The Program Read online

  Dray’s face was blank, her forehead unlined—the impassivity of shock relived. “Sorry I didn’t wait for you. I know you’ve been ready”— she gestured to the empty closet—”for a while now. I just wanted to... I guess with my reaction last night at the door, it made me realize... maybe it’s time to move through it, like you’ve been saying.”

  He bobbed his head.

  She blew a wisp of hair off her forehead. “It’s so damn exhausting. It shouldn’t be, this stuff, but it is.” She extended an arm, and he pulled her to her feet. They kissed, Dray wrapping her arms around the back of his neck. She hadn’t been as demonstrative or as emotional before Ginny’s death, though Tim didn’t mind the change a bit.

  She moved to the bed and began pulling off the sheets—Powerpuff Girls flannels that had been dutifully washed weekly for over a year. Ginny’s motifs were relics in the fast-paced world of children’s trends. They’d grown outdated and unhip, an ignominy Ginny would never have permitted. Tim had learned, step by step, how to live again without a daughter, but he still missed toy stores and zany cartoons and Olivia the naughty pig. There was a time he could distinguish Beauty and the Beast songs from those from The Little Mermaid. He thought of Bederman’s diatribe about the Christmastime ploys of toy companies and realized he would do anything to be conned into buying the latest and greatest girl’s novelty right about now.

  He started to help, emptying the desk drawers into a fresh bag, careful to handle Ginny’s former belongings with care. When he realized he was treating a SpongeBob pencil eraser with reverence, he let go and started scooping and dumping. Dray’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I don’t even know if this makes me sad. Or guilty.” She held a tiny T-shirt in each hand; they drooped like dead kittens. “We see so much of this shit, this heavy symbolic shit, in movies, on TV, but maybe this isn’t the time and place for it.” Her voice was flat like her eyes. “Maybe we should try not to think and just get this done.”

  At the end of the hour, Ginny’s possessions—the sum total of her physical grasp on the world—were bound up in seven Hefty bags bound for the Salvation Army. Tim hauled them to the porch, then took apart her bed and her desk—doing his best not to let the crayon marks, the Kool-Aid stains, the glittery Dora stickers reduce him to uselessness. Once the furniture also made its way outside, he came back in, sweaty and hot in the face. Dray was standing in the entry, looking out at the sad assembly of goods on the front walk, a broken-down convoy.

  Dray said, “I think I’m going to cry now.”

  Tim started to say okay but caught her as her knees buckled. He held her, stroked her hair. He pressed his face to her head, rocking her on the floor, her legs kicking and sprawling. He worked to control his own reaction, because the unspoken deal they’d arrived at through trial and error was that they’d only let go like this one at a time.

  The crying stopped, then the tight sobs accompanying her inhalations. Her hair, normally razor straight and straw-colored, stayed pasted to her sticky face in brown swirls. Her eyes—honest and strong and magnificently green, as always. She coughed out a brief, exhausted laugh. “Guess I figured out what to feel, huh? Hell.”

  “Let me take you out. How about Nobu?”

  “Nobu?”

  “What the hell, I’m making the federal bucks now.”

  They’d been only once to the upscale Japanese restaurant, located over the canyon from their Moorpark house. On their post-Ginny wedding anniversary, a grim evening in May, they’d sat stiffly among second-tier movie stars and Malibu divorcees, pretending not to notice the three well-groomed girls at the table to their left or the empty chairs at their own four-top.

  Dray changed quickly, even putting on a touch of eyeliner and blush. Makeup, which she rarely and reluctantly wore, didn’t suit her—her looks were so natural and healthy she could go without—but Tim didn’t mention it because he prized the intent behind her effort. He threw on a pressed shirt, and soon they were on their way in Dray’s Blazer, Tim at the wheel, holding hands across the console. Dray blinked against the sting of the mascara. “In Your Eyes” wailed from the speakers, seeming an added contrivance to the impromptu romantic outing. When they reached the 23/101 interchange, Dray finally snapped down the visor and started smearing off her makeup. “You know what? This is too weird after everything tonight.”

