Red Right Hand

by Chris Holm

  He started to cross the room to the vanity, then froze. A cell phone lay in the rug’s deep pile, where the edge of the rug came closest to the tub. It was one of those oversize Galaxy phones they advertised during ball games, as much a tablet as a smartphone. Water beaded on its glossy surface. In fact, half the rug was soaked, and water pooled in the cracks between the floorboards.

  Frank approached the tub. It was still half full, a sopping towel draped over its rim. He remembered Lois’s hair was wet when she came to the door. Remembered that the cops had knocked for some time shortly before he tried to break in but had received no answer. She’d been up here in the tub, it seemed—and when she came down, she must have thought Frank was the one she’d heard knocking.

  That’s when he spotted the side table.

  It was black lacquered like the floor and partially hidden from view by the tub. On it was a Bose Bluetooth speaker, a sandalwood pillar candle on a small wrought-iron tray, and a toppled prescription bottle, its lid beside it, pills spilling to the floor.

  Frank picked up the bottle. It wasn’t Xanax or Valium, as he’d initially suspected, but Flexeril. The label said to take it three times a day as needed for muscle spasms—and warned it didn’t play well with alcohol.

  He gathered up the scattered pills and put them back in the bottle. A few had rolled under the tub, so he reached under and dragged a palm across the floorboards, trying to blindly sweep them out. His fingertips brushed against something larger and heavier than he’d expected, something about the size of a roll of quarters, but made of wood. He strained to reach it. Managed to grab it between his first and second fingers and tweeze it out.

  It was an old-fashioned folding pocketknife with a single blade and a burl handle. At present, it was open—which made Frank grateful it was the handle, and not the blade, his fingers had grazed. Carved into the handle was a set of initials: CWB. Calvin Broussard, he assumed, and idly wondered: William? Walter? Wayne?

  Frank closed the knife and slipped it into his pocket. Then he walked around the tub and picked the phone up off the floor. He fumbled with the thing a moment, trying to figure out how to turn it on or wake it up or whatever. Frank was no good with gadgets. He didn’t trust them, cell phones in particular. All that information floating around freaked him out. Seemed like it’d be way too easy to tap, track, or intercept.

  Something he did worked. The phone lit up in his hand. He found himself looking at some kind of keypad without any numbers. Okay, he thought, let’s treat this like a break-in. Look for fingerprints. Guess the pattern. He tilted the phone a little and saw a streaked zigzag fingerprint overlaying the keypad. Lois didn’t seem the sneaky sort, so he tried the most obvious possible direction—top to bottom, left to right—first. The lock screen disappeared immediately, and Frank found himself in Lois’s voice mail.

  The message that was queued to play was twenty-seven seconds long. Lois must’ve listened to it multiple times, because there were several fingerprints on the play button, their lines and whorls intersecting. Frank added another and held the phone up to his ear to listen.

  “Hey, babe, it’s me. Where are you—out in the garden? If so, I hope you get this before I get home, so you have a chance to clean up. I know my flight’s not until this evening, but hanging out in Reno alone on a Saturday seemed like a waste, so I rented a car and booked us some massages for this afternoon, followed by dinner at Aziza. Had to call in a favor to score a table, so don’t you dare tell me you’re in the mood for takeout. I’m on the bridge now, so I’ll be home in a few. If you’ve got some handsome young thing keeping you company in my absence, you’d best tell hi—”

  And then there was a roar of fire and static. An explosion of glass, oddly melodic. A sound like a lead weight tumbling in a clothes dryer as the car rolled, Cal screaming the whole time. A rapid series of snaps—the bridge’s vertical support ropes, Frank guessed—followed by a moment’s silence and then a splash. Cal’s screams ceased. The call ended.

  Cal Broussard wasn’t stuck in Reno. Cal Broussard was dead.

  And until the cops had come knocking, Frank realized, Lois had intended to join him.

  18.

  JAKE RESTON TRUDGED from the hospital cafeteria back to his family carrying a green plastic tray loaded precariously with food and drink. It was early Sunday morning. The world outside the hospital’s windows was bathed in cool predawn blue.

