Gone(37)

The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Rondeau flashed back to his days with the District. A man had shot up a shopping mall, killing fifteen people on Valentine’s Day. The killer had left a note at the scene, claiming he would attack again on the next holiday. The Bureau had taken over the investigation, using forensic experts to examine the note, and use the information to track the killer.

But, they’d gotten it wrong. At least, in Rondeau’s view, they’d misinterpreted the note, and went after the wrong person. The Bureau targeted a mentally ill man with a record — though nothing close to homicide.

Two more holidays had arrived with two more mass shootings and the killer eluding capture. They had wanted him bad. Rondeau demanded to be on the frontlines when the Bureau took down their subject of choice, and they’d agreed. The lead agent for the Bureau was Lee Angstrom, and Angstrom didn’t like Rondeau, didn’t like this District cop who was only supposed to be observing, but kept insisting that they had the wrong guy. Angstrom insisted they had forensic evidence to link the suspect. As they closed in for his capture, shortly before the Fourth of July that same year, things got messy. They’d surprised the schizophrenic man at the shipyard where he worked, and he’d tried to run. In the crossfire, Rondeau had taken two bullets in the chest — from an FBI agent. Of course it was even worse if it had happened in pursuit of the wrong man.

He’d been the hospital for a month. During his stay, he’d been visited by a man named Dominic Whitehall. Whitehall claimed to have evidence of further crime lab tampering by the FBI. But Whitehall disappeared soon after, and once Rondeau was released, he got the hell out of there.

And now here he was, a detective with the Sheriff’s Department for a backwoods county in upstate, New York. His first big case, a missing family, and prudence dictated he call in the feds; he’d been contacted by the ostensible perpetrators. But Millard was right. His past was holding him back.

*

Rondeau tracked down Connie’s doctor. He was just about to go into surgery when Rondeau caught him and convinced him to step into the break room. An orderly was cleaning up the morning’s coffee grinds and empty donut boxes.

“Will you excuse us?”

He saw the look in Rondeau’s eyes and left without a word. The doctor raised his hands. “Detective, I assure you, we’re going to do everything for Ms. Leifson.”

“I know you are.”

“We’re attempting emergency intracranial surgery, which can be dangerous for comatose patients, but we’re very confident.”

“Thank you.”

“If you’ll excuse me . . .”

Rondeau caught the doctor by the elbow. “I need to know about the infected patient. It’s important.”

The doctor appeared confused for a moment. He glanced at his arm and Rondeau removed the hand. “He has an intense bacterial infection. He’s got pneumonia, and his bloodstream is contaminated.”

“Have you seen more of this? Anything else like this, recently?”

The doctor searched Rondeau’s eyes. “Yes.”

“What is it? What causes it?”

“Microbial infection. We’re dosing him with some strong antibiotics; we’ll see if he responds.”

“What about other patients? Are they responding?”

“No. Best case, bacteria like this are susceptible to colistin, what we consider a last resort antibiotic. But this is a tough genetic mutation . . . plasmids that move freely from one bacterial strain to another turn them into what we call ‘superbugs.’ And colistin, unfortunately, has been overused.”

“On patients?”

The doctor had sadness hovering in his eyes. Rondeau didn’t like what he saw there. “On livestock. The short version is, Detective, we’ve used up all of our antibiotics on animals. Diseases like this MCR-1 microbial infection are basically untreatable until we have a new drug. Now please, I have to go and operate on your friend.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO / Indian Lake

Indian Lake was in Hamilton County, the least populated county in New York State. It made Stock County look like a teeming metropolis. Hamilton was the first place Rondeau had looked for a job after he’d left the District. He’d wanted to get as far away from society as possible and still make a living. But Hamilton had no detective squad. One sheriff, three deputies, and a two-cell jail was the extent of local law enforcement.

It was so out of the way that his cell phone wasn’t getting a signal. He rolled over the roads, with Millard riding shotgun, the both of them silent for much of the drive. Close now — just a few miles out.

Finally Millard spoke. “What are we doing here?”

“Following a lead.”

“What about the woman? Ally?”

“Addie. Addison Kemp. She’s still with forensics. I’ll get back to her.”

“I’m worried about you.”

Rondeau faced the road again. Nothing but trees, winding road. They’d passed through Long Lake and Blue Mountain Lake. Nice places, wild and unspoiled. A little bit of tourism helped sustain the communities, but for the most part people were back-to-the-landers who hunted and trapped, chopped firewood, lived basically. There were some vacation houses too. He envisioned them all getting sick, turning septic like the patient at Fletcher Allen.