"Tom, my friend, sit down." TD patted a flimsy folding chair opposite him, and Tim gratefully sank into it. Only now could he see that TD had freckles, pale and plentiful, dominating his youthful features. After performing for twenty-four hours, he burned with evangelistic zeal.
Skate circled behind Tim, and Tim kept an eye on his reflection in the side of a metal crate. He tensed, ready to fight or bolt with what strength he could muster. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, sir."
"Please, please. Call me Teacher." TD eased one leg over the other. "I find you very impressive."
Tim let out a shaky breath, which fortunately made it seem as if he were shocked and honored. His mouth had cottoned from dehydration.
"It takes real strength to enter the mind of your daughter's killer. I think you've made peace with the killer, and that's why you have nothing to say to him. I think you haven't made peace about something else. About how you dealt with your daughter's death…?"
The painful secret, TD's hand whip of choice. Tim waited through the drawn-out silence, not wanting to commit Tom Altman to an unconsidered course of action. He resorted to understatement. "It was a difficult time."
TD's head dipped in a slight nod – the response seemed to be what he'd been looking for. "I'd like to advance you to the next step."
Leah wouldn't turn to meet Tim's eyes.
"Really? Like become a Pro?"
"We've only asked a few people – the Neos we see as very capable – to come to our ranch Monday for a special three-day retreat."
Leah froze, her shoulders and neck tensing.
"You see, this thing here today" – TD flared his hands – "this is only the beginning. A test model, no more. We're really optimizing – the Next Generation Colloquium we've been planning is new-platform software. Right now I'm interested in one thing and one thing only: selecting from the hundreds and hundreds of Neos the right few with the vision to take that next step with us. I'll be honest – we had closed the first platform, but we'd love to have you included."
Evidently Tom Altman's $90 million portfolio had checked out. The ingenious ploy – Inner Circle as bankroll for The Program's expansion – allowed TD to sidestep the encumbrances of attaining funding, repaying loans, or answering to a board. Even the process of weeding out the pikers he'd made profitable. Three hundred people at five hundred a pop – Tim's dad should have dreamed it up.
TD bent his head sympathetically. "What's wrong? I sense your hesitation. You can share it with me."
"I…well…I've just always believed in taking things slow," Tom Altman stammered.
Leah resumed wrapping a cable around her hand.
"That Societal Programming is precisely what stands in your way." TD's eyes, piercing and relentless, seemed fixed on a spot three inches behind Tim's head – a vintage technique for hypnotic induction. Tim relaxed his pupils, letting TD's face blur. "If you want to be free, you have to overwrite it."
Tom Altman mused on that, squirming a bit in his chair. "It's just a lot all at once, and I'm still a little hazy from my whole…experience. Can I give it some thought?"
"I'm sorry, Tom. It's a onetime opportunity. Things are moving really fast for us. And, hey, it's just three days. We're not asking you to sign over your house or anything."
Everyone laughed, and suddenly Tim was aware of their audience. Tom Altman joined in late and a touch eagerly. "There is more I want to find out" – Leah's cable wrapping grew furious – "about myself, I mean." Leah half turned, and Tim risked a glance at her profile.
TD nodded at Skate, who slipped out through the curtain, then he turned his intense focus back to Tim. "Today you were introduced to this new practice. This new reality. You have a responsibility to yourself now. But" – he slapped his knee and leaned forward – "maybe you're not ready after all."
Tom Altman steeled his neck a bit too dramatically. "I am ready."
TD rewarded him with a delighted grin. "Glad to have you on board."
"How do I get there?"
"Oh, we don't have people just drive to the ranch." TD's lip twitched at the vulgarity of the thought. "Randall will pick you up. Where do you live?"
"I've been knocking around between friends' guesthouses, actually." Tim added in a whisper, "Divorce."
TD smiled understandingly. "Precipitated by your daughter's death?"
Tim affected more agitated body language. "Sort of. You could say so."
"Well, we'll have plenty of time to explore that later." TD bit his lip. "Randall can meet you here at the hotel Monday morning? Why don't we call it eight o'clock?"
Skate reappeared with Jason Struthers of Struthers Auto Mall, keeping him on deck near the curtain.
Still light-headed and weak, Tim stood.
TD shook his hand. "Welcome to the future."
Chapter twenty-one
Driving home in the sunrise, Tim struggled to keep from nodding off. He felt blurry and dissociated, and his body couldn't comprehend that it was early morning. Unfortunately, his 5:00 A.M. wake-up call had made Will Henning no less animated. He'd gotten all blustery at the identification of Betters – at last a target. When Tim related his decision to abort the snatch, Will's voice hardened, giving Tim an idea of what kind of tyrant it took to push a $100 million film through production.
"How dare you flip the script on me. That wasn't your goddamn call to make. I am the client here."
"I'm a deputy U.S. marshal, sir. The Service doesn't have clients."
"You're back in the Service because of me. One call to Marco, you'll be driving a rent – a – cop cart at the Beverly Center."
"If you think that's the most promising way to meet your objectives, go for it."
"You think you can hardball me? I dealt with Marlon fucking Brando in the seventies." Tim laughed involuntarily. A gravelly exhale from Will. "You lying piece of shit."
"I promised I'd help Leah. Not kidnap her."
"We both know there's no difference right now."
"The only legal justification for taking Leah into custody against her will is if she's in imminent danger. She's not. She's in her right mind, there was no evidence of physical abuse – to be honest, I was impressed with her capabilities."
"You neglect to mention that her 'capabilities' landed her in a mind-control cult."
"And yours made you a Hollywood producer. I'm sure there are plenty of people who'd take issue with that choice."
"Don't fuck with us, Deputy. Emma's beside herself. We haven't slept in -"
"Sir, with all due respect, you are not the victims here."
"Now you're a shrink."
"No. It's just something I found helpful to remember in the wake of my daughter's murder." For once Will remained silent. Tim pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. His shoulders throbbed, sending pangs to the base of his skull. "Good-bye, Will." He snapped the phone shut and pulled himself from the Hummer.
Trudging through the kitchen, Tim swirled the punch cup he'd smuggled out of the Radisson, making the cherry beads of residue dance. He set the cup and an appropriated brownie on the table and moved to the living room, where Bear's slumbering form occupied the couch. Boston lay on the floor beside Bear, matching his heavy breathing, and Tim felt a stab of appreciation for their dutiful waiting.
In the bedroom Dray sat propped up on a wedge of pillows against the headboard, static-edged dialogue notched a few clicks too high on the TV. Dead asleep.
The face he caught looking back at him from the mounted mirror was as gray as the taste in his mouth. Acid no longer washed through his stomach – he'd gone past the point of hunger several hours ago. His heart jerked irregularly in his chest, still trying to recover its customary rhythm. Through bleary eyes, he watched his wife sleep, flooded with gratitude for the simple, familiar tableau.