Red Hands: A Novel

by Christopher Golden

  She had killed, but oh, lord, how she wanted to live.

  4

  At a quarter past noon, Walker pulled his battered old Jeep Wrangler up to the curb in front of his ex-wife’s house and killed the engine. The radio went silent, and he missed the music immediately. He had no particular love for 1980s pop, but it filled his head and blotted out the regrets and self-recrimination that tended to flood the hollow places in his mind when he came here. His ex’s house, yeah, but once upon a time it had been their house. The Walker family home. He and Amanda and Charlie had lived there together, at least during the periods when work hadn’t dragged Walker across the country or across the ocean.

  He missed Amanda, but more than that, he missed the family they’d been. The family he’d taken for granted. In the gray light of an overcast early July day, the place seemed to breathe as if it were a dusty old museum dedicated to a better life.

  “Shit,” he whispered, smiling as he chided himself. “This is what unemployment does.”

  With a soft laugh, he got out of the car and started up the walk. He wasn’t actually unemployed, but for the past nine months, he might as well have been. Walker had fucked up on the job, at least the way his employers viewed it. His personal opinion differed. He had taken a difficult and potentially deadly decision out of their hands by eliminating their opportunity to study an ancient bacteria that might’ve killed millions. They’d wanted to research it, find a way to counteract it, just in case some enemy turned it into a weapon, and maybe turn it into a weapon for themselves. Walker had nearly died after being infected by it, and he had been unwilling to give them the benefit of the doubt.

  Them being the United States Department of Defense. His employers never called themselves that, of course. Since he had worked for them, that special division had gone through half a dozen official titles, a whole alphabet soup of names that were all smoke screens to cover the truth—that they were part of DARPA and thus the DoD.

  Having the bosses pissed at him all these months had been difficult. On the upside, however, he’d been able to spend a lot more time with his son, Charlie, who was fast careening toward his thirteenth birthday. The kid would be starting the seventh grade in less than two months, and that seemed inconceivable to Walker. People always talked about how the passage of time gathered momentum, and it had proven painfully, excruciatingly true. He felt as if he’d barely blinked, like Charlie had jumped into the pool during his first swim lesson years ago and emerged as this lanky, mop-headed kid on the verge of becoming a teenager. He told himself it was simply the nature of things, but he knew that feeling of accelerated time had been exacerbated by the fact that his work had kept him away from home so often, not to mention the small matter of his divorce.

  The best he could do was try to make up for some of that lost time here and there before Charlie turned old enough to lose interest in hanging out with his father.

  As Walker strode up the front path, a light rain began to fall. The air hung thick with humidity, the temperature hovering around eighty-five degrees, typical enough for northern Virginia on the Fourth of July. Once they were near the peak of Old Rag Mountain, the breeze would cool them down. Overnight, it would turn chilly up near the tree line. Walker breathed a bit easier just thinking about it.

  He steeled himself to ring the bell, to see Amanda and the past she represented, but the front door opened before he even reached the stoop. She stood on the threshold with a smile on her face, wearing jean shorts and a burnt-orange tank top, hair in a ponytail, no shoes, a woman ready to have the house to herself and a strawberry margarita in her hand.

  “It can’t be Ben Walker at my door,” she said. “On time? Unheard of.”

  Walker had been on the receiving end of barbed attacks and acid wit from Amanda a thousand times, mostly deserved, and he knew what her razor-edge sarcasm sounded like. This wasn’t it. Whatever history they shared, today Amanda had decided they could both live with the changes time had wrought.

  He smiled. “Sometimes I amaze even myself.”

  Walker wanted to tell her she looked fantastic, that dressed the way she was, her skin tanned a lovely bronze, her hair back, she didn’t look a day older than when they’d met. It would’ve been honest and sweet and true, but he knew it would come out awkward, and he worried that Amanda would take it the wrong way, as if he were trying to rekindle something now that he had time to be around more and she had broken off with the artist she’d been dating for the past couple of years. He remembered the way she liked him to run his fingers along the soft skin at the small of her back, and knew it would be best for him to keep his mouth shut.

