Red Right Hand

15.

WHEN THOMPSON LEFT the New Haven field office in her Ford Escape, she’d headed south as promised, toward DC. But once she passed Trenton, New Jersey, she got off I-95 and jagged west toward Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

Verdant fields unspooled on either side of Thompson as she sped through the twilit countryside. The sunset beckoned like a signal flare, pink fading to indigo as she drove. The sky seemed so much bigger out here than it did in DC. The tallest man-made structures were grain silos. Trees were mostly relegated to the scruffy borders between vast swaths of farmland. Hay bales cast long shadows across the fields.

Eventually, she rocked to a halt on a winding country road beside a modest ranch-style house, tidy but in need of paint. Petunias hung in baskets on the porch. A garden occupied the side yard, encircled by protective mesh. Tomato plants rustled in the evening breeze.

The house was lit, inside and out. The curtains were drawn. They parted slightly when Thompson pulled up and fell closed before she got out of the car.

She crossed the lawn-dry grass crunching underfoot-and scaled the porch steps. But before she had a chance to knock, a man behind her spoke.

“Hands where I can see them.”

Thompson complied.

“Good. Now turn around real slow.”

When Thompson turned, she found herself looking down the barrel of a shotgun. Its matte-gray finish gleamed dully in the glow of the porch light.

“If you mean to use that thing,” she said, “you’d do well to hold it tightly to your shoulder. Loose like that against your bicep, you’re likely to miss me-even at this range-and maybe break your arm in the process.”

“Charlie?”

“Evening, Stuart.”

He lowered the shotgun. “Jesus, Charlie, you scared the hell out of us!” Then, louder: “Evie, you can come on out-it’s Charlie!”

The front door opened, and Evelyn Walker stepped outside. She looked beautiful, if harried, in a floral sundress, her hair in a haphazard bun. Her face was sun-kissed, her eyes tired. An apple-cheeked baby was propped on her hip.

Three years ago, Thompson began investigating a new hitman on the scene, one who seemed to go after only other hitters. He was talented, elusive. Always avoided or disabled surveillance cams. Never left fingerprints or DNA. At first, her fellow agents doubted his existence and took to calling him Charlie’s ghost. But eventually, the evidence Charlie amassed was undeniable.

Thompson had assumed he was working for some upstart criminal organization intent on taking out the competition. She was wrong.

Last year, their paths crossed at a casino in Kansas City. She was there tailing a hitter by the name of Leonwood. Her mystery hitman was doing the same. Neither of them realized that Leonwood was bait, intended to draw her ghost out so an assassin called Engelmann could kill him.

Thanks to Engelmann, the casino op went pear-shaped. More than thirty people were killed. Thompson would have been one of them if her ghost hadn’t compromised his anonymity to save her life.

When Engelmann discovered his quarry’s identity, he beelined for Hendricks’s former fiancée, Evelyn Walker. Hendricks beat him to her but was forced to divulge that the report of his death was a lie and that he killed people for a living. Though he eventually dispatched Engelmann, he couldn’t guarantee Evie’s continued safety, so he coerced Thompson into putting Evie and her family into WITSEC.

“My goodness,” Thompson said. “Is that Lucy? She’s so big!”

“Eight months old next week,” Evie said.

“Is she crawling yet?”

“Oh yeah. She’s motoring around like a champ. Poor Abby can’t keep up with her.” Abigail was the Walkers’ bulldog, and upon hearing her name, she toddled out onto the porch, her stubby tail wagging.

“She’ll be driving in no time,” Thompson said.

Evie flashed her a wan smile. “I’m guessing you didn’t stop by just to check up on the baby.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Then maybe you should come inside and tell us what brought you all this way.”

They went inside, and Evie gestured for Thompson to take a seat. Lucy fussed in Evie’s arms and let out a cry. “Looks like it’s past time for someone to go to bed. Stu, how about you get our guest something to drink while I put Lucy down?”

“Sure thing. What can I get you, Charlie? Coffee? Water? Iced tea?”

