Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  Martha flashed back to that rainy morning wait for Hewitt. Her fingers had plucked that line like a guitar string. It hadn’t been an illegal crab pot, after all. Hewitt’s packet had been right in front of her the whole time. She just hadn’t been smart enough to realize it.

  “So what is it?” Trammell asked. He was by now perched on the edge of his chair.

  “We were hoping you might be able to tell us,” Lolich said. “Detective Metcalf and forensics have examined it. On the surface, it’s easy: it’s a collection of old letters and documents. But, from your dealings with Mr. Wilcox, we thought you might have more insights as to what it all means. Forensics found fingerprints on the wrapping and we’re tracking those now. It was a crude but effective waterproofing technique. Everything was still dry inside.”

  He folded back the brown wrapping. “First, there’s a short note; it was written on the back of Mr. Wilcox’s electric bill.”

  He handed it to Martha. She recognized Hewitt’s tight, back-slanted script. The note was brief: “Martha. If you find this, it means I was unable to deliver to Lance Trammell, ‘Ballard Gazette.’ My profound gratitude, as always, if you’d do so. Forever think of me w/love, as I shall you. Your humble servant. HW.”

  “Forever think of me w/love, as I shall you” was all Martha could see for a moment. Hewitt knew that if she received his note, they would not be meeting again. She had delayed her grief. Now at the sight of his hurried words—and the finality of his message—everything collapsed. She tried to neither stop nor hide her tears.

  Lolich handed her a handkerchief, but otherwise gave her little time to reflect. He turned the note over and said, “There are eight documents in all, dating from 1838 to 1876. Each has a protective tissue top and bottom, with a piece of stiff cardboard separating them. A piece of wood—forensics suspects it’s a common cutting board—kept everything flat.”

  Trammell reached out, but Lolich quickly said, “Please don’t touch.”

  He donned a pair of latex gloves. The first tissue had “Samson Avard 1838” written in pencil on the upper right corner. Lolich lifted the tissue paper, revealing a single sheet of paper. It was as yellow as an old man’s teeth, the handwriting faded to a ghostly gray. Creases where the paper had once been folded into quarters were still visible. The upper left-hand corner was missing.

  “This is the letter Hewitt showed me,” Trammell said. Without touching the paper, his finger traced the lines and he read aloud:

  Nov 7 1838

  Brother Port

  May this find you secure in the blessings of Jesus Christ, Son of our Almity Father. In these troubled days the Almity will bless and keep his childrin in the House of Israel safe from the wrath of Gentiles. the childrin of God shant stand by meek before the unholy perscutors. The Holy Profet of Zion has blessed his People with a vison from the Almity. The mighty Jehovoh, has told the Profet that you, Brother Port, must be the sword of Zion in battle agin the Gentiles of Mo. The Army of Israel shall bring the Lord’s wrath upon His enemies and those who would have us gone from this Earth. May you, like Saul before the Philistines, bring fury and vengeance down upon there leader so no brother of Zion need ever feare the hand of the Unholy. With God as yer shield and his Son as yer sword, may you smite him dead & let Satan take his soul to burn forevr in Hell.

  My blessings to Sarah first among yer blessed wives and yer ma.

  Yer brother in the Almity God

  Sam. Avard

  They sat silent after Trammell had finished reading.

  Finally, Martha said, “So this is what the Hammer of God thought I had?” She glanced at Trammell, and added, “And what he wanted to keep from you.”

  “What about this letter would incite someone to such extremes?” Lolich asked.

  “Hit men and death squads,” Trammell said. “Hewitt came to me a couple of weeks ago with this letter and said he had the evidence to prove the Church’s involvement in the assassinations of its enemies. He wanted to know if I was interested in the story.”

  “This doesn’t prove anything,” Lolich said.

  “I agree, but Hewitt claimed to have other incriminating documents. Mostly circumstantial evidence, I’ll admit—like this letter—but they linked the Church with the Avenging Angels.”

  “But how does this even tie in with the church?” Martha asked. “A good defense attorney could rip that theory to shreds. First, how do we know it’s even authentic? Second, who’s ‘Sam. Avard’? Then, it’s the language of the illiterate and the zealous. Certainly, Joseph Smith and Brigham Young were not illiterate. And last, even if it was authentic, it’s still not coming from church authorities, just a member of the church.”

