David Dun - The Black Silent

"No. We're gonna make like baby kangaroos." They stopped next to a dilapidated barbed-wire fence in a second-growth forest. Sam called and talked Don, the tow truck mechanic, into coming over to Cattle Point to pick up the Vette. Don arrived in only six minutes. He looked like a fullback but acted about as cheerful and friendly as anyone Sam could recall, a lot like a big black Lab puppy.

It was tough to get Don started hooking up and towing because he was dying to look under the hood. Sam promised Don could play with it when he got them back to the service station in Friday Harbor.

They joined Don in the cab of his tow truck, and when they turned onto Mullis, just as Sam feared, they found a police cruiser waiting.

Don pulled up slowly and saluted.

"How goes it, Deke? What the hell you doin'?"

"Don't you watch the news?"

"Not if there's football, I don't. What do you think, I'm metrosexual?"

"Who are your friends here?" the officer asked.

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Raimes."

The officer nodded and moved on to the next car.

At the service station Don got out, and Haley whispered to Sam. "How are we going to get Rachael to Orcas any time soon?"

"I have some ideas. Before we get into that, I need to know: any reason you can't fly Ben's plane tonight?"

"His plane's in the shop for its annual tune-up. Other than that, if I can get to it, I can fly like hell. I fly more than Ben does. You know that."

"Is Grant working on it?"

"Yeah."

"You got his number?"

"Yes."

"Does he like you?" Sam asked. "I mean, a lot?"

"Yeah. Known me most of my life."

"Did he believe Sanker's story about you?"

"Hell no. I'm sure Ben told him I'm innocent."

"Can we trust him?"

"As much as anybody," she said.

Haley got Grant Landon on the line and approached him in the same way that they had approached Rachael. Then she put Sam on the phone.

"You can make that plane fly this evening?"

"For Ben Anderson? Maybe. It won't be according to the book."

"That'll be just fine."

When he got off the line, Sam told Haley what he had in mind. Haley looked shocked about the danger but pleased with his trust. Before they made a final decision to risk both their lives, they would talk to Lattimer and see what they could learn.

Sam got his duffel out of the Vette's trunk, and Haley joined him.

Don was giving the car a close look.

"I see why you don't mind paying for a tow truck," he said. "This is beautiful. But there's nothing stock on it. You've even done a lot to the body."

Sam didn't tell him about the Kevlar. "I'd let you drive it, but I think she's got a blown head gasket. Small leak. It's got a bored-out four twenty-seven with an adjustable boost twin turbo L eighty-eight that brings it up to seven-fifty to-the-wheel horsepower. We put in a six-speed transmission and reworked the suspension with hardened axels, Eibach springs, and Bilstein adjustable shocks. We added the roll bar and put in the Brembo brakes. There were some other goodies too."

"I'm gonna go over this thing with a fine-tooth comb." Don knew instinctively to look for a custom pull knob on the driver's side and opened the hood.

"Go ahead," said Sam, "just be sure you're on the eight p.m. ferry with my car hooked to your tow truck. I'll be a walk-on. I don't want to wait in the vehicle line."

Sam gave Haley a wink, and together they walked away.

Nervous about leaving Haley alone, even for a few minutes, Sam picked up his duffel bag and beckoned Haley to follow him into the men's room of the service station. She watched as he changed his disguise entirely. He began by applying women's cosmetics over the existing base with an extremely heavy hand.

"Let's talk about long life," Sam said.

Haley shrugged. "Okay."

"I've been thinking about the concept, and I see some problems with it. Do you think Ben's figured out what a mess it would be if all of a sudden, people lived an extra twenty or thirty years or longer?"

"Ben is meticulous. He thinks of everything. The question is whether he would have solutions."

Then he took off his trousers and heard Haley suck in her breath.

"The legs aren't as bad as they look," he said. His boxer shorts covered most of the thighs, but the calf area was well-tattooed with suture lines. "They'll try some more plastic surgery soon."

She looked away. "What happened to you?"

Sam didn't answer.

Silent, she looked as though she wanted to hug him but didn't dare.

Removing a pair of black tights from the bag, Sam pulled them on, then reclaimed his jeans. He worked fast, knowing they still had to get to Lattimer's.

She looked at the overall effect of the disguise. "Well, you look almost like a 'she,'"

Haley said. "It's close. Especially with the blond wig. It's your size that's the problem.

Can't disguise that."

Next he shuffled through the bag and found heavy boxing tape and a couple towels.

Taking the towels and putting them on his back all bunched up, he had her apply the tape liberally to hold them in place. Then he once again put on the trench coat and stooped way over drawing his shoulders in.

"You look like a bag lady."

Next he pulled out the dress for Haley that he had borrowed from Rachael and had her put on the dress over her jeans. It fit well and she rolled up her jeans just as Sam had done.

"I hope Ben is at Lattimer's," Haley said.

"Me too."

They exited the rest room and walked away around the back.

As they emerged, a patrol car came around the corner.

Sam was hunched and deliberately turned his face to the car. It was a half hour or so after sunset and nearly pitch black. He could imagine the squint of concentration on the officer's face, the car passing slowly as if making an appearance in a lonely parade. The street was quiet and the buildings without life. The dark clouds had begun wringing themselves out. Misty rain fell along with the big drops and everything was wet, water beading on Sam's stocking cap and running down his face. It poured off the rooftop eaves and gushed out of down spouts. Few cops would get out of their patrol car without cause. There was certainly no point in stopping for a stooped old woman with her daughter.

Sam's leg hurt, but it helped him feign an old woman's walk. In the officer's spotlight and with no other foot traffic, Sam hoped the cop would have little perspective to measure the scale of his bulk. The humped back and the tights and the womanly face hidden behind too much makeup all looked pretty normal. He knew the officer's own expectations would slant the man's perception. After all, they were walking along the street in plain view, moving slowly. What fugitive would do that?

"You're good," Haley whispered. "You're really good."

Lattimer Gibbons lived on the hill on Harrison in the south part of Friday Harbor, only a few minutes' walk. Gibbons's house stood at the far side of a small, circular, concrete drive. The place looked old but in good condition.

They looked up and down the street for any sign of a parked police car. The rain had gone as fast as it came leaving only a dark night and swirling clouds that made the weather uncertain like everything else. Perhaps the clouds would open and allow the islands a little reflected light from the moon.

Haley called Lattimer Gibbons on Sam's cell.

"Are you alone?" she said.

Sam hoped Gibbons would recognize her voice. After a moment she hung up.

"We're on."

"All right. I guess we take a chance."

The driveway was steep; they felt exposed even inside the hedges and so they hurried to the front door, hoping the police were not inside. Quickly Sam removed the towels, the stocking cap, the wig, and dropped his pant legs. After putting the discarded part of the disguise in his duffel bag, he tossed it in the corner on the porch.