The Program (7 page)

"By any means necessary."

"Oh, no, no, no. Abducting her would be a grave mistake. You law-enforcement types have three approaches -- force, force, and more force." Bederman seemed unnerved by Tim's silence. "You can't show someone that coercion is wrong by coercing her in the opposite direction."

"She's clearly not thinking for herself. What if a recovery operation is the only way to get her the help she needs?"

"It's never the only way." He'd come up out of his chair with the exclamation; he took a moment to ease himself back down.

"What matters is getting her out."

"It's not that simple. The process by which a person gets out from under the cult's dominance is essential. She'll be crippled by implanted phobias about leaving. You might wreck her in the process of trying to save her." Bederman cocked a snowy eyebrow. "Force may work when tracking down crooks in stocking caps, but it doesn't stand a chance when you're up against mind control, psychological coercion, phobias. Take it from me, Deputy. You can very easily, very quickly get in over your head here."

Chapter
five

The institute's bleached tile, white walls, and the antiseptic chill of fluorescent overheads all contributed to the serene mood. Tim drifted down a corridor past a bank of windows looking in on a cluster of people in gowns, twisting, bending, and extending their arms in slow motion, a sculpture garden coming sluggishly to life. A social worker with sharp, attractive features and shiny black hair met him at the reception console, wielding an immense visitors' log. After he signed in, she led him to her office, where she called Ernie Tramine's father and confirmed approval for the visit.

"Ernie hasn't spoken in weeks. I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish." Her voice was pleasant and observational.

"It's part of an investigation." Tim immediately regretted sounding like an uptight TV cop; her polite interest in his badge at reception had made him feel like a kid showing off a tin sheriff star.

"Take a seat behind my desk. I'll bring Ernie right in."

The office's single window overlooked a treetop canopy six stories below. A prepackaged Zen garden on the desktop tirelessly cycled water. Tim sank into Ms. Liu's chair, which tilted accommodatingly under his weight. He pushed "redial" on her telephone, and a number popped up on the Caller ID screen as it dialed. He punched the number into his own cell phone to save it and hung up the receiver before the call rang through.

A few minutes later, Ms. Liu entered again, guiding Ernie in front of her. Tim was struck immediately by how young he looked -- he couldn't have been over twenty-one. His chiseled features and dark eyes had probably served him well in the past. He looked like a kid whose biggest concern should have been how many girls were showing up to the next three-kegger, and yet here he was, rocking and mute, his feet encased in paper slippers. He wore a few days' scruff and an incredibly blank expression, as if his facial muscles had atrophied.

Ms. Liu steered Ernie into the interview chair facing the desk, and Ernie immediately began to rock. "I'll be right outside," she said.

The door clicked behind her. Ernie's eyes focused on his tight-clasped hands.

"Hi, Ernie. My name's Tim Rackley. It's nice to meet you."

Ernie swayed rhythmically.

"I have a few questions I'd like to ask you." Tim might as well have been talking to a watercooler, a fire hydrant, his father. He realized how foolish he'd been to ignore Bederman's and Ms. Liu's hesitations.

"I'm looking for a girl who joined up with a group of people. I think she was recruited off campus at Pepperdine. You went to Pepperdine, right?"

Ernie leaned forward in his chair, zoned out. Tim drew nearer in an attempt to engage him, resting his elbows on the desk. He brought his face within a few feet of Ernie's, but still Ernie didn't look up to meet his eyes.

"What was the name of the group you joined?"

The lulling whisper of the trickling water.

"Do you remember joining a group?"

Ernie's gentle rocking continued, regular as a heartbeat. Tim studied his eyebrows, his pupils, the occasional flicker of his lids.

"Can you tell me anything about the Teacher?"

Ernie snapped forward violently, screaming, his face inches from Tim's. Tim jerked back, elbow striking the Zen garden and sending it crashing to the floor. He rolled back until the chair collided with the wall. Ernie paused only to suck in a deep, screeching breath and then continued. Ms. Liu burst through the door, looking uncharacteristically flustered, and Tim heard the pounding footsteps of approaching backup.