  “As far as authenticity, I had only Hewitt’s word, but this was his profession, so I trusted him. Based on his information, I was able to do a little research. Brother Port was a guy named Orrin Porter Rockwell, a known gunman. The Mormons were still in Missouri in 1838; Smith was still alive. Some historians believe Rockwell was responsible for at least seventeen murders. Probably more. Samson Avard ran Joseph Smith’s private security detail.”

  “It’s still a big leap,” Lolich said, “to say this implicates anyone of knowing about or leading a vigilante death squad.”

  Trammell leaned forward as he spoke. “True. This letter wouldn’t implicate Smith or anyone else. But, Hewitt claimed to have other evidence that, when put together, could mean only one thing: someone was ordering the Avenging Angels to do these killings. Some people claim the death squad still exists today. Krakauer touched on it in Under the Banner of Heaven, but couldn’t find any conclusive evidence. Maybe with these documents and Martha’s experience with the Hammer of God, we’ve finally got our proof.”

  “But Samson Avard was denounced and excommunicated by Joseph Smith,” Metcalf said. Everyone stared at him. “Come on, you’re not the only ones who can use Google. I did some checking on your cockamamie theory about the Death Angels in the Wild West. Avard turned state’s evidence against Smith and couldn’t throw out names and accusations fast enough. Trying to save his own neck from the noose, most likely.”

  “Sure, that’s possible,” Trammell said. “But first, this letter purports to have been written before Smith’s denouncement of Avard; second, some of Avard’s claims may have been true; and third, it was only one piece in a chain of evidence that Hewitt compiled.” He turned to Lolich. “What’s next?”

  Lolich carefully turned over the Avard letter, then a piece of protective museum paper. On the next tissue was written “Emma Lee 1857.” He turned the tissue over. The paper was smaller than the previous letter, though just as yellowed, the ink just as faded. A jagged tear ran down the left side. The handwriting was neater, the lines straight, the cursive more ornate.

  “This one looks more like a page from a diary,” Trammell said. He studied it before reading aloud.

  Aug 24 ‘57 yng John still ailing with the dysentry looking pale and to weak for chores. asked our Heavnly Father for a blessing to be bestowed upon our son thru sister R. one child this month has slipped the bondage of earth to find Paradise with our Lord and our hearts cannot take two. tomato patch and corn healthy but deer et most of the peas. John will build bigger fence maybe mete for table. mete would be good for we now have nine hungry mouths to tend to. blessed with surprise visit from Ste George visitng the flock thru all of Deseret after recevin blessings and instruktions from the Eldest Ste. children heared his wisdom and strength from God when he led prayer for our humble dinner for God hast delivred His enemys into the hands of the just & riteous amongst us. after dinner the Gen. and John walkt the orchard lookin at apple crop. apples the deree aint et looking boundiful-- praises to the Lord. John preparing to leve on job for Elders taking Wm. and Orrin and Mary’s boy B. will be gone several days but taking rifles to hunt game and no need to provision w/ mete just flor and coffee and tack. I included pares for I know Wm

  The single page ended mid-sentence.

  “So, now de
er have joined the death squad?” Metcalf mocked.

  Trammell flung himself back in his chair. “Christ, man, you still don’t get it, do you? In 1857, over 120 non-Mormons were killed when their wagon train was ambushed in southern Utah. The Mountain Meadow Massacre. It was made to look like an Indian attack. Years later, a guy named John D. Lee said Brigham Young had directly ordered the attack. Of course, Lee, like Avard, was discredited and excommunicated. I don’t know the exact day of the massacre, but if you go back and look, I’ll bet you’ll find this diary entry from Emma Lee was written shortly before.”

  “That’s reading an awful lot into some settler’s diary,” Metcalf said. “At best, it’s circumstantial. At worst, it’s a wild accusation with no evidence.”

