Red Hands: A Novel

by Christopher Golden

  A whimper escaped from her lips.

  She thumbed the radio again. “Did you hear me? Kill her, goddamn it!”

  Still, they held off. The helicopter hovered, the pilot uncertain what to do next, rotors blasting a wicked downdraft into the gorge.

  Then Maeve started climbing the wall, scrabbling on rock and dirt and clawing straight upward. The Blackcoats were gone and these Department of Homeland Security agents had a different set of orders, but at least one of them must have felt the terror that Vargas felt. A single gun opened fire, and then others followed. A bullet struck Maeve Sinclair in the head, blew out the side of her face, and she swung away from the wall, clinging by the fingers of one hand.

  Her feet found purchase. Her free hand dug into a crevice. She leaned her head back and in the chopper’s spotlights. The single eye remaining in the intact left side of her face glared up at the DHS agents. Maeve shook as if in a seizure, managed to cling to the rock face, and then she screamed in a voice that sounded more like a wounded beast than anything human.

  The helicopter veered off. The rotors whined as it cut southeast, sliced diagonally into the gorge, and struck the opposite wall. The whole gorge shook with the impact. The crump and scream of tearing metal filled the air, blotted out by the whine of the chopper’s engine, and then the fuel tank exploded. The wreckage scraped along the rock wall and landed, burning, on the opposite bank of the river.

  A DHS agent opened fire on Maeve. Bullets struck the rocks around her. A second agent fired, and then a third, a chorus of gunfire.

  Vargas had been an atheist since the age of eleven. Without realizing it, she began to pray silently.

  The gunfire halted. One of the DHS agents went to his knees, coughing. A second agent clutched at his neck, trying to breathe, and then tumbled over the edge and fell into the gorge, bones cracking as he struck outcroppings all the way down.

  Vargas could only watch as, one by one, every person up on the rim coughed and staggered and collapsed. Two more slipped off into the gorge. In the back of her mind, Cristina Vargas screamed at herself to run, but her heart simply wasn’t in it. In her heart, she knew it would make no difference.

  In the driver’s seat of a Jeep tucked between two pine trees, Hurwitz managed to start the engine before he choked and vomited a stream of black and yellow bile. He collapsed onto the steering wheel. The horn beeped once. The engine kept running.

  Bleeding, broken fingers grabbed the rocky ledge at the top of the gorge, and Maeve Sinclair crawled up onto the rim. Jerking limbs shifting as if she popped bones back into place, she stood and turned to scan the trees and the landscape to the north.

  Forty yards away, Cristina Vargas covered her mouth to silence the mewling noise that escaped her. The air between them rippled with some invisible pulse, and she felt an oily film on her skin. Death enveloped her with a shift in air pressure. She tried to clear her throat. Her ears popped. Vargas tried to reach up to grab hold of her head, staggered by the pain that clamped around her skull, but she felt too weak even for that. When she coughed, it racked her body so fiercely that she went down on one knee. Black spittle sprayed from her lips, and she fell onto her side.

  Lying there, floating on a wave of death, she saw the corpse of Maeve Sinclair turn southward and begin to run along the rim of the gorge, headed downhill. Off the mountain.

  Vargas gave a final, rattling cough and saw no more.

  * * *

  “Walker, could you please take a seat? You’re irritating the hell out of me.”

  He stood near the door, hands stuffed in his pockets, head bobbing and tapping one foot as if in time with music none of the others could hear.

  “Nervous energy,” Walker said, staring at Alena. “Sorry.”

  “Sit down,” she replied, not attempting to disguise it as anything but a command.

  “No, ma’am. Director Boudreau. I don’t think so.”

  Alena rolled her eyes. They weren’t off to a great start, the two of them. He knew he must be getting on her already frayed nerves, but the woman had used him as a pawn in her own power games, and Walker was in no mood to worry about pissing her off. General Wagner had an infinite black void where his ethics ought to have been, whereas Alena seemed like a human being, a woman with a moral compass. Even so, it would take time to decide whether or not he trusted her or even wanted to work for her. His time on the bench had its benefits, and the idea of making amends with his son had a lot more appeal than continuing to work for people who would employ men like General Henry Wagner.

