Gone(57)

The tunnel was pitch black. Flashlights probed the dusty dark as they made their way down the sloping ground. The smell intensified with each step, rolling toward him in waves. A deer could give off quite an odor when you field-dressed it in the forest, he thought, but this was ten times worse. It reminded him of trips into the medical examiner’s building, where within its tiled walls, drifting over its stainless steel gurneys, was the stench of death.

He hoped to God there weren’t dead bodies down here.

He listened to the soft footfalls of the group behind him, crunching over the grit. The sounds of breathing, the whisper of clothing. He walked next to Agent Eldridge, the man’s words echoing through his mind. Protect yourself.

The silence felt oppressive.

A funnel of wind came twisting down into the tunnel. It was warmer down here, the heat palpable, growing by each step. Finally, the slope ended and they walked along the level surface. The tunnel opened wide into a cavernous space. Far up ahead, a row of work lights shone in the gloom.

Peter heard a noise, like a person shouting. Everyone in the group tensed. Peter dropped into a crouch and moved towards the tunnel walls, his heart pounding.

It looked like there was someone there, on the far side of the lights.

Peter felt his muscles tightening, ready: this could be it. The kidnappers were in the quarry after all, waiting to ambush the rescuers. The whole thing was a set-up: Spillane had hooked them, and they’d taken it, and now they were down here, underground and easy prey. The group held their breath, watching as the figure in the distance drew nearer, hands in the air. Eldridge’s finger slipped through the trigger loop. The agent stepped away from the wall and took a firing stance.

“Stop!” he shouted. The figure was a hundred yards away. Whoever it was, he was speaking, shouting at them, but the words seemed lost in the echoing tunnel, just garbled.

The others in the group were falling in alongside Eldridge, taking aim. Peter hesitated. Something wasn’t right. He kept looking from Eldridge, and his gun, to the figure in the distance. It was hard to see — there was light coming from behind the man, silhouetting him — but, was he naked?

Whoever he was, he kept advancing, waving his arms, trying to communicate.

Eldridge took a threatening step forward, then another, the phalanx of agents and troopers following suit, while Peter lagged behind and off to the side. Who the hell was down there? Naked but for underwear, arms in the air, yelling at them. “Hey,” Peter said. It was just a whisper. “Whoa,” he said, his voice rising. “Whoa whoa whoa — that could be one of the missing family. That could be Hutch Kemp.”

“That’s not Kemp,” Eldridge said. “I don’t know who that is but it’s not Kemp.”

The figure kept approaching. He should’ve been still as a statue, arms folded over his head. But he kept coming, picking up speed. Eldridge was ready to squeeze off a round. Peter hustled up behind the agent. As they drew nearer the mysterious subject, Peter felt something churning inside. Recognition. The posture, the shambling walk, the shaggy hair . . .

Eldridge was barking commands now, ordering the man to his knees. The phalanx was picking up speed. Eldridge’s face was a mask of determination. Regardless of who it was, it seemed, the agent was ready to take deadly action. He tensed, about to fire.

Peter lunged forward and grabbed the agent’s wrist, forcing the gun down. “That’s one of ours,” he shouted. “That’s Rondeau.”

Eldridge gave Peter a look — something wild was in his eyes, and then it cleared. He seemed to take just a moment, make a decision, and then returned his attention down the large tunnel. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Peter admitted, and let go of Eldridge’s hand. The agent was no longer on the verge of shooting, but he was still dubious. If Rondeau was here, what did that mean? Eldridge kept moving forward, gun at the ready, fellow agents beside him. The troopers seemed to fall back a bit — they knew Rondeau.

Rondeau finally slowed his pace. Now that they were closer, Peter could clearly see the detective, even make out his expression. He looked positively manic, his eyes wide, his hair a mess, his body covered in dirt and scratches. “They’re down here,” he was saying. “The family is down here. They’re alive.”

“Stop moving,” Eldridge ordered. “Stay where you are. Get on your knees. You’ve seen them?”

Rondeau fell silent. He seemed to be wary of the agents approaching. As if, at first, at a distance, he didn’t know who it was that was coming toward him. Now that he knew, he appeared more afraid than relieved. But he did as he was told, lowering to his knees with what looked to Peter like some amount of pain. Rondeau put his hands over his head. Why was Eldridge doing this? Precaution was one thing, and Rondeau’s presence was unexplained, but still.

Peter surged forward and went to the detective.

“King!” Eldridge barked, but Peter ignored him. Peter stopped beside Rondeau and crouched down. “You okay?”

The older man looked positively out of his mind. His color was high, his pupils wide and dark as his eyes jerked around in their sockets, taking in the agents surrounding him. He looked ready to fight. “What happened?” asked Peter.

“Step away, Deputy King.”

King stood up and squared shoulders with Eldridge. “Let me take him up to the surface.”