Gone(62)

“That he’s old. At his age even a short nap and he could die in prison. And he wants to protect his nephew, Tony.”

“Uh-huh. So to avoid jail he just happens to know where the family is, waiting to be rescued.”

“Rondeau . . . I respect you. But listen to yourself . . .”

“And where is Addison Kemp, huh?”

“What — she’s in on it?”

“I don’t think so. But she gave me that clip of Citizen Farmer for a reason. Remember, Stokes? You were the one who kept bringing that film to my attention. Now — what? You’re scared? Okay. Be scared. But do the right thing. This is not what it seems, and I think you know it.”

Stokes was silent and looked away.

Rondeau cleared his throat and calmed. “Do we have eyes on her? On Addison?”

“We’re looking.”

“Don’t you think she’d be here?”

“FBI kept this location quiet until the last second. To try and stave off the press parade, bystanders, all that.”

“Fuck the FBI. They’re manipulators.” Rondeau made a fist. He looked at his raw, scraped knuckles. He remembered punching the ceiling of his tomb. He flexed his hand.

Stokes was watching, looking at the grazed flesh.

“You got to give me something, boss. Something solid.”

“I’m what’s solid,” Rondeau said, suddenly slapping his bare chest. He felt his lip quiver, felt the emotions rising. “First of all, why am I here? How did I get here? You know I went to Indian Lake. They brought me here.”

He let the blanket drop around his torso. He watched as Stokes leaned in for a look at the rope burns. The bullet scars. “Believe me,” Rondeau said, “I’ve been through this before . . .” He trailed off, suddenly needing to confess. “I killed them, Eric. I killed three agents down there. Ex-military types. Private security. Hired kidnappers.”

Stokes took a long moment before responding. Rondeau felt like he was getting through, in one way, but this last bit might’ve pushed the younger detective in the other direction. His eyes were still glued to Rondeau’s scars, his fresh wounds, like he was working it through.

“They’re looking, boss. If anyone else is down there, they’ll find them.”

“They won’t. It’ll be cleaned up.”

Stokes finally fixed Rondeau with hard look. “See? That, Rondeau. That right there. That’s what makes it tough to swallow your story. All of this convenience. There’s no evidence for anything, because they make it all go away . . .”

Rondeau stared into space. “I had a gun.” He held up his hand, open-palm. “I got one of their guns, and I . . . I set it down. I forgot. I . . .”

“Look, I was told . . .” Stokes sounded like he was searching for the right words. “I’m supposed to deal with this in a certain way, you know?”

“Deal with what? What are you talking about? Who’s gotten to you?” Rondeau felt a sinking sensation. Like Stokes had been compromised after all. But he needed someone in his corner.

All I’ve ever had was Millard. It was a crushing realization, a hard truth. His brother-in-law had been a son of a bitch to deal with over the years, a burden. Spouting his favorite operas about the deep state — maybe he’d been his only true confidant all along. Rondeau wanted to see him, to put his arms around him, tell him he was sorry. Sorry for all the times he’d dismissed him, for the times he wished Millard didn’t even exist. He needed Stokes to find Millard. That was the priority now. Millard could back up everything up to the point of Rondeau’s abduction.

There was commotion outside the vehicle. Stokes sat up straighter, leaning to look out. Another person ran in the direction of the quarry.

“I’ve got to go,” Stokes said. “I think they’re here.” He opened the door to leave, paused, and turned to Rondeau. “We’ll sort this out, boss, okay? We’ll sort this out.” Stokes lingered for a moment. “I won’t let you down.” Then he hopped down from the cab of the truck and took off.

Rondeau grabbed the door handle and prepared to exit. He glanced down at the blanket covering his naked body. “Shit,” he said.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE / Homecoming

Rondeau watched them come up through the sparse saplings, over the wet grass. Cops and paramedics and volunteers circled the family. The air thundered as the med-flight helicopter touched down in a field near the parking area.

Rain pelted them. Most everyone had slipped on ponchos. The press surged against the barricade, camera lenses fixed on the approaching group, reporters barking questions at the troopers who spread their arms and warned them to stay back.

Rondeau found the brunette paramedic in the chaos outside the tent. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. She gave him a pile of folded clothes.

“Thank you.”

Rondeau hurried, limping, to the back of the tent. Cafeteria-style tables loaded with medical supplies filled the space. A defibrillator sat ready for the pads to be attached, an array of field dressings, tourniquets, burn ointments, compression pads. Rondeau shimmied into the pants, wincing as the fabric pulled at the bandages on his legs. The canvas walls fluttered and snapped in the growing storm as he pulled on the sweatshirt, his joints flaring in pain. He slid on the tennis shoes.