Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  “How Christian of him,” Martha said. “Ethnic cleansing right here at home.”

  Trammell nodded. “If you don’t think like us, look like us, or worship like us . . .”

  “But what made Hewitt, or you, for that matter, think the letter’s authentic? Remember the Salamander Letter? And the Hofmann forgeries back in the ’80s? Hewitt taught them in class. Wasn’t he part of the FBI investigation that eventually caught up with Hofmann?”

  “That’s what I mean. Hewitt knew what he was about. That’s why I think this is authentic. Why else would he bring it to me? Ever since the Hofmann forgery, the church has gone to outside experts to authenticate new discoveries. Hewitt was one. And there have been a ton of documents presented to the church in recent years. When people heard how much the church was willing to pay for them, everyone with an ounce of Mormon blood started tearing apart family Bibles and dusting off old trunks in the attic. Hewitt said most of it was authentic but insignificant. Settlers concerned about crops and weather. Mothers writing families back East with news. But . . .”

  “But amongst the swine, a pearl.”

  “Exactly.” He slapped the table.

  For the first time, Martha had a glimpse of how Hewitt had augmented his meager pension. Metcalf had found his assets, but he wouldn’t find much cash. Too many years as an adjunct instructor at the U had left his retirement small, while his moorage was high. Sleepless in Seattle had ensured that. She hesitated. She still hadn’t given up hope that Hewitt might turn up. Maybe in an out-of-the-way motel frequented by hustlers and prostitutes, where no one would ask questions of an old man behind closed curtains. But if Hewitt was hiding, why hadn’t he called again? Her heart sank at the thought Trammell might be right. Had the Avenging Angels caught up with Hewitt?

  “Do you think the church is involved here? That they have some idea about the letter implicating Joseph Smith in the murder attempt on Governor—what’d you say his name was—Boggs?”

  “Exactly,” Trammell repeated.

  “But Joseph Smith didn’t even write the letter,” Martha said. “How do we know this Samson guy was actually speaking for Smith? It’s circumstantial evidence. Remember Henry II saying about Thomas Beckett, ‘will someone rid me of this meddlesome priest’? He said it in frustration, not as an order to go murder the guy. Beckett ended up with his brains spilled across the cathedral floor because some stupid knight misunderstood the king.”

  Trammell’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Hewitt showed me one letter, but he said there was more. He wanted to know if I was interested. And how do you explain what happened? Hewitt’s houseboat ransacked, his car in the water? He goes missing? I think we’re getting a new kind of authenticating here. From the Church. They have no trouble deflecting rumors and innuendoes, so something more is happening.”

  Martha nodded slowly and stared into the fire. She had always figured Mormon death squads were lies and exaggerations spread by the disenfranchised and the disillusioned. Then she remembered the two Mormon missionaries on the dock that morning. One had stood back away from the door, talking on a cell phone. Had they been watching the house? What if they weren’t missionaries at all?

  “Two guys stopped at the houseboat this morning,” she said. “Crew cuts, white shirts, black ties, black rain coats. The whole bit. When one of them said they were from the LDS, I just slammed the door in his face.”

  Trammell remained silent for a moment. Then he said, “Who knows? Doubt they’d come knocking politely at the door if they hadn’t found what they were looking for the night before. Unless you surprised them and they’d intended to enter on their own and keep looking.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. Why would they go after the guy they hired to authenticate the letter?”

  “Not because he authenticated the letter—because he was going public with it. Don’t you get it? Smith is their founder. It’s like the Catholic hierarchy discovering that Jesus was in on a plot to kill Pontius Pilate. Can you imagine what they’d do to keep that out of the headlines?” He paused. “Do you have any idea how big it would be if I broke the story linking the LDS with the long-rumored death squad? The little Ballard Gazette? This is a journalist’s dream.” Trammell leaned forward, his long, lean frame perched on the edge of his chair.

  Martha looked away in disgust. What about helping an old friend and professor? Trammell was just in it for himself. As if he knew—and didn’t care—that Hewitt was already dead. Maybe he was, but until she knew for certain, all she could think of was that he was in trouble, not some journalistic coup. Maybe kidnapped, tortured. She fingered Hewitt’s mystery bundle in her pocket. “Does anyone know Hewitt approached you with the letter?”

