Gone(59)

Rondeau craned his neck around to see, but the back of the ambulance faced away from the road, towards the low sun, dropping in the west. McDonough stepped back into place. His shadow fell across Rondeau as he blocked the light.

“Can always count on the media to smell the blood in the water,” he scoffed. “So you’re drugged, you’re unconscious, you’re brought here. Then what?”

Rondeau liked the way McDonough was looking at him less and less. “I don’t know,” he lied.

“You don’t know?” McDonough spoke to the paramedic. “What’s it looking like?”

She stepped back after listening to Rondeau’s heart and pulled the stethoscope from her ears. “His pupils are dilated. Blood pressure is ninety over sixty, which is low, but not hypotensive. Heart rate is high, one hundred beats per minute. Because he’s not FDP, I’m going to associate the mydriasis with drugs, possible trauma. But it doesn’t rule out a drug in his system.” She leaned in front of Rondeau, getting between him and McDonough. “Do you remember getting hit with anything?”

He felt the damage he’d inflicted on himself, pounding against the walls of his prison. Launching his body up at the ceiling, trying to budge the stone lid of the tomb. “No,” he said.

She looked him over, her kind eyes lingering over his wounds.

“Let me see,” he said.

She understood, moved away to get a mirror. McDonough still stood there, staring, the corners of his mouth downturned, expression slack. The paramedic came back and held the mirror in front of Rondeau.

There was blood on the side of his face. His hair was matted to his scalp on that same side. His eyes were black, the pupils consuming all but a thin rind of faded blue. The white of one eye was red with burst capillaries. His split lips were covered in dried mucous, his cheek bruised. And he was covered in dirt and mud.

“Thanks.”

He leaned back and lost his balance. The paramedic in the ambulance caught him and lowered him gently to a prone position.

“Detective,” McDonough said. “We still need to . . .”

“Find Millard,” Rondeau said. Unless he’s been taken, too. It was a terrible idea, but one he had to consider. Another possibility — a better one — was that he’d run and hidden somewhere. Maybe he’d seen whoever got the jump on Rondeau. It could have been Tamika Levitt herself. She’d been right behind him. She wasn’t responding to phone calls? Maybe because she was on their side. Or . . . who knew. Maybe she was somewhere underground, too.

Agent McDonough spoke to the paramedic again. “Is he lucid? Do we think he’s still feeling the effects of . . . whatever he says he’s on?”

He’s feeling it, Rondeau thought about himself. “Where’s Eric Stokes?” he asked. “I need to talk to Stokes.”

“He’s on his way, just relax.” To the paramedic, McDonough said: “I’ll come back to check on him. Get him stable. Don’t let him pass out.”

Rondeau felt a strong wind sweep through, rocking the ambulance. A storm was coming.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN / Saved

Peter King had never felt such elation in his life. There they were, the four of them. Hutchison and Lily Kemp and their children. They were alive. It swept away all the recent strangeness about Rondeau.

Several of the troopers fanned out and formed a protective perimeter. Peter accompanied Eldridge to the family. The search hadn’t taken long — after Rondeau had been led up out of the mine, the group had stayed together in the main tunnel, which had gradually wound deeper into the ground. They came to where it forked in the other direction. Half the team split off and headed up the fork, while Peter and Eldridge and the rest had continued on. They’d spotted more lights after a few minutes, and then seen the figures in the chairs.

The parents were tied up, the children on the ground. Maggie was holding onto her father’s legs, silent and fearful, watching the rescuers. She was dirty but appeared unharmed. Peter crouched beside her and encircled her with an arm. He thought of Benny, his nephew who was the same age; he suddenly felt very close to her, as if she were his own family. The girl stared up at her father, her eyes shining in the gloom. “It’s okay, baby,” Hutch told her. “These people are here to help us.”

The toddler was wailing, sitting on his diapered butt. Peter slid closer on his knees. The diaper smelled foul. Eldridge and another agent untied the parents. Lily Kemp stood up but her legs were weak. Peter caught her, then helped her to sit and take the baby in her arms. Lily was murmuring, talking too softly for him to understand what she was saying to the baby. She took little William in her arms, cradled and soothed him. Freed next, Hutch tumbled from the chair and gripped Maggie in a fierce hug. Then he slung an arm around Lily and William and drew them towards him. Huddled together, finally able to embrace each other, they cried.

Everything was still for a moment. Peter felt a tear slip down his own cheek. He noticed he wasn’t alone: several of the state troopers trying to remain vigilant and protect the scene were misting up. All of the unanswered questions seemed to fade for a moment. This was the best-case scenario. The family was okay.

“Let’s give them space,” Eldridge said, “and let’s lock this place down.”

The command brought Peter and the others back to reality: There could still be danger here. The family could have unseen injuries, and their abductors could be lurking. Peter didn’t think so, but they were still on high alert and had to check the entire premises.