The Black Silent (11 page)

"So McStott and Frick concocted the scheme to make it look like it was mostly his work, and that you stole it."

"That's it. Of course, McStott had no concern about the sea grass's effect on the environment. Frick and McStott saw to it that my article with the warnings was never published. Instead, they published an article touting the discovery. But they had no credibility because some university people cried foul. And see, that also hurt my credibility. It was a mess."

"You couldn't show it was your discovery and that these guys were jumping the gun with it?"

"Well, it's long and complicated, but McStott and I shared the same file-server computer. We did collaborate. He just had nothing to do with the creation of this strain of sea grass. They switched our lab notes. Hell, there are all kinds of things going on that only the scientists involved really understand when it comes to knowing who does what." She let out a long breath. "And there was one other problem. Like an idiot, I trusted McStott and against the rules I gave him my computer pass code. You're never supposed to do that. So when I started saying he stole and that I gave him my pass code .

. . well, that was considered stupid, and on and on."

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "He betrayed you."

"In a very personal way."

"The merger also explains why they'd go after Ben now," Sam said. "Especially since he was getting ready to leave the foundation."

Sam pulled over about one hundred yards from her drive.

"Where can we hide the car?" he asked.

"Up ahead on the left there's an overgrown orchard and a shack. Nobody lives there. It's actually on Ben's forty acres."

Sam pulled into the orchard. Trees were old and gnarled, with twisted bark and old wounds.

"Hopefully, they're not here yet," she said, speaking of the police.

"A man as pissed off as Frick? You'd be amazed how fast he might get somebody here."

They hurried through the forest as fast as Sam could manage, back across the road, and into the forest again. As they approached Haley's house, they went more slowly. When they saw no one and no police cruisers, Sam hoped it was only moderately dangerous to duck in the back door.

Haley's fax had the FBI memo from Ernie. Actually, it was an excerpt from an FBI memo and parts had obviously been redacted. But it was better than nothing.

They searched through Haley's garage until they found a tarp, then took it back to the car and covered it completely. People would come by the house and there might soon be planes and helicopters flying overhead.

Haley called the dispatcher on her cell phone and explained that Crew had been shot by Frick, not Sam; that the FBI had been notified; and that the FBI would be making a formal request to keep the evidence pristine and out of Frick's hands.

She asked the dispatcher whether the FBI had called, but the dispatcher refused to confirm or deny such a call. When the dispatcher made the obligatory request that Haley and Sam surrender themselves to a deputy, Haley disconnected.

None of it was surprising, since the dispatcher was following normal police procedure.

They weren't in the habit of collaborating with murder suspects.

Minutes later, they arrived on foot at Ben's house, some two hundred yards from Haley's. Sam had Haley hunker down with him in the trees while he checked for company. It was a large, sprawling home, gray with lap siding and white trim, appearing all the more stylish for the rustic nature of its setting. From his own experience during summertime work, he knew that the gardens had been Helen's inspiration and he was reminded of the sweat and the creative eye in all the curves and the shapes in the various plantings and rows. It was a bit blustery and looking like another shower. The breezes made it anything but quiet. Sam let his eye wander carefully by every leaf and every decorative boulder hauled from the beach. He saw nothing moving, save that which could be moved by the wind, but he remembered Crew and worried for Haley. How could he be sure that there was no one lying in wait? Ben's house was an obvious destination.

Sam could see the back patio from this position, but not the front porch. He first moved to the left, checking out the front-yard area and the gardens and the long drive, which approached up a gradual hill. A large porch sat under an overhang. Nothing there.

Now he moved back to the right and circled behind the house, remaining inside a small patch of trees. On the back patio stood two barbecues and flower boxes with a multitude of plants in full color, maintained by hired help. It would be impossible to completely verify that no one was watching.

They would have to take a chance.

Sam motioned to stay low and led Haley as quickly as his leg would allow over the last open ground between them and the house.

Frick had the safecracker back at work on the wall safe in Ben's office. He had regained his composure and now felt calm and confident. When they had the safe open, it would become simple. With Ben's research in hand, he'd be free to find and kill Ben Anderson

—still difficult, but doable—and that would end the matter.

The safe expert had electronic listening devices splayed across the metal surface.

Numbers had been flashing across a laptop on the desk for at least ten minutes. As Frick watched, the man slowly turned the dial through the sequence for the twentieth time.

Suddenly the numbers on the computer stopped at eighty-seven.

"Uh-huh." The safecracker turned the handle and the safe opened.

Inside stood a handmade sign:
Fools rush in where angels dare to tread.

As the technician leaned in, an explosion sent sticky black soot everywhere. The technician took the main force of the blast, covered by a harmless but nasty substance.

Frick was largely unscathed, but that was little comfort. They had bet everything on the escrow; if Ben had fudged that, the research would be in the wall safe.

The safe held nothing else, and the clock was ticking on Frick's life.

T
his time Rossitter contacted him by phone. Sanker wondered if he had the new shoes on yet.

"We haven't located Ben. Neither has Frick."

