Vargas took him up to a small conference room on Level 2, where a bald and bearded white guy in a lab coat shifted uncomfortably in one chair, and a woman tapped away at a laptop. When Vargas brought Walker in, Lab Coat looked at his watch—he actually wore one—and gave a put-upon sigh.
“Please make it quick, Dr. Vargas,” the lab coat said.
“I’d appreciate that as well,” Walker said, drilling Lab Coat with a smile he hoped would set the man’s beard on fire. “Before anyone else dies from whatever the fuck you idiots let out of your lab.”
The bald-and-bearded Lab Coat, who looked a bit like Rasputin now that Walker gave it some thought, flushed red with anger, likely more color than his pale basement-dwelling life normally allowed. His colleague didn’t smile, exactly, but as she turned to look at Walker, the corner of her mouth lifted with a hint of amusement. A large woman with a tumble of natural curls and better fashion sense than Lab Coat, Walker recognized her immediately.
Dr. Katherine Isenberg had previously worked for DARPA. They’d crossed paths a few times, briefly, but he saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes and gave her a small shake of his head. She took the hint, swallowing any words of greeting. Walker preferred not to let the others know he and Kat Isenberg were acquainted, partly because of the other flicker he saw in her eyes, a glimpse of worry and urgency.
“That’s how it’s going to be?” Vargas asked, taking a seat at the table. She leaned back, studying Walker, steepling her fingers on her chest.
Nobody had offered him a seat, but Walker took one. “It doesn’t have to be. Maybe I jumped the gun. So let’s just get to it and see if I made the wrong assumption. Let’s start with names and job titles. We’ve got Dr. Vargas … who does what, exactly?”
Vargas fumed. “I’ve told you. I’m a lab supervisor.”
“For all of Garland Mountain Labs or for—”
Lab Coat rolled his eyes. “For one lab. Dr. Vargas is my supervisor.”
Kat Isenberg gave a small wave. “Dr. Isenberg. Deputy lab supervisor. And this is Dr. Jones, project manager.”
Walker wanted to ask about Dr. Jones’s projects, but while he had Vargas here, he had a more important question.
“Who funds Garland Mountain Labs?”
Vargas smiled. “Next question.”
“Okay. Now I know where we stand,” Walker said, leaning back in his chair. “My guess is Homeland Security, but Defense has to be aware, and given what little I do know about your operation, it feels like DARPA.”
Dr. Jones grunted. “You said you didn’t want to waste time.”
Walker hadn’t liked any of this from the outset—the lab, the sickness, the idea that anyone could kill just by touching someone—but he particularly didn’t like how close to home this felt. Whoever gave the researchers at Garland Mountain their marching orders, this was familiar territory, the sort of research DARPA did every day. But playing twenty questions with these people wasn’t going to save a single life if the questions went unanswered.
“Just tell me what you’re prepared to tell me about the guy in the BMW and what he could do,” Walker said. “Then I’ll do what I can to fix your fuckup.”
Dr. Jones made a tsking sound with his tongue. “People who live in glass houses, Dr. Walker.”
Walker bristled. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“We all have a job to do, that’s all,” Vargas said, kindlier than before. More concerned. “The man’s name was Oscar Hecht. He worked here. The media will have that information fairly soon. Red Hands is a tactile bacterial infection—”
“Red Hands? That’s what you—”
“Yes, that’s what we call it,” Jones interrupted. “Project: Red Hands. And yes, it’s the result of intensive research and experimentation. Given whom you work for, you’re in no position to lecture us. It wasn’t supposed to ever leave the lab, but Hecht infected himself and then ran from his own idiocy. A fool and a coward, and now he’s dead.”
“And he took a lot of other people with him,” Walker replied.
“Justin…,” Vargas cautioned.
Walker glanced at the man’s name tag for the first time. Dr. Justin W. Jones. He didn’t look like a Justin. Walker had preferred Rasputin.
Kat Isenberg tapped at the computer, nodding to herself. “Dr. Vargas, we’re set.”
