Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  “I am to be officially accepted into the convent next week,” she said one day in a phone call. LuAnn asked permission to use Rachel’s name. God had chosen that name for her life in Christ. “I would be honored, and Rachel would be, too,” Martha had whispered. While she did not believe, she spoke from the heart when she added, “May you always go with the grace of God for this beautiful gift, Sister Rachel. Thank you.”

  “You can’t let go of anything, can you?” A different time, a different state, and different circumstances. Still Trammell was right—the answer was the same today as it had been then—“No. I can’t.”

  ELEVEN

  For the third time in twenty-four hours, Martha pulled her car into the tiny parking lot at Pete’s Supermarket. Outside, the rain drummed steadily on the roof. She loved the sound of rain, and for a few moments, she sat motionless, listening. And watching. Across the way, barren trees lined the shore and a leafless bramble of blackberry bushes and scrub brush covered the bank. The row of houseboats extended into the lake. Nothing unusual caught her attention.

  Remembering the night Rachel died had made her homesick, and she speed-dialed her father. When he answered, she said, “Hi, Daddy. It’s Marti in Seattle.”

  “Do I know another Marti?” came her father’s familiar response. It had become a joke between them, and it always made her smile. Only tonight, it was a half-hearted smile. He said, “The Weather Channel shows you been getting soaked with something called the Pineapple Express. You got webs growing ’tween your toes yet?”

  A lifetime of cigarettes and drinking had made his voice low and rumbly. To her, it would always be the sound of home. Her voice choked as she tried to laugh. “Not yet.”

  “Well, just be grateful you ain’t home, honey. Colder ‘an a well-digger’s ass here. We ain’t seen the topside of zero in weeks. Lake completely froze over. That don’t happen often.”

  “No, Daddy, it doesn’t. Hey, I’m running into a meeting so I can’t chat, but I just wanted to give you a head’s up. I’m working on a case that’s gotten the attention of the Seattle police and the local media. They may be calling.”

  “Sounds a little more serious than you’re telling.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, but you’d be doing me a big favor if you just told them ‘no comment.’”

  “No comment it is then.”

  “Could you spread the word? I’d appreciate it. I don’t have time to call everyone.”

  “No problemo. Hey, thought you might want to know the tribe is advertising for a lawyer. They’ve got plenty of money these days. Ain’t gonna be what you make in Seattle, but probably pretty good for around here. Sure be good to have you back home.”

  “I’ll check that out, Daddy. But, right now, I gotta run. Late for a meeting.”

  “No comment,” he laughed. “Oh, Marti, no need to send any money this month. I’m swimmin’ in dough.”

  “No comment,” Martha said. “Love you much.” She hung up.

  Every month he told her not to send money because he had plenty. Every month she did anyway because she knew it was a lie. He would be paying off Rachel’s medical expenses until he died. And working for the Chippewa Nation? She shook her head. Not in this lifetime. Still, her father never failed to offer her a chance to return to the Soo—a one-theater town where the long winter was punctuated by snowmobile races and hockey games. She seldom had a conversation with her father that didn’t include the announcement of some fabulous chance to come home.

  Home? She had lived in Seattle longer than she had lived in Sault Ste. Marie. Home didn’t mean the same to the daughter of a career military man. The only house she identified with her youth was Gran’s out on the reservation. Even that had been just a place to land between moves. She always used the word “home” when getting ready for one of her annual visits to the UP. But after a few days there, she felt the urge to return “home” to Beatrice and the Carriage House. Hewitt always laughed that when he agreed to cover part of the down payment, he didn’t know he was helping her buy a garage. But the big house was just an investment. Home was the Carriage House with its smell of cedar trees and salt breezes, with its small spaces perfect for a single woman and her cat. If your heart was in two places, did that mean you were home in both? Or home in neither?

  She pushed the car door open and splashed through the cold rain to Pete’s.

  She had the store to herself. A few premade sandwiches and salads remained in the deli case. The sight of food made her realize she was starving. She settled on a spicy tuna roll, a mixed green salad, and a bottle of water.

