The Black Silent (45 page)

"Actually, it might. I know the islands. Your people know nothing." Rachael's voice was intense, and Lew winced again. "Now let's get off our butts and talk while we travel."

Gayle sat back. "Get me Agent Willinsky."

A young male agent nodded and dialed a phone.

"How are we doing?" she asked when the phone was handed to her. "I don't understand why it isn't a simple matter of asking the dispatcher." There was another pause. "If the dispatcher refers us to Frick and says they're moving about, I want to talk with Officer Frick then. I want to know where they are so that we can render assistance." Another long pause. "Insist that you speak with him. Do you understand?" She hung up, disgusted, but tried to show a more hopeful demeanor. "I've changed my mind. We go now. I don't like what I'm hearing. At Port Angeles we can use a coast guard helicopter.

From the reports Lopez is the latest hot spot. We'll go there. It's civil rights and potential terrorist activity." She trained her eyes on Rachael. "Satisfied?"

"Thank you so much," Rachael said, Lew's hand death-gripped in her own.

At last they were leaving; now maybe they could do some good.

S
am and Haley came ashore at Deer Harbor, on an expansive modern dock attached to a substantial pier. It was nearly as close to Lime Quarry Road as the town of West Sound, but less traveled and less populated. Sarah's best memory had been that the mystery structure was on an unmarked access road, near Lime Stone Quarry, that rounded Turtle Mountain on a lower shoulder. Once they landed, they had no vehicle and there were none for rent this time of year, except at Rosario Resort, which was some distance away and risked alerting Flick's people.

Modern condos stood around the harbor proper; real estate here came at a premium. It was overcast and felt like temperatures were in the high forties, and Sam could feel the drizzle coming on. Even in the gray, the greens still managed to be vivid. The feathery tree needles had a translucence to them that lightened their color and made them seem more ethereal and at home in the ghostlike shrouds of floating mist that were not all that common even in winter. The lower foliage glistened with moisture like a well-tended grocer's aisle.

With Sam in the lead, they hurried past more than one set of prying eyes and hoped that none of them would be connected to Garth Frick. Once up the short hill and away from the harbor, they faded into the forest-covered hills and avoided the neighborhoods. The landscape was spacious and unencumbered with the trappings of high-density living; in the fall and winter quiet patches of morning fog hanging in the trees swallowed the sound before it could find a listening ear.

The invigorating chill made walking easy and gave an escape from sleepy lethargy.

With the daylight it was not difficult traveling in the mostly open forest. Finally they crossed Saw Mill Road, then Lime Quarry Road, and turned parallel to an unnamed road. They remained in the forest, keeping Turtle Mountain to their right and heading toward President Channel.

The turnoff for the private road with the signs came very close to the end of the larger private road, and a little farther along than Sarah had remembered. They crept across the larger, more traveled road and followed along the private drive that took them ever closer to the inland sea and the channel. With the trees limbed up, the forest was especially open and they would be readily visible. As Sam motioned to slow their pace, they saw the lodgelike structure some distance away. From the water's edge a thick layer of fog climbed the hillside, looking like a giant wool carpet that had been pulled over the edge of the island.

Closer to the bluff, the cedar structure looked imposing. Sam estimated that it covered at least five thousand square feet on the footprint alone. It was two stories high, and the side closest the access drive appeared much more open because of the large parking area, circular drive, and covered entry.

Evidently the building site had been carved right out of the hillside and the forest, and a portion of the back side of the structure fell within fifty feet of the forest edge. As they got a better view of the high, rocky bluff, Sam guessed that the building stood some 150

feet above the water.

A closer glimpse revealed their worst fears. There were a number of cars, four of them deputy sheriffs' vehicles, parked in the large circular drive. A sign said
ARC Foundation
and in smaller letters beneath:
Astrology Research Center.

Sam chuckled, knowing that someone must have thought long and hard to disguise Arc as an acronym rather than an abbreviation.

"What do we do now?" Haley said.

Sam's cell phone beeped and he answered.

"Hey," shouted one of the most irreverent and welcome voices Sam knew. "How goes it in the island paradise?"

"It's a little tough at the moment, Grogg."

"Ernie tells me you're back doing a job when you're supposed to be chasing babes or fishing or something."

"That seems to be what I'm doing, although there is a babe here." That got a sidelong glance from Haley.

"I opened one of the files," Grogg said. "One's a bitch and I haven't been able to open it yet, even with all the horsepower of the Brain and all her links. But I'll tell you what I did open."

"Let's hear it."

"According to this document, Ben Anderson is giving the magic antiaging stuff to a bunch of people. I could read you certain portions of the introduction to this report and you'd get the idea."

"Go ahead."

Sam motioned for Haley to hunker down with him; she brought her ear close enough to the phone to hear what Grogg said.

"Okay," Grogg began, "it starts with a bunch of letters to the government. They all address at least three different parties: Homeland Security, the FBI, and Health and Human Resources. A few are copied to NOAA. Anderson lays out a program called ARCLES, and then he refers to certain meetings they've had and conference calls . . .

okay . . . and then he says that he'll deliver the information—ARCLES, the secrets of the Archaea—that the government wants if the government agrees to do certain things in certain different, um, arenas. Anderson wants promises, commitments, even legislation.

Oh, and funding. It goes on for pages—antiaging, undersea mining, climate programs, energy programs, protection from terrorism and natural disasters. Not surprisingly, it costs a hell of a lot of money. He wants the government to spend megabillions."

"Is there a government response?" Sam asked.

