Anne had held out a dim hope that this might be easier the second time around: Sewell hadn't found the recorders on the first day (But then, he hadn't been anywhere near them that day), so maybe he wouldn't find them today. It was Thursday, and his hours overlapped with Anne's: He got in at ten and left around eight, and best of all, Benson's hours were roughly the same. The odds of them having one of their talks seemed high, at least to her.

This time, she chose to alter her timing: Anne found an excuse to go down to B-Block around eight-thirty, having left the vent loosened so that she could drop the recorder in as quickly as possible before moving on. She took a detour past the showers, ducked into the nook and set up the second recorder there; the sound of approaching footsteps found her dropping to one knee and pretending to adjust her pant-leg.

Benson didn't come in until nine. Anne had delayed in placing the recorders so that, on the off-chance that Sewell didn't corner him until sometime after six, the tape wouldn't run out before the conversation took place. She went about her normal duties with a better sense of calm than she had the day before, only slightly anxious that the recorders might be discovered.

Sewell came into the office around noon, twirling that damn nightstick in one hand and holding a piece of paper with the other. "Incident report," He said, seeming to direct it at Handley, who had just left his own private office. "Sails went and broke his hand." He handed the paper to Handley, who frowned as he scanned it.

"How in the hell did that happen?"

"Dumbass left his hand in the way of the door when I was trying to shut it."

Anne didn't believe that for a damn second. And judging from the expression she saw on Handley's face when she snuck a glance at him, he didn't believe it either. He had been the one that Frank had reported to initially, investigating the claims and unfortunately coming up with nothing solid to charge Sewell with. Anne got the impression that he was one of the good ones- Frank must have thought so, or he would have reported right to Milton- but wasn't entirely convinced just yet. Her dad had been a good judge of character, but he was wrong on occasion. Handley could have easily faked that investigation or ignored what he found.

"Medical filled it out?"

"Yup." Sewell said with a nod. Then, to Anne's disgust, he turned to her with a bright, toothy smile reminiscent of a crocodile. "Hey there, sugar! How are you today?"

Anne managed a tight-lipped smile (fortunately, she wasn't known for smiles). "Just fine Sew- George."

"You doing anything for lunch?"

"Working. I have paperwork."

Sewell frowned. "Aw, come on: You have to eat. It's on me." And then the bastard winked at her.

Oh Jesus, please don't tell me he's hitting on me. I may seriously start dry-heaving.

She fought to keep her smile from faltering. "No, thanks, I really have to get this stuff done." She gestured weakly to the papers on her desk.

"Life's short, Anne." The alarms starting going off in her head again as Sewell proceeded to take a seat on the edge of her desk, setting the tip of the nightstick right on top of the thin stack of papers. His proximity had that unintentionally threatening feel to it, and Anne actually, seriously began to feel a bit nauseous. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, after all; or an axe-wielding psychopath." He chuckled.

Anne sucked in a deep breath. "Well, I'm not Jack, and I procrastinated with my work. So I need to get it done."

"You? Procrastinate?" Handley exclaimed in disbelief. Anne winced inwardly; one thing she wasn't known for was skimping on her work, so perhaps 'procrastinate' was not the best choice of words.

And then Sewell did something that made the alarms turn into blaring, shrieking sirens: He reached forward and pulled on the badge attached to her jacket, twisting it and watching the way the light reflected off it. If he were anyone else, if she didn't have to avoid getting on his bad side at all costs she would have broken his damn wrist for touching her without her permission, however innocuous it was. But then, nothing about Sewell was innocuous.

Be goddamn thankful my father's dead, Sewell. Because if he knew you had your hands on me, he would tear you in half. God knows I'm getting close to it, because if you don't back away from me within the next minute I'm going to-

"Sewell," Handley's voice was stern, but carried the air of someone who had said the same thing about fifty times before. "Please don't invade Cunningham's personal space. I get enough sexual harassment threats about Rose; I don't need any from you."

Sewell laughed, removed his hand from Anne's badge and stood up. She let out a breath, and realized that the hand she had placed on her leg had fingers digging into her knee painfully. "If you're certain, sugar. Let me know if you change your mind."

