The Program (42 page)

Dray fought her down, pinning her with a knee across the chest, and fumbled the phone to her ear. She reached to turn off the boom box with her foot, but it was too far a stretch. Tim picked up on the first ring.

"She's in some kind of trance, banging her head, and she won't stop --"

"I can barely hear you."

Leah bucked and screeched.

"She's crying out, and the music --"

"Is that Enya? On the radio. That's one of her triggers. Turn it off."

Dray rolled off Leah and slapped the power button. Leah's thrashing quieted. Dray snapped her fingers in front of Leah's closed eyes, a Hollywood technique of dubious efficacy. "Now what the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Talk to her. Tell her to come to."

Dray smoothed Leah's hair off her face; the abrasions, despite their yield, appeared to be minor. "Leah, wake up now. It's time to wake up."

"Tell her to come to. Use that phrase."

When Dray repeated the command, Leah's eyes fluttered open, showing a lot of white. The pupils slowly pulled down into view. Leah lurched forward violently. An instinctive "ssshh" emerged from Dray's tensed lips. Leah's eyes darted around until she seemed to recognize her surroundings, then she released a shuddering sigh and burst into tears.

"What's happening?" Tim asked.

Leah curled into a ball, clasping Dray about her waist, pressing her face into her side. After a moment Dray reached down and stroked her head. "We're okay now."

Chapter
thirty-five

Freed's Porsche dripped oil in Tannino's driveway, parked beside the marshal's Bronco and his Sunday car, a classic Olds -- champagne with velveteen interior. Further diminishing the repute of vanity plates, Freed's license read FRNSHME, a tip of the hat to the family biz.

Freed and Thomas awaited Tim and Bear inside, along with Tannino and Winston Smith, the federal prosecutor, who gripped the brim of his trademark felt hat with both hands like a farmer awaiting a bank loan. They sat ensconced in a devouring sectional sofa while Tannino's wife and sister bustled clamorously, brandishing espressos and dishes of confetti candy. Various sloe-eyed antecedents peered out from garish frames on the piano.

Tannino's wife cupped a hand on Tim's cheek. "Tim, sweetie, I haven't seen you since all that..." A wave of her manicured hand finished the sentiment. "Let me bring you some figs. George, I have the perfect thing." Aside from judges, she was the only one to call Bear by his given name. "Zucchini flowers I made for dinner. You sit."

Tim and Bear's bumbling demurrals went largely ignored.

Tannino's niece practically skipped out from her bedroom, all done up and date ready. The men smiled and did their best not to observe her -- she was stunning, and Tannino was vigilant. She and Tannino kissed, a quick peck on the mouth that somehow wasn't creepy.

"This kid she's dating" -- Tannino pointed at the door through which his niece had just departed -- "got picked up for shoplifting --"

"Marco," his wife snapped, handing Bear a plate. "He was eleven."

Bear took advantage of her distraction, enfolding a greasy zucchini flower in a napkin and pocketing it.

Tannino's sister paused from collecting doily coasters and crossed her arms. "Winston, drink your sambuca."

"Thanks, but I'm --"

At her cocked eyebrow, Winston complied. She kept an eye trained on him until the coffee bean clicked against his grimace.

To great relief, Tannino announced, "We're going back to the study."

"Marco," his wife protested, "your guests are hungry."

He spread his hands and patted the air, and that was that. Like a troop of Cub Scouts, they trailed him down the dimly lit hall, the walls offering grisly renderings of saints undergoing sundry ordeals. The study doors rolled shut, and they were safe.

Tannino snapped his fingers. Bear handed him the engorged napkin, and the marshal slid open his window, whistled over one of his retrievers, and shook out the contents.

The men took a moment to reinflate themselves.

The marshal steered Tim into a distressed leather sofa and examined him, brown eyes shiny with paternal relief, maybe pride. "I'm glad you're safe."

Winston and Freed echoed the sentiment. Thomas nodded.

