He pictured it perfectly – one arm wrapping her torso, the press of the handkerchief to her mouth, the firming of the arm-sleeve gag. Working swiftly, he'd ease her unconscious body to the floor, crossing her ankles and weaving the duct tape through them. The thin strips he'd wrap around her thumbs so she wouldn't wind up with bruised wrists. He'd lay her in the duffel, hoist it over a shoulder, and shoot down the fire escape to the back lot before TD noticed a hiccup in his sound engineering. The Hummer held down a VIP space around front. The getaway key pressed against Tim's thigh through the thin pocket.
He moved forward, ether dripping on the carpet. Visible just over Leah's hunched shoulder, the EMERGENCY EXIT sign beckoned. He took a final silent step; he could have reached out and stroked the frayed edges of her hair.
TD's amplified voice continued its deadening cadence. "Look -there's your mother, full of life and mistakes. There's your father, with all his shortcomings. See him for what he really is. Why does he have a need to turn you into a victim?"
Tim lowered the handkerchief.
Leah spun and covered her gasp with a hand, unable to prevent a pleased smile.
"Oh," she said in a hoarse whisper. "It's you."
Her features transformed as she took note of the rag in his hand, the lengths of tape dripping from his forearm, the open duffel on the floor behind him.
One shout would bring a stampede of blue-shirts.
"You're here to kidnap me." She spoke with a sharp, wounded anger.
Tim stuffed the wet handkerchief into his pocket. "Not anymore."
"You lied. Like everyone else." Her face trembled, on the verge of tears. She edged toward the curtain, and he let her. She sucked in a breath, turning to scream, but then stopped and faced him. "Your dead daughter. You make her up, too?"
"No."
They stared at each other, the sound board humming beside them and throwing off heat. Tim barely had time to register the sudden silence when a burst of radio static issued from outside the curtain, followed by TD's unmiked growl.
"- what happened to my rear sound?"
Leah scampered back to the forgotten sound board. "Oh, shit. Oh, shit."
Tim dove behind the clothes rack, skidding on his stomach. He disappeared behind a veil of dry cleaning as Skate blew through the curtain with a flourish of his thick arm, radio pressed to his face. Peeking from the waistband of his sweatshirt was the gun-blued hilt of a knife – an odd tool for a hotel seminar.
He took note of the open duffel on the floor and, with a single expert movement, swept the knife from its sheath. He held the ten-inch bowie upside down, the blade out and pointed toward his elbow. "What's up?"
The ballroom, filled with hundreds of entranced Neos awaiting their next command, gave off a deafening silence. "Nothing," Leah finally said.
Skate toed the duffel. "The fuck is this?"
"It stores the mike cables."
Tim watched the exchange breathlessly through a screen of cellophane.
TD's voice spit again from Skate's radio. "- there some issue back there?"
Leah pursed her lips, stared at Skate's gleaming blade. "I…just zoned out. I got swept up in the Guy-Med."
Skate eyed her, probably picking up the slight tremble in her voice. Finally, he keyed the radio, sliding his knife back into its sheath. "She screwed up."
"Please explain to Leah that if she doesn't fix the rear distortion, I'm going to lose the entire group."
Head bent over the graphic equalizer, Leah fussed with the frequency levers. Skate stared at her for a long time, then withdrew.
"Get the hell out of here before the lights come back up," Leah said. "If Skate catches you, we're both in deep shit."
Tim found his feet. He hesitated, facing her.
"You've done enough already, okay. Just go. Now."
"Mommy," a woman shrieked in a little girl voice. "Moooommy!"
Within seconds the ballroom reverberated with the screams of regressed voices, a chilling, insane-asylum chorus.
Tim crept over and gave a peek under the curtain. Skate had retreated to his post, but a few of the Pros were up, wandering the shadowy horseshoe perimeter, contributing malicious echoes. "Mommy. Daddy. Where are you?"
Stanley John and Janie patrolled the interior, leaning over the sprawled, mewling bodies, pouring it on. "We never wanted you!" Sweat dripped from Janie's forehead as she bent over a sobbing man. "You're worthless."
Tim watched the movement of the blue-shirts, then crawled out and rolled swiftly across the open carpet. He made it a few yards inside the horseshoe before Stanley John's voice rained down on him – "What are you doing over here?"
"Mom," Tim bleated, fluttering closed eyelids. "Where's my mom?"
"She doesn't care about you. She left you." Stanley John moved on to harangue someone else.
An overpowering voice cut through the commotion. "TD is here with you now. You're safe. Your guide is here." The clamor gradually settled, until only scattered sniffling persisted. "Now let me lead you out of your childhood room. Turn and say good-bye to me, your guide. I'm leaving right now, but I'll always be here, right inside you. Always. When the room grows bright, you'll come to, and you won't remember anything that you've experienced."
The lights came up, and they all stirred, then found their feet, battle-field dead coming to life. As the Neos groggily located their seats, TD pressed on as if nothing had happened.
"In The Program there isn't anything we despise more than a victim. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of living in a victim society. You can sue cigarette companies because you chose to smoke for thirty years. You can sue a TV show if your stupid kid lights himself on fire. Hell, you can sue McDonald's because you turned yourself into a fat-ass. Better not pat a female colleague on the arm, or you might be victimizing her. Don't say 'Jesus Christ' in front of a Bible-thumper or you'll be victimizing him.
"In The Program we're accountable for our choices. We're not excuse makers. But some of you" – an Uncle Sam point of the finger -"still are, and your mind-set is contaminating. You need to negate Victimhood. Nothing is more useless than actions to please, actions to gratify, actions to ingratiate. They are the epitome of powerlessness. Your behavior should be for you. Don't laugh courteously. Don't call Mom because you feel obligated. Those actions have no place in The Program. Here we exalt strength -" He fanned a hand at the audience.
"Not comfort!"
"Comfort will make you weak. Only strength will set you free. We strive for fulfillment -"
"Not happiness!"
Tim mentally filed these additions to The Program Code.
"You don't want to be happy. Happiness is for idiots. You want to be decisive. You want to be fulfilled. Sometimes that involves suffering. Sometimes that involves working hard. Are you ready to work hard?"
"Yes!"
"I want each group to select their biggest victim to come up here and take a seat on Victim Row." TD rested his hands on the backs of two chairs in the line being assembled by diligent Pros on the dais. "Think of it as intense therapy." His voice dropped, taking on an edge of menace. "One Pro will be joining us onstage. You already know who you are." Leah emerged, head bent, and trudged to the dais. TD helped her up, eyes smoldering charitably above his tight smile.
Hearspace filled with the sounds of Neos fighting. A few Pros with trays strapped to them like vendors at a baseball game threaded through the bickering groups, tossing Cliff Bars and handing out Mountain Dews. People tore at the wrappers with their mouths, gulping and slurping, gulag prisoners in Levi's Dockers. Tim could almost hear the rising sugar hum. It took his last ounce of willpower to refrain. A woman screamed out that her bladder was going to explode; she was told to visualize it empty.
Back in Tim's group, Joanne, the leading contender for Victim Row, suffered a battery of buzz-phrase accusations. Her inability to stand up for herself only proved the charges against her. When Victim Row convened, she was seated beside Leah.