The Black Silent

CHAPTER 7

Ben rode on the flybridge of the Alice B. with his hands cuffed behind his back. Farley, the bigger fellow, and Morrison wore equally grim expressions, saying nothing.

Although this was a drab morning that had brought dire circumstances, the small islands in this inland sea had not lost their unending charm. They had an aura of the wild and the naturally beautiful; the churning, flowing blue salt water running with the tides; the sheer, angled rocks plunging nearly vertically into the sea; the gnarled, old Rocky Mountain junipers and tall stately firs; the incomparable wildflowers and marvelous creatures both in the sea and out; all of it magnificent for Ben.

With the ease of a practiced mariner, Farley activated the next waypoint on a route that would take them past the Wasp Islands. In the distance the isles looked like a flotilla of dark boats on opening day of yachting season.

If he kept them on this route, they would travel on the inside of Jones Island and in about thirty-five minutes arrive in President Channel. Their apparent knowledge of Ben's secret world was eerie, and Ben had no explanation for it.

Ditto his dealings with the government. He wondered what else these men knew, and who might have told them.

After a moment's private discussion they turned to him.

"We want you to tell us two things: First, exactly where is the gathering place? Second, where are the ARCLES files, including the formulas for the Arc regimen?"

It shook him to the core that they even knew enough to ask the second question. These were no more government men than Frick was an archangel. Ben wondered why they'd even bothered with the lie.

"I'm not going to answer," Ben said. "Question one or two."

Morrison turned around, muttered something, and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol.

With matter-of-fact assurance he put the cold steel barrel to Ben's forehead.

"If you don't answer the question, you're of no use to us."

Ben closed his eyes and pondered the implications of any disclosure. They could actually be agents-agents of a foreign government. More likely they were with Sanker.

Or, God help him, American Bayou Technologies. Or they could represent someone else altogether.

"Shoot me."

Crew escorted Sam and Haley to the patrol car.

"I have to put handcuffs on you," Crew said, "and to advise you of your rights. But I promise I won't leave you alone until we find the undersheriff."

"Get real," Haley said, as if she were chiding a brother.

"Do you really think Haley conspired to kill Ben Anderson?" Sam asked.

"I don't have a choice," Crew said. "I'm doing what Sergeant Frick ordered."

"You might ask him what his probable cause is," Sam responded. "And then you might ask him about the crime he's here to commit."

Crew sighed. "Here's how I'm trying to think about it: I'm asking for your cooperation to assist us in an investigation."

Neither Sam nor Haley bothered to respond.

Crew fingered the cuffs. "Let me try the undersheriff again."

Sam heard something behind them. He turned and saw Frick walking up the path. Sam supposed he'd never been far behind. Frick had his own pistol holstered and Sam's gun in his hand.

"This is not a tea party, Deputy. Cuff them."

"That's not a good idea," Sam said. "It's an illegal arrest."

"It's a simple job," Frick said quickly. "Taking the suspects to the station. Can you handle that job, Crew?"

Crew looked ready to cry. "I was wondering about probable cause, because-"

"She attacked me when you were out of the room," Frick cut in, "and he's obstructing the investigation. She got the criminals in the building. Is that enough for you? I'm the one arresting them, Crew; you're just taking them in. Stop tormenting yourself."

"That's a lie," Haley said. "You attacked me." She looked like she might attack Frick for real. Sam grabbed her arm. "I would never hurt Ben," she said more quietly.

When Sam nodded, she set her jaw and stopped talking.

"I can handle it," Crew said.

"See that you do."

Crew asked Sam to turn around and place his hands on the car. Instead of complying, Sam turned and walked toward Frick.

"Floating a badge on a cesspool is unseemly," Sam said, deliberately provoking Frick.

Frick squared on him and raised Sam's gun slightly. "I don't need to listen to-"

In a fluid motion Sam grabbed Frick's gun hand and struck a palm-up blow to Frick's nose, staggering him. At the instant of the blow Frick discharged Sam's Glock, the direction of the shot, which went wild, controlled by Sam's hand on the wrist. They struggled a moment and Sam twisted Frick's hand so that the gun dropped to the ground.

From the corner of his eye Sam saw Haley struggling with Crew, who was trying to enter the fray. Sam saw Crew's hand go for his pepper spray and Haley grab it and pull frantically.

Frick, still suffering from the blow, teetered, took a step back, and caught himself.

Blood poured from his nose, but he was tough and ready to fight.

