Out of the Cold Dark Sea

by Jeffrey D Briggs

  But it referred to the cat, Martha was sure. She read the line again. How could Beatrice the cat turn her eyes upon her faithful Dante? Only if Beatrice came to Dante. Or, if Dante came to her. But Martha hadn’t been able to find Dante despite searching for him on at least three occasions. And, if she found Dante, why would it matter if Beatrice beheld him? Martha looked up. Could it be? It had to be.

  She glanced at the Browns, “I’m sorry, I have to go. I think I know what it means. I mean, I don’t have any idea what it means. I just think I know where we have to go to find out.”

  The goodbyes were short, the Et Fille Pinot Noir forgotten.

  Martha navigated back toward Ballard. A Tom Waits tune played on the radio. The steady thwack thwack of the windshield wipers supplied the rhythm for her thoughts. She explained to Trammell what little she could guess: Hewitt was delivering a message through Dante, something only Martha would understand in case the postcard was discovered by someone else.

  “But I thought you couldn’t find the cat,” Trammell said.

  “I don’t think I was looking in the right place,” she replied. “If Beatrice is supposed to turn her holy eyes on her faithful one, then Dante the cat needs to be where Beatrice the cat is. And that’s at my place.”

  “In Ballard?”

  “Yeah. Hewitt and I adopted a brother and a sister from the same litter. Hewitt had just come through cancer treatment and was having a hard time. He was feeling blue. A dog wouldn’t have worked because he didn’t have the strength to walk it. So I went to the pound and found these two rescue kittens. They weren’t more than six or eight weeks old. Hewitt named them Dante and Beatrice. He kept Dante, and I have Beatrice, as long as I continue to open cans of food for her every day.”

  Trammell was silent for a time, watching the dark road pass. Finally, he said, “Which means Hewitt must have dropped Dante off at your place sometime before he disappeared. And he wouldn’t have done that unless he knew he wasn’t coming back.”

  Martha nodded. It could only mean Hewitt was afraid he’d be killed, or he planned to run away. All he had and all he would ever have was the here and now—his books, his lovers, his friends—and he had every intention of holding on to them like a captain on a sinking ship. Whenever faced with the stark reality of his own mortality, he had a favorite quote. She glanced at Trammell’s dark face silhouetted against the passing lights. “Do you know who said, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night / Old age should burn and rave at close of day / Rage, rage against the dying of the light’?”

  “Dylan Thomas.”

  “I think Hewitt’s alive. He didn’t believe in going gentle into the good night. He didn’t go gentle into Puget Sound. And no one drove him into it either. I think he ran away.”

  “Because he wouldn’t have left you Dante otherwise?”

  She nodded again. “Hewitt took great pride in being a coward. He always joked the best way to face danger was to use your legs. To run away.”

  “Where would he run to?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the same thing I told Callison. Someplace remote, someplace where he could be an eccentric old hermit.”

  Lady Gaga came on the radio. Martha punched in a new station. A Boccherini violin concerto gave them space to think.

  “But sometimes danger gives a person courage,” Trammell said. “Even a coward.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, but I don’t think so.”

  “He’d just run away and leave you and his bookstore manager and Dr. Martoni and God knows who else to face these creeps? That certainly fits my definition of a coward.”

  “Or he didn’t know they’d come after us. Maybe he thought they were only after him, and if he disappeared, things would die down. Maybe we’ll get some answers when I get home.”

  Behind them, she could make out nothing but headlights. She made a last-second turn onto a residential street and slowed down, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. She wound north through several blocks packed tight with cars. No one followed. She merged onto a different arterial and resumed the trip toward home. They drove the rest of the way in silence, accompanied by “Autumn” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

  Martha drove past the house, circled the block, and went down the hill. She pulled into an alley and parked in the deep shade of a garage and an untended hedge. “There’s a flashlight in the glove box.”

