The Program

Chapter ten

When Tim woke up half an hour later, Dray was on her side, leaning over him, hand near his face. He jerked, startled by her proximity, and she quickly rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

"What the hell was that?"

The shower flipped on. "Nothing."

Tim went in and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching through the glass as Dray pretended to be absorbed in the lathering process. Finally she glanced up. "Look, I put my hand in front of your mouth sometimes when you're sleeping to feel you breathing." She stepped back into the stream. "So it's kind of freakish…"

"You're worried I'm gonna die in my sleep?"

Furiously lathering a knee, Dray fought an embarrassed smile from her lips. "No. Yes. I don't know."

"We have a deal, remember?"

"Die in our sleep when we're ninety. The same night."

"Right. So cut me a break until then, huh? You're overloading my pacemaker."

The shower door slid open, and a sudsy washcloth hit him in the face before he could get his hands up to block it. He pulled it off, laughing and coughing.

Dray poised her leg on the tub's edge and ran a razor up its slick length. "I wouldn't have to do it if you'd just snore like a real husband."

Dray, standing behind Tim, punched a fork into a hunk of his Eggo and mopped it through a pool of residual syrup. She had to angle her head to get the bite in and even still wound up dripping on his sweatshirt. Particularly after their morning runs, Dray ate like a Jurassic carnivore, but her current performance was more arresting than usual. Tim watched two links of sausage disappear in the same direction. He listened for chewing but heard none.

He'd freed up his morning to sit with the case file, but on his walk down the hall, the sight of Ginny's room empty had pulled him up short. He'd taken a moment leaning on the jamb, gazing in. He'd hoped to offset the shock with productivity but was having a sluggish go at it. Thus far he'd done little more than fail to defend his breakfast plate.

He glanced back down at his notepad, in which he'd listed the lingo he'd gleaned from his conversations with Reggie.

Pro, Neo, Common – Censor / Common Sensor? Trigger, Orae/Oray? Gro – Par / Grow – Par? Lilies, Inner Circle.

"You gonna eat that?" Dray's fork flashed past before he could respond. Staring at his sole extant sausage, he realized he'd better stop thinking and start eating.

"Sounds like it's gonna be tough to get to the girl."

"Yes."

"And then, when you do, she won't even want to be rescued?"

"Yes."

"No crime has been committed here, right? That you know of?"

Tim tapped his fork absentmindedly against his orange-juice glass. "No."

"And this would be a bad time for me to revisit why the hell you're doing this to begin with?"

"Yes."

Dray paused midchew. "Just checking."

Tim's cell phone rang, and he rose to grab it before it sambaed off the kitchen counter.

"Hi, Deputy, this is Katie Kelner, Leah's former roommate. Listen, you said to call if anything came up…?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was going through one of my books – well, I thought it was my book, but I guess it got mixed up with Leah's, since she was taking Shit Lit, too."

Tim watched helplessly as Dray swooped down on his last sausage. "Uh-huh."

"She left a card in it, like an appointment card, for a bookmark, you know? And it was from the Student Counseling Center. I guess she was seeing a shrink." This last word Katie whispered severely – odd that anyone in Malibu would believe the term required a lowered voice.

"Does it have the date of the appointment?"

"Yeah, it says December seventh at two o'clock."

A little more than a month before Leah had disappeared from campus.

"You said, you know, to call if I thought of anything."

"And I'm glad you did."

"Some of the stuff I said when you were here…I'm, uh, I'm not an awful person, you know."

"I don't think you're an awful person."

"What do you think?"

He thought that life hadn't smacked her around enough yet for her to realize she didn't know everything. "That's irrelevant."

She let out a dismissive little laugh. "Well, you don't know me. Who cares what you think?"

"To be honest, not too many people."

Getting information out of therapists was generally an exercise in futility, but since Tim was already planning to visit the Pepperdine registrar's office, he figured he might as well pay a courtesy call to the Student Counseling Center afterward.

He'd parked and was crossing campus at a good clip when the cell phone chirped.

A high male voice: "Mr. Henning wants to see you."

"Who's this?"

"He'd like an update on your progress."

"Who's this?"

"I work for Mr. Henning."

Tim had encountered enough Mr. Hennings in his life to recognize a power play shaping up. "If he wants to talk, have him call me himself. I don't deal with intermediaries." Tim snapped the phone shut. About a minute later, as he negotiated a river of students flooding from the Thornton Administration Building, it rang again. "Yeah?"

"I'm a very busy man, Mr. Rackley."

"You and me both, Will."

"Yet you insist on a personal phone call."

"This isn't a budget meeting. I'm protecting your confidentiality. And your daughter's. That's how this goes."

"Fine." The line went dead.

Tim's phone sounded a third time. "Hi, Tim, this is Will Henning. I'd like to see you."

Without the sarcastic tone, it might have been funny. "Where are you?"

"I work from home now." He added defensively, "I get more done here."

"I'll get to you sometime this afternoon."

"When?"

"When I get there."

Tim followed the signage to the registrar's counter only to find himself in line behind ten or so students. He waited with them so he could watch the proceedings. Dropping a class proved to be a protracted negotiation involving substantial paperwork. It took a good half hour for the line to dissipate, during which Tim noted nothing to indicate a recruitment ploy like the one Reggie had described.

The registrar, an octogenarian with a kindly demeanor and prodigious eyeglasses, informed Tim that she'd run the office for the past thirty-five years and assured him that no funny business had gone down under her tenure. For confidentiality purposes, she didn't permit student workers in the office, and the two women she oversaw had been there for years. A brief talk with both of them was enough for Tim to put the flimsy lead to bed.

He zagged back across campus in the car, following the blue signs. The Student Counseling Center proved to be a beige and brown modular home sandwiched between a parking lot and a scrubby hill. It seemed more like a school nurse's station in a welfare mountain-state town than the therapy center for a high-tuition Malibu university.

The potted plants lining the ramp brushed Tim's jeans on his way up. With its blue carpet and paneled walls, the interior typified modular decor. Seemingly out of place was the well-dressed woman behind the petite reception desk, whose cheery, first-name-basis nameplate announced her solely as ROBBIE.

Her pert face tightened a bit when he introduced himself. "Confidentiality is absolute here, Mr. Rackley."

"Please, call me Tim."

"We adhere to the guidelines of the American Psychological Association."

"Are all the therapists psychologists?"

"No, Mr. Rackley. Most are licensed social workers, but the same confidentiality guidelines apply to them."

"Do students need to be referred here?"

"They can come directly if they're an undergraduate or a student at the law school, GSBM -"