Gone(31)

“Why?”

“Why? Jay, it’s all around you, man — if you disrupt industry, you’re a national security threat.”

There it was, Rondeau thought. The old canard that if you were big business, you were in bed with the government. We were all doomed unless we shopped and consumed GMO food and took our poisonous vaccines. Chemtrails were sprinkling brain-altering particulates from the sky. Global warming was a hoax cooked up by liberal groups who want everyone to buy green products and revitalize inland cities because the coasts were going to be washed away. The Supreme Court was ruling on gay marriage to reduce population growth. Racial equality was a plot to advance communist interests. It went on and on.

“Okay,” he said to Millard. “Alright.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Well, Millard, it’s not that . . .”

“Jay?”

“Yeah?”

Millard’s scowl had faded. He wore an earnest expression that Rondeau had never seen before. Like a little boy.

“Do you think I’m real?”

It was a heartrending question. The man doubted his own existence. “Of course I do. Now, look. I need to go inside . . .”

Millard sank back into the vehicle without another word. Rondeau hesitated, stuck in limbo. “Millard, it’s not that I don’t believe you. I believe you believe these things. And you know what? You’re probably right about some of the things you say. I . . . I have my own reasons to doubt government agencies sometimes. And you know that.”

He scratched his scars as he stood by the truck. “But I need specifics, buddy. I’m running an investigation here. A missing family, you know? They need my help. Maybe they were abducted. I think they were. But I need hard evidence. If this has something to do with the government, I need facts. So, I’m going to go inside. Okay?”

Millard was in a full pout now, slumped in his seat. “Alright.” It was barely audible. Then, “You’ll never get anything, though. Not with them.”

Rondeau let it go and started to close the door, but the rain was almost finished now. He left the truck door open so Millard wouldn’t be closed in.

He headed to the house again. His phone rang. It was Stokes. Rondeau moved into the house, snapping apart the police tape as he answered. “What have you got?”

“Just letting you know, Voigt sent me all of their data. Glens Falls landfill is closed. I talked to Oesch and the searches are going strong. Captain Bouchard with the staties said we’ve papered all the way down to New York City. We can tap the video cameras at the Canadian border, but we need the feds for that. I think Oesch is still waiting on your call . . . are we bringing in the feds, Rondeau?”

He looked around the house. It stank of chemicals, like a CSI crew had been working for thirty hours straight. “I just need a little time. Tell Oesch to give me just a little time and then I’ll . . . and then I’ll know.”

“Ten-four. Everything okay?”

The question irked him. “You keep asking me. Well, I got Connie Leifson, my friend, in a car accident. I got my brother-in-law sitting outside and—”

“What? You’re breaking up, I think . . .”

Rondeau glanced at the phone. Spotty coverage in the house. “For God’s sake . . .” Rondeau said, and ended the call.

Enough. He found the box of gloves by the door, and snapped on a pair. It was time to go to work.





CHAPTER NINETEEN / Something in the Basement

Rondeau moved through the house as the shadows deepened, the day darkening in the windows. There was a trove of evidence, but nothing helpful. Signs that a family lived there, sat on the couch, toggled the remote control, cooked in the kitchen, slept in the beds. And then, two sets of unknown prints.

Rondeau was sure the prints wouldn’t belong to an abductor. Even the most mundane of criminals knew to wear gloves.

There was no landline in the house, no messages to check. The parents’ cell phones were gone. The abductors had taken all of Hutch’s work, along with every other data store. It was a thorough job. Smooth, quiet, leaving nothing to chance.

Neighbors liked the family. Not a single interviewee ostensibly harbored ill-will towards the Kemps, or knew of anyone who did. The Kemps might have been considered “outsiders,” since they’d only lived in the region for five years (Kemp was originally from New York City and Lily from Saratoga), but otherwise the family was considered respectable. Only John Hayes, in his offhand way, seemed to think they’d been headed for disaster.

And maybe Millard, who thought everyone was headed for disaster.

Few people even knew what Hutchinson Kemp did for a living. They thought he was self-employed or perhaps a writer.

Lily Kemp had been with the community hospital for two years. Colleagues commended her hard work and pleasant attitude. They were worried about her.

Before working as a nurse, Lily had completed her training while pregnant with her first, the daughter named Magdalena.

Magdalena, Rondeau thought. Not your everyday Catholic name. In the old days, you might have found out about a family from their church, but the Kemps didn’t belong to one.

He looked out at the maple trees. He thought of the family in the evening, the kids running around, the parents chatting over a glass of wine. He thought of the home video, the figure standing out by the road, watching.