Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

Before the screen door of TD's cottage swung shut, Tim was inside the shed, negotiating the cramped space around the overturned cot. The postal bucket sat empty on the floor before the open loading door of the potbellied stove. Inside, a scattering of paper curled in a leaping yellow flame. A few of the marshal's letters remained partially buried in the cinders – Tim noted the writing on the unopened envelopes before fire consumed them. Plenty of legible scraps peppered the mounds of cooled ash to the sides.

He turned to go, his hand pressing on the wall as he high-stepped over the cot. Something poked through the skin of his palm, and he jerked his weight off, almost falling. The nail impaling the computer printout.

TD's Phone Sheet, April 24. Callers' names, precise times of incoming calls, and topics were listed neatly in three columns. Ross Hanger, Merrill Lynch. 4:10 P.M. Re: JS's preferred securities. TD had wasted little time digging into Jason Struthers's financials. Tim was turning to go when another entry caught his eye. Phil McCanley, Lowdown Investigations. 11:00 P.M. Re: TA update.

A tingle ran across the small of Tim's back. TD's extensive extracurricular investigation was closing in on Tom Altman. Tim could play a cover game in the interrogation that would surely follow the call, but there was no way Leah could stand up to equal scrutiny.

His eyes found Skate's clock: 10:59 clicked to 11:00.

Across the clearing in TD's cottage, the telephone rang.

Tim leapt over the cot through the door and hit a full sprint up the trail. He skidded out onto Cottage Circle. Sheets of rain cut visibility to less than ten yards; he couldn't make out Skate or the dogs. To his right, past the line of cottages, stretched the woods, the creek, and, miles beyond, a beater of a pickup Bear had left for him roadside at Little Tujunga, the keys hooked behind the rear license plate.

Tim had all the evidence he needed. With ten strides he could vanish past the cypresses and be gone.

Instead he streaked toward his cottage, head lowered to cut the rain. He closed the front door silently behind him, leaned the broom handle against it, and eased down the hall.

Leah shot up in bed when he entered. "What? What's wrong?"

"We have to go. Now."

She scrambled into a sweatshirt. Tim kept watch at the window but took in only darkness and a blurry stretch of driving rain. A flash of lightning illuminated the empty trailhead.

"Which shoes should I…?" She shook off the question and pulled on her sneakers.

Tim slid the window open and swung one leg out. Leah faced him at the sill, her teeth clicking. "I'm scared."

"Good."

The broomstick clattered.

She bit down on her lip and followed him out. They ran for the woods downslope, stumbling and falling on the way. Shouts from Cottage Circle urged them onward. They reached firmer ground beneath the trees, but still Leah couldn't keep up.

Twinning howls split the air.

The plastic bags around Tim's shoes had grown tattered, but they were better than nothing. He swept Leah up in his arms and ran with her for about twenty yards to disrupt her scent trail, but the terrain was rough and they made poor time.

Leah's words were muffled against his neck. "I can run. I can do it."

He set her down. They tripped over rocks, mud caking their shoes. They crested a rise and saw the engorged creek sweeping past below. Tim turned, trying to sight flashlight beams, but there was just streaking rain, rumbling thunder, the ever-closer barks of the dogs leading the party onward.

"We have to wade upriver to lose the dogs."

Leah regarded the angry caps, the rock-dashed currents. "It'll sweep me away."

"Stay near the bank."

He took her hand, and they skidded down the embankment. Icy water claimed their legs to the calves, and they slogged upstream, ducking fallen trees. A howl broke through the sounds of sloshing, maybe a half mile back.

A sudden wash swept Leah off her feet. Tim went down on a knee but kept her slippery hand. Water battered his chest. He yanked her toward a calmer patch and drew her near; she locked her legs and arms around him. She was quivering violently, her cheek as cold as porcelain against his neck.

He stumbled forward, bearing her weight. A rock turned underfoot, and he fell, shoved himself up with an arm, kept going. Her sweatshirt rode up beneath his grasp; he regripped and was shocked at the rigor mortis-ed feel of her flesh.

The erratic splashing behind them grew steadily louder. He paused, panting, bracing one leg against a boulder.

Leah's head rolled back. Her lips were faded blue, her breath cold against his face. Her voice was little more than a whisper. "I don't even know your name."

"Tim."

A faint smile. "Tim."

Waist-high water swept through them. Her frail frame clenched around him. He felt the knot of her wrist-clamped hands at the back of his neck. Strands of hair lay stiffly on the bleached skin of her face; beads of water dotted her cheeks.

"It's so far." She blinked weakly. "It's okay. You go."

Her chilled forehead found the hollow of his eye. Her lips brushed his cheek, the edge of his mouth. He held her, inhaling her. A few shouts, just around the bend, matched by a chorus of barks.

He waded to shore and set her on her feet. Her knees buckled, but she stayed upright. They could hear distinct footsteps now, the scrabbling of paws across stone.

She stared at him without comprehension, arms clamped over her torso, hands clutching the balls of her shoulders.

Three shadowy figures emerged from the downpour, the Protectors looming on either side of TD. Skate had leashed the dogs; they bobbed in the water, straining like hooked fish. The men shouted and closed on them.

Tim lowered one shoulder, his face twisting with rage. "Stop chasing me!"

He backhanded her so hard she left her feet, her rain-heavy hair whipping across her face. She twisted and hit mud. Tim broke for the creek, and Randall slammed into him and spun him roughly, hands working the frisk.

Randall snapped Tim's head forward in a full nelson; Skate pressed a knife to his belly.

Disoriented, Leah fought herself up to her elbows. TD leaned over her. She began to cry, and Tim was certain she was going to reveal everything.

Leah lay skinny and wet in the mud, her tangled hair draped across a swelling cheek. She choked out the words. "I w-woke up when I heard him close the window behind him. I ran after him. He's my Gro-Par. I didn't want to get in trouble."

Tim felt a rush of affection for her. Afraid of what his face might show, he turned his head and spit.

TD shushed her, stroking her hair. "No, no, no. You did brilliantly. We just found out he's a fraud."

"A fraud?"

"Don't worry. We'll move you back in with Janie. She'll take care of you, my sweet." TD kissed her head and stood. "You laid a hand on one of my Lilies." He seemed amused, almost pleased. "Who are you?"

Tim glared at him. Skate ripped the plastic bags from his feet and threw them to the wind.

TD pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around Leah. Her teeth chattered fiercely.

"So I won't get p-punished?"

"No." TD turned his enigmatic grin toward Tim. "Let's save that for our friend Tom."

A lot had changed in the five or so hours since Tim had last been in DevRoom A, none of it for the better. Skate overflowed the folding chair beside Tim, stinking of canine, flicking the dirt from beneath his nails with the tip of his hunting knife. Randall stood behind Tim, arms crossed, Mr. Clean gone sour. One elbow resting on the card table, TD leaned back in his armchair, the picture of leisure.

"Let me guess," Tim said. "You want me to pick a card."

TD offered a smile. The rain had cut the poofiness from his hair; he looked even slighter than usual, a wet rat.