Gone(70)

“You three,” he said, stabbing a finger at them. “You’re done. You’ve humiliated this department. You’ve humiliated yourselves.”

He directed his ire at Stokes. “Two months suspension, no pay,” Oesch said. Then he focused on the deputies and he softened just a little. “Guys, I mean . . .” He dropped his arms, defeated. Finally, Oesch singled out Althea. “What were you thinking?”

It was a rhetorical question. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before. Peter knew because his night hadn’t been much better. After the feds delivered them home, they’d showered, gotten into bed, and not said a word. She’d slept with her back facing him. By the time the first dawn light painted the sky, the anger retreated, and all that remained was to face the music.

Oesch glowered at Stokes. “Do you even know? Do you even know what you were thinking? Let me summarize for you, because after spending the night talking with the Federal frigging Bureau of Investigation, I have a pretty good idea. You were thinking that little green men were behind this whole thing, am I right? Stokes?”

Stokes looked at the floor, humiliated, shrinking in his seat.

“Because—” Oesch went on.

Peter interrupted. “Alright,” he said. He held up his hands.

Oesch snapped a look at him. “King? Got something to say? Your father is a district court judge for God’s sake. You’re hoping to make detective. You ought to know better.”

“Just . . . you know. Can you go easy? We’re all a part of this.”

Oesch shook his head. “I’m not. I’m not part of this.”

“You have to admit, it was pretty sensational the way they took Rondeau out of there. They made a huge fuss. What were we supposed to think?”

“What were you supposed to think? He assaulted federal agents. They got him out of there, they had security riding tandem; they had every right!”

“Why was he there? Where was his truck?”

“They found his truck, Peter. Half a mile away. They also found his suit jacket in the quarry. And in the pocket, a reference to something called ‘Zedekiah’s Cave.’”

Peter opened his mouth but Oesch put up a hand to silence him and finished. “He got it from Kemp’s basement, didn’t log it out; they figure he made the connection to local quarries and that’s why he went to Bluestone — ‘Zedekiah’s Cave’ is what some locals call the mines. I checked – there’s a Zedekiah’s Cave in Jerusalem. Kemp traveled around there. So who knows what Rondeau was putting together in his brain.”

Peter watched him. “Where’s Detective Rondeau now?”

The question seemed to change Oesch’s mood. He sat down with a sigh. He ran a hand over his face then propped his elbows on the desk. “Detective Rondeau . . .” he began. “You know, when I took this job, I wanted to build up this department. Rondeau had a phenomenal clearance rate. He was seasoned. I knew about the controversy in his past, but I had no idea he was mentally unstable.” Oesch singled out Stokes. “I asked you to keep an eye on him, Eric.”

Peter was confused. He spoke up. “What? Why?” It seemed Oesch and Stokes had a secret between them; Peter wanted in. He already had his ideas about Rondeau but this seemed like a whole new level. “Mentally unstable?”

“Rondeau was seeing a professional,” Oesch said in a small voice.

“How do know? He told you?”

“I have it on good authority.”

Peter figured he meant the feds. They’d hijacked the Connie Leifson accident from the state police. They were all over it, Gates had said. Gates had her own curiosity about who Leifson’s clients might be, someone with an axe to grind, maybe. But that was privileged information. The feds had pried into it, and then disclosed it to the sheriff.

“Do you know where he is?” Peter asked.

“That’s out of my realm, Peter. The FBI has ensured me he’s receiving the best care. But the fact is, Rondeau went completely off the rails — he had vital information which he didn’t share with us. Because he’s paranoid, apparently. Delusional. Maybe worse. They think he’s schizophrenic.”

“Schizophrenic?”

Oesch looked like he’d swallowed a bug. His mouth worked as he tried to find the words. At last, he came up with something. “Rondeau believes people exist who don’t. Like his supposed brother-in-law. Someone he calls ‘Millard.’ And there is no Millard. That is a fact. Millard is Rondeau’s imaginary friend.”

As this sank in, Oesch went on, slowly now, as if he’d let something out of his system which had been hurting. “Meanwhile, Spillane is in full witness protection and I understand that the FBI is working with the EPA on it. They’re racking up the charges — racketeering, environmental violations — this thing spreads all the way down the coast. All the way to Miami. And we cracked it open. We were on the verge of looking like one of the most efficient, brightest bastions of sheriff’s offices in the country. Then the three of you take off, chasing down the FBI.” He shook his head again and placed his forehead in his hands.

“You really care about all of that, Sheriff?”

His head jerked up. “Care about it? Get out of my sight.” He pointed at the door. “All of you.”