Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

She blinked at him, nonplussed.

"I saw copies."

"I never got any letters," she said quietly.

"Don't you think it's a bit odd?" Tim bolted off the mattress, startling Leah. "You never got any?"

"We don't need distractions from our work in The Program. TD and the Protectors deal with our mail for us." She took in his expression.

" 'Deal' with it? What mail do you get?" He was already walking backward toward the door, pulling on his jacket, digging the cell phone from his pocket.

Three faint lines appeared in her forehead. "None."

For a rail-thin postal inspector, Owen B. Rutherford was surprisingly intimidating. He wore a perpetual half scowl, half squint, as if braced for an imminent fight. The federal-issue Beretta 92D strapped to his hip provided backup for a stubborn jaw and determined eyes. Comb marks had fossilized in his fine, dark brown hair, which he kept in a knife-edge left part. His skin, pasty and speckled with moles, was flushed to an inhuman shade of magenta in twinning ovals on his cheekbones. His irritation at being roused from bed had dissipated immediately when he'd been apprised of the situation.

Tim and Winston Smith sat on either side of him. Tannino looked on from behind his imperious desk, waiting for Rutherford's livid silence to give way to words. Bear had taken up his usual post, leaning against the wall by the door, blending into the wainscoting.

"What we have then" – Rutherford spoke quietly, restraining his rage – "is willful, systematic obstruction of the mails. What you're telling me is that at least sixty-eight individuals forward their mail to a P.O. box and this man has it picked up and somehow disposed of, day after day, week after week?"

"Yes. None of it gets through." Tim realized he was employing the mollifying voice he usually reserved for interviewing family members of victims.

Rutherford fanned his flushed face with his open notepad.

Tannino spread his hands, then folded them. "What's that give us?"

"What's that give you?" Rutherford shot a glance at Winston, who nodded him on severely. "Most obviously a Title 18, Section 1708 -theft or receipt of stolen mail matter, generally. But between theft, obstruction, and destruction, we could have over two hundred federal, criminal, and civil statutes."

Bear chuckled, a low rumble. "There's your probable cause."

"We still have the hostile-witness problem," Winston said.

Rutherford's tone was sharp, annoyed. "What hostile-witness problem?"

"They're cult members. Maybe they don't mind not getting their mail. Maybe they'll say they gave Betters permission to destroy it or whatever he does."

Rutherford regarded Winston like something he'd picked out of his teeth. "This is not a crime committed against the addressees, Mr. Smith. Do you know what a thirty-seven-cent stamp buys you?"

A wrinkled V appeared between Winston's eyebrows. "I, uh…"

Not only was Tim glad to be out of the line of fire, but seeing Winston Smith off his game was not without its own satisfaction.

"Not just delivery service. Oh, no. The thirty-seven cents buys you a fiduciary relationship with the United States Postal Service. We are custodians of private property. Namely: the mail. That private property belongs to the sender until it comes into the hands of the intended recipient. These jelly-spined bliss ninnies can't grant the right for their leader to destroy incoming mail before it comes into their actual possession – it isn't their mail to relinquish. First-class mail must be delivered, forwarded, returned to sender, or sent to the mail-recovery center." Rutherford ticked off the points on his fingers. "Any other act is a violation of the rights of the sender. A violation further of the sanctity of the mail and – make no mistake – it is as such a felony in its own right."

"What does Betters do with the mail?" Tannino asked.

Tim said, "Let's get a warrant and find out."

"We trust this kid?" Winston asked. "Maybe she's teeing us up for Betters."

"I trust her."

"It's a big ranch," Tannino said. "I don't want to play Hans Blix."

"Then send me back in," Tim said. "I'll come back with on-the-ground intel. We have the Arrest Response Team serve the warrant, I'll steer them to evidence like a guided missile" – a nod to Winston – "ensure you can make a case even if the Dead Links don't yield."

Tannino frowned thoughtfully but didn't respond. Winston rose and whispered in Tannino's ear like a defense attorney. He returned to his place on the couch and repositioned his hat on his knee.

Hurwitz, Gregg – Rackley 02 the Program (2004)

"Hey," Tannino said in a self-mocking monotone. "I just had a great idea. Maybe we could send out a mailing to various cult members from my office – phony flyers for a seized-car auction or something – documented and sent first class."

"I think that's a fine notion," Winston said.

Bear grinned at Tannino. "Feel like being a complainant?"

"He violates that mail, the federal government is the complainant," Winston said. "Then we'll see about indicting him under RICO, getting him more time on the charges."

Rutherford referred to his oversize digital watch. "Tomorrow's Friday. If you get the flyers to me by nine A.M., I can arrange same-day delivery."

"That works out fine," Tim said. "Betters is expecting me back Saturday."

"I don't know about this," Tannino said. "Your cover's getting thin. You go back up, you'll have to sign the financial docs. These guys don't sit on their hands – they'll want to start digging into the financials first thing Monday. Even with my hooks in place, no way we can stall them out without them realizing Tom Altman's all smoke and mirrors. They'll make you within forty-eight hours."

"Then give me forty-eight hours."

The dusty motel room seemed emptier without the Hennings. Dray sat in with Tim, Reggie, and Bederman. Leah had entered the room sped by anticipation, but the energy seemed to go right out of her when she saw that Will wasn't there. After a while Tim removed the vacant chair, but still she glanced at the door every few minutes. In the absence of her parents, her mood mellowed quickly from defensiveness.

"Go back to the first time you ever heard of The Program," Bederman said. "Did you think you'd dedicate your life to it?"

Leah pressed a sweatshirt-covered hand to her nose, obscuring her eyes. "No."

"What did you think of it?"

"I guess I thought it sounded a little weird. A little…" Leah gave another glance at the door.

"Yes?"

"Controlling, maybe."

"What do you think you would've said if I told you that six months later you'd be living up on a ranch with no telephones?"

"And that I'd lose touch with all my friends and family?" She tugged at a lock of hair. "I probably…wouldn't have believed it."

The soft knocking sent her stiff in her chair. The door creaked open, and Will stepped inside, casual in khakis and an untucked polo, his cheeks dusted with stubble. His eyelids and upper cheeks were heavy from sleeplessness, his hair loosed from its usual neatness. He scratched at the back of his collar, one elbow sticking up in a triangle. "Am I still…uh, welcome?"

Bederman glanced at Leah.

"If you behave yourself," she said.

His shuffle betrayed an uncharacteristic lack of confidence. Pulling over the chair, he eased himself down, leaned forward, and squeezed Leah's forearm once, gently.

"I was just about to ask Leah what convinced her to join," Bederman said.

Leah's neck tensed; Will's presence had put her back on alert. "At the first meeting, I felt this amazing connectedness. I guess that's what I've always secretly wanted – to feel like I belong. Everything's so cynical these days, yet here were all these people together for a common goal. Growth."