Gone(53)

The shipyard became his house, rows of containers turned into gloomy rooms, everything covered in years of dust. Rondeau drifted through them, a ghost. Blood fell in a trail he left behind, as if from his shipyard wounds. Ricochet Rondeau Ricochet Rondeau . . . the words echoed through the drafty house. He rose up the stairs to where Jessy lay bedridden, withering away like some kind of dying plant, desiccated by thirst, her bones protruding through her skin, nothing but sinew and hanging flesh.

On the bedside table, a framed picture of a husband and wife. Only he was in the picture, smiling, next to Jessy, instead of Millard.

The picture rapidly aged, turning a dull yellow. The edges curled until the glass shattered.

Rondeau’s eyes fluttered. Something was happening. Heavy wood scraping against stone. A moment later, blinding light, light as brilliant as heaven, bathing him. Sand pattering down.

Hands reached in and hoisted him out of the tomb. They carried him away, his head lolling, dried froth on his lips. He’d strained so much in his prison that his muscles felt like jelly. His thoughts continued to leak in all directions. He was on a gurney, being loaded into the ambulance. He was a pall-bearer, carrying the casket down the steps of the church. He was in the casket, his arms folded across his bleeding chest.

There was a sound like metal dragging over rocks. He was positioned in a chair. Ropes cinched across his ribs. Hands tied behind his back. His chin lay on his chest, he could feel the drool slipping from his mouth. Was this really happening? He tried to open his eyes but it was still bright — less so, better here, but still difficult.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Detective.” The voice had the computerized timbre from the phone call, only further distorted. He couldn’t hear properly. He tried to look around but couldn’t lift his head. He had no muscle control. He was dimly aware he’d urinated on himself.

“We’re going to release the family,” the inhuman voice declared.

The family, he thought. The family. The idea bled out in his mind, like Ricochet Rondeau, a mental litany stretching to oblivion.

You have twenty-four hours. That brought him back. Time had most certainly run out. He hadn’t pulled the plug on the investigation, or even conveyed to anyone the terrorizing message. He’d called their bluff, then? These ideas brought him further under control, and he managed to pull his head back, plant his feet firmly and sit upright.

His vision was over-bright and starry, like looking through a prism. Colors chased the edges of his sight lines. He could make out three figures, standing in formation. They looked like soldiers; shoulder-width stance, arms behind their backs.

A ten-hut! His father’s words emanated out of his mental depths. LTC George Rondeau. One of the many who had died on September 11. His father had been part of a major internal team that had been investigating securities fraud. Their entire command structure had been wiped out on that day, their headquarters taking the brunt of Pentagon’s damage. George Rondeau, who had served in the army for twenty years, stationed at Fort Bragg, risen to the rank of lieutenant colonel, then taken a desk job at last. Killed in the attacks.

Rondeau mumbled something, but his lips felt numb. He wasn’t able to speak. He stared at the figures in front of him, their bodies shimmering with quicksilver, then turned his head. His neck creaked. His entire body was sore, muscles knotted, freezing pain in his joints. There were two empty chairs beside him. He looked down to the floor beneath the chairs. Stains there, like blood.

“Detective Rondeau, do you know where you are?”

A modulated voice used in sophisticated interrogations. Subjects were placed in a room, in front of a giant mirror. Behind the one-way glass, operatives and interrogators would monitor heart rate, vocal stress levels, body temperature. But this was no such room. This was more like a cave.

Zedekiah’s Cave, he thought.

He tried to respond, but what came out was garbled and unintelligible. He licked his dry lips, swallowed, and tried again. “Innnian lek.”

“You think you’re at Indian Lake?”

He slowly turned his head back. His jaw felt like it wanted to lock up on him. “Yes.”

“Detective Rondeau, are you aware of your psychiatric problems?”

Where was the family? Had they just said that they were going to release the family? How much time had he lost? A day? More?

“You have an organic degenerative condition,” said the voice. Despite the deep distortion, it sounded female. Rondeau thought it was the person in front who was speaking, though it was hard to make out a face. Much was lost to the mirage, the rest obscured by backlighting, but the figure was curvier than male.

“No,” Rondeau slurred.

She produced paper from behind her back and tilted her head, as if reading. “Detective, I have a complete work-up on you. We know all about you. It’s amazing you’re still in law enforcement. But I suspect you’ve kept some of this secret, have you not?”

“Where the fummly?”

“They’ll be released soon. After our conversation.”

“Why?”

“Why the conversation? Or why are we releasing the family? Detective, we’re not animals.”

Rondeau took a breath, pushed out his chest. He felt drunk — he sounded drunk. Had he been drinking? Bourbon in the apple cider? Jim Beam at night while working the case? His body weakened, his mind sluggish. He made every effort to speak clearly, forming the words carefully. The consonants felt like blocks in his mouth. “This about my father.”