Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  His comment, like a punch to the solar plexus, left her stunned. She lowered the window for air. She knew Metcalf was right: she had refused to take Perconte to court because she exalted in her ability to personally exact retribution, in her own power, and was determined to make up for her inability to protect Rachel. She didn’t need the courts. She had herself and that was all she needed.

  Finally, she found her voice. “For all my hubris, Metcalf, and, yes, I won’t deny having plenty, you cannot blame me for Ralph Hargrove’s death. It’s not fair and it’s not true.”

  “Did you give Hargrove a second call and tell him to be careful? You’d already talked to him once after you’d seen the old man’s houseboat. Somebody’s looking for something, and you knew Wilcox owned the bookstore. Or did you not want to warn the ‘sweet librarian nerd’? Or maybe you knew he was already dead.”

  Martha lashed out. “Fuck you, Detective. You got anything to back that up, then fucking arrest me. By the time I suspected anyone else might be in danger, I was in your goddamn interrogation cell without so much as a phone. Did you call Ralph and warn him? You took great pride in telling me I was suddenly the owner of commercial real estate in the U District. You knew. It’s why you kept me waiting for almost four hours. You had your busy bees doing your homework. You found Hewitt’s will and pronounced me guilty before you ever stepped into that interrogation room. You had already decided I was after the old man’s money. While I sat there getting grilled by you, someone walked in and killed Ralph Hargrove. Another person is dead because of your arrogance, your misjudgments, Metcalf. Don’t get holier-than-thou with me, you sonofabitch. There’s plenty of guilt to go around. I suggest you—”

  She stopped short. She was shouting at a dial tone.

  How dare he blame Ralph’s death on her.

  Martha slammed the car into gear and darted back onto the street. Her purse tipped over, and the envelope lay exposed. She told herself to call Metcalf back and let him know about the key and the torn postcard. Fuck it. Let the slimy little bastard wait another half hour.

  Maybe she still had some work to do on self-control.

  The street came to a dead end. A left turn led back up the hill to Dexter Avenue, the only way out. At the street end was a mini park, a patch of green about the size of the Carriage House. She backed into a parking spot, providing her a view of the two streets at the corner of the L-turn. She kept the car running, the warm air drying her boots.

  She took the envelope from her purse, studied it, turning it over once. A standard white envelope, five by nine, nothing written on it, front or back. The flap was sealed. The torn postcard of Pete’s Supermarket had been taped to the front. The whole package was the thickness of a single sheet of paper. So much for the lost diaries of Brigham Young or Joseph Smith.

  Martha ran a fingernail along the seal and withdrew a single five-by-seven photo. A photo she knew well: the impromptu group shot taken at Hewitt’s seventy-fifth birthday party—which had doubled as his office retirement party—a dozen years before. Everyone had gathered on the end of the fishing pier next to the Shilshole boat ramp while Hewitt tried out his birthday present—a salmon fishing pole. She flipped the picture over. Nothing. She turned it face up again, studied it from corner to corner. Again, nothing. She rotated the photo in the light. Could you be any more goddamn cryptic, Hewitt? She already had a copy of the photograph, and it hadn’t cost her nearly this much trouble to get it.

  Was the message in the photo itself?

  The Elmer Fudd face of Ralph Hargrove, looking startled by the camera, appeared in the upper right-hand corner. Then, an awkward space between him and the woman to his right, as if he’d had to be coaxed to stand next to her. Martha didn’t know the woman he so studiously avoided, but could find nothing of interest about her. Handsome George Garvey, Hewitt’s lover at the time, was next, a hand resting on Hewitt’s shoulder, a broad smile on his face. Somewhere in his mid-fifties at the time, George was tanned and athletic. For the first time, she noticed his distracted look as he gazed off to the left of the camera. Martha now realized George was just going through the motions. It was shortly after the birthday party that Hewitt discovered his betrayal. It had been the precursor to Hewitt’s first stroke.

