Even with the moon, the oars disappeared into water that looked like black silk. On Iceberg Point, the flashing red beacon offended the soft hues of the night while giving Sam a clear bearing by which to row. The water boiled around the boat and the silence made even the oar drips a noticeable part of the water symphony. On the hard pulls the bow dipped slightly, making its own regular swish.
'How did your mother get you to Ben?' Sam asked after a moment of peaceful silence.
'The next day I told my mother what happened. Told her the rumors that Aunt Gertrude was going to get a court order. She took me over to Ben and Helen's. She begged them.
Helen had already taken care of me, and I think even then she loved me. Ben's love came later, but when it came, it was a torrent. My mother managed to stay sober just long enough for the court proceeding. I said I wanted to be with Ben and Helen and the judge agreed.'
Sam let a minute pass.
'So I guess we could say that despite the alcoholism, at the moment you needed it most, your mother overcame the disease and was your champion to give you a good life.'
'Funny I never looked at it that way.'
'Might try it out for size.'
They drove toward the south end of Lopez Island in borrowed automobiles that were being used to supplement the five squad cars in normal use. Frick and Rafe rode in a Yukon lent to the police by a resident anxious to help with the manhunt for the cop killer. Behind them in a borrowed Ford Taurus, which was actually a retired sheriff's vehicle loaned by one of the Lopez officers for this particular occasion, rode four of the Las Vegas men. These were the roughest of the rough.
Frick again looked through his leather satchel containing his tools and his drugs. He was figuring which drugs and how to administer them, hoping that just with the beginnings of physical torture, she would spill her guts and give him what he needed.
Then perhaps he could trade her for Ben or his secrets or just go get what he needed.
Time was wasting.
His cell phone rang. Irritated and in a hurry, he answered it. It was Nash. The surprise of the call immediately got his attention. This was not like Nash.
'We need to talk.'
'Well, I am terribly occupied at the moment trying to solve your problem.'
'I need you to go to a public phone and call me now.'
'This is interfering with my job.'
'I've got to insist unless you are at this moment rescuing Ben Anderson.'
'All right.' He hung up, seething. 'Divert back to the nearest public telephone.' He still might need Sanker's money.
Sam and Haley rowed past Aleck Bay and a small island that was a faint shadow in the night, headed just outside the flashing beacon. Without incident they came around Iceberg Point, the sea calm but for gentle rolling waves a foot or so high. At the point they saw only occasional lights from the residences nestled in the shoreline trees. They were in the homestretch to Ben's.
Frick stood at Fisherman's Bay, at a pay phone. Frustrated. Angry. He was just about to make progress and they insisted on a stupid-ass phone call. He couldn't imagine what could be so important.
'What do you want?' he snapped at Nash. 'What is so damn important? Just when I was getting someplace.'
'We have a hunch that Sarah James might know something.'
'That would be no surprise. She's missing. If I find her, I'll let you know what she says.'
'You don't know where she is then?'
'I have a good lead. What about it?' Frick countered.
'You'll tell us if you find her? Tell us what she says?'
'Well, of course. I'm working for you, aren't I? When I'm not chasing murderers. Is that all you wanted?'
'Yes. We want to be informed,' Nash replied.
'Why in the hell are you all of a sudden so interested in Sarah James? I thought we were trying to find Ben Anderson.'
'She's his assistant. She might know how to find him.'
This was a complete waste of Frick's time. 'I don't know where she is. All right?'
'Just checking. We want her safe.'
'Don't ever call me again about nothing. Ever.'
He slammed the phone down. But it was unnerving. They knew something. He wondered who told them and why. Something was amiss. He jumped in the car and drove at top speed. The whole call was strange, as if choreographed. He told himself that they wouldn't be stupid enough to work with the government. And he told himself that he would find out all about what Sarah James knew and didn't know.
He ordered them to drive fast.
Frick knew some would say that he was a psychopath. That was patently untrue. He had feelings of guilt and he overcame them through an act of the will. Pyschopaths were immune to the irritations of the conscience. Sometimes he'd get a case of nerves after a killing, but with Ativan pills it dissipated. Usually it didn't return even after the medication wore off.
Khan had remained at Friday Harbor in the conference room to manage things, but Frick thought the guy had a weak stomach. Rafe was up the road at Anderson's, no doubt frying in his own lust. Having any witnesses to the interrogation was out of the question.
Frick would have to kill Sarah James, of course. South America was looking better and better.
After arriving at MacKaye Harbor Frick took a private drive to the Anderson family retreat. It was a large, old New England-style two-story home with blue-gray siding whose charm lay in the studied look of old and weathered. In fact, the seams and finish quality were nearly new. Once in the house he donned a black mask and a voice modulator. He knew that Rafe was trying hard not to give him a strange look. As instructed, Rafe went in the kitchen and sent the other men away. After they had gone, Frick walked straight in and found Sarah James sitting, handcuffed with her hands locked behind a straight-back chair. She looked grim but defiant, and her eyes shone with righteous anger.
Sarah James was gagged, but it scarcely muffled her scream.
It was as if she had peered into the bowels of hell. And indeed she perhaps saw hell in his eyes. Frick knew it was there to find. He would begin by tying her tighter than she had imagined possible. Then he would start with the drugs. And the rest.
They rowed hard down the rocky coast, and it was a sad surprise, though not unexpected, when Sam saw Ben's beach house lit up in the distance. They rowed silently past the house, which was located in the bite of a tiny cove. There were no other houses on this stretch of beach. When they spotted a good landing place, some one hundred yards past Ben's property, they hit the beach with only a whisper of an oar stroke and bumped aground in the fine gravel.
Above the high-tide line the foliage grew densely, as high as a man, between the house and its environs. After pulling the boat in the bushes, they crept slowly down the beach, listening and watching, much like nervous deer.
There was a covered porch, with white posts against the blue gray of the wooden siding.
At night only the white of the posts was discernible. Windows were lit like one of those intensive paintings. It was a neatly kept, older two-story structure with three dormers on the second story. Looking through a back window beyond the covered porch, one could see into the kitchen. Sam could see someone in a chair in the middle of the room. A redhead. Sarah. They crept a little closer.
It was obvious that Sarah was somehow tied to the chair. No doubt there would be guards around.
'That's Sarah, isn't it?' Haley asked in a hushed voice.
'Yes, it is,' Sam said. 'Somehow we've got to get her out of there. If I crash through a window and someone is in there with a gun, they are liable to get me before I get Sarah.
And even if I get them, there will be more. Sarah's trapped in a chair. Getting her without one of us getting shot will probably be very tough.'
'What are you gonna do?'
