Gone(50)

Millard and Tamika didn’t really matter though. Not at present. What mattered most was going on out there now, without him. It was the same thing as what had gone down in the District — someone else was made to take the fall for a crime. In this case, probably Nick Spillane would take the hit. Who knew what they threatened him with — maybe he was an asset they’d had all along. Make it all look like some mafia operation. When in reality it was the government. Working with some major industry. Just like Millard always said. The deep state.

Rondeau stopped moving for a minute, stopped rubbing his hands on the wall. A thought crossed his mind which shut down some of the elation he was feeling. He sank to his knees, feeling a kind of despair grip him. Not because of this prison he was in, not because he felt afraid, but because he lived in a world where things like this happened.

And then a voice spoke in his head.

You realize this is all a bunch of complete horseshit.

It was Jessy. No-nonsense Jessy. Never much one for indulging the reality of black bag operations, underground conspiracies.

It’s not. He replied.

You’re losing it, Ricochet. This is the kind of stuff we’ve been trying to keep away from.

Don’t call me that.

This is called psychosis.

In the nothingness, in the blackness, a light began to grow. Just a dot — the kind of dot that remained on the old TV sets when you shut them off. It grew to about the size of a quarter. He turned his head and the dot followed along with his eye movements.

A person can’t tell what’s real from what’s imaginary. A delusion.

The dot split into four, then six, then more. Each new point a different color. They elongated out, turning into beams that tracked towards him, as though he were moving through a colorful tunnel, a subway ride with streaking colors. They came faster and faster, and more copiously; every color of the spectrum shooting past, as if he were gaining speed.

Rondeau struck the wall beside him. “Let me out!” His thoughts were becoming scrambled. He felt the panic spiral up as it dawned on him: They drugged me.

He fell back onto his ass and braced himself against the wall. He gritted his teeth and yelled — the way a person yells on a roller coaster. His skin began to crawl, as if he were moving for real, through physical space, the wind rippling his flesh. He let go of the wall and he itched. He was always so itchy — this felt like his usual irritation dialed up to ten. His skin was alive, writhing with bugs. His bones seemed to vibrate, his muscles spasmed. Rondeau threw his head back as the worst of it came on. He opened his mouth to scream.

You itch because of your scars, Ricochet Rondeau.

Don’t call me that! Ever. You hear me? You’re torturing me. This is torture.

This is not torture. This is only happening in your mind.

He let out a roar, soaked up by the thick walls, by the earth entombing him.





CHAPTER THIRTY / FBI Debrief

Peter King sat across from a dozen people in the large interview room at the jail. He recognized most of them. The mayor, town supervisor, District Attorney Elena Cobleskill, Oesch, Fransen, Sheriff’s Lieutenant Rumsey, and Deputy Stokes. Internal Affairs were present due to the officer-involved shooting. He noted that there was no representative of the state police.

Oesch introduced two of the other three remaining people. “These are Special Agents Jackson and McDonough.”

“Hello,” Althea said. She was seated next to Peter on the same side of the table. She’d changed into sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, which concealed some of the bruising around her neck, but Peter could still see it.

He looked at the final person in the room, standing against the back wall. This man was dressed in a charcoal suit, his eyes hidden behind tinted glasses. No one introduced him.

One of the FBI agents, Jackson, thirty-something, with a bright blonde crew cut, leaned forward and clasped his hands together. His voice was nasal, like he had a cold. “First of all, Deputies, we want to thank you. You’ve done tremendous work here, above and beyond.”

Peter doubted the Internal Affairs agents seated nearby shared in precisely that sentiment. IA had a mountain of paperwork to get started on with King and Bruin. He imagined a similar bureaucratic fate befalling Trooper Ski.

He nodded his acknowledgment of the obligatory gratitude. Above and beyond? He didn’t really think so. Lucky, maybe. Risky, for sure.

“Mr. Spillane has offered us complete cooperation,” Jackson said. “We’ve moved him off-site and two of my fellow agents are meeting with him at state police headquarters now.”

That explained why none of the staties were there, Peter decided. Why draw it out, though? Why not get Spillane to disclose the location where the Kemps were being kept right away?

“But we wanted to debrief you here,” Jackson went on, “rather than move the two of you all over the place and lose time. We can relay what you give us to our agents currently assisting the state police.”

What a clusterfuck, Peter thought. It made no sense. No wonder Rondeau was so skittish about the feds.

“I’m not sure what I can give you,” he said. “You know what we know, at this point.”

“Please indulge me,” Jackson said with a wan smile. For someone who looked so young, he conducted himself like a seasoned agent.

“Well, first was a domestic disturbance involving Terry Rafferty and John Hayes, on Hayes’ property. That was Friday. On Saturday night, I received a call from dispatch that there was another altercation, this time between Hayes and Terry’s brother Brad . . .”