The Next Generation Colloquium was in seven days. The foundation under TD’s rising empire.
Tim batted a bowl of Jell-O off his nightstand. It hit the far wall, spraying green chunks, then hula-ed loudly on the floor. By the time the clatter ceased, his rage had dissipated, leaving him embarrassed and tired. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his temper, and putting the hurt on a bowl of lime Jell-O wasn’t exactly worth the relapse.
Tannino’s hands were raised in surprise.
Tim pinched his eyes, trying to salvage something, anything. The tang of iodine lingered in the room. His ribs gave off a dull throb each time he inhaled.
Tannino and Winston retreated, the door clicking timidly behind them.
FORTY-EIGHT
While Dray showered, Tim hobbled around the living room, focusing on straightening out his right leg to diminish the limp. His crutches he left leaning against the coatrack. Gauging by the news briefs cutting in on KCOM’s shock-and-awe Friday-night programming—Monster Truck Mash followed by Prison Fights Caught on Tape— press coverage of the kidnapping seemed light, especially compared to what Tim’s past travails had elicited. Tannino had made sure not to disclose Tim’s name, though it was only a matter of time before it leaked.
Toweling her hair, Dray found him musing over his 18 USC statute book at the kitchen table. The points of her jaw flexed out. “Stop acting like you have no resources without the Arrest Response Team standing behind you. Think about Leah. You can help her without a semiauto in your hands.”
“How?”
“Maybe I talk to the sheriff and see if there’s any move he can support. Maybe you lean on Chad, make clear that he’ll never regain nirvana now that TD’s cut him loose. Maybe Bear shakes up Phil McCanley, TD’s dick at Lowdown, again. Maybe we let leak to TD that Winona’s singing in her jail cell—he distrusts women to begin with, and it could fuck with him pretty good if he thinks she’s using Program secrets to barter with the prosecutor.” The doorbell rang, and she moved to answer it, shaking her head. “TD’s a creative guy. We need to come up with creative solutions, not sit here moping and banging our heads against the same wall.”
Using the chair back, Tim pushed himself to his feet and followed her.
Will waited on the porch, ensconced in a tube of dry air afforded by a black umbrella. He held a briefcase. Emma huddled behind his shoulder.
Tim wasn’t sure what to expect until Will’s face softened. He said, “Christ,” and extended his fingers halfway to Tim as though reaching for something.
The Hennings followed him and Dray in and sat.
Will took in the patches of stained gauze on the floor, the line of prescription bottles on the coffee table. He ran a hand over his face, tugging at the bags beneath his eyes.
“This thing didn’t go down like we wanted it to.”
“No,” Tim said. “It didn’t.”
“We received a troubling e-mail purporting to be from Leah.”
Will removed his laptop from the briefcase, set it on the coffee table, and booted it up. Dray plugged in the modem cord to a phone jack, and he logged on.
Emma kept her face lowered, hands twisting in her lap.
An e-mail popped up from [email protected].
Mom and Dad. Please leave me to make my own decisions. I am fulfilled.
If you send another kidnapper after me, I will press charges. Leah.
Tim sat quietly, poking at his interior lip sutures with his tongue. Will’s face contorted, just for an instant, and then he coughed into his fist, regaining control. He looked at Tim, still struggling with his grief. “You gave her a lot. No matter what’s happening up there, I have to believe that’s doing her some good.”
Emma gathered the lapels of her raincoat and said in a distant, almost pensive voice, “Well, she’s lost now.”
“Don’t underestimate our daughter.” Will’s ready conviction seemed to surprise everyone in the room, including himself. “That e-mail doesn’t mean anything. For all we know, TD was breathing over her shoulder when she wrote it.”
“You’re right.” Tim grabbed the laptop and pulled it in front of him, knocking over some prescription bottles. He studied the screen, then clicked through the routing information, the jumble of words and numbers at the bottom of the e-mail. A hyperlink stood out in blue.
Tim caught Dray’s eye, excited, and clicked it.
