Haley called the Harlasens on her cell and spoke with Eugene Harlasen, explaining the situation in no- nonsense language. Then Haley started answering the obvious questions.
People on the islands were accustomed to an orderly world and law enforcement was usually right. The sheriff had been around for years, knew everybody, and nothing ever spun out of control. Haley's tale was disorienting, to say the least.
Haley paused to listen. 'We're trying to find Ben before someone else does.' Haley spent a few more minutes reiterating with slightly more explanation, then hung up.
'They'll help,' she told Sam.
'When we get her there,' Sam said, 'you take a lot of swab samples. You comb through all Sarah's hair very carefully for any loose hairs that might belong to anyone else.'
'Okay.' Haley sounded exhausted.
She had her arms around Sarah, encouraging her to hang on and things would get better.
Haley promised lots and lots of aspirin.
Sarah actually smiled at that.
Haley took the improvement in Sarah's status to ask a question.
'Sarah, I know you're feeling awful, but we're having a hard time figuring out some things that Ben left us. He wrote something about Sargasso stew. We think he was trying to lead us to something. Does it mean anything to you?'
Sarah seemed sleepy, and her head was starting to loll. Sleep, Sam knew, was a natural escape from pain and extreme stress.
'Sarah,' Haley said again. 'Do you know anything about Sargasso stew?'
Sarah's tongue had swollen from the gag and she had a slight slur to her speech. She nodded her head. She moved her tongue, as if trying to clear her mouth, then said: 'Look on my laptop.'
Sam and Haley stared at one another.
'Where?' Sam asked.
'My computer was in my car at Fisherman's Bay Dock.'
'Did you tell Frick's people this?' Sam asked.
'Not at all.'
'Do you know what Ben put on there?'
'I don't. It's password protected.'
Haley gently took Sarah in her arms and stroked her hair as Sam rowed with renewed strength.
They absolutely had to get the computer.
'I want three cars driving MacKaye Harbor Road, I want one car on Aleck Bay Road, and a couple cars patrolling Mud Bay Road.' Frick spoke calmly, having shed the anger.
His future depended on doing this right. 'If you see anybody suspicious, you check it out. I want another airplane flying this end of the island.'
'In the dark?' the dispatcher asked.
'Yes. These people that kidnapped Sarah James are in the water. They left marks from a boat on the beach. The plane's a quick way to sweep the area. Am I clear on all of this?'
'Yes, sir. And I've got the interisland ferry on the dock at Friday Harbor to make an emergency run,' the dispatcher said. 'But it will be about forty minutes before it arrives.
We've got men coming in boat one, and boat two is leaving in a couple minutes.'
'We have no more cars over here, so hurry the ferry.'
The dispatcher back at San Juan was excellent and had the latest equipment, so Frick was working through her. More significantly, the dispatcher was convinced that Crew and Ranken were killed by Robert Chase and his accomplice, Haley Walther. With the computer screens in front of him and the sophisticated mapping capability, he could monitor the location of every deputy and every special deputy and all the relevant action. Cars used by regular deputies had GPS locators and transponders, so their position was automatically tracked.
But it didn't matter which men Frick wanted in which location, there weren't enough men on Lopez and there wouldn't be for some time. There were three regular deputies stationed on Lopez Island and one special deputy. The sheriff's boat two, run by Frick's imported men, would be ferrying people and then watching for possible escapes from Fisherman's Bay. Volunteer residents were watching other moorages. Frick had had four cars before asking for volunteer vehicles and now he had nine. The four other men he had already moved to Lopez didn't do much to solve the shortage. So Sam was getting a freebie getaway. Smart of him to go by sea. It would take a lot more men to bottle him up at night.
For a moment Frick wondered how much help he was actually getting from the regular deputies. It was no secret that some of them remained suspicious about Haley Walther's guilt.
He got on the phone and called the local news station in Seattle. 'This is Sergeant Garth Frick, of the San Juan Island County Sheriff's Department. We have a new development in the manhunt for Robert Chase and his accomplice, Haley Walther. They have escaped to Lopez Island and have apparently taken a hostage. We're withholding the name of the hostage for the time being, pending the notification of her family, who seem to live off island and are temporarily unavailable.'
Next he got Rolf on the line. 'Anything more on that written pledge or his fellow scientists?'
'Nothing so far.'
'Let's look through his phone records and identify every call to a retired scientist. Look especially at his cell phone bills. Call every number you can. Tell them you're trying to get hold of Ben and you need the number of the place on Orcas. Any numbers you get, call the phone company and get the address. Got it?'
'You're the boss.'
Smart-ass.
Frick got back on the radio with the dispatcher.
'How long to get a boat down here to MacKaye Harbor?'
'Boat three, forty-four knots, takes fifteen minutes from Fisherman's Bay in the daytime. At night forty-five,' the dispatcher said.
'That's too long. Tell them to get their asses down here with the boat. Get men down along MacKaye Harbor Road.'
'They can't run thirty knots at night.' Deputy Freeman had picked up the microphone.
He was one of the guys who had questions concerning Haley Walther's guilt.
'The hell they can't run thirty knots. They can use a spotlight and keep a sharp eye.'
'There're dead heads, logs, that sort of thing,' Freeman said, making eminently good sense.
But Frick knew they weren't really arguing about dead heads and logs. They were arguing about the manhunt and murder charges-the rest of the acrimony was a proxy for the real issue. It angered him because in his view of the world he had provided sufficient evidence regardless of its truth or falsity.
'We've got a murderer on this island, Deputy Freeman. He's killed two peace officers and wounded another. He's killed a Sanker employee. Now get this straight. Until we get hold of the Sheriff, I'm Zebra One. It's my job to catch them. Get with the program or go home.'
Rachael had been waiting for the Washington State Police captain for about twenty minutes. It was almost 2:30 a.m. and the diligent Lieutenant Glendale had managed to persuade Captain Roy Melrose to come into work. Captain Melrose was a twenty-five-year veteran of the state police and was not accustomed to being up in the wee hours, but he was a nice guy with a sense of humor, the sort who would make a great granddad.
And judging from the pictures on his desk, he was a grandfather several times over.
'When Lieutenant Glendale called me,' said Melrose, 'frankly, I thought he was nuts.
Until he told me something. You'd never guess what he told me.'
'I won't even try,' Lew said.
'Me either,' Rachael said.
'He told me that when he saw that paper of Ms. Sullivan's, he decided to call the FBI and so he did. In about twenty-five minutes he was talking to people in Washington, DC.
They called back an hour later or so and now they want me to have you at the FBI field office, Third Avenue downtown, at seven in the morning. People are coming from Washington, DC, including Homeland Security.'
'That's a long time,' Rachael said, not caring about the rest. 'People could die while we're sitting here waiting