“Actually,” Thompson replied, “I’d love a beer, if you have one.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought agents couldn’t drink on duty.”

“I’m not exactly on duty.”

Stuart headed to the kitchen and returned with two longneck PBRs. He handed one to Thompson. She twisted off the cap and took a sip.

“So,” Evie said when she returned, “what can we do for you?”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Thompson drank her beer and wondered how to begin.

“First of all,” she said, “you have to understand I’m not here in any official capacity. In fact, if the Bureau ever finds out I was here, I’ll be out of a job-maybe even arrested.”

“I don’t understand,” Evie said. “What exactly is this about?”

Thompson sighed. “Stuart, would you mind giving us a little privacy?”

“Me and Evie are a team. Anything you say to her, you can say to me.”

Thompson looked Evie in the eye. Evie nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Evie, I need you to help me get in touch with Michael Hendricks.”

Stuart’s face contorted with disgust. “You mean the asshole who blew up our house and forced us into hiding?”

“Easy, Stu,” said Evie. “That’s not helping.” Then she returned her attention to Thompson. “Why do you need to get in touch with him?”

“Have you seen the news today?”

“Yes. It’s terrible. But you can’t possibly think Michael had anything to do with it.”

“No, of course not. But there’s a cell-phone video of the attack going around, and the man who took it is in danger. Years ago, he turned state’s evidence against some very dangerous and powerful criminals. They attempted to kill him before he could testify. Until today, everyone-good guys and bad-thought they’d succeeded. Now that he’s resurfaced, I think they’ll try to kill him again, and I can’t let that happen. I need Michael to protect him.”

“You’re not serious,” Stuart said.

“Unfortunately, I am.”

“Why can’t you do it? You’re FBI, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ve been ordered not to. The Bureau’s spread too thin. Until we catch the bastards who attacked us, my hands are tied.”

Evie frowned. “Even if I wanted to help you, what makes you think I have the faintest idea how?”

Thompson sighed. “Because for months, you refused to testify against Michael, and then suddenly, you agreed. Because I happen to know he wanted you to accept federal protection, even if that meant cooperating with us to build our case. Because…” she began, and then she glanced at Stuart, uncertain if she should verbalize the rest. Because despite everything, you still care about him. But she didn’t need to. Evie caught her meaning and silenced her with a glance.

“This is bullshit,” Stuart said. “You can’t just show up here and accuse my wife of-”

“Stu, don’t. She’s right. Michael and I have been in touch.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? After everything he put us through?”

“It’s not that simple, Stuart. He saved our lives. And whether you like it or not, he and I have a history. Besides, it’s not like we’ve been secret pen pals. He reached out a few months ago to insist I take the deal the Feds were offering. Told me not to lie or hold back to protect him. Said it was the only way for me to keep my family safe. So I did. For Lucy. For you.”

“And to feed his fucking martyr complex,” Stuart snapped.

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? Sorry, Evie, but your ex-boyfriend’s not some tortured soldier with a heart of gold-he’s a bugfuck whackadoo who murders people for money. The sooner you come to grips with that, the better.”

“Fiancé,” she said.

“Excuse me?” Stuart-indignant.

“He’s not my ex-boyfriend. He’s my ex-fiancé.”

Stuart shook with rage. He cocked his arm back and threw his bottle at the wall. It exploded, raining glass and suds, and Thompson’s hand moved by instinct toward her gun, but Stuart was already halfway to the back door. He banged it open hard enough to shake the house and disappeared into the night.

Tears shone in Evie’s eyes. Abigail cowered at her feet. Down the hall, Lucy began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Thompson said. “The last thing I wanted was to drive a wedge between you two. Believe me, if I had any other choice, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t worry about Stuart. He’ll come around. He just needs time.”

“I hope so,” Thompson replied, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Do you swear that you’re not playing me? Because if you are-”

“I’m not. I swear.”

“And you really think that Michael can protect this man?”

“I honestly don’t know, but if anybody can, it’s him.”

Evie wiped her eyes and nodded.

“Okay,” she said, “I’m in.”