Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  Ahead, she saw the one-story white Harbor Patrol outstation and a squad car along with several civilian vehicles. She glanced back; the Volvo showed no signs of stopping. Christ, there wasn’t a single cop in sight. Oh, you sonofabitch, Metcalf. Out of road, she slammed on the brakes and dove out of the car before it stopped rocking back and forth.

  The Volvo was right behind her, barely missing the Mini Cooper as it skidded to a stop. The head with a military hairdo appeared, followed by a gun, followed by his hands and arms. He had barely cleared the door when he yelled, “On this glorious day the Almighty has chosen me to be the hammer to slay His enemies! I am the hammer and may God be my anvil!”

  Martha ducked behind the Mini Cooper as the first two bullets thumped into the side of the car. She rolled through a puddle, ready to move again, wondering where to run.

  “Police. Drop the gun,” came another voice. Two officers stepped out from the brush on the far side of the driveway, guns readied. Behind her, another two stepped from the doorway. Two shots rang out and the man staggered briefly but righted himself. He snapped off a shot. A police officer went down, the second dove to the side. The shooter’s attention returned to Martha. She rolled over the hood of the last car in the row and dropped to the far side. More shots cracked around her.

  “No earthly power will stop God’s chosen!” she heard him shout.

  “Vest,” shouted another voice. “He’s wearing a vest!”

  She sprinted for the corner of the office building, only to discover the building extended out over the water. Wood siding splintered high over her head from a wild shot. In one stride, she crossed the dock and dove headfirst into Lake Union.

  Silence. And a cold so harsh and sudden it took her breath away.

  A bullet zipped through the water a foot to her right. Still she swam. She had noticed a patrol boat moored at the dock right before she dove. She prayed she could reach it before she needed to breathe.

  The hull appeared overhead, black against the gray surface. The silence of the water was replaced with the sound of blood pounding through her brain. One, two, three more strokes. Martha surfaced on the far side of the hull, gasping for air. The gunfire had ceased. She expected to see the Hammer of God striding down the dock and prepared to dive again. She had been cold before. This was superficial cold, not the mind-numbing hypothermic cold that would follow in a few minutes. She could ignore it. She dove just as she heard her name.

  She surfaced a second time. She heard Metcalf calling, “Whitaker! Damn it, lieutenant, get someone in dive gear, now. Whitaker!”

  “I’m okay,” she called. It came out weak, through a mouth half full of water. She kicked hard and her head rose well above the surface. This time she yelled, “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

  “Where are you, Whitaker? It’s Metcalf.”

  She pushed off from a piling back into open water and waved. “Here! Right here.”

  She struggled to keep her head above water. The weight of her clothes dragged her down, and the bone-numbing cold overrode the signals from her brain to her legs to kick harder. Metcalf and a uniformed officer sprinted down the dock, holstering guns as they ran. Metcalf thrust his arms into the water and grabbed her extended hand. The second officer grasped her other hand, and together they hauled her out and plopped her onto the dock.

  Martha curled into a ball, folding her arms around herself, clutching her elbows tight against the trembling. Something broke loose and spun away inside her, leaving her sick with a nameless fear. Oh Lord, she murmured silently. A plea, but not a prayer.

  FOURTEEN

  Officers hovered around Martha as if she had been the one shot. She was dressed in the blues of a Seattle police officer. The pants were too tight in the hips and too short in the legs, but it beat sitting around in the Harbor Patrol office in dripping jeans and a soaked cashmere sweater. She pulled the blanket draped over her shoulders tight around her chest. A cup of coffee warmed her hands and her insides. It was fresh and brewed strong.

  One ambulance had already come and gone, rushing a wounded officer to Harborview Hospital. A slug, missing his protective vest by millimeters, had blown out his shoulder. There was no hurry for the second ambulance that sat parked in the driveway, its lights and engine off. The Hammer of God lay beside the Volvo, his blood washing away in the driven rain. A bullet to his left temple had ended any chance of getting information from him.

  From the bits and pieces that she overhead and what little Metcalf told her, she was able to fit together what happened. The Hammer of God had staggered from repeated shots that found their target but had not brought him down. Taking the body shots had caused more than one of his shots to go wide. Twice he returned fire with the police and then immediately refocused on her. When she disappeared underwater, he had jumped back into the Volvo. He had shot out the tires of the patrol car and had the Volvo in gear when the bullet that killed him found its mark. He was dead by the time the car crashed into the side of the Harbor Patrol office. No one knew who fired the fatal shot. For officers more accustomed to being boat jockeys than a SWAT team, it was probably better that way.

  When they rolled him out of the car, it was clear how he had withstood the fusillade of bullets. Under his black leather jacket, the Hammer of God wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest. He was wearing bulletproof body armor. It caused quite a stir among the officers. They paused to stare at it, more interested in the armor than in the dead man who wore it. Probably carbon fiber, they agreed, lightweight but immensely strong. In a design taken from the knights of old and updated with modern materials, overlapping panels at the shoulders, waist, and hips acted like hinges and extended the protection over his groin and upper arms. It would have been the envy of any police unit in the country. If they had access to it, which they didn’t. This kind of body armor was available only to the elite units of the military. The Hammer of God had been very well connected.

