Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(25)
Amid vigorous applause from the native onlookers, Vidal Padilla smiled, and Tall Bear smiled along with him. This trickle of electricity marked the first watts of many from the pueblo’s new Kwee Cold Fusion Reactor.
The Washington Mall was beautiful in the early morning light. At this hour of the morning, the sun hung low in the sky, and its reflection off the Tidal Basin backlit the cherry blossoms. As journalist Freddy Hagerman jogged among them, they glowed pale pink and white, scenting the morning air with just a hint of ancient Japan.
In the best physical condition of his life, Freddy filled his lungs with air, holding it for two full strides before slowly letting it out, enjoying the extra spring the artificial running leg gave him. The other leg was his weak link. It gave his stride a long-short-long-short wobble that was disconcerting to watch. But he’d gotten used to it. That fake leg was so good he had actually contemplated replacing the other one.
“Damn sure won’t be Benny Marucci’s people doing the cutting,” he muttered to himself as he ran.
Freddy had never been much of a physical fitness nut. Funny how getting chased cross-country, frozen, and shot, and having your leg jigsawed off by a couple of mob thugs could change your appreciation for life. Besides, now that he was famous, he needed to take better care of himself.
Gotta make this last.
Shit. He’d even had ex-wives calling him, saying how much they’d missed him, how it’d be nice to get together again. Not happening.
Freddy made a left turn, picked up the pace for the final stretch, and let himself coast to a stop at the base of the Washington Monument. Placing both hands behind his head, letting his lungs work like a bellows, Freddy began the cooldown walk back to his car.
The brand-new gunmetal-gray Lincoln MKX detected the key fob in his pocket, unlocking the driver’s door as he approached. He opened the door, bending across to grab a dry T-shirt from the passenger’s seat. Walking around the back of the vehicle, Freddy pressed the open-liftgate button on the fob, pulled off the wet T, balled it up, and tossed it inside the spacious hatchback compartment.
Then he shrugged on the dry one. It was navy blue and sported his favorite question in bold white letters.
“Do I look like I give a rat’s ass?”
Freddy turned around, propping himself up against the back as he removed the curved spring that was his running leg. Lovingly wiping it with a dry towel, Freddy exchanged it for his walkabout leg. One nice thing about making the kind of money the NY Post had offered him to take the DC political beat: He could afford really nice legs. Hell, he could afford really nice ass for that matter.
Pressing the close-liftgate button, he walked around and opened the car door. It wasn’t until he settled into the driver’s seat that he saw it. A small yellow Post-it note stuck high up on the left side of the configurable instrument panel.
What the hell?
Some * had been in his car. But how? Freddy always locked it, and these new cars had more secure locks than older cars. Plus, whoever had broken in had relocked it. At least Freddy thought so. Thinking back on it, he was pretty sure he’d heard the door unlock as he approached.
He checked the glove box. His wallet was still there, no money or credit cards missing. Nothing else in the vehicle showed any sign of tampering. Just the yellow sticky note on the dash.
His hand reached forward, grabbed the yellow piece of paper by the corner, and pulled it free. Thirteen small, neatly printed words.
“Bigger than Henderson House. 6:15 p.m. Library of Congress foyer. I’ll find you.”
Worth every penny.
Freddy Hagerman wasn’t a big fan of government spending, but every once in a great while they got it right. Standing inside the entrance of the renovated Library of Congress, Freddy knew he was looking at one of those rare government projects. The Great Hall’s intricate arches surrounded a brass-inlaid wood floor, its grandeur breathtaking. Although he’d been in the Thomas Jefferson Building many times, it always affected him the same way.
Freddy glanced down at his watch. Six thirteen p.m. Time to get a move on, if he didn’t want to miss his appointment. And this was an appointment he didn’t want to miss.
Since fame had come calling, he couldn’t count the number of so-called “informants” who had tried to interest him in stories, all guaranteed to be the biggest thing he’d ever done. And even though Freddy could smell bullshit a mile away, just listening to these people had wasted more time than he cared to think about. It was why he no longer talked to anybody who hadn’t been vetted by Julia, his administrative assistant. But this was different. He had to admit that breaking into his car had gotten his attention. It had started his reporter’s nose itching. Now that itch had spread to his legs, getting them moving toward the center-most of five empty desks on the Main Reading Room’s second circle.
His butt had barely settled into the chair at his reading station when a woman slid into the chair to his left, bending over a large hardcover book, her salt-and-pepper hair neatly tied back in an academic ponytail, framing a profile that bespoke driven intelligence. Before he could speak, she shushed him.
“Don’t talk to me,” she said, her voice a barely audible whisper. “Keep your eyes on your desk, and for God’s sake, try to look studious.”
Freddy turned back to his desk. He didn’t have a book, so his Franklin Day Planner was going to have to do, if he didn’t want to stand out like a lighthouse on a foggy Cape Cod night. He flipped it open, pretending to study his upcoming appointment schedule.