The Program tr-2 Page 23

  "It's like those short people, Rack. At the convention. Being short, they'll find the short community. Your idiots who want to believe in stupid crap, they find other idiots who want to believe in stupid crap. It's hard these days to believe in anything. So they bond together and get handed the community doctrine – instant download, add faith and stir." Bear wiped his chin. His skin was sallow, sagging in folds beneath his eyes. "People like to fit in." He leaned forward in his solitary chair, the can of chili dotting the center of the round table like a candle. "I imagine it's easier."

  Chapter twenty-six

  When Tim entered the house from the garage, smoke was seeping from the oven. Grabbing a pot holder from atop an empty Tombstone Pizza box, he yanked the charred Frisbee from the rack, doused it with the sink sprayer, and dumped it in the trash. He opened the window over the sink and waved the smoke away from the oblivious alarm. Then he slid open the glass doors in the living room to get a cross breeze.

  Wiping his eyes, he returned to the kitchen. Black tendrils wisped up from the trash bin, so he poured in a few mugfuls of water until the sizzling stopped. A curled fax lay on the table beside a fan of junk mail – Dray's bloodwork from her visit to the clinic.

  Smudges dappled the paper where she'd gripped it with hands moist from the freezer-burned pizza box.

  Monospot: Neg

  Hepatitis A Antibody: Neg sshCG – Serum Pregnancy: Pos

  His hand swiped for the chair back, finally found it. He leaned heavily and stared at the fax, his breath hot in his still-raw throat. When he finally looked up, the haze had cleared from the kitchen.

  He walked over to the tiny desk near the door to the garage and rested a hand on the fax machine. Still warm.

  He headed through the empty living room, down the empty hall.

  Dray stood in the center of Ginny's old room, back to the door. The glow of the setting sun shone through the open blinds, silhouetting her stark form crisply – the bulge of the Beretta in her hip holster, the starched lines of her uniform, the laces of her boots.

  Four walls, a rectangle of carpet marred only by the uniform stripes of the vacuum.

  He tapped the open door with his knuckles, and she turned, looking at him over a shoulder. Her face was sheet white.

  He moved to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. They both gazed out at the quiet street. The inextinguishable scent of Play-Doh materialized from the carpet like a ghost. One of the Hartleys' brood of grandchildren was trying with little success to get a Chinese kite airborne. Their cheeks brushing, they watched the colorful nylon dragon tumble across the neighboring lawn.

  They dozed in a tangle of limbs and sheets, using sweaty proximity to fend off the pall of uncertainty that seemed to hover about the house. They didn't talk much, both sifting their individual thoughts first, as they'd learned to when stakes were high and vulnerabilities bared. Around three, knowing the morning promised him a reentry into sleep deprivation, Tim willed himself to unconsciousness, a capability he'd cultivated as a soldier.

  The alarm pulled him from a placid sea of ink.

  Lenient mattress, silky sheets, the morning smell of Dray's hair. He opened his eyes.

  Legs tucked beneath her, Dray leaned forward on the points of her elbows. One hand propped up her chin, the other she held flat-palmed before his mouth. Her face was inches from his; he could sense the warmth coming off it.

  A seam of light evading the curtain fell in a band across her cheeks, turning her eyes jade and translucent. Her mouth shifted, pulling slightly to one side.

  "Be careful," she said.

  Chapter twenty-seven

  You ever think about how our cells die, every minute of every hour? A skin cell lives only a couple of days. All our skin is dead on the outside. When you touch someone else, you're just pressing dead hide to dead hide." Randall's blocklike fists encased the top of the van's steering wheel.

  Riding shotgun, Tim had the dubious honor of being the anointed beneficiary of Randall's morbid ruminations. Randall was considerably more social than Skate. He'd been social at the Radisson pickup, social up the 405, social along the 118 and the 210, and now social up Little Tujunga Road, the two-lane snake of asphalt that twisted through the fire-hazard hills of Sylmar. Tim found himself longing for Skate's sullen reticence.

