Callison hurried back to the car, knocked on the window. “Everyone’s safe. Come on.”
Olivia was the first one to see her. All arms and legs, she loped across the lawn toward Martha and wrapped her arms around her. Her blond hair was spilling out of its purple ribbon, and Martha remembered she had been invited to Olivia’s piano recital that afternoon. In imprecise English, thick with the guttural Dutch accent, Olivia said, “Oh, Marta! They snapped Mama’s heart. Mr. Bear lost his Mr. Moose and Mama—”
“I’m so sorry, honey.” Martha took Olivia’s hand. “Let me talk to your mom.”
Olivia led her to the kitchen where, with baby Josephina in her arms, Iris stood talking to a police officer, and where every cabinet stood open and every drawer had been emptied onto the floor. At the breakfast nook, Lily was stuffing cotton puffs back into the deflated body of Mr. Moose, whose inseparable companion, Mr. Bear, sat on the table supervising the delicate operation.
Olivia tried to explain, “Mama will make Mr. Moose new heart.”
Breathing hard, Martha gripped the counter. A new heart. Maybe it had been Mr. Moose and Mr. Bear in a frilly pink room that led them to conclude this wasn’t the home of a single woman, that made them stop short of what they’d done to Hewitt’s place. Maybe it had been as simple as reading the mail.
She jumped when Callison tapped her shoulder. “Gotta get moving. There’s nothing we can do here. There’s two more officers upstairs. We’ll have a forensics team out as soon as one’s free.”
“Please wait—for a minute. These people are my renters and my friends. I owe them—”
At the sound of Martha’s voice, Iris turned abruptly from the officer. Her blond hair was pulled back tight, her lips so thin they had nearly disappeared.
“Iris, I’m so sorry,” Martha began.
“Sorry? You said this to be a safe neighborhood. Safe? Look at this!”
“They were looking for me, Iris. They thought I lived here. I’m so sorry. I never thought they would—”
“Stop right there.” Callison shot a look at Martha and stepped toward Iris. “We’re in the middle of an investigation that involves Ms. Whitaker, and we’re not at liberty to discuss it. These officers will do an excellent job of taking care of you, ma’am.”
“You are criminal, Marta?” Iris asked, her blue eyes wide.
“No, no. Of course not,” Martha replied, trying to sound calm and reassuring but failing miserably. “I can’t talk about it right now, but the people who did this were looking for me and something I might have. I don’t even know what it is.”
“I must insist,” Callison interjected.
“I do not care what they were looking for!” Iris shouted. “I cannot have this!” She glanced at Lily, still re-stuffing Mr. Moose. “You understand we must leave.”
Martha couldn’t promise they would be safe if they stayed. She couldn’t promise they wouldn’t face some future threat. She said, “I understand. Absolutely. I’m so sorry, Iris.”
“I do not understand. They took nothing. They are after you? I am sorry, too, but now we must move.”
Martha nodded, but Iris was no longer looking at her. Only Olivia, eyes full of questions, met her eyes.
On the short walk to the Carriage House, Martha fought back tears and wished she had hugged the girls goodbye. She cursed herself and Hewitt and the goddamn Hammer of God and all his goddamn fucking cohorts. Maybe it was just a delayed reaction to nearly being killed. Maybe it was the realization that she would lose the house if she didn’t have renters to help her with the mortgage. Maybe it was something more, something deeper. Her carefully constructed world was spinning out of control.
For all her strength and self-reliance, she was helpless to stop friends from disappearing, from getting hurt. Hewitt. Ralph Hargrove. And now the Heidens. A couple of beers and hamburgers on the grill and even cold, stiff Iris would start adding contractions to her stilted English. And the girls! Loving and open—just like their father.
She led Callison up the stairs to the Carriage House and switched the lights on, expecting to see everything she owned strewn about the bamboo floor. It was exactly as she had left it that morning: breakfast dishes in the sink; her laptop, its top closed, on her desk; the rolled yoga mat in the corner. The only difference was the cat. Beatrice lay on the back of the sofa, head up and alert, all her attention focused on the stranger who accompanied Martha into their private living quarters.
