Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(119)

Freddy Hagerman eased up the steps, trying to avoid busting his ass on the ice. Eight days after the almost-end of the earth, his fake leg wasn’t doing him any favors. At the front door he paused, his finger hovering an inch from the doorbell. His timing was unusual, to say the least. Six thirty on a Monday morning wasn’t the time he usually called on people. It wasn’t a time people expected strangers to come calling. Or friends either, for that matter. But at this hour he knew the McFarlands would be home and so would their next-door neighbors, and he didn’t want to have to do this more than once.

He pressed the button, hearing the chime echo through the house. Thirty seconds later a tall, slender man opened the door, a questioning look in his brown eyes.

“May I help you?”

“Mr. McFarland, my name is Freddy Hagerman.”

The kindly look departed as if Freddy had slapped him. As the door began to close, Freddy stopped it with his left hand. “I’m sorry, but I really have to speak with you.”

“I don’t talk to reporters. Can’t you people leave us alone?”

“This concerns your daughter and her friends.”

If anything, McFarland’s face grew colder. “It always does. Now get out of my doorway and off my steps before I call the police.”

As the man reached out to shove him out of the way, Freddy held out a DVD case. “They sent you a video message.”

Mr. McFarland froze, confusion clouding his features.

“If you’ll let me in, I’ll explain everything.”

For several seconds nothing happened. Then McFarland blinked twice and stepped back to allow Freddy entrance. Stepping inside before he could reconsider, Freddy pulled off his brown leather driving gloves and stuffed them into his coat pocket.

“Who is it, Gil?”

Freddy turned to see a comely woman step into the living room, her right hand pushing a strand of gray-streaked brown hair behind her right ear.

“OK, you’re in,” Mr. McFarland said, his voice suddenly husky. “Say what you came to say.”

Glancing back and forth between the two McFarlands, Freddy unbuttoned his coat.

“I’m here because last night I met with the president of the United States and agreed to hold off on publication of my story for one more day. For his part, he agreed to allow me to meet with you and the Smythes before he takes action based upon my story.”

Holding up the DVD case, Freddy focused on Mrs. McFarland. “Heather and Mark recorded this video message and had it delivered to me two days ago, along with instructions that I first watch it with you and the Smythes. So here I am.”

As his wife’s knees buckled, Mr. McFarland grabbed her, supporting her to a seat on the couch.

“I’m OK, Gil. I’m not a child.” As she turned to look at Freddy, Mrs. McFarland’s damp eyes held his, her face regaining its composure. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Freddy. Freddy Hagerman.”

“Mr. Hagerman, please take off your coat. I’ll get some coffee started while Gil goes over to get Fred and Linda.”

“Anna...”

“Gil, I told you, I’m fine. Now hurry over and get our friends. As for the coffee, I think we’re going to need it.”

By the time they’d watched Mark and Heather’s video and Freddy had finished his story, Freddy felt as if every emotion had been physically wrung from his body, leaving behind an empty husk.

Gil and Fred had both called in sick, and Freddy knew that wasn’t far from the truth. Despite the happiness that came from discovering that Mark and Heather were alive and well, the shock of Jennifer’s heroic sacrifice had clearly left both families feeling as if they’d lost her a second time.

Against that backdrop, Freddy told his tale of government deceit, beginning with the murder of Jonathan Riles, the betrayal of Jack’s team, and the sequence of murders and criminal actions that had eventually led to Mark, Heather, and Jennifer’s flight to Bolivia, and their subsequent capture, torture, and escape.

The lead story in tomorrow’s New York Post would carry Freddy’s byline. But tonight the president would hold a nationally televised, prime-time press conference, informing the nation of the actions he would be taking to ensure the abuses detailed in Freddy’s investigative report were properly dealt with and appropriate measures put in place to ensure that they could never happen again.

Now, as Freddy slid into his coat, said his good-byes, and trudged through the cold wind toward the rental car that would take him back to Albuquerque, he realized just how hungry he was. That was OK. He’d wait until he got to the airport to down a burger and a beer while he watched the president cover his ass.

In the meantime he’d savor the knowledge that the McFarlands and Smythes knew far more of the story than the president or public ever would. As far as the US government knew, Heather McFarland and the Smythe twins had perished in the nuclear explosion that killed so many at the ATLAS site. And Freddy intended to leave it that way.





It had been almost a month since that fateful day in the ATLAS cavern. Seven kilometers southeast of Mes?o Frio, Portugal, a cold breeze swept the vineyards that fell away toward the River Douro. Beautiful in spring, summer, and fall, the harsh specter of winter held the wine region in its deathly grasp, stripping the vines, leaving them as barren as this winter night. Though she felt the ghosts of all the innocents she’d killed reach out through those twisted vines, it was another ghost that brought Heather to her knees.