The stranger slid the gun into the clip on his belt. “No time for hesitation. We’ve got to get some cover. It’s a bad idea for us to be out in the open like this.”
He started walking toward the trees. Rose, Priya, and Maeve all watched him go.
“Maeve,” Priya began, cradling her wounded shoulder. “You have any idea who this guy is?”
Maeve shook her head.
The stranger paused. “My name’s Walker. Happy to give you my CV when we’re not so exposed, but let’s start with, ‘I’m the only person on this mountain I can guarantee is not trying to kill Maeve Sinclair.’”
Maeve narrowed her eyes. “What about locking up Maeve Sinclair? Cutting her open like a lab rat? I’m betting that’s a popular motivation for folks today.”
“No doubt,” Walker replied. “And it could come to that. But if it’s between your freedom and more people dying at your hands, which one are you gonna choose? Maybe you can be cured of this thing and maybe you can’t, but we all know you can’t run from it for very long.”
Rose had never seen Walker before now, but she hated him already.
Mostly because he was right.
* * *
Ted sat on the recliner in front of his living room TV, a tumbler of Jameson in his hand, pondering the skill set he’d developed thanks to alcoholism. Even with his head muzzy from booze, he could still look at the level in the bottle and predict with stunning accuracy how much he could drink and still wake up the next day with his memories intact.
Ted studied the glass in his hand. “Shit.”
He sat up and set the tumbler on the coffee table. He hated to see it there, glistening amber, but he could always drink it when he came home.
Not that he didn’t want it. The beautiful burn, he called it. Jameson went down anything but smooth, but whiskey always gave him a weird sense of history, and the kind of connection to the earth he felt when he sat by the ocean at night and watched the waves roll in, or on a day when the rain and wind churned up the sky the way it had this afternoon.
He laughed at himself, relishing the just-the-right-amount-of-drunk he felt. “You’re a fucking poet,” he said to the empty house. “The bard of Irish whiskey.”
The laughter almost choked him. His face contorted, and he knew the tears would come if he didn’t do something to stop them, so he forced himself to stand up. Wavering on his feet, he cast a regretful glance at the lonely bottle and then turned his back. If he could go through this day and stay off pills, stay away from all the shit he’d once used to dull his emotions, he could turn his back on a half-empty bottle.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. But whiskey had never dulled his emotions. It sharpened them. Exacerbated them. Sometimes clarified them.
If he stopped early enough.
Ted turned, grabbed the tumbler from in front of the TV, drained the last inch and a half from the glass. “Goddamn it!”
He’d flung the tumbler before he realized it had left his hand. The glass flew across the room and shattered against the fireplace mantel. Glittering shards exploded in all directions. Unsatisfied with that destruction, he reached for the bottle, gripped it by the neck, cocked his arm.
Pain spiked through him. His skull, his wrist, his ribs. All the strength went out of him, and he lowered the bottle, let it slip from his fingers to the carpet.
Jesus, that hurt.
Of course. He hung his head, cradling one arm with the other. His ribs were an orchestra of little pains that together made a symphony. He hadn’t been honest with Rue about his injuries, about how much pain he was in. The whiskey had helped, but he knew what would really help.
Not a chance, Ted thought.
Disgust curdled inside him. Self-loathing had become his frequent friend, but never more than today. He was useless. His wife had died. His son, once upon a time his baby boy, whom he’d cradled against his chest. The boy he’d tossed into the air and spun on the grass, letting him know Dad would always be there to catch him, always be there to give him a safe, soft landing.
Dead.
And his girls …
Flushed with the warmth of the whiskey, he glanced around and spotted his phone on the coffee table. Unsteady on his feet, he took a moment to clear his head and then picked up the phone. It took him a full ten seconds of tapping at the screen before he remembered the assholes who had quarantined Jericho Falls—the people he was sure were responsible for all the horrors of the day—were jamming cell signals and internet.
