"Yes. I understand you're frustrated that you can't persuade her to leave, but she's an adult. Just because you have money doesn't give you the right to use other means to remove her." Dray moved her focus to her husband. "Come on, Tim. Let's call it like it is. I shouldn't have to remind you all that nothing illegal has taken place here." She gestured at Will with her glass. "There's a reason you're not sending Roach --"
"Rooch."
"-- to do your bidding. There's a reason Tannino's using a freelancer for the job, and there's a reason he's using my husband." She softened her voice. "You're making some moves to get your daughter safe. Christ, with what we've been through, I can certainly relate. I'm not a saint, I'm not a priss, and I'm not a DA. I'm just recommending we all stay very aware of the game we're playing here. If my husband extracts your daughter, his ass is the one on the line when the spin doctors scrub in."
"That's not going to happen. Whatever you do, you won't have any legal problems. That I can assure you."
Dray was on her feet. "With all due respect, Mr. Henning, you can't make that promise." She set her half-full glass on the bar and left the room.
Will chuckled. "No shrinking violet, that one."
"No, sir."
"So how about the P.O. box? You make any progress with the inspector?"
"Let's just say he gave new meaning to the term 'going postal.' "
Will's hearty laugh filled the room.
"I'd like to implement some small, sustainable disguise elements, on the off chance someone in the cult recognizes me from the news footage last year," Tim said. "We usually pull a professional from the movie studios, but with the time frame --"
Will brightened. "I'll have the hottest new makeup-and-hair guy in town at your house first thing tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock okay?" He killed his vodka, plunked the glass on a side table. "When all this is through, I'll get you some Lakers tickets. On the floor. Right by Jack." He waited for Tim to stand. "Rooch will see you out."
Rooch had materialized above the steps, one hand clasping the other at the wrist. Tim paused on his way out, then turned back to Will. "Give me your watch."
"Nice line reading. I'll call you when we start casting."
"The Service issues replicas. The guys I'm swimming with might know the difference."
Though Emma made a displeased face, Will slid the Cartier off his wrist and tossed it to Tim. "That's a thirty-thousand-dollar watch. Keep your eye on it."
"I'll be sure to."
Rooch didn't speak to Tim on the long walk out.
Dray was sitting in the passenger seat. She winked at him when he got in. "I don't know about these freelance gigs, Timothy. Your track record is for shit."
Tim pulled out and drove a few blocks. "You're right. What you said in there."
They passed out of the community under a wood arch proclaiming ADIOS AMIGOS.
"Their home should be beautiful, but it just feels cold and antiseptic. They want the dog on the couch, off the couch, in the room, out of the room -- imagine how'd they'd be as parents." Dray let her breath out sharply through her teeth. "Emma's anxiety runs that house. It runs Will, too. Families portion out emotion -- I'd say her whining wouldn't leave much room for a daughter to have normal growing-up difficulties. That would undermine Mother's martyrdom." Dray spoke bitterly -- her own mother had enjoyed a familial monopoly on suffering.
"I'd guess Leah was an inconvenience to them."
"I'd bet her job was to be quiet, easy, and invisible. And I'd bet she didn't easily fit the bill."
The traffic had lightened significantly. As they drove north, Tim reflected on his visit with his father. He'd learned at a young age that opening up had its costs -- it left too much of himself to protect. And so he'd learned to seek sustenance elsewhere, to generate it from within, to remain tightly and serenely wound into himself.
This strategy had aided him when he enlisted and was called upon to kill other men.
"These aren't people to be downstream from," Dray said. "They have as much concern for you as they did for the late Danny Katanga. All they want is someone to bring in their daughter. Keep their house looking tidy. If that goes wrong, they'll be looking for someone to blame."
"But my reputation leaves me beyond reproach."
She laughed. "You're doing your Wile E. Coyote creep off the cliff right now. All I'm saying is, make sure you pack a parachute."
Chapter fifteen
In the back of the Growth Hall, Stanley John was beating the kettledrum, which sent a low, anesthetizing vibration through Leah's bones. It made her job -- unstacking folding chairs -- easier. She moved through her work rhythmically, like a dancer. The backs of her arms were purpling with the bruises.