  “No idea. I mean, other than Mac.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Years. We started the paper together.”

  “He’s not a lapsed Mormon or a secret Death Angel?”

  “If he is, he’s hidden it well through the years.”

  Martha and Trammell stared at each other. She said, “They’re still looking for whatever documents Hewitt had. And if your theory is correct, they think we have them.”

  SIX

  It was a day without end. Back in the cocoon of her Mini Cooper, Trammell sitting quietly in the passenger’s seat, Martha suddenly felt detached from the events of the day. The shock tunneled away like she had just left a movie starring herself. The slow-flowing traffic lulled her into a false sense of normalcy. The wipers thwacked a steady rhythm against the steady rain. On Ballard Avenue, she pulled into an empty spot along the curb, killed the engine, and doused the lights.

  She reached out and touched Trammell’s hand before he could open the car door. “Let’s sit a minute.”

  She tried to focus, to figure out whether or not to tell Trammell about the key, to make sense of all that had happened in the past twelve hours, but fatigue muddled her mind. Pieces didn’t fit together, information was missing. Hewitt had obviously left the key for her to find, but so far, it wasn’t unlocking anything. He knew she would hoist the responsibility of figuring it out on her shoulders and carry it around like Atlas until the world came to an end, heir or not. That she might be heir to his estate only added to her confusion. It was like trying to put a puzzle together with a blindfold on. Rolling her aching shoulders, she yawned and sat up straight. She squinted through the windshield at the old brick building to the right. One more sign of Ballard’s gentrification—the marine alternator repair shop was now a “Guitar Emporium, Fine Stringed Instruments.” The store was dark, but below it lights from the basement windows reflected off the wet sidewalk in silver arcs that coruscated with the rain. A sign with the words Ballard Gazette had an arrow pointing toward the basement.

  Trammell glanced at her. “Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”

  “Being paranoid is the best way to stay safe.” Her eyes continued to sweep the night. “People get tired, they get careless. That’s when an attack comes. Creeps don’t usually send an invitation.”

  “You’ll have to tell me sometime how you seem to know so much about creeps.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Trammell was quiet for a moment. “Do you think Hewitt is still alive?”

  Finally. A hint of sadness in his voice. He sat staring straight ahead, darkness hiding his expression. “No,” she said quietly. “I don’t think so . . . but what I think and what I know are two different things. Right now, I’m proceeding like he’s alive and in trouble.”

  “If they’re still looking for something, why would they kill him?”

  “Good question.” A movement at the basement windows caught her attention. “I just saw a shadow move across the light in your office.”

  “Mac’s supposed to meet me here. We’re on deadline.”

  In an instant, all the windows went black. Darkness swallowed the pools of light on the sidewalk.

  “Whoa.” Trammell already had the door half open. “Those lights are
on different switches. That had to be the breaker.”

  Tall and athletic, Trammell covered the distance between the car and the stairwell in half a dozen strides. As he started down the steps, he turned back. Martha was on the sidewalk, following him. “There’s a back door,” he whispered, pointing. “You’ll see the garbage cans. Be careful.” He disappeared.

  “Don’t go . . .” But her words echoed off the empty space. She turned and sprinted toward the back of the Guitar Emporium. The rain-slick sidewalk went downhill. Martha swung wide around the corner as Jonesy had taught her. It was deserted. Then gunfire split the silence in two. She stopped short, slipped, and fell hard to one knee. Adrenaline launched her back to her feet in a single motion. She skidded to a halt at the edge of the alley behind the building. The gunshot had come from inside the building. She glanced around the corner and pulled back. No one in sight. She waited, then inched around the corner toward the garbage bins. A second gunshot, this one closer. She needed to get to the door.