  His head pounded, thanks to the tension in his neck and shoulders. His ears still rang from the explosion. His broken nose throbbed dully. A stink like burning plastic clung to his hair and clothes, although he’d gotten so used to it he barely noticed. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and now that blind panic had given way to boredom and exhaustion, he was starving, the kind of gnawing hunger that bordered on queasy.

  The tray held an egg-and-cheese croissant for Emily. Cereal with almond milk for Hannah, who’d been going through a vegan phase ever since she turned thirteen. A pile of corned-beef hash for Aidan, who enjoyed taunting Hannah by scarfing down all the meat he could. A bagel with cream cheese for himself. A plate of home fries to share. Coffee for the grown-ups. OJ for the kids. And as much bottled water as he could carry because they were all dehydrated and hoarse from smoke inhalation.

  The night had been a trying one. Though Hannah had seemed fine at the scene, and she’d never once complained, it turned out she’d fractured her wrist when she fell. The ER physician splinted her arm and told her parents that she’d need to follow up with the orthopedic docs in a few days. The gash on Emily’s forehead required twenty stitches. Hannah said they made her look like the bride of Frankenstein—mostly, Jake thought, to get a laugh out of poor Aidan. His leg was badly broken and required surgery. The hours he’d been under were the longest of Jake’s life. But the surgeon said that it went well, and Aidan had been moved to a room shortly after. He’d slept on and off throughout the night but woke up hungry and in good spirits not long ago. The whole family was now camped out in Aidan’s room, which the staff had mercifully allowed them to take over.

  Sophia’s brief bout of unconsciousness was still troubling to Jake and Emily, but the baby’s head CT was negative, and the doctor who examined Sophia gave her a provisional thumbs-up, although she recommended they monitor her behavior for a couple days. The doc had insisted it was fine for Sophia to sleep, but Emily found herself unable to let her do so for more than ten minutes at a time. As a consequence, both of them were up all night. Thankfully, Emily had finally nodded off two hours ago, and Sophia had followed suit.

  Hannah spent half the night watching the hits climb on her cell-phone video—over two million views, last Jake heard—but eventually her phone died and she was forced to get some rest.

  Jake, too wired to sleep, had just watched them until Aidan woke. Then he’d headed out to fetch some breakfast.

  Jake rounded the corner toward Aidan’s room and then stopped short. There was a man waiting just outside. He was lean and weathered—fiftyish, Jake guessed. He had on a navy canvas blazer, a white button-down, and well-worn jeans. Cowboy boots, as creased and tan as the man’s face, graced his feet. His thick, wavy hair was dyed a shade too dark to be convincing, gray roots starting to show. A .357 Magnum jutted from a holster on his hip.

  The man was scowling at his cell phone when Jake spotted him, but when he sensed Jake’s presence, he tucked the phone into the front pocket of his jeans and broke into an easy grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling, smile lines bracketing his mouth. There was something vulpine about his face, Jake thought.

  “Jacob Reston?” he said.

  “That’s right,” Jake replied.

  The man produced a wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer and flipped it open with one hand, a practiced motion. There was some kind of government ID inside, the man’s face staring back at him. “Chet Yancey,” he said. He put his wallet away and extended his hand. Jake raised the tray a tad to indicate his hands were busy. As Yancey dropped his arm, Jake note
d the turquoise pinkie ring the man wore.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Yancey?”

  “I had some questions about what happened down at the bridge yesterday, and I thought maybe you could answer them.”

  “I already spoke to the police.”

  “Course you did. You’re a good citizen. Eager to help. You understand that when an attack like this happens, you’ve gotta step up and do your part. That’s why you’re gonna talk to me too. It won’t take but a minute.”

  Jake looked down at the tray in his hands. Thought about telling Yancey to wait a sec while he delivered breakfast to his family. But something held him back. He suspected Yancey would simply follow him, and that didn’t sit right with Jake. So he said nothing and stood his ground.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Attaboy.” Yancey clapped Jake on the shoulder. The food on Jake’s tray jostled, but thankfully nothing fell. Yancey removed a small notepad and pen from his back pocket and clicked the latter open. “How’s your family doing, by the way? I peeked in on them, but when I saw your wife and baby were asleep, I thought it best I wait out here for you. I didn’t want to disturb them,” he said brightly.

