Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(72)

On the stage, the country band finished its set, thanked the crowd, and exited stage right, replaced by a congressman from the great state of Maryland. Freddy tuned him out and resumed his search. Frustrated, he jostled through the crowd toward the Capitol building. Maybe if he stood on the steps, Tall Bear would find him. Thirty minutes of standing proved him wrong.

“Screw this,” he muttered, turning to head back toward Union Station and his car.

The thought of his car brought his hand to his pocket. Freddy froze. His car keys were gone. He checked his hip pocket and breathed out a small sigh of relief. At least he had his wallet. But how the hell had he lost his keys?

Instinctively, he patted all his pockets, surprised to feel the key ring bulge in his front left pants pocket. What the hell? He never put his keys in that pocket. Reaching his left hand in to grab them, he felt something else with them. A piece of paper.

Extracting his keys and the paper, Freddy stared down at it. The paper was a neatly folded piece of heavy vellum. It reminded him of something he’d seen before, although he couldn’t place it.

Glancing around, Freddy saw nothing out of the ordinary. But someone in the crowd had picked his pocket, then returned his keys, along with the note, in a way sure to get his attention. Staring down at the paper, Freddy undid the four folds. As he stared at the handwriting, the sense of déjà vu enveloped him so strongly it took his breath away.

This is the second note I’ve sent you, although the first in my own name. You may recall a certain shoebox and necklace that accompanied the first. Be assured, if I wanted to harm you, you’d already be dead. You have some information I want and I believe I can fill in part of the story you’re currently working. If you’re interested, be at the southeast corner of Louisiana and New Jersey at 7:15. I’ll find you. J.G.

A cold shiver started at the base of Freddy’s neck, radiating up his scalp and down his arms like the kiss of death. Jack Gregory. Somehow, in the midst of all this hyper-security, the Ripper had touched him twice and he hadn’t even noticed, despite the fact he’d been actively studying his surroundings.

Freddy folded the note and returned it to his pocket along with his keys, then, with another quick glance around, crossed Constitution Avenue onto First. Taking a slight right onto Louisiana, he made his way past the Taft Memorial, reaching the southeast corner of Louisiana and New Jersey Avenues. His watch said 7:08.

A black Honda Shadow motorcycle squealed to a stop beside him, the rider’s face, hidden behind the helmet’s reflective faceplate, turned toward him.

Freddy nodded. “You’re early.”

“Get on.”

To Freddy’s credit, he never hesitated, at least not for longer than it took him to get his good leg over the seat behind Gregory. The motorcycle pulled into traffic, turned left on New Jersey, leaving the Union Station Plaza behind as it accelerated northeast.

Two hours later Freddy found himself in Linthicum, Maryland, sitting on a couch in Jack Gregory’s room at the BWI Homewood Suites.

“Coffee?” Gregory asked, lifting the in-room pot.

“Black.”

Setting a steaming cup in front of Freddy, Gregory filled his own mug, then settled into the armchair across from the sofa. Freddy didn’t know what he’d been expecting from the killer, but this wasn’t it. At the moment the man looked nothing like any of the pictures Freddy had seen of him, and they’d been all over the television and print media. His ruddy brown complexion and medium-length coal-black hair gave him a distinctly Native American look that went fine with his jeans, boots, and Western shirt.

Gregory moved in a relaxed, easy fashion that reminded Freddy of a prowling lion. Freddy just hoped he’d make it through the evening without becoming the prey. Well, so far so good.

“Your meeting with Dr. Sigmund on the night she killed herself; tell me about it.”

Freddy sucked in a breath, his heart rate shifting up a notch. How did Gregory know about that? Not through his old NSA ties. Those were as dead as Jonathan Riles. A light dawned in his mind. Tall Bear.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why you arranged the meeting, everything Dr. Sigmund told you, your thoughts and impressions about what she was telling you, why she killed herself. Everything.”

“Why should I tell you when I didn’t tell the NSA? Your note mentioned a quid pro quo.”

Jack reached for the fruit basket on the coffee table, grabbed a shiny red apple, and slowly began peeling it. Freddy hadn’t noticed when the survival knife had appeared in his hand, but there it was, the thin red apple skin curling away from the black blade in one long, thin strip.

“I’ve read your investigative work. Impressive stuff. You show me that same level of attention to detail and I’ll reciprocate.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll find the front page a little sooner than you planned.”

Freddy remembered a line his father had told him. “Son, don’t ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer.”

Freddy Hagerman shrugged. “Fair enough.”

At two thirty a.m., Jack Gregory leaned over and handed Freddy the room’s key card, then rose and walked out the door. A minute later, Freddy heard the roar of a motorcycle as it pulled out of the parking lot and drove off.

As exhausted as Freddy was, he felt no inclination to sleep. Instead he stared down at his digital recorder, the one he’d played for Gregory earlier in the evening, the one on which he’d subsequently been allowed to record the Ripper’s narrative.