Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(64)

“President of the largest tribe in North America. I’d say that’s a pretty big deal. Especially with what’s going on in the world right now.”

Tall Bear’s face acquired a more serious cast as he voiced the question foremost in his mind. “So what brings you back to this neck of the woods?”

“I need a favor.”

“Does it have anything to do with those Los Alamos kids?”

Jack paused. “Jim, you mystical bastard. Now how would you guess that?”

Tall Bear took a long pull at his beer, feeling the bite of the hops as he held it on his tongue. “It’s been all over the news.”

“Yeah. But the news says they’re dead.”

“They’re not.”

“I know, but how do you?”

Tall Bear got to his feet, walking over to look out the window at the dusty road winding away into the lonely hills. “You know Freddy Hagerman?”

“The reporter?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve read his work.”

“A few days ago, he called me. Says he’s hidden a digital recorder in a back yard in White Rock. Needs me to get it for him.”

“Why you?”

“My question exactly. He says he interviewed a Los Alamos psychiatrist who once treated Heather McFarland. In the interview, Dr. Sigmund said she’d recently been to see Heather McFarland at an NSA supermax facility in Maryland. That was right before Sigmund killed herself. Freddy hid the recorder then, called the cops.”

“So you got the recorder?”

“Got it, listened to it, sent it FedEx to a friend of Hagerman’s in DC.”

Several seconds of silence hung in the air between them.

“What was on that recording, Jim?”

Tall Bear turned to look at Jack. “Heather McFarland is alive. Probably the other two as well. The NSA’s playing hardball with them.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’d be better off dead.”

A cold smile settled on Jack’s face.

“Don’t bet on it.”

“So what can I do for you?”

Recalling the first time he’d stared into the strange fire of Jack Gregory’s eyes, Tall Bear found himself mouthing a silent prayer. Ancestors help him. Ancestors help them all.





Dr. Elbert Krause stared at the readouts on the screen before him. Mark Smythe’s readings held an otherworldly fascination for him. Never in his career had he seen anything like the self-control this young man possessed. No matter what physical stress they applied to his body, Mark remained in complete control, heart rate forty-three beats per minute, blood pressure at the low end of normal, brain activity indicative of the inner peace of a Shaolin monk.

It couldn’t just be Jack Gregory’s training. Gregory had only had these kids for a few months, not the years that would be required to achieve this kind of special control. Waterboarding had no more effect on Smythe than a Thanksgiving Day on the couch watching football. Sleep deprivation might as well not have been applied for all the effect it had on him. What was more, as Dr. Krause stared into Mark’s eyes in the video monitor, he got the distinct impression that the young stud was holding back, keeping the bulk of his capabilities in reserve.

He switched to the old Los Alamos data files. The answer lay there. It had started in Los Alamos. Nothing else made any sense.

The Smythe and McFarland families had been so close they effectively formed one extended family. All three kids had grown up together in White Rock, best friends long before starting grade school, next-door neighbors, by all accounts inseparable. But something had happened to them in the last two years. Mark Smythe had blossomed into a superstar athlete, while Jennifer Smythe and Heather McFarland had improved on already impressive academic careers.

A number of other oddities jumped out at him. Heather had been kidnapped twice, saved by Jack Gregory once, and had subsequently begun displaying schizophrenic symptoms. The three had produced an amazing entry in a national science competition. Dr. Krause had read their paper and been stunned by just how good it was, despite how they’d failed to credit one of their sources.

Apparently Jack Gregory had sensed just how special these young people were and had somehow enticed them to run away to join him. The question that kept hammering on the back of Dr. Krause’s skull was, how had they gotten so special? It must have had something to do with the Rho Project, but why wouldn’t Dr. Stephenson have known about them if that were true? Of course, a number of Rho Project–related things had spun out of Stephenson’s control. Maybe this was one of them.

Rising from his chair, Dr. Krause rubbed his lower back with his right hand, turned, and walked toward the coffeepot. Filling his ceramic mug with the steaming black liquid, he held the cup up to his nose and inhaled. Ahh. Freshly ground Wolfgang Puck coffee beans, an expensive indulgence, but one he didn’t mind shelling out for. Taking a slow sip, he smiled. Now this was true love.

Dr. Krause stiffened. Of course. It had been right there in front of him all along. Not in Mark Smythe’s files, but in Heather McFarland’s psychiatric records. Dr. Sigmund had noted that, as close as were Heather and Jennifer, Heather’s feelings for Mark were stronger.

And it had been Mark and Heather who had gone after Jennifer when she disappeared. They were a couple.