Now she wondered if Gran had hummed to release some of the sadness that haunted her.
Trammell sat on the floor, his back against the sofa, hands clasped behind his head, headphones on his ears. A black-and-white image of Frank Sinatra talking to a young Angela Lansbury flashed across the television screen. A half-empty bowl of popcorn was nestled in Trammell’s lap. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, displaying socks with thin spots on the heels. Martha felt a sudden longing to slide down beside him. It had been so long since anyone had held her, since she had felt strength that wasn’t her own. She hated the vulnerability, but that didn’t change her desire to reach out and touch another human. What if she took the lead? Would he understand that it was more about her than about him, that she was feeling weak and scared and lonely, that she needed some kind of reprieve from the sadness that haunted her?
Only then did it occur to her that he might be feeling weak and lonely and scared, too.
A commercial flashed on the screen in a kaleidoscope of garish colors. Trammell jumped up, and noticed her watching him. “Want a beer, a glass of wine, while I’m up?”
It took her a moment to decide. He showed no impatience as she stared at him. Tall and lithe, motionless but with an athlete’s natural grace. She saw him differently now. A true romantic hiding behind the guise of a pragmatist. “Yes, that would be nice. There’s a Merlot open.”
She continued reading, sipping her wine, and occasionally pausing to study him. Twice she made up her mind to ease onto the floor beside him. The third time she worked up the courage to move. She set her book down and slid off the sofa. His eyes were closed, his breath steady and shallow. He was sleeping.
She nudged him gently. His eyes popped open. “You’re sleeping, Lance. Go to bed.”
He sighed and got to his feet, rotating his neck and shoulders. When he looked down at her, he remained still for the longest time. She waited for an invitation to join him, a signal—a beckoning hand would have been enough.
When the invitation didn’t come and he had closed the bedroom door behind him, she remained on the floor, her hand pressed against the warmth of the carpet where he had been.
EIGHTEEN
Her morning workout completed, Martha assumed the zazen, her arms coming to rest upon her knees. Her fingertips touched. She counted her breaths in and out, one two three four. An image of Hewitt entered the flow of her mind chatter, followed by the mystery of the photograph on the dock, then the key and the photo again. Then Trammell. With each new interruption, she refocused on her breathing, one two three four.
Finally, she reached the quiet center of her soul and stayed there.
She heard a knock at the door. “Come in.”
Charles Dennison entered the bedroom, the only guard who arrived for his babysitting stint in his work blues. Martha didn’t know if he had just come from his shift in a patrol car or thought the uniform lent him authority. He needed it. Maybe five foot six and a hundred and fifty pounds, scrubbed fresh, he looked more like an intern pretending to be a police officer. He held out his cell phone and said, “Metcalf.”
“Thanks.” She took the phone, still seated on the yoga mat. “This is Whitaker.”
“I hope it’s not too early,” Metcalf said.
“Not at all.” She waited.
“We’ve identified the shooter.”
A long paused followed. She remained silent. If he wanted to parse out information like a miser, she could wait.
“His name’s Piter deVries,” Metcalf said.
“No one I know,” she said.
“He was forty-six. Originally from South Africa. It came in this morning from Interpol. They had his prints on file.”
“South Africa?” Martha eased off the floor and onto the corner of the bed. “What was he doing in Seattle chasing me?”
“We’re not sure yet. But he’s got an interesting history. A white supremacist. Left South Africa in 1992. Paramilitary. Worked for a private security firm from Arlington, Virginia, and earned a lot of frequent flyer miles—mostly to Africa, some to the Middle East. Sierra Leone, Mozambique, Egypt, once to Germany, Iraq, Iraq again, Kuwait, Sudan, you name it. There’s more, but you get the picture. His only prior entry into the US was five years ago. He arrived on a British passport, stayed four months, entering and exiting through Reagan International in the other Washington. I’ve spoken with US and Canadian Customs. No record of a Piter deVries entering Canada or the United States in the past five years.”