“Nice digs,” Callison said, sliding his gun back into the shoulder holster. “For a garage. Whowouldathunkit, living in a garage? Apparently, the bad guys didn’t.”
Martha glanced at him. Nice digs? A tiny apartment above a garage? “They must have just had an address,” she said. “They didn’t know I rented out the main house.”
Which meant they hadn’t been following her until today. Hewitt’s disappearance had escalated things. But why? Now it was Callison and Metcalf’s job to find out.
She pulled her carry-on bag from the closet. She started laying out jeans, slacks, a few blouses, a couple of sweaters, and some cotton tees.
“Who’s doing your work?” Callison called out. “On the remodel?”
Martha poked her head around the bookcase that separated the bed from the main living quarters. She said, “I’m doing it myself.”
“You own a nail gun?”
“And the compressor. My miter saw and table saw are downstairs in the garage. Why? Isn’t a girl supposed to own a nail gun?”
“I didn’t say that. We’re living in my brother-in-law’s basement. Lost our house a couple of years ago. Seems a cop and an out-of-work hair stylist ain’t exactly the bank’s preferred customers for a loan these days. We got three girls, just like your friends there. Be nice to put up some walls, maybe a small kitchen. Just thought you might have a reference for someone who works cheap.”
“Sorry. Try Angie’s List.” Callison’s financial woes didn’t concern her. She returned to packing, adding a second pair of shoes. If she could travel through Europe for three weeks with two pairs of shoes, it seemed reasonable to expect the same living in a hotel room. Bras, panties, and socks she stuffed around the edges of the suitcase.
In the bathroom, she looked longingly at her six-foot-long claw-foot tub. Wherever she was going, she suspected a soaking tub wouldn’t be in the package. She put together a toiletry case, leaving most of her cosmetics untouched. What was the point of makeup when you were locked in a hotel room?
Beatrice now sat on Callison’s lap. He scratched her ears and worked a busy finger under her throat. Martha could hear the rumble of her purr halfway across the room.
“Traitor,” she said to the cat, and then sighed. “God, I need to have someone come in and feed Beatrice. Olivia usually does it, but that won’t work now.”
Martha thought about asking Jody next door, but Jody had the memory of an old person with Alzheimer’s. She had used a professional cat-sitting service once when the Heidens were out of town. She fired up her computer to find the phone number.
“Hey, remember, no computer, no Internet,” Callison said. “Any good hacker with an iPhone parked on the street could be in your machine in minutes.”
“I’m just looking up a number for a cat feeder. It’ll take just a second and it’s in my contact list. I’m not going online.”
“I can have Rebecca—she’s my oldest—stop by and feed your cat.”
Martha didn’t even glance back at him. “Yeah, right. Things must be pretty slow down at the precinct if you’re coordinating pet services.”
“It’d give her a chance to visit your cat. My wife’s allergic to cats and dogs, so she can’t have a pet. And Becca is always looking for ways to make a buck. But, if that’s too fucking weird for you, knock yourself out. Only use the yellow pages or my phone.”
For the first time Martha looked at Callison as something more than a cop with a gun. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was childish. It’s been a stressful day. I
don’t want to impose, I know you’re busy.”
“It’s no problem. We’re close, and Becca loves cats.”
“Thank you, Callison.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Martha refrained from offering the first comment that came to her lips. Instead, she offered a weak smile. “Let me show you what to do.”
In a nook beside the kitchen, Martha had built a cat house with room for food, water, and a litter box. She stared for a moment at the food dish, certain she had filled it this morning. It was empty. “Getting to be a little pig, aren’t you, B.?”
The cat rubbed against her leg. She added a second dish for dry food, and filled both. She explained to Callison how to care for Beatrice.
She packed up her computer, slid it into her briefcase, and handed the bag to Callison.
“I’ll log this in downtown with your cell phone,” he said. “They’ll be safe.”
“I’d feel better if it was with me.”
“But we wouldn’t.”
