the Program (2004)

by Gregg - Rackley 02 Hurwitz

  "We need our daughter back. We don't care how it's done, and we won't ask any questions. She doesn't have to be happy about it -- she just needs to be home so we can get her the help she needs. We want you to do it. Say, for ten grand a week."

  Dray's eyebrows raised, but she gave Tim the slightest head shake, matching, as usual, his own reaction.

  Tim said, "I don't have a PI license, and I'm not affiliated with any law-enforcement agency. I got myself into some trouble about a year back, with a vigilante group -- maybe you read about it in the papers?"

  Will nodded vigorously. "I like your style. I think it was a great thing you tried to do."

  "Well, I don't."

  "What would make you say yes?"

  Tim laughed, a single note. "If I could follow the trail legally."

  "We could arrange that."

  Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed; his head pulled to the side. "I'm sorry, who exactly are you?"

  "Will Henning." He waited for recognition to dawn. It did not. "Sound and Fury Pictures."

  Tim and Dray exchanged a blank glance, and then Tim shrugged apologetically.

  "The Sleeper Cell. Live Wire. The Third Shooter. Little art-house flicks like that."

  "I'm sorry..." Dray said. "You wrote those movies?"

  "I'm not a writer. I produced them. My films have grossed more than two billion dollars worldwide. If I could get fifteen Blackhawk choppers landing in Getty Plaza on three days' notice, I certainly think I can orchestrate your redeputization." His steel gray eyes stayed fixed on Tim. A man used to getting his way.

  "The marshal probably has his own opinion on the matter."

  "He'd like to talk to you about some creative solutions in person." Tannino's business card magically appeared in Will's hand. Tim took it, running his thumb over the raised gold Marshals seal.

  On the back, in Tannino's distinctive hand: Rackley -- tomorrow a.m. 7:00.

  Tim handed the card to Dray, who gave it a cursory glance, then tossed it on the coffee table. "Tell me about the cult," he said.

  "I don't know a goddamn thing about it, not even its name. Considering the amount we've paid for information..." Will shook his head in disgust.

  "How do they recruit?"

  "We don't know that either, really. We talked to a few cult experts -- deprogrammers or exit counselors or whatever they're calling themselves this month -- and they coughed up some generalities. I guess a lot of cults prey on young kids, in college or just out. And they recruit rich kids." He grimaced. "They get them to turn over their money." He ran his hand through his hair, agitated. "Leah gave away a two-million-dollar future. Just gave it away. That money was for her first indie film, grad school, a house someday. I even bought her a forty-thousand-dollar car before college so she wouldn't have to dip into it. Now her money's gone, she's alienated her friends, her family" -- he nodded at Emma, who sat passively, hands folded, forehead lined. "She has nothing, nowhere to go. I've sent her letters begging her to come home. Emma has sent articles about cults, what they do, how they work, but she's never responded. I tried to talk some sense into her when we had her that day, but she wouldn't listen." His face had colored; his tone was hard and driving. "I told her that she'd given away her whole future."

  "You told a girl in a mind-control cult that?" Dray said.

  "We're not here for family therapy. We're here to get our daughter back. And besides, what was I supposed to say? You try dealing with a teenage daughter who's got all the answers."

  Dray took a gulp of her vodka. "I would love to."

  Tim squeezed her hand, but Will just kept on talking. "Leah's trust fund is irrevocable -- I set it up that way to maximize tax benefits. It turns over money to her every year, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. She gets another million when she turns twenty, another million every year after that until she's thirty. Those people are stealing my money."

  "The car," Tim said. "She still has it?"

  "Yes. It's a Lexus."

  "Is it registered in your name or hers?"

  Will thought for a moment, eyes on the ceiling, fingers fiddling with the catch on his gold watch. "Mine."

  "Okay. When you leave here, file a report that it's been stolen. The cops will put out a BOLO on the car -- a Be On the Lookout. If they pick her up, they can hold her, and we'll see about getting her released into your custody."

  "Jesus." Will looked excitedly to his wife. "That's a brilliant idea."

  "Did she tell you anything about the cult?"

