Bear was squatting, murmuring to Cosmo until she came forward and licked his hand. Thomas stood over the Dobermans, can of pepper spray at the ready.
Freed sat by Danner, who groaned and said, “Damnit.”
Tim trudged over to the other corpse. Only a slender, muddy hand was visible, shoved up from the moist earth.
The long road to Leah had ended here—four fingers and a thumb sprouting from the ground.
Tannino might want to call Judge Seitel for a telephonic warrant before digging; Tim didn’t want to take any chances.
His breath caught in his chest. He crouched over the small hand.
A metal ring glinted through the grime on one of the fingers. A gold signet, inscribed with the letters DK.
The initials floated through Tim’s head before striking chimes. Danny Katanga. The first investigator Will had hired.
Short little nervous guy, the PI was.
He moved back to Bear—already he could hear backup crashing through the growth.
Bear’s stubbled face was heavy. “That her?”
Tim shook his head.
“We’ll get more dogs out here, sweep some more.”
Tim turned away, but he had nothing to look at behind him except the glittery remains of Skate’s face, the thread of a necklace embedded in the meat of his neck.
He stared at the little silver key.
He pivoted on his heel, raising the portable to his lips. “Frankie, did you clear all the rooms in the treatment wing?”
A sputter of static, then Palton’s voice—”Negative. We just peeked in the windows, confirmed they were empty. We didn’t want to step on the warrant.”
Tim reached down, grabbing the chain against Skate’s torn-open Adam’s apple and twisting. The key pulled loose.
He moved through the woods, barely hearing Bear’s shouts behind him.
Branches whipped at his chest. Leaves tore his face.
He passed a sheriff’s deputy carrying a come-along pole, two fire-department medics hustling with a stretcher. Deputy marshals filled the clearing now, bagging evidence and muttering into portables.
On the step, Denley scowled and said, “Computer’s got Frisk all in a tangle.”
Tannino’s voice through the Racal—”Bring me something to link Betters to those bodies.”
Tim’s breath burned as he charged up the trail. The other deputies were chatting up the Pros like old friends. Tim blew by, handing off his MP5 to Miller, who called after him, puzzled, as he trotted up the hill.
Tim kicked down the treatment wing’s door, the sound traveling down the tiled corridors and coming back at him. He made ragged progress now, his limp more pronounced.
He called out her name once, twice, but heard nothing save the hum of electric clocks and the tired refrigerator in DevRoom C.
The tiny square of glass atop the Growth Room door looked in only on darkness, and he felt the optimism whoosh out of him, leaving him breathless. He fumbled the key, dropping it, and finally found the lock. The door stuck, so he kicked it open.
A triangle of light fell over his shoulders, his shadowed outline stretching across the floor and her crumpled form.
She stirred, shook her head as if to clear it.
The lightbulb blinked on, throwing an aquarium-blue glow that lent her flesh a pale, cadaverous tint. Her lips were cracked—white, rectangular segments of peeling skin. They moved soundlessly, then moved again.
Her voice was hoarse, little more than a whisper. “I knew you’d come.”
He went to her. She was shivering, so he wrapped her in his raid jacket.
The Racal sputtered, and Denley said, “Aside from the mail stuff, we’re drawing a blank in here.”
Frisk’s voice—”I can’t determine what’s on the computer—everything’s unreadable. I can see files and folders, but they’re PGP-encrypted.”
Leah pulled herself to her feet. “All the good stuff is encrypted on the C drive...” She paused, leaning against the wall, catching her breath. Her voice was weak but clear. “I built a passphrase generator that creates hex values to reverse-engineer the hashing strings of the PGP. I hid it in the system file.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
She reached for the portable. Tim keyed it to the right channel and handed it over. Leah walked Frisk through a few simple steps, and then he gave an excited bark of a laugh and said, “I’m in.”
Leah clicked off, and Tim holstered the radio.
