The Program

Chapter 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."

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