“He was a mercenary?” Martha said slowly.
“That’s what it looks like. We’re still tracking down information about him, but I thought you should know. This probably means we’re going to have to get the feds involved. They have a lot of resources that I don’t.”
“Of course.” Martha had no idea what it meant to get the feds involved, but access to resources sounded good. “Thanks, Metcalf.”
The line went dead.
Dennison had stepped out of the room, and for a moment Martha was tempted to dial her father just to chat for a few minutes about the weather in the Soo and the thickness of the ice on the lake, about how the nieces and nephews were doing at hockey or dance. Nothing and everything.
She walked out into the common room.
“I’m sorry, the exercise room is closed to you today,” Dennison said. Trammell was in the kitchenette in a gray T-shirt, sweat pants, and running shoes. He slowly lowered an orange juice carton and stood there with his empty glass.
“You’re joking, right?”
“I’m not, sir. I’m sorry. The hotel is full this weekend. There’s a boat show across the street. The hotel won’t close the exercise room for you to use.”
“Christ.” Trammel slammed the glass down so hard it broke. He left it there, and with his hand bleeding, stormed back into his bedroom.
“Middle of a boat show, huh? That was good planning on your part,” Martha said, handing the phone back to Dennison. She shrugged and walked away.
“Yeah, we probably didn’t plan on all the leads drying up as soon as you two were off the street. Should’ve rented by the month.”
“What does that mean?” Martha whirled to face him.
“Seems pretty simple. Nothing’s happening. Seems a little strange. But what do I care? I’m getting plenty of overtime.”
“Implying what? What’s Metcalf told you?”
“Metcalf hasn’t told me anything. Hard not to notice, though. You and the dude hole up and everything stops. Like turning off a tap. Just be glad you’re not at the Blue Light Motel. But I can ask Metcalf to book you a room. Need a hour? Two?”
For the first time, she looked closely at Dennison. She wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. Instead, she whispered, “You little prick.”
“Any time.”
Martha spun away rather than give in to the temptation. She returned to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She rolled up her yoga mat and tossed it into a corner. She yanked the duvet cover across the bed, and stripped out of her clothes. A smart-ass cop. And a mercenary? A fucking mercenary. What kind of trouble had Hewitt gotten himself—and her—into?
At the moment, she didn’t care. They were stuck in a hotel. Tensions were mounting. The cops were getting nowhere fast. Going on ten days and they had dug up the name of a dead mercenary. That felt like small progress. And the cops were beginning to talk. Leads had dried up? Dennison had been pretty clear about who he believed was responsible for turning off the tap. Once again, she was being targeted. Metcalf had to be behind the talk. Christ, she needed to get out of here, mercenary or no.
She dialed up the temperature on the shower until it was scalding hot, turning her skin pink, opening every pore. Scenes flicked through her mind, like a montage of silent images from a home movie. This time she let the reel play—Hewitt working a sockeye off the stern; Hewitt struggling along the hospital corridor, his pale butt exposed by the hospital gown; Hewitt smiling as he rounded everyone up for the
birthday photo.
And the image of the dock on that wet dawn two weeks ago now—the rendezvous that never happened. Same spot. The wharf of good times and bad. The wharf . . . the wharf—then it hit her. It was the place, not the people! The message Hewitt was sending in the photograph was about the location. That’s why he took such pains to waterproof the package.
Her hair still soapy, she wrapped herself in a robe and found Dennison in the living room watching CNN. He jumped up. “Everything okay?”
“Can you call Lieutenant Lolich at the Harbor Patrol?”
In a moment, she was talking to Lolich. “Whatever Hewitt was trying to tell us, I think the answer is under the Shilshole fishing pier. Can you have your divers check?”
She explained where they might find it. Lolich asked several questions and finally assured her he’d have a diver on the way within the half hour.