  At the checkout stand, a woman with a perfect tan and blond-streaked hair looked up from her paperwork. “Thanks for swimming into Pete’s,” she said, and then laughed at her own joke. A nametag identified her as Karen. “Did you find everything? We’re having a special today on snorkels and fins.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Martha smiled. “Say, yesterday, I stopped by and bought a bottle of wine and talked to one of the workers about it. Brownie. Short, bald, mid-fifties or so. I was wondering if he might be in today.”

  “Maybe I can help you,” the woman said. Her voice dropped an octave, her back straightened. “I do the wine purchasing.”

  For the first time, Martha realized she didn’t know what had happened to the 1996 Ruffino Chianti Riserva. She had set it down someplace in the trashed houseboat and forgotten to take it with her after the police arrived. Metcalf probably drank it for dinner last night. What a waste of a good wine.

  “No, it was a great vintage,” Martha lied. “I just wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed it. It was the perfect recommendation.”

  “You hear that, Brownie,” the woman yelled. A bald head popped around the corner from the produce section. “The lady liked your wine recommendation yesterday. There’s hope for you yet.”

  Before Brownie could give away the fact that he had nothing to do with her wine selection, Martha asked, “Do you have a moment?”

  He came around the corner. The cargo pockets of his khaki shorts bulged with cut strings. He dried his hands on the hem of a green Pete’s sweatshirt. “Sure.”

  “She thought you were in your mid-fifties,” Karen added, with another of her giggly laughs. “I keep telling you, you should just shave your head completely.”

  Brownie ignored her as he and Martha walked down the produce aisle toward the racks of wine.

  “I’m so sorry!” Martha said. “No disrespect intended.”

  “None taken,” Brownie said, waving it off. “When you’re bald at twenty-five, you get used to people thinking you’re older than you are. Besides, I’ll be forty-seven in a month.”

  “How embarrassing. I mean, for me, not about turning forty-seven.”

  “It’s fine. It’ll give Karen something new to tease me about, and she always needs something.” He stopped in front of the racks of wines lining the back wall and cocked his head up at her, then faced the featured wine specials. “How can I help you?” he said.

  Martha glanced at Karen, who was busy with a customer. She pulled the torn postcard from her purse. “Yesterday, you wanted to know if I was interested in a postcard of Pete’s. I thought it was a little odd, but now I’m wondering if you might have seen the other half of this.” He studied the card, as though looking at the Dead Sea Scrolls. She whispered, “Hewitt left it for me. He didn’t tell me where the other half was, but I’m thinking you might know.”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said finally. “Come with me.”

  In the small back office, Brownie perched on the edge of the desk chair. Martha remained standing.

  “You know, when Hewitt bought that postcard, he only wanted to pay for half. Said it was all he was going to use. Classic Hewitt.” An attempted laugh was choked short. His hands trembled slightly before he steadied them by working the underside of the desk drawer. He pulled out a five-by-nine envelope. A torn half of a postcard was taped where a person might write an address on the envelope.
“Hewitt said to give this to anyone who came with the other half. He thought it would be a tall woman with one blue eye and one brown eye. We met before, at Hewitt’s seventy-fifth birthday party many years ago, but you probably don’t remember.”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. But I’ve seen you here many time over the years.”

  “It was a long time ago.” Brownie pointed at her half of the postcard. “Seemed straight out of a spy movie. I almost mentioned it yesterday, but you didn’t say a word, and he insisted the person had to have the other half of the postcard.” He paused. “Have they found him yet?”

  “Not yet,” Martha aligned her postcard to the edge of the one taped to the envelope. A perfect fit. So, the key, the torn postcard hidden behind the fake light switch had been a message for her. It took all her restraint not to tear the envelope open on the spot.

  “It’s horrible what they did to his boat,” Brownie said. He stared at the envelope, but she made no attempt to open it. He continued, “I mean, we’re a pretty tight community down here. It’s hard not knowing what happened. We all feel a little more vulnerable. We’re worried about Hewitt. We heard they found his van out at Shilshole.”

