Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(59)
Damn he hated this stakeout shit.
He glanced down at his watch, the elegant gold-and-crystal rectangle a celebratory Pulitzer indulgence. He watched the second hand tick forward, freezing in place momentarily before ticking forward again, and mentally pictured tiny gears and wheels whirring around inside the thin case. The Swiss did watches right. None of that digital crap.
Twenty-three minutes past two. Dr. Gertrude Sigmund had been in her mother’s house exactly thirty-seven minutes. As much as Freddy wanted to walk up and knock on the door, he felt he should give her another ten. No use looking like a stalker, even if you were.
To a newsman, the last few days had been like a soft porn movie, interesting but frustrating. In the last week, the United States of America had come undone. Not all of it. Not entirely. But what had once been the greatest power on earth now resembled a patchwork quilt of island states. To its credit, the United States military had answered the president’s call, performing its duty to protect the Constitution. President Jackson had declared martial law, and the US military was doing its best to enforce that declaration.
What that meant on the ground was that cities near military bases had pretty good security. Localities without that benefit found themselves in much less advantageous situations. Luckily for Los Alamos, even though it didn’t have its own military base, it was a key national asset, guaranteeing it a disproportionate share of national military assets. It was why Freddy could sit on a residential street in his rented white Impala without worrying about some degenerate biker gang gutting him for the car keys.
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 f*cked 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.