Hair rinsed and blown dry, dressed in a white silk blouse and black jeans, Martha stood in front of the mirror. Her thick, dark eyebrows arched over her mismatched eyes. She brushed her hair, and with a flip of the hands, she let it fall to her shoulders. The blouse was clean and pressed. The hotel had done a decent job. When they got their laundry back, Martha learned that Trammell did own more than one black mock turtleneck. He owned a stack of them, all identical, and three pairs of jeans—also identical. The sartorial imagination of . . . well, of a newspaper man, she decided, but it did make those morning decisions about what to wear a lot easier.
When she knocked on his bedroom door, she held a small first-aid kit that Dennison had requested from the front desk. Trammell answered the door dressed in jeans, absent the turtleneck. Solid shoulders, not wide, but toned from the free weights, narrowed to nice abs and a trim waist. He had the clean, well-scrubbed scent of someone just out of the shower. He wore no jewelry or watch. A washcloth was wrapped around one hand.
“Let me fix up your hand,” Martha said, stepping uninvited into his private sanctuary. It looked like a boy’s room—the curtains closed, the bed unmade, dirty jeans and turtlenecks tossed in a corner, a jumbled stack of books, magazines, and papers piled on the nightstand.
“Let me put a shirt on.”
“Don’t have to on my account. It’s your hand I’m worried about.”
He stopped and looked at her. “Okay.”
He perched on the bed and held out his hand. Martha sat beside him. She removed the bloody washcloth and looked at the cut. Blood still oozed from a deep puncture wound. She wiped it clean with the washcloth and ripped open an alcohol swab to clean it. While she tended to his hand, she told him about her conversation with Metcalf about the South African mercenary.
“I also talked to Lolich,” Martha added. “I think Hewitt was telling me with the picture that it was the place, not the people in it. Lolich is sending divers back out to the pier.”
“Interesting. Makes sense. Let’s hope they find something,” Trammell said. “I’m gonna go postal if I don’t get out of here.”
“Join the club.”
“Plus, I’d really like to go to that boat show. I know Mac is over there right now, dreaming about his next boat.”
“MacAuliffe’s a boater? My opinion of him just soared.”
“He lives aboard an old Cal 27. It’s got about as much room as your car. I’d really like an update on what’s happening at the Gazette.”
“It’ll be fine. He can’t lose all your money in a week. Haven’t you ever gone on vacation?”
He thought for a minute. “Not for more than four days since we started the paper.”
“Four days? Even I can beat that.”
Martha daubed the wound with an antiseptic, folded a piece of gauze, and placed it on the cut.
“I’ve been thinking about what Metcalf told you about the deVries guy,” Trammel said. “It makes sense.”
“How does it make sense?” Martha tore off a piece of tape.
“Think about it: Mormon men have to do two years of mission work all over the world. DeVries could have connected with them in any number of places he’s been in the past twenty years. LDS is a natural for a white supremacist with a religious bent. Of course, official church doctrine doesn’t allow bigotry, just like they’d never admit to the existence of the Death Angels. But look at the senior leadership councils—the First Presidency, the Quorum of Apostles, the Quorum of Seventy—all that. White men, every last one of them. Not a woman or a black face among them. If you fled South Africa because you despised what Mandela did, you might find a warm reception from certain members of the Mormon Church.”
“And if there’s any truth to Hewitt’s theory about the Mormon death squad,” Martha said, “a white supremacist professional mercenary guy might get some extra attention.”
“Exactly. DeVries wasn’t on a suicide mission. I bet he fully expected to accomplish his job and get out alive. He was already back in the car when he was killed. Cops, paramilitary are trained to take body shots and his body armor covered all vital organs except one—the brain. Was his mission to kill you or just scare the living shit out of you?”
“I thought his intent seemed pretty clear,” Martha said.
“But that’s what we thought the night they broke into the Gazette. Only the facts didn’t line up. When the Hammer of God pulled into the parking lot that morning, he didn’t know you’d set a trap for him. The Harbor Patrol doesn’t even have a sign on that road. He probably figured God would protect him from the infidels. If he hadn’t taken a bullet to the head, who knows how things might have turned out? He didn’t have any other life-threatening wounds.”
