."

  Bederman asked Leah to enumerate some of The Program's positive aspects. Will and Emma squirmed during this but didn't interject. After spending some time talking about what Leah liked about the group, Bederman resumed his earlier line of questioning. "What are some of The Program's flaws?"

  "I guess…I guess it's not growing fast enough."

  Will made a perturbed sound through his teeth.

  "Okay," Bederman said. "That's a fair answer."

  Leah scratched her rash, hard, through Dray's sweatshirt. "And maybe…maybe I wish it was a little more forgiving." A flash of panic in her eyes. "But that's just my weakness -"

  "No," Bederman said. "That's a fine answer, too." His hand rasped across his well-trimmed beard. "Is there anything that would make you consider leaving The Program?"

  An immediate answer – "No."

  "Nothing at all? Use your imagination – it doesn't have to be real. Say you found out they were planning a mass suicide or running a child-pornography ring."