Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2

by Micheal Maxwell

  “One night at dinner, she just stared at her food. I saw tears; somehow I knew, but I was afraid to ask for fear of the answer. She was late because something began to grow inside her.” The man in the chair was no longer a priest but a sad broken boy of 18 looking back and seeing his life through the clarity of time.

  “She borrowed some money from me and from some kids at school. She wouldn’t tell Gary. She just started school and wasn’t about to get married. She learned of an old black woman who helped out college girls ‘in trouble.’ I told her I loved her and I would marry her. She just said she wished she was dead. I remember how we walked down this long alley looking for the number on the back door of a bar.

  “We knocked on the door and a black man with blood-red eyes opened it, took and counted our money. We were taken up a dark flight of stairs, and the old woman appeared from behind a pale green door. I let go of Maurie’s hand, and the old woman took her into the room. I sat in a wooden chair in the hallway and waited.

  “A few minutes later, the door flew open and Maurie grabbed my hand, and I followed her outside. She couldn’t do it. She said there were all these knives and instruments laid out, and she couldn’t go through with it. I followed her down the stairs and out onto the street. She was angry and confused, and all the way home we cried. I didn’t know what to say to ease her pain.” The priest breathed deeply through his nose and soldiered on.

  “The next day when I returned from class, I found Maurie. She was laying in what seemed an ocean of blood on the white tile floor of the bathroom. She’d heard that you can do it with a knitting needle.” Father John looked down at the floor for a long moment, and Cole thought he wouldn’t continue, but again he cleared the lump from his throat and went on, “Once I thought I saw Maurie reading under our favorite tree on the quad, another time at a flea market. Years went by. At our five-year reunion, there was no mention of my Maura Kathleen O’Hare, only stares and snide whispers.

  “It was a long time before I took communion. I blamed God for taking Maurie. He had nothing to do with it. I know that now.” Father John seemed to strengthen.

  “She made her decision, just like each of us, every day deciding to give in to doubt and self-pity or to rise above it and be victorious. We are no longer victims. I struggled with guilt and grief for nearly 10 years before God showed me his bigger plan.” Father John looked from face to face and slapped his palms on the tops of his thighs. “That’s when I entered the priesthood. I have to be honest, though, even now when I light a candle I say a prayer and whisper her name.”

  “I didn’t do it to me,” Blank said in a harsh growl.

  Cole was amazed at the vehemence that the tiny girl projected toward the priest. As he watched the group, he could see that they were readying for battle. The relaxed, slumped posture that accompanied the telling of Father John’s story shifted to a ridged, formal position. Every person in the group turned slightly in their chair to face Blank.

  “No you didn’t,” the priest said in a kind but controlled response.

  “I killed ‘em and I’d do it again. He had no right to do that to me. My body, my soul, my body, my soul.” She rocked back and forth, her arms tightly folded across her chest.

  “He is dead, it’s true. But you didn’t kill him. Your father cut his wrists. He did it himself. You’re reporting his abuse did not kill him. Just like my Maurie; she didn’t have to try to give herself an abortion. She could have lived. The baby could have lived. There are consequences for our actions. What we have to learn is that the actions of others do not have to control our lives. We can and should decide how we live. We must set boundaries for what we let in and what we push out of our lives. I could have spent the rest of my life angry at God and blaming myself for Maurie’s death. But I didn’t kill her, did I? I didn’t get her pregnant, either. But I was taking responsibility for things I had no control over.” Blank’s rocking slowed slightly.

  “You could not control what he did to you. He had the power of size and strength and the power of being the adult in a child’s world. But look what you had the power to do.” The priest paused. “Look at me,” he said very softly. “You took the power back. You said ‘no more,’ and you called the police. From that moment, you were free. He never touched you again, did he?”

  “They locked him up.”

  “Right. They did it. The police, the law, society—all was there to protect you. Your father opened his own veins. Before he was tried, before he even went to court, he chose to die. To run away from what he did. You have to choose, Robin, you have to decide to take control of your life. Your father is dead. It has been 10 years. You are not the little abused child any longer; you are a woman who lives, works, and survives in the world on her own. You can’t continue to let a dead man cast a shadow over your life.”

  The young woman was sitting up and no longer rocking. Tears were running down her cheeks. The rest of the people in the group seemed to collectively exhale.

  “So, I choose to be free of my cousin Tim!” Lei said brightly.

  “I can’t take back the scars inside me. I still can’t have a child. I still hate the son of a bitch who used me over and over and over. What do I do with that? I won’t let him off that easy.” Corinne glared at the priest as she spoke.

  “I understand why you hate him. If he were here, I would help you beat him. But we don’t know where he is, do we? You don’t know for sure after all these years if he is even alive. So, how much are you hurting him with your hatred?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m only hurting myself.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “I know how she feels.” Eddie spoke for the first time. “I can’t take a shit without bleeding. Every day, that blood reminds me what happened. They messed me up good. Not just in my head. They were supposed to take care of me. Not use me like a whore. How can I forget that?”

