Red Right Hand (3 page)

“Not at all!” Pappas said. “Have you eaten?”

Hendricks feigned confusion at Pappas's interest. “I haven't,” he said.

“Then I insist you stay. We're having one of everything sent out. Would you care for a drink while we wait?”

“I wouldn't turn one down.”

“Excellent. What's your poison?”

“Whatever gets the job done. Today I'm drinking whiskey.”

“Milos,” Pappas said, “do me a favor and fetch our new friend James a drink.”

One of Pappas's men ducked behind the bar, reached up, and grabbed an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue from the top shelf. The pistol he wore at the small of his back showed as he did. When he cracked the seal and poured Hendricks three fingers—a hundred bucks' worth at most establishments—Hendricks licked his lips with exaggerated anticipation.

“Please,” Hendricks said to Pappas, “call me Jimmy.”

Pappas beamed. His men smiled too and appeared as at ease as hired goons could ever be while on the job. That was good, helpful.

They wouldn't look so happy when the night was through.

S
PECIAL AGENT CHARLIE
Thompson hovered awkwardly on the threshold of her parents' kitchen. The dangly earrings her mother had gotten her for Christmas tugged uncomfortably at her ears. Pots bubbled on the stove. The air was warm and humid and redolent with spice.

“There must be
something
I can do to help,” she said.

“Don't be silly,” her mother replied. “Kate and I have this well in hand. Why don't you go bring your father a beer?”

Thompson's face creased with worry as she watched Kathryn O'Brien mangle the onion she was trying to dice. “You sure you're up to this?”

O'Brien cocked an eyebrow at Thompson and smiled. “You heard your mother,” she said. “Beat it!”

Thompson shrugged and grabbed two cans of Narragansett from the fridge. Then she headed out to the garage.

The overhead door was open, the cars, as ever, in the driveway. A workbench took up half the narrow space, and tools hung from pegboards above it. Thompson's father crouched over a partially disassembled lawn mower, his hands blackened by grease.

Thompson popped the top on both beers and handed one to him without a word. Foam gathered on his mustache when he drank.

“You gotta work on this right now, Pop?”

“Is there something else I oughta be doing? Ain't like your mother wants me in the kitchen.”

“Join the club—she just threw me out too. Asked Kate to stay, though.”

“You don't look pleased.”

“A little leery, is all.”

“Why?” he snapped. “You think your mother's gonna say something inappropriate and embarrass you?”

“No,” Thompson said carefully, “I'm worried Kate's gonna take off a finger. Her knife skills leave a bit to be desired.”

“Oh.” He looked chastened. “I'm sure your mother will watch out for her.”

Thompson's parents were Catholic. When she came out, they'd been as supportive of her as their faith allowed—but she'd never brought a woman home before. She'd been worried how her parents would react to O'Brien ever since they got serious last fall. It's why she'd postponed the meet-the-parents trip three times already. It's why she'd nearly canceled when the alarm went off this morning and then twice more on the drive from DC to Hartford.

She sipped her beer and watched her father tinker with the lawn mower. “You talk to Jess lately?” she asked.

Jess was Thompson's baby sister. Four years out of college and trying to make it as an artist, whatever that meant. Near as Thompson could tell, it mostly meant couch surfing, binge drinking, and emotional breakdowns.

“Not since she and the new guy—Tree? River?”

“Leaf.”

“Leaf. Right. Not since they left for Costa Rica. You?”

“I Facebook-messaged her the other day. She said she'd be back in time to see us this weekend. Guess she was mistaken.”

“You know Jess,” he said gruffly. “Never been so good with schedules.” He removed the hex nut from the mounting bolts and yanked the mower's carburetor free. Fuel puddled on the floor. “Son of a whore!”

“Something bothering you, Pop?”

“Yeah—I forgot to clamp the goddamn fuel line.” He rectified the error and pushed the mess around with a rag.

“Seriously, what's wrong?” It wasn't like him to lose his temper. “Is this about me and Kate?”

Her father wiped his hands off on his pants. “It's not my place to say.”

“Pop, I'm asking. What is it?”

“She's your goddamn
boss,
Charlie, that's what!”

Ah. There it was. She should have known.

Thompson's dad was a captain with the Hartford PD. A real nose-to-the-grindstone kind of guy. He'd joined the force straight out of high school. Climbed the ranks from lowly beat cop to head of precinct. To him, chain of command was sacrosanct.