  “Yeah,” Martha nodded. “I know. Listen, you said yesterday you helped him with a package. Do you remember what it was? Or where he was sending it?”

  “He wasn’t sending it,” Brownie said. “That’s the thing. It was something wrapped in brown butcher’s paper, about the size of a book. Since his last stroke, he’s had trouble with his one arm. We placed it in a Ziploc, gallon size, I remember, then sealed it with duct tape. He couldn’t manage the tape, so I did it for him. Sealed it, and then we wrapped it all again in a jumbo Ziploc.”

  “Like he was waterproofing the package?”

  “Sure seemed like it.”

  “But you don’t know where he took it?”

  “No, he was all secretive about it. Said it would only get me into trouble.”

  “He was right. How did he seem to you? I mean, happy, sad, nervous, excited?”

  “In a hurry. Like he couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Usually, he’s full of stories. You know,” and his voice dropped an octave, “‘You think this is rain? Why there was a time we were rounding Cape Horn in a rain so heavy fish would just swim past us on the deck. Caught enough in my hat to feed the whole crew.'”

  Martha nodded. “Yeah, I know. ‘Fish couldn’t tell the difference between sea and sky.’” Their smiles quickly faded. “Did Hewitt do anything unusual? You know, jump when the doorbell jingled or someone walked by the office door?”

  “He made me close the door. He was all hush-hush. And, he did say something strange. ‘Now I’ve taken them over the brink and there’s no coming back.’” He added, “I had no idea what he was talking about, and I didn’t ask. Now I wish I had. Who’s ‘them’?” He looked up at her. “Do you think he’s . . . do you think he’s dead?”

  “Yes. I don’t know. There’s a good chance anyway. But until they find a body, I’m working on the assumption that he’s not.”

  “Anything I can do to help? Everyone’s on edge right now. Worried about Hewitt but also a little scared. I always liked the old guy. We don’t get enough characters in life. He was one of them. A friend and a neighbor.”

  “Thanks, Brownie,” she said. “You’ve already been a big help. Hewitt was right. This has gotten dangerous, a lot more dangerous maybe than he expected.”

  Brownie stood up. Relieved or disappointed, she couldn’t tell. He extended his hand. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?” They shook.

  Martha let go of his hand. Would he make the same offer if he had just had to identify Ralph Hargrove with his penis stuff into his mouth or had been the one clubbed over the head last night? Who knew why one person runs and another stands and fights—why Rachel had allowed rape to undermine the value of living while Martha had turned it into the white-hot focal point of her soul?

  And what would Hewitt do?

  TWELVE

  Martha slid back into her car and immediately relocked the door, the memory of disarming Danny Kimble still fresh in her mind. She didn’t need Kimble or any of his friends performing the same stunt on her. She scanned the area and checked all the mirrors. One of her masters, a diminutive Scot named Bertie Wallace, had emphasized that one moment may be all you ever get to subdue a worthy adversary. Don’t flinch. Don’t miss the opportunity. You may not have another.

  Now, she added her own axiom to Bertie’s: You may not live to have a second.

  The Mini Cooper sloshed its way through a huge puddle without stalling, and soon she was shooting up the hill toward Eastlake. At the last minute, she decided to head around the south end of Lake Union and turned right on Eastlake. She studied the cars, front and back, making a mental note of each. Nothing obvious caught her attention. Through the Mercer Mess, Seattle’s finest example of urban gridlock, traffic crept along at a glacial pace. Only a blue Volvo station wagon still hung behind her from her entry onto Eastlake. The Volvo tank could maybe run her off the road, but it would never keep up with the Mini Cooper in a chase through the backstreets of Fremont or Queen Anne. Stalled in traffic, she scanned the mirrors, vulnerable to a surprise attack on foot.

  God, I’m paranoid, she thought. Then remembered Danny Kimble’s gun had the safety off. She scanned the surrounding cars and checked her mirrors again.

