Despite the slightly lowered windows, the white Chevy Impala was getting hot. Freddy considered lowering them all the way, but then he would run the chance of someone noticing him sitting there in the car. Leaving it running with the AC on was a similar risk, especially with all the military and police patrols roving the Los Alamos area. Sweat and the lingering smell of the pastrami on rye he’d consumed twenty minutes earlier weren’t adding a whole lot to the ambiance either.
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 fucked 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.
“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?”
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.