“What're you saying? You think your daughter's fucking her way to the top?”

“
I'm
not saying it, but you're a fool if you think others aren't.”

“Let them talk. I honestly don't give a shit.”

“No? You should. Some of them hold your career in their hands. And speaking of, you ever stop to think what happens when the two of you break up? She holds all the cards, Charlie. Odds are, you'll wind up pushing paper in some shitty basement office in East Bumfuck.”

“That's not gonna happen, Pop.”

“Yeah? How the hell do you know?”

“Because, goddamn it, Kate and I are getting married! So whatever you really think of her—of
me
—you could at least pretend to get on board.”

She hadn't meant to snap. Hadn't meant to tell him that way.

And she certainly hadn't meant for Kate to overhear.

O'Brien stood in the doorway to the garage, one hand still on the knob. It was clear by the look on her face that she'd been there awhile.

Thompson struggled for words. A blotchy flush crawled up her father's neck.

“Kate, I—”

“Later,” O'Brien said. “I just got a call from HQ. Something's happened in San Francisco. We have to go.”

J
AKE RESTON FORCED
himself onto his hands and knees. His vision was blurry, his thoughts a muddle. He couldn't hear a thing over the ringing in his ears.

He struggled to recall where he was, and why. The back of his neck was hot and tight, like he'd been out in the sun too long. Ditto the portions of his arms and legs his T-shirt and shorts failed to cover. When he was nineteen, he'd spent his summer break from college laying pavement with a road crew. Shoveling hot-mix asphalt for ten-hour stretches in the August heat, fumes rising off the molten sludge, proved a recipe for heat exhaustion, and despite his best efforts to stay hydrated, it had leveled Jake more than once. This felt similar, which led Jake to wonder if heat exhaustion was what had caused him to collapse today—but oddly, given his apparent sunburn, it wasn't all that warm outside.

As Jake's vision cleared, he noticed a mangled bike frame beside him on the trail. Its paint was blistered. Its seat and back wheel were missing. Its front wheel spun lazily on its axle, the bare rim clotted here and there with chunks of smoldering rubber. He couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the bike's rider.

The dirt beneath Jake was spattered red. He raised a hand to his face. When he touched his nose, a jolt of pain made him recoil. He probed again more gingerly; it seemed to be crooked. A sticky gash caked with dirt and clotting blood ran across it. Blood seeped from both his nostrils.

Jake brushed the loose dirt from his face and hands. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth and spat out grit. The fog in his head lifted some, and flashes of memory returned. He tried to piece them together, but important bits were missing and they didn't quite line up right, like the fragments of a broken glass. They were on their way home from Disneyland, he remembered, when they'd stopped off to re-create his parents' honeymoon photo, and then…and then…

Wait.
They
. He and Emily and the kids.

Adrenaline surged through his system and brought his thoughts back to the here and now. They'd found the spot. Posed to record the video. Then something hit him from behind. And then blackness. And then this.

Fear twisted Jake's guts. He looked around. The effort made his head pound, his vision swim. There wasn't much to see, anyway—the air was choked with thick dark smoke that seared his lungs with every breath.

Jake tried to stand. The world seemed to wobble around him, and he was forced back to his knees. “Hannah! Aidan! Emily!” he shouted, his voice a dry croak, loud enough to strain his vocal cords, yet so faint that he could barely hear it.

There was no reply. He crawled upslope a ways and tried again. This time, he heard something. His name. High-pitched, frightened, questioning. Emily, he realized.

Jake scrabbled toward her on all fours. Put his hand in something sticky. Recoiled when he realized it was a rivulet of blood.

He followed it back to its source. It wasn't Emily, but a woman clad in neon-green gym clothes. Jake vaguely recalled seeing her jog by before whatever happened had happened. Her exposed flesh was red and angry. A twisted hunk of metal jutted from the back of her head, charred black at the edges, bloody hair matted all around.

“Emily!” he screamed. “Where are you? Talk to me—are the kids with you? Are you okay?” It occurred to him he ought to hear Sophia crying. His heart tapped out a brittle rat-a-tat against his rib cage.

“I'm over here! I, uh, think I fell.” She sounded dazed, rattled, not herself. “Sophia's here with me!”

“Where are Hannah and Aidan?”

“I—I don't know!”

Jake crawled toward the sound of his wife's voice, limbs protesting the whole way. He found her hovering over Sophia, who lay silent and unmoving atop Emily's windbreaker. Emily's forehead was sliced open and bled freely into her eyes.