Knowing it would do nothing, he opened Find My Friends. The phone kept searching for Maeve and Rose and Logan … and Rue. The four people he could track with the app. Kept searching … but found nothing.
He couldn’t find Rue.
He couldn’t find Maeve.
He couldn’t find Rose.
Ted stood in his ex-wife’s living room, though maybe his again now that she’d died, and hugged himself tightly. Nobody else around to do it. He shivered as the whiskey drove heat out of his body. He needed another glass to get him warm.
Blinking, gutted, lost, he looked down in surprise to find the bottle in his hand. The cap remained sealed, but that could be easily remedied.
For his pain. All varieties.
“Where the hell are you, Rue?” he whispered. He didn’t add when I need you, because she had always been there when he’d needed her, even when he didn’t deserve her friendship. Even now, she was out there trying to help him. Trying to help his daughters.
That guy had come, Walker. Then Chief Kaminski had shown up with the fancy earpiece, and Rue had gone off to try to get answers about Garland Mountain Labs.
Ted straightened up. Rolled his eyes. “Jesus, you idiot.”
If he wanted to find Rue, there was only one place he could be sure she would turn up eventually.
He dug into his pocket, confirmed his car keys were there. A bottle of Aleve sat on the coffee table, and he knew he ought to bring it with him, but the bottle already in his hand contained all the painkiller he would need.
Jameson in hand, he went out without bothering to lock the door.
Started up his car, backed out of the driveway, and then drove off in search of some way to bring his daughters home safe and sound.
This is what a good father would do, he thought.
Steering wheel in one hand, bottle in the other.
18
Walker had been in worse situations—which, looking back over his life, told him it might be time to take stock of his choices—but he’d hardly ever been in those situations alone. Now he hustled through the woods following a trio of young women, one of whom could kill them all if the urge swept over her again.
So you’re not alone, Walker thought, grimly amused. He would have been far better off by himself, or if he only had to worry about Maeve Sinclair.
He watched the three women, saw the way Priya held her left arm against her body, and wondered how much more exertion she could take, how much blood she had lost.
Maeve had taken point, with Priya and Rose following about ten feet behind her. They might love her, but neither of them were foolish enough to want Maeve in a blind spot. She seemed aware of her surroundings, able to carry on a conversation, but her gaze shifted constantly, twitchy as a junkie, and when Walker had tried to talk to her, she had kept glancing at shadowy spots among the trees as if she saw something there none of them noticed. She had dark bags beneath her eyes and splotches on her neck and arms, but her energy never flagged. The rest of them were tired, but Maeve forged ahead with a steady stride, blazing a trail for them.
Walker never let his right hand stray too far from his weapon. It wasn’t at all safe for Rose and Priya to be so close to Maeve, but the younger Sinclair had made it clear she would not abandon her sister, and Priya refused to go anywhere without Rose.
He picked up his pace, catching up with them. The time had come for decisions to be made. Rose and Priya heard his heavy boots and turned, both wearing fearful expressions
.
“What’s wrong?” Priya asked. “Are they coming?”
“Not yet. But they will. We need to talk about that.”
Walker passed them, carefully approaching Maeve. He called her name twice before she seemed to notice. When she turned toward him, he saw something strange in her eyes. Not sickness or malice, and not the hunger he’d seen in them in the clearing by the ranger station. This was something else—cunning and old—something sizing him up.
Then she blinked and sighed in relief, and she was simply Maeve.
“We need a plan,” he told her.
“I agree.”
While Rose and Priya caught up to them, Walker kept his focus on Maeve’s hands and saw the others doing the same thing. She noticed.
“I’m okay,” she said, standing in the rain. She looked at her sister. “I won’t be. It hurts, and I’ve been hallucinating. The sicker I feel, the stronger the urge to … touch someone. I’ve done that a couple of times, both in self-defense. But I won’t lie—I didn’t care when I did it that it was self-defense. Afterward, I feel better for a little while, but the urge is still there.”
They stood in the rain, watching each other for a reaction.
“Should we be afraid?” Rose asked gently.
