Gone(56)

Rondeau looked at the woman. He squatted and stared at her face. Not Connie. Just someone, like the other two, paid to be here. The needle she’d been holding was shattered, the drug spilled out, sucked up by the dry ground.

He stood and walked away. He blinked at the colors still hemming his vision, tried to brush them away with his hand. He smeared something across his face and winced. Blood on his fingers, on his wrist. He wiped it off on the bare flesh of his legs. He was naked except for his underwear. He was cold, but he felt alive.

Rondeau moved toward the bright lights and confirmed the stereo speakers, and electronic gadget on the floor with wires coming from it. There were large wooden crates stacked against the curved walls of the enclosure. Behind him, the large room tunneled into darkness, with smaller tunnels branching off and away. He bet that either in those crates or down one of those tunnels was Kemp’s editing equipment. The whole thing felt staged. Was the family packed away into one of those crates, too? He doubted it. They might have been tucked into one of the tunnels, or hidden in an underground room . . .

He couldn’t chance it. He moved to the crates and searched for a crowbar, but found nothing. He put the gun down and tried to rip open a crate with his bare hands. His heart was thundering in his chest; he stopped, took several deep breaths. He tried to slow his pulse, and listen. He heard the echoes of dripping water. He felt the vibration of something, like a machine — a generator, perhaps, which had powered those lights and speakers. And this place stunk, it smelled of decay, toxic waste.

He moved among the crates, rapping them with his knuckles, pressing his ear to the wood. They sounded hollow. Each was sealed with thick metal staples. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t open the lids. The sense of desperation closed in — he felt like he was back in the stone tomb, running out of air. His body was shaking, racked with the cold and damp and adrenaline from the killing. Hallucinatory colors swirled in the air, melting the walls.

He stepped away from the crates, turning towards where the tunnel sloped upwards, potentially rising to the surface. He headed in that direction, but found the tunnel forked not far along. Which way to go? There was a draft coming from the tunnel on the left — maybe indicating an exit. He made his way along, the light waning with each step. He found a hole in the ceiling which revealed a pinhole of the surface — but fifty feet above. In front of him, the tunnel stopped. A dead end. He retraced his steps, hurrying now, shuffling along.

Back at the fork, he paused, listening. He heard movement deeper in the tunnels. Footsteps. He took the other branch of the tunnel, and he ran.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE / The Quarry

The quarry was like a giant stone stadium. Huge slabs of smooth rock formed a circular excavation the width of a football field, several stories deep.

Peter felt dwarfed by the massive pit. Rubble resembling destroyed buildings was piled in the center. The slabs of stone forming the stepped walls were the size of bridges. State troopers and FBI agents moving single file down a winding ledge. An agent named Eldridge led them, Peter just behind.

When they reached the bottom, Eldridge held up a fist and the group came to a halt. In front of them, a tunnel entrance formed a dark mouth in the stone. Eldridge unfurled the schematics he carried, a long sheet that showed the underground tunnel network. The rescuers had already been over it, now Eldridge pointed to it again.

“Main trunk here branches into three smaller tunnels. One of these dead ends, two branch again, and then this one a third time. We’re looking for the family, nothing else matters right now. But be on constant alert. You see anything, you stop, you radio me immediately.”

The sun broke free of the greasy clouds and bathed them in light. The rock formations threw stark, angled shadows. There was an odor emanating from somewhere, sharp and bilious, riding on currents of air. The wind gusted, kicking up the dust. Eldridge looked them over.

“Be safe, protect yourself, but no wild shots. Get on your radios. If you’re worried about giving away your position, transmit signal only.”

Eldridge rolled up the map and peered into the dark opening. “Okay. Right there. That takes us down.”

Sets of tire tracks fed into the tunnel. Peter imagined the large trucks trundling slowly down the inner edge of the excavation, then disappearing into the shaft. Trucks potentially loaded with toxic chemical waste. Trucks potentially containing human beings.

“We don’t know the condition of the vics,” Eldridge reminded. “If they’re alive, they could be in seriously bad shape. They could even be still in perp custody.” He was square-jawed, his dark hair close-cropped. He wore a Kevlar vest beneath a dark winter parka, handgun on his belt. “The perps could be armed.”

Peter looked down at his M&P9, gave it a quick check for debris and snapped in the magazine. The others in the group followed the same procedure, gun parts clattering, the sounds reverberating off the stone. They checked flashlight batteries, performed two-way radio checks for the umpteenth time. Peter recognized Maize and Crowley, two troopers. He didn’t know all of state police, or any of the dozen agents with their own Kevlar vests displaying the FBI letters in yellow. They were trusting their lives to one another, to strangers.

“We go in by pairs. Person next to you is your buddy. Watch your backs.” Eldridge pointed at Peter. “You’re with me.”

Peter stepped beside the agent and together they moved towards the dark, gaping mouth. He felt like it swallowed them up as they slipped into the earth.