  Martha saw herself on the other side of Hewitt in the back row, smiling, eyes half-closed. Her hair was pulled back off her face; she wore a white cotton blouse, a simple necklace. Nothing seemed significant. On her right was Gary . . . Gary . . . Gary Bell. They had met in Hewitt’s class and dated a couple of times before Martha determined he was a colossal bore. He pontificated; she was his audience. He had an opinion on everything and needed no invitation to share. At the end of the second date, he was ready to progress to the next step—sex—and she was ready to use him as orca bait. She told him exactly what she thought of that idea, and him. He’d just shrugged. He had a lot of fish in his pond and wasn’t going to waste time trying to land a small one.

  Martha exhaled. Whatever message Hewitt was trying to send, she doubted it had anything to do with the narcissistic waste of human potential represented by Gary Bell.

  To Gary’s right stood Huey, Dwight, and Louis, or Huey, Dewey, and Louie, as they were known—the très amigos of cultural and historical anthropology, each with successful careers in the field. Dwight’s was the only black face in the photo. Martha wondered if that was significant. If so, she couldn’t fathom why. She still saw Louis on occasion. He lived in Port Angeles and worked as an anthropologist for the Makah Indian Tribe, a position Hewitt had helped him secure. Hewitt had done pro bono work for the tribe for years, but after his heart attack, he had recommended to Duncan Miller, a tribe elder, that Louis take over. That had led to a fulltime job when a hotel developer had unearthed an old Makah village site on the shores of Dungeness Bay. The hotel project had been shut down and Louis hired to work with the excavation team. Sometimes when he got to the city, Louis and Martha would rendezvous for a beer. He usually needed free legal advice, but he always made her laugh, so she thought it was a fair exchange. It had been over a year since they last got together. She knew he had visited Hewitt a couple of times through the years.

  A diminutive Asian woman, Yumi Murasaki, stood in front of Gary Bell. The assistant dean of the Anthropology Department at the time, Dr. Murasaki had died of ovarian cancer shortly after retiring, and Hewitt had asked Martha to attend the funeral with him. A beautiful blonde woman of Nordic heritage knelt directly in front of Martha. Martha tried to remember her name, but all she could come up with was the nickname Bonnie Beer, for her fondness for the same. The department administrative assistant, one Annabel Lewis, who claimed Meriwether Lewis as an ancestor, knelt beside Bonnie and scowled as if she would rather be swallowing hot lead. But, as Martha remembered, she always looked like that.

  Then came two faces that she had completely forgotten about. They were younger, but it was definitely Brownie and Karen from Pete’s Supermarket. Brownie had no more hair then than he did now; Karen had a nice tan. Why would Hewitt give a photo to Brownie to safeguard, when he was in it and probably already had a copy?

  That left only Hewitt in the center of the photo. He was turned sideways and smiled for the camera by looking over his left shoulder. He always reveled in being the center of attention. “Enough about you, let’s talk about me,” he liked to joke—only Martha knew the truth behind the joke. The camera had caught Hewitt mid-laugh. At that moment, everything was about him. Martha remembered few times when Hewitt seemed as happy.

  In the photo, as in real life, he was the perfect Ancient Mariner—long white hair pulled back in a ponytail, white beard neatly combed. In a black turtleneck, he looked the old salt he had been before an interest in crumbling manuscripts and dusty old books replaced his passion for the sea. He was sitting on an impromptu captain’s chair—the back of his research colleague Roger Morey, if Martha remembered correctly. Morey’s face was lost between Bonnie and Annabel. Hewitt leaned back into George, holding
his new fishing pole. Hewitt’s exaggerated pose made it look as if he were trying to land a world-record King salmon. The line, however, dropped slack over the pier railing right about where Martha stood yesterday morning in the pouring rain, waiting for the rendezvous that never happened.

  Martha studied the shadows and hidden corners and backdrop for something significant. Nothing. Okay, so what wasn’t in the photo? What was missing? Might there be a message there? The one glaring omission was the absence of Dr. . . . Dr. something Obbert. Of course. Of course he wasn’t there. He and Hewitt had been fighting at the time—she remembered it had been about the authenticity of a handwritten note from Abraham Lincoln to Stephen Douglas. Obbert insisted it was fake; Hewitt insisted it was authentic. The spat between the two friends had grown into a major battle. It got personal and ugly, especially on Obbert’s part. He accused Hewitt of having less than professional motives. And, at about the time of the birthday party, it had produced a rift between them that had never been restored. Months later, after extensive ink, paper, and handwriting analyses, experts had pronounced the letter authentic.