  “Not much of a day for hiking,” she said, looking at the sky, blinking away a raindrop that struck her face.

  “This’ll be here and gone pretty quick,” Walker replied. “Plus, most of our hiking will be tomorrow. This afternoon’s just about getting up there and making camp, catching a few fish, building a fire. Burning some marshmallows.”

  Amanda smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

  A moment passed. Then another. Suddenly the easy comfort between them fell away, lost between the old familiarity and the things they no longer knew about one another. Taking the conversation further, talking about work or family or their romantic lives, would be a step too far, and they had not quite managed to become real friends again. Maybe they never would.

  “Charlie, you ready?” Amanda called back through the house. She gave a small shrug. “You want to wait inside?”

  Walker smiled. If it was uncomfortable out here, how much more uncomfortable would it be in the house they had once shared? He would notice every change, but also everything familiar.

  “I’m sure he’ll be out in a second,” he said.

  Amanda looked relieved. She leaned against the doorframe, and regret suffused him in a way he rarely allowed. Walker had become expert at walling off such emotions, but this time it sneaked up on him.

  “How are you?” he asked. “Really.”

  “I’m doing all right,” she said. “Stressed about work, as always. Trying to keep our boy good and kind. He’s starting the seventh grade, which can be rough. Kids get mean around then, or maybe the mean shit just starts to hurt a little more when you’re that age.”

  “He is a good kid,” Walker said. “He really is. And that’s all you.”

  Amanda feigned modesty. “Not all. But maybe most.”

  Walker remembered loving her. It was a nice moment. Then the familiar clump of impossibly heavy footfalls thumped down the stairs behind her, and Charlie appeared, enormous pack on his back, Washington Nationals cap on his head, at least two inches taller than he’d been during April vacation that year.

  “Time to head out!” he said happily. He bent over a bit to support the weight of his pack as he pointed a finger at the Jeep parked by the curb. “But I get to pick the music.”

  His mother didn’t have to ask him for a kiss. Charlie gave her a peck on the cheek, told her he loved her without hesitation, then came out onto the stoop as if he were a soldier presenting himself for inspection.

  “I have Oreos in my bag,” he announced.

  “Then I think we have everything,” Walker said. He glanced at Amanda. “Thanks for this. Enjoy your quiet time. Have an extra margarita for me.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  She watched them march down the front path to the Jeep, but by the time they had climbed in and Walker had started the car, he noticed she had gone back inside, the door tightly shut. A strange relief washed over him as Charlie buckled his seat belt and connected his phone to the car so he could play the weird combination of rap and country that tended to infiltrate his playlists.

  “Are there really Oreos in your pack?” Walker asked.

  “I’d never lie about the important things,” Charlie replied gravely.

  A country song began to play—one of a thousand tunes about whiskey—and the utter normalcy and contentment of the moment set Walker at ease in a way
he hadn’t ever expected to achieve again.

  In his front pocket, his phone began to vibrate.

  He stiffened, thought about letting it go to voice mail. For months, his employers had given him nothing but research jobs or training sessions for new hires. It was a holiday, and he had scheduled vacation days following the Fourth of July. Nobody should be calling him right now. His phone should not have been vibrating.

  “Dad?” Charlie asked. “Is that your phone?”

  Walker huffed quietly and reached into his pocket, sliding out his phone. The number was unfamiliar, but it was a Washington, D.C., area code. His thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating one last moment, and then abruptly the phone went silent. He stared at the screen.

  A gust of wind rattled the Jeep and the rain picked up, spattering the windshield.

  “Come on,” Charlie said. “Let’s get going.”

  Fuck them, Walker thought. He didn’t like not knowing what the call had been for, but he and Charlie had planned this hiking trip for months. He put the Jeep in gear, and then the phone began to vibrate again.