Another screen popped up.
if Tim’s alive tell him not to come up here for me. many more protectors. skate’s on me almost all the time. i’m working on the website in the mod, have snatches of time alone when skate takes a leak or delivers TD his phone cord. what do you need to get a full force up here? do NOT write back here—send to my hotmail address.
Tim stood up too quickly, sending a jolt of pain through his knee. “We’ve got to forward this to Tannino and Winston, have the Electronic Surveillance Unit take a spin through it to see if we missed anything. We’ll send her a list of the evidence we need.”
“How will she get it to you?” Will asked. “It’s not like she can fax it out. The phone cords are guarded, and it sounds like she’s only alone for minutes at a time.”
“And from what you’ve said, there’s no way she’d be left alone even for a minute when the modem’s plugged in,” Dray said. “If she was, she could easily have sent a private e-mail and erased its trail. The fact that she encoded a hyperlink probably means she prepped it when she was offline, then piggybacked it in when Skate or someone provided the phone cord.”
“And sat watching over her,” Will added.
“Then how will she get our response?” Tim asked.
“You can set a computer to autodownload your mail whenever you log on,” Dray said. “I do it at the barn sometimes. She could have it saved to a hidden file and read it when she’s alone and offline.”
“Maybe we e-mail her back, have her hide the evidence somewhere we can pick it up,” Tim said.
“They’re on her twenty-four/seven,” Dray said. “Plus, even under normal circumstances, no one leaves the ranch.”
“Say you arranged a rendezvous when everyone’s sleeping,” Will said. “You could sneak back on the ranch for a handoff, then come back with a warrant and get her at that point.”
“A meet would put her at too much risk.” Tim pointed at the screen. “She’s clear that I shouldn’t go up there.”
“Maybe you don’t have to.” Dray’s brow was knitted, the idea still dawning. “Maybe we don’t go to her. Maybe we wait for TD to bring her to us.”
Tim, Will, and Emma looked at her blankly. Dray was smiling now, excited. “Come on, guys. Get with The Program.”
Within thirty minutes of Tim’s call, Winston Smith and Tannino had come up with their wish list. In addition to evidence supporting the host of mail charges—the one sure thing—they wanted any information on the Dead Link files, which now certainly included Tom Altman. Thomas and Freed added numerous financial records they hoped would give them a toehold, and the return e-mail was sent out from Will’s computer and phone line by Roger Frisk, one of the ESU deputies. The e-mail included instructions for Dray’s plan—where they’d retrieve Leah, what signal she should wait for—as well as suggestions as to how she might smuggle the evidence off the ranch when she left.
When asked to help, Bederman agreed immediately, a devious gleam taking hold in his eyes as Tim and Dray relayed the details.
Tim decided to drop in on Reggie alone. His room was hardly sparkling, but the furniture had emerged and the trash had been cleared out. Clothes remained strewn across the floor, but the carpet was visible in patches and the bed was made. Reggie followed Tim’s incredulous stare around the room, trying to restrain a proud grin.
Tim’s limp and scars didn’t seem to register with Reggie until Tim recounted what had gone down. Reggie’s face grew gray and tired; Tim was sad to see his levity depart. When Tim asked him to participate, Reggie nodded morosely, and Tim had t
o ask him again to make sure he understood the request. Only after Tim left did he realize that Reggie’s brown paper bag of drugs hadn’t been readily apparent.
Aside from a physical-therapy session each morning—an interminable hour in the clutches of a springy gum-smacker named Cindi who persisted in treating him like an osteoporotic centenarian—Tim spent his time with Dray, Reggie, and Bederman, organizing their game plan, and on the phone with the marshal and Winston Smith, running through various contingencies.
Tannino had transferred Tim to disability, a clever move to keep his deputization active. The external stitches came out of Tim’s lip on Tuesday, leaving an angry snake of a scab along his chin. He eventually conceded that Cindi’s perky instruction was effective; he was getting more ambulatory, though he wouldn’t be swing dancing anytime soon.
Still they hadn’t heard back from Leah, though Tim had Will checking his e-mail every hour.
