The Program (18 page)

As she approached her cottage, a growl froze her stiff. Stretched in front of the door, one of the Dobermans raised his head, collar jingling, pupils iridescent with reflected light. Eyes trained on hers, he tipped his muzzle and resumed licking a moist paw. A sticky substance matted his legs, its color lost in the darkened fur. It was only against the pink contrast of the lapping tongue that she saw the ribbons of crimson.

The air felt at once inordinately cool. The dog groomed and rumbled, fixing her with his stare. She tried desperately to tamp down her spiraling fear, which she knew was radiating from her, an incitement to the dog. The sleek head pulled back on a muscular neck, ears on point. Flat, dead eyes studied her unblinkingly; the upper lip wrinkled away from the teeth.

She shrieked when an icy hand grasped the back of her neck. TD's voice purred over her shoulder. "Skate trained them to attack at the scent of blood." He chuckled. "Even the dogs around here don't like victims."

The Doberman rose, growling, but TD waved it back down.

"Are you still bleeding, Leah?"

She shook her head, still too fearful to take her eyes from the dog.

"I think it might be nice for you to come back to my cottage."

Brambles crunching underfoot. The flutter of a bat overhead. Alone with the Teacher on a dark trail, weeds rising head high on either side of them.

Gathering her courage, Leah forced out the question. "Where did Chris go?"

"Chris couldn't handle The Program. Some people just aren't cut out for it. Like Lisa Kander."

"So...where did he go?"

TD turned to face her, still walking ahead, only a few inches taller than she was despite the lifts she'd found hidden in a box in the back of the shoe closet. She cringed, anticipating a burst of anger, but he just laughed. "What are you worried about? That I'd injure someone who didn't agree with me?"

"No...?"

"Of course not. Skate just gave him a ride down the hill."

"Oh my God I'm so relieved I saw the dog and it was bloody around the muzzle and I should have known I'm so sorry for even thinking --"

"Sh-sh-shhhh. It's okay. I'm sure he just got into a squirrel or something. See how negativity can corrupt your thoughts?"

Her head nodded earnestly.

Nancy and Lorraine were waiting back at TD's cottage. They'd prepared his bed and laid out all his nighttime toiletries. He touched them each on the head, palm flat against their crowns. Smiling, Nancy scurried to the kitchen counter and presented a glass of mineral water and a tray laden with vitamins.

A former born-again and TD's first Lily, Lorraine shuddered, her plain features twisting. "Nancy, I told you vitamins were for the morning only."

Nancy's lower lip was already starting to tremble.

TD said, "It would be nice to have milk and strawberries."

Nancy scurried into the kitchen and emerged with a glass and another tray, strawberries arranged around the edge. TD washed down the first mouthful. Eyes on Nancy, he extended his red-stained fingers and dropped the strawberry's leafy hull. It hit the wood floor with a wet tap.

Balancing the tray, Nancy bent, wide knees cracking, and swiped at the floor with a napkin. As she rose, TD plucked another strawberry from the tray and bit into it. The hull landed about a foot from the last stain.

Tears started down Nancy's cheeks as she bent over. By the time she stood, TD had another strawberry poised before his mouth. A satisfied bite. She offered the trembling tray for his refuse, but he reached past it. Another wet morsel hit the floor.

Leah watched, her face hot.

Gasps escaped Nancy as she squatted again. She lost her balance and fell back, tray clanging off the plastic mail tub by the door. He extended the glass, gripping it with umbrellaed fingers at the rim, and released it. It shattered beside Nancy, splattering her with milk. Continuing to scrub with the dumb, repetitive gestures of a stuck pool cleaner, she started to sob, big blubbering cries.

TD said gently, "Negate victimhood."

Lorraine stepped forward and twisted the skin at the back of Nancy's arm. Nancy wept but made no effort to defend herself.

The door swung open, and Skate's broad shoulders filled the doorway, startling them all, even TD.

Streaks of sweat cut through the sheen of dirt covering Skate's arms. "Done."