  “Ignore it,” Charlie said. “They don’t own you, Dad.”

  But for someone to call, not leave a message, and call back immediately … that worried Walker. One foot on the brake, engine idling, he answered the phone.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Dr. Walker, this is Alena Boudreau. I hope you remember me. That’ll make this go more smoothly.”

  An image of the woman swam up from his memories. Early seventies, fit, beautiful, with an air of drive and command that cowed most of the people she encountered. The first time he’d met her, in General Wagner’s office, she’d reminded Walker of British actress Helen Mirren. Her grandson, David, also worked for DARPA. Years ago, they’d done some work that he wished he’d read at that time—it might have saved him a lot of pain and terror in Guatemala later.

  “I remember you, Ms. Boudreau.”

  “Director Boudreau now,” she replied, her voice sounding tinny and distant on the phone, almost like a computer voice. “As of today, I’m running something called the Global Science Research Coalition. The SRC’s objectives will be familiar to you.”

  Walker frowned. What the hell did this have to do with him? He glanced at Charlie, saw the way his son had begun to rip at the skin on his fingertips, a nervous habit he’d developed over the past year. Charlie’s face held no emotion, a numb mask, impatient but somehow still hopeful.

  “Yeah, listen, congratulations on the new job,” Walker said, phone to his ear, turned away to watch the rain falling outside the driver’s window. “It’s a holiday, Director. I’m literally just pulling onto the road for a camping trip with my son.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alena said. “I should’ve been clearer. I’m running the SRC now, and you, Dr. Walker, have been traded to my team.”

  “I work for General Henry Wagner—”

  “General Wagner has had a no-good, very bad day. He’s not in charge of shit right now. The SRC was born today, they gave me the reins, and they did that in the middle of a crisis.”

  Walker didn’t want to ask. He knew he shouldn’t. The rain picked up, pounding the roof of the Jeep. He glanced at Charlie, who had begun to shake his head, his lips pressed into a white line of anger. Back on the front stoop of the house, Amanda had stepped out to see what had gone wrong, to find out why they had only pulled a few feet up the road.

  “According to the GPS tracking in front of me, Dr. Walker, you’re about forty minutes’ drive from Davison Army Airfield. I’ll meet you there in three-quarters of an hour.”

  “Director Boudreau—”

  “Alena is fine, Walker. We’re going to be working together, after all.”

  “I don’t work for you. Even if I did, I’m on vacation.”

  In the passenger seat, Charlie began to mutter a stream of colorful cusswords.

  “Wake up, Walker,” Alena said. “Meet the new boss, not as dim as the old boss. You’re needed, and I expect you to be there in forty-five minutes. I will see you there. Might as well just bring your camping gear. You may need it.”

  The line went dead. She had hung up.

  Father and son were quiet there in the car, engine idling, rain pattering the glass and hood. Walker expected Charlie to ask for an explanation, but the boy had grown up now, nearly thirteen, and he was smart enough to read the situation.

  “Charlie…,” Walker began.

  “This is bullshit.” He sneered the last word. Walker didn’t think he’d ever heard his son swear prior to the last two minutes, but he wasn’t about to admonish him.

  “Yeah, it is,” Walker said. “I’m sorry, kid. They wouldn’t call me in like this if they didn’t really need me.”

  Charlie winced, then blinked away the hurt in his eyes. “Oh, well, they really need you.” He huffed, just the same way Walker always did, then popped open the passenger door. He climbed out, dragging his backpack with him. One hand on the open door, Charlie ducked his head to fix his father with a look of blazing recrimination.

  “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t,” Charlie said.

  He slammed the door, turned, and marched back toward his house. Walker rolled the window down and called after him, but Charlie did not turn around or even slow his step. Instead, the boy picked up speed and ran toward the house. His mother greeted him at the door. She didn’t even ask, made no gesture in Walker’s direction. Instead, she just closed the door.

