“How long was he there?”
“Just long enough to get the job done.”
“Meaning—?”
“As I remember, when he finished with me, he was gone the next day. Could have been a day, could have been a week. I was six and was—”Brennan paused.”—misused.”
“How did it happen?”
“Larry said he would do work around the farm to help earn his keep. He worked, too. Cut hay, stacked wood, mended fences, pulled weeds, and whatever Ruth asked him to do. He sweat a lot. That’s something else I remember. There was a river, a stream, really, at the edge of the farm. There was a bend in it that made a beautiful wide arch and created the best swimming hole you’ve ever seen. There was a big tree with a rope swing. I remember when I was 12, we went back, and I was allowed to go swimming with my brother and little sister. ‘Safest place on earth!’ Auntie Ruth would always say when my mother raised an objection to our going alone. If she only knew.”
“So, you do have some good memories of the farm in Iowa.”
“Sure do. But it’s the memory of that first summer that burns hottest, though. It lasted through two marriages, six newspapers, and it seems cancer is the only cure for it.”
“Hold on. Did you say two marriages?” This was a second revelation, and Cole was glad he was seated.
“Had to prove I was a man. I got married at 18, right out of high school. Lasted six months. Sexual tension I didn’t understand. I had a lot of hang-ups that I was too young to deal with. Took me 10 years to mellow out enough to try it again.” Brennan shifted his weight in his chair.
“So, the attack occurred at the river, then?”
“That’s right. It was a real hot day. Larry was mending a fence, sort of a makeshift corral really, and had just finished. I was playing inside the corral, pretending to lasso the fence posts with an old piece of rope. I remember like it was yesterday. He said, ‘Hey, Mickey, you wanna go swimmin?’
“What kid would refuse a trip to the river? In those days, we all wore holes in our jeans and in summer, made cut-offs. So, no swimming trunks were required. When we got to the river, Larry stripped off his jeans and said it was ‘more fun’ skinny-dipping. I didn’t like the idea particularly, but if that’s what the grownups did, I wanted to be like them. Thought I was a big shot.
“We were having a big time swimming around. I even got the nerve to get out and swing on the big old rope swing a couple times and drop into the water. The second time I dropped in, Larry was waiting. He pretended to catch me. Kind of hugged me. After that, he swam up to me a couple times and kind of rubbed against me. I didn’t like it but, you know, you didn’t react to adults back then like we teach kids to now. Looking back, I should’ve got out right then and ran for the house.”
“Hindsight is always 20/20. Then what happened?”
“He grabbed me from behind. I could feel him against my butt. He was aroused and rubbing against my legs. I really didn’t like it. I tried to swim away, but he put his arm around my neck. I tried and tried to get free, but he wouldn’t let go. His feet were touching the bottom, and he walked me to the shore.
“I remember his hand over my mouth as he laid on top of me. ‘If you say a word about this, I will cut your mother’s throat while you watch, then burn the house down with you, your mama, and that snotty aunt of yours in it.’ I kicked and squirmed and tried to get away. Then he turned me over on my stomach and had his fun with me. When he finished, I just laid in the grass. I was afraid to get up. I knew he did something vile and wrong to my most private places, and I just laid there and cried.
“Finally, I half-crawled half-rolled into the river and rubbed myself all over. Larry sat on the bank watching me, stroking himself. I was afraid he was going to do it again, so I stayed in the water. He ordered me to get out as he pulled on his jeans.
“I could just as easily drown you as take you back. You remember what I said: One word and your mama’s dead. Just for good measure, I’ll do to her what I did to you. So, keep your mouth shut.”
“That’s all it took. The thought of that filthy animal on top of my mother kept my mouth shut until the day she died.”
“You’ve never told anyone?” Cole said softly.
“I told my wife when our boy was eight. She asked me if—” Brennan stopped short of finishing his sentence.
“If what?” Cole asked.
“Doesn’t matter. So, now you know, and I can die in peace.” Brennan gave a soft chuckle.
“What happened to Larry?”