  Tim let out a relieved laugh. “Thank God. How’s Fatburger sound?” Dray smiled as he exited the freeway. “Divine.”

  EIGHT

  The insistent bleating of the cell phone pulled Tim from sleep. Buried in blankets, Dray made tired noises and shifted around. A spout of hair across the pillow, the sole trace of her, had gone red in the alarm-clock glow—2:43.

  Tim sat up before answering, feet flat on the cold floor—a habit that forced wee-hours lucidity. “Yeah?”

  “Tim Rackley?”

  “Who is this?”

  “You tell me.”

  He rubbed an eye, running through the options. Since he was working only one case, it didn’t take long. “Reggie Rondell.”

  “Just might be.”

  “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”

  “Is it really?” No hint of sarcasm. Some rustling. “Holy shit, look at that—you’re right. I don’t keep track of the hours so good anymore.”

  “You want to talk?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “Okay. Let’s set up a time, and I’ll come see you.”

  “I got time now.”

  “Now’s not the greatest.”

  “For who?”

  Tim dropped the receiver from his mouth so his exhale wouldn’t be heard. “Okay. Where are you?”

  “Where you left me. I’m working back-to-backs.”

  “I’m gonna bring my partner. I can have him wait in the car if you’d like.”

  “I’d like.”

  Tim snapped the phone shut and blinked hard a few times. Dray surfaced, bangs down across her eyes. “I forgot about this part.”

  He crossed the bedroom, crouched, and spun the dial of the gun safe.

  Bear gazed bleary-eyed through the windshield, one hand fisting the top of the wheel, the other holding a chipped mug out of which spooled steam and the scent of cheap coffee. “Here’s where I wish I still smoked.”

  The headlights blazed a yellow cone between the asphalt and the morning dark, the truck hurtling toward dawn. Curled between them on the bench seat, Boston stuck his muzzle into Tim’s side until Tim scratched behind his ear. Bear had reluctantly inherited the even-tempered Rhodesian Ridgeback, and the two had rapidly become inseparable. Tim had only recently begun to disassociate Boston from his previous owner, a plucky brunette who’d fared worse than Tim in last year’s collision course.

  “Kind of a shady meet, no? A nighttime summons to a by-the-hour motel the wrong side of Culver City?”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Tim said.

  “And I thought it was my sunny disposition.”

  Road construction slowed them to a crawl at the 405 interchange. In L.A., even a 3:00 A.M. drive can’t deliver you from traffic.

  “He’s got no wants, no warrants, for what that’s worth, but his jittery-poodle routine doesn’t fill me with trust. You think he’s really scared of me or he’s trying to sitting-duck my ass out in the parking lot?”

  “I think he’s really scared of you. Or what you represent in his cult conditioning.”

  Bear stared at him as if he’d shifted to Swedish. “Well, Dr. Phil, I still say we just haul him in and press the fuck out of him. Or are you gonna give me your bullshit about catching flies with honey?”

  “We push too hard, the guy could melt down all over your fine vinyl seats.”

  The sky had lightened to slate by the time they pulled past the motel parking lot. Bear took the rig around the block once; everything looked clear.

  The jangling bells announcing Tim’s entrance sent the papers in Reggie’s hands flying. “Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”
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br />   Though the carpet had been cleaned, it still squished beneath Tim’s shoes. The place smelled like a bad sushi joint.

  Reggie flicked the bent red plastic hands of a smiley-faced I’ll-Be-

  Back-By clock to 6:00 and propped it on the cheap blotter. He pulled the brown paper bag from the drawer and carried it out with him, tucked under an arm like a clutch purse. “I don’t take them, the downers. I don’t need to, as long as I know they’re here with me.”

  Reggie led them down the walk running along the lot’s edge, key dangling from a plastic medallion with 5 stamped on it in flaking gold. Tim noticed he kept his eyes on Bear in the truck, only glancing away briefly to navigate. Through the reflections off the windshield, Bear offered a cheery wave, which turned to a middle finger when Reggie rotated to jiggle the key in the knob. Bear made his trademark “what the fuck?” head dip about the locale switch, aped by Boston beside him, but Tim gave them both the flat hand, indicating everything was okay.

