investigation."
Crew couldn't cover his shock.
"Cuff him and remove him," Frick said.
Sam saw Frick's hand move to the semiautomatic hol-stered on his belt.
"If you'd just go out and wait by the car, I'll stay here with Haley," Crew said to Sam.
"I'd like to have a word with Officer Frick."
As the tension between Crew and Frick grew, Sam nodded to Haley. Sam walked through the door and waited just around the corner, in the hall. Being out of sight would work in his favor. It was always better to enter a fight on your own terms.
More important, he figured he was about to learn more about Frick and Crew.
CHAPTER 6
I t had taken some doing for Ben Anderson to make it to his boat. He'd had to stab a man with a letter opener on the roof of the Sanker Foundation and watch him plunge to the ground, then use the balcony at the far end of the building to get himself down to safety.
Now Ben was to meet his friend Lattimer Gibbons here at the marina at the far south end of Friday Harbor at 1:00 p.m. sharp, and there was nothing he could do until Gibbons showed.
From his position low in the cockpit of the boat, he glanced at his watch, impatient to cast off before he was caught. In recent months, Ben had taken many precautions, to avoid the detection of all of his activities. One of the things he'd done was to "sell" this boat. In reality, he had simply moved it to the far end of Friday Harbor and signed it over to the Arc Foundation, changing its name to Alice B., apropos of nothing in particular. Documentation was now in the name of a corporation owned by a friend.
They changed the canvas colors on the flybridge and the dinghy, scuffed up her sides, and made her look like any other badly used Carver.
He had dive gear aboard and the keys in the ignition. He started the motors to let them warm, centered the rudders, watched the oil pressure, and glanced back at the exhaust.
Then he turned on the electronics, including a sophisticated graphic display depth sounder and forward-looking sonar uncommon on most private yachts. He switched on the GPS and chart plotter and pulled up the Nobeltec bathyscaphe chart for the sometimes treacherous President Channel. One of his biggest concerns remained that he could not reach Haley. As he imagined her anxiety, the pain of it was almost more than he could bear.
Soon he would find a way to make contact. Another call on her cell produced only the voice mail. With his cell phone nearly out of battery power, he called Sarah and got no answer. It was too dangerous to tell her how to meet him by voice mail. There wasn't another phone that he dared use until he reached his destination.
It was of some comfort to him that Haley had a friend like Sam. Sam had been into very heavy things in life. Ben didn't know the details, but he understood the general gist.
Without ever having had a terribly explicit discussion, Ben knew that Sam would protect Haley with his life. But where is Lattimer?
Ben made another check of the dock. Two men were walking toward him in heavy parkas and casual slacks—odd wear for a November afternoon on this part of the dock.
There weren't that many sizable boats and these guys didn't look quite dressed for a wintertime ride in a runabout. Furthermore, they seemed fixed on the Alice B. and that made him nervous. He hadn't time to cast off the lines and motor out; moreover, he needed Lattimer to drop him off.
The men invited themselves right up and into the cockpit. One man was broad and heavy, like an NFL linebacker. The other seemed more wiry but still oversize and broad-shouldered, plenty big enough to enforce his will. There would be no wrestling match between them and Ben Anderson that lasted longer than ten seconds.
"Hello there," said the big man. "You Ben Anderson?" "Yes."
"I'm Special Agent Stu Farley and this is Special Agent Len Morrison. We'd like a word with you."
Ben went weak in the knees. He wasn't liking this, and right after being a near murder
Crew couldn't cover his shock.
"Cuff him and remove him," Frick said.
Sam saw Frick's hand move to the semiautomatic hol-stered on his belt.
"If you'd just go out and wait by the car, I'll stay here with Haley," Crew said to Sam.
"I'd like to have a word with Officer Frick."
As the tension between Crew and Frick grew, Sam nodded to Haley. Sam walked through the door and waited just around the corner, in the hall. Being out of sight would work in his favor. It was always better to enter a fight on your own terms.
More important, he figured he was about to learn more about Frick and Crew.
CHAPTER 6
I t had taken some doing for Ben Anderson to make it to his boat. He'd had to stab a man with a letter opener on the roof of the Sanker Foundation and watch him plunge to the ground, then use the balcony at the far end of the building to get himself down to safety.
Now Ben was to meet his friend Lattimer Gibbons here at the marina at the far south end of Friday Harbor at 1:00 p.m. sharp, and there was nothing he could do until Gibbons showed.
From his position low in the cockpit of the boat, he glanced at his watch, impatient to cast off before he was caught. In recent months, Ben had taken many precautions, to avoid the detection of all of his activities. One of the things he'd done was to "sell" this boat. In reality, he had simply moved it to the far end of Friday Harbor and signed it over to the Arc Foundation, changing its name to Alice B., apropos of nothing in particular. Documentation was now in the name of a corporation owned by a friend.
They changed the canvas colors on the flybridge and the dinghy, scuffed up her sides, and made her look like any other badly used Carver.
He had dive gear aboard and the keys in the ignition. He started the motors to let them warm, centered the rudders, watched the oil pressure, and glanced back at the exhaust.
Then he turned on the electronics, including a sophisticated graphic display depth sounder and forward-looking sonar uncommon on most private yachts. He switched on the GPS and chart plotter and pulled up the Nobeltec bathyscaphe chart for the sometimes treacherous President Channel. One of his biggest concerns remained that he could not reach Haley. As he imagined her anxiety, the pain of it was almost more than he could bear.
Soon he would find a way to make contact. Another call on her cell produced only the voice mail. With his cell phone nearly out of battery power, he called Sarah and got no answer. It was too dangerous to tell her how to meet him by voice mail. There wasn't another phone that he dared use until he reached his destination.
It was of some comfort to him that Haley had a friend like Sam. Sam had been into very heavy things in life. Ben didn't know the details, but he understood the general gist.
Without ever having had a terribly explicit discussion, Ben knew that Sam would protect Haley with his life. But where is Lattimer?
Ben made another check of the dock. Two men were walking toward him in heavy parkas and casual slacks—odd wear for a November afternoon on this part of the dock.
There weren't that many sizable boats and these guys didn't look quite dressed for a wintertime ride in a runabout. Furthermore, they seemed fixed on the Alice B. and that made him nervous. He hadn't time to cast off the lines and motor out; moreover, he needed Lattimer to drop him off.
The men invited themselves right up and into the cockpit. One man was broad and heavy, like an NFL linebacker. The other seemed more wiry but still oversize and broad-shouldered, plenty big enough to enforce his will. There would be no wrestling match between them and Ben Anderson that lasted longer than ten seconds.
"Hello there," said the big man. "You Ben Anderson?" "Yes."
"I'm Special Agent Stu Farley and this is Special Agent Len Morrison. We'd like a word with you."
Ben went weak in the knees. He wasn't liking this, and right after being a near murder
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