Wednesday after his physical therapy, Tim went into Ginny’s bare room to stretch. As he sat on the carpet, leaning forward over his purple knee to bring a burn to his hamstring, it struck him that he was tired of holding the room in fearful reverence.
The yellow-and-pink wallpaper was sun-faded, the top corner of one strip lifted away from the wall. He walked over, reached up, and smoothed the thumb-size tab back into place. Stubbornly, it sagged away again. It would need regluing.
An urge overtook him, and he grasped it and ripped. The band of paper swooped from his hand to the wall like the train of a dress. He stared at the messy diagonal tear, expecting to be overcome by remorse or sorrow, but he felt only a bizarre giddiness.
He hobbled around, snatching away great strips, watching the painted flowers puddle at his feet. Popping a handful of Advil to appease the ache in his knee and sides, he retrieved his wide-blade scraper and a platform ladder and stripped the gummy residual down to the drywall.
When he was done, he washed out the fake highlights in his hair, shaved the remnants of his goatee, put on Levi’s and a white T-shirt, and studied himself in the mirror. His colored contacts he’d left behind at the hospital. His eyebrows and part had grown back. The scab on his chin had resolved, leaving behind a glossy seam.
Aside from the swelling that broadened his nose, he looked less like Tom Altman, more like himself.
He was waiting outside, listening to the wind through the white oak, when Dray came to pick him up for the ultrasound.
Leah’s response came in that night. Will reached Tim at Bederman’s to report that another e-mail within an e-mail had arrived. It contained three words:
See you there.
FORTY-NINE
The service elevator dinged open, and Tim and Reggie stepped forth. A bulky Protector guarded the waitstaff door, barrel chest stretching the seams of his blue polo.
“Hey, pal, you’re not allowed back here.”
Having removed the old disguise elements and—with Pete Krindon’s help—added a few new ones, Tim wasn’t immediately recognizable as Tom Altman. His recut hair, clean shave, and green-tinted contacts lent him a different appearance from afar—and his facial swelling helped, too— but he was still glad to be confronting a new hire. He snapped his fingers, halting the Protector’s approach. “You’d better step to and Get with The Program, my friend, unless you want to reserve a spot for yourself on Victim Row. Now, where’s Skate Daniels? I thought this was his post.”
“I... uh... the Teacher wanted him up at the ranch to keep an eye out after all the... uh, mix-ups this week.” He bobbed his head uncertainly, his tone hesitant but respectful. “Um, who are you again?”
Tim placed a hand on the guy’s chest, steering him aside. “I’m the head of East Coast Expansion, and this is my assistant. You question me again, I’ll have you fired. Got it?”
An openmouthed nod.
“Step aside.”
Reggie at his back, Tim shoved through the doors into the ballroom proper, the sudden heat making his lips stick to his teeth. Reggie kept his head ducked so none of the venerable Pros would recognize him.
They’d sent Dray and Bederman through the official channels, since they ran no risk of being identified. They’d made false reservations in advance; Will had gladly paid their $2,000 entry fees.
The partition between Hearspace and Actspace had been removed to accommodate the wider horseshoe, composed of close to a thousand chairs. Bear had brought them word of this after managing his way in last night posing as a building inspector. The altered floor plan was to their advantage—it would be easier to create diversions during Actspace drills, and now they could do so with Prospace in sight.
Neos grazed on punch and cookies at the back, eyes bleary and manic at once, like those of depleted gamblers hanging on for a last good hand. The blue-shirts moved through them, offering refills and pawing affectionately at arms as the rumbly, incomprehensible sound of chanting monks spilled from hidden speakers.
Two more knockdown men guarded the black curtain leading to Pro-space—as Tim had anticipated, there’d be no sneaking backstage to Leah during Guy-Med. Three more Protectors prowled through the audience. They wore blue shirts to blend in, but they were scruffier and bulkier than the other Pros, easy to pick out. One of them would likely move to Randall’s old post at the main exit once the festivities commenced, and Tim guessed the others would take up positions on either side of the stage.