"I think you're due for a reward." TD fanned his hand at the three girls. Having found her feet, Nancy picked bits of glass from the folds of the sadly outmoded denim dress that she'd worn so cheerfully to the Orae.

Skate's boots knocked on the wood floor. He paused beside Lorraine, eyeing her profile. She stared straight ahead, blinking hard. The color had left her cheeks. Another step brought Skate before Leah. A squint narrowed his brown eyes. He smelled of dirt and wet dog, and his knees were stained with soil. A sturdy finger rose from his fist, the knuckle caked with dried mud. It tapped her, leaving a stain on her shirt.

Leah felt no wave of revulsion, no horror, just the sucking of the void that had become her insides.

"No," TD said. "Anyone else."

Skate nodded, a thoughtful bounce of his head. He turned and studied Nancy's swollen face. His eyes dropped to her generous thighs, visible beneath the sweat-damp dress. He stepped to the side, a double tap of boot heel and toe, leaning to get an eyeful. He looked back at TD.

TD nodded at Nancy. "Go on."

Nancy's tears started again. Her voice was little more than a squeak. "I want to stay with you, TD."

"Go."

A meaty fist encompassed Nancy's considerable arm. Skate tugged, and she followed him out into the night. Her choked cries were audible all the way across the clearing. Then Skate's shed door slammed, and there were just the crickets.

TD stroked Leah's arm. "Come."

Lorraine sat down on an old love seat in the corner, pouting. On his way to the bedroom, TD told her, "I'd like my morning routine to go more smoothly than this."

He closed the door behind them and pressed a button on the wall-mounted stereo. A severed wire was all that remained of the radio antenna. As familiar music swelled, TD said, "Opera is one of four meaningful contributions mankind has made to the world."

She was too nervous to ask the other three.

He undressed by the side of the bed, his lean, sinewy muscles shadowed by the candles Nancy and Lorraine had dutifully lit before his arrival. He fell onto the bed, torso propped on silk pillows, an arm thrown back over his head just so. "You're stopped-up, Leah. Repressed. I've seen how you react to men. I want to lend you my body. You can experiment with me. Do anything that you want. TD wants to do this for you and your growth."

Through the speakers, a tenor moaned, "La donna e mobil qual piuma al vento."

She felt impossibly small, a peasant girl before the throne. "I...I don't think I can."

"A normal woman would feel aroused. You're just holding back. Go on, give it a try. Put your mouth on me."

She shuffled forward, tiny steps on numb feet, but then doubled over clutching her stomach. "I can't."

His face creased. "It's this kind of behavior that got your dad killed from cancer."

"Wh...what?"

"You killed him by accident. I think you were always difficult and obstinate. I think dealing with you backed him up, stymied his development on a cellular level."

A dead weight tugged at her inside. "No. Don't say that. No."

"If that makes you angry with me, too bad. Being nice doesn't interest me. I have more important responsibilities -- to reveal, to provide insight, to speak the truth. If you want to stay with The Program, listen, admit, and learn. If you want to paddle around in your denial, go do it elsewhere. I can call Randall right now and have him take you back down the hill, just like he took Chris."

A flash of an image -- the dog's moist muzzle -- struck her.

"You can make your way out there if you'd like. Now, what's it gonna be? Well?"

Leah fought her lurching gut still. She crouched bedside and bent her head. TD leaned back among the opulent pillows and emitted the faintest of groans.

Chapter
sixteen

When Tim and Dray got back from their morning run, the light was blinking on the answering machine. Tim hit the button and lowered himself into a chair at the kitchen table.

Will's voice filled the room. "Listen, this stylist just got in from the Friedkin thing in Prague. Bill assured me he's the top of the A-list. He goes by Luminar -- it's a one-name thing. Anyway, he'll be at your house at nine."

"Luminar," Dray said. "Top of the A-list. Christ help us."

The machine beeped again, presaging the second message. "Hello, Timmy. Listen, I gave some thought to our talk about your mother's drafting table. I thought perhaps we could have lunch and make arrangements. Give a call."

