Gone(49)

Oesch took King by the shoulder and the two men left the room.

*

Spillane was in Booking. Peter and the sheriff entered the interview room and closed the door. Oesch remained standing, while Peter fiddled with a camera on a tripod. Camera set up, he started recording.

Spillane’s old, wrinkled face was set and determined. He pointed a bent finger at the camera. “I’m not saying anything with that on.”

Peter glanced at Oesch, who nodded. Peter pretended to click it off.

“I know what you want to ask me,” Spillane said, “but only after I’m in federal custody, I’m gonna tell you where that family is.”

Peter felt chills all over. His mind raced, but he tried to rein in the emotions and ask the right questions.

“Fine. We’ll do that. You don’t have to give a location until the FBI is here. They’re close — be here less than an hour. But just answer me some basic questions, alright? Can you do that?”

Spillane stared back. He looked like someone who had lived a hard life. He was worn and tough, but there was something beneath the surface.

“Are they in danger? Is this time-sensitive?”

“I’ve got a lawyer that handles federal matters.”

“I understand that. Hutchinson Kemp was doing a documentary film and stumbled onto your illegal waste dumping. So you and your associates came in and took the family. Made them disappear. This isn’t about you, this is about the family.” He imagined Maggie, playing at the preschool his nephew attended.

A nerve twitched beneath one of Spillane’s baggy eyes. He was silent. After a few seconds, he looked away.

Peter leaned in. “Mr. Spillane — just tell us: are they alive?”

Spillane slowly looked back. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Peter was fast to his feet. He stepped out of the room with Oesch and spoke hurriedly. “Feds can’t get here soon enough. If he really knows where they are . . .”

Oesch nodded. Then he looked worried. “Dammit. Why did Rondeau disappear? Where is he?”





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE / Breakdown

In the darkness, in the nothingness, like the bottom of a well, he put out his hands and felt along a cold concrete wall. He was enclosed. Pitch blackness. The smell of damp.

His clothes were gone. His hands scrabbled over the floor for his phone, wallet, lighter — all gone. Only his underpants remained.

He waited for his eyes to adjust, but there was nothing. No scant light. For all he knew, it was airtight. He might suffocate.

“Hello? Help!” His voice didn’t carry beyond the enclosure, his words soaked up. He tried again anyway. “Someone answer me! Millard? Levitt?”

He got to his feet, in a squat. He slowly stood, his hands above his head. He wasn’t able to unfurl completely — the ceiling was there, his fingers pressed against it. The holding space was only five feet high, maybe five feet wide. A cube in the ground.

He felt the panic welling up, and suppressed it. Whatever this was, he bet the Kemps had gone through the same thing. And he really didn’t think they were dead. Maybe it was just gut instinct, but it felt like the truth. Hard to say why — maybe because he didn’t think the CIA just did away with people. They were more resourceful than that. Everyone had a use. Whether it was as an asset or as a subject of experiment, you kept people around as long as they continued to pay out. That was what his father had said once. You only died when you outlived your usefulness. That was the nature of things.

He moved around on his bare feet, stooped over, checking every inch of the wall, probing with his fingertips, regulating his breathing, thinking practically. They’d put him in here, after all. If there was a way in, there was a way out.

The purpose of this was psychological. It had to be. This was torture. There were much more efficient ways to kill people. In a box like this, it could take days. The average human could go about seventy-two hours before dying of thirst. But there was limited air. Maybe a tiny bit of oxygen was coming in through the ceiling. Oxygen deprivation or carbon dioxide poisoning could precede dehydration. But how would anyone outside be able to tell? There were no cameras in here, he felt, as he kept smoothing his hands along, rotating as he hunched over. You’d just have to wait long enough. What was the logic in that?

This was a test. Put a person in here, let them think they’re going to die, then release them after a good time, hit them with questions. A normal person would tell you anything after that. Threatened with going back in the box? No thank you. I was the second gunman on the grassy knoll. Can I go home?

Rondeau felt surprisingly good despite the situation. Crazily, he felt downright giddy. He’d done it. He’d followed his instincts, followed the leads, and here he was in the lion’s den. There was no doubt that whoever had placed him here had abducted the Kemp family. The only questions were in the details — had Millard been corrupted somehow? He doubted it, but, then, Millard had been pushing him about like the wind. Rondeau wasn’t so easily led, but Millard had an influence over him, he had to admit that.

Tamika Levitt? Maybe the call to the police was meant to lure him? Set him up and let him walk into this trap? She’d been standing right nearby when he was dosed. It could have been her . . . she could have called in with her hot tip, knowing it would reach Rondeau. But, how? It was only chance Dana Gates had been at the hospital, that they’d had a conversation. Right?