Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

"No."

Behind them the tile floors amplified a baby's cries. Rooch's twin chomped his gum. The bulge beneath his knockoff jacket was a pretty good indication that the death threats had rattled the Hennings more than they'd let on. His voice, accompanied by a waft of fruity breath, was better suited to his build. "You in the practice of just dropping in on people Sunday afternoons?" He offered a broad ledge of a grin, his dark hair pulled tight against his skull and taken up in a rabbit's foot of a ponytail. He was the kind of guy who'd had his ego rewarded enough that he'd arrived at the conclusion that his dickhead temperament constituted a kind of charm.

"Listen, princess, when you're teaching etiquette, I'll be sure to sign up. In the meantime, tell him I'm here."

"It's not that simple."

"Have it your way. Please inform Mr. Henning that I'm no longer available to speak with him. This was his window, and he missed it."

Tim started down the walk. He didn't get three steps before Rooch's hand clamped down over his shoulder, squeezing so tight he felt the bones grind. "Come on, hard-on. Don't let Doug scare you off."

"Doug just annoys me, Rooch. Does he scare you?"

Doug stood in the doorway. When Tim knocked shoulders with him on his way in, it felt like clipping a wall. Emma sat at the kitchen bar, bouncing the baby awkwardly in her lap, a pear-shaped Latina nanny looking on with concern. The baby's mouth was an almost perfect O; the volume issuing forth seemed an anatomical impossibility. A woman with wrenched-back hair to match her facial skin cupped a frothy cappuccino in both well-manicured hands, her smile like a slit in a sheet of Saran Wrap. Will and a young man in a pilled sweater were hunkered over something at the kitchen table.

Will and Emma noticed Tim at the same time. The baby's cries ceased the minute she was enfolded in the nanny's plump arms. Will brusquely rose and directed a dismissive nod in the direction of the table. The young man gathered a profusion of red-penned pages to his chest and scooted out.

Will rocked on his heels and said, "Word guy," by way of explanation.

Emma's friend gathered her purse. "Say hello to Leah. She's doing well at Pepperdine?"

Emma's eyes regarded Tim joylessly, even as she shoulder-clutched her friend and pressed cheeks. "Yes, wonderfully."

Rooch showed the friend out; it seemed Doug wasn't sufficiently housebroken to escort proper company.

"It's for Leah's own sake," Emma said with a ferocity Tim was surprised she could muster. She scurried beside Tim down the hall. "Janice's daughter, Leah's age, is going to be a physician."

"You don't say."

Once they'd descended into the oversize conversation pit of a living room, Will topped off a rocks glass. He'd yet to acknowledge Tim.

"You didn't have me fired," Tim said.

"You're still our best shot."

"I have some conditions."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? Next thing you'll show up with representation."

"Representation?"

"Never mind. What are your conditions, Mr. Rackley?"

"I'm going to try to convince Leah to come to an intervention."

Emma sank heavily to the couch. "This isn't some eating disorder."

Tim had Will's attention, so he forged ahead. "If I'm successful in getting her to a specified location, you're gonna play it at her comfort level. That means you don't so much as lock the door."

Rooch and Doug had taken up posts on either side of the living-room entrance. Tim cast a wary eye in their direction. They stood still and watchful, exuding intelligence.

"And you'll keep your help heeled."

"She climbed out a window last time," Will said. "It's for her benefit for us to be a bit more…forceful at the early stages."

"That'll only lead to more problems."

"I'm a producer. My job is to manage problems."

"Not this one."

"What about Betters?"

Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)

"Leave Betters to me."

Tim's tone seemed to conclude the matter satisfactorily for Will.

"What are we supposed to do at this intervention?"

Tim offered Bederman's card to Will, who held it by his waist and frowned down at it. "This is the leading guy in the area. He'll take your call."

"We don't need some counselor to teach us how to talk to our daughter."

"We need an expert to help us talk to someone indoctrinated by a cult."

"We know how to talk to Leah."

"Right. You can just slap her when she gets frustrating."

The glass froze against Will's lips. He lowered it slowly. "I was trying to reason with her. She'd shut herself off like a robot. Whenever I spoke, she murmured these self-help platitudes to herself, right over my voice."

"So you figured if you hit her, she might listen better?"

Blotches of red were starting to bloom on Will's cheeks and neck. "I never said I was a great parent. It doesn't happen to be one of my strengths. But the fault doesn't rest with me. There are a lot of parents who don't provide at all. Their kids don't join cults."

"I don't care about fault."

"What do you care about?"

"Your daughter."

Very slowly, Will set his glass down on the bar.

"I just here to get Leah out of this mess," Tim said. "The rest is up to you. I'm not a shrink – hell, I'm not even a parent. But I do know that if I was in your shoes, I'd want to give some thought to the things this cult offers her that you didn't."

Emma came up off the couch. "Who are you to talk to us that way?"

"Tomorrow night, at possible risk to my life, I'm infiltrating the ranch of a cult to try to help your daughter. That buys me the right to talk to you however I want." He turned to Will, who'd grown surprisingly quiet and thoughtful, his downbent head taking in Leah's graduation picture on the bar. "What's it gonna be?"

"Fine," Will said. "No power moves."

Tim offered his hand, and they shook.

The weedy front lawn brushed Tim's calves. Boston stuck his muzzle through a rip in the screen door and tried to bark, but his constrained jaws managed only a muffled woof. Tim entered and crossed the stained carpet, junk mail and flyers crinkling underfoot, Boston threading his legs like a cat with a thyroid problem. He found Bear at the modest breakfast table placed injudiciously in the middle of the square of peeling linoleum that passed for the kitchen. Bear occupied the single chair accompanying the table; he'd removed the other three due to space considerations, a sensible decision but one that chipped away at Tim's heart every time he dropped by.

Bear was eating turkey chili out of the can and, judging from the smears on his chin, enjoying it greatly.

"Reggie Rondell called," Tim said. "He wants his housekeeper back."

Bear gestured around with a kidney bean-laden fork. "I keep telling Boston to clean up. Guess he's not trained." He retrieved a second chair from the garage and, gripping one leg, handed it to Tim over the table. They sat. Bear tilted the can toward Tim. "I think I got an extra fork around here somewhere."

Tim gestured a blackjack stay. "How'd it go with Tannino?"

"Your pitch made him scowl, but it also put a gleam in his eyes. He says you have one shot at it. Bring him back something concrete and we'll put Betters's dick in the dirt."

"I will. You insert a false death notice for Jenny Altman in the Hall of Records?"

"Yup. And injected Tommy Altman's name into academic records at Pepperdine. And left you a getaway car where we discussed. And took care of everything else."

"I got your message about Aaronson. He called with the breakdown on the food samples?"

"No pot or hash in the brownie, which was disappointing, but it had four times the normal amount of sugar." He frowned thoughtfully. "I thought it tasted too sweet."