  “Suit yourself.” Alena sighed and turned her attention back to the others at the conference table.

  Walker remained standing. Kept tapping his foot to that unheard rhythm. Most importantly, he stayed in that spot, just a few inches from the door. The sooner he could get out of there, the better. The farther from New Hampshire he could get when this was over, the happier he would be.

  “What’s to become of General Wagner?” Justin W. Jones asked.

  Alena cocked her head. “You miss him already, Dr. Jones?”

  Idiot, Walker thought.

  “No, no,” Jones replied, backpedaling fast. “He’s the DoD’s problem now. I just have a lot of questions, as you might imagine. Are you going to stay on-site, work out of Garland Mountain, now that the SRC has taken over our government contracts? Or will you put someone else here to oversee those? I just—”

  Ted Sinclair slammed a hand onto the table. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He glared at Jones, fuming.

  “You have something to say, Mr. Sinclair?” Alena asked.

  Ted shot her a withering glance. “This is the conversation you want to have right now? Human resources? Rose is downstairs in a fish tank, and the rest of my family is … is gone. I know you’re all worried about the cover-up, how you’re going to clean up this mess, and who’s going to get fired and who’s going to prison—”

  On the last word, he shifted his gaze toward Justin W. Jones.

  “But all I want is some reassurance that everything that can be done for my daughter will be done and that nobody is going to try to separate me from her.”

  Alena softened. Walker thought he might be seeing her real self for the very first time.

  “We’re all living in the dark, Ted. I don’t know what’s going to happen now, but here are the things I can promise,” she said. “As long as I’ve got anything to say about it, the team here will do everything possible to help both of you. That includes letting you decide how you want to handle your comings and goings at this facility. If you want to be here 24-7, you’ll have anything you need for as long as you need it.”

  Ted seemed to want to shout again, but he must have seen something in Alena’s eyes, perhaps the same thing Walker had just seen, because he gave a nod and exhaled as if he had found some comfort in this for the first time. His eyes dampened, and he reached up to wipe at them, turning away from the table for a moment.

  “One small order of business,” Walker said. “Mr. Sinclair’s best friend is Dr. Rue Crooker, a biologist from Boston University. Right now, she’s downstairs helping Kat Isenberg try to figure out how to help Rose, and they’re apparently making some progress.”

  Alena gave him a quizzical glance. “Dr. Crooker works here?”

  “Not technically,” Walker said. He gave a small shrug. “I deputized her.”

  “How the hell did she get through security?” Dr. Jones asked.

  “Dr. Isenberg brought her in as a visitor, then sneaked her down to the lab.”

  Jones swore, but Walker ignored him. He had no power here.

  “You don’t have the authority to do anything like that,” Alena said.

  “My role is … ill defined so far,” Walker reminded her. “I’m not sure I even work for you, to be honest. But what I would recommend is that you hire Dr. Crooker immediately, whatever the cost, to work with Dr. Isenberg on this. In fact, it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to give her the job of overseeing all the g
overnment-sponsored research that comes into Garland Mountain. Rue Crooker actually has ethics, maybe even a soul. This place could use her. And let’s be honest, Alena, the SRC could use her, too.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” Alena said. “Now let’s—”

  “Walker’s right,” Ted Sinclair said, his voice cold, words clipped. “You said you’d give me what I need to feel like Rose is being taken care of. What I need here is Rue.”

  Alena tried to hide her pique. She managed a thin smile, then gave Walker a reproachful glance. “We’ll make it happen. Anything else?”

  “I’m sure there will be,” Ted said. “But now’s not the time. I need to sober up. I need to get some rest. I need to go back and make sure Rose is okay, and I need to talk to Priya. Her parents will have to be called. I’m sure they’re crazy worried about her.”