He winked again, but turned away fast enough that Anne was reasonably certain that he didn't see her mouth twist into a grimace.

Go meet with Benson, please. Please. Have a nice, long conversation so that I can laugh my ass off at you when you get arrested.

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful. Anne saw Sewell as few more times, but didn't converse with him or Benson. The anxiety she felt that day and into the night wasn't so much fear this time as it was anticipation, an eagerness to see if Sewell had spoken to Benson and a sincere hope that they hadn't spoken in the cafeteria or some different spot she wasn't aware of yet. But if the second day was easier, then a third day, a fourth day, a fifth day- those would be easier. Surely it wouldn't take longer than five days to get something out of them.

When she got to work the next morning, Anne gathered the recorders without issue once more; there wasn't even a hint that anyone was nearby when she pulled them from their hiding places, and things could not have gone smoother. And if over the course of that day she was just a touch more fidgety than usual, if she played with her pen or had to constantly occupy her hands in some way, no one seemed to notice.

By the time Anne got to her car, the increasing concern over whether or not she might end up doing this all over again tomorrow had driven her anxiety up to a point where she couldn't wait any longer: Again she found herself listening to the tapes on her drive home, gripping the steering-wheel a little too hard and, on one occasion, almost running a stop-light.

Without fast-forwarding as much this time, the first tape was done by the time she got home. Anne did the same as she had before, sliding the second tape into the recorder even as she climbed the steps to her house. She stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind her and managed to shrug her jacket off without ever having to release the recorder; from there it was straight to the table, where Anne sat down and just listened.

For just over an hour, Anne fast-forwarded through the tapes while listening closely for any sounds of sped-up human voices. There weren't as many instances this time as there had been the previous day, no other officers stopping for a quiet chat or just happening to be talking as they walked by those spots. It was getting towards the end of the tape, and Anne hadn't heard much of substance aside from a prisoner having a personal chat with a guard, something that made Anne slightly uncomfortable to listen to; she neither expected nor wanted to be eavesdropping on someone other than Sewell or Benson, and she felt a little guilty about-

Wait a minute- There, that was a voice she recognized. She paused, rewound and played.

"-king kidding me, jackass?"

Anne froze.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"Don't tell me that you're sorry," Sewell's voice was testy, edging on a growl. "Tell me how you're going to fix it."

"I'll re-box the-" For a minute or so, Anne couldn't clearly hear anything- when she could once more, Sewell was speaking.

"-on this. Jesus Christ, you had better. You have the address?"

"Uh- Silent Hill, Port District, right?"

"357 Cooper Avenue." Sewell said it like he was giving instructions to a four year-old. "It's a big yard full of shipping containers. We're meeting them there at nine- don't be late."

"O-Okay."

"Good. Now just keep your head down and your mouth shut, and-" Sewell's voice drifted away, and Anne assumed that he had led Benson out of the hall. For a moment she sat dazed, listening to the dim sounds of the prison echoing from the tape.

Hearing it gave the situation a whole new level of seriousness. It wasn't just 'I think Sewell's up to something because he's acting suspicious and my dad definitely thought so'; Anne had first-hand proof now. Well- not proof that Sewell and Benson were doing something wrong, but at least it proved that they were up to something.

Something that was happening at nine o' clock- tonight, most likely. Anne looked at the clock: 7:30 PM.

She had a time and a likely date; she could easily go and see what the two of them were up to, who they were meeting and why. Anne couldn't just report any of this, given that it wasn't concrete evidence that law-breaking was going on. But she could follow Sewell, listen to whatever was going on with him and the person he and Benson were meeting, and if the things she heard sufficed, then she could report him.

But it's Silent Hill.

The thought gripped her with an unexpected dread. Anne hadn't anticipated that Silent Hill would factor in at all, and she had no idea that this little venture might actually require her to return to the town. She had been to Silent Hill prior to that shared-nightmare with Murphy, but for obvious reasons her opinion and view of the place had been tainted fairly irreparably.

I committed to this. I committed to this.

It wasn't just about her: It was about putting Sewell away before he could screw someone else's life up like he had hers, Frank's and Murphy's. If she had a chance to take the son of a bitch down, then she had to do it.

If she didn't, who would?

