Soul of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  “I’ve been in Guatemala for over two years. This is my first trip home in three. I really have no sense of my parents’ relationships other than Russ and Sharon. Since my dad retired from the ministry, the Center has been the focus of his life.”

  “Most of the people who come to the Center are mothers and children and the occasional father. It is supposed to be a place of safety, learning and fun.” Cassie tapped the top of the table lightly with her index finger.

  Bishop turned to Russ and Sharon. “You were their closest friends. Did either one of them ever mention a problem with anyone, an angry neighbor, anything?”

  Sharon spoke first. “Other than old ladies with complaints about the church service, loud music, the ushers, the parking, or some other silly thing, I’ve never heard Warren mention any kind of an issue.”

  Russ took a sip of his coffee. You could almost hear the wheels turning as he thought of some possible time when anyone could be angry with him. “You know, I can’t think of anyone at any time that Warren had words with, except me, maybe. And arguing was our favorite sport. But it was all good natured and in good fun.”

  “Have the funeral arrangements all been made?” Bishop was drawn to Rebecca, and it didn’t go unnoticed by anyone at the table.

  “We’ve kind of been discussing that this morning.” Rebecca offered.

  “I don’t mean to sound crass or invasive, but we’ll need to have a couple of plain clothes officers at the service.”

  “You think the person would cause trouble at the funeral?” Sharon looked at Bishop in disbelief.

  “No ma’am, but it is not unusual, or unheard of, for the perpetrator to attend their victim’s funeral. We will be looking for any kind of strange or unusual behavior of those in attendance.”

  “I saw that on TV once.” Russ injected his thoughts into the conversation. “The killer showed up at the funeral and was so twitchy and weird that the cops were suspicious of him.”

  “It’s usually not that easy.” Bishop gave a faint smile. “But yeah, that’s kind of the gist of it.”

  “I have no problem with that.” Rebecca nodded at the detective. “Cassie, what do you think?”

  “So long as they don’t look like they’re on guard duty. I would hate for their presence to be distracting or disruptive.”

  “You have my word, you won’t even know who they are.”

  “Then I guess its okay.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “Friday at 2:00 at Calvary Methodist,” Sharon explained.

  Bishop reached in his pocket and pulled out a card holder. He placed his card on the table and said, “If you think of anything, no matter how trivial it may seem, it can trigger other memories that can be very important, so, don’t feel funny about letting us know. If you can think of anything, anything at all, call me.”

  “You guys don’t seem to be looking in the right place.”

  “What do you mean?” Bishop’s head jerked toward Cassie who suddenly appeared to be angry.

  “I mean, have you looked at guys like Tommy Running Dog? He’s threatened my father on more than one occasion. Have you talked to him? How about Richard Armendez? He tore the Center apart once screaming and yelling. He shoved his wife to the ground and scared the kids half to death. And how about Samson Knight? He swept everything off my dad’s desk and told him to watch his back. Seems to me those three are pretty good suspects. Have you talked with any of them?” Cassie stood and glared at the detective.

  “That’s what I mean about pieces of information. No, we haven’t spoken to them. Nobody had mentioned them up until this moment. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  What happened to the ‘place of safety, learning and fun’? Bishop glanced down at his notes. Marty Bishop was trying to remain calm in the face of Cassie’s outburst, but he could feel redness creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. He motioned to his partner and both men took their leave and exited the house.

  “Why has no one ever told me about these kinds of problems? Are there any others? How often does this sort of thing happen?” Rebecca looked at everyone in turn around the table.

  Cassie turned from the window and stood to face Becca. “Why would we bother? You’re 3,000 miles away. That’s just a small part of why I’ve had it with this place. Imagine how those guys would behave if it were just women in charge.”

  “I feel like I’m so out of the loop on everything. Is there anything else I need to know?” Becca was on the verge of tears and stunned by her sister’s revelations.

  “I’m not in the mood for this.” Cassie left the kitchen, a few moments later the sound of the bedroom door slamming jarred the silent house.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” Sharon was quick to tend to Becca’s emotions.

  Becca looked up, tears streaming down her face. “I just don’t know her anymore.”

  “You know,” Russ took a deep breath and reached over and patted Rebecca’s forearm. “People all react differently to tragedy. Some people roll up in a ball and lay in the dark. Some people break things. And some people go on as if nothing has happened. Everybody is different. Cassie’s lashing out at everybody and everything around her.”

  “I just don’t know what to say around her because everything sets her off. I’m still trying to get my head wrapped around the idea my parents have been murdered, while at the same time I feel like I’m in a boxing ring with my sister.”

  Sharon set her cup by the kitchen sink. “I think it would be best for everybody if we just gave Cassie some space for awhile. You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go into your room and take a nice long nap. I will go walk the dog. Where are you, boy? Come here, Ratchet.” Within seconds the dog came running into the living room. “Wanna go for a walk?” The dog jumped up and barked at the door.

  “You know, I think I’ll go with you. Maybe the air, sunshine and some exercise will make me feel better.” Becca stood.