  “Uh, they’re fine. My littlest—”

  “Sophia, right?” Yancey interjected, reading from his notepad.

  “That’s right,” Jake said, slightly unnerved. “She took a good bump to the head when my wife, Emily, fell, and was unconscious for a few minutes, but the docs say she’s doing okay now. They even let her stay down here with the rest of us, instead of up in Peds, but we’re supposed to keep an eye on her behavior. Emily needed some stitches, but she’s otherwise okay. My son—”

  “Aidan,” Yancey said.

  “—broke his leg and needed surgery to set it. He’s been groggy ever since he came to, but they cleared him for solid food a little while ago and told us he should heal up just fine. And Hannah—the toughest of us, I think—fractured her wrist, but she barely seemed to notice.”

  “Hannah’s your oldest, right?” Jake nodded. “What a pretty, pretty girl. Takes after her mother, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Actually,” Jake said, bristling, “I kinda—”

  “Anyway,” Yancey continued, breezing past Jake’s obvious discomfort, “I’m glad everybody’s doing okay.” His tone didn’t match his words. It sounded hurried, perfunctory, as though Jake’s family’s well-being didn’t matter to him one way or the other. “Now, as my daddy used to say, let’s talk turkey. You live in Eugene, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Nice country up that way. Lots of green. A little chilly for my taste. What brought you and your lovely family to San Francisco today, Jake?”

  “We were headed home from Disneyland,” he said, “and thought we’d stop and see the sights.” He had no wish to tell him the story about his parents’ photo.

  “Did you visit anyone while you were in town?”

  The question puzzled Jake. “No. We just headed to the bridge to get a family picture.”

  “A video, you mean.”

  “Excuse me?” Jake was thrown by Yancey’s correction. He felt defensive, suddenly, as though he’d been caught in a lie, which was ridiculous—he had nothing to hide.

  “You headed to the bridge to get a video. It’s been all over the news.”

  “Yes. Right. Of course. Hannah posted it on Facebook when her friends started asking if she was okay—she’d mentioned we were stopping off in San Francisco. One of them put it up on YouTube. The video was supposed to be for my parents. A surprise for their anniv—”

  “What can you tell me about the man who shot the video?”

  “Come again?”

  “The man who shot the video. Is he an uncle, maybe? A family friend? When I poked my head into your boy’s room, I didn’t see him.”

  “Uh, he wasn’t with us. We just bumped into him on the path.”

  “Is that so.”

  Jake waited for Yancey to continue, but for a long while, he didn’t—he just looked at Jake unblinkingly, a silent challenge. Jake withered beneath his gaze like a child called before the principal but said nothing.

  “You stopped a stranger on the path and asked him to take a video for you?”

  “Yes. It was my son’s idea,” he added lamely, wondering why that made his story—the truth, he reminded himself—sound more believable. He somehow felt like he’d just ratted out his own flesh and blood.

  “Why this man in particular?”

  Jake shrugged, the food on the tray shifting as he did. “I don’t know. He was walking alone. Everybody else was in a group or busy.”

  “What happened to him? After the blast, where did he go?”

  “I have no idea. When the bomb went off, I lost consciousness. By the time I came to, he was gone.”

  “Did you happen to get his name?”

  “No. It was just a quick thing. A chance encounter. If it wasn’t for the explosion and the fact that he caught himself on camera, I doubt I’d even remember what he looked like.”

  Jake saw a head poke out of Aidan’s room and look his way. It was Hannah, her hair mussed, her face puffy from sleep, her expression one of puzzlement. “Dad? I thought I heard you out here. Who’s this guy?”

  Jake looked from his daughter to Yancey and back again. Yancey’s attention lingered on Hannah, a wide grin spreading across his face. “The name’s Chet Yancey, little lady—and I work for your dear old Uncle Sam,” he said, winking.

