The Program

by Gregg Hurwitz

  She ran to the door and called for Skate across the clearing, not too loudly. Putting the dogs on a sit-stay, he came grudgingly, buttoning a pair of tattered jeans on his way. The Dobermans snarled at her, rising on their haunches. Skate paused before the porch, his face blank.

  “The mail’s here.” She held out the tub, praying the next step would be self-evident.

  Skate tugged his underwear out of his ass. “I know. I just brought it.”

  Whatever response she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Uh, TD just told me to tell you.”

  “He done sorting it?”

  Behind her she heard the shower go off, and her stomach turned to ice. “Yes.”

  With a grunt he lifted the crate from her hands and headed back across the clearing.

  Her heart racing, she watched to see where he was going. She recalled that the mod had a paper shredder.

  A hand closed on her shoulder, and she yelped. Dripping and naked, TD smiled down at her, his erect penis brushing her stomach. “I missed you.”

  TD had only to raise his eyes and he’d see Skate with the postal bucket.

  By the bathroom door, Stanley John scribbled down a few more notes and Lorraine wiped her mouth and glared at her, TD’s towel folded over an arm.

  The sight of TD up close unsettled Leah further.

  She forced herself to look into the hypnotic eyes. Across the clearing she heard a door close, but she couldn’t tell if it was the shed’s or the mod’s. She moved away from the door, smiling mechanically. “I missed you, too, TD.”

  Lorraine presented Leah with the towel. Her stomach roiling, she dried TD off as he stretched and yawned, seemingly impervious to the icy breeze seeping through the screen door.

  He strode to the bedroom, Leah still toweling his legs as he moved, sorting through the jumble of her thoughts. He closed the door behind them. Leah continued to dry his back, hoping to buy a few more minutes, but TD pulled the towel away from her and dropped it on the floor. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and walked her back until the bed pressed against her legs, until she fell on the mattress. He ran a hand up the inseam of her jeans, splaying his fingers near her crotch to part her legs.

  “You never yielded to me,” he said. “Sexually. Don’t you think it’s time?”

  “No.”

  His eyebrows twitched upward, the slightest show of surprise. “What did you say?”

  “I don’t feel ready.”

  “You don’t want to say that to me.” He made a tsking noise with his tongue, his muscular hands gripping her forearms, steadily moving them down to either side of her. “Don’t you want to give up your need to stand out? Don’t you want to fit in and be part of a family for once in your life?” He crouched over her, his smooth-skinned face looking impossibly youthful, the unlined visage of a Renaissance angel.

  She felt revulsion pressing at the back of her throat like vomit. “No.”

  “Yes.” A smile lit his face, showing off the perfect line of his teeth. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  She resisted, but he was sufficiently overpowering to make clear she had no options. He manipulated her body with a calm forcefulness, guiding her through the motions of undressing, navigating her arms from the shirt as if changing a doll with stiff limbs. Then he pushed down on her knees, forcing one leg straight, then the other, and pulled off her jeans.

  Wearing a soft, paternal smile, he kept his eyes on hers. “There you go. Let me show you.”

  He sank on top of her, his right knee pinning her left leg down, the kneecap boring into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. She was trapped— she couldn’t react violently without giving away her greater deception. TD secured her arms, vise-gripping her wrists in one hand. Through her panic Leah felt his left knee dig between her clenched legs, forcing them open. It rolled up the curve of her right leg, trapping it, too. His practiced dexterity was all the more sickening.

  “You’re all alike. You think your virginity is so cosmically important, as if God and mankind have nothing better to do than worry about girls keeping their cherries intact. As if your body is some holy shrine. As if it matters at all when you let a man inside you. It doesn’t. You’ll see. This will be so good for your growth, Leah. You’ll learn so much.”

  His face had darkened with blood, accenting the chestnut square on his chin, the whites of his eyes. He twisted a finger in the side of her panties.

