Gone(28)

“Mill, people are pissed at welfare because the ones who feel the pinch are hardly better off themselves. The just-better-than-poor have to subsidize the poor. And—”

“That’s not true.” Millard fiddled with his fingers, picking at the hangnails. He carried a tin of hand sanitizer which he rubbed religiously on his palms, usually dark with oil grease. “We doubly subsidize the corporations when we—”

“Let me finish. The Pentagon didn’t ‘lose’ the money. They lost track of the accounting. There’s a big difference there, Mill.”

Millard was undeterred. “There are nine hundred US military bases around the world. Most are placed near oil-rich countries. Libya is a failed state after we invaded, since they were trying to establish their own currency, the dinar, and move away from the petrodollar . . .”

“Stop, Millard. I can’t right now. I need to think.”

Rondeau glared out at the road, willing the houses to show up faster. Another three miles and they’d be there. You have twenty-four hours.

One day. To tear it all down. Right. Walk into the sheriff’s office and explain to Oesch that a computer voice told him they had to fold up their tent. Sorry, call off the search, torch the lab, the computer voice warned me there would be “retaliation” otherwise. Oesch would want to alert the feds. And maybe it was the right move. Maybe it was the only move. But what if . . . ?

I just want to see something. I just want to see something first. I want to get my head right. I need a minute.

Millard surged on with his speech. “We have alternative fuel, we have alternative food sources. But they’re not as profitable. So we get fuel oil and factory-farmed animals. Meanwhile, the battle for resources is turning into a third world war.” He turned and looked at Rondeau. “Did you know that it was Rockefeller who was behind Prohibition? Ford had made cars that could run on alcohol but Rockefeller thought it would ruin oil profits.”

“Okay, Mill, we’re almost there.”

“Think of all the things that have happened that most people don’t know about, or they outright deny! Everything shaped in the name of profit. We lose history, we lose the soil, we lose—”

“Millard, shut up.” Rondeau took an anxious breath. “First of all, Ford was a capitalist. He was planning on making a profit on cars, alcohol-fueled or not. And maybe another capitalist headed him off at the pass so he could make his own money.” Now Rondeau turned and met the wounded look Millard was giving him. “Or maybe that story is just conspiracy bullshit,” he said.

Millard shrunk against the door and Rondeau felt a pang of guilt. He also felt hypocritical. Didn’t he have his own pet conspiracy theory tucked away? Only it didn’t feel like a theory. It felt like the burning punches of gunshots, the kind he often relived in dreams.

They’d called it a “friendly fire accident.” Sure, and all the paperwork was done up, and everyone went through extensive interviews and came out smelling like roses. These things happen. Casualty of the job. The price of the badge and the gun — sometimes you took one for the team in the heat of battle. The FBI had managed to live down the incident, no problem. But for Rondeau, it hadn’t been so easy. A year later, he’d left town, never to return. He could recall the exact moment his vehicle crossed the Potomac on his way north. Sweet relief.

“‘Conspiracy’ is a legal term,” Millard said in a small voice. “Just means more than one person planning a crime . . .”

“Alright, you win.”

Rondeau’s phone buzzed. The surprise of it almost caused him to lose grip on the wheel. How things have changed, part of him observed wryly, usually Millard is the paranoid wreck and you’re the cool cucumber.

He opted to pull off the road. They were within a mile of their destination, but he didn’t want to miss the call. Or drive into a ditch, answering it.

He fumbled for the phone. His heart eased when the screen showed it was his office calling.

“Stokes?”

“Yes, sir. Stokes here. Got something for you on Addie’s ex-husband. Gerry — with a ‘G’ — Matheson. Company is called Green Clean. I swear — where is the imagination these days?”

The name Matheson sounded familiar. But it might’ve just been one of those names. “Okay, do me a favor. Field this one. Give Matheson a call. Feel him out. Just following up, ask how long they were together, if he met the Kemps, how well he knew them.”

“You got it. How did it go with Brad Rafferty?”

“I didn’t talk to him.”

“You didn’t . . . ?”

“Something came up.”

Stokes hesitated. “Anything I can do?”

Rondeau closed his eyes. He scratched at his shoulder, then his chest. He thought of Millard picking at his fingertips and he forced himself to stop. He opened his eyes. “Stay reachable, okay? I’ll be back in touch soon.”

“You got it. I, ah . . .”

“Any other calls to the office?”

“Silas called. You were right; nothing useable on that video. Could’ve been someone out walking. We’ll never know.”

It was disappointing. Rondeau began to speak, but Stokes hurried on. “And, well we’re fielding about ten tips an hour on the missing family. Word is definitely out. Press has been calling for statements, wondering when we’re going to hold the conference . . .”