  Jake cleared his throat loudly and said, “Mr. Yancey’s got some questions about what happened at the bridge, is all. We’re almost done. Go back inside and wake up Mom. Tell her I’ll be in with breakfast in a sec.” Hannah ducked back into the room. Jake relaxed perceptibly once she was out of sight.

  Yancey’s…flirtation?…hadn’t been sexual, exactly, but it still felt to Jake as if it were miles from appropriate. Jake couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been intended to unnerve him—and it had worked.

  Yancey flashed his pearly whites at Jake as if pleased by his discomfort. Then he reached over and plucked a home fry off Jake’s tray. He dunked it into one of the paper condiment cups that Jake had filled with ketchup and stuffed it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if savoring the tasty morsel. After he swallowed, he licked the grease off his fingers one by one.

  “What I’m hearing from you, Jake, is there’s not much that you can tell me about the old man in the video. Is that a fair assessment?”

  “Yes. I guess. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance,” Jake lied. In truth, all he wanted was to be rid of Yancey.

  “You’re not holding anything back, are you? Because I’d like to think our conversation’s been a friendly one, but if I find out you’ve been lying to me—and believe me, if you are, I will find out—our next talk’s gonna be a lot less pleasant. And if I’m forced to haul you in for questioning, who’ll look after this beautiful family of yours?” His smile vanished. In its absence, Yancey’s face was cold and hard.

  “I’ve told you everything I know. I have no reason to do otherwise.”

  “Well, then,” Yancey said, his smile lighting up once more, “thanks for your time!” He clicked his pen closed. Stuck it and his notepad back in his pocket. Produced a card and dropped it onto the tray full of food. It contained nothing but Yancey’s name and a phone number—no address, no title, no mention of the organization he worked for. “But do me a favor and hold on to this in case you remember anything else you think I ought to know. And please give my regards to Aidan, Emily, Hannah, and Sophia. You’re very lucky they all came through this okay.”

  Yancey started to put out his hand again, and then, remembering Jake couldn’t shake, he made a pistol of his fingers and aimed it playfully at Jake. He mimed shooting, his thumb twitching as he dropped the hammer, and then he took off down the hall.

  Without looking back, he called, “Don’t you worry, Jake—if I need anything else from you, I know where to find you.”
Then he began whistling idly to himself.

  As Yancey rounded the corner, his whistled song echoing down the hall, Jake realized Yancey had never asked him anything about the blast.

  19.

  THE CHARTER JET touched down in Palo Alto a little after nine a.m., jarring Hendricks awake when the landing gear connected with the tarmac.

  Pale sunlight poured through the cabin’s windows. Hendricks yawned and stretched, plush leather creaking beneath him. His limbs were stiff and sore but he was happy for the rest. Cameron, who sat facing him in a beige leather recliner of her own, looked as if she’d fared less well. Her face was pale. Her eyes were bloodshot, the flesh around them dark-smudged. She pecked idly at her laptop—which was plugged into the outlet beside her and tapped into the aircraft’s Wi-Fi—as she’d been doing before Hendricks dozed off hours ago.

  When Hendricks had returned to Cameron’s car after his meeting with Thompson, she’d cocked her head and said, “You don’t look happy.”

  “The person waiting for me wasn’t who I was expecting.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that much from your tone when you walked in. Then the line cut out, and I got worried. I had half a mind to come in after you.”

  “It didn’t cut out. I hung up on you.”

  “Why?”

  Hendricks’s mind conjured an image of Lester’s mangled corpse cast aside like shreds of orange rind once Engelmann had extracted the information he’d desired. “We were discussing things I didn’t want you overhearing. Things it isn’t safe for you to know.”

  An awkward silence stretched between them. “So what happens now?” Cameron asked eventually. “I drop you somewhere, and we go our separate ways?”

  He shook his head. “The situation’s changed. You said you grew up in the Bay Area?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know it well?”

  “Are you kidding? My parents worked like a hundred hours a week, and I was a good kid, so they were more than willing to leave me to my own devices. I spent more time in the city than I did at home.”