Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(61)

Freddy hesitated, took a deep breath, and walked to the bathroom door. Although he knew he wouldn’t get an answer, he tried one last time.

“Gertrude, are you all right?”

Bracing himself, Freddy opened the door. Baby blue tile dripped blood and chunks of brain matter onto Gertrude Sigmund, her body slumped back in the tub as if she’d just settled into a warm bubble bath. Clutched tightly in her small right hand, the snub-nosed thirty-eight lay in her lap, a faint curl of gray smoke still drifting from its muzzle. The bullet had gone in through Gertrude’s mouth and blown off the back and top of her head, leaving her face turned slightly toward the door. Bathed in the bright incandescent light, her clear blue eyes stared at him so intently that Freddy expected to see an accusing finger point his way.

As Freddy lifted his cell phone to dial 911, the thought hit him. Just as she’d told him he could, Freddy had stayed to see her out.





Sick to his stomach, Freddy forced down the sour bile that rose into the back of his throat, turned, and walked rapidly out of the bathroom, through the house, and out into the backyard. Pulling the digital recorder from his pocket, he looked around, letting his eyes adjust to the soft shadows cast by the rising three-quarter moon. Under one of the freshly trimmed shrubs, he found what he was looking for, a football-size stone, loose enough for him to turn over.

Discarding a fleeting worry about the possibility of dirt damaging the electronic device, he hollowed out a nook, placed the recorder in the hole, and replaced the stone. That done, Freddy walked back into the kitchen, washed his hands, and then walked out to sit on the front steps to wait for the police. His wait wasn’t a long one.

After providing a statement on the scene, he was given a ride downtown. Once the local boys got done with him, he was told to sit tight until a federal agent arrived from Albuquerque. No, he wasn’t under arrest. All that meant was that he got to hang out in a two-way mirrored room instead of a cell. At least the cops had brought in a pepperoni pizza and a one-liter bottle of Coke. Apart from those deliveries and the occasional escorted trips to the john, he was left alone.

The NSA guy got there at 1:18 a.m. Agent Sorenstam. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, average build, the type of guy most people would look at and never give a second thought to. Freddy didn’t make that mistake. As Agent Sorenstam sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the table, introduced himself and looked directly into his eyes, Freddy gave him plenty of thought.

“I understand you were in the house when Dr. Sigmund was shot.”

“When she killed herself, yes.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Do I need an attorney?”

“Do you?”

Freddy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve got a copy of my statement to the Los Alamos cops. Look at my answers.”

“I read them. I just want a little more detail. A neighbor reports seeing you enter the house before three p.m. You were in there for more than four hours. I just want to know what you and Dr. Sigmund talked about.”

“As I said before, I asked her about her trip to Baltimore, and why she met with the NSA there.”

“And what did she say?”

“That you sick bastards made her come see Heather McFarland, that Heather isn’t dead, that she’s being held in a fake psychiatric ward and subjected to mind-altering drugs while the NSA tries to brainwash her.”

The answer seemed to take Agent Sorenstam by surprise. The agent glanced up at the two-way mirror, paused, then turned his gaze back to Freddy.

“Did you record the conversation?”

“She wouldn’t talk on the record. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Let me get this straight. She spends half the evening talking to you in her parents’ living room, then says excuse me while I blow my brains out?”

Freddy shrugged. “Actually she said something like, ‘Excuse me for a moment. If you’ll wait, you can see me out.’”

“So what set her off?”

“Guess she couldn’t wash off the NSA stink.”

“Listen, shithead. I’m getting a little tired of your anti-American crap.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me right. I didn’t say USA, I said NSA.”

“Don’t try to play the tough guy. You have no idea what that’s like.”

Freddy reached down, pulled up his pants leg, undid the straps that bound his artificial leg to the stump of his thigh, and set the leg on the table.

“Is that so? Tell you what. Either arrest me now or get my attorney, because this conversation’s over.”





Tall Bear glanced down at his ringing cell phone, saw only the blocked-number message, and considered not answering it, but pressed the ANSWER button anyway.

“Pino,” he said.

“Hello, Sergeant Pino. Thank you for taking this call. My name is Freddy Hagerman and I’m a reporter.”

“I know who you are.”

“Congratulations on your election as the next president of the Navajo Nation.”

“Thanks, but I’m not doing an interview about that now.”

“That’s not why I called. I’ll make this brief. Last night I was brought in for questioning by the Los Alamos police. I had the misfortune of being with Dr. Sigmund when she committed suicide yesterday. When they released me this morning, I hustled straight on down to Albuquerque, made a quick stop to purchase this prepaid cell phone I’m calling you on, and as soon as I hang up, I’ll pitch it and hop on the first flight back to DC.”