  "No. No names, no locations, no matter how hard we pressed."

  "So how do you know it's a self-help cult?"

  "From her buzzwords. They weren't religious. More about how she learned to 'tap her inner source' and 'own her weaknesses' and crap like that."

  "She didn't mention any names?"

  "No."

  "What did she refer to the guru as? She must have mentioned the leader."

  Will shook his head, but Emma said, "She called him the Teacher. Reverently, like that."

  Her husband regarded her, brow furrowed. "She did?"

  "You mentioned the cult was dangerous. Did you get any death threats?"

  Will nodded. "Couple. Some punk called, said, 'Back off or we'll slice you up like the lamb you served for dinner last night.' " Emma raised a wan hand to her mouth, but Will didn't take note. "Creative little threat, letting us know they had eyes on us. I'm used to threats and bullshit -- thirty-four years in Hollywood -- but I don't like being pushed around. I didn't realize how serious it was until our investigator went missing. Then we got another call: 'You're next.' They probably figured if they hurt Leah, they'd be killing the golden goose, but us, hey. We're expendable."

  "Who was the investigator?"

  "A PI. Former chief of security for Warner. My men hired him out of Beverly Hills."

  Tim's mind reversed, drawn by the pull of a buried instinct. "The same men parked up at the mouth of the cul-de-sac in a Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows, license starts with 9VLU?"

  Will stared at him for a long time, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly ajar. He finally sat. "Yes. The same men."

  Tim crossed the room and grabbed the pen and notepad by the telephone. "Go on."

  "Short little nervous guy, the PI was -- Danny Katanga."

  "And he was killed?"

  "Disappeared. Last week. He must have been making some headway." Will let out a grumbly sigh. "That's when we decided to go to Tannino."

  "We've had no word from Leah at all since she left," Emma said.

  Will said, "I keep writing letters, hoping, but nothing."

  "How can you send her articles and letters when you don't know where she is?"

  "She left a P.O.-box number on our answering machine right after she first disappeared, so we could forward her mail -- probably so she could keep getting her financial paperwork. We figure it's a holding box for the entire cult."

  "Do any of your letters get returned?"

  "No," Emma said. "They go through. To somewhere."

  "Where's the post office?"

  Will said, "Someplace in the North Valley. We tried to look into it -- do you have any idea how difficult it is to squeeze information out of the United States Postal Service? We talked to some postal inspector, he acted like he was guarding the recipe for Coke or some horseshit. We finally sent Katanga to stake out the box, but the post office crawled up his ass about invasion of privacy, so he had to watch from the parking lot. He sat in his car for a few days with binoculars, but she never showed up. The cult's wise to it -- they probably send someone different each time to pick up the mail. If they pick it up at all."

  "I'll need that address."

  "I'll have my assistant call Marco with it first thing tomorrow. Watch yourself with that postal inspector -- I'm not kidding. He'll open you up a new one."

  Tim jotted a few notes. "Did you record any of the threatening phone calls?"

  "No. We managed to trace the seco
nd call back to a pay phone in Van Nuys. Nothing came of it."

  "I'll want that information, too." Tim flipped through his notes. "What's Leah's last name?" Off the Hennings' blank stares, Tim added, "You said she was from Emma's first marriage?"

  "She has my name. I adopted her legally when she was six. She's my stepdaughter, but I make no distinction between her and my own daughter." Will cleared his throat. "I may have progressed a bit foolhardy out of the gate. Wasn't sure what we were dealing with, so I came out swinging. In retrospect that may not have been the best plan of action." He had a habit, Tim observed, of holding his own conversation, undeterred by interjections. "I had my men post these around town. We got nothing but a bunch of nowhere leads." He pulled a flyer from his back pocket and smoothed out its folds on his knee before handing it to Tim. The same photo of Leah, beneath which was written $10,000 reward for information on the whereabouts of this girl, Leah Elizabeth Henning. Persons wishing to remain anonymous should tear this flyer in half, transmit one half with the info submitted, and save the remaining half to be matched later. Leah's identifiers and contact information followed.

