Gone(65)

Peter turned his attention to a cluster of federal agents and glimpsed a familiar figure. The man who hadn’t been introduced at the morning briefing was standing near the sickly Agent Jackson. Peter wondered again who he was.

Kemp stepped up beside Agent Eldridge. He whispered into Eldridge’s ear. The media was hushed and expectant in the pouring rain. Peter stole another look at Lily. She didn’t seem to like where this was going.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, Mr. Hutchinson Kemp, after all he and his family have been through, would like to say a few words. As far as the FBI and the rest of the cooperating law enforcement agencies are concerned, there will be a full statement provided tomorrow morning at the Stock County Public Safety Building, 8 a.m. Thank you.”

Eldridge turned and smiled at Hutchinson Kemp. They shook hands. Kemp hefted his daughter up higher and stepped towards the shining lights.

“I just want to thank the police and all the volunteers,” he said in a soft voice. The media squeezed closer, microphones thrust forward. “All the people who had to leave their own families to search for us. I just wanted to say, thank you, so much, for making our family as important as your own. You saved our lives.”

The crowd broke into applause. Peter was surprised, even the reporters tucked their mics under their arms and clapped. Kemp smiled shyly, then rejoined his family. Photographers snapped pictures, cameras clicked and whirred. Kemp would be the next media sensation. Then the troopers moved in, forming a line. The family needed medical attention without further ado, and the investigation had to keep rolling. Reluctantly, the press dispersed and the Kemps were ushered to the tent.

As he passed by Peter King, Hutchinson Kemp reached out his hand. Peter met the man’s eyes. “Thank you,” Kemp said, and then he was taken away by the medical staff. Eldridge followed him into the tent and closed the canvas flap.

The rain turned to hail.

*

The hail hitting the SUV sounded like stones.

The door swung open and McDonough hopped in. He was drenched, his shoulders flecked with white chunks. “Jesus,” he said. He glanced back at Rondeau. McDonough’s face was flushed from exertion. Or anger.

A female fed Rondeau hadn’t seen yet hopped in the passenger side. She spoke to someone before she closed the door.

“It’s alright,” the agent said. “I appreciate that. I understand. We’ll see to it that he’s taken care of.” She yanked the door shut and ran fingers through her curly hair, shaking out the water.

“Hey, watch it.” McDonough held a hand up to shield himself.

The female agent had been talking to the brunette paramedic. She stood there, looking in. Rondeau hated the sorrow he saw in the young woman’s eyes, the pity.

“Alright,” McDonough said. “You better behave back there, Detective, or I’ll drag you out of this car and shoot you myself.”

*

Althea hurried over to Peter, her arm covering her head. He grabbed her arm as they searched for cover.

“What now?” she asked, running beside him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m free, or if I’m waiting on orders, or what. Guess I’ll have to see.”

Eric Stokes waved at them. He ran over to Peter and Althea, gesturing. “Let’s get in my car.”

They jumped inside Stokes’ jeep. Peter and Althea sat pressed together in the backseat. Althea had apparently ridden down to the quarry with Stokes — her bag was there.

“What a fucking day,” Stokes said, igniting the engine. He turned around so he could face them.

“What’ve you got?” Peter asked. “Anything?”

Stokes nodded. “Yeah. While you were in there, we got a call from the Highway Department in Stock.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. John Hayes. He wanted to talk to you, Pete, but you were in the quarry. So they forwarded it to me. He was reluctant at first, but he sounded desperate.”

Peter leaned forward. “What did he say?”

“You know Hayes, right? You guys were in school together. Deep mistrust of government.”

Peter remembered the conversation the night he’d picked Hayes up from Moh’s. A rant about government tyranny and how small and helpless the people were.

“He says the FBI is all over him,” Stokes said. “He’s scared. And the boys who put up the fight at Carmelita’s Restaurant? He says the feds got them.”

“How does he know?”

“Terry Rafferty called him. Less than an hour after the shootout at Carmelita’s. Threatened Hayes. Said they were coming for him, that he was a traitor, it was all his fault. Hayes left his place, hid out at the Highway Department garage. He was sure Rafferty knew where he was and was coming for him. But, they never did.”

“Maybe they ran, instead.”

“Maybe. Anyway, Hayes has wanted out, big time, for a while. Lot of the hazardous waste disposal was happening via these commercial trucking guys, he says. You know, either they’re looking the other way, taking payment, or they had a more administrative role. But he was always suspicious, says the feds were lurking, that the feds knew what was happening.” Stokes leaned closer, his eyes alight. “What did you see down there?”

Peter shrugged. “Not much. Mining equipment is long gone. Pretty empty. Smelled awful, though.” He could still detect the odor lingering on his wet clothes. That stink of death.