  They walked back to the street. Farther down the hill, the distant lights of Shilshole Bay Marina lined up in rows as straight as a runway. At the trail entrance, Martha slung the strap to her briefcase over her shoulder and said, “Stay close. It’ll be muddy.” She shined the flashlight on the ground and began scrambling up the hillside, taking the switchbacks without slowing down, moving around puddles when she could, walking through them when they covered the trail. Corvari’s sweatshirt was soon soaked, and Martha along with it. Trammell slipped once, cursing under his breath. Martha paused while he regained his balance.

  At the top of the ravine, she came to an abrupt halt, and Trammell ran up against her back. She whispered, “We’re here. That’s my place to the right.”

  The garage was dark, but a light shone from the Carriage House living room. Nothing stirred. The only sound was the patter of rain falling on the metal roof of the garage.

  After a couple of minutes, she whispered, “Let’s go.”

  Like prowlers, they scurried across the yard to the shadows of the garage and crept along the wall. Martha was about to turn the corner to the front of the garage and the door to the stairwell when something in her peripheral vision caught her attention. It came from above. She looked up at the trees. Not a branch stirred. She realized a light reflecting off the trees had suddenly gone out. Voices and footsteps were coming down the steps. She pressed tight against the wall. Trammell followed her lead.

  The door opened, and Martha heard the lyrical voice of Callison’s daughter, Rebecca.

  “But it’s not right, Mama,” the girl said.

  “What’s not right is your being out so late, young lady” came a mature woman’s voice in response. “Do you have the key?”

  “Yeah. But Daddy can’t help it when he has to work late.”

  “We seem to have our roles mixed up here, sweetie. I’m the one who’s supposed to say that. This was not one of your father’s better ideas. This lady lives in a garage and we live in a basement. I’m not sure which is worse.”

  “But I can buy all my school clothes now, all by myself. I have my own money.” The girl paused. “Something’s wrong with Beatrice. I just know it, even if you don’t believe me.”

  “Honey, Beatrice is a cat. She’s fine. She’s still eating; she’s still using her cat box.”

  “But she wouldn’t come out, and Daddy said I was supposed to tell him if anything unusual happened,” Rebecca insisted.

  “I don’t think Beatrice hiding in the laundry basket is exactly what he had in mind.”

  “But she ran away when I tried to brush her. That’s not like Beatrice. She likes me.”

  “I’m sure it’s all fine, honey. Come now, it’s late and tomorrow’s a school day.”

  Martha heard the snap of the lock and footsteps on the gravel as they walked away. She poked her head around the corner of the Carriage House.

  Something rubbed against her leg, and Martha nearly jumped into Trammell’s arms. She glanced down and saw Beatrice, soaking wet from a prowl through the woods. She picked her up and kissed her pink nose. The cat’s sandpaper tongue licked Martha’s nose.

  “So you’ve been taking care of your brother? Well, I think I know where he’s hiding.”

  Martha put the cat under her sweatshirt and rubbed her vigorously. She waited until she heard an engine start. Lights flashed on and a car pulled away from the street. With Beatrice under her shirt, Martha unlocked the door. She felt, more than heard, the familiar, comforting rumble of the cat purring against her rib cage.

  Martha led Trammell up the staircase with the
small beam from the flashlight. “That was Callison’s daughter. And his wife, I presume. Rebecca’s been feeding my cat.”

  “That’s another way of keeping an eye on things, I suppose,” Trammell replied.

  Martha stopped at the top of the stairs. “You think so? Would Callison expose his daughter to that kind of risk if he thought something might happen here?”

  “No one would suspect it.”

  “Really? People are getting killed and he uses his daughter to monitor my place?” She paused. “And me?”

  “He’s got to think she’s not in any danger, but he might be using her for information.”

  “But everyone in this case is in danger.”

  Before he could answer, she pushed open the upper door and released Beatrice from her sweatshirt. The cat scampered across the floor, disappearing in the dark room. She didn’t turn on any lights. Rebecca or her mother had overridden the timer when they had turned off the lights. Martha disappeared into the bathroom. In moments, she came back, cradling two black cats.