  They found no ID on the body, none in the car.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Martha assured the Harbor Patrol officer who sat down beside her. He nodded. It was the same man who, with Metcalf, had pulled her from the lake. His leathery face was creased from sun and wind. He wore a blue stocking cap; his police jacket was soaked through from rain.

  “Is Lieutenant Lolich here?” Martha asked, glancing around.

  “No, he’s not, ma’am. His wife is ill, and he’s taken a few days off. I’m Lieutenant Frank Lane. I’m in command today.”

  “I’d like to thank you and your officers for saving my life.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m proud of the way my men responded. Lucky we had a patrol boat in, or the outcome might have been different. I’m glad you’re not injured.”

  “How many of your men were hurt?”

  “One shoulder wound. He’ll survive, if the good Lord and the fine doctors at Harborview have their way.” The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his creased mouth. “And one busted ego. One of my younger officers took a shot to the chest. His vest did its job, but the impact knocked him flat on his back. The shooting match was over before he realized what had happened. It won’t be something he lives down any time soon.” The man paused. Intense blue eyes stared at her without flinching. “But the real question is, what did you do to warrant the attention of a psycho wearing body armor no one has seen outside of the Middle East?”

  “I’d like to know the answer to that myself.” It was Metcalf, in a borrowed blue police shirt, untucked at the waist. He pulled up a chair.

  “I wish I knew,” Martha said. “Somebody thinks I know more about what Hewitt was doing than I do.” She let her fingers feel the warmth of the cup before taking another sip. “Thanks for coming through, Metcalf. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  Metcalf nodded.

  “Did you get a hold of Trammell?”

  He nodded again. “He’s fine. There’s been no sign of any more trouble. He’s at his office. The whole staff is there. I sent a couple of squa
d cars to ensure he stays safe.”

  “Any chance I’ve moved off your top ten list now?” Martha asked.

  “If I had ten people, yeah.” Metcalf ran a hand through his dark hair. Two imp horns remained standing. “As it is, I’m not sure I have anyone on it at the moment except maybe our Hammer of God. Or the people he worked for.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lane said, quietly incredulous. “People don’t get chased all over town and shot at by a paramilitary madman without someone having some idea what’s going on.”

  “I have this friend, he’s really been a surrogate father to me,” Martha started. “His name is Hewitt Wilcox. He lives on the last houseboat over by Pete’s.”

  Lane nodded that he knew the boat. As Martha recounted the events of the past thirty-six hours, starting with Hewitt’s missed rendezvous at the fishing pier, she leaned forward, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. Telling the story allowed her to catalog events, like organizing note cards in a file, while trying to make sense of something that right now made no sense at all. Metcalf complemented her account with details of the break-in at the Ballard Gazette and the disturbing shift the case took that morning with the discovery of the emasculated body of Ralph Hargrove. The perps were searching for something important, but no one knew what it was.

  Martha knew she was about to ignite a firestorm. She decided this time it was better to face it than run away. Like setting a backfire, she thought. She drew a breath. “And Hewitt left me a key, wrapped with half a torn postcard.” It was close enough to the truth.

  “What key?” Metcalf interjected.

  “A key to a safe.”

  “So that’s why you asked about a safe at the bookstore. Why didn’t you tell me this before? What the frack, Whitaker? I knew you were holding out on me.”

  He was right, of course, but she refused to let the accusation go unchallenged. “Because I didn’t know what it was until this morning. I was going to tell you earlier today, but you were too busy accusing me of being some criminal mastermind. When I tried to tell you, you hung up on me. Remember? Your ears were a little too sensitive to hear the truth, as I recall.”

  “I had an incoming call,” he snarled.

  “And I’m going to be the next Pope.”

  “Both of you stop!” Lane commanded. The lieutenant was accustomed to having his orders obeyed. He nodded toward Martha. “Please continue.”

  “Hewitt left me this key.” With a look at Metcalf, she added, “I only got it yesterday. I didn’t know if it had anything to do with this. I still don’t, for that matter. This morning I talked to a locksmith, and he said the key goes to a Brinkman’s safe, an L70 or L80 model. It requires the key and an electronic combination to open. Hewitt forgot to put that part down for me. According to the locksmith, there are only about a million of them in the country.”

  “Oh, great,” Metcalf muttered.

  “And the torn postcard,” Lane said, ignoring Metcalf. “I gather that was important, too?”

  “A torn postcard?” Metcalf said. “What was he doing, reading spy novels?”

  “Probably,” Martha answered, ignoring his sarcasm. “le Carré is his favorite.”

  She told them how she located the second half of the postcard and what was inside the envelope. “There’s nothing on the photo that I could find. It’s just a picture of a few friends taken years ago at his seventy-fifth birthday party. I might have missed something, but I did get a little busy right about then.”

  “Where’s the photo now?” Metcalf asked.

  “In my car.”

  “The key?”

  “In my jacket pocket, hanging in the women’s bathroom. Unless it fell out during my dip in the lake. Then you'll know where to find it.” She didn’t mention the copy tucked into a little pocket in her purse. “You’re welcome to both.”

