Gone(33)

He flipped to the next page.

Manifest System. Pollution control in which hazardous waste material is identified and traced from its production, treatment, transportation, and final disposal through a series of documents called “manifests.”

It sounded a bit like a synopsis for the new film Kemp was working on. Rondeau checked, but none of the notes were dated. He moved on. Uniform Hazardous Waste Manifest. EPA and DOT required.

Environmental Protection Agency and Department of Transportation; those were the acronyms.

All generators who transport hazardous waste for off-site treatment, recycling, or storage disposal. Apparently there were Federal regulations to use this form — EPA Form 8700-22 — for any interstate and intrastate transportation of hazardous waste.

He gripped the pages, considering. This felt a little bit like a plant. If Kemp’s abductors were as professional and thorough as they seemed, why this oversight? These forms made it look like Kemp might’ve stumbled upon some federal law issues in his documentary, Nothing Disappears. But grouping the paperwork with instruction manuals would be odd.

There was more, though.

A website printout on the Jordan Valley. More notes and a brief, printed travelogue on Tunisia, which caught his eye.

Then, the final page. Very short, consisting only of two words — Zedekiah’s Cave. He didn’t know what that was.

He took these last few papers, folded and put them in his inner pocket. The rest he replaced in the envelope. As he wound the string closed, his phone buzzed, giving him a start. For one terrifying moment, he was sure it would be the computer voice telling him time was up.

It was his office. Had it been an hour already? Jesus. It was Stokes, but the connection was spotty again. They couldn’t make heads or tails of what the other was saying. Rondeau hung up. He realized his brother-in-law had been sitting in the truck all of this time. Time to check on him.

*

Back in the driveway, he tried Stokes at the office. The connection was better out here. “Stokes, I want to know everything that could knock a man out, incapacitate him in seconds.”

“Including a right cross from Brad Rafferty?”

“Pill, powder, liquid. What do you do if you want to completely sedate a man in a matter of seconds?”

“Got it. What are you—?”

“Also, let’s get word to Incident Command, any calls coming in, ask if people have seen an unmarked van or a big SUV in town last week. Maybe even with tinted windows.”

“Jesus. Yeah, okay.”

Rondeau placed the envelope on the hood of the Chevy and looked at it. “I’ve got something for Peter King. Have him get with Brit Silas, sign out an envelope I found in the house. It will be with Deputy Borden. Tell him to build it into his dealings with the Rafferty brothers and Spillane.”

Stokes was silent, likely writing it all down. “Okay, roger . . . What are you up to?”

“I’m going to see Connie, talk to the unsub if he wakes up.”

“Whoa. Okay. You think what happened to Connie is . . . ?”

“I don’t know.”

Rondeau hung up. He got in the truck and looked over at Millard, sitting on the passenger side. He could feel the papers folded up against his chest. “Strap in,” he said. “Here we go.”





CHAPTER TWENTY / Infected

Connie Leifson looked dead. About as dead as anyone Rondeau had seen since Jessy.

Jessy had been emaciated. Eaten away by the cancer. Connie was still full, if that was the right way to put it, while Jessy had been empty. Half of Connie’s head was wrapped in a huge bandage. Her arm and shoulder were in a cast. Her left leg was raised, pinned with steel rods. She barely looked human from where Rondeau stood in the hallway, peering through the glass. Then the doctor pulled the curtain across and Connie disappeared.

The doctor explained the extent of her injuries to Rondeau as they walked slowly through the ICU unit. Millard trailed behind silently, wringing his hands.

“Her brain has had quite a shock,” the doctor said. “The swelling has put her into a coma.”

A coma, Rondeau thought. Three days ago this woman was teaching her Friday class. Today she’s in a coma.

The prognosis was bleak. “With this type of traumatic brain injury,” the doctor went on, “you can never really predict the outcome. But we can see from her brain scan that there is minimal activity. Even the basic involuntary functions — some of them — are incapacitated.”

That was doc-talk to say she was excreting waste into a bag, intubated, with a machine doing her breathing.

“We’re prepping her for surgery to alleviate some of the swelling. You can wait, if you like, but it could be a while.”

Rondeau thanked the doctor and excused himself when his phone rang. He motioned for Millard to follow and moved to a quiet spot, at the far end of the hall. He stared out the window at the University of Vermont campus as he took the call.

Stokes was on the line. “You with Connie?”

“Yeah.”

“How is she?”

“Not good.”

Stokes was cautious. “How are you doing?”

“Told you to stop asking me that. I’m fine.” Rondeau scratched his chest, then his beard stubble — he hadn’t shaved in two days.

That’s not all that’s itching you.