Ernie continued to scream, so loud his voice was already flattening into hoarseness. He bobbed fiercely in his chair but made no move to attack Tim or Ms. Liu.

Two burly psych techs skidded into the room, followed by a jogging doctor.

One hand raised calmingly toward Ernie, Ms. Liu glared at Tim. "I think you should leave."

When one of the psych techs grabbed Ernie's arm, he threw himself off the chair, thrashing on the floor. As Tim stepped out into the hall, he heard the doctor calling for a Haldol cocktail.

His heart still pounding from the scare, Tim headed toward the exit, moving against the stream of responding workers.

The reception console stood vacant. Giving a glance in all directions, Tim slipped behind the reinforced glass, locating the overburdened visitors' log beneath the front counter. Ernie's screams continued to echo up the corridor.

Tim flipped through the sheets, finger scanning down the "Patient Name" columns. Where Ernie Tramine appeared -- a few times on each page -- Tim cross-referenced the "Visitor Name" box. Jennifer Tramine. Pierre Tramine. Pierre Tramine. Mikka Tramine.

Footsteps approached, several sets.

"-- never seen him that agitated --"

"-- Haldol should take the edge off --"

Tim moved furiously through the last few pages. Jennifer Tramine. Pierre Tramine. Reggie Rondell. He stopped at the last name, checking the corresponding date -- 2/05. About two months ago.

Tim tossed the log beneath the counter and stepped out of the console just as the charge nurse rounded the corner, flanked by psych techs. Passing the patients' disrupted yoga session, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and hit "send."

A male voice. "Yes?"

He shoved through the door, exiting the NPI. "Pierre Tramine?"

"Yes?"

"Hello. My name is Tim Rackley. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal." The flush of pride he felt at announcing himself as such evaporated when he remembered his temporary status. "Dr. Bederman directed me to your son."

"Yes, Janet mentioned something about that. Listen, anything you can do to find the bastards who did this to Ernie..."

Tim thought about how many times Pierre's name appeared on the visitor clipboard. What was it like for this parent to see his child -- his adult child -- in that condition, week after week?

"I'm doing my best, sir."

"Anything I can do to help. Anything."

"Well, I do have a few questions. What was the name of the cult Ernie joined?"

"We don't know that. Getting him to talk about it at all was like pulling teeth."

"Did he ever mention the name of anyone in the cult?"

"No. He'd decompensated pretty badly by the time we found him. He admitted to getting caught up with a group of people, and we sort of pieced together it was a cult. But no names, no locations, nothing like that. He would melt down when we pressed him on it, so we finally stopped."

"Your son had a visitor some time ago -- a friend called Reggie Rondell. Is that name familiar?"

"No. Hang on." A rustle. "Hey, Mikka. You hear of a Reggie Rondell, one of Ernie's friends?" Tim waited patiently by the elevator. Pierre's voice came back regular volume. "No. He was no friend of Ernie's, at least not through his time at Pepperdine."

"Any chance he might be a friend you and your wife hadn't heard of?"

"No. We're a very close family." He caught himself. "We were a very close family. We knew all of Ernie's friends up until he disappeared."

"Doesn't someone need your approval to get on the visitor list?"

"Now they do. But until recently Ernie could make phone calls, put his own visitors on the list. He took..." Tim waited patiently through the pause. When Pierre spoke again, his voice wobbled a bit. "He took a turn last month. That's when I became his conservator."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, sir."

"It's like there's something inside my son's head, eating him. Eating the boy we raised and knew." The muffled sound of Pierre blowing his nose. "How old are you, Mr. Rackley?"

"Thirty-four."

"Kids of your own?"

The elevator dinged open, and Tim stared at the vacant interior. "No."

"Well, when you have them, you watch out for them. You don't know who's out there."

It took Tim a moment to find his voice. "I'll do that, sir."