  “Of course, it’s circumstantial. But you put enough of it together and it starts to tell a story. Come on, Metcalf, be a detective. Who’s Emma Lee? One of John Lee’s wives or daughters? He’s visited by the General, Saint George Smith, who has a message from the Elders. And who’s the chief Elder? Brigham Young, of course. And the message is, ‘God has delivered his enemies into the hands of the just and righteous amongst us.” Right after the General’s visit, John Lee and several others took their rifles and left. Then there’s the massacre. Coincidence? What the hell do you think this might refer to? For that matter, Metcalf, what the hell do you think is going on here? So far it looks like you’ve produced nothing except the name of the Hammer of God. You’re so stuck on proving that Martha’s after Hewitt’s money that you’re blinded by what’s right in front of you. I’ve been stuck in this goddamn hotel room for eleven days now and I’m fucking tired of it.”

  “That’s not what it looked like this morning when I got here,” Metcalf said. To Martha, he added, “What’s that say about you, Whitaker?”

  “You goddamn prick,” Trammell leapt up, reaching for the detective.

  No one had noticed Dennison enter the living room. But he was quick. He stepped between the two men. The hand that reached for Metcalf was now behind Trammell’s back, and the little man in blue had the much larger Trammell on his tiptoes.

  Then Dennison was on his toes. In an instant Martha had his other arm in a lock. “Let go or you won’t use this arm again for months,” she hissed in his ear. She twisted his wrist and pulled it higher up his back. Dennison released Trammell. She shoved Dennison away. He instantly twirled and sent a foot flying toward her head. The push and bad footwork left him off balance, and she palmed the kick aside. She was about to drop him to the floor, a palm to break his nose, but pulled her punch, and snapped, “Don’t even think about it.”

  The entire scene had happened in a flash. Her instinct to protect Trammell came with no warning, no thought. Lolich and Metcalf were on their feet. She and Dennison stood facing each other, two fighters alone in the ring.

  Lolich centered his portly frame between them. To Dennison, he snapped, “Step back. That’s an order, son.” Turning to Metcalf, he commanded, “Detective, you will refrain from making any further crude and derogatory remarks to these people.”

  Metcalf muttered something that might have been, “Yes, sir.” Louder, he added, “But she was assaulting a police officer in the line of duty.”

  “A fact we shall overlook this one time . . .”

  “It wasn’t the first time,” Metcalf muttered.

  “Do not interrupt me, Detective.” Lolich wagged a finger at Metcalf. “If you continue to provoke them—and me—with your unprofessional behavior, you’ll be lucky to find a job working night patrol at Tent City. Or I shall stand aside and ask Miss Whitaker to clean your clock. Which she has already done, or so I've been made to understand.” Turning to Trammell and Martha, he said, “I’m sorry. Did either of you get injured?”

  Trammell shook out his hand, but he said, “No, I’m okay.”

  Martha shook her head.

  “Oh, goodness,” Lolich sighed. He searched his back pocket but found nothing. He cleaned his glasses on the end of his tie. In a voice that was almost a whisper, he said, “What have we become? As if I didn’t have enough to think about right now.”

  Martha pressed up beside Trammell and stared down at the papers. “Lance, is this something you can print? Is your story here?”

  For a long time, Trammell looked at the papers, now in two neat stacks on the coffee table. Finally, he shook his head. “I need to be one hundred percent sure they’re authentic. That was Hewitt’s role in this. If they’re forgeries, the paper would be fucked. We wouldn’t survive.”

  “But Hewitt left them for me to give to you. You’ve already seen one letter. You talked to him. What else do you need?”

  “I need to speak to whoever authenticated them. There’s no documentation here—you know, what’d we call it in class? The Letters of Authenticity. I need those. Without them, all I’ve got are some old papers.”

  Martha nodded. “Well, Hewitt’s certainly not the only person who’s qualified to determine if these are real or not. We’ve just got to find the right person.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. If we can stay alive until then.”

  “If we don’t get these published,” Martha said, “we’ll always be looking over our shoulder for the next Hammer of God. Print the story and the church will go into damage control, but they’ll leave us alone. Hurting us would only prove the case. I’ll pack my bag.”

  “I’ll join you. Share a cab?”

  Metcalf interrupted their tête-à-tête. “Don’t even think about it. You’re both staying put.”