“For years, at night when I was alone in my bed, I thought I saw him peeking in my window. He was the shadow on the wall, the shape of the clothes in the closet, the sound down the hall. Then I heard my mother tell my dad that he died. I was real sad.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I wanted to kill him. I promised myself I would kill him as soon as I was old enough to drive.”
“Why are you telling me this now, Mick?” Cole stared at Brennan. He suddenly realized how frail and small Brennan was. Before, he only saw a sick man, a dying friend. Now, he saw a thin, ashen figure who seemed to be disappearing before his eyes.
“I’ve been thinking about my life. Sort of rewinding the tape and having a look. It’s a weird thing knowing you’re dying. Things that once seemed so important, things that changed the course of your life, are really insignificant. Things that went unnoticed or ignored are things I really want to go back and redo. This thing with Larry, I should’ve gone home and called my dad and told him. He would have killed him. I would have liked that. Instead, I shivered in fear and self-loathing for years.”
“You were a little kid. That’s why he did it. That’s why threatening your mother made such a profound effect on you. Larry knew it, you know it. I want to know, though, why now?”
“I’ve seen you get into a story. I know how you work. You can make a difference in some little kid’s life. You can warn parents that there are Larrys out there. The piece you’re going to write will keep a little kid safe from what happened to me. You won’t put my story in it, I know you well enough to know that. I also know that, knowing my story, you’ll work like hell to make sure you do a job that’ll make a difference. Part guilt, part love, part anger, it all works for the good, and I’m gonna be dead, so I can go out knowing you did this for me.”
“I need to tell you something, Mick,” Cole said, standing. “I’ve taken a job at the San Francisco Chronicle. Chuck Waddle called just before I went out west for Christmas.” Cole stood quietly for a moment.
“I know. Chuck called me first and asked if I objected.”
“I’ve been getting up the nerve to tell you, and you’ve known all along?”
“I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to tell me.” Mick Brennan smiled and gave Cole a dismissive jerk of his head.
NINE
Cole sat down on the landing between floors. The stairway was quiet and always cooler than the offices due to the slight breeze that blew up from the bottom floors. Nobody ever took the stairs, even to go just one floor. They hopped in the elevator and waited for the doors to close, rode the 14 feet, then waited again for the doors to open. As he sat in the silent stairwell, Cole’s head reeled with all Brennan just unburdened. Secrets of a lifetime, secrets from a man he thought he knew as well as anyone on earth. He didn’t really know him at all.
“I want you out of here,” Brennan told him. He already knew Cole had taken the job in San Francisco. He toyed with him just to see him squirm.
“I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to tell me.” Brennan’s words made him feel like the little kid who just came clean about breaking his mother’s favorite vase. Cole would be mad if he didn’t already feel foolish. He spent countless hours over the past 20 years talking with Mick Brennan. They were as close as Cole got to anyone. He bared his soul to Brennan, shared the pain and grief of losing Ellie and then finding her again, only to lose her forever. All the triumphs
and failures of Cole Sage’s life went across a desk or restaurant table to the ears of Michael Anthony Brennan.
As he sat listening to the sound of a closing door echo above him, Cole rewound the tape in his head of the “final interview” with Brennan. A marriage at eighteen just dropped into his story of being sexually assaulted as a boy, as if it were some insignificant detail. Is this what dying did to the psyche, produced a compelling desire that ensured the record was cleared?
When Ellie was dying, Cole reflected, they shared memories, dreams, fears, joys, sorrows, and confessed the most intimate desires of their hearts. That was a spiritual time, a communion of two souls separated for years trying to support and sustain each other, knowing their time together would be short. They made up for years of growing older apart. They lived a lifetime in a few precious hours and days. That wasn’t Cole’s relationship with Brennan. They were friends, not soul mates. Cole was the employee, Brennan the boss. But theirs was a friendship forged in mutual need for a family. For a surrogate son in Brennan’s case and a father figure for Cole.
