Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

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.

Dray sat propped up on the mattress, Leah asleep beside her, one arm thrown across Dray's stomach. A bloodied washcloth lay balled on the floor beside a microcassette recorder.

When Dray saw Tim in the doorway, she eased out gingerly from beneath Leah's arm. Sweat glazing her face, Leah groaned and nestled into the stack of sheets.