The Program

by Gregg Hurwitz

  Jessye Norman wailed to a close, the CD rasping quietly as it spun down.

  A fierce snarling outside shattered the room’s calm. He was on his feet, silk robe settling over him like a cape, his momentum knocking Lorraine off the bed. He shoved through the doors and out onto the freezing porch, standing barefoot with a jagged triangle of chest revealed.

  The dogs had fallen on someone. They snarled and shoved back with their legs, heads shaking to tear flesh.

  The shed door flew open, and Randall emerged just as Skate burst from the trail into the clearing, whistling around his fingers. The Dobermans dropped their prey, trotted to Skate’s side, and sat whimpering lustfully, tongues working their wet muzzles. Bawling, the figure found her feet.

  Nancy wore the same denim dress she’d had on when she’d been taken away, but it was tattered—torn at the collar, streaked with grime, missing half its buttons. She’d withstood the dogs’ brief assault—aside from a missing shoe and a nasty bite on her right calf, she was surprisingly intact. Her hair, sweat-pasted and knotted, stuck out at all angles, the light roots prominent. Snot smeared her upper lip. She stooped in the thickening rain, favoring her right leg. “Please, TD,” she said. “Please take me back. They left me. They dumped me by the tar pits.”

  TD’s face held utter delight. “You got here yourself ? How?”

  The sole of her remaining shoe was almost entirely worn away. “Hiked. Walked. Hitched.”

  His eyes went to her muddy knees. “Crawled.”

  “That, too.”

  A pleased smile touched his lips. He nodded at the dogs. “Glad to see you got a warm welcome from Sturm und Drang.”

  A tiny voice called from behind him. “TD?”

  He didn’t turn his head. “Get back inside.”

  Lorraine scurried off.

  “Please take me back,” Nancy said.

  TD’s lips curved into a grin. “No. Never.”

  She cringed. “I can help. I’m indispensable.” Blood ran down her ankle, leached up by a ragged sock. Her appearance spoke of endless miles, wrong turns, the groping hands of truckers. She braced herself and took a last-ditch shot. “I know everything about The Program. You’d rather have me here than somewhere else.”

  Skate’s mouth parted at the poorly veiled threat. The dogs revved at his side, the mingled scents of blood and fear driving them wild. TD broke the standoff with laughter. In a moment Nancy joined him with a relieved smile, nervous eyes darting.

  The aftermath of amusement lingering on his face, TD turned back to the door. “Get her out of here. Correctly this time.”

  From his flattened perch on the mod’s roof, Tim watched the scene unfolding in the clearing about thirty yards away. Renewed gusts of rain rattled the leaves on the oak overhead. A lightning flash strobe-lit the woods.

  Randall disappeared back into his shed and emerged clutching a shovel and a flashlight. Skate snapped his dogs into a sit-stay and headed for the trees, prodding the shell-shocked woman before him. She tripped, and Randall hauled her up and pushed the shovel into her hands. His mouth moved, and then Tim heard the faint sound of Skate’s chuckle.

  There is a starkness to watching someone about to be killed. Ruthless executioners—whether common murderers or soldiers—comprehend the deadness of their victims even before they’re dispatched. They handle them like ambulatory meat. And most victims seem to grasp their deadness as well. They can walk on their own, draw breath, even clutch the shovel that’s to dig their grave, and though a glazed cognizance may take hold around the eyes, they can’t catch up to their fate, can’t seem to bend their minds around the fact that the thought they’re endeavoring to think is going to be their last. Most unsettling is the inescapable fact that there’s no romance in death, no grand horror even, just the final footsteps, a muffled pop, a body wilting to the ground. Despite his time spent dug into trenches and kicking down slum doors, Tim had never quite adjusted to it. Not that he wanted to.

  He slid off the roof and jogged through the clearing toward the woods, mind racing to generate a plausible plan of attack. The Dobermans snapped and yowled but stayed put in their sit-stay as Tim had gambled they would. Despite their racket, there was no movement at TD’s cottage.

  Saliva flew from the dogs’ jaws, great foamy drops that mingled with the downpour. Tim disappeared into the woods, skidding down a bank of mud and almost tumbling over. The air was thick with rain and wet-bark scent. Tim pressed on in the direction of Nancy’s death march, shouldering through brush, his breath clouding humidly about his head.

  A gunshot.

  The storm swallowed the reverberation. Turning a desperate 360, Tim saw only trunks and leaves, no hint of light or human movement.

  A piercing whistle split the air, a two-note blast. When Tim heard the dogs galloping through the clearing, he realized that the sound was Skate’s release command. He scrambled down a slope, ducking behind a brace of rock. Snarling, the dogs approached. Claws scrabbled on rock, then two black streaks flew overhead, hit ground, sprinted toward their master.

  Tim bent over, sucking air. A few seconds passed. A few more.

  Then, carried to him from all sides in the trick wind, came a heightened roar, the teeth-sunk growl of dogs on flesh.

  Tim watched the rain pool around his shoes.