  A few more tugs and pushes and the door swung open. An index card hanging from a length of yarn affixed to the ceiling slapped Reggie in the face when he stepped inside. It read: Lock Door Behind You.

  “Right,” Reggie said, speaking to the card. He stepped aside, letting them in, then bolted the door.

  They were literally ankle deep in clothes and trash. The floor was likely carpeted, given the slight yield beneath Tim’s feet; the bed and bureau he distinguished mostly by shape and location. A yellowed poster of the Department of Agriculture food pyramid sagged through its tacks, cheerfully declaiming, MEAT AND POULTRY—2-3 SERVINGS A DAY.

  Keeping an eye on Reggie, Tim took a quick turn around the room, glancing into the bathroom and open closet.

  Reggie pulled back the comforter, dispersing unopened mail and cheeseburger wrappers, and sat. “I think there’s a chair over there.”

  Tim found it beneath a raincoat and a sweatshirt, which he set respectfully atop the TV before sitting.

  Upsetting a glass of water, Reggie grabbed a worn spiral notepad from the nightstand. He flipped through it, finger tracing down the pen-marked pages. “Damnit. I forgot to deposit my check today.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “But it’s okay. I can learn from this. There’s a lesson here.”

  “Reggie.”

  “Oh, right. Right.” He propped himself up on some pillows. “Tell me about the girl.”

  “She’s nineteen years old. Sensitive, vulnerable. A dreamer. Her parents are tougher than most but provided her more than the basics. A good worker—she was studying computer science at Pepperdine. She liked flowers, simple pleasures. Not the coolest girl in the dorm, maybe the last to get asked out, but the kind the guys’ll regret ignoring when the ten-year swings around. Clean, pretty features, a touch goofy, but growing into herself every minute.”

  Reggie closed his eyes, leaning back against the wicker headboard. “God, I know the type. Ripe and willing. There are so many of them. You can choke the life out of them, just like that.” A groan colored his sigh. “When you exit or get deprogrammed or whatever the fuck you want to call it, they say, ‘At the time you were doing the best you could with the information you had.’ I tell myself that when I think about all the kids I recruited, all the people tangled up and dismantled in there because of me. I tell myself that, but I’m also full of shit.” He was gone for a few minutes, and then his head tilted forward. “How long’s she been in?”

  “Three months or so. Involved another month or two before that.”

  “There’s still time. She could get out less damaged.”

  “Less damaged than who?”

  His smile genuine but dead in the eyes, Reggie made a gun with his hand and pointed the barrel at his reflection in the spotted mirror on the opposite wall. “Nightmares, panic attacks, fainting, blackouts, exhaustion, difficulty concentrating, involuntary body shaking, episodes of dissociation, migraines. I’m a walking case study.”

  “But you’re walking.”

  Reggie swallowed hard. “Look, the thing is, when you’re... like this, it’s hard to talk to anyone. It’s embarrassing. To be seen, even.”

  “I’ll be patient with you.”

  Reggie sniffed a couple of times and cleared his throat. Rather than look up, he flicked his hand inward—bring it on.

  “Were you and Ernie in a cult together?”

  A nod.

  “What’s the name of the cult?”

  He snapped upright, eyes darting to the windows, the door. “I’m not talking specifics. No way, man. You can leave right now.”

  “Okay. Relax. We can take this at your pace. You won’t give me any names? The cult leader, members?”

  “They’ll come after me. I’m the only one, you know. Me and Ernie, but what’s Ernie anymore?”

  “You’re the only what?”

  “The only nonsuicide. Not that I haven’t tried.” Reggie pushed up his sleeve, revealing a white worm of a scar on the underside of his forearm. “I slit my wrists, tried to hang myself.”

  “Both attempts since you’ve been out?”

  “About twenty minutes apart, actually. I’m a fast clotter.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Then the fucking knot didn’t hold. The rope slid, left me dangling with my wrists scabbing up and my toes on the ground. I had to call for help. Isn’t that the most pathetic fucking thing you’ve ever heard?” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Whew. Haven’t had a chuckle like that since I don’t know when. Yeah, we all kill ourselves, pretty much.”