Even in the rain, Walker could see that Maeve had tears in her eyes. And why not? That morning she had killed her mother and brother with just a touch, and now her sister wanted to know if Maeve might kill her, too.
“Of course you should,” Maeve said, voice quavering.
Another few seconds passed wordlessly, and then Walker moved over to Priya and started working to expose her wound. Rose had been wearing an open, pink-and-black linen shirt over a black tank top, and she volunteered it now, for Walker to staunch and bind Priya’s wound.
“Let’s start with this,” Walker said to Priya, tearing the shirt into strips. “Who shot you?”
Priya and Rose told him the tale of a diminutive silver-haired killer named Agatha. Priya thought she must be an assassin, while Rose thought she worked for a rival government who didn’t want the United States to be able to use Maeve’s affliction in combat or espionage.
Walker thought about the parachutist he’d seen and wondered if that might have been “Agatha.” Both theories about this killer seemed reasonable, but in the end, it didn’t matter who had sent her or if she had arrived in hopes of getting Red Hands for herself. All he knew was that she didn’t work for whoever employed White Oak Security’s Blackcoats and she didn’t work for Garland Mountain Labs or the SRC. For a moment he considered backtracking and trying to stop this Agatha person himself, but he’d broken the TAGI goggles when he’d smashed to the ground back there in the clearing at the ranger station. Even if he’d still had them, they might not have been entirely useful in this rain.
No, he had to stay with Maeve. She’d been his assignment.
Walker examined the wound and bound Priya’s shoulder. The bullet remained lodged in the wound, which had to be causing Priya a hell of a lot of pain. She needed a doctor—a hospital—but the wound had started to clot and scab, so she would survive as long as no infection developed.
There were a lot of other ways Priya might die before tomorrow, but that bullet wouldn’t do it.
“Your turn,” Priya said. “Tell us what you know.”
Walker didn’t hesitate. Alena Boudreau had needed to work fast and had been uncertain whom she could trust. Walker had been given a very long time-out, so he had been perfect for the job. He understood that much. What he had not expected was to be dropped off in Jericho Falls and essentially left to his own devices. Garland Mountain was working for someone with a hell of a lot of sway in the federal government, or they wouldn’t have been able to get away with this quarantine.
He laid it out for Maeve and the rest as best he could. Garland Mountain. DARPA. White Oak. Agatha. But he left out his concern that Alena Boudreau and her new agency had sent him no backup, no satellite surveillance. It worried the hell out of him. What had the old woman gotten him into?
“Beyond this Agatha and the Blackcoats, there are some people in a small Jeep, according to my contact,” Walker said. “We have to assume they’re after Maeve as well. And apparently people on dirt bikes—”
“Two,” Maeve said, dropping her gaze to watch the rain pelt her shoes. “There were two of them. Both are dead.”
Nobody seemed in a hurry to ask for explanations, so Walker finished wrapping and padding Priya’s wound as best he could.
“You three—you’re family, or near enough,” he said. “I’m nothing to you. I know that. You don’t have to trust me, and you don’t have to do what I say. That’s all up to you. But I meant what I said before. Of all the people out here trying to find Maeve, I’m the only one I can guarantee isn’t willing to let her die or get cut open for some scientist to study.”
The wind picked up. They all seemed to shiver, but Walker thought it might not have been the wind or the rain that gave them a chill.
Rose cocked her head. “So this is like a Terminator moment? ‘Come with me if you want to live’?”
“Basically,” Walker replied.
“That’s great and all,” Priya said, “but how are you planning to get us out of here? If there’s some kind of rescue team on the way, now would be the time to tell us.”
Walker kept his eyes on Maeve. Her gaze kept shifting from open and anguished to cold and dispassionate, as if she couldn’t decide how she felt about any of it. He told himself it was shock and confusion, but he made sure he could always see her hands, just in case.