“I would have sent you all the stuff out, but I didn’t want to keep dinging the access log, and encrypted files have too many megs to upload quickly anyway.” Leah staggered a bit, and Tim threw an arm around her back to steady her. Her eyes were rimmed black with stress and exhaustion.
“How’d you get a phone cord to send out the e-mails?”
“I snuck in Skate’s shed when he was sleeping, slid his necklace off. I took the copper wires out, twisted them to minimize inductance.” A faint smile. “A makeshift phone cord. He caught me later.” She shuddered.
Frisk’s voice—”Pay dirt. We’ve got the Dead Link files. And financials, surveillance shots—”
Tim eased down the radio volume.
They walked up the hall, out the doors. The cold hit them fiercely; she turned her face into him, thin arms tightening around his waist.
They walked down the hill toward the staging point.
Night was squeezing in on dusk, cutting visibility.
By the guard station, TD glowered from the back of an unmarked car. A frayed wick protruded from the bottom of the closed door—the end of the nylon cord securing his ankles. When he spotted Leah, he blanched.
The car pulled away, clearing their field of vision to the staging point.
Will turned, his face red and chapped from crying, and did a pronounced double take. Tim and Leah high-stepped over the fallen gate. She stumbled a bit, weak on her feet.
Tannino grasped Dray’s shoulder, and she turned. He saw the breath go out of her, saw her shoulders lower a good three inches with the exhale.
Will was wiping his face, already directing traffic as if he had jurisdiction. “Ambulance. We need an ambulance.”
Three rescue vehicles sat parked and ready within ten feet of him, but he didn’t seem to notice them. Rooch and Doug approached on either side of him.
Will stroked his daughter’s cheek. His face crumbled, and then his hand spread over his eyes like a mask. He turned away, took a deep breath. “We need an ambulance.”
Wheels crackled through the mud. Two doors slammed in unison, then the paramedics opened the back of the ambulance.
Rooch grasped Leah’s shoulder, starting to guide her to the ambulance, but she wouldn’t let go of Tim.
Tim started to move her, but she held him harder. He tried to pry her off gently. His throat was thick, but he managed the word “Go.”
She gripped him tighter.
Will stepped between Rooch and Doug, splitting them. His arm slid alongside Tim’s behind Leah’s back. Tim leaned, shifting her sagging weight to Will.
She looked up at Tim, her green-gray eyes frightened, and he tried to steel her with his look.
“Go.”
The arm around his waist relaxed.
Will pulled back, drawing her gently to him. The paramedics were at his side, helping them to the rear of the ambulance, reassuring her.
They loaded her up, and Will ducked into the back. The doors slammed. The tires churned mud and found their hold.
Tim watched the diminishing white square until it faded into darkness.
“Go,” he said.
Dray was at his side, the wind whipping a band of hair across her forehead. Her curled fingers found it and tucked it behind an ear. The APC’s headlights lit her eyes magnificent green, liquid emerald, a shade he’d never seen anywhere else in thirty-four years and counting.
He looked down at the faint bulge beneath her sweatshirt and felt his throat tighten up, the pressure build
ing behind his eyes. She was stepping to him already, and he fell into her, his face bent to the side of her head, buried in silky hair and the scent of jasmine.
“Let’s get you home,” she said.
ACKNOWEDGMENTS
Guard Harris,
See that this listing reaches William Morrow Publishers, HarperCollins, 10 East 53rd, NY, NY 10022. Fulfillment of this duty will assure your position as cigarette supplier during Wednesday’s Orae in the East Block chapel.
TD extends thanks to the following individuals for their commitment and contributions to the growth of The Program:
Michael Morrison—Silent Partner
Suzanne Balaban—beloved Program Publicist, for putting the Source Code’s humble progenitor on the map. And elsewhere.
Meaghan Dowling, Lisa Gallagher, Libby Jordan, Debbie Stier—Program Ambassadors-at-Large George Bick—Program Group Leader, Expansion Gratitude must also be extended to Brian Grogan, Brian McSharry, Mike Spradlin, David Youngstrom, and Jeannette Zwart for getting the Source Code out there in their unrelenting quest to reach more Neos.
