He ducked into the bathroom, then backed out almost immediately. Leah and Nancy went stiff. He spoke very quietly. “Which one of you is bleeding?”
Nancy’s knees buckled, but she caught herself before she fell.
Leah found her voice first. “I’m sorry?”
“There’s a menstrual pad in my trash can.” He placed a hand on the back of her neck, firmly, and guided her into the bathroom. “There,” he said softly, almost lovingly. “Do you see?”
Leah nodded.
“It throws off my energy when I’m in the presence of a woman who’s bleeding. We’ve talked about that. Now, which one of you is bleeding?” Nancy’s nose had gone red, presaging her tears. Her lips looked swollen and cracked.
TD’s voice stayed perfectly calm. “Should we call Randall and Skate in here to help you look?”
Nancy was crying now, her terror contagious. She opened her mouth to speak, but Leah cut her off. “Mine.”
TD nodded once, languidly, then walked to the door and knuckled it open. He called across the clearing for Stanley John and Skate, and almost at once Leah heard the mod door bang open. Footsteps sounded on the porch. The men halted dutifully outside.
“Skate, come in please.”
Skate shuffled through the door. TD lifted the necklace off over his head, the beads knocking against the silver key.
Leah’s mouth went dry; her voice came thin and high. “Oh, no. Please, no.”
Nancy looked as though she might pass out. “Dr. TD, I—”
He held a finger to his lips and shushed her. “Nancy, I’m putting you on a word diet for the day. And I want you to leave. Do you understand?” She nodded, mouth sealed, then exited. The dogs reacted to her violently on the porch, but Skate shouted out a command and they silenced.
Leah felt the blood rushing to her face. “Please don’t put me in there. I’m sorry.”
TD beckoned Stanley John with two fingers. He stepped inside, running a hand through his lank brown hair, which fell back perfectly along the part. He was the kind of guy the girls at Pepperdine had found attractive—strong jaw, perfect teeth, pronounced brow. He cast a concerned eye at the Teacher. “What’s the prob, TD?”
“She’s bleeding.”
“C’mon, Leah. You know better than that. Now, don’t you?”
She tried not to shake. “Well, actually, I was never told. I just finished my period, actually, so I wasn’t really—”
“Oh, I think you know how to take accountability better than that, don’t you?” Keeping his eyes on Leah, Stanley John extended his hand. TD lowered the necklace into his palm, the copper wires gleaming through the beads.
Leah studied her shoes, her face burning.
TD placed his ageless face before hers. “The Program ensures you’ll have a steep learning curve, even if the learning isn’t always fun.” Her head sank, her shoulders drooped. If she could have melted into the floorboards, she would have.
“You said last session that your parents think you don’t listen. After your real dad died of cancer, you didn’t fit in well with your new family.” She looked away to hide her welling tears. “Yes.”
“Sound familiar? You not fitting in?”
Moisture on her cheeks. Shame burning like an infection. “Yes.”
He placed his hands softly on her cheeks until she raised her eyes. “Your acting out like this isn’t going to get you the kind of attention you’re seeking.”
“I know. It’s my Old Programming.”
“What do you feel?”
She wiped her tears. “That no matter what I say, you’ll be disappointed with me.”
“Don’t you see that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy? You’re acting weak, crying like a victim. You’re creating in me the very disappointment you’re so afraid of.”
Her thoughts pulled in ten directions at once. “I don’t mean to do that. That’s not what I meant to do.”
“Don’t worry, Leah.” He stroked her face gently. “TD will break you of this habit. We’ll get you fixed. Okay?”
Her head barely moved. Up, down, up.
Stanley John led her out. She felt dead inside, as if she’d withered away and her body was walking of its own volition. When they reached the oval of grass, the others stopped their gardening and playing and talking and stared, reading the situation from the expression on her face. When Stanley John started up the steep paved road toward the empty treatment wing of the preceding adolescent facility, there could be no doubt.
Two girls playing Frisbee stopped and called out admonitions. Janie’s husband, Chris, the chubby Webmaster for The Program’s incipient site, stopped flipping burgers in the barbecue pit and stared at Leah disapprovingly, one hand perched possessively on Janie’s hourglass waist. Janie, looking even more youthful and pretty beside her balding husband, was shaking her head, knowing she’d face chastisement for Leah’s failure. A group of people near the picnic tables whispered and pointed. Nancy stood among them, drunk with relief, seeming gleeful that the focus had been turned away from her. Her face still carried the pink stains of her earlier crying. Leah had lied to protect her, and she’d been repaid with derision. She felt too numb to hate Nancy. All she felt was her own shame at deceiving TD, at denying Nancy her rightful lesson. Clearly, Leah was getting what she deserved now.
The others started streaming over in twos and threes, following Stanley John and Leah up the hill toward the treatment wing. Leah could barely walk; her legs had gone weak with anticipation. Stanley John stopped her about thirty yards from the doors.
He walked ahead, fishing for keys in his pocket, as Leah felt the crowd swarm up behind her. The fabric of her shirt, pasted to her chest, fluttered with her heartbeat. Her rash, which stretched from her breasts to her clavicle, burned and itched. She closed her eyes against the snatches of conversation.
About thirty of them lined up on either side of her, forming a path to the front door, which Stanley John held open. Her breathing shallow and rapid, she started forward on tingling legs. The first girl on her right pinched her on the back of her arm, hard. Chris squeezed the soft skin of her left arm, twisting, a satisfied grin on his thick lips. Janie, fresh and vibrant, waited her turn beside him. Leah bit her cheek to keep from crying out as hand after hand reached out to nip the tender flesh at the back of her arms.
Janie leaned in close, her brown hair drifting like parted drapes. “This is your experience. You can make of it what you want.”
Leah tried to mouth her thanks, but the next sets of hands were on her, and she had to clamp her jaw to keep from crying out. She wanted desperately to break into a run, but if she tried to flee, she’d have to walk the Wellness Train all over again. She forced herself to step, pause, step, like a bride moving to the altar. Finally she couldn’t help herself, and she started to pull away from the grasping fingers, elbows tucking to her waist. Her face was hot and slick with tears. Everyone was cheering and yelling. Nancy gripped her skin but didn’t squeeze; her eyes were sad and horrified. Two new guys at the end eagerly awaited their turn. They grabbed the now-purple flesh and squeezed until Leah yelped, a small, throaty noise lost in the roar of the crowd. The guy on the right studied her face, an erection bulging in his shorts.
She stepped past them, her arms on fire, the rash on her chest seething beneath her sweat-drenched shirt. Stanley John took her by the shoulders and turned her around so she faced back up the aisle.
Everyone burst into applause for her.
“Way to go, Leah!”
“Atta girl!”
“No pain no gain.”
Satiated, they dispersed, joking and talking about dinner.
Stanley John unlocked the door and led her in. She cupped the swollen backs of her arms in her hands. The pain continued to smolder within them, a deep-tissue burn.
“You’ll have five hours of treatment.”
A blast of denial hit her. “Five hours? I can’t make it through five hours.”
“You doubt you
rself? You know what? I’m gonna prove to you that you can make it six hours.”
They reached the Growth Room. He turned the key in the lock, guided her inside. “I want you to meditate on your negativity. We don’t have room for it up here. And I want you to think about how self-impeding you were to question Teachings. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to stay in there until you decline to exercise the option called weakness.”
She heard the muffled thunk of the dead bolt as it slid home.
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.”
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 uncork 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.
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.
The Program Page 10