Tim removed an unmarked VHS tape from his jacket and tossed it on the couch. "Take a look at this when you get a chance. It's a video indoctrination. The next phase of The Program lets Betters condition people without even having to be there."

"The girl," Tannino said. "What about the girl?"

"We're meeting with her parents in the A.M."

Winston's mouth was watering from remembered sambuca. "What'd you dig up on Betters?"

Tim debriefed them. He recalled every detail he could, not shying away from the times he'd started to go under during Program drills. Thomas seemed to have softened by the time Tim finished recounting his humiliations; indignity endured for the cause could dull even the sharpest of resentments.

Leaning against the big-screen TV, Bear hummed with energy. "Get us a search warrant, and let's go tune the mutts up."

The AUSA, an unreluctant bearer of bad news, announced with a defensive edge, "I need a better supporting affidavit." Winston held up his hand, fending off an all-sides protest. "You're asking me to process a search warrant that's going to cause a major escalation in a volatile situation. This is a cult on remote terrain with armed members. It'll take a regiment to serve a warrant -- we can't exactly send two deputies up there to ring the doorbell and have a look-see."

Tannino pressed his thumb and index finger to his eyes, letting them slide with the skin of the lids. Not a good sign.

Winston said, "You'll recall, Rackley, that the FBI already went this route and wound up with nothing but a mouthful of lawsuits they're still choking on."

"A girl was murdered. I'm an eyewitness declarant."

"You actually saw her get shot?"

"I heard a gunshot."

"In a lightning storm."

"The dogs came out of the trees with glistening muzzles."

Winston folded his hands across his knee. "So they were healthy dogs."

"Three people went into the woods. Two came out."

"We find the defendants guilty, Your Honor."

Annoyed, Tim turned his attention to the marshal. "We need to get up there with cadaver dogs."

"After the rains, in wild terrain, we'd need a lot of time." Tannino's voice was softer than Winston's, more regretful. "We can't just march in and set up camp for a few days. Not without a solid foothold."

"Look, Rackley," Winston said. "Of course we all know that the girl was probably killed. But that doesn't matter. What matters is sufficient grounds or concrete evidence to justify what would be tantamount to a federal raid. You haven't established probable cause. We need grounds."

"Leah told me that Nancy was repeatedly sexually coerced."

"Hearsay."

Bear said, "How about the Dead Link files? Everyone who's left The Program either committed suicide, disappeared, or wound up in the loony bin."

"It's systematic," Tim added. "No one who can expose The Program gets out intact. TD won't risk it. Not at this stage."

"Again, nothing to take to the bank," Winston said. "You can look into those names further --"

"I did," Bear chimed in. "Except for Reggie Rondell and" -- he flipped open his notepad -- "Wayne Topping, who Freed's still working on, we verified TD's intel. It's correct on all the other Dead Links."

"Keeping folders on expunged members is not a crime. And it's not news that these people are missing. They've been missing ever since they joined this cult. If we could legitimately determine the nature of the Dead Link computer files, perhaps we could make a case, but just name and status on a sheet of paper? Uh-uh."

"Can we get him on assault?" Tim said. "The Growth Room is a ritualized form of torture. As is severe sleep deprivation."

"You're asking for a full ART deployment because someone got pinched and skipped a nap?"

"Don't be dismissive. There are valid grounds for assault charges here."

"On whose behalf? To have the victims themselves be hostile witnesses? Well, just read Helter Skelter for what a breeze that'll be."

"Bugliosi got convictions for Manson and his cohorts."

"After a nine-and-a-half-month trial that cost nine-point-one million dollars -- in 1971 dollars. And here we've got no dead Sharon Tate with whom to incite the masses."

"Betters, unlike Manson, has broad appeal. He'll be operating in six states by the end of next month."

"And by all legally visible indications, he'll be doing it lawfully." Winston leaned back on the sofa, letting his hands rest on his knees. "We can't use anything you uncovered in the modular office. Betters has a reasonable expectation of privacy in that space."

