David Dun - The Black Silent

"No lie?"

Frick patiently outlined the events of the afternoon in more detail, with some important omissions and additions.

"We think they're looking for Ben Anderson's research papers," Frick concluded.

"Why would they want those?" the undersheriff asked.

"Haley Walther has a history of stealing research. Anderson's papers are apparently valuable."

"You're at the facility?"

"Just heading out to Anderson's house now."

"I'll meet you there. Haley Walther's no violent criminal." The undersheriff waited for a response. "You understand that, don't you?"

"Why don't you let me make sure the place is clear. Meet me at three twenty-five."

Frick knew the undersheriff would be reluctant to see Haley as a violent criminal. The undersheriff was a good man-short, well-built, and strong. Frick supposed it was a shame that he'd have to die. He watched as the man slid into his leather coat. Then the undersheriff shook the host's hand and kissed the redhead quickly on the cheek. It was happening fast, but it seemed slow to Frick. Probably because it was the last few minutes the man would have on this earth.

Better thee than me.

Sam and Haley entered Ben's house through the side garage door. They emerged from the garage into a hallway that led into the kitchen and a family room area. To the left another hallway accessed a library and beyond that a living room. Off the grand entry to the living room was a short hall to the master bedroom. Haley went into the library first.

She selected a set of tall mahogany bookshelves and began pulling down albums.

"Look for anything that says 'Snake Pit' or 'Alvin' on it," Haley said.

In moments she had an Alvin photo album that featured the deep-diving submersible.

She began flipping through it and Sam did the same with an adjacent album. They found one undersea shot after another.

"We've got ten or fifteen minutes at best," said Sam.

"I'm surprised Frick's people aren't here. If it weren't Thanksgiving weekend, deputies would be shouting through a megaphone at us."

"Yup."

Sam didn't tell her that the one reason Frick might not do any shouting with a bullhorn is if he wanted to kill one or both of them.

Haley reached the end of the album and looked up. "This will take forever. We can't do this. His library's only the beginning; there are more bookshelves downstairs. Which one do we choose? Could he have narrowed the field for us and we're just missing it?"

"The bathroom," Sam said.

"What? Why?"

"Because he's talking about the ocean cleansing itself, and there might be a sort of crude parallel to people. And because it's unlikely."

Haley looked willing if unconvinced. "Okay, there are four. Let's try the master bath."

They exited double-wide doors into the large entry hall, crossed it, and went into the master bedroom. The master bath was spacious and decorated with small watercolors of tropical islands and one stunning photo of an undersea coral reef. They found no other photos of the sea, let alone any that involved undersea vents.

"Maybe it's downstairs," Haley said. "Or back at the office. Or even over on Lopez Island at the beach house. Oh God…"

"Try the other three bathrooms," Sam said.

He followed her back through the large entry hall, past the library, past the back door to the garage and down another short hall to a back bedroom. Just outside the bedroom was her old bathroom. On the wall of Haley's old bathroom hung pictures of characters from famous children's stories, like Winnie the Pooh, supplemented by sweaty, screaming rock musicians of twenty years previous. She had been a precocious kid and had grown up fast.

"Two bathrooms left and then we're sunk," she said.

"Let's look in your old bedrooms. The first bedroom first."

It was around the corner. She led the way.

It was still decorated like a girl's room: part kid, part teenybopper-the latter before she moved downstairs.

"Did you have a hope chest or a special place?" Sam asked. "Maybe a place for, I don't know…"

"A diary," she said excitedly. "My right-hand desk drawer." Her white dresser stood against the wall at the foot of the bed and next to a desk. She pulled open the drawer. No diary, but a National Geographic. The February 2003 edition. "Say," Haley said, "you're good." "Not that good. It wasn't in the bathroom." She flipped through it until she reached the section on an Alvin deep dive. It was the Snake Pit Vent. Scrawled in pen across the bottom of the picture were the words:

One sigh and we 're all dead. Feed them so we can breathe and it kills us, anyway. We must learn to empower the lungs of the earth and get more than breath. Let us not breathe only to watch us suffocate or roast.

Under the magazine lay an envelope full of papers. Across the bottom of each page was the word ARCLES.

"I've been meaning to ask," Sam said. "What's ARCLES mean?"

"I don't know, but I do think I know where we're supposed to go next."

A sound from outside interrupted them. It sounded like tires on gravel.

Sam drew back the drape a half-inch.

A car was nearing the end of the long driveway.

"It's a patrol car," Haley said.

"Do we need anything else here?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'll tell you in a couple hours, when it will be too late."

As Sam dropped the drape, a boom shattered the silence. Haley jumped and grabbed him. It was a deep, concussive roar that Sam associated with his 10mm Glock or some other similar weapon. Most 10mm gun models could not handle what was considered the optimum powder charge. The Glock packed the full wallop and sounded like it.

"I think that might be Frick framing me." Sam hobbled on his bad leg in a weird sort of run to the front door. From the gravel driveway, only about fifty feet from the house, a patrol car had run off into the grass, lights on and its engine running. Sam could almost picture the neat round hole in the windshield.

Opening the front door a crack, he listened and watched. The fields and yard had the still quiet of a chilly winter afternoon interrupted only by the faint sound of a beginning rain and the swirling breezes. There was no movement in the car and only a quiet hum from its engine. Sam was certain now: He and Haley were being set up. Again. Frick would be wearing surgeon's gloves and would leave no sign of his passing. Even the shoes on his feet would be discarded.

"Someone's shot a deputy," Haley whispered frantically. "We have to help him."

"Yes," Sam said. "And we will. Stay where you are. Call the dispatcher. Tell them to send an ambulance. Officer down."

Sam went to a door in the family room that opened onto the patio. There was a small, glassed alcove, which protruded from the side of the house, that framed the door. If he stepped forward, he could see to the left and right through angled wing windows. Ahead, through the glass doors, against the perimeter railings of the patio, he saw flower boxes and billowing plants. Not wanting to show his body or his whole face, he peeked around the corner of the left wing's window. To his immediate left were barbecues along the wall of the house. To his right, steps led off the patio to a garden. He could not immediately discern any shooters waiting in the shadows.

To the left an outline stood against the wall behind the barbecues. It was perhaps the top of a person's head, although he couldn't be sure. He watched quietly for a good two minutes before he saw movement. Someone had turned to look down the wall toward the alcove. Probably there were at least two men at the house, one in front and a second in the back. There was no easy way out the back-no easy way to stalk the shooter in front. Maybe they could make it through the side garage door again. But maybe not.