the Program (2004)

by Gregg - Rackley 02 Hurwitz

  "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.

  Chapter forty-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 downslope. 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 we
re 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 mortis-ed 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 facade, 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."

  TD's smile showed off the muscles of his cheeks, his neck. He nodded at Randall, who stepped back and opened the door. Skate remained immersed in his grooming.

  Tim regarded the open door skeptically. "That's it. I can just walk out of here?"

  "Of course. What do you take us for? Criminals?"

  Tim rose and moved sideways to the door, keeping all three men in his field of vision.

  "Best of luck, Mr. Altman."

  Cautiously, Tim brushed past Randall. He jogged down the hall, glancing over his shoulder, and burst through the double doors. The rain had stopped finally, but the air felt wet and heavy. The paved drive sparkled, the asphalt slick beneath his rubber soles.

  Skate had carried Leah back, delivering her into Janie's arms. She was surrounded by doting attendants in Cottage Three and in no shape to run, even if she did want to risk blowing cover.

  He would come back for her.

  At the front gate, Chad paused in his patrol and squinted from beneath a yellow southwester. As Tim neared, he turned silently and shoved the gate open.

  Watching him warily, Tim slipped through. He continued jogging on the dirt road, still unconvinced of his easy freedom.

  The mud-sloppy road slowed him. Each step pressed hard denim edges into his thighs. It seemed he was walking forever, but each turn only revealed another stretch of road. When at last he reached the swollen creek, he had to stop and rest, hands on his knees, gathering his courage before another plunge. He grimaced and waded in.

  The flat-laid chain-link fence intersecting the creek bed aided his crossing, but during a few weightless steps in the middle, the current threatened to sweep him away. He managed to slog forward, a spray of water slapping him in the face. Sputtering, he crawled out and staggered to his feet.

  His elbows and knees ached. Dirt gave way to asphalt. Finally he stepped out onto Little Tujunga. The road was quiet this time of night. He jogged south a quarter mile in surreal silence, stepping over felled branches. The dilapidated pickup drew into view, nestled in the overfall of a weary pepper tree. He located the key beneath the rear plate. Just as he slid it into the door, he heard the r
attling approach of a vehicle.

  He turned as the van braked sideways, tires chirping. The rear door slid open, and Stanley John, Chad, and Winona climbed out, followed by Dr. Henderson. Randall kicked open the driver's door with a grin, his size-fourteens shattering a glass-still puddle.

  Tim stood slightly stooped, panting, as they unhurriedly fanned out around him. Randall's shirt bulged at the belt buckle. Stanley John and Henderson wore Sig Sauers in right-side hip holsters, Winona a .32 cal and a salacious grin.

  "Funny," Stanley John said without a smile, "we were just leaving the ranch, too."

  "And we happened upon you," Randall said.

  Slowly, deliberately, they drew near, a lasso contracting -- they wanted to take him alive.

  Randall all but blotted out the gaping door of the van. He tugged a Dirty Harry .44 Magnum from his belt -- the same gun Doug had pulled on Tim the day before yesterday. They were almost within reach. Tim put his back to Winona, the weakest threat and least likely first assailant, keeping Randall directly in front of him.

  Chad's lack of weapon betrayed him as the takedown lead; he shifted his weight from leg to leg, then dropped one foot back in a boxer's stance. Tim's head swiveled to keep the four men in view. Randall clutched his gun at waist level, pointed at Tim's feet. His compact frame rippling with energy, Stanley John held his hands loose in a chopping style that announced martial-arts training.

  Tim willed time to slow, and it obeyed him. In his peripheral, he picked up the flutter of Stanley John's nostrils, the silver button of the holster snap just under the hammer. He sensed Winona step back, Henderson sidle to the rear position. Chad tensed through the shoulders and bladed left to protect his vitals, the final move before a charge. Randall's neck flexed, his mouth creaked open to issue the go command.

  Tim snapped his head back, cracking Henderson's cheek, his arms already moving to snatch the Sig from Stanley John's hip. His left hand popped the holster snap as the right found the grip. He fired the instant the gun cleared leather, the shot blowing through Stanley John's right hip, the recoil momentum propelling Tim's cocked elbow back into Chad's throat as Stanley John's disbelieving howl wavered high and thin. Since Chad had lost the drop, Randall wisely skipped back out of reach, gun rising to level as Tim swung the barrel, seeking the expansive target of his chest. A kick to Tim's knee from behind wobbled him -- the reverse head-butt had not connected with Henderson as brutally as Tim had hoped -- and the Sig drifted wide, the sights floating across a drift of asphalt and rocky roadside banks. Randall's fingers tightened on the Magnum, his face a malicious smear that Tim barely had time to register before his vision detonated into a white blaze that diminished swiftly to black.