  “Lance, meet the missing Dante,” Martha said, lifting the head of the second cat. “He must have followed Beatrice in through the cat door. Her collar unlocks it, and little brother must’ve scooted in right behind her. That’s why Rebecca thought Beatrice was going through so much cat food. She’s been feeding two cats. I owe her more money.”

  She sat on the sofa, petting Dante until he started to purr. “So what message are you delivering for Hewitt? What message can you deliver with a cat? Or is the cat the message?”

  “Maybe it’s both,” Trammell said, perching on the edge of the sofa. “Check his collar.”

  Martha’s fingers ran around the collar, finding nothing except his nametag. She turned the beam of the flashlight onto the metal tag.

  “Here’s our message.” She unsnapped the collar and handed it to Trammell, directing enough light in his direction for him to read:

  4 Ebenezer Lane

  Tropic, UT 98117

  37° 36’ 43.20

  112° 8’ 24.00

  “What the hell?” Trammell said, holding the tag up to study. He turned it over. On the other side was only the word “Dante.”

  Martha stared at her soaked skirt and muddy shoes. Where the hell was Tropic, Utah? And what did that have to do with Hewitt? Was it one more connection with the LDS? She was getting fucking tired of Hewitt’s games. Did he think they were in a John le Carré thriller? Petting Dante, who had been delivered to his Beatrice in anticipation of this exact moment, Martha felt toyed with, manipulated.

  Trammell interrupted her thoughts. “Something isn’t right. What’s your zip code here?”

  “98117,” Martha replied.

  “Which means it’s not the zip code for Tropic, Utah. The other numbers look like GPS coordinates.”

  “We use them all the time when we’re fishing.” Shooing Dante from her lap, Martha pulled the laptop from her briefcase, fired up the machine, and within seconds had entered a search for “4 Ebenezer Lane, Tropic, UT.”

  “Well, the zip code for Tropic, Utah, is 84776,” she said. “It’s a small town in the south-central part of the state. Population about 500. But that’s not a known address. Give me those GPS coordinates.”

  Trammell read them to her. She typed them in and started a new Google search. In a few seconds, a dot in the middle of nowhere appeared. She pulled back on the image. “It’s someplace west of Tropic. It’s either on the edge of or right inside Bryce Canyon National Park.”

  Google Earth provided a different view. Trammell stared at it for a moment. “Looks like nothing but a white blanket.”

  “High-country snow,” Martha said. She zoomed in closer on the coordinates, and cliffs and canyons began to take shape amid the ever-present white. She zoomed in until the satellite image broke up into too many pixels to retain its focus. She zoomed back out. They stared at the image for a long time. Finally, Martha said, “That shadow could be a rooftop.”

  “It could be most anything—a rooftop, a snow-covered rock, a dip in the earth.” He glanced around. “Where’s your bathroom?”

  Martha directed him toward the bedroom and handed him the flashlight. “We better keep the lights off.” And she added, “Put the seat down when you’re done.”

  When he returned, Martha was busy typing. After a couple of minutes, she looked up and said, “I’ve booked two tickets in the morning to Las Vegas. It’s closer than Salt Lake City and it’s a more logical place to run and hide. I guess we’d better figure out what Hewitt wants us to find in Tropic, Utah.”

  Martha awoke once in the night, with Trammell’s arm draped across her shoulder and a cat curled on either side of her feet. She was warm and comfortable spooned up against his body. Cool marine air blew in from the Sound. Trammell snored softly. At their feet, Dante rumbled in accompaniment. She listened for a long time, wondering if some unusual sound had awakened her. She heard only Trammell’s breathing and the cat’s raspy purr. Maybe they were the unusual sounds. The sounds of peace.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The next time Martha opened her eyes, a dark shadow loomed over her, black against the night. She spun away from the shadow, hitting the floor with a thud. Instantly, she was up, in a defensive crouch, her heart racing.

  “Martha, it’s me. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Oh, God,” she sighed and collapsed back on the bed.

  He leaned down and kissed her. “That’s all I wanted to do. I’m going to run down to Mac’s boat. I have some clothes there, and I need to tell him what’s up.”

