David Dun - The Black Silent

"You think I want to hear any of this?"

"I'm sorry. I-"

"You know I would never stoop to this if I didn't have to," Sanker growled. "Never."

"Of course," Rossitter said.

"See that it's solved, my friend. Just see to it. It's more than what we own. It's the very balls of our existence. Our pride. I never should have gone down this path, never even thought about the merger with American Bayou. But that prick forced me and I will see his soul in hell."

Rossitter waited the few moments it took to make sure the old man wasn't changing his mind. Sanker nodded at last, the signal that Rossitter could leave.

The ferry coming in reminded Sam of the time. Haley had been gone twenty minutes.

He called her cell number but got no answer. That was a little strange because normally one could get reception over on that side of the harbor. Of course, she could be in the bowels of the lab, but she had promised to call, and Haley didn't forget things like a promised phone call. Perhaps he would take a ride over there and see what was happening. He had taken a break from the history of the islands and was reading about the whales. He couldn't concentrate on the narrative or the pictures, though. He put the book back in his leather pouch.

Sam could walk with no discernible limp, usually trying to keep his full weight off the bad knee. He eased his bulk into the Ford Taurus and turned his mind to Frick. When Haley had begun pouring out her soul about Sanker, Frick had figured prominently in her theories about who had stolen data from her computer and framed her.

Sam had done a little checking, getting most of his information from Ernie, his longtime FBI contact. Ernie called Frick "very bad news," but he wouldn't give Sam any details beyond the basics: Frick was a former homicide detective. He had been suspected, but never accused, of murdering a police commissioner. The sudden disappearance and presumptive death of the commissioner and two investigating officers had abruptly ended an investigation into the activities of a large corporate client of Frick's.

Sam had first met Frick at a local charity fund-raiser, and from the way Frick watched him, he had supposed that Frick was running a check on him as well.

It took only a couple of minutes to get to the wooded road into Sanker. Inside the front gate were parked three San Juan County police cars and one plain vehicle with a portable police light.

Already a yellow tape marked a crime scene. Sam went slowly, taking the measure of the place and the people as he got out of the car. He knew a lot about crime scenes and rule number one was that they didn't allow visitors.

A very intimidating fence, a more artful version of something that would enclose a high-security industrial complex, surrounded the place. Near the entrance, long steel staves rose about ten feet and then turned at a forty-five toward a potential intruder, and each was tipped with a leaf-shaped razor-sharp end piece. Away from the entry it gave way to a wall with razor wire on top.

A single uniformed deputy stood just inside the gate, although that hardly seemed necessary, given that it was electronic and didn't open without a card. As he watched, a sturdy-looking plainclothes officer, with a mustache and thinning hair, approached the gate and began talking with the uniformed officer.

Sam walked over to the men. "Hello, gentlemen. What's going on?"

"It's a crime scene," the uniformed officer said.

"I'm Detective Ranken," the plainclothes man said.

"Is the undersheriff or the Orcas sergeant available?" Sam asked. No response from Ranken. "Maybe the San Juan sergeant?"

Sam had socialized a bit with the sheriff, and had taken mental notes regarding the chain of command. He also knew the sheriff was in Europe. On this little island a lot of people knew about the trip. Fewer knew that the Orcas sergeant took command after the undersheriff. This was Sam's subtle method of pointing it out. Even in an emergency, to get down to Frick in the chain of command, the sheriff, the undersheriff, and both the Orcas sergeant and the San Juan sergeant would have to be unavailable. But he wasn't sure if that held true for crimes only involving Sanker, where Frick had special jurisdiction. A potential murder or kidnap, though, would clearly be viewed as involving much more than just Sanker.

Ranken hesitated at Sam's familiarity with the department.

"Do I get to see Haley Walther or not?" Sam asked.

"I'll have to clear it with Special Sergeant Frick."

Ranken got on his cell phone. He walked away a few paces. Sam couldn't hear what he was saying. Then he came back.

"Sergeant Frick says to wait here and he'll see you in a few minutes," Ranken said. "You got a badge of some sort?"

"I have a driver's license."

"Let me see it."

Officer Ranken glanced at the license and handed it back.

"You know the sheriff?" Ranken asked.

"Yes, I do. We have a mutual friend in the FBI."

Ranken registered surprise. "How would I know that?"

Sam took out his cell phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling our friend in the FBI," Sam said. "That's easier than getting Sheriff Larson in the Swiss Alps."

"You don't need to do that. It doesn't matter if you and the sheriff have a friend in the FBI. This is still a crime scene."

But, of course, it mattered. Ranken didn't need the sheriff pissed-off because they wouldn't call someone out of a building for an important message. Small towns ran on mutual understandings, give-and-take, neighborliness-small islands even more so.

"Look, I don't know that Haley Walther is in that building," Ranken said. "I'm just waiting for Sergeant Frick, so I appreciate your patience."

"She's in Ben Anderson's lab," said Sam. "I believe the organics lab. I know where it is.

It would be a great personal favor to me if you'd take me into the organics lab for just a couple minutes."

"You want me to escort you in there?"

"If it wouldn't be too much to ask."

"All right. I don't know what's taking Frick so long."

"I really appreciate this," Sam said. "I have no doubt you're a busy man."

"You don't have to butter me up. I'm already taking you."

Officer Ranken then got a radio call, the timing uncanny. It was Frick telling Ranken to bring Sam in.

Haley guessed she had been locked up for around thirty minutes. The fabric in her mouth and at the top of her throat made breathing more difficult, and felt suffocating, requiring her to concentrate on remaining calm and forcing down the panic. The cuffs on her wrists were clamped way too tight and imposed a physical torment. Time plodded along slowly.

She cheered herself with the thought that Sam would wonder why she hadn't called. He was very thorough and a detail like this would not go unnoticed. He would come over and start asking a lot of questions and he was not a man that you could easily ignore.

The lights came on, blinding Haley momentarily. She smelled Frick's aftershave before seeing him. He always looked the same, anyway, his hair never varying, never soft or loose, always pulled back. Casual clothes, clean, but never anything colorful, always a stainless-steel watch, always the plain gray shirt buttoned to the neck, always perfectly shined shoes except at the toes, which were slightly scuffed as if for some reason he couldn't quite finish polishing them.

"I want to talk to you-a few questions," he said as he took the gag off.

"You have no right to do this, you son of a bitch! Where's Sam?"

"He's signing a release for Detective Ranken and answering a few questions. In the meantime you and I will talk."

When he removed the cuffs, she shrank back from him. He moved closer, but only to hand her the purse he had taken earlier.

"I regret to inform you that Ben is dead," Frick began. "We're trying to find the body."