  She hadn’t taken three steps when a shadow appeared from the door well. Black ski mask, gloves, and clothing reflected no light. All she could discern was a flip of hair extending below the mask. That and the gun that he swung from point to point with a two-handed grip. No extra motion, no sign of hurry, just deadly efficiency. A professional. He leveled the gun at her. She ducked behind the garbage bin as the crack crack of two shots blasted the brick wall behind her. Shards of brick and mortar cascaded onto her head. She rolled through a puddle to the recycling bin and came up in a crouch, ready to spring with the next shot. None came. Long seconds passed. Silence. She peered around the bin. The shadow was gone. She quickly scanned the back of the building. When the lights blinked back on, she was instantly blinded.

  And her backlit silhouette made a perfect target. She dove for the door well, slipped through the open door, pulled it softly shut, and threw the dead bolt. It locked with a satisfying click. She wasn’t about to give the shadow an opportunity to double back and surprise her from behind. What she didn’t know was if he had a friend inside. Lights or no.

  She was in some kind of supply room. She crept past metal shelves with reams of paper, toner cartridges, and old computer monitors, an old water-stained carpet muffling her steps. A door was ajar, a slit of light shining through. She dropped to her stomach. People seldom looked low when holding a gun.

  A swift glance into the next room revealed neither a second gunman nor gunfire. All she saw was Trammell crouched over MacAuliffe who was lying prone, not moving, eyes closed, blood covering one side of his face. Relief swept through her when she saw the faint rise and fall of his back. She sprang up and rushed to join them.

  “Is there anyone else?” she asked, her eyes darting from corner to corner. Partitions and half-walls blocked too much area for her to be certain the room was safe.

  “I don’t know,” Trammell whispered. He looked up nervously. “Molly and Benji. I don’t know where they are.”

  Martha punched 911 on her phone and handed it to Trammell. “It’s the police. Give them the address and stay on the line. Who’re Molly and Benji?”

  “They work for me. They should have been here, too.” Then he was talking to the 911 operator.

  Martha dropped down beside MacAuliffe. The blood flowing into his beard was from a scalp wound on the side of his head, a ragged tear in the skin. She rolled him onto his back; his ashen face now stared straight up. She patted him down and found no other wounds. The gunshots must have missed him. She hated to think of Molly and Benji. MacAuliffe took another breath, this time accompanied by a groan.

  “He’s not shot,” Martha said. Trammell relayed the message to the police. “It looks like he got busted over the head. We’ll need an ambulance.”

  Trammell nodded and conveyed that to the operator. “One person hurt. Maybe others.”

  Staying low and moving quickly, Martha swept through the room, rounding each corner and partition with caution, ready to strike without hesitation. A desk had been searched, papers scattered about, drawers pulled out and left open. The monitor showed a Word document frozen on the screen. She moved on.

  In the bathroom, she was met with wide-eyed fear. Molly and Benji sat on the floor, bound back to back beside an industrial sink, a broom and mop beside them. Their panic increased until she began stripping the duct tape off their mouths, reassuring them that the police would be there shortly. Under the duct tape, each of them had had a rag stuffed into their mouths. She removed the rags, and asked, “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay,” Benji said, his voice hoarse, defiant.

  “Fuck no!” Molly screamed. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” Her tightly curled auburn hair shook. “That bastard had a gun! What about Mac? Is he alright? Is he dead?”

  “He’ll be okay. Are you shot, hurt?” Martha asked.

  “No! But I could’ve been! ”

  Martha nodded and glanced at the duct tape that held their feet together. No point telling Molly just how lucky she was. No point trying to get her to stop screaming either. Zip ties bound their hands and bound the two of them to each other. Someone hadn’t expected to find two people waiting for him. He only brought enough zip ties for one. She had no way of cutting them.

  “The police will be here soon.” Martha said. “Your hands aren’t turning blue. He may have left a fingerprint or something on the duct tape. You’ll be fine. Just hang on.”

  She left them bound in the bathroom, Molly still screaming. Martha ignored her.

  Back in the office, Martha found MacAuliffe sitting on the floor against the wall, his eyes closed. Trammell knelt beside him, kneading his hands, as if to get the blood going. Steadying him with quiet talk. His head whipped around when she came back.

