Wormhole - 03 Page 19

  An interesting side effect of the mess the country found itself in was that the high-tech infrastructure had survived, essentially intact. After all, the World Wide Web was a critical national priority. Where would our nation be without Google, for God’s sake? Corn farmers in Iowa might have to fight to defend their farms, but at least we could still get driving directions. Christ. It reminded Freddy of the World War II acronym, SNAFU. Situation normal, all fucked up.

  Just then the garage door across the street began rumbling up along its curving track. But instead of an automobile, a gas-powered push mower rumbled out to the front lawn. With three strong pulls, Dr. Sigmund brought the screaming beast to life.

  The tone dropped in frequency as she shoved the mower forward into the deep grass of the front lawn. Then it stabilized, spewing an avalanche of severed grass blades from the raised spout on the mower’s left side. As Freddy watched Gertrude Sigmund push the mower in an inward spiral around the lawn, he shook his head.

  God, sister! You’re killing me.

  Freddy’s eyes swept the house. It could be any lower-middle-class suburban home, three bedrooms, one and a half baths, just like the rest of the houses in this neighborhood, but with one difference. From the old wood-shingled roof, begging for repair, to the untrimmed trees and shrubs, to the spiral-cut lawn, it seemed to sag beneath sadness and loss. It was an old story: a once-charming home that had hosted Easter picnics and Thanksgiving dinners had transitioned to a dead parents’ home, visited only on those occasions when the closest surviving child could will herself over for required maintenance, home to too many memories to sell, home to too many memories to endure.

  His background research on Gertrude Sigmund revealed that she’d lost her father two years ago and her mother six months later. The house had remained unrented and unsold since then, still filled with her parents’ furniture and belongings. According to the neighbors, Gertrude stopped by once or twice a month, staying several hours, but never spending the night.

  In the few days Freddy had been in town, he’d observed enough of Gertrude that he felt he knew her. Since returning from Baltimore, she’d taken a leave of absence from her psychiatry practice and, except for quick trips to the grocery store, had stayed confined to her house. Freddy wondered how Dr. Sigmund would have diagnosed her condition if she had been her own doctor.

  The change in her attitude had been abrupt. Before her hastily arranged trip to the DC area she’d been a confident, driven woman, by all accounts a workaholic. Now she appeared burdened by a despair she showed no signs of shaking. Freddy had been dying to talk with her, but not at her house. Although he’d seen no signs she was being followed or watched, he’d had enough dealings with the kinds of government agencies that likely had their talons in her to know her premises were bugged. But he doubted that the government had bothered to monitor her dead parents’ house. And as soon as she finished the lawn and went back inside, Freddy was going to take advantage of this opportunity.

  Unfortunately, the lawn work gave way to hedge trimming and then to sidewalk washing. Just as Freddy was beginning to wonder if he should risk approaching her outside, she pulled off her work gloves, pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, and walked back inside, closing the garage door behind her.

  In a mild panic that she would immediately walk back out the front door, get in her blue Lexus sedan, and drive off, Freddy climbed out of the Impala. Forcing himself to maintain a slow, leisurely stroll, he walked directly to the front door and pressed the worn doorbell button. Unlike the more expensive chime doorbells that continued even after you released the button, this one produced a buzzing ring that stopped as soon as he released it.

  After several seconds the door opened and Freddy found himself staring into Gertrude Sigmund’s ice-blue eyes.

  “Yes?” Dr. Sigmund’s greeting rang out like a challenge.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you on your vacation, Dr. Sigmund. I’m Freddy Hagerman, and I urgently need to talk with you.”

  For several seconds her eyes lost their focus as she tugged at her memory. “Freddy Hagerman? The reporter?”

  “That’s me.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “May I come in? This conversation is best held away from prying eyes and ears.”

  Dr. Sigmund studied him through her startlingly blue eyes for so long Freddy began to doubt she’d see him. Then she shrugged and pulled the door all the way open, stepping back to allow him entry.