Lorraine and Winona scrambled around on all fours buffing the lacquered wood. A converted gymnasium from the adolescent facility, the Growth Hall featured a high-tech lighting system, basketball court lines, and a stage. Rewarded for his progress on the Web site, Chris wielded a measuring tape to calculate the space between seating.
TD paced the growing aisles, his usual preshow warm-up, his eyes riveted on the checklist in front of him. He barked his shin on an out-of-line folding chair.
Stanley John stopped beating the drum. The tape recoiled back into the metal square in Chris's puffy hand. The gym fell silent.
TD glanced down at the wayward chair and then at Chris, who did not rise from his knees.
Dots of sweat rose on Chris's forehead. "I'm sorry. I take ownership of my incompetence --"
TD spoke with a calm, honey-coated intensity. "Maybe you can't step up to this task. Maybe measuring the distance between two chairs is too much for you."
"I'm sorry. I'm just a little distracted. I was up all night fussing with the hyperlinks --"
"Well, that's a ready batch of answers. Looks like we've backslid into excuse making. What's our friend Chris need to do, folks?"
"Negate victimhood."
TD brushed Chris's hair out of his eyes. "I think we need to reset your preferences for humility. You can start by unclogging the methane bleeders at the septic tank tomorrow."
Chris's eyes clenched shut. "Thank you, Teacher."
"Where's your wife?"
"Over here, TD," Janie called out with a smile. Her dark, stiff jeans, tight around her firm behind, struck a contrast with her baggy pink sweater. She finished dumping another five-pound bag of sugar into the vat of punch while another helper stirred away.
"Come."
Janie walked over and stood obediently before him, arms at her sides.
"Does your husband default to victimhood, Janie?"
She looked from TD to Chris, then back to TD. "He has lapsed Off Program a little lately."
TD nodded severely. "On the other hand, in the past few weeks, you've closed on" -- he turned a half circle and raised his voice -- "more Neos than anyone else." His applause was picked up by the others. Still on his knees, Chris clapped along with them. "Not like Sean and Julie, whose numbers have been down." Dark looks from all directed at the laggards. "Chris, give your wife the tape measure. That's it."
Chris raised it to his wife's waiting hands. TD cupped his palm on the ridge of Janie's hip, just above the back pocket of her jeans. Chris's eyes were riveted to TD's gently squeezing fingers.
Janie smiled, basking in TD's glow.
"Others have found it easier to work without a bulky sweater on," TD said.
Her eyes fixed on his, Janie pulled the sweater off over her head, revealing a fitted undershirt through which her nipples showed slightly. TD nodded, pleased, and resumed his pacing. The hall fell back into motion.
Chris rose and sulked in a rear corner, his eyes beady and small above his too-wide cheeks. Leah was relieved TD didn't take note, for something had changed in Chris's eyes, and it was a change he would not have liked.
She pulled the next chair off the stack and handed it to a young graphic-design guru whose name she'd forgotten; he snapped it open and slid it down th
e assembly line.
TD strolled beatifically through the flurry of activity, his focus never leaving his notes.
"Teacher, do you want the cookies arranged on the trays flat or stacked?"
His eyes stayed on his checklist. "Flat."
Another worker -- "I cut my finger pretty good. Can I get a ride to the ER so I can get it looked at?"
"No. You can visit Dr. Henderson in Cottage Three after the Orae."
"TD, I really want to have sex with my wife. It's been almost three weeks."
"Fine. After the Orae. Missionary. In her cottage. Fifteen minutes."
"Thank you. Thank you."
"My father died. The service --"
"Stop crying."
"I'm sorry. The service is twenty minutes away. Can I have money for a bus ride?"
"Leave the dead to bury the dead."
"Will you let me grow a beard, Teacher?"
"Enough, please. I'm trying to prepare."
All talking ceased, the silence broken only by the quiet rustling of the workers.
Leah snapped a chair open, pinching her thumb in a hinge. She bit her lip so she wouldn't cry out, her eyes watering. The pain pulled her from her working trance, and she stepped outside. To her right alongside the building, three pay-phone handsets nestled in their hooks, severed cords protruding stiffly beneath them.