Tim stared at the quiet machine. "Maybe he does have blood moving through his veins."

Dray leaned on the counter. "When our child died, the man didn't send us a card. He left the funeral early, as if he had somewhere to be."

"I'm not putting him up for beatification."

"And besides" -- Dray, once she picked up steam, was not easily derailed -- "I don't want your mother's desk in there."

"The room is so...empty."

"Maybe you shouldn't be so eager to fill it."

The doorbell rang.

"Goody," Dray said flatly. "That must be Luminar."

When Tim opened the door, a dainty figure stood at the doorstep facing the street, one arm cocked in a V, cigarette holder and smoking butt leaning from a sharply bent hand. Porcelain skin, narrow shoulders, a sweeping kimono of some sort. The shock of red hair taken up in a silk scarf did little to provide Tim with gender cues.

"Nice neighborhood," a soft, decidedly male voice purred. "It's so street."

Tim regarded the oversize metal box on the step distrustfully. "Luminar?"

"Actually" -- the man swished around to face Tim, robe flaring, reddish eyes gleaming -- "it's Lumin-yae." He halted. His splayed arm dropped. He seemed to descend from tiptoes, lowering in his fabrics, the regality departing. In a completely unaffected masculine voice, he said, "Tim Rackley?"

Tim blinked to refocus on the spectacle before him. "Pete Krindon?"

"Oh, thank God." Pete stormed past him, dumping his robe on the floor and snapping the cigarette from the holder. He sucked a deep inhale, eyes rolling with relief. "What the fuck are you doing, Rack?"

"You look like Liberace on the Zone and you're asking what I'm doing?"

Dray entered -- a third baffled participant in the bizarre sketch. "Who's this?"

"Pete Krindon." Tim eyed him. "Or whatever name he's using this week. He's the surveillance guru Bear and I tap when we don't want to go through official channels."

"This guy? Luminar?"

"The r is silent," Tim and Pete said together.

Tim retrieved the makeup box and closed the front door. "What the hell are you into now?"

"Just doing this thing for this guy."

Pete Krindon, Master of Specifics.

"He wanted eyes on the inside. You'd be amazed the shit people tell stylists. Like, I really need to know who douches with Evian." Pete looked at Dray. "Sorry. Anyway, what better job for me? After working undercover all these years, I can run circles around the cosmopolitan-swilling pre-Stonewall stereotypes who call themselves makeup artists in Hollywood. They'd give their Jack Russell terriers for my skills."

Tim eyeballed his getup. "I'm doing some UC work myself. I've already made contact, so I can't show up a different person. I need some minor alterations, just enough that nobody I come across will recognize me from the media."

"Great shit, by the way," Pete said. "Last year. I was pleased to see you finally elected to pursue a more head-on means of conflict resolution." Tim couldn't adjust to the familiar voice issuing from the rouged face. "Okay. So we skew you a little. Who are you?"

"Thirtyish, earnest, wannabe hip, just came into some money."

Pete tapped a finger against his chin appraisingly. "Colin Farrell in Phone Booth meets Tobey Maguire in Spider-Man."

"Who are you working for?" Dray, occasional Us reader, had her interest piqued.

"That's not important." Pete's body suddenly transformed, limbs and joints angling to refashion Luminar's persona. "What is important" -- a bored hand drifted out, finger swirling to spotlight Tim's sweats, T-shirt, year-old Nikes -- "is that we get sister over here looking presentable."

Tim left the blue contacts at home and wore a baseball cap to hide his blond highlights and tweezed-back hairline, but his father's eyes zeroed in on the scruffy goatee right away. Pete had claimed that the facial hair would close off Tim's mouth and fill out his chin, and he'd shaped Tim's brows to alter the appearance of his eyes and forehead.

Tim's father rested his laced hands on the table, napkin in his lap, glass of water untouched, his stillness a mute criticism of Tim's three-minute tardiness.