  “What the hell? I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  Freddy found himself in a small foyer, three empty wooden pegs at shoulder height on the wall to his left, linoleum giving way to the living room’s brown Berber carpet. The slatted blinds were drawn and as Dr. Sigmund closed the door, the floor lamp separating the recliner from the couch struggled to fight back the darkness. She motioned him to the recliner.

  “Can I offer you a glass of water? I’m afraid the refrigerator’s bare.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Freddy sat down on the forward edge of the recliner as Dr. Sigmund perched on the couch.

  “Very well. I’m listening.”

  Freddy had rehearsed what he wanted to say as he’d sat across the street in the Impala, but suddenly he found himself searching for the right words.

  “Dr. Sigmund, I...”

  “Gertrude.”

  “OK, Gertrude. I assume you know my reputation so I’ll spare you a lengthy introduction. I’m here because of the federal agent I observed dropping you off at the BWI airport. More specifically, an agent named John Marks, currently employed by the National Security Agency.”

  Hearing her intake of breath, Freddy continued. “I asked myself, why was the NSA interested in a small-town psychiatrist? Since that chance meeting, I’ve come to believe that your trip was connected to a former patient of yours. A young lady named Heather McFarland.”

  Gertrude Sigmund seemed to sink back into the leather as a storm of violent emotions raged behind her shining eyes. Freddy gave her a moment to come to terms with his statement.

  Gertrude struggled to reacquire her former self-control. “And?”

  “And so I’ve come all this way to ask you why the NSA wanted to talk to you about a patient who was reported killed at Jack Gregory’s compound in Bolivia.”

  Her jaw clenched. “They just wanted to get my professional opinion on why she could get involved with a man like Gregory.”

  “Bullshit. They’d have sent an agent here for that type of information.” Freddy leaned farther forward in his chair. “She’s not dead, is she?”

  It was as if the little Dutch boy had just pulled his finger from the hole in the dike. A violent shudder began deep inside Dr. Sigmund, spreading rapidly outward from her core to her limbs, and though she pulled up her legs, wrapped her arms around them, and bit her quivering lip, she could not stop shaking. Water leaked from her eyes, tracing twin lines down her dirty cheeks to drip from her chin. But she did not lower her gaze.

  As quickly as they had begun, the tremors subsided, replaced with the zombie calm of a drained soul.

  “I’ve betrayed my Hippocratic oath.”

  “You can tell me about it. I never reveal a source.”

  A sharp, bitter laugh escaped Gertrude’s lips. “You think I care about that now? You think it matters whether other people know? I know! Dear God. I know!”

  “Her parents think she’s dead. By telling me, you might help them.”

  Once again her eyes held him. “Probably not. Having met the people who have Heather, she’d be better off dead.” Gertrude paused again. “But I’ll tell you for my sake.”

  Freddy set the digital recorder on the coffee table in front of her, pressing the red RECORD button. Gertrude glanced down at it and nodded.

  Darkness had fallen when Dr. Sigmund finished her narrative. As Freddy reached out to retrieve the recorder, she rose to her feet.

  “Excuse me for a moment. I need to wash my face.
If you don’t mind waiting, you can see me out.”

  “Sure.”

  She turned and walked down the hall toward the master bedroom.

  Freddy turned off the recorder, put it back in his pocket, and turned toward the kitchen. A tall glass of water suddenly sounded very good. Finding a glass in the second cabinet he opened, he filled it to the brim and lifted it to his lips.

  The roar of the gunshot startled him so badly he dropped the glass, sending crystalline fragments and water spraying across the linoleum floor.

  Freddy reacted immediately, racing down the hall toward the master bedroom. He paused before the closed door, his hand on the brass doorknob.

  “Gertrude?”

  Nothing. His ears still ringing with the echoes of the gunshot, this new silence seemed to acquire a physical presence that filled the dark hallway.