  After a moment he pulled the trash bags from his pocket and slipped them over his feet. He headed after the dogs, switching direction after a few minutes. He searched the terrain, always navigating with crisp 90-degree turns to keep his bearings. The sound of voices drew near. Randall and Skate passed about twenty yards away, the dogs scampering ahead, muzzles dark and sopped. Randall clutched a mud-caked shovel.

  When they crested a hump of granite and dropped out of sight, one of the dogs howled, probably picking up Tim’s scent back by the rock. Then, over a growl of thunder, he heard Skate laughing, “Go git it.”

  Listening for the dogs, Tim moved in expanding circles, trying to locate the grave. The windswept ground was blanketed with leaves and fallen branches. It was useless. After about a half hour, he headed back, reminding himself he had only to get through tomorrow and the retreat was over.

  Now he had plenty to bring back to Tannino.

  He avoided the part of the woods he’d entered, emerging on the far side of TD’s cottage. When the wind shifted, he could hear the dogs snorting along his old trail deep in the woods.

  TD’s cottage was dark, but the shed glowed with stove light.

  Tim made his way cautiously up the trail, through Cottage Circle. He arrived back outside his room. Ducking, he reached up and tugged at the window.

  It had been locked.

  Thighs burning, he eased himself up to peer over the sill. Leah’s pale face, inches from the pane, caused him to jerk back. The muscles of her jaw were corded with tension. He gestured for her to open the window, but she met him with a glare.

  Her expression changed when she glanced behind him. As she yanked open the pane and helped him inside, he glanced over his shoulder. A far-off flashlight bounced up the trail from the clearing. He was careful to keep the muddy trash bags off the bedspread. He tugged them inside out as he removed them, then pulled off his shoes.

  They sat quietly by the window. Skate and the dogs materialized from the rain, shadowy apparitions. The dogs were hyped up, their stick legs blurring, snouts swiveling. Their heads dipped to the ground, vacuuming scent, but then something caught their attention ahead. They burst past the cottage, barking, Skate jogging after them.

  Tim and Leah exhaled simultaneously. She backhanded his shoulder. “What the hell are you thinking? Do you have any idea what he’ll do to us?”

  “Skate and Randall killed a girl. In the woods.”

  “What? Does TD know?”

  “He told them to.”

  “You saw them murder a girl?”

  “I didn’t actually see it.” His wet socks ice-crackled as he crept to the door. “I have to wash off these shoes in the ba
throom.”

  They worked their way slowly over the creaking floor, slipped into the bathroom, and huddled in a toilet stall. Tearing the plastic bags into pieces and tossing them in the toilet, Tim explained to her what he’d seen.

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation. You didn’t find a grave.” Though they were whispering, her voice was high-pitched, desperate, and he had to hush her.

  “She was just another loose end tied up. TD keeps track of everyone in The Program and everyone who’s left The Program.”

  “He doesn’t care about people who leave.”

  “I saw the files he keeps on them. Listen to me carefully, Leah: Nobody gets out of The Program. Not without winding up dead, missing, or in a nuthouse.”

  “No way.”

  “That’s what the Protectors do, Leah. That’s what they’re here for. They’re dangerous men.”

  Her face tensed with uncertainty, but then she dropped her eyes. “Of course they’re dangerous—they’re like cops.” She put a particular emphasis on that last word.

  Tim looked at her skeptically.

  Another flicker of emotion crossed her face. Still, she wouldn’t raise her eyes from the patches of plastic floating in the toilet. Then the affect vanished. She regarded him with perfect calm. “Why should I even talk to you? You’re trying to persecute the Teacher.”

  “I’m here to protect you and to try to stop him from doing this to others.”

  “What are you, in the CIA or something? You’re a spy, aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m not. You don’t like spying?” Again she averted her eyes, an infuriating trick she practiced every time he threatened to pick up ground. “The Program is built on spying. You should see the file TD keeps on you. All your finances”—she pushed her hands over her ears, so he raised his voice to an angry whisper—”dating back months before you even became a Pro.” She closed her eyes; her lips were moving. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her hands off her ears. Startled, she opened her eyes. “He’s created an instruction manual for how to handle you. You know what it says to do if you try to leave? Tell you that outside The Program you’ll get cancer.”

  She was weeping silently now. “Don’t grab me.”

  He pulled his hands back. She started rocking and hugging herself. He flushed the toilet twice and rinsed his Nikes off in the sink. She followed him silently back down the hall, fell into bed, and lay with her back to the room. He sat beside her, resisting the parental urge to pet her back.

  “I’m sorry I grabbed you.”

  “You don’t have any right to handle me that way.”

  “Of course not. No one does.”

  “There are no files. I don’t believe you.”

  “I held them in my hands, Leah. Yours and the Dead Link files for people who have left. Or tried to leave.”

  She sat up, back against the wall, studying him. “What do you want? From me?”

  “When I leave tomorrow night, I’d like you to come with me to meet with your parents the way you tried to before. But this time I’ll make sure it goes better.”