  For a moment she thought she’d started screaming out loud, but then an idea sailed into her head, cutting through the imagined noise. “You’re right, TD. But that’s not why I don’t want to be with you. It’s because... well, when I changed this morning, I noticed... uh, some midcycle spotting and—”

  He stiffened. Panic touched his eyes, and he scrambled off her. “Out now. Off my sheets.” He stumbled backward across the room. “You should never come into my cottage this way.”

  Leah’s thighs and wrists throbbed. TD’s face burned with rage; Leah’s rash seethed. As she tried to dress quickly, he shooed her out, carrying half her clothes.

  “Leave. Now.”

  Over the din of the crickets and the bang of the screen door, she heard him crying out for Lorraine, his voice holding a jarring note of distress.

  FOURTY-FOUR

  Stretched shivering beneath two sheets, Leah lay on Tim’s bed, breath pluming from her mouth at intervals. Tim sat beside her, plastic bags wrapping his shoes, bobby pin set between his teeth, one hand resting on her forehead.

  Waiting.

  Amid all the activities, dinner had conveniently been forgotten. Tim’s stomach growled despite the enormous breakfast he’d eaten in preparation. He pulled a protein bar from its hiding place, broke it in two, and gave Leah half.

  They chewed in sullen silence.

  Watching the rain bounce off the puddles outside, Tim grew increasingly tense. Still no Skate, no Dobermans.

  The best time for Tim and Leah to escape would be tomorrow during the predinner Orae. That left him roughly fifteen hours to gather whatever evidence he needed. Tonight provided his last chance to recon under cover of darkness, but if Skate had reported on Leah’s meddling with the mail, he’d likely be walking into a trap.

  He waited a few more minutes, then opened the window and dropped outside. Leah shut it behind him, and her face drifted down out of view.

  Tim made his way from cabin to cabin, pausing at the edge of Cottage Circle. He forged through the brush to the north of the trail, taking a more direct route to the shed, one that provided him better cover. Brambles and branches tore at him, forcing him to move more or less parallel to the trail. His plastic-sheathed feet found sloppy purchase in the mud.

  He heard the whine of dogs around the bend of the trail, followed by Skate’s two-note whistle, releasing them to seek.

  He crouched in the dense foliage, biting on the bobby pin, shifting slightly to improve his obstructed view of the trail ten yards south. The dogs swept past, Skate lumbering to catch them.

  One of the dogs circled back and sat, nose twitching, glaring down-slope. Tim hoped the rain provided sufficient scent cover, that the winds wouldn’t shift, that the spindly branches around him wouldn’t crackle.

  Skate stopped by the dog, his broad boots pushing mounds into the mud. “Whatcha smell?” He scratched the dog’s scruff.

  Tim held his breath. Skate squatted, bringing his face inches from the dog’s saliva-wet snarl to mimic its sight line down the trail.

  Inadvertently overlaying Tim’s scent with his own.

  The dog backed up, shaking its head, sneezed twice, and trotted after its companion. Skate remained on his haunches, head pivoting. Just before he turned to face Tim, Tim drew the bobby pin into his mouth and closed his eyes to hide the white glint.

  A plop of a footstep. Then another. He opened his eyes and made out Skate’s receding back. He exhaled and pulled himself free, branches scraping him through his clothes. Wet wind whipped his face as he jogged to the clearing.

 
As always, the shed glowed orange. Passing behind it on his way to the mod, Tim discerned Randall’s stooped, bulky form and heard the complaint of the stove door’s stubborn hinges. The chimney coughed out a burst of ginger flecks, and Tim halted, realization striking.

  So brilliant—hiding in plain sight.

  He inched forward, minding his foot placement, trying to get a look through the rift in the planks of the wall, but he couldn’t make out more than a slice of Randall’s empty cot.

  Randall came into view, one ash-covered finger tracing down a computer printout nailed to the wall. His nail tapped twice, leaving smudges. He flipped his cot over, fussed with the dial on the hidden floor safe, and removed a phone cord. He snatched a mechanical clock from its perch on a crude shelf, took note of the time, and scurried across the clearing.