  Tim thought he detected the faint tracings of pride in Will's face, probably from the Dragnet wording on the flyer he and his men had cooked up.

  Tim turned the flyer over, unimpressed. "So now everyone in the cult knows you're after her, that you're the enemy. That's quite a mess."

  "That's why we need you to clean it up. And why we'll pay you well to do it." Will enclosed one large fist in his other hand, bringing them to rest against his belly.

  "We have to back off now." Emma shot a loving look at Will, which he returned. "We just had our first baby together. I won't have her be put in harm's way."

  "And we're very concerned for Leah," Will said. "Who knows what they'll do to her? If they let her go, she can reveal secrets about them, maybe even try to get her money back. They need her either loyal or dead." He rubbed his eyes, wrinkling the skin around them. "They've convinced me they mean serious business. That's why we need you to poke around, quietly. Someone who can't be traced back to us or to her this time."

  "What made Leah take off? When she came home that day?"

  Emma rustled uncomfortably, and Will looked sharply away. "They're inside her head. She was insane, convinced we were persecuting her. She played around on my computer and managed to find all the e-mails I'd been sending out to cops and the like."

  "She's a whiz with computers." Profound sadness undercut Emma's proud smile. "She was studying computer science. A straight-A student before she..." The scattering of pale freckles across her cheeks was visible only if the light hit her the right way. "To go through something like this, as parents, you have no idea."

  Dray stiffened. Taking note, Emma shifted, noticing the framed picture of Ginny on the mantel. Mortified, she flushed, her eyes moistening. "Of course you do. I am...so terribly sorry."

  She dug in her purse for Kleenex, tears running. Tim located a box and offered it to her. Will laid a thick arm across her shoulders and gathered her in. He kissed the top of her head gently. The two couples sat quietly in the room as Emma dabbed her eyes.

  "It's terrible for me to cry here, after what you've been through," she said. "It's just so awful knowing she's out there, with these people. She wasn't herself when we saw her. It was like she'd been replaced by another person. She wore a filthy T-shirt, and she had a rash across her chest, bruises up the backs of her arms, open sores around her ankles. God knows what they've done to her. God knows what they're doing to her. Day after day." She pressed the balled tissue to her lips to still them. "How are we supposed to live with that uncertainty? As parents?" She made a strangled noise deep in her throat, something between a gasp and acry.

  Dray's face reddened with emotion; she looked away.

  Will gazed tenderly at Leah's photo before leaning forward and setting it on the coffee table. "She was a damn good kid."

  Dray said, "Maybe she still is."

  Tim studied the picture, noticing for the first time it was worn around the edges, one corner faded by Will's thumb from being removed countless times from the billfold.

  "I'll help your daughter," Tim said.

  Dray lay curled beneath the covers, facing away, the sheet hugging the dip of her waist. Through the bedroom window, the moon threw a patch of light that angled along the floor and climbed the edge of the bed like a kicked-off blanket. A light rain spit at the glass -- the first three weeks of spring had been unusually wet.

  Tim slid into bed beside her, resting one hand on her hip and flipping through his notepad with the other. Dray was incredibly fit at thirty-one, her body tuned from self-defense drills and weight training. Three years older, Tim could no longer rely on his work to maintain his lean build; he'd started running early mornings and lifting nights with Dray.

  "What a character, that guy." Her voice was slow, tired. "He's mostly frustrated that he hasn't got the upper hand. Typical Hollywood asshole. Thinks he can buy everything. You, the Service, his daughter. 'Her two - million - dollar future.' 'A forty - thousand - dollar car.' I felt like I was on The Price Is Right."

  "He's hurting, though. You see how he looked at that picture of her?"

  Dray gave a little nod. "My heart goes out to her, and to them as parents, but..." She twisted, regarding him across the bulge of her shoulder. "Call me callous, but if some girl wants to join a cult and fuck herself up, so what? It's not being forced on her. She chose it."

  "During Ranger training, they put us through some paces in Psy-Ops. There are ways to break people down, play around in their mind. They don't always have a say in it."

