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.”
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, prep-ping 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.”
Tim looked up from his notepad, glancing at the dash. Twenty minutes had passed. “What the hell is keeping him?”
“Maybe he slipped out the back.”
“I’ll go take a look.”
“I’d offer to help,” Bear said, “but I’m one of his triggers.”
Tim found Reggie sitting on the floor in the middle of the Action aisle, videos scattered on the floor around him. Mumbling to himself, he appraised the cases like oversize cards in a game of solitaire. A passing father steered his two sons clear. The manager drifted in the vicinity, taking a gander from Special Interest and considering an intervention.
Reggie didn’t seem surprised to see Tim. “There’s Rocky III and Rocky IV. I like them both, but I can’t decide. I’ve seen Rocky III more. And then there’s classic Willis, you know, the Die Hards, The Last Boy Scout.” He pressed his palm to his forehead and massaged it, swirling out a tuft of hair.
Tim made a reassuring gesture in the manager’s direction. Administering a dissatisfied scowl, the man retreated to the front register. “Which one should I pick?”
“I don’t know.”
Reggie’s hand hovered tremulously over The Last Boy Scout. He looked to Tim for a reaction. “You can’t just tell me?”
“That one’s fine.”
Reggie went limp with relief. “Really? You think so?”
“Yes.” Tim crouched parentally, helping clean up.
Outside, Tim offered Reggie a ride, but Reggie took one look at Bear and said he’d rather walk. Tim went with him, Bear rolling his eyes and shadowing in the truck like an inexpert kidnapper.
Reggie had been studying the video case, smoothing his hands over it as if it held great sentimental value. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“I’m going to a colloquium tomorrow morning. At the Radisson.” Reggie dropped the video, eyelids disappearing under his brow. “Don’t do it.” He snatched up the video and scurried down an alley, glancing around fearfully. Tim followed. Reggie slid up onto a Dumpster lid. He spoke with a whispered urgency. “He’ll hook you. That’s what he does. There have been others like you, always think you can handle it.” Tim wondered if Danny Katanga, PI, had liked what he’d found enough to join up.
“I seen the Teacher turn around angry family members, journalists, pastors, shrinks—man, does he hate shrinks—even cops.” Streaks of sweat ran down Reggie’s forehead. In his agitation he didn’t seem to mind referring to the leader by title. “It’s a black hole. It’s—”
“Reggie. Calm down. He’s not God.”
A burst of laughter doubled Reggie over, ending in a hacking spell. “Clearly you haven’t heard the hagiography.”
“The what?”
“As a young boy, he had grand mal seizures. During one—when he was six or eight, depending on which version he’s telling—he forced himself to stay conscious and gained untainted access to his Inner Source. After that he was a force of nature. He hypnotized other boys at school just by looking at them, left them to wander campus like zombies. Batteries discharge themselves in his hands. He touches books to his forehead and they’re read. Lights flicker when he passes them.” Reggie snorted up some phlegm and spit. “Don’t tell me he’s not God. He is whatever he thinks he is.”
A few raindrops flecked their cheeks, then dissolved into a wet breeze. Tim thought of Ernie Tramine’s atrophied face and wondered how far gone Reggie’s memory was.
Despite his puffy coat, Reggie was shivering uncontrollably. “He’ll eat you alive.”
“Tell me what to watch for.”
A high, agitated whine. “I can’t, man. If he fucking finds out...” Tim held up his hands. “I just want to know what I’m gonna run into.”
“Fuck knows. He’s always improving, always evolving. He had a new set of tricks every time we ran another Orae.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know!” Reggie’s eyes darted back and forth as the echo of his voice bounced around brick and metal. It was a narrow alley, the tall buildings seeming to converge overhead. “I been out fifteen months. I’ve got no idea what kind of shit he’ll throw at you now.”
“How many recruits will be there?”
“Thirty, forty. The goal is just to hook three or four.”
“Three or four what?”
Reggie looked away in disgust, his breath misting. A leaky gutter lent the asphalt a glossy sheen. “Did they love-bomb you? In your Prelim. The meeting. Did they love-bomb you? Touch you, hang on every word, tell you how fantastic you are?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like it?”
Tim shrugged.
“Don’t lie to me. Don’t you fucking lie to me. Did you like it?”
“Yes, a part of me did.”
“You’d better be goddamn honest with yourself when you’re in there.”
“Okay, that’s one tip. You have more?” Tim took a deep breath and held it before exhaling. “Reggie. I’ve got to go do this thing in four hours. Help me out, man.”
Reggie looked down. The laces of his left shoe had come untied, the tips tracing circles in the darkness. He mumbled to himself, holding up both sides of an internal argument. His lips stilled, the
n he said quietly, “Don’t drink the punch. Watch the time. Pinch yourself.” When he looked up, his eyes held a sharp focus. “Don’t do it to her.”
“Do what?”
“Kidnap her.”
“I’m not really—”
“It was during a guided meditation at the Teacher’s house. I’d been deteriorating pretty good for a couple of weeks. I blacked out. I couldn’t stand up. My arms and legs were shaking. I couldn’t get them to stop. I was lying on the floor in my own... my own piss.” Reggie faced Tim unflinchingly, steeling himself like an AA member who’d toiled long enough to accept harsh facts. “My Gro-Par brought the Teacher over. I remember looking up at them. I couldn’t talk, even. My Gro-Par said, ‘Maybe we should get him to a doctor.’ And the Teacher said, ‘No, that’ll just injure him more psychologically. He’ll be better off on his own.’ Two Pros came over, and they carried me out of the house. They set me down on the curb and went back inside.”
He eyed the thin river of slate sky. “It was like falling deep in love, giving every ounce of trust I had only to find...” His hand rose, fluttering, then fell to his lap. “After working and slaving and signing over two and a half million dollars, I was abandoned the second I became inconvenient. I never get to decide for myself. I never get to walk out.” His posture firmed, his head rising, his shoulders pulling back. For a moment he looked like a different person. Then he wilted, and he was Reggie again. “I never get to have that. Never. And now you’re making sure this girl doesn’t get to have it either. She’s a ship in a bottle, man, and you’re gonna throw the whole fucking thing against the wall so you can play with the pieces.”
He rocked gently, heels striking metal. His sudden alertness vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His lips moved soundlessly.
Tim waited a few moments, but Reggie’s eyes stayed unfocused and lifeless. Tim took a few backward steps, then turned, heading to the block of light at the alley’s mouth, the Dumpster resounding like a kettledrum under the slow beat of Reggie’s shoes.
The Program Page 15