Down the curved road, lights twinkled in the cottages. To her left beyond a fence and a strip of fire-retarding ice plant, a cliff fell away. In the night the abrupt drop was a void. The cold bit her through the thin cotton of her jersey. She thumbed the fabric. Will had brought her the shirt back from location somewhere, a gift without an occasion.
"Leah? What are you doing out here?" Janie's voice yanked her from her thoughts. "You know better than to skulk around alone. Hurry now, or you'll throw off TD's concentration for the Orae."
Leah mumbled an apology and followed her back inside, where the five-foot stacks of chairs waited.
All sixty-eight Pros, stoked with candy bars and punch, packed the seats, riding out a sugar high together. Everyone held hands, swayed, and babbled excitedly. Randall and Skate emerged from outside, Skate's hands glittering with dog slobber, and took up posts at the base of the stage. The drum started beating again. Leah went under its spell.
The overheads dimmed, the footlights came up, and plaintive trumpet notes announced the Orae's commencement. As the music resolved into the opening motif of 2001: A Space Odyssey, TD burst onto the stage, a Janet Jackson mike floating off his right cheek. The thunderous sforzando chords faded, and then there was just the slow, rumbling beat of the drum and the Teacher's words.
"Out there in the world are the Common-Censors. The human husks. The living dead. They're all stuck in the dead links of their Old Programming. They're like the three little monkeys -- deaf, dumb, and blind." TD's eyes seemed to take in every face. "Now, some people may say I'm kind of crazy. Some people might call me a weirdo. But I like that label." His lips firmed in a wise little smirk. "They say we're a cult." He made spooky fingers in the light, his smile indicating this was of great amusement. A mocking rumble rose from the crowd.
Randall and Skate stood like Secret Service agents before the stage, hands clasped at their belt lines, all-knowing by proxy.
TD paced back and forth, never breaking stride, the heads of the Pros following his movement as if attached by invisible threads. "Anyone see any brainwashed cult members in here? Anyone see any animals ready for sacrifice? Anyone here against their will?"
Screams of repudiation. Scattered boos and derisive laughter. Protective cries of indignation.
"We're not brainwashed -- they are. Obligation has been pounded into them, pounded into their cells since they were babies. They criticize The Program. Why? Because they can't believe we're this strong. That we're this fulfilled. They have to criticize us. In fact, their criticism is proof of how right The Program is."
A number of cries, the words wildly enthusiastic but unintelligible. Leah reeled, unsteady on her feet. The hall zoomed around her, a slow-motion tilt. She caught a glimpse of Chris in the back, crouching beside his chair, his sharp and lucid expression standing out from a sea of softened faces.
Shrieks of laughter. Her head buzzing with sugar, her eyes still adjusting to the dimness and the flickering lights, Leah felt her lungs inflate, her mouth open, her sides shake, and then she realized she, too, was laughing.
"Here" -- TD's arms drifted out, shadows consuming the upward drift of the footlights -- "we live in the Now."
Janie chattered next to Leah. "Living in the Now. That's so brilliant. It's so crucial to growth."
The drum continued its measured beat. Leah felt herself swaying with the crowd, with the cadence of TD's words. His sentences flowed into one another, rivers merging.
"We negate Victimhood. Those who can't need to --" He stopped abruptly, touched a hand to his ear.
"Get with The Program!" they roared.
"We are a powerhouse of resources. Attorneys. Investment bankers. Computer engineers. Recruitment is on the rise every day. Cambridge and Scottsdale will be ready to launch by the end of next month. All of our future ambassadors are right here among us."
Janie crossed her fingers, squeezed her eyes shut.
"It all starts here. Here in our utopia. This will be the model for all of California, then the U.S.A., then the world. But no matter how we grow, it all comes back to us here in this room. That's you. And you. And you. Why don't you all give each other hugs? That's right, stand up and embrace one another." TD waited, hands clasped.
A few of the wiser Pros remained seated, grinning knowingly.