  In the back, four high-roller recruits sat crammed together, Shanna among them. Lorraine, the sole Pro, urged them into intimate conversation, gently rebuking them for missteps. Now that he'd endured the colloquium, Tim noted how uncannily her affect and speech shared similarities with Janie's and Stanley John's – TD's personality downloaded through yet another generation. Firming her austerely fastened bun of auburn hair with acute plunges of bobby pins, she informed Jason Struthers of Struthers Auto Mall that he was being in his head, a censure he acknowledged once Shanna seconded it. Don and Wendy Stanford, who'd gone to the seminar to fulfill their tenth-wedding-anniversary resolution to experience more growth in their marriage, wore sandals despite the chapping cold and matching fleeces sporting their machine-embroidered hedge-fund logo. They held hands until Lorraine informed them their clinginess indicated that they were two people simultaneously hiding behind each other.

  Heavy tint opaqued the back windows, keeping the others oblivious to where they were headed. Tim had wound up in the front only because he'd been the last picked up, a happy stroke of luck. Being Randall's reluctant travel companion bought Tim an unobstructed view of the route. Dressed wannabe in designer jeans and an overpriced forest green lamb's-wool pullover, Tim shifted uncomfortably, smoothing his now-brushy goatee with a damp hand. The Program-provided thermos of juice he rested on the rolled-down window's ledge, releasing its contents in increments to the wind whenever the van slowed at a curve.

  Randall forged ahead in his lecture, lowering his voice to imply discretion. "Your face looks the same as it did ten years ago, but it's just been re-created over and over, old cells shedding, new ones filling in. We're formless, really, always changing, always dying."

  Horses nosed out of sheds. Wind-blasted signs designating dirt off-shoots announced shooting ranges, wildlife way stations, juvie probation camps. The hills billowed grandly, tinted russet by leafing scrub. Broken-down pickups languished in roadside aprons of dusty rock. Dead snakes sprawled on the baking pitch, smashed flat at axle-wide intervals. They passed a crew of youths clad in orange vests mechanically raking brush under the direction of a corrections officer accessorized with a steel whistle and failure – to – communicate mirror sunglasses.

  As civilization receded, the others laughed, oblivious, and talked about perished siblings and deadening careers. Tim continued reviewing the world according to Tom Altman, a silent version of the Method actor's rehearsal he'd picked up as a kid watching his father try out new, affecting gambits in the bathroom mirror.

  The sun beat down on the cracked dash, making Randall's arm hair gleam like black wire. "We've built our entire culture around sex. Orgasms, endurance, physique – the obsessions of modern man. But it's all a sham. Sex isn't anything." He turned off Tujunga onto an even more desolate road. The van hiccupped across the crude secondary asphalt, bouncing the passengers in their seats. Low branches of valley oaks screeched across the roof.

  Confident from the recent spell of showers, a creek swept under them, bisecting the road. Chain-link fencing provided the van noisy traction across the mossy rocks, water assaulting the wheel wells. The others whooped and cheered.

  They wound higher into the hills, bouncing in their seats a good twenty minutes until the van stopped. A waving Pro attended a metal gate bookended by pillars of river-rounded stones. He opened the immense padlock and waved them through. Randall eased the van up a crudely repaved drive. Wild mustard enlivened the hillside in Day-Glo splashes. To the right a barbed-wire fence rose from dense mats of ice plant, pointlessly guarding a cliff face. They passed a cluster of cottages, arriving at a broad sprawling building that resembled a
school – the former treatment wing, according to the decrepit signage.

  The wildlife way station, two and a half miles back on the county road judging by the van's speedometer, was apparently society's nearest toehold. Tim checked his cell phone – no reception, no surprise. He turned it off to conserve the battery.

  "We tingle and want and lust, but it's just a prelude for the encounter of gametes, a ploy designed for our hungering genes to forge a zygote. Sex is a loss leader, an excuse our genes export to our heads and loins so we'll smuggle them from warm body to warm body. Do you ever think about that?" Randall pulled into a parking space among a few other cars and two school buses and threw the steering-column gearshift north.

  The others spilled out excitedly.

  Tim offered Randall a numb smile. "Not until now."