As Frick tried to unholster his own gun, Sam gut-punched him and reached inside, closing his hand over the top of it. Frick doubled over, and Sam pulled the semiautomatic from its holster and threw it deep into the trees. Sinking to his knees, Frick managed to pick up Sam's Glock. Lightning fast, Sam grabbed Frick's gun hand, pulling it toward himself and pulling the barrel past his body. Incredibly, Frick seemed to let Sam do this. Using Sam's momentum, Frick directed the gun at Crew and fired.

The bullet hit Crew just above the groin and below the protection of his Kevlar vest.

Crew fell with a cry, then lay still in shocked silence.

Haley screamed and went for Crew's middle as if trying to stop the blood, but it was pouring out behind him through what Sam knew would be a gruesome exit wound.

Frick seemed to pause, perhaps shocked by his own success. Sam broke the pistol free and hammered Frick across the face, knocking him unconscious.

Haley was wailing and Crew was calling for his mother. For Sam it was one of the sadder moments in a life that had seen many such incidents. Crew arched his back, rolled his eyes, and died.

Gregory Taula, called "Khan" by everyone who knew him, sat behind a lifeless seafood bar and empty veranda overlooking the ferry terminal at Friday Harbor. He got the nickname when as a cop he killed a houseful of crack dealers after charging the place.

Another officer, a history buff, said he had the grit of Genghis Khan.

He'd been to the coffee shop next door and heard Sam's name a few times and various recitations of the story of Sam's gun and other stories about this quiet "man of mystery," including his "miracle recovery from the wheelchair" saga. Khan watched the few people coming and going to the coffee shop, most of them hippie types. He wondered where the Republicans went for coffee in this place. In his mind's eye he pictured this Sam sitting in the wooden chair, reading the paper or a book or God-knew-what-else, and he tried to imagine what he might be looking for up on this veranda. The more Khan heard about this man, the less he liked it.

After a time Khan saw Rafe Black walk into the coffee shop. He knew Rafe was following him, hoping to strike up a conversation and learn more about the job. All the men were curious. Seventeen of them had been flown in on two prop jets from Vegas, and that was a real happening. It said something very big was coming down. Only Khan knew Frick, and knew they were merely on standby.

Khan had issues with Rafe Black. Their mutual employer, Saber Strope, ran a string of Las Vegas strip clubs, some casinos with shabby interiors but a good return for the gamblers, and a small herd of escorts that were nothing more than careful prostitutes.

Rafe got involved with the girls on company time.

With a large mocha in hand, Rafe leaned against the railing on the front porch of the coffee shop-no doubt trying to get up the nerve to come over-trying to be cool. Rafe reminded Khan of Frick, but he was definitely "Frick lite." They were both taken by their own strange needs, which made them weak and sometimes irrational. Frick had a raw cunning that saved him, whereas Rafe just became obsessed with things. Still, Khan could use Rafe's old rage to get things done, and so he took the good with the bad.

Khan hadn't yet figured out what had fed the flames of Frick's madness. If it weren't for the extraordinary payday Frick was extracting from his corporate masters, Khan wouldn't have risked working on such a remote, large-scale operation under Frick's direction.

Suddenly Rafe sat bolt upright. He thought he'd seen a slight hand signal from Khan beckoning him over. He stared. Khan's eyes appeared veiled, even at fifty feet. Then he saw it again. The trigger finger was beckoning. Rafe walked down the stairs and over to the veranda.

Khan's shoes were stylish in a big-city way. The man always wore handmade shoes, Armani suits, fine jewelry, and drove a nice clean Mercedes instead of some pimpmobile. Today he wore a black T-shirt under a casual suit and a leather topcoat. It was completely out of place on this island, but Khan paid no mind to that. That was Khan.

"We got a nice little job here on this island," Khan said. "I need you to remember, Rafe, that you're a Strope man. If we get activated, you're gonna get a ton of money for this one, and so you gonna give it all you got, just like a good Strope man would."

Rafe nodded, knowing better than to smile.

"I've known the guy running this job, name of Frick, for quite a while. Tough son of a bitch. Pro. We gettin' top money for this, so we're gonna do it right. We have been on standby, but I figure we're gonna boogie soon."

"How do you know that?"

"I can smell it. Listen to me, Rafe."

Rafe looked him in the eye.

"Can't be too human, Rafe. Not this time. You gotta be cold and disciplined for this job."

The look on Khan's face made Rafe nervous, but he nodded. "If I gotta, I can eat a baby's eyes."

Khan smiled. "Bring your fork."