Vargas exhaled. “Finally.”
Walker cocked his head. “You want to share?”
“The quarantine perimeter is closed. Between our people, state police, and officers from police departments in surrounding communities, every road now has a checkpoint.”
Something about the statement chilled Walker, but it took him a moment to sift his thoughts. He narrowed his eyes, studying Jones and Kat before fixing his gaze on Vargas.
“You have all the bodies here at the lab, don’t you? The remains are quarantined here. Everyone from the Sinclair woman’s family to Hecht himself.”
Vargas gave a nod. “That’s right.”
“This is a tactile contagion, you said, and from the clips I’ve seen, I will take you at your word. The only way to get this sickness is to be touched by someone infected with it, and aside from Hecht and Maeve Sinclair—whose exceptions I assume you’ll decline to explain—everyone touched with Red Hands dies less than a minute after contact.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Jones said. He ran a hand over his beard, unconsciously grooming himself. “Some lived nearly two minutes.”
Walker wanted to punch him in the throat. He squeezed his eyes closed. When he opened them, he caught a strange expression on Kat’s face. She had glanced at her lab partner with a look of disdain, even disgust. When she caught Walker looking at her, she gave a shake of her head and mouthed the words I’m sorry. Vargas and Rasputin hadn’t seen—they were staring at Walker—but at least one person in this place had a soul.
“In other words,” Walker said, “you know there isn’t anyone else infected with this thing. I’d like you to walk me through exactly how you know that, how we got here, and what you’re planning to do about it.”
Vargas looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. The guy he thought of as Rasputin-in-a-lab-coat actually snickered, laughing at Walker rather than with him. As manager of Project: Red Hands, his work had cost lives, and he didn’t seem all that broken up about it. Kat Isenberg met Walker’s gaze, fidgety and frustrated, and he felt sure she would have talked to him if the other two weren’t in the room.
“I think we’re done here, Dr. Walker,” Vargas said, gesturing toward the door. “We look forward to helping you bring Maeve Sinclair home safely, for her own protection as well as the protection of anyone she might encounter.”
Jones stood. Kat Isenberg closed her laptop.
“This quarantine should comfort me,” he told Vargas. “You spending so much effort on making sure Sinclair doesn’t kill anyone else.”
“But you’re not comforted, are you?”
Walker shook his head. “I would be if I thought you cared more about the people who might die than you do about putting your genie back in the bottle.”
The authorities had put the quarantine in place mostly for show—you couldn’t have something contagious kill a bunch of people on a video the whole world had seen and do nothing. But the only person the masterminds at Garland Mountain actually wanted to confine to the area was Maeve Sinclair.
“Now, hang on,” Jones said, face going red. “If you can get her here, we can help this woman.”
Walker turned for the door. “You’d fucking better, Justin.”
Vargas hurried to follow him out and escort him to the elevator. In the lobby, the security guards nodded to Walker, and then they were outside. The clouds had thickened and darkened, and a few drops of rain spattered the ground.
“We’re doing all we can,” Vargas said. “We all want to keep people safe.”
“You’re doing a bang-up job so far.”
Walker headed for Lot C, where his convertible Bui
ck loaner sat looking absurder than ever.
“What did you expect?” Vargas called. Hands stuffed into her pockets, she studied him with what seemed genuine curiosity.
“Excuse me?” Walker said.
“She’s had a bad fucking day, yeah, her life is a goddamn tragedy,” Vargas went on, “but what’s in Maeve Sinclair is our research, and she belongs here at Garland. The decision may rest with someone higher up, but did you really think we’d be eager to help you be the one to lay hands on her?”
Walker felt his fists clench. He smiled, but if Vargas had known him better, the smile would have made her nervous. “You think she belongs to you.”
“Of course. Who else? I told you, it’s our research—”
“She’s not research. She’s a human being.”
Vargas sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “Grow up, Walker. This girl is death incarnate, and she’s fucking AWOL.” She waved him off. “Just go find her. We’ll fight over her later. If she offers to shake hands, maybe just blow her a kiss instead.”
