The Program tr-2 Page 22

  "And our dear friend Tom Altman wisely presented as a doer. I'm sure the Teacher sized you up as such – that's the biggest type of fish to fry for this kind of cult. Believers are automatically out, thinkers get tangled up in the logic, and feelers are too easy – no challenge for a show-man like TD. Doers are men and women of action, which means they've almost certainly made mistakes in the past for which they hold some measure of remorse that can be turned against them. They also tend to have financial resources and they make great subleaders. I'm not surprised you made the cut from the LGAT -"

  "LGAT?"

  "Large-group awareness training. Now you're on to phase two – a Moonie-esque retreat. More Pros, fewer marks. All the better to crack you with, my dear."

  "The Pros have this rosy-cheeked excitement about them. All the time."

  "Nothing more than pinhead lesions from vitamin A deficiency, which – along with fatigue, disorientation, and vacillations in mental acuity – is one of the rewards of a carefully imbalanced diet." Bederman set down his cup hard enough that it rang against the saucer. "Take a detrimental or frightening state and reinterpret it as growth. That's the name of the game. That giddiness, that tingling, that high that you felt? Were you unlocking your true self? Experiencing the next stage of growth? No. It was the overbreathing, the chanting, the repetitive screaming, the arm thrusting, the standing and sitting – shortcuts to hyperventilation, no more. Did people faint?"

  "Yes. Quite a few."

  Bederman's voice kept a bitter edge. "All that heavy expelling of air produces a drop in the carbon dioxide level of the bloodstream -respiratory alkalosis, it's called. It causes dizziness, light-headedness, a loss of critical thought and judgment. Well known in the old-time religions. Add sleep deprivation and a few spiked refreshments to the mix, you can make recruits actively participate in their own debasement. Once that happens, they'll start believing they deserve it. Change someone's behavior and his beliefs will follow."

  "It's like we're taught in Special Forces – if you're captured, only give up name, rank, and serial number. Anything more than that, they have a wedge to pry you open."

  "With brainwashing at least you know you're in the hands of the enemy. Mind control – what Leah's up against – is more insidious." He took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, put them back on. "These situations – especially with a sole leader like TD bent on absolute control – only go in one direction."

  They sat quietly for a few moments, and then Bederman said, "Remember the Heaven's Gate mass suicide down in San Diego? I was one of the first people through the house. Thirty-nine bodies, young and old. The smell…Jesus, the smell. You know that smell?"

  Tim studied his hands. "Yes."

  "As you well know, you can't get rid of them, those moments. I testified in a case early in my career where a six – year – old girl with Down's syndrome was flayed to death in a church. Johanna Yarbough. There were fifty adults present, including her mother. They took turns as the other children sat in the pews and watched. They were exorcising evil spirits from the girl. I always wondered what she was thinking, Johanna, when it was happening. Looking out at all those faces. That's what she knew of the world. That's what the world looked like to her."

  "You hate them, don't you? The zealots?"

  "Sometimes." Bederman's face looked weary; his jowls sagged. "But sometimes the oppressors are only victims who've advanced in the ranks. Sometimes you lose perspective, start hating them all."

  Tim glanced around the room. The antique churn in the corner. Bows of raffia around porcelain candlesticks. A spray of dried flowers deadening the mantel. It was like something painstakingly replicated from a magazine photo or a childhood memory, a stab at some notion of archetypal domesticity.

  "In the late seventies, I was a deprogrammer. There wasn't much literature about cult psychology yet and what there was was primitive. I had a 'patient' abducted and subjected to involuntary deprogramming in a locked hotel suite. I was young and enthusiastic and knew all the answers. On the third day, Joel slashed his wrists using glass from the bathroom mirror. They teach them that, you see, because it gets them to the hospital, where they can phone the cult leadership. The cult shows up with lawyers, frees the member, presses charges – you get the picture. But Joel was overzealous. After seventy-two hours, I can hardly blame him." A doleful grin. "He lost too much blood." His hands parted, then clapped faintly together. "I came apart afterward – spent a few years mired in self-loathing. My marriage didn't survive."