  She laughed quietly. “You’re going through all this shit just to try to get me to do that again?”

  “You’ll have a chance to explain to them why this is right for you.”

  “Are you paying attention to anything that’s going on? I have no need or obligation to explain myself to my parents. So they can kidnap me.”

  “I won’t let that happen. You have my word that you can come back if you want to.”

  “Like I trust you. And besides, there’s no way TD would let me go.”

  “So you don’t believe TD when he says everyone is here by choice?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. There are reasons. He won’t let me just go.”

  “Leave that up to me.”

  “It’ll never work.” She fisted her bangs hard. “You can’t just leave the ranch.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not a Pro yet. And the retreat ends tomorrow.”

  Her eyes darted away. “TD wants you here. He wants all the initiates here, but you’re special to him. He treats you differently, bends the rules for you.” Her eyes flicked to the Cartier. “I’ve never seen him do that before.”

  “Then what’s to say I can’t get him to bend the rules again?”

  “Even if he did let you leave, there’s no way I could go.”

  “Pretend I could arrange it.”

  Leah stared at him, her mouth drawn tight.

  “I told you, Leah, The Program is a one-way trip. And I know, now, that this is a dangerous place—and not just psychologically. This might be your only shot to get out. If I can arrange it, will you go with me?” She lowered her hands and glared at him. “No. I won’t.” She stared at the rain-flecked window. “I started this, I’m going to finish it. I’m fulfilled here.”

  A movement drew their attention to the window. Skate and the dogs, patrolling the far edge of Cottage Circle. Leah shivered inadvertently. Tim studied her reaction. “Really?”

  She made no response.

  “Leah, has anyone ever left the ranch?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Leah had been too agitated to sleep. She’d risen with the sun and waited shivering outside Cottage Three. Finally the door banged open, and Stanley John exited briskly, adjusting his shirt, not even noting Leah’s presence to the side of the front step. A few moments later Janie emerged, using her fingers to comb her hair back into place. “Hi, babe.” She kissed Leah on the forehead. “Why up so early?”

  “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Leah picked at one of the empty belt loops on her pants. “Has TD ever had any... problems with the law or anything?”

  “All great leaders have been persecuted. Especially when they set forth a new doctrine. Think of Martin Luther King, Gandhi. Heck, think of Jesus.”

  “So that’s a yes?” Leah had tried to keep her frustration out of her voice, but Janie’s expression indicated she’d failed.

  “Did your parents fill your head with this nonsense that time you went home? You were persecuted that night, remember? And now you’re gonna buy into the lies your persecutors hurled at you.” Janie shook her head. “Really, Leah, I thought you were beyond this.”

  A familiar sensation overtook her—that she was shrinking away, not in size but distance. She felt perspective-small, a dot on a horizon.

  Janie combed her fingers through her tangled hair. “I’d just hate to think...”

  “What?”

  “Well, thoughts like that are really malignant. I’d focus on the Source Code before your negative energy manifests physiologically and turns carcinogenic.”

  Leah felt anxiety clench her stomach—Janie’s response seemed straight from the secret file Tom had claimed to have found. But it also seemed right. The thoughts Tom had put into her head were diseased. “Okay, Janie.” Leah’s voice was quiet, deadened. “I will.”

  The Pros sat in monklike silence, lined in neat rows before bowls of oatmeal. Tim cast a curious sideways glance at Leah, who’d been turning in her chair to look at the other tables.

  She finished appraising the far corner of the cafeteria and leaned toward Tim. “Everyone’s accounted for,” she whispered, face flushed with relief and vindication. “There’s no missing girl.”

  Stomachs grumbling, they awaited TD’s arrival.

  And here we have Tom Altman....” TD paced the lip of the stage, emceeing the festivities. “A big shot. Handsome, rich, successful.”

  To commemorate the retreat’s last day, each initiate had to undergo a turn on Victim Row. Tim’s stomach churned—he was up to bat. His legs cramped from hours of sitting. Sweat pasted his T-shirt to the chair back. If he heard 2001 one more time, he thought he might start beating his own head like Rain Man. Shanna waited calmly in the chair to his right; to his left, Wendy sat trembling.

  Skate looked on from the door, his hands resting on the erect heads o
f the attendant dogs. Tim raised his eyes to Randall in the back and thought about both men in the rain, body heat wisping from their shoulders, prodding the doomed girl before them. The way she’d clutched the shovel. The joke Randall had cracked just before they’d vanished into the trees.

  TD placed his hands on Tim’s shoulders. The lights dimmed, and the drum resumed its slow rumble.

  A winning smile directed at Tim from up close. “But it seems you have a little problem performing. “ A scattering of giggles. “A little performance anxiety, Tom? Afraid you can’t measure up to expectations?” Leah’s face, blanched and upset, stood out from the crowd. Tim wished he could convey to her that his chagrin was feigned.

  “I think it’s more than that,” TD continued. “I think you felt impotent when your little Jenny was taken and killed.”

  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.