  With dread gnawing at his gut, Freddy turned the knob and pushed open the door. The bedroom was empty. A neatly made queen bed occupied the center of the wall to his right, with a nightstand on each side and a six-drawer dresser on the wall opposite the door. From under the closed bathroom door, a sliver of light leaked into the bedroom.

  “Dr. Sigmund?”

  Freddy hesitated, took a deep breath, and walked to the bathroom door. Although he knew he wouldn’t get an answer, he tried one last time.

  “Gertrude, are you all right?”

  Bracing himself, Freddy opened the door. Baby blue tile dripped blood and chunks of brain matter onto Gertrude Sigmund, her body slumped back in the tub as if she’d just settled into a warm bubble bath. Clutched tightly in her small right hand, the snub-nosed thirty-eight lay in her lap, a faint curl of gray smoke still drifting from its muzzle. The bullet had gone in through Gertrude’s mouth and blown off the back and top of her head, leaving her face turned slightly toward the door. Bathed in the bright incandescent light, her clear blue eyes stared at him so intently that Freddy expected to see an accusing finger point his way.

  As Freddy lifted his cell phone to dial 911, the thought hit him. Just as she’d told him he could, Freddy had stayed to see her out.

  Sick to his stomach, Freddy forced down the sour bile that rose into the back of his throat, turned, and walked rapidly out of the bathroom, through the house, and out into the backyard. Pulling the digital recorder from his pocket, he looked around, letting his eyes adjust to the soft shadows cast by the rising three-quarter moon. Under one of the freshly trimmed shrubs, he found what he was looking for, a football-size stone, loose enough for him to turn over.

  Discarding a fleeting worry about the possibility of dirt damaging the electronic device, he hollowed out a nook, placed the recorder in the hole, and replaced the stone. That done, Freddy walked back into the kitchen, washed his hands, and then walked out to sit on the front steps to wait for the police. His wait wasn’t a long one.

  After providing a statement on the scene, he was given a ride downtown. Once the local boys got done with him, he was told to sit tight until a federal agent arrived from Albuquerque. No, he wasn’t under arrest. All that meant was that he got to hang out in a two-way mirrored room instead of a cell. At least the cops had brought in a pepperoni pizza and a one-liter bottle of Coke. Apart from those deliveries and the occasional escorted trips to the john, he was left alone.

  The NSA guy got there at 1:18 a.m. Agent Sorenstam. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, average build, the type of guy most people would look at and never give a second thought to. Freddy didn’t make that mistake. As Agent Sorenstam sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the table, introduced himself and looked directly into his eyes, Freddy gave him plenty of thought.

  “I understand you were in the house when Dr. Sigmund was shot.”

  “When she killed herself, yes.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Do I need an attorney?”

  “Do you?”

  Freddy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve got a copy of my statement to the Los Alamos cops. Look at my answers.”

  “I read them. I just want a little more detail. A neighbor reports seeing you enter the house before three p.m. You were in there for more than four hours. I just want to know what you and Dr. Sigmund talked about.”

  “As I said before, I asked her about her trip to Baltimore, and why she met with the NSA there.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “That you sick bastards made her come see Heather McFarland, that Heather isn’t dead, that she’s being held in a fake psychiatric ward and subjected to mind-altering drugs while the NSA tries to brainwash her.”

  The answer seemed to take Agent Sorenstam by surprise. The agent glanced up at the two-way mirror, paused, then turned his gaze back to Freddy.

  “Did you record the conversation?”

  “She wouldn’t talk on the record. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

  “Let me get this straight. She spends half the evening talking to you in her parents’ living room, then says excuse me while I blow my brains out?”

  Freddy shrugged. “Actually she said something like, ‘Excuse me for a moment. If you’ll wait, you can see me out.’”

  “So what set her off?”

  “Guess she couldn’t wash off the NSA stink.”

  “Listen, shithead. I’m getting a little tired of your anti-American crap.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me right. I didn’t say USA, I said NSA.”

  “Don’t try to play the tough guy. You have no idea what that’s like.”