She turned and walked back toward the facility entrance. Walker glanced around, surprised not to have an escort, but then he remembered all the cameras and the guards at the gate, and knew there were still eyes on him.
* * *
The cameras watched as he drove back to the gate, but it swung open without so much as a glance from the guard shack. They had known he was coming, and they knew he was leaving. Walker felt more conspicuous than ever in his silver convertible, and he sped up, the Buick surging along the narrow road beyond the gate, embarrassed and angry and filled with a new urgency.
When a dented red Hyundai pulled out from behind a tree to block the road, he barely had time to jam on the brake. The Buick skidded to a halt. The engine ticked and growled, and the wipers swished across the glass as Walker glared at the Hyundai, waiting for trouble. He’d lived moments like this before, and the next step nearly always included hard-eyed men with guns. Instead, the woman who stepped out of the Hyundai was tall and attractive, tattooed and grim-faced. She slammed her car door and walked directly toward him, and Walker knew then she had no intention of killing him. If she meant him harm, she would know better than to expose herself that way. If he’d had a gun, he could have put a dozen bullets in her.
Which reminded him that he shouldn’t have left his gun packed in his bag, in the trunk. He hadn’t expected to want it quite so soon.
As the woman approached the driver’s window, Walker hit the button to lower it.
The first tattoo his gaze lit upon seemed to be a purple octopus encircling her forearm, the last thin tentacle like a bracelet on her wrist. He’d have liked her immediately if not for the way she’d just endangered both their lives.
“Can I ask your name?” she said, one hand on the roof, ducking to look through his window. Not an ounce of fear.
He had both hands on the steering wheel. “This is a strange ambush.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “What?” Blinking, she stepped quickly back from the car, hands raised. “Look, I just want to know who you are. I spent fifteen minutes at the gate. Once the guard told me nobody would see me, he basically ignored me until I gave up. I saw you take the turn in my rearview mirror when I was leaving and I thought, no way are they letting this guy in. I’m pissed off, so I followed you back. Sure enough, I get to the gate and you’re nowhere in sight, which meant you were inside. So I wanna know, who are you that they stonewalled me but let you through?”
Walker felt the seconds ticking past, but he could see the pain and determination in the woman’s eyes.
“I don’t work for the lab,” he said. “They’re assholes.”
She didn’t smile. “Implying you personally are not an asshole.”
“I have my days.” He extended his hand through the window. “Walker. Global Science Research Coalition.”
“Rue Crooker,” she said, shaking his hand. “Concerned fucking citizen.”
Walker released her hand, glancing at the tentacles of her octopus tattoo. “Short version, my boss sent me to make sure this morning’s tragedy doesn’t get any worse. It’s incredibly dangerous. You should really be at home until—”
Rue gave him a look of profound disappointment. “See, I liked you until right now.”
“I’m sorry?”
“If you work for Global SRC, you know I’m not in any danger. The only people in danger are Maeve Sinclair and anyone who comes into contact with her.”
Walker smiled. A breeze kicked up and blew the forest smells of pine and cedar through his window. “You may not like me anymore, but I now like you a hell of a lot, Ms. Crooker.”
“Dr. Crooker.”
“Of course you are.” He tilted his head. “What sort of doctor might you be?”
“Biologist. I was there when it happened. Saw it all, and not on video. Also dealt with your friends from the lab—”
“They are definitely not my friends.” Walker hesitated, knowing Alena wouldn’t want to involve civilians, but this woman was already involved, and he had an assignment to complete. “You said only Maeve and anyone she runs into will be in danger, and you’re right. For her sake, I need to be the one to find her. I assume you didn’t drive over here and argue with the guards at the gate out of clinical interest.”
Rue simmered. “They brought all the victims back here. People want to know what’s being done with the remains of their loved ones and how long before they’re released.”
Walker put both hands on the wheel, felt the engine idling. “Yeah, but that’s not why you’re here. You came because you want answers. You’re a biologist, and this isn’t like anything you’ve ever seen. It’s something that shouldn’t even exist, and you wanna know what it is, how it does.”