"Lots of them. But I don't see anywhere that the government says they'll do what he wants. I just went to the most recent correspondence and they aren't saying they'll comply. And he says that he won't cooperate until they reach an agreement on every item."

"The disasters? They involve methane?"

"Yeah. But the climate-change thing seems to be Anderson's main focus."

"And the mining is for methane?"

"Yeah."

"And what about the aging treatment?" asked Sam.

"There's a ton on that," said Grogg. "Here, let me read you something.

"The government must commit to a set of immutable principles regarding allocation of
the

Arc regimen for aging before impaneling any commission. The goal of the commission
would

be to develop regulations based on the principles, and to interpret the principles in
regard to

particular situations, and to make specific allocation decisions. Scientific achievement
and

contributions to humanity are to be the seminal principles
controlling allocation.

Wealth can

neither be an allocation criterion nor a disqualifier."

Grogg snorted. "No wonder the government's not game." Then he went on reading:

"The second prerequisite for the release of all information is that the government agree
to

comply with the manifesto. There must be an honest, binding commitment and a
commensurate dedicated budget to the following three endeavors: (1) implementing
serious

experimental methane recovery from the deep ocean and coal deposits and alternative-energy

development with a plan to make the United States foreign-petroleum independent
within two

decades; (2) an honest evaluation of the risks of methane escapement either through
natural

means or terrorist acts and a commensurate public education program which we see as
crucial to mustering the national will; and (3) research into controlling greenhouse
gases by

farming the ocean for plankton and related research into long-term climate control."

"God," Sam said. "Ben has been busy."

Haley just shook her head, still stunned at how little Ben had shared with her.

"Okay," Grogg resumed, "that's the last of what Ben says to the government." He then launched into the government reply:

"It is premature to set forth principles of allocation regarding your Arc regimen. Before
anything
is done, appropriate, FDA-monitored trials must be conducted first with
animals,

then with people. After trials the next step must be to undertake a study, incorporating
the

research trials, that can be provided to appropriate committees of the Congress so that
they

may formulate legislation, if appropriate.

"Obviously the government cannot authorize the immediate use of the Arc regimen on
human subjects. Please know that any such subjects will run the risk of an interruption
in the

treatments.

"Though the government can make no assurances, the FDA would be likely to expedite
your application for experimental trials, providing you agree to a full and open
disclosure of

the science involved.

"As to the other matters, you will need to submit your impressive body of theoretical
work

for peer review; once that is complete, your suggestions regarding methane mining,
energy

policy, safety, and climate control can be presented to the legislature.

"Then the government drones on about constitutional democracies, the rule of law, and the like," Grogg said. "I'll take some time with this stuff and try to figure out what's really going on."

"Do that. In the meantime we'll try not to get shot."

"Please be careful," Grogg said in a moment of utter sobriety.

In his gut Sam dreaded the situation in the lodge. Frick had beaten him to the building, which, in all likelihood, housed the majority of Ben Anderson's secrets, if not Ben Anderson himself.

"I can't believe that all this was going on and I never knew it. I just don't get why he wouldn't tell me," Haley said. "I know I said he was trying to protect me, but this is so big. . . Who did he think would protect him?"

"I understand how you feel," Sam said, hoping he wouldn't sound too blunt. "Let's hope there's still time to get to Ben and talk it over with him."

"Still, though—"

Sam turned and took her gently by the shoulders. "Haley, I don't mean to dismiss your feelings, but I don't want you dead either. It would help me a great deal if you would go back a few hundred yards into the woods and sit down and not move." Before she could protest, he continued. "Call Grogg if I don't come back. He can try to call Ernie in transit."

She didn't blink. "Not a chance."

"You're going no matter what I say?"

"Absolutely. Unless you have something even more dangerous that needs doing."

Sam shook his head, wondering at this woman.

"Sam, this is my problem as much as yours."

He stood, and motioned for her to follow.

"If you don't stay right behind me," he said, "I'll tie you to a tree."

Sam picked the spot closest to the forest, which was the back of the lodge, and crept toward a window. Haley followed like she was his shadow.

The longer the silence in the building continued, the greater his concern, and he'd told Haley as much.

The first window was a back bedroom with no one inside. There was, however, an open suitcase, clothes hanging in an open closet, and shoes in the corner. An open book lay facedown on the nightstand.

They crouched and moved to the next window, that of a corner bedroom, its inner door open. Through the door Sam could see into a large living area with a ceiling that appeared to rise for two stories all the way to the roof. Peering for another ten or twenty seconds, Sam was sure he saw the foot of a man lying down, probably on his side, in the living area. His arm went around Haley's shoulder before he realized he was holding her.

He hurried with her back the way they had come and beyond the first bedroom window to the next bedroom. Once again the door was open and this time Sam could see through to the great room, where at least two bodies lay on the floor.

"It's time to go inside." "Let's go," she said. "I wish you'd stay out here."

"One of us is hard of hearing," Haley whispered. "And it's not me because I'm staying right behind you. As instructed." They circled to the front, saw no one around the parked vehicles, and tried the front door. Sam opened it and immediately he felt light-headed.

They pushed the door all the way open and stepped back. Two men, both in the uniform of the San Juan Sheriff's Department, lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious.

"Gas," Sam said. "But I don't know what kind of gas would knock someone out this way and keep them down."

Nelson Gempshorn and American Bayou came to mind. The company manufactured all sorts of medical equipment and could easily administer a heavy sedative. But to take out this many men?

They waited and watched for a moment; then Sam hurried in and opened windows around the first floor, holding his breath the entire time. He returned, and this time they waited for three or four minutes on the front doorstep.