"Come on, Win," Tannino said. "We all know how the game is played. I told Rackley myself he should --"

"I don't want to know that." Winston feigned being dazed, tapping his ears. "I seem to be having some problems with my hearing."

Tim said, "You can't make a case off anything I brought you?"

"It's fine investigative work, but if we ever threw it into the ring, it would do nothing but elicit a volley of suppression motions. Any search warrant would be quashed, the evidence thrown out as fruit of a poisonous tree." Winston smiled wearily and said, only half jokingly, "Our old nemesis, the Fourth Amendment."

Tim felt his confidence sapping. He was grateful to Freed for stepping in.

"We have evidence of Betters fraudulently acquiring tens of millions of dollars."

"What fraud? From what I've heard, Betters uses no scheme or device. They sign over their assets because he asks them to. That's their right."

"You could argue diminished capacity."

"Being a brainwashed idiot doesn't fall under any legal definition of diminished capacity. And even if it did -- again, who's pressing charges? Certainly none of Betters's myrmidons. It's Stockholm syndrome times sixty up there. Plus, where's the federal hook? So far we're talking state charges, and believe me, an overburdened DA isn't gonna want to take it up the line any more than I do."

"Stockpiling weapons?" Thomas asked.

"Rackley found no claymores, no grenades, nothing illegal. Betters can amass handguns galore as long as they're not clearly linked to criminal intent."

"I'm sure they're all registered," Thomas muttered.

"We can't take a chance of that magnitude on the hope they aren't."

Tim's mouth tasted bitter. "So you wouldn't grant me a surveillance warrant to gather evidence, and now you won't move forward because I don't have enough evidence."

"Well, yeah." Winston was silent, as if this tautology were a self-evident truth. "There are laws, Rackley. They're not perfect, but they're what we have. And if the marshal and the U.S. Attorney are gonna bend them on a case, you're not exactly the deputy --" He caught himself. "Look, you did a fine job here. I'm equally frustrated that we can't do more. And I know I'm the bad guy, getting called in here to say what's gonna fly and what isn't, but we're dealing with a lot of scrutiny these days. Constitutional protections have eroded substantially under Ashcroft and the Patriot Act, and I'm not gonna be the poster boy for the backlash. We're all on the same team -- we need to protect the DOJ and the Service. One misstep on a thing like this is all it takes. We'll have international press coverage, TD's zealots foaming at the mouth, civil libertarians invoking the holy trinity of goatfucks -- Ruby Ridge, Wounded Knee, Waco."

Tim looked at Bear, who had the benefit of a night-school J.D. under his belt. He cursed softly and swiped a palm across his thick neck -- not the clarity Tim was looking for.

"Listen," Tannino said. "Terrance Betters is a thorn in the side of the federal government. The IRS has a crush on him, DOD wants his number, FBI, too. I'd love nothing more than to light his ass up, but I can't risk going in there and coming out with my dick in my hands."

"When guys are as clever as Betters, sometimes the resources it takes to nail them aren't worth it." Winston rose and pointedly dusted his hat with two swift slaps. "My advice: Keep the girl out and forget it. Don't hand Betters a cause for action -- hand him plenty of rope and then wait." He nodded at Tannino. "Please thank your wife for the libations." He considerately closed the doors shut behind him.

A foul mood lingered in the room.

"I'm sorry, son." The grooves around Tannino's mouth and eyes were deeply pronounced; playing the bureaucrat never failed to age him. "I think this one's run its course."

Tim nodded once and rose.

"Rackley. I need the..."

"Right." Tim withdrew his marshal's star, mounted on its leather tag. "I appreciate the work."

Freed studied the carpet; even Thomas coughed uncomfortably.

Tim handed the badge to Tannino, who unhappily took it. Tim unholstered his .357, set it on the desk, shook hands all around, and left.