  Before the screen door of TD’s cottage swung shut, Tim was inside the shed, negotiating the cramped space around the overturned cot. The postal bucket sat empty on the floor before the open loading door of the potbellied stove. Inside, a scattering of paper curled in a leaping yellow flame. A few of the marshal’s letters remained partially buried in the cinders—Tim noted the writing on the unopened envelopes before fire consumed them. Plenty of legible scraps peppered the mounds of cooled ash to the sides.

  He turned to go, his hand pressing on the wall as he high-stepped over the cot. Something poked through the skin of his palm, and he jerked his weight off, almost falling. The nail impaling the computer printout.

  TD’s Phone Sheet, April 24. Callers’ names, precise times of incoming calls, and topics were listed neatly in three columns. Ross Hanger, Merrill Lynch. 4:10 P.M. Re: JS’s preferred securities. TD had wasted little time digging into Jason Struthers’s financials. Tim was turning to go when another entry caught his eye. Phil McCanley, Lowdown Investigations. 11:00 P.M. Re: TA update.

  A tingle ran across the small of Tim’s back. TD’s extensive extracurricular investigation was closing in on Tom Altman. Tim could play a cover game in the interrogation that would surely follow the call, but there was no way Leah could stand up to equal scrutiny.

  His eyes found Skate’s clock: 10:59 clicked to 11:00.

  Across the clearing in TD’s cottage, the telephone rang.

  Tim leapt over the cot through the door and hit a full sprint up the trail. He skidded out onto Cottage Circle. Sheets of rain cut visibility to less than ten yards; he couldn’t make out Skate or the dogs. To his right, past the line of cottages, stretched the woods, the creek, and, miles beyond, a beater of a pickup Bear had left for him roadside at Little Tujunga, the keys hooked behind the rear license plate.

  Tim had all the evidence he needed. With ten strides he could vanish past the cypresses and be gone.

  Instead he streaked toward his cottage, head lowered to cut the rain. He closed the front door silently behind him, leaned the broom handle against it, and eased down the hall.

  Leah shot up in bed when he entered. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “We have to go. Now.”

  She scrambled into a sweatshirt. Tim kept watch at the window but took in only darkness and a blurry stretch of driving rain. A flash of lightning illuminated the empty trailhead.

  “Which shoes should I...?” She shook off the question and pulled on her sneakers.

  Tim slid the window open and swung one leg out. Leah faced him at the sill, her teeth clicking. “I’m scared.”

  “Good.”

  The broomstick clattered.

  She bit down on her lip and followed him out. They ran for the woods downslope, stumbling and falling on the way. Shouts from Cottage Circle urged them onward. They reached firmer ground beneath the trees, but still Leah couldn’t keep up.

  Twinning howls split the air.

  The plastic bags around Tim’s shoes had grown tattered, but they were better than nothing. He swept Leah up in his arms and ran with her for about twenty yards to disrupt her scent trail, but the terrain was rough and they made poor time.

  Leah’s words were muffled against his neck. “I can run. I can do it.”

  He set her down. They tripped over rocks, mud caking their shoes. They crested a rise and saw the engorged creek sweeping past below. Tim turned, trying to sight flashlight beams, but there was just streaking rain, rumbling thunder, the ever-closer barks of the dogs leading the party onward.

  “We have to wade upriver to lose the dogs.”

  Leah regarded the angry caps, the rock-dashed currents. “It’ll sweep me away.”

  “Stay near the bank.”

  He took her hand, and they skidded down the embankment. Icy water claimed their legs to the calves, and they slogged upstream, ducking fallen trees. A howl broke through the sounds of sloshing, maybe a half mile back.

  A sudden wash swept Leah off her feet. Tim went down on a knee but kept her slippery hand. Water battered his chest. He yanked her toward a calmer patch and drew her near; she locked her legs and arms around him. She was quivering violently, her cheek as cold as porcelain against his neck.

  He stumbled forward, bearing her weight. A rock turned underfoot, and he fell, shoved himself up with an arm, kept going. Her sweatshirt rode up beneath his grasp; he regripped and was shocked at the rigor mortised feel of her flesh.

  The erratic splashing behind them grew steadily louder. He paused, panting, bracing one leg against a boulder.