  Freddy reached down, pulled up his pants leg, undid the straps that bound his artificial leg to the stump of his thigh, and set the leg on the table.

  “Is that so? Tell you what. Either arrest me now or get my attorney, because this conversation’s over.”

  Tall Bear glanced down at his ringing cell phone, saw only the blocked-number message, and considered not answering it, but pressed the ANSWER button anyway.

  “Pino,” he said.

  “Hello, Sergeant Pino. Thank you for taking this call. My name is Freddy Hagerman and I’m a reporter.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Congratulations on your election as the next president of the Navajo Nation.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not doing an interview about that now.”

  “That’s not why I called. I’ll make this brief. Last night I was brought in for questioning by the Los Alamos police. I had the misfortune of being with Dr. Sigmund when she committed suicide yesterday. When they released me this morning, I hustled straight on down to Albuquerque, made a quick stop to purchase this prepaid cell phone I’m calling you on, and as soon as I hang up, I’ll pitch it and hop on the first flight back to DC.”

  Tall Bear paused before responding. “Why the spy shit? I doubt the Los Alamos cops will be monitoring your real phone.”

  “No, but the NSA sure as hell is. They were monitoring Dr. Sigmund and now they’re monitoring me. That brings me to why I called you. I made a digital recording of my interview with Dr. Sigmund. Then, after she killed herself, I dialed 911, walked out into the back yard, and hid the recorder under a rock. Since I’m sure to be watched, I need you to get it for me.”

  Tall Bear laughed. “Why? Was I the closest Injun?”

  “I know it sounds nuts, but I saw your news conference last year and you seemed like a guy that doesn’t have a lot of love for the feds.”

  Once again Tall Bear considered ending the call. “What’s on the recorder that’s got the NSA so worried?”

  “You know about the three Los Alamos kids that got killed in the black ops raid on Jack Gregory’s Bolivian ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  “According to Dr. Sigmund, at least one of them is alive and being held in an NSA psych ward. They took Sigmund there, made her help them convince Heather McFarland she was crazy, and then sent Sigmund back home. Only she couldn’t live with that. I think the NSA probably has the other kids, too, but those bastards tol
d their parents they were all dead.”

  “Even if I believe you, why do you think any of this matters to me?”

  “Probably stupid, but I go with my hunches. You struck me as someone who hates that kind of abuse of power. I was hoping you hate it bad enough to stray an hour out of your way.”

  Tall Bear let the silence stretch out until it hung heavy in the empty air. “Tell me how to find it.”

  As he drove toward Los Alamos a few minutes later, the warm afternoon breeze blew through the Jeep Cherokee’s rolled-down window, whipping his long black hair behind him. It looked as if Jack Gregory had entered his life again. Strange how the world revolved around that man. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d led Jack and Janet to the high hogan. The image of Janet standing in that doorway flooded into his mind, her beautiful tanned face lit by a smile, her arms unconsciously resting on her round, pregnant belly.

  How in hell had they linked up with the three Los Alamos kids? Of one thing he was certain. If the NSA was holding those three, then the whole story of the Bolivian raid was rotten. Jack Gregory was the finest man Tall Bear had ever met and he’d been screwed by his own government. That meant those kids were getting the same treatment. The question was, why?

  Tall Bear decided he just might have to listen to that recording before he sent it off to Hagerman.

  From atop his perch in the tree nearest to the thatch-roofed hut, the monkey jabbered, hopped up and down, then lost interest. Janet held Robby in one arm, pointing at the monkey with the other.

  “Do you see the monkey, Robby?”

  She studied Robby’s face, his clear brown eyes watching hers, then shifting up to the furry brown creature thirty feet away. Despite the fact that he was much too young to speak, Janet had the unshakable feeling that he understood her words, not just her gestures. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised at how fast her child was learning, considering what she knew about the effect the alien headbands had had on Mark, Jen, and Heather. Still, she found the pace of his development slightly unnerving.