  “That’s so nice of you, Whitaker. Thank you. Jesus fracking Christ, I could put you in jail right now for withholding evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “I wasn’t withholding anything. I didn’t know it might be evidence until about an hour ago. I’ve been a bit preoccupied since then, in case you missed the news flash.”

  Lane acknowledged the silent nod of an officer and stood up. He was short and wiry, balanced like an aging welterweight waiting for the bell. “Okay, forensics is here. I want that body out of my parking lot.” He paused and looked hard at both of them. “You two bicker like school kids. Which is really boring for the grownups. So, get over it, both of you. Miss Whitaker, you were withholding evidence. You know it, I know it, and Metcalf knows it. Turn everything over now, tell us everything you know or think you might know. And let us do our jobs. If you meddle any more in this affair, I’ll personally escort you to a cell.”

  He turned to Metcalf. “Detective, you’ve got a job to do, and you should start doing it. You’ve got some people to track down, a safe to find, and a car to get dusted and examined by forensics. It sounds like someone thinks Mr. Wilcox was getting too close to a story they didn’t want known. You ought to be harassing Miss Whitaker less and spending more time finding out what the heck is going on. If any more of my men get shot because of you, Detective, you’ll be wishing you had never heard of Frank Lane.”

  Lane zipped his jacket and turned to Metcalf again. “I assume you’ve got someplace safe where Miss Whitaker can stay until you get this resolved.”

  Metcalf sat back in a pout. “With my budget, I’ll be lucky to get permission for her to stay in your guest room.”

  “Mildred would approve, I’m sure, but we both know that’s not necessary.” Lane leaned forward, his voice low. “Son, I’ve had it with your can’t-do attitude. I thought the SPD was made up of folks with more mettle than that. Some religion-spouting psycho wearing body armor drives up to my front door and tries to kill this woman. If that’s not worth the protection of the Seattle Police Department, then I’m working for the wrong people.”

  The room went quiet. Metcalf slid farther back in his chair, his arms crossed at his chest. Officers in blue uniforms, mostly Harbor Patrol officers, inched in closer. They had Lane’s back and he had their respect, an even harder thing to earn. Metcalf knew it, as well.

  “Thank you,” Martha said to the lieutenant. “But I can’t afford to go into hiding right now. It’s not just Hewitt. I’m involved in a big project at work. I’ve got to be there. I know how to be careful.”

  “It’s not just your safety I’m worried about,” Lane said. “It’s the public’s safety. I have one officer who’s already in the hospital. God knows who else is in the hospital or in the morgue because the Hammer of God didn’t care if he ran them over or drove them off the road. I will not be responsible for a civilian death because you’re too important to miss a little work.” To Metcalf he added, “Time to cowboy up and find Miss Whitaker a room.”

  “Yes, sir,” Metcalf said, nodding his head, as if that would help him believe his own words.

  “Please, Lieutenant,” Martha started.

  He cut her off. “I’m sorry. Did you think this was a request? It’s not. Either you’ll accept our protection, or you’ll get it in a jail cell. And, I can assure you, Miss Whitaker, the food will be much better outside our jail than in. Your choice.”

  “Could you at least be the one to call my boss and tell him?” Martha hoped the comment might lessen the tension. The ramrod straight Lane showed no reaction. She sighed. “All right, Lieutenant. I’m grateful for the offer and accept your protection.”

  “Good choice, Miss Whitaker,” Lane said. “And, yes, I would be glad to speak with your boss.”

  A phone call from Lieutenant Lane might save her job for a few days. But would it give them time to find out who was the Hammer of God?

  FIFTEEN

  Homicide Detective Harry Callison drove Martha to the Carriage House in an old Chevy Malibu that smelled like every half-finished meal he had ever eaten. They took the scenic route through half a dozen Seattle neighborhoods. Three
Dick’s cheeseburgers provided Callison with a pre-dinner snack and an excuse to examine everyone who pulled into the parking lot after them. His full beard and broad weightlifter shoulders reminded her of Brutus from the old Popeye cartoons. Finally, he set a course for the top of the hill in Ballard.

  No new insights came to her on the drive, only more questions without answers. Oh, Hewitt! Damn you! She mourned his loss and cursed his cryptic messages.

  Her house came into view, and so did two squad cars parked outside the main house, lights flashing through the growing twilight. A uniformed officer in a rain slicker was visible in the front yard, his head bent low as he searched the edges of the house with a spotlight.

  She thought she’d vomit. Callison snapped a look in her direction. All she could say was “Oh my God.” All she could think of was the Heidens. Fear gripped her as she conjured up the images of the girls. No, no, not the girls.

  Callison parked down the street and told her to stay put and keep her head low. “The keys are in it if you need to move in a hurry. I saw you can handle yourself, but be careful. There’s enough horsepower to leave your panties behind if you step on it.”

  He unsnapped his Seattle Mariners jacket as he walked toward the house. The two or three minutes he was gone was more than enough time for Martha to imagine the ghosts of the three tow-headed Heiden girls holding hands with Ralph Hargrove. “No, dear God, no,” she whispered.