The Program

Chapter twenty-nine

Despite the downpour, Tim loitered outside his cottage, noting the wire-caged motion detectors that hung from the corners of the eaves like wasps' nests. Though they appeared functional, the encasing mesh had long rusted; the units were likely vestigial security precautions from adolescent-rehab days. Bricks embedded in the dirt on either side of the front step demarcated mini-garden plots, though nothing had grown in them in years.

Tim shoved on a brick with his heel, then pried at it until it rested loose in its muddy foundation, ready to be snatched and wielded in a jam.

He stood dripping in the doorway, battered umbrella at his side, enjoying the silence. The culties were still dispatched, tending to important matters of state like clockwise dish wiping.

The fire alarm was a low-grade blip – and – screech – cracked plastic patties in each room, red eyes blinking heedfully. D batteries – present. Wiring – senescent but still live. Even a few valiant sprinkler heads. No code violations there. He was grasping at straws; a faulty fire-alarm system would hardly strike Winston Smith as a pretext for a federal raid.

A closer examination revealed security mag strikes on the bedroom windows. He sourced the wiring to a pitiful alarm panel in the kitchenette. Its adapter plug could simply be pulled free from the outlet to disable the system. It reminded him of something he'd read once, that one could park a docile elephant by pushpinning its leash to the dirt.

He continued to snoop, cautious of Fraulein Lorraine's imminent arrival.

The pantry held cases of Red Bull and high-energy teas loaded with ginseng, ginkgo, and mahuang. An attic hatch gave roof access, but the opening had been barred, another boon from the ranch's previous incarnation. From film director's retreat to juvie home to cult residence – a consistently squalid tradition.

He chanced on a forbidden TV in one of the common room's cabinets, but a spin through the channels revealed static and more static. A sabotaged cable line and missing antenna explained the lack of reception. A cassette protruded from the video slit beneath the screen. Tim pushed it in.

TD standing on a mountain peak, one booted foot resting atop a boulder, an arm bent across his knee. At his back the sunset glowed theatrically, gold irradiating his fluffed-out hair and blurring his face. Tim found himself concentrating closely to bring TD's features into focus.

TD's voice came as a soporific monotone. "This is your crossroads. You can turn off the tape right now. Go ahead. Go back to your life. And, hey, if everything's perfect there, that might be a good idea. But if it's not, you'd better keep listening. This very moment can be the doorway to your potential."

Tim fast-forwarded a bit, watching TD's head waggle. When the camera pushed to close-up, Tim hit "play" and found himself in the midst of a kinder, gentler Guy-Med. The camera continued to drift and zoom, harmonizing with TD's murmurs. Tim studied the Guy-Med, noting his responses. Sharp, irregular pain seemed to prevent Tim from going under – biting his cheek was just as effective as digging his nail into his palm, and less easily detected. After another few minutes, he eased himself down to the ground and sat. He stifled a yawn. TD's hand drifted up into the screen, and Tim sensed his arm start to rise to match the motion, as if buoyed by rising water. He watched it drift toward the ceiling, unsure if it was detached from him or he from it.

The bang of the front door jarred him from his stupor. Lorraine plunged into the cottage, briskly sweeping water from her jacket sleeves. When she whisked off her hood, her bun came unfastened. She shook a finger at him. "You're supposed to be in your beddy-bye doing GrowthWork."

Tim stood, blinking hard, astounded. He turned off the tape. "Just trying to check the score of the game."

"There's no T V here. Only T D. I'm glad you saw the tape session, though. You liked it?"

"It's captivating."

She led him down the hall, chattering ahead of him. "What did you like best about the day?" He noticed a fallen bobby pin clinging to the hood of her slicker.

He answered truthfully, "My talk with TD."

"What was your favorite part?" She half turned, slowing, and he brushed against her, extracting the bobby pin from the wet lining of the hood. "How his mind works."

"Well, he must like how your mind works, too. You know, TD's never met alone with someone so early on." They reached Tim's bedroom. "And he's never done this so early either." Lorraine swung the door open. "Ta-da!" A thin blue polo awaited him, neatly folded, on the bed. He dragged off his wet pullover and put it on, figuring he might as well endure house arrest in comfort. Admiring his Pro-wear, he was surprised to find that his pleased expression wasn't entirely feigned. He recalled his impulsive desire for his mother's drafting table, masterfully implanted in him by his father.

"Look at this. You haven't even started your GrowthWork." She directed him onto the bed, then placed the hefty binder in his lap. "I'll go fix you a nice relaxing cup of tea."

When she disappeared, he cracked the binder, revealing a page importantly titled "Connecting with Your Inner Source." About two hundred pages, top to bottom with small print – 2500 questions in all. Adding high-caffeine tea to the work burden would encourage sleep-defying diligence, leaving him exhausted and malleable in the morning. He retrieved his watch face and wedged it between his mattress and the wall.

Question 1: As a child, I experienced my father as (a) controlling (b) manipulative (c) jealous.

Question 8: I was abandoned in childhood by (a) divorce (b) death of a parent (c) neglect.

