Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(21)

He picked up a small rock and dropped it down, rewarded with the sound of it striking solid ground not far below. The thing couldn’t have been more than about thirty feet deep and, from the sound the stone had made, must have been dry for a long time now. These shallow wells usually relied on tapping into an underground aquifer that came close to the surface. Apparently, this one had changed course or died altogether.

In his satchel back in the car, Freddy kept a small bottle of melaleuca oil. It was a great natural treatment for cuts, scratches, and bug bites, but it smelled like you had dunked your head in a Mentholatum jar. He walked back and retrieved it, swabbing some of the liquid just inside each nostril. Jesus. That would clear his sinuses. But he’d rather smell that than what was down at the bottom of the well.

Making his way back to the well, Freddy bent down and began examining the old rope, finding it surprisingly strong. Although the beam supports had broken, the old log itself seemed stout enough. Securing one end of the rope to the log with an end-of-the-line bowline knot, he heaved it up so that it straddled the well. With his pocketknife, he cut the other end of the rope free from the bucket handle and tossed the rope into the well.

“Here goes nothing,” he mumbled as he swung his legs over the side, taking a single wrap of the rope before swinging down, sliding into the blackness hand over hand.

The thought occurred to him that he already had plenty for his story, more than enough to win a Pulitzer. Shit, if his story stopped what was going on at the Rho Project, he should get a God damn Nobel Prize. But Freddy was a reporter to his core. There was no way he could not look at and record what awaited him at the bottom of this hole, no more than he could hold his breath until he passed out.

Except for one tense moment when the log shifted, his descent into the well was uneventful. The darkness pressed in around him like the stench. He could practically see the foul smell in the dim yellow beam of his flashlight. At a depth of twenty-five feet, he hit bottom, shuddering as he struggled to find a spot for his feet that didn’t involve stepping on a corpse.

As dim as the light had become, he almost wished he didn’t have it. It soon became clear that most of the people had died because of the fall into this well, something that matched the journal’s descriptions. However, bloody marks high up along the walls indicated that one of the women had tried to climb out. As he examined the rough stone, Freddy determined that such a climb should have been possible, if she had still had fingers.

Freddy bent to examine the corpses more closely. The fresher of the two male corpses must have been that of Abdul Aziz, although it was so badly decayed as to be unrecognizable. As he moved to the corpses of the women, he stopped. Fuck. He had wondered why the blood pattern around the sink in the basement hadn’t trailed out across the room and up through the house. Priest had tied them up, snipped their fingers in the sink, and then wrapped the stumps of their hands with Ziploc baggies and rubber bands before carrying them out.

He had seen enough. Freddy began working his camera, forcing himself to remain in the hole until he could no longer stand it. Then, using his best high-school rope-climbing technique, he started the climb back toward the top. By tomorrow morning, he would be in Santa Fe, having already finished typing out the story on his old manual typewriter that waited in the trunk. Then a couple of faxes to people who still remembered his name at the New York Times and he would be back in the business for real.

There would be no more Kansas shit kicking for Freddy Hagerman.





18


By the time the president's staff moved into action, every major news network was running with the story—hard. The look on the president's face as he stared across his desk at the chief of staff was not a happy one.

"Damn it, Andy. What the hell is going on? I thought the FBI had this thing under control."

"Yes, sir, that's what the director said."

President Harris pointed at the flat-panel television screen. "Does that look like things are under control? Get him on the phone."

"Yes, sir." The chief of staff turned and disappeared through the doorway.

Within a minute, he returned. "Director Hammond is on the line now, sir."

President Harris picked up the handset. "Bill, didn't you just brief me yesterday morning that you would soon have the Los Alamos situation back under control?"

"Yes, Mr. President. We’re not sure that this news story is related to Jonathan Riles' rogue team that is still out there—"

"Horseshit! That man Gregory has been orchestrating things since Admiral Riles committed suicide. He did the hit on the truck. Now he’s led a reporter to something that’s going to give us trouble."

"I just don't think we can leap to that conclusion."

The president's voice hardened. "Bill, you’re out of time. I want the rogue agents taken down. Now. Are the plans in place?"

"Yes, sir. We identified Gregory's last three team members last night. We already have a joint FBI and ATF taskforce in place."

"Good. As soon as they’re ready, do it. I want to be watching the evening news tonight and see the story of the takedown. Maybe it’ll get some of this other stuff off the air for a while."

“Yes, sir, Mr. President. I’ll take care of it.”

As soon as the FBI director had hung up, President Harris buzzed his secretary. "James, get Dr. Stephenson from Los Alamos National Laboratory on the phone. Tell him to make himself available by phone for my nine a.m. cabinet meeting. And yes, I know what time it is in New Mexico. Get him out of bed if you have to."