  Jonathan. That was his name. Jonathan Obbert, the third. He had been censured by the university and resigned as dean of the anthropology program. He had been lucky to keep his job.

  “Oughta sue the bastard for defamation and character assassination,” Hewitt had fumed, even after hearing of Obbert’s fall from grace.

  “Being right and selling the letter for a tidy profit isn’t enough?” Martha asked. “Let it go.”

  “That’s unexpected advice coming from you.”

  The remark stung more than she wanted to reveal.

  Hewitt quickly added, “That was uncalled for and unkind. My deepest apologies, my dear. It’s probably wise counsel. Still, it’s hard.”

  In the end, he had followed her advice.

  She knew the message delivered with the photo couldn’t be about Obbert and his excommunication from the anthropological community. But what was its meaning? Martha looked back at the photo. Hewitt, his laugh frozen in time, still fell back into the arms of Gorgeous George. Ralph still stood off to one side. Huey, Dewey, and Louie still looked relaxed and happy.

  Goddamn it, Hewitt, she muttered, what are you telling me? Why all the secrecy hiding a photo that I already have? Come on, talk to me, dude, talk to me in a language I can understand.

  THIRTEEN

  Martha closed her eyes and heard the rain drum on the top of the Mini Cooper. The car heater began to warm her feet. Damn it, Hewitt, why couldn’t you have written a note on the back of the fucking photo, “Call Annabel” or “The bastard GG has the safe.” She sighed in frustration and her shoulders sagged. She listened to the rain for a minute more, hoping it might calm frayed nerves and the memory of hurt feelings.

  Whether it was for an instant or for several minutes, she didn’t know, but what she was sure of was she had dozed off. Her eyes snapped open and she hurriedly checked all the mirrors. Nothing but wet green grass behind her in the small park and soggy bramble to her left descending to a pewter gray Lake Union below. No Danny Kimble approached to repay the favor of a broken window. When she looked forward, her heart missed a beat. A sky blue Volvo station wagon barreled down the street toward her on a head-on collision course.

  He who flinches first loses, Bertie had taught her. He who flinches first often dies. Martha didn’t flinch.

  She jerked the transmission into drive and punched the accelerator to the floor, the wheel hard right. Tires sprayed gravel, and the Mini Cooper responded like a racecar, shooting up the hill. Even with the quick jump, Martha barely evaded the Volvo. It tried to follow her around the corner, but it bounced up over the curb with a thud and came to a stop.

  But not for long. As the Mini Cooper climbed toward Dexter Avenue, the Swedish tank regained momentum and charged up the hill after her. She turned right, stomped the accelerator and swerved around two cars before the Volvo made the corner.

  She took a deep breath. Thank god she had kept the car running. She had started planning an escape route when another idea hit her. Groping for her phone, she slowed down just a touch, and dialed Metcalf.

  He answered with, “Hey, I’m sorry about hanging up on you. I had an incoming I had to take and . . .”

  “Save the mea culpas, Metcalf,” she interrupted. “Wanna talk to one of the bad guys?”

  The blue Volvo was gaining on her.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got one on my tail right now.” The nose of the Volvo kissed the Mini Cooper before she punched the gas, jumping out of reach. “The bastard just hit me.”

  “Where are you?” Metcalf was talking fast. “I can get squad cars to you in minutes. Tell me where you are.”

  Martha sped down the hill. When she looked up, she said, “Oh, shit. The bridge is up.”

  The spans of the Fremont Bridge stood straight up against the gray sky. A single mast crept toward the opening. Cars were stacking up in all directions. Shit Shit Shit. In a moment the Volvo would again be within striking distance. She spun the wheel. Only when she pulled the car out of the fishtail and got the nose headed back up the hill did she realize she must have closed her eyes.

  The Volvo now zoomed down the hill toward her. As she looked over, she saw a thin face, intense with ferocity, topped by a military haircut. Left handed, he pointed a gun out the window. Oh fuck! She ducked and almost immediately popped her head back up. Everything seemed intact. Either he didn’t shoot or he missed completely.

  “Whitaker, Whitaker!” It was Metcalf’s voice.

  She raised the phone again. “Do you know where the Harbor Patrol offices are on Northlake, by Gas Works Park?”