  Justin W. Jones sat up a bit straighter. Unsure of his place now, he kept his gaze on Alena. “There’s the matter of secrecy. We’re still working out a story for the media.”

  Alena held up a hand to silence him. “Not now, Dr. Jones.”

  Ted stood up, his chair scraping the floor. “Don’t worry, you heartless pricks. I know anything you’re going to do to help us now is contingent on us cooperating. I’ll make sure Priya understands, too. I’ll make the government pay for what we’ve lost eventually, but right now, I’m too tired and too sad to think straight, so I’ll put off my mercenary demands until I can take a breath without wanting to scream.”

  His eyes brimmed with tears as he looked at Dr. Jones. “If you have people you love, I hope they die horribly, gasping for breath. I hope you’re there to see it. I hope they know you’re watching and they look at you like they don’t understand why you’re not helping them, and you never sleep again without being haunted by the memory of their eyes in that moment.”

  Walker cringed, all the breath knocked out of him by those words.

  Justin W. Jones looked as if he might throw up. “Jesus Christ. That’s—”

  “Cruel?” Ted gave a hollow laugh. “I meant every word. I’d regret not saying it. I blame you and everyone else who could have stopped this from happening in the beginning. My dead children blame you. Rose, downstairs, is fucking death personified. She’ll never hug her father or her girlfriend again. She blames you, Jones. I hope you live a very long life without a moment’s peace.”

  Alena and Jones had both lowered their heads.

  Ted strode from the room, fists clenched at his sides.

  A moment later, Walker followed.

  * * *

  Priya sat cross-legged on the floor, her muddy sneakers against the glass that separated her from Rose. “It’s hard to know what to say, except ‘I love you.’”

  Rose faced her, also on the floor, the soles of her Sperrys pressed to the glass. She lowered her head, staring at her hands, which hung between her legs, fingers splayed, like creatures in hibernation. Waiting to be woken.

  Seconds ticked past. Priya’s heart clenched.

  “Rose?”

  Rose looked up.

  “I said I love you.” Priya reached forward and pressed a hand against the glass.

  “I heard you, babe. I love you, too. You know I do,” Rose said. She didn’t reach out to touch the glass, but she did lift her gaze to meet Priya’s. “You should go home.”

  “What? No way.”

  Rose leaned toward the glass but still did not reach out to touch it. “You should be with your family—”

  “You’re my family.”

  This time, Rose did reach for the glass, but not for tenderness. She slapped her palm against it, making Priya flinch. “You’ve been shot. You need real doctors. A hospital. You need to be with your parents, and you need sleep before you work out what to do next.”

  Priya’s bullet wound throbbed with heat and pain. She leaned away from the glass, just slightly, lowering her hand. “You think I’m going to abandon you?”

  “That’s not—”

  Priya stood. “I know what you mean. I don’t entirely disagree. And yes, I’m going to see my parents and calm them down, but I’m twenty-one, Rose. We’re not little high school giggle-girls. What I feel for you isn’t some crush. It’s not something I can just turn off or burn black candles and write in my journal about. I fucking love you. Okay, we’re still young in comparison to old people, but we’re old enough to have lived a little, met some shitty human beings, and I know what I want in this life, and that’s you.”

  Rose did not stand. She placed the palms of both hands on the glass and looked up at Priya. “You can’t have me, Pri. Not unless they have a cure, and do you honestly think that’s going to happen anytime soon? Until then, this glass will always keep us apart. This glass, or some hazmat suit, or something else. You really think you’ll be okay with a girlfriend you can never touch, who can never touch you?”

  “It won’t be never! They’ll find—”

  “What if they don’t?”

  Silence filled the space between them, more of a barrier than the glass could ever have been. Exhaustion gripped Priya, as if strength had been bleeding out of her. Depleted, only sorrow left, she told herself Rose needed rest, same as she did.

  “You’ve lost so much,” Priya told her. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. But I promise you haven’t lost everything. I’m not going anywhere.”