  Tim glanced around – no pictures in sight.

  "I'm a doer, you see. Just like Tom Altman." Bederman's tone regained its briskness. "My wife's remarried now, her high-school sweetheart. They're good enough to send a card every year at the holidays. And so it's just me and this little house. All these years I've been unable to change it. I keep wanting to do something to make it my own, but I suppose…I don't know. I put everything I have into my work, trying to get it right this time around, and the next, and the next." A melancholy chuckle. "I suppose I hope that'll redeem me."

  "I know that hope."

  They sat silent for a few moments.

  Finally Tim said, "I want to save Leah, and I want to keep her intact."

  Bederman's smile warmed his face. "She's not just a passive victim. She's a sensitive, intelligent person with feelings and doubts of her own. Encourage her to imagine other possibilities. Make it safe for her to express her doubts, to reconnect with her former life, with herself."

  "How?"

  He laughed. "How much time you got?"

  "Until eight A.M. tomorrow."

  He favored Tim with a little dip of his head. "You've got to play them as they play you, staying one step ahead of the game. A key strategy will be winning the confidence, even the trust, of the group. Leah has to know you're able to see it from her perspective. Once you know the Program doctrine, you'll be able to identify internal hypocrisies and inconsistencies. Stay focused on how cult members behave, not what they believe. You'll be interacting with her in a milieu where everything is carefully orchestrated to control her. See if you can establish enough trust to get her to agree to a consensual intervention, a meeting on neutral ground with family, friends, former cult members if you can find them, and a counselor."

  "Maybe when I'm done doing all that, I could end world hunger."

  "World hunger is passe. I'd recommend striving for peace on earth. Then if you perform well in the swimsuit competition, you can write your own ticket." With a professorial tilt of his head, he took note of the discouragement on Tim's face. "I'll help you."

  Before Tim could express his gratitude, the doorbell rang.

  "My eleven-o'clock."

  Tim moved to rise, but Bederman gestured for him to stay put. He made his way to the adjoining foyer. On the doorstep waited a kid in his early twenties gripping a briefcase and wearing a black knit tie, a short-sleeved button-up, and dark slacks. The gold lettering on the bound book he clasped threw off a glint of the morning sun.

  "Hi, Glen. Matthew Gallagher from the Brotherhood of the Kingdom. I came by Thursday evening…?"

  "Yes, of course. Come in." Bederman stepped back, letting the kid enter. "I appreciate your agreeing to come back to see me on a Sunday."

  "It's vital to spread the word, no matter the day or hour."

  Bederman rested a hand on his back. "Impressive nonetheless. I'd bet you've always found outlets for that initiative."

  Matthew moved stiffly, with little bend at the elbows. "I guess. But I'm here today to talk with you about the Kingdom of the Spirit."

  "My friend here would like to join us. I trust that's all right with you?"

  "The more the merrier." Matthew shook hands with Tim, sat on the opposing couch, and began to spread out pamphlets on the coffee table.

  Settling back into his chair, Bederman folded his hands across the slight bulge of his belly and shot Tim a wink. "Well," he said, "we'd best get started."

  Chapter twen
ty-five

  Greeting him at the Hennings' front door was a bodybuilder duo; it seemed at first glance that Rooch had been cloned in Tim's absence. Tim managed to distinguish Rooch from his thick-necked playmate an instant before the squeaky articulation removed all doubt. "Mr. Henning expecting you?"

  "No."

  Behind them the tile floors amplified a baby's cries. Rooch's twin chomped his gum. The bulge beneath his knockoff jacket was a pretty good indication that the death threats had rattled the Hennings more than they'd let on. His voice, accompanied by a waft of fruity breath, was better suited to his build. "You in the practice of just dropping in on people Sunday afternoons?" He offered a broad ledge of a grin, his dark hair pulled tight against his skull and taken up in a rabbit's foot of a ponytail. He was the kind of guy who'd had his ego rewarded enough that he'd arrived at the conclusion that his dickhead temperament constituted a kind of charm.