[-]

Anne brought along her Glock, along with as many rounds of ammunition as her belt could hold. On the off-chance that she ended up in the not-so-tourist-y area of Silent Hill again, she wasn't going to be defenseless. And if all else failed, she had the pocket-knife she'd had since college in her pocket as well.

By the time she had prepared herself, left and then arrived at the resort-town, it was eight-thirty. She parked on a street in Pleasant River, hoping and praying that Sewell would not somehow see it and recognize it as belonging to her (Did he know what car she drove? Probably). It was painfully dark out with the days becoming shorter, and the knowledge that she wouldn't be able to see everything as clearly as she would like only provided a new source of anxiety.

God, this is like something out of a procedural crime show. Anne thought as she came upon the yard. It was just the kind of place you might see at the opening of an episode, right before some poor person got blown to kingdom come.

Hopefully, that person would not be her.

It was a ways past the dock that she had caught Murphy trying to escape Silent Hill from, and all the while Anne kept her head down, hands in the pockets of her old gray jacket, and tried to stick to the shadows so that if anyone happened to drive by they wouldn't see her face. It had rained earlier and had just stopped when she had left her house, leaving the streets wet and the air cool.

At first glance, Anne didn't see anyone- of course, if this was some sort of illicit meeting, they wouldn't really be broadcasting their presence, would they? There was a chain-linked fence and gate that allowed access to the yard, and to her surprise it was left wide-open; maybe they didn't have anything worth stealing here, but what about vandalism?

But then, it was Silent Hill. Anne had never lived there, but working at Wayside had put her in direct contact with people who did- people who knew that the lovely and charming little resort town had an ugly, ugly side to it, a side that she was becoming better acquainted with in those meetings with others who had seen the darkest side of Silent Hill. Crime, corruption, disappearances and murder were not unusual here, though you'd never find that on any of the brochures.

The shipping containers that Sewell had mentioned were set fairly neatly in the yard, creating horizontal and vertical paths between them. There were enough of them that Anne actually felt some relief, knowing that she might be able to creep around and eavesdrop without being noticed. Until then, though, she was at something of a loss as to where she should go in the meantime: The more she moved, the more risk there was to drawing attention to herself (especially since the yard was covered in gravel). But not looking around thoroughly could mean missing the meeting altogether, and like hell she was letting that happen.

All right, think: The yard doesn't seem to have any security or night-workers, so they probably won't be worrying about getting caught. If they're not worried about getting caught, they'll be out in the open. Sewell said that they were meeting 'them', meaning more than one, so that makes it even more likely that they're not going to try and cram themselves between the containers to talk.

As Anne crept along the path, she wondered why Sewell had chosen Benson as a partner in crime. The younger man was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a natural criminal, nor did he seem to be a bad person overall. In fact, he looked like the kind of person that might be inclined to crack under the pressure of what he was doing, and Sewell seemed to be adding to it.

God. She sincerely hoped that Benson didn't do anything to piss Sewell off. If he hadn't had a problem arranging the death of a popular guard who had already cast suspicions on him, he probably wouldn't have an issue killing someone as meek and unassuming as Benson.

Anne stopped. At first, she thought it was just a car driving on the street nearby, but then the sound of tires slowing and crunching on the gravel alarmed her. Neither of the paths on either side of her were wide enough to allow a car through, so she was probably safe where she was for the moment. The sound of the car came closer, closer, right nearby, and then passed on. Anne didn't move until she heard it come to a complete stop.

Minding the sound of the gravel, Anne edged along the path to her right until she could see the end of the yard, where there was a large space free of any containers. A dark-blue sedan had pulled into that space, and though it was dark, Anne could see four people emerge from the car and start walking in her direction. There were three containers between her and them, and Anne ducked into the shadows of the closest one to avoid being seen.

"Evening, gentlemen!"

Anne jerked sharply at that voice: It was, unmistakably, Sewell's. And it was not coming from that group of four, which meant that he (and by association, Benson) had been just a few yards away and she hadn't even realized. If it hadn't been for those newcomers, Anne might have walked right out in front of them and been spotted. The idea made her heart pound.

"Mr. Sewell, Mr.-?" The voice was smooth and deep.