  “They’re okay,” Martha said, “Molly and Benji. They’re in the bathroom.”

  “You left them there? Molly’s screaming her head off.”

  “They’re tied up, but they’re not hurt. The police’ll want to check for prints.”

  “You left them tied up in the bathroom? Fuck the police.”

  Trammell’s lanky frame uncurled like an erector set come to life and he strode away.

  Sirens screamed in the distance. Martha dropped to one knee and took MacAuliffe’s hand, laying a finger against his wrist. His pulse was faint but steady. She found a tissue on the desk and began wiping blood off his face.

  His eyes opened and shut again almost immediately. “You?”

  Martha wasn’t sure if it was a question or an accusation. Her voice quiet, she asked, “You okay? No, of course not. Stupid question.”

  “Once wasn’t enough for you tonight?” His tongue flicked out and lingered on the blood that covered his lips.

  “Don’t. Let me get you cleaned up a little. There’s blood everywhere.” She gave his hand a squeeze and tried to lighten her voice. “This time, it wasn’t me. I’m not that messy.”

  A brief smile was immediately replaced with a grimace. “What’d they hit me with, a falling crane?”

  “Nah, probably a gun. You’re lucky twice tonight. He could have shot you instead.”

  “Tell my head that in the morning. Oh, Jesus, that hurts.”

  “Sorry. Just trying to clean it up a bit. It’ll be like a bad hangover.”

  “Yeah, but without the pleasure of getting drunk first.” She smiled, while pressing gently to stop the flow of blood.

  Flashing lights suddenly filled the half-windows. Seconds later, two police officers stormed into the office, vests on, guns drawn, moving in a fill-and-protect pattern, one leading, one covering. “Hands up,” they commanded. Martha and MacAuliffe raised their hands. MacAuliffe’s hands didn’t go very high, but they were up, visible and empty. One officer paused beside them. Short and squat, she stooped to assess the seriousness of MacAuliffe’s injuries. Speaking into a shoulder mic, she requested an ambulance.

  “Anyone else here?” the officer asked.

  “Three in the women’s bathroom,” Martha
said. “A woman and two men.”

  “Injuries?”

  “None.”

  The woman nodded to her partner and some silent communication flicked between them. The man took the lead. The woman had taken her first step when her radio crackled. Both officers immediately came to a halt. She responded, “Initial entry is clean. Two people, one injured. Request backup. Continuing sweep.”

  With that, the two officers began moving again through the building.

  “The others?” MacAuliffe managed. He shifted, sitting a little straighter against the wall.

  “They’re okay. Molly and Benji were tied up in the bathroom, but they’re not hurt.” Martha daubed at the wound again and wiped more blood off his face, focusing on his right eye and the right side of his mouth. She grabbed more tissue. “What happened?”

  “I stopped for sushi on the way in.” He paused, shut his eyes tight, and grimaced. “The door was unlocked. I called out. No one answered. I assumed . . . they had gone out to eat. Benji’s not good about remembering to lock up. I was working at my desk . . . final edit on a story. Went back to the fridge for a beer. We keep it in the storeroom. Opened the door. Lights went out. . . . Last thing I remember.”

  MacAuliffe closed his eyes and groaned. His skin was ashen. He was going to hurt tomorrow.

  “Which means someone was wearing night goggles or they wouldn’t have been able to see you well enough to clobber you on the head,” Martha said.

  “Probably not your everyday burglary.”

  “Probably not.”

  Two more of Seattle’s finest arrived with guns at the ready, eyes and hands working in unison, snapping from point to point. Dark vests covered their torsos. Martha and MacAuliffe raised their hands again. One officer scanned the entire perimeter, stepped back to the door and flashed a thumbs-up. Two paramedics hustled through the front door, one carrying a large medical kit. He hurried over to MacAuliffe.

  Martha eased to one side. She was about to step back into the supply room when, supported by Trammell, Molly entered the room and caught sight of the bloody MacAuliffe. Rushing toward him, she dropped to her knees. “Oh, Mac,” she wailed, “oh, my dear Mac. God, he’s been shot. Someone do something.”