  “Ol’ Ratchet and I would love the company. I’ll get his leash.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Michael Blackbear knew of The Chew’n’Chat. He’d never eaten there. He realized that he’d never even been in it. It is such a nasty little redneck place that to call it a greasy spoon would be a compliment. The building was badly in need of paint, the sign on the street was faded on one side. The other side was broken where some drunk probably threw a bottle through it years ago. There were four cars in front as Michael pulled up to park. One was a shiny, black Escalade. The others were old, dirty, and missing a bumper, chrome, or large patches of paint.

  Michael opened the door and entered just far enough for the door to close behind him. He glanced around the small restaurant. There was a man sitting at the counter drinking coffee. Two men were at a booth, old wrinkled cowboys a decade past their prime. A third man in a Harley Davidson t-shirt stood hovering over an old juke box. On the opposite side of the small space sat three men in a booth.

  The man facing the door waved. He then motioned to one of the men across the table to move next to him. Michael made his way across the room to the booth.

  As he walked toward the far end of the restaurant he remembered the words of a gunnery sergeant he served with in Iraq. “Be careful who you trust,” he told a young Blackbear on his first tour, “The devil was once an angel.” At the time Michael had no idea what the reference meant. Now, the beguiling offer of money and the illegal crossing of Miriam and his son seemed to speak clearly of the temptations of things that shone a bit too brightly. You still have a chance to leave, he thought to himself. But he didn’t pay his thoughts any mind.

  “Have a seat.” Michael reluctantly sat down next to a large man wearing dark glasses. “So, you’re in need of funds.”

  “I am.” Michael tried hard to appear relaxed.

  “Well, my friends and I can, and will, buy anything you can bring to us.”

  Michael studied the man sitting across from him. He was average in every way. It would be difficult to describ
e him. Must be a real benefit for a criminal, Michael thought. The man sitting next to him on the other hand would be easy to pick out in a crowd. He possessed the face of a killer. Michael knew the look; he saw it often in Iraq. Men who, having lost all hope, turned off their conscience. They were devoid of morals and cared nothing for the feelings, well being, or lives of anyone else. Pulling a trigger was of the same importance as scratching their nose. Crossing one of these men could result in a letter being sent home explaining you somehow died from friendly fire.

  “I’m not sure I follow.” Michael wanted, no needed, a clearer picture of what these men did.

  “Anything of value that would fit on top of this table, we’ll buy from you.” The man beside Michael laughed and rested his forearms across the table.

  Michael did not speak. He observed the man who spoke, his eyes showed no sign of humor or irony.

  “You mean you’re a fence?”

  “I’m not a fence. I fence things, meaning I buy things from people. You’ve watched too much TV.” The man next to Michael chuckled again. “Nobody says that anymore, but just so you know we are clear, I’m a fence of barbed wire.”

  This time no one laughed. The tone of this unremarkable man left no doubt the muscle he surrounded himself with was not to be trifled with.

  “So are you suggesting—,”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply saying we will buy shiny, sparkly things that you lay on this table.”

  The conversation was moving dangerously close to Michael wanting nothing to do with these people. He owned nothing of value. Truth be told, he didn’t know anyone who did. His only possession of any value was his car, and it wasn’t worth much, and certainly wouldn’t fit on the table.

  “And where do I find these things?” Michael asked, still not allowing himself to accept what they were suggesting.

  “That’s not my concern. When you have something for us to buy, call that same number. Until then, I don’t want to hear from you.”

  Michael sat silently and looked at the three men sitting at the table for a long moment. He wanted to get up and run, but he knew that they were Miriam’s ticket.

  There were things he wanted to know, needed to know, but just as he began to speak the man sitting next to him gave a hard nudge with his elbow. Michael turned to look at him and he jerked his head toward the door. The conversation was over.

  Out in his car he replayed the conversation. He was to steal things for them to buy. “I’m no thief.” Michael’s words came out in gasps. How could he trust such people? What would stop them from just taking whatever he brought? Who would he report it to? ‘Hey, they stole my stolen stuff.’ In the army he knew of thieves and guys who would loan you money. They required collateral. They didn’t ask where it came from.

  The drive home was filled with an ongoing conversation, both in his head and aloud. In the end, it was Miriam and the boy that mattered. It would only last long enough to get the money. Then it would be over. She would join him. They would raise the boy in the safety of the reservation, Federal laws, Federal protection, and a community that doesn’t ask questions. His people would be her people and his son would be a proud member of the tribe. He would figure out a way to do what they wanted.

  The following morning when Michael arrived at the job site, his crew was nowhere to be found. Instead, the job foreman sat on an upturned bucket in the garage. The glare he gave Michael left no doubt there was a problem.

  “Where’s everybody at?” Michael asked.

  “Gone.” The foreman stood.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I mean not here. They didn’t show up. They didn’t show up yesterday, either. Then again, neither did you.” The foreman walked out to the driveway.

  “I was sick.”

  “Uh huh.” The foreman turned to face Michael. “So, do you want to work here or not?”

  “Yes sir, I need this job.”

