Wormhole (31 page)

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.

From atop his perch in the tree nearest to the thatch-roofed hut, the monkey jabbered, hopped up and down, then lost interest. Janet held Robby in one arm, pointing at the monkey with the other.

“Do you see the monkey, Robby?”

She studied Robby’s face, his clear brown eyes watching hers, then shifting up to the furry brown creature thirty feet away. Despite the fact that he was much too young to speak, Janet had the unshakable feeling that he understood her words, not just her gestures. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised at how fast her child was learning, considering what she knew about the effect the alien headbands had had on Mark, Jen, and Heather. Still, she found the pace of his development slightly unnerving.

Janet looked around at the grouping of Quechua huts sitting atop four-foot-high stilts, the ladders leading up to their doors,
laundry hanging on lines beneath the thatched overhangs. Just down the road and beyond the hill lay the outskirts of Puyo, Ecuador. Yachay’s home. The native nanny had led them here, introducing them to the poor Quechan community where they were welcomed as if they had been long-lost relatives, disappearing from the wider world as thoroughly as if they’d slipped into a La Brea tar pit. No electricity, no running water, no indoor toilets, just a nice, safe hideaway.

Turning away from the monkey, Janet climbed the slanted ladder leading to her hut, the smallest in the village. Pausing just inside the door, she looked up at Cherise, the beautiful scarlet macaw that had become her pet.

“Awk. Robby. Robby.”

Janet laughed at the greeting. As smart as Robby was, the bird had learned to talk before he did. Too bad Jack wasn’t here to share the moment with her.

Setting Robby in the playpen Yachay had made for him, Janet walked over to the table where her disassembled H & K subcompact lay. One thing about the high jungle. The humidity meant her weapons needed even more daily maintenance than in Bolivia.

As she sat down and picked up where she’d left off, her thoughts turned back to Jack. He’d made sure she and Robby were set up in an adequate safe haven where it was unlikely their enemies could find them; then he’d filled a backpack with ammunition, basic survival gear, and one of their two subspace receiver-transmitter USB dongles and stepped out into the noisy jungle night. Janet could still taste his good-bye kiss on her lips, could feel the way his teeth playfully nipped her lower lip, could see the fire in those eyes.

She missed him, missed having his back. But her responsibility was to Robby first. If he’d been a normal little boy, she would have left him with Yachay and gone with Jack. But neither of them
knew what challenges Robby would face in the coming months and Janet wanted to be there to guide his development. Besides, Jack was Jack. He’d find where Mark, Jennifer, and Heather were being held and then they’d have a fighting chance at freedom.

A low rumble in the distance was accompanied by a gust of wind in the rafters. Soon the downpour would send sheets of water from the thatched roof to join the small flood that would roll below the stilted huts, temporarily isolating the Quechan village more completely than normal. Janet rose to stand in the doorway, staring out at the gathering clouds. As the first fat drops splattered against her face, she turned her gaze to the north. Despite the ferocity of the rain forest weather, north was where the real storm was gathering. And it was likely to be a violent one.

The two-lane road needed repaving, the high desert threatening to reclaim it from civilization at any moment. It was one of many stretches of highway in need of such improvement on the Santa Clara Indian Reservation. But it wasn’t the potholes or cracks in the pavement that occupied Tall Bear’s attention, it was the beat-up white F-150 that had pulled out onto the road a quarter mile in front of him.

The vehicle could have been any one of a thousand such vehicles in this part of the country, a big four-wheel-drive pickup that had seen hard usage in rough country, the bed sagging under the memory of too many heavy loads dropped roughly atop its steel frame. Nothing unusual there. But the way it weaved back and forth across the center line brought Tall Bear’s blood to a slow boil. Not that morning drunkenness was an unusual sight here on the res; it was that this was an all-too-common occurrence that grated on him.

Switching on his lights and siren, Tall Bear closed in on the truck’s rear bumper, pleasantly surprised to see it pull over and stop along the deserted highway’s right shoulder without crashing into anything. A glance at the rear of the truck brought two things to Tall Bear’s attention. It had a heavy-duty towing package, but no license plate.

Opening his door and stepping out onto the pavement, Tall Bear approached the driver’s door, his right hand resting lightly on the butt of his Colt .45. The driver’s window was rolled all the way down, the man’s left arm resting on the window frame as calmly as if he’d just pulled up at a McDonald’s drive-through. The arm, extending from a black T-shirt sleeve, was darkly tanned and so ripped with lean muscle it appeared to have been chiseled from stone. The upper part of the man’s face was hidden by the broad brim of his hat.

“Let me see your driver’s license and proof of insurance.”

“Sorry, Officer, I must have gotten off without them.”

Something about the voice gave him pause. “Step out of the truck and keep your hands where I can see them.”

The man opened the door and stepped out to face Tall Bear. Just over six feet tall, the man wore a black T-shirt, tucked into jeans over lace-up combat boots, that emphasized a physique that matched his arms. Again Tall Bear had the impression of someone completely at ease, a feeling that didn’t match the man’s current situation.

Still unable to see all of the guy’s face due to the hat and the downward tilt of his head, Tall Bear let a hard edge creep into his voice.

“Look me in the eye when I talk to you.”

As the man tilted his head slowly upward, his voice carried a note of amusement. “Now, Jim. Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

With the shock of sudden recognition, Tall Bear found himself staring directly into Jack Gregory’s smiling face.

Recovering with a remarkable swiftness, Tall Bear stepped forward to grip Jack’s hand. “Jack, you crazy son of a bitch! I thought you’d be smart enough to stay out of this country.”

“Guess I’ve never been that bright.”

“What the hell are you doing out here on this back road?”

“Waiting for you to drive by and catch me. Calling didn’t seem like such a great idea. Got somewhere we can have a private talk?”

“Lots of privacy out here on the res. Even got a place we can sit on a couch and have a beer.”

Jack grinned. “I could go for that. You sure your place isn’t bugged?”

“I’m not talking about my house. A buddy of mine went to visit family in Arizona. I’m watching his place while he’s gone.”

“And his beer?”

“You got it.”

“All right. I’ll follow you.”

Eddy Castillo’s house wasn’t anything fancy, a double-wide a few miles north of town with a steel carport sitting off to one side, a fenced backyard with some greenish-brown grass. Leading Jack inside, Tall Bear motioned to the couch as he opened the fridge.

“Take a load off.”

Returning with two ice-cold Buds, Tall Bear handed one to Jack and plopped down beside him. “How’s Janet?”

“Looking fine, as usual.”

Tall Bear laughed. “And the baby?”

“Beautiful baby boy. Robert Brice Gregory. We call him Robby.”

“So you finally strapped on some
huevos
and married her?”

“I did. Married her in a church in Puyo, Equador. Right before I came back here.”

“Damn, that’s fine. Wish I’d been there.”

“Me too.”

Jack raised the can to his lips, pausing to feel the cold condensation before dribbling the amber fluid into his mouth. As he lowered it once more, his smile returned. “By the way, I understand congratulations are in order. President of the Navajo Nation?”

“Not yet. I get sworn in next week.”

“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.