  On the other side of the glass, Rose sat in silence, tears running down her face.

  Priya lowered herself to the floor again. She sat facing her love and reached out to press both hands to the glass. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had.

  “Rosie,” she began.

  “I love you, too,” Rose said without looking up. “So much.”

  Priya smiled, even as the sadness tore her apart.

  Long seconds passed.

  Then alarms began to wail, red lights flashing overhead. Heavy footfalls thundered by, right outside the door, people shouting.

  “What the hell?” Priya asked, turning toward the door. “What now?”

  “Maeve,” Rose said. “She’s here.”

  Priya stared at her. “That’s not … Babe, Maeve is dead.”

  Rose stiffened, spine rigid. Her head turned, chin lifted, as if she heard something Priya’s ears could not.

  “You may be right,” Rose said. “But dead or not, she’s coming for me.”

  28

  The alarms shrieked, red lights flashing. Walker imagined the inner corridors of NORAD when nuclear apocalypse was imminent. He turned to look at Dr. Jones. Alena might be in charge now, but Jones knew the facility and its protocols.

  “Talk to me, Jones!”

  Justin W. Jones had gone pale pink in the flashing red lights. He looked like he might vomit. Whatever had happened, this was not a drill.

  “Alena, get up!” Walker barked.

  He didn’t have to tell Ted Sinclair. The man reached for Alena, but she shook him off, and then all of them were standing, moving toward the door. Walker reached for the knob, convinced that the alarms would put them into lockdown, meaning locked in, but when he turned the knob, the door swung open.

  The two Homeland Security agents out in the corridor were barking questions on their comm units, but they looked as disoriented as Walker felt. He turned and grabbed Jones, hauled him close.

  “What is this?”

  “Alpha Red,” Jones snapped, whipping his head around, desperate to be free. “Terrorist attack or bioagent release. It’s never happened before. It can’t be—”

  Ted grabbed Walker’s arm. “Rose. I’ve got to get to her.”

  “It could be her,” Alena told him. “It must be.”

  “What about Priya?” Ted said. “I can’t just—”

  Walker nodded, turning to Jones again. “There a safe room on this floor? Quarantine space, in case of contamination?”

  Dr. Jones started to point south along the corridor, toward an array of glass-walled offices. Walker spotted a darkened hallway,
lost in shadow between the flares of the red emergency lights. He spoke, but his words were lost in the blare of the klaxons.

  Walker looked at the DHS agents. “Take Director Boudreau and Dr. Jones. Get them into a safe room, and stay there till the all-clear.”

  Alena’s eyes narrowed. He could see cold calculations running in her head. If she felt a fraction of Walker’s own terror, she didn’t show it.

  “Move!” Alena snapped at Jones.

  Jones started nodding and kept nodding as he hurtled down the corridor ahead of them. Alena and the DHS agents followed. Walker glanced at Ted, saw that the other man understood his intentions without him needing to voice them, and together they ran the opposite direction, toward the elevators.

  The red lights turned the halls into a strobing crimson hell. Walker raced ahead of Ted Sinclair, who limped as fast as he could manage on his injured knee. Ted called out questions as he tried to keep up, but Walker ignored them. He had no answers.

  As he turned a corner, he heard the first gunshots.

  His breath caught in his throat, and he froze in the hall, listening. In the quiet between the cries of the alarm, more gunfire erupted. Ted caught up, grabbed Walker’s sleeve. Walker shook him off, precious seconds ticking by as he racked his brain. Terrorists, maybe. Someone had sent the assassin, Agatha, unless she’d been a solo operator. Then there’d been the killers on dirt bikes, trying to get to Maeve, to kill her and take the death touch from her.

  “What is this?” Ted asked, staring at him, wide-eyed.

  Walker held up a hand to silence him, thinking. Could it be General Wagner? Would he have gone this far? A traitor to his nation? Would White Oak Security have allowed their Blackcoats to kill DHS agents and armed security at a top-secret research facility under government supervision?