Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

"Yeah? And who won that staredown?"

Reggie squirmed under Tim's look and finally broke eye contact. His pale arms rose and fell limply to his sides, a gesture of defeat. "I'm a coward, don't you know?"

Only the perpetual gurgle of the new fish tank broke the silence.

"So that's the bottom line?" Tim said. "All the bullshit you told me about never getting to decide for yourself – just an excuse you mutter to let yourself off the hook?"

Reggie bobbed his head, blinking hard. "Maybe so."

The bells jangled loudly as Tim exited. He climbed into Bear's rig. Bear read his expression, surmised he wasn't in a sharing mood, and reversed out of the space. He tugged the gearshift down and hit the gas. The seat belt locked suddenly across Tim's chest.

Reggie stood feet from the front grille, hands thrust into his pockets.

Tim shouldered open the door and set one foot down on asphalt, regarding him over the outbent hinge of the panel. Wisps of steam seeped from the rattling hood.

Reggie withdrew one hand, something gleaming in his fist. He tossed it at Tim who caught it single-handed. A key. Room 3.

Tim glanced back up, but already the office door was swinging closed, muffling the complaint of the bells.

A discordant banging, like the clap of a loose screen door, snapped Dray awake. She rolled onto her stomach, hand digging through her kicked-off uniform on the floor and emerging with her gun. Since Ginny's death, she left the Beretta lying around rather than committing it to the gun safe at night, a foolish compensatory extravagance.

Grabbing the cordless, she shuffle-stepped across the room and let her muzzle lead her pivot around the jamb. The radio in Leah's room was audible from the hall, playing something undulating and beatific. Dray peered around the corner. Sitting Indian style on the mattress, Leah rocked forward, beating her forehead against the wall and whimpering.

The song, an amalgam of electric keyboard, Illiean pipes, and plaintive exhortations to sail away, seemed the perfect score to the disturbing scene.

Dray called out to Leah three times, drew no response, and tugged her back from the wall. Blood matted her bangs, streaked the bridge of her nose. Leah shrieked and jerked away, hurling herself back at the wall.

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."

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."