Gone(79)

And there was an interview with Dominic Whitehall. Whitehall had come out of hiding and was going to be a star witness for the Justice Department.

Rondeau saw his own name mentioned next, and his heart did a somersault in his chest.

The article named him as the “cop who wouldn’t quit,” and explained how he had tried to shine a light on the corruption only to be shut down — but that he remained in active duty in the North Country of upstate, New York, where another major case had the DCI investigating further FBI malfeasance.

The Kemp family, who had gone missing after Hutchinson Kemp, a filmmaker, had produced a documentary about the meat industry. The article revealed that Kemp was still pursuing answers even after the film was out, concerned about a major public health issue, and a government scheme to keep the public in the dark about top secret drug testing in order for the industry’s profits to keep coming in.

Someone took Rondeau’s hand as he read. He glanced over at Addison Kemp. When Rondeau spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“You write this?”

She nodded.

“Matheson . . .” he said. He remembered the way that name had rung familiar when Stokes had checked Addie’s background, her husband. A fairly common name, though, easy to overlook given all that had been going on . . . and where the hell was Stokes?

Rondeau searched the faces in the room until he found his old partner standing near the back. “You knew about this?”

Stokes shrugged, then he smiled. “How you doing — you alright?”

Rondeau loved it when Stokes asked him how he was doing. He felt a smile break over his features. But then the smile faded.

Was this real? During his breakdown, he’d imagined himself captive, trying to break free, turning on his captors, killing them. But that imagined captivity had represented his own mind falling apart. No bodies were ever found. The FBI was convincing, Lang was convincing, and it seemed to line up. And the medications were working.

Rondeau let go of Addie’s hand and took a step back. He felt light-headed for a moment. He saw looks of concern on people’s faces.

Then he heard a voice and looked down at Connie, on the other side of him. “It’s alright,” she said. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

One step at a time, one day at a time. At least that much was familiar.

Oesch walked past and was leaning into the hallway. Rondeau’s unease abated as he watched the sheriff, wondering what he was doing. Oesch slapped the doorjamb with a smile. He strode back to his desk, keeping his eyes on Rondeau. “Here we go,” he said.

Before Rondeau could ask what, more people showed up at the door. Deputy Kenzie and Sergeant Fransen crowded in. Even Dana Gates, from the state police, was there. Last to appear was Trooper Ski.

“Couldn’t get everyone,” said Oesch, “lot of people out sick. But I rounded up who I could.” Oesch, presiding behind his desk, gave everyone in the room a once-over, then his gaze landed on Rondeau. Rondeau could have sworn Oesch had tears in his eyes. Oesch’s chin wobbled. “Rondeau, we all want to thank you. You led this team, and you led us to the safe return of the Kemp family.”

Rondeau tried to take it all in, to register each of their faces, smiling at him . . . not like they felt sorry for him, but that they genuinely respected him.

“And,” Addison Kemp said beside him, “for persevering in the face of incredible odds. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have written that first article. The real Valentine Killer would have never known to reach out to me. I wouldn’t have been able to convince Whitehall to come out of hiding. None of this — this new investigation — would’ve been possible without you, Jason.”

He still found it hard to speak. “Thank you,” he managed.

They seemed to want more. Some kind of a speech. He wasn’t the speech-type. He wasn’t funny either. He was an ordinary guy, just doing his job.

“Now everybody get back to work,” he said sternly.

They laughed, and then they broke into applause.





THE END