Tim spotted Bederman and Dray as they walked through the entrance from the landing. He and Dray made eye contact, exchanged an across-the-room nod.
Reggie exhaled in a hiss as the drum started its build, and the Pros whipped the Neos into a frenzy, everyone scrambling for the horseshoe.
Dray and Tim arrived at one side of the U at the same time, securing two seats side by side. They did not acknowledge each other. Bederman and Reggie did the same across the way. Dray mopped at her forehead, her hair already darkening at the edges with sweat. The woman beside her slumped over, already spent from the heat and the spiked punch, and Dray shouldered her back upright like an irritable economy-classer on a commuter flight.
Tim tried to locate the rest of his incoming class—Don Stanford and Jason Struthers were on the far side of the horseshoe, proudly displaying blue polos. Wendy slouched in her chair, working a thumbnail between her teeth. He did not see Shanna.
Janie took the stage alone—no Stanley John to play Sonny to her Cher—and began recounting the rules. Her voice trembled slightly at first, but she gained confidence as soon as she started rattling off the conditions.
Dray made sounds of annoyance as she listened, eliciting a few stares.
“Everyone strong enough to pledge not to leave no matter what, stand up,” Janie said chirpily.
A grand rustling as almost everyone rose, including Dray, Bederman, and Reggie.
Tim remained seated. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight, clumsier than Tim remembered, sought one dissenter after another. Janie harassed them until they either rose or exited. At last she turned her focus on Tim, his new look holding up from the distance. “And how about you? What excuse making are you going to use to justify undercutting your growth here today?”
He’d almost forgotten the hardwired embarrassment of sitting while everyone else stood, the shame of being on the receiving end of hundreds of glares.
Even shouted, his answer sounded meager in comparison to her miked preemptive strike. “From what I’ve seen, I’m not sure if I like The Program yet. If I decide that I don’t like what’s going on here, I’m leaving. Thank you for having me here today.”
Janie sneered, her lipsticked mouth parting to issue a prepackaged reply.
Tim stood up abruptly and began clapping. Across the horseshoe, Reggie and Bederman joined in, and then the other Neos, confused, were clapping, drowning Janie out.
When the applause died down, Tim was standing in conformity with everyone else, short-circuiting Janie’s usual recourse. She reddened and continued with the next rule. “Okay, if you came here with
someone else, please change your seat now.”
The Pros paid close attention, double-checking some of the Neos to make sure they hadn’t cheated. Tim and Dray waited through the seat shuffling, as did Reggie and Bederman.
Janie regained her confidence swiftly, finished her introduction, and had them do some hand-holding and group breathing. Then a few Pros jogged around the edge of the chairs and counted them out into groups. Dray gave Tim’s hand a squeeze and broke off with Janie, her leader.
The Program’s lantern-jawed attorney, Sean, a thirty-something bundle of grating vigor, ran Tim’s group. He’d been particularly insidious at the retreat, a sly elicitor of signatures on dotted lines.
“Now, everyone needs to circle up and—”
“Excuse me,” Tim said.
“Yes?”
“I’d heard some rumors that you guys practice deceitful methods—”
“That’s ridiculous. Ridiculous. This is an honest, forthcoming organization.”
“—and that you could be pretty abusive on some of the Neos.”
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but they’re obviously pretty weakness-oriented.”
A few of the others in Tim’s group bristled nervously. A Neo with a supplemented hairline chimed in, “Sounds like he’s already taking a victim posture, Sean.”
“That’s absolutely right. Now, are you done wasting everyone’s time on your personal issues?”
“Just wanted to make sure.”
They coughed up their cell phones and watches. Sean produced a stack of forms and led them through writing their individual Programs.
When it came Tim’s turn, he announced, “My Program is: I participate in activities that give me self-esteem, and I have the courage to decline to participate in those activities that do not.”
Bederman had come up with the wording in the Blazer on the way over, eliciting a high five from Reggie.
Sean grimaced. “That’s not a good Program. I think we should change it to: I experience self-esteem as I participate in the activities here today.”
The Program Page 40