  "Listen, princess, when you're teaching etiquette, I'll be sure to sign up. In the meantime, tell him I'm here."

  "It's not that simple."

  "Have it your way. Please inform Mr. Henning that I'm no longer available to speak with him. This was his window, and he missed it."

  Tim started down the walk. He didn't get three steps before Rooch's hand clamped down over his shoulder, squeezing so tight he felt the bones grind. "Come on, hard-on. Don't let Doug scare you off."

  "Doug just annoys me, Rooch. Does he scare you?"

  Doug stood in the doorway. When Tim knocked shoulders with him on his way in, it felt like clipping a wall. Emma sat at the kitchen bar, bouncing the baby awkwardly in her lap, a pear-shaped Latina nanny looking on with concern. The baby's mouth was an almost perfect O; the volume issuing forth seemed an anatomical impossibility. A woman with wrenched-back hair to match her facial skin cupped a frothy cappuccino in both well-manicured hands, her smile like a slit in a sheet of Saran Wrap. Will and a young man in a pilled sweater were hunkered over something at the kitchen table.

  Will and Emma noticed Tim at the same time. The baby's cries ceased the minute she was enfolded in the nanny's plump arms. Will brusquely rose and directed a dismissive nod in the direction of the table. The young man gathered a profusion of red-penned pages to his chest and scooted out.

  Will rocked on his heels and said, "Word guy," by way of explanation.

  Emma's friend gathered her purse. "Say hello to Leah. She's doing well at Pepperdine?"

  Emma's eyes regarded Tim joylessly, even as she shoulder-clutched her friend and pressed cheeks. "Yes, wonderfully."

  Rooch showed the friend out; it seemed Doug wasn't sufficiently housebroken to escort proper company.

  "It's for Leah's own sake," Emma said with a ferocity Tim was surprised she could muster. She scurried beside Tim down the hall. "Janice's daughter, Leah's age, is going to be a physician."

  "You don't say."

  Once they'd descended into the oversize conversation pit of a living room, Will topped off a rocks glass. He'd yet to acknowledge Tim.

  "You didn't have me fired," Tim said.

  "You're still our best shot."

  "I have some conditions."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me? Next thing you'll show up with representation."

  "Representation?"

  "Never mind. What are your conditions, Mr. Rackley?"

  "I'm going to try to convince Leah to come to an intervention."

  Emma sank heavily to the couch. "This isn't some eating disorder."

  Tim had Will's attention, so he forged ahead. "If I'm successful in getting her to a specified location, you're gonna play it at her comfort level. That means you don't so much as lock the door."

  Rooch and Doug had taken up posts on either side of the living-room entrance. Tim cast a wary eye in their direction. They stood still and watchful, exuding intelligence.

  "And you'll keep your help heeled."

  "She climbed out a window last time," Will said. "It's for her benefit for us to be a bit more…forceful at the early stages."

  "That'll only lead to more problems."

  "I'm a producer. My job is to manage problems."

  "Not this one."

  "What about Betters?"

  Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)

  "Leave Betters to me."

  Tim's tone seemed to conclude the matter satisfactorily for Will.

  "What are we supposed to do at this intervention?"

  Tim offered Bederman's card to Will, who held it by his waist and frowned down at it. "This is the leading guy in the area. He'll take your call."

  "We don't need some counselor to teach us how to talk to our daughter."

  "We need an expert to help us talk to someone indoctrinated by a cult."

  "We know how to talk to Leah."

  "Right. You can just slap her when she gets frustrating."

  The glass froze against Will's lips. He lowered it slowly. "I was trying to reason with her. She'd shut herself off like a robot. Whenever I spoke, she murmured these self-help platitudes to herself, right over my voice."

  "So you figured if you hit her, she might listen better?"

  Blotches of red were starting to bloom on Will's cheeks and neck. "I never said I was a great parent. It doesn't happen to be one of my strengths. But the fault doesn't rest with me. There are a lot of parents who don't provide at all. Their kids don't join cults."

  "I don't care about fault."

  "What do you care about?"

