Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(60)

“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?”