  “Alright, join the guys down at #1607, they’ll tell you what to do. But if you pull a disappearing act again, you’re finished. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  The foreman walked to the next house. Michael walked back to his car and instead of joining the new crew, he headed for the reservation.

  It felt strange to enter his house at this time of day. The light was all wrong. Michael went into the bedroom and pulled a small suitcase from the closet. He opened the case and saw the things Miriam sent with him to America. ‘These will make it feel like I’m coming home.’ This was the first time he opened the bag since she gave it to him on the day that he left Iraq. ‘When I join you in America.’

  He reached in and took a scarf and held it to his face and breathed deeply. The sweet smell of her jasmine perfume still lived in the scarf. He pulled several articles of clothing from the small case before he found what he was looking for. Picking up a burka he held it up in front of him. Turning, he walked to the mirror above the dresser and placed the hooded veil over his head. As he stared out of the small, mesh square he realized that no one in the world would ever know who he was. He opened the top dresser drawer and took out a pair of thin, goatskin gloves that Miriam gave him as a gift. He remembered saying to her. ‘These are very nice, but where would I wear such a wonderful thing?’

  ‘In America when you drive your fancy car.’ Her voice seemed to float melodically.

  There was no fancy car, but he knew they were just what he needed for his intended purpose. Taking the gloves and burka, Michael went to his car.

  There was an uneasy feeling about the drive to Enid. The churning in his guts reminded him of the first time he was in a firefight in Iraq. He turned on the air conditioner to combat the sweat rolling down his face. The blast of the cold air did not remedy his nervous perspiration. It simply gave him a chill.

  He drove around for nearly an hour before he spotted Town and Country Jewelers. There were other jewelry stores, but they were always in a crowded shopping center. The small store sat in a strip mall between a carpet store and a consignment shop. Michael parked his truck sideways, taking two parking spaces parallel to the store. He slipped on the gloves that were waiting in the seat and took the rolled burka and wadded it tightly. There were few other cars in the parking lot as he made his way to the door. The six feet of bricks between the stores hid him as he pulled the burka over his head. He pulled his service 45 from the waistband of his pants, took a deep breath and burst into the door.

  “Do as I say and no one will get hurt.” Michael’s growl left no room for misunderstanding.

  “Please.” The woman’s eyes bulged behind the counter as she stared at the strange figure before her.

  “Is there anyone in the back?” Michael stepped into the small space between the counter and the glass showcases.

  “No, my husband has gone to the bank.”

  “Then take a bag and fill it as quickly as you can. I would hate to put a bullet in your head and have to fill it myself.”

  “Don’t shoot, I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” The woman grabbed a bag and began dumping trays into the bag. She worked methodically right to left, dumping rings, bracelets, earrings, necklaces and watches into the waiting bag.

  “Other side.” The barrel of Michael’s gun jerked hard in the direction of the opposite showcase. “Now!”

  She moved around the counter and repeated the actions along the length of the other showcase. As she reached the end nearest the door, he snatched the bag from her.

  “On the floor, hands on your head!” She obeyed without a word and he ran from the store, yanking the burka off his head as he went.

  He was nearly a block away before Michael could breathe again. Careful to not exceed the speed limit or do anything to draw suspicion, he headed for the highway and home.

  As he drove, he shoved the burka and the gloves into the bag and stowed it under the seat between his legs. A few miles from Orvin he pulled into a shopping center. There was a pay phone on the corner of the
small café. Approaching it, Michael took a handful of change from one pocket and the card the man gave him at Chew’n’Chat in the other. He dialed the number on the card. It took four rings before a familiar voice answered.

  “So soon?” The man seemed amused at the call.

  “I have some sparkly things for you to see.” The sound of his voice sent a shudder through Michael. His pact with the devil was sealed. He stepped across a line so unnatural to him it was as if someone else was speaking.

  “7:00.” The line went dead. Michael stood motionless, staring at the names and phrases scratched onto every surface in the phone booth. “What have I done?” His voice seemed completely lost in the wind as he stepped from the phone booth.

  The hours moved so slowly that Michael forced himself to not look at the clock. In order to calm his nerves and pass the time he decided to take a nap. As he laid on his bed, the woman’s face in the jewelry store came to him again and again. He felt ashamed, and even embarrassed, at what he did. He lay on the bed for what seemed an eternity before he opened one eye and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Only forty-five minutes had passed. He got up and decided to drive to town.

  Cole sat on the porch staring out at the yard. His phone rested in his lap. He picked it up, started to tap in a number, then stopped, and turned it off. He turned the phone end over end several times. He wanted to make the call, he was just hesitant. If this were a case in the old days he would have been on top of it, already in the middle of gathering information. Now just a civilian with no reason, right, or willing ally to put him in the middle of the case, he just felt old and out of place.

  He looked at the phone. There was an ache within him for an outside connection; someone who knew him, not as that author guy from California that inherited that little place out by Ernie the Greek, but someone who knew his worth, his value in a tight spot, as a fact finder, interviewer, decipherer of clues. He turned the phone around and punched in the numbers.

  “Hello, Leonard?” Cole felt hesitant, even embarrassed, to be making the call.