  Leah’s head rolled back. Her lips were faded blue, her breath cold against his face. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Tim.”

  A faint smile. “Tim.”

  Waist-high water swept through them. Her frail frame clenched around him. He felt the knot of her wrist-clamped hands at the back of his neck. Strands of hair lay stiffly on the bleached skin of her face; beads of water dotted her cheeks.

  “It’s so far.” She blinked weakly. “It’s okay. You go.”

  Her chilled forehead found the hollow of his eye. Her lips brushed his cheek, the edge of his mouth. He held her, inhaling her. A few shouts, just around the bend, matched by a chorus of barks.

  He waded to shore and set her on her feet. Her knees buckled, but she stayed upright. They could hear distinct footsteps now, the scrabbling of paws across stone.

  She stared at him without comprehension, arms clamped over her torso, hands clutching the balls of her shoulders.

  Three shadowy figures emerged from the downpour, the Protectors looming on either side of TD. Skate had leashed the dogs; they bobbed in the water, straining like hooked fish. The men shouted and closed on them.

  Tim lowered one shoulder, his face twisting with rage. “Stop chasing me!”

  He backhanded her so hard she left her feet, her rain-heavy hair whipping across her face. She twisted and hit mud. Tim broke for the creek, and Randall slammed into him and spun him roughly, hands working the frisk.

  Randall snapped Tim’s head forward in a full nelson; Skate pressed a knife to his belly.

  Disoriented, Leah fought herself up to her elbows. TD leaned over her. She began to cry, and Tim was certain she was going to reveal everything.

  Leah lay skinny and wet in the mud, her tangled hair draped across a swelling cheek. She choked out the words. “I w-woke up when I heard him close the window behind him. I ran after him. He’s my Gro-Par. I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

  Tim felt a rush of affection for her. Afraid of what his face might show, he turned his head and spit.

  TD shushed her, stroking her hair. “No, no, no. You did brilliantly. We just found out he’s a fraud.”

  “A fraud?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll move you back in with Janie. She’ll take care of you, my sweet.” TD kissed her head and stood. “You laid a hand on one of my Lilies.” He seemed amused, almost pleased. “Who are you?”

  Tim glared at him. Skate ripped the plastic bags from his feet and threw them to the wind.

  TD pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around Leah. Her teeth
chattered fiercely.

  “So I won’t get p-punished?”

  “No.” TD turned his enigmatic grin toward Tim. “Let’s save that for our friend Tom.”

  A lot had changed in the five or so hours since Tim had last been in DevRoom A, none of it for the better. Skate overflowed the folding chair beside Tim, stinking of canine, flicking the dirt from beneath his nails with the tip of his hunting knife. Randall stood behind Tim, arms crossed, Mr. Clean gone sour. One elbow resting on the card table, TD leaned back in his armchair, the picture of leisure.

  “Let me guess,” Tim said. “You want me to pick a card.”

  TD offered a smile. The rain had cut the poofiness from his hair; he looked even slighter than usual, a wet rat.

  “The license plates on your Hummer are registered to Tom Altman. Nice touch. But you see, we’re more thorough than that. So I sent my investigator down to the Radisson to peek through the windshield and run the VIN number. It seems the vehicle traces to a Theodore Caverez of La Jolla. Theodore was indicted on drug charges two months ago, his vehicle seized by the federal government. And I can’t believe our friend Tom Altman bought his Hummer at a police auction—doesn’t match his carefully constructed profile, does it?”

  Tim tried not to shiver, not wanting to broadcast weakness.

  “You came here for a purpose, Tom.”

  “Doesn’t everyone, Teacher?”

  “A seditious purpose.” His grin growing strained, TD tugged at a freckled ear, his first sign of impatience. “Do you think you’re the first virus to try to infect our organization? You’re all after something, someone. I may have been fooled by your façade, but I know what you run on underneath. I can read you—I always could. You were heading back to home base. Clearly you got whatever it was you were looking for. What was it?”

  “Fulfillment.”

  TD leaned forward, training his eyes on Tim’s. “You think you’ve got something on me.”

  “I’m just a guy who decided to Get with The Program.”