  “I said nothing about forgetting. We will never forget our hurt, our sorrow, our pain. We all bear scars that will never disappear. What we must do is not let it control us. Otherwise, they are still in control; all those who abused or misused or treated us badly are in control. That is what this is about, control. Eddie, your physical scars, like Corinne’s, may never heal.” The priest looked down. His shoulders began to shake. He put his hands over his face and began to weep.

  “It’s all too much,” Mark said as he got up and moved toward Father John.

  Mark put his hand on the priest’s shoulder and stood quietly. One by one, the group stood and made their way over to the priest.

  “We are all family, like it or not,” Carl said, crossing the room and standing in front of Cole. “We are bound by our past. Our common abuse experience makes us closer than most families. I think we will be stronger after tonight. Some of these newer people don’t know how long Corinne and Robin have been coming to this group. They don’t understand the dynamics. I have been here the longest. Five years and counting. I’ve outlasted three priests and a shrink. They have both been here about three years. Robin looks freaky, but she is really a nice person down deep. She never forgets my birthday. Corrine just likes to act tough. This guy,” he pointed in Father John’s direction, “he’s pretty new, too, only been doing the group about a year.”

  “Tough job,” Cole offered.

  “Leading or attending?” Carl smiled. “Looks like we’re done for tonight, huh?”

  “How long does it usually run?” Cole asked.

  “Hour or so, depends on who brings treats. No treats tonight, so I’m out of here. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” Cole said, standing.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” said a voice coming up behind him.

  Cole turned to see Teresa, the one who loved men, approaching with a look that reminded him of a shark on the cover of National Geographic.

  “Thought I would get going,” Cole said, still moving.

  “We usually don’t bring the priest to tears. You should stick around an
d meet everybody.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “What’s a matter, scared of girls?” Teresa said, rocking on the side of her foot.

  “No, I really came to talk to Father John, but he seems a bit indisposed at the moment.”

  “I always thought he was gay. It was good to hear the girlfriend story. Means I got a chance.”

  “He’s a priest,” Cole said flatly.

  “So?”

  “Celibacy and all that?”

  “Rules are meant to be broken,” Teresa said in a fake whisper, giving Cole a wink.

  Cole turned and stepped towards her. “So, how long have you been coming here?”

  “Six months, little more.”

  “What have you learned so far?”

  “The wounded are easiest to finish off.” She laughed.

  “That’s your plan, to finish off the male population?”

  “What are you, a shrink?”

  “Nope, newspaperman. I came here to get some information on child abuse. I misunderstood; I thought this group was for the parents of abused kids.”

  “Yeah, you got that part wrong, all right. We are the leftover waste material.”

  “Tell me, Teresa, what do you do when you’re not picking up men at support groups?”

  “For a job, you mean?”

  “Yeah, how do you fill your days?”

  “I work for the post office, letter carrier. Neither sleet nor hail—”

  “Do you think there is any hope?”

  “For the post office?”

  “For anyone who’s been molested.”

  “I wasn’t molested. The only ones who talk in here are the ones that got noodled with as a kid. Those of us who got beat on sit quietly and take it all in.”

  “If it is just about them, why do you bother coming?”

  “From time to time, the poor sexual causalities are quiet enough for one of us to get a word in. Your buddy, Carl, he’s got a story to tell. Enrique’s got scars on him you would never believe.”

  “And you?”

  “Blind in this eye, and I can’t smell a thing.” Teresa wiggled her nose. “Are you doing a story on the group?”

  “Actually, I’m working on the murders of three little girls. The last victim, Lucy Zhang, was a member of this parish. Her parents spoke highly of Father John, and that’s why I came tonight.”

  “The ultimate abuse. I always figured my old man would beat me to death, but I survived. But murder isn’t abuse. No scars on the dead, nothing to outlive or outrun. If I have learned one thing coming here, it is that we all have emotional scars as well as physical ones, but we all wear them differently. I’ve been to psychiatrists and therapists for years, and I understand that I throw myself at men to make me feel in control. I understand it, but I don’t change it. It feels good. After all those years of being knocked around, anyone who holds me close and gives or takes pleasure from my body is okay with me. So long as I’m not used as a punching bag, I love being touched. My fear is that when the face wrinkles up and the tits go south, I won’t know where to turn. So, what do you do with somebody like me? It’s like smoking, you know, it’s not healthy but you do it anyway.”

  Cole smiled at the frank understanding Teresa showed. “Well” he said, “mind if I use some of that for my article?”

  “Me? Quoted? Fantastic.” Teresa smiled. “You know, I’ve never been with a newspaperman.” She gave Cole a smile that showed her ironic wit more than her need for conquest.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Cole said, offering his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  “You really should give the group another shot. Tonight was kind of a weird one. It’s been building and they finally found the priest’s weak spot. That’s the thing you learn around here, that the abused are real good at abuse. Find weakness and attack it. It’s the rage inside; give it a chance, and it flares up and burns whatever is nearby.” For a brief moment, Teresa let her guard down, and Cole saw a fragile, tender expression cross her face. This glimpse at the real Teresa made him realize she was well on her way to recovery.