Lorraine came back with the tea and waited until Tim took a sip and feigned immense enjoyment. For about fifteen minutes, she sat on Leah's bed and watched him grow. Adjusting his glasses from time to time, he made a show of furrowing his brow, tapping the pen to his lips, studying the ceiling for inspiration – it was almost fun.

Through the window he saw Skate's squat outline pass at the edge of visibility, dogs padding beside him. On patrol. A silver key, pressed tight against the flesh of his throat, echoed the soft light of the moon.

Lorraine distracted herself by stretching her swanlike arms over her head, remembrance of ballet lessons past. Tim stole a glance at the watch face – 9:48. He flipped to Question 2148 and underlined it, then went back to circling answers indiscriminately.

The rain had finally slowed, though the breeze threw an erratic splatter against the pane. The air of the poorly insulated room seemed dense, aspiring to ice. Finally the others began trickling back to the cottage. Doors opened and closed up the hall.

"Okay, Tom," Lorraine said, "just keep on working like you are -you're doing great. Stay in your room and focus. It's really important you devote this time to yourself." She rose. "Mind if I borrow your sweatshirt? It's in the thirties out there."

"No problem."

Directing a grateful grin at him, she departed. He poured his tea through a crack in the floorboards at the back of the closet, then ate a protein bar and waited for Skate's next loop around Cottage Circle – 10:25. Tim underlined Question 2225, then sneaked to the door. The minute he opened it, a bucktoothed Pro popped up from a recline on the facing common-room couch down the hall. "Hey, Tom. Can I help you with something?"

"No. I just have to go to the bathroom."

"Well, hurry up. If you cheat your GrowthWork time, you're -"

"Cheating myself. So right." Tim brushed his teeth before a mirror-less rise of wall and returned to his cell.

Randall took a spin past the cottage at 10:47 – Tim underlined Question 2247 – and Skate reappeared on question 2313. The timing of the patrols seemed arbitrary, driven by the whims of the Protectors, and so a log probably wouldn't serve Tim well. Skate paused outside on the gone-to-mud path rimming the circular lawn and stared through the window at Tim, probably assuming that the interior light prevented him from seeing out. The Dobermans heeled, plumes of hot breath issuing from jagged mouths, and Tim was struck anew by the Pros' capacity for selective blindness. How could they not take note of a prison patrol on their jolly ranch? Tim's father and TD were right about one thing: The human willingness to surrender critical thought was staggering.

When Tim glanced back up, Skate and the dogs had evaporated in the rain-slatted darkness. He dug for his sweatshirt in his bag before realizing he'd loaned it to Lorraine. Yet another shrewd ploy; borrowing it would permit the cold to intrude on his sleepiness and discourage unsupervised wandering in the night. He wound himself in the thin sheet, keeping an eye on the window. For an hour he watched the spattering puddles, but there was no sign of the Protectors.

For the first time since he arrived, he allowed his thoughts to pull to Dray. She was lying in their bed right now, her hand resting on her belly, monitoring the life within. She was probably reading something moronically escapist to ward off Ginny's ghost and her apprehension about Tim. Leah's photo, nestled lovingly in Will's billfold, came to mind. Tim reflected on the agony of relinquishing a child to the world and watching it batter her. And then, as he'd been taught during a bone-crushing week in the Fort Bragg barracks, he buried all that was personal.

He redirected his attention on his strategy. He was out of his element; he was dealing not with criminals per se but exceptional manipulators. Bankrolling Tom Altman to the tune of $90 million might have been a mistake – it was increasingly clear that he'd garnered more of the group's focus than Tim had intended – but it also offered him unique access to TD. Tom's parsing out of his woeful tale had set the stage for even more interface. It was essentially a flirtation; TD's attentions would persist if Tom Altman proved malleable but not easy. Tim had his own share of remorse to add to Tom's fictional reserve over the botched murder – for – hire, a benefit when confronting TD's uncanny aptitude for scenting susceptibility. But he'd sensed already TD's ability to reach through Tom Altman and rattle the emotions caged in Tim's own chest. Tom was no longer merely a cash cow; his was the head TD wanted on his wall. As TD continued to leverage Tom's points of vulnerability, Tim would find TD's.

Tim curled up to maintain body heat and imagined he was standing ankle deep in a sizzling pool. He let the water climb, warmth claiming his calves, his knees. He was asleep before it hit his waist.

Tim felt a tug at his belt, then a cool hand slide beneath the band of his boxers. For an instant he was certain he was still dreaming, but then he caught Leah's slender wrist, yanked her arm away, and sat up. She reached for him, and again he repelled her.

"Leah. What are you doing?"

"What's wrong?"

"Hang on. Just stop."

"Look, I'm only trying to help you past the divorce. TD thinks you're a little hung up."

She kept moving toward him, so he gripped her forearms. "I don't want this kind of help."

"Then you'll probably need some time in the Growth Room."

"That's fine."

"Well, not with me. I'll get sent there, too."

"So say we had sex. Tell him whatever you need to."

