The Black Silent (3 page)

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."

S
am'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.

He sat and watched the harbor, as usual enjoying its unique harmony between man and nature. It was better here than most places. The people of San Juan Island were a similar breed, by and large, for they chose to live here, surrounded by water, separated from most of the twentieth century.

Sam came from a different world. A world of adrenaline and death, of great deeds, great fights, dark shadows, and deep secrets. He had run a form of private espionage business created by a newly dangerous world. Despite any number of close calls, that world had not killed him, but it had bitten him and bitten him hard. Now he'd left it behind, but he still felt the fangs, both in his body and in his mind. He hadn't decided what to do next in his life. He had enough money and plenty of time to figure it out. One thing he had decided on was putting an end to the killing business.

A bit sore from a hard workout, he rose and let his six-foot-two-inch body slowly uncoil. The intensive physical therapy had bulked his long and elegant musculature more than usual, making it all the more important for him to remain limber. His chest was big and well formed, built from bench-pressing 350 pounds. His torturers hadn't gotten to his upper body like they had his legs, so every curve remained as it should be above the thighs. From the thighs down, Sam was the work of plastic surgeons.

The sound of loud, annoying voices came from behind him. Sam pretty much stayed out of other people's trouble, but he turned to look, more curious than anything else. Seemed that an ugly-sounding man was giving the coffee girl a hard time.

"You made a deal," he was saying in a raised voice. "I need the money and I need it now."

"I don't owe you nothing," she said.

Obviously, they were discussing more than the price of the coffee. The guy was big, a black man who looked like a noseguard, and not friendly. Sam decided that his beard must have stood for something other than tolerance. The fellow had a friend who didn't look much better than a sheep turd. Long Rastafarian hair glued with mud.

"I want what I bargained for," the black man said through gritted teeth.

"You never said you wanted that. I was selling a stereo. That's it."

"That was no thousand-dollar stereo and you understood my meaning."

Sam figured that people took a long time to build character and usually they didn't change overnight. Sherry, the coffee girl, was solid and fair, good-hearted—she'd feed a stray cat and pay respect to those that didn't deserve much. Sam had seen that and knew what the woman was about. She hadn't gotten that way overnight and would not behave unreasonably greedy with the stereo or money or anything else. What this man apparently wanted, Sherry would never have knowingly sold.

Sam had walked up to within three feet of them. The big fellow had a two-inch slab of belly fat that was probably undergirded by a fair portion of muscle. The arms were big and the man had obviously lifted. Maybe prison. From the shoes and the pants it was obvious the man came from the city. Maybe Seattle.

His fingers reached out to grab Sherry's upper arm.

Sam moved quickly and in a second or two his ringers were buried at the base of the man's neck, to the brachial nerve, just as he'd practiced a thousand times, and done more times than he cared to remember.

"Jeeeeeeezzz!" the man screamed.

"It's a big nerve," Sam said. "It wouldn't hurt if you'd quit with the girl."

The guy started struggling, and Sam's grip tightened, and the fingers got right down on the nerve and took hold of it as if it were a cobra's neck. To control the rest of him Sam got the fingers of a hand and twisted the hand back at his side. Screaming religion in the form of cuss words, the guy tried to escape a second time. Sam let him come down to the sidewalk, as if laying his head on the concrete might bring some comfort.

"This is a quiet place, but you aren't a quiet person. Calm down."

The guy's buddy suddenly got active, seemingly over the shock of Sam's attack, and actually took a swing at Sam's torso. Without thinking about it, Sam knew this man had no training. He blocked the punch and kicked him hard in the ass so as not to hurt him.

Not much for valor, the man held his butt and backed off, while the big guy kept screaming. Then he started begging. "Lemme go, lemme go." Next it was back to the colorful cursing.

"Sam, don't hurt him. He looks like he's gonna die," Sherry said. "Even if he is a pig."

The man was on his knees with his nose about six inches from the pavement, and Sam knew the man couldn't think about anything but that big nerve near the base of his neck and the hand behind him that felt as if it were about to be wrenched off.

"Have we got your attention?" Sam said.

"Yes." He'd stopped cursing at least. Sam let go. His buddy was still rubbing his butt and keeping his distance.

"I oughta kill you," the black man began. Obviously, what had happened had not yet become a part of his reality. He was used to being the aggressor.

He took a good swing, pretty fast under the circumstances. Sam caught the fist as one might catch a fastball.

"You need to stop fighting and start—"

Before Sam could finish his sentence, the man grabbed for his throat. It was skilled, with ringers closed, and only his thumb open. Now the fellow was starting to act like he knew something about fighting. Before the man could close his grip, Sam stepped inside and delivered a moderate blow with his palm to the point of the chin. It stunned the man, and for a second the man lived in suspended animation. It was enough to force the man to relax his hands. Sam grabbed his little finger and held it as if it were a hot wing ready for the blue cheese.

"If I break the pinkie at the first knuckle, it will hurt a lot," Sam said. "You are not that good at pain."

"I give up. I give up," the man said.

Sam felt obligated to give the man a chance, though he knew that the guy's temptation to throw another punch would relapse like a disease. He dropped the pinkie and waited for the left hook. It came. Sam threw his head back, let it slide by, and then did a short strike, driving the points of three fingers right into the solar plexus. The strike hadn't even approached full power, but the man dropped and flopped like a fish.

Sam stepped back, disgusted with the whole matter. Nothing like this ordinarily happened in these islands. People were civilized and thoughtful. The old stench of unadorned aggression hung heavy over the scene. Sam reached over and tried to help the man up, but he was too badly incapacitated. Sam took off his coat and put it under the man's head. Men like this did not come to this island in winter, and Sam wondered at his wardrobe. Then another thought came to him: already today Sam had seen others like this guy, and it didn't leave him with an easy feeling.