  Tim felt a stab of concern. “Did a girl join that group recently?”

  Reggie waved a finger at him like a schoolmarm.

  Tim wanted to see if Leah’s name would draw a reaction, but giving it up entailed too many risks. “Why do you kill yourselves? Or try?”

  “Shit, you’re a babe in the woods, asking a question like that. Look around, man. You see anything appealing? I had money lined out—my dad’s in land development. I used to drive a Porsche. Now I’m this. Here. My family’s had it with me, and I don’t blame them. They did their part already when I limped my ass back home fifteen months ago, so they can wash their hands of me now in good conscience. I want to pay them back for the cost of the deprogramming, but I can’t even do that. It’s all I can do to drag myself down four doors and work the counter. They’re still in my head, man. They implant shit in your cells. They replace your identity. Problem is, once you’re out, it’s tough finding your old one. That’s why no one leaves.”

  “You miss the cult?”

  “Fuck, yeah I do. Part of it. It’s like getting high. The meditation felt like melting into a river. You get hooked on it, that peacefulness, you know? Even when everything else is going to hell, you still felt like you were part of something special. And like it was a part of you.”

  He’d relaxed a little; Tim wanted to keep him talking. “How do new members join?”

  “We find them. You have to bring in a certain number of Neos— that’s what we call them—or you’re a failure. I sorta had... sorta had a breakdown, under the pressure of it. I had a chronic ‘need’ to be weak and dysfunctional. You can imagine how that went over.”

  “What do you look for in a Neo?”

  Reggie threw up his hands. “I’m done talking.”

  Using cult lingo back to Reggie was clearly a bad call. Tim had been trying to make Reggie talk to him like an insider but had only succeeded in putting him on guard by indicating how closely he was listening. Good job, Columbo.

  “Listen,” Tim said, “I’m not pressing you for any specifics here. I just need to know how it works. In general.”

  He regarded Tim warily. “I’ll talk in general.”

  “So tell me how you pick new recruits.”

  “It’s all about dosh, though no one says that directly. People ‘reliant on money’ are among those most in need of being liberated, you see. I was no good at picking them out. You’d think I’d be better at it, but every guy I thought was a big roller we’d find out wa
s a poseur.”

  “Where would you recruit?”

  “Anywhere you can catch normal people at a tough time in their lives. Airports are good—get them coming to a new city, out of their element. They’re eager to connect. Funeral homes sometimes, catch them when they’ve just lost a parent—they’ve likely just come into some dough. You try to find them when they’re looking for something. Singles services, church mixers, job fairs. We worked the high-end drug-rehab centers for a while, but that didn’t pan out so hot. We had trouble with the snownoses—they were trust-funders, a lot of them, but they backslid too much, and the Teacher—” Reggie stopped, terrified by his slip.

  Tim knew that recognition had shown on his own face, which probably wasn’t helping matters for Reggie. He waited patiently.

  Reggie took a moment to regain his composure. “And our leader hates messes. Oh, we also hit rich-kid schools like Loyola or SC.”

  Tim leaned forward. “Tell me about the schools.”

  Reggie smiled, his tongue poking in the space left by a missing incisor. “This one Pro had a great gig, working the registrar’s office at Loyola for a few months. When kids came in to drop a class, she’d work them up: Having a tough time here on campus? Your parents don’t understand why you can’t keep up with your schedule? Things stressful? They were a needy bunch—smart and rich, too. More likely to accept an invite.”

  “An invite to what?”

  “Shit, how’d you get put on this case? You have no clue how this works.”

  “Educate me.”

  Reggie stood and paced a few turns, stray papers crinkling underfoot. “It’s a spiral, man, a flushing toilet. You snare ‘em and drag ‘em inward.”

  “What’re the criteria?”

  “If you have money. If you listen well. If you please him.”

  One male leader, Tim noted.

  Reggie sat down, shoulders humped, exhausted. “He’s real selective about who gets to move to the Inner Circle—that’s why he’s had so much luck with people staying on board. He’d never run the risk of people leaving and revealing him for who he is—he’d fucking kill them first. He’s building a tight, loyal core to take on the world.”