“Oh God. Is she…” He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence lest uttering the words might make them so.

“She's breathing,” Emily answered, her voice high and tremulous from worry, “but unconscious, and she's got a goose egg on the back of her head. I…I must have landed on top of her when I fell.” Her chin quivered. Grief warped her features. “I know I shouldn't have moved her, but I couldn't leave her lying in the dirt.”

He put his hands on her face, palms to cheeks. “Look at me. This isn't your fault. Whatever happened leveled all of us. And I promise you, Sophia's going to be just fine.” Emily nodded. Blinked back tears. Put on a brave face. He wondered if her bravery felt as hollow as his did.

Jake knelt over Sophia. Placed a hand against her tiny chest and took heart in its steady rise and fall. Patted her cheek gently and said, “C'mon, little one—wake up for us, okay?”

Sophia didn't stir. He patted her cheek once more, harder, and when that didn't work, he shook her gently. He was about to try again when Emily placed her hands on his to still them and shook her head. “Careful,” she said, and only then did he realize he'd been on the verge of going too far, of shaking her too hard—his panic taking over.

And then, by some miracle, Sophia opened her eyes and began to cry.

Jake had never heard a sound so beautiful in all his life.

But his relief was short-lived. With Sophia awake and responsive, his priorities shifted.

“Em, think back. When you fell, did you see Hannah and Aidan?”

She frowned as she struggled to remember. “No. I don't think so. They weren't with you?”

He shook his head. “No. We got separated somehow, and when I came to—I—I don't know. Help me up. I'm going to go find them.” She grabbed his elbow, and with her support, Jake found his feet. “Hannah!” he bellowed, fighting the urge to cough. “Aidan! Tell me where you are!”

“Dad!” It was Hannah, strong and clear. “Dad, we're over here!”

He stumbled toward them, a smile breaking across his filthy, bloodied face when he saw shapes in the smoke resolve themselves into his children's forms. Hannah sat with Aidan's head in her lap, stroking his hair as he wept. They'd bickered the whole drive here, he recalled, but now she was there for him when he needed her. For a moment, Jake was overcome with pride; he felt as if he'd just been offered a glimpse of the amazing woman Hannah would become.

“Are you two all right?” he asked. Aidan shook his head, his tears carving arroyos in the dirt and ash that caked his face.

“I'm okay,” Hannah said, though she was scraped up pretty good, “but Aidan's leg is broken. I don't think we can move him without help.”

She was right, Jake realized. Aidan's leg extended away from his body in an unnatural zigzag. Bone, jagged and gore-streaked, protruded from his shin.

“Where are Mom and Sophia?” Hannah asked.

“Back that way.”

“Are they…”

“They're fine. We're all going to be just fine,” he said, putting a hand on his son's shoulder. “You hear me, buddy?” Aidan nodded, and his sobbing abated some.

Jake knew Aidan needed medical attention, but he was worried that if he left to get help, he'd never find his way back here. Reflexively, he reached for the pocket where he normally kept his cell phone, but it wasn't there.
Right,
he thought,
I left the damn thing in the car, and Hannah had to lend me hers to take the video. It couldn't have gone far.

He looked around—the ocean breeze taking mercy on him and dispersing the haze some—and spotted it lying a few feet from them at the path's edge, its bedazzled edges sparkling, its screen a dark reflection of the sky.

He ran to it. Dialed 911. The phone rang twice, and then the call was dropped.

Jake tried again, muttering, “C'mon, c'mon, c'mon,” as it began to ring. This time, an operator answered. “Oh, thank God,” he said. “My family and I are on the trails just up the hill from Fort Point, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. There was some kind of explosion.”

“We're aware of the situation, sir,” the operator said. From the tension in her voice and the clamor behind her, it sounded like half of San Francisco had called it in. “Are any of you hurt?”

“My son's leg is badly broken. I think he's going to need a stretcher.”

“Are you in immediate danger?”

Jake looked around. The nearby trees were scorched bare. Ash rained lazily from the sky. “I…I don't
think
so.”

“Okay. Just stay put, then. Help is on the way.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

Jake trotted back to Emily, who held Sophia close and tried to calm her. Brought them over to where Aidan lay and told Emily the EMTs were coming. Jake was so overcome by everything that had transpired—and so relieved his kids were safe—he never stopped to wonder where the gaunt old man who'd been holding Hannah's phone had gone.