  "Your daughter."

  Very slowly, Will set his glass down on the bar.

  "I just here to get Leah out of this mess," Tim said. "The rest is up to you. I'm not a shrink – hell, I'm not even a parent. But I do know that if I was in your shoes, I'd want to give some thought to the things this cult offers her that you didn't."

  Emma came up off the couch. "Who are you to talk to us that way?"

  "Tomorrow night, at possible risk to my life, I'm infiltrating the ranch of a cult to try to help your daughter. That buys me the right to talk to you however I want." He turned to Will, who'd grown surprisingly quiet and thoughtful, his downbent head taking in Leah's graduation picture on the bar. "What's it gonna be?"

  "Fine," Will said. "No power moves."

  Tim offered his hand, and they shook.

  The weedy front lawn brushed Tim's calves. Boston stuck his muzzle through a rip in the screen door and tried to bark, but his constrained jaws managed only a muffled woof. Tim entered and crossed the stained carpet, junk mail and flyers crinkling underfoot, Boston threading his legs like a cat with a thyroid problem. He found Bear at the modest breakfast table placed injudiciously in the middle of the square of peeling linoleum that passed for the kitchen. Bear occupied the single chair accompanying the table; he'd removed the other three due to space considerations, a sensible decision but one that chipped away at Tim's heart every time he dropped by.

  Bear was eating turkey chili out of the can and, judging from the smears on his chin, enjoying it greatly.

  "Reggie Rondell called," Tim said. "He wants his housekeeper back."

  Bear gestured around with a kidney bean-laden fork. "I keep telling Boston to clean up. Guess he's not trained." He retrieved a second chair from the garage and, gripping one leg, handed it to Tim over the table. They sat. Bear tilted the can toward Tim. "I think I got an extra fork around here somewhere."

  Tim gestured a blackjack stay. "How'd it go with Tannino?"

  "Your pitch made him scowl, but it also put a gleam in his eyes. He says you have one shot at it. Bring him back something concrete and we'll put Betters's dick in the dirt."

  "I will. You insert a false death notice for Jenny Altman in the Hall of Records?"

  "Yup. And injected Tommy Altman's name into academic records at Pepperdine. And left you a getaway car where we discussed. And took care of everything else."

  "I got your message about Aaronson. He called with the breakdown on the food samples?"

  "No pot or hash in the
brownie, which was disappointing, but it had four times the normal amount of sugar." He frowned thoughtfully. "I thought it tasted too sweet."

  "And the punch?"

  "The punch was loaded up pretty good. Calms forte, kava kava, and valerian."

  "They sound like Caribbean dances. Or venereal diseases."

  "Those Caribbean venereal diseases are a bitch." Bear tapped a ba-dum-bum on the wood with two fingers. "They're roots. Kava kava and valerian are like nature's valium. They mellow out your nervous system, impair judgment, cause intense muscle relaxation – sort of like listening to Al Gore. Calms forte is a homeopathic remedy, does the same but more intensely."

  "Can we move on it?"

  "Nope. They're all legal over-the-counter substances. Aaronson said they've seen them used before by brainy little fucks looking to date-rape but not wanting a visit from DEA. He found melatonin in the mix, too, but again, manufactured hormones ain't illegal."

  "How about intent? They're obviously trying to gain some advantage."

  "That only matters if they're trying to gain advantage to do something illegal or coerce people into doing something they don't want to do. The stuff mellowed people out into an experience they elected to sign on for. Back to square one." Bear took note of Tim's expression. "Don't go off all half-cocked now."

  "Meaning?"

  "No offense, but your track record when the law doesn't conform with your expectations isn't exactly stellar."

  "No. It's not. And as you've just pointed out, the law leaves a lot to be desired." Tim gestured for the turkey chili, and Bear stuck the fork in and passed it, looking at him pointedly. Tim took a bite. It wasn't half bad. "Don't worry. I'll do this one right." He stood and hefted the chair back over the table, setting it by the door to the garage. He paused on his way out. "Those poor bastards at the colloquium, you should see them."