“And I want Maeve to be all right.”
“You know her,” Walker said.
Rue took another step back from the car. For a few seconds, she seemed to be evaluating him, and then she nodded to herself as if deciding. Reached up to scratch at the stubble on the shaved part of her scalp.
“Maeve’s father is one of my closest friends. I’ve known the girl all her life. Her father, Ted, had a hunch about where she might go and headed up there with the chief of police, Len Kaminski. They’ll be back at the house by now, with her or without her.”
Walker swore under his breath, hands tightening on the wheel. “That could be very dangerous.”
Rue tapped the roof of the car. “Follow me. I’ll make an introduction.”
“You trust me enough to do that?”
She scowled. “Someone has to help this family, and you’re the only person I’ve encountered who seems willing. But don’t flatter yourself, friend. After today, I don’t trust anyone.”
8
Three-quarters of an hour after Maeve had started on the Jackrabbit Trail, she noticed a narrower trail on her left. Unlike so many in these mountains, this path had no marker, no sign, no name to offer a hiker the comfort of familiarity or the assurance that if they wandered off and became lost, they were likely to find their way.
She took a breath, a prickle of fear at the back of her neck. The trail wended into a thick tangle of forest, much darker than the path she’d been on, but it appeared to continue up the mountain. More importantly, she knew she had never hiked this trail with her family, had never lugged her fishing rod through that gap. If her father tried to guess where she’d go next, he might well think to try the Jackrabbit Trail, but he’d never imagine she would go off by herself into the dark unknown.
Which made it her only choice.
Maeve wished she could stop, let them find her, but that just wasn’t possible. She needed time to think. Right now, she couldn’t see any way out of this, but she nurtured a small hope that if she could just stop and rest, something would occur to her.
Protecting her face from branches, she plunged along the narrow trail, so thick with trees and bushes that they scraped at her like brambles. If they had a good tracker, t
he person would doubtless be able to follow, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for them.
Neither was the weather, apparently. Ten minutes after she’d started up the new path, stumbling on rocks and root braids that thrust from the dirt, it began to rain. The sun had been fading in and out all along, but it surprised her when she heard the pattering on the leaves overhead and then the thick rattling of heavier drops. Though it couldn’t have been much past 2:00 p.m., it felt as if night had already fallen.
Maeve welcomed it. If the storm went on long enough, all traces of her passing this way would be erased.
Maybe nobody will ever find me. Maybe I’ll die up here.
A racking cough bent her double and blurred her vision. Her chest had begun to ache, and she pressed both hands against her sternum. Her throat felt tender and swollen. Maeve coughed again, and she spat something thick and dark onto the rain-damp path. This couldn’t be what she feared—not whatever had killed her mother and Logan. The people the driver had touched died instantly. She had killed him; he had touched her, passed whatever disease had cursed him onto her, but she wasn’t supposed to be the one to get sick.
The trail widened a bit, turning northeast, up the face of the mountain, toward a ridge between Mount Champney and the neighboring Little Blackberry Mountain. Northeast felt like the safest direction. Off to the west were the real Jericho Falls, the waterfalls from which the town had gotten its name. The falls and the caves there brought out tourists and day hikers, and she knew whoever might be looking for her would assume she would strike out for the falls. A young woman on her own, up on the mountain, knowing there were caves where she could hide and people who might be willing to help her? The average middle-aged man wouldn’t bet money on Maeve seeking out the hard terrain, the darkest woods. Her father would expect it, but she had to gamble on him not sharing those thoughts. Even if he blamed her for what had happened … even if he hated her now.
Her gut gave a sour twist, and she began to cough. Something in her felt off. She thought longingly of her grandfather’s cabin, but she couldn’t go back there. She continued along the narrow, overgrown trail. The rain fell so hard it began to pool and flow in little rivulets along the raised roots. Squirrels darted through underbrush. Twenty paces farther, the branches grew so close together that the trail virtually disappeared.
Red Hands: A Novel Page 8