Chapter
six

The comm center, buried in Cell Block on the third floor of Roybal, hosted a panoply of security screens showing various suspects pacing in cells. Bear hunched over the computer at Tim's side, smelling of the Carl's Jr. he'd just denied eating, offering in place of an admission the implausible claim that he'd filled up on a salad. A chronically unhappy dater, Bear was recounting his latest travails while calling up DMV info on the state computer. "So we get rerouted, laid over in Vegas for the night. Instead of lying on a beach in Cancun, we're stuck at Westward Ho -- which by the way is the shittiest joint on the Strip. And to make matters worse, the hotel is having a short-people's convention."

"A short-people's convention? Like dwarves?" Tim pressed his lips together to avoid smiling. The women Bear dated weren't exactly ballerinas -- the couple must have terrified the petite attendees.

To Tim's left, two court security officers were embroiled in an argument about the relative attributes of Mexican-mafia tattoos versus those of the Higuera Brotherhood. A third regulated radio contact with deputies in the field.

"No, just small people." Bear's wide fingers moved across the keyboard with surprising fluidity. "So me and Elise, we can't go anywhere without stepping on 'em. We rode elevators with guys who couldn't reach the top buttons. People threw us the stink-eye at the all-you-can-eat buffets. They were selling T-shirts you couldn't fit on my hand. It was very unsettling. Elise lost a cool grand on the tables, and some Danny DeVito look-alike kicked me in the shins for accidentally sitting on his wife at the slots. What am I gonna do? Hit him back?" He pulled his glasses -- another addition to his life as a forty - three - year - old -- from his shirt pocket, and a Carl's Jr. ketchup fell on the desktop. Mortified, Bear swept the offending packet into the trash can.

Tim's eyes didn't move from the screen. "The salad sous-chef accidentally drop some Carl's Jr. ketchup in your shirt pocket?"

"It's from last week. Anyways, me and Elise had a miserable time, haven't talked since we've been back." Bear exhaled theatrically. "Shit, I think you grabbed the last good one off the market, Rack. I'm never getting married."

"Do you want to get married?"

Bear chewed his lip, breathing hard. "Nah. I prefer to direct all my hatred at myself." The photo of a skinny kid popped up on the monitor, and Bear pointed at it, his ham hand blocking the screen. "So there he is. The fifth Reggie Rondell."

"The fifth?"

"Five Reggie Rondells in the greater Los Angeles area, believe it or not. That includes Reginalds and Reginas, just to be safe. Reginald Rondell Jr. is a crusty white guy from Orange, moved to Philly in January, hasn't traveled west since, at least by plane. Regina Rondell, age seventy-five, God rest her soul, kicked in June. Our third Reggie Rondell is enrolled at Marquez Elementary School in the Palisades. I got the parole officer of the fourth on the phone about ten minutes ago -- homie had a dealing problem, was on the inside two months ago. Which leaves us with the fifth Reggie Rondell."

Tim checked the identifiers -- five-seven, 135 pounds, hazel eyes, brown hair, twenty-three years old. Reggie had no outstanding traffic tickets, and he didn't legally drive a motorcycle or commercial truck.

Tim pointed to the listed address. "Let's go."

"It's not that easy, my simple friend. The driver's license is two years old, and the only current info falsely lists him as an inpatient at a Santa Barbara nuthouse."

Tim noted Bear's pleased little smirk. "Oh, no," he said flatly. "Whatever are we to do?"

A proud finger shot up. "Have no fear. I called my hook at the IRS, turns out RestWell Motel in Culver City filed a W2 for a Reginald Rondell. RestWell central payroll in Bakersfield -- believe that shit? -- confirmed he's a current employee. His shift started" -- Bear consulted his watch dramatically -- "twenty minutes ago."

All this in the hour since Tim had called to fill him in from the road. On Arrest Response Team raids, Tim was the number one on a door-kick entry stack, Bear at his back. During intense fugitive roundups, they sometimes hit as many as fifteen dwellings a day. Trigger time like that went a long way toward fire-forging a friendship.