Gone(55)

“Still not sure why they’d take the family there,” Peter said. But his mind was working on it. An abandoned quarry, under state jurisdiction, was probably off most people’s radar. A park ranger might occasionally patrol, looking for vagrants or dead wildlife, but it would be mostly left alone.

“Like I said,” Jackson explained, “the FBI has been watching Spillane for years. We knew he was still active. We knew he was transporting hazardous waste.”

It made even more sense to Peter. “Some of the new dump sites are abandoned quarries.”

“Right. You’ve got these rock formations, you’ve got composition that holds up under chemical stress. Like certain waste materials. Forming a natural container, no seepage into the groundwater, no contamination of the rivers or the lakes.”

“It just sits there.”

Jackson moved into the left lane now that they’d gotten beyond the orange cones and flashing signs. “I’m not an expert. But I guess that’s the idea. I’ve investigated one of the sites before. It’s not pretty, and in stinks like the dead, but, it works, I guess.”

“That’s fucking crazy,” Peter thought.

“That’s why it’s illegal. Federally speaking. What goes on at the state level, well, that’s a different story. Money changes hands.”

“Money between the mafia, you’re saying, and state legislatures.”

“It doesn’t look like that on paper, but, that’s some of what we have uncovered.”

Peter took this in as the first cold drops of rain dappled the windshield. In addition to the victimized family, he considered the fate of Trooper Ski, a cop who now had a death on his hands. He thought of Althea, dragged across the parking lot, nearly strangled to death by Terry Rafferty. And Rondeau — God knew what was going on with him. It was nothing but lies, violence and death due to some toxic waste, where to put it, and who made the money off it. It felt like it was all for nothing if the family was dead, too.

“Why do we believe Spillane? I mean, why take the family to this dump site?”

“The operating theory was that they were taken by men working with Spillane. Put them in the back of a truck, haul it to the dumpsite. I can’t sugar-coat it, Deputy: the operating theory is that this family is gone. That unless they managed some way to escape their captors down there, maybe hide out in the tunnels, stay alive — they’re dust. It would be a miracle.”

Agent Jackson pressed a finger to his earpiece again.

The convoy hurtled down the interstate. After a moment, Jackson released his finger and spoke to Peter. “Any reason to suspect Detective Rondeau would have found out about Bluestone on his own, and kept it to himself? Maybe gone on ahead?”

“No,” said Peter.

“Well, in about a half an hour we’ll get there and find out,” Jackson said.

Peter put his thumb against his lips and gazed into the side mirror, where the lights of the other vehicles blazed behind them. He thought of kissing Althea. He thought of being kept in some kind of underground prison, maybe alive, and what that could do to a person.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR / Escape

Rondeau’s strength had gradually returned. He’d been picking at his bindings, acting weaker than he actually was. When the men got along side of him to keep him steady, the woman pointing the needle at him, Rondeau was sure of it — they meant to drug him some more, leave him for the police to find, all part of some story they’d spin.

He drove his legs into the ground and stood up hard and fast, aiming the crown of his head at one of the men. The chair came with him, and the ropes around his chest and stomach cinched tight, burning through his skin. The man’s teeth cracked together and he stumbled back, flailing his arms. Rondeau spun the chair so that the legs batted into the woman’s shins. She howled, and dropped to the ground, the needle tumbling.

He was still caught by the ropes around his torso though his hands were free. The second man came for him, gun out. Rondeau grabbed it, headbutted the man and wrested the firearm free. He jabbed it in the air. “Back. Get back.”

The man instantly raised his arms and took a step away, his eyes blazing.

Everything seemed suspended for a moment. The man on the ground was moaning behind Rondeau. Probably his jaw was broken. The other man continued to stare at Rondeau until his eyes darted to look at the woman on the ground.

Rondeau swung the gun on her. She had her own weapon pointed right back at him. There was no time. He fired twice and fell away. She took two bullets, one in the upper chest, one in the neck. He hit the ground and the chair broke apart. The other man advanced on him, coming lightning quick, and Rondeau shot him in the shoulder.

The ropes had slackened now that the chair was busted. He wriggled free and got to his feet. No sooner than he was upright, the first man grabbed Rondeau from behind in a bear hug. Rondeau flicked his head back, smashing him in the nose. Rondeau spun around and pointed the gun at his head and fired; the man crumpled to the ground in a pink mist.

His father had taught him self-defense; they’d sparred with each other almost every day of his teenage years. LTC Rondeau had been in Special Forces, and he’d passed on the ruthless training to his son.

The melee had all happened in a matter of seconds. Six, maybe seven seconds and three people were dead. He stood looking at them, scratching at his shoulder, then stepped over one of the dead men. A smooth face, clean-shaven; a guy in his mid-thirties. Could have been anyone, but was most certainly not mafia. An independent agent, someone for hire.