"Benson. Don't mind him, he's new."
"And trustworthy?"

Sewell snorted. "You think I'd bring anyone but?"

"I would hope not. You're not stupid." There were some chuckles at that, but they didn't seem to be particularly mirthful. "This is Andrew, Steven and Lee, they-" Anne clenched her teeth in frustration when the wind picked up for a moment and drowned out the words. "-see if maybe they'll enjoy doing business with us in the future. I take it you have the product?"

"Naturally." There was a clicking sound. "Sorry about the packaging, folks, we had a little accident." Sewell's tone became menacing, and though she couldn't see or hear him, Anne knew that Benson was probably shrinking away in fear.

"Frankly, I don't give a damn what it looks like so long as it's quality." A new voice spoke up, higher than the first man's.

"Oh, it's quality. Don't you worry about that."

"George is very good; I've been working with him for years now. He's very loyal." The first man was saying, and Anne wondered if maybe one (or all) of the men had maybe started to look uneasy. Was Sewell wearing his uniform, perhaps? She wouldn't put it past him, especially since it might count as yet another intimidation tactic.

"Don't worry, fellas. I don't bite."

"Yeah, that's good," A third new voice spoke up. "For you, anyway. After all, wouldn't want to go the way of old Officer G, would we?"

Anne had no idea who 'Officer G' was or what had apparently happened to him, but the reference seemed to bother Sewell. "No, no we wouldn't." He said, and his voice was hard, cold. And did she detect a note of nervousness, maybe? Anne wasn't certain that she had ever heard Sewell nervous before- it was something to savor, that the bastard was capable of getting scared.

This was all well and good, because Anne could think of very few things that they could be talking about that were not drugs, but that one man who was doing most of the talking seemed to be pretty savvy at this: He didn't use the other men's last names, and hell, she had no way of knowing if those were their real first names either. If she went to someone later, all she could realistically say was 'I followed Sewell to a shipyard where he had a really-suspicious-probably-drug-related talk with some really-suspicious-men-who-avoided-using-their-last-names, no I didn't see anything, no they didn't use the words 'drugs', arrest them anyway please?'

This was just not going as well as she had hoped.

She had kept herself completely behind the shipping container for the length of the conversation, the last thing she had seen being the shadows of the four men. It was dark, very dark, the only light coming from the moon above- and even then, it was occasionally blocked by remaining rainclouds. Maybe, just maybe, it was safe to try and catch a look: Height, weight, any other potentially distinguishing physical features might be useful in identifying these people later.

Slowly, Anne pushed aside her jacket so that her gun was easier to access in the event that she needed it, and then leaned around the side of the container, eyes trying to focus in the darkness. She could see three distinct figures: One of them, she was certain, was Sewell. His posture was unmistakable, but at the same time, she could actually see that bit of nervousness in it. Whoever that Officer G was, she had a feeling he wasn't around anymore.

The other two shadows were strangers. Benson had to be on Sewell's left, out of view but closer to the devil he knew rather than the devils he didn't, and the third and fourth members of the group weren't visible either. Anne squinted at the two she could see, and the moon was just out enough that she could make out a few features: Both were men; one was about Sewell's height, the other taller; the shorter man had dark hair, the taller had lighter (blonde, from the look of it). Nothing else- they were too far away, and it was too dark. Still, not bad.

"So, exactly how long have you done business with Thomas?" That was another new voice, and it had an accent. Damn it, Anne knew what it was, but it wasn't- Philadelphia! It was a Philadelphian accent, and it was coming from the taller man. It was distinctive enough that Anne might recognize it later on, maybe she could check the Lakeview Hotel and see if maybe there were any records on the guests and where they had come from-

Suddenly, everything happened at once.

Anne saw the shorter man start to turn in her direction, and she quickly withdrew from his line of vision. Unfortunately, she did so with a bit too much energy, and she lost her footing. Anne stumbled and banged into the container- which might not have been so bad otherwise, but recall that she had moved her jacket aside so that her gun was exposed. The metal butt of the gun collided with the metal of the container, and a loud clang sounded, echoing slightly.

Shit!

The voices abruptly disappeared.

Anne immediately reached for her gun.