“Nobody’s coming. Not yet, anyway. I’m going to get in touch with my people and see what they can do. I believe Garland Mountain Labs is working for the Department of Defense, and honestly, ending up in DoD hands may be our best option, but with my employers overseeing your treatment.”
Priya laughed derisively. “Please. You want us to just hand Maeve over to the people trying to kill her?”
Maeve shook her head. “The people in black are here to capture me. I think it may be a dead-or-alive situation. All Walker’s saying is that he wants them to guarantee the ‘alive’ part.” She looked at him. “That right?”
He nodded. “There’s no way for you to sneak off the mountain. And even if you can hide, you won’t be able to hide forever.” Again he glanced around at their faces, saw the fear and pain and anger there. “What we need is time for me to try to work it out, to get a guarantee of your safety, and try to get you put into the custody of the SRC instead of letting White Oak hand you over to Garland Mountain.”
They all looked at Maeve, but her gaze had drifted. Her fists opened and closed. Raindrops ran down her forehead. Walker and Priya turned instead to Rose.
“What the hell are you looking at me for?” Rose demanded.
Maeve laughed softly. She rubbed her hands together as if warming them, and everyone took half a step away, ready to fight or run.
“There you go,” Maeve said, taking note of the reaction. “They’re looking at you because nobody’s in the mood to let me make decisions for myself. I can’t be trusted.” Maeve shot a hard look at Walker. “They’re right not to trust me. So are you. But if the goal is to hide until you can get some guardian angel to make them promise not to kill me, then the only place we have any real chance is the gorge. I was trying to make it there before, but I got … turned around.”
“All right,” Walker said. “Let’s go.”
Rose pointed through the trees. “Maeve’s already leading us in that direction.”
They started off again, with Maeve in the lead and Walker bringing up the rear. He felt the gun clipped to his belt. As long as he had Maeve in view, he could end this at any moment. He only hoped she didn’t make it necessary.
He heard the distant buzz of a helicopter, but after he’d listened for a couple of minutes, he felt sure the pilot was flying a search pattern, not headed directly for them. Carefully, keeping Maeve in sight, he dr
opped back farther and tapped at his earwig. It beeped quietly, waiting for someone to pick up the signal on the other end. Long seconds passed before the beeping ceased.
Static and then a voice. “Hello, Dr. Walker. Update?”
Not David Boudreau. Not Alena.
“Who is this?”
“I’m sorry,” said the voice. “My name is Joel Sutherland. I’m Director Boudreau’s assistant at the SRC. I’m the one fast-tracking your new salary and benefits package. I will not, however, get you coffee when you come to the office.”
Dead serious. Dry.
Walker blinked, his boot skidding in a bit of rain-soaked mud. “Joel, are you being funny?”
“Apparently not,” Joel replied, even more drily. “I understand if you’re not in the mood. People with guns, strange diseases, bad weather, dead people.”
This guy, Walker thought, unable to decide if he wanted to murder Joel or be his new best friend.
“Do you have an update, Dr. Walker?” Joel asked.
“For Alena, yes. Put her on,” Walker replied.
“I’m afraid she’s not available. Before you protest, she’s in a high-level meeting at the moment that I believe relates to your current assignment.”
“Okay, Joel. Then listen. I’ve contacted the Sinclair woman. Her mental state is in question, but she has not threatened me or the other civilians with us.”
“Other civilians?”
From his tone, it seemed the apparently unflappable Joel was flappable after all.
“We’re searching for cover. Time for Alena to show me what a good choice I made, taking this job. Whoever’s backing Garland Mountain and their storm troopers, she needs to get them to back off so the SRC can take charge. Maeve will voluntarily place herself into the SRC’s custody, but only SRC.”
Joel whistled. “Nicely done. You must have an honest face.”
“Do you maybe not understand the urgency here?” Walker said, the words clipped, angry.
“I do,” Joel replied evenly. “There’s a tug-of-war going on. Director Boudreau was briefly given the authority to do precisely what you’re asking. Less than an hour after she was given that authority, it was revoked.”
Red Hands: A Novel Page 18