  At Dexter Avenue, she took a sharp right without signaling, which prompted the man in the blue Volvo to honk his horn and thrust an arm at her in the universal salute between drivers, but he continued straight. She drove north, cruising with the slower traffic in the right lane. Her iPhone chimed. Metcalf. She considered ignoring it. In time, she said, “Martha Whitaker.”

  “Metcalf,” he said without preamble.

  “Yes?” She pulled onto a side street and brought the car to a halt.

  “We found the car that was tailing you this morning,” he said. “A rental. It was backed into a corner in a parking garage at Sea-Tac. Driver’s window busted in. I’ve got a team going down there now to see if they can lift some prints or find anything else.”

  The obvious response remained unsaid. Instead, Martha said, “Thanks for letting me know, Detective.”

  “It was rented to a guy who called himself Danny Kimble. Had a Utah driver’s license to match, home address in Salt Lake City. Danny Kimble turns out to be a police officer there. Only thing is, Danny Kimble’s a desk jockey dealing with traffic violations. And he’s fifty-six years old.”

  She refrained from saying he didn’t fit the description of the young man who had tailed her.

  “There’s no record of a Danny Kimble getting on a plane today. He might be flying under a different name, he might still be in town.” Metcalf paused. “This doesn’t change things, you know. I sent the gun to ballistics to see if we get a match to last night’s shooting in Ballard.”

  “Of course it changes things,” Martha replied. A car came down the street behind her. With cars parked along both curbs, there was no room for it to get by. So she started moving again. “Otherwise, why call me? It’s another Salt Lake City connection. And the more elaborate the hoax gets, the more likely I’m just telling you the truth.”

  “What Salt Lake City connections?” Metcalf asked.

  “Jesus, Metcalf,” she snapped. “The Mormons.”

  “That’s stretching it,” he said. “You’ve maybe moved down a couple of notches on my top ten list, but don’t think you’ve fallen off it. I know you’re up to something, you and that Trammell guy. Maybe you should tell me what it is.”

  “It’s simple,” Martha said. “We’re trying to find Hewitt or find out what happened to him. Am I wrong to assume we share the same objective?”

  “I haven’t seen either of you in your dive gear yet. That’s where you’re going to find him. Question is, did he go in on his own, or did someone help him? Who trashed his house and why? Who killed Ralph Hargrove and why? Am I
investigating one murder or two? If you know anything about any of this, you need to tell me.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, why did you instruct your father to say ‘no comment’? What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’m shielding the people whom I care about from your personal vendetta against me.”

  “It’s not personal, Whitaker, that’s what you don’t seem to get. I don’t give a frack about you, but I do about the truth. Who dumped Hewitt Wilcox in the water? Who killed Ralph Hargrove? I can and will subpoena your father if I think he can help me answer either of those questions.”

  “What’s he going to tell you?”

  “Well, he seemed to have had no qualms about telling the police about your brother’s meth lab. Turned him in, in fact. Sounds like the kind of fine upstanding American I might want to have a chat with. Might know something about his little girl’s finances, or maybe he wonders why she’s got an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands. Could be he’s concerned about her anger management problem. Maybe his version of your run-in with Gabriel Perconte is different from the one in the court documents. I mean, come on, a starting linebacker for a Pac-12 school misses six games because he got beat up by a girl? Your father might have some interesting stories to tell.”

  Her voice turned low. “Then fucking subpoena him, Metcalf. Subpoena me, while you’re at it. You, of all people, shouldn’t find it hard to believe that Gabriel Perconte got his ass kicked by a girl who didn’t want to get raped, especially if that girl was me.”

  “Pretty taken with yourself, aren’t you, Whitaker? Well, maybe you’d like to visit Mr. Perconte. He’s up in Monroe at the high-security lock-up with some of our other finest citizens. A Bellingham student nurse didn’t care for being assaulted with intent to rape, either. But here’s the difference. She was willing to testify. She was willing to help us put him away. But you? You had to play vigilante, even if it meant more people got hurt. Look what that got Ralph Hargrove.”