"He'll know."

"Then tell him I couldn't get it up."

At last she stopped, stunned. "Really?" In the refracted light of the moon, she looked about fifteen years old. She was shivering violently. "He'll take you apart for that. Humiliate you."

"If it were true, it might upset me."

She drew a deep, shaky breath. "What's wrong with me? I'm too ugly?" She was trying to goad him into it first with insults, then by appealing to pity. Right on Program.

"No. I don't have sex with whoever TD tells me to. That's my own choice."

"Fine. You'll deserve what you get, then. It's not my problem."

"I never said it was."

Some of the anger left her face. "Did you just get divorced?"

"No." Tim pulled his sheet across her shoulders, then retrieved the one from her bed and wrapped it around her as well. He rubbed her arms through the thin fabric. "What's the Growth Room?"

She described it, trembling with the memory and the cold, her hands instinctively sliding over to cradle the backs of her arms.

Tim said, "And you think that's intended to help you grow?"

"TD doesn't like putting me in there any more than I like being in there. But he's strong enough to do it anyways. You break down muscle to rebuild it, right? Like the Source Code says – exalt strength, not comfort."

"The Source Code is bullshit, Leah. It's decorative."

"Decorative? It's the whole basis of The Program."

"The basis of The Program is implanting self-loathing and anxiety."

She laughed sharply. "Yeah. Sure. I'd love to see The Program you're talking about."

"Then I'll show it to you."

His pledge seemed to intimidate her. "You can't grow without suffering."

"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean that all suffering leads to growth."

"But this does. It puts me in control."

"Nothing can put you in control. You have to put yourself in control."

"Oh, sure. Like you want to do that. TD warned us about people like you. You probably want to turn me Catholic again, like my mom."

"I don't care what you think, as long as you think for yourself."

Moonlight cut her face down the center, leaving it half in shadow. "And how will you know I'm doing that?"

"When other ideas no longer threaten you."

One of her hands curled in the other, a nesting fist. "I wasn't supposed to see my parents that time. I took a huge risk in going. When Janie found out I went, I got put on Victim Row for a week straight, every day." She sank back against the wall. "And for what? To get yelled at by Will and my mom? Slapped? Told how worthless and stupid I am? If I did have any doubts about moving up here…well, they pretty much vanished that night."

"Sounds shitty."

"Shitty, but nothing new. They've never cared about me. Will made me skip my junior prom just so he could pull me up onstage with him when he won Producer of the Year, then he left the stupid Beverly Hills Hotel after in his limo and forgot me. They make me go to Uncle Mike's every Thanksgiving, and I end up getting a rash because I'm allergic to cats."

As she continued reciting the injustices she'd suffered over the years, Tim recalled his own upbringing with dark amusement. When he was ten, his father had shaved his head and taken photos of him to submit with doctored medical reports to children's charities.

"Could be worse," he said when Leah paused between bullet points. "No matter how you've been made to feel about it, getting left behind at the Beverly Hills Hotel hardly constitutes abuse. Not by my standards or The Program's."

"So if I complain, then I'm under mind control, and if I say I'm fulfilled, then I'm under mind control. Neat little trick you came up with."

She hopped off the bed, flung his sheet back at him, and retreated to her mattress.

Tim heard her teeth chattering. "You want my sheet?"

"No." More shivering. Then she added, "Thank you." Rain tapped gently on the window; if the room weren't so frigid, it might have been soothing. Just as Tim recaptured drowsiness, Leah asked in a tiny voice, "What was Jenny like?" Then, a moment later, "I've answered your questions. You said you'd answer mine."

The crisp air made the back of his throat tingle. "Her name wasn't Jenny."

Leah made a gentle noise in her throat – his risk noted. "What was your daughter like?"

"She was the kind of kid you loved so much that you didn't want her to change. But you wanted her to grow up, too, because you couldn't wait to see who she'd become."

"Your answer's all about you. Jesus, do all parents think the world revolves around them? What was she like?"

"Remembering's not easy, Leah." His mouth cottoned, and he ran his tongue across his dry lips. "Her death made me afraid to go to sleep because I couldn't stand remembering when I woke up. Those first few seconds in the morning, when you think everything's like it should be…" He watched a raindrop streak down the black sheet of the pane. "Sometimes I still forget."

"You can't answer the question, can you? You can't answer without talking about you and your suffering. I mean, your little girl died…"

Leah's breathing became barely audible. She was crying as silently as she could. He wondered whether the tears were for herself, whether she knew the difference.

Ginny Rackley, Our Lady of Projection.

"Maybe you're right," Tim said. "In which case you might want to recast your tragic interactions with Uncle Mike's cats."

"First honest thing you've said tonight." Her voice was bitter. "I guess we're both victims."

More rain, more quiet.

"What happened to her? Your daughter."

"What I said at the colloquium."

She shifted in bed; he could sense her eyes trying to penetrate the darkness. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Tim lay for a while, listening for her breathing to steady. Then he crossed the cold floor and draped his sheet over her thin frame.