  Cole smiled and made his way to the door.

  The next morning, Cole was surprised to find a call waiting for him when he got to the Chronicle.

  “Cole Sage.”

  “You are a hard man to track down, Viejo.”

  Cole smiled at the hoarse sound of Anthony Perez on the phone. The journalism student that Cole was so fond of was winding down his first year of college. The transformation from “Whisper”, the street thug, to the dean’s list, was the stuff of Reader Digest stories, but something Cole would never write about. They found each other at a time when both were ready for, and needed, a change. Somehow, the two men from such different worlds recognized in the other their common desire to learn constantly. Cole made it possible for Anthony to go to college, and he flourished.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you, but I have got caught up in a whirlwind. I got a job out here at the Chronicle. Erin and Ben have moved to San Francisco, too. I wrote you about that right?”

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving the Sentinel. What did Mr. Brennan say?”

  “That’s the downside to the whole thing. He hasn’t much longer, and he wanted me gone before he—” Cole paused. “He thought it would be good for me to take a new job before the new editor came in. Things get shaken up with a changing of the guard. But, hey, you called me! What’s going on?” Cole was happy to change the subject.

  “I have a chance for a summer internship at the Tribune. Nothing for certain, but I look pretty solid on paper. My advisor said a letter of reference from somebody outside of school could help a lot. So, who better than an old newshound, eh?”

  The “eh” sounded foreign and odd coming from Anthony. Cole wondered if it was an intentional affectation or if he just slipped back into his old speech pattern. He went through such a change in the last year that no one would ever dream he once headed a street gang deeply involved in criminal enterprise. Except for the soft hoarseness that earned him the nickname ‘Whisper’, he was a different man.

  “E-mail me the details, and I’ll get it right out. Hey, if it doesn’t work out, maybe I can get you one out here.”

  “That would be nice, but you know, I think the more time I am out of California probably the better it will be.”

  After a bit more catching up, they rang off.

  Cole stared down at the notes, outlines, and ideas jotted down on scraps of receipts, napkins, and lunch bags in front of him that were becoming the framework of the story he would write. Throughout his career, he wrote of murder, rape, mayhem, war, and every form of unspeakable cruelty that human beings can do to each other, yet this story was different. The murders of the three little girls and one traumatized survivor were somehow more personal.

  At dinner the night before, with Jenny on his knee, Grandfather Cole Sage could not get the parents of Lucy Zhang out of his thoughts. Their precious child snatched from their family without warning and left broken like so many dried twigs. Their loss became Cole’s pain, too.

  When Jenny went to bed, Ben explained to Erin the connection between the girls, leaving out the gruesome details. Cole related the hopeless feeling within the police force at having no leads and no clues. What was once an unthinkable crime seemed almost routine in a nation of senseless serial murders. Try as they may, the police were victims, too, and being held at bay by a killer who made only one mistake. Had he panicked? Was he seen?

  For whatever reason, the killer left the most damning evidence of all, a witness who looked him in the face. The only chance of catching him was Camilla, a child so traumatized by her would-be killer’s sexual assault, and the beating and abandonment of her father, all she could do was babble.

  There was a sense of relief that the authorities finally admitted a connection between the other girls and the death of Lucy Zhang. Still, shutting it all off came hard, and as Cole finally drifted to sleep that night, he held a praye
r on his lips for the safety of his beautiful granddaughter sleeping in the next room.

  FOURTEEN

  The sign above the door read “Research Monsters, Inc.” Randy Callen and the other cyber-ninjas in the bowels of the Chronicle took great pride in their “independently weird” status. They spoke on the phone a couple of times, and Randy wrote Cole a very nice thank-you letter when he got the job, but this would be their first face-to-face meeting since they first met a little over a year ago.

  “Mr. Sage! What’s goin’ on?” Randy said, jumping to his feet and offering Cole his misshapen hand in welcome.

  Cole grasped Randy’s wrist, engulfing the frail twisted form of the young man’s right hand in his large grip. “Fancy meeting you here.” Cole smiled.

  “Never figured on this, Mr. Sage.” The young man’s face beamed with his pride at being on the same team as the man whose name alone got him his job.

  “Please call me Cole.” He gave Randy a pat on the shoulder and asked, “Still able to snoop around?” With a jerk of his head, Cole indicated the room full of research wunderkinders.

  Randy lowered his voice and whispered, “These guys are nuts. They do things I would never have dreamed of, at least, not until I got here. What do you need?”

  “Data on child abductions, child murders, and serial pedophiles. I want to get a picture of the guy who is killing these little girls. A profile. There has got to be something the police aren’t telling us, you know? Maybe the feds have something.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Randy grinned like a kid about to toilet paper the principal’s house. “Mind if I enlist some help?”

  “Your call. This isn’t just for a story, Randy. This guy has to be stopped.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it,” Randy said, nodding seriously.

  “When I get out here permanently, we need to have lunch. I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Sage—Cole; I could never have gotten this job without you.”