  Shouldering the leather overnight bag monogrammed TA, Tim followed the trail of initiates into the building. The others gawked at the trees and barren hillsides, taking note of their surroundings for the first time. Lorraine hurried them inside. They passed a hospital-style check-in desk and several meeting rooms, antiseptic behind reinforced glass and rigid venetian blinds. Randall held open a door, and they shuffled in like pupils.

  TD commanded a chair in the room's center. On the floor about fifteen girls encircled him, covenlike – the Lilies arrayed like hospitality girls. A single young man, a well-built Pro that Tim recognized from the Radisson, had been thrown in for good measure. Leah picked indolently at her shoelace, refusing to raise her eyes. Lorraine skipped a few steps and scooted into place among them, another perfect little daughter. Wearing the same sleeve-torn sweatshirt that showcased his shoulders, Skate stood with his back to the far wall.

  "Where are we?" Wendy asked.

  TD spoke. "You're in the here and now." One of the Lilies eyeballed Tim and whispered something to her neighbor. They giggled. TD looked at them, and they fell silent.

  Randall started tugging the possessions from their hands.

  TD said, "No books, no magazines, no Walkmans, no phones, no newspapers, no money – I follow these rules as assiduously as you will. This is a retreat, and retreat means a break from the distractions of the outside world. The more you sacrifice for yourself, the stronger and more fulfilled you'll become."

  They relinquished their bags reluctantly. Randall and Skate searched them like airport security workers, sniffing perfume bottles, thumbing through makeup kits, and bunch-searching neatly folded clothes. Along with the items designated by TD, lighters, alarm clocks, vitamins, PalmPilots, and BlackBerries were placed in shoe boxes labeled by name. Don and Jason offered up their cell phones. Tim slipped off Will's Cartier and surrendered Tom Altman's keys and engorged money clip. The recruits' driver's licenses and credit cards would greatly aid TD in fleshing out their financial profiles.

  The initiates were now pretty well trapped at the ranch – no cash for a cab, no cell phones to call for a pickup, not even loose change for a bus ride. Not that there was a bus within twenty miles.

  Through all this the Lilies introduced themselves and offered testimonials.

  "I used to eat to make my outer appearance match the way I felt about myself. I had an embedded need for others to see me as worthless and disgusting. I offloaded that need." Lorraine raised her tight sweater, revealing a pinched little waist. Wendy, who carried a bit extra in the thighs and rear, emitted a muffled exclamation.

  In the corner Randall and Skate unzipped Tim's bag. A neatly folded polo underwent a good groping. His toothbrush holder was uncorked and eyeballed. The bag was turned inside out, a new pair of Nikes spilling to the floor. Tim prayed the false lining would hold.

  "I used to be a real asshole," the male Pro, named Chad, was sheepishly conceding. "Just out for the buck. One of those idiots you'd see driving around Manhattan Beach, a USC B-school license-plate frame on my fully loaded Jag. I thought money gave me power." He made a derisive noise in his throat. "Now I have strength. Real strength."

  Tim's book, Learning to Forgive…Yourself, was added to the growing heap of forbidden fruit, as was this morning's Wall Street Journal. The paperback he'd picked up yesterday and put through a few turns in the dryer to give it a well-thumbed appearance; the newspaper he'd crinkled industriously while awaiting pickup at the Radisson.

  Fighting a twitchy smile into place, Leah related her rebirth into strength. "And I'd like to announce that I willed my rash away," she concluded. "It's gone."

  Vigorous applause rewarded her. TD stroked her leg appreciatively. When he rose, she sat quickly. He gestured at the electronic organizers and reading materials. "Think of this as your Phoenix pyre." He pointed to the cover of Don's book, emblazoned with virile type guaranteeing a wealth of secrets and numerous habits of wildly successful briefcase toters. "This crap is precisely what you came here to delete." He snatched up Tim's book, reviewed it with a smirk. "This yours, Tom?"

  Tom Altman smiled, in on the joke. "I'm beginning to think I might regret having brought that."

  TD laughed, letting the paperback slip from his fingers to the floor. "You five have been assigned Gro-Pars who will be with you for the duration of the retreat. They're here to guide you and to make sure you're taken care of."

  Randall stuffed Tim's belongings back into his bag. Tim let out his breath evenly.

