David Dun: The Black Silent

He used the cell phone in his pocket, scrolled down to her name, and pushed the call button. "Haley, this is Ben"-the line had static-"Can you hear me?" It went dead. He hurried back to his desk, engaged the speaker phone, and called Haley's cell phone, hoping to warn her away. He got a steady beep that wasn't a busy signal and that usually meant the repeater was overcrowded. He tried again and got the voice mail. He muttered a curse.

"Haley, if you get this message, do not come inside the foundation. Get in your car and go to Sam. I'll call you as soon as I can."

With mounting frustration he watched her on the monitor just standing there ringing the bell. It occurred to him that she had never appeared to answer her cell phone. Without thinking about it much further, he pulled the spring-loaded handle that operated the front gate. A second camera followed Haley as she walked through. The image was grainy- probably the camera going bad. Something wasn't quite right. He pulled another lever that unlocked the main door to the facility. Then it hit him. That wasn't her walk. No wonder she didn't pick up her cell. It wasn't her.

The door opened and she disappeared. Then Ben watched in shock as two men ran through the camera's field of view, mere yards behind the Haley look-alike. They wore masks and moved with deadly purpose. Another thought occurred to him, horrifying and hopeful at once: if that wasn't Haley, then it was a decoy, and Haley was probably safe.

Ben heard heavy footsteps running on the stairs. He looked around the corner at the stairway landing. The two men were coming fast, both of them unrecognizable with nylons over their heads. If they were Frick's, why wouldn't he give them a key? He didn't have time to ponder that one.

Ben punched the silent-alarm button. Then he pulled back into his office, grabbed a knifelike letter opener, shoved it in his pocket, and ran to the window. He opened the window and put a foot onto the steep roof.

The roof dropped off for two stories at the gutter, a mere foot and a half from the window. He stepped through the window and onto the tiny section of steep roof. As carefully as possible, he moved along the face of the gable until he reached the corner.

Then he began crawling toward the rooftop.

The roof was gray heavy composite shingle that looked much like slate. It was hard on the skin and slick from a light coating of moss. He heard nothing from below. The silence was anything but comforting. Then the window slid open and the intruders' voices became suddenly audible.

"There's no way out," one said. "They'd have told us."

"I think he went out on the roof," said the other.

Ben recognized neither voice.

"He's no athlete," said the first. "It's practically straight up."

Ben climbed as quietly as he could, trying not to look down at the lawn and stone work far below.

"I don't see anything." The second one again. "It's steeper than hell."

Ben could see nothing of them, but he could tell from the sound of the voice that the second man had stuck his head out the window. He crested the peak.

He had to escape. He looked around. There was the giant fir that grew up the two stories and a bit over the roof. Perhaps the uppermost branches would support him. Then his eye gauged the distance and he realized he'd need to be a monkey or a brave teenager.

There were gables on this side of the building as well. He slithered down the roof, but after having nearly rounded the gable, he heard the window open. A man's head appeared at the corner of the gable. Even with the nylon stocking the man's hair appeared short. From his arms Ben could tell that he was olive-skinned, with black hair to match. In his hand he held an ugly-looking pistol.

"Come on in before you hurt yourself," the man said.

Ben didn't respond.

"If you don't cooperate," the man said, coming closer, "we'll kill you pure and simple."

Sam's chair sat on a large wooden veranda about one hundred feet above the ferry dock and overlooked the waterfront street on the hillside of Friday Harbor, San Juan Island, in the state of Washington. It was November, the Sunday after Thanksgiving. A cloud slid in front of the sun, turning the water more green than blue. In every direction beyond the small village, the abundance of trees and rough granite, of current-frothed deep waters, the land and sea presented a ruggedness that nourished Sam's soul. When the sun re-emerged from behind the small cloud, the water, as if by magic, took on a bluer hue, the whites of the boat hulls looked bleached, the seagulls contoured and gleaming like ornaments aloft.

It was a place of eagles and whales.

In the summer the harbor was like a carnival; in the winter it was more like a town of cousins going about their business. Those who thought of themselves as die-hard island people from way back tended to live inland, like their ancestors, the original settlers who saw beaches as weather-blown, joyless places where you couldn't grow a turnip.

The harbor, which was shaped somewhat like a bowl cut in half, with the hillside making the rim and the water making the bottom, bristled with houses and small business establishments, a haphazard road grid connecting it all.

To Sam's right stood a large, old home converted to a coffee shop, ironically named the

"Doctor's Office," selling its wares to every caffeine-craving, nature-loving, ferry-riding, hippie dude on the island. And some of the moderate Republicans as well. To his left was a covered outdoor oyster bar that had dried up for the winter, leaving no oysters and no oyster girls to cook them. Some winter afternoons he missed the college girls as much as the oysters.

These days Sam made it a point to keep his life in time with the rhythms of the land. On San Juan, like the other islands, it was easy to be close to the land because they hadn't put concrete everywhere and the ocean kept things scrubbed of heavy civilization. Four-story buildings were rare to nonexistent. They had no malls, supermarkets of consequence, freeways, youth gangs, chain stores, doctors who specialized in something, multiplex movie theaters, or anything that amounted to much more than a village shop. There were no traffic lights, but there was a great farmers' market once a week in the more temperate months. And that was enough.

In abundance, San Juan featured pastures, forests, lakes, swamps, rolling hills, small farms, seals, seabirds, eagles, hawks, rabbits, deer, and peaceful places, all requiring little tending. It felt warmish two or three months a year and a bit chilly the rest, but not so damp or cloudy as Seattle. The places built by people felt quaint, homemade, handmade, and the places made by nature teeming with all but intelligent life-forms otherwise known as people.

In the old days you could smell the fish guts mingled with the beach, but these days there were far fewer fish and far fewer fishermen, so you mainly caught the natural sulphur smell of the beach at low tide.

The chill today would drive most inside, but in a wool shirt and medium parka, Sam felt comfortable for hours at a time, his big hands able to hold things even in a stiffening breeze without the usual ache from the cold. His body was accustomed to the outdoors and he spent most of his time there. He preferred to read in the light of the day even when it was cloaked in its mist-laden winter finery. If the cold did manage to work its way through the muscled layers of his torso or set his legs to being a bit numb, he would rise and walk as best he could with the injuries, and these days he did quite well. At the local San Juan physical therapy, he had even begun running on a treadmill.

There was a breeze over the harbor that kept Sam's long, dark hair slightly mussed. His carefully trimmed beard was black, with premature salt-and-pepper for a man of forty-two.