  She struggled upright. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly six.”

  She stretched long and slow like Beatrice beside her. But he was right, it was time to get moving. “Use the back door in the garage,” she said. “I’ll come down and lock it behind you. Go down the trail, the way we came in last night. Take your phone so you can call me when you get back. The car keys are on the table.”

  “Thanks, but I need the run. I don’t think it’s even a mile. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Okay, but be careful. Don’t forget your phone.” She paused, remembering last night. “And thank you for . . . for everything.”

  In the dark, she couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was smiling, too.

  In the kitchen, Martha sat listening to the familiar sound of coffee gurgling. It would be an hour before dawn broke, but she didn’t dare risk a light. The Carriage House was dark and cool as a cathedral with its vaulted ceilings and exposed beams lost in the shadows. Now, it felt like the relic of a cathedral, cold and abandoned by people and time. She cherished her solitude, but now it felt empty, incomplete.

  The cream in the refrigerator had spoiled. She threw out the first cup of coffee with the curdled lumps in it. A can of condensed milk provided an emergency backup. She powered up her laptop. With a couple of clicks, she had a new purple and gold Huskies hoodie ordered for Corvari. She gave the Seattle Police Department as the delivery address. She typed in the next Google search: “Mitch Adair” Seattle.

  Her first clue was in a link to the Seattle Gay News. The lead story featured a photo caption: “Santa’s elf, Mitch Adair, gives away presents at this year’s annual Pride Foundation Christmas party.” Martha clicked on the photo to enlarge it. Short and slightly pudgy, Adair made a good—if aging—elf. Under his elf hat, he had gray hair clipped short and glasses as round as his face. A neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard compensated for a weak chin. She didn’t recognize him, but from the checks going back and forth between them, Hewitt and Mitch Adair had to have something more than a casual acquaintance.

  She sensed she was closing in on the journey’s end. The address in Tropic, Utah, had been left for her to find. Would she find answers at the end of the snow-covered road or just more questions? Would she find Hewitt alive and hiding out in a mountaintop cabin? Or, would she be too late? Again.

  Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Hewitt really was drifting in the
Sound, his bloated body waiting to be washed ashore on the edge of the next winter storm. But the feeling that Hewitt was alive had settled over her. Tropic, Utah, was the key.

  The high mountains of southern Utah could not be taken lightly in winter. She created a task list:

  Cash

  Snowshoes—rent from REI

  GPS from boat

  Chart/map

  Then she returned to her search for Mitch Adair. One link took her to the Seattle Pacific University magazine Response. An article from the previous summer carried the headline “Professor Emeritus Mitch Adair updates readers about making a difference even after retirement.” A small photo showed Santa’s elf—minus the costume. Martha opened the article and began to read:

  Finding Happiness Among The Poor

  By Dr. Mitch Adair

  It’s been a year since I wrote about leaving my SPU family and my quest to live on less, give more, and be content with what God has entrusted to us. After the death of my dear mother, I sold my house, shed myself of the encumbrances of modern technology, and undertook a journey of self-discovery, a journey that has taken me to the slums of New York City and Calcutta, on a pilgrimage to the Holy City of Jerusalem, and to the remote regions of southern Utah.

  Now it has brought me back home. Last month, I began volunteering at the Seattle Union Gospel Mission, where I feed the hungry and homeless five nights a week, witnessing a small miracle with each meal I dish out.

  A sanctimonious do-gooder. Martha shook her head and skimmed the rest. Santa’s elf had retired eighteen months ago from his position as a philosophy professor at Seattle Pacific University. Nowhere did he mention why he was in the remote regions of southern Utah. Neither did he mention anything about family—wife or partner, kids, or traveling companions. Only the death of his “dear mother.” Remembering the check that was drawn on the “Estate of,” Martha was pretty sure her name was Margaret Cunningham. On this spiritual quest, Mitch Adair seemed as alone in the world as Martha felt sitting at her kitchen table.