Gone(42)

Rondeau stopped walking when Addison Kemp’s home came back into view. Off to the side of it, the Chevy sat empty. His brother-in-law had gone AWOL again.

Millard, where are you?

There was a sound behind him; the quick scuffle of feet. Someone battened onto him before he could turn around. He felt a sting in his neck. He reached back, clawing at the attacker, but the poison worked fast. His knees buckled, his legs gave, he dropped to the ground like a sack of mail.

And then black.





MONDAY





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE / Getting Connected


Deputy Peter King looked at his beautiful girlfriend as she spoke.

“Maybe you’re not looking for a career change to mental health,” Althea said. She closed the locker and walked towards him across the deputies’ break room. “Maybe you’re going to make detective.” She tapped the envelope from Rondeau with her nail, then slipped her arms around Peter’s waist and leaned her head against his neck.

The jail was quiet. Deputy Borden had taken sick leave, and Kenzie was busy at the front desk. It was Monday, a slow day. People were still getting on their feet after the weekend.

She reached up and touched the bruises on his face. She was smart, kind, beautiful and strong. She handled a gun like she’d done it all her life. She protected the vulnerable. He, in turn, would protect her.

“I want to marry you,” he said softly.

Althea pushed back from him. She looked up with wide eyes, blinked and glanced around. Her demeanor seemed to ask: Are you kidding me? You’re proposing in here?

It wasn’t the most romantic place in the world.

“I mean it,” he said. “I don’t care. I’ll get down on one knee somewhere with coconuts and palm trees—”

“You know I don’t care about any of that—”

“But I just want you to know that I plan to marry you. I’ll ask you as many times as I have to—”

“In as many nasty places as you can find, apparently.”

It made him laugh, and he pulled her closer. They held each other tightly for a moment. Peter gazed through the one-way glass, which overlooked the central area of the jail.

“I want to talk to him.”

She searched his eyes. “Brad Rafferty? You think that’s such a good idea? Boy, you’re full of all sorts of risky proposals today. Ask me to be your wife, question an inmate without a lawyer . . .”

“He doesn’t have to say anything he doesn’t want to.”

“What are you going to talk to him about?”

Peter shrugged and glanced at the envelope she was holding. “His work. His boss, Nick Spillane. The missing Kemp family.”

“Uh-huh. You making some leaps there?”

“Maybe.”

Her look tightened. “Peter . . . lots of sidestepping procedure these days . . .”

He gave her a kiss on the lips, something he never did when they were on duty. “I’ll catch up with you in a few,” he said. He walked out of the locker room clipping his belt around his waist, settling the weight of his gun around his hips.

The county jail consisted of three housing areas known as “pods,” laid out with the public area in the center. There was a separate wing for adolescents, but in the main jail were one women’s pod and two men’s pods. The doors to the cells were open. Inmates hung out on their bunks or milled around in their orange jumpsuits, wearing Velcro sneakers. They played cards, watched TV, or just did time.

A nearby set of metal doors led to four special cells with a mattress and a toilet in each. It was the on-watch area, where volatile inmates could be monitored twenty-four hours a day.

Brad Rafferty was in here. Rafferty had come in hot the day before and had only gotten hotter. In a few hours Rafferty would meet with his lawyer. But for now, he was fair game.

A deputy sat at the on-watch desk. He looked terrible, like he had the flu. Something was going around, anyway. He glanced up from his phone as Peter approached.

“Morning,” Peter said. “How’s our special guest?” Brad Rafferty was currently the only inmate on watch. Peter could see him through the reinforced glass door to his cell. Brad glared back.

“He got quiet a little while ago,” the deputy responded, and blew his nose.

Still looking at Brad, Peter asked. “What did County Mental Health say?”

“He’s not suicidal. He’s been fine with the rest of us.” The deputy winked. “I think the only one he’s really mad at is you.” The deputy pressed a button on the nearby console and a buzzer sounded as the doors to Brad’s cell opened.

Peter stepped into the doorway. He took a moment, letting Brad adjust to his presence. “How you doing this morning?”

“Fuck you.” Brad kept his eyes on the wall.

Peter nodded. “I understand your frustration.”

Brad cut him a hard look. “Any day, King. Talk to me any day outside of here.”

“Right, I just need to take off my badge and my gun, huh?” Peter looked down at his uniform. “You should be grateful I’m wearing this. This is why you don’t have a couple of holes in you right now.”

Easy, he thought to himself. Easy now.

“Any day . . .” Brad said, redirecting his rage back to the wall. “You fucking faggot.”