“What am I supposed to do all day?”
“Lots of things. Watch TV, write letters to your family, read War and Peace. Whatever. Just don’t go online. No email or texting, and definitely no cell phones. The temptation will be too great if you’re holed up for more than a few days.”
Martha grabbed her best rain parka from the closet. “Okay, Callison, if you’re going to be my chauffeur, let’s go.”
Only he wasn’t her chauffeur.
They walked past his Chevy Malibu to a new black Ford Explorer with dark-tinted windows that waited at the curb. So much for being inconspicuous. But the Seattle Police Department had heard enough of Martha’s opinions, so this one she kept to herself. The passenger’s door on the SUV popped open as they approached. Callison lifted her bag into the back, but kept her briefcase. Martha slid into the car.
Lance Trammell helped her find the seatbelt buckle in the dark.
SIXTEEN
The week that followed proved to be one of the most difficult of Martha’s life. Shut off from the outside world, devoid of information, unable to work, and powerless to act, she felt stripped of all that defined her as a person. She also discovered she didn’t always like her own company. Meditation brought little peace. Yoga helped, but not much. On day three, when she had the front room to herself, she pushed the hotel furniture against the walls and performed the katas from beginning to end, reveling in the chance to move with violent grace. Sweat running down her face, she was finally able to forget for a few minutes all the unanswered questions.
When she finished, Trammell was leaning against the doorjamb to his bedroom watching her. Their ever-present police attendant sat on the counter in the tiny kitchenette.
“I think I recognized the punch you knocked me out with,” Trammell said.
“Remind me not to get into a fight with her,” the cop said.
Martha looked at each of them. She refused to leave the place of inner calm by entering into the endless banter and tiresome quips of people locked up too long together. Without speaking, she went into her own room and shut the door.
She went into the bathroom and stared forlornly at the tub. It was a tub for dogs and dwarves. She could soak half of her body at a time. How she missed her own tub. Hot water to her chin, a few essential oils and a sea-foam of bubbles, she could remain in that special meditative place created by a good workout for another hour or so.
She showered and changed into fresh clothes.
Metcalf hadn’t booked them into Motel 6, but it wasn’t the Four Seasons, either. The suite on the back side of the Waterfront Hotel on Lake Union looked out at a shrub-covered bank leading to the Mercer Street exit off the Interstate. Lake Union could have been in another time zone for all they got to see of it. All phones had been removed. There were no computers. Clock radios and televisions in each room provided the only links to the outside world.
Once a day for an hour, the exercise room was “Closed for Maintenance,” and she and Trammell were allowed to work out, their off-duty police officer standing outside to head off hotel guests who couldn’t read. Trammell’s routine never varied: he ran a brisk five miles on the treadmill before lifting weights with whatever time remained. Martha had no idea how to use any of the equipment, but boredom and desperation to get out of the room prompted her to tag along.
With a little cajoling from Trammell, she dismounted the exercise bike and agreed to try weightlifting. He spotted for her, hands poised to take the bar if she should waver. She was surprised to find how weak she was in the upper body. All her strength was in the long, sinewy leg muscles of a dance master. After that, she joined Trammell every day at the weight machine. She liked the way the workout made her newfound muscles ache.
On the fourth day, she looked up from the bench and into his face. He didn’t notice her studying him. Sweat from his own workout glistened on his brow. With high cheekbones, a strong nose, and a broad forehead, he resembled an underfed Roman emperor. The thinness in his face left him just short of looking gaunt and a little sad.
“You look so serious, Trammell,” she said. “What are you thinking?”
He looked away. She thought he might be blushing.
“Come on, you can tell me. What?”
He turned back. “I was thinking I’ve never spotted for anyone as lovely as you.”
“Well, thank you. I don’t get to hear that every day.” She grasped the bar again and began another set of reps. His hands scrambled back to their protective position. “Is there . . . is there anyone special that you . . . you spot for?”
It was probably the first personal question she had asked him.
“Yeah, she’s called the Gazette. With the paper, I don’t even have time for a cat.”