The second death within a year, of someone so close, affected him more than he allowed himself to admit. Old ghosts loomed large in his thoughts. The six months since Ellie’s death was a time of sadness mellowed by sweet memories of their time together and the gift of his wonderful daughter, Erin. Cole often wondered how his reuniting with Ellie and her death would have felt if he hadn’t learned about Erin. Going instantly from lifelong bachelor to father, father-in-law, and grandfather tempered the sorrow with more joy and pride than he could’ve ever imagined. It was difficult to accept the changes of the last year, but Cole knew there were more changes coming.
It was time to leave the Sentinel. Cole could see all the changes Brennan warned of already taking place. As a courtesy to Brennan, the paper let him keep working. Behind the scenes, most of the work was being done—or, in many cases, redone—by the editorial staff. The woman who would fill Brennan’s spot came in a month ago from a paper in St. Louis, owned by the same publisher as the Sentinel. To her credit, she was quietly making subtle changes and building a team, making the transition much easier than usually possible. Her respect and compassion for “Mr. Brennan” won over the lower-level staff, clerical support, and the regular staff and the column writers, which included Cole, who were referred to as “the old timers.”
Doors were closing on parts of Cole’s life while others were flying open—surprising and often delighting him with the possibilities. As he stood and dusted off the seat of his pants, Cole knew that the changes were good. He would miss his old friend, but in a way, it was part of a cycle and plan much bigger than Cole. Just as a seed must die to be born as a new plant, Cole Sage must shed his former self to become something new and better. If Mick’s death was part of the letting go, as much as he hated to think it, Cole welcomed the change.
Three pink message slips were in the message box on Cole’s cubicle wall: Olajean asking him to supper after work, Randy Callen at the Chronicle, and Sophie Kosciuszko. Cole dialed the number for Sophie first.
Sophie Kosciuszko was a runaway when Cole first met her. She lived on the streets, and Cole got her into a shelter and then a group home. It was a small thing to him, but she always gave Cole the credit for getting her turned around. She went to college, and of course majored in journalism, and Cole helped her get a job at the Sentinel. Over the years, she came to him for advice and counsel; he became a surrogate dad or big brother, a role Cole never really warmed up to. When she married Jeff, Cole gave the bride away. He didn’t really hear from her much since she quit to start a family.
Last summer, Cole went to a barbecue at their new home. Picture perfect, it sat at the end of a long drive, framed in a border of snow-white picket fencing. Their property was dotted with huge trees, shading and protecting the house and gardens from the wind. The two-story farm-style house looked like a cover for Better Homes and Gardens, and the Kosciuszkos looked like the subjects of a Kodak commercial. Sophie and Jeff’s kids were an all-American eight-year-old boy, Aaron, and an adorable five-year-old girl, Melanie.
Jeff Kosciuszko took the inheritance left by his mother, put a down payment on the house and started a small but award-winning furniture restoration company. He worked as a lab tech after college, but the white lab coat was never a good fit. The restoration of antiques and family heirlooms was a hobby that got noticed by a local antique dealer who also was an advisor to the county museum. The hobby snowballed into more work than Jeff could do on his own. After hiring a retired shop teacher part time, the Kosciuszkos decided that maybe they could live the dream, and Szko’s Restorations was born.
On the third ring, Sophie picked up.
“So, how is my favorite ex-newspaperwoman?” Cole said cheerfully.
“Wishing she was living in Colorado.” Sophie’s weak attempt at a clever response signaled this was not an invitation to another barbecue.
He tried to mask the feeling, but Cole resented being used. He hadn’t heard from Sophie in nearly a year and here she was in need again. It wasn’t that he minded helping; it was the way she just expected him to. This was another door that, when it closed, he would breathe a sigh of relief.
“What’s going on, Soph?”
“I hate to trouble you, Cole, but you’re the only one I could think of who might be able to help.”
“Anything you need, Sophie. You know that.” Cole hoped he hadn’t betrayed his true feeling in the tone of his voice.
“Thank you.” Sophie took a deep breath. “It’s Jeff’s brother.” She began to cry.
Enough with the tears already, Cole thought. The tears were for effect, and the effect didn’t work on him. “Terry?” Cole asked, then waited as she regained her composure.
“He’s making our lives hell. I need help to figure out what to do.”