  Walker didn’t hesitate for more than a second or two. There were a lot of questions in his mind about what had happened to General Wagner and how Walker himself had come to work for Alena Boudreau, but it was clear she was the one giving the orders.

  Heart heavy, he hit the gas and aimed for Davison.

  The worst part about all of it was that although Charlie’s words had stung, and although Walker hated having to cancel their trip, he was also curious and buzzing with anticipation. He’d been so long in the doghouse he had wondered if they would ever trust him again. Now they had a use for him. Now they needed him.

  So does Charlie, he thought.

  But he kept his foot on the gas.

  * * *

  Davison Army Airfield looked as if it hadn’t changed in decades. Squat buildings, one runway, another stretch of tarmac where half a dozen combat helicopters sat idle, waiting to be called into use. The first time Walker had found himself at Davison, it had reminded him of a dozen airfields the army had thrown up in a matter of days or weeks in hostile territory. The Green Zone in Iraq had one like it, and Walker found some comfort in that, as if it meant this place stood ready for anything, able to shift into action at a moment’s notice.

  A guard checked him in at the gate, told him where to park. They were expecting him. The skies were gray and a light rain fell, wind blowing hard enough that it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. A sleek silver plane sat on the tarmac, something he hadn’t seen before, sparkling new but somehow reminding him of the propeller planes in old newsreels, the first transcontinental flights. This one had no propellers. And he had a feeling it would get him wherever he was going a hell of a lot faster than the ones in the newsreels.

  Nobody came out to greet him. A couple of soldiers stood outside a small hangar, sneaking a shared cigarette. The windows of the two-story control tower were opaque in the wan light. It was the Fourth of July, and he wondered if most of the airfield staff had been given the day to celebrate or if they had other duties to attend to.

  Fortunately, Walker didn’t need a welcome party. He stood in the rain for a few moments, studying the black Mercedes that idled next to the plane. Its headlights were on, mostly lost in the gloom, but he couldn’t hear its engine over the noise of the jet. He started across the wet tarmac, cocked his head to try to get a look inside the Mercedes, and then the airplane’s door opened, stairwell lowering to touch the runway. Now that he was closer, he was fairly certain the plane must have been a new model Bombardier Challenger,
but he wouldn’t have sworn to it.

  A figure appeared, silhouetted at the top of the stairs.

  “You don’t look like you’re in much of a hurry,” Alena Boudreau said, her voice carrying even above the engines and the rain.

  She treated him as if he were some errant teenager, admonishing him for his pace, never mind that he had just left his son behind on a day that had been promised to the kid. He ought to have been simmering with anger and frustration, but instead, his thoughts prickled with curiosity and admiration. Alena wore the whiteness of her hair like a crown, was nearly always the smartest person in the room, brutal with her adversaries, and always behaved as if she could see through to your secrets, whether you had any or not.

  Good riddance to General Wagner, he thought.

  “Reporting as instructed, Director,” Walker said as he started up the stairs, hands on the railings, picking up his pace.

  “I told you we’re not going to stand on formality,” she said, stepping back to allow him to board the plane.

  “You did, yes. But frankly, I’ll wait until I find out what we’re up to here before I decide how cozy I want to get.”

  Alena scowled. “Don’t worry, Dr. Walker. I’ve been known to get cozy, but never with my subordinates. It’s a good rule.”

  He flushed. “That’s not what I—”

  “There, that’s better,” she said, smirking. “I like you off-balance. Have a seat. We need to talk, and I don’t want to waste any more time.”

  Walker felt the engines cycling around him. Cool air blew from overhead. “You told me to bring my camping gear.”

  “You left it in the car. In a moment, you’ll want to go get it.” Alena reached inside her jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a phone but which unfolded into a full-size tablet, the sort with a liquid glass screen. “I’m going to show you something. Maybe you’ve already seen it. Thousands of people have, this morning, but I take it you had other things on your mind. By tonight, that number will be in the millions, thanks to the internet and the media’s lust for horrifying video clips.”