The bar came down. Martha rested for a moment with it inches off her chest. “Cats are . . . low maintenance, thank, God. But I understand . . . the problem.”
“You?” he asked.
To avoid answering, she pushed up again. “No.” It came out more as a grunt than a word. “I’m not keen . . . on the idea of an office romance and they’re about . . . only people I see these days.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Mac’s not really my type.”
She rested again. “There’s always Molly.”
“I don’t think I could stand the drama.”
Martha started her last lift. She tried to talk. “What’s . . . behind . . . the Hammer . . . of God?” Every muscle in her arms quivered as she reached the peak and held the bar straight up. She sucked air in ragged gasps. She tried to set the bar back in the support, but her arms wouldn’t work. They couldn’t go any farther up and they wouldn’t come down. “I think . . . I’m stuck here.”
Trammell eased the bar onto the overhead support. Martha felt her arms collapse with fatigue. When she could move again, she sat up, and Trammell tossed her a towel. Her arm trembled as she tried to catch it. “I could perform the entire set of katas and my arm wouldn’t quiver like this.”
“You’re using new muscles. That’s a good thing.” He hesitated, then sat down on the far end of the bench, and studied her. Uneasy under the scrutiny, Martha looked away. Trammell continued, “‘I am the hammer and God is my anvil.’ It’s the language of the religious fanatic to justify his own brand of terrorism. Seems the Islamic extremist doesn’t have a monopoly on religious fanaticism. ‘I’m doing God’s will. God has given me permission to rape and pillage and murder.’ It’s a story as old as religion.”
“You’re still convinced the LDS is behind this?”
“No, I’m convinced someone with strong LDS connections believes he’s doing God’s will. It may lead to the Avenging Angels. It may just lead to a Mormon fanatic. But I haven’t seen anything so far to make me change my mind.”
The next day, returning from their exercise hour, they found Corvari waiting to replace their guard. The police officer that had led the investigation at the Ballard Gazette was out of uniform, but Martha
recognized her linebacker’s body and pretty smile. Trammell learned her name was Bess, short for nothing, just Bess Corvari, a few generations removed from Corsica, which made her French, not Italian as everyone assumed. She soon became a regular in the three-person rotation for guard duty. She also seemed to be the only one pleased to be there.
“The overtime’s been fantastic,” Corvari said one day. “I’ll have all my Christmas bills paid off in two paychecks if they keep you dudes in iso a bit longer. And I’ll have all my Christmas cards written in another day or two.”
“Christmas was a month ago,” Trammell commented.
Corvari acknowledged his comment with a shrug.
Martha fretted about work. Metcalf assured her Lieutenant Lane had kept his promise and personally called her boss. Being the target of an assassination attempt seemed to have convinced Ben Mathews to excuse her from the McGwire trial. She wondered if the Heidens had moved out and if Beatrice was okay. She worried about money. She had a couple of months of mortgage payments saved, but if she didn’t find new renters soon, she faced the same fate as Callison with the house. She felt sidelined: at work, in finding Hewitt, in life.
Metcalf was the only one allowed to brief them on the investigation. From what Martha could tell, there were no new developments. Most days they heard nothing from the detective. “It doesn’t do any good to hide you guys if all they have to do is follow me,” he said.
“Danny Kimble knew you were the lead detective within twenty-four hours of you getting the case,” Martha reminded him. “They’re getting information from someone, and they're getting it fast.”
On the afternoon of day five, Callison stopped by, looking even scruffier than before. He was wearing the old Carhartt jacket and hadn’t trimmed his beard since the last full moon. But he had a wide grin on his hairy face when he announced Christmas had arrived. He came toting a box filled with books and movies and crossword puzzles, a couple of Sudoku books, even a jigsaw puzzle and a backgammon set. A Costco-sized box of popcorn perched on top. He had set out the collection box at work—“Donations for the Terminally Bored,” he had called it. Whatever was dropped in, he delivered, including a paperback copy of War and Peace.
Out of the Cold Dark Sea Page 15