  Dray made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgment -- the one that meant she needed to give something more thought. "What if she's already dead? What if they killed her and dumped her body somewhere?"

  "Then I'll find it and give the parents a burial. End their uncertainty -- that's something we were spared."

  She nodded slightly and turned back over. "I want Sleep Hold."

  Tim slid down in bed, spooning her, and she responded with a lazy arch of her back. She raised her head, and he maneuvered his left arm beneath her neck. His cheek rested against her hair, his lips just touching her ear.

  Her voice was faint now, skating the edge of sleep. "Tell me something about Ginny."

  Tim stared at the darkness. He squeezed her instead.

  Chapter two

  Tim strode down the hall leading to the marshal's office, his steps hushed by the carpet, his head numbed by the 6:00 A.M. wake-up and the deadening hum of the air conditioner vents overhead. His first return to the administrative offices, located behind the Federal Courthouse downtown, was proving to be even more uncomfortable than he'd anticipated. Shame had overtaken him when he drove past the imposing, wide-stepped expanse of the courthouse, dogging him as he walked this familiar path. He could have spent the past year and the rest of his life as part of this institution. Instead he was stuck patrolling steel warehouses, sipping Big Gulps, spitting sunflower seeds, and knowing every minute that it was entirely his own fault. And knowing that the rent-a-cop job itself was a kind of penance.

  Entering the lounge, he sat beside the antique safe with its faded rendering of a stag -- a relic from an 1877 marshal's stagecoach escort team. The marshal's assistant nodded at him formally through the ballistic glass, but her eyes seemed to glitter in anticipation of the lunchtime gossip she'd be able to impart.

  The infamous ex-deputy dropping in for the first time since his release from jail. Since the plea bargain he had resisted but taken.

  "He's expecting you." She punched at her computer keys with long-nailed fingers. "Go right in."

  Tannino rose from behind his sturdy desk to greet Tim. They shook hands, Tannino studying him with dark brown eyes. At six feet, Tim had about five inches on him.

  Of the ninety-four U.S. marshals, Tannino was one of the few merit appointees, having served his street time before rising through the ranks
. The marshalships, one for each federal judicial district, had traditionally been sinecures, though Homeland Security concerns were changing that rapidly.

  Tannino gestured to the couch opposite his desk, and Tim sat.

  "What's his pull?" Tim asked.

  Tannino got busy polishing an already spotless picture frame.

  "You might as well come clean now," Tim said. "Save me the time."

  Tannino set down the photo -- his niece wearing confirmation white, drenched in creamy angelic lighting. His sister's husband had died a few years ago of a heart attack, and Tannino had taken over paternal duties, which seemed mostly to involve interrogating prospective dates and delegating boyfriend background checks to his less industrious deputies. He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his coiffed salt-and-pepper hair looking even more dated than Tim remembered. "He's a big political donor -- helped raise four mil for Senator Feinstein's campaign in '98."

  The trail of obligation wasn't hard to trace -- Feinstein, as the senior senator, had recommended Tannino for his position. Though Clinton had rubber-stamped Tannino through, it was Feinstein to whom he owed his career, and the feelings of loyalty and respect ran both directions.

  "So you redeputize me, put me on the trail unofficially, keep the donor's purse strings loose, and maintain plausible deniability. If I stumble upon the girl and haul her in quietly, no one has to ask questions and a blue-chip case is tied up with a bow. If I screw up, I'm a perfect cutout operative. Tim Rackley, loose cannon and known assassin -- shit, he just went off on his own, we weren't really sure what he got himself into. Mobs rally with pitchforks and shovels, and you help stoke the blaze."

  "You're getting cynical in your old age, Rackley."

  "It's been a long year, Marshal. I lost my stomach for circumlocution."

  "I heard Kindell went away for life. I thought that might have lightened the load."

  Five months ago, Roger Kindell, the thirty-six-year-old transient who had killed and dismembered Ginny, had pled to life-no-parole to keep the lethal injection at bay. Black-and-white photos depicting him in the act, stained with Ginny's blood, hadn't left the defense many alternatives. At long last, Kindell had run out of loopholes to slip through.