Sean Abbott, Julia Bannon, and Carol Topping—Program Electronic and Internet Outreach Coordinators TD and the Pros welcome Rachel Fershleiser, Rome Quezada, and Diana Tynan to the Inner Circle.
Marc H. Glick and Stephen F. Breimer, Esqs.—Protectors, who, despite certain errors of judgment that directly or indirectly led to an undesirable outcome in a certain criminal trial, performed (for the most part) admirably
Jess Taylor—Director of Admissions, Southern Hemisphere, for his unflagging commitment to recruiting youthful Neos Matthew Guma, Richard Pine, and Lori Andiman—the backbone of the Program Financial Department, for exalting strength Richard Green and Howie Sanders—for Rejecting Old Programming, Taking Sole Responsibility, and Maximizing Growth in the service of expanding The Program’s reach Robert Crais—who, having spent some time on the “inside” himself, was able to offer this persecuted doctor advice on how to persist in the face of an ever-changing and occasionally threatening new environment Booksellers and Librarians—whose dissemination of Program literature has proven indispensable Melissa, Marge, and Al Hurwitz, and Gary and Karen Messing—who could not help but fall under the sway of the Source Code’s Version 1.0 as embodied in a loquacious young visionary Rosie—to whom, someday, the Source Code shall be passed. May she wield it wisely and dedicate herself (as did the Teacher before her) solely to the growth of others.
TD should like to direct his ill will and disdain at the Common-Censors listed below, who, corrupted by overriding negativity and petty envy, were responsible for undoing the first phase of TD’s great work:
Richard Cheng—federal persecutor... er, prosecutor
Joan Freeman—turncoat, supposed federal defender, who lent her considerable talents to the dark side
Mike McCarthy—postal inspector, manufacturer of trumped-up charges
Thomas Sendlenski of the Massachusetts State Police Crime Laboratory and Deputy Nicholas Razum, Canine Handler, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department—for helping fraudulent officials in their campaign of planting and manipulating forensic evidence
Tony Perez, former U.S. marshal—for opening up the U.S. Marshal Service’s considerable resources to a certain arrogant and overrated civilian writer with shady intentions
William Woolsey, formerly of the U.S. Marshal Service—for not letting well enough alone
Tim Miller, Supervisory Deputy of the hated Arrest Response Team and the equally loathsome Explosive Detection Canine Team—the sole purpose of which (as recent media accounts have made clear) is to trample individual rights in the pursuit of governmental zealotry
Deputies Chris Daniels and Sean Newlin—whose regrettably clever investigative talents enabled a frame-up of disgraceful proportions
Chris Scalia—who sat down when everyone else was standing. Were it not for his lack of commitment, inability to minimize his negativity, and obdurate nature, the whole crusade against TD might never have been launched.
About the Author
Gregg Hurwitz is the critically acclaimed author of The Tower, Minutes to Burn, Do No Harm, and The Kill Clause. He holds a B.A. in English and psychology from Harvard University and a master’s degree from Trinity College, Oxford University. He is currently writing the next Tim Rackley novel and the screen adaptation of The Kill Clause. Hurwitz lives in Los Angeles. For more information, please go to www.gregghurwitz.net.
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Also by Gregg Hurwitz
The Tower
Minutes to Burn
Do No Harm
The Kill Clause
Credits
Designed by Renato Stanisic
Jacket design by Rich L. Aquan
Jacket illustration by Jonathan Barkat/Bernstein & Andriulli, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE PROGRAM. Copyright © 2004 by Gregg Hurwitz. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.
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Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader August 2004 elSBN 0-06-072975-9
FIRST EDITION
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About the Publisher
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Table of Contents
Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRT
Y-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FOURTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
ACKNOWEDGMENTS
About the Author
Also by Gregg Hurwitz
Credits
About the Publisher
The Program Page 44