“What’s the problem?”
“When Jeff’s mother died, she left the family farm to Jeff and Terry with the understanding that Terry would live there. If he ever sold it, Jeff would get half the profits. She left what little money there was to Jeff because Terry would get the benefit of free rent for as long as he wanted.”
“Sounds fair,” Cole interjected.
“It seemed so. Jeff’s mom was sick for quite a while, so she had time to think out what she wanted done. Everyone was fine with the arrangements—before she died. Afterwards, it was another story.”
“So, Terry wants what?”
“He wants Jeff to sign over his share of the property. We can’t do it, Cole. The business is really struggling. Please don’t let Jeff know I told you.” Sophie’s voice betrayed a well thought out, well-rehearsed speech.
When will I ever wise up to her?
“I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think he can make Jeff do that if the provisions of the will stipulate it be shared only upon sale of the property. It’s clear in the will, right?”
“Our attorney says it’s iron clad.”
“Then—?”
“I’m afraid of him, Cole,” Sophie responded.
“Afraid of him? What? Has he threatened you?” Cole was beginning to show signs of “Sophie fatigue.”
“Not straight out. That I could deal with, I think. He’s harassing us. He calls in the middle of the night. He doesn’t say anything, but I know it’s him and so does Jeff, but Jeff won’t say anything. ‘Wrong number,’ he always says. He knows its Terry as well as I do. Terry drives by real slow, doesn’t stop, just cruises back and forth. Jeff has walked out to the end of the drive, but he drives off.” Sophie just kicked into bitchy mode.
“Has Jeff talked to him?”
“Yes, but he’s too nice. I get so angry. Terry’s his little brother, and he has always watched out for him. But this is different, he’s different. I am really afraid, Cole.”
“Okay, he drives by and calls, that’s a pain, I understand, but it’s hardly anything to be afraid of.”
“Until today,” Sophie said, her voice turn
ing cold.
“Today?”
“I went to get the mail, and in the mailbox was a cat. The poor thing had been skinned.” There was blood and God knows what all over the mail. I nearly died. Thank God our neighbor came by. He pulled it out and put it in a garbage bag he carries when he walks the dog. Oh Cole, it was dreadful. What if the kids were with me? I don’t know what I would have done.” If Sophie would have thrown in a “fiddle-de-de” she would have made a perfect Scarlett O’Hara.
“And you think it was Terry’s work?”
“Who else? Over the last few months since this started, we’ve found our dog dead and ‘THIEF’ written in blood on the fence boards at the entry to our driveway. Cole, we have no enemies. This is a quiet community. We watch out for each other. But no one ever sees anything.”
“What is it you think I can do, Sophie?” Cole was at a loss for why she thought he could do anything. “Have you called the police?”
“Jeff would never hear of it! He says he could never call the police on his own brother. Then he’ll turn around and say, ‘Besides, how do we really know it’s Terry?’ This thing is driving a wedge between us, and I’m really afraid—”
“Well, I’ll do whatever I can.” Cole sighed. Damn, she did it to me again, he fumed.
“Can you come out to the house and talk to Jeff? He’ll listen to you. He thinks a lot of you. Maybe between the two of you, I don’t know, maybe come up with a plan of some kind.”
“All right. When?”
“Tonight?” Sophie said tentatively.
“What time?”
“Jeff gets home around six. How about eight? I’ll make that chocolate caramel dessert you like.”
“I always respond well to a bribe,” Cole said flatly. “See you at eight.”
“Thanks, Cole, you’re the best.”
What kind of person would skin a cat? Cole thought as he hung up the phone. “The same kind that would kill a dog,” he said aloud.
Anyone who knew Cole Sage knew he didn’t like cats. And although he was not a person to keep pets, he would rather contemplate the acquisition of a dog before any form of feline housemate. As he sat trying to imagine the terror of opening a mailbox and having a bloody, wet, skinned cat laying on your mail, he remembered as a child how he was terrorized by cats. He felt a wave of guilt for thinking badly of Sophie, but still couldn’t lose the “here we go again” feeling.
Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 7
