Undercurrents

by Ridley Pearson

“I’ll call it in,” Dixon offered. He got up and left the table.

  “You’ll miss all the fun,” Boldt told him, indicating the fairly sparse and quiet crowd.

  Boldt’s milk arrived. He drank half of it.

  Dixon went back to the table and remained standing, all humor gone from his face.

  “Dixie?” Boldt asked.

  “A body, Lou. Male. It’s the right size,” he said, glancing at Bobbie. “Came ashore at Alki.”

  Abrams stood. “I’ve got my stuff in my car.”

  “Me too. The joys of being on call,” Doc Dixon said by way of apology to Elizabeth. To Boldt he said, “You want to come along on this one, Lou?”

  “No,” Boldt said.

  Dixon nodded. “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay.” He hesitated. “I’d tell you that I’ll try to be back for the last set, but you know how this business goes.”

  “No problem,” Boldt said.

  The two men headed for the door.

  “Go with them, Lou,” Elizabeth said.

  Boldt shook his head, looking at his wife intently.

  Dixon heard her comment. He seemed to have been waiting for it. He stopped and called out, “I can give you a ride over.”

  Elizabeth’s look nudged him.

  “You sure?” Boldt asked her.

  “Positive. Bobbie and I will do a striptease until you get back.”

  Bobbie raised her arms and shook her breasts. Elizabeth laughed.

  “Go,” she told him again.

  Boldt said, “I’ll drive my own car, Dixie. You go on. I won’t be staying.”

  ***

  The “strip” at Alki—less than a mile from where the body of Judith Fuller had been found—was void of the cars and vans that crowded its parking lots during the summer months. Tonight a miserable wet wind blew off the sound, cutting through to his bones. Boldt crossed his arms tightly, attempting to shield himself from the wind, but it didn’t do much good. He shivered as he stepped up onto the seawall, and he wondered if this was because of the wind, or because of the sight before him.

  There below him, a Parks Department four-wheel drive was parked on the beach, engine running, its headlights glaring out across the various cops milling about. The men and women formed an impenetrable circle through which Boldt could not see. He descended a short flight of wooden steps down to the beach, suddenly lost in the intense darkness between the seawall and the four-wheel drive. He crossed this distance slowly, very much aware of his solitude, eyes fixed on the backs of his colleagues.

  No one noticed him as he approached. It wasn’t until he pulled on a shoulder in front of him that he heard his name mentioned. And then the sound of it rippled softly through the crowd as it was repeated. He pushed his way through and stopped.

  The crabs and sea life had pecked holes in the man’s forearms. His fingers were reduced to bone, reminding Boldt of a similar corpse several weeks before. There was a gaping, bloodless bullet wound in the man’s chest. The gray face, scarred and cut from two weeks in the currents of Puget Sound, stared lifelessly toward the lights of the four-wheel drive. Lou Boldt took one step closer and looked down at the man. No eyes. It seemed to suit him. Boldt turned and walked away.

  “Good to see you, Lou,” someone called from behind.

  Boldt walked on.

  “It’s him. Right?” Shoswitz shouted, catching up at a run. “Lou?”

  Boldt stopped and turned around. The headlights blinded him. He raised his hand to block the light, casting a shadow across his face.

  “Glad to hear you’re back with Liz. Right?” Shoswitz said uncomfortably. Rubbing his elbow nervously.

  Boldt nodded. He didn’t feel comfortable here. Not yet, anyway.

  “How’s things?” the lieutenant asked, the whites of his eyes darting about. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s him,” Lou Boldt said, turning away. Disappearing into the darkness.