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.”
Tall Bear paused before responding. “Why the spy shit? I doubt the Los Alamos cops will be monitoring your real phone.”
“No, but the NSA sure as hell is. They were monitoring Dr. Sigmund and now they’re monitoring me. That brings me to why I called you. I made a digital recording of my interview with Dr. Sigmund. Then, after she killed herself, I dialed 911, walked out into the back yard, and hid the recorder under a rock. Since I’m sure to be watched, I need you to get it for me.”
Tall Bear laughed. “Why? Was I the closest Injun?”
“I know it sounds nuts, but I saw your news conference last year and you seemed like a guy that doesn’t have a lot of love for the feds.”
Once again Tall Bear considered ending the call. “What’s on the recorder that’s got the NSA so worried?”
“You know about the three Los Alamos kids that got killed in the black ops raid on Jack Gregory’s Bolivian ranch?”
“Yes.”
“According to Dr. Sigmund, at least one of them is alive and being held in an NSA psych ward. They took Sigmund there, made her help them convince Heather McFarland she was crazy, and then sent Sigmund back home. Only she couldn’t live with that. I think the NSA probably has the other kids, too, but those bastards told their parents they were all dead.”
“Even if I believe you, why do you think any of this matters to me?”
“Probably stupid, but I go with my hunches. You struck me as someone who hates that kind of abuse of power. I was hoping you hate it bad enough to stray an hour out of your way.”
Tall Bear let the silence stretch out until it hung heavy in the empty air. “Tell me how to find it.”
As he drove toward Los Alamos a few minutes later, the warm afternoon breeze blew through the Jeep Cherokee’s rolled-down window, whipping his long black hair behind him. It looked as if Jack Gregory had entered his life again. Strange how the world revolved around that man. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d led Jack and Janet to the high hogan. The image of Janet standing in that doorway flooded into his mind, her beautiful tanned face lit by a smile, her arms unconsciously resting on her round, pregnant belly.
How in hell had they linked up with the three Los Alamos kids? Of one thing he was certain. If the NSA was holding those three, then the whole story of the Bolivian raid was rotten. Jack Gregory was the finest man Tall Bear had ever met and he’d been screwed by his own government. That meant those kids were getting the same treatment. The question was, why?
Tall Bear decided he just might have to listen to that recording before he sent it off to Hagerman.