  A quick peek in the rearview mirror showed the Volvo in the middle of a tight, full-speed U-turn.

  “Of course. Just tell me where you are!”

  She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. “I can lead him on a chase for, say, five minutes. By my clock, it’s two thirty-four. In five minutes, I’m going to pull into the Harbor Patrol parking lot. If he’s not local, he might follow me in. Tell the Harbor Patrol I’m in the dark blue Mini Cooper. The bad guy’s in a sky blue Volvo station wagon. Don’t get them confused. Oh, and they probably should put on their vests. I think he’s already taken one shot at me. Five minutes, Metcalf.”

  She tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat.

  A hard right took her up the steep hill toward Aurora Avenue. At the highway entrance, she squealed her tires and flung gravel with great show, and then eased off the accelerator. She heard a pop and glanced back. She had let him get too close, and a gun poked out of the driver’s window. This time she knew he had taken a shot at her. She swerved just as she heard a second shot. No glass shattered, no tire blew. Swerving in and out of traffic, she crossed the center line and, for a brief moment, stared at three lanes of oncoming traffic. She blew by a slow delivery truck and swerved back before a black Mercedes whooshed by, horn blaring.

  Halfway across the Aurora Bridge, Martha darted across the three lanes, preparing to hop off the highway at the next exit. She glanced at the clock. Only two minutes had gone by. Could she keep this up for three more? She slowed down and cut into the line of traffic exiting the bridge. A van slipped between her and the Volvo. Thank god. The traffic slowed but never stopped. At the first street, Martha turned right and raced down the hill. She skidded through a stop sign, around a corner, and onto Stone Way. Here traffic was heavier and she was forced to slow down, giving the Volvo time to move up behind her. The light at 34th Street was coming up fast. It was red. She looked back and again up. It remained red. The Volvo swung to the right and pulled up beside her in the next lane. The man rested the gun on his left arm and took aim.

  She swerved left into oncoming traffic. A car jumped the curb to get out of her way. She passed the cars waiting at the red light and spun around the corner. She didn’t make it. The car skidded across the slick pavement and smacked nose first into the
curb. The sudden stop brought her full force against her safety belt. She glanced back before her body had completed its whiplash. The Volvo had gone around the stalled traffic on the other side and up onto the sidewalk; a pedestrian lay prone. She jammed the car into reverse. The tires had barely begun spinning when she slammed the transmission back into drive. She bounced over the curb and onto the sidewalk, sparks flying out from under the car. She veered right and pointed the car down the Burke-Gilman Trail.

  Two bikers pedaled directly at Martha, heads down, rain hoods covering their helmets. She blasted the horn. She barely registered their startled faces before they dumped their bikes into the bushes alongside the trail. She sped by, hoping the middle fingers they flashed in response meant they were okay.

  No sign of the Volvo behind her. Then she caught a flash of sky blue in her peripheral vision. The Volvo was on a parallel course on Northlake Way, the two cars separated by twenty yards or so. The Volvo vanished behind a building and Martha slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt. She saw the Volvo flash through another open space and then disappear behind the next building. It never reappeared on the other side.

  She darted a glance at the clock: four minutes had passed. She hoped Metcalf had gotten through to the Harbor Patrol. What kind of crazy idea had this been? A steep bank rose on her left, a brushy ditch descended on her right. There was no turning around. She could back out or drive straight ahead, and she knew the Volvo would be waiting. And that was the direction of the Harbor Patrol. With one foot on the brake, she slowly increased pressure on the accelerator.

  The digital clock flashed the fifth minute. She had the gas fully down before the brake released. She flew down the trail. A prayer to a God she no longer believed in slipped from her lips. The blue Volvo was again in motion. A few hundred yards ahead, the trail converged with the street. Martha drove straight ahead, bouncing off the trail and onto road, nearly T-boning the blue Volvo as she hit the pavement. The driver swerved to avoid the impact. She quickly veered to the right onto a small side road. No sign marked the dead-end road that terminated at the Harbor Patrol. She could only hope that her pursuer didn’t know what waited for him at the other end of their chase. What did wait for them? she wondered. She honked at a white boat of a Buick and bounced through potholes like a skier flying over moguls, the car shuddering with each violent rise and fall, the blue Volvo closing fast.