“And I’d be dead,” Martha said. “They’ve escalated things. They’re not trying to scare the messenger any more—they’re trying to kill the messenger. They think we know something that we don’t, something they don’t want anyone else to know.”
Trammell looked at Martha and then down at her hand. “Are you going to just hold my hand or you going to put that tape on?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Why?”
“No reason. Take your time.”
NINETEEN
Gray light slipped around the edges of the curtain. Martha lay on her back, remembering the slow circles Trammell had traced on her shoulders and back with his lips, taking forever to undress her, a forever that surged with rising tension and growing excitement. His hands had caressed her through the silk blouse, his lips explored the smooth skin of her neck. When he eased the blouse off her shoulders, she wanted him to reach around and cup her breasts. Still he hesitated. He was in no hurry to rush his pleasure or hers, which was a finer pleasure in itself.
She had sighed then and sighed again now at the memory. A smile crossed her face.
Lovers had been few through the years. Learning the difference between the horror of rape and the joys of making love had been a slow lesson to learn. For a long time, she had feared her own sexuality as much as she had feared Walt Boudreau. The first time she experienced tenderness and pleasure in lovemaking had left her breathless. Now, Trammell had shown her there were so many new worlds still to explore.
Beside her, she heard the soft rhythm of his breathing. He dozed on his side, his back toward her. She ran her finger in light circles over his shoulder. He stirred, and she replaced her finger with her lips. It was time to return the pleasure.
When the knock came at the door, they were still intertwined, their breathing just starting to return to normal. Martha bolted upright. It took a moment for her to call out, “Yes?”
“Metcalf. I’d like to talk to you guys for a minute if you think you could put on some clothes.”
“Just a minute,” she responded.
Before rolling off Trammell, she touched his lips with hers, lingering long enough to feel him getting excited again. Reluctantly, she slid off him. Trammell rose, got dressed, and slipped out the door. Donning jeans and her blouse, she wondered why Metcalf was here so early. She didn’t dare hope that they were about to be released.
&
nbsp; In the living room, Trammell stared out the window and Metcalf paced, cell phone to his ear. Dennison stood motionless in the kitchen. Only then did Martha realize they had a visitor: Lieutenant Lolich from the Harbor Patrol. His eyes were half-closed, his hands intertwined over a generous stomach. Against his dark suit, his tie was a burst of autumn color captured in silk.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Lieutenant,” Martha said, joining him on the sofa. “I didn’t know you were here.” Glasses made his eyes appear larger than they were. A puffy face and dark bags under his eyes gave him the appearance of a man who had had too little sleep for too long.
“We suspended the search for Mr. Wilcox a couple days ago,” Lolich started. “Nature will take its course, and if the body is in Puget Sound, it will surface. I’m sorry.”
Martha nodded, barely able to mumble, “No one mentioned it. I understand.”
Metcalf snapped his phone shut and turned to Lolich. “Forensics found nothing of note in the van. Just a cane wedged between the seats. Otherwise, everything you’d expect but nothing else.” To Martha, he added, “But your suggestion led us right to the package Mr. Wilcox had hidden.”
A bundle wrapped in brown paper rested in the center of the coffee table. Trammell edged closer to the table. Martha leaned forward. Only Lolich seemed in no hurry to get to it. He produced a copy of the photograph from Hewitt’s birthday party. A thick finger pointed to the new fishing pole and traced the fishing line that came off the end. At the spot where it went over the edge of the pier, he stopped. “Right there, my officers found a fishing line tied to the railing. On the other end of the line was this package. They didn’t even need to go in the water. They just pulled it up. The outer wrapping was a black garbage bag with a ten-pound fishing weight inside. That’s what held it down. It was covered with silt, and with it being black we didn’t see it the first time through the area.”
Out of the Cold Dark Sea Page 17