Whoops and applause. Joanne wiped her cheeks, shaking her head with amazement and envy. Tim blinked hard, seating himself back in character – he'd been drawn into her performance.
Leah's smoky green-gray eyes found Tim. "How about you? What's the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
"My daughter was murdered," Tim heard himself say.
Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. Stanley John stepped forward, shouting something above the deafening din and shattering the trance into which Tim had been lulled. At once he was back in the thrice-split ballroom at the Radisson with people sobbing and fainting all around him.
TD drifted to the periphery of the group, observing paternalistically.
A panic tingle ran across Tim's lower back as he fought for composure. He could practically smell the faint odor of baby powder and melted Jolly Rancher stored in the carpet of Ginny's empty room.
He started tentatively, "It happened about a year ago. Jenny was walking home from school. She never…never got there. They found her body that night." He was veering dangerously close to the truth. He wiped his nose, which had started to run, and became Tom Altman. "Even though I've had some financial success" – from Stanley John's expression, this wasn't news to him – "it's been a hard year. My wife and I split up."
"Tell it from the perpetrator's point of view," Stanley John said.
Tim sensed TD's eyes fasten on him. His mouth had gone dry. Sweat stung his eyes. He thought of Kindell's elongated forehead. The short, dense hair, so much like fur. "I, uh…"
"Go ahead, buddy," Stanley John urged. "This is about strength, not comfort."
Excavating a trick he'd learned in Ranger training, Tim imagined detaching from his body. He turned and watched himself, an interested observer.
Tom Altman faced the group, talking from the perspective of his dead daughter's killer. Tom Altman imitated the fictional killer, saying that he watched the girl walk home after school, but then suddenly Tim was back within his flesh, a seashell rush filling his ears. "One day she splits off from her friends and walks alone. I drive slowly behind her. I call her name. When she turns, I snatch her into my truck. I get tape over her mouth. I take her back to my place where I can have" – his body felt incredibly weighty, sagging on his bones – "privacy. I pin her arms down. I slice through her green overalls with a box cutter. She's very small and pale. She doesn't move. I don't think she knows what's happening. I don't want her to be frightened. But she is, and she gets even more scared when I cut through her underpants. They have different sizes of snowflakes on them. Later I'm scared when I cut her up with a hacksaw. I don't know how to dispose of what's left, so I dump the parts of her by a creek."
A clod of grief rose from his gut, lodging itself in the back of his throat. He coughed. The others' eyes were tearing up. Leah fixed him with a gaze that moved right through him. He kept his eyes on hers even as the others thumped his back and hugged him.
TD drifted back a few steps, keeping just within earshot.
"Jesus," Stanley John weighed in. "Great job. You can learn a lot by exploring your identification with your daughter's killer."
Staring at the genuine awe etched into Stanley John's face, Tim felt his hand twitch. He repeated to himself, I am Tom Altman, to help check his natural instinct, which was to ram his fist through that all-American jaw. Far more disturbing, he felt his mind open slightly to Stanley John's ugly suggestion.
"Now let's see you stand up to this guy. Tom? Come on, now. Your daughter's killer has spoken. Now respond to him."
Tim thought for a moment but came up with nothing except a feeling of sickness. "I have no response to him. He killed a random girl who happened to be my daughter. Telling him off would be like explaining to a rabid dog why biting is bad. He's just an animal. There is no answer."
Stanley John leaned in close. "The Program's going to give you that answer."
The ballroom fell abruptly into darkness. Trumpets vibrated the partition walls – 2001: A Space Odyssey redux.
Mad, sightless movement as the crowd stampeded back to Hearspace. Tim used the confusion to sneak beyond the horseshoe, keeping Leah in sight. When she ducked through the curtain, he hid behind an amp nearby.
For once TD wasn't pacing; he sat on the edge of the dais, Stanley John and Janie perched on either side of him. His voice came low and smooth. "I'd like everybody to lie down flat on the floor for the first Guy-Med. Close your eyes. Make sure no body part is crossed over any other body part." A deliberate pause after each phrase. "Go still. Clear your mind. You're here for you. This is your moment. Now think about your breathing. Listen to yourself breathing. Feel the oxygen going into your body. Feel all your contamination leave you as you breathe out. Now concentrate on your toes. Take a deep, cleansing breath. Send the clean, pure, oxygenated blood to your toes."
TD moved soporifically up the body, repeating each command three times in rich surround sound. The lights waned until they held only the feeblest presence in the room. Most of the participants stayed eerily still, their brains autopiloting across a sea of alpha waves. The room went black. Crouching behind the amp, Tim felt his own eyelids relax, and he dug a thumb into a pressure point in his hand.
TD continued languidly, "You're six years old, standing outside your childhood door. You're going to follow me. Let me lead you. Let's open the door, you and me."
Tim pulled off his jacket and unzipped the heavy lining bit by bit, bunching the fabric over the teeth to cut the sound.
"Go inside. I'm going to leave you here. Don't be scared."
Tim freed the coat lining, tucked it under his arm, and belly-crawled the few feet to the curtain. When TD's voice changed intonation, Tim froze. He waited a few moments as the commands resumed, then continued.
"There are your favorite childhood toys. A beloved teddy bear -discarded. Your blankie – ragged and torn. Lie down on your little bed. Hold up a mirror, see what you look like. Look how sad you are. Look how lonely you are. Confused. Insecure. Ugly."
Childhood images flew at Tim from the darkness, unleashed bats. His mother's bare drafting table. His father's entrusting him to a girlfriend's aunt when he left for a "business trip" – the woman hadn't gotten out of bed the entire three weeks except to empty her ashtrays and reheat frozen dinners.
"Why are you weeping alone in your bed? What made you a victim? Daddy forgetting to play with you? Mommy not kissing you good night? They're still there, those broken promises, tearing at you, controlling you."
Tim reached the curtain, blinking against the stream of light. Leah faced away from him, engrossed in the sound board. As hoped, she was alone.
He slithered into Prospace, rose silently, and unfolded the coat lining on the floor; it expanded into an olive-drab duffel. Another Pete Krindon perk – creative clothing design. He bent over, tugging up his pant leg and pulling the thin, handkerchief-wrapped flask from the top of his left boot. Presized strips of duct tape adorned the rise of the boot; using TD's sonorous voice for cover, he peeled them off and stuck them dangling from his arm. He slid the flask from its handkerchief. Using a rolling wardrobe as partial cover, he crept up behind Leah, holding his breath and dousing the paisley fabric.