"Come on, folks. If you want that self-help, feel-good crap, go to a Tony Robbins seminar and Awaken the Idiot Within. We don't need the Common-Censors. We don't need Deepak Chopra and his platitudinous spit-up. We each have within ourselves the potential to do anything. In The Program we don't even need each other. But we're stronger together." TD came to a halt onstage. "Now" -- a darker tone -- "in the past a few people have left the Inner Circle."
Murmurs. Leah was going hoarse.
"And they haven't had an easy go of it. Because once you've been fulfilled, once you've been part of this great practice, you can't turn your back on it. What's happened to those who have left the security of the Inner Circle?"
Leah's cheeks were wet; she couldn't stand the thought.
"They've gone insane, literally insane, stranded out there with the Common-Censors." TD's voice grew deep and sorrowful. "They've been abused. Abandoned. Controlled." The footlights glowed through his hair like a golden hood. "Many of you remember Lisa Kander."
Boos and shrieks. TD's hand snapped up vigilantly, fingers spread, stealing five streams of light and shooting them to the ceiling. The noise ceased. "Let's be fair. She wasn't a bad girl. She just couldn't make the grade. She couldn't --"
"Get with The Program!"
And then, quietly, "I just found out she killed herself." A mournful pause. "She threw herself into the La Brea Tar Pits. Living out in the world, with them, was so hurtful, she asphyxiated herself with steaming tar."
Hushed silence, broken by a few gasps, even sobs. A row up from Leah, Winona was shaking so hard she seemed to be convulsing. One of the oldest Pros at forty-two, Winona had made sacrifices to Get with The Program, leaving behind a Common-Censor husband and infant twins. As a strong role model, she was accorded a special level of respect on the ranch.
TD fanned his arms, a gesture encompassing the entire hall. "None of you will ever have to feel that emptiness. That loneliness. That abandonment. Not as long as you stay On Program and with The Program."
A tidal wave of emotion. Squeaking chairs and undulating arms. A moment of disorientation as Leah's view was blocked, and then she rose to join the throng.
TD lifted his hands, and the sound ceased abruptly, as if a plug had been yanked. Everyone sat and held hands, rocking gently now in preparation for the Guy-Med. Leah's ears hu
mmed.
TD's voice came calm and smooth. "Everybody close your eyes. Take a stroll back to your childhood. Remember your mind as it was. Free of your Old Programming. Empty of adult cynicism. Empty of adult negativity. Let TD guide you. Picture yourself at five years old. You're standing before your childhood room. Let's go inside. Go ahead -- push open the door."
Leah felt her insides rear up as on a roller-coaster drop, then avalanche down and out of her, leaving her adrift in an intoxicating emptiness. When she came to, she felt drained. The formal part of the Orae was over. TD was sitting at the stage's edge, legs dangling, talking to the lucky Pros in the front row. She'd lost a lot of time, as she often did during meditation; Stanley John had told her it was a sign of her great sensitivity.
She never remembered what happened inside her childhood house during Guy-Med.
Squeezing past protruding legs, Chris made his way down the row, the others leaning sluggishly out of his way. Leah first thought he was heading for his wife, but the seat next to her was vacant; Janie was in the back replenishing the punch. Chris squatted in front of Leah, hands cupping her knees.
"Go away," Leah said. "You'll disrupt the Teacher if you're out of your seat when he's onstage."
Chris shot a nervous glance over his shoulder. "He's not looking. Just listen. I wanted to say I'm sorry for pinching you in the Wellness Train."
"You were right to. I needed it."
"No, it wasn't right." Chris's voice was rising. "It's not right for us to treat each other this way. It's not right to be treated this way."
Leah nervously regarded the others talking distractedly around them. "I don't know what you're talking about. It's our own growth."
He stood, flustered. "After TD scolded me, I thought about what you went through, then about my daughter from my first marriage. She's just a few years younger than you."
"It's fine. Chris, you're in a loop. Just sit down."
TD's voice boomed through the mike. "Yes, Winona?"
In the chair in front of them, Winona lowered her hand. Leah and Chris stared at the sprayed shell of blond hair in horror. "I experience Chris as undermining my time here tonight," she said.
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