Gregg Hurwitz: The Program

She nodded slightly and turned back over. "I want Sleep Hold."

Tim slid down in bed, spooning her, and she responded with a lazy arch of her back. She raised her head, and he maneuvered his left arm beneath her neck. His cheek rested against her hair, his lips just touching her ear.

Her voice was faint now, skating the edge of sleep. "Tell me something about Ginny."

Tim stared at the darkness. He squeezed her instead.

Tim strode down the hall leading to the marshal's office, his steps hushed by the carpet, his head numbed by the 6:00 A.M. wake-up and the deadening hum of the air conditioner vents overhead. His first return to the administrative offices, located behind the Federal Courthouse downtown, was proving to be even more uncomfortable than he'd anticipated. Shame had overtaken him when he drove past the imposing, wide-stepped expanse of the courthouse, dogging him as he walked this familiar path. He could have spent the past year and the rest of his life as part of this institution. Instead he was stuck patrolling steel warehouses, sipping Big Gulps, spitting sunflower seeds, and knowing every minute that it was entirely his own fault. And knowing that the rent-a-cop job itself was a kind of penance.

Entering the lounge, he sat beside the antique safe with its faded rendering of a stag – a relic from an 1877 marshal's stagecoach escort team. The marshal's assistant nodded at him formally through the ballistic glass, but her eyes seemed to glitter in anticipation of the lunchtime gossip she'd be able to impart.

The infamous ex-deputy dropping in for the first time since his release from jail. Since the plea bargain he had resisted but taken.

"He's expecting you." She punched at her computer keys with long-nailed fingers. "Go right in."

Tannino rose from behind his sturdy desk to greet Tim. They shook hands, Tannino studying him with dark brown eyes. At six feet, Tim had about five inches on him.

Of the ninety-four U.S. marshals, Tannino was one of the few merit appointees, having served his street time before rising through the ranks. The marshalships, one for each federal judicial district, had traditionally been sinecures, though Homeland Security concerns were changing that rapidly.

Tannino gestured to the couch opposite his desk, and Tim sat.

"What's his pull?" Tim asked.

Tannino got busy polishing an already spotless picture frame.

"You might as well come clean now," Tim said. "Save me the time."

Tannino set down the photo – his niece wearing confirmation white, drenched in creamy angelic lighting. His sister's husband had died a few years ago of a heart attack, and Tannino had taken over paternal duties, which seemed mostly to involve interrogating prospective dates and delegating boyfriend background checks to his less industrious deputies. He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his coiffed salt-and-pepper hair looking even more dated than Tim remembered. "He's a big political donor -helped raise four mil for Senator Feinstein's campaign in '98."

The trail of obligation wasn't hard to trace – Feinstein, as the senior senator, had recommended Tannino for his position. Though Clinton had rubber-stamped Tannino through, it was Feinstein to whom he owed his career, and the feelings of loyalty and respect ran both directions.

"So you redeputize me, put me on the trail unofficially, keep the donor's purse strings loose, and maintain plausible deniability. If I stumble upon the girl and haul her in quietly, no one has to ask questions and a blue-chip case is tied up with a bow. If I screw up, I'm a perfect cutout operative. Tim Rackley, loose cannon and known assassin – shit, he just went off on his own, we weren't really sure what he got himself into. Mobs rally with pitchforks and shovels, and you help stoke the blaze."

"You're getting cynical in your old age, Rackley."

"It's been a long year, Marshal. I lost my stomach for circumlocution."

"I heard Kindell went away for life. I thought that might have lightened the load."

Five months ago, Roger Kindell, the thirty-six-year-old transient who had killed and dismembered Ginny, had pled to life-no-parole to keep the lethal injection at bay. Black-and-white photos depicting him in the act, stained with Ginny's blood, hadn't left the defense many alternatives. At long last, Kindell had run out of loopholes to slip through.

"Rackley? Rackley?"

Tim looked up, regained his focus.

"You're right on one count. We can't go after his kid because she's an adult. Nothing illegal has happened. What we can do is open a quiet investigation on her disappearance and see what options that presents us. If you locate her, maybe you take her into custody quick and quiet and we all get back to more important matters."

"Henning's got money. Why doesn't he just hire a witch-hunter to kidnap her?"

"First of all, it's illegal. Second, those guys are all ex-military machos. Henning can't risk that visibility. He's got political aspirations – he's not feeding money into senate campaigns for the shiny plaques. He's half retired from the business now, a big name around town, there's a congressional seat opening up, maybe the governor's office from there. A botched kidnapping would kill him. You've seen firsthand what the press can do."

"And it's a lot harder to campaign with your daughter off spinning in robes at the airport. We wouldn't want an ally tripping over that hurdle."

"It's not all politics in this room, despite what you may believe."

As much as the bureaucratic back-scratching chafed Tim, he had to respect the marshal's no-bullshit approach to the intricacies of the situation. Tannino was a straight-thinking street operator who'd found himself promoted to a political position; he had to whistle along occasionally, but that didn't mean he liked it.

"You were one of the best deputies I've ever had. Hell, that I've ever seen. And I went to bat for you when the chips were down. I had certain limitations, but I did go to bat for you. Don't make this all neat and simple and stick a black hat on me." Tannino took a deep breath, held it a moment. "It's about time you did something more than guard sheet metal and throw a shadow. Let's get you redeputized. Our two-year window hasn't closed, so I can give you a pass on going back to the academy. You can have full reinstatement rights – hell, you and Bear can even go back to swapping lipstick like the old days. I can offer you your appropriate pay grade, GS12, plus availability pay, of course."

"Am I back permanently?"

Tannino sighed. "I'm not gonna lie to you, Rackley. Trying to get you on full-time after the stunts you pulled last year would be like trying to shovel ten pounds of shit into a five-pound bag. We can see how things play, but this is probably a temporary arrangement." He removed a badge and a Smith amp; Wesson. 357 revolver – Tim's preferred, if outdated, duty weapon – from a drawer and set them on his desktop. Tim looked at them for a long time.

"Why didn't you call me first?"

"You would have said no. I needed you to meet the parents."

"Because Will Henning has such a glowing personality?"

"No, because they're real people in real pain."

"So you're willing to forgive me my trespasses as long as the donor deems me useful."

"Exactly. You still want in, though. Why?"

"It may sound trite as hell, Marshal, but I love the Service."

"It doesn't sound trite to me, Rackley. Not at all." Tannino rooted around in his file cabinet for an oath – of – office form, then stood. "Raise your right hand and repeat after me."

Gripping his holstered. 357, the badge weighing heavy but comforting in the back pocket of his khaki cargo pants, Tim headed to the Roybal Center's Garden Level. After numerous delays and endless bitching, the deputy offices had finally been moved from the shoddier Federal Building next door. It was another temporary arrangement, until the Service took over the third floor from Secret Service, its final step up the ladder of budgetary recognition. The neat lines of desks – cheap, dark wood with shiny faux-gold pulls – and the two waist-high barriers segmenting the room added to Tim's disorientation on his return. A row of windows to the south overlooked the gardens.