  "Congratulations. You're the chosen few. Welcome to the family." TD embraced them like envoys with questionable agendas, clutching their shoulders and appraising them straight-armed before pulling them in, his doubts allayed.

  Around of full-bodied hugs ensued. As Chad embraced Tim, his hands patted about his torso skillfully, a stealthy, impromptu frisk for a wire. When Lorraine hugged him, she felt the cell phone he'd stowed in his pocket and relieved him of it. As Tim joined the line to pick up his expurgated bag, Chad approached Wendy. "Hi there, Wen. Let's get to it." He led her away. Don, distracted in conversation with a solicitous redhead, hardly noticed. Lorraine and Shanna went off arm in arm.

  The abrupt tap on Tim's shoulder was a marked departure from the ready affection flowing elsewhere in the room. Leah said flatly, "I'm your Gro-Par. Follow me."

  Not sure what to make of their pairing, Tim moved swiftly to catch up to her. "Leah. Leah."

  She kept ahead of him, crossing a circle of soggy grass and entering one of the cottages. He followed her down a narrow hall past a few other bedrooms, into a room with splintery furniture painted a baffling shade of periwinkle. On the threadbare sheets, a spread of pamphlets awaited weary travelers in Gideon fashion: Optimizing Program Software. The Six Keys to Offloading Dead Weight. Think Strong!

  Leah closed the door and whirled to face him. "You lied to me." Tim gestured for her to keep her voice down. She did but remained fierce. "Everyone lies to me. Tells me what to think. Well, I'm sick of it. I'm not some stupid girl who can't make her own decisions. You don't know a single thing about me, but you thought you'd just swoop in and rescue me, like some maiden in distress. Is that what you thought?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, some job you did." She was winding up into a panic, working her nails into her scalp at the hairline. "Who sent you? Will?"

  "And your mother."

  "Will's a dick."

  "Yeah. He kind of is."

  Her forehead crinkled. "So what are you doing here?"

  She pointed at the first bed, and Tim unpacked a few shirts into the drawer beneath it. "I'm here because your situation is important to me and I want to find out more."

  "And because my parents hired you to be here."

  "No. I wasn't hired. I'm here as a favor to an old friend who knows them."

  "You're wearing his watch." She yanked off her sweatshirt and tossed it. Purple bruises flowered along the backs of her arms, so dark Tim mistook them at first for tattoos.

  "What happened there?"

  She glanced down, covering her arms self-consciously. "None of your business." She retrieved her sweatshirt and pulled it back on, glaring at him.


  He tugged a little too hard on the next drawer, and it came off its tracks. "I started this because of your parents. But it's become personal."

  "Bullshit. You're a liar."

  "I did lie to you, yes. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

  She took a step back and sank to the thin mattress of the opposing bed. He stuck his hand behind the discharged drawer and felt along the underside of the frame.

  "I don't think I've had an adult apologize to me in my entire life." She remembered her indignation. "I love The Program. It's changed my life. This is where I belong. This is right for me."

  "I'm not trying to take anything away from you."

  "But you don't agree that this is right for me. You believe you know better. That you have the answers to what I need." She waited, arms crossed. "No lying, remember?"

  "I don't think I have the answers. But no, I don't believe this is right for anyone. Except for TD."

  "Stay here and I'll make you see it for yourself."

  "That's a deal. You give me your perspective, I'll give you mine. We answer each other's questions. That's all I ask."

  "We're not here to waste time on Off Program topics. If you cheat The Program, you're just cheating yourself."

  "Then why didn't you turn me in? You've had plenty of opportunity. You could go tell TD now, in fact."

  She seemed agitated and dismayed, at cross-purposes with herself, as if he'd just called a bluff she hadn't even known she'd made.

  Someone banged on the door. A cheery female voice proclaimed, "Time for the Orae. Let's rock and roll to Growth Hall!"

  "We don't want to be late. Put down your stuff and let's go. Not there – that's my nightstand."

  "We're sleeping in the same room?"

  From outside, "Move it, slowpokes!"

  "We have to go."

  "Not unless you agree on the deal. You proposed it." Tim extended his hand. Leah stared at it. "What's threatening about that? If I'm misguided, you should be able to set me straight. That's your job as my Gro-Par."