"What does Judas say?" Sanker felt as if he'd already had a bellyful of uncertainty.

"He says he doesn't know."

"Has he got his hands on the formula?" Sanker asked.

"Not yet. He says there's only one place and he has to get there. He's not even sure about that."

"Where does he think it is?"

"Like before, he said that's not part of our deal," Rossitter said.

"It's our deal for him to deliver it as a backup."

"He says as long as we have Frick trying, we don't need the backup. He says he'll tell us, though, the minute he has it."

"I have a question," Sanker said, pondering even as he spoke.

"What's that?"

"Are we sure that Judas is a he and not a she?"

There was a long pause. Obviously this hadn't occurred to Rossitter.

"It's a male voice, disguised, but still male. You're thinking Judas could be more than one person?"

"There are a number of possibilities. How do we know for sure that Judas is even a Judas?"

"He told us what Anderson was planning," Rossitter said, while still not sounding certain.

"Judas could be a man, woman, or a group," the old man began. "He could be working both sides, like a double agent, ours and American Bayou's. And Ben Anderson could have been afraid we'd find out he was leaving, anyway, so he devised some kind of test and he's playing us. Keep in mind, the information may not always be true. Remember Judas learns things from us just as we learn from him. Judas could be working with Frick, American Bayou, or some other third party. Who is feeding who, here?"

"I still think it's as it appears. Judas wants money, and we're the biggest source."

"You're right, I suppose, if it's all true. You tell him next time he calls that we demand to know Ben Anderson's whereabouts. Even the manner of his response may tell us something."

"I'll do that. For now, I recommend that we stick with the plan."

"Do we have a choice?" Sanker sounded as irritated as he felt. He wanted to be proactive, not reactive, and he couldn't find a way to get complete control and drive events. It was an unaccustomed subservience to history in the making.

Sanker clicked the receiver in Rossitter's ear without saying good-bye in order to signal his dissatisfaction.

Rossitter was typically good under pressure. Maybe he would come up with something.

Twenty minutes later, Frick sat in a small grove of Douglas fir and watched the undersheriff, Roy Knauff, through the branches. In preparing for the weekend, Frick had made a special point of learning the undersheriff's likely whereabouts. The undersheriff, Frick discovered, was tight with his cousin, an electrical contractor on the island. Sure enough, Frick's hired man had followed the undersheriff to his cousin's house and he was here kicking back just as his man had promised.

Meanwhile, Frick had the department working on a new front. They were close to obtaining a search warrant for a safe-deposit box that Ben Anderson rented. Anderson's secretary, Sarah James, had told Frick about the box when she called looking for Anderson. He doubted the search would be fruitful. She had given up the story a little too easily.

There was no cell signal at the undersheriff's cousin's place, here on Wescott Bay. The pager would work, but the undersheriff's was broken. Frick had seen to that. The dispatcher had left a message on the undersheriff's cell and sent someone around to the undersheriff's place. Frick knew it was only a question of time before the undersheriff called in or the dispatcher found him, so he had to work fast. He had known all along that if the papers weren't where they were supposed to be, things would unravel and he would need to handle the undersheriff. When the time was right, Frick wanted to be the one to tell him about Crew's murder.

Through the window of the house, a pretty redhead was laughing and the undersheriff was giving her his undivided attention. Had to be the cousin's wife. In Frick's world no man ever paid that much attention to his own wife. While he watched them, he used an encoded police radio to call Khan, who'd arrived shortly before Frick left. Khan had set up base in the Sanker conference room.

"Khan."

"What have our eggheads found?" Frick asked.

"I'm no scientist. Your guy McStott calls it a lot of basic genetic research. Probably not what you're after. Then again, it stands to reason, though, that a man can't completely cover his tracks. We have mounds of paper and printouts from his office and lab, and McStott says he's piecing it together. But nothing exactly on point."

"We have this weekend," Frick said. "That's it. By Monday this place will be raining state cops and feds. Chase is not going to sit still. He must know people."

"We're trying to pull it together."

Frick clicked off. Khan and McStott didn't seem to get it. Mounds of irrelevant paperwork was Ben Anderson covering his tracks to perfection.

Frick would need to improvise. He called the Strope man he had at Ben Anderson's place.

"Seen anything?"

"I was about to call you. Someone just got here. I saw a faint light go on inside the house. Earlier I saw movement outside."

"Who is it?"

"They must've come on foot—sneaking. It's got to be them."

"If they try to leave, stop 'em any way you can. I don't care if you shoot Robert Chase, but don't kill Haley Walther."

"I'm not looking to kill anybody."

"Do your damn job. They're dangerous fugitives, for God's sake."

Frick dialed the undersheriff's cousin, on a satellite phone watching through the window as the redhead started at the sound of the house phone.

"May I speak with the undersheriff, please."

He could see the man take the phone.

"Hello?"

"We have a situation," Frick began. He told him his version of the whole story.

"The guy who used to be in the wheelchair shot Crew?"

"Yeah. But you know he's not in a wheelchair now. The wheelchair was a fraud all along. I don't think he was ever hurt at all."

"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.

S
am 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.