  “Then arrest us.” Martha threw the words at him like punches. “Because you sure as hell can’t stop us otherwise.” She glanced at Dennison and bowed. “Rokudan,” she said, and like a sensei to a prideful pupil, she added, “And master of the eight gates of t’ai chi ch’uan.”

  “Nidan.” He bowed lower in return, a second-level black belt before a master. To Metcalf, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Please, both of you. We can’t guarantee your safety unless you’re here,” Lolich said.

  “Lieutenant,” Martha said, “I quit the Catholic Church because I didn’t believe in Purgatory. Now I’m living it. You and I both know you can’t hold me against my will without charging me with something. Read me my rights, or let me go.”

  “Detective?” Lolich looked at Metcalf.

  “I don’t have the manpower to protect them out on the street.” He shrugged. “If Dennison wants to press charges, I’m happy to arrest them.”

  Dennison shook his head. “And further my humiliation?”

  “Fine,” Metcalf said. “If Whitaker thinks her ninja act is better protection than the SPD, let her go. Have a nice day. Just don’t sue us for your funeral expenses. And frankly, ever since she went off the grid, there’s been no more activity. Every lead has dried up. Curious, isn’t it?”

  Lolich ignored this veiled accusation, but Martha didn’t. She glared at Metcalf. So he was the one talking. He smiled at her, a goad, a challenge. Power was having the control not to act. Finally, she turned away.

  “It’s not right. I know it’s not right,” Lolich said, as Martha and Trammell disappeared into their bedrooms. Brushing Dennison aside, Metcalf was gone, the door slamming in his wake.

  When Martha and Trammell walked out of the hotel and into a wet day, the porter who had opened the door invited them to return soon. For a moment, they paused, blinking despite the gray-covered sky. Martha inhaled deeply of the fresh air. She wanted to wash her face with the rain. But, there are nightmares that don’t go away with the day. The fear that had prompted her to accept police protection in the first place resurfaced in the cab ride back to Ballard.

  TWENTY

  Sometimes the best place to hide is out in the open.

  The taxi dropped Trammell off at the Ballard Gazette. The driver waited while he and Martha walked into the office. They found MacAuliffe by himself in the production room reviewing Molly and Benji’s draft layout. This would be the first of eight to ten rendi
tions, all of which would be developed, tweaked, and discarded over the next two days. He looked up from the computer screen when he saw them.

  “So, they finally let you guys out of the asylum,” MacAuliffe said, with a warm smile. “Did they find someone?”

  His long blond hair and his beard had been clipped short. A strong aquiline nose was centered on a broad, intelligent face. With a little grooming he was rather handsome. Stitches and a thin red seam about four inches long ran from the top of his head to his right ear.

  “They didn’t let us out,” Trammell said. “We left. And not without a fuss. And, no, they don’t have anyone yet.”

  He gave a brief recap with the promise to fill in the details later. “Maybe on the boat, if you’ve got room for a guest?”

  “You’ve seen my boat,” MacAuliffe said. “It’s pretty cozy. I don’t mind, if you don’t.”

  “I’ve got a taxi waiting,” Martha said. “What dock are you on?” He told her, and she promised to stop by later.

  Back at the Carriage House, without her laptop and phone, Martha felt alone and isolated. Beatrice was nowhere to be found, but she had food and water. The litter box was clean. Callison had done the dishes. Otherwise, the house was exactly as she had left it. She found the key to the main house and walked through the backyard. The windows were dark, the driveway empty. She unlocked the back door and was surprised to see a row of winter coats hanging in the mudroom. Boots of varying sizes were lined up against the wall.

  Martha opened the door from the mudroom to the kitchen and called out, “Anybody home? Iris, Karl, it’s me, Martha.”

  Only the echo of her voice answered.

  Evidence of the kitchen having been trashed was gone, as if the break-in had been part of a bad dream. In the kitchen, cereal bowls were stacked in the sink; a milk carton sat on the counter. From the small breakfast table in the corner, Mr. Moose and Mr. Bear watched her with brown button eyes. Mr. Moose looked like he was recovering nicely. Martha hadn’t considered what it might take for the Heidens to find a new place to rent. At least it meant another month of income. The phone sat on the counter. She removed it from the cradle and dialed Callison’s number.