Gone(61)

“Not here,” Rondeau said.

“Okay — where?”

Rondeau took a moment to think. Good old Stokes. Eager, responsible, a hard worker. He liked Stokes and wanted to be able to trust him. He needed to tell someone — it was burning within him. But he had to be careful.

He called to the group bustling in and out of the tent. “Anyone have a car I can borrow?”

Several of the responders stopped what they were doing and looked uneasy, probably wondering about protocol. Here was a cop who’d mysteriously appeared in the mines, raved about being drugged, and he wanted use of their vehicle? The paramedic reappeared — she hadn’t gone far. Even the agent looked around, pulling the phone from his ear. “Rondeau,” he shouted over, “we need you to stay . . .”

“Just want a dry place to sit for a few minutes, okay?”

The agent relented. He jabbed a finger toward the parking area. “Get him a car, someone, okay?”

“We could just use mine . . .” Stokes said to Rondeau.

“No.”

A young man trotted over. He was holding out keys. “Dodge Ram,” he said. “Right back there beside those three trees.”

Rondeau took the keys. “Thank you.” They had maybe ten minutes before the rescuers made the climb all the way out with the family. He stood up, gathering the blanket, and one of his knees buckled. Stokes caught him by an elbow. Rondeau steadied himself. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” he grumbled. He hobbled away from the ambulance, throwing a glance over his shoulder at McDonough, whose lips moved soundlessly as he stared back.

The rain whipped up, soaking Rondeau’s blanket. But it felt good, walking through the fresh wet air. He found the truck, unlocked the passenger door and tried to hoist himself up. The blanket kept falling. Stokes got behind him and pushed, and his hand slipped beneath the blanket, touching Rondeau’s bare thigh.

“Get out of there,” Rondeau grumbled.

Stokes laughed. “Sorry, boss.”

Once Rondeau was in the cab with the door shut, Stokes jogged around and got in. “Give me the keys.” Rondeau handed them over, Stokes fired up the big Hemi engine, and turned the heaters on full blast.

There were food wrappers on the dash, papers and textbooks scattered on the floorboards. Rondeau was checking everything out, sifting through the mess. When he finished, Stokes had his eyebrows raised. “Okay. Find any bugs? Listen, they’re coming out, boss, let’s—”

“Kemp is a national security threat.”

Stokes fell silent. Rondeau let him think about it for a moment. “Alright,” Stokes began tentatively. “How?”

“He knows what they don’t want anyone else to know. So he’s abducted, threatened.”

“By whom?”

“I’m not a hundred percent yet. But it’s not Spillane.”

“So, what — they’re throwing blame? Engineering things so that Spillane takes the fall for it — or the mafia?”

Rondeau was frustrated with Stokes’ tone. “Don’t patronize me. Think about it.”

“I am, boss. I am. I’m giving it every thought. But you weren’t there yesterday when Nick Spillane was brought in, looking guilty as sin. And you remember John Hayes? Hayes wanted out, and that’s why all the distress with Hayes and the Raffertys. Meanwhile the Raffertys, along with Joe Fleming, Nick’s nephew Tony, and the rest — they wouldn’t allow themselves to be caught. We’ve got them red-handed on the manifest violation; it looks like they’ve been dumping toxic waste. Spillane is in wit sec now, only talking to the feds. The word is he’s giving up a bunch of people. We’re talking Lucky Luciano types. People exploiting the Adirondacks for professional gain. Making boatloads of money trucking waste at a high price, avoiding all the fees and, dumping. Spillane loves it because he avoids all the citations and regulations. Mafia loves it because they get paid instead of the government. I don’t see federal cover-up in this anywhere.”

“It’s the Kansas City Shuffle. Misdirection.”

“The Kansas City . . . Okay. Is that what you’re going to take to the DA? I mean, really?” Stokes looked out as an emergency worker ran by, squeezing between the packed vehicles.

“Look,” Rondeau urged, “I’m sure Spillane is dirty. And that the dumping is happening. But for Spillane to just lay himself bare, to betray the mob like this . . .”

“They made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”

“When did you get so fucking high and mighty, huh? New guy?”

Stokes played right back. “When Sheriff Oesch told me to keep an eye on you, boss.”

Rondeau felt struck. “What?”

Stokes held his angry look for a moment, then feathered his hands over the air vents. A gust of wind battered the truck. The trees out there were being bent sideways. Rondeau watched, and thought the tent was going to blow away if it wasn’t really staked down. He didn’t like what Stokes was saying. Not one little bit. “You’re supposed to watch me? What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“Listen to me, Stokes. No, they didn’t make him an offer. My guess is Spillane has been an informant for years. He’s willing to snitch on multiple organized crime members because he’s afraid to get popped for some trucking violations? What was the story they gave you?”