it.
'We are going to leave in just a few minutes,' good old Melrose said for the benefit of the FBI and Homeland Security people around the table.
'First we want your personal assessment of Ben Anderson,' the Special Agent in Charge, a woman who had told Rachael to call her Gayle, asked Rachael. 'Is he honorable? Does he have a plan? Is he stable?'
The dozen-plus other people listened with very serious faces. Gayle Killingsworth was the Special Agent in Charge of the downtown Seattle field office. Apparently she was married to a federal judge, if the banter at the coffee urn was to be believed. It disgusted Rachael that on this morning there was a coffee urn and that there was banter. People could be dying.
'I've answered all of these questions' was Rachael's response.
'But we keep learning things every time you explain,' Gayle said with a Good Morning America smile.
'I have been at parties and social gatherings with Ben Anderson probably more than twenty times. I have dined with him more than a dozen times…,' she started again.
After five more minutes of how she knew what she knew, and questions about Haley and her near lifelong relationship with Haley-and her utter conviction that Haley had stolen nothing, Rachael slammed her hand on the table without warning.
Lew winced; she regretted his discomfort. Dating him after this was going to be difficult.
'I cannot sit here and answer the same questions while the lives of my friends are at stake,' she said.
Gayle leaned forward and brushed back her short, well-coiffed hair.
'As we speak, we have agents moving into the area. We are on the phones. We have not located Garth Frick or the men you describe. It will do us no good to start flying around the San Juans.'
'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.
CHAPTER 38
Sam 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.
